Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.

Recovery In Rivendell

Chapter 1:  Battle Tactics and Deals Struck     

Aragorn son of Arathorn, Chief of the Rangers and heir to the throne of Gondor, girded himself for battle.  Focusing inward, he called upon his years of studying strategy, his training in the art of war, his knowledge of his opponent.  He stiffened his spine, steeled his resolution, and picked up the covered tray from the anxious hobbit who held it up to him.

“He says he don’t want it, sir.  Not even the fruit.  I tried an’ tried, told him that Lord Elrond said he had to, but he won’t.”  Sam surrendered the tray gladly, relieved that someone else would try to get his master to eat.  Sam knew himself to be incapable of summoning the forcefulness necessary to make Frodo obey Lord Elrond’s orders.  Just the sight of Frodo lying so still in that great wide bed, his pale face drawn in pain, was enough to melt Sam’s resolution into a quivering puddle.  His master had never had a proper hobbit’s appetite, but since his wounding, Frodo’s wide streak of stubborn was more evident than ever.

Only a week had passed since the Master of Rivendell had drawn the shard of Morgul-blade from Frodo’s shoulder, and instead of being permitted to recover quietly, Frodo had been subjected to yet more activity and demands.  He was suffering; in pain, weak from loss of blood, frightened about the responsibility he had assumed, and simply exhausted.  The last thing he wanted to do was eat, and eating was what he most needed to do.

“Have you tried his favorites?  How about a mushroom omelet?”  The Ranger briefly uncovered the tray to inspect its contents.  A stack of sweetcakes, thick with butter and honey, steamed gently.  Next to it, grilled sausages wafted their aroma up to him.  A small bowl of late strawberries, raspberries and blackberries sprinkled with sugar sat next to the sausages.  In another bowl, sautéed mushrooms were scrambled with eggs and cheese, onions and green peppers, with toast triangles for scooping.  Water, tea and a large mug of milk rounded out the breakfast.  Sam regarded the tray with dismay; it wasn’t enough to keep a hobbit on his feet ‘til elvenses.

With the stocky halfling trotting beside him, Aragorn carried the tray to Frodo’s room.   Sam held the door open for him, and hurried ahead to hold the interior door.  Peering in, Aragorn almost changed his mind.  Frodo was asleep, propped up on pillows with one under his arm to raise his shoulder even with his body, lessening the strain on the wound.  In sleep, the beautiful morning glory eyes were closed and his face relaxed and peaceful.  Still, the dark brows were quirked and a small pain-line lay between the brows.

Though the Ranger could move almost as silently as a hobbit, he deliberately rattled the tray when putting it down on the small table against the wall.  Frodo dragged his eyes open and regarded them fuzzily. 

“Good morning, Aragorn,” Frodo greeted him, ignoring the tray.  Sam was half-hiding behind the Ranger, hoping that Frodo wouldn’t connect him with the Ranger’s arrival and the return of the detested breakfast tray. 

“Good morning, Frodo.  I trust you are feeling better this morning?”  Aragorn sat comfortably on the edge of the bed and Frodo smiled up at him, genuinely delighted at the early visit.  The Ranger laid the back of his hand against the hobbit’s forehead, checking for signs of fever.  A lingering fever clung stubbornly in the small body, just enough to weary him and make his body ache.  Frodo accepted the touch with resignation, knowing his protests would be ignored.

“I am, thank you,” the hobbit replied politely.  “I would like to get up today and take a walk in the gardens.”

Ah, an advantage.  Aragorn returned the smile.  “You must ask Elrond first.  Perhaps my lord will grant his permission.  I would be surprised, though…” Aragorn trailed off and waited to see if Frodo would fall for the feint. 

The hobbit did.  “Why would he withhold consent?” asked Frodo, looking surprised.

“He has not been totally satisfied with your progress, Frodo.”  Now the attack.  “You are not eating enough to regain your strength, and my lord fears you are not well enough to venture far.”

Frodo’s brows drew down and he folded his arms gingerly, favoring the left.  Sam tried to shrink further into the woodwork. 

“I am not hungry, Aragorn.  Perhaps a walk will stimulate my appetite.”

Counter-attack … but the Ranger had had time to marshal his forces.   “It would be unwise for you to spend what little strength you have managed to gather in walking, Frodo.  I regret I must agree with Elrond, you are obviously not strong enough to be out of bed yet.”

Those beautiful  eyes glared at him.  Sam started edging back towards the door.  Then Frodo sighed and capitulated.

“All right.”  The hobbit eyed the tray distastefully.  Aragorn sat the tray on his lap as Frodo carefully pulled himself more upright.  Sam hurried forward to tuck the linen napkin under his master’s chin and was rewarded with a muttered, “Thank you, Sam.”

But victory was premature.  Frodo transferred his glare to the innocent sausages, and sawed one up with rather more force than necessary.  Then he put down the hobbit-sized utensils that Lord Elrond had had especially carved for his guests and looked up at Aragorn.

“I am not hungry, Aragorn.  Truly.  If I eat just the berries and the sausage, may I take a walk?”

The Ranger resigned himself to opening negotiations.  “No, Frodo.  That is not enough.  If you eat that, and the scrambled eggs, you may walk with Sam once around the nearest garden.”

“I will be too full if I eat that much.  I would have to walk around the garden at least twice, Aragorn.  And will most probably have to sit in the sun for a while, too.”  Frodo looked up at him hopefully.  The Ranger made a show of considering the counter-offer, frowning and holding the hobbit’s eyes.  A smile began tugging at Frodo’s mouth, though he tried to hide it.

“A deal, struck!” agreed the Ranger.  “But you must adhere to that settlement, my good hobbit.  Any defaulting on the terms and the agreement is voided.”

Frodo nodded eagerly and set to fulfilling his part of the treaty.  He ate with obvious reluctance, but he did eat.  Sam breathed a sigh of relief, feeling his stomach unknot.  The Elf-lord had charged him with making sure his master ate, but hadn’t offered any advice on how he was to achieve that goal.  Enlisting Aragorn had been his last resort, and Sam truly hoped that his Mr. Frodo didn’t figure out that he had asked for the Ranger’s help.

Sam waited silently, worrying how he was going to get Mr. Frodo to eat tomorrow’s breakfast, while his master and Aragorn chatted.  When Frodo’s efforts began to lag, Aragorn began spinning him some tale of the Elder Days, full of heroic deeds and great battles and doomed loves.  Sam would have enjoyed the tale himself, had he been able to concentrate on it. 

At last Frodo pushed away the breakfast, rubbing his stomach ruefully.  Sam retrieved the tray and prepared to carry it back to the kitchens.  He had almost escaped when his master’s soft voice drifted after him.  “Sam,” Frodo said gently, “when you get back, I’d like to have a word with you.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam responded hopelessly.  Heaving a martyred sigh, he let himself out the door.  He missed the sympathetic look Aragorn directed at his back, and his master’s slight smile as Frodo noticed it.

“Don’t pity him, Aragorn,” Frodo said, as the door closed on Sam’s back.  “He’ll not catch it too badly.  I don’t mind him drafting you to persuade me – it is a pleasure to see you for any reason.  But it is an inconvenience to you, so I want him to stew a little.”

The Ranger laughed and shook his head.  “A good leader knows his troops, my friend.  And your Sam is an army all on his own.”

 * * * * *

With Aragorn looking after his master, Sam felt comfortable enough to snatch a quick breakfast for himself.  The elven cooks were more than gracious, and when he refused their invitation to sit and eat, loaded his arms with meat rolls, biscuits and fruit.  Staggering slightly under the bounty, Sam thanked them and started back to his master, munching on an apple as he walked.

Perhaps the sound of his crunching drowned out the stealthy footsteps of either side of him.  Or he was just inattentive, relaxing for the first time that morning.  He was not aware of them until two sets of hands plundered his coat pockets, swiping apples, meat rolls and biscuits with only the slightest of tugs on the cloth. 

“Hoy!  That’s me breakfast!”

“Your arms are full of food, Sam,” Merry replied, “you can surely spare a little bit for two hungry hobbits?”  Beside him, his mouth full of Sam’s meat roll, Pippin nodded vigorously.

“You lot have already been ‘ta the kitchens!  The cooks said you ate every sweetcake in sight.  Now this was for me, an’ a little for Mr. Frodo, if he’ll take it –“

“And how is our dear cousin this morning?”  Merry adroitly steered the indignant Sam away from the previous topic.  “We saw you petitioning Strider for help.”

“If you saw, Master Merry, why didn’t you help me?  Mr. Frodo’s been in a fine state, not wantin’ to eat.  If you an’ Mr. Pippin had joined him for breakfast, he’d eat more!”

“Oh no, Sam,”  Pippin responded, examining an apple he had purloined, “you’re not getting us involved in that battle.  Frodo can be as stubborn as they come.  Don’t know where he gets that – can’t be from the Took side…”

“It certainly isn’t from the Brandybuck side,” Merry commented.  “And since old Bilbo isn’t here to defend the Bagginses, we shall blame it on him.  Now, my good Sam,” here he paused to shake the crumbs out of his palm and off his fine yellow waistcoat, “what say we go pay our respects to our invalid cousin?”

“Strider said he could take a turn ‘round the garden today,” Sam informed them.

“Good.”  Merry was suddenly serious.  “He needs to be up and moving, just not too much at a time.”   

"He won’t be going far,” predicted Sam gloomily.  “He’s tired of stayin’ in bed but he ain’t as strong as he thinks he is.  I bet he doesn’t make it twice ‘round the garden.”

“Twice around the garden, hum?” Merry echoed.  “Perhaps Frodo needs some incentive…  Pip, do you think our cousin would be interested in what we found yesterday?”

Pippin’s whole face lit up in a beaming grin. “Would he?  Would he!  We’ll have to tie him down!”

“Now hold on a moment,” Sam interjected worriedly.  “You know he’s not supposed ‘ta get too excited, not ‘til he’s stronger.  What did you find yesterday?”

Merry wasn’t listening to him.  “No,” he mused, “we don’t want to wear him out till he can take it.”  Merry’s sharp blue eyes fastened on Sam.  “Tell you what, Sam.  Pip and I will take your bet.  If Frodo is able to walk around the garden twice, then we’ll show him what we found.  If he can’t … well, we’ll wait a few days.”

“I didn’t mean I wanted ‘ta make a bet, Mr. Merry,” Sam said, alarmed.  “I meant -"   

“There has to be more to it than that, Merry,” Pippin cut in.  “We say Frodo can make it twice around the garden.  Sam says he can’t.  If we’re right and he’s wrong, then Sam has to … has to ask the cooks for more meat rolls and sweetcakes for us.  Every morning for a week!  And if he’s right and we’re wrong … ummm…”  Pippin trailed off and looked up at his older cousin.

“You have ‘ta muck out Bill’s stall every morning for a week, an’ curry him!” finished Sam triumphantly. 

“The Elves do that, Sam,” Pippin protested.  “Anyway, that’s way harder than asking for second breakfast.  Just tell the cooks the food is for the Ring-bearer – they’ll give you anything you want.” 

“If you want a bet, them’s the terms,” answered Sam firmly.

* TBC *  

Chapter 2:  Sorrows, Comfort and More Deals

As it turned out, both parties had to wait upon Frodo’s convenience.  Returning with the surviving remains of his intended breakfast, Sam found that Frodo had fallen asleep again.  Strider held his finger up to his lips as Sam entered, and gestured towards the slumbering form.  Sam nodded and set his meal down as quietly as he could.  Rising soundlessly from the side of Frodo’s bed, Aragorn clasped the stocky hobbit’s shoulder and let himself out.

Quietly chewing on a meat roll, Sam examined his master’s pale face.  He looks better, Sam thought.  You can’t see the veins under his skin so easy.  And his eyes don’t look so sunken.  Don’t like the way he’s holding that shoulder, though – all stiff an’ hurting.  I’ll lose that bet with Mr. Merry an’ Master Pippin gladly, if he’s just come out o’ this and be like he was.

Frodo shifted in his sleep, and Sam eased himself into the bedside chair to continue his inspection.  He don’t look happy, though.  He looks tired and strained … like he could sink into them covers and just thin out ‘til there was nothing left…  With an effort, Sam stifled a sudden, almost irresistible urge to wake up his master and make sure he was all right.

Frodo started to turn on his left side, and froze as the movement pulled at his shoulder.  Still without waking, he rolled onto his back, his face suddenly tense.  Underneath the bruised lids, his large eyes appeared to dart about.  He was dreaming, Sam realized.  No … he was having a nightmare.  “No, no,” Frodo murmured softly.  “Stay back … please, don’t…”

Sam felt his heart twist in sympathy.  He leaned over the still form and whispered, “It’s all right, Mr. Frodo.  They can’t get at you here.  You’re safe, Frodo.  You’re safe, me dear…”  Frodo turned his face slightly towards Sam’s voice, and his features smoothed out again into untroubled sleep.

“Is he dreaming about Weathertop?”  Merry quiet voice barely registered, so soft were the words.  Looking up, Sam saw Merry and Pippin standing at the interior door.  Tears were swimming in Pippin’s green-gold eyes.  As he watched, one broke free of the others and ran down the youngster’s cheek.  Pippin stared over at his sleeping cousin and covered his face with his hands.

Merry hugged the young hobbit, drawing him back out into the adjoining room and motioning for Sam to follow.  “He’ll be all right, Pip.  He’ll be fine.  You just watch, he’ll be himself in no time…”  Still holding his cousin close, Merry continued to comfort and reassure the young hobbit until Pippin could face them without trembling. 

Giving the youngster time to recover, Sam turned back to make sure the door was shut so that their conversation would not disturb his master.  Before closing it tightly, he took one more peek to ensure that Frodo was sleeping peacefully.  Frodo’s chest rose and fell rhythmically, but his hand had moved up to his throat to clutch at something that lay on his breast.  Sam felt tears sting his own eyes as he pulled the door closed.

“Curse that vile thing,” he muttered against the door.  “I wish old Mr. Bilbo hadn’t ever found it, nor brought it back, nor gave it ‘ta my Mr. Frodo.  I wish none of this had happened.  I wish…”

“What’s that, Sam?”  Sam turned around to see Merry staring at him curiously. 

“Nothing,” he replied rather gruffly.  Rubbing his sleeve over his eyes, he joined the other two where they had plopped themselves down on a divan.  Pippin swung his short legs for a moment then slid down to a cushion on the floor and leaned against Merry’s knees, finding that more comfortable.

“Is he going to wake up soon, Sam?” Merry asked.  “Lord Elrond’s on his way over.  We saw him out by the gazebo.  He’s bringing another tonic for Frodo to drink.”

“It’s green,” Pippin informed Sam.  “Frodo’s not going to like it.”

“Then perhaps you can help convince him to take it, Master Peregrin.”  The three hobbits rose to their feet and bowed as the Master of Rivendell swept into the room.  “This tonic will help Master Baggins recover his strength.  Enough strength, perhaps, for a turn about the garden?”

The three hobbits flushed.  “Err … how did you hear about that, my lord?” Merry asked.

“Be assured that, sooner or later, I know of everything that occurs in Imladris, Master Meriadoc.”  The Elf-lord smiled down at them and the three relaxed.  “Have the books closed on your little wager?”

Pippin grinned up at the tall lord.  “We’re still taking bets, sir.  Care to get in on the action?”

“Master Pippin!” hissed Sam in a strangled tone.

But the Elf took no offense.  His deep, dark eyes regarded them.  “I might, at that.  I surely should place my belief in the efficiency of my tonics, after all.  But Master Frodo is still sorely hurt, and has not had sufficient time to regain his strength…”  Laughter lurked in those ageless eyes.  “What of this, little masters?  If young Frodo cannot complete a circuit of my nearest garden, I will require of you each to scrub the moss from the base of all the fountains.  It is difficult for my folk to reach so low.”

“And if he makes it, my lord?”  Emboldened by Elrond’s lack of rebuke, Merry was willing to bargain. 

“That is more difficult, Master Meriadoc.  What would you have of me?”

Merry closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.  “I want a copy of all the maps from Rivendell to Mount Doom.  On tanned hide, so I can carry them in my pack.”

Pippin’s eyes were enormous.   The Elf-lord caught his gaze, and Sam’s.  “And you two?  Are my terms and Master Meriadoc’s acceptable to you?”

Pippin nodded.  Sam was more hesitant – not about the terms, but about making them.  “I don’t know as Mr. Frodo would like us taking odds on him getting stronger,” the stocky hobbit said slowly.  “He’s not one ‘ta –“

“To what, Sam?”  Frodo leaned against the doorjamb, his rising unheard by any of them.  Pippin at once leaped to his feet and led his cousin to the divan.  Frodo’s walk was uncertain, and he held Pippin’s arm to steady himself.  He had pulled a robe over his nightshirt, but still shivered.  Over his dark head, Merry and Sam exchanged a worried glance.

“Ahhh,” Sam temporized.  “We were … umm, we were…”  A bead of sweat gathered in his sandy hair and ran down the side of his face.

Though he leaned against Merry, Frodo’s gaze sharpened on Samwise.  “Sam?”      

“We were discussing the possibility of gainful employment for your cousins and Sam,“ the Elf-lord interjected smoothly.  “How are you feeling, Master Frodo?”

“Much better, Lord Elrond, thank you.”  Frodo looked rather confused but did not ask for further clarification.  “Aragorn made me eat a large breakfast, though, and I am rather uncomfortable at the moment.”

“Perhaps this will help.”  The Elf-lord raised up the tonic and Frodo groaned.  “Come, little master.  Let us retire to your sleeping chamber so that I may examine and rebandage the wound.”  Guiding the reluctant hobbit before him, Lord Elrond steered Frodo into the bedroom and closed the door.

“A close call there, Sam,” grinned Merry, deviltry dancing in his blue eyes. 

“I just don’t think this is right, Mr. Merry,” Sam grumbled. 

“Merry?”

“What?”

“I’m hungry.  Since Lord Elrond’s with Frodo, can’t we go have lunch?  Come on, Sam.  Let’s go see if Bilbo is ready to eat.”

  * * * * *

Bilbo was waiting for them in his rooms.  The old hobbit spent most of his time there now, when he was not sitting with Frodo or listening to songs and tales in the Hall of Fire.  He listened to their report of his nephew’s progress, which differed somewhat according to who was saying what.  

Hobbits being the talkers that they are among their own kind, it wasn’t long before Bilbo had the whole story of The Wager (as they had began to call it) out of the younger folk.  To Sam’s horror, Bilbo insisted on placing his own bet.

“And why not?  I know my Frodo-lad.  The more Lord Elrond tries to make him rest, the harder he’ll try to get up.  A Bagginses’ trait, I’m afraid.”

“Hah!” said Merry under his breath to Pippin.  “Told you so.”

Bilbo had been staring at the ornately carved ceiling, his dark eyes thoughtful.  Though his body had aged, those earth-brown orbs were as quick and lively as ever.  “I’m betting that my lad can complete that walk in the garden.”

“And what do you offer?”  Merry was grinning, and Sam moaned. 

“Hummm…” Bilbo considered.  “I have been trying for some time to get Arwen to sing for me the songs of Lothlórien, so that I may write them down for my book.  I know she has many demands on her time, but I would so like to record those songs…  Well, my boys – how’s this?  If Frodo makes it, Arwen sings for me.  If he doesn’t, then I will relieve Elrond’s cartographer of drawing the maps for you, Merry.  He doesn’t have time to do that, and I’ve drawn a few, you know.”

Pippin tugged on his older cousin’s waistcoat.  “We can’t promise him that, Merry!” he hissed into a pointed ear.  “The Lady Arwen doesn’t answer to us!”

“Hush, Cousin.  Don’t worry, we won’t lose.  You know Frodo wouldn’t give in if it killed him.  And with the added incentive of our surprise for him, we can’t lose.”

* * * * *

Returning to see if Elrond had finished with Frodo, Sam and Merry and Pippin stopped at the stables to visit Bill and feed him the carrots they had collected for him from lunch.  Glorfindel was attending to Asfaloth, brushing down his steed and trimming his silk-like mane.  Sam clicked his tongue, and the stallion graciously lowered his great head to accept a nose-rub from the hobbit.

“Right beautiful he is, sir,” Sam said to the Elf, softly.  Sam’s eyes were practically glowing with delight as he stroked the lovely animal.  Asfaloth gently butted the stocky halfling and lipped his hands.  With a final stroke of the shining coat, Sam turned back to Bill, who occupied the stall next to Asfaloth.  The pony was watching jealously, even as Pip and Merry petted him.        

“Horses always know when they’re being admired, do they not, Samwise?”  The Elf’s clear eyes crinkled in humor.  Glorfindel paused in his brushing and regarded the hobbits.  Asfaloth leaned into the brush and turned his head to look beseechingly at his rider.  “And so I am instructed to resume my efforts.”  The Elf laughed, a clear peal like the ringing of bells.  “Speaking of great efforts, I have heard that there are odds being laid on the Ringbearer’s degree of recovery.  May I participate?”

Merry’s whole face lit up.  Pippin looked worried.  “This is getting out o’ hand,” Sam muttered darkly.  “And no good’ll come of it.”

* TBC *

Chapter 3:  “This is getting out o’ hand…” - Samwise

The Elf looked thoughtful, continuing to curry the great stallion.  Asfaloth sighed happily, his white sides heaving.  “Elladan and Elrohir are riding north to scout the great treeharbors soon.  I would like to accompany them to that beautiful place.  I asked my lord Elrond, but he had already requested Estel go.  Should I win, I would like to take Estel’s place.”

“And if you lose?”  Merry’s face was apprehensive but delighted.  Pippin tugged on Merry’s waistcoat.  Disgruntled, Sam thought that Mr. Merry had best put in an order for a new one if the youngster kept that up.  “What is it, Pip?”  A little shy around the lordly Elf, Pippin rose up on his furry toes and whispered in his cousin’s ears.

“Ahhh,” Merry murmured to him, “good thinking, Pippin-lad.”  Merry faced the amused Glorfindel again.  “If you lose,” he continued, “will you … will you muck out Bill’s stable and curry him when you do Asfaloth?  For a week?”

The two hobbits had surprised the Elf.  “Are you not pleased with the stable-workers?  You have only to speak to –“

“Oh, no, no” the small ones chorused.  When Glorfindel stared at them, Merry started, “It’s only … well…  You care for Asfaloth instead of leaving him to the hostlers, don’t you?

The Elf nodded and stroked a slender hand along the stallion’s backbone.  “Yes, his lordship here prefers that I attend him.”

Merry nodded rapidly.  “Well, we’re all so busy, sitting with Frodo and preparing to depart and getting our supplies, well, we don’t have much time.  Poor Bill doesn’t feel like he’s getting enough attention.”  (Sam swallowed a protest and glared at the straw on the floor.)

Glorfindel reached a long arm over and scratched the pony gently between his curiously watching eyes.  “It would be an honor,” the Elf said.  “I agree.”

* * * * *

“Now enough is enough!”  Sam’s round face was choleric. “Mr. Frodo’s not going ‘ta like this at all!  I don’t even want ‘ta think ‘bout when he finds out-“

Merry rode over him cheerfully.  “And who’s going to tell him, Sam?  Are you?”  The stocky hobbit dug a toe into the soft earth and growled under his breath.  “Ah, I thought not…  Look, Sam, we’ll just talk to Arwen and Aragorn –“

“No!  No, we won’t.  I’ll not be involved in this!  I’ll honor me word ‘cause I gave it already, but you two villains can just leave me out o’ any further dealings!”  With that, the angry hobbit turned on his heel and strode away, smoke almost visibly rising out of his pointed ears.

Pippin watched him go, misery pictured on his small, sharp face.  “Merry,” he ventured hesitantly, “don’t you think that Sam might be right?  This does seem to be getting awfully complicated…”

“Don’t worry, Pip.  It will all work out!  How could we possibly lose?”  Merry gave his cousin a brief hug and stode off towards the living quarters.

Trailing after his older cousin (and out of his hearing), Pippin said softly, “Oh, I can think of lots of ways…”

“Lots of ways to what, Pippin?”  The young hobbit jerked himself away from his worries at the gentle inquiry.  Aragorn stood next to him, his arms laden with strips of leather and a whetstone.  Pippin flushed; the Ranger had snuck up on him with the quietness of a hobbit.  Pip hadn’t even known he was there, and that was embarrassing.

“Hullo, Strider.  Um … Aragorn.”  The Man smiled at him but a dark eyebrow rose and Pippin felt he had better explain himself.  “Ummm … ummm,” he said.

“I know that look, Pippin, and it means trouble for someone.  Usually for you.  What are you and that rascally cousin of yours up to?”  The young hobbit squirmed under the Ranger’s full attention. 

“Why, Aragorn!  What an insulting thing to say.  How could you think that?”  Merry draped an arm over Pippin’s shoulders and beamed up at the Ranger.  With the sun glinting in his blond curls, his glowing face looked positively cherubic.

“Oh-oh.”  Aragorn eyed them both mistrustfully.

“As a matter of fact,” Merry continued, ignoring his fidgeting cousin, “Pip and I were just coming to look for you.”  Pippin groaned and Aragorn looked at him.  “Pip and I have a little wager running, on if Cousin Frodo can complete a full circuit of the nearest garden.  He’s a lot better, you know.  I say he’s strong enough to do it, and Pippin says he isn’t.” 

Pippin unobtrusively kicked his cousin’s instep and Merry grunted.  The Ranger’s gaze sharpened on them both.  Merry smiled at him sweetly.  “Since you saved Frodo’s life, we feel that we should give you the opportunity to join the two of us.”  The young hobbit leaned down to rub the back of his ankle.

“That seems innocent enough.”  Aragorn tried staring them down but the twin sets of eyes, blue and gold-green, looked absolutely guileless.   The man sighed.  “I would dearly love to take Arwen on a picnic.  Just the two of us.  But my duties do not permit…”

“What if we can get someone else to go in your place?” Merry interrupted.  “If you win and we lose, we’ll find someone to go in your stead.”

“Go where, Merry?”

The young hobbit realized that he had been over-eager.  “Ah … to the treeharbors in the north.  Word gets around, you know.”

“Does it.” 

“And if we win,” Merry rushed on, hoping that Aragorn would forget about his gaffe, “we want you to talk to Lord Elrond and ask him if he’ll speak to his cooks and let Pippin and I have a full hobbit-sized second breakfast, as much as we can eat.  For a week.”

The Ranger stared at them like he would like to peel back their skins and see into their hearts.  “That seems innocent enough,” he repeated doubtfully.  “All right.  Having seen how stubborn your cousin is first-hand, I wager that he does complete the walk.”  Another deep-set stare, which the young hobbits ignored.  “So if I win, then you’ll arrange with Elrond for me to have a day to spend with Arwen instead of riding out?”  They nodded, Pippin more slowly than Merry.  “How exactly do you propose to do that?”

Merry grinned up at him disarmingly.  “Don’t worry about that, Aragorn.  We’ll take care of it.  After all, we can’t lose – have you ever met anyone as stubborn as Frodo?”

Watching the two halflings walk off, arm in arm, Aragorn thought to himself, ‘Yes, two.’  Pippin looked back over his shoulder at the Ranger, clearly unhappy about something.  ‘Or one, certainly.  What is going on here?’

* * * * *

Pippin, meanwhile, was making his unhappiness known to his cousin.  “What do you mean asking Strider to ask Lord Elrond for second breakfasts for us?  Sam has to do that, if he loses.”

“Sam’s not too happy with us right now, Pip,” Merry returned.  “Maybe if we let him off the hook, it will square things between us.”  Pippin relaxed slightly, until Merry continued.  “And no matter who wins or loses, someone asks Lord Elrond for us.  He certainly won’t turn down Aragorn.  We most probably get second breakfast either way.”

Pippin gaped at him.  Merry ignored the look.  “Come on, Pip.  We’ve got work to do.  Let’s find the Lady Arwen.”

The two found the Elf-maid in the staples room, supervising the re-stocking of the medicinal inventory.  With so many delegations guesting at the elven sanctuary, part of her duties included ensuring that there was enough of everything on hand in case of need.  At the quiet shuffling of unshod feet, she turned to face them.  Merry and Pippin were struck dumb with wonder, their proposals lost in the ethereal beauty that smiled gently at them.

Arwen Evenstar’s dark eyes warmed as she looked upon the two small persons.  Until now, the only hobbit she had known was Bilbo and she had learned to love the old halfling dearly.  These four little ones were a delight, each as individual in their personalities as the stars, yet alike in the greatness and joy of their spirits.  And the Ring-bearer … such courage humbled and awed her.

“Good afternoon, little masters,” she greeted them.  Rising gracefully from her place before the supplies chest, the Elf towered over them.  “How may I be of service to you?”

The two little ones stared at her.  Arwen smiled inwardly and politely waited for them to recover themselves.  At last Merry sighed and stirred.  Visibly forcing himself to stop staring and respond, the halfling said, “Lady Arwen, um … Pip and I have a little bet going on our Cousin Frodo’s recovery.  We thought you might like to join in.”

“Yes?” she prompted him gently.  Beside him, Pippin hadn’t yet closed his mouth as he stared at her.

Following the direction of her gaze, Merry elbowed his younger cousin sharply in the stomach.  Pippin closed his mouth with an almost inaudible “urpp!” then blushed furiously.

“A little bet,” she mused.  “What terms do you offer?”

Again Merry explained the bet.  “Pip and I were thinking that … knowing how busy you are, maybe we could negotiate you a day off.  Then you and Aragorn could … um, spend some time together, maybe go on a picnic or something.”

“That would indeed be a prize worth having,” the Elf-woman said, her breathtaking eyes unfocused for a moment as a smile curved her lips.  “A picnic with my beloved…  What must I forfeit if I lose?”

Again Merry spoke for them both.  “Only a little of your time, Lady.  Our Cousin Bilbo has long desired you to sing him some of the songs of your kin of the Golden Wood, so he can record them in his book.  Would you do that, if you lose?”

Arwen smiled.  “I have long wished to accommodate dear Bilbo, but have had no time to give him.  Even were I to lose, I would count myself the winner if I could fulfill his wishes in this matter.  Very well, you have my agreement.”  Now she stopped and thought.  “I know how sorely Frodo was wounded, and I know that he has not been the best patient here.”  When they moved to protest, she fixed them with smiling eyes as clear as coming twilight.  “The battles to make him eat are becoming legendary in Imladris,” she continued.  “He will not recover his strength if he will not eat.

“I therefore wager against him, that he will not have the strength to complete his walk in my father’s gardens.”  Arwen gravely held out her slim hand to the two halflings, and they shook it in turn.        

“Snap out of it, Pip!”  Merry shook his cousin hard and only then did Pippin realize he still had that silly smile on his face, the one that blossomed there whenever he was around the elven princess.  Coming back to Middle-earth, he realized that he and Merry were halfway back to Frodo’s room.  Sometime during his fog, Merry had acquired a pocketful of apples.  Vaguely, Pippin remembered hearing something about making Frodo eat them to get his strength back.

“Oh no,” he heard Merry murmur and tried to refocus on his surroundings.  Gandalf was coming towards them, his sharp eyes under the bushy brows fixed on them.  It was too late to use their natural hobbit-stealth to hide.  The wizard pulled up to them and planted his staff directly in their path, leaning on it as he glared at them.

“What’s this I’m hearing about you taking bets on your cousin’s strength?  Does Frodo know about this?”

“Good afternoon to you, too, Gandalf,” Merry returned, not in the least intimidated.  “Would you like a piece of the action?”

“It would serve you right if I did.  In fact, I think I shall.  I wager that Frodo will make it all the way around Elrond's garden.  If he can’t, then I will supply you a solvent that will dissolve the moss on the base of the fountains for you.  No scrubbing; just wipe it on and wipe it off.  But if I win,” and the wizard leaned in closer and they involuntarily took a step back, “you stop all this book-making and place no more bets – ever!”

* TBC *

Chapter 4:  Apples and Promises

The wizard took a step forward and Merry and Pippin bounced on their heels, trying to avoid another retreat backwards.  “Really, Gandalf,” Merry began, drawing on his reserves to display an innocent smile, “would we –“

“Yes, you would, Meriadoc Brandybuck.”  The staff was driven into the soft earth a few inches from his toes as he tried to edge around the wizard, dragging Pippin after him.  “You two haven’t been here a fortnight and you’ve already started turning Rivendell upside down.”  Pippin crowded closer to Merry, trying to hide behind his cousin.  “Not satisfied with disrupting Elrond’s Council, I hear you are evidently trying to eat everything in his kitchens.  Now Samwise is upset and Frodo, when he finds out about this -“

Merry thought it best that Gandalf not start listing their apparent misdemeanors.   Squeezing Pip’s shoulder warningly, Merry gasped, his blue eyes widening, “Stars!  What is that?”

The wizard whirled, his staff automatically coming up into a defensive position.  The path behind him was empty.  He completed the turn in less than a heartbeat, but he was too late.  He stood alone upon the walk.

* * * * *

“Don’t worry, Pip.  I haven’t met one of the Big People yet who could trail a hobbit, even a wizard.  Except for Aragorn … and maybe Legolas.”  Merry dug one of the apples out of his pocket and bit into it, indicating to his cousin that he was not as cool as he appeared.  “Still, it might be wise to steer clear of old Gandalf for a while.”

Pippin was all for that.  And for steering clear of everyone else they had talked to that day.  And he definitely wanted to stay away from Frodo … which was exactly where his cousin was dragging him.

“Come on, Pip!  These apples are delicious.  Crisp and juicy.  Want one?”  When Pippin shook his head without speaking, Merry looked over at him.  “Pip,” he said more gently, “think of it as just livening the place up a little.  Surely the Elves find all this peace and serenity boring.  They should thank us.”

“I don’t think Frodo’s going to thank us,” Pippin replied worriedly, his stomach tightening.  “Even dangling our surprise in front of him isn’t going to make up for this.  Merry, you know it takes a lot to get him angry, but when he does –“

“Um.”  Merry examined his apple as if he found the fruit suddenly fascinating.

Further discussion was postponed as they arrived at Frodo’s door.  Sam opened it at their knock, looking none too pleased when he saw who it was.  “He’s resting,” the stocky hobbit said, before Merry had even opened his mouth.  “And he don’t need no one getting him all riled up.” 

“Calm down, Sam,” Merry soothed.  “We aren’t going to upset him.  Pip and I just brought him some apples.  See?”  Several of the apples were displayed as evidence.   

Sam stood in the door, blocking them uncertainly.  Matters were decided for him when they heard a soft voice drift from the sleeping chamber.  “Sam?  Is that Merry?”  Sam grimaced; he had left the door open in case his master needed anything while he worked in the adjoining room.  Frodo’s body might be damaged and exhausted, but his hearing was fine.

“Yes, sir, it is,” Sam called back over his shoulder.  “An’ Master Pippin, too.”  Giving way, he glared at them as they sidled in. 

With Sam following them mistrustfully, the two entered their cousin’s bedchamber.  Frodo was again propped up on a multitude of pillows, some huge elvish book in his hands.  With a visible effort to lift it, he set it aside gladly to welcome his visitors.  Both of them leaned over to kiss his brow before settling on the bed, careful not to jostle it.

“Hullo, Cousin.  If we’re interrupting your reading, Pip and I can come back later.”

“No, no.  I’m glad of the break.  Lord Elrond thought this history might interest me, but it is written entirely in elvish and I find it difficult.  I wish I could find something more to my taste.”  He stopped and looked at Pippin, who was grinning, his green-gold eyes dancing.  “And what are you so happy about, Cousin?”

“Who, me?  Nothing.  Nothing at all.”

When Frodo looked like he meant to pursue it, Merry distracted him by pouring apples into his lap.  Merry smiled.  “They’re small but very sweet.  Try one, Frodo.  It’s like biting into autumn.”

Frodo did, pleasure on his wan face.  “They are good.  Thank you, Merry.  Come on, Sam, have one.”  Pippin took one and then Merry had to also.  Merry had meant for Frodo to eat them all, or as many as he would, but he was satisfied with getting at least a few down his cousin.

Seeing that the two weren’t upsetting his master, Sam finally relaxed and the atmosphere grew noticeably more amicable.   That is, until Merry said, “Frodo, Pip and I have a surprise for you –“

He got no farther.  Sam bounced off the bed, drawing a gasp from Frodo, his features going white.  Whatever Sam had been going to say was lost in concern for his master.  “I’m sorry, sir!  I didn’t mean ‘ta hurt you!  Are you all right?”  Sam captured Frodo’s right hand in both of his brown ones, his round face radiating anxiousness.

“I - I’m all right, Sam.”  Perspiration gleamed on Frodo’s forehead.  “I just wasn’t ready for you to move quite so quickly.  It’s better now, truly.”

Merry tugged on Pippin’s arm, drawing the youngster’s gaze away from the pain etched on their cousin’s face.  “I think we’d better let you rest, Cousin.”  When Frodo would have protested, he continued, “We’ll be back after supper, and tell you one of the stories we hear in the Hall of Fire.”

Resigned, Frodo nodded.  “But what of this surprise you mentioned?  What surprise?”  Looking at them, he didn’t see Sam’s face go apoplectic.  Merry and Pippin did.  Rising, they hurriedly excused themselves and let themselves out, just ahead of Samwise’s wrath.

* * * * *

To the two’s relief, Gandalf was not present at dinner.  Everyone else was, though.  The hobbits sat at table on a pile of cushions, shifting carefully so that they did not fall off.  It was difficult to balance and give the food the absolute hobbit-concentration it deserved.  Perhaps that was why they were not aware of the small delegation until the Big Folk were standing behind them.

Throughout dinner, Merry and Pippin had been aware that they were the object of discussion among several parties.  Pippin kept his head down, his cheeks burning, and applied himself to his food.  Merry cheerfully met every amused glance (while also applying himself to his food), winking and grinning widely whenever his eyes met any of the wagerers’.  Sitting at the head of the high table, Elrond mused to himself on these halflings’ personalities, so unalike and yet alike.  The Master of Rivendell inclined his head elegantly to hear his daughter’s comment, and his eyes lingered on the little ones.  When all had finished except the hobbits, who were still “filling up the corners” as they put it, Elrond rose and with a wave of his hand, gathered to him all who had placed bets on the Ringbearer’s strength.

Pippin choked as he became aware of the Elves, one elderly hobbit and a single man waiting politely behind him.  Merry whacked him on the back, then startled himself as the half-turn brought the patiently waiting delegation into his view.  Both hobbits slid off the cushions, scattering them widely.  Stifling a laugh, Elrond bent gracefully and handed several of the closer ones to Pippin, who clutched them to his small chest, his wide eyes apprehensive.

“I hope we did not startle you, little masters,” said the Elf-lord gently.  Behind him, Arwen smiled and any reply Pippin might have had went clear out of his curly head.  Beside him, Merry returned the smile and bowed.  Pippin hoped that he would someday be as self-possessed in the presence of these lordly folk.  Trying to kick one of the escaped cushions unobtrusively under the tablecloth, he ruefully suspected it wouldn’t be soon.

“We merely seek to confirm with you the terms of our dealings.  Would tomorrow be acceptable to you for the trial?”  Both hobbits nodded.  “Ah, good.  I will accompany you back to your cousin as I have another tonic for him, and assure myself that he is strong enough to venture out tomorrow.  I will not risk a relapse.”  The hobbits nodded again.  “Is the hour after midday acceptable to you?  The sun is at its warmest then and I do not want Master Baggins to be chilled.”

“One hour after midday, my lord,” affirmed Merry. A collective murmur circulated among the Elves and they started to drift away to their own conversations and concerns. 

“Lads?”  Bilbo joined them, a worried expression on his lined face.  He rarely ate at table anymore, but had come at the end to be present when Lord Elrond spoke.  By the door, Aragorn waited to escort his friend to the Hall of Fire for the evening’s singing and tale-spinning.  He did not intrude upon the halflings, but leaned at his ease against the doorjamb and waited patiently.

“Lads,” Bilbo continued, “you have told Frodo about this, haven’t you?       

“Don’t worry, Bilbo.”  Merry assisted his younger cousin in replacing the cushions while speaking to the old hobbit.  “I assure you that –“  He broke off as the Elf-lord joined them, another phial of green liquid in his hand.  Bilbo watched as the three took their leave and moved off, wondering what young Pippin’s eye-rolling grimace had been supposed to convey to him.

* * * * *

Sam opened the door with a startled “whuff!” when he saw the Elf-lord.  His grey eyes were tight and Pippin and Merry knew immediately that something was wrong.  “My lord, I’m glad you’re here.  I was just about to ask someone ‘ta go for you.”  Samwise stepped back from the door and motioned them in with rather more alacrity than grace.

“What is it, Master Gamgee?  Is your master unwell?”

“Yes, sir, he is.”  Sam was practically vibrating in place, stopping himself from pulling the Elf-lord into Frodo’s room.  “His fever started ‘ta go up this afternoon, after he had some excitement,” (Sam carefully did not look at the other two guests, yet somehow managed to convey clearly he thought Merry and Pippin were the cause), “and now he’s in a bad state.  He’s sweating an’ tossing an’ I don’t think he’s in ‘is right mind.  And his arm and shoulder’s gone all cold again.”

Elrond swept past them while Sam was still speaking.  He paused for only a moment in the doorway, taking in the sight of a fevered and flushed Frodo struggling with the bed covers.  A basin of cool water and a cloth lay abandoned where Sam had dropped them to attend the door.  Frodo was pulling at the blankets, alternately pushing them away and pulling them back as he shifted between chills and fever-heat.  Sweat beaded his face and ran down into his soaked nightshirt, and his eyes were unfocused and frighteningly unaware of his surroundings.

* TBC * 

Chapter 5:  Tonics and Troubles

The Elf-lord was beside the bed in an instant, kneeling to lay a long hand on the feverish hobbit’s brow.  “Master Baggins?” he said softly, then “Master Baggins!” more loudly when he received no response. “Frodo!”

The last turned Frodo’s sweat-soaked face towards him, and the unfocused eyes stared at him.  But there was no recognition in the huge morning glory eyes and Frodo closed them and turned away again, his hands plucking at the bedsheets as he tried vainly to escape the miserable illness wracking his body.

“Samwise, exactly how long as he been like this?”  Elrond’s slender hands were probing up under Frodo’s jaw and at the sides of his throat, turning the dark head sideways to peer into his ears.  Frodo fought him feebly, his own hands coming up to catch at the Elf’s, pulling at them weakly as he tried to burrow away from the gentle handling.  Elrond took no notice but continued his examination, scooping up the abandoned cloth to swipe away the runnels of matter crusting the hobbit’s eyes.

“He started feelin’ bad just before teatime, sir.  Mr. Bilbo brought him some lovely little cakes, but he wouldn’t eat ‘em.  He seemed awful tired, so Mr. Bilbo left.  I thought he was sleeping, till I came in an hour ago an’ found him like this.”  Sam hovered at the Elf’s shoulder, watching the inspection anxiously.  Standing a little back from them, Merry and Pippin watched no less anxiously.

“He said I wasn’t ‘ta bother you, sir.  That he jus’ had a headache and his eyes hurt.  I thought it was from all that reading.  You know how he is, sir – he hates ‘ta have people fuss over him.”

Merry became aware that Pippin was tugging on his waistcoat.  His eyes never leaving his cousin’s face, Merry said, “What is it, Pip?”

“Is this our fault, Merry?  Is he sick again because we got him too tired this afternoon?”  Having finally gotten his older cousin’s attention, Pippin wiggled his arm around Merry’s waist, and Merry pulled him close for comfort.  Pippin was trembling, he discovered, as the small form pressed against him.

Before Merry could reply, Elrond turned his elegant head towards them.  “Do not fear, Pippin,” came his calm voice.  “Your cousin is stronger than that.  It is much more likely that the tonic I had him imbibe earlier has caused this.  It is a potent medicine designed to attack a fever, to finally banish the fever that has lingered in Frodo’s body since the removal of the shard from the Morgul-blade.  It is possible that I have given him too much, or in too strong a concentration.  Treating hobbits is, I fear,” the Elf-lord continued softly, “still an imprecise science among us.”

Beneath Elrond’s gentle touch, Frodo groaned then muttered something, trying to turn on his side to escape the intrusive hands.   His dark curls hung in dank ringlets and when he thrashed on the pillow, his head left a damp mark on the fine linen.

“His body’s temperature is too high for safety,” murmured the Elf-lord.  “Sam, please draw him a bath, using water only slightly warm.  I will go at once and bring another tonic, one that will counteract the other.  The combination will most likely make him sick, unfortunately.  Merry, Pippin, while Sam prepares the bath, please remove your cousin’s nightshirt and wash Frodo down with this cool water.  Give him as much water as he will drink.  I will return shortly.”  Elrond rose gracefully and made to leave, then suddenly turned and addressed the feverish hobbit.  “I am sorry, Frodo.  I am truly sorry.”  Then he was gone, the door swinging shut behind him.

His departure was so swift that it caught the hobbits unprepared.  They gaped at each other for a moment, then Sam swung into action.  “Right,” he barked.  “You lot start on Mr. Frodo.  Make sure he don’t get chilled.  I’ll go for the tub, an’ start on the buckets.”  With a last look at his suffering master, Sam hurried off to complete his assignment.

“Come on, Pip.  We need to get some water into him quickly.  Pour me a cup for him, will you?”  Merry eased himself up on the side of the bed and winced as Frodo groaned again, shivering violently. “Hullo, Cousin,” Merry told him softly.  “Don’t you worry, you’re going to be fine.  Lord Elrond will have you fixed up in no time.”  At the familiar and loved voice, Frodo turned his head towards Merry and those beautiful eyes struggled to focus on him.  Merry stroked his cheek, frightened at the heat under his hand.  “Pippin, where’s that water?”  Looking up, he saw that Pippin hadn’t moved.

“Pippin-lad?”

“What if he dies?”  Pippin’s sharp face was red with suppressed tears.  He had wrapped his arms across his chest and was hugging himself fiercely.  “We’ve been placing bets, Merry!  Betting on whether he’s strong enough to take a walk!  And now he’s sick again, and he might die –“ Pippin’s voice was spiraling up into hysteria as Merry watched, frozen. 

Cautious of jostling Frodo, Merry left his bedside and caught the youngster in his arms, holding him tightly.  “Pip,” he murmured into the bronze curls, “I promise you that Frodo will be all right.  I promise.  But right now he needs you to help me help him.”  Pippin was stiff in his embrace, his small body rigid.  “Pippin-lad, will you help me?”

With a sob, the young hobbit relaxed, tension flowing out of his muscles.  “I’m sorry,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry.  I just feel so guilty.  Where’s the water –“

“Pip?”

Frodo’s voice was so faint and cracked they didn’t recognize it for a second but stared blankly at the other, each knowing the other hadn’t spoken.  Turning as one, they rushed to his side.  Pippin reached him first, his small hands catching Frodo’s right as it strained weakly up to him.

“Pip, are you all right?”  Frodo’s lips were painfully dry and it was obviously hurt to speak.  Merry picked up the discarded cloth and dipped it into the basin, ran it over the cracked lips.  Frodo thanked him with a look then stared again at Pippin, blinking rapidly to keep him in focus.

“Am I all right?  Am I all right?” Pippin choked out a laugh then suddenly buried his head against Frodo’s chest, making the older hobbit gasp. 

“Easy there, lad.  Ouch!”  At the last exclamation, Merry reached over and gently pulled Pippin back.  Pippin clung tightly for a moment then released his cousin.  He kissed Frodo on the forehead then darted over to the small table set against the wall, where the pitcher and cups waited.

He was back in a heartbeat, water sloshing from the beautifully-carved wooden cup.  Merry slid behind Frodo and leaned back against the wall, lifting his shoulders carefully and supporting him against his chest so Pippin could put the cup to his lips.  Frodo drank thirstily but was unable to take more than a few sips before pushing back from the cup, motioning for Merry to lay him down.

“He’s so hot, Merry,” Pippin whispered.  Merry nodded.  Frodo had closed his eyes again, his face flushed and sweated.

“We’ve got to cool him off.  Help me, Pip.”  Together they slid the sodden nightshirt off over Frodo’s head, wincing as he clenched his teeth when they had to pull his left arm up.  Pouring the rest of the cooled drinking water into the basin, they set to sponging him down, trying to work quickly enough so that the constant perspiration did not settle on his fair skin and chill him.

Merry talked to him while they worked, trying to keep Frodo’s attention and prevent him from drifting away from them again.  Merry kept asking questions, prodding Frodo for answers, but increasingly he was met with confused and mumbled replies, then finally silence.  Frodo’s head lolled limply and he did not respond even when Pippin put his mouth next to his cousin’s pointed ear and whispered, “Frodo – mushrooms!”

The door opened and Sam returned, his arms laden with towels, leading a parade of Elves.  Two carried the ornately carved tub, and four more accompanied him with large buckets of water.  Last came Aragorn, sent by Elrond to assist the hobbits while the Elf-lord prepared the tonic.  Sam hurried over to his master and looked into his slack face.  “How’s he doing?”

“He woke up for a little while … talked to us.”  After the first glance, Merry kept his eyes on Frodo, wiping away the beads of perspiration that gathered in the dark hair and ran down the fevered face.   Pippin took the towels and directed the Elves to set the tub before the fire.  Sam sat down on the bed and stroked the dripping hair.

Aragorn joined them, reaching over Sam’s head to lay his hand on Frodo’s brow.  “Ah,” he said, his voice soft and regretful, “I was hoping he would be spared this.  I wanted Elrond to let the fever run its course … in a few more days, I believe it would have burned itself out.  But a fever left too long can be dangerous, consuming the body and even damaging the mind.

“The tonic he used is brewed from powerful herbs.  It alone can be dangerous.”  As he spoke, he raised his eyes to the unopened phial that rested on Frodo’s bedside table, left there by the Elf-lord and forgotten by them all.  Its vile green color seemed more ominous than revolting now.  Small specks of minced green lay at the bottom.  The Ranger picked it up and pocketed it, wishing he could have stopped the first dose before it was given.

Frodo moved his head away from the Man’s hand, the heat of the contact increasing his discomfort.  His so-blue eyes opened slightly and Sam leaned eagerly into his limited line of vision.  

If the hobbit saw him, or any of them, he gave no sign.  The glazed eyes closed.  Frodo was beginning to toss in fever again, his head turning from side to side as he sought relief from the intolerable heat.  The movement robbed him of rest, of the quiet his body needed.  Aragorn sighed and Sam echoed him.

Pippin pulled on Aragorn’s suede tunic, leaving a small handprint from where he had tested the temperature of the water.  “The bath is ready, Strider.”  Behind him, the six Elves bowed and departed, with worried expressions and soft wishes for the Frodo’s recovery.  The last, a tall and stately Elf with dark green eyes the color of summer leaves, turned before leaving and said softly, “We will ask Elbereth for his recovery.  All of Imladris knows of the Ring-bearer’s valiant journey here.  That he suffers because of the evil done him on that journey is a sorrow to our hearts.”

Merry eased off the bed and bowed in return.  Next to him, Pippin bobbed quickly and Sam struggled to his feet and did also.  “Thank you,” Merry said.  “We appreciate your kindness.”

The Elf smiled at him sadly and followed after his fellows.

Aragorn unwrapped Frodo from the damp blankets and lifted him, carrying him carefully to the bath.  The other three hobbits trailed after, surrounding the small tub.  Even from where they stood a step away, Merry and Pippin could feel the heat that radiated from their cousin’s skin.  

Aragorn sank to his knees to put Frodo in the lukewarm water, sliding him in gently and keeping a hand under the curly head.  A small wave washed back over Frodo and splashed onto Aragorn, losing Pippin’s handprint in a swell of wetness.  The Ranger did not notice, his attention completely on keeping Frodo’s head above the water.

Frodo’s eyes opened widely and he thrashed, his right hand reaching up while the left lay lifeless at his side.   “It’s all right, Mr. Frodo,” Sam reassured him, his grey eyes frightened.  “Strider’s got you.  I’m here.  Merry an’ Pippin are here, too.  We’re not going ‘ta let anything hurt you.”

Whether he could hear Sam or not, Frodo quieted, his eyes closing again.  He lay quiescent, the almost-warm water soothing the dreadful fire that burned within him.  While not truly aware of his surroundings, he felt protected and cared for and with a sigh, drifted off into his first true sleep since falling ill.

Merry sighed as he watched his cousin’s face relax and smooth out.  Pippin leaned against him.  “What do we do now?” he asked the Ranger.

Aragorn smiled at him over Frodo’s dark head.  “We wait.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 6:  Concoctions and Conniptions

Pippin had almost gone to sleep against Merry’s side when Elrond returned with a swiftness that startled them all into wakefulness.  The Master of Rivendell swept into Frodo’s bedchamber and was leaning over the almost-submerged hobbit, nodding his approval at Aragorn’s execution of his instructions, almost before the hobbits were aware of him.  Placing a long hand on the Ringbearer’s brow, the Elf-lord closed his deep eyes for a moment, then opened them and said softly,  “He is better.”

“The fever is down,” responded Aragorn, gently pulling Frodo up and lifting him from the cooling bath.  Sam had occupied the time spent waiting for Elrond’s return with laying out towels before the fire, and these were now arranged on the bed.  Frodo was laid upon the warmed cloths and dried.  He made no response as he was re-clad in a clean  nightshirt except to yawn slightly and attempt to curl up on his unwounded side.

Sitting on the bed next to the sleeping hobbit, Elrond gently uncurled his limbs and raised him to a sitting position, leaning him back against Aragorn.  Under the apprehensive eyes of the other three, the Elf-lord uncorked another concoction, this one a nasty yellow color.  Sam, standing closest, hastily covered his mouth and strangled a cough.  Pippin wrinkled his nose and was heartily glad that he didn’t have to drink the nauseating liquid.  Merry leaned over and whispered in his cousin’s ear, “Just that smell is enough to make me sick.  What’s it going to do to him?”

Tilting the phial to Frodo’s mouth, Elrond paused and regarded the hobbit.  Despite the careful softness of Merry’s whisper, he had heard.  “I fear it will make him ill, Master Brandybuck.  Though that will be uncomfortable for him,” and the Elf-lord ignored the small sound made by Pippin, “it will bring up the overdose and return his body to the correct path of healing.”

With a sigh, Sam excused himself to fetch a basin and dip some of the discarded towels into the water.  Merry and Pippin edged back slightly.

The brief pause had been sufficient to make Frodo somewhat aware that something foul-smelling and vile was going to be administered to him, and as Elrond again raised the phial, his dark head turned away from it.  Elrond frowned and chased the small mouth.  Fighting the heavy weight on his mind and limbs, Frodo closed it firmly.

The Elf-lord sighed in exasperation, and despite himself, Aragorn hid a smile.  “He is astonishingly stubborn, my lord,” the Ranger offered.  When Sam glared at him, he continued, “It seems to be a trait of these hobbits.”

Elrond sighed again and eased the dark head back, stroking Frodo’s throat gently.  The semi-conscious hobbit relaxed and his mouth opened slightly.  Quickly but carefully, Elrond poured in the concoction and held Frodo’s jaw shut, running his hand forcefully once down the hobbit’s throat.

Frodo’s eyes flew open and he choked.  Elrond did not allow him to open his mouth and instinct prompted him to breathe.  Frodo inhaled reluctantly and against his will, swallowed.  Elrond released him and the hobbit sagged forward in Aragorn’s arms, staring about him wildly. 

“What –“ he gasped out, gagging.  “Aaahhhh…,” and scrubbed at his mouth, his whole face crinkling up in revulsion.  Furious now, his wild stare turned to an indiscriminate glare and his cousins and Sam edged back further.   “That was disgusting!  What was that?  What are you all doing here?  What –“ with a visible effort, Frodo reined in his temper and tried to recover his dignity.  “My lord Elrond, Aragorn…”  he trailed off and gulped suddenly.

“Oh-oh,” said Pippin.

Frodo’s face paled and perspiration bloomed on his brow.  He gulped again, closing his eyes.  All thoughts of his dignity evaporated as he lurched forward and Aragorn slid the basin under his mouth just in time. 

Frodo vomited and vomited, groaning in agony as his stomach cramped and rejected the combination of tonics poured into him.  His flailing hands caught the sides of the basin and he held on for dear life as the Ranger rubbed his back and wiped his face with a dampened towel between bouts.  Sam was speaking to him softly, a constant stream of reassurances and explanations, his grey eyes brimming with tears of pity.  Pippin had covered his own mouth with a trembling hand and was very white.  Merry gently pulled him away and tugged him out to the balcony, where the fresh air and faint music of the rushing waters below served to somewhat mute the sounds of Frodo’s misery.

Elrond watched dispassionately, his noble face serene as he watched the hobbit so painfully bring up all the liquids and food coaxed patiently into him.  None would have guessed by his outward demeanor the recrimination and self-condemnation that swirled beneath that ageless gaze.  That he had never treated so deathly ill a hobbit before did not excuse Elrond in his own eyes; quite unreasonably, he felt that his thousands of years of experience in the arts of healing should have accorded him enough wisdom to spare the little one this.

The Elf-lord was startled, though nothing in his face or form betrayed it, when his foster son reached across the feebly gagging halfling and pressed his shoulder.  “How could you know?” asked Aragorn, his own eyes sad.  “He is much smaller than an Elf or a Man, and already weakened by an evil wound that nearly finished him.  You must not blame yourself for this.”

Reflecting that Estel had indeed grown wiser through the years, the Elf-lord nodded then reached to gently tip the halfling’s face up to him.  Frodo sagged bonelessly in the Ranger’s hold, normally-beautiful eyes half open but rolled back in his head.  Saliva issued from his mouth and dripped unheeded from the small chin.

“Ah, little one,” murmured the Elf softly, “I am sorry.”  Another gentle touch to the sweating forehead and the hobbit closed his eyes, completely unconscious.  Aragorn wiped him down carefully with the dampened towels and changed his nightshirt while Sam removed the basin and carried it away to wash it, gathering the sweat-soaked towels from the bed as he did so.  Hearing only silence within, Merry and Pippin returned cautiously to the room, both looking much less pale.

“It’s over, then?” asked Merry, reaching out to stroke his cousin’s dripping hair.  At the Ranger’s nod, he sighed then turned and gathered Pippin to him.  Still holding tight to his cousin’s waistcoat, Pippin made a strangled sound, unclenching teeth gritted tightly together.  Merry, his own eyes tearing, reached over and rubbed the youngster’s shoulder.  The two watched silently while the Man slid Frodo under the covers and smoothed them over him.

The Master of Rivendell regarded them solemnly.  “You can do no more here, little masters.  It is time for you to go to your own rooms and sleep, so that you may be of use when Frodo needs you.  I want the Ring-bearer to drink a little and rest, and let the effects of the tonics dissipate in his body.”  A glance down at the still form confirmed his surmise.  “He sleeps now, unaware, and it is best so.  One of us will be with him, little ones.  Do not fear.”

“All right, my lord.  We’ll go.  But how soon can we see him?”  Surprisingly, it was the youngest who spoke first, trying to peer around the Elf-lord to see his cousin.

Elrond smiled down at the insistent young hobbit.  “Return well after first light, if you will.  Frodo will be awake then, and unfortunately, be in much need of some distraction.  It is best if he does not have more than salted crackers and weak tea until luncheon.”

Merry and Pippin exchanged a glance.  “Right, sir.  We’ll be here.”

“I never doubted it, my friends,” the Elf-lord returned softly.  “Now, let us all depart.  The Ring-bearer needs peace to rest.” 

* * * * *

When Sam returned with the freshly-cleaned basin, he found the fire crackling gently and the room quiet, except for the Ranger who now sat in the chair near Frodo’s bed.  Aragorn was smoking, the blue swirls of his pipe filling the room with sweet fragrance.  Sam inhaled gratefully, relieved that the aroma alleviated the stink of sickness.

Sam opened wide the door to the balcony, and the music of the swift waters as well as the faint breezes stirred to freshen the room.  Making sure that his master was well-covered, Sam sank down in another chair and wiped his brow.

“Not a night I care ‘ta recall,” he muttered, glancing at Frodo to make sure they were not disturbing him.  They were not; exhausted, Frodo was completely oblivious. 

Aragorn regarded the sturdy hobbit with wry tiredness.  “At least one good thing came out of this … there will be no wager tomorrow.  Today,” he amended, with a glance out at the stars.

Sam scowled, his righteous indignation returning in full, unabated force.  “Nor for several days ‘ta come, if I’m any judge.”  He looked anxiously at his master again, noting the sunken cheeks and unfamiliar lines etched on the fine-boned face.  “Those two!  Bet on the rising o’ the moon, they would, if they thought there was a chance it wouldn’t.  Well…” he added more fairly, “Mr. Merry would.  Master Pippin, he’d be more like to follow.”  Sam sighed gustily.  “He’s going ‘ta be a holy terror when he grows up, though.

“Thank Elbereth, that’s several years away yet.”   Sam yawned hugely, then put his hand over his mouth, embarrassed.   “Sorry, sir.  I –“ another yawn interrupted him.

“Go and rest, Sam,” Aragorn said.  “I know you haven’t slept much since your master was hurt.  I’ll watch over him tonight.”

Samwise debated with himself for a few moments.  “You’ll call me if you need me, sir?”

“I will, Sam.  Sleep.  Frodo will need you rested and able to care for him tomorrow.”

Sam nodded and dragged himself to his feet.  “Goodnight, Strider,” he said softly.

“Goodnight, Sam.”

* * * * *

The next morning was a trial on the normally even-tempered Samwise.  Frodo was aching and miserable, hungry but nauseated at the thought of eating.  Sam’s master was tired and cross and though he did not remember the previous night clearly, did know that he had been grievously treated.  Sam almost warned off Merry and Pippin as they came through the door, then decided the two deserved whatever they got.

But by then, Frodo had spent most of his anger and was too worn out to muster the energy to really be disagreeable.  He apologized profusely to Sam and apologized too to his cousins, though he was unsure exactly what for.  Merry and Pippin breathed a sigh of relief and magnanimously forgave him.

Frodo rubbed his eyes, which burned unmercifully.  “I seem to recall, though,” he mused, “Pippin saying something about betting.  Placing wagers?  What are you placing wagers on?”

Pippin had frozen, a pasty grin on his sharp face.  His eyes canted desperately to Merry.  Behind them, Sam bristled, unsure whether his master should hear this now.  He needn’t have worried; Merry rallied magnificently.

“No idea what you’re talking about, Cousin.  It must have been something you imagined in your fever.”  Merry smiled at him with his best wide-eyed innocent look, and Frodo regarded him closely.

“Ummm … I must have.  Sorry, Merry.”  Frodo sighed and closed his eyes, sagging back into the pillows.

“You need to rest, Cousin.”  Pippin stood up on his furry toes and leaned over the bed, kissing Frodo’s brow.  Merry followed suit, and promising to return later, they let themselves out of the bedchamber. 

“You lot are going ‘ta have to tell him,” Sam whispered as he followed them through the adjoining room’s door. 

Merry grimaced and gave Pippin a slight shove to hurry him out.  “Yes, well, not until he’s better, Sam.  Wouldn’t want to upset him, would we?”

Watching them disappear quickly down the corridor, Sam growled to himself, “Aye, an’ he’s going to be right upset when he – “

“Sam?”

“Comin’, Mr. Frodo.”  Sam shut the door and went to see what his master wanted.

* TBC *

Chapter 7:  Evening in the Hall of Fire

Clinging tightly to Sam’s arm, Frodo walked slowly beside his friend, concentrating on placing one foot before the other, moving his weight forward, and pulling the other after.  Step, move, step.  If he recited that to himself, he could keep himself on his feet and walking.  Merry hovered behind him, his arms half-extended to catch his cousin if he faltered.  Pippin circled around the three like a small satellite, swift feet carrying him from one side of Frodo to the other, his usually cheerful expression worried and strained.

“Pip, will you stop that? You’re making me dizzy.”  Frodo signaled a halt by squeezing Sam’s arm, and Sam and Merry eased him up against a wall, urging him to lean on them to catch his breath.  Sam looked up the long hallway, but there were no chairs in sight along the polished walls.  Frodo leaned against the wall, half-crouching, his breathing heavy and strenuous.  His face was very pale yet shimmered with perspiration, making his dark curls stand out in stark contrast against his white face. 

Merry met Sam’s eyes over Frodo’s bowed head and both grimaced.  Frodo shuddered between them, then straightened.  Drawing a single deep breath, he started walking again then his feet treacherously tangled with each other and he stumbled.  Pippin yelped and darted in close, sliding an arm around Frodo’s waist.  Sam could bear it no longer.

“Now that’s enough, Mr. Frodo!  We’re not going no further.  Turn ‘im around, Mr. Merry, he’s going back to bed.”

“Sam, no.  I’m tired of lying in bed,” Frodo protested, gasping as he struggled to pull himself upright.  Pippin released his hold and stepped back again, his green-gold eyes darting anxiously between his elders.  Merry and Sam tightened their grasp as Frodo swayed.  “I want to go to the Hall of Fire.”

“Well, you’re not going to make it,” said Merry bluntly.  “We’re not even halfway there, Frodo, and you’re about finished.  You’ve already had a long day.  Sam’s right – we’re taking you back to your room.”

To Merry’s dismay, his cousin’s dark brows quirked then drew down.   “I am going to the Hall of Fire,” Frodo replied with great dignity, if not great judgment.  “You may help me or not, but I am going.”

“No,” Merry replied.  “You are not.”

“Yes, I am.

“No, you’re not.”

“Yes –“

“Gentlemen, may I be of assistance?”  Aragorn stood before them, smiling slightly.  Pippin heaved a noisy sigh of relief and Frodo glared at him.

“Good evening, Aragorn,” Frodo ignored his escorts and tried to unobtrusively support himself against the wall.   “We are going to hear the singing and tale-spinning in the Hall of Fire tonight.  Would you care to join us?”

Safely behind his master, Sam looked up at the Ranger and rolled his eyes.  Aragorn smiled again and addressed Frodo.  “I would, indeed.  But perhaps I can offer you some help, Frodo.  You look a little unsteady yet.”

“I am fine, Aragorn, thank you.”  Merry scowled at him but Frodo refused to budge.  He pushed himself away from the wall and almost lost his balance.  Quickly, Aragorn reached out and caught an arm. 

“I can see you are much recovered,” said the Ranger neutrally.  “However, my lord Elrond would not be pleased with me if I allowed you to overtax yourself so soon after your illness.  Will you let me carry you to the Hall?”  When the hobbit hesitated, Aragorn continued, “I will set you down before we enter the doors.”   

Frodo eyed him narrowly.  Aragorn kept his expression polite and noncommittal.  “All right,” the hobbit agreed.  Then more graciously, he added.  “Thank you for your help.”

Aragorn stooped and lifted him carefully, cradling Frodo’s right side against his body.  Frodo’s eyes closed momentarily in relief before he forced them open again.  Aragorn pretended not to notice, but nodded in reply to the quick smile Merry had sent him while his cousin’s eyes were shut.

The traverse to the Hall was now completed in short order.   As he had promised, the Ranger set the hobbit down gently before the doors of the Hall, holding him cautiously until he was sure Frodo had his feet under him.  Keeping one steadying hand on the small shoulder, Aragorn entered after the hobbit and the other three trailed behind.

None of them were prepared for the reception that greeted them.  As Frodo entered, every seated Elf and guest of Rivendell in attendance rose to his or her feet.  Every face turned towards him, then every person in the Hall bowed. 

“Ring-bearer.”  The Master of Rivendell came forward, his long copper-colored mantel billowing as he strode gracefully to stand before the astonished hobbit.  Then slowly, Elrond inclined his elegant head, and bowed deeply before Frodo.

Frodo blushed scarlet and his enormous blue eyes widened impossibly.  He took a half-step back, but Aragorn did not allow him to retreat.  Behind them, Merry was grinning hugely, Pippin looked intimidated and Sam merely nodded, finding the acclaim being awarded his master simply what Sam felt was due him. 

The Elf-lord straightened from his bow and regarded the flustered hobbit.  “Ring-bearer,” he said gently, “will you sit by my side this evening?”

Too disconcerted to reply, Frodo merely nodded, and his cheeks flamed again as Elrond led him slowly through the ranks of Elves and Men and Dwarves, who again bowed as he walked past them.   He looked back desperately over his shoulder at the other hobbits, but they were being guided to seats of honor elsewhere.  Merry glanced over his shoulder at him, delight at his cousin’s predicament dancing in his blue eyes.  Feeling alone and very small next to the tall Elf-lord, the Ring-bearer allowed himself to be seated in a small but gorgeously carved chair hastily set on a small platform next to Elrond’s.

That was the signal for those in the Hall to resume their seats and their conversations.  As the volume rose, soft words and gentle laughter, Elrond inclined himself towards the hobbit.  “I am pleased you are able to join us this eve, Master Baggins.”  Meeting Elrond’s ageless gaze, Frodo felt that the Elf-lord was noting every tremble of his limbs that he was trying to hide.  The Elf’s eyes darkened as another shiver went through the small form.  “But are you well enough?” he said softly.

“I am much better, my lord,” replied the hobbit, equally softly.  “Thanks to you and the care of your good people.”

Dark eyes still searching the halfling’s face, Elrond nodded graciously.  The little one did not look good, he thought.  Had he known that Frodo intended to attend this eve, he would have forbade it.  But by not asking his permission, the Ring-bearer had circumvented his denial.  Clever hobbit, he thought with a half-smile.  I hope he does not pay too dearly for his stubbornness.

Unaware of Elrond’s continued scrutiny, Frodo was looking about the Hall with pleasure.  The Hall was warm and firelight flickered on the beautifully carved walls and furnishings, lending the wood a living warmth of its own.  Arrayed in silk and fine clothes, gems shining in their hair, Elrond’s folk moved among their guests serving wine and sweet liqueurs, their graceful forms and clear voices a delight to the eyes and ears.  The hobbit drank in the sight with shining eyes, his whole face alight and glowing in the reflection of the great fire.

Frodo had been hoping that Aragorn would be seated close by, and indeed, there was a chair for him.  It was empty, though.  Looking for the Ranger, Frodo spied his broad back in the shadows, talking to someone in the corner.  The fire popped just then, throwing a brief flare into the huge room.  Over Aragorn’s shoulder, the hobbit saw the breathtakingly lovely features of Arwen Evenstar, daughter of Elrond.  The two leaned close together, and as Frodo watched, Aragorn raised a hand and gently traced the line of her pointed, shell-like ear.  She smiled, her beautiful eyes shining into his.  Frodo felt a quick surge of joy for them run through him.

His attention was returned to the Hall when conversation stilled as the musicians assumed their places, positioning harps and lutes, drums, flutes, pipes and other woodwinds and strings.  Some of the musical instruments were completely unknown to the hobbits and they watched eagerly.  A graceful Elf came to stand before Elrond and bowed.  Then he bowed to the Ring-bearer, noting with amusement the little one’s embarrassed flush.  At his lord’s nod, the minstrel gently stroked the ornate lute he carried and in a sweet, carefully-modulated voice as pure as the waters of Imladris, began to sing.

Frodo heard many songs that evening, sung by one or in chorus; each more lyrical and beautiful than the last.  After a while, he stopped translating them in his mind, content to listen only to the melodies and the music.  They blended in his brain and swirled around his soul and filled him with warmth and peace.

When a lovely Elf-woman curtsied before him and offered him a glass of wine, Frodo took it with an automatic smile of thanks, his eyes and mind still on the music.  He drank it, and the one after that, reveling in its sweet crispness, and the one offered him after that.  Sitting relaxed by the Ring-bearer’s side, the Elf-lord motioned for another glass for the Ring-bearer.  In his weakened condition, perhaps one more might do it, Elrond thought, as he watched the little one start to slide down into his seat.

Frodo smiled dreamily, waving his fingers gently with the music.  There was another glass of wine in his hand, and he drank it without wondering where it came from.  He seemed to see everything through a fine haze, and even the pain in his shoulder and arm seemed oddly remote.  He felt warm and very comfortable.

After many songs, the tale-spinner replaced the minstrels, bowing again before the Master of Rivendell and the Ringbearer.  He spoke in Westron out of deference to the many guests.  Though the tale-spinner spoke, his speaking voice sounded much like singing, rhymes and lays recounted in a clear voice like summer starlight.  Frodo found his attention drifting and Elrond smiled as he saw the Ring-bearer sink into a doze in his chair.  Without interrupting the story, he motioned for Aragorn to attend him.

“Estel,” Elrond whispered, his voice soft and monotone, “will you bear him back to bed?  He knows your touch and you will not disturb him.”

“Of course, Elrond.  I saw what you were doing.  He will likely have a headache on the morrow.”

“Better a headache than a relapse brought about by overreaching his strength.  I will visit him in the morning and see how he fares.”

The Ranger gently slid his arms under the Ring-bearer’s body and lifted him, turning Frodo so that the hobbit lay with his wounded left side out.  Frodo murmured some inarticulate protest then snuggled into Aragorn’s chest and began to snore softly.  Elrond’s dark eyebrows lifted and the immortal Elf smiled at the small form.  “What an astonishing folk they are,” he remarked softly, lifting a dark curl out of the closed eyes.  “That this small one could have carried such evil through pursuit and overwhelming darkness is an amazement to me.”

Cradling the hobbit against him, Aragorn smiled into his foster father’s dark eyes.  “I have guarded the Shire for many years, as you know, my lord.  An unremarkable race they seem, these hobbits.  Yet beneath the surface, often buried deeply, is a greatness of spirit that rivals the heroes of old.”  He looked down at the sleeping halfling.  “And how quickly one learns to love them.”

* * * * *  

Aragorn was not surprised when a small shadow attached itself to him as he left the Hall.  “Sam,” said the Ranger softly.  “Go back and enjoy the Hall with Merry and Pippin.  I’ll see him to bed.”

“Thank you, sir, but that’s me job,” the shadow replied.   “I’ve enough of all that singing an’ story-telling for the night, anyway.”  See the Ranger’s look of disbelief, Sam flushed and continued, “It’s like too much fine wine, it is.  It makes me head spin.  An’ I won’t sleep unless I know he’s settled in proper.”

Sam held the door for Aragorn to bring his sleeping master into his rooms and together they undressed him and clad him in his nightshirt.  Frodo yawned then curled up on his right side, never waking. 

“With that much wine in him, he should sleep peacefully, without dreams.”  Aragorn pulled the bedcovers up over the still form.  “Elrond said he would see him in the morning, to make sure he did not harm himself by this premature excursion.”

Sam nodded, then surprised them both by yawning hugely.  “Sorry, sir.  Guess I’m tired, too.  Odd place, this.  Seems like the days pass in a flash, but the hours pass slow, each one full o’ good things.”

The Ranger smiled at him gently.  “Well put, Sam.  Goodnight to you.”

“Goodnight, sir.”   Stifling another yawn, the hobbit closed the door and went to his own rest.

* TBC * 

Chapter 8:  Surprises Revealed and Revelations Surprised 

“Leave me alone, Sam.  I want to die in peace.”

“Sorry, sir.  You can’t do that yet.  Maybe after breakfast.”  Sam slid the well-filled tray across his master’s lap, ignoring the heartfelt groan of pain that issued from the blanket-covered form. 

“Take it away, Sam…  I’m dying, I know I am.”

“Yes, sir,” Sam agreed equitably.  “But you’ve got ‘ta eat first.  Lord Elrond’s going ‘ta be coming by to see you, sir, and that tray better be empty.”

Most reluctantly, the blankets were shoved aside.  Frodo groaned again as the bright light of the room stabbed into his burning eyes.  Sam winced in sympathy and hurried to draw the drapes across the glassless windows.  He turned to find Frodo back under the covers.

“No, sir, that won’t do at all.”  Gently but relentlessly, Sam pried the blankets back from the dark head.  Frodo clutched at them desperately, but his weakened strength was no match for his friend’s.  The breakfast tray tilted perilously on Frodo’s lap and Sam rescued it and steadied it, then tucked a napkin under his master’s chin.

Defeated, Frodo stared at the beautifully prepared tray, from the small bouquet of fresh fall flowers to the light, fluffy mushroom omelet, flanked by perfectly-cooked rashers of bacon and grilled sausages, potatoes chopped with onions and cheese, and a high stack of browned toast dripping with butter.  “I can’t eat all this, Sam.  I can’t eat half of it.”

Sam hid his worry under a cheerful smile.  “You just eat what you can, Mr. Frodo.  You got some recovering ‘ta do, you know.”  Privately, he resented the mean trick Lord Elrond had played on his Mr. Frodo, giving him all that wine last night.  It didn’t lessen his resentment that he knew why the Elf-lord had sent glass after glass of the sweet, powerful wine to his guest.  Frodo shouldn’t have been out of bed, shouldn’t have tried to walk down to the Hall of Fire, and definitely shouldn’t have sat up by the Master of Rivendell’s side for so long to listen to the singing and tale-spinning.  The more evenhanded part of his mind argued that his master had brought this on himself and Elrond had done rightly to incapacitate the stubborn hobbit and return him to his bed, but Sam was not in any mood to be fair.

Frodo was still staring at the food, gauging it against his delicate stomach.  The aromas that wafted up to him in the little curling whorls of steam were enticing, and he was surprised to find that he actually felt hungry.  He hadn’t felt hunger in quite some time, it seemed…  Certainly not yesterday, as he struggled to recover from the disastrous overdosing Elrond had mistakenly administered to him.  His stomach cramped suddenly and he hastily turned his thoughts away from those hours of sickness and misery.

“It’s getting cold, Mr. Frodo.”

With a martyred sigh, Frodo applied himself to his breakfast.  The pounding headache began to abate as he ate and he relaxed as his abused body immediately began to draw strength from the nourishing food.  Watching his master covertly, Sam also began to relax, heartily glad that the battle of getting Frodo to eat this morning had been such an easy victory.  Whistling, he pulled back the drapes and the sun filled the room with warmth.  Perhaps he should see that his master got drunk more often.

A soft knock sounded on the interior door and two curly heads peeked around the doorframe cautiously.  Merry and Pippin let themselves in, much more quietly than their usual wont.  They regarded their cousin for a moment then Merry said, “All right there, Frodo?”

His mouth full, Frodo nodded at them and motioned for them to enter.  His whole face had lit up at the sight of his cousins, and Sam grinned at the sight.  The two laughed and piled on to Frodo’s bed, but carefully, and immediately began to help themselves to the remains of their cousin’s breakfast. 

So it was that Elrond found them when he entered some time later, his knock unanswered and unnoticed.  Peals of hobbit laughter echoed through the sunny room, and the Elf was surprised to feel his own ageless heart lift in response.  Young Pippin was describing Frodo’s graceless slide down into his chair the previous evening, his small form perfectly imitating his cousin’s boneless collapse, and all four of the little ones were nearly gasping with laughter.

“May I intrude?”  The Elf-lord’s gentle voice rode easily over the giggles and shrieks without his having to raise it.  The two cousins slid off the bed to their feet and bowed, as did the little gardener from the head of the bed.  His patient greeted him with dancing eyes, his wan face flushed with pleasure.  Elrond was gladdened to see that there was no recrimination in the beautiful morning glory eyes, his rather undignified trick on the hobbit apparently forgiven.

“Please my lord, join us.”  Frodo gestured to the bedside chair and Elrond seated himself gracefully, sweeping back his flowing mantle with the ease of long practice.

Reaching over, the Elf-lord laid his slender hand against the hobbit’s brow.  Frodo submitted graciously, smiling at him.  “No fever…” murmured Elrond, looking deeply into the sparkling eyes.  The Master of Rivendell returned the smile.  “Now, Master Baggins, it seems a matter of rebuilding your strength.  I see you have already had a good start.”  A graceful gesture indicated the gleaming breakfast tray.  “Though I imagine you had some help.”

The other three halflings blushed.  “Well … yes,” Frodo admitted.  “But I ate much of it.  Half, anyway.  All I wanted.”

“Good.  If you continue to eat well, my friend, you will soon be able to take that long-delayed walk.”

Frodo smiled at him, pleased but puzzled.  “Thank you, my lord.  What walk?”

Now it comes ‘ta it, thought Sam, with some satisfaction.  Mr. Merry’ll not get out o’ it this time.  He hoped the following revelations did not upset his master’s digestion.

To Frodo’s confusion, the Elf-lord had raised his deep eyes to his cousins and was regarding them intently.  “Ah…” he murmured softly.  Merry and Pippin were staring at him with a look like a deer caught in a hunter’s crossbow site.  Elrond’s dark eyes bored into the wide blue and green-gold ones of the halflings, then suddenly he smiled. 

“I believe your cousins have something to tell you, Master Baggins,” he said softly.  “As it concerns me and mine, I think I shall stay and make sure it gets said.”  The last was delivered in a deeper, less conversational tone and Merry and Pippin blanched.

Frodo’s inquiring eyes turned to them.  Merry looked back at him, a bead of sweat running down his temple.  Beside him, Pippin looked very sorry that he had just eaten.

“Well?” Frodo said, when neither of his cousins moved to speak.  The three stared at each other.  Sam suddenly found the ceiling very interesting and decided to start counting the carvings on each beam.  Unfortunately, the movement of his head drew his master’s attention to him.  “Sam?  Do you know about this?”

Now Sam was caught, too.  The stocky hobbit was aware that his eyes had acquired that deer-in-the-crosshairs look.  “Ahhh, it’s like this, Mr. Frodo … aahhhh…”

Frodo’s dark brows drew down when no one answered him.  “What is going on here?”  Silence.  Pippin gave him a sickly grin, looking like he was going to throw up.

That periwinkle gaze swept ‘round them all then sharpened on Merry. “Meriadoc Brandybuck,” said Frodo softly, identifying the ringleader immediately by knowledge and experience, “you are going to tell me what this is about.  You are going to tell me right now.”

“Urk,” said Merry.  He tried a pleading gaze at the Elf-lord, but Elrond sat implacable, his arms folded and his dark gaze unyielding.  Pippin was estimating the distance to the door.  Sam was now staring at his furry feet, his cheeks scarlet, evidently counting knot-holes in the polished floor.

Then Merry met his cousin’s darkening gaze, a sunny, pleasant smile on his lips.  Oh no, thought Sam.

“Pippin and I wanted to wait until you were a little stronger, Cousin,” Merry began (Sam thought gratefully, Thank you very much for leavin’ me out o’ this!), “but since you insist…”  Pippin took an unobtrusive step towards the door.  Frodo pinned him with a look and the youngster froze.

“Pip and I have been saving a surprise for you.  You need to take a little walk to get there … to the Library.”

“Library?”

The single word was echoed in four voices, ranging from started indignation (Samwise) to admiring disbelief (Pippin) to astonishment (Elrond) to absolute joy (Frodo).  While the other three gaped at Merry, Frodo seized his hands and pulled him in close for a hug.

“There’s a library?  A real library?  Where is it?  How many books does it have?  Are there scrolls and maps?  Are there books in Westron and other languages?  What is–“ Frodo stopped and laughed, hugging Merry again.  “Oh Merry, how wonderful!  Thank you!  I can’t think of any surprise that would be better.  When may I go?  Is it very far?  Pippin, thank you!”  He reached across to hug Pippin too and in his excitement, did not seem to register the youngster’s floored expression.

Elrond found himself torn between amusement and annoyance.  Sam was apoplectic, his round face beet-red above his collar.  The poor hobbit was making strangled sounds, gesturing vaguely about him, too indignant and confused to form coherent words.  Pippin was watching him with a grin, enjoyment replacing shock on his sharp face.

Frodo did not notice, his attention wholly on the existence of the fascinating Library.  With a visible effort, he reined himself in and addressed Elrond.  “My lord,” he asked, “may I have your permission to go to the Library, as soon as I am able?”

The Elf-lord has finally decided he was more amused by the young Brandybuck’s shenanigans than upset.  “You may, Frodo – when I say you are able.  Thank you for requesting my permission,” he added gravely.  The hobbit flushed, remembering that he had not asked the previous night, and that the Elf-lord had been forced to resort to gentle trickery to keep him from overtaxing himself.  Elrond watched color infuse the pale cheeks and looked closely at his recovering patient.

The hobbit was still weak and far too pale.  Already, weariness lurked in the slight form; Frodo just was too excited to feel it yet.  The hobbit had much weight to regain and would have to retrain muscles weakened by fever and the immobility of bed-rest.  With a shock, the Elf-lord realized that the slow regaining of the halfling’s strength, brought about by gentle walks of increasing length, would in fact be strengthening him in preparation for Merry’s wager.  Had Meriadoc planned this?  The Elf-lord’s dark eyes sought out the hobbit, who was again perching on his cousin’s bed, arms waving, describing the delights of Elrond’s library.  Frodo’s lovely eyes were shining with anticipation.  Elrond decided that, even if he had been out-maneuvered by a barely-adult halfling, it was a small price to pay for the Ring-bearer’s return to health.

* TBC *

Chapter 9:  Two Interludes of (Almost) Quiet

“That’s enough, Frodo-lad.  We’re taking a rest now.”  The elderly hobbit could feel the trembling in his nephew’s arm and gently guided Frodo over to one of the many benches that lined the small enclosed courtyard outside of Frodo’s rooms. 

“Not yet, Bilbo!  I want to walk a little more,” protested Frodo, a thin sheen of perspiration making his pale face glisten.  Bilbo shook his white head - twice around the courtyard had taken all of the youngster’s strength, and still he wanted to press himself.  Ignoring him, Bilbo tugged on Frodo’s arm (the right, and very gently) and hitched himself up on the Elf-sized bench.  Frodo was obliged to follow or continue standing … and he barely could.  Stubbornness might be a Baggins’ trait, Bilbo thought (as he had told those two young rapscallions), but Frodo went clear through one side of stubborn and out the other.

Frodo edged himself up on the bench and waited for his breathing to even out.  Two turns around this little space and he could barely stand.  How was he ever going to walk to the other side of the world?

Watching the young hobbit from the corner of his eye, Bilbo mused on the wisdom that age brought.  Frodo was still young enough that everything had to be ‘now’ for him.  It was only a fortnight ago that Glorfindel had carried his dying nephew into Rivendell and placed the limp form in Elrond’s arms.  It had been close, so very close.  It was just over a week that Frodo was out of danger of immediate death.  Or worse…  Hastily, Bilbo turned from that trail of thought. 

