I do not own the characters or main events in this tale. They all belong to JRR Tolkien and his heirs and Peter Jackson and New Line. The story is written as a fanfic only and seeks to make no profit from their work.
This tale is a merciless blending of role-play, film, book and imagination; the role- play being done by Frodo Baggins of Bag End and Elwen and I thank Febobe for allowing me to turn our little adventure into a story. We built our tale upon the question: -
What would happen if it had been Elrond, and not Glorfindel, who had met Strider and the hobbits on the road to the Fords of Bruinen? (Hey – if Peter Jackson can send Arwen, why can't we send Elrond?)
Chapter 1 – Clouds clearingThe only sound in the small campsite was the ragged rasping of Frodo as he struggled to pull air into his aching chest. With the onset of night, the rain that had fallen steadily for most of the day had ceased, but they were all soaked . . . even the food and spare clothing in their packs was damp. Merry and Pippin were busying themselves trying to coax a fire from almost dry kindling they had managed to scavenge from beneath hedges.
Only vaguely aware of his surroundings, Frodo lay where Strider had settled him, beneath the overhanging protection of a group of giant stone figures. Bilbo's trolls towered over even the tall ranger and the hobbits found them rather threatening, even though Strider had assured them that anything Gandalf's killed stayed dead. Sam knelt between the feet of one, trying to soothe his master's distress with the only tools he had, voice and hands.
Strider explored the boundaries of their temporary resting place, his sharp eyes seeking any signs of darker shadow amongst the surrounding gloom of the dripping trees; trained ears ready to act upon the slightest crack of mail shod foot upon twig or rip of tattered robe upon branch.
Glancing up suddenly, he whirled in the direction of the road, just beyond their hiding place. Seeing his sudden movement all the hobbits froze, alarm clear in their faces. With hearing as keen as any ranger they soon detected what had alerted him; the light clip of the hooves of a lone horse upon the metal of the road. Sam swallowed in a dry throat and leaned closer over his master, determined to protect him from further hurt with his own body if necessary. Off to one side their pony, Bill, twitched his ears in the direction of the sound and shuffled uneasily before even he quieted.
For several moments all movement ceased but for the rapid rise and fall of Frodo's chest, as they strained to listen to the advancing hoofbeats. Gradually, another sound was added to the clip; the light jingle of finely wrought harness, and Strider's tense form relaxed visibly. He glanced back at the hobbits.
"I think it's an elf. Wait here and I will look." Before the hobbits could draw breath to protest he was at the edge of their little clearing and he paused only long enough to whisper, "Make haste with that fire," before melting silently into the trees and making for the road.
The Ringbearer shivered. Though the rain had indeed stopped for the moment it brought little comfort for his clothes were soaked through to the skin and the chill from within him had grown steadily and unabated. His only reaction to Strider's instruction was to curl up on his right side, shivering with cold. Sam took his hand, trying to re-assure him, although he was not confident of their safety himself. Master Bilbo had lead him to believe that elves were to be trusted but Sam had discovered that the world beyond the borders of the Shire was every bit as dangerous has his old gaffer had warned and more.
It seemed that nothing in his world would ever be certain again and, as a hobbit, that alarmed him. Hobbits liked everything laid out, plain and simple. Life was intended to be lived as it had always been lived. Tales were all well and good but Sam was not a Baggins, and he took little pleasure in any upsetting of the natural order. Elves were all well and good in a tale but he wasn't too sure how he felt about actually meeting one.
Mr Frodo was supposed to live a quiet life with his books and his friends and yet here he was, close to death and hounded by beings that no sensible soul could imagine existed. And Sam? Sam was should be planting marigolds and digging taters. This was not the natural order of things at all.
"It's all right, Mr Frodo. Strider says it's not a Black Rider" he announced in what he hoped was a reassuring tone. He winced when he heard his own voice quavering and Merry turned around to grimace agreement to the tone, rather than the content.
