fic: Letting Go 15/18
Since tomorrow I'll be with lavendertook watching the trilogy on the big screen, I'm posting the next chapter now. :)
Title: Letting Go, 15/18 "Comfort"
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4,711 for this part
Warnings: this fic will involve character death
Story Summary: Letting go of someone you care deeply about is a very difficult thing.
A/N: This story is a sequel to " Holding On," which is in turn a follow-up to Skye's "Just Don't Have the Heart to End It" and Aemilia Rose's "Always There Beyond the Touch of Darkness." It's been in the works pretty much since I posted "Holding On" in June 2003, though obviously it took a while for me to get up the nerve to go through with it. ;)
A/N P.S.: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.
Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that).
Chapter 1, "Story-telling"
Chapter 2, "A Birthday"
Chapter 3, "Recovery"
Chapter 4, "Old Troubles"
Chapter 5, "Winter Blues"
Chapter 6, "An Understanding"
Chapter 7, "Routines"
Chapter 8, "Compromises"
Chapter 9, "Despair"
Chapter 10, "Reconciliation"
Chapter 11, "Resignation"
Chapter 12, "Two Visits"
Chapter 13, "Memories"
Chapter 14, "Anniversary"
Chapter Summary: Frodo tries to recover from the anniversary illness; the crate from Merry arrives.
Listening carefully to Goldilocks as she related what happened overnight, Rosie patted Frodo's face dry of the lingering sweat from his ordeal. "He said that your rubbing helped?" she inquired, briefly gauging Frodo's fever with a touch to his forehead and neck.
"He said it felt good. It did seem to help, too, but he didn't say so."
"You'll have to show me how you did it. If it makes him more comfortable, we need to be able to do it while you're sleeping."
"O' course, Mum."
"Go and eat breakfast, dear, and we'll talk after. Send your father in, when you see him."
Rosie kissed her daughter and returned to Frodo's bedside, hesitating a moment. She hated to wake him, but it was past time for his tea and she fully expected him to have some personal business to attend to. Gently stroking his hair, she spoke to him, urging him to wake, until his eyes fluttered and he sighed.
"Morning already?" he asked, launching into a weak bout of coughing.
Rosie dabbed his mouth with the handkerchief afterward. "Aye, 'tis morning, and you need to be awake for a time. I've got your tea and a bit of breakfast, and Sam should be coming to help you with the necessaries."
"Did I make much of a mess yesterday?" he asked anxiously.
"What? No, no, you were all right," she assured him. He gave her a look that indicated he knew better, so she added, "We only had to change the bedsheets once."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It weren't anything you could help. I'm just that glad you don't have to endure such things every day anymore."
Frodo smiled slightly. "Me too," he said softly.
Sam arrived then. "You're looking better, Mr. Frodo," he said, standing beside Rosie and squeezing Frodo's hand.
"Better than yesterday, perhaps," Frodo said dryly.
"What do you want to do first?" Rosie asked, sensing that the conversation was growing awkward.
"I had better tend to business," Frodo said, pushing himself up from the pillows, wincing.
Rosie put a hand behind his back to help him. "Put your legs over the side and move them a bit afore you try to stand," she advised.
Sam stood in front of Frodo and helped him turn so his legs hung off the bed. Frodo paused there, adjusting to the change in position and the strange feeling of not being laid out in bed. When he was ready, Sam had Frodo hold on to his arms as he slowly got to his feet.
Frodo's head immediately began swimming and his feet were tingling as he straightened, but the movement emphasized a sense of urgency in reaching the privy seat, so he trusted that Sam's support would compensate for his weakness. The first shuffling step was all right, but as he shifted his weight to slide the other food forward, he could feel his knees rebelling. He dug his fingers into Sam's arms, fighting for control.
He was never certain afterward if he passed out or simply fell, but the next thing he knew he was on his knees -which ached terribly- and Sam was crouching in front of him, holding his shoulders and peering at his face anxiously. Frodo could hear Rosie's hurried steps as she came 'round the bed, then she was hovering over him, saying something that Frodo couldn't hear over the blood rushing in his ears.
"I'm all right," he said numbly, hoping that was what was being asked. He felt her hands replacing Sam's, which disappeared as Rosie pushed him down to sit on his heels. Sam's hands returned with the chamberpot; Frodo felt almost like he was watching from outside his own body as he saw Sam help him use the chamberpot, his own hands only twitching uselessly when he tried to move them to do it himself. Rosie leaned his head on her shoulder and rubbed his back, saying something presumably directed at Sam, for Frodo couldn't understand a word of it.
Slowly Frodo regained the function of his ears and limbs and he ventured plaintively, "What happened?"
"That's what I was going to ask you," Rosie said, clasping one of his still-trembling hands.
"I felt . . . strange," Frodo said, trying to remember as much as he could.
"Are you still feeling strange?"
"No, not as much."
"Can you try to stand if we help you?"
"I can try."
With the help of Sam and Rosie, Frodo got to his feet long enough to sink gratefully onto the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry about all that."
Rosie wanted to tell him he didn't need to apologize for anything, but she patted his leg instead. He would keep apologizing no matter what she said.
"It's all right, we're here to help you," Sam assured him.
Frodo shrugged and looked at his hands, fisting them to stop the shaking. Then he started to move himself back to his usual spot, but had to stop abruptly when his back cramped up; he had to collapse onto the bed in pain. He held back a whimper when the mattress dipped as Sam knelt on the bed and moved him into place instead.
"Is that all right, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked anxiously.
Frodo tried to blink back the tears in his eyes. "Thank you. It will have to be good enough."
"Nonsense," Rosie interjected. She fussed with pillows and shifting Frodo's limbs for a few minutes until she thought Frodo looked more comfortable. "Is that better?"
"Some," Frodo admitted.
She propped his head a little higher and picked up the cup of tea. "This will help, too."
This, Frodo insisted on doing himself, despite an inauspicious start when he spilled on himself while taking the cup. At least it was fairly cool by then, so he didn't burn himself in the process.
