Chapter 13 – Stripped

Saruman’s luminous eyes locked on Merry’s and Merry’s last hope died with their message, all too well understood. When the wizard spoke again, however, his voice was for another.

“You have fulfilled your mission,” he said, looking up.

Merry dared not look, but knew Grimbold waited behind him. Saruman removed a heavy looking purse from his belt and handed it to the man over Merry’s head.

“You have earned every coin of this,” Saruman said. “I am pleased.”

“My lord,” said Grimbold. “It is my honor to serve you. Now I would take my leave– to enjoy the fruits of my labor and a few weeks much needed rest.”

Saruman gave a low chuckle. “So these halflings cost you much effort?”

“Yes, my lord,” said Grimbold. “More than I would have expected. But they are now well delivered and no longer my concern.”

Saruman smiled. “Yes, you have done as instructed and I have paid as I promised. Our contract is done. You are free to go or, if you wish, remain in my service. ”

“If it please my lord, I will take my leave.” Grimbold nodded to his two henchmen, bowed to the wizard and quickly departed without giving the hobbits a second look.

Merry swallowed hard, feeling very much alone, and wondering when the wizard would search them for the Ring. His heart pounded impossibly fast. His dreaded fate and Frodo’s drew closer with each moment.

“What about us?” said Broga impertinently.

Saruman’s disdainful gaze leveled on the man and the coldness in it sent a chill down Merry’s spine. “Perhaps impatience becomes a man of action,” he said, “but pecuniary matters should not be rushed. Stay your eagerness a moment.”

“We just want the gold we got coming to us. For the job 'well done',” said Broga as he placed a lumpish hand on Merry’s shoulder and shook him. Merry imagined the ruffian sneering as he said it.

“And you shall get your due,” said Saruman with a leonine grin.

The wizard stepped over to a small wooden table covered with piles of coins. He filled up two small bags and returned. Merry noticed Scur's hands had fallen protectively upon Frodo's shoulders, but his cousin did not seem to notice them. He looked terribly pale and afraid, but stood with his back straight.

“It seems you have grown fond of your little pet,” noted the wizard.

“He's a smart one,” said Scur with a hint of pride. “Ah...I don't think he'll run if you untie him, lord.”

Saruman gave another laugh that sounded like boots on gravel. “Will he not then?”

“I'll vouch for him, lord,” said Scur. “I know you mean him no harm, after all we did to bring him to you.”

Merry wondered if Scur really was that irretrievably stupid.

“Very well,” said the wizard. “I give you the honor of unbinding your halfling.”

Merry watched in shock as Scur pulled out his knife and knelt to cut Frodo's bonds and, for a moment, entertained the notion that the wizard might indeed free his cousin.

“And what of this other one?” asked Saruman gesturing to Merry.

“He bites,” said Scur derisively, pulling ropes away from Frodo’s wrists. “And he hurt my imp!”

“Did he now?” Saruman made a sinister tsking sound. “How sad. But we will soon discuss what was done to your imp.” He turned his unfathomably cold eyes on Merry again. “And, perhaps, to others.” The wizard handed Scur a bag of coins. “Here is your reward. I may require your services later. Do not leave the compound.”

“But…”

“If you want to help your imp, you will remain at Isengard.” Saruman waved his white robed arm dismissively. “Now go until summoned.”

Scur didn't move immediately. “Yes, lord, that is what I want. I guess I'll find a place in the barracks, then, eh?” He bowed and backed toward the door. "I'll be 'round should you need me. Just call. I've a way with that imp, you know. You have any trouble, you just call ol' Scur." He paused at the archway, nodding as if to assure himself and darted out. Merry shook his head in disbelief. Scur was indeed the stupidest creature in Middle earth.

Broga cleared his throat impatiently.

“Ah yes,” said Saruman. “We can’t forget you, can we? Broga, isn’t it?”

“Yeah,” answered Broga.

The wizard's focus instantly sharpened at the disrespectful human. “Broga," he said. "I have a different proposition for you.”

Broga raised his eyebrow. “Shall I gut this one here?” he laughed, giving Merry a heavy push to the floor. "I've been waiting weeks for a chance to give some a' his own back."

“That is quite below your talents,” said Saruman crisply. “I have something far more lucrative in mind for you, if you are willing. Follow your erstwhile leader, slay him, then bring back his body and all he carries. Then you will have both of your shares, and much more. Serve me and you shall earn wealth beyond your reckoning.”

So this was his game! thought Merry. Kill Grimbold? But surely Broga would also be killed for his trouble. Then why keep Scur alive?

