Plague Comes to Dol Guldur by Uvatha the Horseman

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Day 3 – Thirst (slash)

Sauron, ill with plague, is dangerously close to coma and death.

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Day 3 – Thirst (slash)

Dol Guldur, TA 1637 - Summer

Sauron woke up knowing he was about to be sick. There was a bucket beside his bed, but he was too weak to lean over the edge of the bed. All he could do was turn his head to the side. The warm liquid soaked into his pillow and hair, but he didn’t care. He closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Someone held a handkerchief to his mouth. “Spit.” He couldn’t do it. He wasn’t sweating anymore, either, no matter how high the fever climbed.

ooooo

He dreamed he was confined in an iron cage in front of the ornamental fountain in the marketplace in the center of Valmar. Unrepentant, he leaned against the bars, an arm draped casually over his knee, sneering at the people who had gathered to stare at him and reproach him for his crimes.

But by the second day, he was less cocky. A headache made him slow-witted, and his mouth was as dry as cotton. He lay on the floor of the cage, preoccupied with thoughts of water.  He listened to the music from the fountain and felt its spray whenever the wind blew from its direction. A kind-hearted person smuggled him a sip of water. He fell on it, his self-restraint gone.

Later in the day, when the hot afternoon sun beat down on him, he searched the faces in the crowd for a kind face, his eyes pleading. People stared at him, but did nothing. He reached his fingers through the bars and begged them.

“Please, please, …” he said to no one in particular, “I’m so thirsty.”

Someone put an arm under his neck and lifted his head. A cup touched his lips and he tasted water. Where was the cage? He clutched at the man’s wrist and pulled the glass closer, spilling it all over himself. He drank deeply.

“More.” His voice was a croak.

The man refilled the glass and he drank it all. Then it all came back up again. He wanted to weep with frustration, but no tears came.

“Do you want me to leave the glass on the chair, right here where you can reach it easily?” the medic asked.

“No, take it away. I don’t want it there, mocking me.” He turned toward the wall. After the medic left, he gave himself over to silent hiccoughing sobs.

ooooo

Akhorahil spoke with Angmar in the corridor outside Sauron’s room.

“He’s not doing well. He’s dehydrated, but he can’t drink anything because he can’t keep anything down. The trouble is, dehydration itself causes nausea. It can be hard to break the cycle.”

Akhorahil hesitated before continuing.

“I’d like to try something. He’s a fighter, and I think he can survive this, with a little help. He isn’t well enough to give consent, so I need you to give consent for him.”

“What do you want to do?” asked Angmar.

“I’ve tried and tried, but I can’t get anything into him by mouth. So I want to try from the other side.” Akhorahil said. “I want to use a tube to get fluids into the lower gut. As far as the body is concerned, it doesn’t matter how fluids get in, just as long as they do.

“I’d like to do it right away. He’s suffering. But as soon as we do this, he’ll start to feel better.”

Angmar shook his head. “I don’t think he would agree to that. I formed the impression that he’s modest about his body, and he wouldn’t want to be touched there. Based on my understanding of his wishes, I can’t give my consent.”

Akhorahil snapped. “Don’t you get it? He’s drifting in and out of consciousness, and he’s about twelve hours away from coma and death. That’s the course of this illness. I’m trying to prevent him from slipping into a coma, because if he does, it’s unlikely he’ll come out again. And nobody likes having this procedure done, but so what? It doesn’t hurt, and its lifesaving.”

Angmar was silent.

Akhorahil made a decision. “Look, this is what I’m going to do. I’m going to overrule you and do the procedure without medical consent. If I don’t, there’s a good chance he’ll die.”

Angmar warned him, “I strongly advise you to obtain his consent first. Tell him what you told me about coma and death. Because if you try to do this and he fights you, it’s possible that while he’s delirious, he might use his power but not his good judgment. He might, I don’t know, he might strike someone dead, or collapse the roof of the building. Treat him as though he’s extremely dangerous, and don’t do anything to provoke him.”

ooooo

Sauron stirred when he heard the door open. Two people entered, their faces obscured by kerchiefs. They seemed familiar, even if he couldn’t remember their names. The tall, black-haired one knelt beside his bed. Only his eyes showed above the fabric. He spoke slowly and deliberately.

“We’re trying to get you through the next twelve hours. You’re one step away from coma and death, but we think we can pull you back.”

Sauron didn’t understand what was being said to him, and he didn’t care. He just wanted to be left alone. He could no longer speak, and it hurt to breath. He closed his eyes and turned away.

“Mairon. Look at me.”

In a moment of clarity, Sauron recognized him. Angmar.

“You need to do this.” Angmar pleaded.

Sauron understood, and nodded. Angmar looked up at Akhorahil and told him, “He consents.”

Sauron kept his eyes closed, but the sounds of activities nearby still reached him.

“Angmar, would you leave the room please?” Akhorahil asked.

He heard the scrape of Angmar’s boots against the floorboards as he got to his feet and turned to go, the thump of the door as it closed behind him, the click of the bolt as the door was locked shut.

He heard Akhorahil’s voice. “Medic, can you make up a pitcher of warm water, and add some sugar and salt to it? But before you go, could you send in a couple of orderlies?”

He heard their footsteps as they approached his bed, the scrape of wood against the floor as they set a small table near him, and the rustle of fabric as they draped a sheet across the end of the small space, just beyond the foot of his bed.

