Chapter Three

"Careful," Aragorn warned. "The ledge is unstable. Send the hobbits down first—they are the lightest. Boromir, would you fetch Pippin?" The soldier nodded and strode to the boulder on which the hobbit perched. Pippin held out his arms hopefully and Boromir gave him a lift down, sparing the tweenager the drop. "You heavier folk will have to come down on the rope and keep tight hold," Aragorn continued, eyeing the thin fissures on the opposite ledge with concern. "If the ledge starts to crumble, you will have to jump."

"What about a guard?" Boromir called over his shoulder, eyeing the silent landscape nervously.

"We shall have to take our chances," Gandalf replied grimly. "We have seen nothing moving out here. Retrieving the Ring-bearer must come before all else."

Pippin immediately scurried to the edge but restraining hands clamped on each of his shoulders. "I’m the smallest," Pippin protested, for once glad of that fact.

"I’m older," Merry shot back.

"And I’m older than you, Mr. Merry, meaning no disrespect," Sam interrupted. "If that ledge is going ‘ta give, better it give under me than the future Master of Buckland. Or the future Thain," he added firmly when both drew indignant breaths to object.

There was a blur of movement past the hobbits then Legolas was running down the almost vertical wall. They watched, agape, as the Elf seemed to descend as lightly as a feather, drifting down the nearly sheer wall as if he only bowed to gravity out of courtesy. A few small rocks clattered down as his shoes touched the ledge but it held. Legolas balanced for a moment on the narrow shelf, then leaped gracefully over the chasm, his accuracy unerring as he landed beside the Ranger.

"Fine, Sam, you go right ahead and follow Legolas," Merry grinned.

"Um … maybe I’ll just use the rope," Sam muttered. Boromir sat down at the edge and Gandalf eased down behind him, both wrapping the rope of blankets around their hands and bracing themselves. Sam took a deep breath, clamped his hands on the tied blankets and kicked off. He let himself down slowly, scaling the cliff side with much more effort and much less grace than the elf.

Merry watched him drop, his face paling. Pippin wiggled up at his side, noting how tightly his kinsmen’s hands were clenched on the rocks at the edge. "Can you do this, Cousin?" the tweenager asked quietly. Merry said nothing but perspiration glittered on his brow.

"My turn!" Pippin announced suddenly. Merry snatched for his cloak but the tweenager was too quick. Without waiting for an argument from his cousin, he locked both hands around the rope and turned around, the soles of his feet teetering on the drop. Taking one deep breath, he flexed his knees and pushed himself off.

With rather too much enthusiasm. Pippin swung out from the wall and fetched up against it, knocking the breath out of himself. Furry feet scrabbled at the rocky wall. Then his hands loosened and he dropped several feet, sliding down the rope until he could tangle his hands in the cloth.

"Pippin!" several voices cried, both above and below him.

Pippin took a deep breath and struggled to control his voice. "It’s all right!" he called. "I’ll just go a little slower, I think."

Pippin descended the rest of the way with far more care. He fastened his eyes on the tree near the edge of the cliff, finding that if he concentrated on the way the sun glinted between the canopy of leaves, he did not have quite so much attention to spare for being afraid. Then strong hands were fastening on his calves, his waist, his back, and he was down. Sam released him with a gust of relief and guided him around to face the others.

"Well done, both of you," Aragorn said warmly. "Now, I want you to jump across to Gimli and Legolas and I. It is not a far jump for a hobbit, and we will be ready to catch you." After rappelling down the wall, it was a simple matter for first Sam, then Pippin, to leap across the small chasm. In moments they were safe behind Gimli, wrinkling their noses in distaste at the horrible stench in the tunnel.

"Merry?" asked Gandalf softly, placing a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder.

Merry gulped and tore his eyes away from the dark opening. From this angle, all he could see was Aragorn’s head and shoulders as the Ranger leaned out to stare up at them. Below the Ranger stretched a great drop. It seemed to go down forever. The view swam before Merry’s eyes and he felt faint. "I… I…" the hobbit mumbled.

Boromir took a last look around the deserted landscape and stood up. "Let me go next," he murmured into Gandalf’s ear. "I will carry him down on my back."

"You don’t have to do that," Merry said resolutely before the wizard could reply. "I am just not very good with heights. Or rather … depths. I will be fine." To prove this point, he gazed determinedly straight down. "See? I am … ohhhh…"

"Put your head between your knees, Merry," Gandalf urged as the hobbit’s legs gave way and Merry collapsed in a heap. "Just breathe for a few moments. That’s a good lad." The wizard struggled to his feet and turned to Boromir. "I think that would be best, Boromir, but I will go next. Help me tie the rope to that tree. I pray it will support us." Gandalf eyed the small tree with disfavor; it did not look strong enough to bear his weight and would certainly never have supported Gimli or Aragorn. Boromir, too, did not trust the slender sapling but no other was close enough to aid them. The wizard tested the knot when the soldier was done but could not fault it. "Well done. Bring Merry down when he is a little more settled."

