Chapter 4 - An Unlikely Treaty

Sam leaves the minstrels to look after his master, or so he lets it appear. He goes into the kitchen and makes a noise of bringing out the pots for the water and setting the cauldron on the spit over the hearth fire. He dips a pitcher into the water basin and pours fresh water into the cauldron. Deeming then that enough time has passed, he tiptoes out of the kitchen with a silent stealth matched only by the Elves of Lorien. Nothing and no one can hear him pass and he reaches the wall to the parlor in mere moments. 

Stilling his breath, he listens intently to find out what he can. There is something about the dark stranger that niggles uncomfortably at the back of his mind. Something familiar and unsettling, like a nightmare long ago forgotten by the mind but still remembered by the blood. Then there is the young boy – or perhaps he is a man already by his people’s reckoning. He had said something about deceit. Wulfram had wanted to tell him something, but the tall stranger had prevented him and Sam wants to know why. 

Using his well-honed skills as a spy, Sam listens, intending to find out the true purpose of these so-called minstrels, who Sam now realizes had not brought so much as a lute or a tambour to perform with. What he hears sends his blood coursing cold through his veins. The strangers are speaking softly but they are not whispering, believing their conversation to be unheard.

The one named Odolf is speaking and his words are more honest and true than Sam cares to admit. “—that they are both meant to come, to help. They cannot continue on like this much longer. You heard Sam. He wishes his master would rather die than continue to suffer. The Sam I saw would never think that.”

“You better know what you’re doing,” the boy replies. “But knowing you, you probably do.” 

Sam fancies he can see a golden light from the boy, a faint glow that Sam has only seen coming from one other being, a light he has not seen now for many months. It soothes and comforts, even as his words raise alarm in Sam’s mind. 

“We’ll tell them Rick, when the time is right.”

Rick? Three names given and only one of them true. These strangers want to take Frodo somewhere and it sounds like a dark plot to Sam’s simple ears. He doesn’t know what to make of it. His heart tells him he can trust the lad, but he is even more suspicious of the tall one than he had been before. He retreats with stealth and returns to the kitchen to think.

The water is now warm and close to simmering. Sam adds the herbs as requested, sniffing each one before he adds it to the broth. He has a keen nose and does not smell anything amiss. The herbs are not laced with anything at least. Still, he will have to sample the tea before giving any to his master. 

He shifts the logs to lower the flames and reduce the heat beneath the cauldron. The tea steeps as it should and after the required ten minutes, not a moment over, Sam removes the cauldron from the hearth and sets it on a cooling board on the counter. He spoons out two deep mugs. After blowing on his to cool it, he takes a long drink and waits a few minutes to see what effect it will have. A warm, lazy calmness slowly flows through his limbs, making him serene and giving him a sense of peace he has not felt since the days before the War. Before the Ring. When nothing further happens, he takes the mugs into the parlor. 

Rick wipes Frodo’s brow with the poultice, shaking his head sadly at the wan pale face of the hobbit, unaware that their unknown audience has departed. “This is all such a mess. Sam’s right. The Ring-bearer shouldn’t have to suffer so. These dreams are connected to the Blue Wizards, aren’t they?”

“Yes and no,” Sauron answers musingly. “The Ring-bearer has long had prophetic dreams, even before the Ring came to him. After the Quest, the Elves gifted him with true Prophecy, and for a while their gift did as they hoped. It allowed him to see his friends’ futures and assure him that all will be well with them after he is gone. Only he didn’t leave and now I think the gift is prematurely given. I suspect that the visions of the Blue Wizards are being mingled with his other dreams, both of the Quest and of the prophecies. They are all equally sharp, equally real, and he does not know how to distinguish between them. He doesn’t know what’s true and what isn’t, what’s past and what’s to come. Add on top of that his fears that I am searching for him to do him more harm – would you react any differently?”

“And if the stories we heard are true… The things he sees when he dreams…” Rick trails off, absently brushing curls off the Ring-bearer’s clammy forehead. “Isn’t there something you can do? You aren’t completely without your powers, I know you aren’t. You can heal, for one. Can’t you block the dreams, block the bad memories? He’ll go mad if they aren’t stopped soon.”

