Chapter Text
“So, Mr. Frodo’s going to cook for us tonight,” Sam said, rubbing his hands together in anticipation. “I’m darn glad I got that bird now.”
“Your stone-throwing skills surpass any other hobbit of the Shire,” Frodo laughed.
“Bravo!” Pippin said. “If Frodo cooks half as well as Bilbo, we’ll not starve on this journey.”
“I don’t think I’m as good as Sam,” Frodo said, blushing. “But seeing how we’re only about two days from Bree, I hope it’s one of our last outdoor meals for awhile.”
“And I’m sure it will be a good one,” Merry said. “Don’t you remember when Frodo cooked for my birthday a few years ago? Very tasty. Bilbo taught him well.”
“What are we having?” Pippin asked.
“Mushrooms,” Frodo answered. “And that bird you shot, Sam.”
Frodo cut up the mushrooms before tackling the bird. He winced at the blood that smeared all over the knife. Nasty business. He hated this part. Bilbo had not taught him this part—Sam had. He looked up at Sam with a smile, and at that moment, he sliced into his hand. A seering pain spread over his hand.
He cried out, dropping the knife.
“Did you cut yourself, Mr. Frodo?” Sam cried.
“Oh, I’m so foolish!” Frodo said. “I can’t believe I did that!”
He held his left hand over the cut. Blood oozed between his fingers.
“Here, let me have a look.” Sam took Frodo’s hand in his. “We need to wash it off right away.”
“There’re no streams nearby. We’ll just need to cover it,” Frodo said. “Hand me the bandages, please, Pip.”
“No.” Sam shook his head firmly. “The knife was dirty. Pippin, Frodo’s right. There are no streams nearby, but dribble some of our canteen water over his hand if you will. That ought to do it.”
Sam held Frodo’s bleeding hand while Pippin poured water over it.
“There now, I’m fine,” Frodo said. “I didn’t mean to make such a fuss! Let’s just cover it so it doesn’t bleed all over our dinner!”
Sam got out a small bandage and wrapped it around Frodo’s hand. The blood soaked through the first layer. Sam continued to wrap layers over the cut until the blood stopped soaking through.
“There now, is that better?”
Frodo smiled.
“Much better. Thank you, Sam.”
The hobbits slept that night under shelter of pine trees. Their stomachs were content from Frodo’s delicious meal. Only Frodo had difficulty sleeping. His cut throbbed like it had been stung by thousands of wasps. Every time he moved, the pain flared, jolting him awake. The cut must have gone much deeper than he thought. They were almost to Bree. There, if necessary, they could find some herbs that could ease the pain. He sighed, trying to be brave about the pain. If a simple cut was his worst problem on the quest, he should consider himself very lucky.
Frodo woke to a gray and drizzly morning. His sleep had been so poor that he could scarcely believe that it was time to move on. His muscles were so fatigued. They had about a day's march before they reached Bree, according to the map. Frodo hoped that by taking a short cut that he had discovered that they had left the Ringwraiths behind. He shuddered in memory of their near miss at Bucklebury Ferry. He had actually felt the icy breath of the Ringwraith chasing him.
Frodo winced. His hand burned and throbbed. The first stream they came to, he planned to unwrap the bandage and wash it off. He accidentally bumped it against his knee as he fumbled for his pack. A flare of hideous agony ripped through his hand. He cried out, biting his lip.
"Frodo?" Pippin asked. "Are you all right?"
"I'm fine." Frodo took several deep breaths. "This confounded cut!"
Merry looked at him in concern.
"Does it still hurt?"
"A little. Well at least I don't need my hands to walk." He smiled bravely. His head felt light. An aching pervaded his limbs. The idea of walking all day in the rain made him feel weary and frustrated. How he longed for his feather bed in Bag End! There Sam could have made him some tea and he could have spent the day sleeping.
All morning, as they trekked through the mostly barren countryside at the edge of the Shire, he was quiet. His friends tried to engage him in conversation, but all Frodo could concentrate on was putting one foot in front of the other. His muscles ached, and his eyes felt hot. At lunch, he looked down on the dried fruit and bread and cheese, but none of it was appealing. He pushed his food aside.
