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Shadows of a Nameless Fear  by Budgielover

I’m sorry, Bilbo, Frodo thought fuzzily. I didn’t mean to fall out of the roof tree. Don’t worry; I’m all right, truly. But the warmth of a gentle hand on his brow was only the corner of his cloak, and Bilbo’s anxious, loving voice faded into another, a harsh shouting voice, full of anger. And he wasn’t all right. A searing pain was filling him, flowing into every corner and crevice, right to his fingertips and toes. Something was broken inside of him. He coughed and tasted blood.

“Is he dead?” quavered Brin’s voice from the room above. “They won’t pay us for a corpse, Dharnor. And they might take offence and decide to kill us instead.”

The big man snatched the lantern away from him, grunting as the movement jarred the hand still clasped against his breast. “Bloody halfling!” he repeated. “We aren’t being paid near enough for this!” He waved the lantern over the pit, trying to see more than dim shapes below him. The faint light of the lantern slid over the huge stone which had smashed through the building, coming at last to rest against the back wall in the lower floor, half-submerged like some sleeping creature of the deep. Debris from the room above lay about it. Before it lay a small, crumpled form.

“He’s moving! I saw him move!” Brin knelt at the edge of the broken floor and peered cautiously into the room below, eyes straining into the darkness.

“He’s in some sort of cellar, I think.” Dharnor sank to his knees, the lantern swaying at the end of his outstretched arm. “How are we to get down to him?”

“Your rope,” Brin suggested, prudently inching back as several shards of loose stone crumbled from the sides and fell into the pit. They pattered around the still figure, indenting the hobbit’s cloak in places. Frodo did not respond.

“Lammor! Get my rope!”

The man picking his way through the rubble looked back. His sword glinted in the dim light as he lowered it carelessly. “Where is it?”

“I dropped it between the blocks somewhere. Just use your eyes!”

“It won’t be long enough,” Brin observed. “He’s a good ten feet down. Maybe if you climbed up on that big rock … no. Lammor and I won’t be able to pull both of you up by ourselves. “

“I don’t see no rope,” Lammor called over his shoulder, squinting out into the alley.

Dharnor raised his head and looked at the man’s back, disgust on his face. “Go outside,” he gritted out. “Then look at the ground between the stones.” Inaudible to the smaller man but perfectly clear to hobbit ears, the leader muttered, “Idiot.”

Not the sharpest saw in the tool shed, Pippin thought, listening to the exchange. From where he crouched just to the side of the opening, he could see the rope dangling over a marble block several feet to the right. It would not be visible to the man from inside the room.

Lammor started forward and Pippin heard a resounding crash. Something splintered, as if a heavy body had fallen on a chair or some such. There were assorted thrashing noises followed by a groan.

“Lammor! Watch where you’re going!” Dharnor shouted.

“You got the lamp,” the man groused, evidently getting up and patting down his clothes. There was a faint clinking sound as he picked up his sword. “All right, all right, I’ll find it.”

Pippin had only seconds in which to act. He drew a deep breath and kicked himself into movement.

“We’ll get another rope,” Dharnor continued, addressing Brin’s concern. “There must be one someplace in these houses. And tie them to a…” he looked around the little room. “Tie them to a bed stand, or something. Do I have to do all the thinking ‘round here?”

“He’s lying awful still,” Brin replied, ignoring the last sentence.

Frodo was dimly aware of the voices above him. They seemed far removed, while the pain was increasingly present. Something was pressing into him, something hard and sharp. Something inside, he thought. Ribs at the best, something …else … at the worst. Aragorn isn’t going to be very happy with me. Frodo was vague on exactly what was inside, but he felt certain nothing there should be punctured or broken. He felt the urge to chuckle and repressed it, recognising it as a sign of delirium. The taste of blood was stronger in his mouth.

* * *

Quick as thought, Pippin whisked behind one of the blocks and crawled to the end as Lammor climbed out of the hole. The man froze with one leg over the wall, a puzzled expression on his face. Pippin feared he had not been swift enough – had the Man glimpsed the movement?

