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Hunted
Any sense of a trail was soon lost in the bitter morning as they left Bree
behind. There was no conversation as they followed the tall Ranger, and despite
the several meals they had managed to miss the day before, and the noticeable
lack of any sort of breakfast, none of the hobbits had the heart to mention that
fact, not even the perpetually hungry Pippin. The countryside was rocky and
unwelcoming, similar to the north of the Shire that they had traveled through
not long after they had initially seen the first Black Rider, but in some
ineffable way, it was more desolate. The last dwelling had been left far behind
them, and the sense of isolation was alarming, as much as they strove not to
acknowledge it.
At least, Sam privately thought to himself, as long as they had kept to the
Road, there was always the sense that no matter where it took them, the Shire
still awaited their return, back at the other end of it. But now, there was no
knowing where they were, nor how they were ever to get back. And even though he
felt a certain amount of confidence in their guide, primarily, however, because
Frodo appeared to, it was still a frightening consideration, to be so dependent
upon him.
But his worst worry, at this moment, was Frodo. From the moment they had found
Nob’s body, he had not spoken a word, and his expression had been wooden and
lifeless. Sam yearned to have a moment or two with him, to speak to him, to
comfort him if he could, but the urgency of their flight had made that
impossible. Well he knew that Frodo was taking blame on himself for what had
occurred, whether or not it was his to take. Finally, his fears for Frodo
overcame his sense of their being pursued, and hastily trying to catch up with
the tall man, striding in the lead, he spoke up.
“Mr. Strider, sir,” he began, as the tall man halted, and glanced at him
patiently. “This pony, sir, he’s that starved, seemingly. Might we let him have
a bite of grass, afore we go on? He’d be mighty useful, I’m sure, but he’d need
a bit of fattenin’ up first, I think.”
The man’s gaze seemed to penetrate through Sam’s subterfuge, but he gave a
slight smile, and nodded. “We’ve time only for a quick rest, but the rest of you
may as well eat too. Whatever you have in your packs, though, there’s no time
for any cooking.”
Sam nodded gratefully, and the four hobbits sank thankfully down in a small
patch of dried grass, behind a large boulder, and out of the wind, Sam keeping a
hold of the rope at first, but allowing the pony to graze nearby. Frodo sat next
to Sam, and taking the piece of bread and the dried apple that Sam handed him,
began to eat in a mechanical way, his eyes straight ahead, never meeting the
gaze of any of the others. Merry sat on the other side of Frodo, both he and Sam
close enough to Frodo so that the touch of their arms could in some way comfort
him, should he notice. He gave a quick worried glance to Sam over the top of
Frodo’s bent dark head, but Sam frowned, shaking his head very slightly, and
Merry did not say anything to Frodo. Instead, he sighed, and asked in a general
sort of way, “I wonder how long it will be until we reach Rivendell?”
Thankful for a bit of conversation, Pippin, who sat curled up quite close to
Merry, spoke up. “Some several days, I should think. I think we would know more
about Rivendell if it were closer to Bree. I don’t suppose your father ever went
that way on business, did he, Merry?”
“Not that he ever mentioned,” Merry replied with a trace of amusement in his
voice. “I rather doubt elves are terribly keen on pipeweed. Not that I would
know, of course, but it just doesn’t seem very elvish.”
“Probably not,” Pippin, agreed, with a slight chuckle, “But a bottle or two of
Old Winyards might have made its way there, I suspect.” There was silence for a
few moments, as they continued to eat, and then Pippin suddenly asked, “What are
you going to call the pony, Sam?”
“Oh!” Sam looked up, startled from his thoughts. The pony was near, quietly
grazing on the tufts of green grass that could still be found amidst the rocks,
his rope now dragging forgotten behind him. “I hadn’t given it all that much
thought. Bill, I suppose.”
“Bill?” Pippin laughed. “That’s an odd sort of name for a pony. Why Bill?”
Sam shrugged. “Bill seems like a friendly sort of name.”
“Well, he certainly appears to like you, Sam,” Pippin observed, as the pony, as
though aware that he was being discussed, ambled closer to Sam, still grazing.
“Bill it is, then.”
But Strider silently approached them, and with a well-stifled sigh on the part
of Pippin, who had not begun to take the edge of his hunger, they rose again and
prepared to continue on. Sam picked up Bill’s rope, and followed, once again at
the rear, where he could watch Frodo unnoticed. At least Frodo had eaten
something. He did not dare to say anything to him yet, for it was clear enough
to him that Frodo’s control was, at the moment, very precarious. Sam resigned
himself to waiting for the night.
&&&&&
They made no more stops that long and wearisome day, but as walking became more
difficult in the steadily increasing darkness, Strider seemed satisfied with the
progress that they had made. He lead them to a modest thicket of stunted
juniper, with a small clearing in its midst, as their campsite for the night.
“The trees will keep the wind from you,” he mentioned briefly, “and the night is
dark enough that you may have a small campfire, if you wish. I will be keeping
guard this night; I suspect you are all going to need some rest.”
“Will you be eating with us first, then?” Pippin asked politely, dropping his
pack thankfully at the edge of the clearing.
“Not tonight, I think not, though I appreciate your hospitality,” the man
replied, with a slight smile. “I am well used to nights in the wild, and cold
dinners, if any dinner at all. I also need to consider our course from here.”
“Are you leaving us, then?” Merry, who had just sat heavily down next to
Pippin’s pack, looked up in alarm as Strider walked to the edge of the thicket.
“I will be near enough,” was the response, and there was the slightest trace of
amusement in that soft voice. “You will be safe tonight, as long as you do not
leave this thicket.”
He left, passing Sam, who had just finished tying Bill’s rope to a stump near a
promising patch of grass, and had followed Frodo into the clearing. Sam did not
concern himself with the Ranger’s departure, since having some privacy with
Frodo was the primary objective on his mind at the moment, and he knew that
Merry and Pippin would give him that opportunity. Without another word, he
gathered some dry wood, and began both the campfire and dinner.
&&&&&
The night seemed darker, somehow, to Sam, who looked up from a protected nook of
the juniper, with Frodo in his arms. He lay on his cloak, searching the night
sky for a star, any friendly bit of light, in that endless sky, but saw none.
