48. Disorientation

Frodo woke to a hand shaking his shoulder gently.

“Your bath is ready, Mr. Frodo,” a voice said. “Time we were about it, eh?”

“No, thank you,” Frodo tried to say, but it came out more as a groan. The thought of bestirring himself didn’t sit well with his sluggish mind.

“None o’ that, now. Even my Samwise takes his bath when called.”

The light blanket was drawn back and Frodo opened his eyes reluctantly, mentally cursing Gamgee stubbornness.

“That’s it, lad. Up we get. Master Baggins will be back in a moment, and I told him I’d have ye in the bath.” Without further ado, the Gaffer reached under Frodo’s arms and lifted the groggy tween into a sitting position.

Frodo had swung his feet over the side of the bed and stood up with Hamfast’s help before the nausea began to build. He made himself take two steps toward the parlour, where a wooden bath had been set up. He didn’t want Hamfast to see him in this state at all; the least he could do was walk a few steps without succumbing to his weakness.

Frodo took one more step and could stand it no more. He clutched his abdomen, making a noise of distress.

“Easy, lad, easy,” the Gaffer muttered, grasping his arm to steady him. “Maybe lay down another few minutes. Let’s get ye back to bed.”

“Too far,” Frodo grunted, and sank down to the floor where he was. His empty gut tightened painfully and he doubled over, desperately wishing not to disgrace himself.

“Deep breaths, Mr. Frodo,” Hamfast said gruffly, patting Frodo’s back. “Just lie still and quiet. It’ll pass soon enough.”

Frodo curled up on the hard floorboards and tried to slow his gasping breaths. The Gaffer remained by his side, saying nothing, for he was a hobbit of few words, but he continued to rub Frodo’s back soothingly.

Frodo squeezed his eyes shut and waited an eternity before the agony eased.

He didn’t know how long he lay there, but the Gaffer said nothing until he sat up on his own.

“Ready?”

Frodo nodded and Hamfast helped him to his feet. They walked the rest of the way to the bath at a much slower pace, and Frodo’s stomach did not rebel again.

Hamfast guided the tween onto a chair just as the door opened and Bilbo came in.

Frodo almost smiled at the look of relief on the old gardener’s face. He supposed Hamfast had been wondering if he would have to help Frodo undress, too.

“Excellent, you’re up!” Bilbo exclaimed. “Thank you kindly, Master Hamfast.”

The Gaffer nodded and left them alone, and Bilbo soon had his ward settled in the bath. Frodo was too disoriented to be awkward, or to notice if Bilbo found the situation awkward. The cool water was a relief; he was drenched in sweat after the walk from his bed.

“There, now,” Bilbo said in satisfaction. “You just sit there for awhile and cool off.”

Frodo relaxed against the back of the tub and closed his eyes. The water felt delightful, and he sank down a little further.

Distantly, he heard a voice shout “Hamfast!” It sounded like Bilbo, although Frodo had never heard the old hobbit raise his voice so.

Frodo woke to brightness. He opened his eyes and squinted against the morning light filtering in around the shutters. He felt a nameless panic when he realized he was alone, but it passed.

He sat up slowly, noticing that the dizziness had lessened, and looked around. An open book on the bureau revealed that Bilbo had occupied the nearby chair recently. The tween frowned, trying to recall how he had gotten back to his bed—was that last night?

He gave up trying to sort out his fuzzy memories and poured himself a cup of water from the pitcher beside his bed. He drank it thirstily, then lay back down and allowed his thoughts to drift.

Frodo woke to a soft warmth at his side. He opened his eyes in surprise and turned his head to see two green eyes looking back at him solemnly.

Pippin smiled and put a finger to his lips. “I’m hiding,” he whispered.

“Are you indeed,” Frodo whispered back.

“Merry will never find me in here,” the eight-year-old added confidentially.

Frodo thought privately that his little cousin might be underestimating the resourcefulness of a Brandybuck, but he said nothing. Pippin snuggled closer and Frodo put his arm around the small shoulders.

Frodo woke to whispering.

