elderberrywine (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
elderberrywine) wrote2005-03-29 08:58 am
elderberrywine) wrote2005-03-29 08:58 am
New Fic - Encroaching Shadows (Far From Home, Chapter Eight)
Hi there all!
Well, here is the last chapter of the first part of Far From Home. Structure-wise, it's following the original thus far, but I don't expect it to necessarily stay that way. *evil chuckle* There be angst and h/c here, my pretties, so ye be warned, says I. (/Pirates of the Caribbean)
Title: Encroaching Shadows, Far From Home, Chapter Eight
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairings: F/S, M/P
Rating: R overall
Summary: It's a long road to Rivendell, and Sam has to make some choices he never dreamed he'd make.
Where Strider had come from, Sam never knew, but as soon as Frodo’s shocked scream pierced the air, and he had reappeared, lying on the stone pavement of Weathertop and clutching one hand in the other, there was a sudden movement from behind Sam, and Strider leapt into view, a sword in his right hand and a burning brand in the other. “Begone, foul phantoms,” he cried out, his voice strangely commanding in a way that Sam had never heard him speak before. “You shall not have him.”
The power of it almost seemed to halt the spectre bending over Frodo for a moment, and the black creature turned from the now senseless small body, still on the stone before its feet and glided forward, facing the ranger. But Strider was apparently immune to the spell of fear the creature had been able to cast over the hobbits, and advanced slowly upon it. And then with a noise like that of a rushing wind, and a grating cry, the other black shapes swept from behind and past Sam, and he suddenly recalled Strider’s words. “We mean nothing to them,” he had quietly told Sam that evening he had warned him about the dangers they faced. “It is Frodo alone whom they seek.”
But there was no ignoring Strider now, as he stood tall and bold in their midst, and then suddenly, with a great cry, swung out with both fire and cold iron. Sam had managed to raise himself to his feet, once their dreadful attention was not directed toward him, and seizing the sword he had earlier raised up from the ground again, saw that Strider had drawn them away from the helpless form sprawled against the stone battlement. Quickly he ran to Frodo’s side, hoping desperately to shield Frodo from them somehow, and turned to see the tall man, with a wordless snarl of hatred, ignite the cape of one rider with the fire, setting it instantly aflame, and sweep the sword of another rider to the stone with his own. Strider turned and twisted, avoiding every move the remaining black riders made toward him, and now there was another rider alit as well. At last, with a final mad cry of fury, Strider charged at the leader of the wraiths, who had stabbed Frodo, sending its sword flying from its gauntlets, and plunged the burning brand full at its head, under the concealing cloak. The creature shrank back, with a piercing wail, and even before Sam could realize it, all the hideous shapes had vanished into the dark night. But Strider threw his sword and brand to the stony ground, and sank to his knees on the other side of Frodo’s quiet form from Sam, with grief and anguish on his face.
“Oh, Frodo,” he cried softly, the command now gone from his voice, and lifted a gentle hand to Frodo’s face.
Sam was crouched at Frodo’s side, his own sword forgotten and discarded on top of Frodo’s, numbed by the hideous shock and motionless, except for a hand that trembled against Frodo’s red-soaked sleeve. He stared uncomprehendingly down at him, frozen in heart and mind, all his world coming somehow to an abrupt and incomprehensible end, but as the ranger touched Frodo’s forehead, he moaned and stirred slightly.
“He still lives,” the man gasped in amazement at that sound, lifting a stunned face up to a dazed Sam, who instantly looked up at him, the faintest stirrings of hope clutching at him as painfully as blood beginning to stir again in a numbed limb.
“You are sturdy indeed, my dear hobbit,” Strider murmured gently, returning his attention to Frodo. Pippin and Merry, who had wordlessly approached, were watching in a state of traumatized horror behind Sam, who was still kneeling at Frodo’s side. Carefully, Strider pushed back the cloak from Frodo’s blood-soaked left shoulder, but Frodo’s eyes flickered open, and with a sudden jagged gasp, he looked up at them.
“Sam,” his voice was hoarse with pain, and Sam desperately tried to keep from breaking into tears. They would be of no use to Frodo; there was no time for them now. Carefully, he laid a tender hand against Frodo’s cheek.
“Here, me dear,” his voice was rough, and he gulped hard, forcing the sobs down.
“The box, Sam,” Frodo choked out, turning his face toward Sam with the greatest of effort, his eyes fearfully searching Sam’s. But Sam understood, and immediately turned away, rising to look for it, frantic to give any peace of mind that he could to Frodo.
It was not far from where Frodo lay, the small box that had been in Frodo’s pocket ever since they had fled from the Shire. He quickly picked it up from the stone, and opened it, not without fear, but it was empty. Hastening back to Frodo, he held it open.
With an immense intensity of purpose, Frodo raised his shaking right hand, that had been lying across his chest, and held out his clenched fist. Dropping that which he had clutched so tightly in his hand into the box that Sam held out, his hand fell back down again, and he groaned in pain, his eyes closing, and then lay still, senseless once more. Sam tucked the box into Frodo’s pocket with great care, and then lovingly brushed the dampened dark curls from his cold forehead. Wordlessly biting his lip, he looked up to Strider, dazedly awaiting his verdict.
But Strider frowned, his long fingers still holding Frodo’s cloak away from his shoulder. “I need to see his wound,” he at last muttered, his eyes rising to meet Sam’s. “But first,” and his voice trailed off, as he stood and glanced about them. There was light enough to see, as the moon had remained before the clouds, and the other hobbits saw it as soon as Strider did, the elaborately wrought sword that had been used against Frodo, glinting silver near the far wall of the battlement. Even as Strider walked warily toward it, however, it was suddenly obscured, as if by a smoky mist, and a moment later the pavement was bare, and the sword was gone. Pippin gave a short cry of horror, and Strider’s expression was grim. For a moment he bent his head down, as if in pain, and then with a determined set of his broad shoulders, turned to the three hobbits who watched him.
“Merry, Pippin,” he commanded them sternly. “Go back to where you were camping, and rebuild the fire. Find water, and I’ll need whatever clean cloths you can find. Sam, prepare blankets so that I can move him as close to the fire as possible. I shall need light, as much as you may give me, so let the fire be as bright as you can manage. I am no longer concerned as to who may see us.”
Merry and Pippin ran immediately back to the ledge where they had been earlier that evening, thankful for the opportunity to do anything that might help, but Sam stood uncertainly beside Frodo, watching as Strider carefully picked up the small inert form. “Go on, Sam,” Strider glanced over at him, his voice gentle. “First we must see what damage has been done. He still lives, and that is most heartening. Any who can survive a blow such as that is very resilient.”
Sam nodded, and stumbled off to find blankets for Frodo, fighting the tears that kept heedlessly blinding him. There was no time for them now; Frodo needed him to be strong, and he would not fail him.
&&&&&
“Be ready, Sam,” Strider grimly warned him, as Sam sat close to the fire, with an unconscious Frodo cradled in his arms. “He may awaken while I am examining his wound, and the more you can keep him still, the better it will be for him.” Sam nodded silently, unthinkingly drawing Frodo even closer. He knew that Merry and Pippin were hovering behind him, both ready to do anything that Strider might ask of them, but he did not dare to glance their way. He was all too aware that it would take no more than the briefest of glances, exchanged with either of them, and this whole horrible nightmare would be suddenly, hideously real, and he would not be able to contain his grief. So he concentrated on Strider, on the ranger’s detached, impassive expression, and his sure manner. All his hopes were on Strider now, and he knew that if anyone could help Frodo, it would not be him, but rather this quiet, circumspect man.
However, Frodo lay mercifully still in Sam’s arms as the ranger carefully drew back the jacket, and then the blood stained shirt from his shoulder. The white skin shone with a pearlescent pallor in the moonlight, but even brighter was the dark red gleam of the fresh blood still seeping from the jagged wound that had ripped open the flesh of Frodo’s left shoulder. Strider studied it silently, and then moved his hand over the gash. Some cloud must have passed before the moon at that point, for it almost appeared to Sam as if a wisp of dark mist floated past the ranger’s hand, and the man briefly closed his eyes.
Then he looked up at Merry, standing behind Sam and anxiously twisting the cloth in his hands, and nodded. “Dip that in hot water,” he spoke calmly to the fearful young hobbit. “It will cool swiftly enough.”
He and Sam then waited silently for Merry and Pippin to prepare the cloth and almost, it seemed to Sam, that he was about to say something to him. But then Merry hesitantly brought the cloth back, handing it to Strider, and the moment passed, as Strider leaned forward to carefully wind it under Frodo’s clothing, behind and around his shoulder, drawing it tight enough to halt the bleeding, but not so tight as to cause further pain. Gently, he then laid a cautious hand on the side of Frodo’s neck, feeling his pulse, and nodded.
“His heart is yet strong,” he murmured, giving Sam a grave look. “Stay closely by the fire with him, and keep him warm this night. And all three of you,” he added, glancing up at the two frightened younger hobbits. “Try to sleep this night, if you can. There will be no black shapes to disturb your rest tonight, at least. Tomorrow, we must make all haste for Rivendell.” He bent over Frodo once more, and resting his hand on his forehead, murmured some words in a low voice. Frodo sighed at the sound, and his breathing relaxed and slowed. Strider stood then, and nodded. “He will sleep for now,” he said softly, and started to leave. But then he paused, as he reached the edge of the circle of light, and turned back to them.
“They use fear. It is their most powerful weapon,” he said quietly, giving the hobbits a serious look. “Do not question yourselves, and do not give in to doubt. All of you acquitted yourselves well this night.” And his eye fell on Sam for a last moment before he was gone into the night.
Merry knelt at Sam’s side after Strider had left, and lightly touched Frodo’s curls. He started to speak, and then bowed his head down, fighting to find his voice. “You were wonderful, Sam,” he whispered at last, keeping his eyes on Frodo’s still face. “You gave Strider time.”
“Not enough,” Sam rasped out the words and closed his eyes. “Not near enough.”
Merry gave a silent shake of his head, but rose, saying no more. Pippin, who had gone over to where he and Merry had lain earlier that evening, slipped up behind him at that point, and gently laid one of their blankets over Sam and Frodo. He also carefully pushed his pack under Sam’s arm, wrapped around Frodo, to give him extra support. Sam smiled wearily up at him, and murmured, “The both o’ye’d be needin’ some sleep now. He’ll be fine until the morn, I think, no need to worry.”
“We’ll be staying close by, if you wouldn’t mind,” Merry said hesitantly, and Sam smiled up at him, more warmly this time.
“We won’t be minding it at all,” he promised truthfully, and morning found the four of them curled quite closely together.
&&&&&
Sam had dozed on and off through the night, resolutely refusing to really consider what had happened to Frodo, concerning himself only with Frodo’s comfort, ensuring that his breathing was steady, that his shoulder was not touched, that he was not sleeping on the cold ground, but rather on his own warmer self. But as the chill grey of the early morning light began to indicate that this night was almost over, he became more concerned. Frodo’s breathing had become shallower, and he gave a soft moan in his sleep from time to time. Gently, Sam would brush his forehead with his lips, and murmur softly to him, and that would sooth Frodo for a while. However, Sam’s mind would not be stilled, and the thought of the three days that it would take to reach Rivendell was relentlessly worrying at him. How could Frodo travel at any speed in this condition? Would not the riders return, and what could he do then? And always the memory of Frodo’s scream was forced to the back of his mind. The pain in that beloved voice had seared through his heart, and he dared not remember lest he weaken, grief-stricken, and not be able to stay strong for Frodo.
