FIC: THE PINE-WOODS EXCURSION, PART 10
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: PG-13 (It could be PG, I just put PG-13 for general creepiness and wee hobbit pain and suffering. A LOT of it.) Angst. No slash, no sex, no language.
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. Contrary to many of my other stories, this fic contains NO slash and is written for the FrodoHealers! group on Yahoo. And I'm sure I don't have to say that the medicinal treatments are purely fictional---don't try this at home.
Feedback: I love it. Archiving: Feel free.
***
The Dark Lord was having his way with him, Frodo told himself fretfully. Everyone knew serpents were a sign of evil from the time of Morgoth; a signal of terrible darkness that stretched back thousands of years. And now, Sauron had managed, in some way, to extend his nefarious powers to the valley of Rivendell. He was out to get one small hobbit, the Ring-bearer, and Frodo felt sure he would likely succeed this time.
Softly spoken words reached his ear as someone gently brushed his cheek. "Frodo, I'm sorry, but you have to wake up a bit and finish drinking this---steady now."
The hobbit opened his eyes and blinked---Aragorn's voice. But the man sitting on the bed holding him up and spooning a vile concoction into him was just a blur of dark and light and Frodo squinted, trying to focus, his breathing labored from fighting the pain.
"Concentrate on swallowing, Frodo," Aragorn urged as he brushed the hobbit's wet bangs back. "I know it's hard, but do not think of anything else. You have to take this---it will make you better." The ranger gently eased the spoon between the tiny lips, waiting several seconds before Frodo swallowed, not without difficulty. His mouth and tongue were partly numb and it had taken Aragorn the better part of a half-hour to get a small cup of this new, very concentrated treacle down Frodo. The ranger hated to force it on him---was afraid Frodo would throw it up again---but they could not afford to waste too much time.
He wondered if it would not be better to sedate Frodo a bit more and had voiced this to Elrond. Frodo might not be able to swallow more treacle while asleep, but he would be more likely to keep down what he did take in. And Elrond had agreed that if the vomiting grew worse, it would be necessary. But the elf lord was very hesitant to do so, as putting the hobbit to sleep in his precarious condition was risky.
Aragorn sighed, wearily pushing his hair back off his face and wishing he could undo the picnic. Who could have foreseen such a thing happening so soon after Frodo's earlier injury? This gentle hobbit, of all people, did not deserve such ill luck.
Frodo choked on the treacle and Aragorn sat him up against his chest and rubbed his back until the coughing fit ceased before laying him back in his arms again and resuming the spoon-feeding. Luckily, the cup was almost empty. Only one more to go for the present. But Frodo was feeling uncooperative and tried to turn his face away.
"N . . . no," he managed, his speech coming out slurred. "I'm . . . I'm . . . tired . . ." He wished they would all leave him alone and let him die in peace. His body was a mass of pain---his leg was on fire and his belly and back and head a constant, throbbing ache. The only parts that did not ache or burn, Frodo was certain, were his elbows and perhaps the ankle of his uninjured leg. And he was afraid he was going to vomit any moment and undo all of Aragorn's hard work.
"I know," Aragorn said gently as he turned Frodo's face back toward him. "I wish we could stop with this, but we must get it down you, I'm afraid. But we're halfway there."
Looking down at the hobbit's pale, sweat-soaked face, he paused. "Frodo . . . Frodo, listen to me." When the blue eyes had managed to focus on him, Aragorn continued. "In a bit, Elrond is going to work on your leg to help ease the pain and swelling. We'll give you something to help with the discomfort, but we cannot put you to sleep because that would be too dangerous in your condition. But it should not take long. Do you understand?"
The hobbit nodded weakly, trembling and swallowing more treacle before whispering, "C . . . cut it? P . . . please . . . don't . . ."
Seeing the fear in the blue eyes, the ranger realized Frodo probably expected the worst---that Elrond was planning to amputate his leg. Hastily Aragorn reassured him. "It's a simple procedure, Frodo---it will help your leg heal faster---we'll not be doing more than that, I promise."
