Disclaimer: All original plots and original characters are the property of the author. The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, Tolkien Enterprises, and New Line Cinemas and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit.  Almost all of Budgie's stories may be found at http://budgielover.com.

Chapter One

“Ahhhhh,” the soldier murmured, leaning forward intently. “That is it, then.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow and shifted against the fallen log he was sharing with Boromir, seeking a place where the rough, decaying bark did not dig into his back. He sucked on his pipe for a moment, then sent a lazy smoke ring into the air. “What is?”

Boromir relaxed against his end of the log and stretched out his legs to cross his boots at the ankle, a satisfied smile on his face. Aragorn waited patiently, studying the terrain as the rest of the Company moved about them or rested, the breather the wizard was allowing them promising to be all too brief. With Legolas standing watch atop one of the nearby boulders, Aragorn had no fear that an enemy would make use of the stone-sewn landscape to waylay them … but a lifelong practice of watchfulness ruled him, now more than ever when he had the Ring-bearer’s safety to consider.

Gandalf stood by one of the great stones, scowling as the wind tugged at his hair and beard. There seemed to be little before him to deserve such a severe expression; few points of interest populated this empty land between Eregion and the distant mountains. Most trees, like the one against which Aragorn and Boromir reclined, were long dead and fallen. With a disgruntled mutter, the wizard turned from his examination of the bleak hills and called, “Hurry up there, my lads!”

“Almost done, Gandalf!” Frodo called back.

“The halflings’ secret language,” Boromir clarified at last. “I have finally deciphered it.”

Aragorn withdrew his pipe and examined the smoke from it as if he thought it might be adversely affecting the soldier. Pippin, for instance, would think it a fine joke to add certain herbs to his pipe-weed. That thought had occurred to him earlier in their march, prompting Aragorn to twist wires tightly around some of the little sacks in the medicinal kits Elrond had provided them. He would know if they had been tampered with. Finding nothing amiss with his pipe, he replied, “The hobbits speak Westron after the manner of Men. Just as we do.”

Boromir nodded. “They do. I refer to the secret language they speak amongst themselves.” He chuckled as Aragorn’s other eyebrow followed the first.

Boromir gestured to where the hobbits were gathered at the edge of the murky lake which had earned them this respite. Pippin, Merry, and Frodo were lined up in a row, an arm’s length apart, forming a hobbit-chain to fill the Company’s water bottles. Sam stood on the bank, accepting each laden bottle from Pippin then passing back an empty, which Merry would then pass on to Frodo. Gimli stood at Sam’s side, holding the pony’s halter to keep the thirsty beast from the water until they were finished.

Bill whinnied, bobbing his head. “Easy, easy,” Gimli rumbled as the pony strained forward, nostrils distended. He might have dragged a hobbit to the water but Gimli stood immovable as a stone pillar. Bill gave up the effort with a snort and an unhappy wicker. Stroking the rough mane comfortingly, Gimli said, “It is fortunate we came upon this lake before our water is completely gone. What little we have left tastes flat and stale, and there is no sign of more for leagues.”

“I wish it was a mite clearer,” Sam replied, reaching up Bill’s side to unlash the Company’s water barrel and lower it to the ground. “I don’t like water I can’t see the bottom to. And all these boulders … they look like Mr. Bilbo’s trolls rooted up the ground and threw them in the water, trying to drown some poor soul, maybe. This place has an evil feel. Maybe we should just go on–”

“Animals know, Samwise,” Gandalf said, giving the pony a pat as he joined them. “Bill would not want to drink from a fouled water source. This lake was always muddy, but never so dark before. I do not understand what has happened. But it is still potable, and we must drink. The water is wholesome, if unpleasant.”

Sam looked dubiously at the water as he passed the barrel to Pippin, ignoring the tweenager’s strangled “Ugh!” as Pippin accepted its weight. “If you say so, sir. But I’m straining it through cheesecloth before any of us drink.”

“That exchange seemed quite intelligible to me,” Aragorn observed to Boromir.

“I said, ‘amongst themselves’,” the soldier repeated. “Listen.”

“Just a little longer, Bill,” the men heard Sam say as he loosened the pony’s cinch. Bill heaved a great sigh. Sam’s face softened and he reached forward to rub the pony’s muzzle. Bill thrust his nose into his hand eagerly, looking for water. “You can have a drink in just half a tic. There’s a good lad. How many more, master?”

