Every Man for Himself
Disclaimer: Don't own Lord of the Rings. Am not making a profit out of this.
Chapter 7: Searching for Answers
4 May 3019 – Morning
"Meriadoc Brandybuck you are not getting out of that bed!"
If the circumstances hadn't been so dire, Aragorn might have smiled to hear Pippin's light voice (now sounding surprisingly stern) piping through the walls. The Man shook his head and knocked on the door. For a moment there was silence from within before he found his eyebrows rising higher and higher at the cacophony of noise he heard. Stray squawks and yelps resonated about the apartment as he could only imagine the two cousins were wrestling. At last, the door opened, and a suspiciously tousled Pippin looked up at him with the most innocent expression Aragorn had ever witnessed. The King wisely opted to not question the Took, and went straight to Merry's bed. Even before he had formed the words, the bed-ridden hobbit answered him with all the resolute his stubborn self possessed.
"I feel fine."
"Indeed?" said Aragorn. "Let us determine if you actually are fine. I have recently learnt that in terms of health, hobbits seem to lack in accurate self-judgement."
"Honestly," protested Merry. "I feel perfectly fine!"
But Aragorn would not be swayed. He felt the hobbit's temperature, noting that he was a tad over-warm. But that was probably due to whatever had occurred before the King had been permitted entrance to the room. He felt Merry's pulse, examined his eyes, felt his hands and asked him to rotate his wrists, elbows and shoulders slowly in both directions.
"You seem to be fairing well enough at present," concluded Aragorn. He quickly quelled Merry with a stern frown as the hobbit moved to get out of bed. "However," he continued. "I do not want you to overtax yourself. You are not to join in the search today."
Frodo could not begin to fathom how he had managed to fall asleep. But he awoke feeling decidedly stiff, uncomfortable, sore and very cold – it turned out that a part of him was still lying in that puddle.
For a few moments he lay in stillness as his mind went over the events of the previous night. He could barely believe it had all happened. He would still think he was dreaming if not for the violent shiver that wracked his form. He stifled a groan at the fleeting flare of general pain before he contemplated shifting himself out of the offending puddle. Much to his disappointment (and mild disgust), the effort left him panting in fatigue. But at least he was no longer getting progressively more soaked by the minute.
He allowed himself a small smile of victory for accomplishing this – though it was brief. Outside, a cloud shifted and a rather strong beam of sunlight shot through a previously undetected window, high up in the wall closest to him. This beat on his face with an unpleasant intensity of heat and light. After spending so long in the dark, his eyes were thoroughly assaulted.
Now, he did groan. He could have screamed out in the frustration of it all. Why could he never just be left in peace? If it was not one thing giving him grief, it was another. In the Shire he was always gossiped about – hobbits asking him why did he live alone? Why had he moved in with Bilbo all those years ago? Why wasn't he married?
Though the endless stream of gossip and questions had always vexed him, he felt that now he would be prepared to sacrifice almost anything he owned to exchange what he was suffering now for that. His eyes closed for a moment, so heavy were they with a sudden grief and despair. He just wanted to go back home. Was that too much to ask for?
While part of him mellowed in self-pity, another part was seething in indignation and barely concealed fury. He still didn't know exactly what it was these Men wanted him for, but he did not doubt that it was for no good purpose. In that case, he might do well to think of an escape plan…
To say the least, Faramir was shocked as Aragorn recounted to him the events of the previous night. The Steward could hardly believe that such corruption still existed in Minas Tirith. Did the city not now hold two victories against Mordor? Had not the Men of Gondor and its allies just united together to thwart the Enemy? Had they not succeeded in bringing down the Lord of the Rings? If so much good had been done, then how could the same people who had done it still commit such evil? These were supposed to be days of peace!
As Aragorn gave his orders to Faramir, the Steward bowed and left to gather the more trustworthy soldiers in the service of Gondor. He agreed with his Lord that word of the missing hobbit could not be allowed to travel too far. If it turned out that so many of the people were indeed corrupted as such, they would not hesitate to use the situation to their advantage.
