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.  

The Ruin of Men and Elves

Chapter 1

“I don’t like this place,” Pippin fretted unhappily.  The tweenager’s bright green-gold eyes roved nervously over the ruin-studded landscape.  The cold winter sun imparted almost no warmth to the little hollow where the Company camped for its midday halt, this their first day out of Rivendell.  If they were still there, the young hobbit thought wistfully, they would be sitting down to tables groaning with the finest fare of Imladris, cheerfully eating themselves into a stupor.  He looked down at the crumbs of his luncheon; bread and cheese, dried meat and fruit spread out on a checkered cloth, and heaved a deep, sad sigh. 

“You said that already,” returned his older cousin stoically.  “Several times.  Loudly.”  Merry lay half asleep on his back, hands cradling his head, one foot kicking idly over his raised knee.  Their meal prepared and eaten, most of the Company was sleeping before resuming their march.  The icy wind blowing down from the Mountains in the East never ceased, plucking at their clothing and slipping into every opening to chill their flesh.  Pippin shivered.  The landscape was turning rougher, the carefully tended trees and plantings of the hidden valley giving way to wilderness.  Pippin decided he much preferred the little meandering streams and groves and the laden tables of Elrond Halfelven.

Pippin’s feet hurt and he was tired.  They had left Rivendell at dusk and walked from the rising of the Moon through the rising of the Sun.  It had been agreed (though no one had asked Pippin) that the Fellowship would travel under cover of night and rest in some sheltered hollow during the day.  Lord Elrond had said their only hope lay in speed and in stealth, but to the hobbits, the tramping of big human boots and the constant jingling of the Dwarf’s chain mail shouted their presence to any that might be seeking them.  Pippin had seen Frodo, walking at the fore with Gandalf, exchange a worried glance with the wizard when they had to pass along the skyline of a narrow ruin-studded shelf, exposed to any spying eyes.

Pippin knew vaguely that they were headed South, to Hollin called Eregion in ancient times.  But it was many days’ journey and first they had to pass through this bleak deserted land.  He had looked at the maps of Elrond’s Library but did not share his cousins’ love of them.  Maps conveyed little to his mind and there were so many more interesting things to do in Rivendell.  While Merry poured over the maps, he had browsed through the books and scrolls or curled up for a nap in one of the deep-cushioned chairs.  He had found one very interesting section, set well to the rear of the Library and off in its own alcove.  Unfortunately, Merry had noticed his absorption and confiscated the book, forcing the unwilling tweenager to give his word that he would not read any more from that special section.  Given no choice, Pippin had regretfully promised.  There had been illustrations, too...

When the Company finally halted, Pippin sat himself down on the ground and picked up one of his large hairy feet, examining the sole intently.  He was surprised by the unfamiliar sensation of soreness resulting from hiking over sharp rock.  A lifetime of walking over the soft, sweet grasses of the Shire had not prepared him to trudge over blasted soil and jagged stone.  Merry collapsed next to him, laying back against the cool earth and moaning.  Frodo and Sam had trudged up and dropped near them, too tired to comment on the younger hobbits’ lack of decorum.

Pippin gazed about him apprehensively.  The tumbled stone and roofless chambers of the ruins about them made him nervous.  Hobbits did not build great stone towers.   He felt that the dark holes of the broken windows were eyes, staring at him with malice in their black pits.  Or that something dreadful crouched behind the shattered walls, just out of his sight in the shadows, waiting for the Fellowship to drop their guard.  He tried to keep from turning his back on the cold, silent ruins.  Tired as he was, he was glad when Gandalf gave the order to move out. 

By midday, the Fellowship had been walking for nearly fifteen hours and the hobbits could go no further.  Even the sturdy pack-pony was exhausted; Bill’s head drooped to the ground on the end of Sam’s lead.  The long walks that Aragorn had insisted the hobbits take in Rivendell had not prepared them for this.  Frodo had refused Sam’s every attempt to make him eat, rolled himself into his blankets and fallen into a profound sleep.  Though exhausted, Pippin had been too restless to sleep.  His legs throbbed and his back ached from the weight of his heavy pack.  Now he lay between his cousins, sleep evading him because of a new concern.  At last he surrendered to it and rising silently, padded over to where the Ranger sat on watch.

“Frodo’s cold, Strider.  I can feel him shivering between me and Sam.  I scrunched up against him as much as I could, but he can’t seem to get warm.  I think his shoulder is hurting him, too.  I pressed against it – I didn’t mean to, I was just trying to warm him – and he made an awful hurt sound.  He said it is all right, but I know it isn’t.  Can’t you do something?”

Instead of replying, the Ranger reached down and picked up one of his blankets, wrapping it silently around the shivering youngster.  He then rose on soundless feet and drifted over to the lumpy pile of hobbits.  Looking down at the shadowed forms, the Ranger could not discern exactly which of the large, hairy feet belonged to which hobbit.  That lump between the other two lumps had to be the Ring-bearer, though.  Ever since Weathertop, Sam and Merry kept the other two between them, sleeping always on their backs or sides, faces outward, their small swords never far from their reach. 

Merry was still soundly asleep but had inched over in his sleep to take Pippin’s place, seeking his younger cousin’s departed warmth.  Pippin trailed behind the Ranger and slid himself down on Merry’s open side, retaining firm possession of the extra blanket.  Merry stopped wiggling and sighed, relaxing back into deep sleep.  On the other side, Sam snored gently, his sandy curls fallen into his eyes and his face somehow looking much younger in sleep.

“Frodo,” Aragorn whispered softly, not daring to touch the blanket-covered form for fear of brushing against the injury.  He would have counseled a longer rest in Rivendell, did not the need of the whole world intervene, for the wound dealt the small hobbit had been a deathly one and slow to heal.  Though the Ring-bearer seemed as light-hearted as before he was hurt, the Ranger noticed that he tired more quickly and did not have the resilience he once had.  Aragorn waited a moment then tried again.  “Frodo?” 

This time the center lump threw back its blankets and sat up.  Aragorn met the Ring-bearer’s wide-awake and exhausted eyes, sorrow rising in his heart at the pain he saw there.  Frodo levered himself to his feet and knelt to tuck the blankets more snugly around the still forms to either side of him.  Stepping over Merry, he leaned down to hiss “Tattletale!” in Pippin’s pointed ear.  The ear twitched.

Aragorn laid a hand on the hobbit’s right shoulder and guided him over to the rock on which he had chosen to sit his watch.  “Let me see it,” he ordered in a voice that brooked no denial or negotiation.

With a sigh, the Ringbearer leaned back against him and unbuttoned his jacket, waistcoat and shirt, pulling apart the layers of clothing.  Aragorn wrapped the reminder of his blankets around the small form, leaving the left shoulder exposed.  He pushed down the finely woven linen of Frodo’s shirt and looked at the unhealing wound, gently turning the hobbit’s body to take advantage of what light filtered down into the hollow from the winter sun.  Aragorn laid his fingertips against the thin, livid scar and Frodo turned his head away, staring wooden-faced into the distance.  The man could feel the heat rising from the scar and he placed a calloused hand against the halfling’s pale forehead.  No fever, at least. 

As he had suspected, the straps of the pack had irritated the wound and it looked angry.  Aragorn did not need to ask if it hurt; the answer was evident in the hobbit’s stiff movements and silence.  After a moment’s consideration, Aragorn leaned down and dug in his pack, producing a small leather pouch marked with elvish runes.  Opening the tight drawstring carefully, he squeezed some of the white cream within onto a finger and began gently massaging it into the scar.  Frodo jerked violently when the cold cream touched the wound, then gritted his teeth in silence as the Ranger worked in the ointment, gently squeezing and rubbing the small shoulders as he worked.

Slowly Frodo relaxed and some of the tension left his slender form.  Too slender, the Man thought.  He would instruct Sam not to allow his master to refuse food again, tired or not.  As Aragorn continued to rub, the hobbit’s dark head began to rock back and forth, sinking lower on his chest.  The man smiled to see the hobbit finally starting to sag. 

“You must get some rest,” he whispered softly, mindful of the sleepers around them. 

Frodo nodded wearily.  “Thank you.”

* * * * *

Matters were not improved when they woke in the late afternoon, in Pippin’s estimation.  Instead of a blissful night spent in one of Elrond’s fine feather beds, he awoke on hard, cold ground.  There was a rock under his cheek.  And Merry was missing, which did not improve his mood.  Frodo lay quietly under a mound of blankets, but Sam was gone.

A soft hiss caught his attention.  Looking up, he saw his cousin dicing onions for the pot that Sam had just hung over the fire.  Lord Elrond had counseled against the use of fire, for the smoke might betray them, but the icy wind stole the heat from them and Gandalf had decided that only hot food would replace it.  Sausages sizzled over the coals.  Merry jerked his chin and held out the knife.  Sighing at the injustice of the world, Pippin rose and attended to his morning ablutions, then joined his cousin in preparing breakfast. (Or whatever the proper term would be when one’s days and nights were reversed.)  Legolas had found a bower which contained a large nest of woven grass, and more importantly, a dozen great white eggs.  The frying sausages smelled better than any perfume Pippin could ever remember.

After breakfast, Pippin helped Merry and Sam clean up.  Frodo and the Big Folk were deep in converse, leaving the hobbits to their own devices.  Frodo was sitting quietly next to Gandalf, his face drawn, huge eyes moving from one face to another.  Pip knew that his cousin was already worrying himself into a state over what was to come.  Pippin didn’t see the point of that – tomorrow and its troubles would come whether you willed it or not. 

“They’ll be there for a while,” muttered Merry, handing Sam the scrubbed cook pot and seating himself next to where Pippin was finishing up the frying pan.  “Want to go exploring?”

“I’m not sure we should, Merry.  What if Gandalf decides to leave suddenly?”

“We won’t go far, Pip.  Aren’t you curious about all these ruins we’ve been passing?”  Merry leaned back and shaded his eyes against the westering sun, examining the nearest tumbled stones and broken arches.  “Come on, Sam.  What do you say?”

“I don’t think you should, Mr. Merry.  Those ruins have an unwholesome look ‘ta them and no mistake.”