Frodo relaxed a bit, but his eyes had widened at Aragorn's words and he had to hold back his shameful tears. His leg was bad, then. He wondered if what they were going to do was going to hurt abominably. Most likely. Even in his very sick state, Frodo had not ignored Aragorn's use of the word "discomfort." In the Shire, "discomfort" was a euphemism for agonizing pain. Getting stitches, having a tooth pulled--or even giving birth, according to his Aunt Esmeralda, who liked to talk about such personal things in great detail, much to Frodo's horror---all caused just a bit of "discomfort."
His mind was brought back to the present by a spoon making its way into his mouth and he sputtered, forcing Aragorn to again lift him. As he did, Frodo caught sight of his leg---Merry had left the covers off of it---and was dismayed to see that it looked even more swollen than before; the discoloration further advanced nearly up his knee. The hobbit's stomach lurched, and seeing him pale, Aragorn immediately lowered him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead and easing a drop of peppermint syrup onto his tongue.
"Try to hold it in if you can, Frodo . . . we don't want that treacle coming back up if you can help it."
Sweating, the hobbit nodded and was able to quell it just in time. "M . . . ah right," he gasped, shuddering as a sudden wave of pain and dizziness coursed through him. He moaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut, as Aragorn sponged his face and chest, whispering soothing words in Elvish. But Frodo was allowed to lay peacefully only a few moments---when the spasm had passed, the ranger began the slow process of spooning more treacle into the ailing body.
***
Four pairs of eyes watched Gandalf as he strode down the hall toward Frodo's room. Stopping outside the door, the wizard gazed at the hobbits sitting impatiently twiddling their thumbs and clenching their hands, their legs dangling off chairs too tall for them.
"Such long faces," he remarked, eyeing them in turn. "Did Master Elrond send you out of the room?"
Merry spoke up first. "Yes, sir. He's going to operate on Frodo's leg."
"And we were in the way," Pippin chimed in sadly.
"I didn't want to be leavin' Mr. Frodo, Mr. Gandalf, sir," Sam said softly, looking up at the wizard with liquid brown eyes. "But Master Elrond said he could concentrate better with less of us in the room, so here we are."
Gandalf's eyebrows drew together, noticing that Bilbo, who had crept up to join the others some time ago, said nothing. The old hobbit just sat with his hands clutching his cane, his slightly crinkled face careworn and weary. Bilbo wanted to be with Frodo, but he knew better than to try to change Elrond's mind when it came to such things.
"Hmmmph," Gandalf grunted. "I shall go in and see if I have any better luck. Although Elrond might very well toss me out on my proverbial ear as well." He tried to smile, patting Bilbo's shoulder. "Do not worry---and if there is any news, I will be certain to report it."
"Thank you, Gandalf," Bilbo said under his breath, and the others nodded.
Opening the door, the wizard quietly slipped in, surveying the scene. A kettle boiled on the hearth and towels and instruments had been laid out on a table nearby. A drowsy Frodo was positioned on his back near the edge of the bed, his swollen leg elevated on pillows. And from the looks of it, he was experiencing another nosebleed. Arwen sat next to his head, keeping it eased back and talking quietly with Aragorn as she held a cloth to the hobbit's nose. Hearing footsteps, Frodo turned his head slightly, whimpering as he did so and shifting restlessly. Both Arwen and Aragorn stopped their conversation and leaned over him, trying to soothe him into keeping still.
Gandalf tore his eyes away and spotted Elrond draping towels over Frodo's leg in preparation. He was also placing them on the mattress under the limb. He nodded to Gandalf in greeting as the wizard spoke.
"How is Frodo? I see his nose is bleeding again."
The elf lord sighed. "We are hoping this new treacle will halt the poison. We have one more dose to give him just after this is finished---but it will be a while before we know if it is working. I am optimistic, however."
"And this procedure---he is awake, Elrond. Can you not put him to sleep for this?"
"I wish we could, Gandalf, but we dare not risk it. We have given him a tonic to help, however. And I have something that will numb the leg a bit." Obviously preoccupied, Elrond cut the conversation short and sat down upon a stool next to Frodo's bed, looking at Arwen. "Daughter, stay with him and do what you can to ease his pain. This should not take too long." At her nod, Aragorn stationed himself next to Elrond to assist while Gandalf took the chair by Frodo's bed, trying to stay out of the way.