"Not hungry, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked quietly. "You should eat up. You're looking a little peaked."
"Sam, how far are we to Bree? Are we nearly there?"
Nobody answered. He looked up in time to catch Merry and Pippin exchange a worried look.
"You're the one with the map, cousin," Merry said. "We've been following your route."
Frodo looked up in confusion. A chill rippled over his body and he pulled his cloak to him. His hand flared in new agony.
"Map?"
"Frodo, are you all right?" Pippin asked. "You're awfully flushed."
Sam worriedly put his hand over Frodo's brow.
"He's burning up. Oh, dear. I don't know what we should do out here in the middle of nowhere. He needs a nice soft bed and a warm fire."
"I thought he said we'd be at Bree by nightfall," Merry said.
"Why don't you take out the map and look at it?" Sam said in irritation. "Pippin, you build a fire. Mr. Frodo, don't you worry about anything. We're just going to rest here a bit, get some hot tea into you."
"No, Sam," Frodo said, shaking his head. "I'm all right. Please don't fuss over me. I do remember now. We're going the right way. If we keep walking the rest of the afternoon we should be in Bree by nightfall. I'll be all right. I would rather tough it out now and get to rest in a real bed tonight. And don't forget the cloaked riders."
All four of the hobbits shuddered at the memory of the shrieking Ringwraiths that had pursued them.
Sam shook his head with a tsking sound in his teeth.
"You're not walking anywhere right now. We're going to hide under the shelter of those trees over there and you're going to rest until this fever burns off."
Frodo didn't say anything about his throbbing hand. It seemed secondary to the aching fever that had pervaded his body. His eyes felt hot and blurry. He gratefully leaned back into the makeshift bed Sam had prepared for him.
"What are we going to do?" Pippin asked quietly. He looked about worriedly. He was obviously thinking about the Ringwraiths. He had wanted to get to Bree as soon as possible to meet Gandalf. Frodo couldn't blame him. He bitterly cursed his luck at getting sick out in the wild. He felt terrible that his young friends were being subjected to the fear and misery of their journey.
By evening, a drenching rain had begun. Sam tried to cover Frodo the best he could with his cloak, but soon all four of them were soaked and shivering and unable to keep the fire going.
"We must have shelter," Sam said, watching in dismay as Frodo shook uncontrollably inside his cloak. Frodo looked at them through blurred eyes. He tried to stop shaking, but he had no control over his muscles.
"Right," Merry said. "Maybe Pip and I should scout the area, see if there's any farms nearby."
"We're no longer in the Shire," Pippin said. "Do hobbits live in this area? I saw a house just off the path about a half hour before we stopped."
Merry shook his head. "Mostly Big Folk in this area, but I'm sure they're just as hospitable as hobbit folk. They surely wouldn't turn down a request to give a sick hobbit shelter from the rain. Are you sure you saw a house?"
Pippin nodded.
"THen maybe it's better if we all go," Merry said. "Sam and I can help carry cousin Frodo. Thank goodness he's never had a regular hobbit appetite! I believe he's the lightest one out of all of us."
Sam and Merry heaved a soaking Frodo off the groan. Frodo's hand snagged against his pack. He yelled in agony.
"Frodo, it's all right," Merry said. "We're taking you to a warm house."
"What's the matter with him?" Pippin asked Sam worriedly, thinking Frodo couldn't hear. "He got sick so quickly!"
"Shush!" Sam said in irritation.
Frodo squeezed his eyes shut, trying desperately not to weep in pain. His hand felt as if hammers were being pounded into it. Despite the chill, his face and eyes burned.
The trek to the house took over an hour. By the time the hobbits reached the front steps, they were exhausted--Merry and Sam from carrying Frodo, and Pippin from carrying the majority of their luggage. The door was huge and imposing. None of them had ever met any of the Big Folk, unless they counted Mr. Gandalf, which they really didn't since he was a wizard. Pippin banged on the door. Frodo groaned. He felt too weak and sick to question whether this was a good idea. After all, he had responsibility for the Ring. He had no way of knowing whether the Ringwraiths had already targeted this area and frightened the people into being on the lookout for four hobbits.
