Chapter 4: A Race Against Time

The fullness of the night arrived at long last to oust the remaining visages of daylight from the skies over the beautiful valley of Rivendell. The full moon sitting high was generous with her light and all the leaves of the trees, both great and small, shimmered with a silvery hue. The Last Homely House east of the Sea was once again alight with the glow of torches and candles. The gentle sound of the great waterfall flowing put forth its soothing tune and, every once and again, the sounds from harp or voice raised in song could be heard. As the slow hours passed and one blended into the other, Sam had waxed restless and he chafed at his inability to help his master recover. Gandalf, seeing the toll that the endless hours of waiting had exacted from Sam, had sought to ease him by dispatching him on errands of various kinds and urgency. On one such errand, Sam had been tasked to accompany two Elves to Bilbo's room for the purpose of fetching Bilbo's more comfortable couch. Though the sorrowful days had been hard enough on Sam, they had been even harder on poor old Bilbo. He had pushed himself to go without proper rest and food, and Gandalf feared that the old hobbit would take ill as well. He now lay upon the couch, sound asleep, but still close to Frodo.

Gandalf was sitting by the open window in Frodo's room. By the light of the moon his long hair and flowing beard shone like a kingly crown about his head. The wizard's aged but keen eyes were closed, but not in sleep. He was taking counsel with himself and his thoughts were far removed from the confines of the little room in the Lord of Rivendell's house. His great mind recalled many things from past ages: some terrible, and some fair. It could be said that the wisdom of Gandalf the Grey had given counsel to many fools and kings alike, but at this moment, he had none for himself, and he was not consoled. All his wisdom had told him concerning Frodo's fate was that time was running out for the Ringbearer. In truth, Gandalf no longer sorrowed with thoughts that the hobbit of whom he was so fond would die. Rather, his chief source of anguish came from the knowledge that the unfound shard from the Morgul blade would inevitably pierce Frodo's heart, thus permitting the Dark Lord to claim Frodo as his tormented slave forever. In any event, either fate had worsted those who fought for freedom, or fortune had abandoned them.

Still, Gandalf did not forsee the doom of Middle Earth. The enemy did not possess the Ring of Power, for when Frodo was first brought to Rivendell, his hand had remained firmly clenched about The Ring in desperate defiance of the Ringwraiths. It was only the softly spoken words of Elrond whispered in Frodo's ear that caused his hand to relax its hold upon the Ring. Gandalf, having long ago deemed his own wizard's strength insufficient to withstand the Ring's malevolency, refused to take the Ring from Frodo and into his safekeeping. Lord Elrond, as all Elven-wise did, also despised to touch the Ring, and so he had bidden Strider, Ranger of the North and of Númenorean blood to take it and deliver it to the Elven smithies. By Elrond's command, the smithies had forged a chain from which to hang the Ring and, even before the tentacles of dawn began to creep across the sky of that first morning in Rivendell, Strider had returned with both chain and Ring. He had gently hung the slim, but sturdy chain about Frodo's neck and, after briefly conversing with Gandalf and Elrond, the taciturn ranger had passed swift and unnoticed from Rivendell to attend once again to other urgent matters.

It was the sound of softly spoken words that penetrated Gandalf's thoughts and brought his attention back to the little room in the far corner of Elrond's house. Though barely audible to mortal ears, the voice was familiar and well-known to Gandalf; it was Frodo's. Sometime during the night Frodo's body had ceased to shake from the dreadful cold that had laid hold of it. He now lay terribly still as one who had, after a long struggle, spent all his strength and waited to accept his fate. His eyes were unnaturally wide and staring vacantly. The soft, translucent light about him was stronger than ever. At that moment, Frodo was further from life and closer to death than he had ever been. For a moment, Gandalf stood looking across the room at the figure upon the bed. He sighed heavily and then he moved his chair closer to the bedside. Gandalf took the hobbit gently by the hand though he knew in his heart that he was beyond the reach of any comfort he could give him. Yet he did not cease from trying as he laid his other hand upon Frodo's brow.

Frodo was speaking in his sleep, deep in a heavy delirium. Gandalf's heart was wholly wrung with pity at his friend's suffering, and he bent all his will to catch the frantically whispered words from the dying hobbit. Frodo was speaking of his dangerous journey from the time of his departure up to the encounter with the deadly Barrow-wights, but his speech came from an agonized place of mixed memories with real and present torment. It made his accounts confused and blended with snatches of things that, even from the depths of his wisdom, Gandalf could not fathom.

