Title: Counterpane
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd)
Characters: Frodo, Bilbo, Bryonia (OC - one of Frodo's relatives at Brandy Hall), various others
Rating: PG to PG-13. While this story falls within the guidelines of the FrodoHealers group in both letter and spirit, free from profanity or sexual content, it does contain material which may be distasteful to some readers. If you prefer to avoid graphic medical content or non-sexual bare hobbit "rear-views," then you may wish to avoid reading this story. Should you choose to continue, you do so at your own risk. I have chosen to provide a realistic portrayal of symptoms and treatment given the conditions in Middle-earth, and as such the content is quite graphic in nature. Feedback: Welcomed. Constructive only, please. . .no flaming. Summary: Young Frodo Baggins falls ill with the measles. (A short summary, but I'd rather avoid spoilers for this one.)
Story Notes/Announcements: This week marked the one-year anniversary of "Counterpane" - and while that makes it quite a slow work-in-progress, it also seems to me cause for celebration. :) So, to honour the day, I have chosen to post this chapter and to make an announcement: this is the start of regular updates of "Counterpane," which will be posted every other week until the story is completed (and no, that doesn't mean you'll still be reading next year!). I also plan to try and have vignettes or shorter fics posting during the off-week, though no absolute promises about how that will go. Look for the next "Counterpane" update on Tuesday, May 20. I will be trying to post chapters to FrodoHealers earlier - anywhere from a day to a full week in advance - and have finally found a way to over-ride the age-alert button, so if you've had trouble joining in the past and would still like to do so, just drop me an e-mail. :)
I owe a special thank-you to the consultants who reviewed this prior to my posting: there were a few things I wanted other views about, and I am immensely indebted to Elwen, LilyBaggins, Tangelian Proudfoot, Ariel, SayHello, and Baylor for their kind assistance. :) A special thanks also to Niphrandl for her willing heart of helpfulness! :)

The formatting (including right-alignment and italics) in my posting to FrodoHealers and on ff.net may not be working correctly. Please see the version posted to my LJ tomorrow for what I hope will look more as I intended
it. . . .

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.

Chapter Ten: Gingerbread Rabbits & Sugar Ponies

Hush, my dear, said the old lady softly. You must be very quiet, or you will be ill again; and you have been very bad, - as bad as bad could be, pretty nigh. Lie down again; there's a dear! With those words, the old lady very gently placed Oliver's head upon the pillow; and, smoothing back his hair from his forehead, looked so kindly and lovingly in his face, that he could not help placing his little withered hand in hers, and drawing it round his neck.
Save us! said the old lady, with tears in her eyes, What a grateful little dear it is. Pretty creetur! What would his mother feel if she had sat by him as I have, and could see him now!
Perhaps she does see me, whispered Oliver, folding his hands together; perhaps she has sat by me. I almost feel as if she had.
That was the fever, my dear, said the old lady mildly.
I suppose it was, replied Oliver, because heaven is a long way off; and they are too happy there, to come down to the bedside of a poor boy. But if she knew I was ill, she must have pitied me, even there; for she was very ill herself before she died. She can't know anything about me though, added Oliver after a moment's silence. If she had seen me hurt, it would have made her sorrowful; and her face has always looked sweet and happy, when I have dreamed of her.
The old lady made no reply to this; but wiping her eyes first, and her spectacles, which lay on the counterpane, afterwards, as if they were part and parcel of those features, brought some cool stuff for Oliver to drink; and then, patting him on the cheek, told him he must lie very quiet, or he would be ill again.
-from Chapter 12 of Oliver Twist by Charles Dickens


It was dark.

Very dark.

Maybe he was blind now, and they were afraid to tell him. Grown-ups had a way of hiding things like that. . .of concealing the truth from you, pretending they knew better. Grown-ups always thought they knew best. Most of the time they didn't really, but that didn't stop them from acting it.

Maybe he would never be able to see again. The thought made his eyes prickle with tears. . .they ached dreadfully. He had never thought eyes could hurt so.

Oh. . .no. . .no, now he could make out shapes. . .the room was dark, rather, and it must be night-time, or else they had darkened it, and turned his bed so that he could not see any fire in his hearth. The lack of even dim lighting was disconcerting, though.

