Title: Alone in the Dark (3/?)
Author: Slipstream
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…
Notes: Sorry this one is so much later than originally intended. Studying for semester finals gets in the way a good deal. The lice idea stemmed from a conversation with Singe. The method used to describe the location of food on a plate using the cardinal directions is based on the clock system used for this same purpose. While I do think that Tolkien mentioned somewhere the use of pocket-watches and suchforth, it seems more likely that the common people, especially military men, would understand directions (North, South, East, West) more so than telling time. I do not know whether or not oranges are said to grow in Middle Earth, but for the purpose of this fic I am placing them amongst the groves of Gondor, reasoning that during the summer, being further south, they may have a climate similar to that of northern California, where oranges are known to grow.
Disclaimer: Do not own do not own do not own. How many times must I assert this? Plot mine, characters not.
~~~***~~~
Frodo spent the next week confined to the dimness of the healing tent. Adelian had fashioned a small leather eye-patch to cover his right eye, insisting that continued wear and forcing of the left eye to function would return much of his lost vision. However, the one-eyed view of the world which flickered and spun constantly, more times than not trapped in swirling darkness, never staying still or in focus long enough to make sense, only gave Frodo a splitting headache. While Adelian and Sam were away, he often took one of the cleansing towels and tied it about his head as a blind-fold, relishing in the at least semi-pain free darkness.
Pippin and Merry were not to be withheld from their long-lost cousin for long, despite his quarantine. They had been sneaking visits to him while he dozed on and off, and mid-week, once he had begun to keep down solid foods and show some interest in leaving his bed to move around, they arrived with an enormous breakfast for the four of them.
Sam looked up in alarm when Merry and Pippin burst through the tent-flap, Pippin laughing at the tail-end of some joke while Merry carried a large tray and a knapsack slung over one shoulder. They, too, were still healing, so their movements were jerky and halted in places, slowing them down, but they still carried with them enough charismatic energy to fill the little tent with life and happiness.
"Morning, Frodo, Sam," Pippin greeted, taking advantage of Merry's hesitation as to where to put the food to swipe a piece of toast.
Frodo pushed himself up on trembling arms, one eye squinting as if to glimpse some light in a great darkness. Pippin suppressed a shiver at the sight as the pupil revolted against its master, coming to rest gazing inward.
"Good morning, Pippin, and… Merry…?" Frodo's voice was still a little gruff and raspy from the dusts of Mordor, and Adelian had whispered that it may always be so. Merry answered his cousin's inquest with a grunt, affirming his presence. Frodo sniffed and tilted his head. "You've brought something. I can tell by the smell…"
"Just a bit of breakfast, cousin," said Merry, and Sam rolled his eyes. From the looks of the vast amounts of food Merry had managed to fit into his pack as well as pile on the tray, several members of the kitchen staff were at that moment scratching their heads and wondering where their dishes had gone.
Frodo shifted a little on the bed and Sam was quick to stick several pillows behind his back, allowing him to sit up fully. Pippin clambered up onto the man-sized cot and sat there cross legged, lightly gripping Frodo's left hand. He broke off a piece of his toast and waved it in front of his cousin's nose. "There's toast, Frodo, and eggs and bacon and hash browns and bit of sausage, if you feel up to it. We even managed to find a stash of some Gondorian fruits, strange as they are, and sneak a bit here."
Frodo caught the Took's wrist, a little clumsily, with his wounded hand. His left eye squinted in concentration, and Pippin waited patiently. His fingers groped until he found the bit of bread, bringing it to his mouth to taste. He nibbled at it, licking at the sweet jam and taking small, careful bites. When he managed to swallow it without his stomach making immediate protests, Sam released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
Merry was dragging the small table and benches to the side of the sickbed so Sam moved to help him. Together they arranged it so that they could all sit on the bed and still have a flat place to set their food. While Merry arranged Frodo's carefully prepared meal on the tray, Sam pulled the little side table close to the other side of the bed for Pippin's use.
Once they were all settled, they sat around Frodo in a little ring, Pippin on the left, Sam on the right, Merry near the feet. Sam eyed the contents of Frodo's tray with approval, and a conspirital wink from Merry proved that the Brandybuck had chosen the wares based upon the healer's orders.
