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. My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta. 

Snowball Fight

Chapter 1          

Aragorn smiled despite his worries to see the two young hobbits pelting over the snow, hurling snowballs at each other.   Merry and Pippin had resisted as long as they could, but with the recovery of their cousin, they needed some outlet for their pent-up concern and stifled energy.  Still, they were largely silent, only laughing and calling to each other and the others of the Fellowship when they forgot the danger, and the hostile eyes that sought them.

Watching them from the warmth of his arms, Frodo laughed softly, then coughed.  Aragorn glanced down at him, but Frodo met his eyes and shook his curly head.  “I’m much better, Aragorn,” Frodo assured him.  “I wish you would let me walk a little.”

“Not yet, Frodo,” the Ranger responded.  “Tomorrow, if there is no fever and if you do not cough tonight.”   Frodo nodded, resigned to being carried while his cousins played and enjoyed themselves on the shoulders of snowy Caradhras.

Watching them, the Ranger was amazed anew at the contradictory nature of hobbits.   He and Gandalf had discussed it before, and he recalled what the old wizard had told him of a long-ago conversation with Frodo, when the young hobbit had first taken on himself the burden of fleeing with the Ring.   “Hobbits really are amazing creatures,” Gandalf had said.  “You can learn all there is to know about their ways in a month, and yet after a hundred years, they can still surprise you.  Soft as butter, they can be, but tough as old tree roots.”   Watching the young Brandybuck and the even younger Took chase each other over the icy slopes on unshod furry feet, then throw their small forms into the frozen drifts to make snow-angels, the Ranger shook his head.

Just ahead, Sam was leading the pony, Bill’s hooves trampling down the snow and making the path easier for those who followed.   Legolas walked behind the pony, his light feet leaving no imprint on the snow - as opposed to Gimli, who’s heavy boots made more track than the rest put together.  The Ranger wished they did not leave such a clear trail that any hunters might see, for the skies were clear and though the cold air smelled of snow, the only clouds were far on the horizon.

A light snowstorm would shield them, Aragorn thought.  They had stayed too long at the shallow cave that served as their previous campsite, waiting for Frodo’s pneumonia to either take him or subside.   Now Frodo was healing, though still weak and listless, and Aragorn wanted nothing more than to make Lothlórien as quickly as possible, and let the little one rest and recover the strength lost in fever and delirium.   It had been too close with the Ring-bearer coughing out his lungs, the Fellowship not knowing if he would live or die.

In the lead, Gandalf raised his staff, calling a halt.   The Fellowship gathered among the boulders the wizard had chosen for cover, willing enough to rest and change sodden socks for dry among the sheltering rocks.  As rearguard, Boromir called in the young hobbits and they reluctantly left their play to join them.  Last in line, Boromir had found himself the innocent target of many a dishonorable ambush, and his cloak and surcoat were peppered with hollow circles of snow.

Aragorn carefully lowered Frodo to a sheltered corner, and moved back to let Sam wrap another blanket around him.   Samwise had orders to get food into Frodo at any opportunity, and was already breaking out some dried fruit from the pony’s panniers.  The two youngsters moved up to check on the invalid, and Aragorn judged that he could leave them to consult with Gandalf.

The wizard was standing with Gimli, discussing their passage through the almost featureless white landscape.  Gimli had his hand up to his eyes, shading them against the blinding glare of sun on snow.   Aragorn joined them, fine powder crunching under his boots as he climbed up to the small shelf on which they stood to survey the land. 

“…then follow the ridge through the Pass,” Gandalf paused.  With each breath, all of them puffed warmed air like so many dragons.   “We might as well camp down in that hollow for the night; the sun is westering and an early halt would rest Frodo.  How is he, Aragorn?”

“Better,” the Ranger responded.  “He asked to walk a little earlier, but I judged it yet too early.”

The wizard smiled.   “Good.   He is mending fast.  If we can keep him warm and quiet tonight, I would think him able to walk a little tomorrow.”

“So I told him.”   Aragorn crouched down and removed his boot, shaking out a stone.  He wondered idly how he could pick up a rock in the midst of a snowfield.  

“What of a fire?” Gimli asked.  “We have seen no watching eyes for days, nor sign of any living thing.”  The Dwarf paused to brush ice off his braided mustache.  “If we dig a pit among those stones, a small fire would be well-hidden.”

“All right,” the wizard agreed.  “But only a small one.”

* * * * *

The Company was merrier that night than for many before.  Frodo’s illness, the cold, the knowledge that they were being hunted, all had combined to dampen their spirits and drag down their energy.   For the first time in days, they were able to prepare a warm meal, enjoy the luxury of hot tea, and relax without fear. 

Eventually weariness overcame them, and the Company rolled themselves in their blankets and prepared to sleep.   All was quiet, until Gandalf woke them with a gentle touch on each shoulder.

“No, nothing is wrong,” he reassured them.  “I only wanted to show you a wondrous rare sight.  Look up.  Lúthien Tinúviel is dancing tonight.”

The hobbits raised their eyes to the heavens, and Legolas, standing watch, laughed softly as he beheld their expressions.   Far above them, high in the cold sky, flames of light danced on the curtain of the night.  Blue and green, some with a little yellow or the faintest flickers of red, light bowed and pirouetted in undulating rows, moving across the sky like dancers at a ball.  To their ears came the faintest of crackling sounds. 

The hobbits watched, open-mouthed.  

“There,” the wizard said.  “Is that not worth a little lost sleep?”

* * * * *

Alone among the Company, Pippin could not drift back into slumber.  They had watched until the celestial dance faded and ceased, awed and silent.   While the older members of the Company returned easily to sleep, the energetic youngster was now wide awake.  And bored.  And then hungry.

Perhaps there was a little bread left in his pack.  Pippin edged out of his bedroll and climbed to his feet.   Beside him, Merry snorted in his sleep and Pippin froze, waiting until his cousin’s breathing evened out.  Legolas turned to regard him, the Elf’s eyes almost glowing in the starlight.   Pippin raised his finger to his lips hopefully, and the Elf shook his head and smiled at him, returning his attention to the darkness.

A quiet search of his pack revealed no forgotten caches of food.   Pippin was distracted from considering a search of Merry’s pack by movement, white on white, not far from the smoldering fire.  Snow-hares.  Wouldn’t the Company be surprised if he, Pippin, could supplement their dwindling food supplies with a few coneys...  Pippin’s hand snuck back into his pack and emerged with his slingshot and its small pouch of rounded stones.  Like most hobbits, Pippin had excellent aim, and had used the little weapon to bring down his dinner more than a few times.

With complicated pantomime, involving much pointing and waving of the slingshot, Pippin informed Legolas of his intentions.  The Elf watched as the little one rose soundlessly and padded after the rabbits.

* * * * *

Pippin felt exhilarated by the cold night air.  The stars seemed almost close enough to touch, the snow so crisp and clean.  He ran until he was out of breath, just so he could turn around and see his footprints in the snow.  Heavy snow was a rarity in the Shire - none of the foursome had ever seen more snow than what would cover their furry toes.  Indulging in a bit of inherent good humor, Pippin jumped and turned himself in the air, walking backwards for the sheer joy of it. 

It was so good to be away from adult supervision for a little while, away from the frowning disapproval he sometimes suffered when his natural energy and exuberance got the better of him.   He tried to be quiet to be serious and responsible – but he was only twenty-eight, and sometimes he just couldn’t stand it.  Aragorn or Gandalf would tell him to be quiet, to settle down, to sit still, until he thought he would shout.

Pippin was seeing how far he could hop backwards when no ground met his leap.  He teetered on the edge of a small drop, the incline hidden by the heaped snow.  No one heard his small wail of dismay.  Off-balance, he fell and tumbled down the slope.  Snow caught in his ears, in his nose and mouth as he rolled.  He never even saw the rock that struck his forehead, hidden as it was under the soft clean snow.

Above him, the snow clouds that Aragorn had smelled earlier began to drop their load, sparkling white flakes drifting over the still form.

* * * * *

“Where is that fool of a Took?”  Gandalf waved his staff furiously at the nondescript landscape.  The falling snow had filled in any hobbit-tracks; Legolas could only point out the direction in which the youngster had gone.  When dawn had begun to light the sky and Boromir came to relieve him, the young hobbit still had not returned.  Legolas had started to trail him, but the tracks were totally covered and he could not follow far.

Now the Fellowship was ready to move out, except for their missing member.  Merry was frantic; had Aragorn allowed it, he would have hared off in every direction, calling loudly.   The Ranger had sought any sign to the best of his considerable ability as far as he could, using his hands to gently sweep the fallen snow aside in hopes of uncovering the small indentations of the hobbit’s feet.  But the falling snow had filled in any trail as surely as the tide erased marks in the sand.  Aragorn knelt in the snow and stared out over the totally unmarked landscape.

“We must split the Company,” he said at last, rising.  “Gandalf will take the hobbits and continue on, with Gimli as guard.  Boromir, Legolas and I will search.  Boromir and I have cold-weather experience, and the snow is no barrier to Legolas.  We have the best chance of finding him.”

“We can’t go on, sir,” cried Sam, before Merry could speak.  “Couldn’t we wait but a day?  If we move, he’ll not be able to find us.”

“We have no more time to spare, Sam.”  The Ranger’s reply was gentle but firm.  “The weather is clear now but those clouds carry much more snow – see how gray they are, flat and frozen.  The snow will start soon, and it will be heavy.  We must get through the Redhorn Pass as soon as possible, or we will not get through at all.”

Unspoken but not unthought was the Ring-bearer’s need – they had to get through to milder climates for Frodo’s sake.  Frodo said nothing but his huge morning glory eyes were tight with distress.  Aragorn saw him stifle a cough, choking it back to avoid drawing attention to himself.  Aragorn knew better than to put their options to a vote; the hobbits would place the youngster’s safety over the surety of achieving the Pass.   And nothing, nothing must deter them from their goal.  Frodo knew this well and the Ranger knew the Ringbearer agreed with it – until one of his kinsmen and friends was in danger.

Gandalf stood twisting his staff in his hands.  No choices, no choices…  Abruptly, he nodded.  “It is the only thing we can do.   Sam, will you repack the pony to bear Frodo as well as our supplies?   Gimli and I will carry what we can, as will you two.  When Pippin is found, the finder will catch up with us and we will call in the other searchers with a small fire.  The smoke will be hard to see – for them and for any other watching eyes.”

Despite the remaining three hobbits’ attempts at delay, it was soon done.  Sam could not get the supplies redistributed equally; he kept declaring he needed to unpack the bundles and find this thing or that.  Frodo avowed he could not get balanced on the pony, and required so many dismounts and mounts that he had began to gasp, leaning forward in the makeshift saddle.   Merry had managed to “accidentally” snag the rope off one of the bundles of firewood, somehow kicking each piece further as he bent to pick it up.  Finally, Gandalf had had enough.  The firewood was hurriedly picked up, the supplies quickly divided between the walkers, and Frodo pushed down onto the pony and ordered to stay there.  Gimli watched all this with laughter lurking in his dark eyes, prudently staying out of the path of the aggrieved wizard.

The three searchers each choose a cardinal point and set out.  It was agreed they would return to the rest of the Company by tomorrow’s eve at the latest, did they not find their quarry, and did the signal to return not go up.  There was no need to keep searching after that, Aragorn thought grimly.  The little one would not survive two nights exposed on the frozen slopes of Caradhras.

Gandalf took the point, Gimli rearguard with the pony and the two hobbits between them.  They had left the campsite far behind when Merry could bear it no longer.  “PIP!” he shouted, to the full extent of his lungs.  “Pip!  Pippin!  PIPPIN!”

The wizard was beside him in a moment, his hand clamped across the hobbit’s mouth.  Too late - the sound echoed amidst the empty landscape, bounced back from the blanketing snow. 

Gandalf shook him, hard.  “Be silent!  Be silent!  Will you bring the mountain down on us?”

To their horror, the walkers saw the snow pack high on Caradhras shift and tremble, small tumbles of snow sliding free and rolling down above them.  Little balls of snow rolled into larger balls, breaking the thin crust of ice that held them in place.  Sam tightened the rein on the pony and pulled his head down as poor Bill shied, nearly unseating Frodo, at a rolling snowball the size of a hobbit.  Like statues they stood and waited, till at last the little slides lost momentum and slipped gently to a halt about them, covering them up to the hobbits’ knees.

Gimli exhaled sharply into his beard, loosened his white-knuckled grip on his axe.   Sam sat down in the snow suddenly, and Merry collapsed besides him, putting his curly blond head in his hands.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry.  I didn’t think…”

Gandalf unwound his silver scarf  and re-wrapped it around his throat.  His lined face was very red, with the cold or with suppressed fury, Merry was afraid to find out.  “We were very lucky, Meriadoc.  I fear for Pippin, too, and pray our fellows will find him quickly.  But you will not do that again.” 

Merry hung his head and nodded.

* * * * *

Already far to the east, Aragorn halted at a faint sound he could not place.  Had that been a cry off in the distance?  He listened intently but it was not repeated. 

He had given up looking for footprints; the landscape was featureless.  Instead he had adopted a zig-zagging search pattern, and had picked up a rare branch to probe any hillocks he passed.  Hopefully, one of them would yelp.  From the amount of snow that had fallen, the youngster could be completely buried, were he foolish enough to allow it.  The Ranger thought about that for a moment, then increased his speed.

* * * * *

To the north, Legolas had covered more ground than the others, moving with a lightness and speed that no mortal could hope to match.  His light boots made almost no imprint in the virgin snow.  He listened, too, and used his keen eyes, seeking any sign of life in the whiteness.  Startling a snow-hare, he passed it before the animal could react.  The Elf blamed himself for not stopping the little one.  Should he die in this wilderness, Legolas would never forgive himself.

* * * * * 

To the south, Boromir moved with less speed than the Elf and less range than the man, but with more thoroughness.  Thinking the youngster could not have gone so far, he took care to investigate every hobbit-sized lump he came across.  All turned out to be rocks, frozen mounds of grass, bushes, and once, a white wolf, sleeping in the snow.  Warrior and wolf had stared at each other for a moment, then the wolf had given him a disdainful look from its yellow eyes and loped away.   Hand on his sword, Boromir added another worry to his fears for the young hobbit.

* * * * *

Pippin felt as if someone had piled a great suffocating white coverlet upon him.  It was fluffy and warm and –  wet?    If one of his older sisters had played a prank on him…

And it wasn’t warm – it was cold.  Freezing cold.  The youngster discovered he was shivering violently, apparently buried – by snow?  Brushing himself off as best he could, Pippin tried to gain his feet.  He succeeded in pushing himself up and onto all fours, but could not seem to order his limbs enough to stand.  He felt weak and woozy, and upon investigation, discovered he had a lump the size of a small egg on his forehead.  It hurt. 

Abandoning the idea of standing for the moment, he drew in his legs and sat tailor-fashion in the snow.  Memory began to return, slowly.  The snow-hares…  His slingshot and pouch of stones lay within easy reach; he must have dropped them when he fell.  He gathered them up and stowed them in a pocket, pleased that his hands and fingers worked.  He had thrown out his arms to save himself and so landed with his hands caught beneath him – probably keeping them from frostbite.  He was stiff and cold, but relatively undamaged.

He had to get back.  He didn’t even know what time it was – the sun was high in the sky, casting silver linings through the dark gray clouds that sailed before it.   Gandalf was going to be furious, and Merry would be worried sick.   No coneys, and delaying the Company…  Pippin groaned and heartily wished he were home, back at Great Smials with his sisters. 

The second attempt brought him to his feet.  Pippin swayed slightly and groaned again, allowing himself a bit of self-commiseration.  Using hands as well as furry feet, he dragged himself up the slope that had felled him and looked around.   He could see absolutely no indication of the way he had come.

Like all adventuresome young hobbits, Pippin had been taught to wait for help when lost.  But that wisdom didn’t take into consideration freezing temperatures, sore heads, and a rapidly-growing hunger.  Didn’t he remember passing that tree, there?  Hopefully, he began to walk.

As he moved, Pippin crammed snow in his mouth in an attempt to assuage his thirst.  It didn’t seem to do much good.  A full mouth of snow melted into less than a sip of water.  He pulled off his worn green scarf and unwound it, folded it over his ears and pulled the hood of his cloak up over all.  That was a little warmer.  After some time and a few wrong turns, he recognized the place where they had camped.  Trampled snow and the small covered fire pit were all that remained.  The Company had left without him.

Pippin sat down in the snow and cried.

Eventually, his good hobbit-sense reasserted itself, and Pippin decided the best course of action would be to somehow signal the others.  (They would be looking for him, wouldn’t they?  They wouldn’t be so angry that they would really leave him?)   He cleared the snow dumped on last-night’s fire pit and discovered that all of the wood was not burned.  Pushing aside the ashes, he used the little flint he carried to rekindle the fire.

What little wood there was had absorbed water from the melted snow, and smoked like just-cut greenwood.   Pippin watched it uneasily, mindful of their need for secrecy, but could do nothing to prevent it.  Hopefully, Aragorn or whomever was looking for him would see it quickly, before someone else did.   The warmth of it was delightful, and he crowded too close for safety to hold his hands and feet up to the flames.

All too soon the small amount of leftover wood was consumed.  It seemed so much colder now, after he had enjoyed a little warmth.   With deep regret, Pippin laid the slingshot on the last hungry flame.  It licked up around the polished wood, and within moments, was no more.  The flame flickered then, and starving, died.

Pippin began shivering again, clutching his arms across his body in the effort to retain his body heat.   Hummm, what if he sat in the ashes?  They were warm…  The youngster dug out the center of the fire pit and lowered himself into the remaining heat.  The pit had been dug deeply enough that he could sink down to his chest, and he raked in the ashes about him. 

Movement ahead of him, white on white again…  Now was a jolly time for the snow-hares to turn up, the youngster thought.   Just his luck.   Awfully big snow-hare…  The white wolf turned its yellow eyes towards the ash-covered apparition in puzzlement.   It lifted its muzzle into the air and sniffed, but could not identify the creature by scent.   Curious but wary, it dropped into a hunting crouch and crept nearer.

Pippin stiffened, a whimper rising in his throat.  The wolf  loomed above his eye-level from where he squatted, and it looked enormous.  Small hands shot out and Pippin snatched up as much snow (and ashes) he could, packing it quickly into snowballs.  The wolf stilled at his movement, then continued its forward advance, its muzzle drawing back to display white, glistening teeth.   A rumbling snarl was born in its throat.

Pippin took aim and let fly with the snowballs.  The wolf blinked as they puffed harmlessly against the thick pelt.  It leaped forward to catch the last one in its mouth, crunched down on the missile.  Pippin would have sworn it was laughing at him. 

The wolf took another step forward, having done with play.  Pippin groped for his pouch of sling-stones, regretting even more the burning of his slingshot.  The wolf gathered itself to spring, crouching back on its haunches, and Pippin surged up out of the pit, hurling the stones with all of his strength and shouting incoherently.  Two stones scored; one bounced off the side of the great head and a second struck hard just above the yellow eyes. 

The beast catapulted straight into the air, landing with a ‘whuff’ of startlement.  It stared at this strange creature, which had suddenly doubled its size, and decided it wasn’t that hungry.  The wolf  turned, bushy white tail tucked between its legs, and bounded off. 

Pippin watched it disappear over the rise, his heart pounding.  Unable to be still and quite forgetting the need for quiet, he started jumping up and down in the snow, whooping in relief and triumph

To the east, Aragorn reached out in puzzlement to pluck a gray flake of – ash? as it landed on his greatcoat’s cuff and clung there.  It crumbled in his fingers, drifted on past him in smaller pieces.  He turned around and another flake wafted past him.  Another.  He turned forward again and shaded his eyes against the blinding white glare, looking at the unmarked snow as far as he could see.  Then he turned back to the direction of the drifting ash and began to run.

Legolas alone had seen the thin column of smoke.  The Elf’s sharp eyes swept forward, to the sides, and he turned often to check his back trail as he moved easily over the snow without breaking the crust.  The column was not in the right place to be the agreed-upon signal.  Nevertheless, it was the only sign of hope he had seen.  He turned with consummate grace and began to race towards the diminishing column of smoke.

Boromir paused in prodding yet another snow-covered lump and listened.  Faintly in the silence he heard – what?  Shrill shrieks and hoots, incoherent and eerie.  He knew of no beast or bird that made such a sound.  Boromir debated with himself for a moment and then turned and ran towards the sounds.

The three searchers converged more or less simultaneously, each catching sight of the other before spotting the small figure still leaping about in the snow.  In unspoken agreement, they gathered on the rise and stared at the filthy, blackened hob-goblin which had apparently gone mad below them.  It had thrown out its small arms and was now whirling in circles, yowling unintelligibly and shedding ash with every step.  Suddenly it collapsed in the snow and was silent.

The Elf reached Pippin first, lifted him into a seated position and brushed snow off the small, panting face.  “Little one, little one – are you hurt?”

Pippin opened his green-gold eyes slowly, dizzy.  “Hullo,” he beamed at Legolas.  “I chased off a wolf!  You should’a seen it!  It was huge!”

Aragorn and Boromir knelt next to the Elf and exchanged glances with him.  Boromir leaned forward and gathered the hobbit into his arms, pulling his cloak over him.   “Rest, Pippin.  We’re taking you back to the others.”

“Good,” said the youngster.  “Do you have any food?”  Then he went to sleep.

* TBC * 

Chapter 2       

Aragorn watched as Boromir carried the hobbit gently, almost tenderly, back to where the others waited.  Pippin’s curly head lolled as he nestled against the Man’s warmth.  Aragorn smiled to himself; it was one of the very few times he had ever seen the youngest hobbit quiet.

After a brief discussion over the sleeping youngster’s head, the rescuers had decided to trust to luck and hope that the advance party had seen the smoke from Pippin’s desperate fire and halted.  Legolas had gone on ahead to carry news of the found one to the rest of the Fellowship.   Unable to run over the deep snow with elven lightness, the two men trudged after. 

Boromir shifted Pippin in his arms and the little one coughed in his sleep and snuggled closer, burying his face into Boromir’s shoulder.  Thinking Boromir might be weary of carrying the hobbit, Aragorn offered to bear Pippin the rest of the way.   To his surprise, Boromir refused.

“I will carry him, Aragorn.  He is no heavy burden.  Someday…  Someday, I hope to carry my son so.”

The Ranger lowered his arms and smiled.  “We will have many opportunities to do so, my friend.  Our sons and daughters will delight in their old fathers’ tales of adventure.  I can see you now, surrounded by sturdy lads and beautiful lasses, one or two in your lap, their eyes wide as you exaggerate your feats of valor.”  Boromir huffed softly and grinned at him.  Aragorn returned the grin then his countenance sobered again.   “Someday…   May that someday be not too far off.”

“Aye,” Boromir responded softly.   “I will look forward to that happy future.”  He pulled his cloak more tightly around Pippin, tucking in a few stray curls.

When they reached the others, one would have thought they had saved the world.  To the three waiting hobbits, it was so.  Merry spotted them and let out a whoop the moment they crested the ridge behind which the Company waited.  Sam dropped Bill’s curry brush into the snow, and Frodo, holding the pony’s head, turned and shoved the rein into Gimli’s hand.  The three nearly knocked Boromir down in their anxiousness. 

Pippin was laid gently down so that he could be inspected by his fearful friends and kinsmen.  Opening bleary eyes, Pippin returned their embraces enthusiastically, all the while boasting of his bravery in the Wild and of driving off the white wolf.  Sam busied himself putting together a cold meal for the youngster while Pippin regaled them with tales of his adventure, and Aragorn did not protest when a half-wafer of sweetcake was added to the youngster’s fare.  Laughing softly at the excited hobbit’s tumbling words, the three rescuers exchanged glances among themselves.  They had seen the beast’s tracks.  Aragorn had lain his hand next to one of the paw prints – it had almost equaled the spread width of his fingers.

After Aragorn, Boromir and Legolas had also a quick bite, Gandalf insisted they move out.  The Fellowship had halted in a small hollow between two rises, but it was too exposed a place to rest and prepare a meal.   Aragorn wanted Pippin to ride with Frodo on Bill, but both Frodo and Sam protested that the weight would be too much for the small pony.  Giving in, the Ranger allowed Frodo to walk, the first time permitted the Ringbearer since his illness.  It was hard to say which was the more pleased; Frodo at being allowed to walk with the others, or Pippin, at being allowed to ride and rest his aching legs.

