Article: 208008 of rec.arts.books.tolkien Path: uchinews!newsfeed.berkeley.edu!netnews.com!iad-peer.news.verio.net!news.verio.net!iad-read.news.verio.net.POSTED!not-for-mail Message-ID: <39278C0A.1E2AD6D1@hotmail.com> From: Creole <<>> X-Mailer: Mozilla 4.7 [en] (WinNT; I) X-Accept-Language: en MIME-Version: 1.0 Newsgroups: rec.arts.books.tolkien,alt.fan.tolkien Subject: Chapter 10 of E-text: Strider Content-Type: text/plain; charset=us-ascii Content-Transfer-Encoding: 7bit X-NNTP-Posting-Host: p8.j2.actcom.co.il Lines: 299 Date: Sun, 21 May 2000 09:11:06 +0200 NNTP-Posting-Host: 192.114.47.10 X-Complaints-To: abuse -aaatt- verio -daht- net X-Trace: iad-read.news.verio.net 958889567 192.114.47.10 (Sun, 21 May 2000 06:12:47 GMT) NNTP-Posting-Date: Sun, 21 May 2000 06:12:47 GMT Organization: Verio Xref: uchinews rec.arts.books.tolkien:208008 alt.fan.tolkien:31647 Sorry for the delay, but here's chapter 10. I tried to explain away a few inconsistencies between various chapters (and how ridiculous that is, to be sure! A parody of a parody...) Ojevind, I'm sorry that I didn't see your request re the hobbits' swords until after I already put it in here. If it *really* means a lot to you, let me know, and we'll discuss it. :) Chapter 10: Strider Frodo hurried the others ahead of him, anxious to get to the safety of the parlour. Morrie had not yet arrived, but Frodo locked and barred the door anyway, worried about any creditors that might be seeking him. It was not until he had puffed up the embers of the fire that he discovered that Strider had somehow slipped ahead of them. There he was calmly sitting in a chair! "You cannot escape me so easily," he said with a slow smile. "You promised to have a quiet talk with me, after all." "What have you to say?" Frodo asked, alarmed. "Several things," answered Strider. "But, of course, I have my price." He looked at Frodo expectantly. Several moments passed in silence. "Well?" Strider said at last. "Will you not make me an offer?" Frodo thought uncomfortably of his lost accounts. "I cannot," he said with reluctance. "All that I have now would hardly satisfy a rogue, and I cannot spare any of it." "Don't be ridiculous," Strider said. "You're a Baggins, no matter how you try to pass yourself off as an Underhill. Everyone knows that you have plenty of money." "Oh, indeed!" cried Frodo. "Well, that is no longer true. I am afraid that I have nothing to my name, save some small spare change." Strider laughed. "You are, of course, in jest." "I am not." Several more moments passed. Strider looked at the hobbits with narrowed eyes. "Are you serious?" Frodo squirmed a little; but Pipsqueak answered readily. "Yes, he is!" he exclaimed. "Frodo has lost almost everything he owns, thanks to Gandalf." Strider stared at them for a moment longer, then turned away in disgust. "This is NOT fair!" he shouted, glaring at the ceiling. "Sorry," said a disembodied voice. "Take it up with the Heroes' Union." "Don't think I won't," Strider muttered. "This is the fourth charity case this year." He turned back to the hobbits and forced a smile on his face. "Very well, I will assist you for nothing." "Who said we want your help?" blurted Sam. He did not the look of this pudgy, tall Man. "You certainly need help from _someone._ That much is clear," Strider answered. "Otherwise, you will never get out of Bree alive, much less reach Rivendell. You are not my ideal choice of travelling companions; but I see no other way to handle the matter. I hope we shall get to know one another better. When we do, I hope you will explain what happened at the end of your song, Mr. Baggins. That little prank has made people notice you." "It was sheer accident!" Frodo defended himself. "The Ring somehow slipped onto my finger!" "The Ring?" Strider said sharply. "You have not the Ring, Frodo. Why else did you fail to disappear?" Frodo opened his mouth to protest, then shut it again. Strider was right! The Ring should have made him invisible! He pulled the small circle of gold out of his pocket and examined it closely. It was a cheap imitation, not the real thing! "Where is the Ring?" Strider demanded. "We cannot allow it to be found." The hobbits looked at each other, then -- "Morrie!" they chorused. "No wonder he slipped away!" Frodo exclaimed. "He has gone to use the Ring himself." "But Frodo's pants fell down," protested Pipsqueak. "Are you sure that wasn't the Ring's work?" "Frodo is rather out of shape, is he not?" said Strider with a curl of his lip. "It is not surprising that his belt could no longer bear to support his trousers." "You're not in better shape yourself," Frodo retorted, embarrassed. Strider looked down at his own ample middle and shrugged. "It is a disguise of sorts. No one expects the heir of Elendil to be overweight." "Who?" "Elendil," Strider repeated. At the blank expression on the hobbits' faces, he tried again. "Isildur's eldest son? Lord of the Numenoreans? Come on, the kingdom of Arnor?" Frodo shook his head. "Never heard of it," he said. "Ridiculous! Haven't you even heard of the fabulous swords of Westernesse?" Strider rummaged in his pack and withdrew several sharp knives, long, shaped like the ears of an elf, and keen, of marvellous workmanship, damasked in red and gold. Each scabbard was stamped in tiny black letters with the words, "MADE IN FORNOST." Frodo took one and turned it over in his hands, almost slicing his palm open in the process. "They are beautiful blades," he said in wonder. "Guaranteed to break undead wills, or your money back," said Strider proudly. He paused in hope for a moment; but when the hobbits did not offer to pay, he sighed and leaned back in his chair. "And Arwen wonders why I can't get any financial backing," he muttered to himself. After a moment, he drew his hand across his brow. "Well, I have become accustomed to such treatment. So what must I do to convince you?" "I don't know," Frodo admitted. "Why