Strider returned at the first streaks of dawn, faint indeed in the cloud-shrouded sky. Merry and Pippin, each to either side of Sam, had begun to stir, and soundless as Strider’s approach was, they both awakened with uncharacteristic quickness. Strider crouched next to Sam, as Merry stood up, with an apprehensive glance at Frodo, to give the man room. “I have found what I searched for,” Strider said simply, withdrawing a handful of green from a small sack. “Merry, Pippin, I’ll need some warm water. And breakfast for ourselves, and some water for Bill, would be welcome. I think Frodo might want some tea, especially.”
Sam’s face brightened hopefully at Strider’s words, and he gave the leaves in his hand a curious glance. “Kingsfoil?” he asked in a subdued but puzzled voice.
Strider nodded, with a slight smile. “Kingsfoil? I suppose that is what it is also called. I know it as altheas, and it has a certain healing value in a wound of this nature.”
But Frodo groaned and stirred, his eyes flickering open with difficulty, and Sam’s attention in what Strider held immediately vanished. Softly, he whispered Frodo’s name, and brushed his cheek with a fleeting kiss.
“Sam,” Frodo’s voice was ragged, his troubled gaze seeking and finding Sam, and Sam could see both bewilderment and pain in his eyes. “What… what happened to me?” he finally gasped out, attempting to rise, but sinking back instead with a groan of pain.
“You have been wounded with a Morgul blade, Frodo,” Strider answered instead, reaching forward to help support Frodo as Sam sat up. “These herbs will help ease the pain for a while, but we must get you to Rivendell as soon as possible. Only the elves can treat wounds such as this one.”
Frodo swallowed, sitting up as well, and holding his left arm stiffly at his side. Pippin had just come up with a pot of warm water, and a brief flash of sorrow crossed his worried face before he bent down next to Frodo and Sam, and said cheerfully, “Well, I’m sure this will help, if Strider says it will, but I say there’s nothing like a hot mug of tea to set you to rights, and there’s one steeping for you just now, Frodo, dear.”
Frodo turned to his cousin with the ghost of a smile, and nodded. “That really does sound wonderful,” he replied, with some effort. He sucked in his breath sharply then as Strider gently slipped the warm moist leaves under the bandage that he had applied the night before.
“I’ll examine it, later, Frodo,” he said quietly. “You need some food and drink in you, and I’ll let the poultice work for a bit. You should feel somewhat better before too long.”
Frodo nodded, and then settled against Sam, who had been silently supporting him through Strider’s ministrations. But after Strider had gotten up rinse out the pot, Frodo carefully leaned back against Sam’s chest, in order to see his face, and spoke softly to him. “Sam, I don’t remember much. Only that we were trapped on the top, and that you…” and he gulped then, but steadily watching Sam’s expression, continued on. “I used the Ring, and they came after me, but I know I tried to get It off. I must have been wounded then, but I really don’t remember. What happened?”
Sam lowered his eyes, and desperately tried to keep his voice steady. “You did get It off, Frodo. It was one of those fiends as stabbed you, but just then, Strider came, with a sword in one hand and fire in the other. He was something fierce, he was, wonderful to see. It didn’t take long, until they had had enough, and they were gone. And now we need to be gettin’ you to where the elves can help you, and that we will, don’t you fret none, Frodo-love.”
But just then, Pippin came with tea for both Frodo and Sam, and Frodo asked no further questions.
&&&&&
The athelas soon proved its effectiveness, and Frodo was able to walk, after breakfast, with only tolerable discomfort. Merry and Pippin had already, rather efficiently, packed up the camp, so they cautiously made their way down the ancient stony causeways of Weathertop. As they gained the valley floor again, Strider waited, until they had all caught up, and then gestured towards the range of mountains that they had seen the previous day from the other side of the valley. They did not seem so far away anymore, tall, heavily wooded mountains, with their peaks still veiled by mist and cloud. “Do you see the gap between those two lower hills?” he asked, pointing toward the south. “That is the valley of the Bruinen. There is a path that follows the foothills up from the Ford. It was the way to the northern lands a long time ago, and is often faint, and hard to follow, but yet it remains.”
Merry studied the direction indicated carefully. “To the left of that peak with the long white rock streak?” he asked, turning to Strider with a frown.
“That is not rock, but rather water, the falls that guard Rivendell,” Strider corrected him, staring in that direction with almost a distracted air. But quickly squaring his shoulders, he turned, and studied the four hobbits silently gathered beside him.
“I think your wound will ache less if you walk, Frodo,” he said quietly, “but if you find yourself feeling faint, Bill can carry you. We will try to cross the rest of the valley today, and camp in the forest near the path tonight. I doubt that we will be followed today. There is but one place where the Bruinen may be crossed without going hundreds of miles out of the way, and it will be there, I think, that they will be awaiting us. But that will be a problem for the future, not today.”
“I’m ready,” Frodo replied with a determined look at Strider and the other hobbits. “Let us cover as much ground as we can this day.”
So they departed the weathered citadel, walking at a fairly rapid pace. Frodo was in the rear, with one hand on Bill, as Sam had previously traveled, and Sam was at his side. There had been no time for words between them, but Sam found Frodo’s hand and clutched it tightly, and Frodo, returning his clasp, understood.
Merry and Pippin walked in front, with Strider, and the ranger soon found that not even the night’s horrific events could keep the two younger hobbits silent for long. The day was cold, and clouded over, and the occasional wind had a bite to it. Flurries of light snow blew past their faces from time to time, though it had not yet started to stick to the ground. Pippin gave a shiver, and, more to distract himself from the cold than expecting much of an answer from the tall man beside him, mentioned, “It’s a good thing for us you know the way so well, Strider. Have you been to Rivendell much?”
Strider gave the young hobbit at his side an amused glance. “You might say that. I grew up there.”
“What?” Merry, suddenly jolted from his study of the mountains ahead, gave him a sharp glance. “I thought you came from the north, being a ranger and all. Don’t just elves live at Rivendell? That’s what Bilbo always said. Though I suppose there’s also a hobbit there now, too,” he added, somewhat more softly, so Frodo would not hear. “Of course, that was about sixty years ago, so I expect it was before your time. Must have been why he never mentioned you.”
“No, I remember hearing word of his visit,” Strider calmly replied, his look of amusement deepening. “But I was already living in the north, being, as you put it, a ranger.”
Pippin, on his other side and clearly trying to sort this out, gave the man a bewildered look. “But that would make you, what…” and his voice trailed off as the impossibility of what he was saying suddenly struck him.
Strider gave a short chuckle, clearly enjoying Pippin’s discomfort. “That makes me nearly as old as Bilbo, doesn’t it?” he said wryly. “Eighty three, to be exact.”
Merry gave him a wary look as they continued to walk. “I didn’t know men grew to be older than hobbits,” he commented, bewildered.
“Most don’t,” Strider mysteriously answered, and the subject appeared to be closed.
&&&&&
By the time they paused, at midday, for a quick meal, it was obvious that the beneficial effects of Frodo’s poultice had begun to wear off. He was starting to stumble occasionally, as he walked doggedly on, with his head down, and Sam was torn between feeling as though he should insist that they stop, and allow Frodo to rest, and the fear of stopping, the necessity of trying to cover as much ground as they could before nightfall came upon them. He had given up on any attempt to lead Bill, who, fortunately, ambled alongside of Frodo without guidance of any sort. He had an arm firmly around Frodo’s waist as they walked, with Frodo’s right arm draped over his shoulder, and he could hear Frodo’s breathing becoming shallower, and the faint moan as his steps would falter, and he would lurch slightly against Sam. He knew there was nothing he could say that would help, and concentrated only on unobtrusively trying to provide more support as they trudged onward.
Strider, however, had been giving sporadic glances back towards them, and just when Sam felt as though Frodo was going to collapse in his arms, the man called a halt to the procession. They had left the unsheltered valley and had now started to travel through the woods that began near the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and there were occasional outcroppings of bare boulders to be found among the bushes, creating small clearings. It was in one of those clearings that they halted, grateful for the protection from the wind the tall rocks provided for them.
“You might want to have a quick fire,” Strider indicated to Merry and Pippin, who both had stopped to lean wearily against one of the rocks. “Something hot to drink will do us all some good, and I’ll need some warm water for Frodo.”
Merry gave a quick nod, all weariness forgotten at the chance to do something for his cousin. He started skirting the area, picking up dried branches and some leaves for kindling, as Pippin hunted for the tea box in his pack. He pulled it out, turning to retrieve the kettle from Sam’s pack, but stopped short suddenly, giving an indecipherable abrupt squawk. Merry was instantly at his side, but Pippin ignored him, and pointed to the rock behind Sam. Merry looked up at it, and his jaw dropped.
Sam had not been paying attention to them, leaning against the rock and cradling Frodo’s head in his lap, but then he unexpectedly heard Frodo’s weak laugh. “Bilbo’s trolls,” Frodo said faintly, as he gazed past his head. “That silly story really was true.”
He had to turn then, and just as Frodo had said, the large rocks surrounding the clearing were actually not true rocks, but the petrified forms of three large trolls, caught in the act of arguing, for all eternity. With a fond smile, he looked back down at Frodo and lightly caressed the side of his face. “I’m not that sure that I really ever believed that tale meself, but look now. Sure enough, ‘twas true.” Frodo’s eyes, focusing back on him, seemed to clear of pain for the moment, as they met his, and the warmth of their blue, as well as the echo of that laugh, suddenly bespoke to Sam of the clear blue summer skies over Bag End, the sun-warmed fields and fragrant grass, and all the joy they had found together there. And Sam felt an adamant vow suddenly spring to his heart, that he would, somehow, bring his beloved back there, no matter what evil and grief he would have to face to do so. Clearing his throat slightly, fighting back the tears that once more threatened, he looked back up to Merry and Pippin with a slight smile. “Surely you’d not be forgettin’ Mr. Bilbo’s tales now. That’d be one of his favorites, no mistake.”
Strider, who had been crushing the athelas leaves in preparation for the poultice, glanced over to the four hobbits. “Master Meriadoc, I believe your time might be better spent at this moment than staring at stones,” he mentioned wryly, as Merry quickly collected himself.
“Well, we don’t have many trolls about the Shire, stone or otherwise,” Merry muttered defensively, as he hastily set up the sticks for the fire in the center of the clearing. “A rock there is generally just a rock.”
“Trolls,” breathed Pippin, his face still alight with wonder, as he filled the kettle from the water skin slung across Bill‘s back. “I wonder what next.”
“Well, they are not the sort of creature you’d want to run into,” Strider said matter-of-factly, accepting the pot for the poultice from Pippin. “Stone trolls are definitely my favorite sort of troll. Fortunately, they are rather rare about here, these days, stone or otherwise.”
“You’ve seen trolls, too?” Pippin transferred his wondering gaze to Strider, who had to chuckle slightly.