Frodo looked up, wet to his waist, water dripping from his sodden, shivering form. His shirt was plastered to him and the fine brown velvet of his breeches had darkened to black. He had taken off his cloak and jacket and waistcoat, and these now lay in a heap on the bank, along with his sword and swordbelt and pack. The others also had removed their packs and coats; Aragon had no doubt that once their task was done, there would be a dive for the packs and the frantic donning of dry clothes.

“This is the last, Sam. Just the water barrel, then we can dry off and poor Bill can have his drink.”

With sudden trepidation, Aragorn realised the Ring-bearer had ventured farthest out into the lake, filling the bottles where the water was clearest and cleanest. He wondered if Frodo had placed himself at the end of the line because he was the tallest, or because he did not want to allow his cousins into the deeper water. Aragorn started to his feet but at that moment, Frodo straightened, holding aloft the last bottle. Shaking water from it, he stoppered it and passed it to Merry, accepting their wooden water barrel in its place.

“Good!” Pippin chimed in, lifting a hairy foot free of the water and shaking it. Merry grimaced as some of the icy drops struck him. “I am freezing! And there aren’t any fish in this pool. Or clams or mussels or anything to eat.” The men saw Merry roll his eyes as he pivoted to pass the bottle to Pippin.

“We are getting water, Pippin,” Frodo replied patiently, struggling to position the barrel in the water so he could pull the cork. It came free and Frodo stowed it carefully in his pocket.

“Odd there isn’t any cattails,” Sam remarked idly, “nor marsh-grass or water-weeds. There’s almost always something growing at the edge of a pond.”

“Not even frogs,” Pippin continued in aggrieved tones. “I could do with a nice score of frog legs, dipped in breadcrumbs and fried in butter–”

“Mind your business,” Merry said sharply as Pippin shifted from foot to foot. “The bottom is slippery. And your jumping about is clouding the water. Clouding it more,” he added in a disgusted tone.

“I am not ‘jumping about,’ thank you very much. It just happens to be so cold my feet are freezing, and–”

“Lads! Please!” With a sigh, Frodo looked down at the agitated water swirling past him. Extending a foot carefully, he felt the mucky ground before him and moved deeper into the lake, dragging the water barrel after him. Boromir decided his theory was confirmed at Frodo’s choice of words and tone and nodded in self-congratulation, earning himself an amused look from Aragorn. Frodo found a spot to his liking and bent again, pushing the water barrel under the water and leaning on it to keep it from bobbing to the surface. Bubbles rose up and burst in noisy ‘blops’ as the barrel filled.

“Gandalf tells me they once had their own language,” Aragorn commented, “that is now largely forgotten. This language shares many archaic words with Elvish, which is a special interest of Frodo’s. But hobbits speak Westron now.”

Boromir nodded, grateful for the chance to rest. He had been gathering the water bottles himself when the Ring-bearer had stopped him. Frodo looked tired and in sore need of a rest himself, but he stood with his back straight, holding out his arms. “Thank you, Boromir,” the hobbit had said, “but you brought in our supper last night, and did all the skinning and butchering. Let us do our share of the work.”

Surprised, Boromir handed over the water bottles. The bottles had filled Frodo’s arms until only his eyes peeked above them. “Up, lads,” Frodo had said in a commanding (and somewhat muffled) voice. The others had dragged themselves to their feet and obeyed, initiating the soldier’s contemplation of hobbit-hierarchies. As Boromir settled himself against the log and the hobbits waded into the lake, he mused that while he usually did not feel the weight of the chain-mail he wore, he was learning that endless hours of riding a horse were quite different from endless hours of walking on one’s own two legs. Of all of them, Boromir thought, only the dwarf walked heavier-burdened; helmet and chain-mail and axes. But Gimli never seemed to tire.

“Have you not noticed?” Boromir asked, realising his late reply had caused the Ranger to examine his pipe again. “When Frodo wants his younger cousins’ cooperation, he refers to them as ‘lads.’ Master Samwise is an adult, I understand, and Meriadoc also, and Pippin is not a child. But Frodo puts them quite firmly in their place by addressing them so.”

