Chapter Nine

Aragorn shot to his feet, sleep-mazed, but years of perilous living brought him to abrupt, instant alertness.  The blanket he had laid over his knees treacherously tangled around his legs and his leap towards Frodo’s bed sent him crashing to the floor, the back of his head impacting the polished wood with excruciating force.  Stunned, the Ranger rolled over and tried to drag himself to his feet, knotting his hands in the bedcovers to pull himself up.  Peripherally he was aware that Sam and Merry were struggling to their feet.  Pippin continued shrieking, wordless now but desperate.

Aragorn got up on his knees and managed to drag himself up and over Pippin, bodily pushing the hysterical tweenager aside.  Pippin stilled his screams, sliding up against the headboard, twisting agilely to catch the carved frame with both hands to remain on the bed.  His head spinning and gaze blurring from the blow, the Ranger dragged himself to Frodo and put a hand over the hobbit’s mouth, praying to feel a rush of warm air.

Nothing.  He felt nothing.  There was no rise of the bandaged chest.  Frodo wasn’t breathing.

“How long?” Aragorn shouted at Pippin.  “Pippin!  How long since he stopped breathing?”

The tweenager stared at him, tears streaming down his sharp face.  With a visible effort, he gulped and forced control on himself.  “Not – not long!  Just a moment ago!  I called to you the moment it happened!”

Merry and Sam had untangled themselves and Aragorn felt the bed quiver as they rushed to the left side and stared over it at the unconscious hobbit.  Frodo’s face held no color at all and his lips were blue.  The man registered that he no longer was sweating heavily; perspiration glimmered on his skin but it was drying rapidly.  Elrond’s grim instructions echoed in his ears and his thoughts flew to the knife at his belt.  Could he bring himself to do this thing?  “He must not die with that evil thing in him,” the Master of Rivendell had ordered.  “That cannot be allowed.  If he succumbs and we cannot revive him, you must cut his throat before his heart stops beating.”

His knife was in his hand.  Aragorn did not remember drawing it.  Though his soul cringed from the act, he knew the consequences of forgoing this mercy.  He could not condemn Frodo to such a fate and never could he be responsible for loosing another wraith upon the world.  A wraith that would take the Ring to the Enemy.  They could not prevent it from doing so.  Middle-earth would be lost and darkness would roll over the world like a wave…  Forcing his mind almost blank, he raised the knife.

Sam wailed, a sound that Aragorn would not have believed could come from a hobbit’s throat.  It was hoarse and primal, the sound of grief beyond words.  It diverted him from what he had been about to do.  Before he could act, Pippin threw himself over Frodo’s still form, acting as a shield, locking his arms around Frodo’s chest and burying his head into his kin’s throat.  The tweenager’s body effectively sheltered his cousin; Aragorn could not strike without killing Pippin, too.  In a flash, Merry seized upon his distraction to latch onto Aragorn’s arm, trying to drag him sideways. The young hobbit’s action struck the last of the indecision from the Ranger’s mind.  In one fluid movement he shook off Merry, sheathed the knife and reaching down, pulled Pippin up and thrust him into Merry’s arms.  Then he pulled the dying hobbit up with one hand and with the other, struck him brutally across the face.

Sam cried out again, and this time Merry and Pippin both echoed his scream.  Frodo’s head snapped back on his neck and then fell forward, throwing his dark hair into his face.  Aragorn raised his hand for another blow, but three small bodies launched themselves across the bed and into him, knocking him back and away from Frodo.  Shrieking incoherently in their rage, their combined weight drove him to the floor as small fists pummeled him mercilessly and hairy feet kicked at him.

“Stop this!”  Elrond’s voice, battle-trained and resolute, cut through the hobbits’ furious screams like a hot knife through butter.  The combatants froze; Sam, Merry and Pippin still pinning Aragorn to the floor.  Sam and Merry each had an arm and Pippin had wrapped himself around Aragorn’s knees, holding on with every ounce of strength in him.  The Master of Rivendell took in this tableau in a glance, then he was striding past them, his heavy robes trailing behind.  Long hands sought Frodo’s face, his chest, then the Elf-lord was leaning down, his back hiding the unconscious hobbit from those watching.

