The hobbits stood on the shore, shivering fit to rattle their bones out of their bodies. Gimli could hear their teeth chattering, and icy water had crept up Samwise’s clothing until he was scarcely drier than the other two. They made no move towards their packs and dry clothes, but instead stood hugging each other, their eyes riveted on the dark waters.

Gimli shook his head and patted the pony’s trembling neck. Bill’s soft brown eyes were white-rimmed but he stood quietly, no longer trying to bolt. Gandalf, in Gimli’s opinion, was demonstrating no better sense than the little people. The wizard stood behind the hobbits, soaked to his knees, one hand clenched around his staff and the other resting on Pippin’s shoulder. His hat had fallen off sometime during his charge into the water and was now drifting slowly away, forlorn and forgotten.

With an explosive spray of water, both men surfaced, flinging freezing droplets in all directions. Aragorn shook hair out of his eyes and ran a hand over his face, then kicked for shore. Boromir followed, still encumbered by his heavy clothing.

“He is gone,” the Ranger called, raising his eyes to Gandalf.

Pippin winced as Gandalf’s hand tightened to the point of pain. A faint squeak escaped him and Gandalf looked down with a frown. Seeing the frightened face tilted back to look up at him, the wizard gently tugged Pippin’s hair in apology.

“Gone? How could he be gone?”

“The water … becomes very deep past this shallow shelf,” Boromir gasped. “He is not there.” He tried to stand, slipped in the mud, and sat down with a splash. As he could not possibly be any wetter, he addressed them from there. “We dove to the bottom. We could not see, so we searched with our hands. There is an opening, a passageway between two rocks. Those over there.” He pointed and all eyes turned to the tops of two of the great boulders, visible only as dark grey mounds barely above the water.

“They must have dragged him down and between them,” Aragorn said. “It must have been very quick.”

“They? Who are ‘they’?” Sam’s voice was shrill.

Aragorn made no reply as he gained his feet. Boots squelching, he waded up on the bank. “Were they waiting for us? They might have surmised that we would stop for water, but they could not have known the hobbits would be refilling the bottles. Or that Frodo would venture farthest into the lake.”

Like a rush of wind, Legolas passed them, reversing the direction of his search. He did not pause to give his report but only shook his head, his eyes on the ground ahead of him. In moments he was out of hailing distance, visible only as a swift, graceful blur of motion running soundlessly over the marshy ground.

Aragorn stared after him, his face grim. Then he slogged past the hobbits and Gandalf, dripping mud and brown water. Unbuckling his sword belt, he laid it over the log and began to divest himself of coat, leather tunic, and an astonishing number of knives. He made an attempt to dry the blades, shaking his head as he only smeared the mud. “Gimli, would you–”

“I will clean and oil them, Aragorn.” Gimli held out the pony’s reins to Sam, who took them automatically.

“Thank you.” Aragorn sank down on the log and retrieved a knife from the pile, re-inserted it into the side of his boot. He started to slip another blade down the back of his shirt then withdrew it. “Too short, too short,” he murmured, regretfully returning it to the others. Boromir was doing the same, entrusting his sword and battle-shield to Gimli’s care and choosing instead long knives more suitable for swimming.

Soundless and swift, Legolas returned, his fair face distressed. “I found no sign that he has been taken from the water. I searched both directions for half a league. They could not possibly have taken him farther than that in these last moments.”

“Then they are still in the lake with him … taking him – where?” Aragorn absently accepted the handkerchief Sam pressed upon him and mopped his face, still staring at the water.

“Frodo is a good swimmer,” Merry said tersely, “but no one can hold his breath that long.”

“It is unlikely he had a choice,” Aragorn replied. “They could have surfaced behind the rocks, caught a breath of air, and gone down again. A hand clamped over his nose and mouth would prevent him from crying out, while controlling his breathing. They would have forced him under again as soon as he had air enough.” He pulled a twig out of his hair and stood, ignoring the puddles forming under his feet.

“Be careful,” Gandalf instructed as the men strode past him to the water’s edge. “We will follow along the shore. We will keep you in sight as much as we can. If we are separated–”

“I’m coming too.” Merry was already unbuckling his sword belt, and sliding the small dagger he wore at his waist around to the front. Pippin’s face blanched and his mouth opened, then he swallowed, saying nothing.

“No, Merry.” Aragorn’s tone was firm as he pushed into the water. It seemed to be even more frigid the second time. He thought of Frodo immersed for so long in such water, and of the consequences to a body already weary from travel and weakened by an unhealing wound.

“I can swim as well as you or Boromir. I’m a better swimmer than Frodo, actually.”

“That as may be,” Gandalf said, “but one hobbit missing is enough. You will stay with me, Meriadoc Brandybuck.” Merry stood twisting his hands, his desire to disobey obvious. Pippin inched away from Gandalf and ran his arm through his cousin’s, leaning against him, misery on his face.

“Aragorn!”

Aragorn pivoted and caught the long knife Legolas tossed to him with ease. It was one of the matched pair the elf always carried, rosewood hilts inlaid with mithril, grace-filled blades forged both beautiful and deadly. Aragorn nodded and slid the sheath down his back, shrugging his shoulders to settle it into place. The two men exchanged a look, sank into the water and began swimming to the grey boulders.

Those on the shore stood watching. And … dripping. Gimli growled his opinion of people who stood about in freezing wet clothing, then with the practicality of Dwarves, reached over the log to examine the Ranger’s forgotten pipe. Finding it still lit, Gimli broke off several pieces of decaying bark, turned the pipe over on them and by the time Legolas carried the escaped water barrel up onto the bank, had a small blaze going.

“Well done,” the elf said softly as Gimli fed the growing fire another piece of wood. Legolas lowered the barrel to the ground, then looked lost as he realised the cork had vanished with their Ring-bearer. Gimli selected a piece of soft bark and drove it into the barrel with one slam of his fist.

Pippin jumped and turned to look behind him, then resumed staring out over the lake. None of the others even turned, their attention wholly on the swimmers in the water. Legolas sighed and moved closer to Gimli, stooping slightly so that his voice would not carry. “There is no sign along the banks. Oh, there are scuffling marks and signs of animals, but no footprints.” He paused, watching as Aragorn and Boromir reached the boulders. “Yet there is something in this empty land. Water had crept into the marks, and they were some distance from the shoreline. I think that perhaps water was poured upon them to distort them. And … I feel unfriendly eyes upon us.”

Gimli nodded in agreement. They watched as Aragorn and Boromir steadied themselves against the great rocks, treading water while they talked in low voices that did not carry to those on the bank. At least to mortal folk, Gimli thought wryly, as the elf beside him could no doubt hear every word. Merry actually stepped forward before Gandalf ordered him back. Knowing Merry, Gimli could well appreciate how frustrated the hobbit must be not to overhear the men’s conversation. Then the Ranger and the soldier drew apart, took deep breaths, and dived.

Legolas turned back to Gimli. “I will resume the watch. The boulder over there will be high enough for me to see our companions, as well as the land and the rest of the lake.”

Gimli nodded again, fingering the axes at his belt. With the men gone, it would fall to him and Gandalf and Legolas to defend the little folk. Best they be gone as soon as possible. Gimli humphed to himself and marched up to the silent foursome. “Master Frodo will be little pleased if you three catch cold,” he rumbled, not daring to reprimand Gandalf. Catching Sam’s shoulder, Gimli turned him around and pushed him towards the fire. “Standing there in the wet will help no one. Better you dry off and warm up.”

“Bill hasn’t had his drink,” Sam demurred, his hands tightening on the reins. “And I’ve got to pick up my pans.” The pony was placid now, but his ears still flicked nervously and the skin on his withers jumped and twitched.

“After you have changed,” Gandalf said abruptly. “Samwise, get yourself dry. Merry, Pippin, you also. I will water Bill.” Not waiting for their agreement, he caught the pony’s bridle and led Bill forward, his grey robes billowing about him as he waded into the water. Reaching his hat, he slapped it against his leg and glared at it as Bill lowered his head to drink.

The hobbits began sorting out their packs and unlacing them, pulling out blankets and whatever clothing they encountered. The fire was now crackling merrily, an oddly incongruous sound. It somehow sounded much louder than it should. Pippin held out his hands to the flames, then ducked his head and began rubbing his hair dry, keeping one eye on Merry and the other on Sam. Sam had collected Frodo’s discarded clothing and pack and was laying out a set of his master’s warmest clothes before he opened his own.

