47. Rufo Recommends Rest

“Frodo!” Bilbo cried in surprise as his nephew went limp in his arms.

“Here, sir, the lad’s insensible.” The Gaffer was there, taking some of Frodo’s weight. “Too much heat, and that’s a fact.”

“The doctor is on his way, Bilbo,” Saradoc assured the old hobbit. “Let’s just get him to your room.”

“Yes... yes, quite,” Bilbo muttered, looking down into Frodo’s ashen face resting against his shoulder. The boy’s eyes were still closed, and his breathing was shallow. “Right then, let’s be about it. Come on, Frodo my lad, one foot in front of the other!”

Bilbo motioned to Hamfast, and together they supported Frodo in the direction of the hall. The tween groaned as he was forced to walk again, but his unsteady legs made the necessary motions.

In the suite occupied by the two Bagginses, Merry and Pippin hurried to the curtained-off section to turn down Frodo’s bed, and the Gaffer eased the groggy tween very gently onto it. “There, now, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast said gruffly. “You just lie quiet and see what the doctor says.”

Merry fluffed up his cousin’s pillow and watched curiously. He didn’t know the Gamgees well, with the exception of Samwise, and he’d always thought Hamfast a rather dour character. He never would have guessed the old gardener had a soft spot for Frodo. He wondered why, and if Frodo knew. In every other interaction he’d witnessed, Hamfast had been just as terse with Frodo as he was with everyone else. Then again, Frodo often told him he was too nosy...

A short knock on the door, and Bilbo opened it to reveal Dr. Rufo Hornblower. The dark-haired girl from the herbalist’s shop came in behind him, carrying a brown leather bag. Fatty Bolger entered last of all, and slouched self-consciously by the door.

“Thank you for coming so quickly, Doctor,” Bilbo said graciously, shooing the others away from Frodo’s bed and into their tiny parlour to give the newcomer space.

“Not at all, not at all,” Rufo said pleasantly. “Sounds like yet another case of heat exhaustion. Not often serious, but it is always well to be certain. You have my bag, Jessi? Thank you, my dear.”

Dr. Hornblower took his bag from his assistant, rummaged in it for a moment, and began to unbutton Frodo’s shirt. “Awake now, are you, young fellow?” Rufo asked. “I remember you, but I’ll wager you don’t remember me.” His eyes twinkled.

Frodo looked at him groggily. He had been awake for a few minutes, but the thought of moving was unappealing in the extreme. He still felt nauseous from the walk down the hall. “No,” Frodo croaked, and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I can’t recall.”

Rufo bent his head to listen to his patient’s chest. “Speech is clear. Heartbeat is strong,” he said. “Low-grade fever, dry skin. Any nausea, lad?”

“A little when I was standing,” Frodo admitted. “But I feel much better now, really. I was in the sun too long is all. I didn’t mean to worry everyone...” The tween closed his eyes and swallowed awkwardly.

“We met a number of years ago, in Hobbiton,” Rufo went on as he took Frodo’s wrist in one hand. “You had a rather nasty case of carnelian fever.”

“Oh yes,” Frodo said, although he truly did not feel like speaking anymore. “I remember that. But I’m surprised you do.”

“I have an excellent memory,” Rufo said cheerfully. “Pulse is very rapid, but the patient is lucid,” he added, and wrote something on a scrap of parchment from his bag.

“Is it serious?” Bilbo asked finally, unable to keep quiet any longer.

“Heat exhaustion,” Rufo said promptly. “He’s young and otherwise in fair health. He’ll be all right. Keep him quiet and resting in the dark tonight and tomorrow. Bathe him with cool water every few hours and give him plenty of fluids, now that the nausea has passed. His body is desperately in need of water.”

“All right,” Bilbo stepped forward to shake the doctor’s hand. “Thank you very much.”

Dr. Hornblower and his assistant left, and Bilbo took a deep breath. He realized Frodo was watching him, so he smiled and sat on the edge of Frodo’s bed.

“How are you feeling, lad?” He smoothed the dark curls off Frodo’s hot forehead, as he had done for the last eight years.

“Much better,” Frodo said, and he truly was beginning to feel like himself again. “I’m sorry I frightened you in there...”

Bilbo smiled wryly. “You do keep this old hobbit on his toes, I’ll give you that.” He shook his head. “And I see you still have no more sense than a blockheaded Bracegirdle from Harbottle. What were you all doing out there today? I distinctly recall saying that you should stay where it was cool... You remember that, surely, my boy?” He poured a cup of water from the bedside table and helped Frodo prop himself up to drink it.

