Chapter Eleven – Out of a House of Fire

Once again the soldiers of Gondor alerted their King; this time with shouted greetings and salutes instead of calls of alarm and pointing arms. Aragorn looked over his shoulder to see Faramir running swiftly towards him, horror on his face as he beheld the conflagration.

The sweat on the Prince’s face reflected the fire, lending his features a ghoulish hue. It looked like his face had been painted with blood. Panting hoarsely, Faramir stumbled to a stop and almost fell at the King’s feet.

“Faramir!” Aragorn cried, catching his arm. Faramir coughed deeply, unfortunately pulling heated air and ash into his lungs. He choked and had to brace himself with his hands on his knees to catch his strength.

“What news?” asked the King impatiently as Faramir straightened.

“Your Majesty, Masters Merry, Pippin and I searched along the main thoroughfare. Pippin parted from us to take one side, Merry the other, and I went on ahead, past where the kidnappers could have carried the Ring-bearer in the time since his taking. We saw no sign of them, sire. But Merry pointed out that we might well miss them, as many of the houses and buildings were locked against us.”

Faramir ran out of breath, gasping, and Elrond pushed a water-soaked length of cloth into his hands. Faramir took it and held it to his mouth, breathing cooler, cleaner air through it. He took a great breath, then continued, “Sire, you must order all locked buildings opened. They have only to hide, and we would not find them.”

“I have already done so,” Aragorn told him. “You were gone before word could reach you.”

Faramir pressed the wet cloth to his face, nodding. One of the soldiers offered him a dipper of water and he took it gratefully.

“The hobbits?” Aragorn said briefly, his brow furrowing as he looked about.

“They follow.” Faramir spat out the first mouthful and wiped his chin, downing the rest with a grimace. “Merry told me to go on ahead, as I am faster than he. He is finding Pippin. We agreed we would meet at the inn, thinking you would be there, but they will come here as I did, following the fire.”

“A most efficacious signal,” Elrond agreed.

“The fire–” Faramir began, questions in his eyes. But Aragorn stopped him with a raised hand, looking towards the burning house.

White against white, a shape had appeared at the top of the stairs. The soldiers paused, mesmerized, water dripping unheeded from their buckets. Flames billowed around the tall figure, flames gone from red to yellow to white with heat. They seemed to curl around the wizard, dancing through his hair, licking at his robes, but they did not burn him and they did not touch the small, still figure in his arms.

The assemblage rushed forward as Gandalf strode towards them. Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli crowded around him but he pushed past them, ignoring their worried faces and questions. Stopping before Elrond, Gandalf knelt and carefully lay Frodo on the ground. It was Sam who snapped the awed amazement around him. Rushing forward, he threw himself down at Frodo’s side and started to lift his master’s head into his lap, but Gandalf stopped him.

“He is hurt, Sam,” Gandalf said softly. “Aragorn! He needs you!”

Elrond had already begun his examination as Aragorn knelt opposite him and quickly but carefully slid his hands under Frodo’s body. He checked the hobbit’s head, then his neck, then felt down his backbone. Elrond did the same along Frodo’s lower body, raising silver eyes to ask, “He is not burned?”

“Singed only,” Aragorn replied, his hand cupping Frodo’s cheek. The thick lashes lay on his closed eyes like smudged shadows, and soot and smoke coated him.

“He was behind a boulder – one of the catapult stones,” Gandalf told them. “It sheltered him.”

Aragorn nodded, his long, sensitive hands passing over the hobbit’s chest. When he pressed over Frodo’s ribs, the hobbit moaned and pain etched his face. Sam echoed his master’s cry as a bubble of blood formed on Frodo’s lips and ran down from his mouth.

“Ah, Frodo,” Aragorn murmured. He looked up at the others, at Gandalf standing close with Gimli and Legolas. “A rib is broken. More than one, I think.” He started to undo Frodo’s waistcoat and shirt but his fingers slipped on the small buttons. Sam pushed his hands aside and undid them, then held back the fabric. Aragorn nodded absent thanks, his attention on his patient. “The breaks are in the curved portion of the outer part of the rib cage. ”

The hiss and snap of the flames behind them drowned out the whisper of Elrond’s robes as he shifted forward, his long form bending over the hobbit. Aragorn rocked back to give him room but Sam had gained possession of Frodo’s hand, and he would not relinquish it.