"What is it, Sam?" asked Frodo, cautiously seeking out the dishes by touch. "It smells wonderful."
Sam took his master's hand in his own and led it across the tray, describing the layout of his breakfast in the strange terminology Adelian had instructed him in. "Well, sir, north on the main plate there's toast, eggs to the east, scrambled, potatoes to the south, and a bit of sausage at the west, all lightly seasoned. The left-flank plate has some fruit, apples and such like, and cream if you want it."
"Aye," Merry laughed, spearing a large chunk of his own sausage. "You can tell the healer is a military man. Describing dinner in terms of troop movements, indeed."
Frodo shrugged. "It works. Mostly."
Sam smiled and brought Frodo's hand to touch the assortment of cups and glasses to the upper right of the main dishes. "Right flank has tea and water and…"
"A surprise!" interrupted Pippin as his cousin touched the glass in question.
Frodo's brow wrinkled a moment in question, then in suspicion. "Not another of Adelian's tonics, I pray…"
"Worse," intoned Pippin gravely. "One of Gandalf's."
Frodo blanched and went as white as his sheets. Sam alternated between scolding the young Took for frightening his master so and reassuring Frodo that it was not some vile medicine snuck in amongst his breakfast.
"Really, Frodo, it's quite good. I bet you'll like it a lot, and if you don't, well, the more for me. Here, try some…" Pippin picked up the glass and placed it against his cousin's lips. Frodo kept his mouth tightly shut for a moment, but when his nose assured him that whatever this was, it did not smell as vile as his daily tonics, he parted his lips slightly and admitted the cool liquid. At the little noise of surprise Frodo made, Pippin smiled and allowed him to drink more.
Finally Frodo drew back, licking at the remainder of the juice. "That *was* good. Sweet. What is it?"
"A juice made from one of the citrus fruits that grows this far south," answered Merry. "Oranges, they call them, and for a good reason. They're the same color as a carrot, but sweeter and grow in trees. The men of Gondor drink the juice when they break fast."
"Good for colds and such like, as well," said Sam, adding butter and marmalade to his master's toast. "Adelian thought you might like it."
Frodo nodded again and took the glass from Pippin, sipping at the cool sweetness.
The soft sounds of clinking cutlery soon filled the little tent, gentle laughter and conversation flowing easily as the four wounded hobbits reached out tentatively to reaffirm that they had all made it out alive. Merry watched earnestly as Frodo insisted on feeding himself, fumbling about on his tray and occasionally missing the plate with his fork (he had no knife, Sam, not quite trusting him with the sharp edge, had already cut up his hash browns and sausage into manageable pieces), but doing fairly well, considering. Blushing, he occasionally asked Sam for reminders as to where everything was placed, and the gardener was patient in his directions. After the first nibbles of sausage, Frodo shied away from his meat and the heavy sitting potatoes, picking a good bit at his eggs but primarily interested in his breads and fruits. When a bandaged hand cautiously groped at the place where his toast had been, now reduced to crumbs and a few smears of jam, Pippin wordlessly slipped two of his own slices onto Frodo's plate. Merry smiled at the content look on his cousin's face as he bit into the bread. Frodo needed the nourishment.
"It's very good," said Frodo, smiling in the general direction of Pippin. The Took smiled but, remembering that Frodo wasn't likely to see such a subtle gesture, quickly mumbled his thanks.
"He didn't cook it, the rascal, so don't be too hasty to heap compliments upon him." Merry licked his fingers clean of the last of the meat juice. "Of the many points in his character which improved over our quest, Master Peregrine's culinary skills were not one of them."
A small smile tugged at his lips as he leaned back into the pillows. "Sam has been teasing me with bits of the tale of your journey. Something about great trees and a flood."
