Author's note: Mae govannen, mellyn, this is Tricia again! And how are you
all doing? Eh.. I have revised this chapter, yadda yadda yadda. if you want
to get updates on when I post actual updates, then read my livejournal
(www.livejournal.com/~oooootricia00
).
Disclaimer: I /wish/ I could say I own Lord of the Rings, but. that would be a lie. I am not that lucky. Never have been, never will be.
The next morning dawned with the cessation of the hammering cloudburst. The sky still was overcast with thick gray clouds, but they were breaking apart to reveal strips of blue. The wind was also shifting, growing less turbulent and blowing the clouds away from them. Instead of taking an early start, Strider went off by himself telling his companions to linger concealed under the shelter of the cliff, until he returned. He was planning on attempting to ascend the cliff and survey the land. Frodo felt better than the night before, less chilly on the outside; the termination of the rainfall had done that much good. The others were also thankful, as the rain, or ending of the storm, was one less nuisance to contend with. Merry and Pippin took to reminiscing pranks they had pulled on others during their childhood in the Shire.
"Hey, Frodo, remember that time you, Pip, and I managed to sneak into the back of the Green Dragon and filch a whole barrel of ale, and replace it with water from the Brandywine and return it to the pub? How shocked the owner was to open the barrel and discover regular muddy water! He never did catch us, either. What great fun that was!"
Frodo couldn't help but laugh, although that action caused a brief slash of pain to rout through his left side. He attempted to mask his anguish, not wishing to alarm his friends when their spirits seemed to have risen slightly. "Hey, Libby, April," he choked out wearily. "Did either one of you, or both of you, ever pull any good jokes?"
April noticed the strained tone in the sickly hobbit's voice, but decided against speaking of it unless Frodo' condition seemed to worsen. All the same, she fervently prayed that Frodo would not be taken by another fit while Strider was away. Straining her mind to remember something, anything, she slowly said, "Libby. weren't you considered a holy terror by one of your teachers? What was it? Fourth grade or fifth? It was when our friendship was new."
A slow smile crept across the face of Libby Artlong and she let out what sounded like a cackle. Merry and Pippin turned towards the younger, yet much taller, girl, impish grins crossing their faces. Libby shook her head, trying to remember exactly what stunts she'd pulled to disrupt class while Merry and Pippin coaxed her to tell her stories. What was April speaking of? Suddenly, she remembered a date. April first, 1997, April Fool's Day, and also April's tenth birthday. She remembered that April had been named for the month she had been born in, April. It was terribly confusing to some people.
"There was the cat prank." Libby recollected, chuckling at the memory of how she, Chelsey Stanley, her friend Tyanne Jailey, along with others she'd drifted apart, had cooked up a plot to pull a blitzkrieg of practical jokes commencing from the moment their elderly teacher first left the room to talk to the educator next door. Mr. B. had possessed a habit of constantly leaving the classroom to socialize with the neighboring teachers. Sure enough, Mr. Eviles next door pulled Mr. B. out into the hallway, and then the entertainment had begun. Memory after memory of that day was bombarding Libby as rapidly as a barrage from a machine gun. "Well, on this special day people in the nation April and I live have a date designated specifically for playing hoaxes on each other, specifically for younger kids, as older inhabitants typically don't bother with cranks. Well, I was eleven then, and my friends and I had plans all mapped out for that day.
"You have a holiday for jokes?" Pippin asked, a tone of envy in his voice. Shire inhabitants not only did not have a holiday for tricks, but Pippin, Merry, and a younger Frodo had often gotten into trouble for their high jinks. He missed those days, so free of strife and worry. Back then, Pippin would never have dreamed that he would be wandering in the wilderness, hastening to get an extremely ill cousin Frodo to safety in Rivendell, a land he only knew about from songs and stories from the mouth of Bilbo Baggins, notorious for his escapades.
"We certainly do, and it used to be my favorite holiday, when I was a raucous, obnoxious little child," Libby replied, smiling fondly at the memories of the gangling, loquacious eleven-year-old version of herself. That gregarious girl within Libby was often concealed now in classes, save those in which she had a good friend to converse with. Libby recalled that one class was a fine example of when the "old" Libby was emphasized, because she often chatted with Josie Callahan in the corridor until she was scolded by her teacher, and then further drove him to the brink of insanity via gabbling with her buddy Olivia Gybczynski either through whispers or what she sardonically referred to as her "math notes."
