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Shadows of a Nameless Fear  by Budgielover

(A/N: My deepest thanks to Elemmírë for her generous advice in the correct method of administering medical aid to Frodo. I wanted to get it right, and have done my best. Much of the medical detail in this chapter is lifted verbatim from Elemmírë's brilliantly-explained synopsis. Readers with delicate sensibilities might want to skip certain parts. Elemmírë, thank you. All mistakes are my own.)

Chapter Fifteen – In a Room Blazing with Light

Elrond Half-elven, Firstborn, Lord of Imladris and the greatest healer in Middle-earth, strode into the courtyard of the Inn in a swirl of robes, panting litter-bearers and shouting people. The stars were fading and the sky above was lit with silver and amber and orange. Those hardy souls whose curiosity or gratitude to the Ring-bearer had kept them until dawn immediately began calling for Mikah, bellowing at each other, and offering their help. In their anxiousness they crowded around the litter, unintentionally bringing the bearers to a halt.

Sam raised his head from Frodo’s back, struggling to divide his concentration between the people and counting each faltering breath from the still figure he cradled. Big People were milling around them, their faces drawn with grief and fear and anger. Many wept, holding out their arms to help. But the offers were slowing them, and Elrond had said Frodo had no more time.

“Sam … what…” Frodo shifted restlessly and Sam felt long eyelashes blink against his forearm, a brush of spider-silk on his skin.

“It’s all right, sir,” Sam whispered. Frodo’s head moved and an ear tilted back. “It’s just the people of the city,” Sam elaborated, knowing Frodo would insist on knowing more. “They’re glad we found you and that you’re going to be all right.”

“Good … of them…” Frodo said no more and the warm weight on Sam’s arm increased as Frodo’s head sagged back down.

“Yessir.” You’re going to be all right, Sam begged silently. You are, you are, you are…

“My lord! Lord Elrond! This way!” Waving frantically, Mikah was hopping from foot to foot in the doorway of his inn, sweat glistening on his face. “Let him through!” he appealed to the crowd, but the noise and confusion were too great for them to heed.

“STAND ASIDE!”

A pin might be heard dropping in the absolute silence following Elrond’s roar. The crowd parted before the litter like a field of soft soil before the plough. Mikah bowed as Elrond swept past him, the Elf-lord’s hand still on Frodo’s shoulder. Sam tightened his hold across Frodo’s chest carefully, holding his master immobile between them. Angling his head up, he could just see Mikah’s florid, worried face over Frodo’s shoulder. “I’ve a private room in the back, milord,” Mikah told Elrond, “cleaned as best we can on short notice. There is hot water and ice and the nearest healer. Lord Legolas–”

“Is here,” Legolas’ calm voice interrupted him. “How fares Frodo?”

“We have no time,” Elrond replied tersely. “Show me the room.”

It was a small room, but warmth radiated from the hearth and from sconces blazing on the walls, their light supplemented by many lanterns set around a wooden trestle table. One of the tavern tables, Sam saw, scrubbed till it shone. As they entered the door, a man and a woman where shaking out a clean white bedsheet and laying it over the wood.

The bearers began to lower the pallet. “No!” Elrond said. “Not on the table. Master Legolas!” The Wood-elf glided to the litter and Sam reluctantly released Frodo and wiggled back, allowing Legolas to lift him to the floor. Sam scooted out of the way and turned to watch apprehensively.

“Ready?” Elrond said briefly, glancing at Legolas. Without waiting for the young elf’s reply, he continued, “One. Two. Three.” On three, Elrond took Frodo’s head and Legolas his legs, and they transferred the semi-conscious hobbit to the table.

“Frodo is in for a surprise,” Legolas remarked with an odd smile.

The man turned around, his arms full of blankets. “Peter!” Sam cried in shock. “I mean, Mr. Peter, sir! And Mistress Marly!”

“Master Samwise,” returned the man, smiling broadly. Marly laughed, the clear, joyous peal Sam remembered from the Fellowship’s brief respite in their small, humble home. She walked forward and knelt and hugged him and Sam returned the embrace, laughing a little himself as tears gathered in his eyes.

“But – but – why haven’t we seen you before? Why didn’t you come to the Palace?”

Peter’s face sobered. “We did, Sam. Many times. But the soldiers would never let us through, or agree ‘ta carry a message to the King. To Aragorn,” he said in a soft, low voice filled with wonder.

