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Shadows of a Nameless Fear  by Budgielover

Chapter Seventeen – In a Room Shadowed with Fears Unnamed

Nestled against Elrohir’s chest and wrapped in a thick Elven cloak, Merry dozed, oblivious to their captive’s whining complaints. When Lammor’s protests began to rise in volume, Elladan placed a finger between the man’s shoulderblades and pressed down – hard. “You have much to answer for,” the elf said quietly, his melodious voice betraying a hint of steel underneath. “For now, I suggest you be quiet and let the hobbit sleep.”

Lammor gulped and nodded, making no further protest as the elves and their passengers drew near to the inn. Elrohir reached under his cloak and tickled a pointed ear. “Merry, wake up. We are here.”

“I’m awake. I’m awake,” Merry mumbled, swatting at his ear. He struggled from the warm folds of the cloak to see the courtyard still crowded with anxious faces, though none of the people approached them. “Why are all these people still here?” he asked as the horses stopped. “You think they’d have gone home by now. And why is everyone staying away from us?” He twisted ‘round in the saddle and stared up into Elrohir’s face, noting that almost everyone else in the courtyard was doing the same. But strangely enough, their expressions were uncertain and wary.

“These good folk are worried about the Ring-bearer, Merry,” Elrohir explained. “And I suspect they are keeping back because they are a little chary of Elves at the moment.”

“Why?”

“You have never heard Father at full volume,” Elladan advised. “Luckily, all of the surrounding buildings are stone and still seem to be standing … else we might have to prevail upon Master Gimli to rebuild them. I don’t blame these good folk for keeping their distance.”

“I would keep my distance, too, from such ruffians as you appear to be,” interrupted a dry voice.

Merry looked around frantically. “Gandalf! Gandalf!”

“Hullo, my lad,” the wizard replied, striding up to Elrohir’s stallion. The brilliance of his white robes seemed to rival the climbing sun. Merry squinted, then laughed joyously as Gandalf winked at him. Eyes twinkling, Gandalf reached up and Merry seized his hand and pressed it to his cheek.

“Ow!”

The twinkle faded as Gandalf gently pulled his hand free and moved it to Merry’s forehead, pushing back his wild hair. Merry saw the wizard’s eyes linger sorrowfully on the brown scar on his temple, then Gandalf’s gaze narrowed. “Meriadoc Brandybuck, have you been in a fight?

“Um…”

“Merry says this man is one of Frodo’s kidnappers,” Elladan said. Lammor dared a sideways glance, then froze at the wizard’s expression. Elladan smiled grimly. ”We came upon them as Merry fought to subdue him.”

“I broke his nose,” Merry admitted with an alarming degree of bloodthirstiness. He grinned over his shoulder at Elladan, admiring the elf’s delicate omission that he and Elrohir had found him on the losing end of that fight. Then he slid a leg over the stallion’s neck and launched himself into Gandalf’s arms.

“Oof!! A little warning please, my lad.”

Merry hugged him, hearing the relief in the gruff voice. Then he pulled back, staring into his friend’s face. “Have you seen Pippin? And Frodo and Sam? Is Frodo–”

“He is here, as is Samwise,” Gandalf said, interrupting him. “I just left Aragorn – he has returned to use the palantír to locate our last missing hobbit.”

Merry’s heart tripped. “No one’s seen Pippin yet? Gandalf, it’s been all night. Where could he have got to?”

“Aragorn is finding that out, then he will no doubt collect our missing Took. Don’t worry, Merry. I am sure Peregrin will soon turn up, probably just in time for breakfast and wondering why we were all so worried about him.”

Merry nodded, forcing himself to put aside a worry he could do nothing about. Taking a deep breath, he asked Gandalf to set him down then belatedly remembered his manners. “Elrohir, thank you for letting me ride with you.” The elf nodded graciously. “This man,” Merry continued with a glare towards the very quiet Lammor, “helped kidnapped Frodo. And I think he might have seen Pippin.”

Elladan grasped Lammor’s arm and pushed him off the horse. The man swayed, dizzy from being upside down, then his legs gave out and he sat down on the cobbles. Elladan stroked his horse’s neck and murmured something to it and the stallion bared its teeth again, once more on guard and ready to bite. The man cringed as the horse snorted in warning. “He will go nowhere,” Elladan promised as he and Elrohir swung down from their mounts. “Let us go inside.”

“Is Frodo-” Merry began again.

