The Healing of Frodo
OOC Note: This is a continuation of the Flight to the Ford of the Bruinen RP log, in which I did a brief stint as Glorfindel. Though the first part of the flash forward was based strictly on book text and dialogue, this scene is a bit more original. Immediately following it was the RP logged in Hobbits in the Infirmary.
The Valley Shore
You stand on the valley shore of the river. The river itself flows noisily beneath the bridge. On the opposite side of the river you can see the steep forested slopes, with a trail winding up and out of the valley. To your west is a birchwood, looking quite wholesome and inviting. Behind the now almost completely leafless trees, sheer cliffs close in until there is nothing but an impassable gorge. North of here are some pleasant, open meadows. A trail leads east and up a steep bank towards the Last Homely House. The sky overhead is overcast, hiding the sun behind the clouds.
The mists of the Bruinen rushing below swirl lazily about the river's banks, filling the air with a chilling dampness. Though very little of sun's last light finds its way through the blanket of clouds, several shadows are silhouetted against the deepening indigo of dusk: two tall figures, one bearing a heavy burden yet unseen, and three shorter ones. Belabored are their footfalls as they reach the bridge, echoing hollowly in the surrounding trees.
Very little weariness shows in the manner of Glorfindel's movement. Long, golden hair drapes shimmering over shoulders regally squared, as powerful strides carry the Elf at the front of the assembly of travelers. "To the east," he directs in a stern tone, now venturing to look back over his shoulder. Concern and mild defeat line the Elf's ageless face, though his features soften somewhat as he looks upon the others. "Fear not, for soon your shall find rest." The melody of his voice, clear and strong, is laced with notes of subtle melancholy.
The look on Pippin's face is heartfelt, worry lines his eyes as his cousin appears not to move. He fights back tears as he glances up at Merry for a moment and tries hard not to think about what might happen.
The Brandybuck wishes he could impart a word of comfort for the young Took, but in truth he is battling back his own sorrow. Pursing his lips, he looks up at the lifeless form of Frodo, wondering, waiting as were the others.
Nodding, urging the trio of hobbits on with a reassuring look, Strider follows wearily, his gaze troubled and defeated, pace slowed. In his arms he carries a small bundle: Frodo, wrapped in Strider's own cloak (which goes about him a few times), lying pale and still, lifeless in the Ranger's arms. As they make their way east, up a slight incline, he adjusts his hold carefully, trying not to jostle the hobbit, though the grim expression on his weathered features would seem to hold out little, if any, hope.
Leading Bill at at fast pace, Sam trotted quickly behind Strider. Every few steps, he would catch sight of poor Mister Frodo, and it served to give Sam the strength to keep going. His side ached from his attempt to keep pace with the fast moving Ranger. "How much longer till we reach Rivendell Mister Strider?" Sam gasps out.
On the other end of the bridge crossed by the weary travelers is a grey sentinel. Unmoving, tall, imperious, seeming almost a graven image of some king of old, the figure awaits their approach. As the darkness and the river-mist part before their exhausted steps, they see the looming lord more clearly.
On the valley shore stands a man... or is he an elf? Face etched with some signs of age, but also ageless, there is a light on his brow gleaming from a silver circlet. Where Glorfindel is gold and chiming bells, this figure is ebon and silent stillness. There may be a thousand songs locked behind his lips, there might be an eternal fountain of laughter, but if so they remain hidden away. The dark figure, raises a hand, palm exposed to the travelers, "You are safe now, gentlefolk of the Shire. Bring forward the ringbearer." His voice carries in it authority and wisdom, though there is an incalculable sorrow there also, as though he has seen the end of his tale, and it comes soon.
Pippin stops and clutches at Merry's sleeve. "Who is that?" his breath catches in his throat as he stares at the dark figure in awe, his eyes opening wide. The bedraggled young hobbit can barely keep himself standing but the site the Master of Rivendell stirs hope in his heart.
"Not long now, Sam."
The voice is patient and gentle, but hollow, though Strider slows pace a little more for Sam's sake. As they near the shore, he tenses, looking up with eyes darkening. Shaking his head, he steps forward, folding back the cloak from Frodo's pallid features, his gaze anxiously seeking Elrond's.
Merry swallows, looking up into the fair face of the figure. "I... I'm not certain, Pip... But I do know that he means us no harm. He'll help Frodo, I'm sure." Hope dances in the hobbit's eyes as Strider reveals the still form of his cousin.
