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febobeHere's part 1 of at least two parts, Surg - please forgive my pitiful use of Serinde. You said feel free to borrow, so I did. I can't write her the way you can, and I sure as heck can't do the best job with an all-out h/c that's centered around her, but I think I managed to work some Serinde comfort of a sort into it. . .in a weird sorta way.
I just hope you like it!
Happy reading,
Febobe, who runs to hide now
Disclaimer for readers: Serinde is the OC property of SurgicalSteel. I'm just taking her out on loan!
She'd had it.
Bother, she had had enough of them all.
From the loweliest apprentice to the highest-ranking official, today seemed to be "Annoy Serinde Day," and that is precisely what everyone did: it was not enough that she had the pressures of so many wounded in the city on her shoulders, for still so many were recovering from their injuries. Everyone seemed to want something more of her, and she had nothing left to give. . .no time to sit, no time to think, no time even to breathe, for pity's sake!
And now. . .a message from the King, summoning her urgently to his hall.
Well.
She'd tell him a thing or two about urgency, when she got there.
***
"Serinde."
"I'll thank you to tell me why you called me here and let me get back to work." There, she'd said it. "We're swamped down there, in case you hadn't noticed."
Aragorn's face, however, was grave. "I believe they can manage without you for a while. They shall have to." He rose, approaching her. "The Ring-bearer is very ill. My responsibilities leave me no time to attend to him personally any longer, but he continues to require a healer's careful attentions. There is no one else in Minas Tirith with whom I would entrust his care."
Oh, no. Serinde sighed. "Where is he, then? And can you at least tell me what you have done for him so far?"
"He came to us in appalling condition. I put him into a healing sleep and tended him with athelas, cleaned and bandaged more small wounds than I can enumerate, and started him on enemata to get liquids and nourishment into him until he woke." Aragorn sighed. "He still requires sponge-bathing for his fever, which I think is from the infection in his finger stump." He glanced at Serinde. "You have no doubt heard the tales by now."
Serinde tried not to gape. She had indeed, but - bitten off? Ugh. Talk about unsanitary. . . . "I take it you cleaned out the wound well."
"Repeatedly. I have dressed it, but it still requires regular attendance by someone who knows her way around wounds. And he must be fed regularly - I fear he is in a bad way as that goes. Sam is fine and eating well on his own, but Frodo's digestion is still delicate enough to require an invalid diet. Most of all, though, I hope you can help him with the pain. He suffers greatly from pain in his missing finger."
Serinde winced. So, is this why you chose me? Aloud she said, "Of course. As I said, where is he?"
"This way." Aragorn led her out of the hall and through corridors to one of the great bedchambers, knocking lightly before entering.
The sight that greeted them was a pitiful one indeed.
Frodo lay propped on pillows. Serinde had never seen him before, but she knew well that this was not what hobbits should look like - pale, thin to the point of emaciation, eyes reddened, lips cracked. . . . She suspected his lower extremities - hidden beneath the blankets - were probably swollen, and made a mental note to prop those legs up and get some good, nourishing food into that little stomach as soon as she could.
His eyes turned toward them as they approached, and Aragorn took advantage of the opportunity to bend over the bed, smiling gently. "Frodo. . .this is Serinde. She is going to care for you now. She is the finest surgeon in the Citadel - no, you do not need more surgery at present," he added quickly, as panic lit fever-bright blue eyes, "but you do need someone who knows how to care for your wounds. She is the best person."
Blue eyes turned up to stare at Serinde, and blast but they tugged at her heartstrings. He looked so small and pitiful lying there; it was difficult to believe that this was the saviour of the known world. And yet it was true.
"It's all right," she whispered, bending over the bed. "I'm going to look after you."
He nodded faintly, then let his eyes flutter closed.
"All resources of the Citadel are at your disposal, by my order," whispered Aragorn on his way out. "Call for whatever you have need of. I will have messengers posted outside this door at all hours."
"Thank you. That should do." She glanced back at Frodo. "First things first: we need a luncheon-tray. Plenty of meat or poultry, at least some of it in soup form, an orange or two, and a banana, if nice ones are to be had. Strawberries and cream too."
"I'll see what we can do." Aragorn nodded, slipping out and closing the door behind him. Returning to Frodo's bedside, Serinde took a seat on the edge of the bed.
So tiny, she thought. So tiny. Sweet Eru, help me.
Slowly the blue eyes opened once more. . .and the little hobbit gazed up at her.
"Can you make it stop?" he whispered.
"Can I make what stop?" she asked, realising almost at once that he must mean the pain.
He help up a bandaged finger-stump. "Hurts."
"I can try, little one." She took his hand carefully between hers, holding it gingerly, and began to massage as if the finger were there, carefully avoiding the stump itself.
A sudden smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Oh. . .that does feel nice. . . ."
Well.
"Does that feel better, then?"
He nodded.
"Will you eat a little for me when your lunch comes?"
He looked worried. "I'm not very hungry. . . ."
