Warning- there is a whipping scene here. If this freaks you, you may want to concentrate on the pip-sam-strider bits and skip the merry scenes!
AN: First I Must thank my betas on this more than ever. This was a very hard chapter, and one that it was very important to get right. Here are some of the people that helped do it. Thanks to Eykar for earlier brainstorming and some wonderful added Frodo bits. Thanks to Celandine Goodbody for great details and other alterations that make this a better fic. Finally, Ariel added wonderful freaked!Frodo that I can’t really describe without spoiling it. Suffice to say that we all worked really hard to get Frodo’s re-entry into his mind as satisfying as we could. And I must say that I am quite proud of the Sam-Pip-Strider scene at the Inn.
Warning: Violence and mucho Frodo angst
Chapter 5 – Will o’ the Whip
The thongs tore through the air with a terrible whistle before slicing Merry’s tightened back. Straining with fear and with every nerve over-sensitized, he released a piercing scream through the gag. Pain surged through his body, radiating to his limbs and clouding his senses. Broga had descended viciously upon the smaller being, his frustration and anger expressed as brutal force. Merry gasped and clinched his fists in horrified surprise. He never imagined anything could hurt so…
“One,” counted Grimbold flatly.
Broga laughed and the whip sailed through the air again.
Pain! Worse than the first strike. Welts lifted raw across his pale back. Merry, who had vowed not to make a sound, felt screams inch around his gritted teeth. He pulled frantically on the ropes as a vague "two" was uttered behind him. How he could bear twenty-eight more of these? Another blow fell.
"Three.".
VVVVV
Clear light shone from a wide blue sky. It is near mid-day, Frodo thought. The sun is behind me.
Was he still riding? The shadows around him swayed gently but there was no sense of his own movement. They had stopped then. For a moment he pondered this, and a question formed in his mind. Who were they? He remembered hands giving him bread, guiding him as he walked and holding him as if he were a rag doll. He turned his head from the sky and images of bright green and color assaulted his eyes. Shapes moved in his line of sight but he could not make any sense of what they were doing. They sat in a clearing behind a screen of tall willows that waved gently in the breeze. The shapes recalled images from his memory. These were not hobbits. That had not occurred to him before, during the too-brief periods that he fought free of the mists. I am getting stronger, he thought.
And that, Gandalf’s remembered voice echoed, may be an encouraging thought.
Gandalf. The grey beard and bushy eyebrows smiled down from his memory. He knew Gandalf. He remembered missing him. He remembered Sam and he were on a journey somewhere that Gandalf had insisted upon. They were to meet him. Yes, that was it. They’d missed him – and then, Sam – Pippin – feeling small and frightened and alone – called back the mists. He did not want to go back to the mists. There was something important he had to do. Vital. Frodo turned his eyes and mind outward.
Rough deep voices clashed nearby. A hand gripped his shoulder. He flinched, but the touch was firm, not cruel. This one did not mean to hurt. But he had been hurt! Fear followed closely. He had been captured and hurt, badly. So badly that the very memory of the act yawned wide like a chasm beforehis mind. He dared not go into that place, for the mists would close about him again and swallow his screams.
He looked cautiously around the clearing. These were men. Frodo didn’t understand. Why was he with men? Two were by a tree, one standing, one -
A whistle and crack jerked his senses into sharp focus and he flinched. Whip. Skin-eater. He tensed at the ghastly hiss then shuddered as a muffled scream echoed after. Another crack. His back tightened and throbbed. His throat felt raw. The light began to blur as the mists rallied around him to hide the sight.
NO! Something floated on the edge of memory – a danger worse for remaining hidden. He squirmed as the memories of his body invaded his mind. This was important. He could not fall back into comforting shadow no matter what the terror.
A squeeze on his shoulder. “Ya liking it, little fella?”
Frodo started at the gruff voice. The hand on his shoulder was of a man. Three men. He heard another stifled screech. His heart lurched. Someone was suffering! Suffering as he had once suffered! Yes, he knew it well, the sound of the screams…and by the pain he could feel echoed in his memory. He inhaled raggedly. This terrible thing had been done to him. Why? By whom?
Every muscle in his body tensed with empathy. Tendrils of mist twined around him but he fought them back. He had to see! One man held a whip, another stood behind, his stance relaxed, and something white and red was before them both. Gasping, Frodo jerked forward, away from the hand on his shoulder, towards the horrible scene before him.
“Three” the relaxed man said
Another crack. Frodo lifted his hands to his eyes. They were bound again. Again? He stumbled forward but the third man stepped in front of him, blocking the grotesque tableau.
The man grinned inanely, a white spot of spittle on his lips. “Ya want to play, too?” he laughed, and moved aside so that Frodo could see the vision of horror before them.