Arriving now at the valley shore, Glorfindel's feet fall still once more before the form of the Master of Rivendell. Regarding Elrond with a reverent nod, the Elf moves gracefully aside, allowing Strider to step forward with Frodo. Though his focused gaze holds within it many tales of peril and honor alike, somewhere from within the depths of his stare shines the dull gleam of uncertainty.
The land was beautiful yet Sam saw none of it. All his life he had wanted to see the elves, but now, it meant nothing to him. As long as his master suffered, he would suffer as well. A figure comes into view and his breath catches in his throat. As he looks at the elf, Sam hesitates. Sam lowers his head, and when he looks up his eyes are filled with sadness and a great hope that his master will be cared for.
The tall, dark figure looks down at the fading hobbit, his face calm but his eyes sad. He reaches forward and lays his hands on Frodo Baggins, the left on the hobbit's right cheek, the right hand on the hobbit's left side. In a moment, the calm leaves his face, banished as surely dawn banishes the darkness. He lets out a small hiss of breath. "He has been wounded with the dark blade?" It is said as a question, the figure meeting eyes with Strider, but all present know it is not a question -- this figure clearly knows the answer.
He speaks softly to Strider, "There is only the faintest echo of him left. We must make haste. Take him to the infirmary at once. Hurry!" Turning then to Frodo's companions, Elrond nods. "I am Elrond Half-Elven, and this is the valley of Rivendell. You are welcome here, and we shall be sure you are fed and given fresh clothing. If you will excuse me."
Merry does his best to bow, still rather astonished at the imposing grace of the figure. When he rises his eyes are bright with rekindled hope, now somehow certain that his cousin will recieve proper care.
A quick nod from Strider.
"The hilt is in my pack - I have handled it as little as possible, and no one else has touched it; the blade vanished in the morning's light."
At the anxious instruction, he nods, turning to the small trio even as he moves.
"You will be safe, little ones. . .excuse us. We must see to Frodo. . . ."
And with that, he hurries inside, long legs moving quickly, as near to a run as possible.
Infirmary
This room contains many bunks, placed around in an orderly fashion. Each bunk has thick blankets and pillows upon it. Some of the bunks are occupied, mainly with victims of accidents, although most of them are empty. The southern wall is composed mostly of windows, which are blanketed by heavy curtains that let through some light. On another wall is a large cabinet, containing many jars, flasks, and other containers, as well as bandages, splints, and other first-aid equipment. Beside the cabinet, a small hearth burns intensely.
There is always a young healer or apprentice here, passing from bunk to bunk and verifying that everything is in its place. If you are in need of treatment, perhaps you could ask one of these apprentices to summon a healer.
Making several quick turns through the corridors, Strider enters a large room that smells lightly of herbs and heated water, deftly avoiding bumping into the few attendants about the room as he hurries to lay Frodo on the nearest bed, carefully laying the hobbit down and unwrapping the cloaks enveloping the small frame.
Elrond indicates a table in the infirmary for Strider, "Place the blade there." Though there is grave concern in his voice, it is nonetheless musical to the ears of the halflings, for whom elven voices are still a newly discovered symphony. Unlike Glorfindel or Gildor or the other fair folk they have met on their way so far, his voice is not so glorious a sound. In their voices are the eternal songs of the West and the light of the two trees, but Elrond's voice is more like the happiest songs sung by men and hobbits. His is a voice of this world, and also not of it, a song of the valley around them, but also of the stars in the heavens. It is fair, indeed, but it is not so detached as the other elves, and his concern for Frodo can be heard clearly in it.
The life of this hobbit is not an abstract thing to him, that is clear; he fears for Frodo Baggins, fears for him deeply. As the master of this valley looks at their fading friend, the halflings can see clearly in Elrond's ancient grey eyes, hear clearly in his words this singular sentiment: he doubts very much that Frodo will survive.
Pippin is relieved to no longer be carrying anything, gazing around in absolute awe. He feels quite self-conscious in the beauty of Rivendell with his unkempt state. He sits down on a soft bed in the infirmary and lets out a long shuddering breath. He can't believe they're actually there. "We're here Merry.." he whispers to his cousin..."We made it. Didn't we? Frodo's going to be alright?" As Elrond begins to sing he falls silent and stares with round eyes, his heart lifting at the strange..enchanting sound.
%R Determined to be at his masters side, Sam hadn't hesitated to follow his master inside. He knew his place and he would allow none to stop him. As he follows the larger folk, Sam shivered nervously. It was a fearful place filled with strange objects, all of which frightened the gardener.
