October 13
“What is it?”
“A beryl, Sam -- an elf-stone; I will take this as a sign that we may cross the Bridge in safety,” Aragorn said softly. He opened his palm and showed the three hobbits what he had found on the Bridge. Sam’s eyes widened, and he started to reach out to touch the glittering gem before pulling his hand back. It was a pale green, its facets reflecting the early-morning sunlight filtering through the trees. Sam had seen jewels before, in the pile of Barrow-wight treasure -- and there were even small ones scattered on the sheaths of the hobbits’ small swords -- but this was… an Elf-stone, Strider had said. It sparkled, and was the color of spring… of pale leaves and fresh, new grass.
“That’s beautiful,” said Pippin.
“Would you like it?” Aragorn asked.
Pippin glanced at Sam and exchanged a look with Merry, then shook his head. “I have enough to carry,” he declared. “Merry?”
“As do I,” said Merry. He turned to Sam with a grin. “Looks like you’re stuck with it, Sam.”
Aragorn held out the jewel, and a slow, delighted smile -- the first in many days -- lit Sam’s face as he took the beryl and slid it reverently into his deepest pocket.
~*~
It was a long day, that led them north of the Road again, and, by late afternoon, into a long, wooded valley between hills that grew higher and steeper as they passed. There was no trail to follow, save Aragorn’s sense of the land and skill for finding the surest route. Trees and deepening shadows from the hills made the countryside seem darker, and the valley grew narrower, the path littered with rocks and fallen trees.
One week, Merry was thinking to himself. It’s been one week since those wraiths. That means one more week of travel, Strider says. How can Frodo possibly… For the dozenth time that hour, he looked up at his cousin, astride Bill, and shook his head. Frodo seemed lost in a daydream, his eyes unseeing, as Bill clopped steadily forward. He was still eating and sleeping, and seemed to Merry no worse physically, save for the dreadful, frozen cold from which he suffered, but it seemed as if some danger more than physical was assaulting his cousin. And he meant to learn what it was.
~*~
“Sam, would you get more water boiling?” Aragorn asked. Supper was over, and the group sat around a small fire. “I’d like to make a special tea, and…” He gazed at Frodo. “…Frodo, it’s been a week -- perhaps it’s time for another athelas treatment.”
“That would be wonderful,” Frodo sighed wearily. He was sitting up, leaning against Pippin, who had been humming a soft tune. “That first night, it helped so much with the pain and the cold. I think it’s even colder now… and maybe it can help make things less dark…” His voice trailed off, and Sam leaped up to set another pot of water to heating.
“Strider,” said Merry casually, “while the water’s boiling, can we talk for a few minutes?” He pointed with his chin into the trees. Aragorn, guessing what was bothering him, nodded and rose to his feet.
“We’ll be right back,” Aragorn said to Sam and Pippin. He followed Merry until they were far enough from camp so that they couldn’t be overheard. Aragorn sat down under a tree, and Merry stood before him.
“I’ve been very patient, Strider,” Merry began, “but it’s time you explained things, especially about Frodo. He’s starting to see strange shadows and mists where there are none, and the cold is spreading over a larger area.”
“I know,” Aragorn agreed. “He also now has a slight fever, but it is not yet serious.” He met the hobbit’s gaze. “What do you want to know first?”
“Why haven’t we been attacked again?”
As startled as Aragorn was by the hobbit’s forthrightness, he also respected it.
“Merry, I can only give you my best guess.” Aragorn took a deep breath. “The wraiths haven’t attacked us again because they don’t think they’ll have to. They’re waiting… for Frodo to… fade.”
“What does that mean?”
“Sit down,” Aragorn suggested.
Merry shook his head numbly. “Go on,” he whispered.
“Do you remember, when I found the Morgul blade, that the tip had been broken off?” Merry nodded. “I fear that a piece of it is buried in the wound… and that it is attempting to draw Frodo into the shadow realm.”
“Are you saying…” Merry stared at the Ranger in disbelief. “…that it’s trying to make him one of them? One of… them?”
“Yes.”
“He… he’ll disappear for good, and become an evil, shadowed thing, and… and join them?”
“Yes.”
“It’s been a week,” Merry murmured, “and he’s holding on. In some ways he’s stronger, Strider -- he can even walk a little, now.”
“I know. It gives me hope.”
“He could start to get weaker again. What if he dies from that wound before… before it can---?”
“He can’t.”
“He can’t what?”
“He can’t die from it, Merry. If the Nazgûl’s orders had been to kill him and take the Ring, he would be dead, and the Ring taken.”