“Is there costochondral separation?”

“I cannot tell if the cartilage has torn from the breastbone. The ground is too uneven.” Aragorn’s face darkened as Frodo coughed and blood ran from his nose.

Elrond leaned closer. “His breaths are shallow and fast. He is blue around the nose and mouth.” Placing an arm on each side of the hobbit, he sank down and put his ear against Frodo’s chest.

“What are you listening for?” Sam cried, fighting back sobs.

“I am listening for his breath in his lungs.” He raised himself up and looked into Aragorn’s eyes. “I hear air only on one side. “

“What does that mean?”

Elrond sat back and laid his hand on Frodo’s chest, feeling the weak draw and flow of breath. “I suspect a punctured lung, Samwise. We must get him to a place where he may be treated.”

Frodo’s eyes fluttered, then opened. He looked up at them fearfully, then his eyes focussed on Sam, and something eased in his expression. Sam smiled at him tremulously, chafing the cold hand in both of his, tears running down his face.

Then Frodo looked at the others, and his eyes widened as his gaze moved past them to the ring of soldiers around him. Aragorn saw his expression tense and he tried to sit up. Elrond pushed his shoulder, forcing him gently down again.

“Stay still, Master Frodo. We are attending you.”

“Pip … Pippin,” Frodo murmured, clenching Sam’s hand so tightly Sam gasped.

“Pippin and Merry were searching for you, Frodo,” Aragorn said, looking about him for some suitable place to take the hobbit, “as was Faramir and as many soldiers as could be summoned quickly. I will send out the ‘all-clear’ and they will return.”

“No,” Frodo groaned. “Pippin…”

At a gesture from the King, Faramir leaned forward into the hobbit’s line of vision. “I left Merry but minutes ago, Master Frodo. He and Pippin are coming.”

Frodo shook his head. “No … no. Pippin…”

“Pippin will be here shortly, Frodo. Do not fret.” Aragorn glanced at Elrond in concern; it seemed Frodo did not understand him. He caught Frodo’s other hand in his own, trying to soothe the hobbit.

Frodo looked up at him desperately, those astonishing eyes dimming. His head fell back but still he continued to struggle against the gathering dark. “No … Pippin …Pippin. He…” His eyes drooped shut, then shot open. “Pippin … ahhhh…” he stiffened suddenly, then relaxed into unconsciousness.

“Mr. Frodo!”

“No, Sam,” Aragorn said, reaching across Frodo’s body to restrain the hobbit when Sam would have roused his master. “It is better that he sleeps. He will not be aware of the pain.”

Legolas and Gimli had not been idle while the others knelt around the stricken Ring-bearer. Seeing they could do nothing to aid Frodo and Aragorn did not need them, they had begun urging the soldiers back to the bucket brigade. The fire was acting as beacon for others than Faramir; pairs of the searching men were being drawn to the site, and quickly the two set them to work. Bucket after bucket was thrown through the windows and doorways till water ran down the steps and flooded the lowest floor.

The smoke emerging from the cellar was white now, and with it rose the most dreadful stench imaginable. It was one both elf and dwarf knew from many battlefields, and one they had smelled in the recent past. Legolas looked at Gimli, sharing the memory of searching through a pile of smouldering orc corpses for the bodies their two youngest friends. Putting a hand over his nose, Legolas started down the steps. Gimli joined him at the base of the stairs, giving the two half-burned corpses there a scowl before continuing past, his hob-nailed boots allowing him to walk on the hot floor unharmed. Distastefully, Legolas examined the bodies. Rising to his feet, he waved a hand at Gimli and receiving a grumble in response, glided up the stairs to give his news to Aragorn.

