Chapter Sixteen: Bedside Tales

Bilbo stepped out of the guestroom and shut the door, quietly lest he wake Frodo, who was asleep inside, and came into the sitting room, where Dr. Bolger was staring into the fireplace and smoking his pipe. Mr. and Mrs. Broadbelt had retired to their rooms, and he had already checked on Merry, sound asleep in Daisy’s room.

Sitting down in a large armchair across from Dr. Bolger, Bilbo cleared his throat, startling the doctor out of his thoughts. "You wished to speak to me?"

Taking a puff of his pipe, Dr. Bolger nodded. "I expect that you would wish to know my thoughts on young Frodo’s illness."

Bilbo leaned forward. "Yes, of course," he said. "He told me that he was bitten by some kind of creature, called a Fire Snake, or something? And that there was poison in the bite. But that is all I know. So tell me, will the lad be all right?"

Dr. Bolger did not answer for a few moments, silently puffing his pipe. "Master Baggins, I believe that you would have me tell you plainly what I believe," he said at last, looking Bilbo in the eye. The other hobbit nodded slowly, afraid of what he might hear. "Well," Dr. Bolger continued, "young Frodo is correct, there was—and perhaps still is—poison in the bite. I have treated mild cases before, but never a severe one."

He paused, and Bilbo asked hesitantly, "And you believe that Frodo received a large amount of venom in the bite?"

Dr. Bolger sighed. Giving the patient’s family bad news was never easy. "Yes, I fear he might’ve," he said slowly. "His symptoms are far more severe than any I have seen, but—" Seeing Bilbo’s distraught expression, he reached out and squeezed the other hobbit’s hand. "—I believe that the worst is over. I suppose that young Samwise has told you about the fright we had earlier?" Bilbo nodded, cringing at the memory.

"I think that that was the height of it, and that now, he will gradually start to improve," Dr. Bolger went on, taking another draw of his pipe. "We hobbits, we’re hard to kill," he added with a chuckle.

Bilbo gave him a weak smile. His thoughts were still dwelling on Frodo’s illness. "What can be done?" he asked softly, staring into the fireplace.

"Not any more than we’re doing now," Dr. Bolger said. "We must keep him cool at all costs—no matter how cold his skin feels. At present, his temperature is fairly low, but it will swiftly rise again if he becomes too warm. I’ll continue to give him herbs to ease the pain, as well as apply some salve to his wounds daily. I’ve opened them once, and the blood seemed unaffected by the poison, which is a good sign. His cough worries me, though…" he trailed off, taking another contemplative puff of his pipe.

Bilbo began to ask a question, but at that moment, they were interrupted by Sam, coming down the hall from the guestroom. "Beggin’ your pardon, Mr. Bilbo and Dr. Bolger," he said timidly. "But I was wonderin’ if I might get a bit of food, in case Mr. Frodo wakes up again. He’s bound to be mighty hungry--hasn’t eaten since early last night."

Bilbo looked at Dr. Bolger for approval, and he nodded. "Very well, Sam," Bilbo said. "It would be good for Frodo to have something in his belly—if you can coax him to eat it. Stubborn lad, he is, when he has a mind to be. And Sam," he added as the young gardener headed for the kitchen, "grab something for yourself as well. If I’m not mistaken, you haven’t eaten for quite some time, either."

"Yes sir," Sam replied meekly as he went into the kitchen.

Bilbo turned back to Dr. Bolger. "What was it you were saying about Frodo’s cough?"

Dr. Bolger turned to face him, taking his pipe out of his mouth. "Well, it bothers me," he said slowly. "It may be that the poison, though not affecting his blood, has affected his lungs, and I will tell you plainly, Master Baggins, that is not good."

Swallowing hard, Bilbo asked, "And what can be done to ease his cough?"

Dr. Bolger replaced his pipe into his mouth and puffed slowly. "I have a few herbs that may help: trillus and bruinis, and I shall give him those daily."