Broga shrugged, grasping none of Saruman's artifices.

“I will do it for three shares,” said Broga. When Saruman inclined his head in agreement, he added, “Should I make it look as an accident?”

“That would require, how shall I say it? A softer touch than I believe you have in you. Just kill him and bring the body back.”

Broga nodded and turned toward the door.

“And Broga,” said the wizard, “keep a watch out for Black Riders. They are most restless these days.”

Merry shivered, realizing as Broga closed the door behind him, that it was now their turn. He inched closer to Frodo.

“And now my dear halflings,” said Saruman turning his attention towards them and speaking in a pleasant, conversational tone. “Whatever shall we do with you?"

VVVVV

The land was arid and largely treeless. Huge rock formations rose in the east, their jagged outlines leading to the southern tip of the Misty Mountains where snow-covered peaks glistened against dark blue sky. A group of three beings hurried along under it, oblivious of the scenery. They were focused on reaching the thicker, more protective vegetation nearer the foothills--vegetation that offered the only real cover the area could have provided.

The ranger stopped on the dusty path so abruptly that the hobbits almost ran into him. He scanned the horizon in silence. Sam scowled and pawed the ground restlessly with his bare feet, as if annoyed. Pippin frowned at him.

“Stay here!” Strider turned off the path and made his way through a thicket of waist-high shrubbery on the left, parting the rough, thorny growth, with surprising ease and silence. A few moments later, the hobbits saw him climbing easily up the face of a high rock formation to stand on a narrow plateau between the red-tinged rocks, then he disappeared from sight.

“Now where’s he got to?” muttered Sam angrily.

“He told us to stay here,” warned Pippin, noting the anxious way his companion fidgeted. “And this is where he’ll come back to find us.”

“Meanwhile we sit like a couple of daft coneys in the middle of the road just waiting for the likes of those Black Riders to come collect us. Mighty convenient, if you ask me.” He stuck his hand sullenly into his pocket. “I have a way of hiding, at least,” he scowled. “I’ll not be bait for his trap.”

“Sam, you can’t! You heard what Strider said. That would be the surest way of calling them!”

The sullen hobbit turned away. “Then find your ranger and let’s be off. I’ll not just sit here, waiting on his by your leave, no sir. We either track him down or I will go on, alone, if need be.”

Pippin looked up at the rock where they had last spied Strider.

“I’ll find him,” he said. “If it will keep you from walking into a bear’s den and dragging me with you, I'll jolly well find him.”

The two hobbits took off in the Ranger’s wake, making their way through the brambles almost as silently as he had until they reached the rocks. They climbed up to the flat space where Strider had stood and stared into a wide, dark valley cradled between the foothills of mountains and ringed by thick forest.

Strider sighed and spoke from the cleft above them. “I told you to stay put.”

Pippin jumped, but Sam was unperturbed, as if he had seen the ranger in his hiding place. “And we decided not to,” he countered gruffly, his voice echoing against the stone.

Pippin came up to Strider and tried to follow his line of vision. “Oh!” he exclaimed. In the very center of the valley, a tower rose above the tree line. “That's Isengard? Where they're taking Merry and Frodo?”

“I did not soften my description for your benefit,” said Strider without looking at him. “Yes, this is Saruman’s fortress.

“I don't see no fortress,” countered Sam, breathing heavily as he came up to them.

Strider gave the grim laugh. “We are not close enough. There's a great ring of stone surrounding the tower, with walls high as trees, so solid that I doubt even Sauron could pluck the wizard from this perch.”

“Aren't Saruman and Sauron on the same side?” asked Pippin.

“I don't know, Pippin,” the man shook his head. “If the wizard desires the Ring, he must oppose Sauron and The Nine; it matters not which side he began on.”

“And what side do you think Merry is on?” asked Sam darkly.

The man looked down at him before answering.

“From what you have told me and from my knowledge of his family, I believe Merry began with a true desire to help the Shire, and to help his cousin as well. But now I fear Merry is on no one's side save his own and is out of his depth. He will not survive his encounter with the Wizard, unless he is made of sterner stuff than he looked to be.”

“Good riddance,” snorted Sam.

“Sam,” said Strider, “Merry’s fate is now bound up with your master's. To wish one ill is to pull down the other.”

“How can we get through those walls if they are as you describe them?” asked Pippin, staring fixedly at the tower. He had never seen anything so tall and ominous. “We will need a plan and I fear all the luck we can muster.”

Strider frowned as he studied the tower. “I thought I saw something from the path. See, there is smoke rising from behind those walls. Some great devilry is at work there, if I’m not mistaken.” He looked down at Pippin. “Your question is practical, but we must first face whatever lurks in front of the walls. As for what is inside them,” he sighed heavily. “It will take more than plans and common luck.”

