Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.   

Intruder

Chapter 1

“Is he awake yet?”

Sam shook his head and motioned for the other two hobbits to follow him into the adjoining room.  He shut the door and leaned against it wearily.  He had said that it was too soon for Mr. Frodo to attend that Council two days ago, that the meeting and its demands on his master had been too heavy for one so recently recovered.  He’d only been up a day when the Master of Rivendell had summoned him and required him to undergo the gut-wrenching reluctance of displaying the Ring.

From his hiding place behind the autumn foliage, Sam had seen how quietly Frodo sat, and the slow, heavy way he had moved when he rose to place the Ring in the view of the Council.   He thought that he was the only one, besides Gandalf, to have seen his master jerk violently when the Dwarf had snatched up an axe and tried to destroy the Ring; a valiant but useless effort.  Frodo had hidden his eyes in his hand, quivering.  Sam did not understand it, but the dwarf’s futile assault on the Ring had somehow caused his master pain.

Frodo had stood silently as the Fellowship formed about him, as Sam himself had broken cover to stand by his master’s side and declare, “Mr. Frodo’s not going anywhere without me!”   When his cousins, Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin had also included themselves, Frodo’s gratitude and relief had been tangible.  Did he think that they would let him go off on his own, then?  But he had grown paler and paler, the so-blue eyes seeming to expand in his white face, and after the meeting had disbanded, Aragorn had swept Frodo up into his arms and taken him immediately back to bed, Sam trotting anxiously alongside.

And then yesterday, instead of staying in bed and resting like a sensible hobbit, Frodo had insisted on rising and dressing, and had wanted to explore Rivendell.  Sam had guided him about the confusing place, but Frodo had not been able to go far.  Seeing his master was exhausted, Sam had seated him on one of the bridges, pushed a piece of fruit into an unresisting hand, and he and Merry and Pip had gone to the kitchens to find him something strengthening.  Returning with a well-laden covered plate, Sam had seen his master in converse with Strider and the Lady Arwen, and had waited until they had spoken and departed.   Then he had gently but firmly guided his master back to bed.  By the time he had tucked Frodo in, his master had been white-faced and shaking, and would take nothing of the gently-steaming plate.

Sam had prepared one of the unpleasant-tasting teas for pain that Lord Elrond had left for Frodo, and alternately cajoled and commanded him to drink it.  Since then, Frodo had slept, not waking for supper, or breakfast, second breakfast or elevenses.   Plain unnatural for a hobbit.   Yesterday’s eve, when Frodo had not awakened even with Pippin waving a mushroom pastry under his nose, Samwise had gathered up his courage and sought out the Elf-lord, asked Elrond to come and look at him.  Elrond had examined Frodo, palpitated the red, swollen wound carefully, and pronounced him simply exhausted.   A slight fever still lingered in his form, but nothing like the fever that had so burned up his strength and sent him into convulsions.  Elrond had ordered Sam to raise Frodo’s dark head and poured some concoction down his throat – even the resultant coughing spell had not woken his master.   And still Frodo slept.

“Sam?  Sam?”  Sam realized that Merry had been speaking to him, and had finally resorted to shaking his arm to capture his attention.  Pippin’s sharp face peered over Merry’s shoulder worriedly.  “Sam, are you all right?  You’re about to fall on your face.” 

Pip took his arm and led him over to a divan, sat him down on the soft cushions.   “All we need is for you to get sick now.  Sam, come and eat.  Frodo is just sleeping; he’ll be all right by himself for a little while.”

Sam recognized the truth of this; he no longer feared he was standing a death-vigil over his master.  Putting his finger to his lips, he rose and eased the door open, looked in on Frodo.  His master lay quietly in the elf-sized bed, heavy lashes shielding his eyes, his face tranquil.  There was a small uncut loaf on the bedside table, apples, cheese, an ewer of water and a cup.   Samwise could think of nothing else his master might need, if he left him alone for just a brief time.  After a short internal argument, Sam nodded to the other two and followed them to the kitchens.

* * * * *

They had scarcely quit the sun-lit room when a shadow rose from the climbing ivy beneath the window and placed heavy, sword-used hands on the sill.  The shadow had lurked there, screened by the thick ivy, ever since it had discovered the hobbit’s location hours ago.  It had heard first that the little one had been sheltered in the Elf-lord’s rooms, but had been moved to his own quarters when his fever broke.  The figure was relieved by this news.  It had not relished the idea of penetrating to the very heart of Rivendell to carry out its mission.

The shadow pulled itself up over the sill and into the sun streaming through the glassless casement.   It resolved into a Man, a large Man, bearded, dark, heavy of shoulder and richly dressed.  The beard had been easier than obtaining the rich clothing and the inclusion in the Rivendell delegation.   A minor member of the embassy, he had not been invited to the Council but like the three hobbits he had just seen depart, had been a watcher out of sight.   

The similarity amused him for a moment.  He crossed to the outside door and risked a quick glance after the halflings.  The little people were out of sight.   He knew that the Rivendell cooks had planned a batch of berry pies for this evening’s feast.  Not unfamiliar with hobbits, he did not expect them to return quickly.  He could hardly have arranged this better himself.

