I need to recognize some important folks here! First- cpsing4him, as she is responsible for the dream-within-a-dream sequence idea that works so well here. Ariel has been chomping at the bit to do the Frodo waking up scene, and I think you will agree it is magnificently wrenching!!!! Go angst maven! And, of course, CelandineG (who also has an alternate chap coming up!) for her anytime first beta (this done while she was in Quebec!) Oh! The grammar she has too look at while on vacation!

So I bring you, at last, Merry’s awakening in “The Forlaeten” (which means “The Forsaken ones” in Anglo-Saxon!)

VVVVV

Chapter 6 - Forlaeten

Merry was five and he was crying. He stumbled into his elder cousin’s room, drunken with sorrow, rubbing his swollen eyes with ungentle fingers. Frodo, fresh from slumber, leaned up on his elbow.

“What’s wrong, Merry-lad?” Frodo’s young face smiled down at him benevolently. What happened?”

Merry answered by bursting into a fresh volley of sobbing that grew in force and volume.

Frodo pulled back his covers and yawned. “In you come then,” he said in drowsy invitation.

Merry quickly crawled into bed and snuggled against his elder cousin’s warmth, his shoulders heaving.

“They hurt me, Frodo!” cried Merry at last, snuggling up against his beloved cousin. “They hurt me really bad! Really bad!”

“Who, little one?” Frodo’s fingers ran through Merry’s curly hair. “Who hurt my favorite little cousin?”

“The big men!” cried Merry after a few abortive sobs. “They hurt me and they wouldn’t stop!”

“Just a dream, Merry,” assured Frodo, gathering his cousin's quivering body toward him. “Why don't you finish your sleep here with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Merry felt his small body rocked back and forth as Frodo comforted him, enclosing him tightly within the strong, safe world of his arms. His cousin gentled him with whispers until the pain of the nightmare-beating faded into the vague, unreal world of forgotten dreams. And Merry-lad sighed, shutting his eyes, and letting himself drift away into peaceful oblivion.

VVVVVV

Pain was his whole world now, every conceivable message his brain could process. Merry was awake staring up at the cheerless grey dawn, his back on fire. And he was sobbing aloud like a child, just as he had in his dream. But there were no strong, loving arms to comfort him, only hard, gravelly dirt against his cheek amid the vague smell of wet grass.

Then he remembered. Being flogged. His wounds spread over in salt. Screaming and thrashing until he thought he should die of the pain. Grimbold had come then and forced a bitter draught down his throat until all had gone dark and mercifully numb.

Merry sucked in his breath, mindful that his every twitch seemed to drive the punishing salt deeper into his wounds. He slowly lifted his head to see Frodo asleep, close by, just as he had in the…and Merry remembered his dream, fully formed and intact. His cousin had been so young then, yet it had always been Frodo who Merry had run to for comfort.

But Frodo was not on his old, familiar bed at the Hall, but rather on the ground in a strange place, covered with a shabby blanket. Peace and comfort still emanated from his curled form and Merry could not resist a primordial desire to move closer. He crabbed forward in his bonds, despite the agony. The childish, almost primal urge to be comforted, to be safe, had become well-nigh unbearable.

“Frodo! Frodo!” he cried, his voice small and plaintive, tears spilling from his eyes.

He reached out his hands just as he had in the dream.

“Frodo?” he called again, his voice weak from pain. "It's Merry."

The blanketed form moved but his cousin did not turn to face him. Merry placed his numb, bound hands gently against the small of Frodo's back, begging him, almost supplicating. The back stiffened but Merry, too desperate for the solace his dream image had promised, did not notice. He could smell the warm, soothing scent that had always been his cousin's own and ached to be held in those arms, safe, soothed and protected. He was broken, his soul bared and blooded and he reached out to the last source of comfort left him.

Frodo moved in one slow, but studied motion that was in stark contrast to every other gesture he had made on this trip. He rolled away, sat up and looked cagily towards the sleeping places of the men. The one left on guard was staring northwards away from them. Merry saw his Frodo's eyes focus and suddenly knew there was conscious thought and purpose behind them. For just a moment he forgot his pain. Frodo was returned! He had come back from the shadow and was with him again! Now there would be a chance that they could both escape this nightmare.

Merry grinned ecstatically but the pain laced through his back again and he whimpered. Frodo's dark head, turned slightly as though listening, but instead of turning towards Merry, he froze. Merry reached towards his cousin, tears streaming down his face.