Rosie gently encouraged Frodo to eat some breakfast and left Sam with Frodo. Sam commented about the previous day and how he'd done fairly well with keeping the anniversary memories at bay. Frodo took it as it was meant -a compliment- and decided not to enlighten Sam that he was still paying for that effort today . . . he felt so very weak and ill in a way he hadn't before, and he was sure the exertion brought it on. Or it was the worsening of his illness, which also wouldn't have occurred so quickly if not for that ordeal. Somehow he knew that if he voiced any of it, Sam would try to insist the weakness was just temporary, he'd feel much better after a good rest . . . it made Sam so very difficult to talk to.
Frodo remained withdrawn while Sam was with him, speaking only when asking Sam to fetch Mr. Fuzzy off the table for him.
Rosie came back to see Frodo after second breakfast so Sam could go and eat. He looked to be asleep when she sat down, but then he spoke. "You look tired. Sam did, too. Why don't you both go take a nap?"
"Oh, no, I'm all right," Rosie responded, touched that Mr. Frodo bothered to notice her weariness.
"You can let Rose-lass watch me for a while. I'm not going anywhere just yet, I promise," Frodo persisted.
It was a tempting idea. "Are you comfortable?"
"I am quite settled," Frodo said emphatically. "I know yesterday was hard on all of you . . . go, I'll be fine. I'll sleep a while myself, I'm sure."
Rosie still hesitated.
"Please, I insist."
Rosie's resistance gave way. "Oh, all right, then. Are you sure there's nothing you need?"
"There's nothing you can do for me right now," Frodo assured her.
She knew there was something he wasn't saying -perhaps that no one could do anything for him?- but took him at his word for now. "Have Rose-lass fetch us if you need anything," she said as she rose and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"I don't think that will be necessary," Frodo said with a slow smile, thinking of her keeping her siblings in line at the Free Fair without even raising her voice. "She's quite capable."
"Aye, that she is, but if something comes up, she shouldn't be afraid to wake us. I'll tell her that directly, as well."
Frodo nodded, and Rosie left. Rose-lass appeared a few minutes later, drying her hands on a towel draped over her apron's string. She greeted him and did some tidying before sitting down. A few moments later, both of their attention was drawn to some noise and shouting from the other side of the smial. Rose-lass ran out and took a good ten minutes to return.
"What happened?" Frodo asked curiously.
"Merry and Pippin were arguing about doing the laundry. I set them straight, don't you worry."
"Merry and Pippin? I thought they went to the farm with the others."
"Oh, aye, they're sleeping at the farm, but Ma has them coming up days to mind the outdoor chores and whatever else needs doing."
"I see."
The room was silent once more, and Frodo nearly managed to fall asleep. When a knock on the front door roused him from his doze, it took some effort to resist the temptation to squeeze the stuffing out of Mr. Fuzzy in frustration -after all, it wasn't the poor bear's fault, and he'd been through enough in his plush existence. Frodo penitently stroked the bear's head and waited for Rose-lass to tell him what was going on now.
She handed him a letter when she got back. "A crate for Mum and a letter for you came in the Post from Uncle Merry. Did you want me to read it to you?"
Frodo fumbled with the paper but managed to open the letter, then couldn't help chuckling at the over-large writing within. "No, I think I can handle this, thank you," he said, briefly showing her the first page.
Dearest Frodo,
I hope this letter finds you in a tolerable state of mind and health. I've sent some things to Rosie to help keep you comfortable; I only hope they will be of service to you. Of course, they will do you no good if you do not speak of your discomfort and Rosie doesn't know they are needed. You keep far too many things to yourself, my dear cousin.
If you don't mind terribly, I think I shall drag Pippin along with me when I visit after my little party. At least then we can entertain one another while you sleep rather than getting in poor Rosie's hair!
Do let me know how you're doing. I think about you constantly.
Your loving cousin
Merry
Merry really could be a nag, but Frodo knew he needed it sometimes. Today was one of those times, so he set the letter aside and thought about things for a while. He was rather curious what was in that crate . . .
Rosie was roused by the growling of her stomach. She groggily raised her head to peer at the clock, realizing after staring at a blank space for several befuddling moments that their clock was in Frodo's room for the time being, as he felt less confused upon waking when he could see a clock. Sam still slept soundly -he always had slept like a log- so she kissed him gently and climbed out of bed.
Fixing her hair as she made her way to the kitchen, she listened for any sounds out of place. She noticed the crate on the kitchen table, but her attention was diverted by the mess of crumbs and dirty plates left on the table; she scolded her sons from the back door, demanding they come in this instant and clean up after themselves. While Merry and Pippin sheepishly tidied up under her wrathful supervision and retreated back outdoors, Rosie debated between eating and opening the crate. Her stomach insistently growled as she thought about eating, so she relented and made a quick sandwich, taking a few bites before wiping the butter knife on the dishcloth so she could pry open the crate.
There was a packet on top addressed to her, so she sat down with her sandwich and started going through the papers. The first sheet was a note from Merry, telling her that the rest of the pages were directions for using the various herbs and tinctures in the package, and he confided that he'd told Frodo to speak up when he needs something, but Frodo can be too stoic for his own good, so she should never take him at his word if he said he was all right. Rosie snorted and muttered that she'd learned that quite well already, but having confirmation from his family reassured her that she was going about things in the right fashion.
Skimming through the pages of instructions, Rosie quickly decided that she would need Rose-lass -and perhaps Rose-lass and Goldilocks both- to help her decipher the writing and decide what to try first. Finishing her sandwich, she rose from the table, dropped the papers back into the top of the crate, and went to check on Mr. Frodo.
Rose-lass met her in the hall. "I don't want to wake him, now that he's finally asleep an' all," she explained as she closed the door almost all the way.
"He's havin' trouble sleeping now?" This was new, and it worried her.
"Seems so. Aside from reading the letter he got, he's just been shifting around like he can't get comfortable or just stares at nothing in particular. But he keeps saying I can't help 'im."
