FIC: A NOBLE THING, 1/2
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: PG
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.
Author's note: TTT movieverse here, but AU. This is a fic I wrote a couple of months ago . . . I decided to finish it and polish it up. I've also put Frodo in the Houses of Healing here, as opposed to Ithilien, for the sake of the story.
****
Sweet stars, he hurt everywhere. Where was he? He wasn't sure he wanted to know, or even to remember. About him he sensed quiet activity---the bustling about of people---and heard more than a few low moans or utterances from others filling the beds of the Houses of Healing. Frodo shifted, regretting it when a burning pain shot through his back. He groaned, quieting only when a large warm hand caressed his brow and smoothed his bangs back.
"Sssshhh, Frodo . . ." a kindly voice said. "Sleep."
There had been *many* kindly voices speaking softly to him throughout the past days; some of which he had recognized and some of which he hadn't. He knew Aragorn was there, as was, praise be, Gandalf, and he had grown used to Ioreth's tender touch. Frodo vaguely remembered the voice now speaking also, but could not place it without turning his aching head and opening heavy eyelids to stare at the person.
Unable to spare the energy to form an expression of surprise, Frodo nevertheless was quite shocked to see who was watching over him. "C--captain F--Faramir?" he virtually croaked, his throat sore and unused. He'd been sleeping forever, it seemed; waking periodically, still in a drug-induced haze, to be fed or bathed or to have his wounds treated. And now, he could hear Sam's soft snores emanating from the bed beside him.
"Yes, indeed. Do not try to talk, Frodo. You have been very ill and have much to recover from."
Frodo stared at him, recalling the last time he'd seen the man's keen eyes and noble features, so like his brother's. Osgiliath, when Captain Faramir had allowed the hobbits to continue on their journey. At present, Faramir's hand on his face was gentle, soothing----a far cry from the initial distrust Frodo and Sam had encountered upon their capture by the Gondorian rangers.
"W. . . what are you . . . doing here?" Frodo managed, coughing.
"I am a patient as well, but am recovering," Faramir said simply as he leaned forward to wipe the hobbit's mouth with a damp cloth. "I've been sitting by your and Sam's bedsides the past few days, helping Aragorn and the others. It is the . . . the least I can do after my earlier trespasses."
Frodo closed his eyes in silent thanks for the care, feeling the pain of his injuries. And there seemed to be many of them. Though covered with soft blankets, he was aware that he was naked underneath, and that his torso and feet and right hand were heavily bandaged and throbbing. Weakness permeated his bones, and he doubted he had the strength to even lift his head off the pillow. But he must, because he felt sweat
break out on his brow and realized he was about to throw up.
Faramir must have noticed; within a moment's time he rolled Frodo onto his side and placed a basin under his chin, pressing a cool cloth to Frodo's forehead at the same time. The hobbit retched and vomited, wincing at the pain of it but grateful for someone to help him. When he was done, the steward promptly removed the basin and rolled him back over.
"Here, now," Faramir said, reaching for a cup on a nearby table. "Aragorn said I was to give you this when you woke. It will help with the pain and any nausea."
"I d . . . don't . . ."
"No, we'll have none of that," the man answered, gently slipping a hand under the back of Frodo's head and lifting it slightly as he placed the cup to the hobbit's lips. "You must drink it all down."
Trying not to let a whimper of pain escape him at the movement, Frodo complied, swallowing the slightly tangy drink very slowly. Ginger tea laced with something he could not place. Faramir's touch was soothing, and as he drank Frodo recalled the man's kindness, even while the hobbits were essentially prisoners, in Ithilien.
***
"What I wouldn't give for a hot bath right now," Frodo said to his gardener as the two of them sat in a small recess in the cave of Henneth-Annun. "I feel like I've still got the slime of the Dead Marshes all over my skin." Sniffing his coat sleeve, he wrinkled his nose and sighed, after which he began to scratch his arms miserably. The itching had been nearly unbearable when he'd been blindfolded, his arms tied behind him, unable to gain relief. As it was, he noticed he had blood on his nails from scratching so roughly and quickly wiped his hands on his weskit so Sam wouldn't notice.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered. "I didn't fall in as you did, but I reckon I still stink of that foul place."
