Moments

The Present:

The water closed, churning, over him, and there was nothing. Black so whole and cold and unrepentant that it became all, not only in the place of its birth but in every place, black ink running over Middle Earth. Swallowing her by inches, eating her alive.

Drowning her.

But the coldness of it faded like the details of a dream in that waking haze, the mind reaching out to half-forgotten bliss or shying from half-remembered horror, and the half that was captured in consciousness was always vague. Things once so clear and sane were rendered incomprehensible, shrouded behind curtains of gauzy nothing. Feelings and sensations were twilighted, thrust forth into their night. Their death.

His mind recalled, though, and kicked muscles into action. Panic, but blind and thoughtless as the instinct-born panic of a fish writhing on the hook, surged up in him. He kicked out deadening legs, reached out with arms that felt little more, flung himself thrashing into the primal struggle for life. His mind recalled life and lanced at fading perception, demanded fight from a body too frozen and oxygen-robbed to care any longer. And his mind alone lingered as the body spiraled ever down, as black ink erased memories one by one. His parents’ faces, long gone but cherished still. The glimmer of dew on grass outside his home. The smell of fresh linen. The taste of new summer berries. One by one those truths, precious but mortal, winked out, stars winking out in a black oceanic sky. The lilt and skip of his friends’ voices, raised in laughter. The feel of their warmth, warding away a night’s chill. The light ever dimmed. It was . . . sad.

But he was not cold, not tired, not afraid. He was not happy, not sad. Not wanting. Not needing. His brain stem, that primitive instinctive seat upon which higher thought could be built, that part of him which would function long moments after the rest had died - after he had died - sent forth its commands, pricking at one loose edge of awareness. There was something that had to be done - something he should have been doing . . ..

It was gone.

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The Past:

Frodo woke, sleep clinging quiet and heavy to his mind and his limbs. He drifted into awareness, sensations and thoughts and aspects of self returning as might stars spark themselves alive one by one by one, at dusk’s beckon. Curled, he was, on his side, head resting on the soft folds of a bundled cloak. A blanket was pulled all the way up to his ears, and underneath it he floated in warmth that touched some fundamental forgotten memory, an echo back to the time before life - this life - began. Floating in the fluid velvet night, floating in mindless peace, he lay.

Ah, but not forever. Such bliss was a temporary thing, and the demands of a body came. Frodo stirred, felt the urge in his bladder and realized that Sam had curled up facing him and now lay with one knee pressed against his belly. That was the source of it, alright.

He turned onto his back, the starlit sky wide and welcoming, and allowed himself to come fully awake. Around him rose sound that had been slumber-mute: his companions’ breathing was soft and slow and deep, set against the score of chirring insects and wind sighing in tall trees and the occasional cry of some solitary nocturnal beast. The voices of the night surrounded him, reached into camp to touch him from afar, and Frodo listened to them for a time and wondered at just how distant they might be.

But there was no use in delay. The need becoming a low ache in his abdomen, Frodo yielded his blanket and his warm cloak-pillow, pulling carefully away so as not to wake Sam. He swayed slightly upon gaining his feet, and listened again. The watch was nearby but he could not remember in which direction it had been set. Strider would be there, though, solid yet merging with the very darkness, utterly awake and vigilant and at home in it. The Ranger was himself so much of the wild, and Frodo often found himself just staring at such a one, seeing and yet certain that his Shire eyes saw little.

The ground was cold and sharp-stoned beneath his feet. Gripping the sword that had become so like an extension of his own hand, he slipped from camp and sought the nearest sheltering bush - strange such instincts that shrilled for privacy even in the most private of darknesses. Casting a glance at his sleeping Fellows, he stepped from open space into the tangled thicket that edged their camp.

A distant noise, low and susurrant, reached his ears; Frodo paused inside the foliage and held his breath until the mindless rush resolved into the familiar sound of a river whose flanks they had strayed not far from for many days. Strong and deep, carving its way forthright through Middle Earth, it was a welcome companion. Fresh water for drinking and cooking and washing, the clean sharp scent that a river carried. Frodo gave it his attention only a moment, though, for its call heightened the urgency of his need. He stepped deeper into the brush, remembering that Strider had chosen a watch point on the opposite side of camp, that the river-speech not impair his hearing. Prudence nipped at Frodo's rational mind, advising him that safety lay nearer the Ranger, not further from him in a swollen dark, ears full of a river brawl. But it was a touch late for prudence to have its way. Frodo sighed and let his eyes drift closed as the pressure in his abdomen eased; he yawned in relief’s sudden bliss.

What? Wait -

Wait . . .

Frodo was a thing mute and still, fingers lingering against the brace they had just refastened. His eyes wide and probing, his breath suspended in his throat, he listened.

Again. There it was again, and more clear. A rustle in nearby undergrowth, a crackling of dry twigs. The thing behind that rustle was big and it was moving - not approaching his position, from the sound of it, but moving perhaps by, and onward. Onward, onward. Whatever it be, Frodo thought. Whatever it be, move onward. He felt his muscles ease, relenting only a touch from their motionless strain; he let his breath flow from him so softly that he could not himself hear it go. His gaze yielded the dark back to itself, lowered to the ground beside him where he knew his sword to be . . .

Sting was luminescent, a shrieking brilliant blue.

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Oh, no. Nonononono. Frodo leaned stiffly down, wrapped his fingers around the sword's familiar hilt, raised it glowing to his side. Oh, no. An Orc - at least one. It was close, still close, still moving. He dared not breathe, not move there in the brush. He listened, strained his hearing to locate that black enemy. What was it doing? Where did it go? His heart fluttered painfully against encircling bone; his lungs burned with the need for more air, new air, but he could not breathe lest it hear him and halt there, snuffling and listening and wondering what lay out from it in the dark.

It turned. How did he know that it turned? What instinct could bring him that surety, he knew not - but he knew that the Orc turned, sniffing the air about it, moving in a new direction. The sound of it reached his ears and gave him nothing more than brief low crackles of dry brush, disembodied, fleeting. Each snap could have been the last, surrendering itself to silence, yielding to a night's peace. Each could have been the last, and was the last until the next one came. Frodo waited, rigid and wondering.

The Fellowship was near. The camp full of his sleeping fellows was near, and into Frodo's mind sprang a new fear: what if the Orc turned toward them? What if it moved into the heart of them, where Gandalf and Merry and Pippin and . . . oh, Sam - his dear Sam - slept? Their faces flashed before him - Hobbits and Men. Wizard, Dwarf, Elf. All needed, all beloved. Oh, what if it found way past Strider’s keen senses, and the others did not hear it come?

Of course he could yell. He could shriek an alarm, rouse them instantly into battle, and they would fight, they would fight. A single Orc would be no match for them. They had proven themselves many a time, blades flashing, arrows swift and true.

But what if . . . what if the Orc was not alone? If it had numbers unseen, nearby in the bush, then any alarm raised for the Fellowship would be also an alarm for them, and they were creatures of the dark. They were awake, alert. The Fellowship would lose a precious second in the struggle up to consciousness, precious more in rising from blankets and beds. In that time the Orcs could be as a plague upon them. Frodo felt himself shift, weight shifting. He felt himself turn as the Orc (oh, let it be alone, let it be alone) had turned, felt himself move toward the sound of it. Sting was solid in his hand, grinning blue and eager for the fight.

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It had to be the absence, he thought. It had to be, for so rarely did he rouse in a night, surrender the warm comfortable nothing of sleep and come to full waking. The absence, it was, of one normally there, so typically there that he became as an extension of self, something to be cherished and yet thought of not at all. That would disturb a rest, to be sure. But as Sam blinked, clearing the sleep from his eyes, and scanned their camp for the one he already knew was not there, some small nagging unease took up residence along the edge of his mind. Something had bid him wake, and it was only logical to think that surely he had missed his friend's warmth and muted breathing. And yet he had not come awake slowly, rising from the fog to realize Frodo gone - no, he had fairly shrieked upward, charged out of slumber as though startled by that distant scream ~was it only the dream the nightmare or was it real did someone something scream like that? ~ And now he lay bathed i! n the sense of it, the remembered forgotten intuitive knowing of . . . something, and he listened, holding his breath.

The others lay undisturbed. Sam shook off the fear - it had not been real. He shoved his blanket aside, rolled from his side onto his knees, braced a hand against dirt warm from him, prepared to rise.

No need, though. Here he came, a slight noiseless shadow into the camp, and Sam blinked again, yawned as relief and fatigue made themselves at once known. Frodo, sword in hand, eyed him without apparent curiosity, then stretched out beside him once more. Sam reached over, covered him securely with the blanket. "Call of nature?" he whispered.

But Frodo gave no answer; he merely clutched Sting closer along himself and closed his eyes.

Sam lay restive, however, remembering the scream that had not been real, and studied Frodo’s weary face, his own weariness forgotten.

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He slept undisturbed, at first, and if a part of him considered that miraculous it did not say. But into the initial deadness moved feeling, angular and weighted, persistent. It jutted into the dreamless scapes he pursued, turned them each black and sharp, lit them with strident blue and filled them with a guttural malevolent tongue. He was in quiet brush, alone, and it came. He was alone with it, out there, and unknowing of what to do. He was following it, then, silent as his people could make themselves when they needed to, ambushing it while it routed around for tubers amid the rot, and that he realized himself unwittingly downwind of it was a chance favour from Fate herself. Unseen, dark against the night, Sting’s blue muffled in the folds of his cloak. Unheard, unscented. Had it halted then because of the Ring? Had it felt that lurid pull in its last living moments, only to feel sudden pain as the blue blade leaped out, lunged forth? Perhaps, perhaps.

Or perhaps it had felt nothing more than a blind distress as a sword came from nowhere and felled it, the distress of a fish wriggling silver on the hook - true fear being not a thing of instinct but of sentience, the sad knowing of one’s end and all that will no longer be possible. The creature had shown naught of sadness or regret.

