Iphegeneia

Hi! Cheers for all the kind feedback. :-)
Back again with another installment. Please R&R and good constrcutive criticism is always welcome - I'd like to get better at this. :)

HyperHenry


Iphegeneia 5

She could just spot his prone little form through the windows. It was a sunny day. Actually, all the days in this place – Never Never Land – were apparently sunny, excepting the day she arrived when the storm had brought her there. But today was exceptionally sunny, the huge burning star throwing its incandescent rays all over the ground, softly touching the tips of the green leaves and grass and enhancing the smooth skin of the Hobbit. Frodo was clad in a blindingly white shirt that was open in the neck, revealing a shapely neck and the top of well-trained chest muscles. A dusty green vest was flowing lazily in the wind, accentuating surprisingly broad shoulders for a guy this small.
Malou frowned. She had called his shoulders broad in her mind. She always did that when she started feeling attracted to a man. She shook her head gingerly. Blast it, but this was not the time to fall for her caretaker. She was in enough trouble as it was. And besides, talk about an impossible match made in Hell? Down, girl!

Thus inwardly berating herself, she almost missed him going back into the house and entering her room. His brown face was beaming and his eyes twinkling.
"Isn't it a magnificent day, Malou? When you get better, I will take you outside to get warm in the sun and to inhale the fresh air."

She nodded at him and smiled. Though not understanding the words, she grasped the meaning. Frodo's smile widened. He could tell she was feeling better despite the tough night she had had. Her constant going to the loo had made him feel very, very bad. After all, it was he who had given her the potion. He had found her in the hallway extremely early, worn out and unable to return to her bed without help. Almost carrying such a tall lady had been no easy task, but she had somehow found a little more strength in the depth of her impressive well of will and forced her legs to co-operate.

She had collapsed on the bed with a pityful cry of anguish and pain, and then, surprisingly, fallen asleep almost immediately. Frodo had then taken the opportunity to thoroughly clean and wash her almost inside out. The blood from her womb had increased, but he now remembered what his old uncle Bilbo had said about the Hobbit lasses.
Bilbo had returned from the butcher one day and looked as if someone had given him an overhaul. In reply to his nephew's enquiring eyes, Bilbo had murmured with obvious respect in his voice: "Stay away from the ladies when they aring ing through their monthly blood, my boy – that way you will live longer."

This had to be what Bilbo had meant. Female bleeding from the womb. Frodo wasn't quite sure why lasses had to endure that, but the important thing was that he now knew that Malou's bleeding wasn't dangerous. He just had to help her clean it.
Frodo realised tthe the operation woand and the bag wound were much more serious and that they had to be kept painfully clean. The drainage bag was not being filled any slower than before and had to be emptied almost four times a day. The Hobbit had no idea if this was good or bad; he just cleaned it the way she had shown them.

Much taller, bald and tiny feet, long limbs, straight hair and differently proportioned. Strangely enough, it wasn't the differences that Frodo contemplated as his ample hands tended to Malou's human body. It was the similarities. Their hands were almost of the same size. *She must have extraordinarily tiny hands for a human*. Though pale from her condition, he estimated that their skin colour was rather alike as well. Her hair was thick as his and their faces similarly proportioned. Frodo had always found humans to be much different from Hobbits. He hadn't known many 'big people' before he met Strider. Come to think of it, he hadn't known many after either. It had been Merry and Pippin, who had met several humans during their adventure. In fact, this woman, Malou, happened to be the very first female human he had known. The sinewous Hobbit cocked his head and evaluated his work. Well. She looked clean – and peaceful, for once. And very female, he supposed.

Goldenberry had talked to his mortal heart, the Queen Galadriel and Arwen to his Elven mind. This woman…
… this woman talked to…
… talked to *him*, how.how.