“I’ve seen many things, my young hobbit, but I suspect that you, yourself, will have many a tale to tell when you return to the Shire,” he gave Pippin an amused glance.
The tea, as well as the warm water was quickly prepared, and Frodo struggled to sit up as Strider brought the fragrant smelling concoction over, and Pippin followed with two hot mugs. He set those down next to Sam, and returned to Merry to assist him in giving Bill a drink, not wishing to distract Strider as he cared for Frodo.
Once again, Sam held Frodo in his arms, as Strider carefully pushed back the jacket and shirtsleeves, and slowly unwrapped the bandage that had covered the wound. He examined it with a grave look, and Sam felt his heart sink. It was a few moments before he could bear to look at it himself, and then, though he was no healer himself, the sight was troubling. The wound was no longer bleeding, but the edges of the gash were whitened, with the appearance of pale, dead skin, and the flesh surrounding the wound was unhealthily reddened, as if infected. Frodo said nothing, not attempting to look at his shoulder himself, and closed his eyes, biting his lip, as Strider reapplied the poultice and bandage. Sam, who had been watching Strider carefully, knew that he was not happy with what he had seen, and resolved to have a private word with him at the first opportunity.
But that opportunity was not to come soon. The hasty lunch was eaten, and even though Frodo seemed to regain his spirits as the athelas once again took effect, both Strider and Sam insisted that he ride Bill for the rest of the afternoon. Slowly, they picked their way through underbrush and rocks, the forest growing ever deeper about them, until, at last, just before the afternoon light faded, Strider gave a short exclamation, and pointed before them. “The road to Bruinen Ford,” he said quietly. “We are now two good days’ journey from there. We will camp here tonight. Our way will be easier tomorrow.”
“Aye, and they’ll know exactly how we’re comin’,” Sam thought, troubled, as he helped Frodo down from Bill. “May as well be sendin’ out invitations.” He did not mention his concerns, however, to the others.
&&&&&
During the night, Frodo’s state took a turn for the worse. Sam awoke from an exhausted deep sleep, for he had slept only fitfully the past two nights, to feel Frodo moving restlessly, in his loose embrace. The other two hobbits were asleep near him, and even Strider, for the first time since he had joined up with them in Bree, was seated against a boulder, near the dying fire, with his knees drawn up and his head resting against them, clearly asleep as well.
“Frodo,” he whispered, blearily trying to clear his foggy vision. “What is it, love?”
Frodo shook his head slightly, his eyes remaining shut, and muttered with effort, “It just won’t let me rest, Sam. I shouldn’t be bothering you like this, you need to sleep.”
Sam wasted no time in arguing the point, but, lifting up a hand, carefully felt Frodo’s forehead. He had not liked the look of that reddened skin earlier, when Strider had dressed the wound, and the thought of infection had come unpleasantly to his mind. But Frodo did not seem too warm; on the contrary, his skin was unmistakably icy, even though the clearing was sheltered from the bitterly sharp draughts that had plagued them earlier in the valley.
“Don’t you be worryin’ about me, love, how do you feel?” Sam insisted, still gently holding his hand against Frodo’s frigid skin, trying to make some sense of this.
“Cold,” Frodo murmured, his eyes flickering open and staring into Sam’s. Even by the fading light of the fire, fear was unmistakable in them, no matter how much he was clearly trying to hide it. “So cold, it’s as if I’ll never be warm again.”
“Oh, me dear, if there was anything I could do for you,” Sam murmured brokenly, wrapping his arms around Frodo as carefully as he could.
“Just hold me, Sam. I feel as if I’m slipping away, somehow, and I don’t want to.”
He could barely hear Frodo’s words. “You’re not slippin’ off anywhere, me darling.” He felt his stubborn spirit rising in protest as he cradled Frodo in his arms. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere without your Sam, so you just rest here, in my arms. The sun will rise in the morning, and in a day or two more, those elves will be lookin’ after you, and you’ll be feelin’ yourself again. Just keep that in your thoughts, Frodo-love, and we’ll see this through.”
But Frodo sighed, and curling closer to Sam, shut his eyes and said no more.
&&&&&
In the morning, Frodo was obviously breathing only with difficulty, and Strider’s expression, when he examined Frodo, terrified Sam. Merry and Pippin, as had become the custom, prepared a quick breakfast, and rapidly packed up the camp, but were subdued and obviously anxious, finding excuses to briefly touch and murmur to Frodo, but he lay with his eyes half-open, shivering lightly from time to time, and seemed unaware that they were there.
Strider had changed the poultice on Frodo’s shoulder as usual, but even Sam could tell that the athelas was having less and less of a beneficial effect on him. Nevertheless, Strider approached Sam, as the other two were preoccupied, and gravely asked him if he could help him to find some more athelas before they left. Sam numbly agreed, but was not surprised when Strider drew him aside, not far from camp, and quietly said, “There’s something I need to tell you, Sam.”
Silently, Sam looked up at the tall man, foreboding in his heart as he finally acknowledged to himself that it was not merely a shoulder wound, no matter how grievous, that afflicted Frodo, and that he had known this for longer than he cared to admit. Once more, he struggled to keep his own wrenching grief within himself, for that was not the way to help Frodo, and kept his attention on the ranger.
But it was soon clear that Strider was fighting his own emotions as he knelt in front of Sam, in the cold early morning light of that bleak day, and gently caught hold of his hands. “Sam,” he began hesitantly, and Sam gazed, unnerved, at those grey eyes, unexpectedly full of sorrow. “There is something that you need to know. Frodo’s wound is perilous, but he will not die from it.”
Sam continued to watch Strider, though, with no thankfulness, and his heart was gripped with fear. Somewhere, he vaguely remembered, someone had told him there were worse things than death, and he was suddenly horribly certain of what Strider meant.
“The Morgul blade,” Strider continued haltingly, “will not kill. Rather, it can cause those whom it strikes to enter the world of the wraiths, neither living nor dead, servants of the Dark Lord whether they will or no.”
Sam gasped, and the world seemed to shift suddenly about him. His own Frodo, that dear bright and loving spirit, lost forever to the world of those ghastly phantoms. It was too much for him to understand, and he unconsciously shoved his fist in his mouth, choking on a wail of despair, and Strider, without thought, rose and embraced him tightly.
“He has become dear to me too, Sam,” he whispered fiercely as Sam unknowingly shook in his arms, with muted piteous cries of grief. “We will not give in, we must help him continue to fight them off. The elves may, indeed, still be able to help him, for he has a strong will, the likes of which I have never seen before, and he is not giving in to them. We must get him to Rivendell, as fast as we can, Sam, and trust in them.”
It was the thought of speed that overrode all else in Sam’s mind then, and with the greatest effort, he pulled himself from Strider and, visibly gaining control over his emotions once more, looked back at him. “I will get him there, if it takes all that is in me,” he murmured briefly, and taking a deep breath, turned back to rejoin the others. But before he left the glade, he looked back quickly to Strider, who was silently following him. “Thank you for tellin’ me that,” he murmured softly, and Strider nodded.
&&&&&
There was no doubt that Frodo would have to be riding Bill, this day, and Sam spared a quick thought of gratitude toward the small sturdy pony, which had so unexpectedly chosen to follow them that morning out of Bree. When it came time to mount, Frodo, with the greatest of efforts, and the assistance of Sam, managed to rise to his feet, but could barely stand, and wavered on his feet, assailed now by nearly constant fits of shivering.
Strider, however, quickly stepped over to Sam’s side, and murmured quietly to Frodo, “My apologies, Frodo, but it will be easier this way,” and lifted the weakened hobbit easily upon Bill’s back. Frodo slumped over, without a word, and wrapped his arms around Bill’s neck, as the pony stood motionless. With a soft sigh, Strider turned then to the remaining hobbits. “Sam, Merry,” he directed them quietly, “the both of you stay on either side of Frodo, for he may slip off. Pippin, you guide Bill. I will be walking ahead a little ways.” Silently, he gazed at them for a moment, as they dazedly took their places. “Courage, my friends,” he said suddenly, and Sam, Merry, and Pippin looked up at him, numbly expectant. “We yet have time. Do not give in to despair.”
“Not likely,” Pippin suddenly asserted, his jaw lifted stubbornly. He grasped Bill’s lead rope in his hand, and stepped forward. “Frodo’s as tough as they come, but we best get started.”
Merry gave a reluctant smile at Pippin’s declaration, and muttered agreement. “Quite right, Pip. Time to be off.” With a careful touch to Frodo’s leg, he glanced over at Sam and nodded. Sam said nothing, placing a gentle hand on Frodo’s back so he could sense if he started to slip, but his face revealed his anguish for a moment, before he could disguise it. Strider held his gaze for just a moment before they started off.
&&&&&
The sun, which had barely been visible in the clouded, leaden sky, had just passed into its downward fall, when the hobbits were roused from their grim, plodding stupor by the sound of rustling, and hooves, on the path ahead. They had not stopped once, since they had left that morning, not even halting for lunch, let alone any other meal. Frodo had fallen, as far as they could tell, into unconsciousness, but Sam had been keeping an apprehensive eye on him, with a constant need to assure himself that Frodo yet continued to breathe. Strider had gone ahead, and was out of sight when they heard the slight noise, but to their great relief, he appeared on the path before them, directly before they were joined by a tall elf on a stately white horse.
“Glorfindel!” the ranger cried out in greeting, with evident relief. “Well met indeed, and none too soon. Have you been sent out to seek us?”
“That I have, indeed,” the dark-haired stranger said firmly, halting his horse in the middle of the path, and gracefully swinging himself down to his feet. “I understand there is one with you who has been pursued, and he carries something of unique worth.”
“He carries that, truly, but he has been most grievously wounded, and must be brought to Rivendell with all possible haste,” Strider responded urgently, stepping back to the hobbits and indicating Frodo, slumped over Bill’s neck.
“How so?” asked the elf, studying the small limp figure with a frown.
“He was struck with a Morgul blade, more than two nights hence,” Strider replied, his hand passing gently over Frodo’s oblivious head.
“That long ago, and yet he lives still?” the elf asked quickly, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
Strider nodded, and his voice was unexpectedly rough as he answered, “They are hardy, these small folk, and this one especially so. I ask your assistance, Glorfindel, for he is dear to all of us.”
“Certainly, you shall have it,” the elf glanced at him with determination. “The Nazgul are awaiting you, Elessar, near the Ford. They did not see me pass, however, and so we will have the element of surprise. Swiftness, too, if you will let me bear him with me. I can reach the Ford before nightfall, and they will not be expecting you until the morrow.”
Strider nodded. “That, I think, is our best hope.” With determination, he turned to the hobbits, who had been silently witnessing this exchange. “Speed is essential now, my dear friends,” he said softly. “Indeed, it is his only hope,” he added, gazing directly at Sam.
Merry and Pippin both turned instinctively to Sam for his decision, but there was no doubt in Sam’s mind. Any chance that could be taken must be, and if this elf could get Frodo to help faster, then, the opportunity must be seized. Strider read his decision in his face, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “It is the best course, Sam. And I swear to you that all that can be done for him will be.”
Sam nodded, not daring to speak, and not even realizing that tears were beginning to run down his face. Strider watched him for a moment more, and then said quietly, “I have enough athelas for one last preparation. There is no time to heat the water, but even with cool water, it may yet have some healing effect. Would you like to apply it, Sam?”
