oOoOo~*~THIS CHAPTER HAS NOT BEEN EDITED~*~oOoOo
Author's Note: Here's part seven. lucky seven! Um.. Yeah. *blinks* The calm before the storm.. I think I'll use that last line for the title of this chapter! O.o.. blame some song on my mom's CD with that line. If this chapter seems.. Odd.. At any part, you can blame the antibiotics and Robutussin I'm stuck taking.. I swear that stuff makes me high! What, no reviewers to reply to? Aww.. I'm disappointed.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Lord of the Rings, whilst I own only the three-in- one volume, The Hobbit, and the video of The Fellowship of the Ring. I also own inside jokes with my friend Cindy over the cartoon version of The Lord of the Rings. Hey, Cindy, if you're reading this, remember Boromir's nose hair and this analogy: My height is to Linda's as Frodo's is to Bilbo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. Yeesh, in the cartoon version, Frodo was over a head taller than the other hobbits? What, did he OD on an Ent-draught or something and Tolkien never mentioned it? I know Gandalf described him as "taller than some," in the book, establishing that he was a rather tall hobbit, but a head taller than all hobbits standing next to him? Gandalf said "Taller than some," not "Taller than all." Okay, I'm done rambling. *starts singing "May it Be" from the soundtrack off key* I want the lyrics to that song; I can't understand what the singer is saying!! I own nothing. Okay, I'm done, or maybe- ::gets gagged by Linda, Trisha, and Cindy all at once::
The light projecting from the distance suddenly faded, and those hiding in the bushes could hear the soft rustling of the leaves. The bells drew clearer and nearer, jingling all the way, and the clippety-clip of the rapidly trotting feet became louder. Suddenly, a white horse came into view, gleaming in the surrounding dark of night, its headstall studded with gems shimmering like live stars, running swiftly. Libby audibly sucked in her breath with awe while blinking to see if her eyes were working properly, and April nudged her and put a finger to her own lips. The rider's cloak was streaming behind him, and his hood was back, revealing golden hair that made Libby's look extremely dull, shimmering with the wind of his speed. To Frodo, through the darkening mist obstructing his eyesight, it appeared as if a white light were shining through the rider.
Strider leapt to his feet and dashed towards the road, advancing quickly on his very long legs and calling out, but the rider had halted before Aragorn had even moved, and was not eying the thicket where they stood entranced.
When the rider saw Aragorn, he disembarked from the tall white horse and light-footedly ran to the Ranger calling out, ~"Greetings, Dunadan, at last I found you! Well met!"~ His clear, fair, ringing treble left no qualm to the hobbits that the rider was an Elf, while Libby and April merely knew that he was not a mere human. However, they noted that the Elf seemed to fear something, and was now speaking urgently to Strider. Pippin, Merry, Sam, Libby, and April were wholly clueless as to what the newcomer and the Ranger were saying, and Frodo only comprehended a minimal number of their Elvish words.
"What are they?" Libby hissed to Sam, who was nearest to her excluding April. Sam seemed to not hear her question; he was eyeing the rider with an appearance of combined awe and reverence written all over his rounded face. Frodo crept a little closer to Sam, rustling the leaves slightly with his cautious, wobbling gait, and Libby distinctly heard him say, "Yes, Sam, it's an Elf."
It was Libby's turn to be stupefied. Was this yet another species in this wondrous space, in which she and her friend had been dumped into without warning? The traveler had a benevolent aura about him, and his very form seemed chiseled and flawless. His gold hair shone even in the dim of the evening, and it seemed as if there were a form of light about him, despite the worry now on his face. She had the distinct impression that when merry, the Elf looked quite perfect indeed. She desired to get a closer look, but Libby stayed put lest she wind up making the wrong decision and angering Strider.
Presently, Strider beckoned to the hobbits and two girls, bidding them come forth. The people concealing themselves in the bushes left their hiding place, pushing aside the branches, and rushed down towards the road. Even Frodo managed to keep the pace of the others for once, despite the pain it triggered.
"This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the House of Elrond," Aragorn said, indicating the Elf, as soon as his companions caught them up. The Ranger then introduced the hobbits and two girls, nodding at each in turn, and calling Libby and April "chance companions met upon Weathertop."
"Hail, and well-met at last!" the Elf-lord said, speaking particularly to Frodo. The Ring-bearer's face was etiolating slightly even as Glorfindel addressed him. The wound inflicted upon him nigh to two weeks before was twinging uncomfortably, pain escalating gradually but steadily with each twitch of the injury. "I was sent from Rivendell to search for you, as we feared you were in peril upon the Road."