To be continued
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins
RATING: PG-13 (It could be PG, I just put PG-13 for general creepiness and wee hobbit pain and suffering. A LOT of it.) Angst. No slash, no sex, no language.
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. Contrary to many of my other stories, this fic contains NO slash and is written for the FrodoHealers! group on Yahoo. And I'm sure I don't have to say that the medicinal treatments are purely fictional---don't try this at home.
Feedback: I love it. Archiving: Feel free.
***
The Dark Lord was having his way with him, Frodo told himself fretfully. Everyone knew serpents were a sign of evil from the time of Morgoth; a signal of terrible darkness that stretched back thousands of years. And now, Sauron had managed, in some way, to extend his nefarious powers to the valley of Rivendell. He was out to get one small hobbit, the Ring-bearer, and Frodo felt sure he would likely succeed this time.
Softly spoken words reached his ear as someone gently brushed his cheek. "Frodo, I'm sorry, but you have to wake up a bit and finish drinking this---steady now."
The hobbit opened his eyes and blinked---Aragorn's voice. But the man sitting on the bed holding him up and spooning a vile concoction into him was just a blur of dark and light and Frodo squinted, trying to focus, his breathing labored from fighting the pain.
"Concentrate on swallowing, Frodo," Aragorn urged as he brushed the hobbit's wet bangs back. "I know it's hard, but do not think of anything else. You have to take this---it will make you better." The ranger gently eased the spoon between the tiny lips, waiting several seconds before Frodo swallowed, not without difficulty. His mouth and tongue were partly numb and it had taken Aragorn the better part of a half-hour to get a small cup of this new, very concentrated treacle down Frodo. The ranger hated to force it on him---was afraid Frodo would throw it up again---but they could not afford to waste too much time.
He wondered if it would not be better to sedate Frodo a bit more and had voiced this to Elrond. Frodo might not be able to swallow more treacle while asleep, but he would be more likely to keep down what he did take in. And Elrond had agreed that if the vomiting grew worse, it would be necessary. But the elf lord was very hesitant to do so, as putting the hobbit to sleep in his precarious condition was risky.
Aragorn sighed, wearily pushing his hair back off his face and wishing he could undo the picnic. Who could have foreseen such a thing happening so soon after Frodo's earlier injury? This gentle hobbit, of all people, did not deserve such ill luck.
Frodo choked on the treacle and Aragorn sat him up against his chest and rubbed his back until the coughing fit ceased before laying him back in his arms again and resuming the spoon-feeding. Luckily, the cup was almost empty. Only one more to go for the present. But Frodo was feeling uncooperative and tried to turn his face away.
"N . . . no," he managed, his speech coming out slurred. "I'm . . . I'm . . . tired . . ." He wished they would all leave him alone and let him die in peace. His body was a mass of pain---his leg was on fire and his belly and back and head a constant, throbbing ache. The only parts that did not ache or burn, Frodo was certain, were his elbows and perhaps the ankle of his uninjured leg. And he was afraid he was going to vomit any moment and undo all of Aragorn's hard work.
"I know," Aragorn said gently as he turned Frodo's face back toward him. "I wish we could stop with this, but we must get it down you, I'm afraid. But we're halfway there."
Looking down at the hobbit's pale, sweat-soaked face, he paused. "Frodo . . . Frodo, listen to me." When the blue eyes had managed to focus on him, Aragorn continued. "In a bit, Elrond is going to work on your leg to help ease the pain and swelling. We'll give you something to help with the discomfort, but we cannot put you to sleep because that would be too dangerous in your condition. But it should not take long. Do you understand?"
The hobbit nodded weakly, trembling and swallowing more treacle before whispering, "C . . . cut it? P . . . please . . . don't . . ."
Seeing the fear in the blue eyes, the ranger realized Frodo probably expected the worst---that Elrond was planning to amputate his leg. Hastily Aragorn reassured him. "It's a simple procedure, Frodo---it will help your leg heal faster---we'll not be doing more than that, I promise."
