Chapter 3 - Fever

Rethe 27

Berwin woke to the sound of coughing and muffled whimpering. He was out of his sleeping roll and at Frodo’s side in an instant.

Frodo’s face was flushed red with fever, and he was clutching his chest trying to keep from coughing. The pain that shot through his body every time he coughed was nearly unbearable, and tears were stinging his eyes as he tried not to cry out. He felt a cold cloth being pressed to his forehead and opened his eyes to find Berwin kneeling next to him. The man’s eyes were full of concern.

Berwin was worried that Frodo shivered still. It could not be from cold now and must be rooted in an altogether different problem. He pressed his hand to his companion’s cheek and his frown deepened. The slight fever that had begun the night before had risen alarmingly while they slept, and there was little the man could do to help.

“How are you feeling this morning Frodo?” he asked, wondering if Frodo would still claim to be cold.

Frodo fought to steady his breathing and keep from coughing. The task was difficult, as he had developed a tickle in his throat during the night and every breath he took threatened to bring about another fit. “I am sorry. I did not mean to wake you,” he managed at last. His voice was scratchy and weak, and his eyes squeezed shut in misery as he gently cleared his throat to keep another fit at bay.

Berwin smiled ruefully and shook his head in wonder. How could Frodo be thinking of the man’s comfort at a time like this? Surely, Frodo knew his needs were the most urgent to attend to. “I was waking on my own,” Berwin said in response. “Besides, we must get started as early as possible.” He went to his saddlebag and pulled out some meat cakes and a water skin. He handed these to Frodo. The halfling accepted them but did not eat and only drank a mouthful of water. “How are you feeling Frodo? Are you still cold?” he asked again.

“My head does not hurt as much as it was,” Frodo said, then nibbled on a cake. He washed this down with water, and repeated the process a few more times.

“And the rest of you?” the man asked. He waited for nearly a minute while Frodo occupied himself with his food and water. Berwin shifted his weight to his heels and arched his eyebrows at his small charge. “Either you’re feeling better, or you’ve suddenly grown incredibly stubborn about admitting that you are not well. I’m leaning toward the latter.”

Frodo smiled sheepishly. “My cousin Bilbo would agree with that assessment. And Sam would also, though he never bothers to wait for an answer before fussing over me.”

“He’s a wise one not to wait,” Berwin said with a smile, marginally relieved to see a spark in Frodo’s eyes as he talked of his family. He also could not help but be amused at Frodo’s dodging of an obvious answer, though he was ever-mindful about the time. He had meant it when he said he wanted to get started as early as possible. “I suppose I should follow his lead then if I’m to get any answers out of you. Though I’m afraid I do not have much practice with fussing. You might want to spare yourself the experience and answer me directly.”

Frodo sighed. While back home, his cousins would eventually find something else to take their minds off of him, he did not have any hope that Berwin’s attention would be so easily averted. “My feet are like ice. I can never remember a time when they were so cold. My head and chest are burning, and I don’t believe there is any muscle in my body that does not hurt,” he finally divulged.

He took another nibble of his food and washed it down with water. His mouth and throat were so dry, he found eating difficult. He was grateful for the water but was worried about drinking it all, lest there be no more water sources between here and Bree.

“Do you remember anything about the river or the days prior?” Berwin asked suddenly. 

Frodo paused at the question, but knew it would be pointless to try to further evade the man. “A little,” he said. “Bits and pieces. Esmeralda set me up with Melie at the dance. Merry, Pippin and I went to the Rock, then I gave them some rocks. I misplaced something, something important. We went fishing, and there was a mean dog.” Frodo shook his head slowly and carefully. “It’s not very coherent I’m afraid. Perhaps I will remember more before the day is over.”

“Perhaps,” Berwin agreed and regarded Frodo sympathetically. There was not much he could do for the fever, pain and confusion, but he could see that Frodo ate as many provisions as could be spared. As for the cold feet…

Berwin rummaged through his saddlebags. He pulled out two pairs of thick wool socks, bundled into balls. He knelt by Frodo’s feet and noticed the halfling watching him curiously. He unrolled one pair and reached down to slip a sock over one of Frodo’s feet. Instinctively, Frodo pulled his feet away and slipped them deep into the blanket.

“Frodo, you must keep your feet warm if they are cold,” Berwin explained patiently. “Don’t hobbits ever cover their feet?”

“The hobbits in the Marish wear boots for the mud,” Frodo admitted.

“Then you can wear socks for the cold,” Berwin reasoned. He motioned with his hand for Frodo to bring out his feet. Frodo reluctantly complied, knowing the man was correct. Berwin quickly slipped both pairs of socks on, trying not to laugh at how enormous they looked on Frodo’s child-sized feet or at the displeased expression on Frodo’s face. “Give them half a day at least. If your feet are not feeling warmer, I’ll take them off.”

Frodo nodded and tried his best not to brush his feet together in his desire to remove the offending cloth. He did have to admit that his feet were already feeling somewhat warmer. Or perhaps they were feeling suffocated. He frowned down at the strange coverings, wondering if it was possible for feet to suffocate. 

Finally, he forced himself to return to his meal and watched as Berwin quickly packed up the camp. “Are you not eating?” he asked. He had not seen the man eat anything.

“I will eat once we are on our way,” Berwin replied as casually as he could. 

He did not want to alarm his companion, but he was frightened about Frodo’s symptoms. He had a friend once who had taken ill many years ago with many of the same symptoms Frodo now reported. His friend had not survived, even though he had been taken to a healer almost immediately upon coming down with the fever. 

Now more than ever, Berwin wanted to be on the road as soon as possible and he hoped they could move more quickly today. Bree was suddenly too far away for his comfort, and he was afraid another two to three days would prove too long and perilous for the hobbit’s restitution. 

They were on the road just a few short minutes later. Frodo was too feverish to be tightly wrapped in the thick, wool blanket all day, so Berwin replaced it with his raincoat. It was big enough to drape completely over Frodo’s small form, but was lighter in weight and easier for Frodo to move about in. Once Frodo was settled, Berwin checked his mare into a trot, keeping an attentive ear on his charge for sounds of discomfort. 

He kept his word and ate some of his preserved food. This was another problem that bothered him. He had only brought enough provisions for himself to get him to Bree, and that was without the delays that had plagued him thus far. Only a small amount of his provisions now remained. He decided quickly that he would go the next few days with minimal to no food if necessary and only hoped that Frodo’s appetite did not fail him as his illness progressed. 

He stopped at noon and watched closely to see how well Frodo was eating as they talked. Just as with breakfast, he nibbled on his food and took many draughts of water to wash the food down. Though he was eating still, Berwin noticed with concern that Frodo’s appetite was not anywhere near as strong as it had been the previous day. 

Frodo, in the meantime, turned his attention to finding out as much as he could about his companion. He was greatly interested in Dale and the Lonely Mountain, and Berwin told him many things of his homeland during the meal. He explained his position in the King’s court as best he could to one unfamiliar with their system of law. 

“I am one of the King’s advisors, and am responsible for the keeping of things, mostly the peace between the dwarves and the elves during their dealings with the King. I am mostly responsible for delegating to the dwarves, which is why he chose me to come west with a small troupe migrating to the Blue Mountains. It has been many years since we extended our alliance to the western clans and the King feels it is time to renew those bonds.”

“He respects you,” Frodo observed. “You are trustworthy and honorable.”

Berwin smiled ruefully and shrugged. “I try to be,” was all he said in response.

Frodo nodded, understanding more than the man would think possible. “It is not always easy living up to the expectations of others, especially those we admire so much. I would do anything for Bilbo, even stay behind in the Shire to keep Bag End away from the Sackville-Bagginses. I do love the Shire, but I am beginning to regret that I did not go with him. 

“I really have no place in the Shire, no family of my own. Instead, I have a gardener and a handful of nosy cousins who seem intent on keeping me as close to home as they can. I know they mean well, but they simply do not understand my desire for solitude. Out in the open plains and quiet fields, with no one and nothing to distract me, I can almost feel Bilbo’s presence again and it brings me such a sense of peace. But it’s a bittersweet relief, for as soon as I return home, I realize anew how truly alone I am. If only I could get word of where he is.”

Berwin regarded Frodo closely. He seemed to struggle with some inner conflict, but looked away quickly when Frodo lifted his soulful blues eye to gaze intently upon him. He took the tea off the fire and poured some into Frodo’s cup, then his own. He drank deeply, then cleared his throat. “Tell me about this cousin of yours. He sounds like quite the adventurer. It was my understanding that your kind did not stray far from your homelands.”

So Frodo began to tell the man about his lovable, if somewhat eccentric, older cousin. For the first time since awakening yesterday morning, a smile lit his face, true and happy, as he told Berwin about some of their more adventurous hikes and family get-togethers. Before long, Berwin was laughing helplessly at Frodo’s description of the strawberry truffles he made on his thirtieth birthday for Bilbo. “If they were any good at all, it was only because Sam rescued them,” he finished with a wistful smile.

“Your brother sounds like a handy person to have around in a crisis,” Berwin commented as he readied them to continue with their journey. 

He paused and turned in surprised when he heard Frodo’s laughter, but grew dismayed when it quickly turned to a coughing fit. He knelt next to Frodo and poured the last drops of the tea into the cup and held it to Frodo’s lips. Frodo drank cautiously, attempting to slow the coughing with the task of swallowing the warm liquid. When the tea was gone and the fit passed, Frodo caught his breath and strength, then laughed softly once again. “Did I say something amusing?” Berwin asked.

“Sam is not my brother. He is my gardener,” Frodo explained, “and a very handy person indeed to have around in a crisis.”

An hour later, the Barrow Downs peeked over the horizon. Berwin resisted the urge to slow his mare to a gait. Though both the dwarves and rangers had assured him the highway between the haunted mounds was safe to travel both day and night, he did not like the thought of camping between the hills. He measured the distance as best he could and figured they would not reach them until early the next morning.

When he stopped for the evening meal, he had difficulty in waking Frodo. The hobbit did not want to stir and if not for the desire to see him fed, Berwin would have let him sleep. Once Frodo was awake though, he only nibbled again on his food, eating it slowly with many sips of tea and water in between bites. He ate only half the food given to him before claiming to be full.

“How are your feet?” Berwin asked as he dipped a compress in some water and placed it onto Frodo’s forehead.

Frodo wiggled his toes and frowned. “They are warmer than they were before,” he admitted. The man nodded, satisfied, then helped Frodo up so he could find someplace to relieve himself.

Shortly after, they were on the road once more. The man rode long into the night, until the moon was high above in the glittering sky. When he could keep his eyes open no longer, he stopped to sleep but did not set up camp. He pulled out only his sleeping roll and lay down next to Frodo, who was sleeping fitfully. 

Berwin did not want any delays in the morning if they could be avoided. He was desperate to get Frodo to Bree. His loss of appetite would only get worse and the man knew that once Frodo stopped eating, he would not have long to live.

Rethe 28

When Berwin woke in the predawn hours, he could hear Frodo mumbling incoherently on the stretcher next to him. The halfling was struggling in his dreams, thrashing about in the blanket wrapped tightly around him. Berwin carefully slipped the blanket off and tried to wake Frodo so he could eat. Failing that, he attempted to get some water down Frodo’s throat but only managed a few drops.

“The spiders! Bilbo!” Frodo cried in his sleep. Berwin ran his hand through sweat-drenched raven curls and was alarmed at how much warmer the hobbit felt this morning. Frodo’s temperature had risen again and he was not waking, trapped instead in nightmares. Berwin knew it would do no good to wake him; he would not eat. 

The man tried again to get more liquid into Frodo’s system, but as he reached down, bloodshot eyes flew open and Frodo grabbed Berwin’s arm in a steel-tight grip. “I have to find the ring! Gandalf said I was to keep it safe, and now it’s gone. You took it, didn’t you?”

Berwin sat, shocked at the outburst and Frodo’s sudden strength. He was fairly certain Frodo was still asleep, and quickly pulled himself together to try to comfort his companion. “Have no fear, Frodo,” the man spoke in soothing tones. “You are dreaming. It’s a hallucination brought on by the fever. It will pass. Try to rest.”

“I should have gone with Bilbo,” Frodo mumbled. Then just as suddenly as he had ‘awaken’ he was asleep again. His grip on the man’s arm weakened, and his arms fell limply to his sides. He was then seized by a coughing fit, but no sign of pain etched his face in his slumber.

Berwin stood and looked around him at the vast empty plains and the nearby grassy hills of the Barrow Downs, crowned with crumbling stones. They were miles from help and Frodo was rapidly deteriorating. Even riding at a full gallop, it would take them all day and night to reach Bree, and even then they may be too late. But they could not ride at such a speed with Frodo hanging behind them on a stretcher.

Berwin resolved himself and made his decision. He could no longer be concerned about Frodo’s comfort. More important now was getting him to help. He untied the ropes holding the stretcher to the mare’s harness and lifted Frodo from the makeshift bed. He untied the chords holding the canvas to the poles and quickly folded the tent into a bundle and stuffed it into his saddlebag. Then he raised Frodo to the saddle and mounted swiftly behind him. An instant later, they were galloping up the Green Way as fast as Bera could carry them.

Frodo woke near mid-morning and Berwin stopped in hopes of getting him to eat something. Frodo took the water gratefully, but refused the food with a distasteful expression on his wan face. 

“You must try to eat something,” Berwin urged, trying to keep the desperation out of his voice as he held out the final piece of bread. “At least try. This will settle your stomach.”

Frodo regarded the bread with bleary, unfocused eyes. He did not reach out or even seem to notice the food. He was seeing something else, another feverish vision. “They call to me in my dreams,” he whispered in a flat voice. His expression turned sadly troubled and a lone tear slipped down his cheek. “I often dream of the sea, and I can hear them calling to me from within its watery depths. They wait for me there, but I’m too afraid to go. When the wave came crashing down on me, I thought it was them coming to take me at last. I think I was happy for it; I’ve missed them so much. But now I’m scared again. I’m not ready to go and I don’t want to and I know that makes them sad. Does that make me a bad person?”

Berwin shook his head, his own eyes moist with unspent tears. He was at a complete loss of what to think or do. Who was Frodo speaking of and what could he mean? The man had a suspicion this was not mad ramblings brought on by the hallucinations and felt he should say something to comfort his friend. But what? The answer came to him immediately, something that would hopefully give Frodo peace of mind and a reason to hold on just a little bit longer.

He wiped the tears from his eyes and shook his head. “You are not bad, Frodo. You are kind, unselfish and wiser than you know, and I have this on good authority,” the Man of Dale declared. “I have seen your cousin Bilbo. I met him in Dale nine years ago, just shortly after he left the Shire.” He had Frodo’s full attention now and was grateful to see a glimmer of hope in the halfling’s bloodshot eyes. “He spoke of you often and held you in nothing but the highest esteem. You are his light, he said once. You gave his life meaning and he would do anything for you.”

“Was he well?” Frodo asked in amazement. He could hardly believe that after all these years he had finally, miraculously and unlooked for, found someone who had the answers he so desperately sought. “Was he happy? How long did he stay? Where is he now?”

Berwin smiled fondly. “He was extremely well. None of us could believe he was one hundred-and-twelve, or what did he call it? Twelvety-One, I believe?”

“Eleventy-Two,” Frodo corrected.

“He was so spry and energetic,” Berwin continued, and Frodo smiled with relief. “He was overjoyed to be on the road again and traveling with the dwarves of Lonely Mountain. His joy was infectious and everywhere he went, men would smile and laugh and sing his silly tunes. I especially like the one with the cat and the fiddle.”

“But where is he now?” Frodo asked again, urgently.

“I know not,” Berwin shook his head. “He stayed in Dale for near on a year before he left. He said he wanted to go south and possibly further east. But he always maintained that he would eventually return to Rivendell and there live out the rest of his days.”

“Rivendell,” Frodo muttered. A great heaviness of exhaustion crashed over him then, and he closed his eyes to drift off to sleep, the image of his beloved grey-headed cousin sitting with the Elves and learning their songs imprinted on his mind.

An hour later, they reached the first mounds of the Barrow Downs. The mare whinnied nervously but continued forward at a full gallop. She seemed to feel the urgency of their errand and needed no prodding to continue at her current speed. 

For his part, Berwin hardly registered when they entered between the hills, so intent he was on the road ahead. He could hear Frodo mumbling again in his sleep. He could only make out a stray word here and there, about apples, kings, silver spoons, caves, and Bilbo. He heard Bilbo’s name often and hoped it was a sign that Frodo was fighting to hold on. He did not think he could bare it if Frodo failed now.

Berwin could not explain his fear for this creature who he barely knew. It was true that he had heard Bilbo tell many tales of life in the Shire, and Frodo had held a prominent role in many of them. To say that Bilbo was fond of his cousin would be an understatement. The old hobbit had often spoken of Frodo as if he believed him to be the best hobbit in all the Shire.

Never had Berwin thought he would meet Frodo Baggins, much less stumble upon him along the Baranduin and under such strange circumstances. He had quickly seen why the older hobbit had been so proud of his young cousin. In the short amount of time he has known Frodo, he found himself caring for him as one of his own and he had become personally invested in Frodo’s welfare. What had first begun as a task his conscious could not let him leave undone had turned into a friend of great worth. Berwin realized he had been correct to assume this hobbit was special, and he would do anything in his power to save him.

He rode straight through the afternoon and evening, never stopping or slowing. When the sun went to bed and the moon rose high in the sky, he slowed only to determine his current location. The Barrow Downs were now behind them and he was greatly pleased for it. They had covered much ground and within just a couple of hours, they would see the gates of Bree. He tightened his grip on Frodo and urged Bera into a gallop one final time. 

At last, the gates of Bree came into view. Berwin rode the last few miles as quickly as his winded horse could manage them, pushing the mare to the end of her limits. He was concerned that he had not heard even a whisper from Frodo, nor had he felt the hobbit stir even once since the sun had first began to wane, and he was desperate to find a healer.

He pulled to a stop at the gate and pounded on the door until the gatekeeper answered. “Who’s there, and what do you want?” the gatekeeper asked through a large peephole in the door.

“I am Berwin of Dale. I just traveled up the Green Way and I have a hobbit with me in need of a healer. Please, it’s vital. He must get aid immediately.”

The gatekeeper’s face disappeared from the peephole and the gate swung open. The gatekeeper peered up at the rider, then at the hobbit sitting before him. “Oh, he doesn’t look good at all, does he?” he mumbled. “You best get to Mistress Hazel; she deals with the lost causes. Follow this road to the first inn, The Silver Sterling. Turn left up the road behind the inn, take a right by the hay mills and go to your first house on the left. It has a yellow door and there’s a sign of an eagle hanging over it.”

“Thank you,” Berwin said, then nudged Bera into motion for one final lap. They galloped up the cobble-stoned street, ignoring the curious glances of the few on-lookers standing by. He found the inn and turned left, then followed the small lane a mile to the hay mills. He turned right and a half-mile up the road, saw the house at last. He pulled up to the house and dismounted. Taking Frodo in his arms, he went to the door and knocked upon it ceaselessly.

Moments later, a lock was sliding from the bolt and the door swung open. A young woman in a modest nightgown stood there, yawning. She beckoned him in as soon as she saw Frodo and bade him to follow her to the darkened front parlor. She quickly started a fire in the hearth from the embers still glowing from an earlier fire as Berwin went instantly to the settee and gently laid Frodo upon it. When he looked up, he noticed that the girl had disappeared and a small fire was slowly growing to light the room. He sat on the settee holding Frodo’s feverish hand and waited.

A few minutes passed before a pretty, middle-aged woman came into the room. Unlike her apprentice, she was properly dressed and was fastening her long auburn hair into a bun as she entered. Her face was kind but determined, and she walked into the room with an air of grace and absolute control. 

The girl followed behind her, carrying a kit and tray. As the girl set everything out, Mistress Hazel bade Berwin to move so she could examine her patient. “Tell me what happened. What are his symptoms?” she ordered in a controlled, soothing voice.

Berwin explained everything as simply as he could. The healer nodded along as he described how he had found Frodo and about his own meager treatments. She removed the sweat-drenched clothing and the bandages around Frodo’s head and chest and nodded again. She poked and prodded, watching the halfling’s face for signs of discomfort. 

Then Berwin explained Frodo’s symptoms and his steady decline over the last two days. Her face became troubled and she turned to the man with a steadying expression. She regarded him closely for several moments before speaking.

“Your friend, I’m afraid, is already nearly spent,” she said, and her face showed a resolved sympathy. “I will help him in every way that I am able, but you must prepare yourself for the possibility that he will not survive.” 

She turned then to the girl, who was boiling water over the hearth and waiting for further instructions. “Rowan, draw a bath. Go down to the lowest cellar and break some ice from the block. Put a bucket full in the bath to cool the water. We must do what we can to bring down his fever. Then get dressed and make yourself some coffee; we will get no rest tonight.”

To be continued…