Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

In this part, Merry and Frodo, captured by mysterious ruffians, are dragged off to a fate unknown while Sam and Pippin are left in the wreckage of Merry's grand plans. Frodo will slowly recover under the most unusual of circumstances, and Merry, separated from the Ring, will regain his conscience. In this final part of Ring around the Merry, each character will find alternate paths to healing and redemption, all under the shadow of the most powerful weapon in Middle Earth.

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Here Begins the Sequel to Ring Around the Merry - “The Redemption of Meriadoc”

You need not have read Part One to enjoy this one. In fact- people who could not handle RATM because they hated the idea of the corrupted Merry might like to see his redemption. This a dark fic, BUT I promise that I will NOT kill off any hobbits, and will not end this tragically!!

In Ring around the Merry, Meriadoc becomes fascinated and ultimately obsessed with the Ring of Power in his cousin's keeping over the course of the 16 years. When the time comes to set off with Frodo and Sam, Merry, under the malevolent influence of the Ring, decides that Frodo must be kept in the Shire to safeguard the world of hobbits. So Merry, working from good intentions, proceeds to keep Frodo and Sam captive at Crickhollow with the help of a very conflicted Pippin) until he can be brought to see reason.

Frodo, however, does not agree with Merry’s plan. Over the course of several weeks, there is a battle of wills in which Frodo is slowly but surely mentally broken by Merry until he recedes into his own mind.

Sam meanwhile, is a constant thorn in Merry’s side, trying increasingly desperate escape attempts, and, all the while, pressuring Pippin into seeing past his love for Merry and doing right by his Ringbearer cousin. As his master becomes less and less capable of defending himself, Sam is forced to act on his own initiative and-ultimately, to do something totally against his grain – to leave his Frodo and escape with the Ring.

Pippin is torn. He loves Merry, but has been dragged into what in effect is a very abusive relationship in which Merry steals his sense of worth in exchange for absolute obedience. But Sam understands that Pip may be Frodo’s last hope.

Merry has the darkest journey. Corrupted by the Ring, he is willing to commit great cruelties on his cousin in order to “save” him and the Shire. He considers Frodo and the Ring as one, so he takes complete control of the Frodo until he is insensible and pliant. Merry’s plans seem to go well, until he betrays his onetime allies, and mysterious ruffians come to claim their due.

So Part one ends when Ruffians kidnap Frodo and Merry – not knowing the Ring is now with Sam. Sam and Pippin are left with the wreckage of Merry’s plans. Now they must find a way to save Frodo and Merry and decide what to do about the Ring now in their charge. Meanwhile, Frodo will come back to himself and Merry will no longer be corrupted by the Ring. However, these former rivals will both find themselves dragged into captivity by a power greater than either have ever faced.

Sam plucked himself up from the dirt, sobbing, bruised, and much worse for the wear. He immediately took off the Ring and jammed it into his pocket. The world snapped back into living color and the pain in his head redoubled.

He needed help, and no mistake, but who could give Frodo the manner of help he needed?

Sam stood at the center of the road for several minutes looking very stupid and dying inside.

Give up, you ninny! You’re in over your head! said another decidedly less encouraging voice.

"Right," said Sam to himself. "My giving up won’t Frodo none. Beyond all hope, I'll go on."

He turned. Pippin stood behind him, balanced precariously on wobbly legs. He leaned heavily against the gateposts almost in shock, his face white as a sheet and beaded with sweat. Pippin gasped with exhaustion, looking as though he might faint at any time.

"Where," Pippin breathed, "Where is Frodo?" He coughed deeply, then continued. "Where…is..Merry?"

"By the stars, Pip," sighed Sam. "Sit down at least, or you'll topple where you stand! You shouldn't ought to have come out here, not as you are. Sit, will you!"

Whether by Sam's admonition or not, Pippin collapsed ungracefully into a sit that was more than half a fall. His eyes seemed to roll up in his head a moment before Pippin regained himself, took a steadying breath, and plowed on.

“You were crying, Sam,” said Pippin flatly as he gazed beyond Sam down the deserted road, still swirling with dust. “Something’s happened, something's happened to them!”

Sam opened his mouth, then closed it again, his face very much like a child trying to explain how the pie went missing except for the berry stains on his shirtfront. He began again.

Pippin sighed, his voice no longer the compliant, soft tone that Merry had depended upon for so long. “I did not walk all the way out here to be lied to,” he said firmly with just a hint of command.

Sam sighed patiently as he walked over to Pippin, his feet dragging in the rocky dirt of the road. He leaned down and offered his hand.

“Come inside, Mr. Peregrin,” he said with another long sigh. “And we’ll talk.”

Pippin pulled his hand obstinately away. “No,” he said defiantly. “Now!”

Sam huffed but did not otherwise object. He turned back and closed the gate, concealing themselves just behind it.

Pippin shot an impatient gaze, his eyes narrowed, brooking no argument. Sam nodded and plopped down next to Pippin’s side so that eye contact, for the most part, might be avoided. He sat with his knees bent and then leaned his head down onto them before looking up again and staring straight ahead at nothing.

"Big folk," said Sam. He took a deep breath. "All right, here it is. Three big folk stole Frodo and Merry. I tried to stop them, Pip, but they was just too big and too many. They had horses…so big. And where they've gone to, I do not know.”

Pippin closed his eyes, his face a mask of pain that did not all come from his abused back. "I blacked out," he admitted regretfully. "Just for a while, I think. Not long. But long enough. Frodo walked out, I suppose. I awoke and he was gone."

Sam felt his heartbeat quicken - its pounding reverberating against the oppressive silence. It was wrong to let Pippin shoulder the blame. But to take it on himself would lead to….

“Sam,” continued Pippin too thoughtfully, staring up at the sky. “Sam, how did the men find Merry if he was inside the gate? I thought you were going to bring him back to the house. How did Frodo get outside?”

Pippin did not look at Sam and Sam did not look at Pippin, preferring to stare sullenly at his feet.

"I didn't loose consciousness immediately," said Pippin. "I stood by Frodo for a few minutes. Long enough to have heard if riders had come into the yard then. I heard nothing."

“You were injured,” offered Sam quietly, delaying the inevitable. “In a daze. It weren’t no surprise you did not hear the men.”

Another stony silence. Sam fingered a long, supple blade of grass putting all his focus on pulling it apart--precisely down the center.

“You left him out there for the men to find, didn't you, Sam?" said Pippin matter-of-factly, staring at the closed gate. He turned his head to look Sam dead in the eye. "On purpose, didn't you?”

“I had no choice, Pippin!” snarled Sam, still focused on his blade of grass. “You don’t understand!”

"I understand," said Pippin. "I understand that you wanted to be rid of my cousin and saw this as the perfect chance to get that done."

"You could have saved him. He was right outside the gate. You had time to get him inside had you wanted to."

“It was the only way!” cried Sam abruptly. “It was him or Frodo! Can’t you see, lad? Have you no memory of what he did to dear Frodo? Or to you? Your back is in shreds! Your mind ain’t much better! And Frodo’s mind is well nigh gone! I weren’t going to let them take Frodo!”

More silence. The blade of grass stretched but did not break. Sam had never seen such a captivating plant.

“You think I don’t know that?” cried Sam, his voice breaking. “You think I wanted that to happen? But I thought I might lure them--”

“You thought you might hand them Merry,” said Pippin, his voice now like ice.

"And why shouldn't I, Pip?" Sam growled back. "I had so little time, and I had to choose one to save. Shouldn't I have chosen the one who most deserved to be saved?"

“Why must you torment me with your questions?” cried Sam. “Why do you suppose I ought to have saved Merry?”

“Because,” said Pippin forcefully, staring at Sam's lowered head. “You. Promised.”

"You knew well enough what I meant!" cried Pippin. "You knew. You knew I knocked Merry out to save Frodo, not to doom Merry!"

“You knew, damn you! And you knew I would have dragged Merry in with the very last of my strength if I thought in a million years that you would not! Then p’raps we’d have both here with us now! Perhaps we’d have BOTH!"

"You might have at least tried!" repeated Pippin, now thoroughly distraught and paying little head to Sam's flawed defense. “We might have saved them both!”

“My loyalty is to FRODO,” cried Sam. “Not to that devil of a Brandybuck!”

“You gave me your word, Sam, and I took it! You wanted to save your treasure, but at the cost of mine!”

"He was MINE!" shouted Pippin. "He's been mean and cruel, but it was that Thing that changed him and made him terrible! Perhaps I'll never ever forgive him- BUT he is my cousin, and I do love him, whether or NO!"

Sam fell silent. He had nothing to say to this. He had nothing to make Pippin's statement untrue. But Pippin's worst indictment was yet to come.

"Tell me," Pippin mumbled. "Were you so intent on getting Merry taken, that you didn't even see Frodo walk out here?"

Sam snapped his head to face Pippin, his thoughts in disarray, a sinking feeling accompanying the scuttling of his story. His eyes were moist with unshed tears, his conscience at its lowest ebb.

“How much,” muttered Sam, finally meeting the other hobbit's eyes, “did you see, Pippin?”

Sam’s heart deflated and he wondered briefly if it would stop of its own accord and put him out of his misery.

"I woke," explained Pippin. "and saw Frodo had gone, so I stumbled out the open door. Frodo was well on his way to this gate by that time. I saw it was open and wondered at that. I tried to call, but I was so weak, and no sound came. I couldn't stay on my feet, and I fell. Then I looked up, and the next thing I saw was Merry grappling with an invisible foe." He looked up at Sam accusingly. "Then he rolled past my sight, and Frodo stepped through the break in the gate unnoticed, save by me. I was so dizzy, and yet I crawled out. And I found you here. And them gone."

Sam dropped his face in his palms and exploded into such a piteous flood of tears that even Pippin, in his quiet rage, did not have the heart to push on. Pippin pulled his knees up and rested his forehead on them.

Sam cried until he had no more tears and until he felt utterly hollowed. When he looked up, to his surprise, Pippin’s eyes were also streaming with tears. They sat silently for a few moments, both staring blankly ahead of them, neither speaking. Pippin was the first to speak.

“Well. Sam,” said Pippin softly and without malice, ‘what do we do now?”

“This mess is beyond us to fix,” said Sam at last as he wiped his eyes. "It’s beyond a whole mess of hobbits to fix, matter of fact. I may die trying, but I must find help. Big help. Help, like the sort Gandalf could give."

“You,” ordered Sam, “are to stay put. You’re too weak to travel. You’d only slow me down.”

“I’ll heal,” answered Pippin. “And faster, knowing I'm doing something useful. You’ll need help, Sam.”

“You are strong, Sam, but you'll also need someone with intelligence on this journey,” said Pippin. “You aren’t thinking straight. For one, you ran off without any weapon to speak of.”

Sam blushed, remembering the painful jolt when he’d grasped for a weapon and came up empty.

“I was in the worst sort of panic,” countered Sam. “I’ll prepare this time. But you won’t be safe with the likes of me, Pip.”

“Think Sam!” said Pippin. “You know what they want. Now what will happen when they find out that neither Frodo nor Merry have It?"

"I’m the one person in the Shire that has all the information they need – all wrapped up in the easily recognizable package of the future Thain. I’d be easy pickings, Sam! And I’d either give them what they wanted or be tormented to death.”

“I’m weak now--but we both must to go. You need me and I need you, and you owe me something, and this is the least you can do,” the young hobbit blurted it out all at once, sounding for the first time like the old Pippin.

Sam rose to unsteady feet and reached down to grasp Pippin’s hand. This time, he readily took it and let himself be lifted to his feet.

Pippin twisted his face into what might have been a grin, were it not mingled with a manifest pain that even his stubborn hobbit courage could not hide.

“We’ll, get the ponies, Pip,” ordered Sam, now sounding more like his master than himself. “And any weapons we can lay hands on.”

Sam pushed the gate open and stared up the deserted road where he had last seen his master. His love for Frodo rose above all other thoughts and forgetting his peril, he cried aloud, "We're coming Mr. Frodo! Do you hear that, you filth? We're coming!"

They had ridden for what seemed like hours without stopping, hugging the banks of the Brandywine, moving ever southward. Merry had not ceased to thrash and call out the entire ride, causing his stocky captor to swing down with one-armed clouts and spit out idle threats as they rode. Frodo, however, had not caused his rider a single problem. He sat, placid as a sack of grain, staring straight ahead and lolling to one side or the other with the motion of their mount.

The three horses broke through the trees into a wide clearing and Merry’s keeper sidled up to the man carrying Frodo. He did not note that Merry twisted his head, desperate to catch Frodo’s gaze.

“Trade ye imps, Scur,” Merry’s rider said to the other hopefully. “Mine’s a right pain in the arse.”

“I’ll give you more pain than you can handle vermin!” cried Merry desperately, “If you don’t cut us loose!”

“Shaddup!” The man gave a rough tug to Merry’s hair until the hobbit squeaked with pain.

“Can’t ye make a gag outta nothing, Broga?” said Frodo’s guard. “Don’t he know yet that he’s a coney in a trap about to be skinned?”

Merry growled and again attempted to roll of his mount, a move that had little effect other than to earn him another slap on the back of the head.

“I got nothing!” moaned Broga. “Can’t take much more afore I really will skin him, orders be damned!”

“That won’t sit too hot with Grimbold,” Scur said in a low voice, gesturing towards the lead rider with a bony finger. “Real stickler for rules, that one!”

Grimbold, who had remained several dozen yards ahead of his two fellows suddenly wheeled his mount to a halt before them, causing both men to quickly draw their horses up short and trade apprehensive looks over each other’s shoulders.

“We’ll stop a mile or so down the road,” said Grimbold abruptly. “I think we’re past the point of habitation and such, but I want to be sure. We can water the horses at the river, make some adjustments so that the rest of our ride is more pleasant,” the boss indicated Merry’s struggling form with his eyes, “and quieter.”

The men nodded and urged their horses back into motion at Grimbold’s heels. Broga dug his fingers into Merry’s scalp and glared menacingly down at his struggling burden. “I’ll adjust you, little Rat,” he muttered to the hobbit’s forcibly upturned face. “Mark that well.”

At last the riders came into a copse of trees huddled tight along the river’s edge. The riders followed their leader into the knot of young willows which concealed them from all sides save the one from which they had entered.

Grimbold dismounted and, without waiting for the others, lead his weary horse to the slate-grey waters to drink. Broga jumped down and threw Merry unceremoniously into the mud.

“Be right back,” he snarled as he led his horse away. “Don’t go missing me too bad!”

Scur did not dismount, but rode his horse through the short line of cattails to the water’s edge. He left Frodo sitting serenely on the animal as he swung himself cautiously off the saddle. His boots sank deep into the yielding soil but his eyes were fixed on Frodo’s vacant stare. The horse reached down to drink, his withers dropping from beneath the hobbit and Frodo instantly slumped forward, making no attempt to steady himself. Scur caught him as he began to slide to the ground, a nerveless heap.

Grimbold looked up, studying the two men shrewdly. “Bind the quiet one whenever he’s off the horse,” he ordered. “Even if he doesn’t look like he needs it. We can’t risk losing him.”

Scur hoisted Frodo over his shoulder like a lumpy sack and, removing a leather thong from his saddlebag, bound Frodo’s ankles loosely. Frodo did not so much as twitch.

“Just not right,” he muttered as he turned and carried Frodo up the embankment.

“And Broga,” said Grimbold sharply. “Where’s your imp? You haven’t lost him already, have you?”

“He’s bound hand and foot,” said Broga defensively. “I needed a break from his carrying on, and he ain’t going nowhere.”

“Isn’t he, then?” replied Grimbold with a hint of a smirk. Their leader raised his eyes to the spot up the embankment where Merry had lain. Broga snapped his head around.

Merry, though bound at the wrists, thighs and ankles, was shimmying his way inch by inch toward the direction they had come. A shadow darkened the ground before him and an enormous booted foot crashed down upon his back knocking his breath from him.

The stocky man seized Merry by the back of the collar and drew him writhing and defiant up to his reddened face. Merry’s bound legs kicked wildly even as they dangled far above the ground.

“Shut up, runtling!” Broga bellowed. "Can you not see we are twice your size? And, little Master of Buckland," he added with a laugh, "you are in no position to dole out orders!”

Merry drew back a breath and spit in the man’s face. The ruffian snarled ferociously and threw Merry down.

Merry grunted in pain. “Let us go!" he screamed in a fury, "My cousin and I are powerful hobbits with even more powerful friends! You will be sorry you ever touched us!”

“I’m ALREADY sorry, piglet!” yelled Broga, punctuating his sentiments with a savage kick to Merry’s side.

“Shut him up!” called Scur as he lay Frodo carefully down in the tall grass. “My head is pounding from listening to his gibberish! I don’t care if you spin a gag by hand or stuff your shirt in his mouth, just shut him up!”

Frodo stared glassy eyed into the sky and Scur watched him a minute, a shiver leaving gooseflesh in its wake. “Just shut yours up, alright?” he continued absently, unable to avoid Frodo’s eerie stare.

“Let us go!” cried Merry again. “You have no idea who you are dealing with! Untie us now and you might never regret finding out!”

“Clamp it!” cried Broga, and kicked the offending hobbit once again. “My hand's still sore where you bit me you little rat! And you’ll want to save your breath for your reward.”

Broga shook his injured finger at Merry, to which the hobbit responded by snapping his teeth threateningly at the scolding digit.

“That’s it!” Broga cried, drawing up a coil whip from his belt. “Why put off what—"

Broga leaned down toward Merry. “Yet...” he snarled with unconcealed delight.

“Don’t damage it beyond repair,” said Grimbold sharply. “You’ll get your fun once we get on the Greenway. But under,” he smiled horribly, “controlled circumstances. Remember--we are to bring them alive and unspoilt.”

“He’s spoilt enough already!” grumbled Broga as he wiped saliva from his cheek and onto his grimy tunic. He scowled at Merry and lowered his whip, but before he turned away, he placed his boot on Merry’s back and pressed the hobbit into the mud. Glancing over Scur, he asked aloud, “How’d he get so lucky. That one don’t make a sound.”

“If luck is what you can call it,” answered Scur. He peered down into Frodo’s unblinking eyes and waved his hand back and forth in front of them. Frodo gave no indication that he even saw the motion.

“Well, said Broga, his boot still jammed into the small of Merry’s back. “He don’t struggle, he don’t scream none, and he certainly don’t spit. That seems a pot of luck to me!”

“That’s just it,” said Scur. “He’s not right,” the man pointed to his forehead. “I think he’s tetched!”

The ruffian shivered again and looked around fearfully, as if disconcerted by something he could not see. “Not right in the head. Or a halfwit or something, I don’t know. And who’s to know what got him that way?” He shuddered again. “It’s unnatural, it is. Look!” The thin man gave Frodo a small kick with his boot. Frodo continued to stare, oblivious, at the sky.

“Leave him alone!” screamed Merry, red-faced, struggling with his bonds and even angrier than before. “Don’t…don't…you TOUCH HIM, or--!”

“Or what?” sneered Broga. “Just remember, you’re mine, sweetheart.” Again, he emphasized his point by shaking his whip. "Keep up your squawking and you and my friend here will have a rendezvous tonight! A romantic meeting under the stars with Lady Scourge. And the more trouble you cause, the longer your ‘courtship’ will be.”

“Maybe,” continued Scur as if he had not heard his partner speak, “this quiet one is bespelled?”

“Don’t,” he said curtly. “We don’t know why he’s wanted and he's not worth getting in trouble over. Besides, it’s never good to mess with the messed or to touch the tetched.” He raised his eyebrows. "Understand?"

“What if,” asked Scur, “I mean, do you suppose the curse that’s on him could lay hold of us too? Make us drooling halfwits like him?”

“Lads!" warned their boss. He stared at Frodo long and hard. "Likely he's the victim of something not the cause…but no matter. He’s not making any trouble so leave him be. And if he is enchanted, well, don’t tempt fate, I say. Besides, we were given particular instructions not to hurt the captive one.”

“Captive?” said Broga incredulously. “The tetched rat was actually was the prisoner of the spitting rat?”

“I thought it were just a manner of speech, so to speak." Broga snickered and smirked down at Merry.

“He’s not an idiot, you filth!” cried Merry against all good judgment, his voice stifled by the long grass against his face. “And he’s not ‘touched’!”

The men grabbed up their prisoners and carried them to the horses, Frodo silently, Merry spouting threats and curses. He continued to thrash as he was flopped over the pommel of the saddle and Broga searched for something that would silence him. At last he sliced a piece off a tattered garment, and mindful of Merry’s snapping teeth, pulled it tightly over the hobbit’s complaining mouth.

“Here,” said Grimbold, throwing down a coil of rope to Broga. “Wind it under the horse. “It’ll keep him still.”

Without further ado, the man wound the rope around Merry’s wrists, ran the rope under the horse’s belly, to attach to Merry’s ankles, just as Merry had once done to Frodo. He growled his complaints, but had no option but to be still.

Scur, meanwhile, had set Frodo carefully on his horse before climbing up behind him. A passing observer might have thought it was a father riding a horse with his child, so carefully did the man handle the oblivious hobbit.

As the horse galloped off, a starling fluttered from a treetop overhead and glided across the water. Frodo blinked, lifted his head ever so slightly, and for a split second, glanced at the bird with his own eyes.

The elves gathered around the small figure slumbering quietly on the oversized bed, the small creature nearly swallowed up by the deep, feather-filled mattress. Its plump face was once again ruddy and a near picture of health.

The others again looked at the double-chinned creature with its doughy arms and wide set eyes bridged by an expanding colony of freckles that swarmed on either side of his nose.

"Perhaps," offered another, “halfling standards of beauty are quite different from our own."

‘Certainly,” ventured a third elf, “his looks have improved since he was brought hither weeks ago, when he was verily at death’s door.”

From down the arching halls a bustle sounded – a fussy, flustered, distinctly non-elvish voice muttering “Where is he?”

Suddenly a short figure, bent with age, but otherwise hale and feisty, burst through the door.

“He is here, Master Bilbo,” answered one of the elves. “Lord Elrond did not wish you to see him until the danger was past and he was likely to survive.”

“Yes, yes, fair enough, lads!” shouted the halfling, a little too loud. “But I’m here now, so let’s have a look!”

Bilbo Baggins marched imperiously to the head of the bed, and inserting himself between two lithe elves, stood on the tips of his toes and stared down at the sleeping hobbit.

The elves parted gracefully, giving him room amid expectant smiles. Bilbo glanced down, blinked several times and pulled out his spectacles. These he shoved hurriedly on his nose and peered down again. He then removed the spectacles, breathed on them, wiped them clean with the hem of his shirt, and replaced them. At last, he raised his head to face the elves.

With manifest irritation, Bilbo pointed a hobbled forefinger down at the sleeping figure of Fatty Bolger.

Sam shut the gate on the Crickhollow smial with enough force to drive dozens of nearby birds from their perches. Pippin’s slate-grey pony jumped and shook his bridle in agitation.

Sam mounted his pony clumsily and he and Pippin stared down the road in the direction Sam had seen his master taken. The ponies danced and snorted, impatient to be off, but Pippin and Sam kept them in check, almost as if they were unwilling to move forward.

Sam did not answer. He had never missed his master so sorely. He did not relish playing the leader, and was not even sure if, between him and Pippin, he was the leader. Still, Sam sensed that he was expected to make some definitive order, or to point in a direction that they must follow. Pippin’s question reminded him that beyond trotting off in the general direction of the captors, he had no idea what they ought to do. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the chill breeze and he shifted miserably in the saddle.

“Samwise,” repeated Pippin nervously. “Merry had mentioned you and Frodo were headed to Bree.”

“So we were,” snarled Sam, more angrily than he had intended. “Until we were delayed by your cousin who thought we shouldn’t ought to go there.”

Pippin flinched. “Well, then, perhaps it might be wise to follow your original plan.”

Sam urged his pony forward so that he was even with Pippin. “My business is to rescue Frodo now,” said Sam, his eyes flashing. “And there ain’t no other thing on my mind.”

Pippin frowned at Sam, his jaw beginning to set with irritation. “And how do you expect to do that without help? We could follow the big folks’ trail until it runs out,” he said. “And then what?”

“I don’t know!” snapped Sam. “I haven’t thought upon it yet! I just want to find Mr. Frodo!”

“That’s all well and good,” said Pippin. “But I think we need to make a plan before we set out.”

“Look Sam,” said Pippin, taking a deep breath. “We have both been following another’s lead up until now.”

Pippin did not answer. He realized then that Merry had been the planner between them, magnificent at strategies and contingencies and subtle manipulation. As corrupted as his cousin had become, it had required many forces aligned against him to make his lovely plans fall apart. Sane or maniacal, Pippin could not deny that his cousin had been a hobbit of vision.

“I don’t mean any harm, Sam. I mean that we don’t have as much experience as --?”

“As Merry?” said Sam sharply. “Is that what you are saying, Pip? That you’d rather have Merry planning for us than me? Very fine! I’m sure your Merry made nice tidy plans ‘cept for the fact that he’s insane!”

“I wasn’t thinking that at all!” lied Pippin. “I mean, Frodo was a leader as well. Why don’t we think on what he’d want us to do?”

“I don’t have to think, Pip, I know,” he said with a quiver of fear in his voice. “He’d want us to let him perish and keep on. That would be Mr. Frodo all over! But I won’t leave him – I won’t!”

“I don’t want you too,” said Pippin. “I want them back as much as you. But how shall we do it?”

“Well, Frodo had a mind to find Mr. Gandalf at Bree,” and, with a barely suppressed scowl, added, “I reckon Merry worked that out, too.”

“And from there, Rivendell.” Sam paused, sighed, and added, “I think.”

“Well,” said Pippin thoughtfully, “The ruffians rode that way.” Pippin pointed down the road to the southwest. “And that is the road that hooks up to the Buckland road, and that, in turn, meets the East Road, which is the main thoroughfare in these parts.”

Sam shook his head. “You’ve lost me, lad. And we ain’t even made a step.”

“Yes, that would work,” murmured Pippin, “We could start out following the men to the crossroads. If they go north along the Buckland road, we can trail them and find help somewhere along the way to get Frodo and Merry back.” And if they went another way, he thought. We’ll cross that road when we get to it. “Unless, you have a better idea?” he added aloud.

It seems fair enough to me,” sighed Sam, strangely relieved. “Let’s ride, then. We’ve lollygagged long e------”

Pippin was off down the road before Sam could finish his sentence. He spurred his own pony and followed in Pippin’s dusty wake.

Every muscle in Merry’s protesting body ached as the horse that bore him galloped on. Held down by cruel ropes, he felt like one big bruise as his body rose and fell with the animal’s rolling stride. He had ceased to struggle when it became apparent he could not loosen his bonds and when he it became clear his captor would leave him alone if he lay quietly.

Merry caught the occasional glimpse of Frodo riding peacefully in front of Scur. And in his own immense discomfort, Merry’s mind turned back to the time in the Old Forest when he had forced Frodo into this same position.

But he’d deserved it, thought Merry. Frodo wouldn’t mind me. He’d not listened to reason, and thus forced my hand. I’d not wanted to hurt him. It was his own choice.

Merry unconsciously tugged against the cords binding his hands. The chafed skin made it feel like there were tiny insects biting at his wrists and ankles with every movement of the horse.

“Stop wriggling!” came a hated voice from above as cudgeling fingernails dug into his skull. Merry winced in pain, but did not cry out. When would this misery end? How far was it? And did he want to get there? His rage and fear growing, Merry could not prevent himself from struggling against the ropes again.

“I said be still, rat!” ordered Broga. “I’ll take my impatience out on your back if you don’t obey, so be still! Be a good ratling like your ‘teched little buddy.”

“I don’t … h…have to be good for the likes of you,” wheezed Merry defiantly. “You…. You’ve no right to order me about!” He braced himself for the inevitable.

Instead of the expected clout, Merry was answered by a loud peel of laughter from both Broga and Scur. Broga ruffled Merry’s hair as if he were a child.

“Looks like yours has gotten right uppity!” snarled Scur. And, wrapping Frodo in a tight mocking embrace, he added, “Mine’s as sweet as a newborn babe. P’raps I just have a way with these ratling pups.”

“Eh now? You both look like babes to us!” Broga roared with laughter as he turned to Scur with a smirk. “I’ll show you what I know. I bet he’ll understand this!”

Broga gleefully delivered a volley of hard slaps to Merry’s rear and Merry felt the heat of shame and fury rise to his face. He did not react as the raucous laughter of the men swelled in his ears, but he truly felt as if he would rather have been stabbed.

The clear trail frayed at the end of the dirt road. Another wider road crossed the first, this one peppered with all manner of hoof prints. It was a well traveled road. Pippin's heart sank.

“Why, these prints could be from any of a hundred horses!” cried Pippin. He took a few steps onto the packed rock and gravel way. It was a landscape stingy with its secrets. Pippin carefully lowered himself to his knees to get a closer look. “There may be horses that came off the path and went that way.” Pippin pointed toward the river. “These prints seem to go south, if they are prints at all.” He looked up and sighed. “I am no tracker. For all that I know these roads, I feel lost.”

Pippin stood up from the ground that he had been examining, his face contorting in pain as he did so. A sulky expression crossed his face then, replaced by an edge of determination. “But we must make a decision.”

Sam surveyed Pippin from on his pony. The young lad's spirit had almost made Sam forget he was injured.

“Badly. Meaning it hurts,” answered Pippin. “But I can feel it healing over, which is good, I suppose.” Pippin looked up, trying to grin. “Until it starts itching,” he added.

Sam gave him a mirthless, sympathetic grimace in return but he was beginning to worry. He had no idea which way his master had gone and, apparently, neither did Pippin. He looked out at the lowering sun. “Where are we? I’ve no sense of this place.”

“The Brandywine is a ways off in that direction,” answered Pippin, leaning heavily against his pony. “And if we head north on this road, it will take us to the east road.”

“Those vermin ain’t headed towards Buckleberry, ” frowned Sam. “I don’t reckon they’d try and hide two kidnapped hobbits in a town full of curious-eyed folk.”

Sam felt a flame of anger leap in him. How could Pippin have lost his master already? But even as he thought it he realized he couldn’t blame Pippin. It was his fault Frodo had been captured in the first place. His frustrated mind sought another avenue. “Pippin, do you know aught about these Big Folk? What are they about?”

“I don’t know, Sam,” said Pippin regretfully. “You know Merry only told me what he pleased.” He paused, with a sad inward look that Sam pitied, then recollected himself and added hopefully, “But it sounds like they are working for someone else.”

“Some friend of the black riders?” asked Sam, a new fear seeping into his voice.

“I don’t think so,” mused Pippin. “Truly, Sam, if you could summon black riders, would you not summon black riders? These men sound bad, of course, but the riders put terror into my heart.”

Sam hesitantly nodded. “Aye, you’ve a point there, lad.” He stood in his stirrups, stretching his legs. “So we don’t know who they are, we don’t know where they’re from, and we don’t know where they are taking Frodo!” Or why!” Sam slumped down in the saddle, letting out a huge sigh. “A tidy mess, it is!” he cried with frustration as he squinted far up the road, shading his eyes against the sun. “I’ve never wanted to see Gandalf so bad in all my life!” He dropped his hand and looked at Pippin. “I just don’t know what to do!” he said, his voice edged with desperation.

“Easy, Sam. I’d say you have made the decision for us,” said Pippin with a cautious glance at Sam.

“Bree!” said Pippin as he struggled back onto his pony. “That’s where Gandalf said he would meet you and Frodo, and that is the only place we know to look for him. Maybe he’ll be there, Sam. Surely he at least left a message of where he’s got to.”

“We could use him now, that’s certain.” Sam shook his head. “But I ain’t heard no good report of Bree,” he muttered, circling his horse around. “Who’s to say we won’t just find more ruffians there?”

“We’ve no other choice, Sam,” said Pippin staring at the setting sun. “Especially now that the men’s trail is cold.”

“I know there ain’t much other choice but to go to Bree, Pip! But I don’t like none of our roads when they ain’t got Frodo at the end of them!” Sam closed his eyes, feeling tears of frustration threaten behind his lids. He hadn’t wanted to admit that fact aloud, but since Pippin had, there was no use denying it. They had no idea which way the men had gone. It was either make a guess of their direction which might prove wrong, or abandon the trail entirely and seek help. Mastering himself, Sam grumbled, “Lead the way since you know it.” He stared down the empty road again. “And how far is it anyway?”

Sam nodded, and dashed away the few tears he could not suppress. ‘I’m still coming, Master,’ he thought. ‘I’ve gone to get some help, but don’t you worry, your Sam won’t leave you to those ruffians as long as there’s breath in him.’

The sun hung low in the sky when Merry felt the horse skid to a halt. He raised hid head wearily to see that the other men had stopped as well, and that the Brandywine still flowed beside them. He watched Scur hand Frodo down to the leader, who promptly bound his wrists and ankles with leather thongs and set him down in a mound of grass. Merry felt his own ropes slacken and he tumbled to the soft ground with a thud. Broga swept him up roughly and slung him over his meaty shoulder. He galumphed across the grass to where Grimbold and Scur leaned over Frodo, who was staring up at the sky.

“Not a word the whole way,” muttered Scur. “Like the living dead, he is.”

“Just as long as he is living when we get him delivered,” said Grimbold. “If he’s not, we’re all as good as dead.”

“He will if I have to stuff it down his throat myself,” answered Grimbold. “I won’t have him dying on the way.”

“What about this ‘un?” asked Broga as he dropped his burden unceremoniously on the ground next to his cousin. “When do we get our fun? I’ve a mind to give him his reward for biting, to say nothing about making my ride such a pain in the arse!”

“He’ll pay,” answered Grimbold. “But not tonight. We’re still in the Shire and I don’t want to attract any unwanted attention. That will wait until we are safe on the Greenway.”

“What if we gag ‘im while I strike?” suggested Broga helpfully. “Won’t be as satisfying as hearing the little whelp scream, but its better than nothing.”

“I said no,” said Grimbold. “Now make yourself useful and get a fire going.”

Broga grumbled as he watched Grimbold lead his horse to the river. He reached down and seized Merry by the collar.

A fire came into Merry’s eyes and he latched onto the man’s fist and sunk his teeth into it. Broga cried out and dropped Merry as if he were something hot.

“Little filth!” he screamed, and turning to Scur, cried, “That little rat bit me again!”

“Then don’t put your clammy hands where they don’t belong!” said Merry triumphantly.

“It ain’t funny!” cried Broga. “This one’s gotta learn some respect!”

“I neither respect nor fear you!” said Merry from the ground. “And you shall rue your treatment of me before the end.”

“Rue my treatment, eh?” Broga pulled Merry up by the back of his collar and proceeded to drag him toward the river. “I’ll show you some rueing, you little maggot!”

“To wash the filth from this one’s mouth,” answered Broga. “I’ll not have something half my size mocking me. Come along if you want. I’ll give you something real to laugh about, take the edge off your day.”

“What about my rat, then? I don’t want to get into trouble with Grimbold.”

“Bring ‘im,” said Broga. “If he were biting rat’s captive, it might cheer ‘im up some, get him out of his shell.”

Against his better judgment, Scur bent down to undo Frodo’s leg bonds and stood his captive on his feet. “Up ye go,” he said. “Time for a nice little walk.”

Frodo let himself be steered by Scur’s hand as they followed behind Broga and his now struggling captive.

“Broga” cried Merry. “You heard your boss! We are not to be harmed! They’ll kill you, he said!”

“They were talking about your pal,” said Broga. “You ain’t worth nothing to no one.”

“He meant us both, and I’d hate to be you if Grimbold finds out!” cried Merry, unable to hide the growing fear in his voice.

“I thought you weren’t scared of me, rat?” laughed Broga as he walked in long crunching steps and dragging the heir to Brandy Hall. The sound of running water was drawing closer.

“I’m giving you a chance to save your hide!” cried Merry as he thrashed. “Don’t be a fool!”

“It’s your own hide I’d be concerning meself about, if I were you,” said Broga. “And it’s about to get wetter and colder! Up for a swim?”

The river water gurgled directly behind Merry and he heard the sickening splash of Broga’s boots stepping, one and then the other, into it. An icy wetness hit his rear and lower back and Merry cried out in his fright. Like it or not, he was going in.

The hands let go of his collar and Merry was suddenly yanked out of the water by his wrists. He found himself dangled in front of Broga’s leering face.

“That’s just the point,” said Broga as he took another series of strides into the river. “I can do this!” Three more steps and Broga was up to his thighs in the water. Merry gasped as the cold enveloped his feet, with the first step, his legs with the second, and his waist with the third. “I can do as I like, and you, little rat, can do nothing to stop me.”

“And, little runt,” said Broga with the hint of a smile. “If you ain’t afraid of me yet-- you will be.”

Merry opened his mouth to cry out, but found his whole body thrust into the river, his nose scraping against the rocky bottom, his mouth and ears filling with liquid ice. He was a good swimmer, but bound, he was helpless as the relentless hand held him down until his lungs burned. He struggled wildly and screamed into the current. Above the rush of the water and the hollow sound of his own cries, Meriadoc detected the echo of laughter.

At last he was pulled up, gasping and spluttering, his heart pounding like a hammer.

“Scared yet?” said Broga with a slow cruel smile. “Anything else you wanna bite?”

“Enough!” said Merry gasping. “You’ve made your point. Now set me back!”

“Yup,” called Scur from the shore. “I don’t think he’s learned nothing.”

Merry was plunged into the water again. He struggled, but expected no reprieve from the one who held him down. His mind spun to another evening by the river and his own muffled cries intermingled with those that seemed to come from a distance – the cries of another, an echo of memory. Thirty seconds, and he was again pulled up to laughter. He was weaker and more frightened than before. The ruffian was speaking to him, but Merry did not hear. His eyes were drawn to the small blue figure standing motionless upon the shore by the thin man, his hands bound, his eyes open. Frodo. A wave of concern flowed through Merry, and for a moment, it was greater than his own fear.

“T…take him away!” he coughed to Scur. “Don’t make him watch this! He’s done nothing to you!” He wheezed fitfully, trying to draw breath. “He can’t see this! I beg you! Please take my cousin away!”

He was right. It was a lovely sunset, and Frodo's attention was drawn to the fiery disk sinking quickly behind the hills. He paid little heed to the drama playing out in the river before him.

“P’raps he needs something else to watch!” laughed Broga, and dunked Merry under again. Merry was in agony, his body knotted in fear. He had no control, no way of stopping this. He could die, and Broga would not care a whit. Merry though he heard a voice calling wildly - Merry! Merry! Bring him up! He’s been down there for ages! Merry! Now! But no one was bringing him up.

This time when Broga yanked him out of the water, Merry was too exhausted to do anything but gasp for air. He was facing the shore when he emerged and when he blinked the water from his eyes, he caught sight of Frodo’s face. In the last few seconds, his cousin’s eyes had changed and for the first time in ages Merry saw that Frodo’s eyes were upon him. There was a look of fear on his face.

Merry was pushed under again and all thoughts of Frodo vanished. He would surely perish if this went on. He did not struggle, did not move, in hopes of sating the anger of his captor. When Merry was yanked up again, his mind swimming in fear and desperation, he called out to the only thing near that was his, the only thing near that he loved. Merry called out to his cousin.

Merry had no idea why he yelled, or what he expected Frodo to say or do. He had no other to call, no other familiar name. So he kept on, submitting to a terror he had never known before, all the while staring into eyes which glinted with their own fear and the faintest trace of remembrance.

In the end, Merry wept out Frodo’s name like a child calling out to a mother who is far away. He heard Broga’s laugh, felt himself lowered, and this time he was sure he was to die.

The miracle that saved him came in the form of the most unlikely voice. Merry wept in relief at Grimbold’s furious shout.

“Bring that drowned rat back here or I’ll have you floating face-down in the river yourself! Now!”

Broga’s hand twitched at the sound of his leader’s voice, confirming to Merry that Grimbold would never have approved of the exercise. His own body shook violently from the cold, but he did not mind. He could breathe and it was not his day to die. As Broga slogged back to shore, Merry turned to look at Frodo again. The blue eyes were dull, glassy. No light of recognition or fear flickered there.

Broga set Merry roughly upon the shore and Merry dropped his head down and wept quietly into the mud.

“I don’t care if he eats your whole cursed arm!” yelled Grimbold. “He’s not to be harmed without my say so! I said that you could have your fun - when we get on the Greenway, and I meant it! Not before! If it got lost in the water, he’ll have your head, and most likely mine as well.” Grimbold gathered Broga’s shirt in his fist and pulled him close. “I’m in charge here, and I will not hesitate to kill you if you disobey me again. Make no mistake.”

Broga swallowed hard, trying to maintain his bravado. “What does he have then?” asked Broga. “Is the rat made of gold? Why can’t we just take what ever it is, kill the rats, and have done!”

“None of your concern!” said Grimbold, gritting his teeth as one who knows he’s said too much. “You wouldn’t know it if you saw it, and, to be fair, neither would I. But the order was clear as water, ‘alive and unspolit.’ We’re getting paid more than we have ever seen for this job, but the risk of failure is death.”

“We are working for a very literal man, Scur, if man he can be called,” snarled Grimbold. “And a pitiless one, if you didn’t take note beforehand. I hope for all our sakes that the folly of your partner here hasn’t done something that can’t be undone.”

Broga did not reply, but stared sulkily into the river as he removed his trousers and began to wring them out.

Merry was nudged onto his back and found himself staring up at Grimbold. “Are you breathing?” he asked in a hard tone, his eyes bereft of pity.

Merry let himself be plucked up by the leader and did not struggle as he was borne, sodden and shaking, back to their camp. A warm fire was soon blazing and Frodo and Merry were both set beside it. Scur had taken Frodo aside to tend to his basic needs and to remove his blue jacket to sleep. He had rebound his hands and ankles, but not tightly, and wrapped his charge in a blanket. Frodo did not take the bread and sausage offered by his captor until pieces of it were stuffed in his mouth.

Merry complied, leaning on his elbows in the soft grass and then pushing himself to a sitting position.

“Broga will have his fun, runt,” said Grimbold soft and menacingly, “But more fun can be added at any time, fun that won’t kill you, but might make you wish you were dead. I can be a reasonable man if this trip goes smoothly. Don’t get on my bad side. Do you understand?”

“I won’t have a dead hobbit on my hands and that includes by natural causes. Now I’m going to strip off your wet clothes. Don’t cause me any troubles or your start on the Greenway will be even worse.” The man sliced through Merry’s bonds. “”Now stand up.”

Staring at the ground, Merry did as he was told. He let the man pull off his sodden clothes and watched with thinly veiled glee when they were handed to Broga to wring out and dry along with his own. Merry made no resistance as an oversized shirt was pulled over his head and his wrists were rebound with leather cords. He was then given leave to relieve himself, granted it was in full view of his captor. Grimbold bound up his ankles, wrapped him in a blanket, and set him beside his cousin. A few bites of stale bread, fed to him by Scur, were Merry’s supper.

But the opportunity to speak to Frodo, once the lot of them had fallen asleep, made him positively pliant.

