Note: apologies that I have taken so long to finish this. I have just been bogged down with work and getting everything Covid safe.

Summary: Merry was pursued by something upon Buckland Beacon, falling and cracking his head. He awoke in a cave with a strange Elf who calls himself Vanwë. Meanwhile, Pippin has arrived in Hobbiton and he and Frodo join the search for Merry and Sam follows after them.

In the South, Aragorn and Legolas are on their way to visit Gimli but the Dwarf has received a letter from Sam telling him that Merry is missing. At once, the Three Hunters set off to find him. On the outskirts of Tharbad, they are attacked by a troop of werewolves and slay most. Legolas kills one of the Men, claiming it is a werewolf.

Meanwhile, Elrohir has been searching Amon Sûl for the lost Palantír and finds it.

Beta: Anarithilien.

oooOOOoooo

Translations:

'Helca! Epënyë nacidë minna undumë!' – 'Begone or I will hew your bones into the Abyss!

'Ela! Avatharië huinë naldë yë vasa.'–'Beware! Deep shadows lie upon your breast and consume you.'

ooOOOooooOOOooo

Chapter 9: Sam Gamgee

Afternoon stretched into evening and the shadows lengthened, reached ahead of Sam and disappeared into the gloomy and thickly clustered trees ahead. He was about half way along the Old Cat Path, riding towards Woodhall. He hoped to go straight over the Beacon and then down to Brandybuck Hall to meet up with Frodo and Pippin, but the daylight seemed to have gone more quickly than usual and already it was dim here under the eaves of the wood. Nettles and brambles crowded together so the path was more overgrown than Sam had expected. Lightning had to push her way through at times and although her rough, furry coat protected her well, it made her nervous.

The strange foreboding had grown upon Sam all day and it was not only Sam who was jittery. 'Just shadows, old girl,' he said and stroked the pony's neck, but when there was a rustle in the branches above, it startled them both.

It was a little red squirrel leaping along the branches, running hard for home.

Sam smiled and shook his head at himself. 'Well I'm as bad as you,' he said to the pony soothingly. He was uneasy, but not afraid. This was The Shire after all, and he was hardly unused to danger. But he rested his hand on the hilt of his gleaming blade of Westernesse. It reminded him what he had survived. Lightning jogged a little and shook her head as if she wanted to turn back but Sam kept her moving forwards.

It was cold under the thickly crowding trees and Sam pulled his cloak about him, glad he had thought to bring it although the day had started in bright sunshine. Now, looking at the narrow overgrown path disappearing deeper into the dim wood, he wondered if he was just following some deer track. For this was Buckland, close to the old Forest and it was darker under the trees now, and dense fallen leaves deadened all sound though it was Spring. Thin spindly trees crowded together, some leaned against each other as if watching, whispering.

A flurry of pigeons suddenly exploded startled from the trees ahead and Lightning stopped dead. 'Come on, old girl,' he said, scratching her neck. The pony's head was up and her ears flicked back and forth. She took one hesitant step forwards and then stopped again.

It was very quiet and grown dim, as if night had come early. A cold air had settled over the woods and Sam thought it strangely eerie and lonely. Lightning bunched under him as if she might leap round and bolt back the way they had come and Sam thought about dismounting to lead the pony through the woods, as he had when she had to go over the boards of a wooden bridge and had not liked the see the stream running beneath her. To go back would add two days to his journey and after all, he had been to Mordor and back, had faced the Nazgul, a Balrog, Orcs and goblins. Besides, he was well armed with the blade of Westernesse at his side.

Decided, he swung down and stood at the pony's head, smoothing her velvet nose, but she quivered almost with fear.

Sam felt the hair on the back of his neck prickle and he turned his head towards the trees on his right side.

It was only then that he noticed the mist that was creeping through dark pines, and billowed over the ground like the sea. It reminded him horribly of the bank of fog that had rolled over Minas Tirith when Legolas had been missing. Milky skeins of mist wound about the black tree trunks, stole towards him like cold, ghostly fingers.

Lightning pulled back a little and Sam smoothed her neck and spoke softly. 'This is not the Nazgul,' he told her, but it was for his benefit too if he were honest. 'They are gone. And it is no Orc or goblin. You have nothing to fear, old girl.' He let his free hand fall upon the leaf bladed sword at his hip and just loosened it slightly in the black scabbard set with fiery stones that Tom Bombadil had selected for him all that time ago on the Barrow Downs. And it was then that Sam remembered the fog that had come down upon them and that had led him to those strange and eerie standing stones upon the downs.

He stared into the mist. It was thicker now, a sea of mist rolling over the woods, and it felt very cold, very silent. Not a sound. Lightning shied and pulled back but Sam kept tight hold of the reins, straining to see into the fog. The path disappeared into the creeping, silent mist.

Was that a figure standing in the mist? Cloaked and silent?

'Who are you?' he called hesitantly. 'Is anyone there?'

And a cold voice, right by his ear, said, 'I am here.'

Even as his heart leapt in his chest, Lightning whinnied in fear and pulled back hard, tearing the reins from his grasp. She spun round and bolted. A cold chill like a white hand stretched over Sam and he staggered back, clutching for his sword. With a shring of steel against the black scabbard, it sprang free and the light flashed upon its blade. A terrible wail spilt the air and the wind suddenly whipped through the trees, ripping twigs and leaves from the branches and pelting them down upon Sam so he threw his hands up over his head, still clutching his sword. It seemed the whole wood was moving wildly, like the sea.

From somewhere above him, he heard a voice cry loudly through the wind. ''Helca! Epënyë nacidë minna undumë.'

A light flared behind him and he turned in fear to see a figure rushing towards him, a bright flame like a blade before it.

He cried aloud in fear and staggered back, but the figure strode past him into the mist. There was a bright flash, like a bolt of lightning had struck and he threw himself upon the ground with his arms over his head. The sound exploded in his head and then it was like being underwater and everything was muffled. He thought the earth shook and he pressed himself into the ground.

A blast of light shot over him and he squeezed his eyes shut tightly, clamping his hands over his ears.

Then silence. Stillness.

Slowly, he peered between his arms. Dusk had returned to the wood and there was a strange stillness, still eerie but the air smelt as if a storm had passed. The blazing figure had gone.

Sam sat up and looked about him in astonishment for the mist too had dissipated and he could see the path again between the dark trees and above him, the sky was darkening but not yet night.

'Who are you?' he cried, scrambling to his feet and peering into the dark trees.

There was a soft scuff of feet behind him and he whirled about. A cloaked figure moved slowly between the trees towards him. It moved a little strangely, as if it were not quite able to walk, dragging one foot slightly and its balance was wrong. It was not the blazing figure that had vanquished the fog. This was far too short. More hobbit-size.

Sam shifted slightly and thrust his blade before him. The sword glinted a little in the strange half-light and the runes seemed lit from within. 'Speak,' he demanded.

'Sam?' said a shaky voice.

Sam stared. 'Merry?' He took a step towards the figure. 'Is that you?'

The figure reached out a weak and trembling hand towards him and at the same moment, the cloak slipped slightly and Sam saw the face of his dear friend and companion, Merry. He was pale and he blinked as if he were not used even to this dim light.

But it was indeed Merry.

ooOOooOoOOoo

Pippin barely slept so it was no hardship when the dawn chorus awoke him and a blackbird chirped loudly in the cherry tree beside the window. He turned over to see Frodo's bed already empty and the blankets thrown back.

He glanced around the room and saw that Frodo was already dressed and Pippin wondered if he had even been to bed. He was standing staring out of the window, and leaned his cheek against his hand. Pippin thought he looked wan and thin. Not only with worry for Merry. Pippin was thrown back to the time of the Fellowship, when Frodo was weighed down by the Ring, by the dreadful wound inflicted upon him by the Witchking and only Elrond had been able to heal.

But it had not healed. Not really. And there were times when Pippin thought Frodo looked like he was fading. He had been so energized when they set out for Brandy Hall, thought Pippin, but now all that energy and enthusiasm had dissipated.

Well, this would never do if they were going to find Merry, Pippin told himself and he threw his bedclothes back and sprang out of bed. 'Come on then, Frodo. Let's get going. I'll feed Bill and Flash and you go and see if there's any news. Dods went to Woodhall last night to see if there was any news over that way.'

'I've already been to ask if he has returned. Esmerelda is in the kitchen but no news,' Frodo said, his voice sounded like it was coming from far away.

'Never mind,' Pippin said with forced brightness. 'It's early yet.'

There was water in the jug on the chest of drawers but it was cold. He poured it into the large china bowl anyway and splashed it onto his face and over his body, shivering exaggeratedly and trying to make Frodo smile. But Frodo looked vacant, as if he were not really there, or as if he could hear something that no one else could hear, on the edges of his consciousness. Legolas used to have the same look sometimes, Pippin remembered.

Abruptly Frodo shook his head as if freeing himself from a tangle of dreams., 'Very well,' he said and he smiled, but it seemed as forced as Pippin's own brightness. 'Do you think we should still go to Bree?' He looked suddenly doubtful and hesitant. 'It seemed so clear yesterday. I thought we should find Tom Bombadil and he would just know where to find Merry…But now…'. He cocked his head onto one side, his eyes drifted over the room and again to the window.

Pippin thought about this while he was pulling on his breeches and buttoning his shirt. In truth, he had thought Frodo's plan was vague last night. He was more than relieved that Frodo seemed to have realized it himself.

'Well, we aren't even sure that Tom is even still around,' he said. 'He might have gone over the Sea with the Elves.' Pippin struggled into his brown woolen jerkin and sighed. He thought it would be sad for there to be no Elves, and no Tom or Goldberry. He stood up and grabbed his pipe and pouch of Old Toby, stuffed it into his pocket, and then looked about for his russet coloured coat, forgetting where he had left it for a moment. 'It is not a bad idea, you know, to go to Bree,' he said briskly. 'Even if Tom is nowhere to be found, we may bump into a Ranger, or even Glorfindel.' He brightened considerably at the thought. 'That'll be far more likely. But let's just go back up the Beacon and have another look first. You never know. He might just turn up.'

Frodo nodded. 'Yes. Let's do that. You know, there was definitely something…' He looked at Pippin. 'I am sure you said something up there, on the Beacon. Do you not remember?'

Pippin stared at him blankly. 'What do you mean?'

'You said something..' Frodo was watching Pippin now, with curiosity. 'It sounded… Well. It sounded like Elvish. Quenya too, not even Sindarin like Legolas speaks.'

Pippin shook his head. 'I don't know any of that so I think you must have been mistaken. What would I be doing speaking that? What did I say? Ah! There it is.' He saw his russet coat was hanging on the back of the door after all and reached for it.

Frodo frowned slightly. 'It sounded like…'Ela!' Which can mean beware. And then I thought you said 'Avatharië huinë naldë yë vasa.'

The words struck Pippin like a blow. Suddenly he remembered standing beneath the beacon, the pale green lichen curling upon the sharp grey granite. Tall ferns crowding in the pathway that led into the crevice. He had been peering between the rocks, listening to the hounds baying nearby when he had seen something…like looking into a pool and seeing another face reflected back at him.

'…could mean deep shadows pursue you,' Frodo was saying. 'Or shadows lie upon you?' His tone was speculative, translating.

Pippin turned suddenly towards Frodo. 'I think I saw something. Someone. Or I may have done.' Pippin frowned uncertainly for even as he spoke, his memory tried to grasp the image, but it slipped away like the wind had touched the pool and the image dissipated . 'I don't know,' he finished lamely. 'It might just have been that I was hoping so much to find Merry…I don't know.' He saw the disappointment in Frodo's face and felt like he had let him down.

'Don't worry, Pippin. Perhaps it'll come back to you.'

In silence Pippin buckled on his sword belt and touched the hilt of the blade that Tom had selected for him from the trove from the barrow. Knowing that the Men of Westernesse had forged the elegant, leaf-shaped blade gave him confidence. It always had.

It was strange, but did he feel a tremble along its hilt?

0o0o0o

In the huge kitchen, Esmerelda, Merry's kindly, round faced mother, was sitting near the fire that burned in the great granite hearth that took up most of the wall. Her hands clasped a mug of tea that had gone cold. Pippin thought she had been there all night. She looked up when they came in and her face was pinched and very pale. She looked like she hadn't slept for a week. And she probably hadn't.

'Here, let me get you some breakfast,' she said. Her voice was hoarse, raspy as if she had worn herself out with crying. Pippin thought she probably had. 'Saradoc has been out since daybreak. They've taken Maggot's dogs again. They are quite certain he is up there on the Beacon somewhere.'

'No, let me,' said Frodo gently, taking her cold cup from her hand and pressing her back down into the chair. But she only perched on the edge and leaned forward, staring into the smouldering coals. 'Auntie Hilda has gone into the Old Forest to search there,' she said, as if Frodo had not spoken.

Frodo and Pippin had exchanged a swift look at the news but said nothing for Hilda was a strange one and even the Tooks were a little in awe of her adventures.

'I have a feeling we will find him today,' Esmerelda continued unconvincingly. 'I expect he will just walk in here as if nothing had happened and wonder what all the fuss is about.' She gave a watery smile which Pippin tried to return more brightly. But he had a horrible feeling in the pit of his belly now and all his brightness had disappeared in the face of Esmerelda's misery.

'I don't think I can really eat anything,' he said quietly to Frodo. 'Shall we just get the ponies and go?'

Frodo nodded silently and Esmerelda watched them as they pulled on their coats and gave her a silent bow.

They found the ponies pulling hay from the full hay racks and munching happily. Bill turned his wise brown eyes upon each of them in turn and gave that heavy sigh that ponies sometimes give. But both ponies seemed happy enough once they were saddled and on the road. The orchards of Buckland, were adorned with the apple blossom just beginning to come out on the branches of the ancient apple trees, and daffodils waved and nodded all along the road through Buckland. Above them was the Beacon where they had found Merry's pipeweed but no Merry.

They were just turning off the lane to follow the stony track up to the Beacon when Bill stopped dead, his head thrown up and his ears pricked. Flash suddenly turned too, back towards the lane. He gave a trembly whicker. Sharp little hoofbeats sounded along the lane and Pippin looked up to see who it was.

'Must be Dods,' said Frodo. 'He must have come back along the Old Cat Path.'

Pippin let Flash move towards the lane. 'Ho there!' he called. 'Is that you, Dods?'

At that very moment a stumpy, eager pony clattered into view, tossing its head and mouthing its bit. Its nostril flared and it gave a tremulous whinny at which both Bill and Flash started forwards. At last they could see the rider's face and both hobbits cried aloud in delight.

'Sam!' Frodo cried. 'Sam, is that you? Whatever are you doing here?'

It was indeed Sam. 'Ooh, I'll be right glad to get off this pony and have my Bill back,' said Sam. 'Look who I found.'

It was, of course, Merry.

oooo

Frodo would never forget Esmerelda's face when they bustled Merry into the kitchen, calling for help, blankets, food.

She had looked up listlessly, hopelessly and as she saw that it was her boy, she rose incredulous, disbelieving, to her feet, her cup dropped from her hand and smashed onto the stone flagstone but she barely twitched at the noise. And then her face melted in relief and she ran over to Merry, enveloped him into her embrace in a way that had Frodo wondering what it would be like to have a mother who waited and worried and then brought you into her arms in that way that only a mother would. He had not been able to look away, watching almost greedily.

At last they had got Merry sitting comfortably in a deeply upholstered chair brought into the kitchen for the purpose and various Brandybucks sat or stood or lounged on the floor around him, staring joyfully at their returned son. Pippin had volunteered to go and find Saradoc and Dods to give him the good news and Sam and Frodo were sitting on the long bench at the kitchen table while a reinvigorated Esmerelda made bacon sandwiches and eggs and sausages for the assembled hobbits. Hobbits lads and lasses bustled about helpfully and the Hall was transformed from the anxious tension of the day before to its customary bustle and cheery welcome.

Merry sat in the chair and looked about him with bemused satisfaction. 'Goodness, has everyone been out looking for me? Frodo, what are you doing here?'

'Of course, we have,' Frodo said carefully. He thought his friend was a little pale and he had a cut on his head that Esmerelda was bathing. 'Where have you been? Do you remember anything?'

Merry winced as she dabbed at it cautiously and touched the wound. 'I remember tripping, but I cannot remember anything after.'

'Well you are back now and that is all I care about,' Esmerelda said with the relieved devotion that drenched her every move, every word and look.

But Merry frowned. 'I do remember…there was…' He looked around suddenly as if he had lost something. 'Now where…where has he gone?'

'Pippin?' asked Esmerelda. 'He's gone to tell your father. He's up on the Beacon searching for you. And Dods is gone to Woodhall. Just in case. And Hilda is in the Old Forest.'

There was a murmur of admiration and anxiety in equal measure. But Frodo watched Merry carefully for he did not think Merry meant Pippin. He had clearly been looked after. The wound on his head was almost healed and although he was pale, he did not look unwell. Just a bit stunned. And Frodo was not sure that was from hitting his head.

Suddenly the door was thrown open and Saradoc strode in, his face streaked with tears and his arms wide. He almost ran to Merry and leaned over him, arms clasped about Merry and Esmerelda. There was the sound of small, suppressed sobs that had everyone else shuffling with fond and uncomfortable affection. There were various excuses made then and gradually the hobbits left the family lot themselves.

Frodo took Sam out to the meadow and Bill came trotting hopefully over. Sam scratched his ears and fished in his pocket for stumps of carrots and an apple core which Bill accepted as his due.

'Tell me what happened, Sam, and how you found him?'

Sam told Frodo how he had taken the Old Cat Path and the fog that had crept through the woods, the cold voice and the bright figure that had come. When he had finished, Frodo and he sat for a long while on a granite boulder that had once tumbled down from the beacon and come to rest in the meadow near the slow river.

'Has Merry said anything?' Frodo asked. 'I mean about where he has been, or what happened to him?'

Sam shook his head. 'No. Just mumbled that his head hurt a bit and something about the beacon. He did say a word but I haven't heard it before. Vanway? Vansomething. None of it made sense.'

They sat together in silence, Sam swung his feet a little.

'that fog,' Frodo said speculatively, 'you say it reminded you of the Barrow Downs?'

Sam nodded.

'I wonder who that was then, that you saw in the fog,' Frodo said aloud. 'What did he say again?'

Stumblingly, Sam reconstructed the words cried by the blazing figure.

'Well, that sounds like some of those words are definitely Quenya,' Frodo said. Then he added thoughtfully, 'Pippin said something strange too, up on the Beacon. And I think that was also Quenya.'

Sam turned to him in astonishment. 'Do you think that was an Elf then?

'It makes sense,' said Frodo. 'If he was powerful like Glorfindel he could drive off the fog certainly, or if it was the Barrow Wights.' He lifted his face towards the warm spring sunshine.

'Well whoever he is, I'm right grateful that he came when he did. I wouldn't want to meet those Barrow Wights out there in those dark woods at twilight.' Sam leaned back against the rock and pulled out his pipe.

'And I am very glad that you didn't,' said Frodo.

0o0o0lo

Gimli tried not to stare at the back of Legolas' head like he had grown horns and fangs, but he could not help but wonder at the recent savagery of his friend. It was not that Gimli was unused to the ferocity of Legolas in battle; after all, Gimli was fierce and unyielding himself. But it was the way Legolas had killed the man-werewolf; still a man. Still a prisoner. Still bound and unable to defend himself. And it was that which he struggled with. To kill a prisoner was dishonourable. And he had never thought of Legolas as dishonourable.

He remembered all that time ago, when he and Legolas barely knew each other and had been sent with Aragorn and Glorfindel to search for signs of the Nazgûl before the Fellowship, not yet formed, would leave upon their secret quest. Elrohir had impaled an orc upon a spear. Gimli would not have protested this at all had it been dead. But it had not been. It was still living and it wailed and howled and screamed its unbearable agony. Neither Gimli nor Legolas had seen such cruelty and when they took watch together that night with the orc's exhausted, breathless cries, Legolas had put the damned thing out of its misery with a shot that no one believed possible. It had led to Gimli and Legolas sharing a mutual respect. But the point was, Gimli reminded himself sharply, that the Legolas he had journeyed with down the Bruinen was different from the Legolas behind whom he now rode.

It wasn't just this killing of the prisoner, he thought. There was something more …feral in his eyes. Just now and again. In the dark, when he stared into the fire sometimes… it seemed…

Ach, I am foolish and grow fanciful, Gimli told himself sternly and settled himself against the strong back, wide shoulders of an archer. He felt a laugh bubble up from Legolas and feeling the Elf take a breath that heralded a song, braced himself for what turned out to be the Woodland Realm version of the Lay of Luthien, which was scurrilous and lewd as only the Woodelves could be. And at that, Gimli shook the doubts from the corners of his loyal, generous heart and scolded the Elf cheerfully.