“They hurt me, Frodo,” he whispered in the most forlorn and pitiful tone. “They hurt me real bad.”

For a moment, Frodo remained motionless. Then he slowly turned and looked down at him.

Never before had Merry seen Frodo’s blue eyes look at him so icily. It was as if every ounce of warmth and feeling the elder hobbit had ever felt for him had been stripped away. There was no malice in his eyes, no cruelty, but neither was there even the faintest hint of love. It was as if Frodo looked down upon a stranger, one he had reason to hate utterly, but would not give even the satisfaction of that emotion to. Merry sucked in his breath in horror and shrank back.

“No…” he whimpered as those cold eyes pinned him.

Here was pain worse to him than any beating could have been. How could his beloved cousin forsake him so cruelly? His heart seized and his blood ran cold. Something seemed to snap inside Merry’s mind as if a memory long buried was fighting viciously to be brought to the fore. Heedless of the agony of his back he shrank away and curled in upon himself, gulping as if he had been kicked. The loving face from his dream wavered before his eyes and the lightning of Frodo’s bitter glance suddenly pierced the vision. No! A sob rose in his throat as he tried desperately to evade the truth that was beating against his brain. He couldn’t let it in! No, he had done it for all of them! Surely Frodo could see that? But even as these thoughts tried to rally his heart, he could sense how hollow they were.

A cry rose weakly in his throat, like the keening of a wild, injured creature, until they became a howl of protest, bitter pain and denial. He tossed his head back and forth, as if trying in vain to shake loose from the accusing eyes that held him. The cry became a scream, and still Merry writhed, his mental agony now matching the torment of his shredded back. Large hands gripped him, sat him upright, but though in his hysteria, Merry scarcely noticed.

"FRODO!"

The hard, leather lip of a pouch-flask was jammed into his mouth even as his cousin’s name hung on his lips. Burning liquid poured in and Merry again fell into blessed oblivion.

VVVVVV

Grimbold shook his head as he corked the flask and set it down upon the grass. Their frenzied captive now lay quiet where he had forced him to the ground.

“Why didn’t you use the stuff on ‘em right from the start?” asked Scur as he glanced down at Merry’s still form with disgust. “Would’a made for a quieter trip.”

“I have a limited amount,” answered Grimbold. “It is only for emergencies. I thought this counted as such.”

“Just put’s ‘em to sleep, do it? Like whisky?”

“More than that,” answered Grimbold. “This extract comes from certain flower pods that grow in the south. It gives sharp dreams in addition to numbing the pain--both in body and in mind. Some become far too accustomed to the stuff, though--prefer the dreams to their lives after a time." He laughed grimly. "But it isn’t really good for folk, I don’t think. A dose here and there shouldn’t do much harm, but I wouldn't trust it further than that.”

Grimbold gave a sideward glance at Frodo, who had moved away from his companion and had seemingly settled back down to sleep. “If yours goes wild again, I’ll use it on him, either that or a gag. We cannot risk bringing unwanted attention to ourselves.”

“There ain’t no one for miles,” said Scur, “And my imp’ll be no more trouble. ”

“Don’t be so sure,” warned Grimbold. “Whatever these imps have, the wizard is not the only one who wants it. I don’t want to drug or gag yours, but I may have to – fair warning to you.”

“Mine only got worked up because this rat worked ‘im up, that’s all. He didn’t mean no harm. Just didn’t like the whippin’. ”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re going to proceed as if surrounded by enemies, understand?”

Grimbold sat down heavily by Merry. He pried the hobbit’s eyes open and sighed. “This one’s under, alright. Hopefully not so far as never to wake again.” He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a pipe and stuck the stem in his mouth. “How then, did you calm your imp down?” he said, his voice muffled as he lit the bowl.

"Didn’t really,” answered Scur with no small confusion. “Just took him away from the other one and he calmed all by himself. Eyes glossed over all the sudden and he fell to the ground like a shot deer. Was afraid he’d up and died on me, but he just went all spooky again."

"So he's gone again, then?"

"Aye, seems so." Scur smiled at his leader, his missing teeth making it seem almost macabre. "But I bet I could work my magic on him again, get ‘im to talk like he done before.”

Grimbold shrugged. “Well, we’ll not have him watch any more floggings, that’sfor damn sure.” He took a long drag on his pipe, inhaling the sweet, heavy smoke and blowing it out with a sigh. "And hopefully we won’t have to watch any more, either.”

