AUTHOR NOTES:  This is an AU story based in book-verse, but bits of movie-verse may be interwoven at the author’s discretion. I’ve altered the timeline slightly to bring Aragorn back to Rivendell earlier than canon infers.  Thank you to SurgicalSteel for the beta-help.

DISCLAIMER:  The Professor’s wonderful characters don’t belong to me; I just get to think about them day and night

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HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 1: The Sorcerer Prepares

Those who used the Nine Rings became mighty in their day, kings, sorcerers, and warriors of old.  They obtained glory and great wealth, yet it turned to their undoing.  ‘Of the Rings of Power and the Third Age’, The Silmarillion

Although he rarely measured time as he had when mortal, the Moon’s appearance revealed that nearly a month had passed since he and his undying brethren had been scattered in the unnatural flood.  He had been washed to the eastern side of the river many miles south, cloak and sword gone, but had not heeded their Captain’s call to retreat.  Stubbornly, he made his way back alone, keeping to the east, searching along the towering cliffs for a way to penetrate the hidden valley of the Elves.

He felt nothing but contempt for this so-called ‘refuge’, founded, he supposed, as a pitiful northern imitation of unassailable Mordor.  Still, the weathers moved differently here; the stars burned brighter; and there was something else.  He was kept from attempting to climb the cliffs by the same strange force that had caused hesitation at the river’s edge.  The Elvish vale was ringed by a watchful barrier that reminded him of the quiet power pulsing within the stone sentinels at the tower of Cirith Ungol.  Here, he could sense a palpable presence that slept; but it would awaken instantly – as the river had awakened – if challenged.

The events of the past weeks still confused him.  Baggins should not have been able to withstand the enspelled blade fragment for so long.  He should have succumbed mere days after being wounded, and, drawn by the combined will of the Nine, sought them out.

It was a concept most difficult to grasp.  How had they failed to win back the Master Ring, carried by such a frail creature? 

It is I who failed, the wraith reminded himself bitterly.  Whatever splinter pierced the Halfling should have been impossible to resist, or even locate.  The only explanation is that the shadow-spell I wove into our Captain’s blade was not strong enough.   The Master wished Baggins brought before him alive, but we did not find him in the tavern house, or on the Road.  Bringing him into the shadow-realm—where he would be at first weak, confused, and easily controlled – was a plan wrought in haste, and badly executed.  I was not there when our Captain struck the blow; I was chasing the Maia.  But I am still to blame:  I, the most powerful sorcerer of my people in the days when I yet walked enfleshed beneath the Sun, learning the powers of the ring I so eagerly accepted and bent to my will.  It serves me still, yet to the Master Ring it is forever bound.

For a moment, the wraith exulted.  It was I who enspelled the blade used by our Captain.  It was I who lent my power to the assault on the Maia at the ancient hilltop, causing him to falter and flee.  But then he shuddered with memory.  At the river, the Elf-lord seared our eyes with his light. The Man was fearless.  The flames burned us, the small ones confused us.  And when the river attacked without warning, the unthinkable occurred: we were unhorsed and separated.  Baggins resisted until consciousness fled from him; my spell upon the blade was not strong enough.  I failed.

He shook with fury and shame.  He dared not attempt to enter the valley without revealing himself to those who dwelt within, but could still, with subtlety and care, probe its secrets; he might learn something that would redeem himself in the Master’s Eye.  And so he lingered, carefully reaching out in thought to the hidden land on the other side of the hills.

He sensed a troubling gathering of peoples from many lands, but could not discern their purpose.  Soon the valley began to empty, but the patrols that passed him were easy enough to evade.

They search for news of us, but my brothers are long gone, and I hide in silence.

Baggins was recovering his strength.  Even with the protective magic that surrounded the Elves’ refuge, he could sense the small one through the Master Ring, which even now called to his own.  Through this tenuous connection, he knew when the Halflings began to roam freely and without fear throughout the valley, exploring it in all directions.

And at last, his mental probings brought a glimmer of hope.

Amidst the solid rock of the hills lay a vast, empty space carved from waters falling within the earth over the millenia -- a cavern, wide and deep, laced with crystals and precious metals.  The entrance could only be reached from the Elves’ valley, and the passage burrowed deeply before ending abruptly.  He could not reach the cave save in thought, but...  Might not the Halfling children discover it, and venture within?  They are too trusting, and their remaining guardians overly confident. 

Imladris was closed to him; nor could he disturb its waters or air – they answered to another.  Fire he loathed.  But the metals… why not use them?  He had embedded the Captain’s iron knife with spells and power to enslave; why could he not speak as easily to the iron flowing through the earth?

I have discovered how this refuge may be breached; it is vulnerable from a direction the arrogant Elf-lords and Maia have overlooked.  Although my chance of success is slim at best, a weakness in their defenses exists; and I will exploit it.

He pressed his withered hand upon the cliff-face, and channeled power through the ring on his finger... carefully, slowly, so as not to awaken the defenses.  In his mind, he travelled along the veins of ore until he reached jagged teeth of rock that hung like blades from the roof of the cavern.  Stalactites they were named.  These were iron-rich, and vulnerable to his craft.  Day after day he concentrated upon the earth-metals, murmuring in the Black Speech.  Even when all was done, certain that his spells were firmly set, he remained still, silent and waiting.  He gave no heed to the cold, and needed neither sleep nor nourishment.

If Baggins entered the cavern he would know it, and act; he would push with all his force against the magical barrier keeping the valley whole and protected.  The sudden and violent clash of powers might be enough to shake the very foundations of the valley; surely it would be more than enough to shatter one of the now-enspelled daggers of iron and send it plummeting toward the Halfling below.

It is all I can do from out here, using only my ring and my thoughts.  Perhaps the Halflings will not find the cavern.  Perhaps I will not be able to splinter the rock, or Baggins will not be fully in its path if it does fall.  But perhaps, this time, a Morgul shard will find its mark and cast him into shadow.  He would flee that valley, and I would find him with ease.

But even if Baggins is not harmed, the Elf-lords and Maia will know I was here.  They will be reminded that there is no safety for this Halfling anywhere in Middle-earth.  The message will be clear: He will be ours, along with the Ring he bears.  Sooner or later, he will be ours.

And when the Master takes back what is his, he has promised that the Nine will know power as never before.  Middle-earth will fall on its knees before us, conquered at last. 

My brothers have fled far south, on such wolves or Wargs that would bear them, as I will do, when my task here is done; but when I am once more before the Master I will face his Eye, and tell him that I stayed longest and risked the most.  Perhaps, then, he will look upon me with favor, and the Nine will have a new Captain.  Perhaps.

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 2:  A Fellowship Forming

“It seems impossible, somehow, to feel gloomy or depressed in this place.  I feel I could sing, if I knew the right song for the occasion.”  Pippin, ‘Many Meetings’, The Fellowship of the Ring

“Strider!” Pippin cried out in delight.  “When did you get back?”  He dashed out of the Last Homely House’s pillared entrance, plopped himself down on the top step next to Aragorn, and gave the Ranger a shy hug.

It was such a rare treat to be greeted so enthusiastically by anyone, Aragorn couldn’t keep from smiling. 

“Hello, Pippin,” he said, wrapping one of his long arms around the youngster’s shoulders.  “I arrived just a few minutes ago.  I rode far and long, and need sleep, but thought I’d sit here a moment before going inside.”

“We were worried about you,” Pippin said earnestly.  “You hardly got any rest after bringing us here before you were off again!”

“Thank you,” Aragorn said softly.  “How is Frodo?”

“Much better.  He still tires easily, though.  He’s been walking a bit farther each day, exploring the woods and waterfalls.  We all have been.  There’s only one pony here, after all, and we’ll probably have to do quite a bit of walking before reaching the Fire Mountain.”

“We?”

“Yes,” Pippin said firmly.  “Gandalf and Frodo and Sam can’t go off alone, now, can they?  They need us.  Merry and me.”

“Hmmm.”  Aragorn wondered who would be making the final decision as to the Ring-bearer’s companions, and what had been decided in his absence.

“You haven’t missed much,” Pippin continued, seemingly reading his thoughts.  “Someone found one of the black cloaks – the one with the slash in it where Frodo stabbed him.”  Pippin sat up straighter, the pride in his cousin shining in his eyes.  “What’s happening out there?  You’re the first one to return.”

“I have little to report,” Aragorn said.  “I travelled a fair distance with my men, and made sure they were well dispersed.   They will get word to me here should any news or sign of the Black Riders be discovered.”

“I hope everyone comes back soon, so we can get going.  I can’t quite keep track of time here, but Cousin Bilbo says it’s nearly December, even though it isn’t very cold yet.”  Pippin looked up at the Man curiously.  “Is it colder outside the valley?”

“It is,” Aragorn said softly.  “This is a very special place, Pippin.”

“I know.  It feels so peaceful here.”

“How is everyone getting along?”

“Not bad.” Pippin leaned back on his elbows.  “Glóin went home so he could let their people know what’s going on, but Gimli's still here.  He’s very polite and proper around the Elves.”

“And when he's around hobbits?” Aragorn asked curiously.  In all his travels, he had very little experience with Dwarves, save those who came through Bree, or a chance meeting upon the road.

Pippin grinned.  “He treats Cousin Bilbo like a great hero, and we’ve been having a jolly time telling tales.  At first I thought he was only pretending to like us because we weren’t Elves, he stays away from them as much as possible, not that it’s really possible to do that here, but he does seem to enjoy our company.”  A gentle breeze made the trees rustle softly.  “Isn’t it lovely here?  We’ve all been helping in the gardens, of course.  Some piglets were born, but they don’t have names yet.”

Before Aragorn could respond, Pippin was cheerfully continuing.

“There aren’t too many folks about; an awful lot of them went off on search parties, as you know.  Boromir’s done some scouting too, and he likes the library.  He’s been waiting for you to return, I think.  Gandalf’s been talking a great deal with Frodo, and Merry’s memorizing the maps, and I’m getting to know Cousin Bilbo again.  Do you know I haven’t seen him since I was 11?  Legolas is quiet, but he seems friendly, and he talks about plants with Sam.”  Aragorn was intrigued by how closely Pippin was watching and evaluating everyone in Imladris.  “Frodo and Merry said they'd be exploring over there today, with Gimli,” Pippin said, motioning to the immensely high, lushly-forested slopes to the east.  “I’ll go find them after luncheon.  The food is very very good here, don’t you think?  Oh, did I mention that Lord Elrond’s daughter and her ladies are making us warm jackets and some other things?  We had to meet with her to get measured.”  He blushed suddenly.

“She is quite skilled,” Aragorn managed to slip in, nearly overwhelmed by so much speech all at once.  He and his men rode in silence, for the most part, exchanging brief words when needed.  He realized anew how quiet and remote his life usually was. 

“Oh, I know,” Pippin agreed.  “Frodo says she’s the one who made his new clothes.  I think she must have consulted with Bilbo about his size and what colors he likes before we ever got here; after all, styles haven’t changed a bit since he left the Shire, and he knows Frodo better than anyone.  Except for Sam, that is.”

“And what is Sam up to, today?”

Aragorn was startled by the sudden look of pity and concern in Pippin’s eyes.

“He's with Frodo, of course!  You are tired, aren’t you?  You’re right; you need to get some sleep.”  Pippin urged Aragorn to rise, and pointed into the House.  “But maybe visit the bathing rooms first, and get something to eat, and then sleep,” he amended.

“I will heed your advice, Pippin,” Aragorn smiled.  After he had gone, Pippin remained on the steps for a time, enjoying the sunshine and humming to himself.  After awhile, he shook his head and chuckled quietly.

“Good old Sam.  What a silly question.”

*~*~*~*~*

“Where am I?” Frodo murmured.

“Rivendell,” came a familiar voice.  “We’re on an adventure with a rock-crazed Dwarf and a plant-obsessed gardener.  Ring any bells?”

“Now I remember.” Frodo smiled and opened his eyes.  Merry, sitting next to him on the blanket, moved slightly to shield his cousin’s face from the brilliant sunshine.  They had hiked to the very base of the hills before spreading out their picnic lunch, and Frodo had fallen asleep soon after they ate.

Sam was nearby, gathering flowers.  Gimli had wandered some distance away; he was running his hand along an escarpment of rock and looking pleased about something.  After several weeks in Rivendell, Gimli had relaxed enough to leave his mail shirt and large battle-axe in the room he had shared with his father; however, he was never without a variety of tools and implements looped through his belt, including several sizes of well-crafted hammers.

Frodo yawned and stretched, and Merry frowned slightly.  Frodo was still slightly favoring his left shoulder.

“I’m fine, mother hen,” Frodo sighed.

“Good.”

“Did I miss anything?”

“Let’s see... Sam is nearly incoherent with joy at all the new plants we’re passing, and Gimli keeps picking up rocks, tapping on them, and muttering things.  The usual.”

Frodo looked over at the Dwarf.  “He seems content; I had been wondering if he just accompanied us on our walks because it keeps him away from Lord Elrond and his folk.”

“I thought that too, at first,” Merry said, “but not anymore.  Out here is where all the rocks are, and he’s like a pig in slop when it comes to them.  But he likes being with us, I can tell; he was so thrilled to be introduced to the legendary “burglar”, remember?  And I like him, even if we do have to watch out for those heavy, clomping boots of his.  They’re worse than Strider’s!”

“I agree,” Frodo chuckled.

“Gimli's been so eager to spend time with us, and share stories,” Merry said.  “Maybe it’s because he’s too young to have had such an attentive audience amongst his own people.  He keeps lots of secrets, though.  There are things he won't talk about.”

“I've noticed that,” Frodo said thoughtfully.  He remembered how discreet Glóin had been when they spoke at the feast.

Merry picked up a basket containing what was left of the bread, cheese, cakes, and ripe berries on which they had feasted.

“It’s just past mid-day.  Do you want to head back?”

“Not yet,” Frodo said.  “We haven’t found that cave Erestor described.  It’s supposed to be right around here, but the trees are so dense it’s hard to see what might be behind them.”

“What a beautiful place,” Merry said softly.

Frodo nodded, taking a deep breath of the valley’s refreshing air, redolent with pine and flowers and ‘Elf magic’, as Sam said.  It was quiet here, so far from the river -- save for bird song, and the scurrying and chattering of squirrels dashing about on important business of their own.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam called out.  He dashed over, his arms full of exotic blooms.  “Are we moving on?”

“Just a bit further,” Frodo said with a smile.  “What have you got there?”

“I don’t know their names yet,” Sam said, his face alight with excitement.  “Have you ever seen or smelled the like?  Look at these orange-and-pink ones, and these tiny yellow ones.  Just soft as butter, they are.”  He knelt by a second basket, lifted the lid, and beamed at how thoroughly it had been emptied.  “Is it all right if I put them in here, sir?  I’d like to ask Mr. Legolas what they’re called.”

“Of course you may,” Frodo said gently.  Sam was still quite wonderstruck and shy around most of the Elves, but he and the young Wood-Elf, Legolas, discovering a mutual love of flowers and gardens, had formed an unlikely friendship.

Sam happily loaded the basket with the flowers and sprinkled them with water from his bottle.  Merry shoo’ed Frodo to his feet so he could fold up the blanket, which Sam promptly took from him.

“Now Mr. Merry, you can carry this,” he said firmly, taking the heavier basket from Merry and handing over the lighter one.

“Sam, you’re going to have to let me carry something sometime,” Frodo protested.

“Maybe tomorrow,” Sam said stubbornly.  He stuffed the blanket into his pack, put it on, and got to his feet.  “Ready, sir?”

“Ready,” Frodo declared.  “Gimli?” he called out.  “We’re going to walk a little further, then head back to the House.  Are you coming?”

“I am, Master Baggins,” Gimli called back.  He gave the rock face one last look, then joined the three hobbits.  “The roots of these hills are deep and broad,” he said with satisfaction.  “This range comes all the way down from Mount Gundabad -- a place of legend, you know.”

“Could you tell us about it while we walk?” Sam asked eagerly.

“I will tell you all that is permitted,” Gimli said solemnly.

Frodo and Merry exchanged amused glances.  They were getting to know Gimli quite well now, and despite his secretive manner, they could see his eyes twinkling with anticipation.

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 3:  A Clash of Cultures 

The King’s cave was his palace, and the strong place of his treasure, and the fortress of his people against their enemies.  It was also the dungeon of his prisoners.  So to the cave they dragged Thorin – not too gently, for they did not love dwarves.  ‘Flies and Spiders’, The Hobbit

Legolas stood motionless, palms pressed firmly to the rough bark, waiting patiently for the tree to rouse enough to recognize him.  He had not yet learned how to awaken a tree to full consciousness; he was young, and had spent much of his life learning other skills -- hunter, tracker, and warrior -- to provide for his father’s people, and aid in protecting Mirkwood from the creeping darkness that surrounded his home.  But given time and quiet, he could bring himself into harmony with a tree’s rhythm, singing gently until it awakened to his presence.

At last the enormous, ancient oak welcomed his voice, its stolid, measured awareness stirring to sense something other than sunlight and soil, water and air.  For him, it briefly halted its slow retreat into itself in preparation for the winter chill that as yet lay lightly upon the valley of Imladris.  For a long, treasured moment, Elf and tree acknowledged the other, and Legolas felt the communion with green, growing life that brought him such satisfaction.

As the sun passed mid-sky, that part of him always alert to his surroundings heard bright voices far off, and he smiled; the hobbits were approaching.  Eager for any opportunity for speech with them, he bid the tree peace in its winter sleep and health in a vibrant spring.  But even as he opened his eyes to the bright sunshine, his keen ears picked up a different voice, rough and unlovely, and footfalls heavy enough to make him grimace in distaste.  The Dwarf.

It had been quite unsettling to see Dwarves at the Council.  Although welcomed courteously by Lord Elrond, surely nothing good could come of such folk meddling in matters concerning the One Ring.  He had waited in vain for this last one to leave Imladris, but Gimli son of Glóin seemed determined to stay.

Legolas considered warning the tree, calming it, but realized there was no need; it knew nothing of the history of Dwarves, creatures who cared more for dead stone than living wood.  It stood without fear, and why not?  No tree in Imladris had ever known fire, flood, or cruelty.  Here, as in a few other special places in Middle-earth, there was peace.  Not for the first time, Legolas was grateful to have been sent here, no matter the shame of his message to the Council.  To his surprise, no one had blamed him for Gollum’s escape; and after several weeks spent in quiet reflection, in which the valley itself calmed and focused him, his thoughts turned in new directions.

The hobbits were unique in his experience.  He had been fascinated to discover that the mysterious savior of the Dwarves from his father’s prison was a resident here in Imladris, and that Bilbo Baggins’ heir and kin had carried the Enemy’s Ring through perils and darkness... and yet prevailed.  Here was a new, young race, obviously capable of great deeds, and Lord Elrond himself had announced that the hour of the Shire-folk was at hand.  He wished to aid the Ring-bearer, and an idea had come to him unlooked-for... but he needed more time before approaching Lord Elrond with his request.

“Mr. Legolas!”  Sam ran to greet him with great excitement.  “Did you know we would be out here today?”

“No, Sam,” Legolas said, kneeling to greet his friend.  “It is a happy chance only; I deemed today a good time to renew an old friendship.”  He indicated the massive oak.  “I knew this tree as a seedling, several hundred years ago.  Now its roots stretch deep and wide, nourished by the sweet waters and good soil of this valley.”

“Did you talk to it?” Sam asked in wonder.

“In a sense.  It fares well, which brings me joy.”

“Legolas!” Merry called cheerily.

“Greetings, Merry... Frodo.” Legolas greeted the other hobbits warmly, then rose to his feet.  He would not kneel before a Dwarf. 

“Good day, Master Dwarf.”

“Master Elf,” Gimli responded, with no enthusiasm.

“Hello, Legolas,” Frodo said.  “I see you beat us to it.”

“To what?” Legolas asked.

Merry pointed through the trees.  There, gaping in dark mystery, was the entrance to a cave.

“Is that what you seek?” Legolas asked.  “I have visited this area before, but did not explore the hill itself.”

“Do you jest?” Gimli blurted out in amazement.  “The entrances to Mahal’s realm surely warrant as much respect as any tree or bush.”

“Now Gimli,” Frodo said soothingly.  “Perhaps Legolas doesn’t need to see more caves; he grew up in one, remember.”

“Forgive me, Frodo, but that is not entirely true,” Legolas corrected gently.  “My father’s stronghold was less a home to me than the forest itself.”

At the mention of Thranduil’s halls, Gimli’s eyes glittered dangerously.  Elves were foolish and without reverence for those things of greatest importance; they walked the earth without truly seeing it, lacking a respectful understanding of its power and potential.  Dwarves alone were as rugged and enduring as stone.  Dwarves alone had been entrusted by Mahal with the courage and skill to temper the very foundations of Arda.  He could hear his father’s voice: ‘Only those who delve into the ground, and spend a lifetime coaxing out its secrets, learn anything of true value.’  To work with stone required an artist’s eye, a gentle yet firm hand, the patience to see a job done.  Even the hobbits had more wisdom than Elves, being wise enough to burrow into hills and thus sleep within the safety and comfort that only earth and stone could offer.

But he said nothing; he had promised his father he would be polite, and he had been... so far.

“We're just going to take a peek,” Merry said, putting down his basket.  “Erestor says it's very beautiful.  Do you want to join us, Legolas?”

“Surely you’re not frightened of the dark,” Gimli challenged, unable to help himself.

“Not at all, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said calmly, the dislike he felt for this uncouth being becoming difficult to suppress.  He was a king’s son, after all, and would not let anyone think him weak or cowardly.  He turned to Sam and smiled warmly.  “Shall we view this cave together, my friend?”

“Go on, Sam,” Frodo said.  “Merry and I will be along in a moment.”

Sam was so thrilled, he forgot he was still carrying the basket of food, and not the one holding the flowers he wished to show Legolas.  Even after a month in Rivendell, he could scarcely believe his luck at finding Elves everywhere he went, who were all very kind, and patient with his (and Mr. Pippin’s) questions.  Elves were a marvel; their faces were lit with more than sunlight, it seemed, and they had lived through thousands of years of history.  (And they were all extremely respectful of his master, which counted for a lot in his eyes.)  Their voices were gentle and musical, and the singing which he heard every night seemed to transport him to other times and other places.

But being this close to the steep and towering hills made Sam feel very small.  He wondered if the place where his master needed to take the Ring could possibly be any higher, and how far away it was.   The world was so very much bigger than he had imagined.

 “What’s behind the mountains?” he wondered aloud.

“Mirkwood,” Legolas responded, thinking of home.

“Erebor,” Gimli said at the same time.  He glowered at the Elf, who looked down at him cooly.

“I’d love to hear about both places,” Sam said, “as I’m not likely to see neither.  You go first, Mr. Gimli.”

Eager to see the cave, and mollified somewhat by Sam's obvious interest, Gimli began to walk, with Sam and Legolas at his side, and was soon speaking animatedly about the glories of the Lonely Mountain.  Frodo lagged behind with Merry, allowing the trio to get well ahead of them.  As soon as Gimli, Legolas, and Sam disappeared into the mouth of the cave, he turned to his cousin with a mischievous sparkle in his eyes.

“Those two don’t get on very well, do they?”

Merry had been holding back laughter, but now it bubbled free.  Frodo started grinning, then started laughing himself, until both were collapsing against the other in mirth.

“They’re not even trying to get to know one another,” Frodo gasped, wiping tears of laughter from his face.  “They're like two old gaffers, sniping about whose method for growing vegetables is the best.  Do you suppose that Sam can talk some sense into them?”

“If anyone can, it’ll be Sam,” Merry said.  “Come on, let’s poke about a bit in that cave and get back.  Pippin will be looking for us.”

“Isn’t it wonderful how he and Bilbo are getting along?” Frodo beamed, as they continued to walk.

“Yes, it is,” Merry agreed.  He put an arm around Frodo’s shoulders.  “I’m so glad you got to see Bilbo again.  I know what it means to you -- that he was here when you woke up.”  Frodo started to speak, but Merry stopped him.  “You would have left the Shire anyway, Ring or no Ring, wouldn’t you?  You needed to see him again.”

“Yes,” Frodo said, then smiled.  “I wonder if I would have got away from the Shire without the lot of you catching on?”

“You wouldn’t have made it even as far as Bywater,” Merry said confidently.  “You’re stuck with us, cousin, no matter what.”

“I know that now,” Frodo said softly.  “I’m glad.”

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 4: Unexpected Consequences

Frodo felt a sudden chill running through him and clutching at his heart; there was a deadly cold, like the memory of an old wound, in his shoulder.  He crouched down, as if to hide. ‘The Great River’, The Fellowship of the Ring

Entering the cave was like being plunged from day into night.  As his eyes tried to adjust to the near darkness, Merry heard Frodo laugh.

“No wonder Erestor advised us to carry tinderboxes,” Frodo said, stepping away from his side.  Merry could just make out Frodo’s dim form moving about, then from the ground came a bright spark, then another.  A tiny pile of dry tinder suddenly burst into flame, and Frodo was on his knees, bending over it.  Now Merry could see, in the flickering light, a half-dozen prepared torches set into niches in the cave wall.  Two of the niches were empty.

Merry lifted one of the torches, knelt next to Frodo, and thrust it into the small fire.  It only took a moment for the head of the torch, smeared liberally with pine pitch, to burst into flame.

“How did you see all this?” Merry asked curiously.  “I was completely blinded when we entered.”  But then his attention was caught, as was Frodo’s, by the breathtaking sight all around them.   They got to their feet and gazed about in wonder.  The walls of the cave glittered like stars; even the ground was sparkling. The ceiling soared high above them, out of sight. 

“Listen,” Frodo whispered.  “Hear that?”

From somewhere deep inside the cave, or perhaps within the very walls, could be heard a faint, steady rush of water -- an underground river.  And far, far ahead, they made out the faint murmur of voices.

“There are two torches missing,” Merry said.

Frodo nodded.  “Gimli must be so excited.  Isn’t this amazing?”

“It really is,” Merry smiled.  “Remember what else Erestor said?  ‘The cavern is rather pretty; you might enjoy seeing it.’”  He laughed.  The light of the torch reflected off glittering crystalline shapes and formations.  “Elves tend to say so much less than they mean. This place would be the wonder of the Shire, and hobbits would flock from every Farthing to see it.”

“And a lot more Dwarves would visit us,” Frodo chuckled.  He walked forward, exclaiming about this or that, and Merry followed behind with the torch, intrigued by how much Frodo could see in the semi-darkness.  After about ten minutes of exploration, they had penetrated quite deeply into the passage.  Rounding a corner, the voices ahead of them grew suddenly more distinct, and another torch flickered in the distance.

“Sam!” Frodo called out.  And ‘Saaaaam…Saaaaam…Saaaaam’ echoed back to them.

“Mr. Frodo!” came a familiar voice, and the light grew closer until the figures of Sam and Legolas could be seen.  Legolas held the torch, and Sam was at his side.  Frodo thought that Legolas looked relieved to see them.

“We heard your voices, sir,” Sam said as they approached.  “Mr. Legolas thinks there’s a waterfall underground somewhere that we can’t see.  Isn’t this glorious?  It’s like stars everywhere.  Have you ever seen the like?”

“Never,” Frodo laughed.  “Where did you leave Gimli?  I wonder if Bilbo’s ever been--” He took one more step, then stopped so suddenly, Merry ran into him.

“Are you all right?” Merry asked.

“So cold,” Frodo whispered, drawing his cloak more tightly around himself.  “I feel strange.”  He looked around, wondering at the sudden fear that clutched him.

“I think we've gone far enough for one day,” Merry frowned.  “Bilbo will have my head for sure if you catch a chill.”

*~*~*~*~*

Baggins was directly beneath the enspelled stone.

Now! The wraith cried out a sharp word of Command, and the gem on his ring blazed as a pulse of Power traveled through it and slammed against the invisible force protecting the valley. Almost instantly the pulse was repelled, and he was thrust backwards as the barrier was reinforced. The Elf lords were not sleeping or idle, that was certain; the response had been nearly instantaneous. Even as he stumbled to his knees, he knew that the valley had been shaken, all its guardians alerted; but the only thing of significance was the dagger of stone, which he felt shudder under the strain.  As the hill itself trembled violently, the stalactite cracked, then wrenched free of its hold. He shouted in triumph as it plummeted downwards.

*~*~*~*~*

Elrond left his private study and stood quietly upon the balcony, the sound of the Bruinen soothing to his ears.  He had been mildly surprised when word was brought to him of his foster-son’s arrival, but did not question it. Aragorn carried within him a portion of that foresight inherited from the line of Eärendil, and his instincts had been proven sound over many years of testing. If he sensed that he needed to return to the valley early, and alone, the reason would make itself known in due time.

