Title: Counterpane
Author: Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FrodoAtBagEnd)
E-mail: febobe at yahoo dot com
Story Notes/Announcements: Thank you all for your patience during my lengthy hiatus. . .my apologies; the past year has been extremely difficult. Re FrodoHealers. . .ifyou've had trouble joining in the past and would still like to do so, just drop me an e-mail. :) I also do try to have vignettes or shorter fics posted in my LJ and/or there between chapters of longer fics, though that varies considerably depending on RL demands.
FYI. . .while this story is nearing a close, and will be finished soon (one to two chapters remain), I have a sequel now in progress which I hope "Counterpane" readers will enjoy. Frodo's convalescence will not, of course, be an entirely uneventful one, but it promises also to be full of treats and comfort for the little lad. Please stay tuned for further announcements regarding this as yet untitled work. :)
The nursery-rhyme which appears in this chapter is actually piecework - two sections from "The Sugar-Plum Tree," as reproduced in Lullabies and Poems for Children in the Everyman's Library Pocket Poets series, selected and edited by Diana Secker Larson, published by Alfred A. Knopf of New York and Toronto in 2002.
The formatting (including any right-alignment and italics) in my posting to FrodoHealers and on may or may not be working correctly.
An extra-special thank-you to SHIREBOUND and ELWEN for beta-reading this chapter for me:) Thanks so much for your assistance:) (hugs both)
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. At this point, I feel that the worst really is over for the squeamish, but please don't blame me if you read and are offended. :)
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.)
For permission to reproduce any part of this fanfic, please contact febobe at yahoo dot 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 Thirteen: Wishes & Beggars
Have you ever heard of the Sugar-Plum Tree?
'Tis a marvel of great renown!
It blooms on the shore of the Lollipop sea
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town;
The fruit that it bears is so wondrously sweet
(As those who have tasted it say)
That good little children have only to eat
Of that fruit to be happy next day. . . .
"Bilbo Baggins, you can't be serious. Now come, be reasonable about this."
"I am serious, and I'm being more than reasonable. More reasonable, in fact, than most of this entire Hall, if you ask me. And keep your voice down; you'll wake the poor lad."
"You didn't seem to care about that when you decided to bring it up. Just when did you begin planning this?"
Frodo snuggled cosily into his nest of blankets. He was back in bed; that much he could tell. . .but there was a comfortable cloth over his eyes, a soft compress, and he felt rather disinclined to remove it.
Or to let the adults know that he had just woken after all. . .they always stopped the interesting conversation then. And this certainly sounded like the sort of conversation Aunt Bri and Bilbo would promptly end if they knew.
So he remained quiet, listening, eyes still closed even beneath the compress.
Not that listening was easy. . .it took a great deal of concentration, and his left ear ached.
"Bri. . . ." Bilbo sighed, his voice weary with the tired, frustrated tone grown-ups used when they had been having the same argument for more than a few minutes. "The child loves you. And you've done wonderfully by him. But you heard the doctor as well as I did: Frodo's still very ill. He's on the mend, but he'll need a great deal of close attention. . .for some time. What if you have to return to Michel Delving?"
Aunt Bri hesitated, sounding flustered when she finally spoke. "I'll just have to - make better arrangements, should it become absolutely necessary."
"Pshaw!" Frodo had to stifle a smile as Bilbo snorted (such a funny noise he made, like an annoyed pony). "There may not be time. . .and there aren't exactly many people here with the interest and time to look after even another well child properly, much less a convalescent. What he needs is a good long rest, with plenty of attention. A bit of spoiling would go a long way; goodness knows he hasn't had over-much since the accident. About time he got to know Hobbiton a bit better, too, being half Baggins and all. Dora's willing to come over a bit, and my gardener's wife has a holeful of children and enough advice to answer anything we might need to get on properly. I've plenty of extra space. . .his own large room, a big feather-bed, a garden for him to take the air in when he's strong enough to sit outside, a sitting-room with plenty of space and a good fireplace - well-aired, at that, a good warm kitchen. . . . Surely you must admit that's enough for one lad. I'm prepared to pay for whatever he needs: medicines, special foods, anything that might amuse him. . . ."
"Bilbo, you'll have him spoilt - "
"Please." Frodo almost opened his eyes; he could never recall hearing such longing in Bilbo's voice before.
In anyone's, for that matter.
A sudden throb of pain along his ear nearly caused him to cry out, but he resisted. Bilbo would never take him to Hobbiton if there was the slightest hint he might not be recovering properly: nobody wanted a sickly orphan, after all.
Not even Bilbo.
Another throb of pain.
How desperately he longed to tell! How he wished to open his eyes, to tell them of the terrible ache throbbing along one ear and starting down the other, of the funny feeling in his tummy. . . .
He should.
He knew he should.
But what was that thing Mamma always said about wishes and seed-cakes? i If wishes were seed-cakes, beggars would feast/i she said. i But wishes are neither seed-cakes nor mushrooms - /i
What's a beggar, Mamma? he had asked curiously, fascinated - and horrified - to learn that some hobbits wandered without a home. In far-away Bree, such hobbits did, Mamma said, exist. . .unlike the Shire, and Buckland, where no self-respecting family would dream of letting anyone in the family (however eccentric, even decidedly odd, they might seem) wander the road alone, without a cosy hobbit-hole or decent meals every day as best as could be provided.
The rest of the world, Frodo had promptly decided, must be quite different indeed.
His ear hurt, and he curled up in bed, shifting miserably. Hot. Too hot. The compress no longer felt comfortable. Everything felt far too hot. His throat tickled awfully, itching inside, causing him to finally abandon the effort of appearing asleep, forcing him to cough. Someone sat him up just a little, rubbing his back in soothing circles, then laid him back down, propping him on soft pillows. His face prickled, and at once he rubbed it with both fists until they were drawn away by firm, but gentle, hands.
"No, no, Frodo-lad. . . ."
But it itched, and hurt. . .and that was Bilbo's voice! Uncle Bilbo, who wouldn't want some mewling wisp of a weakling - as Frodo had heard himself called by select cousins - to take home. . . . Bilbo, the brave adventurer, who would want someone strong and courageous like himself. . . .
He couldn't help it.
Despite his best efforts, Frodo began to cry.
For the pain in his ears, for the strange feeling in his tummy, for the ache in his chest from coughing.
For the truth that Mamma was gone.
For the fear that Bilbo would no longer want him.
But this time he felt warm arms gathering him close, someone cradling him in a blanket, catching him up in their arms as if he were still only a fauntling. . . .
"There now, Frodo-lad. . .don't cry! I'm here. Now rest your poor eyes and try to sleep, before you do yourself an injury. . . ."
The voice dropped to a warm whisper.
"I'm here. I shan't leave you, my boy. Ever."
There are marshmallows, gumdrops, and peppermint canes,
With stripings of scarlet or gold,
And you carry away of the treasure that rains
As much as your apron can hold!
So come, little child, cuddle closer to me
In your dainty white nightcap and gown,
And I'll rock you away to that Sugar-Plum Tree
In the garden of Shut-Eye Town.
- to be continued -