16. Old Ghosts

It was Monday, just past supper, and raining hard. Frodo had been called back to his mayoral duties briefly in the morning, leading to a late start that day, and then around dinner it had started raining. No, not really raining; it was more like someone was deliberately throwing man-sized buckets of water out of the sky (or perhaps twenty someones, since the water was so consistent). They'd struggled through it for a little while, until they finally found a small inn, and then Elmas had turned in at once, with no word from Largo. The lad and the ponies were both soaked, as was the luggage, and he'd driven into the stable at once without even letting off his passengers. Thankfully, Belle had brought umbrellas and Largo had some dry towelling with them in the carriage. The hobbits had sent Belle ahead to make arrangements at least until they could wait out the storm and had carefully towelled down everything. That had been hours ago, however, and now it was dark, still raining, and pointless to think of doing anything besides taking rooms. And that was when the real trouble started.

The innkeeper looked apologetic. "I'm sorry, Mr Baggins, but we're that full. We've had folk coming and going all week-end. Apparently the Bankses decided to have a family reunion now instead of waiting until Lithe like most folk. Something about a new batch of little ones or something. They've filled up all the holes and almost every inn in Waymeet. I couldn't offer you your own room if you were the Thain himself!"

"Come on, Baggins," Largo elbowed Frodo in the ribs. "Will it really be so bad sharing a room with us?"

"It's not you," Frodo mumbled.

"Then what is it, Mr Baggins?" Belle inquired pertly.

Frodo ignored her. "Truly, Mr Eastbrock, it need not be large, only private. Perhaps some corner or empty cupboard." He chuckled, trying to sound convincing, Belle thought. "Why, I'd even sleep in the broom closet if necessary, as long as no-one disturbs me."

The innkeeper stiffened. "I am sorry, Mr Baggins, but all my cupboards are taken too. Even the missus and I will be sleeping on the kitchen floor tonight. We really don't have anything."

"If you're worried about Belle then don't be," Largo added. "We won't tell anyone about this, and there will be two different beds, won't there?" he added rather forcefully, glaring at the innkeeper.

"Yes, of course there will be," the hobbit agreed. "Three, actually. Cots, I'll admit, but it will be private. I've a screen to partition it off from the rest of the common room, so you'll still have some peace when those lads all come in.

Belle grimaced. Sleeping in the common room was certainly not her notion of decency or propriety. Still, beggars cannot choose, and tonight she definitely did not wish to go back into the storm.

"Perhaps I'll sleep in the carriage," Frodo muttered to himself. Unfortunately, Largo heard him.

"No, you can't," he returned briskly. "Elmas will be in there." He turned back to the innkeeper. "Very well, we'll take it. How soon can you set it up?"

"Just as soon as my other guests clear out for the night," the innkeeper assured them. "And we'll close up about ten."

"Thank you," Largo returned with dignity. "Have you a checkers board?"

"Aye, sir," Mr Eastbrock nodded toward the far corner. "Right over there."

"What do you say, Mr Baggins?" Largo glanced at him. "Care for a game?"

Frodo Baggins was doing a remarkable impression of a stone column —stiff, silent, and unmoving. Which, Belle was beginning to realise, meant that he was actually tense, angry, and distraught. But why? she couldn't help but wonder.

The stone sighed. "If you wish to, Mr Bracegirdle," he returned formally.

-jfjfjfjfj-

Largo beat Frodo. Both parties claimed that Frodo was too distracted to play a proper game, and Belle certainly agreed. Something seemed to be eating at his thoughts, and Belle could only wonder what it was. After that the Baggins buried himself in a back corner with his writings and a cup (or two, or six) of tea. As soon as the partition went up and their room was prepared he was in it. Belle and Largo both exchanged a significant look at this and played one more game of checkers before going to bed.

Frodo was already sound asleep, the only part of him visible above the blanket being his dark hair. Belle smiled at this and indulged herself by running a gentle hand through the soft curls.

"Let him alone," Largo whispered in a good-natured growl. "If you wake him we'll have a terrible time getting him back to sleep."

Belle laughed softly. "And you know this from experience, I suppose," she returned, also whispering.

"No, but he looks it, doesn't he?" Largo smiled. "Such a spoiled child at times. Like earlier."

"Aye," Belle agreed. "But you can hardly blame him. After all, it's not very seemly to be sharing a room with an unmarried lass."

"Nor very safe to share with her disgruntled brother," Largo laughingly put in.

"Oh, you!" Belle hissed and teasingly threw a pillow at him, which he easily dodged, and then plunked down on his own cot with it.

"Now what?" he grinned.

"Give me back my pillow!" Belle protested, trying not giggle as she attacked her brother.

After a friendly scuffle Largo finally relinquished the pillow and both went to bed.

-fjfjfjfjf-

The wretched smell hung in the air, thick and putrid. It was so heavy that he almost felt he was being smothered. Whenever he or Sam would breathe too deeply they would almost gag on the foul stench; not that he himself could breathe that deeply very often. The Ring was becoming heavy again, just as It had in Moria. It was as if It could sense the evil around them and was growing in weight and strength with each step closer to Mordor. It was trying to slow his steps, to stop his quest. Well, he grimly determined, he wasn't going to let It. He would see It to the mountain if it killed him.

