Chapter 3 – Starlight Gathering
"Try to rest, Frodo. Sindalome's gait is light and smooth."
Frodo leaned back against his caregiver as best he could. The horse's gait was indeed smooth and sure and Elrond's hold secure but he began to feel miserable nonetheless, whimpering as the swaying made him feel sick and jostled his shoulder.
"I'm going to be sick. Can't I . . . lie down? Or at the least . . . go more slowly?"
A touch of the reins and Sindalome slowed and halted. "I dare not ride more slowly. Our enemies are too close."
Frodo whimpered, his features taking on a grey hue. Elrond considered for a moment, finally dropping reins and lifting him gently across his lap. Wrapping both arms around him he drew the mop of dark curls to rest against his chest.
"Is that more comfortable?"
"Yes . . . yes, thank you." Frodo snuggled more deeply into the folds of Elrond's cloak, curling up against the warmth of his body appreciatively. "That's better . . . Is Rivendell . . . far?"
"Not too far." The Master of Rivendell squeezed his legs gently to Sindalome's flanks and the horse responded at once, moving from trot to canter and then to a smooth gallop with no further urging.
But with each step the Lord of Imladris grew more uneasy, rather than less, and he took a more secure hold on the Ringbearer, allowing Sindalome his head.
His unease was far from baseless. The darkness began to press more closely about them and patches of deeper black gathered within it, although as yet some distance behind them. Their presence was not hidden from an elven spirit, however, and Frodo too responded, sinking lower in his protector's strong arms, sweat breaking out chill upon his brow once more.
Elrond's calm voice was audible, even above the wind rushing in Frodo's ears and the frantic pounding of his heart. "Hold on, Ringbearer. They will not take you while I still draw breath."
Of a sudden, to left and right, the elven lord sensed other presences converging upon them and he called an urgent command to his mount. "Noro lim, Sindalome!"
At the very last moment Sindalome did indeed find more speed from somewhere and dashed between the two dark shapes that flew at them from the trees on either side. Elrond ducked low over Frodo as the trailing edge of one tattered black robe fluttered past their faces in a rush of air as cold and dank as the tomb.
Frodo cried out, trembling violently, his breath catching. Yet, even now, Elrond could sense the small hobbit's will focussing, struggling desperately to keep his right hand from reaching for something.
There was an answering shriek from the increasing company of pursuing riders. Elrond risked a glance behind as four, then six . . . no . . . seven, joined the other two. Beneath Elrond's cloak the Ringbearer's trembling redoubled, his teeth chattering, still fighting to resist.
Hearing the siren call in his own mind the elven lord commanded, "Do not surrender to it", his voice dropping clear and firm in the Ringbearer's mind once more. "We are nearly at the Fords of Bruinen. The river will protect us. Hold on."
Frodo's sluggish mind struggled with the concept of a river protecting them from such a terrible foe but he could do nothing but hold on as instructed, as Sindalome gathered himself beneath them. Suddenly they were weightless, soaring in mid air, before landing with a jolt and a loud splash of spray, in the shallow waters of the Fords. The horse barely paused, continuing on across the wide river. Frodo felt a surge and they were up the far bank.
Elrond called another command and Sindalome skidded to a halt and wheeled about neatly on his hind feet to face the line of dark figures poised upon the farther shore.
Nine kings of men faded into darkness, and among them their lord, Angmar's king of old, the Witch King. He wrestled his dark and snorting mount forward, glittering eyes staring out from hood and helm towards Earendil's last living son and the diminutive Ringbearer.
"So, Elrond Halfelven." The mocking tone crawled upon the wind to the Master of Imladris. "You think yourself mightier than the Dark Lord of Mordor? Ah . . . high and mighty, are we not?"
The form that would be head inclined slightly, lowering, the voice taking on an enticing, almost sing-song lilt. "Put it on, Baggins. Take the Ring . . . you have but to slip it upon your finger."
Beneath Elrond's cloak there was a palpable increase in the slight form's trembling . . . and a sway. Frodo grew dizzy and faint, blinking without focus as he attempted vainly, though valiantly, to draw his sword . . . and then came a faint but defiant voice.
"Go back . . . Go back to the land of Mordor and follow me no more!"
Smiling now, the Lord of Imladris, secret wielder of Vilya, one of the three elven rings of power, drew himself up to his full and not inconsiderable height. Silver grey eyes seemed to gather starlight to them and a pale glow began to surround him. The Peredhil's voice was low and yet the night breeze carried it clearly to his enemy as he drew Frodo more tightly in his embrace.
"At least I am still the master of my own fate. If you consider yourself mightier than I, in your master's strength, you will have no difficulty in wresting the Ringbearer from me. Perhaps you would care to try?" With those words Elrond unsheathed his own sword, shifting Frodo in one arm.
Icy laughter insinuated itself in Frodo's mind and he whimpered as the air chilled, searing his throat and lungs. The Lord of the Nazgul raised his head, his mirth splintering upon the stone walls of the canyon.
"I would, but I have no need thereof. The Ringbearer will come to me, with time . . . and he will flee your arms willingly enough. Already it is too late."
Frodo moaned softly, leaning heavily against Elrond's arm as if in a faint. Although his voice was weakening a few words remained audible.
"By Elbereth . . . and Luthien the Fair . . . you shall have neither . . . the Ring . . . nor me." But the hobbit's strength was waning rapidly and his words faded into silence.