“Everyone in the city wanted to talk to the King,” Marly said briskly. “Who were we to claim special consideration? They didn’t believe us when we said we were friends, and that he had told us to come to him.”

Sam was still trying to take it all in. “You left your town and ended up here...”

Marly nodded. “Yes, we’ve been here for months. We had to leave … after … well, after all that happened.”

“Our neighbours were less than understanding,” Peter added dryly. “And the commander of the guards seemed to think we were planning on torching the rest of the town.”

Marly’s lined face beamed. “Peter’s training as a healer, Sam. A real one. And we have a nice little house and Rich and Brion are going to school. Rich wants to be a healer, too. He wants to specialize in hobbits.”

“Thanks to the gold you left in the cushion,” Peter said, his craggy face shining with gratitude.

Sam shook his head. “You thank Mr. Merry for that, sir. It was his idea.”

“I want to,” Peter replied, serious now. “Except the soldiers say he is missing. As is Pippin. And Master Frodo…” He trailed off and his eyes turned to the activity around the table. Elrond had slid a small pillow under Frodo’s head and was removing his waistcoat and the grubby shirt beneath. Frodo’s eyes were closed and still and flat, the uneven rise and fall of his chest was pronounced. “We … we couldn’t believe…” Peter continued almost in a whisper, “when we heard. That you and he … that he … it was him that defeated the Dark Lord and ended the War and the darkness. And you were in our house, and we didn’t treat him…”

“And now this, after all he did for everyone,” Marly murmured. “We couldn’t help…” She blinked back tears but one escaped and ran down her cheek. Legolas put a hand on her arm and startled, she gazed at him with the same awe she had shown in that little house, not long ago but so far away.

“No,” Legolas answered. “You treated us with honour and trust and you risked your lives and the lives of your sons to help us. Had you not given Frodo aid when he needed it most, he might not have survived to complete his quest.” The elf smiled, his clear eyes distant and somehow sorrowful. “We will talk later, my friends. Master Peter, Lord Elrond requests you assist him.”

Peter gave them a short bow and another, deeper bow to the Elf-lord, as if he could not believe he was face-to-face with legend. Sam saw that while they had been talking, Elrond had removed objects from his case and was arranging them to his satisfaction. Some steamed in bubbling pots of water on the hearth, some gleamed with a greenish, pungent liquid he was wiping on the blades. Blades, Sam thought, Elrond’s going to cut him.

Elrond looked around the room. “Master Mikah, it would be better if there were fewer people here.” The litter-bearers nodded and bowed, as did Mikah. After exchanging a few words in Elvish with Elrond, Legolas followed them. Sam struggled to fit them to the few words of Elvish he knew, but he was just too tired and discombobulated, and even his thoughts seemed tangled. He shut the door after them. Elrond did not even suggest Sam go with them, knowing better by now.

Elrond began washing Frodo’s chest, murmuring to himself in his own language at the scrapes and bruises marring the pale skin. Most of the burns were confined to the hobbit’s hands and feet; a good patch of foothair had been singed off one foot, revealing blistered skin. Peter folded a blanket over Frodo's lower body as the healer’s long, slender fingers touched here, and here, and lingered, probing and measuring. Frodo groaned faintly as Elrond pushed carefully in one place and his eyes struggled open.

Light burned into Frodo’s eyes, blinding him. Then Elrond leaned over, blocking the lamps, and Frodo knew him. His eyes darted about and Sam leaned into his line of vision with a quavering smile. Frodo relaxed slightly and Elrond did not rush him, allowing him to take in the room. When his eyes fastened on Peter and Marly, his mouth opened and he made a little unheard,“Oh!”

Husband and wife grinned widely. “Well, hello again Master Baggins,” Marly told him, and Peter laughed. Frodo smiled back at them, his eyes shining.

Elrond had been pouring liquid from a bottle onto a cloth, and now he moved to Frodo’s head. “You will sleep now, Frodo,” the healer told him. “And when you wake you will be uncomfortable but on your way to your old self.”

Apprehension showed on Frodo’s face. His eyes sought Sam’s and Sam winked at him. “Be up and around in no time, sir.”

Elrond placed the cloth over Frodo’s nose and mouth and pressed gently. “Breathe, Frodo. Breathe.”

