I’m writing an AU! *gasp!*

The inspiration for this story originally came to me a year and-a-half ago when I got Xena on DVD. Don’t panic! This is *not* a crossover in any sense of the word! Please don’t go away! Pretty please! But the premise used on Xena – an evil warlord (er, warrior princess) turned good and redeeming her past sins with good deeds and the aid of her loveable but irritating blonde sidekick – seemed like a very intriguing concept for a post-Quest AU adventure. 

I at first intended this story to be just a silly little bit of fiction, and the introductory chapter, which I will not be posting here, was in fact quite silly in nature. Then I got the idea to write a story surrounding the mysterious Blue Wizards and their rumored affairs in the East. I also knew the story would touch upon Frodo’s lingering Ring-sickness and what would happen if he and Sauron were forced to work together. As I had no idea if I would ever finish this story, nor any idea how I was going to get from point A to point B, I have only been posting this on my LJ. Now that I do know what is going to happen and have the final chapters outlined, I have decided to begin posting it here.

I am extremely nervous about this, as I’ve never posted a story like this here before. I hesitated many many times over hitting the "Publish" button and finally decided to just take a leap of faith. I hope that you will all enjoy reading this as much as I have enjoyed writing it.

Disclosure: Rick Cottontree* is mine. Everything else belongs to Tolkien. I'm not making any money. I ask only for worship feedback. :D

* I can’t count the number of times I was asked who Éowyn meant in TTT movie when she was talking about the wild men and Rick Cottontree. Of course, she was actually saying “rick, cot and tree”. ;) And then I thought, what if there really was a Rick Cottontree? And thus my OC was born. :D

Chapter 1 – The Storyteller 

A young man with fair blond hair and bright green eyes sits in a small and dimly-lit tavern in Meduseld. He is Rohirrim, one of their own by appearance, from the Eastemnet by his speech. He is dressed for traveling: full-length breeches, thicker inside the legs for riding; a short-sleeved shirt, and draped over the back of his chair a riding cloak. His sword, as is the custom of all taverns in the Westfold during peacetimes, leans against the wall just inside the door. Dressed as he is though, he does not appear to be traveling soon, for surrounding him is a crowd of eager listeners, both young and old, and they listen enthralled as he spins a tale with great passion and zest.

“Long ago in the fires of Mt. Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged the One Ring, and into it he poured all his malice, hatred and will to dominate all life. With the One Ring on his finger, he enslaved thousands of Free Peoples and created armies of orcs, wargs, Uruk Hai, and other devious creatures. For years he ruled with a black hand, until he was defeated and his Ring of Power taken from him. 

“Alas, that is not the end of the tale, for the Ring survived, and so did the Dark Lord, weakened but not gone. Slowly, over many thousands of years, he rebuilt his strength in the dark forest of Mirkwood. When at last he was expelled by the White Council, he fled to his former stronghold in Mordor and began again to gather his armies to him. He was hesitant to make any bold move, until, that is, he learned that the Ring still existed. He sought after it, sending out his most feared servants, the Nazgûl, nine riders draped in black robes to hide their emptiness. They sought the master Ring through all the lands, spreading their terror over the realms, but the Council of the Wise already had it and sought to destroy it. It was thought that once the Ring was destroyed the Dark Lord would perish with it and his shadow would be lifted from the world. And that is exactly what happened, but not in the way that everyone expected.”

Here he pauses, letting this last statement hang in the air. He waits until his audience is making expectant glances at each other. They have all heard the rumors, and many of those present had seen the man with whom the young bard had come into town. Are the rumors true then and not just fanciful talk? Could this young lad, of all people, have intimate knowledge of the Downfall of the Dark Lord that no one else had? Some listeners shift impatiently, others hold their breaths, and they all watch the boy closely.

When the bard feels the anticipation thick in the air, he leans forward, intensifying the mood. When next he speaks, his words are almost a whisper, spoken in urgent secret. 

“You see, the Wise thought that with the Ring gone, the Dark Lord would perish and in that sense they were right, but they overlooked one very important detail: into the Ring, he poured his malice, hatred and will to dominate all life. When the Ring went into the fire, those things too were destroyed and the Dark Lord ceased to exist! The Shadow was not only lifted from the world, but from the eyes of Sauron himself!” 

The lad sat up straight again and raised his voice to just above normal tones, still filled with urgency and zest. “Sauron saw clearly for the first time what he had become, how far he had strayed from his original path as the good servant of Aulë, master crafter of the Valar. He remembered those days at the beginning of the world and the singing of Ilúvatar, before Melkor’s dark seduction, and he wailed at the terrible destruction and devastation he had caused. 

“Seeing this, Aulë sent for him and before the Valar, Sauron begged mercy and forgiveness and renounced his evil ways. Aulë was moved by his former pupil’s plea and saw the change within, and he pleaded with Manwë to allow Sauron the Gift of Redemption. And Manwë went to Ilúvatar, and Ilúvatar said it should be so, but under one condition. Sauron would be stripped of all the powers he had accumulated with the use of his dark magicks and be made to walk the world in the guise of a man, but immortal as an elf, so that he may be able to correct all the wrongs that he once did. Sauron accepted this condition, and from that moment on, he became the Fair once more. Now he seeks to right those wrongs and do in Middle-earth all the good he can with the time given to him.”

Scattered applause sounds all around as Rick finishes his story. The applause is more than he had expected, and he smiles widely, half with modesty and half with pride. He rises to his feet and bows. “Thank you. Oh, really please, that’s too much. Thank you.” 

He doesn’t fail to notice though that the majority of his audience looks at him dubiously and with a pitying look one might give a child who knows no better. The reactions to the tale grow gradually more enthusiastic the farther west they travel. In Gondor, he had received only shaking heads and a hundred tavern patrons eager to tell him their stories of the horrors on Mordor and its Dark Lord, as though the bard hadn’t already heard the tales. This is in spite of the King’s endorsement of the reformed Maia. He wonders what sort of reception they will receive in Dunland if they go that way this journey out. Given that the Dunlanders had been allies of Saruman, many assume that their sentiments for Sauron will be favorable but the young bard isn’t so certain. After all, the Dunlanders had been promised everything in Sauron’s name and had received nothing. 

The boy mulls this over as he regains his seat and turns back to his half-finished tankard. His audience disperses, returning to their former conversations or speaking now in low tones about the seeming naivety of the young man.

The bard is accustomed to this also. The second of three lads, both his brothers bigger and more robust than he, with quicker wits and harder fists, he had always been the subject of misguided pity. Yet he is no weakling. Laugh he does, and eat and drink with zeal, but he can overcome an opponent just as well as the next fellow. He has done so many times before, proving himself in sparring matches with lads twice his size, though he would have much sooner and more enthusiastically sat down and thrown back an ale with the chap instead. Nor is he naïve. He has seen as many hardships as anyone else in this tavern, living through the wars with Saruman and the Dark Power in the East. He knows of loss and heartache, and the bitter sting of betrayal, but he knows of valor and loyalty as well and believes firmly that everyone is worthy of them. If that makes him a naïve weakling, then so be it.

The barkeep comes by and tops him off, interrupting these private musings. He pauses to give the lad a measured look. “That was a nice little story, Rick,” he says gruffly through bristling whiskers. He scratches his cheek with meaty fingers. “Too bad none of it’s true, that last half anyways.”

“Oh, it’s true all right,” Rick says with earnestness. “Sauron isn’t the same Maia he used to be. He’s changed and when he gets here, you’ll see that.”

A hush falls over the tavern, quickly followed by fervent whispers. It is true! The lad rides with the Dark Lord! Sauron is in the village! Several of the larger men, warriors in the war, stand and go to the door, gathering their swords before stepping outside. A force of arms at the entrance will not do much good against a Maia, but at least they will show Sauron that the establishment is protected and will not be taken without a fight, should he choose to start one.

“When he gets here, he doesn’t set one foot in my tavern,” the barkeep says, his cheeks coloring with fury even as the rest of his face drains with fear. “I know your father, lad. He must fear for you, knowing what you’ve taken up with.”

“My father may not understand but he trusts my judgement,” Rick says. He can say more but he sees no reason to explain himself to everyone he comes across.

The barkeep goes back to the other end of the bar to wipe down the counter and polish the glasses, his eyes glued to the door.

An hour passes and Rick is in the process of finishing another story, this one about Sauron’s heroism while rescuing a mother and baby from a burning hut, when the tavern door opens. The midday sun streams into the tavern, revealing a great form framed by sunlight. Behind him the warriors stand, hands to their pommels, waiting for the first hint of an ill move. 

Everyone looks over to see who the new patron is but only Rick grins. It is Sauron, taller than the tallest man and stronger than the mightiest warrior, with dark brown hair, steely grey eyes and a coy smile. 

The barkeep throws his rag onto the counter and points righteously. “You are not welcome here!” he shouts to the newcomer, sparing a quick glare at the boy for befriending such riffraff. 

“That’s all right,” Sauron says coolly, for he had expected to hear as much, given his welcoming committee on the porch. Even without the warriors, such a greeting would not have been surprising. He has become long accustomed to cold welcomes; he can hardly demand more. He stays just outside the threshold of the tavern, ignoring the warriors poised on either side of him. His long hands hang empty at his sides, but everyone notices the broadsword at his back and looks at it fearfully. Sauron carefully keeps a look of cool indifference on his fair face as he peers through the dim murk within. “I’m just here for my friend.”

“I’m here!” Rick jumps up from his seat, tosses a few silver pennies onto the table for the barkeep, and grabs his satchel. “Sorry, wish I had time for another tale, but duty calls,” he says to his audience, who had all but forgotten him in their astonishment at seeing the Maia up close. They watch with gratitude as the lad gets up, retrieves his sword and follows his friend into the daylight outside. 

Sauron casually walks through the warriors, paying them no heed, and starts down the dirt road to the stables below. “Excuse us,” Rick says to the warriors and follows after the Maia at a quick trot to match his tall companion’s long-legged strides. 

Villagers watch them pass with a mixture of fear and fascination, fear of the Maia with the terse demeanor and fascination of the young Rohirrim who trots eagerly beside him. Does the lad go willingly or is he under some spell? Sauron pretends not to notice the stares and Rick doesn’t notice at all, for his attention is now turned to his friend. “So, what did you find out?” Rick asks. “Did Éomer King know anything? Did you find what you needed in Dwimoberg?”

“No, and yes. I was right,” Sauron says, a heaviness to his words. “All these strange occurrences that have been going on in the eastern lands – the disappearances, the mad ravings, the paranoia – all of it is the result of the Blue Wizards.”

“So we’re going to stop them,” Rick states. “That’s exciting! I’ve never been east of the Andúin before. What is it like? Is it as hot as they say it is?”

“Yes, it’s hot, and no, it’s not great,” Sauron answers, looking at his friend as though he is a small child. “It’s dangerous.”

“How can it be any more dangerous than anything else we’ve faced?” Rick says, confident in Sauron’s abilities to defeat any evil thing they cross paths with. Sauron’s grimness isn’t about to shatter that belief any time soon.

“Trust me, it is. I wouldn’t even take you, if I knew you wouldn’t try following me and get yourself into even worse trouble,” Sauron says.

“We’ve lived under the threat of Isengard and Saruman, and we’ve all seen Gandalf Greyham in action. They’re supposed to be the two greatest of the wizards, and if we can survive them... although, granted, Gandalf was on our side,” Rick babbles.

“All of the wizards possess equal power and equal ambition,” Sauron says. “They just didn’t all follow their paths. The Blue Wizards were steered off their path and they’ve been using their powers to terrible ends. Saruman was just beginning to flex his power when he was defeated; he had to be careful so his treachery would not be detected. The Blue Wizards have no such restrictions and have been expanding their powers for centuries. Do not underestimate them only because you know nothing about them.”

Rick nods. “Very well. I’ll keep on my toes then. When do we leave?”

“As soon as possible, but before we go, we’re going to need help. Getting it is likely to be just as difficult as defeating the wizards, if not more so,” Sauron says grimly. 

They reach the stables and go inside to release Sauron’s horse, Brego, from his stall. The chocolate-colored stallion whinnies softly and nuzzles his master’s hand. Sauron obliges the beast, scratching behind Brego’s ears and along his muzzle. When Brego is satisfied, Sauron saddles and bridles him and guides him out of the stable by his lead rope. Having no horse of his own, Rick takes Brego’s other side and the three walk side by side down the path to the front gate.

“What sort of help?” Rick asks after it appears that Sauron will not volunteer the information. “Another person? An elf? Legolas of the Nine Walkers!”

Sauron sighs and looks at his friend with troubled eyes. “No, not Legolas, though you are close. He is one of the Nine Walker, and he’s the last person in Middle-earth who would ever do me a favor.”

“There are quite a few people who would never do you a favor,” Rick points out teasingly, hoping to break his friend’s troubled mood. When it doesn’t work, he grows serious for the first time and asks, “Who is it?”

Sauron halts suddenly and he looks out over the lands beyond the gate of the city. He looks to the plains rolling away to the northwest, beyond Rohan and the White Mountains. Somewhere out there was a little country of green hills and quiet rivers, and a little people previously unthought of. He had underestimated them, not knowing their merit and spirit. “It’s Frodo. He’s the one who has to help.”

Sauron begins walking again, leaving a shocked Rick behind. “Wait a minute!” Rick says after a while and runs to catch up. “You mean Frodo? As in ‘Baggins’? As in ‘The Ring-bearer’? The one who destroyed your Ring and went mad in the process?”

“The irony isn’t lost on me Rick,” Sauron says testily. 

“There has to be someone else who can do it, whatever it is. Just what is it anyway?” Rick asks.

“We need to go into Khand and find the Blue Wizards’ lair. Once we find it, we have to harness them, bind their power, so that they can’t control us as they do the people there. That’s the only way we’ll be able to strip them of their power long enough to get them to the Grey Havens. Once we get them there, the Elves will be able to take them to Valinor for judgement.”

“You haven’t described anything we can’t do on our own. Why do we need Frodo for this?” Rick asks.

“Because I am the only other Maia left in Middle-earth and there are none left of the Istari who can help me. Gandalf’s already gone over the Sea, and if Saruman were still alive, he’d be more a liability than a help. So I’m all that’s left, but I gave up my dark powers. Strength of might and will I have, but that’s not going to be enough against the Blue Wizards,” Sauron explains as they reach the front gate of the capitol. 

The guardsmen eye them warily but open the gates without question. The travelers leave the city and pass through the burial mounds, where the simbelmynë bloom white and everlasting, coating the mounds so thickly that one from afar would mistake the delicate flowers for snow. The wind sweeps through the flowers and the tall grass of the plains, making the ground dance all about them and bearing the soft fragrance of the earth on its ebbs. It would be peaceful but for the troubling thoughts of the Maia. 

When the city is far behind, Sauron begins again, trying his best to explain the situation so his companion will understand. “Frodo was the last to wear and possess the Ring. He had to conquer It to keep from claiming It as his own, and the only way to do that was to allow some Its power to pass into him. He wouldn’t have known it was happening, but I’m hoping that he absorbed enough of the Ring’s power that he will be able to perform the ritual needed to bind the wizards in the Manacles of Aulë.”

“Manacles of Aulë?” Rick asks. Sauron digs into the saddlebags as they walk and shows him the manacles that he has placed in there, just a peek before putting them back into their confines.

“Aulë crafted the chain Angainer to bind Melkor captive so he could be taken to Valinor for judgement for his crimes,” Sauron says, grimmer than he’s ever been; he does not like speaking of his former Dark Master. “The manacles have been added to that chain and together they have the power to hold the wizards entrapped. We just need to get the manacles on the Wizards.”

“But there are two wizards, Sauron. You only have one set of manacles,” Rick points out. 

“But it’s a full set, to bind both hands and feet. We can use them to bind both of the wizards’ hands. If we can do that, the power of the manacles and the chain will hold them.”

“Wait!” Rick shouts suddenly, causing Sauron to jump and Brego to snort. Rick reaches across the affronted horse and puts a hand to Sauron’s arm to stay him. “What about Radagast the Brown? He’s still here.”

“Radagast spends all his time looking at flowers and talking to birds,” Sauron says. “He never honed his powers to the extant that they were meant to be used, which is why it was Gandalf doing all the legwork at the end. The Blue Wizards will break him in an instant.”

“What about Celeborn? Surely the Elves have the power that you need,” Rick says. 

“They don’t.” Sauron starts to walk again, foolishly hoping this will prevent further argument. 

“How can you be so sure?” Rick asks, now coming around the horse to stand before his friend. “Sauron! The Rangers still patrol the borders to the Shire. If you go anywhere near it or Frodo, they’ll kill you. … Well, they’ll try to anyway.”

“I know that, but he’s the only one,” Sauron says shortly, clearly not wanting to say more, but Rick holds his ground and doesn’t let him leave. 

“Why? It doesn’t make any sense. Why him?” Rick asks, trying to put the pieces together and finding himself short. “If you can’t defeat the Blue Wizards then what hope does he have of defeating them? True, he defeated you but what you’re talking about is a lot more than throwing a Ring of Power into a volcano. He never had to go up against you directly. Besides, after everything he’s done and everything he’s been through… We can’t ask this of him. No. No, there’s something you’re not telling me. What is it?”

“Look, we’re getting too far ahead of ourselves. Let’s just work on getting into the Shire first,” Sauron says, but Rick will not desist.

“Sauron, you can’t keep leaving me out of your plans,” Rick says. “How I am going to help you if I don’t know what’s going on?”

“I told you, I’d leave you here if I thought I could. You should visit your family, take your brother spear-fishing…”

“My family will be here when we get back. Stop evading the question. What aren’t you telling me?”

Sauron sighs with resignation. He looks out over the plains again and fixates on a point just over Rick’s shoulder. He cannot bear to look his friend in the eyes as he confesses yet another crime. “I am the one who made the Blue Wizards what they are. They came to the East to do there what Gandalf did here in the West: counsel the rulers, guide the Wise, encourage the warriors and embolden the people against my will. Yet they themselves could not withstand me in the end. I corrupted them against their cause and when they lost sight of their purpose, I gave them their own rings. The rings are of much less power than any of the others, for the Wizards have power of their own. Their rings should have faded as the other rings did when the One was destroyed, only they didn’t. The Wizards found a way to sustain the rings after the One went into the fire, but their control over the rings is erratic; they weren’t meant to control them. That’s why there will be months and months without a strange occurrence.”

“Until ten of them happen all at once,” Rick finishes and comes to stand beside Sauron. He puts a supportive hand on his friend’s forearm, a brief touch, then shakes his head. “But can’t the rings of the Elves…?”

“The Elves let their rings’ powers diminish, and rightfully so. They were able to use them to their own ends while the One Ring lasted, but even then their power over them was failing. If they had attempted to sustain the rings after the One Ring was destroyed, their control would be just as erratic and dangerous as the Wizards’ over theirs,” Sauron explains. “Besides, their rings were not meant to rule any others, and none of them ever knew the One. Frodo is our only hope.”

Rick shakes his head again and shrugs. “Well, we’ll just have to persuade Frodo to join us then. More impossible things than that have happened. We’ll have to get you a disguise so the Rangers won’t know who you are. We’ll say that we’re traveling minstrels. The hobbits enjoy good singing, and I can spin a tale at a pinch.”

“We’ll pick up some garbs in Dunland and send an errand rider ahead of us to announce our intent to perform,” Sauron says. They continue on their way through the open grasslands of Rohan, solidifying their plans for the first stage of their quest.

To be continued…

4/2/06

Chapter 2 - Hobbiton

The hobbit who had been arranged to meet them at Sarn Ford beams up at them as they cross the shallow water. The Rangers do not smile at all and confiscate their weapons with grim thoroughness. “You will get them back when you leave,” a ranger tells them.

“Of course,” Sauron says, “I understand.”

“Interesting, that traveling minstrels have such weapons,” the ranger continues, eyeing their craftily-made swords and knives, then eyeing their simple peasant attire, as well as the darker man’s great height.

“The new King may have united all the kingdoms and brought peace to the realm,” Rick says, not unkindly and without threat or defense, “but there are still thieves. We who travel through empty lands must be cautious.”

“Of course, of course,” says the hobbit impatiently. He is a short fellow, even by hobbit standards, with brown curls tinged grey at the roots and bright blue eyes that twinkle as sunlight on water. “You have the weapons, all is well. What need is there to talk about it?” he says cheekily to the ranger. He turns to the minstrels and smiles toothily at them. “I am Pepper Broadback, but most folk call me Tiny. I must say, we were very excited to hear of your interest in performing in the Shire, at our very own Ivy Bush no less. What an honor to finally meet you.” He looks at Sauron and nods. “You must be the master, Bob Apples, and this is your apprentice, Tom Crumble?”

Sauron startles slightly at the announcement of his pseudonym and turns a leveling eye towards his friend. “That’s right,” Rick jumps in when Sauron fails to reply right away. He takes the hobbit’s hand and continues. “We’ve heard so many stories of your famous Travellers and their peaceful realm to the north. We’ve been equally anxious to see this land and meet its people ourselves, and we’re delighted that our invitation was so readily accepted. I hope we don’t disappoint. It is so easy to do so, once expectations have been mounted.” 

“We’re easily entertained, I assure you,” Tiny says. “So long as you can carry a tune and turn a fancy tale, we’ll be happy. We might even have to talk you into staying longer, but we’ve got to get you there first. Come on then.” He waves his pudgy little hand and leads them away from the ford.

Rick and Sauron follow him away from the rangers and towards a waiting pony-trap. The rangers watch them as they go but do not heed them further; they have the weapons and that is the main thing, as the hobbit had stated. 

Once the rangers are far behind, Sauron yanks Rick to a halt and allows the hobbit to trot off ahead of them for a few clicks. Then he leans towards his friend and hisses indignantly, “I’m Bob Apples?!”

“Next time, you think up the fake names,” Rick whispers back, shaking away Sauron’s hand and continuing after Tiny before they can be noticed lagging. 

“Oh, I will,” Sauron promises.

They reach the trap just a few paces after Tiny. The hobbit busies himself with checking the halters, leaving Rick to load the trap with their bags. Sauron meanwhile takes Brego’s reins and ties the horse to the lead pony. Brego snorts with indignation at the notion of having to be led by a pony, not even a stout and hearty Rohirrim pony but a docile, plaintive Shire pony at that. The stallion flattens his ears and glares at his master. Sauron pats Brego’s snout affectionately and whispers a few reassuring words into the horse’s ears to soothe his wounded ego before joining Rick in the back of the trap. 

His guests settled in for the ride, Tiny clicks the ponies into motion and Brego follows along reluctantly.

The journey to Hobbiton takes a day and a half by the road, which Tiny insists on following. “The Captains have long ago chased off those ruffians,” he tells his companions as they leave the ford behind, “but you never can be too careful. All sorts of places for folk to hide in the Southfarthing, there is, what with the woods and all. I suppose you know, or mayhap you don’t, but it was through the ford and the Southfarthing that them ruffians got into the Shire in the first place.”

“The captains? You mean the rangers?” Rick asks.

Tiny snorts. “Them rangers like to keep a lookout on the bridges and fords into the Shire. Don’t know why. We’ve Bounders as do that, and if them rangers were there before the Troubles, as the Captains say, well, they didn’t do a very good job of it, did they? Though I reckon they’re surly enough to keep away most bad folk.

“Nay, the Captains would be Mr. Meriadoc Brandybuck and Mr. Peregrin Took. They went off to foreign parts and come back tall as a house! Picked up some queer habits out in the Blue but they’re getting back to practical ways.”

“Those would be the cousins of Frodo the Nine-Fingered,” Rick says. “Do they live in Hobbiton as well?”

Tiny shakes his head. “Tooks live down in the Green-Hill Country mostly, but Mr. Peregrin is keeping himself away in Buckland with Mr. Meriadoc. Who are you knowing as Mr. Frodo only has the nine fingers now?”

“He’s only the most famous person in all of Arda,” Rick says. 

“Is he?” Tiny asks but his tone doesn’t hold interest. Rather, he sounds worried, as if this statement confirms something he long suspected to be true. “He always was one to talk to elves and dwarves and such. An odd one, he is. You’ll meet him, maybe, once we get to Hobbiton. Depending...”

“Depending on what?” Sauron asks when Tiny lapses into silence.

“Oh, just depending,” Tiny says and starts humming a traveling song. Soon, he and Rick are trading songs, and this leads to swapping stories. By the time they stop outside Waymeet for the night, Tiny has told them nearly the entire history of Hobbiton and its inhabitants. All that is except for the two that Rick and Sauron are most eager to learn about. 

“What do you think it means?” Rick whispers to Sauron after Tiny has gone to sleep. The little hobbit snores peacefully on the other side of the fire from them. 

Sauron shrugs. “That they protect their own. He seems to know who we are really interested in and so in keeping mute on the subject, at least for now. His tongue may loosen once we arrive.”

They reach the Hobbiton marketplace near noon the following day. The marketplace is crowded with shoppers and vendors of all sorts. Rick spies out the lay of the shops and stalls as Tiny drives them through the market. Once they reach the inn and Sauron is seeing to the stable arrangements for Brego, Rick slips away and wanders into the market. He browses the stalls and examines the small, almost child-sized versions of cookery, wares and goods. They are amazingly similar to what can be found in Rohan. He plays with a bellows that the blacksmith hands him and feels almost like a giant. He picks up what he is told is a quilt but looks more like a bath rug to him and examines the weaving. In turn, the hobbits that are musically inclined attempt to strum a few chords on Rick’s tambour, which is twice the size they’re used to. A pair of determined young boys finally settle on an arrangement of sorts, one fingering the neck, the other plucking the chords, when Rick hears a familiar holler easily rise over the din of the bustling market.

“Tom!” Sauron calls and beckons to Rick. He and Tiny have finished stabling the ponies and Brego, and they are waiting for him outside the inn.

Rick says a quick good-bye to his new friends, retrieves his tambour and runs towards The Ivy Bush, which sits in the very center of the marketplace. At the door next to Tiny is an older, portly hobbit with grey curls and a cheerful face. He takes Rick’s hand for a firm shake, then claps the lad on the arm and leads him inside, still holding his hand. “Welcome, welcome!” he says. “I am Geranius Brooklane, the innkeeper here at the Bush. Watch your heads now.”

They duck their heads obediently, Sauron nearly doubling over completely, and step through the little door into the sunlit common room. There they find a small party of hobbits sitting in the middle of the room, lingering over their luncheon, or what remained of it. The hobbits hail cheerfully to Tiny, who regularly works as an ostler for the inn. They look curiously at the Men but nod cordially all the same. They wish fervently that Tiny will join them, but they are disappointed. Tiny steps into the kitchen, where he will eat his meal before returning to his regular duties in the stable.

“These are some of my regulars,” Geranius says. “They’re here more’n they’re at home.” He introduces them all by name, then introduces the so-called minstrels. The hobbits warm to them instantly upon hearing their appropriately hobbit-like names, and Rick gives Sauron a small, smug look before sitting tailor-fashion on the floor at the bar. Sauron concedes the point and sits next to him. The innkeeper hollers into the kitchen for food for the guests.

“We don’t get professional minstrels here very often,” Geranius goes on then. “What brings you to the Shire? It can’t be our accommodations. Oh, don’t get me wrong. We’re as hospitable as they come, but we don’t got no lodgings for your sort.”

“We’ll camp under the stars,” Sauron says. “We’re quite used to it.”

“Oh, of course you are, that makes sense enough,” Geranius says. 

“We’ve come to see for ourselves the legendary holbytlan,” Rick says. “Tales tell of small magical creatures that live to the north, half the size of men, but quick of feet and wit, who can disappear at an instant and leave no trace behind them. We always thought they were old wives’ tales. You can’t imagine our shock when we found out that such creatures really do exist, and that they call themselves hobbits no less.”

“Is that so?” the innkeeper says, impressed. “You have tales of us away where you come from? When word of that gets around, you might just have more than the Hobbiton-Bywater folk coming to hear you. Everyone’s here already, just waiting for tonight, but the word’ll reach Overhill and the Tooklands lickety-split, you just wait and see. They’ll be listening at the windows, mark my word.”

“Everyone’s here?” Sauron repeats. 

He had noticed the large number of hobbits in the marketplace earlier but had not been able to determine if the crowd size had been anything other than normal. He now realizes that the market isn’t usually so crowded during the mid-week luncheon hour, and that the hobbits they had seen had simply been waiting for their arrival. Curiosity about the Big Folk had brought them out of their homes, despite the ruin that Men had done to their homeland just a few short years ago. 

He glances at the patrons sitting around the common room and is not surprised when they all quickly jerk their heads and eyes away, as though they had not just been studying him and Rick just a half-moment before. He senses a few chords of underlying apprehension, but curiosity and excitement far outweigh it. He wonders what they would feel if they the truth of his identity. 

He wonders also if the hobbit he’s seeking might have been one of the many hobbits outside in the marketplace. He had not felt the Ring-bearer’s presence but that does not mean he hadn’t been there. He meets Geranius’s eyes. “Are there any authorities to whom we should report our presence?”

The innkeeper shakes his head as the cook brings out the food. Rick has to double-check that he is seeing correctly. All that food can’t possibly be for them? Yet sure enough, the cook sets two plates piled high with food before them. Rick remembers the sizes of the cooking pots he had seen in the market, and he wonders how so much food came out of it. “It smells wonderful,” he says, somewhat intimidated by the portion size. Sauron simply shrugs and sets to eating.

“It tastes wonderful too,” Sauron says and swallows his food, following it with some ale. Then he asks his question again.

Again, Geranius shakes his head. “No authority in these parts, leastways, not the way you’re thinking, I’m betting. No kings or stewards or anything of that sort. I did go up the Hill this morning just afore you arrived to let Mr. Baggins know that you’d be here today, in case he had forgotten.”

“Baggins?” Rick says. 

Geranius nods. “Mr. Frodo Baggins is the head of the Baggins clan. They’re the principal family in these parts, so that makes him the closest thing to authority that we got, for what it’s worth.”

“So he’ll be here tonight?” Sauron asks. “It would be quite the honor to perform for him. He is well-renowned in our lands and is considered a lord among Men.”

“Aye, he is a strange one, wandering off for foreign parts a few years ago and coming back even stranger,” the innkeeper says lightly, but the cheer in his eyes is gone. He discreetly checks to make sure the patrons are no longer listening in, then he leans over the bar and whispers near-silently, “I doubt very much he’ll show tonight. He’s a right enough fellow, I’ve always said, but even I can’t deny that he’s gone a bit soft in the head of late. He keeps to himself most days, don’t hardly ever step out of Bag End to blink at the sun. When he does, he’s more a ghost than a hobbit and he gets to mumbling to himself a’ times, or so I’ve heard told.” The innkeeper leans in further, and Rick and Sauron meet him halfway. “Why, just the other day, young Nibs Cotton was walking late one night as he does sometimes when sleep ain’t coming to him, and he saw Mr. Baggins at the Bywater Pool, standing up to his kneecaps in the water! And that’s not the half of it: he was talking to himself again, but the words were right odd, they were, didn’t sound like naught Nibs ever heard afore, and he was—”

The inn door opens then and a young hobbit with golden curls walks in. The patrons greet him with raised mugs, and Geranius dashes off to serve him a tankard. When the innkeeper returns, he leaves his gossip untold and goes about wiping the counter and polishing the glasses to a sparkling shine as though he had never been whispering secrets.

Rick glances over his shoulder at the new patron, who is sitting with the others and just now seeming to notice the presence of the Men. The hobbit returns Rick’s regard with a curious tilt of his head before speaking to the fellow next to him, clearly asking the names of the Men. 

Rick turns back to his food. “I wonder who that is,” he says and only then realizes how still and quiet Sauron has become. Rick looks at him questioningly. 

“I know exactly who that is,” Sauron says.

“Who?” Rick asks.

Rather than answer, Sauron says, “I’m going to check on Brego.” He leaves quickly, his food unfinished for a change, and Rick notices that the golden-haired hobbit watches him with narrowed eyes as he leaves.

“Excuse me,” Rick whispers to the innkeeper. “Who’s that hobbit who just came in?”

The innkeeper continues polishing the glasses so intently he almost appears not to have heard, but he answers the question just as quietly, from the corner of his mouth so his lips don’t move, “That’d be one of them; one of the Travellers. That’d be Sam Gamgee.”

A half-hour passes before Sam stands up to leave. Sauron still has not returned, so Rick makes a quick decision. He waits until Sam is out the door, then quickly pays the innkeeper and follows the hobbit. He looks around once he gets outside and spots Sam making his way through the marketplace and out of the town. Rick hurries to catch up, but a loud “psst!” from the direction of the stable catches his attention. Sauron beckons to him from the shadows.

“Where have you been?” Rick says, coming over. “And why did you stop me going after him?”

“It’s not the right time,” Sauron explains. “It’s best if we wait until tonight.”

Rick nods, but has to try again. “You wanted to talk to Frodo, and there just went our best chance. You heard the innkeeper; it’s going to be crowded tonight, too crowded to get close enough to Frodo to speak to him. That’s if he even shows up.”

“He doesn’t have to show up,” Sauron says. “In fact, I’m counting on him not to.”

“So this is part of your plan then?” Rick asks with a shake of his head. “You know, if you explained these things to me beforehand, that would really help.” He looks up the Hill where he last saw Sam headed and observes the smial at the very top. “Well then, in that case, we better warm up and prepare.”

“Right,” Sauron says, then grins at Rick. “So, what you going to sing?”

“W-what?! Me, sing?!” Rick panics. “I- I thought you would be singing!”

Sauron laughs, a surprisingly full-throated and infectious sound. “Easy, Rick. I was only joking. All you have to do is strum those chords I showed you. You’ll do great.”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam calls through the smial, closing the door behind him. 

All the windows and shutters are closed again, though he had left them open when he went into town that morning. It takes his eyes a few moments to adjust to the dimness surrounding him. He heaves a sigh, bracing himself for what he might find in the smial proper, then walks down the tunnel to the study. Empty. He then checks the parlor, kitchen and bedchamber, but sees no sign of his master. 

“Mr. Frodo?”

He hears the sound of glass breaking in the cellar behind the pantry. Sam quickly makes his way there and finds Frodo drinking directly from a bottle of fortified wine, a goblet shattered on the floor at his feet.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam gently takes the bottle from Frodo and wipes his master’s sweaty brow with a handkerchief. “You had another dream,” he states matter-of-factly. 

Frodo looks at him with glossy, unfocused eyes and nods as one in a daze. He reaches for the bottle again but Sam holds it out of his reach. When Frodo reaches for another bottle from the wine rack, Sam takes his fragile hands and holds them to his master’s side. Frodo struggles against him but soon gives up the fight to slump weakly against Sam. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Sam asks.

Frodo shakes his head. “Too many things. Too many hands and feet. They scream and run but it doesn’t help. Nothing helps. They all go away.”

Sam sighs. He’s become far too familiar with such senseless ravings over the last few months. He tries not to scream with hopelessness and frustration, forcing himself to concentrate on his master’s needs. 

He keeps his voice light and calm. “I guess this means we ain’t going to see them minstrels perform tonight,” he states. “I saw them while I was in town. I guess traveling minstrels have it pretty rough compared to the minstrels we saw and heard in Gondor. They’re dressed just like humble folk, none of the fancy garb as the Citadel minstrels wore. Makes sense though. No point in wearing such garb to travel and it means less things to carry and wash.” His tone of voice has the effect he’s looking for; Frodo is still slumped against him, but he’s calmed down considerably though Sam can still feel him trembling.

He steers Frodo out of the cellar, through the pantry and into the kitchen, and sees him seated at the table. He pours a cup of tea and places it in front of Frodo, then stoppers the wine bottle and stores it in the larder. Next, he fixes the tea as his master likes it and pushes the mug up to Frodo’s hand. “Have a drink, Master.”

“No,” Frodo shakes his head. He looks at Sam suspiciously. “I know what it is. It’ll make me sleep and I won’t be able to wake up. I’ll be trapped in the dreams.”

“Maybe you won’t dream this time,” Sam says, not denying the accusation. He desperately wants to see his master get some much-needed rest. 

“I always dream now. Dreams of death and madness and loss. So much loss. The only way to stop them is to stay awake. Please Sam. Help me stay awake.” His eyes plead with Sam as tears stream down his pale face. Reluctantly, Sam nods and takes the tea back.

The next day is as cool and grey as the one before. Rick exits The Ivy Bush with plates of breakfast in each hand and carries them to the field next to the inn where he and Sauron have set up camp. Sauron is rolling up their sleeping rolls when Rick returns, and they sit down to eat.

“Did you know that they have first and second breakfasts here?” Rick says with amusement. “No wonder everyone’s always so happy.”

Sauron lifts an eyebrow at this.

“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day,” Rick elaborates. They eat in silence for a moment before Rick continues. “So Sam wasn’t there last night, and neither was Frodo. What’s the next part of your plan?”

Sauron glances solemnly up the Hill towards the smial beneath the oak tree. “We make a home call.”

To be continued…

GF 4/27/06

Chapter 3 – The Ring-bearers

The gardens and grounds of Bag End are empty and silent, an unusual sight after riding up the Hill and seeing everyone out in their gardens, working or talking. For all the glory and splendor of the gardens, the silence feels heavy with a dread Rick cannot place. Even the songs of the birds sound muted in the oak tree, and the wind passes cautiously through the brush, seeking safe passage. Perhaps he is only worried about what may happen once they are face to face with the Ring-bearers. Perhaps it is an omen, one they should heed immediately and turn to go back down the Hill. Small chance of that happening though, with a Maia here. Sauron will not be easily dissuaded from his purpose. 

They enter the gate and go up the walk path to the round green door. At Sauron’s nod, Rick knocks upon the door, once, twice. As they wait, he glances around at the flowers blooming in the window boxes and along the path to the back door, trying to ignore the ominous feeling that has settled over his shoulders like a greatcoat. Sauron stands with eyes closed and head turned to the door. His forehead furrows in the manner Rick has become accustomed to; he is listening. 

The minutes pass and all that Rick can hear is the far-off chirping of birds in the trees and the wind rustling through the rose bushes, still cautious, still creeping. He knocks again. “Maybe they aren’t here,” he suggests after a few more minutes.

Sauron shakes his head. “They’re here. Try again.”

Rick complies, banging more boldly than before and this time he even pulls the bell. He is surprised to hear the bell tinkling inside through the open window near the door. If they can hear it outside, then surely those inside will be alerted to their presence. 

Again they wait. A minute passes, then two. Rick is about to knock a fourth time when they hear the sound of shuffling feet inside. The lock slides out of its brace and the door swings open to reveal a bedraggled, exhausted Sam. Rick is shocked by the difference. This cannot be the same hobbit he had seen yesterday at the inn. It is as if the hobbit had aged twenty years overnight; Rick fancies he even spies some grey hairs around the temples. If Sauron is also shocked at the transformation, he gives no indication.

“You’re them minstrels,” Sam says, blinking in confusion as he recognizes them. “Can I help you?”

Rick and Sauron bow. “My Lord Samwise,” Sauron says, with a sour glance at Rick. He still has not forgiven his friend for the names he had come up with. “I am the minstrel, Bob Apples, and this is my apprentice, Tom Crumble.”

Sam looks at them blankly for several moments, alternatively searching each of their faces. He lingers slightly longer on Sauron, as though he is trying to place him from somewhere. Eventually he says, “No really. What are your names?”

Rick laughs lightly. “Of course, how silly of us. You’ve been among Men and would recognize our stage names for what they are. I am Wulfram, son of Beorthl. This is my master Odolf, son of Carthos.”

“You’re of Rohan,” Sam says to Rick. If the blond hair hadn’t been enough, the lad’s bearing and speech would have left no doubt. Too young to have been a soldier in the War perhaps, but he’s had training, if Sam is any guess of such things. 

He looks up at Sauron, narrowing his eyes again as he had the day before in the tavern. He has never seen this man before, of that he is certain, and yet he somehow knows him. Their eyes meet and a tiny prickle slithers down Sam’s neck. Then the man smiles, almost shyly, and he shakes it off. Not enough sleep does a hobbit no good, his father always says. If he wants answers, best to ask some questions. “Where are you from, Master Odolf?”

“I am from many places, most recently Rohan,” Sauron replies. 

Sam’s eyes narrow further at this and his posture stiffens with suspicion. That voice... It’s gentle and kind, and yet... “Is that so? You’re awfully tall for a Man.”

“He’s a giant among men,” Rick says happily. “I’ve heard stories of the Pheriannath who fought in the War of the Ring. They are considered giants among hobbits, the tallest ever of your kind. I would love to hear all about them. We both would.”

“I have also been to Fangorn,” Sauron answers truthfully.

At this, Sam smiles weakly. His doubts, for now, have been placed aside. “I’m sorry. It’s an honor for such fine folk as yourselves to provide my master with a private audience, but I’m afraid he’s had a long night and he’s not fit for visitors today.”

“We can return tomorrow,” Sauron offers. “We were hoping to perform for the Ring-bearer before we leave. We were greatly disappointed that he was unable to attend last night’s performance.”

“If it were another time, perhaps, but I’m afraid my master is not well. He won’t be able to see you today or tomorrow, or any time in the near future,” Sam says, his voice filling with grief as he speaks.

“If your master is not well, perhaps I can attend to him,” Sauron offers.

In an instant the suspicion returns, and Sam eyes the man warily. “You’re a minstrel and a healer?”

Sauron nods. “It is necessary for me to have basic training in the healing arts. We are often on the road and far from any settlements. If one of us should fall ill, we’d be a long way from help.”

Sam nods at the sensibility of that and his posture eases back to exhaustion. “Thank you for your concern, but we already have athelas sent to us, prepared special by the King. There’s little more you can do to help. Now if you’ll excuse me, I have to get back to my master.”

“We are sorry for the interruption and we hope your master recovers from his maladies soon,” Sauron says. He and Rick bow again and back away from the door. 

The door begins to close and Rick is preparing to ask if there is a backup plan when a great scream inside the smial rends through the air. The scream is agonized and tormented and chillingly hollow. Sam sprints down the tunnel, leaving the door half open, and after a few moments, Sauron and Rick follow him inside.

They stoop low to avoid hitting their heads on the ceiling and both look around with much curiosity. Neither of them have been inside a hobbit hole before but they both recognize the craft and care that went into the building of the smial. They have little time to observe the craftsmanship - or is that craftshobbitship? - as the anguished cries are still blasting through the hole.

“Are you sure this is a good idea?” Rick whispers as they follow the source of the screams down the tunnel.

“We have to try,” Sauron answers.

They have to go slowly, given their bowed-over positions. The various piles of books and tomes, as well as the scattered knickknacks, clothes and linens, create a gauntlet of domestic barriers they must navigate around, slowing them further. Despite this, they do not have far to go and reach their destination just a dozen or so paces behind Sam.

They duck into the parlor, where Sam is leaning over a frail figure lying upon the settee. It is Frodo. His hair looks like it hasn’t been brushed or washed in weeks, and he has deep, dark bags beneath his eyes, which are sunk into a waif grey face. He is so thin he looks like a child dressed in his father’s clothing, and the hand clutching desperately to Sam’s is nearly skeletal in appearance.

“By the Valar,” Rick says under his breath.

Sam barely acknowledges their presence, so intent he is on his master. He gently holds Frodo down with his other hand as Frodo twists and jerks with the convulsions of the dream, murmuring incoherently between screams. 

Tears spring to Sam’s eyes and stream down his face unheeded. “Please Mr. Frodo, wake up. I didn’t mean to let you sleep. Please sir.” He shakes Frodo’s shoulder, his sobs making it difficult for him to speak. He manages one last attempt before he breaks down completely himself. “FRODO!”

Frodo’s eyes open wide and his breath hitches as his convulsions slowly still with wakefulness. He clings to Sam and cries into his shoulder as Sam tries his best to soothe his master through his own tears. 

Sauron spots the athelas by the hearth and the pot of boiling water over the fire. He wastes no time in taking a couple of the precious leaves and bruising them just enough to release their essence. He drops them into the water and stirs the brew, speaking words of healing under his breath. Instantly, the room fills with the weed’s soothing scent and both hobbits calm considerably. 

Frodo slumps back into the settee, clinging still to Sam’s hand. His eyes are wet with tears, and his face is blotched. Sam looks no better, and they keep their eyes on each other as they calm. Sam turns to acknowledge their guests then, to thank them for their quick thinking, but as he turns his head, so does Frodo. 

He no sooner looks upon Sauron than he grows chill and begins to shake with fright. He points an unsteady finger at Sauron and says hoarsely, “It’s him.” Then he takes one great breath and passes out.

“Mr. Frodo!” Sam exclaims. He shakes his master gently but frantically, silently urging him to awaken. Sauron bruises another leaf of the athelas and puts it into the pot, this time blessing it with a breath of his own. Sam calms instantly, and in his swoon Frodo breathes more easily. 

Rick kneels next to Sam and with a look asks Sauron for a poultice, which is readily provided. Rick places the poultice on Frodo’s forehead, then places a reassuring hand on Sam’s shoulder. “He’s resting,” he says. “Sometimes when the body’s had more than it can handle, it will go to sleep, even against the mind’s will.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sam states quietly, his voice drained and hollow. He laughs shortly and bitterly under his breath, and squeezes his master’s hand. “I know what it’s like to push myself beyond endurance. I know what it’s like to sleep… to sleep like you’re dead, but you’re not. So does he.”

Rick looks behind Sam’s back to where Sauron kneels next to the hearth, keeping a distant vigilance over the others. Sauron refuses to meet Rick’s gaze, looking instead just above Frodo’s head, as if he is studying the pattern of the upholstery. Rick knows better than that, but he also knows not to interrupt his friend’s musings. 

Rick turns back to Sam and makes a decision. This ruse would only have been able to last for so long. It is best to tell him the truth now, and this time he will not be delayed. He draws a deep breath, gathering his resolve. “Sam, there’s something that we need…”

“How do you know him?” Sam interrupts suddenly. He turns to face Sauron, all his dark doubts returned. Only then does Sauron draw himself together and return to the present. He meets Sam’s gaze, his expression unguarded, and he draws his hands forth, so that Sam can see they hold no weapons. “It seemed like he knew you from somewhere. How do you know him?”

“My life was forever changed by the deeds of your master and yourself, perhaps more than anyone else,” Sauron begins. “So long I have lived in shadow; so long I have known hatred. You reminded me what it was like to feel hope, to feel love, the simple undeniable power of it. Here were two beings who would always have each other, no matter what. It made me believe again. I never thought I’d see the day that you would lose your hope, if not your love for each other.” His eyes wander down to Frodo’s grey face. “I saw him, saw all of you, as you were leaving Gondor. He was not like this then. He was happy, full of joy. What’s happened, Samwise?”

Sam almost sneers then, the grief and bitterness clashing violently within him for a brief moment. “What happened? What didn’t happen. It’s that blasted Ring that taunts him still, his memories of it and that foul land.” He turns back to his master, the bitterness draining from his face leaving behind only the grief and the pain as he brushes curls from his master’s pale face. “He was doing all right at first, and that day we left Minas Tirith, he was as happy as I ever saw him. Coming home and finding the Shire scoured was a blow, but we got it fixed up like it always was, or nearly always, and he was happy again for a while. He was even helping me and Rosie plan our wedding and we were going to come here to live with him. Only, it never happened. 

“It was the spring following the end of the War that we got the news that the Dark Lord wasn’t destroyed as we had thought, that he lives still. Not only that, but the Valar called him back to Valinor, not to punish him and send him into the Void along with his master like they should, but to send him back here to redeem his past misdeeds. 

“Mr. Frodo had nightmares afore then, but after we heard about the Dark Lord the nightmares grew more frequent, so he hardly had a night when he didn't wake up screaming. So I come up to stay with him and take care of him as best I could, and poor Rosie, she said as she understood and she'd wait till things got better, only they haven't. If anything, they've got worse. Now the dreams are so real he hardly knows when he’s dreaming and when he’s awake. He’s waiting, you see, waiting for the day that the Dark Lord rides into the Shire to finish him off for good, and if he weren’t so afraid of it, I’d almost think he’d welcome it.”

The tears return then, leaving hot trails down Sam’s cheeks. Sam clutches tightly to Frodo’s hand and nearly chokes on the grief and the anger that have been boiling up inside him since they first heard the unbelievable news two years ago. “Every day, it gets a little bit worse, and this past October, I near thought I’d lose him for good, and lor’ help me, but I wanted him gone.” He breaks down then and sobs heavily for several minutes. Rick keeps a comforting hand on his shoulder, but Sam barely notices it, so torn he is with his guilt and despair. After the grief is spent, the anger begins to build up again, and when Sam speaks next, he is almost shouting with rage. “It shouldn’t be like this. Why should my master have to suffer so when all he wanted to do was help? Why does he get punished while that bastard walks free?”

Rick feels this last statement like a punch to his gut. He doesn’t have to look at Sauron to know his friend is equally affected. When it becomes apparent that Sauron will not respond to Sam’s questions, Rick does the best he can to answer.

“But you’re wrong, Sam,” he says softly with honest compassion. “Frodo doesn’t suffer because he’s being punished. He was exposed to a great evil after spending a lifetime sheltered by the comforts of the Shire. He couldn’t have known how that would test him, nor could he have been prepared for the many ways the Ring would try to deceive him. He simply doesn’t have the skills to take what’s happened to him and put them aside. It doesn’t mean he can’t learn those skills with time, but I fear there is no one here who can teach them to him.

“You’re wrong about Sauron also. Sauron the Deceiver was destroyed, and now only Sauron the Fair remains. He’s been purged of his evil but he remembers everything he did as the Deceiver and he seeks redemption for his past. I’ve seen him, the way he helps people now. He’s doing good.”

“I’ll never believe that,” Sam spits. “Sauron the Fair is the Deceiver. You’re all still being fooled.”

“Actually,” Rick says, with a flicker towards Sauron, “you are right in a way. Deceit isn’t the best way to go about things, especially in this case. We need to tell you something.”

Sauron stirs then, coming out of his reverie. He clears his throat, getting the attention of the other two. They look at him and wait. “Frodo will be waking soon,” he says. “Sam, make some tea of this plant for your master. Add these to it.” He reaches into his tunic and pulls out a small medical satchel, which he had brought just in case. He opens it and places several small pouches onto the floor in front of him, naming each one as he does so. “Lemon balm, ginger, licorice root, peppermint, ginkgo biloba and ephedra. Just a pinch of the licorice root and ephedra, a half teaspoon of the rest, a full teaspoon of the mint. It will help revitalize your master, give him energy and clear his mind. Do not let the water boil. Steep the herbs for about ten minutes in hot water, then bring a mug to him here. We’ll watch over him.”

Sam eyes the pouches warily, then glances back at his sleeping master. He looks up at Rick, who nods reassuringly. Sam gets up and takes the proffered pouches. “There should be enough for yourself as well,” Sauron says and Sam nods.

“Thank you,” Sam says and heads for the kitchen.

“Well this is great,” Rick whispers when he hears the sounds of pots banging about in the kitchen. “He’s never going to trust us.”

“He trusts us already,” Sauron says. “He left us with Frodo, did he not?”

“You know what I mean. After we tell them who we really are,” Rick elaborates, then notices Sauron’s hesitant look. “We are going to tell them, aren’t we?”

“Yes, but not yet. Not until we are out of the Shire.”

“And how are we going to get them to come with us?”

“Something you said has given me an idea,” Sauron says evasively. “Just follow my lead. Once we’re out of the Shire and far enough away from the Rangers, we’ll tell them, but not before then. Trust me. This will work, and it’s for the best for everyone. Now that I’ve seen just what has become of the Ring-bearers, I believe even more strongly that they are both meant to come, to help. They cannot continue on like this much longer. You heard Sam. He wishes his master would rather die than continue to suffer. The Sam I saw would never think that.”

“You better know what you’re doing,” Rick warns, but not unkindly. He hands the poultice back to Sauron, who replaces it with another. “But knowing you, you probably do.”

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

From the other side of the parlor wall, Sam slips away back into the kitchen, walking silently as only hobbits can do.

To be continued…

GF 5/28/06

Chapter 4 - An Unlikely Treaty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Peace, Sam,” Sauron says.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sauron nods. “Yes. I need your help.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“You can stop the dreams?” Sam asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He’s wise to do so.”

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

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

Sauron nods. “Very well.”

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

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

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

To be continued…

GF 8/4/06

Chapter 5 - First Lesson

Sunset arrives as they approach Waymeet. The burlap that covers the trap blocks out all light but for a few thin beams near the hobbits’ feet. They had managed to fall asleep not long after starting off on their adventure, and now they wake to shadowy day. Frodo reaches into his pocket for his watch and rubs his eyes to stare at it blearily. Sam’s rumbling stomach tells the time as near first breakfast but from the sounds outside the covered trap they won’t be stopping soon for food. The market is noisy this time of day and the roads around Waymeet are always busy. Sam reaches for a sack and pulls out a couple of loaves of bread. He hands one to Frodo and bites into his own with a huff.

They eat their meal in silence, brushing off the crumbs when they are done. Frodo understands the need to stay hidden until they are over the Bounds and have passed the rangers at the Ford, but Sam is taunt with tension. He holds himself still so that he can better listen to everything being said between the young man and the Maia. It is difficult to hear much over the clomping of the horse’s hooves and the grinding of the cartwheels on the dirt, but he can hear other hobbits shouting good-mornings to the so-called minstrels. Rick calls back cheerfully. 

“Why are we going through Sarn Ford anyway?” Sam shouts through the cover once all has gone quiet again, the Waymeet marketplace now behind them. “Wouldn’t it be easier to go out the Buckland Gate? Then we’d have a direct line to Rivendell.”

“We’re not going to Rivendell, and we need to retrieve our weapons. The rangers took them when we passed through,” Rick explains. 

Weapons. Sam never thought he’d be carrying his blade again, and he knows for a fact that Frodo had never intended to set hand to Sting after the Quest. Yet here they are, their weapons stashed with their packs beside them. Sam wonders what sort of blade Sauron carries and how long it will be before he uses it against them, if that’s his plan. 

“How are we getting to Khand then?” Frodo asks, though he already suspects the answer.

“We will travel down the Old South Road through Dunland to the Gap of Rohan, and then travel east for many days to Minas Tirith,” Sauron answers. “We will stay there for a day to renew our supplies. The King will want to see you both again I’m sure.”

“It will be nice to see Strider again,” Frodo says. “Is he expecting us then?”

“He is,” Sauron affirms. “He knows of our mission, and he knows that we will seek your help.”

“What?” asks Rick, clearly as surprised by this news as the hobbits. “You never told me that. The King knows about this?”

“There wasn’t time to tell you before,” Sauron explains.

“Oh no, of course not. We’ve only been on the road for weeks,” Rick says, sounding wounded. “You can’t keep leaving me out of things.”

“I didn’t mean to not tell you, honest,” Sauron says, sounding eager to convince the boy of this. The hobbits listen with interest.

“You could have fooled me,” Rick goes on, not budging. There is a pause, and then, “You know, you might have at least mentioned this back at Bag End. It would have made things go much more smoothly.”

“They wouldn’t have believed me and it would have only made Sam more suspicious,” Sauron points out. “It’s not exactly like I have a letter from Elessar explaining all this.”

“Which would explain why we have to sneak past the Rangers. It still doesn’t explain why you failed to tell me earlier.” The hobbits can imagine Rick folding his arms stubbornly.

“I’m sorry,” Sauron says again. “I’m just new to this. I’m not used to sharing information.”

“Well, I’m hardly one your orc lieutenants who would just as soon stab you in the back as follow your orders,” Rick points out. “If you’re ever going to learn to live among Men, you have to start trusting people, especially your friends, and the only way to do that is to tell them things.” Frodo snickers into his hands. This is sounding more and more like an argument between Merry and Pippin, not a Rohirrim and a Maia.

Sauron sighs. “You’re right. I should have told you and not made up excuses. I’m sorry.” He sounds genuinely contrite, and if this is anything like an argument between a Took and a Brandybuck, Sauron will now be looking at Rick with pleading apology. 

There’s another pause, and finally Rick says, “It’s all right. Just don’t do it again.”

“I won’t. I promise,” Sauron says, sounding relieved.

Sam sighs and shifts uncomfortably. “Well, that’s reassuring,” he mutters sarcastically so only Frodo can hear. This exchange is not helping to bestow his trust in the Maia. If Sauron is willing to leave his traveling companion out of his plans, who is to say what he has been refraining from them.

Frodo takes Sam’s hand and presses it, then calls up to their companions, “Why didn’t Strider give you a note for the rangers?” he asks, wanting further explanation on this point. 

“Because the King is the only other one who knows about this and it must stay that way,” Sauron explains. There is silence for a long while and the hobbits can hear a pony approaching. A rider calls out good afternoon to the pair and they respond kindly. A few more minutes pass before Sauron continues. “This is a very sensitive mission and the less people who know about it the better. I wasn’t the only one who used spies in my service. Not everyone can be trusted.”

“He’s telling us that?” Sam whispers, incredulous. “At least we know he won’t try killing us before we reach Minas Tirith, if Strider’s expecting us.” He is not at all happy about Frodo’s decision to accompany Sauron into the Sunlands. Whatever has convinced his master to believe the Maia, Sam isn’t sure that Frodo is thinking entirely clearly. 

“Then why not at least give you a letter for us?” Frodo presses.

“There was no time to wait for one to be delivered,” Sauron answers. “I was not in Minas Tirith at the time.”

“Then how does Strider know?” Sam asks.

“I have other means of communication,” Sauron answers. “The Palantír, I’m sure you know what that is.”

“You still have a palantír?” Frodo asks, alarmed.

“No, but I know where they are all located,” Sauron explains. 

Sam huffs at this, his suspicion growing with each new revelation. Frodo knows he cannot convince Sam to trust Sauron. That will have to come with time and hopefully before they pass into the East. He presses Sam’s hand again, the only reassurance he can offer at the moment. Sam responds by scooting closer to him and wrapping him in a sturdy embrace. Frodo yawns instinctively and he is suddenly aware of just how tired he is.

“What happens after we leave Minas Tirith?” he asks through the burlap, struggling to awaken fully. Outside their cocoon, they can hear the horse’s hooves beating harder on the ground as the cart gains speed.

“Then we cross the Anduin and continue east,” is the answer. They can hear the coach seat creaking with each tiny bump and rut that the wheels encounter.

“Yes, but which way?” Frodo asks and now he is scared as thoughts of Mordor crowd into his head. Up to now, he has been able to ignore them, hoping their journey will perhaps take them nowhere near the Black Land. He sees now that this isn’t possible. They will be passing right alongside it, if not through it.

There is a pause as the cart sways suddenly, the hobbits can only assume to avoid a more pronounced dip in the road. “Our final travel plans will be decided when we reach Minas Tirith, but for now I think we will go south along the Ephel Duath, and then due east. We will follow the southern branch of the Ash Mountains to their end,” Sauron says, his voice purposefully calm. “Mordor is desolate, Frodo. You will meet no dark creatures while we travel past. They are all gone or perished, or hiding deep within the mountains. I have no more wish to see that land again than you do. We should reach the East with little adventure.”

Sam tightens his hold on Frodo, who is now trembling despite his trust in the Maia and young Man who lead them. Sam doesn’t say anything, but he finds it sickly ironic that Sauron should reassure Frodo of the safety of Mordor. Even if they do pass the Dark Land without conflict, Sauron is still leading them to their possible deaths. Perhaps that is his real plan – to take them to his old allies, who will do the deed for him and no one will be the wiser. 

“At least we won’t have to see that volcano again,” Sam mutters and soothes his master’s curls from his face. It is difficult to see in the dim rays of light that sneak their way into the cart, and all he can see of his master is his outline and the glint of light off his eyes. Frodo is looking at him intently, his body trembling still. “You could still change your mind,” Sam says. “Let them find someone else to help.”

“But I’m the only one,” Frodo replies, his voice as small as he feels.

He had been the only one once before and now he is helping the very being he had once sought to destroy. For the first time, he clearly sees the absurdity of this quest and he would have faltered if not for seeing the light of Sauron’s being. Frodo draws a deep breath and steadies himself. He releases Sam’s hand and Sam’s other arm instantly wraps around him, holding him closer still. Now Frodo can feel the trembling and doubt in Sam, unnoticed before in his own fear. He touches Sam’s face and kisses his brow.

“We can trust him, Sam,” he assures, speaking into Sam’s ear so he can be heard over the creak of the cart’s wheels. “I saw his light, just as you see mine. He’s changed. I went to Mordor to destroy the darkness there and it was destroyed. This can be done too.” His voice wavers on this last part despite himself, and he only just manages to keep his breath from hitching.

“I trust in you Mr. Frodo,” Sam replies, “or I wouldn’t let you go on this fool’s errand. He certainly isn’t what I thought he’d be, but I’m still keeping my eye on him. Both of ‘em.”

“Nor am I a fool, or at least not usually,” Frodo says, smiling now. “I know there is something he is not telling us. Perhaps he only wants to spare us the details of how truly hopeless this is. Yet a fool’s hope was enough to suffice us the last time. Maybe it will be enough again.”

“So I should start hoping then, is what you’re saying?” Sam says, smiling to see Frodo smile. Those have been far too rare of late and he nearly forgot how they can light up his master’s face. Anything that can make his master sound cheerful again is worth hoping in, as far as he is concerned. “Then I’ll hope for us both.”

“Samwise the Stout-hearted I named you once, and so you remain. Let me do the hoping this time, for I am the fool who is taking us on this quest,” Frodo says.

“You’re no more fool than I am for coming,” Sam says, a tease in his voice. He returns the kiss and pulls Frodo’s head to rest on his chest. They may have just awakened but Frodo has long been deprived of sleep. He is in desperate need of it. With the rocking of the cart and the steady beat of Sam’s heart, his master might be able to take some more sleep before they stop for a proper meal. 

They are both asleep within moments.

Frodo sleeps much over the next few days, muttering in his sleep but otherwise showing no signs of dreams. Even so, he wakes often with a jolt or a gasp as though he has been startled or has been struggling for air. Sauron fixes the healing draught every night when they make camp, and Sam keeps some in a water bottle during the days to give his master when he wakes. Sam watches the Maia vigilantly as he prepares the tea, hardly daring to blink for fear that Sauron will slip something into the brew that will do Frodo harm. Sam would also insist on tasting it before giving any to Frodo, except that Frodo will not allow this, saying it is unnecessary. 

They are three days from Bag End when they come to Sarn Ford. As they approach the river, Sam and Frodo are hid in canvas bags, and they do their best to look like sacks of potatoes when the rangers inspect the cart. Sauron’s and Rick’s weapons are restored to them and placed in the cart with the hobbits. Once they have crossed the ford and are out of sight of the rangers, Frodo and Sam are let out of their hiding place but are still made to lie under the burlap until they make camp that night.

They camp near a small stream in the open fields just south of Sarn Ford. The green sward runs for many miles in all directions, tall grass swaying in the night wind. In the far distance they can hear the Baranduin flowing swift and strong on its course to the Sea, far to the west. Sam and Rick cook, and they are all pleased to see Frodo looking much more clear-headed and alert. 

Frodo sits, sipping his medicinal tea as Sauron sharpens and polishes everyone’s swords and knives. Both hobbits are surprised to see that Sauron’s blade is Gondorian, identified by the gull-head hilt. His old blade, he explains, was lost along with everything else in Mordor. 

“Everything except you,” Frodo points out, “and your name. Why do you keep it? It is Quenyan for ‘the Abhorred’, but that is no longer what you are.”

“Not according to most,” Sauron says with a shrug. 

“What about your original name, when you served Aulë?” Frodo asks.

“I no longer remember it,” Sauron says, “and I would not wish to take it again, even if I did. I do not serve Aulë any longer, but Manwë.”

“You have other names that you took upon yourself,” Rick says. He has long wanted to ask these questions himself but always sense the topic to be off-limits. He is not about to pass up the opportunity to get some answers now. “Why don’t you use one of those?” 

“Because those were all created to deceive,” Sauron says. “Any other name I now give myself will not be seen as genuine. I am Sauron, until the people name me otherwise.”

“What about your name, Rick?” Sam asks the boy. “It seems a bit plain for a Rohirrim, begging your pardon.”

“My full name is Childeric Cottontree,” Rick explains, blushing slightly.

“Cottontree?” Frodo repeats. “Where did you get a title like that?”

“My family used to live near a small wood,” Rick explains. “In the summers when I was young, I used to go out to the wood and sleep in the boughs of the trees. I pretended to be an elf, for I had heard that they do such things. My brothers teased me mercilessly about it, saying I should haul my cot up there and live there if I enjoyed it so much. I said I’d do even better and build an entire Elven town, so they started calling me Cottontree and the name stuck. It annoyed me at first, but now I rather miss it. What about your names? How did hobbits come to have surnames?”

“I’m not sure, we’ve just always had them,” Frodo says with a shrug. “Most of them don’t mean anything, though sometimes they reflect the profession or trade of the family. Our first names don't usually mean anything either, at least for lads. Lasses are usually named for flowers and sometimes jewels or other such stones. Lads might also be named for spices or trees, or even birds.”

“King Elessar has given you Elven names: Iorhael and Perhael.” Rick says. “I heard that Gandalf gave you other names also. What are they again?”

Frodo shifts uncomfortably and Sam concentrates on stirring the fire. “He named me ‘Bronwe athan Harthad’, and Sam he named ‘Harthad Uluithiad’,” Frodo eventually answers, almost muttering the words in his embarrassment.

“What does that mean?” Rick asks.

“It means ‘Endurance Beyond Hope’ and ‘Hope Unquenchable’,” Sauron answers for them. “Very aptly given names, if I may say so.”

“Gandalf just went a bit soft in the head after the War ended,” Sam says, explaining away the high praise of those grand names. 

After dinner, Sauron sits across from Frodo and looks at the hobbit intently.

“We will reach Tharbad in three days,” says the Maia. “There are no rangers there, but there is a station for the King’s messengers. You will have to get under cover again as we approach the river and remain hidden until we are clear of the eyes that watch the lands around the station. For now, you and Sam may ride as you please.”

“Very well,” Frodo agrees. Sam listens with sharp ears and watches with sharper eyes while he and Rick clean the dishes and set up the camp. Sam puts Frodo’s bedroll next to his own, closest to the fire. 

“We should start our lessons,” Sauron continues. “You need to learn to control your gifts. Only then will you have hope of withstanding the Blue Wizards’ power. I will attempt to encroach your mind. Do not let me.”

“You’ll do what?” Sam says, standing up and coming to stand near his master. He is hot with fury, both at himself and Sauron, and even Frodo. He had known that Sauron was deceiving them. Once a deceiver, always a deceiver by his way of thinking and this comment just proves it to him irrefutably. “You said you lost all your powers. How can you do this then if that’s true?”

“This is not a power, but a gift of the Valar to my kind,” Sauron says calmly. He knows the gardener’s eyes have been on him the whole journey, and he is not surprised by this outburst.

“What’s the difference?” Sam says, his hands balling into fists as he positions himself between Sauron and Frodo. At the campfire, Rick watches, paused in his cleaning.

“A gift is given,” Sauron says. “Power is taken.”

“Don’t make no difference how you got it,” Sam says. 

“You’re right. It only matters how I use it,” Sauron concedes. “I will not do anything to harm your friend, nor anything that will cause him duress.” He turns to Frodo and looks him in the eyes. “Nor will I proceed if you wish to stop. It’s up to you.”

Frodo nods and reaches up to pull Sam to his side. He will want his friend close by for he knows not what will happen. He keeps a hold on Sam’s hand and nods again. “I’m ready,” he says, the uncertainty showing in his voice but not his eyes. In his eyes can be seen only determination, and a great deal of it. No wonder this little hobbit had succeeded where greater men had faltered.

“Remember, don’t let me in, no matter what,” Sauron says. He waits for Frodo to nod again, then closes his eyes and concentrates his energy on the Ring-bearer’s mind.

At first, Frodo feels or sees nothing. For so long he has been assailed by his nightmares and his memories that he expects the assault to be brutal and violent. He prepares himself for an epic battle of wills but what happens instead is far different. He feels a warmth spreading throughout him, calm and reassuring. He sees the Shire in his mind, as it was before the scouring. The party tree of old stands proud in the Party Field and Bagshot Row stands in place of New Row. Frodo looks around, hoping to see his friends, when suddenly the vision disappears. He shakes himself of the cloud that has settled over his sight and blinks up at Sauron in confusion.

“Don’t let me in, Frodo,” Sauron reminds.

“Right,” Frodo said, unsettled now that he realizes what has happened. Of course, the assault won’t be harsh. It will be soothing and subtle. It will be alluring at first, until it holds possession of him completely. Only then will the battle begin and it will already be half over. He shakes his head again, gathers a great breath and prepares himself anew. “I’m ready now.”

Sauron closes his eyes and a moment later the warm feeling is rushing through Frodo’s limbs again. He tenses himself and strives to push the feeling away, to thwart the intrusion in any way he can. He concentrates so hard he is shaking with the effort and still the warmth overtakes him. Now he sees the Brandywine River and the ferry. He sees his cousins fishing at the edge of the ferry landing. They’re laughing over some joke they have just shared or are remembering. As before, the vision fades in an instant and a cloud lingers over his eyes. He shakes it off and collapses into Sam’s supporting arm.

“You are trying to attack me,” Sauron says when Frodo is rested. “You cannot do this, you have not the strength yet. You can only protect yourself. Do not let me in.”

Frodo nods, his hand trembling uncontrollably in Sam’s sure grip.

“I think that’s enough for tonight,” Sam says. “We have plenty of time to practice.”

“No we don’t, Sam. I have to get this right,” Frodo says.

“Yes but not right now. You need to rest, me dear. You’re exhausting yourself and the more tired you are, the harder it will be,” Sam says.

“One more time?” Frodo offers and when Sam gives in, he turns back to Sauron. “You speak as though the only way I can stop you is to stop myself. I have to stop myself from letting you in. The battle isn’t about you at all. It’s about my own will.”

Sauron smiles, greatly impressed by this analysis. Rick too is impressed that Frodo is able to determine the secret so quickly. He has heard the Ring-bearer to be a clever one, but he until now he has not realized how true those stories are. 

“You are truly a unique hobbit, Frodo Baggins,” Sauron says. “I can see now why Gandalf always placed such faith in you. But be warned Frodo. It can be a far greater task to conquer yourself than it is to conquer others. We will try one more time and then we will rest.”

Sauron waits again until Frodo is ready and this time when the vision stops, after taking him to the Green Dragon for a night of merry reveling, there is no cloud over Frodo’s vision. Sauron nods encouragingly and stands to help the hobbits to their feet. “Very good, Frodo. That is a start. We will try again tomorrow. Now let’s get some sleep.”

“Shouldn’t we set a watch now that we’re out of the Shire?” Sam asks.

“Sauron will hear if anyone comes within a hundred yards of our campsite,” Rick assures. “We can sleep without fear of attack.”

Sam looks at Sauron cautiously, not at all reassured that he has nothing to fear.

To be continued…

GF 10/8/06

Chapter 6 - Rohan

They are nearly a month on the road and, whether by luck and chance or some special skill of Sauron’s, they do not come across any other travelers along the way. Frodo and Sam ride mostly in the cart, looking out around at the lands through which they pass. Sometimes, they will sit in the coach and talk to their companions of their other adventures. Not all they hear is comforting, but the ease and joviality between the lad and Maia is reassuring, at least for Frodo. Sam constantly wonders if there are parts of the stories that are being left out, or if Sauron has somehow convinced Rick that things happened differently than they actually did. He waits for Sauron to slip up and reveal himself for the Deceiver but he never does.

They reach the Greenway on their third day out of the Shire and travel the ancient highway to the River Mitheithel. When they are within a half day’s ride of the river, the hobbits get undercover again, and Sauron smuggles them through Tharbad. The port town is slowly being reconstructed. Among the crumbled and broken ruins of old there are now two large buildings on either side of the ford for the King’s Messengers to live in and for travelers to sleep if they so wish. Small kitchen gardens grow alongside each building and there has even been set aside a small farm for chickens, a handful of pigs, sheep and goats, and a few milking cows. 

The roads are slower to be reconstructed, and the hobbits are jolted around in the back of the cart for the potholes and ditches are too many for Sauron to successfully steer around them all. They slow at the ford as one of the King’s Messengers ask Sauron and Rick about their performance for the halflings. He remembers the ‘bards’ from when they traveled north, and he is pleased to hear that all went well. The hobbits listen with interest but keep as still and quiet as they can. If they are discovered, it will force Sauron to reveal their mission. 

After the brief exchange, they are moving again, and the hobbits have to brace themselves to keep from colliding into the sides of the trap or banging their heads on the floor as they bounce over another deep rut and the rock-strewn riverbed. Once they cross the river, they continue at a steady but leisurely pace for many miles and there is little conversation between any of them. By the time the hobbits are released from the trap, the sun is setting, Tharbad is a small dot on the horizon behind them, and the hobbits fear they will be covered in bruises for the next several days.

They leave the road the next morning to follow it at a distance, choosing instead to travel through the smoother plains south of the road. The hobbits are very grateful for this, and they are even more grateful to be able to see where they are going. They make cushions of their sleeping rolls to sit on as they enjoy the cool winds of late winter. It rains softly at times, and they are thankful for their Lorien cloaks that keep them warm despite the weather.

They are now in the lands of Dunland, and Frodo and Sam look upon it with wonder and trepidation. They remember the many tales they had heard upon their return to the Shire of the Men who had decimated their homeland. They were Saruman’s men, some corrupted with orc blood and others simply corrupted, and many had haled from Dunland if not from Isengard. Whatever the hobbits expect to see – some desolate wasteland similar to Mordor that will explain the Men’s desire for greener fields – they do not see it. Lush green plains and fertile lands greet their eyes, and in the distance on their seventh day they spy a large herd of elk milling near a wide creek of clear water. 

“Why then did they come to the Shire?” asks Sam. “There’s naught wrong with their lands.”

