Chapter Fourteen

Merry rocked on his feet, torn between aiding Aragorn and Elladan, helping Sam rekindle the blown-out lamps, assisting Bilbo in gathering up the broken glass before someone was hurt, protecting Pippin as he huddled on the floor, or staying with his wounded cousin.  Another breathless cry from Aragorn decided him.  The Ranger was on his back now, thrashing from side to side, tearing at the strangling draperies.  Elladan hovered over him, trying to drag the ensorcelled curtains from around his throat.  Then the trailing end reared back and lashed the Elf across the eyes.  Elladan cried out and fell backwards, clawing at his face, momentarily blinded.

That decided him.  Merry flung himself to Aragorn’s side and snatched his sharp belt-knife from its sheath.  The Ranger’s face was grey and his lips almost blue.  The fabric was wound so tightly around his throat that it was pressed deep into the tanned flesh.  His widened eyes met Merry’s weakly, then fluttered closed and his struggling hands went limp.

Aragorn had no time for Merry to be careful.  The hobbit threw himself onto the Ranger’s torso and slashed at the thick fabric.  He could not gain enough leeway to slide his dagger under it.  Praying he did not cut Aragorn’s throat, Merry sawed at the writhing cloth, watching as it parted under his sharp blade.  Then something wrapped itself around his neck and jerked him backwards.  Merry stabbed desperately over his shoulder and felt his knife slide uselessly through cloth.  The draperies had perhaps expected more resistance than the light hobbit, for Merry flew backwards and the trailing end that had lashed Elladan loosened from his throat.  In a flash, Merry ducked under the noose and rolled to the side just in time to see it clamp shut on empty air.

The length rose into the air and swayed before him like a snake before its prey.  Merry wove before it in a knife-fighter’s stance, crouching, knife raised, unsure of how to attack the thing.  Then something small and compact flung itself on the thing’s back with a shriek of pure rage that froze Merry’s heart.  Pippin pinned the snake-thing to the floor with his body and knotted his hands around its end, rolling onto his back with his legs extended while the thing rippled and twisted in fury.  In a flash, Merry understood.  He leaped forward and slashed across the length Pippin stretched out for him.  The fabric parted with a ripping sound almost like a scream and fell limply on top of Pippin in two pieces.

Merry left the pieces to Pippin and dashed back to the Ranger.  The opposite end had loosened about Aragorn’s throat as if the mind directing it had been distracted.  Aragorn’s eyes had opened and he was pulling frantically at the strangling cloth.  His bulging eyes met the hobbit’s then he was arching his head back, digging his fingers in deep to pull the fabric back as far as he could.  Merry slashed downward, wincing as he left a red score along the Man’s skin in his haste.

The sliced curtains fell away.  Aragorn inhaled explosively and began coughing in great tearing rasps.  Merry crouched by the Ranger’s side, knife ready, his eyes never leaving the quivering fabric.  It jolted and convulsed, twisting in upon itself like a dying thing.  A moment later he felt Pippin press against his side, trembling violently.  Tears streaming from his half-closed eyes, Elladan crawled over to them and all four crowded together, fighting to regain their breath.  The slashed remnants of the draperies shuddered once more and were still.

Arwen knelt at her beloved’s side, pressing the dampened cloth against the short slice the knife had made.  Merry’s knife was so sharp that it had cut cleanly and there was little blood.  Aragorn looked up at her and caught her hand, kissing her fingers as she rose to return to her station. 

Panting, Merry pushed himself up on his arms.  The room was still freezing cold and he could see puffs of air before him as he gasped.  The bitter, unnatural cold streaming in through the slats seemed almost to help; it focused their need and kept their minds on the task at hand.  Sam was struggling with the lamps, casting them anxious glances between trimming the wicks and relighting those that had been extinguished, and Merry nodded jerkily to let him know they were unharmed.