“That one’s trouble,” said Scur, shaking his head. “He’ll piss off Broga again, just you wait.” A rare thoughtful look passed over Scur’s face as he sat down on the opposite side of Merry. “Though,” he paused. “Well, p’raps the whipping turned him a bit. His back’s a right mess. Almost felt sorry for the little whelp.”

“Don’t,” said Grimbold. “He bought it with his actions and now it's paid in full." He shot Scur a knowing glance. "If he escapes, it's us you’ll be wanting to pity.”

“So you say.”

Grimbold threw his gaze up to the rising sun and grunted. “We should move off early, and I need to dress his back before we do. We’ll let that laggard partner of yours sleep until we’re ready to move, as I could do without the headache. Heat some water and then I’ll get this one ready to travel. If he’s lucky, he’ll sleep.”

Scur set off to get the water and returned to find Grimbold leaning over Merry, examining the hobbit’s wounds with a look that bore a suspicious resemblance to concern.

“I had a thought,” said Scur, nearly sheepishly.

“First time for everything,” answered Grimbold flatly. He took the pot from Scur and poured some steaming water into a bowl.

“I was thinking,” Scur began again as he watched Grimbold wiping down Merry’s lacerated back. “If you have a bit of water left…well, I thought I might give my imp a bit of a bath. He don’t look so good, and the grime don’t help his smell none.”

Grimbold let loose a low chuckle at the thought of this man - who carried ten seasons' worth of camp grunge under his fingernails alone and smelled like a barn – giving anything a bath.

“What?” said Scur, clearly miffed.

“Perhaps you might clean yourself up first!”

Scur did not find the humor in his leader’s joke but he kept his tone respectful. “Might cheer ‘im up, that's all. Maybe get him to talk again, and such. Then I could teach him a trick or two to pass the time.”

“Do what you like,” answered Grimbold with a shrug, thinking that his employer would be happier with both captives in a talking mood. “But don’t do it here. I’ve had enough situations between these two and the day hasn’t even begun yet." He gazed around the clearing. "And don’t let Broga see, or you’ll get an earful. Then I’ll have to put up with your sparring.”

Grimbold indicated a nearby copse of trees with a turn of his head. “Go over there. Should be hidden enough.”

Scur leaned down and lifted Frodo, slinging him over his shoulder and picking up the kettle of water in his free hand.

“C’mon little fella," he said almost cheerfully, "Time to clean you up.”

VVVVVV

Merry was a child again, waking up still wrapped in the warmth of Frodo’s arms. Still, he felt himself sobbing uncontrollably.

Frodo’s eyes opened, once more filled with pity. “What? This again?” he said kindly.

“Why did you look at me like you didn’t love me anymore, Frodo?” Merry's voice was agonized and hurt.

“You know I’d never do that, Merry. Now, back to sleep.”

“But you did, Frodo!”

“Just a dream, little one,” he said and ran his warm hands through Merry’s hair. “Go back to sleep. I'm here.”

“I hurt so bad!”

“Silly thing! But it’s all in your mind. No one is out to hurt you.” Merry felt Frodo’s arms tighten around his quaking body. “I'm too tired for this, Merry,” he whispered. “Please. So weary. I must sleep. Why won’t you let me sleep?”

“I will!” answered Merry, hurt by the sudden sharpness of Frodo’s voice.

“Sleep, Merry,” whispered Frodo as if from miles away. “You must let me sleep.”

“Please!” cried Merry. “I hurt and you aren’t making any sense!”

“Merry, please…” Frodo echoed back, his voice suddenly older but more than that was wrong. “Please!” His cousin cried again, his fear unmistakable.

Suddenly Frodo’s face went very pale and he sat facing Merry in a chair, his body bound with cruel ropes. Merry stood above him watching the fear in Frodo’s bleary eyes. He looked more worn down than Merry had ever seen him.

“Please,” repeated Frodo, his voice weak and pleading.

“You can sleep,” said Merry, “as soon as I can get you out of here! How did we get here Frodo?”

Frodo looked up, confusion in his weary eyes. “Do you not know?" he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Only you can stop this.”

“I’m trying!” Merry cried in his small, child's voice. “I shall find a knife and cut you free! Then we can both go back to sleep!”

Merry bolted out the door into total darkness. Soon a blind panic came over him and he knew he was lost. He cried out Frodo’s name again.