"What letter?" Rosie chose not to comment on Mr. Frodo's characteristic reticence.
"From Uncle Merry, it came with your crate. You did see the crate?"
"Aye, and I'll need your help to read some of the instructions he sent. The writing's all fancy-like."
Rose-lass agreed and Rosie sent her off to eat something, taking her place with Mr. Frodo. Sam came looking for her about a half-hour later, and their quiet conversation prompted Mr. Frodo to mumble about noisy hobbits interrupting a perfectly good nap. Rosie apologized but figured he must have been near to waking anyhow, if whispers were enough to wake him.
Since Frodo was awake, they tried again to have him traverse the short distance to the privy seat, with similar results as before, though Sam was ready to catch him this time and they did manage to get him onto the seat to do his business. Frodo's knees were grateful for being saved the abuse. Frodo was frustrated that he could not even seem to stand anymore, and combined with his general misery, he felt near to weeping.
Frodo allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for a while after that. Rosie grew impatient with his moping when he completely refused to eat luncheon; she wished to scold him like a bairn but resorted to bribery instead. "If you eat all of any one of the dishes you've got there, we'll let you have your bath right after rather than waiting until the usual time." Frodo looked unconvinced. "And I won't bother you about afternoon tea. But you've got to drink all of your tea now, as well."
This was acceptable, though it took Frodo some pondering to decide which foodstuff was the best candidate. He was growing tired of applesauce, the shepherd's pie looked too intimidating, and bread and cheese would be hard to swallow after a while. Which left the unidentifiable soup. At least there was only a cup's worth and not a whole bowl's worth.
He slowly drank the soup -some mixture of vegetables, with potato chunks thrown in for good measure- and reflected that a bath may be just what he needed. He felt grimy from yesterday, and soaking just might help some of his aches. Or so he hoped, anyway -the constant pain made him almost afraid to move, which made him stiffen up in an effort not to move, which made the aches worse when he did end up moving . . . it was all a big mess, and it was making him irritable. Some part of him wished it would all just end, or at least that dying didn't have to be so painful, but he tried not to dwell on such thoughts.
Swallowing the very last potato with difficulty, Frodo held up his end of the bargain. He felt uncomfortably overfull, his stomach churning uneasily, but eating had helped his headache a bit, so as long as he managed not to throw up, he would be all right. Fortunately, it was nearly an hour before the bathwater was warm and ready, so his stomach was slightly more settled when Frodo-lad came to fetch him.
When Frodo-lad set him on the stool in the bathing room, Frodo grabbed hold of his arm so he couldn't straighten up again. "Help me stand up?"
Aware of the earlier failed attempts at walking, Frodo-lad nodded. He held out his hands for Mr. Frodo to use as leverage, then moved behind the vertical Mr. Frodo and set his hands on Mr. Frodo's waist. "What did you want to do from here?" he asked curiously.
"I'd like to see if I can climb into the tub myself," Frodo replied.
Frodo-lad let go of him for a moment, watching carefully to see if he wobbled or listed to one side or the other. "Then let me take this off for you," he said, smoothly lifting the nightshirt over his head.
Frodo swayed a moment as putting his arms up changed his balance, but was pleased with himself when he stayed on his feet. He knew better than to go any further without Frodo-lad's watchful assistance, so he waited until he felt the hands at his waist to do anything further. The stool was right next to the tub, so all he had to do was lift one leg over the side, then the other, and he would be done. It seemed quite simple.
Reality, however, is anything but simple. As soon as Frodo lifted his first leg, his hands on Frodo-lad's arms for balance, his other leg thwarted his attempts to tell it to lock in place and collapsed. Frodo-lad was quick to tighten his grip so Mr. Frodo didn't fall, but the abrupt pressure on his stomach caused the bile to rise in Frodo's throat and he gagged, turning his head just in time to spare the bathwater and introduce what had become of his soup to his nightshirt, which Frodo-lad had dropped on the floor.
Wide-eyed, Frodo-lad asked, "Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?"
"I ate too much, but I feel much better now," Frodo informed him cheerfully, as his stomach truly did feel better. "I knew my leg was feeling a tad numb at times, but it seems to have stopped listening to me entirely," he said meditatively. This caused him some consternation, though it would explain his earlier mishaps.
"Are you standing all right at the moment?" Frodo-lad asked. When Frodo answered in the affirmative, Frodo-lad let go of him and knelt next to him, putting both hands around Mr. Frodo's right knee. "Hold on to my shoulder, shift your weight to this side, and try to stay standing," he instructed. Sure enough, as soon as Frodo-lad felt Mr. Frodo's weight shifting, the knee bent of its own accord. "If I hold your knee straight, can you get in the tub?" Mr. Frodo's hand on his shoulder gripped tightly, then he heard the small splash of his foot landing in the tub.
Frodo-lad hadn't thought ahead to what he'd do at this point, and he suddenly realized when Mr. Frodo was half in, half out of the tub, his dry leg only holding him up because Frodo-lad was keeping it there. "Can you lean on the other leg without slipping?" he asked, hoping the answer was yes. It was, so once Mr. Frodo didn't need to hold onto him as tightly, he shifted his grip to Mr. Frodo's waist and started to stand. "I've got you, go ahead and finish, then."
As the trouble a moment ago should have warned him, Frodo had trouble getting his leg to lift itself, too. He frowned and leaned forward a bit onto his other leg, getting his right foot off the floor that way, then grew impatient and used his hands to put the darn leg into the water. Frodo-lad watched his difficulty with sympathy and was just about to offer his help when Mr. Frodo resolved the situation, though he noted that Mr. Frodo hadn't quite lifted his leg high enough and his foot struck the edge of the tub with some force. He was astonished when Mr. Frodo showed no sign of feeling any pain, and instead asked to be allowed to sit down.
When Mr. Frodo was settled in the tub, Frodo-lad took the stool to the end by Mr. Frodo's feet and said, "Let me have a look at your right foot."
"Why?" Frodo asked, lifting it from the water with his hands.
