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.

Missteps in the Night

Hands, cold hands, were pulling at him and a hissing voice was whispering urgently in his ear. Frodo groaned and tried to avoid the insistent tugging; after skirting the edge of nightmares, he had just managed to fall into a dreamless sleep. Its warm grasp was heavy upon him and he did not want to wake. He batted at the hands and tried to turn over in the huge, soft bed in the rooms assigned him in Rivendell.

"Frodo! Frodo, wake up! You’ve got to wake up!" The hands gave up on tugging on his nightshirt and instead wound themselves in his hair and jerked. Hard.

"Yowech!" Sudden pain blurred his eyes and Frodo shot up in bed, for the briefest moment disoriented and afraid. Then the blur before him resolved not into a huge, towering figure in tattered black robes but the moon-washed, anxious face of his young cousin. Seeing Frodo’s eyes focus on him, Merry released him with a sigh of relief.

"Quiet, Frodo!" Merry whispered. "Please – don’t make any noise!" The young hobbit’s voice was tight with strain and pitched far too high.

"Merry, calm down." Frodo rubbed his head gingerly, distracted from reprimanding his cousin by Merry’s obvious distress. "What is the matter?" Hazily Frodo noted that Merry was fully dressed, jacket tightly buttoned, his cloak fastened and the hood pulled up over his bright hair.

"It’s Pippin! Frodo, please come!" Merry hissed desperately.

"What is it?" Frodo demanded, all traces of sleepiness gone. "Is he sick? Where is he?"

"No, not … sick," Merry said, refusing to meet his cousin’s gaze. "Please, he needs your help -"

"What’s going on in here?" Sam’s voice was not quiet. Both cousins jumped guiltily. Sam stood in the doorway, obviously just roused from bed, a lit candle in his hand. He glared at Merry suspiciously, grey eyes narrowed, bristling with indignation at this interruption of his master’s much-needed rest. "What are you about, Mr. Merry?"

"Sam, please," pleaded Merry. "Keep your voice down!"

"Why?" asked Frodo reasonably. "You’ve woken me up in the middle of the night, Merry, and poor Sam too. Where is Pippin?"

"That’s what I’m trying to tell you," Merry groaned, dropping onto the edge of Frodo’s bed and cradling his head in his hands. "We were … well, Pippin was hungry, and … I was hungry too, and… Frodo, we really didn’t have much of a dinner, you know. The kitchens didn’t put enough on our trays, and we couldn’t go ask for more -"

"The master cook don’t want you in his kitchens yet?" asked Sam without sympathy.

Merry squirmed. "No… He’s still a tad upset about the Soap Incident.* Which is very unfair of him, I might add. It’s not like we meant to… Anyway, there’s hardly anyone about in the middle of the night, and … well, we were both hungry..."

"You said that," commented Frodo, leaning back against the pillows and crossing his arms. The tone of his voice sounded much like Sam’s. Merry winced and decided to hurry with his explanation.

"The Elves have been painting some of the shutters, and Pip and I saw they’d left their ladder outside the work shed next to the kitchens. There were some blackberry pies the bakers left to cool on the sill, and … and… Pippin and I had seen them earlier, you see, and -"

"And you and Pippin decided to sneak out in the middle of the night, steal the ladder, and invade the kitchens with the intention of absconding with the pies," Frodo finished for him resignedly.

"We stayed out of the kitchens," Merry defended lamely, his face flushing.

"Did you get the pies?" asked Sam, practical even in his nightshirt in the middle of the night.

Merry snapped upright on Frodo’s bed, his eyes wild. "Pippin fell off the ladder!"

Frodo gawked at him for a heartbeat, then bounced off the bed and started tossing his blankets about, looking for his robe. Sam unhooked it from the statue at the head of Frodo’s bed and handed it to him. "Why didn’t you say so?" Frodo gritted out, struggling to stuff an arm into an inside-out sleeve. "Where is he? Is he hurt?"

Sam peeled off the robe and straightened it, then held it up. Merry pulled the sleeve out so Frodo could slide into it. "I was trying to tell you, Frodo. He’s outside the kitchens. He’s hurt his knee and can’t walk."

"How bad?’