Finally the door flew open. A gruff man with a beard and a sword answered the door. His fierce face softened into confusion when he saw the four hobbits.
"Hobbits?" he questioned, throwing his sword aside. "I thought you were--" he shuddered. "Never mind. Some of our neighbors have had some frightening visitors earlier today. Old Mr. Olbet down the road was white and shaking. He wouldn't tell me anything other than to say that he thought they were from...the East."
Frodo's heart sank. The Nine had indeed targeted the area. By taking shelter here, he was putting this man and his family in danger. He had no choice. He was too sick to walk, to do anything about the situation.
"I'm very sorry to bother you," Merry said. "We were traveling to Bree from the Shire, just over the river. Our friend here has taken ill. We wonder if we could--or at least he could rest inside under your shelter. It's pouring rain outside and--"
The man waved them in.
"Come in! Come on! All of you. I have a fire going. I'm Sonson, by the way. My wife's visiting relations in Bree right now with some of our youngsters, but my oldest son is here. Gavon!"
A lanky young man in his teens came into the living area. He stopped in surprise.
"Hobbits? Don't see many of you folk outside of Bree."
Sonson nodded. "They're from the Shire, and one of them is ill. Here." The man took Frodo from his friends. He looked down into his flushed face.
"Fever?" he asked the hobbits. Sam nodded. He was clearly mistrustful of the man, yet mostly he was relieved that he had allowed them to get out of the cold rain.
"Well," Sonson said. "Does he have any dry clothes? All of you hobbits ought to get out of your wet clothes. Gavon, put some tea on."
The young man left the room to put the kettle on the fire.
"Frodo's other clothes are wet, too," Pippin said. "I'm afraid I dropped the pack on the way here."
"Then it won't do us any good to uncloth him," the man said. He wrapped a heavy towel around Frodo. Frodo's injured hand snagged against a fold in the towel, and he bucked against the large man, crying out in involuntary pain. This time it felt as if jagged, burning knives were plunging into it.
The man looked down at the hobbit's agonized face in concern. He turned to Sam.
"Doesn't it seem to you that there's more wrong with him than a fever? Your friend seems in a lot of pain. I'm no healer, and I know nothing of hobbits, despite being right by your border and all. I'm just not sure what to do."
"I don't know," Sam said helplessly. "Frodo, dear, what hurts?"
But Frodo did not hear him. He had lost consciousness.
Frodo woke next in a makeshift bed by the fire. His skin felt on fire and he wanted someone to put out the fire, but he couldn't talk. His throat burned. He was having difficulty getting in enough breath, though he didn't understand why. His lungs weren't injured--his hand was. He was still wrapped in the heavy towel like a cocoon. The room was dark. Everyone was asleep. He tried to shift in his sleep, but his hand erupted in new pain.
"Help," he gasped. "Sam!"
Sam was awake and by his side in an instant. "Frodo, what is it?"
Frodo had tears in his eyes. "It's my hand, Sam. I think it's infected."
Sam gasped and his face turned several shades paler. He clenched his fists.
"I'm so ashamed. I'm the worst blockhead. I didn't even think of it. I plum forgot all about your cut hand, Mr. Frodo. You didn't complain, but then you never do. Let's see to it. If anything happens to you on account of this, I'll never forgive myself!"
"It's not your fault," Frodo said, reluctantly sticking out his hand. He cringed as Sam unwrapped the bandaging. Tears streamed freely down his face. He tried not to cry out since everyone else was asleep, all the hobbits in the front room and the owners of the cottage in their back rooms. Reluctant gasps escaped Frodo's lips. Sam's own eyes watered in response to Frodo's tears.
Sam examined the cut under the light of the fireplace. Frodo's entire hand was swollen. The cut was jagged. Pink flesh swelled around its edge. As Sam stared at the cut, the only sound was Frodo's noticeable wheezing.
Sam looked at Frodo in teary concern.
"You don't sound good at all. I don't like this being in the middle of nowhere. I'm thinking we might persuade our kind host to go or to send his son to Bree for a healer. Maybe even Mr. Gandalf's there waiting. He'd come right away if he knew you were ill."
"No," Frodo said quietly. "We can't trouble these good people who have been kind enough to take us in. Our very presence is a risk to their lives if the...if the riders come."