Frodo smiled slightly. "You smell better than I do, Sam. I don't think I shall ever be clean again." He was about to say something more when he the curtain was pulled back and the tall Captain of Gondor, along with another ranger, strode in. Faramir's face was stern and unreadable, as it had been since the hobbits' capture.
"You must eat," he said simply, setting a tray laden with edibles down on the floor. Frodo and Sam stared at it and glanced briefly at each other; their stomachs rumbling at the thought of something besides lembas. There was fine soft bread and dried meats and fruits and wedges of yellow cheese. But still, the hobbits made no move toward the food, instead looking back up at Captain Faramir. In answer the man stared at them, his eyebrows faintly raised.
"You needn't be so surprised. You are indeed in my custody, but I am not in the habit of torturing prisoners or starving them. The food is not fancy, but it is the best we have here. Now, wash up and eat . . . we have a long journey ahead of us soon."
Thank you," Frodo said simply, hoping to ward off any further questions regarding his presence so close to Mordor. The other Gondorian sat a bowl of cool water and cloths on the floor, and both hobbits gratefully washed their filthy hands and faces. Sam amused the men greatly by dunking his entire head in the bowl and sputtering, and it was nearly all Frodo could do to keep from partially disrobing and sponging off his torso, for it itched terribly under the mithril coat. In fact, when he dried his hands, he noticed an unpleasant-looking reddish rash spotted the backs of them.
Looking up, he caught Sam staring, the gardener's eyebrows creased together.
"It's nothing, Sam."
Captain Faramir was just turning to leave when, to Frodo's irritation, their talk captured the man's attention. Turning, Faramir knelt and grasped the hobbit's hand without asking permission and turned it over, examining the itchy skin. Pushing Frodo's sleeve up, he frowned, for the rash covered the forearm and disappeared under Frodo's clothing.
"Does it itch?" Faramir asked.
Unable to lie when he was obviously scratching all over, Frodo nodded. The captain glanced up at him, his gaze on the Ring at Frodo's chest, and the hobbit's eyes widened as he breathed a bit faster.
Seeing his despair, Faramir raised an eyebrow. "Do not fear me, Frodo. I am simply noticing . . . that the rash is on your chest, too. It is everywhere, I presume?"
Miserably, Frodo nodded. "Yes."
This time Sam chimed in. "He fell into the Dead Marshes---probably something nasty in that water that caused this. Nasty, smelly, stinking foul place, it is."
A knowing look crossed Faramir's face. "Indeed, I imagine that's what it is. The Dead Marshes are known to us---no man here dares to enter them. But if, as you are telling me, you fell in the water, I fear you have picked up something unpleasant that is causing this irritation. I do not know how to cure it, but perhaps I can offer you some relief."
Frodo was wary to accept any help from this man---he'd almost rather itch. "How?"
"We've not much wood for a fire, but we've no lack of water and can certainly heat up enough for you to bathe in."
"Bathe . . . with hot water?" Frodo asked, surprised. The thought of such a luxury, even in this place, seemed almost too lovely to believe. He'd not enjoyed a hot bath since leaving Lothlorien---and his skin had never felt so terrible.
"Yes, but there is only one problem," Faramir said. "We have not a washtub." Gazing at Frodo as if to size him up, Faramir thought for a moment before finally looking behind the hobbits at the large storage barrels lined up against the wall. "Ah, I believe I have found a way. You are small enough; we have but to fill one of those barrels with water."
Frodo turned around, and indeed, though a man would be hard-put to get his legs into one of the casks, a hobbit would fit into it quite easily. Nodding, he agreed, stunned beyond belief at the stern captain's offer. "I thank you . . . and I'm sure Sam will appreciate taking a bath in it as well."
Faramir rose, nodding, and made to leave. "I will see to it."