He lifted his head and peered forward, trying to pierce the heavy blackness which threatened to smother them all. He thought that he could see Gollum —No, he corrected himself, Sméagol— he thought that he could see Sméagol's eyes gleaming at him some yards ahead. Just like in Bilbo's tales, he thought with a shiver. A splash accompanied by a frustrated growl told him that Sam was almost as far ahead as Sméagol. Shouldering his pack more firmly he tried to catch up to his companions.

The first flicker of light surprised him, but after a hasty glance he fixed his gaze ahead to where he thought his companions were. More lights began to appear, gleaming and dancing around him. The dead began to appear in the waters around him and he fought to ignore them, but they seemed to press around closely. It became even harder to breathe.

A light flickered up suddenly before him and he was forced to stop. In dread he looked down. Two small figures lay in a pool at his feet. One was a dark-haired female with river grass tangled in her thick curls; the other was male and had one arm wrapped around the lass's waist as if vowing that he'd never abandon her. Frodo stared, horror-stricken. They were just the same as when he'd last seen them as a lad of eleven, except that these figures - these carcasses were rotting, their flesh being slowly eaten away by some unseen predator. His mother had no nose or lips any longer, half of the flesh on his father's arm had rotted away, and he'd lost the third finger on his right hand. Frodo knew that this was significant somehow, but he could not think why.

"Papa." The word escaped, faint and pain-laced.

Drogo opened his eyes and leered up at the hobbit. "Wake up, Primula," he said. "Our lad's finally come to join us."

Primula's beautiful blue eyes snapped open, and her son recoiled from the fell light of them. "Frodo, my darling," she cried in a high, shrill voice which seemed to belong more to Lobelia Sackville-Baggins than his beloved mum, "how we've missed you!"

Frodo backed away, panicked. "No," he protested. "I have a task I must finish. I am sorry. Please, let me pass."

"Come with us, Frodo," his mother called, and she sounded like a Black Rider.

"We'll be a family again," his father added. Frodo flinched at this and backed away even faster, but the spectres reached toward him with impossibly long arms and seized hold of him, one by his edge of his coat, the other gripping his right ankle, and began dragging him forward. He struggled, trying to kick, to twist away, all to no avail. The creatures dragged him closer to the pool's edge.

"Let me go!" he cried. "Sam? Sméagol! Help me!"

"Give up, Ringbearer!" the shrill spectre hissed. "They have fled. No-one can help you now."

"Come and meet your master, halfling!" the other bellowed in a fell voice.

"No!" he gasped. "No, I won't. Let me go! Sam!?"

But even as he struggled two more hands latched onto him, one around his left ankle, the other around his right leg. Their touch seemed to freeze his flesh to the bone. The Ring too was dragging him downward. He fought against the paralysing chill which gripped him. He'd fallen to the ground and was grabbing at any tussock or rock which might slow his progress.

"Baggins? Hoy, Baggins!" he heard someone call.

Kicking, struggling, calling for help; he tried to resist, but the hands only drew him closer until he was at the water's edge. A thick tussock of marsh grass brushed him and he grabbed desperately at it, burying his fingers deep among the roots. His entire body shook as the spectres attempted to pull him loose. From out of the fen came a yell, and then a hideous voice bellowed, "Hi! Let go!"

The hands seized his wrists now, squeezing them and pulling, but then then with a squeal they instead engaged themselves with untangling his fingers from the weeds. The water of the pool was a writhing, churning mass, glowing a wicked red-gold colou— No.

From the depths of the mere the hideous voice roared, "Baggins! Let go! Wake up!"

The fires sorted themselves into a single terrifying vision. He wanted to run, to faint, to die, anything to escape, but the hands held him as fast as his own clung to the tussock. The great Eye, the Eye he'd feared since he'd begun the quest, glazed like a cat's but rimmed with fire, gazed up at him from the depths of the ever-widening pool.

A black hand emerged from the bottom of the fiery lake and reached toward the Ring. The hand was missing the third finger. The Ring, which had slipped out of Frodo's shirt, glowed as if wrought of living flame, the words of the Black tongue shining from It like fell stars. Frodo reared away, struggling to pull himself up the bank. In response Sauron howled with rage and roared, "OUch! Belle, get him out!"

One of his hands was inexorably drawn out of the weeds and he struggled to escape the spectre's grip.

"By Elbereth and Lúthien the Fair, you will release me," he snarled, trying to pull away.

For a few moments the tugging ceased —although the spectre still firmly held his wrist— and the world waited silently. Briefly Frodo caught his breath and then began to silently pull himself up again.

Sauron howled again, and then the roots of his tussock gave way and Frodo felt himself falling. Desperately he grabbed for anything else as the waters of the Eye rushed up to meet him...

-jfjfjfjfj-

He struck hard against something flat and lay there briefly, shaking and shivering. It was dark. And quiet. And cold. And he could feel the floorboards, worn smooth over the passage of time, beneath his body.

"So, are you finally awake?" an irate voice demanded above him. A hobbity voice.

Slowly he rolled over and sat up, and then the colour drained from his face as sixteen pair of eyes gazed back at him. Eight hobbits, and none of them Merry, Pippin, or Sam.