Author's Notes: For the sensitive, I should caution that this chapter
contains graphic medical detail. Additional notes appear at the end of the
chapter. :) Thank you for your patience.
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 Eight: The Sense of Touch
He could hear them. Calling. He didn't want to answer. Too tired. He didn't want medicines or even that new toy. . .he wanted Mamma.
His eyes were on fire.
There was. . .a deep chasm, a gaping rent in the ground, a lake of flame filling it far below. The air felt heavy with waves of heat that seared his throat, oppressively thick with ash and sulphur. It was like a wall of flame-intense heat.
And yet. . .he *had* to be there. Somehow he knew that he could not leave.
"Frodo - "
He blinked, his throat too swollen, his mouth too dry, to swallow, let alone speak. That voice.
"Frodo, darling - "
Mamma? He turned.
There she was, standing close against a wall of ashen rock, just as he remembered her.
"There's my poppet. You've been such a good boy. . .but you're very tired now, aren't you, sweetheart?"
He could only nod, eyes stinging with what would have been tears.
"That's all right. Mamma's here now. You can rest."
She approached slowly, the way one might approach a frightened puppy.
"Just put it on, poppet. Put it on, and we can go home. . .and you'll wake up in your own bed. Only a dream."
His hand reached, involuntarily, for a chain that hung about his neck: fine silver, tiny links, and something upon it. . . .
It hurt to breathe. Why was he breathing so quickly, as if he'd been running? His heart felt as if it were racing, and he suddenly felt so breathless that he wanted to sit down, to rest against a stack of pillows. . . .
"Only a bad dream. . . ."
She reached out her arms, then, and he found himself suddenly seized by hands. . .grasping, choking, strong hands. . . .
*********
With a start he began to cough again, choking, his chest aching with the effort. Someone sat him up, causing him to sway dizzily, feeling as if he might throw up. Breathing was still painful and tight, and he felt. . .funny, for lack of a better word. . . . He sniffled, his nose dripping again, and a hand dabbed a handkerchief to his face.
"There, lad, there. . . . Bryonia, how soon can the doctor be back here? Blast it, I'm sure Gandalf wouldn't mind turning him into a toad-stool for the lawn if he can't be bothered. . . ."
"Hush now! You'll have half the Hall in here. . .he's coming as quickly as he can, they said." Someone dabbed at his face and chest with a damp cloth. . .he didn't seem to have his night-shirt on any more, but he felt too hot to mind, and pushed at the covers. A hand caught them, forcing him to stay tucked in beneath the sheet, quilt, and counterpane. "Now, sweetheart, you have to stay covered up. . .you're very sick. . . ."
He whimpered, and someone leaned him forward a little, propping him against soft feather-pillows as someone sponged his back and bottom with cool water.
*********
Someone else was bathing him. . .but it was someone strange, with hands too large for a hobbit's, and too smooth and soft for Gandalf's. . . .
He opened his eyes. The room seemed strange, with carved beams in the ceiling, and flat. He lay in a rather large bed. . .someone had dressed him in a fresh night-shirt, no doubt the same person who had bathed him.
Gandalf. . .he remembered talking to Gandalf. . .and then. . .falling asleep again. . . .
"Drink, Little One."
Gentle hands raised his head a little from the pillows; someone put a cup to his lips. . .one convenient for use by someone ill, for it had a tiny spout like a tea-pot's, an invalid's cup. He drank dutifully, delighted to taste a light chicken broth with hints of mushroom in the flavouring.
The person feeding him must be the same: he recognised the way the hands felt. Looking up, he discovered that it was an elf, tall and stately. . .one with long hair the colour of midnight, raven hair smooth as silk and straight as the beams along the ceiling, held back by a silver circlet. He sat on the bed beside Frodo, yet his weight seemed hardly to affect Frodo's position, with no tilting of the mattress. Grey eyes. . .wells of strange sadness and wisdom, it seemed to Frodo. . .met the hobbit's blue eyes, and the stranger smiled gently.