As the adults talked, Samwise was in the kitchen, bustling about, getting food. Though Lila had already told him to help himself, he did not take much (Frodo probably wouldn’t eat most of it anyway, Sam figured): only four slices of bread, a small bunch of grapes and a few seedcakes. Originally, he’d had no intention of eating any of the food, but now at the sight of the juicy, purple grapes and the soft bread, his mouth watered and he took an extra seedcake for himself. Then, he left the kitchen and started down the hall, careful not to make any noise to interrupt Mr. Bilbo and Dr. Bolger’s conversation. He tried his best not to listen to what they were saying, but he couldn’t help himself. The guestroom was the first door on the right, and when he entered, he shut the door behind him and placed the plate of food on the table, glancing at Frodo as he did so.

After Merry had left, Frodo and Bilbo had talked together for a few minutes, though Frodo was understandably exhausted. Resting his head against Bilbo’s chest, the young hobbit had fallen into a deep, restful sleep. Bilbo had stayed there for a little while, letting Sam tell him about the scare they’d had earlier, while stroking Frodo’s dark curls. His face had gone white and he’d held Frodo against his chest just a little tighter as Sam got to the worst part of the tale, and as he’d left he’d paused by his nephew’s bedside and kissed him on the forehead. Then he’d stood there and just looked at him for a long moment, as though trying to memorize the features of his face. Sam didn’t think he’d ever seen Bilbo look so frightened.

Frodo was still deeply asleep; his breathing, though harsh and painful, was even, and the pain reliever seemed to be doing its job well. He was still chalk white, though, and his skin was still a tad too hot. Sam gave his master’s slender hand a gentle squeeze and then crept over to the door. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn’t help but listen to Bilbo and Dr. Bolger’s conversation. It concerned his master and best friend, and he was anxious to know what the doctor thought about his illness. Pressing his ear to the door, he could hear the adults talking, only slightly muffled.

"Can you not somehow remove the poison?" It was Bilbo’s voice, sounding upset.

"No," came the doctor’s answer. "I fear not. As it is not in his bloodstream, there is nothing I can do to remove it. I will continue to give him herbs, which will help, but at present, all we can do is watch and wait. Believe me when I say this, I will do everything that is in my power to heal him."

A moment of silence. Then, "I believe you." A sigh. "What is Frodo’s chance of recovery?"

Another silence.

"If we can ease his breathing and keep him hydrated, I believe that he will recover completely."

"And if we cannot?"

"If we cannot… then I still hold out hope that he will recover. Much depends on the lad himself. He must fight the poison and so help us fight it as well."

A slight chuckle. "That boy is a fighter. I have seen him battle several illnesses and recover completely, even when the doctors gave up hope. He will fight the poison."

"I hope you’re right."

At this point, Sam stopped listening, unable to hear any more. He did not understand all that was said, but he knew by the doctor’s tone that the situation was serious—even more than he’d been aware. With a sorrowful sigh, he turned around to see Frodo watching him with a slight smile. "Eavesdropping, are you, Sam?" he asked rather hoarsely, stifling a cough.

Sam flushed and looked down. "W-well, Mr. Frodo," he stammered, "I couldn’t help but overhear as I was comin’ from the kitchen—which reminds me, I got some food for you."

Frodo glanced over at the plate that was on the bedside table and cringed slightly. "No thank you, Sam," he said, again suppressing a cough. "I’m not really very hungry."

Sam sighed, knowing that it would take a good deal of coaxing to get his master to eat. "Come now, Mr. Frodo," he said, trying to sound cheerful as he came over and sat down on his stool. "You haven’t eaten nothin’ since early last night, and now it’s nigh time for Second Breakfast. T’aint natural for a hobbit."

Frodo shook his head. "Really, I’m not hungry," he said. "But what about you, Sam? Have you eaten anything?"

"'m perfectly fine," Sam mumbled. "I had a bit o’ tea earlier."

Frodo sighed. "Sam, you can’t live on tea, and I’m not hungry. You eat the food."

