Work Text:
Aragorn was surprised to see some of the Dunedain no longer within their mark. They had crossed the field to reach him, calling out in urgency.
“Estel, my lord,” cried Halbarad, “an eagle has returned to the gate; there is a dead perian at his feet!”
Wordlessly, Aragorn followed Halbarad and his men, all rushing back towards the gate. All the while, a strange combination of dread and excitement surged through his veins. He knew then, before he saw, whose stricken body awaited him.
Indeed an eagle stood before the gate, and before the Dunedain it spread its great wings and tore into the brightening sky. Beneath where it once stood, a young halfling was lying spent on the ground. His fair face was streaked with blood, and his hand was soaked in it.
“Frodo!” Cried Aragorn. The men gathered around him, still and slightly awestruck as he knelt and gathered the wounded creature in his arms. There was no time to confirm his life there whilst the endless battle still raged, but the warmth of his skin told Aragorn he may yet be spared. “Meet me at the tents,” he told the men, and they followed him without question.
Halbarad kept especially close as Aragorn set his charge upon the bed. They were well hidden at this post and out of danger, still, there was no time to lose.
“Help me,” he told Halbarad, too preoccupied with gathering equipment. “Check if he’s at all responsive.”
“Yes, Estel.” Halbarad looked down at Frodo and touched the side of his face. “Little one, can you hear me? Come on now, wake up.” His commanding voice went unheard. Briefly, he gazed at his charge’s eye, and was surprised to see such a bright blue gazing back, however unfocused in the light. This perian had an elven appearance like none that he’d seen, and all at once Halbarad felt despaired that he should succumb to death.
“He’s not waking.”
Aragorn seemed to grow tense and he slammed shut the drawer he’d been plundering through. “Check his breathing and heart, I will be over in a moment.” He strode across the room and threw open a cabinet. Halbarad placed his fingers on Frodo’s throat, the other hand just above his mouth. Immediately, he was alarmed.
“His breathing has ceased,” he told Aragorn, “I’m sure I had his pulse for a moment, but I’ve lost it.” Halbarad noticed that the tips of Frodo’s ears were vaguely blue.
“Lost? How did it feel before then? Was it quite fast?”
“Extremely so,”
“He will have been in shock. That can be dangerous.” Aragorn set his equipment down with new urgency and moved Halbarad aside. “Let me see to him.” Tearing open the worn shirt, he laid Frodo’s chest bare, then briefly felt at his throat and listened keenly to his heart.
After a strained moment, Aragorn raised his head;
“Nothing, no heartbeat, I will have to force it.”
Halbarad sighed uneasily
“Estel, you will break his ribs.” he said, but his warning went unheard by the practiced healer, whose attention was only on Frodo.
“They will have to be broken.” Aragorn traced his fingers down searching for the tender junction of Frodo’s breastbone. When he found it, he locked his hands over it and began rhythmically pressing very hard.
A pair of rangers, one slightly wounded, entered the tent. Word had spread quickly on the field that the Ringbearer had arrived; some whispered of his death, others claimed he was just wounded. The rangers, of course, were curious.
“Estel, how does the halfling fare?” One of them asked.
“He is critical;” answered Aragorn, “his heart is not beating.”
“Spare him, O’ Estë, O’ Elbereth." Said the other. “I shall pray for him, my king.”
Halbarad reassured them, saying:
“He is in the best hands; he shan’t succumb.”
By then about three minutes had passed. Though Halbarad checked him often, Frodo’s life signs did not improve. The shock had all but killed him, and if the arrest of his heart was not undone in time he would be truly dead. Knowing this, Aragorn had become relentless. He ignored the idle curiosity of the other rangers as he worked, and did not lighten the chest compressions at all, even as he felt himself deeply injuring Frodo. He didn’t have that option.
It was roughly six minutes when urgency turned to desperation and thankfully it was then that the perian took a breath. Immediately, Aragorn pulled his hands away and watched to see him gasping painfully, back arching off of the bed reflexively as he struggled for air.
“Come on, that's it, breathe. Come back now.”
Frodo was alive, but still he was struggling. His eyes were wide-fixed on Aragorn, cast over with a detached gaze that read only fear. Blood now seeped freely from his nine-fingered hand.
