Chapter Thirteen

“I will sit with the hobbits,” Gandalf said quietly.  He, too, had been staring into Frodo’s still face and Merry saw him reach out the hand not grasping his staff and gently push back a dark curl that had drifted into the closed eyes.  The wizard cupped the side of Frodo’s face for a moment, warming the cold cheek.  Then Gandalf placed that hand on Elrond’s shoulder and squeezed it gently before joining them in the corner.

“Move over, Merry,” Gandalf ordered.  Merry complied, scooting to the side and forcing Pippin to wiggle over to make room for him.  On the wizard’s other side, Sam shifted over a little farther and leaned against the wall while Bilbo claimed the corner between them, bracing his old back against the joining of the walls.  Gandalf glared at the piled cushions for a moment then folded himself down upon them with a grunt.  Merry had half-expected Pippin to clamber over him into Gandalf’s lap again but this time his little cousin stayed at his side, pressing against him, seeking comfort.  Merry slipped an arm around him and discovered that Pippin was trembling.  He buried his nose in his cousin’s curls for a moment, smelling the fragrance of soap and clean hair and life.

Shifting uncomfortably, Gandalf bent his knees and tucked his long legs under himself with a groan, grumbling something about “hobbits” and “hard floor” under his breath.  Sam offered to pull some of the larger, overstuffed cushions-pads off the divans for him, but Gandalf shook his head.  Despite the distraction, Merry noticed that instead of leaning his staff out of the way against the wall, Gandalf casually positioned it on the floor in front of him.  In front of all of them.  Bilbo and Sam did not notice, so intent were they upon the scene before them.  Again, the hobbits were placed too low to see what was actually happening.  Merry ventured out a toe.

“Merry, sit still,” commanded the wizard gruffly.  Merry withdrew the toe to see Gandalf bristling at him. 

Bilbo glanced over at him in annoyance.  “Young people can’t sit still these days,” the elderly hobbit commented.  “Meriadoc, don’t be a bother.”

“Yes, sir,” replied Merry obediently, resolving to test that innocent-looking staff at the first opportunity.  If Gandalf thought to bar Merry from his cousin, he had best think again…

With another glance to assure himself that his assistants were positioned correctly – Arwen by Elladan at Frodo’s head, and Elrohir at the hobbit’s feet – Elrond spent a long moment studying the glittering tray of knives.  He selected one with a long blade and bent over Frodo, out of Merry’s line of sight.  With a sudden, convulsive movement, Merry stood.

“Sit down, Merry,” Gandalf said sternly.  Pippin tugged mutely at his waistcoat.  Merry shook his head, gently disentangling the tweenager’s fingers from the fabric.

“I won’t,” he said clearly.  “I want to see what is happening, and I can’t do that on the floor.”

“Meriadoc Brandybuck,” growled the wizard, “if you don’t sit down -”

“Let him watch.”  Support came unexpectedly from Arwen, and a moment later, in a murmured agreement from Aragorn.  The Elf-maid glanced at her beloved in gratitude, then continued, “We know so little of halflings, Father.  Merry knows his cousin well.  He might be able to tell us if Frodo is in distress before any physical sign.”

Elrond considered for a moment, his dark head tilted to the side.  “Wisely said, my daughter.  Very well, Master Meriadoc – you may observe.  But you will remain where you are.”

“Yes, sir,” Merry agreed, resisting the urge to nudge the staff until no one was looking at him.

Elrond took a half-step closer and bent over the high bed.  Even from his higher vantage point, Merry had to draw himself up to see the blade laid against Frodo’s shoulder, to see the crimson line drawn in the white flesh that opened like a pair of red lips.  With his other hand, Elrond drew those lips together, slowing the bleeding.  The healer moved the bloodied blade aside and Elladan took it from him.  Then slowly, Elrond spread the wound and slipped the fingers of his long hand inside the fresh cut. 

