Sam plodded wearily up the hill. The filled flasks dragged at him, more than they should have. Particularly Strider's, the broad strap of which was eating into his shoulder. Sam eased it to one side, where it quickly began to dig into its new location.

Sam's quest for water had led him on quite a search. He'd been forced to descend nearly to the Road before he heard the welcome gurgle of a spring. He turned towards the woods-shrouded gully at that point, and followed the noise until he located the source. Out of a ferny niche, several trickles of water spouted from the hill. After falling a short distance, they pattered onto slick stone, and sank again within a few yards into the plant-choked soil lining the bottom of the channel.

Slow-flowing it might be, but it was moving water, and it was clean. Sam spent a long while filling each flask—particularly the Ranger's, which was three times the size of one of theirs. At last he shouldered his burdens, arranging the flasks to distribute their weight across his body, and began the slow trek up the mountainside.

He had not gone far before the snap of a twig made him start. He halted, turning to stare towards the noise that had come from the woods—now flanking his left during his upward climb. It was likely nothing—a squirrel or some other forest creature. Mayhap it was a pine cone falling, and hitting a rock.

A crack sounded within a dark thicket nearby, as of a branch snapping. Sam went rigid, and listened with all his ears. Faintly, he perceived the push of a large body through the underbrush, and the thump of a heavy footfall.

All weariness left him, just that quick. Sam looked about wildly. He was out in the open, lit by starlight, with no hope of reaching the protective eaves of the forest before whatever it was that was coming could push its way through. Glancing about desperately, he spied a boulder, half buried in the turf a few feet away. It made a poor hiding place, but perhaps it would serve. In fact, it must serve; the footfalls were getting louder. Sam hurled himself behind the boulder. Cautiously, he peered round the edge.

Something black and shaggy pushed its way through the trees. Sam's heart pounded. If it was a wolf, it would scent him for sure. Sam had heard about wolves. They could track you by sight, scent, or sound. On the welcome side, the shadow was too small to be another troll. Sam wouldn't have stood no chance at all against a troll. A narrow head pushed its way through the leaves that grew thickly at the edge of the forest. Sam shrank against the rock. The shadow seemed to look his way. In the darkness, he could almost make out the two dark eyes in its head, turned towards him. The head was about four feet off the ground. It was a huge wolf, and it was tracking Sam.

The wolf whickered. Taking another stride, it stepped into the starlight.

Sam could have wept for joy. "Bill!" he cried.

Upon hearing his name, the pony picked up its pace to meet him. Sam bounded forward. Too soon. Even as he ran happily to greet his friend, there came another sharp snap from deeper in the thicket.

Sam stopped dead. Something was following Bill into the clearing—something big. It loomed like a ghost against the night-enshrouded woods—a huge, pale shadow. Sam stood goggle-eyed. Caught in the open dead to rights, he watched it come.

It was another horse. Not a pony, but a proper horse, tall and sleek and wonderfully large. All white it was. Gems flickered on its headstall as it thrust its regal neck into the starlight. Its mane hung in thick, wavy locks on its glossy hide; the nostrils flared and snorted. Dark, wide-set eyes regarded Sam with playful intelligence. The splendid animal arched its neck, and carried its rider proudly into the clearing.

Sam stared. He didn't need his meeting with Gildor and his folk to know that he was looking at an Elf. If the horse had a noble bearing, it was nothing next to this fellow. Tall he was—taller than Strider, Sam thought, though it was hard to be sure with him seated. Golden hair swept over his shoulders, and his face was that beautiful, fine and fierce together, that Sam could hardly bring himself to look upon it. From the rider's hair and face and body came a gentle glow, as if he drew the stardust to him and sent it out again, all around him in a silver mist. The soft chime of bells from somewhere on their gear added to the otherworldly impression.

"Greetings." The word cut softly but with perfect clarity through the air. Sam felt as if he were hearing a song, the voice was pitched so musically and exact.

Sam swallowed. "Good evening. Sir," he added hastily.

The rider on his elegant mount came closer. "Does this pony belong to you?"

Sam knew he asked merely out of courtesy, as Bill had already reached Sam and begun to nuzzle his neck. From the gentle way Bill did it, Sam was sure he was saying he was sorry for running off—not that Sam would blame him for that, poor pony.