With the impatience of the young, Frodo wanted to be better now.  Bilbo hoped that last night’s unwise excursion to the Hall of Fire had shown Frodo that not always could a determined will override a damaged body.  His poor nephew’s hangover had dissipated in fresh air and a full stomach, but Bilbo had stored away Lord Elrond’s little trick, to use it himself if he ever had to.

Beside him, Frodo blew out a final long exhalation and rolled his shoulders carefully, mindful of pulling the closing flesh on the wound.  Bilbo knew it still ached abominably and Frodo had completed most of this afternoon’s short walk with his left arm pressed into his body and an odd, strained set to his features.

“Better there, lad?” Bilbo asked.

Frodo nodded, then found his voice.  “Sorry, Bilbo.  I didn’t mean to be so demanding.  I want to go to the Library, as soon as I can walk that far.”  The dark head dipped and Frodo stared unseeing at the fall flowers planted in ordered ranks in the flowerbeds.  “It is terrifying to be so helpless,” he added softly.

Bilbo’s generous old heart was wrung for the young hobbit, whom he loved more than any other soul in the world.  Seeing the youngster sitting there, in pain and obviously exhausted, hurt him more than he could bear.  “Frodo, my lad,” Bilbo said softly, “why don’t you lie down on this nice warm bench and take a nap?  I’ll be your pillow.  You look exhausted, my boy.”

Automatically, the lad started to deny that he was tired, then Frodo paused and the mask dropped before the one person he would allow to see him as fatigued and hurting as he felt.  “Are you sure you wouldn’t mind, Bilbo?” he asked, thick lashes already drooping.

Bilbo laughed softly and gently stroked the sweated curls out of Frodo’s eyes.  “Lay down, lad.  You aren’t so grown-up that your old uncle can’t hold you while you sleep.”

With a heartfelt sigh, Frodo sank down on the sun-warmed stone and placed his head in Bilbo’s lap.  An Elf or a man could not have stretched out on the bench but two hobbits, one leaning against the wall behind the bench, and one reclining, fit perfectly.  In two breaths, the exhausted hobbit was asleep.

An hour later, Aragorn came to accompany them in for tea.  Letting himself into the courtyard from one of the side doors, the Ranger paused to regard the two motionless forms.  Bilbo had fallen asleep, one hand resting in Frodo’s dark curls and the other reaching down to hold the slender hand that lay on his breast.  White head sunk on his chest, Bilbo snored softly.  Aragorn saw that the lines of pain on Frodo’s pale face had eased, and he slept more peacefully than the Ranger had ever seen him, safe and loved in Bilbo’s lap.

He regretted waking them but Frodo needed to eat.  Placing a hand on Bilbo’s frail shoulder, he shook it gently.  With a snort, the old hobbit opened bleary eyes and looked up, then smiled when he saw who had disturbed his rest.  Frodo shifted but did not wake, burrowing deeper into his uncle’s warm lap.

“He doesn’t look any older, you know,” commented Bilbo softly.  “From when I left him, I mean.  Seventeen years ago.  Samwise and Merry look older than he does.”  A withered hand stroked the dark curls and in his sleep, Frodo smiled.  “That’s the Ring’s doing, isn’t it?”

Aragorn nodded.  “So I understand it.  Gandalf would better explain it.”

As if he felt the weight of their gazes, or heard something named that disturbed him, Frodo’s dark brows quirked and he tensed.  Bilbo’s hand resumed its gentle stroking and he relaxed.  “He’s been having nightmares, you know,” Bilbo said in that quiet voice.  “Samwise told me.  He’s heard him cry out in the night and come in, thinking he was wanted.  Frodo was all tangled up in the sheets, sweating like he was running a race, with tears streaming down his face.  Sound asleep.  Sam says sometimes he hears him speaking, saying ‘don’t’ or ‘leave me alone’…   Sam says he’s scared to wake him but he can’t stand to just let him suffer.”

The Ranger was silent, sorrow etched on his wind-roughened features.  “Perhaps Elrond could give him something for dreamless sleep.  At least until he can fight off such dreams on his own.”

Bilbo laughed, his voice still soft.  “I don’t think Frodo’s very eager to take another of Elrond’s tonics.  The nourishing ones taste awful, too, even if they don’t make him sick.  Now that his poor stomach’s recovered, though, I imagine he’ll be given them.”

Aragorn nodded again, a faint smile tugging at his lips.  “Elrond has a better measure of hobbits now, my friend.  Such miscalculation won’t happen again.”

Bilbo raised his head and Aragorn was startled by the rage in those earth-brown eyes.  “Why Frodo?” the old hobbit demanded softly.

“Why…” the Ranger repeated, not understanding his old friend’s sudden anger.

“Why Frodo?  Why must he suffer?  My lad never hurt anyone in his life.”  The dark brows quirked again and immediately Bilbo modulated his voice, returning to a soft, whispering tone.  The gnarled hand continued its reassuring stroking.  But the fury in his brown eyes was unabated.

The Ranger was drawn aback.  When he did not answer, Biblo continued.  “Why was he chosen to bear the Ring?  Who decided that he would be chased and hunted and hurt and wounded?   He almost died.  And now,” the old one struggled to contain himself and not disturb the sleeper, “now he will bear that evil thing across the face of Middle-earth, and destroy it?

“Is it my fault?  Because I found the evil thing?  Have I done this to him – and worse to come?”  Bilbo’s face had gone gray, though high color rose in his wrinkled cheeks.  Tears pressed against his eyes.

The Ranger had no answers for him.  Slowly he knelt by the old hobbit and placed both hands on Bilbo’s shoulders, staring into his eyes across the sleeping body of his soul-son.  “I cannot answer these questions, Bilbo.  You know I can’t.  I doubt if anyone could, even Gandalf or Elrond.”

The Ranger paused and pressed the thin shoulders.  “You know, Gandalf told me that Frodo asked him that question, back when he first discovered that it was the One Ring which you had passed on to him.  Gandalf told him something like … ‘it was not for any merit that others do not possess:  not for power or wisdom, at any rate.’  I can add nothing more to that, other than to say that I have seen the mettle your nephew is made of, Bilbo, and those cousins of his and Sam – and you.  It is indeed the hour of the Shirefolk.”

Bilbo raised a hand from Frodo’s thick curls and laid it atop one of the Ranger’s on his shoulder.  “Thank you, my friend,” he said softly.  Looking down into Frodo’s sleeping face, he added softly, “Let us hope it is enough.”  He closed his eyes for a moment then scrubbed at them, and gently jostled the dark head in his lap.  “Frodo.  Frodo-lad, wake up.”

“It’s too early, Bilbo,” mumbled Frodo inarticulately, and tried to turn over.  One knee came in painful contact with the wall behind the bench and he grunted.  “Ow,” Frodo complained, dragging his eyes open.  He stared at the wall for a moment, puzzled, then remembered where he was and pulled himself up into a sitting a position, still leaning on Bilbo sleepily.

“Hullo, Frodo,” said Aragorn gravely.

“Hullo, Aragorn,” Frodo returned.  He rubbed his stomach and glanced around them.  “About teatime, isn’t it?”

Hobbits really are the most amazing creatures, the Ranger thought as he followed them inside.

* * * * *

The Ranger would have been most surprised to learn that at that exact same moment, Elrond Half-elven was thinking the exact same thing.  Encountering the young halflings on his way to his study, he had accepted their invitation to join them for tea.  Now he sat with them in his kitchens (somewhat to the consternation of the cooks, who were unused to their lord sitting at one of the great tables and eating on wooden plates instead of in his study on the finest china), and watched and marveled as they ate and ate and ate and talked and talked and talked. 

Pippin, Merry and Samwise moved about him in what seemed to be an astonishing whirl of activity, rarely sitting still for more than a few moments at a time.  Sam kept trying to serve them and was either ignored or circumvented by the other two.  The two cousins sat for a instant swinging their short legs off the bench, then popped up and down, fetching that, refilling this, helping themselves to “just a bite more” of whatever.  He did not know whether their seemingly-perpetual movement resulted from their youth or their species.  Fascinated, he watched – and listened.  Instead of the thoughtful pauses of Elves, they chattered, argued, interrupted each other, contradicted each other and cheerfully insulted each other.  In all of his thousands of years, Elrond had never experienced such behavior in houseguests before. 

After recovering from their initial awe of him, these three treated him almost as if he was a very large hobbit.  Even his most forbidding gaze, known to make mighty Elves quail, did not intimidate Meriadoc.  Pippin still would edge behind his cousin when that ageless gaze turned on him, but the sight of that curly head peering at him from around Merry would invariably soften the Elf-lord.  Samwise he respected as well as liked; the little gardener’s loyalty and good hobbit-sense was a wonder to the Master of Rivendell.  Separately, these small folk were a marvel to the Elf-lord; together, Elrond found them a little overwhelming.

The Ring-bearer, Elrond reflected, was actually the one he knew the least.  Frodo had been unconscious those first four days, as the Elf-lord had struggled to save his life.  Then he had been weak and ill, passing in and out of awareness for several days.  Only recently had Frodo been strong enough to even rise from his bed.  Now the problem seemed to be keeping him in it long enough to complete his recovery…

The Elf-lord gradually became aware of something lacking in his long life recently – silence.  Looking up from his ruminations, he found he was being regarded by three sets of anxious eyes.    

“My lord?”  Merry repeated. 

“Forgive me, Master Meriadoc.  I was lost in my thoughts,” answered Elrond. 

“I just wanted to know when you thought Frodo would be able to take his walk around the garden.  I know that last turn set him back a bit.  Do you think he’ll be fit in a day or two?”

“Concerned about The Wager, Meriadoc?”  The Elf-lord smiled to remove any sting from his words.  Merry returned the smile, not at all abashed.  Sitting on the other side of Pippin, Sam looked like he wanted to say something and was visibly restraining himself.  “I have,” Elrond continued, “asked Estel to have tea with Frodo and Bilbo.  I will hear his opinion on our invalid’s recovery and then form my own.”

Merry nodded, his blue eyes sparkling.  “Fair enough, my lord.  We await your decision.”  Pippin and Sam exchanged a glance, then stared at their spotlessly glistening plates.

* TBC *

Chapter 10:  “What Should Not Be Forgotten…”

Aragorn stretched his long legs and with a sigh of pleasure, swung his booted feet up to the table and tilted himself back in the chair, savoring the aroma of the tea he held in his hands.  He had been no little surprised when a messenger that informed him that his lord wished to meet with him in the kitchens.  The kitchens?  He buried his nose in the mug and inhaled deeply, reflecting that it was the small things; hot tea, a comfortable chair, safety, that made him appreciate his rare visits to Imladris all the more.

Elrond sank gracefully into a chair across the table and the Ranger hurriedly removed his legs and sat properly.  The two occupied a small nook out of the way of the cooks but still the kitchen staff eyed them apprehensively, unused to policy meetings among the rising bread and simmering soups.  The Elf-lord smiled at him wryly and cradled his own cup of fragrant tea.  “I began to understand what the halflings see in kitchens,” he remarked softly.  “They are an oasis of warmth and comfort, are they not?”  Raising a dark eyebrow at his foster son, he said, “Well?”

“He is much stronger,” Aragorn reported.  “He is steadier on his feet and can move without so much hurt.  But,” here the Ranger paused, “he is still weak and tires easily.  It will be long before he regains the strength lost in fever and pain.”

Elrond nodded; Estel’s assessment of the Ring-bearer’s recovery agreed with his own.  The Elf-lord pondered for a moment, choosing which among his restorative tonics would most benefit his patient.  Aragorn watched him and when he saw the Elf-lord’s dark eyes clear, he coughed gently to recapture his attention.

“There is something else, my lord,” he said softly.  “Frodo is having nightmares.  Terrible ones.  They are stopping him from truly resting.  From the degree of tiredness he showed a few minutes ago, I would say he is starting to try to avoid sleeping.  He has asked Meriadoc to choose him several more books from the Library … less weighty volumes than the one you chose for him.”  The Ranger smiled briefly as he recalled Frodo’s frustration with the learned book of history Elrond had provided the hobbit.

The smile was echoed by his lord.  “Now that he knows of the Library, he is determined to attend it.  Well and good.  He has not Bilbo’s command of our language yet, but has the same love of books and knowledge.  It will spur him on to regain his health so that I will give my permission for him to go.”

“And the nightmares, my lord?”

Elrond sighed, the smile fading from his ageless features.  “I cannot help with that, other than my giving him sleep-inducing potions.  It would help if he would discuss his fears with one of his kind, or you.  Will he not speak of them?”

Aragorn shook his head.  “I have tried.  He says he will not burden others with his troubles.”

“If this Quest is to succeed,” Elrond mused, “then our stubborn friend must learn differently.”

* * * * *

Samwise was also experiencing a moment of exasperation with his master.  Upon returning from tea with Mr. Bilbo and Strider, Frodo had crawled into bed and lay there shivering.   Sam had covered him with a warm quilt and received an automatic, “Thank you, Sam.”  But the shivering had not abated and now he was visibly fighting falling asleep.

Sam stole about the room quietly, pulling shut the drapes over the glassless windows, darkening the room and muting the music of birdsong and distant waters.  He began to hum softly as he worked, an old, slow song that his mother had sung to him in the cradle.  Glancing at Frodo from the corner of his eye, he saw that his master had sagged back against the pillows and the thick lashes were drifting shut… 

Ah, thought Sam, that’s done it, then.  He allowed himself a brief self-congratulation as the  eyes closed completely and Frodo’s face relaxed into sleep. 

KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!

Sam winced as his master shot bolt upright, an instant of unidentifiable panic on his pale face.  The outer door slammed then Merry and Pippin piled into the room, pausing in the doorway as they took in the darkened room and Sam’s expression.

“Oh-oh,” murmured Pippin.

* * * * *

The youngest hobbit peered cautiously around the corner, pointed ears twitching, alert to any sounds of pursuit.  “I think we lost him,” he whispered to Merry, who was plastered against the wall, gasping.  “Clever of you to throw the books.”

Getting his breath back, Merry nodded.  “Slowed him down, anyway.  I knew Sam wouldn’t let anything happen to Elrond’s precious books.  Elrond and Frodo both would have jumped down his throat.”

Pippin folded his legs under him and slid down the wall, letting the blanket of fallen leaves cushion his drop.  “Our cousin’s always been a bit too scholarly, if you ask me.  Frodo acts like he feels he needs to read everything that’s written.  Who needs all that reading and writing?  It’s just as easy to remember everything, like we do with The Wager, isn’t it, Merry?”

When his cousin didn’t answer immediately, the youngster reached up and tugged his waistcoat, eyeing him worriedly.  “I mean,” Pippin continued, “we do remember all the terms, don’t we?  Don’t we, Merry?”

“Don’t be silly, Pip.  Of course we remember who wagered what.  I get a set of maps if Elrond loses his wager.  Elrond bet that Frodo will complete the walk around the garden, so if he does, then I win.” 

“No, you get the maps if Frodo doesn’t do the walk, Merry.”

“No, Pip, that’s not right.”  Merry paused and looked anxious.  “It isn’t, is it?”

Pippin had been dreading this.  He’d been repeating the terms of each wager to himself for some time, and had managed to get both the wagers and the wagerers confused.  “Lord Elrond,” he said carefully, shutting his eyes to better remember, “wagered that if Frodo does, then you get a copy of the maps, on tanned hide.  If he doesn’t then he allows Aragorn gets to go on a picnic with Arwen instead of riding to the northern treehabors.”

“Y-Yes,” said Merry hesitantly.  “Um – I mean, that’s what Aragorn wagered.  If Glorfindel wins, he gets to go to the treeharbors, and Aragorn doesn’t have to.  Aragorn gets to go on the picnic if he wins.  Pip, did Aragorn and Glorfindel bet for or against Frodo?”

Pippin stared at him miserably, terror dawning in his green-gold eyes.   Wordlessly, Merry sank down next to his cousin and started muttering to himself, counting on his fingers and gesturing vaguely at the empty air.

* * * * *

Aragorn, passing by in a search for Gandalf, saw the two small figures sitting against the wall and arguing, though apparently not with each other.  The larger figure was ticking off something on its fingers and talking animatedly to thin air, while the smaller figure was avidly drawing something among the autumn leaves and driving his point home with determined jabs into the soft earth.  Neither of them noticed him, so involved were they in their debates.  Thinking what odd creatures hobbits were, the Ranger passed silently on.

As Elrond had not been able to offer relief for Frodo’s nightmares, the Ranger had decided that he would seek another type of aid.  It took some time to locate Gandalf, and when he did, it was in one of the least likely places Aragorn would have the thought.  The wizard stood knee-deep in hay in the stables, discussing with the stable master the number and type of animals the Company was to take.  He was absently stroking Bill’s forehead as they talked, and the pony’s great soft eyes were closed in bliss.

The stable master was parading a series of beautiful elven chargers before the wizard, pointing out the strengths and good dispositions of each of the magnificent horses.  Gandalf kept shaking his bearded head and Aragorn agreed; the halflings could not possibly sit these great animals.  And the Dwarf would surely refuse to ride one.  As much as he loved horses, the Ranger agreed with the wizard’s insistence on simple pack-ponies such as Bill.

With disappointment evident in his fair features, the stable master acquiesced, agreeing to provide either sturdy pack-ponies, mules or burros as requested.  Promising to return when the Company’s plans were more solid, Gandalf gave a final pat to Bill and joined Aragorn and the two moved off to sit on a bale of sweet-smelling hay, enjoying the warmth and wholesome scent of horse. 

Soft-voiced, Aragorn relayed what Bilbo had told him.  The wizard’s sharp eyes shadowed when he heard the news, and he unconsciously pulled out his pipe.  He hurriedly returned it to its place in his robes when the stable master appeared magically and glowered at him.  “Let us find a place where we may talk this over and enjoy a smoke,” Gandalf suggested.    

Passing back the way he had come, Aragorn looked and saw that the two small figures had departed.  Briefly he wondered about that, and with a quick word to Gandalf, knelt among the leaves and stared at Pippin’s drawings.  Though half-scrubbed out as if by an impatient hand, he could make out peoples’ names and lines drawing one name to another.  The lines held no correlation that he could see.  Yes, he thought.   Very odd creatures, indeed.

One of the many white-arched gazebos met Gandalf’s requirements for privacy and peace, and the two sank down upon it pensively.  Now both were free to smoke and they did so gratefully, twin wisps of blue smoke curling into the crisping autumn air.  “It will be dark soon,” the wizard observed.  “Perhaps Frodo’s night terrors have been brought on by too much activity, too soon.  He has been quiet today, has he not?”

Aragorn nodded.  “Except for a morning visit with his cousins and tea with Bilbo and I, he has stayed in bed and rested.”

Gandalf puffed thoughtfully.  “Ever since I have known the lad, he has had strange dreams.  Very often they have occurred when he was ill…  He has shared a few of them with me.  And I have known more than one to come true.”

“Prophetic dreams?” asked Aragorn.  He was surprised to find that he did not question the idea; if any would have the talent, it would be this slight, dark-haired hobbit with those expressive, clear-seeing eyes.   He felt a moment’s pang of sympathy for the Ring-bearer; surely such a gift could only be considered another unwanted burden.

The wizard’s deep eyes twinkled at him in the gathering dusk. “There are many kinds of magic in the world, my friend.”  Then the twinkle dimmed as Gandalf grew serious. “Unfortunately, I know of no such magic to chase away nightmares.  Those are born of deep fears and a restless mind, of a body worn beyond bearing.  The best magic is the love and care of those he loves and cares for.”  The wizard sighed.  “There is little that we can offer him besides that.  Frodo must face this himself.”

“But is there nothing we can do to ease him?”

Gandalf shook his head.  “Encourage him to speak of his fears, if he will, is all I can suggest.  And knowing him of old, I know that Frodo will not.  Not if he thought it would bring grief to another.”  Another puff, and the wizard blew out a smoke-ring, which changed colors as it drifted away.  “Yet perhaps it is not such a terrible thing,” he muttered, almost below the level of Aragorn’s hearing.

“How can it not be, Gandalf?  He suffers.”  The Ranger was indignant for Frodo’s sake.  He had seen enough pain in the gentle hobbit; he saw no reason for the little one to endure more, could it be avoided.

The wizard’s gaze turned from inward to outward, meeting his old friend’s eyes.  “Some things should not be forgotten, Estel.   Frodo will ever carry the wound, for the rest of his life.  I fear he will never be entirely free of the pain of it.  It will be a reminder, every day of his life, of the existence of evil and the price paid to rid ourselves of it.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 11:  Evil Dreams and Evil Plans

“Look,” hissed Merry quietly, “this is no time to panic.”

Pippin clung to his older cousin’s waistcoat and allowed himself to be towed along.  “I think this is an excellent time!  Can’t think of a better time!  Merry, what are we going to do?”

The two were in route to the kitchens in search of ‘something bracing’, eating being the acceptable hobbit-way of dealing with difficulties.  Pippin’s voice had been rising steadily ever since they had left their shelter behind the corner and now was reaching a level of shrillness painful to his cousin’s sensitive ears.  Abruptly pulling the smaller hobbit into an alcove, Merry checked that no one was within hearing distance and gave the youngster a light shake.

“First,” said the older hobbit, “we are not going to panic.  Second … it’s simple, Pip.  We will just speak with each of the wagers and turn the conversation towards The Wager.   It shouldn’t be hard to get them to discuss the terms.  Then we’ll just write them down.  See – simple!”

The smaller hobbit was silent, turning this over in his mind warily.  It certainly seemed simple.  At last he nodded, willing to concede that it might work.  Then Pippin’s normally optimistic viewpoint of life exerted itself.  After all, what could possibly go wrong?

As luck would have it, the first wagerer the two encountered happened to be Elrond.  The Master of Rivendell was striding gracefully towards the guest rooms, his long copper-colored mantle billowing elegantly about him.  Seeing the two struggling to fall into step with him, the Elf-lord obligingly slowed and bestowed them an arched eyebrow.  One slender hand held a delicate glass bottle and seeing their eyes drawn to it, the healer smiled.

“Yes, yet another tonic for your cousin, little masters,” he greeted them.  “Hopefully, this one will be more agreeable to his stomach.  Would you care to accompany me to see him?”

The lordly Elf did not understand the apprehensive look that passed between the two.  The younger one glanced regretfully back towards the kitchens.  Pippin bit his lip when his cousin replied, “Thank you, my lord.  We started to visit Frodo a short while ago but he was sleeping.”  Merry left out a few details, his cousin noted.

The Elf’s dark ageless eyes moved from one small face to the other, trying to divine the sub-context between them.  Deciding he did not wish to know, he sailed majestically on, leaving the two to follow in his wake.  “Do you think Sam’s forgiven us by now?” asked Pippin softly behind the Elf.

“Sam isn’t one to hold grudges, Pip.  It’s not like we meant to, anyway.  It was just bad timing.  An accident.”

Pippin nodded, though he still looked worried.  Eying the lord’s elegant back, the younger hobbit dropped his voice even further and breathed, “Are you going to ask him?”

Merry squeezed his cousin’s arm and pulled even with the Elf-lord.  Elrond graciously stopped and waited, his face serene.

“My lord,” began the hobbit, “we know that Frodo isn’t strong enough to take his walk yet, but we just wanted to reconfirm the terms of The Wager with you.”

Elrond arched a dark eyebrow at them, wondering why the younger one seemed so nervous.  He certainly had not been so unsettled at tea.  Seeing the Elf-lord’s gaze upon him, Pippin blushed a fascinating shade of red and tried to edge behind Merry. 

That one raised blue eyes to his immortal gaze.  Puzzled, Elrond answered Merry’s query.  “Of course, Master Meriadoc.  If your cousin completes a turn around my garden, I award you a copy of my maps from Imladris to Mount Doom, on tanned hide.  Does he not, then you and Master Peregrin scrub the base of the fountains in my garden.  Is this not what we agreed?”

Merry nodded vigorously, his curls jerking in the westering sunlight.  “Of course!  Of course!  That’s it exactly!”

The Elf nodded rather blankly and continued on.  He was not too far away to hear the elder whisper to the younger, “Get that, Pip?  Write it down!”

“Merry, you’re brilliant!”

If the hobbits thought that the Elf-lord could not overhear their whispered conversation, they were sorely mistaken.  They have forgotten! realized Elrond.  All of those machinations and maneuverings, and they have forgotten.  He would have laughed if he could have done so without betraying his knowledge.  That young one needs a lesson, mused Elrond.  He must learn greater restraint if he is to endure this Quest.  As his elder cousin is incapacitated … I think I shall speak to Mithrandir.  He glanced back to see the two whispering animatedly to each other.  Seeing his dark eyes upon them, they broke off simultaneously and beamed at him, twin smiles of pure wide-eyed innocence.  Yes, thought the Elf-lord decisively.  I shall speak to Gandalf.

* TBC * 

       Elrond knocked at the door of the Ringbearer’s room and waited, the two little ones crowding his sides.  And waited.  At last Merry raised his eyes to the lord’s and suggested they let themselves in. 

       Entering, they found that Sam was not taking advantage of his master’s nap to run errands or wash or snatch a bite; he was sitting in the darkened room by Frodo’s bedside, gently stroking his master’s hand and singing softly as Frodo slept.  He waggled his eyebrow at them, letting them know that he had heard the knock, but did not cease his ministrations. 

       Frodo lay on his back, thick eyelashes pillowed on his cheeks, one hand reaching out from the covers to hold Sam’s.  The coverlet was pulled almost up to his chin but he still shivered occasionally.  Though he slept, he was restless and there was a small worry-line drawn between his quirked brows. 

       Slowly, Sam changed his song to a soft murmur, then to a hum.  Trailing off, he examined his master’s pale face anxiously then gently slid the thin hand under the coverlet.  Frodo protested unconsciously then sighed and relaxed, though the worry-line remained.

       Rising, Sam motioned them back into the outer room, leaving the bedchamber door partially open.  “Sorry, sirs,” Sam whispered, with a quick bow, “that I couldn’t open the door.  I heard you knock.  But I’d just got him off ‘ta sleep an’ didn’t want to move.”  The little gardener’s grey eyes stared at the two halflings at his side, and Elrond again wondered what had occurred between them.

        Now those sorrowful grey eyes sought his.  “My lord, he don’t want ‘ta sleep.  He’s been having nightmares, sir, something awful.”

       Elrond’s dark head inclined gracefully.  “So Aragorn told me,” he replied gently.  The Elf-lord raised the phial.  Merry saw that it was a deep rose color, not at all unappealing like the nasty yellow tonic that had made Frodo so sick.  “I have added an ingredient that will encourage sleep, though no medicine I know of can ward off frightening dreams.”  He paused and regarded the small, forlorn form, and added softly, “Only the nearness of a loved one can do that, I fear.”

       Sam nodded.  “Aye,” he agreed softly.  “I know.”

      Pippin had drifted silently over to the half-opened door and stood silently watching his cousin sleep while his elders spoke.  Now he returned and nudged Sam.  “He’s dreaming,” the youngster whispered.

       Immediately Sam turned and hurriedly reseated himself, beginning to hum that soft, slow song the moment he entered the chamber.  Frodo had rolled over onto his right side and was rocking slightly, a thin sheen of perspiration of his face.  Sam captured the trembling hand and began stroking it.  The sleeper calmed, the tense expression easing.

       The Elf-lord bent and began to explain the administering of the tonic in Sam’s ear, but the unfamiliar voice, faint as it was, disturbed Frodo.  The pain-line deepened and the thick eyelashes fluttered.  Pippin leaned forward to peer into his face, crooning softly, almost subvocally.  Seeing his cousin calm again, Pippin turned himself around and dropped to the floor, leaning back against the bed.   He placed his head near Frodo’s and took up Sam’s song, gently raising his shoulder under Frodo’s hand until it slipped from Sam’s grasp and was captured between both of Pippin’s.

        Elrond smiled at the youngster.  Merry tousled his bronze curls in praise, a proud smile on his features.  “Thank you,” whispered Sam.  Pip grinned up at them all, pleasure on his sharp face.  Then he drew up his legs against his chest and made himself comfortable, never ceasing in his soft crooning of the lullaby.

        Sam gestured towards the outer room and they reconvened out of the injured hobbit’s hearing, with the door safely shut.

* * * * *
       “What sort of a lesson?”  Gandalf’s bushy eyebrows lifted in surprise at Elrond’s suggestion.  The Elf-lord had located the wizard in one of the gazebos, and had joined them there, admiring the autumn colors in the garden.  The wizard was on his second pipe, and had propped up his legs on the white-painted wood, leaning back at his ease and forming fanciful creatures of smoke that dissolved and drifted into the distance.

       “Master Brandybuck is very young and has yet to learn his limits.”  Seeing the wizard fix him with a sharp eye, the Elf-lord continued, “Yes, Gandalf, I know, everyone is very young compared to me and thee.”  The wizard chuckled.  “Young Meriadoc is gifted with a very sharp mind but has not truly been challenged before, I think.  He will certainly be challenged on this journey.  I would see him develop the self-discipline that will surely be required of him.”

       Gandalf nodded, seeing the logic of this.  “Merry will someday be the Master of his little land.  He has rarely had to exert that bright-edged intelligence of his.  I, too, would see him gain some maturity before we set out.  What do you propose, my friend?’

       “You know of The Wager?”

      “Of course.  A most ill-advised exchange of … what do you mean, The Wager?”

      The Master of Rivendell smiled, a glint in his ageless eyes.  Slowly, he explained his idea.

      The wizard leaned back and laughed loudly, his sharp eyes sparkling with a malicious glee rarely seen on that stern countenance.  “Oh Elrond, that is truly wicked.”

* * * * *

      The halflings were absent from dinner that night, choosing to stay in their cousin’s room and encourage his appetite.  Watching a truly astonishing amount of supper being loaded onto trays for them, Gandalf smiled, glad of the opportunity to begin execution of the Elf-lord’s plan.

        He spoke first to Aragorn, and the Ranger promised to fulfill Gandalf’s request at first light.  Aragorn put his hands on his knees and leaned over, laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes.  “And my foster father thought of this?” he asked the wizard.  “Forgive me, Gandalf, but for some reason I would attribute such pure evil to you.”

       “Elrond thought of it without any help from me,” returned the wizard with great dignity.  “Merry and Pippin are overdue for a lesson.”

       “This wouldn’t have anything to do with them making you look the fool on the path two days ago, would it, my friend?”

       The wizard drew himself up to his full height.  Then all of a sudden he laughed and leaned on his staff.  “I do not deny that a little payback would be sweet,” Gandalf replied, his eyes twinkling.  “But truly, this is for their own good.”

        As the two seated themselves at Elrond’s table, Aragorn met his lord’s eyes and smiled.  Elrond’s ageless gaze met those of the wizard and the Ranger, and gracefully, he tipped his wineglass to them.

Chapter 12:  A Lesson Long Overdue

“This is it, then?” asked the wizard, reaching out to receive the list Aragorn handed him.

“As closely as I can discern,” replied the Ranger.  “Pippin did rather a good job in erasing his thoughts.  Such gaps as exist, we can fill with a few words in the wagerers’ ears.” 

The two were once again at their ease in the white-arched gazebo where they had discussed the lesson to be taught the two youngest hobbits the previous afternoon.  Morning light now illuminated the autumn colors, filtering through the trees and casting the golds and greens, brown and oranges into a totally different landscape.  Aragorn had risen before the sun and awaited its arrival, eager to read the scribbling in the earth left by the anxious youngster as he and his older cousin wracked their memories to recall the terms of The Wager.

Gandalf read through the list, and the Ranger watched as the bushy brows lifted, quirked, lifted again and continued to lift.  When at last the wizard put down the paper, he rubbed his eyes in disbelief.  Then he leaned back against the cool wood and laughed and laughed and laughed.

Unable to maintain his disapproving mien, the Ranger joined him.   “My, my,” murmured Gandalf, “haven’t they been busy lads.”

“Aye,” growled the Ranger, his own deep eyes sparkling.  “I am certain that Elrond does not know the full extent of their little enterprise.”  He ran his eyes over the list again, astonished anew.  “And they arranged all of this in just the last few days?  Amazing.”

“And ill-considered … and disrespectful to their host, and immature, not to say inconsiderate of their cousin,” added the wizard.  “I have known Frodo since he was a child.  He’ll not take kindly to being treated like a pony at the races.”  Gandalf’s deep eyes glinted as his sharp eyes swept along the extensive list again.  “Yes,” he muttered, “a lesson long overdue.”

* * * * *   

“Good job, Cousin!”

Frodo beamed in reply to Pippin’s exclamation, his eyes shining as he completed four turns around the small enclosed courtyard outside of his rooms.  Though hanging tightly to Merry’s arm, his steps were steady.  Still, Frodo was more than glad to ease down on one of the benches in the morning sun next to Bilbo and catch his breath.  Pippin had trailed after the two (and before them, to the sides and sometimes in circles) and was still vibrating with eagerness.

“Tweenagers,” commented the old hobbit, removing the pipe from his mouth to give the bowl a sharp tap.

“Did we ever have that much energy?” asked Frodo wistfully, rubbing his shoulder.  The wound ached and itched both and was driving him near to distraction.  When Samwise, sitting on the other side of Bilbo, offered him a backrub Frodo accepted gratefully, knowing his friend’s careful hands would not aggravate the injury.  As Sam’s strong, calloused hands moved over his shoulders and back, he sighed appreciatively and his dark head sagged into his chest.

“That’s enough walking for now, I think,” Merry remarked, seeing the tiredness on his cousin’s face.  “Pip, why don’t you use some of that lauded energy and run to the kitchens for us?  We could all use a pot of tea.  And maybe there are some scones left from breakfast.  And some strawberries?  See if there’s any clotted cream, too.”

“And how am I supposed to carry all this?” inquired the youngster.

“I’m sure you can think of a way to work it out, Pip.  Now off you go.”  Pippin heaved a martyred sigh and went to fulfill the bidding of his elders.  “Don’t forget the cream and sugar!”  Merry called after him.

The four leaned back in the pale sunlight and allowed it to warm their clothes and faces.  The quiet minutes passed peacefully, demanding nothing more of them than their admiration for the leaf-dance performed from branch to ground.  Frodo yawned expansively then jerked himself upright when he caught the others’ eyes on him.  “I am not going to take a nap!” he declared before anyone could make the suggestion.  “I am tired of lying in bed!   I don’t need any more bed rest.”  This avowal was rather spoiled by another yawn.

“All right, Frodo-lad,” reassured Bilbo with a chuckle.  Sam met Merry’s glance and rolled his eyes.  Merry stared determinedly at the leaf-strewn ground, a smile tugging at his lips.  “Calm down.  No one’s going to make you do anything you don’t want to.”

“Good!”

“Oi!  Would someone help me with this, please?”  Pippin struggled in through the side door, his arms barely supporting a huge, well-laden tray.  Sam leaped up to assist him and the smaller hobbit gratefully surrendered the tray.  Pippin picked up a delicate vial from the center, filled with a deep rose liquid, and held it out to his cousin.  “Frodo, Lord Elrond says you have to drink this.”

* * * * *

From one of the gracefully carven balconies overlooking the small courtyard, Elrond, Gandalf and Aragorn stood watching the hobbits enjoy their snack.  “Frodo is much stronger,” remarked the Master of Rivendell.  “He is more willing to eat and is recovering faster than I would have thought possible from so deadly a wound.”

“He doesn’t seem to like your tonics very much, Elrond,” observed the wizard, his sharp eyes sparkling, leaning over the balcony with his hands on the filigree stone railing.

“I did not concoct the medicine to appeal to his taste but to aid his recovery,” returned the Elf-lord, refusing to be baited.  “I believe it is time to suggest to those young hobbits that their cousin is almost ready to take a walk in my gardens.”  Elrond’s dark eyes roved over the list which Gandalf and his foster son had presented him.  “Astonishing.  I have known mighty Councils of Men and Elves who could not accomplish so much, so quickly.”

“Aye,” the wizard agreed.  “The last time I heard of so complex a plan, I believe it started the war that ended the Second Age.”

Elrond choked back a laugh, turning it into a stifled cough most uncharacteristic of him.  “Let us hope that The Wager ends in less carnage.”

* * * * *  

“Master Meriadoc?  Master Peregrin?  May I have a moment of your time?”  The tall Elf-lord stood before the hobbits, resplendent in his copper mantle, the light breeze pushing his dark hair back from the high forehead.

Both hobbits bowed hurriedly and rather awkwardly, their arms laden with the depleted tea service.  Not a speck of food remained, Elrond was pleased to note.  He had watched as Frodo ate his share, washing down the last scone with the tonic and many complaints and grimaces of distaste.

“I am glad to see that you are encouraging your cousin to eat,” the Elf-lord began neutrally, gesturing towards the kitchens and falling into step with the little ones.  “He still has much strength to regain.  But his progress has been truly remarkable.  Perhaps he will feel up to completing the terms of The Wager in two days?”

Pippin stumbled, rattling the teapot and cups dangerously.  Merry caught the edge of the tray, the dishes in his own arms clinking loudly.  The look of panic on his younger cousin’s face was ignored by Merry, who tilted his curly head back to meet the Elf-lord’s deep eyes.  “Two days will be perfect, my lord.  Shall we hold to the hour after mid-day when the sun is at its warmest, as we agreed?”

Elrond nodded shortly, noting the youngster had freed a hand to yank at his cousin’s waistcoat and that the tea service was sliding to the edge of the tray.  Reaching down, he caught it deftly, just before the china toppled over the edge.  Pippin flushed and ducked his head, and struggled to right the tray without tipping the china off the other edge.  The glance of desperation given the lord by the little one could have been for the unruly china or the unruly cousin.

Hiding a smile, the Elf-lord waited until Pippin’s arms were steady under the tray again and then he straightened.  “Agreed, Master Meriadoc.  I trust you have spoken with your cousin and all is in readiness?”

Merry’s beaming smile faltered somewhat.  “Ahhh,” he grimaced, then rallied.  “Don’t worry about that, my lord.  Frodo will be ready, I promise.”

“Excellent.  I assure you that I am looking forward to it.”  This was delivered with a deep stare into the halfling’s bright blue eyes.  The Elf-lord awarded them a half-bow and continued on to his study, satisfied that his plan of retribution was in motion.

“Pip, quit pulling on me!  I’m going to drop these dishes if you don’t!”

At that moment, Pippin did not care about the dishes, tea service or Merry’s favorite bright gold waistcoat. “Merry, we aren’t sure who said what!  And Frodo doesn’t know!”  The tugging stopped as Pippin contemplated the enormity of telling their cousin what they had promised in his name without his knowledge or consent.  His recent snack roiled in his stomach and he suddenly felt sick.

“That just means that we need to get to work.  First, Cousin, we are taking these dishes back.  All right?  And we’ll pick up something more for Frodo and get it down him.  Some chicken soup, maybe…”  Merry pushed Pippin ahead of him while thinking out loud.  “Then we’ll speak with everyone and make sure we have the terms right.  Will you relax, Pippin?  We have two days yet – that’s lots of time.”

Strangely, Pippin’s upset stomach did not settle at his cousin’s easy reassurances.  And it was right, for it all started to go wrong as soon as Merry tried to urge Frodo into joining them for elevenses.  “No thank you, Merry,” Frodo repeated politely, puzzled at the younger hobbit’s insistence.  “Maybe later.”

Merry waved the bowl of soup enticingly under his cousin’s nose.  The aromas drifting up from it were truly delicious … but Frodo wasn’t hungry.  The soup had gone cold when Frodo finally lost patience and firmly asked Sam to escort his cousins out.  Sam looked more than willing to do so, growling under his breath as he trailed them to the door.

“I know wot you’re up ‘ta,” he hissed at them when they were safely beyond Frodo’s hearing.  “Shame on you!  Mr. Frodo’s going ‘ta be real angry when he finds out, and it’ll be your fault.  He’s not strong enough ‘ta get riled, yet.  I hope you lose every wager you made!”  With that, the door was resolutely closed upon them.

“That didn’t go so well,” observed Pippin. 

Merry cast him an annoyed look.  “Never mind,” he returned with forced cheerfulness.  “We’ll come back this afternoon for another few turns around the courtyard and we’ll take our meals with him.  We can always get him to eat more than he would otherwise.  Hummm…  I’ll ask the cooks for lots of mushrooms for the Ring-bearer; they’ll be happy to help get him to eat.   Right, then.”  Merry squared his shoulders and with a visible effort, regained his equilibrium.  “Let’s go find our gamblers and make sure we’ve got the terms right.”

* * * * *

“You must be mistaken, Merry,” said Aragorn.  “I agreed that if your cousin is able to complete a turn around my lord’s garden, then you will make arrangements with Elrond to grant me a reprieve from having to scout the northern treeharbors.  If he isn’t strong enough – or stubborn enough – then I ask my lord if you two can help in the kitchens.”

“Not help,” began Merry, “eat.  We wanted you to ask Lord Elrond if we could have second breakfast, as much as we can eat, for a week.”

The Ranger eyed them, his expression completely deadpan.  “No, you wanted to help in the kitchens, in preparing second breakfast, for a week.  I suppose you could eat some after you are finished working.  I thought you wanted to learn Elvish cooking.”

“No, no.  I mean, I would like to learn Elvish cooking, of course, but –“

“Well, that’s settled then,” said the Ranger decisively.  “I’m looking forward to this.  It should be immensely entertaining.”  With that, the tall Man turned on his heel and strode away at a pace the hobbits could not possibly hope to match.

Pippin stared at his cousin, perplexed.  “What happened?”

* * * * *

“No, that’s not it at all.”  Merry was certain there was a gleam in the old hobbit’s eyes as he refuted what Merry remembered they had agreed upon. 

“But Bilbo,” Pippin began, confused, “I’m sure you bet that Arwen sings for you if Frodo makes the walk, and you supply Merry a copy of Elrond’s maps if he doesn’t.  I’m sure that’s right!  Isn’t it, Merry?”

“Half-right, Pippin-lad,” Bilbo continued.  Merry thought the gleam was becoming a sparkle and he tried to fix the old hobbit with a suspicious glare, which Bilbo totally ignored.  “Arwen sings for me if my boy does make it, and if he doesn’t, then Merry copies down all of Arwen’s songs for me.”

“I copy –“

“Yes, of course.   Isn’t that right, Pippin, my boy?”

“Copying certainly came into it somewhere,” replied Pippin miserably.  “And Arwen singing … yes…”

“Right!  Off you go then, lads.  I have work to do.  See you at luncheon.”

“But Bilbo –“

“Now don’t dawdle, you two.  Can’t stand how young people stand around all day.  Out!”

* * * * *      

The two finally ended up in the courtyard as the sun was climbing towards its zenith.  Merry and Pippin sat on one of the benches in the sunlight, feet pulled up to their chests and covered with their cloaks.  After a rather vigorous argument concerning who remembered what, they were silently turning over the morning’s events in their minds.

At last Merry sighed and dropped his legs off the bench.  “Pippin, my lad,” he said softly, “I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 13:  A Little Suffering Is Good for the Soul

Merry hopped off the bench and pulled his younger cousin after him.  “We’ve still got time before luncheon to speak with one more person.  Gandalf … no.  Maybe not Gandalf.  Hummm…  Come on, Pip.  We’re going to find Glorfindel.”

Pippin obligingly followed and the two checked the stables (petted Bill), the gardens (admired the flowers), the Library (looked wistfully at the maps), the kitchens (didn’t think the lordly Elf would be there but wanted a snack) and finally located Glorfindel in the armory.

Glorfindel was sparring with another Elf in an intricate and deadly dance of flashing knives.   The training floor was polished wood, gleaming and smooth, and the Elves were barefoot on its slick surface.  Their feet made muffled booming thuds in the vast echoing space; one of the few times, Merry reflected, that he had ever heard an elven footfall.  Not daring to distract the combatants by calling attention to themselves, Merry and Pippin sank silently to the floor well clear of the practice arena and watched.  Glorfindel and his opponent moved without armor or shield, distaining the use of wooden practice-blades.  Attack and counterattack, thrust and parry, the long-bladed knives rang and chimed against each other.  The two Elves moved with a grace and speed beyond the comprehension of mortal folk.  The two watching suddenly felt keenly the weight of their mortal clay, the ungainliness of their limbs as compared to the slender swiftness of these two opponents.  Yet the two sparring were surpassingly careful; the razor-sharp blades passed within a hair’s thickness of each other’s faces and forms but never grazed the flesh. 

Their dance was beautiful, but lethal.  Watching silently with awe on his sharp face, Pippin felt himself oddly grateful for his simple hobbit heritage, which had never sought war or battle and was content with tilling the green earth and the growing of fields.  Merry watched with equal fascination but darker thoughts.  He found himself trying to analyze the pattern of their dance, to anticipate a coming attack and think how to counter it.  With a small shock, he realized that he was already planning the defense of his cousin on this journey.  Merry’s thoughts strayed to his own small sword, untouched since their arrival at Rivendell.  To the realization of how little help he was to the Ringbearer.  And now this silly Wager…

At last the deadly dance slowed and stopped.  At no signal the hobbits could see, the two halted and for a moment stood panting on the polished floor, the sunlight streaming in from the high windows (set well above the combatants’ sightlines to avoid blinding them during a match), making their hair glow and skin glisten with perspiration and an inner light that seemed to shine through their flesh.  Then both bowed to the other and sheathed their long blades.

Wiping his face with a cloth, Glorfindel came to the two watchers and both scrambled to their feet, a little shy at what they had just witnessed.  Seeing the apprehension on their small faces, Glorfindel laughed and bowed slightly.  “A good match, little masters,” he greeted them graciously.  “Would one of you care to wield a practice-blade?”

Pippin shook his head wordlessly.  “I would, Glorfindel,” answered Merry softly, “another time though, as we must meet Frodo for luncheon.  May we speak with you?”

“It would be my pleasure,” answered the lordly Elf, though Merry thought he gave them rather an uncomfortable glance.  Glorfindel led them to a bench by the amour rack and motioned them to sit.  “What would you have of me?”

Again Merry went into his spiel, watching the Elf’s face closely.  Yes, he definitely looked uncomfortable.  Very uncomfortable.  The Elf had dropped his gaze from Merry’s eyes and was staring fixedly at the polished floor.  “And so, Glorfindel,” Merry concluded, “I wanted to ask you what you told me were the terms of your bet.”  There, the hobbit thought, let’s hear his reply to a direct question.

An ear-shattering clatter covered the Elf’s first words.  They both jerked up to see the last of the practice-blades and other wooden weapons falling from the armor rack.  Like dominoes, each weapon knocked down the one beside it and spilled to the floor in a thunderous clang.  A small circular shield rolled completely around Pippin and rattled to a deafening stop by the tweenager’s furry feet.  Pip stood in the center of the destruction and looked about him blankly.  “Oops.”

* * * * *

Helping Glorfindel replace the practice-weapons took all of the two’s remaining time and with a sigh, Pippin realized they would be late for luncheon.  He hadn’t meant to knock everything down, he just wanted to look at one of the practice-blades.  But now Merry was more determined than ever to have his theory of conspiracy against them confirmed.  Pippin didn’t know what to think about that; what people were saying didn’t seem right, but at the same time it did sound familiar.  When Merry decided that lunch could wait, Pippin disagreed strongly but was still towed along to find the Lady Arwen.  She wouldn’t do them dirty, his cousin declared.

Upon hearing the object of their search, Pippin immediately began brushing his clothes and trying to rub off the dirt that seemed to inevitably congregate about him.  Yanking his fingers through his curls and pulling out some snarls, he hurried after his cousin.  Merry was already disappearing back into the House, and had asked two passing Elves of the Lady’s whereabouts.  Pippin caught up with him just as he was passing through the garden to enter the Library.

“Good,” remarked Pippin, breathing hard.  “We can get Frodo some more books.  He’s read most of what we got him already.”

Pippin ran square into his cousin’s back as Merry stopped dead and swung to face him.  “Frodo wants more books?”

“Yes, Merry,” replied the youngster, confused.  “You heard him say that.  Did you have to stop so suddenly?  He said it when –“

“Ah, Pippin-lad, you’re brilliant!” The older pulled the younger in for a quick hug, then he was gone up the steps and into the building.

“It’s a Took trait,” said Pippin modestly to the audience of himself, since he stood alone among the fall flowers.  “What am I brilliant about?”

* * * * *

Pippin followed his ears and came upon his cousin and the daughter of Elrond in the rotunda at the center of the enormous Library.  The great circular room boasted deep chairs of surpassing comfort and carefully supplied and trimmed reading lamps.  Books lined the two-story rotunda from floor to ceiling, branching out into row after unending row, deep into the two side wings of the building.  It was quiet and wonderfully peaceful and the smell of slightly musty books was warm and reassuring.  It was one of Pippin’s favorite places in Rivendell.  Excellent place for a nap.

Arwen reclined gracefully in one of the great cushioned chairs, a scroll dangling from one fine-boned hand, as she inclined her dark head to listen to Merry’s words.   She nodded elegantly and Pippin reminded himself not to gawk this time and make himself the fool.  How beautiful she was … flawless skin like the finest ivory…

“Pippin?”

Hair like flowing obsidian, dark eyes like living jewels…

“Pippin?”

As graceful as a willow tree in the spring breeze…

“PIP!”

The tweenager blushed bright red as he realized that once again he had been caught wool-gathering.  Arwen smiled at him gently, which only increased his humiliation.  Merry awarded him a disgusted look and turned back to the elven princess.

“And so, my lady, Pippin and I wished to confirm the wager you placed on our cousin’s little effort.  Would you mind?”

“Not at all, Master Meriadoc.”  The Elf-woman’s voice was as lovely as her form, thought Pippin.  “If Master Frodo is not sufficiently recovered to complete the circuit around my father’s garden, then I will sing for Bilbo the songs of my mother’s people.  It would be my pleasure.  If Frodo is strong enough to complete the walk, then you will arrange with my father to grant Estel reprieve from riding out on a scouting trip, that he may spend the day with me on a picnic.  Is that not what we had agreed?”

“Yes, thank you.  Just checking.  So glad to have that cleared up.  Pippin?”

A voice like the cooing of doves, the singing of a brook over a grassy shore…

“Oh, Pip – you’re hopeless.  Come on.”

* * * * *

They were quite late to luncheon.  Sam gave them an indiscriminate glare as he opened the door, still clearly in a snit.  Nevertheless, he ushered them in to join their cousins, who had already selected their favorites from among the heavily-loaded trays that had been delivered.

“Well, hullo at last,” Frodo greeted them.  “Glad you could make time to join us.”  Sitting next to him, Bilbo snorted then applied himself to a delectable mushroom pot pie.  Merry briefly debated the wisdom of tackling the old hobbit again but didn’t dare try to worm the truth out of Bilbo in Frodo’s hearing.  Feeling frustrated and somewhat abused, he loaded his plate and sat down to eat. 

“Merry,” murmured Pippin around a mouthful of cheese, “you’re making yourself upset over nothing.”

Merry shook his head.  “Something’s not right here, Pip.  Something’s just not right…”

“Merry?”

“ What?”

“Remember the ‘arrangements’ Arwen mentioned?  Have you given any thought to these ‘arrangements’ we have to make with Lord Elrond if people win their wagers?  I mean,” Pippin rushed on when Merry paused to look at him, “we didn’t specify the terms first.  We have to do anything he tells us to.”

“Tell you to do what, Pippin?”  Frodo eased himself into one of the chairs and leaned carefully against the padded back.  Once he was settled, Sam slid his tray onto his lap, managing to work in a quick glare at the two while his master’s attention was occupied by the food. 

“Ah – nothing.  Nothing at all.”  Merry’s quick interruption earned him a surprised look from Frodo.  Merry hurriedly buttered a slice of bread and beamed at his cousin.  “Frodo, you’re so much better.  Why don’t you come with us to the Library the day after tomorrow?  Pippin reminded me that you wanted some more books.  There must be thousands of books and scrolls and maps.”  

Frodo’s  eyes gleamed with excitement.  “Why wait until then?  Let me take your arm, Cousin, and we’ll go after lunch.  I’d much rather do that than walk around the courtyard again.”

Merry choked and Frodo gave him a concerned glance.  “No, no, Frodo, you can’t do that.”

“Whyever not?”

Desperate, Merry cast through that quicksilver mind of his.  “Because you haven’t received Lord Elrond’s permission yet.  I don’t think we want a repeat of the Hall of Fire incident, do we?”

“Noooo…” Frodo admitted.  “I should do him the courtesy of asking.”  He sighed deeply, those beautiful eyes shadowed.  “There is so much of Rivendell I haven’t seen yet.  Neither has poor Sam.  We haven’t even been to a single feast.”

“You haven’t missed much, Frodo,” Pippin interjected in an attempt to be comforting.  “It’s just music and singing and fine wines and eating much too much wonderful food –“

“We’ll ask Lord Elrond if you can come tonight, Frodo!”  Merry grinned, seeing another detail taken care of.  “Do you good to get some real food in you.  Then when he sees how well you are eating, you can ask him for permission to visit the Library.  It truly is a marvelous place, Frodo.  And to get there, you have to walk through one of Elrond’s gardens.  You’ll enjoy that.”

Sam made a stifled sound and Frodo turned to him.  “Are you all right, Sam?”

Eyes fixed on his own tray, Sam nodded.  A red flush began creeping up from his collar.  “Just something caught in me throat, sir.”

“All right, then,” replied Frodo.  “A few more turns around the courtyard this afternoon and I’ll have no trouble walking to the Hall of Fire this time.”

“After your nap, sir.”

“Sam, I don’t want to take a nap.”

“Listen to Samwise, Frodo-lad.”

“Yes, Bilbo.”

 Listening to his kin and friends talk, Merry felt himself relaxing.  He’d get to the bottom of this … just not right now.  Not until after luncheon, anyway.

* TBC * 

Chapter 14:  Lessons Learned and Lessons Needed

True to his word, after luncheon Merry left to seek out the Master of Rivendell to formally ask permission for Frodo to come to that evening’s feast and then attend the Hall of Fire.  Pippin had declined to accompany him, volunteering instead to carry back all the trays and dishes.  It would take him several trips, which was just fine with Pippin.  He had no desire to stand under that ageless, considering gaze that looked like the Elf-lord was counting every smudge on his face and transgression in his mind.

Sam had given the tweenager strict orders not to disturb Frodo during his nap, which offended Pippin mightily.  Accidents like the armor rack just seemed to happen to him.  He certainly didn’t set out to cause a disaster.  That trail of thought reminded him to pay more attention to the last tray of dishes he was carrying, just as they were sliding towards the edge.  Returning, Sam met him at the door before he could knock.  Bilbo had returned to his room for his own nap (Pippin suspected) and after a final check on the sleeping Frodo, the two hobbits decided they could enjoy a quiet smoke in the courtyard. 

Sam and Pippin sought out the warmest bench in the deserted enclosure and filled their pipes, leaning back against the wall in contentment and engaged in a lazy contest to see who could blow more smoke-rings from a single puff.  The wan October sun imparted little warmth and they pulled up their hoods and drew their legs up on the bench, wrapping their cloaks around their feet, resembling nothing so much as those conical mud-pots from which steam emerges in winter. 

* * * * *

A casual observer would never have guessed that young Master Brandybuck was apprehensive about speaking to the Lord of Rivendell.  As the future Master of Buckland, Merry had learned early the importance of holding a public visage.  Expression resolutely cheerful and curly head held high, Merry requested admission to the Lord’s study and within minutes found himself under that inscrutable, immortal gaze.

“Good afternoon, Master Meriadoc,” Elrond greeted him graciously.

“Good afternoon, Lord Elrond,” Merry returned, determined to uphold his end of the courtesies. 

Then he had no idea what to say.  ‘Did you tell folk to alter the terms of our bets so that I lose, no matter what?’ seemed rather too blunt.  So did ‘Have you instructed your people to take advantage of me?’

“Ahhh…” he tried valiantly.  Those dark ageless eyes bored into him and made it impossible to think.  Merry started to perspire profusely.  Elrond closed the book he had been reading and sank gracefully into a chair, his fathoms-deep gaze never leaving his guest.  Even seated, he was taller than Merry and suddenly Merry was very aware of the fact.  And of the fact that his clothes could use a good brushing and his hair probably needed combing.  Was he missing a button on his waistcoat?

The Elf-lord said nothing but waited with the patience of one who has watched the earth turn under him for thousands of years.  Merry could feel his face growing hot.  The Lord only regarded him unwearyingly, sitting with the stillness of one of the statues that graced his gardens.  Merry’s brain demanded that he ask the questions burning in his mind but under that ageless gaze, his throat locked.  Stifling a groan, the hobbit gritted his teeth and stammered out a lesser query, “My lord … my lord, may Frodo and Sam have your permission to attend the feast tonight and go to the Hall of Fire afterward?”

“I believe your cousin is sufficiently recovered for such an activity, Master Meriadoc.  He has my permission.  Samwise could have joined us at any time, of course, would he leave his master.  Shall we see them this evening?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Excellent.”  Elrond dismissed him with a nod, the barest lowering of his chin.

Merry paused in the doorway and made one last attempt.  “My lord?  Did you … did you…”  The Elf-lord’s immortal gaze centered on the little one, the laughter lurking there too deep for the hobbit to see.  “Will you also give permission for Frodo to visit the Library?”

“Granted,” said Elrond in a gentle voice.

Defeated, Merry trudged out the door.

* * * * *

“What’s that?” 

Sam’s sandy head jerked up.  Then he was on his feet and running back into the House before Pippin had really registered the cry.  With the quick reflexes of the young, Pippin snatched up Sam’s fallen pipe before it set something afire and was after him, arriving just a moment later to see Sam dash to Frodo’s bedside and slide his arms around him.  Frodo was sitting up in bed, not awake but no longer sleeping, caught in the throes of a nightmare so terrible that he had screamed out in his sleep.

“No, no sir, they’re not here.  You’re safe, Frodo.  You’re safe.  Easy, me dear.  They can’t get ‘ta you here…”  Sam’s voice continued on in meaningless reassurances as he continued to cradle his sweat-soaked master.  Frodo clutched at his arms desperately, his eyes wide and blank, utterly terrified. 

“Master Pippin, will you hand me that bottle over there?”  Sam continued to hold Frodo tightly, rocking him slightly and murmuring to him.  Frodo was shaking violently, his face absolutely without color except for the enormous morning glory eyes, focused inward on the half-remembered terrors of his nightmare. 

Pip scooped up the phial of rose-colored liquid and Sam tried to get him to drink it.  Frodo refused, burying his head in Sam’s chest and continued to tremble, his gasping breaths painful to Pippin’s ears.  Unable to really help, Pippin crouched by Sam’s side where his cousin could see him and added his soft voice to Sam’s.

“Shall I get Strider or Lord Elrond?” 

“No – no…” Frodo visibly fought to collect himself.  “I-  It-  It was … just a dream.  A dream.”

Pippin cautiously eased himself up onto the bed where he could rub Frodo’s back.  Frodo stiffened, then relaxed and the shaking started to subside.  At Sam’s quiet suggestion, Pippin brought his cousin a cup of water and saw Sam quickly pour in the rose-colored liquid and swish the cup before giving it to Frodo.  Frodo needed both hands to hold the cup, swallowing the liquid without really being aware of it.  He choked on the last sip and Sam gave him a couple of hard taps across the back to help it down.

Strangely, that settled Frodo more than their soft-voiced reassurances.  Perhaps it anchored him to the waking world, where nothing stalked him and sought to take that which he had been entrusted.  Shuddering, he handed the cup back to Sam and dropped his face into his hands, the racking tremors diminishing into shivers.

“I think I ought to get Strider, Frodo.  I’ll be right back.”

Sam nodded vigorously but Frodo caught Pippin’s arm as he started to rise.  “Pip, no.  I’m all right.  Truly.”

 Pippin sank back down, unsure of what to do.  That Frodo was not ‘all right’ was excruciatingly obvious.   “How long have they been getting worse?” he asked Sam softly over Frodo’s bowed head.

“The last week or so,” Sam replied, equally softly.  “He won’t let me tell no one.”

“I can hear you, you know,” Frodo pointed out, recovered enough to be annoyed.  “It was just a dream, Pippin.  Don’t fuss.  I’m sorry I startled you and made you run in here like that.”  Frodo stopped and tried to rein in his irritation.  “Out in the courtyard, were you?”

“Aye, sir.  Mr. Pippin an’ me was just having a smoke – my pipe!”

Pippin silently handed it to him.  Sam grasped it then darted a look out the balcony windows, probably expecting to see all of Rivendell in flames.  Seeing the look of relief on his friend’s face, Frodo laughed shakily.  “I doubt Lord Elrond would appreciate you burning down his home, Sam.”

Less inclined towards seeing the humor of his close call, Sam nodded.  “All this old wood would go up a treat,” he commented. 

It was that last remark which Merry heard as he rejoined his fellows in Frodo’s room.  He had sat for a while in the garden, trying to figure out a way to shorten the distance his cousin had to walk and so increase his chances of winning The Wager.  Unable to come up with anything plausible, he had abandoned the attempt and sought out Pippin, only to find the rooms they shared empty.  That minor irritation – Pippin not being where his cousin expected him to be – added to the sound trumping he had received from Elrond.  “I’ll vote for that!”

When the others turned to him, shocked, Merry said contritely, “All right, all right, I didn’t mean it.”  In his mind, he added, Pity we can’t burn down just a wing or two, though.

“What put you in so sour a mood, Cousin?” Frodo asked him.

Merry plopped himself down in a chair near the others and shook his head, struggling to sweeten his temper.  “Nothing, really.  Nothing.  Frodo, I spoke with Lord Elrond and you may attend the feast tonight and go to the Hall of Fire.  And you may go the Library, too.”

The last of Merry’s aggravation disappeared in his cousin’s delighted thanks.  Pippin and Sam were both looking at him carefully, no doubt trying to work out his conversation with the Elf-lord.  Well, they could just keep working on it.  Merry wasn’t going to recite the details of that humiliating experience to anyone.

“Ready for a few turns around the courtyard, Frodo?  You’d better get dressed.”  Merry leaned forward and fingered the sleeve of Frodo’s nightshirt curiously.  “Why are you all sweaty?”

Immediately he knew that something was wrong.  Looking from one stiff face to another, he ventured a guess.  “Nightmares?”

Frodo scowled at him and Merry knew that he had guessed correctly.  “Frodo,” he said softly, “we’re your friends.  Talk to us.”

His cousin averted his gaze, suddenly finding the pattern on his coverlet very interesting.  “There’s no need, Merry, really.  They’re just bad dreams.  No doubt they’ll stop soon, when I have something to occupy my mind.  I can go to the Library the day after tomorrow, then?”

Frodo turned the conversation skillfully but Merry knew his older cousin too well to be fooled.  But pressing Frodo would do no good, it would only awaken that Baggins stubbornness.  Meeting Pippin’s miserable eyes, Merry shook his head.

* * * * *

This time Sam escorted his master around the small enclosure to an audience of the other hobbits.  Frodo insisted on walking by himself, without the support of Sam’s sturdy arm - which meant that Sam watched his every step, ready to catch him at the slightest wavering, much to Frodo’s annoyance.  Sam’s hovering greatly amused Frodo’s three cousins, and also the wizard and Elf-lord who had again gathered on the high balcony to chart their patient’s progress. 

“Are you sure it isn’t too early for this ill-advised ‘walk’ of Frodo’s, Elrond?”  Gandalf leaned over the railing, his sharp eyes on the small pair below. 

“He grows in strength every day, Gandalf.  Very soon we must begin preparing him for the journey you will undertake.  There are things these little ones must know; the route, survival in the Wild, concealment and stealth.  The Ring-bearer should learn to defend himself, to use a bow if possible, to paddle a canoe and to be ready, as much as we can prepare him, for what dangers we can foresee.  He must grow to know the other members of the Fellowship that will accompany him … learn their characters, their strengths and weaknesses and learn to trust them.  And,” the Elf-lord added with a twinkle in those ageless dark eyes, “if young Meriadoc does not see his Wager through very soon, he will surely burst.”

Gandalf snorted and leaned back from the railing.  “A lesson in patience would do that young hobbit good,” he muttered and Elrond laughed. 

“He had one this afternoon, Gandalf,” the Lord replied to Gandalf’s raised eyebrows.  But he refused to elaborate further and the wizard’s curiosity went unsatisfied.

A shout from below drew their attention back to the courtyard.  Frodo had stumbled and was on his hands and knees.  Elrond moved forward, his glance suddenly keen.  Merry cried out again as he reached his cousin and assisted Sam in raising Frodo to his feet, holding him between them until he was steady.

Elrond’s hands relaxed on the railing, their white-knuckled grip easing.  “So much depends on the strength of that little one,” he said softly.  “All the world, and every life within it.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 15:  Time (and Hobbits) Marches On

Frodo prepared for dinner that evening with meticulous care.  Returning from his bath, he found a new suit of beautiful brushed velvet laid on his bed.  The chocolate brown with maroon undertones had been carefully chosen to bring out the astonishing blue of his eyes.  He tried it on and it fitted perfectly.  Turning this way and that before the tilting mirror, he admired the cut then laughed aloud in sheer delight.

Sam paused in the doorway, his master’s cloak over his arm, his heart swelling at a sound he’d feared he’d not hear again.   Resplendent in his own new suit of dove gray, the hobbit leaned against the doorjamb and echoed Frodo’s laugh, glad beyond measure to see his master on his feet and on his way to recovery.

Frodo turned to Sam then came forward and caught his friend’s hands in his.  “Sam,” he said softly, “I want to thank you -"

He got no farther.  Sam covered his hands with his own larger ones and squeezed them gently, as Frodo was not strong yet.  “Sir -" he started, then blushed at his interruption.  “There ain’t no need to thank me, sir … and I’d rather you didn’t try.”

Frodo nodded, newly-earned wisdom in his eyes.  “Then I’ll not.  But I won’t forget it, Sam.”

Sam grinned at him, the joy in his heart mirrored in his beaming face.  “We’d best meet Mr. Merry and Master Pippin, sir.  It’s almost time.”

* * * * *

Frodo hesitated at the great doors to Elrond’s dining room, remembering and dreading how the Elves had bowed to him his previous entrance.  But word of his discomfort at their honor had preceded him.  This time when the Ring-bearer entered, there was no bowing.  But as he passed, conversations fell silent and every head turned towards him.  Though they did not bow, every Elf and guest was silent, heads nodding in greeting until the Ring-bearer was past.  Frodo walked slowly, his cheeks burning but his back was very straight. 

The Master of Rivendell rose as Frodo approached his High Table and motioned the hobbit to the place at his right side.  Frodo bowed deeply as Sam was led to another table with Merry and Pippin.  His eyes followed them longingly but he was doomed to be honored by his host.  Elrond’s ageless eyes crinkled in amusement but nothing but immortal serenity showed on his high-browed face.

Frodo remembered little of that enthralling evening; he actually remembered more of his first, unauthorized foray into the Hall of Fire.  There was music and singing and fine wine (Frodo darted a quick glance at his host and limited himself to two glasses only) and food that nourished the spirit as well as body.  There were a great number of mushroom dishes.  The hobbit tried to apply himself to the food, eating more than he actually wanted, so that Elrond would see how much how better he was.

Frodo’s memories of the Hall of Fire were more clear.  Bilbo joined them and the hobbits sank into the deep cushions set out for them.  Music, songs and tales – Frodo’s heart was complete.  He relaxed into the comfortable padding … relaxed for the first time since taking the first step out of his house at Crickhollow.  The stately festivities lasted long into the night.  When they discussed it afterwards, the hobbits could name but few of the songs sung or tales told … they seemed to blend together into a soft-edged mosaic of wonder and quiet joy.

Pippin fell asleep sometime after the third hour and Aragorn came forward and bore him gently to bed; yawning, Merry followed.  Bilbo too took his leave after some indeterminable time, rising stiffly and kissing Frodo’s brow before retiring.  Sam snored gently where he had slid down half onto the floor but Frodo stayed awake as long as he could,  eyes half-lidded as he swayed gently with the music until sleep at last claimed him.

* * * * *

The next day dawned cold and rainy, and the hobbits stayed inside and rested.  Frodo curled in a chair near the fire and read.  Sam and Pippin dueled over a chessboard, but neither could give the battle their full attention.  Much to Frodo’s irritation, Merry kept hopping up and down every five minutes or so to look at the clouds and mumble under his breath.  The other two watched him worriedly, shooting surreptitious glances between the two elder cousins.

The Master of Rivendell paid them a visit after luncheon and to the hobbit’s further irritation, insisted on examining Frodo.  The cold weather had caused his wound to ache and he held the shoulder stiffly.  Elrond stared into his eyes, checked his throat and reflexes, had him breathe deeply and listened to his chest, then carefully inspected the injury, placing his long slender hands on the wound and closing his eyes as he felt along the thin, still-livid tissue.   Frodo tensed but to his surprise, did not suffer the crippling pain he expected at having the wound probed.  Under the Elf-lord’s careful hands, the ache slowly subsided and Frodo sighed in relief.  Elrond awarded him a half-bow before departing, smiling at him enigmatically.

Merry ate so little at supper that Frodo asked him if he were ill.  And indeed, Merry did look ill – strained and jumpy, quite unlike his usual equitable self.  When Pippin hesitantly tapped his shoulder to claim his attention from the darkening gray-laden clouds, Merry shot straight up with a yelp, startling his cousin, who stumbled back and landed hard on his posterior with a yowl.  His cry surprised Frodo, causing him to surge up from his seat and send his tray flying, scattering its contents across the room.

That was enough.  Seeing that they were trying his master’s patience, Sam chased them both out of the room and escorted them to the door.

“If you’re not going ‘ta tell him, I don’t want to see you two till it’s time,” he growled at them.  “I can’t stop you from doin’ this, but I can stop you from upsettin’ him any more than necessary!”  Sam did not close the door in their faces – he slammed it so hard it bounced on its hinges.

* * * * *

Merry and Pippin called for Frodo one hour after midday, as agreed.  Frodo was waiting for them eagerly, his mind already on the maps and books and scrolls his hands could scarcely wait to hold.  The weather was still rather overcast but the rain had ceased the previous evening.  Merry had walked along the garden path earlier and found it muddy but negotiable. 

“There certainly are a lot of people out today,” observed Frodo, puzzled eyes staring at the small groupings of Elves that lined their path.   Also present were a few stragglers from the various diplomatic delegations of Men and Dwarves that had attended Elrond’s Council.  It seemed to the hobbit that most of Rivendell had turned itself out and had inexplicably chosen to sit, stand, lean and simply loiter along his path.  Frodo smiled shyly at Legolas the Wood-Elf, and the Man, Boromir, and the Dwarf, Gimli, that had gathered among the crowd.  Legolas smiled at him, his clear eyes sparkling in his fair face.  The Lady Arwen reclined on one of the carven benches, her arm twined in Aragorn’s.  On another sat Glorfindel, deep in converse with Bilbo. 

“Don’t these people have anything else to do?” wondered Frodo.

“It must be the rain-washed air,” suggested Pippin, practically dancing around his cousin.  Sam glowered at him. 

“Everyone likes to get out after a good rain,” Merry agreed.  Sam glowered at him, too.

“Good afternoon, little masters,” Elrond greeted them.  Sam started to transfer his glower to the Elf-lord, then remembered himself and covered his mouth with both hands, shocked at his impertinence.  Frodo looked at him blankly then turned back to Elrond. 

“Good afternoon, my lord,” returned the hobbit. 

“How do you feel today, Master Frodo?” though his question was gentle, the healer’s eyes were sharp as his gaze traveled over the hobbit, noting his heightened color and shining eyes.

“Very well, my lord, thank you.  We are going to the Library.”

“So I have heard.”  Elrond’s reply was noncommittal, but something in his voice made Frodo look at him closely.  “Enjoy your walk, Master Frodo.  I am pleased to see you strong enough to make it at last.”

Frodo bowed in response to the Elf-lord’s nod, obviously confused.  Elrond’s departure seemed to be some kind of signal, for the gathered ranks of people began buzzing among themselves, whispering and exchanging many small pieces of paper.  The hobbit’s  gaze swept along the people, all of whom seemed to suddenly find the ground, the sky, the fountains most interesting, anything other than meeting the halfling’s gaze.  Only one pair of eyes met his.  Gandalf leaned on his staff, deep eyes gleaming.  Seeing the hobbit’s expression, the wizard could hold a serious mien no longer and threw back his head and laughed, his enormous, great-brimmed hat almost falling off.

Still staring at the wizard, Frodo’s dark brows quirked.  His gaze traveled over the assemblage and returned to his cousins.  Merry had dropped back during his conversation with the Elf-lord and was trying to be invisible behind Sam and Pippin.  Sam pointedly stepped out from in front of him.  Casting Merry an apologetic look, Pippin also edged to the side.

“Merry?”

Merry said nothing, that deer-in-the-crosshairs look again on his sweating features.

“Merry.  May I speak to you a moment?”

Frodo started towards him but Merry rushed forward and grasped his cousin’s arm, the beads of perspiration on his forehead betraying the easy smile on his lips.  “Of course, Cousin!  Why don’t we talk on the way to the Library?”  Tugging gently, he pulled Frodo into step beside him again.

Frodo twisted around and looked behind him when he realized that all the people he had passed were following.  He stopped and they stopped, resuming their intense studies of every surrounding feature except his small party.  Suddenly jerking out of Merry’s hold, he took five quick steps forward.  The following crowd surged after him then ran into each other most ungracefully when he spun around to face them.  Seeing the lordly Elves in such disarray was an astonishing sight and the hobbit gaped at them, dignity forgotten in his amazement.

“Merry, what is going on here?”

“Frodo, I can explain -”

“Meriadoc!”

A lifetime of respecting his elders warred with Merry’s well-developed sense of self-preservation.  Vaguely he was aware that Pippin was looking at him with pity and Sam was regarding him with satisfaction.  “Cousin, it’s not what it looks like…”

“What does it look like?”

Having no reply to that, Merry stared at his elder cousin miserably and sought desperately for a justification.  “Frodo -”

“Answer me, young hobbit!”

Groaning, Merry bowed his curly head and confessed.  The gathered crowd strained shamelessly to eavesdrop, but could only catch isolated words and phrases from the two.

“You did what?”

“…didn’t mean any harm…”

“…he wagered on me?!”

“Just a little…”

“And you agreed what?”

“…totally innocent tiny bet…”

“What?”

Unable to stand still, Frodo had been slowly towing his cousin along the garden path, Merry hanging back with every step.  Pippin and Sam trailed after them, eyes on the ground, avoiding looking at each other.  Their audience followed.  The entire parade eventually marched to a halt at the steps of the Library, the first half of the Ring-bearer’s walk completed quite without a single person noticing.

The final words that passed between the cousins were too soft-voiced for any others to hear.  Several moments passed while the two curly heads, one dark and one bright, pressed close together.  Then in a movement shockingly quick for one so gravely injured a bare fortnight earlier, the Ring-bearer whirled and was up the steps and into the Library, the great doors slamming shut behind him.

Merry pressed himself against the doors.  “Frodo, please come out of the Library.”

“No,” a soft voice replied, breathing heavily.

“Frodo, please -”

“No.”

“Frodo, you’ve got to come out -”

“Go away, Merry.”

Merry closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the closed doors, his head throbbing.  A stifled cough from behind him reminded him of the rows of silently watching eyes.  Slowly he turned and faced the gathered throng of Elves and Men and Dwarves, one wizard and three hobbits.  He grinned at them sickly, perspiration dripping from his blond curls into his eyes.  Then one of the doors opened slightly and a small hand reached out and caught his shoulder, dragging the surprised hobbit inside.

* TBC * 

Chapter 16:  The Wrath of the Ringbearer

Sam and Pippin stared at each other then stared at the place where Merry had disappeared.  Behind them, the absolute silence was slowing giving way to mutters and stifled coughs, which gradually grew in volume until everyone seemed to be talking at the top of his or her lungs.  The noise swelled and battered against the closed doors of the Library, which stayed resolutely shut.

Pippin nudged Sam worriedly.  “Do you think Frodo’s strong enough to kill Merry?”  Pippin’s green-gold eyes rounded at the thought.  “Not that he doesn’t deserve it, of course,” he added hurriedly when Sam glowered at him, “but Frodo wouldn’t really, would he?”

“It would serve Mr. Merry right if my master did,” Sam returned, not willing to forgive and forget.  “And you, too, Master Pippin, though it isn’t me place ‘ta say so.  You knew it was wrong, bettin’ on your cousin like that.”  Pippin hung his head, his expression miserable.  “But you went right ahead and followed Mr. Merry.”

If the tweenager had been just a few years younger, he would have scuffled a toe in the muddy earth.  “I know,” he whispered.  “But -”

Sam wasn’t ready to let up yet.  “There might be a day when you can’t follow him, Master Pippin.  Have you thought about that?  You’ve got to learn ‘ta lead your own life…”

Despite his resolve to give the youngest hobbit a good tongue-lashing, the expression on Pippin’s sorrowful face smote Sam’s generous heart.  Tears were gathering in Pippin’s eyes and Sam could not bear it.  He could not continue.

“Little masters?”  Elrond stood before them, the gray weather seeming to have no effect on his long voluminous robes, while the hobbits were liberally splattered with mud.  When the Elf-lord was certain he had their attention, he gestured gracefully towards the shut doors. “What occurs?”

Now the two hobbits became aware of rising voices, muffled by the thick wood of the great doors.  Others had noticed too and were edging closer to the three at the bottom step.  Bilbo had threaded his way to the fore and awarded them a look of disgust.  “Listening on the bottom step!” he scolded them.  “Shame on you!  You can’t hear anything down here.  We need to be listening at the door!”  With that, the old hobbit climbed stiffly up the stairs and pushed a pointed ear against the entry. 

Pippin and Sam were right behind him.  Elrond inclined his long body over their heads and pressed his ear to the door, supporting himself with his long hands splayed against the wood.  The faint shouts they could hear through the doors were being occluded by the rustlings and shuffling of the gathered crowd.  Elrond turned around and surveyed the throng with his most forbidding, dark-eyed gaze.  The crowd quieted instantly.

“Can you hear what they’re saying?” Bilbo hissed at Elrond.  The Elf-lord shook his head, and pressed his ear firmly to the wood of his Library doors.

“There is a window around the corner.  We could -” whatever Elrond had been going to say was drowned out by a thunderous crash from within.  Instinctively they leaped back from the deafening smashing thud.

Before they could react, Gandalf magically appeared beside them on the top step.  “What was that?” he demanded, his beard bristling as if he thought them responsible for the great noise.  Behind him, Sam could see Aragorn striding up the steps, Arwen following close behind, holding up the skirts of her gown.  “What is going on in there?”

When the others could only look at him, he rushed past them and struck the great door with his staff.  “Frodo!  What happened?  Frodo!”

There was no reply.  Then the door was thrown back and Merry appeared, fear in his bright blue eyes.  “Help me!” he gasped.  “Frodo’s hurt!”

The small gathering surged through the door.  Merry ran before them, leading them around the corner to one of the reading rooms.  A scroll-case had collapsed, scattering scrolls and pamphlets everywhere.  Partially buried beneath the shattered wood and paper, the Ring-bearer lay unmoving, blood pooling beneath him on the polished wooden floor.

* * * * *

“What happened, Merry?”  Now that Frodo had been carried to his room and the anxious crowd dispersed, Aragorn could spare the time to find out what had happened while Elrond examined the injured Ring-bearer.

Some of the stark whiteness had left the hobbit’s face, but Merry was still very pale and his whole small body trembled.  Sam had been ordered out with the others, but he would not leave his master’s side, even refusing Elrond’s direct order.  Pippin sat on the small divan on one side of Merry and stroked his hand, and Bilbo sat on the other, rubbing his back.  Aragorn spared a moment to marvel at the others’ instinctive comfort, the easy affection they shared among themselves.  He knelt by Merry’s side to lessen the height difference, knowing the halflings to be more comfortable when Men did not tower over them so.

“Merry?” 

Slowly the hobbit raised his curly head, only gradually becoming aware of the Ranger.  Blank eyes slowly focused as Merry struggled to reply.  Bilbo and Pippin exchanged a worried look behind his back and Pippin picked up his cousin’s cold hand and held it between both of his, rubbing gently. 

“We … we were talking,” Merry said softly.  Then his head dropped and a flush stained his cheeks.  “We were fighting.  Frodo was furious.  I’ve … I’ve never seen him so angry.”  Merry paused, his eyes swimming with tears.  “I told him we didn’t mean any harm, but he called me … called me irresponsible and foolish, and said I deserved a good whipping.”  A tear broke free of the others and escaped down his cheek. 

“And then?” Aragorn encouraged quietly.  

“I said it was just a game, that people were just having fun with The Wager.  He asked how I thought I was going to arrange to meet all the terms … you know, getting Lord Elrond to agree to not sending you on that scouting trip and so forth.”  Merry sniffed and Bilbo silently fished out a handkerchief and handed it to him.  “When I told him not to worry, that I’d take care of it, it just made him more angry.  He said that I needed to grow up … that this isn’t a game.  That everyone is counting on us now – that if this Fellowship fails … if we fail, we would lose … everything…”

Merry couldn’t continue.  His curly head dropped and he wailed into his hands, his whole body shaking with grief and guilt.  Wordlessly, Pippin and Bilbo pressed themselves against him.  Accepting strength from them, Merry raised his head again.  “He started walking around in circles, waving his arms.  I told him to calm down.  That made him really mad.  He spun around and … and lost his balance, I think.  He staggered to the side and hit his shoulder – his hurt one – against the scroll case.  I guess the pain made him fall back against it, and the wooden leg broke and it collapsed on him.”

Aragorn nodded and raised a gentle hand to tousle Merry’s curls.  “How is he?” the young hobbit whispered.

“I’ll ask.”  The Ranger rose to his feet.  At that moment, the door opened and Elrond glided through, Arwen behind him carrying the basin used to wash the blood from Frodo’s head.  The hobbits had the briefest glimpse of Frodo’s hair, dark against the white pillow, and Gandalf in the chair by his bed, talking softly with Sam.

Elrond closed the door, then carefully cracked it open a little so that he might hear instantly if the Ring-bearer suffered any distress.  The three climbed off the divan to their feet, their hearts in their mouths.  Elrond’s ageless eyes swept over the halflings, then he motioned Arwen past to empty the basin. Aragorn thought the water was very red.  Meeting his foster father’s eyes, the Ranger followed her out, relieving her of the heavy basin and taking her arm.

Elrond turned back to the young hobbits.  “Your cousin is resting,” the Elf-lord said softly.  “The edge of the scroll-case caught him on the temple, right above the eye.  The weight knocked him out and will result in an appalling bump.  Scalp wounds bleed a great deal.  He will have a headache and probably some nausea when he wakes, and must stay in bed for a few days to rebuild the blood lost, but he should recover.”

Merry made a muffled sound caught somewhere between joy and relief.  The faces of the other two echoed it.  “May we see him?”

Those ageless eyes bored into him.  “He is sleeping now, I think.  Gandalf and Samwise will stay with him.  You may see him in the morning.”  Then that dark gaze turned to his old friend.  “Bilbo, will you excuse us?  I would like to speak with your young cousins.”

The elderly hobbit met that immortal gaze for a moment then rose, old bones creaking.  Bilbo grimaced and stroked both Merry’s and Pippin’s curls gently.  “Don’t be too hard on them, Elrond,” he said softly.  “It was just a bit of fun.”

When Bilbo had left, Elrond sank gracefully down to the divan, which put the hobbits at only slightly below his eye level.  The Elf-lord said nothing for a few moments, listening to the ticking of the seconds that comprised the short lives of these small folk.  Returning his thoughts to the matter at hand, he met their anxious eyes.

“I am declaring The Wager null and void,” he informed them without preamble.  When Merry opened his mouth, Elrond continued, “This is not subject to discussion or negotiation, Master Meriadoc.  There has been quite enough of that, I think.”  Pippin and Merry exchanged a glance and were silent.  The Master of Rivendell nodded approvingly.  “And yet the Ring-bearer did complete half of The Wager.  Therefore, half of The Wager’s terms will be met.”

The older of the two’s eyes lit up, and Elrond hurried to squash his hopes.  “I will choose which half of the terms will be upheld.”  Merry’s eyes fell.  “You and your cousin will muck out your pony’s stall for a week, and curry him.”  Two nods. “You and your cousin will scrub the bases of all of my fountains in my gardens.”  Two deep sighs then two nods.  “Master Meriadoc, you will copy my daughter’s songs for Bilbo, as he wishes.  And as Gandalf wishes, you two will refrain from further endeavors of this type while guests in my home.”

Elrond surveyed the two bowed heads.  “Lastly,” (and the two curly heads raised and regarded him apprehensively),  “as I know you truly meant no ill, when all of these tasks are finished, Master Meriadoc, then you may copy such maps as you wish from my Library.  The cartographer will supply you tanned hide and whatever else you need.”

“Thank you,” whispered Merry.

Though the Elf-lord did not smile, the weight of that ageless gaze lifted slightly.  “And you and Master Peregrin and Master Samwise may have Second Breakfast whenever you wish, as much as you wish, for as long as you like.”

The two hobbits bowed.  The Elf-lord regarded them for a moment, then returned them a half-bow and swept from the room.  Merry and Pippin sagged back onto the divan and leaned back, kicking their short legs against the cushioning.

“Well,” Pippin murmured.  “It could have been worse.”

“Yes, I suppose,” Merry replied slowly.  They were both silent.  Then Merry continued, “I wanted to show Frodo the maps.  You know how he is about maps…”  Suddenly Merry made a choking sound and to Pippin’s horror, the tears were finally unleashed.  Merry leaned against his smaller cousin and sobbed and sobbed.  Pippin flung his short arms around his kin and held him tightly, planting small kisses in his hair and murmuring reassurances. 

“He’s going to be all right, Merry,” Pippin assured his older cousin.  “He’s not hurt bad.  It was just an accident, Cousin.  He’s all right.”