“All right there, lads?” came Bilbo’s soft voice.  Merry had not heard him approach.  Looking up, he saw that the old hobbit had collected every piece of the enchanted draperies, and as he watched, Bilbo bent painfully down and gathered up the remaining pieces of the one that had nearly finished Aragorn.  The old hobbit rested a shaking hand on Merry’s head for a moment then moved it over to caressed Pippin’s face.  “Well done, brave hearts,” he whispered to them.  With a nod to them all, he returned to his cushion in the corner of the room and began using a piece of glass from the broken lamp to methodically shred the cloth into little strips.

“Merry, Pippin,” Aragorn choked, running his hand across his mouth.  He shifted onto his knees before them, looking into their eyes.  “My friends…  You saved my life.  Thank you.”  Merry nodded in reply but Pippin flung his arms around the Man and hugged him.  Aragorn hugged the tweenager back, his eyes closing for a moment as he buried his face in Pippin’s hair.  Beside him, Elladan swiped at his burning eyes a final time and rose to his feet, holding out a hand to help his foster brother up.  Pippin leaned against Merry’s legs, too drained for the moment to stand.  Aragorn swayed for a moment, then clapped Merry on the shoulder before returning to Elrond’s side. 

Gandalf still stood at his cousin’s head as Elrohir did at his feet, holding Frodo down.  On the opposite side, Elrond leaned over his cousin.  “Arwen, more light.”  Elrond sounded calm but Merry heard tension and weariness straining the Elf-lord’s normally melodious voice.  The healer did not glance up when Arwen moved to obey.  Aragorn rubbed at his throat where he had almost been garroted and coughed painfully.  Elladan pressed his arm and followed his sister. 

Arwen picked up one of the lamps that Sam had re-lit and held it carefully over her father’s shoulder.  Outside the circle of light that encompassed Frodo, it seemed so very dark.  The many lamps blazed radiantly under Sam’s watchful eye, but even so, Merry thought, the room seemed cheerless and dark.  So very dark.  And freezing.  The icy, howling winds redoubled their efforts, battering at the barred shutters until Merry feared that Gandalf’s staff would shatter as had the bar that held them shut.  What might happen then he feared to think.

“Deeper … it must be deeper…  Yes, hold the lamp up higher, my daughter.  More to the right.”  Frodo was writhing on the bed, his dark head lashing from side to side.  He was breathing hoarsely, gasping as if he could not gather enough air into his lungs.  Gandalf released one shoulder to catch Frodo’s flailing right hand, forcing it to stillness against his side.  The left never moved nor evidenced any sign that it was part of a living body.  At Frodo’s feet, Elrohir pressed down more firmly on the trembling ankles.

“Stay with us, Frodo,” Gandalf muttered.  Frodo’s eyes opened and stared up at the wizard hovering over him, but Merry knew his cousin did not see his friend.  What those brilliant eyes did see, lost in pain and delirium, Merry could not bear to imagine.  Frodo arched his back, his face contorting.  “Stay with us!” the wizard ordered in such a commanding voice that Merry shivered. 

“No … we are losing him.”  Elrond’s soft whisper resounded through the quiet room like a shout.  Beside him, Aragorn murmured something into the Elf-lord’s ear that Merry could not catch.  Elrond shook his head, blood leaving red trails on Frodo’s skin as it dripped from his long hands.  The red trails ran from Frodo’s pale chest in rivulets, pooling on the already stained linens beneath him.  “Not yet,” the healer replied.  “Not until there is no other choice.”

“Merry?  Merry, what’s happening?”  Pippin started to climb to his feet but Merry caught him, pushing him towards Bilbo before he could see the blood.

“Sam, will you take Pippin to Bilbo, please?” Merry murmured.  Sam caught the tweenager’s arm and kept him from turning around.   In Sam’s eyes Merry saw that he too knew what Aragorn had whispered.  But the gardener said nothing, only guiding a confused Pippin over to their eldest cousin, who quickly tugged the lad down beside him.  Bilbo began whispering in Pippin’s ear, holding both of his hands in his own as Pippin paled.  Sam dropped next to them and stared at his clenched fists, his face pallid as tears gathered in his eyes and began to drip down his cheeks.

