Chapter 8 - Guile

Merry’s back was in agony during the day's ride yet he thanked the stars for two small mercies. First, they traveled on even terrain and there were few jolts above the even cadence of the horses’ trot. Second, he rode, for the first time, with Grimbold rather than the monster, Broga, who had caused him so much pain.

Merry leaned his head uneasily against a bundle of ragged blankets wedged between his bound arms. They smelled of mold, dirt, and sweat--like something vile and unwanted. There was a time he would have protested against such crude indignities, but now he scarcely noticed them. The drug helped with that. He had been given a small dose of the bitter drink before setting out; perhaps, he considered vaguely, out of some consideration for his welfare. It dulled the ache in his back and put the heaviness of sleep upon him. Yet Merry denied himself the bliss of unconsciousness. He had to keep at least one of his half-open eyes upon Frodo

As usual, Frodo rode with Scur, who held him firmly in the saddle and leaned down often, speaking softly like a child to a beloved kitten. To Merry's relief, Frodo had kept his stony silence, to the casual eye, retaining the outward appearance of senselessness. But what concerned Merry now was not Frodo’s actions, but the new clarity in the hobbit’s eyes – a piercingly obvious change from his former state. Scur was too enraptured with his pet to notice and Broga lacked the sensitivity to see or care, but a cunning man like Grimbold would observe it, and soon.

Grimbold's horse stumbled on a rabbit hole. The ruffian hissed a curse but expertly reined in the animal while grabbing the hobbit to steady him. Merry squeezed his eyes shut and, bit his lip, but could not stifle his groan as pain became his entire world. The horse recovered quickly and, under Grimbold's spur, soon caught up with Scur's mount again. Merry pushed the agony aside and tried to relax his body, to feign sleep and through the mental blur, endure what he had to.

After a time, he focused his single eye slit on his cousin again, watching for any more signs of awareness. They had shifted direction and the early afternoon sun stung his dilated pupil, bringing pain to yet another part of his body. As they moved steadily along the beaten roadway, shadows of sparsely leafed trees teased his patience, offering only brief relief from the sun's bright glare.

Frodo. He tried again to focus on Frodo.

Catatonic for the first part of their captivity, his cousin's 'performance' had of course been flawless. But he could not play “teched” as well as when he was teched. No, thought Merry, He doesn't truly understand the danger. Frodo will slip. I know he will! And when he did, the knot of his captivity would tighten, condemning them both to a hopeless fate. Grimbold would never let a visibly aware Frodo go unbound or unwatched. Merry closed his eyes and allowed them a brief rest from the glare. The haze of medication made his other numerous pains recede but his mind he would not rest. He had to get them out of this, and soon.

Merry sensed another slight change in direction, away from the sun. He opened his eyelid a fraction and immediately widened it in shock. Frodo was staring intently at him, with cognition, real and fearsome. Merry held his breath but his cousin's gaze softened almost immediately, drifting back into insensibility. Merry allowed himself a sigh of relief.

Perhaps he begins to understand the need for this ruse.

He gave his cousin the slightest hint of a reassuring grin, set his head heavily down upon the fetid bundle and closed his eyes once more.

VVVVV

The hobbits had been careless.

Strider had come to that unavoidable conclusion as the sun’s first pale rays fell upon the road. The ponies’ tracks were glaringly visible in the damp ground, in displaced pebbles and crushed weeds. It provided no challenge whatsoever for one of his well honed talents to follow them.

Moving swiftly along the Greenway, he nonetheless kept his wits about him in case this all too obvious trail was actually the ruse of a quarry much cleverer than this one appeared. He had initially had been worried they would veer off the path or double back to obscure their trail, but it continued straight and clear, and was even occasionally accompanied by small, barefoot prints, if the lightly shod ponies' track wasn't enough of a testimony that those he followed were hobbits.