True fear had gripped Frodo, though, and it resonated more vividly in his rest-seeking mind over time. It clanged through the nightmares, tolled as a bell, and ever could he see the Orc’s grimacing face as it collapsed under his attack. Its blood had clung oily to the sword, so that Frodo had rubbed Sting against soil just as black, rubbed for what seemed like forever, until he had at last drawn the faithful blade over dew-laden green moss and seen it come clean once more. By the moon’s progress, only moments must have passed in that, and then he had been at once in camp again. Sam had been awake, ready to rise. Frodo traced over the memory of that face gazing at him and realized he was awake himself, and unaware of having come so.

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"Mr. Frodo? Sam studied Frodo's smooth placid face, the faint rise and fall of his breast. There was no question. "Frodo, I know you can hear me."

Frodo sighed but kept his eyes closed. The Orc's face swam and twisted before him - what might he see through open eyes? "Go back to sleep, Sam," he murmured. "It's still dark out."

"That may be," Sam whispered, "but you aren't sleeping and I won't be until I find out what's wrong." He shifted closer to Frodo, adjusted the blanket as would a mother clucking over her youngling, ensuring warmth ~you'll catch your death of cold, you will~ against a damp night. "Tell me," he urged.

Oh, the perception. Not a word to Sam upon returning, and yet he knew. A darkened gaze, perhaps. Perhaps Sting's new importance, gripped vehemently by hands that had once touched it with such gentle hesitation, unsure of the substance of it and of what its use would mean to one raised humble and meek in a Shire. Sam had read these things or other things or maybe nothing at all - a soul so attuned to its companion soul that silence would be no barrier to knowing. Words were not needed between two as close as family, closer than family. Frodo opened his eyes into a dark that barely suggested dawn, turned his head to gaze at Sam.

Again: "Tell me. Tell me what's wrong, Mr. Frodo." He could see . . . Something in Frodo's dark eyes, and it was a thing darker still. A possibility occurred, and his breath caught. "Is it the Ring?"

"No, Sam!" Frodo's whisper was loud in his own ears as he hurried to reassure. "I mean to say - it is there, still, and it does grow heavier a burden. But it had nothing to do with what happened last night."

Ah. Sam nodded inwardly, reached to brush a dark lock from Frodo's brow. "What happened last night?"

"I - I . . . got up . .. ." It was back, lips stretched black and desiccated over broken teeth; it was falling, falling under Sting's lurid grin -

"Mr. Frodo."

"I got up," Frodo breathed. "I had to . . . relieve myself." He nodded. "So - so I left camp - I . . . "

"You what?"

"I needed privacy, Sam. You can understand the need for privacy, right? One needs a bit of shelter -"

"Yes - Mr. Frodo, I understand. Of course I understand that. It's alright. It's perfectly alright." Sam heard himself speaking words that one would use to soothe a frightened child, and his worry swelled. Frodo had fixed him suddenly with a look that could have been desperate, or fearful, or disbelieving - he did not know and that blindness chewed at his calm. He needed more words, for Frodo appeared to be retreating, moving back into the silence that Sam now realized had cloaked him upon his return from the bushes. No, it had not been mere fatigue, mere want to seek rest. Frodo's eyes were opaque, glassy; his focus seemed to be wandering. Sam brushed a fingertip careful over Frodo's cheek. "You needed privacy, so you left camp. You stayed close to the watch, right?"

"I . . . no. I didn't."

"You wandered off?" Sam gaped, caught himself, realized his muted whisper had come out squeak, and he glanced about the silent camp before returning his eyes to Frodo. The others - Strider in from watch, Gandalf, Boromir, Gimli, Merry, Pip - they all slept. Frodo was staring at him. "You wandered off?" he repeated, but softly.

"Yes - yes. I . . . did not intend it. But once I was in the brush, I heard the river and I knew that Strider had set watch on the other side of camp so he would hear and so I was away from him but I really had to go -"

"Alright - so you were in the bushes, on the opposite side of camp from Strider. Alright. Something happened? What?"

Frodo blinked and it was there, grinning. Those things did not grin though they did not smile they sneered and crept up on sleeping souls in the night . . . . He drew a breath and surprised himself with the shake of it, as though his lungs had forgotten how to gather air. He gripped Sting; the blade gleamed a dull gray. No Orcs nearby. But Sam was nearby, waiting, waiting. How to say it? "I heard a noise," he breathed. "I looked down at Sting and it was blue . . . oh Sam, it was so blue!"

Oh, no. No. "You met an Orc out there? Alone?" He had been alone, in the dark of night, away from the watch - away from Strider! Sam wanted to pull Frodo into his arms, check every bit of him to see that he was alright. Alone in the brush with an Orc near . . . why - "Frodo, why did you not raise an alarm?"

"I did not know if it was alone. I thought . . . ."

"You thought there might be more than one."

"Yes. And I knew, if I yelled, then I would be waking all of you but I would also be warning all of them." Frodo searched Sam's eyes, tried to read his friend's feelings - there were too many. "I could not take that chance, Sam," he whispered. "I had to be quiet about it."

"Be quiet about what?"

"About . . . about killing it."

Sam blinked, his mind replaying the words. Killing it. Killing it, alone and unaided in the dark. Frodo was watching him, waiting for his reaction, his reply. Again the urge rose, his arms itching with the need to be around his friend, to comfort and soothe. But anger was rising alongside, matching that other desire, and he wanted to drag Frodo unceremoniously over his knee, sleeping camp be damned. Words would not come, would not form in his mind or break through the mass in his throat. He sighed, suddenly not wanting to hear more, not needing to hear more, and he pulled Frodo to his own breast and settled there, one hand in dark curls, warm breath against his throat. It's alright, he thought, closing his eyes. They were both exhausted, and Sting was not blue any more, and around them the night still reigned. It was alright now.

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Aragorn woke with the first touch, fingers light against his cheek. Legolas. The Elf typically woke him that way, a ritual familiar and non-threatening, designed to rouse him without igniting his warrior instincts. He opened his eyes to see dawn broken, the sky streaking with lavender, amber, bright gold. The archer crouched beside him, tinged with that rising light. "What is it, Legolas?" he murmured.

"I need to speak with you, Estel."

"What is it?"

Legolas glanced about the sleeping camp, his senses cast still outward, to the borders of their camp. "I found an Orc while patrolling the perimeter," he whispered.

"What?" Aragorn was full awake, his voice yet muted. Nearby, Boromir stirred momentarily, turned and became still again.

"It was dead."

"Dead?"

"Aye. Killed, from the looks of it, by a sword."

"Where?"

"Toward the river." Legolas gestured into the brush. "It appears to have been routing for food when it died."

"Who killed it?"

"I was wondering if you might have. Although I would expect you to have wakened us if an Orc had come so close to camp."

Aragorn sat up, rubbing his eyes. "And I would have. 'twas not me, Mellon nin." He glanced over the sleeping camp. Boromir, Gandalf, Gimli. Merry and Pippin, limbs and curls tangled so that he could not fully discern where one Hobbit left off and the other took up. Sam and Frodo were likewise snuggled against each other, Frodo nigh buried in his friend's embrace. Nothing out of the ordinary. "The Orc could not have been dead already when we arrived and set camp?" he asked, but knew the answer as soon as the question was out - they had of course patrolled. They had walked the scrubby perimeter, gone down in turns to the great winding river to fetch water, to wash the pots from their meal, to rid their tired bodies of Middle Earth's dust. There had been no Orc when they settled for the night.

Legolas, for his part, did not bother to reply. "I wonder," he murmured, "who in our Fellowship would meet an Orc, kill it, and then fail to report the event."

Aragorn met the Elf's gaze, nodded. "I wonder that as well," he said.

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The Fellowship rose, early light burnishing skin, hair, armour. Gold, as gold as the most precious veins of a darkling mine, mauve, as mauve as a newborn blue rose. Against the unrelenting sky the fellows rose and came together around a newly kindled fire. Mornings were cold, so deathly cold.

Aragorn watched them gather. Legolas was back on watch but would be in henceforth. The rest blinked sleep from their eyes and wrapped blankets more snugly about them, or folded blankets roughly and stowed them away to prove that ice was no match for a warrior's fiery heart. The Ranger had shed his blanket - not out of preference, not out of pride. Training it was that drove him, and would drive him yet to his life's end. His gear was sorted and stowed; he could move forth on a moment's notice. But he eyed the rest with satisfaction: even the Hobbits were close to ready, their packs laid out.

Here he came, slipping in from the cool scrubby forest. He raised one eyebrow at Aragorn, and the Ranger answered that silent question in kind. Nay, it had not been discussed. He turned back to the group as Legolas settled himself. "My friends," he began, watching Sam kindle the fire until it blazed, their own captured sun. "I have news from last night, and a question to ask. Legolas has informed me that an Orc lies freshly slain nearer the river, in the brush that borders us. It appears the beast fell to a sword sometime in the dark. Does anyone know of this?"

"An Orc, this close?" Boromir gripped his sword, having surrendered to instinct with Aragorn's first words. 'News' was word enough to ignite him, spur him to battle-readiness. "Who would have encountered an Orc and been fool enough not to report it?"

"I would gather, then, that it was not you." Aragorn smiled faintly at Boromir.

"Nay, it was not I!"

Gandalf lit his pipe. "'twas not I, either."

"I slept like a babe through the night," Gimli commented, fingers idly smoothing his beard. "Had I met such a foul creature, I would surely have reported it to you. Of course, I would not have taken it with a sword, either." He patted his axe.

"Well, it wasn't me," Pippin chirped. "I sure wouldn't have been off that way in the middle of the night, and if I'd run into an Orc, I think I'd still be running!" He looked to Merry, at his side, and received an answering shrug. His brow furrowed momentarily. "Are you sure there aren't more? What if there's a whole army of them coming right now?"

