Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.    

Merry's Errand

Chapter 1

The sharp crack of hatchet against wood roused Frodo, as Merry had feared it would. There was little he could do to muffle the sound; if they were to have a fire, they must have wood. Worn beyond words, the hobbits were making camp in a small dark hollow, some nameless place well off the road between Weathertop and Rivendell. Strider was off scouting the area; Merry knew he feared that pursuit was close on their heels. But they could go no farther tonight.

Miles had passed beneath their weary feet; hobbits, Ranger and pony, day after exhausting day, yet seemingly bringing them no closer to the safety and surety of Elrond Halfelven’s home. How much longer until they could rest without fear, until Frodo could pass the burden of the Ring on to more competent hands? Even Strider, mighty fighter and hunter of all evil things, was no match for the minions of Sauron that came hard behind them. What hope did four hobbits from the Shire and a single Ranger have against the devouring evil and spite of the Great Enemy?

And Frodo’s wound was slowing them, the constant pain of his unhealing shoulder the cause of desperate anxiety for his friends and kinsmen. The splinter left in the wound from the Black Rider’s evil knife had injured more than his cousin’s shoulder; it had wounded the heart of their small company.

The night was already bitterly cold. Sam was unpacking his cooking gear from the pony, hanging the kettle to boil over the small fire Strider had kindled before leaving them. No, Merry thought, Aragorn. He has told us his proper name is Aragorn, not what the ignorant Bree villagers call him. He is our guide and friend, and his name is Aragorn.

Aragorn had lifted Frodo off the pony, laying him half-upright against their piled packs, and he and Pippin had covered him with all of their blankets. Frodo kept sliding in and out of wakefulness, and Merry was glad he had at least some escape from the pain. Gathering up the remaining boughs, Merry moved over and knelt next to his cousin, continuing his work of splintering branches with his small hatchet. He deftly stripped the twigs from the kindling and piled them carefully aside.

"Hullo, Frodo," Merry said softly. "I'm going to build up the fire so you won't be cold. There isn't much wood about so I'll have to go foraging. We can at least have a decent fire tonight; Aragorn says we are down far enough in this hollow that it won’t be seen."

Pippin sat on Frodo’s other side, cutting up potatoes. At his movement, Pippin eyed him worriedly and asked, "How are you, Frodo? Look, Sam is making supper. We’ll have hot stew and sausages before you know it."

Frodo slid away again before he could remember how to answer. When next he became aware, he saw that Aragorn had returned. He had gathered Sam and Pippin to him on the far side of the fire. They were whispering urgently together and staring out into the dark. Pippin was shaking his head and seemed distraught. Frodo cast his eyes around the small camp, missing something familiar … important. The stew bubbled in its pot, and the sausages had been pulled from the flames and laid on hot coals. For a moment Frodo could not identify what was lacking, then did. Merry. Where was Merry?

* * *
Merry, at that moment, was wondering the same thing. Firewood was hard to come by and he had been forced to seek beyond sight of the hollow. The moon’s light was faint and weak, hidden behind a layer of cloud, and did not illuminate the ground enough for easy foraging. What he thought were sticks were more often merely shadows on the ground, drawing him farther and farther and farther from their campsite.

"Brandybucks," Merry told himself firmly, "do not get lost. I grew up next to the Old Forest. I know every tree and path in Buckland and a good part of the Shire. I am not lost!" Meriadoc turned himself in a complete circle. Despite his adamant denial, he was no longer certain which way he had come. He could see nothing of his companions’ fire, could hear no murmured voices, smell no smoke. He longed to cry out for aid, but memory of what they fled before was never far from his thoughts and he would not risk drawing their pursuers to them.

He cast his small armful of wood to the forest floor and sat down in the shadow of a great old tree, heedless of yet more damage to his breeches and fine yellow waistcoat. How long he sat, he did not know. His legs ached and he was desperately hungry. Supper would be ready now, and Frodo would be needing the additional wood for warmth. Aragorn had said his cousin must not get cold. Stupid! Merry thought to himself, how could I get lost now? What does Sam call himself? Ninnyhammer! Pippin will be right in whatever name he chooses to call me!

Merry drew his knees up to his chest and pulled his cloak about him. Now that he was not moving, the cold seemed to seep up from the forest floor into his bones. He hoped that Aragorn would soon grow tired of waiting and come seek him. When lost, he had been taught as a very young hobbit, plant yourself somewhere safe and wait for help to find you. The moon climbed farther up into the sky, casting his unhelpful, cloud-obscured light before him. Despite the cold, Merry was nodding towards sleep when a sharp snap startled him into full wakefulness. Heart pounding fit to burst his chest, he huddled deeper into his cloak and listened.

At first he heard nothing. Then faintly, he began to hear soft shuffling steps, such as Men make when trying for silence. Slurring cloth came to his ears, quiet inhaled breaths, branches turned carefully aside. Merry’s tree sheltered in the shadows of a small glade; looking about him, he could see no safer refuge. He pressed himself deeper between the tree roots and pulled his hood over his face, making certain his legs and feet were covered by the cloak so that their fairness would not betray him in the gloom.

The soft sounds were coming closer. What noise they make! thought Merry. The Big People cannot move as hobbits do. I can track them by sound, if not sight. Scarcely had he made sure of his place when several tall shapes entered the small clearing, moonlight glinting on drawn swords. Yes, Men. He counted six, four of them almost twice his own size.

The foremost of the men summoned them with a hiss, and they gathered round him. Tall, yes, and ill favored; their clothes ragged and faces and hair dirty and unkempt. They stood not a stone’s throw from where Merry crouched among the tree roots. When the leader began to speak, Merry could hear him clearly.

"All right, lads," the man said softly. "We may have lost them but they can’t be far. Ferny says they turned north off the Bree road, and after that, they just disappeared into the Wild. We were lucky to have come across their trail. If we separate and search, we should have them before dawn."

Merry’s slim hope that this ill-favored party had nothing to do with his friends and him vanished. Brigands, beyond a doubt. He wondered if Aragorn had feared pursuit by others than Black Riders. Flight from the terror behind, he suspected, had blinded them to danger from the sides.

One of the shadows pushed its way to the front. As the figure turned in the dim moonlight, Merry saw it was the squint-eyed Southerner whom Frodo had called more than half an orc. The one Aragorn said had left The Prancing Pony so quickly with Bill Ferny, after Frodo’s public misadventure with the Ring.Merry felt an irrational rage sweep through him, and had to force calm upon himself enough to listen. "The hurt one is the one I want. The one that can’t walk and rides the pony. The others you may kill or sport with as you please. To the one who brings me the injured hobbit … this." Squint-Eye (as Merry named him in his mind) held up a worn leather purse, and even from his hiding place, Merry could see the weight of it. The men shifted and licked theirlips.