“Dunland is beautiful, but it is haunted by a tragic past. The Long Winter that left Rohan nearly extinct was even harsher on Dunland, and the floods that followed in the spring devastated all the lands around the Greyflood, destroying Tharbad completely,” Sauron explains as he steers Brego around a patch of mole-burrowed earth. “Plagues and famine followed and those that survived fled this place for the southernmost part of the country, near the feet of the White Mountains from whence the Dunlanders originated. They fear to enter these lands again unless it be to travel through them, and even then they go as quickly as they can. They will not resettle here for the ghosts they fear still linger, and the lands they live in now are not as glorious as these fields they abandoned. Their attempts to take Rohan were many and futile. The Rohirrim were too fierce; defeat came at a heavy price and their victories were too few. The Shire, then, with its well-tilled earth and easy-mannered occupants, became a most beautiful and bountiful country to possess. Such is the nature of greed, and the power of Saruman to infect the Men with his words of gluttony. It may not make sense to you Sam, but to them it seemed perfectly logical that to have all you need is not nearly as good as having more than your want. As such, they felt they were entitled to the Shire, and if you can justify your actions, no matter what the logic, you can do anything without guilt.”

“Like Lotho,” Frodo says. “He wanted to improve things, or at least that’s how it started, with all those fancy mills.”

“He might have truly been able to do that,” Sauron adds, “had he placed his faith in his own people and not the Men of Saruman. His greed for respect and control consumed him and by the time he realized his error, it was too late. He could not have stopped the stone from rolling even if he had placed himself in its path.”

On the night of their nineteenth day from the Shire, they camp in the Gap of Rohan. To the north can be seen the stretching toes of the Misty Mountains and beyond the foothills jut the spires of Orthanc. The wasteland that once surrounded Isengard now fosters young trees from Fangorn, their roots already deep in the earth, and they grow stronger and taller every day. To the south are the fingers of the White Mountains and to the east are the plains of Rohan. The hobbits aren’t the only ones excited to see familiar land. 

Rick sits at the fire looking upon his homeland with eager eyes and a nostalgic smile. He and Sauron had passed through quickly on their way to the Shire and he fears they will do so again. Still, he asks, “Will we be going near the Eastemnet on the way to Minas Tirith?”

“We will round Westemnet to the south and use the small woods there as cover to cross the Entwash,” Sauron answers and Rick’s face deflates with a resigned sigh. Sauron reaches out a hand and squeezes the youth’s shoulder. “We will visit your family the next time we come through. Maybe they’ll even invite me inside this time.”

“So you really are from Rohan then?” Sam asks, his interest peaked. “Did you fight in any of the battles?”

Rick glides his hand along his scabbard, following the line of the sword’s sharp edge from long memory. He shakes his head. “Nay, I did not. I was still considered a child, a mere fourteen, and my mother would not permit it. She already had my father and older brother to worry about, and she needed me home to help her, my aunt and younger brother with the fields.”

“Did your father and brother survive the battles?” Frodo asks, empathy so clear on his face it is nearly palpable. 

“My brother fell at Helm’s Deep. This is his sword,” Rick answers, proud sorrow in his voice and in the sparkle of his eyes. “My father went on to fight valiantly at Pelennor and he avenged my brother’s death many times over. He lost his right leg in that battle and he spent many months in the Houses of Healing after the war. He saw the Ernil i Pheriannath there many times, coming to call on his friends, and one day he came to sing to the injured soldiers. My father said that his voice was so clear and high that he lifted the hearts of all the Men there and they were merrier than they had been for many days. They always looked forward to his visits. Now my mother, father and younger brother live with my aunt on her farm, and they help her to run her lands. My uncle fell many years ago in the earlier battles with the Uruks of Saruman, and my aunt was left with two younglings and another baby on the way. My mother and brother help with the fields, and my father watches the children.”

“You’ve never fought yourself then?” Sam asks again, wondering anew at the lad’s allegiance to Sauron. Sam has been fancying Rick to be a sweet if naïve boy, sheltered from the horrors of the War. He sees now this is not the case and he marvels that the lad had become such a steadfast friend with his once-enemy. 

“Not in the wars, but I’ve had all my training and I’m a good fighter. At least, I like to think I’m more a help than a hindrance to Sauron.”

“You are a great help,” Sauron assures, “and I don’t just mean about cooking breakfast.”

Rick laughs and elaborates for the hobbits. “He’s a terrible cook. You would think after living so many thousands of years he would have learned how to poach an egg.”

Sauron splutters at this, pretending to look wounded by the insult. “Like I’m supposed to know what a poach is. It sounds like something you’d find stuck to the bottom of your boot.”

The friends laugh and Frodo grins to see them at ease and enjoying each other’s company. Sam notes this but is not as alarmed by it as he would have been a couple of weeks earlier. He is still wary of the Maia but he has come to see during their travels what Frodo had seen immediately – this is not the same Sauron they had faced during the Quest. Whether that is for the better is yet to be seen though, as far as Sam is concerned, and he still sleeps with one arm curled protectively around his master, just in case.

Four days into Rohan they come to the woods that Sauron had spoken of. The trees stand tall on the horizon by mid-morning, an island of green surrounded by waves of tall golden grass, the River Snowbourne cutting through the land from the woods like a sparkling blue ribbon. They reach the woods at midday and escape the chill wind and rains for the sheltered forest floors. They camp early in a small glade near the trickling river, and Frodo discovers a surprise treat circling the bole of a knurled tree: mushrooms. Rick fells a couple of hares with his sling, and they dine on roasted coney glazed with sautéed mushrooms and herbs that Sauron finds in the woods. Sam cooks the meal and Rick entertains them with stories of his homeland as they eat.

Sauron begins Frodo’s nightly training early and encourages the Ring-bearer in his progress. From where Sam is sitting, always close at Frodo’s side, nothing has changed about the sessions except their lengths. Sauron and Frodo still sit tailor-fashion, facing each other from across the mesmerizing dance of the campfire’s flames. They close their eyes and time seems to stand still until either Sauron breaks the hold or Frodo gets tired of protecting his mind from Sauron’s assaults. The latter happens more often than the former. Frodo does not tire as easily as he did that first night, but he still cannot sustain his defense for long, or at least not long enough by Sauron’s troubled frown when they end their session for the night.

The following morning Sam wakes to find the moon setting in the west, lighting the woods under the canopy of leaves with its soft silver-blue light. To the east, the sky is already glowing pink with the rising of the sun, and overhead the storm clouds have cleared. 

He stands and stretches, then bends down to swiftly rearrange the blankets around Frodo so that his master does not miss his warmth. He walks around the perimeter of the camp to stretch his legs and work out the kinks in his shoulder. He had forgotten how hard a bed the earth can make, and he finds it no longer agrees with him. He misses his home and his friends, and his visits to Rosie Cotton. They would be married already if not for his master’s illness demanding so much of his time and attention. They may have even had a bairn already, yet Sam cannot regret this too much since it means he is free to follow his master on this quest. He only wonders if Rosie will be waiting for him still when they return.

He is pleasantly, and bewilderingly, surprised that Frodo has not had any bad turns since leaving the Shire. Indeed, his friend looks almost the portrait of perfect health, except for his lean form which will likely never regain the girth lost during the Quest and the subsequent illnesses that followed. Sam stares down at the small form of his master. Only Frodo’s face lies exposed to the elements and Sam can see his light again, glowing strong and bright from that peaceful and lovely visage. His light is strong this morning which means Frodo has had good dreams. Frodo doesn’t always remember his good dreams but they do leave him with a noticeable bounce to his step and an almost childlike joy in his voice.

‘Strange,’ thinks Sam, ‘that he forgets the good ones but remembers the bad ones.’

A branch breaks behind him, harsh and sharp in the silence, and Sam whirls around, instinctively placing himself in Frodo’s direct path. He is not surprised to see Sauron approaching with fresh firewood, as Rick still sleeps nearby and Sauron's bedroll lies empty: it is always the first place Sam looks when he wakes.

“Good morning, Sam,” Sauron greets, halting before the hobbit who blocks his path. “I trust you slept well. Is your shoulder hurting?”

Sam yanks his hand away from his shoulder, unaware that he is still rubbing at it. He turns without answering and leads Sauron to the fire pit, coming to stand in front of Frodo. Sauron kneels and deftly begins setting and starting a new fire. When the flames are strong enough, Sauron sits back and considers the gardener.

“I know you do not trust me, Sam,” he begins, his voice low so as not to disturb the slumbering forms around them. “Whatever you may think of me, know this: I will do everything in my power to prepare your master for what is to come. I know that you will do the same.”

“Aye I will, but there’s that word again – power,” Sam says, narrowing his eyes accusingly. “You told us you didn’t have any and then you reveal that you do. What other powers do you have? How do I know you ain’t brainwashing Mr. Frodo during your little sessions?”

“You don’t know, except that he acts no differently than he did before,” Sauron answers calmly, knowing it is fruitless to defend himself against Sam’s accusations as that will only make Sam more suspicious. He will have to gain some part of Sam’s trust, however, if he is to continue Frodo’s lessons and get the results he needs from them. “As I told you before, power is taken, a gift is given. And as a gift can be given, it can be taken back.”

“Only the Valar didn’t take it back as they should have, so far as I’m concerned,” Sam says, arms now crossed.

“They will take it away if I abuse it.”

“If?” Sam repeats, incredulous. 

“My ability to use my natural powers is of concern to you Sam, for they help me to train your master,” Sauron says.

“The training isn’t going so good is it?” Sam asks, just as Sauron hoped he would.

Sauron shakes his head. “I’m afraid it’s not. Don’t get me wrong. Frodo’s learned much already and he is strong, but he’s afraid of using that strength.”

“Last time he did he wound up claiming the Ring.”

“You wore the Ring yourself didn’t you Sam? I remember you.”

“Only for a couple of days, ‘til I could give it back to Mr. Frodo,” Sam shrugs the comment away even as a cold shiver runs up his spine. He has never been certain before if he had been spied by Sauron while wearing the Ring. He isn't sure now that he likes the answer.

“Still, to accept the burden of the Ring, for the first time, so close to Mordor when it was nearly at its strongest, to wear it all that time and then give it back so freely – you are strong also Sam.”

“It weren’t all that hard,” Sam says, shuffling uncomfortably. “It couldn’t offer me anything I wanted.”

“Indeed it couldn’t,” Sauron agrees. “What you wanted was your master back safely in your arms. The Ring would have prevented that if it could. You were wise to remove it when you did.”

Sam does not respond to this but watches the Maia warily. Where is this going? 

Sensing his hesitancy, Sauron continues, “Your master has an enormous task ahead of him, and I have very little time to prepare him for it. We will be in Minas Tirith in less than two weeks. A day after that, we will head for the East. We will reach Near Harad in another two weeks, and it will take another nine days to reach Khand. At the borders of that land, the Blue Wizards’ power is already strong, and we will still have some days to travel before reaching their fortress. If we are to succeed, Frodo cannot afford to keep being scared of his strength.”

“Are you saying Mr. Frodo can’t do this then?” Sam asks with concern. He isn’t about to let his friend continue on this fool’s mission if even Sauron admits there is nothing he can do. 

“I’m saying that he needs help,” Sauron answers. “You said you would do anything to protect your master.”

“I did, and I will,” Sam says, his suspicion returning full force. What does Sauron want of him?

“Tonight, when Frodo and I sit to our session, with your permission I will assault your mind and not his,” Sauron says. “It is the only way to get Frodo over his fears. He will fight harder for you than he will for himself. The assault will have to be quite frightening for you in order for it to work. If I rise Frodo’s ire enough he will use his abilities without even having to think about them, and then he will realize his full potential. He will not be afraid of them anymore.”

“Is that wise though? To have him realize his strength through anger?” Sam asks, his heart pounding at the mere thought of Sauron invading his mind. 

“Anger can be a powerful asset for someone like your master. He will not abuse it but let it carry him above his limitations,” Sauron answers. “Do you agree?”

“What will you make me see?” Sam asks.

“What you need to see,” Sauron answers. “Do you agree?”

Sam does not answer immediately. There is much to worry about in this plan, not the least being his master’s reaction to such a conspiracy. Yet Sam cannot deny that Frodo is floundering. He can see his master’s reluctance as easily as Rick and Sauron can. What’s more, he understands the reason behind that reluctance. Even if Frodo will not admit it, he has always blamed himself for claiming the Ring at the last moment. The Quest would have ended in certain disaster if not for Gollum. If Frodo uses that strength again, and it fails him at the last as it did before, he would be to blame again. Sam agrees that something must be done to help his master, but he is not so sure about allowing Sauron to take a stroll through his mind.

Sauron waits patiently, allowing Sam all the time he needs to think over the plan. Sam remains stuck in his thoughts until Frodo moves behind him. Sam looks over his shoulder and stares down at his beloved master and dearest of friends. Frodo is beginning to stir and will be fully awake in a few more minutes, and then his light, that beautiful and breathtaking light, will fade away until his next good dream. Sam smiles at his friend and new resolve sets in his shoulders. He turns back to Sauron and nods. “I’ll do it,” he says, “but it better work.”

Sauron nods, hoping sincerely that it will – for both the hobbits’ sakes.

To be continued…

GF 10/28/06

Chapter 7 - Drastic Measures

The day passes cool and serene. Rick savors every moment passing through his homeland and he points out places of interest to the hobbits. Sauron steers the horse and cart so that Rick can focus his attention on educating his friends. 

“Over there by that rock,” Rick says, pointing, “is where my brothers and I ambushed our cousins with mud balls after a heavy rain one summer day. That’s also where Theuderic, my older brother, hid from our mom when he stole some pies she had sitting on the sill. There’s a little hole in the ground underneath the rock on the north side and he was just small enough at the time to fit in it.” 

“Your brother would have made a good hobbit,” Frodo notes. 

Rick laughs. “He might have, if not for his temper. He could go from cool to hot in a blink of an eye. He would bully us like no one else, and there were times I nearly hated him for some of the things he did. He always made up for it though and he was a loyal brother and friend. Now, over there, by that tree, is where my younger brother, Lotheric, got married last spring. He’s young for marriage but he didn’t see the point in waiting any longer, and we couldn’t exactly disagree.”

“You’re all ‘Ricks’ then?” asks Frodo.

“Easier to call us all to dinner if you only have to shout one name,” Rick says with a wide grin. “But no, my younger brother we call Lot, and my older brother was called Deri. Anyway, Lot married Galswiath, who was to be Deri’s intended had he not died. I suppose it happens that way sometimes, that a woman will turn to her fallen love’s brother or friend for comfort and find love again.”

“Hobbits very rarely remarry, or seek love a second time,” Frodo says, “but then they usually have children to remind them of their lost one. I suppose if a lass lost her love so early, before marriage, she might seek another. Do you know of any who have, Sam?”

“Hm? Oh, um… What?” Sam asks, blinking at them with confusion.

“We were talking about Rick’s younger brother and his wife. She was originally going to marry his older brother before he died,” Frodo repeats, watching Sam with concern. “I was just wondering if you knew of any circumstances where a hobbit lad or lass has remarried, or married another who was not their first love?”

“Well, yes, there’s been a few over the years,” Sam answers slowly with a shake of his head, as though he is clearing cobwebs from his mind. He blinks a few more times, focusing, then continues, “The Troubles were hard on everyone, some more than others. Some as meant to marry that year never got the chance. A few of them are married now, and it’s not so strange as all that for them to have found love with someone as is sharing the same grief as themselves.”

“What other places should we know about?” Frodo asks.

Rick continues his tour, pointing out good fishing pools along the Entwash. They stop near one for luncheon and Sauron catches trout to feed them all. Sam cooks it, only half-listening to the banter that continues around the campfire. Frodo and Rick sit on the riverbank, their feet splashing playfully in the water while they wait for the trout to cook. Sauron stays near the horse, feeding and grooming the steed. 

After luncheon, they continue on their way. The hobbits sit on the coach with Rick while Sauron walks beside the trap, his hand lightly resting on Brego’s lead rope. Rick shows the hobbits the field where he learned to swordplay and ride horses, and in the far distance is the area where the Spring and Autumn equinox festivals are celebrated. He explains the ritual celebrations and how the Rohirrim pay homage to the earth and its seasons.

Frodo listens attentively to everything the young man says, enjoying the easy conversation and the reminisces of a youth that is not very different from growing up in the Shire. No wonder Merry had felt so at home in Rohan and why Théoden had reminded him so much of Saradoc. The people of Rohan may be more formal in their speech and hardier in their bearing, but they enjoy many of the same things as hobbits, both young and old. 

As entertaining as Rick is, for he is as excellent a storyteller as Bilbo, Frodo can’t help but notice that Sam’s attention is fleeting at best and wanes with the sun. As day approaches night, his friend spends more time in his head than listening to what Rick is saying. More than a few times, Frodo begins to recount one of his own anecdotes, only to have to recall Sam back to the present and repeat the story when he needs clarification on one point or another. Sam apologizes profusely each time and attempts to pay more attention, but eventually he slips back into his thoughts and loses sight of everything around him. It even takes him a few minutes to realize when Frodo leaves his side after they stop for their midday break, a most unusual thing to happen.

As they set up camp for the night on the southern banks of the Entwash, Frodo watches Sam intently. There is a furrow in his friend’s brow, the corners of his mouth are drawn tight and downward, and his eyes are looking inward, not seeing those around him. If Frodo puts a hand to Sam’s shoulder, he knows he will find it as hard as the boulders that surround their campsite. He waits until Sauron and Rick are busy setting up camp and finding firewood before he approaches Sam and speaks to him softly.

“Are you feeling well?” he asks, more worried for his friend than he has been in some time. Sam so rarely allows his worries or fears to show or surface but what else can explain his odd behavior today? “I know you’ve had reservations about all of this, about trusting Sauron and going to Khand. If you’d rather turn back…”

“And leave you? Never!” Sam insists fiercely. “Don’t you ever think I’d do such a thing, Mr. Frodo.”

“Then what is the matter? You’ve been distracted all day,” Frodo persists. Sam doesn’t answer immediately, so intent he is on fishing some object of importance from his pack. Frodo reaches out and stays his hand. “Look at me Sam. What’s on your mind?”

Sam looks up with reluctance and Frodo sees a guarded hesitance there that he has never seen before. It sends a jolt of fear through him and he kneels down to put a supporting arm over Sam’s shoulder. “What is it, lad?”

“I’m just tired is all. I didn’t sleep very well last night,” Sam lies, and what’s more Frodo can tell that he is lying. This shocks him worse than anything else, for Sam is not one to speak untruths. Frodo wonders at it but knows that Sam will not reveal what is bothering him until he feels the time is right.

“Then you should rest,” Frodo says and takes the pack from Sam’s hand. “I’ll set up our sleeping rolls and help with the cooking and cleaning up.”

“You don’t have to be doing that, sir,” Sam protests, reaching for the pack but Frodo holds it out of his reach.

“I know that. Now have a seat and rest,” Frodo orders. He walks away before Sam can protest further and is happy to see when Sam follows his orders and sits by the fire pit. 

Soon the meal is over and Rick rises to walk the short distance to the river to wash the utensils and crockery. When Frodo offers to help in Sam’s place, Rick smiles happily but bids him to stay with his friend. “He seems distracted,” Rick whispers so that Sam can’t hear. “You should stay with him. I can manage the dishes on my own tonight.”

Neither of the hobbits notice the brief exchange of cautionary glances between Rick and Sauron. Rick shakes his head ever so slightly, telling Sauron in that one simple gesture just what he thinks of this plan. Sauron nods in return, understanding his friend’s concern but knowing that surprising Frodo is the only way to make him exercise his full abilities. When Rick is gone, Sauron turns to the fire and stirs the flames with a stick. He waits until the flames are dancing high, then he sets the stick aside and turns to the hobbits.

“We should start your session early, Frodo,” he says easily. “You’ve shown good progress, but I know you can do better. You’re holding yourself back and you can’t afford to do that. Do you understand?” 

This is the most warning he is willing to give and when Frodo nods, he crosses his legs tailor fashion and prepares for the session. Sam is watching him intently, the usual suspicion now mixed with fear. Frodo places a supporting hand over Sam’s, the only indication he gives that he is aware of something being out of sorts with his friend. “I’m ready,” Frodo assures, and Sauron suspects he is talking more to Sam than himself.

“Good. We’ll begin then,” Sauron says, with a quick glance at Sam to ensure that the gardener is ready. Sam gulps and gives the barest of nods. “Close your eyes and I’ll start when you’re ready.”

Frodo closes his eyes and prepares himself for the onslaught. He has become accustomed to it by now, the warm tingling sensation spreading through his body from his head down to his furry toes, the images of the Shire, of his friends and loved ones happy and content in their hobbit holes, sometimes even a glimpse of peaceful mealtimes sitting around similar campfires on the Quest, Boromir laughing at some antic or story of Merry and Pippin. He is certain that, if he allows it, the images will be replaced by more ominous ones, frightening and terrifying, but he never allows the images to go that far. He pushes them away, blocks his mind against them, and soon enough the warmth begins to turn cold as Sauron’s hold is slowly broken. That’s only when he fails to keep the onslaught from coming at all. Most times now, he can stop the intrusion when he first feels the warmth begin to consume him and he remains cold but for the heat of the campfire nearby. 

Once, a week or so ago, he had succeeded in blocking the intrusion so well that he had felt a different warmth begin to spread inside of him. This one had begun in his gut and slowly radiated outward, as though it were pushing away everything bad surrounding him. It had been potent and overwhelming, more powerful and consuming than anything he had felt before. It had startled him completely, so unexpected it had been, and not the least because the warmth had come from his own being and not from Sauron. He understood it to be the source of his own strength, and it frightened him more than anything he feared that Sauron might unleash upon him, for he did not wish to wield any powers however harmless or helpful. If he can give back his gift of Prophecy he will do so in a heartbeat. 

He has been more reserved in his sessions since then. He now grapples between keeping Sauron’s will at bay and keeping his own power locked deep inside himself where it belongs. He feels that, if given the time, he can master doing both successfully before they reach Khand and the lair of the Blue Wizards.

Frodo sits and concentrates on blocking Sauron’s energies for several moments. At first he thinks he is being successful for he does not feel the tell-tale warmth tingling his scalp, but soon he begins to feel that something isn’t right. Even if he is blocking the invasion, he should feel some sort of resistance. He always does and to feel nothing at all is odd indeed. He wonders why Sauron is waiting so long to begin. Perhaps he wishes to make Frodo double guess his motives or he is merely waiting until Frodo’s guard is down. 

Whatever the case, the sense that something is wrong continues to grow and it isn’t until he feels Sam’s hand trembling beneath his own that he realizes what it is. He opens his eyes in alarm and a quick glance tells him all he needs to know. Sauron is looking directly at Sam, a cold harsh light gleaming in his eyes, and Sam is shaking so badly he looks to be having a fit. 

Frodo jumps to his feet, his anger rising so quickly it strangles his initial cry of outrage. He clears his throat and tries again. “Sauron!” he shouts. “What are you doing? Leave him alone!”

Sauron makes no response. He continues to bore into Sam with unrelenting regard, and Sam begins to shake more violently, a sweat breaking out on his face. A defeated whimper escapes his lips and he would curl in on himself if he is allowed to do so. 

Frodo plants himself in front of Sam, so furious he can feel the rage shaking in his own body. He clenches his fist and for one fleeting moment he regrets not wearing his sword. “I said, leave him alone! You’re hurting him!”

“You know how to stop me Frodo,” says Sauron’s voice inside his head. “I have killed mightier warriors than Sam with powers less than these.”

“I won’t let you hurt him,” Frodo says, so desperate to stop this that he stoops for a flaming brand from the fire, the handiest weapon he has available to him. He grips it tightly, wrings it and rises it to strike. A moment later, the branch is yanked from his hand with such force that Frodo stumbles backward, falling at Sam’s feet. He looks in wonder at the branch lying extinguished on the dirt, ignoring the stinging of his hands where the wood burned his flesh. How had Sauron done that without moving? 

Sam whimpers again, recalling Frodo sharply back to the moment. He scrambles to his knees and pulls Sam into his arms. “Sam? Can you hear me?” 

“You know how to stop me Frodo,” says Sauron’s voice again. “This will continue until you stop me.”

Frodo clinches his fists in the fabric of Sam’s cloak, his frustration and outrage building with each passing moment. He glares daggers at Sauron, disbelieving what is happening and knowing he has no other choice. He lets Sam go, turns to stand between him and Sauron and with practiced precision he clears his mind and calms himself. He concentrates, reaching outward with his mind to locate the energy that is engulfing his friend. He braces himself, focusing his energy as he has learned to do, and he finds the force working against his friend more quickly than he would have thought possible. He concentrates harder, issuing all his might against Sauron and worming his way between the Maia’s mind and Sam’s. He feels the warmth at the center of his being, feels it boiling and burning inside. He begins to back away but then he hears Sam cry aloud and that steels him for what is about to come. Frodo allows the warmth to overtake him, allows it to fill him completely, and when it is about to consume him he funnels it outward against his opponent. With one powerful burst of light he sends Sauron a blow so mighty that it knocks the wind from the Maia and breaks the bond he has on Sam. 

Just as quickly as it began, the task is accomplished. Sauron shakes his head, pleasantly surprised by the outcome of this risky exercise. Any doubts he once had are now gone. Indeed, Frodo had done much better than Sauron would have thought possible; even he had not known just how much of the Ring’s power Frodo had absorbed until now. No wonder, then, that Frodo has been ill and unable to reintegrate into Shire life, with such power lingering under the surface. The Maia stands and brushes himself off as he watches the hobbits closely, gauging their reactions.

Frodo sits slumped before the fire, trembling and out of breath, shocked and dazed at what he has just done. He does not have time to process this though as Sam collapses into Frodo’s arms, sobbing and shaking. Sauron is instantly forgotten as Frodo embraces Sam, pulling himself onto his knees to better support his distraught friend.

“Sam? Sam, please be all right,” he pleads.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam cries and clings to Frodo tightly. “I’m so sorry.”

“Sh, Sam, it’s not your fault,” Frodo assures, holding Sam just as tightly. He rubs Sam’s back and hums softly, hoping to calm and soothe his friend. He glares across the campfire at Sauron, and while the Maia looks contrite he holds his ground and does not offer any consolation.

“It had to be done, Frodo. You needed to know what you are capable of and not be afraid to use it. It’s the only hope any of us have,” Sauron says softly. He turns and walks from the camp just as Rick returns. 

Rick stares in horror at the sight of Sam and Frodo huddled together on the ground. A moment later, he is crouching at their sides and helping Frodo to lay Sam down on the sleeping roll. Frodo lies beside him, his arms still wrapped securely about him. He peels his eyes away from Sam to look up at Rick questioningly. “Did you know anything about this?”

“I knew that they agreed to it,” Rick says apologetically. “I didn’t know it would be this intense. I wanted to tell you, but Sauron said it had to be a surprise for it to work. I’m sorry.”

“Agreed?” Frodo says, understanding sinking into him like cold water. Sauron had used Sam’s loyalty to trick him into using his abilities. Frodo’s rage boils anew and he wonders where Sauron went so he can follow the Maia and give him a different piece of his mind. But he knows he won’t do any such thing, not until Sam is settled. He hugs Sam tighter and kisses his brow. “Oh Sam. You shouldn’t have had to do this. I’m so sorry. Shhh. Shhh.” He attempts to rock Sam back and forth, but it has little effect. Sam is hardly aware that they are even there.

“Perhaps a song might soothe him,” Rick suggests. “Often when we are frightened or ill, we become as children, wishing for some stronger guidance to see us through. A song can chase away nightmares for a young child. It might do the same now.”

Frodo nods. “Yes, you’re right,” he says, recalling a time when a song had soothed himself and Sam both. He holds Sam close and sings gently in his ear.

In western lands beneath the Sun 

the flowers may rise in Spring

the trees may bud, the waters run,

the merry finches sing.

Or there maybe ‘tis cloudless night

and swaying beeches bear

the Elven-stars as jewels white

amid their branching hair.

Though here at journey’s end I lie

in darkness buried deep,

beyond all towers strong and high,

beyond all mountains steep,

above all shadows rides the Sun

and Star for ever dwell:

I will not say the Day is done,

nor bid the Stars farewell.*

Sam’s sobs stop but the tears still stream unrelenting down his face. Frodo sings the song again and again, until at long last Sam gives a great shuddering sigh and relaxes in his arms. Frodo peers down at his friend and sees he is still awake, but lulled into a state of numbness. He kisses Sam’s brow, hoping to reassure his friend that all is well. Only then does he notice Rick at the fire, holding a pot of water over the flames.

“What-?” he begins to ask.

“Chamomile tea,” Rick explains. “It will help him to relax and sleep.”

“Thank you,” Frodo says and returns his attention to his friend. He soothes back Sam’s hair, which is matted down with sweat, and he pulls a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe away the tears. He begins humming again and continues to rock Sam until Rick brings him a steaming mug. Together, they sit Sam up and help him to drink the tea in small, slow sips. When he is done, they lay him down again and Sam falls asleep to Frodo’s soft singing. 

Drained and exhausted, Frodo sits at Sam’s side, reluctant to leave his friend. He stares blankly into the fire, unaware of Rick handing him his own mug of tea, which he drinks without thinking. He lets himself be mesmerized by the dancing flames and he wonders vaguely what Sauron made Sam see. That conversation will have to wait until the morning, for Frodo is soon yawning, his eyes drooping along with his head. Soon he lies next to Sam, as deep in dreamless sleep as his friend beside him, yet even in sleep Frodo clenches protectively at Sam’s cloak. If Sauron knows what is best for him, he will not return to camp any time soon.

To be continued…

GF 11/18/2006

* - from Return of the King, “The Tower of Cirith Ungol”

Chapter 8 - The Dark Lord

Sam is nervous all day. He keeps his apprehension at bay as best he can but he often finds his mind wandering back to his conversation with Sauron that morning. Scared though he may be, Sam will keep his promise for his master’s sake. He knows it is for the best and he holds to that conviction for the strength he needs to get through the rest of the day. 

Still, he can’t stop himself from imagining what may happen that night once they are seated to their session. Most especially, he wonders what Sauron intends to show him. He wishes now that he had asked Frodo what the sessions are like so that he will know what to expect, but he cannot ask Frodo now without giving up what is going to happen. Besides, some niggling part in the back of his mind fears that even with that knowledge, Sauron will not be gentle on him as he is on Frodo. He can’t be, not if he wishes to raise Frodo’s ire to the point where Frodo will exercise his full will. 

Every now and again during the morning, Rick casts him a sympathetic but encouraging look; it doesn’t help. Sam knows that Rick means well, but Sam has heard the stories about the previous victims of Sauron’s torture. Lord Elrond’s wife had been one. She had been tormented so thoroughly that she had to sail away to the Undying Lands to recover from her ordeal, and they say that she is one of the lucky ones. Sam must be the first person in the history of Middle-earth dumb enough to volunteer for such anguish, and he wonders if it will really help Frodo as Sauron claims. If it doesn’t, he knows what he will have to do – turn around and head back for the Shire, dragging Frodo kicking and screaming the whole way if he has to. 

With all these thoughts and worries crowding his mind, it’s no wonder he cannot concentrate on anything else. Too often, Frodo recalls him back to the present from his grim musings. Each time, Sam doubles his efforts to pay attention and remain rooted in the mild, late winter day surrounding him. He tries to feel the breeze on his face and the soft kiss of the sun on his skin. He tries to listen to the quiet all around and the call of falcons swooping to catch their prey. He tries his best but eventually the cold fright comes back to grip his stomach and twist it into knots, the bile inches up his throat, having to be swallowed, and he is lost in his thoughts and fears once more. Frodo will sooner or later notice and he will reach out and shake Sam gently again. Each time it happens, Frodo grows more concerned and Sam can see the worry and questions piling up behind those clear blue eyes.

Finally, night falls and the moon rises. Frodo insists that Sam rest and Sam does so without much protest. He reasons that given his state of distraction he will just end up burning the food anyway, yet he finds that sitting and watching the others work only allows him more time to fret. Every time his eyes fall on Sauron, his stomach clenches tighter still and he has to force the food down his throat at dinner.

Too soon, the meal is over and Rick goes to clean the dishes. Sauron sits across the fire and Frodo sits beside Sam. It’s the same as every other night except that Frodo, sensing Sam’s discomfort, places his hand over Sam’s. Also on this night, unlike any other, Sauron looks to Sam rather than Frodo for the sign to begin. When Frodo likewise nods, missing the brief exchange between Sauron and Sam, Sauron closes his eyes. Frodo follows, keeping his hand securely over Sam’s. Sam takes a moment to draw a deep breath before also closing his eyes. 

It begins before he is aware that anything is happening. At first, he confuses the warmth seeping into his limbs as heat from the fire. It tingles comfortably at the base of his neck and around his scalp, recalling to his mind his mother's fingers scrubbing soap into his hair when he was a faunt. He can even hear her humming and smell the roast cooking in the oven as her fingers work at his scalp, firm but gentle. Some small part of him knows this is not normal, but the warmth, and the memory that comes with it, is so reassuring that he does not linger over the oddity of it. Not until the warmth spreads down to his torso and sinks into his very core, weighing down his limbs, does he realize what is truly happening. By then, it is too late for him to protest or change his mind.

The present melts away, his surroundings go up like vapors into the nighttime sky as the warmth steadily increases, consuming every inch of him. He feels his flesh sizzle, smells his hair as it singes against the heat of the lava. The air chokes his breath and stings his eyes, and the molten edges of jagged rock cut into his feet, staining the ground with his blood. He gasps for a fresh breath but gets only more of the poisonous fumes. He looks about, blinking through the heated mist and the swirling smoke. In front of him, glimpsed through the vapors, is the precipice of Sammath Naur, the boiling heart of Mount Doom, and standing there is a dark figure in twisted exultation, a flaming brand of gold upon his finger.

The figure is gone in an instant and Mount Doom melts away. Sam is transported many thousands of years into the past to a land at the uttermost West. He looks upon a land that is as green and vibrant and full of simple beauty as the Shire. The land is untouched by any hand, new and clean. Beleriand. The air is fresh, the waters pure, the plains lush, the flowering trees vibrant and radiant. 

Sam delights to see it but he no sooner soaks in this wondrous land than he spies a darkness building in the North, spreading out with poisonous fingers to leech the land of its splendor and bounty. The skies bleed black and the ground turns to burnt earth, desolate and drained of its nutrients. The trees and flowers wither away as if they had never been. At the head of the destruction rides Melkor and his servant Sauron. All the creations of the Valar are destroyed or corrupted by their hands; nothing is left untouched or unspoiled.

The vision shifts again, taking Sam to the north and east to the heart of that dark land, the fortress of Angband. Sauron sits in command of the fortress, entrusted by Melkor, the Morgorth, to carry out His wishes, tormenting captives of free peoples from the surrounding lands, tormenting them cruelly and long so that their screams and pleads for mercy fill every dark corner and dirt-filled cavern. Their cries of anguish are so harrowing they chill Sam to the core even as Sauron sits unmoved unless it is to order the torment to cease for a while or to lend his own hand to the dealings. Sam watches in horror as creatures once lovely and wholesome are stripped of their every possession, be it cloth, weapon or self. He watches as they are cut and beaten, burned and broken, he watches until they either die from the torment or are eaten by the werewolves, too weak to scream as they are ripped to shreds. Those that are not killed are slowly mutated and corrupted into creatures of darkness, as bent and cruel as the one who corrupted them but forever under his dominion. 

Battles and wars follow, battles that claim the lives of elves and men, women and children, wars that stretch on for many endless years until the ground is drenched in blood and littered with bodies and the rivers and streams run red. He watches as those who oppose the Enemy are hunted and killed, or dragged back to the Enemy’s fortress for torment. He watches as the greatest and fiercest warriors of Elves and Men fall to the Enemy, as entire cities fall and crumble and have to be evacuated. He watches as Sauron’s skills grow and become greater still. The Maia once blessed with the skills of craft by his master Aulë now contorts those skills at the teachings of Morgorth and uses his treachery and sorcery for even greater torments. Minas Tirith on the Isle of Tol-in-Gaurhoth is taken and Sauron sits in his tower on the isle even as Morgorth spreads devastation further still.

All those who oppose the darkness eventually lose. Fingolfin is crushed to death. Barahir hides but is given up at the last by Gimlor, tortured ruthlessly until he is tricked by Sauron with a vision of his wife, alive and waiting, and he tells Sauron everything he knows so that he may be with her again. Sauron happily obliges, killing Gimlor with a stroke of his blade as soon as he has the information he needs, sending poor Gimlor to join his wife at last. Then, without knowing who he is capturing, he imprisons his greatest foe, Beren, with Felagund and their companions. One by one their companions are devoured by the werewolves as they refuse to reveal Beren for who he truly is. At the last, Felagund falls protecting Beren from the wolves and as Sauron leans down to strike the fatal blow, a voice soars into the air.

The voice is beautiful and the song powerful, imbued with the artistry of the Elves and the might of the Valar. Sam’s eyes are drawn to the tower window, as are Sauron’s. Below on the bridge is Luthien, an elf maid of unsurpassed beauty and grace, and as she sings the walls of the tower quake. Beren sings a response and Luthien, hearing her love within the tower, doubles her efforts. Protected by the Hound of Valinor, none of the wolves can get to her, so Sauron transforms himself into the mightiest of the werewolves and springs to attack, fangs bared and dripping with saliva.

It is then that the vision fades, so suddenly it leaves Sam weakened and disoriented. He cries out as the warmth drains from his body and the cold damp of the night air assaults him. He sobs, lost in the tumult of the images that crowd into his head. He cries for knowing that even though Luthien and Beren escape that dread tower, they died in the end. Only vaguely does he feel Frodo’s arms encircling him and rocking him and hear his master’s voice lilt in song, that same song that Sam had sung in Cirith Ungol. He is transported again into his last vision, of Beren trapped in the dungeons of Tol-in-Gaurhoth and Luthien seeking him outside the tower, singing. It is not the comfort his master hopes it to be.

As he continues to sob a new vision comes to him, this one of a small cottage on a small green isle shrouded in mist. Luthien sits in the field picking dandelions as her children play nearby and Beren chops firewood, and Sam sees that they are happy in their small part of the world. His sobs cease but the tears continue to flow as the vision continues to play before his mind’s eye. He sees Luthien and Beren and their two young children, a happy family full of greatest love, and at the last Luthien appears to look at him and laugh, a laugh as mesmerizing and beautiful as her song. 

The vision fades and Sam lies upon the ground numb to thought and emotion. The world returns to him: the campfire crackles and pops, the wind blows cold and brisk, Frodo’s arm slips over his shoulders and lifts him up, and Rick holds a mug of tea to his lips. He drinks deep and long until the tea is gone and soon he lies down again and drifts off to dreamless sleep.

He wakes the next morning, groggy and exhausted. Frodo lies asleep next to him, an arm slung protectively over his chest. Sam shifts his position, barely moving, but the motion is enough to awaken Frodo. He sits upright and looks down intently at Sam. “Sam?” he whispers.

“Morning, sir,” Sam mumbles. He doesn’t know what is to come next. He knows at some point he needs to explain what happened last night, why Sauron had assailed him and not Frodo. He knows his master will disapprove when he finds out. He shifts again and looks away. He hasn’t the energy to deal with truths just yet.

“Sam? Are you all right?” Frodo asks. “You look exhausted.”

“As do you, sir, if you don’t mind me saying so,” Sam replies.

“I was so worried about you,” Frodo says. He squeezes Sam’s hand in reassurance, both for his friend and for himself. “How are you feeling?”

“A might groggy,” Sam answers. “Like I’ve been drained of every ounce of energy I’ve ever had, to tell the truth.”

“Oh, Sam, why did you do it?” Frodo asks. “Why did you let Sauron talk you into that?”

“You know?” Sam asks, relief mingled with apprehension. He will not have to confess but he still has to face his master’s disapproval. 

“Rick told me,” Frodo says. “I’m so sorry, Sam. This is all my fault. If I had just done what I was supposed to do, if I had just tried harder, it never would have come to this. Can you ever forgive me?”

“Forgive you? But sir, you didn’t do anything wrong. I was the one as went behind your back as I oughtn’t have,” Sam says.

“You wanted to help, and Sauron knew that you would do anything for me, just as he knew I would do anything to protect you if I could. This is my fault, and it’s Sauron’s, for asking this of you rather than doing to me what he should have,” Frodo says.

“I’d not have let him,” Sam says fiercely.

Frodo smiles fondly and pushes Sam back into the sleeping roll. “Rest. I’ll get you some tea and make breakfast. Rick is still asleep. Sauron went off right after our session. He hasn’t come back yet. When he does get back, I will be talking to him. Do you want to talk about what you saw?”

Sam shakes his head. In morning light, the images from last night are dim and far away, as memories half-forgotten to the depths of time. He can still feel the horror of them if he concentrates on them long enough, but that also is muted, the power of their imagery diminished. The only clear and vivid memory he still has is of Luthien and Beren by their little cottage in the mists and the sounds of their children’s laughter as they chase after dragonflies. “It’s naught you should be worrying yourself over, Master. It was just a sort of history lesson, as you might say. It drained me some, but not overly so. I can make breakfast.”

“No. You’re resting, that’s an order,” Frodo says gently, satisfied that his friend is all right. He will keep a close eye on Sam for the next few days to be sure. For now, he goes to the fire pit and begins breakfast from their stored supplies. 

The sun has peeked her head over the land and the sky is glowing pink by the time breakfast is ready. Rick is awake by then and helping with the preparations. They see or hear no sign of Sauron as they eat and clean up afterwards. Rick does not appear to be worried by this.

“Does he disappear often?” Frodo asks as he sits on a log next to the dwindling fire, his left leg bouncing in agitation. 

“He’s scouting ahead most likely, and probably gathering herbs or berries and the like,” Rick says. “He’ll be back.”

Sam isn’t sure if this is a good thing or not. They cannot continue without Sauron, yet Frodo looks ready to strangle the Maia at first sight. Sam wants to speak with Sauron also. Obviously, the ploy had worked but he wanted to know the reasons for the things that Sauron had made him see.

“When will he be back?” Frodo asks impatiently.

“When he gets back,” Rick answers unhelpfully. He kneels in front of Frodo and clasps his shoulder. “Look, I know Sauron, and I know him well enough to know that there is a purpose for what he did. You just need to trust him.”

“Trust him?” Frodo spits. “After what he did to Sam? He could have just as easily done that to me if he wanted to shock me.”

“You’re assuming that shocking you was his only intention. He wants you both to be prepared,” Rick explains with patience. “You’ve had the dreams, Frodo. You’ve seen what the Blue Wizards are capable of. You’re prepared, in that respect at least, for what we are going to face. You’ve had these lessons and learned to control your gifts. In that, you have some means to defend yourself. What about Sam? He’s walking into this blind.”

“We’ve been to Mordor,” Frodo says. “We both know what Evil is capable of, and Evil had better stay away from my friend.”

“Evil will,” says Sauron from behind, coming upon them with silent footsteps. Frodo bristles and stands instantly. He turns to face Sauron, his hands clenched into fists. Sauron walks past him to the horse and begins to stuff the saddlebags with some herb pouches he has brought in from the fields. “Now that you know what you are capable of and have used your gifts as they are meant to be used, we will no longer be playing children’s games. We will hone your skills until you can control them without fail. By the time we reach Khand you will be more than capable of keeping both your mind and Sam’s safe.” He ties the saddlebags closed and faces Frodo. “Think about it, Frodo. The Blue Wizards will be able to sense Sam’s presence as soon as we get within a hundred miles of their stronghold. Do you think they will hesitate to assail him, that they won’t use him to determine where he came from or who is with him? They can’t hurt me and I can keep Rick’s mind shielded without the risk of draining my powers. And now you will be able to keep Sam’s shielded, as well as your own, once you’ve gained some strength. Now let’s go. The day isn’t getting any younger.”

“I’m sorry,” Frodo says. “I didn’t realize. That still didn’t give you the right…”

“Sam agreed to it,” Sauron interrupts. “The fact of the matter is that we don’t have time to play games. You needed to know what we’re going up against, both of you, and now you do. You needed to stop being afraid to use your abilities, and now you have.”

No more words are exchanged after that. They break camp swiftly and are on their way again within the hour. The morning passes in silence, each member of the company lost in his own thoughts. When they stop for luncheon, Sam approaches Sauron as the Maia tends his horse.

“Sam,” Sauron says smoothly without looking back to see the hobbit standing there. From the trap, Frodo watches them both closely. 

“I guess I know now why you made me see those things,” Sam starts awkwardly.

“Do you?”

“Mr. Frodo and I, what with all we went through in Mordor to destroy your Ring, we got off rather easy it seems,” Sam says. “I thought that was the worst possible thing as could happen to a person, but I was wrong. I was wrong about you also. You’re not the same person now as you were back then. It’s just, I didn’t really know you then, so I couldn’t see the difference that Mr. Frodo sees.”

“Now it’s Frodo who doesn’t trust me,” Sauron says with an ironic laugh. 

“He’s just feeling guilty about it coming to this is all,” Sam says. “I’ll just keep talking to him and telling him I’m fine. I am fine, aren’t I? I can’t really remember those visions too much now. They won’t haunt me or nothing, will they?”

Sauron finishes with the horse and faces Sam, looking him intently in the eyes before answering. “No, Sam, they won’t. Those aren’t your memories to be haunted by.”

Sam nods, seeing everything clearly at last. “I understand. And thank you.”

“For what?”

“For that last vision, of Luthien, Beren and their little ones in their home,” Sam says. “That was right peaceful, it was. It gives me hope.”

“It was the least I could do,” Sauron says and watches in wonder as Sam walks away.  

When the hobbits are busy fixing luncheon, Rick approaches Sauron and holds Brego’s reins while Sauron curries the horse’s flanks. “What was all that about?” Rick asks.

“Sam thinks he and Frodo got off easy,” Sauron says in a disbelieving whisper. “In a way he’s right. I wasn’t at my full strength when he and Frodo entered my land with the Ring. I was distracted by the strategies of the Men of Gondor and ignored things happening closer to home. Frodo was captured and tortured but he was never brought into my hands. If he had been…”

Rick puts a supportive hand on Sauron’s shoulder, recalling the Maia back to the present before the past can grip too tightly to him. “But you didn’t,” Rick reminds him in an answering whisper. “You’re beating a dead horse.”

Brego whinnies disapprovingly at this analogy.

“Sorry Brego,” Rick says. “Look, Sauron, whatever you might have done then doesn’t matter now. That’s not who you are anymore. You’re no more capable of hurting these hobbits than I am.”

“Then explain last night.”

“You did what you had to do. Sam is wiser now for it and he understands the peril we’re walking into. He knows that the memories won’t haunt him unless he lets them, and he knows that you will do everything you can to make sure they are both safe,” Rick says. “Not to mention that we’re on a limited time schedule. Frodo needed to get serious about his lessons and now he will be. If you did them harm last night, it was only to save them from greater harm later on.”

“Thank you,” Sauron says. He pats Rick’s hand appreciatively, then goes to join the hobbits.

To be continued…

GF 11/24/2006

Chapter 9 - The Cave

By the time they reach Minas Tirith, all tensions have been resolved and put behind them. Sam is no longer weary of Sauron and now when Rick tells them stories of Sauron’s good-doings Sam listens with rapt attention. Frodo forgives Sauron as he sees that Sam does not suffer any lingering effects from his ordeal, and he realizes that Sauron had been right in his actions. Their lessons progress every night and Frodo’s skills continue to develop to staggering new heights, though he is not yet able to achieve the level of power he demonstrated the other night. He is still apprehensive about his gifts but as he learns to control them he grows more confident and willing to push himself to the next level.

The foothills of the White Mountains are before them and on the morning of their last day of travel, the hobbits spy a long curving line cutting through a distant field: the great wall of the Pelennor. The westernmost curve of Minas Tirith will be in view shortly but before they reach the crest of the plateau upon which they travel, Sauron tells the hobbits to descend from the trap. They each shoulder their packs and strap their weapons to their belts, then Sauron speaks quietly to Brego. The horse appears to nod before he pulls forward, taking the empty trap down the hillside to the plain below. Before the hobbits can ask what he is doing, Sauron steers them south to the foothills and the woods that grow there. 

The forest is dense and Sam remembers Merry’s stories about the Ghân-buri-Ghân. He wonders if they will be meeting with the tribesmen and sneaking into Minas Tirith from the south, as the Rohirrim did. This thought diminishes quickly. They only walk about a half-mile into the forest when Sauron takes them southeast. Another mile in, all sign of the plateau is hidden by the cover of the woods and all that can be seen around them are trees and brush. At length, they come to a vast steep mountain wall that towers over their heads and seems to climb up to the very sky itself. From their position, they cannot see the wall’s sharp end at the peak of Mt. Mindolluin, nor can they guess that they now stand directly behind Minas Tirith, separated only by the massive girth of the mountain. 

The mountain wall here is covered with brush and vines that hang down from the trees nearby. They follow the base of the hill for a couple of clicks until they come to a rock that protrudes out of the mountainside; beside the rock is a fallen tree rotted by many years of rains and pests. There Sauron pushes aside the brush and vines and disappears into the mountain. The hobbits gasp but Rick follows without concern and they have no choice but to do the same. 

The hobbits find themselves in a small cave. They have one brief glimpse of the cave before the curtain of vines and brush fall into place behind them, cutting off all but the slimmest rays of light. They stand still, waiting for their eyes to adjust. In the darkness they can only hear Sauron and Rick moving about and it sounds to them as though they are sliding their hands against the cave wall, using that to tell them where to go. 

Frodo and Sam stay huddled together near the entrance. Frodo’s eyes adjust to the darkness more quickly than Sam’s, and he follows the dark forms of his companions against the deeper dark of the cave wall. Sam clutches to Frodo and wonders if there are any giant spiders living in this cave. Only Frodo’s easy calm reassures him and keeps panic at bay. Before too long, they hear Sauron grunt with satisfaction.

“Here they are,” the Maia says. “Rick, a spark.”

The hobbits hear a striker, then from the corner of Sam’s eyes he sees a small spark followed by another. Flame catches on cloth and soon a torch is blazing. Sauron pulls another torch from a cache at the back of the cave and lights it. He hands this one to Rick. The hobbits move towards them, looking around them as they go. The cave has a low ceiling and is no more than ten yards across at its widest, but it is deep and at the back where the cache is located there are many tunnels leading into the hillside.

“These tunnels lead into the mountain at the back of the city,” Rick explains, “but there are only a handful of paths that will lead you anywhere. All others lead to a dead end. If you don’t know where you’re going, you could be lost in these tunnels for months.”

“So look out for piles of bones,” Sauron says dryly. 

Rick snorts. “That’s his idea of a joke,” he explains to the hobbits.

“I thought it was funny,” Sauron says.

“You would,” Rick responds.

“So the tunnels lead to the City,” Frodo says. “Where in the city?”

“To places unexpected,” Sauron answers evasively. 

“What about Brego?” Sam asks worriedly. 

“He’ll go to a friend of mine that lives near the Pelennor,” Sauron answers. “He’ll be put to work in the fields and will be taken care of there.”

“Who else knows about these tunnels?” Frodo asks.

“Only the most trusted of Elessar’s advisors,” Sauron replies, “and of Denethor’s before him. Don’t worry. The other sides are well protected.”

Sauron leads them to the nearest tunnel and on through the labyrinth with familiar ease. Their torches chase away the dark and keep the shadows ever at bay. Sam tries to count the number of channels they pass, hoping to map the route in his mind in case something should happen. He doesn’t want to be lost in these tunnels indefinitely! Six turns and several passages later, he loses track of the route, and he can only take comfort in the fact that Sauron leads without hesitation. 

The air is dank and musty, but they can breathe easily and there is no overwhelming stink to knock them to their knees as there had been in Cirith Ungol. The only spiders they see are small and harmless, and scuttle away from the bright torchlight into hairline cracks in the cave wall. Sam keeps close to Frodo. It is only after he grows used to his surroundings that he notices his hand clinging to Frodo’s, or perhaps it is Frodo who clings to him. He squeezes Frodo’s hand and Frodo returns the gesture.

About a league into the hillside, they turn down yet another passage and the floor begins to slope upward, the angle slight but noticeable. The walls begin to come together, pinching them into a single line with Sauron at the head, followed by Frodo and then Sam with Rick behind. As the floor rises, the ceiling lowers and soon the taller travelers must stoop to continue forward. 

Frodo looks around Sauron and sees a wall ahead where the tunnel ends. Before he can ask if they came the wrong way, Sauron veers to the right to a passage that is hidden behind a sudden bulge in the wall. The hobbits make it through the narrow slit without trouble for the bulge is above their heads, but Sauron and Rick must both remove their packs and twist sideways to squeeze through the crevice. 

They enter the new passage, which widens slightly past the crevice so that Rick’s and Sauron’s shoulders just brush against either wall. To pass comfortably, they must turn sideways, and their progress slows as they shuffle along the passage. There are a couple of places where they must flatten themselves against one wall to squeeze through and the torches threaten to go out from the lack of air and the rain of dust and rock that their passing loosens from the wall. Rick especially coughs from the dust. Sam hands him an extra handkerchief to cover his mouth and nose, and Rick takes it gratefully. 

This continues for many yards when suddenly the wall before them falls away and they pop out from the crevice to a wider if still narrow tunnel. Sauron brushes the dirt from his clothes and hair as he waits for the others. When Rick gets through a few moments later, the young man sighs with relief and shudders violently.

“I hate that part,” he says, clearly shaken.

“We’re out of it now,” Sauron soothes with a pat to Rick’s shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Yes. It’s just… tight spaces,” Rick explains, his voice tight but relieved.

“Well that’s the last of it. It’ll be easy going from here,” Sauron assures.

“Can’t someone widen that part?” Sam asks.

“Perhaps, but who could be entrusted to do so? Besides, should someone manage to make it into the tunnels this far, that narrow opening will make them think twice about proceeding any further,” Sauron says.

He allows Rick and the hobbits to brush themselves off before setting out again.

The going is easier, as the tunnels remain wide enough so that they walk two abreast, Sauron and Frodo in front with Sam and Rick behind. Every now and then the ceiling dips down and Rick and Sauron have to stoop, and always the floor steeps upward climbing ever higher into the mountainside. Several more turns follow and in some passages there are stairs where the passage is too steep to climb without slipping and falling backwards. The stairs are of simple make, small slabs of limestone placed on top of dirt cut into shallow steps barely wide enough to support an entire foot. Sam again becomes disoriented, wondering who could possibly remember such a path. He wonders who even made these tunnels and how long ago they were dug and why.

They pause when the hobbits tire. They sit on the floor against the tunnel walls and snack on berries and cheese. They drink from their bottles but say little unless it is in whispers, for any sound louder than that is like a roar to their ears. The hobbits take comfort in the torchlight and ignore the enveloping darkness as best they can. They reach the top of the stairs shortly after their break and at the end of the passage is another cache. Sauron replaces their nearly spent torches with new ones, stamping out the old ones in the dirt and leaving them there next to the cache before they continue on. Sam wonders who has the job of keeping the caches full. He cannot imagine the King’s advisors taking time from their busy days to do such a thing and he suspects that it is Aragorn himself who restocks them; it would serve as a nice adventure for the former Ranger when he becomes restless with the structured life at Court.

Beyond the second cache is a steady, steep climb up many stone steps. Here the hobbits are now the ones to slow them for these steps are high even for their tall companions and the hobbits must use their hands to help push themselves up to the next step. The climbing is tiresome and they rest again on the stairs and eat some more, and even though Sauron tells them there is no need to ration the water, out of habit and memory the hobbits drink only enough to dull their thirst. When the hobbits are ready, they push on and upward, the thin musty air becoming filled with their panting and scuttling and the soft pinging of loosened pebbles cascading down the steps to the passage floor far below. 

At long last, they reach a straight way and they pause again to catch their breaths. “It’s not too much further,” Sauron promises.

They reach the end of the passage after another mile or so only to find nothing but a round wall. There is no sign of an outlet or door, or even another tunnel.

“It’s a dead end,” Frodo says in dismay.

“Like I said, this end of the passage is well protected,” Sauron reminds them with confidence. “Anyone who doesn’t know any better will think they just found another dead end but see there.” He points to the floor where some rocks are piled up against a thin inward wedge in the wall. “That is called a cairn. The rocks are piled in a specific pattern and they give directions to those who know how to read them.”

“Those have been on the floor all the way up here,” Frodo says, understanding. “That’s how you knew where to turn. Not all the cairns were the same though.”

“No. Those lead to the other passages, or to nowhere,” Sauron says.

He hands his torch to Frodo then presses along the wall just above the cairn. A section of the wall slides away and next thing the hobbits know the entire wall appears to be collapsing. They soon realize that the wall is merely opening to reveal a narrow crevice. They squeeze through it to a small chamber of stone and once they are all through, Sauron pushes against one of the stones and the door slides closed. No sign of the door can be seen in the stone, nor of any other door. They appear to be standing in a small square chamber with no visible exit. 

Sauron takes back his torch and stamps it out. Rick does the same to his and they lean their torches against the wall. The torchlight had been bright in the absolute darkness of the tunnels and now they are plunged into that blackness completely. The hobbits hear Sauron moving his hand along the walls of the chamber and soon they hear the clunk of a stone being pushed out of place, followed by a deafening rumble of stone scraping against stone. A burst of fresh cool air rushes in to greet them and everyone breathes it with relish. 

A dim light filters into the chamber, just enough for shadows to form. Sauron cautions them to be careful and keep quiet, then he steps out of the chamber, which faces a corner of white marble. They turn the corner towards the source of the light, and it is everything the hobbits can do not to shout for joy at their release from the mountain. Thankfully, this urge is immediately squashed by the sight that greets them. 

They are surprised to find that they are in the House of Kings. The grand marble tombs beset with cameos of kings’ past stretch about before them. They are even more surprised to realize that the light is from the setting sun. After the long blackness of the tunnels even the sunset at first appears bright as the fully-risen sun to them. Sam is suddenly struck with new understanding of Gollum’s loathing for light of any kind, and he feels a pity for the creature he had not been capable of before. 

“Where is the King?” Frodo asks.

“We still have one more passage to go,” Sauron says and leads them halfway down the main passage to a crevice behind the statue of Tar-Palantir. 

He opens another passage here, lights a pair of torches and once more casts them into darkness. There are no alternate passages, and they follow the tunnel down a straight passage for several minutes until they come to a stair. At the top of the stair, Sauron again puts out the torches, searches out the catch and opens the hidden door. This time when they step outside, they find themselves in the Citadel. The passage let them out of the ivy-covered wall that surrounds the King’s private garden. The sun is now fully set and stars are blinking in the sky overhead.

“That’s why that wall is there?” Sam asks.

“One of the reasons,” comes the answer from the porch leading to the King’s House. “I’ve been waiting all afternoon for you. I should have known you would take your time.” King Elessar stands there waiting, dressed in garb of elegant cloth but simple design, as far removed from the ranger they had met as he can be. He looks nearly Elvish to their eyes.

“Strider!” the hobbits rejoice and run towards their friend. They embrace fiercely and long.

“My friends,” Elessar says and sits back on his haunches to look at them. He searches their eyes, lingering especially over Frodo’s. Finally he stands and turns to Sauron and Rick. He and Sauron clasp hands, and Rick he embraces briefly. “Thank you for bringing them here safely. Come inside. There is food and warm baths waiting, and your rooms are prepared. Take what comfort and rest you need. We will speak in the morning.”

They happily oblige. After filling their stomachs, they go to their baths and finally to their beds. Sauron and Rick each have separate guest rooms on the third floor where important guests stay, but Elessar shows the hobbits to the bedchamber adjacent to the King and Queen’s chamber on the fourth floor. A closed, unlocked door adjoins the two rooms.

“Rest easy, my friends,” Elessar says. “We have much to discuss in the morning.”

Sam and Frodo climb into the bed, which is surprisingly not too large or high for them. “Just like old times,” Sam murmurs groggily as his head hits the pillow. He is fast asleep a moment later. Frodo only manages to stay awake a few seconds longer before falling into slumber himself.

The hobbits wake to a bright cool morning. The sun slants in through high windows; the rays cut across the room in wide soft beams. 

They wake at the same time and blink around the room. They had been too tired the previous night to give it much thought but they see now that it is stately and impressive though there is little in the way of decoration. They see also that this is not a guest room. The door that adjoins this room to the King and Queen’s room tells them that much. They peer down at the slim but long bed they are lying in, and Frodo suddenly chuckles. He points to the corner nearest the adjoining door, and Sam sees a bassinet standing there.

“This is a nursery,” Frodo says.

“Strider and Queen Arwen don’t have any bairns yet,” Sam says.

“No, but it never hurts to be prepared, or to hope,” Frodo says with a smile.

They rise then and discover their clothes washed and mended on the foot of the bed. They dress quickly and find Elessar waiting in the corridor outside their room. The king smiles down at them and motions for them to walk beside him. 

The hobbits look about the once-familiar apartment, appreciating anew the stately simplicity of it. There is none of the glossy marble or hard stone that makes up the library or council chambers on the first floor, nor any of the alabaster sculptures and busts or bejeweled and polished antiques that decorate the hallway alcoves throughout the rest of the house. Here are only wooden floors polished to a gentle shine, softly painted walls and tall curtained windows along the east and west walls. The doors to the east-facing rooms are thrown open and the thick cream-white curtains are pulled back by wide sashes to let in the full blaze of the rising sun. 

Between the rooms hang paintings: landscapes of Rivendell, Lothlórien and the Northern Realm. Beneath a few of the paintings sit cushioned benches, and under the rest are small tables displaying marvelous bouquets, Elven sculptures or pottery. In the center of the King’s personal apartment is the parlor. Thick wooden pillars built to support the ceiling create arched entryways into the rooms. No one occupies this room at the moment and the king talks freely with his guests while they await the others.

“Did you sleep well?” Elessar asks. 

“Very well,” Frodo answers.

“It was like sleeping on a cloud,” Sam says, “or leastways what I imagine it might feel like if such a thing were possible.”

Elessar laughs. “I am glad for your rest. You look much improved after your hike yesterday. I spoke with Sauron last night and he tells me that you have gained much ability with your skills. He is fully confident in your abilities, as am I, but what about yourself? Do you feel you are ready for what is ahead? I will not have you walk into danger unprepared.”

“Sauron tests me harder each day,” Frodo says. “Sometimes it frightens me, the things I can do, but I know how important it is. If I’m not ready now, I never will be.”

“You show much wisdom, Frodo, though I expect no less of you,” Elessar says. “There is always fear when you begin down a new path. You are not accustomed to this new aspect of yourself, and you don’t yet fully know what to expect. It will take some getting used to.”

“It will at that,” Frodo agrees. “I only hope I don’t disappoint you.”

“You never could,” Elessar says with pride. “You prove again your strength by your willingness to do this. You have already made me proud.”

“Thank you Strider,” Frodo says gratefully. 

Rick and Sauron enter then, coming up the stairs from the floor below. They bow to the king and greet everyone good morning. Pleasantries behind them, Elessar stands.

They go then to the dining room. A sidebar sits in the corner nearest the kitchen. On it are a tea and coffee service; a jug of a tart and tasty juice made from fruit called oranges; tin pans with hot piles of sausage and bacon, eggs, crumpets, toast; plates, silverware and linen napkins; platters of sliced fruit; and three types of jams, plus butter, honey, salt and pepper. The hobbits gravitate towards the food but Elessar bids them to wait until Queen Arwen arrives. A few minutes later, Arwen enters from the kitchen, carrying a small tray with glasses and mugs for them all. She sets this next to the tea and coffee and greets her guests.

“All is now ready for serving,” she says with a knowing glance at the hobbits. 

“Thank you, my Lady Arwen,” Frodo says, remembering the proper address for the queen despite the loud rumblings of his eager stomach. They have been so long on the road he can hardly remember the last time he had a proper meal. Then he recalls with chagrin that he had not eaten much even before leaving the Shire despite Sam’s many efforts to see him well-fed. He wonders now that he is so hungry. Is it only their short rations while traveling or is it because he is healing at last? He certainly does feel stronger and more alert now than he had in the Shire, and he knows that his lessons with Sauron have much to do with that; he has not dreamt badly for many days now.

All these thoughts pass in a mere second. He keeps his eyes on the queen and at her beckoning he serves himself. Sam follows him, then Rick and Sauron, and lastly the king and queen themselves. Frodo is not surprised at the lack of servants; if their being here is truly a secret as Sauron has said, then any servants would have to be dismissed for the duration of their stay. The hobbits serve their food with the knowledge that the Queen herself has prepared their meal, and must also have been the one to wash and mend their clothing; they try their best not to show their embarrassment. 

Once everyone is settled, they begin eating and the hobbits are delighted at the food. They make many happy comments over the flavors and quality of the meal, and they question the queen on her preparation of it, asking what herbs she used and how long she cooked the crumpets. This line of conversation continues through the first serving. Once the hobbits and Rick have served themselves seconds, and the queen pours herself and Elessar another cup of coffee, the conversation turns to more important matters.

“A boat has been arranged to carry you from Pelennor to Pelargir,” Elessar begins. “You will board the ship tonight and sail in the morning. You should reach Pelargir in two days. There will be an escort waiting for you, to take you over Harondor to Near Harad and onward to Khand. Once you reach Khand you will be on your own.”

“That’s fine,” Sauron says. “I already know where the Blue Wizards’ lair lies. It shouldn’t be hard to reach.”

“And what about getting into the lair, or near enough the wizards to carry out your task?” Elessar asks.

“The Blue Wizards’ servants and guardsmen are all slaves, chosen from the men who survived the War and kept in service by threats to their families. They desire the wizards’ downfall just as much as you do, more so even. I know one of their servants who was called upon to serve as an example to those who would attempt to flee, even though he made no such attempt. The wizards caused the deaths of his family and he only remains there because he has nowhere else to go. He will let us in,” Sauron says.

“That gets you into their lair. It doesn’t get you to the wizards,” Elessar notes.

“Frodo and I are working on that. Don’t worry. Everything will be in place by the time we arrive,” Sauron says with confidence.

“I’m confused,” Sam says. “I thought no one knew we were here, but we’re getting an escort?”

Elessar nods. “No one knows about this mission. The captain of the boat has been told that you are a family, a father, his son and his son’s two small children. You will travel as a family in mourning. The captain has been told that you seek to return the body of Sauron’s wife to her homeland in the south. The captain will believe that the box you carry contains the coffin and body of your wife, but in it will be your supplies for the journey. The hobbits will travel in the traditional mourning garments, so that a veil will cover their faces. They will also wear boots to cover their feet. They will remain in that garb until you reach Near Harad. At Pelargir, you will leave the boat and wait for your escort in the designated tent beyond the docks; it will have a symbol of a falcon on the front flap. There you can get your supplies together and rest for your journey. Your escort will arrive at dusk.”

“What has the escort been told?” Rick asks.

“The same, only that you seek to find the body of your fallen kin in Khand. When you reach Near Harad, you will all change from Gondorian garments to the ceremonial mourning robes of the Haradrim. This should prevent anyone from hindering you, since they do not approach those who travel in mourning. Your escort is one of their ilk and this will keep suspicion at bay,” Elessar explains.

“Is it safe to trust a Haradrim?” Frodo asks.

“Gondor has had spies in Harad long before the downfall of Mordor, especially among the Gondorian slaves and those who befriended them,” Elessar says. “They are loyal and steadfast. You can trust them but there is much sabotage. Therefore, you will know your escort by the way she greets you. Her name is Semira and she will be dressed as a servant. She will kneel before you and call you the Grievous Ones, and she will refer to me as the Dark King to the North. She will say that I am evil and a coward for making my people retrieve their fallen comrades on their own. She will be wearing a broach of beads and sandstone, and it will be shaped like a jasmine.”

“A woman?” Sam says in surprise. “Mightn’t she get hurt if there’s sabotage and whatnot?”

“Women are less suspicious,” Elessar says. “She will lead you through Near Harad and leave you on the borders of Khand, where she will wait for your return.”

“From there it will be another week to the lair of the Blue Wizards,” Sauron says, taking over the discussion. “We will have to travel at night to avoid the heat of day; though we are approaching spring, you will find the deserts to be already as warm as summer to you. It will also be easier to avoid detection at night. There are many bands of nomads in Near Harad and they will not be happy to see me.”

“Why is that?” Frodo asks. “I thought the Swertings were all your servants.”

“They were all my slaves, held in my command by the Blue Wizards and other tyrants I trained for my own purposes,” Sauron corrects. “I promised them everything and gave them nothing. If they’re angry, then the tyrants who lead them are angrier still and not just because of the civil wars that erupted shortly after the destruction of the Ring. Those who don’t believe me to be dead will not be happy to see me. They will die rather than let us cross unhindered.”

“But if we travel as mourners, they will leave us alone?” Rick asks.

“Yes. They will recognize the funeral garb and leave us a wide berth if we should come across them, for they believe that the dead one’s spirit lingers over those who mourn them and there is no worse luck than to disrupt those in mourning from putting their lost ones to rest,” Sauron says. “Still, to be safe, no one should call me by my name.”

“Can we call you Bob Apples again?” Rick asks with a grin.

“Only if you want to wake up tomorrow with apple sauce in your hair,” Sauron says but it is obvious to everyone that he is merely jesting.

“You have plenty of time to decide your aliases,” Elessar says.

“In the meantime, rest from your toil,” Arwen says. “The apartment and the garden are open to you to enjoy as you wish.”

“You are most gracious, my queen,” Sauron says.

“Do you have any maps of Near Harad and Khand?” Rick asks.

“In the library,” Elessar says, “which I am sure Frodo is eager to see as well. I will show you where the maps are. Frodo and Sam, I would like for you to join me for tea this afternoon.”

“Of course,” the hobbits agree.

They stand and follow the king to the library.

To be continued…

GF 12/12/06

Chapter 10 - Minas Tirith

The main library is located on the first floor, but it would be next to impossible to take the hobbits there without being seen. While it is easy enough to ban all servants from his private apartment without raising suspicions, it would be far more difficult to ban them from the House itself. Instead, Elessar leads them to his personal library, located next to his study.

While significantly smaller than the main library downstairs, it is still nearly twice the size of the study. A double-sided fireplace sits in the corner shared with the study, but no fire burns. The library is open on its east and south sides and bright sunlight streams in from the eastern windows. In the middle of the library sits a long oak table and they gather around it. The hobbits stand on chairs, as Elessar selects one of many a long leather tubes from a nearby bookshelf. From the tube he pulls a map and he spreads this over the table.

The hobbits now look upon sketched lands they have never seen before, though they have heard many stories of them. Just below South Ithilien there is South Gondor, or Harondor, stretching away towards the sea. Surrounding Harondor are the vast barren deserts of Harad to the south and Near Harad to the east. Further to the east, beyond the reaches of the Mountains of Shadow, is Khand. 

“That’s how you got the Easterlings into Mordor,” Rick says to Sauron. He points to the large gap between the northern and southern ends of the mountains that surround Mordor in a crescent-like shape. “They just walked in the back door.”

Sauron only nods.

“Couldn’t the Haradrim have gone that way also?” Frodo asks, remembering the battalion that he and Sam had spied marching into the Black Gate, as well as the troop that Faramir’s men had defeated the day the hobbits met the mild-mannered Ranger.

“Those who lived closest to Khand did,” says Sauron. “For the others, it was quicker to march them north. It was also an effective way to ensure that the Gondorians knew how much manpower I had at my disposal, for I knew there would be scouts and spies, and their soldiers were spread too thin to attack or defeat every battalion that passed. It was an efficient way to both increase my numbers and demoralize the enemy.”

“You must have been a lot of fun at parties,” Rick says sardonically.

“I brought the finger foods,” Sauron replies.

“I hate to ask what constitutes as finger food in Mordor,” Rick says. 

“So how far it is to Khand?” Sam asks, bringing the conversation back to topic. He is no better with maps now than he had been before the Quest, despite Frodo’s many attempts to explain them to him. Seeing lands drawn to such a miniscule scale confuses him easily. Khand may only be a few days away, or a hundred. There is no way of knowing and he does not see how anyone can find such deceptive drawings useful. 

“You will set sail at dawn,” Elessar says, pointing to the Anduin where it curves closest to the Rammas Echor. “In a couple of days, you will reach Pelargir. You will leave there at night, as we discussed. I think it would be best to leave the road once you are a few miles out of the port. You can travel due west through South Ithilien and you should pass the downs here to the north. Once you round those, you can follow the mountains all the way to Khand. Of course, if the guide has a better suggestion, it would be best to listen to her, as she will know the land better than I do. I do insist on you following the mountains though. They will provide you with shelter during the hotter parts of the day, and it will be easier to hunt food among the brush there, where small game is readily found. You will have to take a goodly supply of water with you. You can replenish your supplies at the rivers Poros and Harnen, but once you pass the Harnen there will be no more reliable water sources until you reach Khand.”

“We will have to leave the shelter of the mountains here,” Sauron says, pointing to where the mountains begin to curve northward as they reach their end on the northwestern borders of Khand, “and continue due east until we reach Khand. We will have to save as much water as we can for that leg of the journey.”

“Couldn’t we take things that we can trade for water?” asks Rick. “Surely, we’ll come across some people along the way.”

“Even if we could rely on such a chance, we will be traveling as mourners,” Sauron reminds him. “They will not approach us, unless they be lawless rogues, and we cannot approach them. Besides, we are the enemy to them. They will not help us.”

“So how far is it?” Sam asks again. “Won’t there be orcs hiding in those mountains?”

“Look Sam,” Frodo says patiently, pointing to the scale at the bottom corner of the map. “This tells you how many inches on the map represent miles on the land. Remember?”

Sam looks at the scale and then back at the map in general. He does remember, and he is as good with numbers and simple calculations as any other hobbit, but he cannot see how such a tiny scale can tell him much tucked away in the corner as it is. “Shouldn’t the scale go all the way across then?” he asks.

