Author's Notes: Goodness, but *that* took a while. . .my apologies. :(
Thank you all for your patience, which I have sorely tried! Chapter Eight
coming soon, seriously. Already in progress. (And no, I'm not going to
kill Frodo. I promise.)
Regarding the quotations opening selected chapters. . .I realise that Tolkien has more to do with medieval literature and the sagas of the ancient world than the likes of Robert Louis Stevenson and Charles Dickens. However, this is a story whose feel has more in common, to me, with the latter world, and so I have taken the liberty of incorporating some rather relevant little bits at the opening of selected chapters. There's a zinger of one coming up that I hope you'll enjoy, and is the whole reason I'm even quoting from _Oliver Twist_ at all. . . . There's also another story that I'll be bringing in as opening quote material, something that evokes much of what I had in mind when I began writing "Counterpane."
For those who've wondered, yes, Frodo's feverish dreams often have some foreshadowing elements. . .in Chapter Six, the opening was a nightmare of Caradhras, and Frodo's dream of what he thought might be a dragon's lair was Mount Doom; in Chapter Four, that was indeed Elrond tending him in Rivendell, calling him back from the darkness of the Morgul-knife wound.
For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact frodoatbagend@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom.
COUNTERPANE
Chapter Seven: Slow Creeping Fire
The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not his work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame. -Charles Dickens, _Oliver Twist_
Apple.
He recognised the taste of apple. . .sweetened just a little, and cold. Greedily he drank, taking as much as whomever it was would allow: there was a damp cloth over his eyes and forehead, and it smelled a little strange, but he wasn't as worried about that. As long as he didn't have to put it in his mouth, he didn't care.
"All right, now, Frodo-lad. . . ."
Bilbo!
It hadn't been a dream. Uncle Bilbo. . . . Frodo could hardly help smiling a little: he felt relieved, having half-feared that he might wake to find Bilbo's arrival another of his dreams. But no, it was real. . .now, if only someone weren't poking a spoon at his lips. . . . Reluctantly he opened his mouth, hoping for more of that apple drink or some honey. . .or some of the jam Bilbo mentioned earlier. . . .
Bitter. Acid.
At once he gagged, pulling back and spitting out the contents, trying not to throw up as the effort provoked a fresh bout of coughing. Strong hands lifted him into a sitting position, the cloth falling from his eyes, revealing Aunt Bryonia at his bedside, the offending spoon in hand; Bilbo on the other side, the one holding him. Folding into Bilbo's arms, he tried not to cry, but his eyes burned and stung with the prickle of hot tears. They ached.
"Now, now. . .there, Frodo; it's all right. I know it's nasty stuff. But it will help those terrible aches and pains, and bring that nasty fever down. . .don't you want that?"
Bilbo's cajoling had little effect: Frodo shook his head, clinging fretfully to his uncle, who rubbed his back, rocking him in slow, steady movement.
"Sweetheart. . .there's more of that nice apple tea for afterward, or black currant jam tea. . .whichever you like, just as soon as you swallow down one spoonful." Aunt Bryonia's voice sounded nearly desperate.
"No. . .no, can't. . . ."
Bilbo patted his back. "Not even if I hold your nose?"
"No. . . ." A bout of coughing seized him, and he hacked and choked for several minutes, the dry cough pounding painfully at his chest as Bilbo held him.
"Not even if I have candied ginger for afterward?"
Frodo hesitated. Candied ginger was a treat. . .one his parents had sometimes bought him when they went into town for the day, and one Bilbo had always brought when he came to visit. . .something that always eased chills and calmed his tummy if he'd been throwing up, the only sort of candy he was usually allowed to have when very ill. . . . "I. . .can't. . .have. . .any. . .before?"
Silence.
"Bilbo, we really should ask the doctor - "
"Fiddlesticks! Bit of candied ginger never hurt a child with measles. It's not as if I brought those sugary lollipops. . .though, mind you, now that I mention it. . . ." Bilbo touched his face, and Frodo turned to look up at him, head still resting against his uncle's shoulder. "Frodo, there's the candied ginger and there are herb lollies. I know you've had them before; we've given them when you've been getting through coughs and colds before. A bit of chamomile, a bit of mint, those sorts of things. You may have one before and one after, so long as you take the medicine."
Frodo considered, but the memory of the vivid taste was still so strong that he shuddered, shaking his head.
"Goodness. . .goodness me, then. I suppose if you can't, you can't." Bilbo's voice carried a strange sort of resignation, and Frodo looked into his face curiously. His uncle's expression was quite serious. "Such a shame, too. . .because I happen to know what's in my bags, and I'm sure you would find some of it most entertaining. . .but if you're too sick to take your medicine, you must surely be very ill indeed. . .far too ill for special things all the way from far-off lands I visited in my travels. . . ."
