Marigold's Tale Challenge 36 - Silence by Febobe

07:43 am - Silence by Febobe

An AU story in which Frodo has not sailed West, but remains in the Shire with Sam and Rosie. On the third anniversary of the Ring's destruction, Frodo falls ill, but there is Elanor's birthday-party...




My three elements: elevenses, a velvet waistcoat, and a mother cat with kittens

SILENCE by Frodo Baggins of Bag End (FBoBE/"Febobe") febobe@yahoo.com

Summary: An AU story in which Frodo has not sailed West, but remains in the Shire with Sam and Rosie. On the third anniversary of the Ring's destruction, Frodo falls ill, but there is Elanor's birthday-party. . . .

Beta by Marigold and Llinos


"Mr. Frodo! Wake up, Mr. Frodo! Your breakfast is ready."

Sleepily Frodo turned in his bed, trying to stifle a wince at the throb in his hand as he untangled himself from the covers. What - yes. It was March 25th. The day the Ring had gone into the fire, three years ago. . .and now, Elanor's first birthday.

"Now, don't you worry; Rosie's got everything under control." Sam set a wooden tray before him, upon which sat a porcelain service bearing freshly made tea and toast, along with his favourite marmalades in a small jewelled array. "Just you eat up, and I'll be back to get this so you can rest, and in a while one of us'll bring second breakfast."

Nodding vaguely, Frodo sat up, allowing Sam to prop pillows behind him. First breakfast in bed was no longer an absolute necessity, but an indulgence Sam and Rosie had continued, one he had allowed them, for, much as he hated to be an imposition on anyone, not even the Quest had managed to make an early riser of him, and it seemed he was more exhausted in the mornings than ever these days, unable to fall asleep until the small hours, just before dawn kissed the sky. In truth, even on ordinary mornings, he felt too weak now to manage rising and wandering to the kitchen for first breakfast. Much less today. Anxiously he reached to clasp the jewel on its chain about his throat, sighing with relief at the comfort of its touch. Though he had not chosen to sail West, Arwen's gift had proven a blessing of its own, a comfort in dark moments when all else seemed to fail. Silently he prayed that it would be enough for today. With a sigh he released the gem at last, picking up a piece of toast and spreading it first with butter, then lime marmalade, before taking a bite. The morning ritual of toast, butter and marmalade with warm milk was a long-standing one; it had existed even before Sam came to live at Bag End, when in addition to his tasks in the gardens he insisted on "doing for" Mr. Frodo a bit and Frodo finally yielded in this matter at least. The toast and milk were at least easy to swallow. Easier than he had anticipated, at any rate. Pushing the tray aside for Sam to collect, Frodo rearranged the pillows and lay down, yawning.

Almost at once he fell back into an uneasy drowse. He stood at the edge of a precipice, looking down into a lake of fire. Behind him, he heard a voice, but he heeded it not. And then, from his own mouth, as if in some nightmare, he heard the dreaded words again; heard himself claim the Ring. . . . Abruptly, he felt a sharp pain; a sharpness, and then a horrible ripping away, and his finger was gone! But worse, worse, the Ring was gone, the Ring. . .

Frodo awoke abruptly in an icy sweat. The empty tray was gone, but Sam must have come and taken it some time ago, for Frodo was drenched in perspiration from the nightmare - yes, yes, that was it - and trembling in spite of the fire blazing in his heart. Surely Sam would have woken him from such a horrible dream had he known. At once he sat up, forcing himself to be steady. He could not let Sam find him like this. Today was Elly’s day; she would be a year old, and her parents were so busy with her first party. It would spoil it for Sam to feel he must take care of his master.

Reluctantly, with a great effort, he rose and made his way to the wash-basin. Fortunately, the water Sam had left was still reasonably warm, and he managed to sponge off and change into a clean nightshirt, stashing the other in the laundry-basket Rosie left in his room. Sam was observant, but the nightshirts were identical; he would never notice the difference. Best to save the party-clothes until after second breakfast; he almost always took that in bed anyway, and there was no sense in risking a spill.
He glanced at the wardrobe, where his cinnamon trousers hung beside a crisp white shirt and his favourite blue velvet waistcoat, the one Aragorn had had made for him in Minas Tirith.

