Since they were to come in the days of the
power of Melkor, Aulë made the Dwarves strong
to endure. Therefore they are stone-hard, stubborn, fast
in friendship and in enmity, and they suffer toil and hunger and
hurt of body more hardily than all other speaking peoples; and
they live long, far beyond the span of Men, yet not for
ever. Aforetime it was held among the Elves in
Middle-earth that dying the Dwarves returned to the earth and
the stone of which they were made; yet that is not their own
belief. For they say that Aulë the Maker,
whom they call Mahal, cares for them and gathers them to Mandos
in halls set apart.
‘Of Aulë and Yavanna’, The Silmarillion
Gimli knelt next to Legolas and felt his brow.
“A bit feverish, Master Elf,” he frowned.
“I know,” Legolas said, closing his eyes for a moment. “I do not feel well at all. But help is on its way.”
“It is good to hope thus,” Gimli said soothingly. “We will certainly be freed more quickly if my digging is met by like effort.”
“It will be,” Legolas said confidently. “The tree sings of light and hope.”
Gimli smiled indulgently. “I know that Elves are rather sensitive when it comes to trees. However, would you not agree that it is a bit fanciful to trust that a root would comprehend whether or not help is coming… or be able to impart such a message, even if it did? Let me get you more water.”
“You believe my words to stem from some sort of fevered hallucination?” Legolas asked, astonished. “Master Dwarf, I have communicated with many trees, and I assure you, this one is conveying a clear message. If you paid as much attention to living things as you do to inert matter--”
“Inert?” Gimli blurted out, and his voice echoed throughout the cavern. “Are you deaf as well as blind? Have you ever even tried to hear the language of living rock? A lifetime I have spent delving and listening, and learning respect for the foundation of our world. Trees come and go, but stone endures until the end of time.”
“You know nothing of trees,” Legolas said heatedly. “You call me deaf, but you refuse to hear. Trees are living beings; their patience and wisdom are respected by my people. Long-enduring or no, what could stones possibly have to say that would be of interest?”
“You are arrogant and untutored,” Gimli growled. “Count yourself lucky to be injured; otherwise I would challenge you to withdraw your words or face the consequences. Think you that Mahal plucked us from the sky, fully formed? We are of the earth, and we understand its language.” He glared down at Legolas, his eyes ablaze. “The earth speaks louder than a tree root that should be singing only of its good fortune that I have not chopped it to kindling!”
“The arrogance of Dwarves surpasses all!” Legolas declared. His hand moved to cover the tree root once more; no Dwarf would harm it while he lived. “And as for your challenge--”
“Mr. Legolas? Mr. Gimli?” came a weak voice.
“Sam!” Gimli cried out. Suddenly nothing else mattered but the sight of the hobbit's brown eyes full upon him. “You know me!”
“Of course I do,” Sam said. “But... I thought you were arguing. Or did I dream that?”
Legolas chuckled, and Gimli shot him a glance, his eyes now twinkling with mirth, not ire.
“It was surely a dream,” Gimli said, moving to where Sam lay. “Does anything hurt other than your head?”
“Everything,” Sam groaned. “It feels as though I was run over by a pony cart.”
Gimli checked Sam over, then nodded encouragingly. “I find no broken bones. Hobbits are made of strong stuff; rather like the earth itself, wouldn’t you agree, Legolas?”
“They are as sturdy as trees, Gimli,” Legolas agreed.
“My head does hurt awfully, though,” Sam said. He freed his right arm from the cloak and blanket to feel his head, and stared at his bare arm. “Where’s my sleeve?”
“Right here,” Gimli told him, guiding his hand to the improvised bandage. “The bleeding seems to have stopped.”
“Bleeding?”
“Aye. Do not be alarmed if you feel a mite dizzy. Are you hungry? I know you must be thirsty.”
“I can’t just now, Mr. Gimli, I’m that queasy.” Sam looked around in utter confusion. “Where are we? Where’s Mr. Frodo?”
“I will leave Legolas to answer your questions, lad,” Gimli said. “Just lie still, and try not to worry overmuch. But first...” He retrieved two clean cloths from the shelf, soaked them in the bowl of water, and brought one each to Legolas and Sam.
“Put those over your mouth and nose if you need to,” he advised his companions. “What I’m about to do is likely to stir up quite a bit more dust.” He smiled at Sam. “You showed great foresight in bringing these.”
“T’weren’t foresight, sir, just common sense, is all,” Sam protested. He watched as Gimli strode to the barrier. With seemingly little effort, the Dwarf began lifting and tossing aside the heavy stones he had examined earlier.
“Mr. Legolas?” Sam ventured. “What’s happened?”
“I am sorry, Sam, my thoughts were elsewhere,” Legolas said. He felt hot and drowsy, and his mind was less clear than usual. It frightened him. I must not sleep, he thought fiercely. The tree is as alert and awake as I have ever sensed; there may be other messages. “What do you recall?”
“Well sir...” Sam frowned. “I'm not exactly sure. I can’t seem to remember anything past breakfast.”
