AN: Thank you for being patient for the long wait! Very difficult quarter. I thought I’d post on my birthday as a mathom to you. Thanks to celandine G for the first beta and clever additions, and ariel who has been waiting years to do what she did with the fight scene AND the angst-o-meter. I think you will be pleased with the result. Now we bring you: Chapter 14: Reckoning in which Frodo and Merry finally get an even fight.

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Chapter 14: Reckoning

Merry stared up in terror as Frodo’s fingers tightened around his throat. His cousin’s chest pressed heavily into his own, his face wild with a feral hate that shocked from him any thought of defense. Merry’s hands clutched helplessly at Frodo's arms, feeling his very heartbeats pounding through his frame. In that moment, he wished for death. Coldly, distantly, he prayed for it. But oblivion was not to be granted.

“It was MINE!” hissed Frodo, the low note of malice lingering in his voice. Then he hesitated, his eyes narrowed for a moment and he added, clearer and louder as if for other ears than Merry’s own, “You stole what was most precious in the world to me!”

Merry closed his eyes, unconsciousness welcoming him into its arms. His lips moved with a final effort of will, but their sound was too quiet and there was no air to form the words he desperately wanted to be his last.

Suddenly Frodo leaned back, relaxing his grasp on Merry’s neck. Painfully his unwilling lungs sucked in air, just as the blackness had promised to claim him.

“You are a thief! I want my ‘locket’ BACK!”

He could again feel the pain as Frodo’s fingernails dug into his shoulders, could hear his cousin’s ragged and torn breath and see his eyes, black pools glinting with rage. Those awful eyes, like some wild creature, dilated to their fullest and glaring from above him. “Please,” Merry mouthed, not knowing what he was begging for as his lungs took in another unwelcome breath.

But there was something else in Frodo’s eyes. They were wrathful, livid, even murderous, yet deep within there was a spark of something that Merry had not seen there in a very long time. His mind swirled with confusion. Yes. There was awareness there; true awareness and purpose glittered behind Frodo's rage-twisted face, but no trace of love. He grasped Merry’s collar in his fist and drew him close.

“You thought you had the strength to wear it, didn’t you?!”

Frodo twisted the collar until it again restricted Merry’s breathing and in a voice so soft only Merry could hear him, said;

“You didn’t own it. No one can. It owns you.”

He could feel the cloth tightening again. It was more than Merry’s tortured spirit could take. As his eyes rolled back, he made a wild kick that connected with a lean hobbit body. Frodo grunted in pain but let the collar go. Merry rolled away, standing and gasping as he held his throbbing neck.

Frodo was on him again, grasping his throat, digging in his nails. Merry kicked again in desperation. Fear lent him strength and as his foot landed he heard a sickening pop. Frodo fell, grasping his knee, his face twisted in pain.

Merry backed away. The look in his cousin’s eyes, now cognizant, showed him the futility of trying to discuss the situation rationally. Frodo was no longer evading the truth of what had happened to him in the mists of his tortured mind. He had protected the secret of the Ring so it was clear he understood their danger, but it was also eminently clear that he loathed Merry. Frodo rocked to his feet, his breath heaving as he favored the bruised leg.

“I…don’t have…your cursed…’locket’!” Merry rasped out through his injured throat.

Cold, malevolent blue eyes pierced him. He tried to back further, but in two hobbling strides, Frodo was on him. Merry saw the punch coming but horrified fascination held him frozen. Fingers balled tight, the skin on them pale and straining against the tendons, the mouth he had once loved so dearly contorted into a grimace of fiery hatred.

The punch hit home. Merry fell, blinded with pain.

“You LIED!" Frodo voice rattled in his astonished brain. "You took what you had NO right to take!”

Merry slowly got to his feet.

“What do you want from me?” cried Merry, aware of the wizard’s presence behind them but no longer caring. Guilt threatened to overwhelm him from all sides. He wanted, no, needed to know, but was not sure he could bear the answer.

“I want you to pay!” snarled Frodo, as if closing in for the kill.