"Just sprained, I think. But it hurts awfully, Frodo, and he can’t get up!"

"You can’t go running about in naught but your nightclothes, Mr. Frodo," Sam commanded. "I won’t have it."

"Let me go, Sam! Pippin is hurt!"

"Sounds like he brought it on himself," Sam returned, undaunted by Frodo’s agitation. "If he’s not goin’ anywhere, he’ll be there when you get there."

With a groan, Frodo snatched up his breeches and struggled into them, stuffing the trailing hem of his nightshirt into the top. He gave up on fastening his braces and let them dangle, relying on the robe’s tie to preserve his modesty. Catching Merry’s arm, Frodo dragged the younger hobbit out the door. Sam caught up one of his master’s discarded blankets, wrapped it around himself, and followed with a long-suffering sigh.

The hobbits left the candle behind in Frodo’s room to better use their natural stealth in moving unseen across sleeping Imladris to the kitchens. It was late – the moon rode high in the sky and the walkways were deserted. No snap of twig betrayed them, no rustle of fallen leaf. A late-night passer-by would have seen nothing more than shadows darting between the buildings, and would have heard nothing. The three used the cover of every bush and tree to creep invisibly to where a terrified Merry had left a stricken Pippin to go for help. Merry tugged on Frodo’s arm and directed them a little more to the left, to where a ladder stood propped against a wooden wall. The faint aroma of fresh paint and fresh pie still lingered on the still air. But of a small, frightened figure huddled at the base of the ladder, there was no sign.

Merry flung himself to his knees in the soft earth and patted it as if he could not believe his eyes, his cloak pooling around him. "He was here," he murmured in shock. "He was right here."

"I can’t see anything," Frodo complained, sinking down at Merry’s side. He was breathing heavily and Merry looked at him in concern, remembering his cousin was yet recovering from a deadly wound. Merry placed a hand on Frodo’s good shoulder and was about to ask him if he was all right when Frodo abruptly leaned forward to peer at the featureless earth. "It is too dark," Frodo continued. "Not that I am a tracker in any case. Perhaps we should wake Aragorn -"

"No, no, no!" interrupted Merry, rocking from side to side with alarm.

"Oh, that’s right," Frodo said forbiddingly. "He’s the one who relayed the master cook’s – uh – request – that you two stay out of the kitchens." He sat back on his heels, hands on thighs, and stared at the shadowed earth. "Bit of a problem, this."

"Frodo!"

"Merry, think a moment. What could harm Pippin here?"

"Whatever took him! Wild beasts! Orcs! Wicked Men!"

"Merry," said Frodo wearily, "we’re in Imladris. There are no evil things here. Now, at least." Frodo shivered, remembering the recent intruder to his very bedchamber, dead now through evil magic.**

"Then where’s Pippin?"

"Excuse me, sirs," came Sam’s deferential voice, "but there’s a footprint here." While the gentlehobbits argued, the gardener had drifted to the side, seeking some sign. Frodo and Merry looked over to see his shadowed form crouching over the earth as his callused, sensitive fingers traced something unseen in the dirt. Sam frowned in puzzlement. "It’s a hobbit-print, sir – no Elf has feet like ours." Sam stretched his arm out and patted the earth in a half-circle. "But only one. I can’t find his other foot…"

"He’s limping, perhaps?" Frodo asked. "Jumping on one foot?"

Merry’s hands dug into his cousin’s shoulder, eliciting a gasp from Frodo as his wound pulled. "Sorry! Sorry," Merry apologized, his whisper shrill with panic, "but something’s got him, Frodo! We’ve got to raise the alarm!"

"And have all of Rivendell know what you two were up to?" Frodo murmured back at him. "Merry, relax. We don’t know what caused him to flee. Can you imagine Pippin allowing himself to be quietly spirited off by some wicked thing? That lad has the finest set of lungs I know of." Feeling Merry’s death-grip on his shoulder ease, Frodo gently shook him off and knelt at Sam’s side. "Where do the tracks lead, Sam?" Merry followed, hovering anxiously over them both.

