Hero

Chapter 4

"Another Failure"

When Strider had finished tending his own wounds, he turned his attention back to Frodo, sending the others off to the few hours of rest left to them. In those few hours, the sky began to lighten very slightly, and birdsong gradually surrounded the grove. Though his eyes had grown tired and he could hardly uphold his head, he sat at Frodo's side through the entire night, bathing the little hobbit's hurt and, occasionally, his own. He'd kept a keen watch for danger, but as the dawn closed in on Middle-earth, his fear lessened and he allowed himself to lie down next to Frodo. Frodo's eyes were half-lidded with weariness, but he continued to gasp for air, quietly, feebly. Another wave of nausea and dizziness overcame him, and Strider felt as if he could not rise. Within mere seconds, he had drifted into a light sleep.

"They are coming for him..."

The crimson pool that surrounded Amras's corpse darkened, deepened. In Strider's arms lay Frodo, his wide eyes as milky orbs stared blankly at him, still pleading for a release from the suffering.

"They are here."

The growing daylight filtering through the dense canopy above Strider came as a shock to his eyes. Sweat was dripping in beads down his cheeks, and the coldness of it was sickening. He was surprised to find his doublet undone, and Pippin bent over him, gently wiping blood from his side. He sat up, with some difficulty.

"Pippin, what are you doing?" he asked, his voice coming out more weakly than he'd expected.

"Well, I suppose that someone must take care of the caretaker every now and again," he whispered. He saw Strider glance towards Frodo. "He's been sleeping right peacefully, I'd say. But, if I may be so bold-"

Merry, who had only just risen, rolled his eyes. "You've never needed anyone's permission before."

Pippin continued, ignoring Merry. "Every time you'd shift the slightest bit away he'd get restless. I think he likes you." Pippin gestured to Sam. "Now, him - he's been tossing and turning all night. Can't sleep when his Frodo's hurt, that Sam."

Sam was crouched by the fire, carefully tending the small flames back to a blaze. "I went and got more water. I figured Mr. Strider lost enough rest already."

"Thank you, Sam," said Strider as he got to his feet. He took a deep steadying breath, trying to ignore his loss of energy. Carefully, he bent down and brushed his hand over Frodo's cool, damp brow. Frodo woke slowly, and his reddened eyes stayed half-lidded. Sam already had the water bubbling, and Strider bathed Frodo's shoulder thoroughly. As he gently prodded the area with his fingertips, he noticed slight swelling nearer to the right side of Frodo's breast. Using only the pads of his thumbs, Strider pressed lightly upon Frodo's skin to see if he could find what had caused it. Frodo moaned in pain at this pressure, eyes widening hysterically. Strider immediately pulled away, laying a hand upon Frodo's brow. "Hush, Frodo," he soothed. "Take a deep breath." Frodo turned his head this way and that, as if trying to find more contact from Strider's hand

He turned to look at the others. Merry and Pippin were trying to reassure poor Sam, whose eyes were brimming with tears. They all looked tired and hungry, and Strider regretted having to push them onward. "Come," he said, his voice as clear as he could make it. "We shall have to go on soon." From his satchel he took the last of his apples, and gave three of them to the hobbits. When Sam saw Strider bite into the fourth, he immediately felt spiteful. He'd almost expected Strider to give it to Frodo. He was about to help Frodo eat the apple Strider had thrown to him, when suddenly, the man bent down and gently opened Frodo's mouth. Sam nearly gasped when Strider pressed his lips to Frodo's. He looked to Merry, who was viewing this strange spectacle with equal confusion. However, Pippin was smiling admiringly.

"Well that makes sense," said Pippin, seeing Sam and Merry's disapproving reaction. "I would have thought that you of all hobbits, Sam, would have seen a mother bird feeding her young."

Sam understood, then. Frodo looked too delirious to move a muscle, and he might have choked trying to eat a hard piece of apple. Strider wasn't all that bad, come to think of it. Resourceful, at the least.

Merry still seemed bemused. "Are you suggesting that Strider's a mother bird and Frodo's his baby? You're out of your bloody mind, Pip."