Sam crossed his arms firmly over his chest. "I won’t take a single bite," he said stoutly. "Not until you have some."

Frodo sighed again, not feeling up to an argument. "Very well, Sam," he yielded. "I’ll eat a little—but only if you promise to have some yourself, as well."

Sam nodded, not bothering to hide his triumphant grin. He picked up the plate and scooted his stool closer. "Now which d’you want to have first, Mr. Frodo?" he asked. "I got some seedcakes, some grapes and a few slices o’ bread."

"A seedcake, I suppose, Sam," said Frodo softly, closing his eyes. Sam watched him closely as he handed him the seedcake. Frodo opened his eyes and sat up, propped against the pillows. Aware of Sam’s sharp gaze, he slowly took a small bite of the seedcake. Sam handed him a cup of water, which he gratefully took a sip of.

"Keep goin’, Mr. Frodo," Sam encouraged, and Frodo reluctantly took another bite.

Slowly, he finished the seedcake, and then lay back against the pillows. "All right, Sam," he said hoarsely. "I ate a bit, now it’s your turn, or you won’t get me to eat any more."

With a defeated sigh, Sam took a seedcake and ate it, then urged Frodo to eat some more. "Or I won’t take another bite," he declared firmly.

In this way, each eating only for the sake of the other, they finished the seedcakes and two slices of bread. At last, Sam was satisfied, and did not force Frodo to eat the rest. He was feeling much better now that he’d eaten. "Now, Mr. Frodo," he asked cheerfully, "how’re you feelin’?"

Frodo took a moment before replying. "Well," he said at last, "I’ll admit, Sam, I feel a little better now that I’ve eaten."

Sam nodded, again not bothering to hide a smile of satisfaction. "You want somethin’ to drink, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo nodded, closing his eyes. "Just water, if you please, Sam," he said tiredly. While his wrist was still mercifully numb, his head had been pounding ever since he’d awoken, and now his chest was beginning to ache terribly, as though each breath strained his lungs. It was getting more and more difficult to keep his breathing slow and steady, when each breath seemed to hitch painfully.

Sam got up and retrieved Frodo’s cup from the bedside table. Hardly had his fingers touched it when Frodo began coughing. Sam quickly replaced the cup on the table and hopped up on the bed. He helped Frodo sit up and rubbed his back, trying to ease his breathing.

Frodo’s coughing fit lasted for several minutes, and when Sam gently eased him, his breathing coming in half-sobbing gasps, down into the pillows, his temperature had risen and his wrist was beginning to burn again. Sam climbed down off the bed and got Frodo’s water cup, and placing it to his master’s cracked lips, he gently helped him sip a bit. When Frodo had finished, Sam began to put the cup back on the table when he noticed something around the rim. "Blood again," he muttered under his breath, so that Frodo wouldn’t hear. He glanced back at the bed, and to his dismay, he also saw a bit of blood spattered on the sheets.

Putting the cup down, Sam made sure that Frodo was comfortable again. "I’ll be right back, Mr. Frodo.”

Frodo nodded without opening his eyes. "Very well, Sam," he murmured.

Sam scanned his friend’s face worriedly, taking in the bruised circles beneath the tightly closed eyes, the tears beaded on his dark lashes but not quite allowed to fall, the grey tint to his face. He looked almost as ill as he had the day before, when they had had such a terrible scare… Giving his master’s hot hand a quick squeeze, Sam opened the door and rushed out, remembering just in time to quietly shut it behind him. He ran down the hall into the sitting room, where Dr. Bolger and Bilbo still sat, silent in their own thoughts. They both looked up as he entered. "What is it, Sam?" Bilbo asked in alarm, seeing the frightened expression on the boy’s face.

"It’s Mr. Frodo," Sam panted, breathless with fear. "He started coughin’ again, and there’s blood on the sheets and the rim of the cup I gave to him." Setting down his pipe, Dr. Bolger jumped to his feet and hurried down the hall, with Bilbo and Sam following closely. When they entered the guestroom, they found Frodo in an exhausted sleep.