“Frodo,” whispered Merry, rolling to face his cousin. “Frodo, do not fear, I am alive. I am not drowned! Can you hear me, my love?”

Frodo’s eyes focused at the sound of his name and Merry suppressed a cry of joy. He instead brought his bound hands out from the blanket to touch Frodo’s pale face. As they drew near, Frodo’s eyes widened in horror, and his body recoiled in visceral disgust.

“Frodo, it’s me. Merry!” he said, drawing his hands back. “I am no ruffian!”

Merry saw Frodo’s eyes bolt for one moment on his, clear and lucid, but as he watched, they lost their luster and focus. Frodo turned away from him and fastened his hypnotized gaze upon the livid orange of the fire.

And for the second time that evening, Meriadoc Brandybuck bowed his face to the damp grass and silently wept.

thanks for reading! Next chapter up in a few days, though reviews make us post faster. Constructive criticism also welcome. Betas Ariel and Celandine G *bows down to them*

Sam sat, chewing absently on a piece of bread, staring at the mockery of a fire. Night had fallen, cold, clammy and without comfort. Pippin and he had continued on to the limit of their endurance, then nestled themselves inside a close- set copse of trees several dozen feet from the East road. Sam tore his mind away from thoughts of Frodo as he raised his eyes to his pitiful companion.

Pippin sat, his face pinched in pain, his body tilted at an awkward angle as if no part of him was with without hurt. In the firelight, he seemed breathtakingly young, like a small hobbitlad sitting by a campfire. But Pippin was no longer a small lad and this was no camping trip. The past two weeks had ripped every last stitch of innocence from Pippin and Sam wondered if he would ever again hear the young hobbit’s impish laugh. Sam came back to himself and found that he was staring at Pippin and that Pippin was staring back.

A small grin glided across Pippin pale face. “Just “Pippin” Sam. No more “Mister” after what we’ve been though, I think.”

Sam threw the bread into the fire and watched it blacken with detached curiosity.

“Because, lad, you’ve started acting less like little Pip and more like my Mr. Frodo. So the ‘mister” just came natural, I guess.”

“Do you really think so, Sam?’ asked Pippin with childlike eagerness. “That I act like Frodo, I mean.”

“A little more each day, Pip.” said Sam, flushing as he watched the other hobbit swell with pride. "At least Mr. Frodo before--"

Pippin's face fell. "Before we broke him," he said. He wiped one, then two, then a silent wash of tears from his eyes.

They stared into the fire again, a silence sitting heavy and thick upon the air. At last Pippin struggled to his feet and stiffly removed his jacket in preparation for bed.

"Pippin!" said Sam, catching sight of the dark, brown stain seeping through the back of Pippin's shirt. "You'll not lie down until I've had a chance to tend to your wounds."

Sam leapt to his feet and stepped toward Pippin to place a gentle hand upon his shoulder. Sam was taken aback when he saw that a look of pure panic had filled Pippin's eyes and he flinched as if to avoid a blow. Sam yanked his hand back as from an open flame.

"Pip, it's just Sam,” he gasped. “Those welts will turn nasty unless you let me get them clean."

“I'm sorry Sam,” said Pippin. The fear passed from his eyes even as his muscles tightened.

"Well, there's something else you share with Mr. Frodo," said Sam. "Stubborn as mules you lot."

Pippin winced as Sam carefully pulled the sodden linen strips from his back. Sam knew better than to comment aloud on the state of Pippin's back or to decry the maker of these wounds, so they sat in silence, the night noises surrounding them punctuated by Pippin's occasionally sharp intake of breath.

Once in a while, a twig would seem to snap, or branch seemed to rustle unnaturally loudly. They both found themselves nervous and edgy. When Sam had put new dressings on the wounds and tenderly pulled the blanket over Pippin, the injured hobbit again glanced up at Sam.

"Thank you," he said, closing his eyes, and, after a pause muttered, "for not hating me."

Merry fought the urge to sleep. His wrists were bound fast, as were his ankles, but the ropes were no real barrier to a hobbit whose whole being was now geared to escape. Merry considered the cords as he waited for the three men to fall asleep. He thought them dolts for binding his hands in front where he might, given half an opportunity, pick steadily at his leg bonds with his fingers.

Broga snored first, then Scur, then, when the last embers of the fire has turned to ash, Grimbold. Merry smiled wickedly. These bog men were too incompetent to keep a night watch. It was not an error Merry would have made and though it was not an oversight he respected, it was certainly one he appreciated.

As Merry silently picked and worried at his leg bonds, he turned to Frodo. The other hobbit had turned away from him, perhaps even purposefully- though Merry could not account for it. Surely his cousin understood the extent to which Merry had been willing to sacrifice himself to insure Frodo's well- being. And now, with the change in circumstances, he was now Frodo's only hope, his only possible savior.

Merry thought on this situation for a moment and steeled his will. Merry knew he must succeed for Frodo's sake. And once they were free, together they could seek after It. Even now, the Shire need not fall to ruin, not while Merry still drew breath. He regretted letting himself fall to despair outside Crickhollow. It did not befit a leader such as himself.

The night was beginning to grey around the edges by the time Merry had managed to loosen the third knot binding his feet. His heart thumped wildly as he pulled the rope free at last. Now, at least, he could move about, seek out a way to free his hands, then unbind Frodo and slip away. Merry scanned the campsite for any glint of possibility.

Broga, you magnificent fool! he thought. His eyes alighted upon Broga's belt knife, stuck in the gristle of a haunch of venison, just waiting for to be picked up. It lay beside the dead fire, a few steps away from Broga's feet. A calculated risk, but well worth it. Merry crept foreword, using all the powers of hobbit stealth he could muster. Inch by inch he crawled, until he was just inches from his captor.

Steady now, he thought as he reached his hand out to claim the implement of his freedom. Broga stirred a moment, grumbled in his sleep, then fell back into booming snores. Merry sucked in his breath and continued to stretch out his hand. There! He grasped the knife and drew it forth slowly, then backed away as quietly as he had come. When he was a safe distance, he cut his wrist bonds and crept back to his cousin.

He slowly peeled back Frodo’s blanket and cut the cords binding his ankles. "Frodo! Frodo!" he called in a low but insistent voice. "Look at me!"

His cousin did not stir. Merry shook him gently, and then rolled him over to face him. Frodo's head drooped. "Frodo!" he repeated.

Frodo stirred at last to lift his weary head. Merry’s heart leapt as he watched Frodo's eyes flutter open and seem to focus upon him. He cupped his cousin’s face to command his full attention. "Frodo, I've managed to free myself and I will save us!"

He sliced through the cords binding Frodo’s wrists ignoring the fact that those hands fell limp to the ground. "Frodo!" Merry said urgently, "Now follow your Merry! We must go!"

Frodo stared at him but made no move. The huge, moonlit eyes ranged over Merry’s face, then drifted lazily to focus on something above him.

Merry gasped in shock as a meaty hand closed around his collar and lifted him roughly off the ground. Merry found himself starring into the eyes of Scur.

Pippin was being held by something menacing and unseen. Blows rained down on every corner of his body. He was in agony but the worst part of the ordeal was that he could not stop it. He was powerless. No bargain could be struck with this malevolence. Even yielding would not prevent this violation. He felt cold and suddenly exposed and though he cried out in protest, the assault came as relentlessly as a downpour in an open field. He felt as if he was being savagely cleaved in two. He screamed in his outrage and torment, but there was no restraint in this menace. It tore at his innermost being, ripping the fragile fabric of his self-worth and taking its cruel pleasure at his pain. Pippin clenched his hands, trying in vain to strike out and stop this, but it held them in place as well. He could do nothing but scream as the evil befouled him. Darkness swirled about him accompanied by a feeling of utter soul-quenching humiliation.

His sleep fogged eyes shot open and he found himself staring at a dark figure looming over him. The contours of his nightmare deepened. He screamed, "NO! NO!"

Clawing frantically at the dirt, Pippin's fingers latched on to the first solid object they found and he swung violently at his attacker. The poorly wielded cookpan found its mark with a sickening thump. Sam cried out, clutching at his head and reeling backwards. Through the mists of his rattled brain he saw his attacker dash off into the forest. "Pippin!" he cried. "Pippin! Come back!"

Pippin did not heed him. Sam straightened dizzily, muttered "panswinger," then, weaving drunkenly, he lurched forward shouting Pippin's name.

Merry was dangling by the ruff like a naughty kitten for all the camp to see. Scur shook him as he spoke. "He was pestering my imp!"

"He was making to escape, you idiot!" grumbled Broga as he got to his feet. He stumbled toward Scur. "And now he's woke me out of a nice sound sleep! I can't wait to take that out on your soft little back, rat." His sleep puffed eyes glinted with irritation. “I got one word for you! The. Greenway."

"That's two words," spat Merry, earning him a snicker from Scur and a stinging slap from Broga. Broga drew his hand back to slap again, but stopped. The suspended Halfling suddenly brandished a weapon.

"Of course it's your knife, dolt!" yelled Grimbold as he approached. "Who else would leave a weapon lying about?" Grimbold motioned to Scur to set Merry down. Merry’s feet touched, though the ruffian still held his collar tight enough to choke him. Grimbold glowered down at the hobbit, wiping the blood off Merry's nose with an ungentle finger. "And I would not smile so wide, master halfling,” he snarled. “Just because my man's an ass does not mean you won't pay."

Grimbold unsheathed his sword and pressed the tip into Merry's neck. "Now drop the knife."

Merry knew who he could taunt, and who he could not. He dropped the knife. Grimbold took it up and hurled it toward Broga. It sank into a tree a foot over the man's head.

Even in his dire situation, Merry found a smile threatening to surface at his keeper's misfortune. Scur dropped him on the grass and held him there with a massive boot while Grimbold retied his hands. "Scur, set your charge to rights," ordered Grimbold. "Broga, put your damn knife away and go back to sleep."

"I'll handle him," said Grimbold gruffly as he stood Merry up. "You've helped quite enough for one evening."

Pippin ran blindly, his mind panic-stricken by the nightmare and the memories it recalled.

Away! Away! Was the only thought in his mind. Fly! Fly! Never let that happen to you again!

He leapt into a second copse of trees while a familiar voice echoed behind Pippin! Pippin! Pippin!

He wove through the trees paying no mind to what lay ahead, only fleeing the menace behind. A solid mass rose up suddenly in his path and he crashed headlong into it and fell back. It was the tallest Big person he had ever seen and he stared up with fear- rounded eyes into its face. The imposing figure bent down, extending its enormous hand.

Pippin froze, immobile for a moment, but then his scream rent the still night air.

Pippin screamed again and without looking back, dashed through the trees the way he had come.

Grimbold kept a talon-like grip on Merry's forearms as he marshaled him to a small birch tree beside his own pallet.

"Sit," he ordered. Merry sat. Grimbold bound Merry's ankles together and drew out a small knife. Merry winced in anticipation but Grimbold only sliced his wrist bonds. Then the man drew Merry's hands behind him and tied them around the trunk. He knelt in front of the hobbit, observing him with appraising eyes.

"That was unwise,” he said flatly. "And you will find out how unwise tomorrow evening, I expect."

Grimbold did not answer and Merry guessed he had disarmed the man with his unexpected honesty. Grimbold stuck his knife back in his belt. "Are you reasonably comfortable?"

Grimbold shuffled among his bedding and tossed one of his blankets hastily over Merry's lap. "You should sleep well as you can now," he said. “After tomorrow, I doubt you'll be comfortable for some time."

Merry nodded and shut his eyes against the night and his dread, trying to calm his mind. Frodo had focused on him. He tried to think about that hopeful sign rather than Grimbold’s grimly assertive prediction. Frodo had looked and seen his face and tracked movement with his eyes. He was beginning to come back into his mind. Merry squeezed his eyelids tightly closed. Frodo was returning from the abyss and when he was himself again, Merry would be able to depend upon him to become a party to his own rescue. He would be back and Merry would be ready for him. He promised himself that he would not let his dearest cousin down.

Sam continued to call wildly into the trees, the last place he has seen his companion. He was shocked at how quickly he had managed to lose the lad. His head throbbed, but his concern over Pippin’s welfare was outweighing the pain. What if he had lost him for good? What if he had been taken? On a more selfish level, Sam was terrified he had lost his partner in this desperate quest. He did not want to continue on this road alone.

A scream. The rustle of bushes. He flew toward the sounds in both hope and terror.

The hobbit in question suddenly emerged racing out of the trees at full speed. Sam was knocked flat as the youngster crashed headlong into him.

"Oof!" Sam gasped when he could breathe again. "Pip! You're a right menace and no mistake!”

Pippin scrambled to his feet, still wide-eyed and staring frantically about him.

"Big…Man!" he huffed. "Big man …in…THERE!" He thrust a quivering finger toward the thicket. "He almost got me, Sam! !"

"Well, you got your cursed pan, so I’d say we're safe enough!" snarled Sam, rubbing the growing bump on the side of his head. He got to his feet. "Was he one of the ones that--?"

Sam’s shoulders immediately sagged. "I don’t think he's got a mind to catch us, Pip," he said peering dejectedly into the trees. "Or he'd be on us by now. Best we break camp and put a few miles between us before we settle down again."

The two hobbits began moving quickly back to their encampment, all the while casting nervous glances about them and readying themselves to break into a run if the situation required. Sam glanced at Pippin as they walked.

Pippin hurried ahead a little ways. "I don’t want to talk about it," he said without looking back.

Pippin whirled around, his eyes wet with hurt. "It was a nightmare! I didn't mean to hit you!"

"But you did, Pip,” growled Sam. “And what is to keep you from hitting me over the head every time you have a bad dream?"

"I didn't know it was you! And what were you doing, leaning over me in the dark like a wolf over its kill?”

"Like a wolf o'er its kill?" sputtered Sam. "Well, that’s a fine note! You were screaming to wake the dead! I thought you were being attacked. What would you have me do?"

Pippin folded his arms sullenly across his chest. "I'm sorry then, Sam. I thought you were…someone else."

The two hobbits walked in silence back to the gradually growing point of light that was their campfire, all the while keeping watch for the big man. When they at last arrived, Sam stomped out the fire and took a look about to see if they had been followed. Nothing stirred in the darkness. Pippin packed his belongings, save the infamous pan, into his backpack and by the time Sam had his things in order, the other hobbit was saddling his pony. Pippin didn’t look at him even when Sam began loading his own animal, but instead began riding quietly up the road.

They rode on several quiet miles until Sam felt his head nodding and pulled his pony up. Pippin, hearing him halt, stopped and looked back.

"I haven’t heard a peep nor crack of twig that I didn’t make since we set off,” Sam said, trying not to yawn. “I say we get off the road and get some sleep till first light at least. I’m near ready to sleep in the saddle.” Pippin looked down the road they had just travelled. Still nothing stirred. Without acknowledging Sam had spoken by any other sign, he reined his pony off the road behind a copse of trees that in the darkness seemed to give some kind of cover. He dismounted, still not speaking, and Sam, growing more concerned, followed him.

"Stars!" blurted Sam. "Enough with the pans and enough with the quiet and enough with the I'm fine's. I've had it up to my ears with the lot!"

Sam grumbled as he tied his pony beside Pippin’s and loosened the girth. He took his roll of bedding from behind the saddle and walked towards Pippin who was sitting in the darker shadows at the edge of the copse. The young hobbit had drawn his knees up to his chest and clutched his blanket tight over his shoulders. Sam sighed and sat down beside him.

"I know it ain’t my place. I ain’t your kin, I ain’t your station,” chased Sam recklessly. “But you’re lacking both at present - forcing Samwise to step in where he don’t belong. But I don't want no more of your frying pan, nor of your saying 'I'm fine' when I can see you're not! And I won’t have you get both of us skinned on account of the bad things in your head.”

"Go to sleep, Sam," sighed Pippin as if that were the only answer he could give.

Pippin gave no rejoinder. Sam continued. "I reckon you thought I was him tonight and it frightened you to the quick." Pippin lay down and rolled his face away from Sam. "You'll just dream of it again. It’s no shame to see that he still has a hold on you. You got deeper scars than those that's on your back."

Pippin screamed, "Leave me alone!" before turning his whole back to Sam and cocooning himself in his blanket. After a time, Sam saw the shadows under the tree begin to shake with the rhythm of silent, heartbroken sobs.

Sam’s heart nearly broke. He wrapped his arms about the wretched creature beside him, comforting as best he could.

"It weren't your fault, Pip,” he whispered. “It turned him. It made him mean. It's what the Thing does." He continued to rock Pippin, until the sobs eased and the younger hobbit quieted.

Meanwhile a new voice was seeping into his thoughts. The voice asked what the Ring might do in less corruptible hands. Sam found himself fingering at the trinket in his pocket, unaware of how his hand had got there. He removed it quickly and set it upon Pippins head in a comforting gesture. .

Dark branches waving in the night breeze, wood smoke and the occasional rattle of a horse’s harness.

But there was also danger. Not as black a peril as before, but he still needed to be wary. His eyes roved the bejeweled sky. Safety lay in keeping still and keeping silent. The mists were still there cloying and possessive, but without the voices their strength faded. He could occasionally see with his own eyes now, but the images made no sense. A bird flying, a river, enormous arms holding him and the hypnotic wave of a flowing mane. He was traveling. Why?

The other, less malevolent, but cruelly familiar betrayer was there too. But he was not the same. Something that twisted him was lost….

The mists reasserted as his mind lurched sickeningly. Lost! LOST! They muffled his screams and closed his eyes and ears. Still too dangerous to scream. The sound emerged as a hitched sigh. Lost, yes, but how? Reason struggled with fear. This was important. Vitally. It was lost, but how? The mists had seen how, but their language was becoming strange to him. Without It, he was alone in the greyness and his mind reached out, questing and unsatisfied. Yes, it was gone, but not destroyed. Someone had it and the mists knew who. Need sharpened scattered wits and focused his mind through the closing shadows. He had to get It back.

The stars continued to twinkle as their cold light settled into his belly and the mists closed over him again. They smothered his fey laugher as effectively as they had swallowed his screams.

Greenway Morning - by Eykar, Prologue to of Chapter 4 of The Redemption of Meriadoc by Aelfgifu

Yellow light dappled through leaves, dancing in shards on his outstretched legs. The ground was cool and damp beneath him. The snuffle, chomp, smell of horse was nearby, sure and constant – all, as he well knew, that he could trust now.

Only the horses. No Gandalf. No Sam. Mist tendrils reached for him as a quiet loneliness stabbed his heart, frozen there by a sound, the soft whoosh of a knife being drawn. The mists thickened. His hands were pulled upward. The mists closed.

But now he could fight them. With effort, he pushed open a slit, hungry to see, to feel, to – smell: Smoke and pepper. Sour breath. The snaggle-toothed sharp face of his captor. Eyes hard but holding no malice. Grinning.

His heart raced in his throat. The mists hovered. He could shrink, hiss into safety, vanish. He willed himself to stay, to know.

Something touched his hand – warm, greasy. How seldom he thought of his hands until now. He looked down. Hands lying loose, palms upturned on legs. Unbound?

Experimentally, as from a far distance, he imagined the fingers moving, closing, holding.

He wanted always. Want scraped like a blade growing dull with overuse, snagging and tearing. More: He had promised - That brought mists, clinging to shroud the pain.

He forced a patch of sight half clear. Bleared light slanted onto captor’s dirty hand. There were too many fingers. No, too many hands. The long-fingered hand held another, one clasped loosely around something roundish, greasy, smelling of pepper and old smoke. His hand - rope trailing from the wrist, but free! With a thrill of remembering, he willed it to move.

All came clear. His stomach knew what he held: Nothing here to stir heart-twisting longings. It was a piece of sausage.

“Think fast, Imp!” Captor scraped the meat from his palm, dangled it smirking in front of his eyes. His hand followed, grabbed, clumsy but his again.

It tasted greasy, peppery. How long since his lips, his tongue, had felt? Bits of light danced on greasy fingers. Captor’s hard eyes were bright, self-satisfied, missing almost everything. As they should.

As the sun rose pale and hesitant above the trees, Merry's brain slogged into wakefulness. He reached out to rub the sleep from his eyes and groaned audibly when his hands refused to budge. The cords had rendered them numb and he felt as though the tree bark had made a permanent impression upon his back.

A dark shadow blocked the sunlight as Broga leered over him. "Have a nice sleep, ratling?"

"Boss says I'm to feed you," snarled Broga, kneeling down. "So if you'd like better than dirt, you’d best keep your trap shut."

Merry nodded grimly, shutting his eyes against the suddenly bright sun. Pain throbbed thorough his stricken cheek as Broga tore off a stale crust of bread and jammed it unceremoniously into Merry's mouth. The hobbit chewed wolfishly, devouring each bite but avoiding eye contact to avoid provoking his captor further.

Broga hastily stuffed a too-big piece of salted venison into Merry's mouth and turned to face his partner. Scur was kneeling before Frodo, who was sitting near the dead fire, his wrist bonds cut. "Boss!" called Scur again, "Come here, you got to see this!"

Grimbold appeared through a break in the trees, his hand curled around a tin of coffee. Scur grinned at him with a short flash of enthusiasm before turning back to his hobbit. He tore a small piece of bread from his own loaf and held it up to Frodo's eye level. "Now watch this," he said softly. "But don’t make no noise. I don’t want to scare it."

Merry craned his neck to see his cousin between the three dark shapes surrounding him. He gasped inwardly, catching the motion of blue material as Frodo's coat moved up and then down again.

Scur leapt to his feet. "See that will you! See what I done! He took it! I'm training him, see!"

Merry watched Frodo chewing contentedly, his eyes staring straight ahead, but with a spark of awareness in them.

Broga leaned down to Frodo. "I'll show you trained," he said derisively. "You ain't so special. Rat's hungry enough, he'll eat for anyone." Broga brandished the bread like a weapon in front of Frodo's face. The hobbit followed the bread with his eyes, but when Broga thrust it up to his mouth, he flinched and clenched his jaw shut. "C'mon, rat! It's good for you!"

Scur yanked Broga away by the back of his shirt. "You’re giving it a fright! You ain't got no way with it!"

"I say he ain't," said Scur. "Least not around me." Scur again knelt down, picked up the discarded crust, rubbed it clean on his tunic, and held it out a short distance from his charge's face. Merry watched again, entranced by the awareness that seemed to animate his cousin. Frodo raised his hand tentatively up, grasped the prize, and placed it carefully in his own mouth.

Merry felt a shiver run through him. He could not deny the memory of Sam going through the same exercise when Frodo had refused to eat for him. Yet Frodo was eating for this… this man. Merry's second reaction, after a brief flash of unaccountable jealousy, was fear. It was not safe for Frodo to appear cognizant--not now, in front of these men. Frodo must remain mute and pliant in their eyes. If they knew he was fully aware, they'd only keep their guard up, or worse, hurt him. No. Merry could not let that happen. He would have to talk to Frodo, make him understand. Then, he smiled to himself, they would plan their escape.

"I don’t care if Scur convinces him he's an elvish princeling, as long as he gets him to eat!"

Grimbold's voice tore Merry from his train of thought. Broga's voice set him upon a new one.

Merry felt his muscles tightening as Broga stomped back toward him, a dark look spreading across his face.

"What are you looking at, maggot?" snarled Broga savagely. Merry shrugged as best as his bonds would allow. "You're to ride with me again. And Scur gets your creepy, little teched friend. Hope he casts a spell on him."

Merry knew better than to answer. He sat still, wincing as Broga cut the cords from his wrists and forced his shoulders forward, binding his hands roughly in front. Broga grasped Merry's chin in his calloused hands to force eye contact. "Can't wait 'til tonight," he whispered with a slow, cruel smile. "Can't wait to have your soft hide all for myself and to hear you yelping like a stuck pig."

Merry offered no challenge, but struggled to keep both his gaze and his mind steady as sadistic pleasure seeped into the big man's eyes.

“See it, Sam? That’s Bree.” Excitement livened Pippin’s weary voice as he pointed.

Sam felt his heart quicken. All his hopes hung on finding Gandalf in this place. And if the wizard was not here? Sam felt his stomach thud and tighten into a painful twist. What then?

“I know, Sam,” said Pippin with a fragile smile as he rode up beside him. “It’s on my mind too.”

They had rounded a long curve in the road, cleared a final grove of trees, and now found themselves moving down -a gentle slope -. A large lump of a hill rose up before them and nestled on its western flank, like at kitten at its mothers teat, was -the village, naught but a brown blur at this distance, yet large by Sam’s reckoning.

Tilled fields radiated out on either side of the road as they approached, though the harvest was long over, and stubble and weeds filled the once rich fields. As they drew closer, Sam could see smoke rising from buildings so big that even the familiar smell of hearth fires was not the slightest bit welcoming. How strange and out of place he felt here, in this whole bad business, with the distance between him and his master yawning wider by the minute.

As they approached Bree’s outer dike, Sam recognized what must be a crossroads, although larger than any of the few that he had seen before. The East Road on which they traveled was bisected by a wide path running north-south as far as the eye could see. It was unkempt and grass-grown, but an unmistakable road none-the-less, perhaps once taking folk to lands worth visiting. Just beyond it lay the dike surrounding the village, and past that, the large, west gate of Bree.

“What road is this, and where do it go?” asked Sam, straining his eyes down the expanse of highway.

“It once led to strange lands…from the days of the ancient kings of men,” answered Pippin, his voice quiet. "So I’ve been told."

How strange Sam wondered urgently – and how far? “Ain’t those places still there -?”

"Well the places are, -- at least I suppose they are. But I don’t know- -about the men - No one travels out from there anymore. Wherever there is.”

“It makes me nervous,” said Sam as a stab of uneasiness chilled his heart. Again he stared south down the endless, almost spectral road. Gooseflesh rose on his arms. Something beckoned him from the tall, green grass that swayed, bowed, and whispered alongside the windy road. His gardener's eyes could see the full seed heads of the grasses and knew this vast, lonely passageway would not deny them purchase. He could not tear his eyes from it and his mind twisted in thought. Here was just another road without end in this big world that his master might travel to a fate unknown.

Sam felt Pippin’s small hand on his tense shoulder and realized he had been staring longer than he’d thought.

“Come, Sam,” said Pippin gently. “We can only search so many roads. And right now we have to see what’s at the end of this one.”

Sam nodded and turned his attention to the village. Without a word the hobbits crossed the Greenway over the dike towards Bree--and perhaps, Sam prayed, towards Gandalf.

Miles to the south, far beyond Sam's searching gaze, Frodo stared at the same Greenway stretched before him like an endless river of grass. He let the sights, sounds and smells of the land filter into his consciousness, slowly at first, then more eagerly as his of long-deprived senses reawakened. He scarcely noticed that his hands were bound to the pommel of Scur’s saddle. He’d grown so accustomed to confinement that his conscious mind didn't even register it, but the songs of the birds, the wind on his face, the feel of moving forward in time and space--these things reached him through the mists and coaxed his mind from its enveloping cocoon. Sensations too long denied filled him with quiet delight.

But with the joy of perception, there also came uneasiness. Something was still missing. Desire, deep and insatiable, licked at his awakening mind. He suddenly longed to move questing fingers up to his throat, but one careful pull reminded him that he was bound fast. And in that moment, he deeply resented being tied.

What he sought was not there anyway. Hot frustration filled him. It screamed its siren call into his mind but he knew he could not answer it, yet. The rush of wind cleared the mists a little but they had not yet loosed their hold. He was still cradled in the grey darkness, only given teasing glimpses to tempt his mind back from the brink.

But consciousness would come. He knew that now. The shadows could not resist his need for It. They were falling away before the circle of fire. He only needed to bide his time and need would sharpen the tattered remnants of his thought. The rush of the wind and the easy rhythm of the horse's gait called to him again and in that moment of distraction, the mists returned, cloaking his eyes, shushing his mouth and filling his ears with silence. It did not matter now. He was awake inside and it was only a matter of time before the grey curtain was burned away.

The dusky colors of evening had appeared in the sky, before Pippin and Sam at last came into the town. Sam heaved a loud sigh, letting his eyes rove over the unappealing outline of the uncomfortably big town. Unhobbity, he thought, not knowing why this should so disconcert him. He’d not expected this place to resemble the Shire, but the sight of the uncozy two and three story buildings, the blocky stone squares that passed for homes, gave him a stronger jolt than he'd expected. They were a sharp reminder of how far he was from his own home. The closer they rode, the stronger these feelings became until at last they bore down upon him like a physical force. The west gate loomed like a giant oaken palm blocking their way.

“Something ain’t right here, Pip,” said Sam shaking his head. “And it goes past us being hobbits in a big person’s place. P’raps some of our troubles have found their way here.”

Pippin pointed to a smaller gate off to the side, near a three storyed structure that carried the look of an inn. There was a man sitting beyond it.

“That must be the inn, Sam,” said Pippin pointing. “I s’pose we could get in that way. If Gandalf is indeed here, he’d be waiting at the inn, I think. It's worth a go.”

Sam drew back his reins and signaled to Pip with a sharp whistle. “Pippin,” he whispered, feeling the sudden need to be secretive.

“I just remembered something Gandalf said to Mr. Frodo, that’s all. P’raps it don’t matter now, but I can't be too sure.”

“Gandalf told Mr. Frodo to leave his name behind. And what’s more--remember--Merry said there'd be spies everywhere. Maybe they got some here too. I’m no one, that's sure, but with you being son of the Thain and all, p’raps we should leave our names hidden-like.”

“What name shall we give, then?” asked Pippin, now whispering too. “Or rather, what name did Gandalf say to give?”

Sam squinted, trying to pull the memory back into his mind. Presently, his eyes brightened in relief.

The ruffians had followed the Brandywine River until the trees of the Old Forest to the east closed in, thinned, and at last disappeared altogether. As soon as the clear, green expanse opened up, the men turned the horses east until at last they reached a long, snaking, track that appeared to lead to the Greenway.

Merry had been allowed to sit up in front of Broga rather than be tied down. While thankful for small mercies, he was becoming increasingly disconcerted by Broga’s unconcealed glee at reaching this milestone. “There it is, ratling,” he said, the moment they’d turned. “The Greenway. You know what that means, maggot-imp? It means I get to take my pay out of your soft little hide, see? What do you say to that?”

Merry made no answer to this question or to the endless variations that Broga continued pestering him with. Instead, he directed his attention to his cousin, now observing the land about them with a dangerous level of awareness. Merry suddenly flinched as a sharp, agonizing sting swept across his ankle. Broga had removed the whip from his belt and swept it across his foot.

“I said, Whatya gotta say?” growled Broga. “Or do you want another taste of the meal to come?”

“What would you have me say?’ hissed Merry, his foot still throbbing with pain. “I could call out to Grimbold, you know.”

But Grimbold was at a fair distance ahead and Merry immediately realized his folly.

“I’ll give you something to squeal about!” Broga snarled, raising his scourge. But Merry was quicker and jerked his foot up before the blow fell. The end of the whip slashed across the horse's side instead, drawing blood and causing the animal to rear up.

Broga was summarily tossed to the ground, while Merry, tied to the saddle, was flung from side to side like a rag doll. Scur leaped from his mount and managed to grasp the horse's reins, bringing him to a halt. Merry was breathing hard, hanging from the side of the animal by his tied hands.

Wheeling around toward the commotion, Grimbold found Broga sprawled on the grass with Scur holding onto Broga’s skittish animal. He leapt off his horse and righted Merry.

“He tried to whip me,” huffed Merry, still breathless. “But he hit the horse instead and it bolted.” Merry felt oddly like a tattling child, but the dark look that washed over Grimbold’s face gratified him.

Grimbold cursed under his breath as he stomped over to Broga, just lifting himself from the ground. “If you try another trick like that, I’ll lean you up against a tree right next to your prisoner.”

Broga said nothing, but sauntered up to his horse as nonchalantly as he could manage, grabbing the reins from Scur and taking off without so much as a thank-you. He waited until Grimbold was a safe distance ahead before pinching Merry’s leg with all of his might, daring the hobbit to cry out. “You’ll pay for that,” he hissed. “You’ll pay with all the flesh your back has to give.”

“We are making for the inn here, my good man,” said Pippin, gesturing toward the tall building with as much authority as he could muster.

“Hobbits! Two hobbits! And what’s more, from the Shire by their talk.” He slowly opened the gate and let then through but their obvious uneasiness put him on guard. “We don’t often see Shire-folk riding on the road these days,” he said as he halted by his door. “You’ll pardon me wondering what takes you from the Shire. And what be your names, I ask?”

“Our business is our own,” answered Pippin, with an overdone flourish of his hand. “But if you must know, I am Mr. Underhill of Hobbiton and this ---" Pippin suddenly realized that they had not assigned Sam a new identity. He coughed to fill in the momentary gap and continued, “This is Fredegar Bolger, a worthy hobbit in my service.”

Sam shot Pippin an incredulous look, then realizing his peril, gave a short bow.

“Very well,” said the gatekeeper, pushing down his own suspicions. “I meant no offense. But it's my business to ask questions after nightfall.”

Sam poked Pippin by way of a warning. Pippin closed his mouth and the hobbits turned their ponies down the dirt road. The gate keeper shook his head and turned back into his house. Neither the man nor the hobbits noted the dark figure bounding quietly over the short gate and melting into the shadows of the darkening street.

The hobbits rode uneasily down the dirt road, the stone buildings leering over them like hungry brick trolls. When at last they reached the inn's stables, Sam felt it safe enough to speak.

“Fredegar Bolger!" He hissed. “Of all the fool names – why did you have to go and choose that one?”

“I had to think quickly and take the first one that popped up!” said Pippin in an injured tone. “I’m sorry, but you didn’t exactly give me any name to call you by. And you wouldn’t pass as a relation of mine, dressed as you are!”

“And I hope they don’t know he’s missing neither,” muttered Sam. “Well, it can’t be undone now,” he said as he tied up his pony. “Let’s not give any name for me at all if it ain’t asked. Just saying I’m your servant is fine.”

Sam’s heart picked up a beat again, his nervousness flooding back into him like a cold wave. “Right,” he said, swallowing hard and looking up at the sign creaking above them. “Well, let’s see what things are to be found in this Prancing Pony.”

“We’ll camp here for the night, said Grimbold as he pointed to a copse of trees just off the road. “There’s a creek behind those oaks where the horses can water.”

Broga leapt down off his horse, his eyes alight like a child at Yule. He cut Merry down from the saddle and tossed him roughly to the ground. His ugly face distorted into an overlarge smile as he bound Merry’s feet. “Finally, finally, finally,” he muttered.

“Not yet,” ordered Grimbold, approaching them. “We’re going to make camp first, then we deal with Master Brandybuck.”

Merry sighed audibly as Broga reluctantly stood up. “And one more thing,” said Grimbold firmly. “I’m going to prepare the prisoner. I don’t want anything he might be carrying to go missing.”

Broga threw his boss a poisonous look, but he held his tongue, pausing only to favor Merry with a twisted grin before swaggering off into the brush for some firewood.

Grimbold knelt down beside Merry, his face impassive. The hobbit craned his head back from his place on the ground.

“Do you wish to sup before or after?” asked Grimbold flatly. “Before, it might come up on you. After, you might not be in a condition to eat. Your choice.”

“Fine,” said Grimbold. “I’ll have some broth saved for you.” Grimbold eased Merry into sitting position, and continued. “You’ll want to relieve yourself before, as these are your only trousers.”

Merry allowed the ruffian to assist him, and made no struggle as Grimbold, his hand curled tightly around Merry’s forearm, led him over to a sturdy oak. He sat Merry down, and without ceremony, wrapped a leather thong tightly around Merry’s legs just above the knee, then stripped off his shirt. Merry stared up into his eyes.

Grimbold tisked his lips. "You should have behaved yourself, halfling. It's out of my hands now. I will make Broga use my cat. It won’t cause as much damage as his whip, but it will hurt. I’m letting him give you 30 lashes, ten for the bite, and 20 for the escape attempt. Thirty lashes, or until your back is bloody, whichever comes first. Breathe between strikes as best you can, since if you pass out too early, I’ll let him start over. But I'll not let him kill you. Do you understand?”

The ruffian gave a grim laugh as he pulled Merry to his feet and leaned him against the tree. “Do not mistake my actions for kindness, little one,” he said, as he wrapped Merry’s arms around the trunk and pulled the knot tight. “For after you reach your destination, you will wish you were dead.” Grimbold wound a second rope around Merry’s thighs, steadying him against the trunk. “But it is for me to deliver you and your cousin there alive. After that, you and your fate are none of my concern.”

“Why don’t you do it?” offered Merry, his breaths coming faster, his heart quickening.

Grimbold shook his head. “You don’t understand, do you? Your flogging is as much a reward for Broga as a punishment for you.” Merry let Grimbold’s words sink in, wondering why part of him should find the situation ironic. The man reappeared in front of the tree. Merry stared back, his bare skin pressed tight against the bark, a shiver coursing through his body. “I’m going to gag you now, as I can’t risk the noise.”

“Wait!” Said Merry quickly. “Wait. Please…just don’t let my cousin watch.”

Grimbold fastened the gag around his mouth. “Remember to breathe,” he said, “Above all, don’t die.”

Sam reached up and opened the heavy door, pushing it forward with some difficulty. He held it for Pippin who quickly stepped inside. The thick atmosphere hit their senses hard after all their days in the fresh, open air. The pungent scent of pipeweed, human sweat, spilt ale, and the humidity of many bodies mingled to assault their nasal passages in a single obnoxious blow. They looked at each other and smiled. It was not unlike a warm summer night at the Dragon.

Sam helped Pippin off with his cloak and quickly removed his own amid the stifling fireplace heat. Beads of perspiration gathered on his forehead.

Standing close together in the dim entryway, the two hobbits from the Shire took in their surroundings with wary eyes.

The furniture was uncomfortably large as evidenced by a bar counter they could not even see over. The characters hunched around it were fearsome and worn, with faces creased, tired, and dirty, attesting to the hard life of this town, where a man or a hobbit grew old before their time. Around the edges, patrons sat at huge tables, eating stew, throwing dice, laughing, cursing, and drinking what looked like ale from enormous earthenware mugs or a rich amber liquor from round, clear glasses. Even the barman's gold-eyed cat, glaring from a high windowsill, looked sinister--as if it would as soon eat them as look at them.

“Good evening little masters!” The innkeeper, looking larger than any of his patrons, was bending down from behind the tall counter. “I’m Barliman, keeper of the Pony. What may you be wanting?”

Sam decided to take the lead this time. “We want hobbit beds for two. This here is Mr. Underhill.” Sam indicated Pippin with his hand. “Has anyone come asking about my master?”

Barliman leaned down again, scrutinizing Pippin. Both hobbits felt quite alarmed, wondering if they’d done this all wrong. But the innkeeper lifted his gaze, paled, and clapped his hand against his forehead with a loud, “It’s you all right! If only you’d arrived a few weeks ago!”

“That wizard was in a state about your whereabouts!” answered the innkeeper.

“No,” answered Barliman, cutting Pippin off. "But he was. And in such a state about my forgetting to deliver the letter!”

“I was to deliver a letter and—,” Barliman suddenly covered his mouth, thinking better than to have this conversation at the crowded bar. With a wave of his hand, he urged the hobbits behind the bar and through a door into a small, cluttered store-room. They crowded among scattered crates and sacks, eyes bolted upon the visibly shaken innkeeper.

“It’s like this,” he said in a low voice, steepling his fingers nervously and glancing towards the barely-cracked door. “Gandalf was here a few months back and gave me a letter to deliver to a Mr. Baggins of the Shire.” Barliman gave Pippin a meaningful look, vaguely sinister in the wavering candle-light.

Pippin shuttered, and mastering himself, asked, “What does that have to do with me?”

“Ah, you know best,” said the innkeeper knowingly. “I won’t give you away; but I was told that this Baggins fellow would be going by the name of Underhill, and I was given a description that fits well enough – A hobbit taller than some and fairer than most, and he has a cleft in his chin – a perky chap with a bright eye.”

Sam glanced at Pippin, observing for not the first time the stamp of common ancestry in the young hobbit’s face, in particular, the cleft chin that appeared so often in those with Tookish blood, including Frodo Baggins.

“He said if he weren’t with you, you might be in trouble. He left in a rush, and suffice to say that I found none to deliver the letter. And when Gandalf returned a few weeks back, he asked if you’d come. I explained about the letter and such, and he growled that my forgetfulness had cost more than I could guess.

"I feared he’d melt me on the spot, right then and there, but instead he asked if you'd been here. I told him that none looking as you had come. It was as if I’d struck him to his death. His face fell--for I’d just confirmed the bad truth he’d already suspected. He put his head in his hands, mumbling something about the end of something. He didn’t even stay the night!" Barliman's free hand flew in the air, gesticulating as fast as the words pouring ever more rapidly out of his mouth. The one holding the candle shook.

"He galloped east, fast as the wind on that big white horse of his--oh! And such a horse it was!—leaving me with instructions to send you to Rivendell if you be found, though he said it in a way that made me think you weren’t to be expected."

“No, Mr. Baggins,” whispered Barliman, “he did not. Though with the likes of him, you never know. You may wait for him here as long as you want, sir, at no charge, of course, as I fear I’m the cause of your troubles.”

Barliman ushered them back into the public room, offering to bring them a few ales “on the house, mind.” As he slipped from behind the bar, Sam instinctively looked up, suddenly feeling the weight of strange eyes upon him. A tall man wrapped in shadows sat menacingly in the far corner, one leg probed against a stool. He had the hood of a dark, weather-beaten cloak drawn up over his head, despite the heat from the fire. Sam could detect the glint of his eyes as the man puffed slowly on his pipe,. The one hobbit-height table was uncomfortably near the stranger. As they sat, Sam nudged Pippin, but before he could speak, Barliman rematerialized holding two tall pints of ale.

“Who is that fellow in the corner?” whispered Sam, turning conspiratorially towards the stranger. “He’s not taken his eyes from us this whole evening.”

“I don’t rightly know," said Barliman. He's one of them wandering folk. Rangers we call them. What his right name is, I’ve never heard but he’s known 'round here as Strider. Funny you should…”

Barliman’s name came flying across the room before he could say more. “Excuse me lads,” he said straightening. “Work calls.”

Sam turned his head toward the insistent tugging at his sleeve. “Sam!” gasped Pippin, his face distraught. “That’s him! The ruffian from the forest!”

Merry heard the heavy thud of footsteps behind him, but could not move to see who approached. The sound of cruel laughter revealed what he already knew to be true; Broga had come to extract his payment.

“Put that whip away,” Merry heard Grimbold order. “You're to use the cat."

A cold fear ran through Merry, and he doubted the new scourge was a gift. His suspicious were confirmed as Broga sauntered up to him, smiling obscenely.

“Well. Ain’t you a pretty sight! All trussed up and waiting for our fun!” Broga held up the cat, a bunch of knotted ropes bound up at a handle.

“Let’s give her a little test, shall we?” Broga swung hard at the side of an adjoining tree, causing bits of bark to fly in every direction. Merry flinched at the noise the knots made on impact and it made him instantly aware that Broga had an extremely powerful swing.

