Chapter 34 - Promises in blood

Frodo flinched as the firm grasp on his shoulder pulled him to the side, rolling him onto his back. His eyes were squeezed shut painfully tightly in fear, and although his mind screamed at him to move, to place the ring on his finger, to strike out, he could not. As his body was shifted by his attacker, cold rain splashed onto his upturned face and he gasped in shock at the sensation.

Then came an exclamation that was not his own. His eyes flew open.

"By the Valar, Frodo, I thought you dead!" Faramir's strong hands gripped both his shoulders, and Frodo felt them tremble in relief. Frodo let his head sink back onto the wet ground, relaxing now he knew it was a friend who had discovered him. He felt himself shaking, so sure had he been of his own death.

He could feel Faramir's eyes searching him frantically for injuries, yet somehow he could not speak to assure him there was none.

In a moment Faramir discovered this for himself, "Speak, Frodo, what has happened?"

Hearing the imploring tone in the words Frodo swallowed, calming himself enough to say, "I am well... but..." He closed his eyes, recalling the repulsive scent and sight of the black creatures coming towards them.

He shivered, as though with cold. But Faramir's body leaning over him was sheltering him from the chilling rain, and he knew his reaction to be one of fear and panic.

He felt himself pulled upwards into a strong embrace, and only then, with such strength in the arms supporting him, could he speak of his fear. "Orcs," he whispered into Faramir's damp shoulder, "They come from the west side of the hill... even now it may be too late to escape... They will find the ring."

Keen grey eyes searched his own, seeing the fear and doubt that lay within. "Nay, your warning has come in time, we will tell the others."

Frodo was pulled to his feet, and immediately his sore ankle collapsed under the pressure. He stifled a cry, fearing any noise would bring the Orcs over the hill towards them. Faramir caught his arm, preventing the fall, and Frodo leaned on his for a moment, cursing himself for his weakness.

A sudden rush of thoughts filled his mind. The river was far from here, and he too weak and slow to reach it before the Orcs came upon them. Faramir could not carry him, that would be too slow.

There was only one solution, then. His blood ran cold at the thought, but the throbbing of his injured limb restored his resolution, and he brought forth the ring upon his palm.

There was a dreadful silence as they both stared at the beautiful object. The rain fell hard upon them both, and Frodo could feel its chill soaking through to his skin. The ring seemed warm upon his palm, as though the blustering rain could not touch it. It was hard to see through its beauty to the malice that lay within.

At last Frodo tore his gaze away, pushing his hand towards Faramir.

"Take it!" he said, "take it to Sam."

Again, silence. Faramir had dropped to his knees before him, and when Frodo saw the dark look that had crept into his eyes he almost pulled his hand away, forgetting his resolution of a moment before.

A million questions attacked his muddled senses. The ring was his, his! Only he could protect it, only he had the right to possess it. No one else could be trusted!

But even as his mind was buffeted by doubt, his hand did not waver, and he knew that he could not now have pulled away. He watched the other with fear and trepidation. Long he had trusted and admired this man, was the ring so evil that it could corrupt so noble a spirit with one glance?

It seemed to Frodo, even as Faramir stretched out his hand to take the ring, that there was a struggle raging within him. The hand he had stretched forth for the ring trembled, and drew back slightly, and then Frodo saw the man's eyes return to a gentle grey. With a shuddering sigh Faramir turned his eyes away.

His fingers, so close to Frodo's own, reached forward and closed the Hobbit's hand about the ring.

Frodo caught Faramir's mumbled words as he rose to his feet, turning his back on the object of temptation, "If Minas Tirith is lost ere I return to her, so be it. I have made my choice."

Frodo did not know how to feel. Relieved, because in the darkness the ring had brought to Faramir's countenance he had seen the foolishness of his decision, yet fearful, for he knew now that the quest was his alone to complete, and that there was only one road from here.

"They are coming," Faramir said suddenly, and Frodo glanced up at the tree line above. "Quickly, hide behind that fallen tree."

Faramir's hand on his shoulder pushed him aside to the place where a large tree had crashed down sideways. It was spotted in green moss that appeared the same shade as his elven cloak. If they crouched down behind it, with their cloaks about them, there was a chance they would not be seen.

He reached a up hand for Faramir to join him, but the man had stepped backwards and taken his bow in hand. "I will draw them away," he said in a tone that brooked no argument.

But his heart cried out in protest, "No!"

At Frodo's desperate plea the man turned back to him "I made a promise to protect you and that which you carry, you would not ask my to break faith in this for my own safety?"

Frodo knew well now of the honour and pride of men, and that promises were not made lightly. He sighed, "No, but my heart would."

"Then listen not to your heart, and think only of duty. We may yet meet again." And he turned and was gone into the trees and the rain.

"Farewell," Frodo murmured, feeling that deep sadness that always accompanied thoughts of his future.