Feeling his young patient’s forehead, Dr. Bolger shook his head in concern. "His fever is rising again," he said while checking Frodo’s pulse. "I will have to give him a stronger dose of the trillus herbs."

Bilbo sat by Frodo’s bedside, taking his nephew’s pale hand and cradling it gently in his own. "Will it harm him at all?" he asked anxiously.

Dr. Bolger listened to Frodo’s breathing. "It depends," he said. "If he is fighting the poison, it will help him greatly. But if he is not strong enough, there may be side effects."

"What type of side effects?" Bilbo asked in alarm. Dr. Bolger glanced at Sam, and then back at Bilbo, indicating that he did not wish to discuss them in the young hobbit’s presence. Bilbo nodded, and changed the subject. "I see you managed to coax Frodo into eating," he said to Sam, looking at the mostly empty plate. "How did you do it?"

Sam smiled slightly, not quite fooled by the change of subject. But he played along. "Well, sir, he wanted me to eat, but I told ’im that I wouldn’t take a single bite unless he ate some."

Hardly had the words left his mouth when Frodo began coughing again. Dr. Bolger propped him up against the pillows and rubbed his back to ease his breathing. He placed his hand before Frodo’s mouth, and when his young patient had finally ceased coughing, he gently laid him back down. Looking at his hand, he saw that it was spattered with blood. He wiped it off with a cloth soaked in water and checked Frodo’s temperature and breathing once more. He then motioned for Bilbo to follow him as he went over to the doorway, but did not leave the room. Keeping his voice low so that Sam, who was worriedly holding his master's hand and whispering in his ear, would not hear, he said, "It is a good sign that Frodo has kept down some food. It shows that the poison has not affected his stomach. When he awakens again, he should try to eat a little more; just simple things, like the seedcakes or bread, maybe a bit of fruit if he feels up to it. He also needs to be kept hydrated.

"His temperature has risen a little with his coughing, and his wrist is beginning to feel hotter as well. When he awakens, I will give him some pain reliever and a stronger dose of trillus herbs. That should bring the fever down and ease his breathing, and at the moment, those are my chief concerns."

Looking across the room at his young patient one last time, the doctor left to prepare the herbs. Bilbo turned back and resumed his place at Frodo’s bedside. Sam climbed up on the bed beside his master, careful not to jar him too much. Stroking Frodo’s burning hand, Bilbo looked closely at the wounds. They had both closed up again, and he could see the fine white line where the doctor had opened them, right down the middle of each. They were still an angry red color, an astonishing contrast to the grey-white skin around them.

Bilbo sighed sadly and gently kissed Frodo’s hand, hoping that his nephew would awaken soon. It frightened him to see Frodo so still and pale. He looked at Sam, who was quietly telling Frodo a story, not caring that his master was asleep and unable to hear him. Bilbo guessed (correctly) that it was about the Elves, and smiled slightly in spite of himself. He remembered the day, several years ago, when Sam had first shown an interest in Elves, and how Frodo had become such a patient teacher to him. Sam eagerly drank in everything that he learned, relishing in the exciting tales of Beren and Lúthien, Eärendil, Beleg Cúthalion, and countless others whose stories he and Frodo would sometimes act out for fun. Once, when Frodo had defended him from Ted Sandyman (and gotten several bruises and a split lip for it), Sam had made it into a heroic tale, which he told to boost Frodo’s spirits as Bilbo had tended to him. Frodo had laughed, hearing Sam’s horrifically exaggerated story, and in turn, told one about Sam once saving a young bird’s life after it fell out of its nest.

Now, Sam was telling Frodo the story of Celebrían, wife of Elrond, and how she was way-laid by orcs while traveling through the mountains, and received a poisonous wound. This tale Elrohir, Elrond’s son, had told to Bilbo, who had told it to Frodo, who in turn had told it to Sam.