Willing his stomach to stay settled about the matter of that medicine, Frodo snuggled into the crook of Bilbo's arm. "I'm. . .not. . .please, Uncle Bilbo. . . ."
Bilbo shook his head firmly. "Now, Frodo-lad. . .that's far too much excitement for you without your medicine, after all. If you can't take it, you can't take it. . .but if you can't, I suppose you'll just have to lie extra-quietly and extra-still in bed to try and keep the fever down. . . ."
Sighing, Frodo bit his lip. It was too much to resist. "Could I. . .have some ginger. . .before. . .*and* after. . .please? And then will. . .you. . .show me. . .something. . .you've brought? I. . .I promise I'll. . .be quiet. . . ."
A smile warmed Bilbo's features, and a tense sigh - relieved, Frodo thought - came from Bryonia. "Of course, of course! First some ginger, then some medicine, then more ginger, and *then* a present. And wait until you see it, my boy!" Still supporting Frodo firmly against him, he poked one hand into a pocket, rummaging about for half a moment before producing a small piece of candied ginger, which he brought to his nephew's lips. Eagerly the young hobbit took it in, sucking on the treat quietly as his uncle resumed rubbing his back, soothing and coaxing. "Is there anything at all you'd like to eat, Frodo-lad? I know it's hard to feel much like nibbling at anything when you're ill, but we've got to keep up your strength. Your auntie says you ought to be taking a taste of something every couple of hours, and you haven't been doing that for us. . . ."
Still sucking on the ginger, Frodo mulled this over, still feeling hot and cold all over. "Not hungry. . .don't feel like it. . . ." He didn't feel at all interested in eating. . .truthfully, he felt rather as if anything left in his tummy was trying to come out the other way.
"All right, then. All right, lad." Soothingly Bilbo continued to massage the small back, rocking his nephew in a steady rhythm. At last Bryonia stepped closer, pouring a dose of the hated medicine and putting it to Frodo's lips.
"There now, poppet. . .drink it all down, and you can have some more ginger."
Reluctantly Frodo opened his mouth, tasting. The bitterness was still so strong that he barely managed to stifle a gag, relieved when Bilbo promptly popped another piece of ginger into his mouth.
"There's my good boy. In just a few minutes we'll have your present. . .all right, Frodo?" His small charge nodded, resting against his uncle's shoulder once more. Yet this lasted only a moment. . .the young hobbit found himself feeling increasingly uncomfortable, and cast Bilbo a desperate look. "What is it, lad?"
"I. . ." Lowering his voice a bit, Frodo glanced nervously at his aunt. Close as they were, he still preferred Bilbo for such matters, if possible. "I have to go. . . ."
"Go?" Bilbo's brow furrowed in confusion. "No. . .no, my lad, you don't have to go anywhere. . .you're safe in your own room. . . ." Suddenly his eyes widened, as if in realisation. "Ah! You mean. . . ."
Frodo nodded firmly.
Looking up, Bilbo cleared his throat slightly. "Bryonia, I think the boy would rather have a bit of privacy. . .I'll stay with him and help him."
"Are you certain? I don't mind - "
Frodo shook his head and Bilbo did likewise. "No. . .no, go ahead."
"All right. I'll be back in a bit, then, pet. . . ." Bending to kiss Frodo's mop of curls, she reached beneath the bed, setting the flatter vessel for bed-use on the empty chair next to Bilbo's, then made her way to the door and disappeared, the knob turning quietly behind her. Having difficulty with even this wait, Frodo whimpered as Bilbo shifted position, setting the vessel on the bed and easing it under his nephew, pulling the night-shirt up. Thankfully, Bryonia had left him in just the gown after his bath. They were just in time: the young hobbit allowed his uncle to lean him back against the pillows, rubbing the small stomach with a light touch, Frodo's few stomach-contents rapidly evacuated.
When it passed, Frodo nodded for Bilbo to help him, and the elder hobbit eased him onto one side, holding him there while removing the vessel, then taking a cloth and gently wiping the small backside. A moment later, warm dampness touched him: Bilbo had retrieved another cloth and finished cleaning him thus before patting dry, turning his nephew back over and tucking him in more securely, stashing the chamber-pot in its cupboard below the bedside-table. Waiting alone while Bilbo rose to wash his hands, Frodo sighed with relief as his uncle brought back a fresh cloth, bathing the puffy, reddened face and hands.
He hated being ill.