He did not know what he would do if the Ringwraiths attacked them. He had no will to fight or run. He was too miserable to do anything other than lie on the floor in a miserable ball.
"Mr. Frodo, we really need to clean this cut. I will go boil some water."
Frodo leaned back against his makeshift bed. The chills had returned, racking his body with violent tremors. He couldn't remember ever being so ill. Even when he was young and Bilbo had nursed him back from a dangerously high fever, he had not felt this miserable and breathless.
Heavy steps came down the hallway.
"Is everything all right?" Sonson asked. Frodo was soothed by his voice. He had grown up with the perception that the Big People were harsh and violent, to be feared. This man's hands were gentle as he felt Frodo's brow.
Sam came back out with a kettle full of water to put on the fire. "Actually, sir, Mr. Frodo's very sick. He's not breathing right and his hand's infected."
"Aw," the man said. "I knew something else was amiss besides the fever. I'll put some rags in cool water. Like as not, this fellow's going to come down with pneumonia, being ill in the rain and sleeping in these wet clothes."
"Pneumonia," Sam choked. "But won't that kill him? We need a healer. Don't you have anyone in these parts?"
The man looked at him with kind eyes. "No, the nearest is in Bree. Perhaps you could send your two younger friends into town. I cannot spare my son or I would send him. But you're right. It may be dangerous for Frodo to go much longer without proper care."
All at once, a sound of horse hooves thundered in the distance, coming closer and closer. Frodo clutched Sam's hand, his face breaking into terrified sweat.
The riders. They were on their way. The hooves thundered, punctuated by horrific screeches.
"What is that?" Sonson whispered. His eyes were wide and frightened. Frodo felt a surge of deep shame that he he had brought terror and possibly death upon this kind man who had taken them in out of the rain. Frodo wished he had been able to convince his friends to carry on to Bree.
"They're coming," Frodo whispered, his lips paling. He could barely get in enough breath.
"We must hide," Sam said. "They can't find us here. Merry, Pippin! Wake up!"
"Do you know something about all this?" Sonson asked. He reached for his sword. "Never mind, there's not time for talk. Go into our cellar. It will be cold and damp. I'm sorry there's no light."
"What's going on?" Pippin asked. He listened to the thundering hooves approaching. He clutched Merry.
"Let's go," Merry said. "Do as the man says. Come, Sam, help me lift Frodo."
Frodo groaned as Sam and Merry lifted him again and carried him to the wooden door that led down to the cellar. They had only just shut the cellar door behind them when a loud rapping at the door caused an icy chill to go up Frodo's spine.
Frodo cringed against Sam's arms. He was shaking uncontrollably from fever, cold, and fear. He heard shouting upstairs hissing that caused his skin to crawl. He had an inexplicable urge to put on the Ring. His hand crept to where the Ring lay in his vest pocket.
"No!" Sam grabbed his wrist.
Frodo gazed at him through blurry eyes. He could not control it. He was going to put it on. "Please help me, Sam. Help me, I can't stop it. Just hold my hands and don't let go."
Sam took both of his wrists, careful not to bump Frodo's wounded hand. He was stronger than Frodo, especially now in his weakened state, and he had no difficulty pinning his wrists down. The hobbits clung together as they heard Sonson yell in hoarse fear at the intruders. Frodo was moved by how brave the man was. He could have turned the hobbits in. He could have led them right down to the basement. The idea made his chest tighten. He struggled to get in a full breath.
"Be gone! Stay away from my house!" Sonson cried from upstairs.
The minutes passed with agonizing slowness. It grew deadly silent. Frodo wondered if the Ringwraiths had killed Sonson and his son. The idea left him cold. They should never have come. They should have tried to make it to Bree. He would never forgive himself if by his presence he had caused the deaths of Sonson and his son. However, he no longer had an urge to put on the Ring. He had come so close.
Finally a heavy thudding at the cellar door caused the hobbits to jump and clutch each other harder.
"They're gone!" Sonson said harshly.
Frodo sagged against Sam, his muscles trembling. He gasped for breath. He felt that he had only half of his lung capacity.