The Man moved to the inside door and let himself into the room.  The injured hobbit was there, sleeping, looking no larger than a child in the elf-bed.  As he watched, the hobbit sighed in his sleep and shifted, but showed no sign of waking.   The man had heard that his life was despaired of, that the Council was delayed until the hobbit was well enough to attend it.  Strange to think that so much had depended on such a little one.

Now that he was where he had been instructed to be, the man was hesitant.   Not that he feared the little one - a ridiculous idea.   But he did know fear, fear of the golden circlet that hung from a silver chain around the hobbit’s throat.  Such a little thing… such a deadly thing.  He could see it, part of the chain and a hint of gold under the over-large white silk nightshirt.  He had not understood why he was to be paid so much gold for this task.  Indeed, he had not questioned.  His orders seemed simple enough – kill the hobbit and bring back the plain gold ring he bore.   It was not until he had spied on the Council yesterday that he had understood what he had agreed to undertake.

Woven in myth and legend, this plain gold circlet.  He would not have believed it save for the gravity of the Council he had witnessed, the obvious conviction of the wizard and the Elf-lord.  The seriousness of those attending, edging on desperation, the stories reaching back unimaginably far into the past.  Hard on awe and trepidation came another emotion – greed.   Now that he understood what he was to obtain, might not another pay more?   Indeed, would not the Great Enemy himself give him anything, anything he asked, for this little ring?   For the One Ring? 

The man leaned down and peered at the Ring.  He cared nothing for the old stories of the reign of Sauron, the tales of terror and darkness.  Doubtless exaggerated, if not downright lies.  The Dark Lord was generous to those who served him…  The man paused, stared blankly at the wall for a moment, confused.   Where had that thought come from?

He looked down.  While he had been debating with himself, the hobbit’s morning glory blue eyes had opened.   The little one lay rigid, breath quickening as he realized that an unknown man, twice his size, hovered over him.  The small hand went immediately to his throat, clutching the Ring.

“Be silent!  Be silent or die!”  The knife was in his hand without him being aware of drawing it.  He waved it before the hobbit’s face, angling it to catch a gleam of sunlight, and gloated to see the little one’s eyes follow it. 

Both of them froze at the quiet knock on the door.   It opened an inch, and a soft voice called, “Frodo?  Frodo, are you awake?”   Receiving no response, Aragorn pushed the door open a little further and peered into the room.  Several heartbeats passed while the three stared at each other.

The Ranger’s hand slid to the hilt of his ever-present sword, then stilled as the intruder cursed and grabbed the hobbit’s nightshirt, pulling him up from the coverlet, knife held to his throat.   Frodo’s hands went to the man’s wrist, clasping the arm to keep himself from strangling.  He was silent, his blue eyes impossibly wide in his pale face.

The intruder pulled him to his feet and dragged Frodo towards the balcony.  “If you make any cry,” the man hissed, “I will slit his throat.”   Frodo stumbled on the hem of the overly-large nightshirt, his feet tangling in the cloth.  The man clamped his free hand on the hobbit’s left shoulder, and the hobbit gasped and twisted involuntarily.  He pulled Frodo to the railing and slammed him against it, hard.   Frodo bit his lip, a small whimper escaping him, and the man shook him, “I said be silent!  Be silent!”  The Ranger could see a red stain blossoming beneath the muscled hand, welling up and spreading much too quickly.

Stooping, the intruder set his arm around the hobbit’s waist and lifted, and in one quick movement for one so large, leapt over the balcony and landed lightly in the gorse bushes below.  Aragorn dashed to the railing but made no sound; the knife was still held close to Frodo’s throat. 

As Aragorn watched helplessly with gritted teeth, the little one’s eyes turned up to him, pleading.  The intruder sneered up the Ranger, his captive tightly held against him with a muscled arm.  The man whirled, took one step onto the path and - fell, tripping over a small hunched-over figure, pushed hard from behind by a second figure crouched in the tall grass.  The intruder dropped the knife, his hands instinctively spreading out to break his fall.  A third small figure bashed him neatly on the head with a cast-iron pie plate.

After that, there was much shouting and confusion.  The Ranger was besides them in a moment, sword drawn.  Before his boots had landed in the bushes, Samwise, Merry and Pippin had rolled the unconscious figure off Frodo and were dragging him out from under the man.  Frodo was shaken but unhurt, except for bruises and the reopened wound, which was bleeding profusely down the white silk.   Seeing this, Samwise gave a short cry and Aragorn had to confiscate the pie plate to prevent him from conking the man a second time.  He took the weapon away from the infuriated hobbit and assisted the other two in binding the man, using twine pulled off the ivy trellis.

Drawn by the general alarm, Elrond had closed the wound again and re-bandaged it, then confined Frodo to his bed with orders to drink as much water as he could.  The Elf-lord had examined the unconscious man and ordered his bindings replaced by stout rope.   Aragorn and Gandalf awaited his awakening with grim purpose, collecting in the meantime what information they could from the man’s fellows, but the delegation could tell him little.   Aragorn held out little hope of identifying the man’s employer.  Discreetly, Elrond posted a tall Elf outside of the Ringbearer’s door, and a second beneath the windowsill.   Both were armed with long, bone-handed knives.