“You’re not supposed to be in here, Pip!”

“I wanted to see Cousin Frodo.”

An impatient sigh. “Pippin… I know. Let’s just go now before we wake him up, or worse, my dad catches us in here.”

The bed shifted, and then there was only silence. Frodo turned onto his side, lying in the now-empty patch of warmth.

Frodo woke to a creeeeaak.

“Shh! You’ll wake him!”

“Sorry—I didn’t think that hinge would be so loud. I’ll close it more softly.”

A pause. And then, from much closer, “Poor fellow. I can feel how hot he is from here.”

“And he won’t even get to enjoy the end of the Fair. Such a shame!”

“We’ll all be back in Hobbiton in a few days, and then we can make it up to him.”

“An excellent plan, Fatty. We should get going ourselves, if we don’t want to miss the fun.”

“I suppose… but I feel almost guilty enjoying it without him.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. He’ll want to hear all about it when he wakes up. Where’s the guilt in that?”

A sigh. “I expect I’d feel guilty in any case, Folco.”

“Oh, don’t be tiresome.”

“Well, I followed his worst enemy around for years! How would you feel?”

“I hope I never find out.”

“And you, too… I was most unkind.”

“If Frodo can forgive and forget, then I certainly can too.”

Frodo felt he should open his eyes and say something, but the message wouldn’t reach his muscles. And he couldn’t recall what he wanted to say, anyway.

“Oh! I saw him move. I’m afraid we’re disturbing him…”

“We got to see him, anyway. Rest well, my friend.”

A hand grasped his arm for a fleeting moment, and then the hinge creaked again.

Frodo was running through the winding corridors of Bag End.

“Bilbo?” he called.

“I’m sorry!” a distant voice replied from far ahead. “I must go. There are things I must do.”

“No!” Frodo screamed.

“Don’t hold me back, Frodo.” The voice was more distant now, and it held a note of warning.

Frodo ran even harder, but the hallway just kept winding around and around. Soon he knew Bilbo was far out of his reach. Frodo kept running anyway, even when the agony rose up to choke his breath.

Frodo woke to hands pulling up his nightshirt. He started to struggle.

“It’s all right, I’m just going to have a listen,” said a soothing voice. It was vaguely familiar.

“Bilbo! Where is Bilbo?” Frodo asked desperately.

“Right here, lad, I’m right here,” Bilbo said quickly, and a hand squeezed his.

“I can’t lose you, too,” Frodo murmured. He felt the hand holding his give a start.

“I’m not going anywhere, Frodo,” Bilbo said. “Well, Doctor?”

“He’s not taking it well… There have been some serious cases, of course, but I’d hoped your boy wouldn’t be one of them.”

Bilbo started to ask something else, and then the voices moved out of range, and Frodo couldn’t hear anything over the throbbing in his head. Someone held a cup to his lips, and he drank.

Frodo woke to nausea. He surged up desperately from the bed and vomited while Esmeralda held him. He couldn’t see Bilbo anywhere. The heat was unbearable.

“There now, lad, it’s all right,” Bilbo said softly, rubbing his back while he sobbed out his distress. He saw Saradoc’s face, and the Gaffer’s too, and then he was being lifted again into the tub of cool water. This time someone kept adding ice-cold well water, until Frodo was shivering. He was too tired to cry anymore.

Later, he found himself back in his bed, wearing a fresh nightshirt. He relaxed when he realized Bilbo was stroking his hair, and Esmeralda’s warm lips kissed his cool forehead.

Frodo woke to silence, but not solitude. It was morning again; he could tell by the light through his closed eyelids. He opened his eyes slowly. Instead of the anticipated throbbing pain, there was only a dull ache. Frodo looked around. The curtain was drawn, cutting off his view of the parlour and Bilbo’s chamber, but the chair by his bed was occupied.

Frodo smiled at the head of sandy curls bent intently over a book. Sam’s face bore a slight frown of concentration, and his lips moved soundlessly as he read the words to himself.

As though he felt Frodo’s gaze upon him, Samwise looked up suddenly. When he realized Frodo was awake, his round face lit up in a huge smile.