Sam reached out and felt the earth, inching forward until he could outline another of the unseen depressions with his fingers. With a glance back to where he knew the first footprint lay, he made certain that he had aligned himself properly then sighted along the steps. The flicker of lamplight glittered from a room directly ahead of them … in the Master of Rivendell’s private apartments. "Oh no," murmured Frodo. "Not Lord Elrond. Please, anyone but Lord Elrond. There will be no explaining this." Merry hung his head. Exchanging apprehensive glances, the three hobbits crept slowly toward the family wing of the Last Homely House.

"This is the last straw," Frodo growled in a quietly furious voice. "If Lord Elrond has caught Pippin, then he will most likely send all of us packing. Throw us out on our ears! Merry, this is dreadful. How could you be so irresponsible, disrespectful -"

He was cut off by Sam’s muttered, "Mr. Frodo?" Sam had locked his hands around the bottom sill of a window and raised his head to carefully peer inside. Grimacing as his left shoulder protested the movement, Frodo reached up and caught the sill, emulating him.

Pippin was sitting before a crackling fire in a great armchair that almost enveloped the tweenager’s small form. The flames were dancing on his face, illuminating the wide, silly smile plastered across his features. A quilt was draped over the lad’s shoulders and pillows were tucked at his back and all about him. The lamp they had seen flickering from outside was set on a small table near him, the remainder of a roll of bandages next to it. One of Pippin’s legs was propped up on a cushioned stool before him, the knee wrapped in bandages. He looked up, startled, at Frodo’s soft hail.

"Go away!" hissed Pippin, struggling to pull himself upright among all the pillows.

"It’s all right, Pippin-lad," Frodo reassured him. A boost from Sam gained him entry over the sill. Frodo dropped to the floor silently, his gaze anxiously sweeping the unoccupied room. "Merry and Sam and I are here, my lad." There was a grunt then Merry dropped behind him. Sam followed, releasing the sill to hit the floor with a faint thump. The two cousins rushed the small figure while Sam padded to the door and looked cautiously up and down the corridor.

"Are you all right, Pippin?" asked Merry fearfully, patting him to make certain he was real and unharmed.

"I’m fine," Pippin whispered heatedly. "Will you please go away?"

Frodo looked at him, dumbfounded. "Are you certain he didn’t fall on his head, Merry?" Not waiting for an answer, he pulled off the quilt and caught Pippin’s arm. "Up you get, Pippin my lad. We’re going to rescue you."

"I don’t want to be rescued!" Pippin yanked the quilt back and burrowed beneath it, glaring at them.

"Elrond’s given him some nasty potion," Merry decided, "and he’s off his head."

"Starkers," Sam confirmed. He hurried back to peer into Pippin’s eyes. Pippin tried to scrunch down into the armchair while scowling at him. "Raving, he is. We’d best carry him, Mr. Frodo."

"My poor lad," Frodo whispered softly. "We’re getting you out of here. You can sleep it off and we’ll pretend this never happened." Frodo’s face tightened. "I’ll explain this to Lord Elrond somehow. Perhaps we could say you were sleepwalking, and … and … well, I’ll think of something," Frodo finished hopelessly.

"You could tell ‘im madness runs in the family," suggested Sam under his breath. "He’ll believe that. Begging your pardon, sir."

"Leave me alone!"

Frodo shook his head. "Poor lad. Doesn’t know what he’s saying. Sam!" Anticipating his master, Sam was ready. At Frodo’s word, he darted forward and clapped his hand around Pippin’s mouth. In a swift, economical movement, Sam wound the quilt around the young hobbit and lifted the struggling tweenager easily, tucking him under an arm as he had done when Pippin was just a little lad. Pippin writhed like an eel, emitting a series of muffled, "Noh! Noh! Lemme ‘lone!"

"Pippin, be quiet!" Merry gasped, locking his arms around Pippin’s legs to restrain a hairy foot that was shamelessly trying to kick Sam. "Do you want Lord Elrond to hear you?"

"Umph! Puth mm doath!"

"Poor lad," Frodo crooned, "my poor delirious lad…" Stroking the hair out of Pippin’s eyes, he dragged Sam’s blanket over his arm then looked at the others. "Are we ready, then? Someone might be back at any moment." Pippin glared at him, then jackknifed in Sam’s arms, trying desperately to free himself. "Calm down, Pippin dear, and let us help you before Lord Elrond finds all of us in his rooms."

