Hey there! A whole week in and I haven't missed a day yet, though I feel I'll regret it waking up at 6 tomorrow for work! Thank you to those who have reviewed so far, I really appreciate it! I hope you enjoy this chapter.
Chapter Seven: Flames in the Darkness
Every time that he blinked, he saw the inside of a cage. With every slip of his concentration, his subconscious threw him back into the pits of Mordor, under the thumb of the foulest of Sauron's servants. There was shame as well, broiling in his sunken stomach whenever he thought of his blunder into the same trap that dragged the wretched creature he had been tracking into torture at Minas Morgul.
One moment of misdirected concentration, a blow to the head, and then Gandalf the Grey of the Istari had been rendered helpless as a babe in arms. He had posed a pretty prize for the orcs that restrained him so thoroughly, and he had heard whispers of the Lord Sauron himself expressing pleasure at the wizard's capture. More than once he half wished for the dark lord to show himself, to numb the frustration of knowing that he could defeat every single one of his captors, had he his staff, sword, or even just the use of his hands. But Sauron had never appeared, and his hands had remained bound with wire-like rope from his forearms to his fingertips.
Flexing his scared wrists, Gandalf tightened his grip on the staff that Radagast had gifted him, but the smooth wood did little to bring him back to the present. It was only a reminder of the shards of his own staff, swept away by the hot winds of Mordor. A grim smile tugged at one corner of his mouth at the thought of an orc felled by an infected splinter, but it could not chase away the 'what if's that still sought to plague him. It did not matter what would have happened if Radagast had not found him before the orcs did, because that had not happened. Likewise, it was unimportant what would have come to pass if the Nazgûl had garnered all the information that they needed on dear old Bilbo before Gandalf was able to escape. It did not matter, he told himself, but it still irked him, the oddity in his hazy timeline.
Seven years. It had taken Gandalf seven years to escape from Mordor. To his knowledge, Gollum had been captured before he had, but he doubted the creature would have lasted a single year under torment. Not without his Precious in any case. Perhaps he was mistaken, and Gollum had been captured later, or had held out for longer than expected. Perhaps it had taken the dark lord a long while to interpret his new prisoner's screeches. It might have been that Gollum was not deemed important for a time, when they had captured such a powerful prisoner as Gandalf. The wraith of a creature could have been forgotten about for years, lost and recaptured, or perhaps he had been in league with the enemy all along.
No story made sense, but Gandalf had not had time to search for proof or evidence. He had escaped barely a week before the nine rode out together from Minas Morgul, and from the moment he guessed their task it had become a desperate race.
His enemy had won the first leg – when Gandalf reached Erebor he had learnt that a rider in black reached its gates weeks before he had – and that others had been seen as recently as the day before. They had asked for Bilbo by name, Thorin said, reporting the death-laced promises they had begun with, and growling out the threats that had followed behind. The dwarves had sent word to the Shire, but heard nothing, and the previous day they had watched the messenger join eight others over the plains, and ride into the east.
Gandalf had known then that he must use every single drop of energy clinging to his wasted body and fly. He had to reach the Shire before the enemy. Thorin had all but threatened him, demanding that the wizard rest, or at least see a healer, but there had not been time to waste.
Now more than ever, he was grateful for his own stubbornness. If he had accepted the invitation, if only for an hour, he would likely have arrived to find a massacre.
"Gandalf," a light, lilting voice tugged him from his thoughts.
"Peregrin Took," he smiled wryly, gazing down at the hobbit who had ridden to his side. "How can I help you?"
"I was just wondering if you wanted this," Pippin stood up in his pony's saddle to pass Gandalf a cloth wrapped package. There was an odd sort of look about his face, an innocence that was, for once, unfeigned. His smile was small and meek, and his eyes showed no trick or glimmer of trouble. It was rather uncommon, from the wizard's memory, of the young hobbit who so idolised Fíli and Kíli.
Gandalf frowned slightly and unwrapped the package, and the frown instantly melted into a smile. It was a cinnamon bun, Pippin's favourite treat, if he remembered rightly. And it was the seventh time that day that a hobbit had given, offered, or forced him to take an item of food. They had eaten lunch but an hour ago.
"Thank you, my dear Pippin, but wouldn't you rather snack on this yourself?" Gandalf offered it back, but Pippin smiled and shook his head.
"Oh no, I have twelve. Grandma gave them to me before we left, for the road. Merry says they'll only last me a day, but they're not at their best much longer than that. Then they go stale," he said. "You take it."
Gandalf smiled, and bowed his head. "Thank you."