The leader of the men nodded. "Unburden yourselves of all not needed for the hunt. We can rest and sup when our work is done. Go warily. The little folk may not be a threat, but that Ranger is. Kill him first."

Merry watched them drop their packs and pull from them a formidable array of weapons. Already armed with swords, each chose a knife, club or short spear. Then the men turned and melted back into the woods.

Merry struggled to remain calm. Haring off into the under-brush, in no certain direction, would not help his friends. Think! When he could no longer hear their soft passage, Merry gathered himself and ran out into the glade. He tugged their packs into a mound and using the flint and tinder in his pocket, set each bedroll afire. The flames spread quickly to the rest of the packs.

A far-off yell informed him that his work had been noticed. He snatched up several packets of food discovered during his efforts and ran back beyond the light of the flames. Crashing sounds erupted from several directions. The flames were licking higher and hotter, igniting the dry grasses around the pyre. A man leapt into the clearing, stared at the fire for a moment, then swore as he tried to snatch a pack back from the general destruction. Within moments all of the six had returned; stamping on the flames, shouting, calling to each other for water and swearing. Merry crouched in the darkness and enjoyed the sight immensely.

He should have slipped away then, in the general confusion. Instead, he stayed to watch. Too long—a heartbeat later, a hand of iron closed upon his shoulder and slammed him face-first against the tree. His own small cry was lost in the bray of triumph of his captor. He was dragged out into the circle of light and thrown to the ground. As he levered himself up on his arms, he saw that his captor was the leader of the brigands.

"What do we have here, then," the man snarled softly. "A spy, a sneaking little fire-lighter? You’ll be sorry you found us, you little rat. We’ll take our dinner out of your filthy little hide!"

Merry looked up through a forest of legs. The men encircled him, cutting off any possibility of escape.

"It seems part of your work is done for you," his captor hissed softly. The surrounding men chuckled evilly.

Merry was turned to face the dying flames of his fire and Squint-Eye peered into his face. "Not that one, blast it," he muttered. "But one of his companions, and worth something for that."

"At least we can have some fun to make up for the loss of our beds and dinner," said the leader. "After we’ve got the others, that is. I’m sure this little rat will save us some time and tell us where they are … if’n we ask him the right way." At the leader’s nod, Squint-Eye reached down and wrenched Merry’s sword from his sword belt. The creature strode to the dying flames and laid the blade down in the yellow heart of the fire. The evil chuckles from the watching men made Merry’s stomach lurch with fear but did nothing to lessen his resolve not to say anything that might betray his friends.

Merry writhed in the man’s grasp as he tightened his hold, crushing small shoulder bones together with enough force to pull the hobbit off his feet and dangle him for a moment in the air. He stifled a cry, not wanting to give them any satisfaction. "Don’t know where they are," he gasped. "I was gathering fire wood, and got lost." A moment later, he regretted that he had not just chosen a direction and sent them there; the chances of it being the right one were small.

"I’m sure we can get a better answer out of you than that," returned Squint-Eye. "Bring him closer to the fire!"

Merry was dragged to the smoldering remains of his handiwork. Briefly, he considered telling them of the food packets hidden in the tree roots, then discarded the idea. Simply returning their food would gain him no clemency. The leader forced him to his knees before the sullenly flickering flames. Another tall man knelt behind Merry and grabbed him by his curly hair, forcing his head back while gripping both small wrists tightly in his other hand. A third crouched beside him and unfastened his cloak, then jacket and waistcoat, tearing them off roughly. Last went his shirt. Stripped to the waist, Merry shivered with cold and fear.

"A little inducement to tell us where your friends are," the leader said casually. "Amazing how a hot brand held to the throat or belly can hurt, without damaging you too much to talk or walk. A burn is such a painful thing … it doesn’t stop hurting when the brand is removed, but continues on and grows worse." While speaking, the man had donned a pair of heavy gloves from his pocket and now picked up Merry’s sword from the hot coals on which it had rested. The small blade glowed a sullen red, shading to yellow then white at the tip. Merry could see the fine steel shimmer as the waves of heat rolled off it, could feel the heat like a hearth fire poker held too near his skin.

The leader held the glowing sword before the hobbit’s eyes, watching the reflection of the bright blade in the huge, dark pupils."A last chance, little rat," he said softly. "Where are your friends?" Merry shut his eyes and knelt silent before him.

Heat blossomed along his cheek, not touching yet but very close. It was withdrawn and cool air rushed to fill the space where it had been.The heat returned, inched farther up, and Merry was sure the blade would be laid against his closed eyes. Again the searing heat withdrew. They were taunting him, he realized. Enjoying his panicked breaths and the perspiration that rolled unbidden down his brow.

He prayed that he could hold to his resolve to make no sound. He did not know how far he was from camp, and did not want his kin to hear. He would tell these men nothing, but feared that cries might be forced from him nonetheless, in spite of all his will.

"Get on with it," snarled the half-orc. The men growled agreement, intent on their sport. Merry clamped his lips together and tried to block out all awareness.

So it was that he missed the blinding rush of speed that was Aragorn as the Ranger sprinted silently across the clearing and in one stroke just above Merry’s head, swept from their shoulders the heads of the brigand leader and one of his henchmen. Aragorn turned and thrust, and the man imprisoning Merry’s wrists cried out and fell. The two remaining brigands now had their own swords in their hands and fell howling upon the Ranger. Turning aside their blows, Aragorn retreated from the clearing, pushing the stunned Merry behind him. One man sought to close with Aragorn; the other wove about him, seeking an opening.

Stumbling, Merry got his feet under him and ran. Aragorn leaped to the side, parrying the brigand’s thrust, then turned his blade and slashed sideways. The man cried out, fell and was still. The last brigand shuddered to a stop, threw his sword to the ground and fell to his knees.

"Mercy, master," he cried. "We meant no harm to the little folk! It was the other, who promised gold!"

Aragorn stayed his sword, holding it before the eyes of the terrified mercenary. "Merry!" he shouted, "Merry! Are you well?"

"I am not hurt," Merry replied, crossing the glade to rejoin his rescuer. "Thanks to your timely arrival, they did no more than threaten."

"Well for you," Aragorn said to the remaining man, "that you did not harm my friend. Where is the other?"

"I do not know," the man gasped. "He was here when first you came upon us,but has he slipped away into the darkness. He offered us gold to capture your party. Not to harm them! Only to capture, and ask questions. We would not have truly hurt them. Mercy, master."

