Disclaimer: I own nothing. :)
A/N: Thank all of you who reviewed! :) You guys are great.
MarigoldG, I'm so happy that you like my fic! :) I know all three of them are cousins, but I decided to keep it as Pippin calling Frodo his cousin, and Merry calling Pippin his friend, just to make things less confusing. :) I thought it would be a little hard to understand if I had all three of them calling each other cousin. And also, the part about Merry speaking not- so-nice things about a Banks in front of Pippin…(hehe!) It was meant to be a joke between them, but I guess Pippin's reaction wouldn't have been so casual to it… unless, of course, Merry was right! ;)
Sorry I haven't updated since the 21st :( I promise I'll try to do better in the future. :)
And, as always, what's meant to be spoken in elvish is in *'s. :)
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The weary company continued on their way the following morning, much in the same manner as they had on the previous day. Glorfindel leading, Aragorn bringing up the rear. The persistent fair weather was promising, a beaming sun set pleasantly in the pale blue sky. Although, the hobbits wondered to themselves how it was that the sun could be so cheerful, casting his bright, warm yellow rays upon their shoulders, when they themselves were in such distress. A gentle breeze rippled through their hair as they continued on their way, downwards to the Ford of Bruinen.
Pippin sighed heavily, shifting the weight on his back, and walked onward. Even with Bill now carrying most of the baggage, the growing weariness caused by traveling on such scant food provisions had made even the lightest pack seem heavier than a sack of apples, Pippin thought. He wished so much that the Ford wasn't still so many miles ahead of them; and being so tired made it all the more difficult to think about the distance they had yet to travel. Although he did take comfort in the fact that the land the Road lay on, still consisted of a gentle downward slope.
Sam walked along beside Asfaloth's towering stature. The stallion was rather enjoying the pleasant weather, and he snorted from time to time, feeling quite spirited. The hobbit, dwarfed by the size of the elvish horse, was not frightened- but was careful not to tread to close to where the powerful legs met the earth.
Sam looked up at his master, pity filling his heart. The light of the sun illuminated Frodo's head from behind; it streamed through his sweat-soaked curls and tangles, seeming to frame his head against the backdrop of foliage; giving the hobbits head an almost ethereal glow. Frodo's eyes were staring blankly ahead, dark circles clearly outlined beneath each one, serving as a reminder to Sam of his Master's peril. His slight frame was wracked by chills; brought on by some dark force, but outwardly appeared to be a result of the steady gentle breezes.
"Mister Strider?" Sam inquired hesitantly, knowing that he ought not interrupt their travel.
"What is it, Sam?" The ranger answered kindly.
"My Master, he seems… cold. Colder than usual, or colder than he's been lately, if you will." Sam paused, "Perhaps there is something one of us could do for him? Though I know we haven't got anymore blankets…" He trailed off, kicking at rocks on the Road as he walked.
"Well, Sam, I don't know what you suggest we do." Aragorn began carefully, not wanting to affront the concerned Samwise, "You're right, we have no more blankets or clothes to give to Frodo. And… I don't believe that it would be wise to stop for a break at this point." He sighed, "But, I suppose, we could halt for a brief while. Perhaps it would do everyone good." The Ranger finished. Sam nodded in agreement, and Aragorn jogged up to Glorfindel, telling him of their plans for a rest.
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Sam sat in a patch of sunlight, within thicket where the company was resting, cradling the upper portion of Frodo's limp body in his lap.
"Here Mister Frodo, take some…" Sam encouraged his Master, "It's just a bit of dried apple. It'll go down easy." The younger hobbit tried to convince Frodo.
"Sam… please, no. I- I cannot eat anymore." Frodo mumbled weakly, raising a trembling hand in protest. "I don't feel well, Sam, please… don't. Just let me be." He finished, allowing Sam to gently push his hand back to the ground.
Sam wasn't satisfied; Frodo had barely eaten two small bits of dried fruit, and had taken little of the tea provided by Glorfindel. "Easy now, Mister Frodo, no one's pressin' you to take more than you can stomach." Sam soothed. His mind drifted back to better times, "Why, remember last winter, the Yule feast we had…?" he reminisced, "Boiled taters', with mushroom sauce… an' that wonderful soup that Mrs. Maggot made for you; although you hardly touched it... honestly though, there were a bit too many onions in it for my liking..." Sam thought, "Do you remember it, Mister Frodo? I don't know about you, but just thinking about the Yule feast- or any feast for that matter, makes my stomach gnaw at my backbone!" he ended, laugh quietly to himself.