Broga leaned in close to whisper in Merry’s ear. “Just so you know, in case you can’t see him, your teched little buddy is standing right behind you ready to see everything. I convinced Scur it would be good for ‘im.”

Merry’s breath caught and a low moan escaped unbidden from behind the gag. His legs would have given out on him if they had not been bound fast to the tree.

“Ready,” Broga answered as he bent his spine and shoulders backwards, cracking the vertebrae.

Merry heard the big man step behind him, heard the cord swing back with a hollow whoosh. Merry tightened his back, drew in a deep breath, clenched his fists, and waited.

Warning- there is a whipping scene here. If this freaks you, you may want to concentrate on the pip-sam-strider bits and skip the merry scenes!

AN: First I Must thank my betas on this more than ever. This was a very hard chapter, and one that it was very important to get right. Here are some of the people that helped do it. Thanks to Eykar for earlier brainstorming and some wonderful added Frodo bits. Thanks to Celandine Goodbody for great details and other alterations that make this a better fic. Finally, Ariel added wonderful freaked!Frodo that I can’t really describe without spoiling it. Suffice to say that we all worked really hard to get Frodo’s re-entry into his mind as satisfying as we could. And I must say that I am quite proud of the Sam-Pip-Strider scene at the Inn.

The thongs tore through the air with a terrible whistle before slicing Merry’s tightened back. Straining with fear and with every nerve over-sensitized, he released a piercing scream through the gag. Pain surged through his body, radiating to his limbs and clouding his senses. Broga had descended viciously upon the smaller being, his frustration and anger expressed as brutal force. Merry gasped and clinched his fists in horrified surprise. He never imagined anything could hurt so…

Pain! Worse than the first strike. Welts lifted raw across his pale back. Merry, who had vowed not to make a sound, felt screams inch around his gritted teeth. He pulled frantically on the ropes as a vague "two" was uttered behind him. How he could bear twenty-eight more of these? Another blow fell.

Clear light shone from a wide blue sky. It is near mid-day, Frodo thought. The sun is behind me.

Was he still riding? The shadows around him swayed gently but there was no sense of his own movement. They had stopped then. For a moment he pondered this, and a question formed in his mind. Who were they? He remembered hands giving him bread, guiding him as he walked and holding him as if he were a rag doll. He turned his head from the sky and images of bright green and color assaulted his eyes. Shapes moved in his line of sight but he could not make any sense of what they were doing. They sat in a clearing behind a screen of tall willows that waved gently in the breeze. The shapes recalled images from his memory. These were not hobbits. That had not occurred to him before, during the too-brief periods that he fought free of the mists. I am getting stronger, he thought.

Gandalf. The grey beard and bushy eyebrows smiled down from his memory. He knew Gandalf. He remembered missing him. He remembered Sam and he were on a journey somewhere that Gandalf had insisted upon. They were to meet him. Yes, that was it. They’d missed him – and then, Sam – Pippin – feeling small and frightened and alone – called back the mists. He did not want to go back to the mists. There was something important he had to do. Vital. Frodo turned his eyes and mind outward.

Rough deep voices clashed nearby. A hand gripped his shoulder. He flinched, but the touch was firm, not cruel. This one did not mean to hurt. But he had been hurt! Fear followed closely. He had been captured and hurt, badly. So badly that the very memory of the act yawned wide like a chasm beforehis mind. He dared not go into that place, for the mists would close about him again and swallow his screams.

He looked cautiously around the clearing. These were men. Frodo didn’t understand. Why was he with men? Two were by a tree, one standing, one -

A whistle and crack jerked his senses into sharp focus and he flinched. Whip. Skin-eater. He tensed at the ghastly hiss then shuddered as a muffled scream echoed after. Another crack. His back tightened and throbbed. His throat felt raw. The light began to blur as the mists rallied around him to hide the sight.

NO! Something floated on the edge of memory – a danger worse for remaining hidden. He squirmed as the memories of his body invaded his mind. This was important. He could not fall back into comforting shadow no matter what the terror.

Frodo started at the gruff voice. The hand on his shoulder was of a man. Three men. He heard another stifled screech. His heart lurched. Someone was suffering! Suffering as he had once suffered! Yes, he knew it well, the sound of the screams…and by the pain he could feel echoed in his memory. He inhaled raggedly. This terrible thing had been done to him. Why? By whom?

Every muscle in his body tensed with empathy. Tendrils of mist twined around him but he fought them back. He had to see! One man held a whip, another stood behind, his stance relaxed, and something white and red was before them both. Gasping, Frodo jerked forward, away from the hand on his shoulder, towards the horrible scene before him.

Another crack. Frodo lifted his hands to his eyes. They were bound again. Again? He stumbled forward but the third man stepped in front of him, blocking the grotesque tableau.

The man grinned inanely, a white spot of spittle on his lips. “Ya want to play, too?” he laughed, and moved aside so that Frodo could see the vision of horror before them.

Broga’s voice was cheerful, spitting out jibes that failed to take form in a mind blinded by pain.

Whistle and crack. Merry bucked against his bonds and screamed as if the sound of his own voice would somehow dull the pain.

Another blow – purposefully out of sync to catch him unawares. It felt even more a violation in its randomness. Tears welled in his eyes.

Merry tightened his back now– waiting, waiting--vowing not to be caught unprepared again. No blow came. Seconds ticked by. He held his breath. A minute passed. He exhaled.

It came--hard, cruel, and unexpected--flat upon his unclenched, shimmering flesh. Merry bit his lip, the air hissing in as it was sucked back through his nose. Tears of pain were now cascading down his cheeks, drenching the gag.

Then it was quiet. Footsteps approached and he clenched his eyes shut in a vain attempt to stop the unseemly tears. Oh, please stop. He couldn't let Broga see him weak and trembling. But still the tears came, ceaseless, unbidden and unstoppable.

“Aw! Look at the little ‘un cry!” Merry opened his eyes to see his tormentor’s face twisted in an obscene grin.

“I’m not,” he protested weakly through his gag. His protest seemed childish, petulant to his own ears – an effect only heightened by his strained, distorted voice. As he closed his eyes again, he felt Broga’s sour breath on the side of his face.

Broga took his place behind Merry again. The cords sang through the air, two swipes in quick succession, tearing across his back like fingernails of fire. The brief hiatus had given his nerves time to recover so that the new pain was all the more intense. Merry arched his back and screeched until he thought his vocal chords would break.

“That's better then,” laughed Broga, and before Merry could catch his breath, the ruffian landed two more lashes on his torn back.

A shiver of agony convulsed the hobbit’s body, his sight blurring along the edges and he felt himself falling into darkness. Just as he faded from consciousness, Merry heard a shrill yet eminently familiar voice call out from behind him.

I am not safe. I will never be safe while It remains in the Shire. I must leave my home and take It with me. Alone.

Rags of mist drew back. The man’s arm was over his shoulder now, his hand grasped Frodo’s bound wrists. Rope on flesh. A muffled scream. Frodo’s mouth sprang open. Had he not made such sorrowful sounds once long ago? Had these men whipped him as they were now whipping some other pitiful creature?

He had begged for it to stop then too. Begged of whom? A new strike, a scream more despairing. A memory. His screams were muffled under a gag of cloth. But these were not his screams. Who is being beaten now?

The man with the whip moved aside and at that moment and Frodo saw the bloodied wretch bound to the tree before him clearly. It was another hobbit! The whip fell again. Frodo jumped in terror, the mists driven back once again. The victim sagged against his bonds.

And the words finally came. Frodo cried out, his own voice foreign to his ears. An echo, a roar, and a shattering, “NO!”

“Are you sure it’s the ruffian from the forest, Pip?” Sam cautiously lifted his eyes toward the stranger.

“Don’t look at him!” hissed Pippin through his teeth. “We don’t want to draw attention to ourselves!”

Sam turned his head toward Pippin only to find that the other hobbit had shrunk back into the shadows of their booth. He had thrown his cloak clumsily over his shoulders and was busy pulling its hood down to obscure his face.

“Pip!” said Sam in a low voice. “You ain’t fooling nobody. We’re in a crowded place with other hobbits around. I don’t think there’s nothing he can do to us here.”

Pippin refused to budge, drawing himself even deeper into the corner. Sam took a draw from his ale and glanced up at the man again through shuttered eyes. The ruffian was looking back at him as if he had guessed most of what had been said. Sam watched in muted horror as the man stood on his longshanks and stepped toward their table.

“He’s coming over!” spat Sam through his ale, his former confidence gone and beginning to wonder if Pippin had had the right idea after all. “Be quiet now! And be still!”

As the large man approached, he threw back his hood, revealing a shaggy head of dark hair peppered with grey. His face, though stern, did not seem cruel and his keen eyes held no malice, but his sheer size intimidated the hobbits. Several awkward moments had passed before Sam realized he was staring gape-mouthed and stupidly at him.

“I am called Strider,” he said in a low voice, “And very pleased to meet a hobbit of the Shire.” The man made an appraising glance at the dark form that was trying desperately to melt into the wall behind him. “Or, should I say, two hobbits of the Shire.”

Pippin slowly, fearfully, raised his head and looked out of his cowl. Strider smiled warmly at the lad, and without being asked, pulled up a chair in front of them.

“I see you recognized me from the forest, young master,” Strider said as he leaned back into his chair. “I recognized you as well. Let me take this opportunity to apologize. I did not mean to frighten you – then or now.”

“Well then!” said Sam sharply. “You come over to do what you set out to do, and now it’s done. So unless you have more business that concerns us, I suggest you go back to your corner and go a-staring at someone else!”

Strider laughed richly but made no signs of taking his leave. “Master hobbit, I very well may have more business that concerns you, a good deal more, in fact.” He turned to Pippin and said, “I should like a quiet word with you, Mr. Underhill.”

“A matter of some importance to us both,” answered Strider looking him straight in the eye. “And you may hear something to your advantage.”

“Now wait just a minute!” blurted out Sam, emboldened by his drink. “You come over here looking wild as bramble, after admitting that you spied on us about in the woods, and now you’re acting like we ought to trust you. Let me ask you, Mr. Strider – if that’s even your real name – what can you possibly know about our business?”

Strider gave a wry smile and leaned across the table, watching with amusement as both hobbits now pressed themselves into the wall behind them.

“I know what you seek here,” he began. “At least part of your errand.” Strider's eyes bored into Pippin's. "Mr. Baggins." Turning to Sam, he continued, “And I know, whatever your name may be, it is most certainly not Fredegar Bolger!”

Above all, there was pain. As consciousness returned, Merry’s ears registered a gobbled patchwork of sounds and voices.

Merry drank greedily. The water was delightfully cool but did nothing to douse the fire on his back.

“C’mon,” Scur’s grating voice coaxed, “Do something again. Say ‘no’, imp. Show ‘im!”

Panicked, Merry choked and jerked his head away as he tried to turn and see. Grimbold grabbed his chin and ordered, “Drink.”

“He don’t like watching. Do ya, imp? I tell ya, Broga, ya don’t know how ta treat him.”

Back at the tree, Merry turned his smarting eyes up to see Grimbold’s hazy face.

Grimbold pulled Merry’s hair, steadying his head as he raised the gag back into place. "Breathe,” he commanded, and then disappeared from Merry’s sight.

Sam and Pippin sat uneasily by the parlor fire in their own rooms. They stared up at the big man, his large frame, if anything, amplified by the room’s low-set windows and the glow of the flames. Strider had not said his piece and both hobbits secretly wondered if it had been wise allowing him into their private quarters.

Butterbur, certainly, had given them a warning look as he bid Nob to show the “little masters” to their rooms in the North Wing.

Strider had followed them inside and given the fire a stoke for good measure. Then he pressed a coin into Nob's hand and quickly escorted him out, locking the door behind him. Sam fingered the warm metal in his pocket as he sized up the strange man. He felt his own muscles tense as the ranger reached underneath his cloak, but they relaxed when the man drew out nothing more sinister than a pipe.

Strider smiled wryly as he lit it up, as if he had anticipated their reaction. This piqued Sam and goaded him to speak.

“You said that!” answered Sam. “But that don’t really tell us nothing! How do you know about our doings?”

“I will tell you what I know, and I will tell you how I came to know it,” answered Strider. “And I will give you some good advice as well – but I shall want a reward.”

“Hoy! So that’s your game, villain!” Sam stood, face red with exasperation at being lured in by a rascal. “Reward yourself all you like!” he snarled, drawing out his dagger and pointing it shakily at the man. “As long as it’s on the other side of that door! Now get– this ain’t no laughing matter!”

Strider closeted a chuckle behind his teeth, letting the corners of his mouth slide into a slow but somber smile.

“I do not mock you, young sir,” he said. “Though your well-considered caution would have served you better a few hours ago.”

“What do you mean?” asked Pippin, finally breaking out of his terrified silence. “And what do you want from us?”

“To your second question – no more than you can afford. I shall name my price after I have named my purpose.”

Strider went to the door, pulled out the bolt and opened it quickly, and satisfying himself that they were alone, shut it quietly and locked it again before sitting down. Sam and Pippin’s eyes were riveted on him.

“I was behind the hedge this evening near the gatekeeper when I saw two hobbits approach, one of which was the one I’d frightened in the wood.”

“Perhaps,” answered Strider gravely. “But I believe you will appreciate my reasons for doing so.”

“My curiosity about these hobbits had already been piqued the night before by poor Mr. Baggins, here. He was much more frightened by a big man than he ought to be, and he was traveling a road very seldom traveled these days by Shire hobbits. These facts alone told me that this hobbit and his companion were on a journey of – if not some peril, at least of some urgency. So I followed them.”

Sam and Pippin swapped conspiratorial glances, remembering the unmistakable feeling of being watched that last leg of their ride to Bree.

“I did,” answered Strider without apology. “I need not repeat all you said to the gatekeeper, but one thing interested me. The hobbit I had seen in the woods introduced himself as Mr. Underhill.”

“If you are trying to get us to trust you, you ain’t doing a very good job of it!” blurted Sam, growing impatient. “Why should that name mean a whit to you?”

“Well answered!” said Strider laughing unexpectedly. “But the explanation is simple. I was sent to look for a Shire-hobbit named Frodo Baggins who I was told might be going by the name of Underhill. I had to find him quickly if he yet lived." Strider looked across at Pippin, his eyes suddenly serious as a gathering storm. His voice dropped. I had learned he was carrying something out of the Shire that concerned me and my friends.”

Sam felt the blood drain from his face and realized suddenly that his right hand had drifted from the hilt of his dagger back to the Ring in his pocket. The man was hinting much too close to the truth and was sounding more like a ruffian by the second. He caressed the smooth, golden surface as something in his head told him to beware, the ranger was evil.

“You said you were sent,” said Pippin, his curiosity at last triumphing over his fear, his voice taking on an air of authority. “By whom?”

“In Rivendell,” answered Strider. “At least as far as I know. I was given the information second hand by one of the fair folk.” Strider turned to Sam. “Which is also where I got my other piece of valuable information, one that positively gave your identities away.”

“When you gave your friend’s name as Fredegar Bolger, I knew my suspicions had hit their mark.”

Sam gave Pippin a dark look, then, thinking better of it, faced the stranger. “So tell us. What makes you think I’m not Fredegar?”

“Because,” said Strider with a wry smile. “Fredegar Bolger is also in Rivendell.”

Merry heard the faint hiss of ropes sailing through the air, then felt an explosion of sheer, intense pain as Broga began again.

His body jerked, but he did not scream this time. He was beyond that now. Instead, as pain was piled atop of pain, and his nerve endings began to shut down, Merry focused his thoughts upon Frodo. Frodo had spoken with his own voice – had he not? Had the sound been real or another phantasm of his pain-numbed mind.

Another stroke, and Merry again felt the air propelled from his lungs into his spit and tear-soaked gag. He fought to regain control, to remain silent, if only for the benefit of his cousin. The sound of that familiar much-missed voice had imbued Merry with some strength, yet with every stroke, he felt even it failing.

The blows ceased and, opening his eyes, Merry again found himself looking into Grimbold’s face. His vision was glassy, a swirl of unreality permeating his mind.

“Yes, he is awake now,” said Grimbold, and Merry understood then that he had again passed out. The ruffian leader moved his hand, side-to-side across Merry’s vision, as if to make sure his open eyes were not a death stare.

A hope in mind, Merry forced his eyes to focus enough to ask and implore in a voiceless plea. Grimbold again shook his head in answer.

“And lucky to be so,” answered Strider. “I see you have some knowledge of his peril.”

“Why would Fatty go to Rivendell?" asked Pippin. “That was never part of the plan!”

“The better question would be how he managed to end up abandoned on the road so far from home, and in the condition he was in.”

“Nearly on death’s own door. The Black Breath,” the man said, as if that explained things.

“Because I found him,” answered Strider grimly, "thinking he was Frodo Baggins. He was lying by the East-West road less than thirty leagues from Rivendell -- like he'd been tossed down and left for dead – no doubt a victim of some mischief. He held onto life but by a thread. If I had not hastened to Rivendell, he would have perished.

"I knew he was a hobbit was of some importance; since both rangers and elves were told to be on watch for any of your kind venturing east of Bree. We were to take them to Rivendell immediately, be they dead, alive, or in any condition in between. I was quick enough to save him, but matters were not yet well. Gandalf had not arrived and, as it turned out, this hobbit was not Frodo Baggins." Strider glanced briefly up at Pippin, who looked terrified.

“I could only assume the horsemen had mistaken him for you and jettisoned him when he was found out." Strider let out his breath in a long sigh. "It is a fortunate thing, Mr. Baggins, that they did not take you and your burden--a very fortunate thing, not only for yourself but for all of Middle Earth.”

Pippin felt a shiver course down his back as the stranger’s eyes again pierced his own. The room shrank around him and the air grew colder on his skin. He was certain the shadows in the corners had stretched their claws out towards him, across the wooden floor.

“Still,” continued Strider, oblivious to the hobbit's discomfort, “Mr. Bolger's condition was dire. Contact with these black horsemen, exposure to the 'Black Breath', will make the stoutest heart wither, body and soul. I do not jest when I say your friend was extraordinarily lucky.”

“Black horsemen!” cried Pippin. “We encountered black horsemen on the road to Buckland. They sniffed at us, then rode like the wind toward the Brandywine. They were terrible! Please, what are they? What do they want?”

“What they are, you dare not know. And do not play the innocent, Mr. Baggins. What they want is what you bear. They will seize both and bring you to their master.”

“The dark lord, Sauron,” said Aragorn, his own voice as cold and hard as hailstones. “In Mordor.”

Pippin's face suddenly took on an ashen quality as the import of that name sank into his brain. Even he had heard of Mordor.

“Not for weeks,” the young hobbit answered softly, his stomach churning in fear.

“What do you mean?” Pippin could not see how the news could possibly become any worse.

Sam frowned and, feeling a bit protective of the rapidly paling Took, took Pippin's arm and pulled him into his chair. He turned to Strider.

"Now that's quite enough of your fancy tales and such." He sat down heavily next to Pippin, thinking of the Thing warming and buzzing like a swarm of wasps in his own pocket. He inhaled raggedly. "Now look what you done to the lad."

“When I reached Rivendell,” continued Strider, still ignoring any hobbit comments, “I was informed that five of the horsemen had approached Imladris as far as the Ford. They were washed away by the arts of Lord Elrond, though they were merely unhorsed, they are not vanquished. That leaves four horsemen unaccounted for, and five who, no doubt, will find mounts again. They cannot be killed by the hands of man…"

"Now that is quite enough." Infuriated at the man's insensitivity, Sam started to stand but the look on Strider's face threw him back into his chair again.

Pippin's arm was trembling, though, to the lad's credit, the only other evidence of his terror was the fact that every last drop of color had drained from his face.

“What’s your point in telling us your bogey stories?” he snarled, lightly rubbing Pippin's back. “To what end other than to make us witless with fright? You promised to say something to our advantage – so when do that “advantage” start?”

“You mistake me,” said Strider. “You cannot know of my relief to find Mr. Baggins here alive and whole, it was beyond all hope. The danger was so deep, we assumed the powers of darkness had outstripped our efforts."

"These terrors I describe have surrounded you all along, whether you knew it or not; and yet here you are! Perhaps Mr. Baggins has survived," Strider's features softened somewhat as he looked directly at Sam. "In no small measure due to the loyal protection of his servant.”

Sam glared at him sideways, wary of the well-aimed compliment. “Well then,” he grumbled, relenting slightly. “Do you mean to scare us, or to help us?”

Sam shot him a challenging look then, getting no reaction, turned to Pippin. Much to Sam’s chagrin, the young hobbit was sizing up the man appreciatively, as if he did not think this was a half-bad offer.

“Begging your pardon,” cried Sam, “but what makes you think we would want the likes of you tagging along?”

“Because you will not reach your destination without me. I can take you on paths seldom trodden."

"Where you can corner us in the wild," Sam shot back, his fingers once again having found their way around the Ring. "And then sell us to those riders for a pretty price? Well thank-you-very-much but I wern't born yesterday. No and NO!”

Strider sighed, showing his exasperation for the first time. “I am, my dear hobbit, much more than the ragged traveler you see before you.” He stood suddenly, more dark and imposing than ever. “If I wanted your Ring, I could have it – NOW. And I could dispatch you at will with much less talk.” Strider laid his hand on his sword as the two hobbits stared at him terrorstruck.

“Those words, my friends, are ancient and attached to me. For I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn, heir to the throne of Gondor.” Strider drew out his sword. True to the verse, it was broken a foot below the hilt. “And this is the blade that was broken. But the time will come when it will be forged anew.”

“A king!” snorted Sam incredulously, tightening his grip on Pippin. “A king?! I think we’ve had enough of this game! You crawl out of the wild chanting a poem you made up about yourself and swinging about your half-sword! And that is supposed to convince us? We may be small, sir, but we ain’t fools! Anyone knows a proper king could get his sword fixed double-quick! You take your nursery rhyme, your broke sword, your big tales and be off!” And turning to Pippin, he said, “Come, Pip! We have a long day tomorrow!”

Sam blanched, immediately realizing his folly. Strider advanced on Pippin, setting his enormous hands on the hobbit's small shoulders. Pippin stared up, his green eyes wide with fear.

“Tell me, young sir,” said Strider solemnly. “And this is of dire importance. Are you or are you not the Ringbearer?”

The final blows felt like hot coals being slammed across Merry’s back. Yet he was too weary to scream, too numbed to cry. One moment he was terrified he would die, the next moment he was terrified he would not. Nothing in his sheltered life had prepared him for such total misery.

Yet throughout it all, one thought persisted, one strength that his heritage had engrained within him. I must live through this. It’s up to me to get both of us out of here.

Fast heavy footsteps pounded and voices collided: Scur’s anxious “Hey!” - Grimbold’s angry, “Get him away from here!” Sounds of scuffling and thrashing came from behind. Then there came a wail of such abject horror, betrayal and anger that it would have stirred Merry to fight had he an ounce of strength left in him.

Frodo felt as if the world had just lurched in an odd way that had nothing to do with the reality he was beginning to make some sense of. Colors flashed in front of his eyes, green, white, shining flesh crisscrossed with wide red marks, brown. He held out his bound hands to steady himself and closed them, confused.

"Blasted idiots," muttered a hoarse voice beside him. "They don't know 'bout how to handle you fellas. Just gotta have a touch, that's all."

A hand descended on his shoulder, guiding him away from the scene in the meadow, and Frodo stumbled, surprised. He could not just turn away! Confusion still governed him but he knew that he could not leave a countryman in the grips of such torment. He jerked his shoulder away and stumbled back towards the scene, determined to put a stop to this madness somehow.

Blood, sweat matted curls, arms stretched around the bole of a tree. Frodo felt the eerie lurching sensation return and for a moment he was the one bound, watching a dark figure with a whip. The whip came down again and the other man, the one who did not have a whip, shouted at the first man to stop. Frodo blinked, once again the spectator. The second man went to the wretched figure bound to the tree and tipped his head back to peer into his eyes.

As the face of the whipped hobbit became visible, a roaring sound began in Frodo’s ears. He knew this face! It had once been dear to him! But in that split second of recognition, another image came to him; that of rough bark against his face, arms pulled taut and his back split with an agony that wiped out all thought. Suddenly, he was the one bound to the tree and the face looking into his, filled with a maniacal, zealous light, was none other than….

NO! This time Frodo’s scream was silent. Desperately, the mists clawed at him, tried to envelop his mind, hide his consciousness from this sight that he knew with horrible certainty was true, but they were losing their power. Whatever had once cloaked his thoughts, kept his mind captive, sheltered him from these memories, was gone and while its loss left behind an aching need, it left his will free to, at last, leap forth, frantic and defiant. But with freedom came a terrible price. Shards of memory the mists had fervently buried laced into him as they returned. Pain. Agony. Hopelessness. They were only snatches, impressions, moments, yet they racked him tortuously as his body was forced to relive them.

The voice beside him sounded alarmed, but Frodo did not heed him. His back arched, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. He felt the hands on him again and this time he was able to answer them with desperate terror. He jerked back in rigid shock, slamming hard into the arm that held him and swinging his bound hands towards his captor. He connected with something that made a wet, surprised grunt and the arm let him go. He drove his feet into the ground and rammed his shoulder against the man. There was no thought in his mind now but to stop the pain. He was animal, wild and terrified, and the remembered agony lent fury to his attack. He arched his back again, struggling like a mad thing, but with his hands bound, he could not keep his balance, and pitched into the surprised man. Now the hands were not so gentle. He was grabbed and held tightly against the man’s torso with one meaty arm while the other pressed Frodo’s head firmly into the man’s shoulder. He was subdued! He couldn’t stop them! The screaming echoed in his mind as the feel of rope against his hands filled him with terror, rage and agony. His name was being called with terrified concern. Though the voice was muffled, Frodo recognized it. Him. The feeling of impotent rage suddenly coalesced and it was no longer directed at the men around him. Fury filled him and it found its target. Him. He had done this to him. If there had ever been love in his heart for the owner of that voice, it was suddenly and brutally gone. In its place was an animal hatred the like of which the gentlehobbit Frodo had never felt before in his life.

He kicked his legs, the only things he could still move, as hard as he could, rocking his captor and connecting with several vicious blows before the man got one leg over his to subdue them. He bucked furiously against the man’s body. There was only one thing left he could do, and so he did it.

Merry cried out Frodo’s name through the gag, even as another blow savaged his back. More sounds of struggle. More cries. Something was happening with Frodo! Grimbold calling for Scur to “take him away, get him out of here!”

There were no more mists. Through a blood red haze, Frodo felt himself being lifted and carried. He continued to struggle, but his mind was reeling. Merry! He couldn’t hate Merry! But he did, suddenly and totally. He could remember but snatches of the torment in Crickhollow, but it was enough. Merry had beaten him, robbed him of… What? The hatred made it impossible to think. All he could feel were the emotions piling up on top of agony. He couldn't hate Merry and yet the fury made anything else impossible. His feet were being bound again and the terror of ropes replaced even that. He felt his mind lurching sickeningly, but there was no comforting mist to fall into this time – only red and black and fear. His body began to buck more wildly and he stopped even trying to control it. The pain of memory, of hatred, of betrayal and the all-consuming loss, filled him as his now bound body convulsed wildly against the ground. There was no escape from these revelations except in the frantic struggle and no escape from that until his strength was gone. He aimed for the total oblivion of exhaustion and fought on.

The blows ceased and his world for a moment went quiet and black. Merry's rapid breaths told him that he still lived although his legs had long since refused him support. He hung from the tree in a heap, the ropes cutting into his wrists and calves. Liquid warmth from his own blood slid down his back like the answer to a prayer. With his last breaths, Merry gasped out Frodo’s name, although the inarticulate sounds were understood only by his own ears…and perhaps those of one other.

“I’ll not have his wheals go bad,” said Grimbold. “You got your flogging. This is part of it. If you stop caterwalling, I’ll let you apply it.”

Strider did not release his hold of the trembling hobbit, not of his hands, and not of his eyes. “Tell me whether or not you are Frodo Baggins. Speak quickly! We have little time!”

Pippin started, but made no move to escape; however Sam stood and reached for his dagger. He found a blade of steel at this throat before he could lift it.

“The broken sword is my heirloom,” said Strider. “It is not my only weapon. You are outsized and outmatched. Sit down now, good hobbit, and tell Strider the truth.”

“I do not threaten. I advise,” said Strider darkly. He sheathed his sword. “But forces beyond your wildest imagination align against you, and all my scary stories, as you call them, will come to pass--and worse--if you continue to hide the truth from the one person in Bree who can help you!”

“NO! I don’t trust Big Folk!” bellowed Sam, his hand cupped in his pocket. “He might be one of them.”

“He might well be a ruffian,” answered Pippin, coughing a bit, his color returning. “And he might be able to help us rescue Frodo!”

Strider drew Pippin even closer. “So you are not Frodo Baggins, the Ringbearer."

Pippin's eyes looked up at Strider's, finding somewhere deep inside them, something to trust.

"No,” he said, coughing a few times more. "My name is Peregrin Took Frodo Baggins is my cousin.

"And you were trying to rescue Frodo?” Strider asked sternly, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “From what? Speak if you have any love for your friend!”

Pippin twisted his neck to face Sam, his eyes ablaze with fear and fury. “I’m going to tell him, Sam! We’ve got no choice! We can’t do this alone!”

Sam fumed, but stayed silent. Pippin turned back to Strider and let the words pour out of him as fast as they would come.

“The men took them two days ago,” he began. “Frodo and my other cousin, Meriadoc Brandybuck, son and heir to the Master of Buckland. There were three of them, ugly and big. They terrorized every smial on the road before they found us. They took Frodo and Merry captive and bound them with cords. Then they rode off into the distance before we could give chase.”

Strider sighed and closed his eyes, as if in deep relief. “That is good, if good it can be called. Ruffians can be subdued by normal means. Black Riders are another matter. Which direction did they ride?”

“South,” said Pippin. “I think. But that does not mean much. We lost their trail before we even got to the East-West Road. They seemed to know my cousins’ business--at least part of it--where they were from or where they were headed, I don’t know!”

Strider nodded, then lowered himself on his haunches to put himself on Pippin’s eye level. “Pippin,” he said. “Is that your real name?”

“It is. I am Peregrin Took - son of Paladin and heir to the Thain," he said without any pretense at the lofty title. "And this is Samwise Gamgee. He is, or was, in Frodo’s service.”

“Am,” said Sam firmly. “I still am in Mr. Frodo’s service and if you mean ill toward my master, well you’ll have to get through me!”

“You are not a river I’d choose to cross,” said Strider, a gentle smile softening his features. “Now Master Samwise, Master Peregrin, you must tell me anything, anything at all you remember about these men. Did you hear any words they spoke? Did they wear any livery? Could you spot any insignia of any kind on their clothing, on their horses, on any armor they might have worn? I know many peoples and many wide lands through Middle Earth, and with the right kind of clues, will be able to tell you where your friends are destined.”

“I heard one of them tell of a missed appointment,” said Sam. “I couldn’t make no sense of it.”

“One,” said Pippin hesitantly, “wore a black tunic over his chain mail. It had some white on it, in the shape of a palm…of a hand, I think.”

Strider stood resolutely. The hobbits’ eyes were pinned upon him hopefully. “Your friends,” said Strider calmly, “are being taken to Saruman.”

“Not where – who. He is a wizard, once on the White Council with Gandalf, and now, I fear, turned to evil. The answer to “where” is Isengard, a great tower leagues upon leagues to the south down the Greenway. The great distance is a boon – it gives us hope to catch up. And we must catch up if we hope to prevent a doom you can not even begin to imagine.”

Strider turned briskly toward the door, his long cloak swishing over his boots as he walked. “Get some sleep, young hobbits, for we leave early on the morrow.” Strider set his hand on the doorknob and turned his head one last time. “Fear not, Sam and Peregrin. Despite my rascally appearance, I am as I say. I am Aragorn, son of Arathorn – and if by my life or death I can save the Ringbearer, I will.”

Merry faded into the embrace of his agony, closing his eyes and wishing the pain down. An unknown amount of time passed before he felt warm water being poured over his back, the liquid invading every cut. Grimbold patted off the remaining blood with a damp cloth using the quick efficacious motions that seemed to define the man.

“This next bit will hurt,” warned Grimbold curtly. “But it will keep the wounds from going sour. I’ll ungag you afterwards.”

Merry didn’t have the strength left to even nod. The ropes attaching his wrists to the tree slackened and he dropped his arms, his cheek still pressed against the bark. Spears of pain shot through his shoulders and his back with the change in position. Merry felt himself totter, felt two hands lower him carefully onto his belly in the grass. His useless legs were bound at the ankles and as Grimbold pulled Merry’s hands above him, he bit on his gag, wondering vaguely if any more pain was possible. He closed his eyes, not knowing or caring what would happen next. Grimbold tightened his grip upon his wrists, holding him down.

Merry twisted his head slightly back to see Broga sprinkling an unknown white powder down from his palms. The salt descended across his battered back like a fiery rain ripping apart the last vestige of his being. Even the whipping had not equaled this. The hobbit screeched and bucked against Grimbold’s iron hold, his senses stretched to their limit and his mind no longer his own. Meriadoc Brandybuck did not exist and the pitiful creature who tore out his throat now writhed and withered and screamed and screamed until no thought or identity was possible. And somewhere deep inside that mind, something changed forever.

I need to recognize some important folks here! First- cpsing4him, as she is responsible for the dream-within-a-dream sequence idea that works so well here. Ariel has been chomping at the bit to do the Frodo waking up scene, and I think you will agree it is magnificently wrenching!!!! Go angst maven! And, of course, CelandineG (who also has an alternate chap coming up!) for her anytime first beta (this done while she was in Quebec!) Oh! The grammar she has too look at while on vacation!

So I bring you, at last, Merry’s awakening in “The Forlaeten” (which means “The Forsaken ones” in Anglo-Saxon!)

Merry was five and he was crying. He stumbled into his elder cousin’s room, drunken with sorrow, rubbing his swollen eyes with ungentle fingers. Frodo, fresh from slumber, leaned up on his elbow.

“What’s wrong, Merry-lad?” Frodo’s young face smiled down at him benevolently. What happened?”

Merry answered by bursting into a fresh volley of sobbing that grew in force and volume.

Frodo pulled back his covers and yawned. “In you come then,” he said in drowsy invitation.

Merry quickly crawled into bed and snuggled against his elder cousin’s warmth, his shoulders heaving.

“They hurt me, Frodo!” cried Merry at last, snuggling up against his beloved cousin. “They hurt me really bad! Really bad!”

“Who, little one?” Frodo’s fingers ran through Merry’s curly hair. “Who hurt my favorite little cousin?”

“The big men!” cried Merry after a few abortive sobs. “They hurt me and they wouldn’t stop!”

“Just a dream, Merry,” assured Frodo, gathering his cousin's quivering body toward him. “Why don't you finish your sleep here with me. I won’t let anyone hurt you.”

Merry felt his small body rocked back and forth as Frodo comforted him, enclosing him tightly within the strong, safe world of his arms. His cousin gentled him with whispers until the pain of the nightmare-beating faded into the vague, unreal world of forgotten dreams. And Merry-lad sighed, shutting his eyes, and letting himself drift away into peaceful oblivion.

Pain was his whole world now, every conceivable message his brain could process. Merry was awake staring up at the cheerless grey dawn, his back on fire. And he was sobbing aloud like a child, just as he had in his dream. But there were no strong, loving arms to comfort him, only hard, gravelly dirt against his cheek amid the vague smell of wet grass.

Then he remembered. Being flogged. His wounds spread over in salt. Screaming and thrashing until he thought he should die of the pain. Grimbold had come then and forced a bitter draught down his throat until all had gone dark and mercifully numb.

Merry sucked in his breath, mindful that his every twitch seemed to drive the punishing salt deeper into his wounds. He slowly lifted his head to see Frodo asleep, close by, just as he had in the…and Merry remembered his dream, fully formed and intact. His cousin had been so young then, yet it had always been Frodo who Merry had run to for comfort.

But Frodo was not on his old, familiar bed at the Hall, but rather on the ground in a strange place, covered with a shabby blanket. Peace and comfort still emanated from his curled form and Merry could not resist a primordial desire to move closer. He crabbed forward in his bonds, despite the agony. The childish, almost primal urge to be comforted, to be safe, had become well-nigh unbearable.

“Frodo! Frodo!” he cried, his voice small and plaintive, tears spilling from his eyes.

The blanketed form moved but his cousin did not turn to face him. Merry placed his numb, bound hands gently against the small of Frodo's back, begging him, almost supplicating. The back stiffened but Merry, too desperate for the solace his dream image had promised, did not notice. He could smell the warm, soothing scent that had always been his cousin's own and ached to be held in those arms, safe, soothed and protected. He was broken, his soul bared and blooded and he reached out to the last source of comfort left him.

Frodo moved in one slow, but studied motion that was in stark contrast to every other gesture he had made on this trip. He rolled away, sat up and looked cagily towards the sleeping places of the men. The one left on guard was staring northwards away from them. Merry saw his Frodo's eyes focus and suddenly knew there was conscious thought and purpose behind them. For just a moment he forgot his pain. Frodo was returned! He had come back from the shadow and was with him again! Now there would be a chance that they could both escape this nightmare.

Merry grinned ecstatically but the pain laced through his back again and he whimpered. Frodo's dark head, turned slightly as though listening, but instead of turning towards Merry, he froze. Merry reached towards his cousin, tears streaming down his face.

“They hurt me, Frodo,” he whispered in the most forlorn and pitiful tone. “They hurt me real bad.”

For a moment, Frodo remained motionless. Then he slowly turned and looked down at him.

Never before had Merry seen Frodo’s blue eyes look at him so icily. It was as if every ounce of warmth and feeling the elder hobbit had ever felt for him had been stripped away. There was no malice in his eyes, no cruelty, but neither was there even the faintest hint of love. It was as if Frodo looked down upon a stranger, one he had reason to hate utterly, but would not give even the satisfaction of that emotion to. Merry sucked in his breath in horror and shrank back.

Here was pain worse to him than any beating could have been. How could his beloved cousin forsake him so cruelly? His heart seized and his blood ran cold. Something seemed to snap inside Merry’s mind as if a memory long buried was fighting viciously to be brought to the fore. Heedless of the agony of his back he shrank away and curled in upon himself, gulping as if he had been kicked. The loving face from his dream wavered before his eyes and the lightning of Frodo’s bitter glance suddenly pierced the vision. No! A sob rose in his throat as he tried desperately to evade the truth that was beating against his brain. He couldn’t let it in! No, he had done it for all of them! Surely Frodo could see that? But even as these thoughts tried to rally his heart, he could sense how hollow they were.

A cry rose weakly in his throat, like the keening of a wild, injured creature, until they became a howl of protest, bitter pain and denial. He tossed his head back and forth, as if trying in vain to shake loose from the accusing eyes that held him. The cry became a scream, and still Merry writhed, his mental agony now matching the torment of his shredded back. Large hands gripped him, sat him upright, but though in his hysteria, Merry scarcely noticed.

The hard, leather lip of a pouch-flask was jammed into his mouth even as his cousin’s name hung on his lips. Burning liquid poured in and Merry again fell into blessed oblivion.

Grimbold shook his head as he corked the flask and set it down upon the grass. Their frenzied captive now lay quiet where he had forced him to the ground.

“Why didn’t you use the stuff on ‘em right from the start?” asked Scur as he glanced down at Merry’s still form with disgust. “Would’a made for a quieter trip.”

“I have a limited amount,” answered Grimbold. “It is only for emergencies. I thought this counted as such.”

“More than that,” answered Grimbold. “This extract comes from certain flower pods that grow in the south. It gives sharp dreams in addition to numbing the pain--both in body and in mind. Some become far too accustomed to the stuff, though--prefer the dreams to their lives after a time." He laughed grimly. "But it isn’t really good for folk, I don’t think. A dose here and there shouldn’t do much harm, but I wouldn't trust it further than that.”

Grimbold gave a sideward glance at Frodo, who had moved away from his companion and had seemingly settled back down to sleep. “If yours goes wild again, I’ll use it on him, either that or a gag. We cannot risk bringing unwanted attention to ourselves.”

“There ain’t no one for miles,” said Scur, “And my imp’ll be no more trouble. ”

“Don’t be so sure,” warned Grimbold. “Whatever these imps have, the wizard is not the only one who wants it. I don’t want to drug or gag yours, but I may have to – fair warning to you.”

“Mine only got worked up because this rat worked ‘im up, that’s all. He didn’t mean no harm. Just didn’t like the whippin’. ”

“It doesn’t matter. We’re going to proceed as if surrounded by enemies, understand?”

Grimbold sat down heavily by Merry. He pried the hobbit’s eyes open and sighed. “This one’s under, alright. Hopefully not so far as never to wake again.” He fumbled in his pocket, drew out a pipe and stuck the stem in his mouth. “How then, did you calm your imp down?” he said, his voice muffled as he lit the bowl.

"Didn’t really,” answered Scur with no small confusion. “Just took him away from the other one and he calmed all by himself. Eyes glossed over all the sudden and he fell to the ground like a shot deer. Was afraid he’d up and died on me, but he just went all spooky again."

"Aye, seems so." Scur smiled at his leader, his missing teeth making it seem almost macabre. "But I bet I could work my magic on him again, get ‘im to talk like he done before.”

Grimbold shrugged. “Well, we’ll not have him watch any more floggings, that’sfor damn sure.” He took a long drag on his pipe, inhaling the sweet, heavy smoke and blowing it out with a sigh. "And hopefully we won’t have to watch any more, either.”

“That one’s trouble,” said Scur, shaking his head. “He’ll piss off Broga again, just you wait.” A rare thoughtful look passed over Scur’s face as he sat down on the opposite side of Merry. “Though,” he paused. “Well, p’raps the whipping turned him a bit. His back’s a right mess. Almost felt sorry for the little whelp.”

“Don’t,” said Grimbold. “He bought it with his actions and now it's paid in full." He shot Scur a knowing glance. "If he escapes, it's us you’ll be wanting to pity.”

Grimbold threw his gaze up to the rising sun and grunted. “We should move off early, and I need to dress his back before we do. We’ll let that laggard partner of yours sleep until we’re ready to move, as I could do without the headache. Heat some water and then I’ll get this one ready to travel. If he’s lucky, he’ll sleep.”

Scur set off to get the water and returned to find Grimbold leaning over Merry, examining the hobbit’s wounds with a look that bore a suspicious resemblance to concern.

“First time for everything,” answered Grimbold flatly. He took the pot from Scur and poured some steaming water into a bowl.

“I was thinking,” Scur began again as he watched Grimbold wiping down Merry’s lacerated back. “If you have a bit of water left…well, I thought I might give my imp a bit of a bath. He don’t look so good, and the grime don’t help his smell none.”

Grimbold let loose a low chuckle at the thought of this man - who carried ten seasons' worth of camp grunge under his fingernails alone and smelled like a barn – giving anything a bath.

