A Ghost In the Night

Chapter 19: Friend or foe?

Disclaimer: all characters are property of J.R.R Tolkien and Tolkien enterprises. I make no money from this Fan fiction.

Author's note: This is not a slash story, though I suppose you could read that into it if you had a mind to. I have nothing against slash stories at all, but I did not intend this to be read as a slash, so I'm sorry if you got that impression.

                Wow, so honored by the reviews, especially by Mainframe! Did I ask that many questions? I don't intend to answer all of them, preferring to leave it the reader's imagination. The Spectre…I would be most interested to know how people interpret him. I know what he is and where he resides, but I deliberately left it so people could interpret him as they saw fit…And as for Merry and Frodo….well,  Merry has his work cut out for him next chapter as he tries to protect Frodo…

                Many thanks to Dear Abbie and melodysongsinger who were subjected to this first. Also I must thank every member of the Frodohealers group for giving me so much inspiration.               

I really don't like this chapter…I've tried- goodness knows- I've tried to make it better but it just won't improve! And, if you believe it or not, there are still a few chapters left after this one. It's akin to that bit in ROTK when they've destroyed the ring and you notice there's still one hundred odd pages to go…

Did I mention that I hate this chapter? Hate it! I am SO sorry.

P.S. I'm sorry.

P.S. I'm really sorry.

P.P.S I'm so unbelievably sorry.

sorry

 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If only i could find the strength

to decide what i must do.

I'd endure torture of all length

if only to be with you.

Merry had stopped to take a breather, having exhausted himself with his brief running sprint. He was now stood beside the Three Farthing Stone, hands on his knees as he tried to focus himself. For a moment he wondered if Pippin should have come in his stead, but in his current state Merry didn't think that he had either the physical or mental energy to keep tabs upon the cunning gardener and thus could not have prevented any escape. It was not that he felt ill; he just felt slightly weak and he wondered if it was more than a summer cold that he had caught. He was half considering returning to the smial, or getting some others help in his search, when he heard a terrified scream.

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of water over him. His gaze snapped towards the road where the scream had come. Was it just his imagination?

But no! There it was again! And Merry, though far, could tell that it was his cousin's voice that was bellowing for help.

"Frodo," he whispered, and like the crack of a whip he was gone.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Woody End was a place where not many ventured even if the road could cut down on the traveling time between Hobbiton and some areas of Buckland. Though all of the families that lived in these areas generally got on rather well, under the surface there was still a minute separation, and Hobbiton folk generally preferred to stick with other hobbits in the near geographical area, whilst Bucklanders tended to stick to their piece of land, too. It was, as previously stated, not that they did not get on well; it was that they preferred company that was part of everyday life over that which they rarely saw. Rules that applied in one area were seen very differently in another and were the main cause for any disagreements that may unfold. The scouring of the Shire had done much to obliterate such prejudice, no matter how weak, between the hobbits. Trade had increased in a large amount, and generally the hobbits were much happier with "outsiders" than ever before. "Well," many a hobbit had commented. "At least you ain't one of them men!" And this was usually the favored phrase to invite a traveler into the midst, often a pint of ale sweeping into their unknowing hand shortly after.

However, this kind of welcoming extended to hobbits only. Just as the scouring had mended burnt bridges between the four sections of the Shire, it had eradicated any thought of other creatures, namely men, being allowed onto the hallowed turf. If any hobbit had a mind to look towards Woody End where two unhobbit figures were melting into the shadows cast by the canopy, or open their ears to the now muffled cries of one of their own, they would have realized that something that should not have been in their sanctuary was currently trespassing upon their land, and that a hobbit was in great danger from them. But there were no hobbits that did look towards them, and at least none of them had heard much of the shouting after the first mysterious release. Some of the farmers were awake now, sowing fresh seed into the pre-ploughed field, one farmer finding a mysterious blue dust lying like glittering gems beside a hay bale. None of them thought much of the scream since it had all but silenced now, and they continued on with their business, hiding in an ignorance that was all too well known and maintained. Only Merry, running as fast as he could, had yielded to the cries, but by the time he would reach them, he would be too late.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo had hallucinated in the Tower of Cirith Ungol, but now he was hallucinating again, vivid images and sounds of past nightmares that could never be forgotten. This time he was trapped within the pass again, convinced, though there was no evidence, that he was captive of her Ladyship, and that two figures, unidentifiable through the smog that clouded his brain, were holding him captive.