"Oh, Sam!" Frodo nearly cried, paling a bit as he attempted to shift in Sam's lap, "Please don't mention food…" Frodo finished, wrapping his uninjured arm around his belly, wincing as the pressure from it activated the throbbing in his sides. He tried to push all memories of food out of his mind. "The very thought of it makes me feel unwell." Frodo said aloud.
"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, Mister Frodo," Sam stumbled over his words, "I- I didn't mean to upset your stomach… I was just trying to make conversation, if you get my meaning, remember old times and such." Sam explained quickly, failing to pay attention in his nervousness, as he began to rise to his knees, jolting Frodo's body as he did so.
"Sam…!" Frodo whimpered, reaching out blindly for something to cling to as he sunk to the ground. He groaned in pain as he felt his stomach reel, and then brutally force its contents up and out.
Sam knelt beside his Master; and when the sickness had passed, he spoke words of comfort in a reassuring tone into Frodo's ear, as he lay crumpled on the ground.
"Poor Mister Frodo," Sam murmured under his breath, "it wasn't my fault… it was bound to happen sooner or later, he's been gettin' paler and paler the past few hours." Sam persuaded himself, as he stroked his masters' curls, trying his best to console his sick friend.
"Mister Frodo, don't you worry now. Mister Strider told me this mornin' that we'd be nearing the Ford tonight, most likely." Sam carried on, trying to sound hopeful.
Frodo made no answer; he just lay where he fell, his ragged breathing now coming in shallow gasps. Frodo shuddered once more, then darkness descended upon him, and he could not hear Sam calling his name anxiously.
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When Frodo finally regained awareness, it was almost completely dark. He wasn't sure if it was actual darkness, or if his vision had finally completely failed him. Everything ached, he thought, as he sat motionless upon Asfaloth's back, not wanting to cause himself any excess pain by moving. Although, Frodo didn't know if he possessed the strength to move- even if he had wanted or needed to do so.
The ring-bearer could sense how anxious the rest of the company felt. Glorfindel was close by, peering through the darkness; searching for the presence of some unnamed fear that Frodo thought was sure to be lurking somewhere among the trees... or perhaps a ways ahead on the road.
Frodo shivered involuntarily. He could feel them; feel their sinister presence. Frodo knew what it felt like to be hunted by these fell creatures. This feeling was not the one that had been hounding him since Weathertop; it was something far more powerful and dark. The Wraiths had at last come to take him, he could feel that the last struggle was approaching; and he knew that he had naught with which to fight the battle.
At that moment, Glorfindel cried out, "The servants of darkness are upon us now!", he then called to Asfaloth in the tongue of his people, *Run, Asfaloth! Run! *
Suddenly sharp cries rang out among the trees that surrounded the Road. Frodo winced at the shrill noise, pain shooting through his already sore head. The company scattered, as Glorfindel continued to urge Asfaloth ahead.
The stallion needed no further urging; he bolted down the road at lightning speed. Tears streamed across Frodo's cheeks as he gripped Asfaloth's mane tightly with his hand, the trees around him had become even more of a blur. One continuous string of dark yellow-orange on either side of him. The wind tore violently at his clothes and hair, whipping past in a roar as they flew towards the Ford. But it was not the wind that bothered Frodo. He felt an overwhelming urge to slow the horse down, to allow the Wraiths to gain ground.
Frodo took the leather reigns in his hand, and pulled back hard, slowing the horse to a trot. The delirious hobbit could still hear Glorfindel's cries echoing after him. Asfaloth heard his master's frantic cries and snorted, half rearing, as if begging the hobbit to let him bolt forward. Frodo knew that he couldn't stop. If he stopped, then the Wraiths would catch him. If they caught him, all would be lost.
He could feel the cold and ache growing in his shoulder; it was spreading throughout his body once more; no doubt going in for the final blow. He cried out in anguish as he felt shooting pain overwhelm him.
Frodo dropped the reigns, and hunched down onto Asfaloth's back, grabbing a fistful of mane. The horse instinctively raced forward, galloping the last league to the ford, merely a white streak against the dark earth.
Just then, Frodo could make out two black horses galloping fiercely, a little ways ahead of him, attempting to cut off his escape. Two more riders flew down a bank and into the road, following the hobbit in hot pursuit.
They were making their way up to Asfaloth's side. One reached out a gloved hand towards Frodo; he gasped in surprise and pain as it felt as though someone had squeezed the life out of him. He felt faint, and swayed upon the stallion's back. Frodo hunched over even closer to Asfaloth's neck, and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel their evil presence, overcoming him. He could hear their taunting voices, teasing him. Frodo again felt the urge to slow Asfaloth's gait, but refrained from doing so as he opened one eye, and was met with gaze of a Wraith. The black hood appeared to be empty; an invisible head filled its void. Frodo knew what they looked like, for he had seen them. Horrible, dark creatures, they were, and hideous to look upon.