He was contemplating the scant news Aragorn had been able to glean when he felt it, like a physical blow: a sudden, fierce pressure against the outer borders of the valley. In his mind, he heard a shrill cry, and for a moment his chest was caught as if in a vise of airless chill. He gripped the railing tightly, struggling to remain upright. It had been nearly 2000 years since Imladris had last been assaulted by the Dark Lord's forces, but to Elrond Half-elven, the events of his lifetime were as fresh as if they had happened yesterday. Such was one of his people’s greatest gifts... and curses.

Without hesitation, he sang notes of defiance and Power, calling together craft and energies strengthened over millennia, but seldom called upon.  The gently-woven net of peace and healing which gave the valley its reputation shuddered for a moment, and then rebounded against the force that strained it. The ground shook beneath him, just for a moment, and then settled.  One second… two… and he knew that the attack had been repelled, the barrier secure.  He steadied himself, breathing deeply.

At least one of the Nazgûl still lingered, then, and had not fled South as they had assumed.  How many? Why not attack from all sides? Where is Frodo? And my daughter? Surely Gandalf felt that as well? Is this why Aragorn felt the need to return? – so many questions...

He cast his thoughts and feelings toward the source of the attack -- to the east.  He was buffeted by a wave of pain and fear emanating from the Cave of Crystal, although he could not identify the person in distress.  The Ring of Air gave him an understanding of the natural forces of the valley, and to his horror, he realized that the greatest peril lay not in the shaking of the earth, but in its consequences; water flowing within the eastern hills was being forced into new channels as the rocks strained and twisted.  A fissure in the cavern was widening, and a trickle of water was about to be unleashed as a torrent.  Anyone trapped or injured would surely be drowned.

Elrond stood very still, the ring on his hand growing heavy and pulsing with purpose. To unleash a flood, as when he swept away the Black Riders, took concentration and great skill, and he had been slow to recover from the strain.  But to suppress a flood... had he the ability, or the strength?

*~*~*~*~*

A tremendous, silent shock wave shook the cavern, and there was the sound of a sharp crack from directly above Frodo. Without taking the time to look up, Merry instinctively threw his arms around his cousin and pulled him roughly backwards. A second later, there was a tremendous crash as one of the stalactites hit the floor of the cave exactly where Frodo had been standing. The long, jagged rock shattered, its pieces flying in all directions. Even as the two hobbits dove to the ground, Merry heard Frodo cry out in pain.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam started to run forward, followed by Legolas.  But before they could go more than a few steps, there was an explosive roar as a portion of the ceiling gave way, releasing a torrent of rock.

Merry feared the entire cave was collapsing, and he threw himself on top of Frodo.  The cacophony of crashing and tumbling went on and on, until finally, all was still.  At last, all he could hear was his own pounding heartbeat and the occasional trickle of dirt.  He felt Frodo’s whole body shudder convulsively before going completely limp for a moment. Terror-stricken, he crawled away from Frodo to find the torch, which lay nearby and was miraculously still blazing.  He heard Frodo stir, then start coughing.

Merry knelt to see Frodo's face.  His cousin was pale, but whether from shock or the dust, he couldn’t tell.  Frodo sat up slowly, and Merry followed his cousin’s gaze; a sharp splinter of rock was embedded in Frodo’s left calf.

“That was close,” Frodo said, his voice shaking.  “You saved my life.”

“What are cousins for?” Merry said lightly, trying to calm himself.  “There must have been an earthquake.  Are you hurt anywhere else?”

“I don’t think so,” Frodo said.  Was it an earthquake, he wondered, or something else?  “Are you hurt?”

“No.”  Merry brought the torch closer to Frodo’s leg.

“D... don’t touch it,” Frodo begged. “It’s in pretty deep, I can tell.” He looked up suddenly, and gasped.  “Merry!”

The dust had begun to settle, and looming before them was a mountain of rock that completely blocked the passage.  Sam and Legolas were nowhere to be seen.

“They’re trapped behind it!” Merry said, hoping fervently that their friends weren’t under that mountain of debris. “Frodo, get out of here; I’ll see if I can--”

“You have to go for help!” Frodo said, struggling to his feet.  He swayed a moment, feeling faint.  A cold wave pulsed through him, and he shivered.

“You’re coming with me,” Merry said firmly.  “The whole ceiling might fall in.”

Frodo took a few steps, but hissed with pain.

“It’s too far,” he said.  “I’ll slow you down.”

“Frodo--”

“It’s all right,” Frodo said, peering up at the roof of the cave. “It’s stopped.  If anything starts shaking again, I’ll get out, I promise. Now go!” He hurled himself at the mountain of debris. “Sam, can you hear me?” he called out frantically. There was no response except for his own voice, echoing in the darkness.  “Sam!”

Merry hesitated.  The last thing he wanted to do was leave Frodo alone, but they couldn’t possibly dig out their trapped friends by themselves.  They needed help, and fast.  And even if he carried Frodo outside, his stubborn cousin would probably just come back in again, even if he had to crawl. Without another word, he propped the torch against the wall, gave Frodo’s shoulder a squeeze, and ran for the entrance.

“Sam!” Frodo yelled again. “Legolas!” There was no response. He began to pull at the rocks, trying to ignore the intensifying pain in his leg.

*~*~*~*~*

The wraith screamed in frustration, his whole being ablaze with rage.  Baggins' life force still pulsed strongly; a shard had indeed pierced him, but had not flown true. Someone – or something – had pulled him from the dagger's path, and he had survived. There would be nothing to keep the Elf lords from removing this splinter, as they had done before. But if Baggins’ heart had been pierced… the wraith allowed himself a moment to savor what would surely have transpired. The Halfling would even now be adrift in shadow, empty and confused, fleeing the Elves and their suffocating light. How easy it would have been to find him, and guide his will into enslavement.  The Dark Lord had commanded them not to touch His ring; He wanted Baggins brought to him alive, so that He could enjoy taking it. But not for the first time, the wraith wondered what he would do if the Master Ring was within his grasp.

I could take it.

But there was no time for such indulgent and foolish thoughts.  Once again, he had failed. If only Baggins had been alone, and the descent of the enspelled rock more silent and swift... But over those things he had no control. They would be searching the perimeter of the valley even now, and he loathed to imagine what would become of him, if found. Someone might deem the risk worth taking to at last wield the Ring... and command him to reveal the Master’s plans. He had no wish to be burned once again by the light of that one who had met them at the River, and he could not risk letting the Maia question him. He must flee this place, and quickly. Already he had tarried too long.

But even as he turned from the cliff and sniffed the air for whatever beast was near enough to bear him south, his thoughts stayed with the Halfling. When Baggins put the Ring on his finger at the ancient hilltop, he entered the shadow world, however briefly. He saw my face... the only living being to do so in millennia. Even I do not remember my features; the waters of the living world do not reflect them. But he saw my face. Someday our paths will cross again, and he will remember me.

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 5: Fire and Water

“The river of this valley is under his power.” Gandalf, ‘Many Meetings’, The Fellowship of the Ring

There was never a time when Gandalf could not determine, if he chose, the location and well-being of the other bearers of the Three; thus, the ground had barely ceased to shake before he was striding at great speed from the East Porch, where he had been smoking and thinking, towards Elrond’s private study.  He entered without knocking, then moved quickly through the room and out to the balcony.  He found Elrond standing still as a statue, his hands gripping the railing, eyes unfocused.  The only motion was that of the Elf-lord’s robe, fluttering slightly in the breeze.  The tension emanating from Elrond was palpable, and Vilya, which the wizard usually sensed as only a steady, quiet pulse, was more active than he had ever felt it.

“Speak, my friend,” Gandalf said quietly.  “The valley has been rocked by tremors both physical and magical.  What can you tell me?”

Elrond stirred slightly.  “Nazgûl,” he murmured, “at least one, beyond the eastern hills.  The valley’s protections were assaulted with a great surge of dark power, and I instinctively took action to strengthen them.  The attack was repelled; however, I fear the consequences may be grave.”

“Do they continue to—”

“No.  They have gone.”

“Gone?  They waited nearly a month to make their move, and made only one attempt to breach the valley?”  Gandalf frowned.  “If Rivendell is no longer in danger from Nazgûl, on what do you focus so intently?  Of what consequences do you speak?”

“The assault was focused within the Cave of Crystal, and it was there that Vilya guided me to respond.  Our two forces met, and the strain on the stones was sudden and violent. They cracked and shifted, and a vast flow of water deep within the hidden channels of the hill began to burst in great quantities through a newly-opened fissure.”

“Began to?”

“I am holding it back,” Elrond said with an effort.  “I must.  There was a person – perhaps more than one – in the cave when the attack came.”

Gandalf eyed him in alarm.  “Surely whoever was there has, by now, had the good sense to leave.”

Elrond shook his head. “Someone is in need, but I cannot tell who, or how many. He... they are there still.” He took a deep breath. “Gandalf, I do not know how long I can keep the waters suppressed so that the cave does not flood.  I dare not lose control.”

Without a word, Gandalf grasped Elrond’s shoulder with his right hand.  Instantly, Elrond felt Narya’s fire adding strength to his mind and body. He nodded his thanks, and felt the steady drain on his energies slow... but not stop. He would be able to endure for a while longer, but could not keep this up indefinitely.

“I saw Pippin running from the House towards the east,” Gandalf said quietly. “I do not know if it is the other hobbits who are in the cave, but he seemed to know that someone was.  It cannot be mere chance that the attack focused at that place, and precisely at a time when the cave was occupied.  There is more at work here than we know.”

“Yes,” Elrond whispered.  “Find Frodo.  I fear for him.”

“All who can be spared will be sent to the cave, at once.” Gandalf said.  “I will also ride with Glorfindel to the Ford, to ensure that all is well.”  He turned to leave.

“Gandalf, hold a moment,” Elrond said.  “Aragorn returned a short time ago.  By the time it is safe for me to allow the waters to release their torrent, I may have little strength left. If there are injuries, he needs to understand... you must tell him...”

“I will,” Gandalf assured him.  “Call for assistance if you need it.  When everyone is out of the cave, I will reach out to you in thought.”

Gandalf strode from Elrond’s study, and nearly collided with Erestor.

“Your lord is within, and is not to be disturbed unless you hear him call,” Gandalf said, shutting the door firmly behind him.

“It will be as you ask,” Erestor said. “Do you know what happened?”

“I know some things, and will soon learn others,” Gandalf said.  To his relief, he saw Aragorn running towards them.  He had obviously come straight from the bathing rooms; his long hair was damp, and he was barefoot and clad in only a loose tunic and trousers.

“Aragorn, you must go immediately to the cave in the eastern hills,” Gandalf instructed.  “Do you know of it?”

“Of course,” Aragorn said. “What has—”

“There is no time to explain,” Gandalf said. “Take everyone you can spare. Tell them to gather lanterns and carts, shovels, and picks, and make haste.  There is a possibility that the hobbits are trapped or injured, and there may be others.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened with shock, and he nodded.

“If anyone is hurt, you must do what you can,” Gandalf added. “Elrond may not be able to help you.”

“I understand,” Aragorn said, although he really didn’t, not at all.  He set off at a run to ring the great bell that had not tolled since the Council.

*~*~*~*~*

The Last Homely House was about two miles from the cave, and Merry ran nearly the first half-mile on adrenaline alone. He barely registered his surroundings, his thoughts were whirling so fast. He wondered if there had ever been an earthquake in Rivendell before, and whether Sam and the others were alive or dead, and what Frodo would do if anything had happened to Sam, and why was it that the one Dwarf within a hundred miles – the person best suited to dig him out – was trapped with him, and maybe hurt, or worse, and how that stone had seemed to know exactly when Frodo was beneath it, and why a piece of that debris flying all over the place had only hit Frodo and not him, and if the whole trip South was going to be one calamity after another and there was no way he and Pippin were letting Frodo out of their sight ever again, and...

“Merry!”

Merry looked up just in time to avoid running directly into Pippin. He stopped and fell to his knees, gasping for breath.

“Where are the others?” Pippin asked, joining him on the ground. “Did you feel the earthquake? Merry, talk to me! Where’s Frodo?”

“In the cave,” Merry gasped.  “The whole place shook and a huge stone fell, and Frodo’s leg is hurt, but he wouldn’t leave.”

“He wouldn’t leave?”

“I had to go for help, we can’t dig them out alone.”

“Dig who out?”

“Pip, you have to run back to the House, right now.  No one knows that anything’s happened, and—”

“Yes, they do.  Look.”  Pippin jumped to his feet and started waving frantically at a lone horseman who was galloping at full speed towards them.  “Strider!”

Aragorn came abreast of the two hobbits and reined in his borrowed horse.  Merry staggered to his feet, still breathing hard.

“There’s been a cave in,” Merry said urgently.  “Frodo’s hurt.  Sam and Legolas and Gimli are trapped.”

Without a word, Aragorn reached down his hand.  He pulled Merry up to sit in front of him, then Pippin behind.

“Strider, we need more people!” Merry exclaimed anxiously.

“Nearly all of Elrond’s folk are on their way,” Aragorn said.  “They were loading carts with supplies when I left.”

“But how did you know about—”

“Gandalf,” Aragorn said tersely.  He wrapped one arm around Merry’s waist, and felt Pippin’s small hands clutch at his tunic.  He urged the horse forward.  “Tell me everything, Merry.  Leave nothing out.”

*~*~*~*~*

Gimli stared at the wall, waving his torch back and forth.  He had reached the end of the cave, and was disappointed it went no deeper.  There had been no sign of mithril... which any self-respecting Dwarf would recognize at 50 paces in the dark, and something for which every Dwarf instinctively searched, whenever he found himself underground.  But the layers of rock were lined with crystals, gems, and other precious metals, which had kept him happily occupied with inspecting and identifying.  He turned back reluctantly, alone with his thoughts.

His two companions had already left him, hearing a murmur of voices from the direction they had come. Without the keen hearing of Elves, or even hobbits, he had heard nothing save the ever-present sound of water from within the walls.  Sam had been most distressed when he realized that, in his eagerness to hear their tales, he had left his master far behind.  Legolas quickly – too quickly, to Gimli’s mind – offered to accompany him back to Frodo and Merry.  Gimli shook his head, mystified; Legolas had exclaimed more delightedly over the occasional tree root they passed than at the wonders of the cave itself.  To Gimli, the bulging roots were no more than an annoyance, making it difficult for him to walk without tripping.

He was muttering to himself about the inexplicable ways of Elves when an invisible force slammed into him, buffeting him about as if caught in a windstorm.  The ground shook, and Gimli fought to remain on his feet.  There was a fearsome sound of crashing and tumbling from somewhere ahead, and a deafening crack even closer, and he watched in horror as a fissure in the previously-solid wall opened before his eyes.  Without warning, a powerful cascade of icy-cold water surged through it, drenching him and knocking him to the ground.  His torch went out, and he tried desperately to regain his footing against the pressure of the water blasting over him.  To his surprise, as quickly as it had begun, the water coming through the fissure slowed to a trickle.  It was utterly dark, and when he called out, he heard no answering voices.  Taking his chance, Gimli scrambled to his feet and made his way as quickly as possible along the passage.  When he had gone some distance, the inky darkness gave way to a pinprick of light; it was a small flame, flickering on the ground just ahead.  He ran to it, and found that it was one of the torches -- abandoned.  He raised it high, then gasped in shock at what was revealed before him.

The passageway leading back to the entrance was completely blocked by a massive rock-fall, and the ground between him and the obstruction was littered with large rocks and piles of splintered crystal.  His heart began to beat faster when his gaze fell upon something familiar: the basket Sam had been carrying.  It lay on its side, partially smashed, its contents strewn.

“Sam!” Gimli bellowed, picking his way through the tumbled rocks.  When he reached the basket he tripped over something and fell to his knees, cursing tree roots in his own language.  But it was not a root on which he had stumbled: it was Legolas, his body partially buried under debris.  Gimli brought the torch closer, and caught his breath; sprawled beneath the Elf’s body, barely visible, was Sam.  Both lay still as death.

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 6: Taking Charge 

As Strider raised it they saw that near the end its edge was notched and the point was broken off. But even as he held it up in the growing light, they gazed in astonishment, for the blade seemed to melt, and vanished like a smoke in the air, leaving only the hilt in Strider’s hand. ‘Flight to the Ford’, The Fellowship of the Ring

Aragorn reined in his horse in front of the cave, and dismounted.  He lifted the hobbits down to the ground, and Merry looked up at him anxiously.

“Be careful in there, Strider; there’s debris all over the place as you go further in.  Do you know about the torches?  Good.  Come on, Pip.”  Merry then raced into the cave and disappeared inside, pulling a tinderbox from his pocket as he did so.  Pippin was right behind him.

Aragorn hesitated outside only long enough to untie the saddlebag into which he had hastily thrust rope, water, and a few other things.  He flung it over his shoulder and plunged into the darkness of the cave he had not visited in more than 60 years. Making his way to the torches in their wall niches, he lit one from the tiny fire Merry had left burning.  He walked as quickly as he could, mindful of his bare feet.  To whatever injuries Gandalf suspected might be in need of his attention, he did not wish to add any of his own.  After a few minutes, he heard voices ahead of him, and saw two lights – one bright, and one flickering.

“Over here, Strider!” yelled Pippin.  “Hurry!”

“No, don’t hurry!” It was Frodo.  “Walk carefully!”

As Aragorn approached the lights, he saw that a sputtering torch leaned against the wall of the cave, and Merry held the other.  Frodo sat on the ground, his back to the wall, with Merry next to him.  Frodo’s hair was full of dust, his face, clothes, and hands were streaked with dirt and, despite his cloak, he was shivering.  His left arm hung at his side. 

A huge mound of rocks and dirt completely obstructed the passageway.  Pippin was tapping on a large rock with a smaller one, then listening intently.

“Aragorn, be careful,” Frodo repeated.  “Try not to touch any of those shattered stones on the ground.  Don’t let them cut your feet.  Do you hear anything, Pippin?”

“No,” Pippin said.  He tossed his stone to one side and started pulling rocks away from the mound.  “Don’t fret, cousin.  Sam is probably more worried about you, than you are about him.”

“An army of Elves is on their way to dig through there and get Sam, Legolas, and Gimli to safety,” Aragorn said, keeping his voice calm.  He knelt to examine Frodo.  There was a half-inch splinter of rock embedded in Frodo’s left calf.  There didn’t seem to be much bleeding.

“Are you injured anywhere else?  Did you hit your head?” Aragorn asked, putting down the saddlebag.  “You tried to shift some of those rocks, and strained your arm, didn’t you?”

“No, no, and yes,” Frodo said.  He clutched the Ranger’s arm with his right hand.  “Aragorn, listen to me.  After you got us to Rivendell, and I woke up, Gandalf told me that a tiny shard of the wraith’s blade had been moving through me, trying to reach my heart.  Did you know about that?”

“I suspected it was so,” Aragorn replied.  “Morgul wounds are rare and dangerous.  What has that to do with--”

Merry suddenly gasped.  “Frodo, there was at least an inch of that rock sticking out of your leg when I left!”

“I know,” Frodo said tremulously.  “It’s digging its way in.  Just like...”

“Frodo, calm down,” Aragorn said, bending to inspect the injury more closely. “There are no Nazgûl in Rivendell.  What you are suggesting seems most unlikely.”

“I hope you’re right,” Frodo said.  “But Merry says I passed out for a minute when it hit me, and I feel sick and cold, and very strange, and that sharp piece of stone is definitely moving.  It hurts terribly.  I tried to pull it out, but it... it doesn’t want to.”

“Nothing hit me at all,” Merry said slowly.  “I wondered about that.  Frodo, it’s like something knew you were under that rock.  It’s like that rock was waiting for you... and only you.”

“I know,” Frodo said.  “Aragorn...” His eyes met the Ranger’s with an imploring gaze.  “I don’t want to go through that again.  Please do something.”

This is what Gandalf was trying to tell me, Aragorn realized.  Elrond removed the splinter of the enspelled blade, but this time it will be up to me.  What did he do?  And how could this have occurred?  Has one of the Nazgûl truly infiltrated Rivendell and wounded the Ring-bearer once more?  Is this what occupies Elrond’s attention?

Whatever was happening, there was no time to spare.  He had done his best to hide his fear from the hobbits all those weeks before they reached Rivendell, and would not fail to do so now.

“I’m taking you back to the House,” Aragorn said.  “Everything will be all right.”  He put his torch aside, then slid one arm beneath Frodo’s knees and the other around his shoulders.

“Wait!” Merry cried out.  “I just thought of something.  On Weathertop, when you showed us the knife that wounded Frodo, the blade dissolved when sunlight touched it.  There was nothing left.”

“I remember,” Aragorn said.  “Do you think that--”

“I think that if you take Frodo outside, the bit that’s sticking out of him might melt and disappear.  How will you find the part that’s still inside him?”

Frodo and Aragorn stared at Merry in astonishment.

“Good thinking, Mer,” Pippin said suddenly.  He pulled the scarf from around his neck.  “Use this.  Tie it around Frodo’s leg so it’s shielded from the sun.”

“Good thinking, Pip,” Merry murmured.  He took the scarf and very gently wound it around Frodo’s calf, covering the splinter in several layers of the well-woven fabric.

“You two make a good team,” Aragorn said.

“I agree,” Merry said, gazing at him meaningfully.

“Ready, Frodo?” Aragorn asked.

“Yes,” Frodo whispered.  “I’m so glad you’re back.”  He put his arms around Aragorn’s neck and only winced slightly when he was lifted.  Just then, all three hobbits looked up the passage.

“They’re coming,” Merry said with relief.  “Lots of folks.  Sam and the others are as good as found.”

“Merry…”

“We’ll get them out, Frodo,” Merry said solemnly. “I promise.  Go on, Strider, take him out of here.  Get that thing out of his leg really really quickly, all right?”

“I’m going with them,” Pippin announced.  “Cousin Bilbo should hear about this from family, not from rumors.”  He took a few steps towards the entrance, then looked back at Aragorn.  “What are we waiting for?”

“Not a thing,” Aragorn said.  Now he, too, could hear voices approaching.  “Merry, use anything in my pack that's needed.  And make sure someone clears the floor of all these shards, carefully, and that they’re taken out into the sunlight.  Tell them why.  We don’t know for certain that any of them are enspelled, or dangerous, but... well, better safe than sorry.”

With that, he strode away with Frodo in his arms, Pippin running ahead of him with the torch.

“Hurry,” Merry whispered.  “Please hurry.”  Just then, he heard Pippin’s voice echo through the cave.

“So this is how you dress when lounging around?  Rather informal rescue attire, wouldn’t you say?”

“Pippin...” came Frodo’s voice.

“Honestly, Frodo, he’s been back in Rivendell for at least an hour.  You do own a brush, don’t you, Strider?  I could lend you one of Merry’s.”

Good old Pip, Merry thought fondly.  Frodo needs him.  They’d better not leave us behind.  He started tearing away at the obstruction, as Pippin had been doing.

We’re coming, Sam.  Hang on.

*~*~*~*~*

“What do you have?  What must be done?”

Not for the first time, his father’s patient training came back to Gimli; after so many years, those two basic questions were as much a part of him as his beard.  All Dwarves, starting as younglings, were taught the wonders of Mahal’s mighty realm... as well as its dangers.  Tale after tale, drill after drill, reinforced the lesson: Rocks will fall; lives will hang in the balance; decisions will need to be made.  Acting impulsively often led to further disaster. 

What do I have?  He had fire, although Legolas’s torch was beginning to flicker.  The remains of the basket and such stray branches that had blown or been carried into the cave over the years would serve as fuel; fire was necessary in order to see, but must be kept small so as not to use up what air they had.  The leftover provisions lay strewn about, but would still be usable.  He had his hammers, the Elf at least one knife.  He did not trust that fissure, and was aware that the cave was in danger of flooding at any time; but as long as it did not, the trickle of water that no doubt still flowed would provide fresh water.

What must be done? Legolas and Sam must be freed, quickly but carefully.  Serious injuries needed to be treated.  The obstruction had to be cleared, either by him or by others.  Any opportunity to signal for help must be exploited.

Within seconds, Gimli had assessed the situation and knew what actions must be taken, and in what order.  First, he moved to the basket, stomped what remained of it to kindling, and lay the head of Legolas’s sputtering torch to the splinters of wood.  The pieces blazed quickly into a small but bright fire, and the area glowed with light.  Now that he could see better, Gimli knelt next to Legolas.  The Elf was breathing, and a finger to Sam’s throat satisfied Gimli that he, too, was alive.

“Think, my son.  Assess calmly, then act with confidence.”

After a careful examination of the rockfall assured him that nothing else was in immediate danger of falling, Gimli used several strong sweeps of his arms to clear debris from the large, cracked shelf of stone that lay across Legolas.  Then, taking a deep breath, he positioned his hands beneath it.

“Now for it,” Gimli muttered.  Straining to his utmost, he shifted the heavy weight aside.  He paused a moment to catch his breath, fighting the urge to just push the Elf away and find out how badly Sam was hurt.  Instead, he carefully pulled Legolas to a clear area of ground near the fire.  Legolas frowned and stirred slightly, and murmured something in Elvish.  Unable to understand him, Gimli returned to where Sam lay unconscious.  He unfastened and removed the hobbit's bulging pack, from which the luncheon blanket still protruded.  He then lifted Sam very gently, trying to jar him as little as possible, and settled him next to Legolas.

There was blood matting Sam’s hair and running down his face oozing from a gash just over his right ear, but Gimli couldn’t tell, yet, what other injuries he might have.  He needed clean fabric, and quickly.  With two sharp tugs, he pulled one sleeve of Sam’s homespun shirt completely off, turned it inside out, and gently but firmly wrapped the cloth about the hobbit’s head.

“Master Dwarf?” came a cracked whisper from beside him.

“Aye,” Gimli muttered.

“How is Sam?”

He asks about Sam before himself.  That is encouraging.

“He lives,” Gimli said, tying off the cloth.

Gimli suddenly realized that he had no sense of how far the passage had been blocked, or even if anyone knew they were trapped.  Frodo and Merry might themselves have been hurt.  Thankfully, young Peregrin knew where they were going today, although it could be hours before anyone thought to look for them.  The care of his comrades, and extricating them all from this dilemma, might be solely up to him.  He turned to look at Legolas, who met his gaze with eyes filled with pain.

“We find ourselves in a small predicament, Master Elf.”

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 7: Leaf and Stone

“My good Legolas, do you know that the caverns of Helm’s Deep are vast and beautiful?  There would be an endless pilgrimage of Dwarves, merely to gaze at them, if such things were known to be.  Aye indeed, they would pay pure gold for a brief glance!”

“And I would give gold to be excused,” said Legolas, “and double to be let out, if I strayed in!”  ‘The Road to Isengard’, The Two Towers

Gandalf and Glorfindel stood together on the west bank of the Bruinen, casting their thoughts and feelings out in silence, and on many levels.

“Elrond spoke truly,” Gandalf said at last.  “They are gone.”

“Yes,” Glorfindel murmured.  “There is no hint of the Nazgûl in my heart, and the trees whisper not of them for many long leagues.”  He took a deep breath and opened his eyes, becoming conscious once more of the river singing loudly in his ears, and his horse nudging him playfully.

“I suspect that only a sole wraith remained when the rest fled south,” Gandalf said.  “One alone could evade your patrols, but not a company of them.”  He sighed heavily.  “Whatever he hoped to accomplish, is done.”

“Or failed,” Glorfindel added.  “We may never know.”

“I think we will,” Gandalf said grimly.  “Those in the cavern were closest to the source of the attack, and will have much to tell us.  We must hurry.”

Glorfindel mounted his horse in one graceful move.  “Indeed, my heart calls me to the cavern, and at once.  Only when it is emptied of those who remain will Elrond dare release the waters that threaten them.  Go to him, Gandalf.”

“I am returning to the House to lend what help I can,” Gandalf said, moving swiftly towards his own horse.  “Get word to us the moment everyone is out of that cave.”

*~*~*~*~*

Gimli checked Sam for other injuries as best he could in the glow of the small fire, but could find nothing obvious -- other than the gash on his head -- and felt no broken bones.  Sam’s face was pale beneath the dirt and blood, but his breathing was not labored.  I must collect water and tend to him properly, Gimli thought.  A light tap to the hobbit’s cheek and calling his name elicited no response, which worried him.  He wrapped Sam’s cloak about him, then pulled out the blanket and covered him with it.

