The evening sun had stretched the shadows across the meadow and the air was growing chill by the time Aragorn reached the borders of Lothlorien. He allowed himself to slow some, knowing it would do him no good if he startled the border patrol into firing upon him. But he kept his pace at a quick trot, nonetheless. Against his chest, Sam shivered a little; Aragorn paused long enough to draw the young hobbit's cloak more tightly around him before resuming his journey.
After a time he glanced around, surprised to have gotten this far into the forest without meeting any of Lorien's patrol. Haldir and his bunch were usually so sharp-eared, he had half-expected to be accosted before he'd gotten to the tree line, but he was already well into the woods and—
--the snap of a twig to his right was all the warning he received before he found himself staring directly at the point of an arrow. He took an involuntary step backwards. Vague figures previously blended into the shadows stepped forward, and in moments he was surrounded by a dozen elves. They stared at him, waiting, and he shifted Sam a little bit in his arms.
"Please," he said in Elvish. "I need to see her Ladyship. My friend is badly hurt."
"Aragorn?"
Haldir's voice came from the back of the group; they parted and he stepped forward, drawn brows raising in surprised recognition as he eyed the Ranger. Aragorn knew he must look a sight; his long run left him breathing heavily, sweat standing out on his brow, and the journey through the mines had left a considerable amount of dust on his clothing.
"Haldir," he said, feeling a mixture of relief and urgency; Sam couldn't afford this. "Please, take me to her. He won't last much longer."
Haldir's eyes flitted to the bundle in Aragorn's arms, and his eyes softened some. "Right," he said, nodding his head. "Come. She will see to him."
Aragorn followed, silently blessing Haldir's quick decision to trust in him. Sam wouldn't have well withstood a long and drawn out debate.
"Thank you," he murmured as they sprinted along the narrow footpaths, and Haldir acknowledged his thanks with a slight nod.
"His spirit wavers," the elf replied. "He cannot wait. He needs help now."
Aragorn nodded; he'd felt the young hobbit's struggle as well. Sam's body was still somehow clinging desperately to life, but his soul was uncertain, hesitant. At first Aragorn had been puzzled by this; Sam was so vibrant, so cheerful and full of love of life…why then should his soul be ready to reject it and move on? But as he'd run it hit him: when Sam fell, he'd believed, as they all had, that Frodo was dead. Was he considering leaving now in order to join his master?
Aragorn's heart clenched up tight at that. If Sam died, Frodo wouldn't be able to carry on. The ranger had never felt a bond as close or as strong as that shared between the Ringbearer and his companion, despite all their differences. Sam loved Frodo more than his very life, and Frodo felt just as strongly about Sam, though the elder hobbit was less prone to emotional displays. Still, without one another, neither stood a chance.
Hold on, Sam, he thought desperately. Your master is alive, and he's coming. Please hold on for him.
Dusk had melted into darkness by the time they reached the Elven city. A strange unearthly light danced among the trees, and the sounds of mournful singing filled Aragorn's ears. He frowned, feeling a strange sense of foreboding; he could have sworn he'd caught the word 'Mithrandir' in one of the haunting refrains, and his heart pounded a little harder as his thoughts turned towards the rest of the fellowship. How did they fare?
But he could not linger with them; Boromir would look after the other halflings, make certain they made it here safely, and Legolas and Gimli and Gandalf…well, they could look after themselves.
They crossed a small creek and entered a clearing, lit by moonlight and lanterns. In the center stood Galadriel, standing before a crystalline fountain, dressed entirely in flowing white garments that shimmered and seemed to be made of the moonlight she was standing in. Her piercing eyes sought Aragorn's, and he met them as he approached slowly, Sam still clutched protectively to his chest.
"Aragorn," came the whisper in his mind, and he bowed his head, kneeling before her.
"My Lady, please," he whispered aloud, raising his eyes and feeling them sting with tears. "Please, you have to help him."
She gazed upon the wounded halfling for a moment. "Bring him," she said, then turned and began to walk towards the fountain.
Aragorn followed, feeling the body in his arms trembling a little. He frowned, and glanced at Sam's face, alarmed when he saw the way it was scrunched up in pain. He winced sympathetically, knowing the pain must indeed be great, but when Sam gasped the word that spilled from his lips was "Frodo!"
There was so much grief, so much loss in that one word that Aragorn knew his guess had been correct. Sam was desperate to find his master, and if it meant following him past the mortal realm he'd do it without hesitation. He looked up at Galadriel and found her standing before him, a long silver ladle in her hand with shimmering water sparkling in it.
"Lay him on the ground," she said, and Aragorn obeyed, unwrapping the dressing around Sam's wound. The blood had not clotted, and the wound still bled freely. Aragorn felt his hope slipping away.
"Samwise Gamgee," Galadriel murmured, and Sam's weak thrashing stilled a little as his head turned towards the sound of her voice. She said no more aloud, but after a moment Sam relaxed even further, and drew a tremulous breath. A whimper escaped his lips and Aragorn bit his lip; it was a physical pain to see the young hobbit in so much agony. But Galadriel simply smiled a little and raised Sam's head, tipping it to open his mouth and pouring just a little of the water from the ladle over his lips. A trickle sparkled at the corner, but Sam swallowed the rest reflexively, and Aragorn was relieved to see some of the color return to Sam's cheeks. Sam's brow smoothed a little, too, and his body finally went completely limp. Aragorn watched with trepidation as Galadriel poured the rest of the water over Sam's wound; it sizzled a little as it hit the flesh, and Aragorn frowned as he watched curiously. After the ladle was empty Galadriel placed her hand over the wound and murmured something in Elvish. There was a flash of light, and when she removed her hand again the wound was smoldering—but the bleeding had finally, blessedly stopped. The wound was cauterized.
Aragorn watched the lady's face carefully, hoping for some sign as to whether or not Sam would be all right. She was silent for a long moment, her hand still hovering over his heart, before turning her flashing eyes onto the ranger.
"He needs the ringbearer," she said without any preamble. "He needs to know his master is all right. I have convinced him to remain for now, but I do not know how long he will do so. If he does not believe that Frodo is alive, he will die, Aragorn."
Aragorn closed his eyes and nodded once. He'd suspected as much. "Boromir brings the ringbearer and his kin," he said. "They should arrive on the morrow. Sooner, perhaps, if Frodo has anything to say about it."
Galadriel looked troubled. "I do not know if he will last that long," she murmured, almost to herself. "But I have done all I can."
She stood, then.
"Bring him," she ordered. "He
must be kept warm, and we must try to get him to drink all he can hold. He has lost too much blood."
Aragorn glanced at the discarded make-shift bandage and nodded in agreement; it
was soaked and dripping crimson. He
leaned down and scooped Sam into his arms, wrapping the gardener's cloak around
his shivering body.
Galadriel inclined her head slightly. "Come," she said, and Aragorn followed her out of the alcove.
* * *