"Here, Mr. Frodo. Merry, help me lift him again."
"I am all right," Frodo gasped. "I can walk up the stairs if you help me."
Frodo leaned on Merry and Sam and they made their way up the damp stairs. Once in the room, they found a very angry Sonson and his blurry-eyed son. Sonson glared down at the hobbits.
"The servants of the Enemy were seeking out hobbits from the Shire. Do you know anything about it?"
Frodo looked down. He could not stand on his own. The rain had continued and now thudded against the roof. It would be difficult to hear the thundering of horse hooves should the riders choose to return.
"We're very sorry," he finally said. "We should have said something."
"It's just that Frodo was so ill," Merry said. "We were desperate for shelter--"
"And you have endangered myself and my family. The very least you could have done was to warn us that you were being sought by the Enemy."
"Would you have allowed us in?" Sam demanded. "I feel right bad about this, Mr. Sonson, but Mr. Frodo was so ill and I didn't think he would survive out in the cold rain."
"I feel terrible," Frodo said. "We will leave at once."
"Yes you will." Sonson shuttled them to the door. "I want you out of here now."
"Father," Gavon said. "The Riders have already come and gone. You can't send these hobbits back out into the rain. Not with this one being so ill. That's murder as far as I can see it."
"Please be merciful," Merry pleaded. "It's cold and raining and Frodo's breathing isn't right. If you push us out, you'll be responsible for his death."
"Merry," Frodo said, shaking his head. "No. It's all right. He's right."
Sonson shook his head. "I'm sorry, Gavon. And I wish I could help you hobbits, but as head of the household I have to make difficult choices. Frodo, there are some good healers in Bree. Just make straight there. You'll reach there by daylight. Ask at the gate. I just can't risk the lives of my family. I'm sorry."
He gently pushed them out the door and shut and latched his door. Frodo knew he was justified in making the choice that he had. But the idea of having to do anything other than lie in one place made him feel weepy. He was fatigued, burning up, in pain, and he could not get in enough breath. He trembled violently, thinking about possibly meeting up with the Riders in a dark place where they had no place to hide.
"Let us move on then," he said, determined to be brave. The sooner they reached Bree, the better. "You don't have to carry me. Just let me lean on you."
The rain drenched them in minutes. The bandage that Sam had replaced on Frodo's hand was soggy and falling apart. Frodo's ears ached from the cold wind that blew the hood of his cloak off.
They walked forever. The trail never seemed to change. They never seemed to see any sign of other life. They saw a few distant farmhouses, but they did not dare knock on any other doors. Frodo's entire body shook, and his feet stumbled. His hand felt like it was covered in wasps who constantly stung him. He could not walk any farther. Every step was agony.
"Please, Sam, put me down. I can't--can't make it."
"We're nearly there, Mr. Frodo. We've got to just push through to Bree. I don't want you spending any longer than necessary in the rain."
"It hurts...to...breathe," Frodo said. He knew he was more sick than he had ever been in his life. He knew it was a very real possibility that he could die. None of his friends were experts.
"We're about two miles from Bree," Merry said. "I think I see lights around those hills."
Frodo closed his eyes. It seemed too tiresome, the idea of walking all that distance, getting through the gate, then trying to find a healer. He wished he would lose consciousness. Then the aching in his chest would end and he wouldn't feel the chilling rain.
Frodo slipped into a feverish doze. He was in Bag End again, but all the windows were open, allowing the rain and wind to sweep into the room and soak him. He lay in bed with no covers on and he was so cold. Bilbo had brought him a statue from Rivendell, ornately carved in the likeness of Galadriel, the lady of Lothlorien. For some reason, Bilbo insisted on placing it on Frodo's chest. The statue was cold and heavy.
I can't...I can't breathe...please move it!
"Frodo," Merry shook him. "Frodo, we're at the gate. What was the name you were going to use?"
Frodo's eyes snapped open and he looked at Merry, confused.
"Name?"
"You said Gandalf gave you a name to use on your travels."
"Oh, yes," Frodo mumbled, as if to himself. "Mr. Underhill."
They knocked on the wooden gate. A large man looked down at them in blatant mistrust.
"What do you want?"