Just as Sam got to the part where Elrond’s sons had found their mother, Frodo’s eyes fluttered open. They were still too bright with fever, but looking at Sam, he smiled slightly. "What story are you telling, Sam?" he asked hoarsely.

Sam blushed and mumbled, "The one ’bout Lord Elrond’s wife, Mr. Frodo."

Bilbo scooted the chair closer and gently brushed back the dark, sweat dampened curls from Frodo’s forehead. "How do you feel, my dear boy?"

Frodo closed his eyes, and his smile faded as he hesitated for a moment, unsure of how truthful he should be. He saw the lines of worry on Bilbo’s face, and the dark circles around Sam’s eyes, and he was loth to add any further concern.

But sensing Frodo’s uncertainty, Bilbo gave his hand a little squeeze and added earnestly, “Please tell me the truth, Frodo-lad. It will help Dr. Bolger get you well again sooner, and Sam and I will only fret more if you’re feeling so poorly that you try not to tell us.”

Frodo’s smile returned, slightly, and he sighed, giving in. "My head doesn’t hurt so much," he said softly. "But my chest and my wrist feel like fire again."

Bilbo frowned for a moment, but then quickly attempted to sound cheerful as he replied, "Well, don’t worry, Frodo. The doctor is getting some pain reliever ready now, as well as some herbs that will help your cough."

Frodo opened his eyes again and his smile broadened. "Hopefully they won’t taste too bad," he said with a small cough. Bilbo chuckled and Frodo turned back to Sam. "Why don’t you continue the story?" he asked. "I heard a little bit of it. You were at the part where Celebrían is found by Elrohir and Elladan, weren’t you?"

Sam flushed again and after hesitating a moment, resumed his story.

Merry slept soundly in Daisy’s room for a little over two hours, and when he awoke, he felt very refreshed and rather hungry. He had eaten little since their arrival at the Broadbelts’, and his stomach loudly announced it. He quietly climbed out of bed so as not to disturb Daisy, who was still peacefully asleep, a smile on her rosy lips. He tiptoed to the door and silently went out. For a moment, he simply stood in the doorway, unsure of exactly where he planned to go. His heart wished to go tend to his ill cousin, but his stomach wished he would tend to it. In the end, his stomach won the battle, and he went into the kitchen.

There, he found Mrs. Broadbelt sipping some tea, staring into space, her blue eyes without their usual lively sparkle. Her pretty, round face was slightly pale with fatigue, and her chestnut curls were carelessly tied in a loose ponytail. Hearing him enter, she jerked out of her thoughts and greeted him with a faint, but warm smile. "Good morning, Merry," she said. "Come, sit down. Would you like some tea?"

Merry nodded. "Tea sounds wonderful, ma’am," he said politely. "But I’ll get it myself."

Lila’s smile grew, and her eyes expressed gratitude. Merry poured himself a small cup of tea and set it on the table before his chair, but did not sit down. "Would you mind if I got myself a bit of food? Just maybe an apple and a slice of bread and butter."

Lila nodded. "Of course, dear," she said. "Help yourself. I’m sorry, I should have offered you something sooner. You must be famished."

Merry made himself two slices of bread and butter, and also took an apple—under normal circumstances, not even remotely enough to satisfy his seemingly endless hunger, but his tenacious appetite had vanished almost completely since Frodo’s illness. He put the food onto a plate and sat down across from Lila. For a few moments, he ate and drank in silence, thinking about Frodo’s illness and wishing he could help somehow. Lila, as though sensing his thoughts, reached across the table and patted his hand. "I know you’re worried about your cousin," she said gently. "I am, too. We all are. But don’t worry, Dr. Bolger is the best doctor in the Four Farthings. If anyone can make Frodo well, it's him. But," she added with a fond smile, "I’ll wager your thoughts aren’t about Dr. Bolger’s healing abilities at the moment."

Merry looked up, beginning to protest, but with a soft laugh she stopped him. "I didn’t mean it that way," she said. "I know that you do not doubt that your cousin is in good hands. I meant that you're wishin' that you could help in some way."