“Yes, Uncle, I remember,” Frodo said. He finished the water and allowed his head to drop back onto the cool pillow, not bothering to answer the other question.

“Confounded headstrong tweenagers,” Bilbo muttered. “They never listen, it seems.” The old hobbit rested a hand lightly on Frodo’s bare chest to get his attention. “Listen to me now, boy.” Bilbo leaned forward and waited for the blue eyes to focus on him. “You’re all I’ve got, and I expect you to take proper care of yourself. Understand?”

Frodo nodded wordlessly, and smiled slightly.

“Good.” He glared at the boy for good measure, his mouth twitching slightly. “Now get some sleep, you young whippersnapper. And if you set one toe out of this bed when you should be resting, I’ll tan the hide off you, so help me.”

Frodo raised his eyebrows. Bilbo had never lifted a finger against him, nor had Frodo given him cause to, but Bilbo didn’t often make such threats even in jest. Frodo felt another twinge of conscience; he really ought to have more sense and not worry the old hobbit so. “I’ll be good,” the tween promised with a fond smile, and settled back to sleep. His head was beginning to pound again most dreadfully, and he didn’t think he would have any difficulty keeping that promise.

Bilbo drew the curtains around his sleeping nephew and went into the parlour. He stopped short when he realized that everyone was still here.

“How is he?” Saradoc asked quietly.

Bilbo sighed. “He should recover speedily enough,” he said. “We must make him rest for now.”

Saradoc and Hamfast looked relieved, as did the boys, even Fatty still leaning unobtrusively against the wall.

But Bilbo wasn’t finished yet. “Will someone tell me what you lads were doing out there? There I was, relaxing with a cool drink, when all of you storm in, Frodo about to faint, and the little ones going on about Lotho Sackville-Baggins. Now I demand to know what happened!”

Bilbo glared at them all determinedly, but no one said anything for a moment.

“Lotho hit Merry!” Pippin exclaimed finally. “And Merry didn’t cry. But I did! And Frodo came running... And Ted was gonna hurt Fatty, but Halfred stopped him—and I bit Lotho! But I think Frodo kicking him hurt more... My teeth aren’t very sharp.”

Everyone stared at Pippin as he felt his little teeth in consternation.

“That’s pretty much what happened, Mr. Bilbo,” Halfred said hesitantly. “It were my fault though, leaving the little ones alone. Mr. Frodo only left them outside because of me,” he added miserably.

Merry, Pippin, and Sam all began talking at once, but Saradoc cut them off. “It sounds more like it was all Lotho’s fault, Halfred,” he said mildly.

Hamfast’s expression didn’t change, but he grasped his son’s shoulder reassuringly.

Bilbo nodded in agreement. “Attacking young children in the street, what is that boy coming to?” he exclaimed angrily. “Something must be done...” he said to Saradoc.

“You should’ve seen Frodo, Uncle Bilbo,” Pippin said. “He was just like one of those Elvish heroes in your stories! Running into danger... kicking Lotho...” The eight-year-old’s green eyes were shining worshipfully.

They all smiled at that image, but Merry said, “It’s true, though. And it was strange. Frodo is always so calm and cheerful... I’ve never seen him that angry!”

“I have,” Sam said quietly. His eyes softened as he turned to look at the sleeping tweenager, partially concealed behind a heavy curtain.  He was remembering a time years ago when Frodo had just moved to Hobbiton, and had stood up for an insignificant gardener’s son whom he hardly knew.

“You can’t always tell what folks have inside of them, ready to come out when the need is greatest,” Saradoc said thoughtfully.

No one said anything, and Bilbo finally sank down into an armchair. “Very true,” he said thoughtfully.

“Come on, lads, we’ve seen him safe,” Hamfast muttered, and Halfred and Sam reluctantly preceded him out the door. But the Gaffer paused by Frodo’s bed and took the smooth, pale hand in his own rough one for the briefest of moments. If Bilbo had blinked, he would have missed it. “I’ll be back, sir,” Hamfast said gruffly just before he closed the door behind himself.

The old hobbit smiled slightly. The Gaffer hated to show affection in front of others, even to his own children, but a keen observer could discern those whom he held in esteem. It never failed to astonish Bilbo how Frodo managed to engender such loyalty and affection everywhere he went.

“Time we were away, too, I suppose,” Saradoc sighed, smiling at Merry and Pippin. “Esme will be wondering where we are, and I promised to get this little fellow back to his parents as well.”

