Chapter 6: Wounds at Weathertop

Frodo looked frightened at the ruined watchtower of Amon Sul as they stopped in the late afternoon. Sam looked at him and squeezed his hand. “It’s okay, dear,” he said quietly.

The Ring-bearer looked at his beloved friend and smiled faintly. “I know, Sam. As long as you are with me, I can have that hope, even when I can’t carry it myself.”

“Then you will always have it, because I’m not leaving you.”

“Thank you, Sam.”

“Why are we stopping here?” Pippin asked. “You know what happened last time. The Riders are probably even waiting for us.”

“They will find us no matter where we are,” Aragorn said. “And this does provide us a chance to look around to see if they are indeed lying in wait on our trail.”

He carefully kindled a small fire and lit from it four torches of bundled wood and passed three of them to Sam, Merry and Pippin.

“Isn’t the fire just going to draw them quicker to us?” Pippin asked as he accepted his torch.

“The Ring is drawing them, Pippin,” the king replied. “But the fire will keep them at bay for a little while, until the pull of the Ring overwhelms whatever fears they have. They will walk through flame to get it if we don’t prevent it.”

Frodo looked alarmed at that. His fist closed around his shirt where the Ring lay on its chain underneath and he felt his burden grow heavier and his fears larger, not only for himself, but for his friends. Sam walked closely with him, hoping to give his master comfort just by being near. The four hobbits followed Aragorn toward Weathertop, the three younger ones looking around nervously as though expecting attack at anytime, but resolutely determined to fight it off and protect Frodo and each other. Frodo walked like one being drawn inexorably toward his doom. He did not need to look around. He had felt surrounded by the wraiths since he had first put on the Ring.

Before they reached the summit, Aragorn approached Frodo with two long cloths. “Take off your shirt, Frodo. If things go as before, this may help you.”

Frodo looked at the king fearfully for a moment, the memory of being stabbed searing through him as if it was happening right then. Then the frightening vision passed and only a phantom ache in his shoulder remained, swiftly fading. He removed his cloak and shirt. Aragorn crushed some kingsfoil in his hand, whispered the invocation, then bound the cloth to Frodo’s left shoulder and secured it under his arm and did the same to his right shoulder. “I hope that applying the athelas first will help slow the poison,” he said as gently as he could. He put his hand on Frodo’s shoulder and waited until the hobbit looked up at him. “They will aim for your heart. Don’t let them succeed.”

Frodo’s eyes widened as he continued to look at his king for a long moment, his fears increasing, then he nodded resolutely and put his shirt and cloak back on. Aragorn smiled and squeezed his shoulder encouragingly. “It doesn’t mean it will happen, just that you will be better prepared if it does,” he said.

“Thank you,” Frodo managed to say.

Aragorn smiled again, then turned to address the others. “I’m going to take a look around,” he said. “Be prepared. For anything.”

“We are,” Merry assured him resolutely. Aragorn nodded and went off. The four hobbits walked to the center of the ruined tower, Frodo in the center, Sam, Merry and Pippin in a protective circle around him, facing outward, torches in one hand, swords in another.

Three hours passed without so much as a whisper of wind. Aragorn still hadn’t returned and full night had since fallen. The hobbits’ vigilant stand had relaxed a bit and they had sat down, Frodo still in the middle.

“I can’t stand this waiting,” Pippin said. “I can just imagine them out there, just waiting for the right time to attack us.”

The others didn’t say anything, Frodo least of all. He liked the stillness. He was still whole. He didn’t know how long he would remain that way. He could feel the approach of the Riders in his mind, a growing heaviness and dread.

“I’m going to take a look around,” Pippin said, getting up. “Maybe I can see them before they see us and get an idea of what’s happening. It’s better than just waiting around to be attacked.”

Merry glanced at his two cousins, torn between his need to protect them both. “Go with him,” Frodo urged. He managed a weak smile. “Someone’s got to keep him out of trouble.”

Merry nodded and with one last worried look at his eldest cousin, he went off. Sam edged closer to his master.