“Inside,” Gandalf said brusquely. Word had gone before them; Mikah flung open the doors and ushered them through the common room. The poor innkeeper looked tired, Merry thought, and rather frightened. Legolas greeted them as they entered the hallway, his face lighting as he saw the hobbit.

“Merry!” Legolas held out his arms and Merry threw himself into them, staggering the slender elf.

“Hullo, Legolas! I’m glad to see you.”

“And I, you,” Legolas replied as he opened the door to the room Elrond had commandeered. “You caused us some concern, my friend.” He was saying something else but Merry no longer heard him. Behind them, Gandalf and the twins were silent, their eyes taking in the silent room and the small, still figure on the table at its centre.

Merry would have rushed forward, but Gandalf’s hand descended on his shoulder and tightened. He was not aware of the unhappy look Legolas gave Gandalf, or of the Wood-elf stepping back into the hallway and closing the door. Merry swallowed, grateful for the warmth of the hand and the grounding it gave him. “How bad is he?”

“Not as bad as he was,” came Lord Elrond’s cool voice. Merry started then bowed awkwardly, realising how tired he must be not to have noticed the Elf-lord and the other Big People. Merry’s mouth dropped open as his weary mind identified Peter and Marly.

“Well met,” Gandalf said to them warmly. “Well met indeed. It is good to see you again, my friends. We will talk when things are more settled.” Husband and wife grinned at them, the joy on Marly’s face transforming her again into the beauty she had been in her youth. She curtsied to Gandalf, directed that radiant smile at Merry and went back to cleaning Elrond’s implements.

Wake up! Merry scolded himself. Pay attention! As Lord Elrond moved around the table to join them, Merry saw Peter was holding a flexible tube of leather, running his hands up and down it as if he were milking a cow. The other end of the tube ran to the table, to a mass of bandages affixed over Frodo’s chest. Merry inched cautiously forward. When no one told him to stay back, he reached out to stroke his cousin’s face. Frodo’s skin felt dry and soft, stippled with tiny whorls of soot a quick wash had not cleaned away. From there his hand moved to tuck a dark curl behind Frodo’s ear, and it crisped to ash between his fingers.

“Is he burned?” Merry turned to the Elf-lord, and suddenly his terror and grief and dread poured out of him in a torrent of questions. “The soldiers said he had a fall? How badly is he hurt? Can he breathe? Is he going to be all right?” Elrond held up a hand to halt the flow of questions, but a stumbling, yawning figure postponed his reply.

“I thought I heard… Mr. Merry!”

“Sam!” Merry rushed to him and caught him up in a hug, near lifting his startled friend off the floor. “Sam, old son! Are you all right?”

Sam nodded, his face still creased from his unintentional nap. His hair stuck out every which way and Merry’s stomach lurched as he saw blood on his friend’s clothes. Sam knuckled sleep out of his eyes then turned to look up at Elrond, having to step back a pace to meet the Elf-lord’s gaze. “You let me sleep,” he said in a somewhat accusatory voice.

Elrond ignored the tone. “You needed to rest, Master Samwise. You are the better for it. Now you must eat something.”

Sam’s face paled. “Thank you, sir, but I don’t…”

Merry fished in a pocket and held out a leaf-wrapped bundle. “Eat up, Sam. It was hard to make myself save some, so you had best take it before I change my mind.”

Sam bit into the lembas with less enthusiasm that Merry thought his noble sacrifice warranted. But his heart lifted as Sam’s tired face broke into a grin. “Taste fine, that does. I’d forgot how good they are.”

“Why is Peter doing that?” Merry asked.

Elrond glanced at his assistant. “The cylinder must be kept free of blood clots which might otherwise lodge in the tubing and cause Frodo sudden shortness of breath. Possibly causing another pneumothorax.”

“What is a–” Merry began, but Sam’s hand on his arm stopped him.

“Don’t ask,” Sam advised. “Unless you want them lembas to come back up, real sudden-like.” Merry shut his mouth and nodded. Peter smiled at overhearing this, but he never looked up from gauging the blood draining into the wine bottle.

“Tell me,” Gandalf demanded.

“The worst was the broken ribs,” Elrond replied. “One had punctured a lung. There are bruises and scrapes and minor burns. The ribs have been set and the blood and fluid drained–“ Sam made a queer sound and Elrond looked down at him, reconsidering what he had been about to say. Merry slipped his arm around Sam’s shoulders and squeezed.

