Chapter Seven

The morning of the hobbits’ second full day in Rivendell dawned brightly.  Merry knew this because the morning sun streamed in through the open balcony windows and stabbed him in the eyes.  He uttered a heartfelt groan, covered them with a night-shirted arm, rolled over and went back to sleep.

The next invitation to rise came from his stomach.  Faint but increasingly loud gurgles, burbles and grumbles were being emitted from both his and Pippin’s midsections.  Having both been too emotionally drained to eat the previous night and, in Merry's case, more than a little nauseated, both young hobbits woke in a fine state of hunger.  After one astonishingly loud moaning growl that sounded like he had swallowed a cat, Merry finally groaned and sat up to listen to the unmusical duet.  After a few moments of this, he declared Pippin’s stomach the winner of the involuntary rumbling contest, and dragged them both out of bed.

“Do you think Aragorn will bring us breakfast?” asked Merry, after they had washed and dressed.  He was standing by the door and buttoning his waistcoat, one ear listening for footsteps, hopefully loud ones indicating the carrying of a heavy tray, and the other tilted towards his cousin.

When Pippin did not reply, being apparently absorbed in brushing his foot hair, Merry scowled at his back.  Pippin paying that much attention to his appearance signaled that something was wrong.  Merry left the door and circled ‘round Pippin, forcing the younger hobbit to notice him.  “Pip, if anything had happened during the night, they would have sent for us.  You know that.  Now stop fretting and let’s go say good morning to Frodo before we eat.”

“Why hasn’t Aragorn come, Merry?” whispered Pippin.  Now that Merry was in front of the tweenager, he could see how pale Pippin’s face was, making his large green-gold eyes appear even larger.  Pippin sniffed suddenly and his voice quavered as he continued, “He woke us up yesterday.  Maybe Lord Elrond told him that there was nothing we could do, and they’d tell us in the morning.  Maybe –“

“Will you stop that, Cousin?” asked Merry a little breathlessly.  Now the Ranger’s absence seemed suddenly foreboding and frightening.  The young hobbit swallowed and fought for his self control.  “I’m sure Strider has more important things to do than deliver breakfast to a couple of hobbits.”  His cousin looked at him narrowly, tears starting to brim in those huge eyes.  Desperately, Merry sought a distraction.  “Have breakfast with his lady, for one.”

At this Pippin grinned, his gaze becoming dreamy and unfocused.  Merry poked him pointedly in the chest.  “His lady, Pippin.”

Pippin rubbed his chest and looked at Merry reproachfully.  “I know that, Merry.  I was just –“

“Never mind what you were ‘just’,” teased Merry, pleased at his success in diverting the tweenager from his worry.  “Now, do you remember which door is Frodo’s?”

A short time later, the two young hobbits stood outside one of the great wooden doors and frowned at it thoughtfully.  “Well, knock,” said Merry.  “I think this is it.”

“You knock,” Pippin countered.  They stared at the door.

“This is ridiculous!” declared Merry after some moments.  “They would have sent for us if … if we were needed.   They didn’t, so everything’s fine.  I’m knocking.”

Merry prayed that Pippin did not notice his hand shaking as he knocked softly.  There was a moment of silence, then Sam opened the door.  He looked very tired, but there was no trace of tears on his face.  Merry sighed and slumped against the doorjamb in relief.

Pippin pushed past him with a nod for Sam and went straight to Frodo’s bedside.  Sam trailed after them and took a seat on one of the divans, silent and exhausted.  One of the young lords sat by their cousin, and Pippin hesitated, suddenly shy.

“You will not disturb him, Peregrin,” murmured the lord softly.  “Nor you, Meriadoc.”  Merry bowed then edged up by his cousin.  “I am Elrohir,” supplied the Elf, amusement at their confusion shimmering in his grey eyes.  “My brother is the ugly one.”  Pippin laughed, then covered his mouth with his hand.  Elrohir smiled, and the amused glint in his eyes became a sparkle.  That sparkle faded as his gaze turned to Frodo’s still face.  “He spent a quiet night.  He is too weak to move much.”