Frodo-lad held the foot and ran his fingers over the top and inside arch. "You smacked it good, getting into the tub. Right in here," he said, running his finger along the reddened area almost midway up the foot at the height of his arch. "You'll have a real nice bruise." He placed the foot back underwater and rose to pick up the nightshirt.
Frodo was horrified. He'd kept mum about the recent tendency of his legs to feel numb or tingle quite dreadfully, as he'd attributed it to being abed and lying in such positions that allowed his legs to fall asleep, much as one's hand has no feeling for a while, then tingles and burns, after having been laid on while sleeping. But to not feel an injury! It was a terrifying thought, and he tried to quell his rising panic. He wielded the washcloth and attacked the soap with a vengeance, doing all he could to keep from thinking about his dratted leg. But his thoughts ever strayed back to that very subject; he dropped the cloth and buried his face in his hands to hide the hot tears coursing down his cheeks.
"Mr. Frodo?" Frodo-lad asked gently. Mr. Frodo didn't answer, so he retrieved the cloth and silently washed the elder hobbit's back.
Frodo coughed as Frodo-lad helped him out of the tub, and he huddled miserably on the stool as he was dried, then bundled over to the cushion before the fire. Rosie joined them, bearing two new bottles that she said might help with his sores. Frodo shrugged carelessly and buried his face in his arms, listening while Frodo-lad told his mother what had happened earlier and trying not to react to Rosie's involuntary cry of dismay when Frodo-lad showed her the developing bruise.
The conversation ended and Rosie sat cross-legged next to him and rubbed his shoulders and upper back. She didn't speak and didn't seem to expect him to speak, which Frodo appreciated as his exhaustion from hardly sleeping all day was catching up to him. He was only vaguely aware of being taken back to his room; since sleep afforded an opportunity to escape thinking about his condition, he grasped it without hesitation and was oblivious to the world as soon as the brief pains associated with being settled into bed had ceased.
A familiar but long-unheard voice. He fought the tides of sleep that he'd surrendered to so readily before, at length able to open his eyes. Another chair had materialized next to his bed, but he was more concerned with the occupants of those chairs: Rosie, sitting with . . . could it be? "Elanor?" he asked drowsily, bewildered.
She turned from her conversation with her mother to smile at him and grasp his hand. "Yes, Mr. Frodo. It's good to see you. How are you?"
Frodo pressed her hand. "I've been better," he said ruefully. "But what about you? Where is your little one?" And 'why are you here?' though he thought he knew the answer and thought the question was better left unasked. He coughed briefly but swallowed it as soon as he could to hear Elanor speak.
"I left Elfstan with Fastred," she explained. "They'll come in a fortnight if I don't send for them sooner. I wanted some time here without having to worry about the both of them." And because she wasn't sure what to expect based on her mother's letter, but she didn't want to admit it to him, especially now that she could see how very frail he had become.
She told him some of the doings of her little family, how the settlement was faring, and how Elfstan had just begun walking with help. Frodo was delighted to hear about all of it and listened intently, hardly noticing when Rosie left and other members of the family cycled through his room, greeting Elanor and listening to her news.
Frodo-lad was lounging in the other chair, occasionally reaching out a foot to play with her skirt because he knew it bothered her when he did that, when Frodo asked shyly, "Have you seen the Sea?"
Elanor hesitated, then nodded. "We paid a visit to the seaside last summer."
"What was it like?" Frodo asked breathlessly.
Elanor described the continual murmur of the waves, the smell, the birds and their cries, the roar of the surf when the wind picked up, and how the color of the water reflected the mood of the sky. Frodo-lad ceased his annoyance of his sister to listen with great attention, recalling that last chapter of Mr. Frodo's book. He watched Mr. Frodo's face, seeing that he, too, thought of the Book, for he wore the same wistful expression that Frodo-lad had often observed when he read to him.
When she trailed off with, "It's really quite beautiful," an enraptured silence reigned in the bedroom. Frodo-lad grew restless and tugged on Elanor's skirt with his toes; without even looking toward him, she slapped his foot hard. She glared at him and growled, "Fro, if you don't cut it out this instant, I'm going to end you."
Frodo-lad grinned at her. "I've missed you, Elly."
"Well I haven't missed you," she said archly. "It's so much more peaceful without brothers constantly hanging about."
Rosie brought in a tray and said cheerfully, "Suppertime. Elanor, go on ahead to the kitchen, I'll be right there."
Elanor nodded and rose, squeezing Frodo's hand once more before she departed. "Supper? What happened to dinner?" Frodo asked, peering at the clock on the mantelpiece.
"You slept through it. I didn't have the heart to wake you," Rosie replied.
Frodo nodded and applied his attention to his food. As always, he ate what he could and left the rest, though Frodo-lad snitched his roll and some of the roast beef; he'd eaten already, yet there was always room for more. Elanor returned for a short while after supper, but wished to retire early to recover from her journey. Rosie checked on Mr. Frodo and Frodo-lad at nearly nine, and was surprised to see Mr. Frodo still awake. "Do you need something to help you sleep?" she asked, putting her hand to his forehead, then stroking his cheek.
"I don't know . . ." Frodo said uncertainly. Taking a breath to continue resulted in coughing; Rosie helped him sit up while Frodo-lad poured a cup of water. He drank cautiously, then said, "It feels more difficult to breathe, somehow, but I doubt there's a draught for that."
Rosie chuckled. "Nay, but another pillow or two should be just the thing. Lad, would you . . .?"
An extra couple of pillows did help with that complaint, and Frodo said so. Rosie was pleased, but sensed lingering unease in his manner. "What hurts, then?" she asked directly.
He blinked at her, then said wearily, "I think it's a headache."
Rosie wetted a handkerchief in the water pitcher, wrung it out, and folded it on his forehead. Frodo sighed (and coughed), closing his eyes. "Will that be enough, or should I put the kettle on for you?"
"I think this will be enough for now, thank you," Frodo said softly.
Continued here.
Title: Letting Go, 15/18 "Comfort"
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 4,711 for this part
Warnings: this fic will involve character death
Story Summary: Letting go of someone you care deeply about is a very difficult thing.
