“AAAAAAGGGGGGGHHHHHHH!!”

The shout rang through the still dawn air, the inhabitants of the small camp leaping to their feet, weapons in ready hands, blinking sleep from their eyes as they tried to locate the source of the cry.

Legolas, who had just taken the first watch but a quarter hour before, was already on his feet, trying to discern what enemy had made it past his keen eyes.

The two humans, elf, dwarf, and wizard all froze at the sight before them, staring incredulously.

Pippin and Frodo were dancing around the camp, swiftly removing all their garments as they clawed at their arms and legs, jumping and screaming at nothing and each other. Not far behind them Sam and Merry were doing a mildly tamer version of the same thing, scratching at their arms and hopping about, first on one foot, then the next. All were batting at themselves and each other.

“What in the-“ Boromir whispered, his sword slowly lowering.

“Ants! Antsantsantsantsantsants!” Pippin screamed as he flew past Aragorn, the last of his clothing now discarded.

Legolas’s eyes widened as he perceived in the dim light what his comrades could not: all four hobbits were covered from head to toe in red ants.

Moving swiftly, he darted to the nearest hobbit’s side, which happened to be Merry, and began to brush frantically at the stinging, biting insects.

“They’re covered in ants!” he shouted to the rest, dislodging the tiny menaces as quickly as he could.

Spurred into motion, one of the other companions each ran to the aid of a wiggling, jumping, frantic hobbit. Aragorn was by Frodo’s side in an instant, and to his horror saw that most of his flesh was covered in the creatures. No wonder he and Pippin had screamed so!

Gimli rushed to Sam’s aid, while Boromir hurried to Pippin’s, who had finally stopped screeching in pain and panic and was simply doing his best to get the ants off his skin.

Off to the side, Gandalf watched the scene unfold with pained sympathy, moving to start a small fire and begin boiling water for the poultices he knew would be needed.

It took several minutes to dislodge all the ants from their victims, and by then the damage had already been done. Pippin and Frodo were covered from head to toe in red, painful welts that were slowly starting to swell, and Sam and Merry were little better off.

“What happened?” Gimli finally asked, staring at the miserable, naked hobbits before him.

“I woke up when they started biting me,” Pippin said in a very small voice, looking as miserable as any had ever seen him. His whole body was a brilliant red, and the welts that covered him seemed to encompass his entire frame. Beside him, arms held slightly away from his body, Frodo nodded his agreement.

Aragorn, slightly braver than the rest, went to where the hobbits had created their normal sleeping pile for the day, and his eyes widened in horror. It appeared that Pippin and Frodo, as always sandwiched protectively between the other two, had fallen asleep right atop an anthill, unnoticed in the predawn darkness.

“Strider?” Pippin whimpered.

The Ranger turned quickly, knowing full well the danger that so many bites could cause. A few ant bites were nothing more than a nuisance, but a few hundred?

“It will be all right, Pippin,” he soothed, kneeling down beside the shivering form before him. All four hobbits were shaking, either with reaction to the ant poison, the drop in adrenaline, or the chill in the air, he was unsure.

“Legolas, I need my herbal pouch, quickly. Gimli, start a-” He stopped, noticing Gandalf already taking care of the small fire, one of Sam’s pots already starting to boil. “Gimli, Boromir, Legolas, I need you to place wet cloths over the worst of the bites. Use shirts or bandages, the blankets and cloaks will be too coarse. The water will help ease the pain until I can make the poultice.”

Quickly the others set about their task, and in moments the four hobbits were covered in a varied mix of soaked shirts, bandages and, in Pippin’s case, Legolas’ sash.

The young hobbit swayed dizzily as Legolas wrapped the dripping sash around Pippin’s red and swollen chest, the bites there more numerous then anywhere else on his person.

“Be at ease, Pippin, I have you,” he said softly, gently steadying him. “This should help the swelling, and take away some of the pain.”

“Pippin?” Merry asked softly, a few feet away, groggily trying to focus on his cousin. “Pip, are you all right?”

“Yes, Merry,” was the automatic answer, though Pippin was struggling to keep his own eyes open, swaying as though in a breeze.

“Mr. Frodo?” Sam asked, his critical eye gazing over his master worriedly.

“I’ll be all right, Sam,” Frodo assured him, his smile pinched. “However, never again shall I believe you when you tell me ants are harmless.”

A strained laugh was his only reply.

“The poultice is ready,” Aragorn said softly, carefully taking the pot off the fire and carrying it over to where the others stood, rather than asking the hobbits to move. “Gimli, Boromir, I have a dangerous task for you,” he said, stirring the concoction as he knelt before Frodo. “I need you to rid the hobbits’ clothes, blankets and cloaks of ants, and set up a new sleep area. Be careful,” he added, smiling at the two warriors’ fierce scowls. “I have never seen this type of ant before, and they appear to be extremely aggressive.”

He watched for a moment as the two set about their task, gingerly picking up the garments and blankets and moving off to shake them out. When he turned back to Frodo, he smiled slightly.

“How are you doing, Frodo?” he asked gently, starting to smear the hot poultice on the sensitive flesh. Frodo winced, inhaling sharply through clenched teeth before gritting out, “I feel as though they are still crawling over me, though I know they are not. I will not sleep soundly for a while!”

Aragorn laughed as he finished with the Ring-bearer and moved to Pippin, who was sitting now next to Sam, Legolas’ hand still on his shoulder. The gardener wrinkled his nose at the foul smell emanating from the pot, though Pippin showed no reaction.

“Oh, it’s ruined,” Sam sighed, though his tone was more resigned than regretful.

“But for a good cause,” Aragorn assured him, starting to smear the foul substance onto Pippin’s arms. “Is this better, Little Bird?” he asked gently, pausing in his work to place a gentle hand on the other’s forehead, frowning at the slight heat.

“Oh, that is worth one of Sam’s pots,” Pippin sighed quietly, closing his eyes in bliss.

Aragorn chuckled at his response, covering the hobbit’s entire body with the concoction. When he was finished, Gandalf came over from helping Frodo to the new bedding that Boromir and Gimli had prepared and gently took him from the elf’s hands, half carrying, half supporting the stumbling hobbit. Frodo was quick to his cousin’s side, as unsteady as he was himself, and the two of them lowered Pippin gently to the mass of cloaks and blankets that had become their bed.

“Pippin?” Merry asked, his attention on his cousin rather than his own discomfort.

“He’ll be fine,” Aragorn assured him, gently slathering him in the now cooling paste. “I’ll make him something for the fever as soon as you and Sam are taken care of.”

“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but I think Pippin’s a bit worse off than us,” Sam said, trying valiantly to not squirm when the Ranger’s gaze turned to him.