Merry nodded, exchanging glances with Pippin. "Well, I guess that now is a good a time as any to tell that tale, now that we have you captive here in your bed." He settled himself into a more comfortable position and chewed at a crust of toast. "Now, where to begin…"
He told of their capture by the orcs and escape into Fangorn Forest, their wanderings which caused them to quiet literally bump into Treebeard. Pippin interjected and described Quickbeam and the Entmoot, finally the march to Isengard and the fall of the dark tower. They argued a bit over which of the storeroom's contents was most welcome, the pipeweed or the vittles, and then had a great deal of fun describing with exaggerated adjectives the looks on the three hunter's faces upon finding the two hobbits dozing in the sun. They related of riding with Gandalf, Pippin shame-facedly admitting looking into the Palantir and being whisked off on horseback to Minas Tirith. While Merry became a soldier of Rohan, Pippin became a member of the Gondorian guard, and here they paused to let Frodo run his hands along the embroidery of their finery and finger the fine links of their chain mail. They were careful to edit much of the horrors out of their tale of the final battle, but Merry could tell by the look on Frodo's face that he guessed at what was left unsaid. Throughout all they described everything in as rich a detail as they could, trying to make their cousin see the colors and textures of their adventure, to witness through their eyes the lands of Middle Earth that he had not seen.
Afterwards Frodo stretched and absently reached up to itch at his eye underneath the patch. "You are growing quite good at spinning yarns, cousins, but I fear you have left something out. Sam has been telling me how awfully tall you've grown, and I must say I can hardly believe it without seeing it for myself. I wish…" He sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind. If wishes were fishes and all that botheration."
"Come now, cousin," said Merry, placing a solid arm across his shoulders. "Things can only get better. With the war over you can rest easy and not worry about anything but getting better."
"The healer said that time could probably heal a good bit of it, didn't he Sam?" Sam nodded and Pippin continued. "You should be getting better every day. Why, I bet if you tried now you would already notice a change."
Frodo mused over this for a bit, twisting the sheets with his long fingers. Slowly, he reached upwards to remove the leather eye-patch and covered his eyes with both hands, squeezing them shut. He sat like this for several minutes, breathing slowly, only speaking to reassure Merry and Pippin that he was all right. Sam, who had seen this before, waited in silence. Rubbing at his eyes a final time, he opened them to stare at Merry and Pippin. The blue pupils wavered for a second and then unfocused completely, the left eye drifting upward while the right remained clouded and vacant.
"Curses," he mumbled, wincing as he replaced the atch. "I can't even tell you have faces…"
Merry frowned. Suddenly he sprang from the bed, grasping his cousin firmly by the shoulders. "Come, Master Baggins, up you go."
"W-w-what?" Frodo stammered, gripping Merry's arms equally as tight in surprise as he was lifted from the confines of the sheets to stand shakily on the floor. "What are you…?"
"Showing you how tall we are, isn't that what you wanted? Pip, come over here…"
Worried, Sam moved over to provide extra support to the trembling frame of his master, on his feet for the first time since their awakening in Ithilien. Frodo quavered slightly and was a shade paler than normal, but he remained upright, slowly adjusting his weight to standing.
"Mr. Merry…" muttered Sam, unable to keep silent any longer.
"Hush up, Sam, and help you master stand."
Sam bit his lip but complied, stooping briefly to clear the floor of any obstacles.
"How are you faring, cousin?" asked Merry.
Frodo's face was pale and sweating, but he swallowed heavily and kept his features plain. "All right, I think. A little cold, maybe…"
"Here then, come forward a little, closer to the fire. It's only a few steps." Like old men they shuffled forward, Frodo wincing occasionally as a wrong step pulled at his bandages. Pippin and Sam hovered at a careful distance, offering support and encouragements. "Pippin, come stand right there…good. Now, Frodo," Merry began, turning the Ringbearer to face the Took. "… you said you wished to see our new found height. All right, then. Look."
He took a bandaged hand and lifted it upwards, touching first Frodo's head and then stretching the extra inches to place it on Pippin's brow.
Frodo froze. "Oh…" He remeasured the change in height difference himself, hand patting over Pippin's face to assure himself that this was indeed the Took lad he had toted across half of Middle Earth. "You *have* grown..."
Sam felt that he would cry as Frodo gingerly explored the Took's sharp features, his master's mouth softening in contentment as he rediscovered the Pippin he had left behind in the Tookish point of his nose, the soft flush of cheeks, the dimple of a chin. He frowned, however, when his hand reached his scalp-line, the quirk of his eyebrows questioning. "You're hair's much shorter…"
Pippin blushed a furious scarlet, and it was Merry who answered with a bit of a laugh. "He caught lice while we were en route from Isengaurd, and the men cut it short and dunked his head into several foul smelling liquids to rid him of it. It was a bit of a blessing, really, as it was the only way they could impose upon him the necessity to bathe properly."