Sam's face grew hard and Pippin felt the cold heaviness of fear settle in his gut. Isengard loomed out of the forest beyond, deadly, dark and mocking, almost as if it was aware of their designs and amused by them. He shivered. “We should go, I think,” he said, turning to Strider.

With no further discussion, Strider and the hobbits made their way back down the boulders and into the low-lying shrubbery. Before they return to the road, however, Strider stopped them and stood very still.

“Get down,” he whispered. “Something approaches on the road.”

“Black Riders?” asked Pippin fearfully.

The man shook his head. “Crawl under these bushes and stay down. Do not make a sound until you hear my voice call you.”

The hobbits complied, crawling through the sharp-thorned brambles on their knees and elbows. Out of the corner of his eye, Pippin watched Sam's hand move toward his pocket and then hover there. Pippin shook his head. “No!” he hissed.

Sam gave him a startled look as if waking from a dream, then, as he realized what he had been reaching for, he stuck his fingers self-consciously into the sandy earth. “You just mind yourself, Pip.”

Pippin opened his mouth but thought better of it. He turned his attention instead in the direction Strider had gone, and heard the barely discernible sound of voices.

“Sam -- I think Strider’s found someone.”

“Good or bad?” whispered Sam.

“Sssssh!” hissed Pippin. “They're coming.”

“Pippin, Sam,” called Strider softly. “Come out. It's a friend.”

The hobbits slowly rose from their hiding spot, brushing off the dry branches and leaves that clung to their clothes. Pippin drew a sharp breath when he saw Strider's companion. He was tall and wore a cloak the color of pine needles, but his keen eyes and fair, beardless skin suggested that this was no man. Pippin wondered if this could be an Elf, for he had never seen a being so fair.

“Peregrin, Samwise - may I present Elrohir - son of Elrond the half-elven.

VVVVV

The wizard advanced on them, chanting in a low, hypnotic voice and they shrank away in terror. Merry had the urge to grab his cousin and run, but man's words were dark and malevolent and bound them like heavy strands from some giant spider's web. Saruman halted and raised his staff towards Frodo. The hobbit's eyes widened in horror and he clawed at his throat as if choking. Merry tried to reach out, but the invisible bonds of the wizard's spell seemed thickest and strongest in the space between the cousins. They held him back so that all he could do was watch helplessly while Frodo writhed before him like a mad thing.

Suddenly, Frodo convulsed, his back arching and the neck that he had scratched bloody tensed so violently the tendons leapt out in sharp relief. Merry screamed and beat against the invisible barrier, but it did not yield, and if anything grew stronger. Frodo convulsed again, slamming himself against the smooth floor with a force that sickened Merry. It was as if an invisible hand was mercilessly beating his slender body against the stone. The poor hobbit arched once more, gave a gurgling cry and then sagged, the tension draining out of him like water. His head fell backward, limp, his eyes rolling, yet he did not fall to the ground, but instead hung in the air like a bloody rag doll.

Blinded with rage and grief, Merry hurtled himself screaming toward the wizard, but he did not reach his mark. With the flick of a wrist, the wizard's spell flung his whole body high into the air. In fear and pain, Merry clenched his eyes shut as the invisible force hurled him towards the chamber walls. The final impact would kill him; he had no doubt of it.

To his shock, he survived, though his head swam from hitting the sharp rock that cut mercilessly into his back. An unseen force pressed him hard against the wall, dozens of feet up in the air, his feet dangling helplessly over nothing. Far below the wizard laughed at him.

“Please don't fall,” he said. “We have so much more to speak about.”

Saruman chanted a few words and Merry winced, fearing another attack of pain. Instead, the ropes slid from his wrists and dropped to the floor. Merry, with nothing left to hold on to, clawed wildly at the stone.

Saruman chuckled, as did a few of the orcs that watched from the periphery of the hall.

“Shall we find our guest a more secure resting place?” asked the wizard.

The orcs hooted their approval as Saruman's icy eyes focused on the hobbit. He flicked his staff and Merry began to slide down the sheer wall. A few terrifying feet down he was stopped with a violent jerk and his flailing arms were thrown wide against the walls. Suddenly, he heard a loud snap and his limbs were gripped tight by iron manacles imbedded in the wall.

“A most attractive decoration,” Saruman said with a smile.

Again, the orcs hooted their approval. Merry stared down in terror, not knowing whether Frodo was alive or dead, and feeling as hopeless as he had ever felt in his life. This was all his fault, including what would come. He squirmed in desperate agony, but the bonds held him fast.