"Go," responded Aragorn. "If I find you on our trail again, I will surely kill you." The terrified brigand ducked his head and scuttled sideways like a crab. The sounds of his crashing retreat echoed long after he was gone. The clearing was silent except for the pings of cooling metal. Merry took a deep breath, trailed over to his discarded garments and began to dress.

"Come," Aragorn said to Merry as the hobbit fastened his cloak. "We must get back to camp. Did you lose the way?"

"Yes," Merry admitted. "Then I could not call for help, with danger so near. I overheard their plans so I set the fire, which drew them back. They found me and took me, and had you not come when you did, it would have been grievous for me." The last was delivered with a quaver he could not hide.

Aragorn knelt and looked into his eyes. "I watched from hiding for several moments, deciding how best to attack. I am proud of you. You did well, and bravely. Now come. I do not wish to leave the others alone overlong, with two of them still free."

"Half a moment," Merry said, remembering. Running back to the tree where he had hidden them, he dug between the roots and unearthed the packets of food. "Little recompense for this night’s pains," he said, "but certainly needed." Gingerly he retrieved his sword from where the brigand had dropped it and angled it carefully into his scabbard by the hilt. "Let me gather up the wood and I will come."

Merry again lost all sense of direction on the walk back through the shadowy forest. After hearing the tale in full, Aragorn bade him keep silent of the half-orc’s words; the others had cares enough. Frodo, Sam and Pippin greeted them with relief, which turned to astonishment when Merry produced food in the midst of the wilderness (further solidifying Pippin’s conviction that Merry’s cleverness knew no bounds). To his own disbelief, Merry learned that only an hour had passed since he first ventured out on his errand. An hour that, after the fact, he reckoned had scared about five years from his life.

* * *
Another hour and all were relaxed and filled with food. The extra food taken from the brigands provided the small company with an unexpected feast; fresh bread and ripe apples and sliced ham, a change more than welcome from dried and salted travel-food. It would not last so they ate it all, and there was enough even for famished hobbits. Merry’s tale, carefully edited, had been told. Pippin especially was enthusiastic in his admiration of his cousin’s bravery, even overlooking his getting lost in the first place. Frodo slept, weary but warm. The wood that Merry had nearly paid so dearly for was a crackling comfort, the flames dancing in the darkness.

Lying next to Frodo, Merry turned the night’s adventure over in his mind. He stretched and rolled his shoulders, aching from the man’s cruel strength.He still imagined he could feel the heat of his sword against his cheek. He could not spare much sorrow for the still bodies back in the glade, but he did regret their deaths. And where had that miserable squint-eyed half-orc got off to? They would have to be moving again before many hours passed. Best rest while he could. Sam was already snoring, and nothing could be seen of Pippin under his blanket but the tip of his nose. Before dropping off himself, the last thing Merry saw was Aragorn sitting cross-legged with his back to the fire, smoking his pipe, eyes gleaming as he watched the darkness.

Feeling safe, Merry slept.

* TBC *

Chapter 2

Four black bruises decorated the front of Merry’s shoulder the following morning, and one wider black bruise on the back. He hitched his shoulder uncomfortably and tried to work out its stiffness by helping Sam bury the fire pit and rake earth over it. The quiet rage engendered in him the previous night remained; normally an easy-going hobbit, Merry was surprised at the anger he felt. Not at what the men had almost done to him (they had paid for that), but that the men had hunted his friends and meant to do them harm, for gold, at another’s cowardly bidding.

And that they meant to hurt Frodo… Rage boiled suddenly in him and he made a choked sound.

Sam paused in his raking and gave him an odd look over the turned ground. "It don’t do no good ‘ta dwell on it, Mr. Merry," he said with his usual perceptiveness. When Merry only raised smoldering eyes to his, he continued, "We’ve got to focus on getting Mr. Frodo to Rivendell. Nothing’s more important than that, right now."

After a moment Merry nodded and dropped his eyes. But if he ever saw that miserable half-orc again…

Pippin finished lashing Frodo’s pack to the pony and joined them. He’d gotten their cousin to drink a cup of tea and eat a broiled tomato and half a sausage. But even Pippin’s saddest lost-puppy look could not persuade Frodo to take more. When Frodo refused the mushroom that Pippin had found and saved for him, the tears in the youngster’s eyes were genuine. Merry put his arm around Pippin’s shoulders and gave him a brief hug before the two of them sat next to Sam and Frodo to wait for Strider.

Frodo looked a little better this morning, Merry thought, examining his cousin from the corner of his eye. He thought he had gotten away with his unobtrusive inspection until Frodo half turned towards him and met his gaze, those beautiful morning- glory eyes weary but amused. Caught, Merry flushed and grinned at him. "All right, there, Cousin?" he asked softly.

Frodo was saved from a useless reassurance by the Ranger’s return. Aragorn strode into camp, a coney slung over his shoulder, almost as quietly as a hobbit could move. Swiftly tying the rabbit onto Bill’s panniers, Aragorn talked to them over his shoulder. "No sign of them. I found their trails at first light and followed them until they converged, not far from the clearing. Then both started west. My guess is that, having failed, they are headed back to Bree." He turned and surveyed them. "Are you all ready to move out?"

It was Merry’s thought that the Ranger did not want to leave them alone too long, should the men circle back and come at them again. Four hobbits, one badly injured and the other three unfamiliar with weapon-work, were no match for two armed Men. Or one man and one half-orc, he thought darkly.

Merry couldn’t bear to watch as the Ranger bent and lifted Frodo to place him on the pony. As gentle as Aragorn was, as careful, Frodo could not suppress a cry of pain as the movement pulled at his shoulder. Bill snorted and the skin on his withers twitched. Well acquainted with ponies, Merry knew Bill didn’t like the smell of blood, either Frodo’s or the fresh-killed rabbit.

Then it was back to the plodding they had been doing for days. Plod, plod, plod... Sam led Bill and Merry walked with Pippin on one side of the pony, while Aragorn half-supported Frodo on the other. Their cousin rarely spoke now, and Merry felt himself and Pippin becoming increasingly quiet and anxious. It seemed that all of them entered a half-trance-like state, a retreating of the mind, dealing only with the demands of the road.

Merry wasn’t really aware of much until Aragorn signaled a halt for the midday rest and meal. The party made camp off the road in some nameless, windswept dell. Sam bent over a small fire, laying out his supplies and stirring his kettles. Merry foraged for firewood, staying close to camp. Pippin had offered to go, seeing that Merry still moved stiffly, but Merry had refused him with a quickness and a vehemence that surprised his cousin. Raising his eyebrows, Pippin remarked, "Well, there’s no need to jump down my throat. Fine, you get the firewood."