Smiling, Frodo reached out towards Merry. "And how tall did you end up, Master Brandybuck?" Frodo's fingers found themselves in Merry's hair and he laughed. "You managed to keep lice-free, I see." Pippin pulled a face which made Sam snort. Frodo smiled as well, but the grin soon dropped into a puzzled frown as he pulled his hand lower, over his cousin's face. Merry kept utterly still as he slowly traced one finger over the great upraised scar across his forehead. "Though there are some parts to your tale that you have not spoken of."
Merry's face was grim as he urged the cool hands away from the old hurt. "As have you, cousin."
Frodo bared his teeth in the slightest grimace, turning partially away. Merry steadied him as his balance shifted and the world within his head dipped and spun.
"Are you all right?" came Pippin's soft voice, to his left. "This is your first time up and about, after all. I recall being a good deal tipsy myself when I snuck out of bed before the healer approved of it."
"I… I'm alright," Frodo insisted, but was immediately contradicted as his left leg gave out, jerking him in surprise. Pippin caught him, and then Sam was there, six pairs of hobbit hands, whole and strong, there to keep him standing. He swallowed, suddenly feeling very thirsty. "Though I am a bit tired. And dizzy. Perhaps I should get back into bed, now…"
The three exchanged a nod and Sam felt a small knot of worry loosen as they guided him back across the dirt floor. Merry, not hollowed by a long journey in fasting or crushed beneath towering troll-flesh silently insisted to be the one to lift him onto the bed. He winced guiltily when something in the movement twisted Frodo so that he inhaled sharply, freezing in Merry's grip.
"Easy now, I'm sorry…" he soothed, lowering him onto the soft cot. Frodo curled onto his side, shivering, while Pippin added more blankets and rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Are you thirsty?" The dark curls nodded briefly and Merry busied himself with pouring fresh orange juice into a cup.
"Sam…" Pippin's voice quavered, and Merry looked up from preparing Frodo's drink to see his younger cousin staring horrified at a blood covered hand. Merry quickly turned Frodo over, and his hands came away bloody from where they had touched his back.
Sam signaled for the two of them to keep quiet. He fetched a fresh night-shirt from the trunk in the corner of the tent, also palming an unlabeled bottle filled with a thick amber liquid. "Here, Mr. Frodo, let's get you in a clean night-shirt."
Frodo groaned but did not protest when Sam sat him briefly up to remove the bloodied garment. From where Merry stood he could now clearly see the whip-marks crisscrossing his cousin's back, scars he had heard tale of but never actually seen. The long angry marks, gut-wrenching in their frequency, slashed the pale skin into a thousand pieces. The red welts had begun to scar over with new skin, pink and puffy, but in some places it was still long scabs, crusted with old dark blood. The movement involved in getting in and out of bed had torn open several of these, leaking red accusation and dripping in long crimson rivulets down the prominent spine and ribs. Merry shoved a fist into his mouth and bit in order to stifle the small cry of alarm rising in his throat.
Sam took the glass from Merry's hand and tipped a generous amount of the amber contents of the phial into it. He indicated to Pippin and Merry to hold Frodo's ever weakening form upright while he mixed the solution well. "Here, Mr. Frodo, drink this."
Frodo complied with minimal protests, letting the cool liquid coat his throat, tasting the lingering after-taste of something slightly bitter too late. He was about to voice that he did not need any more medication, thank you very much, but he'd already lost much of the control of his mouth and jaw. The last few drops of the spiked juice dribbled heedlessly down his chin when Sam finally took the cup away.
"Fee'ah s'range…" he mumbled as he felt deft hands cleaning his back. The world buzzed in his ears and he thought he heard someone reply, but their words were lost in the sinking lethargicness settling into his limbs. By the time Sam, Pippin, and Merry had laid him back down, face to the mattress, in order to apply fresh gauze, he had already fallen into a drugged, dreamless slumber.