To be continued
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: PG
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that all medical treatments contained herein are purely for entertainment value and are not meant to replace professional medical advice.
Author's note: TTT movieverse here, but AU. This is a fic I wrote a couple of months ago . . . I decided to finish it and polish it up. I've also put Frodo in the Houses of Healing here, as opposed to Ithilien, for the sake of the story.
****
Sweet stars, he hurt everywhere. Where was he? He wasn't sure he wanted to know, or even to remember. About him he sensed quiet activity---the bustling about of people---and heard more than a few low moans or utterances from others filling the beds of the Houses of Healing. Frodo shifted, regretting it when a burning pain shot through his back. He groaned, quieting only when a large warm hand caressed his brow and smoothed his bangs back.
"Sssshhh, Frodo . . ." a kindly voice said. "Sleep."
There had been *many* kindly voices speaking softly to him throughout the past days; some of which he had recognized and some of which he hadn't. He knew Aragorn was there, as was, praise be, Gandalf, and he had grown used to Ioreth's tender touch. Frodo vaguely remembered the voice now speaking also, but could not place it without turning his aching head and opening heavy eyelids to stare at the person.
Unable to spare the energy to form an expression of surprise, Frodo nevertheless was quite shocked to see who was watching over him. "C--captain F--Faramir?" he virtually croaked, his throat sore and unused. He'd been sleeping forever, it seemed; waking periodically, still in a drug-induced haze, to be fed or bathed or to have his wounds treated. And now, he could hear Sam's soft snores emanating from the bed beside him.
"Yes, indeed. Do not try to talk, Frodo. You have been very ill and have much to recover from."
Frodo stared at him, recalling the last time he'd seen the man's keen eyes and noble features, so like his brother's. Osgiliath, when Captain Faramir had allowed the hobbits to continue on their journey. At present, Faramir's hand on his face was gentle, soothing----a far cry from the initial distrust Frodo and Sam had encountered upon their capture by the Gondorian rangers.
"W. . . what are you . . . doing here?" Frodo managed, coughing.
"I am a patient as well, but am recovering," Faramir said simply as he leaned forward to wipe the hobbit's mouth with a damp cloth. "I've been sitting by your and Sam's bedsides the past few days, helping Aragorn and the others. It is the . . . the least I can do after my earlier trespasses."
Frodo closed his eyes in silent thanks for the care, feeling the pain of his injuries. And there seemed to be many of them. Though covered with soft blankets, he was aware that he was naked underneath, and that his torso and feet and right hand were heavily bandaged and throbbing. Weakness permeated his bones, and he doubted he had the strength to even lift his head off the pillow. But he must, because he felt sweat
break out on his brow and realized he was about to throw up.
Faramir must have noticed; within a moment's time he rolled Frodo onto his side and placed a basin under his chin, pressing a cool cloth to Frodo's forehead at the same time. The hobbit retched and vomited, wincing at the pain of it but grateful for someone to help him. When he was done, the steward promptly removed the basin and rolled him back over.
"Here, now," Faramir said, reaching for a cup on a nearby table. "Aragorn said I was to give you this when you woke. It will help with the pain and any nausea."
"I d . . . don't . . ."
"No, we'll have none of that," the man answered, gently slipping a hand under the back of Frodo's head and lifting it slightly as he placed the cup to the hobbit's lips. "You must drink it all down."
Trying not to let a whimper of pain escape him at the movement, Frodo complied, swallowing the slightly tangy drink very slowly. Ginger tea laced with something he could not place. Faramir's touch was soothing, and as he drank Frodo recalled the man's kindness, even while the hobbits were essentially prisoners, in Ithilien.
***
"What I wouldn't give for a hot bath right now," Frodo said to his gardener as the two of them sat in a small recess in the cave of Henneth-Annun. "I feel like I've still got the slime of the Dead Marshes all over my skin." Sniffing his coat sleeve, he wrinkled his nose and sighed, after which he began to scratch his arms miserably. The itching had been nearly unbearable when he'd been blindfolded, his arms tied behind him, unable to gain relief. As it was, he noticed he had blood on his nails from scratching so roughly and quickly wiped his hands on his weskit so Sam wouldn't notice.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Frodo," Sam answered. "I didn't fall in as you did, but I reckon I still stink of that foul place."