“That would be more helpful,” Frodo agrees. “Looking at it without measuring, I’d say it’s easily many hundreds of miles.”

“Nearly 800,” Elessar confirms. “Traveling by foot will take far too long, which is why you will be supplied with horses. The journey will take about a month to complete, depending on how far into Khand you will have to travel to find the Blue Wizards’ lair.”

“It will be about five days once we cross the border, just shy of a month if we have no delays or unexpected adventures,” Sauron says. “As for orcs, by now the few bands that remain have retreated deep into the mountains, for they are hunted by all. They will not be a threat to us. If they do appear, I can deal them a swift defeat without any of you having to draw sword.”

His questions now answered, Sam loses interest in the continuing discussions of the map and the journey. He will find out soon enough what the lands are like, and he learned long ago that it is better not to know too much in advance what possible dangers might lie ahead. He wanders away from the table and begins to explore the shelves of the library. 

The hobbits had spent much time in both libraries during the weeks following the Quest and much has changed in the time since their departure. Books and tomes from one library have a way of ending up in the other, and Elessar and Arwen both have been bringing their most used resources to this library over the years. Sam discovers that the two walls of the library are covered from top to bottom in shelves crowded with tomes, books and scrolls. Only the small section of wall above the fireplace is bare of books. Instead, an oil painting has been placed there. The painting depicts a man in mail and armed with a magnificent sword standing before the doors of Minas Morgul. 

“That is King Eärnur, the last of the southern kings,” says Rick, coming to stand at Sam’s side. “He rode to Minas Morgul with a small battalion of knights to answer the challenge of the Witch King. None of them were ever seen again.”

“Was he mad?” asks Sam.

“None of the tales say so, but perhaps he was,” Rick says, considering this possibility for a moment before continuing. “It is clear he was much too proud of his valor and vigor. He was considered a champion of his people; he would not be taunted and called a weakling. Mardil was the steward at the time and for a while he was able to restrain the King’s temper and keep him from riding to Minas Morgul. But a time came when King Eärnur could no longer be held back. Whether he died in battle before the gates or after some long and terrible torment, no one knows. Some have even postulated that he turned coward as he rode towards his challenge and rather than return to the city in disgrace he rode into exile.”

“No one knows what happened to him?” asks Sam with a backward glance at Sauron, who is bent over the map, intent on his conversation with Elessar. Frodo notices his glance and comes to join them as Rick finishes his tale.

“No one, then or now, and since none knew for certain if the king was dead, Mardil ruled Gondor under the king’s name. That is when the reign of the Ruling Stewards began. No heir of pure blood could be found to claim the crown, and of those few who came forward not all would allow to take rule. They all feared another kin-strife, and knowing that if such an event was allowed to occur it would be the end of the realm, the Stewards remained in rule in the hopes that one day a rightful heir to whom all would agree would come forth.”

“You are familiar with all the old tales?” asks Frodo.

“I grew up listening to them,” Rick says. “Sometimes, my father would allow my brothers and me to stay up late to hear a particularly long tale told in full. When I started traveling with Sauron, one of the first places we came was here. The vastness of the Citadel library and archives were so overwhelming. I stood in the middle of that grand room, surrounded by all those stories of legends and myths, and I thought of my older brother and how he would have loved to hear all those tales were he still alive, and I wept. I asked the master archivist if he could teach me to read and I learned as quickly and as much as I could. I’m still only a moderate reader at best, but I carry any tales I learn with me back home, where I sit at my brother’s plot and tell them to him. It’s a silly thing to do, I suppose, but I think he can hear me.”

“You must have loved your brother very much,” Frodo says. “He will know when you visit him.”

“It’s real thoughtful of you to share your new stories with him,” Sam adds kindly. 

They explore the library until Sauron and Elessar finalize the travel plans. Elessar rolls up the map, places it in its tube and gives it to Sauron. The Maia then joins the others while Elessar takes his leave. He must be in court shortly, for the duties of running a kingdom will not wait for him to spend a day with friends, dear as they are. After the morning delegations, he will have a meeting with his counselors but he promises to return in time for tea with the hobbits.

“I take it we aren’t supposed to be going downstairs, much less outside,” Sam says and sighs after Elessar has departed. He would have liked to visit some of the shops and inns, but if no one is to know they are in the city then there will be no wandering about for him or Frodo. 

Sensing his friend’s need for the outdoors, Frodo takes Sam’s arm and steers him towards the hall. “Come lad, we can go upstairs to the roof garden. I asked Strider and he said there would be no one up there today. If we stay away from the edges, we won’t be spied. We can sit in the garden and enjoy the warmth and sun of day now that we are not having to travel through it. There might even be weeds for you to dig out of the flower beds. Will you join us?” he asks the others.

Rick considers the offer but after a quick glance at Sauron, he declines. The hobbits leave them in the library and go outside. 

The garden is full of late winter and early spring blooms, which they had not been able to enjoy the previous night. They do so now, strolling along the paths of the vast garden, Sam pointing out the flowers he planted during their previous stay. He is delighted to see them doing so well, and there are even a few new ones that he is not familiar with. He leans over to inspect these blooms more closely, noting the type of soil they are plotted in and the amount of shade or sun in which they are located. 

After a time, the hobbits rest on a bench facing the mountain and they look at each other knowingly, each sharing the same thought.

“I wonder how you open that secret passage from this side of the garden wall,” Frodo says.

Sam shakes his head. “We don’t even know how to do be opening it from the side we came out from,” he points out. “I doubt we’ll have a chance to go down there and take a good look at it.”

“Maybe you can’t open it from this side,” Frodo says. 

“What would be the point in that?” Sam asks. 

“Well, let’s say that a king’s advisor turns against him and decides to use the tunnels to surprise the king at night in his sleep,” Frodo begins.

“I don’t like this supposing,” Sam says but Frodo continues.

“It would still be difficult getting into and out of the House without being seen, but if one could accomplish it, they wouldn’t be able to escape back through the secret passage. They’d have to navigate the streets of the Citadel, thus increasing the likelihood of being seen by the guards.”

“What if the guards are in on it?” Sam asks despite himself, curious to see what his master has pieced together.

“What if the guards stood by and did nothing while their king and queen were being murdered and then failed to apprehend or name a suspect? I’d imagine they’d be hung for treason. They could abandon their posts and flee the city with the culprit, but they all would be hunted men for as long as they are able to run.”

“They could frame someone else, or the assailant could kill them too,” Sam suggests, then shakes his head vigorously, as though trying to clear it from cobwebs. “Let’s talk about something else, sir. Let’s see if we can find those rose bushes Mr. Pippin helped me plant.”

They return to their strolling and continue their inspection of the colorful grounds. After a few hours, Arwen brings them elevenses and Rick and Sauron join them. Arwen tells them of life in court and the city, of the preparations that are already under way for the New Year celebration, and of the friends she has made here. The hobbits have many questions for her and they follow her to the kitchen after their meal to continue their conversation while they clean and begin making luncheon. 

After luncheon, the travelers return to the library, where Rick has unearthed a large and ancient tome. The book cover is cracked in many places, and the spine flakes like fine ashes at the slightest touch. The pages too are fragile and covered with strange runes that are blurred and faded with time. Even the illustrations are a faint promise of their one-time glory. 

“I found this just before we joined you for elevenses, as you call it. Queen Arwen says it’s a book of legends from the First Age,” Rick tells the hobbits in an impassioned whisper. The parchment crackles as he leafs gingerly through the pages. 

“This is Huan,” Sam says without hesitation, pointing to an illustration of a great hound shaded in black before a bleak tower.

“That it is,” Sauron affirms and notes with relief the lack of fear or grief Sam displays from the brief remembrance of his visions. Sauron looks closer at the faded text and reaches back into his own memories as he tries to decipher the ancient runes. “This is an early form of Quenya, written in the Tengwar of Fëanor. This is the Lay of Lúthien,” he announces, equally as surprised as the others at this revelation. “This must be one of the first copies, if not the very first.”

“I found this with it,” Rick says and touches a newly-bound book with many crisp sheets of parchment. He flips this book open and they see that the text inside is similar to that in the tome. Only half of the book is completed, the last pages blank and untouched. “Arwen must be transcribing the text before the ink fades beyond legibility. There are at least four stories already copied.”

“Strider told us some of the lay while we were camping near Weathertop, or some sort of translation of it,” Sam informs them. “You remember that Mr. Frodo?”

Frodo nods, unconsciously moving his hand to touch the scar under his shirt left by the Morgul blade. He soon realizes what he is doing and very decidedly moves his hand to caress the edge of the drawing in the ancient book. “I think I actually saw this book once in Rivendell, now that I think of it. I saw Arwen with it; Bilbo was with her. She must have been working on it then as well, and this must be from whence Bilbo got all of his texts and scrolls. It’s a shame the illustrations cannot be as easily reproduced. They are too lovely to fade into the past.”

“I’m certain that the Queen will be able to find someone with a skilled hand who can replicate them adequately, if not precisely,” Sauron reassures. “Arwen herself may even be able to do so. The Lady has many talents.”

“What other stories are in here?” Sam asks, just as Rick turns to the entrance of the library and says, “Will you read it to us?”

The others turn to find Arwen coming into the library. She glides across the room and graciously takes the book from Sauron. She handles the book with great care and sits in a nearby chair to flip to the beginning of the lay. The hobbits sit on the floor before her and Rick takes the chair beside her. Sauron remains at the table, removed from the others but listening just as intently. 

Arwen’s soothing voice lilts over the words and verses as waves of the sea lap the shore. Her audience is soon lulled into a trance as she begins to read the tale of Beren and Lúthien. Their surroundings melt away as they listen, drawn into the tale that comes to life before their eyes by the magic of Arwen’s voice. Sam gasps at the first description of Lúthien, though he is not aware of doing so.

Such lissome limbs no more shall run 

on the green earth beneath the sun; 

so fair a maid no more shall be 

from dawn to dusk, from sun to sea. 

Her robe was blue as summer skies, 

but grey as evening were her eyes; 

‘twas sewn with golden lilies fair, 

but dark as shadow was her hair. 

Her feet were light as bird on wing, 

her laughter lighter than the spring; 

the slender willow, the bowing reed, 

the fragrance of a flowering mead, 

the light upon the leaves of trees, 

the voice of water, more than these 

her beauty was and blissfulness, 

her glory and her loveliness; 

and her the king more dear did prize 

than hand or heart or light of eyes.*

The enchantment lasts for the entirety of the long and tragic tale. When Arwen comes to its bittersweet end, there are tears in the eyes of her audience, save for Sauron who is troubled. Frodo dips his head and silently dabs at his eyes with a handkerchief, while Rick unceremoniously wipes his shirtsleeve across his face. 

Sam sniffles then smiles bravely. “That was some story,” he says, sounding cheerful despite the redness of his eyes. “It doesn’t seem as dark written out so pretty like that. It does seem sadder though, if you follow me.” Then he wipes away his tears with the backs of his hands and wipes his hands on his breeches.

“It’s like being inside a dream,” Frodo says, nearly inaudible. 

“I can’t imagine what it must have been like for Beren the first time he saw Lúthien,” Rick says. “I think love like that can only happen once an age.”

“That would be a shame if that were true,” says Elessar from the entryway. He is leaning against one of the pillars, watching the others, and with his appearance the final webs of enchantment break. The hobbits and Rick breathe a great sigh and everyone stands to stretch after sitting still for so long. 

“You are early,” Arwen says, walking to her husband’s side. 

“Indeed,” Elessar says and takes her hand briefly. “My counselors were surprisingly short-winded today. It was a lucky thing, it turns out. I was able to order tea to be sent up from the kitchens and everything is now ready. Frodo and Sam, will you join me?”

The hobbits join Elessar in the sitting room just behind the kitchen. The meal is already laid out, as promised, and the hobbits delight to see the seed cake, water biscuits and slices of cheese sitting next to steaming cups of fragrant tea. A hot kettle waits on the tray in case they should require more drink.

The hobbits sit on the chairs provided for them and Elessar sits on the divan. They serve themselves and for several minutes they speak of nothing but the food and fine weather. After the first serving is consumed and they serve themselves seconds, they go on to talk of more important matters, explaining the state of things in the Shire and of their travels with Rick and Sauron.

“And what of your lessons?” Elessar asks. “Have you dreamt since they began?”

“I have not,” Frodo says, “at least, not that I can remember. I believe it is because of the lessons. I can control my thoughts better now, both in sleep and in waking day. I would not have thought it possible, as it seemed so contrary to my own thinking. How is it that only by embracing the powers given to me by the Ring I have been allowed to resist them?”

“Because you are not resisting them,” Elessar says simply. “Think of it this way. If you are arguing with someone, and you push them away, what is the most likely outcome?”

“They push you back,” Sam supplies.

“And if you do not push them, but empathize with them, take them aside and hear them out?”

“They calm down, and the conflict goes away or is resolved,” Frodo says, understanding.

“That isn’t to say that the conflict won’t return at a later day,” Elessar continues, “but when it does you will be better equipped to handle it. And what of Sauron? How does he seem to you?”

“A bit terse and close-mouthed at first, but he's starting to open up a bit more. Other than that, he’s quite the opposite of everything I expected,” Frodo says.

“I didn’t trust him at first,” Sam admits, “but I do now.”

“Should we not?” Frodo asks when Elessar only nods at the table. 

“I have worked with him several times over the last few years, especially with our emissaries to the south. His methods are effective, if not always ones that I agree with,” Elessar says. “He knows what he is doing and it is fair to say that once he sets his mind to something, it always gets done. Or almost always.” He smirks at Frodo. “Some are more determined than even him, but thankfully such people are few and far between.”

“But,” Frodo prompts, “you trust him, don’t you?”

“You must, if you showed him those tunnels,” Sam says, confused by this sudden turn.

“He already knew of the tunnels from Denethor,” Elessar replies, “but yes, I do trust him. While I do not always agree with his methods, know that I would not allow you to go with him if I thought for a moment his intentions were not just. I ask that you watch him and be mindful of all you see and hear. There is much the two of you can learn from him, but much of that you will have to read under what he says or glean from his actions.”

Frodo nods. “Very well. We have already learned much of his ways. Even if he sounds terse and disapproving, you can often tell by the way he holds himself that he is jesting or play-acting. Rick has been invaluable to us in teaching us of his companion’s many moods.”

“Rick is a good lad, full of compassion and humanity,” Elessar says. “He is good for Sauron.”

After dinner, the travelers prepare for their journey to the ship. Elessar has brought them all mourning clothes, long heavy robes of black velvet, tied at the waist by a red sash. The robes are large enough that they can conceal their regular travel clothes underneath them, and therefore also their weapons. The hobbits hesitate when they spot the boots sitting on the floor by the bed. They stare down at the odd contraptions and share a dubious expression. Sam holds back, happy to wait for his master to take the lead. 

Finally, Frodo sits on the floor and picks up the boots, formed from two pieces of supple leather sewn together. Holding them at eye-level, he examines them from every angle, and the only thing he can find pleasing about them is that they do not have those confounded lacings that he has seen on other shoes and boots. He pulls them on and wriggles his toes inside their newly-confined space. The boots are a size too big for him but that is still not enough room for his feet to be comfortable. 

Aware that Sam is watching him closely, Frodo stands and tentatively paces the room. He walks as normally as he can but he still feels uncomfortable. It does not help that the soft underside of the boots slip on the marble floor so that he has to be careful of his footing. He returns to Sam and smiles at him triumphantly. “I don’t see how the hobbits in the Marish can manage such things, but they are not as bad as I would have thought,” he announces, though he is secretly waiting for when they board the boat and go down into their rooms so he can remove the boots and free his feet from their leathery prison.

Sam hums at this declaration, then he sits and pulls on his pair. He giggles helplessly as the boots tickle his foot hair, but once they are in place he is able to stand and walk without laughing. 

“Is everything packed?” Frodo asks.

“Never unpacked,” Sam says. “Didn’t see the point in it, what with us only being here a day. Maybe on the return journey, if we come this way again, we can stay longer.”

“I would enjoy a longer visit, but if everything goes as planned, we will have the wizards with us and won’t be able to return this way,” Frodo says, explaining to Sam what he had missed earlier in the library. “We will have to sail again when we get back to Pelargir, sail all the way to the Sea and then north to the Grey Havens. From there it will only be a three-day journey home.”

Sam nods, disappointed that he would not have more time with his friends, but he is not about to complain if the journey gets him home that much quicker. He is missing his friends and family, Rosie especially. “We best get going then. It’s near nightfall and Strider said as we’d be leaving soon as it’s dark.”

They shoulder their packs, supplied only with their water bottles, a blanket, and a change of clothing; the rest of their supplies will already be waiting for them at the gate. They pick up their veils, which will hide their faces once they are outside the apartment, and join the others in the parlor. Elessar and Sauron are going over the details of the trip one final time. Rick stands next to Sauron, listening closely also and interrupting now and again with questions. 

Arwen comes just as they are setting out. She kneels down and hugs the hobbits, then stands and hugs Rick. She curtsies gracefully to Sauron, who bows in return. At a nod from Elessar, the hobbits pull on their veils and Arwen fixes them, tugging at the corners to ensure that their faces and ears are fully concealed and that the veils will not be disturbed by the winds outside.

Elessar leads them from the apartment. The guards at the door bow as the King passes, their right hands fisted in salute over their hearts. They keep their faces turned downward until the King and his guests have rounded the corner and are gone from sight. The guards in the courtyard of the White Tree do likewise, as do the guards at either end of the tunnel to the sixth circle.

Night hangs thick over the city. The air is chill and the gentle wind blows in cool gusts. Lanterns are lit along the streets and the candlelight flickers as tiny flames dancing in the darkness of the pool of the White Tree. Despite the dark, the tree seems to glow with a light of its own and even behind their veils the hobbits are amazed at the height to which the tree has grown in the few years since its planting by the King’s hand.

The hobbits walk between Rick and Sauron, an arrangement silently agreed upon by the young man and the Maia. It will keep up appearances of the hobbits being children, but more importantly they can tell how the hobbits struggle to keep their footing in the slick-soled boots. Rick and Sauron keep a steadying hand on the hobbits’ shoulders, guiding them as best as they can. 

The hobbits’ strides are shorter than normal and once they step onto the cobblestone streets, they begin to stumble more often. After a time, they start to step forward with their toes rather than their heels, a strategy that proves successful until they come to a particularly sharp turn. Sam stumbles but Rick quickly slides a hand under the gardener’s arm and beside him, Frodo does the same. After that, Elessar slows the pace, preferring to be late than to risk the hobbits being injured, and Rick and Sauron slip their hands into those of the hobbits, the better to help them.

As they walk, the hobbits look around them at the city. It is difficult to see under the veils and the accompanying cover of night does not help their vision. The few lanterns that light the streets and the doorways are of little help to them. Here and there lights pool out of windows and as they pass the inns, there is faint music and laughter from within, promising good beer and warm fires. They pass only a few people on the streets, usually patrons of the inns stumbling towards their homes. They bow to the King and glance curiously but respectfully at the King’s companions before continuing on their way.

When there is no one about to overhear them, the hobbits point out the few places they recognize. Frodo tugs on Sauron’s hand and points up a darkened alley shortly after passing the gate into the fifth circle. “That’s where the rat catcher’s shop is,” he informs, his voice loud against the silence and reverberating stone. When he speaks again, it is in a whisper. “We found rats in our apartment one day and Merry refused to go back inside until they were all removed. For a good week afterward, he would jump at the slightest sound. Sometimes, Pippin would pretend to be a rat just to see Merry hop onto the table.”

“Sir Meriadoc can help the White Lady to slay the Witch King but he’s afraid of a little rat?” Rick says, chuckling. He is well-acquainted with the gentle rodents and can’t imagine how anyone can be afraid of them.

“That he is, but he’d never admit it,” Sam says. “He denied it was him as was scared, trying to put it on Mr. Pippin if you can believe that.”

On the third circle, Sam points at the door of an inn and sighs. “That there is the best mug of ale in Gondor, almost as good as Shire ale.”

“The innkeeper offered Merry and Pippin all the free ale they could drink,” Frodo adds, “until he found out just how much ale that was! If he thought our small stature meant we’d not drink so deep in our mugs, he soon learned the truth.”

“Aye, but Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin always brought in so much business, what with folk wanting just to meet them, that the innkeeper never charged them much for the beer in any case,” Sam finishes. 

They point out other places of interest until they reach the last circle and the main gate. The guards jump to attention at the sight of their king, and they bow to salute him in the same manner as the guards in the Citadel. Elessar speaks with one guard and soon the gate is opening, revealing the moonlit plains of the Pelennor beyond. 

Just to the left of the gate waits a grand carriage. Behind the carriage on a small trap is a box which for all appearances contains a casket and not supplies for a month-long journey through the desert. The driver stands and jumps down from his perch on the coach. He bows gracefully before the King then opens the carriage door for his passengers to enter. 

“I leave you here, my friends,” Elessar says, kneeling to hug the hobbits. “Good luck and take care. I will keep watch on you for as long as I am able.”

“Good-bye Str— my lord Elessar,” Sam says, catching himself just in time from being familiar in front of so many strangers.

“We will do our best to honor and serve you, my lord Elessar,” Frodo says.

Elessar rises and bows to Rick and Sauron, who return the gesture in formal salute. “We thank you for this opportunity, sire,” Sauron says.

“May you bring swift justice to those who have wronged you,” Elessar says. 

Rick only nods and he enters the carriage first to help the hobbits up. Soon they are all seated and if Elessar hesitates for a moment to turn and leave, the hobbits are the only ones who notice. The gate closes behind the King and when the locks slide into place, the driver mounts the coach. The carriage starts with a jolt and the hobbits remove their veils, shaking out their curls, and slip off their boots, stretching their feet and spreading their toes. 

The carriage follows a dirt lane through the fields and farmlands across the darkened Pelennor. They chat easily with Rick, who points out a couple of the farmlands and tells them of the people who live there. Though their talk is light, Sam can feel his master trembling. His own hands break into a cold sweat, and he has to force himself to keep from rambling like a ninnyhammer and instead let Rick explain the customs of the people of Gondor and of Rohan. Sauron keeps quiet, tucked into the shadows of the carriage, peeking out the drawn-curtain at the lands passing by. 

They feel and hear when the lane changes from dirt to stone, and when the carriage stops, the hobbits expect to exit. Now Sauron shakes his head. “We are at the wall,” he explains. 

The hobbits hear the driver speaking to someone, followed by the familiar sound of locks sliding out of place and great wooden doors yawning open. A snap of the whip and the carriage is moving again, jittering back and forth over the stone road, the wheels sounding like apples tumbling from a barrel while the horses’ hooves clip-clop steadily against the road. 

Now a faint sniff of salt air sneaks into the carriage. The scent grows stronger as the carriage follows the road south to the quays of Harlond. At length, the carriage slows and comes to a stop, and the driver jumps down from his seat. The hobbits quickly don their boots and veils and a moment later the door opens, revealing a vast port with many docked ships. A crew of four men walk up and down the planks of the nearest ship, readying the boat for sailing at dawn. 

The hobbits share a silent moment of unease. They are about to go into lands unknown, to fight an enemy they know of only from near-forgotten legends. They wonder now if they truly are up to the task, but they know there is no turning back once they step off the carriage and onto the dock. Sam waits for Frodo to lead the way, reaching out to squeeze his master’s hand briefly. Frodo nods and draws a great breath. Letting it out slowly, he steps down from the carriage and onto his next great adventure.

To be continued…

GF 1/19/07

<* - From "The Lay of Leithian" from The Lays of Beleriand, HoME Vol III.

Chapter 11 – Harondor

The captain shows them to his room below deck while two of his crewmen lower the box into the cargo hold. Considering his passengers’ sensitive situation, a grieving family with two young children to think about, the captain feels it best to quarter them in his own room while he sleeps with the crew in the crew’s quarters.

“That was not necessary,” Rick says as they file into the small, cramped room, “but we thank you for your thoughtfulness.”

“You’re needing your privacy,” the captain says, rubbing his hands together nervously as he peers up at the tall form of Sauron. He has never seen a man so tall before in his life and he stares transfixed until Sauron looks down at him with a steely, calculating gaze. The captain hastily looks away, down at the hobbits, thinking them children, and clucks his tongue sympathetically. “You’ve enough to deal with, without having to suffer the crew going in and out at all hours.”

“Still, this is very generous of you,” Sauron says. 

“It’s only for a couple of days. We’ll be in Pelargir before you know it. If there’s aught you’re needing, just give a shout,” the captain says, then bobs his head and leaves.

Sauron quickly lights a lamp once they are alone. With the door locked and the curtains drawn, they have no fear of being spied or disturbed while in the captain’s chamber. The hobbits gratefully remove their veils and boots as Rick and Sauron set their packs in a corner. 

On one end of the room is a small straw mattress on a wooden frame and next to this are two rope hammocks dressed with wool blankets squeezed tightly together. The hobbits walk over to the hammocks and look at them dubiously. 

“What are these?” Sam asks.

“Hammocks,” Rick informs. “You sleep on them.”

“We what?” Sam asks, alarmed at this news. He shakes his head and pokes at one of the hammocks with a finger. It swings back and forth gently. He shakes his head again. “It’s bad enough all this swaying back and forth without adding to it, and having to be worriting about falling out your bed on top of it. I’ll sleep on the bed, if there’s no objections.”

“I’ll join you,” Frodo says quickly.

The hobbits make themselves comfortable on the bed, which is plenty big enough for the two of them, and Sauron checks all the furniture to make sure it is securely bolted to the floor. As he goes around the room, he says, “It would be best if you both stay below deck as much as possible. You can go out early in the morning and in the late afternoon while the majority of the crew is eating. Don’t talk to anyone if you can help it and don’t let them see you without your veils or boots. You are too well-known in Gondor and it will only take the barest glimpse for anyone to guess who you truly are.”

“What about meals?” Frodo asks.

“I’m the least recognizable, so I’ll go and get our meals,” says Rick. “They only have three meals a day, so make each one count.”

They get what sleep they can with what is left of the night. When they wake, they can hear the crew outside shouting orders back and forth, readying the ship for sail. Rick goes out and returns shortly with a large tray piled with food. He smiles to see the hobbits’ faces light up at the sight of their meal. “When I told them that you were always hungry, growing lads that you are, they spared us some extra food,” he explains. 

They sit at the table and eat merrily. Sam has a brief moment of queasiness when the ship leaves the dock and sets off with a jolt downriver, but the uneasiness passes quickly. He is delighted to discover that the swaying and bobbing is not as pronounced on a large ship as it had been on the little Elven boats they had used during the Quest. He even feels secure enough to walk unaided around the cabin, though he makes sure to stay within quick reach of the more sturdy structures. After the first morning passes with no incidents, he gains more confidence, both in the ship and his footing.

Two uneventful days pass. The travelers leave their room for short periods of time, to breathe the air and feel the sun on their faces. Beneath their veils, the hobbits watch the land pass by, wide green plains, mountain valleys and small villages of farms and cottages on the west bank. On the east bank are more grassy plains stretching out towards the Mountains of Shadow in the distance. A few farms dot the fields along the riverbank and new homes are being built. People on either bank wave as the ship sails past and the crew wave back, hailing them good-day. 

No one bothers the hobbits but they receive many curious and sympathetic glances from the crew. The black robes and veils of mourning appear to be as effective at keeping the Gondorians at bay as the funeral garb of the Haradrim are reported to keep the nomads away. The hobbits note this with surprise; in the Shire, a grieving hobbit would never be left to suffer alone. 

When they ask Rick about it, he explains, “That is partly Sauron’s doing. He had the captain issue an order that you are to be left alone. It will be safer that way.”

“And the other part of it?” Frodo asks.

“Death makes us uncomfortable, though there is hardly a man, woman or child who has not lost someone they loved during the wars. Most people don’t know what to say; they know how hollow platitudes sound during such times.”

They reach Pelargir the afternoon of their second day of sailing. The captain allows them to leave the ship first, before the crew begin to haul off their cargo. Sauron again thanks the captain for his hospitality and the captain wishes them good luck on their road. Sauron takes Frodo’s hand and Rick takes Sam’s, then they disembark with an escort of four crew members following them to carry the box. 

The docks are busy and the port bank is crowded with traders and merchants waiting for their supplies. The hobbits hold tight to Rick and Sauron so as not to get separated and lost. Sauron’s height comes in handy to part the crowds, which part even further when they see the familiar-shaped box and the pallbearers. As such, they are able to wind their way through the crowd with only a little difficulty. 

Beyond the dock are several merchant tents. They hunt through the rows of tents and vendors, and eventually find the tent with the symbol of a falcon. Sauron goes in first to ensure it is the correct tent. He comes out shortly and holds the flaps aside for the pallbearers to walk through. The box is set down gently, and the crew members take their leave, returning to the ship as quickly as possible. Rick and the hobbits enter the tent and Rick ties the flaps shut. 

Sauron removes the lid from the box to reveal their supplies and the robes they are to change into before reaching Near Harad. The hobbits are surprised to see that the mourning robes of the Haradrim are white, not black, and say as much.

“You will understand better once we reach Near Harad,” Sauron explains. “You’ll be uncomfortable in your current clothing soon enough. The white is much cooler.”

Rick goes for food and returns an hour later with not only food but more supplies. The hobbits eat as Rick and Sauron split the supplies into the provided saddlebags and check the water bottles for leaks. The hobbits put on their swords again, hiding them under the folds of their clothes, but Rick and Sauron wear theirs openly. 

The day passes. The merchants and vendors pack up their tents and supplies as the sun sets and by nightfall there are only a few tents remaining. They are just finishing their dinner when they hear the sound of hooves just outside their tent and horses whinnying. The hobbits quickly don their boots and veils, and Sauron goes to see what is the cause of the commotion. 

A minute later, he returns followed by a young woman of deep brown skin and bright green eyes. Her face is strikingly beautiful, with gentle round cheeks and a small chin and nose. She is dressed in a vibrant yellow gown that hangs loosely from her shapely frame down to her shins. Her head is covered in a long yellow cloth that is tied beneath her chin, but her feet, to the hobbits’ amazement, appear bare. They look closer and finally see the thin strap of the sandals that protect the soles of her feet from the hot and cracked sands of her homeland. She kneels before them and bows, her forehead resting on her hands, which she spreads out flat on the dirt floor. 

“Can we help you?” Sauron asks as he sits back down.

“I am Semira, your escort as ordered by the Dark King to the North, to lead the Grievous Ones through my homeland to the borders of Khand,” the woman says without looking up. Her accent is clipped but soothing, nearly musical to their ears.

“I thank you for your assistance, Semira. It is gladly accepted,” Sauron says and at this, the woman straightens and lowers her head cloth to reveal long black hair that cascades down her back to her waist. On the collar of her dress is a brooch of a jasmine, just as Elessar had described. She smiles at them each in turn as Sauron introduces them. “I am Odolf, and this is my son Wulfram, and my grandsons Remi and Matfrid.”

“I am most pleased to meet you,” she says when the introductions are finished. If she finds the hobbits’ veils odd, she makes no indication of it. “I only wish that my task was not so sad. I hope I do not speak too boldly when I say that the Dark King must be as cowardly as I have heard, to make his men retrieve their fallen comrades on their own.”

“You do not speak boldly, so long as you know that what you hear and what is true are two different things,” Sauron says. “Our King is just and brave. He would have come with us if we wished it, but we did not want to risk any more lives than is necessary.”

“Of course, Master Odolf,” Semira says and bows her head in compliance. 

Satisfied that this woman is indeed their escort, Sauron stands and heads back outside. “I will see to the horses. Prepare to leave in five minutes. … Wulfram. … Wulfram!”

Rick startles suddenly and tears his eyes away from the woman to blink at Sauron. “What?” he asks.

“Get our things together. We will leave at once,” Sauron repeats his orders and walks outside, chuckling under his breath. So, Rick is taken with the young woman. This is going to prove to be an interesting journey.

Inside the tent, Rick continues to sit and stare at Semira for many long moments before Frodo finally tugs at his sleeve. “Um, Father?” Frodo says. “Shouldn’t we be getting ready to leave?”

“Uh-huh,” Rick says, dumbfounded. 

Semira smiles at him sweetly. “Shall I retrieve your baggage for you, Master Wulfram?” she asks.

“Uh-huh,” Rick repeats without thinking, but when Semira moves to stand up, he shakes himself from his stupor and bolts to his feet. “No, I mean… I’ll get it. Just, um, watch the ho— the children, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course not, Master Wulfram. I am here to serve you in any way that pleases you,” Semira says coyly. 

“Oh. Well then… thank you,” Rick babbles and clumsily makes his way to the back of the tent to gather the saddlebags. The hobbits bow their heads, grateful for the veils that hide their smiles.

At Sauron’s call, they file outside to find five horses and two ponies waiting for them. The horses are magnificent creatures, and Rick is instantly drawn to a solid brown stallion with a black silky mane and tail and soulful deep-brown eyes. The stallion’s small, rounded ears perk up when Rick approaches, and the horse walks forward to nuzzle at his outstretched hand. Semira watches this encounter with interest. 

“You are a beauty,” Rick murmurs to the horse. He scratches the horse’s muzzle and behind its ears, then runs his hand along its flanks to its powerful hindquarters. “You can run for days, can’t you boy?” He runs his hand down the horse’s back legs, checking the muscle tone, then lifts the hoof to inspect the health of its feet. He circles back around to face the horse and smiles appreciatively. “What’s his name?”

“He does not have one. He is a horse,” Semira says as she helps the hobbits onto their ponies. “He likes you, I am thinking. Do you know of horses?”

Rick nods. “I grew up with them. I had one of my own, until he died of old age last winter.”

“I thought you were going to wait a while longer before getting another horse,” Sauron says.

“I am,” Rick responds dreamily, scratching behind the stallion’s ears again. “So you have no name? We’ll just have to think of one for you. How about… Beltic?”

The horse snorts and tosses his head in disapproval.

“No? All right, what about… Bron? Vail?” The horse snorts again. “You’re awfully picky, aren’t you?”

“Would it be possible to keep the horse?” Sauron asks Semira quietly.

“I am not knowing. It is not my horse,” Semira says, then turns back to the hobbits to give them the proper commands for controlling their beasts. The ponies are unlike the slow-paced, broad-backed Shire ponies or even the proud, sleek-formed Rohirrim ponies that they acquired during the War. These ponies, both bay-colored with shaggy black manes and tales, looked very much like a miniature version of the horses, with the same gentle manner and powerful legs for running many leagues at a time. 

“These are good ponies,” she tells them, “perfect for children to ride, yes?”

“Yes, thank you,” Frodo says. 

Sauron pulls Rick away from the horse and the two of them load the pack horses, two tawny brown mares, both with white feet and one with a white streak running down her muzzle. When all is ready, Semira mounts her horse, a black mare with gentle black eyes. This leaves a grey stallion with a silver mane and tail for Sauron. The grey stallion is the largest of the horses and easily accommodates Sauron’s great height. Sauron takes his reins and turns to find Semira watching him intently. 

He waves for her to go ahead. She bows her head in return and nudges her mare into a trot. She leads the way out of the village, with Sauron close beside her so they can discuss their route as they ride. The hobbits ride between, with Rick leading the pack horses at the rear.

The port village is soon far behind. The hobbits look around with much curiosity. From the maps in Elessar’s library, Frodo knows that they are in South Ithilien, the Moon-land, and that they still have to go through the northern edge of Harondor before they reach Near Harad. They will have to travel for many days before the landscape changes much. For now, they look out upon moonlit fields of tall grass, and the mountains are a long black shadow against the night sky in the east. 

Ahead of them, Sauron is discussing their travel plans with Semira, who listens attentively. “We plan to pass the downs to the north and round them to follow the mountains to Khand,” Sauron informs her. “We can refill our water bottles at the River Poros there.”

“I would not advise that,” Semira says. “Better it would be to stay on the road and replenish our supplies at Haudh in Gwanûr. There we will cross the river at the bridge where it is safe, then we will cut across the plains east to the mountains. The river runs too fast and too deep at the mountains, even for our horses to swim, and the water is dirty to drink. There is still much pollution that flows into the river from the Black Land. We can get boiled water at Haudh in Gwanûr. That is, if that is what you are wanting to do.”

“I can see that King Elessar chose us a wise escort indeed. We are much indebted to you,” Sauron says. 

Semira nods her head in acknowledgement but says nothing. She leads them for several miles, until they come to a small copse. She steers them off the road and through the trees. Beyond the copse is another field, shielded from view of the road. There is a fire pit and a cache of firewood already located there. 

“This is where I stayed last night,” she explains. “Often I have used this place in safety. We will camp here tonight if it pleases you, Master Odolf.”

“It’s beautiful here,” Rick says, looking more at Semira than the surrounding field. 

“I suppose it will do,” Sauron concedes. “I think I’ll take a look around though before we sleep, and it will probably be best if we set watches. I will go first, then Wulfram, then Semira. We’ll watch in four-hour shifts.”

“All right,” Rick agrees. “I’ll set out the sleeping rolls, and I suppose you two are hungry,” he says to the hobbits.

“I could use a bite afore nodding off,” Sam says. “We have a bag of nuts and dried fruits. We can munch on that while we help you set up camp.”

By the time Sauron returns from scouting the area, the camp is set up and the hobbits have satisfied their stomachs well enough to sleep comfortably. They feel bad about not taking a watch, but if they are to convince their guide that they are children, they will not be allowed to take any watch for the remainder of the trip. 

Frodo also wonders about his training sessions. Sauron had said that once they reach Khand, their sessions will have to end, but how are they to proceed with them until then with Semira there? Frodo smiles into his sleeping roll as he watches Rick watching Semira. Rick will gladly keep the Haradrim woman company during their training sessions, but will she  allow it? A slave she may have been, but Frodo does not see her as the type to be ordered about or easily distracted.

He learns the answer to his question the following night as they make camp off the road in an open field. Rick does indeed volunteer to search for firewood and hunt a couple of rabbits or pheasants, and asks Semira to accompany him. Sam remains to tend the horses and ponies as Sauron and Frodo set up the camp. When the camp is laid, Sauron sits Frodo down near the empty fire pit that Rick had dug before leaving.

“We won’t have as much time with our sessions from here on out,” Sauron begins, “but you have done well with your training and have advanced much. You can practice your skills on your own, and when we are alone, we will get in what training we can.”

Frodo nods. “Very well,” he agrees, and settles in for their next session. 

Sam warns them when Rick and Semira approach. They pull themselves back to the present, and the hobbits put their veils back on. By the time Semira and Rick return to the camp, the others are setting out the crockery for the evening meal. Rick carries the firewood, enough for the evening and morning meals, and Semira carries a couple of slain rabbits on a string. Sam reaches for them, but Semira passes him without a downward glance. She sits next to the fire pit and begins to prepare the rabbits for cooking.

“I’m feeling a bit useless,” Sam whispers to Frodo. “I didn’t reckon on her doing all the cooking, but she cooked at breakfast and at luncheon. Now dinner. What am I to do?”

Frodo pats his shoulder sympathetically. “Why don’t we help her? We can learn the names of those spices that she uses.”

Only when they turn around, they find Rick already helping her, babbling on about learning to cook with his mother’s guidance while Semira quietly works and listens. A small fire is already crackling merrily. The hobbits sigh and join Sauron in watching the pair cook. They can’t even enjoy a smoke on their pipes, for they are out of pipeweed and Semira will undoubtedly find such behavior alarming.

They reach Haudh in Gwanûr the following afternoon. They replenish their water, and with Semira helping them to haggle over the price, they get twice as much as they had originally planned. They do not stay in town but continue on to travel for another hour or more, leaving the road behind and heading due east across the plains. By the time they stop for camp, they can only see small dots of torch lights where the town lies behind them. The only other lights are that of their fire and the stars and moon overhead. 

“We will have little more contact with others until we come to Near Harad,” Semira informs them. “You are certain about traveling so close to the mountains?”

“They will give us shelter during the days once we reach your country,” Sauron says. “We will travel at night.”

“If that is what you are wishing, Master Odolf,” Semira complies but she does not seem happy about this plan. 

“How much longer will it be until we reach Near Harad?” Frodo asks her. “What is your homeland like?”

“A fortnight at least, Master Remi,” Semira answers. “My homeland is most hot and dry in the summer, but in the winters it is bitter cold. For now, the nights will still be quite cool for traveling, and the days will be getting warm again, pleasant for doing any kind of work or for traveling.”

“Are there still slaves?” Sam asks. “Why aren’t they paid for their work?” He finds the concept of slavery much too foreign to understand. 

“There are still many slaves, but some were freed by their masters after the civil war. Many still choose to serve their former masters, but there are many who did go to find other work. A slave is not paid, but those who are free must be paid,” Semira says. “But do not think that a slave’s life is a very hard one. We live in the homes where we work, and we are fed and clothed and provided with allowances to get the things that we need. If it is hard, it is so because at any moment we can be sold, and they do not care about keeping families together. Mothers and fathers are separated from their children, siblings taken away from each other, spouses are ripped apart. A slave’s family are the other slaves she works and lives with.”

“That is awful,” says Frodo, appalled. “I cannot imagine growing up without my family around me.”

Semira shrugs. “I cannot imagine anything else. I get gifts from my mother and father at the summer equinox, and I can at times see my sister in the Grand Bazaar, but we are not allowed to talk to each other as she is still a slave. It is enough to know that they live and are well. Not all masters are as kind as ours, and I am most lucky to have contact with them. Some masters are unkind, but there are laws to keep them from being too cruel.”

“Such as?” Rick asks.

“They are not allowed to punish their slaves on their own,” Semira says. “If they are found to do so, their slaves will be given away and they will not be allowed to buy new ones. If they want a slave punished for some crime, they must plead their case to the courts. The courts will decide if a punishment is to be given and they will carry it out.”

“Have you ever… been punished?” Rick asks.

Semira laughs and shakes her head. “I was a good slave. I always did as I was told. I was a most trusted slave. A trusted slave becomes almost like a member of the family that she serves. My master freed me as soon as I became of age to support myself. I worked for him freely for many years after that. Now, I help the Dark King to the North. My former master wishes for things to change in Harad, wishes for the end of all slavery and tyranny. He believes that the Dark King can make this happen. I am not so sure, but I trust my master’s judgment. He tells me to go and get you, and lead you to Khand. He says it will help the Dark King to free us all.”

“Your master has knowledge of King Elessar’s plans?” Sauron says, greatly surprised to hear this. “Who is your master?”

“I do not know what my master knows, only what he tells me,” Semira says. “He tells me you are here to help, so I help you.”

“We are not here to free slaves, Semira,” Sauron says. “We are only here to retrieve our fallen comrades.”

Semira nods and winks at them conspiratorially. “Your comrades would have fallen long ago by now, yes? They would have been burnt and their ashes left to scatter to the winds. The winds will carry the ashes and settle them in the fields, and from the ashes, new crops will grow. Death gives life. Besides, it is too risky to be taking children there, yes? Your companions are shorter than most men, but we too have those who are stunted in growth.”

“Stunted?” Sam says before he can stop himself. 

Semira looks at him curiously. “I have seen your faces, though you are careful to hide them, and I have heard your voices, and I have watched you. You are not children. Nor are you here for your dead comrades, to my thinking. Whoever you are and whatever you are doing here, I do not ask questions. I will do what I am told and I will say nothing, but do not think me a fool.”

As they settle down for sleep that night, the hobbits lying next to Rick, the young man sighs dreamily and stares up at the night sky. “She’s amazing, isn’t she?”

The hobbits grin at each other and wink between themselves. “She’s rather remarkable,” Frodo agrees.

“She’s a smart one, and that’s a fact,” Sam says. “She’s a bit out of reach for my tastes though.”

Rick only hums thoughtfully at this. Then he sighs again, rolls over and falls asleep. Across the fire, Semira smiles also and she too goes to sleep. Sauron takes the first watch and he mostly keeps a watchful eye on their guide. It had not escaped his attention that she never told them the name of her master.

To be continued…

GF 3/12/07

Chapter 12 – The One Ring

The following morning, Rick finds Sauron rooting for herbs a short distance from camp while the hobbits are helping Semira pack up and tend the horses. Sauron looks up as Rick approaches and Rick dazzles him with a wide, eager grin.

“Sauron,” the young man says quietly, so as not to be overheard, “do you think we could—”

“No,” Sauron interrupts.

“No? You don’t even know what I was going to say,” Rick accuses.

“Yes I do. You were going to ask if we could tell Semira who we really are. The answer is no,” Sauron says.

“We can trust her,” Rick says. “She is working for King Elessar, after all.”

“Is she? Last night, she made it rather clear that she is working for someone else. We don’t know her politics, nor her master’s,” Sauron says. “Besides, even if she is trustworthy for seeing us through Near Harad, there’s no guaranty she won’t try to kill me if she finds out who I really am. Or have you forgotten what I said about the Haradrim wanting me dead?”

Rick huffs impatiently and stares stubbornly at his friend. “The King isn’t going to give us a guide who wants you dead.”

“You heard him – there’s sabotage. They could be lying to him about their true intentions,” Sauron shoots back.

“Lying to him? On what? The off-chance that you’ll just happen to need their help?” Rick replies. Sauron just looks at him. Rick huffs again. “They can’t know it’s an actual possibility. You just have to learn to be more trusting of people. Besides, I doubt that all the Haradrim want you dead.”

“And you need to learn that not everyone can be trusted,” Sauron counters, just as stubbornly.

“My mother said the same thing about you,” Rick says dryly.

“Besides,” Sauron continues, ignoring this last comment, “those who do not want me dead will want the hobbits dead for defeating me. We tell her nothing.”

Rick has no choice but to agree for the moment. He returns to camp with decidedly less bounce in his step. 

That day, they enter lands unspoiled by Men, and they ride past grazing herds of gazelles and a strange sort of antelope with straight, upright horns that Semira calls oryx. The grass grows wild here, trimmed only by the animals that feed on it, and from the grass grow wildflowers unlike any they have seen before. Even Semira does not know their names, but when they stop for their midday meal, she helps Sam to gather what seeds they can find. Frodo also helps, delighting in the flowers as much as the gardener, and they speak freely with Semira about their love of growing things.

Now that they are beyond the reach of Men, the hobbits no longer wear their veils, for which they are much pleased. Since Semira also knows that they are not children, they are able to help with the cooking and wood-gathering, and they had each kept a watch the night before while the others slept soundly. Yet their feet remain covered and they are careful not to sweep their hair behind their ears to reveal their slightly pointed tips. Semira may not have been fooled into thinking them children, but she does not know they are hobbits and they are as intent to keep it that way as Sauron.

“Here are some seeds for this yellow-red blossom, Master Matfrid,” Semira says, handing the small, flat brown seeds to Sam. 

“Thank you,” Sam says, smiling gratefully. He places the seeds in a bare spot of his handkerchief and ties the cloth into a knot around it. He has used all of his handkerchiefs, as well as Frodo’s, and he has nothing more to stow the seeds in. They end their gathering efforts and return to camp, where Rick has been giving Sauron a cooking lesson. 

The hobbits look cautiously at the food in the frying pan then quirk their eyebrows up at Rick. “Don’t worry,” the young man says, “I didn’t leave him alone.”

“Haha,” Sauron says dryly. “Just eat it and don’t complain.”

They sit and accept their plates, and after some more mild teasing, they taste the food. The hobbits nod with approval, but Semira takes longer to decide if she finds the seasoning of the larks favorable. This is the first meal she hasn't cooked since she joined them, and Rick had not used spices familiar to her. At first, the meat seems rather bland but once she grows accustomed to the subtler spices, she decides she enjoys it well enough and eats without complaint. 

Rick watches her from the corner of his eye, nervous that she will not like the food. It is hard for him to tell, for she is not like the hobbits, who will easily tell you what they enjoy about it, and she is not like Sauron, who shovels everything into his mouth whether it’s good or not. She eats slowly, considering every bite with great care and attention. About halfway through the meal, after the hobbits finish their eager analysis of the spices and the tenderness of the meat, she finally looks up to find Rick watching her. She smiles unassumingly and nods her head. 

“It is not the duty of men to cook in my country,” she says. “I did not think that they could.”

Rick smiles in return and breathes with relief. This is the best compliment he will get, but it’s a compliment all the same. “I can do more than just help stir things.”

Semira smiles again and returns to her food. She is still eating when the others finish. They are always careful to ask her if she will have a second serving before finishing the food, but she always declines, saying one serving is enough for her. Today proves no different, so the hobbits and Sauron finish the rest of the food while Rick readies the horses for the next leg of their journey.

The mountains loom closer on the horizon the farther east they travel and by the next day the high peaks tower over them, blocking the sun for most of the morning. Frodo feels a tight clenching in his chest and he finds at times throughout the day that he has difficulty breathing. He often feels like someone sinister is watching him and he scans the vacant slopes and crevices of the mountains with keen eyes. 

Sam watches him closely and when they camp that night at a small pond in the shadows of the mountains, he lightly suggests that he and Frodo gather the wood while the others set up the camp. When they are far enough away to be unheard by the others, Sam puts out a hand to stay Frodo and turns his master to face him.

“What’s the matter, Master?” he asks.

Frodo shakes his head. “It’s nothing,” he lies.

“It’s not like the last time,” Sam says. “There ain’t no Dark Lord behind those mountains no more, and we don’t got to be climbing any unending stairs this time.”

“I know, Sam,” Frodo says and sighs. “I just…”

“Can’t help but remember?” Sam finishes for him. He crosses his arms and shivers involuntarily, despite the warm evening air. “I remember also. I remember losing you, thinking you were dead. I remember that dreaded spider and that treacherous Gollum, those orcs making you run so long your legs nearly fell off, climbing that mountain until the skin on my feet burnt clear off, then all that ash and lava and rumbling. But they’re just memories, sir.”

“Dear Sam,” Frodo says and takes Sam’s hand to press it gently. “Of course you would have your own dark memories, more than me even, for I hardly remember anything of that dark time. Even now, I remember so little, but it must have been worse for you.”

“Now, Mr. Frodo, I didn’t go telling you that so you’d stop worriting about yourself and start worriting about me,” Sam says, gentle but insistent. He pulls his hand away to clasp his master’s hand instead. “I told you that so you’d stop worriting, flat. Like I said, they’re just memories, and they can’t be hurting now unless we let them. Best not to think on it.”

“But I have to think about it,” Frodo insists. “I have to figure out what I did wrong before. I was so certain, Sam, so certain I could destroy the Ring, but at the last moment when it mattered most, I failed. I’ve been telling myself all this time that I can do this too, but what if I can’t? What if, at the last moment, I fail again?”

Sam doesn’t answer. He has never been able to convince his master that he had not failed at Mt. Doom. Sam has tried to convince him that he had succeeded beyond everyone’s wildest hopes. It never makes any difference and Sam knows that anything he says now will fall on deaf ears. He simply pulls his master into a hug and holds him until Frodo pulls away.

Frodo isn’t finished. Sam can tell by the reluctance in his eyes and the way he bites his lower lip. “Sam,” Frodo begins then pauses for many moments, unsure of how to proceed. Finally, he draws a deep breath and plunges ahead. “Sam, I risked your life once before. I couldn’t bear to do so again. I think it would be best if-”

“No,” Sam says softly, but it is enough to stop his master. Frodo starts to speak again, but Sam holds up a hand and shakes his head, his expression firm. “I ain’t leaving you, Mr. Frodo, so don’t you even try to leave me.”

Frodo lets out a relieved sigh and he smiles sincerely for the first time that day. He nods, all he can manage at the moment as relief mingles with guilt. 

“Come on, now,” Sam continues. “That wood’s not going to gather itself.”

Sam wakes with a start at midnight and blinks up at the star-filled night with confusion. At first he is not sure what woke him, then he realizes that no one had woke him: it is his turn for the watch and Frodo should have shaken him awake before taking to his own sleeping roll. Sam sits up and rubs his eyes, yawning tiredly. He stands and stretches, then looks towards the dead fire where his master should be sitting, but there is no one there. Semira is slumbering peacefully in her usual spot at the edge of camp. On the other side of the fire pit, Rick also sleeps deeply but the roll next to him is empty. Sauron is awake.

Sam is wondering what this means when he hears a soft splash coming from the direction of the little pond. He turns away from the camp and walks towards the pond nearby. There he can see Sauron standing by the shore but he does not see Frodo until he reaches Sauron’s side. When he attempts to dash into the pond after his master, Sauron gently takes his arm and stays him.

“I woke to find that Frodo had left his post,” Sauron says, quietly so as not to disturb Frodo. “I believe he is sleepwalking, but I can’t imagine why he is just standing there.”

“He’s done this before,” Sam informs resignedly. “Back home in the Shire, sometimes I’d wake up to a chill draft in the smial and I’d find that Mr. Frodo had left and wandered down the Hill to the Water. He’d be talking, but not in any language I could ever understand. It sounded like madness to me, like he was cursing or something. Sometimes he’d be begging, wailing even. It didn’t make any sense, but then you showed up and started in on your talk about the Blue Wizards. I figured it had something to do with them, and I was going to ask you about it, you know, once you proved yourself. Only by then the dreams had stopped and I clear forgot about them.”

“They will likely begin again, the closer we get to Khand,” Sauron says. "Do you remember what he said when he would dream before? He hasn’t said anything so far that I can tell.”

Sam shakes his head. “I couldn’t understand any of it, couldn’t even imitate it if my life depended on it. Just sometimes he’d sound so angry, and sometimes he’d be so sad and scared. What does it mean?”

“He was seeing visions of the wizards and their victims,” Sauron says. “That is part of the reason I wanted to train him, so that he would be able to block the visions once the wizards regained their strength. It seems that instead of blocking them, he has gained a control over them, and that can be equally dangerous.”

“Why? Ain’t that what he’s supposed to be doing?” Sam asks.

“Not yet, not until the last moment, or they might sense him. We are still too far away to be in danger, I think, but I will have to show Frodo how to block the visions in his dreams,” Sauron says. “He could unconsciously give us away if he does not learn to do so.”

They watch Frodo for a few minutes longer. In all that time, Frodo does nothing more than look out over the pond. Every now and then, he’ll tilt his head as though listening for something or someone, but that is the only movement he makes. When a cold wind comes through the plains, Sam steps forward. Sauron again attempts to stay him but he pushes away Sauron’s hand.

“I’ve done this before,” Sam says simply. He walks into the pond, which only comes up to his waist at its deepest point. He reaches Frodo and gently steers his master back towards the camp, mumbling soothingly to him the whole while. “Got to get you to your bed, Mr. Frodo. We can’t change your clothes I’m afraid, as you don’t got a spare, but I’ll get the fire built back up and you can dry out as you sleep. The heat of the day will dry you the rest of the way. The days are getting warmer and warmer, aren’t they sir? I know as that can make you itch for a bath, but I don’t think this is the best time to be taking one.”

Sauron remains where he is, listening to Sam as he settles his master into his sleeping roll. Sauron watches the pond, his brow crinkled with thought. So, Frodo can still see the Wizards in his sleep and has come to control the visions so that they do not overtake him. This is a promising development and he will have to speak with Frodo in the morning and discover what the hobbit saw. Then he will have to teach Frodo to block the visions entirely. A spy will not go undetected for long by the wizards. They will soon be able to sense his presence and hunt him out, or use his abilities against him. 

The next morning, Frodo awakens tired and drained. He is surprised to find that his breeches are damp with pond water but after a few moments, he remembers his dream and realizes what has happened. He looks over at Sam, who is cooking quietly at the fire and discreetly keeping an eye on him. 

“I’m fine, Sam,” he says automatically, then cringes. He looks about quickly to find that Semira is gone and his words are unheard. He sighs and yawns. “Tired, but fine.”

“Are you sure, sir?” Sam asks as Sauron approaches from the pond, hair wet and clothes clinging to damp skin.

Frodo nods and smiles tiredly at Sauron. “Had a swim of your own?”

“Sam’s suggestion of a bath sounded good,” Sauron says. “Rick and Semira are gathering some herbs that she found growing nearby. I’m glad you woke before they could return. We need to talk.”

“About my dream?” Frodo guesses. 

Sam puts down his spoon and sets the pan over the fire for the food to fry. He remains where he is, so as to keep an eye on the food, but he listens as curiously and attentively as Sauron. Frodo only ever gave brief descriptions of his dreams before, and Sam wonders how detailed his master’s account will be this time around.

“Yes, about your dream,” Sauron says. “What did you see and hear?”

“I saw them, the Blue Wizards. They are not like Gandalf, or even Saruman. They are old and bent, and they have wisdom, but they are filled with malice, like Saruman, but also with… disappointment. They feel you have betrayed them. They have built a moat around their fortress, or else built their fortress on a small island surrounded by a lake. It will be difficult to get in.”

“Do not worry about that yet,” Sauron says and returns to the dream. “What else did you see?”

“They torture their victims in the water, hold their heads under until they are nearly drowned, like the orcs did with me,” Frodo says and shudders at the half-remembered torment. “What they do inside their fortress is even worse, indescribable. How can they do such things?”

“Because they can,” Sauron says. “It’s not a good excuse but it’s enough. We’ll talk about it further later.” 

He nods his head in the direction behind Sam, and the hobbits look to see Rick and Semira approaching. Semira is holding a bag and a twig she had fashioned into a digging stick, and she is laughing at some story that Rick is telling her. As they come closer, they can hear Semira say, as she shakes her head, “Master Wulfram, the stories you tell are most delightful.”

“I’m glad that you enjoy them,” Rick says.

“I am glad to hear them,” Semira replies. She reaches out and lightly touches Rick’s arm. “I will be glad to listen to more.”

“I will be glad to tell you more,” Rick says, his cheeks coloring at the touch. He watches as Semira returns to her sleeping roll and begins to pack her things. 

“Wulfram,” Sauron says. Rick looks at him in a daze and Sauron taps at the corner of his own mouth. “You have some drool.”

Rick’s hand flies to his mouth and finds it dry of the accused drool. He narrows his eyes at Sauron as the hobbits snigger. “I think I’ll take my bath now,” Rick says.

“The water’s nice and cold,” Sauron calls after him with a grin. Rick only waves his hand distractedly.

“Don’t tease him,” Frodo admonishes, still chuckling.

“That would sound more convincing if you weren’t laughing,” Sauron points out. 

“You’re both terrible,” Sam says under his breath and goes back to stirring the food.

They reach the feet of the mountains the next day and begin to follow the range as it runs south towards its eastward bend. The days grow warmer as they continue their journey and after a few more days the landscape begins to change. First the horizon becomes a long brown line obscured by a dusty haze. Around them, small clumps of bushes appear, the grassy fields turn to arid earth, and the brilliant sapphire skies fade to a dull topaz. The heat radiates off the desert floor and the days grow immeasurably long with the heat.

When they come to the bend in the mountains, they find a small cave to shelter in during the day. Though Semira tells them that no orcs have been seen in these lands for nearly a year, Sauron insists that he and Rick check the security of the cave before the others enter. After they ensure that there are no crevices or openings within the cave, they bring the horses and ponies inside and settle down for the day. From then on, they travel by night under the warm moonlight.

When they come to the borders of Near Harad the next morning, they change into the white mourning robes of the Haradrim. They had not thought to look at the robes earlier, and they are now surprised to discover that the robes are each made of one long piece of linen that they must wrap around themselves. There are no ties or buttons, and Semira is amused when she is asked how the robes will stay in place without them.

“You must wrap the cloth around yourself correctly,” she says and demonstrates over her dress the correct way to wrap and fold the lightweight cloth so that it will stay in place. “Remove all your clothing, including your underclothes and your boots, and wrap the robe as I showed you. There are sandals that I will give you to wear if you need them. I will check when you are done to make certain all is correct.”

“No underclothes?” Rick says when Semira is gone. The hobbits look down at their boot-covered feet. “No boots?” they say.

“She’ll see the hair on our feet,” Sam protests.

“It is not the custom of the Haradrim to wear shoes, but I do not think it is a matter of propriety,” Sauron informs. “You should continue to wear the boots to keep your identities secret. Or, you could shave your feet.”

The hobbits look at him with appalled expressions. Sauron chuckles. “That’s what I thought you’d say,” he teases. 

When they are finished dressing, Semira returns to check them. She adjusts the robes as necessary, and even though she frowns at the hobbits’ boots, she says nothing about it except, “These will be more comfortable in the heat, yes?” as she hands them the sandals. 

“Aren’t you going to change?” Rick asks her.

Semira shakes her head. “There is not enough water for me to bathe properly. It would be unclean. Besides, I am your servant, yes? It is not my place to mourn with you.”

“Should we have bathed first?” Sam asks.

“You are already unclean, Master Matfrid,” Semira answers. When Sam and the others only look at her questioningly, she explains further. “You are not Haradrim; you are of the West. You are… how do you say? Tainted. You cannot be cleansed.”

“Is that so?” Sam says, bemused and more than a little insulted.

“Try not to take it personally, Matfrid,” Sauron advises gently. “We do not have the most flattering ideas about the Easterlings either. Most would say that they are barbarians.”

“Maybe in Gondor they would, but in the Shi— I mean, where I’m from, they wouldn’t say those things,” Sam amends, but it is too late. Semira looks at him sharply.

“You are not from Gondor?” she asks. “I thought—”

“And Rohan,” Rick quickly interjects. “Now, is there anything to hunt around here or are we cooking from our supplies?” He pulls Semira away before she can ask anything else.

The nights pass without incident. The heat of the day dissipates to a humid warmth under the moonlit skies, and gentle winds blow along the mountainside to cool them as they ride. Every now and then, they pass camps of slumbering nomads, and the night watchmen will bow their heads in respect of the passing mourners. One watchman even makes signs with his hands over his forehead and chest, which Semira later explains are protection signs so that the souls of the Lost Ones do not get confused and stray from those who mourn them.

Frodo remains restless as he had been that night by the pond. With each day, his restlessness and uncertainty grow and he has difficulty sleeping during the heat of the day, even when they find a cool cave or overhang in which to shelter. He mumbles in his sleep and he wakes often from dreams both of the past and of memories that are not his own. He reports these dreams to Sauron when Rick and Semira are gathering what herbs or game they can find. 

Sam sits silently nearby, listening quietly but growing ever more worried with each dream related. The less rest his master gets, the more the dreams trouble him and drain him of his energy. Even the lessons that Sauron manages to give him do little to help. 

After one particularly troublesome dream, Frodo sits huddled near the fire, rocking himself back and forth as he stares into the cold ashes.

“They’re only children,” Frodo says hollowly, rubbing his eyes as he attempts vainly to dispel the images from his mind. “They make them work until their hands bleed, they pit siblings against each other. Their parents can only watch. If they try to save their children, the wizards will torture them, the children I mean, and they’ll make their parents watch. Even you never tortured children. Did you?”

Sauron shakes his head. “I killed their fathers, confused their mothers, brought their brothers out to war against me, besieged their homes. I hurt them just as much as anyone else. No one was safe.”

After a week of traveling along the mountains, Frodo has his worst dream yet. He sees many things that he later will not remember, but what he does remember is harrowing. He sees the Ring, the Elvish script glowing red hot upon the flawless golden band. He sees two more rings, gold also, but lesser and with stones of amethyst. He can feel again the heat of the fires of Mt. Doom upon his face, feel the grime and sweat of his travels clinging to his skin, feel the intense desire to both destroy the Ring and protect It. He sees himself claiming the Ring for his own, and when he does this, the two lesser rings begin to glow and shimmer with a golden light. The rings call the wizards towards them and they put the rings upon their fingers. They gaze at the rings in amazement but soon cry out in pain, even as Gollum bites the Master Ring from Frodo’s hand. As Mordor crumbles, the wizards fall to their knees and despair, but soon their rage begins to grow and they refuse to let their powers fail. Frodo can feel their wrath as if it were his own, can feel their betrayal and their desire to retain their dark positions among the peasants of Khand. Frodo glimpses everything they have done since, understands that the wizards have tortured hundreds, even thousands, and he knows that the moat that surrounds their fortress is stained red with the blood of their victims.

“FRODO!”

Frodo wakes to find himself crying with despair. He is shaking violently and attempting to remove the blood from his skin that he can still see and feel from his dream. He uses only his right hand, his damaged left hand clutched close to his chest, the missing finger aching him like it has not done in many months. 

“Mr. Frodo, please,” Sam begs and grabs his master’s clawing hand as he wraps his arms around him. “You’re awake now, it was only a dream.”

“They’re dead, Sam! They’re all dead!” Frodo wails. He cannot stop his frantic movements, cannot regain control of himself. Every time he closes his eyes, he can still see the images of those poor people and the Blue Wizards standing over them, gloating. 

Semira comes over to them and kneels before them. “Be at peace, Master Remi,” she says gently and holds a small vial of oil beneath Frodo’s nose. “Breathe deeply of this.”

Frodo manages to obey and does what is asked of him. The potent scent of frankincense wafts up towards him and surrounds him. As he breathes in the fumes, he finds himself calming considerably and his mind clears as the last strangling cobwebs of the dream fade. 

“What is that?” Sam asks as Rick and Sauron return from scouting ahead. 

It only takes them a moment to guess what has happened. They rush to Frodo’s side and Sauron crouches to look at Frodo closely. “Did you dream again?” he asks.

Frodo can only nod. He has stopped struggling but he still clutches his left hand to his chest. Sauron looks at Sam and knows from the gardener’s blanched complexion that the dream had been quite horrible indeed. He then notices the vial that Semira holds and takes it from her. He sniffs at it and nods approvingly. 

“Get a fire going and warm some water. Use the oil to make a poultice. Bring it to me when you are done. Semira, help him.” Rick and Semira rush to do as they are bid. When they are gone, Sauron attempts to reach for Frodo’s hand, but he instinctively pulls it away. “Frodo, you are in pain. Let me soothe it.”

“Please, sir, you know you have to,” Sam says. He is still holding Frodo protectively and he puts a reassuring hand to Frodo’s left arm. When Frodo relaxes, Sam nods at Sauron.

Sauron reaches again and is about to take Frodo’s hand when Frodo suddenly changes his mind and pulls the hand away again. There is shame in his eyes behind the haunted expression. Sauron breathes deeply and after a third failed attempt, he sits back and holds up his own hand. The hobbits look at it and Sam suddenly gasps, just as Frodo’s expression changes from haunted to dumbfounded. There, between Sauron’s middle finger and pinky, is a gap. 

“Your finger,” Sam says lamely and then looks down, not wanting to stare.

“Did you never notice before?” Sauron asks them.

Sam shakes his head. “I noticed, I just… didn’t think about it,” he admits.

“And you?” Sauron asks Frodo.

Frodo sits up and looks at Sauron’s scarred hand more closely. Then he holds up his own and notices that they are both missing the same finger, and for the same reason. “Isildur cut the Ring from your hand,” Frodo states, his voice dull.

“Yes he did,” Sauron says. “And just between you and me, I think I am the one who should be ashamed. You lost your finger destroying the Ring. I lost mine trying to destroy everything else.”

“But I didn’t,” Frodo says. “I didn’t destroy it.”

“You didn’t?” Sauron says. “I beg to differ.”

“Gollum destroyed it when I could not,” Frodo elaborates. “It was my task, my burden, to cast the Ring into the fires and I couldn’t do it.”

“Of course you couldn’t,” Sauron says and looks hard at Frodo. “Do you think I’d be so careless to make a Ring of Power that, on the chance I should lose it and it should be taken by someone else, would allow itself to be destroyed?” He allows Frodo to process the question before continuing. “Frodo, there is a reason why everyone who ever came into contact with the Ring instantly claimed it for themselves – so they would not even think to destroy it, much less attempt it. Everyone, that is, except you. Isildur had the Ring less than a day and could not destroy it. Gollum would have taken it back to his cave in the mountains and hid with it again, until he eventually became a wraith and returned it to me. Bilbo would not have been able to resist it much longer himself, had he not given it up to you. But if you think that giving it up is the same as destroying it, you would be wrong. As difficult as it was for Bilbo to pass the Ring onto you, it would have been impossible for him to destroy it, or even to think of doing so, so long he had possessed it. You are the only one who not only accepted what needed to be done, but attempted it. That you actually reached Orodruin is a testament in itself of your strength. No one else could have got that far, as you well know. Boromir attacked you in an attempt to gain it. Another week longer with the Fellowship, and the others would have turned on you as well. You knew this, which is why you left them behind. 

“As for failing to throw it into the Fire, you could not have, not even if you attempted to throw yourself into the Fire with it. You would have gone into the Fire, but the Ring would have abandoned you before you jumped from the precipice. Only by tricking it would you have been able to destroy it, and trick it you did. By allowing Gollum to live, he was there at the last moment to take it from you, and in his joy, the Ring relaxed, and when Gollum fell, the Ring fell with him. You give Gollum the credit for destroying the Ring, but he would not have been there to do so if you had not shown him mercy. So yes, Frodo Baggins, you did destroy the Ring.”

“By destroying Gollum?” Frodo asks, appalled at the notion. 

“Gollum was already destroyed. There was no saving him, other than to grant him the gift of mortality, long robbed of him,” Sauron says. 

“So, by showing Gollum mercy, Gollum got to die?” Sam says, frowning. “That don’t make any sense, Mr. Sauron.”

“Mister?” Sauron asks with a smirk. “I do believe that’s the first time I’ve earned that honor. I would almost think that you’re being sarcastic.”

“Well, it doesn’t make sense. How can not killing him be showing him mercy, when by showing him mercy, that led to him dying anyway?” Sam persists.

“How long do you think Gollum would have lived had the Ring gone into the Fire without him? Only days, if not hours, and every moment would have been an unending torment to him. Instead, he died with the Ring, ensuring its destruction. His death had meaning and it redeemed him of all his misdeeds,” Sauron says. “And it redeemed you Frodo, whether you accept it or not. Now give me your hand, so that I may treat it. It was injured because of me after all. Will you at least allow me that much credit for the Ring’s misdoings?”

Frodo smirks weakly and extends his hand for Sauron to examine. Sauron is just finishing with his massage when Rick and Semira return with the wood and begin to build a fire. Sauron keeps his head bent as he whispers, so quietly even the hobbits have difficulty hearing him, “In your haste and worry, did you use your real names with each other? Did she hear you?”

“We did,” Sam whispers back. “I don’t know if she heard. She still called Mr. Frodo ‘Master Remi’, but… well, I don’t see how she couldn’t have heard, sorry to say.”

“It’s not your fault. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about,” Sauron soothes and looks up just in time to see Semira look away. 

To be continued…

GF 3/19/07

Chapter 13 - Recovery

A long hour passes. Sauron mixes a crushed leaf of athelas together with a couple of drops of frankincense into a steaming bowl of water. The fragrance calms Frodo considerably. He soon is sleeping, only somewhat fitfully, in the coolest corner of the cave. Rick and Semira go out again, to harvest more frankincense if they can. 

“Why aren’t you helping my master?” Sam accuses Sauron as soon as they are alone. He stands with his hands on his hips before Sauron and glowers up at the Maia. “I thought all your training was helping him. He’s not dreamt since we left the Shire, but now here we are still two weeks from the wizards’ lair, two weeks that we shouldn’t have to be worriting about them yet, and they’re already attacking him.”

“I don’t think that they are,” Sauron says slowly, studying what is left of the poultice as he considers the situation. “It is Frodo’s strength, not the wizards’, that we need to worry about right now. It is impossible for the wizards’ powers to have grown beyond what they already are. It would be the same as a hobbit growing to be man-sized.”

“Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin grew when they drank those Ent-draughts,” Sam points out. “Could the wizards have found something like that?”

“The Khand have shamans, men and women who study magic as you call it, but whatever power they have would be miniscule to a wizard. The Blue Wizards could not have gleaned anything useful in tormenting them, if they could even capture one to torment. The people will not easily allow their shamans to be taken. The wizards would be foolish to attempt it,” Sauron muses.

“So why do we got to worrit about Mr. Frodo and not them?” Sam asks, swallowing the bile that creeps up his throat at the mention of the wizards’ tormenting people. He still remembers bits and pieces of the visions Sauron had given him before, and he can guess the things that Frodo has seen in his dream. It is not a pleasant thought.

“His power comes from the One Ring,” Sauron explains. “That will explain why he can see them whenever they use their rings, which would only be when they leave their fortress. Frodo exercised much control over the One Ring before he finally succumbed to it, and that means he can control the wizards, at least long enough for them to bound. He can only do that if he can control himself, which he has been doing up to now. There is something else at work here. 

“I suspect that his growing guilt and shame, along with his sense of failure, in combination of the close proximity to Mordor, have created the situation we find ourselves in now. I do not think this dream was a vision. Rather I think he is remembering previous dreams and mixing them with his own memories of the Quest.”

“What makes you think that?” Sam asks.

“The wizards would not play at drowning their victims. They would find that much too crass and beneath their abilities,” Sauron says. “If they wanted one of their victims drowned, it would only be because they are done torturing him and he hasn’t had the sense to die on his own yet. They would have a servant tie a weight to his ankles and throw him into the lake.”

“I see,” Sam breathes shallowly and swallows again.

“Frodo’s guilt and fear are magnifying his memories,” Sauron continues. “Have you noticed if he is more agitated than usual?"

“Aye,” Sam says. “He pretty much said so a couple of days before we reached the mountains. He said he wasn’t sure if he could do this, that he failed at Mt. Doom and he might fail again. He wanted me to turn back, but I told him I wouldn’t. He was uneasy about the mountains. He’s been quiet since we reached them.”

“I thought as much. Do not fear, Sam,” Sauron soothes, resting a hand on the hobbit’s shoulder, which is tight with tension. “All Frodo needs to do is regain control of his emotions. We will rest here a couple of days and give him time to recuperate.”

“What about Semira?” Sam asks.

“I’m keeping an eye on that as well,” Sauron assures. He bends down to build up the fire, so he will have water ready to prepare the next poultice. 

Sam returns to his master’s side. He straightens the sheet that covers Frodo, then reaches under to take Frodo’s hand. It is warm, for which he is grateful. In his sleep, Frodo grasps his hand and sighs.

