IN THE MIND'S EYE

Chapter 3: Rivendell

"Your friends crossed after the flood had passed; and they found you lying on your face at the top of the bank, with a broken sword under you. The horse was standing guard beside you. You were pale and cold, and they feared that you were dead, or worse. Elrond's folk met them, carrying you slowly towards Rivendell."

Gandalf, 'Many Meetings', The Fellowship of the Ring

Once across the River, Glorfindel set Sam and Merry on the ground and swiftly knelt next to Frodo. Turning over Frodo's clenched hand, he gently pried open the small fingers and caught his breath. The Enemy's Ring lay before his eyes, deceptively fair. He had no wish to bring this thing past the borders of Rivendell, but dared not leave it behind. He placed a scrap of leather on the ground, then tipped Frodo's hand so that the Ring fell onto it. As he did so, Sam fell to his knees next to Frodo.

"Is he dead?" Sam whispered, choking on his tears. He felt sick, unable to believe what had happened.

"Do not lose hope, Sam. We must get him to Elrond," Aragorn said. He bent down and lifted Frodo's unconscious body gently. The hobbit was cold and still, but he still breathed.

"We need to hurry," Pippin said imploringly. "Can't you or Glordfindel ride with Frodo to Rivendell?"

"We dare not risk it, Merry," Glorfindel said regretfully. He caught Aragorn's eye, and the Ranger nodded in agreement. "I fear Frodo bears something of the enspelled knife within him. We should not jar his body any further. It might hasten the..." He stopped speaking.

"Enspelled?" Merry asked in horror.

"There's something inside my master that oughtn't be?" Sam gasped. "Please do something!" he begged, his anguished face glancing from Aragorn to Glorfindel.

"Take him, Aragorn," Glorfindel said, swiftly wrapping up the Ring. "You know the way. We will follow." He gathered the fragments of Frodo's sword, and got to his feet. "But first, where is that knife hilt you bear?" he asked. "Gandalf and Elrond will want to examine everything."

"It is here, in my pouch," Aragorn said, gesturing towards his waist. Glorfindel unlaced the pouch and drew out the hilt, frowning as he did so. It seemed rather ordinary now, retaining none of the potent, dark power he had originally sensed.  Had it been discharged somehow, or... His thoughts were interrupted by Merry pleading with Aragorn to take good care of Frodo.

"I will bear him as smoothly as I may," Aragorn assured him, striding forward on his long legs. Sam started to follow, but Glorfindel called him back.

"The Valley is not far, and yet far enough for weary hobbit legs," he said gently. He lay a comforting hand on Asfaloth's nose, and felt his beloved mount relax. The great horse was slick with sweat and breathing heavily.

"You bore Frodo with courage, and did not falter in the presence of the deathless ones," the Elf-lord murmured. "Well done. One more short journey, and you shall feast on warm mash and sweet grasses."

He lifted Pippin and placed him on Asfaloth's back, then turned to Sam and Merry.

"W... wait, sir," Sam murmured, stumbling off the road. He fell to his knees in the grass, suddenly violently ill. Merry ran to him while Glorfindel watched gravely. Although all of the hobbits were pale and shaken from their encounter with the Dark Servants, something had touched Samwise more deeply than the rest. Sam at last rose shakily to his feet, and Merry led him slowly back to where the Elf-lord waited. Glorfindel set Merry on the great horse's back, in front of Pippin.

"Can you ride, Sam?" Glordfindel asked. "Bill has rested, and it would please him to bring you to the Valley."

Sam nodded, and walked over to Bill. He was surprised when Glorfindel followed him.

"Without consulting Elrond," the Elf-lord said quietly, "I know not whether it is still safe for Frodo to bear the Ring. However, I will not carry it on my person, nor ask any of you to do so." He slipped the Ring in its leather wrapping into one of Bill's saddlebags, and placed there also the knife hilt and shards of Frodo's sword.

"Now we are ready," Glorfindel said. "Come, let us follow Aragorn. I sense help coming from Rivendell."

Merry tightened his grip on the horse's mane and Pippin, shivering from his dunking in the River, wrapped his arms around his cousin's waist. Asfaloth climbed the last few feet to the faint trail, and Bill followed behind with Sam. Now on the familiar path towards home, Asfaloth shook his head so that the bells on his harness rang merrily.

"If only your Gaffer could see us now, eh Sam?" Pippin called back, in an attempt to bolster their spirits.

"He wouldn't believe his eyes, Master Pippin, and that's a fact," Sam agreed. He gave Bill a fond pat.

It didn't take long for Glorfindel and the hobbits to catch up with Aragorn, and the Elf-lord and Ranger took turns carrying Frodo. After awhile, a group of Elves joined them, singing softly as they walked. They brought fruits, ripe and crisp on the tongue, and bread warm and sweet, and soon the hobbits’ sharpest hungers were eased. As they travelled, the air grew warmer and the sun seemed to sparkle more brilliantly through the trees.

Sam rode in a haze of weariness beyond anything he had ever felt, his head still spinning, and the thought occurred to him that perhaps they had all indeed died at the River and none of this was real. When at last the path opened up to reveal a fair valley, bathed in light and alive with the sound of fountains and birds, he wondered if he was dreaming, at least. And when he saw old Mr. Bilbo standing on the steps of a grand house, and heard his voice, he was sure of it.  

The Elves' song changed, and melodies urging rest and sleep bathed the hobbits in rhythmic pulses. Sam's fingers slowly loosened their hold on Bill's reins, and gentle hands lifted him and bore him away. As he slid into a deep sleep, his last thoughts were of his master, and hopes that they would all awaken in real beds, to a homely breakfast, far from dark riders or adventures.

** TBC **