Aragorn raised a hand. "Nay, Pippin," he soothed. "Legolas followed the creature's track a ways." He gestured slightly, acknowledged the Elf. "It had been following the river, and alone."

"Nonetheless, we should be moving." Boromir held his sword now in a light grip, but his eyes roved across the spaces wherein shadows pooled, the thin low brush grew taller, thick. "I have no doubt of Legolas' abilities," he stated. "But caution is called for. This place - it is not safe, and lingering herein is unwise."

"I concur," Aragorn replied, "and we shall move forth presently."

"Why not now? We can make several miles and then halt for the morning meal in a place less . . . exposed."

"I understand the need, Boromir, but there is yet a question to be answered." Aragorn ticked his gaze over each of his companions in turn. Gandalf sat to the one side, Legolas a short distance off. Ever the sentry. To the other side was Boromir, itching to be forth, and bearded inscrutable Gimli. Merry and Pippin seemed at once eager and dismayed: they would of course support any action that put the group further from harm, but if that action caused a delay in breakfast? They had all answered, all.

Except two. Aye. Frodo and Sam sat directly across from the Ranger, across the ringed fire, shoulder to small shoulder. Sam meddled with the flames, his eyes locked somewhere in their depths; he did not seem to feel the sudden weight of Aragorn's eye. If he did, then he was intent on ignoring it, denying it, poking at the fire as if nothing else existed. And at his side, staring also into the flames, Frodo clutched Sting in one small clenched fist, and was silent.

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Chores were mindless things, repetitive, enduring. And, inasmuch as they lasted from one day to the next, cycled back from completion to need with each doing of them, they were of utter reassurance. Predictable things tended to be a comfort, you see. When nothing else was expected, when nothing else was safe and trite and allowed one to simply act, chores whispered their surety. ~Come tend me~ whispered the flagging fire. ~Come gather me~ whispered dry tinder on the ground. ~Come wash me~ chimed the pots, and the plates added their small voice, and often only a Hobbit was close enough to hear. But being a Hobbit, at such times, was preciously good, for Warriors had to still their tensed hands upon sword hilts, restrain legs that itched for marching and minds that wheeled endless through battle strategies, fighting enemies not yet come. Samwise Gamgee was a Hobbit, and a preciously good Hobbit at that, and so his ears did not hear whispering trees or steel clanging on! steel, but the more modest calls of dirty shirts, of tubers nearby - he should gather some for stew, yes, stew would be a comfort, it would, in such cold - and of course the tiny fire. He sat now before it, stick in hand, tinder going onto the growing blaze (not too quickly, for flames could drown in wood - but did that make sense, a thing drowning in its very realm, and did a fish ever drown in the stream?). He poked with the stick, letting air in. Air to feed it, as it would soon cook that which would feed them. He stared at it, felt Frodo at his side, heard Strider speaking and knew that something was rising among the nine. Something not good.

Oh, Frodo. Silent as one for whom fate had awarded no voice, no means to open up and release his thoughts. Frodo sat too and stared at the fire. His fingers still wrapped themselves ardently around Sting; his lips were pursed as if in abiding pensiveness, but Sam had ceased trying to read any more than surface reflection in his limpid eyes. They had not spoken of the Orc at all, Sam recognizing exhaustion in both of them and yielding further conversation to sleep. So Frodo had told no more than the bare substance of his encounter, that he had heard it while out (away from the watch, he was), had crept upon it in desperate fear and bravery and need to protect his fellows, had done the fairly impossible. A Hobbit so Shire-born and sheltered, so small against the big world, the big Men and Elves, and that Hobbit had found an Orc and killed it, alone. Alone alone alone.

Frodo was not alone now, finally. Sam cursed his deep slumber and knew no good could come. Across from them, smoke-tinged and shimmering in the heated air, Strider was speaking. He looked to Legolas briefly and the Elf nodded at him - a small, subdued nod, a message of some sort, or a query. Then his measured gaze alit on Gandalf, on Boromir, on Gimli and Merry and Pip. He wanted to know -demanded to know - what was about with that dead Orc. Like it mattered now, like it mattered. Frodo wasn't alone now. Not like then.

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Aye, Frodo was a small statue, a dark-curled huddle of stone, blanket folded - and occasionally adjusted, occasionally pulled up further, wrapped tighter by Sam - about him. Delicate fingers wrapped themselves too solidly around his sword, all hesitation gone. Had he taken Sting up at mention of the Orc, or had he held it before then, before then while they gathered unaware? Aragorn cursed his own distraction: his keen Ranger eyes had not noticed.

But they two were the only two left, and certainly Legolas needed not be asked for he had been the one indeed to find the Orc. So Aragorn let his gaze settle on Frodo and Sam, and both looked stiff, limbs held tight to their bodies, eyes downcast and tinged with things he could not read through the rising smoke. He watched them, measured the tension in them and the thoughts they did not share, and needed not their cooperation to glean at least a vague sense of the truth. Along his periphery a pale gold flutter called: the Elf's flaxen mane was being fingered by a morning breeze. Aragorn glanced over and found Legolas gazing as he had, steadily, at the two Hobbits.

He cleared his throat and saw both Frodo and Sam start, faintly, more a shiver along rigid limbs than anything else. Yet they did not look up - they would not look up from the dancing fire. "Frodo?" Aragorn said softly. "I have asked a question of the entire Fellowship. What is your answer?"

Silence flowed through the nine, then, and Aragorn knew it was the muted shock of realization. Each of them, so willing to dismiss a nonsense suggestion, so easily dismissive of how far a Hobbit could go, swallowed now his laughter ~Aragorn, surely you do not propose that a tiny Hobbit crept up on an Orc, in the pitch of night, and thrust his sword through its withered hide . . . all in silence?~ and waited. All eyes, it seemed, were on the Ringbearer, who gripped his sword and did not look up.

"Frodo," Aragorn repeated. "Frodo, I asked you a question." There was no question, no question. "Speak to me, Master Baggins." He saw a quick furtive furrowing of brow, a flash of something in the gaze, but then it winked out or was forced down or was, perhaps, simply forgotten in the way one can in such completeness forget a fleeting thought that it becomes a thing never happened. What was it; what was it? Frodo was shivering so faintly under his blanket; his eyes were wide and clear but touched also with something strange, a hint of distraction. Aragorn studied him and saw the cooling ashes of terror. "Frodo." His voice was sharp now, strange in his own ears. "Look at me. Now."

"I killed it." The words were soft, so soft and yet so clearly carried on the silent air, stunning the rest, stunning the Ranger. He sucked in a breath, forced his gaping mouth shut, stared at the Hobbits. Three of them had turned, eyes fearfully round, mouths open; three of them had turned to face the fourth.

Aragorn shook his head. "You . . . ."

"Yes, Strider. I killed the Orc last night, and I forgot to tell you about it." His eyes raised now, his arms folded against his chest, Samwise Gamgee fell silent, and waited.

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~What?~

"Sam, you killed that Orc?"

~What???~

"Yes, Strider. It was me."

"I think you had better tell us everything, Master Gamgee."

"Well, I…I woke up and needed to go, so I went off real quiet to find some bushes. For privacy. But before I could come back…I heard a noise. It was an Orc. And I had my sword with me, of course…."

Frodo listened as Sam continued the tale, spun out ever more intricate details and descriptions, and in his mind he could see it: Sam alone in such darkness, alone with an Orc - how could Sam be left with an Orc? He opened his mouth to speak, to say… what was he supposed to be saying? Sam should have yelled for the warriors to come - no, wait. That was not right; it was not right. A vagueness had claimed his world, and through it Sam’s voice floated spectral and strange, Strider’s voice distant, meaningless. The words were, by themselves, so familiar and known, such recognizable solitary things. But Frodo found he could not follow one word to the next, stepping easy upon them as he would step from rock to rock to rock and not get his feet wet across the stream. The path was complex, futile. He fell in.

"…in a direction that took you away from the watch." ~Where was the watch, again?~

"I - I forgot where you were." Sam sat straight-backed, his face tight. Frodo stared at him. What was he doing? What was he -

"…that I had specifically set watch away from the river?"

"Only when it was too late, though…."

Frodo glanced then to Strider, who was nodding grim-faced at Sam’s words. He looked back at Sam, at Strider again. They were different suddenly, big and strange. They spoke of things he could not fully grasp, weaving a conversation while he struggled with loose threads. It was too far away, too far, and it surely could not have anything to do with him….

At his side, Frodo was, if possible, even more pale and mute than before. Sam felt weight against his shoulder, steady weight, but not warm. He had to do this. Fear still scratched in the back of his throat; his mind still flew ahead into unrealized fates, but he had to do it anyway. It was his Frodo, after all.

"I’m sorry, Strider - really, I am," he said. "I didn’t realize until I was out there, and I had to go so badly, and it seemed like such a…a waste of time turning around and coming back right away. It was only a moment. Only a moment. And then I heard it, and I had to act." The motives sounded strong when put forth, when ascribed to himself.

"But how you chose to act, Master Gamgee, is part of the issue here. You could have raised an alarm, and we would have been to your aid immediately."

Sam nodded. "I know." Why hadn’t Frodo done that? What could have kept him silent in the brush, sent him creeping into ambush?

"Well?" Strider’s eyes were dark crystal, refusing him retreat.

"I didn’t shout for help because…" ~There might have been more! That had to be it - that had to be what Frodo thought~ "…because I thought maybe the Orc wasn’t alone, and I needed to make sure of it first. If I’d gone and yelled and there’d been a whole army of them near, they all would have come."

"So you checked; you saw that there was only the one -"

"And then it was too late to do anything but kill it. I could have risked coming back to camp to fetch you, but in that time the Orc would have been able to get away. And if it had seen anything, knew where we were, then it could have gone and got its fellows and brought them all." He sighed - it had been the only way. The only way, true enough.