"How are you feeling?"
*********
He had no chance to answer.
Already he felt himself plummeting into darkness.
Someone wiped his nose, which was running again, and still felt horribly stuffy.
Couldn't open his eyes. . .too dizzy, and they still burned.
But he could hear voices again, three of them this time. . . .
". . . . . . . . . high fever . . . . . . diarrhea . . . ."
" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pneumonia . . . . . . complication . . . . . . ."
"We've . . . . . . . . .cool sponge-baths, but . . . . . . . . . ."
"He . . . . . . . . . . . . fluids . . . . . . ."
". . . not likely . . . live through . . . night . . . ."
He couldn't understand. Pneumonia was what he'd had not long after his parents died. . . . But. . .then he'd heard you could have it with measles, too. . .that was how people died from them. . . . Mostly his cousins had just gotten over them, or had had earaches. . . . But breathing *was* harder now. . . .
Suddenly he had to go again, and whimpered, hoarsely murmuring, "Bilbo - " in hopes that his uncle would understand. Hands eased him up, sliding the pot beneath his hips, a warm hand rubbing his tummy until the spasm passed. He was turned back onto his stomach, face down in bed, while someone wiped, washed, and dried his bottom. Someone patted his back, rubbing it soothingly.
" . . . burning up . . . . ."
Hands lifted him. . .within a moment, he was being put into water, into some sort of bath. . . . Another bout of coughing choked him: it felt like knives slashing into his chest, a stabbing pain, and he began to cry. Someone rubbed his back and shushed him, cradling him gently. Whomever it was, they were probably getting wet from the water that was halfway up his chest, but they didn't seem to mind.
"Thirsty. . . ."
A cup. . .milk-punch, not very strong, and not particularly what he wanted, but anything. . .anything to sip, anything that might ease the burning thirst.
He drank eagerly, but felt too weary to pay further attention to whatever it was they were doing. A familiar voice was singing a little tune, a poem he had loved since he was quite small. . . .
"The kitchen's the cosiest place that I know: The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow, And there in the twilight, how jolly to see The cocoa and animals waiting for me. . . ."
~to be continued~
Additional Author's Notes: In today's vaccination era, many of us are unfamiliar with the natural history, or common course, of once-common childhood diseases such as measles. Diarrhea often occurred as an early symptom of measles, particularly around the eruption of the characteristic rash, and could become quite problematic. Bronchopneumonia, also known as "catarrhal pneumonia," was among the most frequent and most life- threatening complications of measles, and not uncommonly occurred with significant diarrhea in such cases. At best, this combination was miserable for the child, who was dangerously ill and required meticulously intensive care in all respects, from nursing to medicines, even the temperature of the room and the articles of diet proving crucial; at worst, it was fatal, and many children died from complications such as these. Other complications, such as ear infections, were also quite common, though not as life-threatening.
Cool, lukewarm, or gradually cooled baths were often used to reduce fever: this is what we see in the end of this chapter, after Bilbo and Bryonia, with the doctor's assistance, change from sponge-bathing to the tub in an effort to lower their little nephew's dangerously high temperature. Those who have followed previous chapters will already be familiar with this one. Milk-punch, a mixture of milk and brandy with a little sugar stirred in to sweeten the drink, was often given to the sick as a stimulant or additional nourishment: in Frodo's case, stimulants are necessary, given his precarious condition. William Pepper's text on catarrhal pneumonia recommends weak milk-punch (as well as wine-whey, which you'll see in upcoming chapters) as useful for children, as stimulants are often required under such circumstances. Since the Shire, like nineteenth century England and America, had neither intravenous fluids nor vasopressors, I imagine the treatment might well have been similar, and have taken such liberties, combining both nineteenth-century medical recommendations and herbal therapeutics.
The verse used is from Christopher Morley's "Animal Crackers," a charming little poem which I imagine still fits well enough with Shire life, at least in the setting for this story. It can be found online in numerous places, including http://www.legendsandlore.com/poem_animalcrackers.html.
