Summary: Frodo is recovering from a serious illness. The apprentice does what she can.  Written for Pippinlives’s birthday. :)

I don't know where this ficlet exists in my universe yet, so I'm posting this as AU for the time being. Frodo is likely in his late tweens, possibly early thirties.
  
  

The Healer’s Apprentice

Marigold Puddifoot was on her own. Her Mistress had been called away to deliver Missus Overbrook’s baby and had left her in charge of caring for the young Baggins. Master Frodo had been one of ten hobbits in Hobbiton to contract the Shire measles. The others, children all of them, recovered quickly, but the older a hobbit is, the longer it takes him to recover. After two weeks of incoherency and fever dreams, Frodo was finally back on the mend and Marigold was to nurse him through the rest of the day until her Mistress returned.

Goldie kept watch on the fire and the water boiling, making sure she had enough herbs for the teas she might need to make to accommodate her patient. He was sleeping currently, so she moved about quietly, slowly stepping across the room and carefully poking at the firewood. She took the kettle off the flame the instant it started whistling and opened the top before the sharp, piercing noise could wake the exhausted gentlehobbit. The last two weeks had been most unkind to him and he needed whatever rest he could get.

Bilbo wandered in and out throughout the day, worried about his young heir. He offered the apprentice food and drink, offered to relieve her for an hour or two so she could rest. She refused the offer of rest, but enjoyed his company over a meal of rich soup and grilled cheese sandwiches. Bilbo told many tales of Frodo’s previous illnesses, managing to somehow make them seem mundane or even comical. But the apprentice caught the worried look in his eyes as he cast his gaze toward his cousin.

“He’ll be fine,” apprentice assured. “The worst of it is over. The fever has broken. We wait now only for him to rest. He must rest to regain his strength.”

Bilbo nodded. “I know, dear,” he said and smiled stiffly. “Well, I see you have everything in hand. I’ll leave you to your work. I’ll be in the den if you should need anything. Don’t hesitate to ask.”

“Thank you, Mr. Baggins,” Goldie said and hoped the elderly hobbit would get his own rest. They were all tired, what with sitting at Frodo’s bed day in and day out, looking for the slightest sign that his symptoms might be getting better – or worse.

Frodo slept peacefully now, his breathing raspy still but calm. He would sleep for another hour or more, she figured. She fluffed his pillow and straightened the bed sheets around him, not too snug but tight enough to keep him warm. Then she returned to her chair next to the bed and bent her head down.

She awoke, not knowing how long she had slept, and found to her surprise that Master Frodo was not only awake, but was leaning over the bed and attempted to reach for the bed table. Goldie jumped up in an instant. “I’m most sorry, Master Frodo!” she exclaimed, horrified that she had nodded off and missed her patient’s awakening. “I was more tired than I thought seemingly. What can I get for you?” she fretted. She could imagine the words her Mistress will have for her, leaving her patient unattended to fend for himself.

Frodo smiled weakly and slumped back into his pillows, breathing heavily. A slight sweat was upon his brow from his excursion. “No need to be sorry,” he panted. “I was only reaching for my book. I don’t remember it being so hard to retrieve.” And he laughed ruefully, coughing slightly at the aggravation to his lungs.

Goldie opened the table drawer and pulled out the book. She glanced briefly at the cover before handing the book to him. “You need to take your medicine,” she said, attempting to appear professional after her lapse in duty.

“I figured as much,” he said, taking the book with gratitude. “That’s why I was trying not to wake you.” And he winked at her and laughed again.

Goldie laughed now also. “I see,” she said, feeling better for her transgression. She went to the fire and checked the kettle, which she had sat down near the hearth to keep warm. She poured the infusion into a cup and brought it to Frodo. “Drink this all, now,” she ordered and watched as Frodo crinkled his nose at the smell. “Healer’s orders.”

Frodo lifted his eyebrows at her, in part tease, in part conspiratorial. “As you wish,” he said and down the tea in two large gulps. To his surprise, it was not as horrid as he thought it would be. In fact, it quite good. He said as much.

Goldie smiled proudly. “I add mint to the infusion,” she said. “It not only helps settle the stomach, but it tastes good and helps cover the tastes of the other herbs.”