Merry refused to avert his eyes as the skin of Frodo’s left shoulder rose under the pressure of those long fingers, like unbaked dough inflating in the warmth of a sunny windowsill.  This time Elrond came in at a different angle, aiming more downwards.  The long fingers crooked inside of Frodo’s body, searching…  Merry saw Frodo shudder, saw the dark head turn towards him slightly, eyes still shut but pain was visible there in the line between his brows and the tensing of his face.  The silent plea for rescue that Merry fancied he saw there almost sent him forward, but he caught himself.  He’s unconscious, Merry reminded himself.  He doesn’t feel it.  Frodo gasped, his dark brows quirking.  Oh please, please, don’t let him feel it…

For a long time, Elrond stood over the small figure with his hand moving slowly, ever so slowly inside of Frodo’s body.  Merry saw that the Elf-lord would close his eyes, then after a long moment move his fingers an infinitesimal measure forward, then search from side to side.  Merry understood that this method of probing would cause the least amount of additional damage.  Was the Elf-lord somehow searching with his mind as well as his fingers?  Elrond’s face was beaded with perspiration, his elegant high-browed face rigid with concentration.  Even his breathing was controlled, but he inhaled and exhaled as if it were an effort.  Beside him, Elladan was silent, totally focused on anticipating his father’s need for any instrument without hesitation.  Arwen kept her eyes on Frodo’s face, monitoring his breathing and the pulse-point in his throat, but she would raise them now and then and use her free hand to catch up a dampened cloth and gently blot the perspiration from Elrond’s brow, careful never to let her hand or the cloth interfere with her father’s line of sight. 

Elrohir, at Frodo’s feet, kept his hands resting firmly on the hobbit’s ankles, intent on his father’s work.  He too was ready in case he was needed, but not so closely involved in the surgery.  Now and then his clear gaze would lift to the hobbits, to Gandalf, or to the slow darkening of the afternoon outside.  The rain had stopped and the pale sun shone weakly.  Elrohir would regard his father with concern when Elrond would periodically straighten and stretch his long back, a grimace of pain looking most out-of-place on his serene face.  It was only by this periodic interruption of the work did Merry truly register how much time was passing.  With no results.

At last Elrond straightened again and withdrew his hand.  Crimson droplets dripped from it for a moment before Arwen caught it in a linen, wiping the long fingers carefully.  “I cannot find it,” the Elf-lord murmured, fatigue evident in his voice.  “I cannot find it.”

Elrohir and Elladan released their hold and sought seats, as did Elrond.  Arwen stayed at her post, slender hands and eyes watchful on Frodo’s body.  Elrond sank into the nearest chair as if his legs would not support him.  He raised a shaking hand to accept the goblet of wine that Aragorn pressed upon him. 

Aragorn washed the healer’s bloodied hand while Elrond drank, tipping back the goblet to drain the last dregs.  When Aragorn would have refilled it, the Elf-lord shook his head.  “No more,” he murmured to the Ranger softly.  “Let me rest for a few moments.”

“What’s happening?”  Sam could restrain himself no longer, his round face wan and his grey eyes tear filled.  He scrubbed at them with a shirtsleeve, his hand shaking.  “Lord Elrond, please - what’s happening?”

“The shard has traveled almost to his heart,” Elrond said slowly.  “It has moved more in these last few hours than in all the days the hobbit bore it hence.  How can this be?”

Gandalf rose stiffly, levering himself to his feet with an audible popping of joints. He stepped over his staff and walked laboriously to Frodo’s bedside.  Laying a wrinkled hand on the pale chest, his brow furrowed as he noted the almost imperceptible rise and fall of breath.  Merry edged sideways behind the staff, bringing Gandalf back into his view.  Had it been his imagination or had the staff quivered, just a little, when he had moved to follow the wizard’s actions?

For long moments Gandalf gazed down at the still face of his young friend.  “It is the Ring,” the wizard said softly.  Elrond’s head jerked up, startled and horrified. The others in the room gasped.  “It calls all evil things to it,” Gandalf continued, realization dawning on his own face.  “When we put it around Frodo’s throat, it gave him the strength to live through the night.  But it also accelerated the movement of the splinter of that cursed blade.  It summoned it, called it … drew it to itself.   

“We’ve killed him,” Gandalf whispered.  “I’ve killed him.”