*

Frodo of the Elven Land took his patient's hand in his and squeezed it encouragingly.
"You are going to get much better. I can see it already," he smiled to her, trying to convey the meaning if not the words. She returned a ghostly smile.
"Waffer," she croaked.
"Water," he corrected her as he reached out for the glass by her bed. She gulped it thirstily, being terribly dehydrated from the night's toilet ordeal.
"More?" he asked, indicating a refill.
"More," she answered, having then learned another new word of Elvish.
She frowned. So many of those words really sounded awfully familiar. As she was listening to Frodo's speech more and more, she kept almost recognising some. Gandalf had said something that sounded like 'bärn', which was awfully close to 'child' in her own language. She knew that some Brits used that word for child as well – a reminiscence from the time Danish Vikings had conquered England and made their mark in both offspring, society and language. Could it be, really, that this language was of the same root as her own? How delightfully bizarre if this was so, she thrilled inwardly.

When Frodo handed her the refilled glass, she suddenly stiffened. She had noticed that his right hand was bereft of the third finger. As she took the glass from him, she let her own finger brush against his wounded one, asking in Norse:
"Hurudan?"
She saw him make a doubletake, obviously stunned that he understood a word they hadn't exchanged.
"How it was done? Erm… long story," he said evasively, his eyes looking tentatively haunted as old nightmares resurfaced.
But her eyes persisted and his mellowed.
"It was in war."
"Krig?" she modified, using another ancient Norse word.
"Krig," he nodded.

*

The next days went a bit easier for Malou. Thanks to her frequent expeditions to the toilet during the 'cure' for her indigestion, her legs were now more capable of supporting her and her metabolism was improving. It had been 6-7 days since the operation, she estimated, and she would have been prowling the hospital corridors for days at this point had she remained at the hospital. This 'minor' set-back, however, resulted in a somewhat delayed recovery, but she would get there eventually, she swore. Basically, she was doing better. The stinging sensation from the catheter had disappeared, thank god. No bladder infection this time, it appeared. Of course, she was taking good care to drink plenty. Her poor host had had to refill her glass more often than she could remember. Finally he had understood the message and provided her with a full jar of water. Since she wasn't allowed to (and couldn't!) carry anything, she simply lowered the glass into the jar, dipped it in the water and filled her glass. She knew for a fact that she would have to imbibe at least five litres a day now that she no longer had the benefit of the IV. It had remained attached to her even days after the operation to stimulate her remaining kidney to take over the function of the now missing donor kidney. She sighed and gritted her teeth, preparing to down yet another full glass of water. Lately she had really felt like a dinghy without someone to row, just floating helplessly around in the ocean. She had a feeling that she would repeat the Pacific if she as much as hiccupped.

More fluid meant more visits to the loo. More visits to the loo meant more exercise. She was getting there.

And around her, fretted this perfectly charming little man, fussing that she should go back to bed, that she shouldn't wash or feed herself or in any way overexert herself. In the beginning, she had felt very self-conscious when he washed and rubbed her calves. Coming from a culture in which her generation despised female hairy legs, she couldn't help but flinch a tad as he ran his hands up and down her now rather furry legs. However, glancing down on his curly feet, she realised how bald, in fact, her legs looked in his eyes. The fact made her feel incredibly relaxed, even relieved that she no longer had to worry about shaving legs. As least, not as long as she was with him in this world. He would soap, rinse and towel her feet carefully, as he did with the rest of her body, never letting her even attempt to reach her own feet. Obviously he was afraid that she would overdo it and cause her wound to bleed internally.
How to explain? In the old days, people who had just been operated were kept in for for weeks before getting up. A procedure that delayed the recovery drastically. These days, the medical staff knew the benefit of getting to one's feet as soon as possible. In effect, the nurses had forced her onto her feet the very next day after the operation. Back then she had wished them six feet under, but now she was prepared to kiss their feet in gratitude.