"That he does, sir." Sam stroked Bill's face beneath its shaggy forelock. "Or rather, he belongs to my master. But we come across a troll earlier, and it was too much for him. Bill took off in one direction, and the rest of us in another, I'm sorry to say."

"Troll!" The melodic voice grew sharp. "Where?"

Sam nodded up the mountainside. "Up the hill a piece. Don't worry, sir, he's dead. Mr. Strider killed him. But most of the party is in pretty poor shape from it, except for me. That's why I went to fetch the water."

"Who is this… Strider?" The Elf was so close, he towered against the stars. He was marvelous fair, like a story come to life. Even in the darkness, his eyes glimmered, as if they were made of starlight themselves. Sam thought he'd get a crick in his neck, looking up so high.

"He's a Man we took up with in Bree. He offered to guide Mr. Frodo and the rest of us—Mr. Merry, Mr. Pippin, and me—to Rivendell."

"Dúnadan," breathed the Elf. His clear eyes fastened on Sam. Sam nearly cringed from the intensity of that glance—then the Elf leaped lightly from the saddle. Now that they were a little more eye to eye, Sam was reassured. That fine-featured face showed expressions that Sam could recognize—relief, for one.

"You are indeed the party I was searching for. My Lord Elrond has sent out riders, west, north, and south, to find you. I came across your pony, running wild upon the Road. I approached him, intending to relieve him of his harness until he could find his way home. But among his gear I found this."

The Elf lifted something from Bill's side: Mr. Frodo's pack, which they had tethered to Bill after his master's wounding. The Elf smiled, and his face turned into something less forbidding, if not exactly inviting. "No Man could wear such a pack as this, and no child would have wandered so far into the unsettled lands. Am I right in supposing that this pack belongs to your master?"

"That's correct, sir. My master was riding Bill, afore the troll spooked him. Mr. Frodo'd been wounded, you see, away back at Weathertop." Sam gulped. "The Black Riders…"

"Black Riders." A fell light sprang into the Elf's eyes. "The servants of the Enemy met your master—yet he lives?"

"Mr. Strider drove them off." Sam could scarcely speak. No wonder folk feared the Elves; the change from beauty to terror, in the blink of an eye, made Sam quail. He gathered his courage to speak on. "But there's some evil working away at him. His wound has closed, but my master grows weaker every day."

"Come!"

On the word, Sam felt himself raised into the air—popped up as if he weighed no more than a feather. The next instant he came down again—across the great white horse's withers. Sam squeaked in startlement, and seized the horse's fluffy mane. He'd never been so high off the ground before; leastways, not on a living creature. Sam could recollect some smials he used to jump off as a lad; those would be about the right height.

In a twinkling, the Elf was mounted behind him, moving lighter than a feather himself—like a cloud, or a wisp of smoke. He murmured a word in Elvish, and the white horse began walking up the hill. Bill fell in behind them, head bobbing as he worked to keep up.

"Your beast is very loyal." The Elf's words fell upon Sam's head like silver raindrops, soft as the bells on his horse's harness. "When I had sung away his fear, he was willing to retrace his steps to find you. But he is weary, and should carry no burdens for a while. Asfaloth will bear us both to your camp."

"Straight on the way you're going, sir. It's a good step better than a mile, I'm afraid."

"So far?" The Elf seemed startled.

Sam shrugged. "We needed the water. Sir."

"I see." The Elf's voice softened. "Forgive me, little friend. In my haste, I have cast my manners aside. How do you call yourself?"

"Samwise Gamgee, but you can call me Sam. And that's Bill, but you know that."

"And this is Asfaloth. I am Glorfindel, of the House of Elrond."

"Well, I'm right glad to run across you, sir, and that's a fact. We're in a proper fix, we are."

"You must tell me about it, as we ride."

-0-0-0-

Merry was growing ever more worried, and Strider wasn't helping.

At first things hadn't seemed so bad. Merry's initial terror, when Frodo had collapsed, had been almost instantly replaced with hope, when he saw that Strider was awake. Frantically, Merry had dashed about, doing all the things that the Ranger requested: making the water hot, collecting their scattered swords, and then bringing the hot water to Strider. While Strider bathed Frodo's shoulder with the athelas mixture, Merry went after Narsil. The blade was tricky to retrieve; the hilt stuck out from under the troll, but Merry needed to use Sam's lever to shift the gory neck off it, before he could slide it free with his foot. He then returned Narsil to its owner, and went on to clean Frodo's and Pippin's blades.