Frodo felt a sweeping joy come over him, blocking out his discomfort momentarily. Hoping his assumption was on the mark, the hobbit ecstatically exclaimed, "Then Gandalf has reached Rivendell?"
This new hope was soon dashed with Glorfindel's response, as the Elf- lord stated that Gandalf had as a matter of fact not arrived, at least, not in time for his departure nine days before. The fair being disclosed that Elrond had been troubled upon the information from relatives beyond a place called the Baranduin sending messages concerning things that had been revealed to be amiss, such as that the Nine were abroad, and that Frodo was wandering astray with little security bearing an awful burden with no guidance to assist him. He affirmed that Elrond had sent out search parties in many directions in case Frodo had opted to turn off course to avoid pursuit and consequently became disoriented in the never-ending wilderness.
Listening to Glorfindel's account of Elrond's orders and having driven Sauron's servants off the Last Bridge, the hobbit almost felt compelled to laugh right out loud at the accuracy of the assumptions of the Elves. Meanwhile, the pain was returning with a vengeance, beating against the fatigued Ring-bearer's already battered body. An unspeakable inertia and craving for permanent rest was creeping upon him with breathtaking rapidity, and a dark shadow was cloaking his vision, coming between him and his friends. As Glorfindel asserted his fears that the Ford would be held upon them, Frodo began to sway as a callous blend of iciness and dizziness swept over his very being. The sickly hobbit clutched at Sam's arm, and felt his knees buckle underneath him.
Sam felt distressed and angry when Glorfindel spoke of prolonging their traveling time into the night without rest. How was Frodo supposed to recover when he couldn't take a much-needed break? He winced slightly at his ailing master's grip. "My master is sick and wounded!" Sam said, glaring at Glorfindel. "He cannot go on riding on after nightfall, he needs rest."
Glorfindel caught the weak Ring-bearer as he sank to the ground, and lifted him gently in his arms, looking into the pallor of Frodo's face with anxiety, sensing that something was terribly wrong. He looked questioningly at Aragorn, as he had not yet been told of the attack in the dell under Weathertop. After Aragorn briefly recapped what had befallen them in the dark glade, he handed the hilt of the Morgul-knife to the Elf. Glorfindel shuddered as he took the hilt, feeling as if the evil were burning his hand, but he intently studied the letters he could see and comprehend on it. He sensed that it was inadvisable to handle the weapon more than necessary, and that the urgency for speed was greater than he had formerly guessed.
"There are evil things written on this hilt, though perhaps your eyes cannot detect them. Keep it, Aragorn, until we reach the house of Elrond, but handle it as little as you may! Alas, the wounds of this weapon are beyond my skill to heal. I shall do what I can, but all the more I now urge you to continue without rest."
Glorfindel opened the top couple of buttons of Frodo's shirt and slid aside his cloak, exposing the cold white mark of the lesion caused by the Morgul-blade. He inspected the would with his fingers, resisting the urgent impulse to withdraw his hand from the burning heat of the evil radiating from the would. His face grew more serious, alarmed by his own assessment. Unless a miracle of some form occurred, this Halfling had not long to live. Life seemed to be dwindling out of the Ring-bearer by the millisecond.
Frodo, however, felt a renewed hope stir within his soul, awakened by the Elf's touch. The chills lessened and the faintest glimmer of warmth slipped down from his bad shoulder to his hand as the pain lifted a bit. The mist dispersed in front of his eyes, and he could see the faces of his friends more clearly than minutes, even hours, before. He gave Glorfindel a small, grateful sort of smile.
Glorfindel looked from Frodo to Aragorn to Frodo's other companions, then between Bill and his own horse, Asfaloth. Frodo was short like all hobbits, but he could still be borne by Asfaloth if the stirrups were shortened for the small creature. If Frodo rode Asfaloth, then Bill would be free once more to carry the packs, which would evidently be a great relief to Frodo's somnolent companions. What was more, if danger befell them, the simple Elvish words of "Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!" would have the white steed riding off at full speed, bearing Frodo to the safety even faster than the hoses of the Nazgul could accomplish. "You shall ride my horse, Frodo," said Glorfindel. "I will shorten the stirrups for you, and you must sit as tight as you can. But never fear, my horse will never let any rider fall that I command him to bear. His pace is light and smooth, and if danger is nigh at hand he will bear you away with a speed even the steeds of the enemy cannot rival."
Frodo frowned, disliking the idea of abandoning his friends to mortal jeopardy while he got off scot-free on the white Elven-horse. He basically couldn't bear the very thought. Aragorn, his servant, his kinsmen, and the two teenagers were too dear to him as friends, plain and simple. "No he won't! I shan't ride him if I'm to be carried off to Rivendell, or anywhere, leaving my friends behind in danger."
Glorfindel couldn't help but smile; this response was to be expected. Frodo seemed to have friends high on his list of priorities. However, hew was missing an important point, and Glorfindel knew he would have to point it out. "I doubt very much that your friends would be endangered if you were not with them! The pursuit would follow you and leave us in peace, I think. It is you, Frodo, and that trinket you carry that brings us all into danger."
Frodo had no valid argument for Glorfindel's words, and was therefore persuaded to mount Glorfindel's white horse. He felt slightly giddy as he looked down from the great height, and turned his head away, forcing himself to focus on the stallion's glistening mane, clutching the reins in his functioning right hand. Bill, meanwhile, was loaded with a good part of the weights the others had been obliged to bear for the past two weeks, and they now marched lighter, making good speed for a bit. However, all save Strider began to find it nigh upon impossible to keep up with the tireless feet of the Elf. Aragorn alone managed to keep Glorfindel's pace, though his shoulder were sagging slightly from drowsiness. Frodo remained sitting upon Asfaloth, in the throes of a dark dream featuring a fiery eye and black shapes flying all about him, surrounding him. The pain was beginning to escalate in his shoulder once more.
Glorfindel finally allotted a halt when the gray of dawn arrived, a well-cherished relief to his sleep-deprived companions. They threw their bedrolls and themselves down in patches of heather a few yards from the roadside, falling asleep almost as soon as they had hit the ground.
The assiduous Elf, however, remained awake after gently lowering Frodo to the ground lest the already damaged Perian topple off of the lofty horse in his fitful slumber, possibly damaging his health to a further extent. A drop could even knock the present evil into Frodo's heart by accident, proving fatal. Glorfindel surveyed the furthest reaches of his exceedingly extensive range of vision. However, all remained well, there was no whisper of a nameless fear nigh at hand. The golden-haired, fair creature calmly twiddled his thumbs as he listened to snores, light breathing, Libby continually shifting her position as was her sleeping habit, and slight gasps of pain from Frodo even as he dozed. Disturbed, Glorfindel placed a reassuring palm on the wounded shoulder, and the hobbit's breaths came easier. Having appeased the wretched hobbit, the Elf recommenced wiggling his thumbs in a serene manner characteristic of the relaxing Elf. When he decided that the sun had risen high enough, after just a couple of hours, gently began arousing the others. Aragorn and Frodo woke with a start (and a whimper of corporal tenderness and a reluctance to wake in Frodo's case) at the lightest touch, Merry and April required just a couple of prods, Sam and Pippin needed to be shaken and told to arise. Libby once again displayed her skills as a heavy sleeper by paying no heed to the shakes and urgent words of, "Wake up, Libby!".
Instinctively, the heads of some of the others, excluding Frodo, Glorfindel, and Aragorn, turned towards April's directions. The black- haired teenager gave a small sigh of minor vexation, feeling that her having to awaken Libby was getting redundant, yet she knew best how to do so. Deciding that somehow changing something in the vicinity or merely staring at her face as she slept until the blonde changed position would be too time-consuming, April leaned in close next to Libby's ear and murmured, "Did you know that the hair on Clayton Cibbige's balls is very easy to braid? I managed to do cornrows!" She had utilized something Libby had told her about something her friend, Liz or something like that, had said that Clayton had said. She knew that would jerk Libby awake with a start.
"WHAT?!" Libby shot straight up from her bedroll, accidentally knocking heads with April. She mechanically held her hand against the spot she'd just bumped, while April was knocked off her feet by the force of Libby's bedroll. She climbed to her feet, holding her sore head in her hands.
"Sorry, April," Libby said remorsefully, hoping she'd done no damage to her friend. She could remember another head-butting episode from what seemed to be, and probably was, a former life. Both girls now had a memory for funny events, snippets of favorite songs, and major events, but not humdrum things such as their classes, books they'd read, movies they'd watched, or their everyday routines at home.
"Aw, man, it's no wonder you managed to take out some girl with two inches and 50 pounds on you.. You've got a pretty damn hard head!" The Asian began giggling, ignoring the slight throbs pulsing in her head.
"Don't remind me of that.. But holy shit, talk about a rude awakening!" Libby said with a laugh as she folded up her bedroll.
Pippin, meanwhile, was displeased to discover that the meager rations remaining for their use were stale bread and dried fruit, and the displeasure was evident in his hazel eyes. "Is this all we have?" the young hobbit complained.
Glorfindel and Aragorn simultaneously shook their heads in the affirmative, and the Took's discontentment increased substantially. This was exactly what he did not want to hear. Glorfindel rummaged in his small bag and withdrew a silver-studded leather flask, which turned out to be filled with a clear liquid.
"Drink this," the Elf advised, pouring the flagon into a small cup for each in turn, knowing the wholesome liquid would stifle some of the aches of sleep-deficit. The tasteless substance caused a flow of vigor all the way to their extremities as they drank. After they'd drank the liquor, the stale food seemed more satisfying than many a good feast.
Less than five hours after the rest had began, the eight two-legged and two four-legged travelers took to the road again, going along as fast as they could without actually running the entirety of the way. Both guides seemed almost overcome with anxiety, stopping every now and then to listen into the silence, particularly if anyone fell behind. Aragorn and Glorfindel, the expert on this locality, led the group, followed by Bill with the bags, then Libby with the shorter April struggling to keep her tall, long-legged friend's pace, and then there was a considerable gap between the girls and the hobbits. Merry was leading Frodo on Asfaloth, while Pippin and Sam took up the rear. Frodo's pain was redoubling, and the others could notice an audible whimper coming from their fading friend whenever he shifted position in the saddle, or inhaled too vigorously.
Frodo was almost ready to give up the remainder of his hope, and consoled himself only with the though of "It's just over a day, and I'll be safe in Rivendell. I've made it this far, haven't I? I have to finish what I've started; I chose to live." He just hoped he hadn't made the wrong decision when he'd resolved to fight or life with everything he had. If he lost despite the efforts of Aragorn, Glorfindel, and everyone, his own will to live would have been wasted. He lifted his head slightly to have look down and about at the pale gray shapes enveloping him, and felt dizzy waves of cold and pain-induced nausea wrack his slight frame. Shivering, Frodo attempted to tighten his cloak around his body with his one working hand, and accidentally knocked a couple of the blankets heaped upon him off in the process when he gave a jerk of pain from accidentally jarring his own wounded shoulder.
"Frodo? Strider, someone, come back here, some of his blankets fell off!" Pippin shouted as loud as his small voice would go. Aragorn spun around from the front of the line and sprinted all the way back to the hobbits, telling Glorfindel to continue leading everyone on.
"You shouldn't shout so," Aragorn chided, suddenly realizing that Pippin's slipshod yells could have attracted unsolicited attention to them. His nerves felt stretched almost to the breaking point, and his tension could have been cleaved by the stroke of even a dull knife.
Pippin looked down at his hairy feet and mumbled something akin to "sorry, Strider." Aragorn gently ruffled his light brown curls, and stopped to pick up the blanket. Before rewrapping the injured fellow in the blankets, Aragorn took a long look at the unremittingly shivering frame. Frodo was getting paler and paler, and the Ring-bearer seemed to be in pain worse than ever before. Aragon/Strider felt a stab of pity as he looked into the dulled blue eyes that had formerly been so jubilant and lively. Rubbing Frodo's back in what he hoped was in a reassuring sort of manner, Aragorn replaced the covers around the enervated Ring-bearer.
After covering nearly twenty miles or so, the procession came upon a bend in the road. They made the right turn and were now heading straight for the Bruinen towards the bottom of the valley. So far, there had been no sign of pursuit, yet Frodo was held by a premonition that they knew his proximity to Rivendell and wouldn't let him get to safety and healing so easily as they were trying to lead him and his allies to assume. The hobbit clutched the reins tightly in his right hand, trying to draw sensation away from his other shoulder and hand, but it was no good.. He was being enveloped in this infernal, all-consuming misery. He was almost relieved of the coming of night, when the world seemed clearer, and less pale and empty.
Though Frodo had it the worst, he wasn't the only one in the company experiencing discomfort. The other three hobbits were stumbling over nearly every footstep, lightheaded with lethargy, heeding naught but their overworked feet and legs. Libby was finally going slower, but so was April, and the later had given up on the attempt to match her all-legged friend's wide velocity. Aragorn's shoulders seemed to be slumping forward slightly, for though he had an extraordinary stamina and resilience, he was, after all, a mere mortal man, Numenorean descent or not. He was beside himself with fretting about Frodo, having noticed Frodo's fading and the Ring- bearer's growing reluctance to wake up or move. Things were so hard for the poor hobbit, and he sensed an impending trial to come. This was merely the eerie calm before the violent, tumultuous storm.
Author's Note: Here's part seven. lucky seven! Um.. Yeah. *blinks* The calm before the storm.. I think I'll use that last line for the title of this chapter! O.o.. blame some song on my mom's CD with that line. If this chapter seems.. Odd.. At any part, you can blame the antibiotics and Robutussin I'm stuck taking.. I swear that stuff makes me high! What, no reviewers to reply to? Aww.. I'm disappointed.
Disclaimer: Tolkien owns Lord of the Rings, whilst I own only the three-in- one volume, The Hobbit, and the video of The Fellowship of the Ring. I also own inside jokes with my friend Cindy over the cartoon version of The Lord of the Rings. Hey, Cindy, if you're reading this, remember Boromir's nose hair and this analogy: My height is to Linda's as Frodo's is to Bilbo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin. Yeesh, in the cartoon version, Frodo was over a head taller than the other hobbits? What, did he OD on an Ent-draught or something and Tolkien never mentioned it? I know Gandalf described him as "taller than some," in the book, establishing that he was a rather tall hobbit, but a head taller than all hobbits standing next to him? Gandalf said "Taller than some," not "Taller than all." Okay, I'm done rambling. *starts singing "May it Be" from the soundtrack off key* I want the lyrics to that song; I can't understand what the singer is saying!! I own nothing. Okay, I'm done, or maybe- ::gets gagged by Linda, Trisha, and Cindy all at once::
The light projecting from the distance suddenly faded, and those hiding in the bushes could hear the soft rustling of the leaves. The bells drew clearer and nearer, jingling all the way, and the clippety-clip of the rapidly trotting feet became louder. Suddenly, a white horse came into view, gleaming in the surrounding dark of night, its headstall studded with gems shimmering like live stars, running swiftly. Libby audibly sucked in her breath with awe while blinking to see if her eyes were working properly, and April nudged her and put a finger to her own lips. The rider's cloak was streaming behind him, and his hood was back, revealing golden hair that made Libby's look extremely dull, shimmering with the wind of his speed. To Frodo, through the darkening mist obstructing his eyesight, it appeared as if a white light were shining through the rider.
Strider leapt to his feet and dashed towards the road, advancing quickly on his very long legs and calling out, but the rider had halted before Aragorn had even moved, and was not eying the thicket where they stood entranced.
When the rider saw Aragorn, he disembarked from the tall white horse and light-footedly ran to the Ranger calling out, ~"Greetings, Dunadan, at last I found you! Well met!"~ His clear, fair, ringing treble left no qualm to the hobbits that the rider was an Elf, while Libby and April merely knew that he was not a mere human. However, they noted that the Elf seemed to fear something, and was now speaking urgently to Strider. Pippin, Merry, Sam, Libby, and April were wholly clueless as to what the newcomer and the Ranger were saying, and Frodo only comprehended a minimal number of their Elvish words.
"What are they?" Libby hissed to Sam, who was nearest to her excluding April. Sam seemed to not hear her question; he was eyeing the rider with an appearance of combined awe and reverence written all over his rounded face. Frodo crept a little closer to Sam, rustling the leaves slightly with his cautious, wobbling gait, and Libby distinctly heard him say, "Yes, Sam, it's an Elf."
It was Libby's turn to be stupefied. Was this yet another species in this wondrous space, in which she and her friend had been dumped into without warning? The traveler had a benevolent aura about him, and his very form seemed chiseled and flawless. His gold hair shone even in the dim of the evening, and it seemed as if there were a form of light about him, despite the worry now on his face. She had the distinct impression that when merry, the Elf looked quite perfect indeed. She desired to get a closer look, but Libby stayed put lest she wind up making the wrong decision and angering Strider.
Presently, Strider beckoned to the hobbits and two girls, bidding them come forth. The people concealing themselves in the bushes left their hiding place, pushing aside the branches, and rushed down towards the road. Even Frodo managed to keep the pace of the others for once, despite the pain it triggered.
"This is Glorfindel, who dwells in the House of Elrond," Aragorn said, indicating the Elf, as soon as his companions caught them up. The Ranger then introduced the hobbits and two girls, nodding at each in turn, and calling Libby and April "chance companions met upon Weathertop."
"Hail, and well-met at last!" the Elf-lord said, speaking particularly to Frodo. The Ring-bearer's face was etiolating slightly even as Glorfindel addressed him. The wound inflicted upon him nigh to two weeks before was twinging uncomfortably, pain escalating gradually but steadily with each twitch of the injury. "I was sent from Rivendell to search for you, as we feared you were in peril upon the Road."
