17. "Quite a Pickle We’ve Landed Ourselves Into…"

"Faramond!"

The Man looked up in alarm, nearly dropping the two conies he carried over his shoulder. He recognized that voice, and his hand flew to the hilt of the sword he carried hidden beneath his long, leather overcoat as he heard a ferocious snarl and the sounds of struggling not far ahead of him.

Without pausing to find a place to hang his conies, he rushed forward through the thick undergrowth. His hunting had taken him the far northern side of the Bindbale, and he had decided to return to his camp early with only the two rabbits to show for his work in case the hobbit, Frodo, and his young charge happened to fall in the path of this apparently lone wolf.

‘And it was well that I did so,’ he thought as he neared the sounds of fighting ahead of him. Suddenly there was a cry of pain, and then the blood-curdling howl of an enraged and injured wolf. After that, the furious snarling and rustling in the dry leaves muffled any further sounds.

Grey eyes wide with apprehension, Faramond increased his pace, muttering a curse under his breath as he encountered a cruelly thick thornbush that tried its hardest to prevent him from continuing. It tore and snagged his clothes but at last that obstacle was overcome. He still could not see the fierce scuffle taking place, but it sounded as though he would reach it just past the next line of trees and bushes.

Faramond had registered this without pausing, and determinedly he tore through the stubborn brush ahead of him. Hardly had he resumed his quicker pace when he heard a particularly loud snarl, another, more anguished cry of pain, and then a sickening crack as something connected with what sounded like the hard trunk of a tree.

Faramond sucked in his breath sharply and lengthened his strides to the best of his ability. Fortunately, he had not far to go before he reached the small open space, surrounded by trees and bushes on all sides. He reached it just in time to see the large wolf staggering to its feet, blood matting its thick grey coat in several places and sides heaving as it panted heavily.

On the ground not far away lay Frodo, unconscious, it appeared. Blood soaked the chaff-colored material of his shirt, covering his entire chest, but it was darkest at his lower left side, and Faramond could see blood still welling out from what was obviously a deep wound. There were scratches from one of the wolf’s claws across one pale cheek, and Frodo’s right calf was also covered with blood. A small knife, bearing the signs of battle, lay just a few inches beside his hand.

Faramond took in the sight in a split-second, and then he dropped the conies on the ground and unsheathed Belegmír, his sword. The wolf looked up at him and her lips curled back in a snarl. But something in her eyes told him that she was no vicious Warg of the north, hunting for the pleasure of it; she was desperate. One glance at her gaunt stomach told him also that she had very young puppies somewhere nearby.

Faramond sheathed his sword again. He could not kill a mother wolf, still nursing her puppies, even in self-defense. Although it did not seem that he had much choice… Aha! Faramond silently praised Eru for all the years of training he had undergone to become a Ranger: resourcefulness was one of the first, and most essential things to learn.

Bending quickly, he untied one of the conies from the string he’d joined them with, and then stepping out from the bushes, he drew back his arm and sent the sizable rabbit sailing low threw the air as far into the woods as he could throw it.

The wolf had been watching him, unblinking, waiting for him to make a move, and she had caught the scent of coney-blood the instant he’d dropped them. As he threw one into the surrounding forest, she waited for the thump as it hit the ground, and then with one last backward glance at Frodo and the Man, sped off after it and disappeared into the brush.

Breathing a heartfelt sigh of relief, Faramond rushed to the opposite side of the clearing and quickly knelt at Frodo’s side. He laid one hand on the hobbit’s chest while putting his ear to Frodo’s mouth—and to his relief, he found a steady heartbeat and faint breathing.

That much confirmed, Faramond began to assess Frodo’s injuries. With surprising gentleness, the Man lightly ran his fingers through the blood-matted curls as he checked for hidden injuries. He paused as he found a slight swelling at the back of the head and gingerly touched it. There seemed to be a small cut there—Frodo must have been thrown against the tree behind him—but other than that it did not appear to be anything more serious than a tender bruise and abominable headache when Frodo awoke.

