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Shadows of a Nameless Fear  by Budgielover

“It is too quiet here,” Gimli growled.

Aragorn and Gandalf looked at the dwarf in disbelief. The roar of the flames was decreasing, being replaced by thunderous hissing as clouds of white steam rose from the ruined house. Wood popped and stone creaked, the heat causing cracks in the marble walls and flooring. Now and then a booming clap would announce the explosion of white-hot stone, sending shards flying and men diving for cover. The soldiers were bellowing warnings to each other or calling for buckets to drown stubborn spot-fires. Others were shouting for more water or aid in dousing the neighbouring houses. As the three watched, the last of the fires was put out amidst triumphant cheering. The din was deafening.

“No hobbit-voices,” Aragorn said. His troubled eyes searched among the soldiers, looking for small forms among the larger.

“Aye. Hobbit-folk are quiet only when they want to be. You could hear them over all this clamour, did they wish it. Especially the younger ones. You said Merry and Pippin were not far behind you, Lord Faramir?”

Faramir started, realising how much time had passed since he had staggered, panting for breath, to the site of the inferno. “Merry was only steps behind me. The rubble was slowing him, but he should have been here by now.” He looked back the way he had come, forehead creasing in concern.

“And can you see young Pippin missing this excitement?” Gimli continued. “We know he was here.” The dwarf retrieved the small, singed tunic and the hobbit-sized sword, holding them almost tenderly. “Mark my words – even if he did leave Frodo to seek help, he would have returned by now.”

“And made himself know to us,” Aragorn agreed. “I cannot imagine a burning house – or city – would stop him if Frodo needed him.”

“He would let nothing stand in his way,” Gandalf said, his voice harsh with worry. “Nor would Merry. Aragorn, something has happened to them. You must order a search.”

Aragorn nodded, his face grim as he turned to the smoking buildings. Men were drinking from the buckets now, dumping them over their heads and trying to wash off some of the ash and smoke. To a man, they came to attention as the King’s voice rose over the babble. “Men of Gondor! To me! To me!” The  soldiers dropped the buckets and hurried to their King, forming ranks and bowing before him.

“You did well,” Aragorn told them, his voice carrying easily into the cold night. Their faces glowed with his praise. “But now I have another task for you. Two of the little folk, the periannath, are missing –”

“Pippin and Merry?” a sharp voice interrupted. Aragorn scanned the closest soldiers to locate the speaker and a man bowed, so covered with soot that it took him a moment to recognized Imrahil. The Prince bowed again and Aragorn gestured for him to come forward. The Prince of Dol Amroth was as filthy as the rest of the fire-fighters, and his men with him.  “Forgive my outburst, sire,” Imrahil said. “The Halflings have become my friends.”

“They are … very dear to me as well,” Aragorn replied in understanding. “Frodo tried to tell me…” He sighed, rubbing his eyes and leaving a band of soot across the bridge of his nose.

“What could have stopped them?” Imrahil asked. “The ruffians who kidnapped the Ring-bearer are burned corpses. No citizen of Minas Tirith would do them harm – they are held in respect and affection by all.”

“That is what we must find out. Now, hear my orders…”

Gandalf and Gimli stepped back as soldiers surrounded the King, pressing close to hear. The men’s faces were sweated and soot-covered, but they listened attentively, eyes fastened to Aragorn’s face. Looking at them, Gimli thought he could tell which knew Merry and Pippin just by the looks of fear and worry in their expressions.

“First we lose one hobbit,” Gimli murmured to Gandalf. “Then another goes missing. Now a third.”

Gandalf did not reply. Gimli glanced at the wizard, then stared at him. Gandalf stood stiffly, his hands clenched on the smooth white wood of his staff. Wind from the extinguished fires stirred his hair and beard. “It should have been over,” he said.

“What should be over?”

Gandalf glanced Gimli and the dwarf’s thick eyebrows rose at the anger and grief on the wizard’s face. “The danger, the hurt. Frodo endured more than we thought anyone could, and he deserves only peace for the rest of his days. I could not bear to tell him harm has come to his cousins because of him when now, at last, when a new Age is come and all suffering should be ended.”

Gimli nodded in agreement, understanding the wizard’s anger towards the capriciousness of ungrateful fate. “No more,” Gandalf continued in a whisper, “could I bear to tell Merry and Pippin that the Ring-bearer, who survived the Quest and achieved his goal through sacrifice and pain, died in Minas Tirith because of the greed of evil Men.”

