Chapter Three

Samwise woke suddenly and rolled over with a snort, aware only that he had fallen asleep when he shouldn’t have.  The first moment of panic passed, leaving him staring blankly at the heavy, carved beams of a high ceiling.  ‘Rivendell,’ his mind supplied belatedly, then ‘Mr. Frodo!’

Sam bolted upright in the soft bed in which he had been placed, his heart pounding.  The blankets were twisted around him and he fought them, arms flailing.  “Easy, Sam, easy,” murmured a soft voice in his ear, and a hand squeezed his shoulder gently.  Sam’s frantic gaze fell on Merry, and the other hobbit calmed him with a shake of the head and a shushing motion.

Sam relaxed, feeling the perspiration that had sprung out all over his body cool on his skin.  Mr. Bilbo was slumped in the chair by Frodo’s bed, snoring softly.  The warmth at his back had to be Master Pippin, then.  They were on a low divan piled with soft cushions, but how he got there Sam could not remember.  Sam eased himself carefully off and turned around.  The tweenager mumbled something in his sleep and wiggled his small, compact body into the snug depression Sam had left.  Worming the blankets carefully out from under Pippin, Sam spread them over the curled-up form and pulled up the coverlet. 

Sam stumbled over to the replenished washbasin and cupped his hands, liberally splashing cold water on his face and the back of his neck and into his hair, grateful for the shock.  He raised his dripping head and looked out of the great windows inset in the balcony doors, closed now against the approaching chill.  The shadows had lengthened while he slept; it was late evening and the cold stars were twinkling.  Merry solemnly handed him a towel.

“How is he?” Sam asked.

Merry sighed tiredly and leaned against the washstand.  “No change.  Lord Elrond’s been back twice to check on him.  And both of his sons have come back to change the bricks and bring more blankets and see that we have everything we need.  Gandalf and Aragorn, too.”  He yawned and rolled his shoulders, loosening tight muscles.  “Very nice of them, actually.”  Merry smiled faintly.  “Bilbo’s been asleep since they left.  All that coming and going and you and Pippin never even woke up.”  He nodded affectionately at Pippin’s silent form, all of which could be seen were a few bronze curls corkscrewing out from beneath the coverlet.

Feeling more himself, Sam tiptoed alongside Bilbo to peer into the bed.  His caution was unnecessary; Frodo seemed not to have so much as stirred, except perhaps that his ghostly face had grown even whiter.  A sudden wave of grief washed over Sam, and he sank to his knees alongside the bed and buried his face into the side of the coverlet, bunching the fine cloth in his fists.

“Sam,” Merry whispered, squeezing the quivering shoulder gently, “he’s going to make it.  You just watch, Sam.  There’s no more stubborn a hobbit than a Baggins.”

“I would take exception to that, young Meriadoc,” Bilbo replied, opening one bright brown eye, “if it did not happen to be true.”  A thin-boned hand patted Sam tenderly on the head and the stocky hobbit climbed slowly to his feet, straightened and dashed the tears from his eyes.  Bilbo stretched cautiously in the overlarge chair, wincing as old joints popped.  “And our Frodo is possibly the most stubborn Baggins I have ever met.”

Pippin raised his head at the others’ voices, his face sleepy and decorated with pillow-creases.  Then his eyes widened and he scrambled off the couch to join them at the bedside, frightened and disoriented.  Merry slipped an arm around the tweenager.  “Relax, Pippin.  He’s still sleeping.  Did you have a good rest, my lad?”

Pippin nodded wordlessly, his eyes on Frodo’s still face.  Some of the tension went out of his slight form and he sagged against Merry, yawning prodigiously.  Then he looked into Merry’s exhausted face and was distressed at what he saw there.  “You didn’t get any sleep at all, did you, Merry?  You watched over us, instead.”  Pippin scrubbed at his nose, then said to his kinsman firmly, “Into the bed, Cousin.  Let us watch for a while.”

Merry nodded, too worn to argue.  Sam held the blankets up while Merry crawled in, asleep almost before his head settled on the pillow.  Bilbo chuckled quietly.  “No need to keep your voices low, lads.  You couldn’t wake our Merry with a cartload of Gandalf’s fireworks.”  Waving aside their offers of aid, the old hobbit levered himself stiffly from the chair and bent over Frodo.

“When are you going to wake up, my lad?” he murmured.  “When am I going to see those beautiful eyes of yours again?”  Bilbo stroked the dark hair gently, traced the alabaster features.  But Frodo never stirred, nor responded to the loved, so-missed voice.

“What are we going to do?” whispered Sam.

Bilbo paused in his loving perusal of his nephew’s face and looked up.  “Do?  Not much we can do.  It’s all up to Elrond, now.  And Frodo.”  The calmness of his voice was given the lie by the ceaseless rubbing of his gnarled hands.