“I’m almost done, Sam, and I want this poultice on all of you, it will draw out the poison. A few ant bites are nothing, but so many, and inflicted on someone of your size, can be dangerous,” Aragorn informed him gently.

As soon as Merry had been seen to he hobbled as quickly as he could to his cousins, the tenseness in his shoulders easing slightly when Pippin smiled up at him, making a comment too soft for the Ranger to hear, but bringing a chuckle from Gandalf and Frodo.

As Aragorn finished up with Sam’s legs, the hobbit sighed.

“To think, if me old Gaffer saw me now, naked and covered in goo, the look on his face!”

Aragorn laughed, standing with a creak of leather and metal, and helped Sam over to the others. Aragorn knelt beside Pippin, Merry and Frodo moving slightly to allow him room.

“How are you feeling now, Pippin?” he asked gently, once more taking the youngest hobbit’s pulse and checking his fever.

“Better,” came the weary reply, followed by a small smile. “Though I don’t think we’ll ever get the smell out of the cloaks!”

“Or my pan,” Sam sighed.

“No, I think it is ruined,” Aragorn agreed. “I suggest that all of you lay down and try and get some rest. Pippin, I want you to drink something for me, all right?”

The tweenager merely nodded, his eyes already closing, breathing evening out in sleep as the others settled around him. Now that they were covered in the foul paste, their discomfort had eased and they were feeling their exhaustion again, made even more extreme by the poison in their systems. Frodo, one hand protectively on Pippin’s arm, was asleep in moments, Sam close behind, his back pressed against Frodo’s. Merry fought off his own fatigue long enough to watch Aragorn coax a mug of something sweet smelling into a drowsing Pippin before he, too, was dragged down into the depths of slumber. Pippin, barely managing to finish off the mug, was fast asleep again before he lay back down.

“Stop scratching at them.”

Merry gently slapped his cousin’s hand away from where it was absently digging at his shoulder.

“But-“

“You’re going to make it worse, and you already look like you like you’ve been used as Mother’s pincushion. Stop it!”

Pippin gritted his teeth, clenching his hands into fists to keep from rubbing at the burning, itching welts. Beside him, Frodo looked just as miserable.

“But it itches!” he hissed.

“Aragorn said not to touch them until he gets more of that foul paste on us, Master Pippin,” Sam reminded him even as he eyed the tweenager sympathetically.

“Stop it, Mr. Frodo,” he added absently, catching a glimpse of the eldest hobbit reaching for his leg.

“Do we have to do what we did when you had the spots, Pippin? I don’t think Aragorn would mind binding your hands!” Merry threatened as he firmly grabbed his cousin’s wrist, which had started to creep once more to his shoulder.

“Ow, ow ow, Merry, let go! I’ll stop, really!” Pippin gasped,

Merry did so, looking remorseful as Pippin gently shook his abused wrist.

“I’m sorry, Pippin, but you have to stop scratching at them, you already have a few of them bleeding!” Merry sighed, gently taking the other’s hands in his and frowning. The skin was very warm.

Pippin, guessing what his cousin was thinking, smiled disarmingly up at him. “I’m all right, Merry,” he murmured.

Though dusk was soon approaching, none of the hobbits had slept peacefully, and all bore shadows under their eyes and pale faces as proof. None of them were looking forward to that night’s march, eyeing their packs warily, as though they were some kind of vile beasts to be avoided at all costs.

“Are you certain Aragon said we are marching tonight?” Merry whispered softly to Frodo, eyes taking in the red skin and swollen hives on both of his cousin’s arms and faces.

“Oh, yes,” Frodo sighed, turning his head to point with his chin to where Aragorn and Boromir were talking softly to each other, bundling up blankets and breaking down the camp. “I asked him first thing when I woke up if we could stop and rest here for a day or so, seeing as how we are all so uncomfortable still and Pippin looking so sickly. He told me we were falling behind schedule, and could not delay, even for our discomfort. I suspect since none of us are falling down with fever or talking to trees in delirium yet, we are deemed fit to march tonight.”

Merry raised his eyebrows at his cousin’s bitter tone, though he could not suppress a smile.

“Grumpy tonight, aren’t we?” he asked, and quickly ducked behind Sam as the fierce glare turned his way.

“Oh, no, keep me out of this,” Sam grumbled, nimbly moving out of the way. “I’m goin’ to fill the water skins.”

“I’ll join you,” Pippin hastily piped up, following the gardener with a wicked grin on his face.

“Traitors,” Merry mumbled, eyes following the two hobbits as they departed.

Frodo’s hand smacking the back of his head caught him off guard, and he stumbled a step.

“All right, all right, I surrender!” he laughed, darting away from his scowling kin. “If you’re determined to be in a bad mood, far be it from me to try and lighten it!”

Frodo could not help the slight smile that came to his lips as he watched Merry limp over to Legolas, offering his aid in packing up the rest of the camp.

It was going to be a very long night.

Finally, after what must have been several hours, Gandalf dropped back far enough to murmur a few words to Aragorn, and shortly after the Ranger called a halt for a brief rest. The hobbits collapsed where they stood, not even bothering to drop their packs, but using them to rest against.

After a few minutes, however, Pippin struggled up, wiggling free from his straps and staggering into the bushes off to their left. A few moments later the sound of retching could be heard.

“Pippin?” Merry asked, sudden worry turning his voice sharp as he struggled to his feet, Frodo and Sam determinedly doing the same.

Aragorn looked up from where he was gathering an exotic herb, barely discernable in the dark, the movement of the other three hobbits catching his attention.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, but the others did not answer, rushing to find their fourth member.

Leaving the herb, Aragorn followed them, motioning for Legolas to follow and Boromir, Gimli and Gandalf to stay seated. They did not have to go far before they found the four hobbits, Merry gently holding Pippin as he continued to retch, Frodo tenderly holding Pippin’s hair from his face and Sam rubbing a soothing hand on the tweenager’s back.

“What is wrong?” Aragorn demanded, kneeling down swiftly beside them and carefully moving Sam and Frodo aside, ignoring their disapproving frowns.

“Pippin?” he asked, placing a hand to the other’s brow and frowning at the heat. He moved the hand down to Pippin’s neck, felt the rapid heartbeat, like a frightened rabbit’s.

The young hobbit coughed, trying to catch his breath.

“I – I’m all ri-right,” he stuttered, not able to look up yet. “I thi-think Gimli’s cooking did-didn’t agree with me.”

“Much as I would normally agree with you, young hobbit,” Aragorn said softly, turning for a moment to cast Legolas a wry grin. The elf returned his smile, if a bit hesitantly, and the Ranger turned back to the hobbits. “But I think that perhaps this may have more to do with this morning’s incident than our dwarf’s questionable cooking.”