“Frodo! Frodo!” But the words were sucked up by the inky vacuum and fell dead to the ground. Merry ran. He ran as fast and as far as his legs could carry him, into the void surrounding him on all sides. At last he perceived a pinprick of light ahead. He raced forward as if his life depended on it, calling out, "Help! Help! Help!" like one possessed. As he drew closer, the light thickened and took form until Merry saw that it was a lantern. He skidded to a stop in front of it, put off by the crushing weight of space and silence.

A small sound came to him from below out of the darkness; a moan, almost animal-like in its pathos.

“Hullo!” called Merry in a panicked voice. “Who’s there? I need help!”

Merry reached for the lantern, which hung on a rusty nail driven into a rough wooden post. He held it in the direction of the sound, slowly, hesitantly, as if some otherworldly creature would leap from out of the shadows and devour him.

“Hullo?”

A white figure lay curled up on the ground, motionless, like a dead thing--its face covered with a blindfold, its hands and ankles bound. Merry almost leapt out of his skin in fear. But he mastered himself and bent down.

“I will free you,” Merry said and was answered with another unearthly moan. Merry bent down further, smelling the fear permeating the beastly place—the captive’s fear it was, now added to his own. But as he reached out to touch the poor wretch, something unseen and unseeable held him back. And a voice sounded in Merry’s head, a voice that did not seem to be his own, spoke to him.

All for the best. It’s all for the best. This one will be happy at last…soon, very soon! Do not interfere.

Merry struggled against the force. “No! I must go to him! For pity’s sake, I must unbind him!”

You’ll only prolong it!

“At least let me see his eyes!”

No! When you see the eyes, you loose your nerve.

“Please! I beg you.”

Very well!

The force let go of Merry and he fell to his knees on the ground beside the prisoner. “I’m going to take this off. It will all be better soon. I’m going to save you.”

Merry ripped off the blindfold, his fingers shaking. He looked down into Frodo’s face, still as death, and pale as the moon. And the eyes, the most horrible corpse-like eyes, stared back at him. Merry screamed convulsively and threw himself back against the wall in terror. “No! No! No! What have you done?” he cried out to the voice. “By all that is decent and good, what have you done to him, you cursed thing?”

“Do you not know?” asked the voice calmly, this time in words that he could hear with his ears. “Can you not understand?” The voice sounded familiar, with its soothing cant, and yet it made no sense.

Suddenly Merry felt his body being forced away, compelled steadily backwards as he screamed out Frodo’s name. He clutched at the air. “NO! Give him back to me! He's my cousin, give him back, vile thing!”

All for the best, beloved, the voice echoed inside his mind as Merry was dragged quickly away into the darkness.

“Who are you?” he cried. “What right have you to do this?”

All for the best.

“Show yourself!”

Merry felt himself thrown down as the darkness instantly transformed into blinding, soul-piercing light.

Then came the worst sound Merry had ever heard.

The crack of a whip and a heartbreaking scream of pain.

Merry fought to focus his eyes against the searing brightness. The sun-drenched world was filled with sound burning and tearing at his senses--the horrible noise of a whip cutting through the air, and the screams, groans and cries that followed each crack.

“Stop! Please!” pleaded Merry. “Whoever you are, stop!”

But the flogger did not stop and as Merry became more aware of his surroundings, the white brightness softened into colors and shapes and the cries became the voice of terrible familiarity.

Frodo.

These cries were Frodo’s voice. These were the screams and groans and sobs of Frodo--his beloved cousin--now bound to a log with a malevolent presence raising its whip in a terrible arc.

“Stop!” cried Merry at the top of his lungs. As the whip hit Frodo’s back with brutal force, Merry felt the agony raging across his own as if it were being struck as well.

“Stop!” he screamed again and he bolted toward the figure as it held its arm poised over his cousin. He didn't care what or who it was. It could have been Sauron himself or all his maleficent brethren rolled into one, Merry would stop this.

“I’m coming, Frodo! I’ll save you! I’ll save us!”

Faster this time, the whip came down again. Merry fell to the grass in excruciating pain and his own back bled, but he rose and barreled forth in spite of his pain. No more hurt would be done. Not to himself or to Frodo. He would see to it. It had always been his job.

