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 **