* * * * *

Evening fell; peace returned to the elven sanctuary.   Sam had eventually gone back to the kitchens and obtained another pie for his master, as the one he had been bringing back for Frodo had been put to such unexpected use.  Berry pie had covered both of them –  Aragorn had been momentarily horrified to see so much dripping red, before Merry had assured him it was only pie. 

Sitting besides the sleeping Frodo, Sam yawned and tilted his chair back against the wall, stared out past the balcony at the stars.   “That comes of a-leaving him alone,” he said to himself.  “I promised not to leave him, an’ I don’t mean to.  Mr. Frodo’s not goin’ anywhere without me…”  Sam’s thoughts trailed off into silence and he slept. 

* TBC * 

Chapter 2

When Sam awoke the next morning, still in his chair, he ached in places he didn’t know he had.  Long days spent in the garden, turning earth or pulling weeds, had caused him less pain.  His back felt like it was on fire and his legs ached.  His posterior was totally numb.  Stifling groans, he had to resort to sliding down out of the chair and climbing to his feet from his hands and knees.

At least his master still slept peacefully.  Frodo lay in the wide bed, his thick eyelashes lying like black crescent-moons on the pale cheeks.  His breath rose and fell evenly.  Sam turned away suddenly from the gentle sight – it weren’t long ago, he thought, that seeing Mr. Frodo breathe wasn’t something he’d be seeing much more of.  Wiping unbidden tears from his eyes, Sam set about preparing for the morning.

After a quick wash, Sam gathered up last night’s dishes and returned them to the tray on which he’d carried them from the kitchens.  Then he faced a dilemma.  He’d not be leaving Mr. Frodo, not even long enough to take the tray back.  With a silent apology to the servants of Rivendell, he eased the great wooden door open and leaned out into the hallway, placing the tray on the floor outside.  The cool-eyed Elf standing guard there gave him a nod.   Back inside, the hobbit crossed the room and checked out the glassless window, the one through which the intruder had entered the day before.  Yes, another Elf stood there, too. This one also awarded him a nod, before flicking his clear eyes back to scan the scenery.

Feeling better about the day, Sam wondered how long there would be guards posted on Mr. Frodo’s room.  Should he ask Lord Elrond for a bodyguard, too?  For a food-taster?  This was no way for hobbits to live.  That cursed Ring was twisting their lives out of all recognition.

A soft knock came to his ears, and he returned to the adjoining room, making sure the door to Frodo’s bedroom was shut tight behind him.  Lord Elrond stood there, flanked by Strider – no, Aragorn – thought Sam, and Gandalf on the other side.  Sam wondered if he ought to bow. 

“Would you sirs come in?” he asked.

“Good morrow, Samwise,”  the Elf-lord said graciously.  “How fares your master?”

“He’s still sleepin’, my lord.  I made him drink one of your teas you gave me for him.   He woke up long enough to eat a bite o’ supper and went right back to sleep.  Will you look at him now, my lord?”

Aragorn had already eased open the closed door and was looking in at Frodo.  His master hadn’t moved except to throw his right arm up over his eyes. 

“Did you find anything more about the Man, my lord?  Who he is, who sent ‘im?”  Sam questioned softly.  Gandalf leaned over Aragorn’s shoulder and peered at Frodo’s sleeping face.  After a moment, the wizard pulled the door shut and turned to Sam.

“We will question him this morning, Sam.  Lord Elrond received word a short while ago that he has finally awoke.  We might have had answers before this, did you hit him less hard.”

“I’d a-hit him a lot harder if Aragorn hadn’t taken me pan away,”  Sam scowled.  “I hope he has an awful headache,” he added with unaccustomed viciousness.

The wizard diplomatically let that pass.  “The others of the delegation could tell us little.  He bore official papers and all the stamps and seals were authentic.  None knew him personally.  He seemed to conduct himself appropriately and gave the others no cause to doubt his presence.”

“An educated and well-bred assassin,” Elrond mused.  “Such a man would not come cheaply.”

“It is my guess that there is a shallow-buried corpse somewhere behind him on the road,” Aragorn remarked.  “He may have stolen the clothes, if they were near to a size, or had them made especially for this work.  If the garments were custom-tailored, we might be able to track down the maker and find out who paid for them.”

The Elf-lord nodded.  “I have already sent a rider to ask those questions.  The rider carries his cloak and surcoat, and will stop at every town and hamlet along the delegation’s path and ask for news.  If we are fortunate, we may gain some intelligence so.”

Their voices had gradually been growing louder, and all (save the Master of Rivendell) were startled when Frodo’s door opened and the hobbit leaned shakily against the jamb.  “Good morning, everyone.  If you are going to hold a party in my room this early in the morning, could you have not at least brought some food?”

Gandalf chuckled and placing a hand on the Ringbearer’s uninjured shoulder, guided him back to the bed.  “Breakfast is on its way, Frodo.  First, drink some water – oh, you did.  Good.  How do you feel?”

