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.  

All Evil Things

Chapter 1

Merry sat on watch and thought.   Most of his attention remained on the dark around him, but the mind would wander…  Back to their small fire, Merry had wrapped himself as tightly could in his cloak, then piled all his blankets on top of that.  It didn’t seem to cut the freezing cold very much.  The cold didn’t bother him as much as the dark, the absolute blackness of the Mines of Moria.

Merry was starting to hate the dark.  They had been two days trudging through the broken rubble and wrecked dreams that had once been the great drawven city of Darrowdelf.  The Fellowship hoped to find the East Door and see daylight the day after tomorrow.  Daylight … sometimes the hobbit thought he didn’t remember what it looked like.   He could well understand why this place was called the Black Pit, now.

Remnants of grandeur still clung to Khazad-Dûm.  He could even now see the pride and love of stone that had comprised the city, the careful planning and sophistication of its design.  All destroyed, all ruined … fouled by the depreciations of the Orcs that had invaded and destroyed it.  That had slaughtered its people.  They had seen no decaying skeletons for some hours, for which he was very grateful.  The hobbit swiveled around from his seat on the cold stone floor and checked behind him … in the dark, it seemed that every sound was magnified, and his eyes played tricks on him, showing him movement in the dark where there was none.  He wished he could light his pipe, but even that faint illumination would distract him from watching the darkness.

Merry sighed and returned to his musings, shifting uncomfortably on the floor.  In his quick, analytical mind, an idea was forming - one that he did not like at all.  He had tried to disregard it, but that tenacious intelligence of his would not let it drop.  Gandalf was due to relieve him shortly (as much as he could tell in the blackness), and he wanted to discuss it with the wizard, out of the others’ hearing.   He sighed again and drew his knees up under his chin.

Part of his ill ease was due to the knowledge that they were being stalked.  Neither he or Pippin had seen the dark shadow that trailed them on bare, flapping feet, but Frodo had.  The knowledge that that Gollum creature was out there, with his sharp teeth and long, wiry arms of frightening strength, was terrifying.  Several times during his long watch, Merry could have sworn he saw two dim lamps of light behind the rubble, the firelight reflecting in the twin globes of Gollum’s eyes.  He had had to bite down on his tongue to stifle his stillborn alarm, his alert to Aragorn and Gandalf, more than once.

The rustle of soft wool, click of wooden staff on stone … the wizard sank down beside him, lowering himself to a shattered piece of stone that had once been a magnificently-carven arch.  Smell of pipe-weed, spices and herbs, and the faintest tang of fireworks…  Merry would have known who sat next to him without the dim illumination of the fire, his senses were so sharpened by the absence of light.   Merry crawled stiffly to his feet and scrambled up next to Gandalf, so they could converse in low tones without waking the others. 

“Anything?” the wizard asked succinctly. 

“Nothing,” Merry returned softly.  “Though I could have sworn I saw Gollum out there, more than once.  Just reflections of the fire off mica or some other stone, I suppose.”

The wizard said nothing, but from under bristling brows, his sharp eyes swept the unyielding darkness.  The responsibility of the watch removed from him, Merry relaxed at his side and tried to order his thoughts.

Gandalf did not hurry him.  They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, until Merry said, “Gandalf?”

“Yes, Merry?”

“I…  I’ve been thinking.   About Frodo, and the Ring.  And everything that’s happened recently.”  Merry did not know how to approach what was on his mind.  “He’s had so many things happen to him…  so many attacks, or plain ill-fortune.   Ever since we got lost in the Old Forest, and the willow-tree ensnared us.  The Barrow-wrights.  Then Weathertop,”  Merry shivered.  “The voices Legolas heard on the wind, on Caradhras’ slopes, and the avalanche. Gollum.  Everything in between, up to Frodo being snatched by that lake-monster, that Watcher in the Water. 

“He’s being hunted, isn’t he?” there, he’d said it.

Gandalf sat resting his hands on his staff, and as Merry waited for an answer, the faintest of lights blossomed on the end of the staff, just enough to illuminate the tip of the wizard’s sharp nose and the gleam of his eyes. 

Receiving no reply, Merry continued.  “I don’t mean the Ringwraiths.  I mean … I mean by all evil things.  They’re drawn to the Ring, aren’t they?”

The wizard shifted his seat and the faint light of the staff died, returning them to orange-tinged darkness. 

“They can sense it, Merry.  It calls to them, summons them.  All evil things.”  The wizard sighed.  “Yes, Frodo is being hunted.  As are we all, as long as we accompany the Ringbearer.”

Having his fears confirmed brought the hobbit no sense of satisfaction.  “Isn’t there some way to… hide it, or shield it, or confuse the hunters in some manner?  Some enchantment you could lay upon it?”