As though sensing his last thought, Frodo groaned softly and his eyes fluttered, and at last opened halfway, struggling to focus on the large face of Faramond bending over him. Fearing that the halfling would not remember him and be alarmed, the Man gently cupped one side of the small face in his hand and stroked Frodo’s forehead with his thumb as a sign of goodwill.

"It is all right, little one," he whispered comfortingly. "I am Faramond—I won’t hurt you. I will get you back to my camp and give you a few herbs for the pain as soon as I have finished looking over your injuries."

Frodo stared at the Man a moment, blinking rapidly to keep him in focus. Then he licked his cracked lips and attempted to speak, but it took several tries before he could utter anything but a sharp gasp of pain. "Hazel," he finally choked out. "Where is Hazel?"

It was obviously painful to speak and Faramond wished that he had water with him to moisten the hobbit’s parched lips. More than that, he wished he had healing powers like Lord Elrond of Rivendell so that he could send Frodo back into a deep, painless sleep. But as he had neither, he could only hope to comfort the halfling and finish assessing his wounds so that he could get back to camp as quickly as possible.

"Shhh. Do not try to speak." Still with utmost gentleness, Faramond laid two callused fingers on Frodo’s small lips to quiet him, and carefully closed the unfocussed blue eyes with his other hand. The hobbit made no resistance, but he was not ready to rest just yet. "You must…find Hazel," he gasped slowly, through clenched teeth. "He is…still out there…alone…"

Obviously exhausted from the effort of speaking, Frodo fell silent, panting. Faramond nodded and brushed a sweat-soaked dark ringlet from the hobbit’s forehead. "Do not fear. I will find him," he promised sincerely, watching with relief as Frodo began to slip back into unconsciousness. "Once I get you back to camp, I will call for my companion and he will find your friend. I promise."

Frodo held onto consciousness only long enough to give a small, weary but relieved nod, and then his head lolled into Faramond’s hand that still cupped his face. The Man gave a soft sigh, grateful that the halfling would not be awake to feel the pain that would come soon enough.

After making sure that Frodo was completely unaware, Faramond resumed his task of assessing the hobbit’s injuries. Careful not to jar him, he removed the hand that supported Frodo’s head and lightly touched the claw-marks on Frodo’s cheek. They were not deep—the wolf must have just barely nicked him—but they had been enough to draw a small amount of blood and would have to be cleaned. Like the many scratches that covered the hobbit’s arms and legs—obviously Frodo had gone through the same cruel thornbushes Faramond had struggled through—they would be easily treated, quick to heal.

But for the other two, Faramond was not so sure. He unbuttoned Frodo’s shirt—a task that took longer than he wished, for it was difficult to handle such small buttons—and lifted it up to reveal a deep wound in the halfling’s lower left side, below his ribcage and just above his hip. Gently running his fingers over it, Faramond could see where the wolf’s fangs had sunk in—she had caught that entire section of his waist in her mouth. Fortunately, there were no vital organs there, but Faramond was deeply worried about the depth of the wound, and the amount of blood that still flowed from it.

With a sigh of remorse, Faramond tore off part of his own shirtsleeve and used it as a bandage, wrapping it tightly about the hobbit’s slim waist to staunch the bleeding. It was quickly dark with blood, and Faramond pulled Frodo’s shirt back down and pressed it against the wound, as well. He held it there for a moment, watching blood soak it, and then with another repentant sigh, he drew back his hands. He would have to wait until he got back to his campsite to properly bind the wound, and he still had another grave one to examine. Every second that passed, Frodo lost more blood, and in one so small, Faramond could take no risks.

"I am sorry for this, little one," the Man whispered as he moved down to check the last injury. "I should have been here to protect you." Gently, Faramond touched the puncture marks from the wolf’s teeth on Frodo’s right calf. It seemed that the wolf had dragged or pulled him, though not far. To Faramond’s relief, the wound was not as severe as it had appeared at first, but part of the muscle had been torn; Frodo would be limping for a few months, at least.