"Frodo-lad. . .how about that present now? Would that cheer you up?" The swollen little face nodded up at him without smiling. "Good!" Grinning broadly, Bilbo bent over, poking about in a large travelling-bag by his feet.
But suddenly Frodo felt. . .strange.
The room seemed to spin, and Uncle Bilbo's voice took on a distant, hollow quality, sounding very far away. Frodo felt something being put into his hands: he could tell it was a toy, and could see it, but somehow he could not work out what it was, or what was happening. . .what time of day was it? Where were his parents? No. . .his parents. . .his. . .his mother and father were. . .dead, yes. . . .
"Frodo?"
He heard Bilbo's voice as if from underwater, and tried to answer. . .but, feeling too dizzy, shut his eyes tightly. At once a cool cloth was laid over them, and he could hear the bustle of footsteps, the rustle of Bilbo's waistcoat and Aunt Bryonia's petticoats. . . .
They were talking, and he could hear them, but it was too much effort to distinguish each word.
". . .doctor. . . . . .this. . . . . . .terribly wrong. . . ."
"I'll try. . . . . . . . .drink. . . . . .something. . . ."
He could feel the object in his hands, something solid and firm, hard with bits of cloth over polished surfaces. Ordinarily he would have been quite excited to see what it was, but he felt so dizzy, and it was easier just to lie still and try not to make it worse, the way his mother would have urged him to rest had she been there. . . .
"Come now, Frodo-lad. . .just a few sips for me. . . ."
Bilbo's voice. A cup at his lips. He lapped faintly at the cup and tasted the apple drink from earlier, sipping more readily as he recognised the flavour. . .but the cough was back, and he had to turn away, the hacking exhausting.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He could see Mamma and Papa again. . .if something happened. . . he'd been so ill that winter that he almost had, and sometimes he half-wished it had happened.
More than half.
He couldn't follow Bilbo's voice any more, or Auntie's. Too tired.
~To Be Continued~
Regarding the quotations opening selected chapters. . .I realise that Tolkien has more to do with medieval literature and the sagas of the ancient world than the likes of Robert Louis Stevenson and Charles Dickens. However, this is a story whose feel has more in common, to me, with the latter world, and so I have taken the liberty of incorporating some rather relevant little bits at the opening of selected chapters. There's a zinger of one coming up that I hope you'll enjoy, and is the whole reason I'm even quoting from _Oliver Twist_ at all. . . . There's also another story that I'll be bringing in as opening quote material, something that evokes much of what I had in mind when I began writing "Counterpane."
For those who've wondered, yes, Frodo's feverish dreams often have some foreshadowing elements. . .in Chapter Six, the opening was a nightmare of Caradhras, and Frodo's dream of what he thought might be a dragon's lair was Mount Doom; in Chapter Four, that was indeed Elrond tending him in Rivendell, calling him back from the darkness of the Morgul-knife wound.
For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact frodoatbagend@yahoo.com
DISCLAIMER: The characters, places, and story of The Lord of the Rings are the property of J.R.R. Tolkien and consequently of the Tolkien Estate, with select rights by Tolkien Enterprises. This piece appears purely as fanfiction and is not intended to claim ownership of Tolkien's work in any way. Please e-mail me if you have concerns. Original characters, such as (but not limited to) Bryonia and Forsythia, are my own work; please do not use my creations in your work. Please respect my original contributions. Furthermore, please do NOT consider any treatments or remedies within this story safe or effective for use: these are included as fictitious hobbit care, not real human medical practice, and while some can indeed be traced to actual therapeutic practices, could be dangerous. Please consult your health care professional before treating yourself or others for any condition or symptom.
COUNTERPANE
Chapter Seven: Slow Creeping Fire
The sun rose and sank, and rose and sank again, and many times after that; and still the boy lay stretched on his uneasy bed, dwindling away beneath the dry and wasting heat of fever. The worm does not his work more surely on the dead body, than does this slow creeping fire upon the living frame. -Charles Dickens, _Oliver Twist_
Apple.
He recognised the taste of apple. . .sweetened just a little, and cold. Greedily he drank, taking as much as whomever it was would allow: there was a damp cloth over his eyes and forehead, and it smelled a little strange, but he wasn't as worried about that. As long as he didn't have to put it in his mouth, he didn't care.
"All right, now, Frodo-lad. . . ."
Bilbo!
It hadn't been a dream. Uncle Bilbo. . . . Frodo could hardly help smiling a little: he felt relieved, having half-feared that he might wake to find Bilbo's arrival another of his dreams. But no, it was real. . .now, if only someone weren't poking a spoon at his lips. . . . Reluctantly he opened his mouth, hoping for more of that apple drink or some honey. . .or some of the jam Bilbo mentioned earlier. . . .
