Hero

Chapter 3

"They Are Coming For Him"

When morning came, the hobbits found it as miserable and wet as the day before, though now it seemed a little warmer. Frodo awoke suddenly to the faint greyness preceding dawn, but could not will himself to rise until it became absolutely necessary. It seemed he had only just gotten warm, and he buried himself deep into the folds of his cover. Strider's firm footfalls drew near, and a gentle hand was laid on Frodo's back. It shook him, just enough to bring him to wakefulness. Frodo stretched and enjoyed his last moment of warmth, then rose and reached for his jacket, which he had been using to cover his feet. He huddled into it and went to sit down by the weak fire Strider had managed to start, next to Merry. Pippin and Sam were still asleep. Merry was eating an apple, which Frodo stared at, trying to rouse his appetite, but he blanched visibly at he very thought of food. Strider, having woken Sam and lightly kicked Pippin (as everyone knew very well was what Pippin needed at this time of the morning), took his seat at Frodo's side, half an apple in his hand. He drew a hunting knife from his belt, and with it cut a small piece from the apple. He held it out towards Frodo.

"Here," he encouraged. "It's been a full day since you've taken any food. You should have something."

Frodo looked at it for a moment, trying to convince himself that he was hungry, but eventually just shook his head. Strider turned away, shrugging. He tossed the bit of apple into the fire. Frodo noticed, but before he could protest, he saw Strider's eyes upon him, and the smile on the man's normally stern features.

"I'm not planning to eat until you do," he remarked in a manner Frodo almost thought cheeky. How odd it sounded coming from Strider! It made him laugh after a moment.

"Fine, then," he said, and accepted a larger piece of the apple Strider cut for him. "Thank you." Sometime after the first few bites he took, his stomachache went away, and he realised that he had been quite hungry.

They continued their march after that, at no less of a pace, and within the hour of climbing steadily, they had reached higher ground. Spirits lightened considerably at the prospect of leaving the cold marshland behind, but Strider only grew more restless. Questions and concerns plagued him like a disease. Where was Gandalf? He had never known anything serious enough to make the Wizard break such a necessary meeting, especially when someone was desperately depending upon him. And the Wraiths...where were they? Surely, they too would make for Amon Sûl, but, in that case, so would Gandalf. If he had to choose between risking an attack by the nine and risking missing Gandalf...

The sight of the hills before him silenced his thoughts. His mind returned to navigating the most traversable path through them - something he had not bothered to worry about since he was in his twenties. He soon came upon an area of flatland that he could not recall. So accustomed was he to travelling alone that he stopped abruptly, without thinking. Not a moment later something bumped his backside heavily, followed by a small umph! Startled, he turned, but only encountered Frodo, prone upon the ground, just as surprised as he himself was. Instinctively, he extended his hand to help him up, which Frodo took with slight hesitation.

"I'm sorry," he stuttered, brushing mud and grass from his clothes. "I wasn't looking where I was going..."

Strider shook his head. "That was my fault. I ought not stop dead in my tracks when people are walking behind me."

"I was just a bit distracted..."

Strider and Frodo looked downward simultaneously and noticed that they had not yet let go of one another's hands. Gasping, they both jerked away from the other. Frodo thought he might have enjoyed the feel of holding Strider's hand a little too much for comfort. He turned away from his embarrassment, blushing deeply, only to find his three companions staring confusedly at him.

Not long after, as Strider led the hobbits around a tall hillock, Weathertop loomed into view. It stood silent; a ruined monolith of a kingdom long dead. It had been a long while since Strider had come to it, for whatever reason, and a strange feeling of nostalgia bore over him at the stoic image of the watchtower.

"This was the great watchtower of Amon Sûl," he said wistfully to himself. He turned back to the others, who stood, waiting patiently for his direction. "We shall rest here tonight." He listened to the few sighs of relief from the hobbits. Who were tired and, inevitably, hungry.

They found that the hill was traversable, once Strider had located the path that led to a man-made overhang near the summit. This would serve as their shelter.

As they made their way upward, Frodo's spirits plummeted heavily. Though no one said anything of it, fear and concern was written on every face. Gandalf was not there. Something was terribly wrong.

"These are for you," said Strider, handing the hobbits the little blades he'd been carrying. "Keep them close." He watched the hobbits for a moment, and saw that they were awkward with the weight of the short swords. He made a mental note to find some time to train them before they would have need of skill in battle. "I'm going to have a look around," he informed them. "Stay here." He caught Frodo's look of discomfort, and smiled reassuringly before leaving them. He descended the hill quickly, then disappeared into the brush.