Everything was dark…

Frodo felt sick, like he had been beaten with momentous bats, swords, and shields, and everything else beside. He lay, curled up on his side, still refusing to open his eyes as he felt the sickening brush of steel-like hair against his arm. The low, bubbling hiss was ceaseless, and Frodo, scared beyond a shadow of a doubt, wondered why She had not jumped in to attack. He was helpless, weak, and alone; what more did She want?

But there was something that did not tally with his recollection of that darkened staircase, and that was the soft mumbling of voices coming a short distance away. He could barely hear them over the threatening and promising hiss coming from Her, but he found their gutter words were that of Orcs, and he had no desire to prompt them into the fray. He still refused to open his eyes, and he tried to keep as still as his fear soaked and trembling body would allow. The Orcs though were not content on leaving him alone, and one of them came forward and had lifted Frodo into a rough embrace. He had screamed and shouted at it, slashing at it with nails that failed to make a mark until, exhausted, he had been passed to another and something interesting had happened; for the moment he was switched to the other Orc, he felt strangely better, and the hiss from Shelob silenced if only a little. He still felt scared and frightened, but at the same time he had a feeling that he was not in as much danger as he had thought.

"They would have destroyed you right now."

The Spectre's words of warning were like daggers in the heart of hope. He was being stupid to think that Orcs would protect him, but he found he no longer had enough energy to claw at those above him. The hiss of Shelob roared to a new level, tearing at his inside as he saw in his mind the gleam of promised torture in those bulging eyes…

"Th…Mer…a….Pip…"

"what is…wro…"

He could feel Her now, prowling, moving into finish him off, and this time there was no Sam to protect him, no ring to allow him to vanish from Her predatory gaze; he was trapped with nothing but a group of Orcs between him and the razor sharp fangs.

"…fr…sure…"

Surely She would savor the satisfaction She would gain from his blood. She wanted it; She had a score to settle with him, after all. She would know…She would remember…and She would celebrate when he was trapped in Her cords, waiting to feel…

"No…" Frodo whimpered, futilely pushing at the hands that held him. He heard the one who held him speak strange unintelligible words that were like raindrops of light in his world of darkness. For a moment everything was a beautiful show of dripping white, more beautiful than anything he had seen…

But then She was back, and Frodo could tell from the stuffy sense in the air that She was going to strike.

"No…" he tossed and turned in the hold he was in. "S-sam…he…p…"

The Orc spoke. It sounded frightened, wary, and unsure when it addressed the other one. Was that concern in its tone?

"Help…stop…keep…keep…away…spi…spider…"

He felt himself being deposited into a rough hold of another being, and once again he swatted futilely at the vice like grip. They were going to take him to the tower again, if She didn't get there first.

"A…thelas…"

"Would…not…poison…the ring…"

The ring?! Were they after the ring? Frodo, hallucinating wildly, immediately groped for the necklace around his chest. But before he could confirm the rings possession upon him, something snapped across his wrist, preventing him from touching the golden circle. He screamed loudly, but them a hand clamped over his mouth, and the Orc mentioned something about ropes.

There was a brief silence between the two; Shelob's wild and frenzied hissing creeping closer and closer and closer…

Then the other Orc said something that Frodo did not understand, but from its tone he knew they were going to take the ring from him, and he erupted into a wild frenzy of fists that his captor did not expect. Next thing he knew he was dropped, hit the ground running,  but how could he with his eyes closed?