“It is your turn, Master Elf,” Gimli said, turning to Legolas.  “I am no healer, but I will do what I can.”

Unlike Sam, Legolas’s breathing was ragged, and he had not moved from where Gimli had settled him.

“I fear I cannot help you dig us out, Master Dwarf.  I... my right leg may be broken, and I believe several ribs, as well.”

“Let me have a look,” Gimli said quietly, kneeling next to Legolas.  “Will you allow it?”

“Yes,” Legolas whispered.  He knew very little about Dwarves, or their ways, although this one seemed methodical, practical, and not without compassion.  More importantly, Gandalf and Lord Elrond treated him with respect and the hobbits did not fear him.

“How is your head, lad?”

Legolas had to smile.  No one had called him that in over a thousand years.

“It aches,” he admitted.  “I see two of you; a worrisome sight.”  Gimli chuckled, and Legolas was relieved he had not insulted him.  As Gimli raised his tunic, he was startled to feel water from the Dwarf’s beard drip onto his bare chest.

“Why are you wet?  We did not... aii!”  Legolas hissed as Gimli touched his chest gently.  He tried to focus his attention somewhere else.  “The water behind the walls... it sounds much different than before.”

“A great deal occurred in a very short time,” Gimli said.  He moved down to check the Elf’s legs.  “I had reached the end of the cavern and was returning when a powerful wind hit me.  I have never felt anything like it before.  I heard a great noise...” He nodded to the mountainous obstruction just a few yards away.  “... and then a fissure opened in the wall near to where I was standing.  Icy water blasted through it, knocking me to the ground... and stopped nearly as quickly as it began.  I do not know what has become of the water, or if it will return.”  He sat back on his heels.  “Two broken ribs, as far as I can tell, and your right leg above the ankle, as well; there is no protruding bone, which is encouraging.”  He suddenly looked back down the passage, into the darkness.  He got to his feet and pulled a burning stick from the fire.

“Lie still, Master Elf.”

Gimli clomped noisily away and disappeared into the darkness, and Legolas was surprised that the Dwarf's absence caused him to feel uneasy.  It is being underground, he told himself.  I do not belong here.  But to his relief, Gimli returned in just a few minutes, his arms full of dead branches which he piled against the wall.

“We must be prepared, but not waste our resources,” Gimli said.

Legolas nodded that he understood.  The cavern was large, but there was no way to know how long they would be here.  The air would grow stale soon enough without a large fire using it up.

“I retrieved my torch,” Gimli said, showing Legolas what else he had been carrying.  “The water doused it, but that is of no importance now.”  He raised the long, smooth length of wood high above his head, then brought it down with a crack over one knee.  It broke neatly in half.

“Splints?” Legolas asked.

“Aye, you have it,” Gimli responded, “and with your knife, I will cut off a length of this blanket to bind your ribs.  Let me see... my belt should serve, and hopefully Sam will not mind if I borrow his braces...”

Legolas endured having his leg splinted and chest bound by walking in a memory of a green glade near his home, the spring blossoms bright and alive.

“That will have to do for the moment,” Gimli said, impressed by the Elf’s quiet strength – not unlike that of a Dwarf.  “Can you tell me what caused the rockfall?”

“It was strange,” Legolas said, trying to distance himself from the throbbing pains.  “We had nearly reached Frodo and Merry.  When Sam and I were but a short distance away, Frodo seemed to sense something troubling.  At that moment, I felt a... a force... buffet me… possibly that same wind you mentioned.  And then there was a cracking sound from overhead, and a large, dagger-shaped stone fell from the ceiling directly above Frodo.  He would surely have been killed had Merry not reacted quickly.  As it was, I believe he may have been hit by something when it shattered, for I heard him cry out.  Sam started to go to him, but rocks began to shower down almost where we stood.  He was struck and began to fall, and I could only try to... there was no... no time…”

Legolas stopped speaking.  He was growing light-headed from taking such shallow breaths.

“You did your best,” Gimli said.

“I should have been faster,” Legolas whispered, looking away.

“Nonsense,” Gimli said quietly.  “Rocks fall with fearsome speed.  You are both fortunate to be alive at all.” He gazed down at Legolas thoughtfully.  Sam was probably already unconscious when he fell.  He would have been buried in that rubble and suffocated, had the Elf not shielded him from the worst of it.  It was a selfless act, worthy of song and remembrance.

“How much time has passed?” Legolas asked.

“Not very long,” Gimli said.  “It is difficult to say precisely, but it cannot be more than an hour since the rockfall occurred.  But that’s enough talking for now,” he added briskly.  “We will have to wait to learn more about these strange occurrences until we can speak with Frodo.  I’m sure he's fine; he and Sam will be jesting about this as soon as we’re out of here.  Now, you rest while I gather together what supplies we have, and assess our situation more thoroughly.  I must find or make something that will hold water.”

“Gimli...” Legolas said, using the Dwarf’s name for the first time.  “I thank you for your aid.  And placing me here was most kind of you.”

“What do you mean?”

In response, Legolas reached out his right hand and rested it on top of a tree root, a massive thing that had broken through the cave floor over years of growth and steady pressure.

Gimli just shook his head.  He had not even noticed the root; if he had, it might only have occurred to him to chop it into kindling.  But if the Elf was comforted by it...

“You are most welcome... Legolas.”

*~*~*~*~*

Aragorn rode as swiftly as he dared.  He held Frodo carefully, loathe to let the injured leg dangle and be jostled unduly.  He guided the horse with his knees; without any guidance, the animal would head for the stables, and Aragorn had need of haste.

At first, Frodo’s hands about his neck felt cold as ice, but soon they loosened and fell, and Frodo lay limply in his arms.

“Strider,” came Pippin’s frightened voice from behind him.  “On Weathertop, after Frodo was hurt and you went looking for that plant, he had trouble staying awake.  Like... like now.”

Argorn’s heart lurched.  Even wrapped warmly in his own cloak as well as Pippin’s, Frodo was shivering.

Will he be able to bear this a second time, or is he still weakened from his first battle?  How could this have happened?

“Strider?” Pippin asked.

“It is all right, Pippin,” Aragorn said.  “We’re nearly there.”

They rode through a circle of trees that Pippin found familiar, then suddenly the Last Homely House was before them.  With a few words of Elvish, Aragorn brought the horse to a halt at the bottom of the steps, and dismounted as smoothly as he could with Frodo in his arms.

“Go on,” Pippin urged from his high perch.  “I’ll get down somehow.”

“Onto my shoulders, quickly,” Aragorn said, turning his back.  Pippin at once slid down the horse’s broad back and onto Aragorn’s shoulders.  The Ranger bent his knees, and Pippin hopped to the ground.  As soon as he did so, Aragorn strode swiftly up the steps and into the House.

“Where are you taking him?” Pippin asked, running at his side.

“To the Hall of Fire,” Aragorn said, having come to that inescapable conclusion during their short ride.  “No sunlight penetrates that room... in the event that Frodo and Merry’s guess is correct.”

“That’s very smart,” Pippin said approvingly.

Aragorn entered the ancient Hall, its vast space empty and quiet. He set Frodo gently on one of the thick rugs near the fire burning brightly as ever.

Pippin knelt and touched Frodo’s arm.

“You’re going to be fine, cousin. Just do whatever Strider says, all right?”

Aragorn looked down at the semi-conscious hobbit, his thoughts racing with what he needed. Water, bandages, surgical instruments... what else? What if the splinter of rock fought him, or slid from his grasp?  Was anyone left in Rivendell to assist him?

“Please do something,” Frodo had said.

Aragorn was touched by the hobbits’ trust in him. He would have to do his best, and quickly. He only hoped his best would be enough.

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 8:  Channeling Hope

So it was that Frodo saw her whom few mortals had yet seen; Arwen, daughter of Elrond, in whom it was said that the likeness of Lúthien had come on earth again … Such loveliness in living thing Frodo had never seen before nor imagined in his mind; and he was both surprised and abashed to find that he had a seat at Elrond’s table among all these folk so high and fair.  ‘Many Meetings’, The Fellowship of the Ring

Glorfindel rode past the House and continued eastward, his horse’s gallop eating up the few miles to the towering hills.  As he was nearly across the last and largest meadow, he became suddenly aware of something that made him pause.  Slowing Asfaloth to a walk, he listened closely to the songs of the grasses... flowers... trees...  There.  His attention was caught by one of the oldest trees in Imladris -- a massive oak which stood alone, proud and solid.  Bringing Asfaloth to a halt, he dismounted and approached the ancient one.

“What disturbs you, my beauty?” Glorfindel murmured, laying his hands on the trunk.  He knew that this tree could not speak, yet its awareness had grown over the long years; the waters of the valley, potent with an energy found in few other places in Arda, enhanced the life-force of all that depended upon it for nourishment.  He calmed himself, and allowed his thoughts to flow with the tree’s essence down into the ground.  He felt himself guided along one massive root system that stretched under the cavern itself...  up through the floor...

An Elf is in pain, Glorfindel realized.  There is indeed at least one person alive and trapped.  It is someone the tree recognizes... Legolas…

“I thank you,” he said.  “Convey these images, if you can.  Allow him to see sunlight, and feel hope.”  He whispered softly for a few moments in a High Elven tongue few now spoke, and felt the tree respond.  He was unsure whether someone as young as Legolas would be able to sense a subtle change in the tree’s song, and over such a distance, but he dared linger here no longer.  The Elves working to free those trapped must understand the extreme urgency of their task.

If the cavern floods before Legolas – and anyone with him – are located and freed...  He left the thought unfinished, and ran swiftly toward the trees that concealed the cavern’s entrance.  

*~*~*~*~*~*

Somehow he had wandered onto an endless field of ice, and his leg was trapped in a frozen crevice.  He tried desperately to free himself, but his left arm ached, and he was so weary...

“Return to us, Frodo.”

A voice, low and full of music, filled his ears.  As he listened, the air grew wonderfully warm, and the ice melted to reveal beneath it flowers that gave off a sweet fragrance.  Sam had been gathering flowers, had he not?  Sam!  The cave... the splinter of rock...

Frodo opened his eyes with a start, and gasped in panic as he found himself in semi-darkness.

“It is all right,” came the same lovely voice.  “Lie still.”

“Lady Arwen,” Frodo whispered, confused.  He was lying not on ice, but a thick rug.  Above him was the beautiful face of Arwen Evenstar.

The last remnants of the nightmare faded, and the shuddering chills eased.  The hearth-fire beside which he lay was soothing; but warmth also seemed to be radiating from the fingers which rested upon his left shoulder.  He looked around, and realized where he was.

“This is the Great Hall,” Frodo sighed with relief.  “During our journey to Rivendell my sight grew dim; it's so dark in here, I thought... I feared the same thing might be happening again.”

“I understand.  Does your leg pain you greatly?” Arwen asked.

“I can't really tell.  It seems to have gone quite numb.”  Cold...like last time... Frodo took a deep, shuddering breath.  “It's true, then?  Was that falling rock another...” He swallowed.  “Was it a weapon of the Enemy?”

“As unlikely as it seems, we believe it is so,” Arwen said gravely.  “My father felt the valley assaulted, but the attack has been repelled.  He believes that it was the meeting of those two forces that caused the rocks to fall; perhaps it is what the Nazgûl planned.”

“Where is Lord Elrond?” Frodo asked.  “Did Aragorn go to find him?”

“No, Frodo.  My father has been... delayed.”

“That’s what Gandalf said when I woke up the first time,” Frodo chuckled.

“Gandalf is with him,” Arwen continued.  “There is something of great urgency that keeps them; they will both come to you as soon as they can.  But you know that Aragorn is a healer of great skill.  They trust him to remove the shard safely, and so do I.”  When she spoke of Aragorn, Frodo saw the same glow of happiness suffuse her face as when he first observed her and the Ranger together.

“I trust him with my life,” Frodo said quietly.

“I know,” Arwen said.  “He will return in a moment; he has gone with Lindir to father's surgery to gather supplies.  You will soon be able to rest and heal.”

Frodo knew there could be only one way to get that shard out of his leg, but put it out of his mind for the moment.

“Lady, is there any water?”

“Of course.”  Arwen slid an arm beneath Frodo's shoulders and helped him sit up, then handed him a filled goblet.  Only when their hands met did he see how much dirt and dust covered his skin and clothing.

“Take care,” he said, embarrassed.  “Your gown will be soiled.”

“It is of no consequence,” Arwen assured him.  Her eyes twinkled.  “Everyone will need baths this evening, will they not?”

Frodo’s eyes grew large, and he hastily took a long drink.  Arwen smiled to herself.  Aragorn had asked her to keep Frodo awake, and distracted from his injury, and from the reddening of his ears and cheeks, she had succeeded.  Frodo set down the goblet, and she settled him back onto the rug. 

“Did Pippin tell Bilbo what's happened?”

“He must certainly have reached him by now.  After he left you, I understand that he raced about ensuring that no one was left in the House who could be helping at the cavern.  When he saw me outside father's study, he said that Aragorn needed help; I came as quickly as I could.”

“Pippin spoke to you?”

“He did indeed,” Arwen chuckled.

Frodo shook his head in amazement.  They were all quite in awe of Lord Elrond's daughter, but Pippin had thus far been unable to speak a single word in her presence.

“Any shyness he feels around me was overcome by his concern for you,” Arwen said.

Although Frodo was still wrapped in his own cloak as well as Pippin's, another chill shook him and his thoughts began to drift.  He grew drowsy again, and felt Arwen touch his cheek.

“Try to stay awake,” Arwen said softly. 

“I will.”  Frodo concentrated on her face.  Arwen once again rested her hand on his shoulder, and he smiled in thanks.

“You are a healer as well?”

“Perhaps, in my own way.  My father has trained my brothers and me in many skills, and we are fortunate to be of the Children of Lúthien.”

“Aragorn sang about her, just before the wraiths came upon us.”

Arwen nodded.  “Her life has inspired me greatly.”

“Lady Arwen, has word reached you about Sam and the others?  Is there any news at all?”

“We must be patient, Frodo.  As we speak, nearly everyone in Imladris is working to free them.”

“Are they... alive?” Frodo asked hesitantly.

“There is no reason to think otherwise,” Arwen said, looking deeply into his eyes.  “Do not lose hope… for yourself, or your friends.”

“I won’t,” Frodo whispered.  At that moment, he felt that almost anything was possible.

*~*~*~*~*~*

As Sam swam up slowly from the depths of unconsciousness, at first he was aware of nothing except for a painful throbbing in his head.  He tried to open his eyes, but even that small effort was too much.  He slid back into nothingness again for a time.  Then pain returned, and with it, a blurred awareness.  He smelled wood smoke and dirt, and his throat felt parched.  This time he succeeded in forcing open his eyes, but saw only dim swirls of dust and a small flickering shadow nearby.  A fire.  Where am I?  He felt a cold horror when he realized that he was wrapped in something constricting.  Had he been taken by one of the spiders Mr. Bilbo used to talk about?  Was he trussed up for some creature’s supper?  A moan escaped his lips before he could stop it, and suddenly something hairy and damp was looming over him.  He tried to struggle, but hands on his shoulders pinned him gently to the ground.

Mr. Bilbo’s spiders didn’t have hands, did they?  And I’m not strung up in a tree.

“Easy there.” A deep rumbling voice came out of the creature’s mouth.  “Lie still.”

Sam tried to calm himself, wishing he could see better.  Ruffians!  Do they have Mr. Frodo as well?

“Please sir, don’t hurt me,” he whispered.  “Where is... I need to...” He tried to fight back a growing nausea, but it was no use.  “Going to be sick...” he whispered, then found himself lifted slightly and turned on his side.  He convulsed, then began to vomit uncontrollably.  When the retching finally ceased, he sagged weakly in the strong arms that held him.  The exertion had made his head ache even worse than before.  He felt cold and dizzy, and hadn’t the strength to escape... not yet.  He fought to stay conscious, but his thoughts drifted and then slipped away as darkness claimed him once more.

Gimli felt Sam go limp, and he lowered him back onto the ground with a sigh. 

“He didn’t know you,” Legolas said, and there was pain in his voice.  “I wish he had stayed awake long enough to hear my voice.”

“I wish he had, as well,” Gimli said, greatly shaken.  “He was frightened of me.”

“His mind will clear,” Legolas said confidently.  “I have seen many head injuries, and there is often confusion at first.”

“I hope you are correct.” Gimli spread a thick layer of dirt over the area where Sam had been sick, then got to his feet.  “I need to work on getting us out of here.  But first, you both need water; let us see what we have to work with.”  He started to gather up the scattered contents of the picnic basket.

After a few minutes, he had laid out upon a smooth shelf of crystal everything he could find that had been in the basket: a hunk of yellow cheese still wrapped in damp cloth, half a loaf of rather dirty bread, and the large, shallow bowl which had held ripe raspberries.  The remaining raspberries had rolled away, and of the small cakes, all but two were completely squashed, or missing altogether.  The cheese knife the hobbits had used was not to be found, but Gimli held that to be of little consequence.  Sam’s pack also yielded several things: a tinderbox, a small book written in what Gimli assumed was some form of Elvish that he had seen Frodo carrying about, and a half-dozen pocket-handkerchiefs.

Gimli picked up the bowl with a satisfied grunt.  “I’m going back to that fissure to get water,” he said.  “If Sam wakes again, try to keep him calm with one of those songs you folk are so fond of.”  He pulled a long, burning stick from the fire, then was gone.

Legolas lay quietly, feeling rather useless.  His vision was still unclear, which unsettled him almost as much as the situation in which he found himself; under normal circumstances, Elves took their much-envied visual acuity for granted.

At least my arms are undamaged, he thought gratefully. If I could not draw a bow, I would be useless indeed. The Ring-bearer will have need of my skill.  He realized suddenly that his decision had been made.  If Lord Elrond agreed, he would accompany Frodo and Sam on their journey south.  Perhaps he could travel with them as far as the Golden Wood... surely Gandalf would take them there?

For a time, he was able to keep the pain at bay by losing himself in tales he had heard about Lady Galadriel’s realm.

“Wool gathering, lad?” came an amused voice.

Legolas quickly brought his awareness back to the present, and realized that he was beginning to feel rather too warm.  He gratefully allowed Gimli to help him drink from the shallow bowl.  The water was fresh and cold.

Gimli carefully set the bowl next to the other supplies, dipped one of the handkerchiefs in it, and knelt next to Sam.

“We need to get out of here, Master Elf.  We are running out of time.”

“Does Sam grow worse?  Do you fear another rockfall is imminent?” Legolas asked, trying to find a more comfortable position.

“No,” Gimli said, cleaning Sam’s face of blood and dirt.

“Then I rather think we have nothing but time, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said, again resting one hand on the smooth tree root.  “Or is the air already growing foul?  I do not sense any change.”

“It is that fissure,” Gimli said.  He tried to keep his voice steady, but Legolas could hear the anxiety in it.  “I sense great strain on the rocks; something does not seem right to me.”

“Very little about this situation ‘seems right’.  You did not see that dagger of rock as it fell; it was aimed at Frodo, without a doubt. And you and I both felt that strange pressure of wind.”

“Aye,” Gimli agreed, “but there is something else.”  He looked at the Elf gravely.  “While the flow of water from that fissure remains slow, and not the torrent it was when it first began, it is constant.  The lowest level of floor in this cave, near the rear wall, is already covered in several inches of water.  And there is no guarantee that anyone is even looking for us...”

There was no more time to lose; he needed to evaluate the mountain of debris as a miner would, and set to work.  He felt his concentration narrow upon the task at hand.  He would shift those rocks and free them, or die trying.

“Gimli!” Legolas suddenly gasped in amazement.

“What is it, lad?” Gimli asked absently.  He turned to Legolas; the Elf was not looking at him, but at the tree root.

“They know we are here,” Legolas said softly, a great peace filling him.  “Help is coming.”

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 9:  Songs of Power 

Since they were to come in the days of the power of Melkor, Aulë made the Dwarves strong to endure.  Therefore they are stone-hard, stubborn, fast in friendship and in enmity, and they suffer toil and hunger and hurt of body more hardily than all other speaking peoples; and they live long, far beyond the span of Men, yet not for ever.  Aforetime it was held among the Elves in Middle-earth that dying the Dwarves returned to the earth and the stone of which they were made; yet that is not their own belief.  For they say that Aulë the Maker, whom they call Mahal, cares for them and gathers them to Mandos in halls set apart. ‘Of Aulë and Yavanna’, The Silmarillion

Gimli knelt next to Legolas and felt his brow.

“A bit feverish, Master Elf,” he frowned.

“I know,” Legolas said, closing his eyes for a moment.  “I do not feel well at all.  But help is on its way.”

“It is good to hope thus,” Gimli said soothingly. “We will certainly be freed more quickly if my digging is met by like effort.”

“It will be,” Legolas said confidently.  “The tree sings of light and hope.”

Gimli smiled indulgently.  “I know that Elves are rather sensitive when it comes to trees.  However, would you not agree that it is a bit fanciful to trust that a root would comprehend whether or not help is coming… or be able to impart such a message, even if it did?  Let me get you more water.”

“You believe my words to stem from some sort of fevered hallucination?” Legolas asked, astonished. “Master Dwarf, I have communicated with many trees, and I assure you, this one is conveying a clear message.  If you paid as much attention to living things as you do to inert matter--”

“Inert?” Gimli blurted out, and his voice echoed throughout the cavern.  “Are you deaf as well as blind?  Have you ever even tried to hear the language of living rock?  A lifetime I have spent delving and listening, and learning respect for the foundation of our world.  Trees come and go, but stone endures until the end of time.”

“You know nothing of trees,” Legolas said heatedly.  “You call me deaf, but you refuse to hear.  Trees are living beings; their patience and wisdom are respected by my people.  Long-enduring or no, what could stones possibly have to say that would be of interest?”

“You are arrogant and untutored,” Gimli growled.  “Count yourself lucky to be injured; otherwise I would challenge you to withdraw your words or face the consequences.  Think you that Mahal plucked us from the sky, fully formed?  We are of the earth, and we understand its language.”  He glared down at Legolas, his eyes ablaze.  “The earth speaks louder than a tree root that should be singing only of its good fortune that I have not chopped it to kindling!”

“The arrogance of Dwarves surpasses all!” Legolas declared.   His hand moved to cover the tree root once more; no Dwarf would harm it while he lived.  “And as for your challenge--”

“Mr. Legolas?  Mr. Gimli?” came a weak voice.

“Sam!” Gimli cried out.  Suddenly nothing else mattered but the sight of the hobbit's brown eyes full upon him.  “You know me!”

“Of course I do,” Sam said.  “But... I thought you were arguing.  Or did I dream that?”

Legolas chuckled, and Gimli shot him a glance, his eyes now twinkling with mirth, not ire.

“It was surely a dream,” Gimli said, moving to where Sam lay.  “Does anything hurt other than your head?”

“Everything,” Sam groaned.  “It feels as though I was run over by a pony cart.”

Gimli checked Sam over, then nodded encouragingly.  “I find no broken bones.  Hobbits are made of strong stuff; rather like the earth itself, wouldn’t you agree, Legolas?”

“They are as sturdy as trees, Gimli,” Legolas agreed.

“My head does hurt awfully, though,” Sam said.  He freed his right arm from the cloak and blanket to feel his head, and stared at his bare arm.  “Where’s my sleeve?”

“Right here,” Gimli told him, guiding his hand to the improvised bandage.  “The bleeding seems to have stopped.”

“Bleeding?”

“Aye.  Do not be alarmed if you feel a mite dizzy.  Are you hungry?  I know you must be thirsty.”

“I can’t just now, Mr. Gimli, I’m that queasy.”  Sam looked around in utter confusion.  “Where are we?  Where’s Mr. Frodo?”

“I will leave Legolas to answer your questions, lad,” Gimli said.  “Just lie still, and try not to worry overmuch.  But first...”  He retrieved two clean cloths from the shelf, soaked them in the bowl of water, and brought one each to Legolas and Sam.

“Put those over your mouth and nose if you need to,” he advised his companions.  “What I’m about to do is likely to stir up quite a bit more dust.”  He smiled at Sam.  “You showed great foresight in bringing these.”

“T’weren’t foresight, sir, just common sense, is all,” Sam protested.  He watched as Gimli strode to the barrier.  With seemingly little effort, the Dwarf began lifting and tossing aside the heavy stones he had examined earlier.

“Mr. Legolas?” Sam ventured.  “What’s happened?” 

“I am sorry, Sam, my thoughts were elsewhere,” Legolas said.  He felt hot and drowsy, and his mind was less clear than usual.  It frightened him.   I must not sleep, he thought fiercely.  The tree is as alert and awake as I have ever sensed; there may be other messages.  “What do you recall?”

“Well sir...”  Sam frowned.  “I'm not exactly sure.  I can’t seem to remember anything past breakfast.”

Choosing his words with care, Legolas told Sam about meeting the hobbits in the meadow, exploring the beautiful cavern, and the events leading up to the cave-in.

“And you think Mr. Frodo was hit by one of them rocks?” Sam cried out.

“It is possible,” Legolas said quietly.

Gimli, listening closely, realized that Legolas had left out an important part of the story.  An arrogant race they surely were, but he would not begrudge even an Elf praise for a selfless deed.

“You are too modest, Master Elf,” he called out from where he was working.  “Sam, you would have been buried beneath all this had he not shielded you with his own body.”

Legolas sighed.  It is so difficult to remain angry with that blasted Dwarf, he thought resignedly.

Sam stammered his thanks to Legolas, trying desperately to force the fogginess out of his head.

“Do not fear, Sam,” Legolas said gently, sensing the hobbit's panic.  “Your memories will return in time.”  He moved slightly, and winced as a sharp pain shot across his cracked ribs.

“You're hurt,” Sam whispered.  “From helping to save me?”  He wanted to go to Legolas’s aid, but felt for sure he would be sick if he sat up, or even moved. 

Legolas smiled at him reassuringly.  “I have been injured before, and will be again.  Elves mend quickly.  Just lie quietly, as Gimli said, and let your thoughts calm.  Help is coming; I know it.  And our stalwart Dwarf will ensure that we will be freed swiftly.”  Strangely, he felt confident that this was the truth.  His eyes wandered to where Gimli was digging away at the wall of dirt with a flat, sharp-edged rock he had found.  So quickly and efficiently was he working, both at digging and shoring up the cavity he was making with the long, sturdy crystalline sheets that lay all about them, that Legolas was amazed.  If only that strange growling would stop... Suddenly he realized that what he was hearing was Gimli.  The Dwarf was singing (if you could call it that); but whether to himself or to the stones, he knew not.

Sam closed his eyes against the pounding in his head.  He felt battered and bruised, and dreadfully dizzy... but the worst was not knowing how his master was faring. 

 Mr. Frodo in trouble, and me unable to be with him!  It was almost too much to bear.

*~*~*~*~*

Merry watched carefully as the last bits of stone disintegrated in wisps of smoke.  The Elves within the cavern had begun the massive work of tunneling through the fallen ceiling, but he had been able to convince several of them that every last fragment of that fearsome dagger of rock needed to be gathered up, and brought out into the sunlight.  It had been a very close thing – the sun was about to set when they brought out the last of them – but they had made it in time.  The Elves murmured nervously in their own tongue as the enspelled shards of rock melted before their eyes, leaving only a patch of slightly-wilted grass where the pile had been.

We were right, Merry thought.  Those foul Riders found a way to get to Frodo even within the borders of Rivendell.  He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so frustrated, or torn.  Part of him wanted to run back to the House and be with Frodo.  But Strider’s with him, and Lord Elrond, and Gandalf, and Cousin Bilbo.  Pip is there, too.  They don’t need me.  Part of him wanted to run into the cave and help tear down that barrier.  But there are fully two dozen Elves working at it, and they’re bigger and stronger than I am.  What help could I be?

“Merry,” said a soft voice.

Merry looked up, and realized that Glorfindel stood beside him.

“Did you see Frodo?  How is he?” Merry asked anxiously.

“I am sorry, I do not know,” Glorfindel said.  “I came directly from the Ford; however, be assured that Aragorn will do everything possible to ensure his full recovery.”

“Of course he will,” Merry said.  “Thank you for coming to help.”

“I will do all I can,” Glorfindel said.  “Sam, Legolas, and the Dwarf must be found without delay.  There can be no rest until they are freed.”

“I know they might run out of air.” Merry said.  “If... if they’re still alive, that is.”

“At least one person is,” Glorfindel said.  “But the cavern is vast, and the air will not fail in a day, or even two.  It is the water...”

“What water?”