“That is in Frodo’s power to make peace with what he has endured, if he can,” Sauron says. “I can help teach him the skills that he needs to do that and I intend to. I can train him while we travel. He will need to hone his abilities at any rate if he is to confront the Blue Wizards.”

“Isn’t there another way to defeat them?” Rick tries one last time. “We could raise an army that’s willing.”

“Mere years after the last War, while Gondor’s still in heated negotiations with the Haradrim? An alliance they may have forged, but it is a shaky one at best. The last thing we want to do is make it look like we’re marching on the Haradrim’s allies.”

“Sauron, he’s weak and demoralized and his companion isn’t any better off,” Rick argues. “How can he help? It’s impossible.”

“So was destroying the One Ring,” Sauron returns. “Fate has chosen him again. I will not be the one to deny him.”

Rick shakes his head again, not wanting to accept this but having no other choice. In his many travels with his new friend, he has learned to bow to Sauron’s greater experience and wisdom in these matters, even when they make no sense to him. While he can see the sense in this, he can see the danger also. It is his reverence for the Ring-bearers that make him reluctant to take them out of the Shire again, especially without them knowing the full truth. For now, it will have to be enough for Sauron to know that he disagrees with his tactics.

At that moment, Sam returns with the mugs, walking carefully so as not to spill any of the tea on the floor or rugs. Sam glances around the parlor with what he hopes is a casual regard. Wulfram, or rather, Rick, is still by Frodo’s side but Odolf has returned to the hearthside, sitting with eyes closed. Sam sets the mugs onto the tea table before taking Rick’s place at his master’s side. He looks his master up and down, assuring himself that Frodo is unharmed by these strange men. 

“Thank you for watching him, and for all your help,” Sam says.

Rick’s smile is genuine and his eyes fill with empathy. “It is my honor. If not for the Ring-bearer, none of us would be where we are today. Anything I can do to ease his suffering, I will do gladly. I owe him, and you, everything.”

Sam nods, too tired to be shy or abashed by this outpouring of gratitude. He has forgotten what it is like to be looked upon as a lord or, worse yet, akin to one of the Valar, after so many months in the peaceful Shire. He likes Rick, but he has to know the truth. How should he go about finding it though? He can think of no other way than to get to the heart of the matter.

“You owe him,” he repeats, leaving himself out of the praise. “Yet you would ask more of him.”

“Who would?” comes Frodo’s weakened voice as he awakens at last. He has heard only the last few sentences of conversation passed between Sam and the visitor. Instantly, he feels Sam’s arms circling underneath him and rising him to sit propped against the pillows. A moment later, a warm mug is held to his lips and he drinks at Sam’s silent request. 

“Are you feeling better Mr. Frodo?” Sam asks hopefully, and Frodo can hear the guilt that underlies the concern. Sam had not wanted to answer the door, but Frodo had bid him to go and send off whoever had come calling, as clearly the visitors wouldn’t go away otherwise. In the few minutes that Sam was gone, Frodo had drifted off to sleep, too tired to keep himself awake any longer, and then the dreams had come again. 

He pries his eyes open now and looks upon Sam kneeling on the floor beside the settee. Sam looks as exhausted as he feels, but the tea is quickly beginning to revive him while simultaneously filling him with calm. “I slept?”

“For nearly twenty minutes,” Sam answers and the relief that underlies that statement is enough to pierce Frodo’s heart. 

He wishes so that he can be healthier for Sam. It is not for lack of trying. He desperately wishes to be better, if only so Sam will stop doting on him and finally marry Rosie Cotton. Sam deserves all the happiness that life has to give him, but Sam will continue to refuse it so long as he thinks Frodo needs him more. And so Frodo is stuck, not able to heal but also unable to leave, for he will not leave Sam alone to mourn him. Without a family surrounding him, a family only Rosie can provide, Sam will not be able to survive such a separation.

“My dear Sam,” is all the reply Frodo can manage. He hopes it is enough of an apology. To say what he is really thinking and feeling will simply take too long. Sam squeezes his hand lightly and lifts the mug to his lips again. Frodo drinks long and deep this time, and the tea has the desired effect. He breathes deeply and freely and smiles weakly. “This is good.”

“Our guests are to be thanked for that,” Sam says and only then does he acknowledge their company. 

