Chapter Ten – Through a Doorway of Heat and Flame

Despite Sam’s strangled pleas for the men to slow down, the sedan chair bearers’ pace caught them up with the King’s company all too quickly. The soldiers at the rear stared at the spectacle of the puffing men trotting towards them, a hobbit clinging white-knuckled to a board supported by two short poles between them. The sedan chair bearers looked frightened and determined, and the hobbit looked petrified. The men parted their ranks, amused smiles on their faces. Sam pretended not to notice but what remained of the sedan chair creaked under his fingers.

Word outpaced them. The line of soldiers narrowed to where Aragorn stood waiting, arms folded across his chest as if to prevent himself from snatching Sam off the plank and throttling him. Sam looked around desperately but the men had closed behind him. Some of the soldiers were openly grinning; some were staring at the ground, the stars, their boots … anything other than the King’s furious face. The sedan chair bearers lowered Sam to the ground, bowed, and slipped out of the way of the King’s anger.

“Samwise –” Aragorn grit out.

“You said I weren’t to walk,” Sam interrupted him shrilly, struggling to his feet. “And I didn’t. Walk, I mean. Being carried don’t count as walking. You said to stay off my feet. Well, I did! I kept my promise!” Sam ran out of breath, his face ruddy with apprehension.

“I did say that, didn’t I?” Aragorn mused, his eyes glinting in the torchlight. “By now I should know to watch my words around hobbits. They obey orders only when they find the orders convenient.”

Sam blushed, but he did not back down. “You may be the King, sir, but Mr. Frodo’s my master. I answer to him, not you.”

Those surrounding the King gasped in shock at this impertinence. More familiar with hobbits, Aragorn smiled grimly. “I should pass a decree requiring the presence of a hobbit at my side at all times, Master Samwise. It would help to keep me humble.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam said miserably, wondering if that decree would include leg irons.

A hum was circulating amongst the men, and more and more of them were turning from the altercation before them to point behind the King. Aragorn looked over Sam’s head at them, frowning. Sam cringed as Gandalf pushed to the fore, more afraid of the wizard’s wrath than the King’s. To his relief, Gandalf did nothing more than stare at him and heave an exasperated sigh.

“Aragorn, there is a fire,” Gandalf said, gesturing with his staff.

Aragorn whirled to behold a yellow glow in the sky. Forgetting of the condition of his feet, Sam strained up on his toes. He yipped and would have fallen, but with more than mortal speed, a long, slender hand slid under his arm and steadied him. Elrond arched one high brow at Sam, his expression ambiguous.

“Could it be Frodo?” Legolas asked. Seeing Aragorn’s gaze occupied elsewhere, Gimli rested both hands on his axe and winkled broadly at the hobbit. Sam ducked his head and grinned weakly, conspirators in disobedience.

“Possibly.” Aragorn gazed keenly into the distance but could make out nothing more than a lightening of the sky above silhouetted rooftops. “He could have set it to draw us to him. Or it could be simply a coincidence and we would lose precious time finding that out –”

“This is the Ring-bearer,” Elrond remarked, stepping forward so his voluminous mantle swirled around Sam, hiding the hobbit behind him. “The fate of the world may no longer hang on a hobbit’s strength of will, but destiny will ever haunt Frodo’s steps. No coincidence may be disregarded where he is concerned.” Sam crouched against the back of the Elf-lord’s knees, forgotten for the moment and grateful to be so.

“I cannot see what is burning,” Aragorn murmured. “Legolas–”

Legolas leaped gracefully onto a barrel and from there to the windowsill of the nearest house, gaining the second-story windowsill of the house opposite in one bound across the narrow street. He crouched on the sill, then turned himself around and sprang back over the company’s heads to lock a hand around the eave of a tall house opposite. He hung there for a moment, then kicked off from the wall and swung himself into a high arc. Letting go at the crest of his arc, Legolas landed upright on the roof.

“Elves,” Gimli groaned under his breath.

Unmindful of the stunned soldiers beneath him, Legolas raised his hand to his eyes and peered towards the shimmering skyline. “It is a house. Farther along the road and three streets in. There is smoke coming from the door and windows.”  

Aragorn stood for a moment, weighing the cost of an incorrect guess against the life of a dearly loved friend. “I cannot take the chance that it might be unrelated,” he said slowly. Gandalf nodded in agreement. With a sweep of his arm, the King sent his men running towards the flames.

* * *

Faramir ran unerringly through the confusing alleyways, his surety an aggravation to the young hobbit struggling in his wake. All right, Merry thought, he was born in Minas Tirith and he grew up here. Of course he would know every shortcut. But it is still unfair of Men to have such long legs!

Faramir vaulted gracefully over a broken pillar, easily clearing both it and the fallen upper half tilted against its base. Merry ducked under the raised half without breaking stride, feeling his hair brush the marble. His head down, he did not see the next obstacle until he nearly ran into it face-first. Ploughing to a halt, Merry looked over the chest-high piece of stone to see Faramir’s indistinct form disappearing around yet another corner.