At last Merry wore himself out, sagging almost bonelessly against Pippin.  The older cousin scrubbed his eyes and used the last dry corner of Bilbo’s sodden handkerchief to clean his face.  Pippin pulled himself to his feet then tugged Merry after him.  “Come on, Merry,” he said softly.  “Let’s go find something to eat.”

In the adjoining room, Gandalf looked to Samwise, who had gone to sleep with his chair tilted back against the wall, arms folded across his chest.  The wizard rose and laid a spare blanket over the hobbit, then moved to the door to watch the two small forms depart, arm in arm, for the kitchens.  Ah, thought the wizard, Perhaps they have both grown up this day, a little.

* TBC *

Chapter 17:  Tasks and Preparations

Frodo slept deeply, his white-bandaged head scarcely distinguishable from the white pillow, only a dark curl escaping here and there to mark the division.  The eye beneath the deep cut was swelling shut and would soon be an amazing kaleidoscope of black and blue.  The Ring-bearer looked like he had been very expertly punched, Gandalf mused, gently smoothing back the dark hair from the pale face.

The wizard had stayed with Frodo until very late, long after an embarrassed Sam had awoken from his own unplanned nap.  After exchanging a final few words with Samwise, the wizard left to attend dinner and the Hall of Fire, promising to arrange for trays to be sent to Sam and Frodo, if Sam could coax his master to eat.  Sam stayed at his post and turned away the constant stream of visitors that came to ask after his master with soft voices and worried faces.  The three Big Folk of the Company came also, Boromir and Legolas and Gimli, and Sam regretfully turned them away.  He felt awkward about refusing members of the Fellowship, but Elrond’s orders that Frodo not be taxed were very clear and Sam was not about to disobey them.

That held for Merry and Pippin too, when they showed up with their arms laden with fruit and pies purloined from the kitchens.  Ever practical, Sam accepted the food but turned his master’s cousins away.  He shut the door on their sad faces and hoped they would spend the rest of the evening thinking about their actions.

* * * * *

Pippin threw down the scrub brush and sighed deeply, rolling his shoulders to ease the strain along his aching back.  Merry looked over at him from the base of another fountain and grimaced in sympathy, rocking back on his knees to ruefully examine his water-shriveled, reddened hands.  The two hobbits had been working since first light, determined to redeem themselves in the Master of Rivendell’s eyes.

Before first light, they had reported to the kitchens to assist the cooks, and had managed to enjoy themselves mightily despite the hard work.  Rare indeed was the hobbit that did not like to cook and in this Meriadoc and Peregrin were no exception.  Both hung eagerly over the cooks’ shoulders (or more accurately, under their arms) to watch the mixing of the breads and muffins and sweet, frosted sticky buns that they so loved. 

The two were set to arranging trays and if they sampled whatever they put on the trays, they did replace the food.  Merry marshaled his good will and resisted the urge to pepper Sam’s sausages in repayment for having the door closed on him the previous night.  When he came to their cousin’s tray, Merry chose the mushroom-laden dishes carefully.  Pippin dashed outside and returned a moment later, sprigs of bluebells in his hands.  These he had gathered growing wild near the herb garden and laid them alongside the cutlery of Frodo’s tray. 

And now it was almost time for luncheon, and the two hobbits were exhausted.  Sweat dripped freely into their eyes and stung abominably and their curls hung in limp bedraggled strands.  But they had scrubbed the moss from six fountains (and the base of one bench) and were feeling tired but virtuous.

In unspoken agreement, the two decided on a rest.  Merry flopped on his back and threw up an arm to shield his eyes from the glare of the weak autumn sun.  Pippin dragged himself over and collapsed on his cousin’s chest, ignoring the faint, protesting “oof!” 

“I hurt everywhere,” Pippin moaned, “and my stomach’s about to crawl up my backbone.”

“It shouldn’t be long ‘til the chimes ring for luncheon,” Merry replied, rubbing his side where one particularly sharp elbow had dug in.  He raised himself up slightly and surveyed the sweating, grimy figure resting on him.  “Pip, you’re filthy.  There’s moss in your hair.  How did you get moss in your hair?”

“You’re filthy, too,” his cousin retorted.  “I must have brushed my head against the stone when I was scrubbing.”  The youngster sighed deeply and rubbed at his arms, wincing as muscles in his forearms jumped painfully from the unaccustomed work.  “Merry, I’m hungry.”

“C’mon, then,” Merry rolled over, disregarding Pippin’s squawk as his comfortable cushion shifted.  “We’d best get cleaned up.  They won’t let us into the dining hall looking like this.”    

Elrond watched the two drag themselves to their feet and leave for the baths.  They did not see him as he stood still and silent among the shadows of the tall trees.  The Elf-lord nodded to himself, pleased to see the mettle of these young ones.  They did not shrink their duty, despite sore hands and exhaustion.  Never did he think that they would be able to defend the Ring-bearer, but he would not discount the contributions they would make to Frodo’s sanity and well-being.  Many times had the Elf-lord wished to reconsider his perhaps too-hasty agreement to their inclusion in this Quest, but no longer did he so.  Frodo would need the love and support of his cousins as much as he would need the swords and bows of his protectors. 

The faintest rustle among the fallen leaves alerted the Elf-lord to the approach of another.  Estel drew even with him just in time to see the last curly head depart around the corner.  They stood for a moment in companionable silence, each occupied with his own thoughts.  At last the Elrond acknowledged his foster son with a slight cant of his dark, ageless eyes.

“Is all in readiness?”

“Almost,” Aragorn replied.  “There is much that needs to be completed yet, that must be especially made because of their small size.  But their lessons can begin as soon as Frodo is able.”

“Could we not start the others before?  Even a few days of additional practice might make the difference in their living or dying on this journey.”

A small smile lit the Ranger’s stern features.  “I would normally agree.  But Sam will not leave his master.  And I think those two will be too stiff for much sword or bow-practice, for several days at least.”

The small smile was echoed on the Elf-lord’s face.  “Good.  Those two young ones have upset my household quite enough.  I would have a few days of peace, before we must turn Imladris into a training-ground for halflings.”

* * * * *   

Merry and Pippin again tried to see their cousin after lunch.  Sam opened the door at their knock and gazed at them levelly, his grey eyes measuring.  After a moment’s consideration, he allowed them in.

The two sat in the outer room and waited while Sam asked his master if Frodo would see them.   They could not hear their cousin’s reply, but when Sam returned to admit them, those grey eyes held warning.  “Don’t you go upsettin’ him, now,” he whispered at them.  “He’s had a bad morning.”

Frodo did not look at all pleased to see them.  Pippin prudently stayed behind Merry, through their eldest cousin did not look capable of rising and throttling them.  Frodo’s face was very swollen and the eye underneath the cut was now completely closed, with the bruising extending down his cheek almost to his jaw.  The shoulder-wound sported a fresh, thickly padded bandage.  Frodo leaned back against the pillow and folded his arms, glaring at them out of his one good eye.

“Well?”  Pippin received the impression that all that kept his eldest cousin from shouting was his inability to open his mouth more than a little.

Merry eyed Frodo cautiously and edged closer.  “Frodo,” he began softly, “Pippin and I -” he gulped suddenly and the suppressed tears in his voice were unexpectedly answered by Pippin’s.  “We didn’t … we didn’t mean to hurt you.”  Another gulp.  “It … it just got out of hand.  I’m sorry, Cousin.”

“I’m sorry, too, Cousin.”  Pippin gathered his courage and stood away from Merry, his green-gold eyes watering. “We didn’t mean any harm.”

“You never do,” Frodo replied softly.  “But harm came of it, nonetheless.  Merry, you had no right to take wagers on me.  Then you didn’t tell me, and somehow, I find that the most difficult thing to forgive.”

Merry ducked his head, grief at Frodo’s disappointment in him searing his heart.  Pippin had less restraint; the tweenager burst into tears and with a loud wail, flung himself on his eldest cousin, not noticing the grimace of pain that flashed across Frodo’s face.  Frodo wound his right hand in Pippin’s curls as the young hobbit sobbed against his side, looking over his head at Merry. 

“I’m sorry,” Merry repeated softly.  Frodo held his eyes for a long moment, then slowly nodded.  The acceptance in those gentle eyes lifted the weight of the world off of Merry’s shoulders.  With a deep sigh, he joined Pip at Frodo’s side and after a moment, felt a gentle hand brush through his hair. 

“I never could stay angry with you for very long,” Frodo’s soft voice mused above their heads.  “Pippin-lad, calm down.  Calm down now.”

Sam shook his head from his post from the door, thinking that the two had gotten off far too easily.  A few tears, a few apologies, and his master softened like dry earth when the spring rains come.  He’d not be so forgiving –

Samwise’s attention was returned abruptly as the two hobbits rose to take their leave, fearful of further tiring their cousin.  Merry was saying, “When Sam and Pip and I started this Wager business –“

“Sam?”

“Yes, we –“

“Sam?”

Then again, Sam thought as the two hurriedly departed, a forgiving heart is a wonderful quality…

* * * * *

“How goes the work?”  Aragorn ran the miniature bow through his strong hands, feeling the curve of the wood, the flexibility of the draw.  The wood felt cold under his hands, smooth and polished, a long elven-bow shortened to the size of a hobbit.

Legolas shook his head, blond hair tied out of his eyes as he continued to sand the ash that would form a bow for one of the halflings.  Various pieces of seasoned wood, carving knives, arrow fletchings and other tools were scattered about him as he sat cross-legged on the ground.  “I have never made so small a bow, Aragorn.  These are smaller even than a child’s.  I do not know if the little ones will even be able to draw them.”

“They must learn,” responded the Ranger absently, drawing the bow carefully to its full width without snapping it.  “The art of archery is not much practiced among their kind for other than hunting, but they need to learn the bow for defense.”

“Defense…” murmured the Wood-elf.  “Aragorn, even if they master the bow enough to not be a danger to themselves and to us, have you considered the strength of their draws?  Even at full extension, an arrow from one of these bows would not bring down an enemy, unless it was a very lucky shot at close range.”

“Then they will be used for hunting,” Aragorn replied.  “I would like to see the hobbits not so dependent on the Big Folk, as they call us.  I am to teach them to live off the land, survive in the Wild, and supplying their own dinner is part of that.”

The man dropped to his haunches beside the seated Elf.  “We must give them every advantage that we can, Legolas.  Even if we do not hold out much hope for their making use of all that we teach them.”

The Elf nodded and returned to his work, his slender hands caressing up and down the wood.  “I have more hope of them learning swordplay.  The Man Boromir has agreed to teach them, you said?”

“Yes,” Aragorn responded.  “They have quite excellent swords, which they need to learn to honor and care for.  Frodo’s was destroyed at the Ford of Bruinen, of course … I must see to its replacement...”  The Ranger’s eyes lost their sharp focus momentarily as he mentally added yet another item to his long list of duties.  He picked up one of the small arrows that Legolas had completed and ran it through his fingers.  “What did you use for the fletching?  Goose feathers are too large … are these duck?”

“Duck,” agreed the Elf.  “I have asked the cooks to keep for me the plucked wing feathers of all chickens and small fowl they use.”  Legolas’ clear eyes creased briefly in mirth.  “One said he was most pleased to have more work for the halflings assigned to the kitchens in the mornings; left unoccupied, he said, they eat far more than they produce.”

Aragorn grinned as he rose to his feet, dropping the arrow back into the small pile of finished work.   “Aye.  Well, perhaps the hunting and snaring skills I will teach them will help in providing for those hobbit appetites.  Pardon me, my friend.  I must continue on my errands.”   Legolas merely nodded at him, his attention again on the small bow that was being born between his long-fingered hands.

* TBC * 

Chapter 18:  Explanations and Expeditions                          

“Sam, I would like to speak with you please.”

Sam closed the door upon his master’s departing cousins and briefly rested his forehead against the cool wood.  While he hadn’t dared hope that he would escape completely, Samwise had felt no pressing urge to confess his part in The Wager.  He certainly wasn’t going to volunteer the information that his innocent comment had started the whole mess.

Sam turned around and smiled cheerfully at his master.  “Aye, sir?”

Those blue eyes were burning into him from his master’s pale face.  Frodo lay back at his ease among the pillows but his arms were folded and his face set.  “Sam, what did Merry mean?”

“When, sir?”  If he couldn’t avoid the inevitable, maybe he could delay it until they were interrupted … or the world ended…

“Just now, Sam.  Just before my cousins felt the need to leave so quickly. What was Merry talking about?”

“’Bout what, sir?”

“Sam, I am asking you that.”

“Oh.”  Where were all those people who kept coming to the door to ask after Mr. Frodo?  Why didn’t one of them turn up now?

“Sam!”

He knew that tone, for all that Samwise very rarely heard it from his gentle and patient master.  Grey eyes closed then opened slowly.  There was no help for it.  “It’s like this, Mr. Frodo …  well, Mr. Merry an’ Mr. Pippin were saying – ah,” Sam knew Frodo wouldn’t like Sam’s pessimistic impression of his master’s returning strength, “ah…”

“Sam…”

Definite warning in that single word.  “Ah, anyway,”  Sam hurried on, “I said … and then Mr. Merry said – ah…”  Never good with words, the poor hobbit could find no explanation to express how things had simply gotten out of hand, and one thing had piled up on another, and he’d never meant them to, and he’d tried to extricate himself from the muddle…

The loud knock on the door caused them both to jump and broke the staring contest.  Frodo’s dark brows drew down but Sam was already moving. 

“Gandalf, sir!  Come right in, sir!  So happy ‘ta see you, sir!  Is there anything I can get you, sir?!”  The startled wizard was practically dragged into the Ring-bearer’s room, Sam all but tugging on his robes to hurry him along.  Once in, Gandalf’s deep eyes moved from his friend’s determined expression to the florid face of his servant and smiled internally.  Ah, poor Sam is ‘catching it hot,’ to use his own phrase, thought the wizard.

Struggling to contain his amusement, Gandalf seated himself in the chair Sam pulled up next to the bed and leaned his staff against Frodo’s headboard.  Frodo looked between the wizard and Sam, torn between demanding his explanation and greeting his guest.  Good manners and a gentlehobbit’s upbringing won out.  Frodo turned to Gandalf and seconded Sam’s offer of refreshment, his pale face blossoming into a smile as he relaxed.  As he hurried to arrange the tea and add some small sweetcakes to a tray, Sam took a moment to wipe the sweat from his brow and send up his thanks to Elbereth for the rescue.   

* * * * *

Much of that first day of making reparations was a blur to Merry and Pippin.  Their backs ached and their legs ached and their arms ached worse.  Merry had taken a small burn on his arm that morning when he brushed up against a hot griddle in the kitchens and it stung abominably.  Their hands cramped from gripping the scrub brushes and the skin on their fingers and hands wrinkled up from the lye in the strong soap they used in scrubbing the fountains.  The two had taken a quick bath then eaten ravenously at luncheon, finishing quickly so that they might spend some time with Frodo.  That visit had been cut short by Merry’s offhand remark about Sam’s participation in The Wager.  Knowing when to retreat, they had abandoned Sam and fled.

Vowing to make it up to Sam (somehow), Merry and Pippin changed their clothes (again) and reported for kitchen-duty.

The two small figures were becoming quite familiar to the kitchen staff and more than one tall Elf smiled to see the small curly heads bent so industriously to the tasks assigned them.  The afternoon had passed into early evening when Aragorn sought them out.  The two were helping knead bread and were liberally covered with flour, the fine white dust hanging in the warm fusty air.  Both had aprons tied up under their arms, which hung to the tops of their hairy feet.  The cross-cultural education had been mutual, Aragorn saw, as he surveyed the racks of raising breadstuffs.   Sprinkled among the racks of elegantly shaped rolls and braided breads were several small dough figurines that had been sculpted into fat-bellied bears and turtles and even a small rabbit that sat upright and had tiny thin breadsticks for whiskers. 

Pippin looked up at him, his whole small face grinning in delight through his obvious tiredness.  Somehow the youngster had managed to immerse himself more deeply in the dough preparation than his cousin.  While Meriadoc had tried to keep himself neat, Pippin hadn’t bothered.  His bronze curls were thickly powdered with white and smudges of flour covered his face, arms and almost every inch of skin. 

With the head cook’s nod of permission, the Ranger escorted the two outside and stood upwind while they tried to dust themselves off.  When as much flour and sugar had been removed as was possible without yet another bath, Aragorn motioned them towards a bench.

“In two days, I must leave for the northern treeharbors with Elladan and Ellrohir,” he began.  Merry winced, remembering that his plan to give Aragorn and Arwen a day together had failed spectacularly.    The Ranger noted the grimace.  He did not hold it against the halfling; he had held out little hope that he would be excused from this duty.  The Ranger’s superb skills would be needed to seek for any sign of the Enemy and Aragorn knew without false pride that he was the finest tracker in Imladris.  A mission of this importance could not be entrusted to one of lesser skill.  Yet important as it was, it could serve a second purpose.  “Would you like to come?”

For a moment, the two young hobbits did not think they had heard him correctly.  Then their faces lit up like one of Gandalf’s firecrackers and he was nearly bowled off the bench by their exuberant hugs.  “Would we?  Would we!”

Laughing, the Ranger instructed the two to be ready at first light, two days hence.  They would ride one of the great elven horses.  Seeing their looks of apprehension, Aragorn assured them that the stable master had recommended an older mare, smaller than most, who would bear them carefully. 

“Couldn’t we ride Bill, instead?” asked Pippin, plainly not reassured of the mare’s gentleness.

Aragorn shook his head.  “I am sorry, Pippin, but Bill could not possibly keep up with us.  He is a fine pack-pony but we will be traveling swiftly.  Do not worry; the mare is very sweet-natured.  She will not allow you to come to harm.”

Pippin nodded.  Beside him, he thought that Merry also looked somewhat nervous, which eased his own fears.  Merry also had a concern.  “And this is acceptable to Lord Elrond?”

The Ranger smiled.  “My foster-father has given his permission.”  He did not add that upon being asked, Elrond had heaved a most uncharacteristic sigh of relief and said, “Yes, please take them.”   Evidently young Peregrin had earlier that day created an amazingly life-like dough sculpture of a certain body part … which had, through a quite innocent mistake, been included on a covered tray for one of the high-born ladies of the human delegation.  The resulting furor had sorely tried the Elf-lord’s patience. 

When the mistake had been traced back to the frantic tweenager (who with the assistance of his cousin had been hunting desperately through the baking racks for his sculpture), Pippin had been unceremoniously hauled before the lady to apologize.  This the young hobbit did with such grace and obvious contrition that the lady (an elderly and rather staid matron) had forgiven him and Elrond was able to smooth over the incident.  Imladris, he had reflected to Aragorn, could use a few days of respite from those two.

“This will not be a hobbit walking party,” Aragorn warned them.  “We seek sign of the Enemy.  Rumors have reached us of companies of orcs and men gathering and passing through the area in great numbers.  We will be riding hard and swift, which you are not accustomed to.  And,” he continued upon seeing the slight frown on Meriadoc’s features which meant the young hobbit was thinking, “you two will be expected to carry your own weight.  You will attend to the fires and do the cooking as well as the clean-up.  And you will continue your reparations for my lord Elrond upon our return.”

Two curly heads nodded eagerly, and with a few more instructions and admonitions from the Ranger, set off to the bathhouses to clean themselves up for dinner.  Aragorn’s sharp eyes followed them and he mentally listed the lessons he wished these young ones to learn on this little expedition.  Rising, he brushed his hands along the dark green suede of his embroidered surcoat and discovered that one of them had filled his pockets with sticky unbaked dough.

* * * * *

“Frodo, I want you to tell me about your nightmares.”

The Ring-bearer’s smile faded as the wizard’s words sank in.  The tea had been finished and only crumbs remained of the sweetcakes.  Gandalf had eaten only one of the cakes, urging the others on Frodo without the hobbit being aware of it.   The wizard had waited until his friend was relaxed and slightly sleepy, then made his gentle demand.

Frodo tried to laugh off the wizard’s request.  “Really, Gandalf, they’re just nightmares.  Just dreams…”

Gandalf leaned forward and captured one of the hobbit’s small hands in his.  “Frodo,” was all he said.

The hobbit’s eyes suddenly shimmered with tears and he tried to pull away.  “I don’t want to talk about them,” he whispered softly.

“I understand that it pains you, my friend.  Would you rather speak with Bilbo?”  The hobbit shook his dark head quickly, eyes downcast.  “Frodo … you have confided in me in the past.  You know I will respect and guard your confidences.”

“I know, Gandalf.  I know.  But these dreams … they’re different.”

“How are they different?”

Sam had been about to clear away the teacups and dishes, but upon hearing this turn of conversation he halted and busied himself in quietly refilling the water pitcher.  His Gaffer always said that the mark of a good servant was ‘seein’ things got done without being neither seen nor heard,’ and Sam’s long years of familiarity with his master had taught him how to move around Frodo without Frodo really being aware of him.  Gandalf’s deep eyes drifted to him and the wizard made an almost unnoticeable motion for him to stay.  Sam nodded slightly in return, knowing that his master would need his silent, unconscious support.

Frodo rubbed his nightshirt sleeve across his eyes, avoiding the painful bruising, still staring at nothing.   “They change,” he murmured softly, his voice detached and remote.  Sam knew that his master was trying to distance himself from the pain; he’d seen Frodo do it before.  Gandalf had too, he knew, and saw the wizard lean forward and capture Frodo’s free hand, so that both were sheltered in his larger grip.

“How?” Gandalf persisted gently.

Frodo closed his beautiful eyes.  “Sometimes it is dark.  Not night, I think … just dark.  They’re coming for me.  They can see me, now.  They are so tall … huge.  Their black robes reach up into the sky.  I can’t move.  There is no place to run to, anyway.  No place that they cannot find me.”  Silence.  Gandalf said nothing, only continued to rub the small hands, which had gone so cold.

With an effort, Frodo continued.  “I feel the Morgul-knife enter my shoulder … feel the tip break off.  That’s silly, of course – I didn’t feel it snap inside of me.  But in the dream, I feel that the tip takes on a life … an intelligence … of its own, and feel it seek my heart.”  The shadowed eyes raised and Sam was hard-pressed not to make a sound at the terror and pain he saw in them.  “I know it’s gone now … that Elrond cut it out.  But I swear I think it is still there, inching its way slowly through my body.

“That’s not the worst of it, though.”  Gandalf made a soft, non-committal sound, sharp eyes on Frodo’s averted face.  “Sometimes I feel like it is … listening.  Seeking.  Looking for me.”

Gandalf released Frodo’s hands to reach up and gently stroke the pale face.  Perspiration had broken out on his brow and Sam silently handed his master a cloth he had wet in the pitcher.  Frodo’s “Thank you, Sam,” was automatic and entirely unaware of the words as he wiped his face with it.

“You know what it is you feel listening, don’t you?” asked the wizard.

“Yes,” Frodo replied softly.  “It’s the Ring.”

* TBC *

Chapter 19:  Conversations in the Gathering Dark

The old wizard leaned back in his chair, face tightening as sorrow shadowed his deep eyes.  Automatically his gnarled hands sought his pipe and the hobbit watched as he filled the bowl and tamped it down, lighted it.  Frodo sniffed deeply, savoring the first tendrils of Longbottom Leaf, its sweet fragrance reminding him of the Shire and home.

The pipe at last drawing to his satisfaction, Gandalf turned that deep gaze to the Ring-bearer.  Actually, little of the hobbit’s small face could be seen between the bandages and the bruising.  Frodo looked him silently, feeling no need to elaborate the truth of his words between them.  The day was failing into dusk, the golden sunlight of late afternoon surrendering to the blue-edged tones of evening.  Already it was colder and Sam moved unobtrusively to light the fire in the great hearth. 

“I believe it is, also,” murmured the wizard, dropping his gaze to the cold circlet of gold strung on a silver chain around the hobbit’s throat.  Frodo followed his gaze and he flushed, one hand rising automatically to cover the Ring.  The flush deepened as he realized what he was doing and forced the hand down with a visible effort of will.

There were many questions Gandalf would have liked to ask the Ring-bearer, that his research and reason and own curiosity prompted.  ‘What does it feel like?’ was one.  ‘Do you actually hear it speaking?’ was another.  Many questions … none of which he would ever voice, as his asking would increase the suffering of his small friend, regarding him so quietly from the great, wide bed.

Likewise, ‘Is there anything I can do?’ was a useless question.  There was nothing he or Elrond or anyone could do, except what they could to ease the Ring-bearer’s mind and heart and soul.

“Is there anything you can do to stop the nightmares?” Frodo asked in a hopeless voice.  Gandalf started, startled to hear his thoughts echoed in the hobbit’s soft tones.

The wizard shook his grey-maned head.  “Elrond has no potion or elixir to help, nor have I any magic or spell.  You have always had … unusual … dreams, Frodo, and have more than once turned them to your advantage.”  A ghost of a smile played around the bearded lips.  “Remember when you dreamed the winners of the Spring Fair, and, as I recall, made a tidy sum on the races?”

Frodo almost laughed and in that brief instant, the light that was within him shone forth so brightly as to amaze the watching wizard.  The hobbit’s face was too sore to emit a laugh, so he settled for a gasping chuckle that did not hurt so greatly.  “I remember.”

Pleased at eliciting a laugh, however small, the wizard continued, “Is it possible that you could use these … dreams … in the same way?  If they are destined to come true, perhaps you could be forewarned and so be prepared for their reality.”  The hobbit was regarding him intently, that brilliant so-blue gaze centered on his.  “What do you remember of these dreams?” Gandalf pressed gently.

Frodo shook his head, uncomfortable again.  “Just fragments.  More … more feelings of hopelessness and terror than anything else.  There’s so much darkness.  Darkness and … rock, I think – great carved pillars, rows and rows of them.  Walking in the dark.  Darkness and climbing, climbing up long stairs. There’s something dreadful at the top of the stairs…”

Frodo’s face had paled as he spoke and Gandalf leaned forward again and recaptured the hobbit’s hand in his free one.  Frodo jumped, his attention abruptly turned outward again. 

“Frodo,” the wizard said softly, “keeping these things to yourself will not help.  You are not sparing your friends grief by hiding your fears from them.  Rather, you increase their pain because they see you suffering, and you will not allow their help.”  Frodo had dropped his eyes, staring at the wizard’s hand as it rubbed gently over his.  He raised them again when Gandalf waved the pipe bowl under his nose, wafting sweet smoke into his face.  Gandalf reversed the pipe and poked the hobbit in the chest with the stem.  “’Troubles shared are troubles halved,’ as I believe it is said in the Shire.  Will you not let those who love you help?”

“What can they do, Gandalf?” Frodo responded.  “What can anyone do?”

These were the words the old wizard had been waiting for.  “They can be by your side when you need them.  They can support your steps when you falter.  No one else may carry your burden, Ring-bearer, but they may help carry you.”

Frodo nodded slowly.

“There is no shame in letting Merry and Pippin see you as other than the eldest, wiser cousin, Frodo.  They have looked up to you all of their lives and they will continue to do so, now more than ever.  Do you fear you will lose their love because of this Quest.”

“And what of their lives, Gandalf?   What if Merry and Pippin and Sam die because of me?”

Now we come to it, thought the wizard.  Gentle words of reassurance rose to his lips but never found their way out.  Samwise, forgotten by them both, stood by his master’s side.  “Beggin’ your pardon for interrupting, sir,” the stocky hobbit said softly, “but as you included me, I feel I ‘ave the right ‘ta put in my say.”  Sam blushed when both of them turned to him, but he continued on doggedly.

“Me and Mr. Merry an’ Master Pippin are going with you o’ our own free will.  We know what’s at stake.  We might not be any good at all ‘ta you in fighting off orcs or finding our way across the Wild, but we can cook a meal an’ tend a pony an’ be there when you need reminding o’ the Shire.  The Big Folk can’t do that for you.  We’re going ‘cause you might need reminding what’s at stake for all o’ us.”

In the silence that followed, the wizard at last shifted in his chair and laid a hand on Samwise’s shoulder.  “Well said, Sam,” he said softly.  Slowly he rose, stiff from long sitting, shaking crumbs of sweetcake off his robe.  Frodo’s eyes turned from him to Sam and back again, conflict still evident in his strained features. 

Frodo’s hand reached out and caught the wizard’s robes as Gandalf turned to go.  “Thank you,” the hobbit said softly.  “Both of you.”

Sam beamed at him.  Gandalf smiled and leaned down, lightly stroking the hobbit’s dark curls among the bandages.  “You’re welcome, Frodo.  Don’t close yourself up against us again, my friend.  I wouldn’t be at all surprised if your nightmares don’t start easing up now, at last.”  He sighed as he straightened, looking out of the great balcony door into the deepening twilight.  Summoning the smallest spark of Power, he again touched the hobbit’s forehead.  “Sleep, Frodo … without dreams…”

* * * * *

Close by in their shared room, Merry and Pippin sprawled on their own beds, asleep.  After the last bath of the day, they could not even summon the energy to go to the dining hall when the chimes rang.  Aragorn stood in the doorway and regarded them gravely, a covered tray in his hands.  When the young hobbits had not come to dinner, the Ranger was fairly certain he could guess what had happened.  Noiselessly, he put the heavy tray down on one of the small tables and pulled up the covers over the two, letting them sleep the exhausted sleep of the virtuous.

They woke at cock’s first crow after a long and restful night.  The first thing they were aware of was hunger.  The second was the simple, aching pain of overstrained muscles.  Pippin rolled out of bed with a pitiful groan, sliding to the floor and using the bed to lever himself to his knees then his feet.  He dragged himself over to the covered tray, where his little crow of delight alerted his older cousin to the bounty.

They changed their clothes while they ate, their hunger compensating for food long gone cold.  In between comments on yesterday’s hardships and their upcoming Adventure, Merry decided to take the youngster to task for creating such as uproar and earning them the Master of Rivendell’s displeasure.

“Why did you do that, Pip?”

“The baker said we could make anything we wanted with the leftover dough, Merry.  It was just a joke.  Nobody else was supposed to see it.”

Well, Merry reminded himself that he had pulled some fairly ridiculous stunts as a tweenager too … there was that incident with the punch-bowl at a cousin’s coming-of-age party … and stealing the lasses clothes at the Bywater pond – he’d been whipped for that one … and … nothing Pippin needed to know about.  At least the high-born lady had been forgiving, and after her initial shock, amused.  Which did not explain why the youngster was stuffing the disreputable-appearing bread sculpture in his pack.  “And why have you still got it?  It is going stale.”

“It’s mine,” Pippin replied with the all the unreasonableness of an affronted tweenager.  Merry reflected that Tooks had their own share of stubbornness.  Knowing better than to make an issue of it and cement Pippin’s attachment to the stupid thing, Merry gave up.  No doubt the youngster would discard it in a day or two.

This morning they were assigned to the stables, and appeared there with the sun (and with considerably less enthusiasm than they had reported to the kitchens).  It had been mutually agreed that the miscreants would make their reparations in the kitchens and the stables on alternating days; no one wanting them to work in the stables then work in the kitchens.  Greeted by the stable master, they were directed to pitchforks and scrub brushes and buckets, and set to cleaning Bill’s stall.

Bill seemed to produce an amazing amount of manure for such a small pony.  They forked out the soiled bedding, scrubbed down the floor, then forked in the fresh.  The mangers were emptied, scrubbed and refilled with hay, winter grass, a handful of oats and a small amount of sweet mash which the pony ate greedily.  Bill himself was curried and his mane and tail brushed till they shone.  The pony was thoroughly petted and fed far more treats than were good for him.  In the next stall, Asfaloth hung his great head over the partition and so in return received such a goodly number of apples and carrots that Glorfindel, arriving some time later, politely asked the two to stop feeding his stallion.  Asfaloth snorted at his master and pointedly turned his back on the Elf.

The chimes for luncheon caught them off-guard and sent them scrambling.  Not daring to enter the dining hall as they were, they ducked around to the kitchens and begged the head cook for food, unknowing how the kitchen staff smiled to see the stern and demanding head cook unbend under the influence of wistful eyes that barely came up to his waist.

Then they had another bath.  It was a good thing that both he and Pip could swim, Merry thought, as in the elven-sized baths, the water came up over their heads unless they stood on the submerged benches.  They could have sent for a tub and hot water and bathed in their rooms, of course, but the bathhouses of Rivendell were a delight.  The bathhouse was divided into several close rooms, each with a great square tub sunk into the center of room.  Each tub had steps leading down into it and benches built along it, arranged for languid soaking and conversation.  Warm water was piped in through some contrivance of pipes and furnaces that the hobbits did not understand, all built underneath the raised and heated floor.  A great boiler, dwarven-made, heated water and carried it to the baths, where steaming hot water emerged with just a turn of the handle.  It was a wonder to the hobbits, a cross between a tub and a lake, and even the notoriously bath-shy Peregrin rejoiced in the warm water and paddled about like a small dog, shaking water from his curly head and increasing the comparison.  Merry leaned back against the warm side and sighed, feeling knots that he’d feared were permanent loosen out of his shoulders.

So Aragorn found them, after checking their room; Frodo’s room, the kitchens, the Library, the kitchens, the stables, all the gardens, the kitchens, and finally the baths when directed there by an Elf who had passed them downwind.  The Ranger leaned his tall frame against the door and watched as one small form half-floated in the steaming water, entirely at peace, and the other splashed and paddled about in a whirl of endless activity.  He waited until the waves had subsided from Pippin’s latest dive then cleared his throat loudly.

“Your pardon,” Aragorn said contritely, as both dripping heads jerked upright.  “Are you all right, Pippin?  I did not mean to surprise you.”

Pippin nodded, choking on the mouthful of water he had inadvertently taken in and struggled to the side of the bath where Merry snagged him and steadied him against the wall.  They had to tilt their heads far back to meet his eyes.  Hiding a smile, Aragorn crouched down so that he could address them more easily. 

“I am sorry to disturb you.  Could you come to my rooms when you are finished?  We must leave early tomorrow and I would be certain you two are prepared.”

“We haven’t visited Frodo yet,“ Merry replied.  “Do you mind if we come after seeing him?”

“Not at all,” the Ranger assured them.  Pippin was still making faces over the water he had swallowed.  Seeing the Ranger’s eyes on him, Pippin grimaced a final time and nodded.  “Good.  Give my regards to your cousin.  I hope to see him before we go.”

“We will,” echoed after him as he left the warm, water-laden air.

* TBC *

Chapter 20:  Swift Riding and Swift Waters

The small figure crawled along the ground, hugging it closely and taking advantage of the cold light of the half-full moon to evade the still forms and scattered paraphernalia of the sleeping scouting party.  The night was already bitterly cold through it was but an hour after moonrise, and white breath issued between the figure’s small lips, pursed in concentration as it sought a silent and stealthy route between the dark-shadowed forms.  Arriving at last at its goal, it sat back on its haunches and rubbed its hands together, fingers stiff and cold from feeling its way among the chill grass and small rocks that comprised this small dell one day’s ride out of Rivendell.

The stretched-out form of the sleeping Man seemed enormous to the small figure, and for a moment, it hesitated.  Then it inched closer and gently prodded the Man in the shoulder.  “Arag - uhh -”

The rest was lost in a choked gasp as the still figure erupted into movement, crushing the small figure in its arms and pinning it, rolling over it with a knife glinting at its throat.  Moonlight reflected in the suddenly terrified wide eyes of the hobbit, and Aragorn allowed himself a brief, sub-vocalized curse as he eased up his hold and carefully moved the gleaming knife away from the unprotected throat.

“Pippin,” the Ranger whispered harshly, fighting to keep his voice low, “how many times have I told you to never, never sneak up on me?  I have lived too long in the Wild, in places where a touch in the night might mean death, to wake gently.”  The small form beneath him stared up at him, eyes still huge.  The Ranger released him and sat up, drawing the smaller figure with him.

Past them, Elladan had turned at their movement and would have started towards them, but Aragorn raised a hand and shook his head.  The Elf regarded them doubtfully for a moment, then nodded and returned to his watch, dark eyes scanning the monochrome landscape.  This sheltered hollow was the best cover they could find in the largely flat terrain, spare of trees and cluttered with smooth grey boulders.  The small scouting party had ridden past many great crumbling ruins, roofless halls and tumbled stone giving silent testament to more auspicious days.  They might have been better sheltered among the old ruins that dotted the area, but none wanted to rest among the remembrances of Men and Elves that had died here long ago.

Aragorn sighed into the cold night and returned his attention to the hobbit.  “All right, Pippin.  I’m awake now.  What is it?”

The young hobbit’s wide eyes met his for a moment, then traveled to the long knife the Ranger still held raised in his hand.   Moonlight glittered along its razor-sharp edge.  Following the youngster’s gaze, Aragorn sheathed the blade then leaned forward to wrap one of his blankets around the stiff form.  Pippin at last relaxed, beginning to tremble slightly in reaction.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Aragorn said softly.  “But I did warn you, Pippin.  Don’t ever do that again.”

The young hobbit nodded, his wide eyes on the Ranger’s moon-lit face.  “I’m sorry, Strider.  I forgot.”

I imagine you will not forget again, thought the Ranger.  A good scare seems to be the best way of making you remember something, my young friend.  Aloud, Aragorn said gently, “Why did you wake me, Pippin?”

“Oh.”  The tweenager visibly gathered himself.  “I was wondering if Merry and I could ride with you and one of the twins tomorrow instead of sharing Inmara.”

Aragorn regarded what he could see of Pippin’s shadowed face with surprise.  The two hobbits had been more reserved than their usual wont around the tall sons of Elrond, addressing the twins formally and on their best and most courteous behavior.  The Ranger had attributed this to shyness and the hobbits’ confusion over which twin was which.  Long used to being mistaken for each other, Elladan and Elrohir had returned the courtesies with amusement.  Having had less contact with the little ones than their father, the twins found the halflings entirely winning, and by early afternoon, the hobbits were chatting with the Elves like old friends.

The mare, Inmara, was another story.  Despite Aragorn’s assurances that the elderly mare would carry them safely, the two hobbits were hard-put to ride the elven steed.  This was not due to Inmara’s temperament; she was gentle and careful of her small riders.  But the hobbits’ legs stuck out absurdly and uncomfortably around her great barrel, and nothing the Ranger or Elves could do could lessen the discomfort of the hobbits trying to ride a horse that was too big for them.

After a full day’s ride with only short breaks, Aragorn had lifted Merry and Pippin down from the mare’s back and set them on their feet.  The two had both promptly collapsed, tears gathering in their eyes as they fought the agony of abused muscles and abraded skin.  Accustomed to ponies less than half  Inmara’s size, they had labored to grasp her barrel with their short legs and this unendurable pain was the result.  Elladan and Elrohir would have massaged the knotted muscles and eased their pain but the two could not bear pressure on their abraded skin.  Aragorn had chosen a campsite by a small, swift river and the two had spent most of the evening sitting in the shallows of the flow, numbing their lower halves to such a point that the Elves had had to carry them back to camp for the dinner Aragorn had prepared.

That it was Merry and Pippin’s job to cook dinner only increased their misery.  Merry had eaten very little then curled up into a tight a ball as he could, a blanket rolled between his knees, and sought escape in sleep.  Pippin, being younger and more flexible, had suffered less.  Pippin also had a more active imagination than his cousin, and thoughts of the riding on the morrow had kept him awake, then spurred him to seek out the Ranger and beg, if he had to.

“Do you think that you could keep your seats better riding with us?” Aragorn asked.

Pippin nodded eagerly.  “We could turn sideways for a while if we need to, and we wouldn’t have to hold on so hard with our legs.  You don’t think Inmara would mind, do you?”

Aragorn shook his head and swallowed a laugh.  “No, I think not.  She is a wise old mare.  In fact, we will remove her tack tomorrow and send her back with a note explaining that she is not needed.  She knows her way home.  I think she will be more than happy to return to her warm stall.”

Pippin’s sigh of overwhelming relief was unmistakable, even if Aragorn could not see his face in the dim light.  With a final, whispered, “thank you,” the tweenager crawled back to his blankets, scuttling sideways like a crab to avoid his sore thighs rubbing together.

Now awake, Aragorn did not find sleep again so easily.  He was not tired; a day’s fast ride was of little import to a Ranger.  Seeing no need for two to be awake, he hissed at Elladan and the Elf’s head turned immediately towards him.  He motioned to Elladan (knowing his foster brother had overheard every word of his and Pippin’s soft-voiced conversation) and rose, taking his watch early.  Wordlessly, Elladan nodded and sank silently down by his brother to rest the remainder of the night.

Back to the others, Aragorn seated himself cross-legged on the blanket and reflected on the wisdom of Elrond and Gandalf’s decision not to use horses on the first part of their journey.  He had objected, arguing that the speed the horses would give them would compensate for the additional burden of feeding and caring for them.  Now he was glad he had been overruled; after seeing the little ones’ suffering on just one day’s ride, he could not imagine subjecting four hobbits and most likely the dwarf to such pain.  Nine Walkers, he mused.  Much better than the Four Riders and the Five Crawlers.

* * * * *

Merry woke abruptly when he tried to roll over onto his side and aching muscles screamed at him.  Stifling a cry, he dug his hands into his blankets and managed to turn the groan into a gasp.  Next to him, Pippin murmured something in his sleep and shifted, pulling the blankets up over the top of his curly head.  Relieved that he had not awoken his cousin, Merry grimaced and pulled himself up into a seated position, looking about him.

Elrohir, on watch, inclined his head gracefully at the hobbit and Merry returned the nod.  He still was not certain how he could tell Elrohir from Elladan, so alike were they, but now he had no difficulty in distinguishing between them.  The merest breath of dawn was breaking over the eastern mountains and with a surge of humiliation, Merry realized that he and Pippin had been allowed to sleep all night instead of taking their turn at watch.

Well, he was through being coddled.  Gritting his teeth, Merry dragged himself from his blankets and struggled to his feet.  His backside and legs felt like the skin was too small to hold the painfully swollen flesh within.  Elrohir watched him with one dark eyebrow raised, looking so like his lord father that Merry grinned at him.  The Elf returned the smile and made no move to stop him as Merry gestured towards the stream, then himself, and picked up one of his blankets.

The others he tucked around Pippin, all of whom he could see was a few stray curls peeking out of the bedroll.  The blanket-covered lump muttered again and returned to deep sleep, savoring the additional warmth.

Carefully, Merry pointed his toes outward and waddled the short distance to the water, kneeling on the blanket to perform his ablutions in record time.  Despite the soreness, much of the damage had already healed, thanks to the soothing aspect of the cold waters and his own hobbit resilience.  It was while he was giving his face a final rinse that he saw the dark shape slip underneath the rippling water.  A flash of fin, the shine of the rising sun on iridescent scales.  Trout … and a large one.  Several more glided underneath the cold waters, sleek bodies undulating against the sandy river bottom.  Merry’s mouth began to water.

If he could just catch a few for breakfast, he might partially make up for inconveniencing the Big Folk and missing his watch.  Trout, fresh from the stream … pan-fried with a coating of flour and breadcrumbs … maybe he could get Pip to donate his bread sculpture – put the stupid thing to good use.  The flesh expertly filleted so that the backbone and small rib-bones peeled off, leaving only the succulent, tender meat in a crunchy wrapping of oil-browned skin…

The fish were beginning to rise for the flies that skimmed over the water’s surface.  Moving very slowly and carefully, Merry retreated from the water’s edge and cast about for a means of catching them.  Standing in the cold water and capturing them with his hands was out of the question; only a fool pitted his speed against that of the lightening-swift fish.  No fishing rod, no fishing line, no hooks…  It was hopeless.

Fish-spear.  Nothing to make one with – no sturdy straight branches within easy reach and no forged spear-points, either.  A fish-trap – impossible to construct in the seconds in which he had to act.  A net … a net…   Still moving very slowly, and keeping back from the water, Merry unfastened his cloak and shook it out.  He filled the hood and pockets with the many small stones that lay about then tried casting it onto the ground.  The cloak spun easily into the air then dropped heavily in a horizontal sheet, pulling down at the weighted corners.  Were he quick enough…

Holding the rolled-up cloak, Merry eased himself onto a fallen log that extended out into the water.  The water was swifter in the middle of the river, a narrow band of frothy white, and he was careful in turning himself around and positioning himself.  He now stood beyond the where the trout were feeding, marking the water with small ever-widening circles that expanded into ever-fainter rings.

The log shifted slightly as he leaned forward, but Merry did not take note of it as his furry toes dug into the rotting wood for purchase.  He was wholly intent upon his cast, small body focused as he crouched and readied the cloak.  In one burst of effort, the hobbit swung the heavy cloth into the air and watched as it sailed gracefully over the feeding area and dropped directly onto the trout.

Silvered forms darted from beneath the trap but the rocks in the pocket and hood pulled the cloth down over several more, and Merry could see the cloak tent as small forms leaped from the water against the imprisoning cloth.

With a shout of triumph, Merry pushed off the log and leaped down into frigid water.  Unbalanced by the momentum of the hobbit’s leap, the log pivoted from its unstable perch on the sandy shore and swung, catching Merry along the side as he waded towards the cloak.  Caught off-guard, Merry threw out both arms and managed one cry before the log knocked him down into the freezing water and rolled over him.

* TBC * 

Chapter 21:  Down Into the Darkness

       Elladan raised his head from rolling up his and Elrohir’s blankets, his dark eyes startled.  “What was that?” he asked, rising to his feet in one fluid, graceful movement.  Beside him, his brother paused in his work of brushing his stallion, and both his head and the horse’s canted to the side, four delicately pointed ears listening intently.

       “What was what?” Aragorn asked, taking the packet of foodstuffs Pippin held up to him and tying it to his horse.  Pippin stared up at him, puzzled.  “I didn’t hear anything.”

       “We did,” both Elves replied simultaneously, as they often did.  Elladan frowned, seeking movement on the flat landscape with his dark, clear-seeing eyes.  “A soft cry in the distance, I think.  Where is Merry?”

       “He went to wash in the river,” Elrohir supplied.  “I saw him –“

        Aragorn was already moving.  Throwing the reins to Pippin, the Ranger was racing towards the swift water, his long legs moving at a pace the hobbit could not hope to match.  Pippin hastily tied the reins to a nearby bush and ran after the Man as fast as his short legs would carry him.  Behind him, Inmara, also tied, twisted her head and expertly pulled her reins free.  Whirling on her haunches, the old mare followed her rider and the larger figure.  Elladan snatched for her flying reins but was not close enough; the twins could only watch as all three figures disappeared over the slight rise that separated their campsite from the swiftly-flowing water.

       The three other horses, the twin’s stallions and Aragorn’s gelding, sought to follow, herd-instinct demanding they go after the wise old mare.  “Catch them, brother!”  Elrohir cried, leaping towards the milling horses.  Elladan yanked his own stallion’s head down and caught the other’s headstalls, stopping the stampede with the weight of his body, the horses dragging him several yards before their training overruled their instincts. 

        Pippin paused at the top of the rise, all strength fleeing from his limbs.  Before his horrified eyes, he briefly saw the top of Merry’s water-soaked curls before they disappeared again in the frothy white of the river.  “Merry!” he screamed, his voice gone shrill with terror.  Merry twisted towards him and he saw his cousin’s white face for one instant before the great, rotted log bobbed over him, pushed by the swift current but still dragging one end on the sandy shore.  Merry resurfaced again, his back to them, small hands snatching desperately at the log.  But he could not gain a hold and with another dip, the log shook him off.  Merry went under again and this time did not come up.

       Aragorn plunged into the river with an inarticulate shout, the freezing water instantly turning the dark green suede of his leggings to black.  The shock of the frigid water momentarily slowed the Ranger, then he was moving again, plummeting full into the flow.  Sinking to the earth on strengthless legs, Pippin could only watch as the Man fought his way along the log and dove beneath the surface. 

      For long moments, there was no sign of man or hobbit.  Pippin was holding his breath; if Merry could not breathe, then neither could he.  They had not come up, either of them, he must do something.  Refusing to acknowledge that he had no chance against the swift waters well over his head, Pippin unfroze his limbs and ran to the edge of the water.  He had only just entered it when the Man’s dark head appeared above the water, and Merry…   Merry hung limply in his grasp, Aragorn’s arm around his chest.  He wasn’t moving and he didn’t appear to be breathing.

     “Inmara!  Inmara, to me!”  Aragorn shouted.  Pippin didn’t understand – what…  Then the mare plunged past him, her great body knocking the small hobbit backwards to the bank.  Aragorn was struggling along the length of the rotted log, hampered by Merry’s limp form.  ‘Raise your head, Merry,’ thought Pippin.  ‘Let me know you’re alive.  Merry, please…’

       The mare was struggling to answer Aragorn’s call.  Though small by elven standards, her great hindquarters bunched as she dug her hooves into the sandy river bottom and pushed herself forward.  Abandoning the log, Aragorn threw himself towards her, the swift water swirling about him, pushing him towards the center of the flow and the dark shapes of the jagged rocks there.  Inmara reared, her forequarters clearing the water, and leaped.  Aragorn caught her bridle just as the water swept his feet out from under him.  Momentarily lengthwise in the water, he rolled sideways to bring Merry’s limp form up above him.

       Inmara squealed in pain when their weight hit the end of her rein, but she did not give way.  The mare dug in her hindquarters, her neck stretched out in a straight line, and began to back in response to Aragorn’s soft, choking urgings.  “Good girl,” he gasped at her, “back up, back up, Inmara.  Back, back…”  Another mouthful of water silenced the Man but the mare continued to back, ears laid flat against her head in agony, pulling the two bedraggled forms with her.

        Aragorn was almost within touching distance of the shifting bottom when the log, unbalanced and now caught in the swift current, tore free of its precarious mooring and swung out into the flow.  The anchored end swung and caught the Ranger directly on the back, sweeping them both under.  Aragorn surfaced a moment later, shaking water from his hair, hands empty.  Remotely he heard Pippin scream on the bank, his eyes sweeping the water for Merry’s unconscious form.  He raised wide eyes to the frantic hobbit’s and followed Pippin’s shaking finger.  Turning, he was just in time to see Merry’s mop of blond curls disappearing around the bend.

       Elrohir thundered past him on the bank, his stallion’s long neck outstretched, following the small, bobbing figure.  The swift water had pressed Merry to the surface, feet first was he being pushed down the river.  Without saddle or bridle, the Elf crouched over the stallion’s straining flanks, the great hooves struggling to find purchase on the uncertain ground.  His knees drawn up, Elrohir tried to keep his weight forward over the stallion’s withers, using his weight to help the great animal find his footing in the shifting sand.  Aragorn shouted at him as he flew past and the Elf nodded, his dark gaze never leaving the bobbing form being swept before him.

       With a final shove, Inmara heaved herself up onto the banks, dragging Aragorn into the shallows where the hobbits had numbed their saddle-sore backsides the previous evening.  Pippin hooked his arms under the Ranger’s shoulders and managed to drag him half out of the water, fear lending the tweenager unaccountable strength.  Aragorn loosened the rein and pulled himself up beside Pippin, panting hoarsely.  The mare stood by them, head drooping, her great sides heaving from the effort. 

       Elladan appeared by their side and helped to pull the soaked Ranger free of the grasping water and onto the shore.  Delayed by having to calm the other two horses, he had not seen his brother in pursuit of Merry’s unconscious form.  “Where is the little one?” he called to Aragorn, who could only gesture a shaking arm towards the bend, his teeth chattering too much to reply. 

      Elladan started in pursuit, then his dark gaze returned to the shivering pair on the beach.  Swiftly he turned his stallion and pushed a bundle of blankets from his horse’s hindquarters, dropping them directly onto Aragorn.  “Estel, you must build a fire.  There is flint and tinder with the blankets.  Dry yourselves or the river will claim you yet.”  Still shaking too much to talk, Aragorn nodded and wrapped the first blanket around the trembling hobbit. 

     “I will go after them.”  Elladan’s dark eyes roved to the trembling tweenager.  “Do not fear, Pippin,” he added softly.  “We will bring him back.”  With that, the Elf dug his heels into the stallion’s sides and the two leaped away in pursuit. 

* * * * *

       “Sure is quiet ‘round here, ain’t it?”  Sam remarked with a soft, happy sigh.  The remaining hobbit population of Rivendell were relaxing in the small courtyard outside of Frodo’s room, tilting their heads back to feel the sun warm on their faces.  Bilbo and Frodo shared a bench against the sun-warmed wall and Sam sat at his ease on the ground between them, his knees drawn up comfortably and his hands busy examining the tiny white flowers that grew in the sheltered soil.   The flowers were unlike any the gardener had seen, like white lace laid against the dark soil, and he was carefully replanting the several he had eased from the earth to inspect their root systems.

       Neither of the two hobbits replied to Sam’s idle query, both sleepy and too full of luncheon to exert themselves overmuch.  Frodo yawned then winced as the movement pulled at the bruise on his face.  The cut above his eye was healing nicely but remained tender and Frodo was quite happy to sit and revel in the peace and tranquility. 

       “Delightful afternoon,” Bilbo confirmed eventually, after some time had passed in peaceful silence.  The old hobbit withdrew his pipe from his mouth and gently blew a series a smoke-rings, which the hobbits watch drift into the distance.   Seeing his nephew’s eyes fasten longingly on the pipe, Bilbo shook his head.  “Sorry, lad.  Not till Elrond says it’s all right.”

       Frodo sighed and nodded, content to sit in the sun.   “I hope Merry and Pippin are enjoying themselves,” he remarked after a while.

       Sam dusted off his hands and eased himself up on the bench between the two.  ‘Me too,’ he thought. “A long, long ways from ‘ere.’

       Bilbo yawned, then gently nudged Frodo across Sam.  “Come on, lad.  Time for your nap.  Mine, too, I think.”

       Frodo groaned and rolled his eyes.  “Really, Bilbo, that isn’t necessary.  I am quite all right – and quite tired of taking naps.  I want to be ready to meet the Company after tea in the Library.  Gandalf is going to explain our route to us.”

       “Then you’ll be more alert after a nap, won’t you?”  Bilbo was adamant.  “Tell you what, Frodo-lad.  I won’t ask you to take another after today if you’ll not give me an argument now.”

      Frodo sighed deeply but would never gainsay his beloved uncle.  “All right, Bilbo, all right.  Sam, you heard him say that, didn’t you?”

      “Aye, sir.  I’ll remind him o’ it, if necessary.”

      Heaving another deep sigh, Frodo dragged himself to his feet and trudged slump-shouldered into his room.  Bilbo and Sam stared after the dejected figure, then burst into stifled laughter.

* * * * *    

        Despite what Aragorn had thought as he crushed the hobbit to him, Merry was not completely unconscious.   He battled against the freezing water to retain the spark of awareness left in him, to spread his unresponsive arms sufficiently to float.  The log had caught him a solid blow across the brow as it bobbed above him, stunning him but not sending him into the cold blackness that would surely have resulted in drowning.  Like most of the Brandybucks living near the Brandywine River, Merry could swim, and swim well.  But his limbs would not obey him.  Fighting against the blackness that seemed to weight his mind and cloud his thoughts, he retained just enough wakefulness to stay on his back, head tilted into the water and chin and hips raised.

       He was not aware of much past the freezing water washing over his face and body.  Disjointed scenes flashed through his mind, Pippin’s shriek echoing to him from the shore, Aragorn’s arms like iron bands around him, then the rolling of the enormous log and he was adrift again, tumbling in the swift waters.   All was coldness that was dissolving into red-tinged darkness.  When his small body slammed against one of the jagged boulders in the swiftest part of the river, Merry knew only pressure, not pain.

       The tiny disjointed part of his mind that sat back to observe his own death commented that this was most likely a bad sign, and Merry agreed.  ‘I’m sorry, Pip,’ was his last coherent thought.  ‘I’m sorry, Frodo.  I’ve failed you.’

Chapter 22:  Astonishments and Embarrassments

       Frodo inhaled deeply, savoring the faint fragrance of sun-warmed dust and slightly musty paper that he always associated with books.  His promised nap and tea dispensed with, he had come to the Library well before the appointed meeting time just to browse through the shelves and delight in the uncounted books and scrolls and maps, running his hands along their bindings and enjoying their feel as if they were living things.  He could almost imagine them arching their leather-bound backs and purring like cats at his gentle, respectful attention.

       Samwise kept an eye on his master from the depths of one of the great chairs, content to take his ease and watch Frodo climb up and down the rolling ladders to admire the rows and rows of reading material.  Though Sam had been taught his letters by old Mr. Bilbo when he was a lad, Sam had always placed the joy of encouraging life under his calloused hands above intellectual delights.  The sturdy hobbit smiled now to see Frodo so absorbed that an occasional absent–minded gasp when he stretched his left arm was the only sign of the injury that had nearly taken his master’s life upon their arrival in Rivendell but three weeks before.

        Both hobbits turned towards one of the alcove doors at a loud rattle, followed by a thump.  The Master of Rivendell swept through, followed by a tall Elf unknown to them.  The unknown Elf turned and bent to lift the edge of a great wooden table, folded in half and rolling on small metal casters.  The other end was being pushed by the Wood-elf, Legolas.  Legolas raised his blond head and smiled at them around the table, then put his slender back under it and lifted it.  Muscles straining, the two Elves dragged and pushed the table on its cranky casters over the threshold and guided it to the center of the room.   Elrond dismissed the Elf with a nod of thanks, and the Elf bowed and took his leave.  Reaching up to unlatch a catch holding the two halves together, Elrond spread the table flat and Legolas swung one of the pivoting legs underneath it and locked it down.  The Elf-lord leaned over the great tableau, spreading his hands to place one on each side of the center partition, his ageless gaze both proud and sorrowful as he looked down upon the world.

       The table between the Elf-lord’s hands was a topographical map of Middle-earth, unlike any Frodo had ever heard of or seen.  Rather than just ink on paper, this map boasted tiny carved mountain ranges of tiger-eye and rivers of lapis lazuli and great lakes of crystal quartz, all cut to scale and embedded into the mahogany platform.  Cities and towns were marked by small gemstones; opals, pearls and moonstones for Elven habitations; topaz, garnets and aquamarines for cities of Men and Dwarves.  Forests were marked out in pale green enamel, studded with tiny peridot stones that much resembled a forest canopy.  Fascinated, Frodo climbed down the ladder and crowded close as Legolas and Sam moved to examine the opposite end. 

       The map-table was a wonder.  Folded out, the great flat table was large enough to seat a dozen Big Folk about it, and was detailed enough that every significant mountain range or lake or geographic feature was represented in scale to itself and to Middle-earth.  Next to each feature was written its name in fine elvish script, then repeated in Westron.   The writing was inlaid in the truesilver of Dwarven-kind, precious mithril.  All present were struck dumb with amazement. 

        Fashioned for those of Elven height, the hobbits could not see much of the map beyond its edges.  Sam watched as his master’s slender hand located the Shire, then retraced their route to Rivendell.  Sam edged closer when Frodo’s hand began to shake over the small conical hill of carven marble marked “Weathertop,” but Frodo rallied and the hand glided quickly on.

       “It is a marvel,” Frodo breathed, stroking the beautifully-carven edge, his face alight.  “Never have I seen the like.”

      Elrond nodded.  “It is one of my most treasured possessions.  Many years of map-making expeditions of Men and Elves have gone into its making.  See, we stand here,” and his long finger indicated the single perfect diamond that represented the Last Homely House.  “Areas close to Imladris, from the west of the world to the east, are well-represented.”

      The Elf-lord’s eyes darkened as his gaze moved further east.   The easternmost lands were shaped of unpolished obsidian, laced with spiky outcroppings of hematite.  Mount Doom stood alone far within the borders of the Black Lands, represented by a single glowing crystal of red tourmaline.  The late afternoon sun streaming through the windows seemed to catch and glint on the ruby-toned gemstone, commanding their attention and sobering their souls.  His ageless gaze upon the crystal, Elrond said softly “But of Mordor, it shows little.”

      “Perhaps we will be able to add to it, should our Quest lead us there,” put in a rough voice from the door, and those already present turned to behold Gandalf, staff in hand, with Boromir and Gimli at his side.  The wizard glanced around the landform map.  “Since those of us who are not gone with Aragorn are accounted for,” he continued, “shall we begin?”

* * * * *

       Merry was dimly annoyed that pain should be allowed to follow him past death.  Pain shouldn’t be permitted after one died, he thought resentfully.  It wasn’t fair.  Then the pain abruptly intensified and he cried out.

       “Shhh, Merry, it is all right,” a soft voice said above him.  The hobbit thought that was patently ridiculous; being dead certainly wasn’t all right.  Odd how the soft voice sounded like Elrohir.  And what business did a voice have, however soft, talking to him after he had died?

       Merry cranked his eyes open painfully.  Above him drifted a dark blob, which to his blinking eyes slowly resolved itself into the dark-haired head and shoulders of an Elf.  Merry clung stubbornly to the idea that he had died, but when Elrohir tried to lift him, the hobbit was forced to acknowledge that he lived by the pain that slashed through his side and right arm.    Another cry was torn from him and gentle hands stroked his face before returning to carefully pressing along his body and limbs.  He coughed then gagged as his stomach sought to expel the half of the river he had swallowed.  The gentle hands turned him swiftly onto his side, but the movement was too much, and as water gushed from his mouth, he fainted.

        “Hobbits are remarkably tough,” someone was saying.  Merry wanted to disagree but it seemed too much effort.  “The freezing water actually kept the bleeding to a minimum and I have no doubt it dulled the pain of his arm.  The ribs are badly bruised but are not broken.  That long scrape on his broken arm will be very sore as the skin grows back over it.  He must have dragged it over one of the boulders.  Pippin, would you please move back a little?”

       Again Merry fought and won the battle to force his eyes open.  Pippin’s sharp nose hovered perhaps an inch from his own as his younger cousin tried to peer into Merry’s blurring eyes.  “He’s awake!” Pippin announced, withdrawing his curly head from Aragorn’s way.  “Oi!  Are you all right, Cousin?”

       Struggling to focus, Merry drew breath for a reply then abruptly gagged again.  Pippin hastily scooted further back.  Strong hands were lifting him and turning him towards the ground, but other than a few wrenching chokes, nothing more came out of his abused stomach.  The hands lowered him again then moved to wipe his face with a soft cloth.

       Shifting his gaze to the left, Merry saw that Elrohir crouched by his side while Elladan slowly walked the horses, their sides and muzzles flecked with foam.  Elrohir’s great stallion was wet up to his withers, the water darkening his silver-gray hide to burnished pewter.  That left Aragorn holding him.  Merry rolled his eyes upwards and confirmed that hypothesis, and saw the Ranger smile as their gazes met.

       “It seems you will live, Merry.”  One of the large hands left his shoulder and traveled before his eyes.  “How many fingers do you see?”

      “Four,” Merry managed.  “Now two.  Three – I am all right, Strider.”

      “Thank Elbereth for that,” the Ranger returned.  “How did you fall into the river?”

      “I was trying to catch some trout for breakfast,” the hobbit replied somewhat crossly, absently trying to stretch out his right arm.  Aragorn caught it before Merry could move.

      “Your arm is broken, Merry.  Don’t move it.  It is a clean break of one of the small bones above the wrist.  I will splint it and it will heal nicely.  You are missing a good patch of skin on that arm and have bruised ribs, but you were very lucky.”

      Elladan joined them; finished with cooling the horses, he had staked their tie-ropes to the ground as there were no bushes on which to fasten their reins.  “I will go back and fetch the rest of our supplies,” he offered, his dark eyes on the Man and hobbit.  “Both of you need to dry off and be warm.  Brother, will you build a fire?”

       With a nod, Elrohir rose and began to drag over some of the large pieces of driftwood that littered the shore of this new campsite.  To Merry’s gratitude, Aragorn remained seated, holding the hobbit cradled against him.  Someone (the twins, Merry assumed) had wrapped blankets around them both, but he was slowly becoming aware of the discomfort of soaked clothes and his hurts were beginning to clamor for more of his attention.      

       “We need a splint for the arm,” murmured Aragorn.  “One with a cross-piece to keep the bandages off that scrape.”  The Man’s hands roamed gently over the injury and Merry gritted his teeth, determined to make no sound.  “Pippin, will you look along the bank and bring me two straight pieces of wood, one shorter than the other, that can be bound together?”

       Reluctant to leave his cousin, Pippin quickly scoured the shore looking for appropriate driftwood.  He found none.  The only pieces of wood available were either too large or too heavy, smaller pieces being swept along in the swift flow of the river.  Returning without finding suitable sticks of wood, Pippin crouched anxiously by Merry’s side and tugged on Aragorn’s surcoat.

       “I can’t find anything, Strider.  We’ll have to use something else.  Maybe your long knife and a couple of small stones to hold off the cloth?”

       Aragorn examined the two small round river-stones Pippin had brought.  “No, too heavy, Pippin.  Merry cannot have such weight dragging on that arm.  I do not want to leave the arm unbound, the bone is too likely to shift…”

      “Half a moment,” Pippin called.  “I’ll be right back!”  Returning to the pile of supplies dumped there upon the rest of the scouting party’s arrival, Pippin upended his pack and unceremoniously dumped its entire contents onto the ground.  Aragorn could only see his posterior waving in the air as Pippin knelt and dug into the pile.  Then he saw the little one sit back on his haunches and raise something in triumph.

       “No,” said Merry.  “Absolutely not.  I would rather lose the arm –“

       “Don’t be foolish, Merry,” Aragorn said sternly, fighting to control his expression.  “That will work excellently, Pippin.  It is quite hard and yet light.  Meriadoc, hold still.  Hold still!”  Ignoring the hobbit’s furious protests, the Ranger bound Pippin’s disreputable bread sculpture to Merry’s small forearm, laying the length of it against the arm and carefully wrapping the bandages so that the raised section held itself clear of the raw, abraded scrape.       Pippin observed this process with great interest, ignoring the continuous stream of groans and mutterings from his older cousin.  “Wait till I tell everyone how useful my sculpture was, Merry!  Won’t they all be surprised?  And you wanted me to throw it away!”   Completely mortified, Merry ducked his head and wished he had drowned. 

Chapter 23:  In Rivendell and in the Wild

       The new morning brought with it a sobering realization.  Outside the glassless windows, birds sang and Imladris’ waterfalls roared and foamed in the distance.  Autumn leaves continued their ballet to the ground.  But the hobbit did not hear the songs of bird and dancing water, did not see the beauty that surrounded him.  Frodo sat up in bed and pulled in his knees, wrapping his arms about them.  ‘Ringbearer,’ he thought.  ‘I am to bear this evil thing across the width of Middle-earth.  I am not to allow any other to touch it, save the Company, and then only at great need.  And on the other side of the world, I am perhaps to climb a fire mountain and throw it into the pit from whence it came.’  Across the knees, the small knuckles tightened on each other until they strained white.  The vision of Elrond’s beautiful landform map rose in Frodo’s mind.  So far.  He hadn’t known it was so far. 

         And to destroy it…  Unbidden, the Ringbearer’s hand rose to cradle the small cold circlet of gold.  Destroy it.  Yes, of course it had to be destroyed.  A great part of the Enemy’s power was bound into the Ring.  It was evil.  Of course.  But…  Suddenly Frodo became aware of how tightly his hand clutched the Ring, pressing it to his breast.  With a surge of rage, he clasped it tighter, to tear the silver chain from his throat and cast the vile object from him.  No!  He had given his word.  He had promised. 

      “Master?”

      If he were forsworn, who else would step forward in his place?  None of the others would undertake this thing.  Oh yes, they would take it … but it would corrupt them and own them, and they would turn it over to the Enemy.  It would be the end of all hope…

       “Mr. Frodo?”

       The world would be cast into death and darkness, if he failed.  No other could do this and it was so far and he so small…

       A strong hand clasped the hobbit’s right shoulder and squeezed tightly.  Frodo raised his clouded gaze to stare into concerned grey eyes, framed by a much-loved round face and sandy hair.  Frodo raised his hand and covered Sam’s with it.  “I’m all right, Sam,” the Ringbearer whispered.  “I am all right.”

* * * * *

      The Lord of Rivendell had requested that Gandalf join him for breakfast, to discuss pressing matters concerning the Fellowship.  The Elf-lord’s fine nostrils arched in distaste as the wizard lifted the cover from one of the steaming dishes and forked several fat sausages onto his plate, sizzling and popping in their own juice.  Fully aware of Elrond’s dislike of such fare, Gandalf snorted at the sliced fruit, bread and delicate cheeses that comprised elven breakfasts, pleased to have the opportunity to tweak his old friend’s sensibilities.

       “I hope you are feeding Frodo more than fruit and cheese, Elrond,” Gandalf said, ostentatiously taking a huge bite of sausage.  “He’ll never regain his strength on fare such as that.”

       Elrond sliced his apple delicately and took a small bite.  “The Ringbearer grows in strength daily, Gandalf, despite what you insist he eat.  He still needs to put back some weight and his appetite has not improved to my satisfaction.  Nevertheless, I judge him ready to begin his training.”

      The wizard paused, another bite of sausage halfway to his mouth.  “With Merry and Pippin gone?” 

       “I am certain that Estel is lessoning them, as occasion provides.  Frodo and Samwise might do better with a few days’ start on those younger, more energetic halflings.  I will not have them run him ragged.”

       The wizard nodded.  “What more needs to be prepared?”

       Elrond leaned back in his chair to consider, dark eyes thoughtful.  “The young prince of Mirkwood has completed the bows and is now working on a good supply of arrows.  It remains to be seen if the hobbits are able to draw them.  He says he will also teach them knife-work.  The Dwarf has overseen the casting of light armor for them and is personally forging a variety of small weapons, in the hopes that some will suit.”  The deep wells of knowledge and memory that were the Elf-lord’s eyes warmed for a moment.  “My foundry-master is most pleased to work with a Dwarf.  I think he has already learned much he did not know of metal-work, though he would not say it.”  Then the dark, ageless eyes turned serious again.  “Gimli says he must have the little ones here to see which, if any, of the small weapons can be wielded by them.”  The Elf-lord sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose.  “I am not hopeful.”

       Gandalf grimaced; he harbored his own reservations about teaching the hobbits weapons-work. 

       “The Man, Boromir, is ready to teach them the basics of sword-play,” Elrond continued.  “He wished to examine their swords but the little ones took them with them.  Boromir has carved several wooden practice swords of various weights, and will begin teaching Frodo and Sam footwork and defense.  He wishes to teach them attack, but I think that is folly.”

       Gandalf looked at his old friend intently.  “Folly?  Why?”

       “The halflings would have little chance against a larger, stronger opponent, Gandalf,” the Elf-lord said.  “And almost any enemy they face will be larger and stronger.  I do not want them to become over-confident.  Given the choice, they should flee instead of fight.”

       “Merry won’t like that,” commented the wizard.  “There’s the making of a warrior in that one.  Most unnatural in a hobbit.”

     The Elf-lord did not smile at the wizard’s weak jest.  “I hope that those young hobbits will never be forced to defend their cousin, but if it comes to that, they must understand that the Ringbearer’s life is to come before theirs.”

      Sadly, Gandalf nodded slowly.

* * * * *

        Merry was certain he had not ached so the previous day.  Aragorn had insisted that he drink some powder the Ranger had brought with him in a medicinal kit out of Rivendell, and the resultant tea had rendered the young hobbit groggy and unfocused.  He had slept away the remainder of the day in little awareness.  Well, Merry reflected to himself, at least he had more sympathy for all those vile tonics and teas Elrond kept forcing down Frodo. 

       Merry had been ordered to lie still and quiet this morning, and the young hobbit was already bored.  Every bump and bruise the river had given him seemed magnified in the cold morning light, and his arm threatened to stab if he even breathed too deeply.  He glared down at Pippin’s humiliating sculpture but could not fault its support.  The bread sculpture’s minimal weight did not aggravate his broken arm yet held it firmly.  Oddly, the scrape hurt worse than the broken bone, did he not move – it burned as if a brand had been held against his skin.  Merry shifted his arm carefully, testing the degree of movement permitted him in the sling Aragorn had devised.  At least all the bandages and the sling hid the shape of the stupid thing.

       He had grown tired of examining the great forest stands that Aragorn had named the northern treeharbors.  Trees were all very well in their place, but he was not allowed to wander among them and any climbing of them was certainly out of the question.  The treeharbors were very different from the Old Forest near his home … the trees were younger and did not seem so hostile.  With a pang that caught him off-guard and tore a choke from his throat, Merry suddenly missed Buckland with every fiber of his being.

       Elladan gave him a sympathetic look as the Elf glided by carrying nose-bags for the horses.  No doubt the Elf thought he’d moved incautiously.  Merry felt no desire to enlighten Elladan that he was homesick.  Furiously scrubbing at his eyes with his good hand, the hobbit forced his thoughts back to the present.  Or, more accurately, the previous day.

        After Merry and Aragorn had dried off and Merry’s hurts attended, the hobbit had insisted on thanking Inmara personally.  He had stood (with Pippin’s help) and gone to stand before her, thanking her formally with all the bearing and courtesy taught him as the future Master of Buckland.  The wise old mare had listened to him graciously, her delicate pointed ears forward, then lowered her head and gently, very gently, butted him in the chest.

       Aragorn had decided against sending her home, though the hobbits would ride with he and Elladan and Elrohir.  With one of their number hurt, the Ranger would not lose so valuable a resource to the scouting party.  Merry suspected that Aragorn feared they might need the old mare for a travois, should one of them be injured beyond the ability to ride.  Inmara knew the pulling of such a stretcher, as the stallions of Elrond’s sons and Aragorn’s gelding did not. 

       “Merry!  Look, Merry!  Aragorn taught me to make a snare!  I caught a rabbit!”  Pippin bounced into camp with the Ranger not far behind, hiding a smile on his stern features.   The tweenager waved the limp, furry form under his cousin’s nose and Merry had to fight back a sneeze.

      “He did very well,” the Ranger said, and Pippin’s sharp face lit with pride.

      “Don’t worry about not helping with the hunting, Merry,” the youngster assured his older cousin, “I’ll take care of catching dinner from now on!”  Pippin’s countenance dimmed slightly when Elladan handed him the skinning knife and silently pointed at the cookpot, already simmering over the fire.

       The Ranger’s amused eyes regarded the young hobbit.  “Another lesson in living in the Wild, Pippin.  If you catch it … you cook it.”

       Merry smiled and congratulated his cousin, his eyes on Aragorn as the Man drifted over to Elladan.  The two were standing with heads close together, turned away from the hobbits.  With the ease of long practice, Merry tuned out Pippin’s chattering explanation of the fashioning and laying of a snare as he struggled to overhear the soft conversation.  Aragorn was measuring something with his hands and Elladan nodded, both of their faces dark.   If he leaned back a little, the slight breeze might just carry their words to him…

       “Elrohir has not returned yet?” Aragorn was asking.

       “No, Estel.  If he too found evidence of large numbers of marching Men, he may have tracked them farther.”

        “I would wish that he spoke to me before setting out on more than a day’s ride.   The sign that I saw was not of ordered companies, but rag-tag groups of ill-trained men.  They marched not together but in stumbling groups, casting aside gear as it burdened them, soiling the earth on which they walked.  Yet they moved at a swift pace, and there were very many of them.”

       “Could you tell their destination?  Isengard, or further East?”

       “I could not tell without trailing them for many leagues.  Recruiters from both towers have moved among the malcontents and criminals and layabouts of the towns and cities of Men, promising gold in return for service.  There are many such who would sell their allegiance in return for the spoils of war; gold, plunder and women.   Such as these may serve to weaken and weary us while trained and competent troops ready themselves.”

      “A dark assessment, brother.”

      “Dark times, brother.”

       For Merry, the day passed slowly.  His arm and the bruises on his ribs set up a steady throbbing ache that exhausted him and Aragorn made him drink another cup of the vile tea.  Pippin set snares about the entire camp and walked into one himself, prompting a shrill, stifled shriek that woke Merry out of what little rest he had managed to win.  Brusquely, Aragorn ordered the tweenager to disarm the snares.

       Despite the slowness of his thoughts, Merry did not fail to notice that at least one of the Big Folk stayed in camp at all times.  His face burned to think that he and Pippin were being guarded, that his injury had made them a burden to Aragorn and the twins.  Instead of carrying their weight on this trip, he and Pippin had become a weight, holding the others back from the work they needed to do.

       Elladan rode out sometime during that indeterminable day and came back after many hours, his fair features set and strained.  Both the Elf and the Man took to standing at the place Elrohir had ridden from, shading their eyes with their hands and staring into the distance.  But Elrohir did not return.  Twilight darkened into evening, and the stars shone like scattered diamonds on the blanket of night.  Elrohir did not return.

Chapter 24:  Mysteries and Accidents

      Frodo edged back warily, hoping that Sam did not notice.  Sam did not.  Even that automatic part of his mind that kept track of his master’s movements was focused on this effort.  Sweat beaded in Samwise’s sandy hair and ran down into his eyes.  Back straining, Sam felt like his arms were being torn from their sockets.  His fingers had gone totally numb, passing through one side of pain and out the other.

      Frodo winced in sympathy.  He had tried the bow first, gritting his teeth against the immediate agony in his shoulder.  Lord Elrond had appeared from nowhere and ordered him to put it down, saying his healing wound could not yet stand such strain.  Legolas had agreed with the Elf-lord, and the bow had been passed to an apprehensive Sam. 

       Rolling his shoulder, Frodo had stepped back to stand by the two Elves.  The Elf-lord had required him to remove his cloak and jacket, then unbuttoned his waistcoat and eased back the shirt to examine the wound.  Blood pulsed beneath the ugly livid scar but it had not torn open.  Frodo sighed in relief as Elrond’s cool hands stroked over the wound, reducing the ache with only his touch.  “You were fortunate, Master Frodo,” Elrond said, his dark eyes relieved.  “For this day and two more, you will not attempt the bow.”

        The small party of Elves and hobbits stood in one of the many forest clearings of Imladris, surrounded by trees brilliant in their autumn glory.  Rays of sun sparkled through the thick foliage and highlighted leaves of crimson and gold, turning the small clearing into a montage of color.  A small stream meandered past, collecting more sparkles from the sun and reflecting them back into the leafy boughs.  A rough hay-stuffed sack had been placed in the near distance, this their intended target.  Though there were fine archers among hobbits, hobbits hunted nothing for sport that lived.  Only once in their long history had had they taken up bows for war.  Long, long ago the Shirefolk had sent a company of bowhobbits to Fornost to join the battle against the Witch-lord of Angmar … but no annuals of Men recorded it and few now remembered it.

       These thoughts were passing through the Ringbearer’s mind as he watched Sam struggle to hold his stance, to keep his back straight and his arms stiff as the Wood-elf demanded.  Legolas had refused to let them shoot; first, he said, they must learn the discipline required to simply hold the weapon.  Frodo stooped and picked up another of the four bows the Wood-elf had carved, admiring the white wood of their make and the delicate yet strong frame.  The nocked ends were tipped with silver and a faint pattern of leaves and winding branches were carved up their length.

       Frodo had never handled a bow, nor had Merry or Pippin.  Gentlehobbits generally did not, as those of gentle birth did not do the manual labor of hunting.  Such work was for the lower classes.  Sam was starting to tremble now, his bow arm jumping despite his resolution to hold it still.  Seeing this, the Wood-elf relented.

      “Very good, Master Samwise,” Legolas said.  “You may relax your pull.  Slowly now – no!”  With a groan of relief, Sam had dropped his stance and released the bowstring.  With the recoil of a striking snake, the taut string snapped against the unprotected forearm with all the violence of a whiplash.

        Sam howled and dropped the bow, dancing around in a circle with his other hand clamped around the welt.  “Shumpt!  Argghhrah!  Ow!” the sturdy hobbit yowled, struggling to stifle the invectives that rose to his lips as he hopped up and down, tears starting from his eyes at the agonizing pain.

       “Sam!  Sam, are you all right?”  Frodo caught the injured arm and afraid of blundering into his master, Sam fought to control himself.  Lord Elrond took advantage of Sam’s relative stillness to peel back the hobbit’s sleeve and examine the brilliantly-red and rapidly rising welt, bruising forming in just the seconds that had passed.

       “Legolas, would you please dip Samwise’s cloak in the stream and wrap it around his arm?” the Elf-lord asked, his gentle but commanding voice easily overriding Sam’s gasps and Frodo’s comforting murmurs.  The Elf complied quickly and Sam groaned in relief as the cloak, icy from the snow-borne waters, was wrapped around the injury.

       “Sorry, master.  Sorry Legolas, Lord Elrond.  Me arm’s much better now,” Sam growled when he had regained the use of his voice.

       “It is my fault, Master Samwise,” the Wood-Elf said worriedly, his clear eyes crinkled and worried as he examined the welt.  “I should have told you beforehand what would happen should you simply drop your stance.  Are you certain you are not injured?”

       Sam was not at all certain, but the pain was dropping to manageable levels and was being replaced by embarrassment.  “Not your fault, sir,” he gasped.  “I should have known.  Me older brother uses a bow, but I never have.  Just didn’t think, I guess.”

       Frodo hung by his side anxiously, still grasping the injured arm, and the cloak was dripping icy water on them both.  “That is enough bow-practice for today,” the Elf-lord informed them sternly.  “Please go and dry yourselves before you catch cold.  Master Samwise, I will be by shortly to administer a poultice.  Keep that cloak around your arm until I arrive.”

         Red-faced, Sam allowed Frodo to pull him away.  Despite his dismay at the morning’s unfortunate turn of events, the Elf-lord’s dark eyes warmed with amusement to see the slight figure of the Ringbearer sheparding his sturdy friend, alternating between concerned scoldings and worriedentreaties, as the two disappeared into the House.

* * * * *

       “Are we going to go look for him?” Merry asked, his blue eyes seeking Aragorn’s as the Man leaned over him to check his broken arm.   The Ranger did not reply immediately, taking his time in examining the break.  At last he carefully laid Pippin’s hated sculpture along the limb and rewrapped the bandages, letting the petrified dough take the stress of holding the arm straight.

       “Hobbits heal very quickly, it seems,” Aragorn replied.  “Your arm is coming along nicely, Merry.  The scrape has scabbed over.  Does it ache much?”

        “Not nearly as much as yesterday.  Aragorn, what about Elrohir?”

       Seeing that the hobbit would not be put off, Aragorn sighed and sank down on his knees.  Pippin crouched by his side, monitoring the Man’s inspection and adding his own somewhat unhelpful comments.  Now the youngster looked anxiously between his elders and turned worried eyes to Elladan, who was silently brushing the horses, the only sign of his fear for his missing twin the unnatural woodenness of movement that had replaced his usual fluid grace.

       “We are not,” Aragorn replied at length.  “Elladan and I will go.  You and Pippin will stay here and wait for us.”

       “Aragorn, no,” both protested, but the Man overrode them.  “Merry, that arm may not hurt much now, but a few hours of riding will make it ache unbearably.  No, no jostling for another few days.”

       “But -”

       “No, Merry.  You would only slow us.”  The Ranger hid his regret at the flinch of pain in the young halfling’s eyes.  “We might have to ride fast and hard.  You two are not yet hardened to the saddle.  I am sorry, but you must stay here.”

       Pippin would have argued further, but Merry laid his good hand on his cousin’s arm and hushed him.  “Strider’s right, Pip.  We … we will stay here.”

      With a nod, Aragorn rose and went to Elladan, helping the Elf pack the horses.  His own gelding snorted and sought to catch his master’s sleeve, the tension in the camp evident even to the animals.  Inmara was staked next to the gelding, ears pricked forward as she listened to the exchange.  Aragorn paused before swinging himself up into the saddle, his eyes on the two young halflings.

       “Pippin,” he said seriously, “take care of Merry.  Don’t let him use that arm.  If we do not return tonight, do not be concerned.  If we do not return by tomorrow’s eve, you two are to return to Rivendell.  Inmara knows the way.  Do you understand?”

      The two glanced at each other and this time, Pippin replied for them both.  “Yes, Strider, we understand.  What are we to tell Lord Elrond if we return without you?”

      The Ranger was silent for a moment.  “Tell him we are tracking Elrohir, and we three will return as soon as we may.  Tell him we have found sign of many Men moving East, companies of ill-trained, ill-equipped service-for-hire mercenaries.  No sign of Orcs, contrary to previous reports.  He will need to know this.”

       Pippin and Merry climbed forlornly to their feet and stood by Inmara as they watched the Man and the Elf ride off.   Inmara stood silently at the end of her tie-line, great soft brown eyes alert as she watched them leave.  Merry sighed deeply and wrapped his good arm around Pippin.  Both felt a warm nose gently tickling their curls as the wise old mare gave them comfort in her own manner. 

* * * * *

       Two hours later, Aragorn crouched on the grassy slope and ran his hands over the faint marks of a shod horse, a day old.  The Ranger had picked up Elrohir’s trail not far from the riverbank, and followed it along the swift water since.  Elladan, still mounted, watched as his foster brother bent his nose to within inches of the hoof-marks, then rocked back on his heels to shade his eyes with a hand and stare off into the distance. 

     “The tracks start to lengthen here,” Aragorn mused, his voice almost inaudible but well within the range of elven-hearing.  “See how the distance between the forward and rear hooves increases?  The rear hooves are deeper … more weight is placed on his haunches as the stallion gathers himself to run.  Elrohir kicked his horse into a gallop.”  The Ranger rose, his mien puzzled and blue-grey eyes searching.  “What did he see that prompted such urgency?   He would never mistreat his stallion without great need.  What was he doing?”

       Elladan had no answers for him.  For a moment the two stared at each other, then Aragorn swung himself upon his gelding’s back and the two broke into a trot, the Ranger leaning over his horse’s withers, eyes on the ground, following the marks of desperate haste.

* * * * *

        “Better now, lad?”  Bilbo’s brown eyes were concerned and Sam felt warmed and yet embarrassed by the old hobbit’s concern.  He nodded wordlessly; he wasn’t used to having both his master and Mr. Bilbo fuss over him, and it didn’t feel right.  The Master of Rivendell hid a smile at the young gardener’s discomfort, ageless eyes carefully dispassionate as he bound the herbal bandage to the angry-looking welt.  Though not serious, the injury would be painful for several days.  The icy water had cooled the fierce burning and Sam released a final breath, letting the pain wash from him as the virtue of the herbs took effect.