Frodo drew as deep a breath as he could manage, and shouted as loudly as he was able, "Stay back! Chase me not; you foul creatures of darkness! Go back to Mordor! Go back to your master! There is nothing here that you will ever possess again-" Frodo was cut short, stifling the cries of anguish that were quickly rising in his raw throat.
Asfaloth sped ever onwards, towards the safety of Rivendell's borders, bearing his precious cargo swiftly away from the peril that hunted them.
The Ford came into view, around the bend of the Road, not too far ahead. The other two Wraiths reappeared, galloping swiftly, trying to head off the hobbit and the stallion. Asfaloth whipped by them, barely averting tragedy, as Frodo clung to his neck for dear life.
The horse advanced fearlessly into the waters of the Ford, leaving the hesitant Wraiths behind, on the shore. Frodo gasped as he felt the cold water engulfing his feet, and then his legs. Asfaloth moved quickly and effortlessly through the water, until he finally reached the other side.
The first of the Wraiths was now midway across the Ford, advancing quickly. The other horses had just entered the water. Frodo could hear them, calling to him, taunting him in the Black Speech. They bade him return to them, they wished to take him to Mordor.
Frodo's vision was failing, darkness descended on his world. He could no longer cope with the pain and weariness that had consumed him over the past several weeks, Frodo gave in to the darkness.
The last image that he remembered through the mist and pain was the roaring of the Ford's waters. It seemed to him, as though great white horses galloped ferociously through the riverbed, spurred on by some unseen rider. He heard the screams of the Nazgul as the waves overcame them, sweeping them and their horses away down the river, to their doom.
Frodo closed his eyes wearily, and gripped Asfaloth's mane; pressing his face into the stallions' warm back, all of his muscles tensing as his shoulder throbbed and his world spun. He felt the water swarm around his ankles once more. Frodo cried out as he felt himself falling, falling away into the swirling, angry waters of the Ford of Bruinen.
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A/N: Thanks for reading, and please review! :) I really do need the constructive criticism; frequently I miss the most obvious things and turn them around or confuse them with something else. :)
A/N: Thank all of you who reviewed! :) You guys are great.
MarigoldG, I'm so happy that you like my fic! :) I know all three of them are cousins, but I decided to keep it as Pippin calling Frodo his cousin, and Merry calling Pippin his friend, just to make things less confusing. :) I thought it would be a little hard to understand if I had all three of them calling each other cousin. And also, the part about Merry speaking not- so-nice things about a Banks in front of Pippin…(hehe!) It was meant to be a joke between them, but I guess Pippin's reaction wouldn't have been so casual to it… unless, of course, Merry was right! ;)
Sorry I haven't updated since the 21st :( I promise I'll try to do better in the future. :)
And, as always, what's meant to be spoken in elvish is in *'s. :)
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The weary company continued on their way the following morning, much in the same manner as they had on the previous day. Glorfindel leading, Aragorn bringing up the rear. The persistent fair weather was promising, a beaming sun set pleasantly in the pale blue sky. Although, the hobbits wondered to themselves how it was that the sun could be so cheerful, casting his bright, warm yellow rays upon their shoulders, when they themselves were in such distress. A gentle breeze rippled through their hair as they continued on their way, downwards to the Ford of Bruinen.
Pippin sighed heavily, shifting the weight on his back, and walked onward. Even with Bill now carrying most of the baggage, the growing weariness caused by traveling on such scant food provisions had made even the lightest pack seem heavier than a sack of apples, Pippin thought. He wished so much that the Ford wasn't still so many miles ahead of them; and being so tired made it all the more difficult to think about the distance they had yet to travel. Although he did take comfort in the fact that the land the Road lay on, still consisted of a gentle downward slope.
Sam walked along beside Asfaloth's towering stature. The stallion was rather enjoying the pleasant weather, and he snorted from time to time, feeling quite spirited. The hobbit, dwarfed by the size of the elvish horse, was not frightened- but was careful not to tread to close to where the powerful legs met the earth.
Sam looked up at his master, pity filling his heart. The light of the sun illuminated Frodo's head from behind; it streamed through his sweat-soaked curls and tangles, seeming to frame his head against the backdrop of foliage; giving the hobbits head an almost ethereal glow. Frodo's eyes were staring blankly ahead, dark circles clearly outlined beneath each one, serving as a reminder to Sam of his Master's peril. His slight frame was wracked by chills; brought on by some dark force, but outwardly appeared to be a result of the steady gentle breezes.
