Disclaimer:  Middle-earth and all of its inhabitants (including himself) belong to Tolkien and no other.

A/N:  Sorry, you guys, for taking so long to post.  Life's been hectic lately and I'm doing all I can just to keep up.  Hope you haven't lost complete interest, for here is the time that many of you have been waiting for—our dear hobbit is back!

Chapter 35

WHISPERING WINDS

            The rain fell as it often had over the last couple of days and Frodo huddled deeper within his cloak wishing above ought else that he might be back in Rivendell, among the Elves and with his uncle.  Already, he tired of this journey and oftimes found his thoughts drifting even beyond Elrond's House to the quiet, peaceful recesses of the Shire. 

            How he missed his home!  Those uneventful nights at Bag End when he sat before the hearth reading or smoking a nice bit of Old Toby.  He recalled those evenings quicker and more readily than those spent at the local pub, for, though he enjoyed the company of his drunken fellows as any hobbit does, he couldn't help the fact that he seemed better suited to a darkened room lit only by the soft, flickering glow of the fire.

            Frodo sighed and watched the white mist of his breath dance before his nose, laughingly teasing him before becoming dispelled upon the bitter wind.  That distraction alone made him forget his footing and he caught a hairy foot upon a jagged stone, which seemed not at all inclined to release him.  With a yelp, Frodo fell to his knees.

            From up ahead, Gandalf turned and, seeing the fallen hobbit, paused.  The Company had not stopped yet this day and the sun was well into its decent (though hidden behind dark clouds).  Even as Sam released Bill to run to his master and Glorfindel bent to take the pony's reins, the wizard was well aware of Aragorn's gaze.  The Man did not agree with this pace and had already argued against it.

            "Treks like this are uncommon for the hobbits.  Already they weary beyond need and should they expire what must we do except carry them?  A needless delay in itself.  Let us find shelter, at least for a time."

            Gandalf saw that what Aragorn said was true.  Sam was taking it far better than Frodo, the wizard noted; either that or he was better at hiding his discomfort.  Though the Ring-bearer spoke not a word of complaint it was plain to all that he was having a difficult time keeping pace with the Big Folk's long strides. 

The wind was ever a factor, for it hammered at the Company, though, it seemed particularly fond of Frodo, and if that was because he was the smallest and his girth (or lack thereof) made him for easier sport than the others or because of something else altogether (as the Elves, and now Gandalf, suspected) none could rightly say.  At one time, Gimli had taken a protective stance beside the hobbit, hoping to free the wee halfling from most the blast and had succeeded in doing so--before the wind wised up to this and its course eerily changed and came not from one direction but all four. 

            Then the rains had come and the misery of the Nine Walkers had been sealed.

            Gimli bent stiffly and aided the fallen hobbit to his feet even as Sam dashed over.  Gandalf broke away and turned to Aragorn.  He gave a nod and spoke gruffly:  "We will rest."

            The company found a small nook that shielded them from the wind and rain and there they holed up for a time.  The hobbits were greatly relieved for this small respite and the dwarf, too, though he would not have admitted it.  The Elves sat apart from the others, talking amongst themselves in their own tongue.  Boromir did not at first seat himself nor did he intend to, but as Aragorn made his way to the proud Man and spoke softly with him, eventually he rested, though a bit stiffly. 

            Aragorn turned to Gandalf, who had not yet deemed it time to take ease, and his piercing eyes sought all that was yet before them.  "Come and rest, friend," Aragorn said, approaching the wizard from behind.  Gandalf mumbled something deep within his throat, though what it was it is not told, and he turned to the Ranger, his gaze hard.

            "What is it, Gandalf?" Aragorn asked, concerned.

            "We are not alone here," the wizard replied, his gaze falling once again to the fore.  "Though I know not what hunts us--hunts us, it does.  A thing of evil.  A thing of Sauron."

            "So soon?"

            Gandalf turned back to Aragorn.  "Do not underestimate the power of the Dark Lord.  He is ancient, more so than many things living in this world today, and he intelligent.  With such strength and power, we may well find ourselves fighting a loosing battle."

            Aragorn frowned.  "Are we so without hope, Gandalf.  Do you have so little faith in us?  The battle has not yet even begun and already you say we are doomed?"

            Gandalf closed his eyes, as if some sight pained him and he wished to banish it.  "The battle has not begun, Aragorn?" he rasped, his words barely audible.  "The battle has not begun, you say?  Perhaps not.  But the war has."