“Leave us,” ordered Saruman. “All of you.”

The orcs snarled and muttered; seeming disappointed to miss potentially good sport, but obeyed, shutting the door behind them.

Frodo lay in a crumpled heap at the wizard’s feet. His eyes were closed, his body still and if he breathed, Merry could not tell.

“Frodo! Frodo! NO!” Merry sobbed, screamed, and cursed at Saruman, spending his impotent rage on a wizard who did not pay one whit of attention to him.

Merry watched in agony as Saruman bent over Frodo’s body. He removed the hobbit’s cloak, running his long fingers along the seams and shaking it out with care as if searching for something. He then ripped Frodo’s fine jacket, the one Merry had had made especially for his dear cousin, down the back using no more care than if he were skinning a scrawny hare for the pot. He performed his task quickly and with methodical precision, turning pockets inside out, cutting through seams with a wave of his long fingernail and feeling every inch of the rich blue material. Frodo’s fine white shirt, still embroidered with B’s was ripped open as well, and the buttons plunked to the ground and rolled in all directions.

Merry watched in horror as Saruman waved his wand and each piece of Frodo’s clothing whirled soundlessly into the fire. As the flames burned, he struggled harder against the iron clamps holding him. The wizard was studying the fire intently, he would soon know...

Saruman then turned to the chain and locket about Frodo’s neck. He opened it eagerly, but seemed manifestly disappointed with its contents and shut it again, but did not remove it from Frodo’s neck.

He then moved on to Frodo’s breeches, ripping these as easily as he had the fine coat. Merry felt a sharp stab of pain pierce him. Frodo could not fight the one who undressed him now. The memory of how stoutly his cousin had fought this very indignity as Merry’s captive came back to him with brutal clarity. At Crickhollow, he had shown no more respect for Frodo’s modesty than did this wizard, but now he turned his eyes away out of respect and bitter shame. Watching his own folly reenacted before his eyes was a crueler torment than anything else the wizard could have done to him.

When Merry finally found the strength to open his tear-filled eyes, Frodo was sprawled naked on the floor like a discarded hunk of meat, his body pale against the black stone. All of Merry’s energy was spent. He sobbed quietly, his throat too raw from screaming to do any more, and feeling wretched, defeated, guilty, and helpless. His grand plans to protect his cousin and his Shire had come to a terrible end.

Saruman nudged the limp form with the tip of his foot, rolling Frodo onto his stomach. The angry lines upon the hobbit’s back were clearly visible even to Merry. As Saruman studied them, an expression of astonishment crossed his face. Then he smiled and a cold shiver ran through Merry.

“I feel this to be your handiwork,” he said in a seductive voice, his gaze slowly creeping up the wall, “and not what I would have expected from a hobbit. My visits to the North have shown them to be small, peaceful and weak. But the violence to this one’s back shows a certain…decisiveness, Mister Brandybuck, that interests me. Perhaps now we will see from whence sprung this peculiar….strength of mind and purpose.”

Merry quailed at the wizard’s keen interest and the sudden hungry look in his eyes. Was it possible that Saruman had not believed the Ring to be in their possession before this? It was not something Merry had considered.

“It is time for our long- delayed conversation, Mister Brandybuck,” said Saruman, and pointed his staff at the hobbit.

The manacles snapped open and Merry dropped toward the floor and to certain death. But just inches above it, his body jerked to a halt and he hovered, facing the reflection of his own terrified expression in the black tile. His heart pounded wildly and he remembered to breathe again.

“Do not fear, Mister Brandybuck. I do not wish to slay you or your companion. I wish only to speak.”

Again the staff moved and Merry landed softly upon hands and knees. He crawled immediately toward his cousin.

“Frodo?” he whispered, desperately cradling the still face in his hands. He looked up at the wizard. “Is alive?”

“Do not concern yourself over this one, my dear, brave halfling. He is in a peaceful slumber, a much needed rest, as I discern.”

The wizard’s voice was soothing, comforting, and something in its tone made Merry nod stupidly, even gratefully. Frodo was alive and his all-consuming fear dissipated like mist in the sun. Frodo would be just fine.

“Does not a soothing sleep sound delightful after such a long and trying journey?” asked the wizard.

Again Merry nodded and heard himself say, ‘yes.’ He pulled Frodo’s body into his arms and laid his cheek against his battered head while the wizard chanted in the dark beyond him. Frodo would be fine. The torment was over and they would be all right very soon. The staff came down and touched Merry’s forehead and his world was cast into instant darkness.