Bitter. Acid.
At once he gagged, pulling back and spitting out the contents, trying not to throw up as the effort provoked a fresh bout of coughing. Strong hands lifted him into a sitting position, the cloth falling from his eyes, revealing Aunt Bryonia at his bedside, the offending spoon in hand; Bilbo on the other side, the one holding him. Folding into Bilbo's arms, he tried not to cry, but his eyes burned and stung with the prickle of hot tears. They ached.
"Now, now. . .there, Frodo; it's all right. I know it's nasty stuff. But it will help those terrible aches and pains, and bring that nasty fever down. . .don't you want that?"
Bilbo's cajoling had little effect: Frodo shook his head, clinging fretfully to his uncle, who rubbed his back, rocking him in slow, steady movement.
"Sweetheart. . .there's more of that nice apple tea for afterward, or black currant jam tea. . .whichever you like, just as soon as you swallow down one spoonful." Aunt Bryonia's voice sounded nearly desperate.
"No. . .no, can't. . . ."
Bilbo patted his back. "Not even if I hold your nose?"
"No. . . ." A bout of coughing seized him, and he hacked and choked for several minutes, the dry cough pounding painfully at his chest as Bilbo held him.
"Not even if I have candied ginger for afterward?"
Frodo hesitated. Candied ginger was a treat. . .one his parents had sometimes bought him when they went into town for the day, and one Bilbo had always brought when he came to visit. . .something that always eased chills and calmed his tummy if he'd been throwing up, the only sort of candy he was usually allowed to have when very ill. . . . "I. . .can't. . .have. . .any. . .before?"
Silence.
"Bilbo, we really should ask the doctor - "
"Fiddlesticks! Bit of candied ginger never hurt a child with measles. It's not as if I brought those sugary lollipops. . .though, mind you, now that I mention it. . . ." Bilbo touched his face, and Frodo turned to look up at him, head still resting against his uncle's shoulder. "Frodo, there's the candied ginger and there are herb lollies. I know you've had them before; we've given them when you've been getting through coughs and colds before. A bit of chamomile, a bit of mint, those sorts of things. You may have one before and one after, so long as you take the medicine."
Frodo considered, but the memory of the vivid taste was still so strong that he shuddered, shaking his head.
"Goodness. . .goodness me, then. I suppose if you can't, you can't." Bilbo's voice carried a strange sort of resignation, and Frodo looked into his face curiously. His uncle's expression was quite serious. "Such a shame, too. . .because I happen to know what's in my bags, and I'm sure you would find some of it most entertaining. . .but if you're too sick to take your medicine, you must surely be very ill indeed. . .far too ill for special things all the way from far-off lands I visited in my travels. . . ."
Willing his stomach to stay settled about the matter of that medicine, Frodo snuggled into the crook of Bilbo's arm. "I'm. . .not. . .please, Uncle Bilbo. . . ."
Bilbo shook his head firmly. "Now, Frodo-lad. . .that's far too much excitement for you without your medicine, after all. If you can't take it, you can't take it. . .but if you can't, I suppose you'll just have to lie extra-quietly and extra-still in bed to try and keep the fever down. . . ."
Sighing, Frodo bit his lip. It was too much to resist. "Could I. . .have some ginger. . .before. . .*and* after. . .please? And then will. . .you. . .show me. . .something. . .you've brought? I. . .I promise I'll. . .be quiet. . . ."
A smile warmed Bilbo's features, and a tense sigh - relieved, Frodo thought - came from Bryonia. "Of course, of course! First some ginger, then some medicine, then more ginger, and *then* a present. And wait until you see it, my boy!" Still supporting Frodo firmly against him, he poked one hand into a pocket, rummaging about for half a moment before producing a small piece of candied ginger, which he brought to his nephew's lips. Eagerly the young hobbit took it in, sucking on the treat quietly as his uncle resumed rubbing his back, soothing and coaxing. "Is there anything at all you'd like to eat, Frodo-lad? I know it's hard to feel much like nibbling at anything when you're ill, but we've got to keep up your strength. Your auntie says you ought to be taking a taste of something every couple of hours, and you haven't been doing that for us. . . ."
Still sucking on the ginger, Frodo mulled this over, still feeling hot and cold all over. "Not hungry. . .don't feel like it. . . ." He didn't feel at all interested in eating. . .truthfully, he felt rather as if anything left in his tummy was trying to come out the other way.