Silently Sam slipped inside the room and stood off to the side, out of the way. He felt very small and unimportant in the presence of those tending poor Mister Frodo who lay so very still upon the sheets.
Entering the infirmary mere steps behind Strider and Elrond, Glorfindel lingers now to the right of the heavy oaken door. He stands tall, his features stony and still, his eyes grim and watchful as Elrond tends to the fallen Frodo. No words does he speak, yet a faraway shadow of a reassuring smile does lift the corners of his mouth as he looks upon Sam, even if only for a fleeting moment.
Unconsciously withholding his next breath, Merry watches Elrond working over his cousin. His heart sinks as he watches the stern features of the Master of Rivendell for any crumb of hope. Spectres of the recent events and hopeless worry for the future haunt his weary mind; hoping against hope that Frodo will rally around. Turning to Pippin, he sighs, putting on a brave face. "Yes, Pip, we're here. But as for what happens next, your guess is as good as mine. I'm sure Frodo will be alright in the end, though."
Obediently Strider removes the hilt from his pouch, promptly placing it on the table as if it were something sharp against his hands. At once he turns back to the hobbit, continuing to ease him out of the wraps as quickly as possible, speaking in low tones. "There, Frodo. . .we're here. . . ."
Yet the Ranger looks up at Elrond with little question in his gaze, shaking his head. As he hears the others' attempts at reassurance, he winces, turning wearily in that direction.
"Let us hope so, Merry. But he has been gravely wounded, and. . .we were a long distance from Rivendell. It has been. . .many days."
Elrond walks over to a large censor and opens a small gate in it. He takes out some kind of strange elven device -- two metal hands culminating in a metal bowl -- from a cabinet. He squeezes the hands and the bowl emits sparks. He puts the bowl inside the censor and squeezes the hands a few times, letting out a strange, exhoing rasping sound as flint moves across metal inside the censor's chamber. He withdraws the device, closes the gate, and within moments, the censor begins to belch out smoke -- incense that smells of the deepest woods. Incense that smells of black dirt after the rain. The smoke slowly seeps across the room, creating a fog, a haze of thick and fecund smells, filling the nostrils, the minds, the eyes, the senses of those in the room.
Pippin whimpers a little, and then glances around. He looks a little hopefully at Strider...not really wanting to mention it in the the light of the gravity of Frodo's situation. But, well...its been a very long journey and the youngest hobbit is just about at the end of his rope. He nudges Merry slightly, giving him the same hopeful look.
Merry's expression darkens at Strider's comment, nodding solemnly. With that single observation, much of his desperate hope evaporates, like a thin mist. Still, he manages a weak smile for his cousin, patting the lad gently on the shoulder. Turning back to Elrond and the others, he watches.
The smoke parts as Elrond glides across the room to the table beside Frodo where the hilt of the blade lies. Using a cloth, he picks up the blade and then reaching toward the wall, he opens a small window. Strangely, the incense smoke does not leave the room. Instead, a cool breeze enters the room from outside, and the light of the bright northern star shines into the hall. Elrond raises the blade and says "Ata! Shine on us now!"
And Behold! The light from the north star seems to respond to Elrond exhortation and a silver light shines down from the heavens, pulsing. It is caught in the incense smoke, and now the room is filled with a silver, glowing haze. In a moment, Elrond turns to face the East and raises up the blade. In a deep voice, almost a song, he calls out:
I reject the East! I reject it utterly!
I am Elrond Half-Elven, Earendil's Heir!
I reject the East and all of its works!
I sanctify this hall and call upon the light!
I refuse the East! I refuse it utterly!
The haze continues to fill the room, and soon all present are surrounded by a thick, rich-smelling smoke.
Strider does not seem startled by this, remaining at Frodo's side as Elrond works, casting only an occasional glance to the other hobbits as he lays a hand upon the Ringbearer's damp brow, pushing the bark-brown curls back gently.
Pippin coughs slightly, and sighs. He watches the elf work with Frodo as he leans back. Biting his lip somewhat he tries hard not to ask anything else though he glances at Merry and Strider every now and then, doing his best to keep out of the way. His eyes begin to droop a little as time goes on.
Focused silence hangs heavily around the golden-haired Elf, even as the hall breathes with cool wind and Elrond's voice fills his ears. Pale lips are drawn thin with attentive concern, yet Glorfindel does not move and utters not a word. In Master Elrond all trust is invested. To him the Elf's eyes are frozen.
