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Caught Between the Light and Dark  by Budgielover

Chapter Eight

"Pippin! Peregrin Took, are you all right?"

It wasn’t fair, the young hobbit thought resentfully, that he be thrown to a hard floor, shaken, and shouted at. It also was not fair that someone had evidentially set off little sparkles of light on the inside of his eyelids. The sparkles streaked across his vision like shooting stars and were making him dizzy. He strove to open his eyes and stop the spinning, but they seemed glued shut. He would complain, he would, if he could just get his mouth open. It seemed choked with dust, and his throat hurt. His head pounded. The person shouting at him would do better to offer him a drink of water. This was intolerable. He would set Merry on them, Pippin decided. Merry wouldn’t stand for people to treat him like this.

"What did he say?" A low rumble, gruff but overlaid with concern. It was familiar but Pippin could not immediately place it.

"I believe he said, ‘Merry.’ He must think his cousin is here. Does he have a concussion?" A light, musical voice, which did not belong in this dank, close-seeming place.

"If he does not, it is only because hobbits have very hard heads, and Tooks the most hard of all."

He knew that voice. "Gandalf," he sobbed, reaching out blindly.

"I am here, Pippin," the gravelly voice said gently. The tweenager felt arms gather him up and he was carefully lifted into a lap and cradled against rough cloth that smelled of pipe-weed andspices and fireworks. "Give the lad some room," the voice ordered above his head. "He’s all right. Aren’t you, my lad?"

Pippin made a great effort and pried open his eyes. The lined face looming above him was a bit blurry and grey with dust, as were the other worried faces that hovered over him. Gimli had little bits of broken rock imbedded in his beard, and Legolas’ usually fastidious clothing was marred by a thick coating of dirt. All of them looked slightly singed and thoroughly disreputable, Pippin thought with a sniff.

"What happened?" he asked after a moment’s thought.

"I believe that cousin of yours has set off my fireworks," the wizard growled while continuing to check the hobbit in his lap for injuries, "for which I shall certainly fry him like a sausage unless he has a very good reason."

A water bottle was pressed into Pippin’s hands. He blinked at it blankly. Sam unstopppered it and tilted it to the tweenager’s mouth. "Take a drink, lad," Sam urged softly.

"I do not think Merry would act foolishly, Gandalf," Aragorn said, rising from Pippin’s side. "There must have been some great need for him to take so drastic an action." With a gentle press of Pippin’s shoulder, the Ranger began moving among a scattering of dark forms that littered therocky floor. Pippin realized Aragorn was checking the bodies of the goblins that sprawled inbroken disarray about them, dark liquid seeping from gaping wounds that he thankfully could not make out through his blurred vision.

The water eased the dryness in Pippin’s throat and the world began to make more sense to him. He sniffed, smelling black powder in the air, the acrid stink of it magnified by the close walls of the tunnel.

"There was an explosion of some kind, Pippin," Legolas explained, sinking into a graceful crouch so that the hobbit did not have to look up at him.

"Aye, an enormous blast," agreed Gimli. "We were hard-beset when suddenly there was a blinding flash of light and sound, and a wall of dust and shattered rock rolled over us. The tunnel funneled the blast. We were all knocked from our feet, and you were thrown into the wall."

"I think the explosion saved your life, my young Took," Gandalf murmured, carefully setting Pippin on his feet. The hobbit swayed for a moment and the wizard held his arm until he steadied. "There was a great black goblin about to run you through when the blast hit. It was blown away from you and Gimli finished it."

"Hah," Pippin said dizzily. "I had it just where I wanted it. It only looked like I was losing."

"It was the light that sent them running," Gimli said contemptuously, "more than the shockwave or the sound. They have no courage to fight against an enemy of flame and smoke. The creatures fought each other to win back to the walls, tearing at each other like rats in their panic. They swarmed up the columns and into the openings in the ceiling. We’ve not seen a sign of them since."

Gandalf signaled to Sam, who came forward and took Pippin’s arm. "Here, Pip-lad, you just lean on me." Pippin accepted his help gratefully, still uncertain if his feet would obey his orders.

The wizard struggled to his feet and only then did Pippin register that his glowing staff provided what little illumination there was. "Can you go on, my lad?" Gandalf asked softly. "Aragorn or Legolas can carry you, if you wish, but it would be better to keep our swords ready."

"I’m all right," Pippin assured them, still a little woozy. Aragorn handed him his sword, and Pippin sheathed it, deciding it would be safer to walk unencumbered for a while. At least until his vision cleared. He kept his eyes averted from the still figures scattered about them. "I can walk. Let’s find Frodo and get out of this horrible place."