Frodo’s beautiful eyes closed briefly, pain-lines standing prominent in their corners.  “Stiff, sore, aching, tired, hungry and weak,” he recited after a moment.  “But very glad to be alive.  A few aches and pains quite pale in comparison to the alternative.”

Leaning up against the headboard, he allowed Sam to pull the covers back over him.  “Have you found anything out about the Man?”

“We should have some news by mid-day,” Aragorn told him. 

Another knock at the door interrupted further discussion.  Opening it, Sam discovered an Elf holding a well-laden tray, accompanied by Merry and Pippin carrying covered platters.  Pippin grinned at Sam and shoved the plate he was carrying into his arms.  He darted past Sam and skidded to a halt by Frodo’s bedside. 

“Hullo, Cousin!  You’re looking much better this morning!  Merry and I – and Lilireth” (a nod to the Elf, who regarded him with amusement) “- have brought you breakfast.  We’re joining you and Sam.  We heroes have to keep our strength up!”   The Elf Pippin had named Lilireth was quietly laying out knives and forks, plates and cups, and arranging the dishes on the narrow table against the wall.  That done, he bowed to his lord and departed.

“Good morning, Lord Elrond, Gandalf, Aragorn,” Merry said, following more decorously.  “If we had known you were here, we would have brought some more food.  You’re welcome to join us … but you might not want to.”

“Good morning yourselves,” Aragorn returned.  “Why wouldn’t we want to?”

Pippin pulled the white linen cover off the platter Sam still held, there being no more room on the small table.  “Mushroom omelets, mushroom-stuffed sausages, braised mushrooms, baked mushrooms, broiled mushrooms…” he listed happily.   “Merry, where’s the roasted mushrooms?  Oh, there they are.  Sam, I saw you eat that one!”

Deciding that further talk was impossible until the hobbits had eaten (which was likely to take some time), the Elf-lord, Ranger and wizard left them to it.

* * * * *

“He will not speak,” Elrond said quietly.

The man in the cell glared at the three who stood before him.  The fine clothes were torn and creased, his hair dirty and disheveled, a night’s growth of dark beard stained his face.  The sizable lump left by Sam’s cast-iron pie plate had been examined and treated and the man had been given water and food.  Aragorn, returning the man’s glare with one of his own, wondered if his foster father might be too civilized in his treatment of this thwarted murderer.

He was not even housed in a true cell; Imladris did not have such things.   The man had been borne, unconscious, to one of the House’s few interior rooms.  A thick wooden door was all that kept the intruder contained.   There was no need for a guard; the lock was dwarven-make and could not be opened by other than the rightful owner.  Upon awakening, the man had paced around the small room like a caged animal.  After some time, he had taken the food and water left for him.  Then he had sat on the small cot and ignored Elrond as the Elf-lord examined his head.  After having the lump cleaned and bandaged, he continued to ignore every overture and question put to him.

“If he continues to refuse, is there not some potion or herb that might loosen his tongue?”  Aragorn was impatient, all too aware of passing time.  They did not have time to waste, waiting to hear what this man might tell them.  Evil forces massed along the road the Ringbearer must soon trod.  Each day the threat grew. 

“There are such things,” Elrond responded.  The man glanced quickly at the Elf-lord, then lowered his gaze to the burnished wooden floor, his heavy shoulders stiff and set.  “But I greatly suspect that this one does not fear them.  Such concoctions are of limited value when the taker is forewarned.  And there is no guarantee that they work.”

“Gandalf?”  Aragorn gritted out.

Beside him, the wizard shifted his staff, his sharp eyes thoughtful.  “I might be able to force the truth from him, depending on his strength of will.  But it would be most unpleasant for both of us, and it would be dangerous.”

Aragorn fingered the long curved knife at his belt.  “If there is no other way, I will get the truth from him.”

“My son -" Elrond began but Aragorn silenced him with a savage gesture.  “It would sicken me, but I will do it, if there is no other way.”  After a moment the Elf-lord nodded, accepting such an action as sometimes needful in war. 

“We will return at mid-day,” said the Master of Rivendell to the silent man.  “Your mission has failed.  No one will help you, now.”  The man raised dark eyes to the Elf-lord then resumed staring at the floor.  “Please … do not force us to actions that we will all regret.”

Receiving no response, Elrond motioned for Gandalf and Aragorn to precede him from the room, and locked the heavy door behind him.

* * * * *

A quarter-hour before midday, the Ranger and the wizard met again and waited for the Elf-lord to join them.  Aragorn’s face was pale but set, and he had added several smaller knives to the great one at his belt.  Gandalf looked at him sorrowfully but said nothing.

Elrond joined them after some little time.  He had wanted to check on Frodo and had just left the Ringbearer.  Frodo slept, he reported, and would recover with no ill effects, if Samwise could keep him quiet.  And if there were no further attacks or mishaps.  It had been a very near thing with the Morgul-wound, a very near thing indeed.   The hobbit could ill-afford the additional blood loss from the reopened wound, caused when the intruder had slammed him against the balcony rail.  Frodo would be weak and listless for some time to come as his body slowly recovered.          