Scur did not find the humor in his leader’s joke but he kept his tone respectful. “Might cheer ‘im up, that's all. Maybe get him to talk again, and such. Then I could teach him a trick or two to pass the time.”

“Do what you like,” answered Grimbold with a shrug, thinking that his employer would be happier with both captives in a talking mood. “But don’t do it here. I’ve had enough situations between these two and the day hasn’t even begun yet." He gazed around the clearing. "And don’t let Broga see, or you’ll get an earful. Then I’ll have to put up with your sparring.”

Grimbold indicated a nearby copse of trees with a turn of his head. “Go over there. Should be hidden enough.”

Scur leaned down and lifted Frodo, slinging him over his shoulder and picking up the kettle of water in his free hand.

Merry was a child again, waking up still wrapped in the warmth of Frodo’s arms. Still, he felt himself sobbing uncontrollably.

Frodo’s eyes opened, once more filled with pity. “What? This again?” he said kindly.

“Why did you look at me like you didn’t love me anymore, Frodo?” Merry's voice was agonized and hurt.

“Just a dream, little one,” he said and ran his warm hands through Merry’s hair. “Go back to sleep. I'm here.”

“Silly thing! But it’s all in your mind. No one is out to hurt you.” Merry felt Frodo’s arms tighten around his quaking body. “I'm too tired for this, Merry,” he whispered. “Please. So weary. I must sleep. Why won’t you let me sleep?”

“Sleep, Merry,” whispered Frodo as if from miles away. “You must let me sleep.”

“Merry, please…” Frodo echoed back, his voice suddenly older but more than that was wrong. “Please!” His cousin cried again, his fear unmistakable.

Suddenly Frodo’s face went very pale and he sat facing Merry in a chair, his body bound with cruel ropes. Merry stood above him watching the fear in Frodo’s bleary eyes. He looked more worn down than Merry had ever seen him.

“You can sleep,” said Merry, “as soon as I can get you out of here! How did we get here Frodo?”

Frodo looked up, confusion in his weary eyes. “Do you not know?" he said, his voice barely a whisper. "Only you can stop this.”

“I’m trying!” Merry cried in his small, child's voice. “I shall find a knife and cut you free! Then we can both go back to sleep!”

Merry bolted out the door into total darkness. Soon a blind panic came over him and he knew he was lost. He cried out Frodo’s name again.

“Frodo! Frodo!” But the words were sucked up by the inky vacuum and fell dead to the ground. Merry ran. He ran as fast and as far as his legs could carry him, into the void surrounding him on all sides. At last he perceived a pinprick of light ahead. He raced forward as if his life depended on it, calling out, "Help! Help! Help!" like one possessed. As he drew closer, the light thickened and took form until Merry saw that it was a lantern. He skidded to a stop in front of it, put off by the crushing weight of space and silence.

A small sound came to him from below out of the darkness; a moan, almost animal-like in its pathos.

“Hullo!” called Merry in a panicked voice. “Who’s there? I need help!”

Merry reached for the lantern, which hung on a rusty nail driven into a rough wooden post. He held it in the direction of the sound, slowly, hesitantly, as if some otherworldly creature would leap from out of the shadows and devour him.

A white figure lay curled up on the ground, motionless, like a dead thing--its face covered with a blindfold, its hands and ankles bound. Merry almost leapt out of his skin in fear. But he mastered himself and bent down.

“I will free you,” Merry said and was answered with another unearthly moan. Merry bent down further, smelling the fear permeating the beastly place—the captive’s fear it was, now added to his own. But as he reached out to touch the poor wretch, something unseen and unseeable held him back. And a voice sounded in Merry’s head, a voice that did not seem to be his own, spoke to him.

All for the best. It’s all for the best. This one will be happy at last…soon, very soon! Do not interfere.

Merry struggled against the force. “No! I must go to him! For pity’s sake, I must unbind him!”

The force let go of Merry and he fell to his knees on the ground beside the prisoner. “I’m going to take this off. It will all be better soon. I’m going to save you.”

Merry ripped off the blindfold, his fingers shaking. He looked down into Frodo’s face, still as death, and pale as the moon. And the eyes, the most horrible corpse-like eyes, stared back at him. Merry screamed convulsively and threw himself back against the wall in terror. “No! No! No! What have you done?” he cried out to the voice. “By all that is decent and good, what have you done to him, you cursed thing?”

“Do you not know?” asked the voice calmly, this time in words that he could hear with his ears. “Can you not understand?” The voice sounded familiar, with its soothing cant, and yet it made no sense.

Suddenly Merry felt his body being forced away, compelled steadily backwards as he screamed out Frodo’s name. He clutched at the air. “NO! Give him back to me! He's my cousin, give him back, vile thing!”

All for the best, beloved, the voice echoed inside his mind as Merry was dragged quickly away into the darkness.

Merry felt himself thrown down as the darkness instantly transformed into blinding, soul-piercing light.

Merry fought to focus his eyes against the searing brightness. The sun-drenched world was filled with sound burning and tearing at his senses--the horrible noise of a whip cutting through the air, and the screams, groans and cries that followed each crack.

But the flogger did not stop and as Merry became more aware of his surroundings, the white brightness softened into colors and shapes and the cries became the voice of terrible familiarity.

These cries were Frodo’s voice. These were the screams and groans and sobs of Frodo--his beloved cousin--now bound to a log with a malevolent presence raising its whip in a terrible arc.

“Stop!” cried Merry at the top of his lungs. As the whip hit Frodo’s back with brutal force, Merry felt the agony raging across his own as if it were being struck as well.

“Stop!” he screamed again and he bolted toward the figure as it held its arm poised over his cousin. He didn't care what or who it was. It could have been Sauron himself or all his maleficent brethren rolled into one, Merry would stop this.

Faster this time, the whip came down again. Merry fell to the grass in excruciating pain and his own back bled, but he rose and barreled forth in spite of his pain. No more hurt would be done. Not to himself or to Frodo. He would see to it. It had always been his job.

“Stop! I’ll have your life! Monster!” And Merry pounced upon the punisher, taking them both down. He drew his dagger from his belt now, poised high to run the foul creature through with deadly force. With the other hand, he rolled the creature over so that the thing might look into his avenging eyes as he slew it. Then he stopped cold, the blood freezing in his veins.

It was a fire of pain surging through every nerve ending, the stab of a realization that could never again be denied or erased. He knew who had done these things to his lovely, blameless cousin. The evil memories came back--clear as the crystal in his mother's salon--first a trickle, then a flood, and the dam which had for so long, held his conscience at bay, opened wide…

The floodgates had opened, pouring their searing pain over him. He saw it all and there was no place to hide in this world, not in a bog or a cave or even in his mind, the torrent surged forth in a deluge of pain, guilt, and a desire for immediate self annihilation.

“What have I done?” he cried to himself but the words seemed empty and monstrously inadequate. “What on earth have I done?

Grimbold continued his ministrations on Merry's back, looking down with concern as his charge suddenly jerked about as if seized by falling sickness. He was obviously waking up and in dire pain. Grimbold reached down to his cask, determined to put a stop to the current outburst before it even got started. As he did, he heard an indignant “Oi!” ring out from the trees in Scur’s voice.

Grimbold straightened in an instant, set his hand instinctively on the hilt of his sword, ready for trouble. Yet the trouble that came was not what he had expected. When he turned in the direction of the voice, he saw Scur stomping out from the copse of trees carrying Frodo’s limp body over his shoulder, a blanket fluttering in the breeze. Even from the distance, Grimbold saw that Scur’s face was contorted in a deep scowl. Grimbold groaned inwardly, dosed his captive, and finished bandaging Merry as he listened to Scur’s disgruntled mutterings grew nearer. Scur set his charge down beside Merry, then sat back on his heels looking slightly ill.

“I find out who done this,” said Scur darkly, “I’ll whip his damn hide myself!”

Grimbold raised his eyebrows. “Done..what?” asked Grimbold with forced patience.

Scur drew back the blanket from his still-naked charge and cried, “Look what some maggot done to my imp!”

Scur was staring hard at Grimbold with demanding, then pleading eyes. The leader ignored Scur for a moment, setting his jaw as he stuffed Merry’s limp arms back into the shirt and drew it closed over the bandages. By the time he looked up, Scur’s impatience had become like a physical force.

Without a word, Grimbold examined Frodo’s back, scarred, lacerated and bruised, each wound telling the tale of one cruelty set atop another. He turned the sleeping hobbit on its side, grunted in acknowledgement of the brand, rolled the hobbit back over, and covered him up again.

“It’s no wonder he didn’t like the whippin’!” Scur blurted out to fill the silence. “Little thing’s been beat within an inch of his life! More than once too, by the look of it! What I want to know is what sort of sick maggot would do that to a harmless, teched little half-wit?”

Desperately, Merry ran back into the dream image of his ancestral Hall. He burst through the door and scurried at breakneck pace through the unlit, bifurcated tunnels until at last he came to his mind’s image of Frodo’s room. His small legs ran, and his tiny, five-year-old hands thrust open the door to find his cousin sleeping peacefully in bed.

Frodo opened his eyes, smiled, and then sat up. “Come here, you scamp! My but you’re a mess! Do you never let a poor hobbit sleep?”

The covers were lifted and Merry plunged in and clung to the warmth of Frodo’s body as if to let go of him would mean the end of all things.

“A monster?” Frodo’s eyes twinkled. “But know well that I won’t ever let a monster harm you. You are always safe here with me.”

“Forgive me! Forgive me!” Merry clawed his small fingers into Frodo’s nightshirt. “Forgive me!”

“There there!” Frodo gathered Merry into a hug. “Don’t you know there is nothing you could do that I would not forgive.”

Merry wept heaving sobs until he feared the very life force would pour out of him, until there was nothing left inside of him to cry out – his soul-devouring anguish complete. The world spun about him in a sickening swirl of guilt, pain, violence, blood, and abominable memories. Then a sudden jolt, a surge of a different pain and the feeling that his whole body was being shook like a rag doll as Merry awoke from his nightmare to find himself staring into the enraged eyes of Scur.

“What did you do to my imp, you maggot-rat-bastard?” hollered Scur inches from Merry’s face.

Merry’s breathing was shallow, his pupils severely constricted and his face awash with far too many emotions to understand what was happening in the present. Scur pulled Merry up into a sitting position by his hair and then gestured to where Frodo lay on the ground.

Giving Merry a few moments to look down on his own handiwork, he rolled Frodo over. “And what about THIS!” Scur indicated Frodo’s brand with his bony finger. “You just explain that, maggot! I ain’t never seen the like of it! To think I almost felt sorry for you!”

Scur pushed Merry back down to the ground gratuitously, where he fell upon his open wounds. The medicine helped with the worst of the pain but Merry screamed nonetheless. Meanwhile, Scur rolled Frodo back on his side and covered him. He then seized Merry by his collar and shook him again. “What did my poor teched imp ever do to YOU to deserve that?”

“Nothing! He didn’t deserve it!” cried Merry suddenly, the words pouring out of him in one violent surge, like a river broken loose from winter’s freeze. “None of it! I was supposed to help him, and yet I broke him instead! I didn’t mean to! But I did!” Merry sucked in a shuddering breath. "I’m a disgrace, to my familyto the world, hateful to all hobbits!”

Scur lifted Merry up by the collar till his bound feet were dangling far above the ground. His expression was one of total and unbelieving disgust. “'Take care of him'? Cor, that's rich! Why’d you whip him? Why’d you BRAND him, you rotter? My imp wouldn’t swat a fly!” Scur shook Merry until the hobbit felt his brains rattling in his skull.

“Put the imp down, Scur.” Grimbold’s stern voice announced his reappearance at the scene.

Scur turned to face his leader, still holding Merry up like a naughty kitten. "You saw what he done to my imp! This one’s a monster, I say!”

“It isn’t our affair,” Grimbold answered. "But getting these two to Isengard, quick and not dead is. So put him down. You’re tearing his back.” He clicked his tongue in anger. “I’ll have to dress it again.”

“That ain’t the only thing I’d tear if I got half a chance!” snarled Scur, and threw Merry down bodily upon the ground.

Merry groaned in agony. “I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed to the grass. “I’m a monster, Frodo, forgive me.” And he began to weep once more.

Scur spit brown, tobacco-colored saliva onto Merry newly bleeding back. “I ain’t never gonna feel sorry for you, maggot! And my imp ain't never going to forgive this as I can see.” Grumbling, he stomped off to collect Frodo’s clothes.

Grimbold, discomfited by the pathetic scene, left to heat more water, grumbling under his breath about his sorry luck to be stuck with such a mess as he now had on his hands.

Still sobbing, Merry turned to his cousin. Frodo had not moved of his own accord through this whole ordeal and for a moment, the thought crossed Merry's mind that he had imagined that loveless gaze. Hope he knew he didn't deserve dared to spark in his heart and Merry timidly inched over to his cousin till he was inches from his hand.

“I’m sorry!" he whispered in a whimper only Frodo was close enough to hear. "I’m so sorry, Frodo! Please forgive your Merry as you always have! I never wanted to hurt you! I shall die a thousand times over if I don't know that there's a chance you might one day forgive me! Frodo?” His eyes blurred as the tears returned and Merry let them fall, heedless.

Frodo's hand moved from where it had lain lifeless, inches from Merry's reddened nose. It lifted slowly and paused, as if considering a new resting place. Merry had the sudden image of that hand coming to rest on his head, forgiving him with an achingly beneficent gesture, but it was not to be. The hand was pulled back and laid across Frodo's blanketed chest, pointedly out of Merry's reach. The younger hobbit quivered, wounded to the soul, and raised his gaze to where Frodo's blue eyes glittered under dark lashes. Yes, Frodo was awake and looking at him. Though he had let the men carry him about like a nerveless toy, there was no trace of stupor in Frodo's face now. He looked down at his cousin coldly, with recognition but no pity, and for a moment, Merry fancied those familiar blue orbs were filled to the brim with hatred.

Merry felt as if a knife had been plunged into his heart. Anger, even fury, he could have accepted from his cousin, but the vision of Frodo looking at him with hatred in his eyes seared into his memory. He closed his eyes and silently bowed his head, knowing instinctively that no words he could ever say would make a difference. He did not see the confusion that slowly clouded Frodo's gaze, nor the twitch as his hand almost moved to comfort, but balled into a tight fist instead. All he knew was that nothing he could do would ever be enough to make amends. He had done what any normal hobbit would have considered impossible – he had, by his own acts, destroyed a bond of blood. Nothing should have been able to break that. And nothing, nothing, nothing, would ever mend it. The Frodo who loved him was gone forever—as surely as if he had died. Merry closed his eyes still tighter and prayed for his heart to mercifully stop beating—for the pain in his soul had now well eclipsed that of his back.

His despair was interrupted by the sound of footsteps. He assumed it was Scur, there to rub salt in his wounds, perhaps literally, perhaps not. It didn’t matter.

“What more do you want?” cried Merry between sobs. “There is nothing more you can do to me. I am damned. Utterly lost, utterly forsaken!”

Merry craned his neck, but when he did, he saw not Scur, but Broga. And much to Merry’s crushing dismay, the man’s ugly face was suffused with mirth and he was chuckling.

Strider awoke to the sound of a cock crowing lustily from the inn yard. A practiced, fluid motion drew him from his bed, betraying no hint that he had been immersed in slumber moments before. He drew back the curtains and opened the window, allowing the first grey light of dawn into the room and the cold morning air with it.

He had already gathered his few belongings and was ready to set out as soon as he roused the two hobbits—yet his craggy features deepened with concern. Without his aid, the hobbits had no hope of finding their companions or the Ring, for they knew nothing of the ways of the world. He knew best but he feared he would not be able to convince them. Peregrin Took trusted him, that he could see plainly, but the other one, Samwise—he was another story.

Strider’s detailed knowledge of geography and the paths to Frodo’s destination had stifled Sam’s complaints but the ranger knew he had only the most marginal hold on his loyalty—if any at all. His useful information had got the older hobbit’s attention, and he had listened attentively, without complaint, to Strider’s suggestions. The agreed-upon plan—to follow Strider’s lead upon secret paths through the wild—had given them hope that they might catch up to their quarry. And even if they moved too slowly, Strider knew he could race ahead, overpower the ruffians and set up a meeting place from which they might all proceed to Rivendell--the bearer, his companions and himself as their guide.

His eyes stared out over the courtyard, unfocused in thought. Peregrin had said there were only three ruffians and that was good news; catching up to them was well within his skills. He could easily overpower their kind and, if necessary, slay them. The ruffians were burdened with hostages and would move at a slow clip down the Greenway. But he could travel a straighter line through the brush; cut a day’s ride from his journey, even traveling no faster than the men.

Strider smiled grimly, backing away from the window and reaching for his cloak. Of course he would travel faster. Much faster. Given his own speed, he had a better than fair chance of waylaying them at Sarn Ford, and if not, there were many, many leagues of road where he could catch up. Given where It was headed, there was also a likely chance he would meet help on the way, and could send word to other friends. Yes, the prospects were good. Far better than before.

He shook his thoughts and gazed around the room quickly with his ranger’s practiced eye. Yes, all was well and he was ready—with the Ringbearer, if not in his hands, at least in sight. He sighed as he drew his cloak around him and pushed open the door, the oppressive gloom of helplessness lifting. The two hobbits were obviously loyal and trustworthy. He only prayed they were swift of foot as well.

He walked in long strides back to the room where he had parlayed with Samwise and Peregrin the night before. He gave a sturdy knock upon the door. Nothing. He knocked again. Nothing. In spite of himself, a shiver of uncertainty flooded through him and he drew back his boot and kicked the door open. The parlor fire had not been banked and the dishes from the night before still lay upon the table, its leftover food, the only tangible sign of the hobbits’ presence.

“Peregrin! Samwise!” he called in a low but sharp voice. “Get up! We must make haste!”

No noise. Nothing. Strider ran quickly down the hall to the sleeping quarters, throwing open the door without knocking this time. The heavy hinges creaked and complained at the harsh treatment but as they yielded to his heavy hand. The open doorway and the empty room told the story. The two hobbits had gone.

Thanks to my betas! CelandineG for her first beta, and all the cool descriptive detail. You’ll never get to see how her work improves the story, but trust me, it makes a huge difference! And Happy birthday to her!

And BIG thanks to Ariel, who took my Frodo and added (if possible) a whole OTHER JAR of finger-licking angst. Yum yum!

Pippin prodded his pony forward to catch up to Sam’s, now traveling at an unnaturally brisk pace down the Greenway.

Sam did not so much as turn toward the other hobbit, but continued on at his relentless pace.

With a grunt of exasperation Pippin pulled his pony to a halt and yelled through cupped hands, “Sam, I’ll not go on until we talk!”

Sam abruptly spun his pony around and gave Pippin a dark look. “Shussh!” he hissed, and then trotted back toward Pippin. “Do you want all of Bree to know our whereabouts!”

“There’s not a soul awake Sam! And who in Bree cares anyway?” said Pippin in a voice of normal volume. “Couldn’t we have waited until dawn at least? There's naught but a sliver of moon out, it's dark as a cave and, if you haven’t noticed, bone cold! And how long do you think we can go on without even a wink of sleep?”

“No one forced you to come, Pip.” Sam's voice was cold, flat, and strangely unlike him.

“Bollocks!” snorted the younger hobbit. “You started off packing with nary a word. I couldn’t let you leave without me. But we’re out of town now, so explain, will you!”

"'We’re going now’ is not explaining, Samwise Gamgee! Why did we have to sneak out on Strider? He might have helped us!”

“Just like Merry helped us?" Sam snorted. "Don’t be a fool! Not all as are pretty in word are pretty in deed, my Gaffer says, and I think he'd have a thing or two to say about your Mr. Strider.”

“And I suppose you’ve been a good judge of character of late?” said Sam angrily, ignoring Pippin's sudden irritated glare. “Like as not he seems as suits his purposes. But this is a hobbit matter. No need to get Big Folk fouled up in our business, especially one as is cracked as that one!”

Pippin frowned stubbornly. “He could be the real king, you know. How can you be so certain he’s not?”

Sam laughed out loud. “I just know and that’s flat,” he answered. “Real kings don’t skulk about in the wild.”

“He still might have been helpful," Pippin argued, casting his eyes to the darkness around them. "What do we know of what's really out there in the wild? What if black riders come? What if…”

“Pip! He might've been just as dangerous, all the more so for being closer. He’s just a robber waiting for his chance.”

“A robber who knew the way to Isen…--where they are being taken. Frodo and…Merry, Sam. I'm as eager to get my kin safe as you are, but neither of us has been outside the Shire! We need the guidance of someone who knows these parts.”

“And what is that supposed to mean? He had maps, Sam, maps of all the roads. As far as I can tell, you've escaped from our best and only hope of finding this Isen… place?!”

A sly grin ghosted over Sam’s face. He drew a rolled-up parchment from his saddlebag and tossed it to Pippin, who undid the leather strap and unrolled it halfway.

“You didn’t!” cried Pippin . He stared at Sam as if he'd never seen him before. "However did you get it? Surely you didn't…"

"Sam!" Pippin, flustered, hastily re-rolled the map. "I can't believe this." He looked crosswise at his companion. "And you accused Strider of being a robber! Shame on you, Sam." He handed the scroll back as if it would bite him.

Sam shrugged unrepentantly as he took the paper, and Pippin felt even more surprised. “We needed his know-how," Sam continued, waving his arm ahead of them. "But not him, if you take my meaning. This map says we just follow the Greenway south. That ain’t hard. With this map to guide us, we can travel by ourselves, with no foreigners about to cause trouble or know our business.”

Pippin rubbed his cold hands together to warm them and stared curiously at his companion. "You know, Sam, I'd have sworn you’d never stolen so much as mushroom before. What has come over you?”

Sam returned Pippin's stare with keen and steadfast eyes. “Frodo," he said, his voice cold and determined. "I’m going to find him, Pip. With or without your help.”

Pippin was again surprised by the intensity of his companion's manner. “Now there's no call for that, Sam. I said I was going to help you and I will. I just don’t understand your not even giving this Strider fellow a chance. He said he knew the way and I was willing to trust him.”

“Trust him? Might I remind you you ran away from your first meeting like you were being chased by hungry wolves?”

Pippin winced, but his face flushed with the beginnings of anger. “I was frightened, Sam. He came out of no where. Though he didn’t seem so bad close up. Regal even, if you look beyond the dirt and grime.”

"Then maybe you should go back to your precious king," continued Sam, his voice uncharacteristically taut and strained, "if you think you can do better than present company. P’raps he could swing at the Dark Lord with his little broke sword. But as for me, little Took,” he growled as he urged his pony forward, “I’m going to find Frodo!”

“There, imp, there. Scur’s washed your clothes, such as you have. Now sit up, will you, and we’ll get you dressed!”

Imp?Frodo wondered at the title, but allowed the big man to help him sit up and nodded dully as he patted his shoulder. The slight motion elicited such enthusiasm in this fellow that Frodo found it almost comical. He wondered if he had hired a replacement for his faithful Sam and forgot that he had done so. Frodo’s mind was in a jumble but he didn't think he would have engaged such a seedy looking fellow. The whiff of a campfire stirred a memory and Frodo suddenly remembered puzzling over his bound hands. He frowned and tried to focus his scattered thoughts. Things were amiss though he dared not speak until he made sense of it.

Frodo let himself be eased into his clothes. The big man had a gentle touch, as if he were handling a pet, and Frodo had no fear of him, but he felt as if he normally did such things unassisted and that puzzled him. A big man dressing him made no sense either. And why would he have employed a man at all?

Frodo frowned, puzzling at the mists that seemed to curl at the edges of his memory. His small buttons were fastened for him. The man's huge, awkward fingers fumbled with the tiny buttonholes. His brow furrowed deeply as he concentrated but when he had finished, he grinned at Frodo with his yellow-toothed grin.

“It’s alright, little one. The bad imp, he’s over there, tied up, secure as you please, and freshly whipt too. He won’t hurt you no more.”

A sharp image came back to him; of a pale body laced with red in the sunshine as two men stood over him. The mists gave up their secrets slowly, but as Frodo's will bore down on them, the last of their shreds receded. The bad one, Merry, his cousin, Meriadoc, had held him captive, hurt him, broke him, even. But why? Because…

Though the mists had gone, they left no new memories in their wake. His mind was clearing, and indeed, if he concentrated, he could claim a moment's lucidity, but there were still many things he didn't understand about his current situation, and that made him wary. He didn’t know where he was, or why he was there, but what he was certain of was a thick, sharp anger against the bad one – his cousin. It raged in him and darkened his thoughts. But that felt wrong as well.

Frodo grimaced as he tried to sort it out. It felt like his brain was barely functioning and that was starting to irritate him. Surely the knowledge of what had happened to him was somewhere in his mind. There was a reason they were here…the reason they were here…had something, something to do with his own rough handling in…

The name seared him. That was where it had happened. He saw an image of a small, low house but it seemed as if a red light lit it. His anger, feeding on snippets of remembered outrage, grew until he clenched his teeth and his fists trembled. He drew himself in, defensively, and his eyes darted around the encampment like a wild animal seeking escape.

But, no. Bag End was his home. Had something taken him to Crickhollow? Did he have some business there? Or had he been coerced to go there, or worse, abducted? Each time Frodo tried to make his newly freed mind address the problem at hand it slid inexorably into rage, which made it impossible to think clearly. Had he been abducted from his beloved home? Apparently that was only the first of many crimes committed by the hands of Meriadoc. His fury grew.

His cousin lay across the fire from him in the little glade. Frodo's human valet was still at hand and seemed to be trying to figure out his other garments. Frodo looked at bound figure's pale face. He remembered now, the cousin had wanted pity after his own punishment, pity for his own suffering. And Frodo remembered that he had precious little to spare.

“Stand up little one,” said the man gently, lifting Frodo up under his arms. “I have to set you by the fire now, though a bit apart from that one. Don't worry, my imp. I won’t be away long, and if he tries anything, you just cry out and your Scur will come!”

Scur An ugly name, Frodo thought as he stumbled along, keeping his eyes blank and his expression confused. His 'valet' had treated him as some kind of simpleton and until Frodo knew more about his current situation, it seemed wise to keep up that pretense. When he was carefully placed on the grass, his eyes settled inexorably upon the long-time comfort and solace of the fire. Its dancing flames beckoned him with sensuous fingers. He could have stared into its warm, bottomless depths forever, letting his mind return to a gently contrived peace.

But across from the fire, he was there, draining the warmth of comfort--the hurter, the cousin, the enemy. The sight startled Frodo out of his growing daze and he realized, grimly, that his mind was not yet entirely under his control. If he were not vigilant he would slip back under the hypnotic spell of the flames or the comforting shadows of the mists before he even realized it. And something told him that he no longer had the leisure for such escapes.

Frodo felt Merry's eyes upon him, waiting for something. The anger felt like a cold weight in his stomach, making him want to lash out but also leaving a foul taste in his mouth. He did not give his cousin the satisfaction of returning the look.

"I’ll be back with some vittles,” said Scur, patting Frodo on the top of his head.

Frodo cocked an eye at him with grim amusement. The simple fellow's bad-toothed smile was sincere though Frodo could see, underlying his current indulgence, the capacity for cruelty. Frodo would have to be very careful with this one. He nodded slowly.

Scur’s smile widened into an ear-to-ear grin, his grin expanded into a laugh, and his laugh into a cheer.

“I made him speak!” he cried as he ran off to fetch the others. “Lads! Lads! I made the imp speak to me!”

Across the fire, Frodo could see his cousin staring at him. Merry's eyes were wide with despair and loss. Tears glittered in them and they drank him in with open hunger and longing, anxiously begging for something. Suddenly Frodo understood. Merry had not only wanted his pity, but his companionship and his speech too. In pain, loneliness and guilt, he was desperate for it. And Frodo had shown the big man graciousness instead of Merry.

Barliman Butterbur knew that whoever was pounding on his door at this ungodly hour meant business.

“Fie! Fie!" he yelled, half in sleep. “By and by I come! And this had better be important to raise a tired innkeeper from his sleep!

Barliman fumbled for the candle-holder with leaden fingers and stumbled though the half-light to the door. The moment the last of three bolts gave, the door swung open and he found himself looking at the taller-than normal outline of the ranger.

“You!” he growled. “I might have known." He turned his back and shuffled across the room to the fireplace, poking at the banked coals with an iron rod. "I know what you’ve come for,” he said, stretching his cold hands out toward the warmth.

“Then tell me when and where they went,” Strider ordered sternly, following him inside.

“That I won’t do, rascal. Hobbits are a big part of my business. Can't afford to shake them off, you know.” The innkeeper groaned as he bent and threw some tinder into the embers, watching them leap into flame. "So I’ll not be one," he turned and straightened up with another groan, looking the ranger in the eye. "To let my little customers be intimidated."

“That and a good deal more!” said Barliman, turning back to stoke the fire. “The stout one had some hard words against you."

"That may be," continued Barliman as he added larger pieces of wood to the flames. "But I made a promise on my mother’s dear heart that I wouldn’t do nothing to help you find them. I might have known that a rascal as yourself would be in the…highway business, so to speak!”

“I am no robber,” said Strider. He cast back his cloak and set his right hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Yet I am a warrior. And it would be in your best interest not to cross me if you value the lives of those little folk.”

Barliman had been watching from his crouched position. "Lor!" he muttered, turning and instinctively stepping aside. Then mastering himself, he splurted out, “And now there’s a threat to boot! I'll thank-ye to find lodgings elsewhere from now on, Mr. Strider, or whatever your name is.”

Strider sighed and removed his hand from his sword. “I do not threaten, Master Butterbur, but say true. If those hobbits are not found by me, they may be found by something much more sinister.”

“Your ruffian buddies, most like!" snorted Barliman. "Well, I’ve heard enough! Get out of my inn now! I’ll be nothing but relieved to see the back of you!"

“I shall leave, and quickly, as soon as I may know when, and in which direction the halfings set out. They are in terrible danger. Now which way?”

“Nob! You ass!” cried Barliman. “Where’s your mind, you melon-headed slowcoach!”

Strider spun to face the fat hobbit, looking sleepy and rumpled, yet dressed as if summoned for a particularly early morning.

“It was Mr. Underhill, sir! He told me." Nob stared past the ranger at the building fire and at the equally heated face of his boss. He grimaced. "Well, Mr. Underhill, sir, methinks he wanted you to know, leastways he sure made no attempt to conceal it."

"Well, mind you," Nob glanced again at Barliman and swallowed noisily. "I mean, his servant was uncommon bossy, I say…'though both of 'em was strange anyway, even for Shire hob…”

“Well, sir, ah, as the servant fellow left to get the bags and bring 'em to the stable, ah, that’s…that's after they made plain they was leaving and all, Mr. Underhill muttered that no good was to come of this, and some other things."

The hobbit nodded, avoiding Barliman's eyes. "Yessir, well, I wondered at that, as he seemed to want to open up to me and all. But just as we heard the other fellow returning, he suddenly whispers to me, all intense like, that they was going south along the Greenway, should one named Strider come asking."

Strider caught his breath and opened his mouth, but Nob continued faster, seeming to know his boss was reaching the end of his patience and would not let him say his piece much longer.

"Then when the stout one appeared, Mr. Underhill gave a great cough, like to cover up his talking to me. Afterwards the two of 'em just rode off into the night.”

“Nob,” said Strider, leaning down on his haunches. “When precisely did they leave?”

He darted a glance at Barliman, who was listening intently. “I don’t rightly know, sir. But it was some hours after middle night, and long before the cock crowed. I don’t think they slept a wink."

Strider suddenly stood tall and shifted his pack on his shoulders as he turned to the innkeeper.

“Be grateful to your servant, Master Butterbur. Thanks to him, you shall be rid of me with naught but a small ransom of bread and cheese for the road.”

Nob shivered forlornly in the doorway, wishing for bed and warmth with all his heart, but he knew it would take many days of hard work to make his employer forget about this night's business. He nodded sheepishly at his employer and scurried off as fast as his short little legs could take him.

“Go back to sleep, Barliman,” said Strider benignly. “Though I daresay you may soon regret my absence.” With that he turned on his heel and hurried toward the dark hallway.

Barliman slammed the door loud enough to make a statement and deposited himself into a comfortable chair by the hearth. He stretched his hands out to the now-blazing fire and with an obligatory snarl, huffed, “Good riddance!”

“Frodo!” whispered Merry with pathetic joy. “By the stars, you can speak!”

Frodo's hooded eyes looked sideways at his cousin. They glittered coldly in the firelight and for many minutes he said nothing. Then, glancing about warily, he answered. “You heard me, did you not?” He raised his chin in subtle defiance, but scooted away from Merry when the other hobbit made to wiggle towards him. “No! You shan’t come closer! Leave me alone!”

“Stay back!” cried Frodo, jumping to a ready crouch. “I shall call the guard! Stay back." His voice had risen to a strangled cry, but before he could spring away, his eyes glazed and he looked confused again. His hands reached out blindly and he swayed, losing his balance, and dropped heavily onto the ground.

"NO…” he cried and covered his face with his hands. "I will not let them take me. I will fight…" His voice wavered and he began muttering low and urgently to himself. “But what has happened? I am lost, It is lost. I want to hide away but there is no safe place here. No one to trust between the bad teeth and the cruel one. Where shall I find rest? ”

“Oh, Frodo…. No…” sobbed Merry forlornly, wiping the tears from his eyes with bound hands. “Don't go back into those depths. I…" He choked back a guilty sob. "I…could not bear it. You must stay with me here for both our sakes! I will explain. Please hear me. I will tell you what has happened and I swear to you that I shall never hurt you again!”

Frodo shook his head as if to clear it and fixed his cousin with an angry glare. “You shan’t have the chance! You will not touch me again!”

Merry held up his bound hands, palms upward, in a beseeching gesture. He spoke as if his heart was breaking and tears now flowed freely down his cheeks. “I won’t, Frodo. I would sooner smite myself, I swear to you. But you must hear me out. We are in—"

“Shuush!” hissed Merry. “Listen, Frodo, the men can NOT be allowed to hear us speaking.”

“No,” answered Frodo, though not with confidence. “That does not make sense. You are the prisoner. What did I do?”

Frodo looked abstractedly down at his hands, then back up to Merry. He frowned. “I'm no captive,” he answered, though not with confidence. “What would men want with hobbits anyway?”

Frodo reacted to the catch in Merry's voice and the other hobbit held his breath as Frodo’s eyes grew wide and his expression, longing. He clutched at his collar absently. “Gone…" he murmured, and for a moment it seemed he was drifting again. He looked up at the sky and seemed to pay no further notice of his companion. Merry dropped his head on the grass, in pain from more than his back. It startled him when Frodo's voice, soft and eerily lucid, asked, "What did I have, Cousin? What’s gone?”

Merry opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. There was no time, and clearly Frodo's mind was not yet ready for the truth. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked his cousin right in the eye. His voice rang with an old air of control and authority. “Nothing important, Frodo, but you must be silent!”

Frodo slowly brought his gaze to earth and fixed his infinitely cold orbs to Merry's face. There was a smile in there somewhere, but it was distant and without humor. Merry feared he had played his hand too soon. "Must I?" the older hobbit asked, in a dangerous, unbalanced voice. "And what trust do you think still remains between us that I should listen to you?"

“I recall no reason to distrust these men, but I do recall reasons to distrust you!”

He only had seconds. “Frodo, Frodo, I know your anger is hot, but you must listen. These fellows are not your friends! They are taking us to a very bad place, a place we must not reach. You must act as you did! Stare ahead, look at nothing, say nothing, be still! Please, Frodo.”

Merry spoke urgently through his teeth, “They have thought you a simpleton, and they MUST continue to believe it if we want any hope of escaping! If you fool them, we can talk again, we can plan!”

“Please,” begged Merry, exhaling hard. “Just do this one thing, if not for me, then for you! If they think you are sane, you shall be bound and watched like a hawk and we will have no chance then to get free. This is my fault, and I shall fix it, but you must do this one thing!"

Frodo’s eyes tilted upwards and Merry felt himself kicked swiftly with a boot, awaking all the nerve endings in his damaged back. His mind reeled as he raggedly caught his breath, closing his eyes in agony.

“Stop pestering my imp!” said Scur. “If I find you’ve worked ‘im up, I’ll have your hide,” Scur paused, eyed Merry’s battered back, and added, “again.”

“Why are you worried?” said Merry. "He can’t understand a damn thing anyhow.”

The man sat down on his haunches, eyeing Merry suspiciously. “I thought you said he weren’t teched.”

“I was wrong,” answered Merry. “I was hopeful, but wrong. There is no cure for him.” Merry shook his head dramatically. “He shall never really speak.”

Scur lifted his eyebrows and stepped over to Frodo. He laid a hand gently on his dark curls. “Well, seems like I know a thing or two that others don’t then! I heard the imp speak! He spoke for me.”

Merry stared at Frodo, pleading silently, for as long as he dared. Then he looked up, high into the man's face. “Well, of course,” sighed Merry, raising himself awkwardly on his elbows again. “If you mean cries, groans, and moonsick chatterings! It is but the ravings of a babe.”

“No." Scur's expression became more belligerent as he glared down at Merry. "He spoke to me. Said thank you to me clear as day! And what’s more," he continued proudly, "I’m the one who made him speak!”

Frodo sat still as death, his eyes focused in the distance, but Merry could tell his cousin's mind had not flown yet. Emotions played subtly across his face, too faint for any but one who knew him as well as Merry did to see. Frodo was listening to their exchange intently. Then, as Scur's voice rose in anger, an almost inaudible sound escaped his throat as, slowly, his small fingers closed in upon his palms, tighter and tighter, into white, bloodless fists.

Merry rolled over, his eyes bright from pain and artifice. “You!” cried Merry dramatically. “You made my cousin speak! By what miraculous power? For I do not lie when I say he has not spoken even to his parents for decades!”

Scur barely suppressed a smile. “Well, not like a villain such as yourself would understand, but I just got a way with him.”

“By the Valar, Scur,” said Merry quietly, staring intently up at the man. “You are a true marvel!” But after a thoughtful pause, he continued, his voice changed, “Do the others know? I mean, do they believe it?”

Scur turned his head to see Grimbold and Broga approaching and Merry took his advantage, clearing his throat.

Frodo's eyes flicked in Merry's direction, and his younger cousin gave him a firm, insistent look, desperate that his earlier words would be heeded. Frodo frowned but kept silent.

“Come here, fellas!" shouted Scur enthusiastically. "Waitillya see what he does!”

Scur knelt down and spooned some soup into Frodo’s mouth, whispering words of encouragement until the other men hovered above. Hoping to get the same two words as before, Scur patted Frodo on his head once again, in exact imitation of his earlier actions.

Before Frodo could react one way or the other, Grimbold pointed to Frodo’s feet. “Curse it Scur, pet or no, you have to keep the prisoner bound. Now tie his ankles.”

Merry noticed the uneasiness that flitted over Frodo’s features as Scur begrudgingly wrapped the leather thong around his ankles and cinched it tight. Frodo seemed then to master himself and then stared straight through Scur as if on command.

Scur looked up at Grimbold, crushed. “Dammit, boss, it made him go all murky again. He won’t say nothing now!”

Broga laughed cruelly. “So I bet as soon as we leave, your imp starts reciting poetry and such! That how it works, Scur?.” He stared down at a motionless Frodo and dissolved in laugher.

“Shush!” snarled Scur. “You’ll see! You won’t make fun when you sees what I done with the imp!”

“Can’t wait,” sighed Grimbold. "But there's work to do if we're to move on.” With that he turned and stomped away, his heavy boots sticking in the mud.

“Can hardly wait for your lousy puppet show, Scur," jibbed Broga, as he followed his master away. Snickering to himself, he called over his shoulder, "and how much'll ya charge for the entertainment, eh?"

The man looked down at Merry menacingly. “Don’t,” he said bitterly. “I ain’t in the mood.”

“Scur, I want to say that I, for my part, believe…well, I believe that maybe you do have a way with my poor simpleton cousin. And maybe you can make some progress…yes, even make him speak, if you keep at it and he feels, well, as comfortable as possible. He glanced at Frodo's bound ankles, making his point. "And despite things as they are, I do thank you.”

Scur gave Frodo's curls a tousle as he grunted in acknowledgement. "Just you stay away from my imp, you hear? I'll whip you myself if you touch him." Scur trudged away and finally caught up with his companions who were loading up the horses.

Frodo didn't move for so long that Merry was afraid his mind really had flown again, but, slowly and stiffly, he turned. In his eyes was rage, but his stare was cold, complex, and terrible to behold. It froze Merry's blood. He closed his own eyes and swallowed hard.

“That’s it, Samwise! It’s mid-day, we’ve been tramping about for hours, and I must rest now or sleep where I stand.”

Sam turned his pony and trotted back to Pippin, his face worn and tired despite the intensity of its set expression.

“I shall curl up in a rabbit warren as long as it means I may sleep!” said Pippin. And casting a second glance at Sam, added in a softer tone, “You look half-dead yourself, Sam. You can’t go on at this pace without a rest.”

Sam nodded wearily. Once he had stopped moving, his gritty momentum evaporated out from under him and he was as spent.

“I just hate to waste a moment resting…when I might be catching up to Mr. Frodo,” he said regretfully. “Wouldn’t it be handy if we didn’t need no sleep?”

Shading his eyes from the bright sun, Pippin gave Sam a weak smile. “That, my dear Samwise, is the most unhobbity thing I have ever heard you say!”

Sam did not smile. He shaded his own eyes and scoped out the landscape for shelter. At last he pointed to a section of the surrounding thicket where trees clustered together tightly, as if for mutual protection.

“I think we could set ourselves up in there without being spotted. Even so, one of us ought to keep our eyes skinned.”

“No!” said Pippin. We have both been up for nearly two days! We need sleep, and that’s flat, as you'd say. I can’t stay awake and you shouldn’t. We’ll bury ourselves in the grass, and cover our ponies with branches if that’s what you need to feel safe, but we both need rest!”

Sam snorted in displeasure, but demurred, too exhausted to argue. They tied their ponies deep among the trees, and then curled in the hollows between the thick roots. Sam had a brief vision of being swallowed up by a tree, but even this memory faded in the haze of exhaustion.

As he drifted off, however, a vague longing came over him and a powerful fear that needed solace. They melted into the same emotion, twisting around each other, transformed somehow and reaching out to him with love and comfort. Sam's lips curled up into a small smile as his swarthy hand fell instinctively, not on his dagger, but over the bump in his pocket. And thus the hobbit slept.

Pippin waited until he heard the first of Sam’s snores rising above his blanket. Carefully he climbed out of his mossy bed and made his way slowly and silently through the brambles, back to the dusty road, still deserted under a dull November sun. He stopped for a minute staring north and then he sighed, heavily and loudly, almost like a sob if anyone had been there to hear. Finally, Peregrin Took reached into his weskit pocket and pulled out his bright yellow kerchief. He wiped his hot forehead with it and then with a sigh, bent down and deposited it, dead in the center of the Greenway.

Merry’s back was in agony during the day's ride yet he thanked the stars for two small mercies. First, they traveled on even terrain and there were few jolts above the even cadence of the horses’ trot. Second, he rode, for the first time, with Grimbold rather than the monster, Broga, who had caused him so much pain.

Merry leaned his head uneasily against a bundle of ragged blankets wedged between his bound arms. They smelled of mold, dirt, and sweat--like something vile and unwanted. There was a time he would have protested against such crude indignities, but now he scarcely noticed them. The drug helped with that. He had been given a small dose of the bitter drink before setting out; perhaps, he considered vaguely, out of some consideration for his welfare. It dulled the ache in his back and put the heaviness of sleep upon him. Yet Merry denied himself the bliss of unconsciousness. He had to keep at least one of his half-open eyes upon Frodo

As usual, Frodo rode with Scur, who held him firmly in the saddle and leaned down often, speaking softly like a child to a beloved kitten. To Merry's relief, Frodo had kept his stony silence, to the casual eye, retaining the outward appearance of senselessness. But what concerned Merry now was not Frodo’s actions, but the new clarity in the hobbit’s eyes – a piercingly obvious change from his former state. Scur was too enraptured with his pet to notice and Broga lacked the sensitivity to see or care, but a cunning man like Grimbold would observe it, and soon.

Grimbold's horse stumbled on a rabbit hole. The ruffian hissed a curse but expertly reined in the animal while grabbing the hobbit to steady him. Merry squeezed his eyes shut and, bit his lip, but could not stifle his groan as pain became his entire world. The horse recovered quickly and, under Grimbold's spur, soon caught up with Scur's mount again. Merry pushed the agony aside and tried to relax his body, to feign sleep and through the mental blur, endure what he had to.

After a time, he focused his single eye slit on his cousin again, watching for any more signs of awareness. They had shifted direction and the early afternoon sun stung his dilated pupil, bringing pain to yet another part of his body. As they moved steadily along the beaten roadway, shadows of sparsely leafed trees teased his patience, offering only brief relief from the sun's bright glare.

Catatonic for the first part of their captivity, his cousin's 'performance' had of course been flawless. But he could not play “teched” as well as when he was teched. No, thought Merry, He doesn't truly understand the danger. Frodo will slip. I know he will! And when he did, the knot of his captivity would tighten, condemning them both to a hopeless fate. Grimbold would never let a visibly aware Frodo go unbound or unwatched. Merry closed his eyes and allowed them a brief rest from the glare. The haze of medication made his other numerous pains recede but his mind he would not rest. He had to get them out of this, and soon.

Merry sensed another slight change in direction, away from the sun. He opened his eyelid a fraction and immediately widened it in shock. Frodo was staring intently at him, with cognition, real and fearsome. Merry held his breath but his cousin's gaze softened almost immediately, drifting back into insensibility. Merry allowed himself a sigh of relief.

He gave his cousin the slightest hint of a reassuring grin, set his head heavily down upon the fetid bundle and closed his eyes once more.

Strider had come to that unavoidable conclusion as the sun’s first pale rays fell upon the road. The ponies’ tracks were glaringly visible in the damp ground, in displaced pebbles and crushed weeds. It provided no challenge whatsoever for one of his well honed talents to follow them.

Moving swiftly along the Greenway, he nonetheless kept his wits about him in case this all too obvious trail was actually the ruse of a quarry much cleverer than this one appeared. He had initially had been worried they would veer off the path or double back to obscure their trail, but it continued straight and clear, and was even occasionally accompanied by small, barefoot prints, if the lightly shod ponies' track wasn't enough of a testimony that those he followed were hobbits.

The ranger increased his pace. Even with a four hour lead on him and though the hobbits rode and he ran, he knew he would catch them. The Shire-bred mounts were hearty beasts but not made for speed. Nor, from what he had learned from Gandalf, were hobbits. But more than his quarry's slowness, Strider was concerned with their apparent lack of guile or fear. They were leaving a track any could follow and there were much more dangerous hunters on this road than a Dunedain.

He ran on, swift and sure and tireless until the sun began to dip toward the horizon. Then his eye lit upon something bright at the center of the road. He slowed, cautiously, and stooped to pick up the shimmering cloth. His face broke into a wide grin. It was a yellow kerchief with the initials “P.T.” embroidered in blue at its corner. Strider leaned his hand against a grey birch and allowed himself a brief chuckle.

“Thank-you, Pippin Took,” he whispered as he wiped his moist forehead with his sleeve.

Merry started and became suddenly and painfully aware that he had fallen asleep on horseback. The sky had darkened to a dusky, benevolent rose, seemingly at the blink of an eye.

“I am now,” grumbled Merry. His mouth felt as if it was stuffed with cotton. Coming back to his senses, he lifted his head a fraction and asked, “How…long?”

Merry squeezed his hands together and made an abortive attempt to rub his eyes. Feeling his wrists bound, he sighed and dropped back down on the bundle.

“Will you not unbind my hands as we ride?” grumbled Merry on impulse, already knowing the answer.

“True,” answered Grimbold with a snort, “because you’ll stay bound as you are.”

Merry groaned, more because it was expected of him than out of true disappointment. He had no real hope of more freedoms. Grimbold was far too careful a captor to allow such things.

For me at least, thought Merry. And with a hopeful glance at Frodo, he noted that his cousin, still perched securely in front of Scur, was unbound.

The medication's effects were waning and the wheels of Merry’s agile mind began to turn more quickly. As things stood, he would have to get Frodo's help to make their escape. His cousin could use his status as the “good,” captive to help free them both, and then Merry would make everything up to Frodo. He would make things all right again. He would. Every sinew of his body, every stitch of his determined soul would be brought to bear on the task. He would save his cousin who he had so wronged. But first he must extricate them from the grasp of these men and this unspeakable journey to the maw of torment.

Merry bit his lip in self reproach. The drug had made him careless and Grimbold had caught him staring like a mother owl at his cousin. Merry covered himself as best as possible.

Merry attempted to straighten himself in the saddle. A bolt of pain coursed through his back making him wince and stealing his breath for a moment, as well as his retort.

“I’d stay still if I were you,” said the man, egging on the horse with a touch of spur. “If you want your back to heal, that is.”

"Why?!" growled Merry, a touch of his old sarcasm returning. “So I can be nice and fresh for my fate when we reach our destination?” He forced himself up higher, more out of defiance more than anything else. “I should think it better to perish now and have done with it!”

Merry frowned. “If it's no matter to you, then why did you wake me? Were you afraid I was already dead?”

Merry turned his head up at an awkward angle. “That was it! You wanted to make certain I was alive.”

“And so you are,” answered Grimbold, keeping his face turned up toward the road.

“You agreed to bear me this day because you did not wish Broga to harm me,” said the hobbit sarcastically. “I'm touched. I guess that means you do care what happens to me?”

Grimbold coughed suddenly, whether from shock or suppressed laughter, Merry couldn't tell. “I simply do not wish you to provoke him any further,” answered Grimbold. “You would not live very long if you did. But, more importantly," this time a smile was clear on his upturned lips, "I would lose my reward.”

“I should die to spite you then,” chided Merry, still staring upwards into the man's unreadable eyes. "Perhaps I will yet rob you of your precious reward." Merry forced a smile onto his own lips. "I don't imagine it would be hard to get him mad enough to kill me.”

“Don’t you bloody dare,” said Grimbold warningly. “If you allow yourself to be damaged beyond usefulness to the wizard, I’ll kill what's left of you myself.”

Merry sighed. He had no desire to see Broga again and Grimbold probably knew how empty a threat he had made. He shifted in his seat and out a sharp hiss of pain. “My back still hurts,” he whispered absently.

Merry closed his eyes, trying to keep his mind focused, his voice steady. “You know," he said, carefully. "My…my family is rich you know, Grimbold…very rich – I could pay you more than he could.”

“No, you couldn’t,” said Grimbold firmly. “And it’s gone beyond that. It is your fate to meet the wizard, whether I succeed in bringing you to him or not. Even if you by some miracle escaped – he would find you. If he had to unleash an army to do it, he would hunt you down." The man looked down at Merry and the cold dispassion of his expression startled the hobbit. "And you have no idea what he would do to you then. The pain now in your back would be a fond memory.”

Merry shivered. “You know what he plans for us!’ he said with force. “For pity's sake, Grimbold! You have some humanity, I can see it, how can you do this?”

The ruffian stretched and rose in his stirrups, causing the leather to groan and creak. “The wizard has a way with wayward minds," he muttered, staring at the darkening pathway and then at the fading sunlight, his eyes narrowing in thought. "I've seen what he does and it's not a pretty sight, little one." Grimbold sat back down, studying the surrounds, listening beyond the horses' steady hoof-falls and sniffing the wind. Satisfied, he continued in the same disaffected voice. "Your cousin will spill his secrets for the wizard. I have seen it done. That one can squeeze truth from a stone.”

“Just what I’ve said,” answered Grimbold. He opened his water skin and took a long sip and set the bag on his knee. “And I’ve said too muc.h.”

Merry looked longingly at the skin, too proud to ask but hoping that Grimbold would share its contents with him. The ruffian did not notice and stoppered the vessel before dropping it back on the side of his saddle.

“Have you no pity for him?" Merry continued futilely. "Can you not see he’s damaged enough already?”

The man refused to look at him. “I cannot afford pity. You shall both get to Isengard, and you shall both be surrendered up to the wizard, be that a fortunate fate or no. That is my task. I do not look beyond it. But if I do not envy your fortune, neither do I take responsibility for it."

This time, Grimbold met Merry's frightened grey eyes and held them. "You have played a dangerous game, little one. Do not lay the blame for its consequences upon my head – I shall not take it.”

Merry felt the walls of his frail complacency collapsing as memories of his deeds surged up from their rubble. He swallowed in sudden terror and fought to clear his mind. He had to be strong; he could not afford self-recrimination, not now.

“I do not blame you!” he cried urgently. "But you have the power to stop this! We know nothing that this wizard could possibly want! We are just simple hobbits! You can't just deliver us to such a fate!”

Merry gasped as the man’s powerful hand encircled his neck. He was pulled back against Grimbold's chest, and the man spoke very softly into his ear, his breath hot and his threat unmistakable.

“Hear me now, young master. You shall be delivered and I shall deliver you, and if you try to escape again, I swear you and your innocent cousin will both suffer my consequences.”

Merry was thrown forward upon the horse's unruly mane. He turned his head, gasping in panic, “You wouldn’t hurt him! You couldn't!!”

“Do not,” he warned, his voice truly menacing now, “presume to tell me what I would or would not do." He turned his head. "Broga, come take your imp!”

Broga, who had been watching the scene with delight, gave his leader a terrible grin as he rode up beside him. "See what I mean, Boss?" he said with a smirk at the hobbit. "Not so easy to keep your temper 'round this one, is it?"

Merry was unceremoniously handed over to Broga and his hands were again bound to the saddle horn. Grimbold looked Merry sternly in the eye, then turned to Broga.

“We halt in one hour," he said loudly, staring again at the setting sun and the darkening roadway ahead. He then turned his cold gaze on Merry .

Grimbold spurred his horse forward, harder than necessary, and the animal took off with a start.

When Grimbold was out of direct earshot, Broga gave a laugh that made Merry’s skin crawl. “So imp, it’s you and me again! Do you think you will squeak?”

Sam stared down at his companion, still asleep in the small clearing. They were well off the road, almost invisible, and Pippin had curled up like a soft ball underneath his travel blanket. The ground had proved harder than it looked and neither of them had slept well despite their exhaustion, but the young Took had managed to get more rest than his companion had.

Sam had been troubled by nightmares of the kind he had never known before. Fire and molten rock burned against an unfamiliar black landscape - frightening yet strangely magnetic, it was an image that beckoned to him. He felt he walked down a dimly lit tunnel towards a tall figure standing before a raging orange light. And then the figure turned and held out a dark hand and the hand was missing a finger. He had jolted awake in a cold sweat and sprung to his feet, terrified, but the crispness of a autumn dawn and the easy breaths of a familiar companion had soon calmed him and when he was reassured that his vision was just a dream, he resolved to think no more of it.

“No,” corrected Sam. “It’s near dusk. We’ll travel by night ‘til we’re good and sure we ain’t being followed.”

“By night?” said Pippin waking further and rubbing his eyes. “Are you mad? We'll lose our way! And who knows what other trouble we're likely to run into in the dark!”

“Pippin, we need to go secret-like and there’s no better way than when the sun’s gone down.”

Pippin sat up and stretched. “You can't still be worried about that ranger?” he asked, casually. “We've hours of lead on him and we're moving as fast as we can. Nob told me the fellow didn't even have a horse. How could he catch us?”

“I reckon he suspects well enough where we’re headed,” grumbled Sam with a frown. “And as for moving fast, we’ve been asleep for hours and maybe lost all the head start we had.”

The other hobbit bent down to roll up his sleeping gear. “All right? What do we know about him, eh? P’raps he can run like the wind. P’raps his like don’t need sleep.” Sam looked over his shoulder worriedly.

“Well we do!” asserted Pippin as he emerged stiffly from his blanket and stood, blowing into his hands. “And we can’t push ourselves past weariness if we hope to be of use to Merry and Frodo.”

Sam looked back at Pippin, the conflict showing plainly in his face. There was human danger behind them and doubtless worse danger ahead, danger in the brush and woods on every side. They were inexperienced Shire hobbits who didn’t know where they were going or what they would do when they got there. And young Pippin seemed to be acting like it was a picnic on the Brandywine.

Pippin caught Sam’s expression in the fading light. He sighed long and hard, equally worried but for a different reason all together.

“Very well, Sam,” he said quietly. "You cook us something and I’ll fetch the ponies .”

“All right, I’ll make something to eat but it’s got to be quick-like, and no fire.”

Pippin sighed again as he stepped away from the clearing. “Fine, Sam, whatever you say.”

But Pippin did not fetch the ponies yet. Instead he scurried to the edge of the road where he had left sign of their passing. From behind the brambles, he could see nothing that resembled the handkerchief he had dropped. His heart beating wildly, he bent down and crept closer to the roadway. Perhaps it had only blown away and needed to be set back in place.

Pippin looked carefully from side to side before venturing upon the road. He listened hard but the only sound to be heard was that of birds heralding the close of day. Slowly he crept onto the hard packed thoroughfare. He walked up and down but a preliminary search yielded nothing.

Minutes passed and he could hear Sam’s irritated calls sounding loud from the camp. Pippin cursed under his breath and began to dig frantically into his pockets. In his left he found a single gold coin and a button. The right pocket yielded a better treasure – a tobacco pouch – mostly empty.

“A pity to waste the last of it,” he whispered. “But there’s nothing for it.”

He placed the pouch almost hesitantly on the Greenway right in a bare patch of road that made it most visible. He weighted it down with a small rock, and giving his precious leaf a parting glance, stepped back into the trees.

Pippin steadied himself on a sapling and looked up at the sky. It was almost full dark now and it looked like there would be a moonless, starless night ahead. He let hissed a quiet curse as Sam called again. Walking through these woods at night would be impossible. He grabbed another tree to steady himself as he nearly tripped over something he could not make out. His only guides back to camp were the grey outlines of the trees and the echoes of Sam’s intermittent calls.

Pippin took three more steps then halted, sensing something amiss in the shadows. All had gone quiet suddenly; the night sounds hushed as if by command. He surveyed the forest about him, barely daring to breathe. Nothing. He slipped his dagger from its sheath and stepped cautiously on.

A twig snapped behind him. Pippin spun round, knife raised as a strong hand grasped him from behind. He began to cry out but a second hand clamped solidly over his mouth.

“You should watch where you drop your possessions,” said a soft voice in his ear. “You never know what manner of rogue might pick them up.”

The hands let go and Pippin turned upon the dark figure, knife still in hand. Even in the grey twilight, he could make out the man's craggy beard and his stern, glittering eyes. He lowered his weapon and sighed in relief.

The man held a piece of bread up to Frodo’s eyes, waving it back and forth as a goad. He raised his eyebrows and smiled at his charge with his awful teeth.

“You must be hungry, my little halfling. Just say ‘Scur’ and you can have the taaassssty bread. All you have to do is say Scur.”

Frodo made no move and kept his eyes on a tree at the center of his vision. Stale bread grasped in a man’s dirty fingers held no appeal for him whatsoever and the 'lesson' was trying his patience. His mind was growing clearer each day but memories of how he had got into this predicament were still elusive and until he had a clearer picture of his situation, he dared not speak. A warning of danger and an unparalleled longing were the only things that had come through the mists undimmed. And the longing… It was of an entirely different kind than hunger--gnawing, potent, suffocating, terrifying—it was as if a singular darkness was coiled tight about his mind, squeezing out all other thoughts save a desire for It – and yet, what 'It' was, Frodo could not remember. Desire seemed to have become a creature complete in itself, jealous and willful, and unwilling to release even memory.

And yet, there was power and joy behind that memory, Frodo knew. A mysterious force was there, of which he was master, though it lay just beyond his reach. If he could only tear away the veil between them his fulfillment would be just…

He was startled back into reality by the feel of cold fingers tickling at his neck.

“Collar too tight?” asked the man as he fumbled with Frodo’s top button. The hobbit realized then that he had been clawing at his own neck.

The man leaned back on his haunches again, surveying him, and Frodo let his eyes drift vacantly.

“Won’tcha just say my name, imp? Your good mate, Scur? Ain’t I been good ta ya?

Frodo hadn't been certain if he should be disgusted or if he should pity this ugly man who seemed to be working so diligently with him, but the leather cords the man had bound about his ankles the moment he was set down from the horse had decided his feelings. Though they were not tight and the man had apologized for binding him, they chafed ankles and dignity alike--and Frodo resented them. At least the man had not used rope, the mere sight of which filled Frodo with a strange and unreasonable terror. That was another thing Frodo did not understand. His emotions seemed to be responding to events he had no conscious memory of, and his lack of control over them alarmed and angered him. But for the warning in his heart, he would have stood and demanded an explanation of his circumstances from these villains. But for the warning… and the hunger.

The bonds also confirmed that his cousin, the one who had caused him pain, had been right when he'd said they were both prisoners. Understanding that put a new and curious light on his situation. He was still angry with Merry, almost violently so, and that too seemed to have come, at least partly, from events he could not clearly recall. He remembered the whipping and the outrage and horror it filled him with, but what possible circumstances could have led them both to such a juncture, he couldn't even imagine. Whatever they were, he grudgingly conceded, they must have been powerful indeed to turn a hobbit into something so monstrous.

The poor man continued to repeat his own name and the bread flitted about Frodo's face like a gadfly. The hobbit focused stonily on the tree. He would risk nothing. He let his hands fall to the ground where his seeking fingers dug into the moist earth rather than inexorably at his collar.

Unguarded for a moment, Merry crept forward on his elbows toward Frodo and Scur. He had pulled down his gag and hoped he would be able to work himself into what passed for Scur’s good graces with some carefully placed flattery.

Scur threw down the bread. “What do you want, maggot?” This might possibly be harder than Merry'd planned.

“I was hoping to see you work with him,” he said, hopefully. “If you can make him speak, well, that would be something I would love to see.”

“See there!” said Scur. “He’s afeared of you. And for good cause! I seen his back, remember!”

“I have paid for my crimes,” said Merry. “And I will certainly pay more, but right now I want to do some good for my poor unfortunate cousin. He might be afraid of me, he might hate me till the day I die. But what I’m trying to say is that… is that my cousin, he’s not afraid of you. In fact, I think he likes you.”

Merry hesitated. “Perhaps,” he said, pursing his lips in thought. “Perhaps you are not offering him anything he really wants.”

Scur scratched his head for a moment, then a wicked grin crossed his face. “Eh, maybe 'e wants a piece of you.” And he laughed to himself, delighted, as if he had just been very clever.

“Hey, little feller!” said Scur, taking Frodo’s hand out of the dirt. “This here is the maggot what hurt you. How'd you like ta give him a little back, eh?”

He lifted the hobbit up like a rag doll and maneuvered him so that he was sitting facing Merry. Frodo's bright eyes focused for a moment and Merry could see the fire that still flickered in their depths before they went purposefully blank again.

Merry frowned, wondering what Scur was up to and how he could turn the simple man's actions to his advantage. “He may talk but he won’t strike me,” he assured the man. “No matter how shamefully I've treated him, he's not got it in him to strike a fellow hobbit, especially kin who love him. He's a gentle, innocent fellow who hasn't a violent bone in his body. You’ll see for yourself.”

Merry kept his expression neutral, but looking into Frodo’s eyes, he saw awareness there again. And disgust, and loathing, and fear and outrage.... And something else.

“Of course I may be wrong,” Merry continued, settling confidently in front of Frodo. “But I will be overjoyed to see him do anything of his own free will. It would be my life's joy to actually be able to communicate with him – really have a heart to heart talk – but I've almost given up hope of it. If you can get him to strike me, it will at least be a response from him, and I would be glad of it.”

“Ha!” laughed Scur, “I daresay I'd be right glad to see him hit you a few times, too, maggot-face. It'd do us all good, I'll wager.” Scur laughed louder.

Merry sat patiently. “I'm of the opinion that speech would be a better avenue for you to pursue, but you are in control here. If you think you can entice him with violence rather than with words, by all means try. I'll be happy to see you get through to him at all.”

“Oh, I will. Just you wait,” said Scur. “Give the little fella half a chance. It's more than ‘e got from you.”

Scur pulled Merry's bound hands closer until he was but inches in front of Frodo. Merry did not resist the manhandling and returned his cousin's hard and unreadable stare meaningfully, hoping to communicate if only for a brief instant.

The man sat down behind Frodo and moved so that he had the hobbit almost in his lap, then he took Frodo's hand in his own and balled it into a fist. He grinned up at Merry from over Frodo's shoulder and moved the fist slowly to Merry’s cheek. Merry shrugged to suggest that he knew Scur would not believe his assertion until he had seen Frodo's lack of response himself.

Once, twice, three times Scur moved Frodo’s fist in an arc to Merry’s face, each time offering encouraging words as Frodo’s knuckles grazed the other hobbit’s skin. Merry did not raise his bound hands up to block him, and indeed, was sure there would be nothing to block.

“Come-on now, little mate, I know you wanna,” whispered Scur. He massaged the hobbit’s shoulders congenially. “Think how bloody good it would feel to pop him one.”

A burst of pain, stars, and Merry’s body was slammed backwards onto the grass.

He heard Scur crowing out in victory, and became vaguely aware of hot, sticky blood flowing from his nose. He groaned in pain—both from his re-awakened back and his bruised face—and rolled over to look again into Frodo’s eyes. They glinted at him, hard, cold, and filled with righteous defiance.

And then his cousin blinked and the stare went straight through him. Scur had wrapped him in a triumphant bear hug and was lifting him off the ground in delight.

“That’s my imp!” Scur set Frodo down and tucked him companionly under one arm as he clapped him on the shoulder. “Now that was worth waitin' for! I’ll get him better than bread now!” He climbed to his feet, chuckling, and left Merry crumpled in the grass to dash off to the campfire.

“By the Gods!” cried Merry, blood still coursing from his nose. “That hurt!”

“Play along by all means,” replied Merry. He tried to right himself but fell again to the dirt. “But by the stars,” he continued, his voice shaking with frustration. “Do not do it so very well, and not when the others are present!”

“Shall I not be Scur’s special imp?” asked Frodo bitterly. “Shall I not say his name?”

“Say his name,” said Merry. “Absently. In the way of a bairn. Give him a hint of reward, nothing more. Do not forget yourself with these men, Cousin. They are very dangerous.”

“Oh, I wish to forget nothing,” hissed Frodo. “At least, those things which I can remember.” The flash of anger in Frodo's blue eyes blazed hot enough to make Merry wince. “And what I do begin to remember, fills me with rage.”

Merry sighed desperately. “You must listen now, Frodo. Your hands are often untied. We shall find an opening soon. Then you must untie me and we shall bolt like the wind. Until then, you play the fool and I will think of something!”

“Do you have a plan then?” asked Frodo earnestly. “I can make plans too and I have played your fool long enough.”

“I have just told you my plan!” Merry cried. “A poor plan, perhaps, but it is all that I have of one. But we must be swift for I do not know how much longer it will be before we reach our destination.” He was breathing hard as he stared intently at the other hobbit. “But I do know…Frodo, I do know that we must not reach it. A fate worse than death awaits us there.”

“What have you done to us, cousin?” whispered Frodo, his voice, low, intense and furious.

Merry bowed his head, unable to look Frodo in the eye. “We must escape," repeated Merry. "I just don’t know quite how.” His voice was shaking.

“I think so…somewhere along the Greenway is my guess." He sighed, wearily. "I am not yet sure how to get us out of this and I am worn out with worry, but I want to make it all better for you, Frodo. I owe you that much. But, now that it has come to it, I find you have to help me. I…am weary…hurt…overcome with...” Merry finally looked up and his eyes were moist with tears. “I cannot clear my mind as I used to.”

“I should escape on my own.” Frodo’s voice was still angry, without compromise. “Leave you to a fate even the shards of my memory tell me you richly deserve.”

“No!” cried Merry in a panicked voice. “No.” He was breathing heavily. Together is the only way we have a chance. Alone, y-you wouldn’t survive a day. You are not yourself yet! You don’t know where we are! And you do not yet comprehend what all has happened. You do not understand what haunts you.”

“Tell me then…Cousin!” said Frodo as his voice now shredded into fragments. “Tell me…what this is about! What do you know of what haunts me?” Frodo’s voice now dropped into dangerous registers. “What do you know of the darkness? What do you know of dreams of fire and torment, agony and delight? Tell me, Cousin! What is this hunger that eats away at my mind? Tell me what is it I lack so desperately that I cannot think, breathe or take a step without it consuming me!”

“I cannot…yet,” began Merry, and seeing the look rage upon his cousin’s face, added, “It is too dangerous! But do not think you are alone! I feel it too! All of what you describe. But now is the time for action. Please, Frodo. You must let me help you!”

A sudden sickness welled up in Merry’s throat and he thought he might vomit. “Not now, Frodo! We must—“

Merry was dying inside, yet he could hear footsteps approaching. “Frodo, you—“

“I had a fleeting memory of him hurt, broken, bleeding, a wretched shell of the hobbit he was before." Frodo bored into Merry with terrible accusation. "You did that to him.” It was not a question.

Frodo's face twisted in rage and Merry, half expecting to be struck again, looked up. Then saw a figure come up behind Frodo and fear filled him. He fell back onto the grass.

“Imp?” called Scur. “Imp!” He strode between them, shoving Merry back further.

He wanted to scream a warning, command his cousin to keep up the charade, but the man had already seen.

Frodo twisted around impetuously and unwisely, his eyes fully focused and aware.

Merry’s breath caught as the man fell on his knees beside Frodo. Scur took him into his arms, laughing in wonder and delight. Frodo seemed to shiver, whether as part of the act or in real revulsion, Merry did not know. Then Merry saw Frodo go limp again, but feared the ploy was too late! A hiss of concern from Scur showed Merry the ruffian noticed a change. Apparently baffled, Scur held Frodo at arms length again, concern etched in his ugly features, as if trying to figure out what was the matter with him. He then set Frodo down face first and started patting his brusquely upon the back as one trying to revive someone rescued from drowning.

Frodo took in a ragged breath, deep and audible. Scur flipped him around, convinced he had saved him.

For a split second he focused his eyes on the man’s confused face, opened his mouth, and in his clear high hobbit voice cried out a single word.

"My name!" He crowed. "Little imp said my name!" Scur picked up Frodo like a rag doll and held him up at arms length “Didn't you imp? I taught ya well!”

Scur lifted his voice in a laugh that sounded like a nail being pulled from wood. Frodo didn't quite know what to make of suddenly being the focus of such unbounded joy. It embarrassed and humiliated him and he wished desperately to be put down, but could think of no sure way to extract himself from the degrading predicament.

This time Scur was louder and more enthusiastic, shaking him and demanding a repeat performance. Frodo was at a loss. It was still an effort to concentrate but being swung around by a ham fisted man made it even harder to think. He didn't believe Scur would hurt him, deliberately, but the man was less than coordinated and Frodo feared being dropped. He hesitated for a moment, trying to work out if tossing this dog another bone would get him free or make matters worse.

“Scur,” he finally repeated, his voice flat and haunted though not entirely by design. The coarse face and bad teeth wavered before his eyes and he felt confused again. Some part of his mind that still understood things told him not to offer any more, and tried to pull him back to the sanctuary of the mists. This time he let them take him a little ways, until his eyes misted over and his body went limp. Now that he knew he could leave this cocoon of senselessness if he wished, he began to understand the safety of retreating into it.

“Now, now, imp,” he said gently, setting Frodo down on the blanket and running his grimy hands through the hobbit’s hair. “Ye made such a good bit of progress. No need to go leaving your Scur that way. He won't hurt you. Now, say my name again to show you understand.”

Even through his self-induced haze, Frodo could hear that pathetic desperation in the man's voice—as if any joy and pride in the ugly man's pitiful life hinged upon Frodo's response. He focused his scattered thought but kept his appearance carefully schooled; vapid and unmoved.

“I think he might speak,” said Merry from behind him, “if you unbound his feet. He…" the hobbit paused, "doesn't like ropes.”

“But he does speak to you,” said Merry patiently, then added, “miraculously. Truly it is a miracle, Scur. And if you can achieve one miracle under such conditions, think of what you can do if he's comfortable. If he thinks you trust him?”

“And have Grimbold on my arse?” laughed Scur coldly. “I think not, rat.”

“He would not find out. Why would I tell him anything?" asked Merry. “I just want my cousin to be well, to see you work your magic— it's more than anyone before has ever been able to do. All I want is to help my cousin. You can see how he hates to be bound. And he won't wander off. He's always stayed right where folks told him to, bless him. It's one thing he was able to learn." Merry sighed remorsefully. "Right now I doubt he's even leave with me if I was free; he won't even say my name, but he'll listen to you.”

“I can see,” said Merry, biting his lip, but keeping his voice quiet and respectful, “that you care for him, more than the others-and now my cousin knows it as well. He trusts you, Scur, I have no doubt of it.”

Merry hitched up his shoulders and frowned as if uncomfortable. “I…I hurt him, kept him bound. That's why he won't speak to me." Merry shivered, then shook his head suddenly and looked up at Scur. "If you do the opposite, keep him unbound when you can, away from Grimbold’s eyes, I think you would be amazed at the results.”

Scur’s eyes widened as the idea gripped him. He tilted his head, listening harder.

“Then you could show the others what a special talent you have - and make no mistake, Scur ,” said Merry enthusiastically, now crabbing toward him. “You do have a miraculous skill! Miraculous! I have never seen anyone who could get him to warm to them so readily. The others will be astounded, but," Merry paused thoughtfully, "they are not ready to see what you can do. Not yet. It would not do to tell them of my cousin’s breakthrough here today. Not until you’re sure he will repeat it. You'd look a fool if he just sat there like he is now. But gain his trust, get him fully trained, and you will show them a miracle!”

Scur pursed his lips, trying to give a noncommittal grunt, but the seed had been planted, fertilized and well watered. He knelt down by his charge.

“Time for a good sleep, little one.” Scur drew his knife and Frodo flinched.

“Now, little imp, not to worry. Scur’s not gonna harm ye none. I was gonna untie ye as a matter-o-fact. Why not have a comfy night, I say?” He hesitated a minute, then a broad, yellow toothed smile crossed his face. He looked down at Frodo’s blank eyes hopefully. “Buuuut I was wondering, if’n ye might not say my name again…were I to cut your bonds for the night.”

Frodo had managed to follow the conversation. It had drawn him like a clear light through the haze and had provided his mind something to focus on. He understood what Merry was planning and saw the opportunity that was presenting itself. He wrinkled up his forehead. Scur expected him to speak in order to be freed. Like a trained dog. There was resentment. He licked his lips slowly. He didn't want to cooperate with Merry or Scur. What he wanted was some place quiet, safe and dark to think and settle the chaos that still tumbled about in his head. There were still many things he didn't understand and needed to, quickly. But first, yes, first he needed to be free. Frodo groaned and turned away from his captor's ugly, grinning face and bad breath, as if having a difficult time with the request. He took a deep breath, prolonging Scur’s anticipation before producing anything like the correct sound. Then, in a soft, sullen whisper, he said, “Scur” and folded back into a fetal position upon the blanket.

Merry smiled brightly and nodded to Scur, who beamed. He bent over to cut Frodo’s bonds and then thought better of it, untying the ropes instead and stuffing them in his pocket. He quickly threw a blanket over Merry and tucked another gently around his charge.

“Goodnight, imp. Have a nice, comfortable sleep but don’t move from that blanket or we're both in trouble.” He shot a cold stare at the other hobbit before turning back to Frodo. “And you just cry out for me if that rat bothers you.”

Then Scur walked toward the main fire with a light step, his hand shoving the thick rope deeper into his pocket. Merry watched him go and grinned despite the misery in his back. Then he rolled himself right next to Frodo.

His nimble fingers were already on Merry's wrists, bound tightly underneath the blankets though he kept the rest of his body very still as he worked at the cords.

“Very good, Frodo,” said Merry, excitedly. “And don't forget the cords at the ankles.”

The dark gaze, which held none of the blankness he had shown to Scur, focused sharply. He looked daggers at Merry and was certain his cousin understood his unspoken intent. This escape was on Frodo's terms and Merry was only included by the grace and generosity of one he had wronged.

“Yes, I see,” he whispered. “Frodo. I know how you feel. Really, I do, but we must keep our wits about us! Don't throw off the cords entirely. We may not get a chance to escape this night, and we need them on loosely for show.”

A flicker of memory came back to Frodo as Merry spoke these words. He had done this before; had been planning to do the very thing that Merry had suggested. Somehow he had known it was a good plan. But how?

Sam had done this trick at Crickhollow - or so Frodo remembered.Sam had gotten himself free, then fooled Merry with the loose rope. But how had Sam freed himself? This memory eluded him, but as the knots started to give, so did the latch on Frodo's flittering memory.

“It doesn't matter,” said Merry. “We can't use the same ruse here. Please keep trying - I can feel the knots giving way.”

“Yes,” answered Merry, now drawing his knees up to his belly to work on the ankle bonds.

“How does it feel,” said Frodo savagely, “knowing that you can make Broga feel powerful too.”

“He'll never take to you following us,” said Pippin anxiously as Strider sheathed his dagger. “Sam has no trust for big folk and lately his fear has only worsened.”

“What is to be done then? I can't very well tug you back like some stray dog!”

Strider laughed grimly. “Not yet,” he said, nodding toward the hobbit camp. “But you both will soon wish you could have me near, I think. Even your Sam. There are threats out here that you will not wish to meet while alone. And I do not speak merely of ruffians.”

Pippin blanched and looked fearfully up at the man, still not moving from his place on the jagged path. “Then what must I do? Demand you come with us?”

“No,” said Strider, shaking his head. “But I shall follow at a small distance.” He raised his hand as Pippin protested. “Do not fear, my skulking reputation is well earned. Sam shall not detect me. But leave no more guides, Master Took. You are an easy enough quarry as it is. I will not let your trail go cold.”

“I was thinking, lads. P’raps when this job is over, I might use a bit of my share to buy one of these imps for my little daughter.”

“Let me understand you, Scur. You want to buy a teched, fat-footed ratling for your daughter as a gift!”

“More like a companion. You know, like a dog, ‘cept smarter and less stinky.”

“Where will you find one, you great fool? At the teched ratling booth on market day?”

“No need to make fun. I think my Clotilde would take to a pet. Little girls like that sort of thing, long as its friendly and,” glancing back over his shoulder at where Merry lay, “doesn’t bite.”

“One problem, Scur,” laughed Broga. “Clotilde ain’t a little girl no more! She’s a full grown woman,” he paused, then added, “Oh, yeah. FULL grown!”

Scur opened his mouth, shut it, and then his face grew dark as a thundercloud. “Just what you saying about my Clotilde?”

Broga laughed cruelly and threw a stick onto the fire. “Nothing that everyone else ain't saying too.”

Scur frowned, looking angry and confused, as if he knew there was insult in the other man's words, but couldn't put his finger on it.

“But you got to know your Clotilde is growed up? I mean, How long since you seen her?”

Scur sighed and a heaviness fell on his face. “Nigh onto six years. Last time she’d just passed ten winters.”

“Sixteen now,” remarked Grimbold laconically. “Not such a young lass, methinks. Old enough to wed.”

“Aw she ain’t of a mind to wed, I don’t imagine,” murmured Scur. “Not without sending word to me, leastwise.”

“Well, Scur, laddie boy, I hate to be the bearer of bad news,” began Broga, his face giving no hint that he actually hated it, “But I run upon your Clotilde last summer. She hung about Cair Andros's outer wall, you know, and along the river, with a few likeminded girlies. And you’re right,” he laughed cruelly, “she ain’t in no mind to wed, as it seems.”

“Well, she prefers to spend her time, as they say, with one or another of the lads serving Isengard,” and with a cruel glint in his eyes, added, “For money.”

This time, Scur leapt up, seeing the insult, but Grimbold held him back. “Don’t let him work you up, Scur!”

Grimbold hesitated but finally he spoke in the hope of keeping peace. “There is nothing unusual about local lasses gathering about the camps, especially those as don’t have husbands. And the lads do often spend a good portion of their wages to please the girls in their company.”

“Company in trade for gifts,” said Scur thoughtfully. “I guess there ain’t nothing so bad about that. And I imagine they does laundry and other chores that don’t befit a man.”

“Company for gifts!” Broga was laughing hysterically. "Which by most accounts, the proper description of a WHORE!”

“Stay back, Scur,” warned Grimbold, using all the authority he could muster, “and shut up, Broga. You both are too deep in drink to have this conversation. Broga, get out of here. Go check on the halfling you tore to sheds, now. Scur, simmer down. He’s just trying to rile you. Go tend to your own imp. We’ll have no more words on what Clotilde did or did not do last winter, clear?”

“Scur?” Broga said in a menacingly quiet tone. He waited until the thin man's gaze was directly upon him and his features were already twisted in anticipation.

Scur slammed into Broga with all his strength and the battle of the henchmen began in earnest.

“What have been doing!” said Sam, accusation darting from his eyes. “You've been gone for hours.”

“Hardly hours,” said Pippin, adding a touch of the surly himself for good effect.

Sam stood up, his anger propelling him toward the other hobbit. “This is serious, Pip! What are you about? And don't you be telling no lies. I'll know, so you’d better out with it right quick!"

Pippin suddenly leveled an imperious, green eye gaze at him. "Leave off, Sam,” he said, his voice rising and taking on a peremptory tone he had never before used with the other hobbit. “We’re wasting time.” He stood his ground, bringing all the Tookish power in his blood to bear on the gardener and Sam, after a moment's hesitation, acquiesced.

But the look Sam gave Pippin then was resentful and heavy with anger and as he stomped off to bring the ponies round, Pippin cursed. After all Sam had done to help free his master and knowing the dedication with which he was pursuing both the cousins, it felt callous to remind him of the difference in their stations, but Pippin had had to keep him from asking too many questions. He looked over his shoulder to where the gardener had gone and frowned.

In minutes they were trotting down the Greenway again with Pippin uncharacteristically silent as if lost in thought. He felt himself tense with each cracked branch, and every bird darting from its hidden perch. He wanted to trust in Strider's ability to follow, but doubt steeped in with each twist and turn of the trail.

Pippin's eyes bored into Sam's back. Something dark and brooding had come over his companion’s face, something that Pippin could not place, that he had never seen before...at least, not in Sam. It was a darkness and malice that somehow reminded him… of Merry.

Sam seemed to feel Pippin’s intensity and turned in the saddle. “D'you hear something?” he asked nervously.

“Something's not right,” said Sam frowning and scanning the landscape behind them. “I can feel it.”

“I got a sense we’re being followed,” said Sam, looking furtively to the right and then left of their path. “Though I got nothing to prove it proper.”

“Why do you say so?” asked Pippin, loudly, hoping Strider and his obviously rusty skulking skills were near enough to hear.

“Yes,” said Sam, turning to Pippin in exasperation. He furrowed his brow as he twisted in the saddle again and gazed down the pathway behind them. “P’haps it's time we moved off the main road.”

Sam had slowed his pony to a walk but now stopped it in the middle of the Greenway. He reached into his pocket and curled his fingers around something inside. “Why not?” he asked.

“We ,” Pippin paused, thinking 'We might lose Strider, who is secretly tracking us for our own protection,' but instead he said, “In the wild we would be slower and maybe never catch up to Frodo and Merry. Or we might get lost or encounter bogs or beasts or…”

“The road ain’t no safer, Pip.” Sam's voice was low and angry. He appeared to be trying to control a temper that was enraged beyond what the circumstances merited. “We won’t rescue our friends no how if we get snatched up by…,”... Sam paused, then carefully added, “something bad.”

Pippin's eyes brightened hopefully. “Are you thinking there’s something to what Strider said back at the inn?”

“That ruffian-king was full of bogwater,” snorted Sam derisively. “But my gut tells me get off the road and I would follow my gut before I follow the blatherings of men.”

With some effort, Sam removed his hand from his pocket and took up the reins, moving his pony off the road into a heavy thicket. He turned a gaze as imperious as that Pippin had used on him earlier toward his younger companion and reluctantly, Pippin followed. Several dozen yards in, Sam halted and looked back, this time with an expression caught between caution and paranoia. He dismounted and curtly demanded Pippin to do the same.

Pippin obeyed and looked in the direction Sam was facing. Both hobbits stood silently for a few seconds, looking nervously about them with widened eyes. Finally, Sam turned to Pippin, a look of abject terror in his eyes.

“Get down!” he hissed. “Let go your pony and get under the bramble, now!”

Then Pippin heard it - hoof beats on the Greenway. He felt terror seize up him. Whoever it was, it was certainly not Strider. Briefly, he felt remorse for not trusting Sam, but the feeling was quickly supplanted by terror.

The hoofbeats came closer – Sam and Pippin huddled together underneath the bramble, shaking with fear, any animosity they had felt towards each other evaporating. They heard their ponies neigh in terror, then bolt away into the murk. The hobbits could do nothing.

Ker-clomp. Ker-clomp. Ker-clomp. The rider showed no pretense of deception. It was a being with no fear. Pippin, however, felt as if his heart would burst with fright. He tried to remember when he had ever experienced such hopeless terror before. Then - as if waking from a nightmare, he remembered.

Suddenly the tirade of hoofs and snorting stopped and silence once more pervaded the bramble bushes. Something horrible dismounted near, too near, and almost silently.

Pippin glanced over to Sam to confirm this horrible suspicion - only to find Sam staring straight ahead as if spellbound, his hand reaching into his pocket.

Pippin saw the twinkle of gold slowly appear just above the hem of Sam’s pocket.

Simultaneously, the black head twisted around, its sniffing intensified like a dog hot upon his prey. It stepped closer.

Not knowing exactly why he did it, Pippin suddenly placed his palm over Sam's mouth and violently grasped his wrist, digging in his nails until he heard the Ring drop back into the bottom of the pocket with a dull plunk. Sam turned, no longer spellbound, but wearing the closest thing Pippin had ever seen in Sam's gentle features to an expression of pure hate.

More sniffing - footsteps, veering off - as if the scent had been lost. The sounds of something climbing back upon a horse. Then a great crashing cacophony. The long, metallic scratch of a sword unsheathed, the crackling of fire, threats called out by a familiar voice. A blood curdling screech of despair and the pounding of retreating hooves.

Grimbold waded in to the mele and tried to pull the men apart. Both were at each other's throats, bashing and punching whatever part of the other he could reach. Grimbold intercepted a few shots with his own body before he finally managed to get them off each other. Blood ran down Broga’s face from an open cut under his eye and Scur’s neck would soon show the bruises from Broga’s fingers digging deep into his windpipe.

"Enough!" shouted the ruffian leader. He brutally backhanded first one then the other in blindingly swift succession. The two, reminded that Grimbold could handily best either of them, nursed newly bloodied noses and glared at each other across the space of Grimbold's armspan.

“Silence!” ordered Grimbold, letting Scur go and pulling out his knife. In a flash it was at Broga's throat, its razor-sharp blade drawing a thin trickle of new blood. “Or I’ll skewer the both of you, collect the full reward and call it a day!”

“You think yer so much better an' me,” cried Scur in an almost childish pique. He scrambled to his feet, rubbing his stomach. “I got skills, I tell you! I can do things you'd never figure out how to. Just you wait and see!”

“You got noth’in,” answered Broga as he held his shirt against his bleeding nose.

“I got the imp to look at me clear as day!” exclaimed Scur. “I got the teched imp to say my name!”

“Wait!” said Grimbold with a voice that thundered over their bickering and made a flock of crows take off from a nearby tree. He looked straight at Scur. “What did you say the imp did?”

“He looked straight at me,” said Scur proudly. “And he said my name. I wasn't gonna say nothing, but…”

Grimbold looked around wildly, not even listening. He grasped Scur’s collar. “Where did you leave them, Scur?”

“Right over there,” Scur answered as he indicated the spot with a nod of his head. “They’re just f-”

“They aren’t anything, you fool!” bellowed Grimbold, showing the first sign of panic his men had ever heard in his voice. “They are gone.”

The two hobbits ran blindly through the woods, their faces lashed by unyielding branches, their feet tripping over ancient tree roots. They were weak from days of confinement and injury and did not care which direction they turned as long as it was away from the ruffians. There had been obvious problems with his plan, Merry understood, but he'd had few other options. Their lead was slight and that getting somewhere completely safe would not be a possibility that night. Perhaps, given time and a miracle, they would find a way home, but he had little of the first and wasn't counting on the second.

Merry glanced at his cousin, wild-eyed, breathing heavily as he ran beside him. Even if they made it home, what then? Could they ever return to the Shire and be safe from ruffians and invaders? Would they ever be safe again? Would he even be welcome? The probable answer to that last question was too crushing a burden to bear and so Merry shut off his mind, pushed Frodo ahead of him, and ran.

Grimbold examined the ground carefully. He could see small footprints sunk deep into the wet moss, leading away from the abandoned cords. He knew well enough his captives had headed for the trees. The forest was the only logical direction they could have gone, as any other would leave them out in the open and easy prey, but he assumed they would soon head northerly, back to their own lands. Grimbold took a long, slow breath. Peering into the gloom under the trees, he saw nothing. He hoped they would follow the course of the Greenway, or perhaps come back to it further up the track; it was the only landmark to be seen in this deserted country, after all. That would make his job easier. If his men could get ahead of the halflings, they could recapture them as they tried to make their way back along the road. If the foolish creatures were not stupid enough to get themselves killed before he could safely dispatch them to their torments at Isengard.

The erstwhile captives could not have got an enormous lead, less than 15 minutes, he guessed. And they were both in poor physical condition while his men were fit, larger and faster. Barring anything unforeseen, they should be his prisoners again before the night was old. Still… He chewed his lip, a gnawing sense of foreboding stubbornly dogging his thoughts.

“Broga,” he ordered. “You go back along the road -- on foot. Keep your ears to the brush for anything moving about. If you catch them, don't harm them. I will handle things from there. Scur, come with me. We're going into the woods to flush them out. They can't have gone far.” Grimbold glared fire at his subordinates as his voice rose in tightly controlled anger. "Now, both of you move! If you value your hides, find those little runts!”

The men leapt into action, leaving their horses in the clearing. Scur dove noisily into the undergrowth, clearing a path with his fervent progress. Broga strode menacingly down the roadway, his strides twice as long and loud as those of the creatures he tracked.

Pippin and Sam ran behind Strider as fast as their shorter legs would allow. The riders had given them a fright more harrowing than any they had ever known and both were feeling the effects of the terror. Sam was too shaken to question Strider's timely appearance. They ran through the wilds, unaware of the direction, only knowing that they were following the tall man and that their progress led away from the riders and their horrifying shrieks.

Pippin's flight had been fueled by fear and he was just reaching the last measure of both that and his stamina when a great root seemed to leap up beneath him to tangle in his feet. He fell, landing hard against the bole of a hoary fir and ripping a great rent in the back of his shirt. The whip wheals tore open as Pippin rolled to his knees, panting and trying to control the pain.

“I... " Pippin tried to stand and gasped as his leg buckled. "Can't run! Go on... without... if you need.”

“I don't think that will be necessary, master Peregrin,” said Strider proffering his hand. Pippin took it and, cringing in pain, stood up.

“Back…hurts,” he panted. “Ankle, but," he tested the limb gingerly. It bore a little weight. "It's not bad. I'll be fine. Just need to rest it.”

“We're not leaving Pippin,” said Sam firmly. “I won't ask how you came on us as you did, but now that you're here -- and seeing fit to order us about -- you might offer us help as we could actually use.”

“We will tend to his hurts once we find a safe place to stop,” said Strider. “But this is not it. Not yet. If you cannot go further, Peregrin, I could carry you if you will have it.”

“I'll have it, Sam, I’ll have it,” interrupted Pippin breathlessly. “I trust him.”

Strider pretended not to hear the offhand insult as he lifted Pippin onto his back. He settled the hobbit where Pippin could hold easily to his harness and where his nearly empty pack made a convenient seat. Without further comment, the ranger began to jog again, moving forward with the same swiftness as when unburdened.

“Come, Frodo,” said Merry as he pulled his cousin along. “We must move quickly.”

Frodo stared blankly as Merry took the lead. He was becoming confused again, his mind rolling and swirling in mists until the trees on all sides of them became a dark blur. He had no notion of where they were, but something about racing through the forest stirred a dark memory. Running blindly in the night, trusting to another to lead him as they ran, shouting, pleading for help! Help! Help! Then he heard a voice call out that was not a memory. He was jerked forward, thrust to the ground and a hand was clamped over his mouth. Frodo blinked, forced his mind to focus, and looked up with confusion at Meriadoc’s worried face.

“Don't you remember? You ran ahead of me and started calling for help. But you mustn't do that now, my dear! It'll only attract danger.”

Frodo shook his head, the visions of another night racing through the trees and calling for aid seeming more real than what he now saw with his own eyes. “Remember?” he asked and raised himself. For an instant he seemed to recall another face beside him in the terrifying dark.

Had Merry been there then too? Frodo could not remember. Merry took his cousin's hands in his own and squeezed them encouragingly.

“You're safe with me now, Frodo,” he said with almost pathetic desperation. “Don't think too hard -- just follow. Please,” he pleaded. “Now.”

Frodo let himself be pulled to his feet. No, it had not been Merry beside him on that other night, but he had been desperately on their minds.

Merry tugged frantically on his hand and the question melted from his mind as the two hobbits continued running headlong into the gloom and his thought slipped back into the darkness of the mists.

Strider found them shelter; a small hollow shielded by a thick rise of briars and bracken. He sat Pippin carefully down on an outcropping of rock in the center while Sam dropped heavily beside him, breathing hard. Both hobbits stared up at Strider expectantly.

“We can rest awhile here, I think,” he said, his eyes showing a kindness they had not seen before. “I know you are tired and afraid.” He sighed as he turned and began to gather wood and tinder from the glade. “But they aren’t close anymore and it is safe to sleep, though we must take turns keeping watch. We do not want to be caught up unawares.”

“And so they are,” agreed Strider. “Though if a magpie carried the Ring, they would hunt the poor creature down with the same dogged malice. It’s the Ring they want and whoever or whatever happens to be attached to it.”

Pippin looked at Sam, horrified, but Sam did not acknowledge him. He was staring intently into the tiny fire Strider was kindling, his face set hard and his hand plunged deep into his pocket.

“My cousin, Merry,” said Pippin, hopefully, “he said we needn't worry about the riders, at least not for the present.”

Strider’s short laugh was wholly without mirth. “Then your cousin is either a fool, or speaks from brute ignorance. You must trust one who knows better. They will do much worse than kill.”

“What…would they do?” Pippin whispered, his voice trembling. “What is worse than dying?”

“That is a tale best left to the daylight when their shrieks are not so close a memory,” answered Strider. “Suffice to say we must sleep briefly and move at first light. We much catch up to the ringbearer and make certain that he is not caught.” He stared intently at Pippin and caught the hobbit’s frightened brown eyes. “Woe be to the world itself if we should fail in that!”

“The world?” Then Pippin remembered Strider’s talk at the Inn and sighed, “Oh yes, I was so wrapped up in fear for my cousins, I forgot the greater threat is much more dire.”

“Yes,” said Strider grimly. “The struggle is much bigger than our desire to save a single hobbit -- though save him we must if the Ring is not to fall into the enemy's hands.”

“They’ll not get the Ring,” said Sam. “Not so long as Sam Gamgee draws breath.”

“You have admirable courage,” said Strider. “Utterly unwarranted, I fear.”

“My cousin,” said Pippin, “for all his faults, is no fool. When he said not to fear the riders, he also said that he'd handled them. I don't know what that could mean. Perhaps you do?”

Strider stood then to full height -- and in the amplifying light of the dancing flames, he seemed enormous.

“This is grim news, indeed,” the man said sternly. “There is no being in Middle earth who could hope to handle such powers as these. I fear what he may have done in the attempt.”

Sam gave a brutal laugh and both Strider’s and Pippin’s eyes snapped to him.

“Handled it,” said Sam savagely. “Well, that's a pretty way to put it! I'd say he handled it on account of being more like the Black Riders than like any hobbit. Probably talked to them himself more like!”

“What wasn't him?” asked Strider. “Gentlemen -- I must know everything if I am to help you and your friends!”

“Friends,” laughed Sam cruelly. “Meriadoc ain't no friend of mine and if he gets carved up by those riders -- I won't shed no tears!”

“Don't Sam me, little fool!” the other hobbit hissed. He stood, trembling with fury, his fists clenched. "Wasn’t him? I saw what he done! Go on, why don’t you give Strider a look at your precious Merry’s handiwork too?”

But before Pippin could move, Sam had grasped the torn edge of the younger hobbit’s shirt and shoved him roughly to the ground, pinning him there with his greater bulk. The movement ripped the garment completely off his back and Pippin’s raw and bleeding wheals were brutally revealed by the firelight. Pippin bucked wildly but was no match for the larger hobbit’s strength.

“See!” yelled Sam. “See what Merry did! Can’t say it’d surprise me he could talk to the monsters. He’s become a monster himself.”

Pippin twisted, and writhed against Sam’s grip and his struggles reopened the wounds so that tiny rivulets of blood ran down his back. Sam held the other hobbit fast to the ground and glared at Strider, seeming not to notice the new blood being spilled.

Sam suddenly seemed to come to himself. He blinked and let go his hold. Pippin lurched furiously to his feet, his face shot through with anguish, disbelief, and outrage.

Strider reached for Pippin’s arm, but even that gentle movement made the hobbit start defensively. “Those are grievous wounds Master Peregrin,” he said. “Though they seem to be closing. I can give you something for the pain if you desire.”

“It may,” said the ranger. “It may mean your cousin was under the influence of dark forces beyond his understanding.”

Pippin turned and stared at Strider, who held his eyes as he continued, his voice dark and serious. “And beyond his control. Am I to understand that he was acting in a way to which you were... unaccustomed?”

“My cousin would never have hurt me,” answered Pippin, angrily. “At least you understand. You know what the Ring can do!”

Sam made an indignant sound. “Not all as touch the ring are corrupted!” His hand moved towards his pocket, but he stopped himself and clenched his fist instead. “Take my Mr. Frodo. He…“

“All are influenced by the Ring,” Pippin muttered as he glared at Sam, his look a knowing and silent condemnation. “Even our dear Frodo.”

“Don't you sully his name,” Sam shot back. “If Frodo were changed it weren't no one's doing, but Mer-i-a-doc Brandybuck and that's flat!”

Pippin did not finish his retort -- for at that moment a shrill cry rent the night air. It was echoed soon after by a second further off. Strider grasped up a brand from the fire and waited as the world went deathly quiet again.

“They are near,” he said under his breath. “That is strange – for they follow the trail of the Ring, and should not bother worthless prey. Perhaps Frodo and his burden are very close.”

Sam and Pippin stared, white-faced, into the forest, their argument forgotten with the renewed terror. Pippin's right hand drew his sword. Sam's returned to his pocket. The hideous cry went up again -- sounding even closer.

Strider held out the burning brand, tracing it around the circle of their encampment. He heard a shattering gasp from behind and swung around. Pippin stood alone, staring horrified at the empty space beside him.

“What the hell was that?” cried Scur, stopping in his tracks. He turned to his leader and saw the man freeze still as a rock. “Grimbold?”

“Nothing good,” he muttered. “In fact it may be very bad for our escaped imps – far worse than the likes of us.”

“We ain't so bad,” said Scur under his breath. “If that biting imp leads my little one afoul – I’ll have his little head!”

“You're little imp may the one that brought them here,” snarled Grimbold. “But there's blame enough to go around. We must retrieve them for their own sakes as well as ours.”

“But that sound -- it were nothing like the ‘help’ cry we heard before. No man or creature that I ever heard makes such a cry as that!”

“It wasn't either man or creature,” said Grimbold in a grave and ominous tone.

“There it is again!” yelled Scur, rubbing his arm. “Makes my blood run cold.”

“It should,” warned Grimbold. “Yet that one seemed farther away. Perhaps those things aren't on the imps’ tail. We, however, are drawing closer. They are moving toward the road but may not know it. Broga could get them first if he uses what passes for brains.”

A third cry rose up in the distance, closer this time. Grimbold pushed on through the thick underbrush, knowing that danger grew deeper with every moment of delay.

“I heard another cry -- sounded more like your teched imp,” whispered Grimbold. “And, did you hear it, still another voice? We are close. They are being careless. Scur, you follow the signs -- quickly, quietly. I'll head them off at the road. We'll close on them like the jaws of a trap. Go!”

Scur went ahead and Grimbold moved deftly, handling the overhanging branches, placing his feet slowly and methodically in the hobbits’ wake, as silent as a wolf cornering his prey.

“Frodo!” cried Merry too loudly. Then, in an exasperated whisper, “Frodo! Come!”

“They’re hungry,” sighed Frodo in a haunted, mesmerized voice. He began to claw at his neck.

“No.” Frodo stilled and his expression became almost placid as he turned in the direction of the Greenway.

Merry rushed him, grabbed his hand and pulled for dear life. His plan had never been a brilliant one, but he could not let Frodo throw away this last slim chance. To Merry’s utter astonishment, Frodo suddenly spun around, his face contorted in a horrible masque of hatred. Before Merry could react, his cousin backhanded him with unbelievable strength.

Merry’s world spun and he found himself lying on the damp ground with Frodo starting dispassionately down at him. For a moment, their eyes met and Merry’s heart sank in despair. A thing possessed now walked in the guise of his fair cousin.

Merry rolled over, leapt up, despite the pain, and barreled after Frodo. “Frodo, PLEASE!You’ll get yourself caught! Stop!”

Frodo glanced back. His pupils were dilated to their fullest extent, their black orbs glinting in the moonlight. For a moment he stared and then bounded forward. Merry ran after, amazed at his cousin’s sudden burst of speed.

“Frodo!” Merry called. “Not toward the Greenway! It’s the first place they will look! Frodo! Wake up! You must listen to me! You are running toward your doom!”

Another ghoulish cry rose up in the distance and Frodo, incredibly, ran faster, seeming to launch himself effortlessly over the brambles and broken branches littering the ground. Merry looked up to see patches of starry sky breaking through the line of trees and knew they were approaching the open road. The open road! He would never catch him before he made the clearing!

“Frodo!” called Merry – desperate now. His cousin had passed the last line of trees. “Frodo! NO! You…will…be….”

“Got’em!” hissed a hated but familiar voice. “Hey Lads!” Broga called loudly. “I got the teched imp!”

“Hold him!” called another voice from only a little ways up the road. “Bind him, but don’t harm him!”

“He don’t take to ropes!” said a third voice from the forest behind Merry. The hobbit ducked down under the cover of a nearby bush.

Merry moved forward silently, as only a hobbit could, until he saw them. Grimbold and Broga stood side by side with the placid and unresisting hobbit held between them. Merry crouched upon his belly and kept very still, his mind racing as fast as his heart.

“I’ll find ‘em myself,” Broga smiled horridly. “It’d make a fine sport for me, boss, and after I do, he won’t be in no condition to leave our care again for a good long time!”

“No.” Grimbold muttered, shaking his head. “He’s close. Probably listening right now. Broga, hand me the imp.”

Broga smiled. “Oh, I get it, boss…cut pieces off ‘im til the rat is smoked out of his hole. I’ll do it.”

Broga pushed an unresisting Frodo to Grimbold while Scur looked down at his former charge with concern and disappointment. The hobbit was again bound, hand and foot, and his eyes, though open, were as black and empty as a starless night.

“Why imp?” whined Scur piteously. “Why’d you go and havta follow him! Now you’re all trussed up again…and all teched again too!”

“Quiet, Scur,” said Grimbold harshly. He lifted Frodo by the collar and faced the trees calling out. “Master Meriadoc! You know we have him and you know you’re caught. Come out now or I swear, I will hurt him. Badly. You know I am capable of it.”

“Shut up!” said Grimbold. “Unlike our friend here, you are expendable!”

Grimbold let go of Frodo’s collar, drew out his knife, and lifted the hobbit’s bound hands. He raised his voice again, louder this time. “Just because Broga’s dense as the Fangorn Forest does not mean all his notions are bad. Your friend can have nine fingers and still live. Or eight. Your choice!”

Merry could not move. There were no options left. If he emerged, they would capture him again, but if he stayed, how could he bear watching his dear cousin in torment? What on earth could he do to fix this?

Grimbold pressed the knife against Frodo’s palm and a line of red bloomed in its wake. Frodo blinked and seemed to rouse from his stupor, struggling weakly, uttering a thin, haunted cry. It sounded like a rabbit being strangled.

Merry wept, knowing that there was only one choice left to him. He stood and came out of the trees.

“I am here,” he said resolutely, his back straight despite the tears that streamed down his cheeks. “And I offer myself to whatever end. Kill me, as I know you would like! Kill me but let my cousin go! My life is all I have left to offer. I have done him a great wrong, and am ready to make payment. Kill me, but let him go.”

A powerful hand came from behind and pushed him face-first into the mud. All dignity lost, Merry struggled to breathe until Broga let him loose in a burst raucous laughter. He pushed himself out of the muck and knelt, head downcast and miserable, his body covered in filth.

“That ain’t how you expected your big moment to go, was it, Rat?” howled Broga. “Well you ain’t having no grand moments today, are ya?”

Merry felt his face warm beneath the mud. He rubbed his eyes clear and stared up at Grimbold, hoping for but really not expecting some form of mercy. Grimbold handed Frodo to Scur and approached Merry, his expression hard.

Merry raised himself, looked at Grimbold, then glanced to his cousin, and turned back to Grimbold.

“Please let him go,” he whispered, no longer noble and self-sacrificing but simply hopeless and desperate. “He doesn’t deserve this, but… I do.” He hung his head again as new tears washed his cheeks.

Grimbold paused for the barest moment as a frown crossed his face. And then it was gone.

Merry raised his head again just in time to see the big man draw back his fist and swing at his face. His world filled with pain and he saw no more.

“Take him,” said Grimbold to a grinning Broga who gleefully hoisted the unconscious Merry onto his shoulder. Then he turned to Scur and reached for Frodo.

“You can’t hurt ‘im!”cried Scur defensively. “This one ain’t done no harm!”

Another otherworldly sheik rang out in the night. Grimbold looked swiftly back over his shoulder in the direction it had come. “We must move, now. We cannot linger!” he snapped.

Frodo, who had been limp and unaware, stiffened like a creature possessed and suddenly, from his small form came an echoing, higher pitched cry, eerily like the one they had just heard. It pierced the night air around them, causing gooseflesh to rise on all their bodies. In the distance, the wraith called out again, and, again in answer, did Frodo.

The others trembled in silence as cries continued to sound out from the North. Frodo began to struggle in earnest, his strength now a match for the man who was holding him. The frantic hobbit drew a breath to call again.

Grimbold, his face betraying the first signs of real fear his men had yet seen, wrapped his fingers around the hobbit’s windpipe and squeezed desperately. Frodo bucked and fought with a frenzy that almost loosed Scur’s hold, but Grimbold added the strength of his other hand to the battle and finally Frodo squawked, his eyes rolling back in his head. The struggle suddenly went out of him and Grimbold, trembling with fear, caught his sagging form in his arms. The man's hands shook as he searched against the pale neck for a pulse and he sighed with relief to find one still there.

"Now," he growled, standing and cradling the limp form in his arms, "let's get out of here."

Merry opened his eyes, desperately trying to get his bearings. He heard the loud clomp of hooves below him and guessed they were riding fast. All was dark but it still took a few confused moments for him to understand he was blindfolded. His abortive attempts to remove it revealed another unhappy fact; he was tightly bound.

The hobbit grimaced under his heavy blindfold, wincing in pain and frustration. Then, slowly, he remembered. They had escaped. Yes. He and Frodo had gotten away from their tormentors. Merry's razor-sharp mind, which had always served him so well, was now as dark and foggy as his surroundings.

What had they done? He tried hard to think. Frodo. Yes, Frodo had gone strange and run back into the hands of…and there had been a terrible cry. The riders.

Merry’s heart was beating strangely fast -- as if he were the one running, not the horse. Panic threatened to overwhelm him, but he steeled himself. For Frodo. He must not give in to despair -- not even now. If there was a glimmer of hope to be had, a shard of will to be found, Merry would seek it out. Like the fragile lead of mithril in a dark cave. He would find it.

“The Runt’s waking,” called a gruff voice that Merry identified as Broga. “What of the screeching, teched one?”

The request was neither answered nor repeated, so Merry supposed Scur had been rebuked with a glance. He thought to inquire after Frodo -- but realized it would be a mistake -- yet Broga had caught his movement and realized the hobbit was awake. He chuckled cruelly under his breath..

Merry heard the jingle of a horse's harness and suddenly his body lurched forward as Broga’s mount halted. He was cut loose and fell to the ground, landing on his back with his breath knocked from him. The blindfold was removed and Merry blinked, finding himself staring up into Broga’s leering face.

The man spit on him. “Good afternoon, Ratling.” He smiled at his handiwork. “Did you have a nice walk?”

Merry shook his head quickly, cowed, at least for the moment. His brain was still refusing to function as it should and he had no will to stand up to the cruel man again. He searched desperately for Frodo with tense, seeking eyes but before he found his cousin, Broga kicked him and watched with an odd expression of joy as Merry curled up into himself.

“Your screeching friend is fine,” said Broga cheerfully. Then he added another kick for good measure. “At least for the next few minutes. After that, I vouch for nothing.”

Strider saw Pippin's stricken face and immediately knew something was terribly wrong. “Where’s Sam?”

But even the ranger's deep commanding voice, could not calm the young hobbit's rising panic. He searched quickly, desperately in every direction around the little campfire, but far more closely than one who was looking for the bulk of a grown and sturdy hobbit. A horrible cry rent the silence and Strider snatched up another brand from the fire.

“Gone!” cried Pippin, approaching hysteria by the sound of his voice. “SAM!”

Strider stared at the spot Sam had been standing just a moment ago. His eyes blazed in a mix of fear and annoyance.

“Disappeared!” screamed Pippin, his voice escalating with both panic and fury as he continued crying out Sam's name.

“What is this devilry?” asked Strider, raising his torch high in the air and looking around as desperately as Pippin had. “The riders draw closer!”

“Closer!” echoed Pippin. “We can't fight them like this! What shall we do?”

“Find Sam, right now” said Strider, grim warning in his voice. “And flee this place without delay.”

“Sam!” shrieked Pippin. “Sam! I know what you’ve done!" He whirled in the little space around the fire and his eyes blazed with terror and rage as they peered into the darkness around them. "Take it off!” he thundered with a most un-Pippin-like fury.

Strider started at the words and a cold chill of fear filled him. He spun Pippin around to face him and the young hobbit bit his lips as if they had betrayed him.

Pippin opened his mouth, then shut it again, then shook his head violently. “Nothing,” he mumbled but would not meet Strider's eyes.

“Pippin – what has Sam got to take off?” His voice shook with impatient rage. "Tell me now or it will be too late for any of us."

Another bloodcurdling cry went up -- closer still. Strider dropped the brand and put both hands on the hobbit's shoulders, forcing him to look into his eyes.

“PIPPIN!" He put his full might of will against the youngster. "Does Sam have the Ring?”

Strider stiffened to hear his suspicion confirmed. “He will draw them to us,” he warned Pippin gravely. “But to himself first. We must find him.”

Pippin at last nodded. He understood what danger the Ring could be; that at least was clear, even if he did not know the foul thing's purpose. The hobbit took one step toward the fire for a brand of his own and tripped on something large and unseen. When he scrambled to his feet, Sam had appeared from thin air, crouching in the firelight, wide-eyed and panting in terror.

Strider drew him up by the collar. Despite his rage and fear, the ranger’s eyes were riveted to the ring of gold resting in the hobbit’s hand. It glittered and shone, mocking him in the firelight.

With great effort, he dragged his eyes away and pierced Sam with his frightened gaze. “Hide it away Sam! Do not put it on again or they will take you.”

Sam stared at Strider, terrified, as if he were the enemy to be feared. He held a finger outstretched, ready to slip the Ring onto it.

“NO!” hissed Strider his voice racked with emotion. “Put it away! Do you not understand? That's how they find you.”

Sam looked down, dazed, into his palm, his finger still outstretched. Suddenly Pippin stepped up beside Strider and reached out to the other hobbit.

“Sam, he is right!” Pippin pleaded. He swallowed, his eyes growing wide with fear as some dread comprehension dawned within him. Sam was gazing, glassy eyed at his palm. He was not hearing him; wasn't hearing either of them. Without another moment’s hesitation, Pippin slapped him hard across his face. “Sam!” he screamed, almost in a panic. “Don't do this! Come back! Put it down! Please! Please!”

Sam stirred, blinking, from his stupor and raised a hand to his brow. “They are... terrible,” he said, trembling.

“That will not avail you with them,” warned Strider, picking up their packs. “They can not die in that way.”

“How do they die, then?” cried Pippin, suddenly angry and slashing at the empty air with his sword .

Strider opened his mouth to answer, but suddenly his eyes grew wide in terror. He brandished his firebrand and shoved Sam violently behind him as he backed into the trees. Pippin turned just as a swirling black shape reared up on his side of the fire. He cried out in horror and faced it, sword bravely but ineffectually in hand. Strider was quickly at his side and jammed the flaming brand where the thing’s eyes should have been. It shrieked as it burst into flame.

The sight of the burning wraith was one to chill the blood-life of a wizard. Sam was still dazed and sightless from his ordeal, but Strider and Pippin were transfixed as time stood still and the horror burned itself into their memories.

“Run!” cried the man. He tucked Sam under his arm and pulled Pippin, his sword still grasped tightly in his trembling hand, after him.

When the pain had subsided to a level he could tolerate, Merry again opened his eyes. He was relieved to see his cousin’s small figure, sitting up in front of Grimbold, who seemed to be interrogating him, but his relief was shortlived. Frodo's back was turned to Merry, so he could not see his expression, nor could he hear any voice but Grimbold's. He watched as Grimbold plucked Frodo up and stepped toward him, his expression frightfully calm. Roughly, he threw Frodo to the ground beside his cousin.

Broga stomped over to Merry and smiled evilly. The hobbit felt a shiver of familiar fear course through him. He thought he knew what was to come next.

Grimbold indicated his henchman should stand behind Frodo and Merry felt the blood drain from his face.

Scur quickly finished tying his mount to a nearby tree and approached his captain with tentative urgency. “Boss?” he asked, eying Frodo protectively. “You’re not gonna hurt my imp, are you? He didn’t do nothing so bad. It were the other one.”

Grimbold rounded on the man, his expression rock hard and unyielding. “Stay where you are, Scur,” he ordered. “Water the horses, gather wood, whatever you wish, but do not come nearer or both you and your little pet will pay dearly for it.”

Merry heard Scur's reluctant footsteps retreating and his heart sank. Broga's rough hands grabbed his legs and the ruffian slid a knife was slid through his bonds. Then he pulled him up to stand facing his cousin, whose leg bonds had also been severed.

Merry knew better than to answer. Reluctantly he lifted his eyes, only to find Frodo still clung to his familiar glazy stare -- but the set of Frodo's jaw told him that his cousin was far from oblivious. Merry's heart pounded in his chest even as he also tried to empty his face of all emotion.

“Here is what I know,” said Grimbold evenly. “Both of you have deceived us.” He turned to Merry, his eyes cold as ice. “I know your cousin can talk and that you made this escape with his help.”

Merry opened his mouth but Grimbold silenced him with a cold look. “This is what I still need to know," he continued. "Who is this prisoner and what is his connection to those things." He looked warily back the road. "Furthermore, I want him to tell me himself--everything he knows, especially about these… creatures out there.” Grimbold’s voice became lower and more menacing. “And this is something you both should understand. I will employ any means within my power -- short of killing you just yet -- to procure answers to these questions, as our survival may hinge upon them.” Grimbold then turned to Frodo. “Who are you? Speak.”

Grimbold spun and clouted him savagely across the face. His hands still bound, Merry reeled back and fell. Broga laughed.

“Do not make sport of me, halfling!” warned Grimbold. “For compared to what the wizard will do, that will seem a kiss. Now stand up and you tell me your friend's name.”

Merry rolled over and staggered to his feet, a rivulet of blood trailing from his mouth.

Quick as a snake, Broga drove a fist into the other hobbit’s gut. Merry cried out as his cousin crumpled, gasping, to the ground.

The man lifted him but Frodo could not maintain his feet at first. His eyes were blinking, watery with pain and he could not catch his breath.

“You saw that coming,” said Grimbold. “I saw you flinch. Do not pretend that you are unaware any longer.”

Grimbold shook his head in regret, “I used that question to see if your friend would lie - and he did. So I give you another chance. Tell me your name, Frodo, your real name.”

Grimbold took hold of Frodo shoulders, and then spoke in a low voice. “State your name, halfling or the next hurt is for him.” Grimbold waited a few seconds. “Broga,” said Grimbold sharply, have you your scourge?”

“What is your name, halfling?” repeated Grimbold with a growing edge of impatience. “This will be the last time I ask so nicely.”

Frodo swayed, but kept his lips tightly shut. He no longer showed even the pretense of idiocy, but did look like he was very close to being ill.

Grimbold nodded again, this time towards Merry. Broga pushed him to the ground and wrenched up his shirt to reveal his scabbed and scarlet back. Merry tried to roll away, but the man stepped onto his thighs, pinning him in place, and swung the whip down across his wounds.

No mortal willpower could have forestalled it, even for a second. Merry screamed in agony and blood flew up from the tail of the whip.

“Baggins!” cried Frodo hoarsely, almost choking with the effort. “I am Frodo Baggins.” Then his knees buckled.

The man caught him before he fell and smiled grimly as he pulled him back to his unsteady feet. Grimbold took a step back and observed the pained eyes staring up at him, well focused and aware at the moment. “Very nice to speak to you at last, Frodo Baggins.”

Against a stack of boulders at the base of a hill, they rested at last, the hobbits’ lungs burning so badly from fatigue that they could go no further.

“It is not for me to kill that which no longer lives,” answered Strider, grimly, still keeping a wary watch on their trail.

“What do you…mean?” Pippin’s voice shook, and not just from exhaustion. He hadn’t thought he could become any more afraid, but he was.

“That thing is not dead,” said Strider. “I only delayed it with the flame.”

An eerie silence fell between them as they rested, catching their breath and, in that quiet space, their fear grew. Finally Strider looked out from their hiding place and, satisfied they were momentarily safe, he sat back against a stone and faced Sam.

“He saw you disappear,” said Pippin, “You were in a daze but now your secret is out.”

“Because he just saved your life -- both our lives -- from that rider! Because you put it on and those things almost got you -- and us!”

“And because,” added Strider, “you are both in grave danger -- worse than anything you imagined before. You need my help now, if ever you needed anything.”

“I’ll thank him for his help,” said Sam to Pippin, ignoring Strider as if he were not present. “But I still don't trust him.”

“What will it take to make you trust him?” Said Pippin, exasperated. “For I’ll not travel without him now -- not with those creatures about.”

“You must never put the Ring on, Sam, ever again,” warned Strider. He sought the hobbit’s eyes with a deadly serious gaze. “It draws them to you like a beacon and makes you invisible to those who would help you.”

Sam made a noncommittal noise. “Well, if he wants to follow us to Isengard like a stray cur as ain’t been fed, I don't suppose I have the means to stop him anyway.”

Pippin relaxed, knowing that was as much concession as he would get from the other hobbit, and looked to Strider, hoping the ranger would understand how much it took for Sam to trust him even that far. But Strider was staring hard at his companion with a look that would brook no argument. “Strider?” he asked, becoming worried again.

“What?” yelled Sam angrily, struggling to his feet and balling his fists as if he were ready to fight..

“What?” echoed Pippin. “But we must save Frodo and Merry. How can we do that without going to Isengard?”

“It may be that it cannot be done,” admitted Strider. “But to carry the ring to Isengard would not just be folly -- but suicide.”

Pippin caught his breath and no one spoke for a time. Finally, Sam broke the silence with a firm and determined threat.

“Don’t you listen to him, Pip. It's a chance we’re willing to take.” He turned to Strider. “Even if you don’t have the courage for it.”

“Sam’s right,” agreed Pippin. “We knew this would be dangerous but we've got to try. We have accepted that we may die trying, but we must try.”

“Of that I have no doubt, Master Peregrin,” said Strider, his expression softening. “But to bring the One Ring to Isengard would be the same as delivering it up to Sauron himself. And if that happened -- not only would Frodo and Merry perish -- but all of Middle Earth would be consumed as well. Is that what your friends would have wanted?”

“You say you would gladly perish to save him, but would he not just as gladly perish to save the entire world?”

“You have no notion of what he'd want! To live and save the world -- I say. And I say we can help him to do both!”

“It may be impossible for him to do both,” said Strider gravely. “These are hard words and it wounds me through to deliver them, but you have a weightier charge now than just saving your friends.”

“But we are so close!” said Pippin, feeling the panic rise in him again. “You said it yourself. Could we not give chase for a few more days?”

“I said he was close,” admitted Strider, “when I heard the riders closing in -- for they follow only the Ring. It is clear to me now, they were not on Frodo's trail at all, but ours. They are tracking us, Frodo may be nowhere near us.”

“You don’t know that,” said Pippin growing desperate. “And I think he is nearby. I do, Strider.”

“He may be,” said Strider. “And that is what cuts me especially deep -- for it matters not. We must take the Ring now and carry it -- not into the hands of the enemy -- but to Rivendell where at least it can be kept from them long enough to decide what shall be done with it.”

“NO!” roared Sam, enraged. “Now his true colors come through, Pip! He never cared a whit for Frodo -- only for the Ring. He wants it for himself!”

“I do not!” said Strider, raising his voice at last. “But Saruman does. I told you, if he gets it -- and if you two small hobbits assail his fortress -- that is a certainty -- it is only a matter of time before Sauron himself takes back what is his. And what will become of your friends then? Do you wish them to die knowing that the world was lost for a fools errand? That is not the Frodo that Gandalf described to me. The Ring must be taken to safety with the elves!”

“Gandalf,” snorted Sam derisively. “The elves. They would steal this trinket from my master as well. They don't care about hobbits any more than you do. So maybe it's time that hobbits stood up for themselves.”

“That's what Merry said,” said Pippin very quietly. He looked at Sam, wary and accusing, as the realization dawned on him. He took a half step back.

Sam’s face contorted with rage and before either Strider or Pippin could counter, he pounced upon Pippin with a ferocity the like of which he had never shown toward anyone before. Pippin threw up his hands against his attacker and tried to flee, but Sam bore down on him like a mad thing. Strider stepped in and pulled them apart but Pippin was already bleeding from the mouth and Sam was still swinging wild blows even as the ranger dangled him in mid air.

“He’s your cousin, Pippin!” screamed Sam, his voice breaking with raw emotion. “How can you think of leaving him to die?”

Pippin wiped his nose but trembled with sorrow. “I don't want to,” he said, “but Sam, Strider’s right and you are proving that right now. If the Ring gets into the wrong hands, no one will survive what follows. At least with Strider's plan, there is some hope.”

“But not for Mr. Frodo!” cried Sam. “The wizard will hurt him, the wizard will kill him…long before we get to Rivendell, and you know it!”

Pippin did not answer, but struggled to his feet. He looked at Sam and then to the lands that fell away to the south. He wiped his eyes and turned to Strider. “How far is it to Isengard?”

“Wait Sam -- let me finish,” said Pippin. “If we agree to go with you to Rivendell -- might we follow our friends’ trail just one more day? Just give us one more chance in daylight to see if we have any hope of catching up. If we do -- we can rescue our friends and procure their swift horses from the ruffians.”

“I would strongly advise against it,” said Strider more gently, setting Sam back on his feet. “But this request, at least, I cannot refuse.”

“Sam?” said Pippin pointedly. “Can you agree? You are the ringbearer for now.”

“And what if I should say no?” he snarled, straightening his clothing defiantly. “Will you drag me along captive?”

Strider laughed but without mirth. “By the riders or by the wiles of Sauron, yes,” he said. “Without my aid, that would be your fate. With my aid even, perhaps. And they will take you to a place none so fair as Rivendell.

Sam glowered at the ranger and looked daggers at Pippin, but at last grumbled his agreement, though Pippin fancied he saw a cold light in his eye. Pippin placed a tentative hand on his shoulder and assured him things would turn out all right, then bid him to get some sleep if he could.

The wind picked up at that moment, swirling the dusty ground between the rocks in small whirlwinds that died almost as soon as they were born. The hobbits huddled into crevasses to rest, but Strider sat down gravely, set his sword upon his knees, and stared out into the unfriendly night.

“What I am able to,” replied Frodo in a soft voice. “But I do not remember much. My seeming has not been as much deception as you might think.”

Frodo swayed on his still unsteady feet, but caught himself before he fell. "Might I sit?" he asked with a deceptive calm, as he might of someone serving him tea. When Grimbold nodded, Frodo slumped to the ground with relief. Grimbold crouched before him and when he had recovered his breath, Frodo continued.

"You must understand, my mind has not been entirely my own,” he began wearily.

“It belongs to dark dreams,” Frodo grimaced and closed his eyes momentarily. “And, and to visions I do not understand.”

"When I began this journey, I was possibly much as I seemed, for I do not remember it." He coughed and winced at the pain against his ribs and throat. "Perhaps it was the 'tender' care I received at your men's hands that enabled me to regain my wits."

Grimbold raised an eyebrow at the hobbit's irony. “Call me a fool, Halfling, but I believe you. But have deceived us before, he said. I dislike being deceived." He narrowed his eyes at Frodo. “Don't do it again.” He nodded toward Merry, still moaning pitifully.

Frodo looked over at Merry, who was still in too much agony to be aware of anything but his pain and then up at Grimbold. Their eyes met in a moment of mutual understanding.

“Until recently, my behavior was no trick,” said Frodo. “After, I remained silent because,” Frodo thought carefully on his words, “it seemed wisest.”

Grimbold nodded. “The creatures -- you called to them last night. Are you in liege with them?”

Wispy thoughts dangled just out of reach. He had lost something, but the creatures had lost something too. “I…I think…” His features tightened in thought. “No, I don’t know. I don’t know what they wanted.”

“I don't remember,” said the hobbit, growing desperate and a little angry. “And I am so tired and hurt that I cannot think. But I do know that my companion and I are only simple hobbits, we have nothing anyone could possibly want. I have told you all that I remember. Will you untie us now and let us go home? I don't want anyone to be hurt any more.”

“No,” he answered. “He seems reluctant to go there and I'd rather not either, if my preference be known.”

“No,” said Frodo sincerely. “As I said, we are simply hobbits,” said Frodo. “We have nothing that another would want.”

“That is not my understanding,” countered Grimbold, turning again to Merry, who had quieted and was staring up at them in anguish. “I think your friend there knows. Has he not told you even this?”

Frodo hesitated, and then answered, “I don’t trust him. But I don't think I should trust you either, no matter how fair your speech.”

Grimbold almost laughed, then his eyes turned as grim as his voice. “At least I know you are being honest,” he said. “But this you can trust -- we will continue this conversation at a later time, and if our ‘tender’ care causes you to remember something new, you shall tell me about it.” It was not a request. “I know enough about those creatures to know you are right to fear them. I believe that whether by intention or not, you draw them to us. If you are not a powerful prisoner, then you are a dangerous one, so have to a care, Master Baggins.”

“I know some,” wheezed Merry in a pained voice. “I know some…of the answers…you seek. But they are not for all ears.” Merry turned his head slightly toward Broga, a movement that caused him to catch his breath in pain.

“Little ratling!” growled Broga. “Your screams will be for all ears!” He raised his whip. “And for some, they will be as sweet as music.” He brought the hard whip down again upon the hobbit’s damaged back.

Merry screamed even louder than before. Grimbold leapt to his feet and drew his sword. “That is enough, Broga. Leave us now!” he ordered.

Broga gave his leader and the two hobbits a dark look and went away, muttering under his breath.

Merry looked at Frodo with pain-teared eyes. “I need to speak to you alone,” he rasped.

Grimbold laughed. “I daresay Mr. Baggins was right not to trust you,” he said. He turned to see Frodo swaying, his eyes beginning to glaze over with pain, weariness and something more sinister that was not an act. “Scur!” he called. “Come quickly, take your imp!”

Watching from afar, it only took seconds for Scur to reach them with a readied blanket.

“Be aware,” said Grimbold. “Your imp speaks, and he speaks to us all. He likes you well -- But do not be fooled by his tricks. You may make him comfortable, but do not untie him. If he speaks again, even in his sleep -- you will tell me every word. Do not forget that he is our prisoner, not your pet.”

Scur frowned and stepped forward, keeping his eyes fixed on Frodo, who was having difficulty remaining upright.

The ruffian leader grabbed his subordinate by the arm before he could reach his charge. “I mean it, Scur, mark my words, do not grow too fond of this halfling. A dire fate awaits him at journey’s end and it would be a short and unhappy relationship. You are a mercenary; he is your prisoner, nothing more.”

Scur mumbled unconvincingly, nodding his head and shaking free from Grimbold’s grip. He lifted Frodo tenderly from the ground, wrapping him in the blanket. The hobbit winced and groaned from the pain in his stomach. Scur stared at his charge’s face and shook his head disapprovingly. Then he set him down by the warm campfire and patted his stomach where Broga had struck him making him flinch again.

“I saw what Broga done to you,” Scur said. “And if he does it again, I'll kill him myself.”

AN: The Golden Mushroom Awards need noms! Nominate your favorite hobbity story in fun categories. Not this story, I mean GOOD stories by nice authors..the other stuff you read here. They would go in the gen category. http://www.west-of-the-moon.net/gma.htm

For Merry the final days of the journey ran together into a continuous nightmare. Even the landscape seemed to be aware they were approaching their destination. Now that they had passed the “green” expanse of the Greenway, the land had become a dull brown scrubland littered with rocks. Far to the one side, he could see a black stretch of forest, thick and unlovely. To the east, mountains reared up and glowered at them like angry gods. Merry supposed these crags were one of the great chains described by Bilbo, and the thought saddened him. The days of listening to the eccentric old hobbit's fireside tales seemed a lifetime away. He wondered what Bilbo would think of him now that he’d brought his beloved Frodo to this. Surely he would hate him for it. And Merry could not blame him. As the days went on, he'd grown more and more horrified by his own past actions. What kind of monster had he become?

He looked up at the broad blue sky, now limned with violet, and noticed how beautiful it really was. It was a lovelier sunset than he ever remembered seeing. He suspected his sudden appreciation was simply a function of his own melancholy, for once they entered the wizard’s stronghold, he doubted that they would ever see the clear sky again. No sacrifice he could now make would save them from torment and death and what else could await them here?

“One more day of hard riding,” said Grimbold. “This will be our last night together, if that pleases you.”

“Nothing pleases me,” said Merry drearily. “I would like nothing better than to die.”

“I suspect you will get your wish soon enough,” said Grimbold, but with no hint of mockery. “And for that reason, I may do you a small kindness; I shall allow you and your cousin time to sit together. Perhaps there are a few things you will want to say to him before the end?”

“That is kind,” said Merry, surprised. “In fact, that is one of the most gracious offers you have made me.”

For Frodo it was a relief not to play “the tetched one” anymore. Unfortunately it also meant he was no longer left unbound under any circumstances. Grimbold now paid much more attention to him, plying him with questions and trying to retrieve memories from the mists of his mind. Frodo feared what the cunning man might extricate. Something perilous lurked in those dim recesses, something he had locked away, for good reason, he suspected, but Grimbold was clever, insistent and ruthless. He would find what he sought, sooner or later, and doing so would perhaps be the ruin of them all.

If the unknown destination had not given him a feeling of sinking dread, he might have considered the ride pleasant. It was mostly a silent, slow trek in which Frodo had much liberty to think. Scur was still very good to him in his awkward, almost maternal way. The ruffian was convinced that he had single-handedly brought Frodo's mind back to him and Frodo saw no reason to disabuse him of this notion.

“Don’t know,” said Scur. “And the boss won’t take to you asking such things. Mind yourself now and listen to Scur.”

“No, no, little one,” Scur whispered, stealing a wary glance at Grimbold. He slowed his horse to put more distance between them. “We’re to bring you alive and unspoilt.” He laid a bony finger on Frodo’s shoulder. “Now, that don’t sound like he want to hurt you none, do it?”

Frodo waited for Grimbold to move even further ahead. When the ruffian leader was out of earshot he twisted in the saddle to look back at his companion. “Who is ‘he’?”

Wizard? Frodo turned back, his eyes falling on Grimbold's tall form. Wizards had had something to do with his quest. They had played an import role in his task, an almost indispensable one.

Oblivious to his charge’s frustration, Scur continued, his hand squeezing Frodo’s shoulder in sympathy. “Can you tell me something, little guy.”

Frodo shook himself out of his thoughts and focused on the dusty trail. “If I can,” he answered quietly, noting Grimbold’s figure was still far enough away that he would not overhear them.

“But I been wondering something else,” Scur continued in his hoarse whisper. “You may have been tetched when I got you, but I heard you wasn’t always…sick in the head.”

“But that cousin of yours, the biting imp, he hurt you real bad. I saw the marks on your back.”

Frodo again made no answer. The marks on his back. Images rushed and tumbled through his brittle mind. A cottage, a large tree… Blood. The memory of pain like knives of ice made him flinch. Snatches of recollection flew at him fast and furious, chaotic and disorganized, hard to make sense of. He closed his eyes against the maelstrom.

A memory sharpened out of the confusion and in one agonizing instant he felt again the white and black bark of a birch tree, rough against his face and a throbbing, searing pain burning in his back. Now it made sense. He had been whipped! And quite severely. It explained a lot; the itching and discomfort of deep, barely healed scars, his stark, mindless terror when Merry had been hurt. Frodo drew a sharp, queasy breath but pursued the memory anyway, trying to drag more of it into his consciousness. It was no use. Beyond that one image, there was only turbulence and fear.

Frodo shut his eyes against the pain. “I don’t remember,” he said truthfully.

But even as he said it, he understood a deeper truth. Some part of him did not want to remember.

Grimbold had fallen back, perhaps suspecting that some kind of conversation was taking place, but Frodo and Scur were now silent. After a few miles, the leader seemed satisfied that nothing was amiss and sped up again to catch up to Broga. Once he was out of earshot, Frodo spoke again quietly.

Scur pointed to the horizon and there, violently piercing the blue sky, was a tall, dark spike. Frodo quailed as a cold dread stole over him.

“When we get to that place, will you be able to see me? You have shown me a great kindness and I should like it if I could hear one friendly voice in such a forbidding abode.”

It was a calculated risk, or perhaps blind folly, yet Frodo suspected that whatever lay ahead of them in that dark spike of a building, he would need all of the allies he could get. And he somehow knew he could not rely on Merry.

Behind him came the sound of stifled sniffing. He felt Scur's arm move as the man wiped his nose on his sleeve. “I will,” he sniffled as solemnly as he could manage.

There was an awkward moment of silence, and then Scur seemed to collect himself, as if coming to a decision. “I have a daughter,” he said. “Must be around sixteen by now, beautiful as I am ugly, so I bet. Though, I ain’t rightly seen her for a space of years.” Another sniff.

“Clotilde. I was thinking after all this is over, you could meet her, p’haps be like a companion to her. She has a fondness for little creatures, and if you don’t have nowhere to go, I bet she'd right take to you.”

Despite his grim situation, Frodo found the man's offer darkly amusing. Scur’s idea of “companion” seemed more along the lines of “pet” than friend and, however ridiculous the idea of his becoming a prize for the man's daughter was, he knew Scur meant well. It was extremely unlikely that, when this was all over, he would come out of that dark tower 'unspoiled', yet this simple, well-meaning ruffian's good opinion was not to be discarded lightly. There was still a chance he knew the wizard's real purpose and could be persuaded, for friendship's sake, to let it slip. Although, Frodo mused ironically, it was just as likely that, in his childlike naiveté, Scur thought wizards habitually retrieved gentlehobbits from their homelands to ask them to tea.

“That is a very kind offer,” he answered, with all the sincerity he could muster, and in a distant voice added, “when this is over.”

They awoke at dawn at Sam’s insistence and Pippin doubted that the other hobbit had slept a wink. He had not slept well himself and lacked the gardener's frantic morning energy. Frodo was close, he had said, he could feel it in his bones. Strider, his face drawn with concern, had no answer for this, but set a pace that was as fast as the hobbits could reasonably manage.

High rock formations soon gave way to low-lying brush interspersed with short, spindly trees that had a blighted, evil look, as if the land itself had been cursed long ago. The unlikely trio hurried through the waste, the hobbits panting and straining to keep up with the ranger’s steady pace.

At mid-afternoon, they found the cut cords. The landscape had gradually become greener, with dark, forbidding foliage close to the roadway and clumps of taller trees in the distance. Through a break in the brush, Strider saw signs that someone had left the road and they changed course to follow the track of three large horses, but by the time they found the campsite, the woods were silent and empty.

The hobbits held their breath while Strider examined the signs of disturbance in the grass. He bent down and pulled a few frayed coils of rope from where they had carelessly been tossed into the underbrush.

Sam nearly hooted with delight at the discovery, but then, as he stared at the rope, his countenance darkened. Without another word, he turned and raced off to follow the hoof prints that led away from the site.

“This is promising,” smiled Pippin, brightly, but finding no confirmation in the man’s face, he hesitated. “Isn’t it?”

“Perhaps,” said the ranger, fingering the dirty cords. “And perhaps not. It means we are on the right track. But it also confirms my greatest fear.”

“It proves they are being taken to Isengard, if I had ever the slightest doubt of it.”

“I do not know, Pippin,” the man said, laying his hand briefly on the hobbit’s shoulder. “We don’t know how great is their lead. These hoof prints are fresh, but the cords might have been here before them. There are many who travel this road.”

Strider paused for a moment, as if choosing his words carefully. “ We are drawing closer, at least,” he said then stopped short in the tall grass and Pippin nearly ran into him. He turned and stared down into the hobbit’s eyes, his own darkened with great sorrow. “But with each step we follow your companions, my dear Pippin, we put the whole of Middle-earth in greater peril.”

The sun was low in the sky when they found their second clue; the sign of another campfire, hastily made and more hastily abandoned. Strider knelt to examine the muddle of hoof prints.

“So we are getting closer,” said Pippin hopefully, even as he noted Strider’s stern expression.

“To Frodo, of course,” said Sam, obviously irritated. “Come, we must move on, now!”

“I seem more sign here than that of three horses,” he said. “These,” he said as he pointed to the largest prints, “were made by another animal, a steed even larger than the ones we’ve been trailing. I fear at least some of the black riders are now between us and your friends.”

“It means,” corrected Strider, “that you, Sam, have never been in greater danger.”

Strider knelt down so that he was at eye-level with the hobbit. “Sam,” he said, “we have no choice, not anymore. I promised to help you search for a day, and that day has ended. But now we must rest and tomorrow, at first light, fly fast as we may to a place where I have some hope of protecting you.”

Sam gave Strider a look of pure hatred, and on the kind and gentle hobbit's face, it was a heinous sight indeed. Pippin looked from the gardener to the Ranger and back, greatly troubled. His heart was breaking for his cousins, but Strider's words held too much truth to be denied. If it came to it, and Sam went back on his promise, he was not sure he would want to follow his countryman. Suddenly and without another word, Sam sat down and turned his black look on the ground.

“I shall take the first watch,” said Strider. “You two must get what sleep you can. And for what it is worth, Samwise, I am truly sorry.”

Sam turned his back to him and laid down upon the grass, stuffing his bedroll under his head as a pillow.

Sam planned his escape for Pippin’s watch. The moment the younger hobbit came close to nodding off, he would snatch up his belongings and run. He would keep Frodo’s life first in his mind even as all others in Middle Earth prepared to abandon him.

He would go alone, he knew that now, because only he could save his master. He would not let Frodo be sacrificed. The safety of Middle-earth meant nothing to him. What had it or anyone in it done for Frodo? No, as long as Sam drew breath, Frodo’s life would be bought very dear.

He saw Pippin lean back against a tree. The youngster's head dropped, snapped up, then dropped again. Strider lay somewhat away from the fire. Sam could see naught but his blankets, but assumed from their silent stillness that the man had fallen asleep. Even if he were descended of the old Western kings, as he claimed, he was still mortal and still needed rest just like the rest of them.

He fingered the Ring in his pocket. It was dangerous, but perhaps just once -- to save his master – he could use it. Then together they would destroy the cursed thing once and for all and go back to Bag End and their lives as they had always lived them.

He watched Pippin from behind half-closed eyelids. Of course, he'd avoid putting It on, what with those things so close. He no longer questioned what Strider had said; that they could see him when he put on the Ring, he could feel their cold eyes searching even now. But, if it came to it, he would use it again, if he had to, to save Frodo. Of course he would. It was the perfect tool for thievery, as Bilbo Baggins once discovered. It would be foolish not to use it to steal Frodo back from his captors.

Then it happened. He heard a sound from Pippin that could only be a snore. Asleep. He slipped his pack-strap over his shoulder and very quietly stood.

Sam took a few slow, silent steps out of the illuminated circle of the fire and, at last finding himself clear, tore at full speed toward the trees.

Merry and Frodo sat together by the fire. Grimbold had taken no chances; both were bound hand and foot and tethered to a tree by a long line of rope. Yet they were together and purposefully left alone.

“Frodo,” said Merry quietly. “If we aren’t able to speak later, I would have you know that I am desperately sorry for all I’ve done – so sorry that even death would not cleanse all the guilt. I have hurt you, restrained you against your will, beaten you, and broken you. I only thought to save you, yet I’ve failed spectacularly. If there is any way I can right this, know that I will do it. My life is nothing now. You’ve every right to hate me. I've behaved contemptibly and inexcusably to the best hobbit I’ve ever known…”

Merry stopped himself before he added 'and I at last understand why you were trusted to carry this loathsome burden to the elves.' No, not yet. If he could keep the painful memory of the ring from his cousin for a bit longer, he would. It would not comfort him now. And Merry was not sure he was ready to face the magnitude of his own folly in trying to keep the thing, something which Frodo would surely perceive immediately.

Frodo did not speak for a long while. The fire crackled and snapped filling the dark silence until at last, he looked at Merry with wide, clear eyes.

“Meriadoc,” he said, “I can’t remember most of what happened, though I know that what you say is true, but you must answer me this; why? Why did you do those things to me? What what possible reason could you have had?”

Merry sucked in a breath, caught in his own web. How could he explain? Ever since they'd left Crickhollow, it had been as if a madness had been lifting from him. He saw his attempts to restrain his cousin through new, horrified eyes, saw the barbaric cruelty he himself had inflicted, and though he knew he had done those terrible things for what he had thought was right; to keep the Ring in the Shire, he could not now fathom how he could have performed them. The truth was, he did not know how he had done them and could not answer Frodo's forthright question. He bowed his head. “I cannot say,” he said.

“Cannot or will not!” growled Frodo. “What are you keeping from me, cousin? How can I forgive you when I don't know your reasons? How could you have possibly done what you claim to one of your own kind? Your own kin? What could possibly have taken hold of you to make you sink so low? Tell me, please. ”

Merry shook his head. “I cannot,” he said, feeling wretched. “It would do no good.”

“Then” said Frodo in a flat voice, “Your apology will do no good either. Until you can put a name to that which eats you from within, you will never move beyond it, and I can never forgive you. Good night.”

Frodo turned away, curled up in his cloak and made to sleep. Too tired to weep, Merry took the edge of it with his bound hands and pulled it lovingly over his cousin's feet.

Frodo was right, and Merry knew it, but how could he understand what he could not even face any longer?

Pippin was startled awake by Sam's outcry. He sprang from the tree he had been leaning against in both embarrassment and horror. His erstwhile companion was nowhere in sight.

Pippin raced to where the man slept, pulled back the blanket and found nothing but his packs. He cursed, recognizing the ruse he and Sam had so recently used on the man.

By the gods! They’ve both disappeared! thought Pippin and a panic rose up in his throat. He was just about to cry out when he heard a faint but clear reply from the edge of the clearing.

Pippin heaved a great sigh – then flushed, humiliated at being caught sleeping on the watch.

"What are you doing?" he asked, peering out into the darkness. His hand moved uneasily to the hilt of his sword. There had been a strangely fearful tone in the ranger's voice that he had not liked at all. "I can't see you. Come back to the fire if you want to talk. I might have mistaken you for our foes in the dark and taken your heads." He heard the vegetation rustling and his hand involuntarily tightened around the hilt as he stared out into the blackness.

There was a brief exchange of words and suddenly Sam's voice rang out in the night.

“That is true, Master Gamgee,” replied Strider. “But while you are under my protection, I would seek to keep you from becoming Middle Earth smallest wraith and taking your young countryman and I with you. Will you at least talk with us before you disappear from our sight?”

Pippin could now just make out the forms of Strider and Sam facing each other at the edge of the clearing. Strider seemed to be holding Sam's arm and, as he came closer, Pippin saw there was a look of great sadness on his face. “Did you try to put on the Ring?” gasped Pippin, staring at Sam with a mixture of anger and sadness. “Oh, Sam!”

“Only to escape from this brute!” cried Sam angrily. “I won’t ever abandon Frodo, Pip! I won’t! He’ll have to tie me in a sack if he means to keep me away!” He wrenched his hand free of Strider’s grip and rubbed it, glaring furiously at Pippin. “But I guess you don’t understand much about loyalty, do you?” His voice was so low and filled with venom that he was hard to understand, but he came back to the fire and did not try to flee.

“Be still,” said Strider, but without anger. “I do not mean to tie anyone in a sack tonight – but if you wish to call danger to us, by all means, keep shouting.”

“He’s only trying to protect you, Sam,” offered Pippin, though the lump in his throat failed to subside.

“I see I am alone in wishing to stick by Frodo.” The gardener’s voice cracked with emotion and suddenly, as if a dam had burst, he dropped to a seat by the fire, bowed his head and wept.

“Then how can you make me give up? How can you make me stop trying to save him? I can’t leave him, don’t you understand? It’s not in me to.” He lifted his tear-streaked face and looked the man in the eye. “How can you force me to abandon my master and call yourself king?”

“Sam is right,” said Strider softly. “I cannot force anything upon Samwise against his will.”

“I cannot overpower you and take you where you would not go,” said Strider. “For taking the Ringbearer captive – even to save him — would be as claiming the Ring, and that I cannot do and still consider myself worthy to be king. But I can advise you, Samwise, that to put the Ring on now would be the death of us all, and worse than death for you. It would be the end of all the things your master has fought and sacrificed so much to save. Your quest to save your master, though it would be suicide, comes from a true heart.” Strider looked deep into Sam’s eyes. “I will not judge you nor hinder you any longer.

Pippin’s heart filled with pure and unaccountable hope and he suddenly found that he was crying. He had not realized how much the prospect of abandoning the chase had cut him until it no longer hung above him. The alternative might have been a suicidal endeavor, but it was one that tasted as sweet as wine by comparison.

Sam went very still, taking in the man’s words. “You will follow us to Isengard then?”

“If that be your desire, I will,” said Strider. “All that I ask is that you do not strike out on your own again. If you can promise this, Samwise, I vow to help you to the fullest extent of my skill and the limit of my life.”

“Then Mr. Strider,” said Sam with an uncharacteristic decisiveness, “I wish to follow my master. I wish to save Frodo.”

Merry’s terror grew the closer they got to Isengard’s great tower. This would be the end then, he thought. The arrogant defiance that had supported him at the beginning of his journey was gone. He sat dejected and shivering before Grimbold on the great warhorse’s saddle, and looked neither at the menacing horizon, nor back at his cousin riding behind them with Scur. He was wretched and very afraid.

“If it is any comfort,” Grimbold said, seeming to sense his fear. “I do not relish what I must do.”

Merry had no sarcastic retort for the man. There was nothing left in him, no recourse, and no way he could regain control, except for one last desperate play. He bit his lip against the paralyzing fear and strove for the daring to play it.

“Please, ride up ahead a bit,” he pleaded. “I have something to tell you. Something for your ears alone.”

“Speak,” he said after they had put some distance between themselves and the other riders.

“It is not his,” asserted Merry. “It belongs to Sauron, the Dark Lord of Mordor...or rather, it was made by him.”

‘That story is too long to be told now,” said Merry. “But you must know that this weapon is more powerful than you could possibly imagine. I tried to control it and it turned all the good intentions I had to evil.” Merry sighed deeply. “I did horrible things in the thing’s name, even though I sought to do good. And this wizard, by his very actions, proves he has no such beneficent purpose for the thing. In his hands, with his skill and power and the intent to do evil, he will bring all that you know to darkness. Can you let him do that?”

“But it will be for you to live in the world he will create,” pursued Merry. “Do you honestly think that he will reward you for your effort?”

“Once he claims the weapon, he will be beholden to no one,” said Merry, his voice louder and stronger. “Vows will mean nothing to him. This weapon is so powerful it will mean he need fear reprisals from no one. You will be enslaved as easily as paid.”

“And what would one such as you, a captive halfling, advise me to do then?” said Grimbold, almost mocking. “All your choices have certainly gone ill. What better designs have you than the great Saruman the Wise?”

“I know this weapon,” said Merry cautiously. “And you would make better use of it than your master. Saruman will never reward your virtues to the extent that they deserve. Why not reward yourself? You are stronger than I am, strong enough to turn this weapon to the good purpose I could not. Why be a mere captain for a thankless master, when you could be a king?”

To this, Grimbold gave a bitter laugh. “You would use that which has tempted you to your downfall to tempt me!” he shook his head in genuine amusement. “Well, it shall not work, halfling, though you would have been a fool not to try it, and therefore you will not be punished for your bold ploy, at least not by me.”

“You hedge about the weapon as if I do not know its nature,” said Grimbold. “I will tell you now in our last moments together that I do. I grew up hearing the ancient stories and I know the prophecies. Yet do you think me so stupid as to admit such to my men in such a perilous venture?”

“You wonder why I did not just steal this weapon –whatever form it might take, while you slept, or while you were bound beyond possible resistance, and claim it for my own?”

“Because I know a secret that not even Saruman the Wise knows, for all his magic, though he is bound soon to find out,” said Grimbold with an evil grin.

“That you have offered something that was not yours to give. Unfortunately for you, I know something else. You could not offer it even if you wanted to with all your heart.”

“Since you tried to escape,” answered Grimbold. “I knew then that you did not have it. If you had, you would have used it and that would have been the end of our journey. But we recaptured you and then I knew that you had no weapon to speak of but trickery. Thankfully, I had a fair store of that too.” Grimbold shook his head. “You are out of your depth, halfling. ”

“I expected them much sooner,” said Grimbold. “And that too was a clue. Even with the wizard’s arts to keep them at bay, their pursuit should have been more earnest.”

“They terrify me,” answered Grimbold. “They turn my blood to ice. Yet I was told to expect them, that they could not be held back forever, and once upon us, they would stay upon us. But they turned away and continued their search in another direction.

“I think that they sense something I have suspected for days. They sense the weapon is now carried by another bearer.”

Merry stiffened. Sam! He barely kept himself from calling out the hobbit’s name. Sam and perhaps even his Pippin had somehow followed! And for better or worse, they were near.

“So even though we have not brought back the weapon,” Grimbold continued evenly, “our master cannot say we failed to bring back the Halflings he named.” The man paused. “I, however, shall know in which direction to look for it.”

“What shall become of us!” cried Merry, suddenly frantic. “What shall become of us when he finds we have no Ring?”

“I shall not stay to watch,” answered Grimbold, “as I will be otherwise occupied. I fear it will not be pleasant for you, for I do not think he will allow you to die until you have told him all he wishes to know. For all your faults, Master Brandybuck, I will say you have courage, and I am sure that you will face your doom fittingly. After I have helped my rightful lord gain his rightful throne, I shall lament that you could not have served under me in some small way.”

“That gives me little comfort. Nor shall it give you when I inform Saruman about your ’Rightful lord’.” said Merry.

“He is my master in this errand; the retrieval of you and Frodo Baggins with whatever else you may be carrying, alive and whole. Though I also serve my true lord through this appointment.”

“Then who are you; and who is your lord to share such pretty purposes with Saruman?”

Grimbold turned to see his two men still out of hearing distance. He turned back with a grim smile.

“You have earned some measure of my respect so I will tell you. I am no ruffian by trade, but Grimbold, son of Baldwin, loyal lieutenant to Boromir, son of Denathor, heir to the Stewardship of Gondor, and scion of a line who long ago should have been made kings.”

“The throne of Gondor?” asked Merry. “Did Sarauman promise your Boromir this?”

Grimbold laughed bitterly. “He does not need a wizard to grant him his right and his due; but he does require a weapon. My errand should provide him one.”

“And what stops me from telling that very fact to the wizard ?” asked Merry, threatening in his desperation.

“You are welcomed to do so,” said Grimbold, “for once I have the weapon in my hands, the wrath of Saruman will make no difference, and the black riders will be no match for the might of Gondor. But if I would ask that you wait. Such a disclosure will not save your life, nor help you in any way, but it might keep the weapon, and those who now bear it, from falling into the very hands you so fear. When you say Saruman will use it for ill, you speak true, but my lord will use it to save a great kingdom from sure destruction and usher in an age of peace and prosperity throughout these wide lands…including yours. I cannot save your life, but your sacrifice may help turn back this evil. If you are to die, should it not be in the service of some good?”

“Whose good? It seems I lose either way, and how am I to know I am not being duped now? I would be a fool to trust either of you.”

“The wizard is your true opponent, not I. Perhaps you could convince him you speak true and would gain some respite from torment by telling what you know, but it would not last. You have resisted him, gone back on your word; he will never let you live. Even if you were able to thwart our efforts, which I doubt, your life is forfeit already. Would you not rather at least outwit the wizard in this small thing? You will have done a great service and aided in your true enemy’s destruction.”

“Is there any hope, any hope at all, for my cousin and I?” he asked at last.

“There never was much,” said Grimbold. “But never say, my small companion, that all is hopeless – for beyond all hope, I have found a way to save my people and this land. To you and your cousin, I say that, if by some miracle, the Valar find a way to spare your lives, come to Gondor and be rewarded for the ill-fated part you have played.” Grimbold put a reassuring hand on Merry’s shoulder and said, in a soft voice, “We are not so different, you and I. We have both committed fell deeds for a greater future good. Perhaps for at least one of us, the sacrifice will prove worth the price.”

As Grimbold spoke these words, they broke through a thick line of trees into a wide circle of bare stone and ravaged landscape. It was a scene of desolation both to the eyes and their other senses, seeping into their very pores as if they had been drenched in a foul, decaying wave. Smoke rose from inside the giant walls and, at the center of it all, a tower of black reared up before them, its clawed heights grasping at the clouds.

Broga hooted and laughed as they approached and Merry realized he’d never despised the man as much as he did at that terrible moment. Scur was strangely quiet and Grimbold, serious and stern, but Merry knew what thoughts were upon his mind. Frodo’s bearer caught up to Grimbold and Merry watched his cousin’s face grow pale at the sight before them, and yet, though he looked small and helpless, he sat tall, as dignified as any king. Perhaps Frodo had no idea what fate awaited him in that big, awful place, or perhaps he truly was the best hobbit in the Shire and the bravest that Merry would ever know.

As they approached the wall, the stench of burning forges thickened the air and the banging of a thousand hammers clanged like the pounding of thunder. The corpses of countless trees littered the brown land around them, leaving the edge of remaining forest looking like a green line of battle; a battle the trees seemed to be losing.

They rode along the curve of the wall and from above Merry caught his first glimpse of what he knew from Bilbo’s tales to be goblins and orcs. Up close, they did not seem to be the oafish creatures the old hobbit has described, but horrible, strong and cruel warriors of a misbegotten race. The gate was huge; fashioned of whole trees with monstrous iron hinges beaten into loathsome shapes. At a call, it creaked open, revealing the most loathsome landscape Merry could have imagined.

There were orcs and goblins by the thousands, and ugly men, all of who paused in their labors to leer at them with ghastly smiles. Merry felt something cold and black settle in the pit of his stomach as they rode, their horses picking their way along a rough-hewn path through a field of stone columns that bled smoke. Merry choked, his eyes watered, and he wondered how any living creature could breathe here, much less work. And above all loomed the great black tower. Its heights obscured by clouds, it was an abomination from an age long past..

When they reached the stairs, the men dismounted, loosened their burdens and set the hobbits down on unsteady legs. Merry looked at Frodo, who gazed wide-eyed at the tower before him. Both his heart and spirit shattered with grief.

The men and orcs moved aside as Grimbold, Scur and Broga took their captives up the black stairs. The unfriendly looking door was easily three times the height of a man and swung open on hinges that screeched like a dying animal. The Tower’s maw was open and into it the captives were led.

Their footsteps echoed off the damp, ancient stone as they entered a great hall bereft of furnishings or drapery. They could see little but the watery glow of high torchlights reflecting upon smooth dark stone. An oppressive heaviness inhabited this silent hall; a cold, dreadful weight and a feeling of a vast open space above. Merry dared not speak and barely dared breath. It felt as if he had come inside death itself.

They halted, and slowly a speck of light appeared in the blackness. Merry watched in fascination and horror as it grew larger and then he heard the footsteps. Someone was walking towards them down the unlit passage.

Suddenly, all the lights went out. Merry shivered. The air seemed to freeze in his lungs and he heard the pounding of his heart. The heavy footsteps came closer and the cold increased. Despite the futility of the gesture, he fought against his bonds.

A sharp crack resounded through the hall and the room was suddenly encased in blinding, white light.

He was tall and grim, his robes shone with a rainbow of colors that seemed to move about him and his staff gave off a circle of light, like a dying sun.

Merry’s legs would no longer hold him. His knees buckled as the wizard approached. A will not his own compelled him to look up into Saruman’s alabaster face. It smiled coldly and, bending down, the wizard grasped Merry’s shoulders in his claw-like hands.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck,” he said, his melodious voice sending a new chill down Merry’s spine. “What a wonderful surprise.”

A single, long fingernail, brushed a lock of hair away from the hobbit’s face. Merry watched in pure horror, every nerve in his body firing in desperate alarm, but he could not look away. Sarumans’ icy smile broadened.

TBC

Saruman’s luminous eyes locked on Merry’s and Merry’s last hope died with their message, all too well understood. When the wizard spoke again, however, his voice was for another.

Merry dared not look, but knew Grimbold waited behind him. Saruman removed a heavy looking purse from his belt and handed it to the man over Merry’s head.

“My lord,” said Grimbold. “It is my honor to serve you. Now I would take my leave– to enjoy the fruits of my labor and a few weeks much needed rest.”

“Yes, my lord,” said Grimbold. “More than I would have expected. But they are now well delivered and no longer my concern.”

Saruman smiled. “Yes, you have done as instructed and I have paid as I promised. Our contract is done. You are free to go or, if you wish, remain in my service. ”

“If it please my lord, I will take my leave.” Grimbold nodded to his two henchmen, bowed to the wizard and quickly departed without giving the hobbits a second look.

Merry swallowed hard, feeling very much alone, and wondering when the wizard would search them for the Ring. His heart pounded impossibly fast. His dreaded fate and Frodo’s drew closer with each moment.

Saruman’s disdainful gaze leveled on the man and the coldness in it sent a chill down Merry’s spine. “Perhaps impatience becomes a man of action,” he said, “but pecuniary matters should not be rushed. Stay your eagerness a moment.”

“We just want the gold we got coming to us. For the job 'well done',” said Broga as he placed a lumpish hand on Merry’s shoulder and shook him. Merry imagined the ruffian sneering as he said it.

The wizard stepped over to a small wooden table covered with piles of coins. He filled up two small bags and returned. Merry noticed Scur's hands had fallen protectively upon Frodo's shoulders, but his cousin did not seem to notice them. He looked terribly pale and afraid, but stood with his back straight.

“He's a smart one,” said Scur with a hint of pride. “Ah...I don't think he'll run if you untie him, lord.”

Saruman gave another laugh that sounded like boots on gravel. “Will he not then?”

“I'll vouch for him, lord,” said Scur. “I know you mean him no harm, after all we did to bring him to you.”

“Very well,” said the wizard. “I give you the honor of unbinding your halfling.”

Merry watched in shock as Scur pulled out his knife and knelt to cut Frodo's bonds and, for a moment, entertained the notion that the wizard might indeed free his cousin.

“He bites,” said Scur derisively, pulling ropes away from Frodo’s wrists. “And he hurt my imp!”

“Did he now?” Saruman made a sinister tsking sound. “How sad. But we will soon discuss what was done to your imp.” He turned his unfathomably cold eyes on Merry again. “And, perhaps, to others.” The wizard handed Scur a bag of coins. “Here is your reward. I may require your services later. Do not leave the compound.”

“If you want to help your imp, you will remain at Isengard.” Saruman waved his white robed arm dismissively. “Now go until summoned.”

Scur didn't move immediately. “Yes, lord, that is what I want. I guess I'll find a place in the barracks, then, eh?” He bowed and backed toward the door. "I'll be 'round should you need me. Just call. I've a way with that imp, you know. You have any trouble, you just call ol' Scur." He paused at the archway, nodding as if to assure himself and darted out. Merry shook his head in disbelief. Scur was indeed the stupidest creature in Middle earth.

“Ah yes,” said Saruman. “We can’t forget you, can we? Broga, isn’t it?”

The wizard's focus instantly sharpened at the disrespectful human. “Broga," he said. "I have a different proposition for you.”

Broga raised his eyebrow. “Shall I gut this one here?” he laughed, giving Merry a heavy push to the floor. "I've been waiting weeks for a chance to give some a' his own back."

“That is quite below your talents,” said Saruman crisply. “I have something far more lucrative in mind for you, if you are willing. Follow your erstwhile leader, slay him, then bring back his body and all he carries. Then you will have both of your shares, and much more. Serve me and you shall earn wealth beyond your reckoning.”

So this was his game! thought Merry. Kill Grimbold? But surely Broga would also be killed for his trouble. Then why keep Scur alive?

“I will do it for three shares,” said Broga. When Saruman inclined his head in agreement, he added, “Should I make it look as an accident?”

“That would require, how shall I say it? A softer touch than I believe you have in you. Just kill him and bring the body back.”

“And Broga,” said the wizard, “keep a watch out for Black Riders. They are most restless these days.”

Merry shivered, realizing as Broga closed the door behind him, that it was now their turn. He inched closer to Frodo.

“And now my dear halflings,” said Saruman turning his attention towards them and speaking in a pleasant, conversational tone. “Whatever shall we do with you?"

The land was arid and largely treeless. Huge rock formations rose in the east, their jagged outlines leading to the southern tip of the Misty Mountains where snow-covered peaks glistened against dark blue sky. A group of three beings hurried along under it, oblivious of the scenery. They were focused on reaching the thicker, more protective vegetation nearer the foothills--vegetation that offered the only real cover the area could have provided.

The ranger stopped on the dusty path so abruptly that the hobbits almost ran into him. He scanned the horizon in silence. Sam scowled and pawed the ground restlessly with his bare feet, as if annoyed. Pippin frowned at him.

“Stay here!” Strider turned off the path and made his way through a thicket of waist-high shrubbery on the left, parting the rough, thorny growth, with surprising ease and silence. A few moments later, the hobbits saw him climbing easily up the face of a high rock formation to stand on a narrow plateau between the red-tinged rocks, then he disappeared from sight.

“He told us to stay here,” warned Pippin, noting the anxious way his companion fidgeted. “And this is where he’ll come back to find us.”

“Meanwhile we sit like a couple of daft coneys in the middle of the road just waiting for the likes of those Black Riders to come collect us. Mighty convenient, if you ask me.” He stuck his hand sullenly into his pocket. “I have a way of hiding, at least,” he scowled. “I’ll not be bait for his trap.”

“Sam, you can’t! You heard what Strider said. That would be the surest way of calling them!”

The sullen hobbit turned away. “Then find your ranger and let’s be off. I’ll not just sit here, waiting on his by your leave, no sir. We either track him down or I will go on, alone, if need be.”

“I’ll find him,” he said. “If it will keep you from walking into a bear’s den and dragging me with you, I'll jolly well find him.”

The two hobbits took off in the Ranger’s wake, making their way through the brambles almost as silently as he had until they reached the rocks. They climbed up to the flat space where Strider had stood and stared into a wide, dark valley cradled between the foothills of mountains and ringed by thick forest.

Strider sighed and spoke from the cleft above them. “I told you to stay put.”

Pippin jumped, but Sam was unperturbed, as if he had seen the ranger in his hiding place. “And we decided not to,” he countered gruffly, his voice echoing against the stone.

Pippin came up to Strider and tried to follow his line of vision. “Oh!” he exclaimed. In the very center of the valley, a tower rose above the tree line. “That's Isengard? Where they're taking Merry and Frodo?”

“I did not soften my description for your benefit,” said Strider without looking at him. “Yes, this is Saruman’s fortress.

“I don't see no fortress,” countered Sam, breathing heavily as he came up to them.

Strider gave the grim laugh. “We are not close enough. There's a great ring of stone surrounding the tower, with walls high as trees, so solid that I doubt even Sauron could pluck the wizard from this perch.”

“I don't know, Pippin,” the man shook his head. “If the wizard desires the Ring, he must oppose Sauron and The Nine; it matters not which side he began on.”

“From what you have told me and from my knowledge of his family, I believe Merry began with a true desire to help the Shire, and to help his cousin as well. But now I fear Merry is on no one's side save his own and is out of his depth. He will not survive his encounter with the Wizard, unless he is made of sterner stuff than he looked to be.”

“Sam,” said Strider, “Merry’s fate is now bound up with your master's. To wish one ill is to pull down the other.”

“How can we get through those walls if they are as you describe them?” asked Pippin, staring fixedly at the tower. He had never seen anything so tall and ominous. “We will need a plan and I fear all the luck we can muster.”

Strider frowned as he studied the tower. “I thought I saw something from the path. See, there is smoke rising from behind those walls. Some great devilry is at work there, if I’m not mistaken.” He looked down at Pippin. “Your question is practical, but we must first face whatever lurks in front of the walls. As for what is inside them,” he sighed heavily. “It will take more than plans and common luck.”

Sam's face grew hard and Pippin felt the cold heaviness of fear settle in his gut. Isengard loomed out of the forest beyond, deadly, dark and mocking, almost as if it was aware of their designs and amused by them. He shivered. “We should go, I think,” he said, turning to Strider.

With no further discussion, Strider and the hobbits made their way back down the boulders and into the low-lying shrubbery. Before they return to the road, however, Strider stopped them and stood very still.

The man shook his head. “Crawl under these bushes and stay down. Do not make a sound until you hear my voice call you.”

The hobbits complied, crawling through the sharp-thorned brambles on their knees and elbows. Out of the corner of his eye, Pippin watched Sam's hand move toward his pocket and then hover there. Pippin shook his head. “No!” he hissed.

Sam gave him a startled look as if waking from a dream, then, as he realized what he had been reaching for, he stuck his fingers self-consciously into the sandy earth. “You just mind yourself, Pip.”

Pippin opened his mouth but thought better of it. He turned his attention instead in the direction Strider had gone, and heard the barely discernible sound of voices.

The hobbits slowly rose from their hiding spot, brushing off the dry branches and leaves that clung to their clothes. Pippin drew a sharp breath when he saw Strider's companion. He was tall and wore a cloak the color of pine needles, but his keen eyes and fair, beardless skin suggested that this was no man. Pippin wondered if this could be an Elf, for he had never seen a being so fair.

The wizard advanced on them, chanting in a low, hypnotic voice and they shrank away in terror. Merry had the urge to grab his cousin and run, but man's words were dark and malevolent and bound them like heavy strands from some giant spider's web. Saruman halted and raised his staff towards Frodo. The hobbit's eyes widened in horror and he clawed at his throat as if choking. Merry tried to reach out, but the invisible bonds of the wizard's spell seemed thickest and strongest in the space between the cousins. They held him back so that all he could do was watch helplessly while Frodo writhed before him like a mad thing.

Suddenly, Frodo convulsed, his back arching and the neck that he had scratched bloody tensed so violently the tendons leapt out in sharp relief. Merry screamed and beat against the invisible barrier, but it did not yield, and if anything grew stronger. Frodo convulsed again, slamming himself against the smooth floor with a force that sickened Merry. It was as if an invisible hand was mercilessly beating his slender body against the stone. The poor hobbit arched once more, gave a gurgling cry and then sagged, the tension draining out of him like water. His head fell backward, limp, his eyes rolling, yet he did not fall to the ground, but instead hung in the air like a bloody rag doll.

Blinded with rage and grief, Merry hurtled himself screaming toward the wizard, but he did not reach his mark. With the flick of a wrist, the wizard's spell flung his whole body high into the air. In fear and pain, Merry clenched his eyes shut as the invisible force hurled him towards the chamber walls. The final impact would kill him; he had no doubt of it.

To his shock, he survived, though his head swam from hitting the sharp rock that cut mercilessly into his back. An unseen force pressed him hard against the wall, dozens of feet up in the air, his feet dangling helplessly over nothing. Far below the wizard laughed at him.

Saruman chanted a few words and Merry winced, fearing another attack of pain. Instead, the ropes slid from his wrists and dropped to the floor. Merry, with nothing left to hold on to, clawed wildly at the stone.

Saruman chuckled, as did a few of the orcs that watched from the periphery of the hall.

The orcs hooted their approval as Saruman's icy eyes focused on the hobbit. He flicked his staff and Merry began to slide down the sheer wall. A few terrifying feet down he was stopped with a violent jerk and his flailing arms were thrown wide against the walls. Suddenly, he heard a loud snap and his limbs were gripped tight by iron manacles imbedded in the wall.

Again, the orcs hooted their approval. Merry stared down in terror, not knowing whether Frodo was alive or dead, and feeling as hopeless as he had ever felt in his life. This was all his fault, including what would come. He squirmed in desperate agony, but the bonds held him fast.

The orcs snarled and muttered; seeming disappointed to miss potentially good sport, but obeyed, shutting the door behind them.

Frodo lay in a crumpled heap at the wizard’s feet. His eyes were closed, his body still and if he breathed, Merry could not tell.

“Frodo! Frodo! NO!” Merry sobbed, screamed, and cursed at Saruman, spending his impotent rage on a wizard who did not pay one whit of attention to him.

Merry watched in agony as Saruman bent over Frodo’s body. He removed the hobbit’s cloak, running his long fingers along the seams and shaking it out with care as if searching for something. He then ripped Frodo’s fine jacket, the one Merry had had made especially for his dear cousin, down the back using no more care than if he were skinning a scrawny hare for the pot. He performed his task quickly and with methodical precision, turning pockets inside out, cutting through seams with a wave of his long fingernail and feeling every inch of the rich blue material. Frodo’s fine white shirt, still embroidered with B’s was ripped open as well, and the buttons plunked to the ground and rolled in all directions.

Merry watched in horror as Saruman waved his wand and each piece of Frodo’s clothing whirled soundlessly into the fire. As the flames burned, he struggled harder against the iron clamps holding him. The wizard was studying the fire intently, he would soon know...

Saruman then turned to the chain and locket about Frodo’s neck. He opened it eagerly, but seemed manifestly disappointed with its contents and shut it again, but did not remove it from Frodo’s neck.

