Fellowship & Fairydust

by Vanessa Parry (alias Elwen)

Word Count: 2607

Rating: G (suitable for all audiences)

Summary: Merry and Pippin won’t rest until they know about Frodo’s condition.

They had refused to leave the hallway outside Frodo’s room, having exited their appointed chamber just in time to see Gandalf disappear around a corner, carrying an apparently unconscious Sam.   Arwen had spent several uncomfortable minutes explaining that Sam was only sleeping and that Mithrandir would probably speak to them upon the morrow. But Masters Meriadoc and Peregrin were not about to be caught out again and, when they were denied access to Frodo’s room by two very well armed elven warriors, they stubbornly settled upon the floor opposite the doorway.  At first Arwen had arranged for some cushions to be brought, attempting to make them a little more comfortable. Then she had sent for trays of food.

 Now her father stepped from Frodo’s room and blinked when he saw the temporary camp set up in his usually elegantly appointed hallway.  Arwen was very much aware of two sets of worried eyes following him as her father drew her to one side. “Could you not find a room? When last I checked, despite the number of visitors who seem to have descended upon us of late, we had sufficient to accommodate them.”

 Trying not to let her exasperation show, Arwen turned her back on the hobbits before speaking.  “I gave them a room but they will not use it. They say it is too far away.” She waved down the hallway.  “Although it is only six doors that way.”

 Elrond wrinkled his nose, whether at the smell of food left to grow cold or of unwashed hobbit Arwen was unsure.  He closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose; a sure sign that he was weary. “Very well. Move them into my private withdrawing room.  The couch is probably big enough to accommodate two hobbits if they wish to sleep.”

 Arwen reached out to cup her father’s cheek.  “Are you alright, Adar?”

Her father smiled softly.   “I have had better days but I am well.  Which is more than can be said for our current Ringbearer.”  He stepped around her, into the full glare of two sets of hobbit eyes brimming with questions.

 The plumper of the two, and perhaps the elder, jumped to his sturdy feet.  “How is Frodo? They won’t let us in. Strider said you could cure him.” Arwen detected a note of censure in his tone and would have leapt to her father’s defence had he not touched her arm gently.

 “You have me at a disadvantage, Little Master.  I am Elrond, son of Earendil.” Arwen watched him tip his head as though greeting some visiting princeling and had to hide a smile as she saw the little hobbit blush.

 “I beg your pardon, sir.  My name is Meriadoc Brandybuck, son of Saradoc.”  He slid a foot sideways to tap his companion’s ankle and the other leapt up as well.  “And this is my cousin, Peregrin Took, son of Paladin.” Both bowed formally.

 Peregrin then offered a dazzling smile and Arwen could sense her father relax at once.  The little one had been within their walls only a few hours and in that time he had managed to wheedle from her a place in the hallway and several trays of food, by the simple expedient of wielding that smile.  It was good to know that even her father was not immune.

 “Welcome to my home.”  

 Arwen watched their blushes deepen as her father reminded them that they were guests in his home and should behave accordingly.   They were obviously gently bred enough to recognise their own poor manners.

 “Would you care to sit down while I explain your companion’s condition?”  Elrond took but one step before Meriadoc’s lips thinned and he drew himself up to his full height, about level with her father’s waist.  Even though the periann had to lean back to see Elrond’s face when standing so close there was an air of self possession about him that made her father pause.  A small hand stabbed down the hallway.

 “We’re not going all the way down there again.  It’s miles away,” he asserted mulishly. Peregrin moved closer to his cousin, although half a step behind, and Arwen was reminded of the days when she would hide behind her brothers thus . . . wanting to be brave but still a little afraid.

 Now Arwen detected a glimmer of amusement in her father’s eyes and waited to see where he would take this conversation.   Elrond simply reached over Peregrine’s shoulder to turn the handle upon the door behind them. “I was about to invite you into my private withdrawing room.”  Not waiting for their response Elrond motioned for his daughter to precede him into the room and then waited pointedly for the hobbits to follow suit. He had gauged his guests well.  They followed her meekly, good manners and common sense dictating that this was the only polite response. Elrond swept in after them, closing the door firmly behind him.