Sam moves closer to the bed and he bites his lip to keep from asking questions that fill his mind. The smoke, the words of the elf lord are frightening, yet they fill him with hope.
Sam focuses upon his masters face and puts aside all other thoughts save those about his master. 'He has to be alright," he says to himself.
Having uttered these words, Elrond brings the hilt closer to his lips and breathes out one long breath. When his breath touches the hilt, it dissipates into a black cloud of smoke. With a second breath, Elrond blows the cloud of dark smoke toward the window. With a third, he blows the cloud out of the window, out of the hall and perhaps even out of the valley. It is as though the very air is his to command.
Merry's eyes widen at Elrond's impressive performance, though he doesn't entirely know what is occuring. It seems at the moment that he can do nothing more than wait; wait to see the outcome of the remarkable endeavors.
Turning from the window, Elrond goes to a table where he takes up a silver blade and a pair of what a hobbit might recognize as tongs or pliers. It seems unlikely he intends to perform a carpenter's work with this device, however, and he walks over to Frodo's side. Looking up at Strider, he says, "I need you to leave the hall." He speaks softly, and there is cleary a significant look between the two, its meaning mysterious. He then turns to the waking halflings, "If you stay you will be frightened by what you see and hear. I would advise that you wait without, for this may be too much for you."
A shudder races down Merry's back at the grave warning. He looks to Strider as if to ask something, but decides against it. He turns hesitantly to leave the room, giving Pippin's arm a gentle tug in the same direction.
Sam looks up at the mention of leaving and he frowns. "If you'll pardon my saying so sir, I'll not leave my master." he says firmly.
Pippin blinks and looks at Elrond somewhat fearfully already, "Is Frodo going to be okay?" He asks Strider as he rises reluctantly, his voice is small and filled with dread for his cousin. He follows Merry's lead.
For a moment, the Ranger hesitates, his gaze meeting Elrond's as they exchange a look. . .but then he turns obediently, extending a hand to the trio of hobbits.
"It would be well to heed Master Elrond's advice. Come with me; I will see if there is anyone who can help you settle in for food and rest while we wait. There is nothing you can do for Frodo now save allowing the Master to work." He studies them a moment.
"But if you wish to stay, I cannot prevent it."
Sam's expression brings a sad smile to his lips, and he pats the young hobbit's shoulder. "Then do not leave him, Sam. But be brave, as you have." At Pippin's question, he sighs, lips tightening into a line. "We do not know yet. Master Elrond is doing all that he can. We must allow him to do what is necessary. . .and wait. . .and hope."
With that, the tall Ranger straightens, turning and bowing toward Elrond before departing the hall.
A deep breath rises and falls in Glorfindel's chest, though the muscles of his jaw remain firmly set, as does his position to the side of the door. His gaze flashes solemnly to the three hobbits, though little more than a nod does he offer. "You are brave indeed, young friends," is his low murmur to them.
Food and bed...there was nothing more that could have prompted Pippin to leave than that. Twas the first suggestion Strider had made in days that he wholeheartedly approved of. "What about a bath?" he asks hopefully, glancing back at Frodo for a moment. He felt a little awkward leaving his cousin right now...but he was in the best of hands.
Merry pauses for a moment, stealing a final glace at Frodo. Heaving a deep sigh, the Brandybuck turns back toward the door. At Pippin's enthusiastic chirp,a warm grin creeps across his face, perhaps the first true smile his lips have formed in the long weeks past. "Perhaps, Pip..." he murmers as he leads the young Took out of the room.
Elrond nods to Sam, "Very well, Sam Gamgee. You can remain by your Master's side. Sit there," he indicates the other side of the bed, where Strider was sitting, "And hold your master's hand." And now he smooths back Frodo's hair and feels his brow... "Oh, little brother, there is so little of you left," he mutters. And then he lets out a deep breath and the silver haze fills the room even more. It was merely passive before now, filling the room from its source, the censor, but now it begins to swirl around the room and Elrond starts to sing. His voice fills the room, and the haze and smoke seems to pour out of his mouth as he sings. The words are in the ancient tongue of the elves of the West and though their meaning is unclear to hobbit ears, their sense is clear:
Do not step into the shadow,
Stray not where men dare not go,
Reject the place where dark things grow,
Abjure the sleepy river's flow.