Strider seemed to measure that argument, to weigh it and examine it for flaws behind those dark eyes, and Sam wondered if the Ranger’s mind held thoughts right then or just an angry drone like wasps disturbed from the hive. He wanted to scream how brave it was, how brave to do such a thing -

The Ranger spoke, quietly: "Even if I am to accept what you have thus far told me, Samwise, how am I to accept that you simply forgot to tell me of what transpired?"

That was harder, that one. Sam swallowed, feeling a lump that would not ease just below his throat. "I…." He allowed his gaze to fall, for the first time. "I suppose I must have been so upset about it that I just couldn’t talk. I suppose I was confused and frightened and seeing it over and over again in my mind, and it twisted me inside so that I just…didn’t say anything to you." It seemed so.

**************************************************************************************

Legolas, it was, who raised the alarm, and they moved. They packed what little was not already tucked away; they hefted their simple belongings and their weapons; they stamped out the fire and scattered its ash. They moved, silently, for the Elf had scented Orcs (more than one) on the wind. Were those approaching bodies anything but Orc, perhaps they might have been a rescue party, coming in search of one of their lost. But they were Orcs, and Orcs harboured no such loyalty to kin and kindred. They were simply . . . coming.

And so the words were, it seemed, tucked neatly away with the clothes and the pipes and the small comfortable things that one wrenched from home and family might need. The explanations not done, seven (eight) minds still wondering at the actions of one Hobbit, nonetheless further talk on the subject was stayed.

Frodo walked abreast of Sam, and frequently turned to stare at him with a look akin to the muted wonder one might fix upon a wild thing, that which has never been seen. If 'twere an awed wonder or simply blind confusion - that was yet unknown. For his part, Sam eyed the terrain ahead and strode determinedly, mouth thin-lined across his face.

So it was that their shadows grew blunt and clung to their heels, and they gained a place of some safety, high among barren rock. And they settled once more, displaced wanderers being scrutinized by a hot sun. Legolas at once fleeted for ground higher still, that he might see the scope of their surroundings; Gandalf and Boromir lit their pipes and conversed quietly; Gimli saw to the sharpening of his axe with singular determination. Merry and Pippin commenced anew with the plight of their bellies, digging earnestly through Sam's pack. And Sam, ever the caretaker, managed a poor fire and set about for tea. Frodo was a second shadow at his side.

They perhaps had let it go. Aragorn divested himself of pack and weapons, settled near the fire. The small blaze was unnecessary, but anxious hands would indulge themselves. "Sam," he called. Along his periphery he caught an abbreviated nod from Gandalf. Aye, this needed addressing.

**************************************************************************************

The answer came, and it was the same answer. Exhaustion, upset . . . Sam had just wanted to forget about it all. Sam had just wanted to go back to sleep, to dream, perhaps, of a time when his most pressing concern was weeds choking his Shire garden. Aragorn had once entertained simple concerns, simple worries that elevated themselves through his own blissful ignorance into massive and weighty troubles. He had, once.

"Why did you not tell me with the morn, then?" he asked.

"I . . . I don't really know."

~He doesn't know? He doesn't even know?~ Closing his eyes, the Ranger permitted himself a small show of tension, fingertips straying to massage his temple. Such a casual answer! Did the young Hobbit have any idea about the danger to a Fellowship unwarned, sleeping in the false cloak of security? Aye - they had the watch, and he on it. But he had not spotted that Orc, somehow. It had lurked and kept to the boisterous river's banks, had slipped through their defences and become a genuine threat. To one small soul in particular, one alone in the dark. Aragorn's protective instincts raged and were useless in day's thrall, under a sun so glaring that it would surely banish all shadow from their midst. "Sam," he tried again, wrestling with his tone, "you do know how important it is that we be brought aware of such happenings, do you not?"

"Of course I do!"

"Well, you did not seem to know such last night."

"I told you why already. Must we keep on about this?"

"Excuse me?" Aragorn felt the shift within, felt weary frustration sharpen. He leaned forward, pinning Sam with his gaze. "We will 'keep on about this,' Sir, as long as I deem it necessary."

Sam lowered his eyes to stare at the fire, but his shoulders still planed out straight and rigid and his face was set. His fists rested, white-knuckled but idle, in his lap. The Ranger stared at them, at the strength they suddenly seemed to hold. "Are you listening to me, Sam?" he continued.

"I already told you everything," the Hobbit ground out in reply. The words crackled between them; Aragorn could well nigh see them shimmering above the flames, sparking and hovering there.

That was it. Unfolding his long legs, Aragorn rose. "Then perhaps," he said, "it is time for me to speak and for you to listen." He stalked to a nearby boulder and seated himself, ignoring quiet looks of approval or sadness from the warriors, ignoring the sudden distress flitting between Merry and Pip. Ignoring the almost tangible paling of Frodo's already wan face. "Come here, Master Gamgee," he commanded.

********************************************************************************

Frodo watched Sam rise and stride, head up, toward the Ranger. Middle Earth seemed to have taken a great breath and now was confused as to how it could be released, and everything was waiting for that . . . everything was lingering in the space between breaths and wondering if anything more would come . . . . Strider looked grim; the conversation between him and Sam had seemed angry. Frodo shivered, cold.

In his mind, the words were yet resolving themselves, gaining intent. But no one spoke any more - was he that far behind, dumb and feebly struggling to understand? Sam was being foolish. Strider was angry. Beyond that was silence and darkness and he was still cold -

*********************************************************************************

He knew with as much certainty as he had ever felt that it was the right thing. Frodo was slightly better, angling upward into alertness, but still was not the bright quick Hobbit he had known for so many good years. The shivers still racked delicate limbs, despite this warm day. And Sam could not read his friend's blue eyes as once he had, so stark and clouded over had they become. 'twas as though Frodo were . . . dragging, numb and weary, behind the rest of them, behind thought and word and time itself.

But Strider was furious, and that had to take priority now. Sam cursed himself for his sharp tongue, the words tumbling out before he could check their substance. He had been snappish, unfair. And his pride had then welled, irrational. Not even his own story, and yet he had defended it so staunchly, so aggressively that now the Ranger was angry and summoning him, and still he could not relax his spine or his fists, or dull the anger he knew to be sparking in his eyes. An apology might still mend things - no. He would not apologize.

At Strider's side, then, he stood and met eyes that fairly glittered with fury. Fear had not yet raised its banner within him, so Sam stood and met that dark gaze with his own, and knew it to be right.

**********************************************************************************

The brush was scrubby but tall, and it grabbed at his hair. Frodo pushed it away, ignoring the scratches it left on his hands, on his face. It was so dark, so dark, but he had to go . . . .

Yes. He had heard right. His ears, not the ears of a Ranger or an Elf, had yet not failed him. It was close, snuffling; it was moving perhaps away from him. Perhaps not, perhaps even called, it was, by the cursed Ring. Sting was strident, casting Frodo's clothing and skin, casting the brush around him, a lurid blue. The sword would give him away -

He wrapped it in his cloak, muffled its incandescent screaming. Darkness gained her confidence once again and slunk forth, a briefly spurned lover returning to the one who cast her off. The Orc seemed to linger, circle, move yet make no distance. Frodo stood mute, enfolding Sting and willing no light to escape them -

Sam looked so confident, then. Head up as he walked to the Ranger's side. Curls tinged with the sun, gold curls that could have been cornsilk spun and wound around invisible fingers until it tousled and bobbed just that way. Frodo turned his gaze toward Strider and met a face that gave little away. Sam was silent, impassive.

****************************************************************************

He knew what would come. There was no question about that. Strider's gaze held a heated darkness, and Sam found himself unable to do much more than fire the gaze back and wait, a player in this ritual. Not a game, of course. At least not a game that anyone enjoyed.

And he knew what to do without being told, so he needed not listen to things that would just rile him further. The Ranger was lecturing. He respected the Ranger. He always listened when Strider - their protector their ally their mentor their friend - spoke. He always sought to lighten that heavy gaze.

But there were things bigger than that. For a small Shire Hobbit the reach of Middle Earth and the happenings therein were big enough; Sam wasted no time on delusions of power or heroism, and most often that was the biggest choice he could make. In knowing himself and his skies he could accept circumstances the way they were. The big people were there to fight the big battles, there to do what they did and do it well, and his acceptance of it was not cowardice but plain good sense. Courage came in all forms, it did, and he would play his Hobbit part throughout.

There were things bigger than the big people, though, or at least as big - things that swelled and pressed inside, things that rode over the most reasonable orders just like the Black Riders rode over anybody that got in between them and the Ring. Sam stared into Strider's eyes and saw a lot of plain sense. But he wasn't listening, after all. When the Ranger reached for his arm, he yielded mindlessly. Another small thing to get out of the way, it seemed.

*******************************************************************************

Frodo stared, numb, as Strider pulled Sam over his lap and unfastened the Hobbit's breeches. His hands idly pulling at each other, his mouth open but empty of words, he watched.

*******************************************************************************

The skies had lowered, crouched down almost to touch the land, and all was heavy and damp. The air did not stir but hung, a thing tangible, no chill and yet no warmth in it. And, feeling the promise of rain, the river ran more ardently, a battle-tired soldier who has heard the horizon's dark rumble and knows it to be his allies arrived.

They followed the river yet, mean thickets and tangling weeds between them and the water. On the other side of that foliage the ground was sharp-stoned, uneven and hazardous. So they gave the brush its victory and trod flat mossy land instead, but they could still hear the water rushing. Always in the back of their senses, in the back of their thoughts. Water. Around them the light was an iron grey.

Frodo walked in silence, as did the rest. He looked vaguely, with little interest, at Aragorn. What thoughts would a Ranger hold? Would they be that different from the thoughts of a Man? They would be big thoughts, but maybe not distinct. A big buzz, like sleepy wasps. The need to do big things. He was closer to the ground, like . . . .