The hobbits listened for a few moments as the Big People exchanged news, then sidled up to the table. “Hullo, Cousin,” Merry whispered, capturing Frodo’s limp hand in his. The fine skin was crusted with scratches and the nails ragged. Worse, the thin skin over the healing stump had torn. That would hurt, when Frodo was awake enough to be aware of it. Rage flared anew in Merry’s heart at the Men who had done this. But none of it could be heard in his voice as he continued, “A fine chase you have led us! Can’t you even go on a little tour of Minas Tirith without falling into trouble and turning the whole city upside-down?” Merry laughed and pulled himself up on the table to lay his brow against the side of Frodo’s head, feeling the warmth of his skin and the scent of smoke in his hair. The laugh somehow melted into a sob and Merry found he was shaking.

“Sit for a bit, Mr. Merry,” Sam urged him. “You must be awful tired. Did you really hunt down and capture that Man?”

“All right, Sam. But first I want to hear how Frodo was found, and about the fire, and how you two ended up here. And–”

“After you sit,” Sam repeated, that same glint in his eye he had when he thought Frodo was doing something daft.

Merry allowed himself to be led to a bench and settled with a blanket and enough cushions tucked around him to smother him. He watched as Sam checked on Frodo, stuck his head into the hallway to speak with Mikah, greeted the twins and Gandalf, checked on Frodo again, then opened the door once more before returning to him with a foaming mug of beer in his hands.

“Drink up, Mr. Merry. You look like you need it.” He has to take of someone, Merry thought, and since he can’t take care of Frodo right now, he’ll take care everyone else. Bless you, Samwise Gamgee!

Merry drank thirstily, not without the thought of what his mother would say about beer for breakfast. Looking around the room, he rather thought she might understand, just this once. Gandalf was speaking with the twins in a swift torrent of Elvish, with occasional comments or questions from Elrond. Merry itched to know what they were saying. Must work on learning Elvish, he reminded himself. He must have dozed for a while, for the closing of the door startled him and beer slopped against his hand as he jerked awake.

“What–”

Sam took the mug from him, peered into it critically, and set it aside. “The young lords are taking that Man you captured to the King. Aragorn will get the truth out of him.”

“I didn’t really capture–” Merry began, but swallowed back the words when Peter raised his head and said deferentially, “My lord Elrond, there’s no more drainage.”

Elrond glided to Frodo’s side, inclining his long form over his unconscious patient. “Ahhhh,” he murmured. “There will not be a need for a thoracotomy. The tube…” he retrieved it from Peter and rubbed his hands along its length, “remains clear, and Frodo shows no large escapes of air … no great injury to the blood vessels or to the throat or diaphragm…” Handing the tube back to Peter, he lifted an eyelid and peered under it. Frodo twitched and his brows drew together slightly.

Elrond leaned closer and touched the pulse-point under Frodo’s jaw. “Master Frodo?” he whispered. Frodo sighed, an easy draw and release of breath. The healer looked up at his anxiously-watching audience. “We will withdraw the chest tube now. I would prefer it be done before he regains full consciousness.”

“Is there anything I can do?” Gandalf asked.

“If you would take Frodo’s ankles, Mithrandir.” The wizard handed his staff to Sam and moved to the end of the table. “Master Peter, the shoulders, please.”

Peter nodded and shifted sideways to Frodo’s head, placing one hand on each of Frodo’s shoulders. He leaned his weight forward, as did Gandalf. Sam and Merry looked at each other in alarm and spoke together.

“What are you–?”

“Now!”

Elrond jumped backwards, the leather tube in his hands. Frodo’s eyes flew open and Merry had a brief glimpse of his cousin’s contorted face before Frodo jerked violently and yowled something in Elvish.

“I quite understand the need to scream expletives,” Elrond said calmly. “Feel free, Master Frodo.”

Merry found himself at the table without having the slightest idea how he got there, Sam a sturdy presence at his back. “Frodo! Frodo!”

Frodo turned his head, visibly clamping his teeth shut against another cry. Perspiration glimmered on his face and on the straining cords of his throat. “Mer … Merry-lad?” Tearing eyes blinked and struggled to focus.

“I’m here, Frodo. Sam’s here, too. We’re both here.”

“Sam…”

“Right here by Mr. Merry, sir,” Sam assured him, understanding that Frodo needed to hear his voice.

“Pip?” Those gathered around the table looked at each other in consternation. Sam moaned silently and Merry choked back a sob, unable to reply. “Pippin?” Frodo asked again, his eyes closing despite his struggle to keep them open.