In a huff, Pip moved over to Frodo and sat beside him to chop carrots. Merry winced; he had overreacted to the thought of Pippin being out of his sight and alone. He wondered if he was going to have to ‘fess up to what had actually happened the previous night and half-regretted that he and Aragorn had agreed not to tell the others the truth.

Seeing Frodo awake, Pippin dumped the carrots into a kettle. "Hullo, Frodo," he said. "How do you feel? May I get you another blanket?"

"No, I’m all right." Frodo tried to smile reassuringly at his cousins. He yawned, finding the contrast between the cold air on his face and the warm nest of blankets refreshing. The warmth of the blankets did not seem to touch his wounded side, but just escaping the jolt and sway of the pony’s back was a relief. He felt better, except for the mist that seemed to drift in front of his eyes only.

Aragorn looked up at the soft murmur of voices, then rose and came to them. Merry watched as the Ranger laid his hand on his cousin’s brow and looked deeply into the blue eyes. The man’s own grey-blue eyes narrowed as the fire reflected in Frodo’s extremely contracted pupils. Sam gave the stew a quick stir and followed a moment later, kneeling by his master’s side. Merry realized Sam carried a small steaming kettle, and saw Pippin capture Frodo’s right hand in both of us.

Still without speaking, Aragorn unbuttoned the staghorn buttons of Frodo’s jacket and waistcoat and carefully eased back the soft maroon-brown cloth. Merry turned his face away, unable to help and unable to continue watching.

Frodo’s shirt was unbuttoned, then Aragorn’s strong fingers were probing gently at the wound. Frodo paled and set his throat to stifle any inadvertent cry.

"Easy, easy," Aragorn said softly. "It has bled through the bandage. I will have to pull a bit."

As Aragorn peeled the blood soaked bandage away, Frodo determinedly tried to focus on something else. The smell of the stew made him feel ill. Choose something else, then! Ah, the aroma of the king’s foil herb, what Aragorn called athelas, was soothing. Frodo risked a quick glance back. Aragorn was crumbling more of the leaves into Sam’s kettle. Then Aragorn was carefully washing the wound, cleaning away the clotted and still-seeping blood. Frodo gritted his teeth against the searing pain of hot water in the wound, then began to relax as his skin adjusted and the water became merely warm and pleasant.

"There, Mr. Frodo," whispered Sam. "Almost done now. Just a clean bandage, and then we’ll have a bite o’ lunch." Aragorn picked another leaf out of his pouch and put it in his mouth, moistening it. This he placed directly over the wound, holding Frodo down with his other hand. Frodo jerked violently despite his resolution to lie still. Gasping, he lay back as Aragorn finished the bandaging.

Sam and Aragorn returned to the fire, letting Frodo recover himself for a moment. "Burn the bandages, Sam," Aragorn instructed. "We want to leave nothing behind by which the Nine could harm him. And few things could do more mischief than blood." Sam cast the cloths into the fire and determinedly stirred up the flames.

Sam dished up the stew and the party settled down to consuming it. Every movement caused Frodo pain, and seeing this, Sam insisted on feeding him. Frodo did not feel he could manage the food—he did not want the stew, but Sam had insisted he at least swallow the broth. Shamed, Frodo had forced the food down his throat and after struggling to keep it behind his teeth, felt the better for it. Then the greyness seemed to overwhelm him, and he sank gratefully back into the escape of sleep.

Returning to the fire, Sam made certain that the last scrap of the bandage linens were consumed by the flames, then sifted the ashes to the wind. Merry rose and checked on his cousin, pulling the blanket higher on the still form. Careful not to wake Frodo, he placed his hand over the pale left hand outside the blanket and felt his heart wrench when there was no trace of warmth in the flesh. He lifted the cold hand carefully and sheltered it under the blanket. Frodo grimaced in his sleep and moaned.

"Take a little nap," advised Aragorn, repacking his medicinal supplies. "I will watch. I want to move on again in an hour. We still can put many miles behind us before moonrise." The hobbits were exhausted and an hour’s sleep would not lessen that, but they had no choice. Merry signaled to Pippin and with a nod, the youngster rolled himself in his blanket and gently curved himself around Frodo’s right side. Merry did the same on his left.

Even Bill was too tired to stand; the pony lowered himself to the ground and Sam eased down against him, using his soft, warm barrel as a backrest.

"You didn’t rest last night, sir," Sam said to Aragorn softly, "what with going after Mr. Merry last night, and taking the watch then followin’ those men this morning. I don’t feel like sleeping—too aching yet. You sleep, Mr. Strider, and I’ll watch." Aragorn nodded, his face for a moment betraying his weariness. He cast himself down and was asleep within seconds.

Sam watched the faint smoke of the campfire drift into the distance. Merry had chosen only seasoned wood, long on the ground, so there was little smoke. He was growing sleepy himself and thought of waking Pippin to continue the watch. He’d prefer to have Mr. Merry take the watch, but Merry too was exhausted. When Strider had gone after the men to discover their movements, Merry had been unaccountably tense and jumpy. Sam was beginning to think that there was something Mr. Merry wasn’t telling them. He yawned ... he should wake Merry, or Strider…

Suddenly, Frodo began to have trouble breathing. He began to wheeze, as if he could not draw enough air into his lungs. Sam scuttled swiftly over to him and knelt behind him, raising him slightly. Merry and Pippin slept on like logs.

Sam pulled Frodo up against him, dismayed at how little his master seemed to weigh. Frodo’s breathing improved, the upright position easing him. His eyes opened and Sam stared down into Frodo’s aware, agonized gaze. "Hullo, Sam," he whispered softly. "What’s the time?"

"Two hours after midday, sir," Sam answered. "I was just thinkin’ I should wake Mr. Strider and we should be moving on. How are you feeling, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo did not seem to hear the question, his gaze seeking out each of the sleepers, then returning to his cousins. "I shouldn’t have brought them, Sam," he whispered. "They don’t belong in this. Pippin … he’s just a lad. Merry can’t protect him against what follows. They should be back home in the Shire, raiding Farmer Maggot’s crops and getting into mischief. If we win through to Rivendell, you must convince them to go home."

"I don’t know how to do that, Mr. Frodo," Sam returned, equally softly. "They said they were in this till the bitter end, sir, and I don’t think you’ll be able to turn ‘em from it."

Frodo closed his eyes again, for the moment too spent to continue. When he had recovered some strength, he looked up again into Sam’s honest face. "Sam," he said, "you must take the Ring. If I don’t get there, you must take the Ring and go on to Rivendell with Aragorn. Then ask Elrond for an escort and take Merry and Pippin home."