It seemed he had. That fear was confirmed as the man stared intently at the block behind which Pippin was hiding. Sword raised, he started for it. 

“Meow,” said Pippin desperately. “Mew. Mew” The man slowed, his expression irritated. Stooping, he picked up a stone and sent it winging hard over the block.

The stone bounced inches from Pippin’s face, sending a puff of dust into his eyes. “Hissss!” he said. “Ffft! Ffft!”

The man smiled with satisfaction, and any lingering regret Pippin had for what he was planning vanished. In his book, anyone who would throw a rock at an innocent stray deserved what he was about to get.

“Nothing but a cat,” Lammor called over his shoulder, receiving an inarticulate bark of acknowledgement from the men inside. With a sigh, he dropped his gaze to the rubble-strewn ground, searching till he saw the end of the rope curving around one of the damaged blocks. Lammor blinked. For a moment, he thought he had seen a flutter of movement near the rope. He looked about suspiciously, but the broken blocks and rubble littering the alley were too small to hide a man.

Pippin tightened his hold on the chunk of stone between his hands and waited as his intended target drew near. Lammor bent to retrieve the rope. Wham!

The men looked up at an odd sound outside.  “Fool probably fell over his own feet,” Dharnor growled. “Lammor! Where’s that rope?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned his attention back to Frodo. “Hoy, halfling! Can you sit up?”

Muscles straining, Pippin dragged the unconscious man behind a fallen column. The sound of a body sliding over the cobblestones sounded to him immeasurably loud but the men inside seemed deaf. Lammor’s knees and feet stuck out beyond the pillar and the tweenager felt a moment of panic. Turning the man on his side, Pippin grabbed his legs and pushed them up to his body. Plucking the rope from the lax fingers, he dragged the man’s wrists together and wound the rope tight between them. He checked the man’s breathing as he pulled the knot, allowing himself a little glow of pride at a job well done.

“Lammor! What’s taking so long?”

Pippin’s ears warned him of the approach of one of the Men, and he threw himself down by Lammor’s side just in time. Brin came to the gap in the wall and stared out.

"Dharnor! He’s not here!”

That was sufficient to draw the other to the opening. Pippin pressed himself flat, wishing he dared peek over the column. Vision blocked, he would have to depend on his ears. “He’s run off,” he heard the second man say with certainty. “He’s gone to sell us to the King.”

‘It will take some time to reach the King,” Brin said. “If we hurry—”

“Go tell them we’ve got the Ring-bearer,” Dharnor interrupted. “Bring them back here—they can get him out of that hole. It will be dark soon. No one will see you. “

“They said he had to be whole,” Brin replied fearfully. “If he’s hurt down there—”

The big man fumed. “Just bring them. We’ll tell them he’s all theirs, as soon as we have the money. We’ll be gone before they find out he’s injured.”

Brin struggled over the wall and Pippin heard him break into a lope in the opposite direction. He listened to the other man’s harsh breathing for a moment, then it faded as the man went back into the room. Pippin sagged against the ground for a moment, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he was holding. He could hear the stamping of the man’s boots as he searched the house. There was a crash, followed by a thump, as if a chest or something had been forced open. Pippin did not care why the man had left the room, for rope or looting or other reason; he cared only that, for a moment, Frodo was unguarded.

* * *

This wouldn’t do at all. He must get up. He must keep going. He was so close to the mountain now. Just a day or two and it would all be over… Frodo shuddered. No, it was over. It was done. The Ring was destroyed. He felt lost and confused, and his body hurt as if he were being consumed by the rivers of lava that still haunted his dreams.

Warm arms surrounded him, and the familiar scent of cinnamon and autumn leaves filled his nose. “Wha…?”

“Cellars have cellar doors, Frodo dear,” Pippin whispered. He hugged his cousin, his heart hammering. But his words in no way betrayed his terror. “I had a bad moment finding the house – it’s hard to guess which one it is from the alley in back – but the doors weren’t locked and here I am. Let’s get you out of this place.”

