As promised . . .
ETA: I just added a paragraph to this story.
********
Frodo cried out as painful spasms overtook him yet again and someone---Eowyn, he dimly realized from the wavy fall of wheaten hair---held his head over a basin as he threw up most of the liquids he’d managed to imbibe. He had difficulty fully comprehending, but he knew something was very wrong, for what he’d vomited this time was black and fetid and burned from the very pit of his stomach as it traveled upward with terrible ferocity.
“It has begun,” a male voice said softly, grimly. “I had hoped he might have contracted a milder form and would be spared this.” A sigh. “Even his skin and eyes are yellowing slightly.”
Strong hands carefully lay Frodo’s head back on the pillow as the vomiting finally let up, leaving the hobbit gagging and nearly unconscious, a sticky stream of brownish saliva issuing from his lips. Eowyn spared a glance at Aragorn, nodding, as she handed the basin off and dabbed at Frodo’s face with a cool cloth. “I had hoped he would be spared as well. But he is made of stern stuff, as you have always said. If anyone can fight it, it is Frodo.”
Summoning what strength he had, the hobbit opened his eyes wide and managed a croaked whisper. “I’m going to . . . going to die . . . ” For some reason, he had extreme difficulty focusing on anything save the image of Bell swimming in her bowl at the edge of his peripheral vision. So relaxing . . . how nice it would be to have such cool water envelop his burning body right now. “So . . . so hot . . .”
“I know, dear.” Eowyn smoothed Frodo’s wet hair back and spooned juice-flavored ice chips onto his furred tongue. Although he hadn’t the strength to move his head, the cold liquid trickling down his throat felt heavenly. “You are very ill, but you have a good chance if you rest and stay as quiet as possible.” She smiled warmly and bent to kiss his brow, for Eowyn had had the disease before and knew she couldn’t catch it again. “I survived it, and so will you, if you obey your healers.”
But Frodo, exhausted beyond his strength, had already fallen into a restless stupor, the only sound in the room the piteous moans that issued with each of his labored breaths.
********
Frodo could not move . . . could not move even the smallest toe on his left foot, nor the finger just next to his missing one on the right hand, he felt so very weak.
The dreadful burning ache in his limbs and back never eased, the vomiting never quite relented, and when he was clear-headed enough he noticed Eowyn’s and Aragorn’s strained, tense faces as they tended to him. Every time his stomach or bowels moved, Eowyn would lift and turn him and wipe his mouth and backside and between his legs and then she and Aragorn would talk in quiet whispers once he was settled. Sometimes Gandalf and Legolas came to visit, as well, and Legolas would sing quiet songs of the woodland realm, though even the elf’s fair face looked, amazingly, creased with worry.
They all tried to hide it, but the hobbit knew he was going to die and almost enjoyed the delirium when it came upon him, for then he could leave the nightmare world of his illness. Sometimes the fever gave him lovely dreams of the Shire and Bilbo and Bag End, but at other times he saw only Mount Doom and Sam carrying him up the jagged peak.
Though Frodo hadn’t the strength to lift his head, when Eowyn uncovered him to gently sponge his legs he was able to glance down and see that his skin looked slightly yellowish---nearly like to one of the little spots on Bell’s scaly hide. They would be yellow together, he decided, though he had no idea why he looked so strange, as he was a hobbit, not a fish.
“Frodo, time for more medicine, dearest.” Gently cupping his chin, Eowyn opened his crusty mouth just enough to squeeze a dropperful of liquid onto his tongue, then rubbed cream onto Frodo’s lips to soften them. He closed his eyes in gratefulness, allowing her to place soft pads under his elbows and hips to make him more comfortable.
“E . . .” he whimpered, but it was too late---the vomiting spasms started up again, wringing away what little strength remained, and Frodo only had time to see the inky near-blackness of what came up hit the sheets before darkness temporarily took him, too.
********
He was burning up . . . the tiny flame that had ignited in the center of his body was now traveling rapidly outward, consuming him slowly, and he whimpered at approaching pain. There might be no rescue this time from red-hot streams of lava and ash.