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 Eight: The Sense of Touch
He could hear them. Calling. He didn't want to answer. Too tired. He didn't want medicines or even that new toy. . .he wanted Mamma.
His eyes were on fire.
There was. . .a deep chasm, a gaping rent in the ground, a lake of flame filling it far below. The air felt heavy with waves of heat that seared his throat, oppressively thick with ash and sulphur. It was like a wall of flame-intense heat.
And yet. . .he *had* to be there. Somehow he knew that he could not leave.
"Frodo - "
He blinked, his throat too swollen, his mouth too dry, to swallow, let alone speak. That voice.
"Frodo, darling - "
Mamma? He turned.
There she was, standing close against a wall of ashen rock, just as he remembered her.
"There's my poppet. You've been such a good boy. . .but you're very tired now, aren't you, sweetheart?"
He could only nod, eyes stinging with what would have been tears.
"That's all right. Mamma's here now. You can rest."
She approached slowly, the way one might approach a frightened puppy.
"Just put it on, poppet. Put it on, and we can go home. . .and you'll wake up in your own bed. Only a dream."
His hand reached, involuntarily, for a chain that hung about his neck: fine silver, tiny links, and something upon it. . . .
It hurt to breathe. Why was he breathing so quickly, as if he'd been running? His heart felt as if it were racing, and he suddenly felt so breathless that he wanted to sit down, to rest against a stack of pillows. . . .
"Only a bad dream. . . ."
She reached out her arms, then, and he found himself suddenly seized by hands. . .grasping, choking, strong hands. . . .
*********
With a start he began to cough again, choking, his chest aching with the effort. Someone sat him up, causing him to sway dizzily, feeling as if he might throw up. Breathing was still painful and tight, and he felt. . .funny, for lack of a better word. . . . He sniffled, his nose dripping again, and a hand dabbed a handkerchief to his face.
"There, lad, there. . . . Bryonia, how soon can the doctor be back here? Blast it, I'm sure Gandalf wouldn't mind turning him into a toad-stool for the lawn if he can't be bothered. . . ."
"Hush now! You'll have half the Hall in here. . .he's coming as quickly as he can, they said." Someone dabbed at his face and chest with a damp cloth. . .he didn't seem to have his night-shirt on any more, but he felt too hot to mind, and pushed at the covers. A hand caught them, forcing him to stay tucked in beneath the sheet, quilt, and counterpane. "Now, sweetheart, you have to stay covered up. . .you're very sick. . . ."
He whimpered, and someone leaned him forward a little, propping him against soft feather-pillows as someone sponged his back and bottom with cool water.
*********
Someone else was bathing him. . .but it was someone strange, with hands too large for a hobbit's, and too smooth and soft for Gandalf's. . . .
He opened his eyes. The room seemed strange, with carved beams in the ceiling, and flat. He lay in a rather large bed. . .someone had dressed him in a fresh night-shirt, no doubt the same person who had bathed him.
Gandalf. . .he remembered talking to Gandalf. . .and then. . .falling asleep again. . . .
"Drink, Little One."
Gentle hands raised his head a little from the pillows; someone put a cup to his lips. . .one convenient for use by someone ill, for it had a tiny spout like a tea-pot's, an invalid's cup. He drank dutifully, delighted to taste a light chicken broth with hints of mushroom in the flavouring.
The person feeding him must be the same: he recognised the way the hands felt. Looking up, he discovered that it was an elf, tall and stately. . .one with long hair the colour of midnight, raven hair smooth as silk and straight as the beams along the ceiling, held back by a silver circlet. He sat on the bed beside Frodo, yet his weight seemed hardly to affect Frodo's position, with no tilting of the mattress. Grey eyes. . .wells of strange sadness and wisdom, it seemed to Frodo. . .met the hobbit's blue eyes, and the stranger smiled gently.
"How are you feeling?"
*********
He had no chance to answer.
