On the afternoon of the first day, as Don Frodo and Samwise walked along the road leading their noble steeds, they heard a strange sound just off to their left. It sounded roughly like this: "Moaaaaagh! Moaaaaaaaaaagh! Doooooooooom. (sound of squeaking hinges)"

"Behold!" cried Don Frodo in a mighty voice. "Thus are true knights rewarded! Even though this is but the first day of our questing, yet we have encountered a dire peril, sufficient so that I shall gain great worship and you shall be rewarded with the spoils of victory. See that you remain close behind me, ready to invoke the correct Valar on the proper occasions or heal me if I am cleft in twain. Above all, heed the words of the ancient Field Manual of Gondolin: 'When thou supportest thy master on the fielde of combat, throwe thou not bowlders or stoanes against his enemies; for it is not thy place to do so. Thou shalt drawe overmuch aggro, and be ysmitten withal.' The precise translation of 'aggro' has since been lost, but most scholars agree that 'drawing aggro' is some kind of perilous offence against chivalry, which shall earn the enmity of Orome the Hunter. Now, forward into battle!"

When the two adventurers had turned from the road and walked a short distance, they came upon a structure which to Sam's mortal eyes appeared to be a large garden shed. Don Frodo strode boldly up to the door and knocked on it. "Open in the name of Westernesse!" he shouted.

The old, splintered door swung open gradually, without the aid of any visible hands. Inside the shed there was no lamp or torch. As Frodo and his squire stepped across the threshold, a dark cloud suddenly passed across the sun, plunging the world into gloomy darkness.

Frodo stopped for a moment. "Samwise, you are about to dare such danger as no mortal has faced for nigh a thousand years. This is a barrow of ancient Cardolan, inhabited by foul wights of Angmar who were sent here to be a stain upon the glory of fallen kings. It is our duty, and indeed our privilege, to cleanse this holy mound and bring rest to its lawful occupants."

They felt their way further into the darkness, till at last they heard foul whispers all around them. Frodo drew his sword. "Now, lacho calad, drego gnaaahhh-"

A net was cast over Frodo and his squire. Dim lights flared up on their left and on their right. They were confronted by a pair of eldritch faces, illuminated from below in such a manner that their noses shone with a perilous red light. If Frodo had not been full of blood-lust, and Sam had not been terrified out of his wits, they might have recognized the faces as belonging to Merry and Pippin. But they did not.

Merry and Pippin began to chant in ominous voices.

Cold be hand and heart and bone,

And cold be sleep, under - ack,

He's getting out! Put out the lights,

You dimwit! I'm trying, but he's owww!

Watch out for that old sword he's got

I swear this was your idea.

It had been their intention to capture Frodo and hold him prisoner until he swore to forsake deeds of chivalry and lead a quiet life. But they had underestimated his resolve, and his strength both of body and of mind. Merry took a nasty puncture wound in his arm. They would not have escaped with their lives if Sam had not accidentally tripped his master, buying precious time.

Don Frodo stood victorious on his first field of battle. He made quite a nice speech, which I shall not reproduce here because its style and content should be quite familiar to those who have already read the earlier part of my narrative.

Sam interrupted him. "I can't find any treasure. Were these unusually poor barrow-wights?"

"No, if we had been able to destroy them, we would have gained much wealth. But they were impoverished in one meaning of the word, indeed the most important meaning. They were poor in valour, and it would have been little credit to us if we had defeated them. Do not be too disappointed! We shall not lack for enemies to defeat."

It is likely that Merry and Pippin did not stop running until they were back in their village. However, this setback did not shake them from their plan; now they understood that bringing back their crazed neighbor would require force as well as subtlety.

That evening, Don Frodo and Samwise approached an old forsaken inn that stood about halfway between the Shire and Rivendell. When they were perhaps a mile away, Don Frodo stopped briefly. "Samwise," he said, "you have always wanted to see elves, and tonight you shall see them. That grand and stately castle ahead of us is the stronghold of Lord Elrond Peredhel, greatest of all elven lords. We shall be safe there, if indeed we are safe anywhere in Middle-earth."

"I know I'm missing something, Don Frodo, but I can only see an old inn, and not even a very good one. Is this another one of those enchantments?"

"There is no doubt of it," Frodo explained. "My eyes can see it clearly in its true form; lordly are its battlements, and brave its pennants! However, Lord Elrond is mighty in magic and may hide it from the eyes of lesser men. Once we have entered, you shall see it as it truly is."

They quickly covered the rest of the distance, and entered the "castle's" courtyard, where an old ostler took charge of Bill and Rozinante. Sam didn't think that it looked much like a castle, even when he was inside it, but he kept these thoughts to himself. "After all," he reasoned, "maybe the magic is so strong that it even works on the inside. As long as their beer is magic too, I shall be willing to call this the grandest castle in Arnor."

The innkeeper came out to meet them. For a moment he was taken aback by their strange appearance, but he noticed the richness of Don Frodo's armor and decided that he could put up with a bit of strangeness, as long as he was able to charge double the fair price for everything. "Hello, strangers," he said. "What can I do for you?"

Don Frodo bowed deeply. "Greetings, noble lord; I am Don Frodo and this is my squire. It is an honor to see your fair castle. We require only shelter from our enemies and the elements, and perhaps a morsel of food."

"Also, we could do with some beer," Sam put in.

"Be silent, Squire Gamgee! You are standing in the presence of the greatest remaining elven-lord in Middle-Earth."

"Well, he doesn't look much like an elf."

"Your impudence knows no bounds! However, you may not be able to detect his elven heritage because he is only half-elven."

"Oh. All right. Greetings, Lord Elrond," Sam said, and bowed. "Play along," he whispered.

The innkeeper, after deciding to charge them triple, returned their bows politely. "Your fame has come before you, Don Frodo, and any knight of your prowess is welcome here. I shall bid my servants to prepare the finest room for you. In the meantime, perhaps you would like to grace my great hall with your presence? My other guests are eager for news of foreign parts."

"I will most certainly do so, my lord." Don Frodo and his faithful squire entered the "great hall" and dined on bread and bacon. All through dinner, Frodo discoursed most intelligently on the proper methods of crop rotation in cold climates. It was a wonder to hear him; indeed, were he not wearing the armor and badges of knighthood, one could easily forget his madness. For his strange malady only affected his reason touching matters of chivalry; on all other topics, his judgement was as sound as ever.

After the meal was over, Don Frodo addressed his squire. "Samwise, what do you think of that man over by the fire? Methinks that he hath a knightly look, indeed a kingly look, about him."

"He looks rather ragged to me," Sam observed. "If I were the innkeeper, I'd want payment in advance from him."

"My dear Samwise," said Frodo, "have you not read how, through misadventures and the crookedness of unfaithful followers, great knight-errants are often reduced to a state of relative penury? Go and ask him from what kingdom he is come."

Sam got up and walked over to the ragged man's table. The man looked suspiciously at Sam, clasping the handle of his sword, but then decided that Sam posed no threat. Sam cleared his throat nervously. "That man over there, the good and renowned knight Don Frodo of Bag End, wants to know your name and why you are here. Don't take it ill, please. He's a bit crazy, but not likely to cause much harm."

The man began to juggle his knife, his fork, and three hard-boiled eggs. "I am known as Strider, and I am a traveling juggler in search of employment. Does your master seek entertainment?" Strider snatched one of the eggs out of midair with his mouth, and pretended to cram the other two into Sam's ears.

Samwise went back to Don Frodo and told him everything Strider had said, but Frodo did not believe a word of it. He went and sat down at Strider's table. "Greetings, good sir. I can tell by your bearing that you are a knight of great prowess."

"No, actually, I'm a juggler."

"While your current disguise might deceive those who are not experienced in such matters, there is no way for a true knight to hide his identity from the other members of the universal order of chivalry."

"But I really can juggle!"