Elrond's mind assessed swiftly the implication of the Witch King's words, guessing at last, what may be happening to the Ringbearer. But the enemy was worried enough that Frodo would elude him that he was willing chase him closely, and that brought the elf some hope. There may yet be time.
His answering laugh was rich, full of life and strength, although at the same time his hand was desperately fumbling within Frodo's jacket to find some sign of the hobbit's heartbeat.
"You sense him slipping from the light, do you?" he taunted. "But think you that, even as a wraith, the little one would be any match for Earendil's son? Half elven I am called, but the blood of Elenwe of the Vanyar flows also in my veins. It is I who hold him at present and it is I, therefore, who hold that which your . . . master . . ." Elrond spat the title from his lips, "so greatly desires."
The elf lord's voice took on a sardonic twist. "If you think your leash is long enough you may try to fetch it . . . like the good little hunting dog that you are."
His fingers finally detected the heartbeat . . . weak and barely perceptible . . . but still there, fluttering like a caged bird within its frame of ribs. Frodo's life was ebbing, like the flow of blood from an unstaunched wound. Much further delay would render verbal conflict moot in the matter of Frodo's life; the Ring would triumph again, its master perhaps smiling sardonically in his distant tower.
Yet the truth of the words of the Lord of Imladris was not lost upon Shadow and the Ulaer all sensed that truth. The One Ring must not fall into Elrond's hands. Now that Isildur's Bane had been found Sauron would brook no delay in its return to his hand. Thus the Witch King advanced, trotting his reluctant mount into the crystal waters of the Fords of Bruinen with an eerie grace as his compatriots followed . . . kings of the realm of Shadow.
But more starlight seemed to gather about Earendil's son. He drew a deep breath and waited as first one, then three, six, eight, nine black horses stood in the shallow icy water of the river that flowed from the valley of Imladris, Elrond's home. The Witch King was almost within reach of the Ringbearer, stretching forth his gauntleted hand, when the shimmering starlight was suddenly sucked into the elf's body and Elrond's steel grey eyes locked unflinchingly upon the dark cowl before him, meeting and holding the baleful glare of his enemy.
The voice of Elrond, Lord of Imladris, held no fear, only firm command: -
Nin o Chithaeglir
Lasto beth daer;
Rimmo nin Bruinen
Dan in Ulaer"
The final words were almost lost in a loud rumbling roar from upstream. The Lord of Imladris did not move, but his eyes shone in triumph as he saw his foes glance in surprise towards the sound, the eyes of their night black horses rolling white in alarm.
A large wall of water crashed down upon riders and mounts, its foaming crest graced with the tossing heads and flowing manes of pale horses; light coming against the darkness.
Within an instant the Black Riders were swallowed by the churning and violent current, a flood of pure water rising up against them, sweeping away all trace of their filth in a crescendo of noise.
Yet Elrond was listening to a different song. The fragile music beneath his hand thinned and Frodo sank, sagging limply against his protector's arm, held on the horse only by this support. Earendil's son was not yet spent, however. Throwing aside his sword he leaned Frodo back in his arms, all pride and anger gone and only compassion in his voice.
"Not yet, Tithen Pen. It is not time to leave, Frodo Baggins. Take hold of the light." With those words the elven healer unwound a long thread of starlight from his own fea, lowering it into the mist gathering about the Ringbearer's soul. "Lay hold, Frodo", he pleaded.
Yet there was no response. The small form lay motionless, sinking slowly into the grey mist, his body lax. His open right hand showed fine crescents of blood across the palm, the marks of deep pressure from fingernails desperately tightened into a fist. Although the blue eyes were still open, what focus there once was, and even the struggle for it, had gone.
But then the healer found it . . . the tiniest of threads . . . a minute mithril filament, fragile and sheer as gossamer, reaching tentatively towards him. Stretching into the mist as far as he dare and farther yet, holding on to his own thread of starlight, Elrond finally caught the fine silken tendril, and with the skilful touch of a master surgeon, he tied it firmly to his own cord.
Struggling upward from the cold cloying mist, Elrond surfaced into the physical world once more. Blinking and drawing a much needed breath he brought his surroundings into focus and touched his legs to his mount's flanks, finding only enough breath to murmur, "Home, Sindalome."
The tall horse broke into a canter and then an easy gallop as he followed the familiar pathways to his home, needing no further guidance from his weary master. Elrond pulled Frodo closer as even the hobbit's shivering ceased, an ill sign for the limp body was icy to the touch, the left shoulder and side most of all. Blue eyes rolled upward to hide behind pale, dark lashed lids and there was scant sign to the outside world that the Ringbearer yet lived.
Fortunately, Elrond's household had not been idle during his absence and as the travellers reached the Last Homely House a group of riders came out to meet them. One of Elrond's sons, Elladan drew in rein, his fair features anxious but steady.
"Adar, we have everything prepared for the Ringbearer. A room is readied and Erestor is sitting with Bilbo, who still sleeps."
Elrond paused only long enough to instruct Glorfindel and the other riders where to find Aragorn and his weary party, and then he and Elladan continued into the courtyard.
As they clattered to a halt before the wide porch Elrond released his feet from the stirrups, swinging his leg forward over Sindalome's neck and sliding to the cobbles, still holding Frodo in his arms, for he dare not break the physical link between them now. Running smoothly up the steps and into the house, both elves ignored the curious glances of others of the household as Elladan lead the way to the chamber prepared.