"You must have read my mind," said Merry, eyes wide.

Lila laughed again. "No, but I simply know how you must feel. I am not saying that you have not been a help—believe me, you've been a great help indeed, but I know that you must not feel that it is enough. You wish to help your cousin directly, or at least be with him and comfort him as Samwise and Bilbo are doing now." Merry’s jaw dropped at her extremely accurate guesses. "I had a similar experience when I was a tween," Lila explained, and a faraway look came into her eyes as she relived the memory.

**

Twenty-three year old Lila Forthright timidly peeked around the doorway of her older brother, Loridor’s room, where her mother, father, older sister, Laurel, and another hobbit lady, a stranger, were gathered around his bed. Laurel was gently bathing her brother’s face with a damp cloth, while the adults talked. The stranger was Dr. Bramblerose Proudfoot, a cousin of Dr. Bolger. Her sandy colored hair was tied up in a bun, and her face was red- cheeked and kind looking.

Curiously, Lila stepped inside and approached the adults. They did not notice her, so earnest was their discussion, and while she waited, Lila looked at her brother. The normally cheerful, smiling lad, just come of age, was now pale and sweat-soaked, and his sparkling sea-grey eyes were shut tight as though he was in great pain. At a second glance, Lila saw with alarm that tears were rolling down his cheeks. Tears! Lori never cried! He often comforted her, when she cried, but never in her life had she seen him shed a tear. Now even more frightened, she placed her hand on her mother’s shoulder to let her know of her presence.

The adults stopped talking as they noticed her for the first time. Their faces were lined with worry, and her mother’s eyes shone with tears. Swallowing her rising panic, Lila softly asked, "What is wrong with Lori?" Her voice trembled, and she had to blink rapidly to keep her tears back.

For a long moment, there was silence, and then Mrs. Forthright answered, her own voice soft and trembling as well. "Lila dear, your brother is very ill. He has…pneumonia."

As the words sunk in, Lila stumbled back, choking a cry, and raced to her brother’s bedside. Laurel looked up at her, her pretty face streaked with tears, and she hugged her younger sister tightly. "Why?" Lila whispered, wrapping her arms around Laurel and burying her face in her sister’s dress. "Why Lori?"

Laurel gently kissed the top of Lila’s head. "I don’t know, Lila," she said softly. "I don’t know."

For four days, Loridor battled the illness, burning with fever, his breathing rasping and uneven, and coughs wracking his rapidly thinning frame. Lila stood by, watching in agony as her brother struggled to hold on to life. She could tell by the sadness on Dr. Proudfoot’s face that she had given up hope. Still, the doctor tirelessly stayed by her patient’s side, making him as comfortable as possible and tending to his every need. Laurel also helped a great deal (for she had a gift for healing), as well as Mr. and Mrs. Forthright, but Lila felt useless. On the fifth day, she timidly watched from the doorway of her brother’s room as Dr. Proudfoot gently bathed Loridor’s face with a damp cloth. Her parents and elder sister had retired, exhausted, several hours ago.

Watching as her dear brother cried out in pain and gasped for breath, tears ran down Lila’s cheeks. Her brother began coughing violently, and when the fit finally passed, he was moaning and sweat poured down his face. Lila broke down and began to sob, sinking down against the round doorframe and drawing her knees up under her chin. Her face buried in her arms, she did not notice someone come quietly up to her until they laid a hand on her shoulder. "Lila," a gentle voice said. "What is it?"

Looking up, Lila could see the kindly face of Dr. Proudfoot bending over her. She sniffled, trying desperately to control her sobs as she answered, "My poor…dear Lori…is so ill…I feel so…useless…I…I wish…I could help him." Gently helping the weeping girl to her feet, Dr. Proudfoot kindly stroked Lila’s chestnut curls and let her cry until she could cry no more.

When the sobs had diminished to occasional sniffles, Dr. Proudfoot led Lila over to her brother’s bedside. "You would like to help, dear?" she asked kindly. "Of course you may. Forgive me if I have not noticed your distress before."