“Merry, we must be prepared for whatever happens,” Glorfindel said quietly.  He knelt and looked Merry in the eyes, clasping the hobbit’s shoulder.  “The cavern is in danger of flooding; Lord Elrond even now labors to hold back the waters.”

“What?” Merry asked, horrified. 

Glorfindel looked grim.  “If he expends himself beyond his limits...” He left the thought unspoken.  “If Gandalf were here, he would be able to send a message to Elrond more quickly than I could ride.  But if necessary, Asfaloth will bear me back to the House with all speed as soon as there is news to tell.”  He got to his feet and strode quickly through the dark entrance.

Merry stood alone for another moment, his mind whirling.  One person, at least, is still alive.  How could he know that?  Who is it?  How does Lord Elrond know what’s happening in the cave?  Did that filthy Black Rider get away?  Is he still around somewhere?  Should I go back and stay with Frodo?  Stay here and try to help?  What can someone as small as a hobbit do?

As small as a hobbit... Suddenly his inner turmoil ceased.  Merry turned resolutely toward the cave.  His place was here, and he knew exactly what he could do.

*~*~*~*~*

Even if Frodo didn’t recognize the footsteps, he would have known that it was Aragorn entering the Hall by Arwen’s radiant smile as he approached.  He remembered how Aragorn had appeared that night when he stood next to her in this very Hall.  The Ranger had appeared so noble and kingly... Frodo suddenly wondered if he had, for a moment, seen Aragorn the way she saw him.

“You love him,” Frodo whispered.  Before Arwen could respond, Aragorn was there, still barefoot and dressed simply.  But his hands were clean, and his long hair had been tied back with a thin strip of leather.  He set two pots on the hearth -- one filled with clean water, and the other containing a combination of water and antiseptic herbs.  Lindir, following closely behind him, put down the large tray he was carrying that contained instruments, cloth strips, towels, and a small phial.  Seeing the tray, Frodo suddenly felt cold again.  When Aragorn knelt beside him, he could see the concern in the Ranger’s grey eyes.

“I am sorry I needed to leave you,” Aragorn said.

“I knew you’d be back,” Frodo said.  He looked up at Arwen and smiled.  “Of course it’s not me you hurried back to see.”

“I see that you are as incorrigible as Bilbo,” Arwen chuckled.

“Bilbo!” Frodo gasped.  “He’ll be so worried.”

“Pippin is with him,” Aragorn said, carefully unwrapping the scarf from Frodo’s left leg.  “I’ll let them know myself when you’re tucked up in bed.”

“I’m rather tired of being... oh, I want to see it,” Frodo said.  Again, Arwen helped him to a sitting position, and he gazed down at his calf.  Only the tip of the splinter of rock could now be seen above the skin.

“Frodo, I dare not put you into a sleep until this is done.”  Aragorn looked at Frodo gravely.  “Only you can tell me when your body and spirit are completely free of it.  There cannot be even the tiniest fragment left within you.”

“I understand,” Frodo said.  “What will you do with it?  Gandalf said the last one had to be melted...”

“It was indeed, but not by this fire,” Aragorn said.  “Lindir will take the shard to the smiths.  Are you ready?”

Frodo nodded, his heart beginning to race.  Arwen laid him back down, then took both of his cold hands in her own.

“Look at me, Frodo,” she murmured.  “Look into my eyes.”

When she had Frodo’s full attention, Arwen began to sing.  Frodo recognized the same song to Elbereth he had heard before in this Hall, and again felt lifted into a realm of gold and silver and blue, where the air was pure as crystalline water and colors had no names.

As soon as Frodo’s breathing slowed and his eyes lost their focus, Arwen looked toward Aragorn and nodded.

Aragorn slid a thick towel beneath Frodo's leg, then dipped a cloth into the now-warmed herbal water and cleansed the area around the wound.  The skin felt cold to his touch, and he wondered at how little the wound had bled.  Just like Frodo's shoulder, he thought.  I wonder if part of the spell upon the iron impairs blood loss so that the victim does not die from the injury.  So that there is time for the shard to travel to... He shook his head, banishing such grim thoughts; they would help neither him, nor Frodo.  He picked up a scalpel from the tray, motioned for Lindir to hold Frodo’s leg firmly, and took a deep breath.  He wished there was more light, and that Elrond was here.  But most of all, he wished that this brave hobbit would soon be free of pain and fear... at least, for a little while.

Frodo gasped when the razor-sharp blade cut into his leg.  He instinctively tried to move away from it, but someone held him fast, and Arwen's song continued to carry him on a shining wave of exhilarating beauty.  Aragorn had begun singing softly, as well.  But suddenly he heard a new voice, a dark, powerful presence that threatened to drown him. 

Lindir and Arwen watched anxiously as Aragorn clamped a pair of extracting forceps firmly around the end of the shard.  Still the wound was barely bleeding, even though he had cut deeply into Frodo's leg on either side of the fragment.

Tell them to stop, Ring-bearer, the voice whispered urgently.  Let the Shadow take you.  The Dark Lord acknowledges your Mastery of the Ring.  He will bow before you.  Arda will be yours.

“It fights me,” Aragorn muttered.  “Lindir, hold fast.”

Tell them to stop, now!

“Aragorn, now!” Frodo cried out.  “Now!”  And then there was a tremendous pull on his leg, a bitter scream in his mind, and the voice was gone.  The heavy, dark weight numbing his body lifted, leaving him dizzied with relief.

“Frodo, tell us--” Arwen began.

“It's gone,” Frodo whispered.  “All of it.  It's gone.”

Aragorn, fatigued as if newly-come from battle, sat drenched in sweat, grasping the forceps with all his might.  The jagged stone he had pulled from Frodo's leg lay within its pincers, and blood was now pouring from the wound and soaking the towel.

“Give it to me.”  From a long distance, Aragorn heard Lindir's voice, felt the Elf's hands on his own.  “Release it, Aragorn.  Give it to me.”

Aragorn loosened his grip with an effort, and Lindir instantly took the instrument from him and rushed from the Hall.

“Estel, the potion,” Arwen said, and Aragorn took the phial from the tray with shaking hands, pulled out the stopper, and gave it to her.  She held it to Frodo's mouth, and when his lips parted, encouraged him to drink.  Aragorn wrapped a temporary bandage around Frodo's calf until he could get him to a room with more light so as to thoroughly cleanse and suture the wound.  By the time he was finished, Arwen felt Frodo relaxing, and his eyes soon fluttered closed.

“Sleep,” she whispered, and gently stroked his brow.  

But as Frodo slipped into dreams of light, his last conscious thought was of Sam... still trapped in darkness.

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 10: Endurance

“Well,” said Aragorn, “I can only say that hobbits are made of a stuff so tough that I have never met the like of it. Had I known, I would have spoken softer in the Inn at Bree!” ‘The Bridge of Khazad-dûm’, The Fellowship of the Ring 

The mountains far to the north sent their icy waters flowing to the hidden valley of Imladris, feeding the springs, waterfalls, and fountains before continuing south via the mighty Bruinen.  But for all the water that could be seen, there was an equal measure or more that travelled deep underground.  Over millennia it had bored through rock and crystal, travelling familiar channels.  But suddenly the rock had fractured, and the water was relentlessly forcing its way into new channels.  The fissures in the cavern wall were straining under the pressure, widening even as Elrond struggled desperately to keep the waters from bursting through them.  He tried to meet relentless force with his own, working with Vilya to gentle and divert the flow as best he could.

After hours of such unyielding concentration, Elrond began to feel only a tenuous connection to his physical form.  He had been vaguely aware of his daughter when she came and went, grateful for her gentle presence.  When another came to stand by him, he knew it must be Gandalf when he felt the fierce, invigorating power pulsing through his spirit.  However, he was dismayed to realize that each infusion of energy from Narya strengthened him less than the one before.  Vilya had been imbued with great power, which he had learned to harness, but the natural forces of Arda could not be denied.  The cavern's inner wall was going to give way entirely; it was just a matter of time.

Time... the one thing Elves think about the least.  It is now my enemy.

With an enormous effort of will, he kept himself separate from a pain and fatigue he dared not yet address, lest it crush him.

“We fight the long defeat,” he had heard his mother-in-law say on more than one occasion.  “But fight we must; there is no other choice.”

But this fight went against nature itself.  And nature was winning.

*~*~*~*~*

Gimli dug as one possessed -- as only a Dwarf certain of his skills and instincts can work -- finding a rhythm, sensing, listening, seeing the best places to delve and which to bypass.  Digging, shifting rocks, and shoring up the ever-deepening hole… two feet into the barrier… three… four…  The cavity he was excavating wasn’t very high, but he made sure it was at least wide enough for a stretcher.  He knew something about broken ribs; Legolas would have to be carried out flat to avoid injuring him further.  The Elf's injuries troubled him, but it was Sam who worried him most.

Sam was at first cheerful despite his pain and anxiety, but as time went by he spoke less and less, and had trouble staying awake.  Gimli and Legolas were startled, and greatly concerned, when he awoke from a drowse and, for a moment, was once more confused about who they were. Although he was thirsty, his stomach remained queasy; Gimli could do little for him except to moisten his dry lips with water, and keep him warm.   

Gimli stopped working only three times in the next few hours; each time, he checked on Sam and Legolas and took a few swallows of water and food.  Twice he left to refill the bowl from their only source of fresh water -- the fissure towards the rear of the cavern.  Each time he returned, he gave Legolas a grave look, shook his head, and resumed work with renewed urgency.  They had come to an unspoken agreement not to tell Sam about the slowly-flooding cave; what good would it do, after all?  Legolas watched silently as, after his latest trip, Gimli transferred all their supplies from the shelf of crystal, which jutted out from the wall a few feet off the floor, to a cleared space next to the fire. 

If the waters reach us, I will lift Sam up to this shelf, Gimli thought grimly to himself.  It will hold one small person, and no more.  Perhaps it will buy him some time.

“How does he fare?” Legolas asked quietly during one such break, as Gimli gave him a drink.  His voice was hoarse from the choking dust.

“He sleeps again,” Gimli said.  He broke off pieces of cheese and bread and fed them to the Elf.  “I do not think it good that he cannot stay conscious.”

“Do not underestimate a hobbit,” Legolas said.  “We heard at the Council what Frodo endured, and our fathers both speak with admiration of the Burglar and his surprising resilience.”

Gimli grinned.  “I never thought to meet Mr. Bilbo Baggins, nor any of his kin.  I find that I like and admire these folk more each day.”  He took the damp cloth from Legolas’s hand and laid it on his forehead.  “Since you insist upon talking and singing incessantly, and will not guard your throat against the dust, this will be of greater use here.”

“I wished only to distract Sam, and keep him awake,” Legolas said, trying not to cough.  He met Gimli’s eyes.  “My fever grows higher, does it not?”

“Aye, lad, it does,” Gimli sighed.  The Elf’s skin was hot to the touch.  “Your leg needs a healer’s skill, not a Dwarf’s clumsy splinting.”

“Do not berate yourself.  Your skill will free us, and then the healers can enjoy giving orders and plying their tonics.”

“Does your tree root have anything new to tell?” Gimli asked lightly.

“I know you are only humoring me, Master Dwarf, but I tell you that the tree continues to relay its observations.  It has sensed many Elves coming and going.  The Sun is setting, and evening cools the air.  The birds are quieting.”  He sighed.  “Gimli, I wish I could assist you.  I have never felt so useless.”

“You are here for Sam,” Gimli said softly.  “It is enough.”  He could see that Legolas was attempting to conceal how much pain he was in; the efforts to keep Sam awake and aware were taking their toll.  “I am encouraged by your words.” he continued.  “If so many Elves are coming and going from the cave, as you seem to believe, they must indeed know that we are here.  I must get back to work.”  He grunted and stood up.  “Are you still seeing two of everything?”

“Nay, there is now but one Dwarf before me,” Legolas said, trying to smile.  “I am much relieved.”

*~*~*~*~*

Aragorn carried Frodo through the empty corridors to Lord Elrond’s surgery, and laid him on one of the high tables.  As he lit the lamps, he remembered all the times his own sprains and cuts had been treated in this room.  Fatigue was threatening to overwhelm him, but there was no time to think about that now.

Lindir entered just as he was setting out basins of water, antiseptics, and instruments.

“It is done,” the Elf said.  He looked shaken, as if he had witnessed something beyond his experience.

Aragorn nodded that he understood.  On Weathertop he had seen a Morgul blade melt ominously into thin air, and the sight was a chilling one.

After making certain that Frodo was still deeply asleep, Aragorn unwrapped the makeshift bandage.  He cleansed the wound as thoroughly as he was able, then with Lindir's assistance, carefully sutured it with all of his skill.  After years of improvising with whatever conditions and tools were at hand in the Wild, Aragorn was pleased to have a clean room and precision instruments to use.  At last, he wrapped clean strips of cloth around Frodo's leg.

“There now, that's better,” he murmured to the sleeping hobbit.  “All that's needed is a bath, and your kin can see to that when you awake.”  He sighed with weariness.  “Lindir, there may be more injured who will need care, but there is no way to know when they will arrive.”

“I will see that all is in readiness here,” Lindir said quietly.  “You did well, Aragorn.  I hope the valley is now free of those accursed shards of stone.”

“So do I,” Aragorn agreed fervently.  “I thank you for your help.”  He lifted Frodo gently and carried him to his room, where he found Pippin and Bilbo waiting for them.  He settled Frodo onto the bed.

“Pippin said you didn’t need us hanging over your shoulder while you worked, Dúnadan,” Bilbo said, his light words masking his concern.

Aragorn knelt to address the old hobbit.  “Did Pippin tell you what happened, my friend?”

“Yes.  Is Frodo... will he...?”

“He will be fine,” Aragorn said, and saw relief and joy in Bilbo's eyes.  “His leg no longer feels cold; the shard is gone, melted in the forge.  He should sleep well.”

“Thank you,” Bilbo whispered.

“When he wakes, he will be comforted by your presence.” 

“And he'll be wanting news about Sam,” Pippin added.  “I hope we hear something soon.”

Bilbo turned to look at Frodo, and a smile touched his eyes.  “My brave lad.  You look like you've fallen into a dustbin.”  He took up a cloth, and began to gently wipe Frodo’s still dirt-smeared face.

“Strider,” Pippin said thoughtfully, “you haven’t had time to get any rest since you got back this morning, have you?”

“No,” Aragorn admitted.  He slowly got to his feet, and found that he was feeling a bit faint.

“And you haven’t eaten!  Go find something.  We’ll stay with Frodo; he needs a good wash and clean clothes.  We'll be careful of his leg.”

“I should--”

“Take some rest, Estel,” came a soft voice from the doorway.  Arwen entered the room carrying a tea tray.  “Pippin, I took your scarf to be laundered; I trust that is all right?”

Pippin nodded shyly, a slow flush creeping up his cheeks.  Whatever courage he had found earlier in speaking to Lord Elrond’s daughter seemed to have deserted him.

“Aragorn,” Bilbo said firmly, “You’ve done enough for now.  You’re nearly as pale as you were when you and the others arrived after fighting off those Black Riders I heard so much about.”

I feel as if I just fought them off again, Aragorn thought.  And Arwen tells me that Lord Elrond is in danger, there’s no way to know what injuries Sam, Legolas, and Gimli might have sustained...

“Arwen, if I am needed…”

“I will come for you,” Arwen set down the tray on a table next to Frodo’s bed and turned to Aragorn with a mischievous smile.

“You were wise to place the towel under Frodo’s leg in the Hall,” she said.  “That carpet was a gift from Grandmother.”

Aragorn grinned, his beloved’s gentle humor acting to lift his spirits.

Bilbo chuckled softly.  “I have heard much of the Lady Galadriel.  You did well, Dúnadan.”

“Thank you, Bilbo.  Facing Nazgûl in their wrath is fearsome enough.”

“Go on, Strider,” Pippin urged.

“All right,” Aragorn relented.  “Bilbo, do not be alarmed if Frodo is a bit dizzy when he wakes; his leg bled a great deal.  Keep him warm, and urge him to drink as much water as possible.  He'll no doubt awaken in pain; send for me, whatever the hour, and I will bring herbs to ease him.”  He checked Frodo’s breathing and pulse once more, then stood for a moment, regarding him thoughtfully. 

That piece of rock fought me.  It was pulling energy out of me even as I was pulling it free of Frodo’s leg.  How did Frodo resist that first enspelled shard for 17 days?  I marveled at it then; now, his strength and resilience are almost beyond comprehension.  There was so much more to these small folk than met the eye.

Aragorn made his way to his own room, thinking longingly of another hot bath, or finding a light meal... but the effort to do either seemed suddenly beyond his ability.  He was asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow.

** TBC **

This chapter brings back Arnen, an Elf first introduced in my story “Return to Rivendell”.

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 11: Breaking Through

“Maybe the men of this land are wise to say little: one family of busy dwarves with hammer and chisel might mar more than they made.”

“No, you do not understand,” said Gimli.  “No dwarf could be unmoved by such loveliness ... We would tend these glades of flowering stone, not quarry them.”   ‘The Road to Isengard’, The Two Towers

Merry ran into the cave, dodging past Elves holding lanterns or passing back stones and baskets of earth.  When he reached the cave-in, he dashed into the tunnel being dug.

“Have a care, Master Hobbit,” said the Elf in charge, setting aside his shovel for a moment.

“This is taking too long, Arnen,” Merry said frantically.  “Glorfindel thinks the blocked-off section of the cave is in danger of flooding.”

“I told them,” Glorfindel said gravely, emerging from the swirling dust to stand in front of Merry.  “We are digging with all speed.”

“Do you know how much further there is to go?”

Glorfindel sighed.  “It is difficult to say.  There have been sounds through the earth, but too faint to pinpoint exact direction or distance.  Our shouts, and taps on the rocks, thus far bring no response; however, it is our hope that someone is digging from the other side.”

“Glorfindel,” Merry asked quietly, “which of them did you sense was still alive?”

“Legolas,” Glorfindel said.  “But Merry, that does not mean the others are not alive.”

“I know,” Merry whispered.

“I assure you, we are doing all we can to…”

But Merry’s attention had returned to the barrier, and those trapped behind it.  Small holes can be dug faster than large ones, he was thinking.  Even hobbit younglings know that.  It takes weeks or even months to excavate a comfortable, well-built smial with rooms, windows, and proper ventilation.  But if you’re in a hurry…  He took a deep breath, certain that his plan was a good one.  He just had to convince these Elves to listen to him. 

“Please ask some of your folk to start a small hole,” Merry said earnestly.  “A quick, small one; just big enough for me wriggle through.”

“I understand what you are suggesting,” Glorfindel said kindly, “but it is out of the question.  Without taking time to secure the walls and ceiling, I cannot imagine that any hole – however small – would be safe.  We cannot risk endangering anyone else.”

“I may not have done much digging myself,” Merry replied, “but I am a hobbit.  We know something of being underground.  You’re digging this big tunnel, making sure it’s shored up with timber, and that’s fine.  But we’re running out of time.  What if the barrier is less thick in a different direction?  Shouldn’t we find out?”

He pulled his sword from its scabbard, thankful that he insisted on wearing it even though he had been teased about going armed in Rivendell.

“I could wriggle into a small space, pushing this ahead of me,” he explained.  “It would extend my reach.  Maybe I could break through to the other side.” 

“It would not be--”

“Safe, I know,” Merry said impatiently.  “But I promise not to go any farther than my own body length; you can pull me back if anything starts to give way.  Please let me try.  We need to know how much more there is to dig.  We need to know which direction is best.”   How can I face Frodo if anything happens to Sam, and I could have done something?  He gazed up at the Elf imploringly.  “We need to let Sam and the others know that we’re coming for them.  It would give them hope.”

“Hope carries great power,” Arnen murmured in his own tongue, and Glorfindel gazed down at Merry, considering what to do.  He had seen first-hand the courage and resilience of these small ones, and the words of Lord Elrond were fresh in his memory.

This is the hour of the Shire-folk.

“Well?” Merry asked.

Glorfindel called several Elves to his side and spoke to them quickly, then knelt to address Merry. 

“A small hole will be dug while we continue with the main tunnel.  But you may not enter until Arnen deems it stable; we will not risk losing you, too.”

*~*~*~*~*

Gimli dug steadily, alternating between using sharp lengths of crystal and Legolas’s knife, and wielding his hammers to break up large stones.  As the space he was excavating grew deeper, he found himself lamenting that he could not take the time to appreciate the beauty of his surroundings.  The crystalline rocks that had fallen from the ceiling of the cavern, now tumbled and compacted into a formidable barrier, sparkled in the light of the burning brand he had thrust between them so he could see what he was doing.  Gems and precious stones that a Dwarf would hike long distances to admire surrounded him on every side, and lay scattered at his feet.

As the hours of labor wore on, he began to wonder if Legolas had been hallucinating after all; perhaps no one was looking for them.  Would his efforts end up being in vain?  He knew the nature of these particular stones – they did not transmit sound very well – but surely he should be hearing something by now? 

So it was with great surprise that, as he was leaning wearily against the wall for a moment, catching his breath, he heard a sudden thump and crunch inches away from his head.  He jumped back just as the tip of a knife pushed through the stones. It disappeared, then a small hand appeared to take its place.  With a cry, he reached up and grasped it, and heard a shout.  A shower of dirt and rocks fell about him, then a curly head emerged from the small hole.

“Gimli, is that you?”  It was Merry’s voice, but the hobbit’s face was so dirty the Dwarf could not have quickly identified him had he not spoken.

“Merry!”  Gimli could have danced with joy.  “You’re a beautiful sight, laddie.”

“Oh Gimli, I’m so glad I found you!” Merry cried out with relief.  “They’re digging as fast as they can.  What’s happening?  Do you need food?  Water?”

“Nay, water is the one thing we do not need,” Gimli said.  “Merry, tell the Elves that Legolas is badly injured.  His leg is broken, as well as his ribs.  He must be carried out flat, if there is time.”

Merry nodded.  “They have stretchers, and there are strips of cloth in the pack Strider left.  We can bind his ribs.”  He looked around, but it was too dark to see much.  “Are you hurt?  And what about Sam?”  He was almost afraid to hear the answer.

“I am well.  Sam is injured, but alive.”

Merry nearly sobbed with relief.  Gimli squeezed his hand gently before releasing it.

“How is Frodo?” Gimli asked.

“I wish I knew,” Merry fretted.  “Strider came and got him, and Pip went with them.  Glorfindel didn’t have any news about him.”

“Listen to me, Merry, this is important,” Gimli said urgently.  “The cave is flooding.  They need to--”

“I know,” Merry nodded.  “Glorfindel told us.”

“How could anyone out there possibly know about it?” Gimli asked in amazement.

“I think Lord Elrond told him, or maybe Gandalf.  He said that Lord Elrond is holding back the water.”

Gimli slowly nodded.  If the waters had continued gushing forth at the rate they first did, we would not have lived more than a few minutes.  This is impressive magic indeed.  But whatever Elrond has been doing will not keep us safe much longer.

“They’re hurrying!” Merry promised.  “They’ve dug a long way in already.”  He calculated quickly.  “You dig more to the right, and I’ll tell them to dig more to the left, and…  Gimli, that should do it!”  He wriggled his way back the way he had come, and after a few moments, Gimli could hear muffled voices. 

With a triumphant cry, he attacked the barrier once more, hope soaring in his heart.

*~*~*~*~*

Legolas floated in a haze of fever and pain.  Gimli had previously moved Sam next to him and spread the blanket over both of them, but he felt chilled nonetheless.  He knew, from the sound of water, growing ever louder, that the slow flood was nearly upon them.  He was trying so hard to distract himself, with memories of other times and lands, that he was unprepared when there was a sudden commotion above him.  The blanket was stripped off and he tried to protest, but a murmur of Sindarin calmed him.

“Do not fear,” came a voice next to him.  “We must check your bindings to make sure you are not injured further when you are moved.  We will be careful, but there is need of haste.”

We are found, Legolas thought gratefully.  He tried to see what was happening, but light from several lanterns nearly blinded him after lying so long in the semi-darkness.  Someone adjusted whatever it was Gimli had used to strap his ribs, and he hissed in pain as he was carefully positioned so that additional cloths could be wound about his chest.  Then many gentle hands slid beneath him, some supporting his leg, and he was positioned onto a flat carrier of some sort.

“Relax, young one,” came the same voice.  “Fresh air and starlight await you.”

“Sam!” Legolas blurted out.  “The hobbit, how is he?”

“He is being taken to safety.  It is now your turn.  We will just--”

“Here now, be careful,” came Gimli’s rough voice.  “Lift him smoothly.”

“We know our business, Master Dwarf.  Stand back.”

“Gimli…” Legolas whispered.  But before he could say more, he was lifted into the air, and carried swiftly away.

*~*~*~*~*

Glorfindel felt unspeakable relief when they broke through the barrier at last.  He was one of the few who knew upon whose hand the Ring of Sapphire sat, and he had learned to sense the rare times when the power of Vilya was directed strongly… as it had when the Lord of Imladris unleashed the flood that scattered the Nazgûl.  Therefore he was aware that the subtle force was beginning to waver, and that Elrond’s strength to control the underground waters must be nearly at an end.  Finally, after what seemed an unendurably long time, the injured folk were borne past him – Sam, the Ring-bearer’s loyal companion of whom they had all grown so fond, who was unconscious, then King Thranduil’s son.  Merry walked close beside the stretcher bearing Sam, holding his friend's limp hand, and Glorfindel spoke words of praise to the hobbit for his courage and quick thinking.

The moment the Dwarf stumbled wearily from the tunnel, followed by the remaining Elves, Glorfindel urged them leave their equipment behind and get out of the cavern with all haste... and stand well to one side of the entrance once they did so.  He then quickly made his way back through the passage, and ran out into the night.  He whistled for Asfaloth, and as soon as the mighty horse trotted to his side he leaped onto his back.  Begrudging every minute that passed, at last he saw Arnen’s pre-arranged lantern signal, telling him that everyone had left the cave.  Urging Asfaloth to a gallop, they covered the miles in a blur of white and gold.  When they reached the House, Glorfindel rapidly dismounted, and raced up the steps.  He ran to Lord Elrond’s study, past an astonished Erestor, and burst into the room.  There, on the balcony, stood Elrond and Gandalf.  He hadn't dared hope that Elrond would still have the strength to stand.

“They are out!” he cried.  At his words, Gandalf faced Elrond, and grasped the Elf-lord’s shoulders.

“Let go!” Gandalf called out powerfully, his eyes boring intently into Elrond’s blank ones.  “They are free, Elrond.  Loose the waters.  Let them flow free.  Let go, my friend.”

Gandalf's shout, and the power behind it, penetrated Elrond's deep concentration, and he instructed Vilya to sever its connection with the powerful surge of underground water.  His body shuddered violently as with a snap!, the powerful forces he had kept at bay were released, and the flood reached out and whirled him helplessly in its unstoppable, icy grip.  For a brief instant his eyes focused on Gandalf’s face, and he tried to speak, but he was spiraling into a dizzying void, and could no longer control his descent.

As Glorfindel and Erestor raced to Elrond's side in alarm, the darkness claimed him, and he slumped unconscious into their arms.

*~*~*~*~*

Gimli was standing slightly apart from the crowd of Elves, breathing in the clean air, when a tremor shook the ground beneath their feet.  A shout went up, and the assemblage watched in horror as a mighty torrent of water and stone burst with a roar through the cavern's mouth.  The powerful flood swept past them at terrifying speed, and Arnen for a moment feared for the cart containing Sam and Legolas, which was on its way back to the House.  But, as Glorfindel had hoped, the surge of water found an ancient, dry riverbed between the cave and the meadow, filled it in seconds, and was diverted.  It tumbled its way south toward a cliff, where a new and powerful waterfall would take the place of one long gone.

“The barrier we labored for so many hours to pierce is no more,” Arnen finally spoke.

“And a new river graces our valley,” said one of his companions.  His calm voice concealed how shaken he felt.  Disaster had been averted by mere minutes.  “The direction of its flow should not cause danger to anyone; however, it would be best if we return in the morning to assess its path, and see what remains of the cavern.”

Arnen sighed.  “I hope it can be restored.”

“I would like to assist in that work, if permitted,” Gimli said quietly.

“We would not allow any mining in this valley,” Arnen replied instinctively.  His voice held a warning.

“Nor would I suggest any,” Gimli retorted.  “But think you that paths might be cleared on either side of this river as it traverses your cave, and a few lamps set into niches of crystal?  This was a place of exceptional beauty and peace; perhaps it can be again.”

