An Unexpected Addition (Thilbo - Bagginshield)

Healing

Frodo was absolutely miserable.

The first night of his illness had not passed by well, especially since Bilbo started to show signs of the flu only a few hours later. Thankfully, the older hobbit only appeared to suffer from extreme fatigue, chills, fever, and a constant aching in his joints, which had not made his bout with the flu too terrible so far. Poor Frodo, on the other hand, had been experiencing every unpleasant symptom that a young child could suffer with the flu, bout after bout of diarrhea plaguing the little boy's sleep.

"Gotta go," whined Frodo, "Now."

Releasing a deep sigh, Glóin simply stood up from the bed and marched off to the washroom for the umpteenth time that morning. All of them had taken shifts in caring for the sickly hobbits, but those with actual child-care experience had offered their services a bit more often. The rest of them went about their work as usual, Erebor's reconstruction a constant source of labor for them.

"I'm feeling a whole new level of respect for my wife at this point," said Glóin on his return. A coughing Frodo was tucked up against his soft beard. "Gimli rarely fell ill, but she always made tending to him appear so simple."

"Tending to the ill," said Óin, "Especially children, is rarely simple, brother. Now, let's take a listen to his breathing again."

The dwarven healer leaned forward with his ear trumpet to inspect Frodo's croupy breathing, something that had developed in the early morning hours. It seemed that travel, and horrid weather, had not been kind to the little boy and he'd caught a pair of very nasty illnesses from their human companions. But Óin had seen a few similar cases throughout his years and had been prepared for such an occurrence. And with all of the other dwarves as volunteers, supplies had been easy to gather from the markets and local wilderness.

"Still very wheezy," Óin sighed. "I'll have to mix-up some more chest rub for the lil' one's congestion. And tonic for the sore throat." He grimaced when Frodo coughed in his face. "Did he keep down any of the soup?"

"Well, it didn't come out the top, if that's what you're asking," said Glóin. "But a lot came out the back about ten minutes ago. He did drink some water, though."

"Bombur will be quite upset."

The rotund dwarf had been toiling in the royal kitchen all morning, determined to create a liquid food of some type that Frodo could keep down. Bilbo had managed to eat a half-bowl without vomiting, but the younger hobbit hadn't been so lucky. He'd thrown up a good portion of it last night on Thorin. And then the diarrhea had set in, something their usually stoic King had been quite upset by, especially after Óin had explained how deadly dehydration could be to young children.

"I've got snot all over my beard," sighed Glóin. The faunt had a habit of putting his face into Glóin's fluffy facial hair whenever his head started to ache too much. And an untold amount of snot had settled in it now. "Dala would be laughing herself hoarse if she was here to see it."

"Glóril can do all the laughing for her," said Óin with a smirk. "And she'll be here in a few short months. Gimli must be driving her mad by now."

Glóin smiled fondly. "Aye, the laddie was nearly up to my chin when I last—" And then Frodo sneezed right into his beard. "By Mahâl, lil' one!"

"Well, that's quite gross."

"So," drawled Thorin when he walked into the room, "It would seem that the snot, vomit, and other fluids are indiscriminately doled out, then."

"When a child has to vomit, they just vomit," explained Óin while he mashed two handfuls of elderberries into a paste for his tonics. "It all comes down to being in the very wrong place at the very wrong time. Just like Glóin's beard."