“Unwholesome?”  Merry stood up and peered at the time-blasted towers.  “Nonsense, Sam.  They’re just old buildings, overgrown with weeds and choked with dust.  Aragorn said that these paths were little known except for the people of Rivendell.  Don’t you want to know what’s there, Pip?” 

“No Brandybuck ever beat a Took for inquisitiveness, Merry.  But what could possibly be left, after all these years?”

Merry considered it.  “Treasure is too much to hope for, I suppose … but maybe something was overlooked.  We can fit places the Big Folk can’t, after all.  Who knows what’s waiting to be found in some forgotten crevice?”

‘Poisonous snakes,’ thought Pippin.  ‘Spiders.  Nasty things in dark places.’  But he could not gainsay his elder cousin, and Merry’s enthusiasm was contagious.  “Shouldn’t we tell Strider we’re going?” Pippin asked.

Merry was already focused on his exploration, blue eyes gleaming with excitement.  “Don’t bother them, Pip.  They won’t even notice we’re gone.”

“Mr. Merry, you shouldn’t –“

“Pip and I will be back within the hour, Sam.  After all, what could possibly happen?” 

* TBC * 

Chapter 2

“How could you let them go, Samwise?”  Gandalf leaned down to glare at the unhappy hobbit, his beard bristling stiffly.  “You should have stopped them!”

“I tried ‘ta, sir!  I did!”

“Gandalf,” said Frodo, surreptitiously easing himself between the two, “you know Merry.  When he decides to do something, all the good reasons and good sense in the world won’t stop him.”

With a final glare at Sam, Gandalf straightened.  “Well, Pippin should have -”

“Stopped him?” interrupted Frodo with a wry grin.  “You know better than that, Gandalf.”

The wizard grumbled into his beard, his lined face angry still.  Then he sighed and gave up. “Yes … yes, I do.  Very well, then.  Aragorn, would you be kind enough to fetch them back?”

The Ranger looked up from where he had stayed prudently out of the line of fire.  “Of course, Gandalf.  Frodo, would you like to come?”

Frodo smiled, pleased to be included.  “I would, thank you.”

“Hobbits,” Gandalf muttered darkly, adding something else into his beard, then looked sharply at Gimli when the Dwarf tried to turn a laugh into a cough.  Legolas stared into the middle distance, his fair face carefully expressionless but twinkles lurked in his clear eyes.  “Return as quickly as you may,” the wizard growled, “it is already dusk and we have a long march ahead of us this night.”

* * * * *

“Please, Merry, let’s go back,” begged Pippin.  “It’s almost dark.”

Meriadoc upended himself from the fallen column he had been feeling behind and slid down the stone to his feet regretfully.  “Nothing,” he said in disgust, dusting his hands together.  “Not a thing.  You would think something would be left.”

“What, after thousands of years?”  Pippin glanced around him.  The deepening shadows seemed menacing and the tweenager’s active imagination was busily populating them with barrow-wights and other terrifying residents.  “Merry, please, let’s go.”

The older hobbit awarded the surrounding ruins a disgusted glare.  As he did so, a faint glinting caught Merry’s eye.  “Look, Pip!  What’s that?”

Pippin hooked his fingers into his cousin’s waistcoat and tugged.  “Please, Merry!”

Ignoring the plea, Merry towed his unwilling cousin over to where the setting sun was reflecting off … something.  Digging in the loose soil, Merry unearthed two pieces of what looked most like curved glass, each smaller than his palm.  The shards were very sharp and Merry yelped as his hand closed over one, drawing a thin line of blood across two fingers.  His apprehension forgotten in his interest, Pippin crowded close.  The shards looked almost black, run through with faint lines of moonlight white and purple. 

“What are they, Merry?”

Merry turned the shards over, careful now of their jagged edges.  “A bottle, maybe?  It’s sort of translucent – I can see the sunset through it, barely.”  Merry lowered the shard he was holding up and squinted at the sun.  “Maybe Gandalf will know what they are.  We’d best get back, Pip.”  With a sigh of relief, Pippin followed as Merry pocketed the pieces and started back to the Company.

* * * * *  

It was not far to the nearest of the tumbled ruins, but Frodo could tell that the Ranger had something on his mind.  He kept glancing at the hobbit, an odd smile quirking one side of his stern mouth.  Frodo’s curiosity, ever a light sleeper, was awakened.  “All right, Strider.  What is it?”

 Aragorn did not cry innocence.  “Frodo, would you like to get back at your cousins for that little stunt they pulled on you in Rivendell?”

“Which of the many little stunts are you referring to?”

“The Wager, of course.”

The Ring-bearer was silent for a moment.  “Merry and Pippin asked my pardon and I gave it, Aragorn.  It doesn’t seem right…”

“And was it right what they did to you?”

Another moment of silence.  Then, “What did you have in mind?”

“You have more clothes in your pack, don’t you?”

“Of course.  What has that to do with it?”

“Ah, Frodo,” drawled the Ranger softly.  “Everything…”

* * * * *

“Did you hear something, Pip?”

Pippin nearly ran into his cousin’s back as Merry stopped abruptly.  “Merry, don’t do that,” he pleaded.  They were nearly to the end of the ruins and Pippin wanted nothing more than to leave this desolate place and return to the warmth and welcome of the Company.

Merry’s curly head was swiveling from side to side as his pointed ears tilted and twitched.  “I’m not trying to scare you, Cousin.  I truly did hear something.”

Whatever Pippin was about to reply was lost in the low groaning moan that rose from behind a great piece of shattered stone.  Their appalled eyes were drawn towards the horrifying sound.  Something moved there, in the deep shadows … something impossibly thin and pale.  It is rising straight up; taller than a Man, taller than an Elf and much too skeletal to be either.  Whitish it was, luminescent in the dusk, faintly human in its outline but the head was bulbous, a great lump, tapering down to an utterly straight, shoulderless body.

Merry took a step back, his face bloodless, knocking a rooted Pippin to the ground.  Pippin made a most unhobbit-like squeak, his small hands clutching at his cousin’s cloak.  Never taking his eyes from the apparition, Merry knelt and dragged the younger hobbit to his feet, pushing the tweenager behind him.  Merry’s sword was in his hand without him being aware of drawing it.

The dim figure moaned again, a deep rumbling wail, and before the eyes of the frozen hobbits, sank slowly back down out of sight.  Neither Merry or Pippin moved.  All was silence and stillness  and the first early stars twinkled in the coming night.

“What -” Pippin choked and tried again, forcing his voice down to a somewhat more normal pitch.  His heart was hammering so hard it hurt.  “What was that?”

Merry did not reply, his keen eyes scanning the cold, tumbled stones.  “Move, Pip,” he ordered.  “We’re getting back to the others.”  A small part of his mind was glad of the gathering dusk, for it hid the beads of perspiration that had blossomed across his brow.  He would not let fear sway him, knowing that if he did, Pippin would be undone. 

Pippin took a step backward and stumbled, his feet turned wooden and awkward.  He whimpered at his body’s betrayal, the shriek of terror that has risen in his throat locked there.  The groan came again, dark and tortured.  The shriek started to work its way free of its imprisonment.

Merry turned and gave his cousin a hard shove between the shoulder blades.  Pippin stumbled again but his feet made re-acquaintance with his legs and he was able to fumble his way backwards.  Merry kept himself in front of his cousin, continuing to push Pippin back.

The sound came again, this time harsher and higher.  The horrific figure rose again but not so high and then seemed to incline towards them.  Pippin stopped, frozen, and Merry also.  The ghostly thing retreated a small way then with a suddenness that broke the hobbits’ control, shot high into the air over their heads, disappearing into the dark in trailing flutters of snapping cloth.

“Aaaaahhhhh!”  Two small figures tore through the blasted landscape and towards the amazed Company.  Vaguely, Merry realized that he had lost his sword.  Legolas sprang to his feet and had an arrow nocked before the two had drawn breath for a second scream.  Boromir had his great sword ready, searching for the enemy that had inspired such terror in the little folk.  Gimli’s axes were in his hands, his dark eyes seeking a target.

The two figures passed them by in a blur.  Gandalf felt the breeze as the hobbits passed then slowed and pivoted and plastered themselves to his robes.  The wizard assessed the two small trembling figures, both too terrified to speak, then looked out into the darkness.

“Aragorn!  Frodo!”

* * * * *

The Ranger and the hobbit strolled casually back into camp, Aragorn refastening his cloak as Frodo hurriedly buttoned his white shirt.  Frodo stuck a finger ruefully through the small hole at the front where the sharp arrow had punctured the cloth, despite the padding of the Ranger’s cloak.  The Man’s sword was sheathed and his bow already unstrung, its arrow recovered. 

Frodo meandered up to Merry and handed him the dropped sword.  Pippin took in the state of Frodo’s shirt and his enormous eyes seemed to grow even larger.  Merry sheathed the sword in a daze, too shocked for coherent thought.  His chalky coloring began to be replaced by a red flush.

“I – you – you…”

Frodo awarded his cousins his sweetest smile.  “I consider us even, now,” he informed them.  Pippin gurgled and slid down Gandalf’s leg to lie in a puddle at their feet.  Merry collapsed next to him, staring up at their elder cousin.  “Yes, even,” Frodo mused.  “Which leaves only Sam to repay.”

A sharp yelp greeted this gentle announcement as Samwise dropped the frying pan he had pulled from Bill’s packs onto his foot.

* * * * *

“If there are any listening ears within five leagues, I am certain they heard tonight’s work,” Gandalf grumbled.  “I would expect you to act your age, Frodo.”

The Company was moving rather more quickly than before, quiet again as they sought to put the miles behind them.  Frodo was careful to walk at the fore with Gandalf, keeping his distance from his cousins until Merry cooled down.  The Ringbearer imagined he could feel those bright blue eyes boring into his back.  Pippin trailed after, giggling occasionally as his terror faded and he began to see the humor of the prank.

“They started it,” returned Frodo.  The wizard looked at him and he flushed.  “Well, I had to uphold the Baggins honor.”

“Hobbits,” groaned the wizard.

* * * * *

The air chilled as the night deepened and Gandalf did not need to urge the Company to keep the pace; walking kept them warm.  Merry had finally stopped devising hideous and unspeakable tortures for his elder cousin and accepted the fact that he had been well repaid for his entrepreneurial endeavor in Rivendell.  As the hobbit walked, he played absently with the two shards of glass in his pocket.  In the excitement, he had forgotten his resolve to show them to Gandalf and ask if the wizard knew what they might be. 

