Every Man for Himself
Disclaimer: I don't own Lord of the Rings and I am not making a profit out of this.
Chapter 11: Shades of Grey
It was late – very late. He knew this. He also knew that if he was caught out of bed at this time of night by the wrong relative, then he was in big trouble. But Frodo couldn't help feeling that something was terribly wrong. It was as though he was listening to a familiar song, but a few notes had been skipped and the beat was warped. So on silent hobbit feet, he crept down the hallway, seeking to find the answer to his unease.
It seemed to take forever to walk through the corridors of the enormous smial. But while he continued to take step after tentative step, it suddenly occurred to him that a lot of doors seemed to be opening and closing with loud and hasty slams. But not a single person did he see. His heart beating a little faster and his breath becoming shallower, he turned into another hallway that he knew led to the Master's study. Though his Uncle Rory was stern, he loved Frodo and usually tried to answer the young lad's perpetual stream of questions when he wasn't too busy. Frodo was certain that he would answer this one. That is, if he even was in his study. After all, it was very late, and the party might still be going for all he knew.
Nevertheless, Frodo continued on to his uncle's study. As he came closer to it, he saw that the door was open just a crack, letting a shaft of warm golden light spill out into the otherwise rather dim hallway. For the first time, Frodo paused in his tracks. He could hear voices coming from within the room – and quite a few of them at that. He could even have sworn that he heard several sobs. His breath hitching painfully in his throat, he brought a slightly trembling hand to the door and knocked.
It was fully opened by his Aunt Asphodel. Looking up at her, Frodo saw that she was crying, her tears cascading down her puffy cheeks rather like two small waterfalls. Upon seeing him, she gave a choked sob and dropped to her knees, enveloping Frodo in a bone-crushing embrace.
To say the least, the young hobbit was rendered utterly speechless. He had never known his Aunt Asphodel to shed even a single tear. She was simply not the crying type. But now he could feel her hot tears on his neck and soaking through his nightshirt so that he could feel them on his shoulder. For a moment he was paralysed, not having the faintest clue what to do, when Milo Burrows suddenly appeared and gently guided his mother to a seat.
With no one no longer clinging to his neck, Frodo was able to see that the study was more full than he had originally anticipated. Indeed, it looked as though the party had relocated to this very room. Though of course now it looked absolutely nothing like a party. For Frodo had never been to a party where everyone was crying.
"What's wrong?" he asked slowly. "What's happened?"
"Frodo," his Aunt Menegilda was speaking to him in a soft and gentle voice. Alarm bells immediately started ringing in Frodo's mind. Something was very seriously wrong – Aunt Menegilda never spoke in a soft and gentle voice!
"W-what's happened?" repeated Frodo, looking desperately about for some sign of reassurance. Anything would do! It was very suddenly that he realised his parents weren't in the room. "Where's Mama and Da?" Aunt Menegilda swallowed and looked at her husband uneasily. Uncle Rory looked from her to Frodo, his sorrow showing in every fibre of his being.
"Frodo," he said in a quiet voice that trembled. "Come and sit down lad." Frodo suddenly felt very reluctant to move further into the room, as though it would somehow seal his fate. For a moment one of his hands clung onto the doorframe, yet some other power overruled the rest of his body, and his feet ended up guiding him to an empty chair in front of his uncle's desk. Frodo suddenly had the distinct feeling like he was being judged. He didn't dare look around him. Instead he kept his eyes glued to his uncle.
Rory gave a deep sigh before he sank heavily into his own chair. He regarded his young nephew with sorrowful eyes that bore an identical expression to everyone else in the room. Frodo felt frozen under that gaze. So bone-chillingly frozen.
"Frodo," said Uncle Rory. He looked as though he was choosing his words carefully. "There's been an accident, lad."
"What kind of accident?" asked Frodo slowly, though some part of him knew that he didn't want to find out.
"A boating accident," said Rory. "One of the boats… Well… You see, the current was rather rough today – rougher than usual and… well…"
"Where's Mama and Da?" asked Frodo again, not being able to conceal his rising fear from showing in his voice.
"They… They've…" Tears continued to spill down Rory's face. "They went out on one of the boats tonight… And… Well… I'm afraid that they… that… they're dead." Frodo blinked. He suddenly felt very faint. He could almost hear his world come crashing down around him.
