Iphegeneia

Never Never Land....

… or something similar. The landscape she saw before her had nothing in common with the few trees and the flat lawn of Rigshospitalet's garden. The ditch she was leaning on was, in fact, the edge of a high placed ridge that led down to a valley with beautiful creeks, small silvery water falls, luscious bushes about to burst with a prolific richness of sapphire leaves, taunting blooming flowers of all colours, so heavy with nectar that their vain heads appeared to be nodding at each other in mutual arrogance, and majestic trees that jealously cast their blue grey shadow on the most breathless sights. To literally top it all, velvet blue mountains were dotted decoratively on the backdrop behind this fairy tale land, appropriately surrounded by fluffy, cute-looking clouds just touched by a reddish sheen from a slightly setting sun.
More than that, it had nothing in common with Denmark and her flat plains and lack of mountains and exotic plants. And there was definitely no sight of Helena.
Panic crept up her spine again.
If she was no longer in Denmark… and no longer close to physicians or medics…
… then she was in *deep* shit.

Malou slowly turned to lean her back against the ridge. She assessed her situation:
Focusing on the negative elements first, she started to list: Wound aching like hell. IV gone. Epidural gone. Oxygen gone. Helena gone. Wheelchair gone. No one to help her. In fact, no obvious civilisation in the diameter of at least 50 kilometres. No extra drainage bag and hers was about full. No food or water. No crutches. No sterilised pads. No disinfectants. No nothing. Terra incognita.

Right. *Positive* elements: Still alive. Wound not bleeding, external or internal. First panic surge avoided. Sif was there. Storm gone for some odd reason. She hadn't fainted.
She winced. Still far too much on the negative side. She would have to tilt those scales somewhat.
But how?

Then Sif started growling.
*Oh, swell. A threat approaching? A predator? Just what I needed*, she thought with an inward sigh. She stilled her dog and strained her ears to hear what the dog had picked up. Nothing, nichts, niet, niente, nada. She could hear absolutely zilch. Not for the first time wondered she admiringly about the beast's acute hearing ability. Then she suddenly gasped as a particularly mean wave of pain took over her body, squeezing the air out of her lungs. Sif whined… and then started barking furiously. Malou recognised her barking: a human being was approaching, but not necessarily a friendly one.

"Who's… who's there?" the donor tried weakly, her strength drained from the continuous agony that kept shaking her body. "Anybody there? Please help me." Sweat started beading her brow. This wasn't good. Another shock was building up in her body. It wasn't mental shock from her situati it it was bodily shock from the pain. It wasn't just to be good Samaritans that the hospital staff had insisted on keeping her painless. The body could only take so much pain before it went into shock. Blotches began to dance in front of her eyes. She snarled at herself and scooted down the ridge a bit to make the blood roll back into her brain. Dirt and grass made it under her hospital shirt in the process and curled up the fabric to expose her naked abdomen. She started to shiver.

Malou grabbed the shirt with shaking hands and pulled it down to the best of her ability. She had to keep the dirt from contaminating her wound, and she needed to stay warm to avoid going deeper into shock – and that's when she noticed that Helena's jacket hadn't made it to wherever she was now. She hardly saw her dog spring forward, wagging her tail, but she did register her own surprise as something warm appeared to land on and cover her torso right before the pain finally sent her to another and much less tangible version of Never Never Land.

It was a short trip. Malou woke up two minutes later only to stare into the biggest and brownest eyes she had ever seen.
"Hrumpf," was the most intelligent comment she could think of. Not that it mattered. When the person in front of her opened his mouth, she quickly understood that they had no common linguistic ground. She was surprised to find that she even couldn't identify the root of his language. She! A linguist! Though it vaguely reminded her of Celtic or Gaelic. She tried English.
"Do you speak English?"
The eyes blinked. She blinked. No banana. The mouth underneath the eyes moved and uttered something else in the unintelligible tongue. It was a wavy mouth. In a smooth, yet matured face. Her own dark blue eyes travelled downwards and blinked at the sight of this person's small, squared body. He couldn't be very tall. In fact, he couldn't be any taller than your average ten-year-old lad. Yet his face was so mature. She was illogically thinking of the name of the disease that kept the patient short yet left his face and mind to mature when a hand was put on her shoulder whilst another tipped her chin up. The face in front of her scrutinised her face thoroughly. And so it hit her: he was trying to determine her damage. She took his hand firmly and led it to her stomach while she pointed to show him the drain.
"See?" she explained disregarding the language difficulty. She folded the shirt over, "an organ transplant. See the surgical wound?"

