CHAPTER 7 – Evenstar
Those with an eye to story construction will guess that this chapter is based upon a role-play between Elwen and Frodo Baggins of Bag End.
The bright orange disk of the evening sun had dipped beyond the distant horizon ahead of the ship some hours before and they no longer sailed upon its glittering copper highway.
Ithil rose and made his majestic way across the blue velvet canopy of night, scattering stars in his wake. One star, Earendil, most beloved of all the elves, glowed brightest and its light was reflected in the eyes of the travellers gathered upon the deck.
The night was peaceful, but not silent, for to elven ears, a symphony was being woven. The flutter and crack of canvas sail was underscored by the steady creak of straining ropes and the soft groan of wood. A gentle breeze sighed through the rigging and the splash and hiss of the waves against the prow set a delicate rhythm to the opus. In and about this framework the elves wove their melodies, sometimes in solo or duet and at others in chorus until the ancient wizard sitting in the bow was swept up in dreams of crystal-strewn beaches and many glad reunions.
Bilbo had bid their hosts' goodnight some time ago and was sleeping peacefully in his bunk. The Lady Galadriel was sitting with Frodo for the moment, having relieved Elrond some hours before, giving him instructions to go and eat. He had spent many hours with the little Ringbearer, supporting him with his strength and holding him to this world, but even elven strength fails eventually and he had bowed to the urgings of his wife's mother, knowing that he left Frodo in safe hands.
As he stole down the narrow passageway Elrond could still hear the crystal sound of his companion's voices lifted in song and he smiled as Bilbo's snores rose in ragged counterpoint from a cabin to his left. But, from behind the door at the end of the hallway, there came no sound.
With ease born of many years tending sick rooms, and lightness that only an elf could have commanded, Elrond entered and crossed to Frodo's bedside. Even in the golden glow of the single candle, burning on the nightstand, the hobbit's face was pale. In an elf, the complexion would not be remarkable but in a hobbit it was worrying, for this was not the pale glow of elven grace but pallor born of great weariness and pain.
For a fleeting moment the healer's memory recalled the many mortal faces he had watched turn pale and still before him, down the ages of his life and a great sadness filled his heart. Yet, even with the damage inflicted by the Ring, Elrond could see a steady glimmer of light within the hobbit's soul. It faltered, like the guttering flame of the candle at his side, but it glowed faintly, still.
Galadriel rose from her seat at the bedside and motioned for Elrond to take her place.
"I believe he is awakening. He seems to have steadied at last." Even as she spoke the dark eyebrows of their patient gathered and his eyelashes fluttered, the tiny body stirring beneath the covers.
To Frodo it was like awakening from a nightmare of drowning to find himself washed up upon a peaceful, sun drenched beach. He was drained but the cessation of strife brought a relief in itself. He could feel a soft mattress beneath his aching body and feather pillows cradled his head. Light but warm blankets were tucked about him and he seemed to be rocking gently, as though lulled in a cradle . . . the sensation supported by the sound of beautiful voices raised in song somewhere nearby. Gradually, he became aware of other voices, familiar and closer, and tried to open his eyes.
Galadriel slipped from the cabin as Elrond seated himself and watched Frodo's blue eyes drift slowly open. The hobbit groaned when he saw the strange surroundings.
"How long?"
"Two days."
Frodo struggled to sit up and, gathering extra cushions, Elrond added their bulk to the pillows already upon the bed and eased Frodo back into their soft support.
The healer stepped back, once more, and tried to assess his patient. The thick, chestnut curls were damp with perspiration and one tiny maimed hand still clutched inadequately at Arwen's gem on its silver chain about his neck. Elrond had not failed to notice the way Frodo favoured his left shoulder as he tried to rise and the blue eyes were bright with fever. A fine sheen of perspiration showed at his neck and brow and yet, when Elrond had helped him sit, he had noticed a chill to Frodo's skin, particularly in the left hand.
All these things the healer registered almost within the blink of an eye but, in case there was ought he missed, he asked, "I can see that you are in some discomfort." He touched fingers to the hobbit's forehead and wrist, finding a pulse too rapid and uneven. "Is the old wound troubling you?"
Frodo relaxed a little at the familiar feather touch and looked up at the elf, trustingly but the eyes that met Elrond's were changed. Even after Weathertop there had been some return to the merry hobbit that had lived in the Shire but his subsequent journey had changed their sunny depths. To Elrond it seemed that, although still clear blue and vividly expressive, they were now sorrowful and haunted.
"Actually, I feel much better than I was." He tried to move and grimaced. "But yes, my shoulder does hurt a little." He closed his eyes, the simple act of talking drawing more energy than it should. The care given by Elrond and Galadriel, added to the rest in a proper bed, had worked a miracle and Frodo seemed much recovered but he would never be fully healed, unless he were brought safely to the Undying Lands.
Perhaps there, Frodo would find healing but for the moment, the task of ensuring that he reached those shores, still fell to Elrond. He would have to support the Ringbearer as best he could and, for the first time in many centuries, the elven lord did not feel equal to the task.
"Will you let me see the shoulder?"
Frodo nodded weakly and opened his eyes, releasing his grip on the covers and allowing Elrond access to the affected area. "It is only a tiny scar now, of course. I would not have thought it would still hurt so, but then I found it did…sometimes. It grows worse at this time of the year."
With the tenderest of care, Elrond unfastened the pearl buttons of Frodo's nightshirt and slipped back the soft fabric to expose the scar. The mark was indeed small and white, the original knife scar overlaid with more, made by the healer when the young hobbit was brought to him from Weathertop (was it such a short time ago?). The shard of the Morgul blade had been difficult to locate and Elrond had been glad that Frodo had been unconscious throughout the lengthy surgery.