Frodo had remained silent, but was wrapped tightly against his side, and his arm
was close around Sam, under their blankets. Frodo was still awake, that Sam
knew, and he waited patiently until Frodo was ready to speak of what had
happened.
Finally he heard Frodo’s voice, so soft that it was nearly as though he was
merely murmuring to himself, “I never knew It was on me, Sam, not until it was
too late.”
“I know, me dear. You never meant to put It on, no ways,” Sam replied softly,
drawing Frodo even closer, and bending his face down toward him, burying it in
those dark curls. “ ‘Twas no doin’ of yours, love, not at all.”
“But that doesn’t matter much, does it,” Frodo’s tone was flat, but Sam could
hear the despair in it. “And now Nob is dead, and we are being chased by this
evil. I was careless, and whether or not I meant to do it really makes no
difference at all.”
Sam was silent for a moment, stricken by Frodo’s grief, and his own fears for
Frodo. Tom Bombadil’s words came back to him, his warning to Frodo to never put
It on, and Sam was terrified by the thought that, somehow, harm had already come
to Frodo, unseen and irreparable. Forcefully, he thrust that thought from his
mind, for Frodo didn’t need him to be adding to his troubles. “I know you’d be
blamin’ yourself, Frodo-love, but there ain’t no sense to that. This evil Thing
is that powerful that Gandalf wouldn’t touch It; you can’t be surprised that It
managed to trick you. But you’d be the one carryin’ It, now, anyways. And if
that don’t make you the bravest hobbit ever, well, I don’t know who else that
would be.”
“But I’m not brave, not at all, Sam,” Frodo pulled slightly out of his arms at
his words, raising his head up, and lifting a hand, unseen in the dark night, to
the side of Sam’s face. “I’m so scared for you, and Merry and Pippin, and for
myself, too. I don’t know how to protect you, I don’t know what else to do. None
of you should ever have followed me.”
“Ah, ‘twas not your choice, now, me dear, ‘twas ours. And remember what old Tom
said, that we were best off all together. So don’t you be frettin’ about that.”
Sam covered Frodo’s hand with his own for a moment, and then, reaching out in
the dark, found Frodo’s face, and leaning down, covered his mouth with his own.
Frodo was still, for the instant of a heartbeat, and then, sweeping his arms
tightly around Sam, ardently returned his kiss.
“Sam, dearest Sam,” Sam could hear that dear familiar voice, choked with tears.
“Hush, now, you aren’t alone, me dearie, and you ain’t never going to be,” he
said gruffly, gathering Frodo tightly again. “We’ll see this through, and we’ll
find our way back to the Shire, no mistake, Frodo-love.” Hungry for Frodo’s
mouth, he found it again, but just before he did, he murmured, “You’d be a fool
not to be scared, Frodo, but you never was that. An’ you’ll keep on goin’,
anyways. That’s bein’ brave, me love.”
&&&&&
By the next morning, Frodo was up early, preparing tea, and allowing Sam a bit
more sleep. To Merry and Pippin’s relief, he seemed back to his normal,
matter-of-fact self, and only Sam could know how much that had cost him. They,
of course, groggily making their way to the small campfire, and warming their
hands against the brisk morning air, asked no questions of him, and the matter
was, in typical hobbit fashion, considered over and in the past. The question
really at hand was how long it would take them to get to Rivendell via the wild
lands through which they were traveling, and whether the tea would hold out.
Strider returned, just as they were beginning to consider these matters of
importance, and gratefully accepted a steaming mug of tea from Frodo. “Tea is
not particularly easy to find outside of the Shire, I’m afraid to inform you,”
he murmured, settling his lean form on the ground against a granite boulder.
Sipping it slowly, he glanced over the edge of the mug, small in his long,
sinewy hands, and quietly watched them as they went about the business of
breakfast. By this time, Sam had also joined them, after rolling up and
repacking his and Frodo’s things, and pouring some water from his waterskin into
a pot for Bill.
Once breakfast had been completed, however, Frodo calmly sat down before the
man, and with the look of one not prepared to move until certain questions were
answered, gave him a steady look. “I agreed to let you guide us,” he said
firmly. “Yesterday, there was need of haste, and no time to speak. But today, I
would ask you several questions before we continue on.”
Strider nodded, accepting without comment the breakfast Sam laid next to him,
and gravely studied the small figure before him. Frodo returned the scrutiny in
kind, with dignity, and a certain sternness in his gaze. Strider could not help
but notice that the other three hobbits, without a word to each other, sat down
together behind Frodo, unquestioningly accepting his leadership, and surveyed
him expectantly as well. “That is only reasonable,” the Ranger replied gravely.
“Might I ask first, however, in whose company I have the pleasure of being?
Frodo Baggins, I have met. Samwise Gamgee has introduced himself to me as well,”
he added, with a trace of amusement in his voice. Sam reddened slightly, but
continued to steadily meet the man’s gaze. “But I have not yet met your
companions.”
“Meriadoc Brandybuck and Pippin Took,” Frodo indicated his cousins.
“Indeed?” Strider’s eyebrow rose in surprise at that information. “The heirs of
the two most prominent families of the Shire accompany you?”
“They are my cousins,” Frodo informed him briefly, not wishing to discuss the
probable sentiments of those families regarding the fact of their accompanying
him.
Strider nodded at Frodo’s statement, and did not pursue further information in
that regard. “As I told you, I am called, by the Shire folk and men of Bree,
Strider. And I am of the Dunadan.”
“A Ranger?” Frodo asked curiously, as Merry nodded next to him.
“That’s what the innkeeper in Bree called him,” he muttered quickly to Frodo.
“Hadn’t had a chance to mention it to you yet.”
“Bilbo told me that you were familiar with the elvish tongues,” Strider gave
Frodo a slight nod of approval. “I see he spoke justly.”
“You know Bilbo?” Frodo breathed in surprise, dropping his guard for just a
moment, and revealing a glimpse of wistful yearning. “Is he truly at Rivendell?”
Strider nodded again, with a slight smile, and then straightened slightly. “He
is indeed, and that is where I will take you. But we dare not go by way of the
East Road, for there is no question but that it is being watched.”