"Mister Strider?" Sam inquired hesitantly, knowing that he ought not interrupt their travel.
"What is it, Sam?" The ranger answered kindly.
"My Master, he seems… cold. Colder than usual, or colder than he's been lately, if you will." Sam paused, "Perhaps there is something one of us could do for him? Though I know we haven't got anymore blankets…" He trailed off, kicking at rocks on the Road as he walked.
"Well, Sam, I don't know what you suggest we do." Aragorn began carefully, not wanting to affront the concerned Samwise, "You're right, we have no more blankets or clothes to give to Frodo. And… I don't believe that it would be wise to stop for a break at this point." He sighed, "But, I suppose, we could halt for a brief while. Perhaps it would do everyone good." The Ranger finished. Sam nodded in agreement, and Aragorn jogged up to Glorfindel, telling him of their plans for a rest.
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Sam sat in a patch of sunlight, within thicket where the company was resting, cradling the upper portion of Frodo's limp body in his lap.
"Here Mister Frodo, take some…" Sam encouraged his Master, "It's just a bit of dried apple. It'll go down easy." The younger hobbit tried to convince Frodo.
"Sam… please, no. I- I cannot eat anymore." Frodo mumbled weakly, raising a trembling hand in protest. "I don't feel well, Sam, please… don't. Just let me be." He finished, allowing Sam to gently push his hand back to the ground.
Sam wasn't satisfied; Frodo had barely eaten two small bits of dried fruit, and had taken little of the tea provided by Glorfindel. "Easy now, Mister Frodo, no one's pressin' you to take more than you can stomach." Sam soothed. His mind drifted back to better times, "Why, remember last winter, the Yule feast we had…?" he reminisced, "Boiled taters', with mushroom sauce… an' that wonderful soup that Mrs. Maggot made for you; although you hardly touched it... honestly though, there were a bit too many onions in it for my liking..." Sam thought, "Do you remember it, Mister Frodo? I don't know about you, but just thinking about the Yule feast- or any feast for that matter, makes my stomach gnaw at my backbone!" he ended, laugh quietly to himself.
"Oh, Sam!" Frodo nearly cried, paling a bit as he attempted to shift in Sam's lap, "Please don't mention food…" Frodo finished, wrapping his uninjured arm around his belly, wincing as the pressure from it activated the throbbing in his sides. He tried to push all memories of food out of his mind. "The very thought of it makes me feel unwell." Frodo said aloud.
"Oh! I'm terribly sorry, Mister Frodo," Sam stumbled over his words, "I- I didn't mean to upset your stomach… I was just trying to make conversation, if you get my meaning, remember old times and such." Sam explained quickly, failing to pay attention in his nervousness, as he began to rise to his knees, jolting Frodo's body as he did so.
"Sam…!" Frodo whimpered, reaching out blindly for something to cling to as he sunk to the ground. He groaned in pain as he felt his stomach reel, and then brutally force its contents up and out.
Sam knelt beside his Master; and when the sickness had passed, he spoke words of comfort in a reassuring tone into Frodo's ear, as he lay crumpled on the ground.
"Poor Mister Frodo," Sam murmured under his breath, "it wasn't my fault… it was bound to happen sooner or later, he's been gettin' paler and paler the past few hours." Sam persuaded himself, as he stroked his masters' curls, trying his best to console his sick friend.
"Mister Frodo, don't you worry now. Mister Strider told me this mornin' that we'd be nearing the Ford tonight, most likely." Sam carried on, trying to sound hopeful.
Frodo made no answer; he just lay where he fell, his ragged breathing now coming in shallow gasps. Frodo shuddered once more, then darkness descended upon him, and he could not hear Sam calling his name anxiously.
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When Frodo finally regained awareness, it was almost completely dark. He wasn't sure if it was actual darkness, or if his vision had finally completely failed him. Everything ached, he thought, as he sat motionless upon Asfaloth's back, not wanting to cause himself any excess pain by moving. Although, Frodo didn't know if he possessed the strength to move- even if he had wanted or needed to do so.
The ring-bearer could sense how anxious the rest of the company felt. Glorfindel was close by, peering through the darkness; searching for the presence of some unnamed fear that Frodo thought was sure to be lurking somewhere among the trees... or perhaps a ways ahead on the road.
Frodo shivered involuntarily. He could feel them; feel their sinister presence. Frodo knew what it felt like to be hunted by these fell creatures. This feeling was not the one that had been hounding him since Weathertop; it was something far more powerful and dark. The Wraiths had at last come to take him, he could feel that the last struggle was approaching; and he knew that he had naught with which to fight the battle.