Half aware of his surroundings the only words that registered with Frodo were "Black Rider" and mention of the name made him shudder anew, as he tried to curl up even tighter, cradling his left arm. He was so worn and weak that any resistance seemed beyond his strength. If their enemies returned now he would be lost. And if he was taken . . . what then?
In the dripping darkness Strider slipped and slid his way through mud and concealed himself in the thick undergrowth that grew close to the verge of the road at this point near the bridge. His ears told him that it was an elven rider but his mind still cried caution. Their enemies were capable of great subtlety and even a ranger of his experience was not immune to their deceptions, especially as weary as he was.
Although the undergrowth provided him with good cover it also restricted his view and the trees grew close, overhanging the road and blocking out what starlight that managed to break through the clouds. He had to rely upon his ears alone. If the rider continued on his present course and speed, however, he would soon draw level with his hiding place. Pulling an arrow from his quiver, Strider hurriedly strung it to his bow and waited, all senses strained to their utmost limits.
The clip of hooves faltered, the light jingle of harness interrupted. Then the sound continued, more slowly. Suddenly the clip-clop became soft thuds as the horse left the compacted surface of the road and moved onto the soft mulch beneath the trees, and Strider realised with some alarm, that the rider was now moving between him and the hobbits. With a smothered oath he spun about, making his way back as quickly and silently as he could.
Three diminutive and frightened faces looked up as horse and rider coalesced from the darkness, like a grey mist in the clearing. Merry and Pippin jumped up and drew their swords, backing towards Sam and Frodo. Their initial alarm faded to curiosity however, when the rider made no further move after several moment. This did not feel like a Black Rider and yet they were very much aware of an air of veiled power within the imposing form. This rider sat tall and proud upon his horse, not stooping and bent as the Black Riders, who huddled over their horse's necks.
The hood of the rider turned unerringly to a shifting shadow in the undergrowth and a firm voice, rich and strong, with a strange musical lilt, issued from the shadowed depths of the cowl.
"Good evening, Estel."
Strider emerged, his scowl brightening to a relieved smile, and he lowered his weapon as the rider reached up with long fingered hands to push back his hood. A noble, strong featured face, high browed and set in a frame of long dark hair, grey eyes almost transparent silver in the pale starlight, was thus revealed.
"Adar!" Caught off guard Aragorn had reverted to his childhood name for the elf but when the rider's finely arched brows rose he quickly corrected himself, returning to the use of Weston for the sake of their audience.
"Lord Elrond. Well met. I am very glad to see you; although how you knew where to find us I do not know." He glanced across at the hobbits, noting for the first time their bravely drawn swords. "All is well, gentlemen. This is Master Elrond of Rivendell."
For long moments they could only stare, open mouthed, at the tall elegantly attired figure, another character from Bilbo's tale. Merry and Pippin glanced at each other and sheathed their weapons and Sam finally shook himself, looking down at his master, eyes filled with wonder. Maybe elves were alright outside of a tale after all.
"It's an elf, Mr Frodo. It's Master Elrond himself! The one Mister Bilbo told us about."
From beneath the protective shelter of Sam's arms Frodo squinted, blinking uncertainly. To him, hovering between two worlds now, the rider seemed almost to shimmer, like soft moonlight through mist.
Dropping lightly from the horse's back Elrond unhooked his saddlebag. He slapped his horse's rump lightly, murmuring something in a language the hobbits did not understand. Apparently released, his mount picked a way daintily around the edge of their campsite and nuzzled up to Bill, the little pony accepting his presence and leaning in, reaching up to snort the elven horse a greeting.
"The breeze brought me news that the Ringbearer was in grave danger and in need of aid so I rode out to meet you." He swung towards the smaller figures, gathered at the far side of the campsite, heavy grey cloak swirling softly about his finely booted feet. Coming beneath his imperious gaze Merry and Pippin found themselves bowing and Strider moved forward to make formal introduction.
"These are the Ringbearer's companions. The two standing are Masters Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took. The other is Samwise Gamgee." Sam did not rise, choosing instead to remain with his master and only nodding when the silver eyes turned upon him, although he feel himself blush, feeling that those ancient orbs were seeing more of him than was right or proper upon a first meeting.