He had no choice; he had to open his eyes. Sparing only a moment to gather his courage, he allowed himself to see what he would, hoping against hope that it would not be what he feared.

But as he opened his eyes, seeing the Shire, dead and desolate, his heart missed a beat, and before he knew it the whole world dissolved, stripping away to form the pass…

And there…

He saw Her, waiting, one eye dull and grey, but the others focused upon him. She did not move, but she had no need to: her mere presence had frozen him to the ground.

A hand landed on his shoulder, and he turned, preparing to pull Sting from its sheath; but Sting was not there. And as he turned he looked into the face of a short Orc. Frodo prepared to scream, but suddenly the Orc's face started shifting and melting, writhing as it changed… into Gandalf's face! Frodo stood, stupefied, and his captor looked to the side, face transforming into the Orc again, then Merry's, and the background turned from the pass, to the Shire, to Lothlorien…

"Hold him!"

Suddenly it was upon him, and Frodo jumped out of his paralyzed state .

"… Athelas!"

He spared no thought for the words they spoke, or the strange tone, or the way their faces kept metamorphosing into others; he was concentrating only upon his escape that was gradually slipping further and further away.

But he kept on struggling, and before he fell prisoner, before his exhaustion took him, he called Sam's name.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Oh, Sam, will you stop pacing!" Pippin cried, finally getting annoyed, pulling the small pipe from his mouth in order to speak more clearly. He may not have bothered, for Sam paid him no heed and continued walking round and round in circles as he had been doing for the past ten minutes.

"I can't just sit here! I need to be doing something."

"If you really need something than why don't you return Sting to its home? I'm sure we'd all be a lot safer if you did, what with you brandishing it at anything that moves."

Sam spared him a fleeting glimpse, and he mumbled an apology. Pippin pointed towards the door. "Go! Sting needs rest!"

If only to occupy his mind, Sam obeyed and he left the main room where Pippin was fumbling with another leaf of Old Toby.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

They were trying to get him to drink something; probably that foul Orc drink they had forced upon him when in the Tower. He refused to take it, and he deliberately moved his head so the liquid spilled onto his clothes rather than into his mouth.

"I'll…ho…l…hi…"

A touch, so light that he wasn't even sure it was there, was now coaxing him to drink the strange yet sweet smelling liquid. Frodo, arms imprisoned by the other Orc, could do little more than he was doing to stop the drink from falling into his mouth, and it was with a faint hint of defeat that the sweet smelling herb fell into his mouth, and more rubbed onto the area around his neck. He cried in pain when it began seeping into the never-healed wound, burning as it entered his blood stream, and the visions started spinning in his mind.

"S…spid…stop…"

But everything was falling, and he wondered, partially, why The Spectre had lied to him. It had said that he would be healed after he had faced his dreams, so why was he still suffering now?

"It is nothing I can prevent," he heard it say, though he knew it impossible to hear something no longer there. "It is the poison. Accept the decision, my lad; don't just know it."

"S-sam…"he mumbled, and he knew what he had to do, and he centered all of his thoughts upon it. It was not enough to know what he had to do; he had to actually do it. In his mind, hand breaking free to grasp Arwen's gem, he thought: "I will leave for the havens."

The image of Shelob suddenly shattered into a thousand pieces, her defying screams short but poignant as She fell away. He was wrapped in a brief spin of dizziness, then everything fell still. No longer could he hear the tortured cries of his own voice, or the threatening hiss of Shelob; only bird song could he hear now, and the soft yet gentle voices of the hobbits that passed close to the road.