Pippin slid his arms around Frodo and started to lift. Frodo stiffened in his arms and his hand clamped on Pippin’s arm. “No! No – Pip, get out of here. Get away!”

“Not without you,” Pippin retorted. “Come on, Cousin. Those Men will be back any moment.”  He tightened his hold again, clamping down on his fear as Frodo’s head lolled against his chest.

“No,” whispered Frodo weakly. “You … you listen to me, young hobbit—”

“Not this time, Frodo,” Pippin told him. He pressed a kiss to his cousin’s temple, sniffling as the fine dark hair tickled his nose. Frodo, dear Frodo, don’t be hurt, don’t don’t. Pippin felt an overwhelming desire to weep, but he did not. “Lean on me, my creaky old cousin,” he whispered in cheery tones. “Up you get—” Frodo made a sound that froze the blood in Pippin’s veins.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

“Fell … badly,” Frodo mumbled. “I think something … is broken inside. Pippin, those Men–”

“Shush,” Pippin murmured. “They won’t catch us.” He looked frantically above them; the faint light of the lantern had not returned and he could hear the floor creak in what must be another room. “Are you bleeding?”

“I don’t know,” Frodo whispered back. “My shoulder is numb and my side … burns. I can’t … it is difficult to breathe.”

“Here, lean against me. Let me see if I can feel what’s wrong.” Unlatching Frodo’s cloak, Pippin pried his jacket back and off, wincing in sympathy as Frodo gasped at the movement. Pippin held him for a moment, feeling his heart beat against him as hard as his own.

Frodo tensed as Pippin unbuttoned his waistcoat and slid his hands under his shirt. He was silent but Pippin could feel cold sweat on his skin and he was almost panting; short, aborted breaths racking his slender frame. His breathing escalated abruptly when Pippin pushed gently under his arm and a small moan escaped him.

“Sorry, sorry,” Pippin whispered. “I don’t feel any bleeding. But Frodo, that rib moved. At least one is broken.” Frodo nodded wearily. Pippin glanced towards the cellar doors, seeing how much less light there was than but minutes ago. He had to get Frodo out of here.

“Let me put your arm over my shoulder – I’m sorry! Up now … easy. Lean on me. That’s right. Right foot forward. Now the left. Good. Up the stairs, out the door, and we’re free.” Spouting a steady stream of encouragement, Pippin half-carried, half-walked Frodo towards the doors.

Frodo managed several steps, but suddenly he gasped and doubled over and Pippin almost dropped him. Both arms wrapped across his chest, Frodo bowed over in a crouch, breathing harshly. He coughed, a wet, bubbling sound.

“Frodo? Are you all–” Pippin anxiously stroked his cousin’s face and his hand came away warm and wet.  He did not need the light from the failing sun outside to know it was blood.

Frodo coughed again, spitting out a mouthful of blood. More welled from his nose, dripping down his chin, staining his white shirt.  He groaned, swaying, and sagged to one knee. “Pippin, I … I can’t. Go, lad! Go!

“No! Frodo, stay awake! Please!” Pippin clamped tight to Frodo’s arm as if he could keep his cousin moving by sheer will. Frodo groaned and sagged against him. Pippin, refusing to relinquish his grip, was pulled down with him as Frodo collapsed to the floor. He coughed deeply, spraying Pippin with blood. Then his body went utterly limp.

Pippin lay him down carefully, straightening his limbs and tucking his cloak over him to keep him warm. He found he was gasping, more out of fear for Frodo than from his quick, desperate dash into the cellar. Pippin writhed in indecision; he did not want to leave his cousin but knew even with the size and strength gifted him by the Ent-draughts, he could not carry Frodo to safety unaided.