"Tell us what you did," Merry wheedled, his eyes sparkling. Merry, too, was a prankster at heart, and he dotingly remembered the days in which Pippin, Frodo, and he had been quite the triple act, terrorizing the Shire with their shenanigans, landing themselves in scrape after scrape. Like Frodo and Pippin, he yearned for the days of their innocent tomfoolery that the typical inhabitant of the Shire frowned upon.
"Well, it was really funny, though now I can think of a better prank than that," Libby mused, idly raking a hand through her tangled blonde hair. Now that it had dried from the rain, it was curling and frizzing in many different directions, chewing her lower lip slightly as she endeavored to evoke the memories of her childhood, frivolous in spite of personal trials. "I had this little battery-operated device."
"I beg your pardon, but what's a battery?" Frodo asked curiously, fatigue in his tone of voice. He was gray-faced from the relentless torture from the combination of the dark powers and the poison of the Morgul- knife, but his eyes had a renewed sparkle of inquisitiveness. As he tried to figure out exactly what a "battery-operated device" was.
"I could show you one, if you'd like, I always have spares in my bookbag," April put in. She had intended to throw the spare batteries into the fire the day Strider had searched their belongings and advised them to chuck unneeded items, but she had also remembered that batteries doubled as explosives when thrown onto a fire.
"Maybe a little later," Frodo said, sounding weaker from using some of his dwindling energy to speak. His discomfort was mounting markedly, but his did not wish to put a gloomy cloud over the cheery moment of cautious socializing. "Please continue, Libby, I want to know what you did to your teacher.
"Well, the battery-operated device I had meows like a cat whenever it is moved, it has some sort of motion-sensor or whatever built in. Anyway, when my teacher left the room, one of my friends hid his p.. some communication paraphernalia." Libby had almost mentioned phones, and that would certainly would have incited more bewildered inquiries from the hobbits. This appeared to be a primitive sort of culture, lacking even the earliest of mechanical or electrical contraptions. "And then I tied the meower thingy to a lower beam concealed underneath his chair so he couldn't simply look down and see it."
"Was he fooled?" Sam asked, who had up to this instant remained silent, keeping to himself save the fleeting, anxious glances he frequently sent in Frodo's direction. Despite his apprehension, he was slightly curious about how Libby's tale would turn.
"Yeah." Libby said, a gradual beam slowly arching her lips upward. "He was. He pulled his chair out, and the thing meowed. He moved it again, and again he meowed. He was like, 'What the?! Is there a cat in here?! My whole class was cracking up."
"Then what did he say? Or what did you say, should I ask?" Merry asked, chuckling after hearing what Libby's old teacher had exclaimed upon hearing the sudden noise of what seemed to be a cat.
"I was like, I think it's under your chair! And he looked, saw the noisemaker tied to the beam with yarn, and poked it, making it meow again. I was like, April Fools! We were all laughing our rear ends off." Libby said, vividly seeing the class beside themselves with mirth, chaos reigning. before the reminiscence seemed to fade away. For a fleeting instant, she saw a skinny blonde girl of about eleven cutting the bonds attaching the noisemaker to the old teacher's chair, Chelsey Stanley, who was back then very short for her age and rather on the chubby side unsuccessfully trying to stifle guffaws, the even then extremely tall Tyanne howling with laughter and clapping her lanky friend on the back, Debra Van-Cavan giggling to herself, and Donnah Bartok burying her head so far under the protective cover of her arms that only her black curly ponytail was visible. Other tables were applauding and making wisecracks, and Mr. B. was giving Libby the thumbs-up sign.
"So he thought it was a real cat. that's amusing," Pippin said, chortling. Libby no longer knew what Pippin was talking about, but she presumed that she had just told a humorous tale.
Even Frodo was chuckling, but it was beginning to cause him to feel great pain. The entities controlling his body and his sensations, realizing that the young hobbit was leaning in the direction of a good mood, caused tirades of chilly agony that suddenly sent the small hobbit doubling over here he sat on the ground, heaving, eyes smarting, in yet another brutal stab at compelling the hobbit to submission. Tidal waves of nausea wracked the ring-bearer's maimed body, giving him a sensation as if he had literally split his sides from laughter. Swaying where he sat, Frodo fell back to the ground with a moan of pain, tears forming in his blue eyes. He blinked rapidly as he felt the warning within his eyes to hold the water where it belonged- in his tear ducts.
The mood of the group plummeted like a stone as Sam, Merry, Pippin, Libby, and April all gathered around the ailing Halfling. Sam sat by his master's side slowly laying Frodo's head in his lap.