Spurred by this new thought, Faramir quickened his steps.
"I like the look o' this," said Reynard. He was holding a heavy wooden cane. It wasn't long enough for him to use as a walking stick, but it was the perfect size for beating small halfling sized backs.
"Check this out," said Desmond. From the old bag he drew out a small glass bottle containing a clear liquid. Reynard put the cane down and took the bottle in his hand, holding it up to the light streaming in from the window above the kitchen sink.
"Wha' is it?" he asked.
"A clever little potion I got from ol' Valron," said Desmond. "A whiff o' this stuff and yer out like a candle in the wind. Should come in handy if the little 'un gets too difficult."
Reynard grinned and put the bottle down on the table where he currently sat. He rummaged some more in the bag before he pulled out a carefully covered jar with an odd looking ooze inside of it. The ooze was semitransparent with a strange yellow-green tinge to it. He looked at it closer, pulling a face of revulsion.
"What's that?" he asked.
"Ah," said Desmond. "Yeh wanna be careful wi' that. I managed ta scam it off one o' them Haradrim as is hidin' out at the bottom of Mavril's inn. The bloke said it was a mix of some o' the most potent toxins in the world. It's got the venom of snakes, spiders, rats and those scorpion things they get down south. Also got plenty of poisonous plants mixed up in it. I know belladonna's one of 'em."
"What did yeh get it for?" asked Reynard. "We're not gonna kill the halflin' are we?"
"Not if we can help it," said Desmond. "This stuff works real slow. The bloke said some o' the guards down south use it ter torture their prisoners."
"How long do it take ter kill?" asked Reynard curiously.
"Can take up ter five days on a big fella," answered Desmond. "It's pain like yeh'd never believe."
"That halflin' ain't a big fella, Des," said Reynard. "How long would this stuff take ter finish 'im?"
"Dunno," said Desmond thoughtfully. "Maybe three or four days. Maybe less. There's only one way ter find out."
"Yeah…" said Reynard slowly. He was frowning, as if deep in thought. He stared hard at the ooze. "Hey Des?" he continued after a few moments. "How long would yeh say we'd have ter wait after we send the letter before we get rid of the halflin' and get our money?"
"Depends," said Desmond with a shrug. "I guess we'd need ter say in the letter."
"If we needed ta," continued Reynard. "We could give the halflin' this stuff just before we hand 'im over ter the King. Only if we needed ta though." He said the last hurriedly, uncertain as to how his partner would react.
"I've bin thinking we might have ter do just that," said Desmond. "After all, the rat's seen our faces an' knows our names. What's the good of gettin' all that money if we get caught by them guards the next day?"
"We're gonna have ta plan this out real careful," said Reynard in dismay as the full weight of realisation fell on him. Desmond rolled his eyes and whacked him on the back of his head.
"What's wrong with yeh?" he said. "Didn't yeh hear a word I said when I was tellin' yeh 'bout me plan? Good grief Rey! Yer thicker than a stone wall!" Reynard swatted his hand impatiently.
"Whatever," he said. "But about this poison stuff – are we gonna use it on the halflin' or not?"
"Well that depends," said Desmond slowly.
"On what?"
"On how good 'e behaves."
"Speakin' of behaviour," said Reynard. "I'd say he'd be wakin' up about now."
"Let's pay 'im a little visit then shall we?" said Desmond with a devilish grin. "You get the food."
It was perhaps another two hours before Frodo found himself in company again. It was the click of the lock opening that first alerted him. His head snapped around to face the doorway, after spending the last few hours staring at the lonely window. He jerked involuntarily as the door burst open and rebounded off the wall behind it. As the forms of Desmond and Reynard appeared in his vision, he quickly schooled his face into a neutral expression. It was Desmond who reached him first. The Man stooped over Frodo and grabbed the front of his shirt with one hand, lifting his torso several inches off the ground. Frodo couldn't see what he clasped in the other hand.