Had it occurred to Merry to take out the shards and examine them, he would have seen that they had begun to glow under his gently stroking fingers.  The moonlight white streaks had brightened and the purple smears had darkened, lending an odd depth to the smooth surface.  Patches of black seemed to seethe between the other colors, almost as if something living abided there, moving from place to place within the imprisoning glass. 

Merry forgot the shards as he saw the Elf swiftly pass him by and move up to speak with Gandalf.   Merry had noticed that Legolas often left them to scout ahead and to the sides, returning on swift, silent feet and departing again seemingly without weariness.  A moment later Aragorn followed the Elf, passing the hobbits without a glance.  Merry saw Frodo look up, watched as his cousin’s dark head turned from one speaker to another, following some sort of discussion.  Then Gandalf halted and turned back to the rest of them, motioning for he and Pip and Gimli and Boromir and Sam (with Bill) to form a small circle.

“What is it?” asked Boromir, his hand on his sword.

“Legolas tells me he hears pursuit,” murmured the wizard. 

“What sort of pursuit?” rumbled Gimli.

Gandalf gestured for the Elf to continue.  “It is difficult to describe,” Legolas said, an odd hesitation in his soft, clear voice. 

“Could Elrond have sent riders after us for some reason?” asked Aragorn.  Merry felt Pip perk up beside him, no doubt hoping for a recall to Rivendell and its soft beds and warm hearths and full tables. 

Legolas shook his head decisively.  “It is most definitely not horses.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 3

“What is it, then?” rumbled Gimli, turning around and rocking back on his thick boots to see more of the landscape behind them.  Frodo bounced up on his toes but was unable to see any more than the Dwarf.  The pallid light of the moon and stars did not illuminate the distance.  Aragorn dropped and pressed his ear to the ground and the Company stilled to allow him to listen.

For a long time he was silent, head and hands pressed flat to the weed-strewn earth.  Pippin stood it as long as he could, then crouched by the Ranger and peered into Aragorn’s intent face.  “Can you actually hear hooves?” the tweenager asked.

Aragorn smiled at him, the strain easing from his blue-grey eyes.  “Not hear so much as feel, Pippin.”  With that he took the young one’s hand and spread it flat against the blasted soil.  A thrill shot through Pippin as he did indeed feel muted movement, far away.  Sliding his furry feet out from him, he imitated the Ranger’s posture, fascination on his small face.  Merry nudged Frodo and they and the others grinned to see the tall form and the small stretched out in identical postures on the cold earth.

Aragorn rose, the smile still on his stern face.  “We may continue on for some hours yet,” he informed them, “but must seek shelter in the morning.  There is nothing to fear.  We are about to be treated to a wondrous rare sight, my friends.”

Refusing to answer any more questions (and ignoring Pippin’s insistent tugs of his long coat), the Ranger spoke with Gandalf and the Company resumed its march.  They walked through the quiet night with only short breaks.  An hour after sunrise, Aragorn herded them into a tumbled ruin of once-great buildings, now deserted and desolate.  Gandalf looked worried but Aragorn drew him aside and the two conversed privately, disregarding the hobbits, which were near bursting with curiosity.

“We will stop for the day here,” Gandalf announced.  “This is a good place … these tumbled stones will shield us from prying eyes and shelter us from the wind.  Samwise, would you start a meal?  We will take what rest we can while we can.”

Sam started a small fire between two sides of what might have been a small storehouse an age ago, now two walls and a triangle of crumbling roof, and put on water for tea and a hot breakfast.  Hummm, he thought to himself, porridge would fill the stomach and warm wind-chilled limbs…  With a quick glance to where his master stood on a large block of masonry with his cousins, Samwise unwrapped dried apple rings and raisins to add to the porridge and to tempt Frodo’s appetite.

Merry sat down on the block and began to swing his short legs, impatient with waiting.  No less curious than Frodo and Pippin, he was more pragmatic in hiding it.  His hand sought his pocket and began to play absently with the strange glass-like shards he had found and forgotten. 

“Ouch!”

Frodo and Pip turned towards him just as he was pulling his bleeding hand out of his pocket.  Merry shook droplets of blood off his fingers ruefully as Frodo caught his hand, spreading the fingers to examine the sharp, thin slice across the inside of his fingers, just below the first knuckle. 

“How did you manage this, Merry?” Frodo asked.

Merry grimaced - the cut stung abominably.  Tipping his hand to see better in the winter sun, he replied, “I found some odd things in the ruins and was fingering them.  Must have cut myself on the sharp edge.”  The pain increased as Frodo folded his hand shut, putting pressure on the small wound.  “Funny … I cut my hand when I picked them up, too.”

“You should be more careful,” scolded Frodo with the automatic overbearing of an elder cousin.  “Let’s see these odd things, then.”  Frodo grinned at him.  “What hasss it got in its pockets, Precious?  What, we wondersss?”

Pippin laughed in delight.  “That’s from one of Bilbo’s old tales, isn’t it, Frodo?  From the riddle-game he played with that nasty creature in the cave?”

“Well done, Pip!  All right, Merry, let’s see these mysterious things.”

“Ouch!” 

This time Pippin reached in Merry’s pocket and withdrew his cousin’s clenched hand, bleeding afresh from a new cut.  “Stars, Merry, you’re bleeding a lot.  We’d better show this to Strider.”

“Pip, it’s just a little cut.”

“Two little cuts, Cousin.  Both of which are still bleeding.  C’mon, you.”  Frodo grinned at their retreating backs, sorry that Merry had cut himself but glad, for once, that it wasn’t him being dragged off to the Ranger to be patched up.  Humming to himself, he went to assist Sam in breakfast preparations.

Forgotten, the glass-like shards in Merry’s pocket quivered, moving slightly of their own accord.  The patches of moving blackness congregated along the two lines of blood on the razor-sharp edges, and the blood thinned then disappeared.  They had been two when the young hobbit had picked them up.  Now they were four.

* * * * *

Since Sam and Frodo had made breakfast, Merry and Pippin cleaned it up.  Merry had to scour the pots one-handed, for his right hand was wrapped in a thick bandage.   Frodo and Sam rolled out their bedrolls for them and then waited for them to join the rest of Company.  The vibration of the earth was very noticeable now; even the air seemed to rumble with the approach of what must be thousands of hooves.  Aragorn made certain that they were all safely behind large blocks of stone then turned to face them, his eyes sparkling with rare happiness.

“They are coming,” was all he said, and refused to say any more until the source of the rumbling came into view.  Thousands they were … tens of thousands.  The Fellowship watched in wonder as the great bulls came first, spearheading the migration.  Cows and calves came next, kept to the center by the young bulls on the outskirts, tossing their great horned heads and rolling their eyes.  Their reddish-brown coats shone in the sun, a white stripe at their breasts and running the length of their flanks, and their great flat hooves churned the soil as they passed.

“Every year they pass this way,” Aragorn said, joy in his eyes as his watched the magnificent animals.  A great bull lowered his antlers and shook them as he passed, and the Ranger softened his voice.  “Snow-deer, they are called.  Caribou, by some.  They pass from the northern tundra-lands to the southern grass fields in the winter and return in the summer.  They are excellent meat and I will shoot a young one for our dinner.  But they are beautiful, in and of themselves.  It brings me pleasure beyond measure to see that, in the travails of the world in these evil times, that they still grace the world, trodding the path laid out for them by the Valar.”

The hobbits sought their bedrolls long before the last of the great deer had passed, and it testified much to their weariness that they slept in spite of the shaking earth and sun in their eyes.   But Merry lay sleepless for a long time, for the cuts stung and burned seemingly all out of proportion to their size.

* * * * *

The meat was excellent.  When the hobbits awoke late in the day, Boromir and Aragorn had quartered and spitted a young snow-deer, roasting it slowly above a low fire.  Sam dug deep in his pack and unearthed his treasured sacks of spices, flavoring the meat with rosemary and thyme.  Legolas asked for the young bull’s antlers.  Running his long hands over the horns, the  Elf imagined carving knife-hilts and other uses for them when time did not press upon them so urgently.  Gandalf would not allow them to smoke the remainder, so the two Men estimated how much meat the Fellowship could consume in the next few days and regretfully buried the rest.

Instead of leading them out, the wizard motioned Aragorn to the point and stood silent and attentive as the Company passed him.  Pippin saw that his brow was furrowed and his lined face focussed; he leaned on his staff with both hands wrapped tightly around it.  Looking behind him, the hobbit watched as Gandalf heaved a great sigh and abandoned his stance, evidently not satisfied with whatever he was seeking.  Muttering to himself, the wizard strode past them and rejoined the Ranger, keeping their voices too low for the tweenager to hear.

The Company marched more quickly as the night deepened, the rest and nutritious food warming their limbs.  There was something peaceful about walking in the moonlight, the stars twinkling above.  Despite his regret at missing Elrond’s feather beds and laden supper-tables, Pippin sighed happily, looking forward to adventure.  Frodo seemed more at ease, too, the tweenager noted, his face not so strained and tense.  Only Merry seemed stiff and uncommunicative, growling, “I’m fine, Pip.  Leave me alone,” when Pippin tried to strike up a civil conversation.  Pippin dropped back and walked behind him, troubled by the change in his adored elder cousin.

With only brief stops through the long night, the Company was weary when the first brushstrokes of dawn painted the sky above the far mountains.  It was still too dark to see clearly when Gandalf allowed them to stop, obviously uneasy about something.  After some deliberation, the wizard chose a campsite among yet more ruins, a narrow place between the standing sides of two buildings.  It must have been an alley in ancient days, but now the isolated walls served well as a windbreak.  With relieved sighs, they chose their places along the walls and sank down to roll out their bedrolls.  Sleep came quickly, for they were very tired.

Pippin sat up in his blankets and watched the world brighten, worrying about Merry.  Boromir, taking the first watch, rose and stretched, walking around the camp to ward off weariness and keep himself alert.  Passing the young hobbit, the Man smiled at him and motioned for him to sleep.

