THE THREE HUNTERS

PART 1: ARAGORN

Aragorn continued to run at a ground-eating lope; he was aware of his companions running behind him. Legolas, of course, made not a sound, but the knowledge that the Elf was there was enough to keep him at the edge of Aragorn’s awareness; while he could distinctly hear the rhythmic thump of Gimli’s heavy and tireless tread. He had feared at one point that the short-legged Dwarf could not keep up, but the legendary endurance of the Dwarves was apparently true, and though on occasion Gimli seemed to fall behind briefly on level ground his footsteps never faltered, and he always caught up when they went uphill.

Last night when they had come upon the signs of their quarry he had been both hopeful and fearful: Carnage among the enemy could mean danger for the small prisoners.

Aragorn had gazed in dismay at the five dead Orcs, the ground all bespattered with black blood. The bodies were all but dismembered, and two had been beheaded. With a sinking feeling he had cast his eye over the scene, but noted with relief no signs of red blood, no indications that Merry and Pippin had been harmed in this altercation. So far, the only trace of red blood they had found had been at the beginning--not far from the place where they had found the hobbits’ belt knives, there had been some traces of red blood on the bark of a tree--an abrasion as one of them was slammed against it during the capture had been his best guess.

They soon determined that this had been some disagreement between the different parties of Orcs, and Aragorn began to cast about once more for some sign. Finding nothing new, they continued to run northward. For hours there had been no more signs upon the rocky ground, but dawn had brought new hope, and now the track of the Orcs was clearly to be seen, as their foul tread made its way across the verdant wold of Rohan.

He heard Legolas breathe deeply.

“Ah! the green smell!” he said. “It is better than much sleep. Let us run!” *

“Light feet may run swiftly here” said Aragorn, “More swiftly, maybe, than iron-shod Orcs. Now we have a chance to lessen their lead.”

Gimli said nothing, but the rhythm of his feet picked up a swifter pace.

The three hunters ran even more swiftly, encouraged and given a second wind by the signs of their quarry.

It had been no more than an hour later, that he spotted it--the signs he had been hoping for. Pippin’s footprints, Pippin’s Lórien brooch--Aragorn touched the pouch at his side briefly, the thought of that small token carefully placed there reassuring him. He fixed his mind firmly on the hope that he would be able to return it to its brave owner.

“Let us hope he did not pay too dearly for his boldness,” said Legolas. “Come! Let us go on! The thought of those merry young folk driven like cattle burns my heart!”*

How that same thought burned Aragorn’s own heart, with a sting of fear, and of regret. The Orcs would use whips and ropes, and dragging and carrying as needed to drive the hobbits on.

Yet he remembered with a pang of guilt how he too had driven them nearly beyond endurance, driving them not by whips but by the lash of their fear and love for Frodo. He and Glorfindel had nearly broken them, all unthinking…

The hobbits and Aragorn had been travelling hard before they had ever encountered Glorfindel, but it was nothing to the pace the Elf was setting now.  

Perched upon Asfaloth, his eyes glazing over, and his mind clouded with pain, Frodo had no thoughts to spare for his cousins and Sam stumbling along in his wake. Glorfindel led the white horse, Sam had hold of Bill’s leading reins, though the pony seemed happy enough to follow along behind the great horse. Aragorn kept to one side, ranging ahead and dropping back. He was weary himself, but when he cast his eyes on the hobbits, there was no sign of faltering. Their small legs kept moving, two or perhaps three steps to every one of the Elf’s long steps.

When the Sun began to cast her rays over the land, Glorfindel finally stopped.

The three hobbits stumbled forward a few more steps, before realizing they were finally to be allowed to stop. Merry and Pippin were leaning against one another, and Pippin’s face was nearly grey with exhaustion. Sam was breathing heavily. Glorfindel lifted Frodo down from Asfaloth, and laid the injured hobbit down in a patch of soft heather near the side of the road. The others collapsed alongside him, Pippin asleep nearly before he even lay down, and Merry and Sam following suit. Strider looked at them for a moment. Something was wrong, but he could not really put his finger to it. He was as tired himself as he had been in a long time.

Glorfindel looked at him. “Sleep, Estel. I will stand watch, and wake you ere noon.”

Nodding wearily, Aragorn had cast himself upon the ground, and just as sleep came to claim him, he realized what was amiss.

Not one of the three hobbits had said anything at all about food or hunger before they had gone to sleep. That was probably not a good sign. But his mind had refused to think on it more, and he had drifted off.