“I’m going to get help,” he murmured to the unconscious form, smoothing back the hair from Frodo’s brow. In the red light of the sinking sun, Frodo’s fine-boned features looked ruddy with a health and strength Pippin knew he no longer possessed. “I’ll be right back, Frodo. I promise.” He whirled and ran up the stairs.

A muffled hail came to his ears. Pippin stumbled on the top step, one hand reaching out to push the door open. Footsteps sounded in the room above, then Pippin heard, “Take them ‘round front. There’s doors leading down to the cellar. We can get into it that way.”

Pippin skittered back to Frodo and knelt at his cousin’s head, sliding his hands under Frodo’s shoulders. No! That might hurt him worse! Pippin dared not aggravate the injury but he could not let them be found so easily. Knotting his hands in Frodo’s shirt and waistcoat, he dragged Frodo around the enormous stone then behind it.

Pippin had seen the Enemy’s catapults flinging whole parts of ruined Osgiliath and such stones as this with his own eyes. This one had torn a path of destruction through the City until landing here, sunk in the floor, partly imbedded into the back wall. There should be space where the boulder curves away from the wall, Pippin thought. It was almost too dark to see but he groped forward and his seeking hands encountered no resistance.

There was a space, a small, narrow opening between rock and wall. Pippin pushed Frodo into it then crowded in after him. He could not stand upright. And if he could not, then the Men would have to come at him practically on their knees, and only one at a time.

“This way, sirs,” came a Man’s nervous voice. Pippin heard the tread of boots—many boots. He drew his sword. “It’s one of these houses – this one!”

There was a low growl of a question.

“No, no. This section of the City is deserted. No one saw.”

The cellar doors were flung back. Pippin could not bear it; against his better judgment, he crept forward until he could see. The last rays of the sun shone behind three squat, black forms in the doorway, behind them the taller forms of Dharnor and Brin. The foremost figure stepped into the cellar. It stilled, raising its head, and Pippin heard it sniff. “Blood,” it said in a deep, gravely voice that raised the hair on the back of Pippin’s neck.

“We didn’t do it,” Dharnor said. Pippin could hear the fear in his voice. “He fell into the cellar trying to get away from us.”

“Is it badly hurt?” Pippin spared a moment’s resentment at the lack of pronoun.

“I don’t know. He was moving a while ago.”

The figure started down the stairs, Dharnor and Brin behind it, followed by the other two. Pippin shrank against the great stone, terrified without knowing why. “Ring-bearer,” it growled.

Pippin looked about frantically, but there was no place to go. And he would not leave Frodo. The figure took another step down the stairs.

“What?” Pippin squeaked.

“He’s all right.” Dharnor’s voice was nervous and he did not seem to want to stand near to the squat figure. “As promised.” The foremost stranger stopped on the stair and turned back to him, and Pippin thought there was something wrong with the stranger’s profile.

“We’ll take our payment now,” Dharnor said. Brin nodded.

“Shunt,” said the figure. “Pay the men.”

The other two had fallen back. At the first one’s command, they each drew a sword and ran the two men through. Dharnor and Brin did not even have time to scream.

Pippin trembled, sickened. All the horrors he had seen and experienced had not prepared him for cold-blooded murder. The killers pushed the men’s bodies off their swords and they fell, rolling down the stairs to land in a bleeding heap on the cellar floor.

“Come here, Ring-bearer.”

No no no, thought Pippin. You can’t have him. Tugging off his sword belt, Pippin darted silently back to his cousin and laid his sword at Frodo’s side, closing his hand on the hilt. Then he dragged off his surcoat and rolled it up, slipping it gently under Frodo’s head. Groping frantically about in the dark , his hand closed on the warm velvet of Frodo’s jacket. He snatched it up and struggled into it.

“Come here or we’ll come get you, Ring-bearer. You won’t like that.”

His white undertunic looked enough like a shirt, Pippin decided. The jacket did not close and he wretched at it, ignoring the soft rippp! as the seams split. Buttoning it swiftly, Pippin swung on his cloak and stepped forward.

He swallowed hard. “Here I am.”

* TBC *





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