The Strength of One Small
A/N: Please do not try anything you see in this fic at home. I'm not a doctor; you don't want to try a figment of my imagination! None of this belongs to me!
Chapter Seven-Inching Toward Life and Death
Frodo continued to thrash for quite some time before he collapsed completely, his strength spent. Fingers trembling, Aragorn uncertainly ran them along the small neck until he felt a weak throbbing of life. The ranger sank to his knees in relief. He had feared the prolonged convulsions might have been too much for Frodo. He looked up to find himself and Legolas surrounded by the others in the fellowship. Even Merry leaned weakly on Sam and Pippin as he looked on anxiously, sweat glistening on his brow in the moonlight.
"He's bleeding again," Gandalf noted softly, wondering how much more blood the hobbit could afford to lose.
Aragorn and Legolas locked eyes and began contemplating this as well, remembering the other alternative. At last the ranger spoke, "We'll have to wait until morning. I can do nothing for him tonight."
This verdict was too much for Merry, whose strength left him as his legs gave way. Boromir helped him back under his cloak and drew Pippin close to him, startled at how cold and pale the tweenager was.
Though the fellowship was weary from lack of sleep, they pressed on. The situation was becoming too dire to stop, even to rest. Morning brought no happy tidings, nor added much hope to the already grave circumstances. When the sun at last rose, they halted and placed Frodo on the ground once more. The sun beat down hotly through the trees and revealed to all just how weak Frodo was. His shirt was soaked in his blood and dark circles were vivid under his closed eyes. His face was gray and bloodless. Legolas placed a hand on Aragorn's shoulder, "It's time. We can wait no longer, you know it as well as I."
Strider nodded, "I know, but Peregrin is the only one left whose blood he can accept, and I fear that in his shocked state, the drawing of that much blood might be too much for him."
"That, I think, is for Peregrin to decide," Gandalf told them softly, joining them at Frodo's side.
"True, but I believe I already know the tween's answer. Would that Sam was able to help in this way! Pippin would give his life in exchange for his kin's, but I do hate to cause him pain and further weariness."
Legolas went over to where Pippin rested briefly and spoke gravely to the hobbit, "Pippin, Frodo is in trouble, but I am sure you have known this for quite a while now. He has lost a great deal of blood. In my homeland, Mirkwood, we have a method of restoring blood to those that need it, and that is to take the blood of another. You are the only one here who is still able to give your cousin life. He may yet live, even if we do nothing, but that is only if his wound begins to heal. Your blood might give him more time."
"You talk as though I would say no," Pippin told him indignantly.
Legolas looked down at him with sad eyes, acutely aware that Boromir and Gimli hovered close by, hearing everything while pretending not to be listening. "I know you would do anything for Frodo. I merely tell you the truth. This will not make you feel well, and there's a chance that Frodo could react poorly to your blood."
"What do you mean? It's just a little blood. It shouldn't hurt me much. Why would it hurt Frodo?" The hobbit was more curious than worried.
"There's a small chance your blood and Frodo's will not be similar enough, and as for you, your head will buzz, and you will find it hard to stand. You will be thirsty and tired."
"You sound as if you know of this from personal experience."
"I have lived a long time, my friend, and have fought in my battles and wars. Many times I have been near death." Legolas replied.
"Don't let him fool you, he just couldn't stay out of trouble. Need I tell him of the time you stubbornly refused to use a rope when climbing up an icy cliff-face?" Aragorn jested, trying to lighten the mood.
"Do I need to tell him why we were on the icy cliff face in the first place?" Legolas countered. Pippin looked at the two friends, eagerly expecting a story, trying hard not to laugh.
Aragorn ducked his head. "You win, mellon nin."
"Hey, that rhymed!" The young halfling couldn't resist adding. Sobering, he said, "I am ready, just please, can you distract me? I'd rather not have to concentrate on what you are doing. You're sure this is Frodo's best chance?"
"Yes, Pippin, I'm sure. I would not have asked unless the chances of Frodo reacting to your blood were less than the alternative of not having it."
"I will gladly distract you, Pippin." Boromir assured him, joining him with a smile as Legolas selected an arrow from his quiver and used his knife to remove the ends. He offered it to Aragorn.
The ranger frowned, "It's too wide for their veins. Can you file down the ends to make them more narrow?"
Legolas nodded and set to work as his friend searched unsuccessfully for a container to hold Pippin's blood before its transfer to Frodo. Estel grinned darkly, "Lord Elrond would not approve, you know. The wound could become infected, and the shaft will imbed splinters into their skin."
Legolas shook his head, "The way I see it, we have no choice. I will make the edges as smooth as possible."
Leaving the wizard and the dwarf to watch over Merry, the ranger and his elf friend began the time consuming and difficult procedure. Aragorn examined the shaft his friends had prepared, impressed with the skill with which the ends had been thinned to a point and sharpened. He readied Pippin's arm. He would have to be very careful about how much blood he used.