Frodo had reacted violently at Elrond's first touch that night, his tiny body arching off the bed in agony. Brushing the scar now, with tentative fingers, the healer watched for a similar reaction. Although he found Elrond's touch soothing, the cool fingers seeming to bring their own healing, the Ringbearer's shoulder was so sensitive that even the gentlest of touch increased the pain. A soft cry escaped his lips, although he did look up at Elrond, apologetically, and then he seemed to relax a little.
"Forgive me. It hurt so . . . at first . . . though it does feel . . . a little better now."
Having been given permission, the healer laid his fingers a little more firmly upon the fine network of scars. He closed his eyes but his strength was still at a low ebb. He lifted his head and offered a silent prayer to Elbereth for help.
Suddenly, upon the deck above them the music swelled. With a thrill of joy Elrond sent a silent "thank you" to his companions and once more drew upon the offered strength, weaving it with his own healing song and feeding it to the small frame beneath his hand.
Slowly the miniature patient relaxed, the infusion of strength and reassurance soothing his troubled spirit and easing the intense pain running through his body. Gradually he began to breathe more easily, the shivering easing a little. It remained clear, however, that this would only serve as an assuagement to help him bear the illness until stronger hands could heal him.
The song faded and Elrond was alone within himself once more, but at least when he opened his grey eyes they were met by the sight of a less fragile Ringbearer.
Ringbearer…
It was strange that, although the Ring was gone, Frodo was still the Ringbearer in Elrond's mind. Perhaps it was because Frodo still bore the marks of it upon his body and spirit.
Smiling, the elf arose. "Let me see if I can make you a little more comfortable."
Opening his herbal and withdrawing a small vial he poured a few drops into a basin of water, wrung out a cloth and, collecting a towel, returned to the bed.
The scent of lavender hung on the air, blending with the salt tang from the open porthole, and Frodo inhaled deeply, coughing slightly. Elrond remembered that lavender had been something that had soothed the hobbit in the days he had been recovering in Rivendell and Frodo had confided later that the perfume had been a favourite of his mothers.
Drawing aside the nightshirt, Elrond began to lave the small chest and neck, wiping away the sticky perspiration. As he worked, the elf's eyes lit upon the jewel at Frodo's neck and his mind returned to the face of she who had worn it last . . . his little girl, Arwen . . . now a grown lady who had chosen a life of her own; a life far from her kin. Elrond would never see that gentle face again.
His fingers brushed the gem but he could sense no memory of her in its crystal heart, now that they were far beyond the confines of Middle-earth, where it had been wrought. Elrond had only memories of a laughing child, kicking up leaves in an autumn wood, a beautiful maiden in wedding finery, love shining bright in her eyes, and a delicate portrait in his luggage. All his power and might had not been able to prevent her choice or the consequences of it. Now that power and might had gone and so had Arwen. But at least Frodo now travelled to the West in her stead. Elrond hoped that her gift had not been used too late.
Frodo let out a soft, rather contented sigh as Elrond worked. Slowly, he began to uncurl, becoming more comfortable as the soothing lavender-scented water helped to ease his chills. Yet not all the effects of wearing the One Ring were gone and the little Ringbearer was alert to more than his own pain. Feeling Elrond hesitate slightly, as his hand encountered Arwen's gem, Frodo's eyes misted. He spoke, his voice soft and compassionate.
"You miss her, don't you? I wish it had been some other way. She was so kind to me."
"She has chosen her path…as my brother did before her. What father would not want to see his child sharing such a deep love as that between Arwen and Aragorn?" He moved to dry the tiny chest and went on to bathe Frodo's hands and face. "And yet, never to see her again, in all the long ages of the world…that could break a father's heart." There was a slight huskiness to the normally clear and confident voice.
He dried Frodo's hands and, clearing his throat, bent to fasten the buttons on the Ringbearer's nightshirt. The Little One nodded.
"Yes. I know you want her to be happy, but who could not wish that it were not such a choice? I wish that they could have joined us: that some day they might come to the Havens and sail in the last ship, with stories of their children and their children's children." He smiled, softly. "You would have to embrace them for me, for I doubt that I should live long enough to see that day, but I do wish it. She…" Frodo drew another tremulous breath, as if steadying some sorrow himself.
"There was one night, in Minas Tirith, when I could not sleep. I was feeling ill, like this, and she found me, walking in the gardens. She took me back to my bed and stayed with me. I was so troubled by nightmares. Arwen held my hands and talked to me for hours; we sat facing the window, watching the stars and drinking warm milk until I fell asleep. And she was still there when I awoke the next morning."
His intense gaze found Elrond's, distance fading a little, and the hobbit forced his faraway expression back to the present. "There is something she said to me that I wanted to remember. I wrote it in my journal later and I thought you might want to hear it."
At a slight nod from the elf, Frodo continued.
"We were watching the star of Earendil, and I asked her how she could bear the thought of being forever separated from you. For some time she was silent, and I almost feared that I should not have asked, thinking that I had hurt her. But then she pointed to that star and smiled a little.
"Of course it grieves me and I regret that it must be thus, when my father has lost so much already," she said. "But he will be with my mother again and I will be with Elessar. And who knows what music may someday be? Whatever comes, I can watch Earendil in the sky and know that my father, perhaps, is watching him too." Frodo waited, so see whether his words would bring comfort or whether they would bring more pain.
Elrond lifted his face to the porthole where, set in the deep blue velvet of the night sky, rode Earendil. A single tear escaped and slid down his timeless face and, within the grey depths of Elrond's eyes were reflected all the years and pains of his long life and something else . . . hope. He turned back to Frodo.
"Thank you. She never spoke of it to me." Brushing away the tear and swallowing, he took a deep breath and was suddenly the elven lord once more.
TBC