Frodo smiled slightly. "You smell better than I do, Sam. I don't think I shall ever be clean again." He was about to say something more when he the curtain was pulled back and the tall Captain of Gondor, along with another ranger, strode in. Faramir's face was stern and unreadable, as it had been since the hobbits' capture.
"You must eat," he said simply, setting a tray laden with edibles down on the floor. Frodo and Sam stared at it and glanced briefly at each other; their stomachs rumbling at the thought of something besides lembas. There was fine soft bread and dried meats and fruits and wedges of yellow cheese. But still, the hobbits made no move toward the food, instead looking back up at Captain Faramir. In answer the man stared at them, his eyebrows faintly raised.
"You needn't be so surprised. You are indeed in my custody, but I am not in the habit of torturing prisoners or starving them. The food is not fancy, but it is the best we have here. Now, wash up and eat . . . we have a long journey ahead of us soon."
Thank you," Frodo said simply, hoping to ward off any further questions regarding his presence so close to Mordor. The other Gondorian sat a bowl of cool water and cloths on the floor, and both hobbits gratefully washed their filthy hands and faces. Sam amused the men greatly by dunking his entire head in the bowl and sputtering, and it was nearly all Frodo could do to keep from partially disrobing and sponging off his torso, for it itched terribly under the mithril coat. In fact, when he dried his hands, he noticed an unpleasant-looking reddish rash spotted the backs of them.
Looking up, he caught Sam staring, the gardener's eyebrows creased together.
"It's nothing, Sam."
Captain Faramir was just turning to leave when, to Frodo's irritation, their talk captured the man's attention. Turning, Faramir knelt and grasped the hobbit's hand without asking permission and turned it over, examining the itchy skin. Pushing Frodo's sleeve up, he frowned, for the rash covered the forearm and disappeared under Frodo's clothing.
"Does it itch?" Faramir asked.
Unable to lie when he was obviously scratching all over, Frodo nodded. The captain glanced up at him, his gaze on the Ring at Frodo's chest, and the hobbit's eyes widened as he breathed a bit faster.
Seeing his despair, Faramir raised an eyebrow. "Do not fear me, Frodo. I am simply noticing . . . that the rash is on your chest, too. It is everywhere, I presume?"
Miserably, Frodo nodded. "Yes."
This time Sam chimed in. "He fell into the Dead Marshes---probably something nasty in that water that caused this. Nasty, smelly, stinking foul place, it is."
A knowing look crossed Faramir's face. "Indeed, I imagine that's what it is. The Dead Marshes are known to us---no man here dares to enter them. But if, as you are telling me, you fell in the water, I fear you have picked up something unpleasant that is causing this irritation. I do not know how to cure it, but perhaps I can offer you some relief."
Frodo was wary to accept any help from this man---he'd almost rather itch. "How?"
"We've not much wood for a fire, but we've no lack of water and can certainly heat up enough for you to bathe in."
"Bathe . . . with hot water?" Frodo asked, surprised. The thought of such a luxury, even in this place, seemed almost too lovely to believe. He'd not enjoyed a hot bath since leaving Lothlorien---and his skin had never felt so terrible.
"Yes, but there is only one problem," Faramir said. "We have not a washtub." Gazing at Frodo as if to size him up, Faramir thought for a moment before finally looking behind the hobbits at the large storage barrels lined up against the wall. "Ah, I believe I have found a way. You are small enough; we have but to fill one of those barrels with water."
Frodo turned around, and indeed, though a man would be hard-put to get his legs into one of the casks, a hobbit would fit into it quite easily. Nodding, he agreed, stunned beyond belief at the stern captain's offer. "I thank you . . . and I'm sure Sam will appreciate taking a bath in it as well."
Faramir rose, nodding, and made to leave. "I will see to it."
To be continued