But the mists rolled in around him, blocking his sight.
VVVVV
Broga’s voice was cheerful, spitting out jibes that failed to take form in a mind blinded by pain.
Whistle and crack. Merry bucked against his bonds and screamed as if the sound of his own voice would somehow dull the pain.
And somewhere behind him, a voice spoke the word “four.”
He’ll kill me! One cannot hurt this much and yet live! Or –
Another blow – purposefully out of sync to catch him unawares. It felt even more a violation in its randomness. Tears welled in his eyes.
“Five.”
Merry tightened his back now– waiting, waiting--vowing not to be caught unprepared again. No blow came. Seconds ticked by. He held his breath. A minute passed. He exhaled.
It came--hard, cruel, and unexpected--flat upon his unclenched, shimmering flesh. Merry bit his lip, the air hissing in as it was sucked back through his nose. Tears of pain were now cascading down his cheeks, drenching the gag.
Then it was quiet. Footsteps approached and he clenched his eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop the unseemly tears. Oh, please stop. He couldn't let Broga see him weak and trembling. But still the tears came, ceaseless, unbidden and unstoppable.
“Aw! Look at the little ‘un cry!” Merry opened his eyes to see his tormentor’s face twisted in an obscene grin.
“I’m not,” he protested weakly through his gag. His protest seemed childish, petulant to his own ears – an effect only heightened by his strained, distorted voice. As he closed his eyes again, he felt Broga’s sour breath on the side of his face.
“So you ain’t crying, yet, little maggot? Well, that can be fixed!”
Broga took his place behind Merry again. The cords sang through the air, two swipes in quick succession, tearing across his back like fingernails of fire. The brief hiatus had given his nerves time to recover so that the new pain was all the more intense. Merry arched his back and screeched until he thought his vocal chords would break.
“That's better then,” laughed Broga, and before Merry could catch his breath, the ruffian landed two more lashes on his torn back.
A shiver of agony convulsed the hobbit’s body, his sight blurring along the edges and he felt himself falling into darkness. Just as he faded from consciousness, Merry heard a shrill yet eminently familiar voice call out from behind him.
“NO!”
“Frodo,” whispered Merry softly, then slumped against the tree.
VVVVV
The light burned Frodo’s eyes.
No. Safe here. Safe.
Or was it tears?
I am not safe. I will never be safe while It remains in the Shire. I must leave my home and take It with me. Alone.
Rags of mist drew back. The man’s arm was over his shoulder now, his hand grasped Frodo’s bound wrists. Rope on flesh. A muffled scream. Frodo’s mouth sprang open. Had he not made such sorrowful sounds once long ago? Had these men whipped him as they were now whipping some other pitiful creature?
“Five.”
Another crack. His insides clenched. His breath hitched. Would it not stop?
He had begged for it to stop then too. Begged of whom? A new strike, a scream more despairing. A memory. His screams were muffled under a gag of cloth. But these were not his screams. Who is being beaten now?
The man with the whip moved aside and at that moment and Frodo saw the bloodied wretch bound to the tree before him clearly. It was another hobbit! The whip fell again. Frodo jumped in terror, the mists driven back once again. The victim sagged against his bonds.
And the words finally came. Frodo cried out, his own voice foreign to his ears. An echo, a roar, and a shattering, “NO!”
VVVVV
“Are you sure it’s the ruffian from the forest, Pip?” Sam cautiously lifted his eyes toward the stranger.
“Don’t look at him!” hissed Pippin through his teeth. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves!”
Sam turned his head toward Pippin only to find that the other hobbit had shrunk back into the shadows of their booth. He had thrown his cloak clumsily over his shoulders and was busy pulling its hood down to obscure his face.
“Pip!” said Sam in a low voice. “You ain’t fooling nobody. We’re in a crowded place with other hobbits around. I don’t think there’s nothing he can do to us here.”
Pippin refused to budge, drawing himself even deeper into the corner. Sam took a draw from his ale and glanced up at the man again through shuttered eyes. The ruffian was looking back at him as if he had guessed most of what had been said. Sam watched in muted horror as the man stood on his longshanks and stepped toward their table.
“He’s coming over!” spat Sam through his ale, his former confidence gone and beginning to wonder if Pippin had had the right idea after all. “Be quiet now! And be still!”
As the large man approached, he threw back his hood, revealing a shaggy head of dark hair peppered with grey. His face, though stern, did not seem cruel and his keen eyes held no malice, but his sheer size intimidated the hobbits. Several awkward moments had passed before Sam realized he was staring gape-mouthed and stupidly at him.
“I am called Strider,” he said in a low voice, “And very pleased to meet a hobbit of the Shire.” The man made an appraising glance at the dark form that was trying desperately to melt into the wall behind him. “Or, should I say, two hobbits of the Shire.”