Gratitude seemed to be a feeling that she experienced very often these days, she mused as she so fully enjoyed the feeling of a gentle touch, washing her hair. It had been long overdue too. Even if she wanted to, hair washing was one the things that was nearly impossible for her to do herself. So when Frodo entered with a bowl and some soap in his hand while pointing at his own hair explanatorily, she could have kissed him right there and then. With insight and ingenuity, the Hobbit stuffed countless of pillows under her torso, thus elevating her upper body enough for her head to tilt backwards ever so slightly without support. She winced as she felt the close to absent belly muscles trying to work and account for her head going back, but Frodo had anticipated this and immediately made sure her head rested safely in his hands. Then he placed the bowl with water underneath, and started wetting her hair.

The hair was thick, greasy, tangled and mat. It was high time something was done about it. Not only added the washing to her general feeling of well-being – potential health hazards like germs and bacteria were also disposed off as carefully as possible.

And – oh – the feeling of firm hands on an itchy scalp, rubbing, massaging, almost caressing… It was better than sex.
?….!::: - ! - ?
Okay. Don't go there.

"A penny for your thoughts?" Frodo chose to ask her right there andn. Fn. Fortunately, she didn't understand, or she would have frozen on the spot. Of course, their communication language had improved vastly during the last days, but an expression like that was not on the programme. Until now. She eyeballed him inquisitively and he tapped her scalp.
"What goes on in that head of yours?"
Oh.
She then understood the meaning.
*Oh, boy, you don't wanna know!*
She pointed at his working hands.
"Delicious," she said, using the only pleasure word he had taught her, albeit about food. Frodo laughed heartily at her choice of terms.
"Nice, is it? I hope so. You have earned it."
"Nice," she repeated dutifully.

She got the opportunity to practise that word more than once that day. After the hair wash, Frodo took her out of the house despite his own concern that she was getting active too soon. After all, he had promised her that she would get to see the blue sky and the purple tinkerbells when she was able. And she was able, that much was certain.
He brought her a linen 'housecoat' he had sewed for her, took her by her tiny hand and led her out of the house.

Bright light! An attack of vivid blue! Green onslaught! Olfactory sense overload! Fresh air aggressively inflating her lungs, almost making her gasp! It proved to be too much pleasure at one time. The world outside made her cry out and collapse in the high grass.

Frodo was instantly by her side, anxious that she might be hurt and/or sad.
"No, no, don't cry. It is beautiful out here. And you already feel so much better, so you will be fine very soon. Please don't cry, pretty lass…"

He caught himself. It seemed silly to call a tall, adult human lady 'lass'. But at this moment, she looked so very small and vulnerable. He saw her wipe her eyes with trembling hands, trying to tell him that she was really alright – that she was just experiencing a reaction of profound and intense relief. But her sincere attempts drowned in tears and she let herself be cradled by Frodo's slim arms as he rocked her to comfort like a baby.
Like a 'bärn'.

When she finally got a grip, she quickly dried her eyes, trying to maintain some kind of dignity, - which was silly, she realised, as this man had already seen everything there was to see of her, really. His hands were still caressing her wet hair and his eyes still roaming her face to study it and assess her itioition and state of mind. She smiled reassuringly to him and got up, standing on painfully wobbly legs.

They spent the next two hours practising flower names and tentative sentences. Afterwards, Malou crawled back into bed, completely spent and slept like a baby – sore, but deeply imbedded in a sleep healthier than any sleep she had had since the operation.

*

"I like want a glass water."

The sentence construction was somewhat faulty and staggering, but the semantics clear enough. Frodo grinned at his patient and guest and filled her glass with clear creek water.
"You're going to explode if you keep this up, thirsty lady," he smiled.
That particular line was beyond her, but she did catch on to 'thirsty lady' and confirmed:
"Thirsty. Yes, very."
Actually Malou wasn't. But she had to keep up the drinking to make sure her one and only kidney functioned. If it went down, she was really in deep, she would say even, bottomless shit. So she drank. And drank. And poor Frodes had to run to the creek frequently to fetch water to their house supply.