He sings these words over and over again, occassionally including Frodo's name. The smoke is now quite thick, making for a silver halo around Frodo and Sam's faces, filling up the head. Perhaps it is the effect of the incense, but as Elrond sings, images form in the smoke -- a great white ship sailing through the sky, a tall figure at its prow. On his brow is a crown with a single star glowing brightly. Flying to this white ship is a beautiful white bird, feathers shining in the twilight.
Sam watches his companions leave. He swallows hard and moves to do as he was bid by the great elf lord. Tenderly Sam takes his masters cold hand and quietly watches his masters still face.
Leaning forward now, Elrond makes a deep incision in Frodo's side with the silver knife where the morgul blade cut. He presses cloths to the halfling's side and then reaches into the wound with the tongs -- or whatever they are. His eyes are closed and he does not seem to be even looking at the wound as he feels around inside Frodo with the strange instrument.
Suddenly Frodo cries out in pain, the sound a sharp, short keening. . .though he struggles little, too weak to move. His eyes remain closed, an icy sweat bedewing his face, the only indication of the battle.
Tightening his grip on Frodo's hand, Sam watches fearfully as Elrond works. "What are you doing?" Sam asks without thinking as the elf probes Frodo's wound. "You're hurting him."
"He is not crying out from the pain of what I do. He is crying out from deeper wounds." He does not spare the young halfling a look as his eyes do not even open. "He is beyond being pained by what I do. He is beyond most pains now -- that was the cry of his last resolve.&quuot; Saying this, he removes the instrument and his eyes are suddenly open. He quickly leans forward and pulls open Frodo's shirt, saying hurriedly, "Perhaps if I whisper to his heart to reject the--"
But the breath stills from Master Elrond and his hands stop. For there, hanging heavy on Frodo's chest is the simple gold ring of Bilbo's that has caused so much trouble. Elrond is very still, staring at it with deep grey eyes somehow moved, perhaps by the beauty of so simple a ring.
The haunting timbre of the Master of Rivendell's song rings clearly in all ears, though in Glorfindel's mind the words do register as well. The Elf-lord's hands remain clasped at his back, his stare falling from Elrond to the Ringbearer only as Frodo's cry pierces the healing melody woven with the scent of incense and haze of silver smoke. "All will be clear in time, Sam," he articulates in a voice clear even when spoken softly. These sentiments spoken, Glorfindel now takes a modest step foreward in anticipation.
Quietly, oh so quietly, Elrond speaks. "Ah, Isildur... Would that my brother's blood were thicker in your veins." And then he reaches up, tremulously, his hand moving towards Frodo's chest where the ring rests.
Frodo whimpers softly, his chest rising and falling with difficulty, almost as if the ring were itself an added weight.
Sam frowns deeply and glances at the elf. Master Bilbo had told him of elven magic, but this was more than he could understand. "That's Mister Frodo's ring," Sam says as he watches Elrond reach for it. "Given to him by Mister Bilbo."
Not heeding Sam's protest, Elrond's hand lowers onto Frodo's chest....
But he does not touch the ring. Instead, his hand rests over Frodo's heart, less than an inch from the golden ring, though never touching. "Yes. It is Mister Frodo's ring. Let us hope it stays so... for a while."
And those words spoken, the room suddenly changes! Elrond's left hand, which rests on Frodo's heart, begins to glow blue for some reason, the light emanating from his ring finger, though there is nothing there. The light shifts the color of the haze from silver to blue, and for a moment, Elrond himself seems made of blue light and not a being of flesh and bone at all. The light pulses and shines throughout the room, impossibly bright, but lasting only a moment. In the winking of an eye, the light is gone and the room is only a smoky place. Elrond hangs his head and says softly, "He is beyond my power to heal."
Sams eyes grow wide at the sight before him. When Elrond speaks, Sam feels his heart break. "No!" Sam says stubbornly. "You can't give up! You must help him!" Sam slips from the chair and kneels beside the bed, Tears fall unchecked down his round hobbit cheeks. "Please help him." he begs. Sam turns his eyes to the elf lord and if his eyes could speak they would be begging. "You mussant let him die."
If Frodo's whimper only minutes earlier gave any sign of hope, that is now gone. . .the tiny hobbit lies eerily still, only the faintest indication of his breath remaining.
Earlier, Elrond's eyes shone with real concern for Frodo's life, and it was heard clearly in his voice, but now that concern seems to give way for a moment. He assumes a look that Sam will never know, but all elves as long-lived as the Master of Rivendell know well: the look of an elf who has accepted the death of yet another mortal. In the winking of an eye, Frodo has gone from the focus of all Elrond's attention to a mere grim reminder of the 'gift' of mortality. "
"I am sorry, Sam Gamgee," Elrond says in a caring, though distant voice. "It is beyond hope..." But for some reason, these words seem to move something in Elrond and he looks back at Frodo, eyes weighing the young hobbit.