"Master, oh, my dear master, should one of us attempt to fetch Strider?" Sam said hysterically, his voice sounding tearful. Frodo was trembling like a leaf from the cold that seemed to be spreading throughout the whole of his diminutive body. Merry was gingerly stroking Frodo's injured arm, laboring to bring some warmth back into his cousin's system. Lying prone on the ground, the faces of those leaning over him looked blurry, and darkness was gathering at the edges of his vision.
"There will be no need, Master Samwise," a voice said from behind them. Strider had returned, and he bent over the tiny form of Frodo, his face haggard as he listened to Frodo's angst-ridden breath. He laid a large hand on Frodo's stricken figure, and winced at the chilly numbness of his battered body. Taking the hobbit in his arms, Strider carried Frodo over to the fire as the others followed behind. While cleansing Frodo's wounded shoulder with the anodyne liquid of water and athelas leaves, Strider broke the ill news to everyone: that they had come too far to the north and needed to locate a reasonably safe path back towards the south and the Ford of Bruinen. Upon hearing these ill tidings, the others exchanged apprehensive glances. That was nothing to how Strider felt; this error in his sense of direction could cost them all, Frodo in particular, perhaps even the whole of Middle-earth, dearly.
After Frodo's pain alleviated somewhat, the group began to advance in a southern direction, scrambling over the unpleasant rocky terrain. Frodo's shoulder was jarred again and again as Bill repeatedly stepped on pebbles. Although the rocks unfortunately caused Frodo twinges of pain, it was impossible for the pony to avoid the cobbles, let alone the extremely numerous smaller pebbles. Later on in the day, the group came upon a ridge barring their passage, and were faced with the choice of turning back or attempting the climb.
After making the decision to try to clamber over the mountain, they found it very grueling. Within half an hour, Frodo was obliged to dismount and struggle along the route on foot, though the others felt culpable about the unduly pain this would wreak upon the poor Ring-bearer. At the best of times, Frodo, like most hobbits, wasn't much of a climber, but in his enfeebled condition it proved almost impossible, and his knees felt as if they would give out as he climbed the steep incline. The others were also being tripped up by the rocks and sharp slopes, and Sam was nearly sent toppling back down the sharp slant when he accidentally wedged his foot underneath a rather large cobblestone. When, to the relief of all, they reached the summit, the night was nearly gone. The exhausted Frodo was suddenly walloped by another bout of extreme pain, and he threw himself down and lay on the ground shuddering, feeling as if icy claws were digging into his debilitated body. Shadows were obscuring his vision, making it virtually impossible for the impaired ring-bearer to see the trees, rocks, and his friends about him. He felt as if a menacing voice from an unseen creature was hissing at him from the shadows, beckoning him to the surrounding darkness. When the hobbit struggled to defy the fell voice, immense pain took the hobbit in its icy claws, endeavoring to torture the already frail perian into acquiescence with their will. It would not be long before the dwindling willpower of Frodo Baggins would wholly collapse, resulting in a tenth Ringwraith. The color was draining from Frodo's face as he lay there trembling unabatedly on the rocky soil, leaving him nigh on rivaling a ghost in pallor, tears of pain cascading down his cheeks and feeling as if they were having an acidic effect on his skin. Aside from the pain that the unknown sliver of Morgul-blade was causing as it cut its way deeper into the Ring-bearer in a course to his heart, its poison was making the Ring-bearer acutely sensitive to other sources of discomfort.
Fretfully taking note of his elder cousin's speedily depreciating condition, Merry spoke to Aragorn, who also appeared to be dreadfully scared for the hobbit's life. Frodo had been one of his best friends for almost as far back as Merry could recall, and now there was grave peril against the older hobbit's existence. If Frodo gave up hope, he would be worse than dead. Frodo would be lifeless like the wraiths, yet undead. He would be a wrecked spirit, a fallen angel. "We cannot go any further, I fear this has been too much Frodo. I am dreadfully worried about him, Strider. What are we going to do? Will they be able to cure him if we ever make it to Rivendell?" Merry's brown eyes were fixed on the tall, lean Ranger as he expectantly awaited an answer.