A/N: This story is a sequel to " Holding On," which is in turn a follow-up to Skye's "Just Don't Have the Heart to End It" and Aemilia Rose's "Always There Beyond the Touch of Darkness." It's been in the works pretty much since I posted "Holding On" in June 2003, though obviously it took a while for me to get up the nerve to go through with it. ;)
A/N P.S.: The medical-type stuff in this fic has not been run by those who know more about such things than I do, so no guarantees that it is realistic despite the research I did.
Warning: We have progressed to the point in which Frodo's death is openly discussed. Also, there are bodily functions and other such things present (but you could probably guess that).
Chapter 1, "Story-telling"
Chapter 2, "A Birthday"
Chapter 3, "Recovery"
Chapter 4, "Old Troubles"
Chapter 5, "Winter Blues"
Chapter 6, "An Understanding"
Chapter 7, "Routines"
Chapter 8, "Compromises"
Chapter 9, "Despair"
Chapter 10, "Reconciliation"
Chapter 11, "Resignation"
Chapter 12, "Two Visits"
Chapter 13, "Memories"
Chapter 14, "Anniversary"
Chapter Summary: Frodo tries to recover from the anniversary illness; the crate from Merry arrives.
Listening carefully to Goldilocks as she related what happened overnight, Rosie patted Frodo's face dry of the lingering sweat from his ordeal. "He said that your rubbing helped?" she inquired, briefly gauging Frodo's fever with a touch to his forehead and neck.
"He said it felt good. It did seem to help, too, but he didn't say so."
"You'll have to show me how you did it. If it makes him more comfortable, we need to be able to do it while you're sleeping."
"O' course, Mum."
"Go and eat breakfast, dear, and we'll talk after. Send your father in, when you see him."
Rosie kissed her daughter and returned to Frodo's bedside, hesitating a moment. She hated to wake him, but it was past time for his tea and she fully expected him to have some personal business to attend to. Gently stroking his hair, she spoke to him, urging him to wake, until his eyes fluttered and he sighed.
"Morning already?" he asked, launching into a weak bout of coughing.
Rosie dabbed his mouth with the handkerchief afterward. "Aye, 'tis morning, and you need to be awake for a time. I've got your tea and a bit of breakfast, and Sam should be coming to help you with the necessaries."
"Did I make much of a mess yesterday?" he asked anxiously.
"What? No, no, you were all right," she assured him. He gave her a look that indicated he knew better, so she added, "We only had to change the bedsheets once."
"I'm sorry."
"Don't be. It weren't anything you could help. I'm just that glad you don't have to endure such things every day anymore."
Frodo smiled slightly. "Me too," he said softly.
Sam arrived then. "You're looking better, Mr. Frodo," he said, standing beside Rosie and squeezing Frodo's hand.
"Better than yesterday, perhaps," Frodo said dryly.
"What do you want to do first?" Rosie asked, sensing that the conversation was growing awkward.
"I had better tend to business," Frodo said, pushing himself up from the pillows, wincing.
Rosie put a hand behind his back to help him. "Put your legs over the side and move them a bit afore you try to stand," she advised.
Sam stood in front of Frodo and helped him turn so his legs hung off the bed. Frodo paused there, adjusting to the change in position and the strange feeling of not being laid out in bed. When he was ready, Sam had Frodo hold on to his arms as he slowly got to his feet.
Frodo's head immediately began swimming and his feet were tingling as he straightened, but the movement emphasized a sense of urgency in reaching the privy seat, so he trusted that Sam's support would compensate for his weakness. The first shuffling step was all right, but as he shifted his weight to slide the other food forward, he could feel his knees rebelling. He dug his fingers into Sam's arms, fighting for control.
He was never certain afterward if he passed out or simply fell, but the next thing he knew he was on his knees -which ached terribly- and Sam was crouching in front of him, holding his shoulders and peering at his face anxiously. Frodo could hear Rosie's hurried steps as she came 'round the bed, then she was hovering over him, saying something that Frodo couldn't hear over the blood rushing in his ears.
"I'm all right," he said numbly, hoping that was what was being asked. He felt her hands replacing Sam's, which disappeared as Rosie pushed him down to sit on his heels. Sam's hands returned with the chamberpot; Frodo felt almost like he was watching from outside his own body as he saw Sam help him use the chamberpot, his own hands only twitching uselessly when he tried to move them to do it himself. Rosie leaned his head on her shoulder and rubbed his back, saying something presumably directed at Sam, for Frodo couldn't understand a word of it.
Slowly Frodo regained the function of his ears and limbs and he ventured plaintively, "What happened?"
"That's what I was going to ask you," Rosie said, clasping one of his still-trembling hands.
"I felt . . . strange," Frodo said, trying to remember as much as he could.
"Are you still feeling strange?"
"No, not as much."
"Can you try to stand if we help you?"
"I can try."
With the help of Sam and Rosie, Frodo got to his feet long enough to sink gratefully onto the edge of the bed. "I'm sorry about all that."
Rosie wanted to tell him he didn't need to apologize for anything, but she patted his leg instead. He would keep apologizing no matter what she said.
"It's all right, we're here to help you," Sam assured him.
Frodo shrugged and looked at his hands, fisting them to stop the shaking. Then he started to move himself back to his usual spot, but had to stop abruptly when his back cramped up; he had to collapse onto the bed in pain. He held back a whimper when the mattress dipped as Sam knelt on the bed and moved him into place instead.
"Is that all right, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked anxiously.
Frodo tried to blink back the tears in his eyes. "Thank you. It will have to be good enough."
"Nonsense," Rosie interjected. She fussed with pillows and shifting Frodo's limbs for a few minutes until she thought Frodo looked more comfortable. "Is that better?"
"Some," Frodo admitted.
She propped his head a little higher and picked up the cup of tea. "This will help, too."
This, Frodo insisted on doing himself, despite an inauspicious start when he spilled on himself while taking the cup. At least it was fairly cool by then, so he didn't burn himself in the process.