“So their orders were…” Merry’s thoughts were racing in horrible directions. “…to make him one of them? And just wait until it happens?”
“I believe so. It’s the only answer for why we haven’t been attacked again.” Aragorn looked grim. “They’re waiting, but I don’t know for how much longer.”
“Why?”
“Frodo is so strong… I’m astonished at how strong he is, Merry -- in his heart and mind, where the darkness is reaching out for him. With that strength, and because of all of you, he’s resisting. It’s been a week…” He shook his head in wonder. “…a week with that thing inside him -- but I don’t know how long anyone, even a stubborn hobbit, can hold out.”
“What if he can’t?” Merry whispered in horror. “He’ll fade, and take the Ring to… them, and be gone? He’ll be gone?”
“Yes. They will take him to Mordor, and the Ring will be reclaimed by Sauron. A darkness will descend on Middle-earth such as has never been known before.”
“And if he doesn’t weaken, like they expect…” Merry stared at the Ranger, horrified. “They’ll come back? They’ll try again?”
Aragorn nodded grimly.
Merry looked back through the trees at the faint glow of the campfire. “Does he know?”
“I don’t think so,” Aragorn said, “and I don’t want him to know. You mustn’t say anything, Merry. You must act normally.”
“How can I?” Merry turned back to the Ranger, his face pale. “How can I?”
“You must.” Aragorn pulled the hobbit to him, and Merry sank, unresisting, into the large arms. “You must, Merry.”
“Strider,” Merry could hardly speak. “What do we do if he gets too weak to resist?”
Aragorn was silent for a long moment. “We must reach Rivendell before that happens.”
“Is there some magic there that can cure him?”
“I believe so.” Aragorn sighed. “If a cure cannot be found in Rivendell, Merry, it cannot be found anywhere.”
“Can’t you cut that thing out of him?”
“I dare not even attempt it. I fear that this is beyond my skill.”
Merry started to laugh quietly, and Aragorn wondered if the hobbit was going into shock.
“When we were in those marshes, Frodo promised Pippin he would never become a wraith. Remember?”
“Yes,” Aragorn said painfully, “I remember.”
“It was a joke,” Merry whispered. He began to shake with sobs. “Strider, it was a joke.”
“I know.” Aragorn wrapped his arms more securely around the hobbit. “I know.”
After a few minutes, Merry sat up a little and wiped his face. “I’m sorry I didn’t trust you at first, Strider,” he murmured.
“At first?” asked Aragorn teasingly.
“Maybe longer than at first,” Merry said grudgingly. “I thought you were treating Frodo like a child when you would…” He suddenly chuckled, realizing that he was the one now in the Ranger’s lap.
“I promise not to start calling you ‘little one’,” Aragorn assured him with a smile.
“Good.” Merry stood up. “We should get back.”
“Merry,” Aragorn asked abruptly, “which way is east?”
Merry looked puzzled, but pointed.
“That’s right.” The Ranger looked into the hobbit’s eyes. “If anything should happen to me, you have to keep going. Get Frodo to Rivendell. Once you cross the Bruinen, I have no doubt that Elrond’s folk will find you, and guide you the rest of the way.”
Merry gazed at Aragorn soberly. “Strider, if anything should happen to you, I don’t think Frodo will be able to make it. Sam was right -- Frodo loves you like a member of his family. You don’t show him that you’re afraid, so he feels safe, and hopeful. You give him more strength than any of us.”
“Except for Pippin,” Aragorn said with a grin.
Merry couldn’t help but smile. “Maybe so. Pip’s nearly hoarse from all the singing and storytelling, but he sees that Frodo just lights up every time he hears him.”
“He’s a very perceptive youngster.”
Merry’s smile faded. “Frodo is very perceptive as well, Strider.”
“I know that. Believe me, Merry, I know that very well; all four of you are remarkable.”
“What I mean is---”
“Merry…” Aragorn clasped the hobbit’s shoulder with one hand. “Frodo knows he’s badly hurt, and in great danger. I’m certain that he’s thought about what might be happening to him -- but I doubt he could have guessed such things as we have discussed. I’m not even certain that my guesses are correct.”
“Strider…” Merry’s eyes filled with tears again. “Will we make it in time?”
“We must.”
~*~
Frodo sighed in relief as Aragorn’s hot, soothing poultices on his wounded shoulder pushed back the worst of the cold. The week-old athelas water seemed to have lost none of its potency, and, once put to boiling, the scent of the steaming water again served to ease the hobbits’ weary minds and bodies.
