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Here you go, m'dear!!!! :D
(for those looking for her original request, I don't have it copied/pasted here, but it's in the deathfic musings post. Don't worry, no deathfic appears in that post, so you're safe!)
Yes, this is non-slash, so take off your slash goggles, people. :P PG rating is for thematic darkness only. It is NON-slash, non-sexual, 'k?
Come night like this, the dark seems to get into everything.
Not that it ever seems to leave poor Master. . .but the nights are the worst, and I reckon this one's the worst yet. Second night we've spent in Rivendell, and for all I thought he'd have some ease once we got him here, he still groans and shivers in his bed like the covers was made of ice. Master Elrond, now, he's been in to see him, but he just goes back and forth, like he's trying to figure something out in that study o'his.
It's fine with me. I'm a sight easier caring for Master, though I'd be a grand sight happier if, elven lord or not, he'd *help* Master. I reckon it's just taking a while to figure out how.
Master whimpers and I catch myself too lost in worry to do anybody a day's worth of good, as Da would say, so I wring out a fresh cloth in the basin of warm water at his bedside and bathe his face and side again. His poor side's so cold. . .like poisoned ice got into him and, melting, is poisoning everything it touches.
If that bit o'blade gets to his heart before they figure out how to get to it. . .
I swallow and try not to think on that.
It's hard, it is, there not being much to do save bathe Mr. Frodo and turn him so's he won't get sores from lying in bed and whatnot. Back home when he's ill there's always plenty to do - Mari sees to the laundry, bless her, and that's a chore whether he's got the stomach 'flu or a bad cold - but there's still all the cooking and getting him to eat, giving him medicine, changing his bed and fetching and carrying. . . . Here, the elves change his bed and do the laundry and the cooking. . .not that he's taken much of anything since we got here. Once or twice he's roused just enough to swallow some broth for me, and we keep it at the ready over a warming-lamp at his bedside, but I don't think he's recognised a soul since the Ford. Not Merry nor Pippin, not me, not even old Mr. Bilbo, who fair wept when he saw him.
Now, back home, I'd -
But there's no good in thinking back home.
Back home he'd die.
His only hope is here, and yet I can't help wishing I'd see them move a little faster.
If you ask me, what he needs is a good mug of chicken and mushroom soup, and some ginger and cinnamon tea to ease those chills. All this dances through my head as I tuck wrapped hot stones in around him, trying to warm him up. I don't reckon he's got a fever; he feels icy cold to the touch. At any rate, Mam always said you need to try and get someone with the chills warm, else they'll get worse.
I look at the clock on the big mantel and wince. Five minutes till time to turn Master again. It's not that I mind it; it's just - poor Mr. Frodo don't take too well to it, and it fair breaks my heart to see him like that. Watching the clock, I let him stay put as long's I can before climbing carefully onto the bed and slipping my arms beneath him.
"There now, Mr. Frodo. It's only your Sam. I'm just going to turn you onto your back, all right?"
Not until I begin to move him from his right side does a weak moan answer me. It goes all through me, it does, but I ease Master on over onto his back and prop the pillows so that they cushion his left shoulder and arm, while others support his head. His eyelashes flutter, all thick and even darker against dark-shadowed eyes, but they don't open. I wonder whether they will ever again. But he does stir, shifting uneasily, and I seize the opportunity to try and coax him back enough to give him a little broth.
"Master!"
Heavy eyelashes flicker again - but again, no opening.
"Master, it's your Sam! You must eat a little."
Vaguely eyes flicker open, peering out half-lidded at me, unrecognising, uncertain.
I take that as a yes. Taking the feeding-cup of broth from the warmer, I offer it to him, supporting his head with my free hand.
"Slow sips now, Master. Just a little taste at a time, that's the way."
He tries to swallow and nearly chokes, but tries again and succeeds, managing a tiny mouthful of the liquid.
"Good! There now, Master. Just you keep that up as long as you feel you can."