         “Aye, sir, much better.  Thank you, Lord Elrond.”  Sam lifted his arm and examined the bandaged-wrapped limb, his face tightening as the skin pulled when he rotated the forearm.  “I feel right stupid, lettin’ the bowstring catch me like that.”

       The Elf-lord nodded and gathered up his medicinal supplies.  “We should have taken into account your unfamiliarity with such weapons, young hobbit.  Now that we are forewarned, I am sure that Legolas will explain the techniques more fully as he teaches you knife-work.”

      “Knife-work?” echoed three hobbit voices.

      The Elf-lord raised dark eyes to regard them.  “Legolas and Glorfindel will instruct you.  Will two hours after midday at the practice-ground be convenient?”

       Frodo and Sam nodded, momentarily wordless.  The Elf-lord returned their nods and rose, honoring them with a short bow before departing.  The three sat in silence for some minutes, Sam absently fingering the poultice, the sweet smell of orris root clinging to his fingers. 

         “A fine mess we got ourselves inta, Mr. Frodo,” he muttered, leaning back.  “A fine mess.”

* * * * *

        Aragorn swung down off his gelding at a small eddy along the riverbank, Elladan pulling up silently beside him.  The ground was churned here, horse-hoofs mingling with the lighter track of booted feet.  But it was not the telltale signs of a rider that had first captured the Ranger’s attention.  Something dark bobbed in the current there, half-submerged, caught by the pressure of the water and forced close to shore.  Dark fabric ballooned on the shimmering surface of the water, its color darkened almost to black by the icy flow.   Exchanging a glance of dread with his foster brother, Aragorn waded into the numbing waters and buried his hands in the thick cloak that drifted entangled in the river.

Chapter 25:  An Old Hobbit’s Wisdom

         Luncheon was a subdued affair, the hobbits preferring trays to joining the rest of Rivendell when the chimes rang.  Sam’s welt had receded somewhat and a large, blood-laced bruise was taking its place.  He kept peeking under the bandage to chart the growing bruise’s progress.  Frodo watched him anxiously and offered repeatedly to help him cut up his food, which embarrassed the poor hobbit mightily.

        Bilbo stayed with them after lunch instead of departing for his usual afternoon nap, his brown eyes introspective as he watched his nephew rubbing his shoulder and Sam favoring his arm.  Shaking his head and muttering under his breath, the old hobbit trailed after them as Frodo and Sam dragged themselves to their feet to meet Legolas and Glorfindel at the practice-ground for their first knife-fighting lesson.

       The Elves had arrived before them and upon a cloth on the ground was spread a variety of sharp-bladed knives, ranging from stilettos to leaf-bladed daggers.  There was even a small bodice-dagger, made to fit discretely into a lady’s undergarment that Legolas had obtained from somewhere.  (Bilbo reminded himself to ask the Wood-elf about that later.)  Looking over the glittering display, the old hobbit understood that Legolas and Glorfindel had collected many knives in the hopes that one or two would suit.  Frodo and Samwise looked at the array silently, but Bilbo saw apprehension dawn in their eyes.

        Lord Elrond was also present, sitting at his ease on a small folding chair and sorting through a medical kit, several rolls of bandages at his feet.  Bilbo exchanged a smile with his old friend and went to join him, lowering himself stiffly at the Elf-lord’s side.  Bilbo observed that Frodo’s naturally fair complexion went a shade paler as he took in the needles and stitching-thread that Elrond held in preparation.

         “Ready, then?”  Glorfindel smiled to relax the two, but Frodo and Sam did not seem reassured.  “First, let me explain the basics to you.  If you must defend yourself with a knife, the goal is not to kill your opponent but to cripple him so that you may make your escape.”  The Elf selected a long knife from the cloth and held it before him, low and centered before his body.  One foot behind him in almost a fencer’s stance, he demonstrated the proper moves, shifting with a grace to which the hobbits could not aspire.  Then the two hobbits each chose a knife and sought to imitate him.

       “No, Sam.  Turn the blade so that it enters the body horizontally.  A vertical thrust might result in the blade catching on your enemy’s ribs, possibly grounding the knife and preventing its removal.”  Sam tried again, a quick thrust-and-withdraw with the blade flat.  Glorfindel nodded his approval.  “Good.  Now keep that up, remembering to extend your arm and keep your body out of reach.”

       Frodo was doing well under Legolas’ tutelage.  The Ringbearer quickly grasped his instructions and instinctively understood the steps that kept a knife-fight such a blur of motion.  Close kin to a dance, such a fight required attributes that Frodo already possessed; speed, sure-footedness, the ability to think quickly and bravery. 

      Yet all, including the two trainees, could see that it would ever be an unequal contest.  Though both Frodo and Sam learned rapidly, their speed and natural agility could not compensate for their short reaches.  What good quickness if they could not get within scoring distance?

       Their instructors saw it also.  Legolas shook his head, perspiration barely dampening his fair face.  “You folk must not seek to close with an enemy.  A quick strike and escape is your only hope.  If followed, strike again and again.  Perhaps blood-loss will weaken your opponent.”

       “This isn’t working, Elrond,” Bilbo said quietly over the thuds and pants of the dueling pairs.  The Elves were very careful of their small students, their attention ever on keeping the sharp blades away from unprotected flesh.  Watching them, the old hobbit shook his gray head as Sam slipped, his hairy toes digging into the soft earth for balance.  Glorfindel caught his arm and steadied him, and both took a moment to regain their breath.  “Hobbits aren’t warriors.  We never were.”

       “Yet what else can we do, old friend?  Those young ones must survive this Quest, if Middle-earth is not to be given over into darkness.”  The Elf-lord’s dark eyes were strained as he followed the action before him.  Both watchers’ eyes were drawn to Sam as the hobbit took a short cut along the hand, gasping as the red line spread and began to drip.  Glorfindel instantly lowered his knife and clasped his hand around the small wound, applying pressure while Sam gritted his teeth.

        Bilbo was silent for a moment, seeking to voice the thoughts that had been growing in his mind.  “Frodo must depend on you Big Folk to defend him.  I agree that there are things my lad must learn, but not this, Elrond, not killing…”

      The Elf-lord’s deep eyes moved to the old hobbit.  “And would you have them unable to defend themselves?”

      Bilbo bridled slightly.  “Hobbits aren’t defenseless, Elrond.  We’ve taken care of ourselves for a long time.  But this way of fighting … it isn’t our way.  Let Frodo and the Sam show you our way of fighting.”

       Elrond’s dark brows raised.  “Very well, my friend.  Proceed.”

       “That’s enough, lads!”  Bilbo struggled to his feet, his call halting the practice.  The two Elves looked to him, as did the hobbits.  Sam shook his hand, the small cut stinging but of little consequence.

       “Frodo, my lad, I was just telling Elrond about our ways.  Sam, would you please run back to Frodo’s rooms and fetch your slings?”  Sam did, a grin sparkling in his grey eyes as he returned.  Wordlessly, he handed Frodo’s to him and ran his hands over the familiar wood of his.

       “Slings are very practical, Elrond,” Bilbo continued.   “Arrows break, warp, get lost and have to be made.  Stones are everywhere.  Not that we really need slings…  Show him, Sam-lad.”

      “See that little rock over there, sir?  The one broken in half?  Will the left side suit?”

      “Admirably, Sam.  Fire away.”

       In an amazingly quick movement, Sam stooped and selected a stone.  A small shower of dust erupted from the left side of the halved stone as a ‘ping’ rang out at the same moment.

      Bilbo nodded, satisfied.  “Now you, Frodo.  Take that hanging branch off that tree there.” 

      Elrond followed the old hobbit’s pointing finger.  “Bilbo, that is too far.  You would need an arrow –“

      With a sharp crack! the broken branch swung violently and dropped to the earth.  The Elves had not even seen the stone fly.  Frodo smiled and lowered the sling.

      “A small, sharp stone thrown with such force can be a weapon in itself,” Bilbo continued in a lecturing tone to the astonished Elves.  “If any hobbit stoops for a stone, it is well to get quickly under cover, as all trespassing beasts know very well.  We may not be as enamored of weapons of war as Men – and Elves – are, but hobbits can take care of themselves.  We have had to fight to maintain ourselves in a hard world,” the old hobbit continued in a softer voice, “but no hobbit will seek out battle.”

        Bilbo reached out and took the long knife from Frodo’s grasp, the younger hobbit surrendering it to him carefully.  Bilbo turned it over in his hands, his old eyes sorrowful.   “We’ve never sought glory in war or dominion over others.  The green fields are enough for us, the warm sun … the smell of pipe-weed drifting on the evening breeze.”  Bilbo raised his eyes to the Elf-lord’s, tears suddenly brimming in those earth-brown orbs.  “All the things that we are not, you are trying to force these lads to be.  Let them be hobbits, Elrond.  It is what will carry them through this Quest.”

        The immortal Elf-lord looked down at the small figures before him.  Glorfindel and Legolas were silent.  Frodo raised his  eyes to the dark eyes of Elrond, and what he saw there made the Elf-lord nod slowly.  “You are right, old friend,” the Elf-lord said softly.  “From now on they will learn survival skills, no longer the giving of death.  Let us hope that it will be enough.”

* * * * *  

        Far to the north, Aragorn struggled to wind the floating fabric around his hands, the cloak fighting him, still caught by the snags and swift current of the river.  With a jerk, he freed the cloak and it lifted in his hands, attached to nothing.  Behind him, Elladan choked back an explosive cry of relief.

        The Ranger carried the dripping cloak to shore and the Elf took it from his hands and shook it out.  “Too small to be Elrohir’s…” Aragorn said.  “This must be Merry’s, the one he lost in the river when he tried to trap those fish.  We can return it to him, at least.”

       “But not in any condition he might want,” Elladan commented and raised the cloak up for his foster brother to see.  Long slashes rent the thick wool, almost shredding the fabric in places.

       Aragorn pushed his hand through one and gathered the edges, puzzled by the damage.  “Even catching on the rocks would not cause this.  These slashes look like they were made by a knife…  Look, here and here – surely these are knife-thrusts.”   The Ranger’s eyes returned to the churned earth on the bank.  “This cloak was slashed to ribbons, then thrown back into the water.  Why?”

       Backing up, Aragorn carefully placed his feet in the prints he had made entering the water.  Elladan squeezed out of the cloak and bundled it behind his steed’s saddle, then remounted to remove himself from the Ranger’s area of work.  The stallion’s hindquarters bunched as icy droplets of water streamed down the sleek hide, then relaxed under the Elf’s gentle hands and murmured voice.

       Aragorn turned at the edge of the churned ground and crouched, balancing himself on his fingertips as he leaned over the hoof-marks and tracks of booted feet.  For a long time he studied the soft earth, occasionally reaching out to move a stone or lay a palm into one of the indentations.  Elladan was silent, knowing from long experience not to interrupt or distract him.

       At last the Ranger straightened, sighing as he rubbed the small of his back.  Elladan could remain quiet no longer.  “Well?” he asked, his clear voice reflecting the tension evident in his stiff, unyielding form.

      “Not Elrohir,” Aragorn replied softly.  “His trail must have taken a turn further back.  This rider…”  His fingers traced the outline of hoof-print, the imprint of a furrier’s nail. The nail did not anchor the horseshoe to the hoof, but had been driven from the side of the hoof through the animal’s flesh into the shoe. 

      “What?” Elladan pressed, when his foster brother fell silent.

      “Only eight were found,” the Ranger continued softly, as if speaking to himself.  “The water did not give up the ninth.”

      “The ninth what?”  Elladan pressed again, an edge of impatience in his voice.

      “Black Rider,” Aragorn said, his words soft and strained.  “This was a Nazgûl’s mount.”

Chapter 26:  Frustrations and Fears

       “Meerrrrrry, I’m bored,” sang a familiar voice in the young hobbit’s ear.

       Meriadoc opened his eyes and regarded his cousin’s sharp, dissatisfied face, green-gold eyes hovering over him.  “Why don’t you take an inventory of the supplies Aragorn and Elladan left us?”

       “Did that.”

       “Restock the firewood.”

       “Did that.”

       “Wash your face in the stream.”

       “Did -” Pippin eyed him narrowly.  “Very funny, Merry.”

       “Why don’t you set some more snares?  We could use the meat.”

        The tweenager considered this.  “All right.”  Pippin rose and gathered up the thin, tensile wires and stout twine.

       “Remember where you put them this time!”  Merry called after his retreating back.  That accomplished, Meriadoc yawned, closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

* * * * *   

      Happy to be given gainful employment, Pippin checked that his snares were securely tucked into his pockets and began to look for likely sites.  Aragorn had taught him that the trick to setting a successful snare was placing it where the coney was likely to step.  A sheltered place, camouflaged by leaves…  He decided to set them farther from camp this time, where they would be less of danger to the scouting party (and himself).  Wouldn’t Aragorn and the twins be surprised when he and Merry presented them with a nice, savory rabbit stew?

      Aragorn and Elladan and Elrohir…   The Elves still seemed a thing out of legend to the young hobbit, despite the month he had spent among them.  The sons and daughter of Lord Elrond not the least.  A slow, silly smile blossomed on his sharp face as his thoughts turned to Arwen Evenstar.  What beauty he’d never seen or imagined in living thing. 

      Wistfully, Pippin allowed himself to imagine himself in Aragorn’s place.  He’d certainly win a kingdom for her, if she wanted one.  Drawing his small sword, he poked a gorse bush that looked to doubt his ability to do so.   Errand forgotten, the young hobbit meandered along the forest paths, constructing grandiose scenarios in his mind in which he proved himself the hero to an awed and appreciative Arwen.  Well aware that he was constructing fantasies that had no grounding in reality, Pippin indulged himself in melancholy dreams of adoration.  He’d lay piles of Orc heads at her slender feet.  He’d heap treasure upon her, though no glitter of gems could equal the sparkle of her sapphire eyes.  The finest alabaster could never rival her perfect skin.  The moonlit gleam of mithril was not more beautiful than the stars in her eyes.  Perhaps she’d be so pleased that she would cup his face in her long hands and bestow a kiss upon his brow…

        As much as he was enjoying his fantasy, Pippin did not neglect the blazing of trees along his path.  Merry and his father would tan his hide if he ever forgot such a simple deterrent to getting lost.  Cutting another small mark in the wood and stripping back the bark to reveal the white core, Pippin wondered if that could be what had happened to Elrohir.  Could the Elf simply have become lost, and was even now making his way back to them?  Somehow, Pippin did not think so. 

       His mood somber now, Pippin stopped and carefully cut another blaze into the tree he had just passed.  One lost one was enough.

        But it was impossible for the young hobbit to remain solemn for long.  Singing to himself under his breath, Pippin chose another leafy bower for a snare and carefully raked aside the soft earth.  “If I were a coney,” he thought, “this is right where I’d like to take a rest.”

        Switching to a soft hum to avoid alerting any wildlife in the area, Pippin squatted down and began to fashion the snare.  Almost an hour and several snares later, Pippin straightened up and stretched out his short arms, shaking his hands to relieve his fingers of the tension of pulling the wires taut.  He froze into sudden, desperate stillness at the sound of voices.

        Rough voices, coming closer.  Men, he thought.  Quick as thought, the tweenager slipped into the underbrush, his small form barely stirring the branches.  Pippin curled into a small a ball as he could and pulled his cloak around him, drawing up his hood.  The crimson wool blended well with the autumn colors about him.  Controlling his breaths, Pippin tried to pretend he wasn’t there.

       “…this way,” he heard.  “See how low the blazes are on them trees?  Must be ‘obbits.”

      “Then they’ve probably not got anything worth takin’,” another coarse voice replied.

      “They’ve fresh food at least, ta judge by the woodsmoke we saw earlier.  I’m right sick o’ dried rations and moldy bread.  You’d think this wizard Saruman could afford ta feed his troops better.”

      Pippin pressed himself further into the thick foliage as three pairs of dirty boots came into view.  From his vantage point, they looked enormous.  The boots stopped bare feet from him.  “Pass on,” he begged them silently.  “Pass on and leave us in peace.”

        “C’mon, then,” said the first harsh voice.  “Let’s find the halflings an’ take what they’ve got afore the others beat us to them.”

       Pippin watched as the Men tramped on, following the trail of blazes he had cut so meticulously into the wood.

* * * * *

       Leagues north and east from where Aragorn and his twin stared in horror at the hoof prints of a Nazgûl mount imprinted into the sandy shore of the riverbank, Elrohir caught another branch of the great oak in which he crouched and pulled himself up higher into the tree.  The great hosts of Men spread beneath him were as yet unaware of his presence and the Elf absolutely wished to keep it that way.  Stifling a sigh, Elrohir tried to ease his cramping legs by stretching each one out without disturbing the thick canopy of leaves.

        ‘There must be thousands,’ the Elf thought to himself, his dark eyes roving over the assembled companies.  He had picked up their trail leagues away, their third day out on this ill-fated scouting trip, the day after they had almost lost Meriadoc to the frigid waters.  He wished he knew how the little one was doing. 

       Elrohir dwelt regretfully for a moment on the pain his absence must be causing his twin and foster brother.  There had been no time to warn them, no time to backtrack and advise them of the advancing horde of mercenaries.  He had first seen them in the distance, a dark blot on the horizon, and had spurred his stallion to pull ahead ofthem and gather the information for which they had been sent, then circle to the side and report back to Aragorn.  But their numbers had defeated him.  Instead of observing and then extricating himself, he had been trapped by another company of Men marching parallel to the first.  He had been pushed before them, farther and farther from their camp, unable to gather the intelligence that his lord father needed.

      It was then that he had spied the great oak.  There had been no time to think of a better plan.  Elrohir had swung off his horse and slapped the animal on the rump to send it off, knowing it would not allow itself to be caught and would return at his whistle.  With the quickness of his Golden Wood kin, he had caught a branch and lifted himself into the tree where he was hidden quickly by the leaves.   From this high vantage point, he could estimate the number of troops, catalog their equipment and arms, survey their training and preparedness and perhaps discover their allegiance and destination.

      Then the fates had turned against him.  Treed like a cat with barking dogs below it, the Elf had watched in horror and disgust as the Men chose the great oak as the center of their campsite.  The hosts had set up their cook fires and spread out their bedrolls and were taking their ease, unaware of the Elf that fumed and cursed them silently from above their heads.

      Now thousands of dirty, ill-kept Men sprawled below him.  They looked to be taking advantage of the great tree’s shade to rest and repair their gear and ready themselves for the onward march.  Elrohir had estimated their numbers and disdainfully had readied his report, should these louts ever depart and allow him to deliver it.  As they had done increasingly as the night passed and the day wore on, the Elf’s thoughts returned to Elladan and Estel and the little ones, and he prayed that they were well.

* * * * *

        Aragorn rose and shook the clinging sand from his fingers, glad that his touch had erased the foul track.  In a sudden movement, he kicked at the remaining Nazgûl hoof prints, wiping them from the face of the clean earth.

       “You must return to the hobbits,” he said to Elladan, who watched white-faced from the back of his tall stallion.  “They must not be left alone now, especially with Merry hurt.  I will follow the Black Rider’s trail and see if I may discern its intent.”

       “What of Elrohir?”  Acceptance of the Ranger’s orders could not allay the fear in the Elf’s voice. 

      “We do not know that Elrohir has fallen afoul of some evil action,” Aragorn replied slowly, reluctantly.  “Let us hope that he is merely delayed and will return to us.  But this takes precedence.  I fear that the Black Rider is tracking hobbits … whether it seeks the Ringbearer - or any hobbit - we cannot know.  But I fear for Merry and Pippin.”

       “Shall I bring them?  Or should I take them back to Imladris?” asked Elrohir, his dark eyes worried. 

       “No …. no.  Merry should not ride yet.  It would not be dangerous for him, but would cause him unnecessary pain.  It is better that you stay with them until I return to you.  And if Elrohir returns, he will know where the campsite is.”

       “But Father must know of this, Estel.  A Nazgûl, here…  What if it does seek the Ringbearer?  Frodo is unguarded.”

         “I do not know what to do, my brother.”  Aragorn’s deep eyes reflected the pain in his heart.  “I dare not send the hobbits back, Merry hurt or no.  You cannot be spared to escort them.  What if it came upon them, all alone and no help in sight?  I dare not take that risk.”

       “And what if it seeks the Ringbearer?  What then?”

      The Ranger was silent.  At last he said, “We must trust to luck.  Go back to them, my brother, and guard them.  I will return as soon as I may.”

      Elladan nodded slowly.  “Let us hope you have made the right choice, my brother.”

* * * * *

       In the Last Homely House, the Ringbearer dozed before a fire that burned brightly in the hearth   of his rooms.  Frodo had had an active day and had gratefully accepted Sam’s proposal of a bath.  Unaccustomed to exercising his stiff left shoulder and arm, they ached abominably and the hot water had eased much of his pain.  Sam watched as Frodo indignantly refused Bilbo’s suggestion of a nap.  Frodo had called upon Sam to affirm that he had heard Bilbo’s promise not to force naps upon his master, and settled rather huffily into the chair.

       The old hobbit had merely raised his eyebrows at his nephew and smiled as Frodo dropped off to sleep in spite of himself.  Then the elderly hobbit had pulled up another chair to the fire and taken his own rest.  Sam pottered about contentedly (but quietly) as they slept, clearing up the bath and putting things to right. 

        Thinking about the day’s lessons in archery and knife-fighting, Sam found that he was of two minds about Lord Elrond’s decision not to force the learning of killing upon the hobbits.  He agreed with old Mr. Bilbo – hobbits were not made for fighting – but he feared for his master.  Mr. Merry and Master Pippin would want to continue the sword-lessons; he was sure of that.  And Sam thought they should.  But for Mr. Frodo and himself … well, Sam didn’t think that fighting was going to be their path.  The stocky hobbit’s gaze strayed to where Frodo rested, arms crossed over his chest and legs crossed at the ankles, breathing peacefully before the fire.  Sam didn’t know what their path would be, but somehow, he didn’t think that arrows and knives would help them.

       Frodo muttered in his sleep, catching Sam’s attention.  Hobbit-quiet, Sam crept over to his master and laid a blanket over the twitching form.  But Frodo was not cold.  He pulled fretfully at the blanket, then pushed it off.  Perspiration gleamed along his face and the dark brows quirked.

      Sam watched, puzzled, as Frodo groaned, his eyes darting wildly under the closed lids.  Concern rising in his heart, Sam picked the blanket up off the floor and tried to cover him again.  Frodo’s eyes snapped open and Sam’s heart twisted at the unfocused terror there.  Another nightmare, then, just when he’d thought they were all over…

      “Mr. Frodo?  You all right, sir?”

       Frodo grabbed Sam’s arms with a convulsive cry, waking Bilbo.  “Black Riders, Sam!  There’s a Black Rider here!”

Chapter 27:  As Darkness Draws Near

       “Now, sir,” Sam was saying, “you know that can’t be.  They were all swept away -”

       “No!  No!  One wasn’t!  One escaped!  Sam, I know one is here.  There’s a Black Rider in Rivendell!”  Frodo’s eyes were glazed and unseeing, lost in a terror so profound that he was scarcely aware of his surroundings.  He was on his feet and trembling, trembling so violently that Sam thought he was going to collapse.  Quickly, Sam reached out and caught his master, wrapping him tightly in sheltering arms. 

      Frodo sagged against him, strengthless hands plucking at Sam’s shirt.  “It’s coming, Sam!  It is looking for me!”

       Bilbo levered himself stiffly out of the chair and cupped his withered hands around Frodo’s sweating face, trying to call those morning glory eyes to his.  “Frodo my lad, calm down.  There are no evil things in Imladris.”

     “It’s coming!  I can feel it!  Feel it in my mind!”  Frodo’s voice was spiraling up into hysteria; his body rigid, the too-thin frame clenched tightly yet Sam was all that held him up.  Growing increasingly frightened himself, Sam half-carried, half-pushed his master back into the chair.  Frodo struggled weakly, staring past Sam out to the balcony.  “It’s close, and it’s coming for me!”

      Bilbo followed them, stroking his nephew’s hair and murmuring reassurances.  Consumed by the unrelenting nightmare, Frodo did not hear.  He began to hyperventilate, the aborted breaths racking his chest.  Bilbo tapped Sam on the shoulder, his brown eyes strained and frightened.  “Sam, go for Elrond.  Something is very wrong.  Hurry, lad.”

      Frodo had pulled his knees up to his chest and laid his head upon them, wrapped in a ball of horror.  He was rocking forwards and back, hiding his eyes, choking on sobbing breaths.  Bilbo lowered himself to kneel by the chair and wrapped his arms tightly around Frodo’s waist, telling him that he was safe, that nothing could harm him here.  But even that gentle, much-loved voice could not penetrate the Ringbearer’s prison of terror.  With a last glance at his master, Sam reluctantly turned and raced out the door.  ‘Something is very wrong,’ Mr. Bilbo had said, and Sam knew in his heart that the old hobbit was right.  This unreasoning terror wasn’t like his master.  Even when those wicked things had him down and cornered that terrible night on Weathertop, he hadn’t lost himself in fear.  The look in his eyes…

       Stars above, where was Elrond?   Sam tore past the gazebo, peering desperately into the late-afternoon shadows, scanning the balconies for the tall, elegant figure.  Where would he be this time of day?  Sam ran to the Lord of Imladris’ study, rushing past his secretary with an inarticulate cry.  Elrond raised a startled face when the door rebounded from its hinges, papers and manuscripts scattering off his desk in the sudden gust.  The Elf-lord rose gracefully, a stern expression forming on his high-browed face.  “Master Gamgee, what –“

       “You’ve got ‘ta come, my lord!  It’s Mr. Frodo.  Please, sir, you’ve got ‘ta come!”

      Whatever words of rebuke Elrond had been about to deliver died on his lips as he took in the sight of the white-faced, terrified halfling.  He snatched up the large black bag that he kept ever in readiness in his study and with a hand on Sam’s shoulder, followed the hobbit swiftly from the room.

* * * * *

       His heart in his throat, Pippin followed the Men that were following his back trail to where Merry slept, defenseless and hurt.  The young hobbit had sought to distract the Men more than once, slipping noiselessly alongside them and rustling the bushes or making odd sounds to attract their attention.  No woodsmen, these, the Men ignored all of his attempts at distraction and single-mindedly focused on the blazes that led back to the hobbits’ camp.

       Pippin was growing desperate.  He could not allow these Men (scouts of the mercenaries that Aragorn had seen, he thought) to find Merry.  He and Merry could give them their food, and whatever else they wanted, but Pippin feared that everything they had would not satisfy these Men.  From what he could overhear of their growled conversations, the Men were hungry and frustrated and ill content with their lot.  They were the sort who would delight in hurting two young halflings, one of them already injured, simply for the twisted delight of giving pain to something smaller and weaker than they.

       Pippin choked back the wail that wanted to rise in his throat.  Never in his life had he felt so small and helpless.  He had never felt so in the Shire.  In the Shire, he had seen Big Folk from a distance, but rarely, and even more rarely did he accompany his father to deal with them.  The only Big Person he saw was Gandalf, with an occasional glimpse of a Ranger, visible only as a quick flash of gray and green then gone.  Then he and Merry and Frodo and Sam had come to Bree, and suddenly everything was so outsized and threatening. 

       What was he going to do?  It would be getting dark soon.  Could he dart in and wound them, cripple them, before they were aware of him?  Should he run ahead and warn Merry, and the two of them escape with what they could carry?  Could he trick them into following a false trail?   The three of them were now less than fifteen minutes’ walk from camp.  Aragorn had told him to take care of Merry.  He could not allow any harm to come to the person he loved best in the world.  He had to do something very soon.

* * * * *

       Elladan rode swiftly, sitting the great gray stallion with a natural grace that made no division between Elf and horse.  His thoughts wandered from his missing brother to his separated foster brother, now tracking a Nazgûl.  ‘Be safe, Elrohir,’ he thought.  ‘Be safe, Estel.’  Then his thoughts turned to the hobbits left back at camp, and he added one more prayer to Elbereth. ‘Merry and Pippin, may you also be safe.’

      The stallion stretched out his long neck and Elladan rose in the saddle and shifted his weight forward above the animal’s withers, helping the great horse run.  At another time, Elladan would have enjoyed the ride, the exhilaration of the powerfully muscled animal moving beneath him, the wind in his face, the slow sinking of the Sun … but there was little joy in his heart now.   A shadow and a threat was growing in his mind, and nothing but seeing them all safe and reunited again would dispel it. 

* * * * * 

      Much the same thoughts were passing through Aragorn’s mind as he watched Elladan ride off.   This time he did not remount but walked leading his gelding, his watchful eyes ever on the soft earth.  He found where he had lost Elrohir’s trail; it veered to the East.  Now the Ranger did mount and stood up in the saddle to see further into the distance.  Far ahead of him, it seemed the earth was greatly trampled, as if a great host had passed that way.  The hoof marks of Elrohir’s stallion passed towards the trodden area, merged with it and were lost.   Aragorn greatly desired to find out what had happened but he could not spare the time.  He turned his back on Elrohir’s trail and sought that of the Black Rider.

       Aragorn returned to the river’s edge and sought the scuffed marks from where he had cleaned the foul marks of the Nazgûl’s mount from the sand.  Backtracking, he found the beast’s tracks and began to follow them.  He wanted to follow the trail as far as he could before the light failed.  When he came to a clear patch of earth, Aragorn dismounted to study the hoof marks more closely.  This was a big animal with a long stride, capable of great speed.  Yet the hooves were misshapen, as was all the Dark Lord touched.  The imprint of the nails that were driven from the side of the hooves through the tender frog into the shoe were clearly visible.  ‘It must make each step the beast takes an agony,’ Aragorn thought.  ‘Or perhaps the poor beast is now so perverted that pain matters not to it.’  Shivering a little, the Ranger patted his own horse gently on the side of the neck, then urged it to greater speed.

* * * * *

       Far to the north of Imladris, the son of its lord sat in a tree and tried to amuse himself by inventing tortures for the great host of Men that camped below him.  So far, Elrohir had wished for a fast-moving brush fire, the introduction of some vile ingredient into the cook pots that gave them all the trots, and a plague of locusts.  As his good humor at his involuntary entrapment deteriorated, the fantasies became darker.  He almost wished that the reports of large numbers of orcs moving East had been true; then perhaps they would encounter this host and in the ensuing battle, he could make his escape.  It would be too much to hope for that the opposing forces would destroy each other.

       At least the great host seemed to be preparing to move out, to seek a fresh campsite before darkness fell.  Elrohir had watched since the previous afternoon, through the cold night, as the Men rested and repaired their gear, readying themselves to continue their march.  The Elf was not impressed.  The host seemed to be comprised of several companies of mercenaries, all of them dirty, ill trained and ill-equipped, and showing coarse behaviors.  The Men fought among themselves like snarling dog-packs, the strong bullying the weak.  As he watched, Elrohir saw more than one or two struck down by their fellows, the possessions of the murdered ones stolen before the bodies had even cooled.

      This was the intelligence for which he and Elladan and Estel and the little ones had been sent.  For intelligence of the enemy’s numbers and arms and movements.  And here he sat in an oak tree, hiding from those he was sent to observe.  Elrohir sighed in disgust and raised his dark eyes to watch the westering sun.

      So it was that he heard the croaking cries before he saw them.  Elrohir twisted about in the tree and looked behind him, drawn from his contemplation of the lowering Sun by the odd sounds.  A dark cloud marred the clear skies to the East, a smudge on the blue canvas.  Elrohir stiffened and directed his keen elven eyes to the dirty smear.  The dark cloud was approaching rapidly, splintering into many small fast-moving bodies.  With a sinking heart, the Elf recognized them as crebain, foul eyes out of Fangorn and Dunland, spying for the wizard Saruman.

      The crows were coming at speed, so many that the beats of their wings made a small thunder that drowned out the constant babble of talk and shouts below him.  Below him, heads were turning, being raised to regard the crebain in apprehension and fear.  Too late did Elrohir remember that the sheltering leaves of the great oak in which he crouched would not shield him from eyes at a level with his.

      The foremost of the flying horde were drawing near to him, eyeing him and cawing in great excitement.  Their agitation at locating a hidden watcher was being communicated through the flock, and they flapped and swirled about him at incredible speed.  Elrohir found his bow in his hands and an arrow nocked, but after a moment’s hesitation, he lowered the weapon in frustration.  The thick boughs of the oak interfered with his aim.  And it did not matter, Elrohir thought.  He could spend all of his arrows and a thousand more and never make a dent in their numbers.

       Others of the foul flock had veered off, over flying the mercenaries and no doubt gathering much of the same information as the Elf, to report to their distant master.  Dimly over the croaking cries, Elrohir could hear the Men shouting to each other and saw them gesturing at the crebain.  One of the Men, a great, dirty brute, pointed up at the throng and shouted in rage, “Aren’t we movin’ fast enough for his Wizardness, then?  He didn’t need to send his flying rats to spy on us!”

       Another came to his side, sheltering his head from the rain of excrement with which the crebain fouled the earth.  “What’s got them so excited, Captain?  Look how they’re swirling ‘round that oak tree.”

       The Man raised a hand to shelter his eyes, staring up into the thick foliage of the oak.  The setting sun, as well as the screaming flock, interfered with his attempt to see into the leaves.  Elrohir tried to shrink farther back against the trunk but could retreat no further against the hard bark.  Excited the more by his movement, the crebain cawed and flapped around him with renewed vigor, trying to dart through the branches to attack him.  Small they were, but very many, and those beaks and claws were as sharp as razors.  If they could blind him, he would not last long against them.  This the Elf knew, and understood that the crebain knew it also.

       Below him, the mercenary captain watched and wondered at the strange behavior of the birds.  Summoning his lieutenants to him, he gave them swift instructions and set them to climb the tree and report to him of what they found there.  Elrohir watched the Men as they formed a loose circle around the oak and started to climb.  The Elf returned the useless bow to his back and drew his long knives.

Chapter 28:  Darkness Falls

       Aragorn moved south, moving slower than his usual wont so as not to lose the trail he was following.  The terrain alternated between grassy swaths and bare patches of ground laced with sharp stones.  Several times he had been forced to dismount and seek the hoof prints by feel.  The Black Rider’s mount’s nail-imbedded hooves scarred rock as they passed over it but on the bare, stony earth, they made little imprint.  Standing quietly at Aragorn’s side, the gelding stretched out its long neck and sniffed at the hoof prints, drawing back with a snort and white-rimmed eyes.

       There could be no doubt now, though the Ranger was loath to admit it.  He rose and shaded his eyes with a hand, staring into the distance.  The forest around him was deserted, as if all the natural creatures had fled before the Nazgûl’s advance.  The woods were silent, not even birdcalls enlivening the still air.  No, no doubt at all…

      The evil thing was heading for Rivendell.

      The creature was traveling slowly, at no more than a walk.  Its mount’s disfigured hooves soiled the earth at regular intervals and the grass that bent under its steps did not rise again.  At this pace … at this pace, it would arrive in Imladris no earlier than tomorrow’s eve, if the Black Rider did not rest at night.  Somehow, Aragorn knew that it would not rest.  It must be close enough to feel the Ring, or at least the general direction in which the Ring lay.  Perhaps it could feel that the Ring was no longer moving, no longer fleeing before it.  Could it also feel the protections with which Elrond had encircled his hidden valley?

       Should he ride on to Rivendell or return to the scouting party?  If he rode through the night at the fastest pace he dared in the darkness, he would arrive before the Rider.  Surely the creature did not know the ways of the Last Homely House – it would lose valuable time searching for the Ringbearer.  Elrond would certainly feel it as it came within his domain, feel it as a coldness in his heart and a pain in the clear recesses of his soul. 

       His decision made, Aragorn wheeled the gelding around and set it running north, back towards the campsite.  Indecision still gnawed at his heart but he made had best choice he could.  He must rely on Elrond to protect Frodo; he would gather up the halflings and Elladan – and hopefully, Elrohir – and return as quickly as they may.  Aragorn’s heart twisted within him; the scouting mission had failed.  He had failed.  He would return without the information for which they had been sent.

* * * * * 

        “No!  No!  Let me go!”

       The Master of Rivendell swept into the Ringbearer’s rooms and stopped dead in shock.  He never thought he would witness the sight now before his eyes.  Frodo was twisting in Bilbo’s arms like a wild thing, his wide eyes empty of anything other than terror and the desire to escape.  Yet still he managed not to harm his frail uncle, twisting and trying to slide free rather than striking his captor.  Bilbo held on like grim death, his arms locked around Frodo’s chest, murmuring a constant stream of reassurances and comfort.  Frodo keened, lost in hysteria.

      Sam rushed past the Elf-lord and caught Frodo’s arms, holding him so that Bilbo could pull away.  With a sob, Bilbo did so, falling back against Elrond.  Swiftly, the Elf-lord caught him and half-carried him to a chair.  Bilbo batted at him, frantic.  “Help him, Elrond!  I’ve never seen him like this!”

       Elrond squeezed the fragile shoulder gently before turning back to the fray.  Sam had Frodo on the floor, wrestling him down by greater body weight and strength.  He’d caught the Ringbearer’s hands and crossed them over his chest, half-laying on Frodo to keep him pinned on his belly to the floor.  Frodo wailed and bucked, trying to throw him off.

       Swiftly Elrond knelt by the struggling pair and opened his satchel.  He did not try to reach or speak to Frodo, seeing that the Ringbearer was beyond reason.  From far away he registered that Samwise was begging his master to be calm, be still, tears flowing down his round face.  But he could not let either’s distress slow him.  The Elf-lord’s long hands sorted through the phials and herbs within, selected one earthenware vial corked and sealed with wax.  He broke off the cork and sniffed it to be certain there was no error, turning back to the mêlée.

       Sam had succeeded in restraining Frodo; the Ringbearer lay beneath him panting, enormous eyes blank, sweat glistening over his entire body.  Sam angled his head up painfully, trying to locate Elrond.  “Hurry, sir!  Hurry!”

       Frodo wiggled like an eel as Elrond moved to his side.  “Turn him over,” the Elf instructed.  “He must swallow this.”  Frodo stared at him but there was no recognition in his eyes.  But he recognized the sedative and threw himself desperately to the side, trying to escape.

      Sam did not loosen his grip though he was dragged sideways several feet.  Elrond followed, helping the sturdy hobbit roll his master onto his side.  Frodo kicked at him and the Elf-lord was hard-pressed to avoid those powerful hobbit-feet.  He circled ‘round behind Sam and caught Frodo’s head from the rear, forcing his head back and the jaw open.

      The sweat in the hobbit’s dark hair made it difficult to hold him.  While Sam immobilized him, Elrond poured in the sedative.  Frodo tried to spit it out, his eyes wild.  Elrond clamped his mouth shut then carefully gauging his strength, punched the hobbit in the stomach.

      Frodo doubled over, swallowing hugely as he fought for breath.  He gagged and choked, the thick liquid of the sedative coating his throat.  For a moment longer he fought them, then with an enormous sigh, his eyes rolled back and he collapsed bonelessly in Sam’s arms.  Elrond became aware that Bilbo knelt besides them, weeping quietly as he stroked his nephew’s limp curls.  “Oh, my poor lad,” the old one whispered.  “My poor lad.”

       With a sigh of his own, Elrond sat back on his heels and checked the unconscious halfling’s pulse, then opened one thick-lashed eye to examine the enormously dilated pupil.  He rose and bent to lift the small figure, laying it gently on the bed, and pulled the coverlet over the limp form.  Frodo was unresponsive, his breathing slowing, small hiccups and coughs still racking him as his overtaxed body relaxed.

       Elrond stroked back the dark curls from the glistening forehead.  He turned on the bed, settling himself comfortably on the edge.  Samwise would develop a nice black eye, he noted; an unlucky elbow had caught him on the cheek.   Tears still streamed down both the small ones’ faces.  “Now,” he asked them softly, “What upset him so?”

* * * * *

        Watching the men struggle up the great oak with all the grace of climbing oliphaunts, Elrohir reflected that this was an inglorious way to die.  His lord father would be mortified.  Elladan … Elladan would be destroyed.  The twins had always been together.  He could not imagine life without his brother – would not want to live if Elladan did not.  He knew his twin felt the same.  Regret for the sorrow his death would cause his brothers and sister and his father and friends filled the Elf’s heart.

       The crebain were further excited by the climbing men, darting in to rake them with those razor beaks and claws.  Finding they could not reach the Elf through the branches and thick foliage, they concentrated instead on the climbing mercenaries.  Blood was streaming down the soldiers’ backs, marking their arms and legs where sharp beaks had punctured the rough cloth of their breeches and jerkins.  The blood seemed to drive the birds into a frenzy and the cawing and screaming increased, more of the creatures withdrawing from trying to attack Elrohir to strike at the undefended men.

       Despite the distraction, the men were drawing close and the young Elf could hear their snarling voices swearing and gasping obscenities as they struggled to evade the birds and pull themselves up.  Elrohir steadied himself against the thick trunk and readied his knives.  As soon as the nearest Man raised his head, he would be seen.  Then the mercenary would call out to his fellows, and it would soon be over.

       Instead of raising his head and meeting the Elf’s eyes, the Man suddenly jerked violently and lost his grip.  As Elrohir watched, astonished, several of the men either flung themselves against the trunk or dropped, catching themselves on a lower branch.  But it was not until he saw the first black body fall past him that he understood.  Of course … the mercenaries were hungry and above them flapped fresh, succulent meat.  Arrows arched into the air, passing perilously close to the stranded men.  Screaming curses at their fellows, the men started down, trying to shield themselves from spent shafts.  Small feathered corpses began to fall like black rain; they were so many that almost every arrow, aimed or not, buried itself in a target.  Elrohir crushed himself against the trunk but the soldiers were shooting out from the tree, shooting at the crebain that swirled around it. 

        Caught in their frenzy, the crebain were slow to understand what was happening.  Men darted below Elrohir on the ground, picking up the black forms and already starting to pluck them.  Cook pots were being dragged out.  Over the creatures’ cawing and the men’s cries, Elrohir became aware of the captain shouting, “Hold, hold!” his powerful voice rising over the confusion.  “Hold, I say!  Bows down!”

       The host did not obey immediately, depending on the general noise and confusion to cover their release of yet more arrows.  But slowly the rain of arrows thinned and then ceased.  Elrohir stared down in amazement.  Black bodies littered the ground, piled two and three deep in places.  The surviving crebain seemed in shock, fallen silent, their black wings still carrying them in circles about the great tree.  Then, as one, the flock gathered itself and swept away to the East.

       The captain stood with his hands on his hips, glaring around him.  In the silence that followed, his words came easily to the Elf’s ears.  “That was a fine display of mutiny, that was!  Who started it?”

       The men under his command milled about, eyes carefully downcast, none of them meeting his glare.  Knowing he would receive no reply, the captain capitulated.  “Gather them up, then; no use in wasting fresh meat.”  A cheer, quickly suppressed, met this order.  “But now we’ll double-march the rest of the way!  Have to get ‘ta His Wizardness and explain why you lot ate his little birdies.”

       Elrohir watched, astonished beyond measure, as the entire company packed itself up and marched off, gathering up every fallen black form along the way.  He sat in the tree long after the last had departed, then grasped the nearest branch to steady himself as he began to laugh.

* * * * *

       Far away yet closer than he had been, Elladan started at the sudden, inexplicable lightening of his heart.  The great stallion beneath him rolled an ear back at the sudden glad cry that burst from his master’s lips.   Elladan patted the foamed gray neck reassuringly.  Mindful of Estel’s concerns over the little ones, he leaned forward again and let the mighty animal’s long strides bear him back to the campsite.

        It was with relief that he pulled up short of the place where they had left the hobbits, walking the horse the last few meters so as not to startle them.  “Peregrin!” he called.  “Meriadoc!”  No response.  “Merry, Pippin - it is I, Elladan.  Are you here?”

        With that, the great stallion walked through the low brush around the camp.  Elladan stared in shock.  No halflings.  And no gear, no supplies, no marks of residence.  Instead, the ground was churned, here and there marked by scuffs and gouges.  Looking closer, the Elf saw a discarded spoon, half-trampled into the soft earth.  A wooden mug, shattered into splinters, lay abandoned by the cold remains of the fire.  A small length of moss-green cloth was caught on a low branch, dangling forlorn in the slight breeze.  Swinging off his mount and pulling it free, Elladan recognized it as Pippin’s scarf.  Along one edge, ruby droplets of blood stained the soft wool.

        Elladan clutched the scarf close and looked about the small clearing.  “Merry,” he called.  “Pippin!  Answer me!”  Only silence replied to his desperate call.

Chapter 29:  Darkness Deepens

       Elladan knelt on the pine needle-strewn earth and raked aside some of the forest debris, struggling to read the tale the earth had to tell.  But the scuffs and smudges in the dirt told him little; he was not the tracker his foster brother was.  To one side of the small clearing, he found the unmistakable trampling of the earth that signified heavy boots.  Men, then.  The Elf closed his eyes in relief for a moment … he had feared that the Nazgûl sought the nearest hobbits, Ringbearer or not.

       Here and there he could make out the partial imprint of a bare hobbit foot, some trodden over by the great boots.  Here, and here – that must be Peregin, his prints were smaller than the other.  He followed the small tracks from the campsite and some little way into the forest.  But Elladan could not look at the ground and tell the time between the hobbit and human tracks; his skill did not extend so far.  With a sigh of exasperation, he sat back on his haunches, rolling the pine needles and leaves between his long fingers.

       Unmoving now, he heard in the distance a running horse.  For a moment his heart rose in his throat.  The Black Rider was never far from his thoughts.  Elladan knew himself no match for such a thing.  Estel, returning?  What would bring him back at such a pace?  Elrohir?

       The twins each knew that the other half of his soul waited before Elrohir broke through the brush and swung down from the saddle.  Elladan and Elrohir embraced, no words needed between them.  But at last Elladan found them.  “Where were you?”

       Elrohir laughed and leaned his brow against his brother’s.  Like two sides of a mirror they looked, one image the reflection of the other.  “Brother, have I a tale for you.”

       Elladan pulled back, his face sobering.  “And I have one for you.  Estel tracks a Nazgûl.  And the little ones are missing.”

* * * * *

       Pippin wrapped his arms around Merry and eased his cousin against the tree, sliding down the rough bark to collapse beside him.  Merry was holding his broken arm with the other and his face was deathly white.  Running had aggravated the injury and it had gone from barely aching to throbbing so intensely that he felt nauseous.   Both of them tried to stifle their gasping breaths and be quiet.

       Pippin peered around the tree.  “Do you think we lost them?  I think we lost them.”  Blood dripped down his cheek from where a branch had caught him as he dashed back to the campsite to warn his cousin.  Pippin rubbed the stinging cut absently, smearing the blood on his face.

       Merry could not reply for a moment.  Pippin looked at him then flung his arms around the panting form.  “I’m so sorry, Merry.  I ran as fast as I could.  But they were almost to camp and I couldn’t -”

       “Not your fault, Pip,” Merry finally managed, taking great gulps of air against the sickness that made his vision blur and his head swim.  “You cut Inmara’s tie-stake and got me out in time.  They didn’t get any of us.”

      “But they got our supplies – everything, Merry!  All our food and the water-skins and blankets and -”

       “And nothing that matters,” Merry interrupted him.  “You are all right and so am I.  So is Inmara, wherever she bolted to.”

       Pippin was fighting back tears.  “It’s my fault.  It’s my fault, Merry!  I led them right to camp.  They followed my blazes.  I was trying to be so responsible and not get lost, and I led them right back to you -”

      “Pippin!  They’ll hear!”  The tweenager was quiet instantly, his small hands buried in his cousin’s cloak as he trembled.  “It’s not your fault,” Merry repeated, more gently this time.  The throbbing was easing, leaving room in his mind for something other than fighting the pain.  “Now listen to me.  We’ve got to hide … find someplace where the Men won’t find us and wait for Aragorn and the twins to return.”

       Pippin sniffed hugely, trying to follow his elder cousin’s lead.  “I set some snares in good hiding places.  Where coneys would hide, I mean.  We could hide there, too.”

       “Is it far?”  Though he was no longer gasping, Merry’s face was gray and streaked with perspiration. 

       Pippin slid a shoulder under his cousin’s good arm and helped him to stand.  “No, not far.  Lean on me, Merry.”

       Though it was indeed not far, it took the two stumbling figures some time to find the leafy bower where Pippin had laid his last snares before the Men had chanced upon his trail.  Pippin quickly checked the snares but none had game in them.  Not that they had a cook pot, any vegetables or even firewood.  Then he helped Merry crawl into the leaf-roofed little opening, shielded on three sides by boughs and late-flowering vines.   

       The hobbits slept then, completely exhausted.  Merry woke first, thirst clawing at his throat.  If he listened, he could just hear the river; a tributary must be close.  Checking that Pip was still soundly asleep, Merry dragged himself out of the bower and located the stream by following his ears.  After satisfying his need, he cast about for some means to take water back to Pip.  He didn’t want him wandering about alone –

      The Man burst out from behind the tree with a roar, momentarily freezing Merry from pure shock.  Unimaginably strong arms wrapped around him and lifted him off his feet.  Merry tried to cow-kick the Man in the stomach but the mercenary knew hobbits and was wise to that trick.  With terrifying ease, he immobilized the struggling hobbit and whispered in his ear, “Where’s the other one, then?”

       Another surge of nausea rose in Merry’s throat and he fought it down.  The Man sat him down by the simple expedient of dropping him and caught his broken arm in a vise-like grip, ignoring the hobbit’s cry of pain.  “What’s this?”  Dirty fingers explored the sling.  “Got away with some goodies, did you?  And me mates were happy with your little bit o’ food and supplies!  Is this where you hid your money, halfling?”

       The Man’s avaricious expression went blank when he pulled Merry’s arm out of the sling and unwrapped the limb from its support.  If Merry hadn’t been in so much pain from the rough handling and terrified for himself and Pippin, he would have laughed at the soldier’s expression as he held up Pippin’s detestable bread sculpture.

         “HAH!  HA!  Hahahaha…” almost choking, the Man doubled over, his hoarse brays of laughter sending the birds fleeing from the trees.  “Hahaha … the family jewels!”

       Even being abducted and restrained and hurt could not diminish Merry’s humiliation.  The hobbit groaned and wished he could just sink into the ground.  But all too soon the Man’s amusement spent itself and he returned to business.  Tossing the dough form onto the spongy riverbank, he picked Merry up by his shirtfront and held him up to his unshaved face.  “Where’s the money?  Where’s the money, halfling?”

      “We don’t have any money,” Merry gasped; the Man’s grasp was strangling him.

      “Everyone takes money when they journey!”  The mercenary shook Merry, jarring the broken arm agonizingly.  Merry closed his eyes in pain, then opened them again as a muffled cry came to his ears.  No … no, please…

      Pippin crouched in the bushes bordering the riverbank, an expression of horror on his young face that Merry would never forget.  “Pippin,” he managed, “Run -”

      With a roar, the Man dropped Merry and lunged after the tweenager.  Pippin shot straight up and landed facing in the opposite direction, tearing back into cover.  The Man blundered after him, ripping bushes from the earth and breaking branches off trees in his pursuit.  Abandoned and forgotten, Merry struggled to his feet and followed, sobs of pain and terror racking his small form.

* * * * *

       Aragorn halted his mount on the crest of one of the steep rises north of Rivendell, hoping against hope that the Nazgûl’s trail turned aside.  Despite hard riding, he had not caught up with the Black Rider, which meant that it had increased its speed.  It knew where the Ring lay, now.

       The winding, confusing pathways into Imladris would delay it for a time.  Some of the entry-ways into the hidden valley were so narrow that only a single horse could traverse them a time, making them difficult to spot from afar.  Elrond would sense the Nazgûl, Aragorn knew, as soon as it set foul foot on his land.  If he continued to follow its trail into Imladris, he might overtake it and…  And what?  Glorfindel, a mighty Elf-lord, could not triumph against them with all the power that was in him.  What could a single man do against such evil?

       One man could warn his lord.  Choosing another path than the one the Black Rider had taken, Aragorn spurred his gelding down a rocky incline that he knew opened to a small meadow in the vertical hillsides above the Last Homely House.  Small stones and soil tumbled after him as the horse slid down, practically on his tail.  The Rider’s path was a dead end, emptying into a sheer cliff face.  It would have to retrace its steps before finding a path into Imladris.  Perhaps, with sufficient warning, Elrond could muster the forces needed to finish the surviving Black Rider and return it to Mordor, empty and shapeless, until the Nine could regroup and return.

* * * * *

       Elrond raised his dark head from where he sat with the unconscious Ringbearer, a smile forming on his lips.  Aragorn…  But the smile faltered and faded.  Yes, Estel, but alone and frightened and troubled.  And something dark came after him … not yet to the borders of Imladris but coming quickly.

       Elrond stood, causing Bilbo and Sam to start and stare up at him.  “What is it, Elrond?” Bilbo asked, his sharp old eyes noting Elrond’s sudden trepidation.

       “Nothing, my old friend,” returned the Elf-lord matter-of-factly. “Just a difficulty I must attend to.  I will instruct the kitchens to send you trays this eve.”

      “Are you going ‘ta leave us?” asked Sam.  The black eye that Frodo had inadvertently given him was coming along nicely.  “What if he needs you, sir?”

       “I will not be far, Master Samwise.  Your master will sleep through the night without waking.  The sedative I gave him was very strong.  There are orders that I must give my people, and councils to take regarding what you have told me of Frodo’s fears.”

       “Elrond -” began Bilbo in his best ‘look-here-young-hobbit’ voice, and amusement briefly lit the Elf-lord’s ageless eyes as the old halfling attempted to take him to task.

       “Stay with him,” the Master of Rivendell bade them.  Frightened eyes, brown and grey, met his and he knew that he had not fooled them.  “Do not fear,” Elrond said softly.  “I will not allow the Ringbearer to come to harm while in my care.”  In a billow of copper-colored robes, he was gone.

       No sooner had he left than Frodo began to whimper and struggle weakly against the cool sheets and warm blankets.  His thick eyelashes fluttered but he could not find his way past the drugs Elrond had forced upon him to calm him.  Bilbo reached out and caught the flailing hands in his, murmuring reassurances and endearments, the grief and sorrow in his cracking old voice rending Sam’s heart.  Sam rose and moved to the balcony, staring out at the sheer cliffs that ringed and protected the valley.  Then he pulled the balcony doors shut and dragged the drapes across them, shutting out the world as best he could.

* * * * *

      Pippin’s cries of terror spurred Merry to greater speed even as they froze his heart and weakened his limbs.  His hand sought the small razor-sharp throwing-dagger he wore at his waist and then nearly dropped it as a stab of agony tore through his arm when he tried to close upon it.  He drew it left-handed, awkwardly.  Could he throw left-handed?  He had never tried.

       Merry burst out of the ground cover near the sheltered bower where he and Pippin had slept.  The Man had Pippin down, his hands around the tweenager’s throat.  Pippin’s face was turning blue.  His back arched off the ground as he bucked, trying to throw the mercenary off, his small hands pulling against the Man’s as he fought for breath.  Pippin got both feet under him and kicked, his fear lending him strength.  Grunting, the Man fell backwards - then screamed.  Unlocking his legs, Merry ran to Pippin and tried to drag him away but Pippin twisted in his one-handed grasp.  “No, Merry, no!  Don’t move!”

       The Man screamed again, rolling as another snare fastened itself about his leg, tightening further as he thrashed.  Another snapped on his outstretched arm, drawing blood.  A fourth caught the same arm, pinning it to the earth.   Panting, the mercenary lay still.  His creased eyes glared at them as he slowly reached down and pulled the two wires off his leg, shaking blood off his fingers as he pulled off the two immobilizing his arm.  Merry sagged against Pippin, too shocked and bewildered to flee.  Pippin’s eyes were huge as he watched his plan collapse. 

       “Rabbit-snares?  Rabbit-snares?” the Man sneered.  “I am not a coney, lads.”  He looked at the blood and his face darkened with rage.  “I’m going to make you sorry you were ever born, you little Shire-rats.” 

Chapter 30:  Dawn

       The Lord of Imladris swept through the polished hallways of his home, unaware of the looks of apprehension that passed among his folk as they beheld his face, for it was stern and set and a dark cloud gathered on his brow.  Courtiers and gallants bowed and withdrew from his path, casting quick worried glances amongst themselves.   Some of these he collected with a glance; others he sent to seek for the Elf-lords of his House and upon other errands.  When he at last seated himself in his study, there came behind him a great number of mighty warriors and weapons-masters of Rivendell.

       “A Nazgûl comes to Imladris,” he informed them without preamble.  “The Ringbearer has sensed it.  I feel it only as darkness and a coldness in my heart, for it has not yet crossed the borders of this land.  But I do not doubt Frodo’s word.  In this, the Ringbearer has bitter experience and his knowing of this evil is greater than mine.”

       Glorfindel moved to the fore of the gathered throng and bowed.  “What are we to do, my lord?”

       Elrond’s dark eyes swept over the assemblage, powerful and ageless, strong in their arms and knowledge.  “We cannot destroy it.  It is a creature of the Dark Lord and will endure as long as its master.”

       Glorfindel nodded, his noble face both sad and unyielding.  “What are your orders?”

       Elrond stood, his copper mantle falling in gentle folds about his tall form.  “Arm yourselves.  We ride to meet it.”

* * * * * 

       Sam pulled aside the balcony drapes when he heard the clattering of hooves and urgent yet contained calls of the Elves below.  Looking out, he saw a great host, dozens strong, arrayed for battle.  Their helms shone in the westering sun and light reflected from their amour.  Bilbo did not rise from where he sat by Frodo’s side, holding his cold hand, but he met the younger hobbit’s eyes and Sam saw both fear and sorrow in his gaze.

       Frodo groaned and Bilbo’s gaze returned to him.  “Hush, my boy,” the old hobbit crooned, his hand tightening on his nephew’s.  Bilbo had thought Frodo too deeply drugged to be aware of his comfort but he prayed that the lad at least knew he and Sam were there, and that he was not alone.  But as he stroked the trembling hand, Frodo’s thick eyelashes fluttered and he moaned.  “Go to sleep, Frodo-lad,” Bilbo whispered, striving to keep his voice soft and reassuring.  “Go back to sleep, my dear.”

       But Frodo fought, trying to drag himself to wakefulness.  Bilbo watched him writhe, knotting the blankets about himself, his distress deepening as he vaguely felt the restraining covers.  “Samwise,” called Bilbo, “help me.  He’s tying himself up.”

       Sam quickly left off watching the muster and hurried to help his old master, easing the sheets and blankets from around the struggling form.  Freed of the restraining covers, Frodo’s writhing increased, perspiration coating him as he battled the strong sedative.  “He’s fighting it,” Bilbo murmured to Sam, tears crowding his old eyes. 

      “Aye,” Sam muttered back. He leaned over to wet a soft cloth and wring it out.  “He can feel that wicked thing comin’ closer.”  Sam wiped the sweating face gently, trying to cool and reassure his master.  “It’s all right, Mr. Frodo,” he whispered to the writhing form.  “We won’t let it get ‘ta you.  It’ll have to come through Sam Gamgee to hurt you, and that’s not going to happen.”

* * * * *

       Aragorn pulled up the gelding at a fork on the narrow pathway above Imladris.  One fork led down and was a deception; the rising path, not descending until it rounded a curve, was the true one.  Holding his horse to stillness, the Ranger listened.  Here the cliffs were sheer and sound echoed misleadingly.  Faintly he could hear the heavy plodding hoof-beats of the Ringwraith’s mount, its steps ringing against the earth with dull thuds, but he could not estimate its location.     

        Swallowing a curse, Aragorn leaned forward to stroke his gelding’s neck reassuringly as the animal caught scent of the other, the not-horse that the Ringwraith rode.  The gelding’s eyes rimmed with white as it sought to expel the smell of corruption from its nostrils.  Blowing, the horse obeyed its rider’s instructions and set itself to climb the steep path, fearing if not understanding that terror came behind it.

       Aragorn let the gelding have his head, letting him move faster than was safe on such narrow, perilous path.  Suddenly the horse threw up his head and whinnied - a welcoming sound, not a frightened one.  The Ranger pulled it to the side of the path against the cliff and dismounted, knowing better than to trust the animal’s weight on soft ground.  Aragorn cast his lean form to the ground and peered over the cliff-side.

       Far below him rode a great host of Elves, the setting sun reflecting on the points of their bannered spears.  The Master of Rivendell rode at their head, wearing armor he had not donned for an age of the world.  Even as Aragorn looked down, Elrond raised his dark head and met his foster son’s eyes, and in the single smile that passed between them were volumes spoken. 

      The Ranger remounted and sent the gelding hurrying towards the host, less mindful now of the need for silence and stealth.  The animal slid on its haunches, Aragorn standing in the saddle, to struggle to a stop before Elrond’s mount. 

       “How far behind you is it?” the Elf-lord asked.  Behind him, the Elves unsheathed their weapons.

      Aragorn shook his head, unable to provide precise information.  “Not far.  It comes quickly.”

      Elrond nodded, then his face softened and he reached out to grasp the Ranger’s arm.  “You are well?  And your brothers and the little ones?”

       Swiftly Aragorn recounted the last few days and saw Elrond’s face tighten as he took in the news that Elrohir had not returned to them.  But there was no help for it, now.  “And the halflings?” the Elf-lord asked.

       “Merry’s arm is healing fast and he seems unfazed by his accident.  Pippin is most pleased to be able to care for his cousin.  They are difficult to daunt, these hobbits.”

       Elrond smiled, a slight lightening of the worry in his dark eyes.  “I have seen that myself.”  Then his face tightened again.  “Frodo alerted me to the wraith’s proximity.  He felt it well before it reached the valley.  I have had to sedate him.”

     “Such sensitivity to evil will serve us well on our quest,” responded Aragorn.  “But I am sorry it comes at such a cost to him.”

      Elrond raised his head, ageless eyes distant.  “It comes,” he said, the words carrying back among his folk.  “Ride by my side, Estel.  We must stop it from reaching the Ringbearer.”

* * * * *  

       “Leave us alone!  Leave us alone!” cried Pippin, his voice high and frightened.  Merry dropped Pippin’s cloak and cocked his arm to throw the dagger.  But the cast would go astray, he knew – not left-handed, the cast felt wrong before it left his fingers.

      The Man pulled off the last of the snares and gained his feet.  Blood dripped from the shallow wounds, staining his dirty clothes and skin.  Standing, he seemed enormous to the hobbits, impossibly large.  Snarling, he reached out for them. 

        Then his face stilled and stiffened, and his arm froze in mid-grasp.  The hobbits turned.  Inmara stood behind them; elven-quiet she had come and her ears were flat against her huge head and her great, chisel-like teeth bared.  She stretched her long neck over the hobbits’ heads and shook her mane, great dark eyes narrowed on the Man.

      Merry fought down the sob in his throat, cradling his arm.  Inmara dipped her head and nuzzled their heads, blowing gently on their hair.  He and Pip edged back behind the pillars of her front legs, sheltered by her barrel.    The mercenary started to drop his arm and instantly her head was back up and those yellowed but strong teeth were but inches from his face.

       “Good horse, good horse,” murmured Merry, rather idiotically.  Pippin glanced at him and laughed, a note of hysteria in his voice.  Very slowly and carefully the soldier took a step backward, then when the old mare did nothing but watch, another.  Another, out of reach of those great teeth.  Then the Man turned and ran, crashing away into the underbrush.

       Merry slid down Inmara’s leg and collapsed, the throbbing in his arm unbearable.  Pippin was at his side immediately, supporting his cousin until Merry could overcome the pain and regain himself.  Inmara nuzzled them both anxiously, though her delicately pointed ears remained upright, tracking the mercenary’s retreat.

       After some little time, Merry held onto his cousin while Pippin helped him to his feet.  “Thank you, Inmara,” the hobbits said, reaching up to stroke her muzzle.  “A second time, for our lives.”

       The mare lipped their hands and blew sweet breath in their faces.

* * * * *     

       When Elladan and Elrohir found the halflings, the two were trying to gain Inmara’s back by climbing a tree and crawling from it onto her.  The mare would have lowered himself to the ground to allow them to mount, but Merry and Pippin wished to spare the old mare that.  The twins reined in their stallions to watch as Pippin tried to guide his cousin onto the mare’s back, his arms tight around Merry’s waist.  Inmara pressed herself against the trunk beneath them, holding herself still so that Merry could drop the short distance from the branch to her back.

         “May we help?” asked the twins together as they dismounted, eliciting a cry from the hobbits.  The two stared open-mouthed for a moment, then Pippin was swarming down the tree, scraping his hands and feet against the bark.  Elladan moved forward and caught Merry off the branch, saving the hobbit a painful climb down. The Elves laughed as the little ones wrapped their short arms around them, hugging them in joy and relief.

       Amidst cries of “Are you all right?” and “What happened to you?” the Elves and the hobbits eventually heard one another’s stories.   Elladan and Elrohir had returned first to their destroyed camp and had heard the hobbits’ cries and the Man’s shouts from there.  Spurring their stallions to a dangerous run, they had raced to the source of the commotion, their bows and knives in their hands.  When they heard of the mercenary’s intentions, Elrohir stood and clasped his hand around the hilt of his long knife, staring after the Man, anger evident on his fair face.

       “It is well that Inmara found you when she did,” he said at length.  “I had much time to observe these Men and believe that they are the worst sort of hired soldier.  Rough and cruel and taking pleasure in the giving of pain and death.”  The Elf’s eyes darkened further.  “Just the sort that Saruman would employ.”

       “Which our father needs to know,” continued Elladan with a concerned glance at his twin.  “We will rest this night and return to Imladris in the morning.  It will be a long ride for you, my friends.  Can you endure?”

       Merry and Pippin looked at each other and thought of groaning supper-tables and feather beds and warmth and safety.  “Can’t we go tonight?” asked Pippin plaintively.

* * * * *

        “There is no safety here,” Elrond was saying, as the Elven host gathered close.  “We cannot come against it directly; the strength of its master is in it.”  The Elf-lord closed his eyes briefly as he sought the cold, empty darkness of the Nazgûl with his mind.   Very close, now...  Its nearness caused him pain, a sharp gnawing hurt in his soul, and he wondered if this pain was a faint echo of what the Ringbearer must be suffering. 

       Elrond opened his eyes again.  By his side, Estel sat his horse quietly.  “Further up this way there is a narrow place, steep-sided and sheer,” the Elf-lord continued, seeing his host nod as they knew the place.  “It is not the Ford of Bruinen, but perhaps it can serve as well.”

      “Roll boulders down upon the evil thing,” breathed Aragorn.

      “Push it off the cliff,” added Glorfindel, a fierce eagerness on his face.  Beneath him, Asfaloth snorted and tossed his proud head.

       “Yes,” said Elrond.  “Send it empty and shapeless back to its master, until it can find a new form to wear and a new mount to ride.”  The hurt he was feeling abruptly intensified.  “Hurry,” he commanded them.  “It is coming.”

Chapter 31:  Endings and Beginnings

       Giving in to the hobbits’ pleas and their own sense of urgency, Elladan and Elrohir agreed to ride by night.  At speed, they would arrive in Rivendell just after the sun.  The news that the twins held for their lord father would not wait, and they were worried about Merry’s arm.  Bereaved of its splint and jarred by the excitement, the arm was swelling and throbbed unmercifully.  Merry endured the pain with a white face, unnaturally silent.  As they had no supplies other than what the twins had carried, it was but the work of minutes to load up the patient Inmara and seat each hobbit before them.  Merry gasped when Elladan handed him up to Elrohir, squeezing his eyes shut, sweat beading his brow.

       “Hold!” ordered Elladan, his dark eyes fastened worriedly on Merry’s pale face.  “Brother, he cannot ride without that arm being supported.  Bide awhile and let Pippin and I search for a splint.”  Elrohir dismounted and set Merry back down, noting with concern how tightly the hobbit pressed his broken arm against his side.

       Pippin searched the riverbank, seeking his discarded bread sculpture as he was certain that nothing better could be found for this use.  When he found it at last in the fading light, water from the bank had invaded it and the dough form was limp and unusable.  It dissolved into soggy pieces in the tweenager’s hands.  Pippin regretfully buried it, patting the sandy soil in farewell.  Merry consoled the tweenager gently then as soon as his back was turned, stomped it deep into the sand.

       Abandoning hope of finding a straight, suitable stick, at last Elladan padded Merry’s arm carefully then bound one of his long knives along the limb.  Cradling the weary hobbits against them, the Elves pulled their cloaks forward to wrap around their small passengers and turning their mounts towards home, kneed the tired horses to a canter.

* * * * * 

        “Silence!” the Elf-lord hissed, and the host of elven horse behind Elrond obeyed as best they could.  For all their attempts at quiet, heavy stones and boulders could not be moved and piled without noise.  Dusk had deepened into dark while they worked, but the host labored without torches as Elrond refused to allow any light that might betray their presence.  Now the moon rode high overhead, its light sufficient for the laying of the trap that would defend Rivendell … and the evil object that sheltered there.  

        Aragorn’s thoughts turned to one young hobbit and the evil thing he bore in defiance of the Great Enemy.  His oath to the Ringbearer was foremost in his mind as they waited; he could do nothing more to protect Frodo now.  The Ranger dropped and crawled aside the prone Elf-lord and levered his head over the cliff-side.  Elrond was stretched out on the bare earth, his dark gaze scanning the landscape.  The Elf-lord met Aragorn’s glance and shook his head in negation; the Ringwraith was not yet in sight.  The two pulled back and joined Glorfindel and those not involved in the stone-work where they stood with the horses, back from the steep incline.

       “Elrond,” Aragorn asked, “Can it not feel our presence as we feel its?  It does not see as Men or Elves do, but if we feel it as a coldness and a creeping fear, what does it know of us?”

       Elrond reached up to stroke his horse’s muzzle, patting the anxious nose thrust into his hands.   

 “I do not doubt it knows we are here,” the Elf-lord returned softly, “ but I pray it does not know exactly where.  The senses that it has cannot see through rock and stone, and the twisting paths of my home confuse it.  You said that it took several wrong turns before finding the correct way,” he paused and Aragorn nodded confirmation, “ so it must seek the valley like any other traveler, all its powers of evil aside.”

       Elrond closed his eyes and tilted his dark head to the side, his mind seeking for the invader’s path.  But even he could not pinpoint it among the deceptive, twisting ways.  His host were placing the last touches on the avalanche of boulders they had positioned at the narrowest part of the constricted path, chinking the pile of stones which threatened to rain down whether they willed it or no.  Among them moved a squat, solid figure so unlike his own people.  Gimli the Dwarf had joined them as they mounted up, sitting ahorse most ungracefully, and was now adding his considerable expertise in directing the Elves in the building of the trap.

       Elrond smiled to see his people look askance at the Dwarf but they acknowledged his superior knowledge of fortification building and obeyed his instructions.  To the side of them now rose a great pile of small boulders and loose stones, grouped around a massive granite boulder and held loosely in place by pivot-stones, which could be knocked aside in an instant.  The entire assemblage was held by a single wooden peg, driven into the earth before the granite boulder and tied to a rope.  The Dwarf crouched to the side of the unsteady pile, peering down upon the twisting path, his muscled hand tight on the rope.

* * * * *

       Though Bilbo and Samwise both tried to soothe the semi-conscious hobbit, Frodo would not be comforted.  The Ringbearer’s pain and unreasoning terror grew with every step nearer the Nazgûl came.  The closed wound where the Morgul-blade had stabbed him had turned cold again, and Frodo’s left arm and side were as bitter as ice, stiff and unyielding to the touch.  Sam warmed bricks on the hearth and wrapped them in thick towels, tucking them against his master’s side.  Even this did not diffuse the creeping cold, and Frodo cried out again and again in anguish.

       Bilbo drew back from his nephew’s bedside, wiping perspiration from the pale, agonized face.  “Easy there, lad,” the old hobbit whispered, knowing that Frodo could no longer hear him.  “Rest easy, my boy.  Sam and I are here, and we won’t leave you.” 

       Samwise stood by his master’s bed, chafing Frodo’s cold left hand with both of his warm, calloused ones.  The sedative Elrond had given him, dangerously strong as it was, could not shield Frodo from the awareness of the terror that approached, seeking him and that which he had been entrusted.  Whimpering, Frodo twisted in the sweat-soaked sheets, eyes wide and unseeing, seeking escape … seeking refuge.

      The loud knock on the door started Bilbo and Sam both into crying out, Sam biting his tongue in an effort to stifle the second yelp that rose in his throat.  The two hobbits stared at each other in terror before Bilbo coughed and forced a laugh.  “It’s just the door, Sam.  Answer it, would you, lad?”

       Sam staggered to his feet, trying to hide the trembling of his limbs.  “Guess that wicked thing wouldn’t knock, would it, sir?”  His smile was ghastly.  “All right, I’m coming!” he called as the knock was repeated, loud and impatient.

       Gandalf stood in the doorway, his arms laden with bundles and his staff tucked precariously into an elbow.  The wizard swept past Sam and Bilbo, dropping his bundles on the small side table against the wall, and leaned over the Ringbearer.  “How is he?” he said softly, his deep gaze sorrowful and strained.

      Bilbo eased himself stiffly out of the chair and stroked his nephew’s dark hair, the soft curls stringy from sweat.  “He’s suffering, Gandalf.  He’s aware of it, even so deeply drugged.  He can feel it coming closer.  Can’t you do anything?”

     The wizard reached out and gently touched Frodo’s face, receiving a pained gasp in response.  “I am, Bilbo.  I am doing something.  I am preparing to carry the Ringbearer to safety, should Elrond’s efforts fail.”  Bilbo and Sam paled; the thought that Elrond might fail and the Ringwraith win through to Rivendell had not truly occurred to them. 

      “You think -” Bilbo began, but Gandalf cut him off.

      “I fear, Bilbo.  I did not go with Elrond because someone must be here with Frodo, ere he fails to stop the creature.  I have been to the kitchens and gathered up bread and cheese and travel food.  I want you and Sam to pack some of Frodo’s clothing and warm cloaks and blankets – whatever he and you two will need, should it come to an evacuation.”

       “Evacuation,” Sam murmured, for a moment not understanding.  “You mean, if we have ‘ta run for it?”  

      “Exactly, Sam,” Gandalf replied.  “The Ring – and its Bearer – must not fall into the hands of the Enemy.”  The wizard gazed keenly at Bilbo.  “Either of its Bearers.”   Then those deep eyes snapped to Samwise.  “Sam, get those things together.  All we will need for several days in the Wild.  Bilbo, I suggest you fetch your mail coat and Sting.”

      Swallowing, Sam obeyed, his heart racing.  Gandalf took Bilbo’s chair as the old hobbit left to gather his own things and his sword, the wizard’s gnarled hands reaching out to stroke Frodo’s ashen face.

* * * * * 

       Elrond did not need to warn his host to silence when the black form appeared on the narrow path below them.  Coldness flowed from it like an icy wind, a darkness and a dankness that chilled the soul and froze the heart.  Elrond, with Aragorn beside him, again lay prone on their bellies, their heads raised over the cliffside. The Black Rider slumped in the saddle, a misshaped thing, malformed, only its mailed gauntlets and boots could be seen apart from the ragged robes.  For a moment it hesitated at the crest of the path, its featureless head raised and seeking.  It seemed to sniff the cooling air, snuffling like some malevolent hound after a scent.  For long moments the creature sat still and silent, uncertain, then it kicked its mount into a walk, coming down into the ambush.

      Elrond waited until it was almost directly below them, to where a few more steps would carry it under the path of the great boulder.  Then silently, he slashed his arm down and Gimli jerked the rope tied to the peg that supported the entire avalanche.   The peg shot free.  Released from  restraint, the smaller stones rolled first, gathering dust and dirt and others as they moved.  The greater stones moved next, overtaking the smaller and smashing them into pieces,  sharp shards of stone flying like missiles.  The black horse reared, screaming.  With an agility that none would have credited it, the beast twisted on its haunches and leaped backwards.  One of the great stones smashed into its flank and it staggered, its rider thrown to the side in the saddle.  The Ringwraith shrieked, the anger and hatred in its unnatural cry striking terror into the hearts of all that suffered it.  Some of the Elves clapped their hands over their sensitive ears, their fair faces tightening in pain. 

      The avalanche gathered momentum, stones striking each other and knocking each other to the side.  The black horse recovered, white foam and red blood painting its body.  A groan swept through the host as the Nazgûl regained its seat on the sweating beast.  Showing a skill that would have been admired had this been other than what it was, the beast’s rider backed the black horse out of range of the falling stones.  Still as death, it sat in the saddle as the cascade of stones lessened then stopped, the cowled darkness of its face raised towards the Elves.

      The greatest of the stones, the granite boulder, gouged out great hunks of the cliffside as it fell and when it reached the path, it bounced on the narrow way before rolling off and smashing its way down the sheer incline.  As Elrond watched, horrified, the whole section of the narrow path gave way, following after the boulder in a shower of loosened earth and stone.  

      Elrond watched with a sinking heart as the last, smaller stones rolled harmlessly past the still figure and into the newly created crevasse.  The black horse lowered its ugly head and snorted, the sound somehow contemptuous and derisive.  Its rider was silent but none there doubted the threat in its rigid posture.  For a long time the Lord of Imladris and the depthless black cowl faced each other, then the Nazgûl drove its mailed boots into the beast’s sides.  Even as it screamed in pain, the black horse obeyed, carrying its rider back along the way it had come.  The Nazgûl paused at the top of the crest, turning in the saddle to raise its cowled head to stare once more in the direction of the Elf-lord.  Though Elrond could not see any sign of features in the unrelieved blackness of the cowl, he could almost feel the twisted smile on the evil thing’s face, and the promise of retribution in its unseen eyes.

Chapter 32:  New Directions

        Gandalf closed his eyes and leaned against his staff, lines of weariness etched on his face.  A faint wind swirled about his tall figure and rustled his robes, lifting his hair, the only movement on the balcony.  Sam watched him worriedly, trying to keep an eye on the wizard, his master and old Mr. Bilbo at the same time.  Sam reflected darkly that he was running out of eyes.  The stocky hobbit sighed as he finished rolling Frodo’s clothes and stuffing them into his master’s pack, slinging it over to join the others.  Sam’s pack and Bilbo’s lay by the door, ready to be snatched up in an instant.  Gandalf would not leave them to fetch his own pack, so Sam had improvised a carry-sack of blankets that he filled with the bundles Gandalf had brought from the kitchens.

      The wizard turned and strode back into the room.  Bilbo looked up from where he had been rubbing Frodo’s hand, questions in his brown eyes.  “The attempt has failed,” Gandalf informed them abruptly.  The Ringwaith is unharmed.  The northern path into Rivendell is destroyed … permanently, I think.”

       “Does that it mean it won’t be coming, sir?” Sam asked. 

       Gandalf shook his head, his eyes still distant.  “No, Sam.  It will seek another route.  It must – its master drives it on.  Sauron knows where his Ring is, now.”

       As if the Ringbearer could hear him, Frodo moaned and half-opened his eyes, laboring to focus.  Gandalf leaned over him and laid a hand on his forehead.  “He is coming out of it, and I have none of the sedative to give him.  More would be dangerous, in any case.  Stubborn hobbit!”  Gandalf sighed as Frodo struggled against the drug, his brow crinkling and brows quirking as he forced himself to awareness.        

       “Frodo-lad?” Bilbo asked anxiously, chafing the cold hand.  

      Frodo blinked.  He looked at his uncle, then those beautiful, puzzled eyes traveled to Sam, who smiled at him reassuringly.  Frodo closed his eyes, relaxing.  “I feel awful,” he groaned.  “What –“

       Gandalf caught his shoulder as Frodo’s eyes widened.  In an instant the wizard was sitting on the bed, holding the Ringbearer as Frodo’s body went rigid, his great hand stroking the dark curls.  Frodo clenched the wizard’s arm tightly with both hands, gasping as his eyes focused on something beyond their vision, a knowledge dawning in their morning glory depths for which they had no comfort.

       “Frodo!”  Gandalf shook him, hard.  Frodo’s head snapped back on his neck and he glared at the wizard, his mouth opening.  “If you are angry,” the wizard said, “you are not frightened.”  Frodo looked at him blankly for a moment, then buried his head against him with a gasping laugh.

       For a long time the wizard held him, rubbing his back in slow circles.  At last Frodo raised his head and pulled back, still shaking slightly but under control.  “You drugged me,” he accused them in a voice too weary to hold much blame.

       “We had to, lad,” Bilbo interjected, his old face still strained.  “You were beyond reason.  We couldn’t reach you.”

       “Aye, sir, we had to,” Sam put in.

       Frodo reached up and laid a cool hand against Sam’s black eye, feeling his friend flinch at the gentle touch.  “Did I do that?”

       Sam nodded. “But it wasn’t your fault, sir.  You didn’t mean ‘ta.”

       “I’m sorry,” Frodo whispered to him.  His eyes turned to all of them.  “I’m sorry.”  Suddenly he shuddered, dropping his face into his hands.  Raising his left arm jarred the shoulder, and he grimaced.

       “You are better now,” said the wizard briskly, “and that is what is important.  Now,” and his rough voice gentled, “can you still feel it?”

       Frodo was still for a moment.  “Yes.  It … it is not as close, but still there.  It is still coming.”

       “Yes, it must.”  There was great sadness in the wizard’s voice.  “It was a great King once, a man renown for his wisdom and valor.  Now it is but a lesser shadow in the shade of the greater, tortured and tormented, no longer remembering what it once was.  That is a mercy, perhaps…”

       Sam looked at the old wizard intensely, an odd notion in his mind.  He knew that Gandalf was thousands of years old, had walked the earth forever, it seemed.  “Older than dirt, meanin’ no disrespect,” as his Gaffer would say.  Had Gandalf known this King, this wise and valiant warrior, before he fell to temptation and became a monster?  Was the sorrow in his deep eyes for a friendship lost?

        The wizard felt those fervent grey eyes upon him and took a moment to smile at the gardener.  “In any event,” Gandalf continued more briskly, “we cannot allow it anywhere near our Ringbearer.”

       Frodo smiled at him wanly, then his gaze fell on the packs and he struggled upright again.  “We are leaving?”

       “Gandalf said we might have to, lad.  Don’t you worry – Elrond has stopped it,” reassured Bilbo.

       “Say delayed it, rather,” corrected the wizard.  “The northern path is no more.  It will circle ‘round and seek another.”

        Frodo nodded, too exhausted and aching to summon much terror at the moment.  Seeing him sag back against the pillows, Gandalf rose from the bed and tapped Bilbo on the shoulder.  The elderly hobbit slid out of his chair stiffly, wincing as old joints creaked.  Bilbo leaned down and kissed his nephew gently on the forehead, and the two moved quietly towards the door.  Sam pulled the drapes over the glassless windows, darkening the room while his master slept.

      Gandalf hung back a moment as Bilbo departed, and laid a strong hand on Sam’s shoulder.  “Sam, do not empty our packs.  Take out the perishables but keep more travel food ready.  I want to be ready to flee in a moment’s notice, if it comes to that.”

       Sam nodded his understanding.  “Aye, sir.  We’ll be ready.”

* * * * * 

       Gimli stamped his heavy boot against the earth in demonstration.  “See, Lord Elrond?  I can shake the earth with just a stomp.  No use in trying to rebuild the path until you shore up the cliffside.”  The Dwarf stamped again and all there felt the faint tremble under their feet.

       “Thank you, Master Dwarf,” Elrond said hastily.  “Your point is well-taken.”  Next to him, Glorfindel exhaled loudly as the ground steadied and Elrond shot him a reprimanding glance.  “Let us move back from the crevasse to safer ground.”

       The Master of Rivendell turned his gaze up the sheer wall of stone, from which small slides of loose earth continued to fall.  There had been two smaller landslides after the avalanche, each catching the Elves unaware and almost trapping two as they climbed over the cliff face.  After that, Elrond had ordered everyone away from the area and sent for the Dwarf, swallowing his pride to ask the earth-son’s advice. 

       To his credit, Gimli had not taken advantage of the Elf-lord’s need to gain gentle payback for the animosity between his folk and the Elves.  Instead, the Dwarf had carefully examined the avalanche area, rumbling to himself under his breath, prodding the rock with a thick finger as if he could feel the cracking and weakness in the stone.

       Elrond sighed.  “Shore up the cliffside…  How would we do that, Master Dwarf?”

       “You might have to clear out this whole slab of rock before you can reach solid stone.  Once there, you will have to start building up the cliff from the bottom.  Hard work, that.  My people could do it, of course, but yours…”

       “Perhaps when this is over, I might speak with your lord, Master Gimli.  Perhaps we can reach an arrangement.”

       Gimli looked up at him from beneath bristling brows, his smile almost hidden in his beard.  “Aye, my lord.  I think it would be well for your folk and mine to work again together, as they did in ancient days.  I, for one, would be glad to see those days again.”

       Elrond stared at the stocky Dwarf in astonishment.   “When this is over,” he mused.  “I too would like to see friendship between our peoples, Master Gimli.  But there is so much distrust to overcome, so much ill-feeling…”

       “Aye,” the Dwarf agreed in a softer tone.  Both fell silent.

       “In times of war,” the Elf-lord continued at length, “it is no bad thing to leave the path as it is.  It is one less way into Imladris that must be watched and guarded.  We will attempt no repair until times are peaceable again, and we need not fear the intentions of the travelers upon the road.”

       Gimli nodded.  “I think that is wise, my lord.”

       “My lord?”

       Elrond turned to Glorfindel, who had just finished speaking with another Elf.  “My lord, this scout reports that the Nazgûl has continued up the path and paused at the entrance to the trail.  The scout then returned, as you ordered.  He says that it did not seem to be in a hurry, and sat ahorse for a long time at the trail head, looking north.”

