Once inside the room Bilbo made straight for Frodo's bed, averting his eyes from the bloodied towels and other medical paraphernalia about Elrond as he worked. He desperately wanted to comfort Frodo but felt a bit out of place---everyone looked so very serious. Glancing up at the advancing hobbit, Elrond spoke.
"Ah, Master Bilbo---would you be so good as to settle on the bed next to Frodo . . . your nearness would no doubt assist in easing him."
"Of course, of course . . . oh, thank you, Gandalf," Bilbo said as the wizard hoisted him up. Frodo's bed was rather high off the ground, and an elderly hobbit such as Bilbo had not quite the strength to climb upon it unaided.
Slowly, so as not to jostle the frail body lying before him, Bilbo scooted close to Frodo and curled his body about the younger hobbit's; Arwen still sat on the other side with Frodo's head pillowed in her lap, toweling off his sweat-soaked face. Bilbo eyed his heir with pity as he gently pried the hot water bottle out of Frodo's white-knuckled hands so that he could take the cold fingers in his own.
Opening his eyes, the younger hobbit eyed Bilbo woozily, his mouth working to form words. When he finally forced the words out, they were no more than a slight whisper. "B. . . Bil. . . bo?"
"Yes, I'm here with you now, dear boy," Bilbo soothed, curling his hand about Frodo's. "It shall all be over soon—you'll see. Master Elrond knows what he is doing."
Frodo didn't answer; he simply squeezed the old hobbit's hand back weakly and closed his eyes. Bilbo looked up at Arwen for a moment and their eyes met as they smiled wanly at each other, both intensely concerned for Ring-bearer's well-being.
With a stern look at the others and a "Ready, everyone?" Elrond bent to his task.
Again Frodo was unable to hold back his soft cries, which were muffled somewhat as he tried to curl up and press his face into his pillows. "No, little one," Arwen cooed as she gently held him down. "You must lie still---it will go much more quickly that way."
He nodded . . . vaguely recalling his earlier resolve to remain silent and still despite his suffering. But it hurt so badly . . . surely he would not escape from this alive. Little six-year-old Mosco Burrows had not. Frodo had accompanied Bilbo to Mosco's bedside just a day after the wee hobbit had been bitten in the forearm by a snake. The child, curious as all hobbit-children are, had thrust his arm down a hole in the ground to see what was down there.
After the bite, his arm had swelled up terribly---as Frodo's leg recently had---and Mosco had lain for days in a drug-induced haze, fighting the pain and failing miserably. But little Mosco had no Elrond Halfelven of Rivendell or Aragorn to help him, and the Shire doctors were unable to reverse the effects of the toxins. Frodo had sat by his bedside, wiping the little one's brow, as Mosco breathed his last breath. Nightmares had haunted Frodo for days after that. Mosco had been buried in his parents' backyard, under a large maple tree.
Dimly Frodo wondered what type of funeral he would be if he died from this---would he be entombed---with one simple word on his crypt, "Ring-bearer"? Or would they bury him in a nice shady spot in the Pine-Woods---near the same place he had met his fate when bitten by the snake?
Perhaps, he considered as he lay panting from the pain, they would simply cart his body back to the Shire and bury him under the Party Tree . . . that would be nice---and the hobbit-children would lay yellow roses and waterlilies on his grave . . .
Frodo came back to himself a bit at the sound of voices, realizing he had arched his back up and uttered a loud wail and that Arwen was trying to gently shush him. "H. . . hurts," he moaned softly as he squirmed, causing nearly everyone in the room to sigh.
"It will all be over very soon, Frodo," Arwen whispered, smoothing his hair back as she ran a towel over his ashen features, wiping down his forehead, nose, and chin and imparting as much of her own strength to him as she could. From his position on the stool, Elrond looked over at them sharply.
"Daughter, make certain you keep an eye on his pulse . . ."
"Yes, father."
"Estel, if you would hold that there for me . . . that's it . . . Bilbo, please attempt to keep him from moving . . . "
"Just one moment, Elrond, allow me to soak that . . ."
"That's better . . . he is no longer struggling so . . ."