Merry was forcefully reminded of a wolf snarling upon his helpless prey – waiting for the slightest movement to tear out his victim’s throat. He shook his head, pleading silently for Frodo to speak no more. Each word redoubled his guilt.

“Do you feel the pain and the humiliation you inflicted upon me?”

“Frodo…”

“I begged for mercy too.”

Frodo raised his fist again and hesitated, but Merry knew there would be no quarter. He put his hands up halfheartedly to block the punch, but that seemed to enrage Frodo even more. He bared his teeth and swung high, his fury crashing through Merry’s disheartened defense. The swift blow hammered into Merry’s chest, knocking his breath from him. He backed away, shame sapping his will to fight back.

“I couldn’t get away from you,” said Frodo, stepping forward.

Merry raised his hands defensively, but the blow hit his stomach. Merry struck back, aiming for Frodo’s breast, hoping to disable him. It was a solid hit. Frodo’s eyes widened, then darkened with renewed rage. He pushed Merry back hard, then advanced and swung. Merry fell hard, but was up again in seconds.

“I don’t want to hurt you!” he cried as he was forced back.

“You already did that,” snarled Frodo, “you won’t ever again.” He drew back a balled fist and swung.

An explosion of pain flared upon his jaw and Merry swung toward his attacker. It wasn’t a clean punch, hitting Frodo on the forearm, and Frodo was still able to lunge forward, striking Merry on the side of head. Merry cradled his temple and staggered backwards.

“I am so sorry!” cried Merry as he held up a palm in surrender.

“Sorry?” growled Frodo, and kicked him ferociously in the thigh. “In the pit of my despair I did not feel your remorse.”

Merry blocked the next punch, but not the kick that followed. A burning stab of pain surged up from his groin and he fell screaming.

“Stand up,” ordered Frodo.

No good came from compliance, yet Merry obeyed, his muscles singing out in protest as he did so. The moment, Merry was vertical, Frodo advanced, grasped him by the shoulder and backhanded him with brutal force. Merry tottered, but felt himself steadied with the grasp upon his forearm. The next blow hit deep into his stomach, and he tumbled back hard against a wall. Blinded with pain he felt his knees give way and he crumbled in a heap. Frodo looked down upon him, his eyes blazing. Merry curled his battered body upon itself, shielding himself from whatever else Frodo had in store for him. He heard himself pleading.

“Please stop!”

The blow he expected never came and Merry dared to look up at his attacker through his fingers.

“And why should I, thief?” spat Frodo.

Merry closed his mind to the pain as he slowly unwound himself and sat up against the wall. Fighting nausea, he leaned his head against it and stared up at his cousin. His entire body shuddered. “I only meant to save you,” he panted.

The blow he expected then didn’t come either. He heard Frodo kneel down before him and felt cruel fingers claw into his scalp. Frodo roughly drew Merry’s head back by the hair, forcing his gaze up. Frodo's face was grim and pitiless. He had never looked less himself.

“Tell me, cousin,” hissed Frodo. “Have you saved me?”

“Frodo,… ”

Merry tasted the coppery warmth of blood on his lips. His mouth was bleeding.

Frodo froze and for many moments sat panting and staring at his victim as if mesmerized. Abstractly, he reached down and ran his finger over Mary's lip. Bright red blood pooled on his fingertip. For many moments he crouched, staring at the blood and then something broke in his expression. Tears came, like rain on cold stone, though his face remained strangely still. He held the bloodied fingertip before Merry's eyes, as if to show him what he had found. His expression hardened.

“How do you like your work?”

Merry died inside. Tears ran down his face unabated. This fit of violence from his once-gentle cousin was his fault.

Suddenly the fierce grip on his scalp loosened and Frodo was dragged away by a clawed hand while Merry’s own body was pulled in the opposite direction.

“Fascinating,” said Saruman’s voice from across the room. “So small, yet with so much rage.”

Merry said nothing to the wizard, his gaze instead focused on Frodo, who had gone limp in his handlers grasp, yet was breathing hard.

“Put these two in a private cell together,” ordered Saruman. “Perhaps they have more to say to one another.”