Sam’s world had stopped when his master said, "If I don’t get there..." His hold tightened involuntarily and Frodo gasped, starting him coughing softly. Quickly, Sam lifted him further upright until Frodo could again breathe.

"Don’t you talk like that, Mr. Frodo!" he hissed. "We are going to get to Rivendell just fine and the Elves will heal you. They can do anything, those Elves, and Master Elrond is said to be the wisest o’ all of them. You’re going to be just fine!"

Frodo smiled up at the vehemence in Sam’s voice. "Dear Sam," he said softly. "You are going to have to be strong enough for both of us, I fear. I don’t think I can stand much more, Sam. I’m sorry. I feel like my life is trickling out of me, like water washing through sand." Frodo stopped and closed his eyes.

Sam thought his heart would burst out of his chest. A great lump the size of a cabbage seemed to have lodged in his throat. "We just have to get to Rivendell, sir, and you’ll be fixed right up. I’m goin’ to wake Strider now. It’s time we were movin’ again."

Frodo nodded and was silent as Sam carefully eased him down and propped him against the packs. Sam crept over to Strider’s side and was preparing to call him when he saw the glitter of tears in the Ranger’s eyes and realized that the man was awake.

* TBC *

Chapter 3

The weather was turning increasingly cold. Merry’s back ached, as did his legs, and he couldn’t stand to think what Frodo must be enduring as his cousin sat slumped, swaying on the pony. Frodo’s cloak was drawn over his head and both hands were before him on Bill’s back, the left swinging unnaturally. Merry wished desperately he’d had the foresight to pack a saddle—even one-handed, Frodo could have grasped the saddle horn and kept his seat with much less effort. But the saddle probably would just have been stolen along with his ponies from The Prancing Pony’s stable. Bill trailed despondently after Sam, his neck stretched long and his ears cocked backwards. Beside him, Pippin trudged with his eyes half-shut, bronze curls trailing into his eyes, hands curled up over his shoulders to ease the strain of his pack against his back.

Only Strider seemed unaffected by the grey day and the cold. The Ranger moved quickly ahead of Sam, his hand on the hilt of that long sword and his eyes sweeping from side to side. He constantly outdistanced them and had to halt while the hobbits and pony caught up with his long steps. While waiting, the man would stop and turn completely around, his keen gaze checking behind them and into the trees about them. The hobbits watched him miserably, and continued their snail-like advance.

So the day passed by them and the road under them, until Aragorn finally let them halt for the night. By then, Merry was so tired he felt physically ill. Pippin did not so much sit down as collapse to the ground. They sat for a few moments while Sam halted the pony and Aragorn lifted Frodo down, to lay him between them, propped up against a fallen log. He was gone from them again, limp, his dark head lolling back. When Pippin started to rise, his hands reaching out to catch up the nearest twigs, Merry reached over Frodo and pushed him down. "I’ll get the firewood and make a fire, Pip. Frodo needs you to keep him warm." Pippin nodded and curved himself gently against their cousin, sliding his arms around the sagging form.

Struggling to hide his weariness, Merry climbed to his feet and dragged himself over to Sam and Aragorn as they unloaded the pony. Sam’s sandy curls were plastered to his forehead and his hands shook, but he untied Bill’s panniers with gentle fingers. Merry helped with setting up camp then started on gathering the firewood.

"Merry," warned Aragorn’s soft voice, "Don’t go far from camp."

Fortunately, Merry did not need to. The Ranger had chosen a campsite among thick trees and fallen wood was plentiful. His arms full, Merry came back and saw that Pippin had fallen asleep against Frodo. Frodo had turned his face into Pippin’s chest, and both slept in complete exhaustion. Merry shook out Frodo’s blanket and covered them both, then laid Pippin’s on top of that.

"Where—" started Sam, and Merry shushed him frantically, motioning at the sleepers. Sam smiled at the quiet figures and moving off to the side, sunk his spade into the soft earth to dig a fire pit.

"Thank you, Sam." Aragorn sank down cross-legged across from the sleepers and pulled out his long belt knife. "Dig it deep enough that it can’t be seen." Angling the carcass to the dim light of the moon, the Ranger sliced the rabbit he had killed neatly from belly to tail and skinned it efficiently. "Poor enough fare," he commented as he worked, "but I don’t want to take the time to set snares."

Sam wiped his brow and laid the spade aside. He and Merry arranged the tinder, topped it with twigs, then the larger pieces of wood. "Couldn’t you shoot us a few more coneys?" he asked. "That’s a great bow you’re carrying, and somehow I think you know how ‘ta use it."

"I do, Sam. But a good archer does not shoot into the woods at night. If the arrow does not fly true, it is almost impossible to recover it. I have no arrows to waste." He jointed the rabbit and dropped the parts into the cooking kettle Sam held out to him. Sam hung the kettle over the fire Merry had succeeded in starting and they sat back to watch it cook.

Merry awoke to Sam shaking his shoulder. "Here, Mr. Merry," he said, pushing a filled plate into his hands. "Strider says ‘ta keep quiet. No unnecessary talking or moving about." Startled, Merry opened his mouth … then he shut it and straightened, sniffing the cold night air. Wood smoke came to his nose, wafted past him. Confused, he looked and saw their small fire had been extinguished, and the almost invisible plume of smoke was drifting upwind.

The Ranger’s eyes glinted at him from where he sat with his own plate. "Yes," he said softly. "We are being followed."

* * *

Though they broke camp at first light, Aragorn pressed them to move faster and put as much distance behind them as possible. That meant breakfast was eaten on the road, much to Pippin’s disgust. Merry envied his younger cousin’s ability to bounce back to his usual ebullient self after a single night’s rest; he had spent most of the night staring into the darkness and worrying. Sometime after moonset, Aragorn had come over and knelt by his bedroll. "Merry, go to sleep. They won’t take us unawares, I promise. Your cousins and Sam and I will need you alert tomorrow." Reluctantly, Merry had closed his eyes and fallen into a sleep so profound that Pippin had had to dribble water on his face to wake him up.

They had walked for several hours when Strider halted and raised his hand for them to stop. The Ranger crested a small hill and surveyed the land around them. Returning, he flung sweated hair out of his eyes and said, "Ahead lies a great thorny patch of prickle-bushes. We have overshot our road and must backtrack."

Sam groaned and Merry felt his heart sink. On the pony, Frodo raised his head but said nothing. Only Pippin seemed unfazed. "Any berries on those prickle-bushes?"

Aragorn eyed the youngest hobbit warily.

"There are, aren’t there? What kind? Are they ripe?" Pippin was fairly vibrating in place.