Finally feeling his stomach begin to settle, Pippin risked looking up at the others. His face was sweaty, the welts that covered his pale cheeks standing out sharply. He was trembling slightly, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

“I’m all right now,” he repeated softly.

“Hush, Dearest,” Frodo whispered. He placed a hand on Pippin’s back, frowning at the obvious trembling under his fingers. Something in his eyes hardened, his lips thinned, and his shoulders tensed.

“Aragorn,” he said, very softly, and Merry and Sam looked at each other knowingly. When Frodo used that tone, there was no arguing with him. Period.

Frodo looked up, meeting the Ranger’s eyes unflinchingly. “We are stopping for the night. Now.” Aragorn narrowed his own eyes. Before he could open his mouth, however, Frodo continued. “We cannot go on, Aragorn. We are stopping.”

“Frodo,” Pippin whispered weakly.

“Hush, Peregrin. We are stopping for the night, you are going to rest and drink whatever horrible concoction Aragorn gives you, and if you are feeling better tomorrow night we shall continue.”

Pippin, as well, knew better than to argue with his older cousin when he assumed that tone, and wisely kept quiet as Aragorn scowled at Frodo.

“We are falling behind schedule, Frodo. I know that you are all uncomfortable and not feeling well, but if we do not push on –“

“No.”

Frodo’s voice was quiet, yet it had no trouble cutting over Aragorn’s. His blue eyes were hard as steel, and the hand on Pippin’s shoulder stilled its comforting movements.

“We are not moving any further tonight, Aragorn, save to find a more sheltered spot.”

None of the other hobbits spoke, eyes moving from the Ranger to the eldest of them.

“Frodo, I think I need to lie down for a moment.” Pippin’s small voice finally broke the tension, turning all eyes to his shivering form once more.

Surprisingly, it was Legolas who stepped forward, almost forgotten in his silence.

“I shall take him back to the others,” he said softly, bending down and tenderly helping the tweenager to stand. Once on his feet, however, it was clear to all that Pippin could walk no further that night, watching as he swayed and turned a shade paler.

Without a word the elf picked him up gently, cradling him to his chest and breathing something in Pippin’s ear too soft for the others to hear.

For a moment Legolas’ eyes met Aragorn’s. “I shall tell the others that we will not be moving on tonight,” he finally said, softly.

The hobbits watched the Ranger’s jaw clench, but the man said nothing, watching as the elf left as quietly as the sighing wind.

“Merry, Sam, we should return to the others as well. Aragorn, thank you.” Frodo stood, meeting the man’s eyes with a nod of his head, turning and heading back to the camp without another word.

Merry and Sam, looking at each other uncertainly, followed quickly. It didn’t happen often, but when Frodo fell into this mood, one did not upset him further. As it was, they highly doubted that even Gandalf would be able to sway him from his course.

Aragorn, still kneeling in the prickly grass, sighed, his head bowed against the inevitable. Obviously, they would not be going further that night.

“Legolas?”

Gandalf, his eyes crinkled in worry, stood quickly when the elf returned to where the others had remained, the small form in his arms clutching him tightly.

“Pippin is very sick, Gandalf. We are stopping for the night,” Legolas explained softly.

“Where is Aragorn?” Boromir asked even as he moved to the elf’s side, placing a hand to Pippin’s brow. “He’s burning up.”

“He is coming shortly, with the other hobbits. Gandalf,” Legolas began, turning troubled eyes to the wizard.

“We need to find a more sheltered spot for the night, Gandalf,” Frodo’s soft voice said, halting whatever else the elf might have said.

“So Legolas has told me, Frodo,” the wizard murmured, eyebrows wrinkling. “Though I would prefer if we managed a bit further. Surely Aragorn explained –“

“We are stopping for the night, Gandalf,” Frodo said again.

Merry, Sam, and Gimli, who had joined the two hobbits as they emerged from the bush, remained silent, sharing a solemn glance between themselves. Gimli had never seen the Ring-bearer in such a mood before, but the hobbits had.

Merry only once before, when he was 17 and visiting Frodo and Bilbo with Pippin. Lobelia Slackville-Baggins had come to Bag End, making a ruckus over something he could no longer remember. Pippin had been napping at the time, still recovering from a bout of Winter Sickness, and Frodo had become livid. He had never before or since seen Lobelia flee so quickly in his life.

Sam, on the other hand, had seen both Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo in such a state before, several times, and often having to do with Lobelia and Lotho. He had learned long ago from his Gaffer to leave well enough alone, and let the two deal with their relations in their own way. As they watched the eldest hobbit stare down the wizard, he wished that Gandalf had learned the same lesson.

A rustling of leaves behind them caught their attention and they turned to see the Ranger emerging from the brush, his expression wry as he took in the situation.

“I believe the Ring-bearer has spoken, old friend,” he said softly to Gandalf, tone neutral as he looked to Frodo. The hobbit’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Aaaghh!”

All eyes turned toward Pippin, still held tenderly in the elf’s firm grasp. His eyes were closed, breaths coming in sudden, shallow sobs. A faint sheen of sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip.

“Pippin?” Merry asked, moving to go to him.

They all watched in horror as Pippin began to convulse, writhing in the elf’s arms.

Aragorn moved as Legolas went to his knees, trying to steady the hobbit as the small body jerked and spasmed.

“Pippin!” Merry cried, halted from rushing to his cousin’s side by Sam’s strong arms around his shoulders.

“Let them help him, Mr. Merry,” he whispered in a strangled voice, the both of them watching in horror as a thin trickle of blood dribbled down the side of Pippin’s mouth.

“Pippin!” Frodo screamed and shook off the halting hand Gandalf laid on his shoulder. He stopped before he reached his cousin, however, watching in shocked fascination as Aragorn laid his hand on Pippin’s forehead, his face white and tense. After a moment, the hobbit’s body stilled and became limp.

“Pippin?” Merry asked softly, fear pitching his voice high.

“It was a fever spasm,” Aragorn whispered, gently prying Pippin’s mouth open to inspect the damage. He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “He bit his tongue, that is where the blood comes from,” he whispered.

Frodo felt his own shoulders slump in relief, moving slowly to stand beside the kneeling man and elf. Aragorn looked up, his face solemn as he met the hobbit’s gaze.

“I am sorry, Frodo, for not listening to you. It will not happen again.”

Frodo nodded, his gaze focusing on his cousin’s pale face. When Pippin’s eyes fluttered, then slowly blinked open, the eldest hobbit felt his own fill with tears.

“Pippin,” he whispered, dropping to his knees. “Pippin, dearest, can you hear me?”

Tenderly he reached out a shaking hand and cupped Pippin’s cheek.

“Pippin?” Aragorn asked, once more placing his hand on the tweenager’s brow. “Can you answer us, Little Bird?”