Strider continued until the apple was half eaten, and took a single bite for himself, to knock the edge off his hunger. He took the last clean rag left in his haversack and soaked it in the clean water Sam had brought, then wrapped the remainder of the apple in it.

Merry and Pippin gathered all their gear and Sam extinguished the fire, watching as Strider carefully readied Frodo for another long march held in his arms.

"Will yoube alright?"asked Sam, seeing Strider involuntarily clutch at the gash on his side.

He managed a smile. "If I'm not dead, I'll tell you that I'm well."Holding his breath to keep from voicing the cold pain in his side, Strider picked up Frodo and rose to his feet. Once he'd started walking, the pain became easier, or else had gone numb, but either helped him to keep a quick gait. The hobbits had no trouble keeping up today, after having rested and eaten, and they were driven by need love for Frodo.

The day passed quickly, driven onward by lack of time, no doubt. By evening, Strider was fairly surprised at the hobbits' lack of complaint. Knowing that they were growing hungry and surpassingly weary, he slowed and looked around for a place they might rest.

Once having caught his breath, Pippin moved forward with unquenchable curiosity, for, though they climbed steadily upward through the hilly terrain, the woodland had grown thicker and darker. Sam and Strider both saw the look on Merry's face that denoted that he had a bad feeling about something. He knew Pippin so well, that he always seemed to anticipate his other half's predicaments. Tension mounted in an odd manner, with the silence becoming increasingly ominous. Strider was about to call out for Pippin to come back, when a loud yelp of fear made everyone start.

Strider quickly got a better hold on Frodo and ran forward, recognising Pippin's voice immediately. The cry led him to a dark glade, and Pippin, fleeing from some terror, collided heavily with his legs and held on as if for his life. Reflexively, Strider's hand was ready upon his sword, but upon identifying the young hobbit's assailant he burst into laughter. The others followed closely behind him, but had not noticed yet what had amused there guide so.

Wordlessly, the Dunedain laid Frodo's body on the ground, where the halfling blended as blue-green shadows cast by the fading daylight on the leafy ceiling dappled and played upon his pale features. Just as the others entered the glade and became stricken, as Pippin had, Strider took a stick from the ground and gave the figure nearest him a sound rap on the head. The great troll did not move, but only sat there, expression captured in a moment of surprise, graven in stone.

After this display, everyone allowed themselves a little nervous laughter, even Pippin, who still seemed a bit shaken. Strider had meant to begin preparing a bit of food for the hobbits, but a sudden chill assailed him. The chill soon became an odd, sickening dizziness, and the dizziness became blindness, and then he felt nothing.

Strider knew not how long it was until he woke. Pippin and Merry were bent over him, their faces pictures of fright. "Sam! Sam, he's awake!" Pippin yelled happily. Strider tried to sit up, and soon found a hobbit behind each of his shoulders, helping him.

"We were worried!" Merry said, seeming very relieved. "You went deathly pale, and then you just..."

"Fell over," added a very soft, but very familiar voice.

Strider looked, and there was Frodo, still sickly and prone upon the ground, but awake, and capable of speech. Strider thought he'd never feel so thankful again. "Frodo!" he cried. "When did you find it in you to wake?"

"It's a wonder," said Sam. "I found some spare food I'd brought from Bree, and cooked it up for supper, as I didn't want it going bad, and we figured you and Mr. Frodo would need a bit of victuals, in your states. And would you believe, he comes to soon as he can smell it!"

"It's no mystery, really," Pippin said, looking at Strider. "Everybody knows food will cure a hobbit better than anything will."

Soon after, Sam had finished the cooking, and they all ate as they hadn't in a while. Frodo even managed to take a bit of the stew Sam had concocted, slouched in Strider's lap, as he could not keep himself upright. The others had seated themselves in a small circle on the other side of the fire, and so Strider could converse quietly with Frodo, keeping him conscious.

"Please don't tell Sam," Frodo began. "But I think I may have gone blind. I can see nothing, but for a faint glow about you."

Strider understood immediately, but felt it appropriate to press the matter. "Why do you look toward us when you speak, if you cannot see where we are?"

"I have another sense, I think." Frodo sounded as if he was losing his breath again, and his voice grew quieter. "But it's wrong somehow. I didn't have it before, and I feel afraid to use it. It doesn't feel quite natural."