“Aww, can’t we stay, Dad?” Merry protested, and Pippin nodded vigorously.

“No,” Saradoc said firmly. “Besides, it’s almost supper time. You lads missed your tea; I’d hate to see you miss supper as well.”

Merry and Pippin looked at each other in astonishment. “We missed tea?” Pippin exclaimed, crestfallen.

Merry grinned and turned to Frodo. “We’ll return after supper,” he promised his sleeping cousin. He looked around to see where Fatty had gone to, but he had apparently left without anyone noticing.

When Frodo awoke, it was darker outside, and his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. The air was cooler, but his head ached worse than ever. Frodo shifted restlessly and kicked at the sheet covering his body. He was wearing his nightshirt now, but his skin felt hot and clammy all over. He tried to swallow and wound up coughing instead, his throat painfully dry.

A damp rag stroked his face lightly, then his neck.

“There now, drink some of this,” Bilbo’s voice said softly from the darkness. A flame flickered into existence as Bilbo hastily lit a candle and placed it beside the bed. He slipped an arm beneath Frodo’s shoulders and propped him up a little.

Frodo accepted the cup gratefully and sipped desperately at the contents.

Bilbo didn’t say anything until Frodo had finished. “Better?” he asked.

Frodo nodded, then tried to clear his throat. “Yes,” he said hoarsely.

Bilbo laid him back down and felt his forehead. Frodo could see his frown in the flickering candle light.

“Bilbo?” he asked after a moment. “What’s wrong? Why do I feel so wretched?”

Bilbo squeezed his arm reassuringly. “You’re still burning up. The doctor said it would take at least a day to replace all the water your body is missing. We must be patient, my boy.”

Frodo sighed and tried to relax. “All right,” he said. “What time is it?”

“After nine o’clock,” Bilbo said just as someone knocked softly on the door. “Hm! That must be Hamfast. He and I will prepare a cool bath for you, Frodo.” The old hobbit got up to answer the door, but the visitor was unexpected.

“Fredegar?” Bilbo said. “I’m sorry, Frodo is unwell still. Perhaps if you came back tomorrow...”

“Just a few minutes, Mr. Baggins? Please.”

“Hm.” Bilbo walked back to Frodo’s side. “What about it, lad,” he said quietly. “Feel up to a few minutes’ visit?”

Frodo didn’t feel up to much of anything, but he wasn’t quite so wretched with that cup of water in him. And he really wanted to talk to Fatty, after today. “Yes, please,” he said.

“All right,” Bilbo said, opening the door for the visitor. “I’m going to speak with Hamfast, and then I’ll return in a few minutes when your bath is ready.”

Frodo nodded. Fatty came in and Bilbo closed the door as Frodo struggled into a sitting position. It felt like he hadn’t moved in a week. Frodo tried to focus on his old friend, which was difficult as the room kept swaying dizzily before him.

“Are you... are you all right, Frodo?”

“Yes, just give me a minute,” Frodo said. He felt sure he would feel better once the room stopped moving. “Please, come sit over here where I can see you.” He gestured to the chair beside his bed, but Fatty continued to stand against the far wall. Frodo dropped his hand slowly.

Fatty cleared his throat and got straight to the point, as usual. “I’m sorry, Frodo,” the plump tween said quietly. “I’m sorry I went along with my dad and stayed away from you and Folco. I wish I was strong like you, but I’m not.”

Frodo gave up trying to keep Fatty in his field of view and lay back to stare at the ceiling instead. “You were strong today,” Frodo reminded him. “You showed your true colours when it counted.”

“You and Folco were the best friends I ever had,” Fatty said wistfully. “And look at all the years that have been thrown away, because of me.”

“That’s all right,” Frodo replied. “We’ve plenty of years ahead of us to make up for it.”

Fatty looked at him. “I hope Folco is as forgiving, Frodo.”

Frodo closed his eyes again, but his lips twitched into a smile. “He’ll be thrilled; he always knew you’d come around.” Frodo opened his eyes long enough to see that the ceiling was still tilting crazily and let out a deep breath, wishing he didn’t feel so dreadful.

Frodo heard Fatty finally shift himself away from the wall. Quiet footsteps brought him to Frodo’s bedside.

“I should go,” Fatty said, and reached out hesitantly to take Frodo’s limp hand. “Feel better, my friend.”

The slight pressure left his hand, and Frodo opened his eyes to see Fatty had gone. Frodo dropped his head back into his pillow and smiled slightly. He couldn’t wait to tell Folco about this.