VVVVV

Frodo awoke naked, cold and in total blackness. He’d had a terrible dream. In it he’d been beaten, stripped and blindfolded by a malevolent creature with cruel, glittering eyes. He raised his hands to his eyes and found that he was not bound and the dark was not a blindfolded. Memories slowly coalesced in his mind but they did little to reassure him.

He stood, stifling a cry as his bruised muscles protested, and blinked against the dark. With his hands outstretched, he walked carefully until he found the smooth surface of a wall. He followed it, trying to gauge the size of his prison. He guessed he was still within the tower that he and Merry had been brought to, but what had happened while he had lain senseless he could not guess, nor did he have any inkling of how much time had passed. Terror still gripped him, but he was somehow strangely resolute. He stopped and stared into the absolute black. Where had the men gone? And where was Merry?

“Merry?” he called softly and began searching the floor of the prison. If his cousin was there, unconscious, Frodo might have walked right past him. “Merry?”

“He is elsewhere, little one,” said a rich, mesmerizing voice .

Its owner was very near, though Frodo had not sensed him.

“I thought we should have our first talk completely alone,” the voice continued.

“Then show yourself!” demanded Frodo, a bit startled at his own boldness. “I will not speak with those I cannot see.”

Frodo heard a low affectionate chuckle.

“Very well,” said the voice.

A torch sitting in a bracket above Frodo’s head burst into life, illuminating the room within its circle of flickering light. Frodo stood in a windowless space of smooth black stone. Three of the cell’s sides formed the circular space Frodo had explored, but the opposite side, or what should have been the opposite wall, tapered off into an impenetrable black emptiness.

But he stood alone in that pool of light.

“Better?” asked the voice. “I should like to be a gracious host.”

‘Then show yourself,” repeated Frodo. “Or do not call yourself gracious.”

Footsteps echoed from the gloom and suddenly the wizard who had met him earlier stepped into the light. Frodo started, but controlled his fear and spoke.

“Where is Merry?”

“He is elsewhere,” answered the wizard. “There is no need to fear him. I won’t let him hurt you any more.”

“What do you mean?” asked Frodo, suspiciously.

The wizard raised an eyebrow. “Don’t you remember?”

Frodo stepped back, suddenly sensing dark purpose in the man’s gentle voice. “What do you want from us?” he said, his voice quavering.

“Simple answers,” said the wizard. “The simple truth. For example,” he moved closer and lifted Frodo’s chain with one long fingernail. “What is this about your neck?”

Frodo looked away. “A chain of no worth,” he said.

“And what, may I ask, did you carry upon this worthless chain?”

The wizard’s voice had changed subtly. This was a very important question and Frodo had the sense that something monstrous waited upon the answer. Near the surface of his memory, a thought bubbled and seethed, sparked by the question, but he held it back, fearful lest it materialize.

“There was…a small locket,” said Frodo carefully, nodding his head in confirmation.

“And something else, my dear little hobbit” the wizard insisted. “Something precious that should belong to me.”

“Why would I have something of yours?” asked Frodo. “You have taken my clothing. That was all I had save this locket. Truly,” he spread his arms wide, “I have nothing else.”

“You need not fear me, little one,” said the wizard, the hypnotic, soothing note returning to his voice. “I seek only a small trinket.”

Now Frodo saw lies in his words and the conciliatory tone frightened him more than the harshness. He backed against the wall, as if doing so could make it yield to him. “I have nothing, I'm just a simple hobbit.”

“You are not, Mister Baggins, a simple hobbit.”

Frodo hesitated, staring again into the wizard’s black eyes. “Do you know me?” he asked, suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

“My dear hobbit,” Saruman laughed lightly. “I know much more about you than you could ever imagine, as if I had known you for many years.” He took a step closer and his voice became cold, losing its feigned politeness.

“So tell me, Frodo, where is It?”

Frodo pressed harder into the polished wall. .

“It?” he asked, genuinely dismayed. “I’ve told you, I have nothing, no trinkets!”

The man took a step closer. “You or your cousin have something, or once had something,” he hissed. There was a threat in his voice, though the wizard smiled as he set his clawed hand upon Frodo’s bare shoulder. The hobbit’s skin crawled.

“I don’t remember,” said Frodo in a barely audible voice. Even as he said it, he felt that there was something he should have remembered.

The wizard hesitated, then stepped back and looked intently into Frodo’s eyes for a moment, then he smiled.

“I…I don’t know all of what has happened to me." And then he repeated more forcefully. "I just don’t remember."

“That can be remedied.”

