Chapter Eighteen – On the Cusp of Dreadful Knowings

Merry had just a moment to grind his teeth over the elvish proclivity for understatement before the roaring of the crowd outside became louder. Legolas peered back into the rapidly-emptying hallway, then looked at Gandalf again. “Gandalf, will you not come? I can hear Aragorn shouting from here.”

The wizard looked from Frodo’s sleeping form to the elf, obviously torn. “I cannot leave him without knowing he will be well, Legolas. Tell Aragorn–”

Merry put his hand on Gandalf’s arm. “Sam and I will stay with him, Gandalf. Aragorn needs you. You’d best go to him before he orders his troops to storm the inn and frightens poor Mikah to death.”

Elrond nodded, but Peter and Marly looked confused. “We hear Men shouting,” Merry explained to them, knowing their ears were not as acute as hobbit or Elvish ears, “and horses and the clash of arms. Aragorn’s soldiers. There must be two hundred, at least.” A muffled bellow cut through the noise, momentarily overpowering the other voices. “And one Dwarf,” Merry continued with a smile. “Gimli is upset about something.” He tilted his head to listen. “Men shouting orders and weapons being readied for battle. Something has happened…” he trailed off, his face going white.

“To Pippin,” Sam whispered. “Something’s happened to change a search into a war. Aragorn means to fight.”

“I go to tell him you are coming,” Legolas said to Gandalf, and departed them swiftly.

Elrond stepped back and washed his hands in a basin Peter held for him. “The hobbits will stay with me, Mithrandir. But before you attend the King’s summons, I need your help.” Wiping his hands, the Elf-lord looked down at his patient. “I would wish him long sleep but he must wake and cough now. That lung must be expanded. Frodo loves you as he does Bilbo, Mithrandir. Call him.”

Gandalf bent over the sleeping hobbit, the silky hairs of his beard tickling Frodo’s face. Frodo’s nose squinched up a little and one hand rose to bat absently at the annoyance. The wizard smiled, open affection on his face. “Frodo,” Gandalf said, “Frodo my friend, wake up. Elrond needs to speak with you.”

That probably was not the best thing to tell him, Merry decided, as his cousin’s brows drew down and Frodo shook his head minutely. “Won’t,” Frodo mumbled.

“Frodo Baggins,” Gandalf said firmly. “You wake up this minute. Now.”

“Won’t. Go ‘way.”

Silence settled around the table. Sam was staring at the floor but his shoulders were quivering. Merry decided it would be wise to emulate his friend’s example as Gandalf glared around the room, daring anyone to make a comment.

Elrond coughed delicately. “Yes, well, evidently Master Frodo does not feel he has to obey you as he would Bilbo. Perhaps persuasion will succeed where orders do not. Master Merry?”

Not looking at the wizard, Merry clambered up on the table. There was plenty of room for him to kneel by Frodo’s head on the man-sized trestle table; three hobbits could have napped on it. “Frodo,” Merry sang in Frodo’s ear. “Frodo, Frodo Frodo… Mum says to wake up, you lazy hobbit.” Frodo sighed, unaware of the evaluating eyes upon him. Merry looked at the others and leaned back down. “Frodo. Wake up now. Breakfast!”

“Merry…”

“Eggs with cheese, sugar toast, strawberries. Scones and jam, Frodo! Creamed mushrooms!”

Frodo’s eyes opened slowly, and nose to nose, two sets of blue eyes blinked at each other. “Not fair, Merry,” Frodo managed weakly.

Merry grinned impishly and kissed the tip of his cousin’s nose. Frodo’s eyes narrowed in discomfort and Peter thoughtfully moved some of the lamps away. Frodo relaxed, yawning. After what seemed an eternity to Merry, Frodo focused on him, on Sam, on Gandalf. And on Elrond, who had waited patiently until that moment.

“Take a deep breath, Master Frodo. Hold it.” Frodo complied with obvious reluctance. “Good,” Elrond intoned. “Now let it out. Good. Again. Again.” Merry slanted him a smile over his shoulder as he slid off the table. Peter, meanwhile, had been cutting long strips of linen. As Elrond studied Frodo’s breathing, he affixed one strip on Frodo’s chest, wrapping it over his ribs and lifting him slightly to extend it to the centre of his back. He placed three, four, then more additional strips after the first, parallel each to another.

