9. A Turn for the Worse

Dr. Bolger looked up sharply as he heard Frodo cover a sneeze with his hand. "Frodo, lad," he said softly, not wishing to wake little Mosco. "Are you feeling all right?"

Frodo looked up from where he was preparing some tea with cowslip flowers to help Mosco’s coughing. "I’m fine," he assured the doctor with a smile. He saw clearly that Dr. Bolger did not believe him, and shook his head, returning to his work. "Honestly," he added. "I’m perfectly fine. I can’t be getting croup; I’m too old." He brought a cupful of the tea over and handed it to Dr. Bolger.

"Hmmm." Dr. Bolger doubtfully looked Frodo up and down, grey eyes bright beneath his dark brows. Frodo gave him a reassuring smile, and returned to where he had begun to prepare a linseed poultice to further ease Mosco’s injured ribs.

Dr. Bolger returned to examining his young patient. Mosco had not woken since Peony left, nearly two hours earlier, but his sleep had been troubled. He whimpered and often curled up in a feeble attempt to stop the coughing fits that plagued him, even in slumber.

Thoughtfully stroking the child’s sweat-soaked auburn curls, Dr. Bolger mentally ran over a list of things he could do for Mosco. He felt confident that the boy would recover completely, despite being at one of the most vulnerable ages for croup (as hobbits were smaller, the age range for croup was anywhere from a few months to about twelve years, although it was not unheard of for one so old as a tweenager to contract a mild case of the illness).

First thing to do would be a bath, Dr. Bolger decided, glancing at Mosco's night-shift which was damp with perspiration. A warm, soothing bath would not only comfort him, but ease the pain in his cracked ribs and help with the coughing, as well. With a few peppermint leaves added into the water, it should also bring down his fever, which, although still not terribly high, was adding to his distress.

A soft groan from his patient startled him out of his thoughts, and he looked down to see Mosco beginning to shift beneath the blankets. "Shh…it’s all right, lad," Dr. Bolger whispered. "You’re safe."

Mosco’s brow furrowed, and he gave a soft cry as he accidentally rolled on his cracked ribs. Beneath Dr. Bolger’s gentle hands, which stroked his hair comfortingly, he eventually lay still and drifted back to a fitful sleep.

Just as Mosco began to quiet, Milo entered the room, a cupful of the toast-water he’d been making in his hand. "How is he?" he asked quickly, coming over and setting the cup down on the nightstand.

"The cherry bark did not help his cough much," said Dr. Bolger, skillfully keeping the worry out of his voice. "I’ll give him a dose of cowslip – it’s stronger, and it will help to clear his lungs. Coughing up the fluids will be painful, but it must be done, if he is to get well." He patted Milo’s shoulder reassuringly. "Let’s get him into a bath. We can give him the tea and toast-water while he’s there, and it will be easier to keep him in a semi-upright position without hurting his ribs." He looked up. "Frodo, lad, are you done with that poultice yet?"

Frodo turned from his work and nodded. "Yes sir," he said, bringing it over. "Did you say you were going to get Mosco into a bath?"

Dr. Bolger nodded. "Aye," he said, setting the poultice beside the toast-water and cowslip tea on the nightstand. "Would you be so kind as to draw one for me? It should be warm – the moist air will help clear his lungs."

"Of course." Frodo returned the nod and quickly left the room.

Once the bath was drawn and ready, Milo carried little Mosco into the washroom, while Dr. Bolger sorted through his many bottles of herbs to find the correct one. As Milo began to lower Mosco into the warm water, the boy stiffened and clung to his father with all his might.

"Easy, lad," Milo soothed, stroking Mosco’s back. "’Tis just a bath…It will make you feel better." Frodo helped him pry Mosco’s surprisingly strong little fingers from around his neck, and together, they gently lowered him into the tub.

Mosco whimpered at first and held onto Milo and Frodo’s hands, one in each of his, so tightly that his knuckles turned white. But as the pleasant smell of peppermint mingled with lavender and other herbs drifted through the air, the boy relaxed, and with a sigh, sank comfortably into the water.