“Frodo…” Merry began, but Elrond shook his head, those piercing silver eyes boring into him.

“Not now,” the Elf-lord said crisply. Merry stared at him, half of him indignant and ready to protest that Frodo had to right to know Pippin was missing, and the other half recognizing that Elrond was right; Frodo must not hear anything which would distress him right now.

“His breathing?” Elrond asked.

“Steady,” Peter reported, who had been following each rise and fall of Frodo’s chest. “I think he’s … yes. Asleep.”

“Good,” Elrond murmured. “That is best for him now. Release him.” Gandalf and Peter stepped back. Elrond looked at the hobbits, noting Merry’s confused and mutinous expression and Sam’s misery. “Friend hobbits, if you would return to your places, please. We are not quite finished with our work.” Sam obeyed and Merry followed him after a moment, still torn.

Elrond accepted cloths from Marly and cleaned the area of the incision, preparing to suture it and bandage it. As Peter threaded the needle, Elrond pressed the pungent-smelling cloth to Frodo’s nose again for a few moments, watching his patient carefully. Merry had to turn away as he sewed; Sam was staring determinedly at his hands.

At last Elrond straightened and the hobbits dared to raise their eyes. “It is done. I regret I must wake him. He must breathe deeply and cough to expand the lung.”

“Is that why you made him cough before?” asked Sam.

Elrond nodded absently, his attention on his patient. “I had to know if and how well he could breathe. Now I must know if the surgery has been successful.”

“I’m not sure I understand,” Merry said.

“With such an injury as Master Frodo received in his fall, it is extremely difficult to breathe and almost impossible to cough due to all of the air pressure being exerted on the single functioning lung. Every time Frodo inhaled, some of that air was being driven through the puncture in his lung and into his chest cavity, where it, along with the blood, would eventually compress the good lung until it also was no longer usable. Every time he breathed, he was in fact compressing his good lung. We have just released that pressure.”

“Oh,” Merry said faintly.

“See?” Sam hissed. “That’s why you don’t ask him the wherefores and the whyfores!”

A shadow fell over them in the brightly lit room. Sam held out the staff and Gandalf took it with a keen glance at Merry. “You are thinking, Meriadoc. I know that look.”

Merry frowned. “Gandalf, Pippin wouldn’t deliberately cause us such worry. There’s something…”

“What?”

“Well … back in Rivendell, Aragorn took us all on a walking party to see the geyser. Do you remember?”

Gandalf nodded. “Yes. Those of us who remained behind enjoyed several days of lovely quiet.”

Merry magnanimously ignored that. “We had just finished a meal, and we were talking around the camp fire. Aragorn was saying … he asked Pippin what he would do to keep Frodo safe. I think it was perhaps the first time we all realised the danger Frodo was in. Remember, Sam?”

“I do,” Sam agreed.

“Pippin said … Pippin said he would do whatever he had to, to keep Frodo safe.” Merry’s surmise firmed into dreadful certainty as he spoke. “Gandalf, what if Pippin felt he had to do something desperate to protect Frodo – and that’s why no one can find him?”

“But what would he do?” Sam asked, alarmed.

Merry shook his head. “I don’t know. But he would have felt he had no other choice. It would have been the only thing he could think of, the only action he could take.”

Gandalf sighed and leaned on his staff. Merry was reminded that he, too, had had no rest for more than a night and nearly a day. “I fear you may be right, Merry. That tweenager would do something ridiculous if he thought he was protecting Frodo.”

Sam bridled but Merry only nodded. “He would. I just can’t figure out what.”

A soft knock on the door heralded Legolas. As he leaned into the room, past him Merry saw Mikah and the sedan-chair bearers and the other people waiting in the hallway hurrying towards the common room. He could hear faint shouts and the clatter of hooves on cobblestones. Legolas looked around the room and his gaze centred on Gandalf. “The King is coming,” Legolas said. “Something is wrong.”

* TBC *

Author’s Note: Once again, I would like to thank my source for the difficult medical details of this chapter, the generous and knowledgeable Elemmírë. Frodo’s reaction upon his abrupt awakening must also be credited to Elemmírë;she fed me such a wonderful line from her own experiences that I had to use it. Elemmírë, thank you. All mistakes are my own. In real life, of course, the Ring-bearer would have required more time to recover from the procedures performed upon him, but for the purposes of the story…





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