Frodo looked at the man next to him, startled by the use of the unfamiliar nickname. Though he had heard it before, he still found it a little jarring. The Ranger did not notice, his attention on the still form before him.

“Wh-what ha-ha-happened?” Pippin asked thickly, trying to focus glassy eyes on those above him.

“You had a fever spasm, Pippin,” Frodo whispered, bending closer to place a kiss gently on the sweaty, burning brow. The welts on the young hobbit’s face were livid and red, his eyes shadowed and bruised. “Like when you were younger, with the Winter Sickness.”

There was a rustling beside them, and Frodo, Aragorn and Legolas looked over to see Merry and Sam standing next to them, Merry’s eyes filled with tears, Sam’s hand resting on his shoulder.

“Pippin, Legolas is going to carry you for a bit longer, until we can find a sheltered spot for the night. I want you to relax and try and get some rest. I’m going to make you some tea, and you must drink it all.” Aragorn’s voice was soft, gentle.

“I shall take him, Aragorn.”

The Ranger looked up, startled, to see Gandalf approach. Pippin’s eyes followed the wizard’s movement dazedly, unfocused. The others parted, watching as ancient, but surprisingly strong arms gently, tenderly, lifted up the smallest hobbit.

“Gandalf,” Pippin whispered tremulously, his eyes closing.

“I have you, Pip-lad,” Gandalf whispered, bowing his head for a moment, hiding the tears that glistened his eyes. “I have you.”

The youngster in his arms went limp, a soft sigh escaping parted lips.

“Come,” Gandalf said softly, turning. “We must go.”

Slowly, the others followed him.

They found a sheltering outcropping of rocks a bit further on, obscured by brush and the thick grass that seemed to make up most of the land’s vegetation. Quickly the others set about preparing the camp, every one of them keeping an eye on the small form still cradled gently in the wizard’s arms.

“Gandalf.”

The voice was barely above a breath, a sound more felt than heard.

“Hush, Peregrin. We are stopping for the night, and Aragorn shall make you something to help you feel better,” Gandalf whispered back gently as he watched the smallest hobbit struggle to open his eyes. “Rest now.”

What strength Pippin had seemed to leave him, and once more he became limp, his breath evening out.

Shortly the camp was in order, and a small fire carefully concealed and watched by Aragorn was boiling a pot of tea made with athelas.

“Why is he so ill, Aragorn?” Frodo asked softly, kneeling down beside the man to watch the pot boil. The fragrance seemed to fill the hobbit with hope and calm his nerves. “Why have the rest of us not suffered so?”

“I do not know, Frodo,” Aragorn admitted, placing a calloused hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “My guess is that it is because he is the smallest of you, or perhaps he received more bites than the rest of you. I do not know the type of ant that attacked you nor what their poison might do to one so small.”

Frodo bowed his head, eyes closed against the tears that threatened to fall. Off to his right he could hear Merry whispering softly to Sam, his cousin’s voice tight and strained as the two of them finished preparing the bedding.

“He has always been rather frail,” Frodo finally whispered. “But he has never allowed that to stop him.”

Nothing more was said between them, and after a moment Frodo left the Ranger, moving to where Gandalf was laying Pippin down gently on the blankets Merry and Sam had prepared.

“Pippin? Can you hear me? I need you to try and wake up, Little Bird. Pippin?”

Pippin groaned, both at the pain that seemed to encompass his body and the need to let the rude person talking to him know that he did not want to wake up. He was tired!

“Pip-lad, wake up. Sam is making some broth for you, but you shan’t get any if you don’t open your eyes,” another voice coaxed.

Broth?

“I think that did it, Merry,” an admiring voice murmured a moment before the tweenager forced his eyes open.

Aragorn, Frodo, Merry and Gandalf knelt beside him, peering down at him anxiously.

“Why are we stopped?” Pippin mumbled thickly, confused by the star-studded sky overhead.

“Do you not remember, Peregrin?” Gandalf asked kindly, laying a hand softly on his brow. It felt wonderfully cool against his skin.

“I was sick,” Pippin whispered, closing his eyes again as he tried to recall the events of the night. “And Frodo said we were stopping for the night. I – I don’t remember after that.”

“That is all right, Pippin,” Aragorn soothed. “You are very sick right now, and I need you to drink this tea. It will help with the fever and the pain.”

“What does it taste like?” Pippin asked, trying to smile.

The others laughed, relieved that for the moment, at least, the young hobbit was able to make a joke.

“Drink it and find out, and then you may have a little of the broth Sam is making,” Aragorn coaxed.

Gently, Pippin was lifted to a sitting position, his eyes squinted shut against the sudden dizziness and pain that assaulted him.

“Easy, Dearest,” Frodo murmured, his hand on Pippin’s shoulder.

“I don’t feel well,” Pippin whimpered, face suddenly pale, lines of strain creasing his brow.

Something warm and soft and sturdy was suddenly behind him, supporting him, and some of the pain eased. A moment later Merry’s gentle hand was easing his head back against that familiar chest he had known all his life.

“Just breathe, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice close to Pippin’s ear. “Just one breath, then another.”

The feel of the body behind him, of the movement of inhaled lungs followed by a soft breath upon his cheek, allowed him to concentrate on his own breathing, of the easing of pain as clear air filled him. Slowly his agony seemed to dissipate, vanishing as though upon a cool breeze. The burning, stabbing, pins and needles seemed to recede, and so relieved was he that he slumped back against Merry, his breath escaping in a trembling gust.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, though he did not have the strength to open his eyes and discover the hand’s owner. A mug, warm and smelling strongly of athelas, was placed to his lips, and he drank without thinking.

The liquid slid down his throat, coating his tongue in a honey-flavored film.

“You need to drink some more, Pip,” Merry whispered, and the mug was pushed once more to his lips. “Just a little.”

Obligingly Pippin opened his mouth, licking his lips as he did so, before drinking once more. The warm steam from the mug wafted against his face, drops of moisture clinging to his eyelashes.

“Try and get some rest, Pip,” Frodo urged. “We won’t be going anywhere until you are feeling better.”

For a moment Pippin managed to open his eyes a crack, peering at his cousins through the slits. Frodo was looking pensive, eyes large and worried as he tried to smile reassuringly down at his young cousin. Beside him, Aragorn was kneeling, the mug in his hands.

“Get some sleep, Pippin,” the Ranger whispered, voice tense as his shoulders.

Without a word the tweenager closed his eyes, the calming rise and fall of Merry’s breathing a soothing lullaby against the remaining misery that seemed to encompass his body.

Within moments, he was asleep, Merry’s arm wrapped protectively around his thin chest.