Warm gusts whip at their clothes, making walking difficult for one unaccustomed to the loose robes of the Haradrim. Rick stumbles behind Semira, conscious of the fact that there are no ties or straps to keep his robe in place if the wind becomes too strong. The fierce sun does little to help his comfort, though the wind takes away some of the heaviness from the air. Semira is unbothered by the weather. She has rewrapped her head-cloth so that a length of it now covers her mouth and nose. She squints her eyes against the swirling desert sand as she scouts the land. Every once in a while she looks back to make sure Rick is still close behind. 

After walking for a few miles, she spots a tree growing near a bluff and heads towards it. Rick is glad to reach it, for it gives some shelter from the wind and heat. He leans against the bole as Semira peers up at the branches and inspects the tree. The branches end in clusters of long stems, each one with many tiny leaves running up and down either side, with a small clump of white flowers growing among the stems. 

“I still haven’t found a name for my horse,” Rick says conversationally. “Every one I think of he rejects. Why do you think that is?”

“He is a horse,” Semira answers, walking to the other side of the tree, still running her hand along the bole.

“In Rohan, our horses have names,” Rick says. “Sometimes they are given Man names, but most of the time they’re named for their physical attributes or for their personalities or quirks. But I’ve even tried that, and he doesn’t like them.”

“Perhaps it is because he does not understand your speech,” Semira suggests. “He is a Haradrim horse, yes? Maybe he prefers a Haradrim name.”

“Of course,” Rick says as comprehension dawns. “You’ll have to help me think of one then. I’ve been thinking something along the lines of ‘Gentle Might’. The best I can come up with is ‘Somæthe’. How would you say that in your language?”

Semira does not answer. She has found a favorable spot in the bole and is now examining the sturdy branches. She seems almost to be communicating with the tree, so keenly does she study it. At length, she nods. “This is a good tree, old and strong, well-rooted. It will give good resin. I hate to scar it without need. My supply will last another day or two, and Master Odolf says that Master Remi will be better by then. I do not see the point in harvesting more now. It will take a week for the sap to harden enough that I can extract the oils from the resin. By then we will almost be in Khand, yes?”

“All the more reason for us to do this now,” Rick says. “You’ll have it ready just in time. Tell me, you were there when Remi had his nightmare. What happened?”

“One moment, I was meditating. The next, Master Remi was screaming, and Master Matfrid was holding him down,” Semira says, looking disturbed by the memory of it. She looks at the tree again, this time with admiration. “Frankincense is more valuable than gold among my people, did you know? It can do many things other than soothe away nightmares and help one to relax. It helps one to clear their mind, to meditate: I had put a drop of oil in the water just before I started, which is why I had it out. It was a most fortunate thing. Had I needed to search, Master Remi could have hurt himself or Master Matfrid.”

Rick smiles and nods. “Yes, that is fortunate. I didn’t know you meditated. Odolf does it often, and he keeps saying he's going to teach me. What is it like?”

“Most relaxing. Sometimes, if you are troubled, you can see your way to an answer or to help,” Semira says, then returns her gaze to him. “Do you have a knife?”

Rick reaches into his robes and pulls out the knife that he has secured there. He hands it to Semira and watches as she slashes a small but deep cut into the bole. The tree begins to ooze a clear yellow sap, and Semira gathers this into a clay jar that she has carried with her from the cave. 

“How did you meet Odolf, if he is from Gondor and you from Rohan?” Semira asks curiously.

“He saved my life from Uruks,” Rick answers. “The Uruk-Hai were servants of the wizard Saruman, and they were not as affected by the desolation of Mordor as were the servants of the Dark Lord. We had thought that all the orcs and Uruk-Hai had been killed in the flooding of Isengard, which had been Saruman's stronghold, and most of them had been. A sneaky few managed to get away, however, and I was foolish enough to walk into a band of them one morning. I had no weapon on me, what’s more. It had been over a year since the War ended and even those who carried weapons out of habit saw little point in it. So there I was, surrounded by Uruks and they were all looking at me hungrily. I turned and ran but they were faster than I was. I would have died if Odolf hadn’t shown up and slain them.”

“What then was he doing in Rohan?” Semira asks. “Do the Pale Skins travel that often?”

“Some of us do,” Rick says. “Odolf and I travel all over, looking for those in need of help or just going wherever the road takes us. That’s how we met Remi and Matfrid. We were in need of money and we performed as minstrels at an inn in their land.”

“You sing?” Semira says with surprise and smiles prettily, her eyes crinkling most becomingly. “I would love to hear.”

“Oh, you don’t want to hear me sing,” Rick says, blushing and shaking his head vigorously. “Trust me, you’ll be the one having nightmares next. Odolf sang. He has the most beautiful voice, it just pulls you right in. You can almost see what he’s singing about; you can feel the words coursing through you. It’s quite an amazing experience. I just played the tambour and told a few stories.”

Semira laughs, a musical sound of its own. Rick blushes again. “Perhaps then you can convince Master Odolf to sing for me? If I may request?”

“Of course,” Rick agrees. “He’s not often in the mood, but I’ll see if he’s agreeable to it some time.”

The slash in the bark begins to run dry. Semira takes the jar lid and scoops up the last of the sap. She places the lid on the jar and holds it securely in her hand. Rick takes back the knife and, following Semira's instructions, he takes a long, bright red strap of cloth from her and wraps it around the bole over the slash mark. 

“That way, the tree has a chance to heal itself,” Semira explains. “It will also warn others not to take from this tree again.”

Rick braces himself for the long walk back to the cave. As they step out into the sun and wind, Semira places a gentle hand to Rick’s arm, a touch that burns him all the way through. She looks at him intently before taking her hand away. 

“Tell me,” she begins, walking forward again. Rick hurries to walk at her side. “Do you know any tales of the War of the Ring?”

“Oh yes, almost all of them,” Rick says. “I’ve even written a few.”

“You know then the tales of the spies, the ones who destroyed the Ring and stole the Eye’s power?” Semira asks. “We only hear that they were mighty warriors who confused the Eye with spells that blinded him and that they cut their way across Mordor, leaving thousands of bodies behind them. They are called ‘The Demolishers’.”

“We call them heroes,” Rick says, unease coming over him quickly. So, she had heard Sam and Frodo use their proper names, and what’s more, she had immediately connected their names to the Ring-bearers. She does not appear to be vengeful though. On the contrary, despite her words, she seems mostly curious and even a little excited, like a young child sitting down to hear a favorite story. “And they were great warriors,” he continues, “though I can tell you they did not cut their way through Mordor and they don’t know magic. They just threw the Ring into the Fire, where it belonged.”

“Do these heroes have names?” Semira asks.

“They do,” Rick says. “They are Iorhael and Perhael. They will be forever honored by us.”

“You love them?” Semira asks. Rick nods. “Would you then die for them?”

“I would,” Rick answers immediately. Semira clucks her tongue disapprovingly at this. “You would not die to protect the ones that you love?” he asks.

“What good would my death be to them? If I die, then they will not be much longer in the world. Better to kill for them than to die,” she reasons. She then quickens her pace, unbothered by the wind and the sand, and Rick is soon panting to keep up.

Frodo sleeps for most of the afternoon. Every once in a while, he murmurs in his sleep or fidgets uncomfortably, but he settles down again when Sam holds a steaming bowl of athelas and frankincense under his nose. He wakes late in the afternoon while the others are resting, and though Sam is sitting awake nearby, it is some time before he realizes that Frodo is awake, so still and quiet his master keeps himself. 

Sam leans down and whispers, so as not to disturb the others, “Do you need something, Master? Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

Frodo shakes his head, a faraway look in his eyes. He looks exhausted for all the sleep he’s had and he does not even register that Sam is clasping his maimed hand. 

“Do you want to talk about your dream some more?” Sam asks.

Frodo shakes his head again and squeezes his eyes shut. When he opens them again, they are even more unfocussed, almost as though he is struggling to remain awake. “No,” he finally answers, his voice weak and worn. “I don’t wish to speak, I just want to…” His words trail off and he never finishes his sentence. He rolls over onto his side to face the cave wall and closes his eyes again. Though he keeps himself very still, Sam knows that he is still awake. 

Not knowing what else to do, Sam sits next to his master, a silent sentry watching over his most precious treasure. He allows no one else near, for Frodo grows more uneasy whenever the little corner of the cave becomes too crowded, and Sam refuses to leave his side for even a moment. They are all grateful when the following morning arrives, and Frodo wakes, tired but cheerful.

They remain in the cave for two more days to allow Frodo time to rest and recuperate. During his convalescence, Sauron helps Frodo to regain his focus, and each day he becomes less withdrawn and silent. When his appetite finally returns with full force, Sauron pronounces him ready to travel that night. 

While he rests, Frodo ponders long and often about everything Sauron has told him about the Ring and his Quest to destroy it, but he keeps these thoughts to himself for the time being. Others have attempted to tell him that he had not failed at Mt. Doom. Gandalf has told him; Elrond, Arwen and Galadriel have told him; Sam, Merry and Pippin have told him; Bilbo, Aragorn, even Éomer and Faramir have all said the same thing. Yet coming from them, it had always felt more like sympathy and pity than the truth, or so Frodo had convinced himself. To now be told the exact same thing by the Maker of the Ring is an altogether different thing. Frodo can no longer deny what everyone has been trying to impress upon him these last three years, and for the first time since the destruction of the Ring, he sees a glimmer of hope on the horizon. The glimmer is faint, but it is there. Maybe, just maybe, he had not failed after all but instead had done exactly what he should have done.

“But if I could not have destroyed the Ring, how can I help stop the Blue Wizards?” Frodo finally asks Sauron on their last afternoon in the cave. 

“You do not have to destroy them, only distract them for me,” Sauron says. “That you can do easily.”

Just before setting out, while Semira is outside preparing the beasts for the next leg of their journey, Sauron and Rick have yet another argument about her. Sauron would have Rick and the hobbits keep a close watch on her and report any suspicious behavior to him. He advises the hobbits especially to be careful while in her presence and he thinks it best that they are never alone with her again. Rick, however, does not believe that Semira is a threat to them. He tells Sauron of her open curiosity about the Ring-bearers, but far from being relieved, this only makes Sauron more suspicious. 

“Don’t you see what she’s doing?” Sauron whispers so that his voice doesn’t carry through the cave. “She’s trying to divide us, using your affection for her to turn you against me – and it’s working. She cannot be trusted.”

“King Elessar trusts her,” Rick appeals. “He wouldn’t send us a guide who wishes the hobbits harm.”

“Then she’s a spy at best, and she’s already learned too much,” Sauron says.

“A spy? Sauron, you have nothing to base that accusation on,” Rick whispers back fervently. The hobbits sit between them, looking back and forth as each one speaks.

Sauron holds up the vial of frankincense. “Do you know that frankincense is more valuable to the Haradrim than gold?” 

“Yes, Semira told me that,” Rick replies. “I think it incredibly generous that she would share it so freely.”

“You didn’t think to stop and wonder what a former slave would be doing with it?” Sauron asks.

“She knows how to harvest it,” Rick responds, though he is no longer as certain in his convections as he had been a moment ago.

“Only nobles are allowed to harvest this,” Sauron says. “For anyone else to do so is a crime worthy of death. There is only one reason a former slave would dare to do so. She ran away, which makes her an outlaw and subject to death already, and her master, whoever that might be, is no better.”

“Outlaws they may be, but King Elessar trusts them. They'd be outlaws anyway for working for him. Can you blame a slave for wanting to run away?” Rick replies stubbornly.

“She cannot be trusted,” is all Sauron says in response. Rick wisely drops the argument and the hobbits only look at each other and shrug. 

They set off after moonrise. The moon is nothing more than a sliver in the sky, a bright strip of brilliant cool light against the star-speckled blackness. The strong winds calm at night to occasional warm gusts, sending the sand swirling and skittering along the desert floor in small flurries. The hobbits mirror the others in pulling a free length of their robes over their face to cover their nose and mouth. Their eyes they keep squinted when the wind blows in their direction but this is not always sufficient in keeping the sand from blowing into them. 

The horses and ponies fare no better, and Semira finally stops the procession so that she can fit hoods over the beasts’ heads. The hoods have narrow slits for the eyes, to block the sand while still allowing the beasts to see. The ponies do not care for the hoods much and they shake their heads in futile attempts to dislodge them. Semira speaks soothingly to them until they calm and grow more accustomed to the strange coverings. Only when she is certain the ponies will not protest again, and possibly inadvertently throw their riders, does she give the signal to continue. 

On the second night out from the cave, the wind suddenly stops and the sand settles loosely over the ground. Everyone waits to see what Semira will do and, after checking the night sky and squinting into the blinding darkness surrounding them, she lowers the cloth guarding her face and points to the horizon. 

“The storm has passed,” she says. “In the morning will we reach the Harnen River. We should travel southeast now, and so come to the river far below the mountains. If we go far enough south, the pollution will be diluted and it will not harm us. We can replenish some of our water supply enough to get us to the port. Tomorrow night, we will travel farther south and reach the bridge and the port the following morning. There, we can buy more supplies and get boiled water before crossing the river.”

She waits for Sauron’s nod before turning her horse southeast. The others silently follow her lead. 

They reach the river in the predawn hours as the sky is beginning to lighten in the east. This will be the first time that they camp in the full blaze of the desert sun. Rick and Sauron pitch the tents as Semira takes a few of the water bottles and jugs to the river to refill them. The beasts happily follow her, eager to roll and splash about in the shallow banks of the river. 

Frodo and Sam throw together a meal from their dwindling supply of bread, nuts and dried fruit. They are halfway through the meal before they realize that the horses and ponies have returned, dripping wet and satisfied, but without Semira. 

Though they have watched her carefully and discreetly since leaving the cave, they have not been able to discern anything malicious about her behavior. She is the same as she has always been, informative about their surroundings, polite and gentle to them and the beasts. She does take more interest in Frodo, being sure to check on him from time to time so that they might know if he needs a rest from traveling. 

If she knows that they are watching her, she gives no indication of it, though she does frown unhappily when Rick is less talkative than he has been. That she had not assumed Rick would accompany her and the beasts to the river had been evident, and now that she lingers there after the beasts have returned signals to Rick that she is truly distressed. He watches Sauron impatiently.

Finally, Sauron returns his stare and nods silently towards the river, hidden from the camp by a long line of boulders. Rick goes to help her with the jugs if need be, and Sauron takes this opportunity to question Frodo.

“Have you dreamt anymore?” he asks.

Frodo shakes his head. “The frankincense helps me tremendously. Semira said I should put a couple of drops of the oil on my collar before I go to sleep, and that way the scent will always be with me.”

“Has she questioned you about your names?”

Sam shakes his head now. “I did tell her once, that same day of Mr. Frodo’s dream actually, that now as she knows our real names, she may as well use them. She just smiled and said that she didn’t see no reason to be doing that, since we’ve been so careful about keeping them secret this long.”

Sauron considers this information gravely as he finishes the last of his meal. He looks over his shoulder at the boulders that block the view of the river and the rising sun. 

Rick doesn’t mean to stare. He knows he should look away, he truly does, but his legs refuse to move and his eyes refuse to shut. He stares in wonder, mouth agape, at the golden-skinned woman bathing in the river. Her long black hair clings to her smooth dark body, the curves of which are enticing Rick in ways he has only ever dreamt before. 

She pauses midway in pouring a jug of water over herself and turns her head to smile up at him. Warm green eyes lock onto his and hold him captive. She turns completely and rises, unabashed, from the concealing waters. He tries to stop them but he finds his eyes wandering hungrily over her form as she steps out of the water and comes to stand before him. 

“Can I help you, Master Wulfram?” she asks calmly, as though she sees nothing abnormal or out of place by his frank inspection. “Is there something that you are needing?”

“N-need?” Rick stammers. With a great effort, he steps back and turns around, his face flaring red with embarrassment and quite a few other emotions he dares not linger over too much at the moment. “No, um, n-nothing I need. Um, I was just, uh…” 

What had he been doing here? 'Think, Rick!' he berates himself but he unfortunately thinks of the brown skin and taunt muscles of the silky smooth body of the woman standing much too close behind him, which does not help him in any way to remember his original purpose for being there. He shifts uncomfortably in his robe, which has the further devastating effect of reminding him that he is wearing absolutely nothing beneath the linen, which has no bindings or lacings. One swift tug in just the right place is all it will take for the robe to fall to the ground. 

“Um…” Rick repeats, desperate now, but what exactly he is desperate for is difficult to tell.

“Would you like for me to bathe you, Master Wulfram?” Semira asks, purring into his ear unhelpfully. “The water is warm, and the sun will soon be hot enough to heat the oil.”

“Oil?” Rick says, his voice pitching in a most embarrassing way.

“It is the custom among my people to rub oil into our skin after bathing. The oil keeps the skin from drying and cracking during the day. I fear I only have jasmine, but it has a most pleasant scent and is known for its… intoxicating qualities.”

“Uh,” Rick repeats again, as he imagines those small, nimble hands rubbing oil across his back. He shakes his head. Oh, but that is the last thing he needs to think about right now. Blessedly, a call from the camp interrupts his wild thoughts. 

“Rick!” It is Sauron, and he sounds annoyed. “Where is that water?”

“Water!” Rick breathes with relief, then jumps half a mile when Semira touches his shoulder. He swings around, heart pounding, to find the woman hiding an amused laugh behind her hand, pointing with her other hand at the jugs and water bottles she has already filled. 

“I will bring them back after I am finished bathing and dressing,” she says.

“Yes, of course,” Rick says, forcing his eyes skyward, which seems to be the only safe place to look at the moment. At least the rising sun is merciful enough to blind him so that he is not tempted to gawk at the beauty before him again. He stumbles his way towards the jugs and lifts one. “I’ll just take this one here so we’ll have something to clean the dishes with, yes?” he says and flees back to camp.

If he thinks he has escaped an awkward and dangerous situation, he finds he has walked into another one. Sauron smirks at him knowingly upon observing his flushed face and his hampered strut, neither of which can be entirely explained away by the weight of the water jug he carries. The hobbits look at him curiously. 

“What took so long?” Sauron asks teasingly. 

“Nothing,” Rick lies. Three sets of eyebrows rise in disbelief. Rick sighs and sets the jug next to the fire. “She was bathing.” 

“Was she?” Sauron says, not at all surprised by this. The hobbits, though, suddenly understand what has happened. Sam ducks his head, his own face flushing. Frodo does an excellent job of keeping his face neutral. Sauron just smirks again. “Got a good look did you?”

“Yes,” Rick hisses, then narrows his eyes, only now understanding what is really going on. “Sauron, did you send me to—”

“Did you see any markings?” Sauron asks intently, answering Rick’s question before he can even ask it. “All slaves are branded. She should have markings of some sort, if she is one.”

“As a matter of fact, she does,” Rick says, bristling. “She has a tattoo on her right thigh.”

“What does it look like?” Sauron asks.

“I’m not sure,” Rick says through clenched teeth. “It was a line with two other lines attached to one side at the top, running parallel to each other.”

“Is that all?” Sauron asks. The hobbits are again looking back and forth between them with interest. 

“She has two other tattoos on her right shoulder blade. One is a circle and the other is some sort of bird,” Rick says. “Are you convinced now that she is who she says she is?”

“I think I know all I need to know,” Sauron answers.

“Good. Then if you don’t mind, I think I’ll go to bed now,” Rick says and ducks into the tent. 

“Sweet dreams,” Sauron calls after him, and Frodo finally bursts into silent giggles. 

“You’re both incorrigible,” Sam accuses, shaking his head disapprovingly. 

To be continued…

GF 4/1/07

Chapter 14 - Harnen

Rick wakes several hours later, the heat inside the tent nearly stifling. If he had thought the stuffiness of the caves had been unbearable, he now finds himself reassessing his definition of the word. He feels nearly suffocated lying on the tent floor, the heat coming down on him like many blankets, thick and heavy. He longs to throw off his robes but he knows it will do little good. Perhaps later, he will take a dunk in the river.

He blinks up at the alabaster roof of the tent, wondering what could have woken him. The hobbits are sleeping soundly beside him, Sam snoring softly between him and Frodo. On the other side of Frodo is an empty bedroll; Sauron will be taking his turn at the watch. Rick yawns and rubs the sleep from his eyes, then turns away from the others to face the wall of the tent, shifting to find a comfortable position on the hard desert floor. 

That is when he hears it: Sauron’s voice outside and he sounds mildly irritated. Rick props himself up on his elbows, expecting to hear at any moment a return reply but all he hears is an indignant snort from one of the horses – his horse. A moment later, Sauron enters the tent, a bemused expression on his otherwise smooth face.

“What’s going on?” Rick asks, startling Sauron, who looks up sharply. 

“You’re already awake?” Sauron says, then hurries on before Rick can reply. “Good. We need to talk while the others are asleep. And that horse of yours doesn’t seem to think that anyone else should be allowed to touch him.”

Rick can’t help but to smile at this, but he quickly puts his pride aside to focus on Sauron’s original statement. “What do we need to talk about?” he asks cautiously, as most of their private conversations lately revolve around Semira and their opposing viewpoints of her trustworthiness. 

Sauron does not respond immediately but instead busies himself with settling comfortably onto his bedroll and observing the hobbits’ slow, slumbering breathing. Sam’s face is smooth and soft in sleep while Frodo’s is slightly pinched. He stares at Frodo without really seeing him, and Rick knows that Sauron is choosing his next words very carefully. 

“I know that you’re fond of Semira,” he begins at last, “and I shouldn’t have used that to put you into the position of spying on her earlier, but I needed to know if she was marked.”

“And she is,” Rick says.

“Yes, she is,” Sauron responds, but says nothing more.

“But you still think she’s lying to us?” Rick says.

“There have been other signs, for one who knows how to read them,” Sauron says. “That night watchman for instance.”

“What watchman?”

“The watchman of the tribe we passed shortly after entering Near Harad, the one who made those signals that are supposed to ward off dead spirits,” Sauron answers. “Didn’t you notice that he was the only one to make such signals?”

“Well, maybe the other watchmen just waited until we passed. Maybe that watchman was more superstitious than the others,” Rick suggests. “You can’t hold Semira accountable for the actions of some stranger we pass in the night.”

“Unless he wasn’t a stranger,” Sauron says.

Now it is Rick’s turn to consider his words before responding, being careful to speak softly so as not to disturb the hobbits. “I think, Sauron… and don’t take this the wrong way! … but I think you have a tendency to see deception where there is none. You spent three Ages of the world deceiving everyone around you, it just comes automatically to you to expect them to deceive you right back. But not everyone is like that. Most people can be trusted, and King Elessar trusts Semira. If he didn’t, he would have warned us to be cautious around her.”

“Or, if he did, he would have told her the truth,” Sauron counters. 

“By that logic, Prince Faramir would know what we are doing also. So would Éomer King,” Rick says. “But they don’t, do they?”

“No, they don’t,” Sauron says, smiling triumphantly. He is slowly getting better at figuring out ways to get Rick to make his arguments for him. Now there is no way Rick can reasonably argue against him, and Rick knows it. He sighs resignedly and waits for Sauron to continue. “This is a secret mission, Rick, and it will remain that way. Besides, we won’t be in her company much longer. Another week and we’ll never see her again. If I were you, I would work on getting over that crush real quick.”

“What do you mean? I thought we were supposed to be coming back through Near Harad to return to Pelargir,” Rick points out. “She’s to escort us back.”

“We can get a boat from the port here and take that to the Sea. Once there, we’ll find a ship to take us to the Grey Havens. The quicker we can get the Blue Wizards to the Sea, the better and safer it will be for all of us,” Sauron says. “We’ll leave the horses and ponies at the port for Semira to retrieve when she’s able.”

Rick nods, looking suddenly forlorn. “I knew we’d have to leave her eventually,” he says regrettably. “I just kept hoping that, maybe, if everything worked out, she might want to come with us. She could travel with us. I think she’d like Rohan.”

Sauron pats his shoulder a few times in solace. “I know,” he says simply. He gives Rick’s shoulder a final supportive squeeze before pulling away. “But it never could have happened, you do realize that, don’t you? Semira will never leave her country or her people. Get some more rest. I’ll take your watch.”

Rick shakes his head heavily and stands up. “You need your sleep just as much as I do, Maia or no,” he insists. Besides, he is too awake now to sleep even if he wanted to.

He slips outside into the stifling heat and finds his horse watching for him dolefully. When Rick appears, the stallion swishes its tail eagerly and whinnies happily, tossing its head in greeting. Rick distracts himself with currying the horses and ponies under the shade of the tarp Sauron and Semira had stretched between the two tents. He stubbornly avoids looking at Semira’s tent or thinking about the day they will have to part ways.

Before setting out that night, Sauron announces that they will change from their mourning robes into everyday robes. They will be reaching the bazaar and port the next morning, and it will be easier to navigate through the port and collect the supplies they need if they are not being avoided by everyone. 

He produces four sets of beige robes which, except for their color, are nearly similar to the mourning robes they now wear. The other difference, they discover, is how they wrap the linen around themselves. Semira shows them the correct way to fold and tuck the cloth, and once she returns to correct their efforts they discover a few more differences. These robes are tighter-fitting and shorter in the leg. They are still comfortable though, and a few of the tucks and folds have even created pockets in which to hold things. 

Rick and Sauron tie their swords around their waists, and it is now that Rick realizes another reason why Sauron has made this change. In their mourning robes, they have not been able to wear their swords, as it would have been a sign of disrespect, not to mention conspicuous. ‘Sauron must be expecting trouble in the market, some ploy of Semira’s,’ Rick thinks but he wisely refrains from saying anything.

They reach the port early the following morning, just after sunrise. The wide river glitters amber in the early morning rays, and the small boats and rafts tied to the docks in the port bob gently on the water. The bazaar, a large and sprawling array of makeshift avenues, straddles both sides of the river just south of the port and already it is bustling with people, all of them speaking swiftly in their odd tongue. 

The women wear flowing dresses of bright colors, similar to Semira’s. Many of the men wear robes, but some also wear kilts, two knee-length pieces of cloth tied around the waist by a cord; the pieces do not fully meet at the sides, allowing for circulation Semira explains. As the kilts also do not cover the torso, many of the men also wear shirts of simple design or what Rick can only describe as waistcoats, only these waistcoats are not meant to be worn over a shirt or have fastenings. 

Rick and the hobbits look around with open curiosity, and Sauron keeps a vigilant eye on the various goings-on. When they reach the middle of the market, Semira turns to them and says, “How many days’ supplies will you be needing, Master Odolf?”

“We shouldn’t need more than three weeks’ worth,” Sauron answers, handing her a small purse heavy with coin. “Water is of the most importance, but I’ll get that. You know everything else that we need. Some fresh produce and meat will be nice. We may as well enjoy a hearty meal or two while we can. We’ll meet back at the port by the bridge.”

Semira bows her head in acknowledgement of this. She separates from them, taking the pack horses with her, and makes her way into the tangle of tents, booths, tables and stalls. Sauron watches her progress, and Rick knows that the Maia will not be going directly to the port for the water. He will be trailing her and watching her movements. Their eyes meet as Sauron pulls his eyes away from the bazaar.

Again, Rick says nothing but holds out his hand. Sauron holds his accusatory gaze but easily gives him a handful of coins. “Be vigilant,” he says under his voice. “Don’t let them out of your sight. I won’t be far away.”

Rick pockets the money and takes the hobbits’ hands. “Come on,” he says to them, “let’s find something to waste our money on.” He leads the hobbits away, leaving Sauron to look after the horses.

Rick first takes the hobbits to one of the food vendors and buys them all a plate of a hot, sticky pastry filled with mashed berries and lightly covered in a honey glaze. After that, they find a vendor selling small grilled meatballs and meat cakes spiced with a sweet and tangy sauce. The vendor laughs with delighted surprise when the hobbits ask for a third helping. He’s says something, probably about their healthy appetites, Rick guesses, and then gives them all another helping for free. They bow to thank him, and the vendor laughs with delight again. 

Their bellies now full, they next begin to wind their way around the tangled streets of the market, looking at all the things for sale. Sam is fascinated by a stall full of gardening tools, many of which are similar to the ones he has back home but they have been modified to better work in the hard earth of the desert. Both hobbits linger over a booth selling various weaved goods. Frodo finds a couple of small blankets of brilliantly-colored patterns that Merry and Pippin would enjoy immensely, and Sam finds a child’s periwinkle shawl stitched with a flower-and-leaf pattern that would be perfect for Rosie. Not knowing the language, or even which coins equal what amounts, it takes some time for Rick to figure out how much the vendor is charging for the goods and then haggle her down to a lower price. 

As they are making their way to the port, they pass Semira at a booth selling fish. She is haggling with the vendor, a well-muscled man of dark brown skin wearing a kilt and a head-cloth that he has wrapped around his shoulders in place of a waistcoat, revealing a smooth bald head. The man is smiling at her in an easy, teasing manner, his black eyes crinkling at the corners. Sam discreetly nudges Frodo and points at the man’s ears, each of which are pierced with three very small gold hoops. While he appears kindly, Rick doesn’t much care for the way he is looking so possessively at Semira, who isn’t very pleased with his apparent lack of desire of wanting to sell to her. He says something to her in a deep, rich voice and laughs again. 

“What is going on?” Rick calls, at last making his and the hobbits’ presences known. Semira turns around and gives them a small, tight smile. The man barely acknowledges their arrival.  

“I thought fish would be most delicious for our meals today,” Semira says in a harassed manner, and Rick notices that her accent is more pronounced now that she has been speaking in her native tongue. “We could catch some ourselves if only we had the time. This oaf would rather talk than work. Not a very proficient businessman.” She scowls prettily at the man, who smiles toothily in return. 

“How much does he want?” Rick asks, giving the man what he hopes is a stern, no-nonsense look. 

The man’s smile wanes only a little, then he looks down at the hobbits and turns back to Semira. He says something to her, pointing at the hobbits, then picks up a twine of small, fat red fish with white bellies. Semira shakes her head, picks up a line of tuna and pushes some coins into the man’s pocket, speaking firmly as she does so. The man counts the coins and begins to protest but Semira has already turned and walked away from the booth. Rick and the hobbits follow quickly.

“Are you all right?” Sam asks her.

She nods. “He is just an oaf,” she says in a would-be casual voice, but she still looks upset and she swings the line of tuna in an almost lethal manner. Rick takes the fish from her, as well as the lead ropes for the pack horses.

“Why didn’t he want to sell to you?” Frodo asks.

Semira points ahead of them to their destination. “He wanted to sell. I did not like his price,” she answers shortly. 

“Why? How much was he charging?” Sam asks, not understanding. Rick though begins to have an inkling and Semira’s answer confirms it.

“Too much,” she says quietly, folding her arms in front of her.

Rick quickly shakes his head at the hobbits, silencing any further questions they might have, before addressing Semira himself. “I can go back and threaten him for you. Granted, he’s a rather large man. I don’t know how much of a match I would be for him.”

Semira smiles genuinely for the first time and even gives a little laugh. “You are a sweet boy,” she says.

Boy. The word hits him like a fist. Is that really how she sees him?

They make their way through the bazaar to the port, where they can see Sauron towering over the others as he waits by the bridge. He has already exchanged the empty jugs and water bottles for full ones, but he gives Rick a sympathetic look that lets Rick know he has been watching them even from a distance. They join him and together, he and Rick load the jugs and bottles onto the pack horses. Once everything is stored away, they cross over the bridge and make their way through the other half of the bazaar. Sauron keeps a sharp eye on everyone as they pass, his left hand resting on his belt just inches from the hilt of his sword. 

They reach the end of the bazaar without incident and mount their beasts. Before them is more open desert, but here and there are groups of tents clustered together belonging to nomads who have come to sell or trade at the bazaar. Semira points to a vacant spot beyond the last of the encampments. “If we go beyond the camps, we can set up our tents there. I can make the Mourning symbol in front of our tents so that no one will approach while you sleep.”

Sauron negates this. “I think it would be best to travel as far away from the port as we can,” he says. “Just a couple more hours should do it, and then we can rest.”

Semira bows her head again and says, “If that is your wish, Master Odolf.” 

The hobbits are not very eager about this plan. They have been traveling all night and spent much of the morning walking around the bazaar. They are exhausted and growing hungry again, yet while they would have preferred to stop now, they do not consider continuing to be a hardship. After all, compared to their last quest, they are much better off this time around. They are in the hands of someone who knows the way of the land, they are better supplied and they are only having to skip a meal or two a day, a luxury indeed. They are not as pressed for time, though certainly time is a factor, and while the dangers awaiting them are no better than the ones they faced in Mordor, the journey to get there has been quite tame and mild. With all this in mind, they happily ride along, peering around at the encampments they pass with curiosity, nodding and smiling to those who meet their eyes. When they reach the last of the encampments, they entertain themselves with traveling songs and by asking Semira to explain the various oddments they had seen in the bazaar. 

Sauron does not call a halt for another four hours and by then the sun is high overhead, burning down on them unrelentingly. Semira alone is immune to the brutal rays, claiming that the weather is cooler than usual for this time of year. When they stop to make camp, she agrees to take the first watch to allow the others a respite from the sun. Rick and Frodo are already turning a mild shade of pink, and even Sauron and Sam are looking darker after their short time in the sun. Semira produces from her bag a clay jar of aloe, which she says will alleviate the burn. She has had it with her the whole time and is much impressed that she is only now having to use it. She had expected to have run out long ago, before she realized they would be traveling primarily at night. 

Sauron thanks her for her thoughtfulness, taking the jar and sniffing at its contents. Then he nods and hands it to Rick. Once the tents are up and the afternoon meal consumed, they go inside their tent, leaving Semira to keep watch. Rick opens the jar again and scoops a small amount of the cool gel into his palm. 

“It will not help the burns to heal any faster, but it will give relief from the pain,” Sauron explains. 

They each rub some on their burnt arms and faces, and instantly the burns sting less. The hobbits lay down between Rick and Sauron, and they are all asleep instantly.

It is with many mixed feelings that they reach the borders of Khand a week later. Sauron and Rick have not spoken again about Semira, and while the hobbits sense that their friends continue to disagree about her, they can see nothing untoward about her behavior or intentions. Sauron alone is glad to reach the end of their joined road together, but the others are each saddened in their own way. 

They make their final camp together, and after a rather bland morning meal of buttered bread, broth and water, Rick does something unusual. Instead of sitting with Semira and the hobbits to speak about whatever might come to their minds, he stands in front of them until they cease all activity. Even Sauron pauses to see what the lad has planned. Rick smiles grandly, bows dramatically and announces, “I thought that, in celebration of the New Year, and in honor of our last day together, I’d tell a story of the War and its aftermath on one very special family.”

“New Year?” Frodo asks with sharp surprise. “Is that today?” He has quite lost track of the days since they set out from Minas Tirith at the beginning of March.

“March the twenty-fifth,” Rick confirms. 

“What sort of story?” Sam asks politely. “Not anything too dire, I hope,” he adds, with a worried glance at Frodo, who looks pale and alarmed by this innocent announcement. 

“Well, it is rather dire to start,” Rick admits, “but it has quite a happy ending. Would you like to hear it?”

Sauron sits down as way of answering, and Sam nods eagerly. Semira places her hands in her lap and waits inquisitively, wondering what a tale of the War’s end would sound like from the perspective of the Pale Skins. 

Only Frodo is lost in thought as he quickly counts the days backward to his nightmare in the cave and that long, horribly bleak day: March the thirteenth. A cold chill spreads through him. How had he not realized it before?

“Sir?” Sam asks gently after a few more moments. 

Frodo shakes himself from his stupor and forces a smile. “I would love to hear your story,” he says and he tries his best to listen to the tale.

Rick clears his throat, pauses for full effect, then begins his tale.

“There once was a Gondorian woman named Ioveta, and she lived with her three young daughters on their farm in the Pelennor. Her husband, a great man named Leufred, was a soldier of Gondor, and three years before he had been part of an embassy to South Gondor to negotiate the release of prisoners from the Haradrim. The embassy, sent in peace, was ambushed when they reached the borders of Harad, and it was told that no one survived the assault. The bodies were said to be dumped in the Anduin to float to the Sea, staining the waters red as they went. 

“She had been with child when he left and now she would have to work the farm and raise her daughters on her own, including the new little one to come. She had no family to help her, being an only child, and her parents had passed away many years before. She had a few good friends, and they helped her when they could, but they too had their own troubles and very little time to spare. 

“Her third daughter came during a bitter cold winter and she named this daughter Leudreda, in honor of the father she would never know. Her eldest daughter, Ogiva, by then aged eight years, was given the task of being her sisters’ caregiver so that Ioveta could see to the running of the farm. Her middle daughter, Gerwinda, aged four, was so distraught about her father’s disappearance and her mother’s sadness that she stopped talking to anyone and spent the days in the corner of her room, playing silently with her dolls, which her father had made for her before he left.

“And so the seasons passed. Ioveta could not keep up with such a large farm and over the seasons more and more of the fields went unplanted and were allowed to grow over with weeds and wildflowers. Soon, she was maintaining only enough of the farm to keep her family fed, but she had no surplus to take to market for trade or sale. They had no new cloth or thread for making or mending clothes, no wax for making candles, no wood for fires to keep the house warm on cold winter nights. The house was neglected. Needed repairs could not be made, and when it rained the roof leaked so badly that one would never guess they were indoors. 

“Then, after two years had passed, Ioveta heard a remarkable rumor. It came into the city that some of the Steward’s scouts had spied the oarsmen of the massive Haradrim ships late one night. It had been very dark, due to the new moon, but the scouts were positive that some of the oarsmen were Gondorian soldiers, captured and taken prisoner, to work as slaves for the Haradrim on the dromunds, not wanting to waste their own soldiers on the ceaseless task of rowing the mighty ships. The scouts had not been able to get close enough to see faces, and so there was no way of knowing who the soldiers were.

“As you can imagine, there was much debate over the validity of this report, and even more debate as to who the enslaved soldiers might be. Ioveta dared not hope that her husband was among them and she refused to allow the rumors near her daughters. She couldn’t bare to give her daughters false hope, and she pretended that she had never heard the news at all, though there were many nights that Ogiva woke to the sounds of her mother's crying.

“Then the War came and the Pelennor and the City by order of the Steward was evacuated. Ioveta was forced from her ramshackle house. She gathered together what few treasures still mattered to her: her husband’s fife, her daughters’ most favored toys, her mother’s quilt, her father’s reading glass. She packed the few clothes they had and met the cart that had come to gather the refugees and take them to the shelter of the mountains. 

“They lived there, crowded together with the other refugees, for many months. While she was there, she took to leaving the caves at night and wandering the forest until she came to a high cliff that gave her a view of the Anduin. Every night when the moon was bright enough she could spy dromunds sailing up and down the mighty river, Despite her resolve she began to imagine running down to the dromunds, somehow getting onboard and finding the oarsmen. She would then run up the flanks of oarsmen, looking at each one of them frantically, and when she came to the last oarsman, he would look up and he would be her husband. They would embrace and rejoice and they would be together again, even if that only lasted as long as it took for the Haradrim to discover her and kill them both. 

“She never went beyond her cliff though. How could she leave her daughters behind, orphaned, to chase a fancy that could never be true? Still, she couldn’t stop the dream from coming and oftentimes she would fall asleep there while she watched the distant ships slide across the water, her husband’s fife clutched in her hands. 

“Then one night, two weeks after coming to the caves, she saw the impossible: the black ships of the Corsairs were no longer little specks at the edge of her vision. They were growing steadily larger. They were coming north, towards Gondor, and hope at last failed in her heart and she wept for all that would soon be lost.

“There were many runners who slipped in and out of the caves during the day, bringing news of the War. They too had seen the ships sail by in the night, and the news that was coming down from the Pelennor was no more hopeful. Of course, the news was also a day old by the time it reached them. They heard that the Enemy’s army was by far larger than Gondor’s, and the Rohorrim, though they had been beckoned, were not coming. Everything looked to be lost, there were fires alight all over the Pelennor, homes and fields destroyed utterly. The city was being besieged, and its walls would not hold much longer. The Enemy had a magic fire that blasted holes into the Rammas Echor, and once the out-wall was down, there was no stopping the Enemy. The City was being overrun - and the ships had yet to arrive with the Enemy's reinforcements.

“The next morning, everything had changed. The sun for the first time since the Dawnless Day showed herself in all her majesty. The runners now told stories of the Rohorrim riding into the city from the South, emerging from the mountains mere miles from the caves. This gave everyone hope, but Ioveta remembered the ships and she waited to hear news of their arrival at Harlond. The battle would not be in their favor for long. 

“Yet the news grew even more astounding after that. One of the Nazgûl had been slain by one of the Rohirrim; the Corsairs reached the City and unfurled the banner of the High King. That night came the news that the battle had ended, the Enemy had been driven back, and the King had returned at last to Gondor. Many had perished and amongst the celebration was grief too heavy to bear and an unspoken trepidation of what the coming days would bring. 

“Ioveta wasn’t sure how she survived the following weeks. Her daughters occupied much of her time and for that she was grateful, for she could not linger over dark thoughts and despair while she was caring for them. When at long last, the news of the Enemy’s defeat reached their ears, it was almost too miraculous to believe. At first she was wary and held back from celebrating with others, until at last one of the King’s soldiers came to tell them they would soon be allowed to return to their homes. They were warned that the damage sustained to the lower levels of the City was substantial, and that the Pelennor was a wasteland. 

“When they were finally permitted to leave the safety of the caves and were escorted back to their homes, they were shocked at what they saw. Ioveta led her daughters to where their house formerly stood. Only a couple of charred beams remained, standing out of the dirt like tombstones, marking the burial ground of their one-time home. She searched amongst the rubble and found that only one trinket had survived the battles unscathed: a pair of tin knitting needles. She added this to the bag that carried her few remaining belongings, then led her daughters to the City. 

“They were put in a small house on the fourth circle and there she found a job helping to reconstruct the City. She was not strong enough to lift the stones that rebuilt the walls and the broken buildings, but she used her knitting needles day and night to create works of such beauty that she soon became the preferred sempstress in the City. She was given a sewing wheel and supplies for her work by the King, who had somehow come to hear of her plight, and over the next several weeks she became very busy. For the first time since her husband died, she was happy. She found she was now able to provide for her daughters, not only food, but clothing and other necessities as well, and as she taught Ogiva and Gerwinda to sew, Gerwinda began to utter a few words. Soon she was speaking again and making friends, though she was still more quiet than she had been.

“Ioveta could not believe her good fortune, and when she finally plucked up the courage to request an audience with the King to thank him personally for his generous gift, she was most pleased by his personal letter saying he and the Queen would be delighted to meet her. She met with the King and Queen a few days later, and they were everything she had been told: gentle and mirthful, kind and compassionate, wise and just. 

“At the end of their interview together, an old weathered soldier of the City came into the room. The Queen sat herself next to Ioveta, who gathered her daughters to her. They looked up at the soldier with wonderment and fear, and Ioveta’s heart began to beat fast within her chest. She knew before he spoke what he was going to say. He placed his hand over his heart and bowed deeply to her and her daughters. When he straightened, there was much pride and gratitude in his eyes and in his voice when he spoke. 

“‘I am Willibald,’ he said, ‘and I served on the embassy to Harad with your husband, Leufred. He was a great man and though I knew him only for a short time, we became good friends. He spoke to me often of his wife and two daughters and how he hoped he would be able to return in time to see his third child born into the world. In turn, he listened often to my stories of my son and how proud I was to have such a compassionate and intelligent son. When our company was attacked, I was injured early, and he stood over me and fought any man who came near me. He died protecting me, and for that I owe him my life and breath. I thought I would be worked to death on the ships, but I was resolved to bring you his final message: that he loved you all with his final breath and that he would only be at peace when you are happy again.’

“The tears Ioveta and her daughters cried then were bitter and hard, but with them came a cleansing of their fears and doubts. They were happy, and it gave them joy to know that Leufred was at rest. Yet there was one more obstacle standing in her way to true happiness and this she did not realize until the coming year.

“At the beginning of the following spring she was given the news that her home could be rebuilt if she so wished and her farm restored to her. She left her daughters in the care of a friend, and returned to the Pelennor for the first time since coming to the City. There she met the workmen who would be rebuilding her house and planting the first crops for her. She walked around the vacant fields, unused for so long, and when she reached the spot where her house once stood, those two burnt beams still sticking out of the ground in the spot where she had watched her husband ride away from her for the final time, she fell to her knees and wept. 

“It was some time before she came back to herself and was able to stop her tears, and when she did, she realized she was being held by one of the workmen and that she had been crying into his shirt. She pushed herself away in horror and tried to utter apologies, but he would not hear of it. He had lost loved ones due to the war as well, and knew the impact that coming home again could have on a body. He had lost his uncle, three cousins and his dearest of friends, and he would have even lost his father had a great man not saved him. 

“The man’s name was Merovech, and his father was none other than Willibald, whom he had feared dead for so long. He wiped the tears away from her astonished face and told her that crying is not always an evil. He suggested she plant a rose bush in the spot where she had cried, to remind her that with pain also came beauty and joy. He promised to help her with the farm, in debt to her lost husband, and because he had always wanted to grow things. 

“They married in the autumn in the glow of the harvest fires before the newly built house and the blossoming rose bushes, and there they have lived happily together ever since.”

A moment of shocked silence follows this unexpected ending. Sam and Frodo are sniffling quietly. Semira’s face is scrunched up with consternation. Sauron is just pleased that Rick had left out mention of the Ernil i Pheriannath, for it had been Pippin who had learned of Ioveta’s hardship and carried the news to the King.

Finally Sam blinks and wipes the tears from his eyes. “I always rather hoped it’d be her husband as walked through the door, not that old soldier. I never heard what happened after that. It is a happy ending, as you say.”

“That’s a lovely story,” Frodo agrees at last. “There’s hope in it. I am glad they found each other.”

Sam nods his agreement but Semira only stares at the extinguished fire thoughtfully. Sauron stretches and yawns. “A wonderful story,” he says, “but if we’re going to cross over to Khand tonight, we better get to sleep now. I’ll take the first watch.” With that, the others go to their bedrolls and are soon asleep.

To be continued…

GF 5/27/07

Chapter 15 - Resolutions

Night comes swiftly. The travelers are exhausted from their long trek and even though the heat continues to mount during the long afternoon, they all slumber deeply until Sauron wakes them at dusk. Rick chides Sauron for not calling for relief, but Sauron shrugs it off. 

“It’s not like I really need the sleep,” Sauron points out, “not like the rest of you do. Besides, like all Maia, I can sleep with my eyes open, so I can keep watch and get rest at the same time.”

“Can you?” asks Sam. “I was wondering about that.”

“Even if that is the case, Sam and I were both to have a watch today,” Frodo says. “I think it’s only fair that you don’t take a watch at our next stop.”

“Aye, an extra hour or two on watch won’t hurt us none,” Sam puts in, crossing his arms stubbornly. 

Sauron only nods, then with Sam’s help begins to sort the supplies, dividing Semira’s from theirs and reorganizing the saddlebags so that Semira can take one of the pack horses back to the Harnen port with her. That she is surprised by this change in plans is evident; she even tentatively questions his decision to go against his King’s orders to return directly to Gondor. 

“I have the authority to alter our plans as necessary,” Sauron says. “Once you have the beasts, you will return to your home and inform your master of the change. He will know the best way of contacting the King,” he finishes with finality.

Semira argues no more after this. Instead, she retrieves her clay jar with the tree resin from her bag, a bemused expression on her lovely face. She makes more of the frankincense oil from the resin while Sauron and Sam finish the packing. Frodo and Rick watch her with much interest as they heat up the evening meal. Soon, the scent of spiced meat and sautéed fruit mixes with the heady fragrance of the oil, and everyone is suddenly more awake and aware of their surroundings as the last cobwebs of sleep are swept away. When the oil is ready, she dutifully pours some into a small vial and hands this to Frodo.

“In case you begin to dream again, Master Remi,” Semira says to him.

“Thank you,” Frodo says quietly, careful to avoid her piercing green eyes. He doesn’t mention that he has already begun to dream again. He has a feeling that everyone already knows anyway. He tucks the vial safely into a fold of his robe and goes back to stirring the food. 

Semira graciously leaves his side without another word and begins to pack the last of her belongings. Rick lingers uncertainly for a moment before following Semira.  

She stands by her horse, putting the clay jar with the remaining oil in her pack. Her face is still scrunched with worry, the furrow in her brow growing deeper with each passing moment. She sneaks furtive glances between Rick and the others, and while it is apparent she wishes to say something to him while the others are occupied elsewhere, she keeps her mouth forcibly shut. 

Finally, Rick moves closer and says near silently, “Are you all right?”

Semira only shakes her head. “I am not permitted,” she begins then clamps her mouth shut again. She finishes with the pack and begins to curry the horse as a way to distract herself. 

“You’re not permitted? To do what?” he tries again.

Semira continues to curry the horse with long, deliberately slow strokes, avoiding looking at him for as long as she can. Finally, she turns to him and her eyes, usually so shrewd and veiled, look up at him beseechingly. “I cannot,” she begins again, then pauses, takes a deep breath and plunges ahead. “You are, how do you say? An innocent. Never have you taken a life before. It is clear for all to see on your face. This is a weakness. Then your people, you think it is noble to die in battle, like that man in your story, protecting one who has already lost. This too is a weakness, one that will be exploited by your enemy. You mustn’t let them. Your enemy will not hesitate to strike a killing blow, so you must not hesitate either. You must be strong in your resolve, you must be certain, beyond any doubt.”

“We are not going into Khand to find enemies,” Rick says, surprised by this fervent speech and the tears that stand in Semira’s eyes. 

“But enemies you will find,” Semira continues, dropping her voice even more, so that Rick has to lean down to hear her. “They say there are wizards in Khand, old men of great power, and I fear that there is great danger for all of you in going to Khand. They know all who pass, and those who pass without permission never are they seen again. Master Remi, he shares with you the same barbaric ideal of self-sacrifice. He would give his life for all others, but there are things worse than death, and these wizards will visit upon him every one of them if they are given the chance. Please, promise me that you will be careful. Promise me that you will never leave their sides, that you will kill for them.” 

Rick can only gape at her, so shocked he is to hear this desperate, unexpected plea and to discover how closely she has guessed the truth of their mission, whether she knows it or not. Several moments pass before he forces himself to nod. “I promise.”

They eat in silence as night settles heavily around them. None of them are eager to speak. They are close to their destination now. They will be in Khand in just a few short hours, and they are about to say farewell to a member of their group. Almost instinctively, they linger over their meal, delaying the moment they will have to say good-bye until Sauron clears his throat and announces they need to be moving soon. They hurry now to finish their meal and clean the dishes. Too soon, everything is packed away and they are gathered around their beasts, Semira separated from the others. 

“I will be sad to be leaving your company,” she says with a formal bow.

“We are sad to leave you also,” Rick says, feeling a dread in his stomach that he cannot quite place. Is it heartache or terror of what is to come? “It won’t be the same without you.”

Semira smiles wistfully, then stretches up on her tiptoes to softly kiss his cheek. “I hope that we can meet again in friendlier times, Master Wulfram.”

“That is my hope also,” he replies, resisting the urge to touch his cheek where her gentle kiss sears his skin.

Semira next bends down and kisses Frodo’s and Sam’s cheeks. They hug her tightly in return. Whatever Sauron might think of her intentions, the hobbits have always felt comfortable and safe in her presence and they will be sad to leave her. 

“Thank you again for your generosity and your care,” Frodo says. “It has made the journey easier.”

“Thank you, Master Remi. You are most courteous,” she replies, bowing deeply. She turns to Sam. “And you, Master Matfrid. The devotion you have for your friend will not go without reward. You are truly of a noble soul.”

Sam blushes and ducks his head, unable to keep eye contact. “Thank you, Semira, for everything. I learned a lot about your folk from traveling with you, and I don’t think they’re so very different from my own, not when it comes right down to it, if you follow me.”

“I believe that I do follow,” Semira replies, “and I do not think we are so very different either.” 

She turns last to Sauron and bows again. “Master Odolf, it was an honor to guide you. May the Eye protect you on your journey.”

“Thank you,” Sauron says, bowing in return. “Your services have been much appreciated. We will be sure to tell King Elessar of your conduct when next we see him.”

Not able to delay the moment any longer, Semira mounts her stallion first and rides away as the others watch, the pack horse trailing behind her on its lead rope. She is soon nothing more than a black form against the night, growing ever smaller and more obscure the farther away she rides. After a time, Sauron clears his throat again and mounts his own stallion. The others follow his lead and they are soon riding away in the opposite direction, towards Khand. 

They can all sense when they cross the border. There is an almost palpable heaviness to the night air, and they are plunged into a deep darkness they have not experienced since the labyrinthine caves behind Minas Tirith. The stars and moon above appear suddenly muted, their light failing to cast even the slightest trace of silver upon the ground. The horses and ponies also feel the difference and they group together, walking so closely that they would bump into each other if not for the riders guiding them. 

When they have traveled for many hours and the eastern sky is growing grey with the coming day, Sauron falls back to the rear of the company and speaks quietly with Rick. “Remember that question you wanted to ask Frodo before you met him?” Rick nods. “Ask him at the next camp, but get him alone first. Lead the hobbits due east. Ride until the sun has peaked the distant hills. I will join you as soon as I can.”

“What do you mean? Where are you going?” Rick asks, confused about Sauron’s request and alarmed that he is being left alone to guide the hobbits in this strange and oppressive land.

“I’m going to double back and make sure we’re not being followed, lay a couple of false trails to be safe,” Sauron says and with a tug on the reins, he turns about and darts into the direction from which they just came.

Two hours later, they have made camp and finished eating their morning meal. The hobbits have happily removed those dratted boots from their suffocating feet in exchange for the more agreeable desert sandals. The sky has grown from grey to pale blue as the sun peaks over the hills on the horizon. From this distance, the hills look like nothing more than mere bumps along the ground. 

Sam likens the hills to forgotten toys lying in the barnyard. He launches into a story of his best friends, Tom and Robin, and one of the many antics they used to get into in their youths. Sam seems almost eager to cover the oppressing silence by talking as joyfully as he can. 

Frodo listens to Sam’s reminiscing with a wistful smile, but he does not contribute any stories of his own. His mind wanders often to the emptiness surrounding them and he feels always the pressure of unseen eyes watching their every movement. He shudders at the thought and forcibly pushes it away, concentrating instead on Sam’s anecdotes of the Shire. They are both grateful when it is time to sleep, but they both make a point of reminding Rick to wake them when it is their time to take the watch.

Too soon, Rick is alone. He stands at the perimeter of the camp, peering out at the slowly lightening morning back in the direction they have just come. He had guided the hobbits as best he could given the instructions Sauron had left him. He supposes he should be grateful to see the hills on the horizon, even while he knows that the Blue Wizards’ fortress lies somewhere amongst them. For now he can only hope that he has not inadvertently gone off course and that Sauron will be able to find them before too much longer. 

While he waits, he thinks long and hard on Sauron’s request and the question he had wanted to ask Frodo so long ago. To ask him now feels like sacrilege, but given Semira’s parting words with him, he knows there is no getting around it. He tries to figure out the best way of approaching the discussion and by the end of his watch, he is no closer to a satisfactory line of questioning than he had been two months ago. 

Dutifully, he goes into the tent and shakes Frodo awake. He then goes back outside to wait for the hobbit to join him. Frodo pokes his head out of the tent and blinks tentatively at the blinding sun and landscape, broken only by the wild barren brush that now stretches out in every direction. Rick motions to the lean-to he has erected off the eastern side of the tent.

“You can sit here while you keep watch,” the lad says. “Keep yourself covered up though. The shade won’t save you from getting burned again.”

Frodo follows Rick, and while the lad hides his worry and doubt well, Frodo senses there is something more than just Sauron’s long absence that is bothering him. “I wouldn’t worry too much about Sauron. He can take care of himself,” he reassures as way of getting the lad to start talking.

“I know he can,” Rick says. “He’s done this sort of thing before.” 

“But you’re still worried?” Frodo says, only now realizing that it is himself Rick is watching with an air of pent-up anxiety. He feels the skin on the back of his neck prickling uncomfortably under the weight of that gaze and swallows instinctively.

Rick attempts too late to cover his pensive expression and for several minutes neither of them speak or even move. When he finally does speak, he is almost meek in his hesitance. “How have you been feeling? You’ve been dreaming again, haven’t you? Are you seeing the wizards?”

“I’m not,” Frodo answers truthfully, repressing a sigh. He had known this conversation would happen eventually, but he had figured Sauron would be the one to question him and perhaps even suggest one last lesson before they go too much farther. Yet he cannot blame Rick for worrying and he hopes to put the lad at ease. “I see other things, things I can’t quite see. They're hazy or I don't really remember them once I'm awake. They don’t bother me too much actually. I do seem to be developing a bit of a headache though, but Sauron warned me long ago this might happen once we reached Khand. Sam seems to be doing well. He’s a bit on edge, but nothing worse than that. Did Sauron say how long he would be? Do you think Semira really is an enemy?”

“I hope not,” Rick says. “Some of her ideals were a bit skewered but that’s not her fault.”

Again, they both fall into silence. Rick shuffles his feet, listening intently to the tent behind them, where Sam’s snores can be heard drifting through the canvas. He squints out at the desert and clears his throat. “Did Sauron already tell you his plan?”

“Yes.”

“All of it?”

Frodo nods. “All of it.”

“Are you nervous? Scared?” 

“Well, I only have to distract the wizards until Sauron can make his move. I shouldn’t have to contend with them for too long,” Frodo says, his voice wavering slightly at the thought of going up against the wizards. Now that they are so close to their destination, it seems more real and frightening than it had in his cozy little parlor in Bag End or even the homey, expansive rooms of the King’s chambers in Minas Tirith. 

“I’ve been wondering something, and I hope you won’t take offense to it,” Rick says, the note of hesitancy in his voice growing more pronounced. He begins to babble. “I had forgotten it actually, until Sam said how you and Semira aren’t all that different, and I got to thinking about hobbits and how the idea of sacrificing themselves would be an odd concept to most of them. But then I thought about how you sacrificed yourself, nearly everything that you are, to destroy the Ring and I just need to understand something. You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.”

“What is it?” Frodo asks with caution. 

“Sauron told me, on our way to the Shire, that you were invited to sail West with Gandalf and your cousin Bilbo. Only you didn’t. You could have found healing there and peace, but you stayed behind instead. Why did you stay?” Rick asks.

Now it is Frodo’s turn to hesitate and for a while he considers not answering. Yet Rick is waiting so expectantly, so openly, so clearly distressed, that Frodo finds himself answering before he is even aware of making the decision. “I wanted to see Sam settled first, see him married to his Rose,” he says. “I kept trying to convince him that he doesn’t need to look after me so thoroughly, but he refused to listen. He thinks he has to spend all his time taking care of me, and I regret to say that I haven’t been able to do much to counter that belief. I have needed his help, more than I care to admit.”

“That’s understandable, wanting to see him taken care of first,” Rick allows, “but don’t you think it’s harder for him to see you ill? Wouldn’t he be happier knowing you are being healed, even if he's not the one healing you?”

“He would be, once the shock of my leaving lessens, but I worried that he will want to follow me, that he'll leave behind the life he's been planning since his tweens just to be with me. I worry what he will do once I'm gone and he's left here alone. He almost flung himself off a cliff into Mordor when he thought I was killed by that spider’s sting. The only reason he didn’t was because he knew he had to finish the Quest and then he wouldn’t have cared what happened to him after that. That’s why I wish for him to be settled first. He will be less tempted to throw his life away to follow me, he’ll able to accept my leaving and continue on with his life more easily if he has a family to raise, another quest to accomplish,” Frodo explains.

“What made you trust Sauron then? Why did you agree to help?” Rick presses.

“I saw Sauron’s light. He’s trying to heal, just as I am,” Frodo says. “And I agreed to help because you said you needed my help. If what I’ve seen in my dreams is true, then I simply couldn’t sit back and do nothing while these people suffered needlessly.”

“That’s an admirable reason, but are you sure it’s the real one?” Rick asks, turning a vibrant shade of pink that has nothing to do with the sun or the heat. “I’ve spoken to many of your friends in Gondor and Rohan since the end of the War, including those of the Nine Walkers, and I’ve been observing you and Sam during this journey. From everything I’ve been able to gather, you have been suffering nonstop since the War, yet you refused your gift to sail West. You says it’s for Sam’s benefit, but I can’t help remembering something Sam said that day in Bag End: that if you weren’t so afraid of Sauron finding you to finish you off, he thought you might actually welcome death. You didn’t… I mean, did you… Did you agree to come, not just to help these people, but as a way to finally end your own suffering?”

Frodo does not respond to this, so shocked he is at the accusation and that it should be Rick who makes it. He swallows the bile creeping up his throat and looks away pointedly, staring blankly into the distance. A warm gust of wind brushes against his flushed face, but rather than feeling refreshing, the heady air only increases his sense of nausea. He closes his eyes and focuses on breathing deeply.

“I’m sorry,” Rick says after a time, distressed by the hobbit’s reaction. “I didn’t mean to imply anything, I just… I have nothing but the deepest respect for you, Frodo, and that respect will never change. I just need to make sure that your intentions are clear to you, because it’s not just your life that you’re risking. Perhaps you are ready to depart this world, but I don’t think that Sam is. As you said, he’s only following you. You need to be sure of where you are leading him, and why.”

More bile creeps up Frodo’s throat. He swallows it violently and he can feel himself shaking with rage and guilt. There is a roaring in his ears, as deafening as the crashing waves of the sea. He shakes his head. “I don’t want to die,” he says through clenched teeth.

“You haven’t exactly been living,” Rick says softly. “I’m sorry, but I had to ask. Semira said that if the wizards detected any hesitance in you, any weakness or lack of resistance, they will use that to their advantage. We’ll all be lost.”

“I do not want to die. My intentions are perfectly clear and they will remain that way,” Frodo insists, crossing his arms tightly across his chest and forcing himself to stand rigid until Rick leaves, escaping into the tent. Then Frodo slumps to the ground, his head in his hands as tears of frustration and shame slide down his face.

Sam wakes with a stretch and a yawn. The first thing he notices is that Frodo had not awakened him. The second thing he notices is that Frodo is not even there. Rick sleeps fitfully on his sleeping roll but he is the only other one inside the tent. Sam scrambles to his feet, stretches again, and steps outside. 

The mid-afternoon sun shines down unrelentingly, and he can even see the heat rising off the scorched sand. The wind is mild today, sending warm gusts to stir the otherwise stagnant air, and high above in the distant sky a bird circles looking for prey. 

Sam squints against the bright light and walks around the tent to the lean-to, where Frodo is sitting, absently digging a brand of firewood through the sand. Sam watches him for a time as Frodo draws birds, flowers, trees and other such homey things, only to wipe them away and begin again. After seeing this process a few times, Sam joins his master and isn’t at all surprised when Frodo fails to register his presence. His master is clearly lost in thought and he knows it best to let Frodo work through whatever is troubling him without interruption. Quietly, Sam pulls out the pots and some food and sets up the firewood to begin a fire. He pours some water into a cup and sets it near his master’s hand. Frodo picks it up and drinks absently, continuing his mindless drawing.

Frodo wipes the sand smooth again and begins to draw Brandy Hall and Buck Hill, his thoughts so scattered that he barely notices Sam’s movements from the corner of his eye. In fact, he notices nothing at all, not even the scratching of the twig as he pulls it slowly through the sand. He had long ago lulled himself into a state of numb confusion. 

Frodo is upset, but not with Rick. No, rather he is angry with himself, angry for not seeing what the others, including Sam, had undoubtedly seen from the start. He had fooled himself into believing that his lessons with Sauron had healed him and made him stronger, but even before the lessons began he had already been improving. It had been leaving the Shire, leaving behind his former life and heading out on this dangerous, nearly impossible quest when he had begun to improve. 

Yet does that mean he has a death wish as Rick suggests, or is it simply being useful again, having a sense of purpose after being lost for so long that catalyzed his improvement? He had not been of much use to anyone in the Shire, after all. Yet even as he thinks this, he remembers his brief stint as Deputy Mayor and his on-going role as Master of the Hill, both important in their own ways. Why had he been unable to find purpose in serving his fellow Hobbits, when he had so easily found purpose in a quest to help people he did not even know, a quest that may very well result in his death? Is this why he’d had such difficulty resettling into his life, whereas his cousins and Sam had not? 

What of his anniversary illnesses? He had gone to the greatest lengths to hide them from Sam, to pretend that everything is fine when the darkness returns to consume him whole. He had thought his illnesses to be caused by the many wounds he had suffered during the Quest and from the Ring, combined with his guilt over his failure at Mt. Doom (which had not, it turned, been his fault at all). What does it say now, after spending weeks learning to control the gifts bestowed upon him by the Ring, that he is still accosted on the anniversary of his stinging by Shelob? He had not even been keeping track of the days, had in fact let it slip completely from his mind as he gained more and more control over his powers, and yet it had not been enough. Had the illness been merely the close proximity of Mordor, as Sauron had surmised, or had it been the anniversary itself? If it had been the anniversary, then can he really hope to ever overcome the debilitating influence they have over him? Or is he somehow implementing it without being aware of what he is doing, giving him an excuse to hide from life?

He had also thought the illnesses to be compounded by the shock of returning home to find it decimated at the hands of Lotho and the wizard Saruman, whom Merry had wished to apprehend when they crossed paths with him in Dunland. It had been Frodo who allowed him to go free. If his compassion and mercy had allowed Gollum to destroy the Ring, then it had also allowed Saruman the time he needed to reap and burn the Shire to cinders, causing more devastation in two months than Lotho had managed in a year. 

Yet returning to the Shire had not been the beginning of his illness, he can no longer deny it. No, that had begun in Minas Tirith. While they had been in Cormallen, Frodo had been able to believe they were in that far green country his had glimpsed in his dream in the house of Tom Bombadil. Not until they left that glorious field and reached the war-ruined city did the dream shatter and the nightmare began again. The soldiers left behind lined the crumbling and war-torn streets of the city to celebrate the coming of the Ring-bearers, singing their names with such adoration it cut through him like a knife. With each subsequent celebration, the gloom had crept over him a little bit more, casting a shadow over his mind more bleak and suppressing than any he had ever encountered in Mordor. Why had that been? Why had he been so overtaken by the shadow when he should have been rejoicing with the others?

Only now does he see the horrible truth and it crashes over him like a cold wave, causing him to shiver despite the heat. He had been so prepared to die on the Quest, had expected it even from the beginning when the very thought of it scared him half out of his wits. As the Quest continued and the danger grew more frightening and his despair grew with it, he had come to see his eminent death as a safe harbor, with the fires of Mt. Doom as the beacon calling him towards it. He had learned to not only accept it, but to depend on it as the only way to keep the taunts of the Ring from crushing him completely. He had never intended to live in the world after the Ring went into the fire, and if he had only one regret at the time it had been that Sam would have to die also. By the time they reached Mt. Doom, the promise of death had been an ecstasy beyond all others he had ever known before. 

And since. 

Hadn’t Aragorn told him once that he had been far harder to call back from the brink than Sam had been? Sam had returned to life easily but Frodo had fought it, had sought instead the refuge of the void. Had he ever truly stopped seeking it? He had been living in a nightmare world ever since Cormallen, biding his time until he can pass from the world and be bothered by it no more, his uncertainty over Sam’s survival the only thread keeping him dangling here. Not his own survival, but Sam’s. The nightmare had only lifted when Sauron arrived and offered him the means to do just that.

He feels tears threaten to spill as he finally admits what he has been denying himself since the Quest ended: he wants to die. The illnesses, the guilt, the shame have all been his way of justifying this dark desire, of allowing himself to ignore the life that has only been waiting for him to reclaim it, the life that will offer him true healing. 

No. He shakes his head and forces the tears back. He had wanted to die. Now, he wants to live. The Valar have blessed him with a second chance and he has been squandering it, but that will end now. He intends to claim this second chance and use it as long as he may. He will not go up against the wizards only to be defeated. He will best them, no matter what it takes, and then he will take Sam home and see him married to his Rose. He’ll be there to see their children born, and he’ll be there to see Pippin come of age and Merry and Estella wed. He may still one day have to accept his fate in the West but that will not be until he has made an honest effort to live his life again. If he does sail, it will only be because there are some wounds too deep to heal, not because he is running from the opportunity to be happy amongst his friends and family.

He throws the stick down onto the dirt and stands swiftly. He turns, intending to go into the tent to wake Sam, only to find Sam already there, looking up at him in wonder and surprise as water bubbles happily in the pot. Frodo pauses, surprised at his unexpected company. For a moment, they do nothing more than stare dumbfounded at each other, then Frodo squares his shoulders, marches over to Sam and beckons for him to stand. When they are eye-level, Frodo says, “We’re not going to die here, Sam,” with more conviction than he has shown in a long time. 

Sam’s face brightens. Whatever has been running through his master’s head seems to have agreed with him, for here at last is the master he had known before the Quest. This is not a small glimpse grasped in the moments before the volcano begins to erupt. This is his master, finally and truly returned to him. Sam laughs and nods his head approvingly. “That we won’t sir,” he agrees. “Them Blue Wizards don’t stand a chance, I reckon, but if you want to be awake to defeat them, I suggest you get some sleep. I’ll wake you when dinner’s ready.”

“Thank you Sam,” Frodo says, and Sam knows it to mean more than just dinner.

“It’s not a bother, sir,” Sam replies. 

They embrace briefly, then Sam returns to his stew and Frodo goes inside to his sleeping roll and settles down to the best sleep he’s had in weeks. 

To be continued…

GF 6/2/07

Chapter 16 - Khand

Sauron returns just as everyone is sitting down to the evening meal and beginning to worry about what can be taking the Maia so long to return. He approaches from the west, the blazing red-yellow sunset behind him dancing like a fire in the sky as another sand storm begins on the horizon. There are many buzzards flying in circles over the swirling sand, disturbed from their homes by the storm. In the east, the distant hills are already lost to the bleak night and the stars are beginning to shimmer weakly. The moon will not be long in rising and they will be grateful for the little light it provides. 

They breathe with relief to have their leader returned to them at last. The other horses and the ponies are also glad to see their missing comrade and they toss their heads and stamp the ground, their tails swishing happily. Rick’s horse, still unnamed, whinnies gently and Sauron’s stallion returns the call.

Sauron stops in front of them and dismounts. He looks disheveled and his eyes fall upon the food hungrily, but he appears to be otherwise unaffected by his travels.

“Where have you been?” Frodo asks as Sam prepares a plate. “We expected you back much sooner. You must be exhausted.”

“I am, but I can manage one more ride before I must succumb to sleep,” Sauron reassures them. “After I was satisfied that no one was following us and set a couple of false trails, I decided to scout ahead, just in case. We’re in the clear, but from the looks of that storm it seems it was all for nothing. It will sweep away any sign of our passing for a good many miles. It shouldn’t reach us here though.”

“So, no one’s following us, are they?” Rick says in an I-told-you-so voice. “No one jumped us at the port, and Semira was never anything short of professional and trustworthy. You know Sauron, this all comes back to what I was saying before about learning to trust people and not being so paranoid.”

“Look, just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean something couldn’t have happened,” Sauron defends himself as he sits but the others only laugh. He fixes Rick with a pointed look. “Spy or not, she was still a danger to the mission. She knows the hobbits' true identities, I'm certain of that at least. Who knows what else she was able to piece together?” 

Rick says nothing. He doesn’t dare mention Semira’s parting words with him. 

Sauron turns to Frodo, who is still watching him with much amusement, and takes his plate from Sam. “How are you, Frodo?” he asks.

“I’m well,” Frodo answers with a grin at Rick. “Better than well, even, thanks to Rick.” He had wasted no time in thanking Rick for his frankness when the lad woke earlier, and they are both much the gladder and more at ease for their open discussion.

“Good, because there will be no room for error once we reach the Blue Wizards’ fortress,” Sauron warns.

“Begging your pardon, sir, but what exactly are we going to do once we sneak into that fortress?” Sam asks. “You do know where to go, don’t you? You know where the wizards keep their rings and all that?”

“I know where the rings are hid but I've only been there once since the fortress was originally built. Don’t worry,” Sauron replies calmly. “I was the one who commissioned it to be built, and as I didn’t trust the wizards even then, I had it built in exact replica to one of my former strongholds. It was the only way to ensure that I would know all its secrets, and I remember the layout well. I’ll know where to go.”

Sauron is correct about the sand storm. It dies out before ever reaching them and by the time they set off that night, the faint cawing of the displaced birds had quieted once again to eerie silence. They continue due east and as each plodding step forward draws them nearer to the night-shrouded hills, their sense of dread and apprehension grows. Sam casts constant fretful glances at Frodo, watching his master closely for signs of distress, while Frodo simply attempts to concentrate on staying on his pony despite his now pounding headache. Rick tries to break the tension with a couple of traveling songs but the words soon die on his lips, and Sauron often looks over his shoulders as though he still expects to find someone following them.

Two mornings later, they reach the hills and camp under a crooked tree with small oval-shaped leaves and small white flowers. Frodo has grown pale and quiet, and after he fumbles the water jug twice, Sam gently takes the jug away and sends his master to relax under the tree. Frodo takes out his vial of frankincense and breathes the fumes deeply. The headache alleviates greatly, but it does not go away entirely, remaining a constant pressure inside his head. When some water is heated, Sam brings him some tea and he sips at it gratefully between whiffs of the oil. Rick joins Sam at the fire once the tent is up and Sauron joins Frodo as soon as he is finished patting down the horses and ponies. 

Sauron sits quietly for many long minutes, watching Sam and Rick at the cooking or else looking up into the boughs of the tree. After a time he says, “You can feel their power, but I do not think they are aware of you yet.”

“Does your head hurt too then?” Frodo asks. “Why aren’t Rick and Sam being affected?”

“They have no connection to the wizards,” Sauron answers. “They will be safe enough for now, and the wizards cannot affect me so easily. Remember Frodo: it’s not about resisting their power. It’s about protecting yourself. Concentrate on veiling your mind, or the headaches will continue and you’ll be too worn and exhausted to face the wizards when the time comes.”