Aragorn puffed, intrigued by this train of thought. “But it is also a term of affection. Of reassurance. I cannot count the number of times I have heard Frodo or Merry call the youngest one ‘Pippin-lad’.”

“Think on it,” Boromir urged. “When Frodo wants obedience from his kin, he calls them ‘Meriadoc’ and ‘Peregrin.’ Not that his use of their formal names seems to be terribly effective, but I believe he does signal thusly to them that he is serious.”

“And Samwise?” Aragorn asked, amused by this speculation.

Pippin paused in his work, drawing their attention to him. The men fell silent, watching. Legolas turned and looked at them, then resumed his scrutiny of the landscape. The youngest hobbit’s gaze was riveted on the water, his body tense. The other hobbits froze also, their eyes on him. Frodo looked curious, Merry annoyed. When Pippin did not move, Merry began, “Pippin? What–?”

Pippin shook his head minimally, not looking up. Merry fell silent, frowning. Pippin visibly gathered himself. Then he darted forward, quick hands snatching up something long and dark undulating just under the surface.

“Got you!” Pippin’s triumphant expression faded as he held up a thick, slime-covered stick.

“Looks delicious,” Merry remarked. “Shall we fillet and fry it, or salt it and eat it later?”

Pippin looked mournfully at the stick then cast it back into the water, wiping his hand on his shirt and leaving a muddy smear. “I thought I saw something moving… If that had been a fish, cousin, it wouldn’t have been enough for two. Go catch your own fish.”

“Not too keen on eating anything out of that,” Merry muttered, eying the brown water distastefully.

“Back to work, lads,” Frodo admonished them. “We are almost done, and I, for one, would appreciate getting out of this freezing lake.”

“Ah, that is different,” Boromir said, resuming their conversation. “Frodo calls Samwise ‘lad’ as an endearment. I might add that I have seen Samwise do nothing to provoke, embarrass, or mortify Frodo, intentionally or not, as the two other ones did repeatedly in Rivendell. Which brings me to another observation…” Boromir paused, enjoying the Ranger’s expression. “When Frodo uses one of the others’ full name, that one is in trouble.”

Aragorn coughed in amusement. “I think they are taught respect for their elders early,” he said thoughtfully. “You saw how they were with Bilbo–”

“Pippin, will you be still!”

“My toes are freezing off! You’ll be sorry when you have to carry me!”

“Lads! If you don’t–” There was a yelp then a tremendous splash. Aragorn looked up just in time to see Frodo’s horrified expression as the hobbit threw up his arms and fell backwards. Water closed over his head. Freed, the barrel bobbed to the surface and began to drift away. Aragorn winced and resisted the desire to close his eyes.

“Now you’ve done it,” Merry growled at Pippin.

“I did not–”

“Frodo?” Merry’s tentative query rode over Pippin’s protest. At the same moment, the men heard Sam gasp, “Mr. Frodo? Are you all right?”

Gandalf strode to the edge and leaned forward, driving his staff into the soft earth of the shore. “Frodo Baggins! You stop that this moment and come up! This is not remotely humorous!”

The circles of water were diminishing where Frodo had gone under. The members of the Company looked at each other blankly.

“Frodo?” quavered Pippin.

Aragorn shoved himself to his feet, feeling the log behind him rock as Boromir followed. “Can you see him?”

“The water is too laden with silt,” Gimli replied, peering into the murky depths. “Are hobbits known for being able to hold their breath?”

“He’s not coming up!” Merry flung himself full-length into the lake, throwing water in all directions, drenching Pippin and pelting Sam, Gimli, and Bill with icy droplets. Startled by the unexpected shower, Bill reared, sending his unsecured packs crashing to the ground. Sam whirled around, his expression appalled as his beloved pots and pans clattered on the rocks. Leaping for Bill’s reins, he caught them and held on with both hands. The pots and pans and sudden movement were too much for Bill; the normally-placid pony tried to bolt. Sam was dragged off his feet but did not relinquish the reins. Gimli hauled on the bridle, dragging all three of them in a half-circle.

“Whoa, lad! Whoa!” Sam cried as Gimli pulled the pony’s head down. “Take him, sir!” Staggering to his feet, he thrust the reins into Gimli’s hands and barrelled into the pool, pulling up short as an erupting fountain of water heralded Merry’s surfacing. Sam leapt forward and caught him, holding him upright as Merry choked and coughed.