Choosing his words with care, Legolas told Sam about meeting the hobbits in the meadow, exploring the beautiful cavern, and the events leading up to the cave-in.
“And you think Mr. Frodo was hit by one of them rocks?” Sam cried out.
“It is possible,” Legolas said quietly.
Gimli, listening closely, realized that Legolas had left out an important part of the story. An arrogant race they surely were, but he would not begrudge even an Elf praise for a selfless deed.
“You are too modest, Master Elf,” he called out from where he was working. “Sam, you would have been buried beneath all this had he not shielded you with his own body.”
Legolas sighed. It is so difficult to remain angry with that blasted Dwarf, he thought resignedly.
Sam stammered his thanks to Legolas, trying desperately to force the fogginess out of his head.
“Do not fear, Sam,” Legolas said gently, sensing the hobbit's panic. “Your memories will return in time.” He moved slightly, and winced as a sharp pain shot across his cracked ribs.
“You're hurt,” Sam whispered. “From helping to save me?” He wanted to go to Legolas’s aid, but felt for sure he would be sick if he sat up, or even moved.
Legolas smiled at him reassuringly. “I have been injured before, and will be again. Elves mend quickly. Just lie quietly, as Gimli said, and let your thoughts calm. Help is coming; I know it. And our stalwart Dwarf will ensure that we will be freed swiftly.” Strangely, he felt confident that this was the truth. His eyes wandered to where Gimli was digging away at the wall of dirt with a flat, sharp-edged rock he had found. So quickly and efficiently was he working, both at digging and shoring up the cavity he was making with the long, sturdy crystalline sheets that lay all about them, that Legolas was amazed. If only that strange growling would stop... Suddenly he realized that what he was hearing was Gimli. The Dwarf was singing (if you could call it that); but whether to himself or to the stones, he knew not.
Sam closed his eyes against the pounding in his head. He felt battered and bruised, and dreadfully dizzy... but the worst was not knowing how his master was faring.
Mr. Frodo in trouble, and me unable to be with him! It was almost too much to bear.
~*~
Merry watched carefully as the last bits of stone disintegrated in wisps of smoke. The Elves within the cavern had begun the massive work of tunneling through the fallen ceiling, but he had been able to convince several of them that every last fragment of that fearsome dagger of rock needed to be gathered up, and brought out into the sunlight. It had been a very close thing – the sun was about to set when they brought out the last of them – but they had made it in time. The Elves murmured nervously in their own tongue as the enspelled shards of rock melted before their eyes, leaving only a patch of slightly-wilted grass where the pile had been.
We were right, Merry thought. Those foul Riders found a way to get to Frodo even within the borders of Rivendell. He couldn’t remember the last time he had felt so frustrated, or torn. Part of him wanted to run back to the House and be with Frodo. But Strider’s with him, and Lord Elrond, and Gandalf, and Cousin Bilbo. Pip is there, too. They don’t need me. Part of him wanted to run into the cave and help tear down that barrier. But there are fully two dozen Elves working at it, and they’re bigger and stronger than I am. What help could I be?
“Merry,” said a soft voice.
Merry looked up, and realized that Glorfindel stood beside him.
“Did you see Frodo? How is he?” Merry asked anxiously.
“I am sorry, I do not know,” Glorfindel said. “I came directly from the Ford; however, be assured that Aragorn will do everything possible to ensure his full recovery.”
“Of course he will,” Merry said. “Thank you for coming to help.”
“I will do all I can,” Glorfindel said. “Sam, Legolas, and the Dwarf must be found without delay. There can be no rest until they are freed.”
“I know they might run out of air.” Merry said. “If... if they’re still alive, that is.”
“At least one person is,” Glorfindel said. “But the cavern is vast, and the air will not fail in a day, or even two. It is the water...”
“What water?”
“Merry, we must be prepared for whatever happens,” Glorfindel said quietly. He knelt and looked Merry in the eyes, clasping the hobbit’s shoulder. “The cavern is in danger of flooding; Lord Elrond even now labors to hold back the waters.”
“What?” Merry asked, horrified.
Glorfindel looked grim. “If he expends himself beyond his limits...” He left the thought unspoken. “If Gandalf were here, he would be able to send a message to Elrond more quickly than I could ride. But if necessary, Asfaloth will bear me back to the House with all speed as soon as there is news to tell.” He got to his feet and strode quickly through the dark entrance.
Merry stood alone for another moment, his mind whirling. One person, at least, is still alive. How could he know that? Who is it? How does Lord Elrond know what’s happening in the cave? Did that filthy Black Rider get away? Is he still around somewhere? Should I go back and stay with Frodo? Stay here and try to help? What can someone as small as a hobbit do?
As small as a hobbit... Suddenly his inner turmoil ceased. Merry turned resolutely toward the cave. His place was here, and he knew exactly what he could do.
~*~
Even if Frodo didn’t recognize the footsteps, he would have known that it was Aragorn entering the Hall by Arwen’s radiant smile as he approached. He remembered how Aragorn had appeared that night when he stood next to her in this very Hall. The Ranger had appeared so noble and kingly... Frodo suddenly wondered if he had, for a moment, seen Aragorn the way she saw him.