"Please," Merry said. "We're hobbits from the Shire. Our friend is very ill and needs a healer. Can you help us?"
"Hobbits from the Shire?" the man said in scorn. "What are you hobbits doing so far from home, I'd like to know? There's some strange folks around, asking about a hobbit by the name of Baggins. Does that ring a bell to any of you?"
Frodo's heart banged against his chest, but he managed to shake his head no.
"I am Mr. Brandybuck," Merry said. "Now will you please let us through? My friend is sick, possibly with pneumonia and he's been in the cold rain all night."
The expression of the man at the gate hardened. "Listen, you little rats." Frodo and his friends recoiled at the sudden evil tone in the man's voice. "I don't much like hobbits and I don't like the tone you're taking with me, Mr. Brandybuck. If you ratlings from the Shire have caused us trouble from your dealings with the elves or whatnot and stirring up the Enemy, I'll be the first to sign up to invade your little country and do some serious damage. And now if you're not more upfront with me right now, me and my friends are going to start by doing some serious damage to you."
For the first time, Frodo noticed that the gatekeeper was not alone. Two other men were inside the little shack by the gate. They were watching with the cruel interest of a group of bullies.
Merry's tone changed to pleading as the gatekeeper's friends stepped out of the shack and the three men surrounded the hobbits. Frodo leaned heavily against Sam. He could do nothing to help his friends, and it shamed him. He was so physically miserable--the muscle aches, the burning, the fatigue, the neverending throbbing in his hand, the cold heavy weight on his chest--that he only had a vague sense of responsibility toward the Ring. The miserable, selfish part of himself wanted to buy his and his friends' freedom from these ruffians by offering the Ring to them. He shuddered at that thought. No. He would not let it get to that point.
"Please," Merry said. "This isn't necessary. We just want to get into Bree so that we can help our friend. As you can see he's sick. We don't intend to cause any trouble. Please just let us pass."
The gatekeeper laughed. He was clearly enjoying this opportunity to bully. Frodo watched in a half-conscious daze. It seemed unreal--part of a nightmare. Gandalf would never have sent them somewhere this hostile. Surely not all the men of Bree were like this. He had heard that the hobbits and men of Bree got along well.
With no warning, the gatekeeper yanked Merry by the arm and shoved him against the wall of the shack. Frodo cried out in outrage, but his legs were too weak to move. Sam hugged Frodo so that he did not fall to the muddy ground. Pippin dropped all the packs he had been carrying and ran at the gatekeeper, attacking him with small fists and ineffectual kicks. Frodo gasped for breath, amazed and terrified by Pippin's bravery. Once again, he cursed himself for his weakness, that he could not jump to his friend's aid. Sam looked as though he wanted nothing more than to join in the fight, but he could not let Frodo go.
"No," Frodo gasped as one of the gatekeeper's friends yanked Pippin back by his hair and threw him to the ground, delivering to his side a vicious kick. "Go on, Sam, don't worry about me! Help them!"
"Okay, you little rats," the gatekeeper said, hitting Merry across the face. "Here's the deal. If you don't want me turning you into the Enemy, you'll each pay me everything you've got. Understand?"
"Please don't do this," Sam yelled out. "Mr. Frodo's sick. He needs help. His hand's injured."
One of the gatekeeper's friends stood in front of Frodo. He wrenched Frodo's chin up so that he could look at his face. Frodo had no strength to resist. He watched the man through blurring eyes.
"Awww," the man sarcastically said. "It's a sick hobbit. What should we do about it?"
Laughing cruelly, the man grabbed Frodo's injured hand and squeezed as hard as he could before wrenching him out of Sam's embrace. He threw him into the muddy ground. Frodo was too weak to even cry out.
"How's that, huh? How does that feel? I'll make you squeak, all right!"
Frodo's fingers curled on the ground. He writhed in agony. He blacked out for a moment. The cold mud and pain in his hand brought him back all too soon.
Through fading consciousness, he heard one of the men, possibly the gatekeeper yell, "Heads up! A couple of rangers are coming this way. Let's get out of here!"
The ruffians scattered and fled, leaving the hobbits alone in the mud but still not inside the village of Bree.