He then moved on to Frodo’s breeches, ripping these as easily as he had the fine coat. Merry felt a sharp stab of pain pierce him. Frodo could not fight the one who undressed him now. The memory of how stoutly his cousin had fought this very indignity as Merry’s captive came back to him with brutal clarity. At Crickhollow, he had shown no more respect for Frodo’s modesty than did this wizard, but now he turned his eyes away out of respect and bitter shame. Watching his own folly reenacted before his eyes was a crueler torment than anything else the wizard could have done to him.

When Merry finally found the strength to open his tear-filled eyes, Frodo was sprawled naked on the floor like a discarded hunk of meat, his body pale against the black stone. All of Merry’s energy was spent. He sobbed quietly, his throat too raw from screaming to do any more, and feeling wretched, defeated, guilty, and helpless. His grand plans to protect his cousin and his Shire had come to a terrible end.

Saruman nudged the limp form with the tip of his foot, rolling Frodo onto his stomach. The angry lines upon the hobbit’s back were clearly visible even to Merry. As Saruman studied them, an expression of astonishment crossed his face. Then he smiled and a cold shiver ran through Merry.

“I feel this to be your handiwork,” he said in a seductive voice, his gaze slowly creeping up the wall, “and not what I would have expected from a hobbit. My visits to the North have shown them to be small, peaceful and weak. But the violence to this one’s back shows a certain…decisiveness, Mister Brandybuck, that interests me. Perhaps now we will see from whence sprung this peculiar….strength of mind and purpose.”

Merry quailed at the wizard’s keen interest and the sudden hungry look in his eyes. Was it possible that Saruman had not believed the Ring to be in their possession before this? It was not something Merry had considered.

“It is time for our long- delayed conversation, Mister Brandybuck,” said Saruman, and pointed his staff at the hobbit.

The manacles snapped open and Merry dropped toward the floor and to certain death. But just inches above it, his body jerked to a halt and he hovered, facing the reflection of his own terrified expression in the black tile. His heart pounded wildly and he remembered to breathe again.

“Do not fear, Mister Brandybuck. I do not wish to slay you or your companion. I wish only to speak.”

Again the staff moved and Merry landed softly upon hands and knees. He crawled immediately toward his cousin.

“Frodo?” he whispered, desperately cradling the still face in his hands. He looked up at the wizard. “Is alive?”

“Do not concern yourself over this one, my dear, brave halfling. He is in a peaceful slumber, a much needed rest, as I discern.”

The wizard’s voice was soothing, comforting, and something in its tone made Merry nod stupidly, even gratefully. Frodo was alive and his all-consuming fear dissipated like mist in the sun. Frodo would be just fine.

“Does not a soothing sleep sound delightful after such a long and trying journey?” asked the wizard.

Again Merry nodded and heard himself say, ‘yes.’ He pulled Frodo’s body into his arms and laid his cheek against his battered head while the wizard chanted in the dark beyond him. Frodo would be fine. The torment was over and they would be all right very soon. The staff came down and touched Merry’s forehead and his world was cast into instant darkness.

Frodo awoke naked, cold and in total blackness. He’d had a terrible dream. In it he’d been beaten, stripped and blindfolded by a malevolent creature with cruel, glittering eyes. He raised his hands to his eyes and found that he was not bound and the dark was not a blindfolded. Memories slowly coalesced in his mind but they did little to reassure him.

He stood, stifling a cry as his bruised muscles protested, and blinked against the dark. With his hands outstretched, he walked carefully until he found the smooth surface of a wall. He followed it, trying to gauge the size of his prison. He guessed he was still within the tower that he and Merry had been brought to, but what had happened while he had lain senseless he could not guess, nor did he have any inkling of how much time had passed. Terror still gripped him, but he was somehow strangely resolute. He stopped and stared into the absolute black. Where had the men gone? And where was Merry?

“Merry?” he called softly and began searching the floor of the prison. If his cousin was there, unconscious, Frodo might have walked right past him. “Merry?”

“I thought we should have our first talk completely alone,” the voice continued.

“Then show yourself!” demanded Frodo, a bit startled at his own boldness. “I will not speak with those I cannot see.”

A torch sitting in a bracket above Frodo’s head burst into life, illuminating the room within its circle of flickering light. Frodo stood in a windowless space of smooth black stone. Three of the cell’s sides formed the circular space Frodo had explored, but the opposite side, or what should have been the opposite wall, tapered off into an impenetrable black emptiness.

‘Then show yourself,” repeated Frodo. “Or do not call yourself gracious.”

Footsteps echoed from the gloom and suddenly the wizard who had met him earlier stepped into the light. Frodo started, but controlled his fear and spoke.

“He is elsewhere,” answered the wizard. “There is no need to fear him. I won’t let him hurt you any more.”

Frodo stepped back, suddenly sensing dark purpose in the man’s gentle voice. “What do you want from us?” he said, his voice quavering.

“Simple answers,” said the wizard. “The simple truth. For example,” he moved closer and lifted Frodo’s chain with one long fingernail. “What is this about your neck?”

The wizard’s voice had changed subtly. This was a very important question and Frodo had the sense that something monstrous waited upon the answer. Near the surface of his memory, a thought bubbled and seethed, sparked by the question, but he held it back, fearful lest it materialize.

“There was…a small locket,” said Frodo carefully, nodding his head in confirmation.

“And something else, my dear little hobbit” the wizard insisted. “Something precious that should belong to me.”

“Why would I have something of yours?” asked Frodo. “You have taken my clothing. That was all I had save this locket. Truly,” he spread his arms wide, “I have nothing else.”

“You need not fear me, little one,” said the wizard, the hypnotic, soothing note returning to his voice. “I seek only a small trinket.”

Now Frodo saw lies in his words and the conciliatory tone frightened him more than the harshness. He backed against the wall, as if doing so could make it yield to him. “I have nothing, I'm just a simple hobbit.”

Frodo hesitated, staring again into the wizard’s black eyes. “Do you know me?” he asked, suddenly afraid to hear the answer.

“My dear hobbit,” Saruman laughed lightly. “I know much more about you than you could ever imagine, as if I had known you for many years.” He took a step closer and his voice became cold, losing its feigned politeness.

“It?” he asked, genuinely dismayed. “I’ve told you, I have nothing, no trinkets!”

The man took a step closer. “You or your cousin have something, or once had something,” he hissed. There was a threat in his voice, though the wizard smiled as he set his clawed hand upon Frodo’s bare shoulder. The hobbit’s skin crawled.

“I don’t remember,” said Frodo in a barely audible voice. Even as he said it, he felt that there was something he should have remembered.

The wizard hesitated, then stepped back and looked intently into Frodo’s eyes for a moment, then he smiled.

“I…I don’t know all of what has happened to me." And then he repeated more forcefully. "I just don’t remember."

The elf stared down at the hobbit with a condescending smile. “They have been sent, master halfling, but not by us. Meanwhile, my father, Lord Elrond, grows more apprehensive, but it is difficult to decide on a course of action when we do not know where the object is or in whose hands it lies.”

“Tell me, brother,” said Strider, laying his hand reassuringly on Pippin’s shoulder, “what have you seen on your travels? For we do know our course and it takes us to Isengard. Is there anything on the road that might help or hinder us?”

“Isengard,” said Elrohir, astonished. “That is a dark road indeed, Estel. But I can tell you this: there are Black Riders, three that I have seen, although I do not know where the others may be. Also, on the road to the south, I saw a tall man on a gray horse. His aspect was grim and he wore no livery so I know not whence he comes or where he is bound, but it seems likely that he started out from your very destination.”

“One of them did have a gray horse,” said Sam. “But if you pardon me saying, they all looked tall to me. And I recall they did have livery. It had a white hand on it.”

“This man showed nothing,” said Elrohir. “But anyone may remove his surcoat.”

Yes,” answered Elrohir. “About a mile behind was another man who seemed to be tracking the first. He had all the skill of a drunken dwarf and did not see me.”

“Strange,” said Strider and he was silent for a few moments. “If they are the only threats for now, we can manage them. But we shall need your help, and help from your father, and any other you might bring if we are to keep The One from Saruman’s hands.”

“I am many leagues away from help,” Elrohir said regretfully. “If you intend to take on Isengard, I will help, though our chance of success is slim and no other shall come behind me.”

“What we must do in that place must be done by stealth or not at all,” said Strider. “No, Elohir. By the time you could bring aid, our fates here, for good or ill, will have been decided. But I beg you to return to our friends as quickly as you may, tell them what they seek is here, and that as we speak, the one who bears it is indeed in deadly peril, but is not yet dead.”

Grimbold rode quickly along the Greenway, seeking any sign of travelers. He knew It was near – for the Black Riders were far too curious and too persistent. He suspected that the thing, the weapon, whatever It was, had landed in the hands of another Halfling. What other creature could have taken it from Buckland? But how such a diminutive being had made it this far was beyond Grimbold’s reckoning. Still, his experience with this sturdy race had taught him not to underestimate them. And indeed, the ancient prophesy had spoken of halflings – but not of the nature of the weapon, nor the name of the one who was destined to carry it.

The sudden, faint sound of hoofbeats disturbed his thoughts. Someone was coming up the Greenway. He moved quickly, tied his horse back from the road and found a likely place to spy on the other traveler. Very soon Broga rode by with an expression as pensive as Grimbold had ever seen the brute manage. Grimbold cursed. The wizard was no fool it seemed. He had sent Broga to kill him.

Frodo's breeches were returned to him, torn, devoid of buttons and barely serviceable. The coat and shirt had been destroyed, but Frodo had his torn cloak to wrap around him and used tatters from it as a belt. His clothes had been searched with alarming thoroughness as his captors looked for that Thing that must have been the reason for their kidnapping

When he was dressed as best he could, a strange, Orcish looking man blindfolded him and led him through an array of twists, turns and stairs. In his enforced darkness, the place seemed no more than a great maze, but at last he was sat down and his eyes were unbound. He sat in a wide, round room with no visible doors and the only furniture was two plain wooden chairs set a half-dozen feet apart in the center of the room. Frodo was sitting in one, Merry in the other. Merry’s clothing was in a similar state as Frodo's and he looked terribly afraid.

“Now that your companion has joined us,” said the wizard, “we may begin.”

“You tell me you do not have it. And your dear cousin tells me there is a certain... lapse in what he remembers.” Saruman smiled at them. “I am only a gatherer of facts and I surmise that you both have them, so I intend to gather what each of you know and see if we can't make sense of the situation. I’m sure we all agree this is a very important matter for Middle Earth.”

The wizard was doing something with his voice. Frodo wanted to trust it, but his intuition told him that he must not. This wizard was no friend to them. He was not a benign creature with the good of Middle Earth in mind. He was a liar.

The wizard's eyes fastened on him. “You, Frodo Baggins, told me you had nothing that should interest a man of my boundless wisdom.”

“The same answer,” said the wizard. "But I do believe that he did have It.”

“It is so sad when impaired memory causes one to lie, not even being aware he does so,” said the wizard.

“Tell me, Mister Brandybuck-- how your poor cousin came to lose his memory.”

“Perhaps it is not as important to find out what happened as to discover what manner of information was so thoroughly forgotten.”

“When I look into your eyes, Mister Baggins, I see high walls and locked doors. I am a powerful being, but not averse to treating the injuries of smaller and less powerful creatures, if it is in my power to do so. What say you to my offer?”

“That is because you did not listen,” said Saruman. “I'm offering to topple the walls and unlock the doors in your mind. I offer to make you whole again.”

“You are not,” countered the wizard. “In both of you halflings I detect a certain longing -- one that I understand, and one that only I can fulfill. We all want the same thing, my friends, and I can help retrieve It. So tell me, Mister Merry Brandybuck, where do you suppose this thing is now?”

“This weapon you alluded to when you spoke to a harmless old man in the forest of Buckland many years ago,” said the wizard with an avuncular smile.

“I was a braggart,” protested Merry. “And I was young. Young and immature! It meant nothing.”

“You were indeed young, and still are young by my account,” said the wizard with a kindly smile. “But I would hardly call you a braggart. Even then you struck me, and those who spoke for me, as uncommonly mature, serious and committed. Why should one with such qualities sell himself short?”

Frodo saw Merry too worked to resist the wizard’s honeyed words, but what Merry did not do was deny he had been in contact with this wizard and his lackeys for years. Frodo’s mind was spinning. How could that be?

“I sell myself short,” said Merry, “for there is very little of worth in me to sell. It is only natural that one such as I should tell lies in the company of strangers.”

“Strangers?” asked Saruman. “Surely I am not a stranger to you. You and I have had communication, have we not? And if I was truly a stranger, why should you have approached me for advice?”

“A fool's errand -- and I was a fool!” exclaimed Merry, avoiding Frodo’s stare.

The wizard laughed. “You are no fool,” he said, and Frodo felt the veiled threat in his tone. “At least not a great fool. But a halfling can hardly be a great anything, can he? Or is that a mistaken idea. Perhaps I was the fool for not taking your plans more seriously.”

“My plans were nothing,” cried Merry. “I exaggerated, can't you see. I was telling stories, pumped up with too much ale. It's something all hobbits do.”

“Is it now?” said Saruman with an icy tone. “Frodo, be so kind as to remove your garment and turn around.”

Frodo had not been seduced by the voice, but knew better than to defy it. He stood, removed his cloak, and turned.

“Is that something hobbits do?” The wizard indicated Frodo's battered back.

“Mad like a fox, more likely,” said the wizard. “For a halfling to unleash this manner of... madness upon a loved one, he must have been inspired by something very precious indeed. Something more precious, at least, than the skin of the loved one’s back.” He turned to Merry. “Wouldn’t you say, Mister Brandybuck?”

The wizard turned to the other hobbit. “Frodo, do you remember how you received these cruel scars?”

“I don't remember,” said Frodo truthfully and as calmly as he was able. “Whatever it was is past. The wounds have healed and I have put them behind me.”

“And this is our problem, Frodo, for I have not,” said Saruman, sounding most contrite. “And I believe this affects other, very important matters. As I said, I am only a seeker of the truth. And in this I think we ought to work together.” The wizard focused his glinting eyes on Frodo. “Frodo Baggins -- I think it is time we reopened some of those doors.”

The wizard raised his staff and Frodo had no time to react. He heard Frodo cry out and suddenly the room spun and went completely dark.

“You will tell me the truth about where It is,” said the wizard to Merry. “For all your ‘decisiveness’, it is clear you do not wish to see your cousin harmed.”

Merry angrily refused to answer. He again held Frodo’s ragged, unconscious form as it lay sprawled on the polished floor, and fought bitter, furious tears. He had never before felt such loathing as he did for Saruman at that moment.

“And yet,” the wizard continued, “there is something in his memory that you both fear, something that I believe hides the truth I seek. I can understand you not wanting to reveal Its location to me, but there’s more to it than that, isn’t there?” He wasn’t even trying to hide the malice in his voice now. “I have the power to give him his memories back, to make him relive each moment of them until I find where It has gone, but you don’t want me to, do you? I wonder why?” He smiled, knowingly. “I will discover where It is, by any means necessary. If you will not tell me willingly, I will find it myself, and then… he will remember it all.”

“You were not gentle, I suspect.” Saruman smiled wickedly. “Considering the damage I can see on his mind and body, you must have tormented him mercilessly. If I return his memory to him, he will feel every bit of what you did in a few terrible minutes.”

“Then tell me what I wish to know. Your kin’s fate is in your hands, Merry Brandybuck.” The wizard laughed. “Once again.”

“I did not say that it was,” said Saruman sweetly. “And that is hardly the point. I don’t care how I get the truth, but you do. I think I am being exceedingly kind in letting you tell me what I wish to know rather than just taking it from him.”

“We don't know where it is, or even what it is,” lied Merry. “Do what you wish with me but let him go! He can’t help you!”

“Did he help you?” asked the wizard, bending to look mockingly into Merry’s face.

“Of course,” said the wizard with an impatient sigh. He stood back and raised his staff and Merry cowered down over Frodo, trying desperately to shield him from whatever spell the wizard would unleash. “Then consider this another of the fruits of your love.”

Merry was flung backward, crying out his frantic protest as he went, and slid to a stop against the far wall. He quickly scrambled to his feet only to find himself pressed to the wall again. There was nothing he could do but watch in horror as a blinding white light poured from Saruman’s staff into his cousin’s forehead.

This time Frodo did not struggle, but opened his eyes as if waking from a dream and stood.

Merry held his breath. Had it been a bluff? Perhaps returning Frodo's shattered memories was beyond the wizard's skill? But even as that feeble hope crossed his mind, Frodo blinked and looked straight into Merry’s eyes. His expression was one of hurt and bewilderment, and he looked at Merry as if to ask him what this was all about. Despite the rags he wore, his appearance was so familiar, so much like the old Frodo Merry had once known and loved that it struck him like a dagger to the heart.

“Oh, Frodo.” He could not move, could not reach out as he ached to, and when Frodo's expression began to change, it destroyed him.

The look of concern turned to one of dismay and then to one of someone most grievously betrayed. And all the while Frodo’s eyes, filled with bitter grief, never left his cousin’s. His body began to shake and he fell to his knees, but being released from that accusing stare gave Merry no comfort. Suddenly, Frodo arched back, his face contorted in pure agony, and he let out a bloodcurdling scream. Light continued to pulse into him, inexorably illuminating those corners of his mind Merry had come to hope would remain forever dark. He twisted and screamed again, and the scars on his back began to seep new blood, the ugly red lines as lurid and evincive as the moment Merry had made them.

Frodo flailed violently, his fingers clawing at half healed scrapes, his face contorting with unimaginable anguish, and still he screamed. Then he gave one soul-wrenching shriek louder than all the others and clutched at his neck until blood covered his hands.

Saruman lowered his staff. Frodo stopped screaming and took in a few ragged breaths.

“Frodo!” Merry found he could move his feet again. “Oh, Frodo, say something! Are you all right?”

“Frodo!” Merry came toward him, his eyes filled with guilty tears and his arms outstretched.

Frodo's eyes found his cousin and fixed on him. His vague expression cleared, sharpened and then coalesced into the most pure expression of rage Merry had ever seen. Without warning Frodo hurtled himself toward him. Merry, wretched with his guilt, held up his hand in a half-hearted gesture of self-defense, but Frodo drove into him, enraged, sending them both skidding to the floor. He dug his nails into Merry’s neck, his face mad with fury and death in his eyes. Merry could barely breathe as his cousin clutched his throat but he could not fight him. If any deserved death, then he did and Frodo had earned the right to give it to him.

“Where is It!” He screeched, near foaming at the mouth with hatred. “What did you do with It?” His fingers tightened inexorably around Merry's throat and then, in a low, menacing hiss, he said, “It was mine.”

AN: Thank you for being patient for the long wait! Very difficult quarter. I thought I’d post on my birthday as a mathom to you. Thanks to celandine G for the first beta and clever additions, and ariel who has been waiting years to do what she did with the fight scene AND the angst-o-meter. I think you will be pleased with the result. Now we bring you: Chapter 14: Reckoning in which Frodo and Merry finally get an even fight.

Merry stared up in terror as Frodo’s fingers tightened around his throat. His cousin’s chest pressed heavily into his own, his face wild with a feral hate that shocked from him any thought of defense. Merry’s hands clutched helplessly at Frodo's arms, feeling his very heartbeats pounding through his frame. In that moment, he wished for death. Coldly, distantly, he prayed for it. But oblivion was not to be granted.

“It was MINE!” hissed Frodo, the low note of malice lingering in his voice. Then he hesitated, his eyes narrowed for a moment and he added, clearer and louder as if for other ears than Merry’s own, “You stole what was most precious in the world to me!”

Merry closed his eyes, unconsciousness welcoming him into its arms. His lips moved with a final effort of will, but their sound was too quiet and there was no air to form the words he desperately wanted to be his last.

Suddenly Frodo leaned back, relaxing his grasp on Merry’s neck. Painfully his unwilling lungs sucked in air, just as the blackness had promised to claim him.

He could again feel the pain as Frodo’s fingernails dug into his shoulders, could hear his cousin’s ragged and torn breath and see his eyes, black pools glinting with rage. Those awful eyes, like some wild creature, dilated to their fullest and glaring from above him. “Please,” Merry mouthed, not knowing what he was begging for as his lungs took in another unwelcome breath.

But there was something else in Frodo’s eyes. They were wrathful, livid, even murderous, yet deep within there was a spark of something that Merry had not seen there in a very long time. His mind swirled with confusion. Yes. There was awareness there; true awareness and purpose glittered behind Frodo's rage-twisted face, but no trace of love. He grasped Merry’s collar in his fist and drew him close.

Frodo twisted the collar until it again restricted Merry’s breathing and in a voice so soft only Merry could hear him, said;

He could feel the cloth tightening again. It was more than Merry’s tortured spirit could take. As his eyes rolled back, he made a wild kick that connected with a lean hobbit body. Frodo grunted in pain but let the collar go. Merry rolled away, standing and gasping as he held his throbbing neck.

Frodo was on him again, grasping his throat, digging in his nails. Merry kicked again in desperation. Fear lent him strength and as his foot landed he heard a sickening pop. Frodo fell, grasping his knee, his face twisted in pain.

Merry backed away. The look in his cousin’s eyes, now cognizant, showed him the futility of trying to discuss the situation rationally. Frodo was no longer evading the truth of what had happened to him in the mists of his tortured mind. He had protected the secret of the Ring so it was clear he understood their danger, but it was also eminently clear that he loathed Merry. Frodo rocked to his feet, his breath heaving as he favored the bruised leg.

“I…don’t have…your cursed…’locket’!” Merry rasped out through his injured throat.

Cold, malevolent blue eyes pierced him. He tried to back further, but in two hobbling strides, Frodo was on him. Merry saw the punch coming but horrified fascination held him frozen. Fingers balled tight, the skin on them pale and straining against the tendons, the mouth he had once loved so dearly contorted into a grimace of fiery hatred.

“You LIED!" Frodo voice rattled in his astonished brain. "You took what you had NO right to take!”

“What do you want from me?” cried Merry, aware of the wizard’s presence behind them but no longer caring. Guilt threatened to overwhelm him from all sides. He wanted, no, needed to know, but was not sure he could bear the answer.

Merry was forcefully reminded of a wolf snarling upon his helpless prey – waiting for the slightest movement to tear out his victim’s throat. He shook his head, pleading silently for Frodo to speak no more. Each word redoubled his guilt.

Frodo raised his fist again and hesitated, but Merry knew there would be no quarter. He put his hands up halfheartedly to block the punch, but that seemed to enrage Frodo even more. He bared his teeth and swung high, his fury crashing through Merry’s disheartened defense. The swift blow hammered into Merry’s chest, knocking his breath from him. He backed away, shame sapping his will to fight back.

Merry raised his hands defensively, but the blow hit his stomach. Merry struck back, aiming for Frodo’s breast, hoping to disable him. It was a solid hit. Frodo’s eyes widened, then darkened with renewed rage. He pushed Merry back hard, then advanced and swung. Merry fell hard, but was up again in seconds.

“You already did that,” snarled Frodo, “you won’t ever again.” He drew back a balled fist and swung.

An explosion of pain flared upon his jaw and Merry swung toward his attacker. It wasn’t a clean punch, hitting Frodo on the forearm, and Frodo was still able to lunge forward, striking Merry on the side of head. Merry cradled his temple and staggered backwards.

“Sorry?” growled Frodo, and kicked him ferociously in the thigh. “In the pit of my despair I did not feel your remorse.”

Merry blocked the next punch, but not the kick that followed. A burning stab of pain surged up from his groin and he fell screaming.

No good came from compliance, yet Merry obeyed, his muscles singing out in protest as he did so. The moment, Merry was vertical, Frodo advanced, grasped him by the shoulder and backhanded him with brutal force. Merry tottered, but felt himself steadied with the grasp upon his forearm. The next blow hit deep into his stomach, and he tumbled back hard against a wall. Blinded with pain he felt his knees give way and he crumbled in a heap. Frodo looked down upon him, his eyes blazing. Merry curled his battered body upon itself, shielding himself from whatever else Frodo had in store for him. He heard himself pleading.

The blow he expected never came and Merry dared to look up at his attacker through his fingers.

Merry closed his mind to the pain as he slowly unwound himself and sat up against the wall. Fighting nausea, he leaned his head against it and stared up at his cousin. His entire body shuddered. “I only meant to save you,” he panted.

The blow he expected then didn’t come either. He heard Frodo kneel down before him and felt cruel fingers claw into his scalp. Frodo roughly drew Merry’s head back by the hair, forcing his gaze up. Frodo's face was grim and pitiless. He had never looked less himself.

Frodo froze and for many moments sat panting and staring at his victim as if mesmerized. Abstractly, he reached down and ran his finger over Mary's lip. Bright red blood pooled on his fingertip. For many moments he crouched, staring at the blood and then something broke in his expression. Tears came, like rain on cold stone, though his face remained strangely still. He held the bloodied fingertip before Merry's eyes, as if to show him what he had found. His expression hardened.

Merry died inside. Tears ran down his face unabated. This fit of violence from his once-gentle cousin was his fault.

Suddenly the fierce grip on his scalp loosened and Frodo was dragged away by a clawed hand while Merry’s own body was pulled in the opposite direction.

“Fascinating,” said Saruman’s voice from across the room. “So small, yet with so much rage.”

Merry said nothing to the wizard, his gaze instead focused on Frodo, who had gone limp in his handlers grasp, yet was breathing hard.

“Put these two in a private cell together,” ordered Saruman. “Perhaps they have more to say to one another.”

The orcs grunted out their acknowledgment as they pulled their charges roughly to their feet.

“But don’t go too far, mind you,” he said, his lips turning up. “We don't wish our two guests to harm each other while they... reminisce.”

The Ranger and the Elf spent hours speaking together in a strange tongue and solemn tone. Pippin could not understand what was said, but hoped something helpful had come from it. Yet a terrible dread settled into his stomach when Strider bid farewell to the Elf and they watched him ride away. The Elf had been an ally, and he wondered if Strider had made a mistake sending him away at such a critical time. But he hesitated questioning the Ranger. Strider usually knew best and his plans took a wider view than those contrived by himself and Sam.

“It would have been a mite more polite to have this counsel spoken in plain talk so we could join in,” said Sam sullenly.

Pippin thought Sam's tone was unduly harsh toward one who had gone so far to help them, but part of him agreed with his words.

“We spoke of things that did not touch you,” said Strider unapologetically. “I will now tell you of what we discussed that did. Come, let us sit and take counsel together”

The shadows lengthened upon the three travelers, sitting in a circle as Strider recounted what he had learned.

“I had assumed they were closely guarded,” explained Strider patiently. “But I have learned they may not be.”

Strider laughed quietly. “No entrance to Angrenost is safe, Pippin. On this endeavor, there is no such thing as safe But there is certainly safer, and that is what we must find.”

The ranger took a long, hard look at Sam before continuing. “Isengard is a fortress with obvious towers overhead, but there are also tunnels far underground. The smoke we see is from deep forges that burn day and night. To get there, one must use the tunnels and they reach for miles outside its walls. The principal ones are guarded, but Elohir tells me that lesser-known tunnels at times stand unwatched, and one might enter therein, perhaps unnoticed.”

Pippin was staring intently at the ranger. “Would a wizard such as him be so careless?”

“Perhaps,” said Strider. “Or perhaps Saruman has become so comfortable behind his walls that he no longer fears what may come from below.”

“Or perhaps he's keeping a secret escape for himself,” said Pippin. “The Great Smials are full of secret tunnels. We've not been attacked for many generations, but Da says that even if we were, we could dig deep and hold out for many months.”

“I fear the time may have come when the hobbits of Tookland may need to make use of those defenses,” said Strider. “In fact, they may be doing so as we speak.”

“What!” The old feeling of dread flowed back into Pippin like a torrent. For some reason he had not yet considered that the riders and ruffians in Buckland might bring their dark forces to his own ancestral lands. Pippin shivered. Knowing that his own land was safe had been the backbone of his courage.

“Take heart, Peregrin Took.” Said Strider. “From what I've seen, halflings can be a remarkable folk when put to the test.”

“And Tooks are…brave,” said Pippin. “But this is a darkness Strider! A darkness beyond them, and I fear,” his voice fell to a whisper, “beyond us.”

“They are beyond your reach, Pippin,” he said gently. “But if they share a fraction of your courage, we need not loose heart.” He took a deep breath. “But for here and now, let us hear more of this tunnel.”

“There has always been one passage,” continued Pippin, “in our warren, known only to the Thain and his heirs. It is called the Thain’s Run.”

“'Well, that's a dandy thing... for the Thain,” muttered Sam under his breath.

“No!” said Pippin, genuinely hurt. “That's not it at all. It’s so that if the Thain is betrayed, he might yet escape. It's to make sure the Shire should never go leaderless even if all else fail.”

“Such talk will bring us no closer to saving your friends,” Strider broke in. “Pippin's point about the secret tunnel is well made. Saruman has thousands of men and orcs at his disposal, but I wonder how much he trusts them. I would not be surprised if he has such a passage that is known only to himself. In fact, I think we can be almost certain of it.”

Strider’s brows were furrowed in concentration. “Where is Thain’s Run, Pippin?”

“I don't mean to know where it is exactly,” said Strider. “Rather, what sort of place is it and why was it chosen over other paths? We ought to think of the places Saruman would want to have his.”

Pippin’s face relaxed. “The Thain’s Run is the longest tunnel of all and goes a mile beyond any of the others,” said Pippin. “It has many forks and dead ends to avoid chase. And it opens out very near the river.”

“For purposes of supply and escape, no doubt,” said Strider thoughtfully. “Excellent, Pippin! We shall use the Thain’s Run as a model of what we shall seek here.”

“Perhaps,” said Strider. “But until the day when the trees can talk, we must search out this path on our own.

Grimbold waited for Broga to disappear down the Greenway before moving a muscle. To find the mysterious weapon he must find the one who carried It, and his former subordinate presented a complication. He had not come this far to fail.

Grimbold worked his way northward, just off the road, back the way he had come. The black riders had shown him that the one who now carried It was very near. He now suspected his group had been followed to Isengard by the weapon-bearer at a distance. And it was this distance that Grimbold now hoped to close. If his instincts were correct, the one he sought would have traveled off the road, perhaps on the game trails that followed the River Isen.

He rode until late afternoon, dismounting as he neared the river so as not to miss any sign. It was nearly dusk when he saw the clue he had been looking for. There in the moist earth between the trees were three sets of footprints that should not have been there. Not orcs, he mused, a smile spreading across his weary face. One set was that of a large man wearing boots. The other two were unshod, the size of children. But there were no children in these lands.

It made perfect sense now. Who was more likely to steal the weapon from a halfling than another halfling? The ancient rhyme would still hold true. And clearly the halfling had help, a man’s help.

Grimbold stopped to think, long and hard. Whoever this man was, he could not guess, but he did not think it wise to underestimate him. They had, after all, got this far under his guidance. Grimbold tied his horse so that he might follow without drawing attention to himself. Then quickly, but more cautiously than before, he followed in the footsteps of the strange trio toward the rush of the river.

Suddenly, he heard a sound, barely perceptible over the churning of the Isen. Voices. He stopped and held his breath. They were clear, high voices, but not childlike in the least. He edged forward and very carefully drew his sword. Then, through the trees, he heard a faint whizzing sigh. An explosion of pain ripped through him and he realized an arrow had plunged deep into his shoulder.

He cried out in agony and stumbled to the ground. Through a haze of pain he heard a familiar voice.

“You’re slippin’ boss,” the other man said, stepping into his line of sight. “Sloppy thing tying your horse where all can see it.” He grinned down at his former employer, writhing in pain. “But I’ll not hold that against you. What I'd like to know is what you and the wizard are so hot to get. Hand it over…and I might let you live.”

Grimbold was thinking as fast as the pain would allow him. “You would betray the wizard,” he asked between stifled breaths.

Perhaps his erstwhile henchman was not as dumb as Grimbold had thought, but even the stupidest man could show occasional brilliance when it came to his own self-interest. Grimbold cursed himself silently, feeling the arrow within his shoulder as he shifted. Or the most brilliant man could show occasional stupidity.

Grimbold chose his words carefully. “It's a weapon,” he gasped painfully. “And it's close. At least it is still within your reach.”

Broga gave a terrible chuckle. “Now don’t you worry none. I'll be back to reminisce some, soon as I got it. Now, don't you move!”

Without warning, Broga reached down and took the shaft of the arrow and twisted it in the wound. The agony was instantaneous and intense. Darkness swallowed his senses before he could even scream.

The privacy of this cell was an illusion and Frodo knew it. The size of an average hobbit smial, it was large enough to be comfortable, but too small to retreat from each other completely. Other than a few stools, and a straw mat in the corner, the cell was unfurnished, damp and cold. The only light came from a small slit of a window twenty feet above.

Blindfolded, the hobbits had been brought to this dismal place by different paths. Frodo had arrived first and was unceremoniously pushed into the room while a heavy door shut behind him. He clawed off the blindfold, but the darkness of the prison brought him no comfort. Shortly afterwards, the door opened and Merry was shoved through, falling upon his knees with a groan.

Frodo leaned against the wall and watched, making no effort to help him up. Merry rolled upon his back, groaned again, then clawed off his blindfold. As his eyes adjusted, he spotted Frodo. He inhaled sharply.

“I'm not going to strike you,” said Frodo disgustedly. “I don’t want to touch you.”

Merry reached for a nearby stool and pulled himself to his knees on it. He coughed and quickly wrapped his arms around his ribs. Frodo made no movement to help him. He slowly pulled himself up and sagged into its hard surface.

He swallowed hard and closed his eyes for a moment. “Frodo,” he looked up at his cousin. “You must understand…”

“Are you asking for forgiveness, cousin?” asked Frodo. “By the Valar, have you any notion of what you have done?”

“Crime against me?” spat Frodo. “You ruined me. You beat me and branded me, debased me like an animal, tied me naked and left me in the dark, bereft of all things that mattered to me - my freedom, my honor, my sanity!”

“I doubt very much that you do, Merry. You underestimate the heinousness of your crime,” said Frodo, fighting to keep his voice steady. “You underestimate your guilt. By leagues upon leagues.”

Frodo took a step forward and Merry gripped the edges of the stool as if to keep from falling.

“I deserve your scorn,” said Merry miserably. “I deserve death. I deserve to be slain and cast into a pit and forgotten.”

“No,” said Frodo icily. “You should never be forgotten, cousin. Nor should your deeds. For when Evil comes to claim his due, the races of middle Earth should not wonder who it was that brought them low. Then should your name be echoed about from Bree to Buckland. Is that not fame, cousin? Is that not what you wanted all along?”

“Frodo!” cried Merry, his whole body trembling. “I never dreamed that it should come to this.”

“What did you dream then?” snapped Frodo viciously. “When your hand was upon the scourge, and we were left tied in bleeding and maimed, what did you dream? All my dreams have been nightmares and waking is none the better. So to tell me, as you slept in your warm bed, what future did you dream after breaking all the ones you once loved?”

Merry only sobbed, his fingers covered his face to hide his shame. Frodo’s stomach churned with disgust. To seek revenge had been his basest instinct, but it was no sweet reward. It had the stale reek of fear and, he realized with bitter irony, it too served the ring. He knelt down his face inches from Merry’s.

“Do not imagine for a moment that we speak in private,” he said in a low voice. “But perhaps they cannot hear a whisper. You look at me now and tell me what drove you to such lengths. You owe me. I shall not forgive you, but I need to know our enemy if I am to have any hope. Now speak.”

Merry lowered his hands and opened his eyes. They were vacant and bloodshot, like a lamb to be butchered accepting its fate.

“It can only act upon that which already lies within,” said Frodo. “Gandalf understood that and you did not.”

“No, I did not,” sobbed Merry bitterly. “All the waters in the Brandywine could not cleanse me of my misdeeds. I didn’t mean for any of this to happen. It bends and twists one’s will to its purpose. I had ambition and I wanted to protect you and…and it latched on to that, I think, latched on and would not let go. It finds the one thing inside…that you…want.”

“I understand folly. You thought you could hold what the Wise dared not? I never dreamed that one of my own could be so despicable, so foolish and so completely beyond redemption.”

Merry sighed. “Perhaps that is why the Wise chose you, Frodo. I did not truly see why then, but I do now, lords, I do! He took a deep breath. “I see the truth now and …if it pleases you, you can hit me again. But consider, cousin, even you, the very best of all hobbits, could not have resisted it forever.”

“I did not intend to,” said Frodo. “If you had not made me captive, I would have been free of it in Rivendell.”

“Would you?” Merry asked. “Did It never sing to you as you slept? Had It never invaded your dreams and your soul? Could you have given it to another?”

“Bilbo did. And I was not given the opportunity to try.” Frodo whispers had become angry. He glared back at Merry. “It was stolen away from me!”

Frodo’s eyes widened as a sharp twist of desire thrummed in his belly. Stolen. This was the hunger that had troubled him these long weeks even though he had not known what he hungered for. For all his return to sanity, he was not yet free. He still wanted it. Merry had not taken the thing, he remembered now. It was Sam who had snatched the Ring. Slipped it from his neck while his sanity was gone, but a part of his mind had still watched, still fought to take it back. Dear, sweet, gentle, loyal Sam. He had taken the precious.

“I've no choice but to want it!” answered Frodo angrily. “It still exists and so I must find It and to finish my task. But where is It? And where is he? And have I any hope we should be reunited?”

“Do you mean with your companion, or with…It?” asked Merry, an edge creeping into his voice.

Merry swallowed. “Then we have a terrible bond between us,” said Merry. “Despite all the disgust I have for myself, and despite all of my guilt and the horror at what I've done,” Merry glared at Frodo and his voice was steady, “I crave It still. I need just as you do.”

Frodo looked down at his cousin. It seemed strange that he had once loved this hobbit dearly, for all he could feel now was hatred and revulsion. “You are not like me.” Frodo’s whisper sliced the cold air. “Nothing, not even my ‘locket’, could have lured me into committing such unspeakable acts.”

Merry drew in a breath as if he had been punched. He met Frodo’s cold eyes and seemed to sink into the stool. Frodo turned away, not even willing to give the mercy of meeting his cousin’s gaze and Merry began to weep, silently, pitifully, his face buried in his hands and his shoulders shaking.

But Frodo felt no pity for this wretched hobbit. Something deep inside told him that he should, or that in another world, he would have, but whatever feeling he had once had for this hobbit had been utterly destroyed. He wondered if this hardness of spirit had always been part of him or if this too was a darkness grafted upon him through the power of the insidious thing.

Hatred, dark and bitter rose in his throat. He did not know he had the capacity for such hatred in him, but there it was. He had lost all love for Merry, but he hated him too, and wished him ill. A part of him understood the temptation the wretched creature before him had faced; Meriadoc Brandybuck had been given a test, and had failed. But was not the hatred Frodo felt towards his blood kin a product of Its influence? And was that not a failure too?

The thick door flew open and two rat-faced orcs surged through it. The first one laid hold of Merry, pushed him roughly to the floor and bound up his hands, then plucked him up by the hair.

Merry had terror in his eyes as he was dragged away. The other orc smiled with an unsavory grin, perhaps hoping to elicit some similar response from Frodo. But Frodo stood tall and stared into the creature’s eyes, grimly and without fear. It seemed to disarm the orc. He looked down as it threw a leather sack at Frodo's feet, “Master says I take you to bathe,” he growled. “You put these on, no squeaking, then meet him.”

Frodo looked down at the sack, then back at the orc. The creature made no move to bind him, instead, it backed out of the cell and waited outside the door. Frodo bent and opened the sack. Inside was a fine white shirt, silk breaches, and thick, green embroidered tunic - the garb of a princeling. He was confused, but he was also half naked and decidedly in need of a bath. He picked up the sack and followed the orc, not sparing another thought for his erstwhile cellmate.

Grimbold felt a prick of cold steel on his neck as he looked up to see a ragged man with a stern aspect.

“Who are you,” the man said brusquely, “and whom do you serve. Speak true or I shall end your pain with swordcraft.”

Grimbold took a deep breath, trying to preserve his senses. This was no servant of Isengard. As long as there was a chance, he would play the game. Grimbold tried to bring his eyes into better focus while opting for a small part of the truth.

Grimbold took a deep breath and decided to gamble. “I serve Boromir, son of Denathor…he is the Steward of Gondor.”

The sword pulled away from Grimbold’s throat. “Gondor,” whispered the man surprised. “Then, Grimbold of Gondor, tell me where the creature is that felled you. Was it an orc? Are there more about?”

Grimbold shook his head. “A man.” He lifted his left hand and pointed in the direction he had heard the voices, the direction that Broga had gone. “If you catch him, slay him,” said Grimbold. “He means to do harm.”

Grimbold leaned back into the leaves as the other man departed without a word, running toward the river with long, swift strides.

Strider had bid them to hide well and keep silent as he hurried toward the sound of the cry. Pippin and Sam had scurried into the trees to wait until Strider returned. They had gone separately, Pippin to the left, Sam to the right.

Minutes passed without further sound from their quarry. Pippin listened intently, but could hear nothing and he was just beginning to feel a queasy fear in his stomach when a sound did approach; the heavy tread of a ranger moving without the need for stealth. With a sigh of relief, he skidded down an embankment back to the river’s edge. The tall man’s dark form stood by the remains of their small fire.

The man turned and, much to Pippin’s horror, it was not Strider. He stopped dead as the man’s face opened with a wide, ugly smile.

“Well now!” he said. “What have we here? A poor little halfling lost in the wilds?” His words were friendly, but his eyes glinted with a strange light.

Pippin did not speak, unsure of whether to bolt, scream, or play along. Instinctively, he stepped back.

“Nothing to fear, little one,” the man said, advancing a matching step. “I’ve just come to talk, see. Maybe help out a bit.”

“We’ve no need of help. Stay back!” said Pippin. He bent and picked up a stone. “I mean it!”

The man chuckled, showing a row of crooked, yellow teeth. “There, there! No need to get yerself all riled. I’m just a fellow traveler, like yourself.”

Pippin backed up a few more steps and raised his rock. “Stay back, I said. I’m not alone, there are others here…there are men in our party.”

“I won’t hurt you none,” he said. “Look, I’m putting down my bow, so I en’t got nothing to hurt you.” He set the bow upon the ground as if to show his peaceful intentions.

Pippin did not lower his rock. Behind him in the trees he thought he heard the sound of running footsteps above the roaring waters. The man had not seemed to notice but Pippin prayed it was Strider and not another of the sort now in front of him.

The man stepped over his bow toward Pippin. “I just want a short word with you, halfling.” He made another cautious step forward. “I only want to know…”

Pippin watched in wonder as the invader suddenly gave a sharp gasp. His face went slack, he seemed to totter, then fell back onto the riverbank, the hilt of a dagger protruding from his chest.

He whipped around expecting to see Strider. But it was not Strider standing behind him, hands at his sides, eyes unruffled and calm. It was Sam.

At that moment, Strider broke through the trees, sword drawn. He took in the scene, then walked to Pippin’s side. Both of them said nothing as they stared in astonishment at Sam. The hobbit’s expression was as stern and as blank as Pippin had ever seen it.

Strider broke the stillness as he knelt by the fallen man and placed his fingers at the neck.