"You're lying," he managed to choke.
"I wish I was," said Rory, his eyes lowering to stare at his desk.
"You are! You're lying!" Frodo's voice was rising. His heart was thumping painfully in his chest like a mallet. He was barely aware that he'd jumped to his feet. "Da doesn't like going boating! He never goes boating!"
"He went this evening with your mother," said Rory softly, still not looking up. "I'm so sorry, lad."
"No!" Frodo shook his head in pure denial. This was ridiculous! This wasn't true. His father hated going on boats! He was terrified of them! Even if he had gone boating, his mother was too clever at boat handling to ever let anything happen. Frodo vigorously shook his head again, backing towards the door.
"Frodo you have to believe me," said Rory almost desperately. "I wish it wasn't true, but the fact of the matter is – you're parents are dead."
"NO!"
And he was running. He ran past all of the crying relatives and out of the study. He ran down the ominously deserted hallways, past the closed doors until he recognised the door to his own guestroom. He fairly threw himself in and slammed the door shut behind him, diving onto the bed and curling up in a tight, quivering ball, his back to the door. He felt so very cold and empty. He didn't want to believe anything of what he had just heard. But some small fragment of his being knew that it was true, knew that he had felt the loss keenly from the moment he had awoken from his sleep. With the sickening coldness spreading from his stomach to the rest of his body, he felt tears of ice creeping down his face to be soaked up by his pillow. He didn't know how long he remained like that, but next thing he knew, someone was knocking softly on the door. It opened and he heard his cousin Saradoc calling his name.
"Frodo? Are you alright?"
At first Frodo didn't reply. He didn't want to. He just wanted to stay curled up in the bed for the rest of his life. Perhaps he would have if one question had not burned so fiercely in his mind. "Cousin Saradoc," he said in a hoarse whisper that could not possibly have come from him. "Why did this happen?" He felt the mattress shift as Saradoc sat down on it.
"I don't know, lad," he answered. "Sometimes these things just happen."
"Was it because I did something bad?"
"No! Frodo, none of this is your fault. It was an accident." There was a short pause as Frodo studied what he could see of the wall in front of him through the dying firelight.
"What's going to happen to me now?" he asked in a small voice. He jerked as Saradoc gave a harsh, almost cruel laugh behind him. Frodo froze. He knew that laugh. He had heard it somewhere before. His eyes widened and he flipped around in the bed. He was facing a hideous Orc Captain brandishing a whip in its clawed hands. A name penetrated his mind. Gorbag. Frodo's surroundings suddenly melted into a black chamber in an evil tower. He could feel the very air in his lungs become filthy with fumes and gases from the land outside. He struggled to breathe, taking gasping breaths. Still Gorbag cackled. Frodo tried to ignore him as best he could, but found it very difficult when the damned creature threw a bucket of ice-cold water over his already freezing body. He laughed even harder as some of the water was swallowed, going the wrong way down Frodo's windpipe, making him cough and splutter. But the coughing wouldn't stop.
Then he found himself spiralling down into a liquid fog. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He was so implausibly cold. And he was drowning…
5 May 3019 – Morning
Desmond looked up from the shot of whisky he had been pouring himself. A foreign sound met his ears. He stared up at the ceiling with a frown before he left the kitchen and met Seregon in the hallway. Without exchanging a single word, they climbed up the stairs to the attic and opened the door.
The prisoner both looked and sounded like he was trying to hack up a lung. He had already succeeded in coughing out the gag that had previously been stuffed in his mouth. "Now that's one nasty bark," murmured Desmond.
"He's faking it," snapped Seregon. He strode over to the halfling and roughly grabbed a fistful of dark, limp curls, still damp from the rain… and sweat. He pulled the prisoner's face up so he could look at it properly. It was not a pretty sight. Bruises had blossomed all across his face. His bottom lip was split, his eye black and swollen. Though it had been washed by the rainwater, the wound on the side of the halfling's temple had bled again and was now caked with blood. But beneath all of the bruises, Seregon saw in the morning light that the prisoner was deathly pale. He small body was wracked was shivers, yet he was sweating. Seregon released the halfling's hair and felt his forehead. It was burning. He cursed.
"He's ill," he snapped to Desmond.