“Do you suppose we could get something to eat?” asked Pippin timidly, still a little in awe of this famous cousin.  “I’m afraid I’m dreadfully hungry.”

Sam realized he was, too.  “Sir?” he asked Bilbo.  Bilbo seemed distracted, his brow furrowed and his gaze abstracted.  “Mr. Bilbo?” Sam repeated a little louder. 

The old hobbit jumped.  Sam wondered where his mind had wandered.  “What, my boy?”

“Can you tell us how ‘ta get some food, sir?  Master Pippin and me are right hungry.”  Next to Sam, Pippin managed to look hopeful and hungry both, and Bilbo laughed.

“That I can.  I rarely eat in the Great Hall anymore myself … not much of an appetite these days.  I will have trays sent here, if you don’t want to go to the dining hall.”  The old hobbit smiled at the two quick nods, and Sam beamed in relief.  If he had to leave his master to eat, then he’d go hungry.  Or ask Pippin to bring him something - but it seemed that neither of those options would be necessary.

Bilbo walked toward the great wooden door, but it swung silently open before he reached it.  Gandalf and Aragorn stood there as if by magic, their hands clamped around great trays from which drifted the most delectable smells.  Pippin sniffed unabashedly, his sharp face breaking into a grin.  The two Big Folk were relieved of their burdens by eager hands and even Bilbo helped in setting out the dishes on a side table pushed against the wall.

“Dinner,” murmured Merry blearily and struggled to sit up, exhaustion bowing before hunger.

Aragorn pushed a filled platter into his hands.  “The clatter of dishes and people talking doesn’t wake you, Merry, but the aroma of food does?”  The Ranger’s stern face softened into a smile.  “You may eat right there, Master Meriadoc.  Gandalf and I have already eaten and we are not standing on ceremony, this night.  I know you refused to rest until Sam and Pippin awoke.”

Merry flushed at the gentle rebuke in the Ranger’s words.  “I know the Elves mean well, Aragorn.  But they’re not hobbits.  I just wanted to make sure…”  Merry trailed off, uncertain of exactly what he had wanted to make sure of.

“That over-developed sense of responsibility will get you into trouble one day, Merry,” contributed Bilbo from the vantage of years.  “Most commendable for the future Master of Buckland, but not yet so necessary in a young hobbit barely of age.”  Merry flushed again.  “Relax, lad,” the old hobbit added kindly.  “I’ve been here seventeen years and I know these folk well.  They will do all they can for Frodo.”

Merry nodded and applied himself to his food. The young hobbit’s hands trembled; he was so exhausted that it frightened him, and he did not want the others, especially Pippin, to see.  Concealing his shaking was easy to do; the darkness was deepening and it was becoming difficult to see in the dim room.  Sam started to set aside his plate and rise to light the lamps but Aragorn shook his head at the hobbit and did it himself, kindling also the candles on the tables.  While the Ranger was moving about the room, Sam unobtrusively tried to waft the aromas of his dinner in his master’s direction.

“It won’t work, Sam,” the old wizard said softly, his sharp eyes not having missed Sam’s surreptitious movement.  “He’s too deeply asleep at last.  If he were to wake, he would be in great pain.  Surely you agree that it is better that he remain sleep?”

“Yes, sir,” agreed Sam unhappily.  “But he’s got ‘ta eat.  He hasn’t eaten anything for days, really.  He’s getting awful thin, and he can’t heal if he don’t eat.”

“That is true, Master Gamgee.”  None of them had heard the Elf-lord’s approach, or the second opening of the great wooden door.  All rose to their feet and bowed, with the exception of Bilbo and Gandalf, who merely eyed the steaming covered bowl Elrond held on a tray with raised eyebrows.

“Beef broth, well-salted,” explained the Master of Rivendell.  “He must replace the blood he has lost, as well as have proteins to rebuilt torn tissues.  Continue with your dinners, please.  I will feed him.”

Sam surrendered his seat at Frodo’s side reluctantly, torn between giving up his place and allowing this intimidating Elf to help his master.  Elrond seated himself gracefully, one hand sweeping aside the heavy brocaded robes.  Sam and his fellow hobbits watched anxiously as the Elf-lord slid one arm under Frodo’s shoulders and lifted the unconscious hobbit into an upright position.  For the first time a hint of awareness showed on Frodo’s face.  His dark eyebrows drew down slightly and his mouth tightened.  Sam leaned forward, he and Merry and Pippin abandoning their suppers to crowd around him.

“Frodo?” asked Pippin, oblivious to Merry’s “Hush!”

They were overjoyed to see his eyelashes flutter.  Elrond leaned closer too, his clear gaze intent on the pale face.  Then Frodo sighed and relaxed, his head lolling back, slipping away from them again.

