Fellowship & Fairydust

By Vanessa Parry (alias Elwen)

Word Count: 1136

Rating: G

Summary: Elrond checks on Frodo, making sure that he has begun to heal from the Morgul blade.

Bidding goodnight to Bilbo, Frodo had allowed Sam to escort him back to the comfort of his room, wishing him pleasant dreams at the door. Alone once more, Frodo leaned back, feeling the intricately carved wood of the closed door pressing into his spine. It was uncomfortable and yet comforting at the same time. The pressure tied him to his body in a way that the icy chill of the past two weeks had not. That pain had sought to separate him from the world, whilst this supported and made him very much aware of his surroundings.
 
He let his eyes sweep the room, having the leisure to do so for the first time since he had awoken. He had been too weary the first time he awoke . . . too eager for news . . . and the second awakening had brought only time to bathe and dress before Sam collected him for the feast.
 
A fire had been lit in the grate and the covers on his bed were smoothed, the pillows fluffed and ready to cradle his drowsy head. Frodo released the firm comfort of the door and crossed the room, shrugging out of his new clothes and climbing gratefully between soft sheets and warm blankets. Once there, however, he found his body curiously reluctant to surrender to sleep.
 
So much had happened in the past few hours. He had awoken from chill nightmare to sunshine and warmth. Gandalf had been waiting at his bedside . . . Gandalf that he had so feared he would never see again . . . whole and well. Then he had learned of Saruman’s treachery and, for a while the shadows had crowded in about him again. The exhausted sleep that he had drifted into had been a release from his renewed worries. Then there had been the wonderful re-union with his cousins and Sam, the feast, singing and finally . . . Bilbo.
 
Stretching, Frodo winced as his left shoulder protested . . . a reminder that life would never be the same again. He was still bound to the Ring and the cool silver of the chain about his neck gave small comfort from the smooth circle of gold that seemed to lie too hot against his chest.
 
Tomorrow there would be a Council to determine the fate of the enemy’s ring and Frodo was not altogether sure what that fate would be, or whether he would have any further part to play in it. A corner of his heart wanted to be rid of the accursed thing, but yet another was not sure that he would be able to give it up if asked. He thought back to the moment that Gandalf had thrown the Ring into the fire at Bag End. He had almost reached into the flames to rescue it.
 
Frodo tried to roll onto his left side, hissing and easing onto his back again as the added pressure brought another sting of pain. The room was limed with pale moonlight, bathed in warm firelight. The sound of rushing water was calming and the smell of fresh linens a balm . . . but still he could not sleep. There was a faint click and Frodo sat up in surprise as the door to his room slid slowly open.
 
“Lord Elrond? I am sorry . . . did you want to speak to me again? Sam suggested that I return to my bed and I thought . . .”
 
The tall elf waved him to silence as he glided silently to Frodo’s bedside and firm but gentle hands eased him back into pillows, tucking the covers about him. Taking a small vial from within his fine silk robes, Elrond placed it upon a table and settled himself upon the edge of the mattress . . . his weight causing no shift in its substance.
 
“Peace, Frodo. I merely wished to ensure that you were comfortable. You have had a busy evening and you need rest. How does your shoulder feel now?”
 
Unwilling to place any further burden upon his gracious host, Frodo smiled. “It is much better. I thank you for healing me and for being so kind.”
 
The finely arched brows of the Lord of Imladris drew into a slight frown, however and keen eyes, glinting silver in the moonlight, moved to find the fine white line on Frodo’s left shoulder. One pale hand, the fingers elegantly long but yet strong, probed lightly along the scar and Frodo drew in a sharp breath as the healer found the remaining point of pain, unerringly.
 
“Better . . . but not yet well, I think,” Elrond murmured, his eyes slipping up to Frodo’s face and engaging the bright blue orbs.
 
Frodo blinked, pulling his gaze away from those ancient pools of starlight. “I am sure I will feel better after a good night’s sleep.”
 
Elrond reached for the vial and removed the stopper. “And that is what you were doing when I arrived, is it? Sleeping?”
 
The hobbit watched as Elrond poured a few drops of oil into his hand and then rubbed his palms together . . . releasing the exquisitely sharp scent of lavender. Frodo relaxed, the perfume drawing him back to heady summer childhood days in the Shire. Days when the only worry he had in his head was whether he would be home in time for tea.
 
“I think, perhaps, that your body is tired but that your mind still races with the anxiety of your journey and the excitement of today’s events.” Warm hands came to rest upon Frodo’s shoulder and practised fingers kneaded gently at knotted muscles.
 
Frodo drew a deep breath and allowed some of the tension to seep away with his exhalation. The healer’s fingers slid smoothly up and down the length of his arm, bringing gentle relief to chilled flesh and coaxing a comfortable sigh from Frodo’s lips. As fingers eased tense sinew, so the warm scent of lavender eased his mind and Frodo let heavy eyelids slide shut as he buried deeper into the cradle of pillows and soft mattress.
 
Barely stifling a yawn, Frodo tried to express his thanks through lips that no longer seemed willing to co-operate. “You have done . . . you . . . done . . . so much . . .” His words faded to a soft slur.
 
“I have done no more than you deserve. Take comfort in tonight and leave the worries of tomorrow and the pain of yesterday to tend to themselves.”
 
Frodo was only vaguely aware of the covers being tucked under his chin and of a gentle hand brushing his brow as he sank into a deep and comfortable sleep. Elrond’s whisper blended with the rush of the many falls beyond the window until it seemed the whole valley was urging Frodo . . .
 
“Sleep, Little One, and may the Valar thread your dreams with starlight this night.”