Aragorn sighed, wishing that he could tell the young hobbit what he desired to hear. However, he simply could not lie to the small, innocent creature, giving him false hope concerning Frodo's endurance. He wanted to say that Frodo would live and recover wonderfully, yet death was extremely probable if not certain. As he gloomily eyed the form of Frodo, he could not help but feel as if Frodo's life span was reaching its termination, remaining only by a minute, fraying thread. Struggling to fight back sudden tears threatening to start in his gray eyes, Aragorn dismally answered, "We shall see, only time will tell. There is nothing more I can do for him in the wilderness, and the mannerism of his wound is beyond my healing skills. Frodo needs Elvish medicine, if even that will assist him, and his injury is the chief cause of my being so anxious to press on. But I agree that we can go further tonight, as you all look weary, and it would do us no good if anybody else fell ill, from lack of sleep." It was obvious that something affected Aragorn badly if he was on the verge of crying, for he was not one to willingly shed tears.
That night was cold up on the highly elevated ridge on which they were taking their slumber. The group sat huddled together round the small fire that Aragorn had ignited, shivering from the chilly wind. Aragorn said that he would stay awake for the entirety of the night in case Frodo needed him, which was a very elevated probability, and that Sam, Pippin, and April would each have a shift of sentry-duty. Frodo was lying there in a stupor, groaning out loud every now and then in his sleep.
When Aragorn and Sam were on watch together, Frodo's whimpers grew higher in their volume and punctuated by gasps for breath, as if the wound were interfering with his ability to breathe. Aragorn quickly crushed some more athelas and bathed the delirious ring-bearer's shoulder, leaving Sam to man the post temporarily, and then rocked the shivering bundle of hobbit. When Strider returned to Sam's side, Sam seemed to jerk out of a semi-dream.
"I'm sorry. Mr. Strider," Sam said apologetically, punctuating the "sorry" with a stifled yawn. "I almost nodded off there."
Aragorn laid a hand on Sam's arm. "I forgive you, I can understand that you are weary. Today has been a callous day indeed. Just remember to stay on the alert, and don't let your drowsiness get your guard down." He lit his pipe and took a couple of slow breaths of the pipe-weed, his gray eyes looking over Merry, Pippin, Libby, and April. They at least were sleeping soundly, showing no unusual habits: Libby's tossing and turning was a nightly occurrence and therefore was probably normal for her. Merry and Pippin were snoring lightly, while April lay perfectly still.
"Mr. Strider, what is the matter with my master?" Sam asked in a low voice after a couple of minutes of silence. His dark eyes were fixed in an appealing sort of manner on Aragorn's worn face. "His wound was small and it is already closed. There is no scar to be seen but a cold white mark on his shoulder."
"Sam, you know what is occurring, what is certain to come to pass if we are too late. The shadows and poison have been torturing Frodo, beating him into compliance. His will is fading, and the Enemy knows that if he is kept in enough pain, he will no longer want to live. The shadows and the poison of the Morgul-knife are combining to strive for one sole objective: to finally overwhelm Frodo. He is one small, mortal creature and a fading will against Sauron , the undead Nine, and the general forces of evil."
Sam's face was haggard as he absorbed Aragorn's words, horrified at the prospect of his master and dear friend becoming worse than deceased. He was filled with total compassion for Frodo, wishing that it was he instead of his kind master bearing this tribulation. "Is there no hope then?" Sam asked, his voice cracking with tears.
"Frodo has been pierced by the weapons of the Enemy," said Aragorn, "and the poison and evil at work surpass my skill to drive out. But do not abandon hope, Samwise, for there is still the possibility that Frodo may survive." Aragorn fervently hoped that he was right even as he spoke, no longer certain about anything. He felt as if he had failed the hobbits; he had promised to protect them on their journey to Rivendell, had sworn to protect them from danger, saying that they would never make it on their own, and now felt colossal guilt, knowing that one could possibly succumb to the will of Sauron and pass away due to his negligence. He knew he had helped the hobbits to cope with the calamity, had known how to fight off the five Nazgul and gotten them much further than they would ever have advanced on their own, but would it suffice to the extent of bringing Frodo to Rivendell, Elrond, and his sole chance for life? Sighing to himself, Aragorn went to pour a glass of water for Frodo. The poor hobbit was rapidly losing all vestiges of an appetite, and the mere task of drinking water to keep himself hydrated seemed to deplete his low reservoir of energy. At one time, Frodo, half-delirious, had said something about the water tasting like sandpaper, and being hard to swallow.
Author's Note: There's still something you have to do... review! Do you like this story? Review. Hate it? Review. Want to burn me to a crisp with your flames? Review! Want to appoint me supreme ruler of the universe? Review. Want me to go to hell? You know what to do... review! Is this story good? Bad? Ugly? Do I deserve an international prize for writing, or do I suck so badly that I should quit while I'm ahead.. er, behind? Tell me! A review would be the perfect way, though an e-mail could help too: send mail to all4truth@excite.com . ^.^
Disclaimer: I /wish/ I could say I own Lord of the Rings, but. that would be a lie. I am not that lucky. Never have been, never will be.
