Disclaimer: Not mine. So don't sue me.
Author's Note: Okay, so this is the next part—chapters four and five. PLEASE review. I never get any reviews and it's honestly getting me mad. I mean, it's like an insult to me as a writer. Goodness. So please review. Hell, even flames are welcome. Always a source of improvement… anyway, enjoy!
Chapter Four: Weathertop
The six travelers slowly made their way to Rivendell. One night, when they were about six days away from their destination, Strider decided to stop and rest at Weathertop, old ruins atop a hill.
"That way we'll see if there will be any more Ringwraiths after us," he said. Frodo nodded.
"Yes. That's good."
They made camp in a hollow about halfway up the hill; as night drew on Strider went out to scout. Frodo and Orelle fell asleep, not caring what the other Hobbits would be up to.
Orelle awoke to a very frightened Frodo stamping out a fire. She knew that something was wrong, very wrong, but knew not what it was.
She walked to the edge of the cliff-hollow, thinking she heard noises, kneeling down and looking out over the land. What she saw made her blood freeze in her veins.
Six Black Riders were below them.
"F-Frodo," she squeaked. He came over, then looked down to where her eyes were locked. He stared for a moment, in shock, then shook himself and turned to where the others stood arguing over the last of the stew.
"Up! To the top!" he cried. All five of them ran to do so, drawing their swords as they ran.
Once they were at the top of the hill, they formed a close-knit circle, ready to face what was coming. Orelle swallowed her terror, knowing by the looks on the other hobbits' faces that she would have to be the strong one.
Again.
For as long as she could remember, before her parents turned cruel, she had always been the strong one out of her friends. She nearly never cried; trying never to show emotion. She was honestly getting sick of it—she wished she could, just once, break down and weep—but no. That life was not for her. Never for her—
She was torn out of her musings by the approach of the Nazgûl. They moved with agonizing slowness towards the Hobbits; their long, deadly swords were drawn and ready.
She subconsciously moved a little closer to Frodo, then realized he was moving away.
Before she could do anything, the Ringwraiths attacked. Two made straight for Frodo while the others attacked Orelle, Sam, Merry, and Pippin.
Orelle ducked the Rider's first sword-stab, forced to defend herself constantly, unable to attack. She heard a dull thud and knew that Frodo had fallen. She turned to look around at him, saw that he had disappeared—she knew that he had put on the Ring, and yelled out in fear.
Strider suddenly appeared, waving a flaming brand and attacking the Nazgûl. Orelle was free to run to where she had seen Frodo last, and did so quickly.
She saw Frodo reappear a few feet away from her, crying out in pain and clutching his shoulder.
"Frodo!" she screamed and ran to him, bending over his prone figure. His face was white and he held the ring with one hand; the other hand was still holding his shoulder.
The sight of his pain-filled face made her heart ache, and all her long- dead feelings for her old friend flared suddenly back to life.
"Oh, Frodo," she whispered, drawing back his shirt and jacket and seeing a long gash that was obviously the source of his pain.
The three other Hobbits ran to them. "Strider!" Sam yelled; the Ranger had finished dealing with the Nazgûl and ran over. "Mr. Frodo's hurt—"
Strider picked up a sword that Orelle had not noticed before. It dissipated when he picked it up, and he sighed. "It's a Morgul—a Dark Sword. The wound is beyond my powers to heal."
Tears of fury and indignation stung Orelle's eyes. "So you can't help him?" she cried. "You must! You must!"
"I am sorry, Orelle. There is not much I can do, except…" He turned to Sam, who looked just as worried as Orelle felt. "Do you know the athelas plant? Some call it kingsford," he added, seeing the confused look on the Hobbit's face.
Sam's face lit, and he nodded. "Yes, I do. It should be around somewhere near…" They went off to look for it.
They didn't return through the rest of the night, which Orelle spent washing Frodo's wound and wishing fervently for a miracle that could save him.
As morning drew near, Merry and Pippin were both asleep (and snoring), Frodo slid into more of a stupor, moving only to cry out weakly in pain. Orelle didn't leave his side, and her green eyes were bloodshot.
Frodo's face was white, though his veins were clearly visible. His eyes were redder than Orelle's; they made a sharp contrast to his bright blue irises. He gasped for breath, and Orelle was terrified that he should die before they reached Rivendell and the healing powers of Lord Elrond.
When it was still dark, although dawn was beginning to show in the eastern sky, Strider and Sam returned, accompanied by a beautiful Elven woman who seemed to glow with a soft light.