* * *

Frodo raced into the tunnel and immediately stumbled over a rocky projection on the floor. He went sprawling, bruising himself painfully as he rolled and fought to his feet again. There was no light here; all the lanterns were left behind him in the cavern. Then the hobbit realized that he did not need light; in this terrible world of the wraiths, he could see in the dark.

Take it off, he thought. Take off the Ring. The Ringwraith can see me. At that moment, he feared the Nazgûl more than all the goblins that swarmed around him, slashing the air with their swords and snarling at each other. If he removed the Ring, he would become visible to them and they would have him. If he continued to wear it, he was visible to the Wraith. He slammed against the carved wall of the tunnel and slid down it, crouching there with his mouth pressed into the inner elbow of his jacket to muffle his panting.

Clawed feet and ill-made boots pounded past him and the hobbit pressed himself closer to the wall as a half-score of goblins thundered by him, calling to each other and shouting orders to the others. Some ran their claws or swords along the wall, the order that he not be harmed evidently forgotten in the excitement of his escape. Frodo ducked as a sword flashed just over his head, sparks flying from the wall, leaving a line of white in the rock. Neither hearing nor seeing him, the goblin raced on.

"Find it! Find it!" the Ringwraith appeared in the tunnel mouth, its ghastly form outlined by the reddish torch-light of the cavern behind it. Its tattered robes were drenched with the blood of the murdered warg and the goblins the beast had killed. Frodo sank lower, the unreasoning fear it engendered in him tearing at him, undermining his ability to think. He would not survive it a second time, even if it did not have another Morgul-blade. He could not bear to think of being taken by it away to the Dark Lands. He knew he would rather die than have it touch him.

The Ringwraith’s head was turning from side to side, searching for him. It could feel he had donned the Ring and it sought to wrest his will from him. Frodo resisted the demand that he surrender but he could not bring himself to move. He felt the Nazgûl’s will like a great weight, crushing him, forcing the air out of his lungs and the blood from his limbs. He sagged, then fell to his hands and knees against the wall.

"There! By the curve of the wall! Bring me the halfling!" Frodo could only watch as a ghostly arm lifted and pointed directly at him. The unceasing wind that blew in this place seemed to distort the arm and made it seem to reach impossibly long to seek to fasten on him. The howling wind was tearing at him, tearing away his soul, and he could not think.

The goblins that had passed him looked about in confusion and Frodo remembered he was invisible to them. Baffled but obedient to the Wraith’s will, they laid down their iron bars and cudgels and sheathed their swords. They began advancing step by step until they were within feet of him, their hands extended to close on what they could not see. It was now or never. Frodo pulled in a great gasp of the stinking air and leaped forward, curling into a ball and hurling himself between the approaching goblins. They felt something go past and turned, snatching at the air.

Frodo was on his feet and running. Behind him, he heard the Nazgûl’s shriek, "Do not let it escape! Seize it!" He put down his head and ran, but behind him came the goblin horde. They were longer-legged than he, and had not marched for hour upon hour, all night with the Fellowship and then been forced to walk beyond the point of exhaustion by ruthless captors. He could not hope to outrun them.

He must use his head, then. Frodo stopped his ragged flight and forced himself to make use of the gift given his folk, that of silence. It was not true magic, not as Gandalf made, but Big Folk thought so. Perhaps these creatures would also. Fighting to control his gasping, he set his feet down with hobbit-quietness and walked, not ran, away from the cavern mouth.

They caught up with him quickly, and the hobbit was disheartened to realize that they were not dull-witted. They were listening, all of them, for a sound that seemed out of place in a world that they knew and he did not. His heart sank and his feet stumbled. A pebble, the smallest pebble, rolled out from under a foot and instantly, he was surrounded by goblins.

They cut him off in a semi-circle, forcing him against the wall. They crowded close enough this time that he could not dart between them. No, thought Frodo. I won’t let you take me. He would make use of another ability Big Folk considered almost magic. Reaching his hand into a pocket, Frodo soundlessly withdrew his sling. He loaded it with one of the throwing-stones found in every hobbit’s pocket and without a sound, let it fly.

The stone ricocheted off the rock far ahead and bounced several times before sliding to a rest on the floor. Little puffs of dust rose where it struck, just enough to catch the eye without identifying the source. The goblins whirled, howling and hooting in triumph, and shot down the tunnel, abandoning him. Frodo breathed deeply for a few moments, waiting for the trembling in his hands to subside. He returned the sling to his pocket and began creeping after the goblins, trying to be as invisible to the ear as he was to the eye.