What little hope had remained apparent in Glorfindel's ageless features now fades in favor of defeat. Though crestfallen indeed, a deep crease now furrows the Elf-lord's brow, confusion and uncertainty meeting clearly in his countenance as he looks once more to Elrond.
Yet as Glorfindel follows the Master's gaze back to Frodo, perhaps the subtle change in Elrond's manner stirs some manner of realization. For only now does the faint flicker resurface in the Elf-lord's eyes.
"Mister Strider said the elves would save him." he sobs as his stomach tightens in fear. "I beg of you Lord Elrond, my master has carried many burdens in this life and you can't let it end this way." Unable to face the elf any longer, he turns away from the elf to look upon is master. "Mister Frodo, don't listen to him, you have to get better." Clutching Frodo's hand to his chest Sam chokes out another cry. "Please don't leave your poor Sam alone."
Leaning forward, Elrond whispers into Frodo's ear, "Frodo Baggins, we do not know each other, but I think it is time... I think we have come to each other for a reason. This is clear to me now. Listen to me, little brother, wherever you are, heed my voice in the darkness. You and I both stand now on the edge of shadow. All of my wisdom and all of my learning tells me that there is no hope left to us. Everything I know tells me that the end has come, for surely if you are lost now to the shadow, it is because we are no longer meant to prevail; the darkness will swallow us all. I have peered into you soul and I see clearly that you feel the darkness all around you. It calls to you, beckoning, inviting, and there is no light left for you to see. Everything I know tells me that you will give in to that shadow, for how could you resist..."
Now the Master of Rivendell leans closer, "But heed me, little brother, I do not believe there is ever a time without hope. Though I cannot find the light in this darkness, perhaps you can help me. As we speak, your heart is welcoming shivers of the dark blade. I cannot reach them without killing you. Everything I know tells me it is impossible for their course to be reversed. Show me there is hope, little brother! Reject the East! Reject it utterly. Please, Frodo... I do not know you and you owe me nothing. In this hour the darkness must be more inviting, more restful than the pain you must endure to resist this blade, but I beg you, Frodo... Resist. Show us there is hope. For if there is not, I must ride as my grandsire rode. Though I will not take this ring of yours, I will ride forth to one last battle, and I will fall as he fell. Show me there is hope against hope, Frodo. Show us all that there is a light. Resist!" And Sam Gamgee alone may see the traces of silver tears running down the elf lord's cheeks as he speaks.
Elrond now is leaning at Frodo's side, his hands clasped together at the halfling's side, almost in a position of supplication.
Yet there is nothing.
No sign of life responds to Elrond Half-Elven's plea, save the continued breathing, soft and laboured, so weak now as to be barely audible. The small form remains still and cold, as one in the last moments of dying, his colour the pallor of one on a death-bed.
Shivering, Sam is beside himself with fear and worry when Elrond leans forward to poor Frodo. "Please Mister Frodo," he whispers. Glancing at the elf, he blinks several times. An elf crying for a Hobbit? 'There is Hope!' he thinks. He turns back to Frodo and gently squeezes his masters hand. 'Yes,' he thought silently, 'the elves with save dear Frodo.'
But suddenly the dark eyelashes flicker with the slightest hint of movement. . .and Frodo's right hand, resting as Strider placed it, upon his chest below the ring's location, stirs a little.
It takes a moment, but somehow he opens his hand. . .
And the small fingers close weakly over Elrond's clasped hands, their light pressure unmistakable.
Though Glorfindel sees not the tears spilling from Elrond's eyes, the whispers and pleas strike both hope and desperation into his heart anew. The Elf's proud shoulders now fall slightly forward, his prominent chin drooping closer to his chest. Intensity permeates every breath he draws. After an agonizing moment void of nearly all concept of time....alas, Frodo shows signs of enduring life. Thus part the Elf-lords lips, suprised and renewed relief dawning upon his fair face one more.
"He moved!" Sam shouts with excitement. "He really moved" he says as he moves closer with the expectation of Frodo opening his eyes. Sam glances at Lord Elrond with gratitude.