TBC…
Author: Slipstream
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…
Notes: Sorry this one is so much later than originally intended. Studying for semester finals gets in the way a good deal. The lice idea stemmed from a conversation with Singe. The method used to describe the location of food on a plate using the cardinal directions is based on the clock system used for this same purpose. While I do think that Tolkien mentioned somewhere the use of pocket-watches and suchforth, it seems more likely that the common people, especially military men, would understand directions (North, South, East, West) more so than telling time. I do not know whether or not oranges are said to grow in Middle Earth, but for the purpose of this fic I am placing them amongst the groves of Gondor, reasoning that during the summer, being further south, they may have a climate similar to that of northern California, where oranges are known to grow.
Disclaimer: Do not own do not own do not own. How many times must I assert this? Plot mine, characters not.
~~~***~~~
Frodo spent the next week confined to the dimness of the healing tent. Adelian had fashioned a small leather eye-patch to cover his right eye, insisting that continued wear and forcing of the left eye to function would return much of his lost vision. However, the one-eyed view of the world which flickered and spun constantly, more times than not trapped in swirling darkness, never staying still or in focus long enough to make sense, only gave Frodo a splitting headache. While Adelian and Sam were away, he often took one of the cleansing towels and tied it about his head as a blind-fold, relishing in the at least semi-pain free darkness.
Pippin and Merry were not to be withheld from their long-lost cousin for long, despite his quarantine. They had been sneaking visits to him while he dozed on and off, and mid-week, once he had begun to keep down solid foods and show some interest in leaving his bed to move around, they arrived with an enormous breakfast for the four of them.
Sam looked up in alarm when Merry and Pippin burst through the tent-flap, Pippin laughing at the tail-end of some joke while Merry carried a large tray and a knapsack slung over one shoulder. They, too, were still healing, so their movements were jerky and halted in places, slowing them down, but they still carried with them enough charismatic energy to fill the little tent with life and happiness.
"Morning, Frodo, Sam," Pippin greeted, taking advantage of Merry's hesitation as to where to put the food to swipe a piece of toast.
Frodo pushed himself up on trembling arms, one eye squinting as if to glimpse some light in a great darkness. Pippin suppressed a shiver at the sight as the pupil revolted against its master, coming to rest gazing inward.
"Good morning, Pippin, and… Merry…?" Frodo's voice was still a little gruff and raspy from the dusts of Mordor, and Adelian had whispered that it may always be so. Merry answered his cousin's inquest with a grunt, affirming his presence. Frodo sniffed and tilted his head. "You've brought something. I can tell by the smell…"
"Just a bit of breakfast, cousin," said Merry, and Sam rolled his eyes. From the looks of the vast amounts of food Merry had managed to fit into his pack as well as pile on the tray, several members of the kitchen staff were at that moment scratching their heads and wondering where their dishes had gone.
Frodo shifted a little on the bed and Sam was quick to stick several pillows behind his back, allowing him to sit up fully. Pippin clambered up onto the man-sized cot and sat there cross legged, lightly gripping Frodo's left hand. He broke off a piece of his toast and waved it in front of his cousin's nose. "There's toast, Frodo, and eggs and bacon and hash browns and bit of sausage, if you feel up to it. We even managed to find a stash of some Gondorian fruits, strange as they are, and sneak a bit here."
Frodo caught the Took's wrist, a little clumsily, with his wounded hand. His left eye squinted in concentration, and Pippin waited patiently. His fingers groped until he found the bit of bread, bringing it to his mouth to taste. He nibbled at it, licking at the sweet jam and taking small, careful bites. When he managed to swallow it without his stomach making immediate protests, Sam released the breath he didn't know he'd been holding.
Merry was dragging the small table and benches to the side of the sickbed so Sam moved to help him. Together they arranged it so that they could all sit on the bed and still have a flat place to set their food. While Merry arranged Frodo's carefully prepared meal on the tray, Sam pulled the little side table close to the other side of the bed for Pippin's use.
Once they were all settled, they sat around Frodo in a little ring, Pippin on the left, Sam on the right, Merry near the feet. Sam eyed the contents of Frodo's tray with approval, and a conspirital wink from Merry proved that the Brandybuck had chosen the wares based upon the healer's orders.
