Chapter Four

The young hobbits would have slept through elevenses, their hunger overruled by exhaustion, if not for a large hand shaking their shoulders.  Seeing their eyes struggle open, Aragorn gently urged Merry to sit up and rest his back amongst the many pillows.  The Man sat himself down on the side of the bed, the great tray of eggs and bacon and sausages and potatoes with sautéed onions and porridge and toast and blackberry preserves and mugs of steaming, hot tea he carried tipping perilously.

Merry caught at the tray and steadied it automatically, but his first concern was not for the food.  “Frodo?” he asked, fear in his eyes.

“Still sleeping peacefully,” Aragorn assured him and smiled to hear the hobbit’s sigh of relief echoed from his younger kinsman.  Pippin sat up and peered blearily past his cousin, his sharp chin resting on Merry’s shoulder.  Merry grimaced at the pointed projection but did not shrug Pippin off.  They had been led to separate beds but he had not been surprised to feel his own mattress shift during the night and a soft, frightened voice ask, “Merry, may I sleep with you?  I don’t like being way over there.”  He had awakened just enough to roll over and make room.  Truth be told, after the terrors of the road, he had slept better himself knowing Pippin was there safe beside him,all the walls and guardianship of the Elves of Rivendell not withstanding.

“What time is it?” yawned Merry, unable to estimate from the sunlight streaming in through the balcony doors of the room.  The sun seemed high in the sky but the intricate lattices decorating the windows made the light seem diffused and confusing.  “Wash your hands first, lad,” he added, lightly slapping the hand that tried sneak around him to fasten itself upon a rasher of bacon.

The hand withdrew reluctantly.  With a martyred sigh, the bed creaked on the other side and a soft thud announced the impact of hobbit-feet on the polished wood floor.  “Don’t you eat any of that while I’m gone,” drifted Pippin’s voice over Merry’s shoulder.  “You haven’t washed yet either.”  A moment later, the hobbit-feet had padded to the outer room in search of the washbasin.  When Pippin was gone, Merry looked full into the Man’s amused face. 

“So Frodo made it through the night,” whispered Merry.  Tears glinted in the corners of his eyes but he dashed them away impatiently.  “Aragorn, what are his chances?”    

Aragorn’s initial amusement faded under that scrutinizing gaze.  What answer could he give?  “Merry,” the Ranger replied gently, “I have already told you there is no greater healer and Loremaster in all of Middle-earth than Elrond Half-Elven.  If Frodo is to find healing, it will be here and nowhere else.”

Merry’s blue eyes narrowed and Aragorn knew that the hobbit had not missed his evasion.  But to the man’s silent relief, Pippin’s swift return to his waiting breakfast prevented further discourse.  The youngster carried a damp washcloth, a tiny chip of soap and a towel, which he handed to his cousin with a flourish.  “I,” said the youngster pointedly, “would not keep a starving hobbit from his breakfast.  Here.  Now let me at that bacon.”

The hobbits ate while Aragorn spoke to them softly about the amenities of the Last Homely House, describing the House’s routine (with especial attention paid to the serving of meals) and some of its amenities.  The hobbits listened politely but distractedly, their minds obviously elsewhere.  Though they both consumed their breakfast in minutes then had a more thorough wash, it was nearly noon when they stood again outside of the room wherein lay their injured cousin, Aragorn’s hands tight on their shoulders.   

Merry pushed the great wooden door open carefully and steeled himself to go in.  At first glance, little seemed to have changed from the previous night.  Elrond sat near Frodo’s bedside, conversing softly with Glorfindel and Bilbo.  Sam hovered wearily behind Bilbo’s chair, grey eyes reddened and watchful.  He did not look as if he had slept much.  But it was the Elf-lord who drew Merry’s gaze.  Elrond’s hands caged something wrapped in a thick piece of leather, and as Merry came farther into the room, he saw with loathing that it was the hilt of the Morgul blade that had wounded Frodo.

The Master of Rivendell greeted the three with a nod, but his attention was obviously on the ugly thing he held.  Glorfindel was saying something rapidly in Elvish, the melodious language falling like music on the hobbits’ ears.  The harmony of it eased their distress despite their anguish at recognizing the vile thing that the Elf-lord held with such revulsion.  Glorfindel gave them a quick smile then motioned that they should wait, and the young hobbits joined Sam, seating themselves on a divan, quiet and watchful.  Pippin entwined his hand into his cousin’s, and Merry could feel it trembling but there was nothing he could do to ease the tweenager’s fear but hold the small hand fiercely. He could scarcely control his own dread, and Merry could not help but think he was failing Pippin, as he had failed Frodo that night on Weathertop.

