Cold, Dark Nights 12
Mar. 18th, 2004 08:53 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
claudia603After nearly two years, Cold, Dark Nights is finished! I feel a certain fondness for it, because it was my very first h/c fic and one of the fics I started when I entered fandom back in June 2002. I will dedicate these next two chapters to ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
febobe and hope she is feeling better.
Title: Cold, Dark Nights
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13 for suffering (he he he)
Summary: Frodo cuts his finger on a contaminated knife and develops an infection just before Bree
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Cold, Dark Nights 12
The healer that Doren had sent for bustled into the cottage, carrying only a small pack. He tracked mud onto the cottage floor, and he flung off his rain-soaked cloak. He was not quite elderly, but the gray streaks in his hair showed his advancing age. He had a beard and large, stubby fingers.
“An ill hobbit, you say?”
“Inside,” Doren pointed at Frodo. Merry and Pippin were seated on the floor in front of the fire, and Sam had fallen into a light sleep, his head cradled against Frodo’s hip.
“What ails him?”
“His hand is infected and he’s suffering from his lungs.”
The healer *tsked*. “That does not bode well.”
Doren shook his head in disapproval. “We had one of them Rangers in here, but he seems to have left for good. Didn’t do much for the hobbit, as far as I can see, but cause him more fear.”
“Oh, my.” The healer shook his head in disapproval. “Curse those Rangers out of the wild! Why can’t they let us to our own business?”
“Aye, there is much evil in this village. Earlier this eve,” Doren said. “I arrested these halflings for gate-breaking, though now it seems they had a good reason. If I ever get my hands on the bullies that’ve taken over the gate, you can bet they’ll pay.”
The healer nodded and put his hand on Frodo’s brow. He turned to the other hobbits. “Do you know what caused the infection?”
“It was a knife he used for cooking,” Pippin said in a small voice. “He cut himself, and it just…” He looked down at Frodo in sudden dismay, as if it had just hit him just how ill his dear cousin was. “It kept getting worse.”
“It sounds like you’re out of the Shire from your talk,” the healer said gently.
Pippin nodded and started to say more, but stopped when Frodo groaned.
Frodo cringed at the freedom of Pippin’s tongue. He knew his young cousin could not help it. He was frightened and so much had happened. But Frodo might as well forget about his original plan to escape in secret. Now all of Bree would know that four Shire hobbits were staying in the jailer’s cottage, and that one of them was very ill. Gandalf had never arrived, and now Strider the Ranger was gone. Frodo let out a desperate sigh. He could not imagine how they would ever make it to Rivendell alone.
“All right, young halfling,” the healer said to him in a kindly voice. He kept his dry palm over Frodo’s brow, and it felt cool and soothing. “Yes, you’ve got a bit of a fever. Yes, quite a bit of a fever still. What is your name?”
Frodo’s heart leaped. He could not remember the alias that Gandalf had given him.
“Underhill. His name’s Mr. Underhill,” Pippin added hastily.
“I want him to answer,” the healer said. “I want to make certain his senses are not addled by fever. Where are you from, Mr. Underhill?”
“The Shire,” Frodo said, closing his eyes. He hoped the healer would not demand more information.
“When is your birthday?”
This was probably another piece of information that should not be revealed, but Frodo was too weary to fight it. “September 22.”
“All right then.” The healer seemed satisfied as he dug into his bag.
“May I have something to drink?” Frodo asked. Already it seemed like years had passed since his struggle across the room to reach the water jug earlier that evening. “I’m awfully thirsty.”
The healer nodded at Pippin. “Fetch your friend a cup of water, please.”
Pippin nodded, and Frodo watched through blurred vision as Doren directed Pippin where to go to find the water.
The healer looked toward the front door. “I wish to move him somewhere more comfortable, where there might be a real bed.”
“It is raining,” Doren said doubtfully. “It would not do him any good to get wet again.”
“I know, which is why I cannot move him now. If he gets chilled again, I do not think I will be able to help him. Let me take a look at this wound in his hand.” He lifted Frodo’s hand and his frown deepened as he examined it. “Oh…See how swollen and red it is? This fever cannot go down until this is taken care of.”
Doren shook his head. “That ranger, it seems, did more harm than good.”
Frodo groaned. “No…no, I think.” His mind was foggy, but he had the vague memory that Strider had been on his way to get a knife to do just as this healer suggested. “No…”
“Try not to speak now,” the healer said sternly.
