A Wounded Healer
 
 

A fifty-eighth fic by Iorhael
 
 
 

The graceful moves and hardened expressions could barely suppress your true feelings for sometimes you would bark orders at your men, mostly out of frustration.
 

“Hand me more athelas, for Eru’s sake!  People are dying here!”
 

Yet no one dared to raise voices even if it were Gandalf or your stepfather, the Elf-Lord, Elrond.  And no one dared to stand in your way and risked being on the receiving end of your wrath.  Thus you were left alone – help and aid sent only from a distance.
 

You saw blood everywhere, chalk-white broken bones of limbs and ribs jutting out of the flesh, spear wounds adding their nauseating sight and smell, and tortured cries coming from the parched lips of those who did not even realize their making.  You glared wildly at them all, coming to realize you might not be able to save them this time.  And they call you a healer.
 

The hand of the king is the hand of a healer.
 

That would be so wrong – a healer who could not heal.  And all of a sudden you felt like SCREAMING.
 

But all you could do now was whimper as you moved among the wounded, for your own head hurt from the thumping of an orc’s sword hilt and your bruise-ripened chest throbbed from the trampling of the troll.
 
 

~  *  ~  *  ~
 
 

There was a soft noise coming from one side of the long, white dining table overflowing with all kinds of fresh-baked bread, cakes, and fruit.  You gazed up blearily from your dish at the head of the table.
 

“You eat ‘em all, Mr. Frodo.  Go on.  It’ll help you recover soon.  Please.”  Sam’s shushed voice reverberated in your ears, the loyal hobbit despairing as he pushed his master’s plate toward him only to be pushed back again.  Your eyes flickered to the pallid, seemingly lifeless features of the Ring-bearer.
 

“It’s too much, Sam,” he gasped, almost inaudibly yet banging loudly in your head.
 

You could imagine how Frodo really felt.  Yet you couldn’t.  How could you?  You did not have your skin torn open by a lash of a whip.  You did not have your neck pierced and your body deadened by a spurt of poison.  You did not have your finger snapped out of its joint and hear the bones crack.  You could never feel how all of those torments wreaked havoc on a body, damaging all the systems so badly they might never return to normal.  The thought sickened you at once, and you almost shouted to Sam to leave Frodo alone.  He had suffered enough without having to suffer food too.
 

But your heart wept as you caught the hobbits again in your eyes.  Frodo was now leaning to Sam, resting his weary body, his head on the Gamgee’s shoulder, eyes fluttering closed, breaths softly drawn.
 
 

~  *  ~  *  ~
 
 

You stood, hesitant, outside of the slightly ajar door to Frodo’s chamber.  You had meant to visit the halfling, to talk or even to lament your own failure in healing people, the Ring-bearer included.  You knew you were the king of men but you often felt the much younger hobbit much the wiser.  But the voices inside the room halted you.
 

“Go now, Sam.  Mingle with the others.  You need not wait for me here at all times.  I’ll soon be asleep anyway.”
 

You closed your eyes, imagining Frodo lain down, tucked into the clean, white sheets by Sam, his gardener, his injured hand draped loosely across his stomach.  A small, drowsy smile adorned his peaceful face.
 

“You sure, sir?  You might need something.”
 

You heard Frodo’s somnolent sigh, followed by Sam’s indistinct murmurs, and Frodo's voice again.
 

“This is the best gift that I deserve – to be alive.  I could have been stranded anywhere in worse conditions where even death was denied me.  I cannot ask for more.”
 

Frodo’s solemn acceptance stole the air out of your lungs.  It was true that their circumstances were different, with many people clung their fates and lives in your hands.  But this – this surrender might sound, to untried ears, that only the lowly could render such a confession. Yet in reality, only one who could see into himself with clarity and know his own soul’s limitation, only the highest level of being, could accept such terms. Despite everything that came upon him, Frodo could still appreciate all the Valar had granted him.
 

The door opened and you jumped, startled.  Sam shot a startled look, too, before he nodded a little.
 

“King Elessar.”
 

“It’s Strider to you always, my little friend,” you struggled in your words.  You cleared your throat as you were aimed to talk some more.  “I want to see your master.  I want to see to it that he heals.  Fully.”
 

Sam gazed at you with a tint of disbelief.
 

“That’s a very kind of you,” the hobbit said cautiously.  You guessed that he remembered what his master said about his broken body.  “But Mr. Frodo--”
 

You raised a hand to stop the halfling, and you smiled.
 

“I know, but I’d like to try.”
 

You were learning to accept your weakness, that you could not mend everybody, even this one.  But you knew you would make an effort – the greatest effort, for this was for the most unsurpassed individual you had ever met.
 

Frodo was indeed slumbering when you stepped into his room.  Without further ado you slipped wordlessly into an armchair beside the sculpted wooden bed and sought the unbroken hand.  You concentrated and dispatched warmth and strength into the hobbit’s body.
 

Frodo slept on.
 
 
 
 

~  *  ~  fin  ~  *  ~