October 19
Glorfindel urged the hobbits onwards through the night, until they were all stumbling with weariness. He finally called a halt, just before dawn, and led everyone off the Road to where soft heather grew in a small glade. Merry was too tired to even look for the blankets, and he threw himself down in the heather. It only took a moment for Pippin to collapse next to him, followed by Sam, and Merry was vaguely aware of someone laying a blanket over all three of them before sleep took him.
Glorfindel lifted Frodo off Asfaloth, and by the time Aragorn had seen to the needs of the pony and horse, and quickly scouted the area, the Elf was tending to Frodo. He had wrapped the shivering hobbit in blankets and was about to lay him down between Pippin and Sam, when he abruptly changed his mind and, instead, gathered him into his arms and sat down beneath a tree.
“The pain grows worse?” Glorfindel asked quietly. Frodo nodded, too exhausted to even speak. The Elf unbuttoned the top of Frodo’s shirt and placed his palm once again over the icy wound, trying to impart some measure of warmth and ease from pain. After a few minutes, Frodo sighed deeply, and sank into dreamless sleep.
Aragorn sat next to Glorfindel and touched Frodo’s face with concern.
“He is fevered,” Glorfindel spoke in Elvish, “and yet the wound spreads a chill through him that I cannot halt.”
Aragorn nodded. “Frodo’s strength has astounded me; I do not believe any Man, or Elf, could have resisted this long.”
“Does he understand fully what is happening?”
Aragorn was silent for a long moment. “I do not believe so,” he said finally, “but Merry does. Such knowledge is a heavy burden for him to bear in silence.”
“What would you have done, had Frodo not been this strong?” the Elf asked curiously.
“I have considered… many options,” Aragorn said grimly. “Glorfindel, Frodo is loved by all who know him. He has a spirit unlike any I have encountered; you cannot imagine how special he is. To lose him to the Shadow… I would not have let that happen.” His eyes darkened in anguish. “Death would be preferable to that, even at my own hands.”
“If it had come to that,” the Elf asked quietly, “what of the Ring?”
“I have considered that, as well,” Aragorn murmured. He eyed the pile of sleeping hobbits, but said no more.
“Tell me of them,” Glorfindel said. “They have hardly spoken this night.”
Aragorn smiled. “The pace you set is nearly beyond their limits, although none complained. They are weary, my friend… and perhaps a bit in awe of you. These three are usually quite talkative, especially if any of them sense that Frodo is in need of distraction.” He met the Elf’s gaze. “They are all remarkable; their courage and resilience, and determination to ‘see the job done’, as Sam would say, are beyond words.” He looked down at Frodo, sleeping quietly in the Elf’s arms. “These three would give their life for him, as would I.”
“Pippin is the youngest, I believe?”
“Yes. He is Frodo’s cousin, as is Merry. Without them, I suspect that Frodo may have fared less well on this journey.”
“And Sam?”
“Sam has been devoted to Frodo since before I met them, nearly thirty years ago. It is a measure of his exhaustion that he fell asleep before seeing that Frodo was tended to. It is the first time that has happened.”
The Elf smiled and gently stroked Frodo’s dark curls. “So this is the dear friend who gave you that pipe you treasure so highly,” he said. “He is so young; he must have been a mere child when you met.”
“He is fifty, Glorfindel,” Aragorn said. “You have been around enough mortals to understand how old that is, in our years.”
Glorfindel frowned. “Frodo has the appearance of someone very young.” He suddenly grinned. “I do not know why I am surprised, now that I have come to know dear Bilbo. He is well more than twice Frodo’s age. I suppose they are of a long-lived family.”
“It is more than that,” Aragorn murmured, then fell silent.
Frodo shuddered suddenly, and he gasped with pain or perhaps from a nightmare, but the spasm passed, and he relaxed once more.
“It rained for several days,” Glorfindel murmured. “How did he fare?”
Aragorn looked down at the hobbit. “As well as he could,” he said. “I’ve never seen anyone fight so hard, Glorfindel. Never.”