With a slight nod from Legolas, the Steward's son began another story, and Gandalf turned away to watch for the enemy. Sam offered several times to give his blood so Pippin wouldn't have to, but the elf quietly explained that the blood had to come from a relative. With that, the gardener piped down and sat quietly by Frodo's side, anxiously watching the shallow rise and fall of his master's wounded chest.
Listening carefully to Legolas' softly murmured elvish instructions, Aragorn tied a strip of his cloak around the halfling's upper arm until the blue veins began to bulge, then, taking Pippin's small arm into his hands, he quickly jabbed the stick into the crease of the hobbit's elbow. The tween turned very pale and bit his lip to stifle a scream, burying his tear-streaked face into Boromir's chest. The story Boromir told was forgotten. With Sam and Legolas gingerly holding Frodo up, they did the same with the ring bearer, who didn't even flinch. The two friends' eyes met worriedly. They knew this had a very slim change of working and might only cause the hobbit to lose more blood, but there was nothing else to be done.
Forcing Pippin to look at him, Aragorn directed him, "I want you to start counting to five. Boromir can prompt you if you have difficulty concentrating. Each time you reach five, I want you to squeeze Boromir's hand with the arm the shaft is in. No matter what you feel, you must not jerk away. Since we only have this wooden shaft, both you and Frodo must remain very still and close together. Do you understand?"
The hobbit gave him a weak nod. Checking to make sure each end of the small shaft was securely penetrating the skin, the ranger motioned for Pippin to begin. At first, blood spurted out onto Frodo's pale arm, but Legolas held the shaft firmly in place. The fellowship looked on grimly as Aragorn monitored the pulse of both hobbits.
After what seemed like forever, Legolas noticed some color returning to Frodo's face as the blue and gray tinge slowly vanished from his skin. "Enough Aragorn, I fear Pippin cannot take anymore."
At the sound of his name, a dizzy hobbit looked over at them, forcing away the cornbread that Boromir had been force-feeding him since the procedure began. Aragorn nodded his agreement.
Legolas untied the cloth above Pippin's elbow and quickly pulled the shaft from the hobbit's arm, covering the hole with thumb. Aragorn did the same with Frodo's arm and then bandaged it tightly. A relieved Boromir gathered the Took into his arms and held him close, slightly worried at his trembling. Legolas tried to tend to Pippin, but the tween would have none of it until Frodo had been looked after, though he did let Sam bring him a blanket.
Meanwhile, Gimli kept a constant vigil over Merry, worried by the smallest shiver or grimace of pain. What he did not expect, however, was exactly what happened. "Mr. Gimli? Where are the others?"
The dwarf smiled beneath his beard and answered with a gentle gruffness, "They are tending to Master Baggins. They'll be over here to see to you shortly. How are you feeling, Master Merry?"
The hobbit frowned, "I feel all strange, kind of cold, and dizzy. I can hardly feel my foot at all."
Trying to hide his concern, Gimli shifted them both a bit closer to the fire, ignoring the sweat that was beginning to pour out of his own skin. He made a face when he saw the blackened and swollen foot. His bushy brows furled in concern when he noted the sheen of sweat on the hobbit's brow, despite the fact that the hobbit was shivering. He also observed the large, black pupils that refused to focus. He was about to ask again how the hobbit felt when Merry groped for his hand and gasped, "Gonna be sick…"
The dwarf didn't hesitate in hoisting the hobbit up and onto his side, rubbing his back with gentle circles as Merry retched and heaved. Spent, the hobbit sank back into the dwarf's arms, hardly noticing the gently tickling of Gimli's beard. At any other time, the dwarf would have been annoyed to have the blond elf join him, but at this moment, he was grateful when Legolas brought over a cup of bitter herbs and whispered in his ear, "Aragorn says to give him this. It may help to slow the poison some. Keep him warm, it will make him cold."
Gimli nodded, grateful to be trusted with this task.
Aragorn frowned as he carefully changed Frodo's blood-soaked bandages. Even with a replenished blood supply, he doubted that the ring bearer would make it to Rivendell. There simply wasn't enough time. The wound was far too massive and had caused so much trauma that it refused to heal on its own. Once again, the hobbit needed treatment that only Lord Elrond or perhaps Lord Thranduil were capable of providing. There was no question that Mirkwood was too far away, and the chance of Frodo reaching Rivendell alive was becoming nothing more than a fantasy.
He almost felt the hobbit's pain as Frodo coughed up a small amount of blood from his damaged lungs and moaned. Aragorn shook his head at the sight of the bruised chest and misshapen ribs. With Frodo still, the gaping wound no longer poured blood, but the fellowship could not remain in one place forever. It was time to move again.
This time, Bill was forced to carry the packs of each member of the fellowship. Legolas once again cradled Frodo gently in his arms. Boromir strode alongside him with Pippin, and Gandalf with Merry. This time, even Sam watched anxiously for the return of the foul beasts of Mordor. Deep down, they all knew that it was just a matter of time before Frodo, and then Merry succumbed to their injuries.