“Block them. I can do that,” Frodo says with a careful nod and immediately begins to protect his mind as Sauron has taught him. Almost instantly, he begins to feel better. “We’re nearly there, aren’t we? Just a few more days. How bad is it going to be?”

Sauron breathes heavily, reluctant to answer but knowing he must. “How much do you remember of Cirith Ungol?” he asks softly.

“Too much,” Frodo answers with a shiver. “Enough to know I never want to go there again.”

Sauron nods and grows more reluctant, but he eventually finishes, “You may come to look on it fondly.”

The next morning Sauron leads them to a trail that crawls between two hill ranges and they slowly wind their way deep into the narrow valley. The same crooked trees grow thick all around them, blocking the searing heat of the day so they can rest easier, and everywhere there are patches of yellow grass and tall cacti with bright pink flowers. Scattered amongst the trees and leading up to the bare hilltops are giant boulders and slabs of sandstone. 

On their second night into the hills, they come to a river that Sauron says will lead them to the base of the Blue Wizards’ fortress. Frodo and Sam share a steadying resolve while Rick inches closer to the hobbits. They have noticed his increased vigilance of them and assume it is due solely to their destination, now so near even Sam begins to feel the pressure of unseen eyes watching them from afar. He shivers involuntarily.

Sauron notices this and catches Frodo’s eye. He nods towards Sam and Frodo easily understands the unspoken command. He begins at once to stretch out with his mind, shielding Sam from the dark energy that now envelopes them. The headache threatens to return as they begin to follow the river away from the path and up into the hills, but Frodo soon enough masters this extension of his powers and the pain abates again. 

The ground along the riverbank is soft and steep, making it difficult for the beasts to climb. Sauron leads them away from the river to more solid ground, but even there they soon must dismount and lead their beasts along the steep and narrow pathways between the trees and boulders. There are sections of worn sandstone that had been cut into steps, and they use these whenever possible though they provide no safer footing than the earth. The steps are old and crumbling and even the hobbits’ light footsteps often displace whole chunks of sandstone. The horses’ small hooves find cracks in the steps, causing them great distress and pain when their feet become trapped. It soon becomes apparent that they cannot continue by night and Sauron stops them while the moon is still high in the western sky.

“We need to begin traveling by day at any rate,” he announces. “There is a village in the hills above us and it would be unwise to come upon it at night. We should reach it late tomorrow morning. I’ll speak with some of the villagers and find out how things stand before we continue.”

“Will the villagers be friendly, living so close to the wizards?” Rick asks. “They’re not Variags are they?”

“Variags?” Sam asks.

“A warrior caste of half-orc men,” Sauron explains. “Some of them at one time might have lived in the village or others like it, to keep the peace. Like the orcs though, most of the Variags were lost in the War and those that remain hide in the mountains. 

“The villagers here are just simple people. Many of the Khand were called out to war for me, and their loathing for the Westrons are no less than that of the Haradrim. They will not be our allies, but they are no friends of the wizards either. They have been enslaved by the wizards for centuries and the wizards are not kind masters. If they try to stop us, it will only be for our safety and for theirs. They will not want the wizards to think they have sent for assassins.”

“If they’re not our allies, won’t they try to—?” Sam begins but Sauron cuts him off.

“They won't. They wouldn't dare anything that might draw attention to them, not while the wizards have been quiet so long,” he says. “Now, I know you’ve only been awake a few hours, but try to get some more sleep. We’ll set out again at first light.”

They do not bother with the tent but pull out their sleeping rolls and toss these on the ground near the beasts. Rick takes the first watch and while the others sleep, he sometimes hears the faint sound of mournful lutes and the gentle tapping of drums on the night air. He hopes the sounds come from the village and that they carry no ominous message. He keeps a hand on the hilt of his sword, trembling every time he remembers his promise to Semira but determined to keep his word. He is grateful when Sauron wakes and relieves him four hours later, but even though he lies down and closes his eyes, sleep eludes him until the moon falls beyond the hills.

Just before dawn, Sauron wakes them. The hobbits look no more rested than Rick but they groggily follow Sauron’s order to strap their daggers onto their belts so that they are all armed. The hobbits then are obliged to don their boots again.

After a hasty breakfast, they leave their beasts and gear in the camp, except for a small bag that Sauron carries over his shoulder, and continue up the steep, rock-strewn hillside on foot. The river cascades down a sheer cliff about a mile from where they camped. The drop is high but they find more steps carved into the sandstone that take them with ease to the higher level. 

The land levels out at the top of the waterfall. The trees thin from dense jungle to scattered copses and after a league or more they see a village of many huts. Behind the village are more scattered trees running towards a final rise in the hill, to solid sandstone climbing sharply into the sky. Beyond this last summit, they can just glimpse a tall turret of black obsidian. 

With effort, Rick and the hobbits peel their eyes from the far-off turret and back to the village. As they come closer, they see that the huts are made of mud bricks with thatched roofs. The windows are instead simple holes in the wall, cut into oval shapes with painted designs around the holes that remind the hobbits vaguely of flower blossoms. The doorways are covered only with a long strip of drab cloth, and above the doorways are embedded rocks arranged in odd patterns. The walls had at one time been painted but the paint is now faded, the colors and designs nothing more than dim shadows of their former glory.

There are animals milling around the huts and in the gardens, pigs and chickens looking for what food they can find. Around the huts and spreading out before the village are plots of vegetable gardens and crop fields. The river flows between the fields, and there are old men and women and young children in the fields, bent over to their work. These unlikely laborers are the first to notice them and they send up an alarm call, an imitation of the buzzards that live in the open desert. 

There are people sitting in the clearing at the center of the village or under the shade of the hut roofs, and they are all working at some task, but they look up immediately at the sound of the alarm call. Some of the villagers continue working but most of them stop what they are doing and come to stand at the front of the village. The workers in the field also cease their work and as Rick, Sauron and the hobbits pass, they leave the fields to follow behind them.

By the time they reach the edge of the village, nearly everyone is lined up and waiting for them, watching them with a mixture of curiosity and fear. The field workers remain behind them, blocking their way out while keeping a safe distance away, in obvious fear of the swords that Rick, Sauron and the hobbits wear at their sides. 

A elderly man and woman step out from the crowd in front of them and slowly walk to stand before them. Their dark faces are lined with deep wrinkles, their hair is silver white, and their hands are knurled and spotted. Their dark eyes are shrewd and attentive and they take in the travelers with one slow glance. The sheikhs turn to speak with each other; the other villagers seem to be waiting for the wise-man and wise-woman to do something.

Sauron motions with a hand for Rick and the hobbits to wait while he approaches the sheikhs. Rick, Frodo and Sam gladly hang back, feeling the weight of the gazes of all those people and shifting uncomfortably. They scrutinize the villagers in turn. 

The villagers are darker in color than Semira, their brown skin reminding the hobbits of the scorched earth of Mordor. The villagers are mostly women, young children and elders. The few men they see are horribly disfigured with scars or burns and most even have an appendage missing. A few of the women and children even carry visible scars or burns, and they all have dull, haunted expressions behind their fear and curiosity. 

Frodo knows that look well. He begins to shake at the horror of it and next to him, Sam pales considerably and his knees threaten to buckle. Rick places a hand on either of their shoulders to help steady them, but Frodo can feel that the young man is trembling also.

Ahead of them, Sauron is speaking quietly with the sheikhs. They cannot hear any of the words being exchanged, but from all appearances he is trying to explain their purpose for being here and the sheikhs are refusing to allow them to stay. The debate is becoming heated and the villagers are growing restless and more fearful as the wise-man and wise-woman become more agitated. 

Just when it appears that Sauron will lose the debate, a middle-aged woman with ashy brown skin and black plated hair that shines blue in the midmorning sun steps forward from the line of villagers. She is dressed differently from the others. The villagers all wear simple tunics and skirts or kilts of tanned hide, decorated with colorful beads sewn onto their clothing and arranged in zigzagging lines and odd symbols. The sheikhs have similar clothes, except their hides have been bleached white. This woman wears a dress dyed to a deep lavender and her dress is decorated with both beads and small gemstones. She comes to stand next to the elders, looking past Sauron and directly at Frodo. 

She speaks in a clear low voice with strange clipped words that carries over the entire village so that everyone listens and when she finishes she bows to the sheikhs. Whatever she has said, the villagers now appear excited. The wise-man and wise-woman converse amongst themselves for many minutes then turn back to Sauron and bow to him. 

Sauron returns their bows and looks back at Rick and the hobbits. He waves for them to join him and they come forward with reluctance. When they are standing next to Sauron, they can see that the woman has many tattoos on her face and neck as well as her arms, and in each of her ears are five small hoops of silver.

She waits until the elders introduce themselves before she speaks. She motions to herself and speaks in that strange clipped tongue. They look at Sauron for a translation.

“Her name is Aliya. She is the shamaness of this village. She has foreseen your coming, Frodo, and she bids that her people aid us as much as they are able, with the permission of the sheikhs, who are the elders, Khalina and Amh. They have agreed.”

“Does she… does she know who I am?” Frodo asks, looking with wonder into Aliya’s gentle black eyes.

“She knows that you are the one who will bring battle to the Blue Wizards. She believes you are their liberator,” Sauron says. 

“So no pressure or anything,” Rick jokes grimly.

Aliya removes her necklace, a cord with a row of four stones, two yellow and two green, and on either side of the stones are two long slim fangs of some beast. She puts the necklace around Frodo’s neck. She speaks again and Sauron translates. “She says the fangs of this serpent will protect you from the poisons of the wizards’ minds. She bids you to hide it under your shirt. It is also the symbol of the shamaness and it will bring you aid when you need it.”

“Another relic to hang about my neck,” Frodo says ruefully but he does as he is bid and tucks it under his shirt. Aliya smiles, bows again, then turns and disappears back into the village. They do not see her again while they are there. 

At the sheikhs’ bidding, Sauron, Rick and the hobbits are taken to the village center and sat down, then food is brought to them. Sauron warns them not to refuse the offerings, for it will be seen as disrespectful of those sacrificing their stores, and to disrespect your hosts is to bring bad luck upon yourself. They eat all that is brought to them, feeling both guilty and touched that the villagers are willing to spare them so much. When even the hobbits begin to fear they will not be able to eat any more, the wise-woman comes for them and leads them to a small round hut that has been prepared for their stay. They discover, through Sauron’s translation, that many of the huts now stand vacant. 

Sunlight filters dimly into the hut. Inside, there are no rooms and no kitchen, just one circular living area where they now stand. In the dirt are curving lines of rocks, separating the room into sections, though for what purpose these sections once served, they can only guess. The hut is entirely bare except for a couple of straw-stuffed pads on the floor and a small table. On the right corner of the table is a statue of a faceless woman carved from sandstone. On the left corner is a small wooden box and in the middle is a long flat rock with a line of holes drilled into its smooth surface. From the holes stand four smoking stems of incense. The smoke fills the hut with a faint but pleasant scent, and Sam sniffs at it appreciatively. 

“Jasmine and something else I can’t place,” he says softly.

“Is that for good luck too?” Rick asks as he selects a pad and sits. 

“It is,” Sauron answers. He sits on the pad next to Rick as the young man yawns widely. 

“What do we do now?” Frodo asks, crossing his arms and joining Sam.

“We wait until the incense has purified us - until it has burned out - then we are to seek the village elders again. They will see us on our way. We should rest, maybe get some sleep if we can.”

Rick nods sleepily. He had only managed a couple of hours sleep near dawn, and he is quite ready for another opportunity to sleep before continuing any farther. Frodo and Sam look hesitantly at the straw pads. They are not particularly tired but they too wouldn’t mind the excuse to linger here just a little while longer. 

They lie down and close their eyes, only then noticing the thickness of the air and the absolute silence of the hut. No sounds from outside reach them here and as they close their eyes, the smoke of the incense curls around them. They breathe it in deeply and their minds become groggy, their limbs grow heavy, and they slip into a deep sleep from which they do not wake until the incense burns out. 

It seems as though only mere moments have passed before the wise-man is gently shaking Sauron awake. Sauron blinks, sits up and notices instantly that the incense is now completely burnt out and the smoke cleared from the hut. 

The sheikh motions outside. “You will need to be restored now,” he says in Khand, his voice soft but scratchy, as of one unaccustomed to speech. “A meal has been prepared for you.” 

“Thank you,” Sauron says, yawning. He waits until the sheikh is gone, then wakes the hobbits. “It is time,” he says softly and holds a finger to his lips as the hobbits blink up at him. Rick is still asleep on his mat. 

“Isn’t he coming?” Frodo whispers, barely audible. “He won’t want to be left behind.”

“Aye, he hasn’t been very keen on leaving our sides since Semira left,” Sam adds.

“If all goes as planned, we should be back before he wakes,” Sauron says, looking back at his friend with gentle concern. “No need to put him in harm’s way.”

“I don’t know,” Frodo says doubtfully, standing and helping Sam to his feet. “He’ll be upset.”

“I’m willing to suffer his wrath,” Sauron says with a fond smile. He removes another incense stick from the box and lights it with a flint stone, then motions for the hobbits to go ahead of him out of the hut.

The sun is nearing mid-afternoon when they return to the village center. There they are given small plates of a thick, fleshy green fruit the hobbits have never had before. They eat it and find it sweet and watery. Sauron explains it is the flesh of the cacti that grow on the hillsides below and that the plant will hydrate and rejuvenate them after being so long in the hut. When they finish their meal, the villagers and sheikhs follow them to the river and send them off with cries of what the hobbits can only assume are for good luck. 

“The fortress is still a couple of miles ahead,” Sauron says once the village is behind them, switching his bag from one shoulder to another. They follow the river along the plain towards the rock cliff rising high ahead of them.

“Are there stairs?” Sam asks.

“There’s a path that goes about a half-mile up. It comes out between the summit of two hills. We will find the fortress there,” Sauron explains. “Frodo, are you still blocking your thoughts and Sam’s? Are you feeling all right? Good. Sam, stay close to Frodo. If either of you feel the slightest bit of discomfort or disorientation, tell me immediately.”

Frodo nods, focusing his energies with effort. He has been feeling the same great weight bearing down on him for the last few days, so he says nothing about it again. He waits instead for signs that it is increasing in some way but no such sign comes, for which he is grateful. He can feel it like fingers trying to get inside his head, and he shudders to think what it might do if it finds its way inside. He looks to Sam and is glad to find that his friend seems completely unaware of this burden; he at least is being shielded from it.

The trees and vegetation grow thick once more, the enchanting twisted trees growing taller here than on the hillsides below. Rich earth surrounds the feet of the trees, and strange thorn-covered bushes grow amongst them, bearing an ominous red berry that Sauron warns them, unnecessarily, not to eat. They reach the cliff and discover that the river runs violently through a low arch disappearing under the cliff base. They cannot follow it anymore.

“What now?” Frodo asks.

Sauron steers them right and they follow the cliff wall for another mile before they see a gap in the cliff, leading up into the hilltops. They go towards it and find more steep steps climbing upwards through the sandstone cliffs. The steps here are in much better condition than on the hillside below and they have little difficulty following the trail as it winds its way ever upward. By the time they reach the summit, they are all panting heavily. Sam wipes the sweat off his forehead and looks up at the sun-filled sky. It is now late afternoon and in less than two hours the sun will disappear behind the summit.

In front of them, the hilltops fall away at either side, running in a circle to join more hilltops at the other end of the enclosure. The trail continues down a steep slope that runs to the shore of a clear blue lake, the water shadowed by the hills. There is little vegetation to provide cover so they huddle against the cliff wall as their eyes follow the gentle ripples of the  lake to an island of stone and granite that juts out of the clear surface of the water. 

Sitting upon the island is a bleak and menacing fortress, its foundation coving every surface of the island as though it were built from the stone itself. The fortress rises high over their heads, the base about a hundred feet up into four separate towers that jut high into the air, ending in pointed turrets. Though not as high as Orthanc or as black as Barad-dûr or as chilling as Minas Morgul, it is twice as large as any of those other towers and there are many dark windows from which they can be spied. The only way into the fortress is by a drawbridge that lies open in horrid invitation. The main gate to the fortress is guarded by sentries dressed in deep blue.

Sam studies the fortress critically. He has the feeling he has seen this all somewhere before, even though he knows that is impossible. “How are we supposed to sneak into that?” he asks, his heart sinking. “We’ll wait for the cover of night, I take it.”

“There won’t be any need to do that,” Sauron says and his voice is different, oddly strangled and filled with malice. 

The hobbits look back at the Maia and to their horror see him narrowing his eyes into slits as he sneers down at them. The bag he had carried is dropped to the floor and a set of manacles is in his hands. 

“What are you doing?” Frodo asks, his breath coming in quick hitches as the truth unveils before him. In his surprise, his own power fails for but a moment but that is all that Sauron needs. The hobbits are suddenly overcome with a great heaviness that pins them to the cliff wall, unable to move or even call out for help, though what help they will find here is not a comforting thought.

“I must thank you both for being such pleasant company on the road and for coming so willingly,” Sauron gloats, bearing down upon them. He slaps the manacles over their wrists, then pulls Frodo towards him, gripping his shirt as he lifts the Ring-bearer off his feet. 

“No!” Sam yells, realization slowly coming to him as he struggles to process this sudden turn in events. “You can’t! You wouldn’t!”

“Please, what madness has come over you?” Frodo pleads, his voice trembling and his eyes bulging in his fright.

“I am not mad. I am the Deceiver,” Sauron says calmly and drops Frodo to the ground. He tugs on the chain. Frodo scrambles to his feet so as not to be dragged as Sauron leaves the shelter of the cliffs and makes his way down the slope. 

Sam reaches out and helps Frodo to his feet. “I knew it!” he spits. “I knew it away at Bag End and I let you trick me!”

“Yes, you’re both very stupid,” Sauron says, tugging harder as he strides ahead, bringing them closer and closer to the drawbridge. The sentries watch them approach but do not move from their posts. “You, Sam, would have done better to listen to your heart, not your head. Isn’t that what your Gaffer always tells you? Or, told you, since you’ll never see him again. And you Frodo, agreeing to all those lessons, learning to block your thoughts from outside influence, providing just the cover I needed to arrange this little meeting with the wizards. They’re very eager to meet you, and they have all sorts of fun activities planned for your stay.”

“So you did all this just to bring us here to be killed?” Frodo says, outrage fighting with fear. “Why didn’t you just kill us in the Shire and be done with it?”

“And lose the trust of everyone? Of poor gullible little Rick? Of your precious Strider, our noble King?” Sauron says with a sickening laugh. “Just because I can’t kill you myself, doesn’t mean I’m going to stop someone else from having the pleasure. No, this way I can say that the wizards together were too much for me, what with my weakened powers and all. I’ll say that they took you and killed you instantly, that I barely escaped with my life. Rick won’t think to question me and no one will come to rescue you. We’ll be long gone, back in Gondor, mourning the passing of our beloved Ring-bearers, and you’ll be here, slowly being tortured to death. Or maybe not. Maybe they can keep you alive long enough to create a new race.” Sauron pauses at the lip of the drawbridge and looks down at them thoughtfully, as though this idea has just occurred to him. “Now that would be something to see.”

Whatever the hobbits might say in response to this, the words die on their lips as two figures step forward from the main gate. The sentries remain rooted to their spots as two ancient and formidable wizards in sea-blue robes glide towards them. The wizards have tough leathery skin tanned to a deep brown but their eyes are as blue as their robes. They observe the hobbits with calm hatred. “You have brought them,” says one of the wizards in halting Westron, his voice wooden and hollow.

“We are greatly honored by your gift,” the other wizard says, his voice equally dull, like the low timber of a wood flute. They almost sound like Ents but for the malice in their voices.

“We were pleased when you beckoned us. You are earlier than we expected,” says the first wizard.

“They were very cooperative traveling companions,” Sauron says, smiling smugly. He tugs on the chains a final time and sends the hobbits flying onto the drawbridge, where they land at the Blue Wizards’ feet. “It’s been too long, Alatar, Pallando,” he continues, greeting the wizards in turn, then looking up at the fortress. “I like what you’ve done with the place. Now, where’s my reward?”

The first wizard, Alatar, waves his hand, revealing long claw-like nails, and one of the sentries steps forward. “Give him whatever he wants,” Alatar instructs in Khand.

Pallando waves to the other sentry. “Take the halflings to their cage,” he commands. “See that they are comfortable.”

The hobbits cower away from the sentry who steps forward to grab their chain. They dig their heels into the wooden planks of the drawbridge, but their efforts offer little resistance. The sentry, a large burly man with black plated hair, easily outmatches them. He drags them screaming in protest behind him into the fortress as the wizards, Sauron and the other sentry slowly follow.

To be continued…

GF 6/7/07

Note: The names of the Blue Wizards comes from The Unfinished Tales, “The Istari”.

Chapter 17 - Trapped

Rick stretches and yawns as a great heaviness lifts from his mind. He blinks up at the thatched roof, at first confused as to where he is. The empty, shadowed room and round mud walls slowly come into focus as incense whorls around his head, his mind clearing with each breath. He turns to his left and notices immediately that the other sleeping pad is empty, its occupants long gone. He sits up with a jolt and springs to his feet. He’s out the door in two quick steps, his eyes roving the village. He checks the sun and sees that it is already slanting past mid-afternoon. His friends are already gone. 

He sprints to the village center and declines as politely as he can the plate of green fruit the wise-woman holds out for him. She calls after him urgently in her strange clipped tongue, but he does not heed her any more than he does the other villagers or the laborers in the fields; the faraway movements on the edge of the plateau are nothing more than an unneeded distraction. His only thought is getting to the Blue Wizards’ fortress and finding the hobbits before too much time has passed.

He follows the river out of the village, north through gently rolling plains of tangled fauna and crooked trees. He glances up constantly to the east, trying to catch some glimpse of the Blue Wizard’s fortress beyond the hilltops, but all he can see from this vantage point are the massive slabs of sandstone that climb upward to form the summits of the hills. He slows to a sprint when he reaches the base of the hilltop. The river disappears under the foundation of the base and he sees no trail that leads up into the hills. 

Panting heavily and sweating profusely, he makes his way along the base of the hilltops, searching the sandstone walls for an opening or sign of some other trail. Even if he must climb to reach the trail he will do so, never mind the white dots that begin now to appear on his vision. He holds a hand out to brace himself against the wall as a wave of dizziness crashes over him, only now understanding why the sheikh had wanted him to eat. He reaches into his robe for his water bottle and drinks long but it does little to abate the delirium; he had run too long and too hard. The whiteness before his eyes begins to grow at an alarming rate. The dots become blurs and finally melt into each other to obscure his vision completely. A loud disorienting humming rings in his ears, drowning out all other sounds. 

He sinks to the ground and holds his head down, groping weakly for his water bottle. He drinks again, draining the bottle, and after a time his vision begins to return to him though it does not clear completely. As such, it is some time before he realizes what he is looking at, not the silent nearby forest as he would have expected, but a line of towering warriors standing shoulder to shoulder, their scimitars drawn. Rick startles to see them and slowly he rises to his feet, fighting off another wave of dizziness as he places his hand to the hilt of his sword.

The warriors are dressed in beige kilts and tunics, with white cloths covering their heads: Haradrim. Rick stares at them blankly until his eyes land upon two warriors near the middle of the line who look rather familiar. One is the night watchman who had made the signals that Semira said were protective signs to warn off dead spirits. The tallest and most muscular of the group is undoubtedly the fisherman from the Harnen bazaar. 

Rick stares at them confusedly as the white spots begin to swim in front of his eyes again. The fisherman steps forward, the long curving blade of his scimitar now pointed at Rick, and it is only now that Rick realizes the man is speaking to him. The sound of his voice is like a distant echo he cannot quite catch, but he understands the scowl and drawn scimitar well enough. Rick draws his own sword and holds it with both hands, determined to keep it from shaking in his weakness, determined not to let any of these warriors through. Whatever they are doing here, whatever their purpose is in following them, he knows it can only result in one of two things: the death of the hobbits or the death of Sauron. He is not about to let either happen. He draws himself up to his full height, his back to the stone wall for support.

Just as the fisherman is about to step within striking distance, he stops. Rick only dimly hears another voice as his knees buckle and he slides to the ground once more. His sword slips from his hands and falls uselessly to the ground next to him. He tries to reach for it again but his hand refuses to obey him. The fisherman steps forward now, his scimitar held high, pointed downward for the killing strike. Rick passes out before the strike falls.

The entrance hall of the fortress is so vast it takes up nearly the entire front half of the ground floor. The sentry turns right as soon as the hobbits have cleared the gate but he soon tires of dragging them halfway through the hall. He stops and yanks hard on the chain, forcing them to their feet. He speaks to them, though not unkindly, and while they can’t understand what he says, they know he wants them to walk the rest of the way. 

Instinctively, they hold onto each other, both of them trembling so badly that it takes the two of them together to keep on their feet. They stumble forward, the weight of the manacles digging into their wrists. 

Sam’s eyes are wide and he looks around the entrance hall as though his worst nightmare is coming true before his very eyes. He wants to sprint, to get the chain away from the sentry somehow and make a run for it. If they are to have any hope for an escape it will be now, when no one stands guard at the gate, but even as he thinks this he can hear the drawbridge being raised and the gates slamming closed behind them. He turns his head just as they reach a corridor, one of many leading out of the entrance hall, and sees the wizards commanding the gate locked with nothing more than the power of their minds, trapping them inside. Sauron and the other sentry have already disappeared under the shadow of the double staircase to another corridor near the rear of the hall.

Their sentry leads them into a dark narrow corridor off the right side of the hall. The corridor is lit only by torches and there are no doors in which they might attempt to flee. Sam grips Frodo’s shoulder harder, as though his very presence alone can protect his master from the horrible situation in which they now find themselves. He remembers with bitterness his suspicions of Sauron upon leaving the Shire. ‘Didn’t you think as Sauron was bringing us here just to be killed?’ he berates himself. He should have taken his master back to the Shire when he had a chance, should never have let him leave it, should have run Sauron through with the fireplace poker and worry about the bloodstains on the rug later. 

He shakes his head and tries to think. Lingering over ‘should haves’ would get him nowhere. He needs to take stock and figure out how to save his master, who has gone absolutely still in his arms, only his legs working to move him forward. There is still some hope: Rick. Rick knows they are coming here. He will come for them, he will see past Sauron’s lies. ‘Please, let him see past Sauron’s lies.’

They quickly reach the end of the corridor, and Sam is oddly unsurprised to see they have come to the south tower. There is a sharp turn to the left, leading to the rear of the fortress. An arched passageway in front of them leads to the tower stairway and to their right is a short flight of stairs leading downward. Sam begins down the stairs before the sentry even steps down them himself. The sentry frowns at him, says a brief word and shunts him back behind himself. They follow the sentry down the steps and jog up a short corridor.

At the end of the corridor, they reach another flight of steps leading down into the dungeons, and Sam suddenly digs his heels into the stone floor, refusing to budge as he begins to shake harder than ever. The sentry tugs on the chain impatiently but Sam only shakes his head. “There’s werewolves,” he whispers frantically to Frodo, who is now inexplicably calm. 

“There aren’t,” Frodo says with confidence. 

The sentry tugs again, prepared to drag them down the steps if need be. Frodo takes Sam’s hand and they follow the sentry down the cold stone steps. The sentry opens the thick steel door leading into the dungeon, and a foul stench assaults them before they can even wonder why there are no guards here. The hobbits cover their noses and mouths with their head cloths and hands, but this does little to block the overwhelming stink of decaying flesh and dried blood, and their unprotected eyes sting smartly from the pungent air. 

The sentry leads them into the dungeon and it soon becomes apparent why no sentry stands outside: there are no prisoners left alive to guard. Row after row of rusted cages greet their watering eyes. Inside the cages are the remains of numerous prisoners in varying degrees of decay, piled on top of each other where they had been left to die after their final torments. They pass one cage with two small forms inside, children whose blank eyes stare up at them from the shadows. Sam pinches his own eyes closed and breathes slowly through his hands to fight back the nausea that threatens to overwhelm him. Next to him, Frodo is not being as successful. He grows suddenly stiff and bends over, spewing his sick all over the damp, blood-stained floor. 

The sentry waits for Frodo to stop heaving, then pulls on the chain again. He takes them to the very end of the row, to a cage empty except for the broken bones of two previous occupants. The cage sits below a row of small windows and dim rays of sunlight peak in through the grime and dust that cover them. 

The sentry unlocks the cage and pushes them inside, then fumbles with the manacles, trying to find some way to break them. Lacking that, he tugs on the manacles, attempting to pull them over the hobbits’ hands but after a few attempts, it becomes apparent that the manacles will not come off. He stands back and considers the hobbits, and Sam notices then the same dead look in the man’s eyes as he had seen in the villagers. It hits him suddenly that this is no willing servant or conspirator, but a slave bound to do his masters’ bidding lest he end up in one of these cages himself. Sam actually pities the man and doesn’t resist when he bends over and takes their swords. 

The sentry locks the cage door behind him and goes over to the corner, where there are bowls piled up. He pours water into one bowl and seeds into another and brings these back to the cage. The water looks like it has been standing in its jug for many long months, thick with dust and dead insects. The seeds are also sprinkled with dead insects and when Sam cautions to pick one up, it is hard as stone. The sentry watches as Sam puts the seed back into its bowl and for a brief moment their eyes meet. The man says something in a sad voice and leaves.

Sam watches the back of the sentry as the man makes his way down the row of cages back to the main door. The door swings shut with a solid clunk and a heavy lock slides into place. They are trapped: locked into the fortress, locked into the dungeon, locked into the cage and chained by manacles. 

There is no hope whatsoever of their escape now. Sam takes the bars in his hands and rattles them desperately, rage battling with fear, both of them so complete he wonders how they don’t consume him entirely and make him mad. Perhaps if they survive here long enough, he will go mad. Perhaps that’s what they want. 

He shakes the bars again. “He tricked us!” he shouts, finding it easier to focus on his rage than his fear. He releases the bars and turns to find his master sitting quietly on the floor, his knees drawn to his chest and his eyes closed, his brow knitted in concentration. He looks, for all appearances, just as he does when he is sitting across the fire from Sauron during their training sessions.

“That dirty lying bastard tricked us! All this time he was playing us for fools, seducing us with his lies, brainwashing us… That’s it then, he did brainwash us, that overgrown excuse of a ruffian.” He then proceeds to call Sauron a string of dirty names that, had his Gaffer been there, would have earned him a mouthful of soap. He ends his tirade by rattling the bars again, the rattling made louder by the clanking of the chain against the bars. 

“How could we have been so stupid?” Sam continues, beginning to babble just to have something to do other than sit and fret. “I knew. From the start, I knew but I let myself forget, I let myself trust him despite everything in me telling me not to. And you, he must’ve known somehow that you could see his light and so he manipulated it somehow so you’d read it wrong. Giving you all those lessons, so you wouldn’t be able to see the truth, not to help you; explains your night terror in the cave that day. It was Semira that helped you then, not him. Telling us Semira is a spy to distract us from suspecting him, I bet you, and Rick’s just naïve enough to believe in the good in everyone and excuse away the bad. He can’t have had anything to do with this. Sauron knew that Rick was being more watchful of us, that’s why he got left behind in that village. And Sauron lit another of those incense sticks before we left that hut; Rick’ll be dead asleep for another hour or more, or just plain dead if those villagers have anything to do with this, and I wouldn’t be surprised if they do, living so long under the shadow of these here wizards. Let’s face it, Mr. Frodo, we’re alone in this, but we’ve got ourselves out of messes just as bad. We got to think of some way to get out of here. I don’t much reckon on becoming some new race of orc.”

“We’re not going to become orcs,” Frodo says calmly, his eyes now open and looking intently at Sam. There is a cold fire behind those eyes that makes Sam shiver at their intensity. He starts pacing just to keep himself busy as Frodo continues, “The villagers are good. The Gondorians lived under the shadow of Mordor for just as long and they remained true and noble. Semira was a spy, but I don’t think she meant us any harm. I don’t think even Sauron knows her true intentions. The lessons have helped me and I can now command my powers at will, but I mustn’t display them until the crucial moment. The night terror I had was caused by the anniversary of my stinging by Shelob, and I am always ill on that day.”

This announcement more than any other catches Sam’s full attention. He stops his pacing and stares dumbfounded at his master, the full implication of this last statement hitting him like a pile of ale casks. Anniversary? Always ill on that day? He quickly remembers back over the years since the Quest, to the times he would walk into the study and find his master staring blankly at a spot on the rug or the wall, his skin clammy and more pale than ever, and his half-mumbled proclamations that ‘it’, whatever it was, would never truly fade. But then Frodo would pull himself together and claim to be fine, and he would retreat to his room and remain there, still and quiet, for the rest of the day. Sam always tried to ignore it, as that had clearly been his master’s wish, but he did notice that these episodes always seemed to happen in the spring… and again in the autumn. 

Frodo nods and looks to be on the verge of apologizing for his deception all these years, but he thinks better of it, knowing it will only lead to a long, painful discussion they do not have the time for now. He continues, “The wizards think we are their prisoners, but we’re not.”

“We’re not?” Sam asks. This statement does not entirely drive out the previous one, but it certainly forces him to refocus. He looks at the chains and the cage bars. “Could have fooled me.”

“Hopefully, it was the wizards who were fooled,” Frodo says. “You need to listen to me Sam, and listen carefully because we don’t have a lot of time. Sauron did not betray us.”

Sam raises his eyebrows doubtfully but waits obediently for his master’s explanation.

Frodo looks intently at Sam, refusing to let his eyes stray to the cages around them or to the bones that lie just inches to his left. “We have a quest to complete, and we will do that without fail, and we will get out of here. We all have a part to play, even Rick. You have already been given your part; all you have to do is tell me where we are.”

“We’re in the dungeon,” Sam answers uncertainly, looking at his master with growing alarm. Frodo's eyes still contain that cold fire, but his brow is breaking out in a cold sweat and he is pale with fright. Worse than that, he seems to be completely unaware of his shock. Pushing aside all other worries, Sam kneels next to Frodo and takes his shoulders. “Are you all right, sir?”

“I’m fine,” Frodo says but Sam doubts this. “It’s more horrible here than I thought it would be. Those children… But I’ll manage. We can get out of this but I need you to concentrate and tell me if any of this looks familiar to you.”

Sam sits back on his haunches and considers his master’s words. There are too many muddled thoughts running through his mind for him to make heads or tails of them. It is easier to concentrate on his master’s request, bizarre as it may be. “Well, there was a moment outside where I thought I’d seen this place before. Then back in the corridor, I knew we’d be coming down the stairs. Then again just before coming in here… I don’t know why I thought there’d be werewolves.”

“Because there were werewolves the last time you saw this place, or a place exactly like it,” Frodo says urgently. “Sam, that night Sauron attacked your mind and showed you those images, he showed you the fortress on Tol-in-Gaurhoth, the Isle of Werewolves on the Sirion where he kept Beren captive. Sauron said the memories would not haunt you, but you can bring them up at need and see them clearly. Do you remember?”

Sam nods slowly, only vaguely remembering that vision and wondering what that had to do with their current situation. He does not have to wait long to find out.

“The other night, Sauron said this fortress was built in replica of one of his former strongholds,” Frodo continues. “That stronghold was Minas Tirith of old. Can you remember it?”

Sam nods. “I can try,” he says, realization coming slowly to him and settling in his belly like a cold stone. The more he is told, the less sense this all makes, unless… He looks at his master long and hard. Frodo is too calm, he knows too much, but he wouldn’t have? Would he? “You planned this? The person Sauron knew who would let us into the fortress… it was the wizards the whole time? And you knew. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You couldn’t know until now,” Frodo says regrettably. “I’m sorry. I wanted to tell you, but if the wizards knew it was all a ruse, we’d be dead right now.”

“You thought I couldn’t keep it a secret from them?” Sam says. “Mr. Frodo, do I have to remind you that I kept a Conspiracy going under your very nose for six months and you never once caught on about anything?”

“I’m not a wizard, Sam,” Frodo says. “The wizards wouldn’t be fooled by play-acting alone. I can block my true thoughts easily enough, but it’s harder when I extend my abilities too much. I couldn’t risk the chance that my powers might slip, especially with everything being so hectic. I can tell you now though.”

“So what is this plan then?” Sam asks cautiously, unable to forget their rather fragile situation and thinking that whatever this plan is, it can’t be going very well.

“First, Sauron captures us and hands us over to the wizards,” Frodo begins. “It was the best way of getting into the fortress without rousing suspicion.”

“This is very disturbing logic,” Sam says, not any happier with the plan so far. He looks closer at Frodo, wondering what the signs are of someone having been brainwashed.

“Second, Sauron is going to retrieve a sword that he gave to the Wizards as a gift once. He has been trying to gain the Wizards’ trust since he returned from Valinor, but they had heard that he has turned sides and they did not believe his gift to be sincere. They wanted him to prove his loyalty to them first by brining them a prize beyond worth,” Frodo continues. 

“Let me guess,” Sam says and Frodo nods.

Frodo continues, “They wanted us, the Ring-bearers, Bilbo too had he not sailed already. Turns out, it was Sauron who had impressed upon Gandalf the importance of convincing Bilbo to go to the Undying Lands without me, knowing that it might come to this. He knew Bilbo would not be able to withstand such a journey or a shock. 

“It was only when Sauron swore to bring us, binding his word to them by a blood oath, that they began to trust him again. In the process of making the oath, he was able to glean from them through crafts of stealth the secret location of their rings. He would have destroyed them then and worried about the consequences of breaking the oath later, but they never left him alone long enough for him to do so. He had no other choice but to fulfill the oath, but in doing so he knew he could lay the foundation of their downfall. Just as with him, their greed and overconfidence will be their destruction.

“At this very moment, Sauron is alone in the fortress, with only the sentry for company, and soon he will have the sword he is looking for. The sword has a diamond in it which can magnify the power of sunlight a thousand fold, as near to the heat of a volcano in these lands as you can get. With that diamond, he can destroy the Wizards’ rings, which they hide in the west tower; they don’t wear them unless they leave the fortress for the power in the rings is too unstable. When their rings are destroyed, much of their power will be destroyed also.”

“But only those powers that they’ve acquired since getting the rings,” Sam says. He shakes his head. “I still don’t understand. What are we supposed to be doing? I thought you were only supposed to keep the wizards distracted. How? By letting them torture us?”

Frodo holds up his hands and rattles the chains of the manacles. “This is the chain Angainer that Aulë crafted to bind Melkor and take him for judgment in Valinor. The chain was entrusted to Sauron when he left Valinor and returned to Middle-earth, and he’s kept it safely hidden in the Dwimoberg until now. As you know, he was sent back to undo as much of his evil as he can. The Blue Wizards are his first task. It’s taken a long time, but Sauron has finally figured out how to complete it.”

“By using us as bait,” Sam concludes, still not liking the sound of this plan very much and wondering if this is all simply a lie that Sauron invented to make Frodo go along with it. “Mr. Frodo, we can’t trust him.”

“We can and we must,” Frodo insists. Seeing Sam’s doubt, he slips a hand into his robe and withdraws a small key. He fits the key into one of the manacles and unlocks it. “Sauron slipped it me when he grabbed me,” he explains, then locks the manacles again and slips the key back into his pocket. 

“Great,” Sam says, not impressed. “So you got a key for the manacles. What about this door here, or the door leading back to the corridor? How are we supposed to get back to the gate? And these chains don’t look to be anything special to me, just plain tarnished metal.”

“The sentry will return soon to take us to the torture chamber,” Frodo persists. “We must get away from him and hide, as far away from the west tower as we can, keep the wizards’ attention focused on finding us until Sauron can destroy the rings. When that happens, we will be able to slip the manacles onto the wizards and bind them.”

“And how are we supposed to get away from the sentry?” Sam asks.

Frodo again puts his hand into his robe and withdraws the snake fang necklace of the shamaness. He holds it up for Sam to see. “I will only need to show him this, and he will let us pass. A Khand will not allow one of his shamans to be defiled.”

“Couldn’t you have done that before he brought us here?” Sam asks.

“We had to give Sauron time to retrieve the sword. He will have done so by now,” Frodo says. He puts the necklace away.  

“What about Rick?” Sam asks next.

“The incense stick Sauron lit before we left the hut was to revive Rick, not to keep him asleep. He would have awaken fifteen minutes after we left the village. He couldn’t be there when Sauron pretended to turn against us. As you just said yourself, there’s no way you would have believed Rick capable of such malicious intent.” 

Sam can’t argue that point, but it irks him to know he had been the only one not informed of the plan. Why? Because only he would have seen the deception in it?

“Rick will meet us at the drawbridge to help Sauron release the servants,” Frodo finishes. “Sam, we don’t have much time. Can you remember the fortress or not? If you can’t, we’ll just have to do the best we can.”

Sam reluctantly closes his eyes and concentrates on the nearly-forgotten memory. He dregs it up from the shadows of his mind and goes through it slowly. Again, he sees the outside of the fortress and the pathway leading to the dungeon. He realizes now that their cage is in the same spot as Beren’s and that out the window they would be able to see the drawbridge, where Luthien had sung, if the bridge had been lowered. He tries to see more, to see beyond the limits of the vision to the rest of the stronghold. 

Before he can do so, the sound of the lock slipping from its braces interrupts him. He opens his eyes to find Frodo on his feet, watching the dungeon door with rapt attention. Sam turns to look also, holding his breath as his stomach coils and his heart pounds in his throat. This is the moment of truth, he knows. If the sentry sees the necklace and lets them go, that will be saying something for this insane plan and Sauron’s loyalties. If the sentry does anything else, then there will be little choice but to accept that Frodo had been fooled and that they will need to find their own way out or else die here. 

The dungeon door creaks open, and the hobbits ready themselves for the sentry to collect them, Frodo coming to stand next to Sam. Only then does Sam realize that Frodo too is trembling. For all his apparent confidence, his master is as worried and fearful as he is. This both comforts and frightens Sam, and he reaches out to take Frodo’s hand. 

Footsteps approach and to their well-tuned ears, there are at least two guards and possibly a third. Their captors’ forms come into view at the end of the aisle and Frodo’s trembling increases. “No,” he whispers in disbelief, yet he still manages more of a protest than Sam does. Sam cannot speak at all. His throat closes, drier than the desert floor of Near Harad.

What they see coming down the aisle dismays them more than anything else they have encountered thus far. Sea blue robes come into view out of the dimness, and they look up into the cold, hard eyes of Alatar and Pallando and the dim, brown eyes of a young maid-child held at knifepoint by Alatar. They stop in front of the hobbits’ cage and the wizards sneer down at them. 

“Give us trouble,” Alatar says in a low hiss, “and she dies.”

To be continued…

GF 6/18/07

Chapter 18 – House of the Sun

A cool, sweet liquid trickles down his throat. Rick swallows appreciatively, slowly becoming aware of the ground beneath him and of someone kneeling behind him, holding his head up so he can drink. As he drinks, he begins to hear the low murmurings of many unhappy, impatient voices, but the voices make no sense to him and he ignores them. The last drop slides down his throat and he licks his lips as the water bottle is taken away. He opens his eyes and blinks up at Semira, who is cradling his head and shoulders and watching him with an expression mixed with concern, fury and what can only be disappointment. 

“Semira?” Rick whispers in surprise, and immediately the other voices cease. 

The fisherman comes back and towers over them both, his scimitar sheathed but his hand twitching eagerly on the hilt. He says something to Semira. “She already paid you for the fish,” Rick mutters.

“Why is he talking about fish?” the man asks Semira in Haradrim.

“He recognizes you from the bazaar. He thinks you are a fisherman,” Semira answers. “He is still delirious but it will wear off soon.”

“Delirious or not, he is awake now,” the man replies. “Step aside so I can kill him and we can be gone.”

“I will not have him killed, Amros,” Semira says. “He is only a boy.”

“And I am the Sultan of your House,” Amros responds heatedly. “You will not defy me.”

“I will defy you anytime you are acting like an oaf,” Semira returns, just as heatedly. 

Amros studies her for a moment, glances at Rick, then looks back at Semira. He scratches his chin and finally clicks his tongue. “You have grown too fond of him, I think,” he accuses. “I should have sent Cepros instead.”

“Your brother is even more impatient than you are and if you had sent him, you’d be picking his bones off the dunes in the Poros Vale,” Semira counters. “This young man is an innocent, seduced by the Eye’s deceit, just as our own people were for so many centuries, just as so many of them are still. It is not his fault. He has a trusting heart; he cannot see the darkness in people. I will not have him killed for that.” 

They glare at each other for many tense moments while Rick looks blankly between them. They are arguing, and about him, he can guess that much. He waits with bated breath until Amros releases his hilt and crosses his arms. 

“As you wish,” he says grudgingly. “You will be responsible for keeping him in line and making sure he does not interfere.”

Semira nods and looks past Amros to the other warriors. “We will bind his hands as soon as he can stand and we will take him with us,” she tells them and meets Amros’s glare once more. “He might prove useful yet.”

Amros suddenly laughs, the great roaring laugh he had displayed so impressively in the bazaar. It is no less impressive now and Rick imagines he feels the ground tremble just a little with the power of it. “You are ever full of surprises, dear one.” He turns to his warriors, who are waiting for his command. “Be ready to go as soon as he can walk. We have already wasted enough time.” 

“Semira,” Rick mutters again, more strongly this time. He struggles to sit up but Semira holds him down with ease. “What is going on? Why are these men here? Why are you with them? How long have I been out?”

“Only a few minutes,” she answers then nods at Amros. “This is Amros. He is Sultan of the House of the Sun, one of five Great Houses of the Kingdom of Harad. These men are his most trusted and accomplished warriors, the Elite Guard.”

“He’s your master,” Rick says, understanding at last. 

“We work together, yes,” Semira says. 

She releases Rick and he sits up gingerly, his head still swimming slightly if he moves too quickly. “So you have been spying on us?” he asks accusingly as he peers up at the taunt, massive body of Amros, then behind him to the other warriors. His eyes land again on the night watchman. “Who’s that?”

“That is the Amir, Cepros. He is brother to Amros. You would call him Prince,” Semira says. She stands and circles around Rick to look at him with cold regard. Rick notices for the first time that she too wears a scimitar and is dressed the same as the warriors, which explains why he had not noticed her before. “Now it is your turn. You promised you would not leave the Ring-bearers’ sides. You promised you would kill for them, and yet here you are and they are not to be seen. They are with Sauron, yes? How could you let them go without you?”

“Ring-bearers?” Rick says, feigning confusion. “What ring-bearers? With who?”

“No more lies, Rick,” Semira says, surprising the young man with the use of his proper name. “I know who is your friend and what his purpose is in coming here. We have spies also and we have heard of the return of the Eye and the Blue Wizards’ bounty on the Ring-bearers. We learned that the Eye agreed to fulfill the bounty in return for unspeakable rewards. We tried to warn your King, but they are weak and trusting fools. They have been tricked by his lies and treachery, but we have not forgotten that he uses everyone as his pawns. We knew he would return one day with the Ring-bearers; we only needed to wait. It seems though that we waited too long.” Here she turns her disapproving scowl on Amros, who makes no attempt to apologize.

“How did you know though?” Rick says, so stunned at this information that he forgets to deny the truth. There would be little point in continuing to do so at any rate, not with time slipping by so quickly. “How did you know he is Sauron?”

“No man is that tall,” Semira says with a shrug.

Rick stares at her for a few moments, wondering if he had heard correctly. When Semira does not offer a follow-up explanation, Rick spits, “That’s it? That’s how you knew? Because he’s tall?!”

“That’s how I guessed,” Semira says. “It was confirmed by yourself and the Ring-bearers. You were most careless with your secrets when you thought me to be asleep. Now, how much of a head start does he have?”

“I was asleep when they left,” Rick answers, “but they would have only been about fifteen minutes ahead of me when I woke.”

“You were asleep?” Semira repeats accusingly. 

“He had to take them up alone,” Rick says, standing at last. He is grateful when the white dots do not return and his legs support him without strain. 

“I am sure that he did,” Semira replies as Amros says something urgent to her. She waves him off, keeping her eyes on Rick. “Many of my people think the Ring-bearers must be evil for destroying a dark power so mighty, that they must be even more evil than that which they overcame. They would have the Ring-bearers destroyed as well, but we know different. We know that they are our salvation. They delivered us from the veil of deceit that had been clouding our minds for so many centuries, and we honor them just as deeply and truly as do your people. If any harm comes to them, I will chop off Sauron’s head myself.” Then she waves a hand at Cepros and he steps forward, a coil of rope in his hands. 

“No, you don’t understand,” Rick says, groping for his sword only to find it gone. He reaches into his robe for his knife but that too has been taken. Cepros steps behind him and quickly, roughly, binds his hands behind his back. Once he is bound, Amros steps around them and towards the cliff, setting a quick pace. Cepros pushes Rick ahead of him and Semira falls in at their sides, the other warriors coming up to surround them.

“Please, Semira, you must listen to me! This is all part of Sauron’s plan to bring down the Blue Wizards and destroy them. He is not their ally,” Rick says.

“I am supposed to believe that?” Semira asks incredulously.

“Sauron is good now,” Rick insists. “He will not let the Ring-bearers come to harm, you must believe me. Have I ever lied to you?”

“Yes, you have, Master Wulfram,” Semira says. “You have told me many lies.”

“Only my name, nothing else, and that out of necessity. I wouldn’t lie about this,” Rick says. 

“I believe that you believe what you are saying,” Semira allows. “The Eye has deceived you, just as he has deceived Frodo and Sam. He convinced all of you to go along with his plan by making you believe it was the best and only thing to do. He knew you would likely learn the truth before the end, so he twisted it just enough to make you believe the lie instead. That is his way.” 

They reach the trail and Amros quickly leads them up. They begin to climb as steadily and swiftly as they can, desperate to make up lost time. Rick struggles to keep up as his mind races twice as fast. He must convince them somehow that he is speaking the truth, but how?

Sauron follows the sentry through a long narrow corridor that leads from the back of the entrance hall to the east tower of the fortress. When they reach the tower, the sentry takes him left down a flight of steps and along a short corridor to a guarded doorway. The guards watch them cautiously and at the sentry’s bidding, the first guard unlocks the door and stands aside to let them enter. Sauron makes sure the door closes behind him then looks around the dimly-lit room at a horde so vast and rich it would have made Smaug envious.

The treasure is the result of thousands of years of brutal tyranny. What had not been stolen and taken by force had been given in fearful hope that the wizards would be lenient and show mercy. Acquired from every corner of Khand, from peasant villages to the citadels of the once-mighty cities, there are precious stones, jewelry, gold and silver, coins, fine fabrics, weapons and other treasures, many worth more than the lands from whence they come.

The sentry stands aside and watches sharply as Sauron weaves in and out of the many piles. Elaborate necklaces, bejeweled crowns, golden staffs topped with rubies or emeralds, elegant gowns and suits of armor, ancient scimitars, daggers and knives, sculptures, paintings and other pieces of art meet Sauron’s eyes everywhere he looks. He passes them all, looking for one treasure in particular. 

He spots it on his way back to the door, lying atop a pile of weaponry. A magnificent scimitar is sheathed in a silver casing etched with runes and oliphaunts. The blade is elegant and long, half of Sauron’s great height. The center of the silver hilt is hollowed and holds encased in it a rare and precious gem, a blue diamond as big as Sauron’s fist. Sauron picks up the scimitar and returns to the sentry, who looks at him curiously but wisely holds his tongue.

Sauron brandishes the scimitar a few times, acquainting himself to the feel and weight of it. “You were here when I brought this in, weren’t you?” Sauron says conversationally in Khand. “They don’t seem to have thought much of my gift to have tossed it in here. Oh well.” He turns the sword around, grips the sheathed blade and hits the sentry square between the eyes. The sentry drops to the floor unconscious. 

Sauron straps the scimitar to his back, steps over the sentry and opens the door. He reaches up and bangs the guards’ heads together before they can process what is happening. They fall into the room, groggy and disoriented. He pulls them farther into the room before they can get their bearings back, taking the key from the first guard to lock the door behind him. He pockets the key and hurries up the corridor and the steps to the tower entrance. He dashes through the arched entryway and up the steps of the tower to the fifth level.

The corridors and passageways on the upper levels are nearly the same as those on the first floor, except for one. While the east, north and south towers can be accessed from every floor, the west tower has only two entries: an underground passage that leads to the torture chamber beneath the ground floor, and a secret passage hidden in Alatar’s bed chamber on the fifth floor. The wizards’ private chambers are located directly above the entrance hall, so it is in that direction he must now head. 

He trots long-legged down a corridor that runs parallel to the rear wall of the fortress on its way to the north tower, the rooms and chambers here long emptied. Halfway down the corridor he turns left, back to the front of the fortress and the wizards’ private chambers. Halfway down this corridor is an intersecting corridor, and it is here that he sees them. Three guards block the passage to the right and three more the passage to the left, while in front of him another three stand blocking his route to the wizards’ chambers. It is only to be expected. 

Sauron slows down and measures them all with a quick, assessing glance. They are all strongly built and he has no doubt that they are well-trained to use the scimitars they carry. They watch him suspiciously, their hands drifting to their hilts, their bodies gliding into an attack position.

Sauron holds up his hands to indicate that he means them no harm. “I am here at the permission of your masters,” he tells them. “They have requested that I wait for them in their parlor. We have a business arrangement to attend to.”

The guards do not move until one of them steps forward. “No one comes here unaccompanied by the wizards,” he informs Sauron and points his blade at the Maia’s chest. “You are an intruder. You must die.”

Sauron draws his own blade and there is a short pause as they stand off against each other. The guards know who he is from his last visit and know what he is capable of doing, but they are more afraid of what their masters will do to them if they fail than they are of dying at his hand.

The guards advance as one, all of them aiming straight for him, but he is ready. He quickly retreats backward into the corridor so that they can only come at him two at a time. He easily parries with the first two, blocking their strokes and disarming them with a flick of his sword. He knocks the first two backward into the next pair, and while they are down he kicks them senseless and advances on the next two. 

They are more prepared, one attacking high while the other attacks low. He parries upward to block the first blow and jumps just in time to miss the other. He pushes the first guard away with his blade and turns before the other can recover and punches him in the gut, following it quickly with a sideways bunt of his sword hilt to the guard’s temporal lobe, knocking him out instantly. 

The first guard comes at him again, accompanied now by another, and though Sauron is able to block their blades, he is driven backward by the force of their attack. He trips and falls over the unconscious bodies of the guards behind him. He falls to the ground and must use all his strength to maintain the block and keep the attacking guards from overpowering him. He kicks out with his left foot, catching one of the guards in the knee, cracking the kneecap and sending him spiraling backward in pain. Sauron then swings his left leg around to take out the legs of the other guard, who staggers backward and falls. Sauron leaps to his feet, breaks the second guard’s nose with a well-placed kick and moves forward to deal with the final two.

The last two guards remain in their passageway leading to the wizards’ chambers, not to block it but to force Sauron to come to them. Sauron stands in his entryway, thinking always two steps ahead. He charges into the byway and as the guards come at him, he jumps, flying over them. The guards stagger to a stop and turn around, prepared to attack again, but no one is there. 

Sauron doesn’t wait for the guards to recover but sprints down the corridor to the wizards’ chambers. He crashes into the parlor and quickly locks the door behind him. Moments later, the guards crash into the door, attempting to force it open. The assault only lasts for a few moments and the reason is plain enough to see. There are two other entrances to the parlor located at either end of the long room, and it will only be a matter of moments before the guards seek these entrances out, bringing reinforcements with them. Sauron knows that if he wastes time to block one, he will not have time to block the other, so instead he dashes out of the parlor and into the dining room. There he can see out the tall windows to the front of the fortress and over the hilltops to the falling sun. He has only fifteen minutes of direct sunlight left.

Behind him in the parlor, one of the other two doors crashes open. Sauron quickly sprints to the bedchamber on his right. At the back of the room is a small potted tree. He moves this aside and searches along the wall for the trigger that will open the secret passage. He finds it and slips through it just as the thundering footsteps of the guards reach the dining room. He closes the door behind him and is plunged into blackness.

Halfway up the trail, the shock of fainting has fully worn off and Rick is watching everyone acutely. He notices that Cepros has a round curved nose, high cheekbones and pale green eyes. The man resembles Amros in many ways, though he is slighter in build and not as tall. Then he spots a tattoo on Cepros’s shoulder peaking out from the armless tunic. Rick cranes his head to see the tattoo more clearly and he notices that it is the same symbol as one of the tattoos on Semira’s shoulder: a circle. 

“Is the circle your symbol for sun?” Rick asks, remembering that Semira had said Amros is the Sultan of the House of the Sun.

Semira looks at him unhappily. “It is,” she answers.

“But these men are not slaves,” Rick guesses.

“They are not.”

“Have they ever been? Have you ever been?” Rick asks, remembering something Sauron had said about her tattoos. Rather than take them as proof that she is a freed slave, Sauron had taken them as proof that she had been lying to them instead. “How are slaves marked?”

“Slaves are branded with a hot iron that burns a permanent mark into their left shoulder,” Semira answers.

“Who are you, Semira?” Rick asks, wincing at the brutal description of slave-branding. “I thought you were my friend. I trusted you. I defended you when Sauron said you were a spy.” Then he remembers something else Sauron had said, something else he had ignored in his insistence of Semira’s innocence. “Only nobles are allowed to harvest frankincense. That’s it then, isn’t it? You’re a noblewoman.”

“Yes, that would be your word for it,” Semira says. “I was born the only daughter of the Amir of the House of the Moon. The other Great Houses, or Sultanates, are the Houses of the Stars, the Sea and the Earth. In the beginning, each Sultan ruled over their own sultanate, and they only came together in times of strife and war to help each other, or so the legends tell us. 

“Then the Eye came and he built the Greatest House, the House of the Eye, his twisted deformation of the once-revered Caliphate, to rule over all others. To that House, the Eye recruited the most vicious of men and women, and he bred them with his orc abominations, turning their hearts black. The Houses of the Sea and the Earth soon allied themselves with the House of the Eye, but the other Sultanates have always resisted them as much as they could. While the Eye ruled in Barad-dûr, they had no choice but to do as the other Sultanates bid, so yes, for many centuries they were little more than slaves. 

“Then the Eye was weakened and fled to the North. Many thought him to be dead, while others said he would return again one day. The House of the Eye was abandoned, and the Sultanates of the Sea and the Earth began a fragile truce with the other Sultanates. There would be long stretches of peace, with the Three Faithful Sultanates always striving secretly to undo the corruption done by the Eye. Anytime anyone from these three Sultanates grew in the favor of the public and became too much of a threat to the other Sultanates, there was sabotage. The favored sultan, amir or vizier would be found dead in his bed by mysterious means, or drowned in the river, or would simply disappear. It was suspected that the Sultanates of the Sea and the Earth were to blame, but this could never be proven. 

“The last member of the Three Faithful Sultanates to disappear was my grandfather, when my father was only a babe in the cot. My grandfather had come into leadership at a young age, and he was very influential and well-favored, even by members of the Houses of the Sea and Earth. He brought hope to the people and it was said that none could defeat him in battle. It was thought that he could finally put things back to the way they were meant to be, but after he disappeared all such dreams ended.

“Shortly after he was taken, the House of the Eye began to grow again in power. It was rumored that the Eye had returned to his stronghold in Barad-dûr. By the time I was born, the Three Faithful Sultanates were little more than huts. All our most noble and valiant members had been killed or taken, for it was from these Sultanates that the Eye chose his warriors for his armies in the north. The other Sultanates were left intact, to maintain rule and order over everyone else. I was a slave, if not a branded one. All my people were, but still we fought against the influence of the Eye and the tyrants that ruled under His name. 

“The civil war that erupted after the desolation of Mordor had been long in coming. Those that remained of the Three Faithful Houses joined together and rose up against the others. Fortunate we were to have the people on our side. The other Sultanates, though the most numerous, did not long withstand us. They were too reliant on the Eye for guiding them and could not  much think on their own. The Three Faithful for the first time in centuries now have the upper hand and we would put things back to rights, but there are still those who would seek to regain the power that they have lost. They were encouraged when we learned that the Eye lives yet and more fighting erupted, to be quickly stamped out. 

“The peace we have now is fragile, teetering on a brink. On one side there is a foundation from which to build our noble Houses once more. On the other, a cliff and a fall so steep that it will shatter us so completely we will never be able to repair the damage. In order to keep the peace that we have established, we must destroy the Eye once and for all. 

“That is why I would have had the Eye apprehended in the bazaar before he could bring you into Khand, but Amros thought differently. He wanted to use the Eye’s scheming against him to lead us to the wizards’ hidden lair. It is a known fact that the Blue Wizards and the House of the Eye have long been powerful allies. Amros wishes us to take them all out in one stroke and cut out the last remaining threads of power to the House of the Eye. I thought it a bad plan, but he refused my advice,” Semira finishes.

“That’s what you were arguing about?” Rick says, overwhelmed with all these secrets and conspiracies revealed. “And him,” he nodded at Cepros, “those signs he made that night we passed his encampment, they weren’t to ward off dead spirits were they? That encampment was made up of all these warriors, wasn’t it?”

“He was asking me if I had the Eye and the Ring-bearers in my company. I was still not entirely sure at that time, so they did not attack,” Semira answers.

“I had no idea how bad things were here,” Rick says, feeling both humbled by this brief retelling of her people’s history and grateful to have grown up in the relative peace and safety of Rohan. “I’m sorry that your people had to withstand so much. It must have been awful to grow up knowing you could be killed at any moment, and I understand your hatred for the Eye.”

Semira looks at him warily, waiting for him to continue. 

“But you’re wrong,” Rick says. “The Eye is dead. Sauron is good now. When the Ring was destroyed, so was everything evil in him. I won’t deny that he can still get cranky at times, but he’s on our side, your side. He knew all that time that you were spying on him. He could have killed you at any moment but he didn’t, and he came here to capture the Blue Wizards and bring them to justice.”

“Why does he need the Ring-bearers for that?” Amros asks suddenly from the front of the line. His accent is thicker and slower than Semira’s, his r’s rolling more and his vowels longer, but he speaks clearly all the same. There is no doubt that he has understood everything.

Rick pauses for a moment, surprised to discover they have been overheard. He notices now that Cepros too is listening with interest. The others though seem to be lost as to what is being said, looking back and forth amongst themselves with confused expressions. 

Rick licks his lips, wondering how much to tell them, and deciding that complete honesty is the best way to go. “When Frodo carried the One Ring, some of its powers transferred to him. It wasn’t anything he intended to happen but it was the only way he could resist it for as long as he did. He now possesses the last remnants of its power, but he uses it only at his own will, not the Ring’s. He can challenge the wizards, keep them distracted while Sauron destroys their rings. The hobbits will not be harmed, I promise you.” Still seeing their doubt, he adds, “If they are harmed, then you can have Sauron and do with him what you will. I will not stop you. If they are not harmed, then we all get to walk free. Agreed?”

Amros, Cepros and Semira exchange looks. Semira nods but Cepros and Amros are more reluctant to agree. Cepros tightens his grip on Rick’s arm, getting the younger man’s attention. “How did Eye… talk… Ring-bearers into plan?” Cepros asks with some difficulty, struggling to find the right words.

“He didn’t,” Rick says. “Every person has a light that reflects their true essence, but only certain people can see that light. Frodo is one of those people who can see it, and he saw Sauron’s and knew that he had changed. Frodo trusts Sauron completely.”

Cepros thinks on this as they continue to climb and finally calls over the other warriors’ heads to say something to Amros in Haradrim. Amros makes no response but keeps plodding ahead. Cepros meets Semira’s eyes and shrugs. “He is… is…” he struggles to explain to Rick.

“Stubborn,” Semira supplies and Cepros nods. She thinks for a moment, then calls to Amros in Haradrim. “Think about it, Amros. What better way to test if Rick is telling the truth? If this Sauron is not the Eye, but someone different, we would not want to punish him for another’s mistakes. If he is the Eye, then we will destroy him.”

“And if the boy goes back on his word and attempts to stop us?” Amros says. 

“We will keep him bound and he can stay behind in the hills with Cepros,” Semira says. “Cepros is more than capable of keeping him out of the way.”

Amros reluctantly agrees. “Very well,” he says in Westron and looks back at Rick. “We are agreed.”

Rick sighs with relief and hopes that everything is going as planned at the fortress.

Alatar keeps the blade flush to the young girl’s neck and watches the hobbits with a smug sneer as Pallando opens the cage door. “Try to escape,” he challenges in his raspy wooden voice, but the hobbits stay where they are, rooted to their spot by the girl’s resigned expression. Somehow, her willing acceptance frightens them more than if she had been terrified. How much horror must one live in before one accepts death as an escape? The answer is too familiar and raw for Frodo and he doubles his resolve: They are not going to die here. None of them are.

Pallando finally motions for them to come. They step out of their cage, Frodo carefully positioning himself between the wizards and his friend. This is no easy task as Sam is just as determined to keep Frodo away from the wizards. Frodo finally catches Sam’s eye briefly and shakes his head ever so slightly. ‘It’s all right, Sam,’ Frodo says with his mind. ‘Just do what I say.’

Sam nods and takes Frodo’s hand in his. He desperately wants to believe that what Sauron told his master is the truth, but he cannot feel anything but betrayed. How had the wizards known that they had been planning to escape if Sauron had not told them? For that is clearly why the wizards have come themselves. Now, instead of escaping, he and Frodo will have to walk willingly to their torment. It is almost too much to bear. He tightens his grip on Frodo’s hand and tries not to show how frightened he truly is.

‘We can still get out of this, Sam,’ Frodo’s voice says in his head. Frodo’s voice sounds confident but there is a hint of underlying fear that goes straight to Sam’s heart.

“Follow us,” Pallando says and leads the way to a small wooden door on the far side of the dungeon. 

Sauron reaches out a hand to the tunnel wall and uses that to guide him forward through the darkened passage. The tunnel is short, no more than a few hundred yards, but in the absolute blackness it feels more like a mile before he reaches the other end. He feels along the walls until his clever fingers find the release near the floor. Another hidden door slides open and he slips out before it can close on him again. He is now in the west tower and the turret roof is just yards above him. 

He sprints up the stairs, looking out the first window that he comes to. He has little more than ten minutes before the sun sinks behind the hilltops. He doubles his efforts, taking the steps two at a time with graceful ease. He reaches the top landing, going over his plan so he doesn’t waste a moment of time. The chamber he seeks is just above the turret room and is accessible only by a ladder and a trapdoor. The ladder will be readily accessible. He can be in the chamber in mere moments, just in time to destroy the rings.

He circles the last turn and bursts into the turret room to find a dozen guards standing in wait, their scimitars drawn, but these guards are not like the others. They are much larger-boned but shorter in height, and they have yellow eyes and stained, razor-sharp teeth. Their scimitars are shorter so they can fight in a more confined space, and Sauron knows that they will be the best trained and the hardest to defeat as it was he himself who trained them. They are the Variags, half-orc men, the warrior caste of Khand, and they look at their former master with none of their fearful adoration of the past. They narrow their eyes and bare their teeth, gripping their weapons with vengeful lust as visions of ripping Sauron limb for limb dance in their minds.  

Sauron curses as outside the window, the sun sinks lower. He draws his sword from his scabbard with his right hand and then reaches behind him with his left hand and draws the mighty scimitar of the House of the Moon. He and the Variags stand off for one pregnant moment and then the fray begins.

To be continued…

GF 6/25/07

Chapter 19 – The Blue Wizards

The turret room is large enough that the Variags can surround Sauron easily once he reaches the middle of the room yet he cannot remain in the doorway, so close to the stairs and a hopeless uphill battle. They will overpower him instantly if he allows that to happen. His only chance is to cut through them as quickly as he can, yet that will be no simple task. They have the advantage of armor, thick steel and tough leather over heavy mail, and they are not simple-minded orcs who rely on strength of numbers rather than skill, nor are they innocent men enslaved by a force too powerful to resist. They have been bred and reared with a lust for blood, trained by Sauron himself to be the Elite. It will not be enough to merely disable them; he must destroy them utterly or else be destroyed.

Sauron charges into the band of Variags, his sword and scimitar singing through the humid air of the turret room, the golden rays of the sinking sun glittering off the steel blades. As the scimitar flashes, its great diamond reflects the sun’s rays, temporarily blinding his nearest opponents, but this is not the advantage he needs it to be. As one opponent is blinded, another takes his place, and soon enough of the window is blocked and the diamond sleeps. 

He manages to get in a few jabs before the sun is shaded, but nothing fatal. The Variags are ready for him, almost as though they have been warned of his coming, but Sauron does not have the time to worry about the implications of this as they come at him from all sides. Their lieutenant commands them with quick and brutal orders that are followed instantly and they move around each other in an organized dance of hard steel and savage grunts. It is everything Sauron can do to counter and block their strikes, yet they draw first blood all the same, the lieutenant’s scimitar grazing Sauron’s right arm as he dodges just in time to miss the fatal blow. 

Sauron wields his weapons with expert ease, keeping them constantly moving in a whirl of flashing steel to deflect the advances of his enemies. They keep him busy parrying and dodging so that he cannot set up an attack, and when one line of attackers steps back another quickly replaces them, taking rest for themselves while he is granted none. He strikes when he can, cutting flesh but doing little real damage, and each strike costs him, his thin Haradrim robe offering no protection from their biting scimitars. 

Finally he manages to trick a few of the Variags into the stairwell. He pushes them backward before they can realize their peril, and they tumble down the stairs with clangs and curses. They will return but for the moment that is three less he must worry about. He whirls around just in time to miss a strike to the spine. He grabs his attacker’s wrist and drives his knee into the warrior’s forearm, forcing him to drop his scimitar. Then Sauron twists his sword around and drives it into his attacker’s gut with a devastating upward thrust. One down.

He pulls his sword free and pushes the dead warrior into a line of approaching Variags, pinning them under the heavy body. The remaining warriors are now slipping into chaos and Sauron takes advantage of this. He quickly cuts through two more opponents, dropping to his knees to thrust his sword and scimitar upward, under their armor and mail. Black blood rolls down the blades as he draws them out of their vanquished targets. 

Sauron jumps up and advances swiftly on a fourth. As he is setting to parry, he senses an attack from behind and he quickly dodges out of the way, letting the charging Variag dispose of his own comrade. Then Sauron swings his sword with decapitating force and the charging Variag drops limply to the floor. 

Five are now defeated, but the three he had pushed down the stairs have returned and the remaining warriors have regrouped and are setting up their attack. Four of the remaining Variags, including the lieutenant, have successfully wounded him, and they are all eager to improve their counts. 

A couple of the Variags are bleeding mildly but none of their wounds will slow them in the slightest. Sauron quickly assesses himself. The cut on his arm has clotted already, as have wounds to his thigh and shoulder, but the wound to his abdomen still bleeds. He can feel the blood drenching the front of his robe and dripping down his legs to the floor.

The lieutenant sneers, smelling victory. He narrows his eyes and with a nod of his head, the others spread out, lining up their attack. He nods again and they charge at Sauron from the sides as the lieutenant charges from the front. 

Sauron has but a moment to glance out the window before it is blocked again: five minutes to go. He growls in frustration and adjusts his grips on his sword and scimitar as he prepares his second defense. 

Amros calls a halt when they reach the top of the trail. The warriors, Semira and Rick gather around him just within the bend of the hilltop, keeping themselves as silent and still as stone. They wait as Amros and Cepros creep forward, slithering along the ground like snakes until they are far enough to assess the layout of the fortress, lake and the surrounding hilltops. They are not happy with what they see and after a few moments, they slink backward, returning quickly to the others. They speak softly in Haradrim to their comrades. 

“A sneak attack is not feasible,” Amros informs them. “The fortress sits on a small isle in the lake. There is no entrance on this side of the fortress other than the main gate, and that is barred by the drawbridge. If there are any other entrances, we will only be able to get to them by swimming and then climbing up the rock wall of the isle.”

“We must get them to lower the bridge and open the door,” Cepros says.

“We might as well ask them to hand over the hobbits freely then, while we’re at it,” says one of the warriors grimly.

“We can wait for the next transport,” another warrior suggests.

“That could be days away. We could wait for cover of night and try to swim around and look for another entrance,” Cepros says.

“No. We need to get in now, before another moment is lost,” Amros says. “But how?”

They bend their heads in thought, turning over the dilemma in their minds, looking for weaknesses to exploit. One by one, they each shake their heads and a few repeat Cepros’s idea of waiting for the cover of night, which is not very long away now. Only Semira refrains from giving an opinion and when the men turn to wait for her suggestion, they find her assessing Rick with a shrewd look. Rick too notices this and tries not to fidget under her regard.

“I have an idea,” she says at length and nods, satisfied with her plan. “Sauron got in by handing over a hostage. So, I think we shall hand one over too, yes?”

“And who are we to hand over? The boy?” Amros says, in the clear opinion that this is a bad idea. “What would the wizards want with him? He means nothing to them. That will not get us inside.”

“No, but if he were to capture one of us…” she continues. 

“He will run away!” Amros argues. “It is out of the question.”

“He won’t run. He wants the Ring-bearers recovered just as much as we do, and he will not leave without Sauron,” Semira reasons. “Untie him, Amros, and give him your scimitar to carry.”

“You cannot be suggesting what I think you are suggesting,” Cepros says, astounded at what can only be considered a desperate plan. 

“The wizards have a bounty on your head as well, Amros,” Semira says, ignoring the interruption. “It is nearly as large as the one on the Ring-bearers, if the rumors are true. They will open the door for the man who has captured you.”

Cepros and the warriors laugh softly. Cepros shakes his head, looking Rick up and down. Besides his doe eyes and innocent expression, Rick is half the size of Amros and even if he has some skill with the sword he has been carrying, he will never be able to overcome the great Sultan of the House of the Sun. 

Rick squirms against his bonds and tries not to bristle at this frank inspection. Whatever is being said, it is clearly about him and it is clearly not very nice.

“They will never believe that such a boy captured the mighty Amros,” one of the warriors points out. “They are more likely to shoot Amros through with arrows, and shoot the boy as well.”

“Then he will capture me,” Semira says and cuts the ropes binding Rick’s hands before anyone can argue the point. Rick looks at her in surprise at this sudden development and begins to ask what is happening when she holds her hand up for silence. She switches to Westron so he will understand. “The wizards might not believe that he has captured the mighty Amros, but the wife of Amros is quite a prize, yes? They will believe that more readily and they will not be so eager to kill me. They would hold me for ransom, among other things.”

“Wife?” Rick says, the blood draining from his face. He staggers backward as one just punched in the gut and he looks between Semira and Amros, not wanting to believe what he had just heard. Surely, she is just offering to play another role?

Semira nods. “I am the Sultana of the House of the Sun,” she answers, looking at Rick with sympathy and pity. “I am sorry, Rick, that I could not tell you sooner, but we do not have time to speak of it now. Take my scimitar.”

“No, Semira,” Amros says gravely, stepping between her and Rick. He takes her firmly by the shoulders and shakes his head. “It is too dangerous. I will not let you.”

“Too dangerous? No more dangerous than storming the castle by force, no more dangerous than spending the last month escorting the Eye across our land,” Semira reasons. “And as for not letting me, I am not one of your men who must wait for your permission to sneeze. We need to get into the fortress, and we need to get in now. This is how we will do it.” 

Amros and Cepros exchange doubtful looks, but Cepros only shakes his head, reverting to his own tongue to speak. “I know better than to argue with her. Besides, it is a good plan.”

Amros looks ready to argue again but he stops himself to consider the plan fairly. It certainly is better than waiting for the cover of night and swimming to the isle to look for another entrance. He also has to agree that the wizards will not be keen on killing Semira right away, and he can have his warriors in position, ready to storm the fortress at the soonest opportunity. Semira need never come to harm or be touched by the wizards’ polluted hands. 

The only real flaw that he can see is trusting the boy. It may be true that the boy will not be likely to run if he truly does not wish to leave without Sauron, but he can just as easily be in on Sauron's plan. They can all be walking into a trap, just as the Ring-bearers had. Yet Semira trusts him and her trust is not easily won.

Amros turns to Rick and towers over him, flexing every large and bulging muscle in his body as he sizes Rick up and down. Rick stands his ground, jutting his chin up in defiance and squaring his shoulders, ready for a battle that he knows he cannot win. Amros leans down and breathes into Rick’s face.

“If they touch one hair on her head,” he warns.

“I won’t let that happen,” Rick swears. “I would sooner die than let anything happen to her.”

“What good is your death going to do for her?” Amros asks.

“Well, you wouldn’t have to worry about me turning against you if I’m dead, yes?” Rick replies.

Amros steps back, surprised by this line of reasoning. Then he laughs shortly and shakes his head. “Your ways are strange to us, but you are quite right. If you wish to die by your barbaric customs, then I can keep my promise not to kill you and still you will be dead.”

Amros turns to his brother. “Very well. Bind her hands and give her scimitar to the boy,” he commands then addresses his warriors. “There is some scant coverage on the other side of the hill. We will put ourselves into position first, then Semira and the boy will approach the fortress. Be ready to storm the fortress at my signal when they are halfway over the bridge.”

Cepros pulls a length of cord from his tunic pocket and loosely binds Semira’s hands, then he takes Semira’s scimitar and straps it around Rick’s waist.

“You are to give that to Semira when the fighting begins, understand?” Amros commands.

Rick begins to nod but pauses. “What about my sword?”

“What about it?” Amros asks, fully willing to allow Rick to be unarmed during the battle.

“Do not be so cruel,” Semira lectures him and she motions for the warrior carrying Rick’s sword and dagger to hand the weapons back. The warrior glances quickly at Amros before obeying the silent order. Rick straps his sword onto his other hip and tucks his dagger away beneath his robe. At Amros’s glare she reasons, “He can’t capture me if he is unarmed, which means he should have two weapons, his and mine.”

“Thank you,” Rick says and Semira nods. 

Amros then takes Semira aside and speaks with her quietly as Cepros organizes the warriors and urges them into position. The warriors slink out of the hilltops, sliding on the ground to the cover of the nearest bushes, and when all of them are in position, Cepros nods and follows. 

Rick diverts his eyes as Amros bends down and kisses Semira. He cups her cheek and caresses it lovingly, his forehead resting on hers for the slightest of moments. “Be careful, dear one,” he says.

“Only if you are,” Semira replies with a knowing smile. It is the only way she can ensure her husband will take some care for caution.

Amros then straightens, glares a warning at Rick, and follows his men. Semira waits until Amros is hidden, then waits another minute to ensure there is no suspicious movement within the fortress. “Come. We must work quickly,” she says to Rick.

Rick nods and gently grabs her arm, glancing down to make sure the rope is not cutting into her wrists as it had cut into his. Satisfied, he takes a deep breath to steady himself, and pushes her ahead of him as he steps out of the protection of the hilltops. He glances up at the west tower, bathed in golden sunlight, and wonders what is occurring within.

The hobbits walk between the wizards, the chain dragging on the stone floor between them. They stubbornly refuse to look at the corpses in the cages as they pass, keeping their eyes straight ahead at the flowing sea blue robes of Pallando. Behind them, Alatar’s footsteps are mingled with the shuffling footsteps of the young girl. When they pass the cage with the two dead children, Frodo wonders if this girl might be their sibling or friend, and he wonders again, as he had when he and Sam first entered the dungeon, why the remains of the dead victims are kept in the cages rather than disposed of.

They reach the small wooden door and with a wave of Pallando’s hand, it swings open to reveal a long, narrow passage of many shadowed doorways. They step into the passage and Alatar closes the door behind them, plunging them into near-absolute darkness. A couple of torches are lit along the passage, flickering weakly and providing little light. They shuffle along, following the soft footfalls of Pallando ahead of them.

A few of the doors along the passage are open, leading into damp and musty rooms the size of a linen closet. The hobbits peer curiously into one of the rooms as they pass. A small window provides little extra light to see by but even in the dimness they can tell that the room is sparsely furnished. There are a couple of dirty straw mats on the floor and blankets so worn there are more holes than fabric. 

Beside him, Sam gasps as the information Sauron had inserted into his mind begins to reveal itself and Frodo gets his answer to his earlier query. These rooms run directly under the entrance hall along the front wall of the fortress, and they are used to house the servants and guards. This passage continues in a straight line to its other end: the torture chamber, from which there is no exit except in death. No, there is an exit from the torture chamber – a secret passage that leads up to the west tower and though Sam can see it, he knows not how to enter it.

Frodo swallows the bile that creeps up his throat as he realizes the full implication of this: a tunnel of rooms, ending in either the torture chamber or the dungeon filled with rotting corpses. He tries to imagine the horror of the servants and guards who must pass through the dungeon to go to and from their rooms, a daily reminder of where they will one day end up. No matter who well they behave, they can only delay the inevitable, and if they don’t behave, they will go the other way, to the torture chamber. He simply cannot fathom it and pushes the dark thoughts aside to focus on the task at hand. 

‘We must get away from the west tower,’ Frodo reminds and Sam nods. For the time, he can only hope that the top of the turret is high enough that anything occurring there will not be heard by the wizards. Yet despite the distance, he knows the moment the rings are touched the wizards will be able to sense it, and they will be able to reach Sauron too quickly from the chamber. 

Halfway down the tunnel, they hear a soft click of a door closing behind them. The hobbits turn their heads, surprised at the noise, but they can see nothing past the robes of Alatar. The girl watches them with mild curiosity, giving no heed to the sound. Not until they pass a room where a woman can be heard moaning hollowly does the girl show any sign of emotion. She hangs her head and glances away from the closed door, her hands clutched into loose fists. Frodo turns back around, catching Sam’s eyes in the process. They are both thinking the same thing: the girl had been taken from one of these rooms, and there are others still occupying them. Even if the girl gets away somehow, what will happen to the others when they try to escape? 

They reach the end of the tunnel and the final door swings open into a wide chamber. Pallando steps aside to let the hobbits pass. Frodo goes first, leading Sam behind him. 

If they thought the dungeon grotesque, they find the chamber no better. The room is just as large as the dungeon but instead of cages there are tables with straps of leather or metal to hold the victim immobile. A large man-shaped box stands in one corner, with a small slit at eye level to peer out; the hobbits know instinctively that they do not want to see what is inside it. There are other contraptions that they recognize as tables but beyond that, they cannot guess their purpose. All of the contraptions are covered with blood, the wood and leather so drenched they have been permanently stained. Lined along the walls are odd-looking instruments, as well as saws, knives, axes and clubs, all blood-stained.

The hobbits stop in the middle of the room and turn to face the wizards just as Alatar enters, the girl still in his clutches. The wizards converse quietly to themselves, then Alatar nudges the girl and speaks sharply to her. The girl shuffles to the wall and picks up a flint and stone. She clacks them together over a torch and lights it, then shuffles about the room lighting the rest of the torches and lastly the fire in an oven that the hobbits had not seen before. When the girl finishes, she puts the flint and stone back in their place and stands obediently in front of the wizards. Miraculously, Alatar waves his hand, dismissing her.  

Frodo has but a few moments to send her a message before the door swings closed, blocking her from view. He shows her their reception in the village and the shamaness giving him her necklace. He then shows her a vision of herself, gathering any who are still in their rooms and taking them with her to hide in the fortress above. The door closes before Frodo can determine if the girl understands or not, and he can only hope that she will follow his instructions. If he manages to give himself and Sam an opportunity to escape, they will have to go back up the tunnel, away from the west tower, and Frodo does not want to worry about anyone getting in the way.

The wizards turn their cold eyes on the hobbits, sizing them up. They are no longer whispering but Frodo has a feeling that they are speaking to each other with their minds as well. They appear concerned by something. At length, Pallando comes forward and bends down to examine the manacles and chain, and Frodo understands what is troubling them. The wizards do not have a key and the chain is not long enough to allow the hobbits to be placed on separate tables. The manacles will have to come off for the wizards to do their work.

Both Frodo and Sam hold their breaths, though for different reasons. Frodo is worried what will happen if the wizards attempt to touch the chain too soon, whereas Sam is waiting to see if this chain proves to be the wizards’ bane or not. Pallando finishes studying the chain, apparently seeing nothing more significant in it than Sam had. 

The wizard straightens and waves his hand over the chain, clearly expecting the manacles to open and release the hobbits. Nothing happens. Pallando tries again, speaking some sort of incantation this time. Again, nothing happens. He goes through several incantations, each time his voice growing more irritated, but the manacles refuse to budge. The chain doesn’t so much as quiver. The wizard narrows his eyes and finally reaches out, taking a length of the chain into his knurled hands. An instant later, he lets the chain go and backs away, hissing in pain as the pungent smell of burnt flesh fills the chamber.

‘Oh no,’ Sam thinks, though deep beneath his fear he is relieved to discover that Sauron had not been lying. These chains really are the wizards’ bane, only now the wizards know it.

“What do you want with us?” Frodo asks suddenly, hoping to distract the wizards from their discovery, though he knows it is futile. “What can you possibly hope to gain from capturing us?”

The wizards ignore him. Pallando slowly opens his hands and examines them. Welts are already beginning to grow where the chain had touched him. He leers at the hobbits and Alatar steps forward, raises one knotted hand and soundly smacks Frodo across the face. Frodo falls over backward from the force of it, and Sam goes with him. They crash onto the grime-covered floor, and Frodo lies there in a stunned daze as Sam broils over with anger. He hovers over Frodo and glares up at the wizards, who are again inspecting Pallando’s hands. 

“You want knowledge of the One Ring,” Frodo guesses as blood trickles from the corner of his mouth and down his throat. He needs to find some way to stall the wizards long enough to get out of here. If he can only get them talking… “You would create a new one. You can’t do that. You don’t have the skill or the power.”

“We have the skill,” Pallando assures calmly, flexing his injured hands, “and the power that created the One Ring is at this very moment spilling his blood, his life force, as he fights the Variags above. We will soon have that as well, but the knowledge for controlling the Ring we will get from you, for this Sauron will never give us.”

“Variags?” Sam says, remembering Sauron’s brief description of them the previous night. “They’re here?”

“Here and waiting for that double-crossing deceiver,” Alatar says. “They will rip him to shreds and bring us his blood. We cannot enhance our rings, he saw to that when he made them, but we will soon have a better and will no longer be reliant upon them. I am afraid that he will not be in time to destroy them.” 

He smiles widely in a most sickening fashion and the hobbits watch in horror as he drifts over to the wall with the knives and other weapons and picks up a saw. He flicks a finger against the saw blade and its dull twain fills the air. He keeps his eyes on Sam’s as he slowly mimics slicing the blade across his wrist then bends a finger at Sam. The implication cannot be more clear. 

“In the meantime,” he says in his soft wooden timbre, flicking the saw blade again and the twain reverberates off the chamber walls, echoing shrilly. “Your knowledge of the One Ring is the missing ingredient. You will give us your knowledge, or we will take it from you. Tell us everything you know, and you need not be hurt.”

Frodo sits up shakily. “We will tell you nothing,” he says in defiance, “and you will take nothing.” 

Pallando steps beside Alatar and takes the saw with his wounded hands. Alatar then takes four thin leather cords from the wall to use as tourniquets as Pallando fingers the sharp teeth of the saw and considers the hobbits closely. 

“He gives us commands and warnings,” Pallando says, tilting his head at Frodo. Then his eyes drift over to Sam and a soft, almost loving, smile spreads over his lips. It is far more frightening than the saw he holds in his hands. “Will he bargain?”

‘Mr. Frodo,’ comes Sam’s desperate plea in Frodo’s head. Sam is gripping both of his master’s hands now and is quaking with fear.

‘Stay calm, Sam,’ Frodo says. ‘We’ll have no chance to escape if you pass out now.’

Satisfied with the condition of the straps, Alatar turns back to the hobbits, smiles cruelly and points a long crooked finger at Sam once more. Sam shrinks away, attempting to both keep hold of Frodo’s hands while hiding his own behind his back. His trembling doubles as Pallando advances. Before the wizard reaches him, his grip begins to slip from Frodo’s and he is being pulled towards a small stone wheel sitting on the floor nearby. His hands fly up onto the stone to rest there, despite his futile attempts to get away.

Frodo is on his feet instantly and he rushes over to stand in front of his friend. “You will not touch him,” he warns, a heated glare in his eyes unlike anything Sam has ever seen before.

“No?” says Alatar. “How do you plan on stopping us, little one? You are no match for us.”

Yet even as he says this, he stops walking as though meeting some unseen resistance and Pallando also is unable to move his feet. They look down at their immobile legs and laugh. 

“Do you wish play games with us, Ring-bearer?” Alatar asks, his amusement evident in his low, rumbling voice. The wizards allow Frodo to hold them immobilized for a few more moments, then Alatar waves his hand and Frodo stumbles backward as if struck. He falls beside Sam, whose hands are still glued to the stone wheel. “You only needed to ask.”

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam whispers worriedly into his master’s ear. They have barely begun and already Frodo is beginning to look worn. He will not be able to keep this up for much longer. What is taking Sauron so long?

“Be ready,” Frodo whispers back. He shows Sam his plan and Sam nods. 

Frodo gets to his feet and whirls around to face the wizards once more. 

To be continued…

GF 6/30/07

Chapter 20 - Confrontations

Rick and Semira reach the bridge posts and look up at the imposing and silent fortress. It is quite unlike Orthanc, much larger in scale if not as dark or ominous, nor is it akin to the Dwimorberg, less frightening to look upon but filled with a maliciousness of its own. Rick doesn’t know what to make of it but he wastes no time figuring it out now. He follows the length of the west tower to the pointed turret but it is too high above them for him to discern if Sauron has reached it yet or not. For all he knows, the rings might already be destroyed, the task complete. Whatever the case, they can see and hear no sign of movement within. 

“So now what?” Rick whispers, lowering his gaze to the barred gate.

“You call them forth,” Semira whispers back, not moving her lips and doing her best to look like a hostage.

“How do I do that?” Rick asks.

“Raise your voice and speak loudly,” Semira answers unhelpfully.

“You know, this isn’t a very good plan,” Rick points out.

“We are out of time,” Semira replies, as though this is answer enough. 

As if on cue, an anguished scream emanates from the fortress, drawing their eyes in horror to the small windows beneath the raised drawbridge. The scream tapers to a pathetic end, sending chills up Rick’s spine. No, that can’t have been the hobbits!

“Do it now!” Semira commands.

Rick quickly gathers his wits and holds Semira in front of him. He clears his throat and hollers across the lake with more conviction than he would have thought possible just moments before, “Blue Wizards of Khand, the most mighty of the Maia upon Middle Earth, I, Childeric, son of Theuderic of Rohan, call upon you to give you a most luscious gift, the beautiful Sultana Semira, wife of the mighty Sultan Amros of the House of the Sun of Harad.”

They look up at the fortress waiting for some hint of an answer, but after several moments nothing so much as stirs. The foreboding begins to build in Rick’s gut. Surely, Sauron’s plan hasn’t failed? He tears his eyes away from the little windows and looks again to the west tower, wishing he could see from this angle. “Where is he?”

At first, Sam is not entirely sure what is happening. His master stands in front of him, effectively blocking his view of the wizards, and Sam has to lean around him to get a good look at his master’s profile and the wizards. 

In all his years, he has never seen his master so angered as he is now. That icy cold glare, seen on rare occasions in his childhood years and usually aimed at Merry or Pippin, had always been hard to bear but also something easily joked about – that is, once his master had left the room. The glare he sees now is cold enough to send a shiver up his spine and clench his heart with dread, and he is glad that it is not directed at him. The wizards do not appear perturbed by it, yet they are also not moving. Then again, neither is Frodo. 

A thin line of sweat breaks out on Frodo’s brow and his breathing is heavy and haggard, as though he is struggling under a great weight. This is nothing like Sam has seen before during his master’s sessions with Sauron, and Sam wonders if that is simply because there are two opponents now instead of one or because Sauron did not test Frodo as hard as he should have. He is not sure. The only thing he knows for certain is that Frodo cannot withstand this for long.

Sam is afraid to move, even if he could, afraid to speak, afraid to do anything that might distract his master and break his concentration. He stays as still and unobtrusive as he can, thinking himself out of the way and ignored. He soon learns different. His skin begins to prickle painfully and a searing heat crawls up his arms and around his scalp, as if he has been set on fire. He is so surprised and terrified by this sudden assault that he does not even have time to react before Frodo clenches his fists tighter and steps forward, his glare growing icier still. As suddenly as it began, the pain is gone and Sam finds he is now free to move. He scrambles back behind Frodo and checks his skin for burns as best he can in the dim light. He does not appear to be harmed and the odd burning, prickling sensation had been so brief that he would have been tempted to believe he imagined it had he not known better.

Sam is not aware of how much time has passed since they entered chamber. Time here seems not to exist or be of any importance. If not for the sweat that now drips down Frodo’s face and gathers at the nape of his neck, Sam wouldn’t have thought any time has passed at all. Has it been one minute or ten, or an hour, that his master has been battling with the wizards’ minds?

He looks up at his master’s form and sees that Frodo is beginning to tremble under the strain as his body starts to give in to the pressure. Sam peeks around his master’s legs and sees the wizards staring cruel and hard at Frodo, not blinking or backing down in the least. They appear to not even be bothered by this confrontation, and Sam has the sickening impression that they are playing cat and mouse, toying with their dinner until it no longer has the energy to run away and they are hungry enough to consume it.

Sam clutches his hands into fists and grinds them on the floor, longing to get up and punch them both in the face or, better still, to run them through with one of the knives hanging from the wall. Yet he dares not move and the knowledge that he can do nothing to help his master makes him feel more useless than he ever has before. Even in Mordor, he had been able to do something, yet here he cannot even lift a finger. Here, he is the burden hanging around Frodo’s neck, weighing him down. He clutches at the restraining chain, yearning to unlock the manacles and slap them over the wizards’ hands.

Suddenly, Frodo lets out a great gasp and collapses to his hands and knees. Sam hurries to wrap a protective arm around him, even as the wizards laugh.

“A nice attempt, Ring-bearer,” Pallando says, holding up the saw again. “Now, be good, so we can tie the tourniquet around your arms. We don’t want you passing out from lack of blood before we’ve even had opportunity to get acquainted.”

Frodo and Sam can only watch as Alatar approaches with the cords. The wizard reaches out and takes Sam’s arm, feeling for the pressure point. The wizard’s fingers are dry and cracked with thick, calloused skin that reminds Sam of tree bark. Those long twig-like fingers dig into his skin with bruising force and Sam tries to reel back, to slip away from the wizard’s grip, but Alatar’s hold on him is too strong.

Then Frodo moves quick as lightning, wrapping the chain around Alatar’s arms, pulling it taunt. Alatar screams in pain and Pallando advances, all pretense of mind games abandoned. He will wrap his hands around the Ring-bearer’s skinny little neck until he passes out and then they can separate the hobbits without further interference. He reaches out for Frodo, but as he does so Frodo releases Alatar, who writhes on the ground in mute anguish as he recovers from the assault. Frodo holds the chain in front of himself, blocking Pallando’s attempts to grab him. Pallando extends an injured hand towards the wall and a club with many spikes flies into it. He wields the club, ready to strike, when an odd call sounds from outside.

“Blue Wizards of Khand, the most mighty of the Maia upon Middle Earth…”

The wizards pause for the briefest of moments, surprised by this unexpected intrusion to their lands, and that is all the opportunity that Frodo needs.

‘Now Sam!’ Frodo’s voice says urgently in Sam’s mind, and Sam, working on instinct alone, scrambles to his feet. Before he can understand what is happening, both wizards are flying backward through the air, as if pushed by a great force. They collide with one of their torture contraptions, which instantly tips over, pinning them to the floor. The next instant, the door to the chamber slams open and Frodo is on his feet, tugging at the chain for Sam to follow.

Sam doesn’t need telling twice. He runs after Frodo, grateful to leave the chamber behind. He hears the door slam closed behind them as they pound hastily up the long, dimly-lit corridor but no sound of pursuit follows. More of the cell doors stand open now than before, but Sam pays no attention to this, too numb with shock at what had nearly happened to him. It is all he can do to keep his feet moving towards to other end of the passage and the small wooden door to the dungeon. 

The wooden door is just within reach when the door to the torture chamber crashes open behind them. Frodo and Sam put forth all their speed, dashing through the wooden door as it springs open before them. The door closes again when they have passed through and one of the smaller cages slides across the floor to bar the way. Frodo leads Sam through the dungeon to the main door.

“We must get hid,” Frodo pants. “They can’t use their powers against us if they don’t know where we are.”

Sam thinks hard as a detailed map of the passageways of the fortress unfolds before his mind’s eye with startling clarity. He sees again the corridor from the main gate and the path they had taken to get to the dungeon. He sees the other passages and corridors in the fortress, all five levels, as well as the rooms that branch off of those corridors. “There’s a room round near the back of the fortress on the third floor. It’s the furthest from either entrance to the west tower as we can get. We might be able to make it.”

“You’re a marvel, Sam,” Frodo says as the main dungeon door opens in front of them. “Lead the way.”

Sam goes in front and up the stairs and runs headlong into the sentry who stands guard in the corridor. The hobbits are seized instantly.

The Variags come crashing towards Sauron. He dodges the lieutenant in front of him, grabbing one of the warriors attacking on his left and throwing him into two others. The lieutenant rebounds and turns to attack again as Sauron quickly drops two more warriors, slitting their throats with one fell slash of his sword. He then grabs the remaining standing warrior and spins about, the lieutenant’s scimitar easily slicing through the armor and mail to inflict its killing strike. 

The lieutenant pauses, looking in stunned amazement as his pulls his scimitar from his comrade, but he quickly recovers to discover Sauron parrying with the last three of his fighters. Rather than charge into the fray again, the lieutenant positions himself beneath the trap door to the turret and waits for Sauron to come to him. He doesn’t have to wait long. 

Sauron doesn’t waste time with these last three warriors and quickly cuts through them, spilling their blood on the drenched floor. He turns and faces off with the lieutenant, who constantly dodges out of striking distance, refusing even to parry. Sauron quickly realizes he is being toyed with and that the Variags must be here solely to delay him from completing his task. So far they are succeeding. However, for all their brilliant deviousness there is one thing the Blue Wizards have overlooked. Sauron has so far refrained from using his gifts because he did not want the wizards to know what he is doing, but if they already know…

Sauron stops, lowers his weapons and sneers. The lieutenant also pauses, wondering what sort of trick his former master is using now. This cannot be a stall tactic but he cannot think what else it might be. He keeps his scimitar poised in front of him, ready to block whatever might be coming. The next moment, he is being pulled backward by some unseen force. He crashes into the wall and falls to the ground, his scimitar falling from his hand. He shakes his head, dazed by the hit, and never sees the stroke that ends his life. 

His way now open, Sauron quickly raises the ladder and runs up it into the turret attic. He then draws the ladder into the attic with him and closes the trap door, locking it behind him.

The room is small and circular, the cone-shaped roof tapering to its point a couple of feet above his head. In the center of the room is a pedestal assembled of many blocks of sandstone. The blocks are etched with Khand runes, telling the story of the kingdom’s slow demise. The top of the pedestal is bare. There is only one window in the attic and through it Sauron can see the setting sun as it rests just above the hilltops. He has only moments to spare. 

In two quick strides, he reaches the window and rams the scimitar against the wall. The blue diamond dislodges from the hilt and he catches it easily as it falls. He holds the diamond up to the window and the sunlight streams through it to the top of the pedestal, instantly beginning to bake the sandstone with its intense heat. Satisfied, Sauron searches the pedestal for the block that looks like a tree with the sun and the moon on either side and pushes it. A compartment near the base of the pedestal opens, revealing the golden rings set with sparkling amethysts.

Sauron reaches in and withdraws the rings. Erratic though their power may be, power it still is, and it emanates from the rings into Sauron’s very core. He clutches his fist around them, feeling their poisonous power as it courses through him, overwhelming him with its intensity. He has not expected to feel this way again and he stands there enraptured as the sun sinks lower.

The sentry looks down at the hobbits, surprised to discover that the prisoners have escaped from the wizards. Frodo takes opportunity of the sentry’s hesitance to reach into his shirt and bring out the shamaness’s necklace. The sentry’s eyes widen in wonder to see the familiar token adorning the neck of a being so small and pale. 

‘Let us pass,’ Frodo thinks, showing the sentry a vision of him letting the hobbits go. 

The sentry tightens his hold on the hobbits’ shoulders and looks at them uncertainly, just as the wooden door to the dungeon slams open and the metal cage crashes into the wall, making the passage vibrate with the force of its impact. In just a few short seconds, it will be too late. 

‘Please!’ Frodo pleads.

The sentry quickly makes up his mind. He pushes the hobbits in front of him and farther down the passage, then drawing his scimitar turns to face the dungeon door. The hobbits bolt up the steps to the tower entry and pass through the archway just as the main dungeon door bangs open. They run up the circling steps as they hear the scimitar of the sentry singing through the air, hear metal contacting with stone and the mangled cries of the man.

“They’re going to kill that guard,” Sam puffs tiredly. 

“I know,” Frodo says, feeling a guilt so overwhelming it nearly chokes him. An instant later, a nearly inhuman pain-filled cry rents through the air up the tower stairwell and is quickly silenced. 

Frodo closes his eyes, trying not to be sick again as he struggles to keep up with Sam. His confrontation with the wizards has drained him, and he knows he does not have much energy left to fight them again. He finds only minimal comfort in the presence of Rick outside, knowing the lad will likely be killed next if he is not careful. Just what is Rick thinking anyway?

Sam leads Frodo to the third floor and not a moment too soon. They can hear the pursuit of the wizards behind them, their longer legs carrying them up the stairs more swiftly than their own. Sam pulls Frodo behind him, up the corridor leading to the east tower. Halfway up the corridor, he turns left and takes them through another passage that angles towards the center of the fortress. They come to a crossway and Sam turns right down another corridor. As they near the end of this corridor, he turns suddenly to the right and takes Frodo through a set of double doors into a small storage room. He draws Frodo inside and closes the door behind him, leaving it just slightly ajar so he can keep a look out for the wizards’ approach. 

Frodo takes the key from his robe pocket and quickly unlocks the manacles as he struggles to regain his breath and strength. He will not have enough time to recover if the wizards aren’t somehow delayed in finding them. “When they find us, we have to be ready,” he says, focusing on the present moment. 

“We best get ready now then,” says Sam as he peeks out the crack in the door. Is that an approaching shadow?

Sure enough, the wizards appear at the crossway and after only a moment’s hesitation they turn right, coming down the corridor towards them. Sam signals silently to Frodo, taking one set of manacles and holding them ready while Frodo does the same with the other. Frodo quickly shows Sam the plan in a series of visions: they will leap from the room just as the wizards reach it, and Frodo will have just enough energy left to hold them captive long enough to clap the manacles in place. It is their one and only chance. Sam nods in understanding and slips his foot into the crack of the door so he can wrench it open at the exact moment. 

The wizards look into each room as they pass, moving silently, their sea blue robes swaying as waves of the ocean with each step they take. They are three rooms away; Frodo and Sam prepare to spring to their feet. The wizards are two doors away; Sam checks his hold on the manacles while readying to open the door. The wizards are one door away. It’s now or never. 

After several more moments tick by, Rick shrugs at Semira, not knowing what else to do. “Maybe they don’t understand Westron,” he suggests.

Semira gives him a doubtful look. “I do not know why that would stop them from being curious,” she says, “even if they are already tormenting the Ring-bearers. They would send somebody, if only to kill us. Try again.”

“But if they don’t understand,” Rick starts to protest, not even bothering to point out that getting themselves killed had not been the original plan.

“I will say it in Southron,” Semira offers. “Just repeat what I say as best you can.”

Rick nods and tries again, repeating Semira’s muttered words, struggling to wrap his tongue around the odd sounds.

The girl creeps out from the kitchen where she has taken the other children and the women to hide as the little pale shaman with the blue eyes had asked her to in his vision. Her caretaker grabs for her but she shakes her head and holds a finger to her lips. She had thought she heard something while they had been running through the entrance hall and she sneaks down the passages to the hall again. She listens within the safety of the corridor, keeping an eye and ear on anything stirring in the hall. 

After a moment she hears it again, a man shouting outside, only this time instead of speaking nonsense sounds he speaks in jilted Southron, the accent so thick she has trouble understanding him. She peeks into the entrance hall and seeing nothing dashes up to the main gate and looks out the window. 

Standing on the bank of the lake are a beautiful Haradrim woman and a very pale man. The girl squints to get a better look at the man, and she gasps with excitement. That man had been in the vision the little shaman had shown her! That man is a friend of the little shaman, and the girl knows that the little shaman is in trouble. 

She does not stop to consider the woman that the pale man holds captive. The woman is not important to her. She only cares about saving the little shaman. Looking around once more to make sure there are no sentries returning to their posts, the girl opens the main gate and cranks the pulley to lower the drawbridge. When the bridge is down, the girl runs out a few steps and calls to the pale man, waving frantically, “The little shaman! The little shaman! They are going to kill him and his little friend! Hurry!”

Semira and Rick pause at this unexpected sight, then Semira holds up her hands for Rick to cut the cords. She then draws her scimitar from Rick’s side and raises it straight into the air, crying a single word that Rick can only surmise is a war cry. A moment later, the cry is repeated en masse as the warriors come out of their cover and run down the bank towards them. 

Rick draws his sword and raises it also. “Death!” he cries and together they charge over the bridge and past the girl into the fortress. 

Sauron has his eyes closed now, struggling to ignore the sensations passing through him to open his hand and drop the rings onto the pedestal. His hand does not want to cooperate and for a moment he loathes himself for this weakness within him. Then a sudden war cry from outside reaches his ears and he turns his head to listen. Another louder war cry follows the first and Sauron knows the Haradrim have arrived at long last, but neither sound is the one he is waiting to hear. A third cry, faint but clear to his sharp ears, reaches him. Death!

Rick! He has come with the Haradrim and Sauron knows the only reason his friend yet lives is because of his affection for Semira. Hard and commanding though she may be, she has a soft spot for Rick and would not have allowed him to come to harm. Sauron had seen it their final night camping with her and had known he could entrust Rick to her hands when she followed with her husband and the Elite Guard.

Sauron chuckles to himself as he imagines what Rick will say when he learns that he has once again been left out of the full details of the plan, and Sauron finds he can now pry his hand open with relative ease. He holds his hand over the pedestal and turns it palm downward. The rings slide off his hand, landing with gentle clinks onto the pedestal, one atop the other. 

Sauron withdraws to the window. The sun is now half hidden by the hills. He raises the diamond to the window and aims the fading sunlight at the rings, feeling an odd sense of satisfaction as they begin to sizzle from the heat. He only hopes now that there is enough sunlight left to melt them and release the dark powers that lay within. 

The Blue Wizards suddenly stop in their pursuit, their heads lifted as though searching for something along the ceiling, hissing under their breaths like wind blowing through the treetops. As one, they turn and run up the passage, past the room where the hobbits lay hid and towards the rear passageway that leads to the north and east towers.

“They’re going away,” Sam hisses. “I think they heard something.”

“That would be Sauron,” Frodo sighs with relief, but it is short-lived. “They’re going to try to stop him. We can’t let them!”

Sam grabs the chain to keep his master from bearing the weight of it, then springs through the door, pursuing the wizards who have already gained the stairwell to the east tower. Frodo puts forth his final effort, forcing the wizards to a standstill as he and Sam catch up. The wizards are just recovering when the hobbits reach them and a mighty noise erupts up the stairwell from below, echoing off the stone walls. Chaos is breaking on the ground floor and the wizards growl at the hobbits in anger. They raise their hands as if to strike.

The rings begin to boil as smoke rises from the golden bands and, sooner than Sauron could have hoped, the metal is bubbling and melting. The sun sinks into the wedge between two hilltops, concentrating its powerful rays, and the diamond radiates with blinding light as the sun’s rays funnel through the gem. Sauron’s fingers begin to burn but he holds onto the gem still as the rings continue to melt and boil until vapors of enchantments rise into the air and evaporate into nothingness. The rings are destroyed.

Sam dodges Pallando’s strike and tries to clap the manacles over the wizard’s wrists. Across from him, Frodo is doing the same with Alatar. 

Suddenly, the wizards stop and drop to their knees, howling in anger and writhing in pain, filling the tunnels and passages of the fortress with their potent cries of rage. The hobbits clap the manacles over the wizards’ wrists, the final stroke. The wizards quail away from them, pure hatred in their eyes, but they can do little more than kneel, motionless, as the pain of their defeat and the binding power of the chain enfold them.

Another thunderous roar sounds through the stairwell, drawn by the wails of the Blue Wizards. From above come those guards who have recovered from their fight with Sauron. They stop in the bend of the stairwell, looking down at the wizards and hobbits with wonder and fear. From below come the stampeding approach of the Haradrim. Semira and Amros gain the tower entry first and they look upon the wizards with wonder and spite.

Frodo and Sam quickly retreat into the shadows, but not before Rick, following Semira onto the landing, can spot them. He dashes over to them, taking them both in with one quick look, relieved to find them unharmed. He sheaths his sword and crouches in front of the hobbits as Semira, Amros and the fortress guards descend upon the wizards. From behind, in the direction of the south tower, come more of the Haradrim, their scimitars raised high. 

“No!” Frodo cries suddenly. “They are to be taken to Valinor to face their judgment.”

“They will face their judgment now,” Semira says. She holds out her scimitar to the fortress guards and their leader steps forward, taking it with hesitance. Then he spies the token of the shamaness peeking out from Frodo’s robe and turns an enraged scowl at his masters. Amros stands beside him and together they bring down their scimitars upon the wizards’ necks.

Frodo and Sam look away, hiding their faces in Rick’s torso as the wizards’ limp bodies drop to the cold stone floor. A moment later, their remains begin to sizzle and burst into flames. Everyone jumps back to a safe distance and when the flames die down there are no remains left, not a hint of the sea blue robes or a pile of ashes or a whiff of smoke. The Blue Wizards are no more.

To be continued…

GF 7/4/07

Chapter 21 - Sacrifice

The Haradrim and Khand stare astounded at the spot where the wizards had lain just moments before. The guard leader falls to his knees, Semira’s scimitar clattering to the floor, and the other guards shake their heads and blink their eyes, doubting what they had just seen. Amros leans over and inspects the bare floor more closely, as behind him Cepros searches the ceiling for smoke or other signs of fire. He finds none. 

Rick is equally astonished and he carefully circles the hobbits, keeping them protected, as he gapes at the floor. He points to the empty manacles, then at Amros and the guard leader. “That… that wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to be taken to Valinor.”

“Valinor?” Amros repeats with contempt. “That supposed haven in the sky where no one dies? What punishment would they have found there? They would have been sent back, just like the Eye. These Valar, these so-called all-knowing all-powerful entities, they do not care what happens here, and so we do not wait for them to act. For all we know, they are nothing more than myth. We deal out justice our own way. Now, where is the Eye?” 

“We were going to meet in the entrance hall when the task was finished,” Rick informs.

“Then we shall wait for him there,” Amros declares. He turns to the others and orders them to follow. He gives Semira her scimitar back and leads the way down the stairwell back to the first floor. The Haradrim lined in the passageway behind them push Rick and the hobbits in front of them. Rick bends down and picks up the chain before allowing himself to be ushered down the stairs. The fortress guards follow them, too confused and accustomed to following orders to question what is happening.

They reach the entrance hall and find the girl still waiting there. Twilight spills in through the open door and a cool eastward wind blows through the hall, crisp and refreshing, a pleasant relief from the suffocating heat. The girl sees Frodo and her face splits into a grin before she disappears down a corridor on the other side of the hall, shouting excitedly as she goes. She returns shortly with the women and other children, and there is now chaos and confusion as everyone erupts into questions and half-formed explanations. 

The guard leader quickly silences them and turns to Frodo. He bows before the hobbit in the manner of his people, lying upon the ground with his hands folded in front of him in a v-shape, his forehead resting on his hands. To Frodo’s horror the others quickly do the same, and it is only then that he notices that the shamaness’s necklace has fallen out of his robes to lie upon his chest for all to see. Frodo hastily tucks it back away as the guard leader utters some words that Frodo cannot understand. Frodo looks up at Rick for help though he knows the lad cannot offer any. He next looks to Semira, only now fully realizing the meaning of her presence here, and he gapes at her in wonder as his own questions begin to build. 

She notices him looking and quickly translates. “He says, ‘Great Shaman, I, Cyrus, am your most humble servant. I offer to you my services, such as they are, for as long as you shall be in need of them. My people and I are forever indebted to you, Great Shaman, for coming in this time of need to deliver us from the Blue Wizards’ tyranny, and for that forever will you be honored.’ 

“They are waiting for your blessing,” she finishes.

“My blessing?” Frodo asks, horrified. “But, I’m not a shaman!”

“No, you’re not,” Semira agrees but her next words are less comforting. “I believe he thinks you are The Shaman, the one from whom all mortal shamans get their knowledge and power, the one who the legends say will return one day to end the darkness in the land.”

“But I didn’t do anything,” Frodo protests, his horror growing. Being idolized by the Gondorians and the Rohirrim for destroying the One Ring had been bad enough. He does not think he can withstand being credited for being some powerful deity equal to the Khand as the Valar to the Elves. “All I did was distract the wizards so Sauron could destroy the rings.”

“And you brought Sauron, so that he could do this thing,” Semira says, gently explaining the Khand’s viewpoint.

“Sauron brought me!” Frodo cries.

“Is there really such a great difference?” she asks. “If I understand everything I have been told, he would not have come if you had not.”

Frodo is at a loss and for a time he can do little more than to stare with trepidation at the Khand kneeling before him with a growing sense of surrealism. Is this really happening? Not knowing what else to do, he bows to the Khand and says, “I am in your service and the service of your family.”

Semira translates this and Cyrus accepts the gesture and pledge with pride. He stands and the other Khand stand with him. There is a moment when Frodo fears they might expect more of him, but instead Cyrus begins to tell his people all that he has seen and to learn what they know. 

Only slightly relieved by this reprieve, Frodo turns to Rick and Semira, and the rest of the Haradrim. “Is someone going to explain what is going on here?” he asks.

“So this wasn’t part of the plan then?” Sam asks, just as confused.

“Not that I can tell,” Rick says, “though it wouldn’t surprise me if Sauron had this up his sleeves the whole time. Well, except for the wizards being killed. He’s not going to be happy about that.”

“It certainly wasn’t on the itinerary,” comes Sauron’s voice from the rear of the entrance hall as he comes down passage from the east tower. 

The Haradrim quickly line up to bar his way, drawing their weapons and holding them to strike. Sauron pauses in the passageway, dripping with blood both black and red, his right hand clutched around some unseen object. Rick exclaims in distress to see him injured but Sauron gives a small shake of his head, bidding Rick to stay back. Behind Sauron come the two guards and the sentry he had locked into the treasure room. They follow Sauron as ones just awakened from a deep sleep to discover the world has changed around them. Cyrus calls to them, and they go to him without question and begin to tell him what has transpired.

“So the wizards are dead,” Sauron continues, nonplussed by his hostile reception. He simply remains in the passageway and looks at them all, his eyes eventually falling on the hobbits. He looks them over quickly, assessing them for damage. They will soon be in shock from their encounter if they aren’t already, but other than that he is pleased to see that they are relatively unharmed. He returns his regard to Amros and Semira. “Who killed them?”

“I did and the guard,” says Amros, pointing at Cyrus. “We beheaded them, and they went up in flame and smoke.”

“Well, that’s one way of making sure they never come back,” Sauron concedes.

“I’m sorry, Sauron,” Rick says, glaring accusingly at Amros. “We tried telling them. Is this going to mess things up for you?”

Sauron shakes his head, unconcerned. “Illúvatar always has the final word,” he says. “That flame and smoke show didn’t come from nowhere. No, it is the Void for them and there they will remain until the end of the world. This way is better, I think. The wizards would have attempted escape before long, unsuccessfully and in vain, but they could have hurt someone in the process, and the Khand now have someone to lead them.” He looks at Cyrus significantly here, but the man, having no understanding of what is being said, only looks back in puzzlement and alarm. 

“Good indeed, and it will be better to do the same for you,” Amros says. “You deserve no better than the wizards.” He raises his scimitar.

“No!” Rick exclaims. He leaves the hobbits’ sides and dashes around the line of warriors to stand between them and Sauron. He holds his hands up in appeal. “No! You promised that if the hobbits weren’t harmed you would let Sauron walk free. They’re unharmed.”

Amros, Semira and Cepros turn to look at the hobbits. Cepros points at Frodo. “He has blood on his mouth and his cheek is swollen.”

“His arm is bruised,” says Semira, pointing at Sam.

Amros faces Rick again and smiles smugly. “And I believe you promised that if they were harmed, we could do as we will with the Eye. Now step aside and I promise to make it quick, though he does not deserve such a mercy.”

Rick has no choice but to step aside. “I’m sorry,” he says mournfully to Sauron.

“You gave them your word,” Sauron says. “You must honor it. I, however, made no such promise.”

“And neither did I,” Frodo says, coming around to stand next to Rick. Sam joins him and they both cross their arms and glare up at these strange men and Semira. Frodo continues, “You will have to go through me first.”

“We have no desire to harm you, Ring-bearer,” Amros says, holding his stance and edging forward ever so slightly. Cyrus immediately draws his scimitar and steps beside Frodo. He holds his weapon against Amros, and the other fortress guards line up beside him, their scimitars ringing as they are withdrawn from their sheaths. 

“Yet harm me you must, if you wish to kill him,” Frodo says, shaken by this display of loyalty from the Khand but trying not to show it. He points his chin stubbornly and wishes silently to whatever Valar might hear him that this may end without more bloodshed. “Sauron goes free. Agreed?”

Amros has little choice but to agree. He sheaths his scimitar with a vicious motion, and his warriors do likewise. Cepros and Semira take longer to lower their weapons, and it is not until all arms are put down that Frodo and Sam relax their stance. Seeing that all has been resolved, the Khand sheath their scimitars also, Cyrus frowning at Frodo, not understanding the exchange or why the Great Shaman would protect the Eye when he allowed the Wizards to be destroyed.

“Agreed,” says Amros grudgingly. “He may walk free from this place, but he must still answer for his crimes against my people.”

“And I shall,” Sauron agrees. He gently motions for Frodo and Sam to stand aside so that he may face Amros and Semira directly. Again, he glances to Cyrus to include him in what he says now, switching to Southron so that all may understand him. “The day will come that I shall stand before your courts to be judged for my crimes, but know this: That day will not come to pass until I have fulfilled my sentence to a court higher than yours, that being the court of Manwë on Taniquetil in Valinor. My duty is to him, first and foremost, and it may bring me into your lands again as I am ordered to undo the evils I have wrought upon this world. I do not ask for your assistance on these occasions, only that you do not heed me.”

“You ask too much,” Amros says.

“Perhaps then you would be willing to send a small escort whenever I am in your lands, to make sure I do not step out of line,” Sauron offers. “It is an arrangement that has proven successful already.”

Amros studies the Maia long before he answers, almost as though he is challenging him, “You may have an escort to keep you in check, but only if the boy stays in my custody whenever you are in my lands.”

“The man has a mind of his own, and he can be quite stubborn with it at times,” Sauron says, smiling fondly at Rick. “He doesn’t always listen to me and this is not a decision I can make without discussing it with him first.”

“There are many decisions to make,” Semira says, “but I think it would be unwise to proceed until things are resolved here. We shall call a truce and discuss things further when we have returned to the village.”

“A truce?” Cepros says, disbelieving that she would suggest trusting their mortal enemy for longer than it would take to kill him.

“We need to learn what took place here,” Semira says, “but for now it seems that Sauron was good on his word and destroyed the rings of the Blue Wizards as Rick had told us he would. They were already defeated when we found them, otherwise I doubt we would have been able to kill them so easily. He has earned a truce for now, even if he does not yet deserve our trust.”

They all agree to this and shake hands on it. Cyrus bows to Sauron, a look of pure confusion on his face. “Great Eye,” he says, “why do you include me in these discussions?” 

To answer, Sauron holds out his clutched hand and opens it, turning it palm upward to reveal a small, thick golden disc, roughly circular with a misshapen hole in the center. Next to the disc are the amethysts. Once a deep reddish-purple, the heat of the sun magnified through the blue diamond had turned them a rich golden yellow. 

“These are all that remain of the rings that the Blue Wizards used to enslave your people for so many centuries,” Sauron tells him. He hands the disc to the man. “They have been stripped of the spells put upon them and are harmless once more. Take this and use it as a reminder that your people, once enslaved, are now free to live as they wish.”

“But why do you give this to me?” Cyrus asks without taking it, more curious and confused than ever.

“Because you are meant to lead your people now,” Sauron says. “They will be needing a leader. When they will hear of your deeds here today and the hand you played in destroying the Blue Wizards, they will name you their malik, their king, and rightfully so. You will soon enough begin the work of rebuilding your mamlaka into the prosperous realm it once was, though it will be for others to finish the task.”

Cyrus’s eyes widen at this but he accepts the offering all the same. He stares down at it in wonder and tests the weight of it, as a soldier accustoming himself to the burden of his armor and weaponry before setting out on a long trek. He clutches his hand around it, accepting his fate even as he doubts the truth of it. He supposes only time will tell what is to become of him. He opens his hand and the nearest guards peer at it curiously. He hands it to them so they can inspect it and pass it on, and waits patiently for Sauron to continue. 

Sauron next extends the amethysts to Amros and Semira. “These too have been stripped of the spells upon them, though you may want to have someone other than me confirm it for you. Nienna was wise indeed to separate the moon from the sun. When they come together, they create a force that is not to be reckoned with. Take these for yourself and your fair wife as symbols of the combined strengths of sun and moon and the good that they may do when aimed towards a just purpose,” Sauron says and Amros accepts them, looking at them as though they might bite him. 

Sauron then slides the scimitar off his back and holds it towards Semira. Its blue diamond is secure in the hilt once more and the blade has been cleaned of the black blood that once covered it. “For you, Sultana, the scimitar of the House of the Moon.”

Semira takes it with wonder and fingers the diamond and hilt, and the silver sheath etched with oliphaunts and the runes of her people. She reads the runes, her wonder growing to distress and anger. “This was my grandfather’s,” she says. “So it was you who took him, as we guessed all along. How long you did torture him before you killed him?”

“Long enough for him to forget the just and honorable man he once was,” Sauron replies, grieved at the memory, “but I did not kill him. I had other uses for him. I took him into my service and he became my most loyal ambassador, my grand vizier. He lives still, if the rumors I hear are true, though he no longer resembles the man he was before. It may be that now he can only be saved by death, but I will do what is in my power to save his soul before sending him to his next life.”

Semira nods, still fingering the runes on the sheath. Then quick as lightning she draws the scimitar, its mighty blade singing and shining soft as moonlight, and she presses the blade to Sauron’s neck as a single tear spills down her cheek. They stare at each other across the glinting blade, Sauron remaining still as stone. After a time, Semira nods again and lowers the blade. “You will need my help to find him then,” she announces.

“I will, but I didn’t want to ask,” Sauron says. 

“We will come also,” say Amros and Cepros at once. 

“Your sultanate needs reordering and the House of the Eye must be dismantled once and for all,” Sauron says. “Yet I think we might find that these two tasks can be accomplished together with my own. But as we agreed, we will hold all discussion until work here is complete.” He turns again to Cyrus. “For starters, there are a dozen Variags slaughtered in the west tower.”

Cyrus’s eyes widen again at this announcement but he only nods. “We can dig a pit and dispose of them there.”

“I will do that,” Sauron says. “Just tell me where to dig. There are others more dear to you that you must worry about laying to rest first.”

Cyrus nods. “There are bodies in the dungeon and more at the bottom of the lake. Those we cannot recover for the lake is deep but those in the dungeon can still be purified. They must be sent off to the next life and we can speak the rites for those in the lake at the same time. We are also missing a man, Rakmahnesh. He is one of the sentries, but he is not here. Fatima says he would not leave his post when she brought the others to the kitchens at Great Shaman’s bidding.”

Sauron’s eyebrows quirk upward at this honorary title but he simply looks down at Frodo and waits for the hobbit to return his gaze. Frodo looks up at him reluctantly, almost as if he senses what is about to be asked. “Frodo?” Sauron asks gently. “The other sentry, the one who took you and Sam to the dungeons. Where is he?”

Sam answers instead, putting a supportive hand to Frodo’s shoulder. “He helped us escape from the wizards. He held them up so we could get away. They killed him, just outside the dungeon.”

Frodo nods in agreement, the shock now settling in quickly as the guilt he has been bearing overwhelms him and his head begins to pound. He sways where he stands, and Rick quickly takes the hobbits to sit against a pillar as Sauron informs Cyrus of what Sam said. Cyrus nods in heavy acceptance of this and bids for the other sentry and two of the guards to collect the body and store him in the dungeon until the following morning. 

The women prepare a grand feast that night while the injured guards have their wounds attended to by Cyrus. Their wounds are surprisingly mild, the worst being a dislocated knee and a broken nose of the two guards who had received the worst of Sauron’s assault. When Cyrus next offers to look at Sauron’s wounds, the Maia dissents, opting instead to search the fortress for clean robes to wear until the following morning when he will bury the Variags. He cleanses and wraps his wounds himself, noting with grim relief that they are already beginning to heal and fade. 

Over dinner, with Sauron and Semira translating, the full story of the Blue Wizards’ downfall is told and the final pieces fall into place. It is quite a tale, made longer by many interruptions as questions are asked and translations made. Everyone is very impressed by Sam’s account of the events in the torture chamber and Frodo’s mental battle with the wizards. This seems to confirm the Khand’s belief that Frodo is indeed The Shaman returned, and they keep refilling his plate so that by the end of the meal he feels ready to burst. 

When Rick asks, Sauron admits to having known that Semira is the Sultana of the House of the Sun ever since Rick told him of her tattoos. 

“Noblewomen are not marked until after they marry,” he explains to Rick, Frodo and Sam, “and the tattoo on her thigh indicated she was married. The markings on her shoulder are the Haradrim symbols for Sun and what we would call Queen, identifying her as the Sultana of the House of the Sun. So it could only mean that she was married to the Sultan of the House of the Sun. The jasmine brooch that she wears is also a symbol. Jasmine is the flower of the House of the Moon, so that is how I knew she was born to that sultanate.”

“And you knew she would follow us here,” Rick prompts.

“They are two of the Three Faithful Houses, and I have long been their enemy,” Sauron says. “Now the Three Faithful will grow in power again and take their rightful places as the dominant sultanates. Their alliance with Khand will be renewed, and they will remain together in friendship for countless generations to come, much like Gondor and Rohan.”

“That’s all well and good, but just answer one question. Is this your idea of sharing the plan?” Rick asks, crossing his arms.

“I promised I would tell you all the details of the plan and now I am,” Sauron says. Rick scoffs at this and opens his mouth to argue further, so Sauron says, “Did I mention that it was hearing your voice that allowed me to let go of the rings?”

Rick shakes his head, narrowing his eyes. “Flattery won’t work this time, my friend. You should have told me.”

“I tried to!” Sauron says, throwing his hands up in disbelief. “You’re the one who kept insisting that Semira wasn’t a spy! You wouldn’t hear a single word against her! Why would you have believed me if I told you she’s married?”

“That’s not the point,” Rick says.

“Oh, really? Then what is the point?”

“You made a promise and you should have told me.”

“And I’m keeping that promise. I never said when I would tell you all the details of the plan, just that I would,” Sauron points out.

“Oh, you know perfectly well that isn’t what I meant!” Rick argues.

Cepros smiles at this exchange and leans towards his brother, who is looking back and forth between Rick and Sauron with much bafflement and amusement. “They sound just like our parents, yes?” he says and Amros grunts in agreement.

After the meal, the children run about the fortress, choosing rooms to bed in, their caretakers following with some trepidation, still not quite believing that they are free to go where they please. The Haradrim are housed on the third floor rooms, and Cyrus shows Rick, Sauron and the hobbits to the grandest of the guest rooms on the fifth floor. Frodo does his best to keep up with the others as they climb the tower steps, but he soon tires and lags behind. At one point he almost falls backward as a wave of dizziness hits him particularly hard. He attempts to protest but quickly submits to Rick carrying him the rest of the way to their rooms. There, Cyrus bids them good-night and again kowtows to Frodo. Frodo bows and Cyrus rises gracefully and leaves them.

Once they are alone, Sauron takes the hobbits to sit on the edge of the bed and kneels in front of them. He looks them over thoroughly, inspecting their injuries, grateful they are so minor. He searches their eyes, which are slightly dilated from the shock, Frodo’s more than Sam’s. He touches Frodo’s head, causing him to wince. Frodo had said nothing during the feast but his dizziness on the stairs had spoken volumes. 

“Your head is still bothering you,” he states.

Frodo laughs and says lightly, “Only if feeling like your skull has been split open by one of Gimli’s axes can be considered bothersome.”

Sauron lightly presses against the pressure points on Frodo’s head to alleviate some of the pain. “You didn’t say much about your encounter with the wizards,” he says casually.

“Sam told it quite well,” is all the response he gets. 

Sauron looks at Frodo sharply, studying the light that shines from him like a beacon. For a while he does nothing more than kneel there, or so it seems, until he drops his hands and finally rises. “A good sleep is what you need, I think. That and rest. I want you to take it easy for the next few days and if you feel any disorientation or weakness, you are to tell me immediately.” He lifts an eyebrow at Sam.

“He will,” Sam promises. 

“The same goes for you Sam.” He waits for Sam’s nod before continuing. “You both did well today. Be proud of what you accomplished and do not be sad for Rakmahnesh. He gave his life willingly for yours, as you would have done for him. Such things are required in war. There is no guilt here.”

Frodo and Sam nod, hearing what he says but not yet fully able to accept it. They are left to wash and dress in clean robes, and Sam is asleep within moments of clambering into the massive bed. Frodo sits beside him for several hours, staring in the blackness of the room as the visions the wizards had put inside him creep out to mock him. At last he gets up and retreats to the window sill. He sits against the cold stone alcove, looking out over the lake and the hilltops and up at the stars and the moon overhead. He does not recall falling asleep but when he stirs in the predawn hours he finds that Sam has covered him in a thin sheet before curling up in the chair next to the window. Frodo watches as Sam sleeps and wonders what fate has planned for them next. 

They remain in the fortress three more days. 

The next morning, Sauron dresses into his soiled robes and with the help of the guards and the Haradrim warriors he carries the bodies of the Variags out of the fortress and follows the banks of the lake to a wide, secluded beach between two hilltops on the eastern side of the lake. There Sauron sets to digging, wishing no help from the others so they return to the fortress to help with the cleaning of the dungeon. He remains there all day, bent to his task, only stopping when Rick or one of the women bring him food to eat. By the time night falls, he has dug a hole deep enough to hold the fallen Variags and he places them there and covers them with grim satisfaction.

The hobbits spend the day on the second floor in the Hall of Records, a massive library directly above the entrance hall. Many tomes and scrolls litter the shelves and tables and spill onto the floor. Some of the documents are in Westron, histories of the wars between East and West, and genealogies of the Kings and Stewards of Gondor. The genealogies are not written on family trees in the fashion they are accustomed to but rather in long lists of names and dates that often repeat themselves as varying lines are followed on different scrolls. The other documents are in the odd symbols of the Eastern dialects and they can do little more than look at the pictures and try to make sense of them. They find more scrolls that are similar in fashion to the genealogies they had found earlier, but it is not until Fatima joins them and figures out what they are doing that progress begins to be made. She reads the names aloud to them, pointing at each one, and in this way they begin to recognize the groupings of symbols for the names that repeat the most. 

For lack of anything else to do, and on orders to take it easy and stay away from the bustle downstairs, the hobbits with Fatima’s help begin to arrange the genealogies into some semblance of order, starting with a sheath of parchment that appears to outline Cyrus’s lineage. By the time luncheon is announced they have traced Cyrus’s line back ten generations. They show their findings to Cyrus when they go down for luncheon, and he can only stare at the parchment in amazement, trying to make sense of his newfound lineage.  

After luncheon and without bidding, the shamaness Aliya arrives with a handful of women from the village with food and goods. The women go through the fortress top to bottom looking for spare cloth and climb over the hilltops searching for wildflowers and brush as Aliya follows Cyrus to the dungeon to begin the purification of the corpses there. As each is purified, the guards carry the remains away to be wrapped in cloth and stored for the time being in the cells in the passage behind the dungeon. 

There are many remains to be accounted for and named, and the process takes them long into the night, so that they are just finishing when Sauron returns. He stands inside the doorway watching silently as they clear out the last few cages, his expression impassive, and then follows them into the passage to the last rooms that remain empty. He disappears for a time into the torture chamber and when he emerges he asks softly where the hobbits are and what they have been doing.

“They’ve been in the Hall of Records all day,” answers one of the guards. “Great Shaman is discovering our lineage. He is quite extraordinary, is he not?”

“He is,” Sauron answers and says no more. He turns and leaves the dungeon, and is not seen again that night.

The following day, the men, including Rick and Sauron, begin work on building pyres for the corpses along the beach, and the women and children make wreathes from the wildflowers and brush gathered the day before. When the wreathes are completed, Aliya sets them to making many little reed boats, four twigs tied together with rails on the sides to hold tinder on the decks. 

The hobbits again remain in the Hall of Records. Now that they know what to look for, they are able to comb through the remaining genealogies on their own and they find that they can now even recognize most of the names as they repeat again and again on various scrolls. It is quiet and peaceful work and gives them a sense of familiarity in otherwise foreign surroundings. 

Frodo’s headache fades to a dull throb and for the most part he is able to forget it so long as he does not stand too quickly or overexert himself. Aliya brings him tonics to drink and makes him lie down for a half-hour every four hours, lighting healing incense and closing the curtains to keep the sunlight from disturbing him. She gives Sam the same treatment and they soon learn to understand “lie down”, “drink this” and “clear your minds” in Khand, adding these phrases to their growing vocabulary of family titles, relationships, years and months, and customary greetings. 

Remaining in the Hall of Records is also a good way of keeping out from under foot. Every time Frodo makes an appearance for meals, the Khand kowtow with enthusiasm and fuss over him like a gaggle of mother hens, and Sam soon comes to understand that they consider him to be Frodo’s right hand, not a shaman but a mortal chosen to do the Shaman’s bidding. This apparently gives him quite a high status as far as the Khand are concerned, and it doesn’t help that he cannot argue their judgment of him being Frodo’s servant. But to think that being a servant somehow puts him in high standing is simply too much for Sam to wrap his head around. 

Cyrus comes to examine their genealogy work that night, being now greatly interested in their findings. He combs through their lists, pointing out errors as they occur, either in the original documents or in Frodo’s carefully drawn family trees. The genealogies that are correct he takes to the other Khand to whom they belong, or keeps them if that person should not be known to him or else killed by the wizards. 

The next morning in the predawn hours, everyone files out of the fortress and stands upon the beach by the pyres. The men carry the corpses out of the fortress and set them upon the pyres. It takes many trips and by the time the sun is high overhead, the beach is lined from end to end with the bodies of the victims of the Blue Wizards. The women lay a wreath over the breast of each body as it is laid down, while the children fill the little boats with tinder. As Aliya sprinkles red dust over each boat, Cyrus follows her, lighting the tinder with a torch, and the children push the boats onto the calm surface of the lake. When all the boats are released and bobbing on the water, Aliya walks to the edge of the lake and recites the Rite of Passing, blessing the journeys of the deceased to the realm beyond. 

The dead in the lake now atoned, she walks to the first pyre and sprinkles red dust over the wreath of the first body and spreads more dust on the cloth-covered brow. She recites the chant again and repeats this process all the way down the line, Cyrus waiting until all are finished to light the pyres. 

The sentry Rakmahnesh is the last in the line, being the last to die, and when she reaches his body Frodo steps forward. No one else has uttered a sound or word since the ceremony began but now he bows and says, “Please,” requesting to be the one to honor the man who sacrificed himself so that he and Sam may live. The shamaness grants this request without hesitation and hands Frodo the clay bowl of red dust. Rick helps Frodo onto the pyre and Frodo looks upon the form of his victor with sadness and a guilt so great it nearly crushes him. He sprinkles the dust over the wreath and on the man’s forehead, then recites by ear and without flaw the chant Aliya has been repeating all morning. Rick helps him back down and at Aliya’s signal, Cyrus lights the first pyre and comes down the line until all the pyres are aflame. The fire leaps with a mighty roar into the humid air and the smoke spirals upward towards the sky, sending forth the souls of those who have passed. 

The mourners retreat to a safe distance and the women begin to wail and moan in an eerie song of mourning. The children soon join them and it is not much longer until the men begin to cry also. The Haradrim kneel with their hands over their hearts in respect of the dead. Rick, Sauron and the hobbits stand aside. Tears stream down the faces of Rick, Frodo and Sam, and Sauron watches the flames with sorrow. Semira joins them and places a comforting hand on each of the hobbit’s heads. 

“From the ashes are we born and to the ashes must we all return. May the wind carry your spirit to a place of rest and there may you find joy,” she says, translating the chant for them. Then she kneels in front of Frodo and Sam and says, “The Khand do not believe in sacrifice, not as you do. Rakmahnesh did what he must to protect you and in doing so he entrusted you with his unspent years. You each now hold a part of his life so that it may be lived to its fullest. It is to them the most noble way to die, for it is a mercy to those left behind as well as a gift to the one who goes ahead. Lay aside your guilt and shame and be honored that a man so great has entrusted you with his life. Do not do him the dishonor of not living it.”

Frodo gulps as his tears renew, each one spilling one burden to be replaced by another. He nods in acceptance of this new burden, and Sam slips an arm over his shoulders, hugging him close, the only protection and comfort he can offer. 

They remain there long into the afternoon until the boats and pyres have been consumed by the fires. The funeral over, Aliya invites everyone to return with her to the village, where a feast has been prepared in their honor. It is not until she mentions food that everyone realizes that none of them have eaten yet that day. They accept her invitation and after gathering what possessions they have in the fortress, they return outside and follow the shamaness away from the fortress. None of them look back.

To be continued…

GF 7/14/07

Chapter 22 - The Feast

Aliya leads them at a slow pace, for they are tired and weak from their day of fasting and grief. As such, they do not reach the village until an hour and-a-half later, as the sun is sinking behind the hills and the brightest stars are beginning to shine overhead. 

The village has burst into an array of colors since the last time Sauron, Rick, Frodo and Sam had seen it. The drab door coverings on the huts have been replaced with intricate weaves of bright colors and fascinating designs, each one of them unique. Frodo and Sam are now able to recognize a couple of the symbols over the doorways from the genealogical tables and realize the symbols are the names of those who live there. 

The villagers also have turned in their worn clothing, at least for tonight. The men and boys wear loose-fitting pants of white, beige or grey, with plain shirts of yellow, lavender or moss green. Around their waists are bright red sashes tied at their left, the tasseled ends hanging over their hips and down their legs. The women and girls wear vibrant dresses, long-sleeved bodices with high necklines, and voluminous skirts that reach down to their ankles. The colors and patterns are as intricate as those on the door coverings, and finely-patterned head cloths cover their hair. 

The biggest change is the light and brilliance that shines from their eyes and faces, and the ready smiles they wear as they greet the returning villagers and the fortress refugees. The haunted fear is still there for those who can see, but for the moment they forget their worries to celebrate the downfall of the wizards and the beginning of new life.

The visitors are greeted warmly and the women of the company who live in the village disappear to prepare for the feast and change into more festive attire. The refugees and Haradrim are offered cisterns of warm water, washcloths and soap for bathing. They are taken to a bend in the river, where the growing crops hide them from view of the village. The women gather farther downstream from the men, all politely diverting their eyes away from the other group until they are immersed in the concealing water, as is their custom. As they bathe, fresh clothes are brought to them and their old, soiled clothes are taken away for cleaning later. 

Rick and Sauron are shown to the hut in which they had slept before and inside are two wooden tubs filled with warm water. The tubs are so small they will have to bathe standing up; a screen stands between the tubs for privacy. Fresh robes are laid out on the counter and incense swirls near the roof. Rick pauses, looking at the hobbits and wondering what they will do, but Sauron bids him to enter. The hobbits will be taken care of and they are in no danger here.

The hobbits follow Aliya to her hut and she leads them inside. The hut is sparsely decorated. There is a sleeping pad and shelves of clothing in one quadrant and a small kitchen area in another. The wall beside the kitchen is covered with hanging herbs and shelves of pouches and jars filled with medicaments. In the opposite quadrant is a lute of some type leaning against the curved wall and above this on shelves are various effigies carved from wood or sandstone. In the middle of the room is a pillow next to a table, and the earthen floor around the table looks hollowed out and much used. 

There is a smaller room in the back and she takes them there, where they find not a bath but two benches along opposite walls and a fire pit covered with an iron grate in the center of the room. On the grate sits a large glass bowl filled with water and lotus petals. The water is just beginning to steam, sending the heady scent of lotus into the humid air. Standing in the corners adding their own unique scents are burning incenses of jasmine and myrrh. The jasmine is sweet and fragrant but the myrrh is potent and they recognize the scent from the funeral pyres. Frodo looks at it closely and realizes this is the red dust Aliya had sprinkled over the dead.

She speaks to them in a soft soothing voice. They cannot understand her words but Frodo sees well enough what they are meant to do. They are to remove their clothes and sit in the room and let the steam purify them. She will come for them when the feast is ready and they can wash then and dress. They nod to show they understand, then she leaves them to go back outside. Frodo starts undressing first and Sam shyly follows his lead, sneaking furtive glimpses at the flimsy door covering rippling with the breeze, and hopes that Aliya doesn't return untimely. They put their stained and dirtied robes on the ground and Frodo slips the shamaness’s necklace over his head, laying it gently atop the robes.

They slip into the steam-filled room and sit on opposite benches. “So what are we supposed to do?” Sam asks.

“Just sit here and soak,” Frodo says. He leans back against the wall and closes his eyes. 

Sam does likewise and for a time they forget all else as the various fragrances swirl around them and the steam soaks into their sweating skin. 

As they sit, Sam imagines he has fallen asleep and in his dream he is walking through a field of wildflowers. At the other end of the field is a hobbit lass and she is crying into her handkerchief, but she is turned away so he cannot see her face. When he reaches her, he taps her shoulder but she runs off before he can ask what's wrong. He pursues her, worried that she might come to some harm, and when he reaches the edge of the field he is staring down the hillside beyond Bag End’s garden. Down below he sees a hobbit lad and lass standing under the oak tree by the Water, the Mayor standing in front of them, a congregation of hobbits sitting behind them. The hobbit lad and lass kiss and the congregation claps. He steps forward and heads down the hill towards the couple but just as he reaches them, he wakens and finds himself staring dumbly at Frodo. 

It is some time before he realizes his master is sitting on the edge of his bench, his hands clutching the wood so hard his knuckles are white, and he is staring blankly at the lotus blossoms floating in the now half-empty bowl. “Mr. Frodo?” Sam says. “Are you all right?”

Frodo shakes himself from his stupor and looks at Sam, forcing a smile. “Yes, Sam, I’m fine.”

Before Sam can argue, Aliya returns. She scratches on the door cover to announce her arrival and waits for Frodo to allow her entry before pushing it aside, just enough to peep inside. She says something about food and they understand that it is time for the feast. 

They stand to leave and are quickly overcome with dizziness, the steam having dehydrated them more than they thought. They wait for the dizziness to subside before carefully making their way to the door and into the main room. They find the hut empty but the table has been prepared for them. Two wooden bowls full of the green cactus juice sit next to four steaming cisterns of hot water, two sets of washcloths and two clean towels. Next to the towels are a box of salt crystals, a bottle of shampoo and two wooden combs. 

The pillow has been set atop the table and placed on top of it are two sets of fresh robes, plain beige for Sam and vibrant red for Frodo. Both the robes are decorated with beads and symbols, the patterns on Frodo’s similar to those on Aliya’s dress. The shamaness’s necklace still lies atop Frodo’s robe, only now two more beads have been added to the strand, so there are eight beads in total, and a third snake fang, longer than the two on the outsides, has been inserted between the fourth and fifth bead. 

“We don’t get tubs?” Sam asks, ever thinking of practicalities first.

“Tub water gets dirty,” Frodo explains as the answer comes to him. He shrugs uncomfortably at Sam's blank stare and elaborates, “A shaman is to remain clean at all times and is not to bathe in impure water.” 

“Well, I suppose that makes sense, though I have to say I never really thought of it that way afore. If that’s how it is, then I suppose we can’t have you getting yourself dirty all over again,” Sam allows, only to meet Frodo’s disbelieving stare. “What?” he asks.

“Sam, don’t tell me you’re starting to believe them about me being a shaman,” Frodo says.

“Of course not, sir. Even if you can do things as no other hobbit can, a hobbit you still are or I’m Mistress Lobelia,” Sam replies. “It’s just, they think you are one so you have to play the part, begging your pardon. Seems to me if you don’t, they’ll lose a bit of themselves, and they don’t have that much to be starting with as it is.”

“But it’s a lie,” Frodo says.

“Not them it ain’t,” Sam says. “Look at it this way. When you were naught but a wee faunt following your dad and ma all over, didn’t you think as they were invincible and that nothing really bad could happen while they were around? That’s a lie too, and you know that better’n anyone, but you need that when you’re young or you’d never get no sleep at night. When you get older, you figure out the lie of it, but by then you’re big enough to carry the truth with you and not let it crush you. These folks here, they’re just faunts in a way, if you take my meaning.”

Frodo sighs heavily. “I suppose you’re right,” he allows. 

“At least you don’t got to be reading them to sleep at nights,” Sam says with a grin and Frodo laughs.

“That is a relief,” Frodo agrees. He grips Sam’s shoulder briefly. “Thank you, lad. You truly are the wisest ninnyhammer I know. Now, let’s get started shall we?”

They drink the juice first and the dizziness slowly fades, leaving their minds clear and sharp, and the last of Frodo’s headache disappears entirely. Once the juice is consumed, they pour the water from the first cistern into the bowls. 

They wash their hair first. The shampoo is a clear liquid that foams easily with rubbing and they discover they need only a few drops to clean their hair thoroughly. Having no other option, they tip the bowls over their heads and rinse the shampoo out, the water dripping down their bodies to soak into the earthen floor, leaving it damp but otherwise no worse than it had been before. 

They refill the bowls with the water from the second cistern and add a scoop of the salt crystals into each of their bowls. After stirring the water to dissolve the crystals, they wet their washcloths and scrub away the grime and sweat still clinging to them from the fortress and the funeral fires. The salt water is coarse and scratches mildly at their skin though not uncomfortably so, and as they scrub the salts break to create a soft gel that sits on their skin. They pause for a moment, wondering if this is supposed to happen, but having no one to ask, they decide to simply continue until they are covered in the gel from head to furry toes. 

Sam splits the water from the third cistern into their bowls and they soak the clean washcloths to begin washing away the salt gel. It is an involved process and they have to use the last cistern of water to rinse off the last of the gel they had missed on their first pass. When they finish, their skin all but sings in the cool air of the hut. They cannot remember ever feeling more clean and refreshed, and they marvel at it as they pad themselves dry with the towels and comb the hair on their heads and feet.

The floor beneath them is now a puddle of water, so they remove themselves to other side of the table before dressing. Sam immediately begins to wrap his robe about himself with expert ease but Frodo hesitates, holding his robe in front of him with bemusement. Had they just happened to find such a robe to fit him or had they made this especially for him? The first seems unlikely and the second can only be considered disturbing. What are they expecting from him? 

He glances at Sam questioningly but Sam only shrugs and says, “They’re waiting for us, sir, and you can’t go out in naught but your skin.”