“It is for the best,” Elrond said gently, though he sorrowed for the dejection on the little ones’ faces.  “He is very weak and needs to rest, however much we may wish for him to wake.”  Pippin looked up, disappointed and sorrowful.  Merry patted his cousin’s hand and jerked his head towards the cooling food.  With a deep sigh, Pippin resumed his chair and his dinner.

Sam turned back to his plate too, but the food had turned to ashes in his mouth.  He watched as the Elf-lord gently picked up Frodo and cradled him in his lap, turning the wounded hobbit so that Frodo rested against him with his left side out.  With one long arm around Frodo, Elrond carefully brought a spoonful of broth to the partially open mouth and ladled in the spoon, angling the hobbit’s head so that the liquid ran down his throat. 

Again Frodo’s eyebrows quirked and it seemed once more that he might climb out of his deep well of exhaustion.  But he could not.  Elrond felt the small body sag and the dark head drooped against his shoulder.  The Elf-lord had not held one so small since his own children were very young, and he would feed them and sing them to sleep in his arms.  Though nothing of it showed on his elegant face, Elrond was surprised to feel a surge of protectiveness for this small stranger that rested against his breast.  The dark head that lay against him could have belonged to any of his children, save for its curls.  There were no further signs of awareness as he carefully fed the insensible hobbit the broth, tipping the tiny spoon’s contents carefully to avoid the windpipe.

If he was aware of the six pairs of eyes tracking the spoon’s progress, the Elf-lord gave no sign.  Aragorn reclined in his chair, arms crossed comfortably at his chest, long legs stretched out before him, eyes hooded and remote.  Gandalf sat with his chin in his hand, absently combing his beard with his fingers, his eyes on the hobbits.  Not a speck of food remained; the little folk must have been famished.  The Elf-lord knew little of hobbits beyond Bilbo but that friendship was enough for him to understand the importance hobbits placed in the comfort of food.

The young one with bright curls the color of honey in sunlight rose and began collecting the dishes.  The other two would have risen to help but the young one pushed them gently back into their chairs.  The youngest sighed and settled, still weary.  Aware that he was still being watched closely, Elrond set aside the bowl and placed his long hands on his patient’s forehead and chest, reading the slow, weakening pulse of life there. 

The Elf-lord sighed and folded the hobbit’s hands across his breast.  After a moment’s consideration, he removed the left one and laid it across a pillow at the hobbit’s side.  “There is nothing more that can be done this night,” he told the others gently.  I suggest you go to your rooms – room – and rest.  I will try to find the shard again midday tomorrow, when the light most envelops the world and chases away the shadows.”

The three Big People rose and Sam hurried to open the door for them.  Aragorn paused in the doorway, the emptied dishes piled on the stacked trays, and raised an eyebrow inquiringly at Merry and Pippin.  Both shook their heads and moved closer to Frodo.  Aragorn’s face softened and he nodded, then followed after the others.

The silent room suddenly seemed very empty.  “The amount of space those three take up has nothing to do with their size,” remarked Bilbo cryptically.   “Now,” the old hobbit continued, “shall we have a quiet smoke, then off you lads go to your room.”

Both of his younger cousins shook their heads in unison.  “We want to stay here tonight, Bilbo,” Merry said.  “There are enough divans for all of us.”  He grinned tiredly at Sam, who was tamping down his pipe.  “Though Sam seems comfortable enough on the floor.”  Sam snorted and ignored him.

“Now, none of that,” replied the old hobbit briskly.  “I will stay with Frodo-lad tonight.  You three need a good night’s rest, without sleeping with one ear open.  There, that’s settled, then,” he continued before they could protest.  His lined face softened at their rebellious expressions.

“Lads, you’re all too tired to be of any use.  That includes you, Sam.  You can stay here so long as you promise me you will sleep, but Merry and Pippin should go back to their own room.  Merry-lad, you have had no rest at all, and Pippin and Sam not nearly enough. You have faced trials beyond enduring these past weeks and I am proud of you all, for your deeds and for the devotion that you show toward Frodo.  But all of you need a full night of uninterrupted rest.  Frodo’s going to need you all tomorrow and you will do him no good if you are faint with lack of sleep.”

At these words, the hobbits’ exhaustion and grief finally overcame them.  Sam helped Merry half-carry a silently weeping Pippin to their room and helped settle him on the high elf-bed.  To weary even to undress, Merry crawled up on the one next to it.  Sam whispered a soft good-night and closed the door.

Back in his master’s quarters, Sam drew the divan that had already proved its worth as a hobbit-bed closer to his master’s and fell asleep to Bilbo’s soft humming and the gleam of bright old eyes, the glow of his pipe and the scent of Old Toby.

 * TBC *