       “North…” murmured the Elf-lord, the blood draining from his fine-boned face.  “My sons…”

       “Yes,” Glorfindel confirmed, his own face white.  “Elrohir and Elladan and the halflings do not know the path is destroyed.  They are coming that way.”

* * * * *

       “I want to stop,” demanded Pippin.  “Please, let me down for a minute.”

       Elladan glanced down at the young hobbit in amused exasperation.  “Pippin, we have stopped several times during the night.  You do not need to get down again.”

       Pippin twisted ‘round before the Elf so he could stare up into his face.  “I don’t need to get down for that,” he explained.  “Look at those flowers over there.  Wouldn’t it be nice to take Frodo some?”

       “I could do with a walk,” commented Merry from his seat before Elrohir.  The twins exchanged a smile between them and slowing their stallions, swung off them, lifting their small passengers down easily.  Inmara halted behind them with a twitch of her delicately pointed ears; she had plodded half-asleep behind them, making use of that marvelous equine ability to nap while walking.  The two hobbits swayed a moment on stiff legs but soon found their balance.  All four scouts had learned that frequent breaks to allow the hobbits to walk about kept their riding muscles from stiffening and spared them the unendurable agony they had suffered after their first day of hard riding.  They had traveled steadily since sunset of the previous day, eating a dinner on horseback of what food the twins had packed on their mounts (dried meat and stale cheese, much to the hobbits’ disgust).  Pippin had offered to set snares, if they could stop for just an hour, but the twins would not allow the halt.  The two young hobbits had spent the night napping, sheltered by elvish arms that kept them safe and elvish cloaks that kept them warm.  Breakfast (drier meat and staler cheese) had been consumed ahorseback also, and the hobbits wanted to stop for a while.

       The twins stretched also, breaking out the horses’ water bags and filling them from their water skins, holding the bags up to them for a drink.  This was the last open stretch before the narrow path that led into Imladris; once they reached the trail, it would be too narrow to dismount.   The twins conversed softly while the two hobbits gathered generous armloads of fall flowers; wild geraniums, columbine, iris and daffodils, buttercups and bluebells, wrapping their stalks in the shredded remains of Merry’s cloak wetted from their water-skins.  The colorful and unwieldy bundles were tied to Inmara’s packs, the old mare enduring this patiently.

      “Merry, Pippin, we must go now,” called Elrohir.  “It is still several hours’ ride to the House and you do not wish the flowers to wilt before you can present them to the Ringbearer.”  Elrohir seemed uneasy and beside him, Elladan raised his dark head into the breeze like a stag scenting the wind.

       The twins traded a glance.  “Meriadoc, Peregrin,” Elladan said softly, “come now.  We must leave this place.”

       “Why?” asked Pippin, obediently allowing himself to be reseated on the gray stallion, which was dancing nervously.  Elrohir swung up behind Merry and leaned back to catch Inmara’s rein.  Merry looked at him in surprise; the elderly mare had walked with her rein free since the previous morning. 

       “We need to get back,” explained Elladan, which was not an explanation at all.  Pippin was about to pursue the subject when the stallion surged forward at a quick trot, not the easiest of paces to sit.  Pippin decided he’d rather not risk biting his tongue when he tried to speak and so opted for silence.  Elrohir followed with Inmara and Pippin saw Merry’s face tighten as the jarring trot pained his injured arm.

        Pippin waited for Merry to ask the twins to shift to a slower pace that did not hurt his arm so.  Merry was clenching his teeth, his face pale, and Pippin decided that if his cousin would not speak, then he certainly would.  Pippin gathered air to protest the speed at which they were moving for his cousin’s sake when both stallions pulled up abruptly.  Pippin pitched forward in the saddle with a little involuntary “whuff.”  He turned forward in the saddle, startled at the sudden cessation of movement.

       They stood not far from the trailhead of the northern path; Pippin remembered his sigh of relief as they had exited it.  Sheer rock on one side and a sheer drop on the other - he had felt that he couldn’t draw in enough breath in that place.  Now shadows cloaked the narrow passage. Something dark stood in the deep shade just before where the path widened, its huge bulk scarcely able to negotiate the narrow, twisting way.  The shadows seemed to flow together and gel into a black shape that stood silent and still, waiting.  Evil flowed from it like an icy miasma.  Pippin stifled the cry that rose in his throat and leaned back against the rigid Elf.  It was a Black Rider.

Chapter 33:  Homeward Bound

       The second cry that rose in the young hobbit’s throat escaped Pippin, though he was not aware of it.  Vaguely, he felt Elladan tighten his grip around his waist, the Elf’s arm around him almost painful.  Slowly, slowly, Elladan began backing his gray stallion from the silent, shadowed figure.  Behind him, Elrohir sat stiffly.  Merry, seated before him, was absolutely white.  The Black Rider did nothing, watching them, but the mount under it tossed its head and pawed the earth, eager for conflict and blood.

       Terror flowed from the still figure, cold and pain and despair, and the four riders that sat paired on their horses felt their hearts darken and their eyes dim.  Their limbs were frozen, their blood ice.  Not horse or Elf or hobbit could move as the Ringwraith shifted slowly in its saddle and drew its long sword.  Nothing could be seen of any human features under the black hood but it seemed to the petrified watchers that the featureless face smiled, and it kicked its mount brutally in the side, urging it a step forward.

      Merry pushed back against Elrohir, taking unconscious comfort in the Elf’s strong frame.  The Elf sat motionless, the reins so tightly clenched in his long hands that the leather cut into his skin, drawing thin lines of blood across his palms.  But resolution burned in his dark eyes, and looking over to Elladan, Merry saw the same look there.  Then the hobbit felt gentle hands about his waist, and he was being dragged over the saddle to drop to the earth with an unavoidable jolt that jarred his broken arm agonizingly.  Merry stumbled, going to his knees, then reached up to catch the Elf’s stirrup as Elrohir kneed his great gray stallion to stand beside that of his brother’s.

       Pippin was struggling, fighting against Elladan’s placing him on the ground and out of immediate harm’s way.  The tweenager had wound his small hands tight in the Elf’s cloak and from somewhere within himself, had summoned the presence of mind to hiss, “…no!  You won’t put me down like a sack of laundry!  Elladan, we can fight, too!”

       “You cannot aid us, Pippin,” came the Elf’s soft reply.  “Elrohir and I will fight the better for knowing that you and Merry are safe.  It is two against one … despite what it is, perhaps we can take it.”

       “You can’t fight that thing,” growled Merry from his one-handed grip on Elrohir’s stirrup.  “You know you can’t.  That … that monster can’t be finished in such a way.  Gandalf told us so.  You’ll just be throwing your lives away.”

      Elrohir shifted his weight in the saddle and the stallion obediently stepped away from Merry, pulling the stirrup from his grasp.  Elladan had drawn his sword and it gleamed coldly in the morning sun.  His face set, Elrohir drew his own sword and moved to stand beside his brother, their horses tossing their heads, white-rimmed eyes staring at the unnatural not-horse the Nazgûl sat.  Furious with impotence, Merry reached across with his left hand and drew his small sword, only to have it waver and almost fall from his uncertain grip.  He tried to grasp the hilt in his right hand, but the hand would not obey and he cried out as it slipped from his hold.

       Then Pip was by his side, taking the sword and sheathing it in Merry’s scabbard.  “Not that way,” Pippin whispered, his eyes never leaving the still tableau before him.  The hobbits felt the unseen eyes of the creature turn to them momentarily, then dismiss them, its attention once more on the young Elves.  “Merry,” said Pippin softly, “listen to me -”

      Elladan and Elrohir also turned their attention from the halflings, seeking within themselves the serenity and strength to deal with the Nazgûl.  Even their lord father had never faced one of the Nine directly.  Their minds following the same path as they had done since birth, the twins hoped that the little folk would survive and be able to tell their father and kin of their demise.  They could not destroy the Ringwraith, they knew, but if they could take from it it’s mount, render it formless … then it would have to return to its master, empty and shapeless, until it could find a new mount to ride and a new form to wear.  If they could win just a little respite for the Ringbearer…

       After coming to the entrance of the narrow passageway, the Ringwraith had halted, apparently watching with relish the fear and pain its presence caused its victims.  Who could say what, if any, thoughts passed through the cold mind under that black hood?  Perhaps it only wanted to feel their terror and despair, drink in the horror it engendered in them.  But the single step forward was a challenge.  And the twins moved to meet it, their horses shaking their manes in fear.

       The black mount reared, great disfigured hooves pawing the air.  Then it came to earth again and the Ringwraith urged it into battle. 

       It seemed to the Elves that the beast lurched, and for the first time the Nazgûl seemed uncertain.  The hooded figure leaned forward in the saddle as its mount staggered.  All eyes were drawn to the beast’s front hooves, where a leather sling was wrapping itself around the thick ankles.  The beast snorted, not understanding, and strove to take another step.

      Another slender rope of weighted leather sang through the air and wrapped itself around the first, pulling it tighter.  The beast half-reared and came down off-balance, unable to steady itself with its forelimbs immobilized.  Their hands now free, the hobbits knelt and gathered rocks to them.  Then the black beast was being peppered with small, sharp stones and it screamed in fury and pain.

      Merry and Pippin pitched more rocks, their hearts in their throats as the beast staggered again, its rider pulling cruelly on the bit.  More stones they held at the ready but they were not needed.  The black horse threw up its head, blood and foam dripping from its mouth.  Then it was falling to the side, going down, its enormous body slipping from the narrow path.  The Black Rider was jerked to the side by the animal’s momentum, unable to spring free, constrained by the rock wall of the cliffside.  Its awful shriek rang out to join the beast’s as the two fell to the rocky earth, and then slid from the narrow path to tumble down the cliff.  Those above watched in horror as the rider was rolled under the great beast and the two fell down the steep cliff, the sound of cracking bones drifting up to them on the wind.

       Forgotten for the moment, the mare Inmara moved past the stallions to the side of the cliff and looked down.  The old mare stood quietly for a moment, then shaking her pack, caused the multitude of wildflowers she carried to drift down upon the still, broken forms.

* * * * *

       “Elladan!  Elrohir!”  Forgetful of his dignity, the Lord of Imladris ran to almost where the crevasse began and stretched out his arms to his sons. 

       The two young Elves swung down from their mounts and lifted down two much smaller forms, confusion at the state of the path warring with the delighted smiles on all their faces.  The host of Imladris surged forward also, causing the Dwarf to roar with astonishing volume, directing them back from the uncertain ground at the brink.  Laughing in relief, Elrond ordered his people back, motioning to his sons and the hobbits also to retreat.  Gimli grumbled something under his breath, and it was perhaps good for the fragile relations between Elves and Dwarves that none heard his remarks.  None but Aragorn, who laughed and kept his silence.

       Amidst much waving and calling back and forth, news was exchanged of the Ringwaith’s fate and the destruction of the way.  Aragorn, sure-footed and careful, guided by Gimli’s shouted instructions, cautiously inched his way across the slide area till he at last was pulled to safety by the twins.  The three brothers hugged each other in joy and relief, and then swept the hobbits into up their embrace.  

      “Merry and Pippin saved you?” repeated the Ranger, disbelief in his voice. 

      “You needn’t sound so surprised,” responded Pippin, wiggling to be set down.  Elladan did so, laughing.

      “It was Pip’s idea,” put in Merry, who was having his arm examined by Aragorn.  The Ranger gently pushed Pippin’s curly head out of his line of sight, the youngster watching his cousin’s treatment with attention. 

       “It is certainly a tale for the bards,” Aragorn said straight-faced.  “With slings and stones, you were able to accomplish what a mighty Elf-lord and his host could not with an avalanche.”  He laid the knife back against the break and carefully wrapped up the hobbit’s arm, aligning the wrist straight and checking that the bandaging was not too tight.  Merry grimaced.  Seeing that, Aragorn gave the hobbit’s shoulder a gentle squeeze and rose to his feet.  “We will have to turn the horses and go back, select another path.  If we ride without stopping for lunch or dinner, we can be home before sunset.”

      “We haven’t any food anyway,” replied Pippin sadly.

       Aragorn solemnly reached into his belt pouch and produced two strips of dried meat, which he gave to the young hobbits.  Pippin wrinkled his nose but took the rock-hard offering.  “There,” commented the Ranger.  “Now, we must go.  Elrond awaits the information you gathered on the mercenaries, Elrohir.  And I have no doubt that Frodo and Sam and Bilbo await the return of these two young miscreants.”

       “Miscreants!” objected the hobbits in unison. 

       Aragorn laughed and laid a hand on each small shoulder to guide them back to the horses.  “As I recall, you still have several days of penance to serve in Rivendell for your … um … activities.”

       Pippin choked on his bite of dried meat.  “Oh…  Oh, yes.  But Aragorn!  Wait until I tell you about my bread sculpture!”

       Merry groaned and covered his face with his good hand as the Ranger swung him up before Elladan.

* * * * *

      “Do you see them yet?”

      “No, Mr. Frodo.”  Sam took a final look out the window then hopped down off the bench and reseated himself beside his master and old Mr. Bilbo.  The sun was westering and it was growing cold.  Despite the two messengers that Lord Elrond had sent back, one with news of the failed avalanche then another reporting the scouts’ safe return, the hobbits were anxious.  The second messenger had had little to say about the hobbits, except to report that one had his arm in a sling. 

       After watching the reunited scouting party depart (Aragorn riding the old mare), Elrond had ordered his people home.  Lights were being lit now around the hidden valley, their soft glow illuminating the windows and courtyards of the Last Homely House, the scent of fall flowers in the air.  The hobbits waited impatiently, Sam making good use of his time by arranging a small feast of dishes dear to the hearts of hobbit-folk.  Those dishes sat now in Frodo’s room, steaming gently on hot bricks, their enticing aromas drifting on the cooling air.

       At last they heard the eager rush of bare feet on the polished floors, and two small forms burst from the corridor into the room.  Merry and Pippin skidded to a stop at the sight of their cousin and friend, who, along with Bilbo, had risen to greet them.  Frodo was pale, unsteady on his feet – he had obviously been ill again.  Sam was favoring a bright-red welt on his forearm and sporting a spectacular black eye.  The cousins felt themselves being inspected in return.  Merry, bruised and battered with his arm in a sling, and Pippin, a nicely-swollen cut under his eye and his clothes dirty and torn.  Four voices rang out with identical words – “What happened to you?”

Chapter 34:  A Party and A Purpose

      That evening, as darkness flowed over Rivendell, many reunions took place in the rooms and halls of the Last Homely House.  Some were more quiet and dignified than others, but all were heart-felt.  The most raucous was held in the Ringbearer’s room, and Elves passing along the corridor smiled to hear hobbit-voices raised in cheerful song or verse.  It was astonishing how much noise hobbits, usually a quiet folk, could make.  The party was much enlivened by Bilbo’s contribution of two bottles of Old Winyards, carefully carted by pony to Imladris and saved for a very special occasion.

       Every scrap of dinner had been eaten by the time the Master of Rivendell came to make formal thanks to the heroes of the day.  The four younger hobbits rose from their places and bowed deeply; Bilbo, by virtue of age, sat back and enjoyed the show.  Lord Elrond startled them all by bowing just as deeply in return, the heavy sleeves of his copper-colored mantle sweeping the floor.  With a graceful wave of his hand, he gestured them to be seated.  Then for a long time he regarded them with eyes that had seen the passing of hundreds of thousands of days, and would see the ending of this Age and the birth of all Ages to follow.

       “There are no words,” he said at last, “to thank you for the lives of my sons.”

       Merry slid to his feet and bowed again.  “My lord,” he replied softly, “you do us too much honor.  Pippin and I –“ and here he turned to find his younger cousin hanging over his shoulder, “we knew Elrohir and Elladan could not defeat a Black Rider.  It was Pip’s idea to attack the horse and drive it over the cliff.   Much the same as you did when you summoned the waters at the Ford of Bruinen, sir.”

      The Elf-lord nodded slowly, his deep eyes never leaving their faces.  Then his gaze shifted and met that of the elderly hobbit.  “Our way of fighting,” murmured Bilbo softly, knowing the Elf could hear.  Lord Elrond inclined his head in acknowledgement.

      “Nevertheless,” Lord Elrond said to the young hobbits, “it was a most intelligent and courageous action.”  Pippin blushed bright red, enhancing the red flush painting the tip of his nose and points of his ears from several glasses of powerful wine.  Merry stood a little straighter and resisted the urge to stick his hands in his pockets.  Frodo looked near to bursting with pride for his kin and Sam was unabashedly grinning from ear to ear.  Elrond stood before them, tall and still, his considering gaze looking past them at something they could not see.  At last he spoke again.  “It is small recompense for the lives of my children, but tomorrow night I am holding a feast in your honor.  All of my people will have the opportunity to thank you for what you did.”  He smiled at them, then, his stern face softening.  “As for my thanks, I have some small gifts for you before you depart.  And you are released from all … obligations … placed upon you for in reparation for The Wager.”

       “Thank you, my lord,” both chorused, relief evident on their faces.  Tomorrow had been their morning to muck out the stables and sore and stiff, they had not been looking forward to it.  Merry had already been worrying if he could work one-handed.

       From his great height and immortal being, the Elf-lord studied at the two bright lives burning beneath him.  The halflings grinned up at him, entirely undaunted.  The faintest of footfalls came to Master of Imladris’ ears.  “And,” said Elrond with a smile, “I believe my daughter also would like to thank you for saving her brothers.”

       At that moment there was a soft tap at the door and it opened to admit Arwen Evenstar.  The lamps from outside the room framed her slender figure in light, and for a moment, it seemed the light came from within her form and was reflected out from her.  The seated hobbits, Bilbo included, rose to bow as the Evenstar smiled at them in greeting.  She wore a dress of white silk shot with clear beads, like raindrops sparkling, and her dark hair flowed free and unbound over her shoulders.

       “Meriadoc and Peregrin,” she began, then broke off and suddenly knelt before them and to their utmost astonishment, caught them in a hug.  She released them and drew back but did not rise, looking deeply into their eyes with her hands on their shoulders.  Both hobbits were suddenly very aware that they had not been to the bathhouse yet, and that their clothes were dirty and torn.  And knew that Arwen Undómiel cared for none of this.  Gently she cupped her long hands around each small face and placed a kiss on their foreheads.  “Thank you,” she whispered, and then left them.

       Elrond’s dark eyes crinkled in amusement to see the expression of the halflings’ faces; shock and awe and pride and embarrassment and … exultation.  He coughed gently to recapture their attention.  “Now,” he continued, “I wish to look at your injuries, so heroically won and borne.  Young Peregrin, may I see that cut, please?”

       Pippin didn’t move.  His gaze remained fastened to the door, where Arwen had exited. 

       “Peregrin?  I wish to examine that cut under your eye.”  The tweenager neither moved nor spoke.  “Pippin?”

       “It’s no use, my lord,” said Merry resignedly.  “You could hit him with a brick and he wouldn’t notice.”  The older cousin looped his arm through the younger’s and tugged him over to the Elf-lord.  Pippin’s gaze remained unfocused, a silly smile on his sharp face that never faltered as his hurt was cleaned and bandaged.

* * * * * 

       Gandalf stopped by after Elrond left, as did Aragorn and the twins and numerous other people.  Many brought bottles or cordials with them, and the ongoing party gradually grew louder and more boisterous.  Gimli produced a square bottle containing a sour vintage, brown as the earth, strong smelling, that burned like fire down an unsuspecting throat.  Gandalf and Bilbo greeted this addition to their liquid supplies with delight.  Frodo choked and gasped upon tasting it and refused to allow either of his younger cousins so try it, though Merry noted that Frodo evidently decided it grew better with repeat use.

       Elves might not be a folk for outward revelry, Sam decided, but they knew how to throw a party.  They were not as loud as hobbits would be, and he missed hearing a band, but to hear those melodious voices raised in song was a rare treat indeed.  As the night wore on, Sam wished he knew more than just a few words of the elven language, for the Lord Elrond’s sons raised their clear voices in what he guessed what a song of very questionable taste, to guess by old Mr. Bilbo’s red face and the bright blush his own master was wearing.  Sam resolved to start expanding his vocabulary on the morrow.

       Nevertheless, Sam was relieved when their hosts noted their guests’ weariness and began drifting away to continue their parties elsewhere, with many bows and generous words of praise of his master’s cousins.  Sam was proud of Mr. Merry and Master Pippin too, and made a point of reminding himself of that on the morrow, when he rather thought the two young hobbits (and his master and Mr. Bilbo) would be paying for all those glasses of wine and shots from Gimli’s bottle.

* * * * *

       The following morning was one of the quietest that Imladris had seen in many long days.  Instead of being thrown open to the morning sun, drawn drapes adorned many of the glassless windows and the kitchens had so few orders for breakfast that the head cook released half of his staff.  Almost the only requests for food came in from the little people, much less than they usually ate and including several glasses of raw eggs stirred into orange juice.  The head cook shuddered but sent over the trays.

       In the Ringbearer’s room, an odd discussion was underway.   Bilbo had declined to join his kin this morning, remarking cryptically before he left the previous night (more accurately, in the early morn) that he doubted that his nephew and cousins would be in the mood for company. 

       “Master,” Sam wheedled, “Mr. Gimli said you’ll feel better if you drink this.”

       One bloodshot blue eye peered from beneath the sheltering covers.  Sam held out one of the small glasses of orange juice and raw egg, and regarded Frodo worriedly as his master’s face took on a green cast.   “Oh, Sam,” Frodo moaned, “take it away.  Please.”  The eye disappeared under the blankets again.

       Sam tried a firmer tone.  “Sir, you know you got to eat.”  No response.  “Lord Elrond told me ‘ta make sure you eat, Mr. Frodo.”  Nothing except a barely audible groan. 

      Sam straightened and looked over to Merry for help.  His master’s cousin lay sprawled in one of the chairs, head over the one armrest and knees over the other, a damp washcloth over his eyes.   Master Pippin sat on the floor, leaning back against Merry’s chair, watching Sam’s efforts with interest.  The tweenager seemed the least affected of all of them, Sam mused, and wished he could transfer just a little of his own headache to the youngster.

      Rubbing his forehead, Sam sat the glass down and drifted over to the other two, dropping into one of the empty chairs.  Merry lifted the washcloth and favored him with a red-eyed, squinting stare.  “No luck?”

      “No,” growled Samwise.  “I can’t tell Lord Elrond I didn’t get him ‘ta eat.  I can’t.”

      “Well, what did you do the last time Frodo got drunk?” asked Merry reasonably, despite the expression of pain on his own face.

      The bloodshot blue eye appeared again.  “I resent that, Meriadoc.”  The eye narrowed.  “I hardly make a habit of it.  And I note that you drank rather a lot last night, too.”

      “He was sick in the garden before we took our baths,” interjected Pippin helpfully.  Merry took off the washcloth and glared at him.  Pippin looked apologetic and scooted out of reach of Merry’s newly rebandaged arm.  Sam stared determinedly at the carved beams of the ceiling, relieved beyond measure to hear a knock at the door that interrupted the impending squabble.

       “Gandalf!” said Sam loudly, to alert Frodo and his cousins.  The wizard winced and pushed a small sack into Sam’s hands.  “Good morning, Samwise.  I see that one of us had the sense not to over-imbibe last night.”  Sam grinned at him.  “Though it was rather a good party, wasn’t it?” Gandalf grinned back.

       Escorting the wizard into the room, Sam was pleased to see that his master and Mr. Merry were now sitting up and Master Pippin had taken a chair.  Sam led Gandalf to another and offered refreshment.  Gandalf shook his gray head and winced again at the movement.

       “No thank you, Sam.  I have come to offer you a remedy for last night’s – celebration.  Pour two teaspoons of that sack into glasses of water, Sam, and pass them around.  I’ll take one, too.  Elrond wants you able to function by luncheon.”

       Frodo paused in accepting the glass from Sam, sniffing at its fizzing contents suspiciously.  “He does?  Why?”

       The humorous, if pained, glint in Gandalf’s eyes faded.  “My friends, our Quest is to begin soon.  The scouts that Elrond sent out to learn the state of affairs beyond his boarders have returned.  Your party,” and those sharp eyes turned to Merry and Pippin, “was the last.  We may not have many days to prepare and there is still much to do.”

       Frodo accepted the plate Sam had filled and handed him, his attention on Gandalf.  “What must we do?”

       Gandalf paused for another sip of his fizzing water before he spoke.   “Elrond and I wish to see that you all are as prepared as possible for any dangers or demands we encounter upon the way.  Towards that end, those of you who cannot set a snare” (Pippin stuck out his chest), “or paddle a canoe” (Sam blanched), “or handle weapons” (Frodo paled), “will learn to do so.”   Merry stared at the wizard thoughtfully.

       The wizard returned the young hobbit’s stare, then turned to Frodo.  “Though you have been given companions, Ringbearer,” Frodo looked up, his expression strained, “it is always possible that you may become separated from them.  It would be well if you have the wherewithal to defend and support yourselves, should that happen.”

       Frodo nodded.  “I agree, Gandalf.  We will be ready.”

       Gandalf rose to leave, then turned back to the suddenly sobered hobbits.  “Do not let your hearts be troubled,” he counseled them, his lined face surprisingly gentle, “though we go forward into darkness and darkness will follow after, we carry the hope of Middle-earth and all Free Peoples with us.”  Then he swept from the room, his staff clicking on the polished wooden floor.

      Frodo sought Merry’s eyes, to find his cousin looking back at him sorrowfully.  “That gives me little comfort,” the Ringbearer whispered.

Chapter 35:  After-Luncheon Lessons

       It was a sorry-looking group of hobbits that gathered at the white-wooded gazebo after luncheon.  In addition to wincing at the bright winter sunlight, the hobbits kept wiping tearing eyes and rubbing their foreheads.  The four were quiet and subdued and Elrond, watching them from the comfort of his folding chair, thought it most unnatural.  They seemed to need the reassurance of one another’s presences.  If one wandered out of the others’ sight for more than a few moments, the others would unanimously seek him.  Bilbo was perhaps the worst of all, his gray head turning constantly to keep the younger hobbits under his watchful eye.

       Elrond had considered excusing the four from the day’s planned lessons, but Gandalf had vetoed the suggestion.  The Ringbearer was as healed as he could be without a long rest, and time pressed upon them urgently.  Outside of the Elf-lord’s borders, evil gathered.  The reports of marching Men and Orcs that Elladan and Elrohir and the other scouts had returned with were troubling.  Even now, there might be malicious eyes watching the borders of Imladris, waiting to mark the Fellowship’s departure.  Involuntarily, Elrond’s dark eyes rose to the sheer cliff-sides of his home, waterfalls sparkling in the sun.  How beautiful his home … even in the encroaching decay of passing time.  The blues and grays of the sheer stone walls, the constant rain of autumn leaves in gold and orange and crimson…  The gilded leaves reminded him of the spectacular blossoming of the halflings’ bruises and his mind returned to the uneasy tableau of hobbits before him.

       Bumps and bruises, contusions and cuts…  The Ringbearer seemed the least incapacitated, though Elrond noted that Frodo kept an arm looped through his servant’s and his steps were measured and uncertain.  The healer in him cried out against pushing them before they had rested and recovered, but truly, there was no more time for such considerations.  The Fellowship must depart - and soon.

       As if he had caught Elrond’s thought, Frodo raised his dark head and met the Elf-lord’s gaze.  The hobbit smiled tremulously and Elrond was gladdened to see that the little one held no acrimony against him for the rough treatment he had forced upon the hobbit to sedate him.  This unexpected ability to sense the nearness of the Nazgûl might be a true asset … if Frodo could control his fear.

       “What do you think?’ Gandalf’s scratchy voice sounded in his ear, and for a moment, the immortal Elf-lord had to struggle to overcome his startlement.  The wizard chuckled.  “Not often do I catch you off-guard,” he murmured.  “What weighty thoughts so concern you, my friend?”

       Elrond motioned for another chair but Gandalf shook his head and dropped comfortably to the soft earth, stretching out his legs before him and leaning back on his arms.  “I was wishing that we could re-arrange the timing of the world,” the Master of Rivendell replied wryly.  “Elves do not mark the passing of time … and are unused to being pressured by its demands.”

       Gandalf nodded.  “I, too, wish we could give them more time.”  He leaned forward and drew in his legs cross-wise, running his gnarled hands along the timeworn wood of his staff.  “Time for them to heal, to rest … to learn and prepare themselves.”  With that, he set aside the staff and rested his hands on his knees.  “What is the schedule?”

      The Elf-lord’s gaze swept over the quiet halflings.  “Samwise and Meriadoc are to work with young Legolas learning knife-fighting.  Merry throws a wicked knife but has not learned close-contact work.  He may not use his right hand yet but may the left, if he can.  I personally do not think Samwise has the speed for such fighting, but we shall see.  He has asked to try again, at any rate.  That speaks well of him.  Peregrin and the Ringbearer are to work with Boromir today.  Both are very quick.  Pippin tends to become excited and forgets his teaching, but then, he is young.  Frodo is perhaps the opposite; he tries to absorb everything he is told and becomes impatient with himself if he cannot gain immediate proficiency.”

       The wizard chuckled, blue eyes warming.  Legolas had arrived and was speaking with all the hobbits.  They were crowding about him like curly-topped children around a sweets-vendor, examining the knives he had brought with great interest.  Merry looked eager and Sam apprehensive.  “A most succinct summary.  You have gathered all this from your observations?”

       “And from Estel’s reports.  I do not think Merry and Pippin have yet figured out that the scouting trip on which Aragorn took them was equally to take their measure.”

       “And what have you and he decided?”  The words were casual, but Elrond felt the weight of worry behind them.

      “That these little folk are a marvel.  They have the hearts and courage of lions.  And a brightness of spirit that astonishes this weary old Elf.”

       Gandalf laughed outright then, his eyes sparkling with mirth.  He sobered as Boromir strode into the little area, undersized wooden practice-swords clanking in his large hands.  The hobbits sobered also, anxious at being parted.  Bilbo squeezed Frodo’s shoulder gently and began to make his way slowly towards the Elf-lord and the wizard.

        “They are afraid of Boromir,” said Gandalf very softly.

        “Cautious, rather,” returned Elrond.  “He is very large to them, loud and brash.  I have counseled the Man that he should treat them gently until they know him better.”

        “And Boromir’s response?” asked Gandalf.

        “I do not think he appreciated my advice,” the Elf-lord replied.  “But he will be a good teacher.  He has a good and generous heart, I think.  Perhaps the hobbits’ joy of life will remind him that there is still much worth saving in Middle-earth.”

* * * * *

       “Enough!  Hold!  Hold!”  Boromir physically placed himself between Pippin and his too-enthusiastic attack of his older cousin.  Frodo staggered back, gratefully taking shelter behind the soldier.  Pippin lowered his wooden sword and grinned up at the Man, perspiration running freely down his sharp face.

       “Very good, Pippin,” the Man said and the tweenager’s whole face lit up, green-gold eyes shining.  “But you must remember that the point of the sword is dangerous, too.  Thrust, don’t hack.”

       “But these swords are blunt, Boromir,” Pippin explained.  “Why can’t we use our own swords?”

       “Because I do not wish to be cut to pieces, thank you very much,” replied Frodo, regaining his breath.  The exercise had invigorated him, chasing the last of the drug from his system.  His shoulder ached abominably and he rolled it with a wince.  He drew in a deep breath and laughed at Pippin’s expression.

       “Hah!  If you were not such a slug-a-bed, Cousin, you would be faster,” Pip grinned in return, then grimaced at the other two as they sought seats in the shaded gazebo to rest.  “Are you going to just sit there?  I want to go another round.”

       Frodo turned sideways on the white bench and laid himself down, standing the practice-sword in the corner.  “Pippin, why don’t you go find Merry and Sam and show them what you’ve learned?  I imagine they are ready for a rest, too.”

       Pippin’s answer to that was a whoop.  He was gone in a flurry of furry feet before Boromir or Frodo could remind him not to interrupt the others’ practice.  Frodo drew breath to call after him, and then exhaled it in a whoosh.  Boromir glanced at him and Frodo shook his head ruefully.

       “Are all young halflings so…”  Boromir paused, seeking a tactful description, “…energetic?”

       Frodo smiled at him, somewhat shy now that it was just the two of them.  He had spoken with the Man several times but had not really much contact with him yet.  He felt more comfortable with the ethereal Elves than this fellow mortal.  “Pippin is very young, Boromir.  And his clan is known for being rather … impetuous.”

       “Impetuous,” muttered Boromir.  “That’s a good word.”

       Frodo sat up and began swinging his legs idly while the cool breeze dried the sweat on his face and body.  He had removed his cloak but kept his jacket on, not warm despite the bright sun and exercise.  He lifted his face and breathed deeply, rejoicing in that simple action.  Suddenly aware of the silence, he glanced beside him to see the Man staring at his feet.

       The Man colored when he realized the hobbit had followed his stare.  “I mean no offense,” Boromir said hurriedly.  “You are a folk out of children’s legends for us.”

       “None taken,” returned Frodo equitably.  “My kin and I have not had much experience with Big Folk, either.  Other than Gandalf.  Is there something you would wish to ask of me?”

        The Man was quiet for a moment, debating with himself.  Then he blurted, “How can you walk on such big feet?”

       “How can you walk on such little feet?”

       The two smiled at each other.  “I think we shall be friends,” said Frodo after a moment.

* * * * *     

       Pippin found the others in a small clearing some way from the gazebo, out of earshot of he and Frodo and Boromir.  On the way over, he had achieved total victory over a prickle-bush that had dared to snag his cloak.  Then he had cleaned his sword as Boromir had taught him, and guiltily kicked the broken branches out of sight under a gorse-bush.

       The combatants were so intent upon their lesson that his arrival went unnoticed.  After watching for a moment, Pippin selected a soft-looking grassy hillock in the shade and eased himself down to lean against a tree, using the inborn unobtrusiveness of his kind to avoid distracting Merry and Sam.  Legolas stood back from them, providing solo instruction as Glorfindel had other duties that day.  The two hobbits were circling each other, a blade in one hand, the other held up and spread for balance and defense.  Legolas watched them carefully, his light, clear voice providing constant coaching.  They didn’t use practice-blades, Pippin noted, then remembered the cut on Sam’s hand from his previous bout and decided that wooden swords were not such a bad thing.

       Samwise was panting, his round face florid but determined.  Merry moved more gracefully, light on his feet, his face equally resolute, the knife held in his left hand.  Pippin felt a surge of pride in his cousin as Merry easily avoided Sam’s rush, springing away and whirling to tap the stocky hobbit on the back with the hilt of his blade. 

       “Good!” cried Legolas.  “Well done, both of you!”

       Sam lowered his blade with a groan, wiping his face with his sleeve.  Merry laughed, rubbing his right forearm with the left hand.   “All right there, Sam?” he asked.

       “All right, Mr. Merry,” Sam puffed.  “You’re not hurtin’ your arm, are you?”

       Legolas caught Merry’s arm in a light grasp, turning the wrist up to examine it for swelling.  “Enough for today, I think,” the Elf commented.  “You must not overtax that healing break, Master Meriadoc.  Lord Elrond would have my head.”

      “It is a little sore, Legolas,” Merry responded.  “But not terribly so.  Look.”  So saying, Merry flipped the blade from his left hand to his right, and with a graceful flowing movement, drew his arm back over his shoulder and threw the knife easily towards the shadowed bole of a convenient tree.

       A shrill scream resounded through the little clearing.  “Pippin!” shrieked Merry.

Chapter 36:  As Evening Falls

       Boromir was surprised when his conversation partner abruptly fell silent in the middle of a question, curly head turning distractedly.  Seeing the sudden expression of intense listening on the halfling’s face, the man waited courteously to recapture his attention.  When the Ringbearer’s agitation did not end for long moments, Boromir ventured, “Frodo, is something wrong?  You seem -”

        He started in alarm as the hobbit swung off the bench to his feet, all traces of weariness gone.  The Ringbearer did not seem to be aware of him and the man was growing concerned.  Boromir knew that the little one had almost died of his injuries upon arriving in Rivendell, and his healing had been slow and marred by setbacks since.  Had the strenuous exercise of sword-play been too much, and he was falling ill again?

       Then Frodo was running, running with astonishing swiftness for one so small, past the still-seated man and out of the garden.  Unsure of what he should do, Boromir followed, his long strides quickly becoming a run as he strove to overtake the accelerating hobbit. 

       He emerged in a small clearing some good way from the garden, catching his hands on a nearby sapling to steady himself.   Before him was confusion.  There seemed to be one of the little people on the ground, and one bending over him.  Another was cradling the downed one’s head, bright curls mingling with the bronze curls of the other as he couched over him.  The Elf was kneeling beside the still form, and Frodo was just skidding to a stop before the small scene, shouting, “Pippin!”

       Boromir propelled himself into the little glade, falling to his knees just as the Elf was rising.  Their eyes met for a moment, mortal hazel and immortal blue, both wide with fears unnamed.  “It was ill chance,” whispered the Elf.  “I will go for help.  Will you do what you can?” 

       Boromir nodded wordlessly, his hands already tearing at the little one’s clothing.  In a breath, the Elf was gone.  Samwise had pulled back Pippin’s cloak and loosened his scarf.  Beside him, Merry seemed in shock, his face utterly without color, trembling violently.  He was stroking the tweenager’s face, murmuring over and over, “Wake up, Pip dear.  Wake up.  Please wake up!”

       Frodo caught his cousin’s arms and pulled him away from the unmoving figure, giving Boromir room to work.  Merry struggled, hardly aware of his cousin’s presence, unhearing of the comforting words Frodo sought to murmur in his ear.  Unobstructed now, Boromir ripped the small jacket apart and slightly grubby white shirt beneath it, flipping the youngster’s scarf out of the way.  Sam crouched beside him, more collected than either of the youngster’s cousins.  “Mr. Merry threw a knife,” he explained to Boromir softly.  “It hit Pippin by accident.  Master Pip was sitting in a shaded hollow before the tree an’ we didn’t see him.”  Boromir nodded, his attention on recalling what he knew of treating battle-injuries.  Where was the wound?  There was no great gout of blood staining the pale skin anywhere that he could see.

        Suddenly the little one’s face creased up and his eyes opened.  “Owwww!” wailed Pippin.

        “Pip … Pippin?” gasped Merry, tearing himself from Frodo’s restraining grasp with the sound of ripping cloth.

        “Ow,” repeated Pippin resentfully.  “Merry, why did you hit me?”

        “I … I hit you?”  Merrry said stupidly.  Pippin sat up and commenced to rub the crown of his curly head.  Boromir fell back, hands raised, uncertain if he should forced the hobbit down again.  Pippin’s slightly unfocused eyes completed the circuit of anxious faces and he stared at them. 

        “Hullo, Frodo.  Hullo, Boromir.  What are you doing here?”

       “Are you all right?”

       Pippin’s gaze shot back to Merry, startled.  “Of course I’m all right.  You needn’t have hit me though, Merry.  I was just watching.”

       Merry’s small hands were suddenly burrowing through Pippin’s curls.  Pippin, having his head forced down, emitted a series of loud, “Ow!  Ow! Ow!” interspersed with “Merry, stop that!”

       The hobbit’s hands parted the thick hair on either side of a growing bump almost directly on top of the tweenager’s head.  Merry’s gaze traveled to a small tree limb that lay, rocking slightly, to the side.  Then up to the white scar on the bark, bleeding beads of fresh sap.  His knife quivered there, driven deep into the trunk, having parted the last remaining strip of bark that had held the branch from falling.  Merry stood up and abruptly fell over in a dead faint.

* * * * *

         Legolas was still fighting to even his breathing.  Elven-swift, he had run back to the garden to find it deserted, the Master of Rivendell and Mithrandir long departed.  He had flown then to Elrond’s study, calling frantically to the Imladris Elves for the whereabouts of their lord.  The lord’s secretary had instructed him to go to the Library and shoved Elrond’s medical kit into Legolas’ hands.  It was here that the young Elf found the two, pouring over Elrond’s gem-encrusted topographical map.  Gasping out his news, the three had hurried back to the scene of the accident at quite an undignified pace.  They (and what seemed half of Imladris) had arrived just in time to hear a petulant Pippin announce, “I want to get up!  Will you get off me, Merry!”

        Pippin had been difficult about having the bump examined and not at all pleased at being told to hold still while Elrond cleaned it and applied a plaster.  After having the little one follow his finger and examining his pupils carefully, Elrond rather thought that young Meriadoc was more in need of his skills.  Elrond stood back and watched as Boromir carried the young hobbit away, the other three clustered around the Man’s tall form and getting in his way.  Legolas walked beside him, endeavoring the keep the three from tripping the Man as they pressed close in their concern.  Pippin peered back over his shoulder, still looking surprised at all the commotion, but also rather pleased at being carried and enjoying the high vantage point. 

       “How can four such small beings create such an uproar,” the Elf-lord asked rhetorically.  “My household has not known a moment’s calm since they arrived.  After they leave, it will take at least a millennium of peace and quiet to restore my shattered nerves.”  He raised a slender, fine-boned hand and rubbed at his high brow.  “The ancient philosophers spent much time in pursuit of the mythological perpetual-motion machine … an everlasting, self-sustaining source of energy.  I submit they examine hobbits.”

       Too out of breath to respond, Gandalf had merely leaned against his staff and chuckled.

* * * * *

        As further practice was out of the question for the day, Elrond had directed the hobbits off to the bathhouse to wash and rest themselves in preparation for the feast the Elf-lord had called in gratitude of Merry and Pippin’s saving of his sons’ lives.  Pippin had greeted this suggestion with such enthusiasm (except for the bath) that Elrond dismissed any further concerns for his health.

        Frodo and Merry kept a close eye on their younger cousin as the tweenager paddled happily in the steamy, frothy bath, making sure that he did not overexert himself.  Pippin was deriving entirely too much enjoyment out of teasing the apprehensive Sam, who was clinging like grim death to the side of the wall, refusing to respond to the youngster’s assurance that he would not drown should he venture out past the benches on which they stood. 

       The two elder cousins leaned back comfortably in the warm water, reveling in the easing of their aches.   Frodo watched Merry’s eyes following Pippin’s every splash.  Finally he leaned over and nudged his cousin gently.  “Relax, Merry,” Frodo said softly.  “He’s all right.”

       Merry nodded jerkily.  “I may drown him myself if he doesn’t quit tormenting Sam.”

       Frodo laughed and inhaled deeply to plunge his head under the water.  Shaking the water out of his ears, he floated comfortably for a moment.  “How is your wrist?”

       “Much better, thank you,” Merry replied inattentively.

       Frodo regarded his cousin’s abstracted face for moment.  “And your bruises?”

       “Much better.”

       “Uhm.  How’s your butter fingers?”

       “Fine, thank you.”  Then Merry’s brows drew down and he focused on his cousin.  “My…  What are you talking about?”

       “Got your attention, did I?”  Merry looked exasperated but Frodo ignored his expression.  “Meriadoc,” he said softly, below the energetic splashing on the other side of the great, wood-walled tub, “He’s fine.  He wasn’t hurt.”

       Merry swung to face him and Frodo almost stepped back at the barely-contained fury on his face.  “This time.  This time!  What about the next time?  What if he does get hurt?  What do I say to his father, his mother?   His sisters?  To all of Tookland if the heir of the Thain doesn’t return?”

       The Ringbearer was silent for long moments.  Then he said, “Merry, haven’t you thought that I’ve asked myself those questions?  About the heir to the Thain and the heir to the Master of Buckland.”  Merry looked at him, surprised.  Frodo nodded.  “Oh, yes.  And would you like to know how I answered myself?”

       At his cousin’s wordless nod, Frodo continued, “I asked myself if they would not be safer if they returned to the Shire.  I asked myself if they would go home, if I asked them to.  I asked myself … how long they would have, they all would have, if this Quest doesn’t succeed.  I asked myself if there were anyone else I would rather have go with me.  The answers, Cousin, were ‘yes, for a while.’ Then ‘probably not.’ And then ‘most likely not long, if the darkness falls.’ And lastly, ‘no one else.’”

      Merry stared at the Ringbearer cautiously.  “We may not be of much use to you, Frodo.”

      Frodo shook his head, scattering droplets of water from the limp curls.  “You and Pip and Sam being there, Merry, is enough.  Enough reason to do this.  Enough reason to endure this.  Enough reason to keep me from running screaming from this place and hiding in some dark hole.”  Merry smiled and Frodo echoed it faintly.   “C’mon,” the Ringbearer said softly.  “If you can convince Pip that Sam doesn’t want to learn to swim, we might have time for a bite to sustain us until the feast.”

* * * * *

       The hobbits had barely finished dressing and consuming a little ‘something strengthening’ when a light knock sounded on Frodo’s door.  Shrugging into his jacket, Sam went to answer it.  He returned a moment later with the Master of Rivendell at his side.  “Good eve, little masters,” Elrond said with bow.  The hobbits bowed in return.

      “I hope I am not interrupting you,” the Elf-lord remarked, “but I thought you might wish to accompany me to a small ceremony before the feast.  It will not take long.”

       “Of course, my lord,” replied Frodo, puzzled.  “We are at your disposal.”

       Elrond led them out into the cooling night air, the aromas of roasting meats and baking and other delicious scents drifting on the breeze.  The hobbits raised their faces and sniffed appreciatively.  Smiling to himself, the lord led them to the stables, to their amazement, then to the corral that stood outside them.  In the corral waited Inmara, her pale coat shining and flowers woven into her mane and tail.  The stable master stood holding her harness, otherwise she was unencumbered.

       The old mare whickered upon seeing her two small riders, and Merry and Pippin rushed up to her, stroking her nose and patting as far up her graceful neck as they could reach.  Inmara responded by butting them gently with her great head, whiffing their hair with her sweet breath.

       “We have come,” said the Elf-lord, after greetings had been exchanged, “ to bide Inmara farewell.”  The hobbits looked at him.  “She has demonstrated her bravery in bearing you and returning you safely to us, Meriadoc and young Peregrin.  She saved your lives more than once, Estel has told me.”  He reached out and ran a long hand along the elderly horse’s spine.  “It is time for her to be retired, to spend the rest of her days running free in the meadows of Imladris.”

       At a nod from his lord, the stable master gently pulled the harness from the old mare’s head.  He paused for a moment to cup her muzzle, stroking the hollows beneath her eyes.  No doubt he had bred her and trained her, her and her sire and her dam and their sires and dams, for untold generations. 

       The mare bowed her head before Elrond, and he returned the gesture with an elegant nod.  “Go,” he told her.  “You have served long and well.  You have my thanks.”

       She turned and trotted slowly from the corral, pausing once to look over her shoulder at them.  Then with a sudden, joyous whinny the old mare kicked up her heels and broke into a gallop, heading for the green grasslands where her kin waited.

        Elrond put a hand on Pippin’s shoulder, then on Merry’s.  “Come,” he told them all gently.  “It is time to attend the feast.”

Chapter 37:  Feasts and Fears

        This time it was Merry and Pippin who were led to the Master of Rivendell’s High Table and seated in honor on each side of its lord.  The High Table was so strewn with flowers and crystal and Elrond’s finest porcelain that there was scarcely room for the food.  The Ringbearer was excused to sit at a lower table, which pleased both Frodo and Samwise mightily.  “Good!” whispered Frodo into Sam’s ear.  “Now I can spill all over myself and drop food everywhere and no one will see.”

       Sam grinned back.  “Aye, sir.  You do so much o’ that.  Don’t they look fine, though?”

       The young hobbits did indeed look fine, if somewhat uncomfortable.  Elrond had gifted each with a fine suit of new clothes for the occasion, allowing the retirement of Merry’s now very disreputable waistcoat.  The new one, an identical yellow, gleamed with fine stitching.  The two were tugging surreptitiously at the new clothes - they fit perfectly but were stiff with newness. 

       The twins, Elladan on the right and Elrohir on the left, sat next to the hobbits, with others of Elrond’s folk about them.  Surprisingly, Gimli the Dwarf also had a place of honor at the High Table and looked as uncomfortable as the hobbits.  Arwen had been seated directly to his left, and devoted much of her time to alleviating his discomfort, the rough voice and the sweet one murmuring together, and at intervals both were raised in gentle laughter.

       The young hobbits had been relieved to find that their chairs were padded with many cushions and if they teetered uncertainly on the pile, at least they were raised enough above to table to see.  The twins steadied them and the two sat more comfortably.  Merry was grinning unabashedly at all and sundry and Pippin also, though he looked rather frightened.

       Frodo and Sam were joined by Gandalf, with Legolas and Boromir in tow.  The wizard smiled at them, his usual rough-woven robes exchanged for soft dove-gray linens.  Frodo thought he looked very fine, though the mischievous glint in those deep eyes was the same as ever.  To Frodo’s delight, rather than joining Arwen and his kin, Aragorn sat with them also.  The Ringbearer’s eyes wandered among the Fellowship, considering each face, studying the features of those chosen to accompany him.  Strength and nobility he saw in those faces, Aragorn’s especially.  Legolas’ face was fair beyond that of mortal men, but humor and a joy in life softened it and made it congenial.  Boromir’s eyes held strain but he had a wide, generous mouth and he smiled often.  Next to Frodo, Sam’s sandy head was turning constantly, enthralled by the fair assemblage.  Gandalf … what could Frodo say of his old and much-loved friend?  Meeting Frodo’s eyes suddenly, the Ringbearer found himself being considered in return.  The old wizard arched a bushy eyebrow, smiling at the hobbit’s abased expression.

         Scarcely had greetings been exchanged when the Elf-lord rose and placed a long hand on the shoulders of his small guests.  Merry and Pippin stopped bouncing on their cushions and sat up straight.  Elrond’s deep gaze wandered over his Household and his guests, and the soft-voiced conversations ceased as every head turned towards him.

       Many and praising were the words he spoke to describe the young halflings’ bravery and quick-thinking actions, that had saved the lives of his sons.  Merry and Pippin blushed, then flushed, then continued to turn the most astonishing shades of red.  Merry’s bright curls made his face look even more scarlet and Pippin, daring to glance at his cousin, could not restrain a giggle.  That started it.   “Shush!” hissed Merry behind Elrond’s back, choking back his own mirth.  Pippin tried but it escaped him, evolving into snickers and coughs and little rifts of uncontrollable laughter.  

      “… most noble act of bravery…” the Elf-lord was stating in his clear, sonorous voice, glancing down at the two giggling halflings, his dark brows drawing together in puzzlement, “… who by their courageous actions…” (giggle, giggle, choke) “… most unselfishly …” (giggle – hic! – giggle) “… did most valiantly preserve the lives of the princes of Imladris…” (ha, ha, ha – quiet, Pippin!) “… vanquishing an enemy…” (and its horse!)  “… we in gratitude and honor…”   Elladan and Elrohir were laughing softly now, their dark eyes sparkling as they enjoyed their lord father’s growing bewilderment, and stifled chuckles were breaking out among the lower tables.  Frodo stared at his younger cousins furiously, his face flushing, which only added to the honorees’ hilarity.

         Elrond rallied magnificently.  Unaccustomed to such frivolity at a High Feast, he was wise enough to recognize that a mighty Elf-lord held little chance against the merriment of hobbits.  Elrohir and Elladan were smiling in delight, each keeping a hand on hobbit-shoulder to help them balance against the cushions.  Gimli looked confused but amusement danced in his deep-set eyes.  Arwen awarded her father a commiserating look but no help, her eyes bright with humor at his consternation.  With a resigned sigh, the Lord of Imladris concluded his remarks and signaled for the serving to begin.

         Elladan leaned over a repentant Merry and whispered to his father, “It is for the best, Father.  You do tend to pontificate, you know.”

         Before the Elf-lord could draw breath to respond, Elrohir supported his brother with, “And I, for one, am pleased to hear laughter in the Great Hall.  It has been much missing of late.”

       Elrond felt a tug on his mantle and looked down into Pippin’s anxious eyes.  “I’m sorry, sir,” the young hobbit apologized contritely.  “But Merry looked so odd.  Odder than usual, I mean…” the young hobbit darted a teasing glance at his cousin, who had just taken a mouthful and was unable to defend himself, “and, well, all we did really was to use our heads a bit.  All those things you were saying … we’re honored, sir, but we’re just hobbits.”

      The immortal Lord of Imladris regarded the small beings.  “I very much doubt that you and Master Meriadoc are ‘just’ hobbits, young Peregrin.   I suspect that you two will have a much larger role to play in the upcoming effort than you believe.”

       Merry swallowed hurriedly.  “What do you mean, my lord?”

       “Great feats come to those who are willing to do them, young hobbits.  Middle-earth cries out for heroes with sharp minds and brave hearts.”

       “Heroes,” repeated Merry and Pippin together, their small faces beaming. 

       “Did I not say so?” asked Elrond.  Then more gravely he turned to them, and looked deeply at them from those dark, wise eyes.  “Thank you for saving the lives of my children.”

       The remainder of the feast was concluded in more dignity.  Dish after dish was presented first to the High Table then served to the lower tables; soups and salads, baskets of elaborate breads, dishes of vegetables cut into astonishing artwork, bowls of potatoes and yams whipped into imaginative shapes, peacocks and pheasants with their plumage restored, suckling pigs turned on spits with apples in their mouths.  Between each course a little lemon- or peach-flavored ice was offered to clear the palate.  Course after course followed one another, some so elaborate that the hobbits were unsure whether they were for admiring or consumption.  Pippin picked up a radish carved into a blooming rose; it was lovely but what to do with it?  He examined it thoughtfully then ate it.

       After a while, a minstrel came before the dais, strumming softly a lute.  She did not sing but played only, the soft notes of the music weaving among the diners with the warmth of a cat brushing along its person’s ankles.  The Elves partook but lightly of each dish, but the hobbits, after their initial shyness, ate heartily.  This honest appreciation of his efforts pleased the head cook immeasurably.  Long familiar with wistful eyes and hungry expressions from when the little ones would beg for a snack, the tyrannical Elf had given much thought of what would best please the evening’s honorees, and the bounty of this blatant favoritism spilled over to Frodo and Sam.

      At last the two guests of honor pushed back their plates with a groan.  The head cook signaled to his staff.  The plates were cleared away and before each of the diners was placed a pastry swan made of a cream-puff, frothy whipped cream filling the cavity.  The hobbits stared in amazement.  The top of the puff had been cut off and sliced in half and the two sides had been tilted up against the sides like wings.  Tiny dots of chocolate formed the eyes on a graceful neck of piped dough.

         “Ohhhh,” the hobbits breathed.  The head cook beamed.  Elrond smiled, amused by both his kitchen staff and his guests.  Slowly, with reverence, the dessert was consumed.  “Ohhhh,” Pippin repeated in bliss, eyeing his cousin’s barely touched dessert.  “Ah, Merry, if you’re not going to eat that…”

       “Hands off, Pip.  I was just figuring out how they made it so I can take the idea back to Brandy Hall.  Can you imagine these served at the Yuleday feast?”

       The tweenager’s sorrowful eyes remained glued to the delicacy.  “My head hurts, Merry,” he whispered shamelessly.

       Merry rolled his eyes.  “And my swan would help that?”

       “Uh-um!”  Merry sighed and slid it over to him. 

       Elrond turned from his place in time to see the exchange.  “I fear, Master Meriadoc,” he said softly, “ that you will hear that particular lament from young Pippin for as long as you allow him to get away with it.”

       Merry nodded, not at all discomforted.  “I know, sir.  But I don’t mind, really.  My dessert is small price to pay for his being all right.”

       The Elf-lord nodded in understanding.  “All things seem trivial when measured against the well-being of those we love.”

* * * * *

        Dawn had not yet painted the mountains with light when Merrry tried to rouse his cousin for the day’s activities.  Pippin yawned then tried to burrow deeper into the blankets.  “I can’t get up for lessons today,” he explained to Merry earnestly.  “My head hurts.  Truly, Merry.”

       As they had done the previous afternoon, Merry’s hands burrowed through the thick curls and did indeed discover a sizable lump, though one much diminished from the initial injury.  The tweenager endured this stoically, having explored the site earlier himself.  Pippin’s green-gold eyes met his cousin’s hopefully and he made a great show of rubbing the bump.  This heart-rending performance was rather spoiled by another yawn.

       “Pippin,” argued Merry reasonably, “you must get up.  We have boating practice today and everyone’s going to be there.  Then Gimli is going to test us on weapons he thinks we might use.”

       “I know how to paddle a boat,” retorted Pippin.  “You taught me.  What sort of weapons?”

       Merry considered his answer then chose to address the first rationalization.  “The scows and row-boats we use on the Brandywine aren’t like elven boats, Pip.  Have you seen them?”  Merry’s face took on an eager, abstracted expression and Pippin was intrigued in spite of the soft mattress and warm covers.  “They narrow at the bow and stern and the hulls are tapered to a point.  You can’t sink one even if you want to.  You can’t.   And they’re beautiful, Pip.  Like poetry on water.  Slim and graceful … not like anything we have in the Shire.”

     “You’re always on about things and ideas we can take home,” the youngest hobbit groused good-naturedly, his reluctance disappearing in his cousin’s enthusiasm (and thoughts of breakfast).  “Let’s see these wonder-boats, then.”

       It wasn’t until much, much later that Pippin remembered that Merry had said nothing about the Dwarf-weapons.

* * * * *

       “I don’t like this, Mr. Frodo,” Sam muttered.

        Frodo nodded jerkily.  “Me neither, Sam.”

        The hobbits stood in an apprehensive cluster (minus one) on the banks of one of Rivendell’s swift-flowing streams, eyeing the two elven river-craft Elrond had provided them for practice.  Bilbo had chosen to accompany them this morning, complaining cheerfully of the early hour and his old bones.    Aragorn watched the elderly hobbit cautiously, seeing how he and Frodo and Sam blanched at the noisy waters and stood well back of the bank.

       Aragorn had chosen one of the smaller streams, more gentle than many that dashed through Imladris with such exuberant vigor, but still he sensed the hobbits’ unease.  Frodo, the Ranger remembered, had his own reason to fear boats and water.  Bilbo had told him the story of the Ringbearer’s parents and their untimely death on the waters of the Brandywine.  The orphaned hobbit-child had been taking in by Merry’s folk and at Brandy Hall had learned to face his fear and even boats, but the Ranger saw that Frodo was tense and nervous.  Samwise looked simply frightened, his round face white and sweating, high spots of color on his cheeks.  Pippin was excited and eager but he stayed close to Frodo, hanging back behind his cousin and keeping a hand in Frodo’s.  Sparing a reassuring smile for the anxious hobbits, Aragorn turned his attention to the one among them who seemed comfortable. 

       The young Brandybuck had greeted the slender elven craft with a cry of joy, exclaiming over their graceful lines and running his hands over the painted prows.  Bilbo had also warned Aragorn that the other Shirefolk considered the Brandybucks “right odd” because of their most unhobbit-like enjoyment of water and boating.  Contrasting this young one’s ardent face with the others, Aragorn seconded the Shirefolk.

       Prying Merry away from the river-craft, Aragorn sat the younger hobbits down and explained the principles of steering and paddling.  Then he had them scoot into a line on the grassy turf and practice with imaginary oars.  Gimli made the mistake of laughing at the comical sight and found himself seated after Samwise, stroking industriously with a non-existent paddle.  Thus forewarned, Legolas and Boromir were careful to keep their miens serious and helpful, and assisted the Ranger with positioning small hands and calling out a rhythm.  Gandalf watched for a while then laughed and excused himself, admonishing Aragorn not to let anyone drown.  The hobbits stared after him, not appreciating the joke. 

Chapter 38:  Rivers and Hobbits are a Dangerous Mix

      “No thank you,” repeated Samwise firmly.  “I’m fine right here, I am.”  The stocky hobbit crossed his muscular arms across his chest and glared at the Ranger’s boots, his round face florid with obstinacy.

       Were all hobbits so stubborn, Aragorn wondered, or had he just been blessed in the Ringbearer and his friends?  He turned to Boromir, who sat in the stern of the narrow elven river-craft, keeping the boat on shore with a paddle dug into the bank.  Frodo and Merry shared a seat before him, Merry on the left and somewhat hampered by his still-healing wrist.  Pippin sat before them, his arms stretched wide to hold both sides of the small craft as it bucked and heaved in the swift waters.  The soldier shrugged his thick shoulders helplessly but amusement at the Ranger’s predicament lurked in his hazel eyes.  Legolas and Gimli stood by the second boat, waiting for the resolution of this unexpected revolt.

      “Sam,” cajoled Frodo, “you don’t want to be the only one who doesn’t know how to manage a river-craft, do you?  Come on now, be a good lad.”

      “Mr. Frodo,” Sam replied, “me Gaffer always said that water an’ Gamgees don’t mix.”  His round face paled as the small craft rocked and Boromir had to thrust the oar deep into the turf to keep the boat from working free.  Pippin squeaked, his hands on the sides going white.  Sam shook his head resolutely but his words were pleading.  “Please, sir, don’t make me.”

      “Sam, you must.”  Frodo stared at his friend helplessly.  “Truly, it isn’t so bad.  Rather like sitting an unruly pony.  Isn’t it, Pippin?”  This was perhaps not the wisest query to make, as Pippin was beginning to look a bit green and they hadn’t yet pushed off from the shore.  The gentle streams of the Shire were nothing like the swift and noisy waters of Rivendell.  The small boat bounced and dipped, and Pippin and Frodo both gulped. 

        “Meanin’ no disrespect, Mr. Frodo,” said Sam slowly, not missing their white-knuckled grips on the boat, “I’d just as soon not.  The ground’s never let me down before, and I hope ‘ta keep it that way.”

       “Samwise Gamgee!  You get in that boat this instant, young hobbit!”

       Several things happened at once.  Frodo and the other young hobbits snapped to attention.  Sam levitated into the air and was climbing into the rocking craft before he was quite aware of moving.  Once seated beside Pippin, he glowered resentfully at Bilbo.  The elderly hobbit smiled at him serenely, brown old eyes sparkling with mirth.  “I’ve known the lad since he was a gleam in his father’s eye,” Bilbo said in an aside to Aragorn.   “Always did need a push now and then.”

       “Thank you, Bilbo,” Aragorn muttered, storing away that tone of voice for future use.  Legolas boarded the second craft gracefully and held it still for the Dwarf.  Once everyone was seated, Aragorn motioned for them to begin.  Boromir and Legolas pushed off and sought the shallows, away from the swift flow at the center of the icy river. 

       “Shouldn’t you be going with them, Dúnadan?” asked Bilbo, from where he had settled himself comfortably on a grassy hillock, a somewhat worn wool blanket spread over his legs. 

       Aragorn stood on the bank and addressed the old hobbit over his shoulder.  “I think it best if one swimmer stays ready, Bilbo.  Just in case.”

       Bilbo nodded.  “Ah … good decision, my friend.  Just in case.”

       But it seemed the Ranger’s caution was unnecessary.  Boromir and Legolas guided their river-craft easily and well, keeping close to shore and taking advantage of the swirling currents to back paddle and stay near the watchers on the bank.  After they felt themselves comfortable with the boats, both pulled into an eddy and waited for the craft to settle.  The Man and the Elf shipped their paddles and turned control of the small craft over to the hobbits and the Dwarf.

       Despite the paddles Elrond had had shortened for them, the hobbits had difficulty.  They could not reach over the high sides (to them) of the craft to dip the oars far enough into the water to get an effective stroke.  Frodo and Merry worked out a rhythm quickly enough, both handling an oar, but Sam and Pippin had more trouble.  The difference in their sizes only exaggerated their problem with the oars; when Sam did get in an effective stroke, he tipped the river-craft to the side and Pippin was flailing air. 

       Gimli did better under Legolas’ coaching, growling under his breath at the swift waters and occasionally at the amused Elf.  His immense strength drove the small craft forward in leaps and bounds but he had difficulty swiveling from side to side to steer the craft.  Aragorn’s attention was on Legolas and Gimli when Boromir’s voice roared out behind him.

      “Aragorn!”

      The Ranger swung back to a scene of confusion.  Boromir and the hobbits were in the water.  The river-craft was upside down, and two wet hobbit-heads were surfacing to cling to the overturned bow.  The water darkened their hair and made it difficult to identify which of the little folk they were.  Where were the other two?

       Aragorn kicked off his boots and was in the freezing water in a heartbeat.  It was so cold that it drove the breath from him and chilled him instantly.  Boromir had disappeared; he broke the surface moment later, flinging water from his hair, a third small body thrashing in his arms.  Legolas had snatched the paddle back from Gimli and was stroking towards them, but they had drifted some way off and the Elf was working against the current.  Now Bilbo was on his feet, shouting and pointing.

       Aragorn paused, following the old hobbit’s finger.  A sandy head bobbed briefly in the current then went down again.  Samwise.  ‘Oh, no,’ thought the Ranger as he threw himself full length into the water and pushed himself off.  ‘He’ll never enter a river again.’  Boromir had pushed Merry and Pippin against the frame and wrapped one arm around Frodo’s chest, holding them both to the overturned boat.  He was struggling with Frodo - the Ringbearer was fighting him, trying to get free to go after his friend.  Merry and Pippin had latched onto Boromir’s clothing to drag them back to the craft, but they were drifting into the swift current and it caught the man, finding purchase against his larger body.  As Aragorn watched, Merry’s weakened hand betrayed him and he lost his grip.  Pippin could not hold Boromir and Frodo by himself.  The two went down again, and when they came up, they were already far from the overturned craft.

       The Ranger swam quickly, strong arms and legs kicking, sped by the current.  His mind flashed back to their scouting-trip not so long ago, when Merry’s ill-fated fishing attempt had resulted in him falling into the river and Aragorn leaping in after him.  But there were no twins to help this time.  He pushed all considerations from his mind other than reaching the bobbing forms.

       Level with the water, he could not see any of them.  Nor could he make out the others’ shouts over the roaring of the water in his ears.  The Dwarf’s powerful voice bellowed over the river-song, but the words were indecipherable.  Surprisingly, it was young Pippin’s shrill shrieks that penetrated the water’s buffering roars and made themselves audible to Aragorn.  “Left!  Left!” the young one was screeching, his high voice drilling into the Ranger’s eardrums.  Aragorn threw himself to the side, half-turning in the swift waters.  There was something dark in the water … small hands batting the foaming surface weakly.  Aragorn surged past it then turned, catching the struggling form and pulling it on its back with his arm around its chest.  Sam.  The hobbit relaxed, instinct or weariness warning him not to continue fighting.  Aragorn pulled him closer and started stroking for shore with one arm, towing the semi-conscious gardener. 

       Bilbo met them on the bank, panting alarmingly, his lined face bloodless.  Aragorn heaved up the hobbit onto the shore and immediately flipped Sam onto his stomach, pushing hard below his ribcage to expel the water he had taken in.  Sam choked, his eyelids fluttering, fingers digging into the spongy grass.  Bilbo collapsed by his head, tugging his wool blanket over the young hobbit, stroking the limp curls and murmuring to him, “Breathe, Samwise.  Breathe, my boy.  You’re all right now, my lad.”

      Aragorn thought that Bilbo should take his own advice.  Sparing a moment to raise his head, he saw that they had not traveled far down the bank but were past where Merry and Pippin still clutched the overturned river-craft.  It looked like they were trying to tow it to the other, closer shore, but could make little progress against the current.  Boromir and Frodo were nowhere in sight.  Legolas and Gimli were farther down, past where he had found Sam, the Elf impossibly standing in the boat, feet balanced on the sides, hand raised to his eyes to scan the waters.  Gimli was dragging the paddle in the water, trying to slow them and afford Legolas some stability.  Aragorn watched as the blond head turned from side to side, searching desperately. 

       Bilbo called his attention back to Sam.  “Aragorn, he’s stopped breathing!  He’s not breathing!”

       Aragorn rolled Sam onto his back, crouched over the now unconscious hobbit and placed his ear over Sam’s mouth, listening for the rush of air past the hobbit’s lips.  No air brushed his cheek and Sam’s chest did not move.  Quickly the Ranger inserted a finger into Sam’s mouth and ensured that the hobbit’s airway was clear.  Then he placed his hand under Sam’s head and gently extended his neck, opening his mouth by tilting back his chin.  One hand rose to pinch shut Sam’s nostrils, the man’s thumb and forefinger covering nearly half the small face.  Aragorn inhaled deeply and fitted his mouth over the hobbit’s, making a tight seal, blowing slowly into his mouth.  For a child – or person of small statue – the Ranger’s mind supplied, each breath should last a second to a second and a half.  Five seconds between breaths … twelve breaths a minute.  Bilbo placed his hands on Sam’s chest, feeling it expand with the forced inhalation.  Aragorn blew in a second breath then released Sam, shifting back to see the hobbit’s chest slowly sink. 

       “Come on, Sam,” Aragorn growled.  He placed two fingers just to the side of Samwise’s throat-apple, seeking the carotid artery.  It pulsed sluggishly beneath his touch.  He knelt over the hobbit again and forced in a third breath, then a fourth.  Again the small chest slowly sank.  He was about to deliver another pair of breaths when Sam’s face crinkled.  He choked and quickly Aragorn rolled the hobbit onto his side. 

       Sam moaned once then he was vomiting, legs drawing up as cramps ripped through his stomach and forced the icy river-water from him.  His eyes opened but they were glazed and unfocused.  Bilbo knelt over him, stroking his head and murmuring constant, meaningless reassurances.  The old hobbit raised his eyes to the Ranger’s.  “He’s breathing on his own, now.  Aragorn – please.  Find Frodo.”

       With a last check on Sam, Aragorn nodded and rose.  His wet clothing was plastered to him, sending shudders through him, making it impossible for his body to generate heat.  He had to get Merry and Pippin out of the water as quickly as possible.  “Bilbo, will you start a fire?  There is plenty of wood about – part of the blanket can serve as fuel.  Your kin and Sam will need the warmth as soon as possible.”

       Without waiting for an answer, Aragorn ran to the bank.  “Legolas!  Legolas!  Bring the halflings to shore!”  He need not have feared the Elf would not hear him.  Legolas turned towards him then sank down back into the boat.  He steered while Gimli paddled, the Dwarf using that immeasurable strength to push against the current and draw near to the hobbits.   Legolas’ long arm reached out and he caught first Pippin, then Merry by their collars, hauling the waterlogged hobbits over the side of the craft to sit them before he and Gimli.  The two were shivering too much to speak and could only stare at their rescuers with tearing eyes in white faces.  Unheeded, the second elven-craft whirled in the water then shot off down the river.

       Again the Dwarf’s great strength made light of the obstructing current.  Gimli grounded the boat with a push that drove them up on the bank and Aragorn caught the bow, anchoring it so that it could not slip back into the river.  Gimli dragged himself gracelessly out of the craft, lifting Merry up to Aragorn as Legolas picked up a dripping Pippin.

       “Fro – Fro – Fro -” tried Merry, unable to get his cousin’s name out past chattering teeth.

       “We will go after him in a moment, Merry,” Aragorn reassured him.  “Boromir will keep him safe.  Now you and Pippin and Sam must get warm.  Bilbo, how’s that fire?”

       “Coming along,” replied the old hobbit distractedly.  Gimli and Legolas were helping, dragging over branches and feeding in tinder, and the flames were growing to bonfire proportions.  Bilbo was directing the young hobbits to remove their clothing, and helping the now awake but miserable Sam to undress.  “Close by the fire, my lads.  That’s it.  Pippin, dry your hair with my blanket.   You too, Merry – take the other end.  Aragorn, you should get out of those wet things.”

      The Ranger shook his head, struggling to don his boots.  “Legolas and I are going downriver.  I’ll warm up soon enough with a brisk run.  Gimli, will you keep the fire fed and do what you can to help them?”  The Dwarf nodded, dark eyes worried. 

       Legolas sprang away and Aragorn after him.  They had passed beyond the hearing-range of those left behind when the Ranger sought his friend’s attention.  “Keep your eyes on the shoreline.  They might have found a quiet shoal and been able to pull themselves ashore.  I hope it is so.”  Legolas looked at him without speaking, then immediately returned that keen gaze to searching the river.  “There are rapids farther down,” Aragorn explained.  “They lead to a great waterfall.  If they survive the rocks, they would never survive the fall.”

Chapter 39:  Desperate Straits

        “Achoo!” Pippin leaned wretchedly against Merry’s shivering back and fought down another sneeze.  “Excuse me,” he quavered after a moment.  Wrapped up in Bilbo’s scratchy wool blanket, he still pressed close to the fire and felt Merry do the same.  Merry was covered in Gimli’s cloak from the hair on his head to the hair on his toes, the hood pulled up for additional warmth.  Sam was lost inside of the Dwarf’s surcoat, not even his hands visible.  They still felt as if they were freezing, huddling together for what heat their chilled bodies could muster. 

       “Are you warm enough, young Peregrin?” asked Gimli, the small amount of expression the hobbits could see between the russet hair and bushy beard looking concerned.  “Shall I build up the fire further?”

       Pippin nodded hopefully.  But his eldest cousin broke in before the tweenager could speak.  “If you do,” said Bilbo, “Elrond will think that you have set his woods ablaze.”  Black smoke was already billowing from the bonfire that the Dwarf had made, climbing high into the cold morning sunlight.  The shifting wind seemed intent on finishing off what the icy waters had started; each time the three damp, shivering and thoroughly miserable hobbits moved to avoid the wind-blown smoke, it changed direction and sought them out.

       “Do you think they’re all right?” murmured Sam.  The stocky hobbit took an inopportune breath and exploded in a frenzy of coughs, tears streaming from his eyes as he struggled to clear the smoke from his lungs

       “Smoke follows beauty,” commented Bilbo.  Alone among the small company, he was on his feet, watching for four to return where two had left.  “It’s an old saying.  But then, I’m an old hobbit. ”  Pippin managed a wan smile.  Bilbo reached out and tousled the youngster’s limp curls gently.  “Buck up, lads.  Aragorn and Legolas will bring him back.  They’ll return any time now.”

       Gimli looked at Sam worriedly as he coughed again and pressed his water-skin upon the young hobbit.  “Master Samwise, drink a little water,” he urged.

       Sam shook his head.  “No thank you, sir.  I’ve drunk enough o’ that to last me forever.  I’m thinking of switching to beer for the rest of my life.”

       “What about washing, Sam?” Pippin could not resist asking.

       “Beer will work for that too, Master Pip,” replied Samwise firmly.

       “Sounds good to me,” muttered Merry with a cough.  Then he raised his head, staring into the woods.  “What’s that?”

       Instantly Gimli was standing before them, his small throwing-axes in his hands.  Aragorn had forced him to leave his great battle-axe behind but the Dwarf would not forgo his small axes, not even during boating lessons.

      He returned them to his belt as two great gray shapes broke through the trees.  Elladan and Elrohir reined their blowing stallions to a stop before the wrenched-looked party, astonishment on their fair faces.  “We came as soon as we saw the signal fire,” called Elladan.

       “What occurs?” asked Elrohir, searching Merry’s face, while his brother looked keenly into Pippin’s tearing eyes.  Merry held up his arms and Elrohir leaned to the side, sweeping the hobbit up into his arms without dismounting.  Elladan caught up the blanket-wrapped Pippin and seated the hobbit before him.

       “We will tell you as we ride,” said Merry and pointed a shaking finger downriver.

* * * * *

       Legolas was pulling ahead of the Ranger and with a wave of his hand, Aragorn motioned the Elf on.  The Man sank to his knees, hands on his thighs, wet clothes sticking to his sweating body.  Aragorn closed his eyes and coughed, fighting to draw breath.  They had seen no sign along the banks and the roaring of the great falls was becoming more distinct.  Crushing down his fear with an iron fist, Aragorn tried to recall the configuration of the rapids.  The greater rocks were first, sides worn smooth by the rushing waters.  After them were scattered smaller boulders, many jagged and splintered.  Water white with speed sprayed over them.  Catching and holding on to one of the serrated, slippery boulders would be almost impossible.

      “Aragorn!  Come quickly!  I have found them!”  Aragorn was on his feet and running again before his mind had deciphered the meaning of the Elf’s shouted words.  Bursting through the trees, he emerged onto a sandy bank and pulled to a stop in horror.  Legolas was standing in the shallows, his breeches wet to the knees where he had waded out before keeping his feet became impossible.  The Elf had halted perhaps twelve feet from the first of the boulders, the larger but more gentle rocks that presaged the rapids.  Something long and slender glinted in the water, hung on its ends between two great boulders.  Not a tree trunk, Aragorn saw… it was the elven river-craft.  Wedged sideways in the water, it was providing an lifeline for the two sodden forms that clung weakly to its sides.

       Part of the river-craft’s sides had been torn away but the frame remained intact.  Frodo had clamped his hands on the upturned side of a bench, the force of the water pushing him full-length in the water.  His cloak streamed out behind him as if he were flying.  His dark head was down, between his arms, trying with all his strength to hold on.  He did not see them.

       Boromir, too, had managed to catch hold of the streamlined craft as it has passed them and caught on the rocks.  The pushing flow was too great to allow it to slide sideways and off the rocks, but the implacable force of the water was breaking the craft’s spine.

      Aragorn started to forge past the Elf but Legolas caught his clothing and dragged him back.  “Will you be swept away also?”  Aragorn shook off the Elf’s hands, impotent fury in his face.  But Legolas was right.  He could no more stand against the raging waters than a grain of sand could hold back the tide.   

       As Aragorn and Legolas could but watch, the wooden back of the small boat bowed and more of the frame cracked and snapped.  Frodo’s head came up as he was jerked back in the water and he saw them.  He cried out but they could not hear him.  Boromir’s head turned towards the hobbit, and the two on the bank saw the soldier’s eyes fasten on them.  They saw despair on Boromir’s face, even as he struggled to drag himself hand-over-hand closer to the Ringbearer.

      With a snap that was heard over the rushing waters, the elven craft’s spine shattered.  Frodo had a moment to scream before the frothing waters closed over his head.  The broken end of the slender boat was caught up in the current and up-ended completely before being dragged under, visible only as a dark shape before it exploded into splinters on the rocks.  Boromir’s end was thrust upwards and came down with the bow impaled on a sharp boulder like a cap on a mushroom.  The Man disappeared then came up clawing for the splintering frame, something dark clamped between his legs.

       It was Frodo.  The hobbit was moving feebly, small hands flailing aimlessly at the water.  The soldier’s legs held him tightly at the waist, the current stretching them both out.  If they were torn free like that, Aragorn thought, the rocks would smash their spines just as it had the river-craft.

       Legolas had his bow from his back, stringing it in a heartbeat.  Then he was unwinding the thin, tensile fiber that was wound around the base of his quiver.  It was a type of twine, the Ranger saw, thin and strong.  The Elf pulled out an arrow and tied the thin line just below the nock, winding the line between the fletching.  Aragorn’s eyes turned to the broken skeleton of the remaining half of the river-craft’s frame caught over the rock - the slender wooden ribs offered little surface to hold an arrow.  And the frame was bucking in the current, splintering as they watched.  Legolas backed out of the water and stood on firm ground, bracing his legs wide.

     The arrow and its trailing line sang as pure as elven-song over the white waters, imbedding itself deep in the narrow rib that had formed the bow-point.  Boromir understood immediately, reaching out with one hand to wrap the line around his wrist.  Legolas cast aside his bow and closed his hands around the line.  Aragorn seconded him, wrapping the end of the line around his forearms.  Boromir took a deep breath and called out something to Frodo.  They could not see if the hobbit responded.  With the line securely tied about him, Boromir struggled to pull out the arrow.  Unable to, he snapped it.  Boromir released the wooden skeleton and the two were wrenched back by the current.

       Aragorn and Legolas dropped to their haunches and dug in their boots, pulling with all of their strength.  Boromir could not help them; it was all he could do to keep his hold on the line and turn his body to keep the hobbit’s face above water. 

      Though it was but a half-score of feet to the calm waters at the banks, the river never ceased its tug-of-war with the two mortal lives as prize.   Fire ripped through Aragorn’s shoulders and the muscles of his arms spasmed in protest.  Legolas pulled grimly, his expression set, the pain he bore only a clouding of his sunlit eyes.  With one mighty effort, the two hauled Boromir and Frodo ashore like two gasping fish on a line.  Dragged free of the greedy waters, Boromir managed to catch up the choking hobbit and pull himself two steps out of the water before falling unconscious at their rescuers’ feet.

* * * * *

       Elrond pulled the door closed and leaned his forehead against it, indulging himself in a moment of simple aggravation well mixed with relief.  After examining each of the red-nosed, coughing, sneezing halflings, he had ordered Merry’s and Pippin’s beds moved into Frodo’s rooms and decreed that all four of the hobbits share quarters until they were recovered.  They were reassured by one another’s presences, and it would be easier for him to attend them so.

      “How are they?” asked Gandalf, who had been waiting with Aragorn for the diagnosis.

      The Master of Rivendell sighed. “They are all developing fine colds.  They will have headaches, stuffy noses, sore throats, coughs and general aches and pains for several days at least.”

       “It could have been much worse,” said Aragorn softly.

       “Indeed,” agreed Elrond.  He joined Gandalf in taking a chair and rubbed his high brow tiredly.  “That Elladan and Elrohir brought them in so quickly has greatly reduced their chances of pneumonia.  Frodo bears the brunt of it, bruises and scrapes resulting from the most time spent in the river.  He swallowed a great deal of icy water and was thoroughly chilled.  We will have to watch both he and Boromir carefully for signs of fever.”  Elrond frowned, cataloging in his mind remedies and tonics that might be of use.  “I am thinking of confining the hobbits to the Ringbearer’s room for the remainder of their stay here.  That way, perhaps, they will stay out of trouble.”

       “Only if you remove all furnishings, decorative items, linens, carpets and drapes and possibly the floor, ceiling and walls,” drawled Gandalf.

       “I have known only Bilbo, who is a noteworthy enough person,” Elrond continued, ignoring the wizard.  “Are all halflings so … so…”

       “Consistently unfortunate?” suggested Gandalf.

        “Accident-prone?” supplied Aragorn.

      “I was about to say, ‘Adventurous’,” the Elf-lord finished, with a quelling glance at the other two.

      Gandalf leaned back in his chair and laughed.  “I have been friends with hobbits for many years,” he said, his sharp eyes slightly distant.  “They are, without exception, completely unique individuals.  Their small size in no way reflects the size of their hearts, or courage, or souls.”

      “Be that as it may,” replied Elrond, “these four will have no more lessons for two days, at least.  Then nothing strenuous for another day.  Estel, what might you or the others teach them that does not require physical exertion, and in which they cannot possibly harm themselves?”

      “Setting snares, I suppose,” the Ranger replied at length.  “Pippin is now expert and Sam as well, but Frodo and Merry could use some practice.  They are less used to providing for themselves in the Wild.”

      Gandalf nodded. “They would be.  As members of the elite of hobbit society, Frodo and Meriadoc are more accustomed to packing their staples on a walking-party, or having a servant prepare their dinners for them.”

      “But they could do themselves no damage?” pressed Elrond.

      “Maybe a cut or squeezed finger, nothing more,” assured Aragorn.

      Elrond nodded.  “Very well.”

      Aragorn bowed to his foster father and the wizard.  “If you will excuse me, I will prepare the wires and see what else may be taught our invalids.”  So he departed, still smiling slightly.

       When he had gone, Gandalf turned to the Elf-lord, the sparkle in his eyes fading.  “You realize, of course, that these ‘accidents’ to the Ringbearer may not be accidents at all?”

      Elrond was silent for a long moment.  Then he rose and drifted to the open balcony, looking out past the beauty of Imladris to the East.  Grey clouds marred the horizon there, it looked to be cold and raining.  “You think they have been caused by the … by what he bears?”

      Gandalf joined his old friend, looking out into the darkness in the East.  “I think that the Enemy is able – increasingly able – to exert an influence over his … property.  What we have been calling mischance may be a deliberate effort to dispense with a Bearer who has proved to be remarkably resistant to his evil, so that the … his property … might fall into the possession of one who will heed its whispers and lies, and deliver it to its maker.”

       “Does Frodo know this?” demanded Elrond softly.

       Gandalf frowned and shook his head.  “I do not believe so.  Hobbits live very much in the ‘now.’  Though Frodo is an introspective hobbit and quite intelligent.  He might have realized it on some level but he denies himself the knowledge.”

      “And when he must face that knowledge?”

      Gandalf sighed and leaned against his staff, his gnarled hands sliding over the timeworn wood as if for comfort.  “We will be there for him.”  His glance strayed back to the closed door, from behind which a particularly loud sneeze had just been heard.  “We will all be there for him.”

Chapter 40:  Head Colds and Heartaches

      “That was disgusting, Pippin.”

      “Well I’m sorry, I’m sure, Merry.”  The youngest hobbit sniffed deeply and rubbed at his dripping nose.

       Sam handed him a handkerchief.  “Do you think Lord Elrond is going to make us take those nasty tonics o’ his?”

      “I’ve had all of those I want,” replied Frodo firmly.  “You three are welcome to my share.”

      “Oh no, Cousin,” returned Merry.  “If we have to drink anything nauseating, so do you.   You’ll probably be first, as you came out the worst from our little dip in the river.”

       “Let’s not talk about that,” moaned Samwise with a shiver.  “I don’t even want ‘ta think about it.  I’m never putting a toe in water bigger than a bathtub again.  And that includes them drowning-pools you lot call the bathhouse.”

        “A hot bath would certainly feel good,” murmured Frodo, blue eyes wistful.

       “Not much chance of that, with Lord Elrond confining us to your room,” Merry said sorrowfully.

       A depressed silence settled over the hobbits.  In all truth, if they had to be constrained until they were better, the Ringbearer’s room was the best choice.  The two-room suite was the largest of the accommodations Elrond had granted his guests and the balcony boasted a lovely view of Rivendell’s mountains and waterfalls.  Though three smaller beds had been added to the room, the hobbits were comfortably ensconced in Frodo’s.  Pippin lay on his stomach, feet kicking idly in the air.  Merry and Frodo sat back against the carved headboard, a book shared between them.  Sam sat tailor-fashion near Pippin, nimble fingers sewing up a pair of breeches the tweenager had torn the knees out of.  All four were covered in a colorful variety of warm blankets and quilts, which Elrond had firmly decreed stay in place.  Food (‘nourishing, no doubt,’ thought Frodo) was to be delivered to them and their needs met by attentive Elves. 

