This chapter was largely written during school, during English class, when we had a substitute for 2 solid weeks. Plenty of time to get creative juices flowing...I was just too excited about this one to NOT post it. Well, I hope you enjoy it...it takes up roughly 12 pages of notebook!

Chapter Five: Flight to Brunien

"Sam! Pippin! Get down!"

Sam felt Strider's wide hand push him down by the top of his curly head. Down into the brush he sank, the branches scraping against his cheek.

Strider crept beside him, and spoke in a hissing and quiet whisper, that was somehow still gentle.

"They're getting closer. They'll pass right by us if our plan goes well. They'll follow Frodo, because, as Gandalf said, 'they are quick, but none too swift!'"

Sam turned his head to look at the Ranger.

"If all goes well," he faltered for a moment. "Frodo's the bait. The Ring resides with you. They'll follow him and pass us by."

He met the hobbit's eyes.

"You've resisted bravely thus far. All I ask is that whatever you do…do not put that thing on. It's especially important right now, in this moment."

The odd and hurt look that came into Sam's countenance caused him to revise what he'd said.

"I'm not questioning your honesty, or intelligence, Master Gamgee. I know you'd never put it on. Just keep strong. You've fought bravely."

Sam nodded and swallowed hard. The anger he felt for the danger that his master was in was subsiding, to be replaced by something else…he had never felt so guilty in his life. They didn't know. They didn't.

Suddenly the whistling shriek pierced the night once more. Heartrending and chill it was, and cast fear into all who heard it. Far away, in the opposite direction, a panicked whinny echoed but louder still was the pained yell that came with it.

"Frodo!" Sam cried out involuntarily, quickly clapping his hand over his mouth and cowering into the brush. He could feel guilty later. Right now he had a tremendous fate resting on his own strength, until the danger galloped by and away.

The hoofbeats were closer now.

Merry was huddled in his cloak beside Sam. He looked at the gardener, who was lost in thought. A shiver went quickly through the young Ring-bearer and then he was still again.

The approaching hoofs could be felt faintly in the ground, reverberating as they fell. The chinking and clinking of the black horses' iron fittings…

The whistle of a cloak whipping about in flight…

Sam felt sick. He swallowed hard, trembling slightly, his face contorted with anxiety. He glanced at the elven lord near him.

Glorfindel was pale, sheathing a small burning brand with his hand, a dead torch in his lap. Strider sat, knees drawn to chest, his grey eyes cold and fearful beneath his hood.

And suddenly the Nazgul were upon them.

On the beaten road, they thundered by, five Ringwraiths and their steeds, just a few strides away from the fearful watch of the true Bearer they sought.

And then, beyond hope…they were gone.

Gone.

All the strength went out of Sam in his relief, and he slumped on his side, eyes closing, the pent-in breath exhaling from him.

"Sam!" Pippin cried. "We have to move!"

With a jolt Sam thought of Frodo, not so far ahead, and at the mercy of the Black Riders. Unaware of how close they were. And who knew how much worse he had become in the past hours.

He leapt up and out of the brush. Strider and Glorfindel were running and were already far ahead, their torches lit and burning brightly. Sam flew after them, Merry close behind him, and Pippin leading the pony at great speed. Sam could see the hoof prints, heavy in the sodden road, grow ever clearer and deeper as they went.

The rush of water faintly reached his ears, and Sam quickened his pace. Just ahead…

For a moment, the Ring taunted him half-heartedly, asking him to put it on, to distract the devils from his master.

The group crashed onto the pebbles of the shore.

There they were, fording the wide river, the foam lapping to their horse's metal anklets; they were undeterred, seemingly, by the rushing water.

Sam could faintly hear a voice above the rushing of the water. And suddenly he could see the white horse through the reeling mist. Upon it was a small figure, very nearly as pale as the steed it rode, upon the opposite shore.

"Frodo!" Sam yelled fiercely, but it was lost in the noise and confusion.

Suddenly the Nazgul stopped their cruel advance. But cold shrill laughter echoed in the dying trees.

"Come back! Come back! To Mordor we will take you," the evil voices hissed with mirth.

Sam's heart was beating painfully. He so badly wanted to cross the river, to help his master. He was there, just out of reach…if he could just…

Glorfindel and Strider seemed to have no such intention, though the fear on their faces showed plainly. They stood still as stone, their torches flickering, just as helpless as Sam felt.

Suddenly he saw the horse rear. Frodo still clung to him, and he drew his small sword and raised it above him with great effort.

His voice was weak but clear, and straining his ear, Sam heard him as the horse came back down.