Frodo felt a sweeping joy come over him, blocking out his discomfort momentarily. Hoping his assumption was on the mark, the hobbit ecstatically exclaimed, "Then Gandalf has reached Rivendell?"
This new hope was soon dashed with Glorfindel's response, as the Elf- lord stated that Gandalf had as a matter of fact not arrived, at least, not in time for his departure nine days before. The fair being disclosed that Elrond had been troubled upon the information from relatives beyond a place called the Baranduin sending messages concerning things that had been revealed to be amiss, such as that the Nine were abroad, and that Frodo was wandering astray with little security bearing an awful burden with no guidance to assist him. He affirmed that Elrond had sent out search parties in many directions in case Frodo had opted to turn off course to avoid pursuit and consequently became disoriented in the never-ending wilderness.
Listening to Glorfindel's account of Elrond's orders and having driven Sauron's servants off the Last Bridge, the hobbit almost felt compelled to laugh right out loud at the accuracy of the assumptions of the Elves. Meanwhile, the pain was returning with a vengeance, beating against the fatigued Ring-bearer's already battered body. An unspeakable inertia and craving for permanent rest was creeping upon him with breathtaking rapidity, and a dark shadow was cloaking his vision, coming between him and his friends. As Glorfindel asserted his fears that the Ford would be held upon them, Frodo began to sway as a callous blend of iciness and dizziness swept over his very being. The sickly hobbit clutched at Sam's arm, and felt his knees buckle underneath him.
Sam felt distressed and angry when Glorfindel spoke of prolonging their traveling time into the night without rest. How was Frodo supposed to recover when he couldn't take a much-needed break? He winced slightly at his ailing master's grip. "My master is sick and wounded!" Sam said, glaring at Glorfindel. "He cannot go on riding on after nightfall, he needs rest."
Glorfindel caught the weak Ring-bearer as he sank to the ground, and lifted him gently in his arms, looking into the pallor of Frodo's face with anxiety, sensing that something was terribly wrong. He looked questioningly at Aragorn, as he had not yet been told of the attack in the dell under Weathertop. After Aragorn briefly recapped what had befallen them in the dark glade, he handed the hilt of the Morgul-knife to the Elf. Glorfindel shuddered as he took the hilt, feeling as if the evil were burning his hand, but he intently studied the letters he could see and comprehend on it. He sensed that it was inadvisable to handle the weapon more than necessary, and that the urgency for speed was greater than he had formerly guessed.
"There are evil things written on this hilt, though perhaps your eyes cannot detect them. Keep it, Aragorn, until we reach the house of Elrond, but handle it as little as you may! Alas, the wounds of this weapon are beyond my skill to heal. I shall do what I can, but all the more I now urge you to continue without rest."
Glorfindel opened the top couple of buttons of Frodo's shirt and slid aside his cloak, exposing the cold white mark of the lesion caused by the Morgul-blade. He inspected the would with his fingers, resisting the urgent impulse to withdraw his hand from the burning heat of the evil radiating from the would. His face grew more serious, alarmed by his own assessment. Unless a miracle of some form occurred, this Halfling had not long to live. Life seemed to be dwindling out of the Ring-bearer by the millisecond.
Frodo, however, felt a renewed hope stir within his soul, awakened by the Elf's touch. The chills lessened and the faintest glimmer of warmth slipped down from his bad shoulder to his hand as the pain lifted a bit. The mist dispersed in front of his eyes, and he could see the faces of his friends more clearly than minutes, even hours, before. He gave Glorfindel a small, grateful sort of smile.
Glorfindel looked from Frodo to Aragorn to Frodo's other companions, then between Bill and his own horse, Asfaloth. Frodo was short like all hobbits, but he could still be borne by Asfaloth if the stirrups were shortened for the small creature. If Frodo rode Asfaloth, then Bill would be free once more to carry the packs, which would evidently be a great relief to Frodo's somnolent companions. What was more, if danger befell them, the simple Elvish words of "Noro lim, noro lim, Asfaloth!" would have the white steed riding off at full speed, bearing Frodo to the safety even faster than the hoses of the Nazgul could accomplish. "You shall ride my horse, Frodo," said Glorfindel. "I will shorten the stirrups for you, and you must sit as tight as you can. But never fear, my horse will never let any rider fall that I command him to bear. His pace is light and smooth, and if danger is nigh at hand he will bear you away with a speed even the steeds of the enemy cannot rival."