"You're not going blind, Frodo," Strider assured him, helping him to finish the last of the stew. "But the Shadow has come over your eyes. I fear only the Lord Elrond can heal you now."

"But why is it I can see you?" he asked, almost inaudibly. "Why do I see you as light?"

"It may be that the blood of the elves is still in my veins, however slight. Listen to me Frodo, you're beginning to see as they see, to sense as they sense. That is what you must fight, if you can." Frodo was nearly unconscious again, but Strider kept speaking, hoping to be heard. "You know who, and what you are Frodo. And if that is not enough, then I know you. You are already a hero in my eyes, Frodo, no matter what happens after this." He held Frodo closer still, and slipped a hand into the Halfling's shirt and laid it upon the cut, barely able to endure the cold of the poison gathered about it. "Remember who you are, Frodo. It is all that can now protect you, now. Remember who you are."

"Aragorn," Frodo said quietly, briefly grasping at the hem of Strider's jerkin. Then, his fingers went limp and he relaxed entirely into Strider's embrace.

Carefully, Aragorn laid Frodo back onto the pallet, praying to the Valar that the hobbit would sleep with no trouble, and that he would wake again, come morning.

An hour passed, and all light faded from the distant horizon. The glow of the fire was isolated to the glade; beyond that, all was dark. Strider could feel his condition worsening, but he kept a vigilant watch while the hobbits, who had cared for him, took some rest. Frodo had fallen into a fitful sleep, sometime shivering with cold, sometimes murmuring fearfully. But, when this would happen, Strider would rise and limp over from his post, and lay his hands upon the wound and upon Frodo's brow. This seemed to help less every time, for Frodo's health was waning, and Strider, too, was beginning to feel the cold.

Late in the night, sometime near the chilled dawn, Strider began to doze. The sickness was creeping upon him again: his eyes were dimming and his breathing was troubled. Then, with no warning, a scream like one out of hell rent the still air. Strider leapt to his feet and drew his sword, prepared to die defending the hobbits if there was another attack. He looked to see Sam, Merry, and Pippin rising as well, searching the darkness for the source of the sound. Strider bothered the embers until the fire had caught again, and threw some dry kindling atop to set the blaze. Just before the glade was lit, the unearthly scream came again, though it was now softer, weaker. It was Sam who first realised what the sound came from. Strider's eyes followed him to Frodo, whose eyes were wide open, but unseeing, their deep azure reduced to a pale blue, as if they had turned to ice. On his white face a cold sweat had beaded, dampening his curls and making them cling to his brow. He was practically writhing upon the ground from pain, clawing at his left shoulder as if to rip the poison from his body. Strider joined Sam at his side, and took hold of Frodo's arms, restraining him. Frodo struggled frantically, but Strider kept a firm hold. It seemed to need an eternity before Frodo lay still. Strider left his side for a moment, tired, and barely able to think on what was to be done next. Then, Frodo cried out again, louder, almost as if he was calling for someone. He was answered.

Not far away, the eerie moaning of the Riders could be heard, as if brought to their ears on a foul wind. Frodo could hear them, too, and he turned his head to and fro as if he heard words that the others could not catch. Strider gathered several broken limbs and set them alight, giving one to Pippin and one to Merry, and quickly searching the surrounding brush using his own. Sam leant down, stroking his master's brow feverishly. "Look, Frodo,"he said, glancing upward. "It's Mr. Bilbo's trolls." Frodo looked not to hear him, but cast a desperate gaze upon his friend, begging for help. Sam laid his palm across Frodo's chilled skin. He turned to Strider, who was clutching his side while preparing the others for an attack. "He's goin' cold!" Sam exclaimed, near tears.

Pippin and Merry stood around Frodo as well, ready to protect him. Pippin looked to Strider, frightened. "Is he going to die?"

Strider saw Sam and Merry cringe as Pippin voiced their worst fears, but told them the truth of the matter. "He is passing into the Shadow-world. He'll soon become a Wraith like them."

As he said this, another shrill cry of Frodo's gained an answer out of the darkness, and deep forest shadow began to move. The air was vibrating.

"They're close," Merry said, looking around, expecting to see the tall, black figures at any moment. Pippin drew closer to his older cousin, trembling at his words.