The wizard sighed.  “You do me too much credit, Meriadoc.  I am no match for the Enemy.  No strength or spell of mine can hide his Ring –and its Bearer – from him.  Our only hope in this Quest is in speed, and silence.”  They sat silent, until at last Gandalf sighed again.  “Speaking of silence, you had best get what sleep you can.  We have a long march tomorrow and must start early.”

If it was early when the Company began the third day’s march, Merry couldn’t have told it.  There was no change in the long dark of Moria, no lightening of the pressing murk.  After a hasty and cheerless breakfast they pressed on again, Gandalf in the lead with his glowing staff, Gimli, the four hobbits in ever-changing configuration, Legolas roving up and down the line, and Boromir with Aragorn as rearguard. 

They had walked for perhaps three hours without a halt when ill chance struck again.  Pippin was somewhat ahead of Merry, Sam and Frodo behind.  Merry generally tried to keep Pip before him, in case the youngster needed a boost over the fallen masonry.  They were climbing up yet another smashed staircase, and Merry was annoyed but not alarmed when the first small pieces of gravel pattered across his hands and down his front. 

“Pippin, quit kicking gravel over me!”  he hissed.  Pippin paused and looked back over his shoulder in surprise. 

“I didn’t,” he protested softly.  “I’ve been very careful.  I –“

Crack!

Merry heard, rather then saw, the huge granite slab that detached itself from higher up and came crashing towards them, one end slamming into a carved cornice and pulling it down in a shower of smaller stones.  Behind them, Frodo and Sam had frozen at the noise, and Merry turned just in time to see Sam‘s hands tangle in Frodo’s cloak and pull him out from under the descending stone.  The two surged up against the wall as the stone shattered right where Frodo had stood a moment before.

Their protective stealth destroyed anyway, the Company assured themselves that Frodo and Sam were undamaged.  Frodo was shaking, his eyes huge as he stared up into the gloom, trying to see where the stone had come from.  Sam was breathing heavily; he had caught up his master and slammed them against the wall hard enough to bruise them both.

“More ill luck,” Merry murmured to himself. 

“Come!  We must leave this place before any come to investigate the fall.”  Gandalf raised his staff again and motioned them forward.  Glancing about to ensure that Sam and Frodo were ahead, Merry saw Gandalf angle his staff down to show Aragorn the thick scratches at the base of the stone, where it had been levered from its place.

* * * * *

Gandalf did not let them rest for several more hours.  Legolas had taken to scouting around them as they walked, checking into corners, gliding behind columns, his light step soundless as he returned again and again to Aragorn to speak with him softly.  By then, the hobbits were stumbling, starved and were ready to rebel.  Giving in to Pippin’s increasingly shrill, “I’m hungry, Gandalf!  I want to eat!” the wizard finally called a halt.

In deference to the long march, Gandalf allowed the hobbits to gather bits of wood and permitted the Fellowship a small fire.  Sam broke out his cooking gear and they enjoyed the simple luxury of tea and hot stew.  Frodo and Pippin fell asleep where they sat, and with a quick look at Gandalf for permission, Merry and Sam eased them down and covered them with their bedrolls.  Sam was rubbing his shoulder and Merry made him take off his cloak and shirt so Aragorn could examine it.

“You’re going to have a nasty bruise, there, Sam, but no permanent damage.”  Sam nodded, stiff but not greatly concerned. 

“I’ve been hurt worse fallin’ off a pony, sir.  I wish you’d look at Mr. Frodo when he wakes up, though.  I had to pull him against that wall awful hard.”

The Ranger glanced over at the sleepers.  “All right.  We should be moving on soon.  Pack up, Sam, and be ready.”  Merry helped him scour the pots and repack them, then they sat down to rest as Aragorn and Gandalf discussed something with Gimli.  The Dwarf seemed to be pressing some point, with which the wizard disagreed, to judge by the head-shaking and finger-drawn maps in the dust.  Boromir leaned over Gimli’s shoulder to look at the dust-drawn diagram.  Merry yawned; next to him, Sam was nodding off.

Merry realized he’d been hearing the soft shushing sound for some time before he really became aware of it.  He sat up a little straighter.  Odd…  Sort of a scratching sound, like … pins and needles … being drawn over a rock?  Merry saw Legolas, sitting cross-legged near his sleeping cousins, raise his head sharply, his superior hearing isolating and defining the faint sounds.   The Elf’s head turned towards one of the high ventilation shafts.

“Legolas, what…” was as far as Merry got.

The Elf surged to his feet, his inarticulate cry of alarm jerking everyone’s head up.  Merry cried out as the air around him was suddenly filled with darting forms, thousands of flitting black figures that swept past faster than his eyes could follow them.  Leathery wings brushed his face, and the cavern echoed with shrill squeaking cries.  Thousands of them…

Gandalf’s staff  roared into radiant light and the air rang with swords being drawn.  Legolas already held arrow to bow, but even the split-second required to loosen the arrow was too long.  Merry had time to see Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli vainly batting at the forms, before sharp teeth grazed his cheek and he dropped, covering his head with his arms.          