Frodo frowned, disliking the idea of abandoning his friends to mortal jeopardy while he got off scot-free on the white Elven-horse. He basically couldn't bear the very thought. Aragorn, his servant, his kinsmen, and the two teenagers were too dear to him as friends, plain and simple. "No he won't! I shan't ride him if I'm to be carried off to Rivendell, or anywhere, leaving my friends behind in danger."
Glorfindel couldn't help but smile; this response was to be expected. Frodo seemed to have friends high on his list of priorities. However, hew was missing an important point, and Glorfindel knew he would have to point it out. "I doubt very much that your friends would be endangered if you were not with them! The pursuit would follow you and leave us in peace, I think. It is you, Frodo, and that trinket you carry that brings us all into danger."
Frodo had no valid argument for Glorfindel's words, and was therefore persuaded to mount Glorfindel's white horse. He felt slightly giddy as he looked down from the great height, and turned his head away, forcing himself to focus on the stallion's glistening mane, clutching the reins in his functioning right hand. Bill, meanwhile, was loaded with a good part of the weights the others had been obliged to bear for the past two weeks, and they now marched lighter, making good speed for a bit. However, all save Strider began to find it nigh upon impossible to keep up with the tireless feet of the Elf. Aragorn alone managed to keep Glorfindel's pace, though his shoulder were sagging slightly from drowsiness. Frodo remained sitting upon Asfaloth, in the throes of a dark dream featuring a fiery eye and black shapes flying all about him, surrounding him. The pain was beginning to escalate in his shoulder once more.
Glorfindel finally allotted a halt when the gray of dawn arrived, a well-cherished relief to his sleep-deprived companions. They threw their bedrolls and themselves down in patches of heather a few yards from the roadside, falling asleep almost as soon as they had hit the ground.
The assiduous Elf, however, remained awake after gently lowering Frodo to the ground lest the already damaged Perian topple off of the lofty horse in his fitful slumber, possibly damaging his health to a further extent. A drop could even knock the present evil into Frodo's heart by accident, proving fatal. Glorfindel surveyed the furthest reaches of his exceedingly extensive range of vision. However, all remained well, there was no whisper of a nameless fear nigh at hand. The golden-haired, fair creature calmly twiddled his thumbs as he listened to snores, light breathing, Libby continually shifting her position as was her sleeping habit, and slight gasps of pain from Frodo even as he dozed. Disturbed, Glorfindel placed a reassuring palm on the wounded shoulder, and the hobbit's breaths came easier. Having appeased the wretched hobbit, the Elf recommenced wiggling his thumbs in a serene manner characteristic of the relaxing Elf. When he decided that the sun had risen high enough, after just a couple of hours, gently began arousing the others. Aragorn and Frodo woke with a start (and a whimper of corporal tenderness and a reluctance to wake in Frodo's case) at the lightest touch, Merry and April required just a couple of prods, Sam and Pippin needed to be shaken and told to arise. Libby once again displayed her skills as a heavy sleeper by paying no heed to the shakes and urgent words of, "Wake up, Libby!".
Instinctively, the heads of some of the others, excluding Frodo, Glorfindel, and Aragorn, turned towards April's directions. The black- haired teenager gave a small sigh of minor vexation, feeling that her having to awaken Libby was getting redundant, yet she knew best how to do so. Deciding that somehow changing something in the vicinity or merely staring at her face as she slept until the blonde changed position would be too time-consuming, April leaned in close next to Libby's ear and murmured, "Did you know that the hair on Clayton Cibbige's balls is very easy to braid? I managed to do cornrows!" She had utilized something Libby had told her about something her friend, Liz or something like that, had said that Clayton had said. She knew that would jerk Libby awake with a start.
"WHAT?!" Libby shot straight up from her bedroll, accidentally knocking heads with April. She mechanically held her hand against the spot she'd just bumped, while April was knocked off her feet by the force of Libby's bedroll. She climbed to her feet, holding her sore head in her hands.
"Sorry, April," Libby said remorsefully, hoping she'd done no damage to her friend. She could remember another head-butting episode from what seemed to be, and probably was, a former life. Both girls now had a memory for funny events, snippets of favorite songs, and major events, but not humdrum things such as their classes, books they'd read, movies they'd watched, or their everyday routines at home.
"Aw, man, it's no wonder you managed to take out some girl with two inches and 50 pounds on you.. You've got a pretty damn hard head!" The Asian began giggling, ignoring the slight throbs pulsing in her head.
"Don't remind me of that.. But holy shit, talk about a rude awakening!" Libby said with a laugh as she folded up her bedroll.