Sam. Sam was walking nearby, pacing him, and silent too. The kind face was unreadable, but the stiff movements belied such a placid front. Frodo ran his eyes up and down, aching. A small buzz in his head kept trying to make him focus on something, to remind him of something, but all he could think of was Sam and all that pain. He hated the Ranger.

No - of course he didn't. The burning in him was not that specific; it did not aim itself at any one soul. It was there, as it had been there for as long as he could think of, but it was sort of like the mists over the river - diffuse and drifting. If only it could be trapped, locked in place. He'd have a look then and see what it was about. It seemed big, though - he could say that much.

Sam was staring at him, as though waiting for something, and Frodo felt again that quick sense of loss, of ignorance. The burning surged and he clenched his hands into fists, fingernails digging into his palms. What had he missed? "What?" he murmured.

"I asked if you're alright, Mr. Frodo."

"I - of course, Sam. Why wouldn't I be?"

Sam's smooth brow furrowed for a moment, the answer surely being evaluated, measured, checked for flaws. Frodo narrowed his eyes and waited for the next question, but then Sam only shrugged, almost sadly, and looked ahead once more.

*******************************************************************************

They consumed a day, walking more or less silent. The hills rose and flowed and fell again at their side; they resumed the flatland and once more followed the great brawling river in its flight to an eventual sea. They would never reach the sea, most, but the river spoke of it often. He could hear it.

He could hear it, and this day it was a confusing hiss, a thorned thicket of sound, a cacophony. It whispered and shrieked and said bad things. The Fellowship set up camp, stolid and hushed, seemingly unconcerned. But it wore at Frodo, the relentless river-voice, because in its rush was a muttering that sounded vaguely Orc-ish. And dark would come . . . .

"Here you go, Mr. Frodo." He glanced up, feeling like a student caught daydreaming by the tutor, to see Sam holding a filled plate. Supper - when had that happened? He shook his head.

"Mr. Frodo?"

"I'm not hungry, Sam, thank you."

Sam pressed his lips together momentarily and glanced about the camp - what was he looking for? His wide worried gaze skittered back, and Frodo felt a surge of annoyance. "I said I'm not hungry, Sam. But thank you." His tone was colder, more formal than he might have intended; each word was a sharp little rock.

"I heard you, Mr. Frodo," Sam persisted, "but you have to eat. There's no two ways about that. We've been moving all day -"

"Sam, stop tending me!" Frodo found himself on his feet, suddenly, leaning in toward Sam, poor Sam who still held the plate and now seemed rooted in that spot, mouth slack and open just a bit. Frodo needed not look to the rest to know: eight pairs of eyes stared at him, only at him, measuring, appraising, finding fault. Finding guilt. Enough! Enough. He glared at Sam and lowered his voice. "I told you that I do not wish to eat, Sam. Will you please take that food away now?" And he settled back down beside his pack. Sting was in his grip - had he drawn his sword? He stared at it, but something was missing. It wasn't blue any more. Not so pretty, now.

****************************************************************************

The dark did come, as expected, but if anything came with it, Frodo neither saw nor heard, and Sting was quiet at his side. Still he woke often, straining his ears into the night, checking the blade for that toothless blue grin. Who was on watch? Strider again? Legolas? At his other side, incredibly, Sam slept, and Frodo wanted to shake Sam, just to reassure himself. The slayer of Orcs was unaware.

Out in the brush it would be, closer to the water where it could snuffle about for tubers and keep to cover. Silent, stealthy as though he were right then moving in ambush against the enemy, Frodo rose. He gripped Sting, steel-grey, light and familiar in his hand. The brush was a dangerous place to be - why did they continue to follow that river? He peered out of the camp, took a step, another. Something was out there . . . .

*****************************************************************************

Dawn broke, hesitant at first, then gaining confidence and intensity. The Fellowship was up, had obviously been up for a good while, and their quiet movements and activities and conversation wore slowly through Frodo's sleep, the way moths might eat through layers of fabric. The sounds were vague, then clear and intrusive.

He woke to find the sun a bright hot ball just over the trees. The air was fresh but without chill. And about him the rest set to their comforting routines, folding cloaks, organizing packs. Sam was stoking a fire, cooking. They hadn't bothered to wake him -

It came back, then. The night, damp and cold and so utterly dark. Sting was confused, apparently, for he claimed there were no Orcs nearby. Frodo rose, stepped cautiously toward the brush . . . .

It was morning, suddenly. Again. Still. He hadn't left the camp, but had reassured himself there was nothing out there that shouldn't be, and had turned back to his warm bed. Right, of course. Shaking his head faintly, he turned to his own things, acutely conscious of the others now, the subtle glances being cast his way. Did they know he had left again? No - he had not left. He hadn't left.

~Don't be stupid, Frodo. You never left. Never.~

Still, as he stowed his things, as he smiled indulgingly at Sam, who still looked worried, as he avowed a silent truce by accepting breakfast with a nod and a thank you, as he ate the food and wondered at how it could have so little taste, a part of his mind kept hovering in the brush, and it claimed he had been there too.

****************************************************************************

"I don't know what to do about this."

"Do what is best."

"And that would be?"

"Trust yourself. You possess more wisdom than that for which you take credit."

"Right. And how well it's served so far! No, wait - I'm sorry. I didn't mean that."

"Yes you did, but I would let it pass. However, I will not allow you to fault yourself."

"I can't help it."

"You mean you can't help him."

"That'd be what I mean, yes."

*****************************************************************************

Legolas spotted Orcs, a dark undulating mass on the plain, and the nine sought higher ground once more. From the barren rock they watched. The beasts were but ants, scratching noiseless and impotent over the earth. Frodo crouched beside Sam, idly fingering the Ring.

"They can't see us, Mr. Frodo," the gardener offered, his eyes straying for but a moment from the black shifting wave of bodies below.

Frodo nodded, knowing Sam would not see it.

"They won't even know we're here, to be sure. They'll pass on their way and then we'll be on ours."

Sting did not glow for Orcs at such a distance; the blade lay flat and lifeless. Frodo entertained a brief urge to shake it into brilliance. He nodded again.

"You have nothing to worry about."

What was he on about? Nodding again, Frodo peered down at the horde as it passed. His fingers curled around a loose stone and he drew his arm back, readying a throw. But his arm would not move - his wrist was caught, of a sudden, as in a vise. He turned.

"What do you think you were doing?" Strider crouched just behind him, having floated at some point to his position, and now gripped his arm.

Frodo blinked, then offered a shrug. "I suppose I was going to toss it at them," he replied. The Ranger's face was dark and stiff.

"You will do no such thing. Drop it." Strider gave his wrist a slight shake for emphasis.

Frodo yanked ineffectually, once, then shrugged again and opened his hand. The stone rejoined its comrades, harmless again. "Alright, then?" he asked, turning back to watch the Orcs. They were a seething tide of black and his gaze was swept up with them, carried on their dull skin and the glint of their armour. Where were they going?

"It's alright. I'll pay attention." Sam sounded conciliatory, his 'there, there' words quick and soft.

"Pay attention to what?" Frodo asked.

"To - to you, Mr. Frodo." Sam returned Frodo's glance with a careful grin. "No more throwing stones today, alright?"

"Alright."

"Look - the Orcs are gone! I told you they wouldn't be seeing us up here." Sam pointed toward the horizon, toward a receding darkness. He smiled again, a benign and measured smile, at Frodo. And the Orcs were indeed gone.

That night, though, they came back, and Frodo woke to hear them snuffling about the brush outside camp. Down from the hills once more, the Fellowship still following that damnable hissing river. The ground was soft and held a faint tinge of rot. Perfect for Orcs. Sam slept through it, and whoever was on watch had obviously taken leave of his senses, for no alarm was raised.

************************************************************************

"No, Sam."

"But you said you were hungry earlier . . . ."

"That was earlier. Will you take it away, please?" Frodo watched Sam scurry off, back to the fire and the pots and pans. The other Hobbit's good nature had always seemed an asset. Samwise Gamgee, loyal and true. Samwise Gamgee, quiet, obedient. Pliable. It was sinister.

Merry came to sit down, staring at him. "Are you alright, Frodo?"

"Of course I am," Frodo sighed, returning the stare. "Do I not look alright?"

"Well, you look -"

"Fine, then. Is it settled?"

Merry frowned at him, but nodded before slipping back to Pippin's side. The youngest Hobbit was staring at him too - what was so fascinating, all of a sudden?

Movement caught his eye, and he swung 'round on it, his hand reaching for Sting. What was it? What was -

"Frodo! What do you see?" Strider was at Frodo's side, blade drawn. Nearby, Legolas was also at attention. Frodo could not see the rest but heard the silence that had lanced through them. The sun was bright, the ground without shadow. That movement had been in the brush, near the . . . .

" . . . near the river."

"What?"

"In the brush, near the river. An Orc is there."

Strider shot a glance to Legolas, and Frodo saw an almost imperceptible shake of the golden head. The warriors still held their weapons, but their narrowed gazes flitted back from the brush to alight on Frodo.

"What are you waiting for?" he snapped, drawing Sting and leaping to his feet. "There is an Orc in the brush!"

"Alright." Strider nodded to Legolas and the Elf glided out of camp, toward the hissing river. The foliage swallowed him eagerly and there was silence then as the rest waited. Seconds ticked by, then minutes, and finally Legolas emerged, offered another shake of his head and an apologetic look toward Frodo, and Strider re-sheathed Andurin. The quiet was broken; activity and conversation jangled into it.

Frodo pursed his lips and turned to Strider. "I know what I saw," he ground out, his jaw suddenly tense. "There was an Orc in there."