 By the standards of the rest of The Last Homely House this was a small room.  It had been the private sanctuary of her parents during Arwen’s younger years and Elrond invited few to share it.  Furniture was sparse, a chair, a couch, a couple of side tables, a book case and a board on which there was always a dish of fresh fruit and a decanter of white wine.  On the wall above the hearth hung a large painting of Elrond and Celebrian as they had been on their wedding day. Many times since her mother’s departure to the West and more often of late, Arwen had slipped into this room when she knew it was empty, to look upon the bright and smiling faces of two people obviously very much in love.  The artist had captured the emotion perfectly and Arwen wondered if he had been witness to the event.

 The two hobbits looked completely lost even in this small room, their diminutive scale emphasized when viewed against the furniture.  Elrond waved his daughter to the chair and pushed a footstool in front of the couch before waving the hobbits to a seat. He remained standing before the cold hearth.  A fire lay ready and, had Arwen guessed that her father would be so generous with his private chambers, she would have lit it before they entered, aware that mortals were more sensitive to the cold.  Elrond only had a fire because he liked to watch the flames.

 Peregrin was about to climb up onto the couch when Meriadoc prevented him by the simple expedient of grabbing his dusty coat tails.  When the youngster shot him a questioning look Meriadoc pointed to their grubby attire and Peregrine’s mouth formed a round but silent, “Oh”.  They remained standing.

 Elrond folded his arms.  “You asked how your friend fared.”  He raised one brow in a way that Arwen immediately knew would precede a mild censure.    “At present he is clean and resting, which appears to be more than you have achieved. I assume that you were offered bathing facilities?”

 When Meriadoc folded his own arms Arwen discovered that she was taking a perverse delight in watching this scene play out.  There were elven warriors older than she who would have baulked at standing up to her father thus and she began to develop an admiration for the diminutive son of Saradoc.

 “Frodo is more important than having a bath at the moment,” Meriadoc replied firmly, before rolling his eyes when Peregrin added, “But the food was rather good.”

 Arwen coughed and had to look down at her hands, where they rested in her lap.  When she looked up her father was pinching the bridge of his nose once more.

 “Very well, Master Brandybuck.  I shall tell you what I can. Your friend . . .”

 “Cousin,” Pippin corrected.

 “Indeed.  May I take it that Master Samwise is also some relation?” asked her father, momentarily allowing himself to be distracted.

 “Oh no.  Sam is a capital fellow but he’s not related.  Not by blood anyway. Although he has become as dear as family over the years,” Meriadoc assured them.

 “I don’t know, Merry.  If we trace the family tree back far enough it’s possible,” Pippin asserted and for a moment Arwen thought they would actually start to do just that.  But her father held up his hand.

 “Thank you, gentlehobbits.  A conversation for some other time, perhaps.”  Elrond placed his hand atop the mantel. “Do you understand the nature of your cousin’s injury?”

 “He was stabbed,” Peregrin replied immediately.  

 “By a Black Rider,” added Meriadoc with a shudder.  “They’ve been chasing us since we left the Shire. Although how they keep managing to find us I don’t fully understand.”

 “They are drawn by the One,” Arwen’s father replied simply.  Even now, if she let down her barriers, Arwen could sense the whispering discord of the One and was grateful that she was not the focus of its attention at present.

 “How?” asked Peregrin, innocently.  

 “Do you know the words written of the rings of power?”  When Elrond perceived only confusion on the faces of his guests he drew breath.  His voice was quiet and yet it seemed to fill every corner of the room.

 

“Three rings for the elven-kings under the sky,

Seven for the dwarf-lords in their halls of stone,

Nine for Mortal Men, doomed to die,

One ring for the Dark Lord on his dark throne

In the Land of Mordor, where the Shadows lie.

 

One ring to rule them all, One ring to find them,

One ring to bring them all and in the darkness bind them

In the Land of Mordor, where the Shadows lie.”

 

 For a moment the words seemed to reverberate chillingly but as soon as the echo’s faded Peregrin gave a nonchalant shrug of his shoulders.  “Oh, that. It’s about the Ring Frodo is carrying, isn’t it? Sam mentioned something about it and Strider told us a little. But why are the Dark Riders looking for Bilbo’s old ring?”  