Frodo felt the presence of the Nazgul as they entered the area. He stared straight ahead but Sam had the uneasy feeling that he wasn’t seeing anything that was out there, but something else entirely. “It’s good Merry and Pippin left,” Frodo said in a strange, distant voice. “They shouldn’t be involved in this.” He turned and looked straight at Sam and his eyes were clear and focused for a minute. “You should go, too, Sam. It won’t be safe here.” His eyes unfocused again. “They’re coming. All Nine of them.”

Sam swallowed. All Nine?! “I’m not leaving you,” he said and was amazed that his voice didn’t shake. He took his master’s hand. It was cold.

The pressure on Frodo’s mind increased steadily as the Riders approached until it became a physical as well as psychic pain. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against it. His hand twitched in Sam’s as it was drawn to the Ring. As the assault mounted, Frodo began to moan and Sam looked at him worriedly. Frodo tried to release his hand from Sam’s, but Sam tightened his grip. Frodo’s other hand moved to reach toward the Ring.

“No, dear, fight it!” Sam urged. “Fight it!” He wished he could hold both of his master’s hands, but he was still holding his torch in the other and didn’t want to let that go.

Frodo’s breathing became loud and labored as the first four Riders approached. He sensed his doom even with his eyes closed. They called to the Ring and the Ring answered and he found he had no strength to resist. He cried out in pain as the pressure grew to an intolerable crescendo when the other five wraiths rode up behind the first. Sam trembled at their approach, momentarily paralyzed by terror. He was pulled back to awareness when Frodo forcefully tugged his hand away, put on the Ring and disappeared.

“No! Frodo!” Sam cried out, looking around frantically for his master. “Frodo!”

The Nine bore down on Frodo as steadily as before, guided by the Ring. Frodo watched their pale figures approach, saw the blade of the Witch-king drawn and raised to strike, and those of the other Riders behind their leader, also poised to lash out. In a burst of will borne by terror, Frodo sought to escape and twisted hard, but it came too late. It saved him from being struck in the heart, but his shoulder was pierced in the same place as before, the sword easily pushing through the protective bandaging there. Sam was nearly frightened out of his skin as a disembodied scream rent the air, but it guided him to his master. He launched himself directly at the Witch-king as the wraith made another thrust. A second tormented, disembodied scream ripped through the air.

With grief and fury blinding him, Sam swung his torch at the Witch-king and the second nearest wraith whose blade was ready to join the Witch-king’s in another thrust. That one reared back as the fire touched it and leveled a malevolent glare at the little hobbit who dared harm him. Sam was momentarily held frozen in terror by that gaze, then he heard Frodo groan and his courage came back. He swung at the Witch-king again, setting his cloak aflame. Behind him, he heard the cries of Merry and Pippin running forward and swinging their torches and swords. They looked as frightened as Sam, but also just as determined to save their cousin. They set afire another three.

Frodo gasped in pain and curled onto his side as the Witch-king swung his blade down again and this time missed. Somewhere the stricken hobbit found the will to take off the Ring and the pale nightmare world vanished to a dark reality that was no better. He saw a flame-wreathed hand reach toward the Ring on its chain around his neck. He cried out and rolled away.

“Stay away from him!” he heard Sam shout as the young gardener kicked the hand away. “He’s not yours!”

The Witch-king brought his full terror to bear on Sam. “No, the dark lord has claimed the halfling’s soul for himself,” he hissed.

Sam felt himself shrivel under the huge weight of that stare. He wished nothing more than to sink into the ground and fade away. He was shaking so badly he found it a wonder that he could still stand, then Frodo groaned again and his courage returned. “The Shire claimed it long before you did,” he cried, “and it’s going to keep it!”

Aragorn joined the fray then and finished beating the Nine away who fled in flames.

Sam rushed to his master’s side, dropped to his knees and letting go of his torch, took Frodo into his arms.  “Frodo!” he cried. “My Frodo!”

Frodo looked up at him with wide, frightened, pain-glazed eyes. “Oh, Sam,” he murmured. “It’s happening all over again. I’m going...”

Sam held him close. “No! Don’t you pay any attention to the lies that thing just said. Your Sam’s here to take care of you. Don’t you fret about anything.”

Frodo smiled weakly. “You were very brave, Sam. You’ll be a warrior yet.”