Lying down, Pippin again felt the faint rumbling of the earth that had preceded the passage of the herd.  The youngster splayed his hand against the ground and laid his ear against the earth, as Aragorn had taught him.  Odd … he could clearly “hear” the herd ahead of them, but he also thought he could feel other hoof beats, fewer in number but nearer and –

“’Ware, camp!  Attackers!” Boromir’s voice roared over the dawn birdcalls, bringing Aragorn and Gimli and Legolas to their feet with their weapons at the ready.  An arrow whistled past them, striking a stone and skittering off to bury itself in a clump of bushes.  The hobbits struggled free of their blankets and drew their small swords, startled to find Gandalf there, pushing them together.  Now the wizard cursed the high walls that had sheltered them from the wind, unable to see past them to their attackers. 

Gandalf growled, his sharp eyes sweeping ‘round the ruined walls that constrained them.  “Their movements were camouflaged by the movement of the herd, their horses’ hoof beats hidden among the others.  I could not tell them apart from the thousands of animals they moved among.”

“But why do they attack?” asked the Elf.  He raised a slender hand to shelter his eyes from the sun.  “We have little enough to steal.”

“We have the greatest treasure in the world,” returned the wizard, his eyes seeking out Frodo’s.  The Ring-bearer paled and his left hand strayed to his throat.  Then resolution filled his ashen face and he raised his sword.  It did not glow, and Gandalf and the hobbits released a breath of relief as they realized their attackers were not Orcs.

Samwise set himself at his master’s back, and Merry and Pippin arrayed themselves at his sides.  Gandalf nodded in approval.  With a worried glance at them, Legolas sprang lightly atop a fallen arch and from there sought the destroyed crown of one of the buildings, seeking cover from which to shoot.

“I do not think these are random brigands,” Gandalf explained.  “They knew to hide themselves among the snow-deer.  I think they have watched Rivendell, waiting for us to depart.  They knew we were heading East, which limited which roads we could take.  They know we carry something of great value.  These men have been given instructions.”

“Saruman?” whispered Frodo, and flinched under the look of rage that Gandalf turned to him.  Gandalf’s face softened.  “I am not angry with you, Frodo, but with Saruman and with myself.  I should have guessed that, his first attempt having failed, he would try again to obtain the Ring.  He no longer has limits on how low he would stoop to gain what he desires.”      

Aragorn came up to them then and knelt before Frodo, looking into his eyes.  “Legolas has taken a sniper position atop that roof, there.”  They followed his arm and could barely see the top of the Elf’s head as he lay stretched out on the stone.  “Gimli is around the corner.  Boromir and I stand at each end of this passage and will allow none to pass.” Aragorn rose and now his dark eyes turned to the wizard.  “But … but if they do, Gandalf, you must defend yourself and the hobbits.” 

“These walls limit us –“

“And shelter us.”  Aragorn would not hear Gandalf’s self-recriminations.  “They cannot come at us in mass.  Better here than on the open plains, where they could shoot us down like dogs.”

Aragorn left them, his long sword firm in his hand.  Boromir glanced back at them over his shoulder, his great shield on his arm, his face dark and dangerous.  “I should have allowed Elrond to provide us an escort,” Gandalf growled.  “I should have -"

“Gandalf, will you give over?”  The wizard stared at Frodo in shock.  “If … if,” the hobbit continued, “saying ‘if’ is useless.  As far as I am concerned, it is by your efforts alone that the world is not already plunged into darkness.  I would have stayed happy and ignorant in the Shire, the Ring tucked away and forgotten … until they came for me.  The Ring would already be in the hands of the Enemy if you hadn’t stirred everyone up.”

Gandalf threw back his head and laughed so hard that his hat fell off.  Pippin retrieved it and held it up to the wizard.  Gandalf took it from him with a smile then turned to Frodo.  “Thank you, my friend,” he said gravely, humor still gleaming in his deep eyes.  Then the laughter faded as he heard the Elf’s bowstring twang and a scream resounded through their narrow shelter.  “The War of the Ring has begun.  Now we fight the first battle.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 4

Another arrow whistled between the sheltering walls, gouging out a great scar in the ruined stone before spending itself harmlessly in the ground.  “Get down!” cried Sam and the hobbits dropped to their bellies, the wizard not far behind.  Sam pushed his master against the wall and lay before him, and Merry did the same with Pippin.  Frodo struggled, trying to crawl over Sam.  “No sir,” the stocky hobbit said fiercely, “you just stay there.”

“Sam -”

“No, I tell you!”  Shocked, Frodo fell back, silent.

The sounds of battle were growing louder, the clash of steel ringing out to blend with the singing of the Elf’s bow in deadly melody.  Legolas lay prone on the roof and chose his targets with care, taking out the bowmen of their attackers.  None of his arrows missed its chosen target and the hail of arrows above the hobbits’ heads slowed and ceased.  Coldly and methodically, the Elf turned his attention to the fighting men.

Pippin buried his head in Merry’s back as another Man screamed, agony evident in his tortured death-cry.  Then Merry was shouting in his ear, calling to Gandalf and the others that they must rise and fight.  No more arrows sought to pin them against the walls.  The tweenager could see brief glimpses of Boromir and Gimli as they surged back and forth before the ruined alley’s narrow opening.  Boromir was closing with large, dark-featured man who bore a white hand on his surcoat.  Even as he watched, the Gondorian twisted and riposted, in one powerful thrust driving his great sword through the man’s chest.

Gimli swung back into his view for the briefest of moments, his great, double-headed axe swinging, and Pippin saw another man’s head part his shoulders, a great gout of bright red blood shooting upwards from the severed neck.  The body threw its arms into the air, almost in supplication, before it fell backwards onto the bloody earth.

Vomit rose in the young hobbit’s throat; he tasted it burning in his mouth.  But he had no more time for his stomach’s rebellion as Merry was dragging him to his feet by his collar, shaking him.  “Wake up, Pip!  They’re coming!”

Turning after Merry, Pippin saw that Aragorn was nowhere to been seen.  Men swirled before the other end of the alley, dust and dirt and blood covering them so that their individual features could not been made out.  Where was the Ranger?  Then another Man was looking into the alley, his scarred features breaking into a grin as he beheld one old man and four small warriors no larger than children.  That smile faded when Gandalf raised Glamdring, his great elven sword, and stepped before the hobbits.

“Come and die,” the wizard invited softly, no trace of fear on his lined face, his hands steady in a two-handed grip on the great sword.  The Man slowed, his eyes on the wizard’s face, considering.  Then he turned and ran.

Pippin sagged into Merry, a half-hysterical giggle on his lips.  Frodo appeared dumbstruck, Sam grimly relieved.  That soft little giggle died its own death when two Men appeared in the unguarded opening, the one that ran and another. 

“Cowards,” growled the wizard, shifting to a one-handed grip for greater freedom of movement.  The two men sneered at him, their attention on him and the great sword.  Pippin felt Merry move beside him and the scarred man staggered backwards, his hands going to his neck.  Merry’s dagger quivered like some obscene leech there, sucking out his life.  For a moment the man lowered his astonished gaze to the grim eyes of the small one who had thrown it, then fell dead at his comrade’s feet.

With a snarling cry, the remaining man surged forward, clearing his fellow soldier’s body with a leap.  He engaged the wizard, striving to overpower him with strength.  A most deadly mistake.  His face never changing, Gandalf twisted his blade to the side, carrying the other with it.  While the man struggled to regain his balance, the wizard took one step to the side, pulling the man off his feet.  The soldier measured his length on the ground, cursing.  When he sought to spring to his feet he felt the cold hardness of razor-sharp metal at his throat and looked to the side.  One of the little ones held a small sword to his throat, no mercy in his grey eyes.   “You move, sir,” the small one said softly, “and I’ll cut you.”   

The soldier considered his options and met again the eyes of the small one, seeing in their steel-grey depths no doubt or hesitation.  Then he released his sword and spread his hands, laying them gently before him on the earth.  The dark-haired one behind them was in an instant pulling away the sword and binding his hands and legs with lacings pulled from the man’s own belt, small hands sure on the knots.  Merry shoved his sword into Pippin’s free hand and bent to help his cousin.

With a start, Pippin dragged his attention from their prisoner and was shocked to hear that the sounds of battle were less around them.  No more men reeled past the alley openings, but Boromir and Gimli were not to be seen.  Where were they?  Where was Strider?  Pippin edged along the wall, trying to expand his field of vision.  He stopped at the entrance to the alleyway, looking out upon a battlefield.

Gimli stood over a fallen man, his great axe bloody to the hilt.  Aragorn and Boromir knelt opposite him next to the man’s side, the Ranger shaking his head.  The man on the ground was gasping, a queer, whistling sound, and as the tweenager took a step closer, he realized that the soldier’s ribs were crushed, the bones driven into his lungs.  The man was slowly suffocating in his own blood. 

Boromir’s eyes were attracted by the movement of Pippin’s forward step. “’Ware the young one,” he whispered to Aragorn and Gimli.  Gimli nodded without turning around and moved his thick body before Pippin’s line of sight.  A moment later the Ranger rose, sheathing his long knife.  The man no longer gasped.

Tears unbidden sprang into the young hobbit’s eyes.  Merry’s sword, and his own, thudded into the dust.  Aragorn saw this.  “Pippin,” he called gently.  “Go back to the others.  You cannot help us here.  Tell Gandalf we are unharmed and will join you in moment.”

Pippin stood without moving, his eyes roving over the scenes of painful death.  The lightest of sounds came from above him and then the Elf landed beside him, jumping down from the ruined roof in a single graceful leap.  Legolas gathered up the dropped swords and pressed them carefully into Pippin’s arms.  “Go inside, little one,” the Elf whispered.  “You do not need to see this.”

Obeying numbly, Pippin carried the swords back.  He was scarcely two steps into the alley when Merry and Frodo both grasped his arms, making him almost drop the swords again.  “Pippin!  What are you doing?” cried Merry, turning him around to make certain he was unhurt.

“The battle’s over,” the tweenager reported dazedly.  “Strider said to tell you they were unharmed and they will come back shortly.”

Frodo took his sword from him and led him over to the wall, pushing him down against it and laying the sword in his unresponsive hand.  Sam looked at the tweenager  briefly, but did not withdraw the knife from near the throat of the prisoner.  Merry took his own sword and went to the entrance, to be met there by the returning warriors.