"Raspberries and blackberries," the Ranger replied reluctantly. "Pippin!"

Pippin was already halfway down the far side of the hill. At Aragorn’s call, he obediently slowed and returned to them. "Frodo likes berries," he explained. "He’ll eat them when he won’t eat anything else. May I go pick some for him, please?"

Merry tugged on Aragorn’s sleeve. "Let him, Aragorn. Sam, why don’t you go with him? Aragorn can change Frodo’s bandages. We could certainly use the fresh food. Take a saddlebag, Pip, and fill it up."

After the two had departed, the man carefully lifted Frodo down and washed and re-wrapped the wound. Frodo was silent, eyes squeezed shut. That ordeal over, Aragorn helped him lean back against the berry-pickers’ piled packs, softly urging him to sleep if he could. Then Aragorn turned to Meriadoc. "All right, Merry. What do you have in mind?"

"Look down there, Aragorn. You can’t even see Sam and Pip among all those brambles. They stand taller than a hobbit’s head—probably taller than yours. We couldn’t find a better place for an ambush."

"Ambush? What are you talking about?" Frodo looked from one to the other. "What is going on here?" Merry winced; he had hoped that his cousin had fallen asleep, he had been sitting so still and silent.

"Uumm," he temporized, then gave up. Frodo was staring at him levelly. "Aragorn and I … didn’t exactly tell you the truth about everything that happened two nights ago, Cousin." Seeing Frodo’s dark brows draw together, Merry hastened to add, "We didn’t lie about anything, we just didn’t tell you everything that happened." The brows quirked further and little draw-lines appeared between them.

"All right," said Merry, caving. He glanced at Aragorn just in time to see the man school his features, wiping the amusement from his face. Merry scowled at him, then sighed and proceeded to give Frodo a complete accounting of his adventure. Including what he had heard the half-orc say, and the fate of the men who had captured him.

Frodo’s pale face grew even paler. "They … they were going to..."

"They didn’t, Cousin," Merry assured him. "Just this stiff shoulder, that’s all the damage."

"But now they follow," Aragorn added, seeking to turn aside Frodo’s fears. "Only two, I think, unless that purse of gold has bought more hounds upon our trail. I dare not leave you long enough to scout them; they might come upon you unawares."

Sitting next to Frodo, Merry flushed, thinking of the swords the Ranger had given them, and of how little use he would be to the others with his. Merry had never thought himself in need of protection before and it galled him. That he could not protect Frodo—and Pippin and Sam—was well nigh intolerable.

"So we need to stop these men from following us," Merry continued in the silence that had followed Aragorn’s conclusion. "We can draw them into those prickle-bushes, where they can’t move out of the path we lay for them. They’ll never see us among the leaves and thorns. Then…"

"Then what?" Frodo tried to straighten up against the packs and made a soft, pained sound. "Kill them? Hobbits don’t kill, Merry. Hobbits don’t…" Frodo gasped again, his face going white, and Aragorn knelt swiftly at his side.

"Frodo, relax. You must stay still." The Ranger laid a hand on the hobbit’s clammy forehead and looked worriedly into the anguished eyes. Frodo’s skin was cold and he leaned back, averting his gaze from Aragorn’s, hiding his face as he tried to draw in breath. He shuddered, then nodded jerkily. "We will think of something, Frodo, other than killing them. Though I would advocate it, as it best ensures our safety. Sometimes, my friend, it is necessary to do things you abhor so that the greater purpose be served."

"No. There have been enough deaths already because of this evil thing I bear. I do not want to be responsible for any more."

"Cousin—"

"No, Merry. No more killing."

Aragorn sat back on his haunches with a sigh of exasperation. "This is not your fault, Frodo, none of it. But … we will find another way. Tie them, or break an ankle, or … something." The Ranger rose and turned back to the bramble-bushes, shaded his eyes against the grey glare of the day. "Now, where are those young hobbits? We have already stayed here overlong."

Suddenly anxious, Merry stood beside him and peered into the thick, thorny foliage. No trace of Pip or Sam could be seen. He cupped his hands to his mouth and inhaled, but Aragorn immediately stayed him. "No calling, Merry. I will—"

"Hoy the camp!"

The voice came out of nowhere, then Merry realized it originated from somewhere in the bramble-bushes. It was loud and coarse, and with a sudden absolute terror, Merry knew he had heard it before. Squint-Eye, the half-orc. Two nights ago he had heard it, as the brigand leader stripped him to hold a burning brand against his skin.

Aragorn’s hand clamped on his sore shoulder and pushed him down. He sprawled against Frodo, brushing against his wounded side as Aragorn dropped beside him. Frodo made a stifled sound, unable to choke it back. The Ranger’s sword was in one hand, his long knife in the other. Behind them, Bill jerked on his tether-rein, catching the sudden scent of fear and pain in the air.

"Hoy the camp! Talk to us, Ranger! We have your little friends!"

Merry groaned as he heard Frodo, beside him, catch his breath in a sobbing gasp. Aragorn raised himself up on his forearms and shouted, "Sam! Pippin! Answer me!"

There was no response. None at all.

Merry closed his eyes in unbearable agony. While he had stood there talking, those that followed had circled round and… Or maybe they had come to the brambles first; the hobbits’ pace had certainly been slow enough to let determined men draw ahead of them. It took no great leap of imagination to think that the hobbits would want to gather some of the sweet autumn fruit. How easy it would be, to simply wait until the small, unwary ones came within reach…

"Ranger! Do you want these little rats back? A trade, Ranger! Give us the hurt halfling, and we’ll send them back!"

Aragorn was silent, turning his head from side to side, trying to locate the source of the voice. Merry did the same, straining his eyes as his blood thrummed in his ears.

"Ranger! Talk to us, or I’ll cut one of them!"

"No! Aragorn, talk to them!" Frodo pulled desperately on the man’s cloak with his good hand. "Tell them I’ll come!"

"No you won’t, Frodo. Now be still, both of you." Aragorn leaned forward and called, "How do I know you have the halflings? Let me hear their voices!"

"I’ll do better than that, Ranger. Heads up!" With that, an arrow whistled up the small hill and buried itself in the turf under them, but a few feet from Merry. Keeping low, Merry scrambled over and retrieved it. Tied to the shaft with twine were two curly locks of hair, one bronze and one sandy. Merry felt tears start to roll down his face.

* TBC *

Chapter 4

With shaking fingers, Merry untied the twine from the arrow shaft, freeing the two soft locks. They wafted into his clutching hand, their weight negligible in his palm. He closed his hand over them and clutched them to his heart. Another gasp escaped him and a blackness swam before his eyes.

