febobe | (no subject)

"Throat still sore, my lad?"

Looking up, Frodo nodded shyly. His face flushed with embarrassment as much as with fever: it seemed he had been nothing but trouble to Bilbo from the moment he arrived, for he had felt poorly almost since his arrival, much as he adored his new home. Half afraid Bilbo would send him back to Brandy Hall, he had not spoken of it until Bilbo himself noticed the feverish hue of his pale cheeks and his listless demeanour. Though a confirmed bachelor had little enough idea what to do with a sick tweenager, Bilbo had at least had the presence of mind to put him to bed and call for Bell Gamgee, who recommended that Bilbo give him plenty of liquids and call for a doctor at once.

It hadn't helped.

The doctor had only pronounced it to be something called "glandular fever" and left nasty-tasting medicines for Frodo to swallow several times each day. Fortunately, Bilbo was generous in the matter of medicines, and a firm believer that sweets of some sort were required to help any medicine go down. . .and so whether a ginger-hobbit or a toffee, Frodo was assured of having something good to put in his mouth every time he had to be dosed.

But three days into the medicines, he felt little better. The doctor had said he could not get up for weeks. Somehow he did not mind that. He felt too ill to get out of bed.

Now Bilbo bent over him soliticiously, stroking back dark curls. "Do you think you could swallow a little something for me? I think it is something you will like."

Frodo hardly felt like eating. He had been sick all day with shakes, aches, and nausea, but it was Bilbo. Reluctantly he shifted from his side onto his back and inspected the tray offered by his beloved "uncle."

There was a steaming little mug of beef-mushroom soup, hearty and wholesome. Besides that, Bilbo had prepared milk-toast, made just the way his. . .just the way his mother used to, the fragrance so familiar that Frodo blinked abruptly. There was a dish of rice-pudding and one of stewed apple surrounded by miniature buttered toast points. To drink, there was honeyed milk, cool apple juice, and tea sweetened with honey.

Sitting up cautiously, Frodo mustered a weak smile. "Thank you, Bilbo. It looks wonderful, truly."

"You're quite welcome, my boy. Now, let me help you - the doctor said you must rest and keep up your strength, after all."

Stifling a sigh, Frodo nodded, though he had to admit that had he had to feed himself, the meal would likely not have gotten very far at all. As he watched Bilbo work, he waited, then opened his mouth dutifully when necessary, evoking pleased smiles and praise from his guardian.

Suddenly a cold chill ran down his spine.

Today.

Today was September twenty-first.

Tomorrow would be his birthday, and he had no gift for Bilbo. He had not prepared them before coming to Hobbiton, thinking there would be plenty of time once here, but he had felt out of sorts for rather a while before the fever and sore throat set in. And then it was too late; he had been told that getting up too soon could seriously endanger his health, not to mention that younger hobbits such as himself might be prone to take the illness. Bilbo would likely be safe, but Frodo should, the doctor had said, not have youthful company until he could get out of bed safely, and then only for limited visits.

He had not found anything suitable for Bilbo.

What was he to do?

(continued here by Mewsie - Mews1945, that is)

He was still thinking, wistfully gazing at the window through which he could see the roses that Sam’s dad had trained to climb up on a trellis. The doctor had said fresh air wouldn’t hurt, so the windows had been opened and pushed back to allow the sweet fragrance the warm breeze to enter. Beneath the window stood a small bookcase and on its shelves, Frodo had placed his few books, a carved wooden horse given to him by Saradoc, a china candlestick that had belonged to his mother, and a small collection of polished chestnuts and riverstones that Merry had given him as a going-away present. None of them were really suitable as a gift for Bilbo. On the top shelf lay a folder made of leather, with a backing of wood that Esmeralda had given him. It contained several sheets of fine paper that she had given him, and beside it was a little box wherein were stored little bottles of ink in different colors. It was meant for writing letters, but as he studied it, Frodo had an idea.

Bilbo entered, bearing a little tray with a cup containing a dose of medicine. Beside it was a dish of strawberries topped with a dollop of softly whipped cream. He smiled kindly at Frodo, who answered the smile as best he could, even though his head ached a bit and he felt so very tired, even though he’d been lying in bed with nothing but a book that lay on the counterpane at his side.

