October 6/7
There was no sign of them. Even in the dark, Aragorn had been able to follow the tracks of the wraiths’ five horses, which led to the Road and eventually disappeared. He could neither see, hear, nor sense them, confirming his worst fears. As he walked back to Weathertop, many hours after starting his search, full realization suddenly hit. The Ranger found himself shaking, and, still out of sight of the hobbits, he fell to his knees in the grass at the foot of the hill -- and allowed himself the frightening knowledge that the wraiths had left because they no longer needed to stay. Whatever they had come for, they had achieved.
“Frodo,” Aragorn whispered, “I’m so sorry.” He had tried, and failed. Thanks to Gandalf there had only been five Nazgûl to attack them, and not nine -- but what difference had it made? Frodo had put on the Ring, and the wraith king had seen him.
I should have taken the Ring from him, Aragorn thought desperately. I could have fled and drawn them off.
Possibly a fortnight until we can reach Rivendell. Even if I could get word to Elrond, and he could meet us halfway there, what can he do? What can anyone do? How long can Frodo hold out, and what do I do if he cannot?
Aragorn didn’t know how much time had passed, but he grew aware that dawn would soon be approaching. Looking up, he could see a small, flickering light. They had kept the fire burning. Good. Frodo needed… needed…
“He needs me,” Aragorn said aloud. He stood up and took a deep breath. “They must not see my fear. I must trust in my strength, and his, and all of theirs. There is always hope, and we must all do our part.” So saying, he commenced the climb up the hill.
When Aragorn came up over the lip of the dell, he saw that Frodo was still lying near the fire, covered in blankets. Sam was lying next to him, apparently asleep. Merry was standing nearby, and the Ranger was impressed to see that the hobbit was far enough from the fire to avoid being readily seen, but close enough to Frodo to keep an eye on him. And indeed, the moment Merry saw someone approaching, he gasped and ran in front of Frodo, pulling out his sword and holding it up.
“Peace, Merry, it is I,” Aragorn called softly. “I am no wraith.”
Merry lowered his sword in relief. “You’ve been gone so long, Strider…”
“I know, and I am sorry,” Aragorn said. He knelt next to Frodo and was relieved to find that his sleep seemed restful. Merry knelt beside him.
“We emptied one of the water bottles and filled it with that athelas water, in case you need to use it again,” Merry said quietly.
“Good,” said the Ranger approvingly.
“Frodo’s been able to sleep, on and off.”
Aragorn looked around. “Where is Pippin?”
“Over there.” Merry pointed. “He’s still pretty shaken up.”
Aragorn stood up and walked over to where Pippin sat wrapped in a blanket against the cold air, huddled beneath the tree to which Bill was tethered.
“May I sit with you?”
Pippin nodded, and Aragorn settled himself next to the young hobbit.
“Have you had any sleep, Pippin? We leave as soon as it is light.”
“I may never sleep again.” Pippin turned frightened eyes to the Ranger. “Strider, what happened? I don’t understand what happened.”
Aragorn thought about how best to explain things.
“It is called the Black Breath.”
“What is?”
“That which touched you when the wraith approached -- the Black Breath is the Enemy’s greatest weapon. It is despair, Pippin, and defeat, and lost hope. It is being lost in the darkness with death stalking you and drawing near.”
“Yes,” Pippin whispered, tears beginning to roll down his cheeks. “Yes.”
Aragorn put an arm around the young hobbit. “Now you know what Frodo will be fighting. You have felt it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Frodo has been injured by a weapon of the Enemy. I fear that the darkness that you felt has been planted within him, and will try to draw him into shadow. We cannot let that happen.”
Pippin stared at Aragorn, wide eyed. “What can we do?”
“We must make certain that Frodo does not lose hope. We must give him strength in every way we can, and help him to resist the shadows that reach out for him.” Aragorn paused, then continued. “We are all afraid, Pippin. But should you need to cry, or give in to sadness or fear, come to one of us. Do not let Frodo see it. Do you think you can do that?”