The next morning dawned with the cessation of the hammering cloudburst. The sky still was overcast with thick gray clouds, but they were breaking apart to reveal strips of blue. The wind was also shifting, growing less turbulent and blowing the clouds away from them. Instead of taking an early start, Strider went off by himself telling his companions to linger concealed under the shelter of the cliff, until he returned. He was planning on attempting to ascend the cliff and survey the land. Frodo felt better than the night before, less chilly on the outside; the termination of the rainfall had done that much good. The others were also thankful, as the rain, or ending of the storm, was one less nuisance to contend with. Merry and Pippin took to reminiscing pranks they had pulled on others during their childhood in the Shire.
"Hey, Frodo, remember that time you, Pip, and I managed to sneak into the back of the Green Dragon and filch a whole barrel of ale, and replace it with water from the Brandywine and return it to the pub? How shocked the owner was to open the barrel and discover regular muddy water! He never did catch us, either. What great fun that was!"
Frodo couldn't help but laugh, although that action caused a brief slash of pain to rout through his left side. He attempted to mask his anguish, not wishing to alarm his friends when their spirits seemed to have risen slightly. "Hey, Libby, April," he choked out wearily. "Did either one of you, or both of you, ever pull any good jokes?"
April noticed the strained tone in the sickly hobbit's voice, but decided against speaking of it unless Frodo' condition seemed to worsen. All the same, she fervently prayed that Frodo would not be taken by another fit while Strider was away. Straining her mind to remember something, anything, she slowly said, "Libby. weren't you considered a holy terror by one of your teachers? What was it? Fourth grade or fifth? It was when our friendship was new."
A slow smile crept across the face of Libby Artlong and she let out what sounded like a cackle. Merry and Pippin turned towards the younger, yet much taller, girl, impish grins crossing their faces. Libby shook her head, trying to remember exactly what stunts she'd pulled to disrupt class while Merry and Pippin coaxed her to tell her stories. What was April speaking of? Suddenly, she remembered a date. April first, 1997, April Fool's Day, and also April's tenth birthday. She remembered that April had been named for the month she had been born in, April. It was terribly confusing to some people.
"There was the cat prank." Libby recollected, chuckling at the memory of how she, Chelsey Stanley, her friend Tyanne Jailey, along with others she'd drifted apart, had cooked up a plot to pull a blitzkrieg of practical jokes commencing from the moment their elderly teacher first left the room to talk to the educator next door. Mr. B. had possessed a habit of constantly leaving the classroom to socialize with the neighboring teachers. Sure enough, Mr. Eviles next door pulled Mr. B. out into the hallway, and then the entertainment had begun. Memory after memory of that day was bombarding Libby as rapidly as a barrage from a machine gun. "Well, on this special day people in the nation April and I live have a date designated specifically for playing hoaxes on each other, specifically for younger kids, as older inhabitants typically don't bother with cranks. Well, I was eleven then, and my friends and I had plans all mapped out for that day.
"You have a holiday for jokes?" Pippin asked, a tone of envy in his voice. Shire inhabitants not only did not have a holiday for tricks, but Pippin, Merry, and a younger Frodo had often gotten into trouble for their high jinks. He missed those days, so free of strife and worry. Back then, Pippin would never have dreamed that he would be wandering in the wilderness, hastening to get an extremely ill cousin Frodo to safety in Rivendell, a land he only knew about from songs and stories from the mouth of Bilbo Baggins, notorious for his escapades.
"We certainly do, and it used to be my favorite holiday, when I was a raucous, obnoxious little child," Libby replied, smiling fondly at the memories of the gangling, loquacious eleven-year-old version of herself. That gregarious girl within Libby was often concealed now in classes, save those in which she had a good friend to converse with. Libby recalled that one class was a fine example of when the "old" Libby was emphasized, because she often chatted with Josie Callahan in the corridor until she was scolded by her teacher, and then further drove him to the brink of insanity via gabbling with her buddy Olivia Gybczynski either through whispers or what she sardonically referred to as her "math notes."
"Tell us what you did," Merry wheedled, his eyes sparkling. Merry, too, was a prankster at heart, and he dotingly remembered the days in which Pippin, Frodo, and he had been quite the triple act, terrorizing the Shire with their shenanigans, landing themselves in scrape after scrape. Like Frodo and Pippin, he yearned for the days of their innocent tomfoolery that the typical inhabitant of the Shire frowned upon.