They folded the bedclothes back, and he shivered when the cold air hit him. They spread towels under him, moving him as carefully as possible. The abrasive fabric felt prickly against his bare skin. They pulled the bedclothes up to his neck, and he started to feel warm again.

He watched Akhorahil lay a cloth over the table and arrange medical instruments on it. The medic came back with the pitcher. Akhorahil took it from him and set it down, then uncapped a small phial and tipped it into the pitcher. “For nausea.” he told the medic. He touched the surface of the water and let a few drops fall on the inside of his wrist. “It should be as close to body temperature as possible. You have to make sure it’s not too hot.”

Akhorahil reached for a small container and scooped some ointment from it, picked something up from the table, and approached the bed.

“All right, let’s get started.”

The medic helped him turn over. He closed his eyes tight shut. Akhorahil lifted the bedclothes, put his arms underneath, and began to work.

“You’ll feel a pinch.” said Akhorahil. “But tell me if it hurts any worse than that.”

The fever started to climb again. As it spiked, Sauron drifted in and out of consciousness. He dreamed Melkor grabbed him and shoved him facedown against a heavy table, twisting his arm behind his back. Melkor was bigger and stronger than he was, so even though he fought as hard as he could, and begged him not to do it,  ..  His eyes snapped open. “Okay, it’s in.” Akhorahil was saying to the medic. “Bring the pitcher. You can start now.”

Fully awake now, Sauron tried to focus on the wall in front of him and push away all other thoughts. He fought a rising panic, until a strong hand gripped his shoulder and held him down.

“Breath in, count to ten, breath out.” Akhorahil said.

Somehow, he got through the next few minutes without going to pieces. And getting fluids this way really was as good as being able to drink water and keep it down. He’d suffered from thirst so badly since he became ill, he wished they’d done this earlier.

ooooo

A little later, Akhorahil held a handkerchief under his mouth. “Spit.” he ordered, and this time, he could do it. Akhorahil looked pleased.

Sauron thought he was getting well. When the medic brought him water, he drank it and kept it down.

ooooo

Akhorahil stepped around the screen to check on his patient. Sauron was sleeping, curled up facing the wall. The sheet covered him to the waist, but above it, his back and shoulders were bare. The hospital shirt lay discarded on the sheet beside him.

The afternoon was warm and muggy. Even without a fever, it was enough to make sweat glisten on his skin. He’s able to sweat. Akhorahil watched his breathing. Slow and regular, good.

Then he frowned. What was that?

A thin white line, four or five inches long, ran diagonally across his Master’s shoulder blade. If the light hadn’t been just right, and if he didn’t have a trained eye, Akhorahil never would have noticed. Then he saw another one, lower down. He kept looking. A dozen or more criss-crossing lines covered his Master’s back. They were almost invisible, but they were definitely there. There’s only one way to get marks like that.

Akhorahil didn’t have a valid medical reason to ask him about it, so he filed it away in his mind and spoke of it to no one.

ooooo

Later that afternoon, Akhorahil arrived at the Council Chamber for the daily meeting. He was on time for once, and found himself alone with Angmar.

“Angmar, I was just thinking. When our Master was a prisoner on Númenor, do you think he was ever mistreated?”

“He was held hostage for almost four years. I don’t think he was ever locked in a cell, although he was confined to the palace and accompanied by guards at all times. In his own apartments, the wastebaskets were searched for any scrap of paper bearing his handwriting, and the walls had ears. And at night, the door was locked from the outside. That ended when he became the king’s chief advisor, of course.”

“Beyond the indignities of being a hostage, do you think he might have been abused in any way?”

“It’s hard to know. When he was taken prisoner at Umbar, right after they bound his hands, Ar-Pharazôn struck him across the face. He didn’t mention it later because he didn’t attach much importance to it. It’s possible he was abused on Númenor but didn’t think it was important enough to mention.

ooooo

Sauron felt better. The procedure saved him from coma and death, and the fever was in remission all day. He was sure he was getting better. But it came back roaring back during the night and gave him vivid, surrealistic dreams. The sounds of rain against the roof of the Great Hall reached him and entered his dreams.

He was walking up and down the corridors outside of the Great Hall, looking for the washroom near the main doors. He found the place where it should have been, but it had been replaced by a large ornamental fountain with a top tier overflowing into the tier below. In desperate need, he ran up the many flights of stairs to his own room, where at least he knew where the privy was.

He woke with a start when he realized the bedclothes were soaked, and so was the shirt he slept in. The hem was plastered to his legs. Even the blanket over him was damp.

“Melkor’s chains!” he swore loudly.

The medic stuck his head around the screen.

“What is it?” he asked.

“It’s just that, I .. um .. nothing.” Sauron fumbled for words.

“Would you like to have the sheets changed?” the medic asked.

“Yes, please.” he said meekly.

The medic returned a few minutes later with two orderlies who stripped and remade the bed with him still in it. When they tossed the old sheets on the floor, they made a sound like wet laundry that hasn’t been wrung out yet. The orderlies removed his wet shirt by tearing it down the back and pulling it from his arms. He was relieved they didn’t try to lift the sodden hem over his face.

The new sheets were more comfortable. The orderlies pulled the bedclothes over his bare shoulders. He closed his eyes and was asleep before they even left the room.