There was a soft knock at the door, and Sam entered, bearing a much more sizable tray, which he placed gingerly on the bed beside his master. "There now! You're looking awake, Mr. Frodo, and no mistake about it! Did you get a bit more sleep?"

Frodo nodded. "I did, Sam. Thank you." No sense telling him the rest and darkening their day.

Sam smiled broadly. "Well, Rosie wanted to be sure you'd have plenty in your stomach, something good and strengthening to start the day on, so she made up an extra-special second breakfast this morning." He lifted the cover to reveal the dishes, and at once Frodo felt guilty at his lack of appetite. There was sliced apple, ham, sage derby, and chive egg fluff, there were whole-wheat sage griddlecakes with mushroom sauce, there were sausages and there were Duchesse potatoes - with onion, creamed spinach and eggs.

"Well, I'll leave you to it. Eat up, Mr. Frodo!"

As soon as the door closed behind Sam, Frodo found himself debating what to do. He couldn't send it back untouched. Then they would *know* something was the matter. But he couldn't possibly manage all that food, either. And there was no one about to pass it off to, like Merry or Pippin, neither of whom fell for that trick any longer as it was. He couldn't empty the dishes into the chamber-pot or out of the window, because Rosie or Sam would be sure to notice. . . . There was nothing for it. He would have to eat at least a little.

Some time later, Frodo settled back and surveyed the damage. Not as much as he had hoped for, but more than he had felt up to managing. Already he felt bilious. He had managed some of each dish, then pushed each around on the plates so that it looked like more was really missing than was.

"Mr. Frodo?" Sam ducked his head back in. "If you're finished, I can take your tray now."

"Yes, Sam. Thank you. I'm quite replete." He waited until Sam had left the room and was out of earshot, then latched the door and reached for the chamber-pot beneath his bed, bending over it as he retched.

Some time later, after emptying and cleaning the pot and returning it to his room without incident, thanks to a near-crisis with the birthday-cake, Frodo secluded himself in his study, feeling as weak as a kitten. He was trembling, and sweat stood on his brow, in spite of his efforts to keep it wiped away with his handkerchief. Perhaps the best thing for him would be a bit of work. Yes, some time with the Red Book would do him good.

He nearly laughed darkly at the irony. Working on the book drained him, and he was far into the darkest days of the Quest in his writing now. Hardly material to lift his spirits. How he longed simply to return to bed and huddle beneath the warm covers! But no, that was out of the question. To tell Sam or Rosie that he was feeling unwell would be unthinkable.

And what, a large part of him wondered, would be so wrong with that? To be put to bed, to be quietly fussed over and made much of, to be expected to do nothing more than remain in bed while others saw to what need he had for food and drink and medicine. The softness of familiar sheets, the warmth of his quilts, made by Baggins wives for time out of mind - his mother, and Bilbo's mother, and others.

Sighing, Frodo forced himself to return to work, bending over the page afresh, although his hands shook. He could not write a single word.

"Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo looked up with a start. Rosie had slipped unobtrusively into the room and stood at his side, carrying a cup of broth and a cream-cracker, which she held out to him.

"Thought you might try a bit of something for elevenses, sir. There's more in the kitchen if you'd like something else - "

"No, thank you - this will be more than enough." He accepted gratefully, steadying his hand with an effort. Rosie frowned.

"Are you all right for Elly’s party this afternoon, sir? Begging pardon, but you don't look at all well."

Frodo took a cautious sip of the hot beef broth, letting it warm him from the inside out, hoping it might help quell the shaking feeling he had. "I'm fine, Rosie. Just a little tired. I'll be well enough. Don't fret about me."