The ranger increased his pace. Even with a four hour lead on him and though the hobbits rode and he ran, he knew he would catch them. The Shire-bred mounts were hearty beasts but not made for speed. Nor, from what he had learned from Gandalf, were hobbits. But more than his quarry's slowness, Strider was concerned with their apparent lack of guile or fear. They were leaving a track any could follow and there were much more dangerous hunters on this road than a Dunedain.

He ran on, swift and sure and tireless until the sun began to dip toward the horizon. Then his eye lit upon something bright at the center of the road. He slowed, cautiously, and stooped to pick up the shimmering cloth. His face broke into a wide grin. It was a yellow kerchief with the initials “P.T.” embroidered in blue at its corner. Strider leaned his hand against a grey birch and allowed himself a brief chuckle.

“Thank-you, Pippin Took,” he whispered as he wiped his moist forehead with his sleeve.

VVVVV

“Imp!” “Imp?”

Merry started and became suddenly and painfully aware that he had fallen asleep on horseback. The sky had darkened to a dusky, benevolent rose, seemingly at the blink of an eye.

“Imp?” continued the harsh voice. “Are you awake?”

“I am now,” grumbled Merry. His mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. Coming back to his senses, he lifted his head a fraction and asked, “How…long?”

“Hours,” said Grimbold.

Merry squeezed his hands together and made an abortive attempt to rub his eyes. Feeling his wrists bound, he sighed and dropped back down on the bundle.

“Will you not unbind my hands as we ride?” grumbled Merry on impulse, already knowing the answer.

“I will not.”

“I shan’t be able to escape,” muttered the hobbit.

“True,” answered Grimbold with a snort, “because you’ll stay bound as you are.”

Merry groaned, more because it was expected of him than out of true disappointment. He had no real hope of more freedoms. Grimbold was far too careful a captor to allow such things.

For me at least, thought Merry. And with a hopeful glance at Frodo, he noted that his cousin, still perched securely in front of Scur, was unbound.

The medication's effects were waning and the wheels of Merry’s agile mind began to turn more quickly. As things stood, he would have to get Frodo's help to make their escape. His cousin could use his status as the “good,” captive to help free them both, and then Merry would make everything up to Frodo. He would make things all right again. He would. Every sinew of his body, every stitch of his determined soul would be brought to bear on the task. He would save his cousin who he had so wronged. But first he must extricate them from the grasp of these men and this unspeakable journey to the maw of torment.

Grimbold shifted in his seat. “He is fine,” he said.

Merry bit his lip in self reproach. The drug had made him careless and Grimbold had caught him staring like a mother owl at his cousin. Merry covered himself as best as possible.

“You mean, as fine as one in our situation can be!”

“You know what I meant,” replied Grimbold sharply.

Merry attempted to straighten himself in the saddle. A bolt of pain coursed through his back making him wince and stealing his breath for a moment, as well as his retort.

“I’d stay still if I were you,” said the man, egging on the horse with a touch of spur. “If you want your back to heal, that is.”

"Why?!" growled Merry, a touch of his old sarcasm returning. “So I can be nice and fresh for my fate when we reach our destination?” He forced himself up higher, more out of defiance more than anything else. “I should think it better to perish now and have done with it!”

“Take my advice or don’t. It's no matter to me.”

Merry frowned. “If it's no matter to you, then why did you wake me? Were you afraid I was already dead?”

“Go back to sleep if you want,” said the man curtly.

Merry turned his head up at an awkward angle. “That was it! You wanted to make certain I was alive.”

“And so you are,” answered Grimbold, keeping his face turned up toward the road.

“You agreed to bear me this day because you did not wish Broga to harm me,” said the hobbit sarcastically. “I'm touched. I guess that means you do care what happens to me?”

Grimbold coughed suddenly, whether from shock or suppressed laughter, Merry couldn't tell. “I simply do not wish you to provoke him any further,” answered Grimbold. “You would not live very long if you did. But, more importantly," this time a smile was clear on his upturned lips, "I would lose my reward.”