They waited for a time while the Big Folk spoke but finally Merry, no longer able to be still, pushed himself off the divan and crept on silent hobbit-feet over to the bed.  Bilbo watched him, his usually merry brown eyes tired and sorrowful.  “He hasn’t woken,” the old hobbit murmured in response to the unspoken question in his young cousin’s eyes.  Bilbo cradled Frodo’s right hand in his left, absently stroking the cold fingers with his other.   “Elrond got some water and more broth down him, but … he’s colder than he was last night, and more pale, I think.”

Merry hitched himself up and peered intently into his elder cousin’s face.  Frodo’s dark lashes contrasted starkly against the whiteness of his face.  Unlike last night, his stillness was absolute; there was no movement under the closed lids, no struggle towards returning consciousness.  Merry stroked his cousin’s cheek hesitantly, but he needn’t have worried about disturbing Frodo – there was no response.

“He’s dying,” whispered Merry, not realizing he spoke aloud until behind him, Sam choked and buried his face in his hands. 

Tears stood in Bilbo’s eyes, and with a shaking hand, he traced the still features gently.  “Yes.  Forgive me, Frodo,” he murmured faintly.  “This is all my fault.  Forgive me, my son.”

Pippin began to sob softly, leaning against Sam.  The older hobbit dashed the tears from his own face and put an arm around the tweenager, and Merry hugged Bilbo’s shuddering shoulders, embracing the old hobbit tightly.  They had forgotten the Big Folk and all of them jumped when Elrond’s crisp but gentle voice cut through their shared misery.

“But he still lives, my friends, and while he does, we will not give up hope.”  The lord rose and handed the hilt to Glorfindel.  “Take this evil thing from my House.  Seal it away in some untenanted place where it cannot foul the earth and air and darken innocent hearts by its very presence.”

The Elf took the leather-wrapped hilt reluctantly, then bowed to his lord.  “Shall I send for Elladan and Elrohir, my lord?”

Elrond had turned back to Frodo, gently pulling back the coverlet and blankets to uncover the hobbit’s chest.  Long hands were unwinding the bandages, noting the traces of blood on the white linen.  “Yes.  And ask Arwen to bring my surgery tools, please.”

“I will, my lord.”  Glorfindel’s bright gaze sought out the hobbits and he half-bowed to them, a courtesy which surprised all but Bilbo.  A gentle smile tugged at the fair face, which quickly faded and was replaced by sorrow when he looked at Frodo.  Then he let himself out and was gone.

“You’re going to seek the shard again, sir?” asked Aragorn.

Elrond nodded.  The bandages removed, he was gently sponging down Frodo’s alabaster chest, cleansing away the blood.  “I must.  His body is stronger for the rest and food, but his spirit grows ever weaker.”  The Elf-lord squeezed the sponge into the basin at his side, watching as the clear water took on a pinkish tinge.  “Fifteen days,” he murmured to himself.  Then seeing the hobbits’ eyes upon him, he elaborated.  “Fifteen days he has borne that evil thing within him, sucking out his life.  Such strength of will is beyond belief.”

Bilbo raised his head but his gaze never left Frodo’s face.  “You don’t know this lad, Elrond.  I do.  It may kill him, but Frodo will never surrender to it.”

The Elf-lord nodded again, but Merry thought he glimpsed doubt in the expressionless, elegant face.  When Frodo’s shoulder was bared and cleaned, Elrond hesitated, his gaze following after Glorfindel.  He turned and selected another of the stoppered bottles, and uncorking it, turned his hands over the basin while Aragorn poured over each a generous amount of a reddish, sharp-smelling liquid.  Instead of drying his hands on a towel, the Elf-lord shook his fingers dry, staring intently at his silent patient. 

Merry watched as the Elf pressed against the thin, livid tear on his cousin’s shoulder, feeling the swelling and watching as the skin gave under the pressure of his gentle fingers.  The wound had closed, until Elrond had opened it last night, and now the cleaned lips of the wound gaped, the edges of the deep wound oddly white.  The flesh did not look like flesh at all, but clay perhaps, or wax … something from which the life had already fled.  Pippin looked away, burying his face in Merry’s shoulder.

