This ficlet was my contribution to the FrodoHealers December 2004 Winter Challenge.

TREASURES

“He’s turned the corner, Bilbo.” Healer Brownlock sighed with relief. She tapped the sleeping lad’s chest, nodded to herself, then lay her ear against the small chest and listened to the air moving in and out of the boy’s lungs. Finally, she straightened up and arranged the blankets so that her patient was warmly covered.

“I don’t know how to thank you, Gilly,” Bilbo murmured. He sank heavily into a chair, his eyes never leaving Frodo’s flushed face. Seeing his boy in such pain, frightened and delirious most of the time, struggling to breathe as his lungs filled with fluid… he shuddered as he recalled the week they had all endured.

Healer Brownlock pulled a number of stoppered bottles and flasks from her bag, and set them on the small table next to the bed. “Frodo’s fever is much less, but you need to keep him warm and quiet until he has fully recovered. This is for the cough...” She pointed to the dark-brown bottle. “His lungs are clearing nicely, but the cough will persist for some days. Continue to give him a spoonful or two, three or four times a day. This one is for pain, and I’m leaving a mild tonic to help him sleep, although I doubt he will need it. See that he drinks as much as possible -- water, juice, broth, anything. His appetite will return, but slowly, and you might need to encourage him to eat.”

Bilbo nodded wearily. “I’ll take care of him.”

The healer looked at Bilbo shrewdly. “You’ve hardly slept in days,” she observed. “Don’t wear yourself out; continue to let the neighbors assist you. Frodo’s not contagious, and isn’t a danger to anyone.”

“I should have warned him that the pool can be treacherous,” Bilbo said suddenly. “I don’t know what I would have done if---”

“Now now,” the healer tutted in her best professional manner. “The lad turned out to be stronger than any of us thought, Bilbo. And no one was to blame for what happened, not really.” She frowned darkly in the direction of the conjuror, Gandalf, who stood (or stooped, really) in the doorway of Frodo’s bedroom, watching quietly.

No, no one was to blame, not really, Gandalf thought. Except perhaps myself.

*~*~*~*~*

It had only been a week since the wizard had arrived in the Shire, on his way to visit his old friend Bilbo Baggins. Passing the Bywater pool, frozen over in this unusually cold January, he had brought his wagon to a stop so he could watch the youngsters slide on the ice. The tough soles of hobbit feet didn’t slide very well, but the children seemed to be managing nicely by sitting in large pans or on thin boards. A playmate would give a mighty push, and the laughing rider would go flying over the ice for a good distance. Most of the youngsters looked up at the wizard and stopped their play, only to resume after a moment’s gaping. Gandalf could see that his rather dubious reputation had been conveyed to the children by their suspicious parents. One of the older children, however, taller than some and dark haired, stood staring at him, a joyous expression on his face. Frodo Baggins, Gandalf recalled the name of the lad he had last seen in Buckland, years ago. It has been many years since I last saw him. Living with Bilbo now, I understand.

“Gandalf!” Frodo shouted, beginning to run toward him. Too late, Gandalf came out of his reverie to notice, from his higher vantage point, the dark shadow beneath the ice directly in the boy’s path. Too thin... With a crack! the ice had given way beneath Frodo, and the lad plummeted out of sight. There were shouts from the children, but by the time a large group began to run to where Frodo had disappeared, Gandalf had leaped from his wagon and reached the spot first. Quickly lying on his belly at the edge of the newly-formed hole, he plunged his staff into the water. Onlookers would later report a blinding flash, and then Gandalf was hauling the lad out, Frodo hanging on weakly to the end of the glowing staff.

As Gandalf grabbed Frodo and ran to the wagon, he realized that the soaked, half-frozen boy had gone limp in his arms. He quickly lay Frodo on his stomach on the cold ground, and pressed slowly and rhythmically on the small back. Once... twice... yet again… and the boy choked, coughing and retching.

“Here, sir.” The young hobbit Frodo had sent sailing across the ice in an oversized roasting pan was suddenly at Gandalf’s side, holding out a blanket in a shaking hand. “Is Mr. Frodo going to be all right?”

“He should be,” Gandalf replied, wrapping the now-shivering, semi-conscious boy in the blanket. “Would you send a healer to Bag End, Samwise? Quickly?” Too frightened to even wonder how the wizard knew his name, the child nodded vigorously and raced off. Gandalf lifted Frodo into the wagon, and before all of the children had even been told what had happened, he was gone -- traveling swiftly north toward Bag End.

*~*~*~*~*

“Frodo? Frodo lad, you need to wake up for a bit.”

Frodo struggled to wake fully from the frightening dream that had been gripping him. A spoon slid between his lips, and he swallowed something thick and syrupy.

“That’s right.” Bilbo’s voice. “Again, Frodo. One more, that’s it.”

His chest felt heavy, and everything ached. Frodo opened his eyes with an effort, to find that he was in his own bed, propped up with pillows. He swallowed a second spoonful automatically. Medicine…

“No!” Frodo tried to push the spoon away, but his limbs were too heavy. The sudden shout and motion started him coughing, and he felt Bilbo’s arms around him, raising him fully into a sitting position and patting his back gently.

“There now, that’s better,” Bilbo said softly as the coughing subsided. He lowered the boy back down onto his pillows, and looked worriedly into the blue eyes gazing at him in… was it fear? “Frodo lad, what is it?”