For a moment he lay still, savoring the sweet release from his prison, finally accepting the road he had been shown. Then he was moved, and he remembered that he was not alone, that swords would be drawn…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Merry had never truly learned how to wield a sword, having never had the chance in Rohan to practise when under cover, and too ill in Gondor to do much else then lie in bed and worry over Pippin, Sam, and Frodo's well being. Though he had wielded a weapon during the scouring, he had never really come across an opponent who could work the weapon with competency, making the blade move to every whim and will. But now, sword banging in its sheath against his leg as he ran, the Shire around him strangely darker than it had been during the night, he knew that no experience or competency with the blade would be required; he was fuelled with desperation and anger, and if that could not govern his usual sluggish fighting skills, transforming them into a viscous strokes of deadly accuracy, nothing would.

He was sweating profusely now, and the feeling of sickness and cold crept over him from his feet to his head, making him stumble and sway as he ran towards the now silenced voice. He knew now what was wrong with him: How could he not when he had witnessed Frodo suffer so during those 14 days travelling from Weathertop? He had not expected to suffer as Frodo did, having not been pierced by any morgul blade, but it seemed the mere presence of the Wraith king, the sheer proximity and curse as it withered and died, was enough to send him into bitter illness.

But yet he stumbled on, path flickering into shadow and out again as he walked, hand clasped onto the one thing which didn't seem to transfigure itself into something that it was not, determined to reach the end of that road and assist the friend that had already been lost.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was nothing complicated about opening the chest, yet still Sam found that his shaking fingers could not seem to work the lock he had badly replaced but the night before. He was leaning over the top of it, fumbling uncharacteristically with the latch as he tried to replace the blade to his home. It was when he hit the chest, finally annoyed that he couldn't open it, tears beginning to build, that the arrow wriggled free from his pocket and landed with a dull slap onto the floor.

Sam had started, for in his worry he had forgotten that it was even there. He looked towards the main room, relieved to see that there were still random smoke circles drifting lazily through the air, and picked it up in his hands, turning it over as if it would reveal everything to him. He inspected it, and the design reminded him of something he had seen before, but Sam shook his head.

"No point worrying over an arrow, Sam Gamgee, when your master may be faced with plenty."

He sighed wearily, wishing vehemently that he knew where his master was now.

"You're taking a long time with that sword, Sam," Pippin yelled from the other room. "I may have to check on you shortly!"

It was probably an idle jest, but Sam returned to the chest anyway, and this time it opened as soon as he touched it. Sam couldn't help but think it odd that it had opened so freely when before it would not yield at all. He pushed the thought aside, digging into the chest so that he could replace it at the very bottom from whence it came. Then, as if suddenly blinkers had been lifted from him, he saw something in the chest that made him stop…

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Frodo opened his eyes, and the world before him was the Shire as he remembered it to be, beautiful and radiant as it was before the War of the ring. Birds were singing lightly, soft caressing sun rays were massaging the gentle earth, the sky above held only a few odd clouds that traveled lazily from one place to another. He sighed, relieved, and he bent down to the ground so that his fevered forehead was in contact with the smooth earth, and, as he raised his head, he noticed two shadows, long and large, that fell across the sunlit earth. Frodo's eyes widened in fear, his heart hammered against his chest, and he turned quickly, but just as he caught sight of the two, something collided viciously with him, and he fell, the full weight of the one who had collided with him pushing down on him. The weight was suddenly removed, and Frodo found himself trapped in a fierce and desperate embrace instead, an embrace powered, as Frodo noticed, by emotion rather than strength.

"Merry!" He cried, eyes wide, but Merry did not listen to him, and he suddenly increased his hold on Frodo with one arm, the other sought out something hanging on his belt. In the sunlight Frodo could see, though he could see very little except one half of Merry's face, how pale and clammy he looked, and how his eyes continuously half-rolled back, as if wanting to fall into dreams. His cousin was breathing shallowly, gasping for breath that didn't seem to want to come.

 "You shan't have him!" Merry cried, and Frodo, trapped against Merry as he was, could not turn to see who it was he spoke to. He heard an unnatural silence, then a brief step forward, and suddenly Merry had drawn his sword in his shaking hand, and his face was set with complete resolution.

