The sudden change in the tenor of the troll's screams, from enraged to agonized, startled Frodo. The next moment the cause of the change was apparent, as a cry of "Elendil!" sounded from outside the cave.

Frodo froze, heart pounding, hardly daring to hope. Strider had come. Yet what could one Man—and an injured Man, at that—do against anything so big? Even so, their situation must be improved, with the human warrior able to strike a blow in their defense.

The illumination grew marginally brighter, as the troll backed its huge mass out of the cave, hobbling on one leg to face his attacker. As soon as he moved away, Frodo shuffled on his knees and good arm towards the brink of the ledge. "Merry! Pippin!" His thin cries bounced off the stone walls.

Frodo listened frantically, mouth dry. Only silence answered him.

Pippin and Merry were Frodo's kin. It was his responsibility to rescue them, if rescue were possible—if they were alive. With himself already wounded, and Sam unable to climb up and down from the high ledge on his own, the attempt would prove difficult at best. Yet Frodo must try.

A hand fell upon his shoulder, making him jump. "You should stay right back," Sam advised, almost in his ear. "That troll could come back at any minute."

"Yes, and if Merry and Pippin are still alive, he would certainly finish them then, wouldn't he?"

The troll let out a hideous shriek. Frodo looked towards the door, in time to hear the solid thud of something—or someone—hitting the earth.

Frodo leaned forward, peering out. The troll loomed just outside the cave entrance, with his back towards them. That meant that the body hitting the ground just now could only be Strider, if the troll was still upright. Did that scream mark Strider's final blow, before the troll finished him?

Anxiously, Frodo directed his gaze to the floor of the cave. There! Faintly he could discern a body below him. Weak light hit a pair of heels that faced the doorway, and dimly limned the tumbled shape of a cloak. Frodo leant forward, and whispered frantically, "Merry!"

A groan from the shape drifted upward. Relief mixed with anxiety. Frodo scooted about, to hang his feet over the edge. "Lower me down, Sam. I've got to bring him up."

"And how do you expect to do that?" Sam used his ironic voice—the one that meant he was going to be difficult.

"I'll tie the strap round his arm, and you can pull him up."

"And how am I supposed to get you back up, once you're down there?"

"Oh, bother getting me up! I've got to find Pippin. He's—"

The troll made some kind of strange, strangled noise that it hadn't made before. Frodo's attention snapped to the cave entrance. Outside, the troll sagged, then slowly toppled forward. It gurgled as the air left it, then grew still.

Frodo stared in amazement. Beside him, Sam said, "Maybe we won't need to pull Mr. Merry up the ledge after all."

Frodo's shock gave way to joy. "He did it." He seized Sam's sleeve. "He did it! Strider killed the troll!" Not waiting for Sam's reply, Frodo cupped his good hand to his mouth. "Strider! Hoy, Strider! Hurrah!"

No response greeted his shout. The troll lay unmoving before him. Nothing else made a sound.

Frodo grew still. Worry tore at him afresh. Sam said, "You think maybe they kilt each other?"

Frodo hastily turned towards Sam. "Where's that belt? I've got to get down there."

"Right here. Hold still, I'm making a loop."

"Blast it, Sam, I don't need a loop. Just give me an end, and lower me down!"

"No, sir." Sam continued fiddling invisibly in the dark. "I'll not have you slip when a simple noose will prevent it. Here, give me your right hand."

Frodo thrust it in his direction. He felt Sam slip a leather loop over his hand, that settled onto his wrist like a cuff.

"There." Sam pulled the cuff snug. "Now you won't fall. I'll lower you as far as might be, then let the strap take you."

"All right." For all his eagerness to get down, Frodo was none too keen about the shadowy drop to the floor. His left shoulder was already icy, and ached from the jolting it had endured earlier during Aragorn's run. A seven-foot drop might be bearable were he in good health, but he'd prefer to minimize any unnecessary strain if he could help it.

Sam lay flat on his belly, to make the belt reach as far as possible. He gripped Frodo's good arm, and helped steady him as Frodo eased over the edge. Frodo held onto Sam's grip for as long as possible. When both their arms were fully extended, Sam released him. Frodo had an awkward moment as he drifted away from the wall, his weight fully suspended by the cuff around his wrist. Then he swung back, and got his feet against the wall. This maneuver was not good for his injury; it felt like needles jabbing into his shoulder. Frodo gritted his teeth, secure that Sam could not see his discomfort in the darkness. His toes slid along the wall. The surface was rough, but not so much that Frodo could find a proper foothold.

"That's all, sir."

Frodo, preoccupied with trying not to twirl like a toy on a string, said, "What's all?"

"That's the length of the belt. That's as far as I can lower you."

Frodo looked down. Merry was almost directly below him. The floor couldn't be more than another two feet away. "All right. I'm ready. Let go."