That was now many minutes ago. For the longest time Strider lay propped on his side, looking into Frodo's face, and occasionally sponging his shoulder or forehead. The look in the Man's eyes was anxious. Narsil gleamed at his side, ready to hand; the Man had not asked for his scabbard. Through the long minutes, Strider gazed unceasingly at Frodo.

The image unsettled Merry. Forcibly quelling his fears, Merry finished his task. The two troll-fouled swords had been burnished (as had Narsil) with clove oil from the Man's pack. Merry now oiled his own blade, dividing his attention between watching Frodo and Pippin for signs of change. Unfortunately, Merry felt some changes within himself—and not for the better. His recent activity had further stressed his side. It burned continually, and stabbed him with multiple knives each time he took a breath. Worse, he seemed to be coming down with fever. He could feel it laying hold of him, making his head feel light even as it bobbled on his neck, as if too heavy to hold itself upright. Twice now he'd caught himself with a jerk, eyes snapping open before his head toppled forward. He couldn't succumb now. He was all that Pippin had, and Frodo. Himself, and the eerily silent Ranger, frowning as he studied Frodo's face.

What was he looking for? Surely Frodo's return to consciousness didn't demand that level of concentration; they'd hear him wake, if nothing else. Yet Strider never looked away from Frodo, his cousin's face serene in repose. The intensity of Strider's interest unnerved Merry.

Merry sheathed his blade awkwardly, fighting the flashes of pain. He set it aside carefully. Making his voice calm, he asked, "Frodo is going to be all right, isn't he?"

The Ranger's voice was gruff. "I don't know."

This was not the reassurance Merry was looking for. "What happened?" He had been saving his voice, not liking the strain talking put on his ribs, but he had to discover what was so disturbing the Ranger. "What made Frodo collapse like that? Was it his wound?"

"In part."

Merry waited, but the Ranger said no more. Gently, the Man blotted the cloth against Frodo's face. Merry persevered. "What was the other part?"

Strider sighed unhappily. He met Merry's gaze at last. His eyes looked uncommonly dark, reflecting the flicker of the flames.

"In his attempt to revive me, Frodo sent his spirit out to find mine. While he succeeded in his task, I have not the strength to search for him in return." The Ranger's voice was soft. He spoke haltingly, as if in pain. "I am trying to ease his body, so that he might find his way back to it on his own. But the grip of the Enemy freezes me out. I fear that it may do as much to Frodo, and that his consciousness will never find its way home. The Enemy's hold was strong before this. I fear the events of this evening might prove to be the breaking point for our poor friend."

Merry's mind whirled. He forced himself to speak. "You're saying that Frodo might… die."

"He might already be gone. That is what I watch for. When Frodo revives, will it be his gentle spirit returning—or a wraith under Sauron's command? If that happens, this body, this shell, would no longer be Frodo." He held Merry's eyes. "Do you understand me?"

Merry's heart pounded. "No, I don't. You're saying—" Merry licked his lips. "A wraith?"

"A spirit that is so subject to Sauron's power that there can be no recovery. He will remain forever under the Dark Lord's control, bound beyond any unbinding. Gandalf could not help him then, or the Lord Elrond himself."

Merry felt faint. "But… Frodo…"

"Would cease to be Frodo. He would become as the Black Riders are: a slave to Sauron. Such an occurrence would put the Ring in the hands of a newly born enemy, one who would be compelled to betray us. If that happens, we must be prepared."

Merry's mouth went dry. "Prepared."

Strider answered softly, "To do what we must."

Merry stared, jaw slack with horror. Frodo… a Black Rider. Merry could scarcely believe it. Yet the alternative—Strider's… solution—was too horrible even to contemplate.

Suddenly Merry recalled Frodo's jest, as the party had approached Weathertop: 'I hope the thinning process does not go on indefinitely, or I shall become a wraith.' Merry remembered Strider's angry response, censuring Frodo's light words.

He feared this might happen, Merry thought, with sudden dread. He knew what the Black Riders were.