As those who understood Westron translated these words for those who did not, there was a murmur of astonished voices, and Arnen was instantly ashamed of his harsh words.  That a Dwarf would care more for preserving beauty than mining was a difficult concept for most of them.  However, his tending of Legolas and Sam had been noted by all, and (although it was hard for them to admit) he had dug, on his own, nearly as deep a tunnel as all of them using better equipment.  It was obvious that they had undervalued this particular Dwarf.

“Please accept my apology,” Arnen said.  “We have known little of your folk… until recently.”  He bowed slightly, one hand raised to his heart.  “We would be honored if you would work beside us.”  

Gimli bowed slightly in return.

“Does anyone know exactly what happened?” he asked.  “The events leading up to the cave-in seemed most unusual.”

Arnen looked troubled.  “We have heard only pieces of the story, from Glorfindel and Meriadoc.  It is said that a dark force tried to reach the Ring-bearer.”

“It nearly succeeded,” Gimli muttered.  He sighed, stretching his arms and shoulders.  They ached as never before.

“Please accompany us back the House,” Arnen said.  “You saved lives this night, Master Dwarf.  You must be hungry and weary.”

Gimli looked up at the Elves surrounding him.  They stood tall, the bright stars glittering in their hair and eyes.  They were also as dirty as he, and must be equally weary.  The strangeness of the situation suddenly seemed quite amusing, and he threw his head back and laughed.  There was a gasp of surprise from the Elves, then a chuckle, then all of the assemblage was laughing with him.   Here was a jewel among Dwarves!

Arnen stepped forward, and clasped him on the shoulder; the first of that race he had ever touched.

“Gimli, son of Glóin, we thank you.  Well done.”

** TBC **

Sorry for the delay in updating!  I've been traveling, and just returned last night.  In the meantime, this chapter grew and grew, until it became the longest one I've written in the seven years I've been posting fanfic.  I hope you enjoy!  This chapter is dedicated to all the Sam fans who have been so patient, and to Surgicalsteel for invaluable feedback.

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 12: Feeling No Pain

“But it was the singing that went to my heart, if you know what I mean.” Sam Gamgee, ‘Three is Company’, The Fellowship of the Ring

From tales her brothers had shared, Arwen knew that a Ranger usually awoke instantly at the slightest unusual sound or sense of danger, and could be on the attack before even fully awake.  Thus, she spoke Aragorn’s name softly when still several feet from his bed.  When he didn’t stir, she called more loudly, then finally knelt by him and let her thoughts travel with his.  Her beloved’s dreams were dark and troublesome, not unlike those that had plagued his exhausted sleep during those days, a month before, when the Ring-bearer was first brought to the House.  The insidious weakness and despair that afflicted those who came in contact with the Nazgûl and their fell weapons did not appear, on the surface, to affect this son of kings, but she knew that he did not escape completely unscathed.  He pushed himself until all who depended upon him were safe, only then seeking respite in sleep, deep and healing.  The depth of this slumber told her much about what it had cost him to remove the enspelled shard from Frodo’s leg.

“Estel,” Arwen said again, then stroked his brow, trusting that her touch would soothe, and guide him to wakefulness.

Aragorn murmured her name, then his eyes fluttered open and he smiled at the lovely face just inches from his.  He reached up and caught her hand, bringing it to his lips. 

“What time is it?” he asked.

“The third hour past midnight.”

Aragorn sat up and ran his fingers through his rumpled hair.  The room was dark save for a few candles, and Arwen rose to her feet to light a lamp.  She then picked up a tray she had brought with her, and placed it on his lap.  A delicious aroma made his stomach rumble; the tray was laden with thick slabs of fresh bread and butter, a deep bowl of stew, and slices of fruit.  She poured two goblets of wine, and sat near him.

“Thank you.  What is--”

“Shhh,” she hushed his questions.  “You must eat.”

Aragorn gratefully dug into the stew, and when he had nearly finished the meal, he tried again.

“Arwen, tell me what has happened.”

“Samwise and Legolas were brought safely out of the cavern.” Arwen fished one of the remaining slices of apple from a dish, and took a tiny bite. “They were both injured, but will recover.  Lindir and Eriniel are overseeing their care.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Aragorn said with relief.  “Is Frodo resting comfortably?”

“He was still sleeping, the last time I checked.”

“Good.  And Gimli?”

“You would be amused to see what has been taking place in the dining hall,” she said with a small smile.  “It is full of tired and dirty Elves as well as one tired and very dirty Dwarf, eating and toasting one another.”

“That sounds like quite a sight,” Aragorn chuckled.  He reached out to tuck a lock of her shining hair behind one ear.  “You, too, look tired, my love.  You have not spoken of--”

“Father is ill,” Arwen whispered, and Aragorn could hear the sudden fear that entered her voice.  “Glorfindel and Gandalf wish you to join them in his room.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me immediately?”

“You were weakened in assisting Frodo, and needed rest.  And food,” she declared.  “There are so many in this house in need of care, and… I could not risk that you, too, might…”

He put the empty tray on the floor, and took her in his arms for a long moment.

“He needs you, Estel.  I... I need you.”

“I will do what I can, my heart,” he promised.  “Always.”

*~*~*~*~*

Something cupped the back of Sam’s neck and head, and the spinning kaleidoscope of nausea and pain slowed, gentled by a warm, almost hypnotic pulse.  He slowly opened his eyes, and was startled to find himself in a bright room, with an Elf gazing down at him.

“Mr. Lindir!  What are you doing here?”

“Lord Elrond cannot attend you at present, so I hope you do not mind if I stand in for him.” Lindir shifted slightly, and Sam realized that it was the Elf’s right hand beneath his neck.  “How do you feel?”

“Not too bad, sir,” Sam said stoutly.

“I am glad to hear it,” Lindir smiled.  From what he had heard of how steadfastly the hobbits had endured all that befell them before coming to Imladris, he suspected that ‘not too bad’ meant that the pain was barely tolerable.  He nodded to a female Elf, who was standing on the other side of the bed.  “This is Eriniel, Sam.  She is one of our master healers.”

“Samwise Gamgee, son of Hamfast, at your service, ma’am,” Sam said automatically, although he was very confused about where he was and what was happening.

“And I am at yours,” Eriniel responded gently.

“Is this a dream?” Sam wondered out loud.

Lindir laughed softly, and shook his head.  There were voices coming from somewhere close, but the two healers were blocking Sam’s view of the room.  He had so many questions, but found himself rather tongue-tied in the presence of lady Elves when there were no other hobbits about… especially since he discovered that he was now not just missing a sleeve, but his entire shirt!

“We needed to make sure you did not have any broken ribs or internal injuries, Samwise,” Eriniel said, sensing his embarrassment.  She pulled a blanket up over him, then held up three fingers.  “How many?”

Sam concentrated as hard as he could.

“Three.”

“Very good.  Do you have any ringing in your ears?  Nausea?”

“I don’t feel near as sick as before,” Sam told her, “but I don’t feel quite myself, and that’s a fact.  I'm awful dizzy, still.”

“That is to be expected.  You were most fortunate not to be more gravely hurt.”

“How’s Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked Lindir anxiously.  “Mr. Legolas said that he might have been hit by one of them evil rocks.”

“The worst is over, Sam,” Lindir said.  “A splinter of rock injured his leg, but it was removed and he is no longer in danger.”

Sam struggled to hold back tears of relief.

“I could hardly bear it, wondering what was happening,” he said.  “Are we rescued?”

“Yes,” Eriniel smiled down at him.  “Everyone is safe.”  She uncovered a bowl in which a rare herb was steeping.  From the hot water she drew out a small square of cloth, and wrung it out thoroughly.  Covering the bowl hastily, lest the mildly sedating fumes escape, she held the cloth gently over Sam’s nose and mouth.  “I need to suture your cut, and readied this in case you awoke.  Breathe deeply.  Again. Again.”

Sam didn’t smell anything on the cloth save a fresh green scent, but he began to feel very light, as if detached from his body.  After a few moments, the lady Elf touched his head, or he thought she did, but he could barely feel it.

“That should be enough,” Eriniel said to Lindir.  Her voice sounded distant to Sam’s ears, as if he was hearing her under water.  She dropped the cloth back into the bowl, and replaced the lid.  She snipped away several of Sam’s curls so she could see the gash above his right ear more clearly, then cleansed it, which started the bleeding again.  “I feel no fracture,” she said, lightly but expertly feeling the bones around the deep cut.  “The Dwarf did well to tend him as he did.”  She shook her head with amusement as she prepared the suturing materials.  “I never thought to speak well of a Dwarf.”

“Word has reached me that many feel that way this night,” Lindir chuckled.

As Eriniel began to stitch the wound, Sam’s breath caught, and she stopped instantly.  “Lindir,” she said quietly.

Lindir began a song, a children’s lullaby, and Sam relaxed again, his eyes dreamy and unfocused.  Eriniel continued, and this time her small patient seemed not to be in any distress.

Sam was floating inside the song, and time was floating with him.  When the singing stopped, he slowly became aware of his surroundings once again.

“Finished,” Eriniel was saying.  “I hoped not to put him into a sleep unless necessary; with head injuries, it is unwise.” 

Lindir's hand was still beneath Sam’s head, and when he moved it slightly and spoke some musical-sounding words Sam couldn’t quite make out, the warmth pulsing through his head began spreading through his neck and shoulders, easing some of his aches.

“Is the pain bearable, Sam?” Lindir asked.

“My head stings, sir, I can't deny it,” Sam said.  “But whatever you’re doing feels wonderful.  Was that you singing?”

“Yes,” Lindir replied.  “I am not the most skilled of our House, but I hoped you would find it soothing.”

“It was.  I was trying to remember where I heard that tune before, and… I think Mr. Legolas was singing it in the cave.  Is he all right?”

“He is being tended,” Lindir replied.  He moved so that Sam could see to his left, where several Elves were grouped around Legolas, who lay on a high, narrow bed covered with white cloth.  Sam realized that he, himself must be on a similar bed.  Legolas’s bare chest, where it was not covered in bandages, was badly bruised, and his right leg below the knee was in the process of being splinted.  Legolas appeared to be asleep.

“The bone in his leg needed to be set; we gave him something for pain, and to help him rest,” Eriniel said.

“He needs some rest,” Sam exclaimed boldly.  He was so relaxed now, he forgot that he was all alone with these fair folk.  “He was hurt awful bad, but he sang and sang, and talked to me for hours.”

“Sam?”  There was a scrape and a scramble, and suddenly Merry’s head appeared to Sam’s right.  “Sam, you’re finally awake!  How are you doing?”

Sam found himself peering into concerned brown eyes; Merry had dragged a chair over and was standing on it.

“You look a sight, Mr. Merry!” Sam blurted out before he could stop himself.

Merry laughed out loud.  “I suppose I do.  I must be as dirty as a youngling who’s been building a hill-fort.”

“Have you seen Mr. Frodo?”

“I’ve just been to his room,” Merry reassured him.  “Pip and Bilbo are with him, and all three looked to be sound asleep.”

“That's good news,” Sam said.  “Do you see my shirt about anywhere?”

Merry looked around, and spied the dirty and sleeveless shirt on the floor, in a heap along with Sam's empty pack and some of Legolas’s garments.

“I’m afraid it’s a bit the worse for wear, Sam,” he said.

“We will do our best to have it mended,” Eriniel promised.

“Thank you, ma’am,” Sam said gratefully.  “It was stitched by my sister Daisy, and I’d hate to see anything happen to it.”

Eriniel bade Sam open his mouth.  She shook a small phial until a tiny drop of liquid fell under his tongue.

“That should help ease you for some hours,” she said.  She checked his pulse, and nodded with satisfaction before beginning to wrap a fresh bandage about his head.

“I’m feeling much better,” Sam said after a few minutes.  “Just… sort of floaty.  I… I really liked what you were singing, Mr. Lindir.”  To everyone’s surprise, he began to hum.

“He is feeling better, isn’t he?” Merry asked, greatly amused.

“It is the potion,” Eriniel told him.  “I gave him only a small dose, but it is quite relaxing.”

“I will take him to his bed,” Lindir said.  Suddenly he cocked his head to one side, listening intently.

“I hear it,” Eriniel frowned.  “Something is thumping in a rather--”

“Sam!” came a voice from the doorway.  “Are you all right?”

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam called out.

“Frodo,” Merry sighed, “what on earth are you doing here?”

Frodo stood in the doorway in his nightshirt, pale and shaking, balancing on one leg.  His left arm hung limply at his side, and he was fiercely clutching the doorframe with his right hand.

“I had to find out what was going on,” Frodo explained.  “What time is it?  How badly are you hurt, Sam?  What of Legolas, and Gimli?”

“Frodo Baggins!”  Pippin suddenly came up behind his cousin, looking quite frantic.  “I’ve been looking everywhere.  Hullo, Sam!  Merry, you look like you've been making mud pies.”  He glared at Frodo.  “You gave me a fright.  How did you get here?”

“How do you think?” Merry asked in exasperation.  “He didn’t exactly hitch a ride on one of Bilbo's eagles.”

“My friends,” Lindir said, “May we continue this in Frodo’s room?  Sam needs to rest.”

“He’s not the only one,” Merry sighed.  “Come on, Frodo, up on my shoulders.”

“I will not,” Frodo declared.  “I’m perfectly capable of hopping back to my room.”

“You look like you’re going to faint at any moment,” Merry said.  “We need to watch him like a hawk from now on, Pip.”

“I was watching him like a hawk,” Pippin insisted.  “I only closed my eyes for a second.”

“What is going on here?” spoke a familiar voice from behind them, and everyone turned to see Aragorn frowning down at Frodo, Arwen at his side.  “You should not be walking about, Frodo.”

“I just wanted to--”

“Permit me,” Aragorn said, his voice brooking no argument.  He stooped to lift Frodo into his arms.  “Arwen, please tell Gandalf that I will be there momentarily.”

Arwen touched his arm gently and nodded, then hastened away.

“I will check on you tomorrow, Samwise,” Eriniel said, then moved to assist the healers attending Legolas.

Lindir very gently lifted Sam, keeping his head supported.  Merry hopped off the chair, and he and Pippin trotted after Lindir and Aragorn as they carried their small burdens out of the room and down the darkened corridors.

“I just wanted to find out if Sam was all right, and what was happening,” Frodo insisted.  “I didn’t put any weight on the leg, Aragorn.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“Sam, how badly are you hurt?”

“I can’t quite remember offhand, sir,” Sam replied rather cheerfully.

“What?”

Lindir began to chuckle softly.  “Frodo, Eriniel sutured a gash to his head, and we cleansed the cuts and scrapes on his hands.  He should be much recovered in a few days, as long as he does not exert himself.  I will take him to his room so that--”

“Why don’t you put them in the same room?” Merry asked.  “I’m thinking they’d both rest easier if they could see that the other’s all right.”

“And we could keep a better eye on them,” Pippin muttered.  Merry nodded, grinning.

“Would that please you, Sam?” Lindir asked.

“Yes, sir,” Sam agreed eagerly.  “That is, if it wouldn’t cause any trouble.”

“You hobbits have been nothing but trouble since the moment you arrived!” Lindir chuckled.  “However will we return to our dull lives when you have gone?”  He had learned that the small folk enjoyed light teasing, and was rewarded with smiles from both Merry and Sam. 

“That’s a splendid idea, Merry,” Frodo said.

“Isn’t ‘splendid’ a splendid word?” Sam asked, then started giggling.  “It's just splendid that you're all right, Mr. Frodo.  What was that song again?”  He resumed humming, and all save Lindir stared at him in amazement.

“He sounds drunk,” Pippin declared.

“Do not be alarmed,” Lindir said, following Aragorn into Frodo’s room.  The scattered candles gave the darkened room a warm glow that illuminated Bilbo, peacefully snoring in one of the chairs.  “He's had a bit of medicine, and there can be minor… side effects.”

Aragorn put Frodo down gently on the large bed, and propped him up against several pillows.

“Thank you for everything you did,” Frodo said to him.  He kept his voice low in hopes of not disturbing Bilbo.  “I’m grateful, truly.  I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t been here.”

“You are most welcome.  Is the leg very painful?”

“It… well, yes it is,” Frodo admitted.

Lindir settled Sam next to Frodo, and covered him warmly.

“Frodo, I am sorry that I must leave,” Aragorn said gravely.  “Lindir will return with something to ease you.”  He and Lindir exchanged a few words of Sindarin, then they both left the room.

“You should never have left your bed,” Merry admonished his cousin.

“I know that now,” Frodo sighed.  “I’m so dizzy.”

“I’m dizzier!” Sam announced triumphantly.

“Quiet, Sam!” Pippin whispered.  “You'll wake Bilbo.”

“Don't get your foot hair in a frazzle, Mr. Pippin,” Sam declared, causing Merry to snort with suppressed laughter.

“Are you sure he isn't drunk?” Pippin asked.

“Dear Sam,” Frodo said, examining Sam’s face and bandage as well as he could in the dim light.  “Merry, I need to know what happened at the cave.”

Before Merry could begin, Lindir returned with a cup.  Frodo willingly swallowed the small amount of liquid it contained.

“Thank you, Lindir.”

“My friends, I bid you good night, or what is left of it,” Lindir said.  “We will all have many tales to tell in the coming days.”  With a bow, he took his leave.

“What time is it?” Frodo asked.

“Nearly tomorrow,” Pippin said.  “I’ll bring us a tray.  Merry, whatever you tell him, make sure you remember every bit of it so you can tell me.”

“Thanks, Pip,” Frodo said as his young cousin scurried away.  “I’m starving.”

Scrambling up on the bed, Merry told Frodo everything he could about the events of the past hours.  He was nearly through, when Pippin returned with a tray containing tea, small sandwiches, and cakes.  Frodo took several peach tarts, and devoured them blissfully.

“Sam, are you hungry?”  His question was met by a gentle snore, and the three cousins smiled.

“I'm so glad he's all right,” Pippin grinned with relief.

“I know you are,” Frodo said gently.  “Merry, was there anything else?”

“That's all I saw,” Merry said.  “I’m not sure what happened after we left in the cart, but there was a tremendous noise.  The water must have finally burst through.  If anyone else had been hurt, I'm sure we would have heard about it.”

“Sam might be dead now if you hadn’t been there,” Frodo said.  He reached out to embrace his cousin.

“Quite a day, eh?” Merry chuckled.  “How’s your leg?”

“Whatever Lindir brought was very nice,” Frodo said, yawning.  With Pippin's help, he carefully slid down under the covers, then turned his head to look at Sam one more time.

“He’s been through so much,” Frodo murmured drowsily.  “And he’s done so much for me.  Now it’s my turn to take care of him.”  He closed his eyes, missing the amused look Merry and Pippin exchanged.

“We'll have to take turns watching them,” Pippin whispered, handing Merry the last sandwich.  “But I think they'll both sleep for a good long time, now.”

“I hope so,” Merry sighed.  “I'm exhausted, Pip.  I need to wash, then grab a few hours of sleep myself.”

“Good idea,” Pippin said, making himself comfortable in his chair.  “And don’t you dare forget a thing about what happened; I want to hear it all tomorrow.  Or today.  Well, whenever you wake up.  Oh, and there seems to be some kind of party going on in the dining hall.  If you've ever wondered what Dwarvish singing was like, this is your chance.  It's... well... quite unusual.”

“I'll have to hear it some other time,” Merry yawned, then went off to find some hot water for a bath.

Everything grew quiet again, and Pippin was just enjoying a third cup of tea when Bilbo stirred.

“It surely isn't tea time already, Pip lad?” he mumbled without fully waking.  “Is Frodo all right?”

“He'll be fine,” Pippin said softly.  “We'll see to it.”

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 13: His Brother's Keeper

She went then to the gardens of Lórien and lay down to sleep; but though she seemed to sleep, her spirit indeed departed from her body, and passed in silence to the halls of Mandos. The maidens of Estë tended the body of Míriel, and it remained unwithered; but she did not return. ‘Of Fëanor and the Unchaining of Melkor’, The Silmarillion

Aragorn was only 20 years old when he had last been inside these private rooms, and the wave of memories as he entered was nearly overwhelming.  It was here that he had learned his true name, and was given the ancient ring that Arwen now kept among her prized possessions.  Entering the candle-lit chamber he was surprised to find the bed empty, but Arwen’s voice called softly from the farthest archway.  It was not yet dawn, and as he stepped out onto the wide balcony, the starlight illuminated a couch upon which Elrond lay.  The Elf-lord’s eyes were closed, and his face seemed pale and drawn.  Although covered warmly, he shivered as if chilled to the bone.  Aragorn found himself somewhat unnerved by the sight; he had never before seen his foster-father ill, or appear so vulnerable.

Arwen knelt on cushions beside her father, and Erestor stood nearby, his normally placid features troubled.  As Aragorn stepped to Arwen’s side, someone came forward from the shadows.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn murmured.  He always found the wizard’s presence comforting.  “Can you explain what has occurred?  Did the Nazgûl indeed find a way into Rivendell?”

The wizard shook his head.“Not as you might think.  However, there is no fortress so inpenetrable that a determined assailant cannot find and exploit a flaw, and make his presence known.”

Indeed, we must believe that to be true, Aragorn thought.  Unless we can discover such a flaw in the defenses of Mordor, Frodo has no hope of success in his Quest.

Gandalf nodded as if he had heard.  “At least one of the Nine is a powerful sorcerer,” he continued, “whose power and malice I felt upon Weathertop.  From outside the valley, he perceived a way to channel dark Power through the iron in the rocks of the cave much the same way the knife that wounded Frodo was prepared.  It was an attempt once again to cast Frodo into Shadow… which may well have succeeded had this shard found his heart, or had he been trapped -- or lay unconscious and alone -- long enough for the splinter to travel through his body.  This spell was an unusually strong one.”  He looked at Aragorn approvingly.  “Word has reached us of how hard you fought to save him... again.  Many grave consequences have been turned aside this night.”

“The courage and skills of many were needed to make it so,” Aragorn said quietly.

“Agreed,” came a voice from behind him.  Aragorn turned to behold Glorfindel, who approached holding something wrapped in a cloth.  “I am glad to see you, Aragorn,” he said.  “How do the hobbits fare?”

“They remain hobbits -- stubborn, exasperating, resilient, and altogether remarkable,” Aragorn replied with a straight face.  He was gratified to see a tiny smile on Arwen’s face.

“Speaking of stubborn…” Gandalf gazed down at Elrond.

“Tell me of his condition.  Is he fevered?”  Aragorn sat on the couch and touched Elrond’s face, his eyes darkening with concern.  “He is cold as ice!  What has happened?”

“He has not been harmed physically,” Glorfindel said, “but he labored for many hours to hold back the waters threatening to flood the cave before we could reach those who were trapped.”

“Arwen brought me your message, but I do not understand in what way I may assist,” Aragorn said.  “What is his ailment?  If it is not physical, surely you and Gandalf together…”

“We have done much, and continue to do what we can,” Glorfindel said.  He glanced briefly at Gandalf, and Aragorn sensed something being communicated silently between them.  “Aragorn, this situation is unprecedented.  Gandalf and I both feel that something else may be needed here.”

“It is not fire that can help Elrond now,” Gandalf added cryptically, “nor the connection to the peace of the Blessed Realm that Glorfindel can bestow.”  His thoughtful gaze encompassed both Aragorn and Arwen.  “You are earth and air, stone unshakeable and cool starlight.  The future of Elrond’s blood and... the past.”

“The past…” Aragorn murmured. 

Erestor spoke for the first time.  “He speaks of your bloodline.  Aragorn, you do not greatly resemble Elros physically, save for your eyes and bearing…”  He stood a moment, lost in memory, then continued.  “However, there is no question that within you lie waiting certain abilities that he used to great advantage when his people were in need.”

Glorfindel stepped forward, and handed the cloth he held to Aragorn. Once unwrapped, several long leaves of athelas were revealed.

“But you said that Elrond has taken no wound,” Aragorn said.

“There are many types of wounds,” Glorfindel replied.  “Aragorn, we have taught you much about this plant, but your visits to Imladris have been too brief to complete your education.  There is more to learn, and the need is now great; the time has come for you to move into a realm which you have barely begun to explore.  Elrond’s spirit wanders in confusion; his very life hangs in the balance.”

At his words, Arwen emitted a muffled sob.  She bent her head, and her dark hair covered her face as a curtain.  All Elves knew the fate of Finwë’s first wife, who had spent herself in birthing Fëanor.  For a long span of time her body had lain as if asleep, but her spirit had fled, never to return.

Glorfindel knelt swiftly, taking both her hands in his.

“I know what it is that you fear,” he said to her.  His voice was quiet, but so full of power that she raised her eyes to his, and found in them a blazing light.  “The tragedy of long ago will not be repeated here,” he continued steadily.  “We will not permit it.”  He regarded Elrond, his eyes seeing beyond physical bounds.  “Your father has spent himself for great good, but was grievously weakened and is in danger of losing his way.  Even now, he struggles to return to us, further weakening him.”   He drew Arwen to her feet.  “My child, you, too, have abilities stronger even than you know.  We believe that your bond with Aragorn can strengthen him in a difficult task.  Have you the courage to cast yourself with him into the darkness?”

“I do,” Arwen said, her voice now steady.  She joined Aragorn on the couch beside her father.  Hand in hand, they listened carefully to Glorfindel's words.

*~*~*~*~*

Elrond awoke on his stomach, coughing and spluttering, and with a roar in his ears so thunderous he could hear nothing else.  As he got to his knees, gasping for breath, his fingers sank into something cool and wet.  Startled, he opened his eyes to discover that he was kneeling on moist earth just a few feet from a roiling pool of water.  The sound was that of a tremendously high waterfall, so close he could reach out and feel its spray.  His hair and garments were sodden, and he shook with cold. He had no idea where he was, and for a moment could remember nothing of recent events, save that he had been struggling to stay afloat in a seething torrent and seemed to have barely survived.

The sky seemed dim, with neither stars, Moon, nor Sun to guide him.

Where am I?  How did I get here?

Feeling too weak to stand, he crawled away from the wet ground towards a flat, dry rock, where he sat shivering, trying to gather his thoughts.  He knew every inch of Imladris, and as he concentrated on his surroundings, he recognized certain landmarks.

That stand of trees is familiar, and the formation of those boulders over there always reminded me of…

I am outside, he realized in amazement.  This can only be the base of the southern cliffs, where once a mighty waterfall spilled.  Have I stumbled into the past?  His confusion intensified when, with a wrench of loss, he discovered that Vilya was no longer on his finger.  But the barrier he had set up to protect the valley was still in place; he could sense it pulsing before him.  There could be no conclusion other than that he was on one side of it, and Vilya on the other.  Who, then, was wielding it?

Even as his thoughts whirled in frightening paths, his self-discipline came, as always, to the forefront.  He calmed himself with an effort, and as his mind cleared, a rush of memories returned.

I had been trembling with exhaustion, knowing that I would not endure another hour, when Gandalf brought the news that I could rest… that all were safe.  I remember nothing more.  The flood would have been instantly unleashed.  This waterfall… could it be…

He looked up in wonder at the powerful, clean surge of water.  It was as if the valley was purging itself of any vestige of evil left by the Nazgul’s effort to breach it.  His gaze fell upon the newly-formed pool, and he smiled to see gems and crystals lining the bottom, carried by the flood from the cavern to this, their new home.

Crystal Pool it will be called, he mused, a flash of foresight coming unbidden.  When Imladris is but a memory, visitors will find this place and marvel at it, never knowing how or when it was formed.

I must be dreaming.  Or have I… died?  Where is the Sun?  The Bruinen must lie only a few miles to the west.  But even if I reach the Ford, will I be able to cross?  Will the protective barrier keep me from Imladris?  Will my own presence somehow cause another flood to rise up and sweep me away, such as the one I directed Vilya to unloose to sweep the Nazgûl away from the Ring-bearer?

There were no answers.  He staggered to his feet, occupying himself with plotting the best way to cross the river that now flowed from the pool and tumbled away to the south.  He needed to walk a long way before there was a place shallow enough, but even so, he lost his footing in the swift current and was once again drenched in icy water.  Shivering violently, he finally made it to the other side.  He stumbled ahead, but after what seemed a long while he had to admit that he was barely moving.

I am so weary, he thought.  I must… I must…

Unable to take another step, Elrond fell to his knees.  But just as his thoughts were blurring and he feared the darkness would claim him once again, a sparkling, scintillating fragrance enveloped him.  A voice -- not heard in millenia, but achingly familiar -- urged him on a few more yards.  With the last of his reserves, he was able to crawl around a large boulder... and nearly wept with joy at what he saw.

Athelas.

