Chapter Six

“No,” muttered the Elf-lord.  Then louder, “No!  I will not allow it!”  With elven-speed he withdrew his hand, rising to his feet.   Merry watched, not understanding, fingers still pressed desperately to Frodo’s motionless throat.   His cousin’s body felt colder, a thin sheen of sweat shimmering on icy skin.  Then Merry’s perceptions were plunged into shadow as a tall form leaned over them, blocking his light.

Elrond bent forward over the small form and sought with a long finger for the joining of Frodo’s ribs at the base of his ribcage, then moved above it slightly.  Crossing his hands flat over the junction of his cousin’s chest, the Elf-lord pushed down with brutal strength.  Distinctly, Merry heard his cousin’s bones creak.

“You’ll kill him!” Merry heard himself shout.  “You’ll break his ribs!”  Elrond ignored him, concentrating on a series of rapid depressions.  Elladan and Elrohir watched silently from their posts at Frodo’s head and his feet, one counting softly under his breath and the other watching for any sign of breath or movement.  There was none.

Dimly Merry was aware that Pippin was whimpering, little sobbing shrieks bursting from his throat.  Gandalf had wrapped both his arms across the tweenager’s chest and was holding him securely, keeping him down.  Sam was silent, his hands clamped around the ankles of his raised knees, his entire body clenched so tightly that he looked as if he might shatter.   He was rocking forwards andback, forwards and back, and tears were streaming down his round face.  Beneath his hands, his ankles wore a bracelet of red gashes as his fingernails dug into skin.  Bilbo sat motionless, but his lips moved as tears streamed down his wrinkled face in an unceasing torrent.  Above the other commotion, Merry could hear his cracking old voice murmuring, “Elbereth,” and “Estë” and “please, please … don’t take him from me, please…”  The two young Elves held Frodo flat as Elrond pushed down again.

“Meriadoc!”  The hobbit found that somehow he had pushed himself between the Elf-lord and his cousin, trying to pry Elrond’s hands from Frodo’s chest.  Then strong arms caught him around the chest and pulled him away.  “Let Elrond work,” Aragorn’s soft voice murmured in his ear.  “He is trying to restart Frodo’s heart.  Merry, he is trying to help.  Let him help.”  The gentle but unyielding authority in Aragorn’s voice penetrated into the hobbit’s consciousness and brought him back to himself.  Elrond was trying to help, trying to help, Merry chanted to himself.  He shut his eyes against the hot press of tears and shivered in acquiescence.  After a moment, Aragorn released him.  Merry stumbled back to his place beside Frodo’s head and prayed to feel movement under his fingers. 

Then, miraculously, he did.  Elrond either felt or somehow knew it at the same instant, for he stopped the measured pressing immediately.  He rested both bloodied hands lightly on Frodo’s chest and stared intently into his patient’s face.

Frodo's dark brows drew together and he coughed.  A thick bead of blood glimmered along his lips then ran from the corner of his mouth, a scarlet ribbon unwinding to stain the pillow.  But his heart beat again, and he breathed.  How, Merry could scarcely comprehend.  He thought he understood some of what Lord Elrond had accomplished; the Elf-lord had massaged Frodo's heart externally and somehow encouraged it to beat again on its own.  The pulse Merry felt under his seeking fingers was of more import to him than his own.  Merry squeezed his eyes to clear his vision and used his other hand to scrub away the tears with his coat sleeve, finally dropping his hand when he was sure of the steady beat. 

From behind him, Merry heard the first sound from Sam, a slow release of shuddering breath that ended in such a queer gulp that Merry turned around.  Sam had buried his head in his knees and his shoulders were shaking violently.  Bilbo raised tearing eyes to Merry and slid his arm around Sam, once again the pillar of strength that Merry remembered him as being.  Bilbo looked drained, but he pulled Sam’s head away from his knees and leaned the gardener into his embrace.  With his other hand, the old hobbit rubbed his youngest cousin’s arm and Pippin grasped the wrinkled hand as if it were a lifeline.  Gandalf too relaxed, stretching his back and grimacing as his shoulders arched against the wall.  Bilbo smiled shakily and pushed a wayward curl out of Pippin’s eyes.  “Marvelous people, Elves.  Living several thousand years can teach you a few things.”

“Enough,” Elrond whispered.  Merry was shocked to see how exhausted the Elf-lord looked, dark hair glistening with perspiration at his high temple, his face grey and pinched.   Raising his eyes to the balcony doors, Merry saw without comprehension that the early autumn night was already approaching.  They had been here for hours, then?  The sun had already sunk below the mountains and the red afterglow that filled the sky was reflected in the great waterfalls that surrounded the valley, turning the falling waters red.  It looked as if the walls of Rivendell were bleeding.  Turning his eyes from the ominous sight, Merry discovered that his eyes were burning and his head pounded fiercely.

