Disclaimer: Not mine, Tolkien's. And rightfully so. All characters, locations, some of the events, and such are his property; the interpretation of it is my own.

Suilad, everyone! Well, I'm back with yet another story. Hope you all enjoy it as much as you did the last one, Underneath the Mallorn Tree. The reviews were so kind and encouraging. Thanks again, everyone! Hope you enjoy my next attempt.

Chapter One: Ambush

"Back, you devils!"

As he sprang forward involuntarily, flashing his small sword threateningly, his will kept firm, but his small stature wavered. A long slender dagger emerged from the towering shroud before him and swept him roughly aside with, seemingly, no more effort than if he were made of thin air.

He landed hard, skidding across gravelly rocks on his hands and knees, the eroded ruins of the ancient stone arches scraping away fabric and skin. Sam slid to a stop against a mossy pillar, his small sword under him and blood on his hands.

A sharp, ringing clang echoed in the gloom and then a twin pair of whimpers. Merry came rolling toward Sam, his cloak wrapped around him multiple times. Sam shook his head blearily, putting a hand to his forehead and feeling a knot that had already began to form beneath his curls. The panic on Merry's face frightened him, as the younger hobbit mouthed soundlessly, pointing towards the cloaked terrors nearby.

Pippin was getting to his feet unsteadily a few paces away, gravel embedded in the weave of his cloak. Sam leaped up, his head spinning, but he ignored it for the moment; there were more pressing matters to deal with.

Where was Strider?

Sam's heart turned over as a terrified cry reached his ears.

"Sam!"

"I'm comin', Mr. Frodo!"

He sprinted across the stone toward the source of the cry. He could not see his master amid the towers of black shroud.

He glanced back hurriedly, panicking, seeing his sword useless and somewhat blackened yards away. Too far away. He had to act now.

He felt frantically upon himself and his back, and his hand grasped cold metal. He tore it free, whatever it was; he didn't have time to look. He charged with a yell and delivered a solid swing into the nearest wraith.

The pan bounced back with a deafening metallic crash, and the metal legplates of the enemy had resisted the blow. Once again he was swept aside, this time by a manacled hand. He landed hard on his side. His heart was beating quickly and painfully within his chest, and tears of frustration pricked at the corners of his eyes.

And then it happened. Sam saw a flash of silver hurtling towards the feet of one of the Nazgul. A tearing, horrible shriek rang out, and Sam cast himself upon the ground once more, clapping his hands over his ears. It was not enough. The shriek was in his mind, crying shrilly and chilling him to the bone.

He saw as if in a dream, a mighty arm draw back and thrust forward. And as he let go of his own ears, an awful, pained cry seemed to issue from far away, though somehow Sam knew it came from the prostrate figure in the center of the ambush.

The gardener was nearly knocked over again in his frozen grief as a tall figure swept pas him and firelight blinded him.

Strider!

The circle of darkest night dispersed. Strider's torch swung about, as he grunted with each effort, catching on the creatures' robes and letting them feel the wrath of the broken hilt and blade shard of Narsil.

Sam frantically looked for his master. He felt about in the darkness, the firelight flickering on the cracked flagstones. Then he saw it.

A rippling shadow, as that of a cloak in the wind, cast upon the uneven ground, but Sam himself was not the source of it; nor was anyone else close enough.

"Mr. Frodo, where are you?" he cried.

He felt about. A touch like fabric met his hand, though he could see nothing but the grey stone, and when he grasped at it, it gave to his fingers.

"Frodo! Mr. Frodo!"

His hands, searching vainly for his friend, waved about slowly in the air. And then without warning, trembling fingers tightened around his own. Sam held onto them for dear life, looking around blindly. And suddenly Frodo was there, tangible, flat on his back on the cold stone ground. As he appeared, he cried out hoarsely, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes and his face sharply contorted in pain.

He looked at his gardener with great effort; Sam was bending anxiously over him. A glint of gold flashed through the chilled air from Frodo's right hand and onto the ground.

"Oh, Sam."

Sam squeezed Frodo's hand gently. Oh, but it's as cold as ice, he thought, rubbing the hand of his friend softly with calloused fingers, trying in vain to warm him up. He drew the hand near his face and blew on it, wrapping it in a fold of his cloak.

Frodo cried out again, and grasped at the cloak fabric covering his left shoulder, which Sam had not noticed was soaked with dark blood. A ragged hole pierced cloak, vest, and flesh. Sam's stomach clenched at the sight.

"Strider!"

The Ranger rushed over and bent over the hobbit anxiously, pulling back the fabric and tearing it slightly with his strong hands to expose the wound. He murmured to himself, gently replacing the cloth back over it and stood back up, his dark eyes flicking around upon the stone.

Frodo sat up slightly, supporting his weight on his right elbow. He sat all the way up, and put a trembling, deathly white hand to his left shoulder, wincing a little as he did. He drew it away, and wet and livid upon his hands was his own red blood intermingled with black.

He looked up at Sam as Strider examined the ground. Sam gasped. Beneath the pupil of both his friend's eyes was a crescent of livid, almost glowing green. The lids were rimmed with red.

Strider was running one long finger alone the flat edge of a blackened and blood-spattered dagger. He brought the tip close to his face, examining it with one closed eye.

"A Morgul blade," he said, blandly and monotonously, as if he could hardly believe it. "He's been stabbed by a Morgul blade."

With a look of desperation and disgust mingled together, he threw the dagger from him. But even as if fell, the blade dissolved and drifted away as a fine black dust carried by the chilly western wind. The hilt clattered on the mossy flagstones.

"He needs Elvish medicine. I cannot heal this wound alone," he said, helping Frodo to his feet, but the wounded hobbit faltered. As his knees buckled, Sam caught him, drawing his master's good arm across his own shoulders and holding his hand tightly. With his free hand he supported his friend, holding him up from under Frodo's arm.

Suddenly Frodo cried, "Where is it? I've dropped it. It's on the ground somewhere…"

Merry knelt, peering beneath the brush, shifting so that the firelight might illuminate what he was looking for. Suddenly a glint of gold shone out, and Merry grabbed at it, but hastily let it fall again with a shout of surprise. The Ring fell, lightly clinging against the flagstones. Frodo flinched, relinquishing Sam's hand for a moment to grasp at the wound.

"It's hot!" Merry cried, exposing a livid scald on his palm. "As burning hot as anything."

He tentatively touched the flaming band of gold with one finger, then he pinched a fold of his cloak to lift it, and looked to Frodo.

Frodo looked at it with a pained expression on his face. Slowly he extended his hand to receive it from his cousin. It was apparent that he was loath to reclaim the dreaded thing.

Sam looked at his master and bit his lip, his heart moved with pity.

"I will carry it for him."

Frodo's hand dropped once more to his side, and Sam felt some of the tension leave his master's body, and he slumped into Sam's hold once again.

The gardener stared at the thing, a seemingly innocent band of glittering gold, dread and fear striking into his heart as he watched. Strider watched him with an expression that was hard to read. Sam glanced at his master, whose ethereal glowing eyes were gazing at him with mingled relief and gratitude, but also something else…was it suspicion? Sam couldn't quite tell.

To be continued…