“Merry?”

“What?”

Pippin was silent, a rare enough occurrence for his cousin to tear his attention from the lake and award him a piercing look. The tweenager was staring into the fire with a strained look on his face, his damp blanket lying forgotten on his lap. Merry’s impatient words died on his lips, and he reached out caught Pippin’s arm and squeezed it gently.

“What is it, Cousin?”

“Is it him? Did he take Frodo?”

Merry was confused. “Who are you talking about, Pip?”

Pippin dropped his voice as if listening ears were leaning towards them. Merry glanced around; Gandalf was still watering the pony, his gaze locked on the place where Aragorn and Boromir had disappeared. Gimli was working on the men’s weapons, and Legolas stood silent and intent on a tall boulder, his keen gaze roving ceaselessly.

“Gollum. Was it Gollum, Merry?”

Ah. That old story of Bilbo’s had always terrified Pippin. Strange, really… Pippin loved the old hobbit’s tales of dragons and dwarves and battles, but that skulking creature in the cave struck some chord Merry had never understood. Perhaps it was Bilbo’s vivid description of the cold, cloying dark, or the naked, decaying bones of the poor fish the creature had consumed. Or Bilbo’s dramatic depiction of his own terror and desperation. That particular story would give Pippin horrible dreams for nights after. Hearing of Gollum’s escape from the Elves at Elrond’s Council had caused Pippin to whimper and toss in his sleep, until Merry could bear it no longer and had crawled in with him. Even so, Merry could not answer less than honestly.

“I don’t know, Pip.” Pippin’s eyes seem to grow even larger and Merry sought to comfort him. “Aragorn said ‘they,’ though. I think it would take more than one, however quick and strong, to overpower Frodo … he may be tall and skinny but he’s tough, our Frodo.”

Pippin hunched closer to the fire. “But if Gollum caught him off-guard … and pulled him under…”

“Pippin,” Merry said firmly, “we don’t know anything, except that Aragorn and Boromir have gone after him. And we’re following them–”

“Aren’t you ready yet?” Gandalf asked as he led Bill past them. Already changed, Sam jumped up and took the reins, tying them around a stunted tree. Nodding his approval, Gandalf continued, “Hurry up, then. Samwise, pack up. You two help Gimli load the pony whilst I speak with Legolas.”

Ignoring his own wet clothes, Gandalf strode past them. Legolas sank down to one knee to speak with him, but the elf never looked at him, keeping his attention on the landscape. At least he did not have to chivvy the elf into dry clothes, Gimli thought. Of course, Elves never caught cold, unlike Hobbits, Men, and Dwarves. He was uncertain of Wizards.

“Ready, then?” Gimli asked the hobbits, privately thinking that the three still looked more like drowned rats than anything else. Though dressed in fresh clothing, the brown water had crusted on them until only a long scrub in clean water would remove it. Pippin’s hair stuck out in all directions while Merry’s lay flat, the ends already curling into snarled ringlets. “Put out the fire and bring me the water bottles.” With a grunt Gimli lofted the barrel up against the pony’s side and held it while Sam lashed it to the packs.

* * *
Burning. His chest was on fire. He could feel the pressure in every toe and finger, but the greatest pain was his chest. His ribs felt fit to explode while his starved lungs fought to expand, denied that by the hand clamped agonizingly over his face.

The hand was clammy cold, but no more than the arm pinning him across the chest. Cold, so cold. He had tried kicking backwards, and had felt contact with hard bone, but it seemed to have had no effect. Twisting and fighting were useless; it was as if whatever was dragging him down felt neither pity nor pain.

Was this how his mother and father had died? That night on the Brandywine, so long ago? Everyone said he had her eyes, his mother’s eyes. She had been so beautiful. And his father had had the most infectious laugh. It rang in his ears again, a full-throated peal of joy. No … it was water rushing into his ears and mouth and lungs. Even while recognising that he was drowning, Frodo hoped that his parents had not suffered so. Not so much pain. Not this slow stiffening of his limbs, not this darkening of his sight. Not this…

* TBC *