"What is it, Sam?" asked Frodo, cautiously seeking out the dishes by touch. "It smells wonderful."
Sam took his master's hand in his own and led it across the tray, describing the layout of his breakfast in the strange terminology Adelian had instructed him in. "Well, sir, north on the main plate there's toast, eggs to the east, scrambled, potatoes to the south, and a bit of sausage at the west, all lightly seasoned. The left-flank plate has some fruit, apples and such like, and cream if you want it."
"Aye," Merry laughed, spearing a large chunk of his own sausage. "You can tell the healer is a military man. Describing dinner in terms of troop movements, indeed."
Frodo shrugged. "It works. Mostly."
Sam smiled and brought Frodo's hand to touch the assortment of cups and glasses to the upper right of the main dishes. "Right flank has tea and water and…"
"A surprise!" interrupted Pippin as his cousin touched the glass in question.
Frodo's brow wrinkled a moment in question, then in suspicion. "Not another of Adelian's tonics, I pray…"
"Worse," intoned Pippin gravely. "One of Gandalf's."
Frodo blanched and went as white as his sheets. Sam alternated between scolding the young Took for frightening his master so and reassuring Frodo that it was not some vile medicine snuck in amongst his breakfast.
"Really, Frodo, it's quite good. I bet you'll like it a lot, and if you don't, well, the more for me. Here, try some…" Pippin picked up the glass and placed it against his cousin's lips. Frodo kept his mouth tightly shut for a moment, but when his nose assured him that whatever this was, it did not smell as vile as his daily tonics, he parted his lips slightly and admitted the cool liquid. At the little noise of surprise Frodo made, Pippin smiled and allowed him to drink more.
Finally Frodo drew back, licking at the remainder of the juice. "That *was* good. Sweet. What is it?"
"A juice made from one of the citrus fruits that grows this far south," answered Merry. "Oranges, they call them, and for a good reason. They're the same color as a carrot, but sweeter and grow in trees. The men of Gondor drink the juice when they break fast."
"Good for colds and such like, as well," said Sam, adding butter and marmalade to his master's toast. "Adelian thought you might like it."
Frodo nodded again and took the glass from Pippin, sipping at the cool sweetness.
The soft sounds of clinking cutlery soon filled the little tent, gentle laughter and conversation flowing easily as the four wounded hobbits reached out tentatively to reaffirm that they had all made it out alive. Merry watched earnestly as Frodo insisted on feeding himself, fumbling about on his tray and occasionally missing the plate with his fork (he had no knife, Sam, not quite trusting him with the sharp edge, had already cut up his hash browns and sausage into manageable pieces), but doing fairly well, considering. Blushing, he occasionally asked Sam for reminders as to where everything was placed, and the gardener was patient in his directions. After the first nibbles of sausage, Frodo shied away from his meat and the heavy sitting potatoes, picking a good bit at his eggs but primarily interested in his breads and fruits. When a bandaged hand cautiously groped at the place where his toast had been, now reduced to crumbs and a few smears of jam, Pippin wordlessly slipped two of his own slices onto Frodo's plate. Merry smiled at the content look on his cousin's face as he bit into the bread. Frodo needed the nourishment.
"It's very good," said Frodo, smiling in the general direction of Pippin. The Took smiled but, remembering that Frodo wasn't likely to see such a subtle gesture, quickly mumbled his thanks.
"He didn't cook it, the rascal, so don't be too hasty to heap compliments upon him." Merry licked his fingers clean of the last of the meat juice. "Of the many points in his character which improved over our quest, Master Peregrine's culinary skills were not one of them."
A small smile tugged at his lips as he leaned back into the pillows. "Sam has been teasing me with bits of the tale of your journey. Something about great trees and a flood."
