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Chapter Eleven
Frodo Baggins was sure he was dying.
His eyes were closed and the heart in his chest thundered.
A burst of light whirled around in Baggins’ mind as
consciousness gradually returned, and a spasm of nausea
rushed over him and he retched uncontrollably. How long
had he been on this journey? He wasn't sure.
He opened his eyes and rolled up onto his hands and
knees. His ring pounded like a jackhammer and compelled
him. His hand was drawn to it and it took great will
not to touch it. Except for the ring, there was no exterior
sensation; the pain had been dulled by the cold. But
there was no dulling of the agonizing temptation in
his head.
A clang of metal weapons echoed down the Weathertop.
Baggins looked around, but all he could see was the
swirling mists whipped by the vicious wind. Another
crash tore the frigid air. He guessed that it came from
only a hundred yards away.
All thought of escape had vanished now. It was finished.
He knew he could never make it to Rivendell. Nor was
he in any condition to sail the little grey craft across
fifty miles of open Anduin to a rendezvous with the
waiting dark Lord
He sank back in the dirt. The weight of his burden had
weakened him beyond further physical effort. The Ringwraiths
must not find him. That was part of the bargain with
Gandalf. If he must die, they must not take the ring.
Soon he would be only a small white pile of bones on
a desolate slope of Weathertop, buried forever under
the constantly building dark empire.
He stopped a moment and listened. The only sounds he
heard were his own gasps and the wind. He listened harder,
cupping his hands to his ears. Just audible through
the howling wind he heard a wraith shreik.
"Oh Elbereth," he cried silently. As long as his body
was still warm, the sensitive nostrils of the demon
were sure to pick up his scent. He sagged in defeat.
There was nothing left for himbut to lie back and let
his life ooze away.
But a spark deep inside him refused to dim and be extinguished.
Merciful Gilthoniel, he thought deliriously, he couldn't
just lie there waiting for the Ringwraiths to take him.
He was only a simple hobbit, not a trained secret agent.
His mind and fifty-year-old body weren't geared to stand
up under intensive temptation from the ring. He closed
his eyes as the sickness of failure overcame all physical
agony and he slipped on the ring.
When he opened them again, his field of vision was filled
with the head of an immense ghostly king. Baggins recognized
him as a Ringwraith, a mighty man standing six feet
at the shoulder, covered by a heavy robe of long grey,
and flanked by two others. There was an indifferent
look about the man. He stood there and stared down at
his helpless quarry, gripping his sword in his left
hand while he steadied a glowing knife with his right.
He looked fearsome in his huge greatrobe that came down
to booted ankles, and the pale, expressionless eyes
showed no compassion for Baggins’ size. The wraith lifted
his weapon and reached down and pierced Baggins’ left
shoulder. Then without a word, the demon reached for
the ring.
Baggins nearly passed out from the pain. He felt as
though he'd been stabbed by poisoned ice. He swooned
and that was as far as he'd got when a vague figure
appeared through the storm. It was blurred by the wall
of swirling white mist. Through the dim haze of near
unconsciousness, Baggins felt the wraith stiffen. A
soft "plop" sounded over the wind, and the massive figure
next to the first fell shrieking on its side in the
dirt. The tallest dropped his gaze from Baggins and
frantically tried to raise his sword, but the strange
sound was repeated and a flaming brand that glowed red
suddenly appeared in the middle of the king's forehead.
Then the eyes went glassy and he fled from Frodo’s side.
Something was terribly wrong; this shouldn't be happening,
Baggins told himself, but his exhausted mind was too
far gone to draw any valid conclusions. He sank to his
knees and could only watch as a tall man in a travel-stained
cloak materialized from the white mist and gazed down
at the hobbit.
"A damned shame," he said tersely.
The man presented an imposing appearance. The oak- tanned
face looked out of place for the Weather Hills. And
the features were firm, almost cruel. Yet it was the
eyes that struck Baggins. He had never seen eyes quite
like them. They were a deep sea-green and radiated a
penetrating kind of warmth, a marked contrast from the
hard lines etched in the face.
The man turned to Baggins and smiled. "Mr. Baggins,
I presume?" The tone was soft and effortless.
The ranger pushed a broadsword into a scabbard, knelt
down to eye level, and nodded at the blood spreading
through the material of Baggins’ cloak. "I'd better
get you to where I can take a look at that." Then he
picked Baggins up as one might a child and began trudging
across the hill toward the fire.
"Who are you?" Baggins muttered.
"My name is Elessar. Aragorn Elessar."
"I don't understand...where did you come from?"
Baggins never heard the answer. At that moment, the
black cover of unconsciousness abruptly lifted up, and
he fell gratefully under it.