He slumped to the ground next to the bed of fresh green plants. 

How came athelas to be here?  I grow this precious plant in my gardens, and those of my brother’s line who are fostered in Imladris are taught to use it.  But outside of the valley, it is found only in those places where his descendants made their homes.  They never settled this far east, and Elros left us before Imladris was even founded.  Elros…  He looked about, but saw no one.  Of course he is not here.  Unless I have died indeed, and his spirit has come to escort me onward?

He could not explain how, but his brother's voice had called him here.  The beloved and long-missed presence was still all about him, and was infusing hope and energy through his mind and body.

Elrond breathed deeply of the healing herb, feeling strength growing in his limbs and heart.

I do not believe it is my time to greet Lord Mandos.  I live.  I must find my way back.  Nothing will keep me from returning to Imladris… to my daughter and sons and those who depend upon me.

He reached out with his mind, and felt Vilya respond.  And then, he knew not how, the Ring of Sapphire was once again upon his finger.  He smiled.

I am grateful to you, my brother.  A brief rest, and I will be ready to go on.

*~*~*~*~*

“Enough,” someone whispered in his ear, and Aragorn realized that the same voice had been speaking to him for several minutes.  He slowly grew aware of his body, one hand on Elrond’s brow, the sound of birds singing, a cool breeze against his cheek.  He opened his eyes to a scene flooded with light.  It was past dawn, and the Sun was climbing into the sky.

Arwen leaned against him, her head on his shoulder, and Gandalf was whispering into her ear. 

“Your bond is as strong as we hoped,” the wizard said, meeting Aragorn’s gaze.  “She was able to support you on your long journey.”

“But she will be all right?” Aragorn asked anxiously.  Arwen's eyes were closed, and she seemed barely conscious.

“She will be all right,” Glorfindel assured him.  He kissed Arwen on her brow, then clasped Aragorn on the shoulder.  “Well done, children.  Elrond has strengthened enough to recover on his own.”

Aragorn sighed in relief, and looked up to see Gandalf watching him closely.

“How do you feel?” the wizard asked.

Aragorn took a deep breath of athelas-infused air, then let it out slowly.

“A bit lightheaded,” he admitted.  “It is easing.”

“What do you remember?” Erestor asked curiously.

“I called to him,” Aragorn said wonderingly.  “I found him near a river.  I do not believe he saw me, but I tried… I tried to reach him…”

“You succeeded,” Erestor said proudly.  “What you did was enough.”

“What I did…” Aragorn chuckled softly.  “I do not know exactly what I did.  But I will never forget it.”

“Now that you have travelled this path once, son of Arathorn,” Glorfindel said, “you should no longer need assistance should you need to do so again.”

Son of Arathorn...

“Did my father ever…”

“He was most skilled,” Glorfindel replied quietly.

“All of us were grieved that he did not live long enough to teach you what he knew,” added Erestor, “or to see you grow into the man you have become.”

“I am grateful to you, my teachers,” Aragorn said.  Arwen murmured his name, and his arm tightened about her.

“Morning is upon us, and I am weary,” Gandalf said, stretching, “I want to check on those 'exasperating' hobbits before I sleep.”

“Frodo is not to walk on that leg yet, Gandalf,” Aragorn warned.  “Do not let him wheedle you into allowing it.”

“Wizards cannot be 'wheedled',” Gandalf declared.

Aragorn just smiled knowingly.  He gathered Arwen into his arms and rose to his feet in one smooth motion.

“She needs to rest,” he said gently.

“I will stay with Elrond until he wakes,” Glorfindel said.

“As will I,” Erestor insisted, his weariness lifting as his lord stirred slightly for the first time since he had collapsed.  “Gandalf, please convey our greetings to the hobbits.”

Aragorn left with Arwen, and after a few moments Gandalf also left the balcony, more relieved than he had dared reveal.  He had not relaxed until that moment when he sensed Elrond regain full control of Vilya.

I might have needed to... but no, I will not dwell on that.  The Lord of Rivendell has returned.  But it was close… so very close.

* TBC *

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 14: The Morning After

There stood barrels, and barrels, and barrels; for the Wood-elves, and especially their king, were very fond of wine. ‘Barrels Out of Bond’, The Hobbit

Gimli awoke refreshed and invigorated.  Although the events of the previous day and night had not been without great danger, there had also been an exhilaration that could not be denied.  What Dwarf would not relish focusing his strength and training in a race against the mighty forces of earth and water?

As he washed, he found himself thinking once again about the unique skills a Dwarf could offer the Ring-bearer.  The Enemy had come after Frodo twice, and would no doubt do so again -- in greater numbers, and with greater subtlety.  There could be no doubt left that a more dire flood was threatening to burst, one that sought to cover Middle-earth in darkness.  From it there would be no safety, above-ground or below.

When that day comes, the presence of one more Dwarf will make little difference in the defense of our ancestral halls, he thought.  I could be of more use in a different task.  I understand, now, why my father bade me stay in this valley, and learn all I can.  The Enemy is at our door.  War is upon us, and I wish to confront it directly… and represent my people so as to bring them honor.

He walked through the quiet corridors, so deep in thought he was scarcely aware of his surroundings.

Several times, in the cave, I received the impression that the Elf has come to the same conclusions.  He, too, is thinking of offering his service to the Ring-bearer.  I should like to speak with him again.

Gimli looked up as a brilliant beam of sunlight struck him, somewhat surprised to find himself outside the House.  He took several deep breaths of pure, crisp air, and glanced eastward toward the hills.  He was eager to go back there soon and find out what was left of the cavern.

He went back inside and made his way to the dining hall, where he was greeted respectfully by the Elves gathered there.  Noting their hushed voices and slightly-dulled eyes (and barely touched plates), he deduced that most of the fair folk with whom he had shared toasts until nearly sunrise were somewhat the worse for the experience. Loading a plate with hearty portions of bread, meats, and fruit, he took it to one of the empty tables and sat down on its sturdy bench.  He was amusing himself by imagining what effect his cousin Dwalin’s ale -- rather potent even among his folk -- would have on these rather delicate Elves, when a cheerful voice broke through his reverie.

“Gimli!”  He looked up to see Pippin coming toward him, all smiles, with Bilbo Baggins close behind.  “May we join you?”

“Best to lower your voice, young hobbit,” Gimli advised, noticing several Elves rubbing their temples.  “These folk have sharp hearing, and we celebrated quite heartily.”

“I know, I heard the singing,” Pippin said more quietly.   He eyed the Dwarf’s plate.  “You seem to have come through unscathed.”

“Of course!” Gimli declared proudly.  “It would take more than a few goblets of wine to daunt one of Mahal’s children.”

“A few goblets?” Bilbo asked with a knowing wink.  “Why, I saw no less than two empty casks just outside the door!”

“A pleasing vintage,” Gimli said with satisfaction.

“Bilbo, wait here,” Pippin said.  “I’ll get you something.”  He scurried to the sideboard, and returned with two large platters, piled high.  Gimli noticed that the youngster's hair was more unruly than usual, and he seemed to have slept in his clothing.

“Thank you, lad,” Bilbo said.  “Here, sit between us.”

Once the hobbits had piled eggs and hotcakes onto their plates, Gimli sampled the amber liquid that Pippin poured for the three of them.  Grudgingly admitting to himself that these Elves were as skilled at pressing cider as making wine, he downed the whole mugful and reached for the pitcher.

“I am most eager to hear news of Frodo,” he said to Bilbo.

“He’s safe in bed, and recovering nicely,” Bilbo replied, his eyes shining with relief.

“Thanks to Strider,” Pippin added.

“And Sam?”

“The healers say that he'll be fine,” Bilbo reassured him.  “We hear you did a marvelous job of taking care of him, and Legolas.”

“I only—”

“You’re a hero!” Pippin insisted.  “And you must tell us everything that happened in the cave.  Don’t leave out anything!”

“Patience, Pip-lad,” Bilbo chided gently.  “The poor fellow needs to eat.  Second breakfast is one of the most important meals of the day, you know.”

The three commenced to attack the mountains of food with great gusto.  Pippin and Bilbo were still eating, and debating the merits of peach hotcakes versus blueberry, when Gimli pushed back his plate with satisfaction.  The hobbits instantly turned to him with eager eyes, and he found a most appreciative audience for his tale.  As he spoke, the Elves quieted their conversations to listen.  At the conclusion of the exciting story, Pippin was nearly bouncing with excitement at the whoosh and roar of the flood that Gimli brought to life. 

“You told that wonderfully,” Pippin said admiringly.  “He’s almost as good a storyteller as you are, Bilbo.”

“High praise indeed,” Gimli said.  Being in the presence of the legendary Burglar still filled him with awe.

In small groups, the Elves now scattered to their various duties, and Bilbo watched them go with a twinkle in his eye.

“Very little happens here, usually,” the old hobbit chuckled.  “There will be a frenzy of new tales and songs in very short order.”

Then, before Gimli was quite prepared, Bilbo was pumping his hand many times, thanking him for saving Sam’s life and calling him a credit to his father, and other embarrassing things.

“I shall write to Gloín this very day,” Bilbo declared.

“Now, now, no need for that,” Gimli demurred, although he looked very pleased.  “Legolas is due more praise than I.  Perhaps someone should send a message to the king of those Wood-elves and let him know that his son is well.  At least, I assume he is well?”  He looked suddenly a bit anxious.  “Do you know where I might find him?”

“Legolas is probably still in that healing room,” Pippin replied.  “From what I saw last night, he didn’t look anywhere near ready to be moved, or to be left alone.”

“Can you direct me there?”

“He’s just down the corridor from Frodo, up on the second level,” Pippin said.  “There’s a sculpture of a beautiful lady outside the door.”  He blushed, and took a hasty bite of warm bread spread with fresh butter.

“That would be Estë, the Lady of Healing,” Bilbo grinned.  “She is lovely, I agree.”

“Look!”  Pippin’s eyes lit up as one of the cooks brought sweet rolls and fruit-filled pastries to the sideboard.  “Frodo loves those fruit tarts, and Sam will be famished when he wakes; he hasn’t eaten any solid food in a whole day, can you imagine?  I promised Merry I’d bring a good assortment back with me.  Bilbo, what does Sam like best?”

“I will leave you to those important decisions,” Gimli said.  He stood, bowed slightly, and exited the hall.  Taking the broad stairway up to the second level, he found Frodo’s room easily enough; it was the only room being guarded.  Two Elves standing in the corridor wore knives at their belts, and he was certain that they bore other weaponry he could not see.  They both nodded to him politely, and Gimli wondered if there was now a list of approved visitors for the Ring-bearer’s room.  When he poked his head into the bright and airy chamber, he found Gandalf and Merry sitting in chairs, chatting quietly.

“Come in!” Merry smiled broadly at the Dwarf.  “I hear there was quite a party last night.”

“You heard correctly,” Gimli said.  “Very few in this House are as clear-eyed this morning as those two at the door.”   He took a good look at Frodo and Sam, sound asleep in the large bed.  They were both pale, but it was encouraging to know they were being so well looked after.

“I was worried about them.”

“So were we,” Merry admitted.

“Has Sam woken?  I feared that his injury was quite severe.”

“They’ve both been awake, but not at the same time.” Merry sighed, and rolled his eyes to the ceiling.  “First Sam woke up and asked if Frodo was warm enough.  Then Frodo woke up and asked if Sam had anything to eat or drink yet.  Then Sam woke up again and apologized for oversleeping.  Then--”

“I get the idea,” Gimli said, vastly relieved.

“They’re finally sleeping soundly at last.  They both had draughts last night, which seem to have been potent ones.”

“Sam has had some nourishment, then?” Gimli asked.  “He was too ill to keep anything down in the cave.”

“He’s been given water and juices every time he wakes,” Merry assured him.  “One of the healers stops by every few hours to check on him, and Frodo, too.  Neither of them is to get up yet.”  He yawned tiredly.  “Hopefully Pippin can get some sleep himself, soon.  What a night!”

“Have you had any rest, Master Merry?” Gimli asked.

“A few hours,” Merry said.  He looked at Gimli with a gleam in his eyes, and it was obvious that his curiosity was as keen as Pippin’s.  “The flood burst, didn’t it?”

“Indeed it did,” Gimli said.  “I have never heard nor felt such a force in all my life.”  He stroked his beard reflectively, and looked appraisingly at Gandalf.  “What of Elrond?  Is it true that he kept the waters from reaching us by some type of magic?”

“Something like that,” Gandalf nodded.  “He was greatly wearied by his task, Gimli.  It may be some days before he fully recovers, but we believe that he is no longer in danger.  Elves can be as resilient as hobbits.”

“And nearly as troublesome,” Gimli grumbled good-naturedly.  “Speaking of which, there is one troublesome Elf in particular that I wish to visit.  If you will excuse me…”

After Gimli left, Gandalf peered closely at Frodo, nodded to himself, then turned to Merry.

“Why don’t you go help your cousin bring a few trays of food up here?” the wizard suggested.

“But—”

“Go on,” Gandalf said softly.  “I will stay with them.”

“Well, all right,” Merry said reluctantly.  Something was obviously afoot, but he didn’t know what it was.  “I won’t be long,” he said firmly.  He had barely left the room when Frodo stirred, and slowly opened his eyes.

“Good morning,” Gandalf said.  “I thought you might be waking soon.”

“Gandalf,” Frodo yawned.  “I’m beginning to get accustomed to seeing you at my bedside.”  He touched a gentle finger to Sam's bandage.  He was smiling in his sleep, and Frodo was glad his dreams weren't troubled by darkness and falling rocks.

“Has he eaten?”

“Soon,” Gandalf said.  “Lindir advises that he start with small portions.”

Frodo started to sit up, and winced.  “Oh, I nearly forgot about my leg.”

Gandalf leaned forward and helped him sit up against the pillows.

“Thank you.” Frodo rubbed his left arm and flexed the fingers, then noticed the sunlight streaming into the room.  “My arm feels nearly well again.  Is everyone at breakfast?”

“Second breakfast, I do believe,” Gandalf said.  “Your cousins will be back soon with a tray.  But first…” he leaned forward and gazed at Frodo.  “I must ask your pardon, my friend.”

“Why?”

Gandalf looked solemn.  “When you first arrived in Rivendell, I told you that you were safe here.  I was mistaken.”

“You said I was safe at present,” Frodo reminded him.  “You can’t possibly know everything, Gandalf.  And it worked out all right.”  He bit his lip suddenly, and threw off the blankets.  “If you’ll excuse me a moment, I need to--”

“You are not to walk anywhere, Frodo,” Gandalf said firmly.  Frodo followed the wizard’s gaze to a chamber pot on the floor, and he stared at it in dismay.

“Nonsense,” Frodo declared, although he was still dizzy enough to wonder if standing again so soon was a good idea.  “I hopped about perfectly well last night, and can do so now.”

“I have my orders,” Gandalf said with a straight face.

Frodo glared at him, then slowly sat back, his expression innocent.

“If I best you with a riddle, will you let me out of bed?”

“You are a most impertinent hobbit,” Gandalf grinned.  “I’d like to see that.”

“A deal!” Frodo said triumphantly.  He thought furiously, absently running his fingers through already-rumpled hair.  “How about… let me see, ah, I have one!”

“Above and below the stars do shine,
The voice that speaks to me is mine.”

Gandalf burst out laughing. “I will carry you to your destination, Frodo Baggins,” he conceded.  “I do not believe that will violate Aragorn’s orders.”

“Splendid,” Frodo said with satisfaction.   “I knew I could...”

“…best a wizard?  Whom do you think taught the hobbits the art of riddling?” Gandalf asked.  “Of course you were referring to the roof and floor of the cavern of crystal, and the echo of one’s voice that can be heard there.”

“Oh,” Frodo said, disappointed.  As Gandalf reached down to lift him, he looked up at the wizard suspiciously.

“You were going to carry me all along, weren’t you?”

“Nonsense.  What a fanciful notion.”

“Hmmm.”  Frodo settled comfortably into the the familiar arms.  “I know you worry about us, Gandalf.  But surely now I'm safe again... at present.”

“My dear hobbit,” Gandalf said fondly.

“Did you really teach the hobbits about riddles?  Why do you never tell any?”

Gandalf gazed down at the eager face and frowned, but Frodo gazed up at him hopefully.

“Very well,” he chuckled.  “Let us continue this challenge with an easy one.”

“A tread as light as Ithil's beams,
A light behind each visage gleams.”

“Oh,” Frodo said after a moment, “that can only be--”

“Elves,” Sam murmured happily.

Frodo hooted with glee, and the wizard sighed.

“You said it yourself, Gandalf -- hobbits are surprising creatures... even when they're asleep!”

“So they are,” Gandalf smiled.  “So they are.”

** TBC **

Author Note:  There will be a short hiatus after this chapter, as I'm preparing to move to a new apartment in the next few weeks.  As soon as the dust settles, I'll dive right back into the story.  Stay tuned, and thank you for all your support!

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 15: The Company of Friends

“Still it might be well for all,” said Glóin the Dwarf, “if all these strengths were joined, and the powers of each were used in league.”  ‘The Council of Elrond,’ The Fellowship of the Ring

The sculpture of Lady Estë was lovely enough, Gimli reflected as he approached it, but he had not seen the Elf maiden yet who made his heart soar like the females of his own race.  He missed hearing their low, gentle voices.  He missed hearing his own language, although Gandalf would speak with him in Khuzdûl when they could not be overheard.  Most of all, he missed the company of other Dwarves.  He felt like a stone uprooted and tumbled far from its familiar mountain.

Legolas is also far from his Woodland kin, he mused, and must long for the forests of his home.  Never did I imagine that I would feel empathy with an Elf.  Never.  From him I have learned that, should I be chosen to accompany the Ring-bearer, and should there be Elves in the Company -- well… it will be tolerable.  They are perhaps not all as unendurably arrogant as I had first believed.

He paused in the doorway of what Pippin had called the “healing room”, and looked around.  Shelves, cupboards and tables held a variety of flasks, instruments, bandages, books, basins, and innumerable other objects.  Harps of different sizes were lined up against one wall, and a pleasantly fragrant smoke was coming from a bowl set over a small hearth.  There were several pallets raised high off the floor, on which he assumed patients were assessed and tended, and also a row of beds – only one of which was occupied.  He was thinking that the room seemed rather spare in its furnishings and embellishments, until he remembered that Elves were reputed to be insufferably healthy, and this room must lie vacant much of the time.  He guessed correctly that the Ring-bearer had been the first injured person brought here in many years.

Glorfindel was sitting next to the occupied bed, singing softly.  He looked up, and called for Gimli to enter.

“Legolas is near to waking,” the golden-haired Elf spoke in his musical voice.

“How do you know that?” Gimli asked, coming to stand next to him.

“I sense fëa and body coming into alignment,” Glorfindel replied.  “It is difficult to describe, but in essence--”

“There is no need to explain,” Gimli interrupted, but not unkindly.  “The children of Mahal are not unacquainted with spirit travel.”

Glorfindel raised an eyebrow in surprise.  Not long before, this Dwarf would have bristled with anger at such a perceived slight to his education and knowledge.  Much had changed, and in a very short time.

Gimli looked at Legolas in full sunlight for the first time since he had been injured.  His face was flushed.  The bare, muscular chest and arms were covered in bruises, and Gimli assumed that his back was also bruised from where the fall of rock had hit him.  The Elf's chest was fully supported by wide strips of cloth.  The right calf was properly splinted and bandaged, but the surrounding skin did not seem as inflamed and damaged as Gimli assumed would result from such a recent break. 

“How many ribs broken?” he asked.

“Two.”

“As I thought,” Gimli nodded.  “He is still fevered?”

“Yes,” Glorfindel said, his voice still quiet and calm.  “The fever is higher than we would like, but no longer dangerously so.  Someone has been with him constantly, as there are melodies and tones which hasten healing.  I have only recently come to take my turn with him.”  He frowned at Gimli, who was looking distractedly about the room.  “Is something amiss?”

“Something is missing,” Gimli said.  “You can sing to him from now until Durin’s Day, but what he will need is…” He abruptly turned and left the room.

Glorfindel shook his head at the inexplicable ways of Dwarves, and resumed singing.  After a short time, he once again heard the heavy clomping of footsteps behind him.

“I found just the thing!” Gimli announced triumphantly.  To Glorfindel’s astonishment, the Dwarf was holding an exquisite pot, centuries old and one of the treasures of Imladris, which contained a miniature and painstakingly groomed fir tree.

“I do not know what you are planning,” Glorfindel said firmly, “but that is one of Lord Elrond’s most prized--” He broke off his scolding at a soft groan from the bed.

Legolas slowly opened his eyes.  Gimli and Glorfindel were silent while he oriented himself.  After a few moments, his eyes focused on Gimli.

“You have slept through something called ‘second breakfast,’ laddie,” Gimli said.

“I trust you will convey my apologies to the hobbits,” Legolas whispered harshly.  His throat was parched.  “How long--”

“We were rescued last night,” Gimli said.  He set the pot on the bed next to Legolas, and guided the Elf’s hand to the diminutive tree.  “I know you can’t get along without one of these foolish, leafy things.”

Legolas smiled at Glorfindel’s sputter of dismay.

“There was a tree root in the cavern,” he explained.  “I felt… I sensed the tree’s good will, and messages of hope and light.”

“It is I who sent those messages,” Glorfindel told him.  “The venerable oak was most receptive.  I am impressed with your skill in receiving its song in full, young one.”  He took a cup from a nearby table and raised Legolas’s head very gently.  Legolas swallowed the cool water gratefully, then answered Glorfindel’s questions about the level of pain he was experiencing.

After another sip of water, Legolas slid his hand down the bark and onto the cool soil in the pot.

“Tree and earth,” he said softly, meeting Gimli’s eyes.  “A good team.”

Glorfindel looked from one to the other.  It was obvious that these two had bonded during their confinement and near death underground.  Lord Elrond would wish to know of this.

Legolas closed his eyes briefly; each shallow breath obviously pained him. 

“Can you not do something to ease him?” Gimli asked.

“I was about to seek out Eriniel and tell her that Legolas has awakened.”  Glorfindel got to his feet, then motioned to the now-vacant chair.  “Would you do me the favor of remaining, friend Dwarf?”

“I suppose I can do that,” Gimli grumbled, clambering up.  As Glorfindel left the room, he sighed loudly.  “Why is all the furniture in this place so high off the ground?”

“Perhaps a small invasion of hobbits and Dwarves is a rare occurrence,” Legolas said.

“Hmmph.”  Gimli eyed the expert bandaging.  “They did a passable job.”

“I am glad you approve,” Legolas said.  “I do not know what has become of your belt.”

Gimli chuckled.  “I have enough girth not to have missed it!  As for the knife you loaned me, I will sharpen it at my first opportunity.  It was greatly dulled in the digging.”

“Under the circumstances, you need not hurry.”  Legolas touched the bark gently once again, and felt the tree welcome his touch.  “How is Sam?”

“Well looked after, as is Frodo,” Gimli assured him.  “Neither is as annoyingly talkative as you are.”  He gazed down at Legolas, his gaze intense.  “I have heard that Elves heal quickly.  However, you will probably be abed for some days, if not weeks.”  He leaned closer.  “You must be well healed before the Ring-bearer departs.”

Legolas looked at him, and nodded slowly.

“I see that we are of like mind,” he said softly.  “However will we keep those insatiable hobbits fed on the long journey south?”

“We will be hard pressed indeed,” Gimli said with a grin.  “But it will be even more difficult to travel in stealth.  Why do Elves sing so much?”

“Why do Dwarves delve so much?” Legolas countered.

Gimli bristled.  “It would be disrespectful to he who created us, if we failed to bring out the beauty and potential in stone.”

“And we sing in praise of those who created the stars and trees, air and waters,” Legolas said heatedly, for a moment forgetting about the pain.  “Why, even this small tree can sense the…” He stared at Gimli, and sighed.  “Do you suppose we will be able to keep our arguing to a minimum in front of the Ring-bearer?”

“How very dull!” Gimli roared with laughter.  “You underestimate hobbits, Master Elf.”

“Perhaps I have underestimated many things, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said with a smile.  “But no longer.”

*~*~*~*~*

“Mr. Frodo!”  Sam sat straight up in bed and looked around wildly.

“I’m here, Sam,” Frodo said.  He took Sam’s face in his hands and looked into his friend’s frantic eyes.  “I’m right here.”

“Oh,” Sam sighed with relief.  “I thought you were lost in a dark place.”  He sagged weakly back onto the pillow.  “I feel awful, sir.  All dizzy and aching.  Were we celebrating something?”

“Not exactly,” Merry piped up from where he was sitting.  “Don't you remember the cave?”

“The cave?” Sam asked blankly.

“It’s you who were lost in a dark place,” Frodo said gently, “with Legolas and Gimli.  There was a cave-in.  That’s where you were hurt.”

Sam frowned in thought.  “I do remember Mr. Legolas singing, and Mr. Gimli digging…” His stomach suddenly grumbled loudly.

“Pip, would you hand me that tray?” Frodo asked.  “If there’s anything left on it, that is.”

“Of course there’s something left!” Pippin declared.  “We carried all this up here for you and Sam, after all.”  He brought a tray full of covered dishes over to the bed, and waited while Merry and Frodo sat Sam up and propped pillows behind him.

“Why’re you all waiting on me?” Sam asked nervously.  “That’s not right.”  He looked around the room, wide-eyed.  “Mr. Frodo,” he sputtered, “I shouldn’t be in your room!”

“You thought the idea was just ‘splendid’ last night,” Pippin pointed out.

“Splendid,” Sam murmured.  “Isn’t that a splendid word?”

“Not again,” Pippin groaned.  “Why is he only drunk when he’s talking to me?”

Frodo piled several sweet rolls into Sam’s hands to distract him, then turned to Merry.

“Would you find Eriniel or Lindir, or maybe Aragorn, and ask one of them to come in here?” he asked softly.  Merry nodded, then scurried away.

“Is that baked ham I smell, Mr. Frodo, and bacon?” Sam asked eagerly, his aches temporarily forgotten.  “And those potatoes they fry up with onions?  And eggs?”

“And peach hotcakes,” Frodo smiled.  “There are fruit tarts, and a pitcher of that wonderful cider.  Do you really feel up to eating?”

“Why wouldn’t I?” Sam asked in astonishment.  “I have a headache, but you know how I get after too much ale.  Why, remember my Gaffer’s last birthday, sir?  I was in a sorry state the next day.  I do feel woozy, though.  Woooooozy,” he repeated, starting to giggle.

“I’m confused,” Pippin announced.  “Samwise Gamgee, do you or do you not remember the cave-in, and getting hurt and stitched up, and that beautiful healer lady, and insulting my foot hair?”

“Sir,” Sam whispered loudly to Frodo, “Mr. Pippin doesn’t look like he’s had much sleep.  Are you sure there wasn’t a party?”

“Never mind,” Frodo said, trying to keep from laughing.  He started uncovering the dishes.  “We’ll sort it out later.”

Sam was working his way through a stack of hotcakes when Merry returned, dragging Aragorn by the hand.  Pippin was glad to see that their friend appeared rested, and had at last run a brush or comb through his hair.

“Hullo, Strider!” Sam said cheerfully.  He waved a piece of toasted bread at the Ranger.

“You see?” Merry said.  “He’s still acting strange, and his memories of yesterday come and go.  I thought the healer only gave him a tiny drop of that medicine.”

“Fear not, Merry,” Aragorn said with a smile.  “The effect of certain herbal remedies on hobbits is different than for Men or Elves; it might take a full day for the potion to completely leave his system.   I am at least glad to see that our patients are still abed, and not roaming about the House.”

“It hasn't been easy,” Pippin told him, yawning suddenly.

“Go get some sleep, Pip,” Merry urged.

“I really can’t stay awake a moment longer,” Pippin admitted.  “Sam, try to leave some of those hotcakes for Strider.”  He slid off the chair, filched a few pieces of bacon, and left the room.

“You need a break as well, Merry,” Aragorn said.  “I will stay with them for awhile.”

Merry sighed and stretched, suddenly realizing how weary he felt.

“I’d appreciate that, Strider.”  He paused at the door.  “Oh, and try the potatoes, too.  They’re marvelous.”

“Really, Aragorn, we’re not children who need minding every second,” Frodo grumbled after his cousins left.

“Of course not,” Aragorn said soothingly.  He hoped Frodo was not yet aware of the real guards taking shifts out in the corridor.  “Just let us fuss for a few more days, my friend.  We believe that the wraith that attacked the valley is gone, but better safe than sorry.”

“I understand,” Frodo said quietly.  “How is Lord Elrond?”

