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.

Stars in the Dark

Chapter 1

The Company trudged on wearily through the gloom of the Mines of Moria.  Frodo’s heart was slowly settling back into its normal rhythm, the terror of being snatched and hoisted aloft by the Watcher in the Water fading.  Behind him, Aragorn kept a close eye on the hobbit as they struggled up the debris-laden path, reaching out now and then to lay a hand on the small shoulder and steady him.  Though the little one seemed calm and kept pace with the others, the Ranger feared he had taken more hurt than he showed.

It had come out of nowhere, as he and Boromir and the other warriors of the Company peered about them at the murky shadows.  Their relief at having the gates open and leaving the foul-smelling lake behind had quickly turned to revulsion and dismay when Gandalf lighted his staff and they were able to see about them.  The rotting skeletons and broken weapons had disconcerted them all; Legolas kept arrow to his deadly bow, Gimli’s axes were in his hands, his and Boromir’s swords drawn and ready.  But nothing rose to menace them except the musty smell of old death.  The hobbits’ hopes of Gimli’s promised feast, “roaring fire, malt beer, and meat hot off the bone,” evaporated in the stark reality of the cavern.  In the tight group they seemed to form instinctively when threatened, they had already starting backing towards the Moria gate, their eyes darting from one decaying dwarf corpse to another in horror.  Pippin (and it would be Pippin, Aragorn thought with a sigh) had stumbled over one of the skeletons, uttering a brief cry of shock and disgust. 

Then Frodo had gone down, pulled backwards off his feet by the slimy-green tentacle.  Aragorn could now spare a brief surge of admiration for the other three - their courage far surpassed their size.  Merry and Pippin had at once leapt to Frodo’s aid, drawing their small swords and slashing at the clutching, finger-ended arm.  Samwise had used his head, first turning and shouting “Strider!  Strider!”, then leaping to help the others.   Alerted, Aragorn had whirled around.  He thought he would never forget the sight that met his eyes.

Frodo was being dragged by one leg to the very edge of the black, stinking water, his huge morning glory eyes wide with terror.  Merry and Pippin had grabbed his flailing arms, hands tangling in his cloak, trying to pull him back while Sam hacked at the monster, “Get off  ‘im!”  The brief moment of respite when the arm recoiled, leaving the four panting and shocked hobbits frozen on the stony shore.  Then the water had exploded with tentacles, knocking Sam and Merry and Pippin off their feet.  His horror as it grabbed Frodo anew and heaved him, upside down, high into the air.  Frodo’s drawn-out wail of pure fear.

The warriors had waded into the water, wielding sword and axe, seeking to strike some vital body part.  There had seemed to be no body, only slimy, reeking arms of incredible strength.  Legolas fired arrow after arrow into them without effect.  Aragorn and Boromir cut away several of the arms, and now the sounds of battle were punctuated by the beast’s rumbling roars of pain and rage.  It had whipped Frodo from side to side with such force that Aragorn feared it would break his back.  

Then the head – or whatever – had emerged, water cascading from its rubbery black skin.  Great bat-wing like gills, bulbous unlidded eyes, a mouth filled with glistening teeth the length of the hobbit’s arms.  Frodo was twisting, kicking frantically, his cloak tangling about him.  Another tentacle had risen up from the seething body mass to grasp him by one wrist and swung the hobbit before the opening mouth.  If they did not free him, the creature could tear him apart.

Aragorn had finally identified which writhing, shifting tentacle held Frodo’s leg.  With one swing of his sword, he severed it completely, black ichors spurting from the wound.  The air vibrated with the monster’s scream.  The hobbit fell, somersaulting in the air, landing hard in Boromir’s outstretched arms.  His small arms had wrapped around the man’s neck with terrified strength.  With Legolas acting as rearguard, Aragorn had herded the Fellowship back into the vile den they had just quitted, and felt the stony walls tremble as the beast seized the gates and slammed them forever shut.

Then there had been nothing but their panting breaths and the darkness.

Gandalf had raised his staff and the crystal he had inserted into its tip blazed into radiant light.  He walked past them and the Company could hear the resignation in his voice, “Now we have but one choice…  We must face the long dark of Moria.  It is a four-day journey to the other side.  Let us hope that our presence may go unnoticed.”  Silently, the Fellowship had fallen into line and trailed after him.

Later, as they stumbled on through the dark, Aragorn had asked, “Gandalf, what was that thing in the water?”

Gandalf had replied in heavy, measured tones, “I do not know.  There are older and fouler things than Orcs in the deep places of the world.”