Impulsively, Pippin suddenly spoke up. “Who are they, Strider? Those things that
follow us?”
“They are Nazgul,” Strider turned to him, completely serious. “They were once
mighty kings of the race of men. And now they are the Dark Lord’s most fearsome
servants. He gave them rings of power, and those gifts corrupted and twisted
them so that they are now neither living nor dead, dwelling always in the world
of shadows. They cannot see you, for they no longer have eyes, but they can
sense the presence of living creatures. Only if you put the Ring on, can they
truly see you. They are hunting the Ring on behalf of the Dark Lord, for with
It, his power will be complete.”
Pippin stared at the Ranger with wide eyes and an expression of fear, as Merry
couldn’t help but shudder next to him. “How can we defend ourselves against
them?” he asked, with dread in his voice. “You’ve given us swords, but of what
use are they?”
“Their horses are mortal,” Strider answered. “And also fire is of some use
against them. But I would not consider fighting them unless at the last need.
Our advantage is in finding our way to Rivendell before they can stop us. There,
for the time being, we will be safe.”
He turned back to Frodo, who had been studying him closely. “That is why I would
take you there through the wilderness. They will, I have no doubts, be guarding
the East Road. Near Rivendell, the Road crosses the Bruinen River at the Ford,
the only place where it may be safely crossed. I plan to keep us by secret and
hidden ways out of their sight until the end of our journey, where we must hope
that speed and the element of surprise will allow us to cross the Ford before
them.” He paused for a moment, and then carefully asked, “How many were there,
when you saw them in the Shire?”
“Three,” Frodo answered promptly.
“Then they are not yet at full strength, and that is a benefit to us,” Strider
was thoughtful. “I am sure that the others, for there are nine altogether, are
on their way here even now, but until then, they cannot guard all roads.” Rising
to his feet, he picked up the plate of food that Sam had left for him, and began
to eat hastily.
Frodo rose as well, and turned to Sam. “Can Bill bear our packs?” he asked,
glancing rather dubiously toward the pony tethered nearby.
“Aye,” Sam replied with a slight smile. “If he chooses to, I suspect. I’ll give
it a try and see what he thinks of it.”
“Good,” Frodo nodded. “That should make things a bit simpler for us, for this
ground does not make for easy traveling.” Within moments, Merry and Pippin had
packed up all traces of their campsite, Frodo had obliterated the remains of the
fire with a skilful kick, and Sam had loaded the packs carefully on an obliging
Bill. Following their guide’s lead, they quickly vanished into the hills.
&&&&&
Lunch had been hasty, second breakfast a momentary pause to produce food from
their packs, and there had been a noticeable lack of elevensies altogether. As
had been their custom the last several days, Frodo accompanied Strider in the
lead of their procession, Sam followed at the rear with Bill, and the two
younger hobbits were safely sandwiched in the middle. Merry yawned, and
scratched his neck in irritation as he plodded along. His sleep had been fitful
the night before, his stomach was already growling, and now there seemed to be
invisible insect life flitting at the back of his neck.
At his side, Pippin crossly brushed a hand past his face as well. “Wouldn’t mind
them so much if I could see them,” he groused. “At least pests in the Shire have
the decency to make themselves visible.”
There was a prolonged snort from behind them, and a dry chuckle from Sam.
“Bill’d be feelin’ about the same,” he mentioned. “At least we have hands as can
swat them away. Bill’s tail’d not be reachin’ that far. Seems like the type of
creature that you‘d find about an old pond, though, and I haven‘t been seein‘
the like of that,” he mused, thoughtfully, unconsciously flicking his hand
before his face.
“Not that swatting is doing a bit of… Hoy!” came the sudden exclamation from
Merry, accompanied by a noise that was liquid, but less of a splash than a
sucking sound. The ground, which had been becoming muddier and soggier under
foot, had given way, and Merry found himself waist-deep in mud. Pippin, unable
to help a giggle at Merry’s expression, started over to give him some
assistance, but quickly found one of his legs knee-deep in muck as well.
By now, Frodo and Strider had turned around and noticed their difficulties.
“Midgewater Marshes,” Strider mentioned laconically, making his way back to
Merry, but carefully picking out his footing as he did so. Reaching out a hand
to Merry, he grasped the smaller hand of the hobbit in his, and gave a sharp
tug. Merry felt the grip of the mud about his waist give way suddenly, and with
a hasty scramble, he made his way to the firmer ground upon which Sam and Bill
were standing. Strider then turned to Pippin, awkwardly balanced with one foot
on solid ground, and the other deep in the mire. He, too was dragged up, out of
the grip of the Marsh, and quickly scampered to Merry’s side.
Merry, though, wet to the waist, had begun to shiver slightly in the chilly air,
and Frodo, who had joined them, cautiously following in Strider’s footsteps,
looked at him with concern. Walking over to Bill, he carefully pulled one of the
blankets that had been piled on Bill off, and wrapped it around Merry. Looking
up at Strider with a frown, he asked, “Can we make a fire before we go on,
Strider? Merry really does need to dry off, and Pippin too for that matter.”
But Strider shook his head regretfully. “We need to be out of this by
nightfall,” he replied, “or there will be no place for us to camp tonight.”
Sam, though, spoke up. “If we’d not mind carryin’ the packs again,” he offered,
“I think Bill could manage a rider.”
Frodo gave the bony animal a doubtful look, but it did seem like the best plan.
Reaching for the packs Sam handed over to him, he passed Pippin’s on to him, but
the youngest hobbit shook his head, his hand still outstretched. “Hand over
Merry’s too,” he insisted. “I know it’s not all that heavy, he just makes it
look that way.”
“Hoy!” repeated Merry, in indignation this time, as Sam assisted him on mounting
the pony, but the effect was rather spoiled by his chattering teeth. Frodo
wrapped the blanket around him, and smiled at him.
“I’ll take turns carrying it, Merry,” he said with amusement, “and see if
there’s any truth to that. In the meantime, you don’t have a saddle or bridle,
so you best be concentrating on not slipping off. I’d hate to have to fish
through the muck for you.”