"Let’s see if we can wake him up so that he can take the tea," said Dr. Bolger as he came over and dropped a few dried herb leaves into the water, sending another sweet and comforting scent to mingle with the others.

As it happened, they did not need to wake Mosco at all. For hardly had the words left the doctor’s lips when the boy slowly opened his eyes. He blinked a few times to focus, and looked around at the faces surrounding him in obvious confusion.

"Hullo, Mosco-lad," said Milo gently, stroking his son’s cheek. "I’m glad to see you awake. Do you think you can drink some tea for us?"

Mosco turned his silver-grey eyes to his father with an unreadable expression on his small face. Then he gave the ghost of a smile, and nodded slightly. "My…ribs hurt," he whispered as he shifted a little in the water and grimaced as the pain went shooting up his side.

"I know, my boy, but the doctor will make you feel better soon. Just relax."

Mosco looked at his father for a moment more, an expression of mingled fear and contentment. He was still confused as to why his cousin Frodo was here, what he was doing in a bath, and where his mother was, but the offer to relax was tempting. The warm water felt good on his sore ribs, and the moist air coming up from it eased the tightness in his chest a little.

Eventually, Mosco sighed and closed his eyes again, resigning himself to the others’ care. He felt a hand, which he knew to be his father’s, stroking his cheek comfortingly, and he leaned into it. The gentle touch soothed him more than the bath, and he nearly drifted off to sleep again.

But he was brought back to the present when the doctor returned, and a cup of strange-smelling tea was placed at his lips. "Mosco-lad," said Dr. Bolger quietly, "do you think you could wake up to drink this for me?"

Mosco reluctantly opened his eyes, and obediently opened his mouth for the tea to be poured in. He felt hands, taking him gently under the arms and propping him up further, and easing him back to lean his head against the chest of whoever was behind him.

"What does it taste like, Mosco?" asked a soft voice from above him. He recognized it at once to be Frodo’s, and tilted his head up to look at his cousin. A smile was on Frodo’s face, and Mosco smiled wanly back. He had not seen his older cousin for months; although at the moment he was not in the mood for visiting. But he was grateful for the familiar presence, and lowered his head again, taking another sip of the tea.

"It tastes…" He held the liquid in his mouth for a moment. "It tastes like…cherries." He ended his sentence with a puzzled glance at the doctor.

Dr. Bolger smiled and gave him another sip. "I sweetened it a bit for you," he said. "Cowslip flowers by themselves do not taste appetizing in the least."

Mosco felt Frodo give a small laugh. "Why didn’t you sweeten my medicine all those years ago, after that Fire Snake bite?" he asked, his jest making Mosco feel a little better, as though it were just an ordinary visit from his cousin.

Dr. Bolger shrugged and wiped a bit of tea from Mosco’s chin. "There really isn’t any good way to sweeten trillus, or bruinis, I’m afraid. They’re better just used for poultices."

"And besides," Milo put in, stroking Mosco’s curls, "I should think you’re old enough to take medicine without it being sweetened for you. You are of-age now." He shot Frodo a playful glance, which was a little more than halfhearted.

Frodo raised his eyebrows with a look of innocence. "I was only a tween then," he protested. "And besides that, I seem to remember your tea being sweetened when you had a chill not three years ago!"

"That’s none of your business, young hobbit," mumbled Milo with a gruffness that even Mosco in his ill state could see through.

A sudden cough from Mosco interrupted their playful attempt to lighten the despondency that had fallen upon them. All eyes turned to the young boy in the tub, and he curled up tightly, pressing his knees to his chest in an attempt to ease the pain the wracking coughs brought.

Three pairs of hands comforted him, three voices murmuring soothing words that he could not catch, and at last, the fit passed, and Mosco slumped back against the tub with a breathless sob. With the coughing, fiery pain had erupted again in his chest, and his cracked ribs felt as though they were being broken apart with each gasping breath.