"Rey tells me that yeh've been disobedient," he snarled fiercely. "'E said that you was bein' disrespectful."
Frodo said nothing. He diverted his gaze from the man's unsightly features and stared up at the grubby ceiling. Infuriated by the lack of response he received, Desmond gave the hobbit a rough shake.
"Well?" he boomed. "What do yeh have ter say!"
Frodo blinked lazily, still staring up at the ceiling as though he found it most fascinating. He began silently counting the patches of mould that had accumulated on the stone.
Desmond and Reynard exchanged looks and came to a silent agreement. The former let out a low growl like a wolf and brought Frodo's face closer to his own. Frodo looked back at the Man, unable to disguise his disgust at the stink of Desmond's breath.
"Fine then," hissed Desmond. "Have it yer own way. Yeh don't wanna talk? Then we'll make yeh squeal."
For a moment Frodo's brows furrowed in confusion. Desmond let go of his shirt, letting him fall back to the ground. Before he knew what was happening, Reynard was putting down the tray he had been carrying and was drawing out the filthy dagger in his belt. While Desmond stood up, stretching his arms and cracking his fingers, Reynard severed the ropes binding Frodo's hands together. The hobbit's eyes widened in amazement and he looked from Man to Man, wondering what they were going to do. Desmond continued to crack his fingers and knuckles, a look of deep satisfaction on his face.
Meanwhile, Reynard dragged Frodo over to one of the empty wine shelves. The shelves comprised of rows and columns of holes cut from sheets of wood. The holes were big enough in circumference to hold individual bottles of wine. Reynard now stretched Frodo's arms out and tied his wrists to the holes. Agony ripped through the hobbit's body at this new position after being so cramped for so long. But not a sound would he make. He knew it would only make his captors laugh with a perverted glee that their sport went well. He would not give them any satisfaction.
But through the pain, he did wonder why his back was exposed to them and his front was not. Less than a heartbeat later realisation struck him like a sword slicing through his heart. Desperately he struggled against the ropes, though he knew it was futile.
Seeing this, Desmond laughed. "It's no use strugglin', little rat," he said. "Yer gonna get what's due to yeh." With that said, he motioned for Reynard to move out of the way. Then he unwound the whip in his hands and let it crack. It struck Frodo across the back, drawing a long thin line of blood from his flesh. The hobbit shuddered in pain, but did not give voice to his anguish and humility.
Desmond dealt him lash after lash. Blood filled Frodo's mouth as he bit down on his tongue, suppressing himself from screaming out in torture. He wanted to gag. He wanted to cry, to run… but he couldn't. He wouldn't. There was a small piece deep inside of him that told him he deserved what he got. This was his punishment. His punishment for failing at the end of all things, to do what he had sworn to finish…
As the whip beat at his back again and again, drawing more and more blood, he closed his eyes. Though he knew he didn't deserve it, he sent a small plea up to the Valar, hoping against hope that someone was listening. He prayed that his torment would end soon.
Perhaps, thought Merry, it was a good thing that he was confined to his bed at the moment. Very suddenly his body had been overtaken by unsettling tremors. He curled up underneath his covers, glad that for the time being he was alone. He did not like to think how the others would react to this. They were worried enough as it was. Even now they were all out in the city, searching high and low for Frodo. Guards of the citadel had been summoned to aid in the search. At Pippin's request, Beregond had been included in this search party, despite that he was no longer a soldier of the city. Merry had even heard that Faramir and Éomer had gone out. The hobbit only wished that he could too.
Another shudder stole through him, making him bury himself deeper in his blankets. He closed his eyes. Perhaps sleep would give him some peace from this torment. For he did not know how long he could stand to do nothing while he knew that his cousin suffered. But just as sleep was taking him in its gentle embrace, he was disturbed by a soft knock on the door.
Merry sat up with a start as the doorknob turned. His shock was increased dramatically when he saw who stood before him.