In his chair, Gandalf had his head bowed and it was all Bilbo could do to keep the food in his stomach as he pressed his upper body to the other hobbit's chest to keep him immobile. He snuck a quick peek at Frodo's leg and shut his eyes tightly to keep the tears from spilling. Just the stack of bloodied towels next to Elrond alone was extremely disquieting. And for all their professionalism, Elrond's and Aragorn's tight expressions were ample evidence of their concern and worry.
A short while later---though to the others it felt like an eternity---the elf lord put his knife down, wiped his hands on a towel, and rose, looking at the fragile hobbit on the bed and leaving Aragorn to sluice the green liquid over the wound as he walked to Frodo's side. His patient's eyes were glazed with unshed tears as he stared at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open.
"It is done, Frodo," Elrond announced softly as the blue eyes shifted to gaze on him, a bit fearful. Reaching down, the elf lord stroked the hobbit's soft cheek. "Aragorn is going to place more poultices upon the wound and will bandage it very lightly. It will be sore---likely very sore, but once the pain of the incision dissipates, you will find it will hurt much less than it does presently. It may need stitches later perhaps, but we shall see."
Elrond leaned over Frodo, and Bilbo, wiping his own sweating brow, moved aside and out of the way. The elf lord carefully checked all of Frodo's vital signs: taking his pulse, feeling the temperature of his skin, and folding back the covers and gently palpating his belly. Frodo whimpered as he did so, trying to draw away, and Arwen whispered soothing words in Elvish until he stilled. Finally, Elrond laid his hands on Frodo's brow as he shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. Several seconds passed before he exhaled and looked at the others in the room.
"He is still suffering from the effects of the poison," he told them, "but it appears we are very close to a reversal. We must give him another dose of the treacle, and we can but hope that will remedy his symptoms and bring about recovery."
There were sighs of relief heard around the room at this possible glimmer of hope, and Bilbo said a silent prayer in his mind. He had not felt so old or weary since . . . since Drogo and Primula's death, after which Frodo---only a small fry at that time---had been inconsolable. Indeed, the most wearing moments of his life, the old hobbit recalled as he stroked his heir's dark locks, had come during times when Frodo's health was at stake.
"You're going to pull through this, my lad," he whispered, leaning close to Frodo's ear. "I just know it." In response, Frodo's eyes shut slowly and his lips, though mostly numb, managed to curve up just the tiniest bit.
To be continued
"Ah, Master Bilbo---would you be so good as to settle on the bed next to Frodo . . . your nearness would no doubt assist in easing him."
"Of course, of course . . . oh, thank you, Gandalf," Bilbo said as the wizard hoisted him up. Frodo's bed was rather high off the ground, and an elderly hobbit such as Bilbo had not quite the strength to climb upon it unaided.
Slowly, so as not to jostle the frail body lying before him, Bilbo scooted close to Frodo and curled his body about the younger hobbit's; Arwen still sat on the other side with Frodo's head pillowed in her lap, toweling off his sweat-soaked face. Bilbo eyed his heir with pity as he gently pried the hot water bottle out of Frodo's white-knuckled hands so that he could take the cold fingers in his own.
Opening his eyes, the younger hobbit eyed Bilbo woozily, his mouth working to form words. When he finally forced the words out, they were no more than a slight whisper. "B. . . Bil. . . bo?"
"Yes, I'm here with you now, dear boy," Bilbo soothed, curling his hand about Frodo's. "It shall all be over soon—you'll see. Master Elrond knows what he is doing."
Frodo didn't answer; he simply squeezed the old hobbit's hand back weakly and closed his eyes. Bilbo looked up at Arwen for a moment and their eyes met as they smiled wanly at each other, both intensely concerned for Ring-bearer's well-being.
With a stern look at the others and a "Ready, everyone?" Elrond bent to his task.
Again Frodo was unable to hold back his soft cries, which were muffled somewhat as he tried to curl up and press his face into his pillows. "No, little one," Arwen cooed as she gently held him down. "You must lie still---it will go much more quickly that way."
He nodded . . . vaguely recalling his earlier resolve to remain silent and still despite his suffering. But it hurt so badly . . . surely he would not escape from this alive. Little six-year-old Mosco Burrows had not. Frodo had accompanied Bilbo to Mosco's bedside just a day after the wee hobbit had been bitten in the forearm by a snake. The child, curious as all hobbit-children are, had thrust his arm down a hole in the ground to see what was down there.