Faramond sat back on his heels and looked the pale halfling over. All through the last part of his examination, Frodo had done nothing more than to flinch slightly at his touch and give a soft groan; but now he already appeared to be coming back to awareness again.

Faramond cringed at the thought of the agony Frodo would be in when he awoke completely, and he hoped that he’d be able to get the hobbit back to camp before he was fully conscious—he had a few pain-dulling herbs in his pack. They would not alleviate all the pain, but they would ease it.

Picking up the small knife that lay on the ground beside Frodo, Faramond wiped the blood off it and put it in his belt, to return to the hobbit later. Then with careful gentleness, he lifted Frodo into his arms and got to his feet. He decided to leave the other coney behind for the wolf family, and made his way through the brush in the direction that he believed the path was. He was proved correct within a few minutes, and he broke through the last thick bush and came upon the narrow trail. Allowing himself a small smile of relief, Faramond increased his pace, still taking care not to jostle Frodo, and continued on toward the edge of the forest.

Hazel huddled closer against the rough bark of the tree, wrapping his arms around his ankles and pressing his forehead against his knees as he fought to hold back tears. He remembered that Frodo had told him that it was all right to cry, but he felt that if he gave into his tears now, it would give the despair that he had been keeping at bay the chance to overwhelm him. He stubbornly told himself that he would not lose hope for his uncle Frodo, that everything would work out in the end.

With a half groan, half sobbing gasp, Hazel pressed his forehead harder against his knees, which he drew tighter to his chest. He concentrated on listening only to his own heavy, erratic breathing, unwilling to accept the heavy, eerie silence that had settled over the forest. How long had it been since he’d heard Frodo cry out for the Man, Faramond? His uncle’s voice had been faint and far away, and Hazel had heard nothing since.

‘What if that Faramond fellow didn’t hear? What if the wolf caught up to him? What if he’s…’ Hastily, Hazel cut off that trail of thought. He couldn’t allow himself to even consider that possibility. Faramond must have heard, the wolf couldn’t have caught up with him, Uncle Frodo was fine.

"Fine." Hazel repeated the word softly aloud as if to help convince himself of its truth. With a shaky sigh, he relaxed slightly and closed his eyes, listening to the puppies below the tree moving about.

Suddenly Hazel’s eyes flew open and he quickly raised his head as a long, loud howl tore through the stillness. Wiping the remnants of tears from his face, he looked down at the four wolf puppies crouched partially hidden in the bush below his tree. Stormy and Raven had moved to one side of the bush and were sitting very straight and stiff, noses toward the path, large, comical ears fully up and alert. Still hiding beneath the bush, meek little Chestnut and Ginger were in similar positions.

Another howl, followed by a bark, was answered by all four puppies with shrill yips. Hazel looked in what he guessed was the direction of the path, and saw the huge, grey shape of the mother wolf limping through the brush towards them. She appeared to be dragging something, something heavy…

Hazel swallowed hard, shutting his eyes against the sudden nausea and dizziness that suddenly washed over him. Without allowing himself to think about the situation, he slowly dragged his eyes open and trembling, he looked back down at the wolf.

As the mother neared, he saw that it was only a very large rabbit she pulled along. Hazel could have sobbed with sheer relief. Hope was rekindled in his indomitable hobbit heart, for if the wolf had brought back a coney, it must mean that she hadn’t caught Frodo.

He watched as the wolf dragged her burden over to the bush where her puppies waited, but when she began to eat her meal (the puppies were still too young to eat much more than a few bites of the meat), he turned away, covering his ears to drown out the sounds of her noisy feasting. Hobbits were gentle creatures by nature and Hazel was no exception.

Suddenly the sickening noises stopped, and Hazel was aware that absolute silence had fallen. Curious, he uncovered his ears and looked down. The wolves had frozen, and the mother’s ears were up and alert, nose pointed towards the path, yellow eyes narrowed—a larger duplicate of the puppies’ earlier position. Something had startled her, but Hazel could not hear or see anything through the darkening trees.