Pippin smiled back and nodded, and then fell back to ride beside his cousin.
Another pony quickly replaced the tween's, and its owner gave a soft smirk. "So, how much food have you been given today?"
"Oh, enough to feed a small army, I am sure," said Gandalf, wrapping the bun again and tucking it into his saddle bag. "It is very kind of you all. Do I truly look so awful?"
"Well, if truth is indeed what you seek, then I must say yes," Bilbo's tone was light and conversational, and Gandalf loved the halfling all the more for it. "It reminds me of my first trip to Lake-town, when I was skin and bone myself. The dwarves were in and out of my room every hour or so, feeding me up. Not that I minded, of course. It was the first time I'd had a decent amount of food in weeks. But, I have to say, you do look worse."
"Looks are not everything, but indeed, I have been of better health. Still, I will survive, if only thanks to the nutrition your kin provide."
Bilbo chuckled. Glancing over his shoulder, Gandalf looked at the group behind him. They were moving fast, for a group of so many, but it was not fast enough. Their pace had slowed since dawn.
"Cutting cross country should take some time off our journey, Gandalf, as well as keeping our route unknown." There was a little concern seeping into Bilbo's voice now. "No one save the Tooks and Brandybucks know where we are going, and they will not be quick to talk. They also know to keep torches burning, in case of any black-robed callers that overstay their welcome."
Gandalf sighed, and tried not to think of the how little torches would help a village full of helpless hobbits should Black Riders attack. "Yes, I do think staying off of the road would be best."
"Are you going to tell us what is pursuing us?" Bilbo lowered his voice. "You said you would not speak of it in the dark."
"And I would not tell it in the open," Gandalf said sharply.
"Will you tell it at all? Or would you have us run from a nameless fear? We are afraid, Gandalf. We are all afraid. And we deserve to know why we are afraid."
Gandalf glanced over his shoulder at where Pippin was laughing with his cousin. He closed his eyes. It felt, somehow, that his task had become the bringer of ill-fate. The destroyer of innocence.
"They have seen horror before, Gandalf," Bilbo said quietly.
"Very well." Gandalf gazed at the sky. "If we ride hard, now, until dusk is almost upon us, we can make camp while it is still light. Then, I will tell you call I need to know."
The entire group sped up, and soon they were making a pace that Gandalf could hardly have hoped for. It seemed that the wolves were in their element, and Gandalf could not help but wonder as a three-legged wolf baring a full-grown hobbit outstripped his own horse.
Miles slipped by and dusk grew nearer, and finally Gandalf called them to a stop beneath a cluster of trees. The ponies were frothing at the mouth, and staggered to a halt, and the panting wolves flopped straight to the floor, rider and all.
The exhausted travellers set up their camp with ease, and gathered around an impressive fire. The wizard sighed and spoke in a low voice. "How many of you know the tale of the dark Lord Sauron, who plagued this world in ages past?"
"Fíli tells it to us," Vinca said. "Every time we go to Rivendell, we visit the sword and the mural. It's become a tradition. Why?"
Gandalf took a deep breath. "You all know then, of the Ring of Power?"
"That was thing that gave Sauron his strength, was it not? It was lost when Isildur cut it from his hand." Frodo's eyes darkened. "Wasn't it, Gandalf?"
"It was lost," Gandalf closed his own eyes. "But, it has been found. And it is currently sitting in Bilbo's pocket."
Every head swivelled to look at the hobbit, who in turn blinked and looked down at his waistcoat. The colour drained from Bilbo's face. "What? No? No! Really? Ah. Alright. Well. In that case." Dís put a hand on her husband's arm and Bilbo stopped talking.
"Unfortunately, the creature Gollum, from whom Bilbo acquired the ring, knew Bilbo's name and where he hailed from. I searched everywhere for Gollum, but I was delayed by the enemy. When I escaped, I learnt that the Black Riders had set forth. I knew then, that my suspicions were correct. Bilbo's ring was the One Ring, and the Riders were aware of it."
"What are these riders?" Nori interrupted. "You said they're more terrible than Smaug."
"They are Ringwraiths. They were once men, but they were corrupted by Sauron. They inspire terror wherever they go, and they use it as a weapon. Their breath is poison, their aim is deadly, and their leader is known as the Witch-King. They are drawn to the ring, and ever seek to return it to their master. If they find you," his eyes fell on Bilbo. "They will kill you. But your political importance is such that they will not leave the rest of you in peace, should Bilbo go ahead or… fall behind."
There was a long moment of quiet.
"Well, that all sounds awful," Nelly said. "So, what's the plan?"