"Let’s dry him off and get him dressed – perhaps a bit of cool air will do better."

Mosco vaguely heard Dr. Bolger’s voice, and felt himself being lifted out of the water and wrapped in soft, warm towels. But he could not contain the cries of pain that burst out as his ribs were accidentally jarred. He heard a murmured apology, and felt whoever carrying him sit down, on a bed it seemed. He kept his eyes firmly shut as someone else dried his hair with another towel.

A finger gently rubbed the bridge of his nose, and then the rest of the hand rested on his cheek. He recognized it as belonging to his father – the long fingers, artistic and made for carving, slightly roughened with the hard work. His father softly hummed an old song that his mother had always sang to him at night, to help him fall asleep.

"…Mama?…" he whispered.

"Shh…Mama can’t be here right now…but papa’s here. I’m with you, Mosco dear."

Mosco whimpered and felt hot tears sliding down his cheeks. As it had before, a fog seemed to have settled over his mind, and he again felt confused and disoriented. He wanted his mother, he wanted the pain in his ribs to stop, he wanted his cough to go away…he wanted to sleep and forget his illness for a while.

The fingers drying his hair continued, and as Mosco began to concentrate on it, he found it quite comforting. He leaned back into it slightly, and the hands stopped for a moment. The towel was removed, and the fingers again returned to working through his damp curls. They gently massaged in small circles, easing his tension and working out the remaining water at the same time.

After several minutes, the hands stopped and pulled away, and then came to rest on both his cheeks. He recognized them now as Frodo’s: long and slender like his father’s, but different somehow. He felt a small callus, caused by much writing and holding a pen, on the side of Frodo’s middle finger. For some reason, the small little imperfection intrigued him, and he concentrated on it as the fingers rested on his cheeks.

"Is he asleep?" Frodo’s voice was soft. Mosco felt his father’s hand, which had slid down to rest on his chest, as though feeling his heartbeat, move slightly as Milo shook his head.

"I don’t think so. But it would be better for him if he would sleep – Dr. Bolger is about to bandage his ribs, and that will most likely be painful."

A pause, and one of Frodo’s fingers tapped slightly against Mosco’s cheek. "How can I help?"

There was a sigh from Milo. "I’ll be holding him, but I think Dr. Bolger will need help. He’s soaking the bandages in some sort of herb to help the pain."

"I’ll go speak with him." Mosco felt Frodo rise, and his hands began to pull away from his face. But the fingertips lingered a moment, as though he was reluctant to leave. They lightly stroked his cheek one last time, and then he heard Frodo’s soft retreating footsteps.

Milo’s hands moved up to stroke the auburn curls, and hugged Mosco close to him. The ill boy could feel his father’s breath hitch as Milo held back tears, and felt one hot drop fall upon his nose. He longed to reach up and comfort his father, but the very thought of moving was exhausting. With an effort, he managed to bring one hand up and grab his father’s, stroking his hair. He squeezed it as tightly as he was able, and his father squeezed it back.

Mosco felt himself being lulled into sleep again, feeling his father’s gentle fingers in his hair, whispered words of a lullaby. He forgot about the pain that the imminent bandaging of his ribs would surely bring, and the tightness in his throat that kept him from breathing properly. All he wanted was sleep, and he felt his wish coming true as he drifted back into peaceful slumber.

Mosco was abruptly awakened by a searing pain in his ribs, and it took him a moment to realize that a warm, damp bandage was being tightly bound around his ribs. His own cry of pain surprised and frightened him, and he opened his eyes to see the face of his father over him.

"Papa…" he gasped, as another strip was bound tightly around his chest. "Papa! Hurts…" He choked back another anguished cry and clenched his teeth.

He felt Frodo’s hand on his shoulder, and his cousin whispering, "Almost done, Mosco. Hold on, the doctor’s nearly finished."

Milo’s arms around him tightened reassuringly, but Mosco could not keep back the shrill yelp as another layer was added to the bindings around his ribs. Tears ran down his cheeks and his breath hitched as the last strip of bandage was wound around his chest and securely knotted. The gentle hand of the doctor gently patted his chest.

"I’m sorry to cause you pain, dear lad," he said softly. "But I had to bind your ribs. You can rest now, or finish the rest of your tea, if you like."

Mosco managed to mumble, "Rest," as he shut his eyes and tried to return to peaceful sleep. But suddenly he felt a cough building in his throat, and his eyes flew open. He desperately tried to keep it back, and broke out in a sweat with the effort. He heard voices above him, but he could not hear what they were saying. His only thought was to keep from coughing and causing himself more pain.

Dr. Bolger, Milo and Frodo watched helplessly as Mosco fought to keep back the coughs that threatened to burst from his throat. "Let it out, lad," Dr. Bolger soothed. "Let the coughing run its course – I know it hurts now, but it will make you better."

They watched Mosco’s body stiffen in one final struggle, and then his small shoulders were shaking with the violence of the coughing fit that seized him. Milo supported him as best he could, and the other two tried to give comfort as the boy’s body shuddered with the wracking coughs.

The fit continued for more than a minute, and Milo and Frodo were beginning to worry. Tears ran steadily down Mosco’s face as he struggled with the coughing fit that held him tightly in its grip. Dr. Bolger watched him closely, stroking the sweaty forehead and whispering words of comfort.

Suddenly, Mosco began to retch, coughing up the contents of his stomach as well as some of the fluid in his lungs before a basin could be fetched. Milo supported his head as the small boy heaved, and at long last, went limp, completely exhausted.

Mosco was too worn out to even scream, and let out the excruciating pain with small, breathless sobs. He could not even think, and could barely breathe. He had not thought anyone could be in so much pain, and wished again that he could sleep and escape it, if only for a little while.

He felt cold water being poured into his mouth, and a cool basin being placed beneath his chin. "Here, rinse out your mouth, Mosco-lad," Milo urged gently. Mosco spit out the water; the bitter taste of bile still lingered in his mouth, but he was too exhausted to rinse it again. There was a towel, wiping the corners of his mouth and chin, and he felt himself being laid back down on the soft bed.

"I think we should take him outside," Dr. Bolger was saying, though Mosco barely heard it. "The cool air will do him good – it will help his breathing greatly, and won’t take more than a few minutes."

"Very well," Milo agreed. "Poor lad. Couldn’t you give him something to help his throat? It must be paining him terribly."

"Yes, I’ll go get that while you get him dressed warmly. Its important that he doesn’t get too cold out there."

Mosco heard Dr. Bolger depart, and someone else get up from the floor and walk past Milo as he stood, leaving Mosco in the bed. "Thank you for cleaning that up, Frodo."

"No trouble," Frodo replied, evidently from somewhere at the other end of the room. "The poor lad must be feeling dreadful. But I’m sure it helped to clear his lungs a little, and the cold air will help some more."

Mosco heard his father doing something on the other side of the room and groaned slightly. He did feel better after having expelled some of the fluid in his lungs, but his throat was now burning and just as tight as before – perhaps even moreso. He remained limp as he was dressed more warmly, only whimpering a little when his sore ribs were moved.

Once he was snugly dressed, he felt himself being lifted again, and carried out into the chill night air.

***

"Found you, Mer!"

Merry smiled and looked up at the sound of Daisy’s triumphant voice. The eight-year-old leaned over the back of the sofa that he had hidden behind, a dimple-cheeked grin lighting up her bright little face.

"You found me," Merry groaned in feigned disappointment. "I just can’t hide from you, no matter how hard I try." Daisy giggled, and he stood up and walked around the sofa to sit down beside her.

Daisy flopped next to him and peered closely into his face. Her small hand, already delicate and slender, reached out and gently touched the slight frown between Merry’s eyebrows. "What’s wrong, Mer?" she asked, cocking her head slightly to the side and blinking at him curiously.

Merry smiled inwardly at the understanding the girl possessed, even so young. Her gentle green eyes were encouraging, and her fine dark eyebrows were raised in question. Her face, still charmingly round and red-cheeked, had changed since he’d first met her as a two-year-old. Already it showed a glimpse of the beauty she would have when she was older, and though she was still a child, she could move with an elegant grace at times, like a small duplicate of her mother.

But she was the same sweet ‘younger sister’ he’d known for the past five years, and that is how Merry saw her. He knew that he could always tell her anything, even if she did not understand it completely, and she would always bring him comfort.

"I’m just worried about my cousins," he admitted after a moment, looking down at his hands, fidgeting with the buttons of his waistcoat. "Poor little Mosco’s so sick, and I don’t know when Frodo will come home…" He trailed off with a sigh, and Daisy looked thoughtfully at him.

"You worry too much," she said softly, slipping her small hand into his. "Dr. Bolger is a good doctor. He’ll make Mosco all better soon." Seeing that her answer did not satisfy him, she pressed a small kiss on his cheek and slid off the couch, keeping his hand in her own. "Come on, Mer," she said, deciding to try to keep his mind off worrying for a while. "We still haven’t found Pip and Dickon yet."

Merry smiled and allowed the girl to pull him down the hall, grateful for her cheerful spirit to distract himself from the worries that pounced on him at every opportunity. As they walked, they suddenly caught sight of a familiar head of mahogany-brown curls disappearing around the corner.

"Dickon!" Daisy cried, letting go of Merry’s hand to pursue her brother. "We found you! Come back here!"

Merry stood in the hall, chuckling as he listened to the sounds of the chase. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a slight movement, and the next instant, Pippin’s head appeared around the doorway of the study, looking warily in his direction. Apparently thinking Merry had not seen him, Pippin attempted to make a dash for the doorway across the hall.

With carefully timed skill, Merry spun around and tackled his younger cousin before Pippin had taken three steps. "And where did you think you were going, Master Took?" he asked playfully as he held Pippin down and tickled him.

"No--nowhere!" Pippin panted in between laughs, trying to wriggle away from Merry’s nimble fingers.

"That’s right," Merry returned, keeping his young cousin firmly in place and continuing to tickle his ribs, the place he knew well as Pippin’s most sensitive spot. A sudden shout interrupted their tussle, and they looked up to see a determined-looking Daisy dragging her wriggling and protesting younger brother by the shirt collar towards them.

"Caught him," she said triumphantly, giving her brother a small shake before letting him drop to the floor.

"No one gets past Daisy, Queen of hide-and-seek!" said Merry with a laugh, allowing Pippin to pick himself up. "What shall we do now, O Queen?"

Daisy was silent a moment in thought, curling a dark strand of her hair around one finger. "I think we should –"

Pippin interrupted her. "Permission, O wise and generous Queen, to go eat something before I waste away where I stand?"

The others laughed, and Daisy, when she had recovered her composure, nodded regally. "Very well, Sir Pippin," she said. "Let’s all go get something to eat. My royal belly is empty!"

Everyone agreed, and they all made their way into the kitchen, where they found Peony, sitting at the table, rocking Moro in her arms. The baby looked as though he were about to begin to fuss; his round little face was beginning to turn red, and his small rosebud mouth was puckering.

"Did we wake him up?" asked Merry remorsefully, lowering his voice.

Peony looked up and smiled, shaking her head. "No," she said, blowing a stray chestnut curl from her eyes. "He’s been awake for quite a while now – but he’s starting to get fussy."

Dickon climbed up onto a chair beside Peony and peered over her shoulder at the small infant. "Is he hungry, Aunt Peony?" he asked curiously. Peony and Milo had become so close to their parents that the Broadbelt children had taken to calling them ‘Aunt’ and ‘Uncle,’ much to their delight.