The three walked to the small interior room and Elrond unlocked the door and opened it.  The man lay on his cot, back to them, the single blanket drawn up to his ears.  He did not acknowledge their entrance.

The three exchanged glances.  Elrond took a step nearer.  “Sir,” he said softly, “will you not speak?  There is nothing to be gained by this silence.”

The man ignored them. 

“Enough.  I am sorry for this, but you have chosen.  Aragorn.”

The Ranger stepped forward and drew the great curved knife, pulling the blanket off.  It stuck and Aragorn pulled harder.  The man turned towards him … and rolled off the cot onto the floor.  He did not move.

The Ranger knelt swiftly by the supine form.   Exhaling softly, he sheathed the great knife.  Turning the man’s head so the other two could see, Aragorn showed them the silken cord around the man’s throat.  It was almost hidden under the dark beard and hair.  The fibers had been twisted in so tightly that the flesh had given, blood drying and causing the blanket to stick.

Aragorn rose and stood by his foster father.  “We will have no answers now.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 3

Kneeling next to the cooling corpse, Aragorn gingerly brushed the blood-encrusted hair from around the intruder’s throat.  The man had struggled against the throttling; his hands were clenched so tightly around the cord that it had bitten the fingers to the bone, adding more blood to that of the ravaged throat.  His face was unrecognizable from the proud and contemptuous visage that had sneered up at the Ranger from the bushes outside Frodo’s balcony, his knife held close to the terrified hobbit’s throat.  Face suffused with blood and blue tongue protruding from his gaping mouth, there could be no doubt that the man had died in agony.

Gandalf sighed and turned full-circle in the improvised windowless cell, his sharp gaze falling on the simple cot with its single blanket and the small wooden table that held the emptied plate and cup, the only furnishings.  The room had originally been used for the storage of herbs and medicines, some of a toxic nature – hence its status as one of the few rooms in Imladris with a lock.  “So now we have another problem,” he mused softly.  “Who penetrated a locked door and killed him?”

Unspoken but not unthought in their minds was the immediate fear that the intruder had had an accomplice, with orders to silence his partner should he fail in his attempt upon the Ring-bearer.  Did another unknown killer seek an unguarded moment to take Frodo’s life and steal that which he carried, to the ending of all light and hope on Middle-earth?

The Elf-lord returned to the thick wooden door and ran his slender hands over the finely-wrought lock.  “I commissioned this lock long ago from Glóin’s people.  It was made to open only for the rightful lord of Imladris.  We might ask the Dwarfs here to examine it, but I feel no tampering with its magic.”  Elrond leaned against the door and closed his dark eyes, silent for the moment.  “Aragorn, will you help me test it?”

The Ranger rose from beside the body as Elrond closed the door then stepped away from it.  Aragorn tried the handle but it did not budge.  He threw his strength against it, still without effect.   The Elf-lord stepped gracefully back and it immediately opened under his light touch.

The wizard had watched with a slight grimace as Aragorn hit the door and bounced off.  “Elrond…  Does the magic recognize those of your blood?”

 The Elf-lord frowned, his dark eyes sparking with sudden anger.  “Of course.  Elladan and Elrohir and Arwen may also open it.  But my children would never do such an evil thing.”  Though his voice had not risen or tightened, the Master of Imladris stood very straight and thunder gathered on his high brow.

 “No, of course not…” the wizard leaned against his staff.  “Of course not.  I confess I am at an impasse.  Someone did not want us to question this assassin.  He or she or they have quite successfully prevented us from learning who sent him.”

Absently rubbing his shoulder, the Ranger turned from them and again knelt by the body.  He fingered the man’s tunic then leaned closer to peer at the silken cord.  “I think…  I think the cord belongs to his tunic.  I think it is the tunic’s belt.”  Reluctantly, he caught a handful of the dark hair and titled back the man’s head, easing the blood-soaked beard away from the cord.  “Yes…  See, it is the same fabric.”

Aragorn reached down and wrapped his fingers around the belt, tugging gently to loosen it from the dried blood and the man’s stiffening fingers.  It still stuck and Aragorn pulled harder.  The belt came free of the man’s throat and dangled limply in the Ranger’s grasp.  “Odd,” Aragorn murmured, “it feels warm.  No, hot –“

The thin roll of fabric quivered once, then struck like a snake.  In the briefest of instants, it had coiled itself around Aragorn’s wrist then leaped for his throat.  Aragorn cried out and fell backwards, writhing on the floor as it twisted itself around his neck.

With an inarticulate cry, Elrond was by his side, twining his long fingers under the cord and pulling with all his strength, trying to clear room for his foster son to breathe.  Aragorn gagged, his face turning blue, throwing himself from side to side and inadvertently interfering with Elrond’s efforts to free him.  His back arched as the thin cord curled away from the Elf-lord’s fingers and tautened, painting blood on the unprotected skin.

Then Gandalf was there, shouting at Elrond to withdraw.  “Hold him!  Hold him still!”  One hand still straining under the cord, Elrond threw himself across Aragorn and pinned his shoulders to the floor.  The wizard raised his staff and drove the narrow end next to Elrond’s fingers, between Aragorn’s throat and the strangling cord.  Elrond swiftly withdrew his fingers and the wizard forced his staff sideways, slicing the cord into the skin at the back of Aragorn’s neck but clearing space for him to win a breath.

The wizard shouted a single word as he twisted the staff hard against the cord.  Aragorn choked as he felt the fabric flame like a burning brand around his throat.  Smoke erupted from the belt, black and oily, and it seemed to writhe along its length.  With a foul smell, the belt made a faint hissing sound and turned to powder.

Elrond helped his coughing foster son to sit up, blood still flowing freely from the wound.  Gandalf knelt on his other side and laid his gnarled hands against the flow and it slowed and stopped.  As the Ranger wheezed and gasped, the Elf-lord and the wizard examined the wound and brushed the stinking black powder from his garments.

They stayed kneeling on either side of the Ranger until color had returned to Aragorn’s face.  When he had breath to speak, Aragorn coughed a final time and said in a hoarse, strained voice, “So now we know how the intruder died.”

* * * * *

In another part of the Last Homely House, unknowing of what had transpired in the windowless cell, the four hobbits had managed to eat every single scrap of breakfast.   It was an effort, but they applied themselves diligently.  Their laughter and talk had rung out of the Ring-bearer’s room until Sam saw that his master was growing weary.  With gentle shushing motions behind Frodo’s back, Sam managed the calm the two younger ones and set them to talking to Frodo softly.  Stuffed beyond comfort, Frodo fell asleep before they had gathered up the dishes.  Merry smiled at his cousin’s peaceful, slumbering face - his plan to tempt Frodo into eating with a surfeit of mushrooms had succeeded.

Pippin, too, had eaten too much and wanted nothing more than to go lie down and take a nap.  He burped uncomfortably and stifled a groan.   Just before Sam shooed them out the door, the youngest hobbit leaned over Frodo and whispered, “Sleep well, Cousin.  You’re safe, now.  We’re all safe.”  Pippin kissed him gently on his pale brow and carrying one of the trays, followed Merry out of the bed chamber.

In the adjoining room, Merry turned back for a moment and motioned for Sam to join them.  “You’ll let us know when he wakes?”

Sam nodded.  “I’ll send word.  I think he’ll sleep most o’ the day, though.  Lord Elrond said he won’t feel much like moving about for a few days.  He lost a lot of blood he couldn’t afford ‘ta when that Man hurt him.”

The smiled faded from Merry’s blue eyes.  “We should hear something from Lord Elrond soon.”  Glancing around to see Pip waiting at the door, he moved closer to Sam and said softly, “Here, take this.”  Shielding the movement from Pippin with his body, Merry transferred his tray to one hand and with the other, handed Sam the small dagger he wore at his belt.

Startled, Samwise took it automatically.  The dagger was small but very sharp, and balanced for throwing.  His brown, calloused hand tightened on the hilt.  “I will,” he said softly, and raised his eyes to meet Merry’s.  “I will.”

* * * * *

Elrond required Aragorn to strip to the waist so that he could treat his bruised and bloody throat, and the bruises that his foster son had given himself as he had thrown himself about on the hard wooden floor.  Gandalf’s staff had torn a shallow gouge along the Ranger’s skin when the wizard forced the staff under the cord, and Elrond washed it and the other injuries carefully before binding them with athelas-soaked linens.  Aragorn counted the gouge small cost for his release from the murderous magic. 

His voice rasping as if from a bad cold, Aragorn said, “I think I might predict what news your rider will have for us, Elrond, if he is successful in his search.”

Applying another padded bandage to a bruise flowering on the back of Aragorn’s shoulder-blade, the Elf-lord looked across to Gandalf.   “My rider departed but early this morning.  We know where the Man joined the delegation.  Even if my Elf were to find the tailor and gather what news he can provide, it will be a week before he returns.  Assuming, of course, that our intended-murderer had his fine clothes made in that town.  The tailoring could have been done elsewhere, or the Man’s employer could have provided the garments.  I am certain he provided the belt.”

The wizard rose from where he had been sitting beside Elrond, holding the narrow roll of linens while Elrond pulled from it what he needed.  Placing the roll on the stool upon which he had been sitting, Gandalf began striding up and down Aragorn’s room.  His friends watched him with pain in their sorrowing eyes.

After some few moments, the wizard whirled and faced them.  “It is possible that some other agency commissioned this.  It is possible that some other agency could provide such an evil instrument of death.  But,” the others could see what this admission cost him, “I agree that, most likely, it is the work of Saruman.”

Gandalf lowered his gray head.  “We were friends, once.  I admired him.  Saruman the White was the wisest, the most learned, the best of us...  Even as he imprisoned me on the pinnacle of Orthanc, I prayed he would realize the folly of his ambition and return to us.

“That he could, by foul craft, create such a thing as that innocent-looking belt cord, I do not doubt.  That he could enchant it to strangle his minion, did he fail, I do not doubt.  And now, at last, I do not doubt that he could send a murderer after an innocent hobbit, one very dear to me, if he thought it would gain him possession of the Enemy’s Ring.”  Striking the linens aside, Gandalf sank back onto the stool and cradled his head in his hands.

* TBC * 

Chapter 4

Elrond refused to allow further investigation of the body or its clothing.  He had locked the door to the cell upon their leaving and it remained locked until the following morning.  When he opened the door again, the day after the intruder’s murder, the smell of death in the closed room was overwhelming.

The Elf-lord had commanded his servants to remove the corpse without touching it, and after some discussion, it was agreed to use long poles to roll the body onto a pallet.  From there, it was borne far away from the House and burned.  Gandalf accompanied the grim processional, but there was no call for the wizard’s intervention – the corpse remained only a corpse, and evidenced no further murderous intent.

Returning, Gandalf was met by a duo of frustrated hobbits.  Merry and Pippin had slept through the previous day’s excitement and while were aware that something had occurred, were unable to worm the details out of Elrond’s people.  The hobbits knew that something was wrong when the guards were not withdrawn from Frodo’s door and balcony.  Instead, the Elves posted there seemed more watchful then ever.  Questioning them was useless; the guards were polite but entirely uninformative.  Becoming concerned when they received no word of the interrogation by late afternoon, Merry and Pip had sought out Aragorn but been turned away from his door.  Then they tried Gandalf, but were unable to locate him.  Finally, being curious to the point of bursting, they approached the Elf-lord, to be met by a dark ageless gaze and a coolly formal, “When I have word to give you, little masters, I shall do so.”

Cowed, Merry and Pippin met Sam in the adjoining room of Frodo’s bedchamber (as Sam still would not let his master out of his sight) to pool their information.  Bilbo joined them there, his own attempts at information-gathering equally fruitless.  The elderly hobbit was quite put out; he was not accustomed to having his questions turned aside, however politely.  They could do little but fume and speculate, and when the chimes rang for the evening meal, it was with some relief that the three adjoined to eat and have another go at finding out what had happened.

The following day, when Pippin (who was on look-out at the window) spotted Gandalf returning from the intruder’s cremation, the wizard could not escape.  Small hands twined in his robes before the wizard was aware of them and insistent tugs conveyed him to Frodo’s room.  Gandalf sighed and gave in, stopping before the door to send word asking that Aragorn join them.  They had to know sooner or later, and Frodo was now recovered enough to hear.

Gandalf almost changed his mind when faced with the exhaustion and pain in the Ring-bearer’s beautiful periwinkle eyes.  Frodo lay quietly in the oversized bed, propped up on several pillows, arms at his sides, not moving overmuch.  Sam stood by his side, grey eyes watchful.  Merry and Pippin commandeered stools and Bilbo, by virtue of age, took the padded chair next to Frodo’s bed.  It was obvious, from the five sets of serious eyes that turned to him, that the hobbits had held their own councils.

The wizard opened his mouth to speak when a soft knock at the door interrupted him, and Aragorn entered.  He met the eyes of each of them and nodded, but did not speak.  A fine silk scarf encircled his neck.

The wizard cleared his throat and all eyes, halfling and human, turned to him.  “What have you heard?” he asked them collectively.

There was some uncomfortable shifting, then Bilbo spoke.  “We know that something is wrong.  No one will speak to us.  Why have we not been told what the Man has said?”

Gandalf had dreaded this.  Frodo watched him closely, dark brows quirked.  Merry was staring at him and the wizard could almost see the thoughts racing through that quicksilver mind.

“There is nothing to be feared from the intruder.  He will not harm Frodo again.”  Five nods.  They waited.

“We learned nothing from the man himself.  He would not speak to us.”  Five more nods.  Pippin fidgeted on his stool.

“Gandalf…” said Bilbo, who knew him longest and best.

“All right, all right.  The man is dead.”  The shock mirrored in their eyes was almost a relief from that waiting stare.  Frodo started to pull himself further upright, stiffened and closed his eyes in sudden pain.  Sam glanced at him anxiously.

“Did you kill him?”  Frodo’s soft voice cut through the stasis.  He made the question sound perfectly reasonable, as if he were asking after the extermination of a gopher in his gardens. 

“No!”  Gandalf’s shocked reply was overridden by the rasping growl that was Aragorn’s voice.  “No,” Aragorn repeated more gently.  He reached up and unwound the silk scarf from around his throat.  The abraded flesh, red and angry, stood out in stark contrast to the sun-browned skin of his neck.

Merry gasped and came to his feet, took a step forward.  Pippin cried out, then put a hand over his mouth.  The others were frozen.

Bilbo struggled to his feet and caught the Ranger’s hand, guiding him to sit in the padded chair.  Aragorn regarded his old friend in some amusement.  “Thank you, Bilbo, but I am not hurt.”  He waited a moment while Bilbo crawled up beside Frodo and settled himself next to his nephew.  “We had no hand in the man’s death.  When we went to question him yesterday, he was already dead.”

The hobbits did not miss that Aragorn had to stop for a moment and swallow carefully.  Merry took up Frodo’s cup and poured the Ranger a glass of cool water.  Aragorn thanked him with a smile and sipped it cautiously.

