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 **