Aragorn’s sharp gaze took in the tied man then checked each of them over.  “It would have gone ill for us did we not have a Greenwood Elf with us,” he commented.  Legolas, checking his unstrung bow for damage, raised his head and smiled at him briefly.  Then Aragorn turned to Gandalf.  “They are all dead, that I saw.  If any deserted, I did not see them run.  We are unharmed.  Are any hurt here?”

Gandalf shook his head, sheathing the great elven sword at last.  “None here.  Only two came into the alley, and they are as you see them.”  A gesture took in the corpse and the prisoner.

Frodo regarded them anxiously.  “Are you all truly unhurt?”

Aragorn grinned at him through the mask of sweat and dirt coating his face.  “A warrior, Frodo, does not complain of scrapes and cuts and bruises.”  His face softened.  “Yes … we are unhurt.  We were all most fortunate.”

“These were not men I would care to captain,” remarked Boromir, his eyes coolly contemptuous. 

The man on the ground stared up on them, stifled fury on his face.  He dropped his eyes when Aragorn knelt before him, staring at the ground.  The Ranger leaned over him and checked the bonds.  “Well done, Frodo, Merry.  Sam, you can move that sword now.”

This Sam did, but he did not sheath it, keeping it ready in his hand.  Then his round faced blanched.  “Bill!” he fairly howled.  “I forgot Bill!  Oh, me poor lad.”

Sam would have darted out of the alley but Legolas caught his shoulder, halting him.  “One moment, Samwise!  I will go with you.  I need to recover my arrows.”   The two left, Sam practically dragging the Elf behind him.

Aragorn leaned down and pointedly cleaned his long sword on the prisoner’s surcoat, wiping blood across the white hand emblazoned on it, his dark eyes locking on the man’s.  “You,” he said softly, his voice flat and emotionless, “what was your troop’s purpose here?”

The man’s eyes followed the gleaming steel as it rubbed across his chest.  With a gulp he looked up.  “We were given orders to seek out your band and take captive the little folk.  They were not to be harmed.”

There was nothing in the Ranger’s eyes.  “And the rest of us?”  The man was silent, beads of perspiration gathering in his hair and sliding down his face.  “And the rest of us,” asked Aragorn again.  The very tip of his sword angled and sliced easily through the cloth and leather, and the material around the small hole began to darken.  

The man licked his lips, looking from the darkening spot to the Ranger.  “You were to be killed.”

Now Gandalf moved forward, ignoring the man’s flinch.  “Why did you pursue us?”

“We were told one of the halflings carried something of great value,” the man said quickly.  “I don’t know what it is.  I don’t think my captain knew.  Several companies of us, Orcs and Men both, were sent.   Rich reward was to go to the troop that brought back the halflings.”

“And the one who gave the orders?”  The man paled, and the wizard could almost see the thoughts racing through the man’s mind.  Did they know whose livery he wore?   Did they know the chief of the White Hand?

When the man did not respond, Aragorn tipped his sword again and set against the man’s chest.  Frodo could not bear it.  “Stop!” the hobbit cried.  “You cannot torture him!”

“Frodo, be still,” murmured Aragorn, never taking his eyes from the man.  “This does not concern you.”

“Then who does it concern, if not me?”

Gandalf met the Ranger’s grim eyes and then looked at the Ring-bearer.  Frodo’s naturally fair complexion was deathly white.  He pressed himself against the wall, frightened, as the man’s eyes turned to him.  “You?” the prisoner whispered.  A slow, satisfied smile spread across his face. “You.”

Gandalf glared at the man, then his face softened into sorrowful resignation.  “This man cannot be freed, Aragorn.  He must not take back the knowledge of our whereabouts to Isengard.”  Aragorn nodded in reply and stood, taking a step back.

“No, you can’t,” gasped the Ring-bearer.  “You cannot murder him -”

“We must do whatever we must to safeguard you, Frodo.”  There was no mercy in the Ranger’s eyes. 

Frodo looked like he was going to faint.  Quickly, Merry went to cross the narrow way to catch his arm.  In his fear for his cousin, he forgot the danger of the man and crossed between him and the Ranger’s sword.  In a heartbeat the man rocked forward, his tied arms sliding over Merry’s head, pulling him down, his hands twisting sideways to wrap around the hobbit’s throat. 

* TBC * 

Chapter 5

Merry twisted in the Man’s grasp, choking as the huge hands wrapped around his throat.  The hobbit tried to wrench himself free from the arms pinning him across his chest like metal bands.  Aragorn sprang forward, his long sword coming up but the soldier pulled Merry back against him and the Ranger dared not seek a vital spot with the hobbit held before him.  For a moment all seemed frozen in that narrow alleyway, then the hobbits surged forward with shrill cries of rage.

“I’ll break his neck!  I’ll break his neck!”  The man flung himself back against the ruined wall, hands tightening around his hostage’s throat.  Frodo sought to come up along the soldier’s side for a crippling stab, angling Sting behind Merry.  Despite himself, Merry made of choked cry of pain and Frodo fell back, his eyes blazing blue fire into his cousin’s face.  Gimli shifted his great axe to his other hand and wrapped a thick arm around Pippin, holding the young hobbit back, for Pippin would have cast aside his sword and gone for the Man with his bare hands, disregarding his own safety in his rage and fear. 

“Cut me free!” the man demanded, never slackening his grip on the struggling hobbit.  “Be still, you!”  His air cut off, Merry obeyed, but fury burned in his eyes.  “Cut me free,” the soldier demanded again, his voice more soft as he comprehended his power over the small group that he and his band had been sent to hunt down.  Aragorn took a step forward but the man pulled away from him, quailing at the anger in the Ranger’s eyes.  The man hoisted the hobbit up before him, sheltering behind the small form.  Well the soldier knew that the little one was his only protection; he would live not a breath past the hobbit.

Taking advantage of the man’s concentration on the others, Merry ducked his head suddenly and slid down in the imprisoning hands.  With all his strength, he bit down on the delicate webbing between the thumb and first finger of the soldier’s hand.

The man screamed.  Merry spat out a glob of flesh, blood coating his mouth.  Boromir tried to take the soldier from the other side but the man pulled Merry across him, stretching the hobbit lengthwise.  Furiously, the soldier shook the helpless hobbit and Merry coughed and choked.  Then he struggled against the imprisoning hands to meet his captor’s eyes. 

“There’s a knife in my pocket,” whispered Merry.  Frodo looked at him blankly - he had seen his cousin throw his dagger into the throat of the man’s comrade.  Pippin’s huge eyes fastened on Merry’s face, then traveled to the Man’s, then to his cousin’s bandaged hand.

“Pull it out for me,” the Man hissed, “and no tricks, you little dunghill-rat.” 

Merry raised his bandaged hand.  “I can’t,” he replied in strangled tones.  “I hurt my hand and I can’t pick up anything.”  The hobbit wiggled his fingers slightly to demonstrate, careful not to close them.

Snarling an inarticulate oath, the man crushed Merry against him and dug one filthy hand into the hobbit’s pocket.  Merry held himself straight to help him, holding still.  His eyes on the furious and frightened eyes of the Fellowship, the Man never saw the fabric shift of its own accord when the soldier’s blood dripped on it.  Merry did, and closed his eyes in terror and hope.

The man swore again as he fished about in the tiny pocket, his great hand closing on the sharpness he felt there.  Merry tensed and tried to edge away.  Then the soldier shrieked, a high unnatural sound, and tore his hand from Merry’s pocket, ripping cloth, blood pouring as the shard sliced into his palm.  Six others sank into his hand and began crawling up his arm.  The man released Merry and the hobbit scrambled towards his kin, his eyes widening in horror as one remaining shard actually leaped from the torn cloth of Merry’s pocket onto the man’s unprotected arm.  That shard and the others sliced deep, coating themselves with blood, then in a heartbeat, turned sideways and burrowed into the flesh.

The soldier screamed again and the hobbits cringed to hear it.  Frodo tried to prevent Merry from turning around and seeing what his ruse had accomplished, but Merry pulled free of his cousin’s hold.  What he saw would haunt his nightmares all of his life.

The man lay twisting on the ground, one arm holding the other’s wrist, the leather lacings that had tied his hands flapping.  The eight shards had completely buried themselves under his skin and were visible only as obscene lumps moving under his flesh.  He was convulsing, clawing at the lumps, his own hands digging into his body and spraying more blood.  The shards would be briefly visible, rising to the surface of the man’s skin like sharks attacking a shoal of fish, feeding on the blood then sinking back under the flesh for more.  He rolled on the ground, his screams continuous, high and piercing, drilling through their eardrums.

The Company stood frozen at the sight.  Then suddenly Gandalf was moving, pushing them away from the writhing soldier.  “Get back!” he roared at them.  “Make sure there is none of his blood on you!”  Their minds in shock, they stared at him without understanding.  The wizard yanked the hobbits back by their collars, pushing the others further away from the tortured figure. “Is his blood on you?”  Merry found himself staring into the wizard’s white face, his beard bristling like wire.  “Meriadoc!” Gandalf shouted, “Do you have any of his blood on you?”

Grasping the wizard’s words at last, Merry scrubbed his face and shook his head, too numb to speak.  Quickly the wizard turned him around, checking, then Gandalf’s sharp eyes moved to each of the others, looking for stray ruby droplets.  Over the wizard’s shoulder, Merry could see that the man had stilled, his body unnaturally loose on the cold earth.  Shapes still moved beneath his clothing, running up and down his arms and legs, lumps crisscrossing his chest.  Merry felt vomit rise in his throat.  Beside him, as if from far away, he could hear Pippin whimpering, soft cries that his own throat echoed.

Gandalf pushed them back farther from the twitching body, splitting the Company in that narrow place.  Aragorn’s face was stern and set, nausea in his dark eyes.  The others were silent, breathing heavily, horror in every line of their bodies.  Dimly, Merry registered that Sam and Legolas had returned; Sam’s hand on Bill’s lead, the other held against his mouth.  The Elf was drawing his bow, the grace of his movements slowed by the horrific scene before his eyes.

“Gandalf,” Legolas called, “do I shoot?”

The wizard was silent, his eyes on the figure.  The soldier seemed to have shrunk, his skin flattened, consumed by the moving lumps.  There were more than eight now, many more.  It was impossible to count them as they surged and slid beneath the shrinking skin.  The man raised his eyes to the Elf, begging, no longer able to speak or move.