It was perhaps an hour and a half short of noon, when the Elf shook him awake. He had sat up at once, feeling much refreshed for the rest, and glanced over at the hobbits. Because of the injury, Frodo had been sleeping to the outside of their pile, lest his left shoulder should be disturbed, and though Sam and Merry were unhappy with the arrangement, they saw the sense in it. Aragorn rose immediately to check on him. The others had not yet stirred, but as he gently examined the injury, Frodo gave a weak cry of pain, and Sam and Merry sat up.

Glorfindel stood over them, and in Sindarin, asked Aragorn, “How fares he, Estel?”

“Better than I expected, yet not good. I am amazed that he has not yet succumbed,” he replied in the same language.

Both the other hobbits glared at them. “What’s the matter?” Merry asked, suspicious and belligerent. Sam’s brown eyes flicked from Aragorn to Glorfindel and back again, wary.

“I am sorry, Merry,” Aragorn replied in Westron. “We were just checking on him. He is doing better than I had thought he would after so long a time. Will you waken Pippin? We shall need to start soon.”

With a sigh, Merry turned to Pippin, who was still deeply asleep on his other side. He shook his head, and with an expression of fond regret, placed his hand on his younger cousin’s brow, and stroking lightly, said “Pip? Pippin? You have to wake up now."

“We just went to sleep,” was the plaintive reply. Nevertheless, he sat up slowly. He did not look at all rested. There was a rumble from the vicinity of his middle, but rather than saying anything, he simply gave Merry a look of sad resignation, and rose to his knees.

Sam had risen and stumbled over to the much-depleted supplies among Bill’s packs, taking down the waterskins and the packages of dried fruit and stale bread. Merry, with trembling hands, had rummaged in their packs for their tin mugs.

Before Sam could share out the water, Glorfindel stopped him. He held a flask which Aragorn recognized--it was miruvor, the Cordial of Imladris. The Ranger raised his brows. His foster father must have had some foresight of such a need, for that was not something commonly supplied to warriors or scouts. Glorfindel caught his eye, and nodded.

“Drink this“, said the Elf pouring a small amount for each of them. The hobbits accepted it gratefully, and an expression of amazed delight came over their faces as they drank. Sam and Merry helped Frodo to sip a bit, and a bit of color returned to his white face, if only briefly. He blinked, and was able to murmur a brief thanks, before his eyes clouded with pain once more.

They set to on the bread and fruit, and found it more heartening and tastier than they had expected. It was with renewed hope and vigor that they stumbled up, and began their trek once more.

They had gone steadily for another three hours, when Sam, catching a toe on a stone, stumbled and went to his knees. The startled Bill very nearly stepped on his small master, and backed up, eyes rolling. Merry, who had been guiding Pippin, stopped and turned to help Sam back to his feet.

“Strider!” he called.

Aragorn turned to look, and the expression of desperate defiance in the stormy grey eyes led him to call out.

“Glorfindel! We need to stop for a few moments!”

Glorfindel turned back, looking annoyed. But then his gaze fell on the three hobbits, leaning against one another, and breathing hard.

“A few moments, then,” he said grudgingly.

Aragorn went over to Bill, and dug out a few pieces of dried fruit, which he distributed, and they passed around one of the waterskins. Then, as soon as they had eaten and drunk their meagre rations, and without another word, Glorfindel led them on again.

They made another, even briefer halt a couple of hours later. Aragorn knew why the Elf was hurrying so--he too could sense that their enemies were drawing nearer, and they still had a long way to go.

He had a brief conversation with Glorfindel in Sindarin. “I am not sure how much longer they can keep this pace,” he told the Elf.

“They are slowing us down, and the Enemy is drawing closer. Yet we cannot risk encumbering ourselves by carrying them.”

“*Carrying* them?” That had not even occurred to Aragorn.

“We could put one of them on the pony, and each of us could carry one,” the Elf explained, “and we could make faster time, but that would hinder us in fighting if we are assailed by the Enemy.”

Aragorn looked at the three, who once more were looking suspicious. He knew that not knowing what was said would make them anxious. But for once he was glad they did not understand--he was certain that the idea of being carried would have been met with indignation.

“What’s going on?” asked Merry.

“We must continue to hurry on, until dark at least,” answered Glorfindel. “I wish to put at least another league or two behind us.”

“Well,” said Pippin, in a tone of determination, “if we must, we must. Frodo needs us.”

“Let’s go then,” said Sam. “Jawing won’t get us anywhere.”

And when Frodo gave a moan of pain, it lent new energy to his friends.

It was full dark when they stopped again, and once more, the hobbits collapsed without even asking for food.