“I should die to spite you then,” chided Merry, still staring upwards into the man's unreadable eyes. "Perhaps I will yet rob you of your precious reward." Merry forced a smile onto his own lips. "I don't imagine it would be hard to get him mad enough to kill me.”

“Don’t you bloody dare,” said Grimbold warningly. “If you allow yourself to be damaged beyond usefulness to the wizard, I’ll kill what's left of you myself.”

Merry sighed. He had no desire to see Broga again and Grimbold probably knew how empty a threat he had made. He shifted in his seat and out a sharp hiss of pain. “My back still hurts,” he whispered absently.

“It should. Do not try to escape again.”

Merry closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind focused, his voice steady. “You know," he said, carefully. "My…my family is rich you know, Grimbold…very rich – I could pay you more than he could.”

“No, you couldn’t,” said Grimbold firmly. “And it’s gone beyond that. It is your fate to meet the wizard, whether I succeed in bringing you to him or not. Even if you by some miracle escaped – he would find you. If he had to unleash an army to do it, he would hunt you down." The man looked down at Merry and the cold dispassion of his expression startled the hobbit. "And you have no idea what he would do to you then. The pain now in your back would be a fond memory.”

Merry shivered. “You know what he plans for us!’ he said with force. “For pity's sake, Grimbold! You have some humanity, I can see it, how can you do this?”

“You mistake me, halfling.”

“But my cousin – he is an innocent!”

“Aren’t we all.”

“He is blameless, out of his head,” pushed Merry.

The ruffian stretched and rose in his stirrups, causing the leather to groan and creak. “The wizard has a way with wayward minds," he muttered, staring at the darkening pathway and then at the fading sunlight, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I've seen what he does and it's not a pretty sight, little one." Grimbold sat back down, studying the surrounds, listening beyond the horses' steady hoof-falls and sniffing the wind. Satisfied, he continued in the same disaffected voice. "Your cousin will spill his secrets for the wizard. I have seen it done. That one can squeeze truth from a stone.”

“What do you mean?” asked Merry, fear touching his voice.

“Just what I’ve said,” answered Grimbold. He opened his water skin and took a long sip and set the bag on his knee. “And I’ve said too muc.h.”

Merry looked longingly at the skin, too proud to ask but hoping that Grimbold would share its contents with him. The ruffian did not notice and stoppered the vessel before dropping it back on the side of his saddle.

“Have you no pity for him?" Merry continued futilely. "Can you not see he’s damaged enough already?”

The man refused to look at him. “I cannot afford pity. You shall both get to Isengard, and you shall both be surrendered up to the wizard, be that a fortunate fate or no. That is my task. I do not look beyond it. But if I do not envy your fortune, neither do I take responsibility for it."

This time, Grimbold met Merry's frightened grey eyes and held them. "You have played a dangerous game, little one. Do not lay the blame for its consequences upon my head – I shall not take it.”

Merry felt the walls of his frail complacency collapsing as memories of his deeds surged up from their rubble. He swallowed in sudden terror and fought to clear his mind. He had to be strong; he could not afford self-recrimination, not now.

“I do not blame you!” he cried urgently. "But you have the power to stop this! We know nothing that this wizard could possibly want! We are just simple hobbits! You can't just deliver us to such a fate!”

Merry gasped as the man’s powerful hand encircled his neck. He was pulled back against Grimbold's chest, and the man spoke very softly into his ear, his breath hot and his threat unmistakable.

“Hear me now, young master. You shall be delivered and I shall deliver you, and if you try to escape again, I swear you and your innocent cousin will both suffer my consequences.”

Merry was thrown forward upon the horse's unruly mane. He turned his head, gasping in panic, “You wouldn’t hurt him! You couldn't!!”

Grimbold suddenly pulled his horse to a stop.