the disguise? Who are you really? What do you know about the Ring, and how do you know it?" Strider frowned. "Why should you believe my story, if you do not trust me already? Still here it is --" At that moment there was a knock on the door. The hobbits jumped at first, then realized it was only Butterball, bringing them candles and cans of hot water. As Frodo opened the door, Strider withdrew into a dark corner. "I've come to bid you good night," Butterball began, his voice grudging. Then, looking troubled, he withdrew a letter from his pocket. The parchment was crumpled and stained with jelly and honey. "I'm not a postman," he grumbled, "and Gandalf didn't offer me much money to deliver this." "Gandalf!" Frodo cried. "Yes, Gandalf. Dratted old wizard! Still, I don't need him putting curses on his beer; I'm a busy man, with no time or money to spare for having hexes removed. So here, take this letter. Gandalf left it here yesterday morning for a Mr. Baggins." "But I told you my name is Underhill," Frodo interrupted. Butterball frowned. "Do you really think anyone was fooled? Everyone knows 'Sharkey' Baggins. And if I was you, Mr. Baggins, I'd be paying a tidy sum more for the chance of a peaceful night without anyone bothering you, if you know what I mean." Frodo did not bother to try to explain that he was currently broke. He snatched the letter out of Butterball's hands and hastily shoved him out the door. "What do we do now?" Frodo asked wildly. "Butterball's threats are clear enough, and I don't have any money to give him!" "Start by reading the letter," Strider advised, coming out of his dark corner. Frodo examined the letter. It was written in Gandalf's usual illegible scrawl. Dear Frodo, Bad news has reached me here about your secret bank account in Isengard. I must go off at once, and cannot wait for you any longer. Leave a message for me here, if you pass through Bree; the landlord (Butterball) is not very trustworthy, but he won't cheat you much. You may meet a friend of mine on the Road: a Man, tall, a bit overweight, dark, by some called Strider. He knows our business and will help you, if you pay him enough. Make for Rivendell. Elrond will advise you. Yours in haste GANDALF. P.S. Why didn't you give me your account number? It would have made things much easier. P.P.S. Don't use IT again, or you'll be leaving behind a trail of outraged husbands that will make it too easy to track you. P.P.P.S. Make sure it is the real Strider. There are many strange men on the roads, and most of them are overweight. His true name is Aragon. While all that is gold does not glitter, The wandering folk can get lost; The loss of a kingdom is bitter, Especially when out in the frost. For an elf-maid his ardor will be woken, For her sake he'll do anything; He can't fight with blade that is broken, But who knows? He just might be king! Frodo reread the letter, stunned that Gandalf had discovered his secret bank account and that even that money would be lost. "Things are going from bad to worse," he groaned. As Frodo passed the letter to Pipsqueak, Morrie furtively slipped into the room. Strider pounced on him immediately and wrested the Ring from him. "Take it back," he snapped at Frodo, tossing the Ring at him, "and this time, keep an eye on it!" Frodo fumbled with the chain, then slipped the Ring back into his pocket. "Why did you do something so foolish?" he cried to Morrie. "And how did you use it?" "I didn't do much," Morrie defended himself. "Well, I went out for a stroll --" "I'll just bet you did," snorted Pipsqueak, glancing up from the letter. Morrie glared at him, then looked at Strider. "Who is this?" "That's what I want to know," said Sam, who had fidgeted silently beside his master during the confrontation with Strider. "I don't trust him." He glared at Strider. "What say you to that?" "That you are an idiot," answered Strider. "If I was not who I say I am, I could have easily overpowered you already. You have just seen how I willingly gave the Ring back to your master. In fact, if I wanted to kill you all, I could do it -- NOW!" He stood up, and suddenly seemed to grow taller and well-muscled. In his eyes gleamed a light, keen and feral. Throwing back his cloak, he laid his hand on the hilt of a long sword that had hung concealed by his side. Sam stared at it, horrified. "But I _am_ the real Strider, fortunately," he said, looking down at them with a suddenly kinder eye. He smiled. "I am already betrothed to an elf-maid, and I have no need for the power of the Ring. I am Aragon son of Arathon; and if I can save you from your own stupid mistakes, then I will." There was a long silence. Pipsqueak and Morrie stared at Strider with new-found respect at this revelation of his state. "I think we will have to trust you," Frodo said at last. "What do you think we should do?" "Stay here, and do not go to your rooms!" said Strider. "Butterball sells an excellent beer, but he will also surely sell information about you to the highest bidder; and the location of the hobbit rooms in this inn are well known. We will all remain together here instead." "So much for a comfortable bed," Sam said gloomily. "I don't like this, and that's a --" "_Will_ you stop that!" shouted Pipsqueak. He thumped Sam solidly on the head. Muttering to himself, Sam slouched into the corner and prepared for bed. Strider remained sitting by the fire, warming his hands as the hobbits dropped off to sleep one by one. Once he was sure they were snoring loudly, Strider rose noiselessly from his chair: swiftly and silently he rummaged through their belongings. "So they were telling the truth about not having any money," he mumbled disappointedly. "Elendil! It looks like I'll have to take them with me to Rivendell for nothing, after all." Moodily drawing a bottle from Frodo's hidden stash of Westfarthing Chinook, Strider returned to his chair by the door to await the coming of the Sun.