“This,” and the Ranger motioned at his throat, “resulted when I tried to examine the intruder’s body.  We could learn nothing of him from other members of his embassy.  All of his credentials were genuine.  I suspect he killed the real emissary and stole his papers – perhaps the rider that Elrond sent along his back trail can tell us more when he returns in a few days.”

Another careful sip of water.  “He had been strangled ... in a locked and windowless room.  I had knelt down to see what could be learned of the manner of the man’s death.  When I unwound the cord from the man’s neck, it … it leaped at me.”  Aragorn could see from the hobbits’ puzzled eyes that they did not understand.   “The cord, which was the belt of the man’s tunic, threw itself upon me and tried to strangle me.  Gandalf stopped it.”

Aragorn watched as horror dawned in the small ones’ eyes.  Merry’s soft voice broke the extended silence.  “Saruman?”

Aragorn should have known that that one would put it together first.  “Gandalf thinks so.  As do I, and Elrond.”

“But you’re all right?”  This from Bilbo, who was regarding him worriedly.

“I am not hurt,” the Ranger assured the old hobbit gently.  A cough interrupted what he had intended to say next.

Gandalf moved over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.  “Enough talking for now, my friend.  Rest your voice.”  Aragorn nodded and leaned back in the chair, stretching his long legs before him.

“What happens now?”  asked Frodo in his gentle voice.  Gandalf was alarmed by the hobbit’s pallor.  Frodo’s face held scarcely more color than the white coverlet upon his bed.  Sam had moved closer to him and placed a hand on a small dagger that the wizard had not seen before.  The stocky hobbit looked angry, his eyes dark and fuming.

“We keep the guards on your room,” Gandalf answered him.  “You go nowhere alone.  Lord Elrond has ways of searching out foreign magic in his domain; he will use them.  Though I do not think Saruman will try such a thing again, now that we have been alerted.”

“But he’ll try somethin’ else?”  Gandalf wished Sam had not asked that before Frodo, but now he had to answer. 

“He might.  He covets the Ring.”

“It’s a long road to Mount Doom.  He’ll have a better chance after we leave Rivendell.”  Pippin covered his mouth, but it was too late.  He had already blurted out what was on all their minds.

Gandalf regarded the youngest hobbit sadly.  “Yes,” he agreed.

* * * * *

Insisting that both Frodo and Aragorn needed to rest, Gandalf shooed the hobbits into the adjoining room then ordered Aragorn back to his own quarters.  The Ranger had raised an eyebrow at his friend but went without comment, not having the voice to protest.

There, the hobbits pressed the wizard for more details and Gandalf told them what little more they knew.  Bilbo and his young cousins listened quietly, but Sam was unable to be still, striding from the balcony to sit for a moment to rise and check on Frodo until the wizard thought he would wear a path in the polished floor. 

“How can we protect ‘im, then?”  Samwise interrupted, as Gandalf was discussing the possibility of an elven escort to the borders of Imladris.  “I mean,” he continued when the wizard paused and looked at him, “what can we do?  Me an’ Mr. Merry and Master Pippin?  We’re not any o’ us fighters, but we’re not helpless, either.”

He turned to Merry and held out the dagger.  “You gave me this, Mr. Merry, an’ I thank you for it.  I mean ‘ta keep it, with your permission.  I want to learn ‘ta use it, proper-like.  I saw the knives that that Wood-elf, that Legolas, carries.   D’you think he would teach me?”

“I will ask him if you wish it, Sam,” Gandalf told him softly.  The wizard’s heart sorrowed at the hobbit’s request, at the need for it, as he watched a little of the gentleness of Sam’s spirit slip away. 

Merry had listened, absorbed, to this exchange.  “Yes,” he murmured.  “Yes … good thinking, Sam.  Pippin and I should be able to defend Frodo, too.  We have the swords Aragorn gave us; we should be able to wield them honorably.  If we ask, Gandalf, do you think Boromir would give us lessons?”

“I think that such a request would please him,” responded the wizard.  “Hobbits are a thing out of legend to his people.  It would do you all good to get to know each other better before we must leave on our journey.”

“Well, that’s settled, then!”  Bilbo pushed himself to his feet and beamed at the hobbits and the old wizard.  “And you have given me an excellent idea for parting gifts for my Frodo-lad, when the time comes.   Now, what say you, young hobbits, to a bite of lunch?”  Pippin leaped up eagerly.  “Gandalf, will you join us?”

“Thank you, Bilbo, but I have some thinking to do.  Sam, why don’t you go with them?  I will sit with your master until you return.”

The wizard watched the hobbits troop out.  Rising, he walked out to the balcony and met the clear eyes of the Elf posted under the railing, then opened the door again and exchanged a nod with the Elf in the hall.  Savoring the quiet, he let himself into the interior room and took the padded chair by Frodo’s bedside.  Frodo slept quietly, Sam having made him drink another of Elrond’s sleep-inducing teas.

The wizard reached over and gently moved a curl off the pale face.  “Rest, Frodo,” he murmured softly.  “Heal and grow strong.”  Frodo sighed and turned his head towards the gentle voice.  “You will have such need of strength, my friend…”  Pulling out his pipe, Gandalf sat back and waited for the Ring-bearer to wake.

The End