He watched dully as Elrond washed his hands in a fresh basin, then cleaned the blood from Frodo’s chest.  His cousin continued to breathe shallowly, eyes again closed, face slack.  Merry jerked violently when he felt a wet cloth wipe his own hands; he shivered and stared into Aragorn’s understanding eyes.  The Man knelt before him and was gently washing Frodo’s blood from his hands, and some small part of Merry that was not completely buried in weariness and horror and grief marveled at the Ranger’s compassion.

“You did very well, Merry,” came the Man’s soft voice, pitched for his ears alone.  “I know it is no easy thing to stand by and watch someone you love being cut.  That you caught the faltering beat so quickly most probably helped save your cousin’s life.”  Merry nodded silent thanks, having no words left in him.

Elladan and Elrohir moved silently about the room, gathering up soiled linens and implements while their father continued sponging up the scattered droplets.  That done, Elrond dried the ravaged form with great gentleness and laid a bandage over the wound, securing the edges with some sort of gummy adhesive that he applied from a small pot.

Gandalf sighed and gently lifted the tiredly sobbing Pippin from his lap and laid him next to Bilbo.  Pippin curled up like an exhausted puppy, pushed beyond his limit, and Bilbo gathered him closer.  The old wizard rose stiffly and collected his staff from the corner, running his hands along the aged wood as if for comfort.  “I will tell Arwen and Glorfindel and the others,” he said, his deep eyes sorrowful and filled with heartache.  He stumbled haltingly to the door and let himself out.  Gandalf moved slowly, like an old man, the first time Merry had ever seen him so.

“Aren’t you going to stitch the wound?” asked a hoarse voice, and Merry was so weary that it took him a moment to identify it as Bilbo’s.  It seemed to take a great effort to raise his head to look past Aragorn’s shoulder.  The old hobbit’s eyes were red but he had brushed his face clean of tears.  Pippin lay against him, sprawled bonelessly on a pile of cushions.  His head was in Bilbo’s lap and the old hobbit was stroking his hair, the gnarled hands that Merry remembered dispensing sweets and sugared biscuits and comforting pats a source of infinite comfort.  Sam was absently rubbing Pippin’s back, his face drained and reddened eyes unfocused.  Pippin’s eyes were shut but tears still slipped from behind his closed lids, his sharp face scrunched up and pale.  Merry’s heart twisted for his little cousin’s pain, for all of their pain. 

“No,” replied Elrond.  “There is no point to it.”  He cupped a hand under Frodo’s head and slid the other under his body, lifting the unconscious hobbit slightly to allow his sons to slide out the bloodied linens and lay clean ones, then settled Frodo back carefully.  Lastly he removed the pillow, and Merry’s eyes narrowed at the handkerchief-wrapped lump revealed.  He knew immediately what it was, and his heart clenched.  He wanted to seize it and cast it away, throw it into one of the great waterfalls around them, so that it would be tumbled and battered and destroyed upon the rocks, and never hurt his cousin again. But it could not be destroyed so, and he knew this.

Feeling eyes upon him, he looked up and met the Elf-lord’s judging gaze.  But Elrond said nothing, only sliding in a new pillow over the Ring and laying the dark head down upon it.   Then the Elf pushed the straggling curls out of Frodo’s eyes with surprising tenderness.  “No … I would only have to cut them when we try again.”

“Try again?”  He must sound a total idiot, Merry thought.  But at this moment, he could not conceive of trying again.

Elrond pulled a woolen blanket up to Frodo’s chin then the beautiful white and gold coverlet, and rose to his feet, steadying himself with one hand on the carved bedpost.  One of the twins came to his side and slipped an arm around his waist, and for a moment, the hobbits saw what few in Middle-earth had been privileged to witness.  Not the Master of Rivendell and one of its young lords, but a loving son supporting his weary father.  Then Elrond straightened and once more was the ageless, immortal healer of tales and lore.  The Elf-lord drew in a deep breath and addressed the watching hobbits.  “We very nearly lost him.  I will not try again until he has regained some of his strength.  We are all weary and need to rest.  I will send word when I am ready to try again.”

Still leaning on Elrohir, Elrond left the room.  Elladan followed after holding the door for them and exchanging a long glance with Aragorn that betokened some silent communication.  Aragorn used Merry’s shoulder to lever himself up, and once on his feet, sought Elrond’s chair next to Frodo’s bedside.  He slumped into it and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his thighs, and raked his fingers through his hair.  He sighed tiredly, his whole body drooping with exhaustion.