The orcs grunted out their acknowledgment as they pulled their charges roughly to their feet.

“But don’t go too far, mind you,” he said, his lips turning up. “We don't wish our two guests to harm each other while they... reminisce.”

VVVVV

The Ranger and the Elf spent hours speaking together in a strange tongue and solemn tone. Pippin could not understand what was said, but hoped something helpful had come from it. Yet a terrible dread settled into his stomach when Strider bid farewell to the Elf and they watched him ride away. The Elf had been an ally, and he wondered if Strider had made a mistake sending him away at such a critical time. But he hesitated questioning the Ranger. Strider usually knew best and his plans took a wider view than those contrived by himself and Sam.

“We must find an entrance to Isengard other than the gate,” said Strider

“What?” Pippin was shaken from his thoughts.

“Elohir tells me there are ways we may enter unnoticed.”

“It would have been a mite more polite to have this counsel spoken in plain talk so we could join in,” said Sam sullenly.

Pippin thought Sam's tone was unduly harsh toward one who had gone so far to help them, but part of him agreed with his words.

“We spoke of things that did not touch you,” said Strider unapologetically. “I will now tell you of what we discussed that did. Come, let us sit and take counsel together”

The shadows lengthened upon the three travelers, sitting in a circle as Strider recounted what he had learned.

“How is it we never heard of these other entrances before,” said Sam.

“I had assumed they were closely guarded,” explained Strider patiently. “But I have learned they may not be.”

“So are they safe?” asked Pippin.

Strider laughed quietly. “No entrance to Angrenost is safe, Pippin. On this endeavor, there is no such thing as safe But there is certainly safer, and that is what we must find.”

“Get to the point, then,” said Sam. “Where are they?”

The ranger took a long, hard look at Sam before continuing. “Isengard is a fortress with obvious towers overhead, but there are also tunnels far underground. The smoke we see is from deep forges that burn day and night. To get there, one must use the tunnels and they reach for miles outside its walls. The principal ones are guarded, but Elohir tells me that lesser-known tunnels at times stand unwatched, and one might enter therein, perhaps unnoticed.”

“Sounds like folly to me,” said Sam.

Pippin was staring intently at the ranger. “Would a wizard such as him be so careless?”

“Perhaps,” said Strider. “Or perhaps Saruman has become so comfortable behind his walls that he no longer fears what may come from below.”

“Or perhaps he's keeping a secret escape for himself,” said Pippin. “The Great Smials are full of secret tunnels. We've not been attacked for many generations, but Da says that even if we were, we could dig deep and hold out for many months.”

“I fear the time may have come when the hobbits of Tookland may need to make use of those defenses,” said Strider. “In fact, they may be doing so as we speak.”

“What!” The old feeling of dread flowed back into Pippin like a torrent. For some reason he had not yet considered that the riders and ruffians in Buckland might bring their dark forces to his own ancestral lands. Pippin shivered. Knowing that his own land was safe had been the backbone of his courage.

“What is to be done!” he cried out to the ranger in anguish.

“Take heart, Peregrin Took.” Said Strider. “From what I've seen, halflings can be a remarkable folk when put to the test.”

“And Tooks are…brave,” said Pippin. “But this is a darkness Strider! A darkness beyond them, and I fear,” his voice fell to a whisper, “beyond us.”

“They are beyond your reach, Pippin,” he said gently. “But if they share a fraction of your courage, we need not loose heart.” He took a deep breath. “But for here and now, let us hear more of this tunnel.”

“There has always been one passage,” continued Pippin, “in our warren, known only to the Thain and his heirs. It is called the Thain’s Run.”

“'Well, that's a dandy thing... for the Thain,” muttered Sam under his breath.

“No!” said Pippin, genuinely hurt. “That's not it at all. It’s so that if the Thain is betrayed, he might yet escape. It's to make sure the Shire should never go leaderless even if all else fail.”

Sam let out a bitter laugh. “As I said….”