"We will make for Bree," Gandalf said immediately. "I have a friend waiting for us there, and he will escort the rest of you to Rivendell while I ride ahead with Bilbo. He knows of how to fight these beasts and his skill is great."
"You may tell us how to fight these beasts," said Gimli indignantly, "before you entrust our lives to a stranger."
Despite himself, Gandalf smiled. "This friend is not a stranger, my dear Gimli, and even he cannot truly defeat them. What we can do, is disrobe them. Should you utterly destroy their helm, with fire, for instance, they must return to Mordor so that Sauron can give them another physical form." It was a simplistic explanation, but it would have to do. Gandalf was too weary to try and explain the intricacies of the wraiths.
Nelly snorted with laughter, and everyone stared at her. "Forgive me. I'm just imagining an awfully evil wraith popping back to Mordor. 'Hello, Mister Dark Lord Sir, I'm sorry, can I have another robe please? Lost the last one.'"
"It isn't funny, Nelly." Bofin said, a heavy frown on his rotund face.
Nelly's eyes darkened slightly. "Our situation isn't funny, no, but if we all sit around acting like the end of times is coming that won't help anything either. Gandalf, you said that they feed on fear? Well, I won't be scared of them."
"You have a brave heart, child," Gandalf said. "I hold hope that it will endure. But the Nazgûl can make the very bravest hearts quake."
Silence fell again, and Gandalf closed his eyes once more. Dark was falling now, and their path was growing more dangerous. He had not envisioned fleeing with so large a group. Even with those left in the Shire, they were twenty-one, if he counted himself. To leave any behind would be a death sentence.
Gandalf did not sleep a wink. All night he sat awake, sucking on his new pipe (pressed into his hand that morning by a chattering Kíli) and staring into the darkness. Not even an owl disturbed the night, and when dawn broke and he woke his companions there was naught to see but mist.
They rode hard the next day and covered good ground. When night fell, they set up camp again, and as the moon rose to its height, Gandalf thought that he might catch a few moments' rest. Nori and Dís were on watch, and their eyes were keen and sharp.
The wizard closed his eyes and focused on his breathing, banishing the fragments of memory that assaulted his weary mind. He soon drifted into a sleep of murky half-dreams and disembodied voices.
And then he was woken by a scream.
He dragged himself into a sitting position and looked around with bleary eyes as more, cursing the exhaustion that slowed him.
He knew at once that the Black Riders had found them – they let off an aura of fear was so thick it poured down hi throats, but the company around him screamed regardless. No less than four wraiths had cantered down upon them, and as Gandalf forced himself to his feet, an icy thrill ran through him. Did he have the strength to banish four?
Even as he raised his staff, he saw Pippin struck by the foot of a horse and cast to the ground, where his head fell but an inch from the spluttering fire. Gandalf turned, but already the rider was bringing his sword down towards the stunned hobbit.
Before the wizard could blink, Fíli was there. He threw himself down on top of Pippin, and the sword struck across his back, sending him tumbling down on top of the young hobbit. Gandalf's heart seized, and a inhuman roar ripped apart the night.
Teeth bared and wild eyed, Vinca Took leapt through the flames, and with one throw thrust a flaming branch into the hood of the wraith. As it screeched, she turned, and swept her sword with the skill of a master, and the horse that had struck her brother fell dead. The wraith fled.
Breathing heavily, Vinca turned on the spot, scanning for her next target, but Gandalf had not been idle in the seconds that passed. With a spell that stole the breath from his lungs, he cast a beam of white light at the next closest wraith, sending it screaming after its fellow.
Almost in the same moment, the third rider lit up like a torch, and though Gandalf did not know who had set the flame, he saw Bofur's mattock crush the skull of its steed, ending the corrupted creature's miserable existence. Gathering his strength like water in a sieve, Gandalf pointed his staff at the final wraith. Even as the shouted the spell, he could feel his body bending lower, his legs shaking beneath the weight of his frail form. The blast that shot from the end of his staff knocked him backwards, but before he could fall, two strong hands pushed him back onto his feet.
"Are you alright?" asked Kíli, his breathing heavy and his face pale. "Are they gone?"
Catching his breath, Gandalf looked around quickly, and nodded. The surviving horse was galloping away, but the wolves took it down before his eyes.
And then he heard Pippin cry out. "Fíli? Fíli!"
Without a word, Kíli bolted from Gandalf's side and crashed onto his knees at his brother's side. Gandalf's heart stammered as he turned himself, and staggered to where Fíli had fallen with as much speed as he could muster. Pippin had crawled out from beneath him, and was shaking the dwarf's shoulder.