Strider had walked a half-mile when the sun went down. As the shades of evening deepened, he picked up a broken dead limb of the appropriate size and shape, and took from his belt an oilskin. He drew the oil-soaked cloth from it and bound it firmly about the wood, then struck flint against tinder and set it alight. The torch didn't seem to penetrate the darkness as it should have, as if its light was somehow quelled.

He made his way steadily to higher, dry ground, his boots encrusted with mud from travelling in drowned valleys. He was searching for Glorfindel, whose coming Arwen had told him of, for they needed the Elf lord's guidance and protection at present. Though Aragorn did not much doubt his skill in battle, he knew that he could not take on any number of the Nine alone. He needed Glorfindel's help in protecting the hobbits, Frodo especially. If the Nine were to take from Frodo what he secretly carried...Aragorn shuddered.

Suddenly, a pungent odour hit him like a wave. He stumbled as he realised with a lurch of his stomach that it was the smell of one dead. He went forward a ways, and as he turned a corner of the natural hedgerow at his side, he fell back with a soft, sickened cry. He dropped the torch onto the path, where the grass began to smoulder beneath it. Before Aragorn lay Amras, one leg trapped beneath his maimed horse. His wide, pale eyes stared up blankly at Aragorn, dim moonlight reflected eerily in them. Dried upon his cheek was a dark trail of blood from his mouth, gaping wide in a terrible scream.

Aragorn eventually felt his heart resume its rhythm, and suddenly tears began to stream from his eyes unchecked. Amras had been a noble man, and a beloved friend to him. To see his fair face stilled in such horrific agony...

Aragorn rose from the muddy ground, and reached out to Amras, gently shutting the man's eyes. He pulled Amras's cloak from under his stiff form and wrapped him in it, covering his face, and carefully freed him from the weight of the dead animal. Numbly, Aragorn dragged the other ranger to the base of a small tree and laid him there, offering a final blessing. His vision skewed by tears, he turned away, refusing to look back. The oil on the torch continued to burn, and he picked it up and stamped upon the glowing tendrils of grass. Aragorn broke into a swift run, now more cautious than ever he had been, feeling the dangers and fears begin to close in around him.

He crested the small hill that sat dwarfed at the sprawling base of Amon Sûl, and let himself slide down its gravelled side. A thick fog had pooled in the dell below, making it impossible to see where Weathertop's path began. Out of instinct, he knelt down and swept his hand through the mist, clearing it long enough for the imprint of an iron-shod foot to be illuminated in the torch-light, and then others similar, leading towards the climbing path. Though the ground was soaked with rainwater, none had yet collected in the depression left in the mud. It had been made not minutes before.

A sudden ring of steel clashing with steel sounded from the summit of the hill, and Aragorn sped off toward the noises. Now, he could hear the hobbits terrified yells, and suddenly, a scream rent the air. Aragorn nearly crumpled to the ground as it ripped throughout his person, but, determined to reach the hobbits, he diligently kept his footing and ran on. There were other stranger noises, as well, that sounded as if they were coming from far beneath the ground; eerie words of a black language he did not know. He reached the wide summit, and as one hooded figure turned and raised his blade, Aragorn drew his own sword and countered the attack with great skill. He waved his torch before him, and his enemy cowered at its light. As he fought, he sought out each of the hobbits, but found only three. The other four Wraiths all stood in one place, not noticing his attack, and he knew that he'd found Frodo. Then, their leader drew back his blade, and drove it downward with terrible force. Frodo's agonised scream filled Aragorn's ears, or his mind, rather. The Wraiths had not finished their cruel work yet: Frodo still had the Ring, but whether he was alive or not was still to be determined.

Aragorn dodged the next blow from his opponent and sprang away, overborne by rage at the thought of pain inflicted upon Frodo. Heedlessly, he threw himself into the midst of the fray, driving his enemy back with fire and sword. Moments later, he came close to being relieved at the sound of Frodo's completely audible cry. If he had taken off the Ring, he would no longer be as vulnerable. As Aragorn turned his head to see that Sam had gotten safely to Frodo's side, one of the Morgul blades cut into his side. With an enraged growl, he drove the Wraith that had attacked him off the edge of the flat summit. He was forced to pause as pain coursed through his being.

Three other of the hooded figures had fled, receding back into the starless darkness, but one remained, poised for a second attack. Aragorn's back was toward his enemy, but he felt the Wraiths presence better than any other sense would allow. He turned only as he let the torch fly from his hand. The brand embedded itself in the spectral face of the Nagûl. With another sickening screech, it, too, fled.