Pippin slowly, fearfully, raised his head and looked out of his cowl. Strider smiled warmly at the lad, and without being asked, pulled up a chair in front of them.
“I see you recognized me from the forest, young master,” Strider said as he leaned back into his chair. “I recognized you as well. Let me take this opportunity to apologize. I did not mean to frighten you – then or now.”
“Well then!” said Sam sharply. “You come over to do what you set out to do, and now it’s done. So unless you have more business that concerns us, I suggest you go back to your corner and go a-staring at someone else!”
Strider laughed richly but made no signs of taking his leave. “Master hobbit, I very well may have more business that concerns you, a good deal more, in fact.” He turned to Pippin and said, “I should like a quiet word with you, Mr. Underhill.”
“What about,” asked Pippin, alarmed.
“A matter of some importance to us both,” answered Strider looking him straight in the eye. “And you may hear something to your advantage.”
“Now wait just a minute!” blurted out Sam, emboldened by his drink. “You come over here looking wild as bramble, after admitting that you spied on us about in the woods, and now you’re acting like we ought to trust you. Let me ask you, Mr. Strider – if that’s even your real name – what can you possibly know about our business?”
Strider gave a wry smile and leaned across the table, watching with amusement as both hobbits now pressed themselves into the wall behind them.
“I know what you seek here,” he began. “At least part of your errand.” Strider's eyes bored into Pippin's. "Mr. Baggins." Turning to Sam, he continued, “And I know, whatever your name may be, it is most certainly not Fredegar Bolger!”
VVVVV
Above all, there was pain. As consciousness returned, Merry’s ears registered a gobbled patchwork of sounds and voices.
“Hey, the little fella talked! Did’ya hear him?”
“He’s still tetched.” Broga’s sneering voice.
The gag was gone. Something poked at Merry’s mouth. Waterskin.
“Frodo?” he croaked.
“Behind you. Drink.”
Merry drank greedily. The water was delightfully cool but did nothing to douse the fire on his back.
“No.” Grimbold snapped. “You can’t start over. Wait until he rouses.”
Broga’s hated face loomed into view.
Merry screwed his eyes closed
“C’mon,” Scur’s grating voice coaxed, “Do something again. Say ‘no’, imp. Show ‘im!”
“Yer hearing things, Scur.”
“I ain’t! Hey! Now he’s upset. Look at 'im!”
Frodo!
Panicked, Merry choked and jerked his head away as he tried to turn and see. Grimbold grabbed his chin and ordered, “Drink.”
He clumsily gulped the water down.
“He don’t like watching. Do ya, imp? I tell ya, Broga, ya don’t know how ta treat him.”
“Yer been around the sod too long, Scur. Getting tetched as he is.”
The other ruffian snorted. “C’mon, little fella.”
Back at the tree, Merry turned his smarting eyes up to see Grimbold’s hazy face.
“Done?” he asked breathlessly.
Grimbold pulled Merry’s hair, steadying his head as he raised the gag back into place. "Breathe,” he commanded, and then disappeared from Merry’s sight.
VVVVV
Sam and Pippin sat uneasily by the parlor fire in their own rooms. They stared up at the big man, his large frame, if anything, amplified by the room’s low-set windows and the glow of the flames. Strider had not said his piece and both hobbits secretly wondered if it had been wise allowing him into their private quarters.
Butterbur, certainly, had given them a warning look as he bid Nob to show the “little masters” to their rooms in the North Wing.
Strider had followed them inside and given the fire a stoke for good measure. Then he pressed a coin into Nob's hand and quickly escorted him out, locking the door behind him. Sam fingered the warm metal in his pocket as he sized up the strange man. He felt his own muscles tense as the ranger reached underneath his cloak, but they relaxed when the man drew out nothing more sinister than a pipe.
Strider smiled wryly as he lit it up, as if he had anticipated their reaction. This piqued Sam and goaded him to speak.
“Well, who are you then?”
“I am called Strider,” said the man in a non-confrontational tone.
“You said that!” answered Sam. “But that don’t really tell us nothing! How do you know about our doings?”
“I will tell you what I know, and I will tell you how I came to know it,” answered Strider. “And I will give you some good advice as well – but I shall want a reward.”
“Hoy! So that’s your game, villain!” Sam stood, face red with exasperation at being lured in by a rascal. “Reward yourself all you like!” he snarled, drawing out his dagger and pointing it shakily at the man. “As long as it’s on the other side of that door! Now get– this ain’t no laughing matter!”
Strider closeted a chuckle behind his teeth, letting the corners of his mouth slide into a slow but somber smile.