"Lady Éowyn!" he managed to choke. "What… What are you doing here?"
Éowyn smiled warmly and closed the door carefully behind her. She made her way to a convenient chair beside Merry's bed and sat down in it.
"I came to see you of course," she said in amusement. "I heard that you were feeling unwell and thought you might like some company."
Suddenly remembering exactly who he was speaking with, Merry bowed his head, a light blush creeping up his face. "Your company is very welcome, my lady," he said. "But I do not wish to keep you. Surely you must have other matters to attend to more important than visiting a hobbit confined to his bed?"
Éowyn laughed, and the sound was like a gentle morning shower on a spring morning. "My dear friend," she said. "It so happens that you are an important matter to attend to, as you put it. Besides, I feel somewhat guilty for not seeing more of you before now. I have missed your company."
"You have been busy with other things," said Merry dismissively. He paused and gave a sheepish grin. "Lord Faramir won't mind being called a thing will he?"
Again Éowyn laughed, her own cheeks blossoming with a pink tinge. Merry wondered how such a simple entity as laughter could have such wondrous and beauteous effects. Already he was feeling a little better. Éowyn obviously was.
For some time the two sat and talked companionably. But though Merry himself laughed, he could not completely ignore the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach that warned him of something still greatly amiss. When Éowyn at last took her leave, Merry fell back heavily on his pillows, staring up at the ceiling.
"Where are you, Frodo?" he muttered to the rich carvings in the stone above him.
In the early afternoon, the searchers began to trickle back to the citadel in twos and threes. They all reported the same thing – they could not find Frodo on the streets, in any shops or in any public place for that matter. Aragorn had sighed heavily. This could only mean that Frodo was in a civilian's house. Considering how long he must have been there now, Aragorn did not now doubt that Frodo was being held there against his will.
But what to do now? The initial answer of course was to search every house in the city. But it wouldn't be too hard to hide Frodo elsewhere until the searchers had departed. So then what?
Aragorn dismissed the guards who bowed themselves out. The Fellowship and Faramir and Éomer now stood in a silent circle. Aragorn looked around at them. They all wore identical looks of worry. Sam looked like he was ready to collapse. For him it was like reliving the pain and horror of Cirith Ungol all over again. And if his Mr Frodo had to now endure anything like what those orcs had put him through, Sam didn't know if his master would be able to survive it. He didn't know if he could stand it himself.
But while the gathered all looked worried, there was also a certain degree of guilt hanging in the air. They were a fellowship after all, sworn to protect the Ringbearer. And the Ringbearer had disappeared.
At last, at long last, Desmond wound the whip up, stuffing it in a pocket. Frodo almost sobbed in relief. His back felt like it was on fire. Now it was littered with angry red streaks, blood slowly dripping down his skin until it was soaked up by his shirt.
As Reynard untied Frodo's wrists from the wine shelves, the hobbit found himself sinking to the ground, as limp as a boned fish. The Men laughed, finding the display of weakness by this creature amusing. Frodo could not have cared less. He felt so wretched and alone. All he wanted to do right then was curl up in a dark corner somewhere and go to sleep.
Reynard walked up to him, the tray once more in his hands. He sneered down at Frodo, looking very pleased with himself.
"Yeh see this, halflin'?" he said. He shoved the tray and its contents under Frodo's nose, forcing him to take in the sight of bread, cheese, an apple and a glass of water. Despite that in his mind, Frodo had had too much to eat and drink the previous night, Frodo suddenly realised that he was starting to get hungry. The light in his eyes abruptly changed to look at the food with longing.
"This was gonna be yer breakfast," hissed Reynard. "But little rats who don't do as they're told get nothin'." Reynard laughed cruelly as Frodo's face went several shades paler. He took a great delight in letting the contents of the tray clatter to the ground. With a deliberate slowness and forcefulness, he stomped on the food (and crockery) with his boot, turning it into a soiled mash on the grimy stone floor.