In the moment that their hands clasp, Elrond looks up and opens his mouth, letting out one glorious note of song. It is the sound of hope rekindled, an eternal medly that is never far from the heart of the firstborn. With the note, the smoke of the room comes to life once more and Elrond becomes seemingly a being of pure light, his fea showing brightly -- for that is the secret of Elven healing, to reach to the wounded with their very spirits, and no spirit is stronger in this art in the fading world of Arda than Elrond Half-Elven's.
And though he closes his mouth, the note continues to reverberate throughout the room, as though a great chime, the chime of the world, has been struck. "Reach toward me, Frodo," Elrond says now, "Come back into the light." And in the haze of the fog, now pulsing with the golden and perfect light, Sam and Glorfindel can see what Elrond sees. A patch of utter darkness where Frodo Baggins spins out of control. But there is a light now in the darkness. "Come toward the light, Frodo!" Elrond says, louder this time.
As he speaks, he works once more with the strange instrument and with a terrible sound of metal, bone and ripping flesh, he produces an large piece of black metal from Frodo's wound. Holding up the metal, Elrond says, "With hope, it is probably than many things should happen against all probability."
"Then may hope abound, within these walls and beyond their protection." Weathered reverence permeates the words Glorfindel now speaks, his voice low and pure as the darkness is overcome by healing light.
Again, there seems no reaction at first. . .but at last a slight moan escapes Frodo's lips: faint, but distinctly audible.
The light in the darkness seems to brighten, and Frodo raises his hand slightly, again taking Elrond's as it rests against his wounded side, clasping a little more tightly this time, as if seeking warmth.
Eyelashes fluttering weakly against the high cheekbones, pale and slight, he stirs a little more, wincing, a word - or name? - murmured at his lips, the whisper nearly without voice.
"Elbereth. . . ."
Elrond looks at Frodo quizzically clasping his hand more tightly. "How many hobbitfolk, I wonder, invoke Varda in their hour of need? Indeed, little Frodo, brother and friend, you coming in this hour was appointed; there can be no other explanation. It is clear to me what is expected and what must be done. I hope the others will see it. They will in the end, I suppose."
And then he goes back to work on Frodo's wounds, singing as he does so:
A! Elbereth Gilthoniel!
Silivren penna mriel o menel aglar elenath!
Na-chaered palan-driel o galadhremmin ennorath,
Fanuilos, le linnathon nef aear, s nef aearon!
Frodo lies still as Elrond continues to work, his countenance still pale as death. . .but his breathing evens a little, steadying, despite a slight shivering that at last returns to his frame.
Upon hearing his masters voice, Sam looks at Lord Elrond in awe. It was more than a simple hobbit such as himself could understand, but still his heart fills with hope. "Will he be alright sir?" Sam asks in a small voice.
The Master looks to Glorfindel and says, "Please extend the word that Frodo Baggins is to be watched carefully. There should be a singer at his side chanting or singing the Hymn to the Kindler at all times. The fragments are not all out..." As he says this, though, he removes the instrument from Frodo's bleeding side, and it clasps another shard. "Frodo resists and pushes the shards to where they can be removed. Though some are deep in him and it will take him some effort to reject them... I will remove them whenever they may be reached."
And then, hearing Sam's question, Elrond turns and looks at the little hobbit. "Will he be alright? Yes... and no. Your master will live through the night because he wishes to live through it. I have removed all of the pieces I can for now, and should he continue to resist, he will live, I think. But this is not a wound that will ever leave him, and you will always see it in his eyes. He has seen the darkest places a person can see, Sam Gamgee, he has gone to the foulest places a person can find in his own heart, and he has resided by the banks of that black river for far too long to forget. But he will live, I think. Indeed, he must live, though it is impossible."
"I will see it done, Herdir," Glorfindel replies, his broad shoulders lifting anew. Then as Elrond turns to Sam once more, the Elf-lord turns on his heels, preparing to depart with a sweep of his cloak and a glimmer of light on his golden mane.
Elrond claps his hands three times, sending out message to the attendants that those without may return to the hall.
"Thank you Lord Elrond, sir," Sam says as a tear of relief streams down his cheek. Turning his gaze to his master, he decides at that moment that he will remain at his masters side. If ever there is a time when Frodo is to face darkness again, Sam intends to be at his side.
The halls are deathly quiet, as if the very walls are aware of the events that have passed in the room of the Infirmary. In a soft chair, Merry sits, head in his hands, appearing as a child in comparison with the elven furniture. From time to time he glances at the door, brow furrowed deeply, wondering just what could be going on within those four walls. Suddenly the waiting are motioned back into the room by Elrond's tall guards. The Bucklander rises and takes a deep breath, unsure of what he might find through those doors...
