Thicker than Blood

by Ariel (arielphf@yahoo.com )

Disclaimer:  The characters are Tolkien's and are only used here with the utmost reverence and respect for his work.  I gain no profit but my own pleasure from using his characters in this tale.

Author's Note:  This fic is probably my favorite of all my stories.  It has been requested by a lot of archives and is archived everywhere but on the off chance you haven't read it, I would strongly suggest taking a look at this piece.  It is painstakingly strict canon and I worked very hard to be as accurate as possible.  As in my other strict canon gapfiller fic "The Gift of Iluvatar" (which is my most lauded piece) I took all the details that Tolkien hinted at in later chapters - in this case "Many Meetings" - and filled in the blanks as to what events might have occured that would both fit the hints and be a plausible story.  I hope you enjoy reading this piece as much as I enjoyed writing it.

Chapter 1 - The Ford

The black horses were filled with madness, and leaping forward in terror they bore their riders into the rushing flood.  Their piercing cries were drowned in the roaring of the river as it carried them away.  Then Frodo felt himself falling, and the roaring and confusion seemed to rise and engulf him together with his enemies.  He heard and saw no more.

             From: The Fellowship of the Ring: Book 1, ‘The Flight to the Ford’

Strider was first to reach the far bank.  The elf horse could be seen standing at the top, stamping impatiently in the fading afternoon light, but there was no sign of the rider.  The ringwraiths and their steeds were washed down the Greyflood; the dark form of one of the beasts still visible where it had been caught on a spit of stone, but nothing moved now, and all was silent save for the rushing of the river.  Glorfindel came gracefully ashore, aiding the hobbits, who it seemed, could not wait for the flood to abate for an easier crossing.  Sam struggled over the rocks as close behind the elf as he could manage.  He had not seen Frodo fall, but one moment his master had been desperately clinging to the back of the elf’s steed and next, he had not.  Sam was sick with the fear that Frodo had fallen into the river and been carried off into the angry current with the black riders, but as he looked up to the top of the bank, he saw Strider kneel at something on the ground.  Frodo.  It had to be.

He clambered up the bank, knocking stones and dirt down on Merry, who seemed no less eager than he to see what had become of his cousin.  Sam heard the elf-horse nicker softly, almost mournfully and looked to where Strider crouched.  The first sight of his master’s body froze Sam’s blood.  The dark cloak that lay over him seemed impossibly flat to the ground, as if Frodo had been pressed down by the agonies of the past fortnight.  A sick feeling of dread froze Sam’s heart and he stumbled, afraid to come closer.  The feet and legs that stuck out from beneath the cloak were impossibly pale, stripped of even the faintest hint of the blush of blood.  Sam had never before seen limbs that color on a living hobbit and his head reeled as the thought came to him that his master might have perished.  Strider pulled the cloak back from Frodo’s head and felt gingerly at his neck.  Sam could barely breathe.

“He’s alive,” the ranger murmured. “Though I do not know if he has succumbed to their will.”  He turned and looked at Glorfindel and Merry and Pippin who were still climbing up the bank.  “I will carry him into the valley, but will you ride on and have Elrond prepare?”  His stern grey eyes focused squarely on the elf.  “A litter, perhaps, would be welcome, and swift bodies to carry it.  It is not a long journey to Rivendell from the ford, but we are weary and have need of careful haste.”  He frowned and a look of deep compassion crossed his grim features.  “Please, say nothing to Bilbo,” he added softly.  “I wish to give him this news myself.”

The elf-lord nodded and, forgoing the shortened stirrups, leapt onto his horse and sped off into the growing shadows at the foothills of the Misty Mountains.  Strider carefully rolled Frodo onto his back.  The hobbit’s lips were grey and his skin cold to the touch, but he was breathing, if shallowly.  Merry gave a soft, heartbroken cry and rushed to his cousin.  Sam, trembling with fear but able to move at last, stooped to catch Frodo’s head as Strider laid it gently to earth.  The two hobbits knelt by Frodo’s side opposite Strider as the ranger quickly examined him.  Pippin hung back, his eyes open as wide as saucers seeing the deathly pallor on his elder cousin’s face.  He gulped in his terror.