“I do not mock you, young sir,” he said. “Though your well-considered caution would have served you better a few hours ago.”
“What do you mean?” asked Pippin, finally breaking out of his terrified silence. “And what do you want from us?”
“To your second question – no more than you can afford. I shall name my price after I have named my purpose.”
“Which is?” asked Sam, stepping back but still not sheathing his weapon.
Strider went to the door, pulled out the bolt and opened it quickly, and satisfying himself that they were alone, shut it quietly and locked it again before sitting down. Sam and Pippin’s eyes were riveted on him.
“I was behind the hedge this evening near the gatekeeper when I saw two hobbits approach, one of which was the one I’d frightened in the wood.”
“So you spied!” cried Sam, indignant.
“Perhaps,” answered Strider gravely. “But I believe you will appreciate my reasons for doing so.”
Sam snorted.
“My curiosity about these hobbits had already been piqued the night before by poor Mr. Baggins, here. He was much more frightened by a big man than he ought to be, and he was traveling a road very seldom traveled these days by Shire hobbits. These facts alone told me that this hobbit and his companion were on a journey of – if not some peril, at least of some urgency. So I followed them.”
Sam and Pippin swapped conspiratorial glances, remembering the unmistakable feeling of being watched that last leg of their ride to Bree.
“So you followed us,” growled Sam. “And then you spied!”
“I did,” answered Strider without apology. “I need not repeat all you said to the gatekeeper, but one thing interested me. The hobbit I had seen in the woods introduced himself as Mr. Underhill.”
“If you are trying to get us to trust you, you ain’t doing a very good job of it!” blurted Sam, growing impatient. “Why should that name mean a whit to you?”
“Well answered!” said Strider laughing unexpectedly. “But the explanation is simple. I was sent to look for a Shire-hobbit named Frodo Baggins who I was told might be going by the name of Underhill. I had to find him quickly if he yet lived." Strider looked across at Pippin, his eyes suddenly serious as a gathering storm. His voice dropped. I had learned he was carrying something out of the Shire that concerned me and my friends.”
Sam felt the blood drain from his face and realized suddenly that his right hand had drifted from the hilt of his dagger back to the Ring in his pocket. The man was hinting much too close to the truth and was sounding more like a ruffian by the second. He caressed the smooth, golden surface as something in his head told him to beware, the ranger was evil.
“You said you were sent,” said Pippin, his curiosity at last triumphing over his fear, his voice taking on an air of authority. “By whom?”
“By the one you seek!” he said. “Gandalf the Grey!”
“Gandalf!” cried both hobbits in unison.
“Where is he?” blurted Pippin.
“In Rivendell,” answered Strider. “At least as far as I know. I was given the information second hand by one of the fair folk.” Strider turned to Sam. “Which is also where I got my other piece of valuable information, one that positively gave your identities away.”
“What?” asked Pippin.
“When you gave your friend’s name as Fredegar Bolger, I knew my suspicions had hit their mark.”
Sam gave Pippin a dark look, then, thinking better of it, faced the stranger. “So tell us. What makes you think I’m not Fredegar?”
“Because,” said Strider with a wry smile. “Fredegar Bolger is also in Rivendell.”
VVVVV
Merry heard the faint hiss of ropes sailing through the air, then felt an explosion of sheer, intense pain as Broga began again.
His body jerked, but he did not scream this time. He was beyond that now. Instead, as pain was piled atop of pain, and his nerve endings began to shut down, Merry focused his thoughts upon Frodo. Frodo had spoken with his own voice – had he not? Had the sound been real or another phantasm of his pain-numbed mind.
Another stroke, and Merry again felt the air propelled from his lungs into his spit and tear-soaked gag. He fought to regain control, to remain silent, if only for the benefit of his cousin. The sound of that familiar much-missed voice had imbued Merry with some strength, yet with every stroke, he felt even it failing.
The blows ceased and, opening his eyes, Merry again found himself looking into Grimbold’s face. His vision was glassy, a swirl of unreality permeating his mind.
“Yes, he is awake now,” said Grimbold, and Merry understood then that he had again passed out. The ruffian leader moved his hand, side-to-side across Merry’s vision, as if to make sure his open eyes were not a death stare.
A hope in mind, Merry forced his eyes to focus enough to ask and implore in a voiceless plea. Grimbold again shook his head in answer.
"No," he said. "Nineteen."
Merry closed his eyes in despair. And this time he truly cried.
VVVVV
“Fatty!” exclaimed Sam incredulously. “Alive?”
“And lucky to be so,” answered Strider. “I see you have some knowledge of his peril.”
“Why would Fatty go to Rivendell?" asked Pippin. “That was never part of the plan!”
Sam shot Pippin a warning look.