"Nonsense. I didn't ask whether you were hungry. I asked would you eat."
"I suppose I could try. . . ."
"That's better, then."
"I am thirsty, though." He looked up at her hopefully. "May I have some water?"
"Of course." Laying his hand gently upon the coverlet, she poured a cup of water and lifted his head to help him drink, holding the cup to his lips. He felt too warm to the touch. Sponge-bath, she thought, once we get luncheon settled, else we could get interrupted in the middle!
It took very little time for a luncheon-tray worthy of a hobbit to arrive: creamy chicken and mushroom soup, beef-tea laced with mushroom essence, minced roast chicken and roast beef, mashed potatoes, creamed asparagus tips, glazed carrots, a banana, two oranges, a large dish of strawberries and cream, lemonade, strawberry lemonade, blueberry lemonade, cup custard topped with blueberries, and apple snow. Serinde immediately salved his lips afresh and set at work trying to coax the most important foods into her diminutive charge, succeeding in getting a fair bit of soup down him before cajoling down bits of chicken and beef alternating with vegetables. Frodo proved to be a fairly tractable patient, allowing her to feed him without complaint - a refreshing change from all the whining and demands she'd had previously that morning - merely opening his mouth when necessary and closing to chew and swallow. He ate every bite of the strawberries and cream and the orange as if he were starving - and until recently, she reminded herself, he had been. The city had been on short rations, but nothing like what Frodo and Sam had endured.
The nourishment seemed to perk Frodo up a little, and he began to watch her through eyes a little less glassy and feverish, their gaze intelligent and curious as she fed him spoonfuls of fruit and sips of fruitades.
"You know about hobbits," he said at last. It was not a question.
She nodded. "I have lived in Bree."
A smile crossed his face. "Around hobbits, then."
"Yes."
"Good." This seemed to relieve him, and he settled back against the pillows comfortably. "It is easier not having to explain everything."
I know the feeling, she thought. Aloud she asked, "What pains you besides your finger?"
Shadows flitted across his small features. "Everything. My legs and feet hurt. I ache all over. I get dizzy spells, and my eyes hurt, and I have all these bruises."
Setting the finished tray aside, Serinde folded back the covers for a better look, opening the child-sized night-shirt. Sweet Eru, he was a mass of bruises and cuts. . . . And it was just as she had expected: his feet and lower limbs were considerably swollen. Gently she propped them on extra pillows, supporting them in a soothing slope.
"There now. Is that better?"
He nodded.
Now this, Serinde thought, this is what I became a healer for - not to be nagged at by a gaggle of numbskulls.
-end part I-
-tbc-
I just hope you like it!
Happy reading,
Febobe, who runs to hide now
Disclaimer for readers: Serinde is the OC property of SurgicalSteel. I'm just taking her out on loan!
She'd had it.
Bother, she had had enough of them all.
From the loweliest apprentice to the highest-ranking official, today seemed to be "Annoy Serinde Day," and that is precisely what everyone did: it was not enough that she had the pressures of so many wounded in the city on her shoulders, for still so many were recovering from their injuries. Everyone seemed to want something more of her, and she had nothing left to give. . .no time to sit, no time to think, no time even to breathe, for pity's sake!
And now. . .a message from the King, summoning her urgently to his hall.
Well.
She'd tell him a thing or two about urgency, when she got there.
***
"Serinde."
"I'll thank you to tell me why you called me here and let me get back to work." There, she'd said it. "We're swamped down there, in case you hadn't noticed."
Aragorn's face, however, was grave. "I believe they can manage without you for a while. They shall have to." He rose, approaching her. "The Ring-bearer is very ill. My responsibilities leave me no time to attend to him personally any longer, but he continues to require a healer's careful attentions. There is no one else in Minas Tirith with whom I would entrust his care."
Oh, no. Serinde sighed. "Where is he, then? And can you at least tell me what you have done for him so far?"
"He came to us in appalling condition. I put him into a healing sleep and tended him with athelas, cleaned and bandaged more small wounds than I can enumerate, and started him on enemata to get liquids and nourishment into him until he woke." Aragorn sighed. "He still requires sponge-bathing for his fever, which I think is from the infection in his finger stump." He glanced at Serinde. "You have no doubt heard the tales by now."
Serinde tried not to gape. She had indeed, but - bitten off? Ugh. Talk about unsanitary. . . . "I take it you cleaned out the wound well."
"Repeatedly. I have dressed it, but it still requires regular attendance by someone who knows her way around wounds. And he must be fed regularly - I fear he is in a bad way as that goes. Sam is fine and eating well on his own, but Frodo's digestion is still delicate enough to require an invalid diet. Most of all, though, I hope you can help him with the pain. He suffers greatly from pain in his missing finger."
Serinde winced. So, is this why you chose me? Aloud she said, "Of course. As I said, where is he?"
"This way." Aragorn led her out of the hall and through corridors to one of the great bedchambers, knocking lightly before entering.