“I’ll be back in a moment, Dearest,” Frodo whispered, his jaw once more assuming and iron set. Without another word, he left his kin, heading over to where Gandalf stood, several feet away, talking softly to Legolas.

“Gandalf, may I speak with you?” Frodo asked quietly, absently nodding politely to the elf.

The wizard nodded, murmuring a soft word to Legolas that Frodo paid no heed to. The two of them moved slowly to the edge of the camp.

“How is Pippin doing?” Gandalf whispered, leaning heavily on his staff.

Frodo took a few steps back the way they had come, stopping with his arms crossed against his chest.

“He is sleeping now. Though for how long we do not know. Aragorn says that the tea will help his fever, and the swelling of his bites.” There was a long silence as the wizard digested the words. Then, softly, with an icy calmness that chilled Gandalf, Frodo breathed, “Why, Gandalf?”

The hobbit spun around as only silence greeted this question, to see the wizard looking at him sorrowfully.

“Our mission is too great to be slowed, Frodo. Even for Pippin,” was the soft answer.

A shutter slammed shut in Frodo’s eyes, his lips thinning as his jaw clenched.

“Nothing is more important, Gandalf.” There was steel in his voice the wizard had never heard before, a stiffness to his spine that seemed to add inches to the hobbit’s height.

Gandalf sighed, closing his eyes as he took a seat on a nearby boulder, his staff leaning against his thigh.

“Do you not think that I care for Pippin as much as you?” he asked finally, his gaze searching as his ancient eyes encompassed the other’s face. “Do you think that I would put him in harm, if there were any choice?”

“There is no choice before you, Gandalf,” Frodo whispered, tone as hard as his gaze. “I shall not put Pippin at risk for a few days time. We are staying here until he is well again.”

The wizard opened his mouth to reply, his own eyes slowly turning hard.

“Frodo-“ he began, voice gaining an edge.

“No, Gandalf,” Frodo said. His voice was still soft, still calm, but there was no denying the firm resolve that filled it. “If you want to carry the Ring, be my guest. But I shall not put my kinsmen in harm’s way to gain a few days. We shall remain here, and if you wish to do otherwise-“

His hand withdrew the Ring from beneath his shirt, the gold of the small band glinting dimly in the starlight. Gandalf’s indrawn breath was sharp, his face tightening at the sight of the malevolent thing.

“I was appointed the Ring-bearer, Gandalf,” Frodo murmured, eyes never leaving the wizard’s face. “Either you place your trust in me, or you don’t. But do not doubt that I will release this burden in a heartbeat if Merry and Pippin, or Sam, are risked so foolishly again.”

A moment of silence hung heavily between them, their eyes locking in a gaze of silent wills. After a moment, Gandalf dropped his gaze, admitting acknowledgement of Frodo’s terms without speaking a word.

Satisfied, Frodo replaced the Ring under his shirt.

“You, of all people, should have known better than to play with Pippin’s health, Gandalf.” His tone was sharp, accusing, and the hobbit’s eyes were glinting with anger. “You, who’ve known him all his life, and held him as a babe, proclaiming that he would live despite the fears of his parents. I expected more from you, Gandalf.”

Frodo turned, walking stiffly back to his kin, leaving the wizard to contemplate his words. And the actions that had prompted them.

Pippin was sleeping restlessly, his brow creased, eyes squinted even in slumber against the pain that seemed to have become a constant part of his body. His breathing was even more labored and he had begun to wheeze, gasping breaths that eerily reminded his kin of Pippin’s numerous battles with the Winter Sickness. Merry knelt beside him, one hand gently holding Pippin’s left, his thumb absently circling the wrist, the other running tenderly through red-gold hair. He looked up as Frodo approached.

Aragorn, on Pippin’s right, looked up as well, his eyes worried, frowning. Briefly he lifted his gaze to somewhere over Frodo’s shoulder, and the eldest cousin knew without looking that Gandalf stood behind him.

“How is he?” Frodo asked softly, eyes taking in the pale complexion, bruised eyes and swollen, red and white-ringed welts on his youngest kin.

“No better I fear,” Aragorn whispered, placing one finger on a welt that marred Pippin’s shoulder. It was different then the others, rimmed in white and swollen, a red area surrounding it. Quite a few others like it dotted the hobbit’s body. “I do not understand this,” he hissed, almost to himself. “The tea should have at least brought his fever down! His breathing becomes more difficult! And these welts, they should be fading!”

Frodo frowned, moving to kneel down beside the Ranger, placing a hesitant hand to Pippin’s brow. His scowl deepened at the heat.

“What are you going to do?” Frodo asked.

For a moment Aragorn said nothing, his gaze lingering on the prone hobbit before him before turning eyes back to Frodo. Something in his gaze was all the answer the Ring-bearer needed.

Gandalf placed a wrinkled hand on the Ranger’s shoulder, guiding him a few steps away from the others. His voice when he spoke was too soft for human ears, though hobbit senses heard the conversation without trouble.

“How is Peregrin, Aragorn? Besides the obvious ant bites,” Gandalf whispered, the two of them turning their backs slightly to those they discussed. The wizard’s gentle eyes sought the still form of the hobbit under discussion.

“He worsens, old friend,” Aragorn sighed, running a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic display of frustration. “His fever is not responding to the tea, but rises! His welts become worse, he gasps for every shallow breath, his heartbeat is rapid. I do not know what to do!”

This last was said in a strained hiss, the Ranger’s shoulders tense.

“Will he survive the night?” Gandalf asked in a breath so soft that the words were almost lost to even hobbit ears. The wizard’s expression was bleak, his eyes filled with an immense sorrow that seemed to encompass the whole of his being.

There was a moment of silence, in which all of the night seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of the answer. Frodo, watching Merry anxiously, saw his cousin’s eyes narrow, his ears twitch, and felt his own heart quicken.

“I do not know,” Aragorn finally admitted.

Behind them, listening intently to every word, Merry suddenly released Pippin’s hand with a cry which seemed to be ripped from his very soul, launching himself over his cousin’s legs and over the fire, his feet teasing the flames as he crossed.

The move carried him to where the two stood, stunned by his sudden actions, and he plowed into Aragorn. Both went down, the Ranger flat on his back, Merry straddling him, glaring at the man, anger and fear turning his face sharp. He cocked his arm, fist trembling in his rage.

A hand descended, clutching Merry’s wrist as it began to move and stopping its motion. The enraged hobbit looked up, eyes glinting as he opened his mouth to berate whoever had dared to stop his attack.

Frodo stood over him, face in shadow as the firelight flickered behind the eldest hobbit. For a moment neither spoke, staring into each other’s eyes, daring, compelling, challenging. Frodo, his own eyes hard and filled with a smoldering anger that singed all those he turned that gaze upon, slowly shook his head, murmuring one word, softly, cautioning.