The sun was westering before Gandalf called a halt.  Scouting ahead, Legolas had located a shallow cavern, sheltered beneath a steep overhang of rock.  Exploring further, the Elf had reported a defensible opening, narrow at the front and widening towards the rear.  Musty and cold, it was still better than sleeping on frozen snow in the open.  Frodo had been returned to the pony’s back some hours before, and Boromir again carried Pippin.  Pippin had protested that he was quite able to walk now (thank you very much, he added) but upon being carried, had promptly fallen asleep again.  Aragorn resolved to keep an eye on him; though he seemed fine, the lump on his forehead was still swollen and obviously painful. 

The cavern was better than Aragorn had hoped for.  Some great beast had denned there at one time; old bones littered a corner and the rock above them sported great claw-marks.  Two rows of four parallel scars slid down the face of the rock, white against the grey stone.  Stabled in the opposite corner, Bill snorted and jerked against his stake-rope, his soft brown eyes white-rimmed.  The marks were far higher than Gimli could reach, and the Ranger saw the Dwarf staring them grimly.  Aragorn hoped the hobbits did not see them (and thought they would not, with the marks were so far above their eye-level), and quickly beckoned Gimli away from them.

“Aragorn, we should not stay here,” the Dwarf rumbled softly.  “Those marks are fresh.  I have seen such marks in shelters used by cave-bears.  Fell beasts they are…  Some stand fourteen feet tall, and I have seen claws on them longer than the halflings’ arms.  They fear no creature in Middle-earth, and eat anything they can corner and catch.”

The Ranger shook his head.  “The benefits of resting tonight in this cave outweigh the risks, Gimli.  We can have a decent fire tonight and get some hot food into Pippin and the rest of us.  We’ll build the fire near the cave entrance where the smoke can exit but the flames not be seen.  Hopefully, the fire and our scents will discourage the beast, should it return tonight.”

Gimli caught Aragorn’s arm as he moved away.  “Aragorn, heed my words.  I have knowledge of these creatures.  Their eyes are weak so they depend upon their sense of smell.  Our small fire will not discourage it, not when it can smell such delicacies as the pony - and the halflings.”

Boromir joined them.  “What are you two so close about?”  Behind him, Samwise had handed two of his saucepans to Merry and Pippin with instructions to scoop up snow to melt for soup.  They were busy dumping pans of snow into Sam’s cooking kettle, while Frodo peeled potatoes.

Without pointing at the claw-marks, Aragorn explained their conversation.  Boromir eyed the marks over Aragorn’s shoulder, mindful of the Ranger’s caution against alerting the hobbits to them.  “What a rug such a creature would make!  Or a fur-lined cloak!  If we are fortunate, perhaps the animal will return.”

“Fortunate!”  Gimli hissed.  “You do not know of what you speak.  The strength of cave-bears is legendary among my people.  One can topple the tallest tree just by pushing on it.  They are vicious and unreasoning – wound one and it will not retreat.  You will have to kill it.”

“Difficult to make it into a rug, otherwise,” commented the man, walking away to assist Pippin, who had caught his pan under a root and was trying to jerk it free.

“I will warn the watch, Gimli,” Aragorn said softly to the upset Dwarf.  “But we cannot turn down the certainty of shelter and relative warmth for the possibility of danger.  Frodo still needs to be kept warm and Pippin as well.  I will speak with Gandalf, perhaps he has some way of discouraging the owner of this place from returning while we are here.”

The Dwarf frowned into his beard but knew that Aragorn would not be swayed.  The Ranger had never seen what these beasts were capable of and did not truly understand their peril.   Gimli gripped the handle of his axe tightly and resolved that the watch, each watch, would have one who understood the danger at his side this night.

* * * * *

Dinner was a subdued affair.  Legolas had brought down several snow-hares, which were added to the pot, and Sam had produced another superb stew.  All of the Fellowship were tired; the three rescuers from the additional ground they had covered in their searches, and the hobbits from struggling through the deep drifts of snow.  Aragorn regretted the additional strain on the small ones; they had to take two to three steps for every one of his.

At intervals, Aragorn or Legolas would rise and scout outside the cavern, looking for any sign of the cave’s occupant.  Gandalf had stood at the opening for a long time, leaning on his staff and gazing out into the darkness.  Finally the wizard had sighed and returned to where the others were unrolling their blankets and settling down.  Samwise had made Frodo lie down and covered him with extra blankets, watching as his master dropped off.  He looked up, his sandy curls glinting in the firelight, as the wizard sank stiffly to his bedroll near Frodo.

“There’s something out there,” Gandalf said softly.  “Something very large.  I feel nothing from it but hunger.”  He did not add that he felt one other thing … hunger, and hatred.

* * * * *

It was Merry who had the watch, Pippin and Frodo being excused this night, when twin globes of green fire stared into his eyes from less than twenty feet away.  The glowing green globes were at least five feet off the ground.   Merry made a sound between a choke and a squeal and pushed back against Gimli.  The Dwarf was instantly alert and on his feet.

“Wake the others!” Gimli ordered.  “Go!”  A hard shove between the shoulders woke Merry from his paralysis, and he darted past the Dwarf to shake Aragorn’s shoulder, then wake Gandalf and the others.  Legolas was the first armed, crowding the hobbits into the bone-strewn corner behind the defense of his bow. 

“Build up the fire!” Gimli bellowed.  After a moment’s hesitation, Sam ran past Legolas to comply, with Frodo right behind him.  They began throwing the stacked faggots into the flames.  “Make noise!” the Dwarf shouted.  “Shout!  Scream!  They do not love great noise!”  So saying, he let loose a battle-howl that raised the hair on the hobbits’ feet.  The others added their cries while unsheathing their swords, ringing metal echoing in the confined space.  Merry threw himself on Sam’s pack and pulled out his cooking pots, began slamming them together.  Pippin up-ended the soup kettle and started pounding on it with a stone, while emitting such a high-pitched yowl that Legolas almost dropped his bow to shelter his ears with his hands. 

All nine of the Company were shouting, shrieking.  The pony aided their efforts with wild whinnying cries, plunging on his tie-rope, and Merry and Pippin pounded on Sam’s pans.  The green globes vanished for the briefest of moments then suddenly rose into the air.  Up, up, they rose.  The cave-bear stood up on its hind legs to regard them quizzically.   The enormous muzzle tilted back to test the air, drawing off teeth as large as a man’s fingers.  Recognizing that the beast was not intimidated by the racket, Gimli caught up the small dagger he wore at his belt and after a moment of internal agony, slashed off one of the thick braids in his beard.  He threw the treasured braid into the flames and flapped his tunic at the smoke to drift it outwards.  The overwhelming stench of burnt hair rose from the fire and drifted on the wind to the sensitive nostrils of the bear.

The great beast sniffed again, then sneezed.  It dropped to all fours and coughed, then rubbed at its great nose with a clawed paw the size of  Sam’s soup kettle.  It coughed again, eyes closing as it struggled against the painful overload of its paramount sense.  Crouching close to the fire, Sam swore he saw its little piggy eyes tear.  With a sudden, convulsive movement, the bear turned and was lost into the night.

Quiet was instant, except for Pippin’s continued effort.   Other than that, there were only the sounds of their panting breaths and the nervous shuffling of the pony.

“My pans!” cried Sam, in the same instant that Gimli bellowed, “My beard!” 

Aragorn lowered his sword and laughed shakily, relief evident in his strained face.  “Master Gimli, if ever do I fail to heed your words in the future, I beg you to remind me of this incident.  Legolas, would you see if you can track the beast, to ensure that it has departed?  And Merry, will you please silence Pippin?”

Pippin, his small hands pressed tightly over his own ears, had shut his eyes to better concentrate on producing his ear-splitting yowl.  Merry reached over and shook him and the youngster fell silent.   Prying his eyes open, Pippin remarked cheerfully, “It’s gone?  I chased off a wolf and a bear!  You lot owe me!”

* * * * *

The last watch before dawn was Gandalf’s.  Legolas had returned after nearly an hour, having tracked the huge paw prints far into the distance.  Gimli had gone to his bedroll at last, confident in the wizard’s ability to detect and defend the Company against all threats.  Tracking the beast with his own powers, Gandalf had located it far away and still moving.  But that was not the great, hungry mind he had felt earlier.  Something else was out there, something huge.  The bear’s mind held no hate, no wickedness; it was only a beast, with a beast’s hungers and needs and fears.  This was something else.  And it was coming towards them, at speed, with evil intent.  Glancing back to where the Ring-bearer slept quietly, the wizard feared he knew what drew it on.

* TBC * 

Chapter 3

Light spilled from the rising sun and filled the little hills and hollows of the frozen ground, flowed like dazzling water into each shadowed space, transforming the gray blanket of snow into a field of sparkling diamonds hurtful to the eyes.  Gandalf shielded his gaze against the unbearable brilliance and rose stiffly to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff.  Before turning to wake the Fellowship in preparation for the day’s march, he reached out with his mind and sought the black well of viciousness that he had sensed the previous day, after the cave-bear’s departure.  Where … where … there.  Closer now.  Much closer, and coming fast.

Well, there was nothing he could do about it now.  Sighing, the wizard turned and began waking the Company.  Sam was already awake, as usual, and taking advantage of their sheltered campsite to prepare a hot breakfast.  Soon, the smell of porridge sprinkled with dried and sweetened berries filled their little cavern.

Gandalf was glad of the hot meal, especially for the hobbits’ sakes.  Though none of them had complained (with the exception of Peregrin, who cheerfully complained constantly), the wizard knew that they suffered more from the cold than did the larger folk.  Frodo, especially, had a difficult time keeping warm and Gandalf had not missed how Merry ensured the others kept him tucked tightly between them as they slept.  Back in Imladris, Elrond had suggested providing them boots, but Gandalf had vetoed the idea – the hobbits would not wear them.  Watching Frodo and Pippin shiver in their blankets, Gandalf thought he might have insisted.

Boromir had spent most of the remaining time after they camped working on one of the pieces of firewood they had gathered, testing the wood carefully before choosing a root and settling down to whittle it with his sharp belt-knife,  Just before they moved out, the Man presented Pippin with the finished product, a stout and well-carved sling-shot.  It was accompanied by two small pouches of rounded stones, collected surreptitiously along yesterday’s march as the Company tarried by an ice-edged river to refill their water-skins.  The wizard had wondered why Boromir kept walking up and down the bank, bending down to break the ice in this place or that.  The pouches and the shot-band were made from the fingers of one of his spare gloves. 

Gandalf smiled as he watched the youngster; one would have thought that Boromir had gifted him the moon and the stars.  The little one had to show it to each member of the Company and when he worked back to Boromir, had thrown his small arms around the Man as far as they would go and hugged him. 

Pippin’s joy was so infectious that the Company moved out in a state of raised spirits.   Even the cold did not seem so bitter.  When the youngster brought down a snow-hare, and presented it to Sam for the night’s cook-pot, Gandalf looked over to see Pippin run back to twine his small hand in Boromir’s and walk with him.

Aragorn, too, watched the tall Man and the small figure beside him.  Boromir bent his head to better hear whatever Pippin was telling him.  The Ranger smiled as he remembered his and Boromir’s conversation of the day before, when Boromir had carried back their lost one to the others.  ‘He will make a wonderful father,’ Aragorn thought.  ‘May peace come soon … and may we all see our children laugh at their ease in the sunlight.’

Merry and Pippin engaged in a brief snowball fight, but the snow was dry and did not pack well.  Instead, they ambushed their cousin (Sam being spared on account of leading the pony) and stuffed snow down his jacket.  Frodo wrestled Merry down and was returning the favor when Pippin launched himself like a small missile at Frodo’s back, knocking them both over and indiscriminately tickling his cousins.  Frodo defended himself vigorously, laying to rest Aragorn’s fears that the hobbit was not fully recovered from his illness.  Aragorn was pleased to see Frodo laughing as hard as little Pippin; ever since Weathertop, the Ranger had watched helplessly as shadows gathered in the Ringbearer’s beautiful eyes.  Though Frodo would not speak of it, Aragorn feared that the burden of the Ring grew heavier.  He could do nothing but watch as Frodo grew increasingly silent and strained.   Any reprieve for the Ringbearer was a moment to be treasured.  When Gandalf finally called a halt, all three of the halflings were panting and soaked, and the Ranger made them change into dry clothes.

The wizard walked a little away from the group, and stood silently leaning on his staff, eyes closed, form rigid.  Aragorn came up to him and they exchanged soft words.  As soon as the hobbits were re-dressed and all had caught their breath, Gandalf insisted they continue on, at a faster pace than before.  Aragorn dropped to the rear and spoke with Boromir then drifted over to Gimli and Legolas.  Those spoken to placed their hands on their weapons and shortened the space between them along the line of their march.

The hobbits did not notice.  The snow had returned and the temperature plummeted.  Caradhras’ mood had turned cruel again.  There was no soft laughter and murmured conversations now; the increasing cold froze the snow crust and it required all the hobbits’ concentration to raise up and place their feet directly down instead of walking normally, so that the frozen crust did not cut their legs like the edges of a knife.  It was exhausting for them and Gandalf again wished he had forced boots on the hobbits.

They continued on as long as there was light to see by, one weary step after another.  Night came with startling swiftness.  This time it was Gimli, with his miner’s eye, who discovered the protruding rock shelf which flowed down to form a shallow, three-sided shelter.  Not as deep as their previous night’s resting place, the little cave still would allow room to stable Bill and let them all crowd inside.  Merry inspected the rock walls thoroughly and, with relief, reported no claw-marks on the walls anywhere.  But Gimli was unsure; he was concerned about the high rock pile resting on the shelf above the cave mouth.  Snow covered the details and the Dwarf could not see how stable the white-blanketed rocks were.

The cold and the darkness deepened while Gimli, Aragorn and Gandalf discussed their options.  At Legolas’ suggestion, Sam guided Bill down to the ground, and the hobbits clustered around his withers, absorbing his heat.  Knees drawn up to their chests and backs pressed against the pony, the hobbits shivered and awaited the wizard’s decision.  

Gimli wanted to continue on but Gandalf was adamant they stop.  Legolas volunteered to scout ahead, and running lightly over the snow, disappeared into the distance.  To add to their misery, the wind had risen and the blown snow stung against their faces like the bites of tiny, sharp-fanged insects.  The little cave would cut the wind and allow them a fire, and Gimli gave in when Legolas returned and could report no better place within a half-hour’s march.  The Company would have been more at ease had not Gimli gone outside again, to stare about the opening and rumble into his beard.

As Sam built up the fire, Gandalf gathered the Company close and told the hobbits what the others already knew.  “Something comes,” the wizard began.  “Something very large and very evil.  I felt it first yesterday.”  Sam looked up at him but said nothing, continuing only to lay out his ‘taters and other ingredients for the night’s stew.  “At the speed it is moving, it will arrive here within two hours.  It is –“

“How do you know it’s coming here?” Pippin interrupted. 

“Pip, be quiet,” Merry whispered.

The wizard frowned at them both then continued.  “I feel it as a great hunger.  A great … darkness, a fury…   Something drawn from great depths high on the mountain and sent to attack us.  It is –“

“What do you mean ‘drawn?’  What -”

“Pip!”

“It is coming for the Ring.”  Aragorn’s voice cut through Pippin’s soft argument with Merry and silenced the breath of those gathered there.  The Ranger’s sorrowing eyes moved to the Ring-bearer, who had turned a deathly white and who sat stiffly, his right hand clutching that which hung at his breast.  Shadows again filled his beautiful eyes.

“We must prepare for it,” Aragorn continued.  “This poor cave is the most defensible place we can find and fortify before it arrives.”

It was Frodo who spoke first.  “What must we do?”

The Ranger nodded at him, grateful for the little one’s calm.  “We must gather as much wood as we have, every faggot from our supplies and all we can find.  Gandalf  will do that.  Gimli and Boromir and I will roll what large rocks we can find to block the entrance.  Perhaps that will slow it.  Legolas will make as many arrows as he can from our stocks here, then help us.  You four…” Aragorn hesitated and saw the hobbits lift frightened but determined faces to him.  “Frodo, if you will help Gandalf.  Unpack our stored firewood.  I do not want you to leave the cave.  Merry and Pippin …you can wrap rags around Legolas’ arrows and rub pitch from the barrels on them.  Wrap the arrows with anything that will burn quickly and hot.”

Aragorn watched them narrowly.  “Most importantly, you three must defend Frodo.  If any here falls, the others must bring it down.   Above all, above everything, it must not take the Ring.”

Behind him, Legolas had already seated himself cross-legged next to the fire and was running his long hands along the sticks Sam had set aside for firewood.   Wordlessly, Boromir added his arrow-making supplies to the arrow points, fletchings and other items laid out before the Elf.

Gimli rose to his feet with a puff.  “Come, good Men.  It will take a Dwarf’s strength to move those boulders off to the side of this little place.  We will need to anchor the larger rocks with smaller, driven into the ground, so that the creature may not push the facing-stones back.  The largest stones must be placed carefully.”  So saying, he and Boromir exited into the night and a moment later, they heard a grunt and the slide of stone on frozen earth.

Standing beside Aragorn, Gandalf sighed as the Ranger moved to fetch his own arrows and arrow supplies for Legolas before aiding Gimli.  “Sam, if you will continue with dinner, please.  We will need our strength.  And it would be a shame to waste Pippin’s rabbit, after he finally succeeded in getting one.”  The youngster had the imprudence to wrinkle his nose at him before turning back to help Merry pry open one of the small storage barrels carried by the pony.

As the wizard had half-expected, after a moment Frodo rose and came to him.  They moved off to the side, away from his cousins’ attempts to break the staves out of the barrel and get at the pitch between its slats.  Above the splintering noises and an occasional “oof!”, Frodo tugged on Gandalf’s robe so that the wizard would kneel and they could speak face to face. 

“Send them away, Gandalf.”  The Ring-bearer’s face was set, eyes huge in the pale face.  The wizard started to shake his head and Frodo pressed on desperately.  “They won’t be any good in a fight – you know that.  We know that.  Hobbits aren’t warriors.  They’ll only get themselves killed.  Killed protecting me.”

The wizard reached out and placed his hands on the Ringbearer’s small shoulders.  “Where would they go, Frodo?  Do you think they would have any chance, out there in the cold, in the dark?  And do you think they would consent to go?  We could load Bill up with all they would need and they still would not survive Caradhras.  There is no safety in fleeing.”

Frodo tried to speak again but Gandalf overruled him.  “And what if they did?  What would it matter, if the Enemy took from your body the Ring?  It would reach him somehow, you know.  The Ring longs to return to its Master, Frodo, and eventually, it would reach him.

“Would those you love have any safety, then?  There will be no safety anywhere, for anyone.  It would only be a matter of time before his attention turned to the Shire, then all and everything you love would suffer the more because you dared to defy him.

“My dear friend, Sam and Merry and Pippin’s only hope is to stay with us, and fight.  Here, with us, they have a chance.  Out there, they will surely die.”

Frodo covered his face with his hands.  “It is as you say.  But Gandalf…” the Ring-bearer begged, “…you will protect them?”

“To the end of my strength, Frodo,” the wizard said softly.  “For love of them – and you.”

* TBC *

Chapter 4

Gandalf insisted that all work stop when the meal was ready, and everyone sat down to a quick supper.  It was no reflection on Sam’s cooking that most of the Fellowship hardly tasted their stew; their minds were on the swiftly-approaching evil, not food.  Even Pippin picked at his dinner.  He dangled a piece of the coney he had been so proud of bringing down and finally pushed it away with a groan.

Gimli bolted his dinner so quickly that he choked on a piece of rabbit, and Legolas had to pound on his back to dislodge it.   The dwarf had used the fallen boulders and smaller rocks outside to build a barricade taller than the hobbits’ heads.   He was anxious now to return to his labors; he and Boromir wanted to further raise and strengthen the wall so that the coming creature could not push it down by main force.  Boromir’s hands were torn and bloodied despite his gloves, and he spent some time clenching and unclenching his hands around his sword hilt to be confident that, when need demanded, his grip would be sure.

Aragorn kept rising and standing at the little cavern’s entrance, staring out into the darkness with quiet, inward-turning eyes.  Gandalf came to stand by his side and answered the unspoken question.  “Soon.”

Sam and Frodo still had time to scour the cooking pots before Gandalf called Merry and Pippin back to the cave, where they had been outside filling every available container with as much snow as they could pack in them.  Water was always needed.  The wizard bid the hobbits lead Bill to the rear of the cave and hobble him, and tie a blindfold over the pony’s eyes.  Sam reached up and stroked his soft nose, murmuring to him softly as the pony’s warm breath nuzzled his palm, hoping for an apple or handful of grain.  “Easy there, Bill,” the stocky hobbit muttered.  “There’s a good lad…  Stand still for Mr. Merry, now…”  The pony butted him gently and stood quietly as Merry laid a cloth over the soft brown eyes and bound them tight.

Aragorn ghosted to join the wizard at the entrance, watching the ever-deepening night.  “Gandalf, it comes to me that we might use the pony as bait, if we must.  Perhaps it would turn from us and seek an easier meal.”

Leaning on his staff, Gandalf considered the Ranger’s words.  “I had thought of that, Aragorn.  But we need Bill, in addition to the hobbits’ holding him dear.  I am fond of Bill, too - but our lives come first.   If this were some simple beast, like the cave-bear, I would hold such a plan in reserve.  But this is no natural thing, driven by need and instinct.   It is all hunger and fury and wickedness, and it cannot help but be drawn by what the Ringbearer carries.  Evil calls to evil, my friend, and even were it not driven, its nature would compel it.”  The wizard paused and closed his eyes, turning his face outward.  “Gimli!  Boromir!  Come inside now!  It is very close.”

The man and the dwarf rose from driving support stones into position to rejoin the others.  Near the entrance, Legolas stood his arrows into loosened soil, standing them upright for a quicker catch and draw.  The elf shook his head at the improvised shafts; some were warped, some too short.  Though he had done the best he could, he did not trust them to fly true.  Add the weight of wrapped rags and pitch, and then the fire (if they would even ignite), and it would be a wonder if any struck home.

Standing with the wizard behind the barricade, Aragorn unsheathed his long sword.  Boromir and Gimli joined him silently, weapons in their hands.  Behind them, Gandalf drew Glamdring, and the elven sword rang with a clear pealing chime.  Legolas loosened his long knives and put arrow to bow.  The hobbits drew their own small swords and arrayed themselves around the pony at the very rear of the cave.  Frodo found himself pushed back against the wall.   When he tried to edge around to the front, Sam turned and said, “You jus’ stay there in back, Mr. Frodo.   It’ll have ‘ta come through us to get at you.”

“Sam, no.  I –“

“Ring-bearer!”  Gandalf’s voice echoed through the cavern.  “Keep back!”  The wizard moved to stand before the hobbits, turned and held himself at guard.

And it came.

From his position behind all the others, Frodo saw only a flash of pure and absolute white, a huge form that moved with unimaginable speed.  It was as if all the snow about them converged and congealed into one massive figure; vaguely man-shaped, covered with coarse white hair with claws and great long tusks, and sized out of all imagination.  It had to stoop to see into the cave, reaching down to lay its five-fingered hands on the topmost row of Gimli’s wall.  Absently, Frodo noted that its hands were larger than his own chest, and the black, shining claws emerging from them the length of his forearms.

Frodo had only a moment to regard the creature, before those huge arms tensed and Gimli’s carefully constructed wall tumbled like a child’s toy blocks.  The creature hooted, a most odd and unnatural sound coming from that mass of snow-encrusted white hair.  Not bothering to clear its way, it lifted one enormous five-toed haired foot, far too large for its body, and stepped over the barrier.  It had not even been slowed down.

Enraged by the creature’s utter disregard of his labors, Gimli leapt to the fore, howling a battle-cry that brought the snow-beast’s red eyes to him.  The long-handled axe swung in an arc aiming for its knees, seeking to cripple it.  With that unfathomable speed, it moved aside and Gimli followed the swing of his axe to be pulled around behind the thing.  The creature turned to follow his movement, and its wide, fanged mouth opened in a grunting laugh.  Aragorn and Boromir rushed it from the right and left, each seeking to slice into its sides.  Faster than they could close upon it, the creature swung back and its long arms, longer than the sword-extended arms of the men, reached over their heads and came down on their shoulders, knocking them aside.