"Merry, calm down or you will pass out. Frodo, make him breathe." Aragorn resumed his crouching stance, turning his attention back to the hidden men somewhere in the prickle-patch. Frodo wrapped his right arm around his cousin, hugging him close as Merry fought for control. Aragorn ran his hand through his dark hair, pushing it out of his eyes. "Something is wrong here…" He reached across Frodo and gently gathered the mingled locks from Merry’s grasp. He turned the locks over in his hand, examining them closely. "Sliced neatly off with a sharp knife. Not torn out … no blood. Why do they not answer?" he murmured softly, returning the curls to Merry’s care. Merry looked up at him, fresh fear in his blurring gaze.

"I want to see the hobbits! We will not discuss a trade until I know they are all right!"

Aragorn inched forward again, Merry behind him and Frodo to the rear. Silence met them, then faintly, muttered oaths and snarling voices pitched too low to carry. There seemed to be some disagreement going on. A thorny branch rattled, and the Ranger put hand to bow, but he did not dare to shoot without a clearer target. He could as easily shoot one of the hobbits as their captors.

The brush rattled again, and Pippin emerged. Merry bit his tongue on a cry. Pippin stood very stiffly, his face pale and his green-gold eyes enormous. He looked to have been weeping. He took several steps forward, his gait strained and unnatural. Then Merry saw why. Pippin’s hands were tied behind him at a cruel angle that forced his shoulders back. From the bindings hung a rope that snaked back into the concealing brush. The men were taking no chances of his escape.

"Cowards," Aragorn hissed. Merry felt that slow rage building in him, that unfamiliar and frightening anger. Pip was staring up towards them, though he probably could see little of them over the crest of the hill. A dirty cloth was bound tightly over his mouth. The tweenager looked very young and very frightened.

"And the other? I will see them both before we talk!"

"You don’t need to see him, Ranger! We sent out one of the little rats out for you—that’s enough! Now, send us the wounded halfling, or we’ll start cutting on your friends here!"

"I don’t make blind trades," Aragorn called back. Merry inched forward a little more and raised himself up on his elbows. Pippin saw him immediately, and met his eyes with a look of desperation. He shook his curly head, mouthing something. Merry narrowed his eyes, trying to understand. Behind Pippin, an argument was taking place, growing louder but still unintelligible to those on the hill. Pippin half-twisted his body, hitching his shoulder, shaking his head frantically.

Immediately, the rope was jerked taught and Pippin was pulled backward to land hard on the ground. Merry had to restrain himself from leaping to his feet. "Stand still, rat!" came Squint-Eye’s harsh voice. Using his shoulder to push himself, Pip climbed painfully upright. The argument in the thorn-patch seemed to be resolved, as the half-orc shouted again. "All right! That’s fair. The other one gave us a bit of a fight, and we had to quiet him down some."

Merry’s heart twisted in terror. Behind Pippin, the brush quivered again then was pushed aside as the man that Aragorn had spared two nights before in the clearing emerged, holding in front of him a stumbling and half-conscious Sam. Blood still ran from a great gash on the side of his sandy head. Those watching helplessly saw him shake his head groggily, and saw that his hands were tied, too. The man kept a hand clamped to his shoulder, all that seemingly kept Sam on his feet. The half-orc stayed out of sight, holding Pippin’s rope and hiding behind the other man.

Ahead of Sam, still several feet out of the brambles, Pippin was staring into Merry’s eyes and jerking his head, looking as if he were imitating a billy goat butting a fence post. Merry tore his gaze away from Sam’s stumbling figure and tried to read the frantic message in Pippin’s eyes.

Then he feared he understood. He whirled in place so quickly that beside him, Aragorn startled. He and Aragorn crouched alone on the hilltop. Frodo was nowhere to be seen.

The Ranger’s gaze followed his around the small area. The pony stood placidly, ignoring the shouting and commotion about him. Aragorn swore and scrambled back from the crest, casting his eyes frenetically about the small hilltop. Even Merry could see where Frodo had half-dragged himself back and circled down the side of the hill. Unable to stand, he had crawled, using his one good arm as support.

There—a handprint. A few steps further, blood. "He’s torn it open again," whispered Aragorn. "The fool! Merry, you must delay them. I’ll bring him back."

Far enough back from the crest to stand, Aragorn rose to his feet and strode after Frodo, his eyes on the ground and his face livid. Merry scrambled back just in time to hear, "Hoy! Well, you’ve seen ‘em! Now if you don’t send down the injured one right now, we’ll start playing with these little rats!"

Delay them… Merry rose to his full height above the lip of the crest, hoping that his foreshortened figure would discourage them from shooting at him. "I know you!" he shouted, pointing down at the man holding Sam. "It’s a pity that my friend didn’t kill you with your leader and all your dirty thieves in your brigand band!"

"I know you, too, you little rat! He was a good leader, he was, and looked after me and me mates. We had easy pickings and never any trouble, until you came along!" The surviving brigand seemed to be growing more furious by the moment. He swung around, jolting Sam, and snarled something to the hidden half-orc in the prickle-patch.

Though Merry could not hear what he had said, he heard the reply. "No! I only want the hurt one! I don’t care about your revenge."

More unintelligible conversation. Sam was weaving on his feet now, standing by his own strength. Merry saw him raise his head and look about with awareness returning to those sharp grey eyes. Pippin had turned back to the man behind him at Merry’s words, and confusion was mirrored in his eyes. Then Pippin stiffened and his gaze sharpened at something near the bottom of the hill. Sam followed his gaze and Merry saw him pale.

Then the man was turning back to Merry, and the hobbit could feel the hatred in that hot stare. "You," the man hissed, "cost me my mates and the best leader I’d ever worked under. You’re going to pay for that. I’m going to enjoy making you pay for that.

"The stakes just went up, you little rat. Now if you want your friends back, you’re going to have to come down with the other one. Two for two—that seems more even, don’t it? And then you and I’ll finish what my leader started that night, only I don’t need you to be able to talk, after."

Merry’s taunting reply was interrupted by Aragorn sliding up beside him. Looking over his shoulder, Merry saw his cousin propped up against the packs, a blanket pulled over him. Frodo’s eyes were closed and his jacket over his left shoulder dark with blood. He was very pale and looked to have fainted.

"I caught him near the bottom of the hill," the Ranger whispered. "He’d almost made it down to them. That’s what Pippin was trying to tell us, wasn’t it?"

"Yes," Merry said. "And Sam’s awake. Can you—"

Their hurried exchange broke off when Squint-Eye emerged cautiously from the brambles, still holding tight to the rope that restrained Pippin. The half-orc’s attention was not upon them, but on the brigand he had hired. In his other hand he held the heavy gold purse he had displayed to the band two nights ago, when Merry had chanced upon them as the brigands sought their trail.

