Aragorn watched Sam—reliable, unfailing Sam—carry Pippin from the campsite. He knew it was wrong to curse himself for his weakness: one man with a broken sword could not expect to fare well against a troll, no matter how moderate its size. He had hardly hoped to escape alive. Yet his injury had prompted Frodo to endanger himself unnecessarily. Aragorn could no more blame Frodo for his courageous act than he could Pippin, throwing himself in harm's way to protect his friend. However, Frodo's actions had larger ramifications, because of the Ring.
The Ring. Isildur's Bane. Aragorn gritted his teeth, as he stashed whatever materials he could lay hands upon into the appropriate pack. It was a continual source of regret to him that his ancestor, in a moment of ill judgment, should have enabled the spirit of evil to insinuate itself into another age. Aragorn shook his head. How could he blame Isildur, when the wiles of the Enemy were so effective, so subtle and yet pernicious? Even Frodo had his moment of weakness on Weathertop. He had failed to hold out against the Ringwraith's call—he who had shown such extraordinary resistance in the following weeks.
Aragorn paused. He wondered at what point it had occurred to him to compare the hobbit to his revered ancestor. Even Frodo. As if Frodo was the stronger of the two.
Gandalf would not be surprised; of that, Aragorn was certain. But Aragorn was a mere Man, and as such would never be granted the time to develop commensurate wisdom with immortal folk, or cultivate the fine appreciation for the many levels of irony that life can hold. A hobbit to carry the One Ring. Even Bilbo, dear as he was to Aragorn, seemed laughably unequal to such a task. For Frodo Aragorn had felt mostly pity—until his startling revelation, where the glowing white figure had led him back to consciousness. From this point forward, there could never be "only Frodo" for Aragorn. He continued to be amazed, both by his new understanding, and at how he could have missed it before.
Everything at hand was now packed away. Aragorn looked into the night, and listened. No tremor of a footstep heralded a returning friend. Aragorn fretted, impatient with his weakness. Never mind that he could well have ended up dead; Aragorn needed to be doing something, and this enforced inactivity galled him.
He shifted himself tentatively. The leg was stiff, but might hold him. The ribs were a different matter. They were broken; Aragorn knew the feel of broken bone. Damn the troll, making him a pillow for its final fall! Things were not well with his head, either. His skull throbbed, fore and aft. He became dizzy when he lifted his head, and his vision blurred if he moved too quickly.
Aragorn listened again. No footfalls. With a sigh, he lifted his hand towards Glorfindel's horse, snuffling the turf nearby. "Asfaloth. Tulo sí."
With a gentle whicker, the white stallion advanced with lowered head. He extended his neck to touch Aragorn's outstretched hand with his muzzle. The soft nostrils fluttered against Aragorn's palm. Gently, the Ranger stroked the velvet skin. "Indóme le ortho nin am?"
Asfaloth puffed a breath, then moved to stand near the blanket. Aragorn reached for the stirrup. "Daro, nin mellon." He walked his hands up the stirrup leather, to raise himself from the ground. Pain flared in his side, but at least he had pulled himself partially upright. "Pad hi."
Obediently, the horse stepped forward, moving slowly. His motion dragged Aragorn fully upright, much to the relief of his complaining ribs. Taking his weight onto his good leg, Aragorn clutched the saddle as a wave of dizziness swept over him. "Daro!" he gasped, but the wise horse had already halted for him. Aragorn clung to the seat, trying to recover his equilibrium and his breath. Gradually the world stopped whirling.
"Wouldn't it have been easier if you had simply waited for me?"
The soft voice from over his shoulder startled Aragorn nearly out of his skin. The next moment, Glorfindel materialized beside him. He uncapped a flask of miruvor and offered it to the Ranger.
Grasping the saddle with his left hand, Aragorn took the flask in his right. He downed a swig, closing his eyes as he felt its healing properties swirl throughout his body. His dizziness abated, and the protests of his battered flesh grew fainter. He released his grip on the saddle, but still leaned against the patient horse.
"From what I have seen of hobbits so far," Glorfindel continued, "I begin to think them nearly as stubborn as Men."
Aragorn was in no mood for jest. "I am grateful for such stubbornness. Without it, Frodo would long ago have succumbed to the will of the Enemy."
Glorfindel's face grew grim. "What you speak of might already have come to pass, Dúnadan."
"No!" Aragorn closed his eyes, embarrassed by his outburst. He steadied himself, before replying. "He is not lost to us, my friend. Not altogether. He is more than he appears." Aragorn met Glorfindel's eyes. "He called me, back from the wilds where my soul was wandering. I saw him in other guise. Brilliant he appeared, as one of the Tareldar might seem to mortal eyes."