“Do not,” he warned, his voice truly menacing now, “presume to tell me what I would or would not do." He turned his head. "Broga, come take your imp!”

Broga, who had been watching the scene with delight, gave his leader a terrible grin as he rode up beside him. "See what I mean, Boss?" he said with a smirk at the hobbit. "Not so easy to keep your temper 'round this one, is it?"

"Just do as I say, Broga."

Merry was unceremoniously handed over to Broga and his hands were again bound to the saddle horn. Grimbold looked Merry sternly in the eye, then turned to Broga.

“We halt in one hour," he said loudly, staring again at the setting sun and the darkening roadway ahead. He then turned his cold gaze on Merry .

"If the halfling says a word, gag him!”

Grimbold spurred his horse forward, harder than necessary, and the animal took off with a start.

When Grimbold was out of direct earshot, Broga gave a laugh that made Merry’s skin crawl. “So imp, it’s you and me again! Do you think you will squeak?”

Merry shook his head.

Broga slapped him. “Say it!”

“I won’t speak,” said Merry softly.

“Damn right,” snorted Broga and gagged him.

VVVVV

Sam stared down at his companion, still asleep in the small clearing. They were well off the road, almost invisible, and Pippin had curled up like a soft ball underneath his travel blanket. The ground had proved harder than it looked and neither of them had slept well despite their exhaustion, but the young Took had managed to get more rest than his companion had.

Sam had been troubled by nightmares of the kind he had never known before. Fire and molten rock burned against an unfamiliar black landscape - frightening yet strangely magnetic, it was an image that beckoned to him. He felt he walked down a dimly lit tunnel towards a tall figure standing before a raging orange light. And then the figure turned and held out a dark hand and the hand was missing a finger. He had jolted awake in a cold sweat and sprung to his feet, terrified, but the crispness of a autumn dawn and the easy breaths of a familiar companion had soon calmed him and when he was reassured that his vision was just a dream, he resolved to think no more of it.

“Wake up, Pip," he said. "We’d best be getting on.”

Pippin started at the sound of Sam’s voice, opened an eye and groaned.

“It’s barely dawn,” he said groggily.

“No,” corrected Sam. “It’s near dusk. We’ll travel by night ‘til we’re good and sure we ain’t being followed.”

“By night?” said Pippin waking further and rubbing his eyes. “Are you mad? We'll lose our way! And who knows what other trouble we're likely to run into in the dark!”

“Pippin, we need to go secret-like and there’s no better way than when the sun’s gone down.”

Pippin sat up and stretched. “You can't still be worried about that ranger?” he asked, casually. “We've hours of lead on him and we're moving as fast as we can. Nob told me the fellow didn't even have a horse. How could he catch us?”

“I reckon he suspects well enough where we’re headed,” grumbled Sam with a frown. “And as for moving fast, we’ve been asleep for hours and maybe lost all the head start we had.”

“He has to sleep sometime too, Sam. I think we’re all right.”

The other hobbit bent down to roll up his sleeping gear. “All right? What do we know about him, eh? P’raps he can run like the wind. P’raps his like don’t need sleep.” Sam looked over his shoulder worriedly.

“Well we do!” asserted Pippin as he emerged stiffly from his blanket and stood, blowing into his hands. “And we can’t push ourselves past weariness if we hope to be of use to Merry and Frodo.”

Sam looked back at Pippin, the conflict showing plainly in his face. There was human danger behind them and doubtless worse danger ahead, danger in the brush and woods on every side. They were inexperienced Shire hobbits who didn’t know where they were going or what they would do when they got there. And young Pippin seemed to be acting like it was a picnic on the Brandywine.

Pippin caught Sam’s expression in the fading light. He sighed long and hard, equally worried but for a different reason all together.

“Very well, Sam,” he said quietly. "You cook us something and I’ll fetch the ponies .”

“All right, I’ll make something to eat but it’s got to be quick-like, and no fire.”