“The better question would be how he managed to end up abandoned on the road so far from home, and in the condition he was in.”
“Condition?” asked Pippin.
“Nearly on death’s own door. The Black Breath,” the man said, as if that explained things.
“And how do you know this?” asked Sam suspiciously.
“Because I found him,” answered Strider grimly, "thinking he was Frodo Baggins. He was lying by the East-West road less than thirty leagues from Rivendell -- like he'd been tossed down and left for dead – no doubt a victim of some mischief. He held onto life but by a thread. If I had not hastened to Rivendell, he would have perished.
"I knew he was a hobbit was of some importance; since both rangers and elves were told to be on watch for any of your kind venturing east of Bree. We were to take them to Rivendell immediately, be they dead, alive, or in any condition in between. I was quick enough to save him, but matters were not yet well. Gandalf had not arrived and, as it turned out, this hobbit was not Frodo Baggins." Strider glanced briefly up at Pippin, who looked terrified.
“I could only assume the horsemen had mistaken him for you and jettisoned him when he was found out." Strider let out his breath in a long sigh. "It is a fortunate thing, Mr. Baggins, that they did not take you and your burden--a very fortunate thing, not only for yourself but for all of Middle Earth.”
Pippin felt a shiver course down his back as the stranger’s eyes again pierced his own. The room shrank around him and the air grew colder on his skin. He was certain the shadows in the corners had stretched their claws out towards him, across the wooden floor.
“Still,” continued Strider, oblivious to the hobbit's discomfort, “Mr. Bolger's condition was dire. Contact with these black horsemen, exposure to the 'Black Breath', will make the stoutest heart wither, body and soul. I do not jest when I say your friend was extraordinarily lucky.”
“Black horsemen!” cried Pippin. “We encountered black horsemen on the road to Buckland. They sniffed at us, then rode like the wind toward the Brandywine. They were terrible! Please, what are they? What do they want?”
“What they are, you dare not know. And do not play the innocent, Mr. Baggins. What they want is what you bear. They will seize both and bring you to their master.”
“Their master?” cried Pippin, he voice going up an octave.
“The dark lord, Sauron,” said Aragorn, his own voice as cold and hard as hailstones. “In Mordor.”
Pippin's face suddenly took on an ashen quality as the import of that name sank into his brain. Even he had heard of Mordor.
“When did you last see these horsemen?” asked Strider pressing on.
“Not for weeks,” the young hobbit answered softly, his stomach churning in fear.
‘Do not expect your luck to hold.”
“What do you mean?” Pippin could not see how the news could possibly become any worse.
Sam frowned and, feeling a bit protective of the rapidly paling Took, took Pippin's arm and pulled him into his chair. He turned to Strider.
"Now that's quite enough of your fancy tales and such." He sat down heavily next to Pippin, thinking of the Thing warming and buzzing like a swarm of wasps in his own pocket. He inhaled raggedly. "Now look what you done to the lad."
“When I reached Rivendell,” continued Strider, still ignoring any hobbit comments, “I was informed that five of the horsemen had approached Imladris as far as the Ford. They were washed away by the arts of Lord Elrond, though they were merely unhorsed, they are not vanquished. That leaves four horsemen unaccounted for, and five who, no doubt, will find mounts again. They cannot be killed by the hands of man…"
"Now that is quite enough." Infuriated at the man's insensitivity, Sam started to stand but the look on Strider's face threw him back into his chair again.
"They will never stop hunting you.” He said it matter-of-factly.
Pippin's arm was trembling, though, to the lad's credit, the only other evidence of his terror was the fact that every last drop of color had drained from his face.
“What’s your point in telling us your bogey stories?” he snarled, lightly rubbing Pippin's back. “To what end other than to make us witless with fright? You promised to say something to our advantage – so when do that “advantage” start?”
Strider could not suppress a smile.
“It ain’t a smiling matter!”
“You mistake me,” said Strider. “You cannot know of my relief to find Mr. Baggins here alive and whole, it was beyond all hope. The danger was so deep, we assumed the powers of darkness had outstripped our efforts."
Sam stared at him while Pippin gingerly raised his head.
"These terrors I describe have surrounded you all along, whether you knew it or not; and yet here you are! Perhaps Mr. Baggins has survived," Strider's features softened somewhat as he looked directly at Sam. "In no small measure due to the loyal protection of his servant.”
Sam glared at him sideways, wary of the well-aimed compliment. “Well then,” he grumbled, relenting slightly. “Do you mean to scare us, or to help us?”
“I mean to accompany you.”
Sam shot him a challenging look then, getting no reaction, turned to Pippin. Much to Sam’s chagrin, the young hobbit was sizing up the man appreciatively, as if he did not think this was a half-bad offer.
