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 sixty 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.”
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