Merry turned around when Sam let out his breath in a great gust of air and dragged himself to his feet.  If he had to support himself against the wall for a moment, no one remarked upon it.  “That’s it, then,” Sam said vaguely.  Merry looked at him blankly.  “Meaning no disrespect, sirs, but I think we’d all be better off for some supper an’ bed.  We’ve missed luncheon – tea, too.  I’ll just ask for some trays, shall I?”

No one answered him.  Pippin sniffed and sat up, but still leaned against Bilbo.  Merry took one more look into Frodo’s face and staggered over to Sam’s vacated place, collapsing into the cushions as if his legs would no longer hold him up. 

Sam nodded to himself.  They needed doing for.  He couldn’t help his master, but until he could do for Mr. Frodo, he’d do for his master’s kin.  Sam walked stiffly to the door and opened it to find, as he had expected, an Elf waiting there.  A few quiet words, then he shut the door and rejoined the others.  No one said anything until a soft knock at the door announced the arrival of the trays.  Sam directed the Elves to place them on the small side-table and thanked them in a soft voice, closing the door upon them then handing out the trays himself.  Merry took his and stared at the food in rising nausea, seeing in his mind his own trembling hands bathed red with Frodo's blood. The tray shook in his grasp.   

“I can’t.  I just can’t.  Pippin, you take it.”  Merry held out his untouched tray to the perpetually hungry tweenager, but Pippin just shook his head, pushing away his dinner for the first time in his cousin’s memory.

“Now lads,” Bilbo began comfortingly, “you’ve got to keep your strength up.  Frodo will need you to keep him entertained when he’s better.”  To demonstrate, he took a bite of the bread, then choked on it.  Merry pounded him gently on the back.  Sam hadn’t even asked for food for himself, and Aragorn’s tray cooled unwanted and ignored. 

After they had given up all pretence of eating, Bilbo required Aragorn’s help to gain his feet.  He swayed alarmingly and the Ranger was quick to catch him and settle the old hobbit in his arms to carry him to his room.   The Man stopped in the doorway and looked back at them.  “All of you, rest.  Bilbo is right – Frodo will need you.  I will return and stay with Frodo and Sam this night.”  Merry shook his head, but the forming of an intelligent argument was beyond him.  “I’ll call you if anything changes,” Aragorn assured them, “but you must rest.”  His eyes canted to Bilbo, already dozing in his arms, and then to Pippin, who was weaving on his feet.  Merry yielded, undone by the sight of their exhaustion.  He leaned over his unconscious cousin and gently kissed Frodo on the brow, followed by Pippin.  Sam trailed after them to the door and stood looking forlornly after them, despite Aragorn’s reassurances that he would return shortly.

Upon arriving at their quarters, Merry and Pippin found that the enormous elven furniture had been replaced by smaller beds and chairs and tables.  Without understanding why, they felt reassured by the more familiar sized furnishings, and by the care shown them for their comfort.  Silk nightshirts lay folded neatly on each bed and Merry fingered his in wonderment at the softness of the weave.

It was full night now, but the young hobbits were still too unsettled and frightened to sleep, despite their exhaustion.  Pippin wandered about the room, admiring the graceful lines of the furniture, speculating on what lay beyond their balcony, asking his elder cousin a myriad of questions that would have driven Merry mad had he not so well understood the tweenager’s chatter, his seeking to cover his distress with activity and questions that turned his mind from their cousin lying near to death in another room of this great, imposing House.  Pippin was so tired he was shaking, about to collapse but unable to be still.  At last Merry sat Pippin down on the balcony, filled and handed him his pipe, and told him to spend a few minutes looking at the stars. 

Merry sought a different distraction.  A small, beautifully carved desk graced the wall of the room given them, and Pippin’s explorations had discovered a quill and small bottle of ink, paper and envelopes.  Guilt tugged at Merry – his family and Pip’s would be frantic by now.  Sam’s family, too.  He wondered if news of the incident in Bree would have reached them.  Frodo had introduced himself to the inn’s owner as “Mr. Underhill,” but he and Pippin and Sam had never attempted to hide their identities.  The names Took and Brandybuck would certainly be remarked upon.  “Strange as news from Bree” the saying went … the news had gotten much stranger than he quite knew how to explain. 