“Aragorn,” the Elf said firmly, “do not lose hope.”
The Ranger met his gaze. “I have not.”
“How are your supplies?”
“Very low,” Aragorn admitted. “There has been no time or opportunity to hunt or trap.” He sighed and closed his eyes, leaning back against the tree.
“You are weary as well, my friend.” Glorfindel said quietly. “Take some rest; I will hear any approach sooner than you.”
The Ranger nodded slowly and lay down, falling asleep to the sound of soft singing.
~*~
No one showed any signs of waking, even after the sun had well risen. Glorfindel had sat quietly for five hours, listening and watching and thinking. Several times Frodo had moaned and shifted restlessly, or a strong chill had shaken him, and the Elf, still holding him, did what he could, singing and concentrating energies that he had not harnessed in many long years. In so doing, he gained a clearer understanding of the insidious, relentless grip in which Frodo was held. The thought that Frodo had not succumbed, had not given up and loosened his grasp on whatever fragile hold he yet maintained on the living world, filled the Elf with great respect, and a perception of hobbits he had never known or imagined. The pain, the cold… it would all end if Frodo let the darkness swallow him. How it must call to him to let go and stop fighting. Still, he endured.
Glorfindel knew that it was the Ring he had been sent to safeguard -- to keep it, at all costs, from the Enemy. But it was Frodo, alone, who was holding the darkness at bay; it was he who was safeguarding the Ring from the Enemy. And as the long hours passed, the Elf came to understand that he, too, would give his life for this little one.
~*~
“Is he always this difficult to wake?” Glorfindel frowned.
Merry yawned. He, along with Sam, felt as if they’d only been asleep for a few minutes. The short rations, wearisome long days and now nights, and the constant strain and fear were finally taking their toll, and their reserves of strength were not what they had been.
“He’s a tweenager,” Merry said, as if that explained everything. He knelt and shook Pippin, more firmly than before, then finally lifted his cousin onto his feet. Pippin staggered for a moment, then blinked, trying to focus.
“Sorry, Pip,” Merry said, “but we have to get going.”
“I’m awake,” Pippin said, yawning. “Where’s breakfast?”
“There’s not much left,” Sam said, handing out some of the stale bread and dried fruit that was all that remained of their rations. “We have to make it last for a few more days, Strider says.”
“All right,” Pippin sighed. He sat down to eat, but his appetite fled instantly when he saw what Strider was fastening to Bill’s packs. Sticks. Long, sharp sticks and straight branches, maybe a dozen in all.
“Pip?” Merry sat down next to his young cousin, who had suddenly gone quite pale. “What is it?”
“That’s…” Pippin pointed. “That’s in case… those Riders come back, isn’t it? To set on fire, and… like last time?” He turned to Merry, his eyes wide and frightened. “I don’t want to see them again, Mer. I couldn’t breathe, or---”
“I know,” Merry said gently, “I felt the same thing. No one wants to see them again, ever, but…we probably will.” He lowered his voice. “Pip, they won’t let Frodo go, this time. Do you understand? We have to do what we can. We have to try our best.”
Pippin closed his eyes and nodded his head. “I understand,” he whispered.
“Pippin? Meriadoc?” Glorfindel crouched next to them. “Take some of this,” he said, holding out a flask. “It will help a sparse meal go farther, and strengthen you for this day.”
Merry raised the flask to his mouth and swallowed, then passed it to Pippin, who did the same. It was unlike the draught Gildor had given them back in the Shire, and as it had no taste, Pippin at first suspected that it was merely water -- but he soon felt his head clear and his determination strengthen. They thanked the Elf, who took the flask to where Sam now sat, Frodo propped against him, and Pippin tore into his food with new appetite.
Merry watched as Sam shook his head, insisting that Frodo drink first. Glorfindel held the flask for Frodo and urged him to drink, speaking softly to him before helping him to his feet and leading him to where Asfaloth stood.
“Time to go,” Merry said, folding up the last few blankets. “Ready?”
“Ready,” Pippin declared.