Strider decided then that they must move onward that night. The Nine had nearly found them out, and he was in no condition to protect the hobbits. But something would have to be done before Frodo could move on, and he was without supplies. "Sam," he called, and Sam tore himself reluctantly from Frodo, letting go of his master's hand with a quiet prayer. "Do you know the athelas plant?" he asked urgently, recalling that Sam enjoyed gardening.

"Athelas?" Sam mimicked, clearly at a loss.

Strider thought quickly, though his frustration was growing. "Kingsfoil," he prompted, remembering the name some knew the plant by in Bree.

"Kingsfoil!" said Sam, understanding. "Aye, it's a weed."

Strider took no time to explain that this plant was far from being a weed. "It may help to slow the poison. Come!" He thrust a torch into Sam's hand and led him into the night.

Sam's stomach churned with fear as he stepped out of the thicket, where the brush was too dense for his torch to provide enough light, so he stayed close to Strider as he searched for the uncommon weed he had spoken of. Vigilant, he pressed on, reminding himself that it was for Frodo.

Aragorn felt as if he'd found a mountain of gold as he ran across a large cluster of athelas, winding around the base of a thorn-bush. Drawing out his hunting knife, he cut a few sprigs, and was about to call to Sam, when sharp, cold steel touched his neck.

For a split second, he knew his life to be over, and he made to yell to Sam to run back to camp, but he realised that he felt none of the deathly air that gathered about the Wraiths, but a pleasant sensation, that made him think of home.

"What's this?" rang the silver-toned voice. "A ranger, caught off guard?"

His fortunes looked up as he did, to find an Elf-maiden staring down at him, sporting a half-smile made for mischief. He stood as quickly as he was able and embraced Arwen. As they broke away, she looked down to her hand, which she's rested on his side, and gasped. She rubbed the cold blackened blood between her fingers and looked to her lover, eyes agleam with fear. Aragorn only shook his head. "Go," he told her.

Minutes later, Strider listened intently as the quickening thrum of Asfaloth's hooves receded into the dimness. Somewhere nearby, the howl of a Rider sounder, and he felt his heart bleed for Frodo and his love. He feared they might not reach Rivendell.

"What are you doing?" raged Sam, horrified at being so suddenly separated from his master. "Those Wraiths are still out there!"

Strider took a moment, then turned and gathered the hobbits to him as the haunting sounds drew closer. "If any of us can protect Frodo, she can, Sam. Light more torches, quickly!"

Rustles began in the bushes, and soon a cold fog rolled over the ground. Blood spilt from the cut on Aragorn's side with each beat of his heart, and the night grew darker. Though sounds were becoming fainter, Aragorn could hear Pippin crying softly now. He mustered his remaining strength and will as a black horse stepped into the glen, and covered the hobbits with his body. The remaining four spectres emerged from the forest beyond, and they raised their blades, ready to kill.

"Run," Aragorn said softly. "Don't stop."

"But-" came Pippin's frightened voice.

"Go!" Aragorn roared. A Rider made to go after the halflings as they fled, but Aragorn took up a brand and his blade, wielding both before the Wraith, and it's steed reared upward, whinnying frantically. One heavy hoof caught Aragorn's shoulder, and he was thrown backward with a cry. Desperately trying to stand, he encountered a sharp pain in the back of his thigh. Gasping, he withdrew part of a splintered branch and threw it aside.

He looked up. Towering over him was the Witchking, blade drawn back to strike, and take for a prize the last King of Men, the last man Sauron feared.

They hated one another in that instant; Aragorn and the Lord of the Nine. Aragorn was the one King that Sauron would rather have beneath his power that he, and he was jealous of this. Or perhaps he was reminded of what he once had been, high and noble...pure. And the Witchking had been the one to stab Frodo. Frodo, who Aragorn had grown to love more than his own life. Now there was nothing Aragorn could do to avenge this.

Aragorn tightened his fingers around his blade and shut his eyes. But, just before falling into oblivion, he thought he heard the beating of hooves on the ground, the falls of lightly running feet. Faintly now came the angry cry of a Nazgûl, and through his closed eyes he saw a final burst of silver light.