Chapter 38 - Trust

Sam fumbled with his blade, his shaking fingers finding no purchase on the weapon.

The cloaked figure had made no move to attack, but that was all the more suspicious regarding his sudden appearance.

"Keep back!" Merry cried, his success at drawing his sword having been more accomplished than Sam's had been. "Don't come any nearer."

The figure did not move, and it was only when Sam struggled to his feet, shrugging off the useless cloak that had failed to hide them, that the figure leaned forward, surveying Frodo's body over Sam's shoulder.

"Is your companion in need of healing?" the man asked (for it seemed from the voice that it was simply a man). The tone of voice was younger than Sam had expected, perhaps the age of Legolas had the Elf been a man, but the voice was less melodious, and possessed that strange quality Sam had heard in both Aragorn and Faramir at times. Something the coarse men at Bree had never shown.

Despite Sam's initial pleasant revelations about the stranger, he still had enough sense to question the man as to why he was wandering the forests of Amon Hen. "What's your business lurking about, then?" he spluttered with far less grace or appearance of intelligence than he had intended.

"Lurking?" the stranger repeated, and Sam imagined the man's brows rising in surprise beneath that dark hood. "I had expected to find a party of eight as welcome, not to have had the necessity to 'lurk' beneath the cover of trees to rescue three Halflings from an army of Orcs"

"Rescue?" Sam exclaimed, "Fat lot of good you were, hiding until the enemy were gone, twere the bird calls and the black rider that saved us."

"Those 'bird calls' were of my making, yet I expect no recompense for my services. I have been sent to aid you in your quest."

Sam resisted the urge to glace across at Merry. How did this man know of their mission?

Merry had the sense to look confused. "Quest? What do you mean?" But Sam could hear the restrained surprise and panic behind his tone.

"A quest that has brought you all the way from you comfort of your homes in the North. But tell me, where is the rest of your company? Two men, a Dwarf, an Elf, and one more of your kind, if I am not mistaken."

Sam was taken aback by the man's knowledge, and he took a moment to look him over more completely.

The man's cloak was a deep brown, not black as Sam had originally thought, and he carried nothing but a cloth bag and a tall staff. Sam immediately felt suspicion fill him. A man with a strange, compelling voice who carried a staff... Could this be some trick of Sauron or Saruman to persuade them into revealing the Ring?

"Show us your face," he demanded. "We would know who we're speaking to.."

Merry nodded his agreement.

"Certainly," the man said, lifting a hand to his hood.

Sam tried not to flinch at the sudden movement, his already strained senses jumping at every new revelation. He was surprised then by the plain appearance of the man. Yet what had he been expecting? A half man, half orc creature would have been less of a shock to him then than the ordinary man who now stood before them. His thin face and prominently sharp chin and nose, despite reminding Sam of an eagle, struck him as nothing unusual, and his brown eyes were simply that: brown. Sam considered for a moment as he met the expectant gaze of the stranger. Perhaps there was something to be weary of in this new meeting. If he had once told Faramir he resembled a wizard in the way he looked in to you and seemed to see what you were thinking, then this man was even more worthy of the description.

It was a long moment before Sam could tear his eyes away, and after he had done so he felt empty and confused.

"Well then," the man said at last. "Can you bear my appearance, or shall we stand on this bank staring at one another for what remains of the night?"

Merry jerked suddenly, as though woken from a dream. He glanced across at Sam before asking what was upon both their minds. "Why should we trust you?"

The man shrugged and said, "You have little choice, unless you fancy asking a wraith for his healing skills." There was little mirth in the statement, for Merry and Sam felt cold and confused with the thought of entrusting a stranger with Frodo, and the man himself seemed frustrated at the stubborn resistance of the two Hobbits.

He could have overpowered us by now, Sam thought. Perhaps this was an indication that he really meant them no harm.

"Come," the man said, holding out one arm in a gesture of peace and moving forward a step. "We will introduce ourselves and then perhaps you will allow me close enough to friend to tend his wounds. I have knowledge enough to guess two of your names... Frodo, Samwise.. and Peregrin perhaps..?"

Sam felt Merry stiffen beside him.

"I have come from a mutual friend. Gandalf the Grey has sent me to you. He would have come himself were it not for some pressing matters in the north."

"Gandalf!" Sam exclaimed before he could stop himself, his heart pounding with the mention of a name that inspired such images of steady direction.