But Strider only nodded at him, as dismissively as he himself had nodded at Sam up in the hills, watching the Orcs, and waited for him to sheath Sting and sit down again. The Ranger sighed and moved back toward the others; the Elf, apparently mollified by whatever had been or had not been out in that brush, settled against a nearby tree and began crafting arrows. Sam was a drawn face at the fireside, staring not at where the Orc had been, but at him.

He felt a sudden urge to hit something, but he had only pondered it for a moment when it was gone, a receding darkness.

***************************************************************************

The camp had been tainted by Orcs. Perhaps it had, by virtue or fate of its similarity to another camp - THE camp - not long gone, never been untainted. Frodo looked upon it with distaste as the sun sank into quiet hemorrhage against the horizon. They would lie themselves down in such a cursed place, and when the Orcs returned by moonlight they would be unprepared. The Ranger was allowing it, incomprehensibly - their lives depended on the judgement of one who had not heard the first Orc (or maybe it had not been the first maybe there had been Orcs before slinking around at night and maybe those Orcs just had not been caught by a Hobbit's blue sword). And as Frodo glanced at Strider and saw the man in quiet conversation with Sam, it occurred to him that he knew very little about their leader. He was certain that Strider was no stupid enough to blindly lead them into danger . . . .

That left disturbing possibilities.

He looked up at a shadow looming. Strider was beside him - had the muted discourse with Sam ended? Indeed, Sam was back by the fire, prodding it studiously and casting the occasional sly glance his way. Oh, Sam! Surely the Ranger had not convinced his Sam that the Orcs were not there!

"Frodo." Strider was speaking.

"What?"

"I said we need to talk."

Frodo pursed his lips. "I do not see that there is anything to talk about."

Strider was undeterred, apparently. "There is much to talk about, Frodo, and it has waited already too long. For that I apologize."

Apologize? Frodo shrugged, lost as to the Ranger's meaning. "We should talk about the Orcs I saw earlier, then," he said.

With a barely audible sigh, Strider sat next to him. "I believed that we had settled that. Legolas checked -"

"- and found nothing. I am aware." The words emerged more petulant than he would have liked, but Strider probably would not notice. Had not noticed the Orc that night. Had not noticed . . . had punished Sam - his loyal Sam - for killing the Orc when they all should have known that it was necessary! Sam was so brave -

" . . . You hear me? Frodo."

Frodo blinked and was back. Strider was speaking. "What?" he snapped.

"I asked if you hear me, Frodo." The Ranger's face was dark, set. "There are no Orcs nearby. That is fact, and you must trust it."

"Must I?"

"Yes."

"How?"

It was Strider's turn to blink, and Frodo smiled inwardly. Finally, a break in that calm façade. But the Man quirked an eyebrow then and seemed once more all-knowing. "What do you mean, Frodo?"

"Exactly what I said. How? You do not listen to me, Strider. You hardly seem to notice!" The words were dangerous and good, thrilling like the time he had, a Hobbit child briefly alone in Bagend, sampled some of Bilbo's private ale. He remembered the sharp taste of it and how it had warmed him. That Hobbit child was gone now. He glared at Strider.

"Notice what?" the Man asked.

"I . . . ."

"Notice what, Frodo? Is there something you wish to tell me?"

There was. Poor brave loyal Sam. Slayer of Orcs in the night. Sam had defended them all, yet had been undefended when it mattered most - no. It had not happened that way. A voice inside him was shrieking, but the words it used were tangled into themselves and he could not understand! He knew only that something was terribly wrong, terribly amiss, and he was not seeing it. Strider had not seen it, had not noticed. He wanted to hit the Ranger, to shake him.

"Speak to me, Frodo!" The command sounded urgent, almost pleading.

No. Frodo glared at the Man, consumed now. His eyes skipped over the rocky ground to Sam, and anger flared anew. They would not even listen to him! "There are Orcs in the brush - I shall show you!" He sprang to his feet, fingers tight around Sting, and ran from the camp.

*************************************************************************

As he ducked a low branch and narrowly avoided a thorny bush he could hear them, calling his name, pursuing. They wanted him out of the brush, back in the camp where it was supposedly safe. Sam, Strider, Legolas . . . all of them. They seemed to believe so solidly that they were right. He knew better.

Annoyance, familiar now, flared in him as he tripped over an exposed tree root and nearly fell. Limping, ignoring the pain, he pushed forth. He should not have been forced to this! He should not have had to run from them in order to prove what was so obvious - that there were Orcs all around! They should have listened; they should have listened; they should have . . . .

They were listening now, to be sure. Listening in the brush for the sounds of twigs snapping under his feet, for the rustle of leaves as he passed. He made an effort to slow his breathing and move with the stealth that Hobbits were known to possess. The whole exercise would be pointless if they came upon him and dragged him back to camp before he could find the Orcs. Find the Orcs, Frodo, and then let the others come and SEE what they had missed. Let them see. Let them see.

But they were fanning out - eight of them ranging wide through the brush, down through the scrub and the thorned thickets that ran along the great muttering river. Frodo listened for them; he listened for the grunting and snuffling of Orcs; he eyed Sting and saw the blade gleam dull iron grey. Sting wasn't listening to him. The rest would catch him before he made it through all this brush. He needed . . . something. Some advantage, a way to find the Orcs more quickly.

Of course, of course! Trees lined the mighty river, their knotted roots deep and widespread, their branches flung out over the water. Tall trees from which a Hobbit could gain unobstructed vision. Hearing Sam's voice, near on his left side, hearing Gimli - or Boromir, perhaps? - on his right, he made for the bank and the waiting trees. Hobbits were not Wood Elves, but he could climb if he needed to climb! He could clamber up into those high branches and see.

And there they were, the trees, as he had known they would be. Straight-backed sentinels, they each seemed to invite him now. ~Come to me~ they whispered. ~Come and let me show you the truth.~

Frodo made his way past five or six of them, fingers trailing over their gnarled skin, before he found the right one. Tall, it was, but with a welcoming low branch he could gain from the ground. Stretching, he wrapped his hands around it and pulled, feet scrabbling against the trunk. For an agonizing moment it seemed that Middle Earth's pull would be greater, would send him chastened back to the muddy ground, but he gritted his teeth and wrenched from his flagging muscles one last massive effort. One last campaign before eternal defeat, and he was pressed up against the underside of that branch, his arms and legs both now wrapped around it, quivering. Slowly he shifted, hauled himself up until he straddled it, giddy with the sheer possibility of it all.

But he could not linger there, for he was sitting low and exposed and Strider, coming upon him then, could simply have plucked him from the tree. He stood, the bark rough beneath his feet, and set his sights on the next limb.

Up he travelled thus, slow and determined, wavering at each new attainment of height, giggling to himself. The mud-soft ground became distant; his view of the brush widened, swept ever further out until he could see over it, over it the way a bird in flight must see everything . . . and there was the forsaken camp, the fire still flickering. There was the trail by which they had gained this place. There was the line of thicket that ran, strangely, along the river's length but a certain and seemingly fixed distance from it. There was scrubby brush in which an Orc could move, snuffling for tubers or small prey. There was the end of the brush, the brief bare ground into which these trees had taken root, the shore of the brawling river and the river itself. Late sun sparked on the water.

He stiffened, stilled, his breath catching. Gandalf emerged from the denser brush and moved, silent, through the poor foliage. The Wizard's gaze was ever in motion, ever moving. Frodo watched the silver robes turn gracefully upriver, move toward the trees. Toward his tree. He had to find Orcs soon, or Gandalf would find him, and he turned to cast his eye over everything, to seek in all that one dark hunched shape.

There - was it? Not this side of the river, but across where there was thicker brush down to the water's edge. In the shadows of that greenery there had been movement, fleeting. Frodo swung his upper body around the trunk, leaned out to probe those shadows. Nothing was moving; a stillness had descended over it. Over everything, in fact. Not the still of a calm day, either, but an utter and unnatural quiet that grated against his nerves. No birds sang. No wind rustled leaves. Middle Earth and her creatures, it seemed, had stopped and were now holding their collective breaths, waiting . . . waiting . . . .

Frodo stepped around the trunk, made that branch and crouched upon it. Still nothing moved across. He needed to be closer - of course, of course. Straightening his legs, one foot in front of the other, he gripped a branch at shoulder level and shuffled outward on the mighty reaching limb. Outward, closer where he needed to be. The ground grew muddier beneath him, fell further away, disintegrated into wet stones and then he was over water that must have deepened quickly, for though it sparkled clean he quickly lost sight of the bottom. Oh, the height. The branch above him had curved up, mercilessly up and away, and he now could reach it with only his fingertips. But for that he was unsupported, standing on a branch unsupported, eyes locked on that elusive greenery. Sting hung at his side, not blue. Useless! Useless sword.

He needed to be closer, to see better into the shadows. One foot edged forward over the knotted bark, his weight shifting to the other leg. Then shifting back, and the other foot sliding forward to its place right behind the first. The branch overhead eased itself gently from his touch.

He fell.

*****************************************************************************

The water closed, churning, over him, and there was nothing. Black so whole and cold and unrepentant that it became all, not only in the place of its birth but in every place, black ink running over Middle Earth. Swallowing her by inches, eating her alive.

Drowning her.

He was cold and frightened and he fought as a creature will fight for life, even the poorest and most wretched life a thing instinctively grasped. He thrashed and kicked and grew colder, grew tired. Oh, he had never been so tired - he could not remember ever being so tired. He could not remember -

Cold. So cold, then not. He was not cold, not tired, not afraid. He was not happy, not sad. Not wanting. Not needing. His brain stem, that primitive instinctive seat upon which higher thought could be built, that part of him which would function long moments after the rest had died - after he had died - sent forth its commands, pricking at one loose edge of awareness. There was something that had to be done - something he should have been doing . . . .

Then, motion. A mindless unplanned motion took over, as the black had taken over, as the cold and the exhaustion had taken over, and he was too tired to resist so he sailed with it. He was flying, the weight off his limbs. His heart should have raced at this sudden change, but too much cold had worked upon it and so it beat ever slower, its rhythm spiraling outward like yarn unraveling from a spool. Ever more slowly. The last warmth bled out and was gone.

And he was across an unknown barrier, sailing into - pulled into - chaos. White and cold and loud so loud with jangled sounds and voices yelling and the motion that still gripped him -

"I have him!"

"Get those wet clothes off!"

"Back to -"

"Nay! Build a fire right here."

Hands were on him and he pushed feebly. What had been eternally deep and yielding was now solid, hard beneath him. A hiss and crackle nearby - someone had built a fire. His clothes were gone and a blanket - perhaps a cloak - was wrapped tightly around him. Someone was stroking his hair, murmuring, "It'll be alright, it'll be alright."

He slept.

******************************************************************************

"Frodo, wake up." The voice cut through what little remained of his slumber, and Frodo opened his eyes to morning. Morning? He recalled nothing of the night. Turning his head, he caught Strider's gaze. The Ranger knelt at his side.

"What . . . ." He tried to focus, but whatever thought had gripped him would remain unspoken. He yawned and sat up. Sam was just the other side of the fire, staring at him; the rest of the Fellowship seemed likewise interested. "What's wrong?" he asked, looking back to Strider.

"How do you feel, Frodo?" Strider looked him over as though measuring him, and Frodo cast a glance at Sam. The other Hobbit had moved to sit with Merry and Pippin; all three were watching him.

"I feel fine, Strider. Now what is wrong?"

"A great deal, Frodo. A great deal is wrong, and it has been for some time now."

Frodo blinked at him. "I - what are you talking about?" Realization hit him and he stiffened. "Did you find Orcs nearby?" He struggled to gain his feet, reached for Sting and could not find it. "Where is my sword?" he cried. Had they taken Sting from him? Did they not want him to -

"Frodo!" Strider's hands were on Frodo's shoulders, gripping him, shaking him. "Frodo, calm yourself! There are no Orcs nearby. I have sent Legolas to check already, and he has reported that there are none."

"Oh . . . ." Frodo relaxed, leaned back and propped himself up on his locked arms. "I thought perhaps -"

"Aye," Strider interrupted. "I know exactly what you thought. And that, I'm afraid, is the problem." The Ranger's eyes seemed clouded. Worry, perhaps? Anger?

Sighing, Frodo swept his gaze over the camp, over their surroundings. Orcs would not attack by day, craven beasts. They were safe for the day. He turned to meet Strider's gaze once more. "I don't understand," he confessed finally. "How can my vigilance be a problem for you? For any of us?"

"Vigilance is not the problem, Frodo," Strider replied, moving to sit next to him. "Vigilance is never a problem, for we need every bit of it on this Quest. But we also need clear minds, Little One. And for some time now you have demonstrated anything but. Last night you fell in the river and nearly drowned before Boromir pulled you out."

"I remember." The branches had moved apart so that he could not reach them. He glanced down at himself - dry clothes, not the ones he had been wearing. Someone had dressed him. "I needed to see across the river," he added. "There was movement in the brush there."

"And what were you doing up a tree in the first place?"

"Looking for Orcs." Frodo raised his eyebrows and nodded. "I was being vigilant."

"There are no Orcs around here, Frodo," Strider sighed. "And you were to remain in camp."

Frodo bristled slightly. If the rest of them had bothered to listen - "I needed to check," he said slowly, stressing each word. Was Strider even listening to him?

"I am listening to you," came the quiet response.

Had he voiced that? He struggled to remember and could not.

Then Strider was up and had reached down and wrapped strong arms around him, and Frodo felt himself lifted from his warm blankets. "What are you doing?" he demanded. "Where are we going?"

"Hush." Strider's voice was low and dangerous; the Ranger's grip around him was implacable. "You almost died last night, Master Baggins. And I am sorry for the fact that I failed you and ultimately led you to that near fate. But I will not fail you again, Little One. Never again."

***************************************************************************

The ground fleeted past, the rocks weathered as old bones, under the Ranger's stride. Frodo watched it for a beat before fear set him writhing in earnest. "Strider!" he demanded, loathing the tremor in his voice. "Put me down!"

But the demand brought him no release, no visible reaction from his captor. Strider paced determinedly, silently, to a flat boulder at the edge of camp, turned to take a seat, and Frodo felt light-headed as the world tilted and spun before him. He had not even time to question it, however, and found himself face down over the Ranger's solid lap. He continued to squirm, but the fear shifted; his focus shifted as it seemed to, now, always. Strider was holding him down, yet even as his breeches were lowered his thoughts flung themselves outward, restless and seeking. Orcs. Orcs nearby. Every . . . where . . . .

No one, not even Sting, could tell him the threat was gone. He heard the words, spoken in voices he had once trusted - what had turned them against him so? More than that, what had turned them against the truth? He only wanted to preserve the Quest, the Fellowship's reason for being, the pursuit of all good over evil. He only wanted what was right - had wanted it from the start. That was why he knew Sam's actions were the right actions. Killing the Orc was something he (no, nonono Sam) had been right to do. Keeping it quiet might have been a mistake, but oh the shock and the fear and the unrelenting grip of the knowledge that he (Sam, Sam, Sam) had ended a life - had taken a life. Any life, all life was of value. To a small Hobbit from the Shire, murder was . . . unthinkable. Inconceivable, and most definitely undoable. Never would such a small soul wield a weapon of death and bring death with it to another. Never. Never.

So Strider was angry . . . because? Because . . . .

He had left camp. that was it, of course. He had left camp to prove Sam right, so that it would not be such a grievous wrong that Sam had been punished for this thing - if he could prove Sam right, find the Orcs, find the Orcs (they're out there even now as I lie here and feel small and alone and unloved), he could make up for what had happened to Sam. The guilt, the guilt in him. Find the Orcs and the guilt would wash away, as he had almost been washed away by that river.

Right. That river was the reason Strider was so angry. He had left camp, weary of their stares and suspicious of their whispers. He had left camp to prove something to them all, and instead of proving it he had fallen into the river. He had become a thing to be rescued, to be dealt with. He had become a burden, a weight on them as surely as the Ring weighed on him (and was it the Ring that had sucked him down, down into the cold and the dark? And was that cold and dark only in the water, or could it be found in air, where one could breathe and speak and walk about as if everything was alright and have it go unnoticed by his fellows?). He had become a burden to them, a source of trouble. And to Sam - poor loyal Sam who had been blamed for killing the Orc (Sam had killed the Orc . . . of course, of course - no question) - he had become a betrayer. One who could not make it better. One who could not atone enough for the wrong.

He buried his face in his hands and was weeping before Strider landed the first slap, and when he heard it fall, the sharp crack of the Ranger's palm against his bottom, he registered it only as sound, the sound of a distant twig snapping under Orc feet. The sound of a steel blade against bone. Were the Orcs coming now? Where was Sam?

Sam . . . loyal Sam.

It was lasting forever, for eternal moments. He had lost his grasp of time, of that which lay around him. His hands against his face, the tears leaking like river water or blood through his fingers. The pain had grown intense, then unbearable, and still it lasted. Strider was so angry, and Sam would have to hate him . . . Sam would have to hate him? What -

No. No, no. Sam would not hate him for . . . for . . . .

"Frodo, are you listening to me?" What?

"Frodo, you will hear me. You will hear me, Little One."

He shook his head, tried to refocus tangled thoughts. Strider was speaking above him, the voice floating down disembodied. The hand had come down, disembodied, into the cold and the dark, and it had grabbed him and taken him from that place. The voice was coming down now, floating down. Where would it take him? Where, that the guilt would not follow?

Sam. Loyal, loyal Sam. Killed the Orc for you. No -

No. It had not happened that way . . . .

"Frodo," the voice sounded again, and this time it held a depthless warning. 'Listen,' it said. 'Listen and hear. For the first time since the last time you actually heard anything and did not filter it through the haze in which you've walked -' Sam, why? Why kill - no . . . .why take the blame? Oh . . . .gods. Oh gods, oh gods. Sam . . . .

"I did it!" he screamed, his voice wrenching forth like blood from a wound, from the wound of a hobbit's sword - there in the dark brush where he had been, away from the watch (You met an Orc out there? Alone?), away from safety where he had finally learned that which a Hobbit should never learn, that which a Hobbit could do when it needed be done, take a life, take a life like the big people did, like the warriors he would never be for he was so simple and Hobbits just did not do that -

"Frodo - what are you talking about? What did you do?" Strider's voice was a blade, cutting through the tangle of memory.

"I . . . killed the Orc . . . ." Frodo's voice hitched, quivered. His voice was shaking as his hands had shaken in the dark, gripping Sting and wondering where the Orc was going if it would turn toward camp toward his sleeping fellows and his precious Sam -

The spanking had stopped, incredibly, and silence was flowing back in, back in around the sound of quiet weeping, of the ragged breathing that told Frodo he had survived the Orc, survived the river. He had survived it. But how could Strider have stopped then, right when he finally confessed to his sin? He had killed the Orc! He had killed the Orc. He had - the truth, so long hidden, now strained against the cage of his mind, a beast finally off its leash and now eager to run free. Now it was there - how had he ever lost sight of it, convinced himself that Sam had killed the Orc instead? How had Sam convinced the others? And . . . why? Why, Sam? Why?

"Hush, Frodo. Hush." He realized he had been voicing it aloud, all of it, all of it. For how long? How much had they heard? Could they understand it, when he still wondered at how it was even possible?

But IT had to be said again. It had to be said, over and over and over. Affirmed. Sam was innocent, had been innocent all along, and now Sam's innocence had to become a thing repeated and avowed and endorsed until every shred of residual blame and guilt had been taken from Sam who did not and would not deserve it, and given to the guilty one. The Betrayer. The Burden. Why didn't they leave me in the water? After all this . . . .