Pippin sighed again as he stepped away from the clearing. “Fine, Sam, whatever you say.”

But Pippin did not fetch the ponies yet. Instead he scurried to the edge of the road where he had left sign of their passing. From behind the brambles, he could see nothing that resembled the handkerchief he had dropped. His heart beating wildly, he bent down and crept closer to the roadway. Perhaps it had only blown away and needed to be set back in place.

Pippin looked carefully from side to side before venturing upon the road. He listened hard but the only sound to be heard was that of birds heralding the close of day. Slowly he crept onto the hard packed thoroughfare. He walked up and down but a preliminary search yielded nothing.

Minutes passed and he could hear Sam’s irritated calls sounding loud from the camp. Pippin cursed under his breath and began to dig frantically into his pockets. In his left he found a single gold coin and a button. The right pocket yielded a better treasure – a tobacco pouch – mostly empty.

“A pity to waste the last of it,” he whispered. “But there’s nothing for it.”

He placed the pouch almost hesitantly on the Greenway right in a bare patch of road that made it most visible. He weighted it down with a small rock, and giving his precious leaf a parting glance, stepped back into the trees.

Pippin steadied himself on a sapling and looked up at the sky. It was almost full dark now and it looked like there would be a moonless, starless night ahead. He let hissed a quiet curse as Sam called again. Walking through these woods at night would be impossible. He grabbed another tree to steady himself as he nearly tripped over something he could not make out. His only guides back to camp were the grey outlines of the trees and the echoes of Sam’s intermittent calls.

Pippin took three more steps then halted, sensing something amiss in the shadows. All had gone quiet suddenly; the night sounds hushed as if by command. He surveyed the forest about him, barely daring to breathe. Nothing. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and stepped cautiously on.

A twig snapped behind him. Pippin spun round, knife raised as a strong hand grasped him from behind. He began to cry out but a second hand clamped solidly over his mouth.

“You should watch where you drop your possessions,” said a soft voice in his ear. “You never know what manner of rogue might pick them up.”

The hands let go and Pippin turned upon the dark figure, knife still in hand. Even in the grey twilight, he could make out the man's craggy beard and his stern, glittering eyes. He lowered his weapon and sighed in relief.

“Strider!” cried Pippin. “You’ve come!”

VVVVV

“Scur. Scuuurrrrrr. My. Name. Is. Scur. Say Scur, imp. Sc – Ur.”

The man held a piece of bread up to Frodo’s eyes, waving it back and forth as a goad. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at his charge with his awful teeth.

“You must be hungry, my little halfling. Just say ‘Scur’ and you can have the taaassssty bread. All you have to do is say Scur.”

Frodo made no move and kept his eyes on a tree at the center of his vision. Stale bread grasped in a man’s dirty fingers held no appeal for him whatsoever and the 'lesson' was trying his patience. His mind was growing clearer each day but memories of how he had got into this predicament were still elusive and until he had a clearer picture of his situation, he dared not speak. A warning of danger and an unparalleled longing were the only things that had come through the mists undimmed. And the longing… It was of an entirely different kind than hunger--gnawing, potent, suffocating, terrifying—it was as if a singular darkness was coiled tight about his mind, squeezing out all other thoughts save a desire for It – and yet, what 'It' was, Frodo could not remember. Desire seemed to have become a creature complete in itself, jealous and willful, and unwilling to release even memory.

And yet, there was power and joy behind that memory, Frodo knew. A mysterious force was there, of which he was master, though it lay just beyond his reach. If he could only tear away the veil between them his fulfillment would be just…

He was startled back into reality by the feel of cold fingers tickling at his neck.

“Collar too tight?” asked the man as he fumbled with Frodo’s top button. The hobbit realized then that he had been clawing at his own neck.

For something that was no longer there.

For what?

The man leaned back on his haunches again, surveying him, and Frodo let his eyes drift vacantly.