Rosie gently encouraged Frodo to eat some breakfast and left Sam with Frodo. Sam commented about the previous day and how he'd done fairly well with keeping the anniversary memories at bay. Frodo took it as it was meant -a compliment- and decided not to enlighten Sam that he was still paying for that effort today . . . he felt so very weak and ill in a way he hadn't before, and he was sure the exertion brought it on. Or it was the worsening of his illness, which also wouldn't have occurred so quickly if not for that ordeal. Somehow he knew that if he voiced any of it, Sam would try to insist the weakness was just temporary, he'd feel much better after a good rest . . . it made Sam so very difficult to talk to.
Frodo remained withdrawn while Sam was with him, speaking only when asking Sam to fetch Mr. Fuzzy off the table for him.
Rosie came back to see Frodo after second breakfast so Sam could go and eat. He looked to be asleep when she sat down, but then he spoke. "You look tired. Sam did, too. Why don't you both go take a nap?"
"Oh, no, I'm all right," Rosie responded, touched that Mr. Frodo bothered to notice her weariness.
"You can let Rose-lass watch me for a while. I'm not going anywhere just yet, I promise," Frodo persisted.
It was a tempting idea. "Are you comfortable?"
"I am quite settled," Frodo said emphatically. "I know yesterday was hard on all of you . . . go, I'll be fine. I'll sleep a while myself, I'm sure."
Rosie still hesitated.
"Please, I insist."
Rosie's resistance gave way. "Oh, all right, then. Are you sure there's nothing you need?"
"There's nothing you can do for me right now," Frodo assured her.
She knew there was something he wasn't saying -perhaps that no one could do anything for him?- but took him at his word for now. "Have Rose-lass fetch us if you need anything," she said as she rose and pressed a kiss to his forehead.
"I don't think that will be necessary," Frodo said with a slow smile, thinking of her keeping her siblings in line at the Free Fair without even raising her voice. "She's quite capable."
"Aye, that she is, but if something comes up, she shouldn't be afraid to wake us. I'll tell her that directly, as well."
Frodo nodded, and Rosie left. Rose-lass appeared a few minutes later, drying her hands on a towel draped over her apron's string. She greeted him and did some tidying before sitting down. A few moments later, both of their attention was drawn to some noise and shouting from the other side of the smial. Rose-lass ran out and took a good ten minutes to return.
"What happened?" Frodo asked curiously.
"Merry and Pippin were arguing about doing the laundry. I set them straight, don't you worry."
"Merry and Pippin? I thought they went to the farm with the others."
"Oh, aye, they're sleeping at the farm, but Ma has them coming up days to mind the outdoor chores and whatever else needs doing."
"I see."
The room was silent once more, and Frodo nearly managed to fall asleep. When a knock on the front door roused him from his doze, it took some effort to resist the temptation to squeeze the stuffing out of Mr. Fuzzy in frustration -after all, it wasn't the poor bear's fault, and he'd been through enough in his plush existence. Frodo penitently stroked the bear's head and waited for Rose-lass to tell him what was going on now.
She handed him a letter when she got back. "A crate for Mum and a letter for you came in the Post from Uncle Merry. Did you want me to read it to you?"
Frodo fumbled with the paper but managed to open the letter, then couldn't help chuckling at the over-large writing within. "No, I think I can handle this, thank you," he said, briefly showing her the first page.
Dearest Frodo,
I hope this letter finds you in a tolerable state of mind and health. I've sent some things to Rosie to help keep you comfortable; I only hope they will be of service to you. Of course, they will do you no good if you do not speak of your discomfort and Rosie doesn't know they are needed. You keep far too many things to yourself, my dear cousin.
If you don't mind terribly, I think I shall drag Pippin along with me when I visit after my little party. At least then we can entertain one another while you sleep rather than getting in poor Rosie's hair!
Do let me know how you're doing. I think about you constantly.
Your loving cousin
Merry
Merry really could be a nag, but Frodo knew he needed it sometimes. Today was one of those times, so he set the letter aside and thought about things for a while. He was rather curious what was in that crate . . .
Rosie was roused by the growling of her stomach. She groggily raised her head to peer at the clock, realizing after staring at a blank space for several befuddling moments that their clock was in Frodo's room for the time being, as he felt less confused upon waking when he could see a clock. Sam still slept soundly -he always had slept like a log- so she kissed him gently and climbed out of bed.
Fixing her hair as she made her way to the kitchen, she listened for any sounds out of place. She noticed the crate on the kitchen table, but her attention was diverted by the mess of crumbs and dirty plates left on the table; she scolded her sons from the back door, demanding they come in this instant and clean up after themselves. While Merry and Pippin sheepishly tidied up under her wrathful supervision and retreated back outdoors, Rosie debated between eating and opening the crate. Her stomach insistently growled as she thought about eating, so she relented and made a quick sandwich, taking a few bites before wiping the butter knife on the dishcloth so she could pry open the crate.
There was a packet on top addressed to her, so she sat down with her sandwich and started going through the papers. The first sheet was a note from Merry, telling her that the rest of the pages were directions for using the various herbs and tinctures in the package, and he confided that he'd told Frodo to speak up when he needs something, but Frodo can be too stoic for his own good, so she should never take him at his word if he said he was all right. Rosie snorted and muttered that she'd learned that quite well already, but having confirmation from his family reassured her that she was going about things in the right fashion.
Skimming through the pages of instructions, Rosie quickly decided that she would need Rose-lass -and perhaps Rose-lass and Goldilocks both- to help her decipher the writing and decide what to try first. Finishing her sandwich, she rose from the table, dropped the papers back into the top of the crate, and went to check on Mr. Frodo.
Rose-lass met her in the hall. "I don't want to wake him, now that he's finally asleep an' all," she explained as she closed the door almost all the way.
"He's havin' trouble sleeping now?" This was new, and it worried her.
"Seems so. Aside from reading the letter he got, he's just been shifting around like he can't get comfortable or just stares at nothing in particular. But he keeps saying I can't help 'im."
