Sam awoke suddenly, shivering. A thick fog had settled on the downs, and the sun had already begun to sink westward, shining weakly through the mists. He was relieved to see that the four ponies stood nearby and had not run off. Frodo, Pippin, and Merry lay fast asleep. Something about his sleeping companions reminded Sam a bit too much of the Old Forest, when Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had fallen asleep and been swallowed up, and Mr. Frodo had been...
“Sir!” Sam shook Frodo’s shoulder. “Mr. Frodo, wake up!”
Frodo opened his eyes and yawned. “What is the time?” he asked, startled to see the fog. He quickly shook Merry awake, then Pippin.
“It’s gettin’ late,” Sam said. “I don’t even remember fallin’ asleep.” He went to see to the ponies.
“Neither do I,” Merry frowned, getting to his feet. He touched a finger to the standing stone, which was now ice cold.
“Have you ever seen fog this thick?” Pippin looked around, amazed. Beyond where the ponies stood, just a short distance away, nothing could be seen through the white mists. The fog blocked out all but the dimmest sunlight.
“Once,” Frodo said, helping Pippin gather the remains of their luncheon. “I was walking from Bywater to Bag End years ago, when a sudden fog settled down on Hobbiton. By the time I reached Bagshot Row, it was so thick I could scarcely see two feet in front of me. I wanted to stop by the Gamgees’ on the way home, but I couldn’t find Number 3!”
“What did you do?”
Frodo laughed. “I followed my nose. Luckily, Mrs. Gamgee was baking cherry pies.”
“I remember that,” Sam said, coming back to help them. “Mum took one look at you, all damp and chilled, and insisted you stay and have a piece.”
“Or several,” Frodo grinned.
“Which way do we go?” Pippin asked. “How do we find the Road, if we can’t see anything?”
“North is that way,” Frodo said, pointing. “As long as we keep the sun to our left, we can’t miss it.” But at that very moment, the sun disappeared, obscured completely by the fog that now curled above their heads like a roof.
“Come on,” Merry said. “The sooner we leave this place, the better I’ll like it.”
They led their ponies down to the bottom of the slope, where the air was cold and damp.
“Here, sir,” Sam said, pulling Frodo’s cloak from one of the saddlebags. “Never thought we’d need these when it was so hot just a few hours ago.” He put on his own cloak and hood, as did Merry and Pippin. Soon the hobbits mounted, and began riding slowly in what they hoped was a northward direction, their hair, hands, and faces soon soaked and dripping.
~*~
Halflings. The Witch-king had accorded them no notice during his rule of Angmar, and the wight wondered how one of them had come to possess an object of such strong, ancient Power.
The wights knew many spells, and the rock, earth, and grasses of the downs were theirs to use and manipulate. Indeed, the very air and winds of this small realm were subject to their voice and command, and it proved quite easy to shroud the halflings’ path. But fog could be used for many purposes, confusion of sight not the least.
“Come on! Follow me!” Frodo shouted, seeing a dark patch begin to loom through the mist in front of him. Was it the trees lining the Road, at last? He rode forward eagerly, but suddenly found himself in the midst of two towering standing stones such as the one next to which they had rested.
The wight had not been surprised to see the halfling it sought leading the small party. Bearers of Power were not cowards, and could be most formidable in their will and strength. It whispered into the air, causing the fog to thicken behind the first pony. The gap between Frodo and his three companions widened suddenly, and he was lost to their sight.
As soon as the halflings’ vision was obscured, the wight crafted the fog to a new purpose -- to divert sound. Any shouts coming from the bottom of the hill would be drawn upward, and echo back down. The halflings would hear the cries of their companions, but they would seem to be coming from the top of the hill. The trap was set.
As Frodo passed between the stones, the air about him grew dark, and his pony reared up suddenly. Frodo fell to the ground, and was startled to see that he was alone. Bewildered, he looked around, then back. Where was everyone?
“Sam!” Frodo called. “Pippin! Merry! Come along! Why don’t you keep up?” The pony ran off into the mist, and Frodo felt a chill of fear come over him.