Pippin, meanwhile, was displeased to discover that the meager rations remaining for their use were stale bread and dried fruit, and the displeasure was evident in his hazel eyes. "Is this all we have?" the young hobbit complained.
Glorfindel and Aragorn simultaneously shook their heads in the affirmative, and the Took's discontentment increased substantially. This was exactly what he did not want to hear. Glorfindel rummaged in his small bag and withdrew a silver-studded leather flask, which turned out to be filled with a clear liquid.
"Drink this," the Elf advised, pouring the flagon into a small cup for each in turn, knowing the wholesome liquid would stifle some of the aches of sleep-deficit. The tasteless substance caused a flow of vigor all the way to their extremities as they drank. After they'd drank the liquor, the stale food seemed more satisfying than many a good feast.
Less than five hours after the rest had began, the eight two-legged and two four-legged travelers took to the road again, going along as fast as they could without actually running the entirety of the way. Both guides seemed almost overcome with anxiety, stopping every now and then to listen into the silence, particularly if anyone fell behind. Aragorn and Glorfindel, the expert on this locality, led the group, followed by Bill with the bags, then Libby with the shorter April struggling to keep her tall, long-legged friend's pace, and then there was a considerable gap between the girls and the hobbits. Merry was leading Frodo on Asfaloth, while Pippin and Sam took up the rear. Frodo's pain was redoubling, and the others could notice an audible whimper coming from their fading friend whenever he shifted position in the saddle, or inhaled too vigorously.
Frodo was almost ready to give up the remainder of his hope, and consoled himself only with the though of "It's just over a day, and I'll be safe in Rivendell. I've made it this far, haven't I? I have to finish what I've started; I chose to live." He just hoped he hadn't made the wrong decision when he'd resolved to fight or life with everything he had. If he lost despite the efforts of Aragorn, Glorfindel, and everyone, his own will to live would have been wasted. He lifted his head slightly to have look down and about at the pale gray shapes enveloping him, and felt dizzy waves of cold and pain-induced nausea wrack his slight frame. Shivering, Frodo attempted to tighten his cloak around his body with his one working hand, and accidentally knocked a couple of the blankets heaped upon him off in the process when he gave a jerk of pain from accidentally jarring his own wounded shoulder.
"Frodo? Strider, someone, come back here, some of his blankets fell off!" Pippin shouted as loud as his small voice would go. Aragorn spun around from the front of the line and sprinted all the way back to the hobbits, telling Glorfindel to continue leading everyone on.
"You shouldn't shout so," Aragorn chided, suddenly realizing that Pippin's slipshod yells could have attracted unsolicited attention to them. His nerves felt stretched almost to the breaking point, and his tension could have been cleaved by the stroke of even a dull knife.
Pippin looked down at his hairy feet and mumbled something akin to "sorry, Strider." Aragorn gently ruffled his light brown curls, and stopped to pick up the blanket. Before rewrapping the injured fellow in the blankets, Aragorn took a long look at the unremittingly shivering frame. Frodo was getting paler and paler, and the Ring-bearer seemed to be in pain worse than ever before. Aragon/Strider felt a stab of pity as he looked into the dulled blue eyes that had formerly been so jubilant and lively. Rubbing Frodo's back in what he hoped was in a reassuring sort of manner, Aragorn replaced the covers around the enervated Ring-bearer.
After covering nearly twenty miles or so, the procession came upon a bend in the road. They made the right turn and were now heading straight for the Bruinen towards the bottom of the valley. So far, there had been no sign of pursuit, yet Frodo was held by a premonition that they knew his proximity to Rivendell and wouldn't let him get to safety and healing so easily as they were trying to lead him and his allies to assume. The hobbit clutched the reins tightly in his right hand, trying to draw sensation away from his other shoulder and hand, but it was no good.. He was being enveloped in this infernal, all-consuming misery. He was almost relieved of the coming of night, when the world seemed clearer, and less pale and empty.
Though Frodo had it the worst, he wasn't the only one in the company experiencing discomfort. The other three hobbits were stumbling over nearly every footstep, lightheaded with lethargy, heeding naught but their overworked feet and legs. Libby was finally going slower, but so was April, and the later had given up on the attempt to match her all-legged friend's wide velocity. Aragorn's shoulders seemed to be slumping forward slightly, for though he had an extraordinary stamina and resilience, he was, after all, a mere mortal man, Numenorean descent or not. He was beside himself with fretting about Frodo, having noticed Frodo's fading and the Ring- bearer's growing reluctance to wake up or move. Things were so hard for the poor hobbit, and he sensed an impending trial to come. This was merely the eerie calm before the violent, tumultuous storm.