"What we gonna do then?" asked Desmond. Seregon gazed down harshly at the prisoner, as though he would like nothing more than to kill the thing then and there, and so end his problems.
"Get a mug of water and a damp rag," said Seregon. "We're going to have to bring down his fever. And bring him a bite to eat. Anything will do." Desmond disappeared out of the attic, leaving Seregon glaring hatefully at the thing who was proving to be more of an inconvenience than anything else.
At Pippin's words, Sam and Merry lifted their eyes to look up expectantly at Gandalf and Aragorn. When neither of them said anything, Merry frowned in an uncanny imitation of his missing elder cousin and crossed his arms carefully over his chest.
"We are going to do something," he said sharply. "Aren't we?"
Aragorn glanced over at Gandalf and Faramir before turning his uncomfortable gaze to the hobbits. "Merry," he said slowly. "There isn't much that we can do…"
"WHAT?" All three hobbits stared up at the King in shock and pure denial.
"But…" Sam looked wildly around at the others. "But we have to do something! We can't just leave Mr Frodo to the mercy of those ruffians! I'm sorry sir, but I couldn't stand it. Not after-"
"I know, Sam," interrupted Aragorn carefully. "But… Frodo's right. We cannot afford to lose so much gold. Not now when-"
"So you're just going to let him be tortured by those Men!"
"Of course not, Pippin. But right now I don't-"
"Then what are you going to do?"
"Merry I've only just-"
"If you're not going to do anything than we will!"
"Pippin, you say that like it's a threat."
"Well maybe I am threatening you! But you can't expect us to do nothing when-"
"ENOUGH!" Everyone fell silent and stared at Gandalf. Aragorn mused that he would have to ask the wizard to give him lessons on how to speak to get such immediate reactions. The Istar eyed the hobbits sharply. "Now lads," he said in a reassuring voice. "I promise you that we are going to get Frodo back. We just need a little time to think things over carefully."
"But Gandalf-"
"No, Peregrin. Trust us on this one. I beg of you, heed Frodo's words and do not do anything unless we tell you to." Gandalf's voice held such an authoritative note, that none of the hobbits dared to say anything further on the matter. Instead, they hung their heads dejectedly and left the chamber, returning to the dining hall to pick at the rest of their breakfast. The Big Folk watched them leave, their own hearts as heavy as the little ones' feet.
"I think I am only just starting to appreciate how distracted hobbits can get," said Aragorn with a sigh.
"Why so?" asked Legolas with a quizzical frown.
"They paid no heed to the names of the kidnappers."
"What are the names of the kidnappers?" asked Prince Imrahil.
"Desmond, Reynard and Seregon."
"Seregon?" exclaimed Faramir. "Things go very ill for Frodo."
"Ill indeed," agreed Gandalf, his eyes gazing down at the letter again. "And now I am truly beginning to appreciate how small hobbits are."
"Why is that?" asked Éomer in confusion.
"They were not able to see the blood on this letter."
"Sam," said Merry in a low voice. "Think you'll be feeling up to an ale tonight?"
"I think I might at that, Mr Merry," said Sam, his round face set, his usually warm brown eyes glittering with a barely concealed fire.
"That's what I thought," said Merry with a grim smile.
"Uh-oh," said Pippin suddenly. The Big Folk had returned to the hall, and Faramir was making his way to the hobbits.
"Master Peregrin," he said. "I'm afraid your services will be needed today. Could you please be at the Guard Room in ten minutes?"
"Of course, my Lord," said Pippin, jumping down from his seat (and scattering cushions) to bow. Faramir nodded to him and the other hobbits before turning to leave.
"What's going on?" asked Merry. "I thought your shift wasn't until the afternoon?"
"Haven't you heard?" said Pippin in surprise. "Some prisoners escaped from the jailhouse last night. Guards have been raking the city all night trying to find them. They're only now starting to conduct a full search. Just about everyone's being taken off their usual posts."
"Does that mean you don't have to go on duty tonight?" asked Merry hopefully. Pippin shrugged his shoulders.
"No idea," he said. "But I'd better go or else I'll be late. Sam, if I don't see you later, then good luck."
"Thank you Master Pippin, sir," said Sam with a dejected sigh. "I think I'm going to need all the luck I can get."
Reynard was still feeling rather pleased with himself as he entered through the front door of the house. By now the King would've probably read the letter and would hopefully be working himself into a state about his missing friend.
"Des?" called Reynard, hoping to share his victory with someone, perhaps over a drink (even though it was really much too early).
"In the kitchen!" called Desmond. Reynard made his way to the kitchen and frowned as he saw his partner putting two slices of bread on a tray that already held a mug and a damp cloth.
"What yeh doin'?" asked Reynard.
"The blasted halflin's ill," said Desmond irritably. "Seregon says we gotta get 'is fever down."
"Why?" asked Reynard. "E's gonna be out of our hands by tomorrow night. Just leave 'im be!"
"Seregon thinks we should bring the fever down," snapped Desmond. He picked up the tray and made his way back to the attic.
"Who cares what bloody Seregon thinks!" hissed Reynard, following close behind. "'E wasn' in this at the beginnin'. This is our job we're pullin' off. Not 'is. We shouldn' have ter listen ter him!"
"No!" growled Desmond in a low voice. "We're followin' 'is lead from now on. I learnt everythin' I know from 'im. Trust me, 'e knows what 'e's doin'."
"'E's prob'ly jus' gonna take all the money for 'imself and be off with it though!" protested Reynard.
"'E won't," replied Desmond sharply. He motioned for Reynard to open the attic door and the two entered. The halfling looked to be asleep, though he was mumbling and still shivering. Seregon was regarding him with hard, critical eyes, but looked up when the two Men entered.
"Were you seen?" he asked Reynard.
"No," answered the Man. "Got in and out without 'ny troubles. The King should've read it by now."
"Good," said Seregon absently, moving to the tray and picking up the mug of water and cloth. He gave the halfling a kick in the shin to wake him up. The small prisoner groaned and his eyes fluttered half open. "Drink this," ordered Seregon coldly. He thrust the mug to the halfling's lips and tipped it up far enough for him to drink. This Frodo did without complaint, though his mind couldn't quite comprehend what was happening. He also did not resist when Seregon placed the cool cloth on his brow, even though it caused him to shiver all the more.
"Reynard," said Seregon. "Give him the bread." Reynard scowled at Seregon's back, but nevertheless did so.
"Come on, halflin'," he coaxed. "We've got some nice bread fer yeh."
This time Frodo did resist. While a couple of hours ago he would have jumped at the prospect of food, now the very thought of it made him feel positively sick. He clamped his mouth and eyes tightly shut and turned his head away from the bread.
"Leave it if he doesn't want it," said Seregon. Reynard shrugged and returned the bread to the tray with a yawn.
"Well," he said. "If that's all, then I think I might turn in now. It's bin a long night."
"Yeah," said Desmond. "It has..." He turned to Seregon as Reynard disappeared out of the attic. "You won't mind if I-"
"Go," said Seregon. "I will watch him."
"Righ'… Yeah…" And Desmond too disappeared from the attic. Seregon soundlessly settled himself on an old dusty crate, cold eyes always trained on the small captive lost in the prison of his own fever induced dreams.
He was dreaming again. He was in Rivendell enjoying a peaceful morning with Bilbo. The two were sitting outside under one of the many intricately carved gazebos, enjoying a cup of tea and a smoke. They sat mostly in companionable silence, now and then exchanging a few words.
"My, but it is cold today," said Frodo, shivering as a gust of wind blew through the Elven refuge.
"Shall we go back indoors, lad?" said Bilbo. "We can't have you catching a chill. Elrond and Gandalf would both have my head." Frodo smiled and got to his feet, carrying his unfinished tea with him as he and his uncle returned into the warmth of the House. They made their way down the winding halls, always heading towards Bilbo's room. "You can have a look at the latest song I've written," the old hobbit was saying. "I'd like to hear what you think of it."
Frodo nodded distractedly, a small frown on his brow. He was still extraordinarily cold, despite that he was inside now and out of reach of the wind's icy breath. Perhaps he was catching a chill after all? Bilbo opened the door to his room, waiting for Frodo to go in first. He took one step in and froze in horror.
All of the air was ripped from his lungs as an icy fog encompassed him in its almost solid grip. He was no longer in Bilbo's room in Rivendell, but alone on a cold hillside on a black night.
Well… not completely alone…
Towering before him was a Nazgûl, its form so black that it was nothing but a silhouette against the night sky. Frodo stared up at it with wide, terrified eyes, waiting in a petrified stupor for it to bring its long knife down into his flesh. But it took its time. Its armoured hand gripped the Morgul-blade tightly, and did this wraith have lips, Frodo knew that they would have been curled up into a cold, cruel smile.
Then suddenly primal instinct descended upon him and he turned to flee, only to find his way impeded by a second wraith. He spun around wildly, and realised that he stood defenceless in a circle of nine Black Riders.
Hope abandoned him. He fell to the ground with the icy fog as his blanket. In a reflex action, he opened his mouth to scream as nine long knives at last pierced his flesh. But instead of sucking in air, the thick fog, like a guilty conscience, invaded his lungs and engulfed his heart and spirit and will, leaving the hobbit as nothing more than a powerless shell.
And darkness took over.
Seregon watched thoughtfully as the halfling became increasingly fretful and restless in his sleep. Had he not been tied to the chair, the Man did not doubt that he would be writhing about on the floor, being a danger unto himself. But as it was, the prisoner could only thrash his head from side to side. Though he somewhat made up for his lack of movement with his voice. He was frequently mumbling words that Seregon could not catch, sometimes even crying out as loud as his inflamed throat would allow. But as the halfling's nightmare peaked, he let out a blood-chilling scream that was ripped straight from the soul. In a flash, Seregon was on his feet and had his hand clamped over the hobbit's mouth in an attempt to muffle the sound.
Even as he did this Desmond and Reynard were bursting through the attic door, their eyes wide in surprise as they witnessed such a small and seemingly feeble being producing such a sound of raw pain and fear.
"Makes yeh wonder what's goin' on in that head of 'is," murmured Reynard to himself.
"One of you go and get that sleeping potion," ordered Seregon. "He'll have the whole city pounding on my door at this rate."
Without hesitation, Reynard disappeared down the stairs to retrieve the phial containing the potion. In record timing he returned and held it under Frodo's nose until he inhaled it and immediately went flaccid. Reynard corked the bottle and looked from Seregon to Desmond.
"What was that all abou'?"
Aragorn had been pacing around the throne room for several good hours now. He had been wracking his brains, thinking of how he could save Frodo without having to lose so much precious gold. But each idea he came up with was as flawed as the next. There was simply no way to get around it without being discovered. He did not doubt that these kidnappers were experienced in their work and knew when they were being duped. They would take every precaution to ensure that their plan ran smoothly. They would not take any risks when the King of Gondor had been involved.
Aragorn continued to pace as the hours drew past and the day grew old. As the sun began to sink beneath the horizon, he sighed and requested for Gandalf and Faramir to come to him.
"Have either of you had any ideas on how to solve our problem?" asked Aragorn heavily.
"If we knew where these Men were," said Faramir heavily. "Then we could go to their house and arrest them now. However, as we don't know where they are, I think we will just have to do as they wish and pay the ransom." Aragorn sighed heavily while Faramir shook his head in remorse. "So much money lost," he said. "I am, of course, willing to do anything to ensure the safety of Master Baggins. But it is still a lot of money."
For several long moments, the three stood in silence, each feeling the dragging burden of their decision. But they did each agree with Faramir's words – they would go to any lengths to save the Ringbearer.
"Come," said Aragorn at last. "I hear the supper bell ringing. Let us eat now. We will need to keep up our strength. I have a feeling that tomorrow is going to be a long and hard day."
The Men and Wizard moved to the dining hall where the many guests of the citadel were congregating. But even as Aragorn and Faramir took their seats, Gandalf's eyes narrowed and honed on two small figures taking their usual places at the table.
"Meriadoc," said Gandalf, the sharpness in his voice making the hobbits jump. "Where is Samwise?" Merry and Pippin exchanged a swift look before Merry turned fully to the wizard.
"He said he wasn't hungry so he decided to go to bed already. He said he would need the extra sleep anyway, as he won't be getting much tomorrow night."
Both Aragorn and Gandalf frowned. Samwise Gamgee was never one to encourage a missed meal. Except, of course, in Mordor when the provisions had been very short. But this was not Mordor and the food was plentiful. Was Sam really so tired? He probably had been worrying himself into a state over Frodo, though, and with the news that the letter brought the very last thing on his mind would probably be food. So Gandalf and Aragorn took their places at the table and delved into the meal, thinking nothing more of the gardener's absence or of the hushed conversation between Merry and Pippin who were paying much less attention to their food than was acceptable by hobbit standards.
