febobe

My weekly CMEM post, as promised! Based on this Shirebunny:

R69. In Minas Tirith, Frodo catches a small cold or chill. After looking after Mr. Frodo for so long on his own, Sam finds himself resentful -- and upset -- when Aragorn wants to treat his master and doesn't seem to trust him to do it himself. It's up to Aragorn (or Frodo) to figure this out -- and see to it that Sam knows that he's still needed.

"Ah-ah-ah-choo!"

It weren't right.

It just weren't right.

Mr. Frodo, he'd taken to sneezing, and I'd started to bundle him off to bed with a nice hot cup o'tea, elderflower and yarrow and boneset and peppermint, all tucked up nice and warm.

That was when it happened.

"Here now, Sam. Thank you."

Suddenly my arm was no longer around Mr. Frodo's shoulders - Aragorn was picking him up, gathering him into his arms like he was a babe. Mr. Frodo didn't look none too pleased himself, but Aragorn hushed us both by continuing.

"I will attend to Frodo from here. Why don't you return to the festivities? We would both hate for you to miss the party."

I tried to open my mouth, to tell him that without Mr. Frodo, it weren't no party worth being at, but he weren't having none of it. Off he went, stepping around me and striding off down the corridor with those long legs o'his. Not for the first time, I envied him being so tall; I couldn't have caught up if I'd tried.

So I sat outside the party in the hall and sulked.

Which is where I am now.

Oh, I know it weren't the polite thing to do, but I didn't feel like going back in there. . .not knowing Mr. Frodo was coming down with a cold, especially not when I'd just been pushed off like last year's trimmings. Mr. Frodo's right fussy when he catches cold. I'm used to getting him to eat when he don't want to eat. I can get him to drink when he forgets he oughta.

Haven't I been doing that?

Mercy, it turns my stomach to knots, worrying about him. Wonder if Aragorn'll be able to get that medicine down him. It takes a right good bit o'coaxing, can't be forced. Then there's the matter o'food. He's got to eat; he can't afford to be picking at his dishes right now, thin as he is still. It weren't but two weeks ago he woke up. He's barely steady on his legs as 'tis. Somebody's got to get some decent food into him, and as good as Aragorn was with him at first, he needs real nourishment now, not that broth so thin you can see right through it. Though soup he could use - good hot soup's the best thing for a cold, mind.

"Sam?"

Looking up, I find Aragorn standing over me. Stiffly I nod. "Yes, sir?" Lands, the Gaffer would say my tone would freeze beer, but I can't help myself. . . .

Aragorn crouched so that he met my eye-level. "I have a problem. I suspect you may know the answer."

I waited.

"Frodo is complaining of chills, and nothing I do eases him. He assures me that 'Sam knows,' and begs that you come."

Well, I can't help it. I hop down off that bench quicker than lickety-split. "Where's some fresh ginger root and cinnamon twigs? And a bit o'dried angelica root wouldn't go amiss either."

***

Well, poor Mr. Frodo's in a bad way when I get to him, sick with chills, fixing for a fever, I figure. His eyes are red; his nose, too - he's already all snuffly, and sounds positively awful, which I'll warrant is better than he feels.

"Thag you for cobig, Sab. I'b sorry to bother you - "

"No bother, Master! Now just you try a little more of your tea." I hold the mug of ginger and cinnamon tea to his lips; his hands are shaking so bad I don't dare let him try to hold it himself. Cautiously he sips, managing to get down some of the warming drink.

Aragorn comes to the door, knocking lightly and letting himself in. Why he knocks and still lets himself in without waiting for Mr. Frodo's yes or no is beyond me. "Frodo, I am having your meal brought up from the banquet. Will you try to eat?"

Well. I take one look at Mr. Frodo's face, and I can tell Aragorn ain't seeing it, but I know right then and there Mr. Frodo ain't having none of it.

"If you bean thad fish add those strogg vegetables add that braddy-dreched dessert, the adswer is DOH. The fish bakes be sick add by throat hurts."

Aragorn looks almost disappointed, but looks up at me hopefully. "Sam?"

"Mr. Frodo?" I bend over his shoulder gently. "Do you fancy some chicken and mushroom soup, maybe? And a little cup custard with berries on top?"

His blue eyes light up, and I know I've caught his attention, so I go on.

"What about one o'them nice smooth drinks they make here from fruit? Wouldn't that go down easy, sir?"

That gets a nod.

"Good. Reckon you can sit tight for a little bit, and let your Sam get them started on it?"

Another nod, though still he clutches my hand.

Well.

Maybe this gardener's not so useless after all.

***

Once I get Mr. Frodo fed and settled down, tucked up all warm in bed, and give him his medicine for the night - good Shire medicine, plain herbs and honey and hot water, none o'this Gondorian stuff - I go back out into the hall with Aragorn for a moment at his request.

"Now I can't stay but a minute. You know I promised Mr. Frodo I'd sit with him."

"I know, Sam." Aragorn kneels so that he comes to my level again, or as near it as he can get, anyhow. "But I owe you an apology. These many months - indeed, these many years you have cared for your master, though your dedication has been most sorely tested these past few months - and never have you failed him. It was wrong of me to act today as if you would fail now."

He extends his arms.

"Forgive me."

And as I embrace him, I can't help but think of one thing, in thinking of all I've done for Mr. Frodo these last months - the awful mountains, the Marshes, that great spider like nothing I've ever seen or hope to see again, the orcs, the tower, the food, the water, the Mountain, the Cracks of Doom, the waking and worrying and fretting. . . .

I wouldn't trade any of it for the world.

Not one bit.

~the end?~