“He is resting,” Aragorn said simply.  “Do you know what he did?”

Frodo nodded.  “Gandalf told me when we first arrived that he set loose the flood against the Black Riders, and yesterday he kept the cavern from flooding long enough to…” He glanced at Sam, who was waving a piece of bacon in the air and humming.  “I need to thank him.”

“You will get your chance,” Aragorn assured him.  “In a few days everyone should be much improved.”

“Is Legolas all right?”

“He will be.  Elves heal fairly quickly.”

“Like hobbits,” Frodo grinned.

“In many ways,” Aragorn smiled back.  “You shouldn’t eat too much all at once, Sam,” he continued, gazing disapprovingly at the contents of the tray.  “We thought it best that you start with small portions.”

“Those are perfectly respectable portions!” Frodo exclaimed, pointing to the heaping plates of food.  “Surely you don’t expect us to starve him!”

“I’m all right, Strider,” Sam said earnestly.  “Just achy and woooooozy.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Aragorn said.  He sat on the bed and felt Frodo's brow, gratified that there was no fever.  He then looked into Sam’s eyes, and Sam looked back so trustingly that Aragorn's heart warmed.  How difficult it had been to earn this small one's regard!  He examined Sam's head briefly, then checked his vision and reflexes.

“You were most fortunate,” Aragorn said at last.  “Hobbits truly do heal quickly.”  He turned to Frodo, who was watching him closely.  “And how are you feeling, my friend?”  Frodo's cheeks lacked their usual rosy glow, but other than his pallor -- understandable, due to the blood loss --  his eyes were bright and his appetite (apparently) robust.

“I'm a bit woozy as well, but much better,” Frodo said.  He was glad his legs were covered by the blanket; seeing his injury, while still so confused, might cause Sam great distress.  He suddenly thought of something that might distract Aragorn from examining his leg right away, and give Sam enough time to finish the first decent meal he’d had since yesterday.

“Sam,” Aragorn tried again, “perhaps a bit less of the--”

“Do you like riddles?” Frodo asked suddenly.

“Riddles?” Aragorn frowned at the strange question.  “I have heard a few, although it is not a skill for which Rangers are known.”  His eyes fell on the chamber pot.  “Do either of you need to-- ”

“Gandalf and I were playing a game, you see,” Frodo interrupted again, his eyes gleaming with anticipation.  He unobtrusively nudged a plate of eggs closer to Sam.  “I’ll teach it to you.”

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 16: Contemplations

“Of course, of course! Absurdly simple, like most riddles when you see the answer.”  ‘A Journey in the Dark’, The Fellowship of the Ring

After leaving Frodo, Gandalf finally went to seek his own rest.  He had never before focused so much energy through Narya within such a short period of time, and with such delicate precision.  Feeling drained, he retired to the room always kept in readiness for his infrequent visits to Imladris, lay upon the bed, and set his cares aside.  Taking deep breaths of the buoyant, restorative air of the valley, he fell into a dreamless slumber and did not awaken until the Sun was low in the west.  Even before he opened his eyes, he sensed that Elrond had also awakened.

By the bedside had been set a bottle of wine, a bowl of autumn fruits, a platter containing cheese and a knife, and a plateful of the crisp, sweet cakes for which the bakers of the House were renowned.  He sampled all of them, then walked about the House, asking questions of those he met and receiving answers which pleased him.  Finally, he sought out Elrond, and found him seated on the same couch on which he had lain while unconscious.  The Elf-lord was now dressed in comfortable nightclothes -- a white tunic and loose trousers -- and held a steaming cup of tea.

Gandalf walked to the railing and leaned against it, breathing in the perfume of flowers that bloomed each evening.

“Are you well, my friend?” he asked quietly.

“I am weary,” Elrond admitted.

“You travelled far.  We feared for you.”

Elrond shook his head.  “Not as far as you might think,” he said, but did not explain.   He was silent for a time, and Gandalf sensed his fatigue.  “I understand that Aragorn and my daughter worked in concert to reach my wandering fëa.”

“They did indeed.  You should be most proud.”

“I am, and I will tell them so.  What is happening about the House?”

“Arwen spent much of the day resting,” Gandalf said, knowing that Elrond's first concern would be for his daughter's welfare.  “Lindir took it upon himself to watch over her sleep.”

“That is good.”  Elrond visibly relaxed, and resumed taking small sips of the restorative tea.  “Before I shooed him from my side, Erestor told me about Frodo's injury; my trust in Aragorn was not misplaced.  How do they fare?”

“Frodo shows his resiliency once more, and is recovering rapidly.”  Gandalf smiled.  “As for Aragorn, many have observed, with some amusement, that he has been bearing Frodo back and forth on various errands.  I fear that his otherwise sterling education may have been lacking when it comes to hobbit games and wiles.”

“I was certainly remiss regarding teaching him that obscure branch of knowledge, and learning it myself,” Elrond chuckled softly.  “Go on.”

“Sam and Legolas were injured, but Eriniel is confident they will both make a full recovery.  Gimli was not hurt, and has earned the respect even of those who may have previously held Dwarves in low regard.”  Gandalf looked thoughtful.  “Glorfindel reports that Legolas and Gimli have formed a strong bond.  I did not anticipate this, but am not surprised. It is something to consider when you choose Frodo’s companions.”

“As soon as I regain my full strength, I will consult with them.” Elrond said.  “And how do you fare?  I was aware of many transfers of energy from Narya to Vilya.  I appreciate the risk, and am grateful.”

“There was indeed risk,” Gandalf agreed, “but losing you would have been of much greater consequence than the slim chance that the Enemy’s servant might sense the location or identity of one of the Bearers.”  He sighed.  “It is consequence enough that they know of Frodo’s burden, and that he entered their world, if only briefly.”

“Frodo believed this to be a sanctuary, and so it should have been,” Elrond murmured.  “I feel shame that he was attacked within the borders of Imladris.  Such a thing has never happened before.”

“Let your shame fall away,” Gandalf said gently.  “Your willingness to spend yourself selflessly, and without hesitation, is worthy of praise.”  He grew thoughtful.  “I was delayed by Saruman, and then pursued by Nazgûl when I needed to be at Frodo's side; Aragorn blames himself that Frodo was injured while under his guardianship; and Sam blames himself for not shielding his master from harm in the cave, although he could not possibly have done so.”  He shook his head.  “Frodo’s destiny is his own, Elrond.  Perhaps a fellowship of companions will serve him; perhaps not.  We can only do what we can, with what we have.  Our choices are limited, and our powers not infinite.”

Elrond nodded.  “The House is quiet,” he said.

“The Hall of Fire misses its lord,” Gandalf replied.  “There will be feasting and merriment aplenty when you – and the others – are fully well.”

“We must indeed plan a feast,” Elrond agreed.  “There are many to be honored and thanked, and tales to be exchanged among...”  He suddenly sensed a change in the wizard’s mood.  “Speak, my friend.”

Gandalf took a deep breath, and turned to face him.  “Many times I pondered who would be chosen as Ring-bearer had Frodo not survived his wounding; today I was confronted with what I should do had your fëa not found the strength to return.”  He gazed somberly at the Elf-lord.  “What of Vilya, should its master be lost?”

“What of Narya?” Elrond countered.  “Much lies ahead of us, and you will be accompanying Frodo south.  In this form, you, too, are vulnerable to attack and weakness.”  He looked up at the wizard curiously.  “What had you decided to do with Vilya?”

“The lord of Imladris returned to us, and the upcoming feast will celebrate that, as well,” Gandalf replied calmly.  “No decision needed to be made.”

Elrond said nothing, but wondered if this was the whole truth.  And after Gandalf left him, he sat for a long while, gazing up at the stars and pondering what it meant to be a ring-bearer.

*~*~*~*~*

It was lovely to be clean again, but Frodo regretfully acknowledged that he couldn’t stay in the bathing tub all night... not that he was any deeper than the top step.  And not that this was exactly a ‘tub’, he mused, at least not the kind with which hobbits were most familiar.  The Last Homely House included large and small bathing rooms, each of which contained pools carved of smooth marble brought from far away.  Merry had told him that the clear waters had grown quite cold while Lord Elrond was keeping the cave from flooding.  The pools were now delightfully warm again, and Frodo pondered this while the attendants assisted him.  He regretted needing their help, but had quickly discovered that taking a proper bath while keeping his bandage dry was beyond his abilities.  At last the attendants, sensing his desire to be alone for a time, helped him to an ornate bench where a stack of towels awaited his use, bowed and left.

It was obvious that Elves had powers beyond anything about which Bilbo had hinted in his stories.  Frodo still remembered the feeling of Glorfindel’s hand upon his wound, and how Arwen’s hand had also seemed to channel warmth to a lesser degree.  Lord Elrond had commanded the River to flood, then prevented another flood from drowning Sam, Gimli, and Legolas.  Frodo smiled to himself about another important example of Elvish 'magic' -- they were certainly skilled bakers.  He patted his middle and reminisced for a moment about the tender roast of beef and perfectly-seasoned mushroom salad that had been the centerpiece of that evening's supper served to him and Sam.  And the batter pudding was so exceptional, he wondered if the recipe was one of Bilbo’s own...

Thinking about Sam reminded Frodo that he needed to get back to his friend.  He put on a clean nightshirt, and a dressing gown borrowed from Bilbo, then rang the small silver bell that had been left with him.  After a short time, Aragorn stepped through the doorway.

“Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Frodo said.  “That was wonderful.”  He looked up at the Ranger, suddenly feeling a twinge of guilt.  Aragorn surely had his own duties here in Rivendell, and many things which required his attention.  “I’m sorry to take up so much of your time.  But you did agree, and you didn’t guess that last one.”

“Rangers keep their word,” Aragorn said solemnly.

“I won’t ask anything more of you, I promise,” Frodo said.  “I can get about tomorrow using the walking stick Bilbo brought, if that’s all right, and Lindir or Eriniel can help me take care of Sam.”

“That sounds quite acceptable,” Aragorn said, failing to hide a smile.

“Hmmph.  You can go ahead and laugh,” Frodo said, giving his hair one more thorough rubbing with a towel, “but it’s very satisfying to make sure Sam has a chance to rest and eat.  He neglects himself dreadfully.”

“I do not laugh at friendship, Frodo,” Aragorn said gently.  “There is much healing in that alone... for both of you.”  He knelt to inspect the bandage, to ensure that it was not wet, slipped the bell into his tunic pocket, then lifted Frodo and carried him back to his room.   When they entered, Sam was awake, and looking up at Frodo with grave concern.

“You look better, Sam,” Aragorn said, settling Frodo next to him.

“I feel better, Strider,” Sam assured him, not taking his eyes off his master.  “Those bathing pools are wonderful things, aren’t they, sir?” he asked wistfully.

“Tomorrow,” Aragorn promised him.  “Give it one more day.  Your bruises will be less tender, and the heat not as dizzying.”

“All right,” Sam agreed reluctantly.

“I will bid you good night,” Aragorn said.  He lit several candles, filling the darkening room with a soft glow, then set the bell on the table.  “Frodo, please use this if you or Sam need anything; someone will respond quickly.”  He winked at the hobbit.  “You may not see me again until tomorrow, as I have now paid my debt from our game.”  He left them alone.

“You seem quite yourself again, Sam,” Frodo said softly.  “You remember now, don’t you?”

“Most of it,” Sam whispered, his heart suddenly cold with dread.  “Mr. Frodo, how badly were you hurt?  How did one of those awful creatures find you here?”

“As for the second question, I’m not sure,” Frodo sighed.  “Gandalf might know, but he hasn’t said much about it.  As for the first…” He drew up his nightshirt a bit, and Sam inspected the bandage carefully.  “The sliver of rock is gone, Sam.  My leg throbs a bit, but I suspect your head hurts worse.  If you can bear it, I can.”

“I can bear anything but…” Sam sighed.  “It was hard not knowing what happened to you.  Awful hard.”

“It was hard for me, as well,” Frodo said.  “When Merry and I saw that mountain of rock nearly where you and Legolas had just been standing…”

“I can’t remember that part, but... Mr. Legolas saved my life,” Sam said wonderingly.  “Mr. Gimli said he threw himself on top of me, and was hit by all the worst of the rocks that were falling.”

“And Merry pulled me back so that the splinter hit my leg, and not… anywhere else.  Had either of us been alone, things might have gone much worse.”  Frodo shuddered for a moment, then pushed the thought aside.  “How was your nap?  You’ve been more asleep than awake today!”

“Don’t I know it!” Sam chuckled.  “I’ve been sleeping so much, I would’ve completely lost track of the time except for meals.  Not that it was easy to keep track of it before all this happened.”

“Time does seem to act a bit odd in Rivendell,” Frodo agreed.  “Bilbo was right.  It’s a dangerous business, going out of your door.”

“Dangerous or not, Mr. Frodo, you’ll not be facing it without your Sam.”

“I know,” Frodo said quietly, and took Sam's hand.

“I really do feel so much better,” Sam said, puzzled.  “Mr. Gimli said I didn’t even know him, at first.”

“I suspect he and Legolas were both frightened for you.”

“I want to see Mr. Legolas, and thank him proper.”

“Tomorrow, we’ll ask if we may visit him,” Frodo said.  “With luck, he’s recovering as quickly as you are.  There is definitely something special about this valley.”  He rubbed his left shoulder absently.

“Are you in pain, sir?”

“No, dear Sam,” Frodo said gently.  “I’ve just been thinking... well, about Rivendell itself.”

“It’s a fair place, and no mistake.”

“Perhaps it’s more than that,” Frodo murmured.  “You’re recovering so quickly... and last month when I nearly died...”

“Mr. Frodo--”

“...the day after I awoke, it all seemed almost like a bad dream...”

“Sir!” Sam said urgently. “I take it Strider didn't figure out that last one?”

Frodo laughed, instantly distracted from his troubling thoughts.

“Not yet!  But he will.”

*~*~*~*~*

When Aragorn left the House, he made his way to a small, secluded bridge.  Arwen stood upon it, alone in the moonlight, and for a moment he stood among the trees, drinking in the sight.  She smiled and turned to him.

“Estel... I felt you approach.”

“And I felt you awaiting me,” Aragorn responded, coming to her side.  “Did you sleep well?”

Arwen nodded, then changed the subject -- not wishing, as yet, to discuss that day's events.

“I have not been advised as to the details of the word game you have been playing with the Ring-bearer,” she said lightly, “but I understand you fared rather poorly.”

“I upheld the Dúnedain honor quite well, for the most part!” Aragorn declared.  “However, Frodo is quite relentless, and I lost as many rounds as I won.  The last riddle...”

“Hard as diamond, soft as spring,
Precious as a thousand rings.
Far to go, yet you are home,
Always here where ’ere you roam.”

Arwen laughed merrily.  “'Tis one of Bilbo's rhymes!” she told him.  “The answer is right in front of you, but it is no wonder you have not guessed it; Frodo left out the final lines.”

“Why, that rascal!” Aragorn declared.  “What are they?”

“Sworn to death, sworn to life,
Lucky he who takes this wife.”

“Can you not guess?” Arwen asked, her eyes sparkling.

“You!” Aragorn exclaimed.

“Yes,” Arwen blushed.  “Dear Bilbo has written verses for both of us, it seems.”

“It is possible that Frodo knew only the lines he told me,” Aragorn said thoughtfully.  “Bilbo keeps many secrets, and perhaps our promise to one another is one of them.”

“Perhaps.”  Arwen gazed into his eyes, thinking now about the bond they shared, and how it had been put to the test -- and strengthened -- in helping save her father’s life.  She put her hand in his, her eyes filled with love.

“Whenever you have need of me, Estel, wherever you are... reach out in thought, and I will be there.”

Aragorn pressed her hand to his heart.  “And here,” he whispered, then drew her into his arms. 

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 17: A Puzzling Tea Party

“All that lies north of Rohan is now to us so far away that fancy can wander freely there.” Boromir, ‘Farewell to Lórien’, The Fellowship of the Ring

Boromir rode across the Ford towards Rivendell, and as he headed along the subtly-hidden path pointed out by his companions, he was taken aback by the gentle feel to the air.  He had been too weary to notice anything unusual about the Elves’ valley when escorted to Rivendell that fateful day when Lord Elrond had convened the Council.  However, autumn had now settled over the northern lands with a cold frost, and although the breeze flowing through the valley was cool and invigorating, it was softer than “outside”, and lacked any edge of chill.  There were many stories in Gondor about Elves and their sorcery, and he wondered about the source of their power.

Faramir would fit in easily here, he mused.  His imagination brings him often to places like this, and he dreams of lands and peoples we believed to be legends only.

Weeks ago, during his first experience riding with Elves, Boromir had felt uncertain of his place, and expected that his skills and manner would be severely assessed.  After their first, fierce encounter with wild wolves, he sensed he had passed some type of test, and was pleased to be welcomed into the small company's frequent patrols. Warriors were much alike everywhere, he realized: keen-eyed, alert, skilled, and -- even with a language barrier -- able to jest and tease in ways he understood.  He had missed the company of warriors on his long journey north, and as different as Elves were from Men, he soon felt more at ease amongst them.

On this patrol, they had crossed paths with a group of Northern Dúnedain.  Upon learning from them that Aragorn had returned to Rivendell earlier than planned, Boromir found himself also eager to return to the valley.  There was much he wished to discuss with this northern Ranger. 

He saw his borrowed horse to the stables, where graceful Elves took his mount with soft murmurs and gentle hands.  He had picked up a bit of their language in the past week, and his words of thanks were met with approving smiles.

It had been glorious to ride again, and the horses kept by these folk were strong and beautiful.  There had been some hint that the Ring-bearer and the wizard would be walking – walking! – south, a ludicrous idea he hoped that, by now, had been discarded by wiser heads.  There was simply no time for what he had heard the Halflings call a “walking party”, especially since he and Aragorn planned to accompany the Ring-bearer for many leagues.  He was needed in his city, and longed for home.  He would ride triumphantly through the gates of Minas Tirith with the heir of Isildur bearing a sword out of legend, the Ring-bearer at their side, his father’s face smiling at last…

As Boromir strode back towards the House, he was startled out of his thoughts by the tableau before him on the expansive front lawn.  The Ring-bearer was walking towards the largest tree, and beneath it his servant was talking to one of the younger hobbits… Peregrin, most likely, although he still had difficulty distinguishing him from Meriadoc at a distance.  The large cloth on which the two sat was crowded with baskets and bottles and platters – an afternoon picnic, it seemed.  The Dwarf was speaking with the Prince of Mirkwood, who stood between two Elves he did not recognize.  But suddenly, his brain processed the more unlikely aspects of what his eyes were telling him: the Ring-bearer was limping slightly, and there was a bandage wrapped about his left calf.  Samwise had a bandage wrapped about his head.  The Prince of Mirkwood was not so much standing as being supported by his fellows, and the Dwarf, whom he had never heard speak a word to the fair folk save a few polite grunts, appeared to now be giving orders to the other Elves, who appeared to be agreeing with his suggestion as to where the Prince should be escorted.  The blond Elf’s unbelted tunic revealed a bruised and bandaged chest, and one leg was splinted.  It was obvious that he was recovering from serious injuries.

“Welcome back, Boromir!” Peregrin called out.  “Join us for tea!”

Samwise looked in his direction, but almost immediately dropped his eyes and began to rub his head.

“Lie down for a bit, Sam,” came Frodo’s gentle voice.  “The sun is still too bright for you.”

Boromir realized that the afternoon sun was directly behind him, and must have caused the hobbit pain to look upon it.  After a brief protest, Samwise dutifully lay down, and Frodo cast aside his walking stick and awkwardly sat beside him.

“Right there,” came the Dwarf’s booming voice.  “No, closer to the tree.  He needs to touch it, you understand.  Sit right up against the trunk, laddie.  Master Took, is there any cheese left in this jumble?”

“What has happened?” Boromir called out anxiously, striding up to join the small group.  “Were you attacked?”

“Frodo was,” Pippin said promptly.  “Right through the rocks, can you believe it?”

“Rocks?” Boromir asked, puzzled.  He knelt next to Pippin.  “Explain yourself, little one.  From what direction did the Enemy assault you?  Why was the Ford not guarded when I crossed?”

“It is guarded, son of Gondor,” one of the Elves said softly, “but they would not have shown themselves to you without need; nor hindered from crossing someone whom they recognized.  Does this suit you, Master Dwarf?”

“It suits me,” Legolas declared.  “Thank you.”

“I'm so glad you're getting better, Mr. Legolas,” Sam said with delight.  He sat up suddenly, and Frodo steadied him.  “He saved my life, Mr. Boromir!  So did Mr. Gimli.”

“It was dreadful, Boromir!” Pippin said excitedly.  “Gandalf says one of the Black Riders sent a spell right into the cave, and Frodo was hurt, and it collapsed right on top of Sam and Legolas, and Merry and Gimli helped dig everyone out before the flood came, and there's a feast tonight.  You returned just in time!  Was the patrol interesting?”

Boromir looked from one face to the other, his head whirling.

“Peregrin,” he said slowly, “I was absent from this valley for only six days.”

“Has it been that long?” Frodo asked, frowning.

“All kinds of things can happen in six days,” Pippin was saying earnestly.  “Between leaving the Shire and meeting Strider in Bree, we almost got eaten by a tree, and then the Barrow-wights wanted to… well, I’m not really sure what they wanted, but Frodo summoned Tom Bombadil, and everything was fine, except that our clothes went missing.  Tom gave us our swords, though.  We did get the loveliest mushrooms from Mrs. Maggot, so it wasn’t all bad.  Oh, I forgot, you probably heard all about that at the Council… to which Merry and I were not invited.  Here, try these honey-dipped apple slices; you look a bit peaked.”

“Don’t mind Pip’s way of telling a story,” Frodo said to Boromir with a smile.  “He tends to get his foot hair in a frazzle sometimes.”

“He does?” Boromir asked, looking involuntarily at the hobbits’ unusual feet.

Sam chuckled, and Pippin turned from rummaging around in one of the baskets to glare at Frodo.

“Don’t you start saying that, Frodo Baggins,” he declared.  “Tooks have very distinguished foot hair.  Tell Sam to stop laughing.”

“If anything Sam does or says displeases me, cousin,” Frodo said calmly, “I will let him know.”

“All right then,” Gimli said to Legolas.  “You should be comfortable here until those nervous healers haul you back inside.  Imagine forcing a Wood-elf to stay indoors for so many days, fever or no fever!  Now let the hobbits feed and fuss over you.  I am off to finish the bridge, and then everyone can visit the cavern whenever they wish; it is still quite beautiful, just… different.”

“Found it!”  Pippin unearthed a wheel of cheese and handed it to Gimli.  

“Bridge?” Boromir asked weakly.

“Aye,” Gimli said, stroking his beard.  “’Tis not a deep river, but it is swift, and treacherous.  But there is nothing to fear; a Dwarf-built bridge will last until…” He grinned down at Legolas.  “…this tree calls out a greeting when I pass by.”

“Then it will last a very long time,” Legolas said with a straight face.

Gimli roared with laughter.  “You are feeling better, laddie!  Back to your annoying, cantankerous ways, I see.  Now, what time is this feast?”

“At the second hour past sunset,” Legolas replied.  “It would be earlier, but I understand the hall needs to be restored to its usual state.”  He winked at Sam.  “As you know, over the past few days someone took it upon himself to strip the House of every ornamental tree and pile them on top of me.”

“Such ingratitude!” Gimli muttered.  “I take full credit for your swift healing, Master Elf.”  Tucking the cheese and a water bottle into a pouch, he strode off eastwards, humming to himself.

“Some cake, Boromir?” Frodo asked.  “Now then, what happened was--”

“Boromir!” came a voice from the veranda.  Everyone looked up as Aragorn came towards them, carrying a small pile of folded cloth.

Boromir got to his feet.  Whether Aragorn’s claim was true or false, he was still a captain of the Rangers, and merited respect for that alone.

“I am glad to see you,” Aragorn said gravely, coming to Boromir's side and clasping his arm.  “I hoped to speak with you again before I left.”

“You’re going away again, Strider?” Pippin asked.

Aragorn smiled gently at the hobbit’s crestfallen expression.  “Not until tomorrow; I will return as soon as I may.  I wish to ride with the Dúnedain once more before we begin our journey.”  He knelt to place a neatly-folded shirt in Sam’s lap.  Shaking out Pippin’s scarf, he wrapped it around the young hobbit’s neck.  “Arwen bid me return these to you.  Pippin, I daresay your scarf has not been this clean since before we met.  And Sam, I hope you find that the mending meets with your approval; my lady saw to it herself.”

Sam’s jaw dropped, and he clutched the shirt reverently.  

“Will she be at the feast?” Pippin asked hopefully.

“Pippin, that is hardly polite,” Frodo frowned.  “The Lady’s plans do not need to be shared with us.”

“She is spending the day with her father, and they will both attend,” Aragorn told them.

“I've been wanting to thank Lord Elrond for all he did,” Frodo said.  “Sam and Legolas and Gimli would be dead if not for him.”

“Were you all injured?” Boromir asked.

“Oh, he didn't heal them,” Pippin said.

“It's just that we would have been drownded,” Sam explained.

“Has it truly been nearly a week since the cave-in?” Frodo asked wonderingly.  “When will Sam and I have our sutures removed?”

“They itch,” Sam added.

“I am utterly confused,” Boromir announced to no one in particular.

“Just a few days longer, Frodo; Eriniel will see to it.”  Aragorn stood up, and turned to address Boromir.  “May we have speech together before you rest?”

“Of course,” Boromir said at once.  “I met some of your Men in the Wild, and bear messages for you.”  As he and Aragorn walked towards the House, Aragorn leaned close to him and spoke softly.

“Know you anything of riddles, Boromir?”

“Seeking the answer to a riddle is what brought me here,” Boromir reminded him.

“Indeed,” Aragorn chuckled.  “Even so, take heed, son of Gondor: be wary of any hobbit who wishes to wager with you in a game of words.  They are crafty.”

“They seem very simple folk; even the Ring-bearer appears quite unversed in things of great consequence,” Boromir objected.

“Do not mistake innocence for ignorance,” Aragorn advised.  “As you have just reminded me, even the Powers speak in riddles.”

“Are you equating the Powers with those Halflings?” Boromir asked in amazement.

“Not exactly,” Aragorn smiled.  “However, even Gandalf admits that there are things about hobbits even he does not understand.  You would do well not to underestimate them.”

“Noted,” Boromir promised.  “Now, what was all that about a cave-in?”

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 18: Thanksgiving

Frodo looked with delight upon the many fair faces that were gathered together; the golden firelight played upon them and shimmered in their hair.  ‘Many Meetings’, The Fellowship of the Ring

“I hate to wake them,” Pippin said, gazing at the bed.

“We have to,” Merry said firmly.  “If they come down for the feast late, and Frodo only finds leftovers, Sam’ll have our heads.”

“So will I,” came an amused voice.   A hand emerged from the mound of blankets, then Frodo's tousled head.  He nudged another blanket-covered shape with his foot.  “Are you up?”

“Mm hm,” Sam murmured.  There was a gasp.  “I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, I must have fallen asleep!”  Sam leaped up in a panic, then winced.

“Of course you fell asleep, Sam; that's what naps are for.  And you need to stop sitting up so quickly,” Frodo admonished.  He yawned and stretched, then carefully slid down to the floor.  “Neither of us is perfectly well yet.”

Pippin ran to the corner of the room where Bilbo’s walking stick was propped up, and brought it to Frodo.

“Thank you, Pip.  Is there time for a bath?” Frodo asked hopefully.

“We knew you’d ask that,” Merry said.  “Would we wake you at the last minute?”

“We’d best hurry, though,” Pippin said, helping Sam down.  “I wonder what's for supper?”

“Whatever it is, it will be delicious,” Frodo said confidently.  “Bilbo was right about the food here, wasn't he?  And besides, he’s taught them everything he knows by now.”

When the bells rang for supper, the four hobbits, fresh from their baths and wearing new garments, walked together down the stairs.  Frodo insisted on supporting Sam’s arm (and was supported in turn), with Pippin on one side of them and Merry on the other.  As they reached the lower level, the murmur of voices they had been hearing, which they now realized was coming from the dining hall, grew quite loud.

“It sounds like the whole Shire's in there!” Sam said, a bit awed.  “Remember that feast last month, Mr. Frodo?  There were plenty of folks, but this sounds like a lot more.”

“I remember,” Frodo said softly.  “I'm surprised there had even been time to plan that feast; no one knew when I would wake, after all.”

Or if you would wake, Merry thought to himself, exchanging a glance with Pippin.  “Come on, let's get in there,” he said heartily.