“Aye,” agreed the dwarf softly. “Aye.”

* * *

“Stop!” The Elf-lord’s command brought the sedan chair bearers and the litter they bore between them to a halt. Legolas dodged to the side, forcing a yelp of surprise from Sam.

“Put him down – gently.” The sedan chair bearers pivoted smoothly to face the litter and lowered it carefully to the ground, squatting to use their legs instead of their backs. They stepped back and Elrond swept aside his heavy robes and knelt beside Frodo, leaning over him intently.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” In his anxiety, Sam tightened his hold around Legolas’ throat and a brief expression of pain crossed the elf’s face. With a word to his passenger, Legolas sank down on one knee and Sam scrambled off his back, so intent on Frodo he did not even thank the elf.

Elrond did not reply immediately, moonlight glimmering on his long hands as they moved over Frodo’s body, loosening the lashing that held him safe and still on the litter. For a moment Sam thought he saw the Elf-lord shine with an inner light, as he had seen the Lady Galadriel shine, illuminating the glade around her. He blinked and the vision was gone. Dismissing the notion, he hurried to his master’s side and dropped to his heels opposite the Elf-lord. He caught Frodo’s cold hand in his and began to stroke it comfortingly.

“He is in distress,” the healer murmured, hands moving from Frodo’s chest to the pulse at his throat, to his mouth and nose then back to his chest. His voice was calm and matter-of-fact but Sam heard sorrow in it, anger and pity. “He cannot breathe.”

Frodo was gasping, eyes closed, sweat sticking his hair to his brow. Soot covered him, merging with the bruises till they could scarce be told apart. Blood had dried on Frodo’s face and Sam rubbed it away gently, his hand shaking as he watched his master struggle to breathe.

Frodo’s eyes opened at the touch and he stared up at them. He frowned then blinked and drew breath, only to burst into agonizing coughs. He tried to turn away from them and curl into a ball as blood splattered from his lips.

“Lord Elrond, sir!” Sam cried, keeping hold of Frodo’s hand. “Help him! Help him!”

“If there is bleeding in the lungs,” Elrond began, but the look at Sam’s tormented face made him stop. He slid his arms under Frodo’s body and straightened him, easing him back on the litter. Sam scurried around the plank to the Elf-lord’s side, recapturing Frodo’s hand as soon as he could. Frodo smiled at him and squeezed Sam’s hand reassuringly before looking at Elrond.

“Master Frodo, cough. You must cough.” Frodo’s smile faltered and he shook his head.

“That hurts him!” Sam choked.

“He must,” Elrond said firmly. “Coughing will prevent secretions from pooling in the lungs and causing pneumonia.”

Frodo blinked to show he understood, then tried to struggle into a sitting position. Sam immediately braced him from behind and Frodo sagged back into his steadying grip, trembling. He coughed, his head drooping, and his entire body shuddered in pain.

“Can’t you do something?” Sam recognized the shrillness of his voice and fought to control himself. “When someone breaks a rib in the Shire, we support it with a long strip of tight linen.”

Elrond shook his head. “Compression wraps are unwise for broken ribs unless absolutely necessary for pain. Such wraps can impede proper circulation and keep one from taking deep breaths, which might increase of risk of lung infections. There is a type of wrap I will apply when we arrive at the inn, but not on a cold, dirty street. Master Frodo is having enough difficulty breathing; we must not add to it.”

“What can we do?” asked Legolas, kneeling opposite them. He reached to push Frodo’s sweat-stiff hair out of his eyes and Frodo smiled at him and tried to say something, but could not get the breath. The two litter bearers watched unhappily, powerless to help the one to whom they owed their lives and their world.

Elrond was silent, his hand resting on Frodo’s chest. He applied no pressure but waited, feeling the struggling chest rising and falling asymmetrically. “Lay him down, Samwise. Master Legolas, you will assist me in rolling Frodo onto his injured side.”

Objections sprang to Sam’s lips but he swallowed them, willing himself to trust the Elf-lord. He guided Frodo down and Legolas and Elrond gently rolled him over. With Legolas holding Frodo on his side, Elrond undid the clap of his mantle and bundled the heavy cloth into a neat roll which he slid it under Frodo’s ribs. Frodo’s tightly screwed eyes opened a little, acknowledging the lessening of the pain from the support.

