***
"He is up there and quite injured—go tend to him, if you will," Haldir directed the three as he pointed to the top of a great mallorn tree. The elf was hoping they would climb quickly—the healers were staring at him in a way that made him rather nervous.
The tallest one nodded and they proceeded to ascend the ladder to the flet without difficulty; their eyes growing wide as they poked their heads up through the floor.
On the far side of the flet sat a hobbit. He was sitting with his legs drawn up, hands clasped about his furry feet, dark curly head resting on his knees. He lifted his head when he heard the healers enter and opened his eyes, causing the three ladies to gasp loudly.
"Oh, look how lovely . . . as blue as the Sea of Helcar . . . did you two see those?"
"Yes, indeed, Ice Princess," Shireboundia replied, walking to the hobbit and kneeling before him. "Poor dear—the elf told us you were injured." She laid a hand on Frodo's head, causing him to scowl slightly. "We're here to help you, Master Frodo—I am Shireboundia, this is Ariel, and this is Ice Princess."
The hobbit stared for a moment at Ice Princess before he spoke, his eyes narrowing. "Are you . . . from Caradhras?"
She laughed. "Oh dear me, no . . . nothing of the sort. But enough talk about us----tell me where it hurts now, love."
Frodo raised his eyebrows at the epithet but didn't remark on it. "Just my side—I was speared by a cave troll in Moria and am a bit bruised." His face grew puzzled. "I honestly don't know why Haldir called for you—Aragorn has already washed my hurts and bound them."
Ariel clicked her tongue at him. "Aragorn is fine at mending battle injuries, I am sure, but he is not trained as we are, Frodo. What does a mere ranger know about healing anyway? No, we must look at your injuries. Please remove your shirt."
"Yes," echoed Shireboundia, "the shirt must go."
Sighing, Frodo unfastened his braces and unbuttoned his shirt, trying to slip out of it painlessly. But it was impossible with his injuries and the three healers rushed to help him.
"Get that sleeve, Ariel—"
"I've got it, Ice Princess, now just hold your arm out, Frodo—look, such a tiny little shirt—"
"What in the devil is that? What in Middle-earth are you wearing under there?"
Frodo looked up at them, suddenly feeling dizzy from the whir of activity. He just wanted to rest—to lie down and sleep in peace without anyone else touching him. He sighed.
"It is a mithril coat, to turn a blade. Were it not for this coat I would be dead now." He stared at the three of them. "Must I take it off? It is quite difficult to remove."
Shireboundia glared at him. "Absolutely. We cannot treat you if you are wearing *that* thing." She looked at the other two healers, hands on her hips. "Come, we'll help Frodo take it off."
Frodo swallowed hard as the three bent to pry the coat off him, raising his arms above his head and grasping the bottom of the mail to pull it off.
"Snakes and adders, that *hurts!*" he yelled as they all manipulated the mail, finally wrangling it over his head and taking a few strands of his dark hair in the process (which Ice Princess promptly pocketed). Finally it was off—leaving a light shirt of leather, which the healers also removed.
The hobbit grimaced as he felt the cool breeze on his now bare torso and felt rather . . . unnerved by the height of the flet and the three ladies staring at him. Shireboundia broke the silence.
"Is your tummy hurting, dear? You look a bit . . . peaked."
"No, it is the height of the flet. Hobbits generally do not enjoy heights, and I am no exception."
"Awwww . . . we'll put you to sleep and in short order you won't even know where you are. Now, let us undo this bandage here, Frodo, and see what we have . . . oh, my—look at this terrible bruising on such delicate skin!"
Ariel and Ice Princess shook their heads. "A travesty—the poor thing is black and blue. I think he needs a hug."
"Now, Ariel, you cannot hug him in his condition . . . it would be too painful for his ribs . . . how about if we rock him gently? After he's nice and drowsy, of course."
"Oh, yes, that would surely help. Let's wrap him in blankets, too. May I have the honors?"
"Of course, of course—but right now let us get some nice hot chamomile tea down him, shall we? And let us hope he does not look in Galadriel's mirror or the poor dear will be needing a strong sedative, and quickly . . ."
"No, I do not *need* to be gently rocked," Frodo retorted, "and I do not wish to drink any chamomile tea or be wrapped in blankets, either. I thought Aragorn said I would find peace in Lothlorien." His voice broke off despairingly and he bowed his head. "I am wounded, wounded . . . from herbal infusions, baths, rubbing, and long cuddling—where shall I find rest?"