"Well, it was really funny, though now I can think of a better prank than that," Libby mused, idly raking a hand through her tangled blonde hair. Now that it had dried from the rain, it was curling and frizzing in many different directions, chewing her lower lip slightly as she endeavored to evoke the memories of her childhood, frivolous in spite of personal trials. "I had this little battery-operated device."
"I beg your pardon, but what's a battery?" Frodo asked curiously, fatigue in his tone of voice. He was gray-faced from the relentless torture from the combination of the dark powers and the poison of the Morgul- knife, but his eyes had a renewed sparkle of inquisitiveness. As he tried to figure out exactly what a "battery-operated device" was.
"I could show you one, if you'd like, I always have spares in my bookbag," April put in. She had intended to throw the spare batteries into the fire the day Strider had searched their belongings and advised them to chuck unneeded items, but she had also remembered that batteries doubled as explosives when thrown onto a fire.
"Maybe a little later," Frodo said, sounding weaker from using some of his dwindling energy to speak. His discomfort was mounting markedly, but his did not wish to put a gloomy cloud over the cheery moment of cautious socializing. "Please continue, Libby, I want to know what you did to your teacher.
"Well, the battery-operated device I had meows like a cat whenever it is moved, it has some sort of motion-sensor or whatever built in. Anyway, when my teacher left the room, one of my friends hid his p.. some communication paraphernalia." Libby had almost mentioned phones, and that would certainly would have incited more bewildered inquiries from the hobbits. This appeared to be a primitive sort of culture, lacking even the earliest of mechanical or electrical contraptions. "And then I tied the meower thingy to a lower beam concealed underneath his chair so he couldn't simply look down and see it."
"Was he fooled?" Sam asked, who had up to this instant remained silent, keeping to himself save the fleeting, anxious glances he frequently sent in Frodo's direction. Despite his apprehension, he was slightly curious about how Libby's tale would turn.
"Yeah." Libby said, a gradual beam slowly arching her lips upward. "He was. He pulled his chair out, and the thing meowed. He moved it again, and again he meowed. He was like, 'What the?! Is there a cat in here?! My whole class was cracking up."
"Then what did he say? Or what did you say, should I ask?" Merry asked, chuckling after hearing what Libby's old teacher had exclaimed upon hearing the sudden noise of what seemed to be a cat.
"I was like, I think it's under your chair! And he looked, saw the noisemaker tied to the beam with yarn, and poked it, making it meow again. I was like, April Fools! We were all laughing our rear ends off." Libby said, vividly seeing the class beside themselves with mirth, chaos reigning. before the reminiscence seemed to fade away. For a fleeting instant, she saw a skinny blonde girl of about eleven cutting the bonds attaching the noisemaker to the old teacher's chair, Chelsey Stanley, who was back then very short for her age and rather on the chubby side unsuccessfully trying to stifle guffaws, the even then extremely tall Tyanne howling with laughter and clapping her lanky friend on the back, Debra Van-Cavan giggling to herself, and Donnah Bartok burying her head so far under the protective cover of her arms that only her black curly ponytail was visible. Other tables were applauding and making wisecracks, and Mr. B. was giving Libby the thumbs-up sign.
"So he thought it was a real cat. that's amusing," Pippin said, chortling. Libby no longer knew what Pippin was talking about, but she presumed that she had just told a humorous tale.
Even Frodo was chuckling, but it was beginning to cause him to feel great pain. The entities controlling his body and his sensations, realizing that the young hobbit was leaning in the direction of a good mood, caused tirades of chilly agony that suddenly sent the small hobbit doubling over here he sat on the ground, heaving, eyes smarting, in yet another brutal stab at compelling the hobbit to submission. Tidal waves of nausea wracked the ring-bearer's maimed body, giving him a sensation as if he had literally split his sides from laughter. Swaying where he sat, Frodo fell back to the ground with a moan of pain, tears forming in his blue eyes. He blinked rapidly as he felt the warning within his eyes to hold the water where it belonged- in his tear ducts.
The mood of the group plummeted like a stone as Sam, Merry, Pippin, Libby, and April all gathered around the ailing Halfling. Sam sat by his master's side slowly laying Frodo's head in his lap.