But his mournful contemplation was cut short and there was no more time to consider, for the voices of the Orcs were heard above him. Shouts echoed past his dulled hearing as Frodo threw himself behind the bough of the fallen tree. They were triumphant shouts, and they grew more distant as the violent wind tore their voices in another direction. Frodo could imagine them sighting the figure of the lone ranger on the hillside, and turning aside to give pursuit.

Frodo curled in on himself, trembling in guilt and fear. It was not right that such noble friends had to risk their lives to save him.

And from his small cocoon of swirling emotion he heard shouts of dying Orcs, and saw in his mind the blood that would fall from arrow wounds. He hoped, though knew somewhere inside that he was being optimistic, that the Orcs would be few in number, and that Faramir could kill them quickly and return to him. But the sheer volume of the Orc shouts betrayed his hope.

And then later, perhaps minutes, perhaps hours, as to him time seemed an endless pool spinning in circles, there was silence. His own breathing was suddenly terribly loud, and every breath piled more fear to upon his already petrified heart. He would have preferred shouts of pain and suffering to this horrible, endless waiting.

And then there was laughter, and the sound brought tears to his eyes. He knew what the rasping sound meant, and grief and anger rose within him. He half thought to draw his sword and cut out their cruel throats, but the word sacrifice came to his mind, and he knew that if indeed the man had died to save him, he would make that sacrifice worthy.

And so came his chance, and he had to take it and bare the pain of his injury till he had reached the others. Using the slippery branch to help him stand, he did not look towards the Orcs, he did not want to see what they might do to the body, he turned back towards the river.

Suddenly he was blinded by a shape slamming into him. He was thrown backwards by the weight, and his head struck the trunk behind him, hard. Even through the pelting rain he could make out the figure of Gollum above him, and his breath froze as he felt clammy fingers groping at his throat.

"Keep off!" he cried, struggling to peel the fingers away with his right hand, but Gollum was strong, far stronger than he seemed. The rain slicked their hands and Frodo felt himself losing control.

At last the fingers forced through his grip and reached beneath his shirt. "We wantss it!" came the violent hiss, "give it to us!"

Then suddenly the hands stilled, and the light that flared within Gollum's pale eyes warned Frodo that he had little time to escape.

"Tricksy Hobbit!" Gollum cried, "Where is it, my preciouss, the nasty Baggins has stolen it!"

Frodo clenched his left fist ever tighter around the ring, and tried to shove Gollum's sickening weight from atop him. He would not loose this fight! He could not! The frog-like legs were curled about his own, pressing him down into the mud with incredible strength, and the fingers tearing violently at his were beginning to win in their quest.

Then Frodo realised his only way out. Gollum would chase him to the ends of the Earth to claim his 'precious,' he would follow him to Mordor itself. He did not know Aragorn's plans for the creature, but at this moment, squirming beneath the pale body, he could only see one solution.

Freeing his right hand from the tangle of limbs, he reached for his belt...

Holding his breath, he tried not to feel the blade pass through Gollum's chest, and the dreadful shudders that racked the slender form, tried not to hear the pitiful whine that pre- emanated death. But when the body became limp above him, and the head with its wretchedly pitiable eyes lolled upon his chest, staring sadly, desperately, he could no longer distance himself. The blood spreading from the wound soaked through his clothes, and it was too horribly real.

With sudden violence he shoved the body away from his own, and rolled to the side. His stomach heaved, and emptied itself to mingle with the blood and the muddy earth.

There was silence. But it was a cursed silence where the pale eyes, still open in death, stared sadly at him. At last he looked towards that pale body, he who had been the means of draining a living creature of its life and hope. It was so small and pathetic, curled in on itself and so very still. And Frodo felt a sob rise in his chest once more, but refrained from expressing his grief. In that body he saw himself, tormented beyond endurance by that which he carried, becoming only a shadow of despair.

Then he lay upon the ground, resting his cheek numbly on the cold earth, and his tears mingled with the rain until they became one.

"This is folly!" Gimli grunted for the third time, feeling frustration beyond belief heat his blood, despite the falling rain. "Something runs amiss with them, I know it!"

Legolas sighed, lifting another load of baggage to the boat, "I fear you speak the truth," he said, "but we can do nothing until Aragorn and Faramir return."

"I should never have left him," Sam chastised himself, "and at the worst possible time, too!"

Merry, who Gimli deemed as the least agitated of them all, said, "There is nothing to be done now, but wait. It is only Gollum that worries me."

Gimli felt his heart clench painfully, beneath his anger and frustration was a deep guilt that he had placed Frodo in danger. If only he had kept a sterner eye on that slithering creature! He glanced back over at the tree to which Gollum's rope was still attached, and watched angrily as it slid among the moving mud like a snake.

"There is no use in thinking of what might have been," Legolas said, as though reading his thoughts.