"What letter?" Rosie chose not to comment on Mr. Frodo's characteristic reticence.
"From Uncle Merry, it came with your crate. You did see the crate?"
"Aye, and I'll need your help to read some of the instructions he sent. The writing's all fancy-like."
Rose-lass agreed and Rosie sent her off to eat something, taking her place with Mr. Frodo. Sam came looking for her about a half-hour later, and their quiet conversation prompted Mr. Frodo to mumble about noisy hobbits interrupting a perfectly good nap. Rosie apologized but figured he must have been near to waking anyhow, if whispers were enough to wake him.
Since Frodo was awake, they tried again to have him traverse the short distance to the privy seat, with similar results as before, though Sam was ready to catch him this time and they did manage to get him onto the seat to do his business. Frodo's knees were grateful for being saved the abuse. Frodo was frustrated that he could not even seem to stand anymore, and combined with his general misery, he felt near to weeping.
Frodo allowed himself to wallow in self-pity for a while after that. Rosie grew impatient with his moping when he completely refused to eat luncheon; she wished to scold him like a bairn but resorted to bribery instead. "If you eat all of any one of the dishes you've got there, we'll let you have your bath right after rather than waiting until the usual time." Frodo looked unconvinced. "And I won't bother you about afternoon tea. But you've got to drink all of your tea now, as well."
This was acceptable, though it took Frodo some pondering to decide which foodstuff was the best candidate. He was growing tired of applesauce, the shepherd's pie looked too intimidating, and bread and cheese would be hard to swallow after a while. Which left the unidentifiable soup. At least there was only a cup's worth and not a whole bowl's worth.
He slowly drank the soup -some mixture of vegetables, with potato chunks thrown in for good measure- and reflected that a bath may be just what he needed. He felt grimy from yesterday, and soaking just might help some of his aches. Or so he hoped, anyway -the constant pain made him almost afraid to move, which made him stiffen up in an effort not to move, which made the aches worse when he did end up moving . . . it was all a big mess, and it was making him irritable. Some part of him wished it would all just end, or at least that dying didn't have to be so painful, but he tried not to dwell on such thoughts.
Swallowing the very last potato with difficulty, Frodo held up his end of the bargain. He felt uncomfortably overfull, his stomach churning uneasily, but eating had helped his headache a bit, so as long as he managed not to throw up, he would be all right. Fortunately, it was nearly an hour before the bathwater was warm and ready, so his stomach was slightly more settled when Frodo-lad came to fetch him.
When Frodo-lad set him on the stool in the bathing room, Frodo grabbed hold of his arm so he couldn't straighten up again. "Help me stand up?"
Aware of the earlier failed attempts at walking, Frodo-lad nodded. He held out his hands for Mr. Frodo to use as leverage, then moved behind the vertical Mr. Frodo and set his hands on Mr. Frodo's waist. "What did you want to do from here?" he asked curiously.
"I'd like to see if I can climb into the tub myself," Frodo replied.
Frodo-lad let go of him for a moment, watching carefully to see if he wobbled or listed to one side or the other. "Then let me take this off for you," he said, smoothly lifting the nightshirt over his head.
Frodo swayed a moment as putting his arms up changed his balance, but was pleased with himself when he stayed on his feet. He knew better than to go any further without Frodo-lad's watchful assistance, so he waited until he felt the hands at his waist to do anything further. The stool was right next to the tub, so all he had to do was lift one leg over the side, then the other, and he would be done. It seemed quite simple.
Reality, however, is anything but simple. As soon as Frodo lifted his first leg, his hands on Frodo-lad's arms for balance, his other leg thwarted his attempts to tell it to lock in place and collapsed. Frodo-lad was quick to tighten his grip so Mr. Frodo didn't fall, but the abrupt pressure on his stomach caused the bile to rise in Frodo's throat and he gagged, turning his head just in time to spare the bathwater and introduce what had become of his soup to his nightshirt, which Frodo-lad had dropped on the floor.
Wide-eyed, Frodo-lad asked, "Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?"
"I ate too much, but I feel much better now," Frodo informed him cheerfully, as his stomach truly did feel better. "I knew my leg was feeling a tad numb at times, but it seems to have stopped listening to me entirely," he said meditatively. This caused him some consternation, though it would explain his earlier mishaps.
"Are you standing all right at the moment?" Frodo-lad asked. When Frodo answered in the affirmative, Frodo-lad let go of him and knelt next to him, putting both hands around Mr. Frodo's right knee. "Hold on to my shoulder, shift your weight to this side, and try to stay standing," he instructed. Sure enough, as soon as Frodo-lad felt Mr. Frodo's weight shifting, the knee bent of its own accord. "If I hold your knee straight, can you get in the tub?" Mr. Frodo's hand on his shoulder gripped tightly, then he heard the small splash of his foot landing in the tub.
Frodo-lad hadn't thought ahead to what he'd do at this point, and he suddenly realized when Mr. Frodo was half in, half out of the tub, his dry leg only holding him up because Frodo-lad was keeping it there. "Can you lean on the other leg without slipping?" he asked, hoping the answer was yes. It was, so once Mr. Frodo didn't need to hold onto him as tightly, he shifted his grip to Mr. Frodo's waist and started to stand. "I've got you, go ahead and finish, then."
As the trouble a moment ago should have warned him, Frodo had trouble getting his leg to lift itself, too. He frowned and leaned forward a bit onto his other leg, getting his right foot off the floor that way, then grew impatient and used his hands to put the darn leg into the water. Frodo-lad watched his difficulty with sympathy and was just about to offer his help when Mr. Frodo resolved the situation, though he noted that Mr. Frodo hadn't quite lifted his leg high enough and his foot struck the edge of the tub with some force. He was astonished when Mr. Frodo showed no sign of feeling any pain, and instead asked to be allowed to sit down.
When Mr. Frodo was settled in the tub, Frodo-lad took the stool to the end by Mr. Frodo's feet and said, "Let me have a look at your right foot."