“No . . . Sam . . . it’s coming for us . . .”
“Ssssssh, Frodo. Eowyn, we must lower his fever . . . expected this delirium . . .”
“. . . bath is ready . . . that he has made it thus far is truly remarkable . . .”
The voices droned on, but Frodo’s world had closed in around him to include only a sweat-soaked, fire-studded darkness and the sensation of air hitting his bare skin. A moment later strong arms lifted him and he felt himself borne aloft. Had the eagles come again, just in the nick of time?
No, perhaps not . . . not unless the great birds dropped him into slightly cool, mint-scented water this time. The sensation was a balm to his soul . . . a blissful relief flowing over every heated crack and crevice of his body. Slender hands supported his head, keeping his face and ears just above the water even as his hair floated out behind him and someone else gently rubbed his limbs.
“Just sleep, Frodo. Rest and sleep,” a woman’s voice said. Eowyn? Yes, when he felt her hair brush his face, he knew it must be so. Then the other must be . . . Aragorn. Yes, his thoughts were becoming clearer. It was just he and Eowyn and Aragorn and Bell. The three of them had spent an eternity in this room, it seemed.
Gradually, the fire raging in his body quieted somewhat, allowing Frodo to close his eyes without seeing the flames flickering in the corners of his mind. His caretakers eventually lifted him from the water and placed him back among his soft sheets, allowing him to curl up while they rubbed his skin with towels.
He wanted to sleep --- wanted to sleep so badly. But before too many minutes had passed, he felt himself gagging, and swift hands took care of him as his cool world disappeared yet again into a pool of black offal.
********
Everything hurt terribly. His calves ached, his stomach pained him, his eyes burned--even his tongue and gums seemed to throb. He’d rarely been so miserable and wondered if death would be far preferable to this . . . weak existence in which a constant dizzying nausea assailed him and he could not even draw breath through his blood-clogged nose without discomfort. And that’s why, when hands uncovered him and carefully turned him over onto his side, pushing his knees up and baring his bottom, he groaned so loudly in protest.
“Easy now, sweetheart. Ssssh.”
Someone parted his buttocks and inserted a salve-coated, dreaded tube, and he curled up more, holding his stomach, as something warm rushed into him. From where he lay he could see Bell’s colorful fins, and he tried his best to focus on her instead of what was happening to his own body.
Eowyn was beside him again now, holding his head in her lap as she rubbed his tender abdomen while the awful treatment commenced. His middle was bloating up, and he was instructed to hold it as long as he could, despite the cramping it caused. Frodo felt groggy and confused as to what he was supposed to “hold,” however, and he looked at Eowyn’s strained features blankly as she spoke.
“Try to hold the liquid in your body, Frodo. Try not to go, all right? Can you do that for me?”
Finally realizing she referred to his bowels, he blinked in assent and clenched his muscles down there as tightly as he could.
“You are doing just fine,” Eowyn murmured, leaning down plant a kiss on the hot, sweaty skin of his face and continuing the soothing rubbing with her fingers. “I know it is terribly uncomfortable, but it will make a difference in your recovery, and you shall feel better for it, believe me.”
He didn’t believe her at all, but at least her touch made it a little more bearable.
********
Frodo woke up, groggily, and vomited without a second’s thought. Not long after that the usual bowel troubles followed. But there seemed to be something different in the air, for instead of setting the basin he’d thrown up into aside for disposal, Frodo heard Eowyn call for Aragorn, who seemed to be busy mixing and stirring something in the corner of the room, and invite him to have a look.
From his vantage point in the bed, Frodo blearily watched the two of them stare into his basin, their faces intent. He felt horribly ill and his head pounded, but he found his thoughts came a bit more easily than they had just a day earlier.
“It is not nearly so dark as it has been,” Eowyn was saying, “and the times between his bouts seem to be growing longer, as well.”
