Chapter Nine: Diversion

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The looming structure of Weathertop cast an ominous shadow upon Frodo's thoughts.

Sam hung by his side and somewhere in the back, Frodo could hear Merry and Pippin complaining about the lack of mealtimes.

Personally, Frodo's stomach was tied up in too many knots for him to feel even slightly hungry. The ring seemed to have gained weight around his neck since leaving Bree, ice cold against his skin.

Subconsciously, Frodo reached up, rubbing his thumb over the smooth metal.

"We should reach Weathertop by nightfall, a few more hours at most."

Frodo snapped out his thoughts as the dark-haired man spoke from ahead, his voice gruff. Aragorn, Frodo reminded himself. That was the man's name.

Frodo wasn't sure yet if he fully trusted him, although he wasn't sure what choice they truly had. They had already lost two of the group, the elf and a girl, whose name Frodo had not caught.

The elf had fascinated Frodo. He had always imagined the elves as an ethereal-like race and the warrior had confirmed the stories told to him so often by Bilbo.

Deep down, Frodo was excited to get to Rivendell and see the other elves.

The two had gone off, were risking their lives, to protect him and his companions. Perhaps they were deserving of his trust, Frodo reasoned.

After all, they were the ones facing the riders while the rest of the group ran for their lives.

Frodo shuddered slightly as he thought about the black riders. How long did they have before the Nazgul realized the trick and came after them again? A day? Less?

"Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo jumped slightly as the voice broke through his thoughts. Sam was watching him, his warm brown eyes full of worry. With a jolt, Frodo realized he was clutching the ring like a lifeline, fist gripped white-knuckled around his neck.

"I-I'm alright." Frodo smiled, releasing the ring. A strange coldness draped over him as he did.

Sam's concerned look didn't fully vanish but he smiled back anyways, falling closer in step at his side. "Do you think we can trust him?" Sam whispered, nodding toward Aragorn.

Frodo furrowed his brow, looking over at the man. He seemed bent on reaching Weathertop, even more so since the other two had left.

"I hope so. I don't think we have much a choice."

Resigned, Sam sighed and nodded. Then his face brightened again. "Just think Frodo, we're on an adventure! Just like you uncle Bilbo, so many years ago."

An adventure...

Frodo's memories flashed back to the Barrow-wights and then the man at the tavern.

He hadn't realized before how dangerous adventures could be until he walked out the door of his hobbit hole, leaving behind the only home he had ever known. "I wonder what Bilbo would say if he could see us now."

Sam smiled warmly in his direction. "He would be proud. I think he always knew one day you would follow in his footsteps. It's fate, Frodo."

Fate.

A strange thing, Frodo thought to himself. Before now, he never would have thought he would be racing across the middle of nowhere, running for his life from undead creatures of shadow.

Had none of it ever happened, Frodo imagined he would be somewhere comfortable, a cup of tea in one hand and a fresh biscuit in the other, without a care in the world beside the next meal time.

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