“Stop! I’ll have your life! Monster!” And Merry pounced upon the punisher, taking them both down. He drew his dagger from his belt now, poised high to run the foul creature through with deadly force. With the other hand, he rolled the creature over so that the thing might look into his avenging eyes as he slew it. Then he stopped cold, the blood freezing in his veins.

And he knew

The knife dropped and he screamed out in anguish.

It was a fire of pain surging through every nerve ending, the stab of a realization that could never again be denied or erased. He knew who had done these things to his lovely, blameless cousin. The evil memories came back--clear as the crystal in his mother's salon--first a trickle, then a flood, and the dam which had for so long, held his conscience at bay, opened wide…

Too late, too late, too late. It had happened.

The floodgates had opened, pouring their searing pain over him. He saw it all and there was no place to hide in this world, not in a bog or a cave or even in his mind, the torrent surged forth in a deluge of pain, guilt, and a desire for immediate self annihilation.

“What have I done?” he cried to himself but the words seemed empty and monstrously inadequate. “What on earth have I done?

VVVVVV

Grimbold continued his ministrations on Merry's back, looking down with concern as his charge suddenly jerked about as if seized by falling sickness. He was obviously waking up and in dire pain. Grimbold reached down to his cask, determined to put a stop to the current outburst before it even got started. As he did, he heard an indignant “Oi!” ring out from the trees in Scur’s voice.

Grimbold straightened in an instant, set his hand instinctively on the hilt of his sword, ready for trouble. Yet the trouble that came was not what he had expected. When he turned in the direction of the voice, he saw Scur stomping out from the copse of trees carrying Frodo’s limp body over his shoulder, a blanket fluttering in the breeze. Even from the distance, Grimbold saw that Scur’s face was contorted in a deep scowl. Grimbold groaned inwardly, dosed his captive, and finished bandaging Merry as he listened to Scur’s disgruntled mutterings grew nearer. Scur set his charge down beside Merry, then sat back on his heels looking slightly ill.

“I find out who done this,” said Scur darkly, “I’ll whip his damn hide myself!”

Grimbold raised his eyebrows. “Done..what?” asked Grimbold with forced patience.

Scur drew back the blanket from his still-naked charge and cried, “Look what some maggot done to my imp!”

Scur was staring hard at Grimbold with demanding, then pleading eyes. The leader ignored Scur for a moment, setting his jaw as he stuffed Merry’s limp arms back into the shirt and drew it closed over the bandages. By the time he looked up, Scur’s impatience had become like a physical force.

Without a word, Grimbold examined Frodo’s back, scarred, lacerated and bruised, each wound telling the tale of one cruelty set atop another. He turned the sleeping hobbit on its side, grunted in acknowledgement of the brand, rolled the hobbit back over, and covered him up again.

“It’s no wonder he didn’t like the whippin’!” Scur blurted out to fill the silence. “Little thing’s been beat within an inch of his life! More than once too, by the look of it! What I want to know is what sort of sick maggot would do that to a harmless, teched little half-wit?”

Grimbold’s eyes shifted accusingly at his patient. He answered curtly.

“Who do you think?”

VVVVVV

Desperately, Merry ran back into the dream image of his ancestral Hall. He burst through the door and scurried at breakneck pace through the unlit, bifurcated tunnels until at last he came to his mind’s image of Frodo’s room. His small legs ran, and his tiny, five-year-old hands thrust open the door to find his cousin sleeping peacefully in bed.

“Frodo!” he cried. “Frodo!”

Frodo opened his eyes, smiled, and then sat up. “Come here, you scamp! My but you’re a mess! Do you never let a poor hobbit sleep?”

The covers were lifted and Merry plunged in and clung to the warmth of Frodo’s body as if to let go of him would mean the end of all things.

“Frodo!” he cried. “Frodo! I’ve had the most terrible dream!”

“Tell me about it, dear,” said Frodo gently. “What did you dream?”

“A monster, Frodo.”

“A monster?” Frodo’s eyes twinkled. “But know well that I won’t ever let a monster harm you. You are always safe here with me.”

“Forgive me! Forgive me!” Merry clawed his small fingers into Frodo’s nightshirt. “Forgive me!”

“There there!” Frodo gathered Merry into a hug. “Don’t you know there is nothing you could do that I would not forgive.”

“The monster! It was me, Frodo!” sobbed Merry. “It was ME.”