“You love him,” Frodo whispered. Before Arwen could respond, Aragorn was there, still barefoot and dressed simply. But his hands were clean, and his long hair had been tied back with a thin strip of leather. He set two pots on the hearth -- one filled with clean water, and the other containing a combination of water and antiseptic herbs. Lindir, following closely behind him, put down the large tray he was carrying that contained instruments, cloth strips, towels, and a small phial. Seeing the tray, Frodo suddenly felt cold again. When Aragorn knelt beside him, he could see the concern in the Ranger’s grey eyes.
“I am sorry I needed to leave you,” Aragorn said.
“I knew you’d be back,” Frodo said. He looked up at Arwen and smiled. “Of course it’s not me you hurried back to see.”
“I see that you are as incorrigible as Bilbo,” Arwen chuckled.
“Bilbo!” Frodo gasped. “He’ll be so worried.”
“Pippin is with him,” Aragorn said, carefully unwrapping the scarf from Frodo’s left leg. “I’ll let them know myself when you’re tucked up in bed.”
“I’m rather tired of being... oh, I want to see it,” Frodo said. Again, Arwen helped him to a sitting position, and he gazed down at his calf. Only the tip of the splinter of rock could now be seen above the skin.
“Frodo, I dare not put you into a sleep until this is done.” Aragorn looked at Frodo gravely. “Only you can tell me when your body and spirit are completely free of it. There cannot be even the tiniest fragment left within you.”
“I understand,” Frodo said. “What will you do with it? Gandalf said the last one had to be melted...”
“It was indeed, but not by this fire,” Aragorn said. “Lindir will take the shard to the smiths. Are you ready?”
Frodo nodded, his heart beginning to race. Arwen laid him back down, then took both of his cold hands in her own.
“Look at me, Frodo,” she murmured. “Look into my eyes.”
When she had Frodo’s full attention, Arwen began to sing. Frodo recognized the same song to Elbereth he had heard before in this Hall, and again felt lifted into a realm of gold and silver and blue, where the air was pure as crystalline water and colors had no names.
As soon as Frodo’s breathing slowed and his eyes lost their focus, Arwen looked toward Aragorn and nodded.
Aragorn slid a thick towel beneath Frodo's leg, then dipped a cloth into the now-warmed herbal water and cleansed the area around the wound. The skin felt cold to his touch, and he wondered at how little the wound had bled. Just like Frodo's shoulder, he thought. I wonder if part of the spell upon the iron impairs blood loss so that the victim does not die from the injury. So that there is time for the shard to travel to... He shook his head, banishing such grim thoughts; they would help neither him, nor Frodo. He picked up a scalpel from the tray, motioned for Lindir to hold Frodo’s leg firmly, and took a deep breath. He wished there was more light, and that Elrond was here. But most of all, he wished that this brave hobbit would soon be free of pain and fear... at least, for a little while.
Frodo gasped when the razor-sharp blade cut into his leg. He instinctively tried to move away from it, but someone held him fast, and Arwen's song continued to carry him on a shining wave of exhilarating beauty. Aragorn had begun singing softly, as well. But suddenly he heard a new voice, a dark, powerful presence that threatened to drown him.
Lindir and Arwen watched anxiously as Aragorn clamped a pair of extracting forceps firmly around the end of the shard. Still the wound was barely bleeding, even though he had cut deeply into Frodo's leg on either side of the fragment.
Tell them to stop, Ring-bearer, the voice whispered urgently. Let the Shadow take you. The Dark Lord acknowledges your Mastery of the Ring. He will bow before you. Arda will be yours.
“It fights me,” Aragorn muttered. “Lindir, hold fast.”
Tell them to stop, now!
“Aragorn, now!” Frodo cried out. “Now!” And then there was a tremendous pull on his leg, a bitter scream in his mind, and the voice was gone. The heavy, dark weight numbing his body lifted, leaving him dizzied with relief.
“Frodo, tell us--” Arwen began.
“It's gone,” Frodo whispered. “All of it. It's gone.”
Aragorn, fatigued as if newly-come from battle, sat drenched in sweat, grasping the forceps with all his might. The jagged stone he had pulled from Frodo's leg lay within its pincers, and blood was now pouring from the wound and soaking the towel.
“Give it to me.” From a long distance, Aragorn heard Lindir's voice, felt the Elf's hands on his own. “Release it, Aragorn. Give it to me.”
Aragorn loosened his grip with an effort, and Lindir instantly took the instrument from him and rushed from the Hall.
“Estel, the potion,” Arwen said, and Aragorn took the phial from the tray with shaking hands, pulled out the stopper, and gave it to her. She held it to Frodo's mouth, and when his lips parted, encouraged him to drink. Aragorn wrapped a temporary bandage around Frodo's calf until he could get him to a room with more light so as to thoroughly cleanse and suture the wound. By the time he was finished, Arwen felt Frodo relaxing, and his eyes soon fluttered closed.
“Sleep,” she whispered, and gently stroked his brow.
But as Frodo slipped into dreams of light, his last conscious thought was of Sam... still trapped in darkness.
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