Already he felt himself plummeting into darkness.
Someone wiped his nose, which was running again, and still felt horribly stuffy.
Couldn't open his eyes. . .too dizzy, and they still burned.
But he could hear voices again, three of them this time. . . .
". . . . . . . . . high fever . . . . . . diarrhea . . . ."
" . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . pneumonia . . . . . . complication . . . . . . ."
"We've . . . . . . . . .cool sponge-baths, but . . . . . . . . . ."
"He . . . . . . . . . . . . fluids . . . . . . ."
". . . not likely . . . live through . . . night . . . ."
He couldn't understand. Pneumonia was what he'd had not long after his parents died. . . . But. . .then he'd heard you could have it with measles, too. . .that was how people died from them. . . . Mostly his cousins had just gotten over them, or had had earaches. . . . But breathing *was* harder now. . . .
Suddenly he had to go again, and whimpered, hoarsely murmuring, "Bilbo - " in hopes that his uncle would understand. Hands eased him up, sliding the pot beneath his hips, a warm hand rubbing his tummy until the spasm passed. He was turned back onto his stomach, face down in bed, while someone wiped, washed, and dried his bottom. Someone patted his back, rubbing it soothingly.
" . . . burning up . . . . ."
Hands lifted him. . .within a moment, he was being put into water, into some sort of bath. . . . Another bout of coughing choked him: it felt like knives slashing into his chest, a stabbing pain, and he began to cry. Someone rubbed his back and shushed him, cradling him gently. Whomever it was, they were probably getting wet from the water that was halfway up his chest, but they didn't seem to mind.
"Thirsty. . . ."
A cup. . .milk-punch, not very strong, and not particularly what he wanted, but anything. . .anything to sip, anything that might ease the burning thirst.
He drank eagerly, but felt too weary to pay further attention to whatever it was they were doing. A familiar voice was singing a little tune, a poem he had loved since he was quite small. . . .
"The kitchen's the cosiest place that I know: The kettle is singing, the stove is aglow, And there in the twilight, how jolly to see The cocoa and animals waiting for me. . . ."
~to be continued~
Additional Author's Notes: In today's vaccination era, many of us are unfamiliar with the natural history, or common course, of once-common childhood diseases such as measles. Diarrhea often occurred as an early symptom of measles, particularly around the eruption of the characteristic rash, and could become quite problematic. Bronchopneumonia, also known as "catarrhal pneumonia," was among the most frequent and most life- threatening complications of measles, and not uncommonly occurred with significant diarrhea in such cases. At best, this combination was miserable for the child, who was dangerously ill and required meticulously intensive care in all respects, from nursing to medicines, even the temperature of the room and the articles of diet proving crucial; at worst, it was fatal, and many children died from complications such as these. Other complications, such as ear infections, were also quite common, though not as life-threatening.
Cool, lukewarm, or gradually cooled baths were often used to reduce fever: this is what we see in the end of this chapter, after Bilbo and Bryonia, with the doctor's assistance, change from sponge-bathing to the tub in an effort to lower their little nephew's dangerously high temperature. Those who have followed previous chapters will already be familiar with this one. Milk-punch, a mixture of milk and brandy with a little sugar stirred in to sweeten the drink, was often given to the sick as a stimulant or additional nourishment: in Frodo's case, stimulants are necessary, given his precarious condition. William Pepper's text on catarrhal pneumonia recommends weak milk-punch (as well as wine-whey, which you'll see in upcoming chapters) as useful for children, as stimulants are often required under such circumstances. Since the Shire, like nineteenth century England and America, had neither intravenous fluids nor vasopressors, I imagine the treatment might well have been similar, and have taken such liberties, combining both nineteenth-century medical recommendations and herbal therapeutics.
The verse used is from Christopher Morley's "Animal Crackers," a charming little poem which I imagine still fits well enough with Shire life, at least in the setting for this story. It can be found online in numerous places, including http://www.legendsandlore.com/poem_animalcrackers.html.