"Doubtless you learned the art while held captive by the Haradrim, who are said to have much skill in juggling and feats of legerdemain. But come! I see that you wear the ring of Barahir, and your sword is a wondrous ancient blade. It is useless to deny that you are Aragorn, son of Arathorn, the lost heir to the thrones of Gondor and Arnor."

Strider sighed in frustration. "You win; I am the lost heir, and this is my mighty sword, passed down to me from my father. Unfortunately, it's broken, as you can see."

Don Frodo's face lit up with wonder. "The Shards of Narsil, holier than any saint's relics! The blade that cut the ring from the Enemy's hand! I would at once pledge my sword to your cause, were I not already engaged upon an even more perilous quest. Presently, I am-"

Sam cut in. "Are you sure you should be telling this to him? We should keep our cards close to the vest, because three can keep a secret if two of them are dead, and loose lips sink ships, and -"

"Nonsense, Squire Samwise. This man bears the relics of the house of Elendil, and cannot possibly play us false. His ragged looks count for naught."

"All right," said Sam. "You can't judge a book by its cover, and beauty is only skin deep, and not all that is gold-"

"No offence taken," Strider said hastily. "At the present, my own perilous quest isn't going anywhere, so perhaps I can help you with yours."

Don Frodo explained the tale of the Ring to Strider, who nodded at the appropriate points and said "yes!", "no!", or "how terrible!" whenever the situation seemed to require it. Finally Frodo's crazed rantings came to an end. "Here comes Lord Elrond's daughter, the Lady Arwen," Frodo said. "It is known far and wide that your affections are drawn to her, and methinks-"

"Don't be ridiculous," said Strider. "My affections are not drawn to her-" and then he stopped as the innkeeper's daughter came into the room bearing a platter of bread. She was short, very short in fact, but her eyes were dark and lively, and her smile could take hold of a man's heart in an instant.

"-they are irrevocably pledged to her," Strider finished. "Excuse me a moment." He got up and started after her down the hallway toward the kitchen.

Don Frodo was comfortably settled into one of the room's two beds, and Sam was dozing on a blanket on the floor. "Where's that Strider fellow, anyway?" Sam asked. "Time and the tide wait for no man, plough deep while sluggards sleep, early to bed and-"

"He probably tarrieth with his fair lady," said Don Frodo, "And I do not blame him. However, if he is to leave with us tomorrow, he should be well rested. Go now, and inform him that he must part himself from his present company."

Sam eventually found Strider, the innkeeper (whose name really was Elrond), and Arwen in the kitchen. Arwen was washing the last of the dishes, and Strider was drying them for her, while earnestly reciting a badly written romantic poem. She was obviously flattered by the attention, but Elrond was giving him a chilly glare of suspicion.

"Don Frodo says that if you're coming with us, you really ought to get some sleep. Only he said it grander, more formal."

Strider put down his dishtowel. "Good night, my dearest. I'm going on a perilous journey tomorrow, so I will probably never come back. But that doesn't matter, really, because I have seen true beauty, and can die happily." Sam and Strider left the room, followed by Elrond's disapproval.

That night, the innkeeper's daughter crept softly into the room Don Frodo and his retinue were occupying. She had no impure motive, but had agreed to take a walk secretly with Strider and listen to the rest of his romantic poem, since he was leaving very early in the morning. It cannot be determined with any certainty what Strider's motives were.

Anyway, he had not arrived at the appointed time, and so Arwen had come to awaken him. All might have gone well, except that it was very cold, so she wore a heavy cloak with a warm hood. Don Frodo lay awake, unable to sleep, fancying that the Ring wanted him to put it on. When saw Arwen, his fevered imagination concluded that she was actually a Nazgul. He sprang out of bed, waving Sting and crying, "To arms! The Nine are upon us!" He would have killed Arwen on the spot had his feet not become entangled in his blankets, pitching him headlong on the floor.

Arwen screamed in terror. Frodo, still struggling with his blankets, shouted, "Fear not their screeches, Samwise, but lend me your aid!" Getting to his feet, he aimed a blow at her that would have cut her in half had Strider not blocked it with one of the Shards of his sword, which may have been named Narsil, but probably was not. Frodo followed up his attack with a number of fierce blows, driving Strider across the room. Arwen maneuvered behind Frodo and tried to drop a pillowcase over his head.

Samwise, who was a heavy sleeper, came to his feet and saw three figures struggling in the dark. Two of them were laying about in all directions with swords, so Sam tackled the third. "Besides," he thought, "that one's more my size." He began pounding the third figure with the saddlebag full of provisions.

Although Arwen didn't know what was going on, it was obvious that somebody was attacking her. She was a sturdy and courageous lass despite her small stature, and not one to take insults from anybody, and so she began beating Sam about the head and shoulders with the covered lantern she carried.

To complete the chaos, Elrond rushed into the room. "What are you brigands doing to my daughter?" he roared, and, seizing Samwise by the ear, began to punch him. Thus for nearly a minute Arwen pounded Sam, and Sam pounded Arwen, and the innkeeper pounded Sam, and Strider and Don Frodo fenced up and down the room in grand heroic style, nearly cutting off everyone else's heads in the process.

Suddenly Arwen's lantern broke apart over Sam's head. There was a brilliant flash, and then complete darkness. Everyone stumbled around, blind and disoriented. When the innkeeper finally managed to kindle a light, Samwise was standing in the middle of the room swinging his bag at imaginary assailants, Arwen was nowhere to be seen, Strider was apparently sound asleep in his bed, and Don Frodo was slumped over a chair. "I have been stabbed with a Morgul-blade," Frodo groaned. "Already I feel its deadly fragment working-"

"I don't care about your deadly fragment!" the innkeeper roared. "Where's my daughter?"

At that moment, Arwen stepped through the door. "I'm right here, Father," she said. "What's going on?"

"You tell me what's going on," he said truculently. "I'm certain that I heard you screaming."

Don Frodo interrupted. "We have been attacked by the Nine Ringwraiths. Doubtless, their dark presence oppressed her dreams, and she cried out in her sleep."

Yawning, Strider sat up in bed. "Put out that light, will you? We're not leaving for another hour."

"No," said Don Frodo, "we must leave immediately. If my wound is not treated soon by a cunning healer, I shall be turned into a wraith, and our war will be lost before it is fairly started."

Sam dropped his saddlebag and clutched his head in his hands. "No, dear master! Please don't turn into a wraith, whatever a wraith is. It sounds bad."

"Take courage, squire. I can resist its evil effects for a while."

Strider got up and began to investigate Don Frodo's shoulder. "You were wounded? I'm afraid that I was asleep, and missed the whole thing. I know a little of healing; I shall look at your wound and see if I may aid you."

While Strider probed the wound and Sam packed up their belongings, Elrond asked his daughter how exactly she had gotten a black eye, but he did not receive a satisfactory answer.

"I'm stumped," said Strider. "Your wound is not deep, and you have not lost much blood, but your left arm is already turning cold."

"Are your ears made of stone, Heir of Elendil? There is a fragment of a Morgul-blade embedded in my shoulder, working its way towards my heart.

"Ah, a Morgul-blade! Hmmmm . . . ah yes. I have a . . . healing cordial, prepared from the leaves of the athelas plant. It is said to have some virtue against wounds caused by evil magic." Strider handed Don Frodo a small tin flask, and Frodo drank a draught from it.

He choked violently. "Aragorn," he gasped, "has no one taught you better than to dilute athelas in cheap whiskey?"

"I didn't have any elven miruvoir, so I thought that whiskey would work in a pinch."

"Beggars can't be choosers," Sam observed.

"You have my thanks," said Frodo. "That will slow down its progress. Now let us find a healer."

"I know of a few good healers in Rivendell. It's rather far from here, but we should be able to make it."

"Imladris! The great elven city! Bless you, Aragorn, that is exactly the place we must go."

After paying the innkeeper's exorbitant bill, they set out for Rivendell. And if the reader wonders how exactly Don Frodo was stabbed, he should remember that there were only two swords in the room, and Don Frodo did not stab himself.