The king emitted a relieved sigh. “Thank the Valar, Eowyn. This may well be the turning point. We should know by the morning, I think.” Crossing the room and kneeling at the bedside, Aragorn laid a large hand on the hobbit’s face and chest and smiled down at Frodo reassuringly before turning back to the woman standing beside him. “His fever is still high, but even the yellow seems to be fading slightly.”
“Let us fervently hope this improvement continues.”
“I believe it will, but he will still be bedridden for a long time. And no matter how persuasive Frodo can be---and that is quite, when he turns pleading eyes upon you---he must not be let up too soon, for it could cause a dangerous relapse.”
Eowyn laughed, bending over Frodo now to turn him gently and do the usual methodical cleaning of his backside. “I shall be here as long as he needs me, and I’ve dealt with stubborn males before. He shall not be up out of this bed until you give the king’s command that he is good and ready.”
“Perhaps we should purchase a larger tank and fill it with more fish. Watching Bell does seem to relax him, which could be an important factor in his recovery.”
The discussion continued, but Frodo was too weary to follow it as Eowyn smoothed more salve into the crevice of his bottom with gentle fingers and covered him back up snugly. Propping him up just a bit, she coaxed him to take some clear broth, though he wasn’t hungry and didn’t want it.
When Eowyn deemed that enough of the broth filled his belly instead of the cup, she then administered the tincture he was also certain he didn’t want. But since he was too weak to offer even token resistance, he acquiesced, gratefully accepting warm, spicy ginger tea afterward.
Settling him back in bed in a different position than before, the Lady Eowyn draped a cool towel across his brow. With his hot-water bottles replaced and support pillows repositioned and his stomach actually feeling better for the sustenance it had just received, Frodo felt snug and almost comfortable, and he wondered if perhaps he wasn’t meant to die from this “miasma” after all.
********
And then one morning pale dawn broke and with it, Frodo’s fever. As he opened his eyes he realized he indeed still lay in his bed, but that Eowyn, leaning against the headboard, held him, well-wrapped in sheets, snugly against her bosom as she idly twirled his damp curls around her finger.
He blinked, shifting slightly in her arms, and felt her tense and speak to someone else in the room. A moment later Aragorn leaned over him, searching Frodo’s face as he felt the hobbit’s brow and cheeks and smoothed back lank hair from a pointed ear. “The fever has broken. See, he sweats freely now, but he is much cooler.”
“Praise be,” the woman holding Frodo breathed. “He will recover fully, then?”
“After a long convalescence, of course. He will require rest and utter quiet, which is why it might be a good idea to keep the others away for the time being.”
“I agree.” Seeing Frodo gazing up at her, Eowyn stroked his soft cheek, her face free of the strain of the past many days and alight with joy. “You are going to be all right, dear heart. I think I even detect some sparkle once again in those gorgeous blues.”
“The yellow is indeed disappearing from the whites of his eyes,” Aragorn added with a note of satisfaction, rubbing Frodo’s arm gently. “And his urine output has picked up again, as well, which is a very, very good sign.”
“Thirsty,” Frodo murmured, though it took all his effort to get the words around his swollen tongue. Strangely, the thought crossed his mind that fish never got thirsty, and therefore Bell must have been quite content living in her bowl.
“Of course you’re thirsty, and I’ve something to remedy that right here.”
Never had sweet ginger tea tasted so good.
_____________________________________________________________
Now on the slow road to recovery, Frodo let his memories of those awful times fade away. He’d managed to eat as much of the broth and caudled rice his sensitive stomach could manage, and now his eyelids kept drooping closed. Trying to stay awake, he watched Bell again, but the sight of her swimming in circles made him a little nauseated and he turned away.
“You must now indeed sleep again.” Eowyn finished placing the half-empty dishes on the tray and eyed the hobbit’s exhausted features. “You may not believe me, Frodo, but a little color is coming back into your cheeks. Later this week, the king is planning on returning Sam and your kinsmen to the house, and so you shall have a little more company.”
He smiled just a little, his dry, cracked lips protesting the movement. “Sam will be glad to see his fish at last.”