“Merry.”

His tone conveyed a thousand things, his expression only one.

Merry nodded, slowly lowering his hand. Frodo would take care of things.

Reluctantly he stood, unaware of the eyes watching him from the rest of the Company, their gazes shocked and astonished.

“Go have Sam see to your feet,” Frodo whispered, placing the same hand he had used to restrain on Merry’s cheek. “Then go to Pippin. He needs you now.”

Merry cast one last loathing glare to Aragorn and Gandalf, eyes narrowed, before he turned, limping over to where Sam stood, eyes wide, face pale. Too keyed up to sit down, he paced uncaring of his discomfort, oblivious to Sam’s nervous gaze.

Aragorn was kneeling, hand on his chest where Merry’s knee had caught him, and was eyeing the Ring-bearer warily.

Frodo turned to stare at the man, eyes calculating, scowling.

“Frodo – “ Aragorn began, trying to find the right words to explain the situation.

With surprising speed, the hobbit shoved the Ranger, hard. Aragorn fell back, landing on his backside in surprise. The others watched, stunned, Legolas, Gimli and Boromir uncertain as to what to do.

Aragorn made to stand again, lips pressed tightly together, and Frodo surged forward, shoving him once more with all his might, both hands descending with bruising force.

The Ranger splayed on his back, eyes wide in astonishment, before turning to look enquiringly at Gandalf. The wizard met his gaze sadly, giving the barest of headshakes.

Frodo took a step forward, glaring fiercely, hovering over Aragorn’s much larger form. Legolas made to move, either to help the Ranger or try to soothe Frodo’s anger the others did not know. But as he started to approach, Merry, pacing still, turned and took one deliberate step towards the elf, his challenge plain. Behind him Sam moved closer.

The expression on Meriadoc’s face was enough to send Legolas back a step, Gimli and Boromir watching in open-mouthed astonishment.

For a moment there was silence save for the crackling of the fire and Pippin’s labored breathing. Then, advancing slowly to loom over Aragorn, Frodo stopped, glaring down at the man with undisguised anger darkening his face. He said nothing, the silence lengthening until it was nearly a sound of its own. Then a movement, and Merry was next to Frodo in silent support, Sam taking Merry’s place protectively between the others and the unfolding drama.

“You knew my cousin was sick,” Frodo finally said in a voice none had heard before, his frame shaking with suppressed rage. “You knew we were all sick. Yet you pressed us onward. For what? To save a day? Perhaps two?” He took another step forward, his face inches away from Aragorn’s, eyes two large pinpoints in the flickering shadows, face pale with anger. Aragorn said nothing, his own eyes wary, watching every move the hobbit made. “Or did you think the death of my cousin would have us moving faster?” His voice cracked, and two large, angry tears rolled from his steel hard eyes.

Frodo’s voice lowered, and in a hiss that sent chills down the spines of all who heard, warned, “If he dies because of this, then make no mistake. I will follow you to the very depths of Mordor, Aragorn, but then I will cast you into the Cracks of Doom along with this cursed Ring!”

For a moment none moved, and Aragorn swallowed, looking from the two hobbits before him to the prone form of their cousin, and read the promise in both their eyes.

Frodo moved, to take a step back. He straightened, still glaring at the man before him. Then he turned, eyes taking in those watching the scene in shock, then to Merry, who met his gaze unwaveringly. When he turned to Sam, the gardener nodded, once. Then Frodo and Merry moved to where Pippin lay, and knelt beside him, each taking a hand.

Preparing to spend the long night in a wakeful vigil both had performed too often in their lives.

Aragorn stared forlornly up at the stars that dotted the sky, pinpricks of light in a velvet curtain that covered and protected them. Shame hung about his head, thick as a dense fog and just as stifling.

He stood a bit apart from the group, feeling the need for solitude more than he had yet on this Quest. Still able to hear the voices of the rest of the Fellowship behind him, he kept an unconscious ear on the hobbits, their voices too low pitched even for his sensitive hearing to catch their words. Only their tone, filled with worry and fear, could be made out.

A low moan from Pippin turned his head, to see Legolas place another mug of athelas tea to the tweenager’s slightly blue lips, and after a moment Pippin was quiet again, his breathing easing slightly.

“How could I have ever been so foolish?” he asked softly of the night, watching the small hobbit drift back into the fever induced sleep he had maintained for the past hour before turning away once more, facing the dark of the night and his own guilt.

“Better to ask, Dúnadan, how could we all have been so foolish? All, save for those who knew better than we who are supposedly wiser, that is,” a soft voice answered from behind the Ranger.

Aragorn turned his head once more, to see Gandalf approach. He smiled sadly at the wizard.

“I have been so intent on this Quest, on accomplishing this mission, that I have forgotten what it is truly about,” Aragorn whispered. Gandalf’s slow tread took him to a spot slightly to the right and in front of the Ranger, who watched him with weary eyes.

“And what would that be, Aragorn?” Gandalf asked just as softly, not turning. He, too, seemed wrapped in his own thoughts and feelings of guilt.

“Saving all that we love and cherish.”

Gandalf finally turned, his ancient eyes seeing through the man with a compassion that far surpassed even his years.

“Perhaps it is not too late to accomplish that,” was his only answer.

Aragorn smiled sadly, turning his eyes once more to the dark and forbidding landscape that had become their refuge for the night.

“I do not know what else to do, Gandalf,” he finally whispered, unable to meet that knowing gaze once more. “None of the others show the same signs that Peregrin does, yet all were bitten! Why him? Why do the bites affect him so, and why does nothing I do work?”

There was bitter frustration in his voice, self-reproach for being unable to solve this riddle.

For a moment the wizard was silent, staring intently up to the stars, remembering past Tooks and present ones. When he did speak, his voice was distant, filled with a fondness the Ranger never would have guessed at.

“Peregrin was born much earlier than he was supposed to be,” he began, smiling at the memory of the tiny, weak baby that had contained, and still did, such a bright and fiery spirit. “He has suffered for his early birth all his life. Small even for a hobbit, quick to fall ill with sicknesses that linger when most lads shake them off in a few days. Fighting his way through deadly bouts of the Winter Sickness and triumphing every time despite the fears of those who love him. And never has he given up, or allowed himself to become bitter.”

The wizard finally turned his gaze back to the Ranger, who was listening to his words in awed silence.

“It is no wonder Elrond did not wish Pippin to join us. Certainly he wanted one of the hobbits to return home and warn them of impending danger, but also he could sense the difficulty Pippin would have along the way should he accompany us.” Here Gandalf chuckled gently, fondly. “Though he is a handful at times, and hard put to use the most common of sense at others, there is not another hobbit save for Merry and Sam that I would have chosen to accompany the Ring-bearer on his Quest.”