With a low growl and a bark to her puppies, the wolf stood, grabbing the partially eaten coney in her mouth, and began to trot back further into the Bindbale. Her litter followed, having to run as their short legs could not keep up with her brisk pace.

Hazel watched, trying to discover the reason behind their sudden departure, as one by one the wolves disappeared into the shadows. Pausing a moment, Raven turned and looked back up at the tree where Hazel crouched. Her odd-colored eyes met his and she cocked her head as if asking him to come along; the hobbit lad couldn’t resist a smile as he shook his head. With a small yip that substituted for a shrug of her shoulders, Raven turned and followed her family, quickly disappearing from Hazel’s sight.

Just as suddenly as they had appeared, the wolves were gone, and Hazel was left alone. He had no question of what he should do next—though normally he would keep a promise at all costs, he could wait no longer for Frodo’s return and felt justified in breaking his word this once. Worry for his uncle made any thoughts of staying where he was seem cowardly, for he could not bear to think that Frodo might be injured somewhere in the dense, shadowed forest, alone without Hazel to aid him.

What help a hobbitlad just past his fifth summer could give to Frodo, especially if there was still danger about, Hazel did not know. ‘But,’ he reasoned as he tossed down the knapsack into a bush and then proceeded to carefully climb down, ‘I do know a bit o’ healin’, if it comes to that, and I can fence pretty well, o’ course…’

It seemed like a very long way down and a very long time before Hazel was back on solid ground. "Bein’ up in trees! ’Tain’t right for a hobbit," he muttered, dusting himself off and pulling the knapsack out of the bush. Strapping it up on his shoulders, he sighed and turned in the general direction of the path.

"I’m comin’, Uncle Frodo."

Gavin tossed more sticks into the small fire, muttering a curse as a spark flew up and burned the tip of his finger. He sucked on it as he sat back on his heels, his other hand stretched out to catch the warmth of the flames.

The burn was quickly forgotten as he looked proudly at the carcass of a full-grown buck that he’d managed to bring down with his bow. Faramond would be pleased, and perhaps be convinced at last that Gavin was just as good a hunter and tracker as the Ranger.

Feeling satisfied already with that thought, Gavin went over to the deer, lying beside the fire, and resumed his earlier process of preparing the carcass for supper. He tossed his shoulder-length black hair impatiently from his eyes as he worked, letting his thoughts wander. He remembered his first meeting with Faramond, when the Ranger had stayed with him in his small house in Bree for several days, and how he’d been teased when he declared that he wished to accompany Faramond and become a Ranger, as well.

"But you are still a boy," Faramond had teased him, not cruelly, although his voice seemed derisive now as it rang through Gavin’s mind. "You are not old enough to become a Ranger!"

"I am twenty-five next month!" Gavin had protested heatedly, earning only condescending laughter. To Gavin’s extreme irritation, Faramond had continued by saying that he had "woman’s hands" and was too inexperienced to follow him into the wild. In the end, however, Gavin being the better and more passionate arguer, he had won out, and triumphantly he had accompanied Faramond when the Ranger left, headed for the Shire.

Gavin knew that Faramond’s teasing was good-natured, but it still chafed him. He still wondered why they should travel through the thick, overgrown forests outside of Bree just to wait at the borders of the Shire, guarding it from some mysterious danger. And then having to go around the Shire instead of right through it to get up here to the North Farthing simply because of a rumor that Corsairs were docked in the Gulf of Lhûn seemed even more ridiculous.

Gavin had to admit, however, that the land was beautiful and though he had seen only a few of the inhabitants from afar, his curiosity was piqued and he grudgingly admitted to himself that he would like to know more about the Shire-folk. They seemed slightly different from Bree hobbits; gentler, closer to nature and even more peaceful. But to know more about them would mean that he would have to ask Faramond, and he did not think his pride would allow him to do that.