"Strider!" Sam's shout was desperate. Aragorn rushed to the hobbits, and they quickly cleared a space for him at Frodo's side. He picked up the knife that had fallen at Frodo's side. "He has been stabbed by a Morgul blade," Aragorn said breathlessly, his own side growing cold. He threw the hilt to the ground in disgust as it disintegrated into a foul breeze. His pain was nearly forgotten as he looked down at Frodo's pale face, still harbouring an expression of shock. "This is beyond my skill to heal," he said as he lifted Frodo arduously from the ground. "He needs Elvish medicine."

Leading them down to the outcropping where they'd made camp, he helped them gather their things with all possible speed. "Are any of you hurt?" he asked, helping Pippin on with his haversack. The three hobbits shook their heads in negation. "Good," said Strider. "Come, now. Quickly!"

Even in the blind dark Strider knew his way through the forests in this land. Despite his wound, which he did not mention, he kept a gruelling pace. "We're six days from Rivendell!" Sam yelled as he ran. "He'll never make it!"

Strider did not respond. He could not. He knew that the possibilities of Frodo reaching Rivendell were small, if at all existent. Already, the little hobbit was incoherent, crying for Gandalf, crying in pain for help. "Hold on, Frodo."There was a catch in Strider's voice.

For nearly two hours they continued, the hobbits dutifully running along behind their guide, and Strider carrying a delirious Frodo over one shoulder. He stopped only when he heard one of the hobbits fall to the ground behind him. He halted and turned to see Merry and Sam, who looked ready to collapse themselves, helping Pippin up from his hands and knees. He fell back, taking them now at a slower walk, and placed his free hand on Pippin's back. "I'm sorry," he said quietly, "but I had to get you all as far away from them as possible. You know what they want." Pippin nodded shakily. "And now you know how far they're willing to go to obtain what they want. They will kill every one of us without hesitation if they find us."

He led them into a patch of dense underbrush, careful with his charge. The thicket soon opened up to a clearing, and to the hobbits it seemed like to a small room, with four high, vine-covered walls. Strider laid Frodo down on a bed of moss and soft loam, removing the hobbit's weskit and shirt. The wound he exposed was deep and bleeding heavily, and dark veins had surfaced around it. He removed his warm cloak to cover the shivering hobbit. He opened the pouch at his side, but found only three leaves of athelas left to him. They had withered and dried, and so he resolved to boil them to salvage any virtue left in them.

"Sam," he said softly. In a moment, Sam was at his side, desperate to help his injured master. "Lend me one of your pots. I need you and the others to stay here and watch over Frodo. Do any of you carry flint and tinder?"

Sam nodded as he took his pack from his shoulder and detached one of his pots from it. He handed it to Strider, nodding. "I do."

"Good, get a fire going, Sam. I'll return shortly. Stay here."

Sam complied, not voicing his fear of another attack while they were alone. When Strider had gone, he turned to Merry and Pippin. "Help me find some wood and stones, if you will," he requested, and they set to work building a fire, making sure it would not create much smoke. Sam couldn't seem to stop glancing back worriedly at Frodo, who was still gasping for air and choking on pained sobs.

Once the precious dry branches they'd gathered had caught, he went and seated himself close to his master. "Mr. Frodo," he whispered soothingly. He took Frodo's cold left hand in his own warm one, and he flinched at the feel of it. Frodo's skin felt so lifeless, like he'd already...Sam could not so much as bear to think the word. "Mr. Frodo, can you hear me?" Merry and Pippin looked on with tears in their eyes at Sam, whose voice was cracking with sadness. Frodo responded only with a despondent look into Sam's hazel eyes, as if to say he was sorry. Sam looked back into Frodo's eyes, and restrained the cries of despair from bursting from his aching throat. Frodo's beautiful sapphire eyes were red-rimmed and bloodshot, the colours in them shone with unearthly light, like blue flame. Sam shook his head. "You're not givin' up," he said, brushing sweat-soaked curls from Frodo's brow. He lowered his voice to whisper. "I can't explain it, but something inside me's saying that you've got something more to do before...the end, and so do I. This ain't your time," he wept.

Pain assailed Frodo's body, and he shut his eyes against the bright light above him. The night was nearly dark enough save the moon and stars bearing down over him, but the fire burning next to him was like staring into the Sun. Strangely, it seemed that the black veil cast over the light and the world was the real source of the pain, though he was thankful for what he thought it to be doing. The pain became bearable again in a few moments, and he could open his eyes. Sam's gentle face was above him, and though he could hear his friends voice he could find no words. All he could do was look to Sam, for any amount of strength. Sam was giving it, working like mad to pass some of it on to Frodo, but it was beyond Frodo to reach it. He could feel the barrier between himself and the living world growing by the minute, as if a skin of cruel armour thickening around him. It was enclosing him, suffocating him. It was killing him.

