October 7
Why why why why… Frodo’s thoughts spun in an endless circle, one word pounding over and over in the same rhythm as Bill’s hoofbeats. All through that first, long day after they left Weathertop and hurriedly crossed the Road, Aragorn leading them south for a time, and then east once again, Frodo grew more angry at himself. Why had he put on the Ring? Why?
Frodo was heartsick at the sight of his friends walking near him, weary under the heavier loads they were all bearing. Why did he do it? Why? But then…
“Frodo,” Pippin would say unexpectedly, “you must hear this song I’ve been working on. Merry thinks it’s dreadful, but what does he know? Listen…” And Pippin would sing -- very softly, as he walked next to Bill -- of mischief and childish pranks, and tumbles down hills, and Frodo would smile as Pippin’s clear voice pulled his thoughts out of their spinning, endless circle of blame and fear, and questions without answers.
Aragorn walked in front, but never too far ahead, choosing a route that gave concealment, but also the most level ground so that Frodo wasn’t jostled too badly on the back of the pony. The area south of the Road and west of what the Ranger called the ‘last bridge’ was wooded with thickets and trees, and would provide tinder for the fire he claimed they must now have each night. At all costs, he had told them, Frodo must be kept warm.
As the sun began to set on that first day after the attack, Aragorn finally called a halt to the weary group in a sheltered clearing, and packs dropped from aching shoulders.
As he had done several times that day, Aragorn gently lifted Frodo off Bill. This time, both Sam and Merry helped support Frodo as he half-walked, half-stumbled over to the blankets Pippin had quickly spread out.
“I’ll gather some wood,” Aragorn said, starting to walk off.
“I’ll help you, Strider,” Sam volunteered gamely.
“No, Sam, not tonight,” Aragorn smiled. “Just rest for awhile. I won’t go far.”
As Aragorn disappeared into the trees, Sam and Merry pulled down packs and food bags from Bill, and Sam made sure the pony was tended to before putting all his attention on his master.
“Here, sir, let me wrap another blanket about you. You’re cold as ice, and no mistake.” Sam helped Frodo sit up against a pack that Pippin had brought over, and smiled encouragingly at him. “Now you just rest, Mr. Frodo. I’ll bring you something for supper, and then you can be off to a good night’s sleep.”
“Thank you, Sam,” Frodo sighed. “I wish I could help.”
“And you’ll not be helping neither, Mr. Merry, nor you, Mr. Pippin,” Sam declared, turning around. The two cousins looked up wearily from where Pippin was fumbling with pans and packets, and Merry was clearing an area for a fire.
“Not either of you had a wink of sleep last night, is my guess,” Sam continued. “You just let me do that.”
They’re so tired, Frodo thought bleakly to himself, and we’ve so far to go. When no one was looking, he put forth all his strength to try to move his left arm -- but to no avail. He had hoped that the feeling would slowly come back, and warmth return, but there was no change. He feared he would never regain the use of it. The strange, frightening, chill was slowly spreading from his wounded shoulder to his left side; and the pain, which had abated completely after the use of athelas, was beginning to return.
Aragorn made several trips, dragging large branches and tinder back to the clearing, then quickly prepared a small campfire in the space Merry had cleared. When the fire had caught well, and everyone had eaten something, he finally allowed himself to rest. He sat with Frodo on his right. Sam, on the other side of Frodo, was absently feeding small sticks into the fire. Pippin, curled up in a tumble of blankets, had fallen fast asleep with Aragorn on one side of him and Merry on the other -- and Merry, who had been teasing Pippin about the youngster’s constant yawning, was struggling to stay awake.
Frodo was quiet. Too quiet, Aragorn thought.
“Frodo, how are you feeling?”
“Estel,” Frodo whispered, “you said to tell you if the pain started up again…”
Sam instantly grew more alert.
“That’s right,” Aragorn replied. He pulled the blanket-wrapped hobbit against him very gently, and Frodo rested his head against the Ranger’s chest. “Is it very bad?”
“No,” Frodo said, “not very bad.” He sighed. “It’s hard to say if it’s really pain, or just… cold.”
“If it gets very bad, we’ll use more of the athelas,” Aragorn said softly. “Merry was smart enough to save it.”
“Merry’s smart enough to do anything,” Frodo said drowsily. “He has to run Buckland someday, you know. That’s a wild place.”
“It used to be a wild place,” Merry murmured sleepily, “but then you moved to Hobbiton, Frodo, and things calmed down considerably, they tell me.”
“Don’t believe everything you hear, Meriadoc,” Frodo replied, trying to smile. He nestled against Aragorn’s warmth, wishing the fire was a bigger one.
Everyone stopped talking, and soon the only sound was the crackling of the sticks Sam was tossing into the small blaze. Images of the previous night kept him from relaxing.
“You were right about fire, Strider,” Sam mused after awhile. “You really saved us last night. Those shadow-things really don’t like fire much, do they?”