Strider, who had been watching the proceedings with almost concealed pleasure,
then spoke up. “I’ll lead the pony, and you can follow him. Watch his footing,
and step where he steps. I suspect ponies are better judges of footing in this
marsh than are hobbits.”
“Why, yes,” grumbled Pippin in a low voice, as Sam reluctantly handed the rope
over to the Ranger, “since the ground in the Shire generally stays solid under
foot, and isn’t actually a nasty bog in disguise.” But cautiously following the
man’s advice, the three hobbits remaining on foot carefully tracked through the
deceptive marshland behind the pony, as Strider led him on, through the rest of
that long afternoon.
&&&&&
Merry had managed to warm himself up by the time they finally stopped to make
evening camp, about a mile from the last of the marsh. “What I wouldn’t give for
a bath,” he sighed glumly, as Sam helped him off the pony, and Pippin, giving
him a hand as well, wrinkled his nose.
“Merry. You smell,” he noted frankly, as Merry turned to him with a sour look.
“Why, thank you, Pip. And it feels so lovely, as well. Besides,” he added,
giving Pippin’s muck-dried leg a critical gaze. “You aren’t exactly a bouquet of
roses yourself.”
But Frodo had been watching his cousins sympathetically and turned to Sam with a
question. “How much water do the four of us have between us?” he asked. “Is
there enough to allow them a bit of a wash?”
Sam shook his head reluctantly. “Our water skins are starting to run low,
Frodo,” he admitted grudgingly. “And I have t’be keepin’ some for Bill. I’ve
been watchin’ for a stream, but haven’t seen one yet.”
“There’s one not far off,” Strider said suddenly, dropping down an armload of
dry wood, that he had been unobtrusively collecting as the hobbits had been
talking. “If you load the water skins on Bill, I’ll take you there, Sam. I’m
sure he wouldn’t mind drinking his fill from running water for a change.”
Sam, startled, looked over at the man, but Merry grinned at Strider’s proposal.
“I knew you were a decent sort, Strider, the first time I laid eyes on you,” he
exclaimed in relief, and Frodo chuckled at the expression on Pippin’s face.
“Don’t spoil the compliment, Pippin, and give me a hand with this fire,” he said
quickly, and nodded to Strider. “That really would be wonderful. We’ll use the
rest of what we have then, and have some tea for the both of you when you get
back.”
So Sam found himself following the Ranger into the deepening dusk with Bill’s
rope in his hand, scurrying to keep up with the long legs of both the man and
the pony.
&&&&&
The stream wasn’t too far off, shallow, but swift moving, and Sam and Strider
knelt on its muddy banks and filled the water skins, as Bill stood near and
steadily drank from the cold water. Straightening up, Strider set two filled
skins to the side, in the dried grass, and reached for another. “Weather may be
changing,” he mentioned quietly, and Sam nodded.
“Aye, I’d not be surprised to see a bit of snow about come morn,” he lifted his
skin, heavy now with water, and set it down beside those of Strider. “I’ve been
smellin’ it in the air all afternoon.”
Strider gave him an appraising look. “You’re different from the other three,
Sam,” he mentioned, a calm statement of fact.
Sam gave him a level look, and then returned his attention to holding the last
skin in the stream. “I’m no gentlehobbit, if that’s what you’d be on about,” he
mentioned tersely.
“I’ve seen your hands. You work the soil,” Strider continued, in a
matter-of-fact manner.
Sam gave a grunt, swinging the full sack up, and fastening it tightly. “I’m
Frodo’s gardener, no mistake,” he replied, giving Strider no glance as he left
the sack beside the others, and walked downstream to where Bill was contentedly
searching for bits of yet green grass. He picked up the end of the rope that
trailed behind the pony, but had no need to tug it, as Bill willingly walked
over to him, nuzzling him affectionately.
He led the pony back over to where Strider was waiting, and helped him load the
water skins back on Bill, slung low over his back. Strider watched, noticing
Sam’s hands, unconsciously gentle on the quiet animal, patting him reassuringly,
and his occasional low murmur of encouragement. “You are more than Frodo’s
gardener, and that is why I need to tell you this,” Strider suddenly said
abruptly, and watched Sam’s face from the other side of Bill.
Sam returned his gaze, his face closed off, and his stance wary, but Strider
continued, in a low and emphatic tone. “The danger will increase for him as we
near Rivendell. And the danger is his, Sam, make no mistake in that regard. We
are nothing to them, of no consequence whatsoever. But Frodo carries what they
seek, and it is only he whom they are hunting.”
Sam expression showed no sign of hesitation or fear, only steadfast
determination. “They might be hunting him only,” he said softly, “but he’d not
be alone. They’ll be findin’ the four of us, if they find him.”
Strider nodded, at Sam’s words, with a slight smile. “They’ll find five, Sam.
And they may not be expecting to find me.” But his look quickly became grave
again, as he continued. “That is not the only danger. The Ring will sense their
presence and act, if It can. And that’s what you must watch for, Sam. You are
the closest to Frodo. He put It on unknowingly the first time, and that was just
as well. Be aware, though. Above all, do not let him put It on intentionally. If
he does, in their presence, there is little I, or any of us, will be able to
do.”
Sam blanched, unseen in the growing darkness, but walked to the front of the
pony and picked up the rope. “We best be gettin’ back,” he said, and then,
slightly hesitant, added, “I thank you for tellin’ me that, Mr. Strider. ‘Tis
just as well to be on my guard.”
“Just Strider, Sam,” the man, joining him at Bill’s side, replied with a smile.
“I’ve never been very fond of titles of any sort.”
&&&&&
The light from the campfire, now beginning to burn low, was not far off, and
there was an early waxing moon above, as well. All the same, it was not easy to
see, as Pippin lugged the small kettle (Sam’s favorite, lent out with a certain
reluctance) full of warm water over to the sheltered patch of bushes where Merry
already was waiting for him. Over Pippin’s shoulder was slung Sam’s spare pair
of trousers, offered by its practical owner. “They mayn’t be as fine as what
Merry’d be used to,” he had said bluntly, handing the homespun to Pippin. “But
best too loose than too tight, I’ll warrant; Frodo’s won’t be doin‘, no ways.