Lila wiped her eyes with her sleeve. "No, I'm sorry," she said softly. "I was being selfish."

With a fond pat of the girl's hand, Dr. Proudfoot handed her a jar of herbs. "Nonsense," she said. "You wish to help, and I am in need of all the help I can get. Would you please stir these herbs into that cup of water until they’re dissolved?"

For the rest of that day, Lila became Dr. Proudfoot’s assistant, bathing her brother’s face with the water-soaked cloth, or preparing herbs or helping Loridor to drink them. The rest of the family helped occasionally, but they realized that Lila had felt useless, and allowed her to take over most of the work that Dr. Proudfoot directed.

That evening, it seemed as though they would lose Loridor, and Lila felt as though this was her last chance to be with her brother. Stroking his pale, burning hand, she let her tears fall upon it, as she whispered, "Please don't leave us, Lori. What would I do without you? You must get well, Lori, you must…" She sorrowfully kissed his hand and bowed her head, letting it rest upon the bed. Without intending to, she fell into an exhausted sleep.

She awoke suddenly to find someone gently stroking her hair. Looking up in surprise, she saw with delighted disbelief that it was Lori! He was pale, thin and weary looking, but his sea-grey eyes held their familiar sparkle once more. "So you finally woke up, sleepyhead?" he said softly, in a voice only slightly hoarse. "’Tis about time."

"Lori!" Lila cried, wrapping her arms around his neck and kissing his cheek. "My brother! You're well!" She wept for joy, and her cries roused the rest of the house, who rushed in and also began to weep with happiness. And so, Loridor survived, and slowly returned to his former health.

**

"Lori married Miss Bramblerose Proudfoot the next year, and they have two beautiful daughters: Lilac and Trilly (short for Trillium)," Lila ended her story, sighing at the memory.

"Do you think I should do that?" Merry asked, almost timidly.

Lila turned to him questioningly. "Do I think you should do what?"

Merry looked down and absently traced the outline of his empty plate. "Do you think I should go ask Dr. Bolger if I can help."

Lila smiled and fondly patted his hand. "It’s up to you, dear, but I think that it couldn’t hurt."

Merry got up and put his plate in the sink. "All right," he said. "I think it would be the best thing to do. Thank you for your help, Mrs. Broadbelt." The hobbit lady winked at him and smiled, and with a returning grin, Merry left the kitchen and headed toward the guestroom.

Opening the door, he found Sam, sitting on the bed, finishing the tale of Celebrían, Bilbo sitting at the bedside, holding Frodo’s hand, and Frodo drinking some water with pain reliever in it (which must’ve tasted awful, judging by his grimaces). Dr. Bolger had left the room to prepare the trillus herbs. Coming up to the bedside almost shyly, Merry sat down on Sam’s normal stool and listened as Sam ended the story.

"And so the Lady Celebrían sailed over the sea, where no-one but the Elves can go, never to return. There she found her healing, and she now waits for her husband and children to come over the sea, into the West, to join her."

Frodo smiled as the tale ended, but his contentedness faded as he looked down into his cup and saw that he still had half of it to drink. "Oh no," he muttered under his breath. "I can’t take much more of this wretched medicine." He looked up again and saw Merry for the first time. "Hullo, Merry," he said as he took a sip of the liquid. "Where – ugh – where have you been?"

Merry laughed at Frodo’s grimace, for a moment forgetting that his cousin was so ill. "Doesn’t taste good, does it, Frodo?" he asked teasingly.

Frodo shook his head as he bravely took another sip. "No," he replied. "It is my personal belief that doctors take some perverse delight in making their medicines taste as revolting as possible."

The others laughed at this statement, and secretly, each one of them agreed whole-heartedly. "Well of course you know that Dr. Bolger would never do you harm," Bilbo pointed out. "He’s the kindest doctor I’ve met. Surely you’d rather have him then…" he paused dramatically. "Dr. Bracegirdle?"