“No, they don’t,” Aragorn said, “although I’m not certain why.”
“I know why,” Frodo said dreamily, gazing at the small campfire.
“I thought you were asleep, Mr. Frodo,” Sam said. “You need to try and sleep, sir.”
Frodo nodded, but continued to stare into the dancing flames.
The last thing Aragorn wanted Frodo to be thinking about was the Nazgûl, but his curiosity won out.
“Why don’t they like fire, Frodo?”
“It’s life,” Frodo murmured, “warmth and life. They can’t bear it. It’s the sun they’ll never feel again, and love, and hearts beating, and all the things forever lost to them. Forever lost…”
“Frodo!”
Frodo blinked in confusion and looked up at the Ranger. “Yes?”
“Nothing.” Aragorn guided the dark curly head back down against his chest. “Try to sleep, little one.”
“I can’t,” Frodo whispered. But he soon grew too sleepy to keep his eyes open any longer, and Aragorn felt the small one in his arms relax, and the hobbit’s breathing deepen and slow.
“Asleep at last?” Sam asked softly. “Mr. Merry as well?”
Aragorn nodded.
“Mr. Merry doesn’t get enough sleep,” Sam said boldly, “and neither do you, sir.”
“I appreciate your concern, Sam, but I can go quite a few days without sleep, if needed.” Aragorn smiled. “You’re correct about Merry, though -- in trying to see to it that everyone else gets enough rest, he neglects his own.”
“You said we should start keeping watch in pairs, Strider. I’ll sit with you for awhile, if that’s all right.”
“Thank you, Sam.”
“Did you ever marry your sweetheart?”
The Ranger chuckled quietly at the unexpected question. “Do you remember that?”
“I could never forget that day!” Sam grinned. “Meetin’ a Ranger, and ridin’ such a wondrous big horse, and you sayin’… you said…” Sam ducked his head shyly. “You said she was beautiful as the sunrise.”
“She is indeed,” Aragorn said with a smile. “We are pledged, Sam, each to the other, but have not yet wed.”
“But it’s been…” Sam stared at the Ranger in disbelief. “It’s been years.”
“Yes,” Aragorn murmured as if to himself, “years upon years.” He looked at Sam. “It’s a complex matter, Sam, for an Elf to wed a mortal -- she and I in particular. Perhaps we will yet find a way.”
“That’s a darn shame, Strider, that it’s so complicated,” Sam sighed, “but I don’t suppose she looks any older now than she did then.”
“Not by a day,” Aragorn said quietly.
“Like Mr. Bilbo and Mr. Frodo, I guess.”
Aragorn frowned and looked down at the sleeping hobbit in his arms. “Sam, surely there must have been talk in Hobbiton when Frodo never… aged.”
“More talk than I’d care to repeat,” said Sam. “Most folks thought Gandalf’d put a spell on ’im, and Mr. Bilbo, too. They thought it was too much luck for anyone to be so well off and young-lookin’, and all.” Sam frowned. “Jealousy and spite, most of it. Pure nonsense.”
“And you? Did you wonder?”
“We all wondered,” Sam said thoughtfully, “but you just get used to things, I suppose. I grew up near Mr. Bilbo, you know, and just got used to things bein’ the way they were. Besides…” he said heatedly, “…it isn’t luck to lose your folks so young, like Mr. Frodo did, and be left with that cursed Ring and take such a dreadful hurt.”
“No, it isn’t -- but he’s very special,” Aragorn said softly.
“Aye, that he is,” Sam agreed. “Mr. Bilbo saw it right off, and so did you, didn’t you, sir?”
“Yes I did, Sam, as did Gandalf.” The Ranger smiled. “As you did, as well.”
“Aye.” Sam was quiet for a moment. “How far is it to Rivendell, Strider?”
“Perhaps a fortnight, Sam -- or less, with luck.”
Pippin mumbled something in his sleep and burrowed closer to Merry.
“Does that youngster know any more songs?”
“Enough to get us where we’re goin’, and then some,” Sam declared.
“Good.” Aragorn shifted a bit, preparing to lay Frodo down. “We need to build up the fire.” Before he could move, Sam had leaped up.
“I’ll tend to it, Strider. Don’t disturb Mr. Frodo.”
Aragorn nodded and remained seated, grateful that Frodo could sleep. Frodo. What would happen to him? For a mortal to survive an encounter with the Nazgûl was, in itself, extraordinary -- but to be wounded by a Morgul blade… If his suspicions were correct… if Frodo, this dear, special hobbit, fell into Shadow… started to become one of…
Aragorn felt his heart start to pound as he contemplated what might lay ahead for them all. This wound would not, could not kill Frodo; he would either somehow find the strength to reach Rivendell, or it would… he would become…
If the worst happens… what will I do?
“I’m makin’ more tea, sir -- will you have some?”
Aragorn smiled and somehow kept his voice from shaking. “Thank you, Sam.”
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