            Frodo watched Aragorn and Gandalf and though he could not make out a single word of their exchange, he was fairly confident that is was not good.  Nothing of late seemed to be for the better. 

            The Fellowship was being out-weighed with sorrow.  The Elves in particular were quiet and not at all their usual cheerful selves.  Glorfindel would not speak more than a few words at a time and always his eyes were to the heavens.  Morgainne was ill-tempered and oftentimes moody.  Frodo, who had heard of their friendship from Legolas, could only surmise that it was because of Apryl.

            Ever since his "errand" he had wondered at her significance.  By the Elves' eyes alone Frodo could tell that she was loved greatly and only from a short time of knowing her he thought that he understand why, if for only one reason. 

She was quiet, soft but also very full of life.  It radiated about her and it seemed one could thrive off her laughter alone.  Frodo was intrigued but never got up the nerve to ask Gandalf who she truly was.

            Now I don't suppose I'll ever have the chance, Frodo thought sadly.  The subject was a sore one with the wizard, this the hobbit knew.  Not because he had broached it, nor had anyone else, but merely because Frodo had known Gandalf ever since he could remember and some things were as plain to him of the old man as the sky was blue and the field green.

            It was not just sorrow that resided within the Fellowship, but disdain for those of a different kind.  Gimli would not speak to the Elves except in his own tongue and Frodo had the feeling it wasn't complimentary.  Neither would the dwarf pay them much mind.  Mostly, Gimli chose to ignore Legolas, Glorfindel, and Morgainne and the hobbit suspected that was much better than them taking to insults and bickering.  Gandalf would not contend with that and, certainly, the Fellowship could not fight amongst themselves, not with the responsibility all of them had shouldered.

            Frodo huddled more securely within his cloak.  But of all the troubles of the Elves and dwarf and troubles, too, that he had only begun to note (mainly of the Man of Gondor and Aragorn), Frodo was concerned above ought else with his cousins who he had been forced to leave with in Rivendell. 

Frodo shivered.  He did not want to be here.  He wished he were home, with Sam and Merry and foolish little Peregrin.

            "Perhaps Mr. Gandalf will let us build a fire," Sam suggested hopefully, spying his master's shiver and causing Frodo to start.

            He looked at Sam.  "What was that?"

            "A fire, Mr. Frodo.  It's sure be nice if we might banish this chill for a time with a fire and perhaps some hot food." 

            Frodo shook his head.  "I wouldn't count on it, Sam."

            "Your probably right," Sam agreed.  "The rain'd put it out any how, more like than not.  And I don't suppose we ought to pester him nohow.  He and Strider seem to be speaking about something important."  Sam peered over at the wizard and the Ranger.  "And disagreeing on it, too, by the looks of it."

            Frodo nodded but instead of following Sam's gaze, he closed his eyes in hopes that sleep would find him and take him away.

            "I am afraid . . . Where are we? . . ."

            The voice was oddly familiar but Frodo could not immediately place it.  Everywhere was darkness, full of shadows . . . full of death.  He did not like this place.

            "I wish I could see you . . ."  Again, the voice came to him, though it was faint and far away.  He had heard those words before in place much like this one, though in a time seemingly forever ago and with a girl who no longer lived.

            "Apryl?" he called hesitantly, though in the back of his mind he thought:  Surely not.  I must be dreaming.

            "Hullo, Frodo," and this time the voice came strong and near, knowing and kind.

            "Apryl, is that you?"  Frodo looked around but still he could not see no one.  "But how?  I thought--you died."

"This world of yours is strange to me, Frodo," she said, in amusement, though there was a touch of desperation in her tone evident to the hobbit's sharp hearing.  "Even more so than I had thought.  Elves and Dwarves and Men live together.  Hobbits are not just a printed name in a book.  And the dead come back to walk among the living." 

Suddenly, Apryl was before him and she looked how he remembered her . . . except . . . she was different somehow . . .

            "I am dreaming," he gasped, voicing his earlier thoughts. 

            "Yes," she said, with a soft smile, "We both are."

            Frodo frowned, confused and, at the same time, disappointed.  "Then . . ." he asked hesitantly, "You are not alive?"  He took a step forward but in the eternal darkness he seemed not to move.  He was no closer to her than he had been.

            "Oh, I am alive," she reassured him.  "Just as you are."

            "But . . . how?" Frodo asked, not knowing what else to say.  "Apryl, I saw you." 