Sam mutely nodded again, not taking his eyes from the still figure draped over Bill’s neck. “You have a few moments, Sam,” Strider told him then, deftly lifting the limp figure of Frodo from off of the pony, and carefully lying him down on a bed of dried leaves by the side of the road. Picking up the rope, Strider led Bill away farther ahead on the path to where Merry and Pippin had crumpled at the side of the road, holding each other tightly, and trying to stifle their cries.
“Frodo, my own Frodo-love,” Sam called softly, as he bent down at Frodo’s side, gently urging the last of the athelas under the bandage. “They’ll be takin’ you now, me dearie,” he whispered, his tears falling without notice on Frodo’s pale face. “You’ll need t’be gettin’ there as soon as may be, dearest, and I’ll have to follow behind.”
Frodo suddenly stirred at Sam’s words, frowning, and with effort, barely opening his eyes. But then he blinked again, and suddenly his eyes locked with Sam’s. There was fear there, certainly, but also resolve, and immeasurable love. “Sam,” he breathed, his lips barely moving, and Sam felt his heart being wrenched apart.
“Oh, Frodo, oh, my own Frodo, I love you so much,” he choked out, his tears threatening to rob him of this most precious of all sights. But there was no time, no time at all, and every moment was too precious to spare. He sensed that Strider was returning, but there was one last decision that he had made, and he needed to tell Frodo.
“Frodo,” he whispered fiercely, seizing Frodo’s hand and holding it tightly, staring down into those beloved eyes, as they looked back up at him with so much love. “There ain’t nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow you. Do you understand me, Frodo? Nowhere at all. I promise you that, me darling. Don’t you fear none, for you ain’t goin’ to be alone, no how, wherever you may be.”
And as Strider picked Frodo gently up, as if there were no weight to him at all, and handed him over to Glorfindel, who had mounted once more, Sam gave Frodo’s hand a final swift kiss, as Frodo, his eyes never leaving Sam’s, whispered his name one last time. Then the elf was gone, and the three remaining hobbits were left alone with the ranger.
Strider stood in the middle of the path, staring past where the elf and his mount had departed in the fading light, and suddenly squared his shoulders, as if coming to a difficult decision. Turning back to the others, he gently drew a stunned, unresisting Sam over to the younger two hobbits, crouched, and in anguish, at the side of the path. “Listen, my dear friends,” he said emphatically, watching them carefully. “Speed and surprise alone may not be enough to carry Glorfindel through. But twice a surprise, that may be sufficient. As I told you before, we do not enter much into their plans, their attention is solely on Frodo. When Glorfindel crosses the Bruinen at the Ford, they will attempt to follow. But the River there is subject, in many ways, to the elves of Rivendell, and they will not find it an easy matter. And if I can deny them a chance of retreat, we may be rid of them for a good long time. So it is that I must leave you, and follow those who left as quickly as I can.”
He paused, gazing at the three hobbits who stared dully at him, their faces wet with tears. “I go, to give Frodo every chance that I can,” he continued slowly, “but you will have to follow alone. I will return for you as soon as I can.”
Sam nodded then, as the other two looked automatically to him for guidance. “Then you must go, Strider, and we will follow as fast as can be.” His voice was ragged, but there was no doubt in it. “Don’t you be thinkin’ of us right now, for we’ll be right behind you. But,” and he paused uncertainly for a moment, “you’ve no horse, and Bill’s not too likely to be able to carry you.”
Strider gave him a grim smile. “I’ve got legs, though, Sam, and I’m well used to using them. Farewell for the moment, my good hobbits, stay to the path, and I will find you near the River.” And before another moment had passed, he, also, had disappeared into the forest ahead just as Frodo and Glorfindel had.
Sam watched him depart for only a moment before running a hasty hand across his face and looking impassively down at Merry and Pippin, all signs of grief once again locked within him. “We need to be travelin’ as far as we can today afore we lose the light,” he bit the words out abruptly and unemotionally.
“Sam,” Merry rose up, also wiping his face, and hesitantly placed a hand on Sam’s arm. “If you want to take Bill and ride ahead, we can follow. We’d be right behind you.”
“Not likely I’d be doin’ that,” Sam rejected the idea immediately, shaking his head with a dismissive look. “I’d not be wishin’ to answer to Frodo for misplacing his cousins.”
“Then we’d best be off,” Pippin rose up as well with a determined expression. “Maybe we can make this river by nightfall, after all. Let’s show these big people what ‘small folk’ can do when they put their mind to it.”
&&&&&
There were no more tears, and no more talk, as the three hobbits traveled as rapidly as they could down the unfamiliar forest path. There was no time for either, for there was only the same thought in their minds, of reaching the Bruinen River, and Strider, as soon as they could. But the road was not easy to follow, and as they began to lose the light, Merry suddenly placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam,” he said softly, as Sam stopped and turned to him with the dazed look of one who moved as though in his sleep. “We need to stop now. We can’t take the chance of losing our way, and the path is faint enough as it is.”
Sam stood motionless, looking at him as if nothing Merry had said had made sense. But Merry continued determinedly, slightly tightening his grip on Sam’s shoulder, “Sam-dear, we do not know our way. We must wait for the morning.”
Slowly then, and with the greatest reluctance, Sam nodded. “Aye,” he said, nearly inaudibly, and without looking any more at the other two, walked over to Bill, and taking off the packs that he was carrying, unceremoniously dropped them at the side of the road. Untying a pot, he poured the pony a drink and stood next to him while he drank thirstily, resting his head against the animal’s side and staring sightlessly at the ground.
Merry and Pippin watched him uncertainly for a few moments, and then picked up the packs and carried them to a likely campsite a ways from the path. They soon had a small fire started, quickly preparing tea and a light meal. But Sam shook his head, as they offered him food, not even taking tea, and continued to lean against the patient Bill.
The fire was doused early. Merry and Pippin curled together next to its warmth, although not sleepy, and patiently lay there, silently awaiting the dawn.
But they must have fallen asleep, for in the midst of the night, Merry awoke to hear a faint sound, muffled sobs that were heartbreaking in their misery. Rising up carefully in the faint moonlight, so as not to awake Pippin, breathing steadily in sleep next to him, he sadly approached Sam, who lay desolately huddled on the ground near the accepting Bill.
“Oh, Sam,” he sorrowfully whispered, kneeling on the ground next to him, and gently stroking his back. “It will be all right, Sam, you just see if it won’t. You know Frodo would never leave you. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him again tomorrow.”
Sam lifted his tear-streaked face then, at Merry’s words. “But how could I ever stand it?” he gasped, reaching up and clutching Merry’s arm. “If aught were to happen, and I wasn’t there? How could I ever bear it?”
Merry lifted him up unresistingly then, and laid a compassionate hand against the side of his face. “That won’t be happening, Sam,” he said firmly, searching his eyes. “He will be waiting for you, I’m sure of it. He loves you far too dearly not to. Come with me, Sam, don’t lie alone.”
Gently he grasped Sam’s hand, and led him to where he and Pippin had been sleeping. “Stay with us,” he whispered, pulling Sam down, and wrapping his arms around him. “Stay with us. And tomorrow, we will all see Frodo again.” Soothingly, he stroked Sam’s back as Sam lay, worn beyond the point of despair, with his head on Merry’s chest, and finally, felt him start to relax. Pippin, on the other side of Sam, curled sleepily around his back, and tucked an arm around Sam’s waist as well. Weary in heart, and drained in spirit, all three were asleep again before long.
Pippin was awake with the first light, and had a small fire already lit, and the tea made, when the other two stirred awake. “Here,” he announced, bringing hot mugs over to the both of them as they groggily sat up. “And Sam,” he added, giving him a sharp look. “You will be drinking this, and having something to eat today before we start. I’ll not be having to drag you along should you faint, and there’s enough on poor Bill as it is.”
Sam meekly took the offered tea and gave Pippin a quick smile. “Aye, Pippin, dear,” he murmured. “ ’Tis good sense, after all.”
Pippin nodded, with a certain air of triumph, and left to see to Bill.
The quick meal was eaten and they were ready to leave as soon as the morning light filtered through the trees. But before they set out on the path again, Sam walked up to Merry and, unexpectedly, caught him up in a quick embrace. “Thankee, Merry,” he said gruffly, trying to keep his voice steady.
Merry tightly closed his eyes, and held Sam closely for a moment. “We must have hope, Sam,” he whispered. “None of us could bear it otherwise.”
Sam pulled slightly away and held his eyes for a moment. “Aye, there is hope, true enough.” And with a swift motion, he kissed Merry on the cheek and turning away, picked up Bill’s rope and walked ahead, carefully studying the path to the River. Merry blinked in surprise, but Pippin gave him a warm smile and grasped his hand as they followed Sam.
&&&&&
They were at the River before mid-morning, and found Strider waiting for them. “Frodo is safely in Rivendell,” he told them, with a weary smile, as they ran forward from under the trees to the stony shore of the River. “The Riders chased Glorfindel, but could not catch him. And as they rode into the River, he called it down upon them, and I made sure that they did not find the shore. Their mounts have been destroyed, and they will have to make their way back to whence they came. They will not trouble us again for some time.”
“But now, I will bring you there, and you will see him again,” he added, and it was only then that they saw the white horse that Glorfindel had been riding was standing patiently under the trees. Strider gestured to it, and it approached him without hesitation. “Asfaloth will bear me and two of you, and the third can ride Bill across.”
But Bill had been eying the rapid, foaming water with trepidation, and shied back from it as Sam drew him close. Sam, though, gave Merry and Pippin a quick glance and quietly said, “The both of you go with Strider. I’ll have a quick word with Bill.”
And as Strider lifted the other two hobbits on the great white horse, they could see Sam passing his hand gently up Bill’s face and speaking quietly to him. Bill shook his head once at Sam‘s caress, blowing out a snort, but allowed Sam to scramble up on him. Mounting Asfaloth behind the two hobbits, Strider spoke a quiet word that neither of them understood, and it seemed as though, improbably enough, the River appeared to calm itself, and the white foam turned to peaceable ripples, and the water lay clear and shallow before them. With a quick look back at Sam and the pony, Strider led the horse into the River and easily across, and Bill timidly followed without further resistance.
So it was that Samwise Gamgee, Merry Brandybuck, and Pippin Took came at last to Rivendell, the Last Homely House.
Well, here is the last chapter of the first part of Far From Home. Structure-wise, it's following the original thus far, but I don't expect it to necessarily stay that way. *evil chuckle* There be angst and h/c here, my pretties, so ye be warned, says I. (/Pirates of the Caribbean)
Title: Encroaching Shadows, Far From Home, Chapter Eight
Author: Elderberry Wine
Pairings: F/S, M/P
Rating: R overall
Summary: It's a long road to Rivendell, and Sam has to make some choices he never dreamed he'd make.
Where Strider had come from, Sam never knew, but as soon as Frodo’s shocked scream pierced the air, and he had reappeared, lying on the stone pavement of Weathertop and clutching one hand in the other, there was a sudden movement from behind Sam, and Strider leapt into view, a sword in his right hand and a burning brand in the other. “Begone, foul phantoms,” he cried out, his voice strangely commanding in a way that Sam had never heard him speak before. “You shall not have him.”
