A/N: Please accept my apologies for leaving you all hanging for so long. I
know there's absolutely no excuse for it, so to make up for my lack of
updates, I am going to finish and upload the rest of this fic before
Tuesday evening. I've already got Chapter 14 written, and I will post it
when Chapter 15 is done, and so on, until I run out of fic. :) So, there
will be multiple updates within the next day and a half or so, and the fic
will be finished.
When I started this in June, I had no idea that my slow updates would lead to it running past September! ;) Yikes! So, again I apologize for the slow updates!
Rosie Cotton: I'm honored that you've put my story on your favorites list. :) Thank you!
For everyone who asked if Frodo is going to be all right: Don't worry too much! ;) It'll be ok. :)
A huge thanks to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter, you're all wonderful!
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 13:
When Dimhirion had finally regained control of the situation it was mid- afternoon, and he beckoned Fosco back into the room.
For the moment, Frodo was finally at rest. Bilbo sat cradling the hobbit- lad's head and humming softly to him.
Dimhirion looked pityingly on the scene before him: the elderly hobbit struggling to remain hopeful despite the slim chance that Frodo would survive. At the other end of the spectrum was a much younger hobbit, lying in a tangle of blood-soiled sheets and barely conscious. Even for an Elf who had lived thousands of years and witnessed many sorrows, this sight was a heartbreaking one to behold. Nonetheless, Dimhirion admired the dedication of Bilbo, and the spirit of his young nephew.
"Master Fields," the Elf uttered quietly, not tearing his gaze away from the two hobbits, "Have you the water I requested?"
"Yes, 'tis right here." Fosco approached the bed tentatively. The healer shook his head at seeing all of the blood. A considerable amount of it had been smeared onto the sheets and floor during Frodo's earlier episode. "Perhaps," Fosco broke the silence, "We should clean up a bit?"
Dimhirion raised a hand in protest, "Not just yet, Fosco. There's more work that must be done." He took the bowl from Fosco and poured some of the salty mixture into a pitcher that sat on Frodo's nightstand.
The Elf lifted the pitcher from its place beside Frodo's bed and looked to Bilbo before going any further. "Master Baggins," he began, "please keep him still, this may aggravate his wound."
Bilbo nodded knowingly, and tightened his grip on Frodo's limp body. The elderly hobbit watched cautiously as Dimhirion tilted the pitcher of salt water slowly, just until a small stream of the liquid was trickling out of the jug. Bilbo could feel Frodo tense as the salty mixture filtered into the opening in his body. "Oh, poor lad," Bilbo soothed, "just hold on, I'll not leave you." He stroked Frodo's limp hair, and squeezed the small hand that had begun groping helplessly at his own.
"Bilbo," Frodo whimpered, his voice cracking slightly, "It. . .it burns." He gasped, tightening his hold on Bilbo's arm, his blue eyes widened from the pain.
"Easy now, Frodo-lad. I know it stings, just try to bear it a little longer now." Bilbo whispered in an attempt to comfort his lad.
Frodo nodded, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Bilbo noticed the few tears that seeped out of the corners of Frodo's closed eyes, and he nearly began to cry himself, "You're so brave, Frodo, such a brave lad." Bilbo whispered.
After the salt water had soaked for a few minutes, Dimhirion began to draw the mixture out using a clean cloth. He nodded approvingly at seeing the rag soiled with less blood, and little infection. It was a good sign: the process of draining Frodo's abdominal cavity of infection, and then washing it with a mild salt solution, appeared to have removed most of the built up infection. The next obstacle, thought the Elf, was to remove the source of the infection. Hopefully the surgery wouldn't prove too taxing for Frodo in his already weakened state.
"He should be in less pain now," Dimhirion announced unexpectedly, "draining the infection alleviated some of the pressure I believe." He smiled slightly at Bilbo.
The old hobbit returned a grateful, albeit shaky, smile. Bilbo was relieved that at least his dear boy wasn't in so much pain now.