“Gandalf!”

“No, Legolas,” the wizard said softly, with pity.  “It is already too late.”

Even as Gandalf spoke, the Man looked at him in pleading.  The wizard stood sorrowful, leaning on his staff.  Then the soldier’s head fell back and he stiffened in one last agony.

“It is done,” Gandalf said softly.  “Watch, if you wish to see one of the great magics of the Second Age.  This has not been witnessed in all this Age of the world.  Would that this evil knowledge had been entirely lost.”

Wrenching himself free of his paralysis, Aragorn looked to the wizard then at Gandalf’s nod, came forward to stand by the corpse.  Legolas came up beside him but the others hung back, revulsion and fear still etched on their sweating faces.  Because the body had so shrunken into itself, collapsed as if the mortal clay that comprised it had fled with the spirit, they did not at first understand the movement they saw.  The lumps under the leather-like skin were moving, collecting at the center of the sunken chest.  Something began to grow there, pushing up from under the desiccated skin.  The lumps, the shards, were merging, absorbing each other, and forming a greater lump.  For long moments this continued as they watched in disbelief and loathing.

At last there was no more movement under the skin.  All was still.  Gandalf lifted his staff and prodded the lump.  The dried skin split and the tip of the staff sank into the bloodless cavity and pushed from it a great glass-like sphere, slightly smaller than a man’s head.  The glass ball rolled off the shrunken body and sank into the weed-choked earth with a soft thud that seemed all out of proportion to its size.  Purple-black it was, shot with midnight blue, and threaded with moonlight white.  It looked somehow alive, movement within its space, waiting.

After a long silence, Boromir spoke for them all.  “What is it?”

Gandalf leaned tiredly on his staff and gazed at the sphere.  It seemed almost to gaze back.  “The greater ones were made by Fëanor during the Years of the Trees,” he said slowly.  Most of them looked at him blankly; only Legolas nodded, his clear gaze inwards.  “Fëanor was the greatest of the Noldor,” the wizard explained, “the Elven-Kings.”  He sighed deeply.  “The greater stones were not made like this, of course.  When the enemies of the Elven-Kings saw what Fëanor had made, they sought to make their own.  Very useful the Stones were, for far-seeing and distant communication.  Their users could speak mind-to-mind, faster than word could be carried by any steed, if they had the will to master the Seeing Stones.”  The wizard sank stiffly to his knees and leaned over the softly glowing sphere, careful not to touch it.  “This is one of the lesser essays in that black craft, made by evil masters for evil purpose.  A life was required to create it, a death by horror and agony.  If broken, it could be regenerated, as we have seen.  An Elf was preferred but a Man would do for one of the lesser Stones.  It is one of the palantíri … a palantír.”

“A palantír,” Aragorn repeated, his eyes mesmerized by the weirdly beautiful object.  When he would have placed a hand on the cool surface, the wizard stopped him. 

“Don’t touch it,” Gandalf cautioned.  “It is fully formed.  It will not seek blood to nourish it, but thought and direction, now.”

Boromir moved forward and crouched by the Ranger’s side.  “This would be a mighty tool.  We could -”

“No!” Gandalf drove his staff into the earth as he rose, his lined faced adamant.  “Did you not see how it was birthed, Boromir?  It is altogether evil.  It is evil.”

“Would it…”  Merry’s voice was so soft that it would not have been heard but for the silence of the little shelter, broken only by the sighing of the wind.    “Would it have done … that … to me?”

Gandalf moved swiftly to the hobbit’s side and knelt down before him, so that their eyes were at a level.  “It took blood to activate it, Merry.  The small slices on your hands when you touched it were not enough.  It sought to bleed you, then, but only had enough strength to multiply itself and prepare.  If you had bled heavily upon it…  I wish you had shown me the pieces when you found them.”

Merry nodded, his face stricken.  He was scarcely aware of Frodo and Pippin lacing their arms through his, steadying him.

“It must be destroyed.”  This from Gimli, who held his axe ready.  The Dwarf squatted opposite the Ranger and the Gondorian, dark eyes measuring the glowing globe.  “And yet, it is almost a shame.”  Seeing the looks of mingled horror and anger turned his way, the Dwarf elaborated.  “By that, I mean it is a shame to destroy something which is … oddly beautiful.  Will you deny that it looks almost a gem, a living jewel?”

“Evil can appear beautiful,” returned the wizard reflectively.  “And I do not deny that this – living jewel, did you say? – can fascinate.  I can see how Gimli would wish that the palantír is other than it is, for his people could work such into jewelry or art pieces of breathtaking loveliness.”  The wizard gave Merry’s shoulder a squeeze and stood to face the others.  “But it was conceived and birthed in wickedness, as we saw.  It will never serve the cause of good.”

Gimli nodded.  “Which brings us back to the question.  How do we destroy this malevolent thing?”

* TBC *

Chapter 6

“Let us move out of this place of death,” suggested Aragorn with an eye to the devastated hobbits.  After a final stare at the pitiful, shriveled thing, Frodo linked his arm firmly through Merry’s and practically dragged his cousin from the alley.  Merry still seemed in shock and could not command his feet.  Sam pushed Pippin before him.  Legolas came out with his bow at the ready, but nothing rose from the ruins to threaten them.  Gandalf fetched a large sack from the pony’s panniers and prodded the gently glowing ball into it with his staff, careful never to lay hands upon it.

It was scarcely better out of that narrow place.  The corpses of Men lay like broken dolls on the ground and the hobbits stopped dead.  Boromir and Aragorn caught them up and carried them past the battle ground, setting them down in the scanty grass and open air beyond the ruined buildings.  Boromir knelt in front of Merry, noting with pain that white-faced stare.

“Merry,” the warrior said softly.  When the hobbit did not respond, he tried again.  “Merry?  Merry, look at me.”

Slowly the young hobbit’s bright blue eyes focused on him.  Merry looked at him silently and the man nodded to himself.  “There will be death in times of war, Merry,” Boromir said gently.  “You must remember, always, that we fight to prevent yet more death.  There is an evil in the land that will accept no reason, no compromise.  The Dark Lord will tolerate no other way other than his own.”  The hobbit’s face paled further and Boromir stroked the blond curls gently.  “Evil is a cancer, which grows and grows and strangles all.  It must be cut out.”

Merry nodded, his face no longer quite so very white.  Gimli took up guard position, his dark eyes roving over the landscape.  Sam and Pippin rounded up wood and Frodo knelt to strike a fire but Gandalf forbade it, pointing silently at the open skies and lack of cover.  Instead, the hobbits settled close together and pulled their cloaks over themselves, talking softly.  Aragorn noted that each one was touching Merry in some way; Frodo braced against his back, Pippin lying across his knees, Sam resting his weight against Merry’s shoulder.  The Ranger moved over to where Boromir was cleaning his sword, behind Merry so the hobbits could not see as he wiped blood and flesh from the long blade.  “That was well done, Boromir.”

Boromir nodded without looking up.  “I have been a warrior all my life.  Yet I do not know why there must be evil, Aragorn.”

Aragorn crouched opposite Boromir and laid a hand on his shoulder.  “Nor can I.  Perhaps evil is a seed, that only waits for watering and food to grow.”  Both men shuddered and their eyes turned to the rough sack Gandalf held at arm’s length before him, where evil had indeed sprouted and now lay dormant and waiting.

Seeing their gaze, the wizard came over to the men and laid the sack carefully before them on the ground.  “Legolas, would you join us, please?” Gandalf called.  The Elf came, unstringing his bow, his fair features set as he looked at the sack.

“Legolas, is there any knowledge among the Elves instructing how to destroy such a thing so that it cannot remake itself?” Gandalf asked.

Legolas dropped gracefully into a cross-legged seat upon the cold ground.  “You ask the wrong Elf, Mithrandir.  I am no lore master such as Elrond Half-Elven, who has studied our history since the Bright Beginning.  I know the story of the fashioning of the Palantíri, of course, and the wars fought over the Seven Stones, but of these lesser stones, made of malice in mockery of the greater … I can offer no wisdom.”

“Push a wall over on it,” suggested Gimli.

The small council’s eyes traveled to the still-standing ruins, massive blocks of hewn stone, damaged and weatherworn but still beyond the strength of men to topple.  “We could build a gantry,” the Dwarf continued, “construct a lever at the top…”

“I think that would require more time than we could spare, Gimli,” interrupted Aragorn, but diplomatically.  “And there is no guarantee that the force would be sufficient to shatter it.”

       “Throw it down a well.”  None had heard the hobbits’ approach.  Samwise flushed when the eyes of the Big Folk turned to him, but he defended his reasoning.  “If you break it, it might get re-made again, an’ by less honest folks than us.  Folks don’t come up here but rarely, and no one with any sense would drink out o’ a well here.  If you threw it in, and then … and then … then put in the … bodies … after that, no one would bother it.”

“To foul a well…” began Gimli slowly, but Aragorn again interrupted him.

“… is distasteful and against all prudence,” the Ranger said.  “But Sam is right.  If even there is water, no one would drink it.  Or investigate it after finding it had been used as a burial pit.”  Aragorn rose to his feet. “We cannot leave the … bodies … unburied.  Besides drawing scavengers, it would point too clearly our passing through this place.  And they were Men, however corrupt.  I would not leave them to rot.”

“Aye, let’s get to it, then,” rumbled the Dwarf.  “Well done, Master Samwise.”

When the hobbits would have moved to help, Gimli shooed them away from the corpses, claiming it easier for a Dwarf to bear the burdens than they.  So he spared them contact with the bloodied forms, and spared them the stuff of nightmares to haunt their sleep.

Legolas sought a well and found one in the center of a long abandoned courtyard, wild and overgrown, choked with weeds.  The men and Gimli dragged the stiffening forms into a pile.  The hobbits turned their eyes away as Gimli heaved down the first corpse.  There was no splash, but they could not tell if that signaled the well was dry or the water level fell beyond the range of their hearing.  Then Gandalf came to stand at the smashed edge-stones and dropped the weighted sack.  It fell straight down, without bumping the stone sides of the well, until in a moment it was lost to sight in the unyielding blackness.  Then one by one, the bodies were maneuvered over the broken mouth and dropped.

