Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

Bilbo was seated across from Frodo at the table, working on consuming the scrumptious first breakfast Primula had made that morning, worried that neither she or Drogo was present at the table to enjoy it with them. For the past four weeks, Drogo’s condition had grown considerable worse as he now grew tired more easily than ever, taking often to his bed earlier than most folks did, and he often complained of shortness of breath, and at times of dizziness. Always Drogo tried to keep how serious his illness was from his son but the further it progress the harder it was to do. Finally he had to admit how sick he really was when Frodo asked him to spend sometime with him outdoors, away from Bag End.

And just this morning Drogo had awaken with a light fever, and though it may have been a little reaction on her part, Primula had insisted that he spend the day in bed. So she had made first breakfast, leaving it on the stove for Bilbo and her son while she took a tray of the food to her ailing husband. Meanwhile Frodo for the most part ate distractedly, picking at the food on his plate, and not eating more than a few real bites.

The lad’s a bright one, Bilbo thought, He knows something is amiss with his father.

The older hobbit sat there and watched his nephew have a most unhobbit like interest in his food for as long as he could take it, and finally an idea came to him of what he could do to help life Frodo’s spirits. Rising from his seat, he spoke not a word to Frodo but walked to his study to retrieve a book, ragged, and nearly falling apart with age. He returned and laid it on the table before his nephew, waiting for Frodo to react. A second later, he was rewarded with the reaction he was hoping to get when Frodo picked it up, his eyes wide in wondrous awe.

‘That, my lad, is the book I first used when I began studying the languages of the Elves, given to me by Lord Elrond himself.’ said Bilbo.

Bilbo smiled, ‘Yes, really and now I’m giving it to you.’ If it were even possible Frodo’s eyes grew even bigger, especially when Bilbo uttered this next, ‘I’m giving it to you, lad, because I want to teach you Elvish. That is if you’d like to read, write, and speak it for yourself. Would you?’

‘Splendid!’ Bilbo stood up, ‘We’ll begin your first lesson after you’ve finished your breakfast – and I do not want to hear the excuse that you’re not hungry as we don’t want you to be distracted by the growling of an empty stomach now do we?’

Bilbo smiled, ‘I’ll just wash these few dishes, while you finish your breakfast, and then we’ll see about getting started.’

The suite was decorated in calming shades of white, cream, greens reminding one greatly of the outdoors with all of the intricate leaves and flowers and even a tree or two craved into the borders of the walls. The master bedroom was also the brightest as it had the largest window in Bag End, facing the east, allowing for the Sun to greet them with her warmth and light each morning. But unfortunately, since Drogo’s illness had begun to worsen, they had to keep the drapes closed for the Sun’s light had begun to hurt his eyes.

Primula stepped inside the room, and allowed time for her eyes to adjust, before weaving her way into the room where Drogo laid covered in a pile of quilts. She set the tray down, and came to the bed, sitting as gently as possible on the bed as not to disturb him as he laid was his eyes closed as though he were asleep. She watched him for a moment before extending her hand to touch his forehead, and she discovered a sheen of sweat there.

Then he began to cough, she had to help him sit up, and then hand him a clean cloth to help stifle the coughs. Drogo coughed for a good minute before the attack let up, and when he finally pulled the handkerchief away from his mouth, there were tiny spots of blood present. Primula tried not to allow her fear to show as she helped him to lay back down on the bed, pulling the quilts back over him.

‘Are you hungry, love?’ she asked. ‘I brought a tray laden with all of your favorite first breakfast foods.’

‘No, love,’ he replied, closing his eyes, ‘I just want to sleep right now if you please.’

Primula said nothing for a moment, and then she touched his forehead again, ‘Your fever has become worse. I think I should send for the healer.’

Drogo halted her when she started to get up by laying a hand on her arm, and when she looked at him he said, ‘We…need…to talk.’

Primula shook her head, ‘Don’t say things like that, Drogo. You’ve just caught a chill, that’s all. The healer will give you so medicine and you’ll be fine, love.’

Drogo looked on her sadly, ‘Primula...you....know that’s...is not...true. The healer....said that....I have...a sick...ness that will...kill me...within six...months...if not sooner. I’m dying, love.’

Tears spilled down Primula’s face, ‘No, Drogo, I can’t accept this. I will not lose you now!’ He moved to touch her again but this time she stood up before he could. ‘I’m going to ask Bilbo to send for the healer.’ With that she gathered up the tray she had prepared for him, and left the suite before he could say another word.

‘O no, Mr. Gamgee, and Frodo is fine, Sam. He’s inside with Bilbo,’ Primula replied, ‘My husband awoke with a fever and I want to make certain it is nothing more serious than a late summer cold.’

‘Yes, sir,’ Sam said laying down the small shovel in his hand, and brushed his hands on his breeches.

Sam nodded, took off running the gate, he hurrying down Bagshot Row and was out of sight within a second.

‘Yer welcome, ma’am, and please call me Hamfast,’ was the reply, ‘O and I hope Mr. Drogo will be getting better soon.’

The look on his face was grim as he said, ‘I’m sorry, Mrs. Baggins, but your husband has the beginning of the gaffer’s friend.’

‘I must ask you has your husband been ill for a very long time?’ Bracegirdle asked gently.

Primula nodded, ‘Aye, he began to become ill around May while we lived yet in Buckland among my family in Brandy Hall.’

Bracegirdle bristled at her mention of Buckland, for as with all inhabitants of the Shire-proper, he thought that Buckland was a queer place, and it bred even queerer folk. He bushed aside his intial reaction, and cleared his throat, ‘Did he ever see a healer there, Mrs. Baggins?’

‘Of what did the healer tell him, ma’am?’ asked Bracegirdle, ‘Please, ma’am, it is very important that you tell me everything you can remember.’ Primula recounted everything she could remember that Milo Gentlewinter had said, and when she had finished, Bracegirdle actually smiled in relief, and he even touched her hand. ‘I don’t know who apprenticed Healer Gentlewinter but I’ve never heard of such an illness, Mrs. Baggins!’

‘Aye, for it seems like poppycock to me,’ Bracegirdle replied, ‘And I believe if we get your husband through this case of the gaffer’s friend, he will make a full recovery.’

Primula was reeling from this news, the news that her husband was no dying and would recover if they could just get him through this bout of illness. But she thought about the past five months and she wondered if this healer knew everything. She voiced her concerns to him and he merely smiled.

‘I am quite sure after being told such nonsense, Mrs. Baggins, your husband actually started to believe that he was dying,’ said Bracegirdle, ‘But I really believe that it could all be due to that foolishness that Gentlewinter put into his head.’

Primula nodded, her hope renewed, ‘Tell me what we have to do to see my husband through his illness.’

‘Tolman Bracecgirdle,’ Primula answered, already in action to see to her husband’s needs.

Primula stopped for a moment to look at Bilbo, ‘He said that Drogo has the gaffer’s friend.’ Bilbo drew in a sharp breath, closing his eyes briefly and just as he was about to say something. Frodo entered the kitchen with a paper in his hand to show his uncle. Shaking his head, Bilbo hoped Frodo would hear nothing wrong in his voice as he said, ‘Very good, Frodo, very good indeed.’ He noted that Primula had turned her back so it blocked what she was doing at the stove, and he pulled Frodo towards the door when he saw that was where the lad was headed next, ‘Go practice some more, Frodo, I’ll return shortly to show you some more letters and words.’

Bilbo waited until he was certain Frodo was down the hallway and halfway back to his study before he spoke, ‘Primula, you know how much I love Drogo and how much I will do anything to help you see to his comfort. But, Primula dear, you must consider this, if the time has come for him to go, then there are worse ways to pass.’

‘What?’ Primula asked in an outraged tone as she turned to face him, ‘Are you saying we should just give up and let him die now?’

Bilbo shook his head vehemently, ‘O no, no, no - Please do not misunderstand me! I just meant that this would be easier for him and I do not mean to give up on him but if this illness seems as though it is going to overwhelm his already weakened strength, then perhaps we should then concentrate on keeping him as comfortable as possible, and just let him sleep away. As I said, the gaffer’s friend would be an easier way to pass as his other illness could mean more pain for him before he’s gone.’

‘I cannot believe I am hearing this!’ Primula replied, ‘I would never think that you had such little regard for Drogo that you’d simply want to give the fight for his life!’ She finished her task and gatherered together the medicines given to her by Bracegirdle on a tray, intending on storming out of the room and when he stepped in her path she merely kept going by weaving around him.

‘Primula, please!’ he called after her but she did not stop, ‘Sticklebacks!”

Bilbo replayed their conversation in his head, and he knew he sounded cold and unfeeling. He sounded as though he had never loved Drogo a day in his life but Bilbo knew that was not true as he had loved him from the moment he was born. Inside he was hurting and grieving as much as Primula was, and he worried for his nephew, worried if the gaffer’s friend did not take his life, the other one certainly would in a far more painful fashion.

For the rest of the day, Primula left Frodo in Bilbo’s care, choosing to allow her son to remain ignorant how sick his father was until it was time for him to go to bed. Usually every night before he went to bed, Frodo would say goodnight to both of his parents, receiving a hug and in Primula’s case, a kiss. Tonight however when the time came for him to bid Drogo a goodnight, he was halted by his mother just outside the door to their suite.

‘Your papa is already asleep,’ she said gently, leading him down the hallway and towards his own room, ‘Frodo, you know that your father awoke with a fever this morning?’

Frodo nodded, ‘Yes, Mama.’

‘Well, while you were studying with Bilbo this morning I asked that a healer come see your father. The healer said that your father is very sick, and will need a lot of medicine and close care for the next several days,’ Primula explained.

They had arrived at his room, and had walked inside, and Primula had her back turned to Frodo as he changed into his nightshirt before hopping into bed. She pulled the covers up on him, and kissed his brow, and was about to blow out his candle when Frodo said, ‘Please, Mama, I want to help with Papa tomorrow.’

Primula smiled, ‘I know you do, Frodo, but I think the best way for you to help right now is to continue your studies with your uncle. I’ll look after you father.’

‘But Mama won’t you get tired looking after Papa all alone?’

‘I’ll be fine, dear. I’ll get some sleep tonight, I promise,’ she replied, and blew the candle out.

‘Mama?’

‘Yes, Frodo?’

‘Promise me Papa’s going to be fine.’

Primula closed her eyes, grateful that he couldn’t see her face in the darkened room, ‘I promise. Now go to sleep, love.’

‘Goodnight, Mama.’

‘Goodnight.’

September 9, 1380 S.R.

Drogo’s fever did not break for four more days, becoming dangerously high during the night between the second and third day. The healer spent the better part of those days at Bag End, trying various medicines and methods to bring down the fever down. For most of the third day Drogo’s fever was so high that when he was conscious, he was delirious, and Primula wondered how Bilbo could have spoken as the gaffer’s friend as being a peaceful passing as she listened to the mutterings of her husband’s fevered mind.

After so many days without seeing his father, Frodo was able to slip into the suite when his mother and uncle were otherwise preoccupied in the kitchen. Bracegirdle was also absent from the room having briefly returned to the guest room for a few hours rest as Drogo’s temperature was stable as it could be. When Frodo came in, Drogo was actually asleep, but as he was still fevered he was covered in sweat, and occasionally muttered something unintelligible.