“Mr. Frodo!” he exclaimed, then glanced around furtively. “Master Bilbo’s finally takin’ a rest,” he added in a whisper.

“Is he all right?” Frodo asked, concerned.

“There’s nought wrong with him, sir,” Sam replied. “Except worry over you, of course. You gave us all a right scare!”

“I’m sorry for that, Sam,” Frodo admitted. “But I must be on the mend—the room isn’t spinning anymore.”

“Aye,” came the reply. “Your fever broke last night, so they tell me. Your cousins stayed on an extra day to be sure you were safe; they left a few hours back.”

Frodo’s smile faded a little. He wished he had gotten to say good-by.

“And how are you feeling this afternoon, Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked cheerfully, pulling back the curtain.

Frodo smiled at his uncle. “Hungry,” he said truthfully.

“Wonderful! Just what an old hobbit likes to hear,” Bilbo was saying. “I shall send for something directly.” He smiled and sat on the edge of Frodo’s bed.

They looked at each other for a moment. Bilbo looked exhausted. Frodo felt terrible for making him worry. He wished he hadn’t stayed out so long that day. He wished even more that Lotho would leave him alone, or that he was strong enough to make Lotho think twice about making trouble. “I’m sorry about all this, Bilbo.”

Bilbo raised his brows. “Nonsense!” he said. “One can hardly blame the patient for taking ill.” He regarded the tween curiously. “What’s bothering you, lad?”

Frodo looked away, embarrassed. “Do you—do you think I’m weak, Bilbo?”

The old hobbit looked even more surprised. “I have never thought of you so,” he said slowly. “I don’t think anyone could, who knew you.”

“Thank you, Uncle, but that’s not quite what I meant,” Frodo said quietly. He sighed and looked away. “Lotho has always been bigger and stronger than me. I’ll never be able to hold my own in a fight with him, and he’ll never cease tormenting me.”

Bilbo frowned as he looked at his ward, unsure how to respond. Sometimes he forgot how young the lad was. He had been treating Frodo as an intellectual equal for years now, and he wasn’t even of age yet.

“Nonsense, boy. You’re a Baggins, after all. What more does one need?” Bilbo said with a wink. He continued more seriously, “Lotho may have the brawn, but you’ll always have the brains. Not to mention the heart. Courage and sharp wits have saved more hobbits than muscle ever will, you mark my words.”

Frodo gazed back doubtfully.

“Why, just think of my adventure with the Dwarves,” Bilbo continued. “We weren’t much to look at, and yet we prevailed. What do you think would have happened differently if we’d been five feet tall and strong as ponies?”

Frodo looked blank. “What?”

Bilbo snorted. “Nothing, of course. The trolls could have squashed us just as easily. No matter how big you are, there’s always someone bigger.”

“I thought Gandalf had something to do with that,” Frodo said innocently.

“Well, I—you’re missing the point, you rascal!”

Frodo laughed. “No, I didn’t miss it, Bilbo, thank you.”

Bilbo turned serious. “Don’t let Lotho under your skin, Frodo-lad. He knows well enough his physical strength will never get him what he really wants, and that has made him bitter.” Bilbo got to his feet.

Frodo scanned Bilbo’s face, feeling ashamed of the fear that awoke in his mind when he thought of a distant voice in a dream, and the childish need to cling. He smiled finally. “I do love you, Bilbo,” he said softly, as the old hobbit was about to open the door.

Bilbo looked startled, and then pleased. “Let me get you some food, dear boy,” he said, and went out quietly.

Three weeks later…

“I will say… Willow Loamsdown!”

“That’s cheating! Isn’t that cheating, Frodo? You can’t name a lass whom you’re already courting,” insisted Fatty.

“I think that is cheating,” Frodo confirmed, nodding.

“I don’t care,” Folco said, and took a large swig of his ale.

“Cheater!” Fatty cried dramatically. “Spit that back out! You lose a turn.”

“Too late,” Folco grinned to show he’d already swallowed. “Your turn, Frodo.”