Frodo concedes the point and having no other option, he folds the robe securely about himself. He picks up the necklace but does not put it on. Instead, he carries it outside where Aliya is standing but when he attempts to hand it to her, she only takes it and promptly lowers it over his head. She touches it to his chest and looks at him intently. He doesn’t need a translator or special powers to know what she says next. “It is yours, Shaman,” she says in practiced Westron, her accent softer than Semira’s. She turns and leads the way back to the village center where the feast awaits, giving Frodo no opportunity to protest. 

The villagers, refugees, Haradrim, Rick and Sauron are already lined up around the tables, which are set from end to end with food. The sheikhs stand at the head of the line but they are all waiting for the shamaness and the hobbits to arrive before beginning. Frodo notes that they address Aliya by the title ‘Shamaness’ followed by her name, and though they must by this time know his own name, they proceed to call him ‘Great Shaman’ instead and Sam is simply ‘Servant of Shaman’. He finds this unsettling and he is not assuaged when Aliya takes her place in front of the sheikhs and then places him and Sam before her. 

The wise-man, Amh, begins the feast, speaking in a clear voice for all to hear to announce the purpose of the feast: to honor those who died in the battle against the long defeat of the Blue Wizards and to celebrate the beginning of a new era free of tyranny. Then the wise-woman Khalina speaks, extending welcome to their honored guests and bidding them to remain for as long as they need before seeking out their own homes, should they still exist. Afterwards Aliya speaks, her voice falling into the clear, low cadence of a chant. The Khand grow still as she speaks, listening to her words intently, and when she finishes there is a moment of solemn silence, they're mingled grief and joy as sharp as knives as the Khand hang their heads to remember those who have gone before so that they can remain behind for a little while longer. 

The moment passes and Aliya touches Frodo’s shoulder and beckons for him to take first pick of the table. Sam follows, then Aliya and the sheikhs, and after them come Cyrus, Amros and Semira, and finally Rick and Sauron. After they are served, everyone else forms an informal line and no one eats until everyone is seated, whether that be on the ground, on boulders or the logs circling the cooking pits. The feast does not rival even the most meager table of the Citadel but it undoubtedly is a bounty of riches for those accustomed to so little, for their plates are full and their cups spill over. The tastes of the food explode in their mouths, delectable and invigorating, and the mead spills down their throats in cool, refreshing waves. 

During the feast, the story of the Blue Wizards’ downfall is told again, Semira translating with much amusement for the benefits of the hobbits and Rick. Already, certain details have been changed and Sam can tell this tale will quickly become the stuff of legend. He especially enjoys when Fatima tries to convince everyone that Sauron had shot fire from his eyes to melt the rings and that Cyrus had thrown lightning bolts and Frodo had breathed fire from his mouth to destroy the Wizards once and for all. Sauron, Cyrus and Frodo quickly correct this embellishment, but the villagers clearly prefer Fatima’s version of the events better. 

Once that tale is told in full, other legends and myths follow. Aliya is especially effective in telling stories and Cyrus proves to be quite good himself as he tells of the arrival of the wizards into their realm and how they at first appeared to be benign. They had gifted the Khand with trees and plants that the wizards loved dearly, and even after the wizards turned to evil ways those trees and plants still prospered. When he finishes, the other refugees expand upon the tale, recounting the legend as they had learned it in their villages. Older legends are told, as well as brief histories of the once mighty maliks of Khand and the harrowing tale of their final demise at the hands of the Variags, led by the Blue Wizards and the Eye.

Mention of the Eye brings everyone's attention acutely on the Maia sitting amongst them, and Rick takes this opportunity to tell his tale of Sauron's reform in the West and his return to Middle-earth. His storytelling abilities are no less impressive than Aliya's or Cyrus's, even with Semira translating for him, and the Khand and Haradrim alike are soon enthralled as Rick weaves his tale. 

“Long ago in the fires of Mt. Doom, the Dark Lord Sauron forged the One Ring, and into it he poured all his malice, hatred and will to dominate all life. With the One Ring on his finger, he enslaved thousands of Free Peoples and created armies of orcs, wargs, Uruk Hai, and other devious creatures. For centuries he ruled with a black hand, until he was defeated and his Ring of Power taken from him…”

When Rick finishes, there is astounded silence and some scattered applause from the children. The others speak earnestly amongst themselves, except for Amh, Khalina and Aliya, who consider the Maia shrewdly. Undeterred by this mild reception, Rick launches into another tale, this one of the returned King and his wanderings as a Ranger of the North and his courtship with an elf princess. This tale his audience enjoys much better, and the Haradrim are especially interested to hear that Elessar had been in Harad many years before, his true identity concealed from everyone.

After the feast, the food tables are cleared away and in the main cooking pit a bonfire is lit. The flames leap towards the night sky and the wood crackles merrily. Instruments are brought out from a nearby hut, and those villagers and refugees who know how to play step forth to claim them. 

There are two three-stringed setars, similar to a lute but with a longer fingerboard and a smaller, tear-drop body. Two men share another three-stringed lute called a kamancech that thrills Rick just to look at it. It has a cylindrical fingerboard and a round fish-skin covered body, with a wooden spike sticking out the bottom of the body. As both men are missing their right hands, they sit side by side so they are facing each other and lay the instrument across their laps, one man taking the fingerboard and the other controlling the strings on the sound board. Playing such an intricate instrument in such a manner requires a combined coordination that is to be marveled at. Rick eagerly watches as they tune it and tries his best to understand them as they explain their playing method.

There are also simple oblique-shaped reed flutes called neys, with five finger holes in the front and a thumb hole in the back, easily the most abundant instrument. The injured men, being unable to enjoy their previous pastimes after returning from the War so disfigured, had taken up the ney in their recreational time and have become quite proficient. Also present are two handheld frame drums called dafs, a deceptively simple-looking instrument that can produce a limitless number of tones when hit in the exact precise manner. The fortress guards who play them are quick-handed, driving the beat faster and faster for the others as they warm up. 

When everyone is ready to begin, Aliya brings forth the lute the hobbits had spied in her hut. It is called a tanbur, a three-stringed lute with a pear-shaped belly carved from ancient mulberry with small holes tapped into the bowl of the sound board. Neither Rick nor the hobbits need anyone to tell them that this is a revered instrument, for they can see that despite the various nicks in the ancient wood this instrument is well-cared for. The fact that everyone else avoids touching it tells them all they need to know. 

A hush falls over the crowd as Aliya sits and promptly begins to play, a slow-moving, mournful tune that sounds more like flowing water and a gentle breeze than music. She plays solemnly, a tribute to those who have passed on, as this is their feast first and foremost. Everyone stands, watching and listening with rapture, entranced by the gentle melodies she produces. 

When she finishes, each of the Khand bend down, gather a fist of dirt and throw this onto the bonfire. The fire leaps and spits and in the next instant, all the musicians are playing a lively, heart-thumping tune and the women begin to dance. Rick attempts to join them, causing the other men to laugh and Sauron to quickly reach up and sit him back down. 

“Men don’t dance,” Sauron explains to a flustered Rick.

“That’s a relief,” Sam whispers to Frodo, who nods in agreement. 

They sit back with the men and children and watch in fascination as the women dance. Each dance seems to tell a story as the women spin and slide across the ground, their hips shaking enticingly. Yet the story is told mostly in the positioning of their arms and hands, and their arms sway and flow through the air as they twist and turn, creating a fluid of movement as tantalizing and mesmerizing as the rhythmic, driving pulse of the music itself.

The women dance in groups of four or five, so that they all have time to rest in between sets. The girls too get their chance to show off their talents, the spectators clapping and cheering encouragingly. While their movements are not as polished as the women, the girls show they are already experts in the art and they entertain the spectators with their innocent tales. When the girls finish, a few of the women take turns for solos and there is silence among the spectators as they watch entranced by the beauty of the artist performing before them. 

After the solos, a few of the men stand to sing and Cyrus even steps forward to sing a rather long ballad of the first Malik of Khand and his valiant pursuit of his true love, a woman of poor means, not thought worthy to sit beside him on the throne. It is an often sad and sometimes joyful lay, and Cyrus’s voice rises above the soulful lament of the tanbur, filling the night air with tremulous tones and raising goose pimples on his audience. Halfway through his ballad, when he begins to sing of the poor woman’s plight against the nobles, one of the village women joins him with a heartbreaking dance of despair and deepest strength, and by the time the lay comes to its tragic end, the Sultan weeping over the body of his lost love having never held her hand in marriage, the audience is weeping.

To cheer them up again, the women follow this performance with a series of heart-stopping, feet-pounding dances, working their simple magic by the sheer beauty of their movements, complimented by their colorful dresses and golden head cloths that seem to reflect the dancing flames of the bonfire behind them. For the last set, Semira joins two of the village women for a particularly intricate and enticing dance that appears to have no other purpose than to enrapture the watching men. The cheers now are more like catcalls and the dancing women encourage the men to further heights of excitement by weaving through the audience, and while they come very close to the men on many occasions, the men respectfully keep their hands at their sides, never once daring to reach out and touch what is not theirs. Even when Semira dances for Amros, the mighty sultan merely sits still, watching with an appreciation and adoration so complete that no one can be left in doubt of the love between them. 

As the night wears on, the children fall asleep where they sit and are carried away by their parents or caretakers. Some of the men and women pair off and disappear into the concealing darkness of the forest, and shortly after her dance, Semira slips away with Amros, a fact that does not go unnoticed by Rick. He turns away so he does not see which direction they go, and he tries his best not feel envious and to continue to enjoy the festivities. One of the women from the fortress notices his glum mood and guesses at the cause of it, having watched all the visitors closely since the downfall of the wizards. She comes to dance for him for a while, occupying his attention so that he might forget his hurt for a time.

The celebration goes long into the night. When the women tire of dancing, more of the men stand to sing or the musicians take turns for solos or duets. After a time, some of the couples who had slipped away begin to return and Rick cannot help but notice when Semira and Amros come back from the woods, their faces flushed and glowing, their eyes filled only with each other. He looks away quickly before they can notice him watching, only to come eye to eye with Sauron. The Maia says nothing, but gently reaches out and squeezes the young man’s shoulder in silent empathy. 

When the moon has passed its zenith and is sinking towards the earth once more, the music stops suddenly and the dancers one by one end their final tale. Then the mournful chords of the tanbur ripples into the air and is joined by the sonorous voice of Sauron as he brings to Middle-earth the song of the Valar, of the world's beginning and of Nienna’s tears, of Varda’s starlight and of the brilliance of the Two Trees, and lastly of the gift of Illúvatar and of the Halls of Mandos. When he finishes a silence fills the air, thick with grief and joy, and everyone lies down where they are and promptly falls into dreamless sleep. 

To be continued…

GF 7/21/07

* -  The instruments mentioned here are actual Persian instruments. You can see read about them and others and listen to solos of each instrument here.

Chapter 23 – Great Shaman

Frodo wakes to a clear blue sky above, with Sam drowsing at his side and Fatima stirring on his other. All around the clearing, people are waking and beginning to move about. A fire has been lit in the main cooking circle with the remaining timber from the bonfire, and the scent of meat cooking wafts upon the gentle morning breeze. Some of the villagers, not yet ready to begin the day, talk quietly amongst themselves so as not to disturb those still sleeping around them, while the others change into their everyday robes or tunics and begin to help with the cooking, cleaning and washing. 

Frodo closes his eyes again and lets the whispers of their ancient tongue flow over him. The musical sound of their soft lilting speech lulls him back to sleep and he finds himself again wandering in a desolate land, unrecognizable yet horrifyingly familiar. He has seen this all before, every night since the defeat of the Blue Wizards, and as he dreams he wonders why the vision has decided to visit him so late. He supposes that last night had been different, on account of the ritual cleansing and the feast and perhaps because of some trick of Sauron. The dream fades away in the confusion of his thoughts and the ground begins to shake. 

He opens his eyes again and finds Sam shaking him gently. Fatima is gone and the village is now alive with activity. The sun has climbed over the eastern hilltops and is blazing its powerful rays down upon them unrelentingly. A pair of buzzards circles high overhead, wheeling in and out of the glare of the sun, and around the cooking circles many people are eating and laughing, some of the magic from the previous night lingering still upon their joyful faces. 

Sam helps Frodo to sit up and only then does Frodo notice that they had fallen asleep just off the main pathway between the cooking circles and a group of empty huts on the eastern end of the village. He is embarrassed to discover that he is the last to awaken but grateful that he at least has been out of the way. He wonders why Sam had not woken him earlier even as he accepts a wooden cup of cool sweet tea. 

Frodo sips it gratefully as he watches the various activities of the villagers as they go about their morning duties. Sam sits next to him in companionable silence until a woman brings them breakfast. The plates she hands them are made from the shoulder blades of some large animal and are filled with the sorts of simple finger foods they have come to expect: little rolls of sticky sweet flat bread, little sconces stuffed with spicy meat and diced fruit dipped in a sweet and tangy sauce. They eat where they sit, washing the food down with water.

“How are you feeling this morning, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asks once they are finished with their meal. “Miss Aliya wanted to know if your headache was still bothering you.”

Frodo quickly assesses himself and is surprised to discover that he feels quite well. He feels no trace of headache or body ache, no heaviness of limb or heart. Even the images from his dream do not bother him. He smiles widely at Sam and answers, “I’m quite well, lad. Better than I have been since entering this land.”

“Well that’s saying something,” Sam says. “At least I’m glad that you got a decent sleep, seeing as you haven’t been sleeping well these last few days.”

He looks off into the distance and Frodo senses there is something else weighing on his friend’s mind. A couple of minutes pass, in which time the woman comes back to collect their plates and pour them more water. When she is gone, Sam continues. 

“It's an odd thing but when we were in that steam bath yestereve I thought I saw me a dream of sorts,” he begins. “I can’t make heads or tails of it. I saw a lass crying, then a lad and lass getting married, but when I tried to find out who they were, it went away and I seemed to wake up. Only, I don’t think I ever went asleep. I think it was a vision, but I don’t think as it can be true necessarily. I mean, this wasn’t Galadriel’s mirror I was looking in, but I don’t rightly know where the images came from neither. What do you think it means, Mr. Frodo?”

“Maybe you’re worried that Rosie won’t be waiting for you when we get back,” Frodo suggests gently. 

“This is the second time I’ve gone and put her in a fix like this,” Sam acknowledges. “If she never wants to speak to me again, I can’t rightly say as I’d blame her.”

“There’s no point worrying on it until we get home,” Frodo reasons, “but knowing how she feels about you, and that she’s been willing to wait so long already, I don’t think you’ll have anything to worry about. Except perhaps her ire.”

Sam laughs. “Right you are, Mr. Frodo. She can have a temper, and I deserve the better side of that also.” He sighs and leans back to look up at the sky. “I’m eager to be going home, truth be told. It gets to feeling like the last couple of years have been naught but a dream. Sitting here in this strange place so far away from anything familiar, it’s almost as if we never left Gondor after the War, never went home. Do you ever feel that way, sir?”

“I do,” Frodo answers wistfully. For a while he considers telling Sam everything about the wizards and his dreams, for surely this is one reason why Sam has brought up his own dream. Sam is trying to give him the opportunity to get things off his chest and while he does wish to confide in Sam, something holds him back. In the end, he only asks, “Any word on when we’ll be setting out?”

“Sauron figures as we’ll be leaving here in the afternoon, once the meeting’s over,” Sam answers.

“What meeting?” Frodo asks.

“Well, since everything’s finished up at the fortress, Sauron’s talking to Amros, Semira and Cyrus like he promised he would,” Sam informs. “Only the Elders and Miss Aliya wanted to be there too. They’ve been in the Elders’ hut for an hour now. They wanted you to go too, but I said as you needed your rest and anything they need to be deciding doesn’t have anything to do with you anyhow. Besides, you already spoke your piece up at the fortress. Cyrus promised he’d not let anyone kill Sauron, though I doubt Sauron’ll be needing help with that, seeing as he took out all them Variags on his own.”

“Indeed,” Frodo agrees. “Thank you Sam. You know I’m not one for politics, though I suppose that shouldn’t stop me from going if they really want me to be there.”

“I think Amros was wanting to hear your side of the tale, if you ask me. He’s not a trusting fellow, though I guess he can’t be blamed for that, what all they’ve been through,” Sam muses.

“You’ve been unusually thoughtful these last few days,” Frodo intones, smiling fondly. 

“I’m trying not to be,” Sam says seriously, “but I’ve a role myself to play, being your vizier and all.”

“Vizier?” Frodo repeats.

“Aye. I figured out that’s what they mean by ‘Servant of Great Shaman’,” Sam explains. “It’s actually not ‘servant’ as I thought, but ‘vizier’, or advisor as we would call it.”

“Well, at least they’re right about one of us,” Frodo says. “I wouldn’t have got far without you. So, then, what is my vizier going to do now?” 

Sam looks behind him to the river. “Mayhap I’ll join Rick and learn that dice game the Haradrim are trying to teach him.”

Frodo laughs. “You do that, and I’ll go to the meeting,” he says, preparing to get up. 

“But you don’t have to go,” Sam says.

“No, I think I do have to.” Frodo stands. He dusts dirt off his robe and reaches down to help Sam to his feet. He sees Sam off to the river then turns and heads for the sheikhs’ hut.

The woman sitting outside the sheikhs’ hut kowtows immediately upon seeing Frodo approach. Frodo greets her good morning and asks her to sit up, a request he had learned that first morning in the fortress. Having been unable to convince the Khand that he is not their Great Shaman, he had learned quickly how to request that they be at ease in his presence. 

The woman sits up and says good morning back, then scratches three times on the door covering. Even though the villagers are again dressed in their plain clothing, the decorative weaves still hang over the doors. This weave is the most intricate of them all, save for Aliya’s. He studies it intently while he awaits a reply, recognizing some of the runes and symbols from his days in the Hall of Records, but he does not know enough to understand what he reads now.

The door covering opens and Khalina lets him inside. One quick look around shows him that this hut too is sparsely decorated and he wonders now if the Khand simply prefer it this way. He knows he will never ask them, but it makes him wonder what it would be like to live with so little, only the bare necessities and not all the clutter that tends to accumulate in hobbit holes. He imagines it would be quite freeing, but quite empty at the same time.

In the center of the hut sitting in a circle on the floor are Amh, Aliya, Cyrus, Amros, Semira, Cepros and Sauron. Khalina takes her place next to Amh, leaving a gap between her and Aliya for Frodo to sit. Frodo settles himself and politely greets them all good morning. 

“We were told to not expect you, Ring-bearer,” Amros says, with Cepros repeating his words for the Khand. Frodo notes that instead of translating ‘Ring-bearer’, Cepros simply says ‘Great Shaman’ instead. “Lord Samwise was most persistent that we let you rest.”

“And I have rested,” Frodo replies. “I was told that I may be of help, but please, don’t let me interrupt whatever you are currently discussing.” He glances at Sauron to gauge his reaction. Sauron smiles kindly but Frodo notices a weariness in his expression.

“Sauron was telling us of the plan he devised to destroy the Blue Wizards. We are now finished and ready to continue. Your timing is most fortunate,” Semira says. “You know the Eye the best of all of us, including Childeric, and we would request your testimony of the Eye’s conduct. You once were tormented ruthlessly by him in your Quest to destroy the One Ring, yet now you say you trust the Eye emphatically. Why is that?”

“Because Sauron never tortured me,” Frodo replies simply, giving everyone pause. Even Cepros cuts off in the middle of translating, hastily finishing only after Frodo arches an eyebrow at him. Frodo continues, pausing every now and again to let Cepros catch up. “The One Ring tormented me. True, it possessed much of Sauron’s evilness but it also had a will of its own, and while it was trying to return to its master it was not doing Sauron’s bidding. If it could have done that, if such a connection between Ring and Master existed, it would have revealed itself to Sauron long before I ever left the Shire. It was acting on its own, and so Sauron never tormented me, not directly at any rate. 

“I did see him though on those occasions that I wore the Ring. What I saw of him then was utter darkness, a soul rotted with hatred and vengeance. He was bent on destruction and domination, his once-fair features distorted to ugliness to reflect the malice within. He was evil personified, and he didn’t mourn the loss of those that fell to his black hand. 

“I saw him then, and I see him now. There is still darkness there, but there’s darkness in all of us, even me. There is darkness in each of you as well, else we wouldn’t be here discussing his fate now. He would be forgiven without question. It is your lack of trust and your fear that brings us here and rightly so, for you have been much abused. But though there is darkness,  there is a light also, and that is what truly matters. Where Sauron’s light had been extinguished before, now it glows and it dances, and it shines brighter than the sun. 

“He was evil for thousands of years and it would be easy for him to fall back into those ways again. He knows this and he accepts this, and that is what allows him to resist it, for it is through denial that evil breeds and swells. Denial of truth, denial of hope, denial of will, love and trust. He knows this now and he learns this lesson anew every day, to the benefit of all.

“In the few short years since his return, he’s learned the joy of sharing his life with another. He’s learned compassion and humor, and the honor of doing one’s duty. Just four days ago, he learned the true power of love, when the very thought of his friend allowed him to destroy the rings in time rather than claim them for his own. He still has much to learn, but he will learn it.”

“He has fooled others before,” Amh says, through Cepros.

“He has,” Frodo agrees. “He would make up a persona, change his appearance, and go amongst the people as The Fair. He again chose an alias for this journey, but that was only to cross Harondor and Harad without harassment, not to con people into doing his bidding. For the most part, he does not attempt to mask his true self and goes by ‘Sauron’ through all lands. He does not begrudge the leers of contempt that are shown to him for it. He knows he deserves the mistrust and the wariness of the Free Peoples, and he does not seek vengeance. The Eye would never have done this.”

Silence falls in the hut after Cepros finishes translating, and Frodo cautions a glance at Sauron. The Maia looks at Frodo in utter disbelief. He shakes his head at Frodo, apparently at a loss for words. Having been on the receiving end of such high praises in the past, Frodo can guess well enough what the Maia will say when he finally does get his wits back, for he has said it all himself many times before. He promises to be just as insistent with Sauron as his friends had been with him.

Amros, Semira and Cepros are now whispering quietly amongst themselves. Cyrus, the Sheikhs and Aliya are also conversing earnestly, debating back and forth. Frodo catches his title a few times and a couple of other words but he cannot make sense of anything being said. Sauron's sharp ears miss nothing but he gives no sign of what they are saying, good or ill. Finally, the two parties fall silent again and Amh sits forward to look at Frodo. 

“It is your recommendation then, Great Shaman, that we trust the Eye?” Cepros translates.

Frodo shakes his head. “I cannot tell you to trust him. I can only tell you that I do.”

Amh sits back and weighs these words heavily. He and Khalina exchange glances, but it is Cyrus who speaks next. “Tell us of some of your earlier travels with the Eye, before you came to Harad and Khand.”

So Frodo tells them of his dreams about the Blue Wizards and how Sauron and Rick came to the Shire and informed him of their plight. He tells them of Sam’s initial reservations, Sauron’s lessons, Rick’s stories, and the many campsite chats and cart-bound tales they had shared during the journey to Gondor. He even tells them of Sam’s assault by Sauron and explains how that not only helped Sam to understand what they would be facing but also gave him the knowledge he needed to navigate the fortress. He tells them of coming to Minas Tirith and the discussion he and Sam had with King Elessar about Sauron’s unconventional methods.

When he finishes, there is more quiet discussion around the circle that goes on for many long minutes. At length, Khalina raises her hand for silence. “Thank you, Great Shaman, for telling us these things. We have much to consider before we may come to a decision.”

“You’re welcome, Mother Khalina,” Frodo replies in Khand, using the title that he has heard others use in addressing the wise-woman. He does not know if it is appropriate for him to use but she does not appear to object to it. “If I am not needed for anything else?” he asks and Cepros translates.

“We will be speaking next of the restructuring of Khand,” Cyrus says. “We would greatly appreciate any advice you have to give on this matter.”

“I have none, except that you respect the customs of the other villages and peoples that you govern, lest you trade one tyrant for another,” Frodo says. “Beyond that, I cannot advise you further, for I am leaving this afternoon, and it will be your responsibility alone to determine how best to rule your people.”

“Thank you, Great Shaman,” Cyrus says and this is echoed by Khalina, Amh and Aliya.

“You may go then if you so wish, Great Shaman, for we cannot keep you here,” Amh says. “You are dismissed also, Sauron, and we will tell you of our judgment when the meeting ends.”

Sauron bows before rising and leaving the hut, and Frodo bids them all good luck before following him outside.

Rick and Sam are waiting outside. Rick drops his dice carelessly and Sam abandons the score he had been writing in the dirt. There is a moment’s pause as they assess their friends and determine that everything must have gone as smoothly as can be expected. Only then does Rick say, “So? How’d it go?”

“They weren’t too hard on you, were they, Mr. Frodo?” Sam asks.

“No, not at all,” Frodo assures. “I mostly just talked about our journey here and my training sessions. I don’t know if I was able to convince them that Sauron’s good now, but they at least will take their time to learn that on their own. And I meant everything I said,” he finishes, looking hard at Sauron. “You’re nothing at all like you used to be.”

Sauron smiles to humor him. “Maybe so, but even if I spend another ten millennia redeeming my past, the balance will never tip in my favor. Maybe it shouldn’t.”

“You didn’t kill those people in the fortress,” Frodo says.

“No, I just corrupted the Blue Wizards from their original path and set them loose to do as they wished,” Sauron says. “I taught them that complete domination isn’t just forcing people to do as you will. It’s making them want to do as you will, even if only to save their own necks. They learned their lesson well. The Khand have a long way to go before they are truly free.”

“They do,” Frodo agrees. “They have much to overcome. They’re so full of life, but they’re full of death also. The Haradrim are no different. They have a lust for blood that will not easily be diminished.”

“Do not trouble yourself overmuch on that account,” Sauron says. “That’s for me to straighten out, though how I’m supposed to do that is beyond me. It’s one of my more obscure assignments. For now, all I want you thinking about is the road home. We’ll be leaving after luncheon, once the meeting is over, and at some point I will need to talk to you about your encounter with the wizards. There is still much of your duel that I do not know about, and I will need those details when I report back to the King.”

Frodo nods. “Of course,” he says, somewhat curtly. He takes Sam’s hand then and nudges him towards the river. “Come, let’s see if our other robes have been washed yet.” 

Frodo and Sam are soon changed back into their old robes, and they spend the rest of the morning with Rick daydreaming about home. They keep out of the way as much as possible, though this doesn’t keep people from stopping to offer the Great Shaman and his vizier food and drink. They accept everything given to them graciously, and some of the villagers even stop to say a few words. Frodo listens to the villagers with interest. He does not attempt to understand their speech but instead concentrates on understanding their intent, and in this way he can see what is in their hearts and minds quite clearly. The gratitude they feel for him is overwhelming at times but he smiles warmly and listens attentively and when he answers, he shows them his own gratitude and his growing respect for these humble people. 

Just before luncheon, Fatima comes to sit with them and she quickly learns the dice game that Sam and Rick are playing. She laughs easily and her eyes shine with joy, and Frodo marvels at this change in her. Just a few days before she had expected to greet death at any moment and had been willing to do so. Now she is quick to smile and tease and play. She has no home, no family but for her caretaker whom she calls ‘Mother’ and the friends she has made here, she has no knowledge of where she comes from and no idea of where she will end up. And yet she laughs. Frodo finds comfort and encouragement in this. No matter what darkness may have come before, there will be joy in this realm again.

Sauron spends the rest of the morning with the Haradrim warriors, preparing for the return journey home. They comb through the hills, gathering just enough provisions to last them through the following day when they will reach the bottom of the hills. Once there, they can collect river water and gather more supplies without impacting their hosts needlessly. 

Luncheon comes and goes, and the sun is nearing two o’clock when the remaining Council members emerge from the sheikhs’ hut. The Haradrim, Sauron, Rick, Frodo and Sam are all waiting, packed and ready to move once Amros and Semira give the signal. The nearby Khand quickly gather, eager to hear the news and pass it on. Amh and Khalina come forward and speak. Sauron translates quietly under his voice for his friends’ benefits. 

“After much discussion,” Amh says, “it has been decided that Sauron, known to us as The Eye, was indeed honest and sincere in his efforts to free us of the Blue Wizards. Also at the same time, he destroyed the last remaining band of Variags in the land. Because of these events, and the words of confidence of Great Shaman on his behalf, we have granted him clemency for the space of a year and a day, at which time it will be decided by all of Khand if he should be allowed permanent clemency. He will be named Azatash, Fire of Freedom, and so he shall be called so long as he earns that name. However, should The Eye ever return, he will be chased from these lands, never to come back, else it be the end of him in Middle-earth.

“We will begin restructuring Khand immediately. Cyrus has suggested, and we have agreed, to begin to gather together the leaders of the scattered settlements in the old Capital of Khanahal, to be held in one year’s time on the anniversary of the downfall of the Blue Wizards, that day being the thirtieth day of March. The refugees will act as scouts and spread the word as they return to their homelands. Those who have no land to return to may remain here or go with their comrades who have homelands still if that is their wish. 

“As a gesture of our good will in bringing the mamlaka together again, Cyrus has deemed that the treasure held within the fortress be returned, as best as it can, to the lands it came from, and the rest is to be distributed fairly between all settlements at the gathering in Khanahal. Sultan Amros has agreed to send us some of his Guard for help in transporting and escorting the treasures, and the Guard will act as his emissaries at the gathering in Khanahal. We will begin to send scouts as soon as the Guard arrives and the treasure can be divided. 

“Shamaness Aliya tells us this is a wise choice, and Great Shaman bids us to remember to respect the differences amongst the other tribes as we begin to reunite the mamlaka. We are no more adept to rule this realm than anyone else, and this too must be remembered. No decisions will be made until the Great Council next year. For now, return to your regular duties and know that today, tomorrow and all the days after will be free of tyranny.”

The villagers disperse, carrying Amh’s words with them to those who had missed the speech. Amros, Semira and Cepros say their farewells and rejoin their company. The sheikhs and Aliya bow before Frodo and thank him for his guidance and wisdom. Frodo blushes scarlet and bids them to rise before the other villagers can follow suit. He bows back in the manner of the Shire-folk and wishes them good luck in their endeavors. Meanwhile,  Rick and Sam go to say good-bye to their new friends. Sauron withdraws to the edge of the village, waiting for the others as he reflects quietly to himself. 

Cyrus alone remains and he approaches Frodo with great trepidation. He bows his head imploringly and asks, “May I speak with you before you leave, Great Shaman?”

“What troubles you, Cyrus?” Frodo asks, seeing Cyrus’s thoughts and feelings and allowing Cyrus to see his as well.

“Lord Azatash said I am to become Malik,” Cyrus begins uncertainly. “If this is so…”

“It is so,” Frodo says softly. “You worry that you will fail.”

“Yes,” Cyrus says. “I am not a leader, Great Shaman, not like you are. All my life, I have only followed, first my mother, then my sister, then my elders and shaman, then my masters and finally the wizards.”

“Who you vanquished,” Frodo says.

“Because I thought that was what you wanted,” Cyrus admits. “I am most grateful that you do not seek retribution for my error against you.”

“You did nothing wrong, Cyrus,” Frodo assures. “You were not given many options in life. You did what you had to do in order to survive, but living is not the same as surviving. You must learn this and teach your people that. This will be your hardest task and your most rewarding.”

“I am most humbled by your confidence in me, Great Shaman, but how do I lead when I have only followed? I am just a common man,” Cyrus explains.

“As are all kings, at least the ones that I have known,” Frodo says with fondness, thinking of Éomer and Aragorn, and even Elrond, Legolas, Boromir and Faramir. “You ask for my advice, but the truth is I’m not very good at leading, myself. I rather abhor it really. It is not in my nature to tell others what to do, yet I find that I often must and so I do the best I can. If there is a conflict, I listen to all sides and try to come up with a solution that will make everyone happy. If that cannot be done, I try to think of a solution that is fair to all sides. If there is something I need to have done that I cannot do myself, I request it; I do not command. I avoid a heavy hand at all times, but it is sometimes inevitable when the safety of those who depend on me is at risk that I must become stern and fight back. Yet that has only happened once before, and now twice, and each time I have lost as much as I have gained. 

“That is me. You will find that you have other ways of dealing with the responsibilities placed upon you, and the conflicts you face and the decisions you must make will be much different from my own. For these reasons alone, it would be unwise to attempt to model yourself after me, or anyone else for that matter. If I leave you with any advice it is this: Listen to your people, learn their ways, honor their traditions and respect their wisdom. Show them compassion. Do not be too quick to pass judgment on others, even your enemies, for you may find allies in the most unlikely of places, and remember always that you are just a common man.

“You will make mistakes, we all do. If you find yourself losing focus, or becoming inflated on the power entrusted to you, remember this place, remember yourself as you are now, and it will all be made clear to you again.”

“Thank you, Great Shaman,” Cyrus says. “I will do my best to honor your teachings.”

“Our best is all any of us can do, even me,” Frodo says. He laughs suddenly and Cyrus smiles with him, though he does not know what has made the Shaman happy. “Even me,” Frodo repeats to himself. “You know, Cyrus, you aren’t so very different from me, once upon a time. In fact, I think I had this exact same conversation with Bilbo, or one very much like it, just before he left the Shire. I had forgotten it until now. I had forgot.”

He looks up at Cyrus and laughs again, and the man joins him. “Thank you, lad,” Frodo says. “You have reminded me of something and I am indebted to you.” 

“As I am indebted to you, Great Shaman,” Cyrus says and bows his head again. Then they bid each other farewell, and Frodo joins Rick and Sam as they return from their own goodbyes. They meet the Haradrim and Sauron at the river and the Maia hands the hobbits their swords.

They are soon ready to depart and they find the fields lined with the villagers and refugees, each of their brown faces split with smiles as they wave farewell to their guests. They half-bow to Frodo, dropping to their knees and touching their foreheads to the ground for just an instant before rising again. Frodo’s face flames red but he waves and returns their well wishes, and he realizes suddenly that he will miss them all terribly, for all that he only knew them a few days. 

Too quickly, they reach the precipice of the plateau. They look back, wave a final time, and proceed down the trail over the hillside. The village and the fields disappear at once, but the echoes of the farewells follow them still for a short time, and the lightness in their hearts for the joy on the Khand’s faces remains with them for many days afterward.

To be continued…

GF 7/26/07

Chapter 24 – Seeds of Deceit 

Night is falling when they reach the campsite where Sauron, Rick and the hobbits had slept just five nights before. The ponies and horses have been well-kept by a pair of warriors who had remained behind to care for the beasts and the steeds of the Haradrim. The warriors stand at attention upon hearing the approach of the company. Amros dismisses them as he strides past and they relax just in time to gape at Sauron. Some of their comrades quietly fill them in on all that has happened as the others prepare the camp for the night.

Rick heads directly for his horse. The stallion whinnies excitedly to see him, swishing his tail and nuzzling his snout into Rick’s hand. Rick complies, scratching in all the right places and crooning lovingly. The ponies and pack horses get similar treatment from the hobbits, and even Sauron spares a few minutes to curry his stallion’s coat and comb his mane and tail before checking on their stores and packs.

They remain in the camp that night and set out in the morning after an early breakfast. Going down the hill proves just as difficult as getting up it. The beasts’ hooves slip on the soft sandstone, sending loose pebbles and rocks scattering down the path in front of them. The travelers walk beside their beasts, keeping a tight grip on the reins and helping them find safe footing. Progress is slow and even though they only stop once at midday for rest and food, they do not reach the bottom of the hill until night is nearly fallen. 

The next morning, they forage for food, roots, berries, nuts, cacti and small game to add to their remaining supplies, just enough to feed one extra person for a week; they had not expected Sauron to be going back with them to Harad. They also replenish their water at the river before leaving it behind, refilling their water bottles and jugs.

They ride through the valley and in two more nights they reach the edge of the hills, the barren desert stretching out before them like a white sea of sand. They camp during the day and travel at night for the sake of Frodo and Rick. While their skin has darkened somewhat during the last week, they are still prone to sunburn and no one wishes to make the Ring-bearer, in particular, uncomfortable if it can be prevented.

In the quiet hours before sleep and during travel, they swap many stories and tales of war and home life in Harad and Rohan. Rick makes quick friends with Cepros, and with his and Semira’s help he begins to learn Southron more readily. The Haradrim prove just as respectful of the Ring-bearers as the Khand had been, though they refrain from bowing or calling them by honorifics at Frodo’s request and Amros’s command. 

The Haradrim are ever watchful of Sauron but after a few days of continuously being in his presence, they begin to ask him questions about his journey to defeat the Blue Wizards and of his other missions, past and future. By the time they reach the Harnen River and the port, they are more at ease with him, if still inherently distrustful.

Amros hires a ship to carry Sauron, Rick and the hobbits to the Bay of Belfalas and around Harondor back to the Anduin. The ship will take them all the way to Pelargir, where they will be able to board a Gondorian ship to take them back to Minas Tirith. Rick, Cepros and a handful of warriors go into the bazaar to acquire the necessary supplies for the two-week journey, and when they return everyone helps to carry them onboard, where the hobbits stow everything away in their lodgings. Everything prepared and ready to set sail, the new allies gather on the dock to say farewell. 

“I made this for you,” Cepros says, handing Rick a small leather booklet. “It’s actually mine, a phonetic translation of Haradrim to Westron, but I wrote in the phonetic pronunciation of the Haradrim and Southron words for you to practice.”

“Thank you!” Rick says, accepting the booklet gratefully. “I’ll study this every day and I can practice with the crew.” They clasp hands and bid each other farewell, then Cepros and the warriors retreat to the riverbank. 

“We will not stay long in Gondor,” Sauron tells Amros and Semira. “We’ll remain just long enough to see the hobbits settled, make our reports to the King and gather whatever news we can of the movements of the House of the Eye. I suggest that you also discover what rumors you can, but do not seek out any of your enemies. If my information that the Mouth of Sauron has survived the desolation of Mordor is true, then I do not doubt he would have sought refuge here. He will be in charge of the House of the Eye now and he will not show mercy, not even to you Semira. He doesn’t know what family is anymore.”

“We will find out what we can and begin to seek out our allies in the other Sultanates,” Semira says.

“There is much to be prepared, and not just for your stay,” Amros says. “We have been long from our home and have much to put to rights before we can leave again. There is no need for you to hurry back.”

“The quicker we strike, the better, before the Dark Houses can recover from the loss of the Blue Wizards,” Sauron says. “Look for us to arrive at the beginning of next month. The citadel of the House of the Sun can still be found in the city of Hasuut?”

“It can,” Amros says. “I will tell the guards at the wall that you are coming, however I think it is best while you travel in Harad that you do not use your name. It will only bring you trouble, and that we cannot afford.”

“No Westron aliases either,” Semira says. “That won’t help you much at all once you pass through Harondor. Childeric, you will go by Dericos.”

“Dericos,” Rick says. “Very well but I don’t think anyone will believe I’m a Haradrim. And you can just call me Rick.”

“That’s not the point. If you have a Haradrim name, they will know you are an ally,” Semira explains. “And I like Childeric.” She smiles sweetly, causing Rick to shuffle uncomfortably under the answering glare of Amros. “Sauron, you will go by Yigalos. It means ‘one who seeks redemption’.”

“Very well,” Sauron agrees.

“One who seeks redemption?” Rick says. He considers Sauron closely, pondering the phrase. “We don’t have a name for that in Rohirric. There’s Trewfelagh, or Trewpeny, but those aren’t nearly close enough. I suppose you could just take the words ‘seek’ and ‘redeem’ and try to piece together a name from that but it’s going to sound odd. How about Secaliesan? No, that won’t do. Secleresnis? No, I don’t like that either. Maybe just Aliesan, or even Aliesacan. Oh! I like that one.”

“Rick, that name is only supposed to be for use in Harad,” Sauron points out.

“So? You are seeking redemption aren’t you?” Rick asks. “Aliesacan. It’s a good name, strong, definitive, and it’s much more flattering than ‘Sauron’. I mean, you can’t be walking around with a name like that anymore, now can you? And can’t you just hear it in a story? It’ll capture an audience’s attention. Aliesacan and the Blue Wizards of the East. I tell the tale of Aliesacan, the warrior Maia of the Valar, returned to Middle-earth to protect the Free Peoples from the evil remnants of Mordor. He is Sauron no more. Doesn’t that sound great! I could ask Frodo for help, because he writes too or Sam told me once that he’s written all his experiences of the War of the Ring, and his uncle, or is it his cousin, hobbit relations don’t make much sense to me, but he wrote about his travels too and so Frodo knows a lot about writing adventures, and I do have two weeks at least to work on it which should be enough time, don’t you think? Do I have enough parchment?”

“Hopefully not,” Sauron mutters, his turn now to shift uncomfortably. 

“Huh?” Rick says, lost in thought.

“Never mind. We should get going,” Sauron says.

“Wait,” Semira bids them, smiling fondly at Rick’s excitement for his budding story. “One more thing, before you go.” 

She nudges Amros expectantly and Amros sighs resignedly. He blows a high, piercing whistle and Rick’s stallion comes forth from the company, heading directly for him. Rick takes the horse’s reins and scratches behind his ears, his expression puzzled and hopeful.

“Semira tells me that this stallion has grown quite fond of you, and my guards tell me he was quite forlorn until you returned to camp with us, and Cepros tells me you lost your own horse some time ago,” Amros says graciously. “You may keep the horse, if you wish to have him.”

“Really?” Rick exclaims, his face lighting up to beat the sun. “I can keep him? Thank you, so much. He’s a wonderful horse. I would be honored to have such a horse.”

“Then he is yours,” Amros says. “Treat him well and he will give you many years of service and sire many worthy descendants for your wife and children.”

“Well, I don’t have a family of my own but I will certainly treat him well. I bet all the other horses in Rohan will just love him,” Rick says. 

“He still needs a name,” Semira says. “I have been thinking about it, and I believe I have found it. He will be Matronos. It means ‘joyful gift’ and that is what he is to you, yes?”

“Matronos?” Rick repeats and the stallion whinnies softly upon hearing it. “Do you like that name, then? Hello, Matronos.” The stallion whinnies again, more loudly this time, and steps forward to gently rest his head on Rick’s shoulder. Rick beams at Semira. “Matronos it is, then. Thank you, Semira.”

“It is the least I can do,” she says and beckons one of the deckhands to retrieve the horse and secure him below deck. “Cepros already obtained feed for him, so you need not worry about that. I will see you again soon.”

“By next month,” Rick promises. 

He takes her hand and kisses it, and she presses his hand briefly in return. Then she kneels to the hobbits and hugs them both. “You both truly are as extraordinary as the tales say. I am glad to have met you.”

“I was glad to meet you too, Semira,” Sam says. “You’re a real fine lady, you are.”

“Thank you Sam. You are a brave little gardener, more courageous than the strongest of men,” she praises and Sam blushes.

“The Haradrim are lucky to have you and Amros looking out for them,” Frodo says, “and we’re lucky indeed to have you as an ally.”

“Thank you, Shaman,” Semira replies, grinning mischievously.

Frodo laughs. “You know I’m not a shaman.”

“Aren’t you? No other mortal can do the things you can. The Ring gave you these gifts, but you are still the one who must wield them. This you can do, and yet retain your humanity and modesty. How do you explain this if you are not Shaman?” Semira asks.

“I was meant to carry the Ring,” Frodo says with a shrug. “I was chosen to destroy it.”

“Chosen? By whom? And if you were chosen, it must have been for a reason, yes? I do not know how such things work but I do know that Middle-earth is lucky to have you and Sam in it at this time. May your journey be safe and your road long, and remember Frodo: live your life,” Semira says. 

“Farewell, Semira,” Frodo says and hugs her again. “And thank you.”

The hobbits board the ship first, followed by Sauron and Rick. The ship shoves off as soon as everything is secure, pulling slowly away from the dock into the busy and crowded waters of the Harnen. Rick and the hobbits wave good-bye to their friends, who wave back until they are no more than small dots upon the riverbank.

When the port is far behind and the ship glides along the eastern side of the river with the current, Rick finds Sauron speaking quietly to the captain. “Yigalos! Are you going to be wanting breakfast soon?”

Sauron nods, the name grating, and he wonders if Semira didn’t have that in mind when she chose it. “Yes, breakfast will be fine,” he replies, frowning at the riverbank as the land swiftly slips past. 

“Wait a minute!” Sam says suddenly. He leans in towards Frodo and whispers, “We didn’t get names.”

Frodo laughs. “I suppose we’re just Remi and Matfrid again, then. Or Frodo and Samwise, or Iorhael and Perhael, or Shaman and Servant of Shaman.” He touches the necklace under his robe. “I guess it doesn’t really matter.”

“Well, if that’s all the same, I’d rather go by my own name,” Sam says. “I reckon as Amros wouldn’t hire a crew as meant us harm anyhow.”

“Samwise it is then,” Frodo says. “Shall we help Dericos with breakfast, Samwise?”

“I’d like that very much, Mr. Frodo.”

They follow Rick below deck to the kitchen area and set about making breakfast for themselves alongside the kitchen crew, daydreaming happily of Gondor and Minas Tirith and being able to roam the Citadel and the city freely now that their mission is over. This topic lasts into breakfast, which they eat in their room, and afterward Rick recruits Frodo’s help in writing his story, Of Aliesacan and the Blue Wizards of the East. Sam suggests writing it as a poem and soon all three of them are bent over a blank piece of parchment. Sauron watches them from his perch on his hammock, a heaviness coming over him even as he smiles to hear their excited chatter.

The landscape changes little over the following days. Harondor on the north side of the river is as plain and barren as Harad on the south. Here and there are stretches of grass or a blooming tree of frankincense, but most often they see fields of grain, barley, vegetables and other produce stretching along the riverbanks in between long stretches of arid earth. The farm houses are unlike any the hobbits or Rick have seen before: square, flat-roofed, earthen walls of blinding white. No evidence can be seen of Harondor’s former occupants, which Rick notes with interest.

Once a part of Gondor, Harondor is now chiefly occupied by Haradrim except to its uppermost north along the Anduin. Countless centuries of strife and invasions have driven the Gondorians west of the Anduin long ago, and the land had quickly been claimed by Harad as their own. This is a grievance that many Gondorians wish for King Elessar to amend, but Harad will not give up the land easily. For now an unspoken truce is being held between the two kingdoms as more pressing issues are resolved, but the constant threat of another civil war in Harad has made resolving even the simplest of conflicts difficult and progress has been slow indeed. 

Looking out over the desert, Rick wonders why anyone would fight for such land and if perhaps it would be best to let Harad keep it. He often sees workers in the fields, and going to and from the farm houses. They seem so much a part of the land that Rick can’t imagine it without them there. Yet there is a tension also, for each time their ship passes a field, the workers will stop and peer at them cautiously before deciding they are friends and waving good-day or deciding they are foes and concealing themselves within the crops where they cannot be spied. 

Sam also finds watching the field workers to be interesting. Though the workers are far away, his eyes are sharp and he can often see or guess what tools they are working with. He even recognizes a few of the odd tools he had seen that day in the bazaar. One is a long metal pole with two handles at the top and a wide curving blade that curls around the bottom half of the pole to end in a sharp point. He sees now that this tool is used for breaking the rock-hard earth so that fields can be planted and irrigated. 

Another tool is a sort of half-basket, half-trap on wheels. Rick calls it a wain, or a chariot, only the wains that Rick has heard stories of were used for transporting the Wainriders over Dagorlad to invade his peoples’ ancient home and they were pulled by horses. The wains they see now are loaded with harvested produce, a wooden gate secured to the back of the chariot to keep anything from spilling out. Once the wain is full, the worker picks up the handles and runs it to the storage shed himself.

The hobbits and Rick stay inside most of the day, keeping out of the burning sun. They occupy themselves with Rick’s translation booklet and writing his story. Rick goes often to visit his horse, still marveling at this unexpected gift. He wonders what Semira had to do to convince Amros to give him the horse; it couldn’t have been easy for the man to give away such a magnificent beast, especially to him. Sometimes the hobbits will join him and tell him of their ponies, Bill and Strider, and how they came to acquire them.

They help the kitchen crew in making meals every day, though there is very little in the way of cooking to be done. The meats had been cooked and dried before being brought on board and they need only put the food together at each meal, standing at their work stations and watching the person next to them to learn what to do: lay the rice-wrapping flat on the wooden board, spread the cream sauce over it, take a thin strip of dried meat and pound it until it is soft, then lay that on top of the cream sauce, spread the berry sauce over the meat, then roll the whole thing as tightly as you can and cut it three times. It doesn’t take long for Frodo and Sam to learn how to make the cream sauce and berry sauce, and when the workers have to make more rice-wrapping, they learn how to do that also. 

Sauron can often be found with the captain, going over maps of Harondor and Harad, or else helping the deck crew to sail the ship. There are other ports on the way to the Bay of Belfalas, and when they dock both he and Rick assist with unloading and loading goods and packages. 

Sauron spends his time in the ports speaking with the peasants and the slaves, gathering what news he can. Slaves are often a good source of news, he tells the hobbits, who are both mortified and fascinated by them. Except for the collars around their necks, the slaves are no different in their bearing than their masters, though Sam instantly recognizes the signs of subservience: walking behind the master, offering to carry the heavier burdens, haggling for a lower price for the goods their masters are needing. Several slaves are on their own though and these are the ones that Sauron targets. Most do not even look at him, but one or two might quietly whisper rumors to him as they stand at a stall and pretend to study a particular weave or basket. 

Being the only passengers on the ship, they are often able to enjoy the company of the crew during the quiet hours after nightfall. The ship is anchored in the middle of the river wherever they happen to be and the crew, instead of dashing off to see to various passengers, will sit with them on the deck and trade stories with them. The stories can be about anything but usually entail the lives of the crew, their families and even their customs and traditions. The travelers reciprocate, telling the Haradrim of life in Rohan, Gondor and the Shire. At these times, laughter can often be heard as everyone relates tales of mischievous childhood antics or boisterous family gatherings. When the Haradrim learn of Rick’s hopeless love for Semira, they are quick to tell him of their own foibles in love and reassure him that all will be well in the end. Sauron usually has trouble translating during these tales, being too busy laughing at Rick’s embarrassment.

The nights are somewhat chilled on the river but they find they do not need blankets. Their robes keep them comfortable enough, whether day or night, and after Frodo and Sam abandon their hammocks for their sleeping rolls on the floor, they find that sleeping on the gently bobbing ship is quite soothing. Each night Frodo and Sam put their heads to their pillows, which are made of rolled-up shirts, and fall into instant sleep, exhausted from the long, hot days. They do not stir again until the crew wakes in the predawn hours to ready the ship for sailing again.

On the fourth night Frodo wakes from yet another disturbing dream, with heart racing and cold sweat dripping from his face. His body shakes with fright and his head pounds incessantly. A wave of nausea threatens to overwhelm him, but he fights it back with slow, deep breaths until he feels his body calm and the sickness subside. The headache ebbs to a dull thrumming and as he pushes away the lingering images of his dream, he begins to notice the room around him. Rick sleeps soundly on his hammock, his left foot dangling over the side. Sam snores softly on the floor next to Frodo, the gardener’s brow knit with a dream of his own. The ship creaks and bobs and in the rooms next to the cargo hold below he can hear the crew fast asleep. 

Frodo shifts in his bedroll, inching closer to Sam though not enough to disturb him, and attempts to find a comfortable position to go back to sleep. He can close his eyes easily enough, but the dream will not subside. The images from it leech onto his mind, refusing to let go, and though he tries to think of more pleasant things, he cannot do so. Sleep eludes him and after an hour of listening to Sam’s gentle snores and the soft creaking of the hull, Frodo gets to his feet and climbs the stairs to the deck. 

The cool air against his face is refreshing and the stars shine near as bright as the moon. Other ships are anchored up and down the river, and on the land far off in Harad a small campfire blazes. He wonders who the campers are and what they are doing there and who might be keeping watch so late at night. By giving his mind something else to concentrate on, he can more easily distract himself from his dream, and he finds the clear air has alleviated the last of his headache as well. He walks around the deck with no clear purpose other than to remain here until he is tired enough to return to bed and sleep, hopefully before Sam notices he is missing. 

The deck is quiet except for the distant whisperings of the watchmen on the bow. Frodo cannot make out the words but he can see them sitting against the capstan. He moves away before they can notice him and heads for the stern, where he can lie on the deck and look up at the stars and moon and forget everything else. Only when he reaches the stern he finds Sauron is already there. The Maia stands silently and perfectly still, looking out over the water at the moon’s reflection glittering on the calm surface of the river. 

Frodo pauses and considers returning to the room to give Sauron his solitude, but then Sauron turns and smiles wanly at him. “You couldn’t sleep either?” he asks kindly.

Frodo closes the gap between them to stand beside Sauron. For a long while they stand in silence, the serenity of the night closing in around them, wrapping them in its concealing cloak. Frodo enjoys the star-strewn sky and lets his mind wander to nights spent atop Bag End under the oak tree lying next to Merry and Pippin, or even Fatty and Folco, pointing out all the constellations or making up ones of their own. He realizes with a jolt that he has not done this since before the Quest. 

After a time, Sauron looks at him intently and says, “It’s time, Frodo, to tell me what happened.”

“I know,” Frodo says but finds it difficult to continue without prompting. 

Sauron senses this, so after a few more moments he says, “Why don’t you start with why you’re up so late in the night.”

“I had a dream,” Frodo says, shivering to remember it. 

“I take it this dream was not the pleasant sort,” Sauron guesses.

“Not at all,” Frodo confirms. He wraps his robe tighter around himself to keep the fabric from flapping in the breeze and closes his eyes, as though pretending he is sleeping again will make the telling of it less horrible. “I’m returning to the Shire after the War and the Shire is burnt black. There is no one else to be seen, not even ruffians, and not a bird sings. I am utterly alone. I reach Bag End and Saruman is standing there next to Pallando and Alatar. Saruman laughs when he sees me and he says, ‘Didn’t I foretell that you would enjoy neither long life nor health? Yet you would attempt to cheat your fate and so look at what you’ve done.’ Then Alatar bends down and reaches for a sack at his feet. The sack is wet with fresh blood and as he begins to open it a terrible dread fills me. I know what’s inside and I don’t want to see it. I plead with him to stop but then Pallando says, ‘But you must see. We warned you what would happen if you did not take your rightful place over the Sea.’ Alatar opens the sack and curls his hand around a tuft of golden hair. That’s when I woke up. That's always when I wake up.” 

“Then this isn't the first time you’ve had this dream? Have there been others?” Sauron asks. 

Frodo pries his eyes open and shudders. “It's always the same one.”

“What was inside the bag?” Sauron asks next. 

Frodo swallows and takes a few moments to gather his wits. “It was Sam, or what was left of him.”

“And Pallando said they warned you,” Sauron says. “Is this what they made you see then, when you were fighting them?”

“It’s one of the things,” Frodo says. “It’s a lie, I know that, but it feels so real.” He shudders again and pulls his robe tighter still. “Saruman did say I would not enjoy health or long life. Until recently, I thought it was true. I thought I would either have to die here in illness or leave for the Undying Lands to seek healing, if I could be healed. I was just beginning to accept that I might be able to remain here still when we reached the Blue Wizards’ lair. 

“During our confrontation, they showed me other things. They showed me what will happen if I try to remain in the Shire and live a normal life. They showed me that I will fail. I will marry and my wife will die in childbirth, her and the bairn. In my grief I will grow ill again, so ill I cannot leave the bed, and Sam will wear himself ragged trying to make me better, ignoring his own family in the process. His son will try to follow him up the Hill one day and be hit by a runaway trap coming down the lane, a trap that Sam failed to secure properly when he left it outside the garden gate. His son will die from his injuries and Rose will sink into despair and bitterness, and it will all be too much for Sam in the end. He’ll die and I’ll follow, and those who are left behind, Merry and Pippin, Folco and Fatty, everyone will be left to deal with the consequences. Merry will become embittered because he could not convince me to go over the Sea when there was still time, and because of his hardness the people of Buckland and the Eastfarthing will not have the charity of the Brandybucks to see them through sparse winters and dry summers and many will suffer for it. Pippin will refuse the Thainship, and he’ll do well enough. Reginard will be a reasonable Thain but the Tooklands won’t flourish as they have done. 

“It’s all rather dire and dramatic really, and I try to tell myself that none of it’s true, but what if it is true, and all this suffering can be prevented if only I take my place in Valinor?”

Sauron rests his elbows on the rail and leans forward as he considers Frodo’s question. That the wizards should make him see such things is no less than what he had expected, and it is understandable that Frodo will be confused and worried. Sauron understands now why Frodo has been so reluctant to speak of this while the others are present.

“I don’t know how to guide you in this, Frodo,” Sauron says at length. “Saruman was a liar and his voice was his most dangerous weapon. He said he foretold your demise, but he could just as easily have been planting the seed for you to grow. Despite yourself, knowing what he was capable of, you listened to him and began to make it so. However, he could have been telling the truth as he saw it in that moment, and again used his voice to ensure it would come to the ending that he desired. He very nearly succeeded, from what I saw when I came to Bag End. In this way, Saruman was more treacherous than Pallando and Alatar. He forever twisted the truth just enough that the lie could not be detected, and more often than not this caused a fate much worse than a lie all on its own. He did the same with Lotho and the Bracegirdles, and with Théoden King. 

“Did he truly foretell your future? No one now left in Middle-earth can say for certain. Galadriel’s mirror speaks no more and the Palantír in Elessar’s keeping is not for you to use. Yet even if you could use such instruments, you must remember that they show you glimpses only and while what they show you is the truth it is very easy to derive a falsehood from them.”

“Like Denethor,” Frodo says. “You did the same to him as Saruman did to Théoden and Lotho. You showed him the truth and twisted it with lies so that he would despair. And yet everything you showed him did come to pass. So what Alatar and Pallando showed me, those things will happen too, if I stay?”

“This is not a true prophecy, Frodo. A prophecy tells you what will be. It is not dependent on ‘what ifs’. However,” Sauron cautions, “it could just as easily be the truth as it is a lie. Childbirth is dangerous and women, even strong and healthy women, die often during it. That is true and the despair that follows is equally true. Will such a sequence of events occur? The answer could just as easily be ‘yes’ as it is ‘no’. But you need not leave to prevent any of this. You can simply not marry. Or should you marry and on the chance that you do lose your wife in childbirth, you can always leave for Valinor and find your healing then, before anyone else need suffer. And so you see that their vision of your future is full of holes.”

“So it was a lie?” Frodo asks again.

“I think they were very clever and they knew the best way to defeat their enemy was with the enemy's own weapon,” Sauron answers. “They detected your deepest fears and exploited them. It was malicious and full of depravity, and so exactly what they would have done.”

“And Saruman was lying too?”

“Saruman I think told you the truth as he saw it. He saw you ill and dying young, and you certainly were on your way to doing just that when I found you,” Sauron says. “However, just like Denethor, he saw a glimpse only and from that he derived a lie and planted the seed within you for your own destruction. I think we have sufficiently uprooted that seed, don’t you?”

Frodo manages a weak smile. “I would say that we have, but it has been replaced by another it seems.”

“At least you know this and so you can weed it out, just as before,” Sauron assures. “The option to sail will always remain open to you: that is your reward. But to remain and live your life is also an option: that is your gift.”

“Rewards are all well and good, but I’ve always enjoyed giving gifts more,” Frodo says, smiling genuinely this time. “I want to stay. I want to try anyway.”

“Then try,” Sauron says. “You can always change your mind later if you must, the key word there being ‘must’.”

“Indeed. What must I do? I’ve asked that question twice of others, but never once have I asked it of myself. Third time pays for all as they say, but the answer is not so clear this time. Still, this has helped, speaking to you. Thank you… Aliesacan,” Frodo says, grinning impishly. 

Sauron groans softly at the name but only answers, “You’re welcome, Great Shaman.”

Frodo begins to turn but pauses as he remembers what Sauron had first said when he stepped onto the deck. “Why couldn’t you sleep?” he asks.

“Me? I suppose I was waiting for you,” Sauron answers. “Go back inside before Sam comes looking for you. I’ll be there shortly.”

Frodo complies and returns to the room just as Sam is stirring, blinking and looking for his master. Sam sighs with relief to see Frodo return, and he slumps back into his bedroll without a word. He’s snoozing again before Frodo even crawls into his sleeping roll. Frodo settles himself quickly, peering up at Rick’s hammock to find the lad has shifted in his sleep, so that his right foot and arm now dangle over the edge of the hammock. Frodo chuckles softly to see this and hopes Rick doesn’t fall out of that odd contraption in his sleep. Before the wish fully forms, he has drifted off to gentle dreams of a green Shire filled with life and laughter.

When Sauron comes into the room a few minutes later, he finds Frodo smiling in his sleep, Sam snoozing deeply and Rick muttering softly in his dreams. Sauron watches them through the last hours of night, eased by their peaceful slumber even as sleep eludes him.

To be continued…

GF 7/30/07

Chapter 25 - Choices

The river slowly widens as they draw nearer to the Bay of Belfalas the following day. The banks on either side pull farther away as the ship continues west, until at last the mouth of the Harnen lets out into the bay. The barren deserts turn to golden beaches that sparkle in the afternoon sun. Wild vegetation grows thick along the bluffs and many small settlements can be seen scattered along the coasts on both sides of the river. The bay water is clear and deep, the rich color of sapphire, and it engulfs the ship as it stretches farther west to the deeper waters of the Sundering Sea. The smell of salt and the song of the distant ocean’s great waves are sharp in the air, carried to them by brisk easterly winds.

The ship turns northward to sail in a shallow arc for the Ethir Anduin, a three day journey in calm waters. Some of the crew toss a great net into the bay to drag behind the stern. The water is so clear that they can watch as the net fills and thus can pull it up before it grows too heavy. The crew begins the laborious job of preparing the fish for dinner, tossing the viscera back into the bay for the other sea creatures to enjoy. They pile the gills into a sack to be fashioned into simple knives or scraping tools later. As they work they talk excitedly amongst themselves, anticipating what dishes the cooks might make from their catch.

Sauron watches them from his perch against the portside hull, quietly observing the crewmen’s simple merriment. Rick joins him and together they watch the men carry the fish below deck. When the crew return to their sailing duties, Rick turns around to rest his elbows on the rail and stare beyond the bay to the darker waters of the Sundering Sea on the horizon. He sighs heavily, fingering the rail and absently peeling away loose wood fibers. He tosses the fibers into the water and sighs again, more dramatically this time. Beside him, Sauron mildly raises an eyebrow in his direction.

“I’ve been cheated,” Rick finally announces, his tone conversational. He waits a few moments to make sure he has his friend’s full attention, all the while picking at the rail and squinting out over the bay. Sauron doesn’t say anything but he moves ever so slightly to face Rick more directly. Rick nods thoughtfully and continues. “I’ve been thinking it all over, and there really is no other conclusion. I’ve been cheated. Now, most people would be bothered by this and possibly even resentful, but I know you tried your hardest and as thorough as you are with your plans, even you can’t anticipate everything. I just want you to know that I understand this and I don’t hold it against you, so you can stop brooding now.”

Now it is Sauron’s turn to sigh and he looks up at the sky as though appealing for some strength of patience he does not possess. “All right, I’ll bite,” he replies at length. “How did I cheat you?”

“Well, for starters, I couldn’t help but notice that in this plan of yours, I was never going to do any fighting,” Rick begins. “You know, one of the reasons I joined up with you was to prove my worth as a warrior, seeing as I was too young to fight in the War, and yet you always somehow manage to find assignments for me where I don’t get to fight. Even when you went to Dwimoberg to get that chain, I had to stay behind in Edoras to babysit your horse.”

“Brego gets lonely,” Sauron says. 

“Brego hates me,” Rick retorts. “Second, I finally find a strong, beautiful, intelligent woman, perfect in every way, who actually seems to notice me for a change. Only, it turns out she’s not only be a spy, but a queen married to a powerful king who can grind me into the ground with his pinky. What’s worse is that you both knew how I felt and you used it. You were using me to get information on her, she was using me to get information on us.”

“I already apologized for that, but it was necessary, and I did try to tell you…” Sauron attempts to argue.

“I had my heart trampled all over and for what? For you to finally learn that I was right all along: she can be trusted and she is our ally. True, she wants you dead just as much as the others do, but you’re not dead and that’s largely because of her... and Frodo and the Khand, granted,” Rick finishes with a flippant wave of his hand.

“Are you coming around to some sort of point?” Sauron asks.

“Third,” Rick persists, “we were going to sail with the Wizards not to Gondor but to the Grey Havens. Yes, that wasn’t the original plan, but you said that’s what we were going to do, and I was looking forward to finally being able to sail the Sea, and now this is likely the closest I’ll ever get, just the smell of salt air as we putter about in the Bay of Belfalas on this little ship. You know what I was looking forward to the most? The porpoise. The mariners I’ve talked to in Gondor say that they’re intelligent sea creatures who can speak to humans and they swim in front of the ships, showing them the way to safe passage and harbor. But now I’ll never see them.”

“I could try to stir up an eel for you,” Sauron suggests. 

“An eel?”

“Some of them are said to be imbued with the power of lightning bolts that can kill a man, or at least stun him very badly,” Sauron elaborates, trying his best to make this sound like a suitable substitute.

“As I was saying,” Rick says, stubbornly refusing to be sidetracked, “I’ve been cheated. Now, I understand why you don’t want me to fight, but frankly, it's not your choice, it's mine. Don’t think for a second that you’re going to leave me out of all the excitement when we go back to Harad. You probably already have some plan to keep me tucked away safe in the Citadel, ‘gathering information’ on the Haradrim or the Black Númenóreans or what have you, but it’s not going to happen. And, yet, it’s not your fault that I fell in love with Semira. That’s something I’m just going to have work out on my own, and I appreciate that you apologized. Missing out on the Sea though is a real disappointment. You owe me a voyage and I will be expecting one when we’re finished in Harad.”

“Is that so?” Sauron asks.

“It is,” Rick confirms.

“Well, I hate to disappoint you further, but the Sea is nothing more than a giant mass of water surrounded by yet more water,” Sauron says. “There’s nothing to see, and these porpoise you’re so eager to catch a glimpse of don’t swim this far north this time of year anyway. Believe me, you’ve been saved from an incredibly boring journey. Besides, we’re already too close to the Sea for comfort. Frodo has a hard enough decision to make without adding the Sea-longing to it. Where is Frodo anyway?”

“Downstairs, sleeping again,” Rick answers. “Sam’s looking over my poem about our adventure in Khand. It’s a very rough draft, but it’s finished if you want to read it.”

“Maybe some other time,” Sauron says. 

“I’m hoping to read it at the feast on our return,” Rick says. “Aliesacan will be on the lips of every Gondorian in the city. They’ll be singing you praises by the end of the week.”

“Rick, I’ve already told you, that name Semira gave me wasn’t meant to be translated and used in Gondor or anywhere else,” Sauron says. “It was a joke anyway.”

“A joke. You mean a lie.”

Sauron says nothing but squints out over the water to avoid looking at Rick. 

“Maybe she did mean it that way, but it doesn’t have to stay a joke,” Rick points out. “It certainly is not a lie.”

“It’s not my name,” Sauron replies, somewhat shortly.

“Neither is ‘Sauron’. That’s just a name the Elves made up for you,” Rick says. “It’s not your original name, you’ve just been called it so long you forgot what came before. Either that, or you’re keeping it to yourself because you think you don’t deserve that name anymore. Now you’re trying to push away this name because you think you don’t deserve this one either, but you do.”

“No, I don’t,” Sauron says, meeting Rick’s eyes again. There is no pleading or anger there, just a humble acceptance of the truth, and this upsets Rick more than anything else. “Didn’t you see what happened in that fortress? The sorts of things that took place there for centuries? Haven’t you learned anything in these past two months? You say you know all the tales about who I was before, but that doesn’t mean you know me. Tales are just stories, and no matter how true or gruesome they are, they’re still just stories. The truth is if I had known you before, I would have stepped on you, broke your neck, killed you in an instant and never once thought anything of it. Either that, or I would have hauled you back to Barad-dûr to be tortured and then killed, and I still wouldn’t have thought anything of it. Why can’t you understand that?”

“You’re right,” Rick says. “I don’t know who you were before. I can’t understand the depths of guilt that you feel or how it must drag you down every moment of every day. But that’s the point of being a friend. I don’t have to understand those things, I just have to be here to help you and that’s exactly what I intend to do, whether you believe you deserve it or not. Because that’s another thing friends do for each other – we remind each other of our worth even when we can no longer see it for ourselves. 

“Didn’t you see what happened in that fortress, what took place there? Didn’t you learn anything from these last two months? You gave of yourself to someone else, someone who was crippled and dying, and you gave that person life and purpose again. You showed that person consideration and taught him to harness the power within himself so that he could heal. Now an entire nation is free and that person may have the chance to live the life he should have been living all along. Enemies have been turned into allies, one-time foes have become life-long friends, and there is hope now where there had been none before. That’s what happened in that fortress.”

“Rick, it’s not that simple,” Sauron replies softly.

“I know that. It’s never simple,” Rick says, “but you, the great Eye, fail to see what is so plainly in front of your face. The Valar had more in mind than just purging Middle-earth of evil when they sent you back here, because the truth is that there is evil in all of us and always has been, otherwise you never would have been able to turn anyone to your will, no matter how powerful you were. Likewise, you never would have turned to Melkor’s will. You blame yourself for everyone that you corrupted but you don’t extend that same blame to the one who actually started all this to begin with.”

“Rick…” Sauron attempts to protest, turning his face away from that beseeching look.

“The point is,” Rick presses on, “that you made a choice and you’re responsible for that choice, and so by extension you are responsible for the consequences of that choice, but give your followers some credit. One way or another, they made the choice to follow you, and they are just as responsible for their actions as you are. Don't take their guilt and blame onto yourself.”

“Rick…” Sauron tries again.

“Because there’s another choice you made,” Rick continues, softening his tone. “You chose to seek atonement for your misdeeds. You were sent back to undo as much of that evil as you can, but there’s a second part of this you’re not getting. 

“By undoing the evil you have wrought on Middle-earth and the Free Peoples, you’re undoing the evil within yourself, freely and willfully. You’re shedding the last remnants of darkness that still remain within. That’s why you were sent back, because they looked inside you and knew you could be saved. They have faith in you, and so do I. You are not ‘the Abhorred’ anymore, not to me, and I refuse to call you by that name any longer, so you’re just going to have to get used it to, Aliesacan.”

Rick pats Sauron’s arm and gently turns his face until he is looking at him. There is pain within the depths of the Maia’s eyes, as steely grey as storm clouds in the night sky. Rick thinks again as he has often in the past that if Sauron will simply allow himself to feel his sorrow, the storm within his eyes might subside and clear. “You have much to atone for, no one’s denying that, but you’re doing your best and that’s all any of us can do. You need to let yourself off the hook sooner or later, sooner being preferable, otherwise you’ll end up like those fish, gasping for breath while someone cuts you open, rips out your innards and throws you on the fire to make their dinner. Is that what you want?”

The smallest hint of a smile appears on Sauron’s face. “No, I don’t want that.”

“Good. So then, no more brooding. I’m going to help with dinner.” 

“Thanks a lot, lad,” Sauron says.

“That’s what I’m here for,” Rick replies and he gives Sauron’s arm another pat before heading below deck. 

Sauron watches him go, his smile spreading into a genuine grin so that when he faces the Sea again, he is chuckling softly under his breath. Leave it to Rick to turn a poignant conversation into an absurd analogy. 

He follows the floor of the bay until he can see it no more, then looks farther to the Sea and beyond. Ever in the uttermost West there is a light that shines throughout the day and night for those to see who can and he seeks it out now as it glows brighter than the sun overhead. He watches it for a time, thinking over everything that has happened since the destruction of the Ring and his meeting with Rick. He does not turn away until Sam comes to beckon him to dinner and before he leaves the deck he whispers a simple, “Thank you.”

The isle of Tolfalas appears on the horizon of the bay early the following morning. At first a mere dot upon the sparkling water, by midday the island dominates the view to the north, its wide grassland hills climbing into the sky to dwarf even the Hills of Targost in Gondor behind them. A sheer wall on the southern side of the island curves around a white-beached cape that glints in the afternoon sun. The island sits just west of the Ethir Anduin, in full view of the delta, and splits the bay there into two channels that encircle the island. With Harandor to the east and Belfalas to the north, the island marks the southernmost point of Gondor and signals the way home to sea-weary mariners.

Though the island is occupied mostly by pigs and seabirds, the Haradrim grow quiet and edgy as the ship draws nearer to it. In the past, few men have lived there but there are rumors in Harad that the Pale King has secretly been moving small contingents of his army onto the island, living hidden within the protection of the hills. The army can easily assail any fleet that comes northward, and though they be small in number it is said they have weapons of exploding fire that can sink any ship. Fearful of attack, the captain quickly sends one of his crew up the main mast to fly the Pale King’s banner below the banner of Harad, marking them as allies. With hope and some luck, they will be able to carry their passengers to Pelargir without hindrance.

They reach the island the following day and steer the ship up the eastern channel between the island and the shores of Harandor. The breeze turns cool and crisp as they continue northward, and to the east Harandor again becomes a vast grassland, fed from the waters of the bay to the west, the Anduin to the north and the River Poros to the east. The sun shines as brightly as before, but its warmth is welcoming and invigorating rather than suppressing and draining. 

Rick stands at the bow of the ship, drinking in the air and sun and watching the seabirds bob on the water and dive for fish. Sauron is with him and he too appears to be relieved at the sight of Gondor. At the least, he has been more at ease the last couple of days, even cautioning a joke or two, much to the delight of Rick and the hobbits. For their part, the hobbits are eager to set their feet on solid land again. They have decided to visit for a short while in Minas Tirith, for it would be rude to leave too soon, but their feet itch for the road home. They have never felt so far away from the Shire as they do now. 