Frodo’s eyes widened and he choked slightly on his drink. "Dr. Bracegirdle?" Merry asked. "Who’s Dr. Bracegirdle?"

Sam shuddered. "You don’t want 'ta know."

Seeing that this answer had not satisfied Merry’s curiosity, Frodo took pity on him. "Lorinda Bracegirdle," he said reluctantly. "She’s…Lobelia’s sister."

Merry gasped and began laughing at the genuine horror on Frodo’s face. "Ah," he teased. "This explains why you are always so reluctant to have a doctor fetched even when you need one! To think… Lobelia’s sister, a doctor? Why don’t you just send for Dr. Bolger, or Dr. Hornblower from Buckland?"

Frodo was drinking some more of the abominable liquid and could not answer at the moment, so Bilbo did. "Dr. Hornblower lives too far away, and although Dr. Bolger is not a very great distance from Hobbiton, Dr. Bracegirdle is more convenient – she lives only two miles away. But," he added with a sympathetic glance at Frodo, "I’ve stopped calling for her recently. For simple illnesses or injuries, I’ve found that the Gamgees are as good as any doctor; perhaps even better."

Frodo, Merry and Bilbo all looked at Sam, who was blushing furiously and refused to meet their eyes, much to their amusement. "We ain’t no real doctors, Mr. Bilbo, sir," he mumbled. "Me Gaffer and me mum just know a lot ’bout herbs and such, and me mum can make some medicines from some of ’em."

The other three chuckled at his modesty, and Frodo patted his hand. "Nonsense, Sam," he said, his eyes sparkling in amusement for the first time since he had been bitten. "Don’t you remember that time I broke my arm falling out of a tree, and you set it and made a sling for it? Dr. Bracegirdle" – he shuddered at the name – "Even said that she couldn’t have done a finer job of it herself."

Sam’s face grew, if possible, even more red, and he muttered, "Mr. Frodo, please…"

Frodo took pity on him and changed the subject. "Speaking of doctors," he said, taking the last sip of the pain reliever, "I wonder when Dr. Bolger is coming back?"

Right on cue, Dr. Bolger opened the door with a mug of tea in his hand. "Good morning, Master Frodo," he said, smiling. "I trust that you are feeling better?"

Frodo nodded. "Yes, thank you. My wrist is numb again, and my head feels much better."

 Dr. Bolger noticed that he failed to mention how his chest felt, but he ignored it for the present. "Glad to hear it," he said, placing the mug on the bedside table and checking Frodo’s breathing, pulse and temperature. "The fever has gone down a bit," he commented. "I may not need to give you these herbs just yet." Frodo gave a sigh of relief. It was barely audible, but Dr. Bolger heard it and chuckled. "A bit relieved, eh?"

Frodo decided to be honest. "Well, yes," he admitted. "That pain reliever tasted awful, and judging by the fact that you mixed those other herbs in tea, instead of water, they must be much worse."

Dr. Bolger laughed. "It does taste rather bitter, doesn’t it? Since you are so near the mark, I’ll tell you honestly: the other herbs I’ve prepared are indeed worse."

Frodo grimaced. "But why did the pain reliever taste so bad?" Sam asked. "You gave ’im some earlier, and he didn’t even taste ’em."

Dr. Bolger fondly ruffled the young hobbit’s curly hair. "Trust you to ask about that," he chuckled. Sam grinned. "Well, the reason the pain reliever tasted so…unpleasant," Dr. Bolger continued. "Is because I’ve given you a slightly stronger dose of it this time."

He watched Frodo rather nervously, unsure of what his reaction would be. But he need not have feared, for Frodo simply said, "Oh," and changed the subject. He had suspected that it had been a more potent dose, but this did not worry him much. Of course, he knew that it meant that he was getting worse, and also that there was a risk of side effects, but he trusted Dr. Bolger completely. ‘Whatever he does must be for the best,’ he thought. ‘He would not do anything to harm me.’

TBC...