“Thank you, Master Peter,” Elrond said as Peter finished the wrap. “The linen will decrease pain by restricting movement on the fractured side. Much better than applying it on a dark, dirty street in the cold, yes, Master Samwise?”

Sam nodded, his eyes on Frodo’s face. Frodo smiled at him tranquilly, still somewhat woolly from the liquid-saturated cloth Elrond had used to sedate him. He yawned again and blinked sleepily. “Where’s Pippin?”

“Cough, Master Frodo,” Elrond said quickly. Frodo’s gaze returned to him and Merry saw fear in his cousin’s eyes.

“I’d … really rather not,” Frodo whispered.

Merry was surprised to see Elrond’s stern expression soften, and doubly surprised to see the Elf-lord extend a hand to stroke Frodo’s cheek gently. “I know it hurts,” the healer said simply. “I am sorry for that. But you must.”

Frodo nodded, eyes closing against the pain he knew was coming. He took a deep breath and the choice was taken from him. He choked, then began to cough. It seemed to go on a long time as Frodo fought to master his body. Elrond watched dispassionately, peacefully, but as the ocean is peaceful, filled with shifting currents and whirlpools and storms just out of sight.

“Enough. Enough, Frodo.” Peter had a glass of water ready and Elrond lifted Frodo’s head and applied it to his lips. Frodo looked up at him, tears streaming from his eyes, pallid and perspiring. He gulped the water and held it in his mouth a moment, struggling to swallow. Then in an explosive cough, he sprayed it all over Elrond.

“Frodo,” Elrond said urgently. “Stop.”

“Ca … can’t,” Frodo gasped. His chest heaved violently and his face contorted, his arms wrapping around his bandaged ribs.

“Frodo!” Merry pulled himself up onto the table again and tucked himself beside his cousin, locking his arms over Frodo’s, feeling his cousin’s body buck and convulse.

“Elrond, do something!” Gandalf demanded.

“Frodo, listen to me,” Elrond commanded. “Purse your lips in a whistling position and blow out slowly and evenly.” Frodo looked at him as if he had gone mad, but tried to comply. Slowly, painfully, the coughs lessened and finally trailed off into scattered wheezes.

Merry rocked him, careful not to hold too tightly. Nuzzling Frodo’s sweat-damp hair, he looked over his cousin’s head at the Elf-lord. “Why did that work?”

Elrond was blotting the fine spray of water from his face and clothing. That accomplished, he plied Frodo from Merry’s grasp and examined him, long hands pressing carefully. “Trapped, stale air is what causes shortness of breath. Before you can breathe in fresh air, you must evacuate the old. Deep breath now, Master Frodo.” Glancing at Merry, Elrond continued, “Frodo and Samwise both breathed in dangerous gases and smoke on Amon Amarth, called Mount Doom by Men. These gases clogged and damaged the air sacs deep in their lungs. I was concerned that the additional smoke Frodo breathed in the burning house had exacerbated this damage. Now, at least, he is breathing easily.” Satisfied, Elrond released Frodo to allow him to sag gratefully back into Merry’s arms.

“So when you breathe out slowly through pursed lips, you keep the air pressure up … and the lungs stay open so you can clear out the stale air,” Merry said with a wondering laugh. “Better now, Cousin?”

Frodo grimaced and nodded, looking around the room again. “Pippin?”

Merry’s grin froze. Across the table he could see Sam’s beseeching face. In the space of a heartbeat, he made a decision. “He just stepped out, Frodo. Looking for something to eat, no doubt. He’ll be back in a moment.”

Sam’s mouth dropped open, but Frodo did not see. His eyes were closing. He dragged them open and turned his head towards Merry, struggling to stay awake. “…here?”

“What, Cousin?”

“He wants to know if we’ll all be here when he wakes up,” Sam whispered.

“Yes, Frodo,” Merry said. “I promise. Pippin will be here, and Sam and I too. We’ll all be here. I promise.”

“He’s gone back to sleep,” Sam said softly.

“We will take him to one of the vacant rooms,” Elrond murmured, pulling the blankets up over the still form. “I do not want him moved any distance for at least two days.” Merry nodded and rubbed his face tiredly. Very carefully he inched back and wiggled off the table, dropping to the floor.