"Fosco, if you don't mind, could you please fetch one of the needles I asked you to bring?" The Elf inquired.
"Yes, of course." answered Fosco, and he turned to Frodo's dresser where the medical supplies were organized. The hobbit-healer selected what he thought would be the right tools for the job: a sharp needle, and a small spool of fine thread.
Dimhirion took the needle from Fosco, examining it carefully. It was well enough made, and small enough for the job. But he deemed the thread unacceptable, it was much too coarse to be used on one so small, and would worsen the scar that would result inevitably as well.
Dimhirion handed the inferior thread back to Fosco, and pulled out one of his own hairs: almost as fine as spun Mithril, and nearly as strong.
Fosco suppressed a gasp at that, never had he seen someone attempt to use his own hair as thread to stitch up an incision. Doing such a thing was considered almost barbaric, and unclean; it was something that should only be done under dire circumstances. Yet, the stunned hobbit could not find his voice to question Dimhirion, and thought it best not to doubt one of the Fair Folk regarding his healing skills.
Dimhirion frowned, and winced inwardly when he realized that he hadn't anything to numb the pain. There was the opium burner that Fosco had set up by the hearth, but it would be far too risky to move Frodo. Movement could cause the bleeding to start again, or perhaps lead to complications with infection later on.
Fosco seemed to be thinking the same thing as the Elf, "I beg your pardon, sir," he questioned tentatively, "but you can't stitch the lad up without something to numb the area." He pointed out, his voice ending a note higher than it had begun, as though the very thought of not numbing Frodo's belly frightened him.
Dimhirion nodded, "Certainly not. What have you that will aid in keeping the pain at bay?" but then his eyes lit up, "Oh!" he smiled, "Yes, the Dwaleberry lotion!"
Fosco looked questioningly at the Elf, cocking his head to one side, "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."
Dimhirion walked wordlessly to Fosco's bag, and searched through the supplies quickly. Soon he found what he sought: a small glass jar containing a dark colored lotion. "This," he announced, pointing to the container, "This is Dwaleberry lotion. It will suffice." He smiled, and returned to Frodo's bedside.
Fosco's eyes lit up with recognition, "Oh! If you had told me you were looking for Belladonna ointment, then I would've known what you were talking about."
"Yes," Dimhirion nodded slowly as he began to unscrew the jar lid, "Among my people the plant is known as Dwaleberry, we make it into a lotion of sorts and it has been known to lessen pain when applied to the skin. It matters not though, as long as it eases the little ones pain." He looked down on Frodo, who had become more aware of his surroundings. It was clear that draining the infection had reduced his pain, though his situation was still precarious. The Elf then began gently smearing the lotion all around the lower portion of Frodo's abdomen where the incision had been made. He wanted to be sure that the entire affected area was as numb as possible in order to spare the child any unnecessary pain.
Dimhirion caught the look of fear that lay hidden in Bilbo's eyes. The old hobbit had tried to mask his increasing fear for Frodo's life, yet the grief in his gray eyes belayed his confident expression. "Don't worry, Bilbo", the Elf promised, "I will be quick."
Bilbo nodded grimly, and turned Frodo's face towards his own and held it there, lest the lad would see the needle. Bilbo frowned as he realized that Frodo's fever hadn't gone down, and the hobbit-child was still sweating quite a bit.
Dimhirion gently pushed the needle into Frodo's flesh, and then pulled it through, reinserting it on the other side of the incision; he then continued to stitch as quickly as he safely could.
Frodo felt the pressure of the needle, though thankfully he didn't realize what was being done. He struggled to free himself from Bilbo's arms in order to see what was going on, but his uncle gently restrained him, smoothing back the dark curls that clung to his damp forehead.
"Shh. . .rest now, Frodo-lad." Bilbo shushed his nephew, planting a single kiss on Frodo's brow, "It'll all be over soon, you shall see." Bilbo smiled, mustering all of his courage and displaying it to the sick tween.
