A/N: This chapter contains two references to my favorite epic-in-progress, as a bow to the author. The references are well-hidden, but if you can consider finding them a challenge, if you wish!  (The answer may be found at the end of the chapter.)

Chapter Nine

Creeping silently behind the goblins searching for him, Frodo thought he did not need his natural hobbit-stealth to shield his movements; the creatures were too busy quarreling and snarling at each other to listen for his cautious, soundless steps. They blundered on, arguing over the source of the faint pings that had drawn them farther down the tunnel. One claimed the sounds were merely sliding pebbles, another swore it was their escaped prisoner. Frodo kept a hand in his pocket, a stone ready in the sling should another distraction be needed. He stayed close to the wall and kept to a crouch, though while wearing the Ring, none could see him.

None of the goblins, the hobbit amended with a fearful glance behind him. The unthinking terror had faded somewhat as he left the cavern behind him, but he could feel the Ringwraith lurking in some corner of his mind. He could feel it, and knew that it could feel him. Yet that awareness of each other seemed to fade with distance. He intended to get as far away from it as he could. He did not doubt that it would come after him as soon as it tore itself free of the warg’s body and whipped the goblins into pursuing him.

The scratch of claw on rock and muted snarls heralded the approach of another band of hunters. He was caught between the two search parties. Frantically, Frodo ran his hands along the wall and found a slight depression that allowed him to press into it. He made himself as small as he could, forcing his shoulders back against the rock, and held his breath.

The light of a lantern appeared first, held aloft by a hunched, shadowed form. It flashed off drawn weapons. "Find it," the one carrying the lantern growled and Frodo identified the harsh voice of the goblin that had taken him captive. "Then I’ll tell the Big Boss it got hurt in the capture, it did. Tripped over a rock and got itself all bloody."

"Boss said don’t hurt it," one reminded the leader with more courage than Frodo would have credited it with. The leader’s reaction was immediate. It pivoted and the clawed hand not holding the lantern raked across the goblin’s face. It screamed, dropping to its knees, black blood pouring from skin slashed to ribbons. Its hands came up to cover its face and it rocked backwards. With a snarl, the leader drew its sword and stabbed it through the heart.

Frodo cringed against the wall, sickened. The murder had been so sudden that he had almost cried out in shock. "Any more of you lot got something ‘ta say?" the leader snarled. The half-dozen goblins shrank back from it, their eyes averted. Satisfied, the leader sheathed its sword and kicked aside the body. "You maggots heard the Boss. Find it!"

Frodo waited until the last of their shuffling footsteps faded. Carefully he edged away from his sheltering indentation in the wall and crept towards the cooling body. Horror filled him but so also did need. He was terribly thirsty and near faint with hunger. First, however, he needed a weapon. The goblin’s sword was very heavy and too large for him. Clamping down hard on his revulsion, he forced himself to search the body. Opposite the sword was a knife, encased in a rough leather sheath. Frodo unbuckled the sheath from the goblin’s belt and drew the knife. The rasp of it leaving the holder seemed a shriek and he paused, heart pounding, to listen. Nothing. The corpse had a water bottle and a carry-sack, which the hobbit retrieved and brought to his nose. Yes, it was water, brackish but drinkable. The carry-sack held strips of some kind of dried meat but he did not know the smell. It did not seem to be pork or beef. With a shudder, he dropped it.

He felt something wet and slimy ebb along his toes and stepped back hastily, rubbing his feet on the ground to scrub off the blood. The dead goblin might have more supplies that he could use, but Frodo could not bear to touch it again. Now he needed to continue back along the way he had been forced to march, avoiding the search parties, staying ahead of the Ringwraith, and find his way out to his friends.

Frodo knew he should remove the Ring, yet he was strangely loath to. He felt safer with it on, stronger, less vulnerable. And knew such feelings were a lie. The Ring would betray him at the first opportunity. But he needed its deceitful light to see in the pitch-darkness of this horrible place. Indeed, it was because his mind was on the Ring that he almost missed the strip of light painted across a rock before him. He blinked, not trusting his eyes in this cold and windy world of the wraiths. Still it glimmered before him, a narrow line of light, pure as mithril silver. Frodo looked up. He had not seen the light approaching the cavern; his entire attention had been on keeping his feet as the goblin band pushed him along.

Far above him, there was an opening in the roof of the tunnel. It must be a vent for air. Now that he thought about it, Frodo realized that though the air stank from the carrion-heap behind him, it was not stale. He edged away from the wall and stared upwards. Piles of rock and shattered boulders littered the tunnel; the goblins had not wasted effort in carrying out most of the stone, only pushing aside the debris. Frodo turned in a circle beneath the light but it was unable to estimate the distance between the opening and the top of the rock pile. Could this be his path to freedom?

He could not allow himself to be recaptured. Frodo closed his eyes and listened intently but could hear no pursuit, either ahead of him or behind. But more goblins would be sent out after him, he was certain of it. He could not evade them forever in this closed place, invisible or not. He stared up at the brilliant light and winced. Despite incautious climbing adventures in his youth, hobbits are not made for heights. He imagined falling from a great height onto a rock floor would hurt a great deal more than falling out of the roof tree at Bag End onto soft spongy turf. And there would be no anxious Bilbo hovering over him with plasters and toffees and hugs.