Not half so disconcerting, however, as what happened next.

He felt vaguely aware of his legs being lifted, knees tucked back against his tummy as they had been before. . .and then. . .someone inserting the hateful tubing once more. At once he tried to struggle, but hands held him fast, an arm going beneath his knees and the other over his legs, holding them firmly in place. Damp cloth held him down from the tummy on up, and his wrists were still tied. . .his ankles had been fastened too, hadn't they? The struggle seemed to take his breath, and he began to cough, his chest pierced with pain. Someone reached behind him, rubbing his back. . . . Then a cup held to his lips. . .sharp. . .but a bit of sweetness, then. . .white wine and hot milk. . .with. . .powdered sugar, maybe? His aunt had made this for him before when he was ill; he recognised it. . .though he couldn't recall why she'd have been looking after him. . . .

"There now, Frodo, easy. . .don't fight us. . . . We're just trying to help you get better. Ssshhhhh."

The gentle voice seemed familiar, but he couldn't place it. . .not Papa or Mamma. . . . But that thought was distracted by the irritating sensation of liquid going into the tubing, then into him. . .more medicine. . . .

He felt too exhausted to fight any longer. Too tired. Someone patted his forehead with a damp cloth, then wiped his drippy nose, causing him to wince: he was so sniffly that even his nose hurt.

"Poor poppet."

Another moment, and there was another damp cloth. . .someone dabbed gingerly at his nose again, patting his face clean, then began touching his nose. . . .

Salve.

Some kind of pleasant salve or cream, like the kind Mamma used on her face, only less smelly. . .marigold. He recognised the scent. That kind that one of his aunts was named for. Cal. . .Callie. . .Aunt Callie. . .what was her full name?

His back itched, causing him to squirm miserably. The person finished applying salve to his nose and upper lip, then continued, rubbing it gently over his chin and then onto his neck.

"Bilbo, I've some lotion and things. . .as soon as the doctor finishes, I may need your help."

Frodo whimpered faintly as a slightly familiar shape released his legs and began swiftly fastening them back to the bed-railings.

Why?

*********

He must have dozed off, somehow, he realised with a start, for he lay now on his stomach rather than his back, no longer fastened down. Someone was powdering him, and he vaguely recalled being rubbed with a light lotion. . .his tummy hurting, having to use the chamber-pot again, someone cleaning him. . .all in a half-sleepy daze, as if a dream, some nightmare. . .except that it was no dream; it had happened, or was happening, for someone was powdering his back and bottom, patting him reassuringly, as if he were a baby.

And he didn't mind, to be frank. He felt ready to cry: he wanted Mamma, and could not remember where she was, only that whomever was tending him, she was not his mother, and the other was not his father. . . .

"There now, sweetheart. Sshhhhh."

The voice was low and gentle, and Frodo opened his eyes, blinking weakly as he was turned onto his side, then back, once more. A spoon touched his lips, and he swallowed: the blackberry mixture from earlier, brandy and chamomile, ginger and peppermint, an odd combination of tastes together, but not intolerable. The face that bent over him was vaguely reminiscent of. . .his aunt. . .Bryonia? Uncertain, he avoided trying to speak. Whomever she was, she eased him up, his head resting upon her arm. . .and when he was laid back against the pillows, he found them deliciously fresh and crisp, soft beneath his aching head. There was something Mamma always said when she was fluffing his pillows. . .what. . .what was it?

Cackle, cackle, Mother Goose,
Have you any feathers loose?

Truly have I, pretty fellow,
Quite enough to fill a pillow.

He missed her. He missed her so much that his chest seemed to ache with it. . .and the coughing only made it worse. . . . But something was being rubbed onto his chest, some strong-smelling stuff. . .and then he was eased up again, with a soft jacket of some silky material slipped onto him. Hands eased him back down, then laid something over his chest, something hot. . .and fastened the jacket closely. He could make out the pungent aroma of mustard. . .along with a fainter smell, something milder. . . . A moment later, something touched his stomach, and he found that they were laying something there too, something hot over his belly. At last they covered him up warmly with fresh sheets and plenty of quilts and soft blankets, and he felt himself growing warmer, the spices and mixtures stinging his skin as he grew drowsy once more.

*********

Someone was stroking his hair.