When Desmond and Reynard awoke, it was late afternoon and the sun was setting. Upon getting out of bed, the two splashed their faces and necks with water, chasing away the last remnants of sleep. Feeling much refreshed, they trooped up to the attic to see how things were with Seregon and the halfling.
"'E don't look much better," mused Reynard as he stared at the prisoner's fever-flushed face.
"He's worse," said Seregon sullenly. "The fever has risen. I must admit, I'm now at a loss at what to do. This sort of thing is in a woman's field of work. I am no nurse or healer."
"A woman's field eh?" said Desmond thoughtfully. He suddenly turned to Reynard. "Arlyn's the nurse type, don't yeh think?"
"Aye," said Reynard. "I'd say she'd know a thing or two 'bout lookin' after the poorly. Shall I go an' bring 'er in?"
"No!" said Desmond at once. "Yeh know she won' do anythin' yeh say. Asides, yeh'd get too distracted. I'll go an' get 'er."
"Who in Eru's name is Arlyn?" demanded Seregon in a commanding tone.
"One o' the barmaids at the 'Silver Springs'," explained Desmond.
"Can she be trusted?" asked Seregon. "Surely she will ask questions?"
"She knows that we're up ter somethin'," said Desmond. "But she don't know what exactly. But she won't spill anythin'. I gave 'er a fair warnin'." Seregon looked sceptical.
"Alright then," he said after a moment's consideration. "Bring her in. But if she breathes a word to the guards I will personally kill her and the two of you with my bare hands."
Pippin had returned from the search too late to see Sam off. While he had returned just as the supper bell was ringing, Sam had departed for the lower circles as the sun was setting – the most likely time for patrons to start visiting an inn after a hard day's work.
That was where Sam was now. Back at the Silver Springs Inn. Merry had been able to give him the passwords to the circles, so he had had no trouble getting past the guards – though a few of them had raised some eyebrows. But now he was sitting in a dark, neglected corner, nursing an ale as his eyes watched all those who entered and exited the tavern. Upon entering himself, he had accosted one of the barmaids who said she knew both Desmond and Reynard. Quite willing to help Sam, she had agreed to somehow inconspicuously point them out to him if they should enter.
An hour had passed since then and the sky outside had grown dark. The inn was busy this eve, and the small hobbit had trouble keeping his eyes on the door and the bar, should the barmaid signal to him. He was beginning to lose hope of ever catching the two Men when suddenly he caught sight of the barmaid speaking to a dark-haired man. She didn't look in the least bit pleased to see him. On the contrary – she was backing as far away from him as she could. Sam sat up a little straighter in his seat, wondering if this could possibly be one of the kidnappers. His question was soon answered when the Man grabbed the barmaid's wrist, and began leading her rather forcefully to the door of the tavern. The barmaid looked over to Sam, gave the slightest of nods and then disappeared out the door. Samwise was not far behind.
As he followed the two, Sam reflected on how this night could not have been more different from the previous. Tonight the sky was clear and blanketed with Varda's jewel encrusted mantle. For a moment Sam paused to gaze up at the stars, relishing in their simple beauty. He suddenly felt his hope swell from deep within him. He continued on, carefully shadowing the Man and barmaid.
"Desmond!" huffed Arlyn as she tried to keep up with the man. "What's goin' on?"
"Shut up!" hissed Desmond roughly. "Yeh'll find out soon enough. Now stay quiet or else yeh won' live ter regret it!"
Arlyn needed no more encouragement and fell silent at once. But Sam, keeping to the shadows not too far behind them, fought to restrain a fearful yelp. If this was how one of the Men normally treated a barmaid, he hated to think how three of them must be treating his master.
He quickened his steps.