Merry and Sam rolled off Aragorn, leaving the man breathless and stunned by the fierce attack.  The two hobbits stumbled to their feet and rushed to the Elf-lord’s side.  Pippin remained locked around Aragorn’s knees, his eyes squinched shut and silent tears continuing to pour down his cheeks.  Aragorn got his elbows under him and pushed himself into a seated position, then reached down and carefully stroked the young hobbit’s face.  “Pippin,” he whispered, “it is all right now.  Elrond’s here.  Pippin, you can let go.”

Pippin gave no sign of hearing him.  His grip remained taut around the Ranger’s knees with such force that Aragorn feared he would injure the tweenager if he tried to remove him.  Then there was movement at his side and the scent of roses and lavender, and Arwen was kneeling at his side, murmuring to Pippin in Elvish.  The hobbit resisted for a moment, then relaxed suddenly and Arwen pulled him close to cradle him against her bosom.

Aragorn steadied himself with a hand on her shoulder and she spared him a glance, sorrow and fear in her shining eyes.  Pippin sobbed against her and the Ranger rubbed his back for a moment, then gathered his courage and rose to join Elrond and the adult hobbits at Frodo’s bedside.  Dreading what he might see, he looked first into his foster father’s face.  The Elf-lord’s features were composed and controlled, but in his dark eyes were compassion and regret.

With his view no longer blocked, Aragorn could see that Frodo’s chest rose and fell in a regular, if slow, rhythm.  Elrond pushed the hair out the pale face and looked at his foster son.  “You struck him to shock him into breathing?”

The Ranger nodded, hardly daring to believe that his desperate blow had worked.  “His breathing failed while we slept.  Had not Pippin been watching and alerted me…”

“Ah,” murmured Elrond.  He glanced behind him to where Arwen sat gracefully on the floor, holding Pippin close and rocking him slowly to and fro.  Pippin continued to sob, eyes still shut, overcome at last by the terror and stresses he had buried for the last fortnight.  His gaze traveled to Sam and Merry, who were watching him tensely.  Merry’s face was white and set, tearless and strained, but it was Sam’s expression that grieved the Elf-lord’s heart.  The hobbit looked as if it was his own death that had almost come and that he would have preferred it be so.  He wept as freely as Pippin but seemed entirely unaware of the stream of tears that flowed over the rounded mounds of his cheeks.

“You did well,” Elrond said softly.  Carefully he felt along the sides of Frodo’s neck, then turned the dark head side to side, testing for injury.  The pale cheekwas already darkening into a bruise.  Bright spots of red were appearing on the linen bandage over the hobbit’s left shoulder and the elven healer’s long fingertips touched them lightly.  “The wound has reopened slightly but that is a small price to pay.  Had you not acted so quickly, my son, we would have lost him.”  Elrond raised those ageless eyes and in them Aragorn saw knowledge of the choice he had faced.  His hand slid to his sheathed knife and he knew that Elrond saw that, too.

“You did well,” Elrond repeated.  Frodo sighed and as one, they all leaned anxiously over him.  His heavy eyelashes fluttered, then relaxed and his face settled back into quiet.

Sam tore his gaze from Frodo and stared at his clenched hands, then forced them up to meet the Ranger’s.  “I’m sorry, sir,” the stocky hobbit said quietly.  “I didn’t know what you were doing.  First there was a knife in your hand, and then…then I jus’ saw you hit him.  I thought … I thought…” Sam trailed off, swallowing audibly as red flooded his cheeks,  “I didn't understand.  I’m sorry.”

“Think nothing of it, Sam,” Aragorn responded.  “I am grateful that you are so quick to defend your master.”  He smiled at the flustered hobbit and rolled a shoulder tentatively.  “Done some wrestling, have you?”