“Where is he?” Sam shouted.

 Merry spit out a mouthful of water and looked frantically about. “I didn’t find him!”

“Frodo?” Pippin cried, starting to wallow towards Merry and past him. Merry caught him by the collar and dragged him back.

“I couldn’t find him! Aragorn!”

Aragorn leapt into the water and pushed himself to the spot where Frodo had disappeared. The hobbits fell back to give him room. Boromir, behind him, was struggling to pull off his surcoat and had entangled his arms in a confusion of tunic and mail. Swearing, he dragged his arms free and threw his surcoat on the ground, splashing after the Ranger. Legolas leaped down from his boulder and raced towards them, abandoning his watch for the more immediate emergency. With a great breath, Aragorn ducked into the water, feeling an icy shock slice through him like the blade of a sword. For a moment he could not move, stunned by the cold, then his chest loosened and he regained control of his limbs. Snow-melt, he realised, running off from the mountains. Frodo was submerged in this?

The hobbits’ actions had indeed clouded the water; silt swirled around him, filled with tiny black particles that seemed to move independently of the undercurrent. He could see nothing. He turned in a circle, arms extended, fingers seeking to brush against a possibly unconscious form. Nothing. Another step into deeper water. Another groping turn. Nothing. With a gasp he surfaced, water streaming down his face like tears.

“Get the hobbits out of the water!” Gandalf roared, splashing forward.

Legolas swerved in mid-stride. Long arms reached out and scooped up Pippin, handed him dripping and fighting to Gimli. Gimli freed a hand from Bill’s bridle to wrap an arm around him. “Master Pippin, stop struggling! Be still!”

“Merry!” Legolas cried. “Samwise! Come to me!”

“No!” Merry shouted. He tried to duck as Boromir overtook him and hauled him free of the water. “Put me down!” In his desperation he twisted and slid free of Boromir’s arms, landing in the water to launch himself after Aragorn. Boromir struggled after him, hampered by his heavy clothing. Merry dove but Boromir caught a hobbit-foot and held on, dragging Merry backwards. Gasping, Merry surfaced, flailing at the water. Legolas joined him and together he and Boromir overpowered the hobbit and dragged him to shore.

“Give me Pippin,” Gandalf ordered, reaching for the tweenager. Gimli surrendered him. Pippin clung to the wizard’s robes, frightened now, then tried to dart to Merry as Legolas handed him to Gimli. Gandalf tightened his hold, but his gruff voice was unusually gentle. “Stay with me, Peregrin.”

With another deep breath, Aragorn went under again. This time he crawled along the mucky bottom, sweeping his hands to the side. He propelled himself forward with kicks, farther than Frodo could have simply fallen. With an explosive gasp, Aragorn surfaced and looked back just in time to see a white-faced Sam reach the spot Frodo had gone under. Sam was batting at the water, his face wild with fear.

“Sam! Go back to Merry and Pippin!”

“Where’s he gone? Where’s he gone, then?”

“Samwise,” Legolas said kindly, coming up on the hobbit, “Please come back with me to shore. You are needed there, and not here.” Sam stood irresolute, then nodded jerkily and followed the elf, who seemed to glide through the water with the same ease as air.

Raking his hair out of his eyes, Aragorn called, “Hobbits, stay with Gandalf! Gimli, guard them! Legolas, search the shore – see if you can find any sign.”

“Dwarves are not good swimmers,” the dwarf agreed regretfully, tightening a heavy hand on Merry’s shoulder as Legolas sprang away. “You will stay with me, young sirs, until we find Master Frodo. He has probably surfaced behind one of those boulders and is even now catching his breath.”

“Frodo!” Pippin shouted, straining up on his toes. “Frodo!”

“No! Pippin, be quiet! There has been enough shouting!” Still huddled in the shelter of Gandalf’s robes, Pippin looked up into the wizard’s face. Gandalf was glaring at the water, at the surrounding area, into the air, as if enemies might descend upon them at any moment. “We have already announced our presence to any listening ears. We must quit this place as quickly as possible.”

Gandalf turned to Aragorn, and his eyes blazed. “Find him. Bring him back.”

Boromir and Aragorn exchanged a grim look. “We will,” Aragorn affirmed. Then the two men took a deep breath and forced themselves under the dark waters.

* TBC *