Frodo dropped. The floor smacked into his feet even sooner than he had expected, and he fell over. That jarred his shoulder again, sending a knife of pain through his chest. Frodo slowly sat up, reaching for his shoulder with a hiss.

As if in response, a groan drifted up from his elbow. Frodo ignored his wound for the present, turning quickly towards the sound. "Merry? Merry, can you hear me?"

A heavy thump at his side startled him. In a moment, a pair of hands found him. They trailed down his arm, and started loosening the cuff from his wrist. "Mr. Frodo? Are you all right?"

"Fine, Sam." Freed from the belt, Frodo reached out along the floor. Almost instantly his hand found a warm cloak. When the body stirred beneath his touch, Frodo could have wept for joy. "Merry, it's Frodo. It's over. You're safe."

Merry groaned, and cloth rustled on stone. In the gloom, Frodo could see Merry's hands go to his head, as he curled into a ball on his side.

Frodo rubbed a hand soothingly over his cousin's shoulder. "Merry? Can you speak?"

From between Merry's elbows came a muffled but emphatic, "Bugger, that hurts!"

Frodo smiled weakly, then looked towards where he knew Sam to be standing. "Make a light, will you, Sam?" He turned back to his cousin. "Rest easy, Merry. I'll be back in a moment."

Merry muttered groggily, "Pippin?"

"We're finding him," said Frodo, as Sam swung his pack to the floor near his feet.

Merry, with an alarmed cry, tried to sit up—then hissed and collapsed again to the floor, his arms now hugging his chest.

"Just lie there," said Frodo firmly. "We must see how badly you're hurt."

Merry panted against the pain. "It's not… bad," he gasped.

"So I see. Keep still, now. I must find Pippin."

Sam was rummaging through his pack. Leaving him to it, Frodo scooted towards the stone wall of the ledge. Bracing himself against it, he pushed himself upright. He was weak and wobbly, but he could manage it. Cautiously, he shuffled towards the wall of the cave. "Pippin? Pip? Speak to me, Pipsqueak. I know you're in here."

His toes brushed something soft. Bracing against the shelf face for balance, Frodo sank to his knees. A warm tumble of clothing lay heaped in the corner. Pippin's body was lying all anyhow. Frodo found an arm, a leg—how had Pippin fallen? His only consolation was that the body was warm, and appeared to be breathing.

A light flared, dimmed, then grew. Sam had lit a candle. In the waxing glow, Frodo could see Pippin, tossed into the corner like a rag doll. The uneven jumble of stones on which he lay had splayed his limbs in ridiculous positions. His face was pale, but his cloak and pack seemed to have protected him somewhat from the rocks upon which he'd fallen, as well as Strider's big pack, propped against the wall. Nothing was bleeding, as far as Frodo could see.

"Pippin? Pip?" Frodo straightened the limbs one by one, careful of breaks. Everything seemed to move as it should. "Come on, Pip. Speak to me."

He shifted his arm behind Pippin's shoulders, attempting to raise him. As he did so, his fingers encountered something warm and wet at the base of his skull. Frodo's heart fluttered. He shouted, "Sam?"

"Coming!" Sam sprang upright, from where he had been positioning the candle on the cave floor in a little puddle of wax. He hurried towards Frodo.

"Help me get him up," Frodo pleaded. "He's bleeding."

Sam crouched, then gathered Pippin into his arms like a baby. "Anything broken?"

"Not that I could tell." Frodo swallowed. "There's blood all down his neck."

Near the candle, Merry was stirring. He winced, pushing himself up on one arm. "Where is he hurt?"

"His head, it seems." Sam lifted the young hobbit with a grunt, then backed away from the wall before turning awkwardly about. Merry snatched the blanket off Sam's pack, which was closest at hand. Grimacing from the movement, Merry shook out the blanket and laid it flat. By the time Frodo had struggled once again to his feet and got himself turned around, Merry had removed Pippin's pack and cloak, and Sam was settling Pippin carefully onto the blanket. Hunched over from pain, Frodo shuffled towards them, as quickly as he could manage. If only he weren't so bloody useless!

Merry spread Pippin's cloak over him for warmth, while Sam tipped Pippin's head towards the light. "There's the cut, you see?"

"Oh, Pippin!" Wincing, Merry shrugged off his own pack, then painfully dragged it round to open it.

Frodo walked past him, heading for the entrance. Already his eyes had grown accustomed to the candlelight. He could see nothing outside the door but the huge feet of the troll, propped like two overturned tables a couple of paces beyond the threshold. The candle's flame painted the dirty, callused soles with a dull glow.

"Where are you going?" Merry cried, flapping open a kerchief that he doubtless intended for a bandage.

"Strider," Frodo answered. "I must see what's happened to him."

Instantly, Sam was at his side. "I'll do it. You tend to Mr. Pippin."