Pippin returned with the cup of water. The healer tilted Frodo’s head up, ever so slightly. “Drink.” Frodo looked into Pippin’s eyes and felt a terrible pang of guilt. His young cousin looked petrified, but so far he had been so brave. Frodo had brought risk and ruin to his friends! As soon as he was well, he would demand that they go back to the Shire. Already he had put them at great risk, and they had not even had a direct encounter with the Enemy.
“Drink,” Pippin said. “Please.”
Frodo gulped the water down, unable to believe that his thirst was at last being satiated. The water was cold on his throat, a contrast to the burning everywhere else.
“Now, I need one of you hobbits to hold his arm down. I’m going to cut into his hand, and I have nothing to ease his pain. Doren, I’ll need you to hold down his legs. He’s likely to thrash real bad.”
“Strider…” Frodo muttered. He had gone to fetch a knife, and though this healer was kind, he was not a friend of Gandalf’s or Bilbo’s. Strider would not have left him without good reason. Something had happened. “Strider…”
“Hush, cousin,” Pippin said in a trembling voice. “We’re going to make you better.”
“Don’t cry, Pip,” Merry said. “Cousin Frodo’s tough. Look at his eyes. He’s fiercely angry, and if he were dying, he’d not have that look in his eyes.”
The knife jabbed into Frodo’s hand, and he yelped, bucking his legs up. His legs did not move, as Doren had them held firmly down.
“Let me tell you about the adventure we had this evening,” Pippin said rapidly. More pain zigzagged through Frodo’s hand, sending fire ripping upward.
“Tell me,” he gasped.
Pippin’s mouth moved, but the pain encompassed all, and Frodo could not comprehend him, not at all. He heard Merry’s laughter and Sam’s tsking, but it was meaningless. There was nothing but the fiery pain.
“Oh,” Pippin stopped abruptly. “He’s hurting dreadfully. Can’t you do anything?”
The healer nodded. “I shall be finished soon. The infection is deep. If I do not get it now, I shan’t have another chance.”
“Pippin,” Frodo managed, now that his cousin had stopped talking. “Pippin, listen to me.”
“Hush, Frodo, it will soon be over.”
“Strider is in trouble,” Frodo whispered.
“In trouble?”
“He would not have left me.”
Pippin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You are being healed, cousin.”
“It matters,” Frodo whispered fiercely. “He is a friend. And a friend of Gandalf’s.”
Pippin looked away, meeting the eyes of the healer.
“He is delirious,” the healer muttered, and Frodo’s cheeks flared in rage. At least if he were delirious, he would not be feeling so much pain. His throat would not ache from a thirst that seemed never to be quenched.
***
Aragorn woke in the street, and he spit dirt from his mouth. He coughed weakly and tried to rise, but his head gave such a mean throb that it turned his stomach. What had – the sun was breaking in the East and his limbs were cold and drenched. He was likely to catch pneumonia –
His heart jolted. Frodo! He had left Frodo alone while he had gone to seek out a knife to lance the wound. He stumbled to his feet and stumbled in dizzy fear back in the direction of the jailer’s cottage. Frodo had been alone, delirious! If he had come to any harm --
Aragorn reached for the weapons around his waist – and found nothing. He stopped and looked down. Everything was gone. He had been robbed! He, a Ranger of the wild, had been robbed in the streets of Bree by common ruffians! He let out a loud groan of self-disgust. Of course, his supply of athelas had been in a pouch there – and now it was gone.
Knife or no knife, he had to go back and check on Frodo. The hobbit was strong and amazingly resilient, and there was a good chance that he had survived. He tried not to think about the evil that could have passed while he lay unconscious in the street.
“No, I shall not think of it.” Inside the jailer’s cottage, all looked gray and dark. He pushed open the door. Everything was empty. Nobody was around. He looked around in wild concern, looking for any sign of a struggle.
“Frodo!” he called. He knew that sometimes patients in a delirious state might wander, looking for something desperately needed, like water. He saw that the fire in the hearth had died down to embers. It was as if the hobbits had never been here.
“Oh, Frodo,” he whispered. He had promised Bilbo and Gandalf he would look after him, would get the Ring safely to Rivendell. He had turned out to be the most inadequate choice for this task. And where were Frodo’s companions? And the jailer Doren? Aragorn looked around for a sign. He could see hobbit footprints on the dusty floor, but he could not determine how old they were. It was possible that the hobbits had returned and Doren had thrown them all into prison.
Doren was nowhere in sight, so Aragorn went down the damp wooden steps into the section where the jail cells were. He kept his cloak wrapped around him so that he moved in near invisibility. He crept through the shadows, peering into each cell, but there was no sign of any hobbits. He chuckled slightly to himself when he saw how far apart the bars were. No wonder the hobbits had been able to escape so easily! But if they weren’t in jail, then where were they?