With that the wizard stuck his staff through his belt and let himself down, descending hand-under-hand easily. He paused, his head level with the ground. "Check the knots after me. Blankets tied together are not the equal of a real rope."

Boromir waited until Gandalf was safely inside of the tunnel before kneeling next to the hobbit. Ignoring the anxious faces that could be glimpsed below them, he placed a hand on Merry’s shoulder. "Can you hold on?" he asked quietly.

Merry nodded, his face still very pale. "I think I will be all right if I keep my eyes closed. I am sorry, Boromir."

The soldier smiled and knelt, motioning for the hobbit to climb up on his back. "Everyone is afraid of something, Merry. Everyone. Your particular fear is shared by many. You have nothing to be ashamed of."

"It is good of you to say so," Merry replied as he fastened his arms around Boromir’s neck and locked his legs around the soldier’s waist. "But I must overcome it. Frodo cannot afford for it to rule me."

Merry buried his face between Boromir’s shoulder blades and closed his eyes firmly as the man lurched to his feet. He struggled for balance for a moment, then Merry felt him moving forward. His grasp tightened involuntarily when Boromir bent to take the rope in his hands, wringing a grunt from the soldier. "Sorry," Merry whispered. Boromir did not reply.

Boromir began handing them down when suddenly Merry felt a sickening lurch. They were falling. His heart leaped into his throat, and his eyes flew open involuntarily. Rock flashed by his eyes, blurred, obscured by Boromir’s head. Before he could even scream, they were jerked to a halt and Boromir slammed face-first into the rocky wall. The jar went clear through Merry and his hands loosened their death-grip on the soldier’s clothes. Boromir groaned deeply, his shoulders wrenched and blood began to trickle down his wrists from his frenzied grip on the blankets. The cloth had slipped through his hands; he had saved them only by twining the rope around his wrists. It had bitten deep into the unprotected flesh above his gauntlets.

They hung for a few moments, swinging gently, shocked into vacuity. Merry made the mistake of glancing down, trying to see past Boromir’s dangling boots to the narrow ledge. Another surge of faintness took him, made worse by his brief glimpse of the protrusion. It seemed there were more loose stones on it, and had those cracks enlarged? It looked even narrower than he remembered, and he did not see how they could possibly achieve it.

Riiipppp… Merry felt Boromir tense, then groan softly. The soldier dragged his head up and Merry followed his gaze up the ‘rope’ above them. The fabric was giving. Merry could see the fibers pulling, snapping. It was tearing. Gimli’s chain mail, Merry’s quick mind supplied. The links snagged it, sliced it. Then the others’ weight weakened it.

"The rope is giving!" Merry thought it was Legolas that cried out, but he could spare no attention outside of the little world that encompassed only himself, Boromir, and their tearing lifeline.

Merry felt a surge of great muscles under him and Boromir was scrambling upwards, swinging his body side to side like a pendulum as he clawed desperately to reach above the unraveling blanket. "Merry," Boromir panted, "climb up on my shoulders. You can reach above the rip. Do not fall with me."

"I … can’t," the hobbit whispered. "And I won’t. Come on, Boromir! You can pull us both up." The man’s face contorted as powerful muscles bunched in his shoulders.

"Climb, Merry!"

"No, I will not leave you! Hold on, Boromir! Hold on to me!"

Against his every instinct, Merry tore his arms free from around the man’s neck and inched upwards. He balanced for an instant, seated on the man’s shoulders, only his legs clamped under Boromir’s arms keeping him from tumbling off. He was straining upward then his hands locked above the unraveling cloth and clenched. Their positions were suddenly reversed as the rope below him gave with a rip that sounded almost a scream, and Boromir’s full weight dragged at the hobbit. The pain was unbearable. His arms and legs were being dragged from their sockets and his spine felt about to snap. Merry had no chance of supporting his own weight and Boromir’s too. But still he held, a keening cry of pain bursting from him.

Then one of Boromir’s long arms reached past his head and a hand fastened on the end of the rope. The unendurable pain eased as Boromir wound his hand in the cloth, the other tight on Merry’s jacket. "Can you get on my back again?" Boromir whispered. "I cannot hold us long with one hand." Numbly, Merry nodded and sidled down the soldier’s body into his former position.

Hand over hand, Boromir pulled them up. Merry kept his eyes focused on the craggy rock wall as they passed it, not daring to look up, terrified to look down. Dimly he became aware of the calling of frantic voices but he could spare no breath to reply.

Boromir gained the edge of the cliff and Merry crawled over his head to solid ground, resisting the urge to flatten himself to the earth and hug the soil. Boromir rested too, half of his body on the edge of the cliff and legs dangling, exhausted. When he had some control of himself, Merry fastened his hands on the shoulders of the man’s surcoat and helped drag him forward to safety.