“Begging your pardon,” cried Sam, “but what makes you think we would want the likes of you tagging along?”
“Because you will not reach your destination without me. I can take you on paths seldom trodden."
"Where you can corner us in the wild," Sam shot back, his fingers once again having found their way around the Ring. "And then sell us to those riders for a pretty price? Well thank-you-very-much but I wern't born yesterday. No and NO!”
Strider sighed, showing his exasperation for the first time. “I am, my dear hobbit, much more than the ragged traveler you see before you.” He stood suddenly, more dark and imposing than ever. “If I wanted your Ring, I could have it – NOW. And I could dispatch you at will with much less talk.” Strider laid his hand on his sword as the two hobbits stared at him terrorstruck.
“From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
The crownless again shall be king.”
“Those words, my friends, are ancient and attached to me. For I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor.” Strider drew out his sword. True to the verse, it was broken a foot below the hilt. “And this is the blade that was broken. But the time will come when it will be forged anew.”
“A king!” snorted Sam incredulously, tightening his grip on Pippin. “A king?! I think we’ve had enough of this game! You crawl out of the wild chanting a poem you made up about yourself and swinging about your half-sword! And that is supposed to convince us? We may be small, sir, but we ain’t fools! Anyone knows a proper king could get his sword fixed double-quick! You take your nursery rhyme, your broke sword, your big tales and be off!” And turning to Pippin, he said, “Come, Pip! We have a long day tomorrow!”
“Pip?” replied Strider harshly.
Sam blanched, immediately realizing his folly. Strider advanced on Pippin, setting his enormous hands on the hobbit's small shoulders. Pippin stared up, his green eyes wide with fear.
“Tell me, young sir,” said Strider solemnly. “And this is of dire importance. Are you or are you not the Ringbearer?”
VVVVV
The final blows felt like hot coals being slammed across Merry’s back. Yet he was too weary to scream, too numbed to cry. One moment he was terrified he would die, the next moment he was terrified he would not. Nothing in his sheltered life had prepared him for such total misery.
Yet throughout it all, one thought persisted, one strength that his heritage had engrained within him. I must live through this. It’s up to me to get both of us out of here.
Fast heavy footsteps pounded and voices collided: Scur’s anxious “Hey!” - Grimbold’s angry, “Get him away from here!” Sounds of scuffling and thrashing came from behind. Then there came a wail of such abject horror, betrayal and anger that it would have stirred Merry to fight had he an ounce of strength left in him.
VVVVV
Frodo felt as if the world had just lurched in an odd way that had nothing to do with the reality he was beginning to make some sense of. Colors flashed in front of his eyes, green, white, shining flesh crisscrossed with wide red marks, brown. He held out his bound hands to steady himself and closed them, confused.
"Blasted idiots," muttered a hoarse voice beside him. "They don't know 'bout how to handle you fellas. Just gotta have a touch, that's all."
A hand descended on his shoulder, guiding him away from the scene in the meadow, and Frodo stumbled, surprised. He could not just turn away! Confusion still governed him but he knew that he could not leave a countryman in the grips of such torment. He jerked his shoulder away and stumbled back towards the scene, determined to put a stop to this madness somehow.
Blood, sweat matted curls, arms stretched around the bole of a tree. Frodo felt the eerie lurching sensation return and for a moment he was the one bound, watching a dark figure with a whip. The whip came down again and the other man, the one who did not have a whip, shouted at the first man to stop. Frodo blinked, once again the spectator. The second man went to the wretched figure bound to the tree and tipped his head back to peer into his eyes.
As the face of the whipped hobbit became visible, a roaring sound began in Frodo’s ears. He knew this face! It had once been dear to him! But in that split second of recognition, another image came to him; that of rough bark against his face, arms pulled taut and his back split with an agony that wiped out all thought. Suddenly, he was the one bound to the tree and the face looking into his, filled with a maniacal, zealous light, was none other than….
NO! This time Frodo’s scream was silent. Desperately, the mists clawed at him, tried to envelop his mind, hide his consciousness from this sight that he knew with horrible certainty was true, but they were losing their power. Whatever had once cloaked his thoughts, kept his mind captive, sheltered him from these memories, was gone and while its loss left behind an aching need, it left his will free to, at last, leap forth, frantic and defiant. But with freedom came a terrible price. Shards of memory the mists had fervently buried laced into him as they returned. Pain. Agony. Hopelessness. They were only snatches, impressions, moments, yet they racked him tortuously as his body was forced to relive them.
“Hey!”