TBC
febobe and hope she is feeling better.Title: Cold, Dark Nights
Author: Claudia
Rating: PG13 for suffering (he he he)
Summary: Frodo cuts his finger on a contaminated knife and develops an infection just before Bree
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters and make no money from them.
Cold, Dark Nights 12
The healer that Doren had sent for bustled into the cottage, carrying only a small pack. He tracked mud onto the cottage floor, and he flung off his rain-soaked cloak. He was not quite elderly, but the gray streaks in his hair showed his advancing age. He had a beard and large, stubby fingers.
“An ill hobbit, you say?”
“Inside,” Doren pointed at Frodo. Merry and Pippin were seated on the floor in front of the fire, and Sam had fallen into a light sleep, his head cradled against Frodo’s hip.
“What ails him?”
“His hand is infected and he’s suffering from his lungs.”
The healer *tsked*. “That does not bode well.”
Doren shook his head in disapproval. “We had one of them Rangers in here, but he seems to have left for good. Didn’t do much for the hobbit, as far as I can see, but cause him more fear.”
“Oh, my.” The healer shook his head in disapproval. “Curse those Rangers out of the wild! Why can’t they let us to our own business?”
“Aye, there is much evil in this village. Earlier this eve,” Doren said. “I arrested these halflings for gate-breaking, though now it seems they had a good reason. If I ever get my hands on the bullies that’ve taken over the gate, you can bet they’ll pay.”
The healer nodded and put his hand on Frodo’s brow. He turned to the other hobbits. “Do you know what caused the infection?”
“It was a knife he used for cooking,” Pippin said in a small voice. “He cut himself, and it just…” He looked down at Frodo in sudden dismay, as if it had just hit him just how ill his dear cousin was. “It kept getting worse.”
“It sounds like you’re out of the Shire from your talk,” the healer said gently.
Pippin nodded and started to say more, but stopped when Frodo groaned.
Frodo cringed at the freedom of Pippin’s tongue. He knew his young cousin could not help it. He was frightened and so much had happened. But Frodo might as well forget about his original plan to escape in secret. Now all of Bree would know that four Shire hobbits were staying in the jailer’s cottage, and that one of them was very ill. Gandalf had never arrived, and now Strider the Ranger was gone. Frodo let out a desperate sigh. He could not imagine how they would ever make it to Rivendell alone.
“All right, young halfling,” the healer said to him in a kindly voice. He kept his dry palm over Frodo’s brow, and it felt cool and soothing. “Yes, you’ve got a bit of a fever. Yes, quite a bit of a fever still. What is your name?”
Frodo’s heart leaped. He could not remember the alias that Gandalf had given him.
“Underhill. His name’s Mr. Underhill,” Pippin added hastily.
“I want him to answer,” the healer said. “I want to make certain his senses are not addled by fever. Where are you from, Mr. Underhill?”
“The Shire,” Frodo said, closing his eyes. He hoped the healer would not demand more information.
“When is your birthday?”
This was probably another piece of information that should not be revealed, but Frodo was too weary to fight it. “September 22.”
“All right then.” The healer seemed satisfied as he dug into his bag.
“May I have something to drink?” Frodo asked. Already it seemed like years had passed since his struggle across the room to reach the water jug earlier that evening. “I’m awfully thirsty.”
The healer nodded at Pippin. “Fetch your friend a cup of water, please.”
Pippin nodded, and Frodo watched through blurred vision as Doren directed Pippin where to go to find the water.
The healer looked toward the front door. “I wish to move him somewhere more comfortable, where there might be a real bed.”
“It is raining,” Doren said doubtfully. “It would not do him any good to get wet again.”
“I know, which is why I cannot move him now. If he gets chilled again, I do not think I will be able to help him. Let me take a look at this wound in his hand.” He lifted Frodo’s hand and his frown deepened as he examined it. “Oh…See how swollen and red it is? This fever cannot go down until this is taken care of.”
Doren shook his head. “That ranger, it seems, did more harm than good.”
Frodo groaned. “No…no, I think.” His mind was foggy, but he had the vague memory that Strider had been on his way to get a knife to do just as this healer suggested. “No…”
“Try not to speak now,” the healer said sternly.
Pippin returned with the cup of water. The healer tilted Frodo’s head up, ever so slightly. “Drink.” Frodo looked into Pippin’s eyes and felt a terrible pang of guilt. His young cousin looked petrified, but so far he had been so brave. Frodo had brought risk and ruin to his friends! As soon as he was well, he would demand that they go back to the Shire. Already he had put them at great risk, and they had not even had a direct encounter with the Enemy.