“There are two bodies at the bottom of the stairs,” Legolastold the King as Aragorn conferred with Elrond. Gandalf stood by, bent slightly to keep his hand on Sam’s shoulder. Sam still sat by Frodo’s side, holding his master’s hand, his gaze never leaving Frodo’s face. Legolas looked at him sadly, then told Aragorn, “Men.”

Aragorn jerked his head and the two moved away from the still tableau, Gandalf following them. Elrond did not come but he had no need to; elven hearing would suffice. “The ruffians who kidnapped Frodo?” Aragorn asked.

“They must be. It will be difficult to identify them – the fire has destroyed their clothing and burned their flesh. But how they came to be dead in that place I cannot imagine. They were run through with swords, and Frodo did not carry his.”

“Let them burn,” Gandalf said, such anger in his tone that the others looked at him in surprise. “They did not suffer enough for what they did.”

Gimli emerged from the cellar, coughing. Coming up to them, he handed the King a small black surcoat with a White Tree embroidered upon it, burned in many places. With it was a small sword. Aragorn took them, his expression grim.

“Pippin’s,” Legolas said unnecessarily. “Why did he leave them, and where has he gone?”

“He would never leave Frodo could he prevent it,” Gimli rumbled.

“Then he could not prevent it.” Gandalf said harshly. “Elrond says we must get Frodo to the Houses of Healing, or at least a clean, flat place, very quickly.”

“I will carry him,” Aragorn said, but Elrond heard him and shook his head.

 “He is badly hurt, my son. I fear lifting and carrying him might increase his injuries. Instruct your men to search the houses and bring me a table or a child’s bed, something on which we may lay him.”

He was interrupted by a roar, a stunning blast of sound as if from a great beast. They spun towards the house. The soldiers still throwing water into it scattered, shouting. The walls of the house were giving way, the roof collapsing. A great gout of flame shot into the night, breaking off into flaming debris and sparks. Like a fountain, the flame descended to earth, splattering through each floor and bringing it all down.

Sam tugged at Elrond’s mantle, forgetful of his awe of the Lord of Imladris in his distress. “My lords, there’s the sedan chair. It’s nothing but a plank, now. It’d do for a litter. You could strap him down on it and he wouldn’t move.”

The Elf-lord smiled down at him. “Well spoken, Master Samwise.”

Sam scrubbed the tears from his eyes and motioned to the two sedan chair bearers, who at once left the soldiers and came to them. A few words and they lay the remains of a once-elegant sedan chair before them. Carefully, so carefully, Aragorn slid his hands under Frodo’s head and shoulders and lifted as Elrond did the same with the hobbit’s legs. Keeping his body straight, they lashed him to the litter.

“Your Majesty,” said the leader of the sedan chair bearers, “please let my man and I carry him. We know how to walk without jostling a passenger, and can go at greater speed than your soldiers.”

“You have my thanks,” Aragorn told him sincerely.

Elrond waved for the men to move, stationing himself at Frodo’s head as they passed. The chair bearers moved with the grace of long practice, their strides smooth and swift. Sam started to trot behind when a hand descended on his shoulder. Sam winced and stood still.

“We will discuss your interpretation of my command later, Samwise,” Aragorn said. Sam nodded glumly. “This time, I will see that my orders are enforced. You will not walk on those feet.” Two men in uniform stepped forward and bowed. “These soldiers will carry you.”

Sam shrank back from the men, and Aragorn saw the unease on the hobbit’s face. He raised an eyebrow at Legolas and the elf nodded. “Will you allow me to be your steed, Samwise?” the elf asked with a bow.

Sam flushed, caught between embarrassment and gratitude. But he would choose a friend, even though an Elf, over strange Men. “Thank you, sir,” he said simply.

Legolas knelt and Sam climbed on his back, locking his hands in front of the elf’s throat. Legolas stood easily, guiding Sam’s legs around his midsection. “All right, Sam?” Legolas asked, a trace of a smile in his voice.

“Suppose so,” Sam answered dubiously. Only Legolas’ elven hearing singled out the mumbled, mournful, “I’m not never even getting on a stepladder when we get home” as he broke into a light-footed run.