"Master, oh, my dear master, should one of us attempt to fetch Strider?" Sam said hysterically, his voice sounding tearful. Frodo was trembling like a leaf from the cold that seemed to be spreading throughout the whole of his diminutive body. Merry was gingerly stroking Frodo's injured arm, laboring to bring some warmth back into his cousin's system. Lying prone on the ground, the faces of those leaning over him looked blurry, and darkness was gathering at the edges of his vision.
"There will be no need, Master Samwise," a voice said from behind them. Strider had returned, and he bent over the tiny form of Frodo, his face haggard as he listened to Frodo's angst-ridden breath. He laid a large hand on Frodo's stricken figure, and winced at the chilly numbness of his battered body. Taking the hobbit in his arms, Strider carried Frodo over to the fire as the others followed behind. While cleansing Frodo's wounded shoulder with the anodyne liquid of water and athelas leaves, Strider broke the ill news to everyone: that they had come too far to the north and needed to locate a reasonably safe path back towards the south and the Ford of Bruinen. Upon hearing these ill tidings, the others exchanged apprehensive glances. That was nothing to how Strider felt; this error in his sense of direction could cost them all, Frodo in particular, perhaps even the whole of Middle-earth, dearly.
After Frodo's pain alleviated somewhat, the group began to advance in a southern direction, scrambling over the unpleasant rocky terrain. Frodo's shoulder was jarred again and again as Bill repeatedly stepped on pebbles. Although the rocks unfortunately caused Frodo twinges of pain, it was impossible for the pony to avoid the cobbles, let alone the extremely numerous smaller pebbles. Later on in the day, the group came upon a ridge barring their passage, and were faced with the choice of turning back or attempting the climb.
After making the decision to try to clamber over the mountain, they found it very grueling. Within half an hour, Frodo was obliged to dismount and struggle along the route on foot, though the others felt culpable about the unduly pain this would wreak upon the poor Ring-bearer. At the best of times, Frodo, like most hobbits, wasn't much of a climber, but in his enfeebled condition it proved almost impossible, and his knees felt as if they would give out as he climbed the steep incline. The others were also being tripped up by the rocks and sharp slopes, and Sam was nearly sent toppling back down the sharp slant when he accidentally wedged his foot underneath a rather large cobblestone. When, to the relief of all, they reached the summit, the night was nearly gone. The exhausted Frodo was suddenly walloped by another bout of extreme pain, and he threw himself down and lay on the ground shuddering, feeling as if icy claws were digging into his debilitated body. Shadows were obscuring his vision, making it virtually impossible for the impaired ring-bearer to see the trees, rocks, and his friends about him. He felt as if a menacing voice from an unseen creature was hissing at him from the shadows, beckoning him to the surrounding darkness. When the hobbit struggled to defy the fell voice, immense pain took the hobbit in its icy claws, endeavoring to torture the already frail perian into acquiescence with their will. It would not be long before the dwindling willpower of Frodo Baggins would wholly collapse, resulting in a tenth Ringwraith. The color was draining from Frodo's face as he lay there trembling unabatedly on the rocky soil, leaving him nigh on rivaling a ghost in pallor, tears of pain cascading down his cheeks and feeling as if they were having an acidic effect on his skin. Aside from the pain that the unknown sliver of Morgul-blade was causing as it cut its way deeper into the Ring-bearer in a course to his heart, its poison was making the Ring-bearer acutely sensitive to other sources of discomfort.
Fretfully taking note of his elder cousin's speedily depreciating condition, Merry spoke to Aragorn, who also appeared to be dreadfully scared for the hobbit's life. Frodo had been one of his best friends for almost as far back as Merry could recall, and now there was grave peril against the older hobbit's existence. If Frodo gave up hope, he would be worse than dead. Frodo would be lifeless like the wraiths, yet undead. He would be a wrecked spirit, a fallen angel. "We cannot go any further, I fear this has been too much Frodo. I am dreadfully worried about him, Strider. What are we going to do? Will they be able to cure him if we ever make it to Rivendell?" Merry's brown eyes were fixed on the tall, lean Ranger as he expectantly awaited an answer.
Aragorn sighed, wishing that he could tell the young hobbit what he desired to hear. However, he simply could not lie to the small, innocent creature, giving him false hope concerning Frodo's endurance. He wanted to say that Frodo would live and recover wonderfully, yet death was extremely probable if not certain. As he gloomily eyed the form of Frodo, he could not help but feel as if Frodo's life span was reaching its termination, remaining only by a minute, fraying thread. Struggling to fight back sudden tears threatening to start in his gray eyes, Aragorn dismally answered, "We shall see, only time will tell. There is nothing more I can do for him in the wilderness, and the mannerism of his wound is beyond my healing skills. Frodo needs Elvish medicine, if even that will assist him, and his injury is the chief cause of my being so anxious to press on. But I agree that we can go further tonight, as you all look weary, and it would do us no good if anybody else fell ill, from lack of sleep." It was obvious that something affected Aragorn badly if he was on the verge of crying, for he was not one to willingly shed tears.