Aragorn was lifted from his feet and thrown into the cavern-wall, falling with a choked cry.   The thing followed and lifted one enormous fist to smash the life from him.   Boromir was upon the ground, groaning, trying to pull himself up.  Gimli was just pulling himself to his feet, just turning back behind him to the battle.  White-faced, Gandalf strode forward, his staff glowing in one hand and Glamdring gleaming from its light in his other.  Before he could close with it, a flaming arrow flew past him and buried itself in the crusted hair.  The creature hooted again, falling back from Aragorn’s still form to bat its great hands at the arrow imbedded in its shoulder.  The arrow extinguished itself in the thick fur and as the hobbits watched in horror, it closed its hand upon the shaft and withdrew it, giving that contemptuous, grunting laugh again as it rubbed at the slight crisping of the fur, the small burn the only evident damage.

Legolas nocked another flaming arrow and let it fly, and another, and another, in the space of a breath.  These the snow-beast did not even acknowledge.  One, made of warped firewood, flew past before its eyes and it did flinch slightly, but the others buried themselves harmlessly in the hairy pelt and the flames died.  Legolas abandoned the rag-wrapped, pitch-smeared shafts and sought his own, managed to shoot one deep into the creature’s side.  Roaring, it twisted toward the elf, red eyes gleaming with rage.  It screamed again as Gimli’s axe bit deep into its back, drawing a copious amount of blood.  Snarling, it turned and claws raked along the dwarf’s chest, from one side completely across his body to the other.  Without a cry, Gimli fell and did not move.

Almost a smile quirked the creature’s face as it took another step into the shallow cavern.  Blood streamed from the wound in its back, matting in the white hair, but it did not seem much inconvenienced.  Like a dog it lifted its face into the air, and sniffed.  Then its enormous head turned towards the rear where the hobbits crouched, and it moved towards them.

Still groaning, Boromir dragged himself to his feet.  Aragorn, too, had struggled upright, one hand held to his bleeding forehead.  He staggered to the side, sword clasped limply, unsure of his balance and confused.  The snow-beast grinned, malice glinting in its red eyes. 

But a stronger call drew it forward, diverting it from the hurt it wished to enjoy.  The creature sniffed again, and its awful eyes centered on the small figure pushed in back of the others.  The taller figure before them raised the bright light it held and the snow-beast’s eyes narrowed against the glare.   The second taller figure joined the first, bow ready, and the creature hesitated, wary of the veiled power it felt in the first and the masked light it felt in the second.   But desire burned in its black heart, and what it desired sang to it of possession.

Ignoring the two taller figures, it reached over their heads to catch up the tiny thing that held what it desired.  The four-legged thing with them screamed and bucked and would have interested the creature much more, had it not been for the continuous whispering in its mind.  The three tiny figures cried out and crowded the fourth against the wall as the two greater figures raised its sword and staff, and the second its bow.   Then the snow-beast stumbled backwards, a shrieking hoot in its throat, as its great clawed hand sought the blood and flesh that a moment before had been its eye.  It screamed again as its remaining eye exploded in a shower of wet tissue.

Pippin lowered his sling-shot, fighting against the sickness rising in his throat, and tugged on Frodo’s arm.  Frodo was staring at the beast, shocked beyond responsiveness.  “Frodo, come on!”  The Ring-bearer looked at him blankly.  “Come on!  It will follow you!” 

Frodo felt a large hand descend on his shoulder as Gandalf met Pippin’s eyes.  Together, they half-dragged him towards the front of the cave.  Shrieking, hooting, the beast was rolling on the ground, clawing at the empty sockets.  Legolas pushed Sam and Merry back when they tried to follow.  As the Ring-bearer passed within feet of the writhing form, its blood-soaked face turned sightlessly towards him, and it reached out desperately.  Gandalf pulled Frodo against him, and pushed Pippin ahead to gain the entrance.  The beast crawled slowly after them, followed them outside.  Dimly it knew through the fog of pain and desire that the others who had sought to hurt it moved out of the way, except for the still one with the axe. Totally in thrall, the creature ignored them.

Out in the freezing darkness, the creature seemed to lose the trail it hunted.  Unsteadily, still swiping at the blood flowing freely from its sockets, it rose to its feet.  Faces grim, Legolas, Boromir and Aragorn moved forward to finish it off.  With a push to each small back, the wizard directed Pippin and Frodo to edge past it and all three darted back into the cave.  The creature turned to follow and slammed its head against the rock ledge at the lip of the entrance.  Small stones fell upon it, into the empty sockets.  The creature threw back its head and screamed again, throwing up its great arms, claws reaching.   Sightless, wounded but still powerful, it scrabbled blindly at the stone shelf.

Its claws hooked on the larger stones and instinctively, the creature pulled.  One of the great stones came loose, knocking forward another.  In a moment, the tumbling stones had become a rockslide, dropping huge boulders down on the entrance.  One struck the beast and knocked it to the ground, and another crashed directly onto the bloodied head.  The beast jerked and exhaled almost a sad sound, and did not move again as stones rained about it.

Dust and flying snow filled the air, setting the hobbits to coughing.  Those near the entrance staggered back into the shallow interior, fleeing stones the size of the hobbits’ bodies.  The falling stones crashed against Gimli’s wall, piling upon it, merging with it.  The entire rock shelf was coming down.  In moments, the entrance was blocked.  They were trapped.

* TBC *

Chapter 5 

When the dust and snow settled, the Fellowship found that they were divided by a wall of stone that extended completely across the cavern’s entrance.  Gandalf, Gimli and the hobbits were trapped inside, and Aragorn, Legolas and Boromir on the outside.  The stone did not extend completely up to the remaining rock overhang; they could communicate easily.  But the wall was too unstable to climb, and they certainly could not get the pony over it.

As Aragorn’s soft voice described the demise of the creature, Frodo and Merry assisted the wizard in examining the dwarf’s injuries.  Pippin was set to building up the fire and melting some of the snow they had brought in earlier.  Sam was calming the still-frightened Bill, murmuring reassurances to him softly and rubbing the pony’s forelock.  He didn’t remove the blindfold until Bill relaxed and his furry ears twitched upright again.

Gimli groaned when Gandalf ran his hands over his thick chest.  Frodo tucked a blanket around his legs, and Merry held the wizard’s staff  as the crystal imbedded in its tip brightened and emitted a steady glow.  Angling the staff down, they could see that the dwarf’s fabric and leather tunic had been rent from Gimli’s left shoulder to his right hip.  Metal gleamed among the shredded fabric.  Had the dwarf not been wearing his heavy chain mail coat, he would have been eviscerated.  Gandalf and Merry drew the dented mail coat over his head, ignoring the dwarf’s half-aware protests.  Under it, the great chest had been pierced by many of the broken links, droplets of blood glistening among the thick hair like red flowers growing in a bed of moss.  Bruises were blossoming on the pale skin, the worst high on his thickly-muscled shoulder.  Though there were no broken ribs, it would be many days before the dwarf would swing his axe without pain.

Pippin struggled over with a kettle of heated water, and Gandalf washed the dwarf’s chest and wrapped it, laying a number of the sweet-smelling athelas leaves against his skin and among the linens.  As Gandalf pulled the last bandage tight, Gimli gasped in spite of himself.  “This is unnecessary, Gandalf,” the dwarf rumbled.  “These little punctures are less than insect bites.  I am not hurt.”

“You are more hurt than you realize, Master Gimli.  In a few hours, you will be so stiff you cannot move.  Accept the bandages and the athelas, and spare us your dwarfish stoicism.”  When Gimli would have argued further, Gandalf poked him squarely in the center of the largest bruise.  The dwarf grunted and glared at him from beneath deep, bushy brows.  Merry, standing above them with the glowing staff, stared straight ahead to avoid betraying his amusement.

The other hobbits had been conversing with the three trapped outside, reporting on Gimli’s condition and trying to work out a way to reunite the Fellowship.  Pippin, being the lightest, had climbed as far up the tumbled stones as he could, and now was balancing precariously before the opening, digging his furry toes and fingers into whatever crevices he could find.  Frodo was below him, and Sam on the stony floor.  The hobbits had formed a chain and were passing up first a lit torch, then blankets and mugs of hot tea those shivering outside.  Boromir scrapped together as much wood as he could quickly find and used to torch to kindle a fire.  The smoke from their small fire was being pulled out through the hole that Pippin was passing the supplies though, and the poor hobbit was coughing as his eyes teared.  Legolas, receiving the blankets and tea from the far side, suffered similarly.

Finishing with Gimli, and after giving him firm instructions to not move until permitted to, the wizard joined the hobbits.  Tentative pushing from both sides of the barrier had resulted in torn hands and more tumbled stones, but little success.  Pippin had had to jump down into Sam’s waiting arms when his unsteady perch gave under Aragorn and Boromir’s combined push.  Their effort enlarged the clear area through which Pippin had been passing the supplies, and climbing back up, Pippin and Frodo could see out.  Squirming, with Frodo pushing from behind, Pippin could just force himself through to the elf’s waiting arms.  But there was no way the larger hobbits and the Big Folk could fit through the small opening.  Sighing, Pippin pushed himself back to the relative shelter of the cavern, leaving a fair amount of skin behind in the process.

Gimli watched their efforts, growling under his breath and rubbing his bruises.  Eyeing the tumbled rock, the dwarf leaned forward.  “Gandalf,” he called, “If you use a lever at the rock pile’s weakest point, you might be able to pry an opening.  Try where the beast entered; the wall is most damaged there.  I suggest inserting piece of firewood there, above that squarish rock, between it and the one to the left of it.  Apply steady pressure to the right, and it should give.”

The hobbits were now set to choosing the stoutest piece of wood and after some discussion, agreed on a slightly warped section of root nearly a meter long.  This was borne to the wizard, who also examined it and pronounced it acceptable.  Refusing Gimli’s offers of assistance, Gandalf grasped the root in both hands and drove it into the indicated place.  With the hobbits helping as best they could, Gandalf carefully exerted upward pressure on the unstable mass.  A few of the smaller stones broke free and rolled about their feet.  The rock pile shifted slightly.

Panting, Gandalf left the root lodged in the rocks and stepped back for a rest.  All having caught their breath, they resumed their work.  Without warning, there was a loud crack, and the root shattered.  Sam groaned.  The stocky hobbit groaned again when no other suitable pieces of firewood could be found.

“What do we do now?” asked Merry, sucking on a splinter.  Gandalf was glaring at the useless lever as if it had deliberately chosen to thwart him, his great bushy brows drawn down in disgust. 

“Could we use your staff?” suggested Pippin.  He quietly sidled behind Merry when the wizard transferred that glowering gaze to him.  Frodo rolled his eyes and sighed.  “I was just trying to help…” drifted Pippin’s voice from behind his cousin.

“Couldn’t they pry it from the other side?”  Abandoning Pippin, Merry was down on his hands and knees, tugging at the weakened area of the wall, where the creature had entered.  Nothing.  Sighing, Merry stood up and wiped his hands on his bright yellow waistcoat.

“I thought it was a perfectly reasonable suggestion…”

“Won’t work.  Boromir and I drove support-stones against the bottom tier of rocks.”  Despite Gandalf’s admonitions, the dwarf rose and moved stiffly over to them.  His arms were wrapped tightly against his chest as he began to feel the soreness of his injuries.  “They will hold against pressure exerted against them from the outside.”

“Sometimes dwarves build too well,” muttered the wizard, drawing a grunt of laughter from Gimli.

 “And you never know, it might work…”

 “That’s enough, Pippin.”   Gandalf turned his head as a soft laugh came from the small opening. 

“Any progress?”  Legolas’ head had appeared unheeded at the opening.  The Elf slitted his eyes, trying to discern their forms in the flickering shadows of the fire.  “The wind is rising and it is becoming very cold out here.  Gandalf, we must seek shelter.  There is none within an easy walk, but we are beginning to freeze.”

Gandalf strode to the foot of the wall.  “I do not want us to be separated!  The creature is dead but there may be more out there, of other sorts, or fell beasts.  We cannot afford to spilt our Fellowship.”

Aragorn struggled up besides the Elf, steadied by Boromir beneath him.  A rock dislodged under his boot and struck Boromir on the knee, eliciting a muffled curse from the Man.  “We may not have a choice.  We will die out here.  Gandalf, is there nothing that you can do?”

The wizard leaned against his staff and gazed up at the Ranger, considering.  “Fire will not avail us.  I can summon the forces of wind, but that pressure would catch up these stones and dash them about this little cave like a child’s marbles in a cup…”  The wizard paused and all on both sides of the barrier pictured the results of that.

 “Eewwww,” said Pippin. 

In the silence that followed, Gimli’s bass rumbled about the enclosed space like an echo of the living earth.  “If we cannot bring down the barricade by prying an opening, perhaps we can identify the pivot-stone.”  The wizard and the hobbits looked at him blankly, and Gimli could see the confusion in Aragorn’s eyes as he stared down at them over the stones.  Sweat had frozen in his hair, forming long strands of dark icicles.  “A pivot-stone,” the dwarf elaborated, “is one on which all others rest.  It bears the force exerted by all the others in the wall.  Remove that stone, and we remove the prop and support of the entire structure.  Remove that stone, and the wall falls.”

Gandalf regarded him intently.  “How do we do this?”

“Find where the weight of the wall rests.  The other stones will lean towards it.  It will not budge if you push it – instead, a single great blow is needed to loosen it.”  Gimli hesitated, then added regretfully, “I see no way of generating the force necessary to strike the pivot-stone.  We have nothing to fling against it.  Our own strength will not be enough.”

While he had been speaking, the dwarf had leaned over and caught up the splintered lever, held it into the fire to ignite it.  Half-crouching against the pain of his injured chest, he moved along the wall, waving the improvised torch before him.  While the others waited, he growled and rumbled to himself, sliding his free hand along the stones.  Finally, the gnarled hand came to rest on a single stone, one but two courses above from the squarish stone Gandalf had tried to part from its neighbor.  “For what good it is,” Gimli said, “this is the pivot-stone.”

Gandalf and the hobbits gathered around him to look at the innocent-appearing rock.  Merry and Pippin tried their strength against it but as Gimli had warned, their efforts had no effect.  As Pippin leaned against it, gasping, Merry turned around and put his back to the stone, pushing with all that was in him.  Then, exhaling loudly, he slid down to the cold stone floor and curled his arms around his knees.

* TBC *

Chapter 6

“What about Bill?”

Sam looked uncomfortable at suddenly becoming the focus of every eye.  “I mean,” the hobbit continued doggedly, “couldn’t we back up old Bill to that rock, an’ get him to kick?  Never knew a horse that wouldn’t kick, if you tickled ‘im in the right place.  Even a pony’s got a kick that will flatten a barn wall.”  Sam rubbed at a shoulder absently, and abruptly Frodo laughed.

“Or a hobbit!  You were sore for a month when that pony kicked you over in Bywater, weren’t you, Sam?  It picked you up off your feet and threw you over the fence into the duck pond.  It was a wonder your shoulder wasn’t broken.  Gimli, would that work?”

The dwarf turned and walked over to Bill, who accepted Gimli’s stroking of his soft nose equitably, his earlier terror forgotten.  Gimli ran his hand over the pony’s flanks, noting the strong muscles underneath the rough winter coat.  “Did we cushion his hooves…   It might work, young Samwise.  Indeed, it might work.”

Bill had no objection to being untied from his stake-rope and led to the wall.  Tugging gently on his headstall, Sam pushed the pony into position, lining up the strong hindquarters with the pivot-stone.  While Sam held his head and treated him to a dried apple from their supplies, Frodo and Merry folded blankets.  Sam reached down and picked up each rear leg in turn, centering the hoof in a bulky nest of cloth.  Then the bundle was tied around each of his rear hooves. Bill submitted to this with good grace, his ears forward.  “There’s a good lad, Bill,” Sam said, stroking his withers.   Bill turned his head around to regard the hobbit quizzically. “What do I use to tickle ‘im?”

Frodo handed him another blanket.  Aragorn and Legolas scrambled off their perches and drew Boromir back from the wall.  The others fell back, creating a wide semi-circle about the pony.  Sam positioned himself carefully by Bill’s side, and pulled a corner of the blanket taunt.  Then he dangled it over the pony’s back, just above his tail.  “Here we go, Bill.  Tickle now, tickle, tickle, tickle…”  Bill’s great soft eyes watched this curiously.  He showed no inclination to kick.

Legolas climbed up to the opening again, balancing himself with elven grace, trying not to laugh despite the gravity of the situation.  Aragorn knew he could not move as quickly as the elf, did the wall come down, so he and Boromir stayed back out of range.  Both of them were shivering desperately.  

After several more attempts, Sam had to admit defeat.  “He don’t feel ticklish, sir,” he said to Gandalf.  “The blanket’s too thick an’ heavy.  He needs something lighter … like hair or...”  The hobbit trailed off as his grey eyes turned to Gimli’s thick, glorious beard.            

“No!  Never!”  The dwarf caught up his beard in both hands as if to shelter it from their considering gazes.  “I burned one of my mustaches to drive off the cave bear, and I’ll not sacrifice another!”

 “Gimli –“ Gandalf began.

“No!  If you wish to use a beard, use yours!”

Legolas’ clear voice rode gently over the wizard’s inhaled breath.  “I offer one of my poor braids.  They are not as thick and as full as Master Gimli’s, but perhaps it will serve?”

Rather than appearing relieved, the dwarf seemed more aggravated than ever.  Watching him apprehensively, the hobbits crowded close together except for Sam, who stood unhappily by Bill’s head.  Gimli scowled furiously up at the elf, his bushy eyebrows so lowered that they wondered how he could see.  Then abruptly, he threw up his hands and laughed.

“I thank you for your rescue, Master Legolas, but they are right.  Your braids would be too soft to have much effect.  A good stiff bristle is what is needed, and none better than a beard.  My beard…” he sighed and looked up to see the twinkle in Gandalf’s eyes.

“I am certain the bards will compose songs to your sacrifice, Master Gimli,” said the elf gravely.  “Both your sacrifices –“

“That is enough, Legolas,” said Gandalf, interrupting the elf’s gentle ribbing.  Gimli snorted but did not take offense.  Aragorn, straining his ears to hear their conversation above the rising wind, reflected on how far these two had come since that first adversarial meeting at the Council of Elrond.

Heaving a martyred sigh, Gimli took his belt knife in one hand and his beautiful, braided mustache in the other.  He carefully lifted it free of his beard and set the knife against it.  Closing his eyes, he sliced.  The dwarf regarded the severed braid with deep sadness, then handed it to Sam.  Holding it aloft with the same reverence the dwarf had, Sam gently laid it over the pony’s back, then removed it quickly.  Bill’s tail swished.  Sam twitched the bristly end of the braid just above Bill’s tail, lightly touching the pony’s hide.  Bill jumped.  “Ah,” Sam murmured softly, “now we’re getting somewheres.” 

Another teasing touch, and Bill’s hindquarters elevated.  Another, and a hind hoof lashed out.  Sam laid the braid above the tail and drew it from one side to the other.  Bill threw his head down and both hooves slammed against the pivot-stone.  The hobbits held their breaths as the wall trembled and rained dust down both sides of the barrier. 

“There’s a brave lad, Bill,” Sam crooned.  “Just one more, now…”  Again the wiry braid tickled across the pony’s sensitive spot, and Bill reacted with both hooves.  With a groaning rumble, the pivot-stone shot out from among the others, bouncing past the two men and the elf.  The rest of the wall held for the briefest of moments, then collapsed like a mound of sand when water is poured upon it.  Dust billowed in a rolling wave throughout the little cavern.  Legolas was inside before it had cleared enough to see, checking that no one had been hurt.  Aragorn and Boromir struggled in behind him, coughing and rubbing their eyes.  They had to climb over the rubble, but the once-impassable barrier was now no taller than waist-high to a hobbit.

Gandalf insisted everyone have a drink of the melted snow-water to ease their throats.  Though it was no warmer inside the cavern than outside, shelter from the wind and more importantly, the reunion of their Fellowship resulted in the entire company feeling much warmer and more at ease once they were together again.  When Boromir suggested clearing the rubble enough for the pony to pass, Aragorn vetoed the idea, remembering the cave-bear.  Now that they were no longer trapped, the Ranger could appreciate the remaining barrier as fortification, not imprisonment.

As he had done earlier that night, Aragorn stood the first watch, just out of the cold wind behind the tumbled barrier.  He stood silently, looking out into the freezing darkness, his hand resting tiredly on the hilt of his long sword.  Behind him, matters were settling down as the Fellowship prepared to take some much-needed rest.  The fire had been built up and was spreading its meager warmth throughout the little shelter.  Merry had held Bill’s head while Sam freed his hooves from the cushioning blankets, both of them petting the pony and feeding him bites of carrot and apple.  Bill accepted the offerings graciously, his soft lips nuzzling over their hands.  Just before stabling the pony for the night, Sam slipped around him so that he was between the pony and the wall, hidden from the others’ sight.  Sam slipped his arms around the pony’s neck and pulled Bill’s head down, planted a kiss under one soft brown eye.  “Ah, Bill,” he muttered softly.  “You’re worth every one of them silver pennies, an’ a thousand more besides.  Thank you, Bill, for saving all o’ our lives.”

* * * * *

The next morning dawned clear and bitterly cold.  Gimli made the mistake of rolling out of his bedroll with a groan, and then had to suffer the indignity of having four concerned hobbits help him to his feet.  Between having Pippin bring him tea and Merry delivering his breakfast and Frodo piling more blankets on him and Sam asking if he could get him anything, the poor dwarf was quite overwhelmed.  He finally resorted to thanking them all for their attentions, and asking that they leave him alone so he could eat his meal.

The entire Company was still weary from last night’s exploits.  As they packed up and prepared to move out, there was less soft conversation than usual.  They detoured around the frozen corpse of the snow-creature, marveling at its size, at the length of its sickle-like claws.  Because it was frozen, there was little smell and even the blood had frozen to red droplets of ice, unreal on the matted white pelt.  Bill shied as Sam led him past it, and the stocky hobbit had to shorten his lead-rope, soothing him gently.  Gandalf had stood by the still form as the others filed past him, leaning on his staff and thinking of what might have been, if not for simple luck and the courage of one small hobbit with a sling-shot.

Pulling his hat down over his eyes, the wizard strode after the others.  The sun glinting off the snow was already blinding.  He passed Boromir, acting as rearguard, and the cousins, walking together and talking softly.  Little Pippin was already having trouble in the deepening drifts, and Gandalf yearned to do more for the smallest members of the Fellowship.  Frodo looked tired and Gandalf wished the hobbit would speak with him.  More than once on their journey so far, he and Frodo had been able to discuss the hobbit’s fears and concerns, and Frodo had been eased by Gandalf’s wisdom and compassion.  But of late, Frodo increasingly kept his thoughts to himself.  That reticence reflected in the beautiful blue eyes, and dragged at his heels.  Gandalf feared that his burden weighed increasingly on him, and knowing the stubborn hobbit, also feared Frodo would seek no ease that any of them could give him.

Sighing, Gandalf continued on past Sam and Bill, reaching out to pat Bill’s neck as he passed.  Sam grinned at him cheerfully, holding on to one of Bill’s saddle bags to help himself along.  Gimli and Legolas walked before the hobbit and the pony, discussing the relative merits of archery versus axe work.  Pulling even with Aragorn, the two walked in companionable silence for a space.  The wizard kept glancing back to check on the others, his gaze lingering on the hobbits. 

At last he shook his head, raising his staff to call a halt and allow the hobbits to catch up and tighten the line of march.  “Aragorn,” he murmured, “the hobbits cannot advance through this snow.  Even with Gimli and Legolas, and Sam leading Bill to break trail for them, they must work too hard as the snow deepens.  Pippin, especially, cannot keep up the pace.”

Aragorn turned back.  Merry and Frodo had moved ahead of the youngster, trying to flatten a path for him.  Pippin struggled after them, but even trampled, the snow came up mid-thigh on him.  As they watched, Pippin fell full-length in the snow.  Frodo and Merry hurried back to lift him to his feet, and they both could see the exhaustion etched on the three small faces.

“We must find a way to help them, my friend.  These little folk were not made for this.”  Side by side they stood, and watched as all four of the hobbits sank into the snow and covered themselves with their cloaks.

* TBC * 

Chapter 7

Boromir tramped his way forward to join the wizard and the Ranger.  “Gandalf,” he began, “Pippin and the other little ones –“

“We see them, Boromir,”  Gandalf cut him off, then grimaced an apology.  “We cannot carry them; it is too draining on our own strength.  We cannot alternate them on Bill; the poor pony is overburdened as it is.  I am at a loss.”  As he spoke, he batted at the sides of his mouth, rubbing out the ice crystals that were forming there from his warm breath in his beard.

“In Gondor,” the soldier began, “there is a game the children play in winter.  They lay upon pieces of wood riveted to metal runners, and use this device to slide down hills at great speed.”  The man smiled, for the moment lost in old memories.  “I played so myself as a child.  It is marvelous fun.”

“A sled,” Gandalf said.  Both the wizard and the Ranger nodded; the toy was known to them.  “That would certainly be useful.  But we have no planks of wood, no runners, no –“

“We have my shield.”  Boromir grinned, laughter in his eyes.  “Did I turn it over and tie a length to the arm-grip, I could easily pull one or two halflings seated upon it.  The little ones could rest and still move along at speed.”

Aragorn chortled.  “A most excellent idea!”  His dark eyes returned to the exhausted hobbits, huddled and shivering in the deep snow.  “And most needed.   Come, Boromir.  Let us explain your idea to the halflings.”

Upon having Boromir’s plan described to them, the hobbits regarded the improvised sled doubtfully.  It took several tries to discern the optimum method of travel; the first try, Merry and Pippin sat side by side on the shield as Boromir pulled.  The shield up-ended and dumped them both backwards into the snow.  After more experimentation (and spills), they discovered if the hobbits sat in opposite directions, one hand on the arm-grip, their weight was evenly distributed and the shield slid easily over the snow.  After their initial apprehension, they enjoyed this method of travel immensely and all of the hobbits were able to take turns resting as the Company continued their trek.

At their next halt, the hobbits had recovered their strength sufficiently to want to play with this fascinating new entertainment.  Boromir obliged them by holding on to the leather strap commandeered as a length and spinning in place until he was quite dizzy.  Like children, the four laughed and shrieked as they took turns shooting around him in an ever-quickening circle, until they lost their hold on the arm-grip and slid off into the snow.  Sam was so wobbly, he had to sit in the snow for some time after his turn.  To all the Big Folk’s surprise (but the wizard, who had known him long), it was the Ring-bearer who most enjoyed the play.  Frodo hung on to the arm-grip with grim determination, his dark curls whipping about his flushed face, urging the spinner on to ever-faster efforts.  Those beautiful eyes shone with delight. 

When Boromir needed to stop, Gimli surprised them all by volunteering.  With his center of gravity closer to the ground and his enormous strength, the dwarf was able to twirl them around faster than the man.  The hobbits were ecstatic, and Gandalf regretted calling a halt to their play and hushing them when they grew too loud.  More than providing the hobbits needed respite, Gandalf was glad that the play allowed the Ring-bearer to forget, for however short a time, the burden that burned with cold against his skin.

The mid-day halt was a short one, fireless and cold.  The tree-line had thinned out, and the few trees they saw were twisted and stunted.  There was no cover, only long vistas of snow and rock.  Gandalf feared he had let the hobbits play too long, and that their giggles and cries might have drawn unwanted attention to the Company.  They saw no change in their surroundings, no stealthy movement in the snow or calls from far-away, yet suddenly the mountain seemed aware of them again.  It was as if the landscape watched.  The Company found themselves drawing closer together, talking in soft whispers, and Legolas now took the watch and kept it.  The elf turned constantly where he stood at the edge of the Company, shading his eyes with his hand against the intense glare, his clear far-seeing eyes never still.  Instead of their usual brief nap, Gandalf and Aragorn urged the others to finish their rations as quickly as they could and resume the march away from this cold, exposed place.

The knowledge that they could rest when they needed to seemed to afford the hobbits greater strength and they grew quite adept at changing places without requiring the walkers to halt.  A quick roll off the shield and a quick dive on, and the change was accomplished.  Frodo replaced Merry on the shield, knees drawn up and one hand fastened to the arm-grip between them, freeing the other to rub off the little balls of ice that had accumulated in the hair on his large feet.  Some of the hair was inevitably pulled out, and Boromir, walking ahead, grinned to hear the muttered exclamations behind him.

The terrain was becoming rougher, more steep.  Boromir was inclining his body forward now, and was pulling with both hands and the strap over his shoulder.  The hobbits foresaw the end of their easy rides.  Having regained his wind, Frodo was about to roll off when the leather length snapped.  It did not ravel or fray; it snapped in one instantaneous moment.  Frodo threw himself forward and his hands grasped the rim of the shield as Boromir turned, puzzled by the sudden cessation of the dragging weight.  The shield started sliding backwards, down the steep hill Boromir had been struggling up.  Sam made some inarticulate cry.  Frodo made no sound at all as he tried to toss himself off, but the shield began to spin like a saucer, round and round, and the hobbit could find no purchase.  Boromir threw himself forward, hands reaching for the shield.  Frodo’s eyes raised to his, his face terrified but silent.  Then the shield was picking up speed, coasting backwards down the hill.   In the space between one heartbeat and the next, the hobbit was out of sight.

The force of Boromir’s leap had carried him several feet forward in the snow.  The leather strap remained in his hand, and his eyes took in the worn end, broken where it would have been tied around the arm-grip.  Where the strap would have taken the shield and its passengers’ weight as it whirled around and around.  The leather strap dangled in his hand limply, a faint wind fluttering its end.

“Where is he?  I don’t see ‘im!”  Sam ran to the edge of the incline, staring down.  He struggled down a few feet, then lost his balance and fell, sprawling in the cushioning snow.  The hobbit looked back at the shocked Company over his shoulder.  “Well, aren’t you lot coming?  We’ve got ‘ta go get him!”

Gandalf strode down to the prone hobbit, digging his staff in the snow to steady himself.  He lifted Sam easily to his feet.  “And we will, Samwise.  But not blindly, not in panic.”  He turned to the Elf, who had moved up with Aragorn and so was too far from the hobbit to catch him, even with elven speed.  “Legolas, you are the swiftest among us.  Will you go and fetch him back?”

“Of course, Gandalf.  Sam, do not fear.  Frodo and I will return shortly.”  The elf leaped lightly upon the unbroken snow, his light boots making almost no imprint in the fine powder.

“Wait!”  Aragorn ran forward to join them, spare blankets in his arms.  “Take these.  And this.”  To the blankets, he added a first-aid kit.  Pippin’s eyes grew large and he pushed himself up against Merry.  “Just in case, Pippin,” the Ranger reassured him.  “Once he got over his scare, your cousin probably enjoyed the ride.  I shouldn’t wonder if he won’t want to do it again.”  The quick smile he gave the halfling was not echoed in his eyes as he looked over Pippin’s head to the wizard and the elf.

Putting his head close to the other two, Aragorn murmured, “Legolas, bring him back quickly.  It is growing colder rapidly.  It was not so many days ago that he was ill.”  Sam, standing before Gandalf with the wizard’s hand still on his shoulder, looked up at him anxiously.  The Ranger turned his head to look down at the ploughed furrow in the snow and smiled, despite his worries.  “At least you have a clear trail.  It will not, I think, tax your tracking skills too greatly.”

The Elf awarded him a look of mock distain.  “I think I shall manage, Aragorn.  Gandalf, Samwise, we will return in but a few minutes.”  With that, the elf leaped lightly past Gandalf and Sam, and was off down the steep hill with almost as much speed as the shield.

Aragorn climbed over to Boromir, who was still fingering the broken strap and staring after the hobbit.  He laid a hand on the soldier’s shoulder and was surprised to feel him start.  Before he could speak, Boromir said in a soft, strained voice, “I should have of watched the length.  Of course I should have watched it!  Any fool knows that strips of over-stressed leather breaks.”

Aragorn regarded him with some dismay.  “No one blames you, Boromir, and I will not allow you to blame yourself.  It was an accident.  None of us thought to keep an eye on the strap – none of us.”  His eyes turned to the distant, fast-moving figure of the elf.  “It is time we rested anyway.  Gandalf, we would be all less visible if we halted below the crest of this hill.  Sam, will you lead Bill down?  Pippin –“ the youngster did not notice him and the Ranger wondered if he was remembering being separated from the Company and lost a few days earlier.  “Pippin?  Pippin!”

Merry shook his cousin gently and jerked his head towards Aragorn.  Blushing at his inattention, the young hobbit tore his gaze from the slope and faced the Ranger.  “Pippin,” continued Aragorn more gently, “would you and Merry break out some firewood and prepare a fire, in case it is needed?  Do not light it yet; I am hoping that they will return quickly and we can move on to find a more sheltered campsite before night.  But Frodo may be in need of warming immediately.”

Boromir moved forward and placed a hand on each halfling’s curly heads.  “Come, you two.  I will lift down a bundle of wood for you.”  The three climbed carefully down the slope to where Sam was fastening a nose-bag to Bill’s headstall.  Gandalf returned to Aragorn’s side and the more expansive view from the crest of the hill.  Gimli joined them there, rubbing his eyes against the blinding brightness of sun-glare, which was causing all of their eyes to tear and blur the monochromatic landscape.

* TBC *  

Chapter 8

With a final swipe of his watering eyes, the Dwarf sighed and rested his hands on his axe.  “Gandalf,” he said, “is there more to fear here than the malevolence of the mountain, and fell beasts and snow-creatures?  I have seen no worked stone or other signs of habitation, but …” the Dwarf seemed almost embarrassed to continue.  “But I feel … I feel that there is…”  Again he stopped and fumbled for words, his hands tightening on the axe that rested between his sturdy legs.  “Dwarves are not given to flights of fancy,” he said in almost a challenging voice, as if they debated that.  “But I feel that we are being watched with anger and with malice.  Perhaps I feel it from the bones of stone in this great peak, feel it funneling from the cold winds that rush through its caverns.  I only know I feel something, and it wishes us ill.”

“You surprise me, Gimli,” Gandalf replied, “though I would be the last to dissuade a Dwarf that he feels something on this pile of cold stone that we do not.  I, too, am aware of a tenseness in the air.  A waiting, perhaps?”

The Dwarf nodded, his beard bobbing against his thick chest.  Aragorn noticed that he had re-braided other parts of his beard to cover the gaps so gallantly sacrificed.  Wisely, he did not comment upon it.  Nevertheless, the Dwarf caught the direction of his gaze and his face reddened.

Gandalf let his eyes rove over the Company.  Boromir had done more than lift down the wood from the pony for the hobbits; he had arranged it, tented the kindling and started the fire.  Then he unpacked Sam’s heating kettle, filled it with snow and hung it up for him.  Now he was brushing down the pony, his face dark and strained-looking.  Sighing, the wizard moved closer to the Ranger and said softly, “Will you speak to him?  He is blaming himself.”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I have already told him it was not his fault.”  They both watched as the soldier took Bill’s nosebag from Sam and refilled it, proceeding to feed the pony himself.  “Let us hope that Legolas returns with Frodo quickly.  And that he is unharmed.”

Both of them fell silent and joined Gimli in staring down the icy slope.  Flakes of snow began to swirl around them gently, kissing their clothes and warm flesh for a moment before melting.  The snow had formed a thin blanket on Aragorn’s shoulders when the Ranger suddenly reached up and brushed it off.  “What is taking so long?” he growled.  He took a half-step forward in the snow, as if that additional distance would reveal to him why the two had not returned.

Having no chores left to do, the three hobbits joined the Big Folk, clustering around them anxiously.  Alone, Boromir continued working on the pony, straightening the packs and checking for rubbing under the straps.  They watched him with worry in their eyes, glancing back and forth between themselves.

At last Gandalf released an explosive sigh.  “Aragorn, will you and Boromir go and see what has become of them?  The snow has already partially filled in the slide-marks.  It should not take them so long to return.”

Boromir immediately left Bill and started down the hill, striding past the others without a glance.  With a nod at Gandalf and Gimli and a smile of reassurance for the hobbits, Aragorn caught up with him and the two Men dwindled from the watchers’ sight.

* * * * *

It was not difficult for Aragorn and Boromir to follow the trail of Boromir’s shield; snow sprayed out on either side of the slide-marks.  The down slope side rode deeper than the following side; Frodo must have been leaning forward, keeping his balance but at the same time spurring the shield on to greater speed as his weight slid the slick metal over the snow.  Here and there, they could barely discern the light marks of the Elf’s boots; a heel or a toe print only, never a full boot-print.

Having to tramp through the deepening snow, Aragorn muttered a comment to himself about the ability of Elves in snow.  Boromir glanced at him and the Ranger was startled to see a gleam of humor in the hazel eyes.  The Ranger relaxed marginally.  After a few more strides, he ventured softly, “Do you feel better, then?”

Boromir nodded shortly.  “I was acting the fool.  My apologies.” 

“Apologies are not requested or needed.  I am glad you realize it was not your fault.”

The soldier grimaced.  “My father raised me to believe that everything is my fault … my responsibility.  To watch and weigh my every action.”  Boromir stared ahead of them, his brow lined as he spoke.  “My brother and I were trained early in the rule of men.  When so much weighs on your every decision, your every command, then you began to feel that you should have control over everything, and that any mishap that occurs is your ultimate fault.  It is a difficult lesson to overcome.”  The soldier sighed.  “So much weighs … so very, very much…”

Aragorn listened, his heart wrung with pity.  “Your father would be proud of you, Boromir.  By lending your strength to this Fellowship, you are contributing to the most important action on the face of this fair world.  If we are successful, not only will Gondor be freed of the Shadow, but all of Middle-earth.”

The soldier nodded, the wind whipping his hair into his face and hiding it from Aragorn.  “Aye … if we are successful.”

“There!”  Aragorn clasped Boromir’s arm and pointed.  Something dark lay in the snow before them.  Increasing their speed, they could see that the slide-trail ended at the dark object.  Around it, the snow was churned and confused.  Smaller things lay about it, on the crust of the glaring snow.  Drawing near, they could identify the dark form as the shield, one side buried into the snow as the other tipped up.  Aragorn reached it in two more strides and ripped it free of the snow, hoping irrationally that the hobbit sheltered beneath it. 

Wordlessly, he handed the shield to Boromir, who examined it and returned it to its accustomed place on his back.  Aragorn crouched in the snow and cautioned Boromir to take no further steps until he read what story the snow had to tell.  The Ranger pushed his hand into the snow and pulled out one of the lesser dark forms.  One of Legolas’ arrows, broken in half.  To the side, another.  Another.  A larger darkness lay under the snow.  Aragorn dug it out carefully.  It was Sting, Frodo’s elven sword.  There was dark blood on the tip, and it still glimmered with blue fire at the edges.  Aragorn sank into the snow and groaned.

“Aragorn, over here.”  The Ranger gathered himself and moved to where Boromir stood.  And here…  The Ranger knelt in the snow and gently brushed the edge of his hand over the fallen snow, seeking the darker stain underneath.  The frozen crystals were clumped together under the light layer of fallen snow.  Turning his hand over, the snow shone red and glinted in the fading sunlight.

* * * * *

Boromir wanted to follow the churned snow-trail immediately but Aragorn refused, insisting they return to the others.  “Splitting our strength is unwise with Orcs roaming about, my friend.  I cannot even tell how many there are; they have trampled and fouled the clean snow so.”  Gathering up Sting and all of Legolas’ arrows they could find, they examined them further as they ran back.  Two of the arrows had their tips broken off and the sharp tip of another was oddly blunted.  “The Orcs were armored.  That is why there are no bodies, only dark orc-blood in the snow.  Perhaps the weight of their mail will slow them.”  Beside him, Boromir nodded but concentrated on running.

Gandalf was still standing below the crest of the hill, where they had left him.  He waited until they drew up with him, then his swift hands took the small sword and the arrows, inspecting them as the two Men struggled to catch their breath, leaning over with their hands braced on their knees.  The Men had not brought any of the bloodied snow, but both knew by the wizard’s face that he knew blood had been spilled out on the white snow.

“Could you tell which was wounded?”  Gandalf was turning the elven sword over in his hands as he spoke.  No blue fire crawled along it now; the Orcs and their captives were too far away.  The hobbits had gathered beside him, silent but obviously frightened.

“No.”  The Ranger spoke for them both.  “I did find the marks of dragged feet briefly in the snow, until they lifted Legolas to carry him.  There was a bond between the drag-marks, so he was restrained.  I could not tell if he was conscious or not.  Frodo they would certainly have carried; he could not keep the pace in deep snow.  There was nothing to tell which bled, if not both.”

Puffing out a final cloud of white steam, Boromir asked, “Why would they cast away the sword?  It is a beautiful thing, of elven-make.  I would think any captor would covet it.”

The wizard wiped the sword clean and swaddled it in a blanket, the scabbard having been taken with its master.  “It is because it is of elven-make that they would discard it.  The hatred between Orcs and their goblin kin and the Elves runs deeper than our understanding and extends to all products of their craftsmanship.  We are fortunate that they did not damage Sting.  We can return it to Frodo intact,” the last was said with an eye to the anxious halflings that clustered about him.  “Sam, will you pack Sting on Bill?  Frodo will want it upon his return.”

Sam nodded and reached up to receive the sword, cradling it reverently.  Still staring at Sting, Gandalf continued.  “I think it is more likely that these are mountain-goblins than Orcs, such as the ones that accosted Bilbo and Thorin and myself in the mountains, so long ago.  Kin to the Orcs but smaller and weaker, but greater in their numbers and malice and viciousness.  They may not serve any master but themselves, being too remote to hold allegiance to an evil power that would accept their service.”  The wizard raised his eyes and regarded the sun, which was westering rapidly.  “Let us hope that they serve no master; it would mean they would hold their captives instead of sending them off to higher authority.”

“Where would they hold them?” asked Merry, his blue eyes searching the colorless landscape.  “We have passed no kind of building or shelter.”

“Deep inside the mountain itself,” came the rumbling reply of the Dwarf.  All eyes turned to Gimli as he continued.  “I know of the mountain-goblin folk; they have contested with my own people before.  They are burrowers, maggots in the flesh of the earth.  They might find a passage-way into the mountain, a natural cavern-system, and enlarge it to their own use.  While not builders, they are adapters, and clever at that … clever at raping the living earth of its beauty and perverting its gifts to their own ugly ends.”

It was a rare thing to see anger in the usually stolid Dwarf, and all the Company stared at him.  Gimli flushed.  “I would not see an Elf in their hands,” he continued softly.  “We must find them quickly.  These foul folk are known for the wicked games they play on helpless captives.”

Pippin hid his face in his hands and began to cry.

* TBC *

Chapter 9

Frodo’s mind was working before he returned to full consciousness.  The darkness confused him at first … surely there was an hour of daylight left?  And then his position.  What was he doing upside down?  He felt dizzy and nauseated.  Everything whirled around him.  Had he slid off Boromir’s shield and damaged himself?

Gradually, he became aware that he was moving.  No, being moved.  He was slung over someone’s shoulder, securely wrapped in a blanket.  His arms were pinned to his sides by the heavy cloth, which he recognized as one of the Company’s spares.  Indignant at this handling, he wiggled and tried to complain, and found that there was a gag around his mouth.  Sam would never permit this.  Where was Sam?

Almost awake now, the hobbit twisted in his confining wrappings and bent his knees, kicking as hard as he could against the hard chest that bounced against his legs.  His knees bruised themselves painfully against plated mail and startled, he yelped.  In response, he heard a harsh, guttural laugh and the one who carried him called out something that he did not understand.  Frodo’s heart went cold within him.  No member of the Company had such an abrasive voice.

Instead of slowing and releasing him, the one who bore him increased his speed, jouncing the hobbit painfully on his shoulder.  Frodo’s head began to throb in time with the bouncing strides, and his nausea increased.  Listening, he could now hear the harsh breathing of many large bodies, the creak and rubbing of metal and the hiss and slide of leather.  His nostrils filled with the odor of sweat and hair and bodies long unwashed, and underneath that, a deeper musk; of lightless caverns and dust and old blood in pools left long undisturbed.  He would have covered his nose if he could, instead, he turned his head sideways and tried to bury his face in the shoulder of his own cloak.  He fought against being sick.

He began to have trouble breathing; it felt like all the blood in his body was rushing into his head, making his skull feel like it was exploding.  Miserable, he tried to tell his captor of his predicament, but his muffled pleas were ignored.  The pressure increased and increased, and the darkness grew weightier.  Unable to bear it, the hobbit passed out.

He was aware of nothing more until his face was pushed into an icy white powder which his blurring vision resolved into snow.  Choking, he pushed back against the rough hand that held his nape and was released.  It was utterly dark.  Unable to focus on anything in the flickering light of what must have been a small fire, he scrambled backwards, away from the bruising grasp.  Coarse laughter greeted this maneuver, the sound loud and malicious.  Frodo fetched up against the cool slickness of a sheer wall and could retreat no further. 

Trying to sidle away from the gleaming eyes of the sneering countenance before him, his way was blocked by something warm and yielding.  Legolas’ head fell forward and Frodo caught the sagging Elf in his small arms, keeping the reclining form from sliding flat to the floor.  Legolas was unconscious, his fair face marred by an ugly wound on the side of his temple.  His hands and feet were tied.  There was blood in the silk-like hair and more on his side.  Hugging the Elf, Frodo stared in horror as it covered his hand and dripped from his fingers.

The dirty creature before him laughed again at the shock on the hobbit’s face, then rose and returned to the fire to help himself to the contents of a boiling kettle hung over the blaze.  There were many more of them on the other side of the fire, how many he could not tell as all the firelight illuminated was a hairy paw here or a scaled, clawed foot there.  At least five other sets of eyes gleamed at him in the darkness, and the hobbit’s heart sank.

Their captors ate without offering their captives any, not that Frodo would have accepted the vile-smelling stew.  Left alone for the moment, Frodo struggled to reconstruct their capture.  His first action was to slide a hand slowly to his breast and press.  Yes, it was still there, burning with cold against his skin.  They had not found it.  The hobbit’s eyes closed in relief.

His second action was to look about.  The sheer wall he was pushed up against supported a rock overhang, not even a shallow cavern.  Open on three sides, the cold wind brushed over him and he shivered.  Breathing deeply, he tried to recall what had happened.  The wild ride on the shield he remembered … remembered the exhilaration of the cold wind rushing past his face as the shield spun then slid down the steep slope.  After understanding what was happening, Frodo had leaned into the slope and let himself enjoy the ride.  Shrieking with laughter, he had reveled in the speed until the shield came to an abrupt halt, caught against a rock, and spilled him off into the snow.  Picking himself up, Frodo had checked that the Ring was still securely around his throat and dusted himself off, mildly amazed at the places snow managed to get into.  He was not surprised to see the Elf running gracefully over to snow towards him some minutes later and smiled at Legolas sheepishly.

Legolas had returned the smile, his clear eyes dancing.  Shaking his blond head wordlessly, he had pulled out a blanket from the stack he carried in one arm and advanced towards the grinning hobbit.  The hilt of the thrown knife that struck his temple had been hurled faster than either of them could see.  Legolas had taken a step backwards, the blankets falling from his arms.  His slender hand had flown to his head as blood blossomed there, then he was slinging his great bow from his back, notching an arrow.  With eyes not completely unable to focus, he had fired at one of the many dark shapes that had risen from under the snow, where they had taken cover when alerted by the hobbit’s shrill cries of joy.

The arrow snapped, and Frodo comprehended that the dark shapes were armored.  Then events became confused for him as time seemed to compress.  He had raced to Legolas’ side, catching an arm to support him.  The Elf was fighting to retain consciousness, staggering, yet fitting arrow to bow and firing again and again, each arrow finding its mark yet unable to do damage.  Frodo drew Sting and brandished the elven sword at the advancing forms, trying to keep himself under Legolas and the Elf on his feet.  He had felt the impact through Legolas’ body when the black arrow had bitten deeply into the Elf’s side.       

Crying out in shock, Legolas slid to his knees, the bow falling from his nerveless grasp.  Bright blood was pouring from his side.  Frantic, Frodo had snatched at a fallen blanket and pushed it against the wound, feeling the Elf gasp then groan deeply.  Legolas fell sideways into the snow and Frodo followed him down, still pressing the blanket against the gushing wound.  Then the Elf had gone completely silent.

Frodo straddled the still figure as the dark forms advanced, Sting raised defiantly.  Four, five … six, he thought.  Too many.  Too many and too big.  Blue fire crawled along the small blade’s length and he spared it a glance, realizing for the first time that these were orc or goblin-kind.  The nearest one regarded him in contempt, a sneer on its ugly features as it hooked the Elf’s bow with a scaled hand and drew it away from the unconscious form.  Another reached forward and Frodo attacked, slashing with all of his strength.  Sting bit deeply into the unarmored forearm and the orc-thing stumbled back, a scream rising from its fanged lips.   

Another had come at them from behind and the hobbit twisted, driving his sword deep into that one’s meaty thigh.  It was larger than he, much larger, but it had shrieked and fallen back, pressing a clawed hand to the wound as dark blood poured from it to stain the clean snow.  Frodo saw that they had drawn back in a rough circle around he and Legolas, an odd respect dawning in their furious eyes.  Then something had smashed into his head and he had only a heartbeat to realize that he had been downed by the same trick that had taken the Elf, the hilt of a thrown knife.

Frodo placed a hand on his head and felt through the curly mat of dark hair.  There – ouch!  The skin had not broken but there was a sizeable knot.  He felt disoriented and sick, but was relatively unhurt.  Not so Legolas...  The Elf had not responded to his surreptitious tugs.  It was then that Frodo realized that his hands and feet were not tied.  Did they know, then, he would not abandon the Elf?

Moving very slowly so as not to draw attention to them, Frodo slid his hand into the Elf’s cloak and encountered the small square box of one of the Company’s first aid kits.  He had seen it outlined there when Legolas had turned to fire.  Small fingers opened the box and felt inside.  Soft linen … bandages, it felt like.  An ointment of some kind.  The sharp prick of a needle and next to it, a spool of smooth thread.  His hand closed over these items and pulled them out.

Still those clustered around the warmth of the fire ignored him.  Keeping a wary eye on their captors, Frodo warmed snow in his hands and used the water to wash the Elf’s wounds.  He had to rub gently where the blood had clotted and was grateful when the wounds did not begin to bleed again.  Washed, the wounds looked terrible, the dirty weapons used by the orc-kind resulting in inflammation.  The hobbit opened the ointment and examined it, unable to guess its purpose.  He smelled it and found it not unpleasant but without knowing its use, would not risk further harming the Elf.  The faint flickering light was insufficient to see if there was any corruption in the wound on Legolas’ side.  Praying there was not, Frodo squinted and threaded the needle, his stomach churning at what he was about to do.

Legolas’ soft suede tunic had been rent by the black arrow, opening a gash in the cloth some six inches long.  The wound itself was perhaps four inches long, but deep.  The lips of the wound were reddened.  Did these foul folk poison their arrows?  He could not think about that now.  He could not think that the needle and thread had not been cleaned in boiling water.  Thanking Elbereth that Legolas slept, Frodo set the needle to his fair skin and pushed.  The Elf’s body jerked as the needle pushed through the soft tissue.  Frodo gulped, trying to control his stomach.  He must do this.  The wound could not be left unsutured, it was too deep.  He drew the edges of the wound gently together then went back and sealed the stitch.  Refusing to think about what he was doing, the hobbit sewed the wound shut, cleaning away the tiny droplets of blood along the needle’s path. 

It was done, and he had not been sick.  Frodo felt a small surge of pride in his handiwork.  Sliding his hands up under the soft suede, he wrapped the linen bandages around the Elf’s slender chest and secured the roll with stitches.  Then he warmed more snow in his hands and poured the water down Legolas’ throat, guiding it so that it went down properly.  Finished with his ministrations, the hobbit tucked his freezing hands against his chest and raised his aching head, and found that they were evidently camping here for the night.  The dark forms he had only glimpsed before were arranging themselves around the captives, on the stack of blankets that Legolas had been carrying.  In the light of the rising moon, he could see that they better fitted Bilbo’s descriptions of mountain-goblins than their larger orc-cousins.  The moon glow was reflected back from the surrounding snow and threw into stark relief their hideous forms and features.

The increased light also allowed them to see him more clearly.  One rose from where it had been watching and advanced towards them.  Frodo shrank back against the wall, scooting up against the Elf’s silent form.  The great black goblin stopped and regarded them, then abruptly gave that harsh laugh again.  Hissing but understandable came the Westron words, “Wasted effort, thing.  It will die.  So will you, when we be done with you.  The two you marked await their chance.  Games, little thing.”  The dark form laughed and leaned down so that its rank smell choked the hobbit.  “You’ll not enjoy them.”  Then it was gone, taking the first watch among the barricade of bodies.  Frodo reached over and picked up the blanket he had been imprisoned in and covered the Elf with it, sliding his smaller body close and pulling the blanket over them both.

* TBC * 

Chapter 10

“How great of a lead do you think they have?” asked Boromir, squatting in the snow with his hands on his knees.  Though the soldier prided himself that he had some skill at tracking, he no longer questioned the superiority of Aragorn’s abilities.  That one crouched next to him, hands reaching out to gather up the frozen blood at the site of the brief battle and sift the new-fallen snow through his gloved fingers, his dark eyes remote as he stared into the deepening darkness.

Twilight had fallen while the Company hastily decamped and followed the two Men back to the place where Frodo and Legolas had been taken.  Yet that made the trail of churned snow easier to see; the bright moon threw each shadow and indentation into sharp relief, black against white, with no conciliatory gray between.  Once again, Aragorn had argued against splitting of the Company and Gandalf had agreed, and now all stood upon the snowy mound where Boromir’s errant shield had come to rest upon a protruding rock, bearing an excited and laughing hobbit.  The blood looked black in the moonlight, and the Ranger was glad for the hobbits’ sakes that the scene was less colored than when he first saw it.

“We came upon this place some perhaps an hour after the strap broke,” Aragorn answered at last.  “Add to that the hour it took for us to return, gather the Company, and arrive back here.  The goblins are moving faster than we, even with the two that seem to be wounded.  One of the foul creature’s trail staggers in the snow, another has blood-drops along it for as far as I followed.  Frodo at least accounted well for himself, from the dark blood on Sting.  I cannot tell what damage Legolas did from the broken and blunted arrows.”  The Ranger rose and dropped the handful of bloodied snow, already frozen into a misshaped clump of ice.  “Pity they wore armor; the snow would tell a different story then.”  Finally he addressed himself to Boromir’s question.  “I would guess, at a running pace carrying two prisoners, they are perhaps a league and a half to two leagues ahead of us.”

“Then we must split the Company, will we or no,” responded the wizard heavily.  “The hobbits and Bill cannot hold such a pace in this deep snow.”  Standing near and stroking the pony’s nose as he held Bill’s rein, Sam bristled but could not deny the truth of those words.  Hobbits were not made for swiftness.  Gandalf glanced at the insulted hobbit and continued, “Aragorn, can you tell how many there are?”

The Ranger nodded.  “I followed their trail for a short way as they spaced themselves on the march.  I make it six, including the two that are hurt.  Two carry Legolas and one Frodo –“

“How can you tell?” interrupted Merry.

“The boot prints of those carrying burdens are much deeper than the others, Merry.  The two carrying Legolas run in step with each other, their distance apart always the same.  The claw prints of the one carrying Frodo shows a much deeper imprint on the left stride than the right.”

“Oh,” murmured Merry, absorbing this information.  Aragorn could almost see it being stored away in that one’s quicksilver mind.

“The next question is, do they know of us?”  This from Gimli, who stood resting his hands on the head of his axe.  Next to the hobbits, he was the least swift in snow.   Yet the Dwarf was a valiant and deadly warrior, and his strength and battle-skills would be needed in a rescue.  “If they feared the possibility of a rescue, they would hurry on back to their black holes.  Did they not … perhaps they would rest and make camp for the night.  We would have some chance of catching them.”

Aragorn nodded.  “Yes, it is so.  Legolas would not speak of the rest of the Fellowship, being wise in the ways of orc-kind.  Frodo…” the Ranger paused and regarded the other three hobbits.  Merry and Pippin stood pressed close to Sam, their faces drawn.  Merry had bracketed Pippin between him and Sam, with the heat of the pony behind him.  The Ranger wondered for a moment if the two even knew how they protected the young one, or if it was simply instinctive with their kind.  “Merry,” he continued, “would Frodo know not to speak to his captors of us?”

Merry considered it.  Such situations did not arise in the Shire and the halflings had no experiences from which to draw.  Watching thoughts chase across that small mobile face, Aragorn envied them their peaceful, safe lives that he and the Dúnadain had labored to ensure, and regretted all the more that these little folk could not have continued such happily ignorant lives. 

“I do not think he would alert them,” Merry said at last.  “He would follow Legolas’ lead and say nothing.  I remember old Bilbo telling us tales of his capture by the goblins in the mountains, and we learned from that.” 

“That’s right, sir,” added Sam, a little of the fear and grief lifting from his features.  “Mr. Bilbo’d sit in his chair and we’d gather around him by the fire, me an’ Mr. Frodo an’ Mr. Merry an’ Master Pippin – he was jus’ a little scrap then - and the rain would patter outside…”  Looking at them, the freezing cold forgotten for a moment, lost in happy memories and away from this bitter place, Aragorn was again sorry that such evil times had come to them all.

Gimli cleared his throat gently, breaking into their thoughts.  “Since we must choose one of the two options, let us then say that the evil creatures will  take their ease.  If they do not fear pursuit, this is likely.”  The Dwarf dropped his voice but knew the little ones could still hear.  “After they have rested, they will be eager to play with their new toys.”

Gandalf nodded decisively.  “Then you and Aragorn and Boromir will go.  The hobbits and I will seek a more sheltered place, close to here, and await your return.  Wordlessly, the wizard reached into Bill’s pack and pulled out the square form of a second first-aid kit, which he handed to Aragorn.  “Hurry,” he urged them.

“Do not fear,” Boromir assured the hobbits softly.  “We will bring them back very shortly.”

The three sprang away to follow the snow-trail, becoming indistinct dark forms silhouetted against the white expanse.  “That’s what Legolas said,” murmured Pippin very softly, and buried his face against his cousin’s chest.

* * * * *    

Far away in the deepening cold, Frodo awoke when the warm body he had fitted himself against moved.  Quickly the hobbit unwound himself from the blanket and leaned over the Elf’s face, covering his mouth with a small hand as Legolas fought to wake.  The Elf’s face was very cold.  “Shush, shush,” whispered the hobbit, raising terrified eyes to the gross, snoring forms around them.  “Legolas, you must be silent.”

Painfully, the Elf’s eyes opened.  Frodo had never seen them less than clear and to see them clouded with agony wrung his heart.  Legolas inhaled deeply then shuddered as the pain of the arrow-wound tore at his side.  Yet the Elf made no sound.  His eyes opened again and swept around him, turning his head slightly to take in the sheer wall behind them to the sleeping forms of their goblin captors about them. 

The one on watch had been aware of the Elf’s awakening, and as Legolas’ eyes met his, the ugly creature sneered at them and ran its tongue over its fanged lips in a suggestive manner.   Legolas tried to move and the hobbit saw realization dawn in his eyes that he was bound, hand and foot, helpless.  Frodo had tried to loosen the bonds and had succeeded slightly; they were no longer so cruelly tight.  But his cold-stiffened fingers could not undo the knots and even his small belt-knife had been taken from him.  Frodo slid his hands over Legolas’ and rubbed them briskly, imparting his own heat into the long, slender hands.  Then he leaned down and put his mouth next to the pointed ear.

“The moon has risen.  They took us an hour before sunset.  I think that the others should be coming soon.”  The last was said in little more than a breath that stirred the fine wisps of hair on Legolas’ temple.

Legolas nodded and struggled to find his voice.  Quickly Frodo gathered more snow in his hands and poured the half-melted slush into the Elf’s throat.   Legolas thanked him with a faint smile then his eyes narrowed.  “You are unhurt?  You are not bound?” he asked, his voice strained and barely audible even to the one crouched next to him.

“Nothing but a knock on the head,” Frodo whispered back.  He paused to tuck the Elf’s cloak more tightly about him and made certain that he was fully covered by the blanket, then cupped Legolas’ face in his warmed hands.  “And they did not tie me.”  The hobbit raised his pale face to the frozen emptiness.  “Even if I could get past the guards, where would I go?”

The Elf struggled to speak.  “Did … Did they search you?  Did they take it?”

“No.  No, other than taking our weapons, they have not examined us.  I suppose we look like we carry nothing of value.”

“Lazy, ill-trained, undisciplined…”  Legolas trailed off into his own language, his eyes closing again.

Frodo swallowed a smile and slid down again, pressing himself down to the Elf’s cold side.  “I will not complain.  Can you imagine the furor if they discovered my mithrel coat?  It might encourage them to search for other, more important things,” he added softly.

He was alerted to Legolas’ next comment by the expansion of the Elf’s chest.  “How bad is it?” Legolas asked, his soft voice light, as if it mattered not greatly to him. 

“Bad enough,” answered the hobbit, understanding immediately.  “One of their black arrows took you though the side.  It is not a large wound, but it is deep.  I cleaned it as best I could and sutured it.”

Surprise showed on Legolas’ fine features.  “You sutured it?”

The hobbit nodded then remembered the Elf could not see him with closed eyes.  “I found the first-aid kit in your cloak. I had learned some stitch-work from Aragorn, and more from Elrond in Rivendell.  You need not fear the stitches will give,” he said with some measure of pride, seeing no need to inform the Elf of his rebellious stomach during the procedure.  “I think the cold will help prevent infection and even may keep it from bleeding further.  So said the healers’ books I read in Rivendell.”  

So intent had they been in their quiet discussion that they did not notice the hulking form of the black goblin until it hovered over them.  “Awake, then?” it snarled, the Westron words distorted and foul on its lips.  Frodo gasped and pulled himself upright, crouching next to the recumbent form of the silent Elf.  Around the creature, the watch had given up its place and joined the other dark forms in rising and rubbing warmth back into their misshapen limbs, growling and snapping at each other like beasts.  The goblin straightened and stared into the clear night sky.  “We move out soon, back home.  There we share you, as we must.”  Frodo saw one corner of its ugly mouth twist and suddenly did not wish ‘share’ further defined for him.

“But first … you owe us, little whatever-you-be.  Half elven, you look.”  Frodo saw the creature eye his large, hairy feet, curiosity warring with malice on its hideous face.  Then it shrugged, uncaring.  “A little sport to warm us and repay us for the blood you shed, little thing.  The Elf will not last long in our games, I think.  Those slender bones break far too quickly.  See?”

In one swift movement, the creature drew back its clawed foot and kicked towards the Elf’s wounded side.  But the hobbit was quicker.  Frodo threw himself full-length aside Legolas’ body and took the kick, claws slashing along his ribs. 

* TBC * 

Chapter 11

Frodo curled on his side, aware of nothing more than the brilliant explosions of light behind his eyelids.  There was no pain yet where he had been kicked; it would come, thought the part of his mind that could think around the crushing pressure in his side.  Distantly, he heard the black goblin’s guttural laugh and heard it respond to something another called to it.  A great scaly paw descended and picked him up by the front of his jacket, sharp claws punching through the thick cloth, raising him from the Elf’s side and pulling him up to the snarling mouth of the foul creature.  “Stupid move, little thing,” the goblin hissed, its rank breath sickening the hobbit.  “I’ll take payment for that myself, when the others be done with you.”  Abruptly it threw the small figure back against the rock cliff face.  The hobbit slid down the slick wall and collapsed bonelessly by the Elf’s side.  Then the great black form was gone, stooping to pick up the blanket and add it to those stolen from the bundle Legolas had carried.

Gradually the hobbit became aware that Legolas was whispering his name desperately.  “Frodo!  Frodo!  Speak to me, little one!”

Slowly he uncurled himself and tried to respond.  The second time, he managed a breathy, “… all right … I am all right, Legolas.”

The Elf’s long arm slid around the hobbit and pulled him close.  Frodo stiffened, wary of touching the wounded side.  Legolas chuckled faintly.  “Do not fear you will hurt me, Frodo.  Elves are … very resilient.”  The long hand probed gently over where the hobbit had borne the kick.  “Did he … did he hurt you, Frodo?”

It was the hobbit’s turn to laugh, though weakly.  “I am wearing my mithrelcoat, Legolas, remember?”  Frodo closed his eyes and inhaled carefully, feeling the beginnings of a truly magnificent bruise along his ribs.  The creature’s claws had slashed through his cloak and jacket through to his waistcoat; cold air pressed against his skin like a shard of ice held to his side.

“Frodo,” said Legolas softly, “you must not risk yourself.  Even if you must watch each of the Company fall, you must not risk yourself, Ring-bearer.”  When the hobbit would have turned to him, the Elf shook his head and raised a shaking hand to the dark curls.  “You cannot stop what is going to happen, my friend.  You must be strong enough to survive it.”

The Elf watched as the beautiful periwinkle eyes grew even wider.  Legolas stroked the dark curls comfortingly, already calling to himself the reserves he would need to endure.  “Frodo, listen to me.  They will use me first.  The hatred between our peoples goes far into the past and they will not pass up this opportunity for revenge.  I will occupy their attention for as long as I can.  Perhaps the Company will find us before they decide to amuse themselves with you.”

“Frodo,” the Elf added gently, “do not watch if you can help it.”      

* * * * *

It required far too short a time for the small band to pack up and prepare themselves for the sport to come.  There was some arguing about means and methods; it seemed that each of the foul creatures had a favorite game it wanted to play.  Frodo’s stomach roiled as he watched them draw out various small knives and pinchers, iron spikes and sharp pickaxes.  Vaguely the hobbit recognized the iron spikes as crampons; Boromir had once described them in a tale of his ascent of an icy peak with his brother.  The spikes were used as steps, hammered into frozen stone and climbed upon.  The thought of what these foul folk might do with them sent him cringing back against the silent Elf.

The fire had been banked but now it was uncovered and re-kindled.  Some of the small band gathered around it and warmed themselves while others sorted through the picks and hooks and spikes, laying some of them on the hot coals.  The smell of heating metal began to drift through the encampment, filling the nose with a sharp scent like burned copper, of old blood and leather burning off the hand-grips.  While the tools heated, others of the band occupied themselves in scraping the snow from around the fire and folding and laying down the stolen blankets atop their bedrolls, preparing themselves comfortable padded seats for the entertainment. 

The orc-kind seemed to be truly inventive in devising their instruments of torture, even taking apart some of their black arrows to unfasten the small, razor-sharp tips.  The one doing this dropped them, forgotten, into the snow as it watched two of the goblins snap at each other then come to blows.    The snarling argument as to which would go first escalated.  The debate was settled in the most expedient way possible – the strongest was left standing.  Growling, it cowed the others and they crawled about its clawed feet like whipped dogs.

Head held high above its hunched back, it strutted over to the captives.  With a sinking heart, the hobbit saw the winner was the one who had kicked him, the one who spoke Westron.  It grinned at him with its fanged mouth, seeing his dismay.  Crouching next to the prisoners, it rested its clawed hands on its thighs.  Dark blood still ran from the black shining claws and dripped slowly onto the clean snow.  The ugly creature reached out one of its scaly fingers and slowly ran a claw under one of the immobile hobbit’s terrified eyes, leaving a blood-trail across the fair cheek.  “We play with the Elf first, little thing.  His pain be warm repayment for the persecution his kind be given mine.  Then your turn.  The two you cut be first, then I have claim.  If you last long enough, perhaps I be generous and let the others play with you also.”

The goblin motioned and two others came forward and stooped to lift the Elf.  Legolas was limp in their grasp, neither assisting or resisting.  His gaze was turning inward, building for himself a sylvan meadow in the green forest of his home, where no evil came and no pain could intrude.  He concentrated on filling the glade with music, seeking to shut out each avenue of the senses and send his waking mind far from what was coming.

The goblin noticed the Elf’s passivity and snarled a command at the two who borne him.  They halted and turned the quiet form between them towards the winner of the prizes.  “No you don’t, Elf,” the goblin said almost gently, cupping Legolas’ face in its clawed hands.  One drew back to slash across the fair features and recall the Elf back before he could escape. 

Frodo did not know what Legolas was doing but he recognized that the foul creature was readying a backhanded blow.  Gritting his teeth, the hobbit launched himself from a seated position into a flying kick and struck with all of his strength, twisting in mid-air and driving his hard hobbit-foot onto the goblin’s knee.  The crack! was audible even over the goblin’s bellow.  It collapsed into the snow, hugging its leg to its chest, rocking from side to side as shriek after shriek tore from its lips.

The two guarding Legolas did not know whether to aid their leader or maintain their posts.  They watched, astonished, as the small thing whirled and leapt for the knife at one of the guard’s belts.  The little thing’s hands had managed to fasten on it and pull it free of its sheath before the guard reacted, sweeping down one huge hairy arm.  The blow caught the hobbit along the side of his face and left shoulder, knocking him off his feet and backwards into the snow.  The knife fell from nerveless fingers as Frodo fought to retain consciousness.  The left shoulder … not fully healed from the Morgul-blade’s wound that had nearly taken him in Rivendell. 

His left side lifeless, Frodo lurched forward on his knees and scrabbled in the snow with his right hand for the knife.  He had closed upon it when a great booted foot stepped on the blade.  He tugged futilely at it then slowly raised his eyes to the hulking, sneering form of one of their captors.  The one whose knee he had cracked was silent now, still on the ground and still cradling the injured leg.  He stared at the hobbit with undisguised hatred in the black pits of his eyes.  “For that,” the goblin snarled, “you be first.”

The one who had stepped on the knife dragged the struggling hobbit to the center of the rough circle where the others waited eagerly.  Rising with difficulty, the black goblin limped after.  Legolas was pulled along and dropped to a seated position with his back against a snow-covered rock.  The support was all that kept the Elf upright; even were he free, the lack of blood flow to his limbs caused by the tight bindings would have paralyzed him.

But now another argument ensued.  Though he did not speak their vile tongue, the Elf understood that the black goblin’s assumption of leadership had been damaged by his injury.  Like jackals, the others sensed weakness.  They did not want to wait idly by while he took his revenge on the little thing, not when so much more satisfying prey was at hand.   This the Elf discerned from the many malevolent looks sent him, and the waving of bright knives.  They were almost slavering with eagerness.  Legolas prepared himself to enter his place of peace again, the detaching part of his mind admiring the glint of the moon’s glow on the sharp blades.

Faced with surrendering either his leadership or his priority, the black goblin flicked a clawed hand at the Elf and slumped gracelessly to the ground.  Legolas was pulled from the rock and made to kneel in the center of the circle.  It was difficult to balance with his ankles and wrists tied.  Hearing a strangled cry, he looked up to see the Ringbearer fighting with all of his small strength, trying to twist himself free of the goblin who stood behind him holding his wrists behind his back, the other huge hand on his shoulder.  He had actually managed to drag the goblin holding him forward several feet.  The Elf shook his head marginally and knew that Frodo saw, but the hobbit did not cease his struggles.  Frodo shouted, a wordless cry of rage and fear, and the Elf returned his awareness for a moment to wonder at the volume of sound from so small a one.  A moment later, all choice was taken from the hobbit as a heavy fist descended directly on the curly head.  Frodo slumped into the snow, his small hands clutching, and then was still.

‘Now it begins,’ thought the Elf.   ‘I am glad he will not see.  O Elbereth, let not our Quest end here.’

* TBC *

Chapter 12

The hobbit was not aware of pain at first, only of the icy burning stiffness at the side of his face.  Consciousness returned slowly, unwilling to inhabit a freezing and exhausted body that had been repeatedly struck and kicked.  Frodo groaned and clenched his hands, then went still.

The goblin standing above the odd little creature knew it had regained awareness, but was not greatly concerned.  Watching the others amuse themselves with the Elf was far more entertaining than watching this small creature struggle in the snow.  When the little thing started scooping snow to itself and making snowballs, its captor snorted and did not trouble itself to interfere.  Snowballs against six of his kind, armed and armored?   He knocked it over casually, and grunted a laugh when it raised amazingly blue eyes to his and crawled slowly to its knees, its half-frozen hands reaching out to continue rolling snowballs.

Frodo froze when he heard Legolas cry out.  His head came up automatically, dark curls tumbling into his eyes, then by force of will he averted his gaze and returned it to the small spherical forms before him before he had seen more than a slender figure collapsed in the snow and the hulking forms surrounding it.  Legolas had told him not to look.  Don’t look, don’t look.  A second, softer cry brought an answering wail to his own throat and tears dripped onto the snowballs, freezing almost instantly.  Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look…

  * * * * *.

Tears also ran down the faces of the three who lay flat in the snow, sheltering behind a pile of it pushed before them.  Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli had an unobstructed view.  “Now, Aragorn,” growled the Dwarf, tears freezing into runnels of ice from his eyes.   “Why do we wait?  They are torturing him!”

“I see that, Gimli,” answered the Ranger.  “How would our throwing ourselves on their arrows aid Legolas?  We must have a diversion.”  Despite his calm voice, tears also ran freely from his deep eyes and at another cry from the Elf, he stopped his ears for the briefest of moments.

“Only you are an archer, Aragorn, though I can handle a bow at need.  We could take two down before they are aware of us.”  Boromir stretched at his length in the snow, shield laid aside so that its rise did not betray them.

“And they will kill their captives.  No, we must have a diversion.”

“Hush!  What is Frodo doing?”  Boromir dug at their concealing mound, patting down one side so that he could better see.

If his heart held anything else than grief and terror for his friends, Aragorn would have laughed.  The hobbit had gleaned snow from around him and was packing a snowball, which he added to the small pyramid before him.  From the stiffness of the little one’s movements, the Ranger could tell he was hurt.

“Surely he is not going to throw snowballs at them?”  The disbelief in the Dwarf’s voice echoed in the two Men’s eyes. 

Yet it seemed the ridiculous hobbit was going to do exactly that.  Frodo rocked back on his knees then struggled to his feet.  The goblin standing over him tossed him a contemptuous glance and returned its attention to the entertainment.

“Even as close as he is, what damage can he do?” groaned Boromir.

The Ranger closed his eyes, then forced them open and wiped away the tears.  “Be ready,” he whispered to the other two.  “Frodo might give us the moment’s distraction we need.  Boromir, ready your bow.  We might be able to down three.  Gimli, can you take one down throwing an axe?”

“No,” the Dwarf grunted.  “Too far.”

The Ranger nodded.  “Boromir, take the one nearest Legolas.  I will take the two next to it.  Then we will rush them and be close enough for sword and axe-work before they have time to arm.”

“The one standing guard on Frodo will kill him as soon as we are discovered,” murmured Boromir.

“Cannot one of you shoot that one first?” asked the Dwarf.

“No,” answered Aragorn softly.  ‘He is on the far side of the clearing.  We do not have a clear shot through the others.  Frodo must take his chances, I fear.”  He nocked arrow to bow and beside him, Boromir did the same.  “Be ready,” he added.

There was another cry from the Elf, this one noticeably weaker.  The rescuers dashed tears from their eyes and forced them open.

Three sets of eyes watched in disbelief as the hobbit stooped and gathered snowballs into his small hands.  The guard looked down on him and barked a snarling laugh.  The rescuers tensed.  They exploded from behind the mound of snow at the exact moment that the hobbit whirled and threw a barrage of snowballs into his guard’s face with all of his strength.  Instead of swatting the hobbit, the guard screamed - a high shrill shriek, and staggered backwards.  Blood blossomed through the snow on its face.

All activity around the Elf halted as the band turned towards the shrieking goblin.  It threw itself on the ground and was clawing at its face.  Its own claws gouged its flesh as it rolled, convulsing in the snow. 

The rescuers did not pause to ponder this mystery as the two Men fired.   Aragorn’s shaft took his target between the eyes and the ugly creature fell and was still.  Boromir’s arrow struck slightly too low, lodging itself in the goblin’s thigh.  It twirled in the snow and collapsed, hugging its leg and howling.  Before the others had time to react, Aragorn’s second arrow took another through the throat.  Then there was no more time for arrows.  With great shouts, the three leaped towards the carnage, bows thrown into the snow as they raised their swords.  Gimli was slower than the Men, but his thrown axe passed by them and took one in the chest, smashing its ribs and tearing through the heart.  The goblin fell backwards into the snow, its hairy paws scrabbling at the air before falling limply atop it.

The last, where was the last?

“Stop!” cried a hoarse, distorted voice.  The word was shouted in Westron but it came from the single remaining creature.  The rescuers paused, gasping for breath.  The largest of the band, a hideous black goblin with clawed hands and feet, crouched in the snow and held a knife to Legolas’ throat.  The Elf’s eyes were closed and he seemed mercifully unconscious.  The slender form was entirely limp, blood dotting the fair features. 

“Stop,” repeated the vile creature, “or the Elf be dead now.”  The three rescuers slowed, swords lowering as they realized the goblin would not allow them closer.  Aragorn cursed softly as he realized his bow lay behind him. 

“Does he live?” the Ranger answered the foul creature.  “If he is already dead, then so are you.” 

In answer the goblin shook the slender form.  Legolas’ head rolled on his shoulders and he moaned faintly. 

“Put down your swords.  And the Dwarf his axes.  Now!”

Having no option, the three complied.  With a glower, Gimli put down his battle-axe and unlatched the small axes carried across his belt, laying them tenderly in the snow.

“And the knives!”

These, too, were laid besides their larger cousins.  Aragorn’s hands slid caressingly over his long knife, his eyes on the goblin.  Seeing the look, it bared Legolas’ throat and drew the knife close above the fair skin.  A thin bead of blood welled from the shallow cut and ran red down the unprotected neck.  The long knife was laid among the others.

“Move back.”

They did.  Aragorn tried to fall farther back, to be in reach of his bow.  But the goblin was too alert; with a cant of its head, it told him to abandon the bow and move too far to the side to hope to retrieve it.

The foul creature nodded, triumph flashing in the black pits of its eyes.  It dropped the Elf’s head and those watching winced as it thunked down on the frozen earth.  “I have a knife,” it reminded them, “good throwing knife.  You come forward and I’ll throw.  Your Elf dies, then.  You understand?”

“We understand,” answered Aragorn.  “We will not try to stop you.”  Beside him, Gimli rumbled but would not countermand his leader’s order.

The creature backed away from the unmoving figure, knife held between its clawed fingers, ready to throw.  When it had retreated out of their reach, it stopped and snarled, fangs glinting.  “I think your Elf be dead, anyway,” it sneered softly and drew back its arm.

The two snowballs that crashed into its face should not have caused it to drop the knife and fall screaming into the frozen drifts, but they did.  As it tried to rise, two more gashed open its throat and cut again into its blood-streaked visage.  The goblin raised both clawed hands to its face, lashing from side to side as it fought to master itself.

Aragorn did not give it time.  With a warrior’s quickness, the Ranger leapt forward into the snow and caught up his sword.  Boromir followed a heartbeat behind, and Gimli behind him.  The foul creature died before it could utter another shriek.

“Boromir, Gimli, see to Legolas.  I will get Frodo.”  Aragorn sheathed his sword then ran to the small figure that stood swaying by the corpse of his guard.  As he reached the hobbit, Frodo dropped the final two snowballs he held in his hands and they shattered upon the ground, revealing the razor-sharp arrow points inserted into the snow.

* * * * *

“Will he be all right?”  The hobbit leaned anxiously over the Elf,  eyes worried and intent. 

“If you will move aside so that I may attend his hurts, Frodo.”  The Ranger smiled to soften the rebuke of his words, and Frodo grimaced at him then scooted back.

“Gimli, is the water hot yet?”  The rescuers had withdrawn a little from the bloodied snow of the small battle and now their first priority was examining the two hurt ones.  Boromir and Gimli had been obliged to take from the supplies of the small band what they needed to succor the captives; the black pot now held heating melt water and their blankets had been reclaimed and were now being used as cushioning and for warmth.  The orc-kind’s bedrolls would have further cut the cold, but they stank and none of the Company would endure them.

Aragorn worked quickly while Legolas remained unaware, washing the bruises and cleaning and closing the many small cuts and wounds.  The orc-kind had intended that their plaything last and provide them many hours of amusement, so had not inflicted the harm they might have, had they less time.  The worst damage was still the arrow-wound.  Aragorn complimented Frodo’s stitching of the wound and smiled to see the little one practically glow with the praise.

Frodo remained quiet, too stiff to move about overmuch.  The Ranger had pressed along the hobbit’s ribs and pronounced them unbroken, though painfully bruised.  The two blows to the head concerned him more; the hobbit admitted that his head ached but made light of it, saying that the pain kept his head from swelling too much at their praise for his cleverness.  At Boromir’s insistence, Frodo showed him where the stupid goblin had dismembered his arrows to use the points for their play, then forgotten them in the snow when the quarreling started.  The soldier had laughed, and slapped the hobbit gently across the back, one warrior’s congratulations to another.  Turning to help Gimli with the fire, he had not seen how the hobbit had stood for a long time looking at the corpse of the one he had killed, his throw driving the arrow-points deep into its eyes to its brain.   Then he had covered his eyes with his small hands and wept for it.

* TBC * 

Chapter 13

“Hoy!  They’re back!”

“Quiet, Merry,” scolded the wizard.  “Will you bring down the mountain on us again?”  Despite his sharp retort, the wizard was no slower than the hobbits in gathering on the slight rise behind which they sheltered and rushing to meet the returning party. The first hints of dawn were appearing on the eastern horizon, pale pink watercolors washing over a canvas of featureless white.  A westward wind was beginning to blow, hurrying the heavy, snow-laden clouds towards them, picking up ice particles and throwing them to sting their cold faces.

The hobbits plunged down the far side of the little rise, wading through snow up to their waists.  Pippin fell full-length, struggled upright, then found he could make better progress by half-pulling and half-pushing his compact body along the semi-frozen crust.  Sliding on his stomach, the youngest hobbit ignored Gandalf’s rebuke and slammed into his cousin with a loud “Oi!  Are you all right, Frodo?”

Wincing, his older cousin climbed stiffly to his feet and embraced the frantic tweenager.  Sam pulled up a moment later, puffing loudly, and Merry after him.  All were swept into a hug that left them laughing and gasping, with Frodo in the center.   Aragorn and Boromir, their shoulders under the smiling Elf’s outstretched arms, exchanged a glance and the Ranger said, “Has no one words of praise for the rescuers, then?”  Gimli, following with the blankets and bearing the others’ gear, chortled into his beard.

The welcoming party, wizard included, swept the four stragglers into their embrace.  Gandalf caught the Ranger’s arm and stared into his eyes, glancing anxiously at Frodo.  “It is safe,” said Aragorn softly.  “They never searched the Ring-bearer.”

The wizard for a moment bowed his gray head, the rising wind whipping his hair about his face.  “Thank the Valar that it has not all been in vain,” he murmured softly.  “There is hope yet for Middle-earth.”

Gandalf had to remind them again to lower their voices and calm themselves.  The hobbits had initially gone silent at seeing the Elf’s bruised and battered form, but upon Legolas’ calm reassurances, had quickly regained their spirits.  Frodo assured his kin and Sam again and again that he was not hurt, but they saw how straight he stood and how tightly his jaw was clenched.  As excited as they were, they were gentle yet and Legolas and Frodo found themselves settled into a warm nest of blankets almost before they knew what was happening.  Hot tea was administered and the Elf fell into a rare, true sleep before he could even eat.  Frodo, too hungry to sleep, was being fed an enormous helping of hot stew by Sam.

Gandalf looked over at the small gathering of hobbits clustered around Frodo.  The Ring-bearer leaned against Merry’s chest while Pippin slowly rubbed his feet and legs.  Sam was encouraging him to eat, fishing out mushrooms and other delicacies for him.  Frodo complied slowly, exhaustion evident in every painful movement.

“What occurred?” asked Gandalf.  Aragorn and Boromir described what they had seen and done.  Leaving the talking to the Men, Gimli stumped over to the stew and Pippin leaped up to serve him, thanking him yet again for his cousin’s return. 

“We must rest, Gandalf,” Aragorn said tiredly.  “We have not slept for two days and have walked all night.  And Frodo and Legolas need time to recover their strength.”

“My friend, we cannot.”  The wizard’s sharp eyes were sorrowful but adamant.  “We must put more distance between ourselves and the warm carrion that lies behind you.  Other things besides cave-bears and white wolves would relish such easy fare.  And then track our scent if the bodies did not satisfy.  You must endure, and Legolas and Frodo also.  We are too exposed here, Aragorn.  I am deeply sorry but we must move out.”

The Ranger rubbed his face, weariness etched into his drawn features.  Boromir had stretched out next to the Elf and the hobbits had covered him with blankets, and he too slept.  Gimli had leaned against the packs and had gone to sleep sitting up, snoring gently to himself.  Pippin and Merry had tucked more blankets around him and even draped one around his head, helmet and all.  Frodo curled between Merry and Sam, silent and still, but not resting.  Those morning glory eyes were struggling against sleep, turning inward.

“Gandalf,” Aragorn said, dropping his voice.  “There is another thing...  Frodo killed his guard, giving us the distraction we needed for the rescue.  He has not killed before and I fear it troubles him deeply.  There has been no time to talk to him.  I do not want him to bury this within himself, as I have seen him do before.”  Their eyes turned to the hobbit, now visibly losing his battle to stay awake.  “He cannot bury all his hurts and fears forever, Gandalf.  It will destroy him.”

“Yet we cannot make him speak, Estel.  Perhaps after he has rested, he will talk with Merry or Sam.”

“I hope so, Gandalf.  Even the deepest well will overflow if more is poured into it than it has strength to hold.” 

The wizard sighed, his sharp eyes shadowed.  “I will wake Boromir and Legolas.  You and they must eat now.  Gimli and Frodo can sleep until you have finished.”

The Ranger nodded, his eyes closed.  His ears caught the faintest rustle of robes as the wizard stood and walked to Boromir and Legolas.  His entire body aching, Aragorn moved to gain his feet … and was stopped by a bowl of hot stew being pushed into his hands.  Samwise stood above him, his sandy head only slightly higher than the tall Ranger’s seated form.  “Thank you,” said the hobbit simply.  “I’ll not forget this, Strider.”

The halfling was gone before Aragorn could muster the energy to respond.  Sam dropped again next to Frodo, sheltering the still form from the wind and stinging snow.  Merry had watched from Frodo’s other side and gave the Ranger a slow nod, which Aragorn returned gravely.  Pippin still bustled about dishing up stew for Legolas and Boromir, asking them quiet questions and popping up and down with his usual irrepressible energy. 

* * * * *

“Gandalf, we must find shelter!  We must rest or we will drop where we stand!”  Aragorn coughed as blown snow lodged in his throat, choking him briefly.  He wiped freezing tears from his aching eyes and put out a steadying hand on Frodo’s shoulder as the hobbit wavered on his feet.

The wind had continued to rise and was now driving the snow before it in such quantities that the Company could barely see.  Looking up, the wizard saw that visibility had been reduced to but a few feet before and to the sides.  The companions were reduced to dark blots amidst the white, indistinguishable from each other except for size and an occasional flash of a colored cloak.  The wind had dried out the top crust of snow, resulting in a fine powder that lifted easily and struck against exposed flesh like the jabs of a thousand tiny pins. 

Gandalf turned and replied something, but the wind snatched away his words and flung them into the uncaring expanse.  Giving up on shouting, the wizard gestured with his staff and the Company began angling towards a dark outcropping.   The wind slashed at them brutally, disordering their cloaks and pulling their hoods off their heads.  The tips of the hobbits’ pointed ears were blue.  Gandalf motioned the Company against the rocky wall, and if the hobbits even noticed that the Big Folk crowded them into the center, they were too miserable to care.  Legolas, too, seemed to be suffering from the cold more than his usual wont.  Though he walked on his own (with support from Gimli), he moved without his accustomed lithe grace, eyes focused on taking the next step.  Gandalf surveyed them and shook his head, dislodging a great pile of snow that had driven into his beard.

“Pile the packs on the windward side!” he shouted into Aragorn’s ear.  “Then unload the pony and add those!  We can at least make a windbreak to wait this out!”

Nodding to show he understood, the Ranger touched Boromir’s and Gimli’s arms and the three set to stacking everything stackable against the wind.  Blankets were tied across the packs on the inside, stopping the drafts.  Poor Bill was led into this makeshift shelter and stood wearily, head drooping as Sam and Merry rubbed him down and worked the ice-balls out of his hooves.  Pippin was set to making a fire, with many warnings from Gandalf against using too much of their precious wood.  Frodo and Legolas tried to help with various projects and were rather abruptly directed to sit down and rest by the wizard.  When the improvised windbreak was finished, Gimli stood back and regarded it for a time, hands on hips, rumbling to himself under his breath.  Then the Dwarf returned to his pack and dug out the iron crampons he had scavenged from the orc-kind.  These he used to anchor more blankets over their heads, tying one end to the packs and hammering the far end into the rock wall with his axe.  Legolas looked at them and turned his face away, shuddering.

So the Company created for themselves a little respite from the malice of Caradhras, sheltered on three sides and beginning to warm with the heat of their bodies and that of the pony.  The fire added a little warmth also, but all watched in apprehension as the bundles of wood diminished and outside, the wind howled and the snow fell.  Frodo drifted into exhausted slumber first, then Legolas, then the three rescuers.  Merry and Pippin and Sam rose to their feet, hobbit-quiet, and made certain that each sleeping form was as well-covered as possible.

For a while the hobbits slept too.  Then Merry forced himself awake and came to sit by Gandalf’s side.  “Don’t you want to rest, Gandalf?” whispered the hobbit.  “You must be as worn as the rest of us.”

“Yes,” the wizard admitted softly.  “But I’ve some thinking to do, Merry.  Go back to sleep, if you can.  I’ll wake you if I grow too weary.”  The hobbit nodded and returned to his place, bracketing Pippin between himself and Frodo, fitting easily onto the end of the row of small forms, so wrapped in blankets that they looked like lumpy logs.  Gandalf sat among the sleepers and kept the watch himself, sweet pipe-smoke drifting out to be lost in the maelstrom of snow.  After several hours, the wizard stirred but only to add more wood to the fire.  There were only two bundles left and his sharp gaze remained on them for a long time.

The wizard made no move to wake any of the sleepers to relieve him but sat silent and cold despite the blankets wrapped about him, knees drawn into his chest and arms folded across his body and measured in his mind the leagues they had come against the leagues yet remaining.  With two bundles of firewood.  Gandalf closed his eyes and bowed his gray head upon his knees, accepting the inevitable.  He reached out and untied one of the two remaining bundles and cast the wood into the flames.  Heat stole around the little shelter and those inside it breathed easier in their sleep, relaxing in the fleeting warmth.

When the Company awoke, the wind had slackened and the weather settled again into a killing chill.  Fear lurking in the back of his shadowed eyes, Gandalf informed them that they had no option but to take the darker road to Moria.  A cold wind flowed down behind them as they turned their backs on the Redhorn Gate, and stumbled wearily down the slope.  Caradhras had defeated them.*

* TBC * 

*  The last two sentences are borrowed from the very end of “The Ring Goes South,” Lord of the Rings, The Fellowship of the Ring by J.R.R. Tolkien.    

Chapter 14

To the unseen observer, the nine forms struggling through the deep snow would resemble nothing so much as walking snowmen, patted together by the children of giants.  Four were quite tall, four were quite small and one was somewhere in between.  All were covered with snow, from head to toe … and all of them were freezing.  With a sigh, Sam stopped working on the song he was composing in his head and leaned over to help his master, who had stepped into a snow-covered hole and fallen over.

Unfortunately, Samwise had not accounted for the extra weight of the snow on his already heavy pack and now off-balance, he found himself face-first in the snow next to a panting Frodo.  Behind him, Bill snorted in protest.  Merry, trudging along in his own cold-induced daze, walked right into Bill’s tail and was bounced back onto his seat.  The usually placid pony had had enough.  Bill stiffened his forequarters and balked, throwing his head down with a squeal.  Gandalf turned at this sound of equine aggravation and worked his way back to where Sam and Frodo were struggling to stand, driving his staff into the snow with a growl of exasperation.

“Now what?” asked the wizard, striving to keep his voice low.  Though they had seen no watchers, Gandalf and Aragorn constantly reminded the Company of the need for silence and stealth.  Gandalf’s decision to abandon the attempt on the Redhorn Pass and seek out an easier path to the East had not put the wizard in any sweet mood, despite the necessity of the decision.  Their last bundle of firewood was strapped tightly to Bill’s panniers.  The Company’s lives depended on descending Caradhras and finding shelter before nightfall.  Below the snowline, they would not freeze to death but it would still be a cold and miserable night.

Mortified at halting the Company, Sam and Frodo gained their feet and tried to brush themselves off.  “I stepped in a hole and fell over, Gandalf,” Frodo explained, perhaps unnecessarily.  “Sam fell over trying to help me up.  We are quite all right.”

Behind Bill, Merry was being assisted to his feet by Pippin, who upon ensuring himself that Merry was unharmed, had rather enjoyed seeing his older cousin flattened.  Despite the cold, the younger hobbits could still summon from within themselves a spark of enjoyment in the solid white landscape, so foreign to what they knew.  The older, wiser members of the Company merely endured.

It took two sugar lumps from Sam’s carefully hoarded supply to bribe Bill into moving again.  It was already late morning and the reflection of the wan winter sun on the snow was blinding, painful to their blurring vision.  The Company walked with half-slitted eyes, those eyes leaking a continuous stream of tears from the corners.  The tiny runnels of water froze on their faces and had to be rubbed off, often painfully taking delicate skin with it.  Sam reflected that it must be worse for the Big Folk; parts of their beards often pulled out when they rubbed the icicles off their faces.  It was merely one more small misery to add to frozen feet and aching fingers and bodies stiff from days of cold and wading through thick snow.

Sam wiped perspiration from his brow, glad that hobbits didn’t have facial hair and so were spared having it pulled out by the roots.  Elves, either, he remembered.  As if Sam’s thought had summoned the Elf, Legolas moved gracefully past the struggling hobbits, coming forward to speak with Gandalf.  Sam permitted himself an envious sigh as the Elf’s light boots moved easily over the snow he was struggling knee-deep through.

“Mithrandir,” Legolas was saying, “there is a sheltered resting place below us.  There are many dark boulders there from which the sun has melted the snow.  They are warm – at least warmer than taking our midday rest in the snow.”

The wizard nodded.  “Thank you, Legolas.  Could you see the end of the snow from there?”

The Elf shook his head.  “I ascended the tallest of the rocks but could not see bare ground from where I stood.  I do not think it is far, however.  There are small plants and stunted trees among the boulders and I saw many signs of game.”

“Good.”  Aragorn joined the two, moving past the hobbits and Gimli.  Boromir stayed in the rearguard position, his keen eyes constantly scanning the horizons while the others talked.  “We have little dried meat left.  There is a small pheasant-type bird here that is very good.  The bird changes its feathers from white to speckled brown according to the season.  Legolas and I will go hunting when we come to the place.”

“Very well,” the wizard agreed.

* * * * *

The sun-warmed rocks felt almost hot to their chilled hands.  Sam placed both of his on the dark boulder, then laid his cheek against the rock, as if he could pull the stored warmth into himself through his skin.  Frodo chose an adjacent rock and dropped his pack, climbing up on the rock and stretching himself out on his belly like a lizard.  Gimli chose one of the taller rocks and scrambled rather gracelessly up on it, standing up and holding a hand above his eyes, dark gaze watchful.

Here on the knees of Caradhras, the light seemed even brighter than on the mountain’s shoulders.  The almost constant cloud-cover that Caradhras wore like a shawl was absent in these lower altitudes.  Sam ran a hand under his watering eyes and flicked tears off his fingertips.  His eyes were beginning to burn and if he shifted his gaze too quickly, a shooting pain would lance through them, feeling as if his eyes had been stabbed with a large needle.  The pain seemed to ricochet to the back of his skull and go all the way down his neck.  Sam reached down to the base of the boulders and gathered a handful of snow, pressing it to his eyes.  That seemed to help a little, but the burning at the back of his eyeballs seemed the worse in contrast.

Sam checked about him for his master.  Frodo had turned over onto his back and thrown an arm over his eyes, already asleep.  Careful not to disturb him, Sam laid a gentle hand against his cheek, looking for signs of fever.  Frodo muttered something in his sleep but his skin was cool.  Sam raised his head and met the wizard’s gaze with a smile, glad to have nothing to report.  Gandalf nodded in return.

“He is well, then?” the wizard asked softly.

“Aye,” Sam replied.  “Awful tired, though.  He’s not as strong as he thinks he is, yet.”  Frodo’s dark brows drew down and the two quietly removed themselves farther away, seeking to rest tired legs and feet on convenient rocks.  “I wish we could ‘ave stayed a bit longer in Rivendell.”

“Every day counts now, Sam,” Gandalf returned.  “The Enemy has had time to gather his forces.  Companies of Men and Orcs have been sighted moving East.  Other, more evil things are also gathering.  It is my fear that we may have lost too much time as it is.”   Gandalf glared up at the Pass, now far above them, as if the mountain had chosen to personally thwart him.  With a sigh at their defeat, the wizard dropped his gaze to see Frodo shiver in his sleep.  Sam pulled a blanket out of his pack and covered his master, then quietly moved around the boulder back to the wizard.

“We will try to keep an easier pace for a few days,” Gandalf continued, “but we must move as swiftly as we are able.  Watch him, Sam, and let me know if he falters.”

Sam nodded, accepting the charge as he had accepted the care of Frodo all of his life.  “I’ll keep an eye on ‘im, sir.”  Gandalf clasped his shoulder and rose, levering himself up with his staff, and went to speak to Gimli.  Sam roused himself and found Merry and Pippin dozing against one of the boulders.  He shook the younger hobbits’ shoulders, pointing at the spongy turf and handing Merry his flint.  The two dragged themselves up and began to forage for the few small pieces of wood and dry turf in preparation for fire-building.  Pippin cleared a small roundish area and Merry built a small fire on it and hung Sam’s largest kettle over the flickering flames.

Legolas and Aragorn conferred briefly then strung their bows.  The two set off in opposite directions and it did not take them long to return, a brace of coneys slung over each shoulder.  Sam accepted them gratefully and sat down to skin them, then looked up when a tall shadow sheltered his aching eyes.

“Allow me, Master Samwise.”  Wordlessly, Sam handed the carcasses to Boromir and watched critically as the Man soon had them quartered and ready for the pot.  Boromir smiled when he saw the hobbit examining his handiwork.  “It seems a more fair division of labor,” he commented softly and handed the jointed rabbits back to Sam.  The hobbit nodded his thanks and added the pieces to the pot, wiping the blood from his hands.  The Man straightened and took the small pile of skins and offal off to bury it.

The plain food didn’t compare to well-laden tables of Imladris, but it was passable enough camp fare, Sam thought with a surge of pardonable pride.  Alerted by Master Pippin’s soft crow of delight, Sam had looked over to see the cousins intently grubbing in the spongy turf.  The snow had melted between the dark boulders, the exposed ground absorbing the heat from the great rocks.  Sam finished scrubbing the stew-ring out of his cooking pot and wandered over.  “Look, Sam!” Merry had called softly, his broad face beaming as if the two of them had found a dragon’s hoard.  “Blueberries!  Fat, juicy ones!  And still frozen!”  Nimble hobbit-fingers had immediately gathered all within sight and the three had carefully dumped them into his just-cleaned kettle, mashed in fresh snow with a few more of crushed sugar lumps and presented the surprised Company with a sweet dessert of blueberry ice.

“Ah, Sam, you are a marvel,” Gandalf had said, and the stocky hobbit felt warmed right down to the hair on his toes.  Pippin added an enthusiastic “Umm-hummm!,” his lips and chin purple and stains cascading down his shirt.  Merry had groaned and dragged the youngster over to the nearest patch of snow, forcing the reluctant tweenager to rub at the stains in the dim hope they might come out.  Now the entire Company was engaged in trying to wipe sticky concoction off their faces and clothes, but the unexpected treat had enlivened an otherwise unexciting meal.

Checking about him, Sam saw that Frodo was asleep again, and as he watched, Pippin gave up on scrubbing more berry-stain off his fingers and carefully laid himself along Frodo, inching in close to his cousin but careful not to press against his still-tender side.  Merry dropped on Frodo’s other side, bracketing him and spreading a blanket across them all for warmth.  With a yawn, Sam eased himself down on Pip’s free side, and soon all four were soundly asleep.  The two Men and the Elf stretched out their long forms, propping themselves up against the rocks, weapons within easy reach.  Even Bill dozed, head down and legs locked, the pony’s soft, deep breaths a familiar, comforting sound to the others.

With a silent tap on the shoulder, Gandalf relieved Gimli of the watch.  The Dwarf rubbed his eyes and gave up his place gladly, dropping heavily off the rock to the soft earth.  Sitting down on the great rock, the wizard pulled out his pipe and sat back, sharp eyes watching for any eyes that watched back from the featureless landscape.

* * * * *

It was not watching eyes that the wizard had reason to fear, though he did not know it.  Leagues away, downwind, questing muzzles raised into the air, scenting wood smoke and the familiar scent of fresh blood and the unfamiliar scent of warm lives.  The leader raised his great head, sharp ears pricking.  The others milled about him, made confused and apprehensive by the strange smells on the sharp, crisp breeze.  With a howl, the leader summoned the rest and they came to him eagerly, crawling on their bellies before him, pressing their bodies against his legs and whining.  Then, as one, the pack turned and padded towards the unfamiliar scents on silent paws.

* * * * * 

With a groan, Sam rolled over and cranked his eyes open.  His lashes stuck together and he had to rub at them to loosen the sticky matter.  He had grown chilled again as they slept, but he, like the others, had learned to ignore that.  At first, Sam thought that it must have snowed again, for he could see nothing but white.  Nothing.  Nothing at all.  Sam waved a hand in front of his face, then jerked himself upright with a stifled cry.  His abrupt movement disturbed Pippin.  Pippin also sat up, and Sam could feel the younger hobbit shift as the tweenager turned and looked about him.  “Sam,” Pippin hissed, “I can’t see anything.  Can you see anything?”

Sam shook his head, though he knew that Pippin couldn’t see it.  “I can’t see nothing.  I’m blind.”

Sam felt Pippin push against him, trembling.  “Me, too.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 15

Sam knew that Merry had awoken not by any word but by the soft intake of breath followed by ragged breathing as the young hobbit fought to master himself. 

“Merry?”  Young Pippin’s voice was very small and very frightened.  Sam heard a soft thunk followed by a faint “oof!” then Merry’s voice, “Easy there, Pippin-lad.  Calm down.  Just give me a minute, lad.”

“Merry?”  Pippin’s voice was higher, going shrill in his ill-controlled panic.  Between them, Frodo stirred then relaxed back into sleep when the other two froze into silence.  Sam held onto his resolve with iron control, blinking his eyes and rubbing at them, though he knew it would do no good.  White.  So white.  Not even shadows behind his eyelids…

The large hand that descended on his shoulder caused Sam to gasp and the hand tightened.  “All of you,” came a rough, well-known voice, “be still.  Be still.  It is only temporary.  Only temporary, Pippin.”  Despite himself, Sam made a sound shamefully like a whimper.  Gandalf’s hand squeezed again then was removed.  The hobbit smelled pipe weed and wood smoke and the faintest fragrance of elvish spices, and felt the presence of the wizard lean over him. 

“Wha…” his master’s voice.  There was a moment of absolute silence, only the dim whistling of the breeze over the frozen ground.  The wind picked up loose snow and dashed it against Sam’s face.  Then faint rustling sounds as Frodo sat up.  “Gandalf?”  Frodo’s voice was very controlled, the fear mastered and swallowed and pushed into some contained space that frightened Sam almost more than the blindness.

“Yes, Frodo, I am here.  Merry, Pippin, relax now.  Sam, breathe.  All of you, it is all right.  It will pass.  Do you hear me?  It will pass.”

“Gandalf…” it was Merry’s voice, now level with Sam’s head; he must be sitting up.  “Snow-blindness?”

The wizard’s voice was warm and reassuring and each shivering form felt a large, warm hand briefly stroke his curls and cup his face.  “Yes, Merry.  It is only temporary.  It will pass as soon as your eyes recover.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this might happen?”  Frodo’s voice, with an undercurrent of anger beneath the fear.

A soft sigh answered these words.  “Because I hoped it would not.  There was nothing to be done to prevent it, in any case.  Your eyes have been hurting, have they not?”

“Yes…” the hobbits responded.  Pippin jumped as he felt large hands capture his and stop him from rubbing his eyes.  The large hands clasped his gently together and then laid them down in his lap.  The hand brushed his face again and was gone.

“We must just wait this out.  It would be better to rest in a dark place but we are below where we could find an ice-cave.  In a little while, Legolas and I will guide you all down below the snowline, and there we will find a place to rest.”

“Legolas … can no one else see, then?”  Frodo felt the hand on his shoulder. 

“No,” replied the wizard softly.  “All the mortal folk are affected.  Are you all right now?  Legolas is speaking with Aragorn and Boromir and Gimli.  Boromir has suffered this affliction before; he is assuring the others that they will regain their sight.  I must leave you now to speak with them.”

Sam sensed the wizard start to rise, the soft rustle of robes coming to his ears.  He grunted involuntarily when a hard hand smacked into his shoulder.  “Sorry, Sam,” came Frodo’s voice.  “Gandalf!  Gandalf, can you see?”

There was absolute silence for a moment.  Then came the soft reply, “No, Frodo.  I am blind, too.”

“But … but how…”

“Do not fear, my friends.  Wizards have senses other than sight to guide us.  Now wait here and do not rub your eyes.  Just keep them closed.  I will return shortly and help you to tie blindfolds around them – the darkness will ease the burning and help them to heal.”

A soft exhalation and they were alone.

* * * * *

The pack paused some leagues yet from the where the Fellowship waited among the sun-warmed boulders of the small, sheltered place they had chosen for their midday rest.  The leader halted, nose to the cold earth, distracted by the scent of one of the large, white-coated goats that had passed this way shortly before.  Food was plentiful here at the edge of the snowline; the great horned deer and the mountain goats roamed and feasted on the spongy turf, and rabbits, rodents, and fat-bodied birds were many.

Even as the wolf sniffed, a mouse lost its nerve and ran from hiding before the great fanged muzzle.  It was snapped up in an instinctive, automatic motion.  The sweet burst of blood on its tongue decided the pack leader.  With an inaudible growl that informed the others of his decision, he set them on the trail of the luckless goat.  He would return to the unfamiliar scents on the wind later.  Now it was time to hunt.

* * * * *

“We must look bloody ridiculous an’ no mistake,’ thought Sam.  Gandalf and Legolas had arranged them all in a line, Aragorn first, then Boromir, Gimli and the hobbits; Frodo then Sam, Pippin then Merry, each with his hands on the shoulders of the stumbling figure before him.  Murmuring gentle reassurances, the Elf guided the weaving line as best he could, but he could not be everywhere and bumps and bruises were accumulating as the Fellowship tripped over every obstacle in their path, muttering a constant stream of apologies to the person before and behind him.  Had the situation been less perilous, Sam would have laughed.

Legolas had his own hurts, Sam remembered, though the Elf had showed little acknowledgement of his injuries.  Though the three rescuers had not described what had occurred during his master and the Elf’s capture by the foul orc-kind, Sam knew they had both been hurt.  But no one would have guessed it from the Elf’s soft, clear voice and Frodo was silent.

Gandalf brought up the rear, occasionally using his staff to guide an errant hobbit back into line.  All of the Company, with the exception of the Elf, wore handkerchiefs and socks and whatever would serve tied around their eyes.  Though the wizard could not see any more clearly than the faltering figures he guided, he was aware of the world as sparks of life, of fire, on the frozen earth.  Non-living things were cold gray shadows on the backdrop of his mind.  As they walked, he related tales and songs to the hobbits to keep their minds from fear.  Before them, he was aware that Gimli also listened intently, the Dwarf’s heavy shoulders rigid as Gimli faced an enemy he could not fight or conquer.

Despite what help the two could provide, progress was slow.  It was only natural to curb one’s steps when walking blind, to extend one’s hands into the darkness in the attempt to guard oneself from harm.  At the head of the column, Aragorn cursed himself for falling prey to the affliction, though the more reasonable part of him knew that he could not have prevented it.  The burning ache of strained eyes should have warned him, but his mind had been occupied by the Fellowship’s desperate straits and he had not recognized the symptoms. 

The Ranger felt Boromir’s hands tighten on his shoulders.  “Do not blame yourself, Aragorn,” the Man said with his usual perception.  “I have been twice snow-blinded.  I did not feel it coming, or could do naught to prevent it.  We were rather busy, I think.”

Aragorn chuckled and knew that Boromir could feel his shoulders shaking.  “Thank you, Boromir.  How long did your snow-blindness last, when you suffered it?”

Boromir thought for a moment.  “The first time it was two days.  My brother and I were climbing in the mountains outside of our home.  He was wiser than I; he covered his eyes with the cleaned intestines from one of our dinners.  Snow-hare, if I remember correctly.  The membrane was just enough to occlude the glare and save his vision.  I would not bind a strip of the foul-smelling, greasy membrane around my head, and so I suffered for it.”

“And the second?”

“Ah, I was wiser, then.  When my eyes began to water and the pain began, I rubbed ash from my cook-fire underneath my eyes.  That darkening of the skin cut the snow’s reflection into my eyes and helped somewhat.  But it was not enough.  I knew it was happening and I could do nothing.  I was alone, on an errand for my father.  I found a small cave and stayed there in the darkness, my face turned from the entrance, for a day.”  Boromir sighed.  “It was a very long day.”

“And you recovered with no ill effects?”

“My eyes were very tender for a while.  I have heard that some experience nausea and sickness, some agonizing headaches.  I was fortunate.  The pain passed within a few days.”

“And your vision was not permanently affected?”

“No.  No, once my eyes had healed, there was no damage.”

Had the Ranger’s eyes not already been closed, Aragorn would have shut them in relief.  Boromir’s hands tightened on his shoulders, then eased, a world of comfort in that simple gesture.

Legolas led them well, choosing a path for them with the least amount of rocks and hillocks and small bushes that tangled the feet.  The snow decreased in thickness and became isolated patches of white nestling in shadowed hollows where the sun did not reach.  The hobbits sighed in relief to feel soft turf under their feet instead of freezing snow and frozen earth, and with the constant reassurances of Gandalf that this would soon pass, began to regain their spirits.

Gandalf followed after, casting about with his mind to safeguard his charges and seek danger before and around him.  So it was that he first became aware of the fire-sparks that was the pack, as they pulled down and extinguished the fire-spark of their prey.  The sparks burned the brighter as they closed in upon the hapless animal, and the wizard “watched” as the prey’s spark glowed brightly for a moment before dimming and going out.  The sparks of the others burned lower then, as the pack feasted.  The brightest spark ate first, the slightly dimmer spark of his mate beside him.  The wolves came in ordered sequence after, according to their place in the pack, each eating its fill at speed, until it could hold no more.  They would have rested then, but the leader’s curiosity had been aroused by the strange scents he had been following.  With snaps and growls, the brightest spark drove the lesser sparks to their feet and set them again on the trail of the unfamiliar beings that dared to cross his territory.

The wizard’s hands tightened on his staff.  The bright sparks coming towards them were many.  One gnarled hand reached down and patted the hilt of the great elven sword that hung at his side, then reached out to steady the steps of a stumbling hobbit.  They must find shelter very soon.

“Can you lot walk by yourselves for a while, lads?  I must speak with Legolas concerning a place to stop.”  Gandalf kept his voice light, allowing no trace of the fear in his heart to be heard in his voice.  Well he knew how, deprived of one vital sense, others senses would sharpen and seek to fill the void.

The hobbits heard nothing to alarm them.  Frodo, at the head of the hobbit-line, turned his head out of habit towards the voice and replied, “We’re doing rather well at this now, Gandalf.   We’ll be fine.”  Pippin, the one who had stumbled, wished to disagree but he said nothing.  Their headaches had gradually been intensifying and none of them would object to any action that would allow them to rest and possibly bind some of the still-present snow into the cloths over their eyes.

Gandalf nodded then remembered that they could not see him.  “Good,” the wizard remarked with a smile in his voice.  “I shall return shortly.  Remember, lift up your feet.”

The wizard moved swiftly past them and his boot steps were quickly lost in the spongy turf.  “Did Gandalf seem awfully cheery to you, Frodo?” Merry asked from the rear of the column.  His cousin turned his head then tightened his hold on Gimli’s shoulders, almost bruising his fingers in the Dwarf’s chain mail.

“Now that you mention it…” Frodo responded after a moment’s silence.

“Oh-oh,” muttered Sam.

* TBC * 

Chapter 16

As if they knew that the Company could not defend against them, it seemed that word had passed among the local mosquito population that here was easy, vulnerable prey.  The blinded Fellowship swatted frantically at the whining annoyances, tracking their tiny attackers by their shrill buzzing.  Pippin waved his arms about his head as the biting creatures sought his unprotected ears, loosening his grasp on Sam’s shoulders and causing Merry to stumble behind him.  Legolas halted the column and hurried back through the line to reattach the two.

“Can we not stop?” panted Merry, rubbing his shin.  Before him, Pippin had compromised by keeping one hand on Sam’s shoulder and using the other to shake out his scarf, wrapping it around his ears in a vain attempt to thwart the insects.  “This is worse than the Midgewater Marshes.  We’re being eaten alive!”

“Stop thrashing about, then,” contributed Frodo from the head of the hobbit-line.  “You merely excite them by struggling so.”

Gimli growled at that. “This is intolerable!  I would rather face a mob of Orcs than this lot!”  The insects had less surface to attack on the armored Dwarf, and so were congregating on his face with enthusiasm above the sheltering beard.

“Legolas,” the Ranger called, “can you see any citronella or skunk cabbage growing nearby?”

The Elf returned to him quickly.  “I do not know those plants, Aragorn.”

“Look for a large plant with a frilly outer collar, green on the outside and deep purple on the inside, much like a large cabbage but with thorned stalks.  I fear we are still too high on the knees of Caradhras, but if you see one, rubbing it on our skin will discourage them.  It smells utterly foul, like a cross between rotting carrion and the sewer-pits of Bree.”

“Good,” Sam whispered to Frodo, “just what I want to rub on meself…”  Before him, Sam felt his master’s shoulders shake with quiet laughter.      

“Keep moving,” ordered Gandalf from the head of the line.  Muttering, the weaving column picked up the pace, trying to outdistance their tormentors.  After but a short way, Frodo called to Gandalf and the old wizard pulled even with them, his staff making dull thuds in the spongy earth. 

“Let us walk holding on to Bill’s panniers, Gandalf,” the hobbit suggested.  “His tail can shelter us, too.”        

Gandalf wiped mosquitoes out of his beard before replying.  The insects were so thick it was difficult to take a breath without inhaling them.  “Good thinking, Frodo.  You and Sam drop back, one on each side of the pony, and Merry and Pippin walk alongside his flanks.  You can trade places with them later.”  This change in the line of march had an additional benefit to relieving the hobbits of some of their misery (an occasional tail-lash being much preferred to the constant biting) – the Company was able to move faster.  Bill, his lead-rope held by Gimli, guided the hobbits at a quicker pace than their own hesitant steps.  The whining buzzes gradually grew less but in recompense for quiet, each stinging bite began to itch.  It was an itching, miserable Company that Gandalf finally allowed to rest, guiding each groaning member to a seat among the scattered stones of a small dell.

“I think I prefer freezin’ to death,” Sam muttered, scratching vigorously.

Frodo laughed softly.  “You may yet have a chance, Sam.  We’ve a long way to go.”

“Wonderful,” Sam returned mournfully.  “Lookin’ forward to it.”

“Shhhhh!” came Merry’s voice from somewhere to their right. “The Big Folk are talking.  I want to hear!”

Frodo and Sam fell silent, and nothing could be heard from Pippin except energetic scratching.  But Merry’s inquisitiveness proved unproductive.  The sharp-eared hobbit could catch nothing but a few soft-voiced words; “shelter,” “darkness,” “rest and recover” in Legolas’ clear voice and Aragorn responding “no time,” and “bitter cold.” And “dangerous” - that word he heard clearly.  One more phrase from Gandalf drifted to his straining ears, “They … coming quickly.  They will be upon us by mid-morning tomorrow.”  Merry sighed and wished the Big Folk would be more considerate of eavesdroppers.

“Can you hear anything?” whispered Frodo, interrupting what few words Merry had managed to catch. 

“Not with all the noise you all are making,” Merry hissed back.  “Pip, what are you doing?”

The increasingly loud rustling noises stopped.  “I’m covered with bites, Merry!  They bit right through my cloak and jacket and everything!  I can’t stand it!”

“Buck up, Pippin-lad,” came Frodo’s comforting voice.  “Wiggle ‘round and I’ll scratch your back -“

“No more scratching!” Gandalf’s voice next to their ears caused all the hobbits to jump.  “Pippin, stop that.  You’ll only make it worse.  Legolas and I are going to guide you all farther down to where a river of ice has thrown up great walls of dirt along its sides.  The walls will provide shade from the sun’s glare and give us a defensible position.  You can bathe your bites in the runoff – the icy water will soothe the itching.”

“Did you say a river of ice?” Frodo asked, but Gandalf had already moved on to consult with Aragorn.  “Some of Bilbo’s books mention great fields of ice that move across the face of the world with the slowness of the ages.  Rivers of ice frozen for eons, leagues wide!  Imagine, Merry, to see such a thing!”

“We aren’t going to see anything until our eyes heal,” Merry replied practically.  “I wish we could remove these blindfolds.”

“This evening, Merry, when darkness has fallen.”  The hobbits jumped again at Legolas’ soft voice.  None had heard the Elf approach.  “It will be dusk before we reach the glacier’s moraine.”  Seeing their looks of confusion, Legolas continued, “Great walls of dirt are pushed up at the edges of the ice flow as it advances.  It is very cold there but not as cold as on Caradhras’ shoulders.”  The gentle voice paused then resumed at a higher level, indicating the Elf had stood.  “Your eyes should have recovered sufficiently from the glare to be usable tomorrow.  Now, we must continue.  Let me guide you to our invaluable Bill.”

* * * * *

Many weary hours later, the faltering, itching Company stumbled to a halt beneath a great wall of dirt and riven rock that towered above their heads.  They had been aware of the setting sun as a lessening of the pain in their eyes, giving way to the blessed relief of night. 

Legolas sat them down and built a fire with the last of their firewood.  Those turning towards the flames were startled to see light and movement behind their closed lids.  Wincing, Sam found that he could see the dance of the flames against the darkness.  Not clearly, and the light hurt, but sight was returning.  The hobbits turned their faces to the warmth and an unvoiced knot of terror deep inside them began to unravel.

Gandalf settled the Company while Legolas sought their dinner.  The Elf returned quickly, a great thick-furred animal slung over his shoulder.  None of the Company had ever seen such a beast, though Boromir thought it might be some kind of great rodent, cousin to rabbits (and rats, Sam heard Pippin whisper to Merry) from the two great gnawing teeth in its mouth.  The fur was grayish and very soft and thick to the touch.  It was with much regret that Boromir agreed they could not spare the time to cure the hide and preserve it. 

“Rest well tonight,” the wizard advised after they had eaten.  “Tomorrow we must cross the glacier.  It will be difficult going, but once we are across it, we can return to our road.  We must press hard, then, for much time has been lost in this doomed attempt.” 

“What of this ‘glacier,’ Gandalf,” asked Frodo.  “This river of ice?  Is it not dangerous?”

“It has been there for thousands of years, Frodo,” replied the wizard.  “It will doubtless last a day or two more.” 

“I didn’t mean that.  What do we need to know as we traverse it?” 

Sam thought that Gandalf would rather not have answered his master.  The wizard huffed into his beard then replied reluctantly, “The greatest danger is collapse of the ice upon which we walk.  The surface ice has melted and re-formed so many times that it is very brittle, with nothing to mark the weak spots.” 

The hobbits digested that in silence.  Then surprisingly, Gimli spoke.  “If that is the case,” he rumbled in his deep voice, “I should go first.  If the ice is to collapse, then best it fail under the greatest weight and warn the Company.” 

“By that logic,” Aragorn put in, “we should send the pony first.  We can ill-afford to spare him, too.  No, Gimli, we shall take our chances together.” 

“Can’t we walk around this glacier?” asked Merry. 

“No,” Gandalf replied.  “We must cross it to regain our path.  It is not far across – a few hundred meters – but the footing is chancy.  We will move slowly and be sure of our steps.” 

 Itching, cold and apprehensive, the exhausted Fellowship rolled themselves into their blankets.  But sleep was long in coming.

* * * * *  

The next morning the Company was roused by Pippin’s exuberant “Oi!  Oi!”  Legolas, on watch, swiveled ‘round and was on his feet before the echoes of the young hobbit’s cries had faded into the distance.  “I can see!  I can see!  Ouch!”  The last was delivered in an aggrieved tone as his elder cousin caught a dancing ankle and yanked.  The elder cousin on the other side captured a flailing shirt-tail and pulled the tweenager down.  Pippin lost his balance and sat down hard on Frodo, cushioning his fall on his elder cousin’s tender midsection.  Frodo grunted and pushed him off. 

“What a sight to wake up to,” sighed Aragorn, folding his blindfold and absently stuffing it into a pocket.  Then the Ranger stilled and a rare, broad smile broke across his stern face.  “A most welcome sight.  Even quarreling hobbits are a welcome sight, this morn.” 

“We are not quarreling,” replied Merry with great dignity.  “Frodo, are you all right?”  Rubbing his stomach, Frodo managed an “uuurk” followed by a cough, which his cousins took as assent.    

The Company was looking about them with delighted, if aching, eyes.  Snow glittered in the distance above them; they quickly averted their gaze from it when a shock of pain lanced through their still-sore eyes.  Closer, their attention turned to every crisp-edged stunted tree and frost-touched rock.  Even the tiny white flowers in the lichen-like turf were a source of joy.  “Never again will I take the gift of sight for granted,” Aragorn murmured softly.  “Ah Elbereth, thank you.”

* * * * *

“Careful!  Careful!” warned the wizard.  “Sam, move the pony to the left.  Do not come forward until I tell you.”  Gandalf stood before a rough, uneven patch of ice, one hand extended, palm down, as the other tightly clutched his staff.  Gimli had come last across the patch, the weight of his heavy armor and weapons a concern to the wizard and the Ranger.  The ice had creaked, a deep moaning rumble, and the Dwarf had hurriedly redoubled his pace across the dangerous ground. 

The others gathered near Aragorn on safe ground, watching anxiously.  Gandalf stood between them and Sam and Bill, a look of concentration on his lined features.  The pony did not like the slick surface under his hooves.  Dirt and small rocks the glacier had picked up littered the surface, further disguising thin ice and the sharp crevasses hidden beneath them.  Bill stared at the unstable ground with white-rimmed eyes, nostrils flaring, tremors of tension rippling along the thick hair of his winter coat.  Sam clung to his headstall, scarcely more at ease.

The great mound of pushed earth that marked the far edge of the glacier rose before them, less than five minutes brisk walk.  Sam stared at it longingly.  “C’mon there, Bill,” he crooned softly.  “Just a little more, me lad…”  He tugged gently on the bridle but Bill resisted, usually-affable ears slanting backwards.

“He don’t want ‘ta come,”  Samwise called softly to Gandalf.  The wizard did not reply but moved farther to the left, motioning the hobbit to guide the pony in that direction.  Bill took a couple of steps to the side then stopped again, shaking his head when Sam tugged more insistently.

“Try the sugar cubes, Sam.”  Sam had been so intent on the pony that he was unaware of Frodo’s presence until his master spoke.  Frodo reached up to stroke the trembling nose, and Bill responded by gently lipping his hands, the pony’s breath warm as it puffed into the freezing air.

“Right, sir, I should of thought o’ that.”  Two rather grubby sugar cubes were held before Bill’s nose.  The pony stretched out his long neck, but Sam kept them just out of reach.  “There’s a good boy, Bill, jus’ a few more steps…”  Sam held the sugar cubes before the questing nose, obliging the rest of the pony to follow.

Frodo stuck his hands in his pockets, pleased with himself.  He turned and started walking back to the others on the right of the pony.

Crack!

The loud crash of ice breaking caused Bill to bolt, head down, dragging a startled Sam off his feet and alongside, hanging from the bridle.  Frodo only had time to throw up his arms and emit one terrified cry before he disappeared from the horrified Company’s sight, sliding rock and snow cascading after him into the depths.

* TBC *

Chapter 17

As one, the Company surged forward towards the crevasse into which Frodo had disappeared.  “Stop!” shouted Gandalf, his rough voice halting them as if they had run into a wall.  With desperate strength, Sam wrenched Bill’s head down and pulled the pony to a standstill.  “Stop,” the wizard repeated more gently, his deep eyes on the great crack.  Small slides of snow and earth were still falling into it, stones clicking as they struck the frozen walls.  “Will you follow him down?  Stand where you are.”  Gandalf took two steps to the right but the ice creaked under his weight and a running crack appeared under his feet.  Hurriedly, Gandalf extended his staff and leaned part of his weight on it.  Slowly, slowly he moved back to the left, keeping his feet low to the ice to catch himself should it break.

For a moment, nothing was heard except the faint cold whistle of the wind and the Fellowship’s panting breaths.  Aragorn and Gandalf were staring at each other; all other eyes were drawn down into the chasm. 

“Frodo,” Aragorn called softly, but in the silence his voice carried.  “Frodo!  Can you hear me?”

Silence.  Then to the wonder and relief of all, a faint “Strider!  I hear you!”  Sam released an explosive breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.  Merry and Pippin both made a small cry.  Boromir shut his eyes in relief.

Aragorn tried to edge over the ice, but ominous creaking halted him two meters from the edge.  He leaned over but could not see far enough down into the gap.

“Strider?  Gandalf?  Help!”  Frodo’s voice was not loud but it was very strained and oddly muffled.

“Do not panic, Frodo!” the wizard called.  “We are coming for you.  We will get you out.  Just don’t move.”

“Oh, I will not move,”  floated up the disembodied voice.  Sam would have felt more comfortable if he hadn’t heard such a strange note in it.  Sam pulled hard on Bill’s lead line and practically dragged the pony to the safe ground on which the others stood.   He took a moment to reflect that the pony’s good horse sense had warned him of the thin ice, while the Company had walked blithely over it.  As if to agree, Bill shook his head violently, the white rim around his great soft eyes easing but not disappearing.  The ears did not come up from their flat position.

Carefully, Aragorn sank to his hands and knees then stretched his long frame full-length on the ice, seeking to distribute his weight.  With almost a swimming motion, he pulled himself along the few feet of frozen water until he was with a meter of the opening.  He pushed forward a little more … crack!

“Aragorn, stop!”  The Ranger had stilled before Gandalf could finish the words.  He lay motionless with his cheek pressed into the cold surface, his heart hammering.  “Go no further,” the wizard continued more softly.  “The ice will not support you.  Can you back up?”

Aragorn placed the flat of his hands against the ice and pushed.  “I can.  But how then can I help Frodo?”

“Pippin will take your place.”  Pippin’s curly head jerked up, his wide green-gold eyes on the wizard.  “He weighs the least of us.”  Merry moved as if to protest, then was silent.  Pippin sank to his knees and started crawling, passing the prone Ranger.  The tweenager’s face was almost as white as the ice but his small form was steady and his eyes intent.  Aragorn scooted backwards then regained his feet back on secure ground.

As the small figure neared the edge, the ice groaned but did not crack.  Pippin stiffened until the sound died away then pushed himself the last few inches and peered into the crevasse.  “I see him,” the youngest hobbit called.  “He is on a little ledge, perhaps five or six feet down.  He – oh…”

Gandalf pressed closer, then gave ground as the ice warned him.  “Oh?  Oh, what?”

Pippin did not reply for a moment, looking distractedly at the sheer sides of the crevasse.  "It is a very small ledge, Gandalf, maybe four inches wide.  Frodo must have slid down pressed to the wall.  If he had come down six inches in either direction…”  Pippin pulled himself a little further along the ice, so that his entire head was tilted down.  The ice groaned again.

“Peregrin Took, you get back!”

“I will not, Frodo, and I’ll thank you to be quiet.”

“Pippin!  You back up this instant!  Do you hear me, young hobbit?”

“Be quiet, Frodo.”  Pippin was studying the crevasse intently, eyes roaming around the sides, looking for footholds or handholds.  “Gandalf, he is pressed against the side, standing on a little ledge smaller than his feet.  His face is pushed up against the wall.  He can’t move an inch.”

“Gandalf!  Aragorn, make him get away from the edge!”

“Frodo,” the wizard called, “Pippin is right.  Be quiet and let us get you out.”  There was no response to this, except for some soft mutters that it was probably better Gandalf didn’t hear.

“And how are we to do that?” asked Legolas.  “We have no rope.  We could tie our blankets together…”

“He couldn’t reach them.”  Pippin raised his head and looked back at them.  “The little ledge is set against the ice at a slight incline.  There’s water running fast below him; I can’t see it but I can hear it.  He would have to turn around and leap for it … and if he missed…”

“Frodo,” Gandalf called over Pippin’s head, “can you turn around?”

Pressed tightly against the wall, Frodo responded, “I will try.”

He had just shifted his weight when Pippin shrieked, “Don’t move!  Don’t move!”

“What is it?” shouted Gandalf and Aragorn together. 

Pippin looked at them frantically.  “The ledge is crumbling.  If he moves, it will collapse.”

“Frodo, don’t move!” Gandalf cried.  Frodo pressed himself against the wall, trembling.

“Crampons.”  All eyes turned to the Dwarf, who was already digging in his pack.  “The ones we took from the orc-band.”  For a moment, Gimli’s dark eyes sought the Elf’s, but Legolas’ face betrayed nothing of what he had suffered at those vile creatures’ hands.  Long iron spikes spilled from Gimli’s pack and he swiftly gathered them up.  “Frodo can use them as steps.  We need a hammer…  One of my throwing axes will do.”

Boromir stooped and picked up one of the heavy black spikes, turning it over in his hands.  “I have used these before.  How will we get them hammered into the walls?”

Gimli’s hands stopped in straightening the crampons.  The Company stared at each other, aghast.

“Form a chain.”  Merry had been so quiet, so intent on Pippin and Frodo, that the larger members had almost forgotten him.  “Give the crampons to Pip and I’ll hold his ankles.  Sam can hold mine.  Then … Legolas and Aragorn and Boromir, with Gimli as anchor.  Gandalf can watch the ice for us.”

Abruptly, Aragorn threw back his head and laughed, shaking the hair out of his eyes.  “Thank you, Master Brandybuck!  Pippin, did you hear?”

“I heard.”  Pippin raised his face from exchanging soft words with his cousin and looked back at them.  “We had better hurry.  Frodo’s fingers are going numb and it’s hard for him to hold onto the wall.”

Gimli had been rolling the spikes in a blanket and now knelt, eyeing the distance to the small hobbit.  With a careful shove, the powerful Dwarf sent the bundle sliding towards Pippin, who caught it deftly.  The hobbit arranged the spikes against his chest and caught the small axe that followed.  Then he shut his eyes and did not open them until he felt warm hands pat his leg then grasp his ankles in a strong grip.  Merry looked back over his shoulder as Sam followed suit.  The ice creaked.

Legolas dropped to his belly and slid forward, somehow still managing to look graceful.  Boromir, behind him, did not.  Aragorn fastened his hands tightly around the man’s ankles and Gimli attached himself last, sitting upright, far enough away from the thin area that he could dig his heavy boots deeply into the thick ice.  Gandalf stood over them all, beard bristling, issuing orders and suggestions and entreaties to take care.   

“Ready?” Gandalf asked.  Various growled, muttered and murmured affirmations replied.  Gimli began to inch himself forward, one thick leg braced against the ice at all times.  The muscles of his great arms strained against the heavy cloth and leather and mail of his armor.  The chain began to slide forward, lowering Pippin headfirst into the chasm.  Below him, Frodo closed his eyes and pressed his cheek more firmly into the wall of ice as loose earth rained down upon him. 

Pippin closed his own eyes as he went over the edge but found the nothingness too reminiscent of his recent snow-blindness.  He hastily opened his eyes and arched his back, angling his head to see how far down he was. 

“Pip, stop squirming!” Merry panted.  He grunted as another heave left him dangling, Pippin’s full weight wrenching his shoulders.  He didn’t want to think what Sam must be feeling with both his and Pip’s weight on him.

“I’m not squirming.  I’m looking!” Pippin hissed back.  “Frodo, can you raise your arms?”

Slowly, pressing tight against the wall, Frodo raised his right arm above his head.  Pippin was approaching him in jerks and starts, the crampons clutched tightly in one arm and the axe in the other.  Both he and Merry were completely over the edge; above them with this elbows dug into the ice, Sam was silent, his round face a rictus of pain as sweat coated him.  Legolas, holding the sturdy hobbit’s ankles, marveled at the halfling’s endurance.

With another jerk, Pippin descended further.  Frodo opened his eyes, startled to see his cousin’s upside-down head swinging inches from his face.  Frodo caught one of the crampons from him and thrust it into the wall, knee-high, where it quivered, not securely anchored in the ice.  With a stifled grunt, Pippin twisted and drove the blunt top of the axe against the spike.  Again.  And again. 

“Can you pull yourself up on that?” Pippin whispered.  He felt like a nosebleed was going to start at any moment.  

Carefully, Frodo raised his right leg and managed to place a foot on the crampon.  He sighed in relief; his muscles had begun to cramp from standing clenched in the same position.  “Yes.  Hurry, Pip.”  Merry made a strangled moan of agreement.

At Pippin’s call, Gandalf directed the chain to edge back.  Now truly did the Company witness the legendary strength of the Dwarves.  Gimli braced himself with both legs and bodily pulled the column back, the men and the elf wiggling to aid him.  The ice creaked again as Merry was pulled up over the edge, his body bending at the waist.  Sam made a soft, agonized sound as some of the weight was released from his shoulders.

Another crampon was hammered in, further up.  Frodo heaved himself onto it, catching the upper spike in his hand and balancing one-footed on the lower.  Both hobbits were trembling from weariness and tension now, and Frodo needed Pippin’s weight to brace him against the ice.  Another jerk back.  Merry slid back onto the ice with a groan, scraping his forearms.  Sam’s iron grip on his ankles was agony.  Now he could not see what was happening below him.  More hammering, then Pip’s cry for another retreat.   

Jerk.  Pippin’s lower half appeared and Merry pulled him back onto the ice flow.  Now only the tweenager’s upper body hung over the chasm.  Pip’s feet kicked slightly as he twisted to drive in another crampon and Merry redoubled his hold, resulting in an “Oi!  That hurts, Merry!”

Frodo was perhaps two feet from gaining the surface when the crampon on which he balanced loosened and fell away into the void.  At his cry, Pippin dropped the remaining spikes and Gimli’s axe and fastened both small hands around his cousin’s flailing wrist.  The jerk of Frodo’s weight hitting the chain dragged Gimli forward several feet.  But the chain did not break.  Frodo and Pippin both hung over the chasm, blue eyes locked on gold-green, as they struggled to hold.

Pippin whimpered.  Moving stiffly, Frodo reached up with his left hand and caught the braces of his cousin’s breeches, freeing Pippin of some of his weight.  Pippin could feel that he did not have a good hold; that left arm was weak yet.  “Hold on, Cousin,” he whispered in a strangled gasp.  “Hold on.” 

Frodo had no breath to reply. Then slowly, he started to rise as the chain regrouped and Gimli pulled.  Pippin came back over the edge, his death-grip on Frodo’s wrist never faltering.  The continuous, slow rising continued.  Frodo’s sweat-soaked hair appeared, then his white face, his upper body.  Then with a final effort from Gimli, the Ringbearer was pulled up over the edge and back to safe ground.

With a snap, the ice gave.  Where Merry and Pippin and Frodo had lain not a moment before, it shattered and knife-edged shards dropped to join the rushing waters below.

Those comprising the chain rolled on the ground and sought to unclamp their hands, their limbs stiff and unyielding from cold and tension.  Gimli rolled his shoulders, unable yet to close his hands.  Boromir and Aragorn sat up, shaking their hands and wrists, trying to work some feeling into them.  Legolas crouched near to them, working his hands.  Sam thrashed silently from side to side, tears of pain and relief streaming down his face.  Merry lay before him, utterly limp as tremors racked his body.  Pippin and Frodo lay so still that Gandalf came to them and turned them over, kneeling to feel their pulses and peer into their eyes.

“Oooowww” moaned Pippin softly.  Frodo said nothing but he glanced up at Gandalf then slid his arm around his younger cousin, holding him close.

Gandalf rose to his feet, leaning heavily against his staff.  “That is quite enough excitement for one day, I think.  We will get off this cursed glacier and find a place to camp.  All of you will need liniment and rest.  A warm fire, tea and hot stew -”

A slow, rumbling snarl drew every head up.  On the other side of the crevasse, with all his pack behind him, stood a magnificent timber wolf.   The beast was huge, thickly muscled, easily one hundred, fifty pounds.  The wolf was completely black, the only color on it its yellow eyes and a slight silvering of the black ruff.  The sound died as the yellow eyes stared at them.  The others behind it were gray and brown and black and two were white.  They were very many.

* TBC *

Chapter 18

“Do not move, any of you!” the wizard fell silent when the rumbling snarl came again, rising and weaving about the Company like velvet brushing over skin.  He was the only one standing; the others lay where they had collapsed.  The great beast’s head was swinging from side to side, examining them.  Behind him, the pack milled uncertainly, some crouching with tails curled into their bellies, some pricking their ears forward with curiosity.  The alpha wolf’s great yellow eyes met those of the wizard, then traveled to each member of the Fellowship in turn, his sleek enormous head tilting to the side as he considered them.

“They have never seen Men before, I think,” Gandalf murmured.   The wolf glanced at him but did not snarl again, absorbed in his inspection.  “Or any of the Free Peoples or those who walk on two legs.  He does not know what to make of us.”

“Legolas, take your hand off your bow.  Boromir, Aragorn, Gimli – stay still.”  Gandalf kept his voice low and melodious, unthreatening, and those hearing it felt inexplicitly warmed and reassured.  “What a magnificent beast,” Gandalf breathed, admiration infusing his words.  “Look at the width of his shoulders.  His head would come to my waist.  Never have I seen a more impressive animal.”

His inspection completed, the great head swung back to the wizard.  Then Gandalf did the most strange thing.  Moving as little as possible, he sank to his knees, then keeping his staff firmly in one hand, laid himself flat on the ground.

The leader’s huge head lowered and the beast took a step forward.  Behind him, a beautifully marked gray wolf whined and he turned to touch noses with her for a moment.  Then stiff-legged, he walked to the prone wizard and sniffed his hair.  The Company watched, mesmerized.  The wolf walked completely around Gandalf, sniffing along his body.  When it came to the pouch that contained his pipe-weed, a deep snuff resulted in a sneeze and despite himself, Pippin giggled.

Instantly the beast was wary again.  It left Gandalf and stalked over to the tweenager, head lowered and silver ruff bristling.  “Pippin,” Gandalf warned,  “Stay very still.”

Pippin did not need to be told twice.  Beside him, he felt Merry tense and moved his foot the most minuscule bit to toe his cousin in the side.  The wolf raised his head, tracking the small movement.  Pippin froze.  Merry stiffened too, then went rigid as the animal repeated its circling examination of the hobbits.  Each member of the Company was so inspected, including the terrified Bill.  The wolf sniffed at him lackadaisically, seemingly less interested in the pony than in the people. 

Boromir shut his eyes and fought to hold himself still and the wolf tensed, catching the scents of fear and stress in the soldier’s perspiration.  It growled but Boromir kept himself in check.  Receiving no response to its challenge, the animal moved on.

Gandalf spoke again, his voice gentle and soothing.  “Look at their bellies.  They have feasted recently.  There is much game about.  Life is easy for them here; it must be to support so large a pack.”  Indeed, several of the pack had dropped and lay panting as they awaited their leader’s decision.  They yawned, flashing long white fangs. 

Last of all the leader came to the Ring-bearer.  Frodo had begun to relax when mayhem was not immediately offered, as had they all.  But he tensed as the wolf drew near and it reacted, lips drawing off those white teeth.  Involuntarily, Frodo shrank away and the wolf snarled.  “Frodo!  Be still!”  Gandalf’s voice was not quite so calm and Legolas again unobtrustively sought his bow. 

The wolf’s great muzzle quested near Frodo’s throat, weaving about as it tracked that which alarmed it.  “Gandalf?” whispered Frodo as it snarled again and the great ears laid back.

“It’s the Ring,” the wizard whispered back.  “The beast senses it.  No wargs or minions of evil, these.”

“Gandalf?”  Frodo’s voice was higher, his fear evident.  The wolf was growling in a continuous rumble now, and behind him, the pack came to attention and rose, their apprehension returning twofold in their leader’s unease. 

“Frodo,” Gandalf murmured, that soothing note more pronounced, “very slowly, roll over on your back.  Keep your arms at your sides.”

“Gandalf -” Aragorn protested but the wizard interrupted him.

“If it sees the Ring as a threat, it will attack.  We must show him we mean no harm.”  Frodo obeyed with obvious reluctance, exposing his apparently undefended stomach to the creature.  The wolf watched this carefully, ears still flat but no longer snarling at this gesture of submission.  At last it shook its head with almost a human motion and turning, trotted back to his mate.  She licked his face with relief. 

“He is the king of his kind,” marveled Gandalf softly.  “And he has granted us passage through his realm.”

The pack did not interfere when Gandalf, still using that soft, soothing voice, instructed the Company to gain their feet, one by one.  When all were standing, they very slowly walked over to their packs and shouldered them.  Sam released Bill’s tie-stake and stroked the frothed head, white-rimmed eyes fastening on him.  “Ah, Bill,” he murmured to the pony, “you were smarter than all o’ us.  You knew they were there before we did, didn’t you, lad?”

The Fellowship resumed its march in fits and starts, as Gandalf allowed no more than two to move at a time, and always away from the pack, never towards it.  They eased themselves off the ice flow and gained solid ground again with sighs of relief.  The pack watched with interest but without fear as they picked up the pace.  The wolves trailed after the Nine Walkers for several leagues, the alpha wolf slowly drawing closer and closer to Gandalf.  Just before the pack turned away, the leader brushed the wizard’s hand with his great head, and daring greatly, Gandalf stroked it.  The wolf regarded him with its yellow eyes than turned and loped after his pack.

“Wizards and wolves have always had an affinity,” Gandalf mused aloud.  “We have been greatly honored, my friends.  I will treasure this day all of my life.”

* * * * *

They made good time after that, ignoring the protests of stiff joints and stretched muscles.  The last of the snow disappeared and the bitter cold was easing.  Firewood was plentiful now and the hobbits gathered it as they walked, handing it to Sam to tie onto Bill’s panniers.  The four watched Gandalf and Aragorn with questions in their eyes; the two walked together, carrying on a low-voiced conversation which seemed half an argument.  Merry tried to edge up close enough to hear but the wizard glared at him and Merry chose prudence over enlightenment, falling back to safety among his cousins and Sam.

Gandalf paused at the crest of a gentle slope and the Company gathered around him.  He gestured with his staff at the westering sun.  “We will make camp tonight in that sheltered dell down the way.  Tomorrow…” he stopped and sighed, weariness marking his lined features.  “Tomorrow we return to the feet of Caradhras.  It has all been for naught, this effort.  By tomorrow’s eve we will have to decide on our further course of action.”

“What is there to decide?” this from Gimli, swinging his axe off his shoulder to rest his strong hands on its handle. 

“Whether to go on or go back,” replied Aragorn.  “We have lost irreplaceable time in this assault upon the Redhorn Pass.  With each day, each hour, the forces of Sauron mass and prepare for war.  This failed effort has cost us dearly.”

“Yet not so dearly that all hope is gone,” said Gandalf, but not to the Ranger.  His deep gaze was intent on the Ring-bearer.  Frodo had been mostly silent since they had parted from the wolves, not even the relatively warmer air improving his spirits.  Several times the wizard had seen Frodo raise his hand and touch the Ring, then swiftly lower it, glancing about to ensure that none had seen. 

It was not until the Company had settled down for the night that the wizard was able to speak to Frodo in privacy, drawing the Ring-bearer to sit beside him on watch as the others fell into exhausted slumber.  Frodo had sought to resist at first, claiming he was too weary for converse, but Gandalf knew him well. They had sat in silence and watched the stars, enjoying the luxury of their pipes, until Frodo began at last to speak.

“Even the beasts turn from me, Gandalf.  Perhaps it would have been better had I fallen into that crevasse.  At least the Enemy would never gain the Ring, then.”

“I think you are wrong, Frodo.  Somehow, sooner or later, it would make its way to its master.  Sauron is calling all evil things to him, and the Ring is foremost among those.   Your death…” and here the wizard had to pause a moment against the surge of grief that welled in him from those words, “your death would not change that.”

Frodo was silent, sweet smoke rising from his pipe and wafting about his dark curls.

“This task is appointed to you and you alone, Frodo.  No other can complete it.  You must not give in to despair.  It is a device of the Enemy.”

“I know, Gandalf,” came the soft reply.  “But it is hard.  The Ring grows heavier with each step.  I am so very tired.”

“If I could take this burden from you, I would, my friend.”  The hobbit nodded, his small face lost in the shadows.  Gandalf slid an arm around Frodo and hugged him gently, mindful of bruises and scrapes and aching muscles and the unhealing wound.  “Rest now.  We have a hard march tomorrow, and a decision to be made at the end of it.”

Frodo nodded wordlessly and put out his pipe, rising to his feet.  “You’ll wake me for my watch?”

“Yes.  Good night, Frodo.”

“Good night, Gandalf.”

The wizard watched as the Ring-bearer made his soundless way back to where the others lay and eased himself down between Samwise and Pippin.  Though sound asleep, Pippin turned at once and snuggled against his back.  Merry groped for the blanket and pulled it up over them all.  Samwise’s grey eyes opened, black in the starlight, checking his master’s whereabouts, before closing again.  Comforted, the Ring-bearer slept.

The End