"Don’t be stupid," Squint-Eye sneered at the man. "This," and he shook the heavy purse so that its contents jingled, "my master gave me to split among those who followed my orders. There’s only you, now. All this, for you … if you follow my orders."

Unreguarded by either man, Pippin again caught Merry’s eyes. Staring unwaveringly into his cousin’s eyes, he took one step back then stopped and inclined his small body forward. Above him, Merry nodded and turned to the Ranger at his side.

"Aragorn, if Pippin can drag down the orc, can you shoot over them to the brigand holding Sam?"

Aragorn leaned forward, gauging the distance and angle. "I can, if Pippin can pull the man flat. And if Sam doesn’t move."

"He won’t," Merry assured him. I hope, he added to himself silently. Merry turned back to his waiting cousin and nodded, then canted his head at the watching Samwise. Sam had held himself as still as he could while the men argued with each over above his head, using his hobbit-ability of being unnoticed when he wished. Sam nodded and tried to sink a little lower without alerting his captors.

Merry pulled back and gestured for Pippin to make his move. The youngster had been almost forgotten by the two. Pippin closed his eyes and drew a deep breath, almost visibly steeling his resolve, then suddenly dug in his toes and threw himself forward with all the strength of his small body. The rope, still twined around the half-orc’s wrist, snapped taught, pulling the orc down on his face. The brigand whirled, reaching for his knife and pulling Sam upright just as the hobbit twisted and threw himself down. Aragorn’s arrow took the man directly through the base of the throat.

The man’s gurgling cry was lost in the half-orc’s scream of fury. As the man fell backwards, hands going to his throat, Squint-Eye jerked on the rope, dragging Pippin towards him. Pippin saw him raise his knife … then stagger as Merry’s thrown dagger imbedded itself in his shoulder. A moment later, Pippin saw him stiffen then fall as a second arrow took him directly through the heart.

Merry ran forward from where he had crouched at the bottom of the hill and caught Pippin just as the tweenager collapsed. Fumbling, Merry untied the gag from his cousin’s mouth, then loosened the cruelly tight bonds. Pippin was choking, then started to weep. Merry could only rock him gently and rub his back, as Sam walked slowly to join them.

* * *

Though all the hobbits wanted to quit that evil place, Aragorn made them rest and gather their wits. Pippin had made the mistake of looking back at the two still forms. He had darted behind a large rock and been noisily sick. Sam and Merry waited for him while Aragorn examined the bodies, retrieving and cleaning Merry’s dagger as he did so. Aching with weariness, Merry thought of how the Ranger’s mercy had allowed all this to take place, when the brigand begged for his life and Aragorn had granted it. And he … he had wanted retribution on the miserable half-orc, but he hadn’t wanted him dead…

Frodo had dragged himself to the edge of the crest and witnessed the ending. Though his cousin said nothing, Merry knew that Frodo held these additional deaths his fault, his responsibility, because of what he bore. When the five of them had returned to the hilltop, Frodo had agreed with Aragorn that it had been "necessary." But his cousin’s beautiful eyes had been shuttered and haunted, and Merry could not bear the guilt and pain he saw there.

His face turned from them, Frodo rested against the packs, his good arm tucked around Pippin. Both of them looked up when Aragorn knelt by Frodo’s side, then Pippin ducked his head and buried his face against Frodo’s side. The Ranger laid a hand on the curly head for a moment, then addressed Frodo.

"Let me see the wound," the Ranger said softly.

"I am all right, Aragorn," the hobbit replied stubbornly.

"You are not. There is blood on your jacket. Let me see."

Frodo tensed, then gently nudged Pippin. The lad reluctantly withdrew and edged around his cousin to press himself against Merry. Merry looped an arm around him and hugged him reassuringly.

Aragorn peeled back the jacket wordlessly. Blood stained the once-fine linen and marred the velvet waistcoat. Frodo looked away again as Aragorn shook his head and began to work.

"You must not endanger yourself, Frodo," Aragorn said softly as he accepted a wetted cloth Sam handed him. Merry upended the water bottle and prepared another.

"I should stand by when my kin and friends are in danger?" Frodo shot back.

Aragorn handed the bloodied cloth back to Sam. "Yes," he retorted, his voice humorless and cold. "You will do whatever you must to protect yourself, Ring-bearer."

Frodo shuddered, and Merry could not tell if the cause was pain or what the man had called him. Then his cousin shook his head. "The Ring was in no danger of being taken by them." He leaned past Sam and slid his fingers into the pocket of Merry’s jacket. All eyes followed his hand blankly. Merry felt movement through the cloth, then Frodo was withdrawing his fist. In the center of his spread palm, the Ring gleamed like a band of frozen fire.

"I’m sorry, Merry-lad," he said quietly. "I knew you’d keep it safe for me." He closed his hand and a shiver ran through him. Silently, Frodo re-fastened the Ring to the small chain that held it to his pocket and tucked it out of sight.

"When…" Merry stammered, "… how…"

"When I made you breathe, when those Men made Pip walk out, tied like some beast. I slipped it into your pocket when I was holding you.

"I don’t think they had been told why I was to be brought to their master," Frodo continued, his expression remote. "That information was too dear. Or maybe they were just told I carried something of great value. In any case, I judged they would take me and question or search me later." He looked up into Aragorn’s face, weariness making his features look pale and pinched. "The Ring was in no danger of being taken by them."

Merry would have laughed, then, if he had anything other than exhaustion left in him. Pippin sagged against his side, relaxed now enough to drowse. Sam struggled to his feet, folding the bloodied cloth, drawing Aragorn’s eyes to him.

"Sam, let me look at your head. That was a hard blow you took."

Sam shook his head, then grimaced. "No need, sir, thank you. I’m fine." Anger chased briefly across his features. "I’d never a-let them get so close if they hadn’t been hidden in the prickle-patch. I’d rather be away from this place, if you take my meaning." He resolutely walked past the two corpses and tied his and Pippin’s recovered saddlebags onto Bill’s panniers. Not for the first time, Merry marveled at the strength of mind and heart in that stocky figure.

"Come, all of you. Let us be gone from here. We still must backtrack to find our path."

Aragorn picked up Pippin and set him on his feet. Watching the Ranger lift Frodo to the pony, Merry had the oddest sense of unreality, as if what had just happened could not possibly have been real. Pursuit and violent death were so alien to all that he knew. Returning his dagger to its sheath at his belt, Merry wondered if the nightmare was just beginning.

~ The End ~