While There is Life

by Rowan aka Sue DeNimme

Summary: Gandalf's thoughts as Frodo lies wounded in the house of Elrond.

Disclaimer: No copyrights were harmed in the making of this fanfic.

In the house of Elrond, it is never completely silent. Always there is the roar of the Loudwater -- a river well named if ever there was one -- as it leaps and foams through the air, over the deep-cloven gash in the dizzying heights of rock above, down many hundreds of feet to crash into the pool at the bottom, swirling and gurgling its thundering song. It reminds me ever of the Great Music, chaotic yet harmonious and ever-changing.

The river can be heard from every room here. It has soothed many a soul to sleep, and sung them awake again with the birds and the sunshine in the morning. It fills the heart with peace. I am always refreshed when I visit Rivendell. There is no other place like it in Middle-earth.

Yet the river this time has no power to ease the weight of care on my ancient soul. I try to lose myself in the sound, willing all regret to vanish like the rings of smoke I puff into the air. But the effort is in vain, and little wonder.

Frodo has come to Rivendell at last, three days after my arrival. My relief in knowing he has made it here alive is tempered by the news that he is wounded and gravely ill. A Morgul blade! No mortal has ever survived the bite of these accursed weapons of the Ringwraiths.

The only thing that gives me even the slightest hope is my belief in the unsuspected hardiness of hobbits. Frodo has already proved me right, battling for his life for a full fortnight against the deadly wound. But even for a hobbit, strength must have its limits, and Frodo is surely at the end of his. He was limp and pale when they brought me to his bed, so cold to the touch that he might have been dead, save for the very faint rise and fall of his chest.

Poor Bilbo is inconsolable, tears etching his wrinkled cheeks as he holds the icy left hand of the beloved nephew he has not seen in seventeen years. He briskly rubs at the hand, trying to warm it, but the effort is in vain. "I'm so sorry, my boy," he whispers, over and over, as he strokes Frodo's brow. "I should have brought it here myself, years ago. I should never have left you with such a burden. How I wish I had never picked up the wretched thing!"

I could tell him that on the contrary, his picking up the Ring in that dark tunnel, all those years ago may yet prove to be the best thing to have happened in Middle-earth since Sauron first thought of forging that little circle of gold. But that would be no comfort to him; in fact, it might permanently destroy our friendship. So I sit in silence, puffing my pipe, and watching.

Sam has not left his master since he arrived. At the moment, he is lying at Frodo's feet on the large (to hobbits) bed, watching carefully but respectfully allowing Bilbo to have the spot up closer by his heir's side.

When I suggested gently that he go and rest, and I would come and tell him if there was any change, Sam had replied -- with an endearing mixture of deference and stubbornness -- that, "Beggin' your pardon, Mister Gandalf, but I can rest just as well on this here bed with my master as anywhere else, as fine a place as this is. I ain't leavin' 'til Lord Elrond himself comes and throws me out, or 'til my master wakes, whichever comes first, if it's all the same to you, sir."

I chose well, it seems.

Merry and Pippin, however, appear to have chosen themselves. Their presence is a bit of a surprise -- though perhaps it shouldn't be. Frodo has always been the sort of person who has few close friends, but who inspires a fierce, protective devotion in the ones he has, and these two cousins of his have been his shadows since they could walk.

That he would have allowed them to follow him into danger does not seem like him. They must have presented some very powerful persuasion. I will question them later. In any case, it may well be for the best that they did come, for the Great Music tells me that they too have a part to play. Whether it is merely for Frodo's sake, or for some larger purpose, remains to be seen.

The two of them now share a softly cushioned chair in a near corner. Pippin is leaning against one arm, his curly head pillowed on his own arms; his even breathing indicates that he has at last fallen asleep. Merry sits upright still, arms folded, dividing his gaze between Bilbo and myself. The gleam in his eyes when he looks at either of us is not friendly. He has not said so, but I can guess easily enough that he holds us both accountable for what has happened -- me, for not being there when Frodo needed me, and Bilbo, for leaving Frodo, and in particular, leaving him the Ring.

And who can blame him? True, he does not yet know the reason I did not return to guide Frodo as I had promised. I have shared my tale with none so far save Elrond, and I will not do so until and unless Frodo recovers and a council can be convened to decide the fate of the Ring and Middle-earth itself.

For now, however, even though I know what Merry does not, that I have the best possible excuse for having broken tryst, still, when I look at Frodo, all I see is someone I too love. One whose trust in me has been rewarded so far only with fear, pain and darkness.

Forgive me, Frodo. I will not fail you again.

~end