Cursing his imagination, Frodo placed a cautious foot on a knee-high stone and scrambled to the top of the small pile, then reached up and sought a hold in the rough-hewn wall. Hand after hand, he began climbing. Already exhausted, it seemed almost too much effort to reach up and grope for a handhold, then fumble about until he could set his feet on another rocky shelf and haul himself up. At perhaps eleven feet up, or twelve, he stopped, panting. The tunnel wall seemed to go up forever in his Ring-distorted vision, and he could not push himself far enough away from the wall to see where to place his feet. He had to catch his breath. Gasping, he availed himself of the last sip of water from his water bottle, shuddering at the thought of having to drink from the one he had taken from the goblin. As he droppedit back over his shoulder,his sweating fingers fumbled on the slick leather and it slid out of his ofhis grasp,falling to the floor below.

He looked down and saw that it had rolled amongst the rocks, nearly invisible among the debris. He could not face going down after it. He would never summon the energy to climb up again. Abandoning it regretfully, he dragged himself upwards. Fifteen feet. Seventeen. Frodo did not dare to look down. And yet the desire to do so was enormous. Much like the siren song of the Ring, Frodo mused. Perhaps if he knew that he could not see how high he was, he would not be so tempted. Balancing for a moment on a rocky ledge, Frodo decided that the dark-sight advantage of the Ring did not benefit him now, and wearing it only revealed his location to the Wraith. But he did not want to take it off.

"Show some hobbit-sense, Frodo," he murmured to himself, then instantly stilled as he had no idea how far sound carried in this place. He leaned against the rock and smiled as his imagination repeated those words in Sam’s voice, complete with a mental picture of Sam with sturdy arms folded, giving him that look that Sam reserved for when Frodo forgot to eat or spent all night in his study over an Elvish translation. Sam never came out and told his master that he thought Frodo was at times a great git, yet made that perfectly clear by expression and posture. Frodo almost chuckled, thinking how much he would like to see Sam again, and Merry and Pippin, and all the others. That would not happen unless he won free of this place.

With a great effort of will, he locked his fingers around the Ring and pulled. It did not budge. Frodo almost lost his balance in surprise, then decided that his grip must have slipped from it. He grasped the cold band tightly, then understood it was resisting him. Not so far away, a cold and chilling cry came to his ears, and pain tore through him. The Nazgûl was coming. It knew he was trying to remove the Ring. Despite the cold, sweat broke from his brow. His limbs seemed numb and his blood flowed sluggishly. Mastering every ounce of will his exhausted body could produce, Frodo tore the Ring from his finger, returned it to its chain, and slipped the chain over his head.

The Ring settled back against his breast, coiling against him like a poisonous snake. The Wraith screamed again, knowing Frodo had succeeded. The shriek was closer this time. Red light flashed behind his eyes and agony lanced through his shoulder. He cringed, almost losing his grip on the rocks. He had to move, now. Locking his eyes on the brilliant band of light above him, he forced himself to climb.

* * *

"Mithrandir, stop." Legolas’ soft voice brought the Company to a stumbling halt and brought the wizard around to face the elf.

"What is it?" Gandalf asked. "Do you hear something?" The faint light of his staff dimmed and the Fellowship stood, straining their ears and staring into the darkness of the tunnel.

Legolas shook his head. "No. But Pippin falters."

"I do not," the young hobbit protested, leaning against the cold stone of the wall. "I mean … I’m not. Faltering, that is." Pippin was mortified to find that his knees were trembling. His indignant protests were cut off by Aragorn kneeling in front of him. "I’m just tired," he told the Ranger softly.

"He’s been weaving the last half-mile," Sam informed the Ranger, taking advantage of the halt to sink to the floor himself. Gimli found a broken boulder and sat himself on it, leaning his great battle-axe against the rock.

Pippin found that he was being guided down to sit on the floor, and the light of Gandalf’s staff was brightening as both the wizard and Aragorn leaned over him. "Thank you, Sam," Pippin muttered, storing away that tattle for future retribution. He further resented that Sam did not seem as worried over Pippin’s revenge as Pippin felt he should be.

"The little ones are exhausted, Mithrandir," Legolas said softly, crouching to offer Pippin a drink from his water bottle. Sam already had his out but sat with his arms dangling between his legs, too tired to raise it to his lips. Gandalf leaned against his staff, sighing with weariness.

"You could leave us, sir," Sam said tautly. "Master Pip and I can just sit tight till you come back."

"No!" said Gandalf and Aragorn and Legolas and Gimli together. "Well, we are united in that," Gimli murmured with a faint smile almost hidden in the depths of his beard.

"I can’t keep up with you," Pippin said, striving to hide the quaver in his voice. "I’m sorry, but I can’t. My head hurts so and the blurriness is worse."

