Chapter 3. Fevers and Frets

In fact, it was Berilac who brought up the tray. ‘Pippin’s still eating,’ he said to Sam. ‘As a matter of fact, he’s challenged Merry to a contest to see who can eat the most bangers, and they look to be eating themselves into a stupor before the night is out. The Big Folk are cheering them on.’

He looked to the figure in the bed. ‘How’s Frodo?’ he asked, showing some of the anxiety he’d concealed in the common room. Frodo was never rude, and yet, the way he’d spoken to Berilac earlier...

He must have been thinking aloud, because Sam said, ‘He’s been a regular Sandyman; he’s not himself, Mr Berilac, and that’s a fact.’ Berilac stared. He hadn’t seen much of Sam, true, but he’d never heard the gardener speak a word of reproach against his master.

Samwise, interpreting the glance correctly, flushed. ‘I beg your pardon, Mr Berilac, sir,’ he said humbly. ‘There was no call for me to say such a thing.’

‘You’re OOC,’ Frodo said softly from the bed, and Sam started.

‘You’re awake, Mr Frodo! Can I get you somewhat?’ He started to put together a tempting plateful from the contents of the tray, but when he turned to offer it to Frodo, the latter pushed it away.

‘No, thank you, Sam,’ he said. ‘I’m quite fed up as it is.’

‘You haven’t eaten nothing yet!’ Sam protested. ‘A few beers with the Big Folk, that doesn’t count...’

Frodo raised a hand to his aching head. ‘I seem to recall being unconscionably rude to you, cousin,’ he said to Berilac. ‘Terribly OOC, I’m afraid. I apologise.’

‘It’s nothing,’ Berilac said, absently taking a buttered piece of bread from the plate Samwise had prepared, and topping it with a slice of meat and a few fried onions. ‘You’re not yourself.’

Frodo smiled faintly. ‘You seem to have learned the meaning of OOC quite well,’ he said. ‘Have you been chatting up the Big Folk?’

‘As a matter of fact, I’ve been avoiding them,’ Berilac said. ‘I had myself a wonderful nuncheon, and my pocketbook is still as heavy as ever, thanks to Merry’s rap on the head... but there’s something about those folk,’ he concluded.

‘I know what you mean,’ Frodo said, closing his eyes with a sigh. ‘If you heard them talk for any length of time, or saw the look in their eyes...’ His voice trailed off, and he slept again.

‘He doesn’t look at all well,’ Berilac said sotto voce to Sam. The gardener nodded, then tentatively rested a hand against Frodo’s brow. He sat up with a jerk.

‘He might not have been fevered before, but he is now,’ Sam said. He rose, went over to the pitcher and bowl on the dresser, and poured out some water. Taking a clean handkerchief from his pocket, he wetted it and returned to the bedside to lay the cloth on Frodo’s forehead.

Hearing a noise at the windows, he turned, but saw nothing. ‘What was that?’ he asked.

‘Some of the Big Folk,’ Berilac said. ‘You’d think they’d never seen hobbits before. They were peering in at the windows!’

‘We’ll soon put a stop to that!’ Sam said staunchly. He got up again to shutter the windows, and Berilac jumped to help.

They sat talking quietly together while Sam renewed the compresses at regular intervals. Berilac, gentlehobbit that he was, put Sam at his ease by questioning him about his replanting efforts around the Shire, and asking advice about growing marrows. Sam glowed under Berilac’s patient, sober attention, and when Merry and Pippin returned to the room (rolled in, stuffed to the gills as it were) the usually retiring gardener was holding forth upon potatoes in confident tones.

‘Has he slept it off yet?’ Pippin asked brightly. He’d washed down the sausages with a fair amount of Barliman’s good beer, and he was feeling quite cheery, despite certain annoyances that had threatened to interrupt the free meal.

‘No, as a matter of fact, he’s feverish,’ Berilac informed him.

‘What?’ Merry said, starting forward, his own good feelings evaporating with the news. ‘I thought he’d just had a bit too much...’

‘Should we call a healer, do you think?’ Pippin said. He didn’t care for healers for himself, mind, Took that he was, but Frodo was another matter. He pulled a chair close to the bed and determined to stick to his eldest cousin like glue.

‘Healer’d just say to let the fever run its course,’ Merry said practically, settling into his own chair. He put his feet up on the bed and slouched into a more comfortable position.

‘There’s plenty of beds,’ Samwise said meaningfully. The cousins had taken the chairs on either side of Frodo, which had the result of forcing Sam from his beloved master’s side. He finished wringing out the handkerchief and crossed to the bed again, reaching past Pippin to lay the refreshed cloth on Frodo’s forehead.

‘Yes, mustn’t let them go to waste,’ Merry murmured, laying his head back on the chair. Soon he was snoring.

‘He does that a lot,’ Berilac said. ‘Does he have something against sleeping in a bed?’

Frodo moaned then, striking out feebly in his dream. ‘Pippin,’ he said. ‘Pip!’

Pippin leaned forward, taking Frodo’s hand. ‘I’m here, Fro,’ he said encouragingly.

‘Got to find him,’ Frodo said. Opening his eyes, he looked desperately into Pippin’s face. ‘Where is he?’

‘I’m right here, Fro,’ Pippin said more urgently, squeezing Frodo’s hand.

‘Got to find him,’ Frodo said. ‘He’ll drown!’ He grew more agitated with every word. ‘That water’s so cold, so icy... where is he? The water’s taken him away... o how shall I ever tell Paladin his only son is gone?’ he wailed.

‘I’m right here, Frodo,’ Pippin said again. He had a vague memory of the incident Frodo was reliving in his fever dream, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how it had all come out.

‘I’m going to get a healer,’ Samwise said decisively, straightening up from the bed.

‘You do that, Samwise,’ Berilac said, taking Frodo’s other hand.

Merry snored on.