“Such a thing is not possible,” argued Elrond, some color returning to his face.  Arwen and her brothers looked anxiously between them.  “The Rings of Power do not –“

“The Rings of Power made by the Elves do not,” Gandalf cut him off bitterly.  “This is the One Ring.  It answers only to its master.  It has a will of its own, do not forget.”  Gandalf frowned, struggling to articulate what he was just beginning to comprehend.  “Frodo holds to life by a thread.  Whether the Ring understands this we cannot know, but its master’s purpose would be served by the Ring-bearer’s death.  Nothing we could do would prevent Frodo’s wraith from bringing it to him.”

No sooner had Gandalf uttered these words than a great cloud passed before the westering sun, and the room was plunged into darkness.  A cold wind whipped in through the glassless windows, a moaning snarling rush of air that chilled the weary occupants.  The lamps guttered and went out.  As one, the hobbits cried out in startlement and fear.  Sam shot to his feet and looked wildly about.  Pippin pressed close to Merry, frightened eyes searching the dark corners of the room.  Merry leaned down to put a hand on his shoulder reassuringly, but he too felt danger and threat in the suddenly freezing room.   Unnoticed by all but Merry, the staff swung on the floor, then went still when they did not attempt to cross it.  

“Close the shutters!  Draw the drapes!” shouted Elrond, springing to his feet.  With elven speed, the two sons of Elrond dashed to the windows and shuttered them and drew across the great curtains.  “Arwen, Estel,” continued Elrond in a calmer voice, “Relight the lamps – now!  Then bring you many lamps into this room – all you can quickly find.  Candles, too.  Set them everywhere.  There must not be a single shadow here.”

“What is it, Elrond?”  Bilbo voice quivered with exhaustion, but rang with courage.

“Mithrandir has discerned the Enemy’s purpose, Bilbo,” Elrond replied.  He dipped his hands into the basin, washing his hands quickly in the greenish liquid, his expression remote and grim.  “The Dark Lord knows we understand now.  He will bring all of his strength against us.”

“What do you mean?” cried Merry.  Arwen returned, her arms filled with lamps.  Elladan and Elrohir helped her to set them about the room and light them.  Merry and the others leaped to lend a hand and suddenly the staff hovered before their noses, swinging in mid-air slightly as it barred their advance.  Sam sucked in his breath and Pippin yelped in shock.  “Gandalf!” cried Merry, as the gnarled piece of wood oriented on him.  “Gandalf!”

The wizard glanced up from Frodo’s face and made an annoyed, chopping gesture in one hand.  The staff quivered then gently drifted down to resume its former position on the floor.  Not willing to step over it, the hobbits edged around its ends and past it.  Sam hurried to stir up the fire, adding a fresh log.  Merry fell to his knees beside him and lit a taper, handing it to Pippin.  The tweenager pivoted and with trembling hands, used it to kindle the candles.  Merry lit a taper for himself and dashed to the candles on the other side of the room.  The twins attended to the wall sconces, too high for the hobbits’ reach. Then Aragorn returned, a great tray between his hands upon which he had crowded every oil lamp and light he could lay his hands on.  Quickly the hobbits moved to assist him.

“Hurry!  Hurry, Mithrandir!”  Elrond shook the pungent liquid from his hands while Gandalf moved to Frodo’s head, taking Elladan’s place, his strong hands holding the bare shoulders down. 

“The Ring is calling the splinter to Frodo’s heart, young hobbit,” Elrond said to Merry, his gaze sweeping to all of the hobbits as he belatedly answered his question.  His hand hovered over the tray of knives.  “As it lay behind and beneath his body, it was pulling the splinter towards itself.  Pulling it towards his heart, which lay between them.  Seeking to impale it.”

“Now we have discerned its purpose,” Gandalf continued.  “The Enemy is too far away to stop us overtly, but his arm is long.  He can still command his possession.  We must find and remove the splinter before he can turn his Eye upon it.”

Elrohir and Arwen had finished the lamps, and every corner of the room glowed with light.  Most of the lights had been grouped around Frodo, outlining him in brilliance.  Merry had to squint his eyes to see past them, and that brought home to him how dark it had become outside. 

“Watch the lamps and candles, little masters,” Elrond ordered.  “See that they do not go out – or set my House ablaze.”  He laid his hand gently on Frodo’s face, then glanced into Gandalf’s eyes.  “Be alert,” he said to the wizard.  “There is no more time for careful seeking.  Hold him down!”

Elrond took up one of the thin-bladed knives and laid it past the slashed flesh where his fingers had sought without success.  He hesitated then, staring down at the pale skin, the blade wavering.  Then his mouth firmed into a thin line and he pushed the blade down.  Frodo screamed, suddenly, shockingly.  His entire body arced and had not Gandalf and Elrohir been holding him down, he would have bucked himself off the bed.  His eyes flew open, white-rimmed, staring, but there was no intelligence there.  Only pain.  Only unspeakable agony. 

Merry thought he would faint.  Pippin echoed his cousin’s cry, clapping his hands over his ears, falling into a crumpled heap upon the floor.  Bilbo looked scarcely less faint than Merry but the old hobbit tried to rub Pippin’s back, murmuring comforting nonsense.  Arwen went swiftly to them and sank down beside Pippin, gathering him into her lap.  Bilbo looked at her gratefully as Pippin clung to her and sobbed, burying his face against her bosom. 

Merry dragged his eyes back to Frodo.  How had the white linens turned red so quickly?  He had only looked away for the barest moment.  There was so much blood.  Elrond had cast aside the knife and both his hands were now on Frodo’s chest.  The Elf-lord bent over him, no longer able to afford the luxury of caution.  His long hands tensed and probed, and Frodo screamed again.  Merry clenched his hands into his crossed arms to keep from throwing himself at the Elf-lord and tearing him away from Frodo.  He must not interfere.  He felt as if his heart was going to rip itself from his chest.  The pressure was agonizing.  Merry dug his hands deeper into his own arms, not noticing the half-moons of blood that rose under his fingernails to stain his shirt. 

Another blast of unnatural, icy wind slammed against the shutters, shrieking through the slats and tearing at them with the ferocity of a wild beast.  Two were torn from their hinges.  The drapes were ripped from their poles and flew across the room.  Aragorn leaped before they could entwine themselves around Elrond, around Frodo, pulling them aside.  One snapped at his face, striking at his eyes like a snake.  Aragorn turned his face away and tightened his hold, seeking to wind them across his forearm while they fought him like a thing alive.  The drapes writhed and slid out of his reach, wrapping their length around his throat.

Elladan rushed to his aid, entwining his hands in the strangling cloth and seeking to pull it away from his foster brother’s throat.  Aragorn, choking, managed to force his hand between the cloth and his throat and won a breath.  Elrohir called something, but none could make out his words over the shrieking of the wind.  As he fought to relight the lamps, Merry saw in horror that the wooden bar holding the great balcony doors shut was bending.  The force of the freezing wind was going to splinter the bar, and before he could warn the others, it did.

Gandalf’s head swung towards the doors as the bar groaned and snapped.  Raising one hand from Frodo’s shoulder, he gestured towards the balcony and shouted a single word.  From the floor, his staff leaped into the air and sped towards the doors, wedging itself across the shutters just as the bar broke and dropped to the floor in two pieces.

“Keep the lamps lit!” shouted Gandalf.  He and Elrond were bent over Frodo and Merry could not see past them.  Sam tried to comply, catching up a flaming stick from the fire.  Merry struggled to assist him, lifting each glass for Sam and re-fitting it to quicken their task.   The room was so cold that his fingers fumbled with the glass chimneys and he dropped one.  It shattered on the hard floor.   Bilbo motioned for the two younger hobbits to continue their task, carefully gathering up the razor-edged shards and splinters himself and wrapping them in his handkerchief.  The wind rose again, throwing itself against the slats, and Gandalf’s staff creaked.  The wizard shuddered, his face paling with pain.   Pippin fought to rise but Arwen kept him down, her arms locked about him, whispering in his ear.  Gandalf suddenly closed his eyes, his bearded face strained.  “Hurry, Elrond!  The Eye is turning towards us!”

* TBC *