VVVVV

Merry wept heaving sobs until he feared the very life force would pour out of him, until there was nothing left inside of him to cry out – his soul-devouring anguish complete. The world spun about him in a sickening swirl of guilt, pain, violence, blood, and abominable memories. Then a sudden jolt, a surge of a different pain and the feeling that his whole body was being shook like a rag doll as Merry awoke from his nightmare to find himself staring into the enraged eyes of Scur.

“What did you do to my imp, you maggot-rat-bastard?” hollered Scur inches from Merry’s face.

Merry’s breathing was shallow, his pupils severely constricted and his face awash with far too many emotions to understand what was happening in the present. Scur pulled Merry up into a sitting position by his hair and then gestured to where Frodo lay on the ground.

“Explain this!” he shouted, indicating Frodo's battered back.

Giving Merry a few moments to look down on his own handiwork, he rolled Frodo over. “And what about THIS!” Scur indicated Frodo’s brand with his bony finger. “You just explain that, maggot! I ain’t never seen the like of it! To think I almost felt sorry for you!”

Scur pushed Merry back down to the ground gratuitously, where he fell upon his open wounds. The medicine helped with the worst of the pain but Merry screamed nonetheless. Meanwhile, Scur rolled Frodo back on his side and covered him. He then seized Merry by his collar and shook him again. “What did my poor teched imp ever do to YOU to deserve that?”

“Nothing! He didn’t deserve it!” cried Merry suddenly, the words pouring out of him in one violent surge, like a river broken loose from winter’s freeze. “None of it! I was supposed to help him, and yet I broke him instead! I didn’t mean to! But I did!” Merry sucked in a shuddering breath. "I’m a disgrace, to my familyto the world, hateful to all hobbits!”

“Why’d you do it then, scum?”

“I just wanted to take care of him!” sobbed Merry.

Scur lifted Merry up by the collar till his bound feet were dangling far above the ground. His expression was one of total and unbelieving disgust. “'Take care of him'? Cor, that's rich! Why’d you whip him? Why’d you BRAND him, you rotter? My imp wouldn’t swat a fly!” Scur shook Merry until the hobbit felt his brains rattling in his skull.

“WHY?”

“Put the imp down, Scur.” Grimbold’s stern voice announced his reappearance at the scene.

Scur turned to face his leader, still holding Merry up like a naughty kitten. "You saw what he done to my imp! This one’s a monster, I say!”

“It isn’t our affair,” Grimbold answered. "But getting these two to Isengard, quick and not dead is. So put him down. You’re tearing his back.” He clicked his tongue in anger. “I’ll have to dress it again.”

“That ain’t the only thing I’d tear if I got half a chance!” snarled Scur, and threw Merry down bodily upon the ground.

Merry groaned in agony. “I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed to the grass. “I’m a monster, Frodo, forgive me.” And he began to weep once more.

Scur spit brown, tobacco-colored saliva onto Merry newly bleeding back. “I ain’t never gonna feel sorry for you, maggot! And my imp ain't never going to forgive this as I can see.” Grumbling, he stomped off to collect Frodo’s clothes.

Grimbold, discomfited by the pathetic scene, left to heat more water, grumbling under his breath about his sorry luck to be stuck with such a mess as he now had on his hands.

Still sobbing, Merry turned to his cousin. Frodo had not moved of his own accord through this whole ordeal and for a moment, the thought crossed Merry's mind that he had imagined that loveless gaze. Hope he knew he didn't deserve dared to spark in his heart and Merry timidly inched over to his cousin till he was inches from his hand.

“I’m sorry!" he whispered in a whimper only Frodo was close enough to hear. "I’m so sorry, Frodo! Please forgive your Merry as you always have! I never wanted to hurt you! I shall die a thousand times over if I don't know that there's a chance you might one day forgive me! Frodo?” His eyes blurred as the tears returned and Merry let them fall, heedless.

Frodo's hand moved from where it had lain lifeless, inches from Merry's reddened nose. It lifted slowly and paused, as if considering a new resting place. Merry had the sudden image of that hand coming to rest on his head, forgiving him with an achingly beneficent gesture, but it was not to be. The hand was pulled back and laid across Frodo's blanketed chest, pointedly out of Merry's reach. The younger hobbit quivered, wounded to the soul, and raised his gaze to where Frodo's blue eyes glittered under dark lashes. Yes, Frodo was awake and looking at him. Though he had let the men carry him about like a nerveless toy, there was no trace of stupor in Frodo's face now. He looked down at his cousin coldly, with recognition but no pity, and for a moment, Merry fancied those familiar blue orbs were filled to the brim with hatred.

