Chapter 17. In which a youthful hobbit comes to a horrifying conclusion

Getting slowly to his feet, Frodo essayed a tentative call. Merry? Ferdi-lad?

He took an uncertain step and lurched to the side, raising a hand to his aching head. Steady now, Frodo, he told himself. He could almost feel Bilbo’s steadying hand on his shoulder, almost hear the heartening voice, encouraging him. You’ve a fine mind there, lad; now think things through! A little seasoning never hurts the stew...

Seasoning... In his mind’s eye, he could see Bilbo holding young Sam’s hand in his, measuring salt and herbs into the small, upturned palm, then taking his hand out from under with a firm, ‘Now, just sprinkle it gently over the pot, not all in a lump, lad! We’re in no hurry! Good seasoning takes time and care!’

He could remember little Sam’s expression, wondering eyes, tongue protruding slightly in concentration as the young hobbit carefully distributed the herbs over the simmering stew, while Bilbo plied an expert spoon in following. There'd be no sudden lumps of bitterness in this meal! Don't just dump the whole handful at once, willy nilly... Don't just take off at a run, without considering the whole of it all... Think things through...

Still cradling his head, blinking a little to clear his vision, Frodo surveyed the little clearing. The stones were scattered, true, but most lay in the same area where he’d fallen. He should think they’d be found at the base of a tree, had the young ones been shooting at a target... and why had they left such smooth, round, inviting stones to lie, and not gathered them up again?

Haste, he thought. They were in haste, and did not have time to pick up the stones again. And they were throwing at something, not just a tree... He cast about the clearing, concentrating fiercely, shoving the ache in his head to the background, not important now, deal with it later.

Merry! he called again, and heard echoes of his call from outside the copse.

The moss was stirred up, as if two lads had wrestled there. Two lads... but the stones told another story. Some struggle had taken place, Frodo was certain, and now he began to tremble once more. Merry! he whispered.

He didn’t know what drew his eyes, then, to the log, propped up on a large stone at the side of the clearing, hollowed by weather and time. The den of some animal, he guessed... And a sob caught him in the throat. Some animal... The lads had blundered into this clearing, and been taken by a predator, after a valiant but all too brief struggle. Overcome, and dragged into the dark, dank lair.

The hairs on the back of Frodo’s neck rose as he stared at the log, at the marks on the mossy ground. Yes, a body had been dragged across the clearing... He was almost sure of it.

Head pain forgotten, Frodo whirled, seeking a weapon, blood-red fury blazing in him, a thirst for revenge. He took up a stout stick and advanced on the log, his jaw set, eyes snapping. Merry’s murderer would pay!