Frodo relaxed a bit, but his eyes had widened at Aragorn's words and he had to hold back his shameful tears. His leg was bad, then. He wondered if what they were going to do was going to hurt abominably. Most likely. Even in his very sick state, Frodo had not ignored Aragorn's use of the word "discomfort." In the Shire, "discomfort" was a euphemism for agonizing pain. Getting stitches, having a tooth pulled--or even giving birth, according to his Aunt Esmeralda, who liked to talk about such personal things in great detail, much to Frodo's horror---all caused just a bit of "discomfort."
His mind was brought back to the present by a spoon making its way into his mouth and he sputtered, forcing Aragorn to again lift him. As he did, Frodo caught sight of his leg---Merry had left the covers off of it---and was dismayed to see that it looked even more swollen than before; the discoloration further advanced nearly up his knee. The hobbit's stomach lurched, and seeing him pale, Aragorn immediately lowered him, pressing a cool cloth to his forehead and easing a drop of peppermint syrup onto his tongue.
"Try to hold it in if you can, Frodo . . . we don't want that treacle coming back up if you can help it."
Sweating, the hobbit nodded and was able to quell it just in time. "M . . . ah right," he gasped, shuddering as a sudden wave of pain and dizziness coursed through him. He moaned softly, squeezing his eyes shut, as Aragorn sponged his face and chest, whispering soothing words in Elvish. But Frodo was allowed to lay peacefully only a few moments---when the spasm had passed, the ranger began the slow process of spooning more treacle into the ailing body.
***
Four pairs of eyes watched Gandalf as he strode down the hall toward Frodo's room. Stopping outside the door, the wizard gazed at the hobbits sitting impatiently twiddling their thumbs and clenching their hands, their legs dangling off chairs too tall for them.
"Such long faces," he remarked, eyeing them in turn. "Did Master Elrond send you out of the room?"
Merry spoke up first. "Yes, sir. He's going to operate on Frodo's leg."
"And we were in the way," Pippin chimed in sadly.
"I didn't want to be leavin' Mr. Frodo, Mr. Gandalf, sir," Sam said softly, looking up at the wizard with liquid brown eyes. "But Master Elrond said he could concentrate better with less of us in the room, so here we are."
Gandalf's eyebrows drew together, noticing that Bilbo, who had crept up to join the others some time ago, said nothing. The old hobbit just sat with his hands clutching his cane, his slightly crinkled face careworn and weary. Bilbo wanted to be with Frodo, but he knew better than to try to change Elrond's mind when it came to such things.
"Hmmmph," Gandalf grunted. "I shall go in and see if I have any better luck. Although Elrond might very well toss me out on my proverbial ear as well." He tried to smile, patting Bilbo's shoulder. "Do not worry---and if there is any news, I will be certain to report it."
"Thank you, Gandalf," Bilbo said under his breath, and the others nodded.
Opening the door, the wizard quietly slipped in, surveying the scene. A kettle boiled on the hearth and towels and instruments had been laid out on a table nearby. A drowsy Frodo was positioned on his back near the edge of the bed, his swollen leg elevated on pillows. And from the looks of it, he was experiencing another nosebleed. Arwen sat next to his head, keeping it eased back and talking quietly with Aragorn as she held a cloth to the hobbit's nose. Hearing footsteps, Frodo turned his head slightly, whimpering as he did so and shifting restlessly. Both Arwen and Aragorn stopped their conversation and leaned over him, trying to soothe him into keeping still.
Gandalf tore his eyes away and spotted Elrond draping towels over Frodo's leg in preparation. He was also placing them on the mattress under the limb. He nodded to Gandalf in greeting as the wizard spoke.
"How is Frodo? I see his nose is bleeding again."
The elf lord sighed. "We are hoping this new treacle will halt the poison. We have one more dose to give him just after this is finished---but it will be a while before we know if it is working. I am optimistic, however."
"And this procedure---he is awake, Elrond. Can you not put him to sleep for this?"
"I wish we could, Gandalf, but we dare not risk it. We have given him a tonic to help, however. And I have something that will numb the leg a bit." Obviously preoccupied, Elrond cut the conversation short and sat down upon a stool next to Frodo's bed, looking at Arwen. "Daughter, stay with him and do what you can to ease his pain. This should not take too long." At her nod, Aragorn stationed himself next to Elrond to assist while Gandalf took the chair by Frodo's bed, trying to stay out of the way.
To be continued