Knowing her immediately, Orelle knelt down before her. "Arwen Evenstar," she whispered.
"Stand, Orelle Brandybuck. I can see you have not had sleep… where is the patient?" Arwen saw Frodo behind Orelle and knelt near him, chanting softly in Elvish.
Some of the color returned to the Hobbit's face but he was still pale and he looked very, very sick.
"I must take him to my father. I will ride quickly—he will not hold on much longer." The Elf's words filled Orelle with fear. Before she knew it, Arwen had Frodo in her arms and was carrying him to a beautiful white horse.
Knowing what she had to do, Orelle shook herself out of her paralysis and ran to the Elf, tugging on her elegant sleeve.
"I'm coming with you."
Chapter Five: Race to the River
The sun rose high in the sky as they rode to Rivendell. Orelle sat behind Arwen, clutching the Elf with one hand and Frodo with the other.
She heard an odd noise in the trees around them, turned her head, and saw the nine Nazgûl behind them. "Arwen!" she screamed in fear.
Arwen looked behind her and saw the Riders in hot pursuit of them, and rode faster. Orelle felt Frodo slipping and squeezed his cold hand, not letting go; she thought that if she held him tight enough he would stay alive.
The Ringwraiths drew closer to them. They chased the three through a forest that was filled with thorns and brambles; one cut a slash across Arwen's face, another whipped Orelle's arm.
Soon the reached the ford of the river. Arwen rode her horse across it, standing on the edge of the opposite bank. She stopped the horse, which reared, and cried, "If you want him, come and claim him!" She drew her sword and held it up high.
The leader of the Nazgûl roared and the Nine charged into the river. Orelle heard Arwen say something softly in Elvish and the trickle of water on the bank swelled to a flow. Orelle heard a low rumbling and, to her amazement, a wall of water flew down the river, burying and drowning the oncoming Ringwraiths. Orelle fancied she saw white water-horses in the water that overtook the Nazgûl.
When the river had gone back to its original, slower flow, Arwen led the white horse farther up the bank and put Frodo down. He was gasping for breath and it seemed that he was inches from passing into shadow.
Orelle's eyes widened and she sank down next to him, touching his face gently and whispering his name. But then it seemed that the long night and day had caught up with her, and she fell next to Frodo and knew no more.
Author's Note: Okay, so this is the next part—chapters four and five. PLEASE review. I never get any reviews and it's honestly getting me mad. I mean, it's like an insult to me as a writer. Goodness. So please review. Hell, even flames are welcome. Always a source of improvement… anyway, enjoy!
Chapter Four: Weathertop
The six travelers slowly made their way to Rivendell. One night, when they were about six days away from their destination, Strider decided to stop and rest at Weathertop, old ruins atop a hill.
"That way we'll see if there will be any more Ringwraiths after us," he said. Frodo nodded.
"Yes. That's good."
They made camp in a hollow about halfway up the hill; as night drew on Strider went out to scout. Frodo and Orelle fell asleep, not caring what the other Hobbits would be up to.
Orelle awoke to a very frightened Frodo stamping out a fire. She knew that something was wrong, very wrong, but knew not what it was.
She walked to the edge of the cliff-hollow, thinking she heard noises, kneeling down and looking out over the land. What she saw made her blood freeze in her veins.
Six Black Riders were below them.
"F-Frodo," she squeaked. He came over, then looked down to where her eyes were locked. He stared for a moment, in shock, then shook himself and turned to where the others stood arguing over the last of the stew.
"Up! To the top!" he cried. All five of them ran to do so, drawing their swords as they ran.
Once they were at the top of the hill, they formed a close-knit circle, ready to face what was coming. Orelle swallowed her terror, knowing by the looks on the other hobbits' faces that she would have to be the strong one.
Again.
For as long as she could remember, before her parents turned cruel, she had always been the strong one out of her friends. She nearly never cried; trying never to show emotion. She was honestly getting sick of it—she wished she could, just once, break down and weep—but no. That life was not for her. Never for her—
She was torn out of her musings by the approach of the Nazgûl. They moved with agonizing slowness towards the Hobbits; their long, deadly swords were drawn and ready.
She subconsciously moved a little closer to Frodo, then realized he was moving away.
Before she could do anything, the Ringwraiths attacked. Two made straight for Frodo while the others attacked Orelle, Sam, Merry, and Pippin.
Orelle ducked the Rider's first sword-stab, forced to defend herself constantly, unable to attack. She heard a dull thud and knew that Frodo had fallen. She turned to look around at him, saw that he had disappeared—she knew that he had put on the Ring, and yelled out in fear.
Strider suddenly appeared, waving a flaming brand and attacking the Nazgûl. Orelle was free to run to where she had seen Frodo last, and did so quickly.
She saw Frodo reappear a few feet away from her, crying out in pain and clutching his shoulder.
"Frodo!" she screamed and ran to him, bending over his prone figure. His face was white and he held the ring with one hand; the other hand was still holding his shoulder.
The sight of his pain-filled face made her heart ache, and all her long- dead feelings for her old friend flared suddenly back to life.
"Oh, Frodo," she whispered, drawing back his shirt and jacket and seeing a long gash that was obviously the source of his pain.
The three other Hobbits ran to them. "Strider!" Sam yelled; the Ranger had finished dealing with the Nazgûl and ran over. "Mr. Frodo's hurt—"
Strider picked up a sword that Orelle had not noticed before. It dissipated when he picked it up, and he sighed. "It's a Morgul—a Dark Sword. The wound is beyond my powers to heal."
Tears of fury and indignation stung Orelle's eyes. "So you can't help him?" she cried. "You must! You must!"
"I am sorry, Orelle. There is not much I can do, except…" He turned to Sam, who looked just as worried as Orelle felt. "Do you know the athelas plant? Some call it kingsford," he added, seeing the confused look on the Hobbit's face.
Sam's face lit, and he nodded. "Yes, I do. It should be around somewhere near…" They went off to look for it.
They didn't return through the rest of the night, which Orelle spent washing Frodo's wound and wishing fervently for a miracle that could save him.
As morning drew near, Merry and Pippin were both asleep (and snoring), Frodo slid into more of a stupor, moving only to cry out weakly in pain. Orelle didn't leave his side, and her green eyes were bloodshot.
Frodo's face was white, though his veins were clearly visible. His eyes were redder than Orelle's; they made a sharp contrast to his bright blue irises. He gasped for breath, and Orelle was terrified that he should die before they reached Rivendell and the healing powers of Lord Elrond.
When it was still dark, although dawn was beginning to show in the eastern sky, Strider and Sam returned, accompanied by a beautiful Elven woman who seemed to glow with a soft light.
Knowing her immediately, Orelle knelt down before her. "Arwen Evenstar," she whispered.
"Stand, Orelle Brandybuck. I can see you have not had sleep… where is the patient?" Arwen saw Frodo behind Orelle and knelt near him, chanting softly in Elvish.
Some of the color returned to the Hobbit's face but he was still pale and he looked very, very sick.
"I must take him to my father. I will ride quickly—he will not hold on much longer." The Elf's words filled Orelle with fear. Before she knew it, Arwen had Frodo in her arms and was carrying him to a beautiful white horse.
Knowing what she had to do, Orelle shook herself out of her paralysis and ran to the Elf, tugging on her elegant sleeve.
"I'm coming with you."
Chapter Five: Race to the River
The sun rose high in the sky as they rode to Rivendell. Orelle sat behind Arwen, clutching the Elf with one hand and Frodo with the other.
She heard an odd noise in the trees around them, turned her head, and saw the nine Nazgûl behind them. "Arwen!" she screamed in fear.
Arwen looked behind her and saw the Riders in hot pursuit of them, and rode faster. Orelle felt Frodo slipping and squeezed his cold hand, not letting go; she thought that if she held him tight enough he would stay alive.
The Ringwraiths drew closer to them. They chased the three through a forest that was filled with thorns and brambles; one cut a slash across Arwen's face, another whipped Orelle's arm.
Soon the reached the ford of the river. Arwen rode her horse across it, standing on the edge of the opposite bank. She stopped the horse, which reared, and cried, "If you want him, come and claim him!" She drew her sword and held it up high.
The leader of the Nazgûl roared and the Nine charged into the river. Orelle heard Arwen say something softly in Elvish and the trickle of water on the bank swelled to a flow. Orelle heard a low rumbling and, to her amazement, a wall of water flew down the river, burying and drowning the oncoming Ringwraiths. Orelle fancied she saw white water-horses in the water that overtook the Nazgûl.
When the river had gone back to its original, slower flow, Arwen led the white horse farther up the bank and put Frodo down. He was gasping for breath and it seemed that he was inches from passing into shadow.
Orelle's eyes widened and she sank down next to him, touching his face gently and whispering his name. But then it seemed that the long night and day had caught up with her, and she fell next to Frodo and knew no more.