Merry should be rinsin’ his out, but ‘twill be a few days afore they dry much.”
Merry sat under a gorse bush, still well wrapped in the blanket that he had had
around him when he had ridden Bill, earlier. “Maybe these will dry out on me,
and I can shake the mud off,” he ventured uncertainly, clutching the blanket a
little tighter. “I prefer baths in a warm steamy room, not out in the cold like
this.”
“Well, there’s not likely to be any steamy bath rooms until we reach Rivendell,”
Pippin shook his head with a grin. “And the elves are not too likely to let you
come calling if you’re still smelling this nasty. Besides, you do make a
wonderful pillow, but I won’t be getting anywhere near you in this condition.”
So with a rather put-upon sigh, Merry stood up, and let the blanket fall. He
undid his trouser fastenings, but the garment was plastered fast to him, and it
was evident that getting it off was going to take some doing. Pippin waited for
a few minutes, resting on his haunches near the pot with a spare rag in his hand
(brought on the trip, of course, by the far-sighted Sam), but the process seemed
to be going rather slowly.
“Oh, have over, Merry, this water will be icy by the time you get those off,” he
said at last, impatiently, and rose to assist him.
Kneeling behind Merry, he tugged valiantly down on the stiff and clinging
trousers, accompanied by Merry’s grunts of concentration as he worked on the
front, and the occasional cry of, “Not quite so hard, Pip! It’s rather attached,
you know!” But at last they managed to clear Merry’s hips, and he was rewarded
with a quite pleasant, albeit rather grimy, sight. Pippin’s sudden lack of
assistance did finally catch Merry’s attention, and he glanced over his
shoulder. “Pip!” came a definitely sharp cry. “You did mention something about
the water getting cold, I believe?”
“Sorry, my dear,” came Pippin’s voice, sounding not at all repentant. And with a
final tug, the trousers were off, and Merry stepped gratefully out of them.
Bending down, he reached for the cloth, but Pippin had different plans. Merry
suddenly found himself staggering back against the blanket on the ground,
sitting down rather hard and unexpectedly, and Pippin was kneeling at his side.
“You’ve had a hard day, Merry, let me be taking care of this for you,” his voice
was low, and Merry suddenly felt a wet warm cloth gliding up one thigh.
He thought about protesting this onslaught for all of perhaps a minute and,
throwing that thought away as an unusually bad one, lay back on his elbows. “Not
a bad idea, Pip, there may be some spots I wouldn’t be able to reach all that
well,” and only Pippin could have detected the slight unevenness in that voice.
But Pippin did, and gave an unmistakably feral grin, or so Merry thought in the
bad light. The warm water was quite soothing, and Merry’s eyes flickered closed,
and he was just beginning to distinctly purr, when Pippin’s low voice was heard
again.
“Turn over,” it said, and Merry complied with out thinking. And then, as he lay
flat on his stomach, with his head buried in his arms, he felt the wet cloth at
work again, warm and rubbing firmly against him, up the back of his legs,
rounding the curves of his backside, finding every inch of him, even places
which he was personally quite doubtful that the mud had reached. Not, of course,
that he had any complaints about ensuring cleanliness, no, none at all.
Luxuriously, he stretched out under the enticing sensation. Not only was Pippin
doing a quite satisfactory job of cleaning, but he felt all sorts of muscles,
that had been cramped under the strain of days of hiking, and then riding an
unfamiliar pony, begin to relax and ease up under Pippin’s skilful touch.
However, not every part of him was relaxing, and he suddenly became quite aware,
as Pippin’s strokes began to occasionally reach under his stomach, that Pippin
was every bit as aware of that fact as he was.
Well, if Pippin had intentions along those lines, he certainly saw no reason to
decline; in fact, Pippin most certainly better have intentions along those
lines, he began to think hazily. Just to test his theory, he stretched apart his
legs ever so slightly, and hitched his rump up just the tiniest bit. Sure
enough, that was all it took. He felt Pippin move behind him, positioning
himself between his legs, and oh, Eru. There it was, Pippin’s finger. With a
deep growl of satisfaction, he rocked back on it, and felt Pippin’s exquisitely
practiced movements. Then it was unacceptably withdrawn, but Merry heard the
sound of cloth being hastily stripped from flesh, and then Pippin was back,
positioned between his legs, and the finger, no, unmistakably two fingers now,
were back. He indicated his enthusiastic approval by raising himself on his
knees, rocking quickly back, and muttering something unintelligible. Pippin did
not stop to try to decipher it, he was all too aware that Merry had no idea what
he was saying, but the meaning was quite clear.
With an encouraging hum of his own, Pippin reached his other hand under Merry,
finding what he had expected, and grasping firmly, set up a rhythm of which
Merry heartily approved. “Ah,” Merry panted, “Ah, Pip,” until the thought
vaguely entered his distracted mind that there was, at this point in their
journey, no butter left. This suddenly seemed a tragedy of immense proportions,
and stumbling out the words as best he could, he tried to convey it to Pippin,
never of course, stopping his motion in so doing.
But Pippin had obviously put some thought into all of this, for he suddenly
grunted out the word, “Spit.” And then there was a momentary stop in the
proceedings, a sudden noise from behind Merry, and Merry was left to fuzzily
wonder if it were possible to die of complete frustration in just one minute
under these circumstances. But it was, after all, only a minute, and then Pippin
was there, most clearly there, and Merry, try as he would, could not help a cry
of triumph and joy. It was Pippin behind him, and grasping him, and rocking
against him, and through him, to his very heart, until finally, in ecstasy, he
spilled into Pippin’s warm strong hand, and felt Pippin, with a gasp, sag
against him.
&&&&&
Later that night, Pippin and Merry laid closely tangled together under their
assorted cloaks and blankets, both of them feeling tranquil and only slightly
superior to anyone less fortunate than they. The rest of the cleaning, which had
consisted of Pippin’s leg, and both of Merry’s, from the knees down, had
eventually been gotten round to, and Merry’s trousers had been swished through
the remaining water, and hastily flung on a gorse bush nearby to dry.