“Such talk will bring us no closer to saving your friends,” Strider broke in. “Pippin's point about the secret tunnel is well made. Saruman has thousands of men and orcs at his disposal, but I wonder how much he trusts them. I would not be surprised if he has such a passage that is known only to himself. In fact, I think we can be almost certain of it.”

“How would we find such a thing?” asked Sam.

Strider’s brows were furrowed in concentration. “Where is Thain’s Run, Pippin?”

“I can't tell!” said Pippin, nearly indignant.

“I don't mean to know where it is exactly,” said Strider. “Rather, what sort of place is it and why was it chosen over other paths? We ought to think of the places Saruman would want to have his.”

Pippin’s face relaxed. “The Thain’s Run is the longest tunnel of all and goes a mile beyond any of the others,” said Pippin. “It has many forks and dead ends to avoid chase. And it opens out very near the river.”

“For purposes of supply and escape, no doubt,” said Strider thoughtfully. “Excellent, Pippin! We shall use the Thain’s Run as a model of what we shall seek here.”

“A wild goose chase, it seems to me,” muttered Sam

“Perhaps,” said Strider. “But until the day when the trees can talk, we must search out this path on our own.

VVVVV

Grimbold waited for Broga to disappear down the Greenway before moving a muscle. To find the mysterious weapon he must find the one who carried It, and his former subordinate presented a complication. He had not come this far to fail.

Grimbold worked his way northward, just off the road, back the way he had come. The black riders had shown him that the one who now carried It was very near. He now suspected his group had been followed to Isengard by the weapon-bearer at a distance. And it was this distance that Grimbold now hoped to close. If his instincts were correct, the one he sought would have traveled off the road, perhaps on the game trails that followed the River Isen.

He rode until late afternoon, dismounting as he neared the river so as not to miss any sign. It was nearly dusk when he saw the clue he had been looking for. There in the moist earth between the trees were three sets of footprints that should not have been there. Not orcs, he mused, a smile spreading across his weary face. One set was that of a large man wearing boots. The other two were unshod, the size of children. But there were no children in these lands.

Halflings.

It made perfect sense now. Who was more likely to steal the weapon from a halfling than another halfling? The ancient rhyme would still hold true. And clearly the halfling had help, a man’s help.

Grimbold stopped to think, long and hard. Whoever this man was, he could not guess, but he did not think it wise to underestimate him. They had, after all, got this far under his guidance. Grimbold tied his horse so that he might follow without drawing attention to himself. Then quickly, but more cautiously than before, he followed in the footsteps of the strange trio toward the rush of the river.

Suddenly, he heard a sound, barely perceptible over the churning of the Isen. Voices. He stopped and held his breath. They were clear, high voices, but not childlike in the least. He edged forward and very carefully drew his sword. Then, through the trees, he heard a faint whizzing sigh. An explosion of pain ripped through him and he realized an arrow had plunged deep into his shoulder.

He cried out in agony and stumbled to the ground. Through a haze of pain he heard a familiar voice.

“The wizard told me to kill you.”

“Broga,” said Grimbold. A painful turn of his head confirmed the matter.

“You’re slippin’ boss,” the other man said, stepping into his line of sight. “Sloppy thing tying your horse where all can see it.” He grinned down at his former employer, writhing in pain. “But I’ll not hold that against you. What I'd like to know is what you and the wizard are so hot to get. Hand it over…and I might let you live.”

Grimbold was thinking as fast as the pain would allow him. “You would betray the wizard,” he asked between stifled breaths.

“You did,” said Broga, bluntly.

Perhaps his erstwhile henchman was not as dumb as Grimbold had thought, but even the stupidest man could show occasional brilliance when it came to his own self-interest. Grimbold cursed himself silently, feeling the arrow within his shoulder as he shifted. Or the most brilliant man could show occasional stupidity.

Grimbold chose his words carefully. “It's a weapon,” he gasped painfully. “And it's close. At least it is still within your reach.”

Broga gave a terrible chuckle. “Now don’t you worry none. I'll be back to reminisce some, soon as I got it. Now, don't you move!”

Without warning, Broga reached down and took the shaft of the arrow and twisted it in the wound. The agony was instantaneous and intense. Darkness swallowed his senses before he could even scream.

* * *

The privacy of this cell was an illusion and Frodo knew it. The size of an average hobbit smial, it was large enough to be comfortable, but too small to retreat from each other completely. Other than a few stools, and a straw mat in the corner, the cell was unfurnished, damp and cold. The only light came from a small slit of a window twenty feet above.

Blindfolded, the hobbits had been brought to this dismal place by different paths. Frodo had arrived first and was unceremoniously pushed into the room while a heavy door shut behind him. He clawed off the blindfold, but the darkness of the prison brought him no comfort. Shortly afterwards, the door opened and Merry was shoved through, falling upon his knees with a groan.

Frodo leaned against the wall and watched, making no effort to help him up. Merry rolled upon his back, groaned again, then clawed off his blindfold. As his eyes adjusted, he spotted Frodo. He inhaled sharply.

“I'm not going to strike you,” said Frodo disgustedly. “I don’t want to touch you.”

Merry reached for a nearby stool and pulled himself to his knees on it. He coughed and quickly wrapped his arms around his ribs. Frodo made no movement to help him. He slowly pulled himself up and sagged into its hard surface.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment. “Frodo,” he looked up at his cousin. “You must understand…”

“Are you asking for forgiveness, cousin?” asked Frodo. “By the Valar, have you any notion of what you have done?”

He lowered his eyes, as if no longer able to meet Frodo’s vengeful gaze.

“I have committed the worst crime imaginable against you…”

“Crime against me?” spat Frodo. “You ruined me. You beat me and branded me, debased me like an animal, tied me naked and left me in the dark, bereft of all things that mattered to me - my freedom, my honor, my sanity!”

Merry looked up again, his glance steadier. “I know,” he whispered softly.

“I doubt very much that you do, Merry. You underestimate the heinousness of your crime,” said Frodo, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You underestimate your guilt. By leagues upon leagues.”

Frodo took a step forward and Merry gripped the edges of the stool as if to keep from falling.

“You acted not just against me but against all of Middle Earth!”

“I deserve your scorn,” said Merry miserably. “I deserve death. I deserve to be slain and cast into a pit and forgotten.”

“No,” said Frodo icily. “You should never be forgotten, cousin. Nor should your deeds. For when Evil comes to claim his due, the races of middle Earth should not wonder who it was that brought them low. Then should your name be echoed about from Bree to Buckland. Is that not fame, cousin? Is that not what you wanted all along?”

“Frodo!” cried Merry, his whole body trembling. “I never dreamed that it should come to this.”

“What did you dream then?” snapped Frodo viciously. “When your hand was upon the scourge, and we were left tied in bleeding and maimed, what did you dream? All my dreams have been nightmares and waking is none the better. So to tell me, as you slept in your warm bed, what future did you dream after breaking all the ones you once loved?”

Merry only sobbed, his fingers covered his face to hide his shame. Frodo’s stomach churned with disgust. To seek revenge had been his basest instinct, but it was no sweet reward. It had the stale reek of fear and, he realized with bitter irony, it too served the ring. He knelt down his face inches from Merry’s.

“Do not imagine for a moment that we speak in private,” he said in a low voice. “But perhaps they cannot hear a whisper. You look at me now and tell me what drove you to such lengths. You owe me. I shall not forgive you, but I need to know our enemy if I am to have any hope. Now speak.”

Merry lowered his hands and opened his eyes. They were vacant and bloodshot, like a lamb to be butchered accepting its fate.

“The…’locket’,” began Merry. “It changed me. It changed you.”

“It can only act upon that which already lies within,” said Frodo. “Gandalf understood that and you did not.”

“No, I did not,” sobbed Merry bitterly. “All the waters in the Brandywine could not cleanse me of my misdeeds. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It bends and twists one’s will to its purpose. I had ambition and I wanted to protect you and…and it latched on to that, I think, latched on and would not let go. It finds the one thing inside…that you…want.”

“You think it did not tempt me?!”

“Then you understand!”

“I understand folly. You thought you could hold what the Wise dared not? I never dreamed that one of my own could be so despicable, so foolish and so completely beyond redemption.”

Merry sighed. “Perhaps that is why the Wise chose you, Frodo. I did not truly see why then, but I do now, lords, I do! He took a deep breath. “I see the truth now and …if it pleases you, you can hit me again. But consider, cousin, even you, the very best of all hobbits, could not have resisted it forever.”

“I did not intend to,” said Frodo. “If you had not made me captive, I would have been free of it in Rivendell.”

“Would you?” Merry asked. “Did It never sing to you as you slept? Had It never invaded your dreams and your soul? Could you have given it to another?”

“Bilbo did. And I was not given the opportunity to try.” Frodo whispers had become angry. He glared back at Merry. “It was stolen away from me!”

Frodo’s eyes widened as a sharp twist of desire thrummed in his belly. Stolen. This was the hunger that had troubled him these long weeks even though he had not known what he hungered for. For all his return to sanity, he was not yet free. He still wanted it. Merry had not taken the thing, he remembered now. It was Sam who had snatched the Ring. Slipped it from his neck while his sanity was gone, but a part of his mind had still watched, still fought to take it back. Dear, sweet, gentle, loyal Sam. He had taken the precious.

“It will destroy him.”

“Who?”

“Sam,” whispered Frodo in a scarcely audible voice.

Merry sighed. “I believe he took it to save you.”

“I am tired of being saved!” cried Frodo, momentarily undone.

“You still want It, don’t you?”

“I've no choice but to want it!” answered Frodo angrily. “It still exists and so I must find It and to finish my task. But where is It? And where is he? And have I any hope we should be reunited?”

“Do you mean with your companion, or with…It?” asked Merry, an edge creeping into his voice.

Both,” he snarled, then thought, “and I hate myself for it.

Merry swallowed. “Then we have a terrible bond between us,” said Merry. “Despite all the disgust I have for myself, and despite all of my guilt and the horror at what I've done,” Merry glared at Frodo and his voice was steady, “I crave It still. I need just as you do.”

Frodo looked down at his cousin. It seemed strange that he had once loved this hobbit dearly, for all he could feel now was hatred and revulsion. “You are not like me.” Frodo’s whisper sliced the cold air. “Nothing, not even my ‘locket’, could have lured me into committing such unspeakable acts.”

Merry drew in a breath as if he had been punched. He met Frodo’s cold eyes and seemed to sink into the stool. Frodo turned away, not even willing to give the mercy of meeting his cousin’s gaze and Merry began to weep, silently, pitifully, his face buried in his hands and his shoulders shaking.

But Frodo felt no pity for this wretched hobbit. Something deep inside told him that he should, or that in another world, he would have, but whatever feeling he had once had for this hobbit had been utterly destroyed. He wondered if this hardness of spirit had always been part of him or if this too was a darkness grafted upon him through the power of the insidious thing.

Hatred, dark and bitter rose in his throat. He did not know he had the capacity for such hatred in him, but there it was. He had lost all love for Merry, but he hated him too, and wished him ill. A part of him understood the temptation the wretched creature before him had faced; Meriadoc Brandybuck had been given a test, and had failed. But was not the hatred Frodo felt towards his blood kin a product of Its influence? And was that not a failure too?

The thick door flew open and two rat-faced orcs surged through it. The first one laid hold of Merry, pushed him roughly to the floor and bound up his hands, then plucked him up by the hair.

“You come with me, now,” the orc announced.

Merry had terror in his eyes as he was dragged away. The other orc smiled with an unsavory grin, perhaps hoping to elicit some similar response from Frodo. But Frodo stood tall and stared into the creature’s eyes, grimly and without fear. It seemed to disarm the orc. He looked down as it threw a leather sack at Frodo's feet, “Master says I take you to bathe,” he growled. “You put these on, no squeaking, then meet him.”

Frodo looked down at the sack, then back at the orc. The creature made no move to bind him, instead, it backed out of the cell and waited outside the door. Frodo bent and opened the sack. Inside was a fine white shirt, silk breaches, and thick, green embroidered tunic - the garb of a princeling. He was confused, but he was also half naked and decidedly in need of a bath. He picked up the sack and followed the orc, not sparing another thought for his erstwhile cellmate.

VVVVV

Grimbold woke to the sensation of being shaken.

“Broga,” he moaned.

“No,” said the voice.

Grimbold felt a prick of cold steel on his neck as he looked up to see a ragged man with a stern aspect.

“Who are you,” the man said brusquely, “and whom do you serve. Speak true or I shall end your pain with swordcraft.”

Grimbold took a deep breath, trying to preserve his senses. This was no servant of Isengard. As long as there was a chance, he would play the game. Grimbold tried to bring his eyes into better focus while opting for a small part of the truth.

“I am called Grimbold,” he said.

“Who do you serve, Grimbold?”

Grimbold took a deep breath and decided to gamble. “I serve Boromir, son of Denathor…he is the Steward of Gondor.”

The sword pulled away from Grimbold’s throat. “Gondor,” whispered the man surprised. “Then, Grimbold of Gondor, tell me where the creature is that felled you. Was it an orc? Are there more about?”

Grimbold shook his head. “A man.” He lifted his left hand and pointed in the direction he had heard the voices, the direction that Broga had gone. “If you catch him, slay him,” said Grimbold. “He means to do harm.”

Grimbold leaned back into the leaves as the other man departed without a word, running toward the river with long, swift strides.

VVVVV

Strider had bid them to hide well and keep silent as he hurried toward the sound of the cry. Pippin and Sam had scurried into the trees to wait until Strider returned. They had gone separately, Pippin to the left, Sam to the right.

Minutes passed without further sound from their quarry. Pippin listened intently, but could hear nothing and he was just beginning to feel a queasy fear in his stomach when a sound did approach; the heavy tread of a ranger moving without the need for stealth. With a sigh of relief, he skidded down an embankment back to the river’s edge. The tall man’s dark form stood by the remains of their small fire.

“Strider, what was it?” he asked.

The man turned and, much to Pippin’s horror, it was not Strider. He stopped dead as the man’s face opened with a wide, ugly smile.

“Well now!” he said. “What have we here? A poor little halfling lost in the wilds?” His words were friendly, but his eyes glinted with a strange light.

Pippin did not speak, unsure of whether to bolt, scream, or play along. Instinctively, he stepped back.

“Nothing to fear, little one,” the man said, advancing a matching step. “I’ve just come to talk, see. Maybe help out a bit.”

“We’ve no need of help. Stay back!” said Pippin. He bent and picked up a stone. “I mean it!”

The man chuckled, showing a row of crooked, yellow teeth. “There, there! No need to get yerself all riled. I’m just a fellow traveler, like yourself.”

Pippin backed up a few more steps and raised his rock. “Stay back, I said. I’m not alone, there are others here…there are men in our party.”

“I won’t hurt you none,” he said. “Look, I’m putting down my bow, so I en’t got nothing to hurt you.” He set the bow upon the ground as if to show his peaceful intentions.

Pippin did not lower his rock. Behind him in the trees he thought he heard the sound of running footsteps above the roaring waters. The man had not seemed to notice but Pippin prayed it was Strider and not another of the sort now in front of him.

The man stepped over his bow toward Pippin. “I just want a short word with you, halfling.” He made another cautious step forward. “I only want to know…”

Pippin watched in wonder as the invader suddenly gave a sharp gasp. His face went slack, he seemed to totter, then fell back onto the riverbank, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his chest.

He whipped around expecting to see Strider. But it was not Strider standing behind him, hands at his sides, eyes unruffled and calm. It was Sam.

At that moment, Strider broke through the trees, sword drawn. He took in the scene, then walked to Pippin’s side. Both of them said nothing as they stared in astonishment at Sam. The hobbit’s expression was as stern and as blank as Pippin had ever seen it.

Strider broke the stillness as he knelt by the fallen man and placed his fingers at the neck.

“Whoever this man was,” said Strider, “he’s dead.”

TBC