“I hear him!” Merry cried. “Come on Sam, Pippin. He’s up there!” He pointed upwards -- to the top of the hill on which the Great Barrow sat.
“Why would Mr. Frodo be up there?” Sam asked urgently. “That’s the very place we’re not supposed to go!”
“I know,” Merry said grimly, dismounting.
“Hoy! Frodo! Hoy!” Pippin yelled. When there was no answer, the three hobbits had no choice but to leave their ponies and begin climbing the steep slope.
Frodo heard faint cries which seemed to come from high above him, and moved as quickly as he could in their direction. How could they all have become separated, and so quickly?
Merry reached the top of the hill, and stopped to catch his breath. “Frodo!” he cried, looking around. The fog was nearly as dense at the top of the steep hill as it had been at the bottom.
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam roamed over the hilltop, keeping as far as he could from the barrow that sat nearby, massive and ancient. More standing stones dotted the area, but Frodo was nowhere to be seen.
Pippin yelled and searched, but finally, confused and frustrated, he plopped down in the grass. Nothing made sense. Where had Frodo gone?
Frodo began to climb the slope, calling for his companions. But the wight had reshaped and thickened the mists once again, and his cries went unheard, swallowed by the fog.
~*~
He approaches. The trap had been sprung, the bait successful. The three halflings had served their purpose, and now could take their places in the ancient ritual. The wight briefly considered taking form and capturing them individually, but there was a chance that one or two might escape. It therefore began to chant, a pulse of sound that traveled through the hill. The smallest, seated on the ground, was caught first, as the spell whispered through the grasses and filled his consciousness. Caught unawares, Pippin could struggle only briefly against the relentless waves of drowsiness. There was no time to call out before he slowly lay back, his eyes already closing as the enspelled sleep overpowered him.
Merry gasped in fear and started toward Pippin, but after only a few steps, his limbs grew heavy.
“Help!” Merry cried out. “Sam, don’t...” He tried to reach Pippin’s side, but the increasing sluggishness of body and mind could not be fought; he slumped to the ground and knew no more.
“Mr. Frodo!” Sam yelled again, then realized that he could no longer see Pippin or Merry. “Help!” he cried. “Where are you?” He tried to shake off a sudden wave of dizziness that made his senses reel.
The wight continued to sing, sensing that one of the small ones had not yet fully succumbed. It wove the spell deeper, stronger... and closed it around the third halfling, wrapping him tightly.
Sam staggered and fell to the ground, falling into darkness.
When all three halflings lay still, drawn deeply into enchanted sleep, the wight rose up through the earth. Speaking the Words that embodied it, two long arms pushed aside the massive stone blocking the entrance to the barrow. The wight dragged its captives inside, then once again sank deeply into the earth, waiting.
~*~
As Frodo continued to climb, the last remnants of pale sunlight faded and night fell. It grew darker and darker until, when he finally stumbled to the top of the hill, he could see nothing. It was cold and dreary.
“Sam! Merry, Pippin! Where are you?” he cried out miserably. A cold wind began to blow, scattering the fog and making it easier to see. Stars glittered overhead, and the dark, looming shape of the Great Barrow was close. Too close. Anger mixed with fear began to rise in him. Where were his friends? Were they in danger, needing his help? How would he find them?
“Where are you?” he cried again.
“Here!” said a voice. Startled, Frodo thought it had come from the ground beneath his feet. “I am waiting for you!” came a cold, grim voice.
“No!” Frodo whispered, but he felt suddenly rooted to the earth. Falling to his knees, he sensed a dark presence rise above him, with eyes that gleamed. There was a strange, low murmur, and barely visible arms flickered into view -- reaching for him. He felt himself caught in a grip of iron and unable to scream, as a paralyzing cold seemed to freeze his very blood and bones. Then everything went black.
Even as it grasped its prize, the small one shuddered, then went limp. The wight carried the unconscious halfling into the Barrow, and placed him on the large, flat stone next to his three companions. There would be no need to weave a sleep spell for this fourth and most special one -- not yet; the freezing touch of grave and foul craft had temporarily drained warmth and thought, rendering him senseless.
The massive stone was rolled back into place, and the barrow was shut.
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