“Your turn, Master Samwise,” Marly said briskly. “Let my Peter have a look at those feet. Hop up on the table, please.”

“Hop,” Sam muttered under his breath as he put his hands on the table and struggled to heft himself up on it, careful not to disturb Frodo. “’Hop,’ Big People say. Right.” Merry hid a smile – the table was high for a hobbit and Sam more rotund than he. He circled ‘round the table to give Sam a boost.

“– take care of them,” he heard behind him. Merry spun around to see Gandalf taking his leave of Elrond, his hand on the door. As he watched, Gandalf pulled it open and strode through it, his staff clicking on the stone floor. Merry hurried after him.

“Where are you going, Master Merry?” Marly asked, alarm in her voice.

Merry paused in the doorway but his glance back was not for the woman or the Elf-lord but for Sam. Their eyes met and Sam nodded. “I made a promise,” Merry said quietly but clearly. “I’m going to find Pippin.”

* * *
The courtyard was a morass of plunging horses and shouting people; the folk who had waited all through the night calling for news, the soldiers shouting in reply, the King’s heralds trying to order the soldiers and townsfolk both. Merry stood rooted, overwhelmed by a sea of black and silver uniforms and flashing steel. Luckily, Gimli had been watching the inn’s doors and as Merry emerged, he starting pushing his way towards the hobbit.

“Thank you,” Merry gasped as the dwarf steered him towards the King. Gandalf had already reached Aragorn and he and Legolas were crowded against Aragorn’s mount and Aragorn was leaning down to speak with them, his face dark. He straightened suddenly and pointed over Merry’s head, past Mikah’s inn, seemingly into the distance past the walls of the city itself. Gandalf drew back and shook his head and Legolas looked unhappy.

“I am glad you are all right,” Gimli said by way of greeting. “I did not chase you and that tweenager two hundred leagues to lose you when the war is over. As it is, I have spent most of yesterday and all of last night following you. Do hobbits never stand still?”

Merry grinned up at him, knowing the dwarf’s tetchiness for the affectionate teasing it was. “It wasn’t my fault,” he began, then winced as his imagination echoed Pippin’s oft-used phrase in his cousin’s clear, high voice.

“Dwarves would not stand about so waiting for orders,” Gimli grumbled as a group of men in deep discussion blocked their path. “You there! Move aside!” The soldiers hurriedly did so, with many apologies and bows to the Heroes of the War. Gimli ignored them and strode on, but Merry summoned up a smile from somewhere. The men did not smile back. Merry had only a moment to wonder at that as Gimli continued, “Men and Elves must talk and talk and talk. Dwarves would just take up their axes and march these foul orcs into the ground.”

For a moment Merry thought his friend was just continuing his tirade. Then Gimli’s words registered. “Orcs?” Merry asked. “Orcs? What do you mean?”

Gimli glanced down at him, something angry and sad and regretful in his dark eyes. “Laddie, you need to speak with the King. The news is bad.”

I knew it, Merry thought. I just did. Something’s happened to Pip.

Aragorn spotted them, possibly from the absence of his men around the waving axe of the dwarf. He waved and Gandalf and Legolas turned and saw them. Behind them Merry could see Elladan and Elrohir, still mounted on their stallions, and between them an ashen-faced Lammor. Aragorn must have met them on the road. Lammor cringed between the twins, his wrists bound.

As Merry and Gimli drew near, Aragorn gestured for his guards to let them through. Merry longed to rush to him and hug him and demand he lead his soldiers in search of Pippin, but did not. The part of him which would someday rule his own lands knew reunions must wait. At this moment Strider was the King, and he had a traitor to deal with.

Merry could feel the dark rage of the people of Minas Tirith like the weight of an approaching thunderstorm. The air of the sun-lit courtyard seemed oppressive and cold. He pressed against Gimli, taking comfort in the dwarf’s solid presence. The angry mutters began grow louder. Minas Tirith, all of Gondor, had adopted the Ring-bearer as theirs, and the injury done Frodo was an insult to their gratitude and to their honour.