Sam’s flush deepened.  “Yes, sir.  That I have.  Sorry, sir.”  He scrubbed at his face, rubbing off the tears that dripped down his cheeks.

Aragorn shook his head but his reply was forestalled by Merry.  “I also owe you an apology, Aragorn.”  Meriadoc stood very straight, and in his bearing Aragorn could see the future Master of Buckland.  “I too misinterpreted your actions, and … and I am sorry.”

Aragorn smiled at the hobbit, though he was beginning to feel a well-placed kick that he suspected was Merry’s work.  “Apology accepted,” he returned quietly, returning the hobbit’s formal half-bow.  Arwen joined them then, with Pippin at her side.  The young hobbit’s face was blotched from weeping and he was visibly trembling but he was no longer hysterical.  Merry held out his arms and Pippin gently detached himself from Arwen and rushed into them, hugging his cousin tightly.  Merry smiled over his head at Arwen and she returned it, her eyes echoing the smile.

Elrond had been carefully peeling back the bandage and wiping away the leaking droplets.  The thin brown crust over the wound was beaded with bubbling globules of scarlet and the pale flesh around it was terrifyingly cold.  Frodo’s face tightened at the Elf-lord’s ministrations, one of the few indications of pain he had evidenced.  Sam leaned forward and raised himself up on his toes, his hands braced against the edge of high bed.  “Mr. Frodo?” he whispered.  “Master, can you hear me?”

Almost it seemed that Frodo did.  His expressive brows quirked and a small line appeared on his forehead.  But the encouraging sign was brief.  His face relaxed and he was gone from them again.  Sam sighed and closed his eyes, hearing his master’s cousins echo his exhalation mournfully.

Elrond affixed a fresh bandage and pulled the covers up to keep the wounded hobbit warm.  “He needs to rest now, little masters.  It would be better if you were to retire to your own rooms and let Aragorn and myself keep watch over him.  Daughter, will you walk with the hobbits to their rooms?”

“No!” said Pippin, then blushed when the Elf-lord’s somber gaze regarded him.  “I mean … I mean, we don’t want to leave him.”

“Nevertheless, young hobbit,” Elrond replied in such tones that they dared not disobey him, “it would be for Frodo’s good that you leave for a little while.  You also, Master Samwise.  Return when it is time for tea, if you will.”

Sam looked rebellious, but Merry nodded.  “Yes, my lord.  At tea time.”  With one hand tight on Pippin’s arm, he nudged Sam towards the door.  Arwen glanced back and met Aragorn’s eyes before following them out, and the Ranger felt his heart trail after her graceful form.

Elrond tilted his head, evidently tracking the sound of retreating footsteps down the hallway.  When he judged them out of easy hearing-distance, he turned to the Ranger, who had been waiting for his attention.  “You have examined him?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I have not had the chance to conduct more than a cursory examination.  I was waiting for them all to fall asleep … and fell asleep myself, I fear.  It is most fortunate that young Pippin stayed awake to keep watch over his cousin.”  The man smiled, a hint of laughter in his blue-grey eyes.  “That youngster promised he wouldn’t fall asleep, but I did not believe him.”

An answering hint of laughter sparked in Elrond’s eyes as he bent over Frodo again.  As Aragorn watched, it faded as the Elf-lord’s gentle hands moved over the hobbit.  “He is weaker,” Elrond murmured.  “You have saved his life for the present but it cost him strength.  I fear -” Elrond broke off and raised his head.  Concentrating, Aragorn could just hear the quick boot-falls hurrying towards the room.  They both turned as Gandalf burst through the door.

“Is he all right?  How is he?”  The wizard almost ran over to the bedside, his lined face blanched with fear. 

“He lives,” Elrond reassured his old friend.  “Most remarkable creatures, these halflings.”

Gandalf sighed and ran his hand through his bristling beard, then dropped into the chair at Frodo’s head.  “I saw Arwen in the corridor.  She said -”

“He is very weak, Mithrandir,” Elrond interrupted uncharacteristically, his face bleak.  “I fear he will die before the sun rises.”