“Yes,” Pippin whispered. He wiped his face.
Aragorn was silent for a moment. “Pippin, do you know how Frodo and I met?”
“Gandalf brought you to Bag End when you were sick, and Frodo got sick too, and you helped take care of him.”
“That’s right.” Aragorn said, remembering. “You had just been born.”
“How do you know?”
“Frodo spoke of you, and Gandalf did, as well,” the Ranger said. “Your birth was a great joy to your family, and to the Shire. You carry a respected lineage within you, as well as a very bright spirit. You bring Frodo comfort and lightness of heart, and I think it more than chance that you are here with him, now.”
“Oh,” Pippin breathed, then he looked at Aragorn gravely. “Neither is it chance that you are here.”
“Perhaps not.” Aragorn smiled. “Gandalf has told me about the Tooks. Behind his stories were great respect and affection for a family unlike any other in the Shire.” He felt Pippin sit up a little straighter.
“You don’t have to worry about me, Strider.” Pippin suddenly stood up and looked at Aragorn steadily.
“We still have a long journey ahead of us, Pippin, and it may grow quite difficult.”
“I’m still scared, but Frodo won’t know it. I promise.”
Aragorn nodded. “I have no doubt of it.” He got to his feet, then he and Pippin walked over to where Merry was still keeping watch over Frodo and Sam. Merry looked up and tried to stifle a yawn.
“You should have set watches,” Aragorn admonished him. “You’ve had no sleep, and we will be traveling all this day.”
“We did set watches,” Pippin replied.
“I must have forgotten to wake Sam as I said I would,” Merry stated calmly.
“You do that a lot, Merry,” Pippin murmured.
Just then Sam opened his eyes, and sat up quickly. “Is everything all right?” he asked.
“Dawn is nearly here, and there is no sign of the wraiths,” Aragorn said. “We are going to leave within the hour.”
“Where do we go, now?” asked Pippin.
“We must reach Rivendell,” Aragorn answered. “If anyone can help Frodo, it is Elrond.”
“Strider,” Merry said quietly, “Frodo may not be able to walk. He was able to sit up, but only if he was holding onto someone.”
“What about Mr. Frodo ridin’ Bill?” asked Sam.
Aragorn nodded slowly. “That’s a good idea, Sam -- if he can hold on, that is. If not, I will have to carry him.” He looked at the three hobbits. “We would all have to carry some of the load that Bill now bears.”
“We can do it,” declared Pippin.
“What’s wrong with my master?” Sam asked. “The wound was deep, but is already closing -- it’s so cold, though, and looks very strange.”
Aragorn was about to answer when his eye was caught by an unfamiliar weapon on the ground, near where Frodo had been found, and he moved to retrieve it. Merry and Sam exchanged a worried look when Aragorn stood perfectly still and silent, the black knife in his hand.
“What is it, Strider?” Sam asked.
Aragorn turned to face them. “It is a Morgul blade,” he said grimly. “The end of the blade is broken, and I fear…” At that moment, the first rays of the sun burst over the horizon, bathing the dell in light. To the hobbits’ amazement, the blade seemed to flicker and melt, then it vanished altogether, leaving only the hilt still in the Ranger’s hand.
Aragorn strode to where Bill was tethered, and pushed the knife hilt deeply into one of the saddlebags piled on the ground. “A quick breakfast, Sam, then we leave. There is no time to lose.” The look in his eyes was desperate, and urgent.
Sam scrambled to his feet and moved quickly to prepare a cold meal, and Pippin went to help him. Merry left Frodo’s side and came to stand next to Aragorn.
“Strider,” Merry said quietly, “you haven’t told us about Frodo. Sam’s right -- his wound doesn’t look very serious, just… strange. Why is he so cold and weak?”
Aragorn crouched down to the hobbit’s level and took a deep breath.