The power of it almost seemed to halt the spectre bending over Frodo for a moment, and the black creature turned from the now senseless small body, still on the stone before its feet and glided forward, facing the ranger. But Strider was apparently immune to the spell of fear the creature had been able to cast over the hobbits, and advanced slowly upon it. And then with a noise like that of a rushing wind, and a grating cry, the other black shapes swept from behind and past Sam, and he suddenly recalled Strider’s words. “We mean nothing to them,” he had quietly told Sam that evening he had warned him about the dangers they faced. “It is Frodo alone whom they seek.”
But there was no ignoring Strider now, as he stood tall and bold in their midst, and then suddenly, with a great cry, swung out with both fire and cold iron. Sam had managed to raise himself to his feet, once their dreadful attention was not directed toward him, and seizing the sword he had earlier raised up from the ground again, saw that Strider had drawn them away from the helpless form sprawled against the stone battlement. Quickly he ran to Frodo’s side, hoping desperately to shield Frodo from them somehow, and turned to see the tall man, with a wordless snarl of hatred, ignite the cape of one rider with the fire, setting it instantly aflame, and sweep the sword of another rider to the stone with his own. Strider turned and twisted, avoiding every move the remaining black riders made toward him, and now there was another rider alit as well. At last, with a final mad cry of fury, Strider charged at the leader of the wraiths, who had stabbed Frodo, sending its sword flying from its gauntlets, and plunged the burning brand full at its head, under the concealing cloak. The creature shrank back, with a piercing wail, and even before Sam could realize it, all the hideous shapes had vanished into the dark night. But Strider threw his sword and brand to the stony ground, and sank to his knees on the other side of Frodo’s quiet form from Sam, with grief and anguish on his face.
“Oh, Frodo,” he cried softly, the command now gone from his voice, and lifted a gentle hand to Frodo’s face.
Sam was crouched at Frodo’s side, his own sword forgotten and discarded on top of Frodo’s, numbed by the hideous shock and motionless, except for a hand that trembled against Frodo’s red-soaked sleeve. He stared uncomprehendingly down at him, frozen in heart and mind, all his world coming somehow to an abrupt and incomprehensible end, but as the ranger touched Frodo’s forehead, he moaned and stirred slightly.
“He still lives,” the man gasped in amazement at that sound, lifting a stunned face up to a dazed Sam, who instantly looked up at him, the faintest stirrings of hope clutching at him as painfully as blood beginning to stir again in a numbed limb.
“You are sturdy indeed, my dear hobbit,” Strider murmured gently, returning his attention to Frodo. Pippin and Merry, who had wordlessly approached, were watching in a state of traumatized horror behind Sam, who was still kneeling at Frodo’s side. Carefully, Strider pushed back the cloak from Frodo’s blood-soaked left shoulder, but Frodo’s eyes flickered open, and with a sudden jagged gasp, he looked up at them.
“Sam,” his voice was hoarse with pain, and Sam desperately tried to keep from breaking into tears. They would be of no use to Frodo; there was no time for them now. Carefully, he laid a tender hand against Frodo’s cheek.
“Here, me dear,” his voice was rough, and he gulped hard, forcing the sobs down.
“The box, Sam,” Frodo choked out, turning his face toward Sam with the greatest of effort, his eyes fearfully searching Sam’s. But Sam understood, and immediately turned away, rising to look for it, frantic to give any peace of mind that he could to Frodo.
It was not far from where Frodo lay, the small box that had been in Frodo’s pocket ever since they had fled from the Shire. He quickly picked it up from the stone, and opened it, not without fear, but it was empty. Hastening back to Frodo, he held it open.
With an immense intensity of purpose, Frodo raised his shaking right hand, that had been lying across his chest, and held out his clenched fist. Dropping that which he had clutched so tightly in his hand into the box that Sam held out, his hand fell back down again, and he groaned in pain, his eyes closing, and then lay still, senseless once more. Sam tucked the box into Frodo’s pocket with great care, and then lovingly brushed the dampened dark curls from his cold forehead. Wordlessly biting his lip, he looked up to Strider, dazedly awaiting his verdict.
But Strider frowned, his long fingers still holding Frodo’s cloak away from his shoulder. “I need to see his wound,” he at last muttered, his eyes rising to meet Sam’s. “But first,” and his voice trailed off, as he stood and glanced about them. There was light enough to see, as the moon had remained before the clouds, and the other hobbits saw it as soon as Strider did, the elaborately wrought sword that had been used against Frodo, glinting silver near the far wall of the battlement. Even as Strider walked warily toward it, however, it was suddenly obscured, as if by a smoky mist, and a moment later the pavement was bare, and the sword was gone. Pippin gave a short cry of horror, and Strider’s expression was grim. For a moment he bent his head down, as if in pain, and then with a determined set of his broad shoulders, turned to the three hobbits who watched him.
“Merry, Pippin,” he commanded them sternly. “Go back to where you were camping, and rebuild the fire. Find water, and I’ll need whatever clean cloths you can find. Sam, prepare blankets so that I can move him as close to the fire as possible. I shall need light, as much as you may give me, so let the fire be as bright as you can manage. I am no longer concerned as to who may see us.”
Merry and Pippin ran immediately back to the ledge where they had been earlier that evening, thankful for the opportunity to do anything that might help, but Sam stood uncertainly beside Frodo, watching as Strider carefully picked up the small inert form. “Go on, Sam,” Strider glanced over at him, his voice gentle. “First we must see what damage has been done. He still lives, and that is most heartening. Any who can survive a blow such as that is very resilient.”
Sam nodded, and stumbled off to find blankets for Frodo, fighting the tears that kept heedlessly blinding him. There was no time for them now; Frodo needed him to be strong, and he would not fail him.
&&&&&
“Be ready, Sam,” Strider grimly warned him, as Sam sat close to the fire, with an unconscious Frodo cradled in his arms. “He may awaken while I am examining his wound, and the more you can keep him still, the better it will be for him.” Sam nodded silently, unthinkingly drawing Frodo even closer. He knew that Merry and Pippin were hovering behind him, both ready to do anything that Strider might ask of them, but he did not dare to glance their way. He was all too aware that it would take no more than the briefest of glances, exchanged with either of them, and this whole horrible nightmare would be suddenly, hideously real, and he would not be able to contain his grief. So he concentrated on Strider, on the ranger’s detached, impassive expression, and his sure manner. All his hopes were on Strider now, and he knew that if anyone could help Frodo, it would not be him, but rather this quiet, circumspect man.
However, Frodo lay mercifully still in Sam’s arms as the ranger carefully drew back the jacket, and then the blood stained shirt from his shoulder. The white skin shone with a pearlescent pallor in the moonlight, but even brighter was the dark red gleam of the fresh blood still seeping from the jagged wound that had ripped open the flesh of Frodo’s left shoulder. Strider studied it silently, and then moved his hand over the gash. Some cloud must have passed before the moon at that point, for it almost appeared to Sam as if a wisp of dark mist floated past the ranger’s hand, and the man briefly closed his eyes.
Then he looked up at Merry, standing behind Sam and anxiously twisting the cloth in his hands, and nodded. “Dip that in hot water,” he spoke calmly to the fearful young hobbit. “It will cool swiftly enough.”
He and Sam then waited silently for Merry and Pippin to prepare the cloth and almost, it seemed to Sam, that he was about to say something to him. But then Merry hesitantly brought the cloth back, handing it to Strider, and the moment passed, as Strider leaned forward to carefully wind it under Frodo’s clothing, behind and around his shoulder, drawing it tight enough to halt the bleeding, but not so tight as to cause further pain. Gently, he then laid a cautious hand on the side of Frodo’s neck, feeling his pulse, and nodded.
“His heart is yet strong,” he murmured, giving Sam a grave look. “Stay closely by the fire with him, and keep him warm this night. And all three of you,” he added, glancing up at the two frightened younger hobbits. “Try to sleep this night, if you can. There will be no black shapes to disturb your rest tonight, at least. Tomorrow, we must make all haste for Rivendell.” He bent over Frodo once more, and resting his hand on his forehead, murmured some words in a low voice. Frodo sighed at the sound, and his breathing relaxed and slowed. Strider stood then, and nodded. “He will sleep for now,” he said softly, and started to leave. But then he paused, as he reached the edge of the circle of light, and turned back to them.
“They use fear. It is their most powerful weapon,” he said quietly, giving the hobbits a serious look. “Do not question yourselves, and do not give in to doubt. All of you acquitted yourselves well this night.” And his eye fell on Sam for a last moment before he was gone into the night.
Merry knelt at Sam’s side after Strider had left, and lightly touched Frodo’s curls. He started to speak, and then bowed his head down, fighting to find his voice. “You were wonderful, Sam,” he whispered at last, keeping his eyes on Frodo’s still face. “You gave Strider time.”
“Not enough,” Sam rasped out the words and closed his eyes. “Not near enough.”
Merry gave a silent shake of his head, but rose, saying no more. Pippin, who had gone over to where he and Merry had lain earlier that evening, slipped up behind him at that point, and gently laid one of their blankets over Sam and Frodo. He also carefully pushed his pack under Sam’s arm, wrapped around Frodo, to give him extra support. Sam smiled wearily up at him, and murmured, “The both o’ye’d be needin’ some sleep now. He’ll be fine until the morn, I think, no need to worry.”
“We’ll be staying close by, if you wouldn’t mind,” Merry said hesitantly, and Sam smiled up at him, more warmly this time.
“We won’t be minding it at all,” he promised truthfully, and morning found the four of them curled quite closely together.
&&&&&
Sam had dozed on and off through the night, resolutely refusing to really consider what had happened to Frodo, concerning himself only with Frodo’s comfort, ensuring that his breathing was steady, that his shoulder was not touched, that he was not sleeping on the cold ground, but rather on his own warmer self. But as the chill grey of the early morning light began to indicate that this night was almost over, he became more concerned. Frodo’s breathing had become shallower, and he gave a soft moan in his sleep from time to time. Gently, Sam would brush his forehead with his lips, and murmur softly to him, and that would sooth Frodo for a while. However, Sam’s mind would not be stilled, and the thought of the three days that it would take to reach Rivendell was relentlessly worrying at him. How could Frodo travel at any speed in this condition? Would not the riders return, and what could he do then? And always the memory of Frodo’s scream was forced to the back of his mind. The pain in that beloved voice had seared through his heart, and he dared not remember lest he weaken, grief-stricken, and not be able to stay strong for Frodo.
Strider returned at the first streaks of dawn, faint indeed in the cloud-shrouded sky. Merry and Pippin, each to either side of Sam, had begun to stir, and soundless as Strider’s approach was, they both awakened with uncharacteristic quickness. Strider crouched next to Sam, as Merry stood up, with an apprehensive glance at Frodo, to give the man room. “I have found what I searched for,” Strider said simply, withdrawing a handful of green from a small sack. “Merry, Pippin, I’ll need some warm water. And breakfast for ourselves, and some water for Bill, would be welcome. I think Frodo might want some tea, especially.”
Sam’s face brightened hopefully at Strider’s words, and he gave the leaves in his hand a curious glance. “Kingsfoil?” he asked in a subdued but puzzled voice.
