Life with Strider, Alone on the Road to Rivendell, and Where I Meet Peregrin Took

There I lay staring upward, while the stars wheeled over...

Faint to my ears came the gathered rumour of all lands:

The springing and the dying, the song and the weeping

And the slow everlasting groan of overburdened stone…

-J.R.R. Tolkien

We reached the Trollshaws where the other hobbits and I sat in solitude, humming to comfort Frodo, still basking in his own pain, oblivious to us.

Stone trolls hovered above our heads. Sam bent over Frodo, with false hopes. "Look Mister Frodo, it's Mister Bilbo's trolls!" His face fell suddenly.

Frodo squealed and squeaked unnaturally, gasping for air and attempting to fight his fate.

The pitiful looks on Merry and Pippin's faces as they watched their cousin suffer were too much to bear for me, so I sat with them and we waited in sorrow together while Strider sent Sam off looking for Kingsfoil or something of that sort. Anything to help Frodo, I prayed. Anything.

The sound of a horse set us on alarm, until we saw the horse was white. I jumped to my feet. A lovely woman rode into the clearing, dismounted, and walked to Frodo, speaking in Elvish to him. She bent over him in a dress of deep green, her long dark hair done perfectly. Her lips looked painted and her eyes...mystical. Her pointed ears gave her away.

"Frodo…" she began, speaking in a language so beautiful I couldn't find the strength to tear away from her swiftly moving lips.

"Who is she?" Merry asked in a hush, wiping his eyes.

"She's an elf," Sam murmured, mystified.

"He's fading!" The woman told Strider, and suddenly, as I gazed upon Frodo's face, she seemed to look upon me, as though she and I were the only ones who understood. "He's not going to last," She said anxiously to Strider. "We must get him to my father. I've been looking for you for two days."

"Where are you taking him?!" Merry cried, scrambling to his feet. I grasped his arm in his outburst.

"Merry," I said between gritted teeth. "She's helping him."

The woman continued to talk with Strider, ignoring Merry. "There are five wraiths behind you. Where the other four are, I do not know."

Strider, glancing at our faces, began to speak in elvish with her, and as he spoke, the woman shook her head and like they were debating, Strider pleaded with her, continuing the conversation as in soft bells. All the while I watched in fascination. The elvish language had captivated me, and I realized how rural and enclosed the Shire was from the rest of the world.

"What are they saying?" Pippin asked, but no one had an answer, so he stayed quiet.

The elvish woman defended herself, or so it seemed. "Frodo…I do not fear them." She said it reassuringly, but what was odd was that Strider seemed afraid for her, as though they were…

"I think they're in love," I whispered to Merry. He shrugged.

She mounted her horse, taking care to hold Frodo tightly in front of her. Strider bent close.

"Ride hard; Ride hard and don't look back."

The elf Arwen whispered to her horse who she named as Asfaloth, and they galloped off. The five of us that remained watched them go.

"What are you doing?!" Sam cried. "Those wraiths are still out there!"

Strider didn't take his eyes off Arwen and the horse until they were completely out of sight. "Come," he said with a sigh. "We must continue our path to Rivendell. Frodo will be safe, protected by the elves' power, if Arwen reaches the ford in time. If not…"

Sam and I exchanged fearful glances, anxious that the wraiths would burst out of the woods and kill us; that Frodo would not survive the night…

Merry put a comforting arm around my shoulders and Sam did the same. It was another six-or-seven day walk to Rivendell, one that was completed in total silence. Pippin cried mostly, and we were so sore that we skipped second breakfasts and elevensies without complaint. Strider led us, worried about Arwen and Frodo, not bothering to give orders, and at night as we camped, he sat off by himself, singing in elvish.

"What was her name?" I asked Strider, trying to lighten the mood. Or do something.

"Arwen. Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond."

"And you love her?"

He did not answer me at first. "What is it of your concern?" He asked casually.

"It is not. Or, rather, it was a thought, when I saw you talking. You do love her, don't you?"

"It does not matter. She will take the ships into the west and I shall never see her again." Strider tossed a piece of wood into the fire and sparks shot up into the night. The fire burned and crackled. The glow flickered on Strider's and my face. "Why don't you go off to sleep, young hobbit? You'll need it."

"Why should I trust you?" I asked him, finally.

"Haven't I saved your lives more than enough times?" He gritted his teeth. "I give you no reason not to trust me. If I wanted to give you in to the Dark Lord I could have had you at Barad-Dûr long ago, where you would be now asking for your death."

"But you have not given a reason why we should," I said, wondering what Barad-Dûr was and why he was telling me I would be wanting death. Hadn't I done all I could to survive so far?

"Alright, little hobbit," he smiled. "Besides saving your life, more than once might I add, taking you to the house of the elves, showing love for an elf, and sending Frodo to safety, I will grant your request once more. Has Gandalf ever told you of a set of verses Bilbo had written of me? So that the real Strider could recite them, but a false one could not?"

I nodded, because Butterbur had mentioned something of that sort in Bree.

"Well, since you do not trust me, I shall indeed recite them for you.

'All that is gold does not glitter,

Not all those who wander are lost;

The old that is strong does not wither,

Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

From the ashes a fire shall be woken,

A light from the shadows shall spring;

Renewed shall be blade that was broken,

The crownless again shall be king.'"

He smiled again. "Does that do justice?"

I nodded again. "It's a fine set of verses, there, Strider," I yawned. "What did you say about Barad-Dûr and me asking for death?"

Strider shook his head. "Hobbits," I fancied he muttered under his breath. "Barad-Dûr. Very Well. It is the house of the Dark Lord, his tower in Mordor, where he would have you tortured far further than you could imagine...you would give up those you love, and admit to anything they ask of you, even if it was not true...and you would eventually beg to be killed so that you would not have to suffer anymore..." he shrugged once. "But do not think of such things as you dream. You are safe here, and soon you will be safer still. Good-night, little hobbit."

I nodded and tucked myself up to go to sleep.

9 October 3018, of the Third Age

18 Winterfilth 1418, Shire-Reckoning Time...

I had trouble falling asleep the third night. I tossed and turned, listening to Merry and Sam's peaceful snores, and Pippin lay beside me, still and silent, as though he were restless but was attempting to sleep himself.

Eventually Pippin sat up, surprising me. "You know what?" His eyes were red and puffy and his voice was congested. "I'm afraid for Frodo and I'm afraid for myself. But I really feel alone, because everyone's worried for themselves and Frodo, but no one else."

Whether he meant it to make sense or not, I nodded. "I just want us all to arrive in Rivendell safely."

Pippin's eyes welled up again, and he sniffed. "I miss the Shire," he whispered. "I miss my sisters...and my home...and Frodo..." and he burst into tears, his hands held tight over his eyes in shame.

I couldn't think of a better moment to embrace him, crying myself, till Pippin had calmed, his arms still clasped around me. "I want to sing to ease the trouble," he said softly. "I haven't sung in such a long time. Strider wouldn't let me, or something like that. I feel like I must, now, though…I just feel like…" His little voice as we lay on our backs, looked up, our hands clasped together rang out into the skies. The wood was thick but not so thick as to block out the stars. Even in the shadow of night, the light made it through.

"Upon the hearth, the fire is red; beneath this roof there is a bed.

But not yet weary are our feet, still round the corner we may meet

A sudden tree or standing stone that none have seen but we alone.

Tree and flower, leaf and grass, let them pass, let them pass.

Hill and water under sky, pass them by…pass them by."

Pippin's voice suddenly grew quieter as he ended the soft melodies. "My mother sang this when I was a young lad. It was my lullaby," he whispered. "But she has gone..."

"I'm so sorry," I said quietly, lowering my head. "I understand…"

"You remind me so much of her," Pippin said with efforts to smile. "Like you were meant to come, just for me…"

I was touched by his sudden loss of innocence and his small steps into another, more perilous world, as he continued the song, edging closer to me, closer, till our shoulders and legs touched. His voice cried out into the night, and the lyrics touched me in ways I couldn't imagine a simple Shire song could.

"Home is behind, the world ahead, and there are many paths to tread

Through shadow to the edge of night, until the stars are all alight.

Then world behind and home ahead, we'll wander back to home and bed.

Fire and lamp and meat and bread, away to bed, away to bed.

Mist and shadow, cloud and shade, all shall fade…all shall fade…"

Hearing the last note ring into the skies, I found myself falling into a deep sleep, thankful that Pippin was beside me, and that we were both alive, and that he had lain close enough to me so that I could feel his body trembling.

All shall fade, all shall fade.