* * *

Pippin grit his teeth, determined not to hinder the orc carrying him like a sack of grain over its shoulder. Each stride forward was a stride away from Frodo. Tears of grief and terror merged in his eyes and ran down his upside-face, lodging in his hair like little pricks of ice. For Frodo, he thought as his face bumped against the creature’s stinking back. For Frodo.

The lead orc paused at the entrance to the main thoroughfare, the other and the one carrying Pippin slowing behind it. Draped over the orc’s shoulder, Pippin could not see much but he knew this place – the convoy wagons passed this way. He raised his head and the orc’s arm tightened across the back of his knees. “Quit squirming, little rat, or I’ll pull your tail for you.”

Pippin stilled, dropping his head against the orc’s back. Under its rough cloak it wore some kind of leather tunic, and it stank of sweat and dirt and old blood.

“This way,” the leader growled. “The bolthole is ahead of us. We must be gone before first light.“

The other orc said something in its snarling, hissing language, pointing a claw. The leader shook its head and the two seemed to be arguing. Pippin wondered if he could scratch something on the wall, but common sense told him his pitiful little message would never be found, certainly not at night and most likely not at all. He stroked his fingers against the cool stone of the nearest wall; the reflected light from the stars and surrounding stone was sufficient to see the line where his fingers had cleared away the dust. Help he traced out sadly.

The orcs’ argument was decided in typical orcish fashion; the leader struck the other across its snout. The orcs moved out into the road, keeping to the shadows as best they could. They stayed against the buildings unless they were forced into the open to dodge blocks and broken masonry. For such large, ungainly creatures, they could move with astonishing silence.

“Hoy! Over there!” Pippin’s heart leaped at the words, words in the Common Tongue, shouted in a Man’s voice. The orc carrying him jumped back, slamming him against a wall as it pressed itself to the shadows. The air went out of Pippin in a whoosh and a faint squeak was all he could manage.

The other orcs took cover too, the leader flat on the ground behind a fallen pillar and the other behind a barrel. Pippin’s orc swung him around before it, its hand across his mouth. Pippin closed his eyes as its touch nauseated him, then forced his eyes open.

Four Men were coming towards them. With a jolt, Pippin recognised the two sedan chair bearers who had set out with Faramir in search of Frodo. With them were two of the Guard. One of the Men was pointing and with a sinking heart, Pippin saw that it was not at him.

The orc’s hand tightened over Pippin’s mouth as the Men drew nearer. He clawed at the hand, for it was clamped over his nose and mouth and he could not breathe. The orc seemed to realise it was smothering him, for it lessened its grip a little and allowed him a tiny wheeze of air.

“What could be burning?” one of the soldiers was saying. Pippin realised he could see the Man’s face clearly – all the details were too clear in the gloom. Something burning, the Man had said. Frodo!

In a panic, Pippin thrust back and drove his elbow into leather and muscle. The orc grunted, its grip loosening. One of the soldiers’ head turned and the man frowned into the darkness. He fell behind the others, who did not notice, their attention on the blazing skyline. The soldier opened his mouth to call to them, then with a shake of his head, drew his sword and advanced towards the sound he had heard.

Pippin was dragged back as the orc retreated, half-strangling him, its paw again clamped tight over his mouth. The other two drew their swords, the steel clearing the sheaths with an almost inaudible hiss. The leader rose to a crouch, starlight glinting on his weapon. It glanced over at the other and that one nodded back, a vicious, feral grin on its malformed face. Pippin kicked and struggled frantically, but the orc was too strong.

“Hartanon! Come! We are needed!”

The soldier paused, his head turning towards the receding men. With a muttered oath, he slammed his sword back into its sheath and strode past the shadows after them.

Come back! Pippin wailed soundlessly.Come back! The man disappeared around the bend in the road, his footfalls fading. The man was walking away, leaving him a captive. Pippin sagged in the orc’s grip, defeated. He could not halt the flow of hot tears sliding over the orc’s hand.

* TBC *