Strider nodded, with a slight smile. “Kingsfoil? I suppose that is what it is also called. I know it as altheas, and it has a certain healing value in a wound of this nature.”
But Frodo groaned and stirred, his eyes flickering open with difficulty, and Sam’s attention in what Strider held immediately vanished. Softly, he whispered Frodo’s name, and brushed his cheek with a fleeting kiss.
“Sam,” Frodo’s voice was ragged, his troubled gaze seeking and finding Sam, and Sam could see both bewilderment and pain in his eyes. “What… what happened to me?” he finally gasped out, attempting to rise, but sinking back instead with a groan of pain.
“You have been wounded with a Morgul blade, Frodo,” Strider answered instead, reaching forward to help support Frodo as Sam sat up. “These herbs will help ease the pain for a while, but we must get you to Rivendell as soon as possible. Only the elves can treat wounds such as this one.”
Frodo swallowed, sitting up as well, and holding his left arm stiffly at his side. Pippin had just come up with a pot of warm water, and a brief flash of sorrow crossed his worried face before he bent down next to Frodo and Sam, and said cheerfully, “Well, I’m sure this will help, if Strider says it will, but I say there’s nothing like a hot mug of tea to set you to rights, and there’s one steeping for you just now, Frodo, dear.”
Frodo turned to his cousin with the ghost of a smile, and nodded. “That really does sound wonderful,” he replied, with some effort. He sucked in his breath sharply then as Strider gently slipped the warm moist leaves under the bandage that he had applied the night before.
“I’ll examine it, later, Frodo,” he said quietly. “You need some food and drink in you, and I’ll let the poultice work for a bit. You should feel somewhat better before too long.”
Frodo nodded, and then settled against Sam, who had been silently supporting him through Strider’s ministrations. But after Strider had gotten up rinse out the pot, Frodo carefully leaned back against Sam’s chest, in order to see his face, and spoke softly to him. “Sam, I don’t remember much. Only that we were trapped on the top, and that you…” and he gulped then, but steadily watching Sam’s expression, continued on. “I used the Ring, and they came after me, but I know I tried to get It off. I must have been wounded then, but I really don’t remember. What happened?”
Sam lowered his eyes, and desperately tried to keep his voice steady. “You did get It off, Frodo. It was one of those fiends as stabbed you, but just then, Strider came, with a sword in one hand and fire in the other. He was something fierce, he was, wonderful to see. It didn’t take long, until they had had enough, and they were gone. And now we need to be gettin’ you to where the elves can help you, and that we will, don’t you fret none, Frodo-love.”
But just then, Pippin came with tea for both Frodo and Sam, and Frodo asked no further questions.
&&&&&
The athelas soon proved its effectiveness, and Frodo was able to walk, after breakfast, with only tolerable discomfort. Merry and Pippin had already, rather efficiently, packed up the camp, so they cautiously made their way down the ancient stony causeways of Weathertop. As they gained the valley floor again, Strider waited, until they had all caught up, and then gestured towards the range of mountains that they had seen the previous day from the other side of the valley. They did not seem so far away anymore, tall, heavily wooded mountains, with their peaks still veiled by mist and cloud. “Do you see the gap between those two lower hills?” he asked, pointing toward the south. “That is the valley of the Bruinen. There is a path that follows the foothills up from the Ford. It was the way to the northern lands a long time ago, and is often faint, and hard to follow, but yet it remains.”
Merry studied the direction indicated carefully. “To the left of that peak with the long white rock streak?” he asked, turning to Strider with a frown.
“That is not rock, but rather water, the falls that guard Rivendell,” Strider corrected him, staring in that direction with almost a distracted air. But quickly squaring his shoulders, he turned, and studied the four hobbits silently gathered beside him.
“I think your wound will ache less if you walk, Frodo,” he said quietly, “but if you find yourself feeling faint, Bill can carry you. We will try to cross the rest of the valley today, and camp in the forest near the path tonight. I doubt that we will be followed today. There is but one place where the Bruinen may be crossed without going hundreds of miles out of the way, and it will be there, I think, that they will be awaiting us. But that will be a problem for the future, not today.”
“I’m ready,” Frodo replied with a determined look at Strider and the other hobbits. “Let us cover as much ground as we can this day.”
So they departed the weathered citadel, walking at a fairly rapid pace. Frodo was in the rear, with one hand on Bill, as Sam had previously traveled, and Sam was at his side. There had been no time for words between them, but Sam found Frodo’s hand and clutched it tightly, and Frodo, returning his clasp, understood.
Merry and Pippin walked in front, with Strider, and the ranger soon found that not even the night’s horrific events could keep the two younger hobbits silent for long. The day was cold, and clouded over, and the occasional wind had a bite to it. Flurries of light snow blew past their faces from time to time, though it had not yet started to stick to the ground. Pippin gave a shiver, and, more to distract himself from the cold than expecting much of an answer from the tall man beside him, mentioned, “It’s a good thing for us you know the way so well, Strider. Have you been to Rivendell much?”
Strider gave the young hobbit at his side an amused glance. “You might say that. I grew up there.”
“What?” Merry, suddenly jolted from his study of the mountains ahead, gave him a sharp glance. “I thought you came from the north, being a ranger and all. Don’t just elves live at Rivendell? That’s what Bilbo always said. Though I suppose there’s also a hobbit there now, too,” he added, somewhat more softly, so Frodo would not hear. “Of course, that was about sixty years ago, so I expect it was before your time. Must have been why he never mentioned you.”
“No, I remember hearing word of his visit,” Strider calmly replied, his look of amusement deepening. “But I was already living in the north, being, as you put it, a ranger.”
Pippin, on his other side and clearly trying to sort this out, gave the man a bewildered look. “But that would make you, what…” and his voice trailed off as the impossibility of what he was saying suddenly struck him.
Strider gave a short chuckle, clearly enjoying Pippin’s discomfort. “That makes me nearly as old as Bilbo, doesn’t it?” he said wryly. “Eighty three, to be exact.”
Merry gave him a wary look as they continued to walk. “I didn’t know men grew to be older than hobbits,” he commented, bewildered.
“Most don’t,” Strider mysteriously answered, and the subject appeared to be closed.
&&&&&
By the time they paused, at midday, for a quick meal, it was obvious that the beneficial effects of Frodo’s poultice had begun to wear off. He was starting to stumble occasionally, as he walked doggedly on, with his head down, and Sam was torn between feeling as though he should insist that they stop, and allow Frodo to rest, and the fear of stopping, the necessity of trying to cover as much ground as they could before nightfall came upon them. He had given up on any attempt to lead Bill, who, fortunately, ambled alongside of Frodo without guidance of any sort. He had an arm firmly around Frodo’s waist as they walked, with Frodo’s right arm draped over his shoulder, and he could hear Frodo’s breathing becoming shallower, and the faint moan as his steps would falter, and he would lurch slightly against Sam. He knew there was nothing he could say that would help, and concentrated only on unobtrusively trying to provide more support as they trudged onward.
Strider, however, had been giving sporadic glances back towards them, and just when Sam felt as though Frodo was going to collapse in his arms, the man called a halt to the procession. They had left the unsheltered valley and had now started to travel through the woods that began near the foothills of the Misty Mountains, and there were occasional outcroppings of bare boulders to be found among the bushes, creating small clearings. It was in one of those clearings that they halted, grateful for the protection from the wind the tall rocks provided for them.
“You might want to have a quick fire,” Strider indicated to Merry and Pippin, who both had stopped to lean wearily against one of the rocks. “Something hot to drink will do us all some good, and I’ll need some warm water for Frodo.”
Merry gave a quick nod, all weariness forgotten at the chance to do something for his cousin. He started skirting the area, picking up dried branches and some leaves for kindling, as Pippin hunted for the tea box in his pack. He pulled it out, turning to retrieve the kettle from Sam’s pack, but stopped short suddenly, giving an indecipherable abrupt squawk. Merry was instantly at his side, but Pippin ignored him, and pointed to the rock behind Sam. Merry looked up at it, and his jaw dropped.
Sam had not been paying attention to them, leaning against the rock and cradling Frodo’s head in his lap, but then he unexpectedly heard Frodo’s weak laugh. “Bilbo’s trolls,” Frodo said faintly, as he gazed past his head. “That silly story really was true.”
He had to turn then, and just as Frodo had said, the large rocks surrounding the clearing were actually not true rocks, but the petrified forms of three large trolls, caught in the act of arguing, for all eternity. With a fond smile, he looked back down at Frodo and lightly caressed the side of his face. “I’m not that sure that I really ever believed that tale meself, but look now. Sure enough, ‘twas true.” Frodo’s eyes, focusing back on him, seemed to clear of pain for the moment, as they met his, and the warmth of their blue, as well as the echo of that laugh, suddenly bespoke to Sam of the clear blue summer skies over Bag End, the sun-warmed fields and fragrant grass, and all the joy they had found together there. And Sam felt an adamant vow suddenly spring to his heart, that he would, somehow, bring his beloved back there, no matter what evil and grief he would have to face to do so. Clearing his throat slightly, fighting back the tears that once more threatened, he looked back up to Merry and Pippin with a slight smile. “Surely you’d not be forgettin’ Mr. Bilbo’s tales now. That’d be one of his favorites, no mistake.”
Strider, who had been crushing the athelas leaves in preparation for the poultice, glanced over to the four hobbits. “Master Meriadoc, I believe your time might be better spent at this moment than staring at stones,” he mentioned wryly, as Merry quickly collected himself.
“Well, we don’t have many trolls about the Shire, stone or otherwise,” Merry muttered defensively, as he hastily set up the sticks for the fire in the center of the clearing. “A rock there is generally just a rock.”
“Trolls,” breathed Pippin, his face still alight with wonder, as he filled the kettle from the water skin slung across Bill‘s back. “I wonder what next.”
“Well, they are not the sort of creature you’d want to run into,” Strider said matter-of-factly, accepting the pot for the poultice from Pippin. “Stone trolls are definitely my favorite sort of troll. Fortunately, they are rather rare about here, these days, stone or otherwise.”
“You’ve seen trolls, too?” Pippin transferred his wondering gaze to Strider, who had to chuckle slightly.
“I’ve seen many things, my young hobbit, but I suspect that you, yourself, will have many a tale to tell when you return to the Shire,” he gave Pippin an amused glance.
The tea, as well as the warm water was quickly prepared, and Frodo struggled to sit up as Strider brought the fragrant smelling concoction over, and Pippin followed with two hot mugs. He set those down next to Sam, and returned to Merry to assist him in giving Bill a drink, not wishing to distract Strider as he cared for Frodo.
Once again, Sam held Frodo in his arms, as Strider carefully pushed back the jacket and shirtsleeves, and slowly unwrapped the bandage that had covered the wound. He examined it with a grave look, and Sam felt his heart sink. It was a few moments before he could bear to look at it himself, and then, though he was no healer himself, the sight was troubling. The wound was no longer bleeding, but the edges of the gash were whitened, with the appearance of pale, dead skin, and the flesh surrounding the wound was unhealthily reddened, as if infected. Frodo said nothing, not attempting to look at his shoulder himself, and closed his eyes, biting his lip, as Strider reapplied the poultice and bandage. Sam, who had been watching Strider carefully, knew that he was not happy with what he had seen, and resolved to have a private word with him at the first opportunity.