Fully on solid ground, Boromir sprawled on his back and Merry dropped beside him, both of them gasping as if they had just run for their lives. In a way they had, Merry thought, and a half-hysterical giggle escaped him. His arms burned and quivered, muscles jerking spasmodically, and he could not even control his hands enough to rub them.

Merry turned over on his side and stared into the man’s face. Boromir looked astonished to be alive. He met the hobbit’s eyes and a ridiculous grin broke out over both of their faces. "I think I am taller now," Merry whispered. "Am I taller?"

Boromir chuckled raggedly, then groaned. "Did I hurt you?"

Merry tried to raise himself up on his arms … and failed. Shaking his head, he collapsed back to the earth. "I am all right, Boromir – I’m not hurt. But you are. Let me see your wrists."

Boromir looked down at his hands in surprise. The fabric had bitten deep into his palms and wrists. His fingers too were lacerated, and bright red blood ran in rivulets down his forearms to his elbows. "In a moment," he replied. Grimacing, he tucked his hands under his arms to slow the bleeding. "Best tell them we are all right," the man murmured with a jerk of his chin towards the chasm, not yet able to get up.

Merry sat up with a moan and crept to the edge of the cliff. His hands were cramping and his arms shook, but reluctantly they did his bidding. He found he could not bring himself to lean out over the edge. "Hoi!" he shouted weakly. "We are not hurt! Badly, I mean. Boromir’s hands are torn, and I need to help him."

His hearing could pick up raised voices, Pippin’s shrill tones among them. "I will try to come up," Aragorn called, shushing the other speakers.

Merry looked at the rope. It had torn on the second blanket, just below the edge of the cliff. The rest lay coiled on the ledge, out of reach of all of them. "Not unless you grow wings," the hobbit called back, calmer now. He dared to stretch his neck out until he could see the tunnel, but the rest of his body stayed firmly away from the edge. "Or scale the wall like a fly." He glanced over his shoulder and Boromir nodded. "We will wait here for you."

At the surge of protest below, Merry shook his head. "We aren’t in any shape to get more blankets and come down now, Aragorn, and you must go after Frodo. We will take care of Bill and be ready to help you all back up."

Gandalf’s head appeared beside the Ranger; someone must be anchoring him from inside the tunnel. "We have no other choice," the wizard called up in soft tones. "Take care of yourselves."

Boromir crawled alongside Merry, dragging himself forward on his elbows. "Go on," the soldier called down. "Find Frodo. Merry and I will enjoy a nice little holiday, and be waiting for you."

Pippin appeared between the wizard and the Ranger. Spotting them, he waved frantically. "Bye, Merry! Take care of Boromir! Don’t eat all of our supplies! Or smoke all the pipe-weed! And—" Aragorn shoved him back inside.

"The medical kits are in Bill’s panniers, Merry," Aragorn continued, ignoring a muffled wail of "I wasn’t done saying goodbye!" "Wash the wounds well. Do not bandage them too tightly—"

"I know some healer’s craft, Aragorn," Merry called back. "Will you please go after Frodo?"

Aragorn fell silently, looking up at them. Merry too felt sorrow at this division of the Company, and he knew Boromir shared his apprehension. Then Aragorn nodded and ducked back into the tunnel, and the two were left alone.

"Hurry back," whispered Merry.

* * *

At first Frodo thought that many lamps were shining far in the distance. He was reminded of the night of Bilbo’s last Birthday Party, when he and the old hobbit had stood on the crest of The Hill and looked down into the Party Field. Bilbo had hugged him tightly for a moment before saying, "Come along, Frodo my lad. Let’s join our guests. I’ll wager this Party will be remembered for years to come!"

Brightly colored tents were scattered throughout the field, and the new white gate that Bilbo had ordered constructed to greet the partygoers shone in the reflected light of many lamps. Lanterns hung in the branches of the great Party Tree, were set on poles above the hedges and flower boxes, glimmered from the tents and flickered on tables. These lamps looked that that.

But how odd that they were lined up in twos, set side-by-side, each like a pair of eyes. Many eyes…

It was dark, but this was not the Party Field. Frodo’s pleasant, confused dream faded as the hobbit became aware that his head ached and his neck felt as if it was on fire. Pain radiated down from his shoulders, pooling in the tips of his fingers. Even the hair on his toes hurt. Memories of the fragrance of flowers and sweet autumn grass withered, replaced by a foul, rank odor that stung the inside of his nostrils. The lingering warmth of his uncle’s hug dissipated in the awareness that the tightness he felt around his ribs was rope. He was bound. He was lying on his side on a cold stone floor, his hands tied behind him and rope wrapped around his chest, and many, many cold luminous eyes were staring at him.

* TBC *