Dimhirion continued to work swiftly, closing the gap in Frodo's abdominal wall first, and then the flesh above it. He did however; leave a small gap in both the muscle and flesh in order for the remaining infection to drain easily. The Elf secured a short, hollow reed in the opening and angled it in such a way that infection could drain from the tube.
Dimhirion stood up to admire his work, and requested a damp cloth to remove excess lotion and blood. "It will scar," he said, more to himself than anyone else, "yet that is the least of our concerns, I fear." The Elf shook his head and met Bilbo's gaze. "We're half way to the finish, Master Baggins. Unfortunately the next part is the most dangerous for Frodo." He went silent, wiping his hands on the cloth.
The Elf knelt quietly beside Frodo, turning the small hobbit's face toward him, stroking Frodo's cheek soothingly. "How feel you, Frodo?" Dimhirion smiled warmly, despite the circumstances.
Frodo couldn't gather the strength to return the gesture; he closed his eyes slowly, and opened them again before speaking, "It's. . .it still hurts." He whimpered quietly, his blue eyes focusing momentarily on the Elf, "but I k- know soon it wi- will. . .be ended, either way." He whispered, gasping quietly as a sharp twinge of pain stabbed his abdomen once more. He swallowed hard and turned his head aside just as a low moan escaped his lips, and one small hand sought the area of his stomach that was the source of his pain.
"Either way," Dimhirion thought sadly, knowing what Frodo meant. He rose from Frodo's side, and looked to Bilbo, "Unfortunately the lotion can't prevent all pain. The source of Frodo's suffering has yet to be removed." The Elf added regretfully.
Fosco interrupted Dimhirion's train of thought, "Excuse my interruption, but I believe it would be best if we paused briefly now to clean up."
Dimhirion nodded, "Yes," he said, "Let us clean some of this up, and change the soiled bed linens. Perhaps a brief rest will do us all good, especially the lad."
-------------------------------- A/N: Well, that's Chapter 13 :) As promised, the next chapter should be up some time tonight or early tomorrow. It is written, but I need to finish Chapter 15 before uploading 14. :) I'm trying to stay ahead of myself (lol)!
When I started this in June, I had no idea that my slow updates would lead to it running past September! ;) Yikes! So, again I apologize for the slow updates!
Rosie Cotton: I'm honored that you've put my story on your favorites list. :) Thank you!
For everyone who asked if Frodo is going to be all right: Don't worry too much! ;) It'll be ok. :)
A huge thanks to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter, you're all wonderful!
---------------------------------------------------------------------
Chapter 13:
When Dimhirion had finally regained control of the situation it was mid- afternoon, and he beckoned Fosco back into the room.
For the moment, Frodo was finally at rest. Bilbo sat cradling the hobbit- lad's head and humming softly to him.
Dimhirion looked pityingly on the scene before him: the elderly hobbit struggling to remain hopeful despite the slim chance that Frodo would survive. At the other end of the spectrum was a much younger hobbit, lying in a tangle of blood-soiled sheets and barely conscious. Even for an Elf who had lived thousands of years and witnessed many sorrows, this sight was a heartbreaking one to behold. Nonetheless, Dimhirion admired the dedication of Bilbo, and the spirit of his young nephew.
"Master Fields," the Elf uttered quietly, not tearing his gaze away from the two hobbits, "Have you the water I requested?"
"Yes, 'tis right here." Fosco approached the bed tentatively. The healer shook his head at seeing all of the blood. A considerable amount of it had been smeared onto the sheets and floor during Frodo's earlier episode. "Perhaps," Fosco broke the silence, "We should clean up a bit?"
Dimhirion raised a hand in protest, "Not just yet, Fosco. There's more work that must be done." He took the bowl from Fosco and poured some of the salty mixture into a pitcher that sat on Frodo's nightstand.
The Elf lifted the pitcher from its place beside Frodo's bed and looked to Bilbo before going any further. "Master Baggins," he began, "please keep him still, this may aggravate his wound."