But that opportunity was not to come soon. The hasty lunch was eaten, and even though Frodo seemed to regain his spirits as the athelas once again took effect, both Strider and Sam insisted that he ride Bill for the rest of the afternoon. Slowly, they picked their way through underbrush and rocks, the forest growing ever deeper about them, until, at last, just before the afternoon light faded, Strider gave a short exclamation, and pointed before them. “The road to Bruinen Ford,” he said quietly. “We are now two good days’ journey from there. We will camp here tonight. Our way will be easier tomorrow.”
“Aye, and they’ll know exactly how we’re comin’,” Sam thought, troubled, as he helped Frodo down from Bill. “May as well be sendin’ out invitations.” He did not mention his concerns, however, to the others.
&&&&&
During the night, Frodo’s state took a turn for the worse. Sam awoke from an exhausted deep sleep, for he had slept only fitfully the past two nights, to feel Frodo moving restlessly, in his loose embrace. The other two hobbits were asleep near him, and even Strider, for the first time since he had joined up with them in Bree, was seated against a boulder, near the dying fire, with his knees drawn up and his head resting against them, clearly asleep as well.
“Frodo,” he whispered, blearily trying to clear his foggy vision. “What is it, love?”
Frodo shook his head slightly, his eyes remaining shut, and muttered with effort, “It just won’t let me rest, Sam. I shouldn’t be bothering you like this, you need to sleep.”
Sam wasted no time in arguing the point, but, lifting up a hand, carefully felt Frodo’s forehead. He had not liked the look of that reddened skin earlier, when Strider had dressed the wound, and the thought of infection had come unpleasantly to his mind. But Frodo did not seem too warm; on the contrary, his skin was unmistakably icy, even though the clearing was sheltered from the bitterly sharp draughts that had plagued them earlier in the valley.
“Don’t you be worryin’ about me, love, how do you feel?” Sam insisted, still gently holding his hand against Frodo’s frigid skin, trying to make some sense of this.
“Cold,” Frodo murmured, his eyes flickering open and staring into Sam’s. Even by the fading light of the fire, fear was unmistakable in them, no matter how much he was clearly trying to hide it. “So cold, it’s as if I’ll never be warm again.”
“Oh, me dear, if there was anything I could do for you,” Sam murmured brokenly, wrapping his arms around Frodo as carefully as he could.
“Just hold me, Sam. I feel as if I’m slipping away, somehow, and I don’t want to.”
He could barely hear Frodo’s words. “You’re not slippin’ off anywhere, me darling.” He felt his stubborn spirit rising in protest as he cradled Frodo in his arms. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere without your Sam, so you just rest here, in my arms. The sun will rise in the morning, and in a day or two more, those elves will be lookin’ after you, and you’ll be feelin’ yourself again. Just keep that in your thoughts, Frodo-love, and we’ll see this through.”
But Frodo sighed, and curling closer to Sam, shut his eyes and said no more.
&&&&&
In the morning, Frodo was obviously breathing only with difficulty, and Strider’s expression, when he examined Frodo, terrified Sam. Merry and Pippin, as had become the custom, prepared a quick breakfast, and rapidly packed up the camp, but were subdued and obviously anxious, finding excuses to briefly touch and murmur to Frodo, but he lay with his eyes half-open, shivering lightly from time to time, and seemed unaware that they were there.
Strider had changed the poultice on Frodo’s shoulder as usual, but even Sam could tell that the athelas was having less and less of a beneficial effect on him. Nevertheless, Strider approached Sam, as the other two were preoccupied, and gravely asked him if he could help him to find some more athelas before they left. Sam numbly agreed, but was not surprised when Strider drew him aside, not far from camp, and quietly said, “There’s something I need to tell you, Sam.”
Silently, Sam looked up at the tall man, foreboding in his heart as he finally acknowledged to himself that it was not merely a shoulder wound, no matter how grievous, that afflicted Frodo, and that he had known this for longer than he cared to admit. Once more, he struggled to keep his own wrenching grief within himself, for that was not the way to help Frodo, and kept his attention on the ranger.
But it was soon clear that Strider was fighting his own emotions as he knelt in front of Sam, in the cold early morning light of that bleak day, and gently caught hold of his hands. “Sam,” he began hesitantly, and Sam gazed, unnerved, at those grey eyes, unexpectedly full of sorrow. “There is something that you need to know. Frodo’s wound is perilous, but he will not die from it.”
Sam continued to watch Strider, though, with no thankfulness, and his heart was gripped with fear. Somewhere, he vaguely remembered, someone had told him there were worse things than death, and he was suddenly horribly certain of what Strider meant.
“The Morgul blade,” Strider continued haltingly, “will not kill. Rather, it can cause those whom it strikes to enter the world of the wraiths, neither living nor dead, servants of the Dark Lord whether they will or no.”
Sam gasped, and the world seemed to shift suddenly about him. His own Frodo, that dear bright and loving spirit, lost forever to the world of those ghastly phantoms. It was too much for him to understand, and he unconsciously shoved his fist in his mouth, choking on a wail of despair, and Strider, without thought, rose and embraced him tightly.
“He has become dear to me too, Sam,” he whispered fiercely as Sam unknowingly shook in his arms, with muted piteous cries of grief. “We will not give in, we must help him continue to fight them off. The elves may, indeed, still be able to help him, for he has a strong will, the likes of which I have never seen before, and he is not giving in to them. We must get him to Rivendell, as fast as we can, Sam, and trust in them.”
It was the thought of speed that overrode all else in Sam’s mind then, and with the greatest effort, he pulled himself from Strider and, visibly gaining control over his emotions once more, looked back at him. “I will get him there, if it takes all that is in me,” he murmured briefly, and taking a deep breath, turned back to rejoin the others. But before he left the glade, he looked back quickly to Strider, who was silently following him. “Thank you for tellin’ me that,” he murmured softly, and Strider nodded.
&&&&&
There was no doubt that Frodo would have to be riding Bill, this day, and Sam spared a quick thought of gratitude toward the small sturdy pony, which had so unexpectedly chosen to follow them that morning out of Bree. When it came time to mount, Frodo, with the greatest of efforts, and the assistance of Sam, managed to rise to his feet, but could barely stand, and wavered on his feet, assailed now by nearly constant fits of shivering.
Strider, however, quickly stepped over to Sam’s side, and murmured quietly to Frodo, “My apologies, Frodo, but it will be easier this way,” and lifted the weakened hobbit easily upon Bill’s back. Frodo slumped over, without a word, and wrapped his arms around Bill’s neck, as the pony stood motionless. With a soft sigh, Strider turned then to the remaining hobbits. “Sam, Merry,” he directed them quietly, “the both of you stay on either side of Frodo, for he may slip off. Pippin, you guide Bill. I will be walking ahead a little ways.” Silently, he gazed at them for a moment, as they dazedly took their places. “Courage, my friends,” he said suddenly, and Sam, Merry, and Pippin looked up at him, numbly expectant. “We yet have time. Do not give in to despair.”
“Not likely,” Pippin suddenly asserted, his jaw lifted stubbornly. He grasped Bill’s lead rope in his hand, and stepped forward. “Frodo’s as tough as they come, but we best get started.”
Merry gave a reluctant smile at Pippin’s declaration, and muttered agreement. “Quite right, Pip. Time to be off.” With a careful touch to Frodo’s leg, he glanced over at Sam and nodded. Sam said nothing, placing a gentle hand on Frodo’s back so he could sense if he started to slip, but his face revealed his anguish for a moment, before he could disguise it. Strider held his gaze for just a moment before they started off.
&&&&&
The sun, which had barely been visible in the clouded, leaden sky, had just passed into its downward fall, when the hobbits were roused from their grim, plodding stupor by the sound of rustling, and hooves, on the path ahead. They had not stopped once, since they had left that morning, not even halting for lunch, let alone any other meal. Frodo had fallen, as far as they could tell, into unconsciousness, but Sam had been keeping an apprehensive eye on him, with a constant need to assure himself that Frodo yet continued to breathe. Strider had gone ahead, and was out of sight when they heard the slight noise, but to their great relief, he appeared on the path before them, directly before they were joined by a tall elf on a stately white horse.
“Glorfindel!” the ranger cried out in greeting, with evident relief. “Well met indeed, and none too soon. Have you been sent out to seek us?”
“That I have, indeed,” the dark-haired stranger said firmly, halting his horse in the middle of the path, and gracefully swinging himself down to his feet. “I understand there is one with you who has been pursued, and he carries something of unique worth.”
“He carries that, truly, but he has been most grievously wounded, and must be brought to Rivendell with all possible haste,” Strider responded urgently, stepping back to the hobbits and indicating Frodo, slumped over Bill’s neck.
“How so?” asked the elf, studying the small limp figure with a frown.
“He was struck with a Morgul blade, more than two nights hence,” Strider replied, his hand passing gently over Frodo’s oblivious head.
“That long ago, and yet he lives still?” the elf asked quickly, raising an eyebrow in surprise.
Strider nodded, and his voice was unexpectedly rough as he answered, “They are hardy, these small folk, and this one especially so. I ask your assistance, Glorfindel, for he is dear to all of us.”
“Certainly, you shall have it,” the elf glanced at him with determination. “The Nazgul are awaiting you, Elessar, near the Ford. They did not see me pass, however, and so we will have the element of surprise. Swiftness, too, if you will let me bear him with me. I can reach the Ford before nightfall, and they will not be expecting you until the morrow.”
Strider nodded. “That, I think, is our best hope.” With determination, he turned to the hobbits, who had been silently witnessing this exchange. “Speed is essential now, my dear friends,” he said softly. “Indeed, it is his only hope,” he added, gazing directly at Sam.
Merry and Pippin both turned instinctively to Sam for his decision, but there was no doubt in Sam’s mind. Any chance that could be taken must be, and if this elf could get Frodo to help faster, then, the opportunity must be seized. Strider read his decision in his face, and gently placed a hand on his shoulder. “It is the best course, Sam. And I swear to you that all that can be done for him will be.”
Sam nodded, not daring to speak, and not even realizing that tears were beginning to run down his face. Strider watched him for a moment more, and then said quietly, “I have enough athelas for one last preparation. There is no time to heat the water, but even with cool water, it may yet have some healing effect. Would you like to apply it, Sam?”
Sam mutely nodded again, not taking his eyes from the still figure draped over Bill’s neck. “You have a few moments, Sam,” Strider told him then, deftly lifting the limp figure of Frodo from off of the pony, and carefully lying him down on a bed of dried leaves by the side of the road. Picking up the rope, Strider led Bill away farther ahead on the path to where Merry and Pippin had crumpled at the side of the road, holding each other tightly, and trying to stifle their cries.
“Frodo, my own Frodo-love,” Sam called softly, as he bent down at Frodo’s side, gently urging the last of the athelas under the bandage. “They’ll be takin’ you now, me dearie,” he whispered, his tears falling without notice on Frodo’s pale face. “You’ll need t’be gettin’ there as soon as may be, dearest, and I’ll have to follow behind.”