Glorfindel's look softened. "You do not need to persuade me. I would have done what I could have before, if only to spare Bilbo the grief of hearing that his heir will never arrive. Now that I learn how dear he is to you, I swear that I will do everything in my power to save him."
"We can call him back, mellon nin. We must."
The Elf lord's eyes grew sadder. "That gift I have not. If any calling is to be done, Dúnadan, you alone must do it."
Aragorn set his jaw. "It will be... difficult."
"I will lend you and the hobbit what strength I can," said Glorfindel softly. "The rest will be up to you."
Aragorn nodded, acknowledging.
The Elf clapped him on the shoulder. "Come. Let us get out of this reek. Have you everything you need? We must begin the healing at once, if there is to be any hope of reaching him."
"The athelas leaves are in my pouch—by the fire, there. We should make more water hot."
Glorfindel stooped, and retrieved the flasks that Sam had dropped. The largest of these—Aragorn's—he hung from the saddle. One of the small flasks he handed to Aragorn, along with a bit of waybread. "Drink. Eat. You will need all your strength."
Aragorn took them reluctantly, while Glorfindel carried the other two flasks to the fire. Aragorn nibbled the bread; to his surprise, he could manage it. It must be the miruvor. He looked over Asfaloth's back to track the Elf's progress, as he prowled about the fire. "You should see a small pan," he called.
"I see it." The Elf stopped, and curled his lip. "This is your pouch, all black with gore?"
"Yes."
With a shiver, the Elf plucked it open. "I will remove the leaves from it. I dare not bring anything so foul to where the hobbits now lie. It will not serve our purpose."
Swiftly, the Elf tucked the athelas leaves into his belt, then set more water to heat. "What is this cup in the fire?"
Aragorn craned his neck to see. "That is a broth Merry made for his kinsman."
"I will bring it down to them, then. I would have them eat something before the ordeal begins. The miruvor will work better for it, for not all of the hobbits will be able to manage bread." Glorfindel poured the broth into the emptied flask, then swiftly returned to Aragorn, bearing the hobbits' packs. He attached them to Bill's harness with sure movements, while Aragorn finished his sparse meal. "What else?"
Aragorn nodded at the ground. "In my pack, you will find the hilt of the dagger that stabbed him. I kept it, hoping that it might prove an aid to those who would heal him."
"I will study it now, near the fire." The Elf stooped, and then handed Aragorn his blanket and Narsil, but not his cloak. "I do not want even a wisp of this evil vapor at the new site. For that reason, I will leave your belongings here. We can retrieve them when the healing is done, although you may wish to garb yourself in clothes from my pack, rather than try to save your own."
Aragorn nodded. He felt such gratitude for Glorfindel's assistance, it robbed him of words. Carefully, he draped the blanket over Asfaloth's withers, and tied Narsil to the saddle leathers, while the Elf drew forth the remainder of the wraith's blade. With Glorfindel's aid, they might reach Frodo yet. They must.
"There are evil things written on this hilt." Glorfindel's voice was full of revulsion as he studied the haft of the Morgul knife. "I will do what I can to help him, but—" He met Aragorn's eyes. "—the wounds made by this weapon are beyond my skill to heal."
Aragorn paused. "His friends are with him."
"That will be an aid, at least in the beginning."
Aragorn licked his lips. "And if we fail?"
The Elf rose, and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "If we must strike, the blow should come from one who loves him. I do not know the fate of Men or hobbits, but my heart tells me that such a sacrifice—a gift of love—would be enough to free his spirit from the grip of darkness. That would be Frodo's only chance, and the merest chance, if we fail."
Aragorn swallowed, and gave a jerky nod. Placing his arm across the shoulders of the Elf, he hobbled down the hill.
-0-0-0-
Pippin had never felt so sick. He could see a bit, faintly, when he opened his eyes. There were two Sams, two Merrys, and at least two dozen boulders that jumped and jiggled in a nauseating whirl in the starlight. His body throbbed, complaining of the many bruises it had sustained during his unconscious plunge to the cave floor. But they were nothing compared to the splitting in his head. Every moment, Pippin thought he must be sick. Every moment, he felt again that he was in more misery than he could bear.
The situation was altogether horrendous. The voices he had heard so distantly, upon waking, came swirling back to haunt him.
"A wraith?" Merry's voice echoed eerily in his memory. Strider's harsh tones reverberated in answer.
"A spirit that is so subject to Sauron's power that there can be no recovery. He will remain forever under the Dark Lord's control, bound beyond any unbinding. Gandalf could not help him then, or the Lord Elrond himself."
At first Pippin had thought it part of the dream, a nightmare experienced upon awakening. But subsequent conversations, scattered and interrupted as they were, had convinced Pippin that what he had heard was the truth.
"When Frodo revives, will it be his gentle spirit returning—or a wraith under Sauron's command?"
Pippin had never thought this adventure much more than an extended walking party. It had been shocking when Frodo was injured. That was worst of all. Everything before that—the pursuit across the Shire, Old Man Willow, the barrow wight—somehow it had all worked out. Farmer Maggot was at hand, or colorful Tom Bombadil. Even Strider, with his strange, gloomy face, was a source of comfort and strength. Frodo would be all right—he had to be. People didn't set out for a walk and end up not all right. That was… unthinkable.
"If that happens, this body, this shell, would no longer be Frodo. Do you understand me?"
Well, the unthinkable had happened. Pippin felt it with every pulse that drove slivers of pain into his traumatized skull. Frodo was dying. The dear cousin who had bounced Pippin on his knee, who had looked after him with all the fondness and none of the awkwardness of an older brother. Frodo, for whom Pippin had left the Shire, to see him safely on his way. Frodo was dying. Might, in fact, already be dead. Or what would be far worse than dead.
Pippin remembered the barrow. He never spoke of it, to Merry or anyone. But he remembered how it felt, when the arrows had pierced him, and he fell upon the hill. The booted feet of the large Men who were his comrades leaped over and about him, pressing the attack. He remembered what it felt like to be aware and not alive—to be bound to a useless body, unmoving and helpless. And then he had heard the wight's chilling song.
Was this to be Frodo's fate? Locked forever in a sunless tomb, lusting for the life of other creatures who paraded their wholeness before him for so short a time, until they, too, went into the dust? Was Frodo's spirit doomed to look out from the shadowed lintel of his chosen haunt, hating and yet yearning for the sunlight that bathed the open fields? Or even worse—trapped somewhere fouler—in Mordor, perhaps…
Here Pippin's imagination failed him. He summoned up the worst he could recall of their journey through the troll fells—the rocks, the dryness, the bitter wind. Then he peopled it with shadowy shapes that represented Wargs and Orcs, and covered it with darkness. Only Mordor would be worse than that, because the Dark Lord would be there, too. Gloating. Torturing.
Pippin shuddered. "Frodo," he whimpered.
Merry's voice came to him from across the clearing. "Pippin's awake."
"I've got him." Sam's steady tones buoyed Pippin, calming him on his sea of darkness. Pippin heard light footsteps approaching, then gentle, rough-skinned hands tucked the blanket about his chin. "There you are, Mr. Pippin. Don't fret. Sam's here."
Pippin struggled to speak. "Frodo must not..."
Merry said, "Move him closer, would you? I'm not easy having him so far from me."
Sam hesitated only a moment. "Right you are, Mr. Merry."
Sam's hands burrowed under Pippin's neck. Pippin braced himself, yet when Sam lifted, a yelp of pain escaped him.
"Your pardon, Mr. Pippin. Just a moment, and you can stay still."
Gasping against the headache, Pippin felt himself borne and carried. Soon there was earth at his back. His mind whirled, as bad as before the Elf Glorfindel had given him that sip of strange liquid.
A hand rubbed soothingly upon his chest. "There, Pippin, love." Merry's warm tones penetrated his misery. "We're right here. Sam is standing guard over us, as fierce as any Smaug. Nothing will hurt you or Frodo now."
Pippin moved his lips. It was hard to force any sound into his voice. "Not… wraith."
Merry's hand speeded up its rubbing, as if willing away the notion with briskness. "Don't worry, Pip. That won't happen—not to any of us. Will it, Sam?"
Sam didn't answer.
Merry said in a moment, softly, "Do you have any water with you?"
"No, sir. I'm that foolish. Went all that way, then left my flasks at the camp."
"Maybe Glorfindel will bring them."
Pippin heard how Merry's voice hardened when he mentioned the Elf; his cousin couldn't even bring himself to name Strider. How funny it was; with Pippin's difficulty speaking, people just talked over him, as if he couldn't hear.
But Pippin did hear. All of it. Sam's uncertainty, Merry's barely contained fear. Lightly, beneath it all, he could hear Frodo's light breaths, soft and regular. Almost he could imagine that he sensed the beat of his heart. And then he heard another sound, that pricked him to attention, although he couldn't move. A heavy footfall. Someone was coming their way.
"I won't let them do it, Sam." Merry's voice was low and intense. "There has to be another way. You'll help me, won't you? You won't let them… you won't help Frodo to die."
In the drawn-out silence, a hoof clacked against stone. Sam leaped to his feet. His voice cracked with fear as he said, "Here they come."