Sighing, Gavin finished his work on the deer and skewered the chunks of meat he’d cut with a long, sharpened stick. Placing his makeshift spit over the fire, he sat back on his heels and warmed his hands, savoring the delicious smell that soon drifted into the air.

A sudden rustle from the forest startled him from his thoughts and he whirled around to see Faramond emerging, carrying something in his arms. "Where are the conies you promised to catch?" Gavin demanded, thinking smugly that Faramond would be humbled to find that he, the inexperienced youth, was the only one to have brought any food for their supper, and a full-grown deer, no less.

"You were late in hearing my approach," Faramond remarked, ignoring Gavin’s question. His voice seemed strained and worried, despite his teasing words, and Gavin chose to overlook the criticism.

"What have you got there?" he asked instead, looking curiously at the thing in Faramond’s arms as the Ranger came closer.

Again, Faramond ignored his question. "Get my bedroll out, quickly, and bring the extra blankets," he ordered. Something in his tone made Gavin wordlessly obey. "Oh, and my pack, as well!" Gavin quickly retrieved the items, and at Faramond’s command, laid out the bedroll close to the fire.

Faramond gently laid his burden down on the bedroll, and Gavin saw with surprise that it was a hobbit. But he had no time to study the creature, for Faramond ordered him to hang their small pot on the spit and boil some water. While he obeyed, Gavin kept his eyes curiously on the hobbit, and he was able to see that the small halfling’s shirt and right leg were covered with blood. ‘How did one of the gentle hobbit-folk get himself so gravely injured?’ Gavin wondered. Perhaps the Shire hobbits were not so peaceful as they seemed.

Gavin gingerly moved the roasting venison and placed the pot full of water on the spit, and then sat down next to Faramond to further examine the hobbit. Faramond did not even notice his presence, as he was digging into his pack and bringing out various instruments and herbs. Gavin cocked his head to look more closely at the halfling, who appeared to be young, perhaps eighteen years in the reckoning of Men. The hobbit’s pale face was starkly contrasted with the dark, blood-matted ringlets that fell over the small forehead and the thick eyelashes that rested on high cheekbones. ‘And Faramond teased me about being fine-faced,’ Gavin thought scornfully, shaking his head. ‘This hobbit is pretty enough to be a lass! And his hands are more woman-like than mine will ever be.’ He looked at the small, slender white hands lying at the halfling’s sides and snorted a little.

Faramond looked up. "What do you find amusing?" he asked, sharply. "This valiant hobbit you seem to hold in disdain single-handedly fought a wolf easily his own size and greatly exceeding his strength. He has been gravely injured and I will need your assistance to tend to him—will you help me, Gavin?" When the young man hesitated for a moment, Faramond added, "This is why we are sent to protect the Shire. These halflings are brave and spirited, but too small to defend themselves against the larger enemies that would easily overpower and destroy this land if they were not held at bay."

Gavin’s eyes went from the hobbit’s face to Faramond’s. "What is his name?" he asked, by way of answer.

Faramond smiled slightly, gaze still intent on Gavin. "Frodo," he said, mixing water from his canteen with several herbs in a small cup.

"What must I do?" Gavin asked before he could say more, doing his best to sound convincingly grudging although in truth he felt an odd sense of compassion for the injured hobbit.

Faramond did not comment on his tone. "He said that his companion, a boy - named Hazel, I believe - is still in the forest. I need you to go find him and bring him safe, and quickly."

Gavin was silent for a moment, thinking it over and wondering if it would wound his pride to accept the task without complaint. Deciding that it would not, he merely sighed and made a torch out of a thick burning branch from the campfire. "Do not let the meat burn," he muttered warningly as he strode past Faramond and the injured hobbit.

The Ranger smiled at him. "No danger of that, my friend," he replied though Gavin did not turn around. "Well done on that catch!"

If Gavin heard, his only response was a slight straightening of his shoulders as he disappeared into the darkening forest.

TBC...