Fíli groaned, and grabbed the hobbit's wrist. "It's alright, Pippin. I'm fine. Just bruised – the wretch hit my shiny shirt."
"Shiny shirt?" worried Gandalf. Fancy clothing would not protect Fíli from a Morgul blade, even if the initial blow did little damage.
"Oh, thank Mahal," breathed Kíli, a weak smile creeping onto his grey face. "Had me worried for a moment there, Fee."
"Mithril," Dís said, meeting Gandalf's eye. "Thorin gave the boys shirts of Mithril, before that cursed battle."
Relief threatened to steal what strength Gandalf had kept in his legs and he swayed, but again he was steadied, this time by Frodo. The young Baggins did not say a word, but held Gandalf's arm, and steadied his staff.
"Is everyone alright?" Bilbo called, voice tighter than a drum. "Is anyone hurt?"
"Bruised, but alright," Fíli said, pulling himself into a sitting position with a wince. "Pippin's hurt."
The young Took blinked, and lost his remaining colour. "I am?"
"You were struck in the chest by a horse," said Fíli seriously. "You'll have as bad a bruise as I, I'd wager, maybe worse."
"Oh, goodness," Bilbo murmured, rushing to their side as Pippin stared blankly down at his chest. "It struck him full on?"
Fíli nodded gravely. "Aye, right and true in the centre of his chest. Not sure that it meant to, though, he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time." He put a hand on Pippin's shoulder.
Gandalf cursed, lowering onto his knees beside them. If the smallest hobbit among them had been struck in the ribs by a steed of Mordor, the damage could be dear indeed. Bilbo was already helping Pippin unbutton his shirt and waistcoat, revealing an angry, swelling above his heart. But the young hobbit was breathing without fault, and Gandalf could feel no sign of broken ribs, nor great internal bleeding. After a few furtive moments, he reassured himself that Pippin would only bruise. Then, he reassured the others.
"We shall keep an eye on you, Master Peregrin, and you shall feel the pain once the adrenalin fades, but if we are lucky and careful, you will make a recovery in no time. Fíli, now you." The dwarf began to protest, but Gandalf cut him off. "I do not wish to stay in this place any longer than we must – we should move, and move quickly – but first I will check your wounds."
Fíli sighed, but bared his back without complaint. When he was reassured that there was no greater damage than a severe bruise, Gandalf nodded.
"Collect your things," he ordered. "We move out now. The ponies will have fled, but-"
"They haven't," Nelly said, her voice shaking slightly. "Well, aye, I mean, they did, but the wolves have herded them back."
Another wave of relief crashed over him, so unfamiliar that he could scarcely believe it until his hands found his horse's reins.
They were mountain their steeds when Pippin cried, "Wait!"
"What is it?" demanded Gandalf, as Bilbo cried, "What's wrong?"
"Vinca," Pippin said, half-wondrously, half-appalled. "You never even came to the Green Dragon!"
Gandalf turned quickly to look at the young lass. Far from the far-clad warrior he had seen earlier, she looked the picture of a High Lady. Unassuming, hair and clothes in place, that practised calm on her face. Now that he thought back, Gandalf could not recall her being among the original group outside Bag End. She gave a delicate shrug, and a sad smile, and gently moved her hair over her shoulder.
"I thought I'd be more use here," she said.
The flaming wraith seared into Gandalf's mind, and he found that he had to agree.
"It was a brave decision," he said sombrely, "though I would have – and did – suggest otherwise."
Vinca inclined her head respectfully, and said nothing.
Clearing his throat, Gandalf urged his horse onwards. "If we make haste, we can make it to the Old Forest by daybreak. We will rest then – the trees may offer some shelter."
"Shelter?" Sam said faintly. "In the Old Forest?"
Nelly shook her head and held up two hands, miming a scale. "Nazgûl, Old Forest. Old Forest, Nazgûl. I think the Old Forest will be quite alright."
"The best of a bad situation," Sam said darkly. "Lead the way, Mister Gandalf."
Soon, too soon, they were riding again, with naught but what little light the wizard dared risk to guide them.
Gandalf closed his eyes, and saw the inside of a cage.
I hope you enjoyed that chapter! Slightly less changes here, but I hope you enjoyed it regardless! I liked writing it. Do let me know what you think if you have a chance!
ALSO: I forgot to mention last chapter, if you want to read an amazing story about young hobbit nobility being fostered by hobbits in the Shire for their own safety, read Winter with a Burglar by Dwarven Lass. It's hilarious, beautiful and very well done, and one of my favourite fics!