Pippin leaned over and carefully brushed Frodo’s forehead with his lips.  Then his eyes widened and he turned back to Elrohir.  “Yes,” said the Elf softly.  “He has a fever.  My father is watching it.  If it becomes a threat, we will take steps to banish it.”

Frowning, Merry laid his hand on Frodo’s right arm, feeling the heat and thin sheen of sweat that coated his cousin’s skin where the blankets did not cover.  Frodo did not react to the well-known touch, not even when Merry leaned over to whisper in his ear, “Frodo?  Frodo dear, can you hear me?”  After a moment, Merry straightened and pulled the blankets higher, tucking them carefully under Frodo’s chin.

“Is he any better?” asked Pippin.  He was curling his cousin’s sweat-limp curls through his fingers, then laying each one in a careful pattern across Frodo’s forehead.  He did not look up as he spoke, concentrating wholly on the tiny motions.

The Elf exchanged a glance with Sam.  It was Sam who spoke.  “No, sir,” the stocky hobbit said quietly.  “He won’t get any better till Lord Elrond gets that evil thing out o’ him.”

“Which will not be today.”  All three hobbits raised startled eyes to find Aragorn standing in the doorway.  Elrohir nodded a greeting and the Ranger returned it, then stepped into the room, softly closing the door behind him.  “Good morning,” he said, every evidence to the contrary not withstanding. 

“Good morning,” the hobbits chorused softly in return.

“I thought I would take you to the Great Hall for breakfast this morning,” the Ranger said quietly.  “I have already asked Sam, but unless he has changed his mind…” he paused and looked at Samwise.  Sam shook his head, refusing to leave his master.  “Very well.  We’ll have a tray sent to you.  Merry, Pippin, would you care to accompany me?”

The young hobbits hesitated, torn between hunger and the desire to stay with their cousin.  “What did you mean, ‘not today’?” asked Merry, wanting to stay with Frodo for just a few minutes more.

“Elrond has decided that he is too weak to endure another search for the shard so soon.”  Aragorn drifted over to Frodo’s bedside on booted feet nearly as silent as any hobbit’s.  He laid the back of his hand gently against the pale cheek, feeling the fever that burned there.  Sam tensed slightly; the resurgence of his mistrust evident in his squared shoulders and carefully blank expression.  Aragorn sighed sorrowfully and withdrew, and Sam relaxed.

“Today my lord will get as much water and nourishing tonics into him as Frodo will take,” Aragorn continued, pretending to be unaware of Sam’s watchful eyes.  “Elrond will concentrate his efforts on rebuilding Frodo's strength … on ensuring that he is strong enough to survive one, final attempt.”  Mortal grey eyes met immortal silver for a moment as he exchanged a glance with his foster brother.  “Elrohir and Elladan and I will assist.  If Elrond is unable to withdraw the shard tomorrow…”  The Ranger trailed off, wishing he had censored his tongue before speaking the last.

“He’ll die,” Merry finished for him softly.  “And he’ll die if he can’t bear the surgery.”  Anger flashed through him suddenly, unheralded and unexpected.  “And he’ll die if he does live through the surgery but isn’t strong enough to recover!  Doesn’t seem like Frodo has much of a chance, does it?”

“Merry,” whispered Pippin in a tiny, frightened voice.

There was more that Merry wanted to say – to shout – but he bit down hard on his tongue.  This would help no one, and he was scaring Pippin.  Instead he bound up that anger and grief and fear into a tight little ball, and drawing another deep breath, pushed it from him.

“If there’s nothing we can do,” he said to Sam, who again shook his head, “we’ll go have breakfast.  Then we’re coming right back.”  Sam nodded, and it occurred to Merry that their friend had barely said a word since he and Pippin had arrived.  “Sam,” Merry added in a more gentle tone, “is there anything special we can send you?”