He gasped. The eyes she met when she looked up were wide and dark with horror. Okay, he had got the picture. Just to accentuate her current position, she exclaimed a loud 'ouch' to underline the severity of the situation. He misunderstood the 'ouch' completely and started yanking the drainage tube out. This time the ouch wasn't forced. Malou virtually screamed into his face. Dramatic, but it had the desired effect as the petite person immediately stopped yanking the tube and started yanking his head back in shock instead. He said something hurriedly, leaned forward and took her face in his hands, his big eyes shining with concern. She was still wincing when she grabbed his wrists and with sigh language tried to make him understand that she needed professional help. As of NOW.

And then the merciful darkness swept her away again.

*

Void.
Bright spots loosely in the sir. Incandescant spots on black background. Black? No. Just dark. A feeling of claustrophobia. Walls moving in. Something sizzling. In me? Or perhaps outside. Outside of what? Noise. No. Sounds. Rhythmic. Pom, pom, pom. Now slightly arhythmic. Uneven. Faster.
A heartbeat.

She never knew how she was moved from one place to the other, she never knew how he accomplished to move her considerably larger body out of the woods and into his little cottage in the valley. All she knew was that she woke up, trying hard to blink away the searing light that so insistantly protruded her eyelids, in clean sheets and for a moment thought herself in complete safety.

"Oh," she sighed softly, "it was all a dreamShe She moved her body gingerly as she fixed her eyes on nothing above her. She closed her eyes momentarily in pure bliss. Then she frowned. And opened them again, gazing straight ahead of her. Carved planks in the hospital ceiling?
Her head immediately shot up, and she instantly regretted her rash reaction. The existence of her wound had mercilessly reminded her that employing belly muscles after a comprehensive operation in the solar plexus region was *not* a good idea. She cried out, more in annoyance than in pain. The door shot up, a dog leapt into her bed and a prone little figure emerged in her vision range.
"Oh, no," she whispered, groaning as a cold sensation slowly spread in waves through her body, "it wasn't a dream."

The figure talked, and still she didn't understand one word of it. She tried German and French to no avail. "Habla usted espanõl?" she asked lamely despite her lack of Spanish knowledge. "Parla italiano?" Better. At least she had studied that language for three years.
But no dice. The busy little man simply continued in his own tongue, tugging her in like a concerned and considerate father, checking her wounds… which reminded her…
THE DRAIN!!! Was it still there?
Unabashed and completely lacking in simple modesty, she flung off the blanket, pd upd up her white hospital gown and groped for the bag. It hurt. She let out a relieved sigh. The drain was still in.

But it was rapidly being filled. Usually the nurses would empty it and sterilise the tap, but in this case there was no destilled fluid at hand. A hand roughly her size joined her shaking hand by the tube. The lad had question marks painted all over his face. Okay, how to explain.
"Important," she said hoarsely, every word causing her more, disconcerting pain, "must stay." She tried to illustrate this by putting a flat hand on the pouch and pressing it down into the sheets. The brown curls in front of her nodded and the short man placed his hand over hers. He appeared to understand. Then he rose and left the room only to return minutes later with a bowl of steaming soup.

Without a word, as speaking was obviously to no avail, this little being fed the soup to his guest and involuntary patient. The soup was garnered with pain stilling herbs, but she didn't know that. He was no doctor, but it was evident enough to him that she had been operated on, that she preferred to keep the bag attached to the wound and that the pains were the biggest hazard to her. She ate the soup willingly enough, apparently understanding that she was in dire need of fluid and sustenance. Even before he led the last spoonful to her drooping lips, did the herbs take effect. He recognised a slightly glazed expression in her eyes as the healing, painkilling and somewhat calming quality of the weeds began to work. Before her head fell down on her chest altogether, he gentlyed hed her glistening lips and informed her while pointing at himself: "Frodo. I am Frodo Baggins, the Hobbit. Sleep well and save your strength."

*

Within minutes a reassuring snoring emanated from Frodo's bed quarters. Finally. This woman had already been out twice, but in no healthy way. She was in shock, dehydrated, and in heavy pain. The herbs the small Hobbit had fed her would keep her sleeping for at least some hours, in which period he would have to fetch either a healing Elf or Gandalf the White. Perhaps Queen Galadriel herself could be persuaded?