"All right, then. All right, lad." Soothingly Bilbo continued to massage the small back, rocking his nephew in a steady rhythm. At last Bryonia stepped closer, pouring a dose of the hated medicine and putting it to Frodo's lips.
"There now, poppet. . .drink it all down, and you can have some more ginger."
Reluctantly Frodo opened his mouth, tasting. The bitterness was still so strong that he barely managed to stifle a gag, relieved when Bilbo promptly popped another piece of ginger into his mouth.
"There's my good boy. In just a few minutes we'll have your present. . .all right, Frodo?" His small charge nodded, resting against his uncle's shoulder once more. Yet this lasted only a moment. . .the young hobbit found himself feeling increasingly uncomfortable, and cast Bilbo a desperate look. "What is it, lad?"
"I. . ." Lowering his voice a bit, Frodo glanced nervously at his aunt. Close as they were, he still preferred Bilbo for such matters, if possible. "I have to go. . . ."
"Go?" Bilbo's brow furrowed in confusion. "No. . .no, my lad, you don't have to go anywhere. . .you're safe in your own room. . . ." Suddenly his eyes widened, as if in realisation. "Ah! You mean. . . ."
Frodo nodded firmly.
Looking up, Bilbo cleared his throat slightly. "Bryonia, I think the boy would rather have a bit of privacy. . .I'll stay with him and help him."
"Are you certain? I don't mind - "
Frodo shook his head and Bilbo did likewise. "No. . .no, go ahead."
"All right. I'll be back in a bit, then, pet. . . ." Bending to kiss Frodo's mop of curls, she reached beneath the bed, setting the flatter vessel for bed-use on the empty chair next to Bilbo's, then made her way to the door and disappeared, the knob turning quietly behind her. Having difficulty with even this wait, Frodo whimpered as Bilbo shifted position, setting the vessel on the bed and easing it under his nephew, pulling the night-shirt up. Thankfully, Bryonia had left him in just the gown after his bath. They were just in time: the young hobbit allowed his uncle to lean him back against the pillows, rubbing the small stomach with a light touch, Frodo's few stomach-contents rapidly evacuated.
When it passed, Frodo nodded for Bilbo to help him, and the elder hobbit eased him onto one side, holding him there while removing the vessel, then taking a cloth and gently wiping the small backside. A moment later, warm dampness touched him: Bilbo had retrieved another cloth and finished cleaning him thus before patting dry, turning his nephew back over and tucking him in more securely, stashing the chamber-pot in its cupboard below the bedside-table. Waiting alone while Bilbo rose to wash his hands, Frodo sighed with relief as his uncle brought back a fresh cloth, bathing the puffy, reddened face and hands.
He hated being ill.
"Frodo-lad. . .how about that present now? Would that cheer you up?" The swollen little face nodded up at him without smiling. "Good!" Grinning broadly, Bilbo bent over, poking about in a large travelling-bag by his feet.
But suddenly Frodo felt. . .strange.
The room seemed to spin, and Uncle Bilbo's voice took on a distant, hollow quality, sounding very far away. Frodo felt something being put into his hands: he could tell it was a toy, and could see it, but somehow he could not work out what it was, or what was happening. . .what time of day was it? Where were his parents? No. . .his parents. . .his. . .his mother and father were. . .dead, yes. . . .
"Frodo?"
He heard Bilbo's voice as if from underwater, and tried to answer. . .but, feeling too dizzy, shut his eyes tightly. At once a cool cloth was laid over them, and he could hear the bustle of footsteps, the rustle of Bilbo's waistcoat and Aunt Bryonia's petticoats. . . .
They were talking, and he could hear them, but it was too much effort to distinguish each word.
". . .doctor. . . . . .this. . . . . . .terribly wrong. . . ."
"I'll try. . . . . . . . .drink. . . . . .something. . . ."
He could feel the object in his hands, something solid and firm, hard with bits of cloth over polished surfaces. Ordinarily he would have been quite excited to see what it was, but he felt so dizzy, and it was easier just to lie still and try not to make it worse, the way his mother would have urged him to rest had she been there. . . .
"Come now, Frodo-lad. . .just a few sips for me. . . ."
Bilbo's voice. A cup at his lips. He lapped faintly at the cup and tasted the apple drink from earlier, sipping more readily as he recognised the flavour. . .but the cough was back, and he had to turn away, the hacking exhausting.
Maybe it wouldn't be so bad. He could see Mamma and Papa again. . .if something happened. . . he'd been so ill that winter that he almost had, and sometimes he half-wished it had happened.
More than half.
He couldn't follow Bilbo's voice any more, or Auntie's. Too tired.
~To Be Continued~