The voice beside him sounded alarmed, but Frodo did not heed him. His back arched, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. He felt the hands on him again and this time he was able to answer them with desperate terror. He jerked back in rigid shock, slamming hard into the arm that held him and swinging his bound hands towards his captor. He connected with something that made a wet, surprised grunt and the arm let him go. He drove his feet into the ground and rammed his shoulder against the man. There was no thought in his mind now but to stop the pain. He was animal, wild and terrified, and the remembered agony lent fury to his attack. He arched his back again, struggling like a mad thing, but with his hands bound, he could not keep his balance, and pitched into the surprised man. Now the hands were not so gentle. He was grabbed and held tightly against the man’s torso with one meaty arm while the other pressed Frodo’s head firmly into the man’s shoulder. He was subdued! He couldn’t stop them! The screaming echoed in his mind as the feel of rope against his hands filled him with terror, rage and agony. His name was being called with terrified concern. Though the voice was muffled, Frodo recognized it. Him. The feeling of impotent rage suddenly coalesced and it was no longer directed at the men around him. Fury filled him and it found its target. Him. He had done this to him. If there had ever been love in his heart for the owner of that voice, it was suddenly and brutally gone. In its place was an animal hatred the like of which the gentlehobbit Frodo had never felt before in his life.
He kicked his legs, the only things he could still move, as hard as he could, rocking his captor and connecting with several vicious blows before the man got one leg over his to subdue them. He bucked furiously against the man’s body. There was only one thing left he could do, and so he did it.
He screamed.
VVVVV
Merry cried out Frodo’s name through the gag, even as another blow savaged his back. More sounds of struggle. More cries. Something was happening with Frodo! Grimbold calling for Scur to “take him away, get him out of here!”
VVVVV
There were no more mists. Through a blood red haze, Frodo felt himself being lifted and carried. He continued to struggle, but his mind was reeling. Merry! He couldn’t hate Merry! But he did, suddenly and totally. He could remember but snatches of the torment in Crickhollow, but it was enough. Merry had beaten him, robbed him of… What? The hatred made it impossible to think. All he could feel were the emotions piling up on top of agony. He couldn't hate Merry and yet the fury made anything else impossible. His feet were being bound again and the terror of ropes replaced even that. He felt his mind lurching sickeningly, but there was no comforting mist to fall into this time – only red and black and fear. His body began to buck more wildly and he stopped even trying to control it. The pain of memory, of hatred, of betrayal and the all-consuming loss, filled him as his now bound body convulsed wildly against the ground. There was no escape from these revelations except in the frantic struggle and no escape from that until his strength was gone. He aimed for the total oblivion of exhaustion and fought on.
VVVVV
“Stop.”
The blows ceased and his world for a moment went quiet and black. Merry's rapid breaths told him that he still lived although his legs had long since refused him support. He hung from the tree in a heap, the ropes cutting into his wrists and calves. Liquid warmth from his own blood slid down his back like the answer to a prayer. With his last breaths, Merry gasped out Frodo’s name, although the inarticulate sounds were understood only by his own ears…and perhaps those of one other.
The approach of steps.
“He’s done.” Grimbold’s voice was grim.
“I got five more!”
“He’s done, I said.”
“One more.”
“Bring me a pot of water and the salt.”
“Don’t tell me we’re gonna waste our salt on the ratling!”
“I’ll not have his wheals go bad,” said Grimbold. “You got your flogging. This is part of it. If you stop caterwalling, I’ll let you apply it.”
There was silence for a moment.
“As ye say,” Broga answered sounding far too pleased.
VVVVV
“Don’t say nothing!" bristled Sam. We don’t owe him a thing!”
Strider did not release his hold of the trembling hobbit, not of his hands, and not of his eyes. “Tell me whether or not you are Frodo Baggins. Speak quickly! We have little time!”
Pippin started, but made no move to escape; however Sam stood and reached for his dagger. He found a blade of steel at this throat before he could lift it.
“The broken sword is my heirloom,” said Strider. “It is not my only weapon. You are outsized and outmatched. Sit down now, good hobbit, and tell Strider the truth.”
“You threaten us then, villain!” cried Sam, raising his hands defensively.
“I do not threaten. I advise,” said Strider darkly. He sheathed his sword. “But forces beyond your wildest imagination align against you, and all my scary stories, as you call them, will come to pass--and worse--if you continue to hide the truth from the one person in Bree who can help you!”
“Sam--?” began Pippin, almost pleadingly.
“NO! I don’t trust Big Folk!” bellowed Sam, his hand cupped in his pocket. “He might be one of them.”
“He might well be a ruffian,” answered Pippin, coughing a bit, his color returning. “And he might be able to help us rescue Frodo!”
Strider drew Pippin even closer. “So you are not Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer."
Pippin's eyes looked up at Strider's, finding somewhere deep inside them, something to trust.
"No,” he said, coughing a few times more. "My name is Peregrin Took Frodo Baggins is my cousin.