Throwing his arms over the block, Merry tried to scramble over it but it was sheer and slippery and he slid off into a heap at its foot. Biting his lip on an expletive, he climbed to his feet and fought to control his temper. Bloody rock! The street was thick with tumbled stones, the once-grand remains of an impressive colonnade reduced to ruins by the Enemy’s catapults. Some had been thrown into the buildings lining the street, cracking their walls and adding to the debris.

“Merry?”

“Coming, Faramir!” Merry shouted, backing up to take a run at the block. He leaped and almost slid over it, but the hilt of his sword snagged on a rough spot and dug him cruelly in the stomach. He flailed futilely and started to slide backwards. Then a large hand caught his and was pulling him forward, guiding him safely down to the ground.

Merry looked up at Faramir ruefully as he dusted himself off. “This wreckage is slowing me,” he confessed. “I can’t keep up with you. You go on to the King. I’ll collect Pip and we’ll follow.”

Faramir glanced uneasily around at the darkened doorways, many of them yawning open like mouths with broken teeth. Blotting the sweat from his face, he asked, “Are you certain? The City can be bewildering at night. And only the main streets are lit.”

“It’s Frodo they wanted,” Merry replied, refusing to admit the thought of being alone in this unfamiliar city of Men frightened him. Taking that as an affirmative, Faramir dropped to one knee and rested a hand on Merry’s shoulder, looking into the hobbit’s face.

“Be careful, Merry. It is not only the Ring-bearer the people of Gondor have come to love.” Then he was gone, leaping over the broken columns like a deer.

Merry sagged back against the block and rubbed his side where his hilt had caught him. After a moment’s reflection, he let his sword belt out a notch. Perhaps he’d been a bit too free with the vittles at Aragorn’s banquets recently. Probably should cut back on the fourth helpings.

 *crunch*

Merry froze. His ears swivelled towards the sound and his head followed. No one should be in this area. It was probably a stray cat. Or a rat. Big rat, though. Pippin? Merry almost called out but caution sealed his lips. He dove behind a chunk of rubble and raised his head just enough to see beyond it.

“…damn halflings… ”

There was a glimmer of movement in one of the open doorways. The moon had not yet risen but the white stone of the City reflected any available light, casting it back and redoubling it on itself so even starlight proved sufficient for Merry to see a head emerge from the dark entryway. It peered about, then a small, dirty man stepped warily into the street. In one hand he held a sword, waving it before him carelessly.

“Miserable halflings,” he muttered, taking a vicious swipe at empty air. “Can’t turn around without fallin’ over one. They’re overrunning the city.”

Halflings. The Man had said “halflings.” Plural. Merry’s heart thumped. This man had seen another hobbit. Not Pippin – had his cousin seen this man, Pip would have raised the alarm. Merry had no doubts of his ability to hear Pippin wherever he might be. The entire city clear back to the Shire would have heard Pippin. This had to be one of the Men who had taken Frodo.

Merry watched as the Man continued to mutter to himself and look up and down the street. He shot a particularly nasty glare to the place where Merry and Faramir had taken their leaves of each other. Certain the man could not see him, Merry turned around and rested his back against the damaged stone, face screwed up in thought. He had to capture this Man, or secure him down until he could summon help. Merry’s hand closed on the hilt of his sword and he half-drew it from its sheath. The Man was not as large as many he had seen, but still much larger and no doubt stronger than he. If he engaged the man, he himself might be hurt … or worse, hurt the Man beyond the ability to speak. He must think of another way. The Man had to be able to talk.

* * *

He coughed, and the pain was so excruciating he almost fainted again. It was hard to breathe. What air he could pull into his body seemed hot and heavy, burning his lungs. Smoke. Fire. The room was on fire. He had to get out.

Panic drove Frodo to cough again, the fluttering in his lungs turning into a spasm. He clutched his chest and rolled onto his side, lifting himself on one elbow. Where were the Men? Something shifted under his hand and he heard the clink of metal on stone. Frodo squinted through the flickering light. His eyes were tearing, turning the object before him into a blur of silver. A sword. Pippin’s sword. Frodo stared at it blankly, then the memory of Pippin’s terrified face flashed before his eyes.

“Pippin! Where are you? Answer me, Pi–” the last was lost in a wash of pain. He fell forward onto his stomach, battling the need to cough. He knew instinctively he must keep himself still, but he could not. The cough uncurled from deep inside him, clawed its way up his throat, and burst from him in a spray of blood.

Choking, he struggled to sit up, one hand clamped over his mouth. Something slid down his chest and he caught it automatically. Pippin’s surcoat. The White Tree embroidered upon it glinted red in the light of the nearing flames.

The coughs ripping him apart, he dragged himself onto his hands and knees and tried to stand. He could not. The light and heat were becoming more intense, but Frodo felt his mind dimming. Have to get out. Pippin’s face hovered before his blurring eyes, and he heard again his cousin’s soft words in his ear. “Cellars have cellar doors, Frodo dear.”