Frodo glanced behind him. Merry had doused the kerchief with water from his flask, and was dabbing at Pippin's curls, his face grim. "Merry has things in hand," he told Sam softly. "But Strider has saved all our lives. I must see what's become of him."

Sam's unhappy look told Frodo all too clearly Sam's opinion on the matter. They kilt each other, Sam had speculated. Well, that might be the case. But Frodo owed it to his strange, new friend to find out. The idea that Strider might be dead grieved Frodo to an extent that surprised him. He didn't know how it had happened, or when, but the tall, grim Man had become very dear to him. It would be the height of injustice if he died now, after all his adventures, while attempting to protect a hobbit that was too foolish to look after himself.

The night seemed blinding after the candlelight in the cave. Even so, Frodo could easily follow the body of the troll, bulking up like a new burrow along his right side. Sam followed, half a pace behind. As Frodo moved farther from the cave, his night vision gradually returned to him. There was the head of the troll, resting in a great, irregular blot that stained the light turf. It was undoubtedly blood. Yet where was Strider?

"Save us," Sam whispered. He jogged forward, around the blot, and then knelt at the peak of it. All at once Frodo realized what he was seeing. Part of that blot was the Ranger, dressed in his dark clothes. He was pinned from the chest down beneath the head of the troll.

Frodo hurried forward, careful to avoid the grim pool. Sam looked up, his face pale in the darkness, but his expression impossible to read. "He's breathing. Not much, but he ain't dead yet."

Awkwardly, Frodo knelt beside Sam. The troll's stench was overpowering. Its blood reeked of things that had been long dead, coupled with an acidic tinge, like vomit. It made Frodo's gorge rise, to be so close to it.

"Watch your hands!" Sam cried, as Frodo reached for Strider's head. "He's covered in the stuff, and it ain't clean. I feel it burning my skin."

"We must get him out of it!" Frodo groped frantically for a handkerchief. "Sam, see if you can find something to use as a lever. We must shift this troll. It's suffocating him."

"Right you are, Mr. Frodo!" Sam sprang to his feet and raced towards the woods, going at a respectable pace, considering the darkness.

Frodo leant over the Ranger. He wiped the Man's face with the kerchief, trying to get the noxious blood off. Under the starlight, Frodo could make out Strider's pale forehead, and his closed eyes. The rest of his face was spattered with the black ichor of the troll. Frodo hoped that the Man's whiskers had provided some meager protection for his skin.

"Strider?" Frodo blotted the Ranger's face as best he could, trying to rouse him with voice and touch. "Strider." The Man didn't move. Frodo wished he had some water. But his pack had been hitched to Bill, who must be miles away by now. Frodo moved the kerchief lower, to clean Strider's throat. "Strider, wake up." Suddenly Frodo recalled Gandalf's letter. Bending lower, he said softly into the Man's ear, "Aragorn."

The Man groaned. Encouraged, Frodo continued to clean his face, brushing the cloth over his skin soothingly. "Aragorn, you've done it. You've saved us all." He set the foul cloth aside, and placed his hand across the Man's brow. The skin on his fingers itched from the troll blood that had seeped through the kerchief. Frodo wished he could wash it off the Man's face. Who knew what damage it was doing to his skin? Frodo stroked his friend's forehead gently. "Aragorn, come back."

The Man did not move, but his breathing seemed to grow a little easier. It was a wonder that he could breathe at all. The troll's head, though disproportionately small for its body, probably weighed as much as two hobbits, just by itself. There was the additional weight of its huge shoulder, but fortunately this lay mostly against the Ranger's legs.

"Frodo?"

Frodo jumped. A shadow stood between him and the cave, black against the dim illumination of the entrance. The cloaked form swayed slightly.

"Merry! You should not be out here."

"I came to see if you were all right."

Frodo hesitated momentarily. "I'm no worse than I was before. Are you all right?"

"I'll live." Merry picked his way closer. From his hesitant movements, he clearly hadn't gained his night vision yet. He nodded at the Ranger. "Is he...?"

"Aragorn's alive, thankfully. Sam has gone to find a lever for us to free him. How's Pippin?"

"Unconscious. He took quite a knock to the head. What happened?"

"When the troll grabbed hold of you, Pippin drew his dagger and leapt onto its arm. He struck well, to judge by the scream that followed." Frodo gave Merry a weak smile. "He's the reason you're still alive."

Merry wobbled. "Mercy."

"To pay him for his trouble, the troll smacked him into the wall." Frodo's attention returned to the injured Man. "Have you your flask?"

"It's inside, next to Pippin."

"Would you bring it? I must get this poison off him." As Merry started away, Frodo called, "And bring a light, if you would."

"Right." Merry lifted a hand, and continued towards the entrance. Frodo watched him with increasing anxiety. His cousin weaved as he walked. At least Merry was standing, which was more than most of the party could do.

Frodo turned back to the Ranger, and gently stroked his cheek. "Stay with us, Aragorn. Please don't leave us now."