Pippin had returned the kettle, rinsed out for Sam’s benefit, and had quickly
trundled back to the gorse bushes with his and Merry’s dinner portions, with a
decidedly cheerful expression on his face. Actually, “cheeky” was more how Sam
phrased it, muttering to Frodo, as they sat near the campfire on the other side
of the clearing. Frodo had smiled, but said nothing, and Strider had observed
all, as usual, without comment. He rose then, and had left the clearing. The
hobbits were never quite sure what he did at night, whether it was sleep, or
stand guard, or wander the countryside about the campsite. He was always back by
dawn though, and seemed rested enough, so they did not consider asking him.
Merry was very glad to see the food, when Pippin returned, and they made quick
work of it, having quite an appetite. And now, drowsy but not yet sleepy, they
lay close together, and exchanged occasional kisses. “Umm,” murmured Merry, “one
of the best things about this trip of ours is I don’t have to listen to my
mother’s plans to marry me off. With any luck, when we get back, the lasses will
be put off by a husband who could disappear on them for weeks at a time.”
“Petunia Bracegirdle would actually find that rather appealing,” Pippin pointed
out, “and that certainly is a factor in her favor, I should think. Is your
mother still going on about that, Merry?”
“More than ever,” Merry sighed dramatically, smacking a kiss on the tip of
Pippin’s nose as a flourish. “Especially with you not so far from coming of age
yourself, she thinks she’ll finally be getting some assistance from your mother,
too.”
“Wouldn’t be surprised,” Pippin agreed gloomily. “Mothers seemed to be obsessed
about that sort of thing. Something I’ve noticed as well.”
“Ah, well,” Merry rolled to his back, still clasping Pippin tightly to him.
“It’ll happen sooner or later, I suppose. We’ll never be as lucky as Frodo and
Sam, to live our own life and let the rest of the world go by. No point dreaming
about that.” He was silent for several moments, and Pippin lay stretched across
his chest, rising and falling with Merry’s breathing, and listening to the
reassuring heartbeat, almost lulled to sleep by its steady rhythm. Then he heard
Merry’s voice, once more. “But you’ll always be my own Pip, no matter what. I’ll
do what I have to do, but it’ll always be you who I love.”
Pippin raised his head at Merry’s words and reached up to kiss him, his eyes
glistening in the faint moonlight. “I know, Merry mine. And I’ll never love
anyone the way I love you. Never, dearest.”
&&&&&
It was two days later that the countryside took a turn for the mountainous. “The
outskirts of the Misty Mountains,” Strider mentioned, as they stood on a small
hillock, and surveyed the path ahead.
“Oh, Frodo,” breathed Sam in wonder, standing behind him with, as usual, a light
hand on Bill’s back, and his lead rope in the other. “The very same as were in
Mr. Bilbo’s tale. I never thought I’d be seein’ them, no ways.”
“Nor I, really,” Frodo confessed, looking across the wide valley to the rows of
dark mountains, steadily rising higher and higher as they receded from the
viewers. The peaks on the tallest were unseen, wreathed in cloud and fog, and
even the nearer ridges had mist, with the look of smoke, winding through them.
“We are nearing the Bruinen,” Strider continued, “for it falls through a valley
not much further off. Soon we must travel south again, and join the Road.”
“Strider, look!” came an abrupt cry from Pippin, who had been gazing into the
shallow valley before them. “There’s someone down there.”
Startled, the others followed his gaze, but to their great relief, it was
instantly apparent that it was not a black rider. Instead, the wanderer was on
foot, dressed in drab garments, and making his way with a staff in his hand. For
an irrational moment, Frodo felt his heart jump up in his throat. The figure
seemed very familiar, and with a gasp of joy, he turned to Strider and
whispered, “Gandalf?”
But Strider, who had been carefully studying the figure, as soon as Pippin had
pointed him out, shook his head. “No, I think not,” he answered slowly. “But you
are not that far off, Frodo. Come, let us hurry down. He may be bringing us
word.”
Quickly descending the rocky hill, the party soon caught up with the sole
wanderer, who had paused to wait for them. And when Frodo neared the figure, he
saw that it indeed was not Gandalf, although he was similar in appearance, and
undoubtedly a wizard.
“Radagast,” Strider greeted the stranger, with a deferential bow, the hobbits
all immediately following his lead. “This meeting is indeed fortunate.”
The stranger considered them all silently, and at length, before he finally
spoke. “Elessar,” he said finally, addressing Strider, with a gravely voice that
appeared to be rarely used.
“We have been seeking Gandalf. He was to meet us, and has not come as he had
promised. Do you know of his whereabouts?” Strider continued, acknowledging
without words the unfamiliar name the strange wizard had called him.
Radagast stood there, and took his time before he answered, and Sam rather
thought he was trying to recall a tongue that had become unfamiliar to him,
before he spoke. “There has been treachery, Elessar,” finally came the slow
answer. “The very worst kind. The wisest among us has been turned to evil.”
“Saruman the White?” Strider replied, clearly shocked.
“Even so,” the old wizard answered gravely, leaning on his staff, and his brow
furrowed with worry. “He tricked Gandalf, and held him against his will. That is
why he has not come as he had said. Word came to me, though, and I was able to
be of assistance. He now comes to Rivendell, by the swiftest means, and will
await you there.” He paused for a moment, as if exhausted by the use of so many
words, but the others could see that he was not yet finished. “There are others
that are coming, as well,” he finally rumbled. “The nine fly ahead by the will
of their master, and are intent on finding that which he has lost.”
“Our time is shorter than I had thought, then,” Strider replied in dismay. “Once
they are all here, they will watch all roads, and our chance of stealth is
sorely diminished.”
Radagast nodded at that, and raised his staff in preparation to leave them. “Our
paths will not meet again, Elessar. May fortune favor you. My tasks lie to the
north, and I will not travel these roads again.”
“Our thanks for all you have done,” Strider raised his hand to his brow, and
bowed once more. “May fortune favor us all.”
