Chapter Text
“It was often said (in other families) that long ago one of the Took ancestors must have taken a fairy wife. That was, of course, absurd, but certainly there was still something not entirely hobbitlike about them, and once in a while members of the Took-clan would go and have adventures." - The Hobbit, JRR Tolkien
The first glimmers of dawn were just coming to the clear summer skies and the stars were still vivid above a subtly lightening horizon. Hobbiton slept, very soon, the farmers and laborers would rise to go about the work that they had been doing for many peaceful generations. The gentle lapping of water against the quiet machinery of the mill broke the stillness and somewhere a frog croaked in the river grass.
The passing of four incongruously tall figures, over the bridge and up the hill, went unnoticed by almost everyone. The wizard went first, to break the blow and was quickly followed by the other three; two grey cloaked elves carrying an unconscious ranger between them.
The wizard lead them on in confident silence, Elrohir’s gentle healing song was barely a whisper in the tall man’s ear, one of his hands was over the wound on his lower back, skillfully stabilizing the broken shaft of an arrow, strong elven hands applying pressure over a hasty, blood soaked field dressing.
“Are you sure this is a good idea, Mithrandir?” Elladan whispered, adjusting the man’s arm across his shoulder. His bright eyes scanned the sleepy village with more than a little curiosity, “they say that the perianath fear strangers.” In truth he had a great curiosity for the lore of the small folk who were considered mysterious even by the eldar. Mad Baggins himself had become instantaneously legendary after his appearance in Rivendell several decades earlier among a gaggle of dwarves and subsequent unprecedented escape from the dungeons of the king of the Greenwood Thranduil Orpherion himself. The twins had not been present for the original event but the songs and stories of his misadventures had quickly caught up with them.
But at this minute Elladan’s interest in Hobbit lore was eclipsed by his concern for his foster brother who had an orcish arrowhead caught between his lumbar vertebra. The Shirelings knew little of the price that their quiet peace was bought with, the Dunadain had guarded their borders in secret for many long centuries. Those dark powers which had overrun the ancient realms that used to dominate the Western parts of Middle Earth had not yet swept through the carefully tended gardens and fields of the little people, and that peace was largely purchased with the blood of the Men of the West.
“This is the safest place for him Elrondion,” the wizard admonished, reaching around the small white gate to unlatch it, “or would you rather remove the arrow in the wilds?” the wizard raised his bushy eyebrows. Forgoing the bright round front door, he carefully lifted his robes and navigated the expansive flower beds to rap his staff on the leaded windows of the master bedroom.
“Awake, Master Baggins!” the wizard said in a voice that was quiet but commanding. The cool stump of a beeswax candle on Bilbo’s nightstand flared to suddenly illuminate the room.
There was a groan and a string of colorful expletives from the suddenly awakened master of Bag End. “Gandalf?!” there was a sound of shuffling. “what time is it?”
“Awake! Master Hobbit!” there was a sound of swiftly opening and closing doors and they could see the light of his candle move between the windows on the side of the hill. The light passed through the kitchen and the dining room with its round fireplace before stopping to illuminate the cheerful yellow windows on either side of the green front door.
“Master Gandalf?” the sleepy Halfling pulled the door open a crack, still tying his striped red dressing gown. His brown eyes became round as he looked from the wizard to the twins to the ranger. The two identical elves seemed terrifying, their dark figures looming up against the lightening East, their eyes bright as the stars in the sky behind them. Was one of them singing?
“I am afraid that I must impose upon your hospitality once more mister Baggins,” Gandalf pushed open the door further with his staff and stepping aside, he motioned for the three tall figures to enter. “lie him on the table.”
Elladan hesitated for a moment, and glanced at the wizard, Centuries of Noldorin courtly etiquette clashed momentarily with the urgency of their situation, was it not rude to enter a stranger’s house without proper invitation or introduction? Sensing his unease, and only subtly rolling his eyes, Mithrandir made a hasty introduction.