"Frodo!" Strider's voice was sharp again - it held anger. Over the lie, no doubt, letting Sam be blamed - "Frodo, listen to me now! We know you killed the Orc, Little One. We know that, and we knew it all along. Sam tried to take the blame for you, but in the end he did not."

What? He lay and went quiet, and shook his head again. He ached, his muscles stiff. There seemed an inferno in his bottom, and yet, strangely, he was also beginning to feel the cold. Details were coming clearer. The ground in front of his face, quiet sounds of weeping from nearby. Sam? He shivered, and Strider replaced his breeches and pulled him up into a hug, and he lay with his head against the man's chest and sniffled and wondered about it. Too much, too much tangle to think -

"Frodo." Quietly, now. Gently. "Listen to me. That morning, Sam told us he had killed the Orc. But I did not believe it, for I had seen you gripping your sword as though for life itself, and I had seen a haunted look in your eyes. A look that should never come into your eyes. You were so quiet, so subdued. And Sam was worried, more worried than I have ever seen him, and he wanted - he needed - to protect you. So he lied to me, and I called him over and confronted him about it, and we had a discussion. I do not think you heard us. I honestly wasn't sure how aware you were of anything. You appeared . . . detached. Outside of it all. And I knew it was you who had done it."

"But - but . . . "

"But what?"

"But you punished Sam for it."

"Nay, I did not." Strider pulled him closer. "I punished Sam for the lie, Frodo. For lying to us all, and for continuing the lie even after I asked him directly if he was being truthful. It was never for the Orc, Little One. You were never responsible for Sam being punished. If that belief has been tormenting you, then it has been doing so unjustly."

Frodo blinked, feeling tears that threatened once more. "I . . . I was sure of it," he whispered.

"Be assured it was not the case. Frodo, you did not get Sam in trouble, and you should not feel guilt over it."

Oh, his body ached. Had he run miles, chasing the shadows of his mind, to make himself so weary? His throat was raw, his muscles growing stiff. Around him, Middle Earth seemed suddenly sharper, more real, as though he were waking from a dream.

>From a nightmare.

*************************************************************************************

Focus returned, ever returned; his thoughts untangled and made themselves clear, and Frodo found himself as in daylight, after the longest darkest most murk-filled night he could remember. He could remember so much of it, and he could remember so little. What remained with him was scattered, fragmentary, suggesting a reality made of glass, shattered in the act of . . . coming back.

Yes. That was what he had done: he had returned from some dark and distant place. He had been brought back by them. The Ranger. The Warrior of Gondor. The Wizard. The Dwarf. The Elf. His fellow Hobbits. In a way - Sam constantly insisting he eat and casting with Merry and Pippin those worried glances from across the fire, Legolas humouring his fears by checking for Orcs that he now realized with a strange sadness must not have been there, Gimli trudging somewhat closer to him through the long days, Gandalf searching along the river where he'd fled, Boromir pulling him out of the water, Strider - all of them had taken part in it. They had formed of their bodies, of their minds and their hearts, a sort of net, and they had flung it out to catch him when he would have fallen into the dark. One small Hobbit so far from the Shire and everything that a Hobbit knows of life. They had all been there, and he knew with a certainty that went beyond words that they were all! still there. Still.

It was growing clearer. How could he have lost it? That night, now, was as sharp as the pinpoint stars against black sky. He had gone from camp, just seeking privacy in which to relieve himself - a task as banal and benign as any task could be. But there in the brush he had encountered the inconceivable and had survived it. An Orc, which he alone had slain. His mind combed through the details now, sorting them. It had been snuffling over the dank ground, searching, probably, for tubers or grubs or whatever it was that an Orc might find appetizing, and he had moved upon it with the silence that Shirefolk could muster. His feet had been sure over the leafy ground; Sting had gleamed a strident blue within the shelter of his cloak. When he had pulled the blade free, the creature had whirled from its quiet foraging and looked at him as though stunned. Stunned. An Orc could feel . . . surprise? An Orc could feel? He had left himself no time to assess that, nor to cont! emplate what such a realization might mean to him; he had killed it swiftly, cleanly, before it could kill him. Its face, as it fell, had still held that mixture of shock and incredulity.

Yes. He had killed a being, not a simple creature. He had taken the life of something that knew emotions as he did. He had . . . murdered it. Now both his mind and his heart were in agreement - he had been given no other choice. No choice when the Fellowship and the Quest were at stake, for Middle Earth was bigger than any individual life, and that Orc, in his place, would have shown no mercy. But it was a hard knowledge to come by, and Frodo remembered the discordance that had gripped him afterward, the guilt that he could not quite identify. He had focussed it entirely on Sam, on the idea that Sam had taken the blame for him, and with that he had mentally whipped himself, over and over and over, each day in waking, each night in dreaming. But a part of him had known all along the truth which Strider now forced him to see: he had not been responsible for Sam's pain. And in the void left by that shame he could see the edges of another, greater, deeper. The shame o! f having ended a life and then having held his tongue about it. Silence, as though it had never happened. In a way, he had killed the Orc twice - once with Sting's blue grin, and once by denying even to himself that anything had occurred. Not even acknowledging that it had lived and been surprised and stunned and perhaps afraid at the sight of him. Not even acknowledging that as it had fallen he had seen in its eyes a shade of what might have been regret, or loneliness, or only the simple desire for something more.

Every living thing - any living thing - deserved better than to be slain and then forgotten.

He shifted against Strider, the Man's heartbeat a steady reassurance. There were things far bigger than one life. One Orc life, or one Hobbit life. They would learn this. He had not expected to learn this.

"Frodo?" Strider murmured his name, and Frodo felt fingers combing absently through his curls. "We need yet to talk further."

He drew back and met the Ranger's gaze. "About the Orc," he replied, surely. "About me killing it and not telling you."

But Strider shook his head, smiling faintly. "Nay, Frodo. I believe you were right to kill the Orc, and I also believe that you have come to realize that yourself. You have been plagued by such guilt over it, but you must know that you did what needed be done. What any of us would have needed to do. And you must know that taking a life never really gets easier. Aye, it becomes familiar, and that is regrettable. But it never comes easily, not even for a warrior seasoned in battle. And your silence afterward," Strider sighed, studying him, "I can understand. You went through a horrific experience, endured something that you never should have been forced to endure, and you did it alone. I can understand the fear and the shock that must have gripped you. And I know that your silence was not deliberate. Frodo, you were drowning in the memory. Your mind and heart were trying to learn how to live with it, how to make it a part of you without letting it destroy all that! you are. I never thought you remained quiet to hide this from us. Never."

Frodo blinked. His tears had dried but his eyes were still swollen. His throat felt raw. And his backside felt worse than that. But the words lighted something in his heart, easing the hurts. "Thank you," he whispered.

Strider smiled. "You are most welcome. However, I am not certain you will be thanking me much longer. We still need to discuss why you strayed away from the watch that night."

Oh - that came sparking back, taking its rightful place alongside all the things that had, until now, seemed infinitely more important. Frodo wondered briefly how such a small thing could become the focus. But it made sense. He had done nothing wrong in killing the Orc. He had done nothing wrong in staying silent. He had not caused Sam to be punished unfairly. All those sins, all those unforgivables, clicked quietly away, like the claws of some retreating beast. And all that remained was that first mistake - that single mistake that had started it all. Had he turned immediately upon realizing where he was, crossed the camp to the other side where Strider held vigil over their borders, he never would have met it. And perhaps, perhaps, he did not need to have met it. The last shreds of panic were leaving him, the last vestiges of that suspicion that he alone - the Ringbearer alone - could detect and protect them from Orcs. Perhaps, had he simply retreated, all would! have still worked out. Strider would have seen the Orc, or heard it. Legolas would have wakened first, Elven hearing so keen, and would have felled it with Elven reflexes and strength. Boromir would have been up, sword at the ready. Gimli, axe in hand, determination personified. Perhaps. Aye. And he felt suddenly safe, suddenly safer than he had in so long. They could be trusted to do all that needed be done, and all those days he had walked in distrust, all those nights wondering if any of them could protect the Fellowship as he had protected the Fellowship . . . all those days and nights faded. Of course they could. They all could, and Frodo settled back with the knowledge, the truth that he had misplaced but never completely lost. He sighed and looked back at Strider. "I was supposed to remain, if I needed to leave camp, on the side where you had set watch."

"Indeed you were. Why did you not?"

"Because . . . because I didn't think anything bad would happen. I thought it was just the once, and it would mean nothing."

Strider nodded. "You now know different, as do we all. And this must yet be addressed." With a quick kiss to his brow, Strider lifted him.

Ai. So there he was again, and this time his mind was clear as he stared at the rocky ground, felt Strider once more lowering his breeches and placing a hand gentle in the small of his back. The first slap felt hideous on skin already so heated, but he let himself feel it through his body and his soul. He let himself start crying from the first, let himself release every last scrap of shame that still itched at him. He listened to the sound of Strider's hand against him, and as the inferno raging in his backside grew, as tears once again blurred his world, he thought about that ever so innocent Hobbit who had thought nothing bad could possibly happen. That one mistake had been the start of it, and now this would be . . . this would be the end of it.

Then, finally, an eternity had passed and it was over. Strider was holding him close again, murmuring sweet words in his ear. All was forgiven. All was forgiven, and all he needed to do was try to breathe and let himself cry and know that he could forget the fear without forgetting anything, that he could leave it behind and that such was alright. Oh, the weight that had pressed on him. It was gone, and taken with it the blackness, and the cold. The innocent Hobbit he had been - he knew, with a sudden overreaching certainty. He knew that Hobbit was still with him, was still him. He could keep that. It was alright to keep that.

There were no Orcs nearby, and as exhaustion flowed over him Frodo peered into the looming dark of sleep, and did not fear.

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Finis