Sam started to shake his head again, then grimaced, recognizing Merry’s unspoken request for reassurance.  “No thank you, sir,” he said quietly.  “I’m fine, I am.  Anything’ll do.  Say hullo to Mr. Bilbo for me, will you?”

“Bilbo is resting in his room,” Aragorn contributed carefully.  “Yesterday was … very difficult for him.”

“For us all,” murmured Elrohir.  “As tomorrow will be.  Brother, you should give the little folk a tour of our home.  The kitchens…“ (Pippin perked up), “the gardens…” (Sam looked as though he might reconsider his refusal), “and the Library” (Merry pricked his ears), “…might be of interest.”  The young Elf-lord smiled at their expressions.  But the smile did not reach his eyes as he looked at his foster brother.  “I believe our dear Bilbo put it best, if I may quote him. Imladris ‘is a perfect house, whether you like food or sleep or story-tellling or singing, or just sitting and thinking best, or a pleasant mixture of them all’.*”

Aragorn nodded his understanding of Elrohir’s silent message.  He would seek to distract the young hobbits from their grief.  “A most excellent suggestion, Brother,” he responded.  “Sam, are you sure…?”

“No, but thanks,” the stocky hobbit replied, unbending a little.  “I’ll just stay with Mr. Frodo.  You go on.”

* * * * *

“Oh, that was wonderful,” moaned Pippin, pushing away his plate at last.  The young hobbit sighed happily and rubbed his stomach.  He swayed for a moment on the pile of cushions that Aragorn had secured to raise each of the hobbits up sufficiently to eat comfortably then steadied himself with a grasp on the edge of the table.  “I’ve never tasted anything so good in my life.”

“I’m glad you approve,” Aragorn commented, keeping his face noncommittal.  He had never, he thought privately, had the opportunity to watch these little people eat to their hearts’ content.  Glancing at them from the corner of his eye, he wondered where all that food had gone.  Platters were stacked before them, plates and serving dishes and bowls, all very, very empty.  It was amazing.  In retrospect, he rather regretted not paying more attention to their claims of impending starvation on the short rations he had allowed them between here and Bree.

“That should hold us till second breakfast,” Merry replied with satisfaction.  Aragorn looked at him, aghast.  In a rare mistake, Merry misinterpreted the look.  “We are going to have second breakfast, aren’t we, Aragorn?  You aren’t going to make us go hungry again, are you?”

Aragorn was suddenly aware that he was the focus of disapproving stares from the other tables and serving staff.  All conversation around them had ceased at Merry’s plaintive question.  The hobbits were unaware of the sudden silence, too involved in looking at him worriedly to realize that every other conversation in the immediate area had fallen silent.

“Did I hear it said that you have been making these charming little people go hungry, Estel?” murmured a voice in his ear.  Aragorn winced.  The master cook was a force to be reckoned with, ruling his kitchen with an iron hand.  Much of Imladris lived in fear of his temper.  There were dire consequences if the cook was upset – burned roasts, undercooked vegetables and unpalatable food.  Even Elrond was careful never to incur the wrath of his chef. 

Pippin swiveled around in his seat and regarded the tall Elf with enormous eyes.  “He wouldn’t let us stop to eat at all during the day,” Pippin explained earnestly.  “And when we were allowed to eat, it wasn’t very much.  Maybe just an apple instead of real food.”  The young one sighed, a world of grief on his face.  “We got so very hungry,” he added sorrowfully.

“We were in a hurry,” Aragorn said hastily to the glowering cook and the disapproving diners.  “There was no time –“

The chef drew himself up to his full height and stared down at the Man, who he had watched grow up from a toddler.  “Estel, I am ashamed of you.”  A great hand descended on Pippin’s head and gently patted the bronze curls.  “Little ones,” said the cook, “you are to come to me personally if you desire the least little thing from my kitchens.  Just let me know, and I will see that you receive it.”  The hand moved over to stroke Merry’s bright head. 