“He is in grave danger, Merry,” the Ranger said just as quietly. “I fear that there is a great darkness at work within the wound.” Merry’s eyes filled with tears, and Aragorn reached out a hand to clasp him on the shoulder. “There is a power in Rivendell for healing that is beyond my skill, and we must get him there. It’s a long journey -- perhaps as much as a fortnight yet to go.”
“What if we’re attacked again?” Merry whispered so Pippin wouldn’t hear him. “They came for the Ring, but didn’t get it.”
“They won’t…” Aragorn chose his words carefully. “I believe they have retreated for a time, and we must take advantage of it.”
“There’s something you’re not telling us, isn’t there?” Merry asked. “Why didn’t they kill Frodo, or take the Ring? Why did they leave?”
“Merry,” Aragorn replied, “let us talk about this another time. I will answer your questions, to the best of my ability -- but not now, and not here.”
Merry slowly nodded. “All right.” He looked around. “I’ll see if there’s anything we can leave behind in order to lighten our load.”
~*~
“Frodo,” Aragorn called softly. He stroked the hobbit’s brow, and Frodo slowly opened his eyes and looked around in confusion. Aragorn noticed that it took the hobbit a moment or two to focus on his surroundings.
“Good morning, little one,” Aragorn said gently. “We are leaving soon. How is the pain?”
“It’s not too bad.” Frodo grasped Aragorn’s tunic with his right hand and sat up, his left arm dangling limply at his side. “It doesn’t hurt much, Estel, it’s just… awfully cold.”
“You must tell me if the pain begins to increase.”
Frodo looked at the Ranger, puzzled. “Why would it?”
“Just let me know. Can you stand?”
“I…” Frodo gripped Aragorn’s tunic even tighter, and tried to get his feet under him, but the simple movements seemed exhausting. He slumped against the Ranger’s chest weakly.
“That’s all right,” Aragorn said with a forced smile. “If you can hold onto one of Bill’s lead ropes even half as tightly as you’re mangling my tunic, I think it would be best if you rode.”
“I can’t do that,” Frodo declared. “We would have to leave the baggage behind!”
“We’ll carry it, sir,” said Sam, bringing over a pan piled with cheeses and dried fruits. “Don’t you worry about that.” He helped Aragorn settle Frodo against one of their packs so he could sit up and eat.
“Let us do all the worrying from now on, cousin Frodo,” added Pippin. He plopped down, and expertly snatched the piece of cheese Frodo was reaching for and popped it into his own mouth.
“You thieving hobbit,” Frodo sighed. “By the way, how are all those midge bites doing?”
“They still itch. I’m the one who’s really suffering here, you know -- at least that knife wound doesn’t itch, am I right?” Pippin asked with a grin.
“Oh Pip.” Frodo couldn’t keep from smiling. “You’re incorrigible.”
“I don’t know why people keep saying that,” Pippin sighed dramatically. This is so hard, he thought. I want to grab Frodo and hug him and weep and make this not have happened. This is so hard. I’m so scared. “Poor Bill,” he continued. “He deserves a more graceful rider, Frodo -- like me, for instance.”
“I’ll show you who’s a graceful rider.” Frodo reached his right hand up, and Aragorn grasped it. “Help me up on that beast, Estel. And make sure Pip gets an extra-heavy pack. Give him Sam’s.”
Pippin realized that Sam was staring at him, his mouth agape at his seemingly uncaring attitude about Frodo’s injury. But he also saw that Aragorn was nodding at him encouragingly, and that was enough. If this was what Frodo needed, he would get it, all the way to Rivendell -- wherever that was, and however long it took to get there.
Pippin got to his feet with a sigh, and suddenly found Merry standing in front of him.
“Don’t worry, Pip; I’ll explain things to Sam,” Merry said quietly.
“You…” Pippin looked at his cousin in amazement. “How do you know---”
Merry pulled Pippin close and hugged him tightly for a moment.
“I just know,” Merry whispered.
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