A soft knock sounded on the door, then the lord’s twin sons were entering, burdened with towels and blankets and baskets of medicines and strange vials.  They did not greet the hobbits or their father and foster brother, but laid out Elrond’s supplies in quick, practiced motions.  Also silent, Elrond thanked them with a nod, his attention on examining Frodo’s face and eyes.

Another knock, then Gandalf entered and held the door for a woman who followed after.  Not a woman, Merry corrected himself a moment later, an Elf-maid.  Then Merry’s mind shut down and his mouth fell open.  Pippin turned around at Merry’s soft gasp, and froze.

Arwen Undómiel, daughter of Elrond and the Evenstar of her people, greeted her father with a kiss on his brow, and Merry absently noted the warmth in the great lord’s eyes as he looked upon his daughter.  Even the Shire had tales of the beauty of the immortal Elven princess, pub-talk and tales for children.  None of it had prepared him for the reality.  The image of Lúthien Tinúviel come again to the world, so the tales said, but now Merry saw with his own eyes what those words truly meant.  She was lovely beyond the words of poets and the paintings of artists.  The most gifted artist in the world could never capture on dry canvas the silky waterfall of long hair, dark like her father’s, and silver eyes, and a face and form as flawless as the first sunrise on the new-made world.

Arwen handed to her father a linen-covered tray, which clinked as he sat it down on the small table beside the head of the bed.  “Thank you,” he said gravely, then turned to the hobbits.  “Our patient and his servant you met this morning.  These are Frodo and Bilbo’s cousins, Master Meriadoc Brandybuck and Master Peregrin Took.”

The image of beauty on earth smiled at him, and Merry’s courtly words of greeting went right out of his head.  “Hullo,” he managed.  “Please call me Merry.  And Peregrin’s always called Pip.  Or Pippin.  Whichever you’d prefer.”  He managed to tear his gaze away and nudge his cousin.  Pippin’s mouth hung slackly and his large green-gold eyes were perfectly round.  “Say hullo, Pip,” Merry whispered.  Pippin, stared, dumbfounded.  “Pippin!” Merry hissed louder, losing some of his own awe in his annoyance, “shut your mouth and say hullo!”

“'Lo,” murmured Pippin.  He then blushed bright red and stared at his hairy toes.

Merry resisted the impulse to roll his eyes.  A soft chuckle rumbled through the tableau.  “Others before young Pippin have been enchanted by the beauty of the daughter of Elrond,” Gandalf remarked, laughter lurking in his sharp eyes.  ”Though I may say it is the first time she has caused a hobbit to fall in love with her at first sight.”

“The second time,” said Bilbo gallantly, rising stiffly to bow to the princess.  Pippin dragged his gaze up from his toes to glance gratefully at his elderly cousin, and Bilbo gave him a comforting wink.

“She is claimed, Bilbo,” interjected Aragorn, a rarely seen grin on his stern features.

Arwen laughed, a clear silvery peal of bells.  Seated together on another divan, her brothers exchanged an amused look, an expression echoed on her father’s face.  That amusement faded as Arwen glided over to the bed and gently trailed her hand along Frodo’s still face.  “No change since this morning?” she asked.

“The fires of his life burn a little lower,” her father replied.  His ageless eyes turned back to the injured hobbit and a frown appeared on the high brow.  He raised his eyes to meet the wizard’s then suddenly rose.  “It is time to begin.  Elrohir, Elladan…” The two younger Elves also rose and began preparing.  One of them, Merry did not know which, began moving lamps closer and lighting them.  The other pulled the white cloth from the tray.  Metal instruments gleamed there, scalpels and knives, pinchers and clamps.  Merry felt Pippin begin to tremble again, and his arm stole around his younger cousin.  Elrond’s deep eyes had not missed either of their movements.  “Daughter,” he said gently, “would you escort the young hobbits to a place where they may wait?”

“No!”  The cry burst from Sam and Merry and Pippin simultaneously. 

“You can’t expect us ‘ta leave him, sir!” Sam cried.  “What if… What if he…”

“Dies?”  It was Gandalf who said the word that Sam had been unable to utter.  “We are going to do everything in our power to prevent that, Samwise.  There is nothing you can do here to help.  It will be less distracting for Elrond if there are fewer people in the room.”