“Better,” the healer breathed, watching Frodo’s face. “Master Legolas, you will walk beside the bearers and hold Frodo on his side. Do not allow him to roll on his back.” Legolas nodded impassively but Sam knew him well enough by now to see the worry in that fair face.

Elrond raised his head from his study of his patient’s face. “Master Samwise?”

Sam looked up. “Yes, sir?”

“Can you find the inn where we met you from here?”

Sam looked around then nodded decisively. “Yes, sir.”

Elrond motioned for the litter bearers to approach them. “Master Frodo does not have enough time for us to return to the Houses of Healing.” Sam choked and Legolas freed a hand for a moment to clasp his shoulder. Elrond looked at the hobbit, piercing grey eyes intent. “You will go to the inn and tell the innkeep I am bringing the Ring-bearer. He is to prepare a clean place for me to work.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam whispered. He gave Frodo’s hand another careful squeeze before struggling upright. Elrond’s eyes narrowed at the dirt on the bandages wrapped on Sam’s feet but he said nothing, bowing to the greater need.

At a gesture from Elrond, the bearers squatted again and began to lift the litter. Frodo’s eyes opened. “S–Sam–”

“Do not speak, Frodo,” Elrond told him.

“Sam … please…”

Sam hopped from foot to foot under the litter, too agitated to hold his place. “Is he all right? Does he need me?”

Elrond shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. “Master Legolas, it seems you will go in Master Samwise’s place.” He sighed. “You are swifter and it is better to spare Master Samwise’s feet. Sam will stay with his master.”

“Thank you,” Sam gulped. Legolas too looked relieved, understanding the bond between hobbits.

“Notify the innkeeper that I will need a clean, quiet private room, and ice. As much ice as he has. If there is a local healer, I would ask his aid and use of his mendicants.” Legolas bowed and was gone, his footfalls swift and silent as the cold breeze that stirred their cloaks.

Elrond swept up a startled Sam and lifted him up to the litter. “Stretch out behind Frodo,” Elrond ordered. “You must not constrict his breathing.” Sam fitted himself at Frodo’s back, terrified of bumping his master and hurting him. Seeing this, the Elf-lord’s stern expression softened. “Slide your arms around him, Samwise, and lean him against you. Gently. That’s right. Do not fear you will cause him pain; your presence is a comfort to him.”

Reassured, Sam tightened his arms around Frodo’s chest, careful to avoid the broken ribs. Frodo did not react; his eyes were closed again and his breathing fast and shallow. Elrond watched critically then said, “Good. Keep him on his side, Samwise. Watch his breathing. Let me know at once if anything changes.” The littler bearers adjusted the poles on their shoulders to accommodate the additional weight and looked at Elrond, awaiting the order to move.

“Sam?”

“I’m here, sir,” Sam whispered. Frodo relaxed, slipping back into grey semi-consciousness as the men followed Lord Elrond. Sam raised his arm draped over Frodo’s side and turned his wrist to lay his palm over Frodo’s heart. Frodo’s weight on his pinned arm seemed no more than a feather. “I’m here.”

* * *

He would have to release the Man’s head so he could get enough air to talk, Merry thought reluctantly. Keeping his captive flat on his stomach on the ground might be safer, but no one could draw breath well enough to talk with his head pulled back at such an angle. He would not find out where Frodo was if the man passed out for want of air.

Merry freed the Man’s greasy hair and backed out of reach, resisting the urge to wipe his hand on his breeches. He kept to a crouch, sword raised and ready to leap forward to strike if he had to. “Don’t move,” he told his captive. “Keep your hands where I can see them.” He angled his sword to catch the high moon overhead, seeing the flash of light in the Man’s dark eyes. “I can still cut your throat before you can reach your blade.”

The man coughed and lowered his head to the ground, resting his chin on the cold cobblestones. He stared at Merry, breathing deeply, getting back the breath knocked out of him. “Thought I heard someone behind me. You the one that hit me? You’re a lot bigger than the other.”

Hit him? With the man now facing him and the moon above, Merry could see a dark bruise on the man’s temple. It did not matter – what mattered was that this man had confirmed Merry’s belief that he had seen another hobbit.

“Where is the Ring-bearer?” The man’s fast breathing caught and his hands curled into fists on the ground. “I heard you,” Merry told him. “I followed you. You were talking to yourself about ‘halflings.’ Where is he?” The man was silent.