“You might want to teach your Mistress that,” Frodo said and handed the cup back to her. “What day is it?”

“It’s 15 Blotmath,” Goldie answered, anticipating Frodo’s shocked reaction. She nodded grimly. “You gave us all quite a scare. You’re still young enough, but not as young as most who get the measles. It gets worse the older one gets and for awhile we weren’t sure you would pull through.”

Frodo thought over this for a moment, his expression unreadable. Then he opened his book and began to read, keeping his thoughts to himself.

“May I ask, Master Frodo, what the book is about?” Goldie asked. “Tales of Beleriand. It sounds magical.”

Frodo settled further into his pillows. The apprentice draped a cold compress across his brow and deftly rearranged his sheets again; they had become upset while he was attempting to retrieve the book. Frodo lowered the book and turned it slightly askance, so it was facing the apprentice. On the left page were elegant lines of script in a language she had never seen before. On the right page were words of the Common Speech, arranged in poetry.

“It is a book of Elvish poetry,” Frodo answered. “I’ve been translating it for Bilbo, or trying to. He thinks that by giving me something I enjoy that I won’t realize it’s a lesson. But I do enjoy it, so I suppose I can forgive him.” He had to pause then now, to suppress a cough and steady his breathing, which ran short whenever he spoke too much.

“Easy now, Master Frodo,” Goldie said softly. “If it’s your intention to start your working, I’m afraid I can’t allow it. You’ll not be able to lift this book too much longer, much less a quill.”

She was, of course, correct. Frodo insisted on at least being able to try, and after Goldie fetched a writing table, ink and quill, Frodo managed only to get a few stanzas written before the effort of raising the quill to the inkwell became too much. He had used his muscles little in the last two weeks and they were protesting the mild work. He frowned in frustration.

Goldie sighed. She had been warned that the Bagginses of Bag End could be difficult and stubborn patients, quick to tire themselves out. Finally, she took the writing table away and removed the book from Frodo’s hands. When he started to protest, Goldie held up a finger to stay him, then pulled her chair closer to the head of his bed. She sat down and held the book so he could see both pages.

“I’ll read what you’ve translated,” she said, “and you let me know if there’s anything that needs fixing. Then I’ll fix it.” And she placed the inkwell and quill on the bed table behind her, at the ready.

Frodo considered this for a moment, then shrugged. “Very well,” he said. He leaned back completely into his pillows and lazily drifted his eyes across both pages as Goldie read aloud. She purposely kept her voice soft and gentle, hoping to sway the young master back into sleep.

A king there was in days of old:
Ere Men yet walked upon the mould
His power was reared in cavern’s shade,
His hand was over glen and glade.
His shields were shining as the moon,
His lances keen of steel were hewn,
Of silver grey his crown was wrought,
The starlight in his banners caught;
And silver thrilled his trumpets long
Beneath the stars in challenge strong;
Enchantment did his realm enfold,
Where might and glory, wealth untold,
He wielded from his ivory throne
In many pillared halls of stone.*

Goldie continued with her reading, engrossed in the tale that unfolded before her eyes. Frodo drifted to sleep halfway through the story and she continued on in silence, wanting to know how the story ended. It was unlike anything she had ever read, strange and odd and all together wonderful.

When she finished, she placed the book upon the bed within Frodo’s reach and returned to her duties. She had to prepare food for the next time he woke, something light and easy on the stomach. More of Bilbo’s soup would do well in this case, but without the large chunks of vegetables and chicken. She would need to cut the food much smaller than that.

She left her patient and slipped silently down the tunnel to the den. Bilbo gladly agreed to watch over his cousin while the apprentice prepared the soup. She accepted, having no other option, so long as he promised to come fetch her if Frodo should awaken. All agreements made, she went to the larders and hunted for the items she would need, then went into the kitchen to prepare the meal.

She chopped, and minced, boiled and broiled, spiced and stirred, and all the while the words of the poem echoed in her mind, bringing forth images of far away lands in a time long forgotten.
 
 
 

* - The poem is an excerpt from The Gest of Beren and Luthien, from the chapter The Lay of Leithian, from The Lays of Beleriand, HoME Vol. III

GF 9/30/05