He tries again, swallowing a little more before his eyes flutter closed once more. From his breathing I gather he ain't asleep, but it's pretty clear he's too wore out to take any more just then, so I put it back over the warming-lamp and let have done.
For all the warming-stones and all the blankets, he's still shivering.
Somehow that pains me worse than all the rest, as if I can't even do the simplest thing in keeping him warm enough. I keep trying bathing his side and shoulder and face with that warm athelas water, but it don't seem to be doing no good, not if you ask me. He's getting worse by the hour.
He can't seem to get warm nohow, so I do the only thing I know to do.
Climbing into bed next to him, I lie down beside him, curling right up against his chilled left side, icy as it is. I reckon from what they've said that piece of blade's worked its way so far in now that a little touch to his arm won't hurt him. Mam always said this was a right kind thing to do for someone who was dying and couldn't get warm enough. Mr. Frodo's about as close to dying as they come, so surely it's a kind thing to do for him. . . .
He stops whimpering, at any rate.
I only wish it were more.
I wish I could make it all better with good old-fashioned hobbit medicine - rest and fresh air and good food. His own bed, that big feather-bed up at Bag End, plumped up with pillows and his favourite counterpane. Good nourishing meals - milk-toast, chicken broth, mashed potatoes, chicken and mushroom soup, vegetable soup, baked mushrooms, cup custard, sticky toffee pudding, apple hedgehog, omelets cooked with his favourite fillings.
Just you wait and see, Mr. Frodo.
Just as soon as you wake up, your Sam'll make sure you have a good meal.
Only wake up.
Please wake up.
~the end?~
(for those looking for her original request, I don't have it copied/pasted here, but it's in the deathfic musings post. Don't worry, no deathfic appears in that post, so you're safe!)
Yes, this is non-slash, so take off your slash goggles, people. :P PG rating is for thematic darkness only. It is NON-slash, non-sexual, 'k?
Come night like this, the dark seems to get into everything.
Not that it ever seems to leave poor Master. . .but the nights are the worst, and I reckon this one's the worst yet. Second night we've spent in Rivendell, and for all I thought he'd have some ease once we got him here, he still groans and shivers in his bed like the covers was made of ice. Master Elrond, now, he's been in to see him, but he just goes back and forth, like he's trying to figure something out in that study o'his.
It's fine with me. I'm a sight easier caring for Master, though I'd be a grand sight happier if, elven lord or not, he'd *help* Master. I reckon it's just taking a while to figure out how.
Master whimpers and I catch myself too lost in worry to do anybody a day's worth of good, as Da would say, so I wring out a fresh cloth in the basin of warm water at his bedside and bathe his face and side again. His poor side's so cold. . .like poisoned ice got into him and, melting, is poisoning everything it touches.
If that bit o'blade gets to his heart before they figure out how to get to it. . .
I swallow and try not to think on that.
It's hard, it is, there not being much to do save bathe Mr. Frodo and turn him so's he won't get sores from lying in bed and whatnot. Back home when he's ill there's always plenty to do - Mari sees to the laundry, bless her, and that's a chore whether he's got the stomach 'flu or a bad cold - but there's still all the cooking and getting him to eat, giving him medicine, changing his bed and fetching and carrying. . . . Here, the elves change his bed and do the laundry and the cooking. . .not that he's taken much of anything since we got here. Once or twice he's roused just enough to swallow some broth for me, and we keep it at the ready over a warming-lamp at his bedside, but I don't think he's recognised a soul since the Ford. Not Merry nor Pippin, not me, not even old Mr. Bilbo, who fair wept when he saw him.
Now, back home, I'd -
But there's no good in thinking back home.
Back home he'd die.
His only hope is here, and yet I can't help wishing I'd see them move a little faster.
If you ask me, what he needs is a good mug of chicken and mushroom soup, and some ginger and cinnamon tea to ease those chills. All this dances through my head as I tuck wrapped hot stones in around him, trying to warm him up. I don't reckon he's got a fever; he feels icy cold to the touch. At any rate, Mam always said you need to try and get someone with the chills warm, else they'll get worse.