The sight that greeted them was a pitiful one indeed.
Frodo lay propped on pillows. Serinde had never seen him before, but she knew well that this was not what hobbits should look like - pale, thin to the point of emaciation, eyes reddened, lips cracked. . . . She suspected his lower extremities - hidden beneath the blankets - were probably swollen, and made a mental note to prop those legs up and get some good, nourishing food into that little stomach as soon as she could.
His eyes turned toward them as they approached, and Aragorn took advantage of the opportunity to bend over the bed, smiling gently. "Frodo. . .this is Serinde. She is going to care for you now. She is the finest surgeon in the Citadel - no, you do not need more surgery at present," he added quickly, as panic lit fever-bright blue eyes, "but you do need someone who knows how to care for your wounds. She is the best person."
Blue eyes turned up to stare at Serinde, and blast but they tugged at her heartstrings. He looked so small and pitiful lying there; it was difficult to believe that this was the saviour of the known world. And yet it was true.
"It's all right," she whispered, bending over the bed. "I'm going to look after you."
He nodded faintly, then let his eyes flutter closed.
"All resources of the Citadel are at your disposal, by my order," whispered Aragorn on his way out. "Call for whatever you have need of. I will have messengers posted outside this door at all hours."
"Thank you. That should do." She glanced back at Frodo. "First things first: we need a luncheon-tray. Plenty of meat or poultry, at least some of it in soup form, an orange or two, and a banana, if nice ones are to be had. Strawberries and cream too."
"I'll see what we can do." Aragorn nodded, slipping out and closing the door behind him. Returning to Frodo's bedside, Serinde took a seat on the edge of the bed.
So tiny, she thought. So tiny. Sweet Eru, help me.
Slowly the blue eyes opened once more. . .and the little hobbit gazed up at her.
"Can you make it stop?" he whispered.
"Can I make what stop?" she asked, realising almost at once that he must mean the pain.
He help up a bandaged finger-stump. "Hurts."
"I can try, little one." She took his hand carefully between hers, holding it gingerly, and began to massage as if the finger were there, carefully avoiding the stump itself.
A sudden smile tugged at the corners of his lips. "Oh. . .that does feel nice. . . ."
Well.
"Does that feel better, then?"
He nodded.
"Will you eat a little for me when your lunch comes?"
He looked worried. "I'm not very hungry. . . ."
"Nonsense. I didn't ask whether you were hungry. I asked would you eat."
"I suppose I could try. . . ."
"That's better, then."
"I am thirsty, though." He looked up at her hopefully. "May I have some water?"
"Of course." Laying his hand gently upon the coverlet, she poured a cup of water and lifted his head to help him drink, holding the cup to his lips. He felt too warm to the touch. Sponge-bath, she thought, once we get luncheon settled, else we could get interrupted in the middle!
It took very little time for a luncheon-tray worthy of a hobbit to arrive: creamy chicken and mushroom soup, beef-tea laced with mushroom essence, minced roast chicken and roast beef, mashed potatoes, creamed asparagus tips, glazed carrots, a banana, two oranges, a large dish of strawberries and cream, lemonade, strawberry lemonade, blueberry lemonade, cup custard topped with blueberries, and apple snow. Serinde immediately salved his lips afresh and set at work trying to coax the most important foods into her diminutive charge, succeeding in getting a fair bit of soup down him before cajoling down bits of chicken and beef alternating with vegetables. Frodo proved to be a fairly tractable patient, allowing her to feed him without complaint - a refreshing change from all the whining and demands she'd had previously that morning - merely opening his mouth when necessary and closing to chew and swallow. He ate every bite of the strawberries and cream and the orange as if he were starving - and until recently, she reminded herself, he had been. The city had been on short rations, but nothing like what Frodo and Sam had endured.
The nourishment seemed to perk Frodo up a little, and he began to watch her through eyes a little less glassy and feverish, their gaze intelligent and curious as she fed him spoonfuls of fruit and sips of fruitades.
"You know about hobbits," he said at last. It was not a question.
She nodded. "I have lived in Bree."
A smile crossed his face. "Around hobbits, then."
"Yes."
"Good." This seemed to relieve him, and he settled back against the pillows comfortably. "It is easier not having to explain everything."
I know the feeling, she thought. Aloud she asked, "What pains you besides your finger?"
Shadows flitted across his small features. "Everything. My legs and feet hurt. I ache all over. I get dizzy spells, and my eyes hurt, and I have all these bruises."
Setting the finished tray aside, Serinde folded back the covers for a better look, opening the child-sized night-shirt. Sweet Eru, he was a mass of bruises and cuts. . . . And it was just as she had expected: his feet and lower limbs were considerably swollen. Gently she propped them on extra pillows, supporting them in a soothing slope.
"There now. Is that better?"
He nodded.
Now this, Serinde thought, this is what I became a healer for - not to be nagged at by a gaggle of numbskulls.
-end part I-
-tbc-