“He…he’s not dead…. Is he?”  Pippin’s voice shook. 

“Not dead, no…”  Strider answered.  “But maybe worse than dead – I do not know yet.  I will carry him to Rivendell and perhaps as I do I can sense something of his fate.  I have done all I could for him – only Elrond can do more – if it is not too late already.”  Under Frodo’s body laid his cracked and splintered barrow blade.  Strider picked up the pieces and weighed them in his palm.  “At least he resisted ere he fell.”  He glanced from the fragments of blade to the pale, still face and his stony features softened a bit.  “Gave them a fight, didn’t you my friend?” he whispered.  “They didn’t expect that from the likes of you, I’ll warrant.”  He dropped the pieces into his pouch and slipped his arms under the hobbit to lift him.

Sam supported his master’s head as Strider settled his body against him, and pulled the hood over his curls to keep the older hobbit warm.  It was all Sam could do and when it was done he felt inept and impotent – as he had for most of the past two weeks as Frodo had fallen deeper and deeper under the influence of his wound.  There was still nothing he could really do for him.  Merry wrapped the edge of the cloak tight about Frodo’s feet and stepped back, his eyes glistening with held back tears.  Frodo’s pale face shone dimly from where it lay nestled in the crook of Strider’s arm, a ghost among dark folds of fabric.  Sam, too, felt hot tears sting his eyes.

“I’m trustin’ you with him, Mr. Strider, Sir…” he began. “I know I’ve been very suspicious of you, bein’ as you are, one of the big folk and all.  But you’ve stood by us through some near scrapes and I’ve come to think there’s a mite more to you than meets the eye.” He touched Frodo’s cold, smudged cheek. “And that's why I'll say you’ve got to save him, Mr. Strider.  Please…” he sniffled sorrowfully.  “You’ve got to…” Then words failed him and the tears he had fought fell freely.

Strider held Frodo’s body close and gave Sam a solemn nod, as if formally accepting his charge. “I will do everything within my power, Sam.”  He looked up at Pippin, who had not moved and whose eyes were still wide with fear, and to Merry, who, in an effort to keep his own tears at bay, was helping the pony up the steep bank.  “We must reach the trail to Rivendell as quickly as we are able, but it is a treacherous walk even before we reach the ravine.  Be alert and follow close behind.  If you miss the trail you will never find the valley of Rivendell.  Quickly now!”

Strider’s pace was astounding.  Though he walked, the hobbits and Bill the pony had to jog to keep up to him.  They soon understood the origin of his name, for the man’s long, smooth strides ate up the distance while jostling his small passenger very little.  They followed no path the hobbits could see, but the ranger moved unerringly through the foothills.  Hours later, at the head of an unmarked ravine, seemingly no different from many others they had passed, Strider turned.  Sam could still see no trail in the steep sided valley below, but he tugged on Bill’s lead and followed. 

There was a path, though it was steep and zig-zagged sharply as it worked its way down.  The hobbits moved slowly through the deepening dusk for keeping to the track was difficult and even the sure-footed pony was hard pressed to do it.  Strider was far ahead of them and almost out of sight when they first heard whispers in the trees and saw faint light of elvish torches coming up the way ahead of them.  Strider’s distant form was silhouetted against it.  They pressed on even more quickly and reached the party just as Frodo, now laid upon a litter stretched with green fabric, was being lifted again.  Gandalf was there and greeted them all solemnly, his eyes filled with sorrow.  He walked beside them as four tall, willowy elves carried Frodo towards the hall.  The elves bore him as gently as a sleeping babe though they moved even more swiftly than Strider had done.  The warming breeze was all that moved him as it lifted the dark curls from his brow.

TBC in Chapter 2 - "Portents" - In which Bilbo struggles with the still compelling call of the ring and learns that his only heir, the one to whom HE bequeathed this deadly trinket, is soon to arrive at Elrond's house somewhat less than whole.