“I need something for this wound.” Said Aragorn, directing Halbarad to the supplies he had previously laid out. “He can’t afford to lose any more blood. Yes - it looks like he might go into shock again. Keep him awake, do not let him lose consciousness.”
Halbarad ran his hand up and down Frodo’s arm and talked to him, just to keep his attention as he tried to staunch the profuse bleeding. Frodo’s breathing had again become spasmodic and he trembled violently where he lay.
“He’s not strong enough to avoid it, Aragorn; he’s really unstable.” Said Halbarad with dismay.
“I know that! I know, just let me think for a moment!”
“Valerian may stablilize him,”
Aragorn shook his head. “It could also stop his heart. If that happens again I will be unlikely to revive him; his body is already too damaged. Still if his vitals improve within the hour I may consider it. In the meantime let us hold out.”
Luckily, by that hour’s end the bleeding had subdued; the worst of Frodo’s injuries could finally be addressed and hastily covered. Then was the matter of his chest and throat, where the damage was internal and not so easily mended. The burns to his inner throat meant for the meantime, he could take no water, spirit, or any aiding substance. In the attempt to revive him, Aragorn had indeed pressed his ribs too hard, and a few had broken, puncturing inward so dark bruises bloomed over his heart. This alone posed a great threat to his life. Only time and vigilance could yet save him.
—-
In the night Aragorn returned to Frodo’s side. He’d been well cared for by the healers of the citadel, but Aragorn could not bear the estrangement and dreaded what might have happened in his absence.
The halfling lay with sweat gleaming over his pale skin. His ashen clothes had been replaced with fresh linen, but a thin stream of blood ran from his mouth, soaking into the fabrics around his shoulder.
Frodo hardly stirred even as his shirt was pulled back, and the rough healer’s hand traced the swelling that outlined where his ribs had cracked. His breathing felt once again very shallow, and Aragorn moved instinctively to touch the pulse point at his throat. His heart beat still too rapid, nonetheless the touch had brought him awake and that, to Aragorn, was an encouraging sign.
“Frodo, wake up,” Frodo seemed reluctant to open his eyes any more than halfway. Aragorn brushed the side of his face, finding it extraordinarily warm. “Speak to me, mellon.”
“Where am I? What’s going on?!” The perian threw his head side to side desperately, as if in the room he could find the answer to his questions.
“Do not fear,”
Commanded by those gentle words, he stopped, and looked up;
“Strider? I dreamed your face -on the grass…I dream still.”
“No, Frodo, I am here now. You are not dreaming, you are just very weak.” Aragorn reached for the pack at his feet and retrieved a metal flask. “You have not taken any water yet, so I’ve heard. Will you try and drink for me?”
Frodo gave no answer, but allowed the flask to touch his lips. A moment later he was choking, water and blood dripping down his chin. His throat seemed to be on fire, mingling with a sudden tightness in his chest.
“Can’t…” He gasped.
“Alright, alright.” Aragorn, slightly dismayed, set the flask aside. “Shall we try again later? Perhaps after I have found something to ease your throat?”
Frodo gave him an apprehensive look, but nodded intently.
Aragorn suddenly became aware of a third presence in the room.
“My lord Elessar,” A woman was standing at the open door. With a wave of allowance she came to the king’s side, standing tall, but overcome with weariness.
“Forgive me, we did all we could,” she continued, “but out of all four of the perians we took in your stead, this one’s condition was the worst. I doubt he’s had any water since yester-morning. He needs medicine for the swelling in his throat but these small creatures are unfamiliar to us - I didn’t want to risk poisoning or overdosing him in this state.
“The Pheriannath are a resilient folk, but you are right to be cautious, Lady Ioreth, and your other efforts have not been in vain.”
Nodding, Ioreth bowed her head in pity. She laid the back of her hand upon her charge’s brow, sensing the warmth of rising fever. Frodo was barely conscious, eyes half-open breaths labored and panting like a small dying beast.
“Were it not for you, my lord, this boy would have surely died.”
It would do no good to correct Ioreth’s observation of Frodo; for though he was not a boy by the standards of his kind, even to their eyes he appeared little more than. And despite all the light of youth thrived in him still.
“Nay, you are wrong,” Aragorn found it overly difficult to continue his response, for the onset of emotion took him over, “even as we had begun to lose him, I knew it was not the end of his life. His endurance is beyond any other I have known.”
TBC