Clucking her tongue slightly, she retreated, still eyeing him suspiciously. For a moment, he started to apologise, but no amount of effort would force his mouth to open. And then she was gone. It was only with an effort that Frodo managed to remain upright on his desk-stool, making notes, for another two hours, when there came a soft knock at the door.

"Mr. Frodo? Begging pardon, sir, but luncheon's ready, if you'd like to come out. If you'd rather, Rosie can make up a tray for you."

"Yes, please, if it isn't too much trouble." He winced at his own words, embarrassed at the thought of causing any more work on such a busy day, but he could hardly risk Rosie and Sam noticing how he picked at his food, or how long it took him to get down even a small amount of something.

After this morning, he wasn't even certain luncheon *would* go down, or how long it would stay if it did, so better to take it in private.

Scarcely any time at all seemed to have passed before Sam returned, bearing the same tray that he had used for second breakfast. This he set on a small table near the window, pulling out the chair for his master and lifting the tray-cover to reveal several dishes.

"Rosie noticed you didn't eat much for second breakfast, so she thought you might take to something lighter for lunch. Still right nice, but a bit less heavy, maybe."

Frodo rose to join him and studied the tray, nodding. There was chicken soup, creamed fish, mashed potato, bread and butter pudding, white cake, and tea. "I think this will do nicely, Sam. Thank you. And thank Rosie."

The minute Sam was gone, Frodo studied the tray warily, sitting down only with great trepidation. Chicken soup and tea, now those seemed safe enough. And perhaps he could at least try the mashed potato. Fish he did not dare in any form, not today, creamed or otherwise. The puddings he had better leave until he saw how the other food settled.

This time, indeed, he found his efforts successful. Rosie's idea had proven a good one: the lighter food settled better on his stomach, and this time he was not forced to seek out a chamber-pot afterwards, although much of the meal remained on the tray. Still, his head began to ache and he felt dizzy. And Elly’s party still to go, he reminded himself. You must at least bear up through that, Frodo Baggins, whatever happens afterwards!

By the time Bag End began to fill with tiny guests and their mothers, Frodo felt weak and ill, though he forced himself to make an appearance in the front parlour, first pinching his cheeks to try and put some colour back into his face. Elanor squealed with delight the moment he entered, and begged to be picked up, so he gathered her up and sat in the rocking-chair with her in his lap, grateful to avoid obligations to rise. The party-games were an easy enough matter, for Rosie led the children in simple indoor games while the mothers chatted. However, all too soon it was time to eat, and Frodo found himself swallowing nervously as he was ushered to the front of the line with Elanor, urged to fill his own plate even as he helped fill hers.

Certainly it was not the quality or quantity of food that disturbed him: there was an abundance of jam sandwiches, seed-cake, frosted biscuits, assorted fairy cakes, gingerbread shapes, blackcurrant squash and, of course, birthday-cake. But, as before, he simply didn't feel hungry. In fact, he wasn't certain how much he could eat without being taken ill. Cautiously he selected a couple of jam sandwiches, a gingerbread star, a small slice of birthday-cake, and a cup of blackcurrant squash - perhaps a third of what most adults were eating - and settled himself back in his chair with Elly and her full plate. All his concentration went into keeping child and both plates balanced along with trying to eat something; no small feat, though Elly at least helped by sitting comparatively still and giving her attention to eating rather than trying to play with her food.

Nonetheless, the buzz of conversation soon became too much for him. He felt full to the point of feeling sick, and leaned back in the chair nervously, longing for fresh air and a place to lie down, somewhere quiet. Then rescue came from the most unexpected of places.

"Our cat has just had kittens," put in Marigold. "Would the little ones like to see them? Our farm's not more than a skip up the hill, and I've freshly-baked biscuits in the kitchen to make it worth the while. The mother cat's very gentle; she won't hurt you if you don't try to touch her babies."

"A grand idea," Sam agreed. "I could take Elly-elle, and Rosie, Mr. Frodo, you can stay here if you'd rather."