"By Elbereth and Luthien the fair," he cried above the din. "You shall have neither the Ring nor me!"

Suddenly, if it was possible, the rushing of the water grew louder and stronger to an almost deafening clamor. Sam snapped his head to the right and saw a plumed cavalry of waves of tremendous height at a distance.

Merry and Pippin cried out in perfect synch, knocking into Sam as they rushed forward, and they stood stock-still.

"Frodo! Get back!" Aragorn bellowed at the top of his voice, but it was not loud enough. He and Glorfindel ran closer to the water, brandishing their bright torches and standing their ground, tall and terrible, beyond all hope.

The flood crashed down the river and came into clear view, coming to such a terrible height that Frodo and the great white horse disappeared behind the thick veil of mist that preceded it.

The wraiths were thrown into a panic. Several of them attempted to come back to the nearer shore where the stricken group watched, but Strider and Glorfindel leapt forth with their blazing brands, discouraging the raven horses.

"Caught between fire and water!" Glorfindel cried, his golden hair whipping him about the face as it flew in the rushing mist.

The Nazgul pulled back, and madness took the black steeds, and they plunged headlong into the flood and were overtaken. A terrible, combined shriek of defeat pierced the chill air and was muffled as the floodwaters swept them away.

Suddenly Sam felt as if a fist that had been clenched about his heart released, and suddenly he could breathe again. Any lingering pulls of temptation left him.

He felt whole…more so than he had since he first took the Ring upon himself.

Aragorn and Glorfindel waited a moment, and then crashed forward into the agitated water, which had lessened to a height that lapped against them to the tops of their leather boots.

Without even pausing to consider, the three hobbits waded in after them. Sam tried to run, but at the center, the water came up to his waist and made him sluggish. Pippin stumbled and went in up to his neck before they all came staggering out of the icy water and onto shore. Glorfindel took Asphaloth by the reins and lead him away from the soaked, facedown figure that lay sprawled on the sodden riverbank. The horse had been nuzzling him.

Sam rushed toward the pathetic heap that was his master, his knees scraping against the river-stones as he fell upon his knees beside him. He rolled Frodo over gently until he came face-up and immediately wished he hadn't.

His master was deathly white, with dark circles under his eyes, and darkish lips that were slightly agape. His eyes were closed.

Merry and Pippin came skidding beside him and had nearly the same reaction. Strider bent over the sprawled hobbit, listening for breath and heartbeat…finally, he lifted him slowly from the ground and stood up, grasping him securely.

"We make for Rivendell," he said finally, his face set, but his eyes bright and voice weak. He said it to no one in particular. "Lord Elrond may yet be able to bring him back."

"Bring him back!" Merry cried, voicing what Sam himself was thinking, but was too stricken to say. "But surely he isn't…he's not…" He faltered, tripping over his own words as he laid eyes on his fallen cousin.

"I could be wrong," Strider said to himself. "I'm not a healer…"

He turned about and walked forlornly away.

Sam sat still upon his knees, his hands lax and laid palm-up in his lap, staring unseeing before him.

He was rendered motionless for a few long moments, too shaken by guilt and grief to even see beyond his own mind.

When the weary elven-lord finally left the small room, he found no one about but a light-haired halfling, dirty and wet-clothed, asleep upon a stone bench beside the door. His hand covered his eyes from the grey light of dawn, and he snored quietly and fitfully.

Elrond knelt beside him, and slowly moved the hobbit's hand from his face. His closed eyes twitched slightly and he murmured something, frowning slightly. Elrond put a hand on his shoulder and gently tried to rouse him. The halfling blearily began to open his eyes, and murmured, "Mr. Frodo?" slurring the words in sleep.

The lord stopped suddenly. This had to be the servant of the wounded hobbit he had just tended to…the Ringbearer.

Sam blinked several times and came into focus. A dark-haired elf kneeled before him with a hand on his shoulder. With a start he sat up, startling the elven-lord.

"I am Elrond, master of Rivendell," he said softly. Sam fumbled to his feet and bowed deeply. Elrond lifted the hobbit's chin up.

"Your friend has returned. He's sleeping just inside the room there. I've convinced him to remain, but I'm not certain how he will fare. For now he is very much alive."

He led the halfling into the room. Sam broke free and ran to the bedside, sitting on the edge of the bed and taking his master's hand in both of his.

Carefully he watched his master. Almost imperceptibly his chest rose and fell. His face was slightly rosy again. The furrows in his brow were eased.

And above all, the hand he held, while still cold, was ice no longer, and ever so slightly tightened about Sam's warm fingers. Sam slowly put his head facedown on the cool sheet beside him, and he wept.

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