~*~
Aragorn walked on one side of Asfaloth, with Merry and Pippin beside him, and Glorfindel and Sam walked on the other side. For the moment, Glorfindel was leading Bill.
Sam kept glancing up to where Frodo sat astride the horse. As far as he was concerned, his master was too high up, too exposed -- and too far out of his reach in case anything should happen. He shook his head -- he needed something else to think about. “Do you know Strider’s sweetheart, sir?” he asked Glorfindel.
“Do you speak of Arwen?” Glorfindel grinned at Aragorn, who smiled to hear his beloved’s name. “How do you know of her?”
“Is that her name? Strider told me about her a long time ago -- when we first met.” Sam smiled. “He said she was as beautiful as the sunrise.”
“Ah,” the Elf murmured. “Samwise, I do not think even the sunrise can compare to the beauty of our Evenstar.”
“Did they grow up together?” Pippin asked eagerly.
“Nay, Pippin. As an Elf, she ‘grew up’ a very long time ago,” Glorfindel reminded him.
“Speaking of growing up,” Merry said casually, “you were going to tell us about Strider’s childhood.”
“No, he wasn’t.” Aragorn suddenly came out of his reverie about Arwen and looked rather alarmed.
“Wouldn’t you like to hear a story, Frodo?” Pippin asked, grinning at Aragorn.
“I would,” Frodo replied. His voice was faint, and he seemed to be in greater pain than he had been, but he looked expectantly at Aragorn. “Perhaps just one, Estel? Is that all right?”
Aragorn cast a withering glance at Pippin, but suddenly couldn’t hold back a smile, which the young Took returned. “Of course,” the Ranger sighed. As long as Glorfindel didn’t tell the one about…
“Lord Elrond has two sons, Elladan and Elrohir,” the Elf began. “They are twins; it is most difficult to tell them apart until you know them well.”
Aragorn groaned inwardly.
“Are they truly identical?” Merry asked. “Twins are very rare in the Shire.”
“When you meet them, you may judge for yourself,” Glorfindel said with a smile. “You can well imagine that a tiny child would not have an easy time distinguishing one from the other.”
“How tiny?” Pippin asked, eyeing the tall Ranger.
“Perhaps Aragorn was five years of age,” the Elf said thoughtfully. “Back then, Frodo,” he continued, looking at the wounded hobbit, “we all called him Estel.”
“Go on,” Pippin said impatiently.
“It had been a very long time since there were children in Imladris,” Glorfindel said. “That is what you call Rivendell,” he added, seeing the hobbits’ confusion. “Little Estel was such a delight -- intelligent, friendly, quick to learn…” He sighed dramatically. “Regretfully, he was quite confused whenever he saw Elladan, or Elrohir. One day, he had what I assume seemed to him a most brilliant idea.”
Aragorn gritted his teeth. Only Frodo’s obvious need for such distraction kept him silent. But surely Glorfindel would keep the details to a minimum.
“Estel, even at such a young age, already showed great interest in plants and herbs,” the Elf continued. “He could very often be found in the dye rooms, where essences of certain plants were used to color cloth. Green, I recall, was his particular favorite.” Glorfindel smiled at Aragorn. “Isn’t that right, Aragorn?”
“Yes,” the Ranger said carefully. “Green.”
“What was his brilliant idea?” Frodo asked.
“Estel understood that dye, added to a tub of hot water, turned cloth soaking in the tub a new and interesting color. His idea was that dye, added to a tub of hot water in which a person was soaking, would turn that person a new and interesting color. One evening--”
“Strider, you didn’t!” Sam exclaimed.
“Indeed he did,” the Elf laughed. “He took a great quantity of green dye, ran into Elladan’s room, and poured the entire packet into the tub in which he was bathing. Such a commotion! I would not have been surprised if you could hear Elladan yelling all the way to the Shire.” He turned to Aragorn. “Do you remember that, Aragorn?”