The Hobbit cocked his head and looked at her. It had been ten days since he found her lying helpless and half naked in the forest. She had come a long way. Though still somewhat pale, some colour had returned to her face, her previously mat eyes were twinkling now and then, her hair was shiny and her appetite was gradually returning. Her womb blood appeared to have stopped. There was no longer bloody linen for laundry, and she now stopped his hand when he tried cleaning her… there. Shell wll walked rather bent over in a crouching posture, which wasn't surprising, taking the hideous wound into consideration. He wondered idly if she could offer him some facts on her misfortune now. Her vocabulary was extemely limited – it would be after only ten days of practising a new language. She would sometimes surprise him, using words rather similar to Elvish, and he soon realised that the language origins must share the same roots. This intrigued him to no end and added to the puzzle of her own origins. However, did she know enough words to describe what had happened to her? Was she even ready for it?
He hesitated to open that discussion this brilliant day when she was looking so good. Surely, mentioning this terrible thing would make her good mood vanish like fragile morning dew in the blazing sun.

Too late, actually. Frodo's suddenly frowning face had attracted her attention.
"A pain to your thinking?" she asked, the expression suffering comically from her lacking language.
He smiled in spite of himself.
"A penny for my thoughts," he amended gently, "I'm not sure they are worth that amount of money. Malou…" he began and then stopped. Her eyes had gone serious. A sigh worked its way through his throat, but was momentarily stuck. It hurt. He so hated to ruin her relaxed state. "Tell," she urged, surprising him – again, touching his hand encouragingly.
He sighed the persistent sigh and patted her hand kindly. Oh well. The deed was half done already.

"Malou," he began, waving his hand in the direction of her surgical wound, "how do you feel these days?"
"Nice," she grinned.
"Can you tell me 'hurudan'?"
Her first reaction was a bit dull, clearly not fully understanding him. Then, as he softly placed his hand on the infamous wound, currently turning into a fascinating scar, she seemed to grasp his meaning.
"Oh!" she exclaimed, looking a little upset. Frodo misunderstood her reaction. He thought she was upset by bad memories whereas she really was worried how to explain the procedure of, even the reason for, an organ transplant.
She sat thinking for a while, Frodo not rushing her but rubbing her hand to console her. It didn't help her. In effect, it was rather disconcertingly distracting, but she didn't have the heart to pull away her hand.
"Drawing pad," she finally mused aloud. After all, it was the only efficient way to show him how one organ was transferred to another body, even if she had mastered their lingo to perfection.

*

The session had had the elements of a surreal theatre play. Inefficient linguistic terms spiced with grotesque (to Frodo, at least) drawings made for the perfect ingredients of the Rocky Horror Picture Show on mescaline. The gentle Hobbit trying hard and earnestly to understand, herself willing herself to take it step by step and at the same time really working to understand what he was saying in response. A language course from hell, sometimes so absurdly funny that it made her laugh out loud.
"No, no," she gasped with mirth, "my brother didn't *eat* my bloody kidney!"
"No eating?"
"No eating, I sure you," she replied in poor Elvish.
"Then how…?"
At thiint int Malou really wished she had had a dummy demodemonstration. How to explain something like this to someone who apparently didn't even understand what organs did? Truthfully, she ought to start from scratch, explaining to him what kidneys were and what they did, how vital they were for your blood and how easily a healthy person could live with only one.
Taking a deep breath, she started by pointing to her drainage bag, still collecting blood and other bodily fluids.
"Word?" she asked, indicating the red contents of the pouch.
"Blood," he clarified.
"Blood do life," she said. "I know," he answered.
"Body must wash blood."
"Really?"
"Really."
"Kidney wash blood."
"Really?"
"Really."
Frodo was fascinated. She knew so much about the living body. Now she extended one finger and drew one kidney on the pad.
"One kidney. Nice."
He nodded.
She held up two fingers and he translated the number to her.
"Two kidneys. Nice, nice."
It dawned on the fast little Ht. Ot. One kidney would keep the blood clean, two even better.

They proceeded from that point on, and when they finally took a break, Malou was ready to sleep for several days.

*
TBC