“Bilbo,” Frodo whispered through cracked lips, “no medicine. You… you can’t afford…”

Bilbo peered at the boy, puzzled. “I can certainly afford any medicines you need, Frodo. Don’t you know that? Why, we’ve been dosing you all week, whether you remember it or not. Just a few more days, and you should be…”

All week? Frodo tried to piece together the past days, but failed. Blurred, nightmarish memories drifted in and out… burning, freezing, can’t breathe… hurts... someone calling his name, weeping… Bilbo…

“Oh Bilbo, I had a terrible nightmare,” Frodo gasped. “I needed medicines… too expensive... you spent all your money, and had to sell Bag End.” Tears sprang to his eyes. “You were out in the cold, with nowhere to go, and it was all my fault…” He stopped, finding it strangely difficult to breathe properly.

“Nonsense,” Bilbo said reassuringly. He felt the boy’s forehead. The fever was going down, thank the stars, but the healer had insisted that Frodo stay quiet. He kept his tone light. “Dear lad, you don’t have to worry about expenses, now or ever. Haven’t you been listening, all these years, to your old uncle’s stories? They’re quite true, you know.”

“Are they?” Frodo asked. Like everyone else, he had only half believed the tales. “Are they, truly, uncle? Dragon treasure, and gold and…”

“You can be sure they are,” said a voice from the doorway.

“Gandalf?” Frodo asked weakly.

Gandalf entered the room. “Bilbo, why don’t you get some rest,” he said, smiling at his old friend. “I’ll stay with Frodo.”

“I’ll bring you some tea, then lie down for a few hours,” Bilbo said to Gandalf. He smiled at Frodo and left the room, weak with relief. He’s getting better at last, he thought. My dear lad...

“Gandalf,” Frodo whispered, “I thought I dreamed you, too.”

“I am here,” Gandalf told him, sitting in a large chair next to the bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Heavy,” Frodo murmured. “Achy and…” He stared at the wizard. “Has it really been a week?”

Gandalf nodded. “Do you remember falling through the ice?”

“The ice… that was a week ago?”

“Yes.”

Frodo suddenly smiled at the sight of a number of lovingly-carved animals sitting on the table.

“Young Samwise brought them over, and insisted that they would help you get well,” Gandalf explained.

“Dear Sam,” Frodo sighed. He reached out and touched one of Sam’s treasures, his thoughts drifting back to that day on the ice. “Gandalf, I thought I saw… how did you make the water so warm?”

“What do you remember?” the wizard asked thoughtfully.

“I fell…” Frodo whispered. “I swallowed some water, and couldn’t… I was so cold…” He started to cough again, and drank thirstily from a cup of water the wizard helped him to hold. “I saw a light, and then the water was warmer… I thought I was dying, and would… see my parents again, but…” Frodo sighed. “I heard you, calling to me. You wanted me to grab your staff. And then I saw that it was your staff making the light, and I tried to reach it…

“You did,” Gandalf said. I called out to him, yes -- but not out loud. Did he somehow hear me? Ah, this is a very special hobbit indeed. As I’ve suspected.

“You reached it, dear boy. But you swallowed half the pool before you did, and you’ve been rather a sick lad for some days.”

“I don’t remember very much,” Frodo frowned. He tried to take a deep breath, but it hurt too much. “My chest feels…”

“Yes,” the wizard said gently, “but you’re on the mend at last.” Very few recover from pneumonia, he thought grimly, but he kept fighting. We nearly lost him several times this week, but this boy showed more strength and spirit than nearly any hobbit I’ve ever met.

Frodo yawned. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I want to know what happened, but... I can barely keep my eyes open.”

“It’s all right,” Gandalf said gently. “I will still be here when you wake up. There will be time for many tales.”

“Your staff...” Frodo murmured, closing his eyes. “I... I thought I saw...”

“Rest,” the wizard murmured. “We will talk later.” He sat gazing thoughtfully at the boy as he slid back into sleep. You saw what few have seen, Frodo Baggins. I am guardian of the Secret Fire, and release it only at need. But the more I learn of hobbits, the more I wonder if it is not they over whom I am truly guardian. Perhaps it is the Shire dwellers that possess the greatest and most secret fire -- the unquenchable spirit within them.

“Gandalf?” Bilbo returned, and handed the wizard a cup of steaming tea. “You look a thousand miles away.”

The wizard smiled and took the cup. “You’ve chosen well, Bilbo,” he said quietly. “You waited many years for a worthy heir, and there is no question that you have found him.”

Bilbo knelt next to the bed and took one of Frodo’s hands in his own. “He thought I couldn’t afford to care for him,” he murmured. “I think, of all my many relations, he’s one of the very few who only wanted my love -- and not my money.” He sighed. “I had thought to wait until he was older, but perhaps it’s time I spoke to him of what he will inherit. It may ease his mind.”

“It may. Go to your rest now, old friend. I will sit with him.”

“Call me if he needs anything,” Bilbo said. He kissed Frodo’s brow and rose to his feet.

“Bilbo,” Gandalf smiled, “you have already given this lad what he needs most, and it is most assuredly not gold or gems.”

Long after Bilbo had left the room, Gandalf sat lost in thought. Frodo does not yet realize the treasures that will one day be his... nor does Bilbo. If my suspicions are correct, he will inherit more than dragon gold. Much more.