The long night finally renounced its reign, and the dawn tentatively encroached upon the sky. But it seemed to many of the fair folk of Elrond's house that the splendor and beauty of Rivendell seemed strangely dulled, as if failing. The sun hid from view and the trees appeared to cast misshapen shadows of chill on the ground. Even the dew seemed reluctant to shimmer like gossamer upon the leaves as it usually did at this time. Some wondered if the shadow of the black land had crept into the valley undetected, like some cunning beast of stealth and malice. There were whispers about the stricken hobbit who had arrived at Rivendell through such extreme perils. It was seventeen days ago that Frodo had been wounded on the dell under Weathertop. Three nights and two days had passed since the Elves had picked him up and carried him to safety within the confines of Rivendell. Though utterly lost in the terrifying grip of his illness, Frodo was not alone. Though he did not know it, all those days and nights he had lain in the room in the Last Homely House, striving against the power that sought to break and enslave him, Gandalf, Sam and Bilbo had remained by his side, comforting and encouraging him with soft voices and tender hands. The steadfast friends by his side had borne one another's burdens as well to keep their hearts from despairing utterly, and the thoughts of Merry and Pippin were ever turned towards him.

The Lord Elrond now stood by the bed looking thoughtfully down upon his charge. His ageless eyes looked far and deep, and none but Gandalf knew that beneath the calm expression lay Elrond's sorrowful memories of many beloved Elven-warriors whose lights had long ago been extinguished from mortal wounds received in battle. Elrond thought of his two mighty sons, Elladan and Elrohir, who were abroad and all that he had taught them from his wisdom in the lore and art of healing. Elrond was silently grim as he tended Frodo without rest -- and now, almost without hope. For all his skills in healing, his efforts to find the deadly splinter of the Nazgûl's blade thus far had proved fruitless and he was sorely grieved. He was troubled, for it seemed to him that there were only two fates now racing against each other to see which would be the first to claim Frodo: either death in its finality, or eternal torment as a wraith under the dominion of the Dark Lord. Elrond's eyes now betrayed his thoughts and, sighing heavily, he lifted his head. His eyes met Gandalf's, and the gaze that held the wizard's eyes was at once grave and venerable.

He will soon be but a memory -- is that not so, Elrond? Gandalf asked without speaking.

"It may be so, and yet...." Elrond said aloud. "Behold," he said and, as he spoke, he pointed to place on the upper part of Frodo's left breast. "There is a mark upon his flesh that was never there before," he said with certainty. Gandalf started, and his hand gripped his staff tightly; for on Frodo's flesh there appeared to be a small mark of reddish hue, thin and faintly glowing. "There may be something to this mark. Verily have I labored long to find the remedy that will command the splinter to show itself, and only time will reveal if my skills have proved sufficient to worst the enemy's foul weapon," said Elrond.

"It is not skills you lack but time, Master Healer," said Gandalf, and not for the last time did he bitterly reproach himself for having been delayed by the trickery of the wizard Saruman.

After a time, Elrond departed to retrieve once more the hilt carven with evil runes. By now Sam had returned from accomplishing his latest errands. Bilbo, too, had awakened, and he now sat upright in a chair by the bed. Sam resumed his place beside Frodo and, taking his cold hand in his, he looked with anxious eyes at Gandalf.

"There is still hope, Samwise Gamgee… however faint, there remains some measure of hope for him," said Gandalf quietly.

"What is this hope you speak of, Gandalf?" demanded Bilbo, not trusting that he had heard Gandalf correctly.

"The weapons of our enemies are treacherous indeed for they are empowered from within to bring an evil, aside from that which their wielders can inflict," said Gandalf. "Yet the Lord Elrond is a mighty foe to be feared. He may yet have found a way for the splinter to betray itself in time for him to remove it." Gandalf stood up, and then with a gentle motion he pulled back the covers exposing Frodo's shoulder, arm and side. "Look," he said pointing.

The hobbits gasped and even the eyes of Gandalf flashed brightly at what they beheld. The mark that had but hours before appeared small and of no discernable pattern or direction, had lengthened and deepened in hue and intensity of glow. It was now a spidery-thin streak that was clearly moving in a direction down Frodo's shoulder, across his breast and towards his heart.

Sam's heart leapt within as if a fire had been rekindled deep inside. "But what do you make of that Mr. Gandalf sir?" he asked excitedly.

"Even Lord Elrond cannot be certain," said Gandalf half musing to himself under hooded eyes. "It may be… yes, it may be that Elrond's skills have caused the splinter to betray itself." He did not add: But whether or not the Ringbearer's strength is sufficient to endure its removal is a matter that even Elrond cannot foretell.

"Then Elrond must remove it at once, Gandalf!" said Bilbo impatiently. Bilbo's keen mind had guessed at what Gandalf had not voiced aloud.