A/N: The second to last section, it also contains the start of a plot. Sort of.

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A Wilderness of Warding

Chapter 3

They were on a mountainside. Evergreens surrounded them, cutting off his view except for one swath downhill and to his right. There he could see to the horizon through the bare branches of a copse of slender white trees. Sam gasped. He had never seen so much of the world before. It was spread before him in a vast tumbled wilderness beneath a dazzling blue sky. He could not even see the whole of the mountain they were on, for a great ridge rose beyond the white trees. He squinted. Something sparkled at him. He thought it was a river or a lake far away. He thought he could hear water, too, quite near, a stream perhaps, hidden by the evergreens or in the valley before the ridge.

Sam took in all this open-mouthed. For a long minute he wondered if he had lost his wits. He'd known something incredible had happened, but this! It was as if the world had remade itself, like in the old tales. Had the wise ones…? Had Elrond and the Lady and… and Gandalf, known this would happen when the Ring went into the fire?

"Horsefeathers!" he snorted. "Someone's playin' tricks on you, Samwise Gamgee. Or more'n likely this bump on your head has you seein' things." He looked around doubtfully, then set his jaw. It looked mighty real and it felt mighty real, but making it go back to normal was no concern of his. His concern was Mr. Frodo, and what needed doing. And that was the same no matter where they were.

First things first. The snow might be as high as a garden gate, but there was no wind and the sun was good and strong, the warmth welcome on his face. That would be one thing taken care of. Get Mr. Frodo out here, get him soaking up the sunshine like a cat on a flagstone path and then they'd see. Or would it be better to find food first? Sam gnawed at his lower lip, uncertain. His own strength was failing, he could feel it. Even this slight exertion had left him lightheaded and shaking. Whatever he did, he must do quickly.

Wherever they were at least it was not a steaming, poisonous desert barren of hope for food or drink. Even in winter, this land could sustain life. That was a coney-track over there or he was a ninnyhammer. And there was that water he kept hearing. Funny, that. It couldn't be, what with it so cold and all, but it sounded like water, right enough. If it were a warm-water spring, there might be fish, or he could dig for roots in the soft riverbank. He could hear birdsong, too, not that there'd be eggs this time of year. Sounded like a thrush. Yes, there it was, hopping about high in one of the white trees.

"Can't eat no thrush," Sam grumbled and rubbed at his forehead. The ache was getting worse. Eyes stinging, he peered at the bird, which stopped hopping and regarded him with one bright black eye. "Pigeon or dove now, they'd be a treat." He sighed, mourning anew his discarded pots and pans. Well, nothing for it. Come to worse, they would eat what he found raw. Lord knew they were hungry enough.

A strident sound in the distance brought Sam's head up. With an unnatural screech, the thrush flew off, but Sam hardly noticed. Dogs? Great brutes, from the sound of their deep throaty barks. Yet how could there be dogs out here? Sam went cold. Not dogs, no. They must be wolves, a large pack too, far too many for any hope of fighting them off, especially with Frodo as he was…

But that was no wolf bark. Sam gasped, eyes wide and fearful. That was a voice. The words came sharp to his ears, gruff, shouting strange words with the bite of command. Someone was with those wolves. Suddenly Sam remembered old Mr. Bilbo telling tales of his adventures with Gandalf and the dwarves in the Misty Mountains; of them being trapped in trees by goblins and wolves banded together for evil purposes.

"Wish we had old Gandalf here now with some of them pinecones," Sam muttered, swiping his eyes with his sleeve. He was so tired. How could he keep them off, when his head kept swimming and his eyes were watering and his legs felt like two straws? But they were coming closer, all of them. He had to try. They couldn't climb, and there weren't no eagles to fly them to safety anyhow. He drew Sting and started to rise.

"No, Sam."

Frodo's command was so faint Sam barely heard it, but he did feel weak fingers wrap around his foot. He would have kicked free, but with a gasping sob, Frodo rolled himself onto Sam's legs, pinning them down. He lay heavy against him, wheezing, clutching him with frigid fingers; and Sam's heart failed him.

"Oh, Frodo," Sam breathed, forgetting himself in his fear for his friend. He pushed him down, or tried to. "Stay you down safe. I ain't letting you be captured by orcs again."

"Dear Sam," Frodo gasped, "I know you would defend me well… as you did before… but neither of us will be captured by orcs… if you act like a sensible hobbit… and hide! The tree hides our scent… and the snow covers our tracks. Time enough for fighting… if we must."

Sense indeed. Shaking his head in chagrin, Sam withdrew into their tree-shelter. "Your Sam's a noodlehead," he said, holding Sting between them. Frodo's eyes went to it, then met Sam's, puzzled. Sam grinned ruefully. "Sting ain't glowing. Whoever's out there, he ain't orc nor goblin. But I doubt a wolf-tamer's going to be too friendly, neither, so we'll just keep quiet-like." And hope they think it's a rabbit or summat as poked through these branches, and so go on about their business.

They huddled together in the snow-filtered dimness, Sam supporting Frodo, both keeping still so as to hear and not be heard. The yelps approached, accompanied by soft swishing sounds, and then a crack as if from a whip. Frodo shuddered, and Sam tightened one arm around him. The other held Sting raised, ready to defend against the slightest movement across the sun-edged gap that led to the outside.

-TBC-