Sam knew something was amiss even before he reached the campsite. As they neared the glow of the fire, he heard Mr. Merry cry out, and craned his neck to see ahead. Sure enough, only one hobbit was standing near the fire's edge. Mr. Strider was awake and looking round at them, Sam was pleased to see, although Sam weren't nearly so happy about the bundle at Mr. Strider's side. Sam could guess only too well what (or rather who) that might be.
He turned to address the Elf over his shoulder. "What did I tell you, Mr. Glorfindel? My master's strength gave out, just as I said it would. It's his way to overtax himself, until there's nothing left to give. I knew we wouldn't find him upright."
"You appear to know your master well." The Elf's voice was gentle, even as Asfaloth picked up his pace to reach the fireside. "Do not give yourself over to worry. Healing skills are not my gift, yet I will render such aid as I am able."
"We can use any help we can get, I won't lie to you."
Sam's ride with the Elven lord had quieted his fears somewhat. Glorfindel radiated confidence and calm. The longer Sam was in his company, the less intimidated Sam felt. By the time they reached the rough encampment, he thought of the Elf as a friend. True, Sam didn't feel as easy with him as he had with, say, Mr. Gildor's folk, but then, Mr. Glorfindel seemed a whole different kind of Elf from the ones he'd met in the Shire—deeper somehow, more mysterious and magical. It was somewhat like Asfaloth being a whole different order of horsekind from Bill—much as Sam admired the pluck of his loyal pony.
As Asfaloth strode into the firelight, Mr. Strider cried joyfully, "Glorfindel!"
"Mae govannen, Dúnadan." The Elf paused. His eyes roamed over the enormous body, sprawled behind their campsite. He said dryly, "Elladan's troll was bigger."
Mr. Strider winced as he sat up. "My friend, I am so overjoyed to see you, I will argue with nothing that you say."
"Allow me, Sam," said the Elf lord, just as Sam, fidgeting, was beginning to wonder how he could break into the conversation and beg to be let down. "I know you are anxious to check on your master."
"Thank you, Mr. Glorfindel." Sam clasped the strong, slender hand, clutching tight as it lowered him alongside the powerful forelimb of his mount. Sam marveled that he had been astride an animal whose legs were longer than Sam's whole body.
As Sam found his feet, Mr. Strider said, "When I heard the horses approaching, I had hoped there might be another of your people with you—delighted though I am that you have returned our faithful Bill to us."
"Lord Elrond keeps the valley, as he must," replied Glorfindel. "The rest of us he has sent thither and yon in search of you, all who could stand against the Nine."
Sam dropped his flasks and rushed to Mr. Frodo's side, even as Strider said eagerly, "Gandalf has reached Rivendell, then?"
"Nay, not when I had departed—but that was nine days ago. We learned of your journey from Gildor Inglorion, who sent messages ahead as swiftly as he might."
Sam had no mind for further news, once he had got a look at his master. Mr. Frodo was worse off than Sam had suspected—far worse than he had feared. Mr. Frodo's shirt was open to reveal his shoulder. That whole side of his chest, and down his left arm, emitted such intense cold that it Sam winced to touch it.
Mr. Merry knelt painfully beside Sam. He dipped the washcloth into the pan of water while Mr. Strider and the Elf caught each other up on events. Tenderly, the Bucklander sponged Mr. Frodo's shoulder with it.
Sam scarcely minded him, he was that worried about Mr. Frodo. His master was deeply unconscious. His pulse was thin and weak; he barely breathed.
"What happened to him?" Sam asked Mr. Merry in an undertone. "He weren't near this bad off when I left."
"I'm not sure." Mr. Merry hitched a breath. "He did something to bring Strider round, I don't know precisely what—"
"Here now." Puzzled by the strain in the other's voice, Sam had finally taken a good look at Mr. Merry. The Brandybuck heir was sweating, skin pale, barely able to keep his head up. Swiftly, Sam removed the cloth from his hand. "I'll see to this. You should lie down yourself, Mr. Merry. You look in a world of hurt, if you don't mind my saying. I can tend to Mr. Frodo."
"No, Sam. I have to… keep near Frodo."
"Well, that's a lot of foolishness, if I may make so bold." Sam bathed Mr. Frodo's shoulder and side. "We've got Mr. Strider, and Mr. Glorfindel now. They'll know what needs to be done."
Mr. Merry opened his mouth, and hesitated. Firmly, he said, "I want to stay close at hand."
Sam refreshed the cloth to sponge Mr. Frodo's forehead. "You keep pushing yourself the way you been doing, and you're going to end up in as bad a state as either of the others. That won't do no one a bit of good, Mr. Merry, and you know it."