“All right,” Frodo said slowly, racking his memory for a girl’s name that hadn’t been used yet. “How about… Celosia Boffin.”

Fatty burst out laughing as Frodo drank deep of his own ale.

“How dare you mention my sister’s name, you cad!” Folco exclaimed in mock indignation. “I was going to use her,” he muttered as an afterthought.

“Fatty again,” Frodo said cheerfully.

“Very well,” Fatty said. “Er… what’s your other sister’s name, Folco?”

Frodo sputtered into his ale as Folco punched Fatty’s shoulder. “Just for that, I’m drinking the rest of your ale,” Folco said, and did so.

“Well, we’ve named just about every unmarried tween girl in Hobbiton,” Fatty protested.

“You’re probably right,” Folco sighed. “I should be getting home, anyway.”

They paid their bill at the Green Dragon and parted company.

Frodo took a few deep breaths of fresh air to clear his head. Tweenage drinking games were a fun way to pass a lazy afternoon, but Fatty and Folco had invited him out nearly every day since they had returned from the Fair. It was wonderful that the three of them were friends again, but Frodo had forgotten how Folco and Fatty liked to gang up on him and cajole him into drinking more than he ought.

Thus, when Frodo got home and settled in his favourite chair in the parlour, the sound of the door bell didn’t really register.

The bell cord was pulled again, and Frodo heard Bilbo call distractedly from his study, “Frodo! Are you out there? Answer the door, if you please.”

Frodo sighed and sat up. “I’ve got it, Uncle,” he called back, and walked into the foyer. He didn’t think they were expecting anyone. His eyes widened when he finally got the door open.

Bilbo had received visits from some peculiar characters over the decades, though not as many as the good residents of Hobbiton might suppose. But Frodo had met none of them in the years since he had come to live in Bag End. Save for Gandalf, of course.

Frodo hesitantly cleared his throat. He had never seen a Dwarf before, but he felt quite certain that these two were Dwarves. Their travelling hoods could not conceal their enormous beards, and they could not be much taller than Frodo himself. They wore dark, bulky clothes and strong boots, despite the balmy early September weather. One was much older and the other was much younger, but they were both staring at him expectantly.

“Good day,” Frodo greeted them, swallowing his surprise.

“Good day!” boomed the older one. His black beard was laced with silver. “Would this be the residence of Mr. Bilbo Baggins, by chance?”

“Yes—yes it is. Won’t you come in?” Frodo stepped back so they could pass.

The older one entered first, and Frodo couldn’t help but notice his air of authority. Frodo felt quite small and clumsy under his stern gaze. He wondered if this were one of Thorin Oakenshield’s thirteen, who had gone with Bilbo on the Quest of Erebor. But both the Dwarves behaved as if they had never been here before. The younger one seemed too young to have gone on that quest, and he looked around the entranceway with undisguised interest.

“You are not Master Baggins… are you?” Silver Beard asked, looking Frodo up and down doubtfully.

“My name is Frodo Baggins,” Frodo said as he ushered them into the parlour. “Bilbo is my cousin. May I tell him who is calling?”

Silver Beard gave him a short bow from the neck. “I am Gróin, son of Náin. My companion is my great-nephew, Rorin, son of Dwalin.”

Frodo returned the bow numbly. “I—I’ll just fetch Bilbo. Please, make yourselves comfortable.” He hastened to Bilbo’s study, heart racing with excitement. He didn’t know the name of either Dwarf, but he recognized both their fathers. Dwalin was one of the Thirteen, and, if he wasn’t mistaken, Náin was King Náin II. Exalted company indeed. Whatever did they want with Bilbo?

Frodo knocked lightly on the study door and entered. “Bilbo!” he said excitedly.

Bilbo turned from his desk and frowned at his nephew. “Whatever is the matter, boy? Your cheeks are all flushed!”

“You’ll never guess who is here!”

“Good heavens!” Bilbo exclaimed when Frodo told him. “How peculiar. Well… well, let’s not keep them waiting, Frodo-lad. Run to the kitchen and make a tray of sandwiches. I’ll see what this is all about.”