“Won’tcha just say my name, imp? Your good mate, Scur? Ain’t I been good ta ya?

Frodo hadn't been certain if he should be disgusted or if he should pity this ugly man who seemed to be working so diligently with him, but the leather cords the man had bound about his ankles the moment he was set down from the horse had decided his feelings. Though they were not tight and the man had apologized for binding him, they chafed ankles and dignity alike--and Frodo resented them. At least the man had not used rope, the mere sight of which filled Frodo with a strange and unreasonable terror. That was another thing Frodo did not understand. His emotions seemed to be responding to events he had no conscious memory of, and his lack of control over them alarmed and angered him. But for the warning in his heart, he would have stood and demanded an explanation of his circumstances from these villains. But for the warning… and the hunger.

The bonds also confirmed that his cousin, the one who had caused him pain, had been right when he'd said they were both prisoners. Understanding that put a new and curious light on his situation. He was still angry with Merry, almost violently so, and that too seemed to have come, at least partly, from events he could not clearly recall. He remembered the whipping and the outrage and horror it filled him with, but what possible circumstances could have led them both to such a juncture, he couldn't even imagine. Whatever they were, he grudgingly conceded, they must have been powerful indeed to turn a hobbit into something so monstrous.

The poor man continued to repeat his own name and the bread flitted about Frodo's face like a gadfly. The hobbit focused stonily on the tree. He would risk nothing. He let his hands fall to the ground where his seeking fingers dug into the moist earth rather than inexorably at his collar.

VVVVV

Unguarded for a moment, Merry crept forward on his elbows toward Frodo and Scur. He had pulled down his gag and hoped he would be able to work himself into what passed for Scur’s good graces with some carefully placed flattery.

Scur threw down the bread. “What do you want, maggot?” This might possibly be harder than Merry'd planned.

“I was hoping to see you work with him,” he said, hopefully. “If you can make him speak, well, that would be something I would love to see.”

“He won’t say nothin’ with you about! Now scat--‘for I call Broga!”

“No, wait, please don't send me away.” Merry moved closer.

Frodo stiffened.

“See there!” said Scur. “He’s afeared of you. And for good cause! I seen his back, remember!”

“I have paid for my crimes,” said Merry. “And I will certainly pay more, but right now I want to do some good for my poor unfortunate cousin. He might be afraid of me, he might hate me till the day I die. But what I’m trying to say is that… is that my cousin, he’s not afraid of you. In fact, I think he likes you.”

Scur grunted. “Then, why won’t he talk to me again?”

Merry hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said, pursing his lips in thought. “Perhaps you are not offering him anything he really wants.”

Scur scratched his head for a moment, then a wicked grin crossed his face. “Eh, maybe 'e wants a piece of you.” And he laughed to himself, delighted, as if he had just been very clever.

Merry smiled patiently back and shook his head. “That’s not what I—“

“Hey, little feller!” said Scur, taking Frodo’s hand out of the dirt. “This here is the maggot what hurt you. How'd you like ta give him a little back, eh?”

He lifted the hobbit up like a rag doll and maneuvered him so that he was sitting facing Merry. Frodo's bright eyes focused for a moment and Merry could see the fire that still flickered in their depths before they went purposefully blank again.

Merry frowned, wondering what Scur was up to and how he could turn the simple man's actions to his advantage. “He may talk but he won’t strike me,” he assured the man. “No matter how shamefully I've treated him, he's not got it in him to strike a fellow hobbit, especially kin who love him. He's a gentle, innocent fellow who hasn't a violent bone in his body. You’ll see for yourself.”

“We’ll see for ourselves, now won’t we,” said Scur grinning.

Merry kept his expression neutral, but looking into Frodo’s eyes, he saw awareness there again. And disgust, and loathing, and fear and outrage.... And something else.