“Whatever it was,” Pippin piped up, “it grabbed Frodo first out of all of us.”

“Be quiet, Pippin!” Gandalf had snapped at him.

How many hours ago that had been, Aragorn did not know.  His usually accurate time-sense, honed through years of experience in the Wild and in many dark places of the world, was confused by the unyielding darkness.  The blackness pressed down upon them like a great hand, snatching away their breath, smothering small and familiar sounds. 

When the wizard finally called a halt, all were more than ready.  The hobbits cast themselves full-length on the dusty stone floor; the larger folk sought seats among the broken rubble that had once been magnificently carven stone.

Aragorn had noticed that Frodo was beginning to lag behind the others, limping, and now he curled himself into a ball with his back to the Company.  The Ranger’s gaze sharpened on the small form.   Aragorn had noticed first after the attack on Weathertop, that the little one would often seek solitude when he hurt, would curl himself into a ball as if to shield himself from pain and concerned, prying eyes.  After understanding the posture, the Ranger had learned to watch for it.  Seeing that the others were occupied with breaking out water-bottles and rubbing aching feet and legs, the Ranger picked up one of the torches they had kindled and drifted over to him.

“Let me see, Frodo.”

The hobbit started; he had not been aware of the Ranger’s approach.  He shook his dark head and protested, “I’m not hurt, Aragorn…” but the Ranger would have none of it. 

“Let me see.  You do none of us a favor should you lame yourself on the trail.”  The hobbit started to argue, then the fight went out of his face and was replaced by pain.  Squeezing his eyes shut, he drew back the cloak that had covered his leg, and Aragorn stifled a gasp.  Where the creature had held him, the skin was crisped as if a burning brand had been held against it.  Completely encircling the ankle, part of the furred foot, and up the calf, the skin was black and peeling as if it had been washed in acid.

Aragorn captured Frodo’s arm, pulled it into the ring of light.  Similar burns encircled the small wrist, though not so badly.  His shirt and jacket had protected him somewhat.  The cuff now hung in slimy tatters, dissolving in acid.  Aragorn drew his knife and quickly cut the liquefying cloth back to clean linen.  The hobbit shuddered and clasped the elbow of the injured arm with his other hand, cradling it before his body.

Rebuking the hobbit for his stubbornness would gain nothing, the damage was done.  Aragorn unclasped the water skin from his belt and, as gently as possible, poured water over the wounds.  Frodo jerked involuntarily then stiffened, quivering, his teeth clenched.  Samwise materialized at Aragorn’s side, his attention caught by his master’s sudden movement.  “What’s wrong?”  Then he saw the burns and his grey eyes widened. 

If Aragorn was willing to let it pass, Sam was not. “You said you were all right, Mr. Frodo!  You said you wasn’t hurt!”  Unable to reply, Frodo could only gaze at him miserably.

Skin sloughed off under the gentle stream of water, revealing raw, abraded flesh.  Blood glistened, pooled under Frodo’s foot.  The hobbit started to curl into a ball again, but Sam reached across and caught the burned arm, keeping the burns from touching anything.  Frodo curled his other arm against him and laid his head on shaking knees.  He was breathing much too rapidly - he could hyperventilate and pass out.  That, Aragorn reflected, might not be a bad thing.

The light brightened about them and Gandalf knelt on Aragorn’s other side, propping his glowing staff against a stone.  “What is it?”

Aragorn gestured silently at the wounds.  Frodo did not look up but pressed his forehead tighter into his knees.  “He’s hurt, sir,” Sam whispered heatedly.  “He didn’t tell no one.”

“That monster in the lake put forth some kind of acid,” the Ranger said. “It has burned him badly.  I dare not put salve or bandage on the wounds.”

Gandalf grasped his staff and angled it down to examine the damage.  Merry and Pippin appeared over his shoulders, their small faces tight as they saw the wounds.  They exchanged a look over the wizard’s head, then wordlessly sidled ‘round to Frodo, one on each side, and placed a hand on his trembling shoulders.

“No,” the wizard sighed.  “No, these must not be covered until the burns have sealed themselves.”   He handed his staff across to Merry, who balanced it upright with his free hand.  He lowered himself to his knees and peered into Frodo’s averted face.  “Frodo,” he asked softly.  “Frodo?”

Frodo raised his head, his face taut with pain.

“We must move on soon. You cannot walk like this.  Aragorn and Boromir will have to carry you.”

Frodo nodded, silent.  Gandalf stared at the small figure a moment more, than motioned to the Ranger.  Aragorn rose and followed Gandalf back to the other three, who had watched from where they sat. 

