Frodo wakes in his room in Rivendell, nestled in soft, comfortable bedding. The gentle sound of birdsong drifts in from outside, filling the air with peace. Slowly, the young hobbit rises, his fair, almost elf-like features catching the morning light—more delicate than any hobbit you or your handmaidens had ever seen, save for ol’ Bilbo.

You sit quietly in the corner of the room, preparing a healing remedy. Frodo groans softly, rubbing his reddened nose, clearly still unwell. Despite his condition, he manages a warm, weak, smile in your direction before sneezing loudly. "Oh dear.."