Notes for Chapter 8:  I had to decide whether Frodo would be stabbed in the back of his shoulder or the front.  My thanks to Ariel, katakanadian, and Nilmandra at the ‘Quill and Inklings” site for tossing this issue around with me.  I’ve taken some liberties with that scene, as an author is privileged to do.

This chapter contain quotes borrowed or adapted from ‘A Knife in the Dark’, from “The Fellowship of the Ring” by J.R.R. Tolkien -- some familiarity with that chapter is assumed.

BY CHANCE OR PURPOSE

Chapter 8 --- Ring-bearer

October 6

They weren’t there.  They were not-things, five looming shadows given shape only by the tattered cloaks they wore.  Merry exchanged a horrified glance with Pippin, then, as one, their raised their swords in one hand and their flaming sticks in the other.  Even Pippin, as young as he was, knew that they were about to die -- but they would die fighting, in defense of Frodo.

However, whatever the two hobbits might have done in the next moment, they would never know.  A shadow turned to them briefly, and spared them one empty glance… a mere thought…  Pippin gasped, suddenly crushed with terror and unable to breathe.  His weapons fell to the ground, and he was falling too… drowning in darkness.  He didn’t know where he was, only that it was a black and horrible place, and utterly without hope.

The Ring was not with these two.  The wraith moved on.

~*~*~*~*~

The instant Sam sensed the first shadow entering the dell, he resolutely stepped back to stand next to Frodo.  He could feel the heat from the bonfire at his back, and a wave of evil intent thickening all around them.  At his side, Frodo had gone rigidly still, his eyes wide and fixed on one looming shape which seemed to gesture, for a moment only, toward where Merry and Pippin stood.  There was a choked cry, and Pippin fell limply to the ground as if struck mortally.  Merry stumbled to his knees, then slumped to the ground next to where Pippin lay, trembling and gasping for breath.  Sam watched, horror-stricken, as the other four wraiths moved, as one, to surround Strider and force him away from Frodo’s side.  The Ranger, eyes blazing, wielded his fiery torches and fought to escape.

The wraith turned toward him… toward Frodo… and Sam felt something terrible reaching out for them.  Suddenly dizzy and sick, he turned with difficulty to Frodo, who still stood transfixed, almost as if he was struggling with something only he could see or hear.  Fighting to breathe through the suffocating cloud enveloping him, Sam thought he could hear his master’s faint whisper of “no no no no…” and then Frodo was gone.  Vanished.  Even as he fell, Sam reached out desperately to where Frodo had been, to find only empty air.

~*~*~*~*~

As Aragorn watched the Nazgûl approach, four of the wraiths abruptly bore down on him.  He realized that they were trying to surround him -- to keep him from the hobbits.  As the wraiths drove against him, he met them grimly, thrusting fire toward those closest, hoping against hope that, by some chance, the hobbits might escape.  Battling desperately against the darkness clutching at him from every side, he lunged forward, swinging the fiery brands in all directions.  It was getting hard to breathe, and to think.  He had heard of this -- the Black Breath -- but still he advanced, setting ablaze every shrouded garment within reach of his long torches.  The four faltered, and retreated -- and the fifth… the Witch-king, where was he?  He thought he heard Frodo’s voice calling out for Elbereth, but the sound seemed muffled and faint.  All at once he heard a piercing scream that smote his heart -- then another, abruptly choked off and silent. 

Frodo.

Although the air was so full of smoke he could scarcely see, Aragorn spotted the fifth wraith and lunged at him, plunging flames into its very heart.  Suddenly it was gone.  Aragorn staggered and nearly fell, gasping as a man who had been held down in deep water.  As his vision cleared, he saw that Merry, deathly pale, was kneeling a short distance away, his arms wrapped around a near-hysterical Pippin.  Sam was on his feet, whirling about desperately, calling Frodo’s name.  Then Sam was running, sobbing, toward a small, still figure on the ground.

Aragorn rushed forward, sick at heart and afraid to even hope.

~*~*~*~*~

They were coming.  Frodo couldn’t stop shaking… yet he couldn’t move.  Aragorn was driven from his side with a cry, and then he and Sam stood alone.  Helpless to prevent it, Frodo watched his cousins fall, and knew that Aragorn must soon follow; there were too many of them surrounding him.  Too many…

As the lone wraith turned away from Merry and Pippin, and drifted nearer, Frodo was  overcome by a single thought.  He needed to put on the Ring.  This… this was the moment he needed to do it!  He couldn’t do it… But he had to.  The Ring could save them, the Ring could drive them back, the Ring was his, he had to put it on…  “No,” he whispered, “no no no…”  Even as he struggled against the unbearable pressure flooding his mind, his hand was pulling the Ring out of his pocket.  He had to put it on… now.

Frodo gasped in horror as the formless shadows took terrifying shape.  He saw haggard and ruined faces with cruel eyes, grey hair under ancient helms.  Four of the wraiths surrounded Aragorn with knives and swords.  The fifth was taller than the others, and wore a crown.  The fifth… the pale king beckoned to him, his eyes blazing.  The Witch-king drew closer, drawing a coldly gleaming knife with a sure hand.  Desperate, Frodo drew his own small sword, which blazed red as blood to his eyes.