Arwen occasionally enjoyed exercising her prerogative as mistress of Rivendell, and this night every aspect of the feast had been planned by her.  As the hobbits entered the hall, they looked around in wonder.  Dozens of candelabra lit the room, and bright autumn leaves of gold, orange, and red were scattered on the tablecloths and along the floor.  Vases and bowls were filled with crystals that she had asked Gimli to retrieve from the cavern and the banks of the new river.  They glittered and sparkled in the candlelight.  A great many Elves, some of whom the hobbits had not yet met, stood or sat in merry groups sampling nuts, fruit, and sweetmeats from a table decorated with flowers.  Each fair face seemed to radiate a gentle light of its own.  Round tables were arranged about the room, each set with gleaming white plates and silver utensils.  At each place there was a filled goblet of golden wine, and a small basket of freshly-baked loaves covered with a cloth.

Sam saw Bilbo beckoning to them from a table near the hearth, and he steered the other hobbits in that direction.  Chairs for the hobbits had been piled high with cushions, and Merry and Pippin helped Sam and Frodo settle comfortably next to Bilbo before claiming their own places and sniffing the air with anticipation.  When Gimli arrived, he joined the hobbits at their table, and Boromir, looking a bit hesitant, smiled gratefully as Pippin waved him over, as well.

“You never told us about your patrol, Boromir,” Merry said, sampling the wine.

“I've hardly had time!” Boromir chuckled.

“Did you find anything?” Frodo asked curiously.  “You went north, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” Boromir said.  “I regret to report that the trails and passes north of Rivendell are unsafe for travel.  I hope your way home does not take you in that direction.”

“Oh, we’re not going home right away,” Pippin said, looking at Merry meaningfully.

“Why is it unsafe, sir?” Sam asked.

“Wolves,” Boromir said gravely.  “On each patrol, we encountered fierce packs of them.  If anyone wishes to travel that way, a mighty company of hunters will need to accompany them.”

Gimli’s eyes sparkled for a moment, as his hand itched to use his axe for something other than helping increase Rivendell's supply of stacked firewood for winter, but he could not think of going home… not yet.  He had taken his request to join the Ring-bearer’s company to Elrond, and had been approved.  The next months were going to be quite interesting indeed.

“Oh look,” Frodo said happily, discovering a loaf of warm pumpkin bread in his basket.  “I was hoping there would be more of this soon.  It’s nearly as good as yours, Bilbo.”

Sam and Pippin simultaneously pushed small dishes of butter towards Frodo’s plate, making them all laugh.

“There’s Mr. Legolas,” Sam said, pointing to the entrance.

As Legolas entered the hall, supported by Lindir, he was surprised at the many voices that called out to him.  Gimli had not been shy about letting the Elves hear every detail of what he viewed as a selfless act in protecting Sam from certain death.  Sam looked up eagerly as Legolas came towards them, and was delighted when the Wood-elf asked if he might occupy the last seat at their table, between Sam and Gimli.  Lindir brought over a small stool which he slid under the table so that Legolas could prop up his injured leg.

“I see that you have retrieved your belt, Master Dwarf,” Legolas said, sitting as comfortably as possible.

“I found it today in the meadow, among some debris that had been pushed out by the waters.” Gimli replied.

“Mr. Gimli,” Sam asked, “did you find the other basket?”

“I am sorry, Sam, but it is gone without a trace,” Gimli said.  “Master Elf, this young hobbit was eager to get your opinion about certain flowers he had been gathering when the rather unfortunate incident occurred.”

“Is that why the basket you gave me was so light?” Merry asked Sam.  “There were flowers in it?  I must have left it in the cave.  Sorry, Sam; it probably got smashed to bits in the flood.”

“No matter,” Legolas said kindly.  “As soon as the healers deem all of us capable of walking that far, we will return to where Sam found his blooms.”

“That would be wonderful,” Sam beamed.

“After all,” Legolas said casually, “we really should inspect Master Dwarf’s bridge.  I am certain it is sturdy enough, but Elves require a certain level of--”

“Inspect!” Gimli spluttered.  “Are you questioning the beauty of Dwarf-made craft?  Is your education so deficient?”

“Are you insulting my education?” Legolas demanded.  “I have had the finest tutors in Middle-earth.”

“He never had his knuckles rapped by Aunt Amaranth,” Frodo whispered to Merry.

“Ask your so-called tutors about the Nauglamír,” Gimli said icily.  “Then I will hear your apology.”

“It was King Thingol who supervised its remaking.”

“Speak not of he who flung such insults at my forebears as should never have been spoken!”

“Dare you speak of this in the House of Elrond?  It was his own mother who bore the--”

“Shouldn't we do something?” Merry whispered frantically to Frodo.  “They look like they’re about to do battle.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Merry,” Sam said confidently.  “I think they were doing this in the cave, too.  They’re not really angry, they’re just… well, that’s how they talk to each other sometimes.”

“Are you sure?” Pippin asked doubtfully.  “Gimli looks ready to chop someone’s head off.”

“I’m sure,” Sam said cheerfully.  “Mr. Bilbo, look here!  Cranberry muffins!”

Elrond, Arwen, Aragorn, Erestor, Lindir, Glorfindel, Eriniel, and Gandalf were seated together at the main table, and the wild arm-waving and icy glares of Gimli and Legolas were causing Glorfindel some concern.

“Are you certain about your decision?” he asked Elrond.  “How will the Ring-bearer travel in secrecy with those two in the Company?”

“I am certain,” Elrond said firmly.  “Their hearts are true, and both realize the gravity of that for which they have volunteered.”

“Ada,” Aragorn said from his seat between Arwen and Gandalf, “I have been meaning to talk with you about Pippin and Merry.  Their hearts are also true, and Frodo values them highly.  They do not wish to be parted from him.”

Elrond shook his head.  “I cannot allow it,” he said gravely.  “They must return to the Shire.”

Aragorn was about to speak further, when Gandalf caught his eye and shook his head.  “This is not the time,” he murmured.  “Wait.”

Finally all were seated, and everyone looked expectantly in Elrond's direction... but it was Arwen who stood first to greet their guests.  She  wore gems in her hair, and a gown of green banded with gold.  When she arose, holding a candle, the hall quieted instantly.  She looked so beautiful that Pippin’s butter knife would have dropped to his plate with a clatter, had Merry not hastily caught it in midair.

“One month ago,” Arwen spoke, “we feasted the recovery of an Elf-friend who had been gravely wounded in confrontation with the Enemy.”  She nodded to Frodo, and Bilbo put an arm about his nephew.  “Tonight we once again rejoice in his recovery, and much more.”  Each table held a glass bowl filled with a clear oil from which several wicks protruded.  She touched the flame of her candle to the wick in the bowl in front of her before passing the candle to Aragorn, and he to Gandalf.  As the candle passed around the room, the bowls of oil at each table sprang to light in different colors – gold, white, blue, or rose.  Frodo looked up at Gandalf, suspecting the wizard’s involvement, and the wizard winked at him.  Finally, when the room was blazing with light, the candle came back around to Arwen.

“Friendships grow, bonds strengthen, and hearts grow in resolve.  Hope remains,” Arwen said quiely.  She sat down, and under the table Aragorn took her hand.  He would leave on patrol again at dawn.

Elrond now rose to his feet, looking regal in robes of blue and silver.

“This valley has been a refuge for millennia,” the Elf-lord said gravely, “and although times darken and the Enemy’s subtleties grow, a refuge it remains.  These past days have been full of uncertainty, but the combined efforts of all in this room have restored Imladris to a place of peace.”  He picked up his goblet.  “To those who labored unceasingly to free those trapped in the darkness, I thank you.  To those who serve through healing, I thank you.  To each who daily gift this House with those things which contribute to its hospitality – cooking, cleaning, weaving, gardens, orchards, carpentry, lore, music, crafts, and husbandry – I thank you.  To those who patrol our borders and bear messages near and far, rarely home but always in our thoughts, I thank you.”  He then turned his gaze to two Elves who were startled to be singled out.  “And to those who must often labor in silence and secret, I thank you.”  The smiths bowed their heads for a moment.  Of the Morgul shard Glorfindel had brought them, which they melted in their hottest flame, they had spoken to no one, and would not until given leave.

Elrond raised his goblet and drank, and everyone did the same.

“Let the feast begin!” Erestor cried out in a glad voice, and the hall suddenly echoed with joyful laughter and talk.

“That was a proper speech,” Merry said with satisfaction.

“It was,” Pippin agreed.  “Long enough to satisfy, but short enough so the food doesn’t get cold.”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam whispered, “look over there!”  He motioned to several unattended barrels.  “This is very good wine and all, but--”

“Hmmm,” Gimli said thoughtfully.  “Someone should make sure those casks are opened correctly.  If you will excuse me for a moment…”

Soon the ale was flowing as freely as the wine, and servers proudly brought in platters of roasted meats, baked hams, fish, savory sauces, mixed greens, tender yams, honey cakes, and custards.  The hobbits were delighted to be served mouth-watering mushroom dishes, and bowls of warm, chunky applesauce sprinkled with cinnamon -- a sweet spice from the south rarely available in the Shire. 

As the hobbits passed around the bowls and platters, Gimli’s attention was temporarily diverted by a rose-colored crystal in a bowl near him.  He ran a gentle finger along its smooth facets, and whispered something in his own tongue.  Legolas watched him for a moment.

“Let us call a truce, Master Dwarf,” he said.  “We can at least agree that all aspects of nature are worthy of our regard.  As I reverence trees, you reverence stone.  Each, in its own way, is conscious; each is a part of Arda’s song.”

“Agreed,” Gimli said.  “Here, laddie, you take this,” he said generously, handing Legolas the crystal.  “Perhaps you will grow to appreciate it.”  Legolas looked doubtfully at the bit of rock in his hand.

The feast was lively, with enough food to satisfy hobbits and enough song to satisfy elves.  Laughter and tales flew back and forth, and even Gimli and Boromir were included in the toasts.  At last, feeling full and contented, the hobbits dispersed to express their appreciation to the chefs and bakers, and to wander about the hall for some visiting.  Frodo made his way to the main table, and all who watched him pass were happy to see their small friend looking so well.  After paying his respects to Lady Arwen, and once again thanking Lindir and Eriniel for all they did to help Sam, he turned to Aragorn.

“I’m glad you could be here this time,” Frodo teased, referring to the previous month's feast.

“So am I,” the Ranger said fervently, and Arwen pressed his hand.

“Come back safely,” Frodo said, more seriously, and Aragorn nodded.

Frodo finally made his way to Elrond's chair.

“I’ve been wanting to thank you for everything you did,” he said to the Master of Rivendell, his eyes shining with gratitude.  “I know you were ill, and also why.  I’m overjoyed to see you well again.”

“Thank you, Frodo.” Elrond said.  “And I am overjoyed that you and Samwise are recovering so quickly.  It is my hope that nothing else disturbs your stay here.”

“Everything's fine at present,” Frodo said, winking at Gandalf.  “That’s all anyone can promise, after all.”  He bowed, then went to join Bilbo, who was sitting alone by the hearth and scribbling on a piece of parchment.

“More poetry?” Frodo asked, settling down beside him.

“Of course!” Bilbo grinned.  He gazed fondly at his nephew.  “Having you here is wonderful, my lad.  I hope you don’t have to leave too soon.”

“That’s up to Master Elrond,” Frodo said quietly.  He stared into the fire.  “I wonder how far south that Black Rider is now.”

“Far, far away,” Bilbo said encouragingly.   “Elrond will never let you leave until he knows the way is safe for you.”

“Safe?” Frodo asked ruefully.

“Well, as safe as a Baggins can be,” Bilbo said lightly.  He looked up, and noticed Arwen and Aragorn talking together, their heads nearly touching.  His heart swelled with joy at the sight.  “Lucky he who takes this wife,” he murmured.

“Lucky who?” Frodo said, distracted by the sight of servers bearing large, frosted cakes and a variety of pies into the hall.

“Oh, nothing.” Bilbo smiled to himself, and once again took up the parchment.  “I’ll tell you all about it someday.”

** TBC **

HOLDING BACK THE FLOOD

Chapter 19: Let the River Run

“I don’t think we’ve found a better place than this. There’s something of everything here, if you understand me: the Shire and the Golden Wood and Gondor and kings’ houses and inns and meadows and mountains all mixed.”  Sam, ‘Many Partings’, The Return of the King

“Careful, Merry,” Frodo warned.

“Gimli built this!” Merry reminded his cousin.  He was leaning far out between the rails of the fence at the top of the new waterfall.  “We couldn’t be safer.”

“I suppose you’re right!” laughed Frodo.  “Just be careful anyway.”

Beneath them was a spectacular sight; the vigorous tumble of water fell more than 100 feet straight down into a sparkling pool.  It then spilled from the pool through a gap between two enormous boulders, and continued south until it disappeared.

“It looks like it goes underground again out there,” Merry remarked.

“It probably joins the Loudwater somewhere, or maybe even the Anduin,” Frodo said.  “It doesn’t take long for a whole landscape to change, does it?”

“Strider and Boromir have to see this,” Pippin remarked.  He climbed part-way up the railing and turned to look back at the meadow.

“Aragorn’s been back for a few days, so they probably already have.”  Frodo closed his eyes, enjoying the sensation of the cool mist of water on his face.  “I wonder who’s winning the race?”

“It must be Strider,” Merry remarked.  “He’s a Ranger, after all.  And he knows this valley like the back of his hand.”

“It will definitely be Boromir,” Pippin countered.  “Strider walks all the time, and doesn’t get much practice riding horses.”

“He doesn’t walk all the time,” Merry argued.  “Just when he’s escorting hobbits through the Wild.  I’m certain he’ll win.”

“Boromir might let him win.”

“You’ve seen him at sword practice!  A warrior doesn’t just let someone win.”

“But Strider’s his king, or lord, or… well, something.”

“No one can beat Strider,” Merry insisted.

“Care to place a wager on it?” Pippin asked.  He jumped down and turned his pockets out.  “I’m not sure what to bet.”

“How about the loser carries the lunch basket back to the House?” Frodo suggested, amused.  “Sam and Legolas have been wandering about for hours, and will have filled it to the brim with flowers by the time we go back.  I can always ask Gimli to toss in a few dozen rocks.”  He opened his eyes and smiled, and his cousins followed his gaze.

“Here they come!” Pippin cried out.  “Race you back!”

The cousins ran all the way back to the stone bridge, and arrived just as Aragorn and Boromir rode their horses the final distance through the trees.

“You won, Strider!” Pippin yelled excitedly.  “Boromir, you didn’t let him win, did you?”

“I did not, Peregrin,” Boromir chuckled.  He and Aragorn dismounted, and Aragorn murmured something to his horse.  “He and that steed communicate in a way I have seen only among the Elves, and the Horse-lords of Rohan.”

“High praise, indeed,” Aragorn said, bowing slightly.  “And yet I won only by one length.  Frodo, it is a delight to see you running again.”

“It’s a delight to be running again,” Frodo grinned, then turned to Pippin.  “You’d better hope that basket is light, Pip.”

“Sam, is that basket light?” Pippin yelled across the river.  Two figures examining a patch of ground thick with yellow flowers looked up and waved.

“I’d better make sure,” Pippin muttered, and dashed over the bridge to the other side, where he plopped down next to Legolas and Sam.

Frodo slowly followed him.  He walked to the center of the elegant arch, and paused to look down at the swift, cold water.  When he thought about Elrond holding all this back, by force of will or some Elvish magic… it was almost beyond comprehension.  He ran his hand along the smooth stones, and examined some of the intricate carvings.  In the weeks since the cave-in, Gimli had been enthusing about the bridge he was supervising, and it far exceeded all expectations.

Gimli was at that moment standing on the opposite bank, stooping to dip his hand in the cold, clean water.  As he drank, his thoughts flew north, to snow-covered Mount Gundabad, the source of this river.  Somewhere in a dark cavern of that peak, surrounded by jewels selected by Mahal himself, Durin had first awoken… or so the tales spoke.

Realizing that Frodo was watching him, he nodded, and Frodo gazed at him solemnly and nodded back.  Gimli suspected that Elrond had consulted with the Ring-bearer about whether he would be welcome on the journey South, before giving his assent.  He straightened to his full height, and cast a silent vow in the direction of his home.  He would make his people proud, or die trying.

“It will do, Master Dwarf,” came a melodious voice from behind him.

“I am gratified the construction merits your approval,” Gimli said smoothly.  He had not heard Legolas approach, even using the walking stick he still needed, but all the Elves (and the hobbits, now that he stopped to think about it), walked soundlessly when they chose to.  He turned around, but Legolas was not looking at him; he was gazing appreciatively at the bridge on which Frodo stood.

All along the span, large river stones had been engraved with leaves of hammered gold entwined on vines of silver.  Each stone had been painstakingly chosen to produce a smooth progression of color and shape, and small crystals sparkled in delicate patterns.  The entire design was in all ways pleasing to an Elf.  The only thing obviously Dwarvish about the bridge was a rune carved unobtrusively into one of the support posts, similar to a symbol Legolas had spotted on Gimli’s axe.  He wondered if that was Gimli’s family name.  When questioned about it, the Dwarf only grunted, and Legolas doubted he would ever know for certain.

The entire bridge glittered in the sunlight, and Legolas found himself imagining how it would look when lit only by the stars.

“It is quite beautiful.”

“Thank you,” Gimli said.  “I had a great deal of help,” he added graciously.  He eyed Sam and Pippin, sitting in the grass nearby, and lowered his voice to a whisper.  “Did Master Elrond say that you--”

“He said yes,” Legolas answered just as softly.  “The Ring-bearer’s Company will leave within a fortnight.”

“Do you know how large a force will be sent?”

Legolas shook his head, then placed a hand on Gimli’s shoulder.  “Master Dwarf,” he said gravely, “I hope someday to return to my home, and tell my father of your deeds.  Neither Sam nor I would be alive now, had you not been with us.”

“I would accompany you to your home, Master Elf, to tell your father of your own deeds,” Gimli responded, clasping Legolas’ arm with his own.  “How are you feeling?”

Legolas balanced for a moment on his right leg.  There was still pain, but the bone was healing swiftly.

“I will be ready,” he said quietly.

Frodo came the rest of the way over the bridge.  “I am glad,” he said.  He smiled at the Elf and Dwarf before walking over to join Sam.

“Confounded hobbits and their confounded hearing,” Gimli grumbled.

“Perhaps, Master Dwarf, if your ears were not covered with so much hair, you would hear as clearly as any,” Legolas said lightly.  “Have you ears?  I cannot recall seeing them.”

“Of course he has ears!” Pippin called out.  “Don’t you?”

Gimli was saved from answering by Merry, Aragorn, and Boromir crossing the span together, and Frodo calling out to them.

“Come, let’s see what’s left of the cavern!  Gandalf’s had it all to himself long enough.” 

“Once inside, we must walk slowly,” Gimli said, leading them through the trees.  “I have followed the path to the end, and it is only wide enough for two to walk abreast.”

A tunnel burrowing into the hillside, following the underground river along its course, was all that was left of both the cavern's entrance and its vast chambers; the cavern itself was now a channel through which the river flowed from deep within the earth out into the valley, then southwards down the ancient riverbed to the waterfall.

Once inside, everyone stopped briefly so that Aragorn and Merry could light torches.

Sam and Frodo stood together, looking up uneasily.

“Fear not, my hobbits,” Gimli said encouragingly.  “There are no more teeth of iron above us, and the walls are sound.”  He walked forward, and the others followed.

Deep underground, Gandalf stood quietly, lost in his thoughts.  In his hand he held an exquisite, white crystal that had been lying on the ground where he now stood.  Locked within many earth gems was great potential, as he knew well.  The palantíri, the Silmarilli, even the jewel in his own staff... knowledge and craft had brought each crystalline form to full promise. 

When he heard voices calling his name, he turned to see bobbing torches approaching.  As eight figures grew closer – Gimli and Legolas in front, then the hobbits, then two Men bringing up the rear – the hairs on the back of his neck shivered and rose, and he had a sudden knowing of the type that came but rarely.

This will be the Company of the Ring-bearer. 

“Gandalf, are you there?” Frodo called out.

“I am here,” the wizard raised his voice.  “Just ahead of you.”  For now.  But I will not always be here to guide you in the dark; it is these companions who will help you to find your way, each to his own gifts and destiny. Pippin ran to him, smiling, and he gazed thoughtfully at the young hobbit.  Aragorn was correct; Elrond must be encouraged to let Pippin and Merry go with Frodo.  They have something to do ’ere the end, and it lies not in the Shire.  Not yet.

“Why are you just standing here?” Pippin asked, as everyone grouped around Gandalf.  He gazed with frank curiosity at what the wizard was holding.  “Is that something special?”

“Impertinent hobbit,” Gandalf said fondly, and Pippin grinned.

Merry looked at the river flowing past them, his eyes dancing.  “It would be fun to try a boat in this current.”

“Fun?” Sam asked, aghast.  “In the dark?”

“We need more light,” Legolas said.  He had not lost his unease in closed, dark places.

Gandalf obligingly raised his staff, which suddenly blazed in a way that made Legolas catch his breath and the hobbits to clap their hands with delight.  The gems in the walls and floor shot sparks of color in all directions.

“Have you any caves in Gondor?” Pippin asked Boromir, and Gimli grew attentive.

“Not precisely like this one,” Boromir said, “although the White Mountains hold many caverns and secret places.  But I have heard rumor of a series of caves in Rohan that might rival this one in beauty.”

Aragorn nodded.  He, too, had heard stories of caves of great wonder when he had served King Thengel.

“Rohan,” Gimli murmured, remembering the maps he had seen.  It was regrettable that the land of the Horse-lords was so far away; he would never see those caverns unless strange fortune brought him there.

After a few moments, Frodo knelt by the river, listening intently.

“I hear something,” he murmured.  “Not water, exactly...”

“It is Ulmo,” Legolas said.  Now that there was light, he could attend to what he was hearing; the voice of the river was so exuberant, he could scarcely hold back his own song.

“It is Mahal,” Gimli insisted.  “The earth is adjusting itself to what has occurred.”

“Which is it?” Sam asked Gandalf, but the wizard merely smiled. 

“It’s cold down here.”  Pippin drew his cloak closer about himself.

“We should have brought the jackets Lady Arwen gave us,” Merry agreed.  “Was it like this when you were trapped, Sam?”

“Mr. Gimli kept a fire going the whole time,” Sam said.  He beamed at Gimli, who harrumphed in embarrassment.

“I’m getting cold, too,” Frodo said, getting to his feet.  “Shall we go back?”

Legolas looked relieved.

“I will follow soon,” Gandalf told them. When everyone had gone, he allowed the radiance of his staff to once again dim and go out as he continued to contemplate the river.  Waters that had once travelled silently in the darkness could now tumble freely into the valley of Imladris, where they were touched by the subtle influence of Vilya.  They sang with joy, and limitless possibilities, and unbounded hope.

Hope.  The wizard closed his eyes.  I will not always be here to guide you in the dark.  With a single, directed thought, a faint pulse from Narya flared scarlet and embedded itself within the crystal’s facets.  He then dropped it into the river, where it disappeared.

Be thou guided by the Lords of Earth and Water.  Act for me when I cannot.

*~*~*~*~*

The eight friends emerged from the darkness, and walked back towards the bridge.  Pippin happened to look up first, and stopped walking so suddenly that Frodo, trying to interest Aragorn in another riddle game, walked right into him.

“Pippin, what--” Frodo followed his cousin’s gaze, and was momentarily struck dumb himself.  Upon the graceful span of the bridge stood Arwen, clad in a gown of deep blue, her dark hair blowing in the fresh wind.

“Sam,” Frodo said, seizing the moment, “Pippin volunteered to carry your basket back to the House.”

“Sir, he needn’t--”

“Sam,” Frodo said in a voice that brooked no disagreement.  He led an unresisting Pippin to the large basket filled with food, flowers, and seedlings, and the young hobbit lifted it obediently, never once taking his eyes from the vision before them.  Chuckling softly, Frodo led Pippin over the bridge to the other side.  The others followed silently, but Aragorn lingered.

It was only when the group had walked some distance, and Legolas was teaching Sam the Elvish names for the flowers they had gathered, that Pippin grew aware again of his surroundings.

“Where did this come from?” he demanded, struggling not to drop the heavy basket.  With a laugh, Boromir took it from him.

Before they lost sight of the bridge entirely, Frodo couldn’t resist looking back at Aragorn and Arwen standing together.  The air around them was radiant.

“The gold and silver reflect the sunlight well,” Gimli said with satisfaction.  “It is a beautiful sight.”

“Yes,” Frodo murmured, his heart swelling with joy for Aragorn.  “It certainly is.”

“Is everything all right?” Sam asked, coming to join them.

Frodo looked around the meadow at the fountains, flowers, and trees, and breathed in the fragrant air.

“This is a nice place, isn’t it?”

“Nice?” Sam asked incredulously.  “It’s… it’s so…”

“It really is,” Frodo smiled.  “Come, let’s get back to the House.  Bilbo is waiting.”

February 17

It had been a long day, and spirits were low.  Traveling south without Gandalf was something no one had imagined, and his loss was still fresh in their hearts.  When Aragorn at last called a halt at a small and secluded beach, a weary Fellowship worked to set up camp and dig through their supplies.

Sam was kneeling by the Anduin to fill his cooking pots with water, when something just under the surface caused him to gasp in sudden amazement.  Was he seeing things?

“Mr. Frodo!” he cried out.  “Look at this!”

Frodo came running, with the other hobbits and an alarmed Aragorn not far behind him.

“Look,” Sam said, getting to his feet.  He held out his hand, and in his palm lay a small crystal, sparkling brilliantly in the Sun

“That looks familiar,” Pippin said.

“I thought so, too,” Sam said.  “I saw it a-glittering there, in the water.  D’you think it could be the same one Gandalf found in the cave?  Could this have come all the way from Rivendell?” 

“Perhaps so,” Aragorn said thoughtfully.  “The force of that river might indeed have brought it here.”

Frodo bowed his head, and clasped Merry’s hand; he wished with all his heart that Gandalf was still with them.

“We’ll see Rivendell again,” Merry said encouragingly.

“Of course we will,” Pippin agreed.

“Yes,” Frodo said firmly, raising his head.  “Of course we will.  Bilbo would never forgive us if we didn’t bring him our story.”

Sam sighed, and closed his eyes for a moment.  Rivendell, he thought with longing.  A wave of peace washed over him, and his weariness lifted.

Frodo was still thinking about Gandalf, but when Sam passed him the crystal, his memories blurred into happy ones, and brought no pain.  With a smile, he gave it to Merry to hold, and then Pippin, who both suddenly felt stronger and more ready to go on than they had before.

Aragorn closed Sam's hand over the gem.

“It is beautiful.  Keep it safe.”

Sam shook his head.  “Won’t you take it, Strider?  I’ve not got much use for jools just now.  Besides, it’ll get all scratched up in my pack.”

“If you wish it,” Aragorn said gravely.  “Thank you.”

“Maybe you can give it to someone very special, someday,” Frodo teased.  Aragorn's eyes softened at his words, and something Bilbo said came back to him in a rush.  “Lucky he who takes this wife,” he whispered in sudden comprehension. 

“What does that mean?” Merry asked.

“Aragorn knows,” Frodo said, his eyes sparkling.

“I’m not feeling so tired anymore!” Sam announced.

“Neither am I,” Merry said in surprise.  “I feel like I could--”

“An arrow flies more accurately than any axe, Master Dwarf!” came a voice from camp.

“What nonsense are you speaking?” came the loud response.  “Boromir, I call on you to witness a contest!  It will be a brief one, I assure you.  Just long enough for me to teach this stubborn Elf--”

“They’re at it again,” Merry chuckled.

“They’re just hungry,” Pippin declared, picking up two of Sam's full pans.  “When’s supper?”

The hobbits scampered away, leaving Aragorn standing alone.  The crystal, although quite small, felt warm and solid, and as he looked to the north, he imagined that he heard his beloved speaking to him.  He felt her presence, and her love.  He slipped the jewel into a deep pocket, his usually grim features transformed into a gentle smile.

“Arwen,” he whispered.  He took a deep breath, his heart flooding with renewed hope.  But this flood he welcomed, and for a brief and precious moment, he allowed it to sweep him away.

** END **

Author note:   Although Arwen most likely brought many jewels with her from Rivendell, perhaps one of them could also have been a wedding gift from Aragorn... which she eventually gifted to Frodo for his comfort.  Stranger things have happened in Middle-earth.  :)