"Yes, Gandalf, Mithrandir to some. I came in his place to do my duty as his kin. I am Radagast."

"How do we know you're not some spy of Saruman?" Merry asked, throwing a bucket of cold water over Sam's hopes. "The last time we saw him was when Saruman expulsed him from the cave beneath the mountain. Why, you could be Saruman himself, trying to snare us with fine words!"

The man laughed, surprising Sam and Merry. "You are suspicious creatures!" He shook his head in what seemed like despair. "Gandalf has told me many redeeming traits of your race - but this stubbornness, I have never seen the like of it before! I am beginning to wonder what I can say to convince you. That I have neither the power, nor the wish, to change my..." he ran a hand through his damp brown hair, "less than pleasing appearance, should show you that my aspirations do not reach that of Curuinir. But perhaps a message from my cousin would show you that I am indeed in earnest.. " Radagast hesitated slightly, seemingly unsure of who he should address. "He says to the Halfling Frodo to trust himself in this, and not to be swayed from his purpose. He also passes a warning to the youngest of the Hobbits, Peregrin, is it?" He turned to Merry.

"Merry," the Hobbit replied icily, his eyes flashing with hurt at the mention of his lost friend.

Radagast sighed at the anger he saw in Merry's gaze, and shifted his eyes to Sam for a moment, perhaps wondering which of the Hobbits would be easier to break through, Sam thought.

"Merry, then," he said turning back to the younger Hobbit. "Trust me but for little while, take my staff, hold a knife to my throat if it eases your mind, just give me the chance to prove my purpose in being here."

The sun had finally appeared behind the trees after a bitter struggle. It seemed to Faramir as though the forests would never see the light again.

Neither he nor Legolas had found much rest through the cold night. The damp ground beneath them had soaked into their clothes and chilled them to the skin. Despite the rain, the smell of blood choked him with its intensity and made his stomach turn with the thought of how much blood he had lost upon his cursed hill. More than this, however, was the uncertainly of what had become of their friends. Legolas' worry, breaking spasmodically through his usually stoic expression, was enough to convince Faramir that was something was seriously wrong.

The easy camaraderie of the night before had crumbled into a tense silence, and when the Elf spoke it was with an abrupt, cold tone that made Faramir feel even more at fault for their delay.

He trailed on the heels of the Elf now, feeling heavy in body and mind. They had not stopped in their search since day break, and still had made precious little in the way of progress.

Pressing a trembling hand over his aching shoulder he clenched his jaw against a wave of nausea. He had discovered it was advisable to relax during the frequent battering to his senses, rather than fight the sensation. No real friend had he to aid him in this ordeal, no soldier or ranger who had sworn by oath to follow him, and he would not have Legolas think him weaker still for delaying their progress more than he had already.

Some part of his mind was sure that Frodo, Sam and Merry, perhaps Gimli also, were safely upon the eastern side of the river, and the other almost choked him with concern for Aragorn and Pippin's plight, and whether his own injury would hinder them in providing the aid Legolas thought the others so urgently needed.

They had traipsed to the shore, and attempted to pick up a trail, but the rain of the day before had swept away the topsoil, and with it any hope of discovering tracks.

Legolas had then suggested that they climb to the summit of Amon Hen, and from there decide their next manoeuvre.

So now they struggled upwards, Faramir ever hindmost, knowing little awaited them at the top of the slope but another painful tramp down the other side.

He took a moment to catch his breath, leaning heavily against a tree before raising his eyes to the slope above. There was no sign of Legolas, and felt his heart quicken at the realisation that the Elf was so focused upon his task he might not even have noticed he had left the man behind. But he felt disorientated and weak, like a man who had spent weeks in a sick bed and was trying to learn to walk again.

He knew he should warn the Elf he was lagging behind once more, though found it somewhat difficult to suppress his nagging pride enough to do so. The previous hostility between them was not forgotten, and though he recognised it as a childish, nonsensical reaction, his pride railed against being pitied by the Elf.

"Legolas," he called at last, and receiving no answer but the soft whispering of branches, pushed himself unsteadily onto his own feet and struggled upwards once more.

His feet slip in the soft mud, and a strange worry seeped into his thoughts.. why had Legolas, with hearing ten times that of his own, failed to answer his call? He called out to the Elf twice more, then, almost stumbling, broke out of the trees and topped the rise.