“Come, little one.”  The deathless king was suddenly before him.  “To Mordor we will take you.”

Little one.  A cold fury filled Frodo’s mind, and he knew he had to act or die.  He suddenly remembered what Aragorn had said, days before, about the Elves calling on the Valar.  “Elbereth!” he screamed.  Lunging forward, he drove his sword into the wraith with all his small strength, but there was nothing substantial to meet his attack -- just cloak and robe and a suffocating darkness.  He landed on the ground at the wraith’s feet.

Before Frodo could rise, he felt something icy, like cold steel bands, clutching at his neck and lifting him effortlessly.  He saw before him a decayed, withered face, utterly without mercy.  Something constricted his throat, and the cruel visage blurred.  He fought for air, helpless to prevent his sword from falling from his hand.  Through a haze of terror, he saw the gleaming knife raised to strike him.  He couldn’t move… couldn’t fight…

The Witch-king plunged the knife into Frodo’s shoulder, and the hobbit screamed in agony as the blade cut deep.  Then Frodo felt a sickening snap, and a bitter, frozen pain that shook his body as if buffeted by a powerful wind.  He felt himself falling, and hit the ground in shock, waiting helplessly for the final death blow… but the wraith lord moved away.

With his failing strength, Frodo groped desperately at his left hand and pulled off the accursed Ring.  Through fading senses he saw flame, and heard Sam yelling.  He was freezing… dying… then everything went black.

~*~*~*~*~

There could be no doubt that the Dark Lord’s Ring was here, in the possession of one of these insignificant creatures.  The wizard had battled half of his Company days ago, and they pursued him still -- but to wait for them to return was no longer necessary.  Baggins was here.  The Man had not taken the Ring -- he must be acting as protector for these halflings.  No matter.  His four companions would dispatch him quickly, and Baggins would be theirs.  The other halflings meant nothing.

The Witch-king bent his will toward the two nearest halflings.  There was no need to approach them or the flame they wielded -- the Master’s Ring was near, but not with these two; it was not in their keeping.  He turned from them, dismissing their presence even as they fell, stunned and helpless.  Nothing now lay between him and the other two small ones.  He could smell them, sense their life force and essence.  The Ring would make itself known to him.  It would find him.  It would… yes!  Abruptly one of the halflings flickered into his vision, shadow resolving into form, the Ring visible on the tiny finger.  Baggins.  At last.

The wraith lord drew out his knife, and was amused to see the trembling halfling do the same.  If mirth had still been possible, he would have laughed at such folly.

“Come, little one,” the Witch-king stepped forward, and reached out.  “To Mordor we will take you.”

In an unexpected move, the halfling threw himself forward, his glittering blade slicing and biting deep.  The knife thrust sent not pain, but bitter memory lancing through the wraith lord, of a long-ago battle, of valiant, yet ill-fated Men who breathed their last, trusting in such weapons.

“Elbereth!”

The Witch-king let forth a roar of rage.  That name… but this halfling had not the power of the Elven so-called king who last faced him with that same cry in the night.  She of the stars could not help this tiny creature -- one of the very few who had ever dared to attack him.

The Witch-king reached down and grasped the halfling by the back of his neck and lifted him, kicking and struggling, to eye level.  He slowly squeezed, not enough to kill, but enough to weaken.  The knife fell from the small one’s hand and disappeared from the wraith’s vision as it rejoined the living world.  The Ring gleamed and pulsed on the tiny finger, throbbing with Power -- but his orders were clear.  This impudent, hapless creature was to be brought fully into the shadow, and delivered, mindless and purposeless, to Mordor.

The wraith brought his own knife up before the terrified halfling’s eyes for a long moment, then thrust it into the tiny shoulder.  The small one screamed, then shuddered deeply as the enspelled blade, wrought for this purpose alone, broke, and buried a piece of itself in his flesh.

It was done.  The wraith lord opened his hand and released his prey, who fell to the ground, convulsed in agony.

The Morgul blade, now useless, he let fall as well.  Plain sword and black terror would be more than enough to kill the other halflings.  Afterwards, they need only wait until Baggins’ will weakened and failed, the halfling unable to bear the unrelenting pain and hopeless despair.  As he succumbed, and his grasp on the living world loosened, the shard would pierce his heart and the Master’s Ring would utterly consume him.  They would return to Mordor with the tiny, broken creature, forever shadowed and enslaved.

Suddenly, a white-hot flame seared the Witch-king’s vision and plunged deeply into his essence.  Fire.  His four companions, he saw with rage, had faltered, their garments ablaze and confusion overtaking them.  The Man still lived -- and he advanced without fear.  There was something about this one.  Ancient, long-buried memories assailed the wraith lord, even as the searing heat pushed him back.

Enough, then.  No matter where these mortals ran, Baggins was already theirs.  They would retreat, and wait for the halfling to join them.  It would take but hours… a few days at most… no one could resist longer than that.

** TBC **