Frodo tears his eyes away from his friend and looks to the strangers he had glanced only briefly before succumbing to his sleep. He measures the lad without alarm. Frodo has discovered that all living beings have a light of their own, whether gifted to them by Elves or no. The lad’s light is soft and serene, subtle but without shame, proud without being pompous. This is a true and loyal friend. 

The dark visitor’s light is harder to decipher. Parts of it is fragmented but not with disharmony. Rather it is as though the light had been long ago damaged and is now beginning to repair itself and become whole again. There is something familiar about the fragmented parts, something that sends a chill up his spine to explode around the base of his neck, but the rest of the light is soothing and altogether protecting.

“I’ve seen you,” Frodo says at last. He is sure of his statement, as sure as he is that Sam’s clutch around his shoulder has tightened and become more protective. Sam knows this stranger too, but he does not know from where. Frodo does, or he should.

“I saw you outside Minas Tirith,” Sauron says with a bow of his head. “I was crossing the Pelennor as you and your friends were leaving the city. I wasn’t aware that you had seen me also. I am Odolf, and this is my companion-”

“Rick,” Sam says, giving the visitors pause at his interruption. His smile is not without humor. “What can I say? Old habits die hard. I listened some while you thought I was in the kitchen. So know that we know his real name, what about yours? Who are you really?”

Frodo does not understand this other than to assume that the one named Rick used a different name when they first introduced themselves. He keeps his gaze on Sauron. “Minas Tirith,” he says and shakes his head. “That’s not how I know you. The crowd that came to see us off was too large to see beyond them to the fields.” Sam puts the tea on the table next to his own and slides his arm free, turning to position himself to better protect Frodo should the need arise. Frodo can feel the tension in his friend and he wonders at it. Sam’s suspicions must be stronger than his own. Frodo reads the tall stranger’s light again. Torn but mending. Like his own.

“You are right,” says Sauron with a sideways glance to Rick. Seems his friend will get his way after all. “We met before that for a brief time, just moments before the end of your Quest. Your friend had his doubts from the start that we are traveling minstrels and he was right to have them for minstrels we are not. This is Rick, my companion, and I am Sauron.”

“Sauron!” Sam shouts, spitting the word like he would a bad taste from his mouth. He shoots up to his feet, his sword hand itching for the feel of a hard hilt, but his sword is in the other room on the wall. He cannot draw steel unless he leaves his master’s side, and he is not about to do that while breath is still in him. 

“Peace, Sam,” Sauron says.

“What do you know of peace?” Sam says, disgust now evident in his voice. He steps forward by an inch, blocking the Maia’s view of his master.

Sauron holds up his empty hands before him, cupping them together as a peace offering. “Much more now than I ever did before. Enough to know how precious it is and why it must be protected and preserved. I wish no harm to you or your master. Besides, if I wanted to kill him, he’d already be dead.”

“Is that supposed to be reassuring?” Sam asks, incredulous.

“Well… yes,” Sauron answers, looking mildly confused.

“You’re toying with us,” Sam says. “You’d gain our trust just to torment us the more.”

“Then why tell you the truth while you still suspected him,” Rick points out. “If we lied before, it was only because we wished to save you from the shock of the truth until you were better able to handle it. No offense, but neither of you look particularly well.”

“Yet you would have told us,” Sam points out, “and he stopped you. He can’t be trusted.”

“That would depend what he wants, I suppose,” Frodo says calmly from behind Sam. He takes his friend’s near hand and tugs it, bringing Sam back a pace so he can look at Sauron. “What do you want? You require something of me?”

Sauron nods. “Yes. I need your help.”

“You have no right to be asking favors of Mr. Frodo,” Sam says, vehemence still thick in his tone.

“I agree,” Sauron says, “but Frodo is the only one who can stall the Blue Wizards long enough for me to restrain them.”

“Blue Wizards?” Sam says as understanding dawns in Frodo’s face. “I thought they disappeared and no one knew what happened to them. They’re rumored to have gone off east somewhere, but no one knows for certain.”

“I know for certain,” Sauron says. “They did go east, to Khand, the land beyond Mordor. They worked as my agents in that land, maintaining order among the locals and sending me troops as I required them. They are powerful, more so even than Gandalf the Grey, though Gandalf the White might have given them a good fight. Together they are nearly indestructible and they have rings of their own which they wield still.”