The younger hobbit grimaced. “I’ll do anything to protect you and the Shire, me dear, but I have no wish to be any warrior. You’re the one that makes me brave.”

He loosened his grip slightly and looked critically at his master. He saw the rip in Frodo’s clothing at the shoulder and then the jagged tear in his master’s breeches from thigh to knee. He pulled the fabric gently aside in both places. There was not much blood, but Sam could see red and black lines spreading under the skin.

“They’re going to have me,” Frodo whispered.

Sam gently tightened his embrace. “No, dear, of course they’re not. If they wanted to go with them, then why would they have stabbed you in the leg? Makes no sense, don’t you see?”

Aragorn pushed through them and knelt at Frodo’s side and grimaced as he looked at the wounds the Morgul blade had caused. “It doesn’t matter where the poison entered, Sam,” he said as gently as he could, “just as long as it did.”

Sam paled and held his master a little closer. He murmured comforts and hoped Frodo couldn’t hear how much his voice shook.

Merry and Pippin gathered around anxiously. “I’m sorry, Frodo,” Pippin said with tears in his eyes. “I’m so sorry! We should have never left you.”

Frodo looked at his young cousin’s stricken face and wanted to comfort him, but couldn’t find the strength to respond.

“He’s going to be okay, isn’t he?” Sam asked and Merry and Pippin leaned closer to hear the king’s answer.

“The blade bit the shoulder deeper than before,” Aragorn said, “but some of the kingsfoil was pushed in with it. That’s good.” He spoke as softly and soothingly as he could, not only to comfort Frodo who looked at him so frightened and trusting, but the three other very anxious hobbits.

The healer king rebound the shoulder. He moved to Frodo’s leg and pushed aside the torn fabric to examine the wound. The hobbits bit their lips as Frodo whimpered. Aragorn didn’t speak at first and none of them, but for Frodo who was losing consciousness, missed that or the frown that appeared on the king’s rough features.

“Sam, would you take off his breeches so I can clean and wrap the wound? Be careful not to touch it yourself. It’s very poisonous.”

Sam’s eyes widened and all three hobbits paled, then the gardener nodded and very gently removed his master’s breeches. Frodo tossed his head and moaned slightly. Sam gathered him then back into his embrace, bracing his stricken master’s back against his chest, then kissed his head. “It’s all right, dear,” he said softly. “You’re going to be all right.”

He kept a steady murmur of comforts as he slowly stroked Frodo’s curls so his master had something else to concentrate on beside the pain. Aragorn prepared a small pot of water to warm, put the athelas into it and said the invocation over it softly. The words and fragrance relieved some of the hobbits’ fears and even Frodo relaxed a bit and opened his eyes again. As Aragorn gently examined and cleaned the wound, Sam continued his efforts to distract his master. The king smiled into Frodo’s frightened eyes as he brought a fresh roll of bandages and wrapped the stricken hobbit’s thigh. He touched his forehead and squeezed his hand. “I know how much you are a fighter, tineth gwador,” he said. “This is the fight of your life. Don’t give in.”

Frodo swallowed around his fear and pain. “I will fight,” he forced out in a whisper, all he had strength for.

“I know you will,” Aragorn said as the stricken hobbit fell into unconsciousness again. He burned the torn clothing and cloths he had used to clean the wound. A horrible stench rose that the wind soon dissipated.

“Well?” Merry asked, when the king did not elaborate on Frodo’s condition.

“I’ve done all I can. It’s up to Frodo now and his own inner strength and the strength he draws from you three being near. The Nazgul wouldn’t have wounded him twice if they didn’t already know how hardy and stubbornly resistant to evil hobbits are. But we need to get to Rivendell with all haste.”

“And if that strength is not enough?” Pippin asked in a very small, trembling voice.

Merry’s hand sought out his. The youngest hobbit curled his small fist into his cousin’s. “It will be enough, Pip,” he said softly.

“It will be more than enough,” Sam said fiercely.

Aragorn smiled. “I have no doubt of it, my friends.”

They all looked down at Frodo. If those beautiful features weren’t so wracked with pain, they could imagine he was merely sleeping peacefully, not fighting for his very survival as a living being. Sam placed clean breeches on him. Frodo barely stirred. The battle had already begun.