VVVVV

“Riders have been sent to look for you and the halfling,” said Elrohir.

“You sent the Black Riders?” asked Pippin, stepping back.

The elf stared down at the hobbit with a condescending smile. “They have been sent, master halfling, but not by us. Meanwhile, my father, Lord Elrond, grows more apprehensive, but it is difficult to decide on a course of action when we do not know where the object is or in whose hands it lies.”

Pippin looked at Strider fearfully, but the ranger did not betray Sam's secret.

“Tell me, brother,” said Strider, laying his hand reassuringly on Pippin’s shoulder, “what have you seen on your travels? For we do know our course and it takes us to Isengard. Is there anything on the road that might help or hinder us?”

“Isengard,” said Elrohir, astonished. “That is a dark road indeed, Estel. But I can tell you this: there are Black Riders, three that I have seen, although I do not know where the others may be. Also, on the road to the south, I saw a tall man on a gray horse. His aspect was grim and he wore no livery so I know not whence he comes or where he is bound, but it seems likely that he started out from your very destination.”

“Sam?” asked Strider quickly. “Could this be one of the ruffians?”

“One of them did have a gray horse,” said Sam. “But if you pardon me saying, they all looked tall to me. And I recall they did have livery. It had a white hand on it.”

“This man showed nothing,” said Elrohir. “But anyone may remove his surcoat.”

“Anything else?” asked Strider.

Yes,” answered Elrohir. “About a mile behind was another man who seemed to be tracking the first. He had all the skill of a drunken dwarf and did not see me.”

“Strange,” said Strider and he was silent for a few moments. “If they are the only threats for now, we can manage them. But we shall need your help, and help from your father, and any other you might bring if we are to keep The One from Saruman’s hands.”

“I am many leagues away from help,” Elrohir said regretfully. “If you intend to take on Isengard, I will help, though our chance of success is slim and no other shall come behind me.”

“What we must do in that place must be done by stealth or not at all,” said Strider. “No, Elohir. By the time you could bring aid, our fates here, for good or ill, will have been decided. But I beg you to return to our friends as quickly as you may, tell them what they seek is here, and that as we speak, the one who bears it is indeed in deadly peril, but is not yet dead.”

VVVVV

Grimbold rode quickly along the Greenway, seeking any sign of travelers. He knew It was near – for the Black Riders were far too curious and too persistent. He suspected that the thing, the weapon, whatever It was, had landed in the hands of another Halfling. What other creature could have taken it from Buckland? But how such a diminutive being had made it this far was beyond Grimbold’s reckoning. Still, his experience with this sturdy race had taught him not to underestimate them. And indeed, the ancient prophesy had spoken of halflings – but not of the nature of the weapon, nor the name of the one who was destined to carry it.

The sudden, faint sound of hoofbeats disturbed his thoughts. Someone was coming up the Greenway. He moved quickly, tied his horse back from the road and found a likely place to spy on the other traveler. Very soon Broga rode by with an expression as pensive as Grimbold had ever seen the brute manage. Grimbold cursed. The wizard was no fool it seemed. He had sent Broga to kill him.

VVVVV

Frodo's breeches were returned to him, torn, devoid of buttons and barely serviceable. The coat and shirt had been destroyed, but Frodo had his torn cloak to wrap around him and used tatters from it as a belt. His clothes had been searched with alarming thoroughness as his captors looked for that Thing that must have been the reason for their kidnapping

But what was it?

When he was dressed as best he could, a strange, Orcish looking man blindfolded him and led him through an array of twists, turns and stairs. In his enforced darkness, the place seemed no more than a great maze, but at last he was sat down and his eyes were unbound. He sat in a wide, round room with no visible doors and the only furniture was two plain wooden chairs set a half-dozen feet apart in the center of the room. Frodo was sitting in one, Merry in the other. Merry’s clothing was in a similar state as Frodo's and he looked terribly afraid.

“Now that your companion has joined us,” said the wizard, “we may begin.”

He turned to Merry.

“You tell me you do not have it. And your dear cousin tells me there is a certain... lapse in what he remembers.” Saruman smiled at them. “I am only a gatherer of facts and I surmise that you both have them, so I intend to gather what each of you know and see if we can't make sense of the situation. I’m sure we all agree this is a very important matter for Middle Earth.”

The wizard was doing something with his voice. Frodo wanted to trust it, but his intuition told him that he must not. This wizard was no friend to them. He was not a benign creature with the good of Middle Earth in mind. He was a liar.

The wizard's eyes fastened on him. “You, Frodo Baggins, told me you had nothing that should interest a man of my boundless wisdom.”