Bilbo nodded knowingly, and tightened his grip on Frodo's limp body. The elderly hobbit watched cautiously as Dimhirion tilted the pitcher of salt water slowly, just until a small stream of the liquid was trickling out of the jug. Bilbo could feel Frodo tense as the salty mixture filtered into the opening in his body. "Oh, poor lad," Bilbo soothed, "just hold on, I'll not leave you." He stroked Frodo's limp hair, and squeezed the small hand that had begun groping helplessly at his own.
"Bilbo," Frodo whimpered, his voice cracking slightly, "It. . .it burns." He gasped, tightening his hold on Bilbo's arm, his blue eyes widened from the pain.
"Easy now, Frodo-lad. I know it stings, just try to bear it a little longer now." Bilbo whispered in an attempt to comfort his lad.
Frodo nodded, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. Bilbo noticed the few tears that seeped out of the corners of Frodo's closed eyes, and he nearly began to cry himself, "You're so brave, Frodo, such a brave lad." Bilbo whispered.
After the salt water had soaked for a few minutes, Dimhirion began to draw the mixture out using a clean cloth. He nodded approvingly at seeing the rag soiled with less blood, and little infection. It was a good sign: the process of draining Frodo's abdominal cavity of infection, and then washing it with a mild salt solution, appeared to have removed most of the built up infection. The next obstacle, thought the Elf, was to remove the source of the infection. Hopefully the surgery wouldn't prove too taxing for Frodo in his already weakened state.
"He should be in less pain now," Dimhirion announced unexpectedly, "draining the infection alleviated some of the pressure I believe." He smiled slightly at Bilbo.
The old hobbit returned a grateful, albeit shaky, smile. Bilbo was relieved that at least his dear boy wasn't in so much pain now.
"Fosco, if you don't mind, could you please fetch one of the needles I asked you to bring?" The Elf inquired.
"Yes, of course." answered Fosco, and he turned to Frodo's dresser where the medical supplies were organized. The hobbit-healer selected what he thought would be the right tools for the job: a sharp needle, and a small spool of fine thread.
Dimhirion took the needle from Fosco, examining it carefully. It was well enough made, and small enough for the job. But he deemed the thread unacceptable, it was much too coarse to be used on one so small, and would worsen the scar that would result inevitably as well.
Dimhirion handed the inferior thread back to Fosco, and pulled out one of his own hairs: almost as fine as spun Mithril, and nearly as strong.
Fosco suppressed a gasp at that, never had he seen someone attempt to use his own hair as thread to stitch up an incision. Doing such a thing was considered almost barbaric, and unclean; it was something that should only be done under dire circumstances. Yet, the stunned hobbit could not find his voice to question Dimhirion, and thought it best not to doubt one of the Fair Folk regarding his healing skills.
Dimhirion frowned, and winced inwardly when he realized that he hadn't anything to numb the pain. There was the opium burner that Fosco had set up by the hearth, but it would be far too risky to move Frodo. Movement could cause the bleeding to start again, or perhaps lead to complications with infection later on.
Fosco seemed to be thinking the same thing as the Elf, "I beg your pardon, sir," he questioned tentatively, "but you can't stitch the lad up without something to numb the area." He pointed out, his voice ending a note higher than it had begun, as though the very thought of not numbing Frodo's belly frightened him.
Dimhirion nodded, "Certainly not. What have you that will aid in keeping the pain at bay?" but then his eyes lit up, "Oh!" he smiled, "Yes, the Dwaleberry lotion!"
Fosco looked questioningly at the Elf, cocking his head to one side, "I'm not sure I know what you're talking about."
Dimhirion walked wordlessly to Fosco's bag, and searched through the supplies quickly. Soon he found what he sought: a small glass jar containing a dark colored lotion. "This," he announced, pointing to the container, "This is Dwaleberry lotion. It will suffice." He smiled, and returned to Frodo's bedside.