“Of course I may be wrong,” Merry continued, settling confidently in front of Frodo. “But I will be overjoyed to see him do anything of his own free will. It would be my life's joy to actually be able to communicate with him – really have a heart to heart talk – but I've almost given up hope of it. If you can get him to strike me, it will at least be a response from him, and I would be glad of it.”

“Ha!” laughed Scur, “I daresay I'd be right glad to see him hit you a few times, too, maggot-face. It'd do us all good, I'll wager.” Scur laughed louder.

Merry sat patiently. “I'm of the opinion that speech would be a better avenue for you to pursue, but you are in control here. If you think you can entice him with violence rather than with words, by all means try. I'll be happy to see you get through to him at all.”

“Oh, I will. Just you wait,” said Scur. “Give the little fella half a chance. It's more than ‘e got from you.”

Scur pulled Merry's bound hands closer until he was but inches in front of Frodo. Merry did not resist the manhandling and returned his cousin's hard and unreadable stare meaningfully, hoping to communicate if only for a brief instant.

Frodo’s focus dissolved into blankness the moment Scur turned back to him.

The man sat down behind Frodo and moved so that he had the hobbit almost in his lap, then he took Frodo's hand in his own and balled it into a fist. He grinned up at Merry from over Frodo's shoulder and moved the fist slowly to Merry’s cheek. Merry shrugged to suggest that he knew Scur would not believe his assertion until he had seen Frodo's lack of response himself.

Once, twice, three times Scur moved Frodo’s fist in an arc to Merry’s face, each time offering encouraging words as Frodo’s knuckles grazed the other hobbit’s skin. Merry did not raise his bound hands up to block him, and indeed, was sure there would be nothing to block.

Frodo’s vision never wavered, his blank stare never changed.

“Come-on now, little mate, I know you wanna,” whispered Scur. He massaged the hobbit’s shoulders congenially. “Think how bloody good it would feel to pop him one.”

Merry smiled benignly, then sighed. “A noble try, Scur, perhaps after…”

A burst of pain, stars, and Merry’s body was slammed backwards onto the grass.

He heard Scur crowing out in victory, and became vaguely aware of hot, sticky blood flowing from his nose. He groaned in pain—both from his re-awakened back and his bruised face—and rolled over to look again into Frodo’s eyes. They glinted at him, hard, cold, and filled with righteous defiance.

And then his cousin blinked and the stare went straight through him. Scur had wrapped him in a triumphant bear hug and was lifting him off the ground in delight.

“That’s my imp!” Scur set Frodo down and tucked him companionly under one arm as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Now that was worth waitin' for! I’ll get him better than bread now!” He climbed to his feet, chuckling, and left Merry crumpled in the grass to dash off to the campfire.

“By the Gods!” cried Merry, blood still coursing from his nose. “That hurt!”

“You wanted me to play along,” said Frodo without sympathy. “I did so.”

“Play along by all means,” replied Merry. He tried to right himself but fell again to the dirt. “But by the stars,” he continued, his voice shaking with frustration. “Do not do it so very well, and not when the others are present!”

“Shall I not be Scur’s special imp?” asked Frodo bitterly. “Shall I not say his name?”

“Say his name,” said Merry. “Absently. In the way of a bairn. Give him a hint of reward, nothing more. Do not forget yourself with these men, Cousin. They are very dangerous.”

“Oh, I wish to forget nothing,” hissed Frodo. “At least, those things which I can remember.” The flash of anger in Frodo's blue eyes blazed hot enough to make Merry wince. “And what I do begin to remember, fills me with rage.”

Merry sighed desperately. “You must listen now, Frodo. Your hands are often untied. We shall find an opening soon. Then you must untie me and we shall bolt like the wind. Until then, you play the fool and I will think of something!”

“Do you have a plan then?” asked Frodo earnestly. “I can make plans too and I have played your fool long enough.”