Merry felt sick. Only the knowledge that he had nothing in his stomach relieved him of the certainty that he would vomit.

A feeble cough drew his attention. Merry dragged his gaze away from the Ranger, to glance to his other side. Pippin's eyes squinched, and his head twitched.

Instantly, Merry had his hands at each side of Pippin's face. He swallowed against a dry throat, trying to find his voice. "Pippin, it's Merry. Can you hear me?"

His young cousin coughed again, then twisted suddenly to the side. His jaws gaped and his body heaved, but nothing came up. Pippin, too, had not eaten for many hours.

Merry rubbed a hand over Pippin's back as he spasmed. "It's all right, Pip. You're going to be all right."

Please be all right, he added mentally, still horrorstruck over what might happen to Frodo. Please, don't let me lose you both!

At last Pippin stopped retching. He lay curled on his side, eyes closed, panting quickly. Merry stroked the curls away from his face. "Pippin? Pip? Are you awake?"

Pippin swallowed, then whimpered, "Merry?"

Thin and weak as it was, Pippin's voice filled Merry with joy. His closed his eyes against the sudden start of tears. His breath hitched, and he fought to control himself. He rubbed his palm up and down Pippin's narrow back. "It's all right," he said huskily. A tear escaped his shut lids, and slid hotly down his cheek. "You're all right, Pip. Rest easily, now. You're safe."

Pippin shivered. His mouth worked, then he whispered, "You're alive."

Merry blinked rapidly, as another tear slid down the other cheek. "That's right, Pip. I'm alive—thanks to you."

Pippin continued to shake. It seemed more a reaction to his injuries, than to cold. "Frodo," he breathed.

Merry cast a glance over his shoulder. Strider had resumed his silent vigil, staring into Frodo's unconscious face, looking for a sign.

Merry turned back. "He's alive, Pip. Frodo is alive, and Strider, too. Everyone is alive, save for the troll. Sam has gone to find water, but the rest of us are here."

Pippin shuddered. "Hurts," he gasped.

Merry stroked his face. "I know it does, dear one." He glanced at the fire, where his tin cup rested near enough to the coals to keep it warm. His experiment with the jerky had produced a thin, almost clear broth. Earlier, Merry's stomach had rumbled for the jerky, but now, between his growing fever and dread, he doubted he could touch it.

Merry brushed Pippin's curls behind his upturned ear. "I made a bit of broth, Pip. It's warm. Will you try some?"

Eyes closed, Pippin barely shook his head.

"You sure?" Merry persisted. "Just a sip? It will make you feel better."

"Too… dizzy."

"All right." Merry dropped a kiss on his temple. "Don't worry about it. Rest now."

Pippin gave a shuddery breath that might have started out as an acknowledgement, then settled onto his blanket. He continued to breathe rapidly, obviously in pain. Merry winced in sympathy. Gently, he tucked Pippin's cloak around him.

He started at a rustle behind him. Strider had seized Narsil. He raised it in his hand, firelight flickering along its short but lethal length.

"No!" Merry staggered to his feet, nearly falling as knives of pain cut through him. He stumbled forward desperately. Strider must not do it!

Strider gazed fiercely at him, the sword poised over Frodo. "Hush!" he whispered.

Merry halted, confused. For the Ranger had tensed and looked away—down the hill, into the night. The realization that Frodo had been spared, even for the moment, made Merry weak with gratitude. Yet that feeling gave way to a new terror: Someone was coming. Sick with apprehension, Merry moved closer to Frodo.

He could hear it now: footfalls from farther downhill. That dashed Merry's hope that it might be Sam returning; no hobbit would make such a racket. Yet his next thought, that another troll might have found them, gave way to puzzlement. Was he hearing… bells?

Beside him, Strider let out a breath. He looked at Merry. With a start, Merry saw a smile on the Man's stern face. Strider lowered Narsil to the ground—to Merry's indescribable relief.

"Friends have found us," he said.

Merry merely stared. Stunned by recent developments, he broke the Ranger's gaze to peer into the night, wondering who these friends might be. For all Strider's reassurance, Merry remained tense. His fingers twitched. Had the Man not kept his hand on the hilt, Merry would have snatched the blade away from him, to the cook fire with his fears about Frodo.

Friends may have found them. But, looking at Frodo's helpless form, Merry felt far from safe.