But Frodo’s eyes widened suddenly and he jerked his head away from the cloth. “No,” he gasped, “Pippin…”

Sam caught the edge of the table and pulled himself up, drawing Frodo’s eyes to him. “We found his uniform and his sword, sir. Strider’s looking for him. Everyone’s looking for him. I bet by the time you’re awake, he and Mr. Merry both will be right here and itching to tell you ‘bout their adventures.” Sam’s smile was ghastly. “Best get some rest while you can.”

Frodo’s hands plucked at the bedsheet nervously, but he did not resist the cloth. After but a few moments, his hands were still and his face smoothed out. With a small sigh his head canted to the side, looking as if he were merely sleeping.

“Come with me, Master Samwise,” Marly said briskly. “You and I will wait in the corner.”

“But–” Sam began.

“It is better, Master Samwise,” Elrond interrupted, looking up from his inspection of his instruments. “If I have need of anything, I will inform you.”

Sam sank down on a stool and Marly took the chair next to him, her stout form radiating warmth. Unconsciously, Sam leaned against her, his eyes on the table.

“His lung has been punctured by a broken rib,” Elrond said to Peter, sweeping his long hands above Frodo’s chest.

Peter nodded, his face intent. “I’d say two, maybe even three ribs, my lord, from how one side rises an’ the other doesn’t.”

“Well done,” Elrond murmured with approval. Peter ducked his head but the gaze he turned on the Elf-lord was worshipful. He raised his head and listened intently as Elrond continued, as much to inform Sam and Marly as Peter. “Blood and air are trapped, causing the lung to collapse. The pressure from the blood and air is pressing on his functioning lung with every breath.

“I will remove the air and blood from the pleural space, allowing the lung to expand.” Elrond leaned over Frodo again, feeling with those long fingers. “Air is trapped in the tissues of the body.” He pressed down and Sam could hear the faintest popping, crackling sound, like walking over dried straw. “It will be reabsorbed as the swelling dissipates, but this injury is too grave to allow it to resolve itself in a few weeks, as would a smaller tension hemopneumothorax. We will have to use a needle decompression and a chest tube.”

“I understand,” Peter breathed. He wheeled and walked briskly to the door, “Mikah,” he called, “we’ll be needing a long thin hollow needle and hollow leather tube and two – no, three – of your clean wine bottles. The ones that have been put in boiling water in preparation for new wine.”

“The bottles only, Master Mikah,” Elrond said from behind him. “I have the other implements here.”

Sam frowned at the long, flexible tube of leather and the thin, hollow needle Elrond was swabbing with the green liquid. “You’re going to sew him up with that needle, my lord? It’s too thin and long.”

“It is not for sewing, Master Gamgee, but for siphoning. I am going to insert it into Master Frodo’s chest and remove the air and fluid with it.”

Sam’s painfully empty stomach did a somersault right down to his throbbing feet. “Oh,” he replied, enlightened if not reassured. Marly patted his arm.

Elrond held out his hands and Peter poured more of the green liquid over them, then over his own hands, unmindful that it splattered on the floor. Elrond waved his hands in the air a moment, then leaned over Frodo again and placed a finger on the collarbone of his injured side. Sam watched as the long finger traced to the middle of the bone, then from there down to Frodo’s chest, stopping between his second and third ribs. Frodo mumbled something and a faint laugh curved his lips, reminding Sam of how ticklish his master could be.

That small giggle left Sam unprepared for the swiftness of Elrond’s next movement. Keeping a finger over the hollow top of the needle, Elrond jabbed the needle into Frodo's chest, then released his finger. Sam heard the faint hiss of rushing air. “Good,” Elrond muttered.

Sam’s stomach did another dip-and-roll that left him feeling ill. “Ah, he’s breathing better,” Peter murmured and Sam fought to steady his own breathing, lest he be sent from the room like a faunt.

There was a knock on the door and Sam jumped up, glad to have an excuse to move. Mikah stood there with a cloth-draped tray between his hands. Sam took it with a nod, careful not to wobble the tall bottles on it. He carried the tray to the head of the table and started reluctantly back to the corner, but Elrond stopped him.

“Master Samwise, Mistress Marly, your assistance please. One on each side of the table.” Sam rounded Frodo’s head and stopped, doing his best to stand tall, afraid those sharp elven eyes would see his unsteadiness. “Hold his hands. Do not allow him to move.” Elrond laid the glittering blade against Frodo’s skin and sliced. A thin line of blood appeared, then rapidly began to well. Elrond laid down the knife and carefully slid two of his fingers into the wound. Flesh gaped and blood poured from the wound.