Aragorn reached out and cupped the young hobbit’s head in his hands, raising Pippin’s face to the light of the staff. The Ranger sighed in relief as the tweenager’s pupils, enormous in the dim light, contracted at the same rate and to the same size. He looked searchingly into the hobbit’s face for a moment then drew forth the medical kit he had taken from their supplies. Opening it, he stared at its contents with a frown, then slowly picked up one of the smallest leather pouches, weighing it thoughtfully in his hand. Pippin struggled to focus on the elegant tag attached to the pouch, but the script was in Elvish.

"Aragorn!" Legolas protested. "You cannot!"

"Just a dab under the tongue," the Ranger said. "He will have the energy to keep going for many hours. And will not feel the headache."

"He would not feel the tunnel collapse on him," Legolas replied with some heat. "Mithrandir," he appealed, turning to the wizard, "you cannot permit this!"

"What is that?" asked Sam suspiciously.

"A drug," Gandalf answered him slowly. "It will dull his pain and enable him to go on." The wizard was silent, frowning. Pippin watched them dully, feeling detached from the conversation, as if it did not concern him at all.

"I won’t let you give him anything bad for him," Sam said in flatly, one hand unconsciously on the hilt of his sword.

"Peace, Sam," Aragorn told him. "It will do no permanent harm. I promise you that he will only sleep for a long time after it wears off."

"Mithrandir!"

"If Aragorn does not, Legolas, then we will have to carry him. None of us can walk burdened with goblins about. We could be attacked again at any moment." Plainly unhappy, the elf did not protest further but instead drifted to his feet and stepped back as if to distance himself from the proceedings.

"Open your mouth, Pippin," Aragorn said. The young hobbit did, tilting his head back like a baby bird. The Ranger squeezed a thumb-tip of the gooey paste out onto his finger and swiped it under the tweenager’s tongue.

"Aaaack! Ick!" Pippin choked and tried to spit out the foul substance, but Aragorn was ready for him. Pippin found the water bottle pressed to his lips and a gush of water filled his mouth. Then a large hand firmly sealed his lips together. Pippin looked pleadingly at the man but Aragorn only nodded at him firmly. Given no choice, Pippin swallowed.

"You didn’t say it would taste like that! Ick! Ick!"

"I did not say it would taste like anything," Aragorn pointed out. "Have you got it all down?"

Pippin ran a tongue distastefully around his mouth and took several more gulps of water. Sam patted his shoulder in gentle commiseration.

The wizard motioned the Ranger forward. "Are you certain it will not hurt him?" Gandalf asked softly.

"I was very careful," Aragorn whispered back, "and gave him less than I would a Man or an Elf because of his size. But he must not have any more of it."

Gandalf rubbed at his face wearily. "We will rest for a while. Take a little food, if you wish." The faint light of his staff reduced further, until only a dimly glowing sphere was all they could rest their eyes upon. Aragorn sat, as did Gandalf. Legolas remained standing, seemingly unwearied by their pursuit, his head turning slightly as he listened for approaching danger.

Sam had fallen asleep when Pippin suddenly shot to his feet, startling the entire Company. The young hobbit was fairly vibrating in place. "What are you all waiting for?" he asked them all. "Let’s go!" Then a hobbit-shaped blur was racing forward.

"Pippin, come back here!" the wizard hissed.

Obediently Pippin returned to the rest of the Fellowship. "You are all very slow," he said rapidly. "Why does this place smell so bad? Do you think Frodo is all right? I hope Merry and Boromir haven’t eaten all of our supplies. I left two bags of boiled sweets and a package of ginger biscuits in my pack. You never answered my question, Gandalf."

"What?" the wizard said, having lost track of the subjects.

"I asked you why you didn’t send Legolas down to lift Frodo up off the cliff," Pippin said, his words tripping over each other in his hurry. "Why didn’t you? Then I said, if you had, we wouldn’t have had to come down into this nasty tunnel and get attacked by goblins—they were certainly ugly weren’t they?—and—"

"Because I did not think of it, that’s why, Pippin," Gandalf interrupted, looking at the hobbit worriedly.

Pippin stopped hopping from foot to foot and stared at the wizard, momentarily struck speechless. That moment lasted for far too short a time. "You mean I thought of something you didn’t?" Pippin asked in delight. "Truly? Did you hear that, Sam? I thought of something Gandalf didn’t! Wait till I tell Merry! Maybe all of you will listen to me more, now."

"We certainly shall, Pippin," Aragorn said gravely. "Now you must be quiet. It is very difficult to listen for goblins with you chattering so."

"Yes, Strider. Of course." With great effort, Pippin swallowed the endless stream of comments and questions that seemed to want to burst from him. Unable to be still, he darted forward then backtracked to the others like an overeager puppy, repeating the short dashes in silent appeal for them to start moving. Sam stared at him in horror.

"How long did you say until that drug wears off?" Gimli asked.

* TBC *

(The two references in this chapter are a bow to Llinos' "Recaptured!" posted on Fanfiction.net. The story is named in one paragraph and the drug Aragorn gives Pippin is modeled after her infamous "poppy paste" in the story.)