The tail end of the Elf lord's sentence diverted Sam's attention. "… must move him farther from this troll."
He looked up to find that Mr. Glorfindel had dismounted. Even so, he towered over the prone Ranger and the crouching hobbits. Sam had the uncomfortable feeling that he'd feel just as small in comparison, were he to stand straight up, on his toes.
"Your current condition aside, Dúnadan," Glorfindel said, "you cannot expect to reach him while you wallow in the miasma of this beast. A pall of evil poisons the air. It is a wonder that any of you can breathe."
"Begging your pardon, Mr. Glorfindel," Sam interrupted. "But until you came along, there weren't enough of us in command of our sense or our limbs to move anyone farther then we already done."
"Then let us do so now, as quickly as might be."
The Elf lord stooped, and Sam made room for him. Gently, he collected Mr. Frodo into his arms, making sure to wrap him well in the blanket. He rose as easily as if Mr. Frodo weighed no more than a leaf. Mr. Merry rose with him, with a deal more difficulty. He didn't take his eyes off Mr. Frodo for a second. His concern was beginning to disturb Sam. Had more happened during his absence than Mr. Merry had told him about?
As the Elf straightened, the light of the fire fell upon the Ranger's blade, lying clean and shining on his blanket. The Elf hesitated. "You brought Narsil."
Mr. Strider said quietly, "I thought it fitting."
Glorfindel paused. "Let us hope you will not need to use it." So saying, he strode away from the fire, headed downhill with Mr. Frodo in his arms.
Sam watched him go, mouth agape. Not need to use it? Had he forgotten the troll he'd just been talking about, that Mr. Strider had killed? How did he think that had happened—Mr. Strider had talked it into beating itself to death with a rock?
The next moment, Mr. Merry crossed Sam's line of sight. He had his arms wrapped round his middle, and he followed the Elf with a determined expression. He moved as quickly as he was able—which was not very fast, as every variation in the terrain seemed to give him trouble, and he stumbled as often as not. Sam gritted his teeth, but let him be. It seemed that every single one of his betters was determined to drive themselves into the ground. Well, Sam couldn't do aught about that. He'd help them out regardless, and be around to pick up the pieces after they were done.
Mr. Strider was taking his time getting up. He'd thrown back the blanket over him, so Sam could see he was wearing some kind of skin-fitting woolens; they looked like underclothes against cold weather. They covered the Ranger from neck to ankle, but Sam could guess at the Man's hurts without needing to see 'em. Mr. Strider moved like he was made of wood. He could scarcely bend in the middle, and his right leg was stretched stiff and unnatural upon the cloak on which he lay. He shifted his weight, but couldn't seem to find a position that would give him leverage enough to stand.
It seemed it was Sam's day for sass. Yet he doubted what else he could do, seeing as everyone else in the party had given their good sense the evening off, and were set and determined to do themselves an injury.
"Mr. Strider," Sam began, and blushed to hear the sharpness of his tone. Nevertheless, he plunged on. "Any fool can see you're in no shape to be walking over this kind of ground, with the hurts you have. You'll trip on a boulder and knock your head, and then where would we be?"
"I can carry myself, Master Samwise," responded the Ranger, subsiding with a grunt. Sam noticed he hadn't even managed to raise one hip off the ground, but Sam didn't need to be pointing that out to him.
"Begging your pardon, sir, but my master needs you, in as much of a piece as possible. It's just plain cussedness as makes you want to stand on your own. Let me fetch Mr. Glorfindel. He'll help you down to the new camp. It's silly to break your head for no reason, not when so many other folk are depending on you."
Mr. Strider eased back on one elbow. As uncomfortable as he looked, he gave Sam a smile. "You've always spoken your mind to me, haven't you, Samwise?"
"Well… mayhap I have. But it's my job to care for Mr. Frodo, as best I'm able."
"And you won't let anything get in the way of that. I understand." Mr. Strider's smile faded, and he relaxed. "Rest easy, Sam. I will make no further attempt to move myself, until Glorfindel arrives to help."
Sam backed away. "That's good of you. Thank you, sir."
Mr. Strider remained quiet, but Sam's puzzlement grew. Why did the Ranger look so sad just then? It worried Sam, even more than Mr. Merry's restlessness. Sam was confident that Mr. Strider wouldn't try to move on his own. Why, then, did he feel as if he'd just lost the argument?
As Sam stepped away, Bill lifted his head and whickered. He stood on the very edge of the circle of firelight, as if reluctant to come one step closer to the troll. Beside him, Asfaloth nuzzled the turf, hunting for grass—not that he would find much to eat around here.
"You rest too, Bill," Sam told him. "We'll have work for you to do, soon enough."
Leaving the horses, Sam rounded the fire to the blanketed bundle that showed where the final member of their party lay. Mr. Pippin rested on his side, panting with light, quick breaths. Sam knelt beside him. "Mr. Pippin?"
Though the young hobbit's eyes were closed, Sam felt certain he were awake. Gently, he brushed Mr. Pippin's curls off his forehead. The young Took's skin felt moist. "Mr. Pippin, sir? Are you awake?"
A thin whine escaped the parted lips. "Merry?"
Sam petted the tweener's hair, though his stomach twisted itself in knots. "It's Sam Gamgee. I'm powerful glad to see you awake at last."
Mr. Pippin whispered, "Frodo…"
"They've gone ahead to make a new camp. Mr. Glorfindel—he's an Elf what found us. He thought it best that we move farther from this troll, to a place where the air's fit to breathe."
Mr. Pippin shivered. His voice held barely a breath of sound. "We might… lose him, Sam."
Sam felt a rush of fear. Deliberately, he fought it down. "That we won't, Mr. Pippin. They've only gone down the hill a piece. Come along, now." Sam knelt to get his arms under Mr. Pippin as best he might. "Rest you easy. I'll get you there, right enough."
Mr. Pippin said no more, though he cried out when Sam shifted his head. Sam froze, but Mr. Pippin just went back to breathing too fast. Gently as he could, Sam gathered Mr. Pippin, blanket, cloak and all, in his arms. With an awkward step, he was upright. After Sam's bit of rest on the Elf horse, the Took seemed no heavier to carry than Sam's own pack. Carefully Sam rounded the fire, heading downhill.
Mr. Strider had got himself into a sitting position, but he weren't doing much save for gathering whatever gear was in reach, and stowing it in one pack or another. He didn't spare a glance for Sam, just continued what he was doing. Which was fine by Sam, as he had his hands full, so to speak.
Bill took a step to follow him, as Sam moved away. "Stay, Bill," he called. "I'll be back soon enough." The pony stopped, watching Sam go with mournful eyes.
As Sam left the circle of firelight, Mr. Pippin shuddered against Sam. Sam couldn't help feeling a flash of anger towards Mr. Merry—why wasn't he looking out for his kinsman? There had been Mr. Strider to look after Mr. Frodo at the fireside. Much as Sam's world centered round Mr. Frodo, it seemed to Sam that they all needed to look after one another, the spot they were in.
Well, there was naught for it. The night hadn't been short. Like as not it was Sam's own weariness as was making him sharp. He hugged Mr. Pippin to him, and stepped down the hill.
He went cautiously at first. His few minutes at the fireside had robbed him of his night vision, so Sam took it nice and slow. For all that, he near jumped a mile when a tall shape suddenly loomed in front of him out of the darkness. Smothering a yelp, he realized just in time that it was Mr. Glorfindel, on his way back to the camp.
"Is Mr. Frodo all set?" Sam asked him.
"He's resting, and Merry is with him." The Elf came closer, then suddenly shrank. Sam realized that he had gone down on one knee. He heard the click of a stopper, then the swirl of liquid. "I have something for your friend: miruvor, as I gave you earlier."
Sam indeed remembered the mouthful of liquor that the Elf had given him during their ride up the hill. It had no taste, giving Sam the oddest sensation, like drinking liquid air. Yet he'd hardly swallowed before he felt the exhaustion of his day's adventures fall away from him. He doubted he'd be carrying Mr. Pippin right now, were it not for that earlier draught. The Elf had been kind enough to follow it with a bite of Elvish bread, which was filling enough for Sam, for all of Mr. Glorfindel's apologies.
"I know your friend is ill," said the Elf, "but this drink will help him, if he can tolerate it."
"Come along, Mr. Pippin," Sam encouraged, holding the younger hobbit close to steady his head. "Give it a try. It'll make a world of difference, and I ought to know."
Mr. Pippin whimpered, but made no other protest. Mr. Glorfindel leaned close, tipping a mere capful of the liquor into Mr. Pippin's slack mouth. Quickly, his hand moved to massage the hobbit's throat; Sam could hear the gulp as the fluid went down.
Sam heaved a sigh. "Well done, Mr. Pippin. That'll soon put you right."
"I will give him more later, if he can tolerate it." The Elf rose. "I have given your other friends a sip as well, and the Dúnadan I will also treat. I fear that most of your party is sorely hurt."
Sam felt suddenly embarrassed that he alone sported no wounds. "I kept back from the fight to watch over Mr. Frodo. The others—"
The Elf's hand on his shoulder stopped him. "Do not apologize, Sam. Were you injured as well, it is likely that some of your friends would not have made it as far as they have. Rejoice in your good fortune. I am sure that none of them begrudges you that."
"Well, you can't say fairer than that," Sam muttered, still feeling painfully guilty. "I'd best settle Mr. Pippin, then come back and help bring down the gear."
"Asfaloth and Bill can help with that. You needn't carry all burdens yourself, young Sam."
Now was not the time to point out to the Elf that Sam could no more load gear onto Asfaloth than he could fly. The best he might manage would be to tie something to the horse's flowing tail—he could imagine how well that might "fly" with Asfaloth.
"Thank you, sir. I'll do what I can."
The Elf clapped him on the shoulder, then vanished into the night, with even less noise than a stealthy hobbit might make. One moment he was there, and the next, Sam was alone under the starlight, with Mr. Pippin in his arms.
He gave the young Took an encouraging squeeze. "We'll get you settled, Mr. Pippin. Things are looking up for us, now that an Elven lord is here."
The wounded hobbit groaned. Sam felt his heart break. He eased himself down the hill, moving more confidently now that his night vision had come back.
"Aren't you the outrageous thing?" Sam chattered. "A-flingin' yourself off the ledge onto a troll like that. They'll be making songs about it, Mr. Pippin, mark my words. Peregrin Took, the only hobbit to take on a troll by himself. If Mr. Merry don't throw a hundred-weight feast on account of it, I'll think he's soft in the head."
Mr. Pippin lay quiet; Sam had no idea if his words were helping, or even heard.
Suddenly, he discerned another voice in the night. It was faint, coming from somewhere ahead of him. As Sam listened more closely, he thought it sounded like weeping. All his fears sprang up anew.
Sam worked his way nearer, as quick as he might. The starlight showed him a fairly level area, in a hollow beneath some great rocks. A hobbit lay there, on his back, while another knelt over him, clasping his hand. It was Mr. Merry, and he was pleading through his tears.
"Come back, Frodo. Please come back. I couldn't bear it if… Oh, what am I to do? Even were I to stop them, would it save you in the end? If I could stay their hands, should I do it—knowing that such an act might doom you to unending torment? How could I bear being the cause of that? If I must lose you, I would have it be clean. Yet how can I stand by, and watch you done to death? My heart won't let me, Frodo dear. I am afraid I shall do something foolish, that will lead only to greater harm. Help me, Frodo. Please come back. Take this choice from me."
Sam had reached the edge of the hollow. He swallowed hard. He didn't follow exactly what Mr. Merry was going on about, but its meaning was clear enough to Sam. His master weren't nearly out of harm's way. In fact, if Mr. Merry's distress was to be believed, his master was probably in greater danger right now than at any time since Weathertop, when that undead king went after him.
Sam cleared his throat. Mr. Merry whirled towards the noise, his eyes glinting in the starlight. "Sam." Almost immediately he relaxed—though not entirely, Sam could see. "Is that Pippin with you?"
"Yes, sir. Let me find a likely spot for him."
Mr. Merry nodded, then turned back to Mr. Frodo. Squelching his fears, Sam concentrated on finding a spot that was level and smooth, to set Mr. Pippin down. There—on the opposite end of the hollow. With his stomach all in turmoil, Sam crossed to the place. Carefully, he sank to his knees, mindful not to jostle Mr. Pippin. Though Sam listened intently, he could hear no further remarks out of Mr. Merry.
Sam settled Mr. Pippin on his cloak. When he moved to tuck the blanket round, Mr. Pippin startled him by touching his wrist. "Sam," he breathed.
Sam put Mr. Pippin hand back under the blanket. "Just you rest easy, Mr. Pippin. Don't fret yourself. It won't do no one any good."
"Frodo," Mr. Pippin barely whispered. "He… must not… become a wraith."
Sam felt a fierce surge of protectiveness. "Don't you worry, Mr. Pippin. Me and Mr. Merry will see that no harm comes to him."
Mr. Pippin shuddered with the effort, but he forced himself to speak. "That is... what you cannot do, Sam. Don't… save him."
Sam sat on his heels in shock. "What did you say?" Mr. Pippin must be delirious, for him to utter such things.
"If Strider must… take the final step, don't stop him. Don't let Merry stop him." Mr. Pippin's eyes suddenly opened, and his pleading look sent an arrow through Sam's heart. "Don't condemn Frodo to unending torment, Sam. I couldn't bear it. If a choice must be made, we must… let Frodo die."
Sam reeled backwards, he was that bowled over. Mr. Pippin closed his eyes again, but Sam wouldn't have known what to say to him if he hadn't. For one of the few times in his life, he was speechless.
Across the clearing, Mr. Merry held his cousin's hand, and wept.