Standing grey and proud against the dawn, the tower of Amon Hen loomed over the clearing.

His eyes darted quickly around the space as he struggled to catch his breath. It was not until he peered into the shadow of the stone monument that he caught sight of the Elf. He was kneeling, head bent over to gaze at something which he held clasped in his hands.

Faramir approached slowly, feeling the strange dread grow within him at the rigid posture and clenched jaw of the Elf. Legolas did not look up at his approach, and peering over the archer's shoulder Faramir could not restrain a gasp of surprise as he saw Andúril, a dull sheen of abandoned metal against the bloodied grass.

"He is wounded badly, Aragorn; he fades even as we speak." Gimli met the eyes of his friend with heavy doubt, "Is there nothing we can do?"

Aragorn pressed a bloodied hand over the pale cheek of the Hobbit and sighed, saying, "I do not know, Gimli. Truly I cannot think what has befallen him."

"The Orcs, they forced him to drink that foul brew... perhaps..."

"Nay," Aragorn shook his head, wincing at the recollection of the Orc draft. "Hobbits are more like to men than Elves. No concoction could cause such in an able body."

Gimli heard pain in the other's voice, and studied his features closely. "You also seem pale."

Aragorn's mouth twisted into a thin lipped smile, and Gimli noted the blood clinging there, a painful reminder of stifled cries as the Orcs had questioned him. Gimli felt guilt rise within him at the fresh reminder and could only be thankful the young Hobbit had not been forced to endure the torture of being able to do nothing as a friend was in pain.

"Aragorn," he said after a moment, not wishing to put the other through more than he had already endured, but knowing that if he could just force a recollection they might be able to discover what had caused Pippin's sudden ailment. "What happened upon Amon Hen?"

Dark eyes stared back at him, and the Dwarf was almost frightened by the intensity he saw there. He was holding his breath, and knew that if anything he was frightened that one of their number had fallen upon that hill and that he had been able to do nothing to prevent it. He knew he had managed to protect Frodo, Merry and Sam, if but for a short while, but it was that blasted Elf who plagued his thoughts. In his mind horrible images played and replayed, tormenting him with the possibility that those events might have come to pass.

"You recall the night upon the Anduin, when one of the Nine flew across the river." Aragorn's voice startled him out of his thoughts.

"Aye," he nodded, "it was felled by the Elf's arrow and landed in the trees on the western bank."

Pain filled eyes locked upon his.

Gimli's breath caught in his throat. "You don't mean...?" The enormity of the suggestion rendered him speechless for a few moments, and the fears that had been taunting his mind intensified a hundred fold.

"There was an arrow," Aragorn said, "a bloodied arrow. I have considered that it was most likely a blind, to false trick to turn my mind, yet somehow..."

Gimli could see it in the other's face, Aragorn had felt it too! Some strange dread over what they had left in the darkness of that cursed hillside... alone, bleeding... He shuddered, the gloomy atmosphere of this place was getting to him. More likely than anything, Legolas and Faramir were tracking them even now, or perhaps regrouping with the Hobbits.

Gimli looked up, realising he would never be satisfied until he grasped each of his friends by the arm once more and knew they were well. A strange gleam had come to Aragorn's eyes, and Gimli saw the seed of an idea forming in the other's mind.

"What is it?" he asked after many moment of daring not to hope. He reached out with his bound hands and grasped the other's wrist. "Tell me."

"The black breath," the ranger said it so quietly Gimli barely heard. "I am a fool not to have seen it sooner! Help me Gimli, here..."

Aragorn shifted his body to the side, wincing as the torn skin of his back protested against the moment. "Lift up my cloak, quickly! Now see... in that small pocket."

Gimli found the task difficult with the harsh Orc rope biting into his flesh, but somehow he managed to slide the small pouch from Aragorn's cloak.

Aragorn tore at the package, and Gimli recognised his haste. They had rested long, and from the noises of the Orcs they did not have much time before they would be moving once more. Could Pippin live through another day of endless marching?

The leaves Aragorn crushed between his fingers seemed as normal weeds to Gimli, though he remembered their sweet smell that had been so much aid in healing them after they had escaped the mines of Moria. The same curative aroma reached him now as the Ranger breathed upon the leaves, he even fancied that some colour rose to the Hobbit's cheeks.