“I think he will be rather much more glad to watch you growing healthy again,” Eowyn said, chuckling. Reaching for a small pot on the bedside table, she smoothed a rich balm over his lips with the tip of one finger. “Now, lie back and close your eyes.”
He sighed and let the bed’s softness fully envelop him as he snuggled down into his covers, feeling much better than he had in days. Though, to his chagrin, he was now well enough to again feel embarrassed when Eowyn drew his covers back and began unfastening his gown. In fact, he turned rosy from his top to furry toes as she divested him of the garment, leaving him as naked as a blue jay-bird of the Shire.
“Just a little something to ease your aches, Frodo.” Dipping a handful of minty cream out of a good-sized earthenware jar, she rubbed it together between her palms to warm it up before applying it to his chest very gently and then more firmly as she moved down to the front of his legs. “You have lain in bed for a long time, and this will help you to relax and rest as you should.”
Helping him to then turn over, she massaged cream all over his tense back, and Frodo turned a deeper shade of pink when she rubbed it over his bottom, sinking his face into his soft feather-pillow and watching Bell nipping at food flakes with the eye not covered by the pillow. Eowyn moved down to knead the backs of his legs and calves, and he couldn’t suppress a moan of contentment as the soreness in his wasted muscles melted away at her capable touch.
“Better?” she asked when she’d finished, and indeed, Frodo felt boneless, his eyelids drooping mercilessly. Being embarrassed made him so tired.
“Mmmm,” he managed around a yawn, nearly drifting off as Eowyn lifted him and slipped a clean nightshirt over his head. Staying awake was no longer an option anymore, especially since he felt so comfortable. The fresh sheets and blankets she covered him with seemed to cradle his weak body, and Frodo allowed himself to revel in the sensation, no longer in pain.
“Good night, Eowyn,” he slurred sleepily.
“Sssssh. Sweet dreams, Frodo. I will be here by your bedside should you need me.”
Lips curved up slightly, the hobbit's tired eyes briefly flickered over to the bedside table. “’Night . . . Bell.”
The colorful fish looked as if she might reply, but Frodo was already napping.
The End
********
Frodo cried out as painful spasms overtook him yet again and someone---Eowyn, he dimly realized from the wavy fall of wheaten hair---held his head over a basin as he threw up most of the liquids he’d managed to imbibe. He had difficulty fully comprehending, but he knew something was very wrong, for what he’d vomited this time was black and fetid and burned from the very pit of his stomach as it traveled upward with terrible ferocity.
“It has begun,” a male voice said softly, grimly. “I had hoped he might have contracted a milder form and would be spared this.” A sigh. “Even his skin and eyes are yellowing slightly.”
Strong hands carefully lay Frodo’s head back on the pillow as the vomiting finally let up, leaving the hobbit gagging and nearly unconscious, a sticky stream of brownish saliva issuing from his lips. Eowyn spared a glance at Aragorn, nodding, as she handed the basin off and dabbed at Frodo’s face with a cool cloth. “I had hoped he would be spared as well. But he is made of stern stuff, as you have always said. If anyone can fight it, it is Frodo.”
Summoning what strength he had, the hobbit opened his eyes wide and managed a croaked whisper. “I’m going to . . . going to die . . . ” For some reason, he had extreme difficulty focusing on anything save the image of Bell swimming in her bowl at the edge of his peripheral vision. So relaxing . . . how nice it would be to have such cool water envelop his burning body right now. “So . . . so hot . . .”
“I know, dear.” Eowyn smoothed Frodo’s wet hair back and spooned juice-flavored ice chips onto his furred tongue. Although he hadn’t the strength to move his head, the cold liquid trickling down his throat felt heavenly. “You are very ill, but you have a good chance if you rest and stay as quiet as possible.” She smiled warmly and bent to kiss his brow, for Eowyn had had the disease before and knew she couldn’t catch it again. “I survived it, and so will you, if you obey your healers.”
But Frodo, exhausted beyond his strength, had already fallen into a restless stupor, the only sound in the room the piteous moans that issued with each of his labored breaths.