Find the doors. Stairs. Up the stairs. He fell forward onto his hands. The pain it cost even to crawl was unbearable. It hurt as if he were being stabbed again, again and again with shift of muscle and bone. He managed one pace from the shelter of the great boulder, then two.

Smoke was pressing down on him, its presence a physical weight crushing him. He could not see the stairs–all was lost in the roiling, coiling blackness. His lungs felt as of they were filling with mud. Thick, viscous mud, searing him as it oozed into his body. There was no space left in him to breathe. He could not breathe anyway; there was no air. His hands slipping out from under him, Frodo sagged to the floor. It burned under his cheek. Blinking back tears of pain, he could not tell if the approaching darkness was oblivion or the smoke and heat of his death.

* * *

Aragorn and his company no longer needed Legolas’ guidance – all could see the glow of the fire and hear the snap and crackle of its feeding. When the company arrived, black smoke was billowing from every window, from the open door, from the cellar. The entire house was engulfed in flames.  

Some of the soldiers began ransacking nearby houses for buckets and within minutes a bucket brigade was in operation. Containers of every description were being tied to ropes and lowered into the well, to be hauled up and passed to lines of men who emptied them into the inferno and returned them for more. Sam emerged to help; his small size an advantage in tipping the buckets into the containers the Men held. As he took up less space, more could crowd around the well. Men were throwing water into every available opening. The burning house drank it all and belched back white gouts of steam.

Slapping at a spark singeing his tunic, Aragorn shook his head and swung to Gandalf in frustration. “This is not finding Frodo. Gandalf, can you…” His words died unsaid. The wizard stood facing the flames, his staff clenched between both hands, his head lifted and eyes closed. His face was rimmed with perspiration, not from the blasting heat but from effort. Wind generated by the inferno lifted his hair and beard and stirred his robes. Embers swirled around him but did not touch him.

Gandalf opened his eyes and his gaze bored into Aragorn’s. “Frodo is in the cellar,” he said quietly. “He is alive but hurt.”

“Aragorn!” Legolas cried in anguish. He leapt forward but Aragorn stopped him with a hand on his chest.

“I will go!” Aragorn told them. “All of you – wait here.”

“No!” Gandalf shouted. Aragorn looked at him in disbelief. “I mean,” the wizard continued more softly. “Let me go. Gondor cannot risk losing its King. They have waited for him for too long. I will bring him out.”

Aragorn nodded reluctantly, one hand still holding Legolas back. When Gimli would have wrapped his cloak around Gandalf, the wizard shook his head. He stepped forward, his gaze going distant. Holding his staff tight in his left hand, he raised his right, turning his palm outward like a shield. Elrond nodded to himself as the capricious light made something shine between Gandalf’s fingers. Legolas gasped and Elrond sent the young elf an admonishing look. The power of the lesser elven rings might be fading, but still they were not to be spoken of.

Sam had been watching them. Though the noise was too great for him to hear their words, he knew that something was wrong by their faces. Handing off the bucket to one of the soldiers, he tottered towards them.

Gandalf swept past him, his hand spread before him and his back very straight. He paused before the doorway, then strode forward. The flames licked out and welcomed him and swallowed him. Sam froze in shock, then broke into a run after him, his injury forgotten in his disbelief and fear.

“What’s he doing?” cried Sam. “Are you all mad? Stop him!”

“Sam.” Aragorn’s voice held the hobbit. Sam came to him uncertainly, and he placed a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder and inclined his tall form to speak to him. After a few moments Sam began to weep.

All eyes were fastened to the cellar door. Gimli began to mutter under his breath, deep guttural growls in his own language. He was rocking from foot to foot, the fine links of his mailcoat chiming discordantly. Legolas laid a hand on his arm but Gimli shook him off. “Aye,” the dwarf shouted suddenly. “That’s long enough!”

“We must go after him,” Legolas said urgently. “Look, the flames are less. Only the upper floors burn hotly now. Aragorn!”

“Trust Gandalf,” Aragorn told them, holding Sam against him.

There was a loud crack, as of shattering wood, then they were deafened by a roar. White-hot flame gushed from the cellar, blue at the heart of it. It pooled on the stairs for a heartbeat, then burst into the open air.

“Wine-casks!” roared Gimli’s powerful voice over the crackling of the fire. “Get back! Get back!”

The soldiers nearest the building scattered, some slapping at their clothing. One man stumbled and fell to his knees, his uniform on fire. The others forced him to the ground and rolled him in the dirt, smothering the flames.

“The fire is being pulled to the air outside!” Aragorn shouted. “It is too hot! Back off! Let it burn!”

“It will catch the houses on either side,” Elrond observed, his clear voice carrying easily over the clamour.

Aragorn nodded, his eyes still riveted on the empty doorway. “It is little loss. This section of the City is too damaged to repair; it would have been torn down anyway.”

“Where are they?” sobbed Sam. “Why aren’t they coming out?”

* TBC *