Merry felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart. Anger, even fury, he could have accepted from his cousin, but the vision of Frodo looking at him with hatred in his eyes seared into his memory. He closed his eyes and silently bowed his head, knowing instinctively that no words he could ever say would make a difference. He did not see the confusion that slowly clouded Frodo's gaze, nor the twitch as his hand almost moved to comfort, but balled into a tight fist instead. All he knew was that nothing he could do would ever be enough to make amends. He had done what any normal hobbit would have considered impossible – he had, by his own acts, destroyed a bond of blood. Nothing should have been able to break that. And nothing, nothing, nothing, would ever mend it. The Frodo who loved him was gone forever—as surely as if he had died. Merry closed his eyes still tighter and prayed for his heart to mercifully stop beating—for the pain in his soul had now well eclipsed that of his back.

His despair was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. He assumed it was Scur, there to rub salt in his wounds, perhaps literally, perhaps not. It didn’t matter.

“What more do you want?” cried Merry between sobs. “There is nothing more you can do to me. I am damned. Utterly lost, utterly forsaken!”

Merry craned his neck, but when he did, he saw not Scur, but Broga. And much to Merry’s crushing dismay, the man’s ugly face was suffused with mirth and he was chuckling.

VVVVV

Strider awoke to the sound of a cock crowing lustily from the inn yard. A practiced, fluid motion drew him from his bed, betraying no hint that he had been immersed in slumber moments before. He drew back the curtains and opened the window, allowing the first grey light of dawn into the room and the cold morning air with it.

He had already gathered his few belongings and was ready to set out as soon as he roused the two hobbits—yet his craggy features deepened with concern. Without his aid, the hobbits had no hope of finding their companions or the Ring, for they knew nothing of the ways of the world. He knew best but he feared he would not be able to convince them. Peregrin Took trusted him, that he could see plainly, but the other one, Samwise—he was another story.

Strider’s detailed knowledge of geography and the paths to Frodo’s destination had stifled Sam’s complaints but the ranger knew he had only the most marginal hold on his loyalty—if any at all. His useful information had got the older hobbit’s attention, and he had listened attentively, without complaint, to Strider’s suggestions. The agreed-upon plan—to follow Strider’s lead upon secret paths through the wild—had given them hope that they might catch up to their quarry. And even if they moved too slowly, Strider knew he could race ahead, overpower the ruffians and set up a meeting place from which they might all proceed to Rivendell--the bearer, his companions and himself as their guide.

His eyes stared out over the courtyard, unfocused in thought. Peregrin had said there were only three ruffians and that was good news; catching up to them was well within his skills. He could easily overpower their kind and, if necessary, slay them. The ruffians were burdened with hostages and would move at a slow clip down the Greenway. But he could travel a straighter line through the brush; cut a day’s ride from his journey, even traveling no faster than the men.

Strider smiled grimly, backing away from the window and reaching for his cloak. Of course he would travel faster. Much faster. Given his own speed, he had a better than fair chance of waylaying them at Sarn Ford, and if not, there were many, many leagues of road where he could catch up. Given where It was headed, there was also a likely chance he would meet help on the way, and could send word to other friends. Yes, the prospects were good. Far better than before.

He shook his thoughts and gazed around the room quickly with his ranger’s practiced eye. Yes, all was well and he was ready—with the Ringbearer, if not in his hands, at least in sight. He sighed as he drew his cloak around him and pushed open the door, the oppressive gloom of helplessness lifting. The two hobbits were obviously loyal and trustworthy. He only prayed they were swift of foot as well.

He walked in long strides back to the room where he had parlayed with Samwise and Peregrin the night before. He gave a sturdy knock upon the door. Nothing. He knocked again. Nothing. In spite of himself, a shiver of uncertainty flooded through him and he drew back his boot and kicked the door open. The parlor fire had not been banked and the dishes from the night before still lay upon the table, its leftover food, the only tangible sign of the hobbits’ presence.

“Peregrin! Samwise!” he called in a low but sharp voice. “Get up! We must make haste!”

No noise. Nothing. Strider ran quickly down the hall to the sleeping quarters, throwing open the door without knocking this time. The heavy hinges creaked and complained at the harsh treatment but as they yielded to his heavy hand. The open doorway and the empty room told the story. The two hobbits had gone.

TBC

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