“Drink,” Pippin said. “Please.”
Frodo gulped the water down, unable to believe that his thirst was at last being satiated. The water was cold on his throat, a contrast to the burning everywhere else.
“Now, I need one of you hobbits to hold his arm down. I’m going to cut into his hand, and I have nothing to ease his pain. Doren, I’ll need you to hold down his legs. He’s likely to thrash real bad.”
“Strider…” Frodo muttered. He had gone to fetch a knife, and though this healer was kind, he was not a friend of Gandalf’s or Bilbo’s. Strider would not have left him without good reason. Something had happened. “Strider…”
“Hush, cousin,” Pippin said in a trembling voice. “We’re going to make you better.”
“Don’t cry, Pip,” Merry said. “Cousin Frodo’s tough. Look at his eyes. He’s fiercely angry, and if he were dying, he’d not have that look in his eyes.”
The knife jabbed into Frodo’s hand, and he yelped, bucking his legs up. His legs did not move, as Doren had them held firmly down.
“Let me tell you about the adventure we had this evening,” Pippin said rapidly. More pain zigzagged through Frodo’s hand, sending fire ripping upward.
“Tell me,” he gasped.
Pippin’s mouth moved, but the pain encompassed all, and Frodo could not comprehend him, not at all. He heard Merry’s laughter and Sam’s tsking, but it was meaningless. There was nothing but the fiery pain.
“Oh,” Pippin stopped abruptly. “He’s hurting dreadfully. Can’t you do anything?”
The healer nodded. “I shall be finished soon. The infection is deep. If I do not get it now, I shan’t have another chance.”
“Pippin,” Frodo managed, now that his cousin had stopped talking. “Pippin, listen to me.”
“Hush, Frodo, it will soon be over.”
“Strider is in trouble,” Frodo whispered.
“In trouble?”
“He would not have left me.”
Pippin shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. You are being healed, cousin.”
“It matters,” Frodo whispered fiercely. “He is a friend. And a friend of Gandalf’s.”
Pippin looked away, meeting the eyes of the healer.
“He is delirious,” the healer muttered, and Frodo’s cheeks flared in rage. At least if he were delirious, he would not be feeling so much pain. His throat would not ache from a thirst that seemed never to be quenched.
***
Aragorn woke in the street, and he spit dirt from his mouth. He coughed weakly and tried to rise, but his head gave such a mean throb that it turned his stomach. What had – the sun was breaking in the East and his limbs were cold and drenched. He was likely to catch pneumonia –
His heart jolted. Frodo! He had left Frodo alone while he had gone to seek out a knife to lance the wound. He stumbled to his feet and stumbled in dizzy fear back in the direction of the jailer’s cottage. Frodo had been alone, delirious! If he had come to any harm --
Aragorn reached for the weapons around his waist – and found nothing. He stopped and looked down. Everything was gone. He had been robbed! He, a Ranger of the wild, had been robbed in the streets of Bree by common ruffians! He let out a loud groan of self-disgust. Of course, his supply of athelas had been in a pouch there – and now it was gone.
Knife or no knife, he had to go back and check on Frodo. The hobbit was strong and amazingly resilient, and there was a good chance that he had survived. He tried not to think about the evil that could have passed while he lay unconscious in the street.
“No, I shall not think of it.” Inside the jailer’s cottage, all looked gray and dark. He pushed open the door. Everything was empty. Nobody was around. He looked around in wild concern, looking for any sign of a struggle.
“Frodo!” he called. He knew that sometimes patients in a delirious state might wander, looking for something desperately needed, like water. He saw that the fire in the hearth had died down to embers. It was as if the hobbits had never been here.
“Oh, Frodo,” he whispered. He had promised Bilbo and Gandalf he would look after him, would get the Ring safely to Rivendell. He had turned out to be the most inadequate choice for this task. And where were Frodo’s companions? And the jailer Doren? Aragorn looked around for a sign. He could see hobbit footprints on the dusty floor, but he could not determine how old they were. It was possible that the hobbits had returned and Doren had thrown them all into prison.
Doren was nowhere in sight, so Aragorn went down the damp wooden steps into the section where the jail cells were. He kept his cloak wrapped around him so that he moved in near invisibility. He crept through the shadows, peering into each cell, but there was no sign of any hobbits. He chuckled slightly to himself when he saw how far apart the bars were. No wonder the hobbits had been able to escape so easily! But if they weren’t in jail, then where were they?
TBC