      “I’m going to go mad,” Merry announced.

      “Will we be able to tell?” asked Pippin, and got a poke for his trouble.

       “Lads,” began Frodo warningly, “it’s going to be a long enough time in here without -”

      “Achoo!”

      Sudden the air was filled with flying pillows, without any of the hobbits quite being sure who had struck the first blow.   Feathers drifted through the room amidst gleeful hobbit-shouts.  Frodo went down under an assault from Merry; Pippin evened the score by bouncing hard just behind his cousins, sending them both windmilling into the air.  Sam had been waiting his chance and as Frodo and Merry descended, he flung his sturdy self flat on the bed, catapulting into the center.   Up went Frodo and Merry again, but got their revenge upon coming down, pillows at the ready.

       “Take that, you beast!”

       “Hah!  Right between the eyes!”

       Elrond opened the door at the sudden increase in volume and his ageless eyes widened in shock.  He had not seen such a sight since his children had been very, very young.  Seeing four adult (with the exception of one) hobbits engaged in such a pastime floored him.  A feather drifted over and lodged itself unnoticed in his dark hair.

      “Look out, sir!”

      “Get him, Sam!  Hold him down!”

      “No tickling!  No tickling!”

      Very carefully and quietly, Elrond closed the door.  Gandalf regarded the goose down feather from his chair and smiled, the sparkle back in his eyes,  “Wise decision,” he remarked. 

      “We have entrusted the fate of the world to these?” Elrond asked, gesturing to the closed door.  From the sound of it, Pippin was being held down and murdered.

      The old wizard smiled, cocking his head as Frodo shrieked, “Not fair!  It’s three against one!”

      Samwise’s voice rose above the others.  “Good odds, those!”

      “I could think of no better Bearer,” Gandalf remarked softly.  “The Ring will find no hold in Frodo Baggins.  It preys on greed and ambition and lust, and Frodo’s heart contains none of those things.  There is no darkness in his soul.”

      “Yet,” said the Elf-lord softly, resuming his seat.

       Elrond was startled to see tears start in the wizard’s eyes.  “Yet,” Gandalf agreed. 

       The immortal Elf-lord regarded his old friend compassionately.  Gandalf seemed to have closed on himself, tearing gaze inward, his lined face drawn with pain.  Elrond’s memory traveled back to his Council, when the hobbit had risen unnoticed to his feet and still weak from his dreadful wound, walked slowly into the edge of the quarreling combatants.  His soft voice still echoed in Elrond’s ears.  “I will take the Ring!”  They had ignored him, all of them.  It was not until he repeated it, that the members turned to stare in shock.  And Elrond had seen such pain and such relief on Gandalf’s face as to sear his heart.

       “What he may come to in the end we cannot know,” Elrond said softly, seeking words to reassure and comfort. 

       “If he survives,” whispered the wizard.

      Elrond acknowledged that with a nod of his elegant head.  “If he survives.  And is not broken by the bearing.   We cannot see all ends, my friend.”  Gandalf nodded, his gaze still on the polished floor.  In a rare gesture, he wiped his hand roughly across his eyes. 

      At last the noise in the adjoining room ceased, except for a few scattered coughs.  “I wouldn’t go in just yet,” warned Gandalf as the Elf-lord rose.  “If I know hobbits, they are guiltily trying to stuff the feathers back in the pillowcases and think up a good explanation for the mess.  That they were resting quietly as you instructed, perhaps, when a flock of geese flew in the balcony doors and molted all over the room before departing.”

      “I think we should face the miscreants together, old friend,” suggested Elrond.  “We will be safer be there two of us.”

* * * * *

      Being confined to the Ringbearer’s room was not so dreadful, the hobbits came to decide.  The head cook decreed that, as the little folk would miss meals in the great hall and evenings in the Hall of Fire, that they should have the best Imladris could offer, even before that of its lord.  Luncheon was a splendid affair and appreciated not a whit less for being served on trays. 

      Bilbo selected several books of Elvish tales from the Library and spent much of the remainder of the day in the center of the enormous bed with the others leaning against him, reading tales of adventure and romance and wondrous deeds.  Frodo hung over one of the old hobbit’s shoulders and Merry the other, Pippin’s sharp chin digging into his hip.  Sam curled at Bilbo’s feet, eyes abstracted and a gentle smile on his face.

       When the elderly hobbit’s voice began to give out, he was saved from pleas to continue by the arrival of a steady stream of visitors and well-wishers.  Legolas came by to talk with them, as did Gimli.  The two regarded each other distrustfully but neither could fault the other’s concern for the halflings.  To the hobbits’ delight, the Dwarf brought with him several small wire puzzles he had made, twisted chains that seemed integrally linked but which Gimli swore could be taken apart if one could divine the secret.

       Merry ran one through his hands and stared at it for a long time, then with a sudden, economical movement, disengaged it.  Pippin worked and worked on his before giving up in disgust.  Merry took it and the others from him and spent an enjoyable hour figuring them out before linking them all back together again.  Sam accidentally stretched his to allow the wire to slip through, which the others avowed negated his victory.   Frodo claimed loftily that he was too old for such games, which prompted Merry to accuse his elder cousin of knowing his limits.  Frodo hit him with a pillow.

        From Gimli and Legolas the hobbits heard that Boromir also had been confined to quarters and was already bored and restless.  When Aragorn and Gandalf came some time later, the Elf and the Dwarf were sent off with many messages of greeting and thanks for Boromir, which they promised to deliver before tea.

       Elladan and Elrohir stopped in briefly, and then Arwen, her arms full of late-blooming flowers that she arranged in vases throughout the room.  Pippin trailed after her, picking up stray petals, stars in his eyes.  His elder cousins and Sam grinned at each other over the oblivious tweenager’s head.  Amusement turned to envy when she bade them farewell.  The Evenstar wished them a speedy recovery then kneeling before the door, took Pippin’s face in her long, slender hands and kissed his forehead.  Pippin sighed blissfully and returned to the bed, unaware of Merry’s muttered complaints of his cold feet. 

       But by the next morning, the hobbits did not feel so social.  They had little appetite for breakfast and were silent with none of the talk and energy of the previous day.  Frodo’s bruises were tender and his ribs ached from Boromir’s desperate grip.  Sam and Merry and Pippin were congested and coughing and miserable.  All four suffered from a headache and intermittent chills, the result of immersion in freezing river water.

      Upon entering, Elrond found himself facing four indistinct lumps in Frodo’s bed.  Were it not for those ridiculous, oversized feet, the Elf-lord would have been unable to tell top from toes.  After some consideration, he chose what appeared to be the smallest lump and peeled back the covers from unwilling fingers.

      “Now Master Peregrin – oh, excuse me, Frodo.”  The hobbit looked up at him lethargically and the Elf-lord laid the back of his hand against the small forehead.  Hot … as he had feared.  The hobbit’s skin felt dry and taut, covered with a thin sheen of perspiration.  Frodo closed his eyes and leaned into the cool hands.  He did not protest as Elrond examined his eyes and ears and throat, as cool hands pressed along his jawline and thumped his back, coughing obediently upon command.

       By now the healer had an audience. Merry was standing and balancing uncertainly on the soft mattress, watching with a hand on his elder cousin’s shoulder to steady himself.  Pippin pressed against Frodo’s sore ribs, interfering with the examination.  Sam had braced himself against his master’s back, easing the strain of sitting up for him.  Elrond felt their anxious eyes upon him, following his every action.  He addressed the Ringbearer, well aware that he was addressing all four.  “You have developed rather a high fever, Master Frodo.  Do not be concerned – I have some excellent tonics to combat fever.”

       Frodo nodded, that so-blue gaze dull.  Elrond’s dark eyes narrowed.  “They are somewhat bad-tasting, I fear.”  The hobbit nodded again.  The other three exchanged concerned glances and Pippin picked up Frodo’s right hand, rubbing it gently.  Worried now by the lack of objection to his remedies, the Elf-lord elaborated, “In fact, they are quite foul.  Possibly the worst-tasting concoctions I possess.”  Another listless nod.

      So.  Gently untangling the hobbit from the embrace of the others, Elrond wrapped up the Ringbearer in a quilt and carried him over to one of the ignored beds to examine him without the interference of hovering friends and relatives.  When the others would have followed, Elrond ordered them back into the bed with a sharp word and a lift of his eyebrows.  Cowed, the hobbits obeyed but watched him from the vantage of the headboard.

       Frodo bore this indignity with silent resignation.  His mouth a thin line, the healer unwrapped the hobbit and conducted his examination.  That completed, he slid the hobbit under the covers of the small bed.  For the first time Frodo showed interest, dark brows quirking and eyes traveling to the large bed where his friends were now watching fearfully.

      The Elf-lord addressed them.   “You may stay where you are, but Master Frodo will remain here – alone – in this bed until his fever goes down.  He will rest the better for the peace.  I will also ask you to remain quiet and stay in that bed.  If you do not,” and here the Elf-lord paused and noted with satisfaction the almost imperceptible cringing of his patients, “I will be forced to administer some of my more unpleasant remedies to encourage sleep.” 

        Hastily reassured of the halflings’ obedience, Elrond departed.  Merry sighed and scooted back under the warm covers.  “It’s going to be a long day,” he observed to the world at large.

       “When is second-breakfast?” asked Pippin in the silence that followed.

* * * * *

       Not only were the hobbits ordered to stay in bed, but they soon discovered that Lord Elrond had curtailed their visitors.  An Elf standing at the door ensured this.  They heard familiar voices in the corridor, but all guests with the exception of Gandalf and Aragorn were denied admittance.  Glorfindel’s clear tones pealed in the hallway and their hearts leaped hopefully, but the Elf-lord too was sent packing.  Bilbo was allowed to enter only briefly, and with a finger to his lips, the old hobbit silently doled out several more books he had selected for them.  Their mournful eyes followed him to the door.  The hobbits sighed and settled down to a reluctant nap.

       Frodo was already asleep.  He had shown them how he truly felt by curling up into a ball with his back to them and falling asleep almost immediately after Elrond’s departure.  The others stayed quiet for his sake, and because their heads ached abominably.  Until almost luncheon, the only sounds in the quiet room were drifting strains of birdsong and occasional sneezes and coughs.

Chapter 41:  Painful Words

      “Merry, Lord Elrond said we had to stay in bed,” Pippin pointed out with a sniff.

      “So he did,” his cousin agreed equitably.  “But he said nothing about the bed staying here.”

      “What are you thinking?” asked Sam cautiously.  The three had awoken not long ago and in the absence of visitors and activity, were growing more bored with each passing moment.  Even the dwarven puzzles Gimli had made them could not hold their interest.  None of the three felt bad, actually, just rather achy and sniffy and still congested.  The sun streaming in the balcony doors looked so inviting… 

      The young Brandybuck’s eyes lit up.  “We could each take a corner of the mattress and push -”

      “No!” rang out Samwise’s and Pippin’s voices together, then hushed as they remembered the still-sleeping Frodo.  When Merry opened his mouth to argue his idea, Pippin shoved a handful of loose feathers in his cousin’s face.  Merry accidentally inhaled some.  Samwise withdrew to the safety of the headboard and watched the ensuing tussle with resignation. 

       Older and heavier, Merry had succeeded in pinning Pippin to the mattress in question when their elder cousin’s weary voice interrupted them.  The wrestling match (interspersed with coughs) ceased immediately.  “Lads,” repeated Frodo tiredly, “what are you doing?”

      “Pippin pushed -”

      “Well, Merry said we should -”

      “I did not!”

      “Lord Elrond told us -”

      “He should have been more specific, then!”

      “He meant -” 

      “Lads,” groaned Frodo a third time.  He was now sitting up, arms wrapped tightly around his sore ribs.  Sometime during his passage down the river, a rock had given him a hard knock on the right shoulder, and the bruise was beginning to flower spectacularly.  He was profoundly glad it wasn’t the left – that shoulder and arm were still somewhat tender, and he suspected they always would be.  He reached up and massaged the bruise absently, pulling at the silver chain around his throat under his nightshirt.  Then he rubbed his aching forehead.

     Sam crawled down off the bed and padded to the washstand, pouring out water from the pitcher and wetting a cloth in the basin.  The younger hobbits watched him worriedly.  “Sam,” Pippin ventured hesitantly, “Lord Elrond -”

     “I’m not afraid o’ him,” replied Sam doggedly, “nor his nasty potions.”  A slight quaver in his voice gave his words the lie.  “Mr. Frodo needs me ‘ta take care of him, and I can’t do it from over there.”  With that he walked to his master’s bed and pressed the cold cloth to Frodo’s forehead.  Frodo sighed in relief.  “How are you feelin’, sir?”

      “I’ve felt better, Sam.  How are you doing?”

      “All right, sir.  It’s just a head cold.  I wouldn’t even notice it, back home in the Shire.”

      “The Shire,” echoed Frodo quietly, easing himself back under the quilts.  He patted the side of the bed and Sam sat himself down, keeping the cool cloth pressed to the hot forehead.  Frodo pulled the top quilt over him, tucking it in to make sure it covered Sam’s feet.  “What is happening there, I wonder?”

      “They’d be planning the Yuleday feast in the Great Smials,” said Pippin softly.

      “And at Brandy Hall,” added Merry, blue eyes distant.  “I wish we could take back all the things we’ve learned and seen here.  I’m sure the kitchens could make those cream-puff swans, with a little practice.”

      “I’ll eat all their mistakes,” volunteered Pippin selflessly. 

      “Me Gaffer would be fattening the goose,” contributed Sam.  “He picks one when it’s just a gosling, and raises it special.  Cornbread and fat scraps, not scratch and bread crusts like the rest o’ the duck yard.  It follows ‘im around like a chick.  Half the time he can’t bring himself ‘ta kill it.  He’s got four o’ them that trails after him, now.”

      “I remember,” said Frodo.  “No offense, Sam, but your Gaffer makes quite a sight with all those geese waddling after him, single-file, honking at him to slow down.”

      “Aye,” chuckled Sam.  “O’ course, the Gaffer’s not so swift himself, now.  His joint-ache was giving him fits when we left.”

      Frodo noticed that Pippin was knuckling his eyes, and the others had fallen silent, strained and pale.  He cursed himself for allowing this mood to overtake them.  They were so young, all of them…  With mothers and fathers and sisters and brothers at home, wondering where they had got to, and even if they were still alive. And in Sam’s case, a certain young flower who would not understand his leaving.  And responsibilities to the lands that they were born to inherit, folk they were born to govern.

       He had none of those things.  Not family or home or the obligations of birth.  Bag End was no longer his and the little house in Crickhollow only a ruse, with no real hold on his heart. 

      “Meriadoc,” the Ringbearer said gently.  “Peregrin and Samwise, friends of friends…”  his throat closed in pain and terror but he forced the words out, struggled to keep his voice even and calm, “you don’t have to go with me.  You can go home.  I will be safe enough among the Big Folk.  There is no need for all of us to wander into exile -”   

      “No need?”  Not surprisingly, it was young Merry’s voice that rose above the others’.  Frodo tried to hush him, waving his hands placatingly, mindful of the Elf posted at the door but Merry did not lower his voice.  “Frodo, we love you.  You know that.  Do you think we would let you go alone into danger?”

      Merry had more to say but Sam could not keep silent.  “Aye, that’s right!” he almost shouted, then blushed when they turned to him in startlement at his uncharacteristic outburst.  “Me Gaffer would take the hide off me back if I ever left you, Mr. Frodo.  Not that I would.”  Arms crossed over his chest, Sam delivered the last with such a fierce glare that Frodo stared at him in astonishment.

       Merry shook his head at his elder cousin’s foolishness.  “Sam is a brave fellow and would jump down a dragon’s throat to save you, Frodo, if he had to.  So would Pip and so would I.  Cousin, you said in the bathhouse that our just being here was use enough to you.  Enough to remind you why you are doing this.  Enduring this.”

      “Yes, but -” began Frodo, but Merry cut him off.

       “I don’t think you’ve considered this from our point of view, Cousin.”  Blue eyes stared into blue.  “Say Sam and Pip and I do return to the Shire.  We soothe ruffled family feathers and settle down and hope you’ll come back to us.  Maybe get married.”  Merry darted a wicked look at Sam and the stocky hobbit blushed.  “But what if our not being there at some crucial moment causes you to falter?  What if you need that reminder of why you are doing this, and we are not there to give it?  What then?”

      Frodo would have responded but again Merry did not allow it.  “I’ll tell you what then.  The darkness would roll over the Shire like a wave.  We’ve seen the outside world now, Frodo.  We no longer hold the illusion that hobbits could defend themselves against Men and Orcs and evil things that shriek and attack in the night.  We are small folk, Frodo, all of us.  The Shire would be overrun in days.”

      Pippin had remained quiet during all of this, his green-gold eyes flitting anxiously among his elders, hands alternately pulling the quilts into little mounds then smoothing them out.  His eyes jerked to Merry’s face when his cousin continued, “But Pippin, I think, should go home.”

      Frodo’s and Sam’s mouths dropped, shock on their countenances.  It was inconceivable that the two cousins be parted.  Ever since Pippin had been deemed old enough to toddle about under his nurse’s watchful eye, his older cousin had been there to care for him.  In the Shire, one hardly spoke of them separately; it was ‘Merry and Pippin’ as if the two were somehow linked.  Even when they were not together, it was always ‘Merry and Pippin.’

       “Merry!” cried Pippin.

       “It’s not because you are so young, Pip.  Well, not entirely.  There are innumerable cousins who could succeed to the office of Master of Buckland,” said Merry almost coldly, “if I do not come back.  But there are no other possible heirs to the Thainship than Pippin.  He should return to the Shire.”

       “Merry!  You can’t mean that!”

       Merry swiveled to face his younger cousin slowly, as if reluctant to look into that pale sharp-chinned face.  “I do mean it, Pip.  There will be no chance to turn back after we leave Rivendell.  One of us should go back and tell everyone that we are all right and what we are doing, and why.  They won’t understand, but they’ll accept it.  And maybe someday, we’ll get home.”  Merry grinned at Pippin weakly.  “Then we’ll make a night of it in the Green Dragon, eh?”

       No one responded to the weak jest.  Frodo seemed stunned, unable to force coherence upon his thoughts.  Sam was silent, leaving this battle between the cousins to them.  Pippin’s face was shiny with tears.  They cascaded down his sharp face in a steady stream.  “I can’t believe you would say that,” he whispered.  “How could you be so cruel?”

      “Cruel?”  Merry tilted his head, his own emotion held under such tight control that he wondered he did not burst with it.  “Is it cruel to want you to be alive, Pippin?  Cruel to want you to go back to your mother and da and sisters?  Cruel to want to spare you the hardship and danger and pain that’s surely coming?”

      “Why are you doing this?” whispered Pippin.  “How can you think that I would go back, when you and Frodo go on?  Why, Merry?”

      Merry opened his mouth but no words came out.  He shook his bright head.  “Pip, I’m thinking of you.  And your family.  And -”

      “Is it because of the accident with the knife?  I know you didn’t do it on purpose.  I wasn’t hurt, Merry.”

     “You could have been!”

      “Ah, that’s it, then,” murmured Sam.  Seeing his master’s eyes upon him, Sam flushed and ducked his head, distancing himself from the family drama.

      “Pip, we love you.  All of us.  You can’t be angry that we want to spare you?”

      Frodo was looking from one to the to the other, dark head turning from side to side.  Somehow, this had passed beyond his control.  He had to stop it before words were said that could never be unsaid, words that would fester in the heart forever.  But his head had begun to ache fiercely, pounding so hard that his vision was affected, bright flashes of light sparking behind his eyelids.  He felt like someone had shoved a sharp stick into the back of his skull.  Through slitted eyes, he saw Sam looking down at him in consternation.

      “Yes, I can!” Pippin flung back at Merry.   “Spare me?  I call that cruel.  I may not be of age, Merry, but I’m not a child.”  A great gulp threatened that statement but the tweenager mastered it and forced it down.    

       Frodo turned his head away from the sunlight streaming in the balcony doors.  With a glance at his master, Sam went over to the doors and pulled the drapes shut, darkening the room as much as he could.  Frodo put up a hand to his head, rubbing distractedly at the stabbing ache.  He was beginning to feel nauseous. 

      “Mr. Frodo?” asked Sam worriedly.

       Frodo shook his head, then was very sorry he did so.  The room tilted sideways and moved around him.  He latched onto the mattress and held on for dear life.

      Pippin was continuing and Frodo tried to force himself to pay attention to the words.  They seemed to slither through his mind, their sense just beyond his grasp.  “How do you think I would feel, left back home in safety, knowing that you and Sam and Frodo were out there somewhere, trying to save the world?  Whatever I can do to help Frodo, I will.  I can gather firewood and set snares and use a sling as well as you.”  Pippin paused and scrubbed the tears from his face, raising a dry face but one set and pale.  “I won’t be left behind.”

      “Pippin,” Merry pleaded.

      “No, Merry.”   

       Merry was silent for several long moments.  Then he said, “You understand I had to try?”

       Pippin nodded.  “I understand.  You said what you had to, and I’ve said what I had to.  It’s over now, Merry.  We’ll not discuss it again.”

       Surprisingly, Merry nodded and dashed a tear from his own face.

       “Well, that’s settled,” said Sam decisively, relieved that it hadn’t been worse.  He’d had his own reservations about the tweenager accompanying them, but it wasn’t his place to say anything.  “That is, if it’s all right with you, Mr. Frodo.”

       The two cousins realized that it truly wasn’t their decision.  They turned to the Ringbearer apprehensively.  Frodo was lying in the small bed with his hand over his eyes.  Merry thought he was weeping.  “Frodo?” he said softly.

       Frodo shuddered and the hand dropped from his eyes.  Instead of coming to rest on his chest, the hand continued its fall and swung limply alongside the bed.

       “Frodo!”

Chapter 42:  Hurts and Comforts

       Elrond closed the door to Frodo’s room gently, his face remote and his high brow creased.  His dark eyes sought out the three hobbits and as one, they huddled together on the small bed on which they sat.  Their beds had been removed from the Ringbearer’s room and placed in this adjoining room, and they in them, forbidden entry until Elrond said they could go in.  Even Sam, which had frightened the three worse than any number of immortal stares of disapproval.

       Elrond exchanged soft words with one of his folk, and that one left to do his lord’s bidding.  It seemed to Merry that that one gave them a cool glance of censure, too.  Elrond turned from the door and seated himself on one of the beds across from the hobbits, his heavy robes settling about him in faint whispers of silk and velvet.  He said nothing, but merely stared at them with the mien of one who has never had to count the rushing seconds that made up the hours of his life.

      Sam thought he would burst did not the Lord of Imladris tell them what was wrong with Frodo.  When Elrond did nothing more than look at them, he could not contain himself.  “Please, sir,” Sam cried, “what’s the matter with me master?”

      Those dark, ageless eyes centered on the hobbit.  But the lord did not reply directly to Sam’s question.  “It is a good thing,” he said almost as an aside, “that I posted an Elf at Frodo’s door to ward off visitors.  His summons allowed me to arrive quickly.”  His gaze roved over them.  “My Elf tells me that he heard raised voices and that you woke Frodo with your … discussion.”

      “Yes,” said Merry, giving no explanation or excuse for their actions. 

       Elrond’s dark eyebrows drew together.  “The Ringbearer is still recovering from a dreadful wound that almost killed him.  I still marvel that it did not.”  The Elf-lord paused, but the hobbits did not interrupt.  “His strength returns, but that wound will never fully heal.  Frodo is…” the healer paused, searching for words to make them understand.  “Frodo is more fragile now.”

       Now the dark eyebrows drew down.  “He does not need to have his kin and friends causing him stress when he needs to rest and recover from a very traumatic experience.”

      Pippin could not bear that accusing stare.  “We didn’t mean –“

      “I have decided,” continued Elrond, effortlessly overriding the tweenager, “to ensure that Frodo rests by removing all of you to share quarters with Boromir until you are recovered.  I will attend you there.”

     “Sir!” cried Sam, “Mr. Frodo needs me ‘ta do for him!”

     Merry supported Sam.  “Sam’s right, my lord,” said the young hobbit slowly.  “Frodo will miss him dreadfully if you separate them.  I love my cousin dearly, but he doesn’t always show the greatest judgment.”

      Lord Elrond’s gaze bored into the young hobbits, and Merry hung his head.  “Nor us, I suppose.”

* * * * *

       Lord Elrond and Gandalf stared at the glittering display of bright-edged weapons spread on a leather wrap before them, then at the beaming Dwarf.  Gimli had requested an audience and Elrond had granted it, waiting while his orders concerning the hobbits were being carried out.

         Gimli inhaled deeply, then ran a thick hand lovingly over the lethal assemblage.  “All scaled down to halfling size,” he rumbled.  “But just as sharp and deadly as full-sized.”  He picked up a morning star and the late afternoon sun glinted off the deadly spikes.  There wasn’t room in the small gazebo in which the three sat to swing it at full extension, so the Dwarf ran the chain through his hands, swinging the weighted ball a little to show its balance.

       “Most … impressive, Master Gimli,” Elrond said at length.

       Gimli nodded proudly.  “My thanks to your foundry-master, my lord.  Couldn’t have done it without him.  A fine Elf, that,” he added rather grudgingly.  “Knows his metal-work.”

       Gandalf hid a smile in his beard at the Dwarf’s reluctant approval.  He picked up a flail and waved it experimentally.  “Samwise might be able to wield this.  It is based on a threshing flail, after all, and I know he has helped bring in the Shire’s harvests.”  The head of the flail was jagged, sides honed to razor-edges. 

      Gimli nodded.  “Aye, a flail takes strength and little else.”

      Elrond leaned over the miniature weapons and selected a battle-axe, turning it over to admire the excellent work of the blade and hilt.  “The same might be said of a battle-axe, Master Gimli.”   Before the Dwarf could bristle at him, the Elf-lord added, “But you and I know better.”  He sighed.  “All of these weapons require long training.   And they do not address the secondary problem.”

      Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow but said nothing, laying the flail back down. 

     “The hobbits are small, Master Gimli.  They must reach up to deliver a stroke.  They do not have great strength.  All they have is quickness - and courage.  I applaud your wish to help in arming them, but…” Elrond hoped he did not give offense to the prickly dwarf.  “I think it best if they continue with the swords that providence gifted them.”

       Gimli ran a hand lovingly over the weapons.  “I understand, my lord.  If we had more time…  Well, it kept me busy, anyway.”

      After the Dwarf had rolled up his efforts and departed, Gandalf turned to his old friend.  “I did not want to intervene, Elrond, as he put so much effort into them, and brought them to you, but…”

      Elrond nodded.  “Yes.  I would not allow those sharp objects near our halflings, either.  They manage to get into quite enough trouble without providing them the means to do themselves and each other even greater harm.”

      A twinkle showed in the old wizard’s eyes.  “Can you imagine young Pippin getting his hands on any of those?”

      Elrond shuddered then smiled in spite of himself.  “May the Valar protect us.”

      Gandalf leaned back and pulled his pipe out of its resting-place in his staff.  “Ummm … Southern Star, I think.”  The first tendril of sweet pipe-smoke wafted into the breeze.  “I think we might be going about this wrong, Elrond.”

      The Elf-lord’s attention returned to the wizard.  “What do you mean?”

      “We have been trying to stuff as much knowledge and survival-skills into the hobbits as we can, have we not?”  Not certain where this was leading, Elrond nodded neutrally.  “And look what’s happened.  Bumps and bruises and cuts and now this hurt of Frodo’s, which you tell me was brought on by anxiety as much as injury.”

      “Your point?”

      “We have been treating them as if they were warriors going into battle.  They are not.  Hobbits are not like Men, or Elves.”  Gandalf blew out a smoke ring and they watched it drift away.  “My point is that we might be pushing them too hard.  That we might be so busy teaching them our ways that we forget they have their own.”

       “Their way of fighting,” murmured Elrond.

      “What?”

      Elrond shook his head.  “Something Bilbo said to me.”  He sighed.  “I did not truly understand what he meant.  What then do you suggest?”

      “That we leave them alone for the time we have left here.  Just give them what lessons they ask for.  Merry and Pippin will want to continue sword-fighting with Boromir, I am sure.  Sam might want more knife-training from Legolas.   And Frodo…  Frodo needs time to gather his will and strength and focus for the effort that is coming.”

       “Gandalf, old friend, I tremble to think of those young hobbits roaming Imladris unsupervised.”

      “Oh, we’ll keep them busy.  Long, strengthing walks…  Camping out and providing their own dinners.  I just think we should stop pushing them in things that are unnatural to hobbits.  Like learning to kill.”

       “That is the reason for the Fellowship, after all.  To protect and assist the Ringbearer.”  Elrond rose, his attention on the Elf that waited at the entrance to the garden, a tray between his hands.  “I must attend to a matter.  But, Gandalf, I think you are right.  We will let the hobbits be hobbits.”

* * * * *    

      Gentle hands, warm and tender, stroking his head.  A familiar, comforting scent of pipe-weed and soap and frosted tea-buns.  Frodo sighed and opened his eyes.  “Bilbo?”

       “I’m here, lad.”  The warm hands moved around to the back of his neck and rubbed gently at the joining of the hobbit’s neck to his skull.  Frodo closed his eyes blissfully.  “Oh, that feels wonderful.”

      The careful rubbing continued.  “Elrond said you would like it.  It will help you relax.”

      Frodo realized he was lying in his own bed with his head in Bilbo’s lap, his uncle propped up against the headboard.  And the room was silent and still, the only movement the dance of dust-motes in a sunbeam.  “The others -”

      “Are staying in Boromir’s room for a day or two, lad.  They can all sneeze on each other.  Except for Sam, of course.”

      Frodo chuckled and grimaced as a cool cloth was laid over his eyes.  “Hullo, Sam.”

      “Hullo, sir.  Just you stay still now.”

     This Frodo did, feeling too eviscerated to move overmuch.   After a while, he asked, “What happened?”

      The gentle massage faltered for a moment, then resumed.  “Elrond said you experienced a ‘migraine.’  A tilt of the dark head conveyed Frodo’s incomprehension.  “Elrond said,” Bilbo continued slowly, still struggling to understand the Elf-lord’s explanation, “that the small vessels that feed blood to the brain constrict under stress.  It causes great pain.”

     Frodo nodded, dislodging the cloth.  He kept his eyes shut.  The cloth was wetted and replaced, easing the burning that started in his eyes and seemed to drill all the way to the roots of his hair.  “I suppose being swept down a river through rapids and almost drowning could qualify as ‘stress’,” he mused.

     “Elrond said it was triggered by some kind of argument going on in here, lad,” came Bilbo’s voice.  “Care to tell your old uncle what it was all about?”

     Frodo winced.  By the gentle tinkling sounds in the corner of the room, Sam was busily pouring more water into the basin, his back carefully to them.  “It wasn’t really an argument, Bilbo.  Merry and Pippin and I just had to sort some things out.”

     “You evidently sorted them so well it gave you a migraine, lad,” growled Bilbo.

     Frodo said nothing. 

     “All right, all right,” the old hobbit muttered, capitulating.  “Keep your secrets, then.  Elrond says you’re to stay still for the rest of the day.  You should be fine tomorrow.  Are you hungry?”

      “No!”  Frodo drew a breath and tried to rein in the surge of nausea.  “No, thank you, Bilbo.  I’d rather not eat anything for a while.”

      “Plain unnatural for a hobbit,” grumbled Bilbo under his breath.  “Listen to me, Frodo-lad -”

      Whatever Bilbo had been about to say was lost in a soft knock at the door.  Sam hurried to open it, happy to see whomever would spare his master a scolding.

      “Good afternoon,” Elrond said, and held up a tray on which resided a delicate glass phial filled with a frothy liquid.  “I have something for you to drink, Frodo.”

      Frodo groaned.   Sam hid a smile, until he noticed a second phial on the tray.

* * * * *

    “Achoo!”

    “Achoo!  Achoo!”

     “Are you quite finished?” asked Boromir anxiously.

    “Achoo!  I think so, Boromir.”  Pippin sniffed and rubbed his nose, while Merry used a handkerchief.  Sitting back at his ease, Boromir reflected that he did not entirely know what to make of his new roommates. 

     Hobbits, beds, and a small stack of nightshirts and personal belongings had been moved into his room without as much as asking him, which he supposed was the Elf-lord’s right.  The halflings had greeted him courteously, settled themselves in, exclaimed over the view out the balcony, then piled onto his bed, forcing Boromir to draw up his long legs to make room.  While he understood Lord Elrond’s reasoning in that they all would be easier to care for together, he was beginning to wonder if being bored wasn’t preferable to being halfling-entertainment.  The two were now sitting at the foot of his bed, arms wrapped around knees, gazing at him hopefully.  They had requested a tale, and Boromir did not quite know what to do.

      “Go on, then,” encouraged Merry.

      “I know few tales that are suitable…” Boromir began.

      “Good!” grinned Pippin.  “Let’s have an unsuitable one!”

      Boromir gazed at them back helplessly.  There was the one of the widow and her boarding-house of retired warriors … no.  The caravan-master and his harem of … no.  The … definitely not that one.  “Ahhhh…” he hedged, beginning to sweat.

      “Would you like me to sing?” Pippin asked him.  “I know lots of songs.”

      A soft knock on the door saved him.   Pippin bounced to his feet to greet Lord Elrond, causing Merry to fall backwards with a squawk on the soft mattress.  “Boromir’s going to tell us unsuitable stories!” he announced to the Master of Rivendell. 

       The soldier flushed red under the Elf’s non-judgmental gaze.  If the man could have swallowed his pride enough to plead, he would have.  Lord Elrond’s eyes shifted to the hobbits.  “Not until you all have taken this tonic,” he informed them, “then a nap.”  Those dark eyes shifted to Boromir and the man could have sworn the Elf-lord was laughing at him, though no feature of that elegant face betrayed it.  “Then … you are on your own, Lord Boromir.”

Chapter 43:  Hiding from Hobbits and Hobbits in Hiding

       Boromir was saved from relating “unsuitable stories” to the two young halflings by another peculiarity of hobbit-nature, which he was just coming to appreciate.  They were hungry.  He discovered they were always hungry.

       Lord Elrond had stayed until all three had downed their tonics, with many grimaces and mumbled complaints from the hobbits.  Boromir felt that the Elf-lord’s presence was the only thing that kept the little ones from immediately pouring their medicine into the chamber pot.  Lord Elrond knew it too, and stood with his arms folded and a forbidding expression on his face until every last drop was drunk.  That done, he escorted them firmly back to their own beds and saw them settled there.

      “Now you will rest,” he informed them, ignoring Pippin’s mulish expression.  “And you are not to crawl in with Boromir.  He too is ill and needs his rest.  Trays will be sent to you at the dinner-hour.”  With that, the mighty lord had awarded the halflings a long stare, and departed.

      Boromir had been subjected to enough disapproving glares from his governesses, tutors and his father to recognize the look.  He waited until he judged the Elf-lord was safely out of easy hearing, then asked, “What did you do?”

      Merry raised his eyes, startled, from where he had been scowling at the floor.  “Nothing, really.”  When Boromir looked politely disbelieving, he sighed and elaborated.  “Just had a little family discussion in Frodo’s room.  Nothing, really.  There was a some … shouting.  I suppose it got a little out of hand and upset Frodo.”

      “He’s sick again,” contributed Pippin unhappily.

      Boromir nodded wisely, memories of the “family discussions” he had held with his younger brother passing through his mind.  “And that is why you are here instead of there?”

      The two halflings nodded guiltily.  “We’re to let him have some peace and quiet,” Pippin added.

      “By disrupting mine?”  Boromir smiled to show he was teasing, and after a moment, their strained expressions relaxed.

      “I suppose.”  Merry smiled in return.

      “Now, about those stories -” pursued Pippin relentlessly. 

      “Lord Elrond said we were to rest,” Boromir reminded them desperately, casting about for any change of subject.

      “Oh, that’s right.”  Boromir tried to hide his relief at their crestfallen expressions.  He was immeasurably glad to see them settle down and fall asleep in a matter of moments.  The man stayed awake though, defying the Elf-lord’s orders, struggling to devise stories he thought appropriate for young ears to hear.  He did not have nearly enough time before Pippin yawned hugely (and loudly) and woke his cousin.

      “I’m hungry,” announced Merry, sitting up and rubbing his stomach. 

      “I have some fruit,” offered Boromir, and prayed the distraction would last until supper arrived.

      “Will you tell us a story while we eat?” asked Pippin.

      Boromir began to sweat again.  Despite racking his brain, he had not come up with a tale that he thought proper for them.  The tales passed among soldiers as they awaited battle would sicken and terrify them, he was certain.  He had turned his mind back to the almost-forgotten stories his mother had told him as he leaned against her while she rocked a tiny Faramir in her lap.  Her face had become obscured by the mists of time and he was surprised to discover he remembered best not her words, but the love she had infused into them as she cradled her sons.

      “I have a poem you might like,” he volunteered.  “My mother used to sing it to my brother and I when we were small.”

     “Oh, good!” said the halflings simultaneously, and the man found himself the utter center of their attention.  Suddenly self-conscious, he cleared his throat and chanted, his voice softening as he seemed to hear his mother’s voice blending with his.

      Gleaming gray in the moonlit mist,

 A shadow paler than its fellows

Whirls and leaps ‘round the forest glade

Weaving enchantment among the willows.

     Whiter than the pure maid’s heart,

Grass wells green ‘neath dainty hooves

Spiraled horn luminous light does shine

As the unicorn dances on mushroom roofs.

     Soft-eyed does with wondering fawns,

Stand humbly on knobby knees

As the immortal unicorn

Dances partnered with the breeze.

     The world has long ago forgot

The griffins, the dragons, the mers

Of all the beasts of Fairlyland

The unicorn alone endures.

     A warbling chirp in the silence chimes,

The unicorn stands still as stone

A bird’s song breaks the magic spell

At dawn the unicorn returns to its own.

     Back it steps into the fading mists,

Then taps its bright lance to the bower

Now nothing is left in the woodland ring

But lonely deer and a strange white flower.” *

      “Oh,” breathed Pippin.  “I like that.”

      “It was one of my mother’s favorites,” Boromir replied gently, surprised to find an unaccountable stinging in his eyes. 

      “Will you tell us another of her favorites?”

      “That is inconsiderate, Pippin,” remarked Merry, unknowingly rescuing the soldier.  “Boromir might be hungry, too.  It is unfair to ask him to give us a tale when he wants to eat.”

      “I am sorry!” Pippin apologized immediately.  The tweenager bounced to his feet and fetched a large bowl of fruit from a side table, pouring them each a cup of water.  He held up the bowl to Boromir with a bow, offering him first selection.  Bemused, the man chose a pear and watched as Merry selected an apple.  Retaining possession of the fruit-bowl, Pippin scrambled up on Boromir’s bed again and made him himself comfortable.  In blatant disobedience of Elrond’s instructions, Merry joined him a moment later.  By asking them questions about themselves and their home, their likes and dislikes, the man was able to keep the talk general until a knock at the door announced the arrival of the dinner-trays.

* * * * *

       “It certainly is quiet in here,” remarked Aragorn to Arwen.

        “Father has confined the halflings and the man to their rooms until their colds pass, beloved,” explained Arwen.  “Are you certain that you are not sickening?”

        “I am perfectly well,” Aragorn assured her.  Reassured, the Ranger felt a cool hand slip into his underneath the High Table, and caress his palm.  He squeezed it gently then released it to allow her to eat.  Indeed, the usual hum of conversation in the great hall seemed muted and lacking, somehow.  He was not the only one noting the absence of shrill hobbit-voices, he thought.  Many of the other diners, Gimli and Legolas included, were regarding the four empty seats and their stacks of unused cushions with regret.  It seemed the hobbits had captured more hearts than his own.

       “They are a merry folk,” murmured Arwen, following his thoughts as she so often did.  Words were superfluous things between them; they could speak with their eyes, and tonight her eyes shone like the breaking of dawn after a cold and starless night.          

       How beautiful she was, he thought.  Her skin glowed like ivory in candlelight, her hair a cascade of black silk.  She wore it down tonight, as she knew he liked it, and it shifted with each of her breaths, shining and lovely.  Arwen lowered her head and faint roses bloomed in her alabaster cheeks. 

      “Ah, love,” he said softly.

      “Eat,” she admonished him.   “We will visit them later.”

* * * * *

      The Ranger and his beloved were talking softly as they drifted down the hallway.  Aragorn held a plate in his hands, piled high with goodies that he and Arwen had sneaked out under Elrond’s watchful eye from the High Table.  The two had giggled like children, stuffing after-dinner chocolates and mints and sweets into their clothing.  The Master of Rivendell had pointedly ignored them.  They were now busy unearthing the sweets from various pockets and pouches.  Aragorn could not restrain a laugh when Arwen sought a shadowed corner and vigorously shook her bosom, causing several paper-wrapped candies to fall to the floor.  “Best not tell the halflings where you stored those, my love,” Aragorn whispered to her.  “Young Pippin would probably faint.”

      Stooping gracefully to retrieve the candies, Arwen gave him a look of mock distain.  Further converse was pre-empted by a soft, “Hist!  Hist!”

      The two looked about them, then saw a shifting of the shadows in a nook across the corridor. 

      “Boromir?” asked Aragorn.  “Is that you?”  The man of Gondor emerged from behind a gracefully carven statue and made frantic shushing motions at him.  Thoroughly puzzled now, the Ranger glided closer.

     “Lower your voice, Aragorn, I beg you.”

     “Boromir, are you hiding from Merry and Pippin?”

      The soldier of Gondor craned his neck and peered desperately up and down the corridor.  “Of course not!  You didn’t see them, did you?”

      Arwen followed, struggling to contain her laughter.  Boromir bowed to her.  “My lady.”  Then he turned back to the Ranger, anguish in his eyes.   “Aragorn, they want stories.  And songs.  I haven’t any to give them - a life spent in battle does not lend itself to the singing of songs and the telling of tales.”  Boromir’s voice had gradually been rising despite his own pleas for quiet, and now he visibly reined himself in and glanced frantically up the corridor, as if fearing pursuit by Black Riders at the very least.  “My lady, you must ask your father to return them to their rooms.  I beg you.  They are driving me insane.”

      “Lord Boromir, how can that be?  They are a most courteous and well-mannered folk.”

     “They are so persistent.  The young one, especially.  He has fastened upon an unfortunate remark of mine, and now follows me about like a puppy.  Much to the unhelpful amusement of the other one, I might add.  I only escaped by offering to take the trays back to the kitchen and return with more food.”

      Arwen reclaimed the plate of sweets from her intended and handed it to Boromir.  “This will occupy them for some time.  We will go back with you, and Aragorn and I will keep them amused until it is time to sleep.”

      “Thank you, my lady,” Boromir whispered gratefully.  “I am forever in your debt.”

* * * * *

      The Ranger and the Lady had decided planned to visit the Ringbearer and Sam and Bilbo first, but Boromir’s rescue diverted them from those plans.  It was just as well, perhaps, because all was not well in Frodo’s room.  Frodo’s migraine had eased, and as long as he did not look directly at a candle or move his head too quickly, he was not in great discomfort.  But he was very tired, and still stuffy and aching, and he did not want to eat the dinner which had been delivered to him.  He wanted to go to the Hall of Fire and curl up on the hearth and hear the tales and songs.  He was not well enough, and it seemed that all his hurts and weariness combined into one great ache that made him want to hide away under the covers and escape in sleep.

      Sam removed the tray regretfully, noting how little his master had downed.  “Sir -”

      “Don’t you start in on me, Sam,” Frodo said tiredly.  “If you don’t like how much is left, you eat some.”  He lay back down and closed his eyes.  Sam set the tray near the others at the door, not taking advantage of Frodo’s offer.  The sturdy hobbit had thrown off the effects of the freezing water faster than any of the others; except for an occasional sniff or sneeze, Sam was well enough.  Not for the first time, Sam wished he could impart some of his own excellent health to his master.

       Even his uncle’s gentle scolding and coaxing had been unsuccessful in encouraging Frodo this time.  Sam watched Bilbo stifle his own worry and frustration with his stubborn nephew and reach over to stroke Frodo’s dark curls.  Those old eyes looked up at Sam for help, but Sam could only shrug.  Frodo was setting himself up for “one o’ Himself’s moods,” as his Gaffer called it, and Sam mightily wished to distract him.  It was therefore with great relief that Sam answered the door, surprised to find Legolas the Elf and Gimli the Dwarf there, eying each other uncomfortably.

      “Would you like ‘ta come in?” Samwise asked them, unsure if he was violating a command of the Lord’s or not.  Master Elrond had said Mr. Frodo was to rest, but the Elf-lord didn’t have to contend with his master’s melancholy moods.

      Some time later, Elrond and Gandalf paused before the door, their ears catching the deep rumbles of the Dwarf’s laugher and the silvery piping that was the Elf’s.  Interspersed among them were peals of hobbit-laughter.  The two regarded each other in surprise.  “Well, we were wondering how to make them work together,” Gandalf said, his bushy eyebrows raised.

      Elrond nodded, his hand still raised to knock.  “I had thought to congratulate them on their teamwork in Frodo’s rescue.  Make much of how Legolas guided the river-craft while Gimli supplied the power.  Their strengths compliment each other, if only they would realize it.”

      More laugher rang out past the wooden door, the tones of hobbit and Elf and Dwarf blending like music.  Gimli’s voice was a great bassoon, Legolas’ a flute.  Two clarinets and an oboe wove melody between them.  Elrond inclined his head gracefully, a small smile in those dark, immortal eyes.  “Perhaps they are realizing it now.”

* The Unicorn by Budgielover. 

Chapter 44:  Night Terrors and Morning Adventures

      The crickets no longer chirped in the dark night of Imladris.  Fall had passed into winter, and the cheerful, familiar song of the crickets had passed with it.  The tired hobbit, wavering between waking and sleep, thought idly that he missed them.  They made their own sort of music.  They reminded him of home, though he hadn’t thought about it really, until he could no longer hear them.

      He missed a lot of things, he realized with sudden sharpness, feeling tears prick behind his closed eyelids, and pushed the thought away quickly before he started dwelling on everything he had left behind.  Sighing, he wished he could shake off this grim mood.  Perhaps he was overtired from the day’s demands and from their visitors, who had stayed until quite late.  Now sleep was slow in coming.  His arm ached dully and he massaged it carefully with his other hand.  At long last, he passed into a restless doze that gradually deepened into an uneasy slumber.

      Blurred images passed through his subconscious; unresolved and unexpressed anxieties drifting to the surface of his sleeping mind.   He wandered, thoughts touching here and there without taking hold but finally the swirling images steadied and true dreaming began.  Suddenly, shockingly, he heard a scream.  Pippin’s scream, or was it his own?  He ran desperately toward the sound that had pierced him like a knife in his heart.  He saw Pippin as he had come running toward him, lying there at the base of the tree, silent and unmoving.

       He saw with disbelief and horror that a knife quivered in the tweenager’s breast.   Red blood poured from the wound, saturating Pippin’s clothes, running down his sides, spreading on the ground in an ever-widening pool.  It was impossible that there should be so much blood.  Only if the knife had pierced Pippin’s heart could there be so much, and if that were so … if that were so… 

       Pippin’s curly head was thrown back, his green-gold eyes open but unseeing, all light gone from them.  He was dead.  It could not be true.  He could not bear it to be true.  But it was and he was overwhelmed with loss and despair.  No elven healing could bring Pippin back from this.  No elven healing could bring himself back, either.  They were both dead now for how could he live after this?  Why should he want to, or deserve to?   He had caused this to come to pass.  Pippin would not be here, would not be dead if he had just been firm enough and refused to let him come on this ill-fated journey.  He hadn’t tried hard enough to make him stay behind.  He should have tried harder.

      It was his fault.  He was responsible for his cousin – for both his cousins.  And for Sam, too.  Now he saw Paladin crouched beside the body of his only son.  The elder hobbit rose to point a shaking finger at him, his grief-stricken face accusing and disbelieving.  Red tears rolled from Paladin’s eyes.  “You were supposed to take care of him!  You are older and supposedly wiser, and were to guard him from harm!  How could you let this happen to him?”

       Pippin’s mother, Eglantine, cradled her dead child, her youngest babe, rocking him gently to and fro.  Red tears poured from her eyes too, and from the eyes of Pippin’s sisters, suddenly standing behind their grieving mother.  None of them would look at him.  It was his fault.  He knew it was.  He did not need Paladin’s accusation or Eglantine’s grief to tell him that.  Pippin had been their only son, the heir to the Thain.  There was no heir now.  All the Shire would suffer because of his failure.  Pippin was dead because he had failed…  The Quest too would fail because of him, if he could not even keep this one small cousin safe.  He was sure of it - it would fail because he had already failed at this and then there would be no Shire … all his fault … all his…

      “Wake up!”  Someone was shaking him.  “Wake up, you silly hobbit!”

      He heard someone weeping and realized that it was himself.  He struggled to escape the bonds that held him imprisoned in the nightmare; it was like he had fallen into deep water, the weight of it holding him down and seeking to keep him there forever in the darkness of his despair.

    “Wake up,” the familiar and much-loved voice demanded.  “Merry, wake up!”

     Merry dragged his eyes open to stare into the frightened eyes of Pippin less than two inches from his nose.  A gasp of relief and joy and disbelief burst from him.  It had seemed so real.

      Seeing his elder cousin’s eyes open at last, Pippin gave him one more shake for good measure then hugged him, crowding up onto Merry’s bed.  “Silly hobbit,” he whispered, “what are you crying about, Merry dear?”    Merry raised his hands to swipe at the tears seeping from his eyes.  Sobs still shook him and desperately he tried to rule himself so as not to wake the Man.  A quick glance at Boromir’s bed showed him the soldier slept on, apparently undisturbed by Merry’s terror.

       “I…” Merry tried, “I … I had a bad dream, Pip.”  His breath ran out and he stopped and gulped, shaking with tremors that seemed to tear right through him. 

      “Did you, then?” Pippin asked, the question not really a question.  “Want to tell me about it?”

      “No!” Pippin drew back, startled by his cousin’s vehemence.  “No,” whispered Merry again, struggling for self-possession.  “Keep your voice down or you’ll wake Boromir.  It was just a dream, Pippin.  I hardly remember it, now,” he lied clumsily.

      Unconvinced, Pippin tried to stare into his eyes and Merry looked away slightly, grateful for the semi-darkness that enveloped the quiet room.   He could not share these fears, this guilt, with Pippin.  Whether or not Pip believed him, thankfully the tweenager decided to let it rest.  For now, anyway.  Pip was too persistent and loved Merry too much to let this go completely.  “Shall I get you a drink of water?  I hid a chocolate to eat later, but you can have it, Merry.  I think Lord Elrond has them sent all the way from Dale.” 

      Merry shuddered; his stomach definitely could not handle any more sweets. After that hideous dream, the thought made him feel ill.  “No thank you, Pip.  I’m fine, truly.  It was just a bad dream.  It’s gone now.”  He smiled reassuringly, aware that he was still trembling slightly.

      Pippin nodded doubtfully.  He started to ease himself off Merry’s bed but his cousin’s arms wrapped around him desperately and pulled him alongside. “No!” Merry gasped, then relaxed his hold slightly.  “I mean … you are here now, you may as well stay.  It will be warmer.”

     Pippin gave him a look that told his cousin he wasn’t the least bit fooled, but wiggled under the blankets gratefully.  “Silly hobbit,” he scolded with a yawn.  “Go back to sleep.  And no more bad dreams, hear me?”

      Shadowed in the darkness, Boromir relaxed slowly.  He had awakened at the halfling’s first whimper, his warrior’s senses alerted by the unfamiliar sound of distress.  Though instantly alert, he had lain indecisive as Meriadoc cried out and thrashed in his sleep, the tears streaming down his face just visible in the low light of the cold moonbeams that slanted in through the windows.  He had just resolved to awaken the little one from whatever terror held him in thrall when Peregrin rolled over with a snort, raising himself up on his arms to stare across at his cousin then padded silently over to the other’s bed.  He had heard their whispered exchange despite their attempts to avoid disturbing him, and listened as Pippin comforted a distraught Merry.

      With a sudden pang, he realized he envied these small folk, these seemingly weak, vulnerable creatures.  Such assumptions in regard to their kind were deceptive.  Their strength lay not in arms, in mighty feats of battle.  Their strength was in each other.  In their love for each other, and for their homeland, and for their close-knit families.  Feigning sleep so as to spare Merry any embarrassment, the man lay awake long after the little ones had drifted back into slumber, thinking on the many different kinds of strength that there truly were.

* * * * *

      Boromir was careful to give the halflings no sign that he had overheard them in the morning.  Merry was still upset; his eyes sought out his younger cousin, followed Pippin’s every move.  Pippin bore this with some confusion, but sensing his cousin’s unease, stayed close so as not to cause him any further distress. Having bore witness to Merry’s understandable reactions to the unfortunate accident with the knife and watching Merry unable to tear his eyes from Pippin this morning, Boromir had no doubt as to what had caused the elder hobbit’s terrifying nightmare.  Both were unnaturally silent during morning ablutions and breakfast.  The soldier was surprised to discover he missed their cheerful, constant chatter.  Pippin did not even press him for an “unsuitable story,” clearly worried at the way Merry was picking at his food in what even Boromir recognized was a most un-hobbitlike manner.

       Watching the older cousin’s eyes begin to turn inward, Boromir decided upon a strategy.  “As we all seem much better today,” he commented, pleased to see the small faces immediately fasten upon him with interest, “would you like to get in some sword-practice?”

       “Our practice-swords are in the armory,” Merry said regretfully.

       “And our real swords are in our own room,” added Pippin.  “I could fetch them, if you like.”

      “We are not quite ready to practice with real blades,” said Boromir hastily, thinking of Lord Elrond’s reaction should he allow them such.  “I was thinking that we could improvise.  Improvisation, after all, is a very important ability for a warrior to possess. ”

       So it was that Elrond, admitting himself into the room when his soft knocks went unanswered, found himself privy to the sight of two jubilant young halflings still in their nightshirts backing a large, laughing Man into a corner.  Pippin was menacing him with the business end of a mop while Merry brandished a curved stick borrowed from one of the garden’s lattices.  Tendrils of vine and flowers still clung to it. 

       The two were taking shameless advantage of the warrior’s care not to harm them, landing solid thumps of their own with mop and stick.  Boromir was defending himself with a small side table that he held by one leg, holding them off as a tamer of giant cats from the Far South thwarts his beasts.  It was an ineffectual battle at best, but all three combatants looked to be enjoying themselves hugely.

      “Ahem,” coughed the Elf-lord politely when his entrance went unnoticed.  “Ahem.  Ahem!”

      Three faces turned towards him and flushed an identical shade of red.  One last hysterical giggle burst from Pippin before he could stifle it, and Merry was biting his lower lip holding in his own laughter.  Hiding his amusement, Elrond gathered the shreds of his famed serenity about himself and addressed them.  “These seem to be unnecessary,” he stated dryly, indicating the three doses of tonic on the tray he carried.  “I pronounce you all recovered.  Meriadoc and Peregrin, you have my leave to return to your own quarters.  Lord Boromir, my thanks for allowing them to recuperate with you.  I trust they were not too much of an inconvenience?”  He looked at the warrior with a raised eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smile on his lips.

      Boromir’s flush deepened slightly at this gentle jibe.  He lowered the side table and bowed slightly.  “Not at all, my lord.  We were just … just…”

      “Yes,” Elrond returned.  “Perhaps you would prefer second breakfast to breaking up my furniture.”

     Less embarrassed than the Man at being caught in their play, the hobbits were already scrambling into their clothes.  “Come on, Boromir,” said Pippin impatiently.  The Elf-lord could not but laugh to himself as the two halflings towed the Man out the door, his elven hearing catching Boromir’s confused query about “…second breakfast?”

       Elrond’s next stop was the Ringbearer’s room.  Two phials had replaced the three on the tray, the darker rose-colored one meant for Frodo.  Elrond frowned at it thoughtfully, then added a few more drops of a bitter-smelling liquid from a tiny stoppered bottle which he returned to his robes.  The Elf-lord’s time of dosing the hobbit with strengthening cordials was coming to an end, and Elrond meant for him to be as strong as he could be when he left Imladris.

       Sam answered the door immediately and greeted the Master of Rivendell with a bow and a delighted smile, as pleased to see the Elf-lord as if he and Gandalf and Legolas and Gimli had not stayed so late the night before.  “He’s still sleeping, my lord.  Not an early riser, Mr. Frodo.”  Sam regarded the tray with resignation.  “Shall I wake him, sir?”

       “No, Samwise.  Let him sleep.  But when he wakes, he must drink the cordial.  This one is for you.”

        Sam nodded and dutifully downed his with a grimace and a “Thank you, my lord.” 

       “I have released Meriadoc and Peregrin,” Elrond continued, “so no doubt you will be seeing them as soon as they break their fast … again.  You also,” and Sam felt a gentle hand turn his head side to side while Elrond stared deep into his eyes, “seem quite recovered.”  Sam nodded again – he was rarely ill and always got better quickly. 

       “I wish to examine your master when he wakes.  Have him drink his tonic and eat, then send for me.”

       “I will, my lord.”

       It was Elrond’s turn to nod.  “Thank you.  I believe Aragorn wishes to take you all upon an extended camping trip … a “walking-party” as I have heard Bilbo use the term.  Perhaps that will encourage Frodo to eat.”

       Sam’s round face lit with enthusiasm.  “Aye, sir, that’ll do it.  Mr. Frodo’s been wanting to see more of Rivendell an’ the country hereabouts.”

* * * * *

       A few hours later, Aragorn drew in a deep breath of the pine-scented air and felt his heart lift in response.  It was good to be ‘Strider’ again, if even for a short time.  ‘Strider’ did not carry the cares and woes and fears that Aragorn did.  His old, worn clothes and patched cloak surpassed all the silks and velvets of Elrond’s House in comfort. 

       It was also good to be accompanied by four happy hobbits.  He felt absurdly pleased to be on the road again, the five of them, as they had been after leaving Bree.  Only this time, without the fear of pursuit or ambush.  The little folk were delighted at the chance to explore and the Ranger allowed them free rein.  The two younger ones were expending much energy investigating every crevice and viewpoint, exclaiming over each scenic wonder and calling to each other and to Frodo and Sam and Strider himself to “…come and see!”

       Sam was enchanted with the old-growth trees, many that had been ancient before the first hobbits had crossed into Eriador.  Unfamiliar plants filled his pack and pockets, leaves and blossoms to be examined and asked about later.  Frodo walked beside Aragorn more quietly, but his morning glory eyes drank in the beauty of Imladris with pleasure, and Aragorn could tell that he too, was glad to be free of the constraints of the House for a while.

       Aragorn carried most of what supplies he had allowed them and Sam carried his treasured cooking pots but little else.  The four hobbits had been shocked beyond measure when the Ranger had refused to allow them to fill their packs with food – which normally made up the great majority of supplies for a walking-party, he was informed. 

       “The purpose of this exercise,” he told the four indignant faces, “is to not only enjoy a nice walk but to hone our survival skills.  So we will not take much food.  We will hunt and gather our dinners, and I expect you to support yourselves.  And me.  As Pippin has become quite proficient in setting-snares, I expect to eat well.”  Pippin puffed himself up and bounced on his toes, glancing at the others to make certain they had heard.

       “Can we at least take Bill?” Frodo protested.  “Surely the pony needs to get used to walking again also.”

       “And we could eat him if we get too hungry,” said Pippin.  “Just joking, Sam!” he added hurriedly when the stocky hobbit swung around, disbelieving horror on his face.  “Can’t we have any fun?” Pippin whispered to Merry.  “It is going to take a great deal of work to feed all of you.  You are lucky I’m along.” 

       “Hush!” his cousin had replied.

       “I wish Boromir would come,” Pippin hissed back, undaunted.  “We could get him to feed us.”

       “Pippin, be quiet!  Aragorn will hear you!” 

       The hobbits carried their bedrolls and a change of clothing, their flints and pipes and pipe-weed, a few personal items and their swords.  In addition to his pack and weapons, Aragorn carried a hobbit-specific medical kit and several more doses of tonic for Frodo, which he had somehow neglected to mention to the hobbit.   Elrond had drawn him aside in the courtyard as the hobbits shouldered their packs, handing him the small padded case of stoppered medicines.  “Make certain that Frodo does not over-exert himself,” his foster father had told Aragorn quietly.  “He and the other halflings have had no sustained exercise since their arrival here.  They need to ease back into long walking and carrying their packs.”

      “I will care for them, Elrond.”

      “And for yourself.”  Elrond was quiet for a moment, grey eyes distant.  “Keep them out for several days, Estel.  I have some things I wish to accomplish here without the interference of curious hobbits.”  He did not elaborate. The Elf-lord put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed gently, a rare gesture of affection.  “Be careful, my son.”

      The Ranger’s attention was returned to the hobbit walking beside him when Frodo abruptly threw back his head and laughed, his so-blue eyes sparkling.  Seeing Aragorn’s eyes upon him, Frodo smiled.  “It is good to be alive,” the Ringbearer explained softly.

       “On this of all days,” agreed Aragorn, as the shifting breeze brought to them the scents of the woodlands and the sweet smell of decaying leaves.   The hobbits shuffled their feet in the soft earth, enjoying the feel of cool grass against their bare soles.

       “Where are we going, sir?” asked Sam from Frodo’s left.

       “There is a place I think you would enjoy seeing, Sam.  A most special place.”

       “South?” Sam pursued when Aragorn did not explain further.

       The Ranger nodded, teasing the hobbit and enjoying it.  “The north road is still closed due to the landslide.  The west road you have seen.  The east road … well, we are not ready to take the east road yet.”  Aragorn raised his eyes to the narrow path that led out of Imladris towards Mordor, twisting around the steep mountains until it was lost to sight.  He noticed that Frodo had followed his gaze, a shadow now in his eyes, and sought to distract the Ringbearer.

       “The south road, however, is one well-traveled by Elrond’s folk.  And at the end of it … is a marvel beyond words.”

      “What?” asked Frodo, knowing full well they were being teased but unable to stifle his inquisitiveness.  “What is it?”

      “That,” replied Aragorn with irritating smugness “is for me to know and you to find out.”

Chapter 45:  New Horizons

       It was a humbling experience for the hobbits, that first day’s walk.  All four had been blithely confident of their ability to keep up with the long-limbed Ranger, especially with their packs practically empty.  Aragorn set a meandering pace for them at first, allowing them to explore and delight in the changing foliage of the trees and the crisp air, the elven valley just now beginning to hint of the winter that lay heavily upon the rest of this part of the world.  Then, subtly, he began to push them.  Merry and Pippin stopped their wide ranging and fell into line, and Frodo and Sam ceased their conversation to save their breath for marching.  Finally even the younger hobbits attempts at singing one of Bilbo’s walking songs gave out as they found they needed their breath just to keep the pace.

      “Why … why must we hurry so, Aragorn?” panted Pippin.

      “We must be at a certain place at a certain time,” replied the Ranger, glancing down at the struggling hobbit.

      “Why?”

      Aragorn noticed Frodo inching up in the hopes that Pippin’s question would be answered.  “To see a wondrous rare sight,” he explained.

      “What?”

      “When we get there, Pippin, you will see.”  Aragorn laughed when Frodo muttered something under his breath.  Pippin looked over at him, confused and curious.  “I would not answer Frodo’s questions, either, Pippin.  All I will say is that if we are late, we will miss it.”

      “Miss what?” asked Frodo and Pippin together.  Sam was listening closely, while Merry was busily searching his memory and overheard conversations for clues.

       “I will say no more.  Besides, it is time we stopped for tea.”  As he had hoped, that subject immediately diverted the hobbits.  They quickly selected a small grassy knoll near to a brook, a small tributary of one of the lesser rivers that branched from the great Bruinen and protected the valley.  Sam eyed the water with distrust, though he could easily have leaped across it.

      Aragorn sat back at his ease while the hobbits prepared the meal.  Pippin laid out a ground cloth and Sam unpacked their travel food while Merry and Frodo gathered firewood and started a small blaze.  It was all done within minutes, especially Sam’s task.  Aragorn stifled a laugh when four indignant faces turned to him.  “Well?” he asked gently.

      Surprisingly, it was Samwise who spoke first.  “There’s not enough here ‘ta feed a mouse!”  Four sets of unhappy eyes stared at the salted meat and dried apple rings and hard-rimed cheeses that Sam had kept ready in his and his master’s packs, as Gandalf had instructed when fleeing Rivendell looked to be a possibility.  He’d then offered to help Mr. Merry and Master Pippin lay out their supplies, and they had looked at him, aghast.  The two had obeyed Aragorn’s instructions and brought no food (though Pippin had snuck several boiled sweets and pieces of toffee into his pockets).  Every bite they had would not satisfy even two hungry hobbits, much less four (one a perpetually hungry tweenager) and a Man.

       Aragorn pulled himself more upright, and his smile faded.  “Lesson number one.  From now on, we live off the land.  Pippin, I would like you to teach Frodo and Merry to set snares.  Sam, I daresay you know something of harvesting wild plants and herbs?”  Sam nodded cautiously.   “Good.  Please teach your master and his cousins to recognize and prepare them while we are on this expedition.  Frodo and Merry, both of you have fished, haven’t you?”

       The two cousins exchanged a glance, not liking the direction this was taking.  “Yes,” Frodo began, “We all have … but -”

       “Good.  An hour should be sufficient for you to prepare the meal, then?”

      “Aragorn,” objected Merry.

      “It is more than likely that there will come a time upon our Quest that your survival will depend on you and you alone.  Show me that you can survive without me.  When I know what you can already do, I will show you even more about how to harvest the bounty of the Wild.  There is food all around us.  You have only to know how and where to find it.”

       The hobbits looked about them doubtfully.  “There’s some blackberry bushes over there,” Pippin said, pointing.  “It’s too late in the year for them in the Shire, but the weather is a lot milder here. Maybe there is still some ripe fruit on them.”

       “I see some marsh grass at the edge o’ the meadow,” contributed Sam.  “Stewed marsh grass makes a fine greens dish.”

       “Well done,” praised Aragorn.  “Pippin, since you saw the bushes, you have the honor of battling the thorns.  I will be the one to teach Frodo and Merry to set snares while you two gather our tea.”

* * * * *

       “Ouch!”

       “Careful, Merry.  Those wires are sharp.”  After watching Frodo favor his left shoulder and seeing Merry rub his bandaged and splinted arm, the Ranger had decided to be the one to teach the two snare setting for another reason than to simply allow Sam and Pippin to pursue their food-gathering assignments.  Both cousins had taken an injury that affected their strength and dexterity, and the Ranger wanted to evaluate them.  Frodo and Merry caught on quickly, but as he had feared, they had difficulty stretching and setting the snares.  Merry’s wrist would strengthen with time and the proper exercises but Aragorn feared that Frodo might never have the force in his shoulder required to pull the wires taut.

         Because of their injuries, the man allowed each to help the other, requiring that they both understand how to build the traps even if they could not set them alone yet.  At last Frodo leaned back and wiped the perspiration from his brow.  “How is that?” he asked.

       Aragorn groped beside him and closed his hand upon a long stick.  He tapped the end carefully over the leaves the hobbits had scattered over the wires.  Snap!  He grinned at the two tired cousins.  “Excellent.”

      “But it does not help us now,” grimaced Merry.  “Seeking a rabbit-path and setting the snares could take an hour, and it might not be dusk until they come out.  I’m hungry now.”

       “I am as well,” said Frodo, then added indignantly, “Aragorn, there isn’t enough here for a decent tea!  Surely you do not mean us to starve until dinner?  We won’t have the strength to walk.  We shall be too weak to walk to this wondrous marvel that you refuse to tell us what it is!”

       “I think you exaggerate your hunger-induced feebleness, Frodo,” the Ranger said with a smile.  “But I dare not put you to the test as Elrond would have my head.  I should require you to go hunting with your slings … but you both have used those arms enough for today.   You have done well and deserve a rest.  I will bring down some game with my bow.”  With that the Ranger strung his great bow and walked off into the forest with a stride nearly as silent as a hobbit’s.

       Frodo lay down and drew up his knees, digging his toes into the grassy swath.  He pushed back his cloak and began to rub his shoulder.

         “Does your shoulder hurt, Frodo?” Merry asked, seeing him do so.

       “A little,” his cousin admitted.  “More than a little, actually.  How is your arm?”

       “It hurts, too.”  Merry remained seated, his arms around his knees.  “As much as I dislike admitting it, Cousin, Aragorn is right.”

       “How so?”

       Merry was quiet for a moment.  “We are going to have to depend on the Big Folk to take care of us.  Not just to defend us, but to hunt for us and take care of us.  We haven’t a chance of completing this Quest without them.”

       Hearing the distress in his cousin’s voice, Frodo propped himself up on his elbows and looked at Merry.  He grinned weakly.  “Don’t worry about it, Merry.  We haven’t much of a chance of completing it with them, either.”

       Merry sighed and lay down next to Frodo, angling himself to use his cousin’s midsection as a pillow.  “I can always count on you to cheer me up.”  He sighed again, deeply and regretfully.  “It’s a good thing we didn’t bring Bill.  Roasted haunch of pony sounds delicious right now.”

       “Sam would … never forgive you,” responded Frodo, his voice slowing to a sleepy drawl.  Two more breaths and he was asleep.  Merry yawned; his nightmare the previous evening had kept him from sleeping well for the remainder of the night.  His eyelids fluttered shut and he soon followed his cousin’s example.

       He had barely nodded off when a loud, aggravated voice proclaimed, “Well, this is a fine sight!  I get scratched and pricked and bleeding, and here you two are taking a nap!”

* * * * *

        Several plump pheasants, stewed greens, the packed-in food and blackberries comprised tea.  Most unexpected but welcome was Pippin’s harvest of a small stand of mushrooms, which Aragorn insisted on examining carefully before allowing them to be added to the menu.  Pippin rolled his eyes at Sam behind the Ranger’s back; hobbits had been hunting and eating mushrooms for eternity.  Sam glowered back forbiddingly, arms crossed, silently reprimanding the tweenager for questioning Aragorn’s judgment.  Pippin subsided with a mumbled complaint.

       All in all, not a bad effort, Aragorn decided.  He could teach the hobbits nothing in plucking, cleaning and roasting a game bird, and Sam was certainly a better camp-cook than he ever would be.  The gardener even managed to locate wild rosemary and thyme, and the roasted pheasant Aragorn was presently gnawing on would equal any served at Elrond’s table.  Smearing grease into his beard with another bite, he met Sam’s gaze with a wide grin and a salute, and the stocky hobbit blushed, a diffident smile on his round face.

      Frodo was more vocal.  “Oh, Sam, this is wonderful.”

      Merry swallowed and added his congratulations.  “Though we might get tired of the same fare after several days.  What else are you going to teach us, Aragorn?”

      “There is little I can teach you in finding and preparing the foods you already know of, I think,” the Ranger said after a moment of consideration.  “Therefore we will concentrate on finding and preparing the foods you don’t know.  Roots, bulbs, leaves and flowers…” he noticed he had Sam’s complete attention.  “Many have medicinal purposes, also.”  Merry nodded, listening carefully.

     “What flowers?” asked Sam eagerly.

     “You know jacks-in-the-pulpits, Sam?”

     “Of course.”  Sam was somewhat offended.  “Got a load of ‘em in Bag End’s garden.  But you can’t eat those.  They burn the mouth, they do.”

      Aragorn smiled at him.   “That burning is caused by crystals growing in the plant’s roots.  Drying them or baking them slowly will remove the burning.”

      Sam leaned back, unconvinced but willing to consider it.  Aragorn was pleased; hobbits were a provincial folk and such are often resistant to new ideas.  He should have known though, that if it concerned food, the hobbits would be willing to explore new horizons.  The Ranger knew that the Shire was gentle land, generous in providing for its people.  True hunger was almost unknown.  Its folk had rarely had to consider alternative sources of food.  But there might be limits…  “And some types of insects.”

      “Insects?” echoed Pippin warily.  The others stopped chewing and stared at the Ranger.

        Aragorn nodded.  “Insects can be very nutritious.  And worms, too.”

       “Worms?”  chokedFrodo, peering with sudden suspicion into his bowl.

      “Yes, Frodo.  Ants, termites, beetles, grubs…”  He rushed on before they could speak.  “Nothing that stings or bites, or is hairy or brightly colored.  No spiders or ticks, flies, mosquitoes.  No midges.”  He grinned at them but received only horrified stares in response.  “Beetles and grasshoppers are quite … crunchy … after you cook them.  And remove their legs and wings.”  The horrified stares were turning nauseated.  “You can eat most insects raw.  The taste varies from one kind to another.  Wood grubs are bland, while some ants store honey in their bodies, giving them a sweet taste.”  He looked hopefully at Pippin, but the young hobbit just looked ill.  “You can grind them into a paste, or mix them with edible vegetation, or -”

      “I am going to be sick,” announced Pippin flatly.

      Serious now, the Ranger met their eyes.  “There may come a time when you will have to eat such things or starve.  A person who ignores an otherwise healthy food source due to a personal bias -”

      “Personal bias!” hissed Merry in strangled tones.

        “- or because he feels it is unappetizing, is risking his own survival.”  Aragorn glared at them and there was no compromise now on his stern face.  He turned to the smallest hobbit.  “Pippin, if you were starving and only by eating worms could you muster enough strength to protect the Ringbearer, would you do so?”

       Pippin opened his mouth, looking rather like a stranded fish.  “Strider, that’s not fair!”

       “Would you?”

        Pippin ground his teeth together and looked to Merry, but found no help there.  Merry’s face was strained, blue eyes intent.  Frodo had gone white and still, neither condemnation nor encouragement on his features.  Sam was staring fixedly at his bowl, scowling, his face red.  Suddenly, Pippin felt an overwhelming fear for his gentle, scholarly cousin.

        “Pippin?” Aragorn pressed.

      “I will do whatever I have to, to keep Frodo safe,” the tweenager declared steadily and unequivocally.  Pippin saw Frodo’s eyes suddenly brim with tears, and one broke free and ran down his cheek.  He put down his half-finished meal and stumbled to his feet.

       “Excuse me,” Frodo murmured faintly.  “I … I need a little … air.  No, Sam, finish your meal.  I’ll … only be a moment.”

       Merry inched over and slid an arm around Pippin, startled to feel him trembling despite the strength he had heard in the lad’s voice.  “I’m not having a good time anymore, Merry,” Pippin whispered miserably.

      The rest of tea was concluded in silence.   Aragorn regretted dimming the bright day for them – but neither would he have them unprepared for the realities they might well have to face.  They still had many miles to walk before they could stop for dinner and set up camp.  He helped Sam wash up while Merry and Pippin packed up the (very few) leftovers and bowls and spoons and ground cloth.  Then they sat and waited for Frodo.  And waited.  After a quarter-hour, Aragorn rose to his feet and began to pace.  Twice he started into the woods then stopped himself, respectful of the Ringbearer’s privacy.  The late afternoon shadows began to lengthen into darkness.  Frodo did not return.

Chapter 46:  Clouded Horizons

      “Something is wrong,” grated Aragorn.  The Ranger spun on his heel and gathered up his pack, barking at the hobbits to get ready to travel.  Sam started spading earth onto the fire and Merry and Pippin fumbled on their waiting packs.  “Frodo would never be gone so long.  He is in trouble.”

      Pippin reached up and tugged on Aragorn’s leather coat.  “Wouldn’t it be faster if you went and searched for him alone?” the tweenager asked anxiously.  “We will slow you.”

      “No,” replied the Ranger after a moment’s thought.  “I do not want us to be separated.  If something out there has delayed or injured Frodo, I do not want to give it the opportunity to wreak more havoc.”  He did not say it, but there was always the chance that whatever had delayed Frodo might also be a danger to the other halflings.  Despite the fact that he had not voiced his fear aloud, he noted Merry moved unobtrusively a bit nearer to Pippin.

      “Injured him?” echoed Sam worriedly, tucking the small trowel back into his pack.  He shrugged it on then picked up his master’s.  “What would do that?  Wouldn’t Lord Elrond have warned us if he sensed anything evil hereabouts?”

      “If it was wholly a thing of evil, Sam,” replied the Ranger thoughtfully.  “My lord can certainly sense creatures like Black Riders on his lands.  Possibly orcs, if there are several.  But not Men or other ill-intentioned folk that somehow managed to find one of the concealed paths hither.” Then he smiled in an effort to allay the growing apprehension on the faces of his young friends.  “It is always possible Frodo has fallen into a ditch, too.  Our Master Baggins has in the past shown a remarkable proclivity for such mishaps.”

      Merry sniggered.  “That’s probably it.  Or got himself stuck in a tree.   Or tripped over his own two feet.”

     Sam bristled at Merry, aggravated but unable to refute the truth of the younger hobbit’s words.  “He’s just distracted.  You’d be distracted too, Mr. Merry, if you had ‘ta carry that wicked thing around your neck day and night.”

       Merry’s teasing expression was replaced by a contrite one.  “You are right, Sam.  I’m sorry.”

      “Come,” said Aragorn gently, interrupting the strained silence that had fallen over the hobbits.  “He went into the woods … there.  Follow me, and do not stray.”

        Merry resettled his pack and followed.  Pippin came next, with Sam behind him.  Glancing over his shoulder, Aragorn noted wryly that the older hobbits had automatically placed the tweenager between them in the position of greatest safety.  Would that he had been so careful of the Ringbearer’s wellbeing.  Frodo’s request or no, he should never have allowed his friend to wander into the woods alone.  What could have befallen the hobbit?

      Sternly clamping down on his imagination, Aragorn began using his tracking abilities to trail Frodo.  As he feared and expected, it was not easy.  Hobbits were a light-footed folk and only a displaced leaf or the slight bending of a single twig here and there told of Frodo’s passage.  He could not even find a full footprint.  If Frodo had not stopped in one place to kick a pile of autumn leaves, Aragorn might well have taken a wrong turning.  He picked an orange leaf up from where it had come to rest upon a neighboring bush and examined it carefully, but it could tell him nothing.

      A scuffed disturbance farther on told him more.  The Ranger knelt, his attention wholly upon the path.  He was peripherally aware of Sam and Merry and Pippin behind him but they kept back, careful not to confuse the tale the earth had to tell.  Here … Aragorn’s heart sank.  A boot print.  Here the imprint of the imprint of toes digging deep into the turf - Frodo had dodged to the side…  The boots had followed…  The hobbit had slipped on a pile of leaves and gone down.   Much thrashing here … leaves scattered about, a slide in the earth.  The boots had staggered back, off balance.  The hobbit had whirled to run and the boots had recovered and followed … then leaped, clearing the earth for several paces.  A flying tackle, then.  And here … the outline of a small body, crushed into the soil by a larger one.  Broken grass stems and small plants uprooted … a struggle…  And a conclusion.  The Ranger sighed and rose to his feet.  All trace of the smaller body ceased and when the boots steadied again, they pressed into the earth deeper than they had before.  The Ranger stared into the leafy forest and motioned the hobbits forward, his heart sinking with the sun.

      Darkness was falling, the hours of daylight shortened by the deepening winter.  They had tarried too long in preparing their meal and eating it, then waiting while Frodo tried to come to terms with the fact that those he loved were going to suffer hardship and danger because of the commitment he had made.  The lengthening shadows were merging, melding their surroundings into an indistinct panorama of trees and bushes.  The slanting light was just sufficient to illuminate the small glade that opened before them.

      It was a small meadow, the wild grasses kept short by foraging deer.  Though it was winter, parts of the glade were still green, sporting once beautiful flowers now tipped black with frost.  It was almost perfectly round, and in the exact center lay something dark.  Dark, and disturbingly still, thought Aragorn grimly.

      To the side of them, from the forest’s edge, the grass was bent and broken leading to and from the motionless form, the frosted blades cleanly snapped.  Two trails…  One trail was less distinct than the other, as if feet had shuffled more under the weight of a burden.  The other path showed no such smudging; the trail-maker had returned unburdened.  Both trails ended at the same spot at the edge of the glade.  

      The hobbits crowded up near Aragorn, trying to peer past him but the Ranger spread his arms and blocked them.   Pippin pushed at the man’s arm and stiffened himself at the quivering tension he felt in the unyielding muscles.  Aragorn stood frozen, seeming not even to breathe as he looked and listened, and tasted the evening breeze like a stag scenting the wind. 

       Sam looked up at the Ranger, suddenly fearful.  “Is it Mr. Frodo?  Let me go to him!”

       Instead of moving forward or aside, Aragon turned and knelt, facing the hobbits.  “It is Frodo,” he said softly.  “I see his dark hair.  He is wrapped in his cloak.  But he does not move.”

       “Is he asleep?” asked Pippin, perplexed.  The young hobbit inhaled.  “Fro – “

Aragorn’s hand was across his mouth before he could complete the hail.   The tweenager choked and turned startled eyes on their guide.  “Keep your voices low,” the man ordered. 

      “What’s wrong?” whispered Pippin and Sam together.

       “Think, both of you,” counseled the Ranger quietly, his eyes returning to the motionless figure.  “Look where he lies.”

        The hobbits looked at the still form in the exact center of the meadow.   “It’s a trap,” said Merry flatly.

        Sam gasped and unthinking in his fear for his master would have torn away from the Ranger, but lightening-quick, Aragorn’s hand came down on the stocky hobbit’s shoulder – hard.  Sam was literally dragged back to the shelter of the trees.  Aragorn shook his head.  “No!”  The Ranger’s voice was soft but the authority in it was unmistakable.  “We must assess the situation first.  Do you understand?”  He released Sam’s shoulder but his glare was for all of them.  Three curly heads nodded in unwilling unison.

         “It would help immensely to know if Frodo is conscious and bound, or completely unconscious.  He is lying on his side … his back is to us…”  The Ranger was silent, thinking.  Then he grasped the shoulder of the youngest hobbit gently.  “Pippin, can you use your sling to strike Frodo?   Not too hard, just to see if he responds.  His reaction – or lack of it – will tell us where matters stand.”

       Pippin nodded eagerly, his small hands already pulling the sling from the pocket of his cloak and loading it from his ever-present bag of smooth round stones.  “I never thought someone would actually tell me to hit one of my cousins, gently or otherwise!  I’m always being warned I’ll be murdered if I were to dare such a thing.”  The last was delivered with an eye to his other elder cousin, who was too preoccupied in watching the swaying of every leaf and twig to give it the response it deserved.

       With smooth practiced motions, Pippin readied his cast and let the small stone fly.  Those watching could not see it but a heartbeat later they heard a soft whack! and Frodo’s cloak indented slightly, just hard enough to get his attention without causing him hurt.  The still form neither moved nor made a sound.

       “Unconscious, then,” sighed Aragorn.  “We will have to spread out and encircle the clearing.  Use your ears more than your eyes – those who did this are certainly lying in wait for whoever might come after Frodo. They may be perched in a tree and out of your sight, or perhaps hidden behind a large rock, or in the brush.  Listen and you will hear them breathing before you see them.”

       “What then?” asked Merry.  “What if we do find someone?  Do you wish us to draw our swords and engage them?”

       “No, do not do that,” replied Aragorn, noting the frustration evident in the hobbit’s tone.  “Find them only, then signal me.”

       “How, without alerting any others there may be?”

        The Ranger frowned thoughtfully.  “Can all of you imitate a cricket?”

       “In winter?” replied Sam skeptically.

       “I would guess that whoever has done this is not well versed in wood-craft, or they would not position their captive in the direct center of the meadow.  Easy to see, yes, but most unnatural.  But you are right, Sam.  It is better to be cautious.  How about a bird – a thrush perhaps?”

       Three soft thrush trills greeted his query.  Aragorn nodded, impressed at their skill.  “Good.  When you find one, trill.”

       Merry had been staring fixedly at his cousin’s unmoving form.  “Aragorn, why do this in the first place?  Why not just take Frodo and go?”

       The Ranger had been dreading that question, knowing in all probability that Merry would be the one to think of it.  “It would be my guess,” he said slowly, “that whomever was entrusted this task was not trusted with why Frodo was wanted.  No underlings would be trusted with knowledge of what Frodo carries.  It is far more likely that the order would have been to capture all ofthe halflings.  Frodo was just unfortunate enough to be the first to fall into their snare.”

       “So we are in danger, too,” stated Merry matter-of-factly.  “And so are you so long as you are with us.”

       “For every step we take with Frodo.  And so it will remain, until the Quest has been completed.”

       Merry nodded, seeming not at all disconcerted by that pronouncement as far as his own safety went.  But Aragorn saw that his eyes turned towards Pippin and that strained, withdrawn look had returned to his face.  The youngest one was practically vibrating in place, twisting his sling eagerly in his hands.  Sam’s expression was grim.

       “Be very careful,” the man whispered.  Merry tapped Sam on the shoulder and pointed to the other side of the clearing.  Sam nodded and was gone into the darkening woods without so much as a rustle to mark his going.  Pippin was shifting eagerly from foot to foot and took off before Merry could complete his gesture to the left, halfway between himself and Sam.  Aragorn watched apprehensively as the small forms melted soundlessly into the underbrush, then accepted Merry’s point to the right, across from Pippin.  Drawing his long knife, he moved along to his  compass point of the clearing, eyes half closed to better focus his hearing.

       Ranger though he was and listen as he might, he could hear nothing of the hobbits’ movements.  He understood why some thought the halflings had magic – their ability to move unseen and unheard was amazing.  It seemed magical to he, himself despite that he knew approximately where they were.  His own stealthiness was born of talent, years of experience in the Wild, and great need.  His passage did not disturb the night-sounds around him, the day world falling to sleep as the night-world was waking.  A rabbit emerged from its burrow and twitched its nose at him.  A flight of sparrows had sought refuge on the branches of an oak tree, tucking their heads under their wings, their sleepy chirpings trailing off.  A fox stared at him, cocking its head sideways, then trotted off on its own business.