Here he fell silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, so softly Aragorn had to lean forward to hear the words, whispered, “I am a fool.”

Nothing more was said between them for several moments, listening to the sounds of the nocturnal animals around them, going about their lives. Then, without a word, Aragorn turned, heading back once more to what he feared was becoming a losing battle.

He stopped suddenly, eyes captured by an odd sight. Boromir was sitting a few feet away from where Gimli was distractedly puffing on his pipe. The warrior of Gondor had his head in his hands as though in pain, the fingers of his right hand gently massaging his temple.

“Boromir?” Aragorn asked softly, diverting his path to the Gondorian. “Is everything all right?”

The man looked up, startled. Even in the dim firelight Aragorn could see the faint flush of fever in the other’s cheeks. Gimli looked up, a startled expression on his face, as though just realizing that the man sat near him.

“I am fine, Aragorn,” Boromir responded stiffly, trying to sit up straighter.

“I beg to differ, my friend,” Aragorn objected, moving closer. Yes, the warrior was definitely running a fever. “Why did you not say anything?”

“Tis just a headache,” Boromir answered quickly. “Truly, Aragorn. Your talents are needed elsewhere this night, and I would not have you wasting time on a simple headache when there is another far worse off than myself.”

“Nonsense, Boromir,” Aragorn chided gently, kneeling by the warrior’s side. “As I have been reminded tonight, there is no such thing as a minor illness on the road. Now, let me have a look.”

Boromir fidgeted uneasily, absently scratching at his arm. Aragorn noticed, and immediately stilled the action, hand clenching almost painfully on the other man’s.

“You were bitten as well?” the Ranger asked softly, pulling the shirtsleeve up to reveal a small welt, the size of the tip of his little finger, ringed in white.

“By a spider, this evening, as I was helping the hobbits prepare their gear. I think it was in my cloak,” Boromir explained, slightly puzzled.

“What type of spider?” Aragorn asked, sudden fear warring with hope. “Please, Boromir, this is important!”

Spurred on by the urgency in Aragorn’s tone, Boromir closed his eyes, trying to remember, fighting the pain in his head.

“A green spider, flecked with yellow. Long legs, and a larger body. It quite startled me when I saw it,” he added, almost to himself.

“Boromir, if what I think is correct, you may have just saved our young friend’s life!” Aragorn whispered, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Please, be patient a bit longer, but Pippin needs me!”

He was gone before Boromir could protest that he had already said as much.

“This should reduce his fever and ease his breathing,” the Ranger whispered, easing Pippin’s head back down to the pile of blankets. “Now that I know what I am facing, I believe we shall see progress very soon.”

“Aragorn, what is wrong with him? What has changed?” Frodo asked, softly. The anger from before had faded as quickly as a misted breath on a cold day, and left the elder hobbit tired and fearful.

“You see these bites? How they differ from the others?” Aragorn asked, pointing to a small, white-ringed welt. “I did not think anything of it until I noticed the same marking on Boromir, and realized that these were not caused by the ants, but by a spider.”

Frodo’s eyes widened, and he turned once more to his cousin, counting the spider bites.

“He must have at least twenty of them!” he murmured in horror.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, grimly.

“But how did he get them?” Merry asked in a tight voice, his hand unconsciously tracing one of the bites. “None of us have these!”

“I do not know, Merry,” Aragorn whispered mournfully. “My only guess is that a cluster of them found refuge in Pippin’s blanket, and bit him in retaliation when the ants started to swarm. Boromir said he found one in his cloak this morning, and that is how he acquired his bite. If one bite can make a man of his size feverish and sick…” The Ranger did not finish the sentence, allowing it to hang in the air between them all.

Nothing more was said for several moments, all eyes turned toward the still hobbit, who’s labored breathing was the only sign of his continued struggle for life.

Legolas, sitting beside Merry and running one graceful hand through the red-gold curls that were plastered to the sweaty forehead, burning with fever, started to sing, softly. Aragorn felt his eyes well with tears unexpectedly at the ancient lullaby, and turned his head away quickly, standing awkwardly and moving to the fire to start another pot of tea, wiping his eyes as he did so.

“He’ll be fine, laddie,” a gruff voice said to his side, startling him.

Aragorn did not look up, crushing leaves with more force than was necessary into the pot, staring intently into the fire.

“I could have killed him,” he finally whispered when Gimli did not leave. “I would have pushed him until he collapsed if Frodo hadn’t stopped me.”

A hand, calloused and hesitant, as though unused to such displays of emotion, rested briefly on his shoulder.

“But you did not,” Gimli murmured. “Aye, you made a mistake, and a foolish one at that,” the dwarf added, and Aragorn could not help but smile at the tone. “But you know better now, and will not do it again. That is what matters, lad. That you get the wee one better, and we continue on this blasted Quest. The others will understand, once their fear has faded a bit. Just give them time, and you’ll see.”

Aragorn reached up and placed his own hand over the dwarf’s, finally turning his head to meet the crinkled, wise eyes.

Gimli nodded, satisfied by whatever he saw in the man’s face, and squeezed Aragorn’s shoulder quickly before he turned away. Aragorn watched him walk over to stand beside Gandalf, who had assumed the guard. The two of them stood there quietly, staring out into the night, thoughts wrapped about them like a warm blanket against the chill of their worry.

Shaking his head, Aragorn turned back to the task at hand. All his attention was required now, to see his young friend through the night. He would not let him down again.

Dawn had just begun to creep over the horizon when Pippin’s fever broke, and his breathing became the soft, deep rhythm of true sleep. The three hobbits who had remained by the tweenager’s side through the night, felt themselves begin to relax.

Aragorn, not taking any chances, brewed yet another tea, the smell of athelas sweet and invigorating to tired and worried bodies and minds. When he lifted Pippin’s head to place the mug to his lips, the hobbit’s eyes fluttered for a moment, then opened, slowly.

“Pippin!” Merry cried, moving swiftly from where he had been preparing another wet cloth for his cousin’s still warm and sweaty face. The rag was held forgotten in his hand as he knelt by Pippin’s side, taking his limp, cold hand in one of his own.

The tweenager had no strength to speak, drinking what was in the mug even as his eyes began to close once more. Weakly, he squeezed Merry’s hand.

“Hush, dearest,” Merry whispered, Frodo and Sam crowding closer beside him.

“Go back to sleep,” Frodo murmured gently, bending to place a kiss on Pippin’s brow. When he moved, a droplet of water rested just below his cousin’s cheek, and he quickly wiped it away, even as he dabbed at his own eyes.

Sam rubbed Frodo’s back with one hand, using the other to squeeze Merry’s shoulder. The three of them sat there quietly for some time, simply watching the gentle rise and fall of the small chest.