********
Frodo could not move . . . could not move even the smallest toe on his left foot, nor the finger just next to his missing one on the right hand, he felt so very weak.
The dreadful burning ache in his limbs and back never eased, the vomiting never quite relented, and when he was clear-headed enough he noticed Eowyn’s and Aragorn’s strained, tense faces as they tended to him. Every time his stomach or bowels moved, Eowyn would lift and turn him and wipe his mouth and backside and between his legs and then she and Aragorn would talk in quiet whispers once he was settled. Sometimes Gandalf and Legolas came to visit, as well, and Legolas would sing quiet songs of the woodland realm, though even the elf’s fair face looked, amazingly, creased with worry.
They all tried to hide it, but the hobbit knew he was going to die and almost enjoyed the delirium when it came upon him, for then he could leave the nightmare world of his illness. Sometimes the fever gave him lovely dreams of the Shire and Bilbo and Bag End, but at other times he saw only Mount Doom and Sam carrying him up the jagged peak.
Though Frodo hadn’t the strength to lift his head, when Eowyn uncovered him to gently sponge his legs he was able to glance down and see that his skin looked slightly yellowish---nearly like to one of the little spots on Bell’s scaly hide. They would be yellow together, he decided, though he had no idea why he looked so strange, as he was a hobbit, not a fish.
“Frodo, time for more medicine, dearest.” Gently cupping his chin, Eowyn opened his crusty mouth just enough to squeeze a dropperful of liquid onto his tongue, then rubbed cream onto Frodo’s lips to soften them. He closed his eyes in gratefulness, allowing her to place soft pads under his elbows and hips to make him more comfortable.
“E . . .” he whimpered, but it was too late---the vomiting spasms started up again, wringing away what little strength remained, and Frodo only had time to see the inky near-blackness of what came up hit the sheets before darkness temporarily took him, too.
********
He was burning up . . . the tiny flame that had ignited in the center of his body was now traveling rapidly outward, consuming him slowly, and he whimpered at approaching pain. There might be no rescue this time from red-hot streams of lava and ash.
“No . . . Sam . . . it’s coming for us . . .”
“Ssssssh, Frodo. Eowyn, we must lower his fever . . . expected this delirium . . .”
“. . . bath is ready . . . that he has made it thus far is truly remarkable . . .”
The voices droned on, but Frodo’s world had closed in around him to include only a sweat-soaked, fire-studded darkness and the sensation of air hitting his bare skin. A moment later strong arms lifted him and he felt himself borne aloft. Had the eagles come again, just in the nick of time?
No, perhaps not . . . not unless the great birds dropped him into slightly cool, mint-scented water this time. The sensation was a balm to his soul . . . a blissful relief flowing over every heated crack and crevice of his body. Slender hands supported his head, keeping his face and ears just above the water even as his hair floated out behind him and someone else gently rubbed his limbs.
“Just sleep, Frodo. Rest and sleep,” a woman’s voice said. Eowyn? Yes, when he felt her hair brush his face, he knew it must be so. Then the other must be . . . Aragorn. Yes, his thoughts were becoming clearer. It was just he and Eowyn and Aragorn and Bell. The three of them had spent an eternity in this room, it seemed.
Gradually, the fire raging in his body quieted somewhat, allowing Frodo to close his eyes without seeing the flames flickering in the corners of his mind. His caretakers eventually lifted him from the water and placed him back among his soft sheets, allowing him to curl up while they rubbed his skin with towels.
He wanted to sleep --- wanted to sleep so badly. But before too many minutes had passed, he felt himself gagging, and swift hands took care of him as his cool world disappeared yet again into a pool of black offal.
********
Everything hurt terribly. His calves ached, his stomach pained him, his eyes burned--even his tongue and gums seemed to throb. He’d rarely been so miserable and wondered if death would be far preferable to this . . . weak existence in which a constant dizzying nausea assailed him and he could not even draw breath through his blood-clogged nose without discomfort. And that’s why, when hands uncovered him and carefully turned him over onto his side, pushing his knees up and baring his bottom, he groaned so loudly in protest.