"He just ate," said Peony as she reached up with her free hand and fondly ruffled the young boy’s curls. "It’s nearly time for another nap, though. Isn’t it, Moro-love?" She looked lovingly down at the small baby in her arms and stroked his rosy cheek. Moro gurgled and his sour expression softened a little.

"May I hold him, Aunt Peony?" Daisy asked, sitting down beside her. "I promise I’ll be very, very careful."

Peony smiled at the girl and carefully placed the infant in her gentle arms. Daisy made sure Moro was comfortable, and stroked the soft fair curls and kissed the small forehead. "See Moro?" she said softly. "There’s nothing to cry about."

Merry, Pippin and Dickon watched a bit uncomfortably, unsure of what to do. They did not enjoy being forced to wait for their food because of "girlish sentimentality," as Merry had put it once, but none of them wished to interrupt what was obviously a very tender moment.

In the end, it was little Moro himself who abruptly disrupted the scene. He wrinkled his small round nose, pursed his lips, and suddenly began to wail. Daisy jumped at the sudden change in his attitude, and Peony quickly took him back. "Don’t worry, Daisy-lass," she assured the girl over Moro’s squalls. "It wasn’t anything you did. He just needs a nap."

Daisy nodded, her green eyes still wide as she got up and joined the boys who were waiting in the doorway. They had expressions of mingled amusement and surprise, and as she walked with them to the pantry, Pippin snickered.

"Perhaps you’re not the mothering-type?" he suggested impishly as the sounds of Moro’s wails followed them out of the room.

"Peregrin Took!" Daisy shrieked, and pounced on him before he could react. Soon, the two of them were wrestling playfully on the floor of the pantry, while Merry and Dickon stepped back and watched.

"Should we join in?" asked Dickon, looking up at Merry with a rather mischievous glitter in his hazel eyes.

Merry ruffled his hair and chuckled as Pippin yelped, "Mercy! Mercy, I say! This isn’t fair…Merry!"

"No," he said thoughtfully, grinning at Pippin’s feeble protests. "Let’s just see how it turns out."

Dickon nodded and they leaned back against the wall to watch. The two wrestling children were just a blur of color; Merry and Dickon could catch brief glimpses of Pippin’s sandy hair, the bright blue ribbon tied in Daisy’s dark curls, or a swirl of her periwinkle colored dress.

Merry and Dickon were just beginning to wager on who would win the tussle, when suddenly Daisy began to cough. Pippin helped her sit up and supported her while the fit lasted, and the other two came and sat down beside her as well.

When she had regained breath, Merry placed a gentle hand on her back. "Daisy?" he said fearfully. "Are you all right?"

Daisy looked up at him and tears were shining in her eyes, now without their usual bright sparkle. "I…don’t feel good, Mer," she whispered, curling up against him and closing her eyes. "My throat hurts, and my chest feels tight when I try to breathe."

Merry felt cold fear wash over him, but he forced himself to stop trembling and regain his composure. "All right, Daisy," he said softly, stroking her curly hair. "I’m sure you’ll be fine. Pip, could you please fetch Mr. and Mrs. Broadbelt?"

Pippin swallowed hard and stood. His face, which had been rosy-cheeked from his earlier tussle, was now pale, and his eyes were wide with fear. "Merry?" he questioned in a whisper.

Merry looked up at him pleadingly. "Please, Pip. Get her parents."

Pippin nodded and hastened from the pantry. Dickon scooted closer to Merry and his sister, and hesitantly touched her shoulder. "Is she going to be all right, Mer?" he asked quietly, his voice trembling.

"I’m sure she will," Merry said, reaching out with his free arm and slipping it around Dickon’s shoulders. He hoped his voice did not shake; he wanted to keep the boy hopeful, although his own fear was growing. A harsh, rasping sound began to accompany every shallow, gasping breath that Daisy drew.

Merry bowed his head, resting his brow against Daisy’s dark ringlets. "Hold on, Daisy."

TBC...