Too Long to Wait: In the Days Just After
Aragorn sat beside Frodo’s bed, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. The hobbit’s face twisted in pain and he groaned, nearly waking.
“Shh, shh,” Aragorn said gently. The longer Frodo could sleep undisturbed, the better. The pain was going to be unbearable when he fully woke, and Aragorn wished that Frodo could avoid the inevitable for as long as possible. Aragorn had athelas ready with which to sponge Frodo down, but it would barely put a dent in the pain. He knew he needed to change the dressing on the hasty cut he had made on Frodo’s belly in order to remove Ellohir…needed to clean Frodo’s backside, from which blood had leaked during labor…needed to make Frodo swallow Koslorn’s brew that slowed internal bleeding. Aragorn sighed. He would give the hobbit a few moments more of sleep -- that was the least he could do.
Just a few moments earlier, Aragorn had handed the tiny infant to the woman who had moved to the chamber next door to take up her new duties. Her name was Alia, a kitchen helper who had just given birth four months earlier and still had plenty of milk. She had been visibly pleased to be taken off kitchen duty for the important job of feeding Ellohir and taking him to Frodo whenever requested, though the latter duty would only come into effect when Frodo was well enough to see him.
Koslorn returned. “Is he still sleeping?”
Aragorn felt a flash of rage at the healer. Koslorn had been hasty to accept Frodo’s death during the nightmarish moments the hobbit’s heart had stopped. From a healer’s perspective, Aragorn could understand that Koslorn had only been doing his best, striving to save the infant when he considered Frodo beyond help, but on a personal level, Aragorn would never fully forgive Koslorn for giving up on Frodo.
“Yes.” Aragorn nodded curtly. “But he is in obvious pain.”
“We will need to wake him soon to give him the herbal brew. He is not out of danger yet. He could still bleed--”
“Let us allow him a few moments of peace.”
“As you wish.” Koslorn hesitated, and then spoke again. “Ellohir seems very healthy, nothing short of a miracle. Many infants born so early do not survive.”
Aragorn nodded, unwilling to think about Ellohir. His heart had swelled with affection when he had seen Ellohir’s huge blue eyes, so like Frodo’s, but now his thoughts were consumed by Frodo, how gravely ill he was and how he would give up anything to save him. He could not help but place some of the blame on the innocent infant. It was not fair to think so, but Ellohir had caused this damage to Frodo’s body, willing or no.
Frodo shifted and his eyes opened. He breathed quickly, gasping in pain. His brow was clammy and he clenched Aragorn’s hand.
“Give him the brew, Koslorn,” Aragorn said.
Frodo collapsed back on his pillow and breathed in quick, painful gasps. “Aragorn,” he whispered, so weak he could barely move his lips. “Is he…Ellohir…?”
“He is being fed right now. He is healthy.”
Frodo managed a smile, though his eyes were enormous with agony. “I wish…I hope…to…see him…soon.”
“You will,” Aragorn said. “How bad is it, the pain?”
“It’s…it hurts everywhere.”
Aragorn rubbed Frodo’s hand, which was disturbingly cold. “Koslorn is coming with something he needs you to drink. After that, I’m going to need to do some things to you that will hurt. I’m then going to give you an herb to help you sleep.”
Frodo nodded, his eyes wide with trust. His eyes closed again. “Don’t…leave me.”
“I will not.” Aragorn clasped his hands firmly over Frodo’s small, cold hand. He had no intention of leaving, not even if every enemy in Middle Earth attacked Minas Tirith.
Koslorn brought the brew in a steaming cup. He put his arm behind Frodo’s neck and very gently raised the hobbit’s head just enough so that he could sip. Frodo shuddered in pain.
“Careful, careful,” Aragorn said, his voice breaking with the agony of seeing Frodo in so much pain.
“Go on,” Koslorn said to Frodo. “Sip the tea. It’s not going to taste good, but it will make you feel better.”
Frodo had only taken a few sips when his face twisted and he turned away from the cup, his brow breaking into new sweat. Aragorn recognized what was about to happen and he quickly took Frodo by the shoulders, pulling him into his own arms. At the same time, he grabbed the basin beside the bed.
“Here, sweetheart, here.” Aragorn said in the most gentle voice he had ever heard himself use. He kept one arm around Frodo’s shoulders and one on Frodo’s brow as he bent the hobbit’s head over the basin. Frodo vomited several times. Aragorn held him close, knowing that each time the hobbit vomited, it sent new agony through his damaged body.
“He is still in shock,” Koslorn said in dismay. “I do not know how we will get liquids in him.”
“Hand me the mug,” Aragorn said, still holding Frodo close to him. Koslorn obeyed, and Aragorn released Frodo’s brow to hold the mug. “Give me a spoon, that one I see on the table will do.”
After Koslorn brought the spoon, Aragorn said, “I want you to feed him the brew one spoonful at a time while I hold him.”
Koslorn nodded briefly and began. It was a long, slow process, but they finally got all the brew inside Frodo. He convulsed a few times as if he would throw up, but he was able to hold it in.
“Very good,” Aragorn said, kissing Frodo’s head. “Now I’m going to need to change the dressing on your belly wound.” He gently laid Frodo’s head back on the pillow before unbuttoning the hobbit’s nightshirt. Releasing a dismayed breath at the amount of blood he saw on the dressing, he worked on releasing at the dressing without causing further pain, though that was far from easy since the dressing had stuck to the wound. Frodo whimpered, and tears sprung to his eyes, but he did not cry out.
“I am sorry, Frodo. This will not take long.” Aragorn finally removed the dressing. At least the jagged wound did not show signs of infection, which was a blessing. Frodo could not withstand complications in his weakened state. Aragorn wiped athelas brew over the cut. He was pleased to note that Frodo’s breathing grew easier and he even released a deep sigh. Aragorn bound new dressing over the wound.
“That is better,” Frodo whispered. Aragorn sat beside him again and clasped his chilled hand in both of his. He leaned his head on his hands, trying to hide his tears. Frodo’s life hung by the thinnest of threads, and Aragorn couldn’t bear to lose him. He would sell anything to anyone. If Sauron came back, Aragorn believed he would sell his services to him if the Dark Lord could guarantee that Frodo would survive.
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