        The harsh breathing that came gradually to his ears was jarringly out of place among the gentle sounds of the night.  He froze, eyes shutting completely as he sought to pinpoint the sound.  There, slightly more to the left.  He opened his eyes and in the gray dusk could barely distinguish a large, bulky form kneeling on the forest floor.  A man?  Orc?  Something else?

       The dark figure was turned sideways, trying to keep an eye on both the bait and for the prey it was supposed to attract.  The figure’s head swiveled to the left then right in rapid, nervous movements.  It was cloaked, the cowl pulled up over its head, and in its hands was a crossbow, the bolt nocked and ready.  The Ranger felt a surge of anger flash through him.  Such a bolt would likely kill one of the hobbits.  Did these that hunted them have orders to kill, then, or was that bolt meant for him?

       Aragorn snarled under his breath with harsh self-recrimination.  He should have exercised more caution in leaving Elrond’s House; he should have known it would be wiser that they depart in secrecy and silence instead of trooping forth carelessly in broad daylight with chattering, singing halflings.  Had he allowed himself to be lulled into complacency by the peace and serenity of Imladris?   What could harm them so close to his foster father’s home?  He had been seduced by safety and ease into letting down his guard once, and this was the result.   

       The Ranger ghosted closer, feeling with his feet for twigs that might snap before letting his weight down.  Intent on the scene before him, the dark figure he stalked was still.  Five slow, cautious steps.  Four.  Three.  Aragorn reversed the knife and raised its weighted pommel.  Two.  The figure jerked, alerted by some primal sense.  Instead of shouting an alarm, the figure tried to whirl and face the soundless shadow that had coalesced out of the dim light.  A mistake.  Without a moment’s hesitation, Aragorn brought down the weighted knife on the figure’s cowl and caught the unconscious form before it could crash to the earth.

       The Ranger eased the limp form down and laid it on its back.  The crossbow he recovered from where it had fallen and removed the bolt, returning it to its fellows in its quiver, which he slung on his back alongside his own.    The bow itself he laid out of reach.  Then he searched the still form and relieved it of a sword and two knives.  Only then did he push back the cowl, and behold the coarse features of an unknown man.

       So those that hunted them were human.  One, anyway.  Even as he wondered how many more of the enemy there were, a thrush trilled to his right.  Near and to the right … that would be Sam.  With a last check of the unconscious figure, Aragorn rose and padded in the direction of the call.  It came again as he neared and he stopped, knowing that the hobbit had spotted him.  He could make out no small form among the hummocks and bushes.  But a moment later he felt a small hand fasten on his wrist and he looked down to see a light-colored curly head.

       He crouched down and Sam nodded, pointed ahead of them then held up two fingers.  The Ranger followed where the hobbit pointed and saw two large dark figures, crouched a few yards apart.  How to get them both without alarming any others that might be out there?  Another tug on his coat directed his eyes downward.  With a vicious expression on his usually amiable face, Sam held up one of his frying pans and pointed to one of the men.  Aragorn stifled a grin and nodded.  He leaned down and breathed into Sam’s ear, “On the count of three.” Then he found himself alone.  

       They would have to coordinate the timing of this.  Aragorn drifted silently up behind his target, grateful that the two were made confident by the other’s presence and did not keep as sharp a lookout as the single man he had downed moments ago.  He stopped several feet behind the crouching figure and looked for Sam.  He saw and heard nothing until the first stars glinted momentarily on the silhouette of a small head.   He pursed his lips and a nightingale called in the night.  Once it called, then twice.  The third time it called, it was interrupted by a Wham!

      Aragorn caught his man and eased him down, but Sam could not so manage a figure almost twice his size.  The man fell heavily into the thick underbrush, the rattling and rustling of his fall seeming to echo throughout the clearing.  For a moment, everything was absolutely silent.  Then all heard a soft voice whisper, “Bran?  Powell?”

       Sam gasped, and only then was Aragorn aware the hobbit had returned to his side.  The voice came again, to their right, perhaps a quarter of the way.  Pippin’s quadrant.  The voice was hoarse, distorted by the effort to keep quiet.  “Bran!  What was that?  Answer me!”

       Aragorn sucked in a breath.  “What?” he hissed back harshly.

       The disembodied voice was silent.  Then, uncertainly, “Powell?”

       “What?” repeated Aragorn, trying to locate the fourth man in the dark.

       There was no answer.  Then a voice came clearly, “I don’t know who you are or what you’ve done with Powell and Bran.  But I have a crossbow.  And unless you show yourself this instant, I will shoot the halfling.”

Chapter 47:  Springing the Trap

     “No!  No!  Don’t you hurt him!”

     “Pippin!  Stay back!”  Aragorn swiveled in place to locate the cry.  His shout rang out after simultaneous cries of fear and rage from Meriadoc and Samwise at the unseen man’s words.  The youngest hobbit appeared briefly at the far edge of the clearing then was dragged back bodily into the bushes.  Amidst thrashing sounds, Aragorn could make out Pippin’s voice, “No!  Let me go!  Let me go!”  The Ranger could only hope it was his older cousin that he struggled with and not another one of these men who had struck down Frodo.

        Pippin’s impetuous advance had caused the owner of the unseen voice to rock forward, betraying his location by rustling leaves and quivering branches.  For the briefest of moments Aragorn saw the obscuring shadow of dark cloak and thick hands encircling a loaded crossbow.  The man’s threat was not empty.

      The man’s attention was on the furious altercation taking place in the bushes lining the clearing; thrashing shrubbery and flashes of indistinguishable movement and stifled hobbit-shouts. The stars were brightening but it was yet too dark to distinguish what was happening.  Aragorn took advantage of the diversion to steal a few crouching paces closer to the man.  Sam came after him, sword drawn, his other hand tight on the frying pan and murder on his face.

       The man suddenly remembered the threat on his other side and whirled back around.  Both stalkers froze.  “You there,” the man called again.  “I will shoot the halfling if you do not come out this instant.  Now!  Or he dies!”  The man turned back to the clearing and raised the bow, sighting along its length, his finger already on the trigger.

       Aragorn could not risk this.  Hastily he stood, his knife held far from his body.  Peripherally, he was aware that Sam had disappeared from his side.  The man saw Aragorn immediately and now the deadly crossbow was aimed at his heart.

“Come out!” snarled the man.  “Come out where I can see you plain.”  The Ranger took an unwilling step into the meadow, reluctant to abandon the shelter of the forest.  “Closer,” hissed the man.  “Away from the trees.”  Another slow, dragging step. 

       The thrashing noises abruptly stopped, which pulled the man’s attention back to the clearing.  There was an outraged squawk, which Aragorn had heard numerous times before and recognized as resulting from the removal of an elder cousin’s hand from a younger cousin’s mouth.

      When the complaint was not repeated, the man’s attention turned back to Aragorn.  “Drop the knife,” he snarled.

      Aragorn’s hand tightened on the hilt and for one swift second, he considered a throw.  But the man was still almost completely hidden and the darkness and the thick brush conspired against him.  He could not be certain of a clean cast.  Reluctantly, he loosed his hand and the knife fell with the faintest of dull thuds, standing upright and quivering in the soft earth.

       Suddenly a small form broke from cover on the left and ran to Frodo.  A slightly larger one followed in pursuit.  No! thought Aragorn desperately.  Do not reveal yourselves!  Get back!

       The man’s head jerked towards the two small figures and the crossbow started to swing towards them.  Assessing the threat, the lethal point wavered between them then firmed on the Ranger.  Merry and Pippin had reached the still form and were kneeling by Frodo’s side, then trying to raise him between them, a shoulder under each unresponsive arm.

      “You tell them to leave off,” the man hissed.  “Leave the halfling where he is and to just stay where they are!”  Aragorn hesitated, torn between his vow to the Ringbearer and his own life.

      “Now!” shouted the man.  “Now!”

      His death would not serve the Ringbearer.  There was a chance yet that they all could come out of this alive.  Aragorn nodded at the man to calm him, then turned to the small glade.

       “Merry!  Pippin!”  The two figures paused in pulling Frodo to his feet and looked up.  Frodo’s head lolled limply, his face hidden by shadow.  From the center of the clearing, they could not see the man crouched in the underbrush.  But the strained note of Aragorn’s voice held them.

        “This man has a crossbow trained on me.  Lay Frodo down and stay there, or he will shoot.”

      The cousins had Frodo up now, his boneless form balanced between them.  They stood irresolute for a moment, then the larger form whispered something to the smaller and they began to ease their burden down, laying him gently on the grass.  Pippin sat down and tenderly maneuvered Frodo’s head into his lap, stroking back the dark hair.  Merry knelt at Pippin’s side, one hand laid protectively on his elder cousin’s chest, the other clenched on his sword hilt as his eyes scanned the perimeter, trying to pinpoint the man‘s exact location.

      The man sighed in relief.  “Powell?” he called.  “Bran?  Kane?”

      Kane must have been the first man he had downed, Aragorn realized.  He had struck the man to disable, not kill.  Soon he would be regaining consciousness, if he were not already.  As if on cue, from behind him a ragged groan sounded and the Ranger’s heart sank.  Disarmed and held motionless, he and the hobbits would have no chance against two armed and ready men.

       “Kane?” called the man.  “Kane?”

       The groan sounded again, accompanied by rustling noises and muttered curses.  Aragorn dared not turn but his ears followed the man’s stumbling progress through the trees, night-attuned eyes picking him up as the man came up on his right.  The cloaked form held one hand up to his head.  He staggered to a halt midway between the captor and his captive, looking from one to the other with unfocused animosity.  “He hit me!” the man growled, as if this were the greatest affront imaginable.  “He snuck up on me, and he hit me!”

       Aragorn swallowed a reply that he wished he had hit the man a good deal harder.  It would be a while before the other two awoke, anyway, and the one that Sam had struck with his frying pan…

       Sam?

       With a start, Aragorn realized that he had quite forgotten the stocky halfling.  It was easy to do; Sam was so self-effacing and quiet.  As surreptitiously as possible, he began to scan the surrounding area.  But it was Pippin who guided his gaze to the missing hobbit.  From the corner of his eye, he saw Pippin stiffen and lean forward, his gaze intent on something to Aragorn’s right.   Merry too seemed intent, head tilted slightly, but only someone familiar with the young halfling could tell that he was tracking Sam by sound.  Aragorn himself could hear nothing.  Without turning his head, the Ranger followed Pippin’s gaze.  Still, he almost did not see the flash of movement mirrored under the stars.  A curly head showed itself momentarily between some bushes between the men, then disappeared again.  Hobbit magic…

       He had to help Sam somehow.  “What do you want with us?” Aragorn asked, catching the two men’s gazes and holding them.  He kept his hands up to appear less of a threat, empty palms turned towards them.  The man he had struck was staring fixedly at him, hatred on his coarse features.  The other holding the crossbow alternated between watching him and flicking his eyes to the three hobbits in the meadow.  Aragorn knew the man could turn and shoot in either direction before he had a chance of attacking.  Merry and Pippin were silent, but the Ranger knew the night wind carried their words easily to hobbit ears.

        “There’s a bounty on the halflings,” the crossbow wielder replied, more amiable now that the situation was in his favor.   “More than one, I’m told.  My friends and I have been watching this valley for over a month, waiting for all the men and Elves and Dwarves to leave.  Laying in ditches, covered with brush, hoping you’d come by the south road… No fire, cold stale rations - living in a filthy little cave so we wouldn’t be seen…” the man hacked and spat, his disgust evident.  “So what was that all about, eh?”

       Aragorn was silent.  It had been too much to hope for that the Council of Elrond would remain secret - too many people had been involved.  Not only the delegates sent by the Free Peoples, but their servants and support staff and minor officials.  At least it did not seem that word of the reason for the Council had been spread.  How far had the whispers and rumors progressed, Aragorn wondered? 

       “A bounty?  How much?” questioned Aragorn, seeking to distract the man.  Infusing his voice with just the amount of interest and greed, he sparked suspicion in the other.

      “Aye,” the man growled.  “Which we’ll be claiming so never you mind how much.  A bounty offered by the wizard Saruman.  For the halflings guesting at Rivendell to be delivered to him, alive and unspoiled.  The other bounty offered is said to be far greater, but I wouldn’t…” the man trailed off and shivered.  “I’ll not risk my skin to deal with…” he swallowed then continued more firmly,  “Not for any promise of gold.  At least Saruman is human … or close enough.” 

     The other man had been woozily patting down his clothing and now held up his empty scabbard.  “Where’s me sword?  And me knives?”

      Glad of a reason to turn the other man’s interest from the Council of Elrond, Aragorn turned slightly to face the one he had knocked unconscious.  “I threw them into the woods.  Surely you did not expect me to leave them to you?”

      The man took a step forward, his hands balling into fists, face darkening with rage.  Aragorn was peripherally aware that Merry was cautiously edging to his feet and desperately wished the hobbit would kneel again, making himself a less visible target.

       “Back off, Kane,” snapped the leader.  “You – you tell him where his gear is.”

       Aragorn waved a hand towards the spot.  “Back there.  At the base of a pine tree.”

       The man snarled an oath, obviously wishing to use those fists.  The leader jerked his head.  The man stalked off in the direction the Ranger had indicated, the promise of retribution in every line of his body.

        The other watched him go.  “You’d best be telling the truth,” he remarked casually, one hand caressing the stock of the crossbow.  “Kane there would like nothing more than to take a lie out of your hide.”

       “I do not lie,” returned Aragorn softly.  “Not even to brigands and turncoats.”

      The man stiffened, and Aragorn found the crossbow raised to his throat.  He dared not take a step back as the razored point of the bolt grazed the vulnerable skin just below his jaw.  A trickle of something warm followed the sharp pain and began to trickle down his neck.

       “Brigand?” said the man softly.  “Turncoat?  These little folk aren’t our kind.  What matter to you if we make a profit off a wizard’s foolishness?”

      “They are one of the Free Peoples,” retorted Aragorn.  “They have as much right to walk Middle-earth in liberty as you or I.  What you do here is wrong.”

      The man’s face flushed dangerously and the Ranger wondered if he had gone too far.  But the man would not be goaded into an incautious action that might turn to his captive’s advantage.  “Kane!” he shouted.  “Get back here!”  No reply answered his call.  “Kane!” the man shouted again.

       Nothing.

       Furious now, the man glanced into the meadow again then back to Aragorn.  His face paled and his gaze swung back to the meadow.  Only two figures were there now, the still one on the ground and the one pillowing his head in his lap.  Aragorn felt his heart surge as he identified Merry as the missing one.  Good for Merry!  That little one possessed Ranger potential.

      “Where is he?” snapped the man.  “The other little one?  And the fat one?”

      Aragorn raised an eyebrow at him, his gaze deceptively mild.  “I do not know where they are.  I did not see them go.  But what harm could there be in the little folk loose?  Surely they are too small and weak to be a threat to you.”

       The man considered this then nodded his head.  The Ranger almost felt sorry for him.

       “It is of no matter.  We will capture them again.  Kane!  Answer me, you offal!”  Still he did not receive a response.  “Lazy, good-for-nothing…”

      To this the Ranger did not reply.  His attention was on the two small heads that had shown themselves briefly and deliberately to him out of his captor’s line of sight.  Merry held up one of Kane’s knives and Sam had the other, evidently having stowed his fry pan to use the blade.  Aragorn nodded imperceptivity and both hobbits sheathed their swords in favor of the more manageable knives.  Both looked very grim and Aragorn wondered what had happened to Kane.  He hoped it had been painful.

       Merry pointed to the man then to the opening in the trees that led into the clearing.  He and Sam melted back into the underbrush behind the leader, one of each side of the path and were lost to the Ranger’s sight.

       “Let me see to the halfling,” requested Aragorn.  “He is dear to me, and he has been very still for too long.  I fear for him.  I am a healer – let me see if he is hurt.”

      “I hit him harder than I wished to,” admitted the man, his glance straying again to Frodo and the protectively hovering Pippin.   “I caught him unawares, but he was very quick and I was forced to strike him down.”

      Aragorn felt rage rip through him, though none of it showed in his voice.  “Were not your orders to deliver the little ones alive and unspoiled?  These halflings are more fragile than men, and that one has endured trials that have made him still more so.  Let me look at him.”

       “All right,” agreed the man, motioning for the Ranger to move forward with the crossbow.  “You go first.”

      Still keeping his hands well away from his body, Aragorn walked slowly forward farther into the meadow.  He glanced back with a slight turning of his head and from the corner of his eye saw starlight glimmer of the drawn blades of knives.

       He felt rather than heard the violent rustle of brush at the edge of the trees as two hobbits leaped out of hiding.  The man behind him shrieked once, shrilly, piercingly.  The twang of the bolt releasing was lost in his scream.  Then something drove into his back with the force of a lightening bolt, and through the red wash of pain that swept over him as he fell, Aragorn realized that he had been shot.

Chapter 48:  Caught in the Trap

       Dimly he became aware that someone was crying in great distress.  To hear someone weeping in such heart-wrenching pain twisted his own heart and he sought to drag himself out of the deep well of crushing darkness that imprisoned him so that he could comfort that someone.  Who could not, hearing such grief?

      He tried to gather his arms under him and push himself up, but the agony that tore through him at the attempt ripped a cry from his throat and left him shuddering and nauseated and he fell back to the ground.  Instead of the words of comfort he had meant to offer, all that emerged from his mouth was an inarticulate, “Aaghhuuah…”

      The choking sobs redoubled in volume and vaguely, he felt small arms tighten about his head.  “Pippin!” ordered a familiar voice, “move over!  Let him get some air.  He isn’t dead.  No need to carry on so.”

      Something brushed his hair, then a small hand was patting his face.  “Aragorn?  Aragorn, are you awake?”

      Wishing that such was not the case, the Ranger whispered, “Unfortunately … yes.”

      “I told you he wouldn’t die that easily,” said the familiar voice, which the man hazily identified as Meriadoc.  As he was still not yet able to focus his thoughts, he thought he should make sure.  

      “Merry?”

      “Yes.  We are all here, Aragorn.”

      Something had been wrong.  Ah, he had it.  “Frodo?”

      “Yes, Aragorn,” came another voice, and the Ranger felt a dampened cloth wipe the cold perspiration from his face.  There was a rock pressing into his chest and another, sharper rock felt like it had been driven into his back.  It seemed a great effort to lift his head.  He tried to look toward the new voice and a gentle hand pressed him back down.  “I am here also.  Thanks to you, and to the others.”  Someone moved into his field of vision.  He struggled to focus but could see the Ringbearer only as a shadowy form outlined by the light of the stars.  Faint flickers of light danced across Frodo’s worried face and belatedly, Aragorn realized that someone must have made a fire somewhere behind him.  That would be Sam, then... 

      Ah, good.  All of his hobbits were accounted for.  He could relax now.  Faintly he heard their voices discussing him; Frodo thanking Sam for putting on a pot of water to heat, Pippin asking if they shouldn’t remove his boots and loosen his clothing to make him more comfortable.  Then he remembered something else.  The reason he was lying here.  “The men?”

      Frodo came back into his line of sight, and Aragorn realized he was lying on his stomach, his head turned rather uncomfortably to the side.  His wits seemed to be slow in returning.  Displaced from cradling Aragorn’s head by Merry, Pippin had immediately found another spot and now curled against his side, pressing himself close.  Even as he registered that, a gentle hand reached up to pat his cheek and carefully push the hair out of his eyes. 

      “We’ve taken care of them,” Frodo assured him.  “Or rather Sam and Merry and Pippin did.  They are all tied up most securely.  Two are still unconscious. You have not been out long.”

      Aragorn nodded then squinted at Frodo.  It seemed most odd to him to be looking up at the hobbit.  A thought rambled across his mind and he wondered how it would be to always have to look up at larger folk, as the hobbits must.    “Were any of you hurt?  And are you all right, Frodo?”

      “We are all fine.  My head is sore, but that’s all.”  The hobbit raised a hand to his head and Aragorn noted it trembled slightly.  “We are more concerned about you.”

      Aragorn reluctantly took stock of himself.  Except for the sharp stab every time he breathed, he did not seem as damaged as he thought he should be with a crossbow quarrel through him.  He should be feeling a lot more pain.  Shouldn’t he?

      “Can you sit up?” asked Frodo.  “Do you wish a drink of water?”

      “I shouldn’t put any weight on the wound until it is treated,” replied Aragorn.  “How bad is it?”

      Frodo looked over his head at someone.  Since Pippin was cuddled against him regarding him anxiously and Merry still crouched by his head stroking his hair, it must be Sam.  “Is the water ready yet?” Frodo asked.

     “Comin’, sir,” responded Sam’s voice.

      Frodo returned his attention to the man.  “It is going to be a very bad bruise, Aragorn.  The bolt misfired when Sam and Merry took the Man down, causing it to jump the cradle.  It struck the flat of one of your ribs and might have cracked it.  Not broken it – I would be able to feel that.  Can you inhale without too much pain?”

      Aragorn’s ears had stopped feeding Frodo’s words to his brain at the word ‘misfired.’  “You mean I am not shot?”

     “You are shot,” Merry confirmed, shifting sideways so that he could speak face-to-face with the prone Ranger.  “You just aren’t exactly wounded.”

      “Oh,” said Aragorn blankly.  “Good.”

     Merry lowered himself until he was half-reclining, looking full into the Man’s face.  “Aragorn,” he said softly.  “I am sorry.”

     Aragorn could not make sense of the hobbit’s words, though Merry’s sincerity was unmistakable.  And had Merry been weeping as well as Pippin?  “For what, Merry?”

     “We meant to pull the Man down before he could fire,” Merry replied softly.  “We failed, and you were hurt.  I’m sorry.”

     Aragorn shifted experimentally and was rewarded with a sharp stab in his back that stole his breath.  He panted for a moment, then replied.  “If I had been killed, Merry, I would be a great deal more put out.  However – as I was not – I thank you and Samwise for my rescue.”  After a moment, Merry grinned back, though a trifle uncertainly. 

      “Can you sit up?” asked Merry.  “We still need to wash and bind the bruise.  Sam has hot water ready.  I said we should just cut off your clothes, but Frodo said we should ask you first...”  Merry rambled on comfortingly, not requiring a response.  Several pairs of small hands guided him gently up and against one of the trees edging the clearing.  Still somewhat in shock that he was not dead, Aragorn listed to the side and immediately found a small warm body propping him up.  Pippin grinned up at him, still sniffling, but with such relief on his sharp face that the Ranger returned his smile full measure.  He slid an arm around the tweenager and was gratified to feel Pippin hug him carefully back and nuzzle into his neck, face still wet with tears.

       He took a deep breath and grimaced at the sharp stab in his upper torso.  It felt much like being kicked in the back by a horse.  Painful, but not unbearable.  “I can breathe,” he said, belatedly replying to Frodo’s question.  Frodo nodded.  Then he and Sam were carefully guiding the bow up and over his head, and removing his quiver to lay them aside.  Frodo seated himself behind the Ranger, asking him to lean forward while he and Sam eased off his leather coat and tunic, but directed Merry to simply push up his shirt in an effort to keep him warm in the crisp night air.  Aragorn smiled at the hobbit’s unnecessary concern; he did not feel cold.

      Frodo gently bathed the bruise while Merry held the shirt away and Sam insisted that the Ranger take small sips of water.  Pippin remained glued to Aragorn’s side, supporting and warming him much as the youngster had done for Frodo after Weathertop.  Aragorn was touched to his very soul.  Not just by Pippin’s tender care, but by the gentle ministrations of all four hobbits.  He found his eyes were damp, but not with tears of pain … far from it.

       Aragorn relaxed as they worked, his mind drifting as the pain receded.  It felt strange to him, alien, to be tended with such gentleness.  Rangers cared for each other, of course, but their care was more … reserved.  One did not insult a warrior’s dignity with murmured soothing words of nonsensical reassurance such as his companions whispered to him now.  He had known much affection fostered with his elven kin.  But the affection shown him there was more dignified, more … distant than the love presently being lavished upon him.  Never before had he experienced such heartfelt encouragement and comfort as these four small folk bestowed on him.  Their unquestioning acceptance and inclusion of him in their tightly knit familial group was a gift beyond any he had known.  Faint memories of being rocked in his mother’s arms as a tiny child stirred in him, a consolation not experienced since.  Certainly none of his kin would think to stroke his hair or rub his shoulders, of pressing against him as if he were another (albeit very large) hobbit in need of reassurance and comfort.

      His mind returned to the others’ care of Frodo after Weathertop – the hobbit had never been left alone.  The others were always nearby, one or more small warm body always touching him.   Aragorn had seen with his own eyes how much that support had strengthened Frodo as he battled the agony and creeping darkness of his wound to hold to life.  That he was being offered the same unrestrained devotion now affected Aragorn deeply.  Hobbits were different from men; he had known that intellectually and from his travels with these small folk.  But how different were the easily said words from actually experiencing being cared for as they would succor one of their own. 

       Frodo laid his hand gently against the swelling skin, noting that it already exceeded the span of his spread fingers.  When the washing was done, he sat back on his heels and regarded the injury doubtfully.  The stars, even supported by the faint light of the fire, did not illuminate the bruise as more than a darkening of the skin but he could see that it was already coloring.  “Should we bind it?” he asked Aragorn.  “It would provide some cushioning, at least.”

      Aragorn shifted, testing the soreness.  “No, let it be.  It will heal.  I may ask one of you to carry my pack for a day or so, though.”

      Frodo rose and helped Merry tug the Ranger’s clothing into place.  Sam knelt behind Aragorn, supporting the man’s weight while Merry and Frodo guided his arms back into his tunic, then eased him into his long leather coat.  Pippin did not offer to move, only adjusting his position so that the others could work around him. 

     Now comfortably ensconced in a nest of blankets, Aragorn watched as Frodo rather shakily sat down.  The Ranger was concerned anew to see the hobbit rubbing his forehead.  “Frodo, let me examine your head.  You were unconscious for a worrisome amount of time.”

       Frodo shook his head, his pale face momentarily tightening at the movement.  “It only aches, Aragorn.  Truly.  Sam, is there enough of that hot water left for tea?”

       “Aye,” replied Sam.   “I’ll make some.  It will be ready right after Strider looks at your head.”  Merry hid a smile at Frodo’s martyred sigh.

      Defeated, Frodo knelt again, this time before the Ranger and bowed his head, allowing Aragorn to run his hands through the thick curls.  He flinched slightly when the man’s hands encountered a sticky patch behind his left ear. 

       “There is a small amount of blood here, Frodo,” Aragorn said slowly, sensitive fingers outlining the sizable lump under the skin of the scalp.  It stretched from the top of the delicately pointed ear to the lobe.

     Frodo twitched uncomfortably.  “He was hiding behind the trees and caught me as I walked past.  It was my fault – I was not paying attention.  All I remember is a dark shape lunging at me.  Picking me up...  I kicked it and tried to draw my sword.  Then he must have hit me, for I remember nothing more.”

      Aragorn pressed harder, searching for roughness or a depression of the skull but found none.   “You are going to be quite sore on the morrow.”  He released the curly head and sighed.  “We both are.”

      Pippin had remained quiet during Aragorn’s treatment and Frodo’s examination, a sure sign of how unsettled he was.  Still cocooned warmly under the Ranger’s arm, the tweenager looked up into the Man’s face then over at his cousin.  “What are we going to do with those Men?”

      That question had not been far from any of their minds.  Sam silently ladled tea into each of their mugs, then with a flourish, opened a small sack and dropped into each a somewhat grimy lump of sugar (indulgently dropping a second lump into Pippin’s mug when he thought the others weren’t looking).  That done, Sam pulled out two blankets from his pack and covered his master then added the second to the mound over the Ranger.  Both thanked him with a smile, knowing to protest was useless.  Hands wrapped around his mug, the stocky hobbit sat down with the others and looked at Aragorn.

      “They are tied, you said,” said Aragorn slowly, seeking to order his thoughts.

      “Yes,” Merry responded.  “Each of them carried rope.  Meant for us, I assume.”

      “You heard what the leader told me?” asked Aragorn, and received a nod each from Merry and Pippin and Sam.

      He looked to Frodo and received a pensive nod.  “They told me.”

     Aragorn sighed.  “The most expedient course -”

     “No,” said Frodo.

      “Frodo,” Aragorn argued, “if we leave them alive, what is to prevent them from keeping watch on us and returning another time, perhaps in greater numbers?  Or marking our passage as we leave Rivendell?  A quick death is more merciful than what you would have experienced, did they deliver you into Saruman’s hands.”

       Even the dim light of the coldly shining stars and the dying firelight was sufficient for them all to see the blood drain from the Ringbearer’s face.  Aragorn pressed his advantage.   “And what of your cousins and Sam?  How long do you think they would live, after the wizard found out you were the one he wanted?  Not long, though it would seem far too long nevertheless.”  He hugged Pippin to him a little tighter.  “To you as well, for you would be forced to watch.  I have heard of the games Saruman has taken to playing in the pits of Isengard.  You do not want to hear of what he does to captives, Frodo.”  Frodo shuddered, his averted face lost in the darkness.  The other hobbits looked at each other fearfully.  Finally Sam broke the silence.

      “They must have horses hereabouts, if they meant ‘ta carry us to Isengard.  If I know anything about horse-kind, they’ll be barn-sour by now.  We could -”

     “Barn-sour?” interrupted Aragorn, unfamiliar with the term.

     “It means they’ll be wanting to return to their nice, comfortable stable,” explained Merry.  “Any horse or pony has a wide streak of lazy.  My family has bred riding ponies for generations, and I’ve yet to meet one that wouldn’t prefer its warm barn to a day of work.”  He paused, and said with a smile in his voice, “Sam, are you thinking what I think you’re thinking?”

      “I think I am, Mr. Merry.”

      Merry’s grin widened.  “And here I didn’t think you had a mean bone in your body.”

      “Would you two mind letting the rest of us in on your little idea?” requested Frodo with some exasperation.

      “Oh!” giggled Pippin suddenly.  “That’s wicked, Sam!  Good for you!”

      “Apparently, Frodo,” mused Aragorn, “you and I are the only ones here with some inherent moral decency.  Do you have any idea what they are talking about?”

     “Unfortunately, now that I think about it … perhaps I do,” confessed Frodo.  “Sam, I’m surprised at you.  Do you think it will work?”

     “It should,” Sam replied.  “All we have to do is find the horses.  And Strider will have ‘ta help us lift them.”

     “Oh,” groaned the Ranger, suddenly understanding.  “Tied to a horse until they reach Orthanc?  That is cruel.”

     “Not until they reach the tower,” Merry said hastily.  “We’ll tie them with slipknots and the horses can buck them off after, oh … three or four days.”

      “Horses and ponies are right smart,” offered Sam.  “If they get tired of a rider, they knock him off by running under a tree.  Or rubbing him against a boulder.  O’ course, if the riders are tied on, well … it might take them several tries … after they’ve bucked them for a day or two.”

      The Ranger gazed at them with mixed horror and admiration.  “Remind me,” he said, “never, never to get you four angry with me.”

* * * * *

      It did not take much searching the find the horses.  While Aragorn and Frodo and Sam dragged the bound men into the clearing, Merry and Pippin followed their ears (and their noses) to locate the motley assortment of rough-coated, ill-tempered equines.  The cousins led the balking, shying horses one at a time back to their impromptu campsite, the animals fighting the lead-reins all the way.  The young hobbits were more than relieved to stake each cantankerous beast near to where the bound Men lay glowering in the grass.

     Aragorn and Frodo and Sam had a nasty shock when they went last to the place where Merry and Sam had taken down the leader. The man was gone.  Frayed rope littered the ground, traces of blood on the rough strands.  A substantial blood-trail led off into the deeper woods, and here and there, they could all see where the man’s torn wrists had left smudges of glistening darkness on leaves as he passed. 

      “Look at this,” Aragorn said, holding up the razored head of the bolt that had gone awry.  “He pushed himself over to it and used it to sever his bonds.  There is blood on it; he cut himself in the freeing.”

       “Good!” said Sam, “Between that and what damage Mr. Merry and I did, I just hope he bleeds ‘ta death.”  He ignored the appalled look that his master gave him and went cautiously over to one of the horses, which slanted its overlarge ears back at him and bared its teeth.  “I was planning on savin’ the meanest brute for him.  Off you go, then.  If you see that Man, you just give him a good bite for me.”  He kicked up the stake-rope and slapped the animal’s withers, leaping quickly out of the bolting mount’s way.

        Aragorn needed all of the hobbits and the aid of a sturdy tree to get the bound, gagged men up on the remaining hacks.  The men struggled and swore and kicked, and Aragorn left off any attempt to be gentle with them.  Fearing that one of the halflings might be injured, he tied a loop of rope around each man’s chest under his arms, then tossed the other end up to dangle over a convenient limb.  He and the hobbits thus hoisted the men onto their mounts, the men leaving behind much skin in the process.

      One had loosened his gag enough to heap abuse upon his captors, evidently not appreciating the turn-about.  After enduring several repetitions and variations of, “You’ll be sorry when Saruman hears of this,” Aragorn decided to put the man’s verbosity to good use.  He pulled the gag off completely and stared into the man’s bloodshot eyes.

     “Are there any more of your sort watching the roads?” the Ranger asked in the softest of voices.  The man grew quiet and Aragorn’s face hardened.  “Did you chance upon us, or did you have notice that we would come by the South Road?”  The man’s eyes darted from side to side but there was no escape from the cold-eyed Ranger before him.

       “It would be wise to answer,” suggested Aragorn softly.

       The man gulped, panic blooming on his face.  “Or what?” he demanded, the bravado rather spoiled by the fear in his voice.

       The Ranger considered that.  What he might do to extract the desired information was limited by four sets of apprehensive eyes.  Rescue came from an unexpected source.

      “I’d be right willing to hit him with my frying pan,” volunteered Sam, oblivious to the gasps from Merry and Pippin and one strangled, “Sam!” from Frodo.

      Aragorn’s mouth twitched in spite of the seriousness of the offer.  Sam’s hitherto-unexpected ferocity might come in useful, but whether the man answered or not was actually unimportant.  If all of the roads out of Rivendell had not been watched before, they would be now. 

      The horses did not appreciate the novel method of having their riders mount and managed to get in several good bites, all fortunately inflicted upon the struggling men.  A second man managed to work his gag loose and treated his captors to a steady diatribe of curses and foul-mouthed imprecations, his repertoire really quite impressive.  Pippin listened with wide eyes and great interest until he fell under his older cousins’ disapproving gaze.  Seeing Frodo staring at him narrowly, Pippin flushed and became very busy folding blankets and stowing their gear in their packs and putting out the fire.  But his pointed ears remained tilted back until Merry walked over to him and purposefully laid his hands over the curious ears.  “Inventive, isn’t he,” Merry remarked to his elder cousin.  “Odd - they don’t look flexible enough to … perform all those … activities.  Men must be more … umm - limber than I knew.”

      The man that Sam had walloped with his fry pan was still out and Aragorn peeled back an eyelid to peer at the rolled-back orb.  What he saw evidently reassured him, for he tightened the rope around the man’s wrists and to the saddle’s pommel.  The horse tried to kick him as he backed away.  As the Ranger and the hobbits saw them off, they noticed the beasts’ hindquarters were already bunching.

      Aragorn leaned against the tree, panting heavily.  “I will tell Elrond of this when we return,” he murmured.  “My lord must know that a watch is on his lands.”  He turned to the halflings.  “Can you go on a little farther tonight?  I would leave this unlucky place behind us.”

      Frodo glanced at each of his friends and nodded.  “We are very weary, but I agree, Aragorn, if you feel able to go on.  Let us find a quiet, sheltered spot and then rest.”

       Pippin gathered up Aragorn’s pack, slinging it over his shoulder and across the front of his body, nearly overbalancing himself.  “When we get there,” asked Pippin, “may we eat?  I’m hungry.”

Chapter 49:  Into the Frying Pan

      The weary party struggled on through the thickly wooded forest for another league before Aragorn deemed it safe to camp for the night.  The Ranger glanced often behind him and the hobbits kept a close watch on the trees.  But they heard and saw nothing other than the night-noises and movement of small animals, nothing to give them cause for alarm

      “Walking party, he said,” grumbled a soft, aggrieved voice behind Aragorn.  “A leisurely walk to enjoy the lovely forest foliage.  No one said anything to me about marching till we drop and starving and being attacked by Men and…” it continued on so for some time, until Aragorn decided to distract the tweenager by initiating a conversation that all could share in.

       “How badly did you wound the man?” asked Aragorn of Merry.  The young hobbit was walking beside him, providing the Ranger a convenient hand-rest on his shoulder to steady his steps. Merry kept the shoulder lifted to ease the strain on the Ranger’s arm while his sharp eyes sought the smoothest path for their steps.  Aragorn feared he might be hurting the halfling, or at least allowing Merry to hurt himself, but Merry made no complaint and his careful steps never faltered.  In truth, Aragorn was indebted for the support.

      “We tried to push him down as we struck him with the knives,” the hobbit explained.  “Knock him flat and crush the crossbow beneath him.  We only partially succeeded; it still fired.”

      “It misfired,” amended the Ranger.  “Most certainly saving my life.  I said it  before, but it bears repeating now that I am more awake and myself.  I am grateful for my life. Thank you, Merry.  Thank you, Sam.”

       Walking behind Aragorn with his master, the heavy-set hobbit ducked his head, his shy smile hidden in the dark.  Frodo looked over to him then squeezed his arm.  Merry beamed up at the Ranger, eyes gleaming and bright curls bleached silver by the stars.

       “’Ta answer your question,” Sam said, “Mr. Merry and I both got a knife in  him on either side, but not deep.  At least mine wasn’t.  He was moving – it were more o’ a slice than a stab.”

       “The same for me,” agreed Merry.  “You Big People take such long strides.  We hurt him, but not to death I think.”

       “Then he may well carry tales back to the one who sent him,” murmured Aragorn, his keen gaze unfocused in the starlight.  “And the watch will be increased upon Rivendell.  I will speak to Elrond about us leaving at night when we go – perhaps it will confuse or delay them, a little.”

        Frodo had not spoken for some time, and Aragorn glanced back at him in concern, worried that the headache was worsening.  There had been a brief but animated discussion ere they had set out between the Ringbearer and the Ringbearer’s gardener over just who was going to carry Frodo’s pack.  Pippin had sat down and enjoyed himself, Merry leaning resignedly against his shoulder.  Frodo had lost the battle of wills with the result being that Sam was carrying his master’s pack and Frodo walked unencumbered but disgruntled.  Aragorn was glad that Sam had prevailed; Frodo was plainly tiring and in pain.

     They would need to restvery soon.  Pippin had resisted all of Aragorn’s attempts to retrieve his pack, doggedly carrying it as well as his own, and the sleepy tweenager was beginning to weave and stumble.  Frodo was slowing, dropping back, so that Pippin and Sam were forced also to slow to keep him in the center of their protective circle.  Aragorn doubted that the Ringbearer realized what the others were doing, how they sheltered him with their own bodies.  A sign that Frodo was tired indeed.  If he did notice, the Ranger thought with a grimace, there would no doubt be a sudden resurgence of energy and strangled whispers and much aggravated waving of arms.

        A small stand of close-growing pine was the only shelter he could see for as far as the starlight shone.  “We will stop here,” he said, pointing to the grove, and nodded to himself when he heard four tired sighs of relief.  “No fire.  There is a little food left in our packs – let us finish it and we will hunt tomorrow.”

       Only Pippin showed much appetite at all.  Despite the urging of the others,  Frodo refused his portion and gave it to the tweenager, sitting quiet and introspective, watching the stars.  Sam and Merry ate their portions slowly, with no unnecessary words.  Aragorn ate too, though he did not want the food, and pondered what might have happened.

      He had thought to turn back, return to Rivendell.  But the hobbits had vetoed the suggestion.  “We want to see this marvel you keep going on about,” said Frodo stubbornly, “if you are able to continue that is?”  He paused and looked at the Ranger closely.  Aragorn returned the inspection with amusement and Frodo sat back, satisfied with the man’s recovery.  “And if we haven’t missed it, that is?”

      “It is over,” the Ranger had told them, hiding his delight at the four disappointed faces, Frodo’s most of all.  “However … we haven’t missed it.  And thank you, Frodo, but I am quite able to continue.  What I have spoken of will appear at a certain time, and we can still see it.”

     “But you haven’t spoken of it,” pressed Frodo.  “And I think it is most unfair of you to torment us this way.”  Aragorn smiled but no more hints would he give.  Frodo looked like he would like to award him a good kick.

       So it was decided that they would go on.  Aragorn mused to himself that he had thought he would never see the day when hobbit curiosity overcame hobbit comfort.  He had thought to take the first watch, enjoy a pipe in peace and think, but the hobbits would not hear of it.  “You need to rest, Aragorn,” Merry said decisively.  “You too, Frodo.  Sam and Pip and I will take the watches.” 

      His and Frodo’s protestations were ignored.  Merry sat down and firmly turned his back to them, sharp eyes already scanning the darkness.  Aragorn settled into his blankets, wise enough to know when to give in.  A moment later, three small warm bodies arrayed themselves around him.  Frodo claimed the spot at his chest, Pippin at his back, and Sam curled against his legs.  The Ranger was surprised.  Before Weathertop, the hobbits had slept close to each other but scattered, seeking the softest ground.  After that terrible place, not a night passed save those in Elrond’s House that Frodo and Pippin were not cocooned by the others.  It might be Merry-Pippin-Frodo-Sam or now and again Sam-Pippin-Frodo-Merry, but Merry and Sam always claimed the outside spaces.  But tonight they chose to drape themselves about him, placing him in the position of greatest safety.  Warmed by soft hobbit bodies and comforted by their presence, the Ranger fell asleep to the music of their soft breathing. 

* * * * *

       The next morning dawned bright and cold, the sky that perfect blue that meant it would warm up greatly later in the day.  The new day also brought with it a reminder for the Ranger – hungry halflings do not wake up in amiable moods.

       After going into a hobbit-huddle, (so Aragorn had named it in his mind whenever the four stood shoulder-to-shoulder, curly heads together in tight discussion of some serious issue) they decided to go hunting with their slings.  Aragorn marveled anew at the hobbits’ expertise with the small weapons.  Considered children’s playthings among his own people, in hobbit-hands they were deadly.  A luckless rabbit and a brace of grouse were now turning on the spit while Sam sliced up wild onions he had foraged to fry in the fat.  Pippin gathered several handfuls of acorns, leaching out the bitterness in water and rendering them edible.  These Sam diced and added to the onions, and the resulting aroma caused a symphony of rumbling stomachs.

        Breakfast was consumed with little talk, in reverent respect for the food.  At last Aragorn sat back and handed Pippin his bowl and mug for wash up.  With a wince, he slung his pack over his back, after removing a certain item.  “Are you certain you do not wish one of us to carry it today?” asked Frodo, seeing the Ranger flinch.

       “I am all right, Frodo.  Thank you.  How is your head?”

       Frodo started to touch the spot behind his ear then withdrew his hand.  “Sore.  But not so aching.”

       “Perhaps this will help,” Aragorn said, steeling himself for battle.  He presented one of the vials of tonic that Elrond had required be administered to the Ringbearer and handed it to the hobbit, who took it automatically.  Then Frodo’s dark brows drew down and his mouth opened –

       “My lord said you were to take it,” the Ranger said firmly.  “It will strengthen you.”   He noted that the other hobbits had withdrawn to a safer distance.  He felt an overpowering desire to join them.

      Frodo glowered at the medicine, then the sweetest smile spread over his face.  Aragorn’s heart sank.  He wouldn’t.  “Strengthen me…” the Ringbearer murmured, no doubt recognizing the foul concoction.  “You were hurt, too.  I will share the bounty.”  He held out the phial to the man.  “You first.”  He would.

      “No, I -”

      “Then we shall sit here until we starve,” announced Frodo grandly.  “Beautiful place for it.”

       Hobbit and human stared at each other.  Frodo leaned back and crossed his arms, gaze narrowed and dark eyebrows curving into a gentle “s” above his eyes.  Aragorn looked at him back, his expression slack as he ransacked his mind desperately for an escape. 

        “One of you has to give in,” pointed out Merry diplomatically after some time had passed.  “What if you take it together?”  He gingerly removed another phial from the wooden case and held it out towards Aragorn. 

        Pippin was assigned the task of counting to three, which he enjoyed entirely too much.  After the coughing and choking and frantic sipping from water skins  had ceased, the walking party was finally on its way.  Pippin looked up into Aragorn’s grimacing face and fought to stifle his mirth while Merry hissed, “Pippin, behave yourself!” but set no better example.  Sam suddenly found it necessary to check his pans, back to them, but his shoulders were shaking with suppressed laugher.  Accepting that Frodo had had his revenge, Aragorn did not push them hard.  He was in discomfort, as was Frodo, they were within a day’s trek of their destination, and did fate not intervene again, they would reach their destination by twilight.  And tomorrow… A smile formed on the Ranger’s lips as he pictured the little ones’ reactions.

      They were walking quietly, enjoying themselves, when Pippin pulled up even with the Ranger.  Aragorn glanced down at him in surprise.  Usually Pip walked with Merry, singing under his breath when Merry wasn’t singing along with him, or playing riddle-games with whomever he could coerce into it or listening to his older cousins and Sam.  Aragorn had kept an idle ear on the hobbits conversations since Bree and had learned more than he cared to know about the different ways to distract a dog from guarding a vegetable patch, the planning and design of flower-beds, and ways to blot ink from precious books when an absorbed elbow had knocked over the ink-well, among other words of wisdom.

     Today’s topics had ranged from exactly how Buckland’s apple trees could benefit from grafts that Lord Elrond would (hopefully) provide from his own orchard, to the least painful way to remove prickle bush thorns from one’s foothair, and  whether the sky today was the same blue as the pool in Bywater or more the shade of someone named Estella Bolger’s eyes, a discussion which seemed to embarrass Merry quite a bit.

    Then their voices had dropped.  Glancing back, he had seen Pippin describing something to Frodo and Sam, his quick hands gesturing animatedly.  Frodo was shaking his head.  Sam looked apprehensive and Merry, eager.  All four broke off when they saw him looking at them and became very busy paying attention to the ground.  Aragorn made a mental note to himself to be certain he found out what mischief was afoot when suddenly Pippin was there beside him tugging at his coat, looking up at him with the most innocent expression imaginable. Aragorn immediately raised his guard to its highest alertness.

      “I’ve thought of a way for you to signal Lord Elrond that we’ve had some trouble, Strider,” the young one offered.  The Ranger eyed him silently, eyes narrowed in suspicion.  Not in the least discouraged, Pippin edged over closer and whispered, “The fireworks in your pack.”

      “Pippin!  Did you search my pack?”  Outrage was difficult to convey in a whisper, but Aragorn managed it.

      “No!  No, I would never do that,” the tweenager assured him, eyes wide and guileless.  “I smelled them first - Gandalf’s fireworks smell like sulfur and spices.   And then maybe felt for them in the pack … just a little … when I was carrying it last night.  Are you going to set them off, Aragorn?”

       “They are for emergencies only, Pippin.  Not to entertain young hobbits.”

       “Wasn’t last night an emergency?”

       “Yes, but help would not have reached us for hours.  They will not be used unless the need is dire and circumstances permit it.”

      “All right, all right…” Pippin trailed off and sighed heavily.  “Maybe if we’re lucky, we’ll get into some real trouble.”   Pippin happily scuttled back to Merry,  thus missing the Ranger’s look of strangled disbelief. 

      Aragorn was in the lead when they crested the top of a steep hill.  Seeing the man stand rigid and motionless, the hobbits hurried to catch up.  Before they could speak, the Ranger made a minimal gesture and the hobbits closed their mouths and looked down into the small hollow at the base of the hill.

      A wild pig rooted there, young and well-fleshed.  “Roast pork,” murmured Sam.  “Pork chops.  Pork ribs with wild onions an’ parsnips…”

     “Nice crispy bacon,” moaned Merry,next to him.  “Pork cracklings.  Pork with chestnut stuffing…”

      “Aragorn,” whispered Frodo, “if you don’t shoot that pig for us, I am going to gnaw on your leg tonight for dinner.”

      “Threats of cannibalism do not move me, Frodo,” the Ranger whispered back.  “I told you that you were to provide the food for this trip.  Pretend that I am not here.  What would you do?”

      The four hobbits exchanged glances.  Pippin pulled out his sling but returned it to his pocket with a sigh; he knew he had no hope of downing such a large creature.  “Merry,” he whispered, “throw your knife.”

       “That probably won’t take it down, Pip,” Merry replied after a long moment.

       “But it would slow it, and maybe cripple it.  We could get down there and finish it off, then.  Roast pork!  What are you waiting for, Merry?”

        Merry’s hand tightened on the small, sharp dagger but he did not draw it.  “My wrist isn’t up to such a hard cast, Pippin.”

       “You can use it to well enough to nearly part my hair, but not to put supper on the table?  Or blanket, to be more accurate...  Merry, I’m hungry!”

      Aragorn had been looking from one small face to another and now he put his hands on Frodo’s and Sam’s shoulders.  “Come, sirs,” he said quietly, “let us see if we can find any grasshoppers under those logs.”

       Frodo looked up at him warily.  “Grasshoppers.”

      “Very crunchy,” enthused the Ranger, guiding them away from the younger hobbits.  “Or termites…”

      Pippin waited until they were out of earshot, uncharacteristically patient.  Then he turned to his older cousin.  “All right, Merry,” he said in his most reasonable tone of voice, “What is this about?”

      Merry was silent, his eyes on the pig.  The animal was peering up the hill, its poor eyesight trying to isolate them while its snout snuffled energetically.  They could hear it grunting faintly.  It had found something tasty at the base of a tree and was reluctant to abandon it.

       “Merry?”

      Suddenly the older hobbit made a choking sound and Pippin was horrified to see tears gathering in the blue eyes.  “I didn’t mean it, Merry,” he rushed on, “it’s probably a horrible pig, all stringy and tough - Merry, don’t cry, don’t, I’m sorry!”

       Instead of obeying, Merry sank down and fought to control himself, failing miserably.  Pippin dropped next to him, his sharp face contrite and anxious.  Half a year ago, he would have badgered his cousin mercilessly until Merry confessed whatever was on his mind.  Now, Pippin sat back quietly and waited for his loved and admired cousin to order his thoughts and speak to him.

      Finally though, when Merry did not cease his weeping, Pippin inched around in front of him and placed his hands on his cousin’s upraised knees, squinting into his face.  “This is about that nightmare you had, isn’t it?  That you wouldn’t tell me about.”

       Merry nodded once, struggling still to control himself.  It seemed a ball of guilt and terror and fear of his own inadequacy had taken up residence in his stomach and was now bouncing about in his chest.  When Pippin had asked him to throw his knife – the knife that could have killed his cousin – Merry’s hand had gone numb and his arm wooden.  The thought of drawing it with Pippin anywhere around petrified him.

     Pippin eyed him warily and yet with fond disgust.  “You won’t tell me, but I can guess what that nightmare was about.  I’ve seen you practically jump out of your skin every time you think I might get hurt, Merry.  You haven’t truly relaxed since the day you cast that knife in Rivendell.”

       Pippin leaned forward until his pointed nose was inches from his cousin’s.  “Ridiculous Brandybuck,” he muttered.  Then louder, “Merry, what makes you think you have the right to be responsible for me?”

        Merry finally met his gaze, startled by that.  “Pip!  I have always taken care of you!  Ever since you were a little lad -”

       Pippin sat back on his heels but kept his hands on his cousin’s knees.  “But I’m not anymore, Merry.  Not a little lad.  I’m twenty-eight … will be of age in five years.  I am old enough to make my own decisions.”

      “I’m not saying that you aren’t -” Merry tried, but Pippin interrupted him.

      “Yes, you are.  By feeling that you ought to be able to control everything. To keep everything bad from happening.  You can’t, Merry.  Nobody can.  You couldn’t keep those Black Riders off Frodo on Weathertop, and you couldn’t get us to Rivendell any faster, and you’re not going to be able to dictate what happens when we leave here.”

      “Pippin…”

      “And until you admit that to yourself, you can’t even throw a knife at a stupid wild pig.”

      Merry found that his hands were clenching Pippin’s.  He bowed his head forward and took a deep breath, squeezing his cousin’s hands once before releasing them.  “When did you grow up to be so clever?”

      Pippin grinned at him, all tweenager again.  “When you weren’t looking.  Probably when you were nose-deep in a mug of ale.  Or snoring in a hay-loft when you should have been baling.  Or teaching me to sneak into vegetable patches.  Or -”

      “Thank you, I think I understand.”

      Pippin searched his cousin’s face.  “Are weall right, then?”

      Merry thought about it.  “I think so.”

      “Good.”  Pippin rocked back and stood up, extending a hand down to his cousin.  “I don’t want to hear any more nonsense about this, Merry.  It’s over and done with.  I want you to concentrate on what’s real and in front of us.  Because if my pork dinner down there gets away, I won’t ever forgive you.” 

      Merry wiped the tears from his eyes and grasped Pippin’s hand, pulling himself to his feet and into Pippin’s embrace.  “Well, I couldn’t live with that,” Merry sniffed and gave Pippin another quick hug.  They turned back toward the wild pig.  The two had kept their voices low and their proposed dinner had not been frightened off.  Merry drew the dagger and carefully estimated the angle and distance.  He could not help but check that Pippin was well behind him, then he drew a deep breath and threw.

      The pig squealed and went down, the small dagger protruding from its short throat.  “Good job, Merry!” yelped Pippin, starting down the hill.  Then another, louder squeal drowned out what he said next.  Both hobbits ploughed to a stop, suddenly apprehensive.

      “You don’t think…” Pippin murmured.

      The sow appeared between two trees, squealing shrilly.  She was huge, larger than both of the young hobbits together, sharply tusked, and filled with all the blind fury of thwarted maternal instinct.  Her razor-sharp hooves churned the earth as she launched herself up the hill, ten-score pounds of infuriated piscine rage.  Tiny, beady eyes struggled to fix on them as she hurtled herself forward with a speed they could scarcely register, plowing out great clods of earth behind her as she dug into the ground.

     For a moment both hobbits stood frozen in horrified disbelief.   Merry caught Pippin’s shoulder and whirled him around.  “Run!”  

* TBC *

Chapter 50:  And Out of the Fire

      “Run!” shrieked Merry again, shoving Pippin’s back hard.  Still immobilized by shock, Pippin stumbled and almost went down but his cousin dragged him upright and harried him into movement.  Cloaks streaming behind them, the hobbits ran.

       Aragorn was crouching before a log he had rolled aside, one hand holding it back as Frodo and Sam peered underneath it, faces tight with distaste.  “See,” the Ranger was explaining earnestly, “these grubs, pan-fried with a little flour –”  All three jerked their heads up as the two younger hobbits flew past them.  “Runrunrunrun!” shouted Merry, as they streaked past.

       Frodo straightened and glared after them, hands on hips in disapproval at this undignified behavior.  “Meriadoc Brandybuck!  What -?”

       Without a word, Aragorn snatched up both Frodo and Sam, tucking a startled hobbit under each arm, and ran.  Frodo struggled against this indignity.  “Aragorn!  What are … Oh!”

       As Aragorn turned sideways to dodge a tree, Frodo caught sight of the wild sow.  Over two hundred pounds of infuriated pig, tusks gleaming, little bulging eyes red with rage.  Frodo abruptly quit struggling and clutched the Ranger’s arm.   “Run run run!” he shouted in unconscious imitation of Merry.

     Aragorn ran.  But for all their size, there are few beasts faster than wild pigs, and few greater provocations to a mother than harm to her young.   Spurred on by protective instinct and unreasoning fury, the beast was gaining on them. 

     “Hold tight!” Aragorn grunted to the hobbits.  Sam and Frodo frantically looped their arms about the Man’s neck and locked their legs around his waist.  Aragorn dashed under an enormous oak and caught a strong branch with both hands, using his momentum to swing himself off his feet and around the branch.  Twisting his body lithely, he spun up over the branch and readied himself to release it at exactly the right moment to land seated upon it.  Such games he had often played with his foster brothers while growing up in Imladris.  Unfortunately, childhood games did not account for the weight of two small but strong hobbits clinging to him like limpets.  Off balance, his intended nimble stop atop the branch ended abruptly when the deep bruise on his back stabbed agonizingly.  He released the branch too soon and came down hard on the branch with Frodo on his open side and Sam between himself and the trunk.  The Ranger heard a choked, agonized, “Whufff!” from Sam as the hobbit impacted both branch and trunk.

      The sow knew only that the creature that had harmed her young had simply disappeared.  But the unfathomable disappearance of the larger creature revealed to her once again the two smaller ones.  With a wild squeal of pure rage, she redoubled her efforts to reach Merry and Pippin, her pinkish-brown body a blurred streak.

      The two younger hobbits did not have the option of swinging themselves up on a branch – all were out of reach.  But ahead of them loomed a rocky outcropping, small boulders tumbled down from a decaying wall of stone.  Merry reached it first and scrambled up, making sure that Pippin was right behind him, both pulling themselves up by their fingers and toes.  The sow was so close that her tusks actually grazed Pippin’s backside.  Encouraged to even greater speed, the tweenager squeaked, his small cry nearly lost in the animal’s outraged squeals.

     Atop the highest point, the two clutched at each other and stared down in abject terror.  The massive pig was struggling to reach them, her sharp hooves scarring the rock in her efforts.  Rock broke free and crumbled under her weight and seething rage.  She squealed again, tusked mouth opening impossibly as she sought to get at them and rip them to shreds.

     “Are you hurt?  Are you hurt?” cried Merry, pulling Pippin against him, his hands already exploring the long gash in Pippin’s cloak and patting him down for injuries.  Too frightened to speak, Pippin merely clung to Merry, his gaze never wavering from the ten-score pounds of infuriated pig beneath them.

      Other voices finally penetrated their petrified haze.  Aragorn, Frodo and Sam were all shouting at them, Aragorn and Frodo waving frantically.  Sam had one hand clenched in Frodo’s cloak and the other a death-grip on the bark.  Aragorn had crawled out as far as the branch would support his weight, clamped his legs around it and was waving with both arms to attract their attention.  Over the wild pig’s enraged squeals, they could barely make out his words.  “Merry!  Pippin!  Are you all right?”

     Getting a little of his breath back, Merry stood up carefully on the boulder and waved back, causing the sow to lunge upwards, her hooves scrabbling on the loose rock.  Pippin cowered against his knees and Merry hastily sat down again.   “We’re not hurt!” he shouted back.  He stared down into the pig’s eyes as she strained again to reach them, showing her yellow chisel-sized teeth in a snarl as ferocious as any wolf’s.

     Back in the oak tree, Aragorn easily caught another of the huge branches, one slightly higher and to the side of the treed hobbits, and swung himself over to it.  Once there, he eased back along the tree limb to the safety of the trunk, settled himself comfortably and drew his long legs up on the branch, oblivious to Frodo’s and Sam’s white-rimmed stares at the distant (to them) ground.  After ascertaining that the younger hobbits were not in immediate danger, Aragorn stretched carefully and rolled the muscles of his back.  “Never,” he remarked in a conversational tone to the hobbits below him, “have I been chased by a wild pig.”  Seeing their eyes drawn to him, he elaborated.   “I have walked the Wilds since I was a child, and hunted since I was large enough to draw a bow.  I have never been chased by a pig.  Until this day.”  To the hobbits’ horror, the Ranger stood easily on the branch and took a few steps along it, one hand bracing himself slightly on a higher branch to better see their young ones.  “A simple walking party with hobbits…” he sighed deeply and continued to himself.  “Why can’t it be simple?  Is it this group of hobbits, or all hobbits?  Or perhaps –”

    “Aragorn?”

    “I should invite another group of hobbits on a walking party and see what disasters occur then –”

    “Aragorn?”

     The Ranger sighed again then seemed to become aware of Frodo.  He pivoted smoothly on the branch, drawing a horrified gasp from Sam, and walked back to them.  He crouched down and stared into the hobbits’ eyes.  “Why?” he asked rhetorically.  “Is our whole journey going to be like this?  Just warn me now.”

     “Aragorn,” returned Frodo, somewhat impatient with the Man’s wool-gathering now that the initial terror had worn off, “What are we…  Sam – you’re choking me…  What are we going to do?  Merry and Pippin are in dreadful trouble.”

      “We could leave them there,” suggested Sam, regaining enough breath to rub his side where he had involuntarily cushioned Aragorn’s ascent into the tree.  Frodo’s dark brows drew down and Sam sighed and kept any further opinions to himself.

    The Ranger turned himself around and settled himself against the trunk, dangling his legs over the branch.  Wincing as the bruise twinged again, he rubbed it absently then folded his arms and returned the hobbit’s stare.  “I don’t know, Frodo.  What are you going to do?”

    Frodo’s so-blue eyes narrowed dangerously.  “Shoot it,” he commanded, gesturing at the great bow slung over the Man’s back. 

     Aragorn shook his head.  “She is just protecting her young, Frodo.  I will not shoot her for following her instincts.  Even if I did, there is too much food to waste.  We would have to smoke the meat, and that would take days.  No, my friend.  I am not here, remember?  The solution is up to you.”

     Frodo started to stand up, recalled where he was and sat down again, clutching at the rough bark.  Seeing that the Ranger would not be budged, he closed his eyes for a moment, thinking.  “Right, then.”  Very carefully, he inched to his feet, holding on to twigs and smaller branches within his reach.  Sam watched him for a moment then shut his eyes, bracing himself against the trunk as if he wished he could crawl inside it.

     “Merry!”  The bright head turned at the hail.  “Merry!  Can you and Pippin drive her off with your slings?”

     Cautiously Merry stood again, steadying himself with a hand on Pippin’s head.  A moment of fumbling in their pockets then both were armed.  “Maybe.  If you help,” Merry called back.   

     “Ready, Sam?” Frodo asked, testing the angle with his own weapon.  Sam gulped and aimed his sling, holding himself with his back pushed against the trunk, held there by his broad, furry feet.  Aragorn watched silently, hand on the hilt of his sword.  He had spoken truly to Frodo – he would not aid them, but if the Ringbearer or the other hobbits were in actual danger, he would certainly intervene.

    Frodo glanced back at Sam then met his cousins’ eyes, his sling already in motion.  “Now!” he shouted.

     Four small, sharp stones struck the sow with painful accuracy, peppering her flanks hard enough to draw blood.  The sow squealed and leaped straight into the air, bucking and thrashing as she came down.  Pain and startlement drove her further up the rockpile and some of the supporting stones tore loose and rolled down under her churning hooves, shaking the entire outcropping.  Merry swayed dangerously and Pippin grabbed at his breeches, pulling him back to safety.  Merry thanked his cousin with a grimace and grimly fitted another stone to his sling.  “Keep at it!” called Frodo, his own sling already delivering a second missile.

    The sow shrieked, her voice almost human in her pain and fury and indignation.  A stone from Pippin’s sling impacted on her sensitive snout and the enormous pig shook her head like a dog, wincing away from the confusing barrage that came at her from two sides.  Ducking her head, she backed down off the tumbled stones and in confusion took herself off, still squealing.

     The silence that followed was broken only by hobbits panting in relief, then the soft laughter of a Man.  “Oh, well done!” commented Aragorn.  Then more soberly, “Are you two all right?”  

    “No thanks to you,” grumbled Frodo, stowing his sling. 

     “Will you get us down now?” asked Sam, not quite pleading.

     Aragorn caged the branch loosely in his hands and swung himself agilely down.  Frodo allowed himself to be picked up and set gently on the ground, and Sam after him.  The stocky hobbit sat down and patted the earth in relief.

     Merry and Pippin were slower to leave their place of safety.  Merry kept watch as Pippin inched himself down, not scrambling down to join them until the other four were standing at the base of the rocks.  “I have never had to work so hard for a pork dinner,” he complained.  “Let us hope that this young pig was worth all the trouble.”

     “Better than grubs and termites, any road,” replied Sam.

* * * * *

     It was.  Quartered and with the leftover meat sliced thinly and set to smoke, the four hobbits and the Ranger consumed their meal in dedicated silence.  In a flash of inspiration, Pippin wondered what the young pig had been rooting at and looking amongst the rocks at the base of the tree, was delighted to find a small stand of mushrooms.  These were added to the meat and under Sam’s expert hand, resulted in a most delectable luncheon.

     At last the walking party sat back and sighed, wiping greasy hands on the grass and resting for a bit before bestirring themselves to wash in another of the small streams that flowed so bountifully through these lands. 

      “What do you say to a nap?” asked Pippin with a yawn.  The tweenager had wolfed his food as if he had not eaten in days and now sat back, too full even to enjoy his pipe.  Aragorn and Frodo already had theirs in use, but Merry was helping Sam finish up the pots and retie their packs.  Sam yawned hugely then put his hand over his mouth, embarrassed. 

     Seeing Merry and Frodo answer Sam with more yawns, Aragorn fought off one of his own.  They were not so far from their goal now, and Elrond had instructed him to keep the hobbits out for “for several days at least” while the Elf-lord undertook some tasks without the interference of hobbity curiosity.  They could well afford to idle away a few more hours.  “I say that is an admirable idea, Pippin.  Not here, though.  We’ll leave what’s left of the meat to cure but I would feel safer away from the smoke.”  His gaze roved lazily over the landscape.  “There … under those fir trees.  Their drooping branches will hide us.” 

     Soon the only sounds were soft breaths and gentle snores as the hobbits slept.  Aragorn took the watch and managed to stay awake only by the discipline of years spent in the Wild, where danger and death waited for the unwary and the weary.  The Ranger leaned back against a trunk and puffed at his pipe, contrasting the present ease with what he feared was to come.  'Best to let them relax,’ he thought.  ‘Frodo did well.  They all did well.’  He removed the pipe for a moment to tap the bowl.  ‘It will be a most interesting Quest, at any rate.’  Stretching his long legs before him, the Ranger crossed them at the ankles and tilted his head back to enjoy the fat white clouds as they sailed the sky over his head, the soft breeze a benediction on his face.

    It was nearly two hours before the halflings awoke, confirming to Aragorn that they had indeed needed the rest.  He had risen twice and drifted on silent feet over to Frodo, checking the hobbit’s breathing as he slept.  That blow on the head still concerned him, as did the blow Sam had taken when Aragorn had swung them up into the tree to escape the sow.  He had tried to examine Sam but the gardener had put him off, claiming it was just a scrape and he’d had worse before rolling down a slope.  When Aragorn had asked him when he had done that, Sam had flushed brightly and muttered something about “vegetables” and “old Maggot” and “twern’t my fault” and edged away, claiming the spit wanted turning.

     As the day moved into afternoon, the shadows lengthened and the day cooled.  Aragorn had long since finished his pipe and had sat merely enjoying the day, at peace with himself and the world.  For a moment the Ranger indulged himself in the temptation to let the world pass him by, to let Middle-earth edge towards its fate without him.  Such trials ahead, such danger and deprivation … and it all depended on the slim shoulders of one small hobbit...

     Said hobbit shifted and sat up, yawning.  Frodo smiled sleepily at the silent Ranger, then nudged the softly snoring body next to him.  “Wake up, Sam.”  A nudge to the other side.  “Come on, Pip.  Wake Merry up.  Get up, you slugabeds!  Don’t you want to see this marvel Aragorn keeps on about?”

     Pippin groaned and murmured something that earned him another, harder poke.  “That was very disrespectful, Cousin,” replied Frodo cheerfully, seemingly not greatly insulted.  “I for one wish to see this thing which is there but not there, and only at certain times.”

      Food and curiosity and a strong bond, Aragorn mused.  And ale.  And good pipe-weed.  These little folk seemed so simple, so … innocent.  Until you looked into the Ringbearer’s eyes and saw the memory of unimaginable pain and terror.  And the certain knowledge that more was to come, as unalterable as the turning of the world. The Ranger rose and assisted them in gathering up their packs and the smoked meat, then guided their steps once again to the South Road.

* TBC *

Chapter 51:  A Meal Shared is Enjoyment Doubled

     The walking party continued on in a subdued, still slightly sleepy mood for some time, the perils and activities of the last two days leaving its mark on them in pensiveness and an unwonted silence.  But Aragorn was coming to know the hobbits well enough that he did not doubt their resilience, and indeed, he was eventually proven right.

     Pippin began it, unsurprisingly.  The tweenager’s bright green-gold eyes began to light on one fascinating object then another, an oddly-colored stone; a brilliantly colored leaf, a flower, the graceful shape of a branch.  These things and more he pointed out to the others with much exuberance, until his infectious enthusiasm caught in his companions.  He gave a little crow of delight when he found a small stone with a hole drilled through it by the endless passage of wind or water, gleefully brushing off the clinging dirt and polishing it.  Then he spent quite a while holding it up to one eye and peering through it, weaving a bit as he tried to keep to the path.  “What are you doing, Pippin?” asked Aragorn after watching this peculiar behavior for several long minutes.

     Pippin reddened.  “The gaffers and gammers say that rocks with holes through them are fairy-stones.  If you look through them, you can see through any illusions the fairies have cast.”

     Aragorn did not laugh at Pippin’s earnest expression.  “You should keep it, then,” he said gently.  “Who knows when such a thing may be of use?”  Pippin looked at him gratefully and beside him, Merry grinned up at the Ranger, pride and amusement dancing in his eyes.  Pippin slipped the stone into his coat pocket, humming under his breath.  He began singing softly, soon joined intermittently by his cousins and finally Sam.  The Ranger did not join in their walking song, but he enjoyed both it and them, marveling at their willingness to, however temporarily, put aside their fears and burdens in their simple enjoyment of the ‘now.’

    The afternoon passed pleasantly and uneventfully enough, the weather crisp and clear, each breath a delight to the lungs.  The walking party’s peaceful trek was enlivened by only one incident.  Pippin and Merry had disappeared and been gone just long enough for Aragorn to grow concerned.  Motioning for Frodo and Sam to rest themselves in a sheltered hollow, he followed the cousins’ almost imperceptible trail.  The barely-bent grass and a single disturbed leaf indicated a meandering path that led to a large oak tree that rose in ancient majesty from the forest floor.  He topped a rise and pushed aside the thick branches that obscured his view.  On the downward side of the rise, he saw two curly heads, uncharacteristically motionless.  He followed their gaze.  The two young hobbits stood silent and still in rapt contemplation – of a honey hive.

     Pippin already had his sling out.  Merry was pointing, his arm raised to indicate a slight depression in the hive where a well-placed stone would drop it.  Anticipation was in every line of their taut bodies. 

     “No!” growled the Ranger, and before the two knew of his presence, a none too gentle hand clamped down on each small shoulder and was steering them firmly back to the others.

        ”We didn’t do anything!” complained Pippin shrilly.

      “And you’re not going to, either,” returned the Ranger.  “You got me chased by a wild pig – you are not going to get me chased by a swarm of angry bees.”

      “But the honey -” began Merry.

      “Is of more use to its makers than in your stomach, Meriadoc Brandybuck.  I forbid you to endanger all of us.”

       Both young hobbits, wearing identical mulish expressions, were propelled to stand before their cousin.  Frodo looked up in surprise, his gaze traveling from their expressions to Aragorn’s dark face.  Sternly the Ranger explained what the two young hobbits had been intending to their elder cousin.

      To his relief, Frodo was incensed.  He glared at them, high spots of color in his cheeks.  “How could you two even consider such a thing?  You know better than that! Those bees would be after us in a trice.  Do you enjoy being stung?  Well, do you?“  The two younger hobbits dug their toes into the grassy turf and tried to look contrite.  Aragorn rather regretted that he had gotten them into trouble with their eldercousin, but really, the youngsters had to learn.  “The only way is to smoke them out, ”Frodo continued decisively, rising to his feet.

      “What?” said Aragorn, thinking he had misheard.  Surely he must have misheard.

     “Smoke ‘em out,” explained Samwise helpfully.  “Build a fire under the hive an’ funnel the smoke…”

     “I know what smoking out bees is, Sam.  We, however, are not doing it.”  The Ranger’s voice sounded a bit shrill to his own ears.

     Now four sets of curious eyes looked at him.  “Why ever not?” asked Frodo.  “You said we were to supply our own food.  And some honey combs…”

      “No! No no no no!”  The Ranger flung up his arms in disbelief then spun on his heel and stalked off, muttering under his breath.

      “I must say,” commented Merry to Frodo as they sauntered after him, “he’s in rather a testy mood, isn’t he?”

      Frodo shook his head.  “I can’t imagine why.”

     “He should have taken a nap, too,” Pippin suggested.

     Merry shrugged, dismissing the changeable moods of Men.  “We could probably have outrun those bees, anyway.”

* * * * *

     To Aragorn’s relief, the hobbits were content to amble on until tea.  Then they pulled off into a small glade and dug out the day’s foraging.  The amount of smoked meat remaining and the few greens they had gleaned along the trail seemed very inadequate.  With a sigh, Sam set about doing the best he could with the little they had.

     Merry and Pippin began a small fire and Frodo fetched water from one of the ever-present streams of this verdant valley.  After some consideration, Sam shredded the meat and put it in his stewpot along with some of the water, determined to extend their scant tea any way possible.

     Aragorn leaned back on his elbows, long legs stretched before him at the ankle, smoke curling delicately from his pipe.  Pippin plopped beside him with a deep sigh.  “That little bit of stew isn’t going to go far, Strider,” he moaned.  “And I’m so very, very hungry.”

      “You’re always hungry,” retorted Merry, sounding less than pleased himself. He seated himself cross-legged on the other side of the fire.

      Pippin looked affronted.  “I’m a growing hobbit.  I –”

     “May we intrude?”

     Aragorn shot to his feet, pipe falling from his mouth, face flushing before the amused gaze of the three tall Elves who had suddenly appeared before him.  The hobbits were equally startled.  Frodo tipped over the pot of water he had been washing the greens in and it soaked Aragorn’s pipe.

     The two young hobbits scrambled to their feet and bowed along with Frodo.  Sam hastily stuck his spoon in the stewpot and wiped his hands on his cloak, his bow trailing the others. 

     “We did not mean to startle you,” said the Elf who had spoken before, though amusement at their surprise was evident in his clear eyes.

     “Though one would expect more vigilance from a Ranger,” said a second Elf, stepping out from where he had been partially hidden behind the first.

      “Legolas!” 

      The Prince of Mirkwood found himself surrounded by four glad faces beaming up at him and he smiled back, blue eyes sparkling with mirth.  His great bow lay across his back, and both he and his two companions had rabbits swinging from their belts.

      “Well met,” replied the Elf warmly.  “Elrond said you also were taking this road.  Are you traveling to see the –”

      “Yes, we are,” interrupted Aragorn, aware of pointed, attentive ears.  “But I have not told the hobbits what awaits us at the end of our walking party, Legolas, and I would appreciate it if none of you told them, either.”

      The other two Elves laughed outright.  Legolas, more familiar with the halflings, smiled.  “Were I you, Aragorn, I would watch for rocks in my bedroll or poisoned ivy in my clothes.  The little ones are not pleased with you.”

      “They have already frozen my heart with fear this journey,” returned Aragorn.  “Most recently, a wild –”

      “Old new, old news,” said Frodo hurriedly, waving his hand dismissively.  “Won’t you introduce us to your friends, Legolas?”

      The Elf reclined his head gracefully, sharp eyes not missing the hobbits’ relief at the change of subject.  “This is Ralolith,” he said, indicating the Elf who had spoken first, “and this Lucilena.”  The other Elf was a woman, they saw – it had not been immediately apparent under the tunics and leather hunting clothes all three wore.  “We have journeyed to…” Legolas teased them gently, “… to see …” the hobbits leaned forward, “…what Aragorn is taking you to see.”  Pippin leaned back with an expression of disgust on his sharp face.

     “It is truly a marvel beyond words or song,” continued Legolas.  “We have nothing like it in Mirkwood.   We had begun our journey home when we saw the smoke from your cook-fire.”

     “We have game to contribute to the cook-pot if you wish,” offered Lucilena.  A slender hand gathered up the rabbits and offered them to Sam, who accepted them with a bow and a bright red blush.  The female Elf’s starry eyes twinkled in amusement at the stocky hobbit’s discomfiture.

     Sam drafted Pippin to help him skin the coneys and prepare them for the pot, though the tweenager would obviously have rather sat with his elders.  His fears that they would be excluded from the conversation were needless – as one, the Elves arrayed themselves around those working instead of assuming more comfortable seats in a circle on the grass. 

     “Right quality folk, they are,” Sam whispered to Pippin.  “Gracious–like.”

      Pippin nodded around a mouthful of purloined smoked pork.  “Aragorn did say this was a ‘well-traveled road.’  I’m glad they hunted before we met them.  There’s enough here for a proper tea, at any rate.”

      “We are honored to meet you at last, Ringbearer,” Ralolith was saying to Frodo.  “Lucilena and I were among the escort that rode out to guard Glorfindel when he bought you to the gates of Imladris, though you would not remember.  We sent prayers to Elbereth for your recovery,” he continued. 

      For a brief moment, Aragorn saw shadows mar Frodo’s beautiful eyes. Then the hobbit cast them off and smiled into the Elf’s deep eyes.  “Thank you,” the Ringbearer replied politely.  “Lord Elrond’s care of myself and my friends is a debt I can never repay.”

      Ralolith shook his head, the dark braids over his sharp-tipped ears swinging gracefully.  “It is we who owe you the debt that cannot be repaid.”  He raised his head and smiled at Legolas over Frodo’s head.  “Lucilena and I both petitioned our lord to allow us to join your Fellowship, Master Frodo.  But for some unknown reason…” the Elf paused dramatically, “he felt this young Elf could offer you more.”

      Legolas’ eyes sparkled at the other’s gentle teasing.  “Perhaps he did not wish to saddle the Company with an Elf so old that his bones creaked,” he returned.  Frodo looked between them, placed at ease by their familiar play.  To his eyes, Ralolith and Lucilena appeared slightly older than Legolas, but not so much as to be remarked upon.  Much like himself, he mused, appearing younger than he was and kept that way by his ownership of the Ring.  Suddenly ill at ease at that thought, he turned his mind back to the conversation. 

      Within a very short time (but long enough for growling hobbit stomachs), Sam was ladling out a fine coney stew, thick with ingredients that Lucilena and Ralolith had provided from their packs.  Aragorn took his bowl doubtfully and sniffed it, then looked accusingly at Sam.  “Carrots,” he muttered.  “Onions.  Are these potatoes?”

      “I can toss some grubs an’ bark in your bowl, Strider, if you want,” offered Sam cheekily.  Aragorn declined.  

     The enlarged company ate in compatible silence for some time.  At last they put away their bowls, and Merry and Pippin and Sam rose to collect and wash them.  Frodo would have helped too, but Aragorn motioned for him to stay.  While the younger hobbits worked, the Ranger and the Ringbearer told the three of the men who had attacked them and of the bounty placed upon the hobbits.  Ralolith’s deep brown eyes grew hooded and they glanced among themselves at the news.  “We will carry word to Elrond, Aragorn.  Are you certain you do not wish to return to the House in our company?”

      Aragorn shook his head.  “We are so close now to … to what I have promised them, that it would be a shame to turn back.  They would be greatly disappointed.  We would be grateful if you would spend the night with us, though.  The young ones did not allow Frodo and I to take our watches last night, and I know they are weary.”

     “That we will do gladly,” said Ralolith.

     “And, by your leave, I will accompany you for the rest of your journey,” added Legolas.  “If you will have me.”

      “Only if you do not allow the hobbits to talk you into hunting for them,” conditioned Aragorn, but without much hope.

* * * * *

       Though it was only early evening, the travelers decided to rest here and engage in tales and songs rather than seeking a campsite a few miles closer to the walking party’s destination.  Lucilena continued to produce an amazing variety and amount of food from her pack and the hobbits turned nothing down, despite Aragorn’s half-hearted glowers.  Defeated, the Ranger finally gave up.

       The Elves took the watches that night, allowing the entire walking party to slumber truly and deeply.  Frodo awoke several times during the night, always to see the star-silhouetted form of a slender Elf on guard.  Reassured, he would turn over and pull the blanket up over himself and Pippin, and return to sleep.  Lucilena roused them out of their warm bedrolls just after dawn.  They washed and ate, and exchanged many fair words in reluctant farewell.  Pippin stood on a small hill and waved vigorously until Ralolith and Lucilena were lost to sight.  He sighed wistfully and slung his pack over his shoulder.

      “I do not think Aragorn meant foraging to include using great calf-eyes on our guests to divest them of anything edible they carried,” reprimanded Merry. 

      Pippin shrugged, undaunted by his cousin’s scolding.  Lucilena had gifted him with several boiled sweets before they parted, and the young hobbit looked like a chipmunk.  “Aragorn told us to live by our wits,” he slurred around his candy-packed cheeks. “You should not blame me because nice people want to give food to a poor hungry hobbit, whose elder cousins do not take care of him properly.”

      Aragorn was torn between aggravation and laughter.  Hearing his muffled snort, Pippin looked over to him and deliberately made ‘great calf-eyes’ at him, to use Merry’s turn of phrase.  Unable to maintain his severe countenance, Aragorn looked away.  Legolas laughed outright, a silvery peal of pure joy.   The Elf rested a slender hand upon Pippin’s curly head.  “Come,” he urged them.  And to Aragorn, “we have perhaps two hours to arrive in time, or must wait until dusk falls.”

     Aragorn slung his pack over his shoulder, wincing slightly as it impacted against the tender bruise.  “Perhaps nothing else will impede our progress.  I have not seen … what we are going to see in a long time.  Frodo, do you think you and the others can avoid any major crisis, at least until we are on our way back?”

      The Ringbearer made a show of considering this.   “We will try, Aragorn,” he said gravely, sharing an amused glance with Sam.  “But you know how things go.”

* TBC *

Chapter 52:  A Riddle-Game and Its Answer

      The hobbits listened in pleasure as Legolas trilled some soft song that seemed to have no words but mimicked perfectly the twitters of birds and bubbling streams and the rustling of leaves, all bound up into a musical melody that flowed as effortlessly from the Elf as the hobbits could sing.

     The walking party continued at a leisurely pace that allowed for side-trips to investigate meandering streams (foraging for cattails), dark mossy tree-boles (hoping for mushrooms) and several of the small cliff overhangs (satisfying general hobbity curiosity) that they passed.  The knowledge that they were nearing their goal and the inclusion of Legolas in their party both reassured and delighted the hobbits.  The beautiful sunny day helped, too, and Aragorn found his own heart lifting from the dark thoughts of the previous days that had troubled him.

     The Ranger kept a clandestine eye upon the hobbits as he surveyed the surrounding countryside.  For the last mile or so, the hobbits had ceased their explorations and walked close, curly heads together in rapt, soft-voiced conversation.  Aragorn was immediately on his guard.  He had been keeping a surreptitious eye on the Ringbearer but Frodo seemed fully recovered from the blow to his head.  Hard-headed, these halflings, he mused.  In many ways.   A quick movement caught his attention.  As Pippin had done the previous day, Aragorn looked down to see the Ringbearer suddenly quicken his steps and pull up at his side, flashing him a dazzling smile.  Aragorn eyed him with suspicion, thinking how much the eldest and youngest cousins resembled each other when they wanted something.

     “All right,” growled the Ranger amiably, “what is it?”

      Frodo did not try to dissemble.  “You wish me to drink those disgusting tonics of Lord Elrond’s, don’t you, Aragorn?”

     “It would be nice to see you comply with my lord’s wishes without the dramatics, yes,” Aragorn responded.

     Frodo graciously let that pass.  He caught up a flower and studied it idly.  “Then I have a proposal for you.”

     Feeling that he might well regret this, Aragorn cautiously replied, “What?”

     “Nothing too difficult, Aragorn.”  Frodo twirled the flower in his fingers then tucked it gently into the buttonhole of his breast pocket.  “I will take Lord Elrond’s foul, sickening, nauseating –”

      “I understand you dislike the medicine, Frodo.”

      “Even so, I will take it from now on without complaint if you will play a riddle-game with us.  A game of my choosing.”

      Aragorn mulled this over, pretending to be unaware of the eager eyes drilling into his back.  He glanced back to meet Legolas’ amused gaze – elvish ears had carried their soft conversation to him perfectly.  The Elf’s earlier comment about rocks in his bedroll and poison ivy stuffed into his clothing passed through the Ranger’s mind.  Had the hobbits’ cattail gathering also harvested a captured frog or two to slip into his boots when opportunity permitted?  Even now such could be tucked away in hobbity pocket, awaiting an opportunity.  He would not put it past them.  “Of your choosing…” he mused.  “I wonder of what riddle you could possibly be thinking.”

     Frodo said nothing but he grinned and his brilliant eyes shone up at the Man.

     “You will take the tonic without complaint if I play a riddle-game with you…” the Ranger repeated carefully.  Frodo nodded enthusiastically in agreement.  “So I have only to play the game to win it?  Well, then, why should I not?”

     Frodo’s mouth dropped open and he sputtered.  “No!  No, I meant –“  Beside him, Merry was visibly biting his tongue, and Sam looked confused.  Pippin stared intently at him, then his forehead suddenly smoothed out and his mouth formed a little unheard oh.

     Aragorn decided to take pity on the hobbit.  He would not learn what the four were up to, else.  “Nay, I know you meant play and win, Frodo.”  He was secretly delighted to see Frodo flush.  It was unusual to see the erudite hobbit misspeak and that he had done so showed how very eager he was to play this game. The Ringbearer had been entirely too somber these past several days; a bit of fun would do him good.  “Very well.  A game of your choosing, but played by my rules.”

      Now Frodo looked wary.  The other hobbits edged up, all pretense of not listening intently to their conversation abandoned.  Legolas looked like he was struggling not to laugh.

      “What rules would you set?”

      “You wish to know what lies at the end of our journey.”  The hobbits glanced among themselves, ending any charade that this had not been discussed among them beforehand.  “Very well.  You may each ask one, and only one question.  I will give one reply to each question.  You may not press for clarifications or further explanations.  And you may not first discuss your questions amongst yourselves.  Do you agree?”