Merry remained standing.  He did not think he could move, not if all the ensorcelled draperies in the world were to throw themselves at him.  He must not move.  He must not go to Frodo’s aid.  He must let them do what they must to save Frodo.  If not his life, then his soul.  He could not comprehend his gentle, laughing cousin as a wraith.  One of those monsters that had come at them on Weathertop – no, it was impossible.  He would drive the knife into his cousin’s heart himself rather than permit that.  Unbidden and unnoticed, a soft keen of grief burst from his lips.

Frodo was struggling more violently now.  Gandalf tightened his hold on the thrashing hobbit, then twisted his head over his shoulder towards the corner.  “Bilbo!  Call him, Bilbo!”

Bilbo stumbled to his feet and tottered over, almost unable to keep his legs under him.  Bereft of his elderly cousin, Pippin scrambled over to Sam, who hugged him.  Pippin began to weep, such anguish on his face as to tear the heart.  Sam wept silently, his eyes never leaving the tall figures before him.  His tears ran over his rounded cheeks and dampened Pippin’s hair as the tweenager ducked his head into Sam’s chest and sobbed.  Merry almost went to them, but he could not give up his knowledge of what was happening.  Bilbo caught Frodo’s right hand from Gandalf and clasped it to his breast, shielded in both of his.   “Come on, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo called in his ear.  Frodo’s head lashed towards him, but Merry could not tell if it was in response to the old hobbit’s words or simply in pain.  “You stay with me, Frodo Baggins.  Do you hear me, young hobbit?  Stay with me!”

Frodo threw his head back, mouth opening, and his chest expanded in a great gulp of air.  “He is fighting,” Elrond murmured.  “Such courage!  Talk to him, Bilbo.  Let him hear your voice.”  The old hobbit leaned closer and dimly Merry registered that he was beginning to tell Frodo some disjointed tale of Shire summers and picnics on the banks of the Brandywine.  He wept as he did so, but his quavering old voice remained clear and determined.

Elrond forced his hand in and down brutally.  Merry shuddered, his knees weak, and Bilbo closed his eyes and averted his face, unable to watch.  But his comforting voice continued without pause.  “Then you ran down to the river’s banks, Frodo-lad…” 

Merry saw the healer tense and his face twist in agony.  Perspiration gleamed on the high forehead.  “Aaahhh!” Elrond cried, anguish in his voice.  Then his hand was coming up, dripping with Frodo’s blood, and throwing something dark and tiny into the small metal bowl that Elladan shoved under his father’s hand.  The younger Elf snapped on a metal lid and twisted it, locking it down.  It was out! The shard was out!

Immediately the howling outside the shutters ceased and the icy coldness of the room dissipated.  Merry imagined he heard screams of rage and defeat carried on the air as a furious blast of wind rushed up the valley.  The abrupt stillness was eerie and the rasping breaths of those present were suddenly loud in his ears.  Elrond staggered back, holding his wrist with his other hand.  Elladan carefully set the metal bowl onto the table and caught him, easing his father down upon a divan.  Elrohir released Frodo’s ankles and knelt at his father’s side, catching up a towel to wipe the bloodied hands.  Aragorn moved quickly to Frodo, a still-glowing needle trailing thread in his hands.  “Mud everywhere,” Bilbo whispered, his voice cracking.  “In your hair, in your ears…”  Merry heard him gasp as Aragorn bent over Frodo. 

Elrond was breathing deeply, trembling, gasping breaths, a hand on Elrohir’s shoulder to steady himself.  “Give the shard to the smith to melt,” he instructed Arwen.  She took the bowl, her face white.  “Destroy also the bowl.”  She nodded and was gone from the room, the bowl and the evil it contained held at arm’s length.  Elrond shuddered, visibly fighting to master himself.  Using the arms of the chair, he pushed himself to his feet and stood shakily, then stepped forward to where his foster son worked on the hobbit.

“Estel?”  Bilbo’s chanted story faltered into silence at Elrond’s question and the old hobbit swayed on his feet.  Gandalf steadied him, slipping a hand under his friend’s arm to support him. 

“I have stopped the bleeding, Father, and the wound is closed.  Perhaps eight more stitches.  He is still breathing.  His pulse is much too fast, however, and – ah, no!”

* TBC *