Frodo suddenly stirred at Sam’s words, frowning, and with effort, barely opening his eyes. But then he blinked again, and suddenly his eyes locked with Sam’s. There was fear there, certainly, but also resolve, and immeasurable love. “Sam,” he breathed, his lips barely moving, and Sam felt his heart being wrenched apart.
“Oh, Frodo, oh, my own Frodo, I love you so much,” he choked out, his tears threatening to rob him of this most precious of all sights. But there was no time, no time at all, and every moment was too precious to spare. He sensed that Strider was returning, but there was one last decision that he had made, and he needed to tell Frodo.
“Frodo,” he whispered fiercely, seizing Frodo’s hand and holding it tightly, staring down into those beloved eyes, as they looked back up at him with so much love. “There ain’t nowhere you could go that I wouldn’t follow you. Do you understand me, Frodo? Nowhere at all. I promise you that, me darling. Don’t you fear none, for you ain’t goin’ to be alone, no how, wherever you may be.”
And as Strider picked Frodo gently up, as if there were no weight to him at all, and handed him over to Glorfindel, who had mounted once more, Sam gave Frodo’s hand a final swift kiss, as Frodo, his eyes never leaving Sam’s, whispered his name one last time. Then the elf was gone, and the three remaining hobbits were left alone with the ranger.
Strider stood in the middle of the path, staring past where the elf and his mount had departed in the fading light, and suddenly squared his shoulders, as if coming to a difficult decision. Turning back to the others, he gently drew a stunned, unresisting Sam over to the younger two hobbits, crouched, and in anguish, at the side of the path. “Listen, my dear friends,” he said emphatically, watching them carefully. “Speed and surprise alone may not be enough to carry Glorfindel through. But twice a surprise, that may be sufficient. As I told you before, we do not enter much into their plans, their attention is solely on Frodo. When Glorfindel crosses the Bruinen at the Ford, they will attempt to follow. But the River there is subject, in many ways, to the elves of Rivendell, and they will not find it an easy matter. And if I can deny them a chance of retreat, we may be rid of them for a good long time. So it is that I must leave you, and follow those who left as quickly as I can.”
He paused, gazing at the three hobbits who stared dully at him, their faces wet with tears. “I go, to give Frodo every chance that I can,” he continued slowly, “but you will have to follow alone. I will return for you as soon as I can.”
Sam nodded then, as the other two looked automatically to him for guidance. “Then you must go, Strider, and we will follow as fast as can be.” His voice was ragged, but there was no doubt in it. “Don’t you be thinkin’ of us right now, for we’ll be right behind you. But,” and he paused uncertainly for a moment, “you’ve no horse, and Bill’s not too likely to be able to carry you.”
Strider gave him a grim smile. “I’ve got legs, though, Sam, and I’m well used to using them. Farewell for the moment, my good hobbits, stay to the path, and I will find you near the River.” And before another moment had passed, he, also, had disappeared into the forest ahead just as Frodo and Glorfindel had.
Sam watched him depart for only a moment before running a hasty hand across his face and looking impassively down at Merry and Pippin, all signs of grief once again locked within him. “We need to be travelin’ as far as we can today afore we lose the light,” he bit the words out abruptly and unemotionally.
“Sam,” Merry rose up, also wiping his face, and hesitantly placed a hand on Sam’s arm. “If you want to take Bill and ride ahead, we can follow. We’d be right behind you.”
“Not likely I’d be doin’ that,” Sam rejected the idea immediately, shaking his head with a dismissive look. “I’d not be wishin’ to answer to Frodo for misplacing his cousins.”
“Then we’d best be off,” Pippin rose up as well with a determined expression. “Maybe we can make this river by nightfall, after all. Let’s show these big people what ‘small folk’ can do when they put their mind to it.”
&&&&&
There were no more tears, and no more talk, as the three hobbits traveled as rapidly as they could down the unfamiliar forest path. There was no time for either, for there was only the same thought in their minds, of reaching the Bruinen River, and Strider, as soon as they could. But the road was not easy to follow, and as they began to lose the light, Merry suddenly placed a gentle hand on Sam’s shoulder. “Sam,” he said softly, as Sam stopped and turned to him with the dazed look of one who moved as though in his sleep. “We need to stop now. We can’t take the chance of losing our way, and the path is faint enough as it is.”
Sam stood motionless, looking at him as if nothing Merry had said had made sense. But Merry continued determinedly, slightly tightening his grip on Sam’s shoulder, “Sam-dear, we do not know our way. We must wait for the morning.”
Slowly then, and with the greatest reluctance, Sam nodded. “Aye,” he said, nearly inaudibly, and without looking any more at the other two, walked over to Bill, and taking off the packs that he was carrying, unceremoniously dropped them at the side of the road. Untying a pot, he poured the pony a drink and stood next to him while he drank thirstily, resting his head against the animal’s side and staring sightlessly at the ground.
Merry and Pippin watched him uncertainly for a few moments, and then picked up the packs and carried them to a likely campsite a ways from the path. They soon had a small fire started, quickly preparing tea and a light meal. But Sam shook his head, as they offered him food, not even taking tea, and continued to lean against the patient Bill.
The fire was doused early. Merry and Pippin curled together next to its warmth, although not sleepy, and patiently lay there, silently awaiting the dawn.
But they must have fallen asleep, for in the midst of the night, Merry awoke to hear a faint sound, muffled sobs that were heartbreaking in their misery. Rising up carefully in the faint moonlight, so as not to awake Pippin, breathing steadily in sleep next to him, he sadly approached Sam, who lay desolately huddled on the ground near the accepting Bill.
“Oh, Sam,” he sorrowfully whispered, kneeling on the ground next to him, and gently stroking his back. “It will be all right, Sam, you just see if it won’t. You know Frodo would never leave you. I’m sure you’ll be seeing him again tomorrow.”
Sam lifted his tear-streaked face then, at Merry’s words. “But how could I ever stand it?” he gasped, reaching up and clutching Merry’s arm. “If aught were to happen, and I wasn’t there? How could I ever bear it?”
Merry lifted him up unresistingly then, and laid a compassionate hand against the side of his face. “That won’t be happening, Sam,” he said firmly, searching his eyes. “He will be waiting for you, I’m sure of it. He loves you far too dearly not to. Come with me, Sam, don’t lie alone.”
Gently he grasped Sam’s hand, and led him to where he and Pippin had been sleeping. “Stay with us,” he whispered, pulling Sam down, and wrapping his arms around him. “Stay with us. And tomorrow, we will all see Frodo again.” Soothingly, he stroked Sam’s back as Sam lay, worn beyond the point of despair, with his head on Merry’s chest, and finally, felt him start to relax. Pippin, on the other side of Sam, curled sleepily around his back, and tucked an arm around Sam’s waist as well. Weary in heart, and drained in spirit, all three were asleep again before long.
Pippin was awake with the first light, and had a small fire already lit, and the tea made, when the other two stirred awake. “Here,” he announced, bringing hot mugs over to the both of them as they groggily sat up. “And Sam,” he added, giving him a sharp look. “You will be drinking this, and having something to eat today before we start. I’ll not be having to drag you along should you faint, and there’s enough on poor Bill as it is.”
Sam meekly took the offered tea and gave Pippin a quick smile. “Aye, Pippin, dear,” he murmured. “ ’Tis good sense, after all.”
Pippin nodded, with a certain air of triumph, and left to see to Bill.
The quick meal was eaten and they were ready to leave as soon as the morning light filtered through the trees. But before they set out on the path again, Sam walked up to Merry and, unexpectedly, caught him up in a quick embrace. “Thankee, Merry,” he said gruffly, trying to keep his voice steady.
Merry tightly closed his eyes, and held Sam closely for a moment. “We must have hope, Sam,” he whispered. “None of us could bear it otherwise.”
Sam pulled slightly away and held his eyes for a moment. “Aye, there is hope, true enough.” And with a swift motion, he kissed Merry on the cheek and turning away, picked up Bill’s rope and walked ahead, carefully studying the path to the River. Merry blinked in surprise, but Pippin gave him a warm smile and grasped his hand as they followed Sam.
&&&&&
They were at the River before mid-morning, and found Strider waiting for them. “Frodo is safely in Rivendell,” he told them, with a weary smile, as they ran forward from under the trees to the stony shore of the River. “The Riders chased Glorfindel, but could not catch him. And as they rode into the River, he called it down upon them, and I made sure that they did not find the shore. Their mounts have been destroyed, and they will have to make their way back to whence they came. They will not trouble us again for some time.”
“But now, I will bring you there, and you will see him again,” he added, and it was only then that they saw the white horse that Glorfindel had been riding was standing patiently under the trees. Strider gestured to it, and it approached him without hesitation. “Asfaloth will bear me and two of you, and the third can ride Bill across.”
But Bill had been eying the rapid, foaming water with trepidation, and shied back from it as Sam drew him close. Sam, though, gave Merry and Pippin a quick glance and quietly said, “The both of you go with Strider. I’ll have a quick word with Bill.”
And as Strider lifted the other two hobbits on the great white horse, they could see Sam passing his hand gently up Bill’s face and speaking quietly to him. Bill shook his head once at Sam‘s caress, blowing out a snort, but allowed Sam to scramble up on him. Mounting Asfaloth behind the two hobbits, Strider spoke a quiet word that neither of them understood, and it seemed as though, improbably enough, the River appeared to calm itself, and the white foam turned to peaceable ripples, and the water lay clear and shallow before them. With a quick look back at Sam and the pony, Strider led the horse into the River and easily across, and Bill timidly followed without further resistance.
So it was that Samwise Gamgee, Merry Brandybuck, and Pippin Took came at last to Rivendell, the Last Homely House.
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*breathlessly waits for a continuation*
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Continuation has commenced, captain. Full speed ahead.
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Looking forward to reading it, most likely in a few minutes after I finish a few things. Yes! Thank you.
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*bounces*
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Um, thanks?
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And Strider? Right now, at Rivendell, he's beginning to think that maybe he'd prefer to hang around hobbits than elves, well, except for maybe one, that is.
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Incidentally, I'm not certain how I missed this when you first put it up. I'd been thinking it was about time for an update, so finally I just checked your journal, and lookie here! Yeesh. I should read the flist more carefully.
I really love reading about Merry and Sam in this universe, too--because they really DID go through a lot to get to where they are now. When I think of how Merry treated Sam at first...and now look! They might as well be cousins, now.
Oh, I am still fighting tears, but I hope there will be another installment soon!!
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I think Weathertop is especially brutal to F/S since it comes so early in the quest. After all, they are really hardly out of the Shire. Rather as if the trolls had managed to do significant damage to Bilbo in The Hobbit. And of course, this is the wound that plagues Frodo the worst for the rest of his life, and really sets him on the road to Tol Eressea, although, fortunately, neither of them know that yet.
Luckily for Sam, he and Merry worked out the whole business over Frodo years ago, (and of course Merry realizing that really, it's Pippin for him helps!) and Sam has someone to turn to. He may end up missing them more than Frodo does when they are eventually separated.
Actually, the next chapter, the Rivendell one, has turned into a looooong one, and is going to have to be divided into parts. (And it's still really the All-Hobbits-All-the-Time Rivendell version! With occasional guest appearances) So part one ought to show up next week, part two is being betad, and part three is being written. Possibly a fourth. Stay tuned!
And my poor Fro. I hated to do that to him.