“Easy now, sweetheart. Ssssh.”
Someone parted his buttocks and inserted a salve-coated, dreaded tube, and he curled up more, holding his stomach, as something warm rushed into him. From where he lay he could see Bell’s colorful fins, and he tried his best to focus on her instead of what was happening to his own body.
Eowyn was beside him again now, holding his head in her lap as she rubbed his tender abdomen while the awful treatment commenced. His middle was bloating up, and he was instructed to hold it as long as he could, despite the cramping it caused. Frodo felt groggy and confused as to what he was supposed to “hold,” however, and he looked at Eowyn’s strained features blankly as she spoke.
“Try to hold the liquid in your body, Frodo. Try not to go, all right? Can you do that for me?”
Finally realizing she referred to his bowels, he blinked in assent and clenched his muscles down there as tightly as he could.
“You are doing just fine,” Eowyn murmured, leaning down plant a kiss on the hot, sweaty skin of his face and continuing the soothing rubbing with her fingers. “I know it is terribly uncomfortable, but it will make a difference in your recovery, and you shall feel better for it, believe me.”
He didn’t believe her at all, but at least her touch made it a little more bearable.
********
Frodo woke up, groggily, and vomited without a second’s thought. Not long after that the usual bowel troubles followed. But there seemed to be something different in the air, for instead of setting the basin he’d thrown up into aside for disposal, Frodo heard Eowyn call for Aragorn, who seemed to be busy mixing and stirring something in the corner of the room, and invite him to have a look.
From his vantage point in the bed, Frodo blearily watched the two of them stare into his basin, their faces intent. He felt horribly ill and his head pounded, but he found his thoughts came a bit more easily than they had just a day earlier.
“It is not nearly so dark as it has been,” Eowyn was saying, “and the times between his bouts seem to be growing longer, as well.”
The king emitted a relieved sigh. “Thank the Valar, Eowyn. This may well be the turning point. We should know by the morning, I think.” Crossing the room and kneeling at the bedside, Aragorn laid a large hand on the hobbit’s face and chest and smiled down at Frodo reassuringly before turning back to the woman standing beside him. “His fever is still high, but even the yellow seems to be fading slightly.”
“Let us fervently hope this improvement continues.”
“I believe it will, but he will still be bedridden for a long time. And no matter how persuasive Frodo can be---and that is quite, when he turns pleading eyes upon you---he must not be let up too soon, for it could cause a dangerous relapse.”
Eowyn laughed, bending over Frodo now to turn him gently and do the usual methodical cleaning of his backside. “I shall be here as long as he needs me, and I’ve dealt with stubborn males before. He shall not be up out of this bed until you give the king’s command that he is good and ready.”
“Perhaps we should purchase a larger tank and fill it with more fish. Watching Bell does seem to relax him, which could be an important factor in his recovery.”
The discussion continued, but Frodo was too weary to follow it as Eowyn smoothed more salve into the crevice of his bottom with gentle fingers and covered him back up snugly. Propping him up just a bit, she coaxed him to take some clear broth, though he wasn’t hungry and didn’t want it.
When Eowyn deemed that enough of the broth filled his belly instead of the cup, she then administered the tincture he was also certain he didn’t want. But since he was too weak to offer even token resistance, he acquiesced, gratefully accepting warm, spicy ginger tea afterward.
Settling him back in bed in a different position than before, the Lady Eowyn draped a cool towel across his brow. With his hot-water bottles replaced and support pillows repositioned and his stomach actually feeling better for the sustenance it had just received, Frodo felt snug and almost comfortable, and he wondered if perhaps he wasn’t meant to die from this “miasma” after all.
********
And then one morning pale dawn broke and with it, Frodo’s fever. As he opened his eyes he realized he indeed still lay in his bed, but that Eowyn, leaning against the headboard, held him, well-wrapped in sheets, snugly against her bosom as she idly twirled his damp curls around her finger.