“He hurt the Ring-bearer.” Women repeated it in grief and men in anger and shame. “He hurt him. Our Ring-bearer. He hurt him.” Their voices rose, laying their grievance before the King. Lammor crouched lower and stared around him, obviously terrified. The crowd stared back, respectful and orderly, but with fury and disgust on their faces.

Aragorn greeted Merry with a nod, then kneed his horse forward a pace to address the crowd. He raised his hand and the mutters died. The foremost of the crowd bowed and many sank to one knee. Then in one voice, the people shouted, “The King! Hail, King Elessar!”

“My people,” Aragorn began, his voice carrying easily to the farthest edges of the assembly. Merry glanced at Gandalf suspiciously but could not tell if the wizard was somehow amplifying Aragorn’s voice. “This man has committed High Treason against the person of the Ring-bearer, saviour of Middle-earth –”

The roar of the crowd interrupted him. “Death!” the people shouted. “He deserves to die!”

“Stand back!” Aragorn ordered them. “He shall be tried by law.”

“Sire!” a man cried. “Is there any question he is guilty?” The people fell silent, intent.

“No,” Aragorn replied slowly. “The hobbit Meriadoc Brandybuck has accused him, and I have seen the truth of his words in the palantÍr. He has done this evil thing.”

“Then the law demands his death. It would be so anyway. Sire, he has betrayed the people of this city. Give him to us.” It was impossible to tell which man spoke; the words had come from many voices.

Lammor cowered back against Elrohir, but there was no mercy in the Elves’ beautiful faces. “You chose your path,” Elladan said to him. “Do not decry where it has led you.”

“No! No!” Lammor begged. “It was them – Dharnor and Brin – that planned the kidnapping and sold him to the orcs, I only helped–”

“Your own words condemn you,” Aragorn told him coldly. He looked out at the many people there, who had searched all day and waited through the cold night from gratitude and love of the Ring-bearer. “Prince Faramir.”

Faramir rode forward, his face as cold as the King’s.

“Mount his head on a pike at the Gates,” Aragorn said.

“Noooo!” Lammor fell to his knees. “Your Majesty! I beg you!” Faramir gestured and a squad of six men came forward and saluted.

“You have heard the orders of the King,” Faramir told them. The soldiers saluted and surrounded the wailing man. They dragged him away, still pleading, and many of the crowd followed in grim determination.

Merry turned away, trembling, and a moment later felt a large hand descend on his shoulder. “It is justice,” Aragorn told him, holding the reins of his nervous horse. “Retribution must fit the crime, Merry. Such deeds cannot be allowed to go unpunished.” Merry nodded but still his heart cried against the Man’s death. Aragorn searched his face. “Merry, that man committed a despicable act against the Ring-bearer. Against Frodo. Surely you would not have me let him go free?”

Merry shook his head. “No. But I am sorry that he chose to do what he did. And I am sorry for the end that came of it.”

Aragorn knelt and embraced him. “Good,” the King whispered. “I would not see your heart grow hard, my friend. You have suffered much and it has made you strong and resilient, but not callused. I wish you always to remain a hobbit.”

Merry returned the embrace, feeling strength to flow into him from his friend and King. Then he drew back and it was his turn to look into Aragorn’s face. “Gimli said something about orcs. Orcs? Aragorn, where is Pippin?”

“I have seen him in the palantír,” Aragorn told him. He stood and Merry held up his arms to be lifted up to the horse. The soldiers had procured mounts for Gandalf and Legolas, and Merry saw Gimli struggle up behind Legolas most ungracefully. “Pippin has let himself be taken to save Frodo. It was a valiant, perhaps foolish, act. And yet, as Pippin’s schemes seem to do, it succeeded. They took him and left Frodo for us to find and rescue him.”

“They…?” Merry asked.

“Orcs,” Aragorn confirmed as he swung into the saddle behind Merry. “They’ve taken him out of the city, far onto the plains.” Aragorn set heels to his horse and it broke into a swift walk, men darting out of its way. Gandalf and Legolas and Gimli followed. Faramir called commands and the soldiers began to ride out in ordered ranks behind them, Elladan and Elrohir with them. Merry felt arms tighten around him and he looked up into Aragorn’s face.

“Merry,” Aragorn said softly. “There is no possible way for us to arrive in time to save Pippin.”

* TBC *