~ Down the Old Road ~

The big pot and small pan that were hanging at the sides of Sam’s backpack were making a clattering noise as they swung and bumped into other equipment he carried, as Sam fought hard to close the distance between him and Strider.

Curly, light brown locks were slapping onto Merry’s forehead as the hobbit tirelessly hurried on in an attempt to get to the Ranger as well, but something slowed his movement, keeping him a distance behind Sam. That something was Pippin, the youngest of the four hobbits who now tried as best as he could to move quickly.

He was only slightly smaller than Merry, but still he could not catch up with either his cousin or Sam. The tree roots that were poking out of the earth made his effort even more difficult. He had to keep running while trying to always be aware of those roots and jump over them to avoid falling. Pippin was grateful, though, for the Ranger had guided them along a path that was relatively free of jutting tree limbs.

Oblivious to the miserable condition of the hobbits, never did the ranger slow down his own flight. Dashing off with Bill the Pony in tow did not seem to be a problem for him, though it surely became one for Bill. The labored, raspy breaths of Strider’s companions that were echoing throughout the wild did not seem to bother the ranger either. They were several hours behind those black riders who had snatched away Frodo. They had to make haste or Frodo would be gone without a trace. That was all that mattered to Strider.

The four companions moved on in a straight line, only the sounds of their footfalls and the occasional groan of discomfort filling the air. Strider cleverly dodged trees that loomed in his path. Sam laboriously scampered on though sometimes he felt as if his heavy pack might cause him to topple over backwards. Merry had now stripped off his vest. His body was so warm he felt like diving into a river to cool himself.

And Pippin – Pippin was very close to tears now. He felt incredibly exhausted. His legs were burning. His heart beat at a frantic pace. His vision was blurred, both by tears and a growing dizziness. Pippin barely recognized what was in front of him. His heavy legs would not jump over nasty roots lying on the ground anymore. Pippin was more stumbling than running now – and blindly. When he felt his toenails touch a bump in the path, he directly lifted his foot to avoid it, but it was too late.

Pippin did not lift his foot high enough to clear the root. Rather, he slipped over it and the next thing he knew he lost his footing and landed hard on his stomach. The poor hobbit managed to call out weakly before he felt his brow strike the stony ground.

“Merry!”

All slipped out of his sight afterwards, and everything went pitch black.

* * *

~ At the Clearing of the Forest ~

“Kill you all, you said?” Roared Gandalf. “Kill you all so that I may take Frodo back? I should like nothing more!”

Gwaihir swept forward as Gandalf now stood upright on his back. The wizard trusted the eagle not to make any sudden movements that could drop him to the ground. Gandalf grasped his staff tightly in both hands, raising it high in the air, challenging the vile creatures before him.

The nine riders were also brandishing their menacing swords while slowly moving about, their dark horses snorting and stamping restlessly, closely circling around a bound figure lying immobile on the ground. Those undead kings seemed to treat Gandalf’s threat lightly, as if mocking the absurdity of it.

“Fool,” hissed their baleful leader. “You cannot kill us. None of your kind could accomplish the deed.” The sureness of the wraith’s tone sickened the Wizard. He tilted his head up to the sky and called out an incantation. The sky turned dark and bolts of lightning cracked, rupturing the clouds, or so it seemed.

Fire flashed from the rents in the clouds, streaming fast toward the Nazgul, striking first the tip of each sword to swiftly travel the length of the weapons and set both sword and Ringwraith aflame. Bloodcurdling screams jarred everything and everyone within the earshot as the once human kings, now engulfed in the fire, were unseated from their panicked mounts and thrown to the earth. Those that were able fled into the woods.

Gandalf was not finished. He was still reciting his spells and his eyes were closed in concentration. An unearthly voice was coming out of the sky. It was Manwe himself, and the voice was growing in volume. The remaining wraiths, now bereft of their swords, were forced to cover their ears for the great voice bore down upon them. Soon they could no longer stand the torture and escaped as fast as they could, somehow regaining control of their horses.

Most importantly, they left Frodo alone, and left Gandalf the Grey to shudder at the sight of the tormented hobbit.

Gwaihir lowered himself, making sure that the Wizard maintained his position on his back. Gandalf dismounted as fast as his shaky limbs allowed, with the help from the eagle. The winged beast spread his left wing so Gandalf could use it to lower himself to the ground.

As soon as his feet touched the soil, the Wizard hurried to Frodo’s side. He knelt down, put his staff aside carefully, and reached out to untie the rope binding the hobbit’s wrists. But on the way there, Gandalf’s hands hesitated and went to smooth the curls instead. The act revealed Frodo’s right side of his face, ashen and cold. Freezing cold. Gandalf was stunned for a moment but then resumed releasing Frodo from his bonds.

The cord could be undone easily, which rather surprised the wizard. And what was more, it did not even chafe into the hobbit’s skin. Gandalf felt as if the rope was there to merely keep Frodo from hurting himself, and not necessarily to harm him. If that was the case, Gandalf doubted if it had been the Nazgul who had bound Frodo. The Wizard’s brow furrowed as he gently turned Frodo over. His thoughts were interrupted by a weak moan from Frodo’s lips.

Frodo lifted his right hand and reflexively clutched at the wound in his left shoulder. His face was twisted as he felt pain that both burned and chilled him. He pulled his hand away quickly, sensing that the pressure might only make the pain worse. But he was wrong. It was still painful. Frodo resumed his grasp, tears involuntarily trickling down his face.

“Gan – dalf…” The voice was so small and frail it grieved Gandalf so to hear it. His heart was wrenched by the fact that Frodo was actually still unconscious and yet, the hobbit called his name. How could Frodo know he was there?

Gandalf regretted so much that he had been prevented from keeping his word. He had told the hobbits they were to meet him in Bree, but he hadn’t been there upon their arrival. Gandalf had promised Frodo that he would make sure he was there to assist him, yet he hadn’t been. And for so long, Frodo had hung onto his every word.

Gandalf gritted his teeth. Saruman! If something terrible came out of this and Frodo failed to reover, Gandalf could not imagine adequate punishment for Saruman.

And… a Morgul blade.

Shuddering, Gandalf slowly unbuttoned Frodo’s vest and shirt, which was torn at the spot where he was stabbed. A small cut was revealed as the Wizard carefully pulled the fabric aside. A small wound, but deadly.

“Little friend,” Gandalf stroked Frodo’s sweat-soaked curls. “Let me do what I may. Hold tight to my hand.”

And the Grey Pilgrim grabbed his staff, lowered its top over the pale, blemished spot and once again his loud but elegant voice filled the forest clearing.

* * *

Frodo wanted to scream as new sensation washed over his injury, but he restrained himself when realizing that the feeling was nothing about pain. He felt warm, instead, and that was comforting after the endless torturous cold. Frodo took a deep breath, the first one he could savor after even the smallest hitch agonized him.

The hobbit gradually calmed down, resting almost peacefully on the hard ground, eyes clenching shut. Still unconscious. But amidst his clouded mind a figure slowly came into sight. And when the mind got cleared, Frodo spotted Gandalf.

TBC