“It doesn’t look any worse, sir,” said Sam encouragingly. Frodo squeezed his hand and said nothing, breathing deeply of the fresh, yet calming, scent.
Aragorn washed Frodo’s face, neck, arms, and torso with the athelas water, working slowly and gently, at the same time using his healer’s eye and senses to draw some conclusions about Frodo’s condition. As he had told Merry, Frodo had, in the past days, acquired a slight, but persistent fever, although he doubted Frodo was aware of anything but cold, and a slowly-growing, but still-bearable pain. The knife wound had left a strange, pale mark that was even colder than the surrounding skin, and Frodo’s left arm, from shoulder to fingertips, was still entirely lifeless. No movement or warmth had returned to it.
“There we go, little one,” Aragorn murmured. He and Merry helped Frodo back into his shirt, vest, and coat, then wrapped him in blankets.
“That feels so much better,” Frodo murmured, half dozing. He lay with his head pillowed in Sam’s lap, the gardener’s warm hands gently clasping his icy cold one.
Pippin watched, frowning, as Strider prepared an odd-smelling tea. “Who has to drink that?” he grimaced.
“You do,” Aragorn grinned, handing the startled youngster a mug. “It will ease your throat, Pippin -- I know it’s been bothering you.” He smiled gently and whispered, “And I know why.”
Pippin sighed, but took the mug. He had been talking and singing nearly nonstop for days, and his throat had become quite raw. Seeing that Frodo was watching him, he made the worst face he could invent -- which, to his delight, made Frodo laugh -- and slowly drank the tea. He had to admit, to himself, that it was very soothing, and not at all bad.
“All of it,” Aragorn urged, “then a good night’s sleep. We leave at first light.”
By the time Pippin had drained the mug, Frodo had fallen asleep, his head still pillowed in Sam’s lap.
Pippin soon found himself growing very drowsy, and he groggily let Merry tuck him into his bedroll.
“We haven’t set watches yet,” Pippin murmured faintly before also falling fast asleep.
“Thanks, Strider,” Merry sighed. “He’s hardly slept in days.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean, Merry,” Aragorn said with a grin. He had been brewing more tea from a different pouch of dried leaves, and Sam frowned as the Ranger handed steaming mugs to him and Merry.
“There’s nothin’ in here to send us off to a good night’s sleep, is there?” Sam asked. He sniffed the mug suspiciously, but only smelled an invigorating mint.
“Not at all, Sam,” Aragorn chuckled, unlacing his boots. “You and Merry are taking first watch while I get a bit of sleep.”
“That’s all right then,” Sam said, starting to sip the fragrant brew.
“Strider,” Merry asked, “that athelas… what is it?”
“It is a very special plant,” Aragorn replied, “only rarely now to be found.” He wrapped himself in his blankets and lay down. “Long before hobbits came to the Shire, Merry, a mighty land was laid waste far out in the Western Seas. The survivors escaped to Middle-earth with very little -- but one of the treasures they bore with them was athelas, and they planted it where they could. Few now know of it, except in tales.”
“Rangers are amazin’,” marveled Sam. “You know just about everything!”
Merry had more questions, but he decided they could wait. “Good night, Strider,” he said softly. Sam was loathe to move, and disturb Frodo, so Merry put more wood on the fire, made sure everyone had enough blankets, and gave Bill a goodnight pat before sitting down again.
Sam had pulled the beryl out of his pocket, and was admiring how the jewel caught and reflected the campfire’s flickering light. He suddenly held it out to Merry.
“You never even touched it, Mr. Merry. It’s a beautiful thing.”
“It is,” Merry agreed, fingering the faceted gem. “You know, Sam, I’m the only one here who’s never seen an Elf! You three met Gildor and his folk in the Shire, and Strider seems to have grown up with Elves all around him, but…”
“You will, Mr. Merry,” Sam said. “They’re wondrous fair, just like in the tales.” He looked down at Frodo. “And they’ll help Mr. Frodo get better, see if they won’t.”
“I’m sure you’re right,” Merry said softly.
“Trust Strider,” Sam continued. “He’ll get us to Rivendell in time.”
“I do trust him, Sam,” Merry smiled. “Finally! Although I think there’s more to him than he’s telling us. A lot more…” He voice trailed off as he remembered what the Ranger had said about the athelas ‘recognizing’ him. What did that mean?
Sam looked at the sleeping Ranger. I don’t care if he’s king of the Dwarves or a dragon in disguise, he thought -- he’s helping Mr. Frodo, and loves him as much as we do. And that’s all that matters.
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