At that moment, Glorfindel cried out, "The servants of darkness are upon us now!", he then called to Asfaloth in the tongue of his people, *Run, Asfaloth! Run! *
Suddenly sharp cries rang out among the trees that surrounded the Road. Frodo winced at the shrill noise, pain shooting through his already sore head. The company scattered, as Glorfindel continued to urge Asfaloth ahead.
The stallion needed no further urging; he bolted down the road at lightning speed. Tears streamed across Frodo's cheeks as he gripped Asfaloth's mane tightly with his hand, the trees around him had become even more of a blur. One continuous string of dark yellow-orange on either side of him. The wind tore violently at his clothes and hair, whipping past in a roar as they flew towards the Ford. But it was not the wind that bothered Frodo. He felt an overwhelming urge to slow the horse down, to allow the Wraiths to gain ground.
Frodo took the leather reigns in his hand, and pulled back hard, slowing the horse to a trot. The delirious hobbit could still hear Glorfindel's cries echoing after him. Asfaloth heard his master's frantic cries and snorted, half rearing, as if begging the hobbit to let him bolt forward. Frodo knew that he couldn't stop. If he stopped, then the Wraiths would catch him. If they caught him, all would be lost.
He could feel the cold and ache growing in his shoulder; it was spreading throughout his body once more; no doubt going in for the final blow. He cried out in anguish as he felt shooting pain overwhelm him.
Frodo dropped the reigns, and hunched down onto Asfaloth's back, grabbing a fistful of mane. The horse instinctively raced forward, galloping the last league to the ford, merely a white streak against the dark earth.
Just then, Frodo could make out two black horses galloping fiercely, a little ways ahead of him, attempting to cut off his escape. Two more riders flew down a bank and into the road, following the hobbit in hot pursuit.
They were making their way up to Asfaloth's side. One reached out a gloved hand towards Frodo; he gasped in surprise and pain as it felt as though someone had squeezed the life out of him. He felt faint, and swayed upon the stallion's back. Frodo hunched over even closer to Asfaloth's neck, and squeezed his eyes shut. He could feel their evil presence, overcoming him. He could hear their taunting voices, teasing him. Frodo again felt the urge to slow Asfaloth's gait, but refrained from doing so as he opened one eye, and was met with gaze of a Wraith. The black hood appeared to be empty; an invisible head filled its void. Frodo knew what they looked like, for he had seen them. Horrible, dark creatures, they were, and hideous to look upon.
Frodo drew as deep a breath as he could manage, and shouted as loudly as he was able, "Stay back! Chase me not; you foul creatures of darkness! Go back to Mordor! Go back to your master! There is nothing here that you will ever possess again-" Frodo was cut short, stifling the cries of anguish that were quickly rising in his raw throat.
Asfaloth sped ever onwards, towards the safety of Rivendell's borders, bearing his precious cargo swiftly away from the peril that hunted them.
The Ford came into view, around the bend of the Road, not too far ahead. The other two Wraiths reappeared, galloping swiftly, trying to head off the hobbit and the stallion. Asfaloth whipped by them, barely averting tragedy, as Frodo clung to his neck for dear life.
The horse advanced fearlessly into the waters of the Ford, leaving the hesitant Wraiths behind, on the shore. Frodo gasped as he felt the cold water engulfing his feet, and then his legs. Asfaloth moved quickly and effortlessly through the water, until he finally reached the other side.
The first of the Wraiths was now midway across the Ford, advancing quickly. The other horses had just entered the water. Frodo could hear them, calling to him, taunting him in the Black Speech. They bade him return to them, they wished to take him to Mordor.
Frodo's vision was failing, darkness descended on his world. He could no longer cope with the pain and weariness that had consumed him over the past several weeks, Frodo gave in to the darkness.
The last image that he remembered through the mist and pain was the roaring of the Ford's waters. It seemed to him, as though great white horses galloped ferociously through the riverbed, spurred on by some unseen rider. He heard the screams of the Nazgul as the waves overcame them, sweeping them and their horses away down the river, to their doom.
Frodo closed his eyes wearily, and gripped Asfaloth's mane; pressing his face into the stallions' warm back, all of his muscles tensing as his shoulder throbbed and his world spun. He felt the water swarm around his ankles once more. Frodo cried out as he felt himself falling, falling away into the swirling, angry waters of the Ford of Bruinen.
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A/N: Thanks for reading, and please review! :) I really do need the constructive criticism; frequently I miss the most obvious things and turn them around or confuse them with something else. :)