This was not particularly surprising, though it was most comforting, and he nestled weakly against the reassuring touch even before he opened his eyes, recognising the scent of lavender, faint though it seemed.

She sat by his bed, leaning over the railing, her bright blue eyes warm and worried, one hand stroking his damp curls, the other snuggled beneath the blankets, holding his smaller one.

"There's my sweet one! My, but it's good to see those eyes open. . .you've given us quite a scare, and no mistake."

He curled his fingers round hers, clasping them as tightly as he could, though he realised she could withdraw them easily enough nonetheless. "Mamma. . .they said you couldn't come, that. . . ."

"Nonsense. Sshhhhh." She rose to lean further over the bed-rail separating them, placing her lips against his forehead, kissing him as she always did for good-night. . .or to take his temperature when she suspected illness. "Mamma's here."

He nodded faintly, feeling dizzy again, and tried to push away the covers, but she patted him gently through the layers.

"I know you don't feel well, poppet, but that's because you're so sick, and you must stay quiet in bed if you're to get well. And that means keeping covered up nice and warm, and letting those poultices do their work: flaxeed and mustard, and spices and linseed. Those will help your chest and tummy; they're all congested right now."

"It hurts. . . ."

"You will feel better soon, darling. . .Mamma's promise." Settling back into the chair, she continued to hold his hand, stroking his hair in a strangely soothing rhythm. Only then did Frodo realise that it was very dark still, and it was raining, for he could hear the sound outside. In the winter like this, with the ground often quite wet from previous rains, there was often talk that the Brandywine might flood, and all sorts of things were usually found on the banks when it did: lost combs and fallen buttons, little green frogs you could put in a cousin's bed to scare her, wriggling earthworms and sometimes wiggly tadpoles or water-walker bugs.

Only last year he had found a hair-ribbon, faded but still striped blue and green.

Chance, Aunt Esmeralda had insisted. There were likely several of those sold at market throughout the Shire and Buckland: though more complicated to dye than ordinary ribbons, they were hardly so rare as to be unique among all hobbits, as she reminded him.

Maybe.

But he had tied it carefully into a loose bow and put it in the box with the other, the only proof they had allowed him to have at first. Sometimes he thought that the not-so-faded one still smelled a little like lavender and honeysuckle.

It was pouring rain again.

Sniffling against a stuffy nose, he looked up, able to distinguish her even in the very dim light of the room. "Mamma. . .I'm sorry."

She laughed softly, a musical sound like little bells, ruffling his curls a bit as she continued to stroke them. "There's no need for that, Frodo-poppet. . .you can't help it! Only be a good boy for me now, and lie nice and still. . .and do as you're told. . .so we can have you well and strong again as soon as can be. . . ."

He couldn't help managing a smile.

"Close those eyes, now, dearest. Back to sleep."

And he obeyed, closing his eyes and continuing to hold fast to her hand, calmed by the soft singing there by his bed:

Smiling girls, rosy boys,
Come and buy my little toys:
Rabbits made of gingerbread
And sugar ponies painted red.

Handy spandy, sugary candy,
Shire walnut rock;
Bread and butter for your supper,
That is all your mother's got.

Wash the dishes, wipe the dishes,
Ring the bell for tea;
Three good wishes, three good kisses,
I will give to thee.

Rain on the green grass,
And rain on the tree;
Rain on the smial-top,
But not on me. . . .

~to be continued~

Author's Notes: The nursery-rhymes and songs used in this chapter are adapted from My Very First Mother Goose, edited by Iona Opie and illustrated by Rosemary Wells. Iona Opie and her late husband Peter are acclaimed scholars of this oft-forgotten area of study and have preserved many rhymes which, sadly, are rarely passed down in today's society. Given that many of the songs Tolkien himself wrote into The Hobbit, The Lord of the Rings, and his poetry (see The Tolkien Reader) draw upon rhymes from these very collections (the man in the moon, anyone?), it seems plausible enough that Frodo's childhood might well have been filled with hobbit variations of these nursery-rhymes. . .hence Primula's whimsical little song about treats, tea, and rain. If I do undertake a full-scale revision of "Counterpane" at some point, it may incorporate different rhymes, as I've now tracked down some of the larger works and am doing a close review.