“The dreams I’ve been having,” Frodo says, nodding. “I have been seeing their deeds, their… methods of maintaining order. I can see them in my dreams because of the Ring.”

“Yes. Because of your connection to the One Ring, you are thusly connected to whomever wears the other rings, and you can see all that they do,” Sauron says, impressed with how much Frodo already guesses. 

“Why can’t you stop them yourself?” Sam asks. “You started this whole mess and now you can’t finish even it.”

“My master started it,” Sauron says. “I merely followed.”

“Then carried on once he was gone,” Sam says. “From what I understand, he wasn’t your first master, was he? You were servant to the Vala, and you turned your back on them to serve a darker lord than yourself. And he weren’t the one to make the Rings: that was you.”

Sauron nods. “You are correct in all that you say, except that it was the Elves who made the Rings of Power. I only forged the One Ring, and those given to the Blue Wizards. 

“I was wrong in my choice to betray Aulë, but I was lured away by the seduction of Melkor and his promises of power. I would have done anything for him, including be his heir in his pursuit to dominate all life. I was corrupted by him; in this I was not so fortunate to have a master as kind as yours, Sam, but that was as you mention my own doing. It was a choice poorly made, as was using the teachings of Aulë to help the Elves forge the Rings of Power. I was lost to the darkness, and it is only now that I can see how far astray I allowed myself to be led. I choose now to make amends, as I am able. I will do what I can to help your master with his dreams and memories, whether he comes or not.”

“You can stop the dreams?” Sam asks.

“I can show Frodo how to control their hold on him,” Sauron says. “I can teach him the skills he needs to work through the pains and terrors when they strike him. That is the best I can offer. I wish that I could end this myself, and leave you both out of this, but I have not the power anymore. It was taken from me when the Ring was destroyed. I have now only power of strength and will, which you both have proven to be more than enough, when needed.”

“So then you can finish this yourself,” Sam points out.

“He can’t,” Frodo says. “The Blue Wizards wouldn’t allow him to get close enough, knowing why he is there. They will kill him as soon as they spot him and their tyranny will be allowed to continue. … What must I do?”

“What?! Mr. Frodo, you can’t be serious about this,” Sam says, turning to face his master. “You’re not well and you haven’t the strength. You can’t travel, much less trust him. Who’s to say he won’t kill us once we’re on the road?”

“Why go through the trouble of taking us from the Shire when he can kill us now, and without so much talk,” Frodo reasons. Even if Sauron is still capable of lying, one’s light never deceives. None on Middle-earth have the power to alter that, and Sauron’s light tells Frodo he can trust him. He stands up on shaky legs, using Sam’s quickly offered support to remain upright. “I’ll write messages to Porto, and Merry and Pippin, to be delivered in two week’s time. That should be enough time to ensure that no one attempts to follow us, or does not catch us if they do follow. Can you keep up the ruse of my being ill that long, Sam?”

Now Sam is nearly beside himself. He looks at Frodo hard and dares to be bold. “You aren’t thinking of leaving me behind, are you, sir? Begging your pardon, but I won’t allow that. Someone has make sure that you’re getting all that you need and that you stay safe.” He glares suspiciously at Sauron as he says this last part.

“I didn’t want to speak for you,” Frodo says, relief flooding through him. “I will leave the messages with the Postmaster then. Prepare letters of your own for Rosie and your father. Then we must go at all haste. Are you staying at The Ivy Bush?” he asks his guests.

“Yes,” Rick says. “We’re camped out back.”

“In this weather?” Sam asks, concerned despite himself. The winter has been mild as far as snow is concerned but the air is still chill.

“We’re accustomed to it,” Rick reassures.

Frodo nods. “We’ll collect Bill and Strider from the stables there. I can ride when I tire of walking.”

“We have a horse,” Sauron says. “The fewer beasts we take, the better. We can buy a trap for you to lay in; you are not well enough to walk or ride for very long just yet. Besides, if you wish to leave the Shire without your friends finding out about it before your letters reach them, it would be best if you are not seen.”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam attempts to protest again, not liking the sound of this plan in the least, but Frodo stays him.