He blinked, shifting slightly in her arms, and felt her tense and speak to someone else in the room. A moment later Aragorn leaned over him, searching Frodo’s face as he felt the hobbit’s brow and cheeks and smoothed back lank hair from a pointed ear. “The fever has broken. See, he sweats freely now, but he is much cooler.”
“Praise be,” the woman holding Frodo breathed. “He will recover fully, then?”
“After a long convalescence, of course. He will require rest and utter quiet, which is why it might be a good idea to keep the others away for the time being.”
“I agree.” Seeing Frodo gazing up at her, Eowyn stroked his soft cheek, her face free of the strain of the past many days and alight with joy. “You are going to be all right, dear heart. I think I even detect some sparkle once again in those gorgeous blues.”
“The yellow is indeed disappearing from the whites of his eyes,” Aragorn added with a note of satisfaction, rubbing Frodo’s arm gently. “And his urine output has picked up again, as well, which is a very, very good sign.”
“Thirsty,” Frodo murmured, though it took all his effort to get the words around his swollen tongue. Strangely, the thought crossed his mind that fish never got thirsty, and therefore Bell must have been quite content living in her bowl.
“Of course you’re thirsty, and I’ve something to remedy that right here.”
Never had sweet ginger tea tasted so good.
_____________________________________________________________
Now on the slow road to recovery, Frodo let his memories of those awful times fade away. He’d managed to eat as much of the broth and caudled rice his sensitive stomach could manage, and now his eyelids kept drooping closed. Trying to stay awake, he watched Bell again, but the sight of her swimming in circles made him a little nauseated and he turned away.
“You must now indeed sleep again.” Eowyn finished placing the half-empty dishes on the tray and eyed the hobbit’s exhausted features. “You may not believe me, Frodo, but a little color is coming back into your cheeks. Later this week, the king is planning on returning Sam and your kinsmen to the house, and so you shall have a little more company.”
He smiled just a little, his dry, cracked lips protesting the movement. “Sam will be glad to see his fish at last.”
“I think he will be rather much more glad to watch you growing healthy again,” Eowyn said, chuckling. Reaching for a small pot on the bedside table, she smoothed a rich balm over his lips with the tip of one finger. “Now, lie back and close your eyes.”
He sighed and let the bed’s softness fully envelop him as he snuggled down into his covers, feeling much better than he had in days. Though, to his chagrin, he was now well enough to again feel embarrassed when Eowyn drew his covers back and began unfastening his gown. In fact, he turned rosy from his top to furry toes as she divested him of the garment, leaving him as naked as a blue jay-bird of the Shire.
“Just a little something to ease your aches, Frodo.” Dipping a handful of minty cream out of a good-sized earthenware jar, she rubbed it together between her palms to warm it up before applying it to his chest very gently and then more firmly as she moved down to the front of his legs. “You have lain in bed for a long time, and this will help you to relax and rest as you should.”
Helping him to then turn over, she massaged cream all over his tense back, and Frodo turned a deeper shade of pink when she rubbed it over his bottom, sinking his face into his soft feather-pillow and watching Bell nipping at food flakes with the eye not covered by the pillow. Eowyn moved down to knead the backs of his legs and calves, and he couldn’t suppress a moan of contentment as the soreness in his wasted muscles melted away at her capable touch.
“Better?” she asked when she’d finished, and indeed, Frodo felt boneless, his eyelids drooping mercilessly. Being embarrassed made him so tired.
“Mmmm,” he managed around a yawn, nearly drifting off as Eowyn lifted him and slipped a clean nightshirt over his head. Staying awake was no longer an option anymore, especially since he felt so comfortable. The fresh sheets and blankets she covered him with seemed to cradle his weak body, and Frodo allowed himself to revel in the sensation, no longer in pain.
“Good night, Eowyn,” he slurred sleepily.
“Sssssh. Sweet dreams, Frodo. I will be here by your bedside should you need me.”
Lips curved up slightly, the hobbit's tired eyes briefly flickered over to the bedside table. “’Night . . . Bell.”
The colorful fish looked as if she might reply, but Frodo was already napping.
The End