“Well, my lad, time for your dose,” Bilbo said in his brisk way. “And look what Gaffer Gamgee brought in for you. The first of the strawberries. I sugared them a bit and put a sprinkle in the cream as well. Now, you take your medicine and then you can have your treat.”

He slipped his hand beneath Frodo’s shoulders and helped him sit upright, then held the cup to his lips. Frodo closed his eyes, held his breath, and drank the bitter stuff down with hardly a pause. He shuddered at the taste.

“I know,” Bilbo said. “It does taste frightfully bad, doesn’t it?” He lowered Frodo gently back against the piled pillows. “But here, now, just open your mouth and taste this.”

Frodo opened his mouth obediently and tasted the sweet, fresh coolness of the strawberry and the velvety smoothness of the cream, the flavors bursting in his mouth when he bit down on the berry. He opened his eyes and gave Bilbo a grateful smile. “It’s good.”

“Indeed it is. And very good for you as well,” Bilbo agreed. “Here we are, my boy, have another bite.”

Slowly, Frodo ate the little dish of berries and cream, then lay still, gratefully sighing as Bilbo took a cloth wrung out in the cool water from his washpitcher and dabbed it over his forehead and cheeks and neck.

“Better?” Bilbo asked.

“Yes, I feel a bit better.” Frodo looked at the bookcase again. “Do you . . . might I have my folder and inks? I promise I won’t spill them on the bed.”

Bilbo considered the request, looking worried. “Well . . . I suppose that would be all right. Doctor Burrows did say you might indulge in very quiet activities, so long as you stayed in bed.”

He fetched the folder, which would fit on Frodo’s lap, its wooden back forming a firm surface for the paper, and then brought the leather box and set it beside Frodo on the bed. When its lid was folded back, the interior was displayed, with a small wooden rack that held the ink bottles in place, and a little tray that held several pens with dwarf-made nibs, and a quill.

“There now,” Bilbo said. “All set?”

“Yes. I thought I might write a note to Merry.”

“That would be fine. You do that and I’ll see that it’s sent off right away.” Bilbo felt his forehead. “Your fever is down a bit, but you mustn’t overdo it, lad. You can take an hour to write your note, and then you must have a nap.”

“All right, Bilbo,” Frodo agreed. He opened the folder and chose a pen, then opened the top on one of the bottles of ink, as Bilbo left the room, leaving the door open.

Frodo looked at the sheet of paper in front of him, and made a tentative mark at the top, a little wavy line that could have been a hobbit curl. He was a very good young artist, everyone said so, and he thought he could draw a reasonably good likeness of Bilbo from memory, and he meant to draw an image of himself beside it. It would not be a very grand present, but it would be a mathom that contained his hopes for the life he and Bilbo were going to have together at Bag End. After a moment of consideration, he put pen to paper again and began to draw with quick, sure strokes.

*** (resumed by Febobe here)

An hour passed swiftly, but Frodo was a quick study, and the work did not take too long. By the time he heard Bilbo's footsteps approaching, the ink was drying on the page. But it was not so dry that he could risk hiding it beneath the counterpane or under a pillow - or even another page. It would smear.

Well. There was nothing for it. He would have to give it to Bilbo a few hours early, and that would have to do.

"Time for some nourishment and your nap, my lad." Bilbo carried in a steaming cup that smelled deliciously of honey and warm milk dusted with cinnamon. . .but stopped short as Frodo pushed aside the other pages and held up the drawing shyly.

"Bilbo, I - I didn't know what to do for our birthday. I wanted to give you a nice present. This was what came to mind that I could do." He extended the drawing nervously. "It - it - well, I hope you like it."

Setting the cup on the bedside table, Bilbo accepted the drawing reverently, studying it with wonder and admiration mingled in his bright features. Eyes alight, he sat beside Frodo's bed, leaning closer.

"It's us, isn't it, Frodo, my boy?"

Frodo nodded hopefully.

Bilbo smiled. "I'm glad that's how you see us. It's how I want us to be." Laying the drawing aside, he reached over to stroke Frodo's curls tenderly. "Frodo. . .I want us to be close always. I know it has been hard for you since your parents died, but I will make sure you never want for anything again. I love you, Frodo-lad, and I want to do my best for you."

Tears welled up in Frodo's eyes. "I love you too, Bilbo."

"Oh, my lad." The elder hobbit gathered his young charge into his arms. "Thank you. And happy birthday."

-the end-

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