Frodo Baggins grabbed the cloak he had covered the woman with right before she lost consciousness the second time in the woods. The weather was good despite the late hours, but there had been a sweep of an unusually cold and windy storm momentarily shortly before he had found the woman; it might return. The dog whined softly at the clobedrbedroom door in exasperation of being kept from its master. Frodo smirked in rememberance. Once upon a time he had been terribly afraid for big dogs compliments to a certain farmer who had sent his dogs out to get a young Hobbit who had run away, his arms full of mushrooms. That was all an eternity ago, and after a trial much worse than the meeting with any dog, big black beasties like the woman's no longer frightened him at all. The predator aredared to be listening to his thoughts, but as it did not fully understand, it cocked its head comically, blinking placidly with its huge, warm amber eyes and gently rustling its flat, fluffy ears.

"Well, why not," the Hobbit mumured fondly, opened the door and let the dog join its master in her bed. She was too heavily asleep to notice the big dog curling up in her arms. Now it was Frodo's turn to cock his head; it looked very comfy, the way the dog rubbed its soft shiny fur against her chin and settled with a deepfelt grunt of satisfaction. The sigh of relaxation was echoed in the lady, who grunted in response and seemed to smile in her sleep. No pain was haunting her even with this heavy animal on top of her. The dog had carefully avoided her wounded side. Amazing, Frodo thought.

Finally her features grew soft and her stressed expression appeared to disappear altogether as she drifted even deeper into her state of blissful dreams.
Who was she? Why had she been so cruelly mutilated? And how the heck had she come here?
Here? In the Land of Elves?

*

"You're joking?" Gandalf said drily, seriously not expecting Frodo to prove him wrong.
"A woman?? Improbable. Hurt? Here? Impossible."
The Hobbit shrugged. "Impossible and improbable. Yet nonetheless true."
"Unbelievable," the mage murmured, "I have to see this."
"She needs help," Frodo reminded him, "can't we ask the Queen or Elrond to accompany us?"
"We shall ask both," Gandalf murmured, "if what you tell me is true, then her presence may well be indicating a threat to this world."

But the wizard didn't waste time going to the Elves. He immediately mounted Shadowfax and started riding with Frodo while sending a mental message through to the royal Elves. The urgency of the message would opt the fair people to start joining them instantly.

*

Darkness had finally claimed the fair land and conjured up all kinds of nocturnal beings. As they rode by, Frodo swore he saw a goblin sweep past them and scuffle under a root. Or it could have been rodent, he thought with a smirk. The underground people were careful to avoid the Elven Land's main inhabitants, but a plain Hobbit such as himself could sometimes be lucky enough to catch a glimpse of the elusive species.

They rode on in silence, the tall magician on his silver horse and the gentle Hobbit on his brown pony. The wood around them embraced the travellers, rustling their leaves softly in reassurance that anyone passing would indeed be safe. No one could get hurt in the Land of Elves; it was a privileged realm.
Frodo wrinkled his forehead for the first time since he had arrived.
Why, then – or how could the woman be hurt?
A sudden shiver shot through his spine.
It was a warm night.

*

"How did you get her from the woods to here?"
Gandalf was stroking his long white beard as he studied the limp form in front of him. The newcomer was fairly tall, as far as he could determine, too thin for comfort with an unhealthy complexion. Her mat of dark hair, straight and furry, lay spread out on the pillow like the shiny black wings of a crow. The eyes, closed to safekeep the secret of their colour, were remarkably wellshaped and crowned with very dark and highly arched eyebrows. It was a slim face, lightly dotted with a couple of stray freckles, a couple of which had landed uncerimoniously on the low nose ridge. Her thin lips were quivering subtly, and her white chest heaved and fell in synch with her breathing which was deep and steady and gently rocking the black dog that still clung to her torso even if it sometimes did show the intruders its fangs if they came too near.

"She isn't too heavy. She has probably thinned from all her trials. I used Strider and the gig once I had got her away from the trees."
"Of course."
"I am just worried that it may have caused her wound to bleed internally."
"That remains to be seen."
The tall mage leaned down and softly whispered something to the dog. It whined in response but didn't budge. Slowly the white clad wizard reached down to remove the blanket on the woman's right side. The dog didn't attack him. Somehow Gandalf must have convinced it of his good intentions. Frodo saw his friend's bushy eyebrows hit the ceiling. Then he blanched when he saw the multicoloured skin around the dressing.
"Such a heavy wound," he murmured. "I'm surprised she's still alive."
"She made it quite clear to me that the pouch shouldn't be touched," the Hobbit said softly as the old man's hands took hold of the tube. "Perhaps this is what is keeping her alive," he pondered.