"Why?" Frodo asked, lifting it from the water with his hands.
Frodo-lad held the foot and ran his fingers over the top and inside arch. "You smacked it good, getting into the tub. Right in here," he said, running his finger along the reddened area almost midway up the foot at the height of his arch. "You'll have a real nice bruise." He placed the foot back underwater and rose to pick up the nightshirt.
Frodo was horrified. He'd kept mum about the recent tendency of his legs to feel numb or tingle quite dreadfully, as he'd attributed it to being abed and lying in such positions that allowed his legs to fall asleep, much as one's hand has no feeling for a while, then tingles and burns, after having been laid on while sleeping. But to not feel an injury! It was a terrifying thought, and he tried to quell his rising panic. He wielded the washcloth and attacked the soap with a vengeance, doing all he could to keep from thinking about his dratted leg. But his thoughts ever strayed back to that very subject; he dropped the cloth and buried his face in his hands to hide the hot tears coursing down his cheeks.
"Mr. Frodo?" Frodo-lad asked gently. Mr. Frodo didn't answer, so he retrieved the cloth and silently washed the elder hobbit's back.
Frodo coughed as Frodo-lad helped him out of the tub, and he huddled miserably on the stool as he was dried, then bundled over to the cushion before the fire. Rosie joined them, bearing two new bottles that she said might help with his sores. Frodo shrugged carelessly and buried his face in his arms, listening while Frodo-lad told his mother what had happened earlier and trying not to react to Rosie's involuntary cry of dismay when Frodo-lad showed her the developing bruise.
The conversation ended and Rosie sat cross-legged next to him and rubbed his shoulders and upper back. She didn't speak and didn't seem to expect him to speak, which Frodo appreciated as his exhaustion from hardly sleeping all day was catching up to him. He was only vaguely aware of being taken back to his room; since sleep afforded an opportunity to escape thinking about his condition, he grasped it without hesitation and was oblivious to the world as soon as the brief pains associated with being settled into bed had ceased.
A familiar but long-unheard voice. He fought the tides of sleep that he'd surrendered to so readily before, at length able to open his eyes. Another chair had materialized next to his bed, but he was more concerned with the occupants of those chairs: Rosie, sitting with . . . could it be? "Elanor?" he asked drowsily, bewildered.
She turned from her conversation with her mother to smile at him and grasp his hand. "Yes, Mr. Frodo. It's good to see you. How are you?"
Frodo pressed her hand. "I've been better," he said ruefully. "But what about you? Where is your little one?" And 'why are you here?' though he thought he knew the answer and thought the question was better left unasked. He coughed briefly but swallowed it as soon as he could to hear Elanor speak.
"I left Elfstan with Fastred," she explained. "They'll come in a fortnight if I don't send for them sooner. I wanted some time here without having to worry about the both of them." And because she wasn't sure what to expect based on her mother's letter, but she didn't want to admit it to him, especially now that she could see how very frail he had become.
She told him some of the doings of her little family, how the settlement was faring, and how Elfstan had just begun walking with help. Frodo was delighted to hear about all of it and listened intently, hardly noticing when Rosie left and other members of the family cycled through his room, greeting Elanor and listening to her news.
Frodo-lad was lounging in the other chair, occasionally reaching out a foot to play with her skirt because he knew it bothered her when he did that, when Frodo asked shyly, "Have you seen the Sea?"
Elanor hesitated, then nodded. "We paid a visit to the seaside last summer."
"What was it like?" Frodo asked breathlessly.
Elanor described the continual murmur of the waves, the smell, the birds and their cries, the roar of the surf when the wind picked up, and how the color of the water reflected the mood of the sky. Frodo-lad ceased his annoyance of his sister to listen with great attention, recalling that last chapter of Mr. Frodo's book. He watched Mr. Frodo's face, seeing that he, too, thought of the Book, for he wore the same wistful expression that Frodo-lad had often observed when he read to him.
When she trailed off with, "It's really quite beautiful," an enraptured silence reigned in the bedroom. Frodo-lad grew restless and tugged on Elanor's skirt with his toes; without even looking toward him, she slapped his foot hard. She glared at him and growled, "Fro, if you don't cut it out this instant, I'm going to end you."
Frodo-lad grinned at her. "I've missed you, Elly."
"Well I haven't missed you," she said archly. "It's so much more peaceful without brothers constantly hanging about."
Rosie brought in a tray and said cheerfully, "Suppertime. Elanor, go on ahead to the kitchen, I'll be right there."
Elanor nodded and rose, squeezing Frodo's hand once more before she departed. "Supper? What happened to dinner?" Frodo asked, peering at the clock on the mantelpiece.
"You slept through it. I didn't have the heart to wake you," Rosie replied.
Frodo nodded and applied his attention to his food. As always, he ate what he could and left the rest, though Frodo-lad snitched his roll and some of the roast beef; he'd eaten already, yet there was always room for more. Elanor returned for a short while after supper, but wished to retire early to recover from her journey. Rosie checked on Mr. Frodo and Frodo-lad at nearly nine, and was surprised to see Mr. Frodo still awake. "Do you need something to help you sleep?" she asked, putting her hand to his forehead, then stroking his cheek.
"I don't know . . ." Frodo said uncertainly. Taking a breath to continue resulted in coughing; Rosie helped him sit up while Frodo-lad poured a cup of water. He drank cautiously, then said, "It feels more difficult to breathe, somehow, but I doubt there's a draught for that."
Rosie chuckled. "Nay, but another pillow or two should be just the thing. Lad, would you . . .?"
An extra couple of pillows did help with that complaint, and Frodo said so. Rosie was pleased, but sensed lingering unease in his manner. "What hurts, then?" she asked directly.
He blinked at her, then said wearily, "I think it's a headache."
Rosie wetted a handkerchief in the water pitcher, wrung it out, and folded it on his forehead. Frodo sighed (and coughed), closing his eyes. "Will that be enough, or should I put the kettle on for you?"
"I think this will be enough for now, thank you," Frodo said softly.
Continued here.