“Oh, stop this travesty!’ cried Merry. “He doesn't have It!”

“The same answer,” said the wizard. "But I do believe that he did have It.”

“I had nothing,” replied Frodo.

“It is so sad when impaired memory causes one to lie, not even being aware he does so,” said the wizard.

Neither hobbit spoke.

“Tell me, Mister Brandybuck-- how your poor cousin came to lose his memory.”

“I... don't know,” said Merry unconvincingly.

“Perhaps it is not as important to find out what happened as to discover what manner of information was so thoroughly forgotten.”

Again, the hobbits eyed each other nervously and did not speak.

“When I look into your eyes, Mister Baggins, I see high walls and locked doors. I am a powerful being, but not averse to treating the injuries of smaller and less powerful creatures, if it is in my power to do so. What say you to my offer?”

The voice. Frodo would not let himself be seduced.

He took a deep breath, steadying his mind. “I have heard no offer.”

“That is because you did not listen,” said Saruman. “I'm offering to topple the walls and unlock the doors in your mind. I offer to make you whole again.”

“I am quite whole,” answered Frodo evenly.

“You are not,” countered the wizard. “In both of you halflings I detect a certain longing -- one that I understand, and one that only I can fulfill. We all want the same thing, my friends, and I can help retrieve It. So tell me, Mister Merry Brandybuck, where do you suppose this thing is now?”

“Which thing?” asked Merry lamely.

“This weapon you alluded to when you spoke to a harmless old man in the forest of Buckland many years ago,” said the wizard with an avuncular smile.

Frodo saw Merry go visibly pale. The words had hit their mark.

“I was a braggart,” protested Merry. “And I was young. Young and immature! It meant nothing.”

“You were indeed young, and still are young by my account,” said the wizard with a kindly smile. “But I would hardly call you a braggart. Even then you struck me, and those who spoke for me, as uncommonly mature, serious and committed. Why should one with such qualities sell himself short?”

Frodo saw Merry too worked to resist the wizard’s honeyed words, but what Merry did not do was deny he had been in contact with this wizard and his lackeys for years. Frodo’s mind was spinning. How could that be?

“I sell myself short,” said Merry, “for there is very little of worth in me to sell. It is only natural that one such as I should tell lies in the company of strangers.”

“Strangers?” asked Saruman. “Surely I am not a stranger to you. You and I have had communication, have we not? And if I was truly a stranger, why should you have approached me for advice?”

Frodo looked at his cousin.

“A fool's errand -- and I was a fool!” exclaimed Merry, avoiding Frodo’s stare.

The wizard laughed. “You are no fool,” he said, and Frodo felt the veiled threat in his tone. “At least not a great fool. But a halfling can hardly be a great anything, can he? Or is that a mistaken idea. Perhaps I was the fool for not taking your plans more seriously.”

“My plans were nothing,” cried Merry. “I exaggerated, can't you see. I was telling stories, pumped up with too much ale. It's something all hobbits do.”

“Is it now?” said Saruman with an icy tone. “Frodo, be so kind as to remove your garment and turn around.”

Frodo had not been seduced by the voice, but knew better than to defy it. He stood, removed his cloak, and turned.

“Is that something hobbits do?” The wizard indicated Frodo's battered back.

“I was insane!” protested Merry. “Mad as the March hare!”

“Mad like a fox, more likely,” said the wizard. “For a halfling to unleash this manner of... madness upon a loved one, he must have been inspired by something very precious indeed. Something more precious, at least, than the skin of the loved one’s back.” He turned to Merry. “Wouldn’t you say, Mister Brandybuck?”

“No,” said Merry softly but with bitter conviction. “You are wrong.”

The wizard turned to the other hobbit. “Frodo, do you remember how you received these cruel scars?”

“I don't remember,” said Frodo truthfully and as calmly as he was able. “Whatever it was is past. The wounds have healed and I have put them behind me.”

“And this is our problem, Frodo, for I have not,” said Saruman, sounding most contrite. “And I believe this affects other, very important matters. As I said, I am only a seeker of the truth. And in this I think we ought to work together.” The wizard focused his glinting eyes on Frodo. “Frodo Baggins -- I think it is time we reopened some of those doors.”

The wizard raised his staff and Frodo had no time to react. He heard Frodo cry out and suddenly the room spun and went completely dark.

VVVVV

“You will tell me the truth about where It is,” said the wizard to Merry. “For all your ‘decisiveness’, it is clear you do not wish to see your cousin harmed.”

Merry angrily refused to answer. He again held Frodo’s ragged, unconscious form as it lay sprawled on the polished floor, and fought bitter, furious tears. He had never before felt such loathing as he did for Saruman at that moment.

