Chapter Three: The Broken Blade

Sam snapped awake with the breaking of a twig nearby. Strider was approaching, and dawn had come and gone.

Sam yawned and rubbed his eyes sleepily, but then suddenly recalled all that had happened just that night past. He leapt up and flew to Frodo's side. His master's face was pale, his eyelids fluttering in sleep and his skin damp. His hand quickly found its way into that of his gardener.

Strider gently tore off the bandaging and exposed the wound in Frodo's shoulder.

"Oh, Eru," Sam whispered in surprise. The actual stab-mark was nearly closed up; the skin around it an angry color and splintered with frost. Strider stooped over the weakened hobbit and began to bind what was left with athelas.

"Strider?" Sam asked. "If it's nearly healed, why is he getting worse?"

Strider sighed, wrapping a clean rag around the mark. "The tip of the Nazgul's blade broke off when he stabbed Frodo. He aimed for his heart…"

Frodo suddenly roused and cried out hoarsely, gasping for breath. His eyes opened, and his once-blue eyes were a pale and livid luminescent green.

Sam put his weathered hand to Frodo's brow. His friend was sweating and yet ice-cold to the touch. Frodo whimpered weakly, still dreaming, and quailed under Sam's hand, seeming to calm, or perhaps becoming still out of fear. His eyes closed again, but his face and body were rigid and tense.

Strider continued. "He aimed for his heart. We were saved by sheer luck…but the tip is still there, working its way in. If it succeeds, he'll become a wraith like them."

Sam absorbed this unwillingly, tightening his hold gently on his master's hand.

The Ring still lay in his jacket pocket. Almost nonstop it taunted him now, asking, forcing him to do the unthinkable: to slip it on, to disappear, to claim it even if it was folly to do so. It was gaining control on him now; preying on his plain-hearted weakness.

It inflicted upon him a feeling of hopelessness, convincing him it would be better to have it discovered and be free of it. He had to fight it. He knew. He knew he had to, for Frodo's sake. And it was the love for his friend that had to keep him true. He knew that.

He hated It. He loathed It. With disgust he took It out and stuffed it into his vest pocket, desperate to put another layer between him and its evil.

A chill wind swept past the forlorn group. Rivendell was some days away. The Nazgul were nearer.

As the days wore on, Frodo improved a bit. One night as Strider checked his wound, Merry saw that it was entirely closed up; now it was just an angry white mark upon a reddened shoulder.

They plodded along the sodden path, their cloak hoods drawn up and the steady rain soaking into them. Frodo rode the pony, the raindrops streaming across his upturned face.

As they finally changed direction and stumbled into the obscurity of the brush, the rain lessened slightly and the treetops fragmented what little light the grey skies gave. Pippin led the way.

Without warning, the young hobbit yelled out and doubled back, knocking Merry over and nearly tripping Strider. Mud splashed up and hit the two cousins and the Ranger.

"Trolls!" Pippin cried, his face white but an odd twinkle in his eye. "Just there!"

"Sam, your sword, please," Strider said, peering ahead and holding his hand vaguely behind him in Sam's direction. Sam let go of the reins and shook his small sword from the makeshift sheath, handing the blade to the waiting hand.

But as he let go, he saw that the blade was partially eaten away. The silvery blade was barely left intact, with blackened and charred bits of it completely gone and the runes rendered unreadable. Sam frowned confusedly, wondering how on earth it could have happened.

"Stri--" he began, but the Ranger was off, lightly moving in the direction of the monstrosities, ignoring or not seeming to notice the maimed blade in his hand.

And from his direction came a sound that was most unexpected in that hour: laughter.

Strider stood at the feet of one of the beasts, a thin stick in one hand and Sam's sword in the other.

"Get up, old stone!" he laughed, bringing the stick hard down upon the knee of the squatting troll, and it splintered and broke against it.

All four of the hobbits cried out in surprise and fear. The pony reared slightly, startled, and Sam pulled him forward at a run. Frodo leaned forward and tightened his hold on the pony's mane. Sam met his eyes. To his relief, some of the ethereal glow in his master's gaze was gone.

As they got closer, Frodo laughed, a sound that was some comfort to all of them.

"Bilbo's trolls!" he cried, his eyes bright with mirth. "The very ones Gandalf caught with the rising sun!"

Sam grinned. "So they are, Mr. Frodo!" he said, relieved to hear his master speak again; he had been silent for days.

"Indeed," Strider said, smiling slightly. He extended the sword handle back toward Sam, and caught sight of it as he did.

"The blade…why, Sam!" he said with incredulity, pulling it back towards him and examining the eaten blade. "Swordfighting with one of them! All blades perish that pierce the dreadful King."

"That pierce…the King…what?" Sam was utterly confused. "What king?"

"The Lord of the Nazgul. The Witch-king. You crossed blades with him, and evidently you cut him…deeply."

With the last few words, his face took on an impressed air, admiring the neat work Sam had done. "You made him angry," he said. He tossed the blade back to Sam, and the hobbit caught it with his bare hands.

Sam stared at the blade in mild shock. He had only remembered being swept aside…not actually having done any damage.

"You made him angry," Strider's voice said again within his mind.

Would Frodo have been hurt if Sam hadn't moved? If…if he hadn't made him angry, would he have struck?

Should he have…stood his ground, protecting Frodo to his death? Had he overestimated his own skill in swordplay…been too bold…should he have stayed put…?

As he stared, lost in a moment of thought, his grip on the blade loosened and it slid through his slack fingers, and one of the sharp, blackened fragments cut across his palm.

He gasped in surprise and pain, and dropped the sword involuntarily. It fell silently to the soggy earth. He drew a sharp breath and bit his lip, clenching the cut hand into a tight fist.

"Sam, are you alright?" Merry asked, looking concernedly at the gardener.

"Fine…I'm fine. Cursed blade cut my hand," he said, pressing his fingers against the cut, and grinning at Merry, who returned the smile and continued on.

And then it hit again. Temptation.

Awful, pleading, coaxing, demanding temptation. He clenched his fists and laid them forcefully into his pockets.

Wrong thing to do.

For, of course, that was where it rested.

Resisting with all the will he could muster…

Voices.

Hissing, silky-smooth, tempting.

NO!

And as he pleaded with himself and with it…the Ring slipped onto his finger.

YAY for cliffhangers! Will be continued shortly.