"The Ringbearer, Master Frodo Baggins, lies yonder. The enemy has indeed gravely wounded him and I was hoping to bring him to you swiftly. But we are being pursued and I have had to take a . . . circuitous route."
The elven lord took a moment to incline his head in acknowledgement of the introductions. "Any more circuitous and even I would not have found you. These are not the most hospitable of hills to be lost in at the best of times." Aragorn's lips thinned at the pointed censure but he obviously thought better of any attempt to reply. Flitting across the clearing and dropping fluidly to his knees at Frodo's side, Elrond stripped off wet gloves, rubbing warmth into his hands before laying a gentle palm upon the hobbit's brow. Sam leaned back to allow him room, beginning to trust this tall stranger . . . but not quite enough to leave Frodo completely at his mercy.
Elrond's voice was softer now. "Well met at last, Frodo Baggins."
Still shaking with chill, yet Frodo sighed softly with relief as the large warm hand touched his damp forehead, managing a small smile.
"Lord Elrond . . . I . . . Bilbo . . ." His voice trailed off and he blinked in confusion, looking from stone trolls to Sam and Elrond and back again. "I must be dreaming . . . Sam? Bilbo's stories . . . It can't be real . . . can it?" Desperate blue eyes sought Elrond's. "Are . . . please, are you . . . real?"
Sam's hands found his cold left one, clasping it firmly between both of his and vainly trying to rub some warmth into it. He glanced at Elrond before he smiled down tightly at his friend, trying to pitch his voice in soothing tones, concerned at his master's confusion.
"Mr Bilbo's stories were true. Here's his trolls to prove it." He pointed above them. "Large as life and twice as ugly."
Elrond's grave and ancient eyes met Frodo's and he took the other hand, squeezing it gently in warm fingers, his voice blending with the whisper of the evening breeze in the trees surrounding them. "And I am real, Tithen Pen."
Frodo settled down with a sigh, re-assured by friend and elf. Elrond's gentle touch calmed and warmed him a little, though in perception only, for he remained chilled to the touch, his left hand icy within Sam's grasp. Still, the assurance that this figure was indeed real and not a pain induced hallucination brought some comfort and Frodo managed a faint smile.
It did not need the acuity of elven eyesight to discover the large bloodstain on Frodo's jacket and Elrond began to unfasten the hobbit's shirt and waistcoat. "When did this happen?"
Strider's voice lowered as he returned to speaking Sindarin and hunkered down next to Elrond. "Some days ago. The Ulaer came upon us at Weathertop. I was careless and . . . he was stabbed by the Witch King himself." From a pouch at his belt he produced the hilt of a large knife and held it out to his foster father, who actually flinched back a little. "I did all that I could to treat it but he seems to be getting worse. I think there is some poison at work."
Elrond made no move to accept the hilt but he did scrutinise it carefully as Aragorn turned it this way and that for him. His more experienced eye easily translated the runes of dark power woven into the design carved upon it.
"You could not be expected to foresee all", he conceded. "This was an evil and specially forged blade. Put the hilt somewhere safe and we will dispose of it later."
Returning it to the pouch, Strider sighed, his head drooping. "They trusted me to protect them, Ada."
His foster father softened, laying a firm hand upon his forearm and gripping it in comfort. "And their trust was not misplaced. No other could have brought them this far, unless it be Mithrandir."
Strider finally relaxed a little, watching as his foster father pushed aside shirt and waistcoat, lifting the makeshift dressing to survey the damage to Frodo's shoulder.
"Have you heard from Mithrandir?" asked Strider as his foster father worked.
Elrond shook his head. "Not for some time and that concerns me." He pursed his lips once Frodo's shoulder was exposed to his gaze and, turning to Merry and Pippin, he reverted to common speech once more.
"Gentlehobbits, you had better make haste with that fire. I will need a large pot of hot water in order to tend to your companion."
They started, as though from a dream, and returned to the kindling, setting back to work to produce a respectable flame and place a pan of water to heat.