Merry dangled his legs off the desk’s chair and swung them idly while he considered what he might write.  Dear Mum and Dad, he composed in his head.  Then Dear Mother and Father.  No, they would know something was wrong, then, if he wrote so formally.  He toyed with the quill, tracing it over the fine vellum but did not dip it into the inkwell.  Dear Mum and Dad, Pippin and I and Frodo and Sam Gamgee are in Rivendell.  The Elves call it Imladris, east of Bree.  And Cousin Bilbo is here!  He has been for quite sometime –“ Merry stopped.  He had no right to inform their family of Bilbo’s presence.  Bilbo had not, in all the time that he had lived in Rivendell.  Sighing in regret, Merry edited out that section of his as yet unwritten letter and changed the subject.  We are …he stopped again.  Pippin and Sam and I are fine.  Frodo was injured during our journey, but the Elves are trying to make him better. 

Merry could just imagine his parents’ reaction, receiving this letter out of the Blue.  Especially if they had heard what had happened in Bree.  He leaned forward and cradled his chin in his hands, the quill bobbing forgotten between his fingers.  I am sorry I could not tell you the truth about our leaving.  But truly, I cannot speak of it even now.  So much depends on what we are doing.   I must just ask you to trust me that there is a good and just reason behind our actions. Da, you must not send people after us. They wouldn’t be able to find their way here, and the Road is too dangerous.  Please do not worry about us – we are in no danger and are being treated with every courtesy here.  Frodo… A tear escaped Merry’s closed eyes and he fought the others back.  He could not bear to tell them what had happened.  Frodo was very badly hurt and he may... another slow tear, he may not recover.  We will know in the next couple of days.

Please tell Pip’s parents that he is with me and is well.  And Sam’s Gaffer and his family, too.  Rivendell is beautiful and there are Elves everywhere!  The food is wonderful here.  Even in his own mind, that reassurance fell flat.  Desperately, Merry strove to find something comforting to tell his family.  Gandalf is here, too, so we are among friends.  On second thought, he wasn’t sure if the wizard’s presence would reassure his family or not.  

Please do not be angry, Merry formulated mentally.  We had to come with Frodo – there was nothing else that we could do.  He needed us.  I will explain what happened in Bree when we return home.   None of us were hurt – should he say that?  Knowing his mother, and Pippin’s, that would immediately frighten them.  He had no idea what distorted rumors might have reached his family.  He mentally crossed that out and continued …when we return home.  We will come back as soon as we may.

Mum, Da, Merry continued, stroking his hand along the unmarked vellum.  If anyone comes asking you where we’ve gone, you mustn’t tell them.  I promise you that we are doing nothing wrong, indeed we are doing something very right.  Please trust me.  I give you my word that this is necessary.  

“Merry,” said a soft, scared voice in his ear, accompanied by the sweet smell of pipe-weed, “Why are you crying?”

Merry dragged his eyes open, cursing himself for not keeping better track of his little cousin and so causing him more anxiety.  Pippin didn’t need to be worrying over both his cousins.  “Hullo, Pip,” he said with an effort to smile at the blurry apparition that hovered over him.  “I’m just tired, that’s all.  Just tired.”  He laid the quill down, too exhausted to face actually writing the letter tonight.  In another few days – possibly tomorrow – they would know if Frodo would live or not.  He could write then, when they knew.  Yes, that made far more sense.  Coward, whispered his conscious.  You just can’t bear to tell them.  You’re afraid if you write he’s dying, it might make it true.  With an effort, Merry pushed that whispering voice aside and turned his attention to Pippin, who was watching him anxiously.  “Come on, Pip.  We’d best get to bed.”  Pippin nodded, visibly calming, and to Merry’s relief, did not question him further.

Pippin dragged his nightshirt on and splashed his face with water, making a half-hearted attempt at a wash while Merry changed and prepared for bed.  Pippin’s shirt was still a tad long, Merry noticed, eyeing the curly foot hair that just peeked out below the hem.  His cousin looked like he was about fifteen years old – all he needed was his old plush bear to complete the picture.  Bilbo had given the bear to Pippin for the old hobbit’s one-hundredth and first birthday, and Pippin’s first.  Bilbo had sent all the way to Dale for it, and Pippin had loved it into threadbare tatters.  Merry grinned in remembrance – Pippin had toted that ridiculous toy around until well into his teens.  He was jerked back into the present by a sniff.

Pippin was looking at the second bed, placed across the room from the other, his eyes filling up with tears again.  He looked miserable and Merry could not endure it.  He silently motioned to his own bed and Pippin climbed in gratefully, still not ready to face even temporary separation from his Merry.

Tomorrow will be better, thought Merry as he felt Pippin settle in beside him.  He started to tell his little cousin that, but discovered that Pippin was already asleep, still snuffling occasionally.  Had he not been so tired, Merry would have been alarmed to see his little cousin’s thumb creep unconsciously into his mouth.  Pippin had not done that since childhood.  Setting aside that worry for the morning as well, Merry draped an arm over the tweenager’s shoulders and was asleep between one breath and the next.

* TBC *