            Her eyes dimmed.  "I do not know.  I was hoping to ask Gandalf, but . . ." she sighed and her eyes became lost and unfocused.  "Meriadoc, Peregrin, and I set out to find you . . . but . . . the Elves, they took me and now their all alone and I can do nothing--"

            "Here?  You and Merry and Pip?"  Frodo could not believe this.  It was all a silly, little dream.  It meant nothing.  Merry and Pippin were back in Rivendell, safe with the Elves and . . . and Apryl was dead.

            "Things are not as they should be, Frodo," her voice became faint.  "It's all a big mistake.  Merry and Pippin were suppose to go with you and Morgainne and Glorfindel were suppose to remain behind."  Her eyes were wide, almost desperate, but still looking at things Frodo could not see.  "Everything's messed up and its all my fault."

            The hobbit could only stare at her, realizing suddenly that she was fading away—her voice, her body, her mind.  "Apryl?  Apryl, what are you talking about?  What do you mean, Things are not as they should be?"

            Apryl blinked and her gaze cleared.  She looked at Frodo and tears came suddenly to her eyes and she said:  "You are all alone.  I had wanted to be there with you, to help you but its all gone wrong.  Everything has gone terribly wrong."

            The child closed her eyes and was gone.

            "Apryl?"  Frodo stepped forward but again could not tell if he gained any ground.  Everywhere was darkness.  "Apryl!"

            ". . . Frodo."  The name came to him faintly and from all around.  ". . . Frodo?"

            "Apryl?" he tried quietly.

            "Mr. Frodo!"

            Samwise was shaking Frodo by the shoulder and his master moaned, though what he said Sam could not tell.  "Mr. Gandalf says its time to go.  Come on, Mr. Frodo, wake up."

            Frodo blinked and looked around.  Sam crouched over him protectively and when he saw his master's eyes opened his brow furrowed slightly at his bewildered, almost lost look he held within his sapphire orbs.  "Are you alright, Mr. Frodo?"

            "Sam?"  Frodo looked around and saw all the Fellowship rising wearily to their feet, packs being shouldered. 

            "Yes, Mr. Frodo," Sam said, worriedly, not liking the haunted look in his master's eyes at all.  " 'Tis me.  Is something the matter?"

            "Matter?" Frodo blinked, turned to Sam.  "I--no, Sam, nothing's the matter.  It was a dream.  Only a silly dream."

            Sam reached over and grabbed Frodo's pack and handed it to its owner.  "There you are.  Best hurry, Mr. Frodo, Mr. Gandalf seems awfully anxious and I don't reckon that's at all a good thing."

            Frodo allowed Sam to help him to his feet.  "No, your probably right, Sam.  Let's go, then." 

            As the two stumbled after the others, a bitter gust came from the south and ripped through the Fellowship with gleeful intent but was dispelled at the last by a crosswind. It was unusually warm and uplifting for winter and when it whipped through Frodo's cloak, tearing its hood from his head, the hobbit stopped suddenly and turned.

            Sam, seeing this, asked:  "What is it, Mr. Frodo?"

            "Did you hear that, Sam?" he asked, never taking his eyes from the north.

            Sam frowned and stood still, his ears strained for the slightest of sounds.  After a moment, he shook his head.  "I can't hear anything."

            "It sounded like a voice . . ."  Frodo stopped.  He turned back around and continued after the Fellowship.  "It was nothing, Sam.  Come along."  Sam stood there for a moment longer, watching his master curiously, until Frodo glanced over his shoulder.  He hurried to catch up.

            "Do you ever hear voices, Sam?" Frodo asked suddenly.

            Samwise didn't answer right away.  After a moment, he said finally:  "Sometimes I think I do.  Like the trees.  Sometimes I'm certain that they're talking to eachother in a tongue I don't understand, but their still talking and I can still hear 'em."  He looked at Frodo, his face slightly flushed from embarrassment.  "Why do you ask, Mr. Frodo?"

            Frodo said, "No reason," and, quickening his pace, he outdistanced Sam almost immediately.  The gardener let his master go, for when Frodo got in his moods there was few people who could get him out of them.  Only Mr. Bilbo and sometimes Gandalf.  Sam suspected that that was who Frodo sought and after a time he saw his assumption was correct, for as Frodo reached the old wizard he gave Gandalf's gray robes the slightest of tugs.

Both hobbit and wizard were soon immersed in a conversation that Sam was slightly curious about but accepted he had no business being apart.  At least, not this time.  He was too tired, besides.