Aragorn saw anguish in the wizard’s eyes, before Gandalf clamped down on it and shuttled away his grief.  His hands tightened on the staff then relaxed deliberately.  “Elrond,” the wizard whispered, “I drove him to do this.  To take the Ring and run.  Had I trusted myself, I could have taken it and never exposed him to this.  He offered it to me freely.”  The wizard closed his eyes.  “He said to me, ‘I am not made for perilous quests...’   I did this to him, Elrond.”

“You did not drive that Morgul-blade into his body, Mithrandir,” Elrond replied, a storm gathering on the high brow.  “You did not hunt him and chase him and drive him before you without rest –“

“But I caused it to be done.” Gandalf’s eyes snapped open, and Aragorn was appalled at the rage and regret that burned there.  “I was careful not to tell him too much, for fear that his courage would fail.  I mentioned only briefly the Ringwraiths, and did not truly explain what they were.  What they could do.  I feared that his courage would fail, when his has been the only one that has not –“

“Gentlemen,” Aragorn intervened, fearful of their rising voices distressing Frodo.  “This accomplishes nothing.”  Both paused as if remembering where they were, then Gandalf sighed and leaned back in the chair.  Elrond seated himself at Frodo’s bedside and laid a gentle hand on the hobbit’s chest, feeling the shallow draw and flow of breath.  When neither spoke, Aragorn persisted, “Father, you have studied the lore of the Enemy’s Ring for centuries.  As have you, Gandalf.  After the traitor Saruman, you are the most knowledgeable of its history and properties.  Is there nothing that can be done?”

There was a long silence in that quiet room.  Then softly, Elrond said, “He must wear it.”

“No!” exploded Gandalf, so loudly that Elrond winced.  “I will not permit it!  He has resisted its lure for seventeen years – you will not place it against his flesh!  To wear it day and night, touching him constantly – never apart from him – no!  You might as well tear out his soul and hand it to the Dark Lord now –“

“If we do not,” Elrond rode over the wizard, “then he will die!  This night!  The Ring will tighten its hold upon him, yes, but it will lend him strength enough to survive the night, until we can make another attempt to locate the shard and rid him of it.”

“And bind him to itself!  Its foul touch would drag him into darkness!”

“But slowly,” Elrond murmured.  “We have all seen the hobbit’s strength.  I think it would labor long before it could corrupt Master Baggins.  And in the meantime, it would preserve his life.”  He turned to Aragorn, who had watched silently.  “Estel, go you to my study and bring me the silver chain you will find in the top left drawer of my desk.”  Aragorn bowed and complied, keeping silent his own misgivings.

“A chain,” Gandalf groaned bitterly.  “How appropriate.  You do know that once he bears it against him, he will grow to need its touch?”

The Elf-lord nodded sorrowfully.  “Yes.  But it will take time to ensnare his soul.  I seek only to keep him alive.  When he is well enough to attend it, my Council will decide what is to be done with the Ring.  It will hurt him to give it up, but he will be strong enough to pass it into the chosen guardian’s hands.”

Gandalf shook his head but did not argue further.  The Master of Rivendell and the wizard sat in the quiet room and pondered their fears and hopes, and outside the clear waterfalls made music to rival the singing birds.  Aragorn returned quickly and in his calloused hands dangled a necklace, a chain of linked silver that glittered in the late afternoon sun.

While Gandalf supported Frodo with one hand and held aside his dark hair with the other, Elrond carefully folded another bandage and used it to reach under the hobbit’s pillow and extract the Ring.  Trying to look at it as little as possible and never touching it, the Elf-lord strung the silver chain through it and very carefully, fastened the chain around Frodo’s throat then lay him back on the pillows.  Though no hand touched it, the Ring quivered for a moment against the pale chest, then stilled.

“Oh, Frodo,” whispered Gandalf brokenly.  “Forgive me.  Forgive me.”

* TBC *