“Yes, Glorfindel,” Aragorn sighed. “I remember it. Elladan’s skin turned the brightest shade of green imaginable, and did not wear off for many weeks.” Upon hearing Frodo laugh, he, too, began to chuckle. “What this noble Elf did not tell you is that when Elladan leaped out of the bath -- too late to avoid turning green, however -- water splashed all over me, and---”
There was a hoot from Pippin.
“You turned green, as well?” Merry asked in delight.
All four of the hobbits were laughing now, and Aragorn was as well.
“I at least accomplished my goal,” Aragorn grinned. “There was no mistaking Elladan for Elrohir for several weeks after that, believe me.”
“Interestingly enough, I can date the twins’ wearing of different colored clothing from that time,” Glorfindel continued. “I do not believe they ever wanted Estel to be confused again.”
“I hope to meet them,” Frodo said in a voice so quiet only Glorfindel’s Elven hearing picked up the words.
~*~
Glorfindel would not let them take more than brief rests during the day, and urged them on and on, until by evening they had covered almost twenty miles.
Sam, Pippin, and Merry were practically hobbling the last mile, their feet so tender and sore it hurt to put any weight upon them.
“Enough,” Aragorn said at last, catching Pippin as the youngster finally toppled over in dizzy exhaustion. “The hobbits cannot walk any farther, Glorfindel.”
“I am sorry, my friends,” the Elf said, leading the group off the Road and into the trees, “but we have done well. If we are able to keep to this pace tomorrow, we should reach the Ford by late afternoon. I did not wish us to arrive at the Bruinen after nightfall.”
“Tomorrow,” Sam sighed. “Finally.”
As Aragorn lifted Frodo down from Asfaloth, the wounded hobbit cried out in pain. The Ranger settled him into a nest of blankets, and, as was true the night before, the other three hobbits were quickly asleep, totally exhausted.
Glorfindel sat next to where Frodo lay, pale and shaking. “Drink, Frodo,” the Elf urged, offering the flask once again. “It will help strengthen you.”
Frodo turned his head away. “Don’t waste it on me,” he murmured.
“Frodo, what---”
Frodo looked up at Aragorn, his eyes filled with tears.
“I know I’m… dying,” Frodo whispered. “It’s no use.” He shuddered as a fierce chill shook him. “Please, Estel… tell Bilbo…”
“Frodo!” Aragorn gasped. “Do not say it!” He took a deep breath. “Listen to me. The weapons of the Enemy are truly evil, and they wound on many levels. Frodo, if you give up… if you give in to despair and lose hope… you will be lost to us.” He clasped Frodo’s hands in his. “I know you’re tired -- I know the pain is nearly unbearable, and the cold drains your strength -- but you must not lose hope. I simply will not allow it, do you understand me?”
Frodo stared at the Ranger in amazement. He had never seen him reveal such raw emotion. “I’ll try.”
“All right, then,” Aragorn said in relief. He motioned for Glorfindel to offer the flask again, and this time Frodo drank. “Lie here between us, little one. It will be warmer for you.”
~*~
It was very late when Merry woke briefly, his feet throbbing with pain. His sharp ears picked up quiet voices, which he strained to hear.
“…get Frodo within the protected boundaries of Rivendell. The Nine cannot pursue him beyond the River, Aragorn, and should they attempt to cross it, Elrond will command a flood to sweep them away. So he told me before I left.”
“Then we must cross the River ahead of them,” Aragorn said softly, “or send Frodo ahead, and remain behind when the flood comes and make our stand on this side. Otherwise, we, too, will be swept away.”
“Yes,” Glorfindel agreed. “We will do what we can to ensure Frodo’s escape.”
“They will not have him,” Aragorn murmured.
“They must not have you, either, my friend,” the Elf said softly. “Frodo, and the Ring, must not fall into their hands, but neither must you. The Enemy would greatly rejoice, Aragorn, should he learn that you lived and have met your death… or to see you brought to him as captive.”
There was no more talking after that, and Merry was left with yet another strange piece of information about the Ranger. He felt there was something he should be able to figure out, if he just wasn’t so tired… He fell back to sleep, one question spinning ceaselessly in his thoughts -- Who is he?
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