A chorus of tiny squeals and cheers went up, and Frodo nearly crumpled in his chair with relief. As Sam reached to take Elanor from his arms, he yielded willingly, handing her over to her father. Within what seemed like only minutes, the room was clear of all, save Rosie and himself, and he could hear the front door of Bag End shut quietly behind the last to depart. Promptly he rose to return to his study, steadying himself against the chair as best he could, but Rose met his gaze firmly, her eyes critical.

"Mr. Frodo, you're not well, and no mistake."

"I'm fine, Rosie." He forced a smile, but even he could feel the falseness that showed through it. "A bit tired, if anything."

"Pshaw!" She wrinkled her nose disapprovingly, coming to his side, and in her brown eyes he saw a maternal softness. Gently she raised a hand to cup his cheek. "You've a fever, and you've been off your food more than usual all day. Now, why don't you tell Rosie what's the matter?" And suddenly Frodo found himself shaking, spilling out the words, hiccupping out in bits and pieces what had happened that day and how he felt. Rosie listened calmly until he finished, then put her arm around him.

"I think you had better be in bed, Mr. Frodo. Come along, now."

Obediently Frodo followed her lead, allowing her to escort him down the long hallway to his room, where she swiftly folded back covers and nodded for him to sit while she went to the wardrobe and retrieved a clean nightshirt. This she placed on a warming-rack by the hearth.

"We'll want that good and warm when Sam gets back to help you change," she nodded briskly. "Your dinner'll be ready a little early, and I want you to eat it up. It'll be nice and light, I promise. Lighter even than lunch."

"Rosie, I'm not hungry - "

"You must eat. At least try." Her eyes filled with worry, and Frodo reluctantly nodded, sighing. Closing his eyes, he found himself growing drowsy. When he opened them again, the light outside had already begun to change to pink and gold, and low voices spoke nearby.

"What's this? Is Mr. Frodo all right?" The anxious voice was Sam's: he had returned, and stood in the doorway with Elanor balanced on his hip.

"Sam," Rose pointed out gently, "it's the third anniversary of - of poor Mr. Frodo losing his finger."

"Ninnyhammers and numbskulls!" Sam shook his head. "Gone and done more harm than good, I have - I only thought it might upset him, drawing attention to it and all, so I didn't, and now look what's come of it." At once he offered Elanor to her mother. "Would you take Elly-elle back to her party? I can see to Mr. Frodo from here."

"All right. Only I'll be back before dinnertime. I have plans for that."

Already gathering the nightshirt from the warming-rack, Sam nodded. "Thank you, love." He turned back to the bed, his voice returning to a normal level. "Now then, master, let's see about making you a bit more comfortable, shall we?"

It was a great relief to Frodo to be undressed and helped into a clean nightshirt, tucked into bed and offered a drink of fresh water, to have his brow mopped with a cool, damp cloth. Gradually he fell into a restless slumber, his injured hand clutching Arwen's jewel. By the time he woke again, the light was beginning to fade to darkness at the window and Rosie was edging her way into the room with a small tray. At once she smiled.

"Had some sleep, then, have you? Any sleep's good, even if it's not much. Now, do you think you can sit up and try a bit of dinner for me?"

"But - " Frodo blinked bemusedly. "The party - "

"Mr. Frodo, the party's over. Everyone's been gone a full hour at the least." Rose's voice was kind as she set the tray down and settled herself beside it.

"Now, do you feel up to feeding yourself, or would you prefer a little help?"

"No, I - I can manage." He looked down as Rose lifted the tray-cover to unveil a delicate array of small dishes: milk-toast in a little silver dish, wine-jelly in a small glass, a tiny bowl of stewed apple dusted lightly with cinnamon and nutmeg, a dish of rice-pudding and a cup of hot tea with honey. "It does look good. Thank you Rose."

Rose beamed. "I'll believe that when I see you eating it and it staying down. Now let's try just a little to start - your choice."

And Frodo couldn't help but smile. The Ring was gone, true. Likely as not that would always eat at him like a worm in an apple. It couldn't be helped. But he felt loved.

~the end~