“They didn’t go hungry,” Aragorn tried to explain, “not really –“

“And I shall see that a tray of my finest fare is sent to your little friend, who remained with the injured one,” promised the cook, ignoring Aragorn.  The hobbits beamed up at him. 

“Thank you, sir,” Merry and Pippin responded, great smiles brightening their expressions.  They looked utterly angelic, even to Aragorn who knew better.  The cook smiled at them, his stern face lightening in return, before awarding them a half-bow and returning to terrorize his domain.  All around them, Aragorn saw besotted expressions as the other diners regarded his two companions, and censure in their gazes as they turned to him.

“But they really didn’t –“ he tried one last time.

Merry slid off the chair, scattering cushions.  “Are you going to sit there all day, Aragorn?  We want to see Rivendell.”  Sighing at the unfairness of it all, the Ranger rose and followed his chattering charges out of the Hall.

* * * * *

Luckily for Aragorn’s nerves, second breakfast and elevenses were survived without further incident.  If one did not count the astonishing array of delicacies that appeared when the hobbits climbed back up on their piles of cushions.  Dish after dish was set before them and consumed with every indication of enjoyment and appreciation.  Various members of the serving staff appeared at intervals to set another plate before the hobbits, and look hard at the Ranger.  Just wait till they get to know them better, thought Aragorn, glaring at the table with dark expression.  We’ll see a change in those fatuous expressions, then!

But Merry and Pippin seemed determined to be on their best behavior.  Continuing his role as guide the Ranger resumed the tour, showing his audience the working areas of Rivendell; the foundry, the weavers and potters and woodworkers, the many trades and crafts required to feed and furnish and support Elrond’s House.  The hobbits marvelled at the bathhouses, the many grottos and gazebos and places for meditation and reflection.  They visited Bill in the stables and spent some time stroking the pony and feeding him small treats they had saved for him.  The stable master informed them that Asfaloth occupied the next stall but the great stallion was absent, Glorfindel off on some errand.  The hobbits enjoyed every moment of their explorations, leaving in their wake a trail of thoroughly charmed Elves.

“Who are those people?” asked Merry, pointing at a small group of Men who were standing together in tight converse.  The three had paused by the great gates, resting for a few moments and watching the influx of Elves and Men and Dwarves.  This was third group of people the hobbits had seen enter the gates, not looking particularly pleased to be there.  Their curiosity was aroused.  These Men were richly dressed, their hands on the bridles of fine horses.  They were grouped around an old Man, white-haired and white-bearded, fragile with years but wisdom and pride shown from his eyes.  All were paying close attention to his words but one.  That one, a large Man with a full black beard, was staring at them intently in return and without knowing why, the hobbits took a half-step behind the Ranger. 

“They come for Elrond’s Council,” murmured Aragorn.

“What Council?” asked the hobbits.  Pippin struggled to climb up on a crumbling wall and Aragorn picked him up and sat him there, providing Merry a boost up before joining them. 

Aragorn seemed lost in thought.   After a moment, he remarked, “My lord has commented that great events are in motion.  Some of these new arrivals were summoned, some come of their own accord.  They converge upon Imladris for a great purpose.  Men and Elves and Dwarves … representatives of the Free Peoples of Middle-earth.”

“Representatives?” asked Merry, swinging his heels against the time-worn stone.  Beside him, Pippin stared unabashedly at all the strange folk.

“The burden of the Ring belongs to every race, Merry,” the Ranger said solemnly.  “We must decide what to do with it.  These are ambassadors of their folk, here to debate and decide that issue.”

“I don’t care what they do with it,” muttered Pippin, “as long as Frodo gets rid of it, and we can all go home.”  He paused for a moment, then repeated more softly, “All of us.” 

“Let us go check on Frodo,” suggested Aragorn gently in the silence that followed.

* TBC *

* “Many Meetings,” The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien