It was not all as bad as Frodo had feared it would be. Nothing untoward had happened as of yet, and whatever Strider had been telling them thus far had sounded true enough. His suspicionhad not left him yet. He still had a trickle of doubt, but he was almost sure that the man before him did not serve the enemy. All that remained to be seen was whether or not if he was on their side, or neither but his own.

Their talks came to an abrupt halt with the arrival of the innkeeper- Barliman Butterbur. Gandalf had once told him that the man was not all bad, and Barliman claimed to know Gandalf too. The hobbits turned to see who had interrupted them, even as Strider quietly receeded into the shadows. Butternut had come with a letter from Gandalf it seemed, addressed to a hobbit whim he had said would go by the alias of Underhill.

Frodo did not waste a single moment before he opened the letter and scanned through it's contents. It was only later that Strider was noticed, though Frodo told the innkeeper that it was all settled and Stider was there with his leave, though Frodo was not sure if he believed the man as much as his words seemed to imply. He thought of what Strider had told him:

All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall beblade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.

Did those verses apply to Strider then? Who had written them and what did they mean? Was this truly the man Gandalf had mentioned or was it an imposter who had killed the true Aragorn? Gandalf's letter had been dated years ago. Was he still safe or was he in danger? Frodo wished he had the answers to all these questions. Such doubts seemed to keep arising, and the farther he went hoping to find answers and safety, it seemed to him, the deeper he was enshrouded with more questions and danger.

He voiced all his questions, and Strider, no, Aragorn answered them all. All he asked of them was to be their guide as long as they would have him, and despite Sam's doubts that he was trying to loot them, he decided to accept Strider's offer. Much was at risk, and he knew it would do him much good to accept whatever help came his way.

After much discussion and suspicion, a decision was made. "Well", said Strider, "With Sam's permission we will call that settled. Strider shall be your guide. And now I think it is time you went to bed and took what rest you can. We shall have a rough road tomorrow. Even if we are allowed to leave Bree unhindered, we can hardly hope to leave it unnoticed. But I shall try to get lost as soon as possible. I know one or two ways out of Bree-land other than the main road. If once we shake off the pursuit,I shall make for Weathertop."

As soon as the first rays of the sun set in, he did. Once more, the four hobbits fled for dear life, though they weren't being pursued just as yet. With Strider, things seemed to look a little better, for it seemed to them he was indeed who he claimed to be- a friend of Gandalf's. He had led them safely to Weathertop where they could afford a night's rest before they were on the run again, but even that fortune wasn't to last. Before they knew it, they were surrounded. Strider had deserted them at their time of need to forage for supplies and look around for signs of trouble. For all Frodo knew, his life was as much at stake as Bilbo's had been a few decades ago, at Erebor. He made a choice. A choice to defend the ring. With his life. He drew his sword, although he knew not how to use it. When he lost all hope, he slipped the ring on to his finger. It may have saved him once in the past, but this time, it failed him.

He saw the Eye. He heard the One speak to him, threaten him with certain death. Where there were black formless figures donned in black cloaks, he saw the Nine. Nine great kings of men, now servants of the One. His doom. He saw their leader draw a long blade. He knew what was coming,but there was nothing he could do. Nothing anyone could do. The blade ran right through him. For an instant, he felt nothing, and yet again, the ring betrayed him. It slipped out of his finger, and now, he knew just one thing. Pain, and death. He was fading away, for there was no healer to tend to him. Strider had returned soon to fend of the rest of the enemy as much as he could with fire. He might have been a healer, but even his skills had their limits. There was only so much he could do against a wound he knew his healing was fruitless against. The hobbit was lost to them. There was no hope of his survival any longer than there was a chance that Middle-Earth was safe from Sauron. Just a ranger, and three petrified friends, who could do nothing but helplessly witness their friend depart to another world, or worse, roam their world as a wraith. Their friend was gone.