Gimli knelt in the sparse grass and rubbed his hands when it was finished, Sam pouring a skin of water over the Dwarf’s hands to clean them.  Even the cold whistling wind seemed subdued.  The Company stood for a few moments in silence and then Gandalf raised his staff and motioned them onward.

* * * * *

Now the lack of rest caught up to the exhausted Fellowship.  They had gained only a few moments of sleep at dawn when the attack began, that after a full night of marching.  Their steps slowed, too weary to hold the pace.   Merry wiped perspiration from his face, and heard a soft murmuring beside him and tilted an ear to hear Pippin marching in time to his subvocalized litany, “I hate this place … I hate this place … I hate this place…”

“Pippin.”

“What?”

“Stop that.  Or choose another marching song, please.”

A deep, martyred sigh.  “All right, Merry.  One of Bilbo’s walking-songs, then?  The Road goes ever on and on…”

“Not that one, either,”

“Cousin, if I don’t sing or eat something, I’m going to go to sleep on my feet.”

“Hobbits,” growled a voice above their heads.  Both jumped then turned to see Gandalf scowling at them, but a twinkle lurked in the wizard’s sharp eyes.  “Better?” he asked gently.

Merry nodded slowly and some of Pippin’s weariness lifted at the sight.  “We will stop soon,” Gandalf assured them.  “Exhaustion breeds carelessness and we cannot afford that.  We will make a fire, I think, and Sam can stew some of that delicious snow-deer meat.  Add some onions and carrots.  How does that sound, lads?”

Food being a source of great comfort to hobbits, Sam found three sets of willing hands to help him in luncheon-preparation.  The Fellowship took what precautions they could in these folded hills; choosing a sheltered campsite, digging a fire-pit and fanning the thin column of smoke with their cloaks to disperse it and make it harder for spying eyes to spot.

“A most resilient folk, hobbits,” commented Legolas, his eyes on where Merry was trying to one-handedly peel a carrot, and had resorted to holding the vegetable down with a furry foot.  Pippin sat next to him, chopping onions and wiping his eyes.  Frodo had taken over cloak-flapping duty while Sam prepared the meat.

Aragorn glanced up, a smile in his eyes.  “That they are.  They bounce back from horrors that would flatten a seasoned warrior.  Tough, I would call them.”

“Argumentative,” contributed Gimli, oblivious of the looks exchanged among the other members of the Fellowship.

“Interfering,” growled Gandalf, but with affection.

“Noisy,” added Boromir.  “But I agree … a most astonishing people.”

The hobbits were sorry to see the small fire put out immediately when the stew was finished … the heat combated the plucking fingers of the cold wind, which reached under all garments and chilled flesh.  Merry rolled himself in his cloak and blankets and laid himself as close to the embers as he could.  Silently his cousins and friends arrayed themselves about him and the Fellowship, except for Legolas on guard, slept.

They woke to darkness, cold, and the ever-present wind.  And something worse.  When Frodo sought to rouse Merry, he found his cousin did not respond to his gentle shaking, nor voice his usual sleepy complaint.  Merry lay on his side, eyes open but unseeing, sweat beading his face, his injured hand curled against his chest.

“Merry?” asked Pippin, also missing the familiar morning complaint.

“Pip,” said Frodo softly.  “Go get Aragorn.  Tell him Merry needs him.”

Pippin shot straight up in his blankets and on the other side of Frodo, Sam woke to instant alertness, his grey eyes widening.  Then Pippin was on his feet and dashing across the extinguished fire, blackening his feet in the now-cold cinders. 

“Merry,” whispered Frodo, stroking his cousin’s face, “Merry-lad, can you hear me?”

Merry’s bright eyes, now brilliant with fever, struggled to focus on him.  “Frodo,” he gasped, “my hand…”

Sam was on his knees at Merry’s side, reaching out to gently capture the trembling arm.  When he tried to uncurl Merry’s fingers, the hobbit cried out and jerked his hand back.  Frodo wrapped his arms around his cousin and rocked him, murmuring, “Hush, my dear, it’s all right.  It’s all right.  Strider will fix it and you’ll feel better in just a moment…”

Aragorn dropped next to them; in their absorption, the hobbits had not heard him approach.  “What is it?” he asked, worry evident on his stern face.

Sam tried again to straighten Merry’s hand, but Merry fought him, almost sobbing with pain.  Pippin was dancing at his back, too distressed to stand still.  “Pippin,” ordered the Ranger.  “Tell Gandalf we must relight the fire, to boil water.  Then do it, please.  I need hot water to clean this wound.”

“But Strider -"

“Please, Pippin.  You give Merry the most help by preparing the water.”

Pippin made a gulping, gasping sound and darted off.  Frodo grinned at the Ranger weakly, but his fear showed in those morning glory eyes.  “Keep him occupied.  What is it, Aragorn?”

Merry could not resist the Man’s strength and the bandage was unwrapped and his hand was gently opened.  A soft light blossomed about them and Frodo looked up to see Gandalf leaning over the Ranger’s shoulder, his staff angled down to illuminate the small white hand, now angry red and swollen, the three thin cuts from the palantír weeping a foul-smelling, yellow liquid.  Merry groaned and hid his face against Frodo’s shoulder.

“Infected,” Aragorn breathed.  “And badly, too.  I cleaned the cuts before bandaging his hand, but there must have been some poison in those evil shards.  I did not think to treat him for poison…”

“And why would you?”  Gandalf touched the injury gently and Merry stared at him fearfully but did not jerk away.  Sam had surrendered his place to the wizard, rising to help Pippin, who had almost upset the kettle in his anguish.  Sam was talking to the tweenager now, soft words that the others could not hear, and the anxiousness was slowly easing from the young one’s face.

“This is very bad, Gandalf,” muttered Aragorn.  “We might have to take him back to Elrond.”

“No!  Aragorn, we cannot spare the time.  We would lose at least a week.  And we do not know if Rivendell is still being watched.  We might not be able to leave, this time.”  The wizard put a hand on Merry’s shoulder and squeezed gently as the hobbit groaned again.

Aragorn released the small hand and watched as Merry curled it against himself again, quivering in Frodo’s hold, his eyes losing focus as the brief surge of energy faded.  “Nevertheless,” he said gently, mindful of the watching hobbits, “if this were to spread into the bloodstream, he could well die of it.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 7

“This is my fault,” Merry groaned.  “I’m being punished…”

Aragorn glanced up from cleansing the hobbit’s badly infected hand.   Frodo still sat behind his cousin, cradling Merry with his arms wrapped tightly around Merry’s chest, restraining his cousin’s good arm against his body.  Aragorn kept the injured one extended, sensitive fingers probing the degree of swelling in the hand and wrist.  Merry tried not to move but he could not control the shudders that ran through his body as the Ranger gently spread his fingers to open the sticky crusts that had formed over the cuts.  With each shudder, Frodo’s arms would tighten momentarily about him, and the Ringbearer would whisper comforting words in Merry’s ears.

Pippin had carried over the steaming water then was put to work handing the Ranger the various herbs and ointments he requested.  Sam thrust a faggot into the fire and held the torch at Aragorn’s shoulder, providing some light other than cold starlight.  By the sole flickering light, Aragorn cleaned away the crusted matter as gently as he could and reopened the cuts, using the point of his small dagger to pick out the larger clots.  Pippin had started to watch, but as the Ranger coaxed the thick, foul-smelling pus from the wounds, the young one’s complexion had slowly changed to such a nauseated green that Legolas had requested his help in preparing tea, claiming he would surely ruin it without the tweenager’s help.  Whether Pippin believed him or not, it kept him occupied doing something useful.  That done, Gimli smothered the fire so that it not betray them to any watching eyes on foot or wing. The other members of the Fellowship were grouped uneasily about the little medical unit, but could offer little more than support. 

“Nonsense, dear one,” murmured Frodo into Merry’s pointed ear.  The Ring-bearer’s face was scarcely less nauseated than Pippin’s had been, but he did not falter.  “None of this is your fault.  I, for one, am grateful that you throw a dagger as well as you do.”  His hold tightened as Merry cried out when Aragorn gently arched the fingers back, opening more of the slashes to drain. 

“I killed a Man,” Merry gasped, pressing back against Frodo and turning his head away from the Ranger’s gentle ministrations.  “And I … I lied to another to trap him.  He died horribly, and something awful was born.  It’s all my fault.”

Frodo shook his dark head, meeting the Ranger’s anxious eyes.  “You did what you had to do, Merry, to protect me and all of us.  No one blames you for those deaths.”  Frodo’s arms tightened around Merry and he laid his dark curls against his cousin’s bright ones.  Merry moaned in reply, closing his fever-bright eyes, sagging against his cousin.

“Aragorn,” Frodo whispered, his eyes frightened.

The Ranger’s large, warm hands cupped Merry’s face.  “Ah,” Aragorn murmured softly.  “He is not in his right mind, Frodo.”  Aragorn turned and sorted though the pouches of ointment that Sam held out to him.  “No … no,” he murmured.  “It is too late for these medications.  I need something that can be quickly absorbed…”

“Spider web,” suggested Legolas, his luminous eyes worried.

“What?” said Sam, wrinkling his nose. “You mean like in spider-spinnin’?”

“He does, indeed,” responded Aragorn.   “Thank you, Legolas.  Spider webs are a very powerful and fast-acting natural analgesic, Sam.  They dissolve in a wound much faster than these ointments.  Applied thickly enough, they seal a wound better than a bandage.  But where we could find enough…”

“The thorn-bushes are full of spider-webs,” piped up Pippin.  “I was looking for berry bushes and saw them.”

“How do we harvest the webs?” asked Gimli, his expression dubious.

Aragorn finished cleaning the small hand and stood.  Merry curled it against his chest, too disoriented to do more than lean back against his cousin.  “Make sure that your swords are clean,” he ordered the Company at large.  “Catch the webs on your blades and spin them so that you wrap the webs around them.  Do not touch them if it can be avoided.”