Gandalf gently examined the flesh around the bandage, pressing down his hand a notch or too to determine how hard it felt. He did this along the edges of the wound carefully and slowly before he straightened. "I cannot feel any immediate internal bleedings. You did well, Frodo. The herbs are obviously doing her good. I think we can do nothing until the Elves arrive. Tell me what you know about her and her enigmatic arrival."
Frodo shrugged. "Nothing I haven't already told you. I was walking in the adjourning woods when a storm suddenly and without warning hit the area. When it stilled, I came across this wounded woman and her dog. She doesn't speak any language I know, but I think she tried several before giving up oral communication. She's good with signs, though. I don't know her name or where she's coming from. That's about it."
"Mm," Gandalf grumbled, "we will have to teach her, friend Frodo." The Hobbit blanched considerably from the prospect of both tending to this wounded woman and teaching her the language.

As if on a cue the form in the bed stirred, causing the dog to skidaddle fast, but gently, to the floor. It whined and fanned the wooden floor with its vigorous tail in anticipation as the woman opened her dark eyes and locked them with the wizard's water grey ones.

"Who the hell is *this*?" the patient emitted with her hoarse, crackling voice. Blank eyes stared back at her. Swell. This guy didn't understand her either. In the corner of her eye she noticed that the little fellow was still there, looking a tad less worried than the last time she had seen him.
"Gandalf," the long bearded apparition in front of her said. He laid his long-fingered hand on his chest. Well, that was obvious enough.
"Marie Louise Cle…. Malou," she croaked in response, mimicking his gesture and then repeated her abbreviated name to make sure they wouldn't hurt their tongues in trying out her whole string of foreign names.
"Malou," both of her watchers repeated in one tongue. "Very good," she murmured and then lost her already fading and quavering voice. Water. She got to have water. The donor lifted her hand to her lips, which she shaped as an 'o' and made drinking sounds. The old dude looked somewhat perplexed, but the little one caught on to it almost immediately. Within five seconds, her curly haired host led a glass of water to her mouth. Before drinking she dipped a finger into the fluid and said 'water'. Recognising a recurring need she thought it only practical that she would know their indigenous word for the H2O.
"Water," Frodo said, finally catching on after a couple of seconds' dumbfounded silence. Gandalf looked askance at his Hobbit friend while the woman was repeating the word sur surprising skill. Good. She was going to need that ability to learn linguistics.

Malou started to raise her head from the pillow to sip the water when she remembered that that was not a good idea. However, before she had a chance to lower her head again, four arms were slid under her torso and supported her while she drank.
Oh, good. They have some sense of bed manners. She gratefully gulped the much needed fluid that her body so craved. Since the loss of her IV, her body had felt like a desert. Her stomach and intestines were still somewhat unaccustomed to receiving and processing food and fluid, which is why her IV had not been removed yet before she was wheeled into the garden.

She lay down with a queazy feeling which was instantly recorded by her concerned visitors. They both leaned forward and scrutinised her carefully showing creased brows, one more furrowed than the other.
"Is she going to be sick?"
"Perhaps, Frodo. After all, her digestion must be in pieces after what has been done to her."
"Who would do such a thing, Gandalf?" the Hobbit murmured in a pained voice. The mage shrugged.
To Malou the blur of faces and incomprehensible words grew into one muddled entity. It slightly annoyed her that they would stand there talking about her – or so she presumed – over her head, literally; on the other hand, she could hardly demand that they talk in her language. What a mess. She blinked placidly at them and tried illogically to strain her ears and understand the gibberish.

"So what is it, do you think? Healer experiments, a battle wound or a disease sought cured?"
The magician stroked his long, long beard that any modern physician would crave cut off in the presence of a surgical wound. But this was not any modern world, and the facts and theory of germs and bacteria were still to be discovered. Malou shivered gently at the thought of how many different infections this place could impose on her.
"The cut does not have rugged edges and the stitching is fine. This was probably not a battle wound."
"That leaves a healer experiment or a disease sought cured," Frodo said genially.
Gandalf nodded, but not in accordance with his next words.
"The tack and instruments used are not of the world we left, my good Hobbit. Nor is the material," he added while fingering the drainage bag. He jumped a bit when the patient's hand shot up to protect the bag. "Mmm," he pondered, "surprising that she should still have such quick reflexes…"
"Gandalf… LOOK!"

TBC