The distance walked from the inn to the Men's house was a journey that felt to Sam like some horrible dream from memories locked deep in the recesses of his mind. This scenario was far too similar to others for his liking. But at long last, Desmond and Arlyn slowed down and stopped outside the door to a rather dilapidated looking abode. As they disappeared through the front door, Sam stared up at the house and moved around it, carefully taking in every major detail he could. The house was made of the same stone as the rest of the city, and was covered in a coat of paint that had once been white and was now peeling away in vast clumps. The front door was heavy and made out of some sort of dark wood, though there was evidence of rotting. Weeds and mould lined most of the perimeter of the house so that Sam's fingers itched to pull them out. He sighed to himself as he longed, now more than ever, to return to the gardens of Bag End with his master, in Hobbiton where they both belonged. No more Buckland and Crickhollow. His master's place was in the study of the best smial in the Shire, just as his place was in the gardens. He felt another pang of penitence as he dwelled on how overgrown the flowerbeds must be by now. He sighed again. His gaffer was going to give him the scolding of his life when he returned.
Returning to the present, Sam's eyes drifted up the walls, noting how high the mould accumulation rose – very high indeed! These walls were far overdue for a good scrubbing and a new coat of paint. And the windows could do with a thorough cleaning too.
Sam suddenly stiffened as his eyes met the topmost window of the house. He could just make out a grimy light glowing from within – the only light in the dwelling. Was that where those Men were now? Was that where they were keeping his master? Sam resisted the almost overpowering urge to break into the house then and there. He swallowed thickly and tore his eyes back to the ground. He couldn't help Mr Frodo right now. He had to wait. He had to get back to the citadel and tell Mr Merry and Master Pippin where their cousin was being held.
With one last look at the house before him, Sam turned and ran back up the street towards the gates of the circle, back towards the citadel.
A/N: My thanks to Lexi and Bronwyn for their help. You guys rule! Hehehe. And thank you to those of you who have been reviewing. Your words have been my real inspiration to carry on, so keep it up! ;) Again I apologise for taking so long to update – I know how frustrating it can be when you want to know what happens next! But I've been studying like crazy, especially for my Maths GCSE exams (I swear that I will one day hunt down my non-calculator paper and condemn it to the Void to reside with Morgoth for all eternity!!!) And next week I've got my normal end-of-year exams, so joyous of occasions for me! (that last comment was sarcastic btw;) ) But enough about all of that depressing rubbish!
Breon Briarwood – When I read your request to whack Frodo on the head, I will admit that I stared at the computer screen for a minute in surprise. Of course, then I read on and starting laughing (partially with relief). As mentioned above, Aragorn would do just about anything he could to get Frodo back safe and sound. And as you have seen, his warning to his fellow hobbits was completely useless as they were always going to do what they could to save him no matter what. So you must be right – Frodo's fever is getting the better of him. (sighs) Poor hobbit. Aaah well. We'll soon see what happens. (sends over packet of strepsils) That should keep you going with your chanting on any account. ;):P
Elijahs-gurl – Hmmm. I'll see if I can get Aragorn the Healer to look at your computer shall I? Lol. Thank you for your encouraging words. Frodo has a lot of experiences in his life to make comparisons with now, doesn't he? And I think the suspense is going to be building up even further over the next few chapters – after all, the exchange is looming up quickly now! And you are not the first to ask whether I will be writing any other fics after this one. I have several ideas (all LOTR-centred) and have began writing a couple of them. But my main focus is on this fic, so I'm not sure when I'll be posting anything new. But keep an eye on my bio page for updates.
FrodoBaggins87 – (gapes in amazement) WOW! I am honoured beyond words to hear that you are enjoying this so much that you were actually late for Tae Kwon Do! I really DO feel loved! Thank you SO MUCH for your words, they have truly touched me! Hehehe – I can't stop grinning now! Glad to hear that my writing's improved, and I hope the standards don't lower. ;) As to the Elvish – well I thought I would put a bit of a different element to the whole traditional 'Frodo gets kidnapped by bad men for ransom' thing. He is, after all, a highly intelligent hobbit (even when he's sick). And he isn't completely helpless – so there you have it! :D But don't worry about rape. I don't plan on putting any rape in any of my fics. I think the torture is going just fine as it is too. ;) PS: I will try and update quicker in the future just for you. :D
Kaewi – Hahaha. Yes – knowledge and realisation at last! And no, I haven't forgotten about the blood, as you might have spotted in this chapter. But expect more on it in the next chapter! ;)
Lexi – Hahahahahahahahaha. Thank you muchly for your timeless words! I'm sure that Nobel Prize is on its way now! :P