“Masters Elladan, Estel, Elrohir, I believe you know their father, the lord or Rivendell,” then gesturing to the Hobbit, “Master Baggins, we have need of your table.” Without any further formalities he pushed past the still sleepy hobbit and sweeping into the dining room, he began removing everything from the long chestnut dining table. Elladan bowed his head, still supporting Aragorn’s weight and smiled in a way that he hoped seemed non-threatening.
“At your service Master Baggins.” His voice was gentle and melodic even as he dodged the chandelier.
The hobbit bowed helplessly.
With the exception of Gandalf, who didn’t seem to count, Bilbo had never seen one of the big folk across the river, let alone inside Bag End, and this one was especially tall. The cluttered accumulation of flowers and candles and his mother’s silken table runner that usually covered the long dining table were hastily swept aside. The rangers cloak was thrown into a corner with Gandalf’s hat. In the end, Aragorn’s feet still dangled over the end of the table as he lay his pale face against Elrohir’s shoulder who knelt on the floor. He smelled wild and mannish and the smell of blood reminded Bilbo sharply of some very unpleasant memories. The man looked ridiculous in the cramped space. Bilbo sent the wizard a pained look, this was not what he and been planning to do today.
If it wasn’t for the constant urgency of Elrohir’s healing song, which had increased in volume and power as they came inside, the Hobbit would have been quite afraid. He watched numbly as Gandalf filled a kettle and a stew pot on his hearth, which was suddenly alight with a merry fire, the wizard seemed perfectly at home in his kitchen. The hobbit shook his head wondering whether two elves a man and a wizard ate as much as twelve dwarves.
“What happened to him?” he asked.
“Orcs.” Was Elladan’s terse answer, he dropped a bag to one of the chairs and produced a few clear bottles, a rolled leather case full of gleaming mithril tools which he laid within arms reach across the man’s backside and a white roll of cloth bandages.
“Near the Binhole wood.” Gandalf finished, knowing that the Hobbit would feel assured by specifics.
“So close to the Shire?” Bilbo made eye contact with the elf who held his gaze with his terrible eyes for a moment. Elladan assessed the hobbit, one of the halfling’s hands nervously fidgeting with something in his dressing gown pocket. He had expected hobbits to be somewhat clueless but this one seemed shrewd and well informed, “should we alert the Shire wardens?”
“They will not be bothering you,” the elf said with a hint of violence in his soft voice, “that I can promise.” He frowned, watching Gandalf using Bilbo’s poultry shears to cut away the ranger’s tunic which was soaked with blood, “Something has been making them stronger, they never used to come down this far.” He made tense eye contact with the wizard.
Bilbo nodded, feeling helpless. “What can I do?” he looked from the elf to the wizard hopefully.
“We have to remove the arrow now.” Elrohir said, breaking his song for the first time. “the barb is hooked behind his spinal cord.”
The wizard and the other elf both cringed.
“Ai valar!” Aragorn gasped, moved slightly and screamed into the elf’s shoulder as Elrohir’s singing lapsed and the agony hit him all at once. “Ai Eru!” he sobbed.
Elrohir stroked the man’s hair.
“Hold him still!” The wizard put his weight over the man’s hips and Aragorn found himself completely immobilized by deceptively thin elven arms even as Elrohir started singing again, strong fingers rubbing the back of his neck and the man gasped and sobbed weakly. The younger twin tried to soothe the cacophony of pain in his brother’s body, pulling him back into forgetful unconsciousness.
“This is the furthest we dared move him. We will need somewhere for him to recover when its done.” Elladan said, looking hopefully from the wizard to the hobbit.
“Well I’m sure he won’t fit on a hobbit bed…” Bilbo said somewhat forlornly.
“How long?” the wizard asked the elf.
“about four fee…” Bilbo was about to say but he was interrupted by Elladan and felt very stupid.
“Even with all our skill I cannot say.”
“Lets make sure there is a recovery to be had first.” The wizard looked grim as he watched Elladan removing a vial of some milky substance from his bag and pouring it carefully into a cup that Bilbo recognized as his Grandmother’s.
-That’s a lot.- Elrohir warned, his brother with a look, not daring to break his song again.
“If he moves an inch he will never walk again.”Elladan said frankly. The twins exchanged a look and a synchronized breath. “monitor him closely.”