“And yet,” the wizard continued, “there is something in his memory that you both fear, something that I believe hides the truth I seek. I can understand you not wanting to reveal Its location to me, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” He wasn’t even trying to hide the malice in his voice now. “I have the power to give him his memories back, to make him relive each moment of them until I find where It has gone, but you don’t want me to, do you? I wonder why?” He smiled, knowingly. “I will discover where It is, by any means necessary. If you will not tell me willingly, I will find it myself, and then… he will remember it all.”

“No!”

“You were not gentle, I suspect.” Saruman smiled wickedly. “Considering the damage I can see on his mind and body, you must have tormented him mercilessly. If I return his memory to him, he will feel every bit of what you did in a few terrible minutes.”

“No, you cannot.” Merry’s voice was hoarse with impotent fury.

“Then tell me what I wish to know. Your kin’s fate is in your hands, Merry Brandybuck.” The wizard laughed. “Once again.”

“But none of this was his doing!” screamed Merry.

“I did not say that it was,” said Saruman sweetly. “And that is hardly the point. I don’t care how I get the truth, but you do. I think I am being exceedingly kind in letting you tell me what I wish to know rather than just taking it from him.”

“We don't know where it is, or even what it is,” lied Merry. “Do what you wish with me but let him go! He can’t help you!”

“Did he help you?” asked the wizard, bending to look mockingly into Merry’s face.

“I love him,” said Merry, his anger at last giving way to desperation.

“Of course,” said the wizard with an impatient sigh. He stood back and raised his staff and Merry cowered down over Frodo, trying desperately to shield him from whatever spell the wizard would unleash. “Then consider this another of the fruits of your love.”

Merry was flung backward, crying out his frantic protest as he went, and slid to a stop against the far wall. He quickly scrambled to his feet only to find himself pressed to the wall again. There was nothing he could do but watch in horror as a blinding white light poured from Saruman’s staff into his cousin’s forehead.

This time Frodo did not struggle, but opened his eyes as if waking from a dream and stood.

Merry held his breath. Had it been a bluff? Perhaps returning Frodo's shattered memories was beyond the wizard's skill? But even as that feeble hope crossed his mind, Frodo blinked and looked straight into Merry’s eyes. His expression was one of hurt and bewilderment, and he looked at Merry as if to ask him what this was all about. Despite the rags he wore, his appearance was so familiar, so much like the old Frodo Merry had once known and loved that it struck him like a dagger to the heart.

“Oh, Frodo.” He could not move, could not reach out as he ached to, and when Frodo's expression began to change, it destroyed him.

The look of concern turned to one of dismay and then to one of someone most grievously betrayed. And all the while Frodo’s eyes, filled with bitter grief, never left his cousin’s. His body began to shake and he fell to his knees, but being released from that accusing stare gave Merry no comfort. Suddenly, Frodo arched back, his face contorted in pure agony, and he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Light continued to pulse into him, inexorably illuminating those corners of his mind Merry had come to hope would remain forever dark. He twisted and screamed again, and the scars on his back began to seep new blood, the ugly red lines as lurid and evincive as the moment Merry had made them.

Frodo flailed violently, his fingers clawing at half healed scrapes, his face contorting with unimaginable anguish, and still he screamed. Then he gave one soul-wrenching shriek louder than all the others and clutched at his neck until blood covered his hands.

Saruman lowered his staff. Frodo stopped screaming and took in a few ragged breaths.

“Frodo!” Merry found he could move his feet again. “Oh, Frodo, say something! Are you all right?”

Frodo blinked, and then stared about the room as one lost.

“Frodo!” Merry came toward him, his eyes filled with guilty tears and his arms outstretched.

Frodo's eyes found his cousin and fixed on him. His vague expression cleared, sharpened and then coalesced into the most pure expression of rage Merry had ever seen. Without warning Frodo hurtled himself toward him. Merry, wretched with his guilt, held up his hand in a half-hearted gesture of self-defense, but Frodo drove into him, enraged, sending them both skidding to the floor. He dug his nails into Merry’s neck, his face mad with fury and death in his eyes. Merry could barely breathe as his cousin clutched his throat but he could not fight him. If any deserved death, then he did and Frodo had earned the right to give it to him.

But revenge did not light the fire that burned in the ringbearer's eyes.

“Where is It!” He screeched, near foaming at the mouth with hatred. “What did you do with It?” His fingers tightened inexorably around Merry's throat and then, in a low, menacing hiss, he said, “It was mine.”

TBC