Rangers. Frodo shuddered in new fear. Everyone in the Shire had heard of the mysterious and dangerous men called rangers. Most hobbits lived in terror of encountering on the borders of the Shire.
"Oh, no, oh, no," Sam gasped, falling on his knees beside Frodo. "Mr. Frodo, are you all right?"
"Sam," he gasped. "We must hide. Are Merry and Pippin okay?"
"Yes," Pippin said. "Though I feel like I've been broken in two. Let me help you carry Frodo, Sam. We'll hide under that brush, behind that clump of trees."
Frodo was barely conscious, but he felt himself lifted again and then set down in cold mud. He shivered uncontrollably. He was never going to feel warm again. His clothes were muddy and soaked. The hobbits huddled together, doing what hobbits excelled at--keeping silent. Soon they heard voices.
"So what happened to the gatekeeper?" a soft voice in an unfamiliar accent said.
"Harry? He quit after the Nine passed through last week. A couple of ruffians have been acting as gatekeeper. Everytime we catch sight of them, they flee. We'll nail them eventually, though I have more pressing matters on my mind. It looked like there was a struggle going on here, but there's nobody here now. I could have sworn I saw hobbits."
"Are you not searching for a hobbit from the Shire, Estel?"
"Yes I am. He is long overdue."
"There's nothing around here. Let us walk the perimeter of the village."
The footsteps faded, and Frodo released a shallow breath of relief. This was worse than he had imagined. Not only was the Enemy after him, but he was possibly the target of a ranger search, though why, he had no idea. Perhaps word had gone out to the rangers about the Ring. Maybe they wanted it as well.
"Come on," Pippin said. "We're going to climb over the gate. The ruffians won't be back for awhile, and neither will the rangers. We've got to get Frodo out of the cold rain."
"All right," Merry said. His nose was bleeding from the blow to his face. "But how do you propose Frodo should climb?"
"I will do it," Frodo said. "If somebody helps push me from behind."
Pippin scrambled up the gate with nimble hands and feet. He easily dropped to the other side. Next Frodo came, followed closely behind by Sam, who used one hand to help Frodo so that he wouldn't need to use his injured hand. Frodo didn't want to jump over the other side. The idea of his aching, feverish body taking such a blow made him dizzy. Sam helped him over the top. Frodo gasped in new pain. Tears filled his eyes. He couldn't do it. Sam looked down at Pippin in despair.
"Frodo, drop down. I'll catch you," Pippin said. Frodo obeyed, trusting that sturdy arms would catch him. They did. Sam jumped down after him. Frodo lay helpless in Pippin's arms as they watched Merry climb down.
The flickering light of a torch suddenly lit up their faces. Frodo gasped and craned his neck, trying to see the owners of the torches.
"What's going on here?" A rough voice demanded. Frodo couldn't hide a desperate whimper. He couldn't believe his poor luck. Two men, different from the ruffians that had bullied them earlier and different from the rangers, stood in front of them. Frodo recognized their costumes. They were men of law. "Gatebreaking?"
Frodo's breath had grown more labored, and he couldn't seem to recover from the extra effort he had made in climbing the gate. A haze of black dots made his vision dim.
"Excuse me," Merry said. "We just need to get into Bree. Our friend is very ill. He needs a healer. As you can see, there's nobody here to let us in."
"Gatebreaking is a serious offense. Are you folks from the Shire?"
"Yes," Merry said. "We're very sorry we had to climb your gate. But please help us. We need a healer right away. Our friend has an infected hand and we think he might have pneumonia and he's been out in the cold rain all night."
"I hate to do this to you Shire folk, but we have very strict orders to bring anyone into our law headquarters who is caught gatebreaking. We've had some very dangerous folk sneaking into our borders."
Merry's eyes teared with tired frustration. "Do we look like dangerous folk to you, good sirs?"
"It would do you more good to keep silence," the man said.
Sam said, "At least let Mr. Frodo here be seen by a healer. He's going to die if someone doesn't look at him! He's had it rough enough the last few days."
The man looked like he it bothered him somewhat to be so cold. Whatever had been going on in Bree it had scared the hospitality out of the Bree folk.
"Will you follow us willingly or will it be by force?" the man asked.
TBC