Frodo found his father propped up against several sweat damped pillows, with each breathe he drew raspy and labored. A pile of quilts were pulled up to his chin, and his face had a pallor to it even with the scarlet of the fever that raged within his body. At first hearing his father’s harsh, labored breathing frightened Frodo, so much so that he nearly retreated from the room, and in fact had one foot out of the door. But then he halted, as if though he suddenly found his courage again, and turned to slowly creep up again to the bed when his father laid fighting for his life.

He halted on the left side of the bed where his father laid, and gently he reached out to touch Drogo’s shoulder which poked out from under the quilts just ever so slightly, saying in an afraid voice, ‘Papa?’

‘Frodo!’ came Primula’s voice from the door. Frodo whirled around to see his mother standing there with a tray in her hands, only momentarily stunned by seeing her son in the room. The shock did not last long as she deposited the tray on a nearby chair, and then she firmly took hold of one of her son’s arms as she pulled him from the room.

‘Mama, I-’

But Primula let him get no further as she turned him around, and gave his bottom a few stinging swats, before turning him to face her again. He stood there fighting back tears as he rubbed his smarting bottom as she knelt to face, ‘Stay out of that room, Frodo, your father is dangerously ill and I will not have you becoming ill as well! Do you understand me?’

‘O, Frodo,’ Primula said, pulling him into her harms, ‘I’m the one who should be sorry as I made a promise to you I haven’t kept very well,’ She pulled back to look at him, pulling out a handkerchief to wipe his face, ‘I’m sorry for breaking my promise but your father is very ill, and I don’t want you getting ill too. Will you forgive me?’

Frodo sniffled, ‘Uh huh.’

She brushed some hair out of his face, ‘I know you want to help, Frodo, but right now you can best help by staying with Bilbo or going outside and enjoying the Sun. Your father is not dying, Frodo, and I promise you he will get better. All right?’ Frodo nodded, wiping his eyes before his mother kissed him, ‘I tell you what – as soon as your father is feeling better, I’ll call you in to see him.’

‘Promise for real this time?’

Primula smiled, ‘I promise this time for real.’ She stood up, ‘Now go eat your lunch.’

That had been four days ago, and today had been allowed into his father’s sickroom where a pale but not fever flushed Drogo sat against the pillows, slowly taking in the broth that Primula was carefully feeding him.

‘Papa!’ he yelled, hurrying to the bed, aborting his intended jump at the last moment when Primula reminded him to be careful of his yet weak father. Climbing up to his father on the bed, Frodo hugged Drogo, ‘Uncle Bilbo says you’re feeling a lot better.’

Drogo smiled, ‘I am feeling a lot better, son, but I am still somewhat ill.’

‘So much so that I’m afraid that this visit will have to be a short one,’ Primula said.

‘Awww, Mama!’

‘No, arguing with your mother,’ Bilbo said, coming cautiously into the room.

Drogo turned his attention towards the door, ‘Uncle, thank you for looking after Frodo here.’ Beside him, Primula murmured a quiet thank you as well.

Bilbo nodded, ‘It was my pleasure.’ He held out his hand towards Frodo, ‘Come on, lad, your father needs to finish his broth and then rest. And we have our studies to see to.’ Reluctantly, Frodo hugged his father again and then scooted off the bed, taking his uncle’s hand. Primula watched them leave, her eyes cold as she watched Bilbo’s retreating form.

‘Prim?’ Drogo said as he looked at her.

She shook her head, ‘Yes, Drogo?’

‘Did something happen between you and Uncle Bilbo while I was ill?’

Smiling, the coldness left her eyes as she lied, ‘No, dear, why do you ask?’

‘O no particular reason, love,’ he replied but from that moment he always noted the coldness in his wife’s once warm eyes whenever they beheld Bilbo Baggins.

Author’s Note: The term gaffer’s friend, a Shire term for what we now know as pneumonia, is one I first encountered in my good friend Lindelea’s stories and I thank her for her permission to use this term in my own story!


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Growing Pains by Meldewen Ilce