“Sam, I’ve told you of my dreams. The things that I see. It is not so different from what we returned to after the War, only it is worse. These are women and children, and old men, left defenseless by the soldiers who went to war and never returned. I cannot sit here and do nothing knowing that I can help to end the suffering of those people.”

“Then I best pack us up,” Sam says, reluctance heavy on his face and in his voice. He has his doubts still, but where Frodo goes, he will always follow. “You’ll be needing a proper meal before we’re on our way, and a bath. Sit back down and finish your tea. I’ll make the preparations.”

“And I can make second breakfast,” Rick offers. 

Sam stalls. He is hesitant enough to leave Frodo with Sauron in the presence of the boy, but to leave Frodo alone with him completely? Sauron senses this and nods. “I’ll return to the inn and see about buying a trap. Don’t rush with your preparations. It would be best to leave under cover of darkness.” He stands and leaves and only after the door closes shut behind him does Sam feel more at ease.

“Take care, Mr. Frodo. I’ll come fetch you as soon as your bath is ready,” Sam says then looks at Rick. “Then I’ll show you about the kitchen.”

“I’ll find my way around on my own. Just point me to the larder and tell me what is customary at second breakfast. It might not be as good as hobbit fare but I’ll do my best,” Rick says.

Two hours later, Sauron returns to find that Rick has saved him a plate of second breakfast. The hobbits are in the study, penning their letters. The truth is the best option but how much of the truth to tell is a debate that will keep them occupied for some time. Rick is sitting in the garden, a red book open in his lap. He looks up and grins as Sauron comes through the gate.

“I would have liked to see you as a big flaming eyeball,” Rick says.

“No you wouldn’t,” Sauron says. “Is that what I think it is?”

“It’s nearly finished, or so they tell me,” Rick says, putting the book aside with care. “Is everything ready? What are those for?” 

Sauron nods and hands Rick the tambour he brought up from their camp. “As it’ll ever be. This is to support our story that we are entertaining the Master of the Hill. We need not play anything, unless they want us to. Are they ready?”

“They need pack still. Frodo’s decided to wait until midnight to leave. He said it would be less conspicuous if he and Sam leave town on their own two feet, carrying only walking sticks and packs. Folk will think they’re just going for a walking-trip, if they’re spied. There’s a copse of trees just out of town towards Waymeet where they will meet us,” Rick says. He fingers the strings on the tambour and squints against the sunlight. “Sam gave me their swords, bundled in a blanket. The blanket is to be gift from the Master of the Hill to the master minstrel and his apprentice. Frodo didn’t want to take them but Sam insisted.”

“He’s wise to do so.”

“Frodo trusts you, but Sam doesn’t.” It’s a statement as much as a question. Both of them had been surprised by how readily Frodo agreed to accompany them. Rick hopes that his friend knows why, but Sauron merely continues to stand there.

“Sam’s going to deliver the letters to the postmaster in the late afternoon. We should probably be gone before then,” Rick says. 

Sauron nods. “Very well.”

They spend another hour or two at Bag End before returning to the inn and checking out. Geranius is disappointed; he had been hoping for a repeat of last night’s revelry. Nothing like strange folk with pretty songs to bring in business. They purchase some fare from the market and pack up their camp. Sauron takes Brego for a short ride to stretch the horse’s legs, then hitches him to the loaded trap. 

They set out as the sun begins to wan, just a few hours before sunset. About four miles out of town, they come to the copse Frodo had told Rick about. Making sure there is no one else around to see them, Sauron steers Brego off the road, and they are soon concealed by the trees. They both wonder the same thing: will the Ring-bearers actually come or will they be set upon by armed Tooks and shirriffs come nightfall? They can only wait and see. 

Night comes peacefully to the Shire, and as the moon rises over the eastern sky, they hear a rustling along the road. A few minutes later, Sam and Frodo appear. Sam’s pack is the largest and heaviest; he had not trusted his master’s strength to carry too much, not yet. Sam’s face is pinched but he hands his and Frodo’s packs to Rick all the same. He helps Frodo into the trap and settles in beside him. Once all is ready, Rick joins Sauron in the coach's seat. Sauron urges Brego to a start and they pull out of the trees and back onto the road, as prepared for their adventure as they can be.

To be continued…

GF 8/4/06