It was only when Merry’s eyes began to cross in his attempt to keep them open that they decided to take turns resting, Frodo taking the first watch, Merry the second, and Sam drawing the third.

Merry lay down gingerly beside his cousin, one hand resting lightly on a thin shoulder, Sam lying next to him. Within moments, both were asleep.

Frodo, sitting within arms’ reach of all three of them, watched as the darkness began to fade.

Slowly he took a deep breath, and was relieved when only a slight rasp greeted the effort. What, then, had happened?

“Pippin? Are you waking up, lad?” Frodo’s voice was soft and hesitant, as though afraid to wake him if he still slept.

“Mphm,” Pippin mumbled.

“I think that is a yes,” another voice whispered, this one on his other side.

Slowly, with an effort that surprised him, Pippin opened his eyes, the world blurring about him as he blinked several times. The forms of his cousins, Sam and Aragorn took shape.

“Hello, Pip,” Merry whispered, touching Pippin’s cheek gently.

“H’lo,” Pippin mumbled thickly, his tongue feeling swollen and awkward in his mouth.

As though understanding his difficulty, Aragorn sat forward a little, so that Pippin could see him without turning his head, and said, gently, “You bit your tongue last night during a fever spasm. That’s why it may be difficult to speak.”

The young hobbit’s eyes widened at the explanation, turning his gaze to Merry for confirmation.

“Yes, sweetheart,” Merry whispered, still stroking the pale cheek. “But you’re doing much better now. You need to drink whatever Aragorn gives you, and rest a bit more.”

Pippin turned his gaze to Frodo, and the other was surprised to see tears welling in those large, green eyes.

“’M sorry,” Pippin whispered.

“For what, dearest?” Frodo asked, his own voice strained with emotion. “You have nothing to be sorry for!” Briefly, for just the barest of seconds, his eyes flickered to Aragorn, as though in warning.

“For getting sick. Again,” Pippin answered miserably.

Frodo felt something in his heart wrench, and it was with difficulty that he fought back the tears welling in his own eyes.

“Pippin –“ he began, trying to find the words to respond to such a statement as he turned his gaze to Merry, seeking aid.

To his surprise it was Aragorn who answered, taking one of Pippin’s small hands in both of his large ones. The Ranger’s eyes were sorrowful, filled with guilt and remorse.

“The fault is mine, Pippin,” Aragorn rasped out. He lowered his head, as though bowed by the weight of his shame. “If I had not been so foolish, and taken more care with what I knew to be a dangerous situation, then none of this would have happened. I can only beg your forgiveness, and hope that you will still trust me in the future, should something else happen.”

The hand in his trembled, and Aragorn looked up, to see all four hobbits staring at him in wonder.

“Will you remember this, the next time you feel we are lagging?” Frodo asked, his voice quiet, though hard once more, eyes staring unflinchingly at the Ranger. “Or one of us takes ill?”

Pippin stared in confusion from Frodo to Merry, startled by their suddenly hard gazes and their seeming mistrust of their friend. Sam, too, seemed to be angry, though for no reason he could fathom.

“Frodo,” Pippin whispered, but was stopped from saying more by a sudden coughing fit, his throat dry and sore. Four sets of hands reached to help him, with Merry being the one to ease him up slightly, rubbing his back. Aragorn’s larger hand rested on his chest, feeling the fluttering heartbeat beneath his fingertips with concern, but relaxing when the fit faded, and the thumping slowed to a calmer beat.

Sam held a mug to Pippin’s lips, and the other drank thirstily, nodding his thanks and taking a deep breath before attempting to speak once more.

“Frodo, why are you mad at Aragorn?” He asked softly, looking from his cousin to the Ranger. “If it weren’t for him, I would still be sick!”

Frodo opened his mouth to explain, but a glance from Merry stopped him.

A soft thumping alerted them a moment before Gandalf knelt beside Aragorn with a creak of his joints.

“Hello, Peregrin,” he whispered softly, eyes regretful and full of shame.

For his part, Pippin felt as though the floor had tilted beneath him. What had happened last night? Why was Gandalf, of all people, acting so odd? Why did the Big People around them look so miserable and ashamed?

“Gandalf?” Pippin asked softly, trying very hard to keep the quaver out of his voice.

“Yes, lad, I’m here,” the wizard murmured, placing a wrinkled hand on Pippin’s arm.

“Thank you for holding me last night. I don’t remember much, but I remember you holding me.” Pippin’s voice was hesitant, and he found himself more confused as the wizard he had been in awe of since he was a mere lad bowed his head, unable to speak.

“You should rest some more, Pippin,” Frodo finally said, pulling the blankets more securely around his cousin’s shoulders.

“But Frodo – we’re falling behind!” Pippin protested, even as he felt his eyes begin to droop. He wanted so badly to be able to stay awake! “It’s too important…”

“No, Pippin,” Aragorn’s voice whispered, trailing him into sleep. “What is important is that we get there together.”

Frodo watched his cousin drift off to sleep once more, then turned his gaze to the Ranger, who was watching him steadily.

A quiet understanding passed between them, then. A rebuke on Frodo’s part, an apology on Aragorn’s, and a mutual forgiveness from both of them. When the hobbit turned to Gandalf, he found the same apology in the wizard’s eyes, as well as a fondness and love for his cousin that was rarely glimpsed.

It was Legolas who broke the silence, his soft tread undetected by any of them.

“The dawn has come,” the elf said softly. “The shadows are fading. I suggest you all try and rest. I shall watch Pippin, and alert you if anything changes.”

“Yes, Legolas, you are right,” Frodo whispered, his gaze on Aragorn. “The shadows are fading.”

Merry stood, uncertain, then turned to the Ranger and, with a speed that gave Aragorn little time to react, threw his arms around the man’s neck.

“Thank you for saving my cousin,” he sobbed, the hot tears finally escaping. For a moment too stunned to do more than hold the weeping hobbit in his arms, Aragorn found himself smiling, sadly, as he moved to rub a soothing circle on Merry’s back.

“What are friends for?” the Ranger whispered softly into the other’s pointed ear.

Merry continued to cry for a few moments longer, then slowly calmed, his head resting on Aragorn’s shoulder.

“Will we really make it, Strider?” he finally asked, voice thick with fatigue and strain.

Looking over Merry’s shoulder’s, the man met Frodo’s gaze once more.

“Yes, Merry,” he answered, to the hobbit in his arms and the one across from him.
“So long as we are true to each other I have no doubt that we shall make it.”

Nothing more needed to be said as Merry sank slowly to the ground, curling around Pippin and falling into a deep sleep between one breath and the next.

And the dawn shone upon the Fellowship, banishing the darkness of the night.