Frodo and Sam sit against the capstan, enjoying the weather and watching as Rick begins to  act out a scene from his poem, much to Sauron’s amusement. They can guess that Rick is reciting the part where he encountered Semira and the Haradrim below the fortress. The lad had been tempted to exaggerate Amros’s animosity but in light of his position in Harad, and his generosity in gifting Rick with one of his horses, Rick had decided in the end that an accurate portrayal of the Sultan of the House of the Sun would be more appropriate. He can’t help but playact Amros as an overbearing oaf though, and Sam laughs at the obvious jealousy that fuels it. 

Sam looks beside him to see if Frodo is enjoying the performance as much as he is only to discover that his master is once again lost in his own thoughts, giving little mind to anything around him. Sam has been patient but now he senses the time has come to speak, whether his master would have him do so or not. One of Frodo’s slender hands rests on the deck between them so Sam takes it gently and presses it, drawing his master out of his thoughts and back to the present. Frodo looks up, his wide blue eyes clouded with some worry, but when he blinks his eyes clear and the next instant he is smiling joyfully at his friend. 

“Hullo Sam,” he says, admitting in that simple greeting that he has indeed been far away and thanking Sam from bringing him back.

“Mr. Frodo,” Sam returns. “Are you all right, master? You’ve not been yourself of late, if you don’t mind me saying.”

“I’m quite well, Sam,” Frodo assures. “I’ve just been sorting things out. It’s like you said earlier. It gets to where you can’t tell what’s real and what’s not, only for me it’s been like that since the War. Ever since Cormallen I’ve been in a dream and the only times I ever felt alive were on the anniversaries of Weathertop and Cirith Ungol.”

“When you would dream,” Sam says, remembering that day in the cave, Frodo’s haunted look upon waking and his lingering illness all that day and night. He remembers again the few times he has walked in on Frodo in Bag End, that same haunted look in his eyes, only then he had not known what it meant. Now that he does know, he worries anew but he keeps his voice calm when he continues. “But it’s more than just dreams, isn’t it? You were awake most of that day and still you weren’t well. It’s visions you see then, or you remember things that happened, and it’s all day long isn’t it?”

Frodo swallows and steadies himself before answering. His heart shrivels a little just to think of those dark days, and though the sun still shines brightly in the west and the bay still sparkles with brilliant blue, everything around him seems to dim ever so slightly as he remembers those illnesses and the visions that would taunt him. He wraps his free arm around his knees and forces himself to focus on the warm spring day. 

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam asks, pressing his hand again. 

Frodo returns Sam’s grasp with equal force, and it is enough to shake the threads of darkness that entangle him. The dimness goes away and the cries of the seabirds fill his ears. “I can do this, Sam, and it’s far past the time that you know the truth, if you want to hear it.”

“I do,” Sam says, his voice shaking despite himself. 

Frodo takes a deep breath and plunges ahead. “On the day of the anniversaries, I go back there, to that place and that time. You’ve had the dreams and you know what that’s like, but this is more than just dreams. It’s as if the Shire is the dream and the dream is the reality. It will pull me out of my surroundings and I’ll be back there, walking through Mordor, smelling the stench of it, running from Shelob, feeling the Morgul blade dig into me and the shard crawling it’s way to my heart. It is real, more real than the first time around, and there is nothing I can do to get away from it. Every time it happens, it’s worse than the time before, the illness lasts longer, the visions are more reluctant to let me go. Eventually I just pass out and when I wake up I’m back in Bag End, but the shadows linger. I never really went home.”

Sam blinks back the tears that threaten to spill, and he has to calm himself before he answers. All this time and he never knew, never guessed. Some great servant he is, couldn’t even tell his master had been suffering all along. He had thought it started with the rumors of Sauron’s return but he sees now that Frodo never left Mordor, or else he had taken some piece of Mordor with him. 

Sam looks up at Rick and Sauron again, and some of the old confusion and doubt return. He watches Sauron laugh at some story of Rick’s, and the only way he can make sense of any of it is to think of Gollum. Stinker and Slinker. Neither of them had been very pleasant, but there had been a difference there between the two, and Sam supposes that Smeagol might have been able to redeem himself in the end if he had been given the chance. That is similar to Sauron now and Sam understands why Rick insists on distinguishing between them: Sauron and Aliesacan. Does this mean that Frodo also has been split in two? Sam shakes his head, unable to imagine such an unlikely scenario. He wants his master whole and sound, not torn in two, sewn back together but never fully mended, his very being a wound scabbed over, a scar never to fade.

Frodo waits for him to sort out his thoughts. “So,” Sam begins, struggling now to keep his voice steady and his face calm, though why he is not sure. Certainly, Frodo can feel how cold and sweaty his hand has become and how he trembles with confliction. “So, are you going to have a third anniversary day now? Is that why you were going to leave with Mr. Bilbo to Valinor then?”

“I don’t know,” Frodo answers the first question. “Maybe I will, maybe I won’t have them at all anymore. Only time will tell. As for Bilbo, he was supposed to go with me not the other way around. Queen Arwen granted me passage to the Undying Lands, to take her place there. Bilbo was given permission to join me for his resistance of the Ring and his injuries in keeping it and losing it, as well as to keep me company. He went without me because Gandalf and I insisted on it. He was old and weary and didn’t have much longer to live in this world. He would have found rest and peace in Valinor and thus live out the rest of his days in ease. He would be among friends and he was long familiar with the way of Elves, so he went without me. He was glad I decided to stay, and he said that while he would wait for me, he wouldn’t expect me.”

“So why did you decide to stay?” Sam asks. “Why didn’t you go if you were so miserable?”

Frodo blushes and studies the grain of the deck beside him. He can feel Sam’s gaze on him and he knows already what his friend is going to say when he hears the answer. His blush brightens but he forces himself to answer anyway. “Because of you, because I was afraid of what might happen to you if I left and you had no one else to take care of, or no one to take care of you. I was afraid you might let yourself waste away from the grief and…” He pauses as understanding dawns upon him. The confusion and fear of the last couple weeks fades away and he brightens considerably, enough to dare meeting Sam’s skeptical and rather bemused expression. “That was it, Sam!” he says. “That’s where the nightmare came from. They didn’t foresee anything, they just took what I feared most and twisted it to their own design, just as Saruman did. Sauron was right.”

“What do you mean?” Sam asks. “Where what nightmare came from and what has old Sharkey to do with any of this?”

Frodo then relates his battle with the Blue Wizards, telling Sam of all that they made him see and the warnings they had given him. He then explains his nightmares he’s had since that day and the discussion he had with Sauron a couple of nights ago. “I’ve been trying to weed out the lies from the truth, but the reason I wasn’t able to do that was because it was all a lie,” Frodo finishes. “It’s just that they made it seem so real, it confused me and frightened me.”

“Well that’s a relief and no mistake,” Sam says after a lengthy pause. He pulls his hand away from Frodo and frowns at him. Frodo braces himself, knowing Sam won’t allow himself to be distracted from Frodo’s confession for long. “I’m right glad to hear you’re not in for more hurting, Mr. Frodo. You’ve had more than your fair share, the way I see it.”

“But?” Frodo prompts.

“But I have to say, sir, that I thought you knew me better’n all that,” Sam says. “Now you mean a lot to me, sir, and no mistake. I can’t hardly remember a day when you weren’t in it. You helped me learn my letters, and you taught me a bit of Elvish, and you’ve always treated me with respect and dignity for all I was just the gardener’s son, and I love you for it. That, and you just being you, and I’d not know what I’d do if ever I lost you for good. I did get a glimpse of it Mordor, but that was Mordor and I don’t know how much I was thinking very clearly. Everything was bleak in that dark place, and there didn’t seem to be much point of continuing on, so long as I could get the Ring to Mt. Doom. But now… Well, I reckon I’d still feel like a piece of me was gone forever, but I do like think that I’d find a way of continuing on and making something of myself despite it, especially if I could know that you were happy and getting the healing that you needed. To think that you stayed here, suffering and being ill all that time, just acause of me… Well, sir, if I may be so bold, that was plain daft of you, and it makes me feel like I was the one as was hurting you.”

“I know, Sam,” Frodo says, taking his hand again, reaching up with his other to brush away the tears that now spill down Sam’s brown cheeks. “I was daft and it wasn’t fair of me to use you as an excuse. It wasn’t you at all. It was me. I was afraid to go and I was afraid to stay. By saying I was waiting for you to move on with your life, I was taking the decision off myself and making you bear the burden of it. I didn’t even have the decency to tell you that’s what I was doing. But no more. I’m not hiding from life any longer, Sam, whatever it may bring. I owe it to you, and I owe it to Rakmahnesh, but more so I owe it to myself. I might still eventually have to sail. Even now I can feel the Sea swelling inside me, calling me towards it, but if I do sail it will be on my terms and no one else’s.”

“I’m glad to hear it, Mr. Frodo,” Sam says.

“I’m glad to say it. Can you forgive me, Sam?” Frodo asks.

“There’s naught to be forgiving, sir,” Sam says. “Just answer me this. Who was she?”

“Who was who?”

“In that vision the wizards gave you. Who were you married to?”

Frodo blushes again, deeper than before. “Melilot Brandybuck,” he mutters.

Sam raises his eyebrows. “She’s a fair sight younger than you, isn’t she? Weren’t she courting Mr. Everard Took?”

“She’s a sweet enough lass. She always enjoyed hearing about Bilbo’s adventures, and she’d even listen to tales of my hikes around the Shire at times. Not that it matters of course. It was just a lie, after all,” Frodo says sheepishly and looks pointedly away to avoid Sam’s knowing grin. “Let’s not talk about it anymore.”

“If that’s what you want, sir,” Sam agrees, chuckling under his breath. “Are you getting hungry? Mayhap we should go down and get some food, and get you out of this sun.”

“Yes, let’s do that,” Frodo says, jumping at the distraction and change in subject. Food is always a good way of making one forget embarrassing conversations. He scrambles to his feet and helps Sam onto his, then leads the way below deck to the kitchen.

The rest of the journey passes pleasantly. They pass into the Ethir Anduin the next morning. The massive delta is full of fishing boats and cargo ships, mostly of Gondorian origin. They spy a couple of other Haradrim ships, both flying the King’s banner just as their own does. The crew remains on guard, watching the crews of the other ships with keen interest. Likewise, the Gondorians, both on water and on land, watch the Haradrim ship with suspicion, though some of the fishermen who deal most often with the Southrons wave at them amiably. 

The days are cooler now and the nights are chill. The travelers change out of their Haradrim robes and into their own clothing. After being so long in the loose-fitting robes, they are shocked to discover that their usual clothing now feels constrictive and uncomfortable. The feeling doesn’t last long however, and by the time they reach Pelargir they are again accustomed to their own attire. Frodo and Sam leave their robes on the ship, though Frodo makes certain that his shaman’s necklace is safe in his pack before disembarking. He will never wear it again, but out of respect and fondness for the people who gave it to him, he will take it with him to Bag End and hang it on the wall in the parlor between the portraits of his parents.

The port and market are bustling with activity, but between Sauron’s great height and Rick leading Matronos, the crowd parts easily before them. There are many tradesmen and merchants from Minas Tirith in port and it doesn’t take long for Sauron to secure them passage on a ship that will take them to Harlond. The ship’s captain gawks with surprise at Frodo and Sam, for he has heard of the perian but never seen them. When he learns that he is to be carrying the Lords Frodo and Samwise, he gives Sauron his money back and insists on taking them for free. 

The word that perian are in the port spreads quickly, and by the time they have secured their things in their room and convinced Matronos to get onto the ship and into the cargo hold there is a small crowd on the dock awaiting the hobbits to disembark. “Well, at least they won’t be prostrating in front of us,” Frodo points out and takes Sam’s arm to guide him down the plank. Rick joins them in the market as they stroll about the booths and they come back loaded down with food. 

The ship sets sail early the following morning and after two long days, they are docking in the Harlond port. Rick retrieves his horse, who is grateful to set hoof to earth once more, and the travelers shoulder their packs and set out for the port entry. There they can see the King’s royal carriage standing in wait for them. When the coachman sees them approaching, he jumps down from his seat and opens the door, bowing low. “Your lordships,” he says. 

“How did—?” Rick begins.

Sauron laughs. “King Elessar doesn’t miss anything that happens within his realm,” he explains. 

Rick secures Matronos to the lead horse and joins the others in the carriage. They are soon rattling down the dirt lane towards the distant wall of Rammas Echor and the fields of the Pelennor beyond it, and lastly the great city of Minas Tirith. The Tower of Ecthelion shines in the afternoon sun, casting its shadow long over the city and the plains, and Frodo imagines he hears the sound of a horn call as they approach, beckoning them onward.

“Home at last,” he says wistfully. 

“And a sight for sore eyes it is, sir,” Sam replies. “I’m looking forward to a good long bath and sleeping on a soft feather mattress.”

“As am I, Sam. As am I,” Frodo agrees and sits back with a sigh as the Pelennor passes outside the carriage window.

To be continued…

GF 8/6/07

Chapter 26 – Pomp and Circumstance

The royal carriage rattles up the cobblestone streets of Minas Tirith and the citizens stop in their daily doings to bow or curtsy as it passes, thinking their King and Queen inside. The carriage slows at each gate, the sharp turns and steep inclines leading up to the next level cumbersome for the horses and difficult to maneuver. A less experienced coachman might have struggled, but the transitions are smoother than the passengers would have expected. When at last they reach the seventh gate and the ramp leading up to the citadel, the coachman pulls the horses to a halt and jumps down to open the door. Sauron, Rick and the hobbits clamber down the carriage steps to find a very familiar face awaiting them.

“My friends,” exclaims Beregond, beaming down at the hobbits. 

“Hullo, Beregond,” Frodo and Sam say, grinning up at the man. They bow to each other formally, then drop all pretense to share a brief hug. 

“It is wonderful to see you again,” Frodo says. 

“It is most heartening to see you both as well. We were worried when we learned of your long journey,” Beregond says kindly before focusing on Rick and Sauron. “Prince Faramir is in council with King Elessar at the moment, and they bid me to come and collect you. I am to escort you to the King’s apartments and wait with you there for him to arrive.” 

Sauron only nods his consent. Rick takes their packs as the coachman hands them down from the rack and passes them to their owners. Once everything is sorted out, he turns to the coach, concerned. “What will happen to my horse?” he asks. 

“I’ll stable him with the messenger horses here on the sixth circle, sir,” the coachman promises, pausing to admire the majestic stallion. “He is an extraordinary beast. Is he of Rohan then?”

“No, he is of Near Harad,” Rick answers proudly and pretends not to notice the coachman’s startled reaction.

“Well, he has a gentle manner at least,” the coachman says kindly and with a hint of surprise, as though he had expected horses belonging to the Haradrim to be vicious and unruly creatures. He then bows ever so slightly to Sauron and says stiffly, “Your horse is here too, Lord. He arrived just a few days ago. He’s also been stabled with the messenger horses.”

“Thank you,” Sauron replies, not surprised at all to hear that his horse has already come to the city. He has always thought that Brego has a bit of the Mearas blood in him, for the horse has an uncanny ability of knowing when he will be needed and often comes without bidding.

The coachman mounts the coach seat again and with a quick flick of the reins, the horses start forward, pulling the carriage in a wide circle and back down the street to the stables. When  he is gone, Beregond turns and leads the others up the ramp to the seventh circle. Frodo and Sam quickly fall in on either side, while Rick and Sauron follow behind. 

“It will be wonderful to catch up with you,” Frodo says. “I know Pippin will be eager for word of you and Bergil.” 

Beregond grins, almost laughing. “As I am most eager to hear of your travels, but that will have to wait, I’m afraid, for the others to join us. I do not believe we shall have to wait long, but there is much going on at the moment, and a feast is being prepared to celebrate your return, among other things.”

“Other things?” Sam asks. 

“Rick,” Beregond says, ignoring Sam to look over his shoulder at the young man. “It is good to see you again. We have received word from Rohan that your family is well, and your sister-in-law is expecting a child this winter.”

“Wonderful!” Rick says, beaming proudly. “I will have to send my congratulations before we set out again.”

“King Elessar will be wanting a private word with you, Sauron, before the day is through,” Beregond goes on, delivering the last of his instructions.

“It’s Aliesacan now,” Sam says.

“Yes, we’ve changed his name to one more appealing,” Rick says, “no matter what he says to the contrary.”

“Al-i-sah-cahn?” Beregond repeats carefully, sounding out the unusual name. “Is this a Haradrim name?”

“No, his Haradrim name is Yigalos, and his Khand name is Azatash,” Rick announces, greatly enjoying this recitation. “Aliesacan and Yigalos both mean ‘one who seeks redemption’ and Azatash means ‘fire of freedom’.”

“Is that so?” Beregond asks, not knowing what to make of any of this. “I see that you have much to tell us then. It should be an interesting tale. For now, however, I think it best to see you all settled from your journey before things get too exciting. It wouldn’t do for our guests of honor to be too exhausted to enjoy their own feast.”

They come out of the tunnel into the sunlit citadel. Ahead of them on the main avenue, the White Tree shines in the midst of the sparkling pool before the White Tower and the Citadel, the King’s House. The tree is in full blossom, its fragrant flowers filling the air all around them, seeming to welcome them home. The motionless sentries on either side of the tree watch them approach with vigilant eyes. 

They pass the sentries and continue up the walkway to the Citadel steps. Once inside, they follow Beregond upstairs to the King’s private apartments on the top floor. The guards at the base of the final staircase bow to the Ring-bearers, right fist over heart. They then salute Beregond before one turns and goes up the stairs. He returns a minute later trailed by a young girl of about twelve years, her long brown hair pulled back in a thick plait. She is one of Queen Arwen’s maids of honor, and she bows also before escorting them upstairs.

“Good day, my Lords, Captain, and honored guests,” she says. “I am Rodina, daughter of Vaclar, and I am attending Queen Arwen today. My Lady will be with you as soon as she is ready to receive you. Please, sit and make yourselves comfortable. Will you require refreshment while you wait?”

“You are speaking to perian, Miss Rodina, and they are ever hungry,” Beregond teases. “We will be needing more than the usual refreshment, if I am not quite mistaken.” He winks down at Frodo and Sam before seating himself on one of the settees. 

“But not too much more,” Frodo amends. “If there is to be a feast, we will want to be properly hungry for it.”

“Of course, my Lord,” Rodina says and curtsies. She disappears through the doorway on the southern side of the parlor, which leads to the dining room and the kitchen beyond.

When she is gone, Frodo, Sam and Rick sit on the settee across from Beregond, while Sauron takes one of the chairs. There is a moment of awkward silence before Frodo sits forward and addresses the soldier. “How fairs Ithilien?” he asks. “What news of Bergil and the Lady Éowyn? We should like to visit with them before we leave for home, if that can be arranged.”

“Then you are in luck, Lord Frodo, for they are both here today as well,” Beregond informs them with a mirthful grin.

“They are?” Sam says. “For the feast? Who all’s coming? Mayhap we should have brought more formal attire than what we have, Mr. Frodo.” He speaks mostly of himself, for his master’s clothes, even after the long trek across the desert stuffed at the bottom on his pack, will still be suitable enough for a feast among friends. 

Beregond’s grin widens and it is only with much difficulty that he stifles a laugh. “Everyone is here, naturally, but I wouldn’t worry overmuch about your attire Lord Samwise,” he informs them. “To answer your other questions, Lord Frodo, Ithilien is well, a good sight better than it was just a few years ago. It took Bergil and me some time to adjust to the change, for the living there is much more rustic than it is here in the city, but it has been a good change for us. He is better suited to woodlands and streams than to a city of stone, and he has found friends new and old among those settling in the region. It is good to hear him laugh; I was so afraid I would never hear that delightful sound again.”

“Children have a way of finding the joys of life, if they are but given the chance,” Frodo says. 

They gossip about many pleasant things as they wait for the Queen to join them. Rodina soon brings their refreshments loaded on a silver cart and serves them ale or wine before retreating to wait on the Queen. The conversation lulls for a while as the weary travelers munch on the snacks: apples, oranges, grapes, fresh loaves of warm bread, and cheese slices. Frodo and Sam are just finishing their second and final plate – dinner is just a short way off after all – when the parlor door opens and Elessar arrives, followed by Faramir, Legolas and Gimli.

The happy hellos last for some time, and the hobbits greet the latter two with much surprise and delight. Gimli mumbles grumpily at being hugged so often in such a short amount of time, but his eyes twinkle and he laughs with joy all the same. 

“Now this is luck,” Sam says once all the hellos have been said. “We were worrit we’d not have time to stop in Rohan to see you, and here you are!”

“We have been hearing many interesting rumors,” Gimli informs them. “Something told me it was time to visit an old friend and perhaps I might meet more.”

“Rumors?” Frodo says.

“About your travels,” Legolas elaborates. “They came to us first in Rohan, where I was visiting Gimli.”

“Did you really expect us to miss your homecoming?” Gimli asks smugly. 

“Well, yes actually,” Frodo answers, at a loss. He and Sam share a bewildered look. They glance back at Beregond, who is now standing by the settee with Rick and Sauron, then at Elessar, and finally back to Legolas and Gimli. “It’s just, we were told our quest was a secret to all, but you would have had to leave Rohan weeks ago to be here before us.”

“Secret to all?” says a voice from the entryway. “Then you really shouldn’t have sent that letter to your cousins, my dear Frodo, especially when they are such inquisitive cousins as we are. Don’t you agree, Pip?”

“You’re absolutely right, Merry,” Pippin replies, and they both grin toothily at Frodo and Sam.

A moment later they are nearly bowled over by Frodo, too excited to contain his mirth and surprise. He hugs his cousins fiercely and they return the gesture just as strongly. “Merry! Pippin!” Frodo exclaims, tears of delight filling his eyes. He blinks several times before releasing them, and they let go with some reluctance. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for you, silly Baggins,” Merry answers, and he and Pippin look their cousin over for signs of injury or some other trauma. Satisfied with what they see, they then turn to Sam and hug him. 

“And you Sam,” Pippin says. “I see Frodo has again dragged you into trouble. I guess Merry and I are just going to have to move into Bag End ourselves, if this is what results from it.”

“I reckon we shouldn’t be surprised to be seeing you, but this sure isn’t what I expected,” Sam replies. “I more expected to come home and find that you two went and sold Bag End to the Bracegirdles.”

“We were tempted,” Merry says, “and had we the time, we might just have done so, or at the very least auctioned off all his favorite things.”

“I’m sorry, lads, but—” Frodo begins but he’s interrupted when Merry looks past them to Beregond and the two strange men standing beside him. He narrows his eyes at them, as though recognizing them from somewhere, though he has never seen them before. This causes Pippin to look also, and the young Took's eyes widen when he sees Sauron. He inches ever so slightly towards Merry.

“These are our traveling companions,” Frodo says, noticing where their attention has been drawn. He motions to them each in turn as he introduces them. “This is Childeric, son of Theuderic of the Eastemnet, but everyone calls him Rick. This is Aliesacan.”

“Aliesacan?” Elessar repeats with interest.

“That’s not Sauron?” Merry asks, dubious.

“Oh, he is, but we changed his name to something more suitable,” Rick explains happily. “We call him Aliesacan now.”

“I keep asking them not to,” Sauron tells Elessar, whose smile is hidden beneath his beard.

Merry narrows his eyes at Sauron and his hands tighten into fists. Pippin inches closer still, trembling slightly. 

“What are you doing here though?” Frodo asks again, noticing these signs of distress in his cousins and hoping to distract them. 

Merry slowly pulls his eyes away from Sauron and focuses on Frodo. Again he searches his cousin for signs of some hidden injury but seeing none he merely takes Pippin’s hand for the briefest of moments before replying, “Well, my dear Frodo, you sent us this lovely letter saying you were leaving, that you didn’t know when you’d be back, that you couldn’t tell us where you were going or why, and that we should not under any circumstances attempt to follow you for you’d be two weeks gone by the time the letter arrived.”

“So naturally, we had to figure out what happened, where you went and why, and come after you,” Pippin says. 

“It is a most fascinating investigation,” Faramir says, “but a rather long one to hear. Perhaps we would be more comfortable if we all sat down first.”

“Yes, of course,” Elessar agrees and beckons everyone to take their seats. The hobbits now sit with Rick on one settee, while Beregond, Faramir and Sauron take the other. Elessar, Legolas and Gimli seat themselves in the chairs. It doesn’t escape Elessar’s notice that Legolas and Gimli have positioned themselves closest to the hobbits, and that Pippin had been seated resolutely between Merry and Frodo. He notices also that Beregond and Faramir have flanked Sauron, though he guesses this is more for Pippin’s comfort than a mistrust of the Maia.

Pippin is scared, that much is plain to everyone. This is part of the reason Frodo had hoped to save his cousins from coming face to face with Sauron. That incident with the palantír still troubles Pippin at times. This, combined with Merry’s inherit protectiveness, would have only led to disaster before they even reached Rohan. He now hopes that Merry can contain himself with so many others willing to protect Pippin if need be. 

Frodo looks at his friends, tying to sort of the riddle of their presence. Legolas and Gimli had obviously been picked up in Rohan by Merry and Pippin. It makes sense, for Legolas can track most anything, no matter how old the trail. That explains why there are here. Faramir will of course have business in the Citadel from time to time, and Beregond will naturally accompany him. Frodo supposes also that the Lady Éowyn may well come to visit with Arwen and to continue her work in the Houses of Healing. Why Bergil will be here too cannot entirely be explained away by a feast, unless he has heard that Pippin is here also. The two are good friends. But where is Arwen? Surely she must be finished with whatever she had been doing when they arrived by now.

“I suppose I should start,” Merry says. “Strider’s been good enough to fill us in on everything, up to you leaving for Khand, and he even knew some of the journey through Harandor. We’ll want to hear the rest of it naturally but that can wait for the moment.

“As I already mentioned, you had requested your letter to be sent to us after two weeks, which meant by the time we got it, two and-a-half weeks had passed. We were most dismayed to read your news, or lack of it as it was, and we couldn’t figure what would have possessed you to leave the Shire yet again. We weren’t very happy about being given the slip. We have many words to speak to you on that account, cousin, but that too will have to wait as we have more important things to be getting on with.

“By the time we closed up Crickhollow, packed our things, gathered our ponies and spoke with Mother and Father, another two days had passed, so we didn’t get to Hobbiton until a good 20 days after you left. Why Hobbiton, you must be asking yourself? We needed to investigate the scene of the crime, in a manner of speaking, and gather what news we could get to try to determine what exactly happened to you and Sam. 

“We went directly to Bag End and found it locked against us. Fortunately, the Gaffer had a spare key, and we were able to get inside without having to break any windows. Everything was in perfect order; you had even cleaned and put away all the dishes this time. There were some strange scents in the air though, some sort of herbs we haven’t smelt before. One herb, however, we knew very well and that was athelas, so we knew right away that you had been ill. We noticed that your travel packs and cloaks were missing, which was only to be expected, but you had also taken Sting and Sam’s barrow blade. This was not necessarily a cause of alarm, except I did remember you once saying upon our return to the Shire that you never wished to carry a sword or weapon again. I figured that Sam was likely wearing both then, just in case you were attacked upon the road to wherever it was you were going.

“So far, everything checked out – until we went down to the Bush and discovered Bill and Strider in their stalls. This did cause alarm, for you must have left in a hurry from the sounds of your letter, which means you would not have gone on foot, especially if you only gave yourself a two-week head start. That might sound like plenty of time to most hobbits, but you and Sam both know how quickly our Rohan ponies can travel. Therefore, you must have ridden, yet you didn’t take your ponies nor did you hire any out, according to the barkeep, Geranius.

“Our next step then was to begin asking questions. We heard some very disturbing rumors about you, Frodo. It seems you’ve been quite ill for quite a long time, and have been downplaying it a great deal in your letters to us, meaning that you didn’t mention it at all. We will have to speak of that later also.

“It soon became apparent that no one had seen you outside Bag End for many weeks, but Sam had last been spotted at the Bush the same day a couple of Big Folk arrived. Minstrels from Rohan, Geranius told us. He gave us their names, which Pippin and I knew could only be stage names. He then went on to describe them to us and to tell us all about the songs they sang and what they were wearing, where they slept, what they ate, and how they interacted with each other and the hobbits who came into the Bush. ‘The young lad would make a good hobbit if he weren’t so tall,’ Geranius had said, ‘but the minstrel, he’s a quiet fellow and there’s more going on behind those eyes than he lets on, I wager. Still, he’s a nice enough chap, for all he’s a tall one. Near towered over his companion, he did.’ 

“Geranius then went on to tell us that they had been particularly interested in Sam when he came into the inn, but that they hadn’t spoken to him. He also said that the taller one had wanted to know about the Master of the Hill, thought he should go bothering him to let him know they were in town. Geranius thought he had talked them out of it, but when we asked around some more, we discovered that several hobbits had seen them head up the Hill the following morning and visit with you for some time. According to Geranius, the tall minstrel returned to the Bush shortly before second breakfast to purchase a pony-trap, though he couldn’t figure out why when they left with the same amount of baggage as they arrived with. The tall minstrel then packed up their camp, returned up the Hill and then both minstrels came down and promptly left town towards Whitwell. That was also the same day Sam visited the post messenger with your letters in your box and the instructions to wait two weeks before delivering them. You reportedly went back to Bag End, and no one had seen either of you since.

“We put all the clues together and it seemed quite clear that, for whatever reason, you had taken off with these minstrels, and you had done so in secret. Given the athelas lingering in the smial and everything we had heard about your illness, we assumed the worst: your health was failing you and you had beseeched these strangers for help in getting to Gondor and the King’s healing touch. We were completely wrong in your motivation, and your final destination, of course, but we never doubted that you would come to Gondor. 

“We gathered up travel supplies, released Bill and Strider from the stable and came after you. We knew we could not catch you on the road, for you had nearly a month’s head start by this point. You’d already be in Gondor and nearing Minas Tirith with every hour. The best we could hope for was to follow your trail as best we could and find you here. We didn’t follow your trail exactly though, as we cut across the Shire to save us a couple of days’ travel.

“When we reached Sarn Ford, the Rangers confirmed the minstrels had come back through that way, needing to collect their weapons. The Rangers said they had searched the cart but found no hobbits or any sign of anyone else traveling with the minstrels. They did say that the tall minstrel carried a sword of Gondorian make, early Second Age by his guess, which interested me, for what would a minstrel from Rohan be doing with such a blade? When we asked what their real names were, they said they didn’t know, which concerned us even more. Who could these men be and why would they have hidden Frodo and Sam from the Rangers? We suddenly weren’t so sure about our initial assessment of the situation, and we rode hard to Tharbad.

“We were told much the same there as at the Ford, except that the King’s Messengers there had different names for the men though they still knew them as minstrels. They then told us they did not search the cart but had asked how the performance in the Shire had gone, so apparently they had known the men’s destination. They did not however know where the minstrels were headed to next. Still, we had the men’s names, and though by this point we couldn’t assume they were true names, we hoped that we might be able to ask for news of the men as we made our way through Gondor, so long as they didn’t change their names again.

“By the time we reached the Gap of Rohan, we had attracted the attention of the wardens. A couple of them had come down from the foothills of the White Mountains to meet us. They knew me as their Holdwine once they came close enough, and they were curious to discover what had brought us from the Shire. Here at last we got some luck, though it wasn’t much. The wardens we spoke to had just relieved the previous wardens a week before, and the previous wardens had not reported any unusual activity. They had mentioned though that they had seen was a family coming through the Gap, presumably from Dunharrow, just a few weeks before. A family with young children would not have raised an alarm, and so the wardens would not have sent scouts down from the hills to inspect the situation. They would have been allowed to pass unhindered. Well, of course, I then had to ask what had caused these new wardens to think that we were a threat. They laughed and said that they had thought us a group of lost children and so had come down to assist us if need be. 

“We stopped in Edoras for a short stay, for surely Éomer King would know if the Ring-bearers had been brought into his lands for any reason. He had heard no such news and was as alarmed as we were by this odd development. It just so happened that the wardens who had seen the ‘family’ pass through the Gap were in the Capital, and Éomer called on them to give testimony on all they had seen. They had not much more to report, except that the ‘family’ had been watched until they were lost in the woods near the River Snowbourne.

“Éomer King then asked us for descriptions of these minstrels. We told him everything the hobbits, Rangers and King’s Messengers had told us about them, and Éomer grew even more troubled. He asked the wardens if that description had fit the ‘family’ they had seen, but the wardens could not be sure, not having seen them very well. However, they had seen a pair of men of similar description leaving through the Gap up the South Road just a couple of weeks earlier, and they too were most unsettled. When no one said anything else useful, I asked what it all meant, but Éomer refused to answer with so many present. He dismissed everyone except us and when we were alone, he told us that the minstrels did fit the description of another duo: a young man of Rohan, and Sauron.

“Well, as you can no doubt imagine, we very nearly panicked when we heard this! In fact, there was a moment that I thought we’d need to call for a healer! Éomer calmed us quickly though and assured us that Elessar trusts Sauron. He told us of Sauron’s reform and all that business about Valinor and losing his evil side. Still, he had to agree that it was more than a little unsettling that Sauron had taken the Ring-bearers out of the Shire in secret. That they appeared to be heading for Gondor was of little appeasement, for surely the King would have sent word to Éomer to inform him of this. 

“He sent for Legolas and Gimli, knowing they would both wish to continue on with us, and Legolas could track you all if we could find the trail. They arrived the next morning and refused rest. They took refreshment while we readied to set out, and we left before the sun had even fully risen. Legolas was able to find the trail well enough, but it soon veered off into the woods along the White Mountains. He refused to go in there, taking us instead by the straightest path to Minas Tirith. Along the way, we acquired a horse that Strider tells us belongs to Sauron, and he kept us company as we crossed the Pelennor. 

“We arrived here about two weeks ago and we’ve been waiting for your return ever since. We had quite a few words to be saying to Strider. ‘Really, you must learn to take care of your own problems without involving my cousin. I do believe he’s done quite enough for your lot’ and other things of that nature. It took some time for Strider to explain everything to us, and even longer to convince us to stay put and wait. He finally had to order Pippin to remain in the Citadel, knowing Pippin couldn’t break oath and that I wouldn’t go without him. Besides, we couldn’t all very well go marching off into enemy territory, it would simply be unthinkable, so we are quite grateful that Strider put a stop to it before we could get ourselves into trouble. Still, we weren’t very happy with him, all things considered, and I’m afraid to say we haven’t been the most pleasant of house guests, accusing him at every chance and turning the Citadel upside down these last few days while we prepared for your arrival.”

Rick grins at Sauron and laughs. “And we thought we were being stealthy.”

“There’s none stealthier than hobbits,” Sam says.

“So I’ve learned,” Sauron agrees. 

“That is quite the investigation,” Frodo says proudly to his cousins, but he quickly becomes troubled. “I’m sorry Strider. It was supposed to be a secret, I know that, but I simply couldn’t take off without sending word to my cousins. I did rather hope they would listen and stay put, but I suppose that was silly of me.”

“We would have come one way or the other,” Merry says. “There were already rumors going around about the two of you disappearing, or worse. I heard Robin Smallburrows and the Gaffer even went into the smial just the week before to make sure you both weren’t dead. We would have heard the rumors eventually, and so it wouldn’t have been much different in the end, except maybe we might have met you on the road coming back. This way, folk did at least know what happened to you. They weren’t worried so much once they heard you’d gone off for the Blue again. They just waved their hands and shook their heads and said what a tragedy it is that you’ve become another Mad Baggins. I didn’t have time to argue with everyone on that account, so I made Ted Sandyman an example for others to keep their mouths shut, at least while we were there."

“What’d you do to Sandyman?” Sam asks.

“Stripped him bare and pushed him in the river,” Pippin answers brightly. “Don’t worry, we got him out after a minute and made sure he was all right before making him walk home. But we kept his clothes.”

“Good one!” Sam says, snickering gleefully. None of them have any love for Sandyman, and even Frodo only pities him.

“That was rather cruel, don’t you think?” Frodo asks.

“No,” Merry and Pippin chorus.

Frodo raises his eyebrows at them but they remain resolute. “Then I suppose it’s time for my side of the tale,” he goes on.

“Not exactly,” Pippin says, sharing a knowing glance with Merry. The others quickly find other things to occupy their attention. Legolas, Beregond and Faramir suddenly take great interest in the rug beneath their feet, and Elessar and Gimli begin to study the walls and ceiling. Rick and Sauron notice the change in mood and they sit forward slightly.

“What do you mean?” Frodo asks.

“Well,” Pippin begins uncertainly. He fidgets in his seat for a bit, then takes a deep breath before looking around Frodo at Sam. “I’m sorry, Sam, but it’s Rosie.”

At these words, a cold weight drops in Sam’s belly and slowly begins spreading its brutal chill throughout his body. His lungs feel constricted, as they would in a heavy snowstorm, and the room teeters slightly. He remembers his dream vision, the lass crying, the lass and lad getting married by the river. He only vaguely feels Frodo taking his hand and the rest of the room drops away as he focuses solely on Merry and Pippin. “Rosie?” he croaks as he begins to tremble from the cold. Had he finally done it? Had he driven her away to marry some other chap?

Pippin nods sympathetically and continues. “Yes, Rosie. You see, she’d got her letter also, four days before we got there, exactly on the two-week mark. She was quite distraught about it, and when she heard we were in town asking questions, well, she came to see us. Came marching straight up the Lane and I swear there was a blaze of fire following her, she was marching that fast. The look on her face… I never thought I could be that scared, not after the Palantír.”

“That was you,” Sauron says, finally placing the face with the event. He had known Pippin looked familiar from somewhere. Everyone turns to look at him, Merry accusing, Pippin frightened, the others knowing. “I’m sorry about torturing you. You didn’t deserve that.”

Merry’s expression turns to surprise and Pippin’s to confusion. Pippin eventually nods. “Thanks,” he mutters uncertainly and turns back to Sam. It takes him a moment to get his bearings back before he can continue. “So, like I was saying, she was a right mess. Angry doesn’t come close to describing it. She couldn’t believe you’d up and leave again, and her waiting here three years for you to ask her to marry you. She was just beside herself and wanted to know everything we knew. She seemed to think you might have told us more than you did her, but we showed her our letter and it was more or less identical in information to hers. Then we told her what we had pieced together so far and well… She just sort of… I’m sorry,” he finishes clumsily.

“We did try to talk her out of it,” Merry takes over, speaking consolingly. “We did everything we could. Even the Gaffer and her parents and her brothers, everyone, but nothing any of us said would sway her to change her mind. She’s quite a stubborn lass when she wants to be and she was determined, you see. She was tired of waiting around for you, said she wouldn’t do it anymore, said there’s more than one way to fry an egg. Up until we left, we tried our best to make her see sense, but she wouldn’t have it. I’m sorry, Sam, there was nothing we could do.”

Sam nods slowly, almost groggily. He has no feeling left in him at all. In fact, he feels much the same way he had when he had been swallowed by the Anduin. The room swims before his eyes, murky to his senses but more real than anything he had ever known before. He swallows convulsively and fights back the tears that threaten to fall at any moment. “So she… she…” he tries to say the words ‘got married’ but they refuse to escape his throat and he ends up choking on them. He closes his eyes and hides his face behind his hands as the tears spill over, and so doesn’t notice when Arwen and Rodina and two other attendants at last enter the parlor to join the proceedings. 

“So she came with them,” says a sweetly familiar voice and Sam’s head shoots up. His eyes are bloodshot and his cheeks streamed with tears, but his face is now hopeful and filled with wonder as he looks into the soft brown eyes of his beloved Rose, barely noticing her brother Jolly standing beside her.

“Rosie!” he exclaims as life rushes back into him. The others are now beaming, most of them laughing mirthfully at Sam’s delight. Sam jumps up to his feet but Rosie holds out a hand to stay him.

“I came with them,” she continues firmly, “because you are too much of a ninnyhammer to speak your mind, Samwise Gamgee. We’re getting married tonight and I don’t want any arguments from you about it. It’s all been arranged. King Elessar has agreed to proceed the ceremony, and we’ve got all our witnesses. It’s not an official hobbit wedding, the King not being in the employ of the Mayor and all that, but we’ll just have to make sure the Thain, Master and Mayor make it official when we get back home. Now follow Jolly to the library where the tailor is waiting for you. We’ve only got an hour to wash you up and fit you into a proper suit. We borrowed one from Dad so it will be a bit big on you, I think. It’ll need taking in some. … That is, if you want to marry me?” she finishes uncertainly.

“Of course I do,” Sam rushes to reassure. He steps past the others and takes her hand. “I’d marry you right now, right here in this room, without all that pomp if that’s what you want.”

“That’s the general idea,” Rosie says, smiling with relief. She lets out a great sigh and throws her arms around Sam. She kisses his cheek before pulling away, then takes out a handkerchief to wipe away his tears. “Sorry about misleading you, love, that was their idea. They seemed to think you deserved it.” 

“He did,” Merry, Pippin and Jolly say. 

“Jolly,” Sam says and hugs his friend. “Rosie’s one thing, but you?”

“I couldn’t very well let Rosie march off across the Blue alone with Capt. Merry and Capt. Pippin, now could I? Rosie’s a proper lass and if she went off unsupervised with two lads she’s not even related to, why, it’d have caused a scandal. Tom wanted to come, seemed to think you deserved a good pounding, but then Marigold would have wanted to come also, and she’s expecting. So I came,” Jolly explains and narrows his eyes at his best friend. He takes Sam by the arm none too gently and yanks him down the hall. “Come on, Sam, we need to get that suit fitted on you, and I need to have a word with you about how to properly treat my sister.”

Jolly leads Sam away and the room erupts into relieved laughter. It takes some time for the din to quiet and when it does, Rosie comes to stand before Frodo, her arms crossed.

“And you, Frodo Baggins,” she starts cheekily, and Frodo sobers immediately. She opens her mouth to say something more, but stops suddenly. She takes a step back, as though to see Frodo more clearly. Then her face splits into a grin. “Why, Mr. Frodo! Don’t you look the portrait of health! I’ve not seen you smile or heard you laugh for too many years, sir, if you don’t mind me saying. Is that because my Sam went with you?”

“It is, a very large part of it,” Frodo confirms.

“Well, then, I suppose I can forgive you, but just know that in the future, if you plan on taking my Sam away anywhere, you’re going to have me coming along too,” Rosie announces.

“My dear Rose, I think I can safely promise that I have no plans to ever leave the Shire again once we return,” Frodo says. “Sam’s all yours.”

“He ain’t at that,” Rosie says. “He’s yours too. We’re just going to have to find a way to share him, is all.”

“If you move into Bag End, that’ll make it easier, don’t you think?” Frodo says.

“I suppose it will,” Rosie agrees. “We’ll just have to do that then.”

Frodo stands and takes her hand. He kisses it respectfully and squeezes it. “Thank you, lass.”

“You’re welcome, sir.”

“Come, Lady Rose,” Arwen says then. “We must finish the veil.” The ladies exit down the hall, Rodina following behind them.

“Now you can tell us your side of the story, Frodo,” Merry says. “We’ve an hour to wait so we might as well make use of it.”

So Frodo, Rick and Sauron briefly recount their journey from the Shire to Khand and back to Gondor. They only have time to hit upon the highlights but everyone is most impressed with the tale all the same. By the time they finish, Merry and Pippin both seem a tad more accepting of Sauron, but they both remain weary as well. Finally, Pippin stands and bravely goes to stand in front of Sauron where he sits between Beregond and Faramir. 

“So he’s reformed?” he asks. “You’re certain about it?”

“I am,” Frodo says. 

“Really, really certain?”

“Yes.”

“There’s no doubt whatsoever?”

“None.”

“Good.” Pippin then draws back his foot and kicks Sauron’s leg three times in quick succession. Sauron cries out in surprise and pain, and Merry leaps from his seat and pulls Pippin away before the others even register what has happened. 

“Pippin!” Merry exclaims. “Are you mad!”

“I had to get him back for what he did to Frodo, Sam and me,” Pippin explains, “but I wasn’t about to do that if he wasn’t really reformed, you see?”

Gimli lets out a great snort, releasing the tension, and the others follow suit. Sauron clutches his leg, his eyes tearing slightly, but he too chuckles ruefully.

“What about me?” Merry asks Pippin.

“He didn’t do anything to you, Merry,” Pippin replies.

“No, but his Witch King did,” Merry points out.

“And the Witch King stabbed Frodo too,” Pippin adds and raises his foot again. Merry wisely pulls him back farther. 

“I think he gets the message,” Merry says.

“Indeed,” says Sauron. “Don’t mess with hobbits, for they are stubborn and sure of the mark.”

The others erupt into laughter again, and even Merry and Pippin manage to smile. 

Just at that time, a guard comes into the parlor and announces the arrival of more guests. Elessary leads his friends downstairs to the main reception parlor, where Lady Éowyn and Bergil are waiting, along with others who the hobbits had come to know well while they lived in the city after the War. Soon the parlor is crowded over, and when Rodina comes down to announce that all is ready, the guests make their way outside to the Great Lawn. 

Wildflowers are in full bloom, and bees and dragonflies zip around their heads. Elessar presides, having been supplied with the proper hobbit vows by Merry and Rosie. Rodina serves as the Maid of Honor, and Frodo and Jolly as the Best Hobbits, and Arwen sings a traditional Elvish ballad as first Sam then Rose come up the walk path to stand under the awning, the ivy-covered mountainside in the distance behind it. 

Sam looks smart in Tolman Cotton’s suit. He thankfully had time for a quick bath while the suit was being modified for his use, though it is more than the quick and brutal scrubbing that makes him glow so bright. He only has eyes for his bride, and she too radiates with joy and love as she follows him up the path. Her dress is simple but lovely, made from the finest Elvish silk so that the soft pink shimmers with red, gold and orange as the material shifts in the fading sunlight. She clasps hands with Sam, their eyes locking.

Elessar smiles down at them and begins solemnly. “Marriage is not a vow to be taken, or given, lightly. You will find that a life together will be both joyous and trying, it will have both comfort and conflict, triumphs and trials. Only those of sound mind and full understanding of what they are about to undertake may be so joined, and only when it is of their own choosing. Rose Cotton, have you come here today of your own free will and accord, and do you understand the duties and blessings of marriage?”

“Yes I do,” Rosie says. 

“With whom do you come and whose blessings accompany you?”

Jolly bows, clasping his hands tightly behind him. “She comes with me and with the blessing of all her family.”

Elessar next addresses Sam. “Samwise Gamgee, have you come here today of your own free will and accord, and do you understand the duties and promises of marriage?”

“Yes I do,” Sam says.

“With whom do you come and whose blessings accompany you?”

Jolly bows again. “I have come for his father, Hamfast Gamgee, and bring the blessing of his family.” 

Elessar then addresses the congregation. “Is it the agreement of those assembled here today that this couple be joined in marriage?”

“It is,” says the assembly as one.

“Will the bride and groom face each other and touch right hands together,” Elessar instructs, even though they are already doing so. Elessar speaks to Rose first. “What is your name?”

“Rose Cotton.”

“And what is your desire?”

“To join with Sam, who I love.”

Rodina reaches into her dress pocket for the bride’s wedding cloth, a plain white kerchief with roses embroidered along the edges. She hands the cloth to Elessar, who folds it lengthwise and wraps it about their wrists. “With this symbol of your love, so speak your promise.”

Rosie smiles prettily and speaks for all to hear. “I, Rose Cotton, do take you, Samwise Gamgee, as my husband. Now do I make my promises to you. I promise to share laughter in times of joy and wonder; to share tears when sorrow touches our lives; to share my dreams and hopes, that our love and minds may grow; to share compassion and understanding during times of frustration and anger; to share all that I have, and all that I am, to the end of days.”

Elessar turns to Sam. “What is your name?”

“Samwise Gamgee.”

“And what is your desire?”

“To join with Rose, who I love.”

Jolly reaches into his waistcoat pocket and hands the broom’s wedding cloth to Frodo, how passes it to Elessar. The kerchief is deep green with an eagle stitched at it’s center, and clutched in its talons is a wreath of elanor. Sam looks at it in awe, wondering how they had found it in his room to bring with them, but Jolly just grins smugly and winks at him. Don’t underestimate the inquisitiveness of friends, the wink says. Sam smiles gratefully, then returns his gaze to Rose as Elessar drapes the groom’s cloth over the other and about their wrists. “With this symbol of your love, so speak your promise.”

“I, Samwise Gamgee, do take you, Rose Cotton, as my wife. Now do I make my promises to you. I promise to share with you laughter in times of joy and wonder; to share tears when sorrow touches our lives; to share my dreams and my hopes, so that our love and minds may grow; to share compassion and understanding during times of frustration and anger; to share all that I have, and all that I am, to the end of days.”

Now Elessar places his hands over Sam’s and Rose’s, and he speaks an Elven chant of blessing. Then he releases them and looks up at the congregation once more. “By your vows of love and these symbols of unity, I now declare you husband and wife.”

Sam and Rose sign the wedding document and the seven witnesses come forward to add their signatures in red ink: Frodo Baggins, Master of Bag End; Meriadoc Brandybuck of Buckland; Wilcome Cotton of Bywater; Prince Legolas of Ithilien; Lord Gimli of the Glittering Caves; Prince Faramir of Ithilien; Beregond of Ithilien. Finally King Elessar of the House of Telcontar seals the document with his signature as officiator, making it official. Then Sam sweeps Rose into a bear hug, and they kiss soundly as the others applaud and come forward to congratulate the happy couple.

The wedding feast lasts all night and well into the morning, with the newlyweds disappearing sometime around midnight. The guests slowly dispatch to their rooms within the Citadel, and Frodo, Merry and Pippin stagger to their room in the King’s private apartment. They yawn as one and fall into the massive bed, not even bothering to undress.

“Where did Sam and Rose go?” Frodo asks.

“Our house on the fourth circle,” Merry answers. “That’s where we’ve been staying while we waited for you.”

Then they drop off to blissful sleep.

They remain in the city for a week as planned before leaving for home. Rick and Sauron leave much sooner, staying only a couple of days before departing.

“Be careful in Harad,” Frodo cautions. “I’ll be expecting letters telling me how it all went.”

“As will I,” Sam adds. 

“I’ll keep good notes then,” Rick promises.

“We might even stop by for a visit one day, if we’re able,” Sauron says.

“That will be lovely,” Frodo says. “Thank you, Aliesacan, for everything.”

“And thank you, Frodo,” Sauron says, “for giving me a second chance.”

They exchange hugs and see the Man and Maia on their way, leading their horses down the cobblestone streets.

“Do you think Frodo will be all right?” Rick asks, turning back to wave one last time as the hobbits’ house disappears behind the curve in the street.

“I think he has a chance now,” Sauron says. “It’s up to Frodo what to do with it. I don’t think he’ll be wasting it this time, and his friends will make sure he doesn’t forget what he’s learned here.”

“You think so?”

“Most definitely. I smell another Conspiracy brewing,” he says and laughs but refuses to elaborate until they are out of the city.

That night, while Rose is distracting Frodo with dinner selections, Sam gets Merry and Pippin alone in the little study of their house and closes the door. 

“What’s going on, Sam?” Merry asks.

“I need to ask you something, and I’m hoping the answer will be good, for Mr. Frodo’s sake I mean. You see, I’ve a plan, but it won’t come to naught if the answer isn’t good,” Sam says.

“All right then, what’s the question?” Pippin asks.

“Is Miss Melilot Brandybuck still courting Mr. Everard Took?” Sam asks.

Merry and Pippin pause, confounded by such an odd and seemingly unrelated question. “No,” Merry answers. “Everard’s marrying Pervinca in the autumn, so we do need to be getting back. Pervinca will skin us alive if we miss the wedding.”

“Is she courting anybody else?” Sam presses on, getting excited.

“Well, she’s always courting a lad or two, but she’s not serious about any of them. Sam, what’s this about?” Merry asks.

Sam doesn’t answer right away but smiles widely and bounces on his feet. Then he leans in and tells them his plan.

To be concluded…

GF  8/11/07

Epilogue – The Sea

A gentle hiss fills his ears and the smell of sea salt tickles his nose. The wind is cool and strong, whipping at his hair, shirt and breeches playfully. He closes his eyes to a starlit sky of purest black and listens to the lapping of the water against the mighty ship and the high-pitched cackle of the porpoise swimming ahead of the prow. The sea against the ship almost sounds like the gentle current of the Water slapping against the sides of a fishing boat, and the swish and plop of the porpoise jumping in and out of the water could be rocks skipping on the calm surface of the Bywater Pool. The porpoise’s cackling turns into his children’s laughter and the salt sea air is no more than a whisper of an idea, just as it had been all those years before, when his children were younger and his wife still with him.

A mighty wave crashes into the ship and his eyes jerk open in surprise. The trip had been quiet and peaceful up to now, and he wonders if they might be sailing into a storm, for up ahead he can see only a curtain of grey rain and white mist stretching across the horizon. As he glances around him at the others on the deck, though, he finds that there is little activity. No elves are running about, scurrying to tighten ropes or reinforce supports. The captain looks down at him, his long silver hair shining in the starlight, and he smiles gently at his little passenger before pointing ahead at the curtain of never-ending rain. 

The porpoise have fallen back and the earth is now below them, receding into the distant and ancient past of an aging world. Only they on the ship continue forward along the Straight Road to a land that is ever new and fresh and does not wither with the passing of time. The Sea appears to rise up out of the ocean to push them forward on their path, a cascading ramp of sparkling clear water. The ship tips backward on its new path and he grapples for a hold, wrapping his hands around the web of netting that hangs securely to the main mast. His feet begin to slip on the planking of the deck but just as he starts to fear he will lose hold altogether, the prow crashes down into flat waters and the ship levels out again. They have passed through the curtain of rain without him even being aware of it.

They are now in another world and the stars here are closer and brighter than they have ever appeared on Middle-earth. He feels as though he can reach out and touch them, and as this thought enters his mind, so too does another. He reaches into his pocket and withdraws Lady Galadriel’s star glass. He holds it reverently in his cusped hands and speaks softly to it an incantation long ago forgotten. Aiya Eärendil Elenion Ancalima! The star in the glass blares forth with a mighty fire, blue and silver, a gift too great to be kept for him alone. He opens the glass and holds it against the sky. The star within shimmers and twinkles, as those hesitant to the leave the confines it has lived in for so long, lived in but not lived, existing but never being. He shakes the glass encouragingly and the star leaks out, dripping upward into the sky. It lingers there for a moment longer, small and unsure, and then it seems to breathe and expand. It is nearly blinding in its brilliance and it envelops the ship for the merest of moments that lasts an eternity. Then it is gone, dancing across the sky to find a new home where all can see and enjoy it. He laughs with joy to watch it go, and for many long moments he watches it as it gradually recedes to a small dot on the farthest reaches of the sky and there remain. 

When he looks down again, his eyes must adjust anew to the dimness of the night, for he can only see for the longest time the residual glow of that great star. As his vision gradually clears, he realizes he is looking upon another shining object, a beautiful tower of purest white standing upon an isle green as emeralds and peridots. The isle nears and with it comes the crashing of the ocean’s waves upon the distant shore, and from the waves comes a song with no beginning and no end, a song that has always been and will ever be, a song that he now realizes has been singing within him his entire life, a song of greatest sorrow and deepest joy, and while he cannot quite hear the words, it speaks more clearly to him than any other song he has ever known before. This is the song that has been calling to him for so many years. He has now heeded its melodious call, and he laughs again for the pure joy that fills him. 

He is home.

He steps forward to join the others gathering at the prow, but something holds him back. A sudden pressure, gentle yet undeniable, is upon his shoulder and he looks behind him into the smiling eyes of his dearest friend. “It’s not time yet for reunions, my dear. It’s time you wake up instead.”

Frodo opens his eyes, his vision blinded by the sunlight filtering into the bedchamber from outside. He blinks, momentarily confused, and for the briefest of moments he can still smell the salty air and feel the ship bobbing beneath his feet. Then he blinks again and he is in his bed in one of the guest apartments in Brandy Hall, the last to rise on this most important of days. The door is closed but he can still hear the pitter-patter of many little feet, not to mention the commotion that comes with it. Over the children's laughter and excited voices are the sounds of cooking in the apartment’s little kitchen. A couple of girlish squeals are quickly followed by laughter from the other lasses and bellows of protest from the lads. Shortly afterward, one of the bairns begins to fuss and Rose’s sharp, commanding voice cuts through the noise to silence it in an instant. All the while, joyful whistling comes from the kitchen, accompanied by the sizzle of bacon on the grill.

He slips out of bed and shuffles over to the washbasin, trying to ignore the creaking of his bones and the general reluctance of his body to move as readily and smoothly as it once did. He pours cold water from the ewer and splashes his face a few times, chasing away the last threads of his dream, silencing the Sea’s enticing song for another night. He grabs blindly for a washcloth as water drips down his face into the basin. He dips the washcloth, soaks it and quickly freshens up. 

He looks into the mirror above the washbasin as he dabs himself dry with a towel and inspects himself carefully. His face is fuller now than it once was, to go along with his well-fed stomach. There are many fine lines, as well as a few deeper ones, nestling around his eyes and mouth and skipping across his forehead, and his raven curls are sprinkled with white. His eyes however are still as bright and blue as they have even been and they smile back at him, as though kindly mocking his worries. He is aging well, and fifteen years has not aged him so much that his friends will not be able to recognize him. 

By the time he finishes his self-inspection, his body is more loose and willing to do as he wishes, further encouraging him that he is not yet old and decrepit. He walks over to the wardrobe to see what he will be wearing today. A pair of navy blue breeches, a pale yellow shirt, a soft blue waistcoat and a navy blue jacket are hanging on the inside door of the wardrobe. He slips out of his nightgown, pondering the consequences of ignoring this carefully-picked suit for a more casual one. He quickly decides it’s not worth finding out. 

Five minutes later he emerges from his room and strolls into the parlor to find a gaggle of primly dressed children sitting obediently still and quiet as they wait for first breakfast to be finished. Golden-haired Elanor sits in a chair next to raven-haired Primula, reading the children’s copy of the Red Book. Melilot had not wanted the children to read the Red Book before they are old enough to understand it and not be too horribly frightened by it, so she and Rose had made a project of it one winter to write a tamer edition more suitable for younger eyes. Elanor and Primula grin up at him as he enters the parlor, and Primula makes as though to jump out of her chair to run and greet her father until she remembers her command to sit still and be quiet. She settles on bouncing in her seat and waving. 

“Morning Daddy!” she whispers and two more raven-haired heads pop up out of the sea of Gamgees on the floor. Drogo and Samwise Baggins grin also and little Sammy holds his arms up inquiringly. 

Frodo bows down to place a kiss atop Primula’s and Drogo’s heads before picking up Sammy. “Morning, loves,” he whispers back and the children giggle. “Where’s Big Sam?” 

“Dad went outside to get some air and calm Primrose,” Frodo-lad informs him. “Good Morning Uncle Frodo,” he adds and the other Gamgee children echo him. 

Frodo goes into the kitchen to find Rose and Melilot busily working, preparing a first breakfast to feed an army. Rose is sitting at the kitchen table, being too far in her term to stand for longer than a few minutes at a time. She is grating cheese to spread over the eggs while Melilot whistles, bouncing in place to her little tune as she turns the ham and bacon in the pan. Frodo comes up behind her and wraps an arm about her waist, sneaking a quick peck on her cheek while Rose discreetly looks the other way, pretending to look for more cheese to grate. “Morning, dear heart,” Frodo says and gives her cheek another peck.

“Good morning, my sweet,” Melilot returns. She lets go of the cooking fork long enough to take his hand and press it to her belly, just in time for both of them to feel a strong swift kick.

“He’s awake early,” Frodo says.

“Up late, you mean,” Melilot corrects, yawning. “She’s been hyper all night.”

“Do you need some rest? I can take over here so you can lie down,” Frodo offers, letting her go to move Sammy to his other hip.

“I’ll be all right,” Melilot assures. “I can sleep in the carriage on the way to the Bridge. She’s usually quiet during the day.”

“So long as he doesn’t keep up these backward hours once he’s born,” Frodo says.

Melilot laughs gaily. “You mean, so long as you don’t have to be up all night with her! And you will be, Baggins, mark my word. If I’m awake, then you’re awake!”

Rose snickers softly from the table as she wipes her hands free of cheese dust, as she calls it, and begins to scramble the two dozen eggs split into a giant glass bowl. “He’ll just do what my Sam does,” she says. “Sit there pretending to be awake but really he’s fast asleep. I’ve caught him at it too many times to be counting. How he ever learned to sleep with his eyes open like that is beyond me.”

“It’s one of the many benefits of having Maiar as friends,” Frodo says. 

“Speaking of, can you get that serving platter down from the top shelf?” Melilot asks him. “Please? You know I wouldn't ask, but it’s too high for us and Hamfast and Bilbo broke the step stool.”

“How did they—?”

“Don’t ask,” Rose interrupts shortly.

Frodo quirks an eyebrow and decides to ask Sam later when the wives aren’t about. It sounds like a promising story and he would hate to miss out on it. For now, he sets Sammy on the floor and opens the cupboard that Melilot is pointing to. He sees the serving platter on the top shelf and stands up on his toes, stretching as far he can, and though the platter is still a good three inches out of his reach, it wriggles and slides until it tips far enough for him to wrap his fingers around it. He hands it to his wife and picks up Sammy again.

“Thank you, dear,” Melilot says and starts filling the platter with cooked meat.

“How do you do that, Daddy?” Sammy asks as Frodo takes him back to the parlor.

“Do what?” Frodo asks.

“Move things,” Sammy says.

“Oh, well, I do that like this,” he says and then tosses Sammy into the air. The faunt squeals with delight and dissolves into giggles as Frodo catches him and blows air bubbles on his belly.

“How come he gets to make noise?” Merry-lad asks accusingly but he’s quickly hushed by Elanor and Frodo-lad.

Sam has already returned, looking harassed but pleased, a red-eyed Primrose bouncing on his knee with a thumb in her mouth as she watches her siblings and honorary cousins with wonder. It is quite likely she has never before seen them be this quiet for this long. Frodo catches Sam’s eyes and mouths, “Step stool?” Sam only shakes his head, rolling his eyes slightly, but a small grin forms at the corners of his mouth as he continues bouncing his youngest (for the moment) on his knee. 

Two hours later, well-fed and content, the Bagginses and Gamgees clamber into two pony traps and head for the Buckland Bridge. They are not the only ones upon the road that morning, for many have made early starts, eager to arrive at the Bridge by midday to greet the King and Queen and their court.

The air is buzzing with excitement as Frodo, Sam and their families pull up as close to the Bridge as they can. There is a throng of hobbits standing both inside and outside the gate. Those not brave enough to venture Outside crowd around the gate and crane their necks every so often. Many more hobbits have passed through the gate and up onto the hillside north of the East Road, and far off on the horizon Frodo’s sharp eyes can see a pair of Tooks keeping watch on the Road where it bends around another hill. 

The hobbits inside the gate make way for the Bagginses and Gamgees to pass through. Once outside, they easily spot Master Meriadoc and Thain Peregrin sitting in front of a grand pavilion at the bottom of the nearest hill. More tents extend up the hill and along the Road and there is a cooking area set aside, where cooks are preparing for tonight’s festivities. Meriadoc and Peregrin wave when they see Frodo and Sam approaching. 

Peregrin says something over his shoulder to those inside the pavilion, and a moment later, Diamond and Estella have come out to greet them. Faramir, Bergil, Peridot and Athelas Took and Théodoc, Periadoc and Niphredil Brandybuck dash out of the tent right behind them. Soon all the Gamgee and Baggins lads and lasses are chattering away with their friends and cousins, comparing their fancy attire and what forms of torture they had been put to so as not to dirty their clothing or mess up their hair. 

“They should be arriving at any moment, I should think,” Meriadoc says over the children’s animated talk. “I’ve lent Everard my horn. He’s going to blow it as soon as he sees them come around the bend. That should give us time to line up and get ready.”

Frodo and Sam sit next to their friends while the lasses retreat back into the tent with Rose and Melilot. Frodo then asks Sam about the step stool incident, and Sam tells the story with relish. His sons had been wrestling each other to determine who would have to wear the lacy cummerbund. They had rolled over into the tea table, which banged against the wall, which then caused one of the knickknacks on the shelf to fall into the umbrella rack and knock that over. As a result, an umbrella had slid out of the rack, across the floor and into the kitchen table. This did not cause anything to happen to the step stool, except that Hamfast and Bilbo then picked up a pair of umbrellas and began to wield them like swords, and the umbrella that Bilbo was parrying with popped open just as he was swinging it around to block one of Hamfast’s advances. As it popped open, it brushed a meat cleaver off the kitchen table and into the step stool, which had been toppled over onto its side during their swordplay, and the cleaver chopped one of the legs clean off. Rose had been beside herself.

“They’ll not be allowed back in the kitchen for a while,” Sam finishes his tale as Frodo, Meriadoc and Peregrin burst into laughter.

“I think you named the wrong children after us,” Peregrin says. “Bilbo should have been Pippin, and Hamfast should have been Merry.”

“What is that supposed to mean?” Meriadoc says. “I’ll have you know, I was a—”

“—perfectly behaved young lad before you came along,” finish Peregrin, Frodo and Sam for him.

“Well I was,” Meriadoc insists. 

Just then, the White Horn of Rohan rents through the air, and they look up to see Everard and his friends running towards them, waving and shouting excitedly. 

The lasses come back out of the pavilion and the children line up beside them as the three Counselors of the Shire and the Master of Bag End stand in front of them. A few minutes later, King Elessar and Queen Arwen and their court arrive and after many greetings, both familiar and formal, a short ceremony is held in which King Elessar gives the Ring-bearers both a Star of the Dúnedain, the small silver star the Rangers wear upon their cloaks to identify themselves. Peregrin is given a horn of his own, and Meriadoc is gifted with a new pony of magnificent breeding. After the ceremony, the festivities begin and the hobbits come forth to meet their King and Queen for themselves. As the crowd thins, two figures among the King’s court remain standing in the middle of the stage area, and only then do Frodo and Sam see their friends for the first time. 

Rick has changed much over the last fifteen years. No longer a bright-eyed lad eager to see the world, he has become a seasoned warrior, worldly-wise, both in his bearing and features. He has scars on his left cheek, right arm and left shin, and at some point he had also acquired a tattoo of a Haradrim rune on his right arm. His eyes carry the full weight of the years gone by and his skin is weathered and bronzed, his blond hair now cut short to the scalp, and he wears amethyst and emerald studs in his left ear. He still smiles easily though and when he does, all the years, battles and hard losses melt away. 

Aliesacan has changed little, at least in appearance. He still towers over the others, which makes the hobbits marvel that they had not noticed him sooner. His dark brown hair is still worn long, though it is braided now in the manner of the Elves, and his skin is as always fair and soft, though his face bears a few more fine lines than before. His stature, they all know, can still be imposing but he chooses not to exercise this. Instead he stands in a most relaxed fashion, his hands clasped behind his back and his feet tapping to the tune of the band that has begun to play on the stage. His face is calm and tranquil, no longer pinched and pensive, and his grey eyes are now mingled with blue, as the morning sky after a heavy rainstorm. 

The Man and Maia kneel down to embrace their friends, and Frodo and Sam waste no time in greeting them. When all pleasantries have been exchanged, they stand up again and beam down at the hobbits. 

“Frodo, it is good to see you,” Aliesacan says.

“As it is you,” Frodo returns and beckons for Melilot to join them. “This is my wife, Melilot Brandybuck Baggins. Our children are running around here somewhere.”

“We saw them before,” Rick says, “when you were introducing them to King Elessar and Queen Arwen. They’re absolutely beautiful, Frodo, just as their mother is.”

Melilot beams proudly. “Thank you, Sir Childeric,” she says.

“Just Rick, if you don’t mind,” Rick says. “I’ve spent the last seven months in Rohan and have had quite enough of ‘sirs’. Why Éomer had to make me a knight is beyond me.”

“Because you deserve it, Rick,” Aliesacan chides gently. “And because he’s hoping your duties to him will ensure that you’re home more often than you’re away. I warned you there would be consequences for courting his cousin, and now you've gone and married her.”

“You got married!” Sam exclaims and hugs the man again. “You never said aught in your letters.”

“It only just happened,” Rick says, “a few months before we left to come here.”

“Congratulations!” Frodo says heartily and hugs him again also. “What is her name? How did you meet? Will you be trying for a family right away?”

“You’ll not be going on anymore adventures, I hope,” Sam says. “What’s this I hear about the Watcher in the Water?”

“Well, yes, I did have to miss out on that, what with it being my honeymoon and all,” Rick says with a laugh, “but Aliesacan has become rather good at telling stories himself. Perhaps you can persuade him to tell it again tonight. I have a feeling it won’t take much goading. He’s rather proud of that little adventure, and he’s always adding extra details each time he tells it.”

“Not adding. Remembering,” Aliesacan corrects smoothly.

“Hmph,” is all the response Rick has for this. 

The rest of the day passes in joyful merriment. There is much dancing and singing, both from the Hobbits and the Gondorians, and when the band rests, there are games and stories. Dinner is served promptly at six o’clock and the fare is most delicious and magnificent. The cooks of Buckland had gone beyond themselves to prepare everything just perfectly for the King and Queen. After dinner, a cake so huge it must be wheeled out on a pony cart is presented to the King and Queen, who make the first cut. There are other desserts, for even a cake that large will not feed all assembled there, and when everyone is fed and satisfied, the band begins anew. 

Some time later, Aliesacan spots Frodo sitting alone near the top of the hill, watching the merry-making while puffing on a pipe. Aliesacan joins him, sitting beside him silently, and for a time they watch their friends below in silence. When Frodo finishes his pipe and taps out the ashes onto the grass, he sighs contentedly and looks up thoughtfully at his friend. 

“You know, sometimes it still feels like I’m dreaming,” he says. “Sometimes I look at my wife and my children and I think to myself that this can’t be real, that I must be asleep somewhere, in some magical land where everything sad comes untrue.”

“And at other times?” Aliesacan prompts.

“I still have the illnesses,” Frodo admits. “Not on every anniversary anymore. They seem to only come when I’m worrying about something else, and even then they’re not as bad now as they used to be. At least, I can bear them more easily, knowing they will only last that day and bother me no more until the next time comes around. All the days in between are so blissful and wonderful that a day or two of darkness is no bother at all. No, it’s the dreams of the Sea that worry me. Sam has them too, but they’re not as sharp or defined as my own. They’re so real, I wake up and wonder where I am, and it takes me a while to realize why I’m no longer on the ship. I think I shall have to sail after all.”

“Do you?” Aliesacan asks.

Frodo nods. “I do, but not anytime soon. Perhaps when we’re old and if our wives go before us, Sam and I will go together and there live out the last of our years, as Bilbo had done.”

They remain on the hilltop until the moon rises in the east, then they rejoin their friends in the pavilion. As soon as Aliesacan sits upon the floor, hobbit children are climbing over him, Sam-lad and Periadoc eventually winning the prime positions on either one of Aliesacan’s knees. 

“Tell us about the Watcher in the Water,” Faramir pleads.

“No, tell us about the Mouth of Sauron and the Downfall of the House of the Eye,” Frodo-lad says.

“I want to hear the one about the Blue Wizards again,” Drogo says.

“No! Tell us how you killed the last of the balrogs!” Théodoc and Bilbo insist.

“Can you make fireworks like they say old Gandalf used to make?” Goldilocks asks.

“Oh! Fireworks! I hear they’re pretty,” Primula adds and looks up at him imploringly.

“Children,” Meriadoc begins to chide them, but Aliesacan just laughs.

“Well, I’ve never seen those fireworks myself, and Gandalf left none of his secrets behind, alas,” he says, “but I can tell you all one story tonight. The others will have to wait for another night. Now, did someone ask to hear about the Watcher in the Water?”

“I’m counting the ‘additions’ this time,” Rick teases and is promptly ignored as the children chorus, “Yes!”

“There’s watchers in the Water?” Pippin-lad asks, looking wearily through the tent in the direction of the Water in the unseen distance.

“Yes, there’s watchers in the Water,” Primula teases, rolling her eyes. “That’s why you’re always feeling things brush up against your legs when you go paddling.”

“Mama,” Pippin-lad whines and clings to Rose’s legs.

“Prim,” Frodo admonishes. 

“It’s all right, Pippin,” Merry-lad says, soothing his brother while giving Primula a nasty look. “The watchers in our Water don’t try to grab you, they try to help you stay afloat.”

“Really?” Pippin-lad asks, peeking out from Rose’s skirts and all the other children nod. “Oh. All right then.”

Aliesacan chuckles softly and waits until everyone is settled before beginning his tale. “There once was a time, not too long ago, when a messenger came upon me in the emptiness of Hollin and told me a most harrowing tale: the Watcher in the Water is stirring, drawn out of the depths of the fathomless lake by the attempts to reestablish Moria. The messenger had come to seek my help in dispensing of the Watcher before any more lives could be lost…”

1482 - Death of Mistress Rose, wife of Master Samwise, on Mid-year's Day. On September 22 Master Samwise and Master Frodo (whose fair wife, Mistress Melilot, had passed the year before) ride out from Hobbiton. Frodo is then 114 but still hale. They come to the Tower Hills, and are seen by Elanor, to whom they give the Red Book afterwards kept by the Fairbairns. Among them the tradition is handed down from Elanor that Samwise and Frodo passed the Towers, and went to the Grey Havens. There they are met by their friend, the Maia Aliesacan, and the three Ring-bearers share many words before Frodo and Samwise passed over the Sea.

Bag End is handed down to Drogo Baggins and his sons. Number Three, New Row, then being nearly the size of Bag End, having long ago been delved farther into the Hill to accommodate Master Samwise’s many children, is given down to Frodo Gardner, and the steadfast friendship between the Bagginses and the Gardners continues on for countless generations to come.*

The End

GF 8/18/07 

* - Text in italics taken from The Tale of Years, ROTK, Appendix B. The Elvish chant above is from “Shelob's Lair”, ROTK.