Merry nodded, exchanging glances with Pippin. "Well, I guess that now is a good a time as any to tell that tale, now that we have you captive here in your bed." He settled himself into a more comfortable position and chewed at a crust of toast. "Now, where to begin…"
He told of their capture by the orcs and escape into Fangorn Forest, their wanderings which caused them to quiet literally bump into Treebeard. Pippin interjected and described Quickbeam and the Entmoot, finally the march to Isengard and the fall of the dark tower. They argued a bit over which of the storeroom's contents was most welcome, the pipeweed or the vittles, and then had a great deal of fun describing with exaggerated adjectives the looks on the three hunter's faces upon finding the two hobbits dozing in the sun. They related of riding with Gandalf, Pippin shame-facedly admitting looking into the Palantir and being whisked off on horseback to Minas Tirith. While Merry became a soldier of Rohan, Pippin became a member of the Gondorian guard, and here they paused to let Frodo run his hands along the embroidery of their finery and finger the fine links of their chain mail. They were careful to edit much of the horrors out of their tale of the final battle, but Merry could tell by the look on Frodo's face that he guessed at what was left unsaid. Throughout all they described everything in as rich a detail as they could, trying to make their cousin see the colors and textures of their adventure, to witness through their eyes the lands of Middle Earth that he had not seen.
Afterwards Frodo stretched and absently reached up to itch at his eye underneath the patch. "You are growing quite good at spinning yarns, cousins, but I fear you have left something out. Sam has been telling me how awfully tall you've grown, and I must say I can hardly believe it without seeing it for myself. I wish…" He sighed, shaking his head. "Never mind. If wishes were fishes and all that botheration."
"Come now, cousin," said Merry, placing a solid arm across his shoulders. "Things can only get better. With the war over you can rest easy and not worry about anything but getting better."
"The healer said that time could probably heal a good bit of it, didn't he Sam?" Sam nodded and Pippin continued. "You should be getting better every day. Why, I bet if you tried now you would already notice a change."
Frodo mused over this for a bit, twisting the sheets with his long fingers. Slowly, he reached upwards to remove the leather eye-patch and covered his eyes with both hands, squeezing them shut. He sat like this for several minutes, breathing slowly, only speaking to reassure Merry and Pippin that he was all right. Sam, who had seen this before, waited in silence. Rubbing at his eyes a final time, he opened them to stare at Merry and Pippin. The blue pupils wavered for a second and then unfocused completely, the left eye drifting upward while the right remained clouded and vacant.
"Curses," he mumbled, wincing as he replaced the atch. "I can't even tell you have faces…"
Merry frowned. Suddenly he sprang from the bed, grasping his cousin firmly by the shoulders. "Come, Master Baggins, up you go."
"W-w-what?" Frodo stammered, gripping Merry's arms equally as tight in surprise as he was lifted from the confines of the sheets to stand shakily on the floor. "What are you…?"
"Showing you how tall we are, isn't that what you wanted? Pip, come over here…"
Worried, Sam moved over to provide extra support to the trembling frame of his master, on his feet for the first time since their awakening in Ithilien. Frodo quavered slightly and was a shade paler than normal, but he remained upright, slowly adjusting his weight to standing.
"Mr. Merry…" muttered Sam, unable to keep silent any longer.
"Hush up, Sam, and help you master stand."
Sam bit his lip but complied, stooping briefly to clear the floor of any obstacles.
"How are you faring, cousin?" asked Merry.
Frodo's face was pale and sweating, but he swallowed heavily and kept his features plain. "All right, I think. A little cold, maybe…"
"Here then, come forward a little, closer to the fire. It's only a few steps." Like old men they shuffled forward, Frodo wincing occasionally as a wrong step pulled at his bandages. Pippin and Sam hovered at a careful distance, offering support and encouragements. "Pippin, come stand right there…good. Now, Frodo," Merry began, turning the Ringbearer to face the Took. "… you said you wished to see our new found height. All right, then. Look."
He took a bandaged hand and lifted it upwards, touching first Frodo's head and then stretching the extra inches to place it on Pippin's brow.
Frodo froze. "Oh…" He remeasured the change in height difference himself, hand patting over Pippin's face to assure himself that this was indeed the Took lad he had toted across half of Middle Earth. "You *have* grown..."
Sam felt that he would cry as Frodo gingerly explored the Took's sharp features, his master's mouth softening in contentment as he rediscovered the Pippin he had left behind in the Tookish point of his nose, the soft flush of cheeks, the dimple of a chin. He frowned, however, when his hand reached his scalp-line, the quirk of his eyebrows questioning. "You're hair's much shorter…"
Pippin blushed a furious scarlet, and it was Merry who answered with a bit of a laugh. "He caught lice while we were en route from Isengaurd, and the men cut it short and dunked his head into several foul smelling liquids to rid him of it. It was a bit of a blessing, really, as it was the only way they could impose upon him the necessity to bathe properly."
