A/N: So, so sorry I haven't updated in so long! :( I hope you all can find
it in your hearts to forgive my negligence towards my two fics. School just
seems to be taking most of my time away from me! Evil nasssty school. . .
ssstealing my preciouss- free time, cruel, trickssy school. . .;) But I
lovess the professorss, keepers of the preciousss 4.0 gpa. ;)
*Cough* Please forgive my Gollum moment. (lol) :)
Thank you all for your kind reviews, though I know that I hardly deserve them after I went and left the story hanging the way I did, for so long too. But it is so encouraging to know that people are reading and enjoying my fic. :)
Again, I apologize for making you all wait, and hope that you haven't completely lost interest in the fic! Now here's the next part. . .
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Chapter 12:
Dimhirion glanced to where Bilbo stood, beside the head of Frodo's bed. The elderly hobbit was white as a sheet, and the Elf could see him trembling from the realization that he could likely lose his dear nephew soon.
"Master Baggins," he began, "Please, sit down on the bed, sit behind Frodo if you like. I believe your presence would be a comfort to him." The Elf tried to smile.
Bilbo nodded, and Dimhirion assisted him in climbing up onto the bed. The Elf lifted Frodo's slight form up enough so that Bilbo could slip behind and sit up against the headboard. Dimhirion eased the lad back into his uncle's arms, with hardly any protest on Frodo's part, and then turned to Fosco.
"Mr. Fields, please produce the blades," he asked of the hobbit healer. Fosco nodded cautiously, and dipped a hand into his small bag, bringing forth several knives. All of the knives were inferior to most that Dimhirion had ever dealt with. None among them were of Elven make, and the blades were quite dull in comparison to the aforementioned variety. Dimhirion picked up the largest of the three blades, smaller even than an Elven paring knife. The Elf had to remind himself that these tools were those of the Shire-Folk, and suited this case well, considering it was one of the Shire-Folk who the blade was meant for.
The Elf ran a finger across the sharp edge of the knife, frowning at the bluntness of it. It would have to do; there wasn't time to find another knife. He had to work fast, while the drug's influence still lay heavily upon Frodo. Though the painkiller wasn't likely to block all pain, it would certainly dilute it a great deal. Dimhirion wanted to spare the child any pain he could, and felt sure that the sharp cutting pain from the blade would terrify the lad if he should become aware of it during the course of the operation.
Bilbo sat behind Frodo, talking absentmindedly to the child as he stroked his nephew's wet, dark-brown locks, "That's a good lad," he whispered into Frodo's small, pointed ear, "You're going to be just fine, Frodo, just fine." Bilbo promised. If the hobbits' words had possessed great healing powers then Frodo would have been well fivefold.
Frodo nodded vaguely in response; thankfully he was still too sedated by the drug to understand much of what was going on. All the hobbit-lad was really aware of was that his dear uncle was with him, and the terrible pain in his abdomen had subsided.
Dimhirion approached the bed slowly, knife in hand, and Fosco right on his heels. "Bilbo?" the Elf asked quietly, "We're ready to begin,"
Bilbo looked up suddenly, roused from his tranquil state, "Yes. . . let us not wait any longer." He nodded vigorously, "I want this to be over as soon as possible."
Dimhirion nodded in agreement, "Alright then, now you hold him. I don't know how he may react to the sting of the knife should he feel any pain from it."
Bilbo paled, gathering his beloved nephew in his arms and sliding him forward a little so that Frodo was in a semi-reclining position. Dimhirion bared the hobbit-lads belly, and called for Fosco to place towels all around him in the bed to catch the blood.
Carefully, Dimhirion positioned the knife just above Frodo's belly, steadying his hand and focusing all of his concentration on the task at hand. Though the concepts of this operation were not wholly new to him, he had never cut into one so small, or in such a precarious state.
He lowered the knife slowly, easily piercing Frodo's tender flesh in an area more towards the middle lower portion of the child's abdomen, in the area where he hoped the infected fluid had gathered. That was the purpose of the earlier exercise, which involved Fosco holding the lad upright, to gather the infected fluids inside of Frodo's abdominal cavity into one place so that they might be drained more easily. Removing the ruptured organ alone, without draining the infection- the cause of the illness in the first place- would be folly, Dimhirion knew.
Blood began to seep up around the knife blade as Dimhirion widened the incision. Bilbo was forced to look away, the sight of his dear lad's blood leaking from the hole in his belly made the old hobbit sick on his stomach. Frodo gasped as he felt the Elf's nimble hands pulling back layers of flesh and fat, trying to get to the muscles of Frodo's abdominal wall. Bilbo held him still, whispering comforting words into the frightened child's ear.
Fosco hovered closely around the Elf, trying to learn all he could of the technique Dimhirion was employing.
Bright red blood was smeared across the majority of Frodo's rigid belly; it followed the contours of his body, pooling lazily in some areas, and then finally trickling off in little red rivers onto the sheets and towels that lay beside him.
At last, Dimhirion was able to get a clear view of his next target: the wall of muscle that stood between him and the deadly infection within Frodo's body.
Frodo whimpered, gripping Bilbo's hand tightly as Dimhirion began a diagonal cut in the thick muscle. Frodo was no longer so oblivious to his surroundings or what was being done to him; he had now lost the pleasant sense of calm that he had been enjoying. The powerful drug Fosco had given him helped, but the cut of the knife's inferior blade still hurt as it delved deeper into the layers of muscle.
Dimhirion's expression hardened, and he pushed down hard on the handle of the knife; forcing it through the tough muscle, bring forth a pitiful cry from Frodo and spilling more of the child's blood in the process. At last, a sickening pop signaled that the Elf's goal had been reached.
Dimhirion was relieved to have finally broken through to the infection. He gently squeezed the area around the incision, drawing blood-tainted pus from the wound.
Frodo strained his neck in an attempt to see what was being done to him. He could feel the sticky wetness of his own blood as it ran down his sides. The foul smell of the milky, infected liquids, mixed with the coppery scent of blood seeping from his abdomen caused the hobbit-child to gag. Bilbo held fast to Frodo's head, keeping it firmly in his lap and stroking the child's cheeks gently in an attempt to sooth him.
Dimhirion requested a hollow reed from Fosco's bag, and eased it down into the hole in Frodo's belly. He probed around with it before finding what he believed to be an appropriate spot and left it there.
Frodo moaned quietly, struggling weakly to push Dimhirion away as the Elf lifted him from the bed and turned Frodo onto his side so that the infection might drain more easily and quickly. It was very risky leaving him open for any amount of time; Dimhirion hoped that the pus would leave the hobbit-lad's body without any trouble, so that he could begin the next phase of the operation.
Bilbo still sat on Frodo's bed, holding the child's head in his lap. By now, the drugs' effects were just beginning to wear off, and Frodo felt the pain returning. He sucked in a sharp breath and attempted to curl up, seeking relief from the pain.
"Easy, lad, lie still now," Bilbo shushed.
"What happened, Bilbo?" Frodo whispered through clenched teeth, looking at his uncle with large blue eyes, wide with fear.
"Nothing, lad, nothing at all. Dimhirion is helping to heal you, you must cooperate if you wish to be well again soon." Bilbo forced a smile, "Just a little while longer now, and you shall be getting some more medicine for the pain." He promised, "Just try to bear it for a little while longer."
"I'll try. . ." Frodo whispered, his hoarse voice barely audible. He closed his eyes again, wishing that sleep would come to whisk him away from his painful existence.
Dimhirion knelt on the floor beside Frodo; he placed a pan beneath the reed, pleased to see that it was just beginning to leak fluid. He placed two hands carefully on Frodo's belly and pressed gently, watching as the flow of pus coming from the drain increased.
Frodo let out a stifled cry and reached out to grab the Elf's hands. "Stop," he pleaded, his tiny hands gripping the Elf's forearm, "It hurts terribly, please stop. . ." Frodo begged, tears beginning to well up in his eyes once more.
"Shh. . .little one, I know this isn't easy to bear, though it must be done." Dimhirion said.
Frodo swallowed and shook his head, "No. Please, if this is what must be done to keep me alive, then I welcome the relief that death will surely bring." He panted, struggling to hold onto consciousness as the pain intensified. Though this time it was accompanied by a new pain, a sharper pain in another part of his belly. The feeling of it made Frodo's heart sink, was there ever going to be any relief? Would he ever be free from such tortures again? "I feel sick. . ." he added, his voice so weak only the Elf's keen ears heard it.
Dimhirion felt great concern for the lad. Frodo could no longer bear the pain, the potent smell of the infection that drained from his abdomen, and the sight of his own blood. It was far too much for anyone to have to bear, let alone an innocent child. The shock of it all would likely kill him before any infection he may contract during the procedure had the chance to do so. The Elf put a cool hand on Frodo's burning forehead and held it there. He utilized all of the techniques he remembered from his training, working to ease Frodo's pain and calm his nerves.
The hobbit-child visibly relaxed beneath Dimhirions skilled hands. His shallow breaths lengthened ever so slightly, and his grip on the Elf's arm loosened.
Bilbo bent down to kiss his nephew's brow, promising silently that if Frodo survived this, he would never fret too much over a sneeze or scratched knee again.
"Mr. Fields, please fetch a basin of hot water, and some salt, if you will." Dimhirion asked Fosco.
The hobbit healer nodded, and turned to leave. He stopped in his tracks as a blood-curdling scream tore through the silence of the room like a sharp hatchet through kindling-wood.
Frodo struggled fiercely to escape Bilbo's grasp, his small body arched repeatedly as he tried to escape. The reed protruding from his abdomen was dislodged and fell into the bowl, knocking it to the floor. Dimhirion was forced to hold Frodo down to keep him from hurting himself or Bilbo.
Without asking, the Elf knew that the pain had in fact become too great to bear; it was driving the hobbit-child out of his mind.
Fosco rushed to the bedside, hoping to be of some help. Dimhirion turned him away and bade him heat water quickly. "Fosco, you can't be of any use here." Dimhirion talked hurriedly, "Go. Heat a large pan of water, and bring the saltcellar. He cannot go on like this for much longer; we have less time than I thought.
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A/N: Thanks for reading! :) Let me know what you think.
*Cough* Please forgive my Gollum moment. (lol) :)
Thank you all for your kind reviews, though I know that I hardly deserve them after I went and left the story hanging the way I did, for so long too. But it is so encouraging to know that people are reading and enjoying my fic. :)
Again, I apologize for making you all wait, and hope that you haven't completely lost interest in the fic! Now here's the next part. . .
---------------------------------------------
Chapter 12:
Dimhirion glanced to where Bilbo stood, beside the head of Frodo's bed. The elderly hobbit was white as a sheet, and the Elf could see him trembling from the realization that he could likely lose his dear nephew soon.
"Master Baggins," he began, "Please, sit down on the bed, sit behind Frodo if you like. I believe your presence would be a comfort to him." The Elf tried to smile.
Bilbo nodded, and Dimhirion assisted him in climbing up onto the bed. The Elf lifted Frodo's slight form up enough so that Bilbo could slip behind and sit up against the headboard. Dimhirion eased the lad back into his uncle's arms, with hardly any protest on Frodo's part, and then turned to Fosco.
"Mr. Fields, please produce the blades," he asked of the hobbit healer. Fosco nodded cautiously, and dipped a hand into his small bag, bringing forth several knives. All of the knives were inferior to most that Dimhirion had ever dealt with. None among them were of Elven make, and the blades were quite dull in comparison to the aforementioned variety. Dimhirion picked up the largest of the three blades, smaller even than an Elven paring knife. The Elf had to remind himself that these tools were those of the Shire-Folk, and suited this case well, considering it was one of the Shire-Folk who the blade was meant for.
The Elf ran a finger across the sharp edge of the knife, frowning at the bluntness of it. It would have to do; there wasn't time to find another knife. He had to work fast, while the drug's influence still lay heavily upon Frodo. Though the painkiller wasn't likely to block all pain, it would certainly dilute it a great deal. Dimhirion wanted to spare the child any pain he could, and felt sure that the sharp cutting pain from the blade would terrify the lad if he should become aware of it during the course of the operation.
Bilbo sat behind Frodo, talking absentmindedly to the child as he stroked his nephew's wet, dark-brown locks, "That's a good lad," he whispered into Frodo's small, pointed ear, "You're going to be just fine, Frodo, just fine." Bilbo promised. If the hobbits' words had possessed great healing powers then Frodo would have been well fivefold.
Frodo nodded vaguely in response; thankfully he was still too sedated by the drug to understand much of what was going on. All the hobbit-lad was really aware of was that his dear uncle was with him, and the terrible pain in his abdomen had subsided.
Dimhirion approached the bed slowly, knife in hand, and Fosco right on his heels. "Bilbo?" the Elf asked quietly, "We're ready to begin,"
Bilbo looked up suddenly, roused from his tranquil state, "Yes. . . let us not wait any longer." He nodded vigorously, "I want this to be over as soon as possible."
Dimhirion nodded in agreement, "Alright then, now you hold him. I don't know how he may react to the sting of the knife should he feel any pain from it."
Bilbo paled, gathering his beloved nephew in his arms and sliding him forward a little so that Frodo was in a semi-reclining position. Dimhirion bared the hobbit-lads belly, and called for Fosco to place towels all around him in the bed to catch the blood.
Carefully, Dimhirion positioned the knife just above Frodo's belly, steadying his hand and focusing all of his concentration on the task at hand. Though the concepts of this operation were not wholly new to him, he had never cut into one so small, or in such a precarious state.
He lowered the knife slowly, easily piercing Frodo's tender flesh in an area more towards the middle lower portion of the child's abdomen, in the area where he hoped the infected fluid had gathered. That was the purpose of the earlier exercise, which involved Fosco holding the lad upright, to gather the infected fluids inside of Frodo's abdominal cavity into one place so that they might be drained more easily. Removing the ruptured organ alone, without draining the infection- the cause of the illness in the first place- would be folly, Dimhirion knew.
Blood began to seep up around the knife blade as Dimhirion widened the incision. Bilbo was forced to look away, the sight of his dear lad's blood leaking from the hole in his belly made the old hobbit sick on his stomach. Frodo gasped as he felt the Elf's nimble hands pulling back layers of flesh and fat, trying to get to the muscles of Frodo's abdominal wall. Bilbo held him still, whispering comforting words into the frightened child's ear.
Fosco hovered closely around the Elf, trying to learn all he could of the technique Dimhirion was employing.
Bright red blood was smeared across the majority of Frodo's rigid belly; it followed the contours of his body, pooling lazily in some areas, and then finally trickling off in little red rivers onto the sheets and towels that lay beside him.
At last, Dimhirion was able to get a clear view of his next target: the wall of muscle that stood between him and the deadly infection within Frodo's body.
Frodo whimpered, gripping Bilbo's hand tightly as Dimhirion began a diagonal cut in the thick muscle. Frodo was no longer so oblivious to his surroundings or what was being done to him; he had now lost the pleasant sense of calm that he had been enjoying. The powerful drug Fosco had given him helped, but the cut of the knife's inferior blade still hurt as it delved deeper into the layers of muscle.
Dimhirion's expression hardened, and he pushed down hard on the handle of the knife; forcing it through the tough muscle, bring forth a pitiful cry from Frodo and spilling more of the child's blood in the process. At last, a sickening pop signaled that the Elf's goal had been reached.
Dimhirion was relieved to have finally broken through to the infection. He gently squeezed the area around the incision, drawing blood-tainted pus from the wound.
Frodo strained his neck in an attempt to see what was being done to him. He could feel the sticky wetness of his own blood as it ran down his sides. The foul smell of the milky, infected liquids, mixed with the coppery scent of blood seeping from his abdomen caused the hobbit-child to gag. Bilbo held fast to Frodo's head, keeping it firmly in his lap and stroking the child's cheeks gently in an attempt to sooth him.
Dimhirion requested a hollow reed from Fosco's bag, and eased it down into the hole in Frodo's belly. He probed around with it before finding what he believed to be an appropriate spot and left it there.
Frodo moaned quietly, struggling weakly to push Dimhirion away as the Elf lifted him from the bed and turned Frodo onto his side so that the infection might drain more easily and quickly. It was very risky leaving him open for any amount of time; Dimhirion hoped that the pus would leave the hobbit-lad's body without any trouble, so that he could begin the next phase of the operation.
Bilbo still sat on Frodo's bed, holding the child's head in his lap. By now, the drugs' effects were just beginning to wear off, and Frodo felt the pain returning. He sucked in a sharp breath and attempted to curl up, seeking relief from the pain.
"Easy, lad, lie still now," Bilbo shushed.
"What happened, Bilbo?" Frodo whispered through clenched teeth, looking at his uncle with large blue eyes, wide with fear.
"Nothing, lad, nothing at all. Dimhirion is helping to heal you, you must cooperate if you wish to be well again soon." Bilbo forced a smile, "Just a little while longer now, and you shall be getting some more medicine for the pain." He promised, "Just try to bear it for a little while longer."
"I'll try. . ." Frodo whispered, his hoarse voice barely audible. He closed his eyes again, wishing that sleep would come to whisk him away from his painful existence.
Dimhirion knelt on the floor beside Frodo; he placed a pan beneath the reed, pleased to see that it was just beginning to leak fluid. He placed two hands carefully on Frodo's belly and pressed gently, watching as the flow of pus coming from the drain increased.
Frodo let out a stifled cry and reached out to grab the Elf's hands. "Stop," he pleaded, his tiny hands gripping the Elf's forearm, "It hurts terribly, please stop. . ." Frodo begged, tears beginning to well up in his eyes once more.
"Shh. . .little one, I know this isn't easy to bear, though it must be done." Dimhirion said.
Frodo swallowed and shook his head, "No. Please, if this is what must be done to keep me alive, then I welcome the relief that death will surely bring." He panted, struggling to hold onto consciousness as the pain intensified. Though this time it was accompanied by a new pain, a sharper pain in another part of his belly. The feeling of it made Frodo's heart sink, was there ever going to be any relief? Would he ever be free from such tortures again? "I feel sick. . ." he added, his voice so weak only the Elf's keen ears heard it.
Dimhirion felt great concern for the lad. Frodo could no longer bear the pain, the potent smell of the infection that drained from his abdomen, and the sight of his own blood. It was far too much for anyone to have to bear, let alone an innocent child. The shock of it all would likely kill him before any infection he may contract during the procedure had the chance to do so. The Elf put a cool hand on Frodo's burning forehead and held it there. He utilized all of the techniques he remembered from his training, working to ease Frodo's pain and calm his nerves.
The hobbit-child visibly relaxed beneath Dimhirions skilled hands. His shallow breaths lengthened ever so slightly, and his grip on the Elf's arm loosened.
Bilbo bent down to kiss his nephew's brow, promising silently that if Frodo survived this, he would never fret too much over a sneeze or scratched knee again.
"Mr. Fields, please fetch a basin of hot water, and some salt, if you will." Dimhirion asked Fosco.
The hobbit healer nodded, and turned to leave. He stopped in his tracks as a blood-curdling scream tore through the silence of the room like a sharp hatchet through kindling-wood.
Frodo struggled fiercely to escape Bilbo's grasp, his small body arched repeatedly as he tried to escape. The reed protruding from his abdomen was dislodged and fell into the bowl, knocking it to the floor. Dimhirion was forced to hold Frodo down to keep him from hurting himself or Bilbo.
Without asking, the Elf knew that the pain had in fact become too great to bear; it was driving the hobbit-child out of his mind.
Fosco rushed to the bedside, hoping to be of some help. Dimhirion turned him away and bade him heat water quickly. "Fosco, you can't be of any use here." Dimhirion talked hurriedly, "Go. Heat a large pan of water, and bring the saltcellar. He cannot go on like this for much longer; we have less time than I thought.
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A/N: Thanks for reading! :) Let me know what you think.