Fosco's eyes lit up with recognition, "Oh! If you had told me you were looking for Belladonna ointment, then I would've known what you were talking about."
"Yes," Dimhirion nodded slowly as he began to unscrew the jar lid, "Among my people the plant is known as Dwaleberry, we make it into a lotion of sorts and it has been known to lessen pain when applied to the skin. It matters not though, as long as it eases the little ones pain." He looked down on Frodo, who had become more aware of his surroundings. It was clear that draining the infection had reduced his pain, though his situation was still precarious. The Elf then began gently smearing the lotion all around the lower portion of Frodo's abdomen where the incision had been made. He wanted to be sure that the entire affected area was as numb as possible in order to spare the child any unnecessary pain.
Dimhirion caught the look of fear that lay hidden in Bilbo's eyes. The old hobbit had tried to mask his increasing fear for Frodo's life, yet the grief in his gray eyes belayed his confident expression. "Don't worry, Bilbo", the Elf promised, "I will be quick."
Bilbo nodded grimly, and turned Frodo's face towards his own and held it there, lest the lad would see the needle. Bilbo frowned as he realized that Frodo's fever hadn't gone down, and the hobbit-child was still sweating quite a bit.
Dimhirion gently pushed the needle into Frodo's flesh, and then pulled it through, reinserting it on the other side of the incision; he then continued to stitch as quickly as he safely could.
Frodo felt the pressure of the needle, though thankfully he didn't realize what was being done. He struggled to free himself from Bilbo's arms in order to see what was going on, but his uncle gently restrained him, smoothing back the dark curls that clung to his damp forehead.
"Shh. . .rest now, Frodo-lad." Bilbo shushed his nephew, planting a single kiss on Frodo's brow, "It'll all be over soon, you shall see." Bilbo smiled, mustering all of his courage and displaying it to the sick tween.
Dimhirion continued to work swiftly, closing the gap in Frodo's abdominal wall first, and then the flesh above it. He did however; leave a small gap in both the muscle and flesh in order for the remaining infection to drain easily. The Elf secured a short, hollow reed in the opening and angled it in such a way that infection could drain from the tube.
Dimhirion stood up to admire his work, and requested a damp cloth to remove excess lotion and blood. "It will scar," he said, more to himself than anyone else, "yet that is the least of our concerns, I fear." The Elf shook his head and met Bilbo's gaze. "We're half way to the finish, Master Baggins. Unfortunately the next part is the most dangerous for Frodo." He went silent, wiping his hands on the cloth.
The Elf knelt quietly beside Frodo, turning the small hobbit's face toward him, stroking Frodo's cheek soothingly. "How feel you, Frodo?" Dimhirion smiled warmly, despite the circumstances.
Frodo couldn't gather the strength to return the gesture; he closed his eyes slowly, and opened them again before speaking, "It's. . .it still hurts." He whimpered quietly, his blue eyes focusing momentarily on the Elf, "but I k- know soon it wi- will. . .be ended, either way." He whispered, gasping quietly as a sharp twinge of pain stabbed his abdomen once more. He swallowed hard and turned his head aside just as a low moan escaped his lips, and one small hand sought the area of his stomach that was the source of his pain.
"Either way," Dimhirion thought sadly, knowing what Frodo meant. He rose from Frodo's side, and looked to Bilbo, "Unfortunately the lotion can't prevent all pain. The source of Frodo's suffering has yet to be removed." The Elf added regretfully.
Fosco interrupted Dimhirion's train of thought, "Excuse my interruption, but I believe it would be best if we paused briefly now to clean up."
Dimhirion nodded, "Yes," he said, "Let us clean some of this up, and change the soiled bed linens. Perhaps a brief rest will do us all good, especially the lad."
-------------------------------- A/N: Well, that's Chapter 13 :) As promised, the next chapter should be up some time tonight or early tomorrow. It is written, but I need to finish Chapter 15 before uploading 14. :) I'm trying to stay ahead of myself (lol)!