I do not own The Lord of the Rings or any of the characters

This is quite a short chapter, but the next one will be longer. Thank you to everyone for the reviews, they are very much appreciated.

Chapter 8

Gandalf had always admired Rivendell, perhaps more than anywhere else in the whole of the Middle-Earth. What he liked most was the tranquility, the way that he could escape any problem by just standing beneath the trees and closing his eyes against the world.

As the old wizard cast his gaze out over the horizon, he saw that the sky that had been so black only an hour before was beginning to lift into the palest grey, tinted with the slightest smudge of pink where the sky met the mountain peaks, far off in the distance.

Gandalf sighed deeply as dawn began to flood the middle earth, delicately touching the highest leaves of the trees and glancing off the swirling river. He was weary and for once in his life, he felt frail and weak. He would have liked to have seen it to the end with Frodo, but he knew now that it wasn't possible. His time had come when they had left for the Grey Havens, and he shouldn't have left the ship. For Frodo it had been fate, for himself, just a quick decision based on his fondness of the hobbit.

The wizard slowly walked back into his chambers that Elrond had arranged for him, and sat down heavily in the beautifully carved rocking chair that sat at his bedside. His eyes, crinkled around the edges with lines of age, fluttered lightly shut. He knew that Aragorn had been convinced and that Frodo would go to Mordor. He could at last rest peacefully without need for worry.

For the last time, Gandalf let his mind drift to sleep, feeling contented as the first light of the early summer morning began to find its way into the room...

***

For a reason unknown to him, Frodo woke early the next morning, before dawn had fully broken and the sky was still fairly dark, as if in a fog.

As he had expected, his head was throbbing from his fall and he moved carefully as he walked to his balcony, relieved that the room was no longer spinning.

The hobbit looked out over Rivendell in a respectful awe, taking in every last inch of its beauty. Despite his headache, he was feeling better that morning than he had in a long time. He was still fearing the journey to Mordor, but he reminded himself that Gandalf was his oldest friend, and he had always been right about everything, as far as Frodo could remember. If returning to Mordor was what Gandalf wished of him, then he would go, and if it meant that Smeágol would be killed and the ring finally destroyed, he knew that it was his duty to go.

It suddenly seemed urgent to Frodo that Gandalf must know his discussion right away, even if this meant rousing the wizard so early in the morning.

Frodo pulled on his battered clothes and hastily made his bed, before leaving the room and setting off down the stone steps to Gandalf's room.

Sunlight was just beginning to filter into the courtyard that separated Frodo's room from Gandalf's, and Frodo could make out the blossom trees that were in full bloom, the branches showered with pink and white flowers, like jewelled rings on a finger. Their petals covered the stone floor beneath Frodo's feet like a grand carpet.

Frodo ventured through the archway into a narrow stone corridor lined with windows and heavy wooden doors. He passed several doors until he came to the correct one, and gently he knocked, feeling some stray blossom petal that had been swept in by the wind under his feet. When he heard no reply, Frodo knocked again, slightly louder this time, before slowly opening the door. It creaked on its hinges, but there was still no sound of stirring from within the room.

"Gandalf?" He asked quietly, "Are you awake?"

When no answer was given, Frodo closed the door behind him in puzzlement and looked around the room. It was fairly large, larger than his own, with an oak bed in the centre. Several shelves of books lined the walls and a small writing desk sat in one corner, covered in parchment and pots of ink. The light seeped in from the balcony at the far end of the room, and in the shadow beside the bed, Frodo could make out a figure sitting motionless in a large, beautifully carved rocking chair.

"Gandalf!" Frodo said, his voice louder this time as he approached the wizard. He reached out cautiously and gently shook the wizard's shoulder, but he made no movement. A silent dread began to creep through Frodo's body, as if ice was freezing his insides. It crept through his chest and froze around his heart, which still managed to beat wildly. Frodo shook Gandalf's shoulder perpetually, telling himself that the wizard was simply sleeping, and that he would wake up in a moment and everything would be all right again...

But Gandalf did not wake, and as a slow realisation dawned on the hobbit, the ice inside of him melted and warm tears began to slide down his cheeks.

Heavily and in disbelief, Frodo sank down slowly onto the bed, shaking uncontrollably from sadness and anger. He looked through the archway out onto the balcony. Everything was smudged and blurred, disfigured by his tears, and he was reminded of how things had appeared when he had put on the ring. Just thinking of it sent fear churning in his stomach and he felt the uncontrollable pull of the ring on him once more, worse than it had ever been, and he knew that he was lost, and his fate would be to die as Gandalf had. And there, alone in the eerily silent room beside the dead body of one of his oldest friends, Frodo felt afraid.

***

"Think, Samwise," The hobbit muttered to himself frustratedly as he stood in his room, his arms folded and his eyes raised to the ceiling as he thought. On the bed lay a small open satchel, the contents spilling onto the blankets. There were several lembas, a flask of water and a cake of soap, wrapped carefully in a large leaf. Sam observed his belongings, searching his brain to make sure that he had not forgotten anything. He suddenly remembered, went to the table beside his bed and picked up his best pipe and a small pouch filled with some of his finest weed. He slipped these into the satchel, and finally contented he slung the bag over his shoulder and picked up his stick that was leaning against the wall beside the door. With a deep sigh he gave one final look around the room that he had called home for the past few weeks, and then hurried through the door, anxious to be gone before anyone was awake. If he was going to attempt to save his Master, he knew that it must be done properly.

Next chapter up soon