*Until the next Frodo sickness*
"He is up there and quite injured—go tend to him, if you will," Haldir directed the three as he pointed to the top of a great mallorn tree. The elf was hoping they would climb quickly—the healers were staring at him in a way that made him rather nervous.
The tallest one nodded and they proceeded to ascend the ladder to the flet without difficulty; their eyes growing wide as they poked their heads up through the floor.
On the far side of the flet sat a hobbit. He was sitting with his legs drawn up, hands clasped about his furry feet, dark curly head resting on his knees. He lifted his head when he heard the healers enter and opened his eyes, causing the three ladies to gasp loudly.
"Oh, look how lovely . . . as blue as the Sea of Helcar . . . did you two see those?"
"Yes, indeed, Ice Princess," Shireboundia replied, walking to the hobbit and kneeling before him. "Poor dear—the elf told us you were injured." She laid a hand on Frodo's head, causing him to scowl slightly. "We're here to help you, Master Frodo—I am Shireboundia, this is Ariel, and this is Ice Princess."
The hobbit stared for a moment at Ice Princess before he spoke, his eyes narrowing. "Are you . . . from Caradhras?"
She laughed. "Oh dear me, no . . . nothing of the sort. But enough talk about us----tell me where it hurts now, love."
Frodo raised his eyebrows at the epithet but didn't remark on it. "Just my side—I was speared by a cave troll in Moria and am a bit bruised." His face grew puzzled. "I honestly don't know why Haldir called for you—Aragorn has already washed my hurts and bound them."
Ariel clicked her tongue at him. "Aragorn is fine at mending battle injuries, I am sure, but he is not trained as we are, Frodo. What does a mere ranger know about healing anyway? No, we must look at your injuries. Please remove your shirt."
"Yes," echoed Shireboundia, "the shirt must go."
Sighing, Frodo unfastened his braces and unbuttoned his shirt, trying to slip out of it painlessly. But it was impossible with his injuries and the three healers rushed to help him.
"Get that sleeve, Ariel—"
"I've got it, Ice Princess, now just hold your arm out, Frodo—look, such a tiny little shirt—"
"What in the devil is that? What in Middle-earth are you wearing under there?"
Frodo looked up at them, suddenly feeling dizzy from the whir of activity. He just wanted to rest—to lie down and sleep in peace without anyone else touching him. He sighed.
"It is a mithril coat, to turn a blade. Were it not for this coat I would be dead now." He stared at the three of them. "Must I take it off? It is quite difficult to remove."
Shireboundia glared at him. "Absolutely. We cannot treat you if you are wearing *that* thing." She looked at the other two healers, hands on her hips. "Come, we'll help Frodo take it off."
Frodo swallowed hard as the three bent to pry the coat off him, raising his arms above his head and grasping the bottom of the mail to pull it off.
"Snakes and adders, that *hurts!*" he yelled as they all manipulated the mail, finally wrangling it over his head and taking a few strands of his dark hair in the process (which Ice Princess promptly pocketed). Finally it was off—leaving a light shirt of leather, which the healers also removed.
The hobbit grimaced as he felt the cool breeze on his now bare torso and felt rather . . . unnerved by the height of the flet and the three ladies staring at him. Shireboundia broke the silence.
"Is your tummy hurting, dear? You look a bit . . . peaked."
"No, it is the height of the flet. Hobbits generally do not enjoy heights, and I am no exception."
"Awwww . . . we'll put you to sleep and in short order you won't even know where you are. Now, let us undo this bandage here, Frodo, and see what we have . . . oh, my—look at this terrible bruising on such delicate skin!"
Ariel and Ice Princess shook their heads. "A travesty—the poor thing is black and blue. I think he needs a hug."
"Now, Ariel, you cannot hug him in his condition . . . it would be too painful for his ribs . . . how about if we rock him gently? After he's nice and drowsy, of course."
"Oh, yes, that would surely help. Let's wrap him in blankets, too. May I have the honors?"
"Of course, of course—but right now let us get some nice hot chamomile tea down him, shall we? And let us hope he does not look in Galadriel's mirror or the poor dear will be needing a strong sedative, and quickly . . ."
"No, I do not *need* to be gently rocked," Frodo retorted, "and I do not wish to drink any chamomile tea or be wrapped in blankets, either. I thought Aragorn said I would find peace in Lothlorien." His voice broke off despairingly and he bowed his head. "I am wounded, wounded . . . from herbal infusions, baths, rubbing, and long cuddling—where shall I find rest?"
*Until the next Frodo sickness*