That night, Aragorn had stood watch, as Glorfindel did some scouting about. It was after midnight when the Elf returned to relieve him.

“Did you find anything?” he had asked.

“Their presence is drawing closer. I hope against hope that we shall make the Ford ere they come upon us.” He looked at the sleeping hobbits. “Perhaps I should take Frodo on Asfaloth, and go on ahead, leaving you to bring these three later on.”

Aragorn shook his head. “I am loathe to separate them,” he said. “Though he may not seem to be aware, I know their presence is lending Frodo strength. And they would be very angry to wake and find him gone.”

“Very well, Estel, you are the healer.” said Glorfindel. “I leave that decision up to you.”

At dawn, Glorfindel had spared each of them another mouthful of miruvor and they continued on. The way had grown easier, grassier, and less rocky, it was all downhill now.

But while the hobbits were feeling some relief, Glorfindel and Aragorn had grown even warier. Now, if ever, would be the time to fear an attack by the Nine.

And of course, that was exactly how it had fallen out--Aragorn found himself admiring the way all three of the hobbits had eagerly grabbed the burning brands from the fire Glorfindel had kindled, and drawn their small barrow blades, and rushed fiercely out heedless of their own safety. The threat to Frodo had pushed away all their weariness, and they had charged out recklessly. Had the Nine not been so intent on their true prey, they would have made short work of three small halflings, but Aragorn’s presence as at Weathertop, and most of all Glorfindel in all his otherworldly majesty, threw them into disarray. Even as the waters poured down upon the Ringwraiths and washed them away, the fearsome creatures shrieked their frustration.

They had stood there, watching the roaring waters tumble by, barely able to see Frodo's crumpled figure lying upon the ground, and the white horse standing over him protectlvely. Merry started to wade into the water, only to find himself yanked back sharply by Pippin and Sam.

"Patience, Master Meriadoc," Glorfindel had said. "The waters will subside nearly as quickly as they came up."

And so Sam, Merry and Pippin had wept in despair while they waited for the water to subside enough for them to cross, carried one-at-a-time on the backs of Man and Elf-lord. As quickly as they could, they were at Frodo’s side.

“Is he dead?” cried Pippin, desperately. Merry had taken Frodo’s head into his lap, and wept, as Sam, last to be carried across, ran up and fell to his knees beside Frodo, clutching at his master’s hand.

Aragorn had knelt, and put his fingers to the side of Frodo’s neck, felt the faint flutter of a pulse.

“He’s alive!” he exclaimed in delighted amazement, though fear for the hobbit gripped him as it had since Weathertop. “He’s alive, and still fighting!”

Glorfindel scooped Frodo from the ground, and turned to Asfaloth. But the great-hearted horse was standing with his weight on three legs--not a good sign, and on inspection his rider found he had picked up a sharp stone, in the soft frog of one forefoot, in the passage of the Ford. He would not be up to carrying anyone any further for a while. So the Elf began to slowly walk up the path, his sad burden cradled in his arms.

Aragorn turned to rally the hobbits for the long trek up to the Last Homely House. He helped Pippin to his feet, and then turned at a choking sound, to see Sam, on hands and knees, being noisily sick. Merry struggled to his feet, stood swaying for a moment, and then collapsed bonelessly to the ground in a swoon.

Pippin rushed to Merry’s side with a wordless cry, and Aragorn stooped to check on him.

He was beginning to wonder what to do next, when to his relief he heard horses, and looked up to see Elladan and Elrohir, accompanied by a few other Elves, and leading a spare horse.

Glorfindel gratefully mounted the spare horse with Frodo, and one of the other Elves dismounted to lead the exhausted Asfaloth and Bill. Elrohir took Merry, and Elladan took Pippin, and Aragorn put Sam in front of himself as he took the horse of the Elf who had dismounted, and they bore the hobbits up the path to their refuge.

Food, rest, and most of all, the comforting presence of Bilbo, had soon put the younger hobbits to rights, but Aragorn had not forgotten his fear that in the effort to save Frodo, he had imperiled the other hobbits. Indeed, he did not know what he and Glorfindel could have done differently in order to get Frodo safely to Rivendell, and to avoid the Ringwraiths.

But he still felt guilty over what he had put them through during their desperate flight from Weathertop, and he now feared what kind of shape Merry and Pippin would be in if--no, when--they were rescued.

He drew a deep breath, and put the memories behind him, and increased his pace. He *would* find them. They *would* be saved. Anything else was unthinkable…
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*From The Two Towers, Chapter II, “The Riders of Rohan”