"You shall not have him! I will see to it, I will…"

Merry toppled to his knees, and in doing so Frodo was dragged down with him. Frodo heard the hunters move towards them, and suddenly Merry was waving the sword in their direction.

"You can't take him…"Merry whispered, on the verge of unconsciousness. "I will fight you if I must to protect him. You know not…not what you do. You came here to seek aid from my friend, but at what cost! Look at him!" Frodo felt himself being shaken by his cousin. "Look how ill he is! I will fight you, even if I fall upon your blade and arrow, I will fight you!"

There was that silence again.

They took another step forward.

"I told you!" Merry cried, and he made a feeble attempt to stand, but he fell again, and Frodo, unsupported, fell onto his side, Merry barely in his line of sight. "I will…will fight you. By Elbereth  I will guard him from you and all who come with your purpose! You hear me!"

And suddenly Merry was on his feet again, standing on legs that threatened to buckle, sword held in a hand that could not support the weight. For a moment Frodo was struck at how and why Merry had earned such fierce respect amongst the other hobbits, for he looked just like a mighty warrior as he stood there, the sun broken by his shivering figure, wind seeping his hair as he stood, blade ready, for the oncoming attack.

Frodo was still weak, weaker than perhaps even Merry but still somewhere, somehow, he found the strength to turn around, to offer support to his cousin, to fight with him as the Specter predicted. With a wrench of effort, Frodo was also on his feet, but as he saw the identity of the hunters, saw the ones he had fled from the entire night, he collapsed again onto his side and realized that he could not win this battle. He eyed Merry, still trembling with his blade, eyes unfocused, and he voiced something he just had to ask.

"Merry…I-what…why?"

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

"Sam?" Pippin said uncertainly, and Sam dimly heard him scrape the chair back as he headed in his direction. "Sam…what are you…"

Pippin stopped in the doorway. To him Sam looked like he was made of stone for he moved and breathed as much as one; but Sam was not a stone, and had only become as still as one who has figured out the puzzle to which they couldn't previously solve.

"Sam?"

Sam turned, his expression, shocked, and his voice a little distant. His hand still wielded the arrow he had found upon the road, and Pippin, looking down, noticed it with a shock.

"Where did you get that?!"

Sam stood up. Pippin could not tell for the gardener seemed torn between relief and anger at his discovery.

"You…the hunters…they…" he brandished the arrow in Pippin's direction who backed away, uncertainly.

"Let me explain," he said, hand raised.

But Sam could not see what there was to explain, and with a shocked expression he shook his head.

"Bless me," he said in a whisper. "I thought I'd never see the day when Sam Gamgee ran from an Elf. Look, Mr Pippin," he said, running forward, finally choosing his reaction. "Look! This arrow! It's the same as the one in the chest! Why didn't I see it before! And there was me thinking it was Orcs…" He stopped, amused almost, leaving Pippin to watch his one sided conversation.

"Well," Sam started again, grinning, and he headed towards the door. Pippin jumped in front of him, barring him from leaving.

"Sam!"

"not now, Mr Pippin," he said. "I have an apology to make, and a master to find, too. My, my! You'll have to explain this one to me, Mr Pippin, you and Mr Merry…I don't rightly understand why you hid them from us…they're our friends, so I believe…"

"An apology?" Pippin asked, jumping in front of Sam again, not answering the question. "To who?"

Sam ducked around him gracefully. Pippin caught himself before he fell and was just in time to see Sam reach the door, turn, and smile. "Why, to Mr Legolas, of course!" He said happily. "He won't like me calling him an Orc, at all! Nor will Master Dwarf, now I come to think of it! He wouldn't be pleased with me when I scratched his hand!"

And with a cheery wave he vanished through the door, leaving Pippin, stumped, to wonder if he had gone a little mad at the discovery of the identity of the hunters they were trying to hide.

TBC

By the way, I'm sorry : )