I look at the clock on the big mantel and wince. Five minutes till time to turn Master again. It's not that I mind it; it's just - poor Mr. Frodo don't take too well to it, and it fair breaks my heart to see him like that. Watching the clock, I let him stay put as long's I can before climbing carefully onto the bed and slipping my arms beneath him.
"There now, Mr. Frodo. It's only your Sam. I'm just going to turn you onto your back, all right?"
Not until I begin to move him from his right side does a weak moan answer me. It goes all through me, it does, but I ease Master on over onto his back and prop the pillows so that they cushion his left shoulder and arm, while others support his head. His eyelashes flutter, all thick and even darker against dark-shadowed eyes, but they don't open. I wonder whether they will ever again. But he does stir, shifting uneasily, and I seize the opportunity to try and coax him back enough to give him a little broth.
"Master!"
Heavy eyelashes flicker again - but again, no opening.
"Master, it's your Sam! You must eat a little."
Vaguely eyes flicker open, peering out half-lidded at me, unrecognising, uncertain.
I take that as a yes. Taking the feeding-cup of broth from the warmer, I offer it to him, supporting his head with my free hand.
"Slow sips now, Master. Just a little taste at a time, that's the way."
He tries to swallow and nearly chokes, but tries again and succeeds, managing a tiny mouthful of the liquid.
"Good! There now, Master. Just you keep that up as long as you feel you can."
He tries again, swallowing a little more before his eyes flutter closed once more. From his breathing I gather he ain't asleep, but it's pretty clear he's too wore out to take any more just then, so I put it back over the warming-lamp and let have done.
For all the warming-stones and all the blankets, he's still shivering.
Somehow that pains me worse than all the rest, as if I can't even do the simplest thing in keeping him warm enough. I keep trying bathing his side and shoulder and face with that warm athelas water, but it don't seem to be doing no good, not if you ask me. He's getting worse by the hour.
He can't seem to get warm nohow, so I do the only thing I know to do.
Climbing into bed next to him, I lie down beside him, curling right up against his chilled left side, icy as it is. I reckon from what they've said that piece of blade's worked its way so far in now that a little touch to his arm won't hurt him. Mam always said this was a right kind thing to do for someone who was dying and couldn't get warm enough. Mr. Frodo's about as close to dying as they come, so surely it's a kind thing to do for him. . . .
He stops whimpering, at any rate.
I only wish it were more.
I wish I could make it all better with good old-fashioned hobbit medicine - rest and fresh air and good food. His own bed, that big feather-bed up at Bag End, plumped up with pillows and his favourite counterpane. Good nourishing meals - milk-toast, chicken broth, mashed potatoes, chicken and mushroom soup, vegetable soup, baked mushrooms, cup custard, sticky toffee pudding, apple hedgehog, omelets cooked with his favourite fillings.
Just you wait and see, Mr. Frodo.
Just as soon as you wake up, your Sam'll make sure you have a good meal.
Only wake up.
Please wake up.
~the end?~
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Date: 2008-03-14 03:51 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2008-03-14 04:28 am (UTC)Yes, Sam's a wise one!!!!
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Date: 2008-03-14 04:13 am (UTC)I absolutely love him giving Frodo the broth...so very heart-wrenchingly sweet.
**hug hug hug SQUISH hug hug hug**
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Date: 2008-03-14 04:27 am (UTC)Wonder what's going through Frodo's mind during all of this.
Hrm, I may have to write a Part II soon. . . .
*thankieblushiesquishiesnugglebeams* :D
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Date: 2008-03-14 05:19 am (UTC)http://www.vintagerecipes.net/
It's a neat place to poke around and gives lots of ideas on foods for various fictional (and real life) situations -- it's one of my favorites.
**more huggles**
(And I look forward to that Part II, but I hope the gnawing bunnies will at least let you sleep)
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