The sound of running water caught Strider's sharp ears. He limped toward it, remembering the stream from his journey to Bree. Once he'd reached the water's edge he leant down and filled the pot to capacity. Even in the night he could see the dark tinge clouding the water, as blood dripped down from his side. Though he was growing dizzy, he knew that Frodo's hurt was worse and far more dangerous. Diligently, he got to his feet and started back to toward the glade.

Sam stood and reached for his sword as he heard the footsteps approaching, but relaxed when Strider emerged from the thicket at his right. "Put your blade away, Master Gamgee."he said, trying to catch his breath through clenched teeth. "I am no enemy of yours."

Sam now noticed the man's limp, which had worsened on his way back. Strider set the pot in the fire, keeping the handle safely away from the flames. "Strider, you're hurt," Sam said, concerned.

Strider smiled, but Sam saw the pain concealed beneath the gesture. "You have had a change of heart, Master Gamgee."

"You would have died saving him," Sam said quietly. "I'd trust anyone that'd do that."

"Thank you, Sam. Having your trust is greatly treasured." He dropped his voice, so that Sam did not hear it.

"It makes me feel much safer, not having you out for my blood." He took an old, soft cloth from his pack and unfolded it, then dipped it in the warm water.

"That won't help, will it?" Sam asked. "The water ain't even near boiled:"

"No, it isn't, but until the water is hot enough to clean the wound this will do to soothe the pain." He uncovered Frodo's maimed shoulder and dabbed around the injury gently. Frodo tried to pull away as Strider pressed the warm cloth into the wound itself, but Strider persisted, slipping a hand under Frodo's blood-stained shirt and rubbing his cold chest to assuage the pain. Frodo relaxed, and succumbed to Strider's touch. By the time Strider felt he had sufficiently calmed Frodo, the water was beginning to boil. He gathered the last of his athelas leaves and crushed them, then dropped them into the pot. A sweet aroma instantly filled the air, and the others who were unhurt suddenly felt less weary. Though Sam did his best to solace his friend, holding his hand near his own face, Frodo groaned though clenched teeth as Strider placed the steaming cloth over the stab-wound, letting it bleed freely.

"He'll bleed to death!" cried Sam.

Strider lifted the cloth slightly, and Sam saw that Frodo's blood had become marbled with a strange blackness. "This may serve to flush out some of the poison," said Strider. "And if he does die, then it will be a mercy for him to bleed to death rather than remain with this sickened blood flowing in his veins."

Though grief-stricken, Sam nodded in agreement as he brushed his hand over Frodo's cheek.

Once Frodo was used to the heat of the water, he quieted, and his breathing became easier. Weakened by loss of blood, he ceased to struggle when pained. When the blood flowed red again, Strider laid his hand over the wound. Several minutes passed, and, somehow, Frodo's wild, bloodshot eyes steadied. He even gave Sam's hand a little squeeze, which brought Sam an insurmountable wave of new hope. "Look! He's not hurting so bad anymore! What do you suppose..."

"Strider, of course! I never did doubt he could work such a miracle," exclaimed Merry, smiling.

"No, the leaf, mostly," Strider corrected good-naturedly. "And that will soon wear off, unfortunately. If you will, Sam, bathe that wound for me."

Sam nodded, obviously happy to comply. Strider was glad that the others had directed all their attention towards Frodo as he gingerly removed his leather jerkin and unbuttoned the doublet beneath it. The gash on his side looked worse than what was on Frodo's shoulder, but Strider could only imagine how bearing the Ring would worsen the effects he was beginning to feel. Also, he remembered the odd swelling on Frodo's chest, and how it had pained the hobbit so. He feared greatly that a shard of the blade had embedded itself within Frodo, but he realised that he could do nothing for it at present. They would have to hasten onward to Rivendell, and he and the hobbits would have to bear the toil, and Frodo would have to bear the delay.

Taking another clean cloth from his bag, he dipped it into the steaming water and applied it to his injury, brow knitting in pain. Distracted as he was, he did not notice Pippin's quiet approach.

"Oh!" gasped the young hobbit. "Strider, you're hurt." Pippin was confused. "Why aren't you as bad off as Frodo?"

"Sauron's evil was already at work in Frodo's body," Strider said, mentioning nothing of his suspicions.

Pippin glanced worriedly at his cousin, then leant down and picked up Strider's worn jerkin, studying it absently. "I don't know how you've managed to ignore that, running all this way, carrying Frodo and all. It must be quite painful."

Strider wet the cloth again. "I suppose I've learned to ignore it, after so many years...ouch." He winced as he touched the cloth to his injury. Pippin grinned.