      Merry caught Frodo’s eye and nodded.  Pippin nodded more slowly, while Sam looked unhappy.  But Frodo wasn’t finished.  “If we agree to your terms, and so win by guessing this … marvel … what is our prize?”

     Aragorn thought about that and sighed.  “If you guess…  Legolas and I will supply all of the food on the way back – as much as you can eat.”  An instant later he regretted that addendum, for Frodo’s eyes lit up and the other hobbits practically glowed.  Aragorn groaned internally.  How could he have been so stupid as to offer hobbits as much food as they could eat?  While stuffing himself would doubtless do Frodo good, Merry and Sam were bottomless pits and Aragorn feared to let Pippin’s insatiable appetite even enter his thoughts.  There was no help for it – he could not allow them to win this riddle-game.

    “Is this agreeable to you, Legolas?” Frodo asked, repeating the terms carefully to ensure that he had the Elf’s acceptance of the bargain.  No doubt Frodo already had plans for the Elf’s deadly bow, Aragorn thought.  They had passed many signs of large game that the hobbits could not easily bring down with their small slings.  Legolas raised an amused eyebrow, also well aware of theRingbearer’s maneuverings.  He said nothing but inclined his head slightly.

     “A deal, struck!“ proclaimed the Ranger with a grin.  “The first question is Pippin’s, then.”

     Pippin was so startled he almost stumbled – as the youngest, he had not expected to go first.  Merry jerked his chin at his cousin and the tweenager inched up hesitantly to join Frodo and Aragorn as they walked.

      “What is your question, Pippin?”

     Pippin gulped – he had not had time to prepare.  “Er … um…”  Aragorn waited patiently, his cousins and Sam not so patiently.  “Is it bigger than a breadbox?” the young one asked desperately, then flushed with embarrassment.

      “A good question, Pippin.”  Pippin looked encouraged, his green-gold eyes fastened on the Ranger’s face.  Aragorn made a great show of considering his reply.  “The answer is yes.”  Pippin broke into a broad smile.  But the Man wasn’t finished.  “And no.  And sometimes it isn’t there at all.”  Pippin choked, swallowing back the additional questions that leaped to his lips.

    “Sam?”

     Now Sam came forward and walked with them instead of rambling behind.  Aragorn had spent enough time with the stocky gardener to know that underneath that mild round face lurked a quick and practical mind.  Sam might not have the cousins’ gentle-born education or social graces, but he possessed an abundance of ‘good hobbit-sense’ and Aragorn sometimes thought he valued that the more.

     “Is it alive?” 

     The Ranger was silent for so long that even Legolas seemed about to make a comment.  At last Aragorn said, “Define ‘alive.’”

     It was Sam’s turn to look started.  “Well,” he began hesitantly, “does it move about?  Does it –”

     “Enough,” said Aragorn crisply.  “I will answer only the question defined.  Yes, it moves.  But it is not alive.”

     “You mean it’s dead, then?” asked Sam.  “But –”

     “You have had your question, Samwise.  Merry?”

     Merry had been watching and listening silently and Aragorn could almost see the thoughts flowing through that quicksilver mind.  When the young hobbit spoke, his words were slow and considered.  “You have said repeatedly that we must be in a certain place at a certain time to see this … thing.  Why is that?”

     Ah, he would have to be careful of his answer.  Merry had consistently shown himself to possess the quickest mind of the hobbits and Aragorn would not underestimate him.  “It moves and exists only twice a day, a few hours after dawn and at dusk, as the world wakes and yawns and stretches, and as the cycle repeats itself at dusk, preparing the world for sleep.”  There, young sir, chew on that!

     Now it was Frodo’s turn, and Aragorn did not drop his guard.  Frodo was extremely intelligent and well-read, more introspective than Merry perhaps but also a logical thinker.  “Frodo?”

     The Ringbearer was silent for long moments and Aragorn wondered if he were contemplating the price of failure.  The distasteful expression on his features certainly suggested it.  Frodo swallowed.  Then he said, “May I have a little time to consider your answers?”

     Legolas met Aragorn’s eyes over Frodo’s head then those clear eyes grew unfocused and his head tilted to the side, pointed ears attentive. The Elf shook his head slightly.   Aragorn nodded to show he understood.  “That was not agreed upon.  The questions have been asked and the answers given, except for yours.  You must give your question now.”

     “Why?” asked Frodo, frustration and a certain panic evident in his tone.  “What difference would it make?”

     “Is that your question, Frodo?”

     “No!”  The hobbit inhaled and closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them to glare up at the Ranger.  “No, it isn’t.  Very well, if you will not be reasonable…”  he paused but Aragorn only continued to regard the hobbit levelly.  “All right!  My question is this:  Does it make a sound andifso, whatisit?”

     Aragorn laughed.  “I do not think that is one question, Frodo, despite your attempt to make it so.  Yes, it makes a sound.  And the sound is this.”  Aragorn stopped walking and turned back to face them.  Legolas had been staring into the distance past them, a faint frown on his face that was replaced by an enigmatic smile as the Ranger brought them to a halt.  Aragorn leaned down so that his face was level with Frodo’s and looked into the halfling’s eyes.  Then he inhaled deeply, opened his mouth and howled, “RRRRRuuummmmmmMMMMHHaaaHHHH!”  The Ranger’s voice had been rising throughout and the last was delivered in an ear-splitting roar.

      Pippin blanched and staggered back a step, eyes widening.  Merry wordlessly halted him by grabbing his coat sleeve, brow furrowed as his blue eyes bored into the Man’s.  All of the hobbits stared at him as if he had taken leave of his senses.  Well satisfied with these reactions to his answer, Aragorn smiled at them blandly.  “What is your answer to the riddle, Frodo?”

      Frodo’s dark brows drew together and he looked at his companions desperately, as if they could somehow place the answer in his mind.  Sam and Merry and Pippin stared back.  Merry spread his hands and shrugged.  “Frodo,” Aragorn pressed.  The hobbit looked trapped.  “Frodo, do you forfeit?” 

     “I forfeit,” the hobbit gritted out through clenched teeth.  “You win, Aragorn.  I forfeit.”

     Aragorn threw back his head and laughed, echoed by Legolas.  “Remember, the riddle-game was your suggestion!  And your forfeit will be to your advantage, really, as Elrond’s tonics will do you nothing but good.”  Frodo did not look mollified, glaring at him furiously.

     “You may take the next dose at our destination, Frodo.  And in honor of our arrival, Legolas and I will provide the next meal.  Come – we are almost there.”

     The hobbits trailed after the Man, heads close together in intense discussion.  Legolas moved from the rearguard position to join the Ranger.  “That was close, my friend.  Did they have an Elf’s hearing, your riddle-game would be lost.”

     “And you and I would be obligated to feed four hobbits who have suffered short rations for several days, my friend.  You have not had to supply these little folk with food, as I did from Bree to Rivendell.  I fear we will be hunting for them constantly on our Quest.”  Aragorn smiled and picked up the pace a little.  “Their hearing is exceptional – better than men’s.  But they have nothing like this in their gentle land of the Shire.  Even did they hear, they would not know what to make of the sound.”

      Legolas shrugged gracefully.   “They might take issue of your last clue, though.”

      Aragorn glanced at the Elf in amusement.  “Could you have imitated the sound better?”

     “Actually … no.”

     “Then do not criticize.  I did the best a man could.”

     The six walked on in relative silence for some time, enjoying the peace of Imladris.  The ground was becoming both rougher and steeper, the gentle grass giving way to loose soil and shale that slid underfoot.  The increasingly rocky earth began to slope uphill, and the walkers were forced to lean forward, climbing with their packs near to overbalancing them.  Aragorn kept watch on the sun’s position in the sky, and urged them to speed their steps.

     “Here?” he asked Legolas when the six had crested the steep hill.

     “It is a good place,” agreed the Elf.  “Much closer would be dangerous.”

      To the hobbits’ amazement, Aragorn shrugged off his pack and dropped beside it.  Legolas was already on the ground, seated comfortably cross-legged with his long hands on his knees.   The hobbits glanced amongst themselves then sank to the earth, leaning against their packs or each other as was convenient. 

     Four pairs of eyes stared at the blank plain before their eyes.  The ground sloped down again, more gently on this side, to a featureless vista that seemed to hold little to commend it.  A few straggly trees grew here and there, oddly misshapen and twisted.  The hobbits examined the desolate area with confusion, then turned to the two Big People with expressions that asked, “Well?” far more eloquently than words.

     “Patience,” the Ranger counseled them.

     Then Legolas raised his head and Aragorn knew that the Elf’s superior hearing had warned him.  Unable to resist the impulse to tease them one last time, he swiveled back to the hobbits and said, “Hush!  It comes.”

      Merry bit his lip, his brow furrowed as he sought for movement among the little mounds of earth and small stones that were the only items of interest on the barren ground.  Then he became aware of a trembling under his hands … the merest vibration of the earth.  Merry placed his palms flat against the cool earth and tried to understand what he was feeling.

     Catching his sudden concentration, Merry’s cousins and Sam imitated his tense posture, hands pressed flat to the earth.  In the brief seconds that had passed, the vibration had grown.  Sam shifted nervously as the quivering sensation crept up his backbone.  They could hear it now, too.  A wordless, rumbling roar, the sound of great waters being condensed and pushed and funneled…

      “An underground river,” whispered Merry.  “A huge one, by the sound of it.  But what -”

     “Patience,” the Ranger repeated.  Merry fell silent and turned his attention to the increasing movement under him.  Tiny stones and bits of earth were beginning to shake and rattle, working loose from their places to slide to lower ground in tiny cascades of earth.  The hobbits crept closer to each other, not liking the untrustworthiness of the formerly dependable ground.

    The explosion, when it came, was so violent that the hobbits were almost flattened backwards to the earth.  Had they been standing, they would have beenknocked from their feet.  Their cries of surprise and terror were lost in a roaring canopy of enveloping sound as a massive jet of water burst from a small hole in the rocky ground and was funneled upwards into the sky.  Aragorn was shouting something, a reassurance perhaps, but they could not hear him.  Legolas had sensibly clamped his hands over his ears.

     The waters rose and rose in a single massive column, throwing out great plumes of white-laced water as it grew.  The pillar flattened and spread out at the crown, fountaining off to fall to the earth again with crashes that made the ground shudder.  Though they were far from it, cold mist kissed their faces and dewed their eyes till the sight shimmered before them and forced them to rub away the clinging drops.

     At last the great column reached its zenith, thundering into the sky, appearing   to near-touch the base of the clouds.  Almost immediately upon gaining its height it began to sink, the column narrowing, the deafening roar decreasing.  It continued its reduction until there was nothing to be seen but a little fountain no taller than a man, then a hobbit and then it was gone.  Little rivulets of water swept down from the hole and were absorbed back into the earth.

    “Oh,” murmured one of the hobbits.  Aragorn could not tell which one, for his ears had not quite recovered.  He had truly forgotten how loud the geyser was.  Turning in place to see their faces, he knew that he had been forgiven his teasing.  The halflings sat transfixed, mesmerized, their eyes round with wonder.

     With a visible effort, Frodo shut his mouth.  Pippin had both arms wrapped around Merry and was staring at the spot where the thing had appeared and then disappeared, dumbfounded.  Sam coughed nervously.  Merry finally spoke for them all.  “What was that?”

    “It is a geyser, my friends,” Aragorn told them gently, understanding of their fear and awe.  “The underground river pools in fissures and fractures deep in the earth and waits there, compressed by rock and heat.  Twice a day the pressure and high temperature of the deep earth becomes too much, and the steaming waters seek an outlet.  It has been here, erupting faithfully, since before the ending of the Second Age.”

      Frodoswallowed, eyes still fastened to the little mound of earth that had birthed the geyser and then taken it back.  “I understand the answer to the riddle-game now, Aragorn.  I have read of such things in Bilbo’s books.  I never dreamed that I would see…”  The Ranger watched as the Ringbearer sought for words.  Pippin and Sam still stared, stupefied, while Merry’s brow was furrowed again.  No doubt pondering how the power of the great water could be harnessed to serve some need of his folk, Aragorn thought. 

     “May we stay and see it again this eve?” whispered Pippin. 

     Aragorn nodded.  “A day of rest would be welcome.  We will watch again tonight and start for home in the morning.”  He laughed then, delight shining from his eyes at their astonishment and amazement.  Nothing less than a true spectacle would render them so silent and still and it pleased him that he had brought them such pleasure.  Legolas slanted his eyes over at his old friend, amusement sparkling in his gaze. 

     “Thank you for bringing us here, Aragorn,” Frodo murmured.  His voice dropped almost too low to be heard.  “What a wondrous place is Middle-earth.”

* TBC *

Chapter 53:  Things That Are True

    True to his word, Aragorn, with Legolas’ assistance, supplied elevenses with enough meat left over to sustain a party of Men for several meals or a party of hobbits for one.  Working out meals had merited the most discussion early on during the walking party – Man and hobbits did not agree on how many meals were to be stopped for, nor how often.  The hobbits had perhaps become a bit spoiled by the generously laden tables of Rivendell.  They were resistant to returning to the sparse fare they had subsisted on between Bree and the elven sanctuary.  A compromise had finally been reached – the hobbits ate whenever they felt like it, but insisted on sit-down meals for first breakfast, luncheon, tea and dinner.  The other meals they would take standing up, or more accurately, walking.  Legolas watched the halflings’ attempts to continue negotiations even at this late stage of their journey with thinly veiled amusement.

     It was after luncheon, as the entire party save Legolas were drifting peaceably towards a nap, that Merry asked Aragorn to examine his broken wrist.  “It hardly aches at all any more, Aragorn,” Merry wheedled.  “Will you take off the splint?”

     “Let me look at it, Merry,” the Ranger responded.  Merry plopped himself down by the Man and leaned comfortably against him, holding out his arm.  Pippin drifted over to watch, sitting down across from the two.  Sam watched too, cushioned comfortably against a pack.  Frodo was already asleep, wrapped in his cloak and a blanket Sam had laid over him, a grimace of distaste from the tonic still visible on his features.

     Taking the small wrist, Aragorn unwrapped the bandages and removed the sticks that had held the broken bone straight while it healed.  Then he had the hobbit rotate his wrist and squeeze his hand, feeling the play of muscles and tendons underneath the skin.

     That done, Aragorn released the wrist to its owner and sat back with a smile.  “I pronounce you healed, Merry, though you should not strain that arm for a while yet.  Try not to fall into any more rivers, won’t you?”

      Rubbing his wrist, Merry sought to look offended.  “I wouldn’t have fallen in if I hadn’t slipped going after those trout.  I wouldn’t have gone after the trout if I hadn’t been trying to catch breakfast.  I wouldn’t have been trying to catch breakfast if I hadn’t been hungry.  Very hungry.”  The last was delivered with a cocked eyebrow and rather a lot of cheek.

     Aragorn refused to be baited.  “It is my hope that you have spent this time away from Rivendell learning other ways to feed yourself, my friend.”  He smiled to himself as he remembered Elrond’s request that he keep the hobbits away from Imladris for several days.  Had his foster father had enough time to accomplish his purpose, he wondered?

     “Bugs an’ bark,” muttered Sam, then tried to look as if he hadn’t spoken when the others looked at him.  Sam coughed then laid himself down by his slumbering master with his back to them and ignored their amused glances and Pippin’s giggle.

       “We could all use some rest,” the Ranger remarked.  “Legolas, will you take the watch?”

      “I will,” agreed the Elf.

      Merry nudged Pippin down next to Frodo’s other side and laid himself on the outside of their little line.  Aragorn dropped off to the sight of Legolas leaning on his great, unstrung bow, standing guard over the small pile of curls and furry feet and jostling elbows, his clear gaze watching over them all.

* * * * *  

     “What are you doing, Pippin?”  Pippin jumped at the Elf’s soft voice, fumbling to hide the little object he had been toying with.  He often awoke before his elderly kin and Sam, and it was a sore trial to the young hobbit to stay still and quiet and let the others rest.   He tried to be considerate but his youthful energy often betrayed him.  Too much exuberance would earn him the others’ censure, especially from Sam if he woke Frodo.

       Pippin gladly accepted the arm up that pulled him from his sleeping place and set him on his feet a little way away from the others.  Aragorn slept on, more deeply than was usual for him, relaxed and trusting of Legolas’ guard.  A little abashed, the tweenager held up his fairy-stone for the Elf’s inspection.  Legolas took the small stone and peered through the hole in its center as he had seen Pippin do, then looked inquiringly at the hobbit.

       “It’s a fairy-stone,” Pippin offered, embarrassed to be reciting a nursling-tale to the immortal Elf.  But Legolas, like Aragorn, did not laugh at him.

      “Indeed?” remarked the Elf.

       Pippin nodded vigorously.  “It shows you things that are true.”

       Legolas accepted this equitably.  With the stone still to his eye, he looked through it at the surrounding Wild, a slight smile tugging at his lips.  Then Pippin saw him stiffen, his entire body frozen into immobility.

      “What is it?” the youngster asked, reaching up to tug on the Elf’s arm in sudden trepidation.

      Legolas did not reply for a moment.  He took the stone away from his eye and examined it intently, then raised it again to gaze through it.  Pippin followed his line of sight.  The Elf was looking at his fellow hobbits.  No, thought Pippin, he was looking at Frodo.

      “Pippin,” Legolas murmured.  “Look.  Do you see?”

      Pippin took the stone from Legolas in bewilderment.  He held the stone up and stared through it at his cousin.  Frodo lay facing them, dark curls straggling into his eyes, fine-boned face slack in sleep. Then he looked back at the Elf in confusion.

      “Look closely, young one,” whispered the Elf.

      Pippin set the stone back to his eye and closed the other, peering intently.  Then he inhaled softly and leaned forward.  “He’s glowing.  Frodo is glowing,” Pippin whispered in wonder.

      “Shining, rather,” corrected Legolas softly.  “As a moonbeam through a silver cloud.”

      Pippin raised the fairy-stone again.  A soft light enveloped his cousin, shining most strongly from his face and the single hand that lay outside the blanket.  As he watched, Frodo twitched slightly and moved his arm away from before his chest.  Now Pippin saw that something dark lay on his breast.  Something black and altogether evil.  That blackness was very small now, but it would grow.  It would grow and devour the gently shining light that was his cousin.  Pippin knew this with all of his heart and ever fiber of his being.

      “Oh,” he murmured, tears starting from his eyes.  Then his sight was blocked and Legolas gently pulled the stone away.  The Elf sank down before the young hobbit, kneeling before him with a long hand on the tweenager’s shoulder. The Elf’s eyes were shadowed and Pippin knew that he, too, had seen the malignant pit of darkness.

      “Pippin, you must say nothing,” said Legolas, raising his hand to stroke the hobbit’s soft curls gently. 

      “But… he’s got to take it off.  Put it somewhere.  Not wear it, at least!”

      “He must wear it, little one.  It must be borne.  And by its appointed Bearer.”

     “Legolas, it will kill him.”  Pippin could barely speak around the lump in his throat.  Suddenly his chest hurt, and he could not seem to draw in enough air.  He wanted to scream and shout and hammer on the ground in his distress, and it took all of his self-control to refrain and keep his voice low.

       “That is what we are here to prevent, Pippin.”  Legolas sorrowed for the pain on the small one’s face.  The little halfling stared up at him, the threatened tears now coursing down his cheeks.  “We will shelter him from it as much as we can.”  Legolas folded the stone into Pippin’s hand and placed it against the young hobbit’s heart.  “He will need every ounce of protection we can give him.”

     “But … but Merry and Sam and I … we can’t protect him.  We can’t –”

     “Pippin…  Your job, little one, is not to defend him physically.  Leave that to Gandalf and Aragorn and Boromir and Gimli and myself.  You and Merry and Sam have the more important task.”

     “More important?” Pippin whispered, struggling to understand.

     The Elf nodded, his thumb brushing the tears from the young hobbit’s cheeks.  “Yes.  It is up to you three to keep him grounded.  To remind him who he is, of what is at stake, through all the troubles that are coming.  Your presence is what will keep him sane … keep the darkness you just saw from consuming him.”

     “But…” Pippin whispered.

     “Pippin?”  Both twitched at the interruption of Frodo’s worried voice.  Turning, Pippin saw that his cousin had risen up on his elbow, blinking sleepily, his face tight with concern.  “What’s wrong, my dear?”

     Uncaring that Sam and Merry still slept, Pippin threw himself on his cousin with a shout, first hugging him tight and then tickling him furiously.  Startled but game, Frodo fought back, trying to pin his little cousin with a hand around the tweenager’s mouth to stifle his giggling.  “Hush!” he scolded.  “You will wake –”  A groan sounded from one of the others, followed by an “oof” as a thrashing brown-clad elbow dug into Sam’s midsection.  “Pippin did it,” Frodo managed, then clamped his hand tighter over his cousin’s mouth when Pippin squealed in denial.  Then all four hobbits were rolling about on the ground, laughing hysterically as quick fingers sought ticklish ribs and feet and the backs of knees, wrapping them up in a tangle of blankets.  Aragorn had shot to his feet at Pippin’s first shriek, sword in hand, staring wildly about him.  The Elf met his startled gaze and made placating motions, directing the Ranger’s eyes to the four-way melee now in progress.  Aragorn sighed and sheathed his sword, reconciled to the peculiarities of hobbits – and tweenagers.

     In his sudden battle to defend himself from tickling fingers and return Pippin’s attack, Frodo quite forgot to ask his young cousin what had upset him so before.   And when the Ringbearer noticed Legolas rise to draw a resigned Aragorn away to speak with him, he thought nothing of it, being too busy urging Merry to sit on Pippin so that he and Sam could tickle his young cousin’s feet.

      Pippin kept close to Frodo for the entire afternoon, declining even to accompany Merry on a mushroom-hunting expedition.  Merry and Frodo both were surprised at that, but Pippin remained adamant.  Sam looked from one cousin to the other, catching the tweenager’s underlying tension, which had not abated even after the energetic exercise. 

     If Frodo took a stroll, Pippin went with him.  If Frodo waded into one of the streams, so did Pippin.  When he went over to prod the earth-mound (after Aragorn assured him it was safe to do so) and got down on his hands and knees to try to peer into it, a small shadow accompanied him.  Matters came to a head sometime later when Frodo sought a little privacy behind a convenient tree.

       “Pippin!  By Elbereth!  Go away!”  Pippin waited faithfully, back turned, and rejoined his aggravated cousin as soon as Frodo emerged.

       Legolas had watched in silence until this incident.  “Will you speak to Pippin, Aragorn?  I tried, but I do not think it helped.  I believe the young one intends to stay firmly fixed to his cousin’s side from now on.”  A slight smile quirked Legolas’ lips, though his gaze remained troubled.  “By doing so, he will surely alert Frodo of his fears and worsen the situation.”

      The Ranger was silent for some moments, his deep-set eyes on the peaceful foursome. The hobbits were engaged in watching the clouds drift across the cobalt sky, talking amongst themselves quietly.   Pippin leaned against Frodo’s updrawn legs, head resting back on his elder cousin’s knees, while Sam sprawled comfortably at his master’s side and Merry lay on his back, his head cushioned on Pippin’s thigh.  Merry was waving his hands about and the other three were listening intently.  Was the young hobbit describing some grandiose scheme, Aragorn wondered, or plotting some further mischief to spring on his unsuspecting guardians?

      “I do have something that should distract young Pippin, at least until he comes to terms with this,” Aragorn responded at last, coming to a decision.

* * * * *

     Dinner was a joint effort, with Frodo (assisted by Pippin) and Merry proudly adding two rabbits that their snares had caught to their supply of meat.  Sam brought down a passing grouse with his sling and stuffed it with the mushrooms Merry had foraged, wild garlic and two leftover parsnips.  Legolas shot a high-flying duck, and Aragorn contributed his share by returning with an arm full of cattails, from which he taught the hobbits to make a bread-like paste by splitting the brown pulp and mashing it, then frying the dough in one of Sam’s frypans.  Not half bad, was Sam’s surprised verdict.               

      Pippin helped Sam wash the cookpots and spoons, all the while keeping Frodo in his sight as the Ringbearer and his other cousin washed the plates and mugs.  When Sam would have put out their small cook fire, Aragorn asked that he bank it instead.  Then Aragorn called them to him and the entire party trooped up to the rise again to enjoy the marvelous display of nature.

      This time the setting sun shone through the great fountain, casting sparkling rainbows through the lacy streams of falling water.  The sun itself shone red through the water, painting the roaring column so that it looked like a geyser of blood.  When Merry casually commented on the strange effect, Pippin shivered and wiggled closer to Frodo, all enjoyment gone from his eyes. 

     They watched the waters retreat in awed silence.  Then Aragorn leaned forward, drawing their attention to him.  “As we must start back tomorrow, I think we should celebrate our successful walking party.  What would you say to some of Gandalf’s fireworks?”

      The hobbits gaped at him.  “But you said -” Pippin began.

      “Yes, Pippin,” the Ranger interrupted gently.  “But we made allowances for different circumstances.  The color of the rocket set off first carries a message.  We will set off this one first,” and so saying drew from his pack a long rocket with a white ribbon tied around it.  “It was agreed that if the watcher in Rivendell saw the white rocket first, Elrond would know that we are not in danger, and are simply enjoying ourselves.”

      Gandalf had given Aragorn six rockets.  The hobbits were beside themselves to find that in addition to the one with the white ribbon, there was a firework for each of them, made especially as a gift from Gandalf.   Frodo, Meriadoc, Peregrin and Samwise were written on the ribbons in the wizard’s distinctive script.  The sixth had a plain gray ribbon.  One by one, Aragorn tied them to long sticks he had saved for the purpose and stuck the sticks upright into the ground, then set them off with tapers from the rekindled cook fire.  The white one was first.  High it arced into the black night and exploded in a shower of brilliant silver stars.  The hobbits laughed in joy and clapped their hands.  But that was nothing compared with what was to come.

      As eldest of the cousins, the next rocket to be set off was Frodo’s.  It rose into the sky on a tail of brilliant blue and detonated into a great column of fire with a bang that momentarily deafened them, then cascaded down in perfect imitation of the wondrous geyser that had brought them to this place.  Almost they could feel the gentle mist upon their faces.  Merry’s was next, and the night sky was suddenly filled with fluttering birds of gold with turquoise wings and the sound of singing lingered on the air long after the bright sparks had faded.  The third was Pippin’s.  Red apples and emerald leaves rained down upon them, and the sound it made was of his own familiar high laughter carried from afar on a rush of wind.  Sam’s was a waterfall of blossoms, crimson and pink and purple and all shades in between, and the scent of flowers drifted down to their upturned faces.  Tears of delight and disbelief streamed down the hobbits’ faces that Gandalf himself had prepared such a gift for each of them.  This was an honor akin to the dragon-rocket that Gandalf had prepared for Bilbo’s last Birthday Party, and it spoke volumes of their place in the old wizard’s heart.  From the looks in their eyes, Aragorn knew that that this memory would be cherished in their hearts long after the last ashes had drifted on the wind to the Sea.  

      Aragorn had saved the one tied with a gray ribbon for last.  With great ceremony, he tied the rocket to the last of the sticks and thrusting it into the ground, lit it.  The rocket disappeared into the night and this time the watchers could not see the spark-trail of its ascension.  The sky remained blank and dark, and the hobbits looked at each other in dismay.

      “Did it fail?” asked Pippin, unable to conceive of one of Gandalf’s fireworks doing so, especially after the grand display they had already witnessed.

       Then the black sky exploded with color.  This rocket carried all the shades of the rainbow they had seen formed earlier that eve by the geyser, and all of the colors of each of their individual fireworks.  Yellow, red, blue, green and purple, in smaller then larger bursts of brilliant showers, the rocket filled the night with starbursts of glowing sparks that seemed to go on an eternity.

       The hobbits cried aloud in joy, inarticulate shouts of glee and astonishment.  Legolas watched with his starry eyes, storing the sight forever in his perfect memory.  Next to him, Aragorn also marveled in silence, but his mind was turned towards the future, to a time when he might ask the wizard for such a display to celebrate another event.  At last the fire-trails dimmed and died and the sky was unadorned once more, save for the shining of the stars.  The walking party sighed in bliss and went to their bedrolls, the joyous sparks reflecting still in their eyes and in their hearts.

* TBC *  

Chapter 54:  Disaster Strikes

       Aragorn and Legolas roused the hobbits quite some time after dawn, allowing them to sleep late in recognition of their late bedtime the previous night.  There was barely time to wash and eat before they again settled down together on the small rise to watch the geyser.  The wonder was no less for seeing it again.  The six watched, transfixed, as the great fountain rose from the ground with an ear-splitting roar and achieved its peak then slowly sank back into the quivering earth.  They scrubbed the clinging droplets from their faces and shook them from their hair.  Pippin, by dint of great effort, managed to shake most of his onto Merry.  It was time at last to begin the journey home.

       The hobbits turned their faces north with both gladness and sorrow.  Several days in the Wild, on short rations, had reminded them of the luxuries of Elrond’s House.  Hobbits are comfort-loving creatures, and they were eager to return to soft featherbeds and warm hearth-fires and dinner tables straining under the weight of well-cooked food.  But the short journey had invigorated them, too, and filled them with hope that this mission-thing they were undertaking would succeed.  Realistically, the hobbits knew that their upcoming journey would be no cheerful walking party, but hobbits love the feel of soft earth under their feet and the smell of dew on leaves and the wonder of seeing new things, and to their surprise, they found they were eager for the Adventure to begin.

      Legolas was relieved to see that young Pippin had relaxed his vigilance over his eldest cousin somewhat, allowing Frodo to be out of his sight for moments at a time.  Frodo was befuddled but tolerant of the tweenager’s sudden clinginess, while Merry and Sam were frankly mystified.  The Elf would watch as every now and then, Pippin would dig out his fairy-stone and peer at his cousin, then quickly transfer his gaze about him in apparent fascination if one of his fellow hobbits cast an amused glance his way.  “Best keep your eyes on the path, little one,” the Elf advised gently after Pippin had become so involved in looking through the stone that he walked straight into a prickle-bush and the whole party halted while Pippin was sat down and a cousin attended to each foot, pulling thorns (not very gently) out of his curly foothair.

      Aragorn and Legolas walked slowly, bows swinging at their backs, allowing the four smaller members of the party to explore as they would and freely indulge their curiosity.  Aragorn was pleased to see much of what he had taught them put to use; the hobbits’ gathering-sacks bulged with sweet marsh-grasses, nuts, late berries, and all manner of the bounty of the Wild.  No insects, however, he was amused to note.  Teaching the hobbits survival food-gathering was rather like teaching a duck to swim, the Ranger reflected.  They absorbed all he had to teach them then built on that knowledge with (to quote Sam) pure ‘hobbit-sense’.   He was glad, for someday they might become separated from himself and the Company and each other, and he feared for them on their own in dark and hostile lands such as they in their innocence could not imagine.

      “What troubles you, my friend?”  Legolas’ soft voice in his ear startled the Ranger out of his ruminations.  He glanced over to the side to see the Elf’s clear gaze upon him.  “You walk with furrowed brow and dark expression,” Legolas elaborated. 

      Aragorn smiled faintly, recalled to the present by the Elf’s concern.  “Worrying about the future, my friend, which avails me nothing.  Our upcoming journey will no doubt present enough challenges without my inventing imaginary ones.”

      “Yet it is best to be as prepared as possible,” Legolas commented.  “It was wise of you to take the little folk to see the geyser.  The walk has done them good, as well as lifted their spirits.”

      “And gave Elrond a few days of peace, which he requested most adamantly,” Aragorn responded. 

      Legolas covered a laugh with a cough, his clear eyes sparkling with mirth.  “I cannot comment on that, of course,” the Elf said diplomatically.  “But it is certainly true that Imladris is much quieter … and less interesting … when the two youngest halflings are absent.”    

       Aragorn’s gaze swept about him, seeking the hobbits.  Underground streams that joined the powerful river in feeding the great geyser broke the surface of the earth in spots and the swirling openings excited the little folk.  They had passed several already on this route and the hobbits had insisted on examining each one.  The openings where the earth surrendered to the water were never very large, no more than a meter across, but the view of the icy water passing swiftly through the peek holes in the earth seemed to fascinate the hobbits.  Merry and Pippin crouched about one such opening now, while downstream some distance away, Sam and Frodo were similarly on their hands and knees, intent faces peering into the water.  The two younger hobbits were dropping leaves and twigs into the water then taking turns racing them to the next window on the water, where Sam and Frodo were watching avidly.

      “I do not think you are being truthful, Frodo,” Pippin complained, panting harshly as he flung himself to the grassy earth by his cousin.  “I am certain that I arrived here before that twig.”

      Frodo held up a dripping piece of wood.  “You did not.  Here is the proof.  Pay up, Cousin.”  Pippin glared at the inoffensive stick, then handed his older cousin a handful of blackberries he had gleaned as they’d walked.  Frodo dipped his hand into the swift water to wash his winnings then deliberately ate the berries in front of his young cousin, grinning all the while.

     Merry was on his knees and elbows hovering over the first opening, trying to peer into the water.  “The stream flows under the ground through a tunnel it has carved in the rock, “ he called to the other hobbits.  “Look, it does not fill completely the space it has made but ebbs and flows with the current.  How interesting!”  Pippin wandered back to join him, munching on a few blackberries he had hidden from his cousin.

      His hobbit-inventory complete, Aragorn turned back to the Elf.  Legolas was watching Merry, too, amusement in his starry eyes.  The young one had now pushed up his sleeve and inserted an arm into the water, feeling around the underside of the rocky shelf on which he perched.  He was struggling to extend his reach and was near to dipping his bright head into the water.  “I should help,” the Elf murmured.  “It would not do for him to fall in.”

     “Merry!” called Aragorn.  Merry and Pippin raised their heads.  “Please do not fall into another river!”  Merry wrinkled his nose at the Ranger and said something to Pippin that made the tweenager giggle.  Aragorn could not make it out over the muted murmur of the river, but no doubt Legolas could.  The Elf laughed abruptly, tried to turn it into a cough, then shot the Ranger an amused look.

      “I will return in a moment,” remarked Legolas hurriedly, before Aragorn could ask him what Merry had said.  Both hobbits looked up as Legolas approached and sank gracefully beside Merry.

      “There’s something hanging down from underneath the ground,” the hobbit explained earnestly, withdrawing his dripping arm.  He shook it, showering droplets of icy water on all three of them.  “It’s long and slick.  I can just touch it with my fingertips.  Probably just a rock, I suppose, but…”

       “But you cannot bear not to know,” teased the Elf gently.  “All right.  If you will move aside, I will see if I can reach it.”  Merry scooted backwards and Legolas took his place, laying down with his head to the side, and inserted his long arm seeking into the opening.  He wiggled about slightly, bending his arm back beneath himself under the rocky shelf.  Pippin crouched on the far side of the opening across from them and watched with interest.

     “Ah, I feel it,” Legolas said.  “How odd.  Let me just … Merry, give me a little more room, please.  Thank you.  Perhaps I can work it loose…” The Elf inched his body closer to the opening, half-suspending his torso over the rushing waters.  Pippin watched as Legolas bent his arm back and underneath him at what must have been a painful angle.  “Luckily, the ground is not so thick here.  Ah – this must be it.  Long and slick, you said?”

      Merry nodded eagerly.  He was standing by the Elf’s side, hands on knees as he leaned forward to see the better.  “Can’t be just a root,” the young hobbit mused.  “There’s no trees over the river’s path.  The water’s too close to the surface to let them grow, I suppose, and it doesn’t really feel like a root.  It must be a very strange-shaped rock – or something.  Can you get hold of it, Legolas?” 

     “Almost,” Legolas replied.  His hand tightening around the projection, he tried twisting it from side to side.  “Ah,” he breathed.  “It’s giving.  It is very cold and difficult to keep hold of.”  Icy water splashed over his cheek and Legolas grimaced.  “A few more good pulls…”

      From where he crouched across from the prone Elf, Pippin felt a tiny tremor run under his feet.  He tore his eyes from the straining figure and looked down, his mouth dropping open.  Tiny rivulets of earth were disappearing with each effort from Legolas.  The Elf had closed his eyes against the onslaught of icy water and did not see, nor did Merry.  Pippin did, but his cry of warning came too late.

     Without warning, the earth on which the Elf lay crumbled.  The ground sank along the line of the underground stream.  Legolas’ eyes snapped open and he gasped, earning him a mouthful of water as the upper part of his body splashed into the rapid current that threatened to pull him into the dark tunnel through which the swift water ran.

      Pippin reacted without thinking.  He launched himself from a crouch and knocked the Elf backwards to safety before his mind reminded the rest of him that there was no earth underneath to stop his own fall.  He tried to latch onto Legolas’ cloak and for the briefest of moments he felt the Elf’s flailing hands clutch his shoulders.  But Legolas was still falling backwards, off-balance and partially stunned; he could not maintain his hold.  Neither could Pippin.  Dimly he heard Merry ‘s terrified shriek, then icy water drowned out every other awareness. 

     Pressure and cold.  The water was so cold it burned, and the force of the water battered him.  Time seemed to slow.  Pippin felt water flood his ears as he was sucked under.  A strong swimmer, the tweenager kicked up automatically, hands cupping the swift water and pushing.  He turned in the water, struggling to keep his eyes open, instinctively seeking the light.  His cloak suddenly caught him up short, dragging him backwards, strangling him across the throat.  The hood was caught on something.  One hand tugging at the clasp, he stroked upwards and forward and felt it jerk free.  His eyes wanted to close – cold bit into them with a sharp pain that felt like they were freezing in their sockets.  He forced them to stay open.  Two indistinct forms were outlined against the light.  Then something long cut through the water and Pippin knew it was Legolas’ arm.

     The young hobbit kicked towards it.  It was not until then that he realized that the opening was ahead of him instead of above him.  The powerful underground current was pushing him away from the aperture. 

     His view of the opening was being foreshortened.  He kicked frantically towards the seeking arm but could seem to make no headway.  His legs tangled in his cloak and he almost choked himself.  He was horrified to see Legolas’ arm thrash about a final time and disappear then everything went black and he was under the ground, a solid roof of stone and earth above him.

     Even so, Pippin did not lose his head.  He needed to breathe, and soon.  Striking the icy water had prompted his body to inhale deeply before the water pulled him under, and he had automatically trailed tiny lines of bubbles as his body expelled spent oxygen.  He kicked again and tried to level out his body, rising in the water like a fish.  When he felt earth bump against his back, he rotated in the water, face-up, and readied himself.

      The second opening, where he had lost the race to the twig, was upon him before he was prepared for it.  Utter blackness was replaced by dazzling light.  His hands shot out with desperate strength and just caught the lip of the rocky shelf where Frodo had knelt to hold up the twig. The merciless current strove to drag him under and he held on with all of his might.  Loose earth tore his fingers and far away, his freezing fingers knew distant pain as fingernails were torn away and bloodied.  The swift current pushed him up again, this time helping him level himself out with his face to the surface.  With a desperate pull of his arms, he brought his face above the surface and took a breath of blessed air.

      His heart was pounding so hard that it did not seem there was room in his body for his oxygen-starved lungs to expand.  Hot tears flooded his eyes,excruciatingly painful against his icy face.  In that instant, terror finally overwhelmed him, and his carefully-marshaled bravery dissolved.  His fingers were weakening upon the rocky shelf and he strove to fight back panic.  His heart rose in his throat, and suddenly he could not think past dying in this cold and lightless place. 

     Pippin blinked his eyes to clear them but could see nothing but glittering blurs.  He tried to scream but could only choke, spewing out water.   Were Frodo and Sam still by the second opening?  No, if they were they would have seized him by now.  Had everyone run over to the first hole, where he had fallen in?  Was there no one to help him?

      The tweenager clenched every muscle in his small body and locked his arms, surging upwards, breaching the water like a trout leaping for a fly.  Water cascaded down him.  For a moment he teetered on the edge of the lip of earth, then his strength failed and he began to sink down.   His sodden clothes seemed to weigh tons, and there was a straggling weight dragging at his throat.  He had time for only one weak, gasping cry before he was sucked back under.

      But the intake of air galvanized him for another effort and he firmly pushed the fear to the back of his mind.  He found himself scrabbling back towards light and life, hands and feet dog-paddling as he struggled upwards, fighting to stay to the slower moving edge of the swift current as Merry had taught him, so long ago when they had played and swam in the Brandywine. This might be his only chance.  His heart sank within him as the light was masked.  But no – he hadn’t yet been dragged under the rocky shelf.  Wavering, half-seen forms obscured the light – blurry forms that resolved themselves into his kin and friends.  With a dull slapping sound, Pippin felt himself forced back marginally as a large object impacted the water.  There was just enough filtered light to see Legolas as the Elf twisted in the water, probably held by Strider and the others.

     Legolas’ eyes forced themselves open and his far-seeing gaze pierced the murk.  Pippin was out of the direct light but the Elf’s eyes found him anyway.  Pippin saw them widen as he was spotted, then Legolas’ long arms were reaching for him.  Pippin paddled forward with all of his remaining strength, pulling with one torn hand along the wall of the tunnel, stroking with the other, kicking determinedly with all of the Tookish stubbornness he had in him.  Then he felt his fingers brush those of the Elf’s. The current pulled at him pitilessly as he struggled nearer just a bit more, just a bit, and Legolas would have him, he would be saved…

      But it was too far. Too far.  Legolas tried to thrust himself forward, and Pippin saw his friend’s face twist in pain as the grip at his knees must have been tightened.  Yet still he stretched himself and Pippin felt hope kindle in him as slender hands clasped his fingers.  A great bubble of air escaped him in a sob.  The tweenager scrabbled desperately at the hands but neither of them could gain a purchase.  His last sight as the icy waters bore him away into cold darkness was of the Elf’s anguished face as Legolas was dragged back up into the light.

* TBC *

Chapter 55:  Aftermath

       Pippin’s strangled cry of warning whipped Merry’s head up and his eyes focused on the burgundy-cloaked blur of motion that was his little cousin hurling himself at Legolas, who for the briefest second was suddenly falling forward into the swift stream.  The young hobbit bounded upright just in time to see Pippin’s dirty feet disappearing into the icy water instead of the Elf.  Legolas was now falling backwards, away from the rushing water, his long arms scrabbling in the air trying vainly to catch his little cousin’s flailing feet.  Off-balance and stunned by the impact of Pippin’s leap shoving him bodily to safety, the Elf crashed into Merry just as the hobbit leaped forward, carrying them down hard to the rocky earth, knocking the breath from them both.

       “Pippin!”  Merry’s own shriek brought the other three at a run, Aragorn easily outdistancing Frodo and Sam.  The Ranger’s gaze darted about frantically, seeking the tweenager.  Gasping for air, Merry rolled out from underneath the Elf and hurled himself at the opening.  He grasped the rocky shelf of earth and would have thrown himself in, but unyielding arms restrained him.  He tried to tear himself free, throwing himself from side to side.  “Let me go!  Pippin!  Pippin!”

      A smaller set of hands locked around his ankles and a heartbeat later, another weight slammed down on the back of his legs.  Frantic, Merry kicked like a stranded fish, and dimly he felt the backs of his heels impact on someone’s chin and heard a grunt.  He felt vaguely sorry, but it didn’t matter.  Only Pippin mattered and Pippin was drowning.  Words were being shouted at him – Frodo’s voice, shrill with terror, Aragorn roaring, but he had no time to listen and paid them no heed.  With desperate strength, he jackknifed his body and pushed backward, foiling the restraining arms.  Free at last, he flung himself down at the water’s edge and sucked in a great breath of air before throwing himself in. 

      A hand clamped on his shoulder with bruising force, preventing him, then slid off to support Legolas as he knelt beside him, still gasping, elven-eyes focusing on the water.  “Hold!” ordered the Elf.  “Will you go foolishly after him into the dark?  Let me look.”   Merry stilled, fighting to understand the Elf’s words, his mind struggling to overrule blind panic. 

      The sun shone over their shoulders, reflecting into the water and turning the waters black, like ink poured into a bowl.  Legolas could not see Pippin.  Nothing could be seen in that murk save the white foam of the current that danced in the middle of the swift-moving stream. 

      Merry had come to that same conclusion.  Coherent thought was returning; somehow around the screams of unbearable terror drilling through the fire-shot darkness in his mind, he was already evaluating how best to go after Pippin.  He would swim faster unburdened.  Struggling up to his knees, he tore off his cloak and jacket then ripped the buttons off his waistcoat as he shrugged it off.  Before he could kick himself off the ledge, a huge hand caught him at the scruff of the neck and hoisted him unceremoniously into the air.

      “Merry, no!”  Aragorn’s voice was hoarse, straining.  “You would have no more chance than Pippin.  Let Legolas try!”  Merry fought him, rabbit-kicking, twisting in his grasp like an eel, then suddenly went limp.  Aragorn dropped him, fearful that he had been too rough.  But no, even in his terror Merry had realized the wisdom of Aragorn’s words, unwillingly admitting that the Elf had more chance of success than he.  He was quite unaware of Frodo and Sam, each now clutching one of his arms, both supporting and restraining him.  Legolas was stretched out at the opening, his cheek pressed to rocky ground, fishing about in the icy water with his long arm.  Merry crouched down by Legolas’ head, unaware of the whimpering cries dying in his throat or the tears streaming down his cheeks, and watched as the Elf’s shoulder thrashed back and forth, frantically searching for Pippin.

     Then the Elf was shaking his head.  “I do not feel him!  He should be rising to the surface, even with the current.”

      “The current!”  Frodo’s voice was still shrill, the words breathy as if he could not get enough air.  “He’s too small to fight it!  It would push –”

      Legolas was already moving.  The Elf was speeding to the second opening when a choked gasp burst from the gap that lay ahead of him, and something dark and featureless exploded from the water.  Pippin’s soaked head rose above the surface, the water streaming from it in such cascades that he was difficult to recognize.  His sodden clothing was heavy and clung to him, turning him into a featureless dark mass.  Desperately his small hands scrabbled at the ground but found no purchase.  Legolas saw torn and bleeding hands dig into the ground seeking an anchor – a rock, a root – anything to hold him – but they found nothing.  With a sobbing cough, the little one was pulled back under the water.

      The Elf leapt the last few meters, flying above the ground as if he had grown wings, his arms extending to grasp Pippin before he could be pulled away.  His impact on the hard earth sent a tremor through it that those equally desperate but less quick could feel.  Aragorn was mere steps behind.  He also threw himself full-length onto his stomach, his arms locking around the Elf’s knees, his hands catching his own upper arms with bruising force, holding on to the other with a death grip.  Aragorn and Legolas did not discuss their course of action; they had traveled together many times and no words were needed between them.  The Ranger dug the toes of his boots into the rocky soil and a moment later, felt three small sets of hands latch onto his leather coat and add their weight to his.

      Legolas did not look behind him.  Trusting to those who anchored him, the Elf raised himself up on his hands and threw himself forward.  His entire body to the waist went into the freezing river.  The shock of the icy water drove a gasp from him, then he closed his mouth and concentrated on not wasting what remained of his air.  The Elf’s calves and feet clamped against his chest, Aragorn closed his eyes against the sudden intolerable strain as the swift current caught Legolas.  If the current were so fierce as to almost tear Legolas from his grasp, little Pippin would have almost no chance.  Aragorn refused to think of that and concentrated instead on the desperate task of keeping hold of Legolas.  He thought his shoulders would be jerked from their sockets.  But Aragorn held, and the small hands holding them both safe held also. 

     Legolas inched forward like a caterpillar and the others scooted forward aswell to accommodate his unspoken demand.  They could see nothing past where the water swallowed the Elf at his waist; the water was utterly dark and the Elf’s frantic movements were obscuring their view.  Then they felt a violent tremor quake through the lashing body beneath them and the Elf surged forward again.  Ignoring the screaming agony of his shoulders, Aragorn loosened his grip around the Elf’s knees and controlled the slender legs as they slid through his grasp.  His hands caught on Legolas’ ankles with a jerk that dragged them all forward nearly half a meter before the hobbits could dig in their toes and find purchase on the rocky ground.

      Were he not an Elf, Legolas would never have been able to see the flicker of shadow and movement under the rocky shelf that was the young hobbit’s  struggling form.  Unmindful of his own safety, Legolas twisted sideways in the water and thrust one arm forward, the hold on his legs a distant and unimportant thing.  He could see Pippin distinctly now, his clear eyes piercing the lightless water like sunbeams through a cloud.  He could see the little one’s white face, cheeks puffed with the gasp of air he had managed, little bubbles trailing from his tight-clenched mouth.  The little one was kicking, those overlarge feet serving well as paddles. He was fighting hard against the relentless current.  The youngster’s green-gold eyes looked black in the shadowed darkness, staring and terrified. Those eyes widened as he caught sight of the Elf, and Legolas could see the little one’s desperate plea for help in them.  Pippin reached out a straining arm and Legolas did the same, stretching every muscle of his long body to make contact

      Aragorn responded to the shift of muscles, rolling up into a sitting position with his hands tight on Legolas’ ankles, digging in the heels of his boots.  How long had Legolas been under?  Pippin had been under even longer, and his lungs were so much smaller than the Elf’s…  Sam and Frodo darted around him and placed themselves against his shoulders, their chests against his, short legs braced against the dragging force of the water.  Merry hesitated for a moment, uncertain what hold would do the most good, then fastened his hands on Aragorn’s leather collar, much as the Man had restrained him from following Pippin.  Merry dug his feet into the loose soil, seeking rock to brace them both.  Distractedly, Aragorn registered the blood dripping down Sam’s chin, bright rivulets of red smearing his jacket and shirt.  Sam’s eyes were clenched shut as he pushed and Aragorn wondered if the hobbit even was aware that his teeth must have bitten through his lower lip when Merry had kicked him in his frantic struggles.  Then there was no more time for observation as a shudder and twist of the Elf’s body demanded even more leeway.

      Legolas paid no heed to the iron grip upon him; his attention was focused on the small form that battled to reach him.   Another effort to gain a few more inches made Legolas’ face twist in pain but he was not aware of it.  And that effort had results - Legolas felt small fingers brush against his hand.  Impossibly, the Elf reached further and felt his fingers lock around a small hand.  Just a little farther, little one, the Elf prayed.  Please, dear heart, just a little more…  But the hand was sliding – he could not hold it.  The current was too strong.  Oh, Elbereth, please!  He clamped his fingers down on the little hand but it was gone.  Gone.  He slumped in defeat, out of air and out of hope.  Then the current was pressing even more forcefully upon him, and he realized he was being drawn backwards.  Legolas tried to resist the force pulling him up but he could not refuse it.  His last sight before being hauled up on the rocky shelf was of his little rescuer’s terrified face as it grew smaller and smaller and was lost to sight in the icy murk.  Then Legolas’ own world grew smaller and smaller, and finally disappeared entirely.

* * * * *

      “Legolas!”  Someone slapped his face and from a far away place, the Elf tried to protest such treatment.  He slurred something, the meaning of which even he did not recognize, and managed to drag his eyes half-open.  His limbs seemed to weigh as much as the very mountains and would not respond to his wishes.  He shook his head weakly to indicate his return to awareness.  When the hand holding him upright released him, he promptly fell over onto his side.

      Hands propped him up again.  More of them this time.  “Legolas!  Wake up!”

      Legolas would have liked to inform this discourteous person that he was awake, thank you, but his tongue would not cooperate.  To his mortification, what emerged from his mouth sounded more like, “Imwak, ‘Gorn, stopslpmui” instead of “I am awake, Aragorn, stop slapping me.”  Thankfully that evidently satisfied the Man, for Aragorn sat back on his heels and waited for the Elf to focus. 

     Shivering, Legolas realized how very cold he was.  That realization brought to his attention that he had been stripped of his clothing and was sitting wrapped in every blanket their small company possessed.  A fire crackled merrily in front of him and he leaned closer to its heat.  He was being supported by something warm pressed against his sides and looked down and around to see a dark head and a bright gold one against him.  Slowly it came to his blurred mind that the halflings were crouched against him to keep him upright.  How very undignified.

     Samwise crossed into his vision, dumping another armload of wood near the fire, the hobbit’s grey eyes looking at him worriedly.   There was blood on Sam’s face and splattered on his shirt.  Legolas stared blankly, unable to comprehendthe blood, or the unnatural silence.  He should at least be able to hear Pippin chattering. The youngest hobbit was rarely silent.  A silent Pippin was no doubt a Pippin getting into trouble.  Someone should be looking after him.  Someone should…  Someone…

     The Elf’s ragged cry brought Aragorn’s hands to his face again, but this time in comfort.  “I could not hold him,” Legolas said wildly, his own long hands batting at the Man’s.  “I had him – our fingers touched – but I could not hold – the current -” 

     “Shush,” the Ranger said softly in tones one would use to reassure a child.  “You did your best.  No one blames you.  You did all you could.”  More words poured from Aragorn’s lips, but Legolas could not grasp them.  He stared blankly at his friend’s moving mouth, then looked down at the two curly heads at his sides.  They had not moved away when he regained consciousness, but neither did they lift their faces to look at him.  Both small bodies were trembling, and he knew it was not because they were cold.  Abruptly, Legolas wished for the first time in his long life that Elves were not immortal.  Pippin had drowned saving him, and through all the ages to come never would he forget the littlest hobbit’s sacrifice.

      The calling of his name brought his attention back to his friend.  Aragorn was looking at him anxiously.  “Legolas, are you listening?  I said, we must not give up hope.”  What was the Man talking about?  His words made no sense.  Aragorn had not seen the look in Pippin’s eyes as the young one was swept away from rescue.  He had not been the one to fail the youngling.  He heard a sob and realized it was his own.

      “Legolas!”  The Elf jerked under the whip in the Ranger’s voice.  Startled, his eyes came up to meet the Man’s.   “We will stay here a little longer until you are warmed.  Then we will go to where the stream surfaces and empties itself…”  Aragorn hesitated, his eyes traveling to the silent hobbits.   “Empties itself,” he continued more slowly, “into one of the great waterfalls that flows from the mountains into Imladris.”

      On his left Legolas felt Merry stiffen.  He felt a shudder at his other side and the Ringbearer raised his dark head.  The hobbit’s blue irises had been almost completely eclipsed by the black pupils, making Frodo’s eyes appear staring and blind.  “Do you mean to say that … Pippin…”  Frodo paused, then swallowed.  “That Pippin’s … that his … body might … be swept into Rivendell?  Before we get back?”

     Aragorn dropped from a crouch onto one knee before the lost one’s eldest cousin.  “Frodo,” he said carefully, “I will not mourn Pippin until I hold his body in my arms.  Until then, I will believe that he is alive.  Perhaps we will find him along the banks of the stream after it has surfaced.”   Frodo looked up at him, and slowly, a single tear welled in those agonized eyes and ran down his pallid cheek.  Aragorn watched it fall.  The Man’s hands cupped the hobbit’s face, more gently than he had the Elf’s.  “Do not despair yet, Frodo.  I have seen many wonders and marvels in all the years I have wandered the Wild, but never have I seen a wonder equaling a hobbit’s ability to bounce back from unhappy chance.”

      “Unhappy chance?”  Merry spat the words out.  Aragorn was startled by the acrimony in the hobbit’s gaze.  Merry’s blue eyes blazed, his face twisted in anger and grief and something else.  “You call drowning in some unknown river, far from his home unhappy chance?”  Abruptly the hobbit stood, causing Legolas to list sideways at the sudden removal of support. 

      “Merry,” Aragorn said, unsure of the reason for the young hobbit’s rage. 

     “Unhappy chance?”  Merry was fair shouting, evidently unaware of the tears that had begun to spill from his eyes.  “It anyone had to go into that river, it should have been me!  I was the one who wanted to know what some stupid thing was under the rock shelf.  Legolas wouldn’t near have fallen in if I hadn’t begged him to get it for me, and Pippin would never have had to do what he did to save him.  We are lucky that they did not both drown because of my foolishness!  It’s my fault, for always having to know everything.  I should have been keeping an eye on Pippin, not worrying about some useless rock!  I should have kept him farther away.  I failed him.  I…”

     Frodo squeezed Legolas’ arm gently to make sure the Elf was steady, then rose and wrapped his arms around his younger cousin.  Merry fell silent and turning suddenly, buried his head into Frodo’s shoulder.  “Come on, lad,” the elder whispered to the younger, “let’s go talk for a bit, you and I.”  Aragorn watched sadly as Frodo led his cousin some distance away, and saw them sink to the ground behind what privacy a few small boulders could afford.  Merry lay his head in Frodo’s lap, his shoulders shaking violently as Frodo stroked his hair.  Frodo leaned over him, whispering to him softly as tears shimmered again in his own eyes and fell glistening into Merry’s curls.  Sam watched them, grief marring his gentle features, and fear for what Merry’s wrongful blame of himself might result in.  He closed his eyes against the prickling of yet more tears and vowed to keep a close eye on the young hobbit.

      Legolas was dressed and standing, if weaving slightly, when the hobbits returned.  The Elf appeared still somewhat in shock, his usually clear gaze unfocused and muddy.  He kept staring at his hands and there were telltale tear-tracks on his pale face.  Frodo guided Merry over to his pack and helped him shoulder it, exchanging a worried, weary look with Sam that rent Aragorn’s heart.     Merry did not look up; his eyes remaining fixed on the ground.  Sam had packed up the blankets and put out the fire and readied the packs, including Aragorn’s and Legolas’, all in a flurry of activity that Aragorn knew was meant to stave off too much thought. The little gardener had placed Pippin’s pack next to his own, but when Aragorn reached for it, Merry knocked his hand away and snatched up the pack, hugging it to himself as if it were the most precious thing in the world. 

     The Ranger had spent the last few minutes immersed in thought, interspersed with curses at himself for using the fireworks Gandalf had given him.  Had he foolishly wasted them on amusing young hobbits instead of saving them to signal for help in an emergency?  But then he remembered how Pippin’s eyes had reflected the falling stars of fire, and how the young one had laughed, throwing himself back against the earth and crowing in sheer delight.  Never had he seen the small hobbit happier and more filled with joy.  No.  No help could possibly have arrived in time to prevent this disaster, or to save Pippin when they themselves could not.  His last thought, before the grieving party moved out, was that he was glad he had set off the fireworks after all.

* TBC *

Chapter 56:  Two Discoveries

       The survivors of the walking party traveled slowly, their feet unwilling to carry them forward to the confirmation of their worst fear.  Merry walked with his head down, so grief stricken and seemingly unaware of his surroundings that had he not been protectively placed between Frodo and Sam, he could have easily wandered off.  He clutched Pippin’s pack to him as though it were his only anchor on reality. The small party relied on Legolas’ ears and Aragorn’s eyes to guide them, following the route of the underground tributary as it flowed downstream.  The swift waters stayed very close to the surface and in a few places broke ground.  These openings the Ranger and Elf examined intently, but they always shook their heads and motioned the subdued hobbits onward.

       Their pace quickened and Merry’s head came up when the increased volume of the waters announced its exit onto open ground, spilling forth from the rocky tunnel with a great rushing roar, widening broadly.  Before Aragorn could call them back, the hobbits ran down to the foaming waters, beginning to search frantically among the rocks and eddies.  Even Sam, who feared rivers with all of his heart.

      “Be careful!” Aragorn cautioned them, “The rocks are slippery!” The hobbits paid him little heed. They scrambled among the great boulders lining the bank, over and under the waterlogged and rotting fallen trees, looking into every little space that might shield a small, injured form.  Watching his cousin covertly, Frodo quailed at the desperation in Merry’s eyes.  By worrying about Merry, Frodo could manage, for a time, to divert his grief for Pippin.  Frodo told himself firmly, that like Aragorn, he would not mourn Pippin until he held the lad’s body in his arms.  He refused to think his little cousin dead – he could not.  A world without that sharp face and perpetual motion and overflowing joy was inconceivable.  Inconceivable.  So Frodo turned his thoughts to Merry and refused to consider the alternative.  Since his cousin had wept in his lap, Merry had not spoken.  None of the party had been very talkative, but Merry’s absolute silence was frightening.

       Sam paused, panting, gripping tight to a rocky outcropping to steady himself.  He had just climbed down into a little hollow between two fallen logs, despite thinking the space was too small to hide a cat.  But he could not leave it unsearched.  Pippin was small for his age; no telling where the youngster could end up.  Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he raised his head to locate the others.  Odd that no one’s calling for the lad, Sam thought. Then he realized with a sudden shock, No, it isn’t.  They all think he’s dead.  Sod that!  Sam inhaled deeply and bellowed, “Master Pippin!   Pippin!”

      Frodo and Merry jerked visibly to hear Sam’s shout.  Legolas and Aragorn looked at him as if he had gone mad, but Sam determinedly ignored them.  After a few moments, Frodo’s voice joined his.  “Pippin!  Pip-lad!  Answer me!”  Merry remained silent, too afraid of shouting and receiving only stillness as a reply.

       Aragorn and Legolas called and searched also, able to climb upon higher rocks and look between boulders where the hobbits could not reach.  It was Legolas who made the grim discovery.  They heard him utter a strangled cry and all looked over to see him stoop down for something hidden by the rocks.  “Aragorn!” he called.  “Aragorn!”

      Almost before he could straighten with his find the walking party had converged upon him.  In Legolas’ hands dripped Pippin’s burgundy cloak, sadly torn and slashed by the river.  He handed it to Aragorn wordlessly.  One end dragged oddly, and with a frown, Aragorn shook out the sodden cloth and pulled open the hood. 

       Something glistening fell from the hood into the sand, something long and spike-shaped.  It was fully as long as a Man’s arm, wrist to elbow, and milky white yet occluded with all the colors of the rainbow.  The rounded base was broader and rougher than the tip, and the tip itself narrowed to a sharp point, sharp enough to draw blood.  Aragorn was glad he had not closed his hand upon it.

       When no one else made a move to pick it up, Sam finally did.  The stocky hobbit turned it over in his hands, tracing the play of iridescence across it with a calloused thumb.  “What’s this, then?” he asked.

      “Legolas…” murmured Aragorn, reaching hesitantly for the object.  Sam surrendered it to him, a puzzled frown on his face.  “Is this what you were trying to work free for Merry?”

       The Elf gave a single nod, but, strangely, did not seek to touch the spike.  He was staring at it, transfixed.  “Only once before have I seen one.  It was smaller than this…  Never before have I touched one.  When I was very young, one was presented to my royal father as a gift from a sycophant who desired a great boon from him.  I have never forgotten the excitement of that day.  It was taken immediately and locked in the treasure-vault.  Such things are no longer found discarded in Middle-earth; any that were ever found were taken and hoarded long ago.”

      “It is what I think it is, then?” asked Aragorn softly.  “I have but seen illustrations in Elrond’s books.”  He laid it reverently in the Elf’s hands, and Legolas slowly slid his fingers over it, brushing the clinging mud from the spike.  The hobbits crowded closer, even Merry, their grief momentarily lessened by their curiosity.

       “It is told that the greater ones shed them and grew new ones to replace those lost.  The discarded ones still carried some of their owner’s power, and could be used for many things by lesser beings.”  Legolas turned the spike over in his hands, marveling.  “There is no way to tell which shed this, or how it became lodged in the earth above the river.  Possibly it was just let fall, unneeded and unwanted, and the drifting earth covered it as the long ages passed.”

       To Merry’s surprise, the Elf turned to him and laid it carefully in his hands.  Merry looked at it blankly.  Seeing that the hobbit did not understand, Legolas crouched gracefully before him until they were eye-to-eye.  “Merry,” Legolas said, “it is a dragon’s tooth.”

       The hobbit stared down at the priceless, beautiful thing out of legend, coveted by powerful kings and great lords.  He held it carefully but without the reverence shown by the two Big People.  Then he raised his head and the look on his face said more clearly than any words that Pippin’s life was worth more than all of the teeth of all of the dragons that ever were.  Still without speaking, he unslung his little cousin’s pack from his shoulder and laid the tooth amongst the carelessly wadded and battered clothing.  Turning away from the others, Merry continued searching. 

* * * * *                  

      Even as the icy waters bore him away from Legolas’ outstretched arm, Pippin continued to fight.  The very strength of the current helped him in keeping his face turned up in the underground river’s rocky tunnel, though a heaviness strove to pull his head down and back into the water.  Again and again the relentless water pushed him under, but more often the pressure of the water against his small body kept him from sinking.  His hands scrabbled at the rocky tunnel above him, to keep his face from scraping against it, and trying to catch a rock or root or something to hold on to, to at least allow him to breathe at intervals and gather his wits.  He no longer felt the pain of his torn and bloodied hands; he no longer felt his hands at all.

      He found that if he stretched out his arms straight ahead and slightly above his head, he would have a moment’s notice of the approach of an air pocket, giving him time to thrust his face up and snatch a breath or two hanging on for the briefest instant.  Twice his arms encountered large gaps in the rocky earth but before his mind could register them, he was past the openings in the earth that would have allowed him escape from the river.

      If this continued much longer, he would not drown.  No, he would freeze to death instead.  Not only was it harder to hold his arms ahead of his head, but he cared less about doing so.  Pippin’s mind was shutting down, lulled by the darkness and cold and the press of the water upon him.  He no longer felt terror, felt pain.  He did not feel much of anything, other than regret for the grief his death would cause Merry and Frodo and his family.  Soon he did not feel even that.

     So it was that he did not immediately notice when the pressure upon him changed, lessened.  He had become no more than the discarded twig that he had raced, laughing, only to lose his bet and forfeit his blackberries to Frodo.  Like that twig, he swirled around in the water, head tilted back and rump raised to level his body, no longer remembering of the reason for it.

      Gradually he became aware that he was not being pushed along at such great speed.  Then he noticed that the unyielding blackness was no longer absolute.  Rather, he could see grayish shapes above him; indistinct forms that resolved into roots and the bottom of the earth.  The underground river was rushing out toward the open air.  Swiftly he shot out into bright sunlight and the sudden light hurt and dazzled his eyes. But he was free of the tunnel!  Some small flicker of defiance awoke in his breast and railed against his fate.  For the first time in several minutes, Pippin was not content to be carried along.  He inhaled deeply and choked, the convulsion causing him to lose his balance in the water.  Half-turning on his side, he sank and water closing over his head awoke instinct.  Pippin thrashed leaden limbs, then forced them into an awkward dog-paddle.

     It was almost more than he could manage to raise his dripping head above the water.  He could see no escape when he did; the rocky tunnel had given way to large smooth rocks and boulders on both sides of the water.  Water glistened on them, making the colors richer and more vibrant.  He could not hope to climb the slippery rocks.  That realization momentarily made his body forget its task and he went down again, thrashing uselessly until he could find his rhythm again.

     His clothes were dragging at him and the weight of his cloak against his throat was torture.  He tugged at the clasp but his fingers tangled in his scarf and he could not tell by feel which was cloak and which was scarf.  His fingers would not work properly.  Desperate, he hooked his hand underneath the clasp and jerked hard, choking himself.  But the weight came free.  He gave no more thought to the cloak as he needed that hand for paddling.  Continuing to be pushed downstream Pippin stroked for the side of the tributary, where he knew the waters would be more sluggish.  Even if he could not climb out, perhaps he could cling to a rock to keep from drowning.

      The current did not want to give him up.  Pippin felt as if he was pushing against an invisible wall, and it took many minutes and nearly the last of his strength to thrust himself from the center of the river to the sides.  Water moved more slowly at the sides of a river; Merry had taught him that.  

     He saw the low boulder coming at him but had no strength or time to avoid it.  He tried to back-paddle but only succeeded in turning himself vertically in the foaming water.  Pippin crashed into the boulder with his right shoulder leading.  His head snapped sideways on his neck then slammed forward against the rock, and the world went gray and dim.  With the last of his strength, he clung to the half submerged rock and managed to struggle out of the foaming water to lay on the rock like a piece of jetsam discarded by the river

* * * * *

     “What is it?”

     “I do not know.  It looks somewhat like one of Lord Elrond’s halfling guests.”

     “It is very muddy.”  This observation was accompanied by the feeling of large, warm hands easing his arms out of his sodden jacket and gently untying the scarf from around his neck.

     “And almost frozen, and wet and hurt.  Will you hurry up with that fire?”  Fire.  Pippin’s mind fastened onto that word and hung on like grim death.

     “Perhaps it is a kelpie.”  His shirt and breeches followed his jacket, then his underthings.  Pippin would have protested, but he felt so lethargic.  It was difficult to pay attention to what these Big People were saying.

     “In Imladris?  These are Lord Elrond’s lands.  The Fairy-Folk do not walk here uninvited.”

     “I think it is a kelpie.  It carries a fairy-stone in its pocket ... though why one of the Fairy Folk would wish to guard against their own illusions I do not know.”  A blanket was wrapped around him, and Pippin sighed in relief at its soft warmth.  Then the hands moved up to his hair and face, something spongy cleaning away the mud.  “Why would one of the Fey water-folk choose to travel a river in such an unsuitable form?”

      “A kelpie would not do so.  I do not think it is one of the Fairy-Folk.  It is too large for any of the Fey that I know of.  And not very fair.”

     Pippin took exception to that.  No one would be very fair after tromping through the Wild for several days, forced to forage for bits of questionable food under threat of starvation, being attacked by Men, then terrorized by a wild pig, then falling into an underground river and being carried who knows how far from one’s companions.  It was most unjust.

     “Uupp-ahobick,” he protested.

     Silence above him.  Then, “What did it say?”

     “I believe it said, ‘uup-a-kick’.”

      More silence.  “Is that a threat of some kind?  It does have large feet.”

      “I’m a hobbit,” Pippin repeated.  From the continued silence, he could tell they doubted that.

      Then one said, “Like Master Bilbo?   Lord Elrond’s friend?”  Pippin nodded wearily.  There was another swift exchange above him, then he felt the soft cloth continue its washing, stroking over the rest of him and wiping off the mud.  “Are you one of the halflings that arrived with the Ringbearer?”

      “Yes,” whispered Pippin.  “He’s my cousin.  Bilbo, too.  And Merry…  Sam isn’t but he almost is.  A cousin, I mean…  I have rather too many cousins, I think sometimes, but -”

     “Hush,” said the other softly and Pippin fell silent, too tired to clarify his confused and confusing answer.  He really should open his eyes.  Rather rude of him not to.  With a great effort, he dragged them open.  The setting sun slanting over the two figures’ shoulders dazzled him, and he could see nothing but vague dark forms outlined by brilliant shimmers of light.  It must be almost evening … how long had he been unconscious?

       One of the forms sat back on its haunches and regarded him doubtfully.  “Greetings, little one,” it said at last, and Pippin felt a cool hand stroke along his brow.  It explored the side of his head and the tweenager gasped, pain flashing through him like fire.  “Oh, I am sorry!” murmured the voice, then the gentle hand was stoking his hair, easing away the pain.

      Pippin knew of only one person whose gentle hands could stroke away hurt aside from his Merry.  “You’re an Elf,” he managed to whisper.  “Why does my head hurt so?”

      He thought one of the figures looked up at the other but it was difficult to tell in the misty darkness.  “Because you have a nasty gash in it, little one.  You barely missed losing an ear. You were very lucky.  If my friend and I had not found you, you might have bled to death or died of exposure upon that rock.”  A shadowy hand motioned to the side, and Pippin became aware of the muted roar of the river.  It had been there since he awoke, he realized, but it was so familiar that it seemed almost a part of him.  He had certainly swallowed enough of it.

      He should stand and bow, Pippin thought, and introduce himself properly.  Frodo would be horrified at his lack of manners.  Merry would box his ears.  Both of them, Pippin thought, and giggled.

      “I think it is going back to sleep.  Can you stay awake, little one?  We must know where you belong if we to help you.”

      “Legolas calls me that,” murmured Pippin.  He could feel the fire now; it must be a miniature bonfire from the amount of heat it was putting out.  It felt good.  His entire body ached, and his head felt as if the skin were too small.  He was so very sleepy…

      There was a quick exchange in Elvish above him that he could not hope to follow, even had he understood more than a few words of the language.  “Legolas Greenleaf?” asked one of the voices.  “The Prince of Mirkwood?”

     “That’s him,” Pippin replied with a dragging effort.  “He’s an Elf, too, you know.  He and Strider are friends. They took us to see the geyser.  Strider’s my friend, too, they both are, and Merry’s and Frodo and Sam.  Legolas…” Pippin paused, aware that he was rambling, and not making much sense while he was doing it.

      Gentle hands cupped his face and turned his head sideways to examine his head.  Pippin whimpered incoherently, and the hands paused to caress his face, cool and soothing.  “Go to sleep, little one,” the kind voice whispered.  “You have told us what we needed to know.  We will talk when you are better.”  With a sigh, Pippin did.

* * * * *

      When next he awoke, it was deep night, for the misty murkiness had evolved into true darkness.  Pippin could not even see the stars.  His hurts had diminished to a dull throb that echoed throughout his body with every beat of his heart.  His head hurt the most, a sharp, burning pain like a brand had been inserted through the back of his neck and angled up to his eyes. 

      Pippin didn’t remember the previous night being so dark.  Odd.  The clouds must be so thick that they hid all the light given off by the heavens.  Last night wasn’t so unrelievedly black.  No, he clearly remembered the stars shining through the smoke of the fireworks, winking and clear and cold as the rocket-sparks were hot and sparkling.  Never would he forget thatsight.  A firework from Gandalf that had been all his own, made especially for him!  And the others had been amazing too. So very beautiful...  He smiled in remembrance, then grimaced as swollen skin pulled.  “Ow,” he murmured, allowing himself the smallest of complaints.

      Immediately there was a rustle of cloth and the sensation of movement at his side.  “Good morning, little one,” a cheerful voice said.  “Are you feeling better?”

      “Yes, thank you,” Pippin replied, struggling to focus on something.  “Please forgive me – I did not give you my name.  I am Peregrin Took, son of Paladin, at your service … or rather, in your debt.  But everyone calls me Pippin.”

      A hand was checking the bandage that had been wrapped about his head at some point.  Pippin craned his neck obediently to the side in response to a gentle push.  His hands were wrapped, too, and the bandages felt as if they were wound too tightly.  “It is our pleasure to meet you, Peregrin son of Paladin.  I am Brendion and this, my companion Granlion.  We are scouts sent out from Imladris, and are returning with news for our lord.”  The hand stroked his hair again, and Pippin sighed in relief; the gentle hand seemed to contain in it some ability to lessen his pain.  “And now, it seems,” the voice continued with a smile lurking in it, “we shall take back to our lord more than mere news.”

      Pippin started to shake his head, found that to be a very bad idea, and immediately stopped.  Brendion probably wouldn’t have seen the gesture in such dark as this anyway, not even with Elf-eyes.  “Oh, no, I can’t go with you.  I have to find Merry and Frodo and Sam and Legolas and Aragorn.”

     “Aragorn?”  This was the other voice, and Pippin turned his head towards it. The fire burned warmer on his face on this side, and he caught the herbal scent of tea of some sort.

     “Aragorn son of Arathorn,” supplied the tweenager helpfully.  “He’s in charge of our walking party.  Well, when we let him be.  He’s quite nice, really, but he doesn’t play fair in riddle-games.”  He paused and resisted the urge to rub his throbbing ear.  “They will be terribly worried about me, Merry especially.”

      The Elves digested this in silence.  Pippin was quiet, too, trying to work around his aching head and pin down what was bothering him.  Something was wrong, very, very wrong. He could feel the fire on his face, smell the tea brewing, and Brendion had said …he had said… Then after a long, dreadful moment, he whispered, “Morning?”

      Movement above his head, and Pippin felt a slight breeze pass over his cheeks.   “How many fingers am I holding up, little … I mean, Pippin?”

      Pippin stared before him.  Suddenly his heart rose in his throat and he lashed out with a small arm.  His hand slapped against something before his face and Pippin clutched, feeling leather and soft-woven cloth in his hand.  A wrist, then a hand with long, slender fingers.  But his eyes saw nothing before him but deepest night.

* * * * *

     “He is sleeping again,” Granlion murmured, sinking down cross-legged to sit next to his scouting-partner.  “He is very frightened.”

     “So would I be, if I found my sight was gone,” Brendion returned, stirring the fire.  The Elves had offered the little creature journey-bread and strips of salted meat, but he had refused all food, curling up into a ball and sobbing piteously.  Granlion had tried to comfort the little one, but he had only curled up tighter and cried for “Merry,” hiccupping and choking so that it was impossible to make out more.  That had helped neither Pippin’s eyes nor his head, and pain and residual shock had finally driven him to find surcease in sleep.

     “There is no doubt that this little one is one of our lord’s guests?” asked Brendion. 

     “No doubt.  He is kin to the Ringbearer.  I do think I remember seeing him, briefly, during the execution of a … small wager I placed with Raolilth.”

    Brendion smiled, his fair features lightening.  “I remember.  Lord Elrond declared all of the wagers void, as I recall.”

    “I am greatly pleased to hear this young one say that the Ringbearer is well enough to travel to see the geyser,” Granlion replied, adroitly changing the subject.  “Do you not think we should take Pippin back to them?”

      “We have our own duties, Granlion,” the senior Elf reminded the junior.  “And in any case, having lost this small one, Estel will lead them back by the straightest route.  If we ride hard, we can finish and perhaps arrive in Imladris not long after them.”

      “I sorrow to think of Estel mourning this little one as dead,” Granlion said softly.  “But I agree that we cannot abandon our responsibilities to search for his party to return Pippin.”  Both Elves were silent then, until Pippin drew them to him with soft cries when he opened his eyes and could still see only darkness.

* TBC *

Chapter 57:  Decisions To Be Made

      “Is there nothing we can do?” asked Granlion.  The Elven scout’s eyes were anguished as he rocked the small body in his arms carefully.  Pippin slept now, worn out with sobbing and terror.  Bruises were blossoming all along his body, deep purple-black blotches that gave silent testimony to many unfelt (at the time) collisions with the rough sides of the rock tunnel.

      “I am not a healer,” returned Brendion.  “He has no broken bones, and naught to show for this morning’s adventure but scrapes and bruises, and that deep gash over his ear.  That is the cause of his blindness, I fear.”

      “How so?”  Granlion kept his voice soft and soothing, the light, warm monotone betraying none of his anxiousness.

     Brendion reached across and ran his fingers lightly just above the bandaged side of the young hobbit’s head.  The bandage had been soaked in icy river-water and it felt slimy and cold.  “His skull was not broken or fractured, which is a miracle in itself.  But he took a hard blow, and there is swelling underneath the skin and I fear within the skull.  Such swelling presses against the brain, against the conductors of light and sight to the eyes.  No wonder he thought it was night when he awoke earlier and could see nothing.  Pressed too long … the damage is permanent.  It can even kill should the pressure become too great.”

      The younger Elf had no reply to that.  Instead, he held the limp form gently as Brendion re-wetted the bandage about the little one’s head, pouring onto it the still-cold water of the river from his water skin.

      “We must go,” Brendion murmured.  “We cannot linger.  If we do our last check and ride hard, we might arrive home before the sun sets on the morrow.”

      “Ride hard…” repeated Granlion.  “I fear to jostle this one too much.  We are not healers, as you said.  What if there are internal injuries?  What if there is bleeding inside the skull?”

     The senior Elf hesitated, then laid a gentle hand against Pippin’s cheek.  “I have heard our lord talk of freezing water actually reducing injury – the vessels that carry blood constrict and retard bleeding.  He seems warmer now, at least.”  Pippin snuffled in his sleep and wiggled himself closer to the warm chest against him.  Brendion’s resolve faded as a small hand emerged from the blankets and sought about in unconscious need for reassurance.  Brendion caught the seeking hand carefully in his own, avoiding the ends of the tiny fingers where the nails had been torn away.  The little hand tightened around his fingers, warm and clinging.  The Elf rubbed his thumb gently over the back of the little hand then guided it back down and under the blanket, pulling the covering up warmly to the tiny chin.  Pippin sighed, comforted, and slept on.

      “You will take him back to Imladris,” Brendion said.  “I will continue our circuit and report home upon completion.  Take Pippin to our lord – he will know what can be done to help the little one.”

      “Thank you,” whispered the younger Elf. 

      Brendion nodded shortly.  “Ride quickly, but carefully.  Tell our lord of the signs of Men we have found.”

      “I will.”  Granlion rose gracefully from his cross-legged position, cradling the sleeper in his arms.  Brendion assisted him in mounting and handed him the reins.  “Peace, my friend,” he murmured to the great Elven-charger, who had craned his long neck around curiously to examine their little passenger.  The horse bobbed his head once then stood waiting.

     “May Elbereth guide your steps and keep you safe,” said the older Elf, in benediction and in parting.  “Both of you.”

* * * * *

      Though they searched diligently, the walking party could find no further evidence of Pippin’s expulsion from the rocky tunnel in the area where his cloak and its fantastical burden had been discovered.  When he was absolutely certain that nothing more could be learned among the rocks and icy eddies, Aragorn motioned them onward.

      “Stay close to the banks, but not so close that you might fall in yourselves,” the Ranger cautioned them.  “Call me immediately if you see any sign and take care not to disturb anything that you might find.  Footprints, evidence of dragging…”  Never did Aragorn say, “or his body,” but the others heard it anyway.

      The hobbits were very quiet, without the noisy, cheerful calling back and forth by which Aragorn had learned to keep track of them.  A sharp pang of sorrow sliced through the Ranger; it was as if the loss of Pippin had hollowed out the heart of the hobbits’ company.  The Ranger reflected that he had never been truly cognizant of how that young one had formed the center of the others’ universe.  Sam keep glancing from the river to Frodo, tensing visibly when his master’s path took him close to the swift water.  Frodo was oblivious, totally focused on examining every inch of shore.  The Ranger was certain that not even an ant would escape his notice.  But it was Merry who drew his gaze and his worry the most.  The young halfling scrubbed at a steady stream of involuntary tears and if he raised his eyes at all, it was only to search the ground around him.  Legolas’ gaze followed Aragorn’s, sorrow in his starry gaze, and shook his head. 

      Again it was the Elf whose keen eyes made the discovery, ranging farther from the shores, leaving the more obvious ground for those less skilled at tracking than he.  Where the grass trailed off and surrendered to rocky sand and pebbles, Legolas knelt, his clear eyes intent.  “Aragorn!  Aragorn!”

       The hobbits and the Man converged on the Elf, both fear and hope warring in their eyes.  Legolas caught Merry before he could fling himself to the ground, lifting the trembling hobbit and gently moving him back.  “Let Aragorn look, little one,” he whispered.  After a moment, Merry nodded and let Frodo wind an arm around his waist.

       Aragorn sank to his knees before the scuffed earth, silent and rapt with attention.  Wordlessly he motioned them all back, pointing that they should stand off to the left.  “Over there,” he directed.  “We must none of us obscure the back trail.”

      “What back trail?” Sam burst out.  “Please, sir, what is it?”

       It was Legolas who answered, reassurance in his voice.  “There are two sets of prints that leave the grassy swath here and venture out towards the water.   They are slender and step lightly, hardly leaving an imprint in the grass or sand.”

      Aragorn sat back and rested his palms on his thighs, staring towards the river.  “Elves.”

      “Elrond’s folk,” murmured Legolas.  “A scouting party, perhaps?  One of those sent out to gather news of the Enemy?”

      “I would think it likely.  A scouting party, or perhaps a pleasure hunt.  Though they walk lightly, without the deeper indentation of the heels that would indicate a successful hunt.  Yes, I would think a scouting party.  Either way, they would be mounted.”

      “What has this to do with Pippin?” asked Frodo’s soft voice.

      “Perhaps nothing.  Perhaps everything.  They might have merely needed to refill their water skins, and chose a convenient place.  That low boulder we passed slows the stream and diverts the water into that little eddy.”  So saying, the Man cautioned them all to stay where they were and went to the small sandy area of shore.  They saw his back stiffen, then he sank down again and peered at the earth.

      “What?  What is it?”  This time it was Merry who spoke, the first words he had uttered since he had broken down in Frodo’s arms, hours ago.  His voice was hoarse and a world of grief was throttled down in it.

     For a moment Aragorn did not reply, his gaze traveling back up the bank.  “One set of prints wades into the water here … the second joins it, running.  See how the length between the strides of the second prints increases?”  He cast about on the shore, keen eyes searching.  “They go in, they go in … and come out … here!  Look – one of the Elves is carrying something!  See how much more deeply his feet press into the soft ground?  The sand is pushed aside and the pebbles trodden into the earth.”

       The hobbits broke from Legolas’ light grasp and ran down to him then, but Aragorn did not reprimand them.  They were careful, even in their desperate hope, and did not trample the telltale track.  Merry fell to his hands and knees, his snubbed nose bare inches from the sign, but could make little of the disturbed soil.  “Then what?  Aragorn, then what?”

       “Easy, lad,” murmured Frodo softly.

       The Ranger gently inched Merry back.  “Something was laid down here – these larger rocks have been slid out of the way.  I can make nothing of the depression but –“  Suddenly Aragorn fell silent and crouched down, his nose but inches from the ground.  The others crowded around him, except for Legolas, whose Elven-eyes spared him the need to peer so at the ground.  Small brown specks dotted some of the rocks, hardly distinguishable from flecks on the river-stones.  But when Aragorn picked one of the stones up to examine it, the tiny droplets rubbed off on his hand, leaving a smear of red.

      “Blood,” whispered Aragorn.   

      “Is it Pippin?  Is he alive?” Merry half-sobbed, rising to his knees.  Frodo crouched next to him and again slid his arm around Merry’s waist, pulling him close, and Sam placed a hand on his shoulder.

     “If what was pulled from the river was Pippin,” the Ranger said, his own words on a hobbit’s ability to ‘bounce back’ echoing through his mind, “then I would say they picked him up and would no doubt tend to him.”  As he was speaking, his eyes were roving over the rough terrain.  “There!  The prints go up back into the forest.  That will make them more difficult to track…  Elves leave little trail and the grass and trees will cover such as there is.”

     “Then we follow?” asked Legolas, his eyes glowing.

     “We follow!” affirmed Aragorn, a wild hope springing in his heart.  “Forth the five hunters!”