KNIFE IN THE DARK
A log settled in the hearth, sending up a shower of sparks and jolting Bilbo out of his doze. The ancient hobbit looked about to check if anyone had noticed that he had nodded off and both Sam and Elrond made sure to concentrate upon Frodo's face for a moment, Elrond making a show of checking the pulse in one slim wrist. When he was sure that Bilbo was settled once more the elf rose and crossed to the hearth, adding a fresh log to the tiny blaze. For a moment the flames captivated him.
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The Hall of Fire was quiet, as it had been for many weeks, and Elrond had come here to find peace for reflection. The One Ring was on the move and with each tiny footstep destiny drew closer.
Even when the hall was not in use a fire blazed here and the Lord of Imladris pulled a cushion from one of the benches lining the walls and threw it on the floor, settling himself to stare into the flames. A small smile quirked at the corners of his lips as he considered what anyone would think, finding their Lord so seated. It mattered not to him tonight. He felt the need of warmth and the soothing distraction of the flames. There was a growing unease in him that had nagged at the corners of his mind all day and with the gathering of dusk it had grown. Like all of his kind, he loved the night and drew strength from the starlight but this evening it did not bring comfort . . . only an increase in his disquiet; prescience bringing an irritation to his spirit that would not let him rest.
The soft plop of a cushion landing on the stone flags at his side and the whisper of silk announced the arrival of his daughter. She settled wordlessly next to him, lifting his arm so that she could lean against his side, and he wrapped it about her, pulling Arwen close so that her cheek rested upon his shoulder. Like her mother, she seemed to know when he was troubled. That much, at least, she had inherited from Celebrian.
"You are troubled, Adar." It was a statement, not a question. "It is the Ring, is it not?"
He glanced down at her. "How? Never mind. Elrohir never could keep anything from you when you pressed." He felt her answering laugh.
Elrond continued gazing into the fire, his hand unconsciously stroking up and down his daughter's arm. "Yes, child." He paused and Arwen wondered if he would continue. Then she heard his soft voice above her. "So many threads converge that they have become a tangled skein and I cannot see which one to pull to straighten matters out."
Arwen considered the embroidered hem of her sleeve. "Sometimes the threads can only be undone by loosening the knot so that it can be spread out and all the loops displayed. Perhaps Lord Elrond of Imladris needs the council of others in this matter so that all sides can be considered," she offered, thoughtfully. She felt a kiss brush the crown of her hair.
"Perhaps."
They sat, thus, for some time . . . father and daughter. Considering the threads of their separate fates as they stared into the flames. Then the disquiet that Elrond had felt all day began to grow. Something was about to happen . . . something that would tear the threads asunder, never to be repaired.
He straightened, pushing Arwen gently away as he rose, knowing that his mind was about to be assaulted by unsought for vision. She looked up in confusion at his unannounced departure and her eyes widened in understanding as her father's grey eyes darkened and he halted in mid stride, his face blank as he stared off into some dreamscape where she could not follow.
Terror . . . longing . . . Ring looming . . . Warm metal on left forefinger . . . horror . . . five pale figures . . . merciless eyes burning . . . white faces . . . grand robes trailing in decaying tatters . . . tall crowns tarnished . . . sharp blades gleaming in gloved fists.
(Your sword. Defend yourself.)
Unfamiliar worn hilt in small hand . . . one figure advancing . . . knife glowing with pale light . . . suddenly bearing down.
(Down, child! A Elbereth! Gilthoniel! Strike, Frodo!)
Too late he falls . . . blade striking robe . . . Agony . . . ice white flame in his shoulder . . . falling . . . shadowed figure waving fire . . . pale figure fleeing.
(Take off the Ring. Take it off!)
Small fingers tugging . . . vision failing . . . fading . . . fading.
Elrond's anguished howl of agony brought others running, in time to see him fold to the floor, right hand clutching his left shoulder as grey orbs rolled upwards and dark lashed lids fluttered shut.
o0o
He brought his eyes into focus on the dark beamed ceiling of his bedroom, aware of a missing passage of time. For some moments he took inventory of his body. His shoes had been removed and his outer robes. His shirt was unbuttoned . . . they had probably checked for injury to his left shoulder. They would have found none, although the flesh still held memory of the agony and when he struggled to sit up Elrond favoured it.
As soon as he made to rise Arwen rushed to help, sliding pillows behind him. When she made to fuss further however, tucking the covers closer, he waved her away.
"I am recovered, child. Do not fret. It has passed."
His daughter pulled away, her face still anxious, and Elrond relented . . .reaching out an arm and gathering her in when she threw herself at his chest. His collapse must have been quite frightening for her. For several minutes he held her, rocking gently and stroking her hair until her silent tears subsided. Finally, she drew back, settling on the bedside and he brushed the tears from her face with his fingers.
Elrond looked up as the door to his bedchamber opened and his sons slipped in, their concerned faces turning to relief when they saw their father sitting up, apparently unharmed. They moved to stand sentinel at the foot of his bed.
"We thought the enemy had found some way to reach you," Elrohir admitted, quietly.
"Not I. It is not I they have reached," Elrond replied, sadly.
Elladan's shoulders fell. "He has taken the Ring, then."
His father rushed to refute the assumption. "No. It is not in His grasp yet. But it was so nearly. No. We have been saved by a little hobbit's strength of will and Estel's quick thinking." Elrond's brow furrowed. "Although where Gandalf is in all of this I do not know."
"What happened?" Elladan asked, moving to sit on the foot of the bed, behind his sister.
Elrond strung the beads of scattered images together. "The Nine . . . or at least some of them, came upon Frodo in the wild. They willed him to put on the Ring and when he was in their world they wounded him. He resisted as best he could and I do not think that the wound was mortal." Elrond's hand drifted to his left shoulder, shivering as a cold chill ran through him, although he knew his own flesh had taken no harm. "Although how long he will be able to resist its poison I cannot tell."
Elrohir moved to stand behind his brother, his hands gripping Elladan's shoulders so hard that the twin winced. "Then we must send out riders to help them."
Elrond's answer was immediate. "Yes. But we must consider our course carefully. I raised none of my children to be fools, not least Estel. He will take them on routes less travelled and less well known and we must check them all. There are also only a few of our people who are able to stand against the Nine and they are not all gathered here yet."
Elladan nodded. "Glorfindel has not yet returned at least."
When Elrohir made to protest the Lord of Imladris fixed him with his keen gaze. "I will not go into this without proper planning. Much is at stake and we have a great deal of land to cover with few riders."
His impetuous son would not be put off, however. "What if they come upon them again. Surely they will not withstand a second assault."
When he saw his daughter blanch Elrond reached out to lay a hand upon hers before replying.
"Indeed they will not. Which is why Estel will try to hide. And we all know that he is very good at that. I seem to remember that he has given you two the slip on more than one occasion."
Despite the situation, Elrohir grinned. "He learned long ago that he was no match for an elf when it came to fighting and that hiding was his best option."
Once more, Elrond paused to consider that piece of information about his foster son's childhood. Most of Estel's battle training had been undertaken by his foster brothers and this particular titbit had not slipped out before. But there was the suspicion of a twinkle in his eye as he noted, "It is to be hoped, then, that he remembers that lesson well."