The Men roared with laughter before clamouring up the stairs. Reynard went through the door, but Desmond paused on the top of the stairs and turned back to look at Frodo.
"Let that be a lesson to yeh," he growled. "We take disrespect from no one. You misbehave again, and yeh'll receive a punishment ten times worse."
The door slammed shut and was locked. For some moments, Frodo was still. Then suddenly he shuddered with cold, and erupted into a fit of coughing. This was just great. Now he was falling ill. He heaved a mental sigh and let his eyes wonder up to gaze at the window. He wondered if it was locked. He wondered if he would be able to climb up to it. He wondered if it would open.
For a long time he stared at the window with these questions and many more buzzing around his head. He carefully thought about his situation – he was being held captive by two Men. For what reason, he still did not know. But it couldn't be anything good. It would be best if he could escape as soon as possible.
He looked to the door, wondering how long it would be before Desmond or Reynard came down to check on him again. He looked back up at the window. The ceiling of the cellar was relatively low. Both Men had only just been able to stand up without having to stoop.
He frowned up at the window. It was rather small and hemispherical. With luck, Frodo might just be able to squeeze through it. That is, if he could even climb up to it. If he had been a tweenager and in this situation, he would have had no trouble performing the acrobatics required to climb up and through the window. After all, he had been one of the best tree-climbers in the Shire.
But as it was, Frodo was fifty years old with only nine fingers, was falling ill, was hungry, thirsty, tired, in a great deal of pain, and his legs were bound. He paused at this thought, and looked down at himself.
Yes… his feet were tied. But his hands were not.
TBC
A/N: Well, I'm back! :D Almost every spare minute I had was spent working on this chapter and the next (which is coming along nicely btw), so I hope you all enjoy it. Thanks Lexi for going over this with me. You're the best! Hehehe.
Breon Briarwood – Hahahaha, chant away! :D Thank you for your encouragement and compliments. It's really spurring me on.
Elijahs-gurl – Thank you very much! I'll update for you as quickly as I can…:)
heartofahobbit – You are very right. Things aren't too bright and happy in either world. But concerning Middle-Earth, once the people of Gondor get used to having a king, and once Aragorn becomes more comfortable with his position in society, things should hopefully get better. If only the same could happen for our world. But I think when we look at the relationships between the Fellowship and other characters, we see that there "is some good in this world… and it's worth fighting for." And I think that after all he has been through, Frodo is starting to appreciate that more. He ain't going down without a fight! Hehehe. I say let the spirit live on!
hush1630 – More is coming up, hopefully soon. Now that the story's moving on a bit now, the chapters will get longer, as it's taking longer for me to get to the point, lol. Sorry to hear that your friend is using you as a punch-bag though. Perhaps you should set a certain gardener on her… ;)
Kaewi – Glad that questions have been answered! :D And I like to put in a bit of humour now and then. I find that nothing but angst can be a bit too much and too… heavy sometimes. And if/when Sam catches up with Frodo, he is going to have his arms full indeed with looking after our poor hobbit. Btw, I had a GREAT time on my holiday! Hehehe. :D
rabidsamfan – Hahahaha. I don't think Aragorn would be too happy with that plan of action! Though usually I would agree heartily with you if it means finding Frodo sooner. And hold that thought about Sam searching… more on that in the next chapter. ;)
Stephanie – Lol, I hope this update is 'all the better', hehehe. And you could be right. But at the moment, it is proving to be more of a bane to Merry that he suffers when poor Frodo does. Let's see if that might change in the future… And I hope your curiosity of the bag's contents is now satisfied. Though considering how awful those things are, perhaps it would have been better not to have known…
Tarquin the Proud – Thank you very much! I am truly flattered! blushes :D Sorry I didn't provide you with Gandalf's specific reaction to Legolas's drunken state – but he was in a bad mood at everyone at the time… and Sam's outburst would have distracted him greatly. But there's more talk about drunk Elves in chapter eight, so keep a look out!