Gimli opened his mouth to speak a harsh retort to the Elf who always seemed to be able to see into his head, but the Elf was gone! Pushing the Hobbits silently out of sight Legolas already had an arrow to his bow. "Take your axe in hand, my friend," came the quiet words, "someone approaches."

Gimli was surprised, he had heard nothing! He felt a rush of gratitude to the Elf, how fortunate it was Legolas had remained with them! Then suddenly he realised what he was thinking and growled at the paradox that lately seemed to torment his mind when the Elf was near.

He knew enough of Aragorn to know little was done by chance, and it was by design that the Elf's senses had remained here to aid them. Moving his hand carefully to his axe hilt he felt its comforting weight. Whether enemy or friend he would be ready!

Whatever it was, it was taking no care to be silent, for even Gimli now could hear the pounding footsteps and the heavy breathing his Elven companion had before detected.

And then it crashed through the trees and out onto the bank.

"Mr Frodo!" Sam's cry was loud enough for them all, so surprised were they that the frantic sounds they had heard had emanated from Frodo. In his surprise, it took another moment for Gimli to notice Frodo's bedraggled appearance and paling features.

Legolas, with his sharp senses, saw almost at once and rushed to the Hobbit's side, catching him as he collapsed. Laying him gently on the ground the Elf removed his hands and gasped at the blood on his palms. Gimli was stunned, and his first thought was that Frodo had been stabbed.

Having come to the same conclusion Legolas quickly worked open Frodo's tunic with able fingers. Blood mingled with rain and mud, making the task of finding a wound difficult and confusing. Gimli stared confusedly at the amount of blood that seemed to have no source.

It was another tension-filled moment before Merry, who seemed to be level headed in a dire situation, discovered Sting clasped tightly in Frodo's hand and the puzzle of the blood was explained.

"But who has he attacked?" Pippin gasped, seeing perhaps for the first time, the amount of blood a dead body could expel.

"Who else could it be but that sneaker Gollum?" Sam asked incredulously, "that filthy creature must have tracked him down and tried to take the ring."

"The ring!" Gimli exclaimed, "Prey somebody search him for it! Perhaps Gollum was not killed, and is even now making off with his prize!" Gimli thought it strange that he felt no pang of mistrust as Legolas plied apart Frodo's fingers to reveal the golden circlet shining there, as innocent as ever. Perhaps, the Dwarf thought, this is proof that I have actually begun to trust that infuriating creature.

"Ai, it is well," Legolas exclaimed, "it seems we have won this battle."

Gimli recognised satisfaction mingled with relief in the Elf's voice, and realised that his companion was pleased by the fact that Gollum had been killed. Gimli frowned, this was a side to Legolas of which he had been surprised and worried. It did not seem in the Elf's nature to kill needlessly or hate without reason.

Pippin spoke up from behind them, "But where are Strider and Faramir?"

"I'm sure they'll be alright," Merry assured his friend as he knelt by Frodo and took the Hobbit's bloody hand in his, "They're probably just still looking for..."

Merry gasped as his Frodo's hand tightened around his, and Gimli bent forwards to hear Frodo's mumbled words. The Hobbit's face was tense in horror, and Gimli had never seen Frodo in such agitation, his heart began to fear that there was something far more sinister than the plotting of Gollum at work here.

Legolas slipped a hand beneath Frodo's shoulder for support, but Frodo did not seem to be fully aware of himself, and it was as though he was trapped in a painful dream. "Orcs..." he muttered, "orcs..."

Legolas glanced up at Gimli, eyes wide. Glancing back at Frodo Gimli saw the Hobbit's grip on his cousin's arm tighten.

"Where are Aragorn and Faramir?" Legolas probed gently, trying to disguise the urgency in his tone. Gimli held his breath, and tried to ignore the feeling that something terrible had happened. As a dwarf he did not believe in predicting the future.

Merry winced as his skin was bruised beneath the grip.

"Dead..." Frodo whispered and was still.

There was a shocked silence as everyone tried to accept the words. Gimli's first reaction was denial, "No," he growled, "no." His heart shouted that it could not be true, it could not! Surely they would have heard something, been able to do something! It could not end like this!

The stillness of the others was unnerving, and only the trembling of Legolas' hand betrayed the life that still ran through the other's limbs.

Then suddenly the Elf grabbed Frodo's shoulder, wringing a small moan from the unconscious Hobbit. "Frodo," he shook him slightly, "Frodo, where are they?"

Gimli reached forwards and placed a heavy hand on the Elf's shoulder, and to his horror felt it tremble. "He is gone, lad, we cannot wake him."

Legolas turned angry eyes up at the Dwarf, and Gimli saw perhaps more emotion there than he had ever betrayed. He felt his own face searched, and then the fire in the Elf's eyes diminished, and he sighed.

"Pippin!" Merry's voice was startlingly loud in the silence, and Gimli whipped his head around to see what had happened.

Merry's face was pale in "He has gone!"