Sam snapped his eyes shut, but he wasn’t fast enough. The darkness was shot with fairy lights, and the room spun around him.

“Master Samwise!”

Elrond’s voice was like a bucket of cold water sluiced over his head. Sam shuddered and leaned against the table, vaguely aware that he was clutching Frodo’s hand so tightly he would leave bruises. He had seen this done before, when Elrond has searched for and removed the Morgul shard from his master’s body after Weatherop. He understood now Elrond’s wisdom in placing the hobbits on the floor, out of direct sight of the surgery.

“I’m all right, sir,” he managed, eyes still clenched shut. “Sorry.” You git, Sam railed at himself (in a voice that sounded remarkably like his Gaffer’s), you’ve helped birth lambs and goats and sewn up hobbit-folk more’n once yourself. Steady on there, Samwise!

Elrond did not reply to Sam’s assertion. In the silence, Sam heard wet, swishing sounds. His gorge rose and he fought it down ruthlessly.

“No bones fragments,” Elrond reported, his voice detached and calm. “The ribs are set. Master Peter, if you would…” Curiosity and dread made Sam squinch his eyes open a slit. The Man was handing Elrond a hose of boiled leather near the width of his garden hose back home, and longer than he was tall. Elrond bent over Frodo again and guided the first few inches of the hose into the incision he had made. Sam clamped his eyes shut again but could not block his ears against the pop he heard.

“My lord,” came Marly’s hesitant voice, “there’s blood…”

“Peace, Mistress. The hose is imbedded in the pleural space surrounding the lung. It did not pierce the lung.” Oh, thought Sam, I should have eaten that sea slug instead a’ foisting it off on Mr. Strider … this sickness is paying me back for that bit of wickedness… Fingers tightened against his own and Frodo gave a small whimper. Sam curled his hand around Frodo’s and thought fiercely, No, master, sleep…

“I’ve the drug ready,” Peter said. Sam would hear the worry in the Man’s voice. He smelled that sharp, pungent smell and heard a bottle tipped into cloth.

“Not yet. It is chancy to give hobbits drugs brewed for larger folk. I do not want to give him more if it can be avoided.”

Long moments passed in which Sam didn’t hear anything else that made him queasy. He cranked one eye open cautiously. Peter was sponging the blood away and Elrond was pressing down on a sticky bandage around the tube. Sam tore his gaze away and stared determinedly at the joining of the wall and ceiling above Marly’s head.

“That’s tight,” Elrond said with satisfaction. “Air cannot escape the bandage. Is it draining?”

There was a muffled reply. Sam blinked; Peter had disappeared. A moment later he stood up. “Aye. Those narrow-necked wine bottles will do half the trick an’ gravity will do the rest. With the bottle on the floor, the other end of the hose just comes to where the bottle widens. How do you sterilize the sealing wax, my lord? And make those bandages air and water-tight?”

“I will teach you, if you wish,” Elrond offered. Peter’s broad face broke into a smile. “Another time, though, as our patient still needs us. “ The Elf-lord fell silent, listening as well as watching. Sam concentrated; he too could hear Frodo’s breathing improving, and see that his chest rose and fell more naturally.

“He’s pinking up nicely,” Peter murmured. “D’you think we should put in a second chest tube?” Sam clung to the edge of the table and gulped.

Elrond considered. “One placed near the top of the lung and the another near the bottom would be desirable, but I do not wish to stress Master Frodo further. He has recently been ill and has not yet recovered from his ordeal. And hobbits are small … one will do, unless there are …complications.”

“Complications?” Marly asked.

Elrond bent to examine the tube, then Frodo’s face. “Hemorrhage is the most immediate. Lack of air for too long … and the inhalation of smoke. Infection. Pneumonia.” His hands passed over the pulse-point at Frodo’s throat, over his nose and mouth, then lifted an eyelid to examine the crescent of blue beneath. “Worst would be the need for a thoracotomy.”

Sam’s head was swimming. He held onto Frodo’s hand as if it were his lifeline. “Thor … thora…”

“Opening Frodo’s chest,” Elrond supplied, holding up a long knife to examine it.

Sam swayed and from a great distance, he heard Marly cry out. His legs gave out from under him and he hit the floor with a thud. His last thought before darkness rolled over him was that he'd take fainting over being sick any day.

* TBC *





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