 Meriadoc dug his cousin in the ribs and Arwen suspected he understood much more than his younger cousin.

  Elrond met his daughter’s gaze and Arwen once again noted the weariness there.  She took pity and stepped in. “The rings spoken of are rings of power, forged by our people long ago.  The three rings were hidden from Sauron, indeed they are still hidden. Of the seven given to the dwarf lords only three remain to my knowledge.  Mithrandir maintains that the others were consumed by dragons. Nine others the Dark Lord, Sauron, gave to mortal kings. They used them over much to gain ever more power until they were ensnared to Sauron’s will.  Sauron it is who owns the One Ring and all but the three are bound to it. Any mortal who possesses a ring of power becomes possessed by the Dark Lord in turn. And so, your nine black riders are all that remain of the nine mortal kings.”  Arwen paused there, for she could see that Peregrin at least was beginning to tremble.

 Elrond was apparently in no mood for subtlety, weary as he was.  “They are the Ringwraiths. They no longer hold full physical form, having become trapped between the physical and the shadow world.  And the weapons they carry are, like them, not fully of this realm. They can be touched and they can cause harm and the wounds they deal affect both body and spirit.   Such a blade has struck your Frodo.”

 By now Meriadoc had his arm about his cousin and a tear was leaving a clear track in the grime of Peregrine’s face.  But Arwen marvelled at the way in which Master Brandybuck still held his ground. “So, can you heal Frodo? Strider said you could.”

 Elrond sighed.   “I have some skill in treating these kinds of wound, yes.  Frodo is sleeping and is safe for the moment. Before I continue, however, I must take some rest myself.  I suggest you do the same. Evil is at its weakest in the light so that is when we have the best chance of overcoming it.  There is nothing more to be done before sunrise.”

 The sag in her father’s posture would be invisible to mortal eyes but Arwen could see him lean a little more deeply into the mantel and her heart went out to him.  She had not seen Adar so weary since before her mother sailed West. Arwen suspected that he had already made some attempt to heal Frodo and it was worrying to her that he had obviously not succeeded.

 “What happens if you can’t heal him?”  Merry asked the one question Arwen knew Elrond would be unwilling to answer.  

 But, as always, her father was honest in his reply.  “If he is overcome he will become a wraith, like those who wounded him.  But he has not their strength so he will be in thrall to them. He will attempt to deliver the Ring to them.” 

Meriadoc was persistent.  “And you can’t let that happen, can you?  You’ll stop him leaving.”

  Arwen felt her father’s sadness.  “I will do all that is within my power to prevent Frodo from being overcome.  But if a choice must be made I hope you will understand when I say that I will prevent him from leaving.”

 “With or without the Ring?”  Meriadoc pressed again.

 Peregrin was watching the exchange in some confusion but said nothing; no doubt preferring to let his older cousin do all the talking at present.  Arwen suspected Meriadoc would be thoroughly quizzed by the youngster later.

 “With, or without the Ring and by any means necessary,” her father replied firmly.

 For a moment Arwen thought that Meriadoc would protest but to her continuing admiration he only nodded, grimly.

  The younger Peregrine’s voice quavered.  “But will he be alright until morning? If it’s stronger at night will he survive until then?”

 Elrond lowered himself to one knee, smiling as he reached out to lay a hand on the shoulder of each.  “There is power within this valley to hold off the shadow for a time. Frodo is safe this night and so are you.  I suggest that you bathe and rest, as I am about to do.”

 Arwen felt the tiniest tendril of power imparted from her father to each through his touch.   By the time he rose their faces were calmer and Peregrin had stopped shaking.

 “Thank you for taking time to speak with us, sir.”  Meriadoc straightened. “I’m sorry if I seemed a bit rude at first but it’s our way to speak plainly.  And I am very worried about my cousin.”

 “You have nought to apologise for Master Brandybuck.   Were it my cousin I would be just as plain speaking,” her father replied as he turned for the door.

 “It’s Merry and Pippin, sir.  We’re not much on formality in the Shire,” Merry called.  

And to Arwen’s surprise her father turned to reply, “So I recall.  And you may address me as Elrond, if you wish.”

 And she was left alone with two weary and bedraggled hobbits once more.  Arwen supposed she had better send for baths and blankets.