DISCLAIMER: I do not own any of Tolkien's characters or the world he created. The only character of mine (Jorryn) has decided to take a holiday in Tolkien's Middle-earth. No copyright infringement on any of J. R. R. Tolkien's works is intended.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: As you all can probably imagine, this was a somewhat difficult chapter for me to write. I wasn't sure where to end it, and I didn't want to leave anything out — and I wanted to get to Weathertop, where there is a major turning point in this story. A much deserved thanks goes to ArwenAria18, who graciously beta-read part of this chapter before my posting, to Architeuthis for giving me helpful input and suggestions, and also to all who have reviewed. You guys are wonderful. :) So, without further ado, here is Chapter 24 of Time Will Tell, which will hopefully meet all of my readers' expectations.
24
Awake! Fear, fire, foes! Awake!
The echoes of a blaring horn fading from my mind, I jerked myself out of my nightmares and sat straight up, feeling hard wooden flooring on my back and blankets twisted about my legs. For a moment I did not remember where I was — but then I saw Aragorn Elessar sitting and watching me, sword still across his lap. Gray morning light and a cold breeze were both intruding our parlor at The Prancing Pony through our round, open window, and dying embers were crackling in the blackened hearth.
"You slept well?" Aragorn asked immediately.
"Passably," I shivered, blinking away sleep. "What time is it?"
"Almost six o'clock, Lady Jorryn. Please get them up," the man ordered, nodding to the hobbits snoring next to me. He pushed himself to his feet, making almost no noise, and proceeded to move a table away from the entrance to our room, where we had pushed it up to bar the door.
Tiredly, I rubbed a crick in my lower neck and grimaced down at Frodo, curled up at my side. He slept with his lips slightly parted and one hand under his dark, curly head. I nudged him gently, resisting the urge to reach over and smooth his hair over his forehead. "Frodo, it's time to wake up," I murmured. In response, the hobbit rolled over, stirring Pippin, who twitched and kicked Sam awake.
"What is it, what do you need?" Samwise cried dazedly, scrambling hastily out of the blankets. Merry moaned and pulled his quilt over his face, muttering about the early hour.
"All of you," I said louder, "get up, it's morning!"
"We're awake!" they growled, answering my wake-up call with a barrage of pillows.
My hobbits reluctantly roused themselves, dressed, and wandered around the parlor while Strider straightened the room and I stood gazing fretfully outside into the cloudy sunrise. I had changed into my borrowed breeches and shirt, adding one of my own jackets to help ward off the chill.
Pippin crept up behind me. "What are you watching for, Jo?" he asked gently, slipping his patterned scarf around his neck.
"I'm not really sure," I admitted with a tiny laugh. A puff of steam escaped with my breath, and I pulled my jacket around me more tightly. "I don't know what I'm waiting for."
"If it's breakfast, then you won't find it out there." The Took reached up and promptly twisted my hair into a short, tight braid. "Nob should be around any minute."
Frodo overheard us. "I'd hate to keep waiting here for him."
"Then let us see what has happened outside during the night," Aragorn suggested, and he took us all to our vacant bedrooms.
It was not an encouraging sight. The rooms were cold, for the windows had been pried open during the night and left splintered and smashed. Feathers swirled in the wind, loosed from the mattresses lying gashed on the floor, and there were marks on the walls that looked to be from the hewing of long, cold blades. Aragorn inspected the damage grimly and then left without a word to find Mr. Butterbur.
Merry stepped over a destroyed bolster. "Lucky thing we took the advice of that Strider, don't you think?"
Frodo looked stricken. "Look at all this…" he whispered, gaping.
"It's going to be all right, Frodo," I said weakly, trying to reassure both him and myself.
The hobbit smiled a little, his countenance pale. "You know I believe you, Jo, though you must understand… it's difficult."
A dismayed voice suddenly sounded from down the hall. "But… I didn't close an eye all night, sir!"
Aragorn reappeared with Barliman Butterbur in tow. The innkeeper was still in his disheveled nightgown, eyes bloodshot and fearful. "I didn't hear a sound — " he was saying, but he stopped short at his first glimpse of the ruined room.
"It seems you have had unwanted visitors at The Prancing Pony, Mr. Butterbur," said Aragorn.
The poor man circled around to face us, appalled. "Never has such a thing happened in my time! Guests unable to sleep in their beds — and good rooms ruined! What are we coming to?"
"Dark times," answered Strider. "But for the present you may be left in peace. We must leave at once. Never mind about breakfast — a drink and quick bite will do." The hobbits groaned, and my stomach gurgled in protest. "We will be ready a few minutes."
The man nodded, looking down at me, his face saying, You're actually going along with all this, Miss?
A dreary panic took hold of me as I rushed back numbly to our parlor. Quickly I began grabbing articles of clothing and stuffing them into my backpack, careful of my journal and drawings. I was helping Sam fit our blankets into one of the saddlebags by the time Butterbur burst in again, having just gone to the stables to prepare our ponies. The innkeeper's frazzled whiskers stuck out in tufts.
"Masters, your ponies have gone missing!" he cried. "Every horse in the place has been let loose!"
"What?" demanded Frodo and Aragorn at the same time. The Baggins drooped visibly. "How?"
"The Riders didn't forget to do anything, did they?" I said dryly, grimacing.
"What are we to do?" said Merry.
The two men stood, carefully examining us for a long time. On me Strider's eyes remained the longest, his narrow gaze discerning and persistent. He seemed to be wondering if I could survive the dangerous journey across the lands to Rivendell. "Ponies would not have helped us escape the Riders," he decided slowly. "We should not go much slower on foot — not on the roads I mean to take."
Despondent, Frodo implored of Barliman, "Can't anything be done, Mr. Butterbur? Can't we get a couple of ponies in the village, or even just one for the baggage?"
Barliman scratched his balding head. "I doubt it, sir. But I'll do what I can."
"Thank you," said Aragorn, bowing slightly toward the landlord. "But so ends all hope of slipping away quietly. This was part of their plan, no doubt."
"Well, some good came of it," said Merry, plopping down at our dining table. "We can have breakfast while we wait, at least!"
I was hungry, but I did not eat more than a piece of toast. There was little talk; the hobbits kept glancing nervously to me, and all I could think about was Weathertop. I couldn't imagine what I was going to do when we were attacked there — hiding was an option foremost in my mind, mostly because of my own anxiety, though there was also the risk of changing something in the Story. If Frodo were not wounded at Weathertop, then the Nazgûl might find another, more terrible way to hurt him before we reached Rivendell.
Oh, but what was I going to do? How could I endure the presence of the Nazgûl? How would I react to seeing Frodo, a hobbit I loved so dearly, get wounded by a servant of Sauron?
I closed my eyes against the painful vision, hearing Aragorn say, "You must eat something, Jorryn."
Bob and Mr. Butterbur entered shortly after, with news of just one pony for sale — Bill Ferny's half-starved packhorse.
"I'll pay for it, little masters," said Barliman.
"Thank you," we all said, and I almost hugged the man. He gave us eighteen silver pennies, which was more than enough.
It was nearly ten o'clock when we finally set out, and every citizen of the village must have decided that they needed to come out and send us off. I guessed that they had heard of Frodo's little accident with the Ring the night before, of the Black Riders, and of the raided stables. In the middle of the crowded street I saw Alfirin Wood, who had given us directions to The Pony. She waved to me and called eagerly, "Is it true, Miss? What they're all saying?"
In the cool morning sunlight I only squinted and smiled slightly at her. I thought later that the girl would have been a good friend — she reminded me a lot of myself. Otherwise I was very embarrassed to have so many eyes on us as we thanked Butterbur, Nob, and Bob for all that they had done. I stood close between Aragorn and Frodo.
Frodo shook the innkeeper's hand solemnly. "I hope we will meet again, when things are merry once more."
My companions turned to make their way down the main road, but I paused for a moment with Barliman. "Take care of yourself, Miss," he said.
"Thank you, sir, I will. And thanks again for everything." I stuck one thumb under the leather shoulder strap of my heavy backpack, wishing I could do something for the man.
"No trouble at all, Miss," he assured. "And of course, you're welcome to stay at The Pony if you would rather wait for your companions to return. It's awful that they're making you travel with them, if you don't mind my saying so."
"Oh, no," I said. "I want to stay with them."
Mr. Butterbur smiled gloomily and nodded.
The villagers must have considered our departure to be some sort of show. They yelled and hooted, throwing nasty comments at us from where they stood on the side of the road or hung out of windows. The hobbits kept their heads down, and Sam encouraged our new pony to ignore the especially rude remarks. Strider was able to silence some with a sharp look.
"I can't believe this. Why won't they leave us alone?" I murmured to Samwise, trudging behind Merry and Pippin.
He offered me an apple. "Don't worry yourself about it, Miss Jo. I reckon they'll forget about us by tomorrow."
Bree-hill stood behind us, plain and brown, rising out of the surrounding trees like a sunburned, hairless head. It was not a place that had been given enough time to nestle itself appropriately in my heart, but in a strange way, I would miss Bree and its colorful inhabitants, especially Barliman Butterbur.
Other villages peeked at us from lower grounds between tree branches, and from the Road we could see smoke rising above the edge of the Chetwood. Aragorn led us noiselessly along the Great East Road until we came to a narrow track leading north into the woods. "This is where we leave the open and take to cover," he said, and I took one more fleeting look back at Bree before ducking under the trees and shrubbery. I got the feeling that, even with our grand send-off, the village would never think of us again. These people would go on living while others fought for their freedom.
"This isn't another 'short cut,' I hope," said Pippin. "Our last short cut nearly ended in disaster."
"Ah, but you didn't have me with you, then," Aragorn said, laughing softly. Leaves crunched under his booted feet. "My cuts, short or long, don't go wrong. We'll bear toward Archet at first, but then turn to pass it on the east and steer straight for Weathertop."
I tried to focus on any other word of Aragorn's description of our road, in order to prevent the dark, foreboding hill of Amon Sûl from invading my thoughts. Pippin turned toward me, hearing me whisper determinedly, "Archet, Archet, Archet…"
The next two days were peaceful and without incident, and this cheered the hobbits greatly. I kept Weathertop out of my mind by watching Frodo, Sam, Pippin, and Merry and thinking of what had brought us all thus far. At the end of a long day, when the last rays of the sun were fading to deep pinks and violets over the Sea, I would observe the radiance of our small bonfire playing upon the hobbits' features. Sam was often silent and thoughtful, a pipe in his hand when a dish or bowl was not. Meriadoc was the spirited and playful one, always telling of some misadventure he'd gotten Pippin and himself into, and Peregrin would regularly interject to add comments of his own. And Frodo… he usually seated himself beside me if he was not back in the shadows with Aragorn.
I had been with Frodo Baggins for many months, and he was my closest friend, but talking to him during those days before Weathertop made my stomach churn. I felt like a traitor, keeping such knowledge of his future to myself. I would have loved to do anything to save Frodo from what was ahead of him, at the risk of destroying all that Tolkien had created.
But I couldn't. I couldn't. I had to tell myself every day.
Once, Gandalf had warned Frodo that I was nearly as precious and dangerous as the Ring itself. "If you choose to travel with her, be wary," he had said. And I hated the thought that Frodo may later regret his choice to bring me along.
At any rate, the Baggins sensed my sudden coldness toward him, and refrained from most conversation. It was enough that he simply be there alongside me.
We reached the Midgewater Marshes our third day away from Bree. The weather grew chilly, and fog hung over our heads threateningly. The land was damp and boggy. Aragorn led us as best he could around the quagmires, having to go slow for all the irregular, treacherous ground. It was terrible — the entire day was spent tripping through pools of clammy water and having our clothes soaked to our skin. Even Aragorn stumbled once or twice in the festering marshes.
Then came the flies in relentless hordes, settling in our hair and clothing or whatever other small place they could find, buzzing in our ears and biting exposed flesh. The air around us was filled with groups of the nasty midges.
"I'm being eaten alive!" shouted Pippin, scratching furiously.
My bangs were plastered over my face, and my Dwarven boots made squelching sounds with every step. "No kidding," I sputtered.
Sam, bringing up the rear with our reluctant pony, shook the gnats out of his matted curls. "What do they live on when they can't get hobbit?"
By the time night fell we were soaked and freezing. We made a quick camp on an uncomfortable patch of land surrounded by reeds and water, Aragorn sitting over us as a sentry, staying up to keep watch as normal. There were horrible, evil crickets hiding in the reeds around us, chirping incessantly. I rested awkwardly on my back, squeezing my eyes shut against the noise and darkness.
"Jo," came a gentle voice at my ear.
I tilted my head. "Yes, Frodo?"
"Is something the matter?"
I rolled over to face him, not sure how to respond. The only light remaining in the sky was the moon's gloomy blue glow, and Frodo's gaze was gleaming from under his dark eyelashes. His breath drifting across my cheeks, the hobbit persisted, "Have I done something to upset you?"
"Oh no, Frodo, of course you haven't," I said, the words spilling remorsefully from my heart. "No, you haven't done anything."
"You haven't said much since leaving Bree," he pointed out hesitantly. He huddled deeper into his blankets.
"I — haven't had anything to say." At his innocently curious expression, I sighed, almost reaching out to brush hair away from his face; I stopped myself. "I'm sorry, Frodo, I'm just… preoccupied."
"Oh," he whispered. He shifted onto his back. A few more seconds went by, and then he said, "I'm sorry, Jo. For everything."
All at once, I was forced to suppress tears. How many times had he apologized to me for what the Ring had caused? In a few days, I would be the one begging his forgiveness. "Frodo…" I murmured, my throat constricting into a painful knot. I turned away from him. "Don't be sorry — please."
Our whispered conversation lapsed into silence, and the crickets seemed to become an even louder annoyance. They went on until dawn.
The succeeding day was somewhat better than the one before. I fell chin-deep into a slimy puddle before midday, and the ruthless midges followed us all the way to our campsite that night, but we had left the crickets behind at last. We ate our supper in a weary daze, falling into our makeshift beds immediately afterward.
I was halfway to my dreams when I felt Frodo sit up. "What is that light?" I heard him ask. "Dawn is still hours away."
"I don't know," was Aragorn's answer. "It's too distant to make out." I peered at them sleepily from under my quilts, trying to see what they were speaking of. I could barely perceive the brilliant flashing of something like lightning at the edge of the atmosphere.
From the shifting beside me, I could tell that Frodo had settled down again, so I went back to the beginnings of my uneasy slumber without a second thought.
Thankfully, we left the Midgewater Marshes behind on our fifth day away from Bree. The land began to rise under our feet, and in the distance toward to the east was a row of ancient hills. There was one knoll overshadowing them all — one rocky, misshapen hill, strewn with the skeletons of a long-forgotten watchtower. Its pinnacle was flattened.
"Weathertop," said Strider, his hair and leather jerkin flapping in the morning breeze. "The Old Road, which we have left far away on our right, runs to the south of it and passes not far from its foot. We may reach it by noon tomorrow."
"Do you think Gandalf is waiting there?" asked Frodo.
"Perhaps, but it wouldn't be safe for him or for us to wait there long."
That day and the next were filled with nothing but travel. The hobbits, whose spirits had been dampened by the Marshes, were in much better moods, and soon the hills and plains were filled with their songs and tales again. Pippin stopped complaining about getting less than five meals a day, even. My hobbits were growing more rugged; I remembered our trip to Tuckborough and how they had thought it was quite a trek.
Night fell quickly, and we stopped at the feet of the hills. I slipped away after dinner to write a bit in my journal, for it had been neglected since sneaking away from Crickhollow. My entry was short and rushed, and I did not write much more than the date (October 5) along with what progress we had made. Two words I scratched out hastily at the foot of the page: Weathertop tomorrow.
Just before noontime on the seventh day, Merry asked about the craggy ruins riddling the hills. We had found a hidden path to follow through the clefts and mounds, and huge stones were set close together on either side of us.
Aragorn paused, turning, and his eyes narrowed a little when they passed over me. I was at the back of the procession with Sam and the pony, my fingers curled over the animal's tangled mane. "This path was made to serve the forts along the walls. But long before, they built a great watchtower on Weathertop. They called it Amon Sûl."
I shivered involuntarily. Aragorn seemed to spot the delicate shaking of my shoulders.
Midday came. We arrived at the feet of Weathertop itself.
We were hiking out in the open now, away from the concealment of the broken boulders, but I stopped for several moments, leaning back to stare at the massive rise. Its slopes were covered in a sickly green-gray turf, and the ring of ruins stood like a shattered crown on its top.
"I hate you," I said bitterly.
On the western flank of the hill, we found a small dell in a deep, grassy hollow. Aragorn surveyed our surroundings. "There is no sign of Gandalf here."
"Maybe he camped at the top?" suggested Merry, pointing.
It was decided that Merry, Frodo, and Aragorn would climb to the summit of Weathertop, while Sam, Pippin, and I stayed behind in the glade with our pony and everyone's gear and provisions. After several minutes, Pippin grew curious and wandered away from our resting place. He disappeared around a cluster of bushes, and then yelled to us.
"Look at all these footprints! I wonder if Gandalf has been here."
The prints were heavy and broad. I imagined iron-tipped boots smashing into the soil, hooves of great black steeds pawing the ground nearby. "I don't think those belong to Gandalf," I said cautiously.
A little farther away, we came upon the remains of a tiny bonfire, and behind some fallen rocks was a neatly arranged pile of firewood. There was also a fresh spring hidden in the hillside. "Whoever put this here meant to come back, it seems," remarked Sam.
It was half an hour before our other three companions returned, their faces flushed and fearful. They had crept speedily down the hill, driven by some dreadful panic.
"The Black Riders are on the Road," Frodo panted to us, "only a few miles away."
"They are?" I tightened my grip on the pony's bridle, blood draining from my cheeks.
"They might have been here already, then," said Pippin. Dimly, I watched the hobbit lead Aragorn to the tracks we had found.
Within a couple of minutes, Strider had deduced that there were two separate sets of tracks. "Rangers have been here lately," he said. "They left the firewood. But there are also several newer tracks that were not made by Rangers."
"Was Gandalf ever here?" asked Pippin.
"He left a stone on Weathertop bearing his mark," said Frodo.
Sam frowned. "Hadn't we better get out quick, Mr. Strider?"
The man took a moment to consider our options. Humid air had dampened his hair, but even when it hung about his unshaven jaw in disheveled strands, he looked beautiful and proud. This is it, I thought.
"I don't like this place either, Sam," he concluded finally, "but I can't think of anywhere better that we could reach before nightfall. We are hidden here."
"Can the Riders… see?" asked Merry.
"They do not see the world of light as we do, but our shapes cast shadows in their minds. And," he said, his tone softening as he bent over Frodo, "the Ring draws them."
The hobbit blanched, his vivid blue eyes the only spot of color on his face. "Is there no escape, then?" he stammered. "If I move, I'll be seen and hunted! If I stay, they'll be drawn to me!"
"Don't lose hope," comforted Strider. "You are not alone. There is little shelter or defense here, but we have fire. They are afraid of it."
"Fire is also a good way of saying 'Here we are,' as far as I can tell," mumbled Sam, moving to loosen supplies from our pony's saddle. I couldn't help grinning at the Gamgee.
In a ineffective attempt to keep fear out of our thoughts, Aragorn told us the story of Beren and Tinúviel — a sad tale, and not very inspiring. The sun had set orange and angry behind thunderheads which capped the atmosphere. Now stars pinpricked the ink-black heavens above us, and the clouds gave way to silver moonlight. The hobbits and I sat around our fire bundled in every cloak and blanket we had, while Aragorn was fit with his regular cape and curved pipe. Our meal was meager, for Aragorn warned us that our food had to last us to Rivendell. I couldn't eat much, anyway.
Aragorn slipped away from us again. Frodo sighed despairingly through his extra layers of clothing. "Rivendell seems little more than a dream right now. Will we ever reach it, I wonder?"
I spotted his toes sticking out delightfully under the bottom hem of his cloak. He would always be adorable, I decided, no matter the circumstances. "I think we will, Frodo."
His mouth quirked a little. "Is it uncertain even in your mind?"
Weakly, I returned his smirk. "You know I couldn't tell you, even if it were."
The other hobbits were stretching. "Look," said Meriadoc, nodding to the sky above an overhanging, vine-covered crag. Silvery radiance poured into our dell. "The Moon's rising… it must be getting late."
Aragorn came back, his lips pulled into a thin line. He said sharply, "Be wary, all of you. Stay here, sitting with your backs to the fire. Light some torches and have your blades ready." Going by me, he touched my shoulder. "Take heart," he whispered.
"What's the matter, Strider?" called Pippin after him, but he had gone.
With trembling fingers, I reached for the smooth hilt of the sword given to me by Bombadil. My stomach churned and twisted in nauseating apprehension, and numbness inched into my limbs. The hobbits, pallid in the firelight, peered into the gray night stolidly. I could not believe that Aragorn had left us alone.
Samwise was staring out between the undergrowth, through the little opening of our hiding place, which revealed the misty lands extending away from the Weather Hills. "I don't know what it is," he said unexpectedly, "but I suddenly I feel afraid."
I opened and closed my mouth dumbly, and Frodo demanded in a hiss, "Did you see anything, Sam?"
Acting on the impulsive and foolish logic that was characteristic of hobbits, Merry slid forward on his hands and knees, holding his torch above the shrubbery. He pushed aside a bough obscuring his view.
"There are two or three black shapes moving this way," he muttered after some time, the words breaking.
"Where is Strider?" said Pippin, his accented tone seeming even higher in pitch than natural. "What are we going to do?"
"Surely he would have gone up to Weathertop to see out over the land," said Frodo hurriedly.
"He told us to stay here," said Samwise.
I kept myself quiet; not only had fear taken my voice, but I was also still feebly worried about changing something. The hobbits had to make their own decisions, I told myself.
"Let's move up," ordered Frodo, giving the slope below us one last glimpse. He pulled me to my feet and began to climb, dragging me behind him.
The hobbits and I rushed up the hillside, running the whole way. Don't look back, don't look back, I told myself, the mantra coming in rhythm with our rushed footfalls. The wind picked up and the long grasses rustled around us, the stars winking blurrily overhead. We didn't dare to call out to Aragorn, for fear of making the Riders' pursuit even less difficult.
Finally, out of breath and energy, we ascended a crumbling set of aged steps and came into the charred circle that was the remnant of the tower of Amon Sûl. Dirt, vines, and dry mossy turf had overtaken the statues and pillars left standing there, and small plants were growing through cracks in the weathered floor. Aragorn was nowhere to be seen.
"Hide, Jo!" shouted Frodo frenziedly. He shoved me roughly behind a sculpture that had collapsed at the edge of the old ring, a statue of a man cracked at the waist from its plinth. I crouched behind the faceless stone figure, sitting up just enough to see my hobbits cluster themselves together in the center of the hilltop. I tried to swallow the terrible, raw panic mounting in my throat, attempting to gain control over myself. I couldn't complete a coherent thought, I had to get a hold of myself —
On each side of me, the fog stirred. I froze.
Five Ringwraiths materialized like black ghosts at the lip of Weathertop Hill, mist uncurling at their feet as if it, also, were afraid of coming too near. Close enough for me to touch, the figures stood looking down at the hobbits a moment or two, and then glided noiselessly past my place of concealment. I barely dared to breathe, so great was the terror stricken into my heart and limbs; my entire form shuddered and quaked. They'll see me — they'll see me, I thought, choking on a whimper.
I flung myself down under the statue and saw metal-clad feet stride by, the wisps of a tattered black cloak trailing behind. The Nazgûl were hunched, but looming, and the pitch-black sky behind them appeared to pale against their purer darkness. I heard the smooth, harsh ring of many blades being drawn at once.
The hobbits remained, quavering and powerless, under the five Riders. Merry and Pippin stood with their shoulders together, their weapons wavering before them. The Nazgûl reached out and grabbed the pair, throwing them to opposite sides of the circle effortlessly. Sam shrank at Frodo's side, obviously petrified. Yet he raised his sword and cried viciously, "Get back!"
One Ringwraith's sword came down upon him, audibly cutting the air, and though Sam managed to parry, the force of it threw him off balance. The clashing of the blades left a deafening, ominous peal in my ears. Samwise was cast aside by another well-aimed blow, and Frodo was left unaided.
All of this I watched with my cheek pressed to the wet, rough ground. Rains had fallen recently, leaving puddles in the granite flagstones. Mud smeared my skin; I could see Frodo's sword drop across the stones with a clatter, and his feet, tripping backward and bringing him to the ground. He struggled with his twisted cloak, dragging himself with an elbow, the other hand straying to the breast pocket of his vest… and the Ringwraiths advanced.
No, Frodo, don't… He brought out the Ring in a dim flash of gold, straining with the fierce desire to put it on. My own heart wrenched at the sight of it, and silent tears ran through the grime thick on my cheeks, burning my eyes.
Frodo's stare was wild and panic-stricken as he looked up at the Nazgûl from the ground, the Ring still clutched in his fingers. The five Riders seemed to be longingly regarding their master's treasure, and Frodo noticed. He drew farther back, grimacing, simultaneously fighting the Ring's will and his own. At last, the Ring took him, and the hobbit disappeared.
The Ringwraiths started slightly, as though surprised. I crushed my face into the earth, a bitter shriek fighting into my throat. Even with my limited view of the hobbits and the Nazgûl, I saw the largest of the Black Riders move forward, a dull, short knife in one hand. He bore down on a bare spot of gravel, and suddenly I could hear Frodo's voice shouting something in Elvish.
Three screams pierced the night air, then: One was the Ringwraith's, as Frodo struck at its booted feet with his sword. The shrill, earsplitting cry drove into my brain like a spike. The second voice was Frodo's, who became visible again with an agonized sob, his features ashen, shaking hands grabbing at his arm and shoulder.
The third scream was mine.
Sam, Merry, and Pippin had rushed to the Baggins, muttering senselessly, trying to do what they could for him. Samwise was holding his master's hand, blubbering uncontrollably.
And I had scrambled to my feet. I screeched, my heart tearing in two, "Frodo, no!"
Five Nazgûl whirled to face me.
"The Daughter of Man," one of them whispered in a deadly, chilling voice.
The creatures stared long at me, cold and unfeeling. The air was stolen from my lungs, and all sensation fled from my burning limbs. My mind unraveled — at the tapering fringes of my consciousness, I could think of nothing, nothing but the dark and the shadows, nothing but evil and death — I wasn't even sure what was happening —
The tallest, the one that had stabbed Frodo, came to stand in front of me, limping faintly. A gauntleted hand reached out and gripped my neck, not quite firmly enough to strangle me, but enough to cause significant pain, and from somewhere inside the Ringwraith's deep cowl there was a hiss.
"Man-daughter… you possess certain knowledge that could be of great help to the Lord of Mordor."
Terror surged through me like a poisonous rush of electricity. They knew. They knew about me —
I tore my gaze away from the obscurity of the Nazgûl's hood; fear made me envision the crowned, ghostly head invisible within the black shadows. My pulse pounded against the fingers closed about my throat. I felt the tattered hems of the Rider's heavy cloak graze my leg, and I shuddered, filled with inexplicable horror.
Gandalf.
Over the Ringwraith's shoulder I glimpsed my hobbits. Sam turned and shouted, "Strider!"
Gandalf told Saruman not only about the Ring, but about me, as well. And Saruman, in his treachery, had told Sauron. They know about me.
"Please, don't," I sniveled, the words sounding shrill and pitiful in my own ears.
At that moment, Aragorn flew onto the hilltop, his sword and a flaming brand in either hand. The Black Rider flung me away, reaching for its own weapon. Stiffly, I crawled to the place where Frodo and the other hobbits sat, wrestling with the clouded unconsciousness swimming underneath me. I touched Frodo's cold, sweaty brow.
"Frodo, I'm so sorry," I sniffed.
He lifted his unfocused gaze to me. No color was left in his face, and his eyes, which had once been so bright and full of life, were beginning to mist over. "You knew, Jo," he quivered accusingly, his tone no longer sweet or comforting. His accented statement had taken on an edge of iron. "You knew."
Merry brushed hair away from my face, asking urgently, "Jo, are you all right?" But I was gaping at Frodo, his words finding a crooked way to my heart and striking sharply and cruelly. Numb, I scooted myself away from him, feeling myself slump under the heaviness of my exhaustion. Slowly, I surrendered and let nothingness take me. I collapsed into Pippin's arms.