&&&&&
It was late in the afternoon as they approached Weathertop. All day it had been
looming ahead of them as they struggled across the stony terrain; remote,
ruined, and impassive. An ancient citadel, Strider had told them, constructed of
stone and rock many ages ago. The years had had their way with it, and now it
stood high above the valley floor, a last remnant of that mighty kingdom long
since gone. Strider had been just as impassive, since they had left Radagast
earlier that morning, but Frodo could feel, as he walked along side of the man,
the heightened awareness, the subtle scanning of the landscape, the faintest
hints of uneasiness. At last he broke the silence, and nodding toward the gaunt
crown of stone atop the knoll that lay ahead of them, he quietly said to Frodo,
“We shall camp there this night.”
Frodo stared at the ruins that rose high before them with foreboding, but said
nothing.
“It is too conspicuous,” Strider muttered, nearly to himself, “but I’d rather be
able to look below us, than be spied upon from above. After tonight, though,” he
gave Frodo another serious glance, “we turn to the south. Three more days, at a
good pace, will bring us to the Ford.”
Frodo nodded, and knew what Strider was not mentioning. Three days that would
bring them ever closer to their enemies.
There were ancient walkways to be seen, hewn into the side of the rock, as they
reached the former fortress, and ledges, overgrown with moss and brush, and old
entryways into the heart of the mountain, now blocked by fallen stone and shale.
They followed Strider not without some struggle, for the steps had clearly not
been cut to suit hobbits. Even Bill was having some difficulty with his footing,
but as Sam was very unwilling to leave him behind on the desolate plain, he
encouraged him to follow the rest of the party, watching him closely as he
picked his way up through the broken stones. Strider, however, made his way up
the overrun walkways as one who had been here before, and they soon found
themselves atop the tower, looking in wonder at the land so far below them. It
was the first time any of the hobbits had been at such a height, and they all,
without exception, felt a little dizzy and timid of looking over the edges of
the stone walls to the sharp crags so far below them. The wind blew chill here
as well, gusting past their faces, flecked with bits of the snow that had been
promising to fall for several days now.
The sun had already burned red behind the grey clouds to the west, and the light
was beginning to fade as Strider looked around. “This is too exposed,” he said
decisively, a statement that did not make any of his companions feel encouraged.
Turning back to the path they had followed up, he led them around a corner that
they had not before noticed, and they found themselves on a wide grassy ledge,
with several nooks carved from the stone wall at its back. “They kept horses
here once,” he explained, giving them a slight smile. “At least Bill will feel
at home.”
Gratefully, they dropped their packs down, stretching out weary arms and backs.
Bill gave a short rumble of a neigh as Sam lifted the water skins from his back,
and poured some of the contents of one into a hollowed rock that seemed to be
there for that express purpose. “Would a fire be safe enough, do you think?”
Merry asked Strider tentatively, shivering slightly in the chilly gusts that
came up from the valley floor below them.
Strider glanced up at the moon that had just begun to rise, still not a quarter
full. “I suppose so,” he answered slowly. “The night will be dark, those clouds
should be covering the moon before long. But it will probably be our last
campfire for some nights to come, so use it to your best advantage.”
“Good enough,” Pippin stated, rubbing his hands briskly together. “Let’s cook
anything we have left to cook, Sam.”
Sam nodded at that sentiment, with a brief chuckle. “Nothing like warm food in
your belly to warm the rest of you,” he approved. He glanced over to Frodo, but
Frodo was standing not far from the edge, gazing down into the darkening valley
below and said nothing.
&&&&&
Sam always knew when Frodo needed to be let be, for a time. Others had often
said that the master of Bag End was moody and temperamental, but Sam knew
better. It was just that, when he was preoccupied with a dilemma, or a worry, he
did not see, in Sam’s opinion, what else or who else was about him. But once he
worked it out, he was his normal sunny self again, and the problem was quickly
left behind. That was why Sam was not surprised, or dismayed, by Frodo having so
little to say to him these last several days, for there had never been a worry
as great as this one. Frodo managed to act relatively normal throughout the day,
although definitely subdued, but nevertheless, the nights had been long indeed
for Sam. Frodo held him close, every night, but they had not made love since the
night at Tom Bombadil’s.
So it was that Sam found himself curled at Frodo’s side, in the ancient stone
stall that they had appropriated for the night, and yearned for more. Merry and
Pippin were a couple of stalls away, Bill was contentedly grazing near the dying
fire, and Strider had, as usual, disappeared for the night. Frodo’s arms were
around him, but his thoughts were obviously far away, and Sam found himself
craving more than just a comfortable night’s sleep, away from the draughts and
gusts that seemed to continually blow about this place. Nestling his forehead
restlessly against Frodo’s chest, he gave an unconscious sigh.
Distracted from his circuitous thoughts, Frodo looked down at him, and by the
pale light of the moon, Sam could see him smile. “Not much company of late, am
I, Sam,” he said softly, laying his cheek against the top of Sam’s head.
“No surprise in that, things being as they are,” was Sam’s quiet reply, as he
briefly closed his eyes. “Don’t you fret, me dear, I understand.”
“I know you do,” Frodo slowly reached and gently raised Sam’s chin up. “You
always do, Sam, and maybe I take that a bit too much for granted.” He bent his
head down, and met Sam’s mouth with his own, kissing him tenderly but
thoroughly.
Sam’s arm lifted as he moved closer to Frodo, encircling his neck, and slowly,
Sam let himself fall back against the soft grass that still grew fresh, in this
sheltered cove, drawing Frodo willingly back with him, letting him cover him
with the wiry grace that was so very much his. The kiss ended, as all kisses
must, but Frodo still lay over him, looking down upon him, and the faint
moonlight shone through the dark curls, lighting them around the face that was
cast still in darkness. Sam gazed up, and had to touch, had to lift a hand to
run gently against that smooth cheek, had to connect with the one he loved so.
“I have no idea, any more, how I ever thought I could do this without you, Sam,”
Frodo’s voice was low, and slightly rough, as he turned his cheek into Sam’s
touch. “I don’t really know how I could ever be without you, love, not ever
again, really. Somehow,” and he paused for a moment, his voice becoming husky as
he haltingly continued. “Somehow, my heart has become wound about you, like ivy
vine about a sturdy post, and cannot be separated without being torn from its
very roots. How did you do this to me, my dearest Sam?”
“All I ever did was love you, Frodo,” Sam had to answer, his voice choked with
emotion, his hand caressing, becoming entangled with Frodo’s curls. “I never
could help myself, no ways.”
“Oh, my Sam,” was the halting reply, and Frodo’s mouth was once again on his,
but hungry this time, hungry and eager, and his kiss was intense enough that Sam
could not stop a moaned response, a desperate arm wrapped about Frodo, a leg
that drew itself up to bind Frodo ever closer. But now his actions were met by
Frodo, his hands finding their way under Sam’s clothing, the feel of that
well-known body so necessary, so essential, that all other thoughts were left
behind in the need to unite, to join both hearts and bodies.
Breathlessly now, Frodo pulled and tugged at Sam’s clothing, his desire
intensifying as Sam’s heart began to race in response, his breathing quickening,
and his pulse beginning to race. “Frodo, oh, Frodo,” he groaned, his hands
intertwining with Frodo’s in his haste to bare himself to Frodo‘s touch, and to
bare Frodo as well. Oh, how he ached, how he desperately sought that sweet union
with the one who could never be replaced, never equaled by any other in his
heart. How frantic his body was for Frodo’s, and Frodo’s need answered his,
heartbeat to heartbeat, pulse to pulse, kiss to kiss. Joined they were, woven
together, locked in an embrace nothing in all the world could break. There was
no striving, no taking, but only giving, open-hearted and joyous, movement as
practiced and sure as a song they had learned together, so very long ago, until
their final melding in a glory of bliss.
“Mine own, Sam,” Frodo whispered, his eyes shining in the starlight, as they
fell apart at last. “You are mine, forever mine.”
And Sam gazed up at him, his expression open and full of frank adoration, his
hand tracing outlines of love against Frodo’s face. “I’ll always be that,
Frodo-love, ’ he breathed, in fervent response. “Forever yours.”
&&&&&
Frodo was climbing out of the dark depths of sleep with an effort. There was
something amiss, there was something wrong, and he could no longer allow himself
to drift in dreams, no matter how lovely they were. And then his arm reached
out, and he realized that Sam was no longer there. With a jolt, he sat up, his
nerves jarring him awake, and looked fearfully out from the stone nook. There
was Sam, fair head shining in the filtered moonlight, still and standing with
his back to him, near the edge of the stone rampart on which they were camped.
Hearing Frodo rise behind him, he quickly turned his head back to him, and Frodo
could see that there was fear on his face. “Frodo, look,” he more mouthed the
words than spoke them, and pointed to the valley below.
Frodo did not see them at once, but only sensed that there was something awful
far below them, until one stopped before the old crumbled walkway that led up
the old tower, and the moon shone on black, swirling in the cold gusts, and
glinted off of metal gauntlets, gripping the hilt of a sword. His heart seemed
to freeze in his chest as he stepped back, quickly glancing at Sam, beside him.
“Have you seen Strider?” he breathed, fighting down the panic that was rising in
his throat, threatening to choke him.
Sam shook his head numbly.
“Then wake the others as quietly as you can,” he whispered, gripping Sam‘s
shoulder tightly, irrationally heartened, if only slightly, by that warm
strength under his hand. “Maybe we can find our way down the other side if they
start up here.”
“Bill?” Sam’s face showed anguish, but that was all he said.
Reluctantly, Frodo shook his head. “Too dangerous in this light, and too noisy,”
he answered. “They’ll not be bothering with him, Sam, we can come back later for
him,” he added reassuringly, even as Sam swallowed and nodded, sorrowfully.
Without another word, he turned to rouse the others, and Frodo chanced another
glance over the edge. What he saw made his stomach clench in terror.
Their horses had apparently been left below, for they were no longer mounted,
and they had begun to ascend the mountain, but they did not seem to have need of
the old causeway, the deteriorated road up from the valley below. Instead, they
seemed to be nearly gliding up, dreadfully, horribly silent, rising up stone
ridge by stone ridge, ledge by ledge. Shrinking back, Frodo turned, facing Sam
and the other two hobbits, their faces pale and impossibly young in the dim
light. Desperately trying to think of a plan, any thing at all, he reached down,
snatching up one of the swords that he had left earlier by the still smoldering
campfire, and thrusting the handle of another toward Sam, he then pointed
towards the top of Weathertop. Somehow, he blindly fought the despair that
seemed to be seeping into his very bones. Somehow, underneath the moon and the
stars, there might be some hope for them there.
They retreated up to the stone platform, proudly bared to the sky, that they had
been on that afternoon, and Frodo’s last hope failed then. There was no path
down the other side. Frantically, he ran to the other wall, looking for any
means of escape, but the walls fell down sheer and swift to the jagged rocks far
below. The clouds slid from before the moon, and the white light shone about the
dark shapes as they reached the top and slowly and silently advanced upon the
other three hobbits, closest to them.
Merry and Pippin could stand no more, at that dreadful sight, but sank to the
ground where they had stood, watching the approaching black veiled shapes as a
cornered, cowering rabbit watches the approaching wolf. Sam turned, too, to face
them, with his back to Frodo, and with a mighty effort, slowly drew up the sword
in his hand. But he could do no more than hold it before them, blocking their
path to Frodo, and only one dark shape advanced unhurriedly toward him, as the
others waited in a silent circle. Still without a word, he raised up his own
mighty weapon, high over the head of the small valiant hobbit. And as it started
to descend, Sam turned to Frodo one last time, locking eyes with him, refusing
to have his last sight that of his doom falling upon him.
It was without thought, that Frodo snatched the box from his jacket, that he
raised the Ring in the moonlight, that he poised it before his finger and cried
out, “It is I that you seek and none other. Let the rest of them go, and you may
have me.” And he plunged it down upon his finger.
Instantly the dark shapes were alive, skeletal, pale with a horrible light, and
they came at him with bony grasping hands, and their open gaping mouths were
horribly shrieking. Sickened and dizzied, Frodo backed against the wall,
watching with a terrible wonder as the tallest of the specters approached him
with his sword drawn above his head. And even as it fell, he heard his name
shrieked from far away, and with a last mighty effort, he pulled the Ring from
his finger even as the blade struck him. He screamed in agony, and knew no more.
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