They both coaxed the liquid into the ranger’s pain clenched teeth. The second elf joined his brother’s song and somehow their slightly harmonized voices created a palpable resonance in the small kitchen that sent the leaded windows to trembling. Bilbo could not recognize any distinct words but he knew it was a song of hope and healing and home and even to those who did not understand the weaving, dancing power of the twin’s interwoven music it brought a sense of deep and joyful healing to the mind and body. After a moment the ranger seemed to sag, his face pressed against Elrohir’s shoulder.
“Let’s begin.” Elladan closed his eyes in a brief prayer.
Bilbo saw one of the elves, without hesitation, plunge his long fingers into the wound and blood ran across the man’s back and onto the table.
Bilbo was ready with a hand towel which he was sure would be ruined after all this, the wizard took it and used it to catch the blood. With utmost care and barely seeming to breathe, the elf manipulated the tissue around the wound so that he could assess the damage to the ranger’s spine. The arrow had only gone in a few inches, but it was the wrong few inches. Aragorn twitched and his face tightened but the fog of drugs was heavy over his mind and he could not twist away from the horrible wrenching vortex of pain, clenching his whole body around the base of his spine.
“The third vertebra is fractured…” Elladan exhaled slowly, “it’s very close to his spinal chord, the bone is broken, im not sure how much damage there is.” He reached for the tools and his brother handed him a tweezers, barely breathing as he extracted a knife sharp shard of bone. Gandalf held out one of Bilbo’s good dishes and he dropped the shard into it with a clink. Then he drew out another, and another, then five more splinters and chips, too small for Bilbo’s eye to catch.
After a few tense moments of careful exploration, Elladan paused, teeth clenched. It was bad. He knew it was bad, he could feel the bloody mess of nerve fibers and broken bone under his fingers. If they were in Imladris his father, and his team of healers would have customized mithril hardware to stabilize the bone. But home was weeks of hard riding away.
He put one delicate, bloody hand on the man’s ribs, it was shaking, Bilbo had never seen an elf shake. After steadying himself for a moment he spoke again, “Ah… Varda Elentari… I have to push it farther in to get it out.” He looked from the wizard to his twin with fear in his eyes.
“Go prepare a place for him to recover!” Gandalf reminded the transfixed Hobbit sharply.
Bilbo nodded, looking around helplessly as if bed linens were something he kept lying around the kitchen. He averted his eyes as he heard the human cry out weakly again. Bilbo turned back into the hallway, wringing his hands and considering which of his linens should be sacrificed for the wounded human. He would have to make a bed on the floor. Could the man die? He had known the wizard for years but had never seen the fear in his eyes that had fixed on the man.
A cool morning breeze blew in through the open door and turning to look towards the red-pink lightening sky, Bilbo turned to regard the shocked form of Hamfast Gamgee in the circular portal. The gardener stood in the door, his brown eyes were bright with tears as he gazed into the dining room. The music that echoed through the tunnels had swept him away to a place where his simple, hardworking mind had never imagined or dreamed of. He saw flowers bursting into bloom in the gardens of Aman, gleaming trees with white branches crackling in lightning bright fractals through newborn stars. He looked as if he was about to swoon.
“Hamfast!” Bilbo snapped, trying to bring his servant back to reality. “mister Gamgee!” he grabbed the Gardener’s arm as he swayed.
“Elves, sir?” was all the stunned gardener could manage to say.
“Do you have a spare bedroll!” he only blinked at Bilbo for a moment, “Tell nobody what you’ve seen here.” With what seemed like an enormous effort, the portly gardener tore himself from the sound of elvish singing and rushed to where his wife had left a line of clean laundry to dry on the roof of their hole.
Bilbo turned back to the dining room, hearing Elladan’s cry of triumph as he held up a crude iron arrowhead between his fingers. He dropped it into the bowl with a clink. The Ranger did not move.
Without wasting a moment, both twins laid both their hands across the wound and Gandalf put his hand on top of their’s. A flickering light like red, living fire emanated from the pile of hands. The twins locked eyes and the music changed. The dishes and windowpane rattled and a wind seemed to blow through the halls. It rose and within it was the sound of life and hope and healing and peace.