Chapter 10
This chapter contains quotes and paraphrases from Tolkien's work . . . some of them taken out of context. Did I mention that this tale was AU? But then, I suppose you've already guessed that.
The next morning brought the large party out of the woods that clothed the hills at the feet of the Misty Mountains, now marching away on their right hand. The day was warm and a light breeze made riding comfortable so that they stopped little, making as much headway as they could. The sun was low in the sky when they encountered a ragged and stumbling pair of travellers. One was dressed in stained and soiled garments, which may have been white at one time, and the other hurried along in his wake wearing the ragged remains of once black robes.
Now riding near the head of the column, with the elven lords and Gandalf, Frodo was surprised when the wizard called out to the taller of the two.
"Well Saruman! Where are you going?"
The figure clad in dirty grey looked over his shoulder and Merry's sharp intake of breath let Frodo know that this person was, indeed, the once White Wizard.
"And what is it to you? I have been thrown out of my home so I must wander where I can."
"If you had waited at Orthanc the King may have shown you mercy," Gandalf replied with no sign of ire.
"Then all the more reason to leave. I want no mercy from a mortal. Even now I am seeking a way out of his realm."
"If you are travelling west I fear you are going the wrong way, Saruman." Interjected Galadriel.
Gandalf moved Shadowfax closer. "Will you not allow us to assist you?"
"Assist me? Do not smile at me! I prefer your frowns. And as for the Lady . . . I have never trusted her for she always took your part. I expect she has lead you this way just to gloat upon me."
Galadriel's clear voice was filled with humour. "We have other business more pressing than pursuing you. Will you not accept this last chance to mend your ways?"
"If it truly is the last I am glad, for it will spare me the effort of refusing again. And you, of all, have least to celebrate I would think. All that you have wrought will now fade away to nothing and that at least will afford me some comfort in my wanderings. For you brought down your own house when you ruined mine. And you, Lady . . . no ship will come to carry you into the West. You will have to remain and watch your world disintegrate," he sneered.
If the Lady of the Golden Wood took his words to heart she did not show it, although Frodo noticed Lord Celeborn sidle his mount closer to his wife's palfrey.
As Saruman dragged a mumbling Grima Wormtongue after him he spied the hobbits and paused. "So you have come to gloat too? Such fine clothes now and I imagine your bags are stuffed with the best pipeweed. I suspect you would not even offer enough to fill a beggar's pipe, would you?"
Frodo sat as tall as he could upon his pony, determined to hold his own against Saruman's hot glare. "I would if I had any."
To his surprise and Pippin's, it was Merry who rummaged in his saddlebag and produced a small pouch. "Here. Take what you want for, in truth, it came from your store at Isengard."
Saruman snatched it from him. "It is only a token, for I expect you stole much more from my home. Still, a beggar must be grateful if a thief returns only a morsel of his own. Long may your land be short of leaf!" he spat.
Frodo gasped for the curses of a wizard, even one who had fallen as low as Saruman, were not to be taken lightly. And what other curses could he place upon the beloved Shire? He set his jaw and was aware of his friends nudging their ponies closer to his, with similar fears.
"Gandalf warned me that you were still capable of mischief. I'll thank you to stay away from the Shire for you will find it no longer an easy target for your anger."
"Ha!" Saruman's laugh was a sharp, dry, bark of derision. "Think you that Gandalf will protect your precious land . . . or any of these high and mighty folk? They have got what they wanted and now they will drop you. You are no more use to them . . . Ringbearer."
Gandalf's voice cut across the words. "Do you forget, Saruman, that you have been stripped of your power? You can do no more harm to these good folk. Although your tongue, it seems, has lost none of its venom. Perhaps you would prefer incarceration to ensure your silence. I am sure Lord Elrond or Lord Celeborn would need little persuasion to arrange it."
Frodo looked across into the once great wizard's vengeful face and found that he felt nothing but pity. "No. I do not fear him now. He has nothing but thoughts of petty vengeance left. Leave him to his spite. To lock him up would heal nothing of the damage he has caused. And I would not see anyone deprived sight of sun and stars, and green and living things."
For the first time Frodo thought he saw a flash of deep anger in Saruman's eyes but then the wizard turned to call his cringing shadow. "Come Grima. We are dismissed."
Even as he turned to go, however, a knife flashed in his hand and he stabbed swiftly.
"I will not be pitied. Least of all by some little Shire rat!"
Fortunately Sam had been watching closely and instead of the blade sheathing itself in Frodo's heart it slashed at his arm instead as Sam jostled his master's pony out of the way and drew sting. Frodo cried out in agony but his cry turned into a call as he saw Sam's face.
"No, Sam! I would not have his death upon your hands. He is fallen and his cure is beyond us; but I would spare him, in the hope that he may find his healing, with time."
Saruman's face showed a strange mixture of wonder, respect and hatred. "You are grown, halfling." A slow smile stretched his thin lips. "I have no need of healing . . . but you? I doubt you will find the healing you seek in Middle Earth." And with a final twitch of his robes he took off across the road and into the wilderness, with Grima shuffling like the pale shadow of a wind-tossed cloud behind him.
Frodo gave in at last to the pain and a dark mist seemed to draw in about him. He struggled to stay upright, fearful of the consequences for his son if he fell from the pony, but felt himself sliding sideways and cried out even as strong hands caught him. Then the mist swallowed him and he knew no more.
00000
There was a voice . . . warm as a summer afternoon on the hill above Bag End.
"Listen to my voice."
It was a friendly voice but Frodo wanted to shut it out for something within him knew that if he listened to it he would be drawn out of the cold but numb place where he was lying to a place of pain. But the voice was insistent and he found himself being drawn despite his stumbling resistance.
A pinpoint of light appeared in the distance and the voice seemed to issue from it.
"Come back to the light, Frodo." It was not a request, but a demand, despite its gentle tone.
The pinpoint of light became a circle that spread wider and wider and Frodo found himself being propelled towards it at an ever increasing rate, frightened at the speed of his passage but unable to prevent it, until he arrived in the full light with a moan of protest. He drew in a sharp breath and even this movement sent the expected pain slicing through his injured arm . . . making his eyes fly open.
He was staring up into a blue sky and his first thought was of his babe. Had he fallen from the pony after all? Was the child alright? He tried to move his hand to his belly and whimpered as the pain in his arm increased. Suddenly a dark shape slid into his field of vision and Sam's voice over-rode his cries.
"He's awake sir. Now just you lie still, Mr Frodo. It took Master Elrond a while to stop the bleeding and he says you're to rest."
Still concerned for his child Frodo latched onto the word's and panic flooded through him. "Bleeding?"
"Your arm. Don't you remember? That nasty Saruman attacked you?" advised Sam, with some concern "And why he didn't deserve death for it I'll never understand," he muttered beneath his breath.
Frodo let out a sigh and relaxed into the blankets that cocooned him. "There has been too much death, Sam. And I would not see his blood on your gentle hands."
But before Sam could argue further Frodo had to ask. He had to know. "The baby. Is the baby well?"
Elrond's gentle voice drifted to him and a hand slid beneath his head. "Your babe is unharmed, Frodo. Saruman failed in his attempt, thanks to your friend. You are weak now but with rest you will recover and give birth to your child in due time."
The elven healer put a cup to Frodo's lips and he recognised the contents at once as a weak infusion of ginger and chamomile. He swallowed it gratefully and then settled back, exhausted.
His child was safe for now but what of the future? Was Elrond right or was he just trying to keep up Frodo's hopes? Could he bring this child to term? Saruman was right. The quest had broken his body and mind. This child was indeed bringing healing to his mind but could he physically carry it in his damaged body . . . now weakened further by the wizard's intervention?
The unresolved thoughts were still swirling in his mind as the tea began to tug him down into soothing sleep.
TBC