Smiling, Frodo reached out towards Merry. "And how tall did you end up, Master Brandybuck?" Frodo's fingers found themselves in Merry's hair and he laughed. "You managed to keep lice-free, I see." Pippin pulled a face which made Sam snort. Frodo smiled as well, but the grin soon dropped into a puzzled frown as he pulled his hand lower, over his cousin's face. Merry kept utterly still as he slowly traced one finger over the great upraised scar across his forehead. "Though there are some parts to your tale that you have not spoken of."
Merry's face was grim as he urged the cool hands away from the old hurt. "As have you, cousin."
Frodo bared his teeth in the slightest grimace, turning partially away. Merry steadied him as his balance shifted and the world within his head dipped and spun.
"Are you all right?" came Pippin's soft voice, to his left. "This is your first time up and about, after all. I recall being a good deal tipsy myself when I snuck out of bed before the healer approved of it."
"I… I'm alright," Frodo insisted, but was immediately contradicted as his left leg gave out, jerking him in surprise. Pippin caught him, and then Sam was there, six pairs of hobbit hands, whole and strong, there to keep him standing. He swallowed, suddenly feeling very thirsty. "Though I am a bit tired. And dizzy. Perhaps I should get back into bed, now…"
The three exchanged a nod and Sam felt a small knot of worry loosen as they guided him back across the dirt floor. Merry, not hollowed by a long journey in fasting or crushed beneath towering troll-flesh silently insisted to be the one to lift him onto the bed. He winced guiltily when something in the movement twisted Frodo so that he inhaled sharply, freezing in Merry's grip.
"Easy now, I'm sorry…" he soothed, lowering him onto the soft cot. Frodo curled onto his side, shivering, while Pippin added more blankets and rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Are you thirsty?" The dark curls nodded briefly and Merry busied himself with pouring fresh orange juice into a cup.
"Sam…" Pippin's voice quavered, and Merry looked up from preparing Frodo's drink to see his younger cousin staring horrified at a blood covered hand. Merry quickly turned Frodo over, and his hands came away bloody from where they had touched his back.
Sam signaled for the two of them to keep quiet. He fetched a fresh night-shirt from the trunk in the corner of the tent, also palming an unlabeled bottle filled with a thick amber liquid. "Here, Mr. Frodo, let's get you in a clean night-shirt."
Frodo groaned but did not protest when Sam sat him briefly up to remove the bloodied garment. From where Merry stood he could now clearly see the whip-marks crisscrossing his cousin's back, scars he had heard tale of but never actually seen. The long angry marks, gut-wrenching in their frequency, slashed the pale skin into a thousand pieces. The red welts had begun to scar over with new skin, pink and puffy, but in some places it was still long scabs, crusted with old dark blood. The movement involved in getting in and out of bed had torn open several of these, leaking red accusation and dripping in long crimson rivulets down the prominent spine and ribs. Merry shoved a fist into his mouth and bit in order to stifle the small cry of alarm rising in his throat.
Sam took the glass from Merry's hand and tipped a generous amount of the amber contents of the phial into it. He indicated to Pippin and Merry to hold Frodo's ever weakening form upright while he mixed the solution well. "Here, Mr. Frodo, drink this."
Frodo complied with minimal protests, letting the cool liquid coat his throat, tasting the lingering after-taste of something slightly bitter too late. He was about to voice that he did not need any more medication, thank you very much, but he'd already lost much of the control of his mouth and jaw. The last few drops of the spiked juice dribbled heedlessly down his chin when Sam finally took the cup away.
"Fee'ah s'range…" he mumbled as he felt deft hands cleaning his back. The world buzzed in his ears and he thought he heard someone reply, but their words were lost in the sinking lethargicness settling into his limbs. By the time Sam, Pippin, and Merry had laid him back down, face to the mattress, in order to apply fresh gauze, he had already fallen into a drugged, dreamless slumber.
TBC…