That night was cold up on the highly elevated ridge on which they were taking their slumber. The group sat huddled together round the small fire that Aragorn had ignited, shivering from the chilly wind. Aragorn said that he would stay awake for the entirety of the night in case Frodo needed him, which was a very elevated probability, and that Sam, Pippin, and April would each have a shift of sentry-duty. Frodo was lying there in a stupor, groaning out loud every now and then in his sleep.
When Aragorn and Sam were on watch together, Frodo's whimpers grew higher in their volume and punctuated by gasps for breath, as if the wound were interfering with his ability to breathe. Aragorn quickly crushed some more athelas and bathed the delirious ring-bearer's shoulder, leaving Sam to man the post temporarily, and then rocked the shivering bundle of hobbit. When Strider returned to Sam's side, Sam seemed to jerk out of a semi-dream.
"I'm sorry. Mr. Strider," Sam said apologetically, punctuating the "sorry" with a stifled yawn. "I almost nodded off there."
Aragorn laid a hand on Sam's arm. "I forgive you, I can understand that you are weary. Today has been a callous day indeed. Just remember to stay on the alert, and don't let your drowsiness get your guard down." He lit his pipe and took a couple of slow breaths of the pipe-weed, his gray eyes looking over Merry, Pippin, Libby, and April. They at least were sleeping soundly, showing no unusual habits: Libby's tossing and turning was a nightly occurrence and therefore was probably normal for her. Merry and Pippin were snoring lightly, while April lay perfectly still.
"Mr. Strider, what is the matter with my master?" Sam asked in a low voice after a couple of minutes of silence. His dark eyes were fixed in an appealing sort of manner on Aragorn's worn face. "His wound was small and it is already closed. There is no scar to be seen but a cold white mark on his shoulder."
"Sam, you know what is occurring, what is certain to come to pass if we are too late. The shadows and poison have been torturing Frodo, beating him into compliance. His will is fading, and the Enemy knows that if he is kept in enough pain, he will no longer want to live. The shadows and the poison of the Morgul-knife are combining to strive for one sole objective: to finally overwhelm Frodo. He is one small, mortal creature and a fading will against Sauron , the undead Nine, and the general forces of evil."
Sam's face was haggard as he absorbed Aragorn's words, horrified at the prospect of his master and dear friend becoming worse than deceased. He was filled with total compassion for Frodo, wishing that it was he instead of his kind master bearing this tribulation. "Is there no hope then?" Sam asked, his voice cracking with tears.
"Frodo has been pierced by the weapons of the Enemy," said Aragorn, "and the poison and evil at work surpass my skill to drive out. But do not abandon hope, Samwise, for there is still the possibility that Frodo may survive." Aragorn fervently hoped that he was right even as he spoke, no longer certain about anything. He felt as if he had failed the hobbits; he had promised to protect them on their journey to Rivendell, had sworn to protect them from danger, saying that they would never make it on their own, and now felt colossal guilt, knowing that one could possibly succumb to the will of Sauron and pass away due to his negligence. He knew he had helped the hobbits to cope with the calamity, had known how to fight off the five Nazgul and gotten them much further than they would ever have advanced on their own, but would it suffice to the extent of bringing Frodo to Rivendell, Elrond, and his sole chance for life? Sighing to himself, Aragorn went to pour a glass of water for Frodo. The poor hobbit was rapidly losing all vestiges of an appetite, and the mere task of drinking water to keep himself hydrated seemed to deplete his low reservoir of energy. At one time, Frodo, half-delirious, had said something about the water tasting like sandpaper, and being hard to swallow.
Author's Note: There's still something you have to do... review! Do you like this story? Review. Hate it? Review. Want to burn me to a crisp with your flames? Review! Want to appoint me supreme ruler of the universe? Review. Want me to go to hell? You know what to do... review! Is this story good? Bad? Ugly? Do I deserve an international prize for writing, or do I suck so badly that I should quit while I'm ahead.. er, behind? Tell me! A review would be the perfect way, though an e-mail could help too: send mail to all4truth@excite.com . ^.^