* * *

Boromir shaded his eyes with his hand, shaking his head in amazement. He was becoming quite adept at spotting the air holes that serviced the tunnel beneath their feet. The goblins had not sought to conceal the openings, but the growth of grass and passage of the wind had softened their outlines and made them difficult to see. It was fortunate that the tunnel they were following seemed to be almost a straight line; even with Merry’s help, it took practice to spot them. But he was improving, Boromir thought with pride. It had been he who detected the last three, not Merry, surprising as that was.

He turned to point out that fact to the hobbit and was startled to see that Merry had fallen behind again. The hobbit was leading the pony; Bill had been loaded with the rest of the Company’s packs and all their supplies, and the poor little pack-pony was almost staggering under the weight. Merry had apologized to the little beast profusely as they strapped on the packs and loaded the panniers but they really had had no choice. They would meet up with the others at some point, and they could not spare the time to backtrack to recover their belongings.

"Merry," Boromir called, "here is another vent. We are still on the right course."

Merry raised a hand and waved, but did not reply. Boromir frowned; the hobbit had been delighted that his pupil picked up so quickly on the evidence of underground construction and had praised the soldier extravagantly each time Boromir found an air hole. Boromir had been somewhat startled by the warm glow the hobbit’s praise engendered in him; he found that he increasingly was becoming to value this little person’s good opinion of him. When Merry had dropped back, he thought that the hobbit was allowing him to exercise his newfound skill and nothing more. But Merry now lagged back two-score paces, and his steps were increasingly slow.

Boromir waited until his companion drew even with him, Bill plodding passively behind. "Would you like to rest for a few minutes?" Boromir asked, seeing the hobbit’s shoulders were slumped and he was almost shuffling. "We have been walking steadily since we left the cliff. I think—"

Merry at last looked up at him, and Boromir’s voice caught in his throat. The hobbit’s eyes were glazed and sweat ran down his face in rivulets. Merry’s face was almost grey, so pale that the blue veins in his face stood out prominently. The hand holding Bill’s rein trembled and as Boromir stared in horror, Merry’s eyes rolled up in his head and he collapsed at the pony’s feet in a boneless heap.

"Merry!" Boromir threw himself to his knees and gathered the hobbit into his arms. Alarmed, Bill snorted and shied but was too heavily laden to bolt. "Merry! What’s wrong?"

His hands plucking at the soldier’s sleeves, Merry made some indistinct mutter, lying limp in Boromir’s embrace. His head lolled back and Boromir was horrified to see a great red slash of inflammation running down the hobbit’s throat, disappearing under the white shirt. The goblin’s claws, Boromir thought. Poison.

He rose to his feet, the hobbit cradled in one arm, and used his free hand to catch the pony’s lead. Cover, thought the part of his mind beyond the fear for his friend, we’re in the open here. There was a stand of sparse trees ahead of them, stunted-looking pines with a few scrub oak. It was the only concealment in sight. Quickly he carried the semi-conscious hobbit to it and laid Merry on the grass. He tied the pony’s rein to a stout branch, then turned at the hobbit’s soft moan and hurried back to Merry, kneeling down to straighten his body and loosen his clothing.

"Merry," he murmured, "can you hear me?" The young hobbit blinked and tried to focus on him, still perspiring profusely. Boromir uncorked his water bottle and slid a hand around to the hobbit’s back, lifting him easily. Merry accepted a drink and Boromir gave him as much as he would take. I am not Aragorn, Boromir was thinking. I am not a healer. I don’t know what to do.

"Uhhhh," groaned the hobbit, then softly, "Boromir, I don’t feel very well."

"Shush. Do not talk, Merry. Let me have a look at you." Boromir laid him back down and gently tilted Merry’s head back and to the side. Merry did not protest but lay quietly, even when his head was placed at an uncomfortable angle. He had closed his eyes and was breathing rapidly but shallowly. The hobbit gasped and bit his lip when Boromir touched the fiery scratch. It had bled a little more after it had been cleaned but the majority of the red came from underneath the skin, from tissue inflamed and swollen. Merry swallowed painfully and his eyes opened and looked up into the soldier’s pleadingly.

"Do not worry," Boromir babbled, fighting to keep his fear from his voice, "it isn’t that bad, my friend. The scratch that goblin gave you is a little infected, that’s all. I am sure there is something in the medical kits that will help. Just lie still, Merry, and I will fetch one. You will be all right in no time." The hobbit nodded and closed his eyes again.

Boromir went quickly to the pony and dug out one of the kits. Inside there was linen for bandages, tins of powders, vials of liquids, and small leather pouches of ointments. All of them were labeled—in Elvish. Boromir stared at the kit’s contents despairingly. Even if he could read the elven language, he did not know what medicine to use. If any of these liquids or powders or ointments would counteract poison. Behind him, the hobbit could not stifle a whimper. I cannot fail him, Boromir thought. I will not fail him.

* TBC *





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