After the bite, his arm had swelled up terribly---as Frodo's leg recently had---and Mosco had lain for days in a drug-induced haze, fighting the pain and failing miserably. But little Mosco had no Elrond Halfelven of Rivendell or Aragorn to help him, and the Shire doctors were unable to reverse the effects of the toxins. Frodo had sat by his bedside, wiping the little one's brow, as Mosco breathed his last breath. Nightmares had haunted Frodo for days after that. Mosco had been buried in his parents' backyard, under a large maple tree.
Dimly Frodo wondered what type of funeral he would be if he died from this---would he be entombed---with one simple word on his crypt, "Ring-bearer"? Or would they bury him in a nice shady spot in the Pine-Woods---near the same place he had met his fate when bitten by the snake?
Perhaps, he considered as he lay panting from the pain, they would simply cart his body back to the Shire and bury him under the Party Tree . . . that would be nice---and the hobbit-children would lay yellow roses and waterlilies on his grave . . .
Frodo came back to himself a bit at the sound of voices, realizing he had arched his back up and uttered a loud wail and that Arwen was trying to gently shush him. "H. . . hurts," he moaned softly as he squirmed, causing nearly everyone in the room to sigh.
"It will all be over very soon, Frodo," Arwen whispered, smoothing his hair back as she ran a towel over his ashen features, wiping down his forehead, nose, and chin and imparting as much of her own strength to him as she could. From his position on the stool, Elrond looked over at them sharply.
"Daughter, make certain you keep an eye on his pulse . . ."
"Yes, father."
"Estel, if you would hold that there for me . . . that's it . . . Bilbo, please attempt to keep him from moving . . . "
"Just one moment, Elrond, allow me to soak that . . ."
"That's better . . . he is no longer struggling so . . ."
In his chair, Gandalf had his head bowed and it was all Bilbo could do to keep the food in his stomach as he pressed his upper body to the other hobbit's chest to keep him immobile. He snuck a quick peek at Frodo's leg and shut his eyes tightly to keep the tears from spilling. Just the stack of bloodied towels next to Elrond alone was extremely disquieting. And for all their professionalism, Elrond's and Aragorn's tight expressions were ample evidence of their concern and worry.
A short while later---though to the others it felt like an eternity---the elf lord put his knife down, wiped his hands on a towel, and rose, looking at the fragile hobbit on the bed and leaving Aragorn to sluice the green liquid over the wound as he walked to Frodo's side. His patient's eyes were glazed with unshed tears as he stared at the ceiling, his mouth slightly open.
"It is done, Frodo," Elrond announced softly as the blue eyes shifted to gaze on him, a bit fearful. Reaching down, the elf lord stroked the hobbit's soft cheek. "Aragorn is going to place more poultices upon the wound and will bandage it very lightly. It will be sore---likely very sore, but once the pain of the incision dissipates, you will find it will hurt much less than it does presently. It may need stitches later perhaps, but we shall see."
Elrond leaned over Frodo, and Bilbo, wiping his own sweating brow, moved aside and out of the way. The elf lord carefully checked all of Frodo's vital signs: taking his pulse, feeling the temperature of his skin, and folding back the covers and gently palpating his belly. Frodo whimpered as he did so, trying to draw away, and Arwen whispered soothing words in Elvish until he stilled. Finally, Elrond laid his hands on Frodo's brow as he shut his eyes and drew a deep breath. Several seconds passed before he exhaled and looked at the others in the room.
"He is still suffering from the effects of the poison," he told them, "but it appears we are very close to a reversal. We must give him another dose of the treacle, and we can but hope that will remedy his symptoms and bring about recovery."
There were sighs of relief heard around the room at this possible glimmer of hope, and Bilbo said a silent prayer in his mind. He had not felt so old or weary since . . . since Drogo and Primula's death, after which Frodo---only a small fry at that time---had been inconsolable. Indeed, the most wearing moments of his life, the old hobbit recalled as he stroked his heir's dark locks, had come during times when Frodo's health was at stake.
"You're going to pull through this, my lad," he whispered, leaning close to Frodo's ear. "I just know it." In response, Frodo's eyes shut slowly and his lips, though mostly numb, managed to curve up just the tiniest bit.
To be continued