“I saw you when we had lunch at Mikah’s inn,” Merry pressed. It was a lie – he had no memory of seeing this man. There had been so many Big People, and his attention had been wholly on the delicious fare set before him. How many hours ago had that been? Fighting down his rage, he prodded the man’s shoulder with the tip of his sword, slicing through cloak and rough jerkin to the flesh underneath.

The man jerked and cringed back.  “All right! All right!”

“Where is he?”

The man raised his head and Merry tensed, seeing something in that sly expression that unsettled him. “In an empty house. It’s a fair way back. You know the City?”

Merry would not admit to the brigand that he did not. Nor did he like the man’s sudden cooperativeness – he was not being told something. “You will take me there,” Merry stated, as if this were an unequivocal fact. “Get up – slowly.” He waved his sword threateningly, trying to buy himself time to think.

The man’s eyes followed the tip of his sword, mesmerized. Then his gaze lifted above Merry’s head and he stiffened. His eyes widened and his mouth sagged open, astonishment in every line of his body. Oh no, Merry thought, I won’t fall for that old trick–Then red light reflected in the man’s eyes and washed over his face. Red light glimmered on Merry’s blade. Merry stared at his red-tinted sword blankly, then despite himself, he turned around.

A great gout of flame was falling from the sky, shattering into flaming shreds that Merry realised must be debris. A building – no, more than one, buildingsexploding. Burning. Flames leapt into the night like the spears of the Rohirrim into the Enemy’s ranks. No, Merry thought, the Man           

Merry slammed to the cobbles, the man on top of him. Instinctively he flung out his arms, saving his face but sending his sword flying.His head hit the ground and his helm rang with the impact, snapping his head back on his neck to catch the man in the face. Bone crunched. Merry heard the Man cry out in pain and felt the weight shift off him. He scrambled forward on all fours, trying to put some space between them.

Fool! Merry raged at himself, whirling to face the man. He felt stunned; his limbs leaden, his ears ringing. The man must have been preparing himself for the attack as soon as he realised Merry would be distracted by the fire. The ruffian lay several paces away, swearing foully, one hand clamped over his nose as blood poured from it. Merry hoped it was broken.

“You little –“ Merry did not even know what that word meant. Glaring at Merry, the man staggered upright, the flow from his nose continuing unabated. “Gahhh!”

Get up, get up! Merry thought, struggling to his feet. The notion of fleeing crossed his mind and was dismissed in the same instant. He was not leaving without knowledge of Frodo’s whereabouts. The Man’s nose indeed canted to the side and Merry grinned up at him evilly, deliberately goading the villain. The man snarled something unintelligible and flung himself at Merry.

The surprise on the villain’s face was almost comical as Merry dropped flat on his back and his tough hobbit-feet caught the man right in the stomach. The man soared over Merry’s head and landed hard on the cobbles, the breath knocked from him a second time. He thrashed on the ground, making little whimpering sounds. His hand knocked against something hard and Merry’s heart sank as he saw it was his sword.

The man closed his hand around Merry’s sword and he raised it as if he could not believe his luck. He glanced over at the hobbit, seeing in Merry’s face his dismay and anger. Grinning maliciously, he staggered to his feet, waving it in gleeful sweeps over his head. No doubt it seemed silly and undersized to him, but it was Merry’s sword and Merry meant to have it back. Hobbit-quick, he launched himself at the man and punched him as hard as he could in the stomach. The man “ooooff!”ed and doubled over, falling to his knees.

Merry leaped for his sword, using both hands to drag the man’s fingers apart.  A red haze seemed to swim before his eyes; he was as furious as he had ever been. The man’s hand opened and his sword came loose and Merry snatched it up.

Stars flashed before his eyes and Merry slid to the ground, near insensible. Only then did he realise he had been struck. Hands groped along his body and seized his surcoat, dragging him onto his back. His arm was being raised. Then his wrist was slammed back on the cobbles, wrenching a cry from him as the sword clattered from his grip. Stunned and with pain searing through every nerve, Merry fought down the wail rising in his throat. The wisdom of Boromir’s words aside, he had lost this fight.

The Man pulled off his helm and tossed it away to rock unheeded on the cobbles. Imitating what Merry had done to him earlier, the villain pulled Merry’s head back at a painful angle, baring his throat. Merry felt air shift against his skin as the Man pressed his own sword against him. “My turn now, little halfling,” the man snarled.

* TBC *





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