“I have just told you my plan!” Merry cried. “A poor plan, perhaps, but it is all that I have of one. But we must be swift for I do not know how much longer it will be before we reach our destination.” He was breathing hard as he stared intently at the other hobbit. “But I do know…Frodo, I do know that we must not reach it. A fate worse than death awaits us there.”

“What have you done to us, cousin?” whispered Frodo, his voice, low, intense and furious.

Merry bowed his head, unable to look Frodo in the eye. “We must escape," repeated Merry. "I just don’t know quite how.” His voice was shaking.

“Escape. Presuming we succeed, then what? Do you even know where we are?”

“I think so…somewhere along the Greenway is my guess." He sighed, wearily. "I am not yet sure how to get us out of this and I am worn out with worry, but I want to make it all better for you, Frodo. I owe you that much. But, now that it has come to it, I find you have to help me. I…am weary…hurt…overcome with...” Merry finally looked up and his eyes were moist with tears. “I cannot clear my mind as I used to.”

“I should escape on my own.” Frodo’s voice was still angry, without compromise. “Leave you to a fate even the shards of my memory tell me you richly deserve.”

“No!” cried Merry in a panicked voice. “No.” He was breathing heavily. Together is the only way we have a chance. Alone, y-you wouldn’t survive a day. You are not yourself yet! You don’t know where we are! And you do not yet comprehend what all has happened. You do not understand what haunts you.”

“Tell me then…Cousin!” said Frodo as his voice now shredded into fragments. “Tell me…what this is about! What do you know of what haunts me?” Frodo’s voice now dropped into dangerous registers. “What do you know of the darkness? What do you know of dreams of fire and torment, agony and delight? Tell me, Cousin! What is this hunger that eats away at my mind? Tell me what is it I lack so desperately that I cannot think, breathe or take a step without it consuming me!”

“I cannot…yet,” began Merry, and seeing the look rage upon his cousin’s face, added, “It is too dangerous! But do not think you are alone! I feel it too! All of what you describe. But now is the time for action. Please, Frodo. You must let me help you!”

Frodo’s eyes darkened. “As you helped our cousin. Pippin.”

A sudden sickness welled up in Merry’s throat and he thought he might vomit. “Not now, Frodo! We must—“

“He was such a sweet, mischievous lad. Happy young Took.”

Merry was dying inside, yet he could hear footsteps approaching. “Frodo, you—“

“I had a fleeting memory of him hurt, broken, bleeding, a wretched shell of the hobbit he was before." Frodo bored into Merry with terrible accusation. "You did that to him.” It was not a question.

“Frodo, the men...”

“Tell me, Cousin. What did you do to him?”

“Frodo!” Merry hissed out pleadingly. “Stop!”

Frodo's face twisted in rage and Merry, half expecting to be struck again, looked up. Then saw a figure come up behind Frodo and fear filled him. He fell back onto the grass.

“Imp?” called Scur. “Imp!” He strode between them, shoving Merry back further.

He wanted to scream a warning, command his cousin to keep up the charade, but the man had already seen.

Frodo twisted around impetuously and unwisely, his eyes fully focused and aware.

Merry’s breath caught as the man fell on his knees beside Frodo. Scur took him into his arms, laughing in wonder and delight. Frodo seemed to shiver, whether as part of the act or in real revulsion, Merry did not know. Then Merry saw Frodo go limp again, but feared the ploy was too late! A hiss of concern from Scur showed Merry the ruffian noticed a change. Apparently baffled, Scur held Frodo at arms length again, concern etched in his ugly features, as if trying to figure out what was the matter with him. He then set Frodo down face first and started patting his brusquely upon the back as one trying to revive someone rescued from drowning.

Frodo took in a ragged breath, deep and audible. Scur flipped him around, convinced he had saved him.

Frodo eyes shot open, as if awoken suddenly from a bad dream.

For a split second he focused his eyes on the man’s confused face, opened his mouth, and in his clear high hobbit voice cried out a single word.

“Scur!”

TBC