Quickly the Fellowship spread out and did as Aragorn bade them.  Thorn-thickets grew profusely about them; they seemed almost all that grew in the blasted earth.  Gandalf stayed with Merry, sheltering the hobbit in his lap with his back to the wind, the wizard’s worn gray cloak pulled over them both.  Aragorn and Boromir and Legolas gathered all they could from the tangled thickets of thorns, their long reaches still not sufficient to penetrate to the center, where glimmered the thickest webs.  Only the heavily armored Dwarf could push his way past the thorns to the larger webs, and even he could not penetrate further without using his great battle-axe to chop the spear-tipped branches.  Frodo and Pippin and Sam sought the webs spun closer to the edges of the thickets, sliding into spaces the Big Folk could not fit.

When they had gathered all they could reach, Aragorn used his dagger to carefully rake the silvery strands from the blades and draped them around Merry’s hand, pressing the gossamer strands into the wounds.  The silvery strands lay against the hot flesh, then seemed to melt into the wounds.

“Good,” murmured the Ranger.  “It is working.  But we need more.  Much more.” 

The Company looked at the thorn-thickets in dismay.  “Perhaps I can walk atop the plants,” said Legolas doubtfully.

“You would soon resemble a pin-cushion,” rumbled Gimli.  “There is no help for it – I will chop our way to the webs.  I can always sharpen my axe later.”

“Wait!” called Frodo.  “We can fit underneath the thorns.  Give us but a moment and we will bring you more.”  Sam and Frodo dropped to their bellies and slid underneath the sharp thorns, emitting an occasional squeak or stifled exclamation as the wicked thorns caught cloth and tore flesh.  Pippin watched their struggling progress for a moment then wrapped his cloak tightly about him and lay down on his back, flexing his knees and using his broad feet to push himself to the center of the thicket, where great webs ringed the bushes above him in thick ropes of white.  But then the tweenager found he could not inch himself back and Frodo and Sam had to crawl in after him and ignobly drag him out by his ankles.  All three hobbits were scratched and bleeding by the time they emerged, but their small swords shone thick with glittering strands.

“I wonder what kind o’ spiders made this?” asked Sam, examining the thick, wet-looking strands on Pippin’s sword, most unlike the fine, drifting strands he and Frodo had gathered.

“Pretty little ones,” replied Pippin.  “I’ve never seen them before but they were all over.  They are all shiny black, except for the most beautiful little red hour-glasses on their abdomens.”

Aragorn and Gandalf had gone very still.  “Pippin, take off your cloak,” rasped Aragorn.

Pippin looked up, his attention on Merry.  “What?  Why?”

“Peregrin,” said Gandalf.  “Do not question.  All three of you – quickly!  Strip!”

Three pairs of indignant eyes stared at the wizard but they obeyed.  Not without questions, though.  “Why are we doing this?” asked Sam, reluctantly unbuttoning his waistcoat.  “That wind goes right through me clothes as it is.”

“Surely you don’t mean our underclothes,” argued Pippin.  “It’s freezing!”

The ‘pretty black’ spiders are poisonous,” Gandalf explained.  “Deadly poisonous.  They might have crawled into your clothes.  Are you all certain that you were not bitten?”

The hobbits paled.  Clothes went flying and in a moment, Legolas was wrapping blankets around shivering, naked hobbits.  Merry would have laughed if he’d been feeling better.  While Frodo and Sam and Pip (shaking and decorated with goose flesh) scrambled into fresh clothes from their packs, Boromir and Gimli donned their thick leather gauntlets.  Holding the small garments carefully at arm’s length, the two dashed them repeatedly against the rocks, shaking out the pockets and mashing the cloth in their thick gloves. 

Gimli was crushing the pockets of Pippin’s jacket when he pulled back his gloved hand and regarded his blue-tipped fingers in some puzzlement.  Pippin flushed under the accusing gaze of the other hobbits.  “All right, I found one berry bush,” he confessed.  “But I didn’t get to eat any of them.”

“And now you won’t,” replied his eldest cousin.   “Though I am certain you meant to share, of course.”

Pippin mumbled something under his breath and edged away to help Legolas refill their water-skins from one of the small streams that ran fast and icy down from the Mountains in the east.  Leaving Sam to gingerly take possession of the battered garments, Frodo went to where Aragorn sat with Merry.  Merry’s face was damp with perspiration but he opened his eyes as his cousin sat down, then closed them again without speaking.  Frodo checked his cousin’s face, testing the heat of his skin with a hand curled against Merry’s cheek. 

“He is better,” assured Aragorn softly.

Frodo nodded, finding Merry’s skin cooler but still too hot for comfort.  The Ring-bearer sat back on his heels with a sigh.  “Cannot you take Merry back to Rivendell?” Frodo begged the Ranger, tears standing in his eyes.  “And Pippin, too?  You could catch up with us quickly.  Elrond would give you a horse.  And they would be safe…”

“Pippin and I are not going anywhere, Frodo,” Merry’s voice cut flatly through their soft-voiced discussion.  His eyes opened and his face, though still flushed, was set.  “You need us.  I most probably saved your life, if you’ll recall.”

Frodo smiled at him.  “I do need you, Cousin.   And you’re throwing that knife probably did save us.” 

Merry nodded, his eyes closing against his will.  “I am sorry for the men’s deaths.  But I did what was necessary.”  With another deep breath, he was asleep.

“Well said, Frodo,” said Aragorn quietly.

Frodo nodded and dashed tears from his eyes.  “I would still wish them safe,” he whispered.  “But I too must do what is necessary.”

Gandalf joined them, leaning down to check on the injured hobbit, placing a gnarled hand on the sleeping one’s forehead.  “He is still very hot,” the wizard commented, keeping his voice low to avoid disturbing Merry.  “But we cannot linger.  Boromir, will you carry him?”

“Of course.”  Boromir knelt and Aragorn surrendered the sleeping hobbit to him.  Boromir lifted him carefully, turning Merry’s body so that the injured hand rested over the hobbit’s chest.  The other three stayed close, in case Merry should wake and want them.  Gimli took the pony’s lead to allow Sam to walk with the others and the Company began moving again.

Posting the keen-sighted Elf as rearguard, Gandalf walked with Aragorn for a space.  Both glanced back at the tall Man carrying the hobbit, his long strides somewhat hampered by the three others that trotted at his side.  “Will he recover, Aragorn?”

The Ranger nodded.  “If we keep the hand clean and he does not use it until those wounds close.  The webs will drain out the remaining infection and I can use the ointments when the swelling goes down.  He was most fortunate, my friend.”

“That he was,” the wizard replied softly.  “It seems to be another trait of these small folk.”  He reached for the Ranger’s hand and poured into it the crushed bodies of several of the poisonous things.

* * * * *

Boromir carried the sleeping hobbit long into the night, switching off with Legolas and Aragorn when at last he tired.  Whoever carried Merry quickly grew accustomed to having a small escort of hobbits circling about him like tugboats guiding a barge into port.  When his turn came, Aragorn deemed this a mixed blessing.  He did not lack for company or conversation, but each sigh or sleepy mutter from his small passenger required a stop that the others might reassure themselves that their sleeping one was all right.  So it was not a surprise when Merry mumbled in his sleep and a moment later, the Ranger felt a small hand tug at his cloak.

To his surprise, it was not Pippin.  Frodo stared up into his eyes, a thoughtful frown between his dark brows.  “Aragorn,” said Frodo softly, “all this…” a wave took in yet more tumbled ruins, the remains of some long-forgotten guard station or outpost, “…all this … destruction.  Why?”

“Why?” repeated Aragorn.  He looked about them at the scattered stones.  Few stood atop their neighbors; most had been tumbled and torn down, their corners blasted then worn smooth by time.  “It was war, Frodo.  These buildings were destroyed as Men and Elves battled the Great Enemy, of whom Sauron was but a servant.  Long ago.” 

The hobbit was quiet as they walked past the ruins.  “Do all things pass away in war?”

“Not valor, Frodo.”  Aragorn wished that the hobbit would share the concerns in that curly head, but he knew better than to press.  “This place was destroyed but others were saved, kept free and fair.”

 “Like the Shire,” murmured the hobbit.  “Kept free and fair…”

The Ranger thought he understood.  “Some take upon themselves the task to safeguard the future of others, Frodo.  It is what we are doing, now.”

“I understand, Aragorn,” replied the Ring-bearer softly.  His eyes, nearly black in the dark, looked up into the Man’s.  “I know what is at stake.”

“Everything,” chimed in Pippin’s quiet voice from behind them.  

* * * * *

It was during a halt, while Aragorn was inspecting Merry’s hand, that the hobbit made a request of him.

“You must be feeling better,” the Ranger chuckled.  “The hand is much better, at any rate.  Are you certain you wish this of me?”

“Please, Strider,” the hobbit pleaded.  “Please?”

“I’m not sure I want to get in the middle of this,” the Ranger responded, but with a smile.  He looked over to where Frodo sat rubbing Pippin’s feet, the tweenager grimacing melodramatically.  “But I think your cousin could use a distraction from dark thoughts.  All right.  But only because you acted so bravely to save your kin, and because you have been a good patient.  But it wasn’t me – understood?”

“Understood,” Merry agreed.  “And it’s only fair -"

“I don’t want to hear any more, Merry.”

Dawn was breaking before Gandalf allowed them to halt again, the bitter pre-light casting deceiving shadows among the folded hills.  The hobbits dropped their packs with heart-felt sighs and sought to wash their faces and hands in another of the icy streams that flowed fast and gurgling through the bleak land.  Frodo was digging in his pack for pipe-weed when he leaped back with a cry that shattered the tentative bird twittering.  Windmilling his arms, the Ring-bearer staggered backwards to fall flat on his back with an inelegant thud.

The astonished Company leapt to their feet and rushed to his aid.  Frodo lay still, panting, his eyes round with horror, focused on the tiny, shiny black bodies resting atop his pipe-weed pouch, red hour-glass abdomens shining phosphorescently in the growing light.  It took them all a moment to realize that the tiny flattened forms did not move.

“Meriadoc!”

“It wasn’t me, Cousin!  I haven’t touched your pack!  I swear!”

“He didn’t, Frodo!”

 Gandalf, clearly annoyed, regarded the choking Ranger.  “Did you have to help him, Aragorn?”

 “Well,” the Ranger responded.  “At least things are back to normal.”

Watching the Ring-bearer engage in a soft-voiced but increasingly animated discussion with his cousins, Gandalf groaned, “Hobbits.  May the Valar protect us.”

The End