"Ulp! Ulp!"

Merry let go of Pippin’s legs and returned to the window, boosting himself up on the sill. He swung one leg over and swiveled to face them, extending his arms. "Let me have him."

"Can you hold him?" Sam panted. He tightened his grasp on Pippin, resulting in a stifled squeal. "He’s fighting, he is. And he might bite."

"I’ll have to drag him over the sill," Merry said, watching as Pippin writhed. "And drop him on the other side. Maybe we should give him a light knock about the ear -"

"Good evening," murmured a soft, sweet voice. The hobbits, Pippin included, froze. Arwen Undómiel stood in the doorway, her entrance unheard by any of them. Her slender form was framed by the darkness of the hallway at her back, and the clear beads of her white dress reflected sparks of living flame from the firelight. In her hands was a tray, piled high with sweet biscuits and teacakes and generously cut pieces of blackberry pie. A teapot steamed gently next to two cups, the white smoke curling from its spout shining faintly in the dim light.

The three hobbits gazed at her blankly. "Er… good evening," Frodo replied hesitantly. Merry and Sam stared, mouths open. Pippin took advantage of their shock to twist violently, and Sam dropped him. He hit the floor with a quilt-muffled thud and lay still. A moment later, a faint whimper drifted up.

The elf-maid stepped into the room and closed the door silently behind her with a heel. "I came across Master Pippin at the bottom of the ladder," Arwen explained graciously, making no mention of what she surmised he was doing there, "and saw that he was injured. I helped him hence, and thought to provide him some sustenance before helping him back to his rooms." She paused and looked anxiously at the quilt-imprisoned hobbit. "Are you all right, Pippin?"

Belatedly, Frodo and Merry lifted Pippin to his feet and Sam unwrapped him. Glaring at them furiously, the tweenager pointedly dusted off his clothing and tucked in his shirt. When Arwen turned gracefully to set down the tray, he gestured frantically at the door. "Go away! Go away!" he mouthed at them silently.

Turning back to see Frodo’s hunted look, Arwen said, "My father is discussing something with Mithrandir in the Library." Frodo relaxed imperceptibly, becoming aware that his nightshirt was now hanging out of his breeches and his robe was twisted about him. He eased himself behind Sam and surreptitiously tried to neaten his attire. Sam had recovered his blanket and was hurriedly wrapping it around his nightshirt-clad self, his cheeks burning. "Though I expect they will return soon," Arwen continued, careful not to smile at both hobbits’ embarrassment at their undressed states. "Perhaps it might be wise … not to be here when he returns."

"Yes, perfectly right, my lady," Frodo agreed with a worried glance towards the door.

"So sorry to have troubled you. Thank you so much. Pippin, come on!" Pippin obeyed reluctantly, balancing unsteadily with most of his weight on one leg. Merry quickly wrapped an arm around his waist and began pulling him towards the door with rather more haste than grace. Sam took Pippin’s other side, clutching the blanket shut at his throat. Pippin was dragged out the door, his last, longing glance behind him ignored.

"Master Frodo," Arwen called quietly after them.

Frodo turned in the doorway. "Yes, my lady?"

"May I suggest you return the ladder to the work shed? And perhaps a leafy branch dragged over where Peregrin fell would not be amiss." Frodo nodded. "I do not think Father would ask Aragorn to investigate the disappearance of a few blackberry pies, but it is better to be careful, is it not?"

"Ask her for the pies! And those biscuits!" Merry whispered, releasing Pippin to hang over Frodo’s shoulder. Frodo deliberately stepped on his foot.

"Ow!"

"We will put the ladder back, my lady. Thank you." His cheeks flaming, the Ring-bearer spoke loudly to cover the grumbling behind him. Giving his cousin a back-handed shove, Frodo bowed and quickly shut the door. The Lady of Rivendell stood quietly for a moment, then seated herself in the armchair and poured tea into one of the waiting cups. Then she set down the pot and began to laugh silently until tears of mirth ran down her lovely cheeks.

The End

* "Home Cooking Hobbit-Style"

** "Intruder"