“Out!  Out!  Through the passage!”  Gandalf’s voice raised above the shrill squeals, their shrieking seeming to drill through Merry’s head.  Keeping one arm shielding his face, he waved the other at the tiny, furry forms which were settling on his clothes, sinking their small, sharp talons into his cloak.  One clawed at the side of his head, and sank its tiny pointed teeth into his ear.  Merry shook it off with a shudder, reached up and found blood where it had been.  He threw himself to the side, crushing the creatures as he rolled.

He reached Pippin, noted that the youngster already had blood streaming down his face.  Too frightened to scream, Pippin threw himself into his arms and Merry practically picked him up and set him on his feet, pushing him towards the passage.  Another bat smashed into the back of his head but fell away, unable to find purchase in his curly hair.  Two more fastened their teeth into his hand and tore, and Merry shrieked. 

“Go!  Go!”  Aragorn leaped past him, ducking one that had thrown itself at his eyes.  Merry turned towards the doorway, seeing that he and Aragorn were the last.  The light of Gandalf’s staff was disappearing around the corner.  Strangely, the host did not seem inclined to follow.  Instead, the entire swarm swirled around them and concentrated on…

Frodo.  His cousin lay on his side, nearly covered with the crawling things.  Both arms curled over his dark head to shelter his face.  He rocked up, trying to gain his knees but the sheer weight of the flying horrors on him bore him back down. 

Useless sword sheathed, Aragorn was pulling the bats off Frodo, grasping their small writhing forms with his hands and flinging them away.  Bats clung to his hands, his arms. Merry reached up and caught at them with his own small hands, tearing the creatures off  as they landed.  They turned in his grasp and bit, scratching with needle claws.  Each one he pulled away tore with it a small bite of flesh, and all three were covered with little flowing wounds.

Then Boromir was there, sweeping his great shield off his back and ‘round to cover Frodo.  The sharp edge of the battle shield sliced into or crushed the clinging creatures and their small sharp cries filled the air.  In a heartbeat, the edge of the shield was slimy with blood.   

The swarm circled around the Ringbearer, their echo-sense confused by the solid barrier.  Aragorn and Boromir lifted him to his feet and sheltered both halflings under the shield, holding it between them above the hobbits’ heads.  Stumbling, all four ran for the doorway.   Gandalf met them in the passageway.  Shouting something incomprehensible, the wizard thrust his staff at the following horde and a great stream of white fire erupted from its tip.  Small forms shrilled and died, furry bodies crisping in an instant. White fire flowed again, washing through the cavern like a wave.  The surviving creatures fled, shrilling and shrieking, back into the dark upper recesses of the hall.

Not trusting the retreat, the five raced after the rest of the Fellowship, colliding with them in the passage.  On seeing his bleeding master, Sam caught Frodo just as his knees gave way and he collapsed.  Turning swiftly, Aragorn caught him up.  Boromir reached for Merry but Merry shook his head, slinging blood out of his eyes.  “I’m all right.  It wasn’t me they were after.”

Swiftly the Fellowship moved through the dust-ridden halls, desiring only to leave the carnage and smell of burned fur and flesh behind them.  They did not halt till far away, falling gasping into a sheltered nook.  While Sam quickly heated water, Gandalf moved among them, pressing on each a salve from his pack, instructing them to apply it generously to every bite or scratch.  It burned in the wounds; Merry gritted his teeth when Pippin rubbed it into the bites on his back and shoulders, and he saw Frodo doing the same as Gandalf applied it to his fair skin. 

His cousin had fared by far the worst, which surprised Merry not in the least in the light of his earlier revelations.   All evil things…  Merry shuddered as the salve entered a particularly painful slash on his hand.  Pippin looked up into his tense face, sorrow at hurting his loved elder cousin in his green-gold eyes.  Merry tousled his curls with his free hand and looked back to Frodo.  Gandalf was winding bandages around the worst of the bites, the salve making a greasy stain on the clean linens.  Frodo sat with his eyes closed, exhausted.

Merry did not know what additional protection he could provide his friend and kinsman, but now that he understood, he was determined to add his small strength in defending the Ringbearer.  At that moment, the wizard glanced up, meeting his eyes.  Merry saw unspoken understanding in his sharp gaze, agreement.   Gandalf nodded at him and stroked Frodo’s dark hair.  Merry sighed as Pippin began to carefully apply the salve to the wound on his ear.  Somehow, he was sure there would be more opportunities to test his resolve before this Quest was done.

* TBC *