“We must ease him.  He is in terrible pain, made the worse by walking on those burns.” 

Legolas spread his long hands expressively.  “I am not trained in the healer’s arts, and know little of the small ones.”

Boromir shook his bearded head.  “I can do rough triage for wounds taken in battle, for bones broken by mace or ram.  I can do some sewing and know how to cauterize a bleeding limb.  But I know nothing of burns and the tending of blistered flesh.”

Gimli rumbled under his breath, then spoke.  “My people have a way of easing pain, of the body or of the mind, without bandages or medicines.  I have some experience with the technique, having used it to ease injuries taken in the mines of my people.”  His gaze turned towards the hobbits as he considered.  “I will need light.”

The wizard met the Dwarf’s eyes for a moment, then nodded.  “I will provide the light.” 

Gandalf followed Gimli back to the four hobbits.  Sam was kneeling in front of Frodo, speaking to him softly but urgently.  He broke off as they approached, and Gandalf spared a small smile for the tongue-lashing, laced with comforting, that Frodo had no doubt been receiving.  Gimli crouched down by Sam, his heavy chain mail clinking softly, and removed his helmet.  Gandalf moved to stand between the other two hobbits, behind Frodo.  Frodo angled his head back at him, bewildered.

“Frodo,” Gimli said, capturing his attention.  “I have something that will help with the pain, without touching the wounds.  But first I want to show you a pretty thing I have, a most unusual thing.”

Gandalf retrieved his staff from Merry, and motioned for the two to return to the others.  It seemed they would protest, but the wizard shook his head and signaled again, glancing sternly at them from beneath bristling brows.   With worried, backward glances, Merry and Pippin left.  Aragorn knelt down, and putting his head close to theirs, began to explain.  The wizard motioned for Samwise to join them, but the hobbit refused.  “I’m not leaving, sir,” he mumbled.  “Mr. Frodo needs me.  Maybe I can help.” 

“You cannot, Sam.”  The wizard was adamant.  “Please go join the others.  We will call you back in but a little while.”  Unhappily, Sam went.

Gimli shifted until he knelt directly in front of Frodo, with the wizard holding his staff alight behind the hobbit.  Frodo looked back and forth between the two of them, confused and apprehensive. 

Gimli reached into his belt pouch and pulled forth a golden ring, heavy and ornate, set with a sparkling ruby stone.  He held it before the hobbit’s eyes, turning it so the facets caught and reflected the light.   Frodo glanced at it then gazed at it again as the intricate cutting piqued his interest.  Gimli leaned forward, began to talk in a soft, monotone voice.  “See how the stone collects the light?  Beautiful, isn’t it?  The little pricks of light look like stars in the sky, do they not?”  The Dwarf whirled the ring slowly, the facets reflecting in the hobbit’s so-blue eyes.  “How the little stars turn and turn, like the earth spins under the sky at night…” 

As Gimli settled himself comfortably on the cold stone and continued to talk in that soft, level tone, Frodo’s breathing began to even out, his features relaxing and the tension leaving his body.  Gandalf watched, careful not to let his gaze linger on the slowly-turning ring.   At last Gimli leaned forward, peered into the hobbit’s slack face.  “He’s under,” the Dwarf reported.  “Now I will instruct him not to feel the pain.  It will last for many hours.  When he starts to hurt, then I will renew it.”

As Gimli gave those instructions; not to feel pain, that the burns did not hurt, that Frodo should sleep, the wizard returned to the waiting Company.  The hobbits were uncertain, unable to see what was happening, watching Gimli’s back.  “It is an old method of suppressing pain,” Gandalf assured them, “long known by Gimli’s people.  It will not harm him.”  They looked up at him worriedly.

At last Gimli rose.  Frodo remained sitting, seeming almost asleep.  “He will not suffer so much, now,” said the Dwarf, slipping the ring back into the pouch and putting it in his pack.  Sam returned to his master and waved his hand in front of Frodo’s face.  Frodo’s eyes did not track the movement.

“It’s all right, Sam,” Gandalf assured him as Sam raised puzzled eyes to him.  “Your master is only deeply relaxed, his mind asleep.  We can move on without hurting him.”  At Gandalf’s word, Boromir stooped and lifted Frodo up, careful not to brush the dangling leg or wrist against his surcoat.   The hobbit, loose-limbed, nestled against his warmth.

“Quietly, now.  Be on your guard.”  Gandalf held his staff before them, casting but a small circle of light in the vast, echoing caverns.  Aragorn picked up the torch.  Single-file, silent, the Company gathered up their packs and began the march.  The darkness pressed close upon them once more.

* TBC *