Another shard removed, Frodo seems to rest a little easier, though still he shifts uneasily as best he can, wincing at the effect of motion on his side. A soft but sharp gasp escapes him, his face dampening with sweat.
Following closely at his cousin's heels, Pippin enters the room, jaws chewing busily on a cookie. When he sees Frodo, the food is forgotten (quite the task for the young Took) and a gasp escapes his lips. "Is... Is he alright?" his voice is timid, fearful of the answer.
Elrond rises and nods to Sam. "I am not a lord, young Sam Gamgee. You may call me Master Elrond, for I am the master of this valley and nothing more. The greatest part of Frodo's healing was done by Frodo himself, as will be the rest. You have helped him more than I, I think. Now, you should stay by his side, for what small part I have done today has exhausted me sorely, and I must rest."
Then leaning forward, Elrond whispers something to Frodo. Whatever he whispers, it takes some long time. Occassionally, words and names can be heard: 'Earendil' he says, then 'Arwen' and 'Estel' and 'Aragorn' and someone called 'Mithrandir.' In all the tales that will be written of these events, none will ever know the full tale of what Elrond Half-Elven says now to Frodo Baggins, for it was between them, and them alone. When done, Elrond rises a bit and kisses Frodo on his damp brow.
"Watch him carefully, mellyn," he says to to the Halflings and makes his way to the door; indeed, his legs seem a bit weak as he goes.
Merry nods at Elrond's command, though he wonders what 'mellyn' means. "He won't leave my sight for a moment!" he proclaims, eyes filled with a mixture of astonishment and thankfullness for whatever it was that pulled his cousin from the brink of darkness.
The Master of Rivendell turns then, looking to Merry. "I am sure that you will not, Master Meriadoc." And then his eyes linger for a moment on Frodo and the ring that still weighs on his chest. He mutters something in the language of the elves... and if any of the hobbits spoke it, they would know his parting words were: "So much that I thought would be mine forever you will take from me, but that which is most precious you have returned. Thank you."
And with that, he turns, and the Master is gone to rest from the healing.
As soon as he departs, a tall figure enters. . .a elven-lady, clad in what would be known in Imladris as the uniform attire of an Arnethril, one of the higher-ranking healers of the Valley. Still turning back as if to confirm some final instruction as the Master steps out of the halls, she joins the array of hobbits, looking down with a somewhat startled but pleasant smile, her expression gentle.
"You have all had a very long journey, from what I hear. Perhaps you would like to rest. . .if you do not wish to leave your friend, I will see what I may do, but he must have absolute quiet, save for the singing that the Master has ordered. I have sent for the Arphedor Rhunedhel; he should be here shortly. . .if you will sit quietly, I will get this little one settled," - she takes some linens from a drawer, taking a seat beside Frodo's bed - "and then see to the rest of you before you are shown to your rooms."
Pippin figits, torn between the desire to explore the fabulous realm of Rivendell and the fact that he's almost exhausted. Food however..had replenished his energy and if he was allowed...there's no telling what trouble he could still get into that day. "We get our own rooms?" he opens his eyes wide in amazement at the elf lady who speaks.
Sam frowns at Lord, no Master Elrond's parting words. With Mister Merry and Pippin's return and the elven-lady's arrival, he had little time to even think about it. His face hardened and he stood protectively beside Frodo's bed. As Master Elrond and the elven-lady said, Frodo was going to get peace and quiet.
Merry 's gaze is fixated on Frodo, watching the rhythmic rise and fall of his cousin's chest, a sign that he was at least alive. He nods at the words of the elven-lady; though he would prefer to stay close to the recovering Frodo, he knows that he needs all the rest he can get.
The elleth laughs, the sound like tiny bells.
"Yes, you do. They are already being arranged for you, though you may find them a bit too large. My name is Narien, and I will be one of the healers taking care of your friend."
Accepting a basin of water and some cloths from an assisting attendant, she wrings out a piece of linen and bathes Frodo's face, then begins carefully cleaning the area around the wound, allowing a wide margin in avoiding the edges.
"Now then. . .I have much to do, but if you will be patient all will soon be ready."
And as she works, she begins to sing quietly. . .a soft hymn, which sounds more like a lullaby than aught else. . .and outside the stars sparkle in the night sky, casting their comforting sprinkles of light into the infirmary.
The Ringbearer is at last in Rivendell, and hopefully safe.