A/N: The last section. Some notes afterwards.

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A Wilderness of Warding

Chapter 4

A curious long whistle split the air, and the barking stopped, as did the soft sliding. Over creaks and growls and scuffles, they heard the same voice, lowered to normal talking tones, using a language unknown to Sam. Whoever it was, and by the timbre of the voice, the person was male, he was asking questions Sam wasn't about to answer. Neither was whoever he was talking to, by the sound of it.

"Can he be talking to the wolves, sir?" Sam whispered. Frodo's brows drew together, his eyes taking on a faraway look as he listened hard.

"I don't know," he said slowly. "It… it's not orc-speech. Even without the Ring..." He choked off. Sam felt him shivering.

"Frodo?"

Frodo tried to smile. "It's all right." He closed his eyes then, and to Sam's ears, his voice sounded tired. "The words seem familiar…but they don't make sense."

Then the voice stopped, and instead they heard something that froze their hearts. Something large was swishing its way on the snow, coming closer. Mouth dropping open, Sam stared at the entrance. How could they have been found? No tracks, no trace, no noise. They'd not been seen by any living creature, except…

Then the one living creature that had seen them darted through the snowy entrance. Frodo flinched. Instinctively, Sam folded himself over him, then held Sting high, peering up. The thrush! Once again, Bilbo's tales of his old adventure careened through his mind. Talking ravens and westering suns and snails rapped on a mountainside while a dragon slept below. But… but here? And why? Bilbo's thrush had been a friend.

It fluttered around their heads, twittering brightly, then settled on a branch just beyond where Sam could reach it with Sting. Not that Sam tried. This sudden, unexpected betrayal was too much. Bleak despair flooded through him and before he could stop it, a sob escaped him. Mortified, he choked it off, but it was too late.

The approaching sounds stopped dead. There was a long silent moment. Frodo had gone limp against him, his breath faint and warm at Sam's throat. Sam knew he was unconscious, or near to it. Sam rested one cheek on top of Frodo's scorched, filthy curls and felt tears of frustration and weariness course down his face. He had no hand free to wipe them away. Anyway, Frodo would not see them now. Let the traitor bird see. Sam didn't care.

Over the despair filling his heart, Sam heard wings flutter again. Slowly, wearily, he tried to raise his head, tried to hold Sting ready, but his arm was heavy as stones. More chirps, then more unintelligible words, this time sharp and impatient. Sam didn't listen. Something pricked at his sleeve. He looked. The thrush sat there, unafraid, watching Sam with saucy black eyes.

"Leave us be!" Sam whispered, shaking his arm to dislodge it. "Ain't you done enough?" A huge shadow crossed over the hole to their shelter. Sam tightened his grip on Sting.

Before he had time to do more than that, a long pole was thrust through the spruce branches, splitting them apart in a shimmering shower of snow. A great gloved hand widened the gap. Suddenly the bird was in his face, chirping and fluttering like a mad creature. Ducking his head away from the mad bird, Sam swiped Sting blindly at the intruder. With triumph, he heard a hiss of pain and felt Sting slice flesh. The shadow shifted, seemed to retreat, but then it returned and to Sam's horror, it ripped Frodo out of his arms and away.

"No!"

Strength born of fear and desperation surged into Sam, and he burst out from underneath the tree. "You will not take him!" he shrieked at the figure carrying his beloved master away. At Sam's shout, the fur-trimmed hood turned to look over one shoulder.

It was a Man, or the height and shape of a Man, for Sam could not see his face. Black wool masked his forehead, nose, mouth and chin, and great glass spectacles edged in frost covered his eyes. A bearskin coat with enormous pockets reached halfway down his legs. He stood atop the snow on narrow, flimsy-looking contraptions lashed to the soles of great black boots. Oddly enough, he bore no weapon.

But perhaps he didn't need one. For before Sam's gaze was caught by Frodo's boneless form in the stranger's great arms, he looked past them and saw what they were making for. Sam swayed, the world going black around him.

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A/N: And… that's it. I warned you! I did try hard to think of ways to make this into a proper story. I have been stuck here, because I cannot decide just who this strange man is, or what he is up to. I had several ideas, all with radically different consequences for story development. My current favorite is that Sam and Frodo are in the future, are still on Mount Doom, and that he is a descendant of the orcs who remained in Mordor after its fall. Yes, I know Sting didn't shine – that would have been significant. But as long as I have not figured out who he is, or what he is doing here, or why Sam and Frodo have been transported here (other than to let me write comfort scenes), or what they are to do in this world, I have not been able to write anything further.

Oh. Larner and Inkling guessed right, so I will confirm that what Sam saw was a dogsled. Pretty obvious. Since the typical dogs on such a sled are not dissimilar to wolves in appearance, I think a tired Sam could be forgiven for being afraid of them and of anyone who controls them.

- Permilea