“We couldn’t stand it, my lord,” said Merry quietly.  “We couldn’t.  Please don’t send us out.  We won’t get in the way…  We’ll just sit in the corner – you won’t even know we’re here.  We need to be here, in case … in case he…”

“I understand,” Elrond said softly, compassion in his silver eyes.  “But you must understand that what I must do … will be difficult to watch.  There is no need for you to see it.  Especially the young one.”

Pippin looked up at that.  The high color had faded from his sharp face, replaced by a grayish hue, but he met Elrond’s gaze squarely.  “I don’t want to go,” he said in his high clear voice.  “Frodo needs me.”

“Frodo is unaware, young Peregrin,” the Elf-lord replied gently.  “He will not know if you or the others are here or not.”

“You don’t know that, my lord,” Merry argued.  “Maybe the sound of our voices will help.  You don’t know.”

The Elf was silent for long moments, his considering gaze resting on the young hobbits.  They stared back, desperation in their tearing eyes.  Support came from an unexpected source.

“Let them stay, Father,” came Aragorn’s quiet voice.  “I have seen the bond between these folk.  They gather strength from each other.  If you separate them during the surgery, they will suffer.”

“If they see what I must do, they will also suffer,” returned the Elf-lord shortly, but the frown on his face eased.  “But you know them better than I, my son.”  He turned back to the two, to find that Sam had joined them and the three faced him unwaveringly.  “You may stay.  But you must not interfere …no matter what you might see.”

Merry and Pippin and Sam heaved great sighs of relief.  “Thank you, sir,” whispered Merry, some color returning to his strained face.  Bilbo looked at them sadly as he accepted help from both Sam and Merry in lowering his brittle bones down in the corner the Elf-maid guided them to.  Arwen helped make them comfortable, offering them cushions and speaking to them in her soft, melodious voice.  As she straightened, her slender hand brushed Pippin’s cheek, lingering a moment to smile down into his upturned face.  Then she left them, pleading the press of her own duties. 

To the hobbits’ surprise, Gandalf joined them on the floor, seating himself cross-legged between Merry and Bilbo, leaning his staff against the wall.  Seeing the wizard also on the floor, Pippin hesitated a moment then crawled over Merry to ensconce himself in the wizard’s lap.  Merry’s heart lifted a little to see Gandalf look startled for the briefest moment, then he hugged the tweenager tenderly before draping one arm over Merry and the other over Bilbo, his hand resting gently on Sam’s shoulder.  Seeing them thus settled, Aragorn assisted his foster brothers in preparing Frodo while Elrond carefully soaped and washed his hands.

It was Aragorn who gently sat Frodo up and removed the nightshirt he had been dressed in, one hand splayed across Frodo’s back sufficient to support the limp form while he eased off the garment.  That done, he lay the hobbit downupon layers of bleached linen and covered him to the chest with pristine white blankets.  Clean cloths he lay across Frodo’s right shoulder and arm, leaving only the left shoulder and side bare.  Lastly he laid a strip of linen across Frodo’s hair and wound it about his head, restraining the unruly dark curls.

Elrond selected an earthenware bottle, stoppered with a cork and sealed with wax.  He ran the blade of one of the many small knives around the seal and carefully removed the cork.  Then most cautiously, he sniffed at the bottle, his elegant nose far from the opening.

Merry could not restrain himself.  “What’s that?”

Elrond picked up one of the long bandages and folded it neatly into a squarish pad.  “This is a very fast-acting soporific, Master Meriadoc.  This procedure would be very … painful … for your cousin, were he aware at all.  It would be most unfortunate if he should wake during the cutting.  Breathed deeply, this liquid will quickly send him back to sleep before he suffers much pain.”  The Elf-lord lightly re-stoppered the bottle and set it and the cloth within quick reach.  Pippin made a soft whimpering noise and curled into an even tighter ball in Gandalf’s lap.

While his foster father prepared, Aragorn’s hands had returned to the hobbit’s ice-cold shoulder.  Feeling along the length of the unresponsive arm, the Ranger frowned sorrowfully.  “Elrond?” he asked softly, his eyes on the joining of the arm to the body.  He pressed gently and withdrew his fingers, distressed at how the flesh failed to rise again at the removal of pressure.   Elrond paused in his preparations and gazed up at him.  The Ranger hesitated, looking at the hobbits.  Then he said, “There has already been some tissue death at the wound.  Such damage will never heal.  Would it not be better for Frodo to take the arm?”

* TBC *