"And you were trying to rescue Frodo?” Strider asked sternly, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “From what? Speak if you have any love for your friend!”
“From the big men!” cried Pippin.
“Pippin!”
Pippin twisted his neck to face Sam, his eyes ablaze with fear and fury. “I’m going to tell him, Sam! We’ve got no choice! We can’t do this alone!”
Sam fumed, but stayed silent. Pippin turned back to Strider and let the words pour out of him as fast as they would come.
“The men took them two days ago,” he began. “Frodo and my other cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck, son and heir to the Master of Buckland. There were three of them, ugly and big. They terrorized every smial on the road before they found us. They took Frodo and Merry captive and bound them with cords. Then they rode off into the distance before we could give chase.”
“They were not black riders then?” asked Strider.
“No. Men. Bad men, but not like the riders.”
Strider sighed and closed his eyes, as if in deep relief. “That is good, if good it can be called. Ruffians can be subdued by normal means. Black Riders are another matter. Which direction did they ride?”
“South,” said Pippin. “I think. But that does not mean much. We lost their trail before we even got to the East-West Road. They seemed to know my cousins’ business--at least part of it--where they were from or where they were headed, I don’t know!”
Strider nodded, then lowered himself on his haunches to put himself on Pippin’s eye level. “Pippin,” he said. “Is that your real name?”
“It is. I am Peregrin Took - son of Paladin and heir to the Thain," he said without any pretense at the lofty title. "And this is Samwise Gamgee. He is, or was, in Frodo’s service.”
“Am,” said Sam firmly. “I still am in Mr. Frodo’s service and if you mean ill toward my master, well you’ll have to get through me!”
“You are not a river I’d choose to cross,” said Strider, a gentle smile softening his features. “Now Master Samwise, Master Peregrin, you must tell me anything, anything at all you remember about these men. Did you hear any words they spoke? Did they wear any livery? Could you spot any insignia of any kind on their clothing, on their horses, on any armor they might have worn? I know many peoples and many wide lands through Middle Earth, and with the right kind of clues, will be able to tell you where your friends are destined.”
“I heard one of them tell of a missed appointment,” said Sam. “I couldn’t make no sense of it.”
“One,” said Pippin hesitantly, “wore a black tunic over his chain mail. It had some white on it, in the shape of a palm…of a hand, I think.”
Strider stood resolutely. The hobbits’ eyes were pinned upon him hopefully. “Your friends,” said Strider calmly, “are being taken to Saruman.”
“Where is Saruman?” asked Pippin.
“Not where – who. He is a wizard, once on the White Council with Gandalf, and now, I fear, turned to evil. The answer to “where” is Isengard, a great tower leagues upon leagues to the south down the Greenway. The great distance is a boon – it gives us hope to catch up. And we must catch up if we hope to prevent a doom you can not even begin to imagine.”
Strider turned briskly toward the door, his long cloak swishing over his boots as he walked. “Get some sleep, young hobbits, for we leave early on the morrow.” Strider set his hand on the doorknob and turned his head one last time. “Fear not, Sam and Peregrin. Despite my rascally appearance, I am as I say. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn – and if by my life or death I can save the Ringbearer, I will.”
VVVVV
Merry faded into the embrace of his agony, closing his eyes and wishing the pain down. An unknown amount of time passed before he felt warm water being poured over his back, the liquid invading every cut. Grimbold patted off the remaining blood with a damp cloth using the quick efficacious motions that seemed to define the man.
“This next bit will hurt,” warned Grimbold curtly. “But it will keep the wounds from going sour. I’ll ungag you afterwards.”
Merry didn’t have the strength left to even nod. The ropes attaching his wrists to the tree slackened and he dropped his arms, his cheek still pressed against the bark. Spears of pain shot through his shoulders and his back with the change in position. Merry felt himself totter, felt two hands lower him carefully onto his belly in the grass. His useless legs were bound at the ankles and as Grimbold pulled Merry’s hands above him, he bit on his gag, wondering vaguely if any more pain was possible. He closed his eyes, not knowing or caring what would happen next. Grimbold tightened his grip upon his wrists, holding him down.
A cruel voice above him. “Time you get your medicine!”
Merry twisted his head slightly back to see Broga sprinkling an unknown white powder down from his palms. The salt descended across his battered back like a fiery rain ripping apart the last vestige of his being. Even the whipping had not equaled this. The hobbit screeched and bucked against Grimbold’s iron hold, his senses stretched to their limit and his mind no longer his own. Meriadoc Brandybuck did not exist and the pitiful creature who tore out his throat now writhed and withered and screamed and screamed until no thought or identity was possible. And somewhere deep inside that mind, something changed forever.
TBC
VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV.