Upon Gwaihir's Back
Gandalf searched the ground from high up on Gwaihir the great Windlord's back, the sight of small figures, which he knew would be hard to find. Gwaihir and two other great Eagles were circling and swooping precariously around the mountain of Doom, even as the Nazgûl made their way towards the same destination and were set upon by the Eagles of the North. Gandalf started to despair as he looked and strained his vision but could not locate his young friends. He feared the worst. The sight of Orodruin's mighty geysers of fire and ash had been witnessed by all on the battlefields, bar the dead and dying, but the act had not signalled the allies' victory. Rather it had confirmed Gandalf's worst nightmares-Frodo had failed somehow. He had asked for Gwaihir's help, but had left before anyone could read the outcome of the war on his face, and he had not told a single soul, not even Aragorn, so no-one could yet know. Gandalf still held on to a fragment, a delicate shard of hope that he might find Frodo and Samwise alive and that there was a rational explanation for the dreadful fury of the Dark Lord. But deep down in his heart of hearts, Gandalf knew he would not find such reassurance that day.
He heard a cry in the distance and knew the Ringwraiths were being overcome by the Eagles, even as Gwaihir called to him.
"There Gandalf, what do you make of that?" Gandalf gazed on as the Eagle dropped his altitude. Gandalf could make out a dim shape beneath them and saw it to be that of a hobbit, laid out of his back, with a dark mark covering his torso and the ground around him.
"That is one, but where is the other?" Gandalf asked aloud. "Gwaihir, my friend, we must pick him up. Perhaps he can shed a little light on this mystery."
The Eagles descended and as they drew closer Gandalf felt a cold chill creep over his body as it became more and more evident that the dark patch was blood and not just dirt.
"Oh no…" he murmured as Gwaihir set Gandalf down. Gandalf fell to his knees beside the still hobbit, getting more blood on his already dirty, once white robes. "Young Samwise, what has happened to you?" The old wizard reached out his hand and brushed Sam's cold cheek with his fingertips. Sam coughed. Gandalf started and his hand snapped back.
"Alive?" he gaped. Without stopping to think he picked the hobbit up gently and climbed, with some difficulty back aboard Gwaihir. Sam stirred as his burning side throbbed in pain from the lift and he uttered a small sound of distress.
"Shh…" Gandalf soothed tenderly. Sam opened his eyes and looked into Gandalf's face.
"Fr…Fr…" Sam attempted to speak. He couched again, and a spot of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Fro…do…the Ring…taken…him…" The hobbit fell silent again as blackness took him.
"Be at peace young perian," Gandalf whispered. He stifled a sob as he pieced together the words of master Samwise with his own suspicions.
The Ring had beaten Frodo.
Gandalf searched the ground from high up on Gwaihir the great Windlord's back, the sight of small figures, which he knew would be hard to find. Gwaihir and two other great Eagles were circling and swooping precariously around the mountain of Doom, even as the Nazgûl made their way towards the same destination and were set upon by the Eagles of the North. Gandalf started to despair as he looked and strained his vision but could not locate his young friends. He feared the worst. The sight of Orodruin's mighty geysers of fire and ash had been witnessed by all on the battlefields, bar the dead and dying, but the act had not signalled the allies' victory. Rather it had confirmed Gandalf's worst nightmares-Frodo had failed somehow. He had asked for Gwaihir's help, but had left before anyone could read the outcome of the war on his face, and he had not told a single soul, not even Aragorn, so no-one could yet know. Gandalf still held on to a fragment, a delicate shard of hope that he might find Frodo and Samwise alive and that there was a rational explanation for the dreadful fury of the Dark Lord. But deep down in his heart of hearts, Gandalf knew he would not find such reassurance that day.
He heard a cry in the distance and knew the Ringwraiths were being overcome by the Eagles, even as Gwaihir called to him.
"There Gandalf, what do you make of that?" Gandalf gazed on as the Eagle dropped his altitude. Gandalf could make out a dim shape beneath them and saw it to be that of a hobbit, laid out of his back, with a dark mark covering his torso and the ground around him.
"That is one, but where is the other?" Gandalf asked aloud. "Gwaihir, my friend, we must pick him up. Perhaps he can shed a little light on this mystery."
The Eagles descended and as they drew closer Gandalf felt a cold chill creep over his body as it became more and more evident that the dark patch was blood and not just dirt.
"Oh no…" he murmured as Gwaihir set Gandalf down. Gandalf fell to his knees beside the still hobbit, getting more blood on his already dirty, once white robes. "Young Samwise, what has happened to you?" The old wizard reached out his hand and brushed Sam's cold cheek with his fingertips. Sam coughed. Gandalf started and his hand snapped back.
"Alive?" he gaped. Without stopping to think he picked the hobbit up gently and climbed, with some difficulty back aboard Gwaihir. Sam stirred as his burning side throbbed in pain from the lift and he uttered a small sound of distress.
"Shh…" Gandalf soothed tenderly. Sam opened his eyes and looked into Gandalf's face.
"Fr…Fr…" Sam attempted to speak. He couched again, and a spot of blood appeared at the corner of his mouth. "Fro…do…the Ring…taken…him…" The hobbit fell silent again as blackness took him.
"Be at peace young perian," Gandalf whispered. He stifled a sob as he pieced together the words of master Samwise with his own suspicions.
The Ring had beaten Frodo.