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.  

All Evil Things

Chapter 1

Merry sat on watch and thought.   Most of his attention remained on the dark around him, but the mind would wander…  Back to their small fire, Merry had wrapped himself as tightly could in his cloak, then piled all his blankets on top of that.  It didn’t seem to cut the freezing cold very much.  The cold didn’t bother him as much as the dark, the absolute blackness of the Mines of Moria.

Merry was starting to hate the dark.  They had been two days trudging through the broken rubble and wrecked dreams that had once been the great drawven city of Darrowdelf.  The Fellowship hoped to find the East Door and see daylight the day after tomorrow.  Daylight … sometimes the hobbit thought he didn’t remember what it looked like.   He could well understand why this place was called the Black Pit, now.

Remnants of grandeur still clung to Khazad-Dûm.  He could even now see the pride and love of stone that had comprised the city, the careful planning and sophistication of its design.  All destroyed, all ruined … fouled by the depreciations of the Orcs that had invaded and destroyed it.  That had slaughtered its people.  They had seen no decaying skeletons for some hours, for which he was very grateful.  The hobbit swiveled around from his seat on the cold stone floor and checked behind him … in the dark, it seemed that every sound was magnified, and his eyes played tricks on him, showing him movement in the dark where there was none.  He wished he could light his pipe, but even that faint illumination would distract him from watching the darkness.

Merry sighed and returned to his musings, shifting uncomfortably on the floor.  In his quick, analytical mind, an idea was forming - one that he did not like at all.  He had tried to disregard it, but that tenacious intelligence of his would not let it drop.  Gandalf was due to relieve him shortly (as much as he could tell in the blackness), and he wanted to discuss it with the wizard, out of the others’ hearing.   He sighed again and drew his knees up under his chin.

Part of his ill ease was due to the knowledge that they were being stalked.  Neither he or Pippin had seen the dark shadow that trailed them on bare, flapping feet, but Frodo had.  The knowledge that that Gollum creature was out there, with his sharp teeth and long, wiry arms of frightening strength, was terrifying.  Several times during his long watch, Merry could have sworn he saw two dim lamps of light behind the rubble, the firelight reflecting in the twin globes of Gollum’s eyes.  He had had to bite down on his tongue to stifle his stillborn alarm, his alert to Aragorn and Gandalf, more than once.

The rustle of soft wool, click of wooden staff on stone … the wizard sank down beside him, lowering himself to a shattered piece of stone that had once been a magnificently-carven arch.  Smell of pipe-weed, spices and herbs, and the faintest tang of fireworks…  Merry would have known who sat next to him without the dim illumination of the fire, his senses were so sharpened by the absence of light.   Merry crawled stiffly to his feet and scrambled up next to Gandalf, so they could converse in low tones without waking the others. 

“Anything?” the wizard asked succinctly. 

“Nothing,” Merry returned softly.  “Though I could have sworn I saw Gollum out there, more than once.  Just reflections of the fire off mica or some other stone, I suppose.”

The wizard said nothing, but from under bristling brows, his sharp eyes swept the unyielding darkness.  The responsibility of the watch removed from him, Merry relaxed at his side and tried to order his thoughts.

Gandalf did not hurry him.  They sat in companionable silence for several minutes, until Merry said, “Gandalf?”

“Yes, Merry?”

“I…  I’ve been thinking.   About Frodo, and the Ring.  And everything that’s happened recently.”  Merry did not know how to approach what was on his mind.  “He’s had so many things happen to him…  so many attacks, or plain ill-fortune.   Ever since we got lost in the Old Forest, and the willow-tree ensnared us.  The Barrow-wrights.  Then Weathertop,”  Merry shivered.  “The voices Legolas heard on the wind, on Caradhras’ slopes, and the avalanche. Gollum.  Everything in between, up to Frodo being snatched by that lake-monster, that Watcher in the Water. 

“He’s being hunted, isn’t he?” there, he’d said it.

Gandalf sat resting his hands on his staff, and as Merry waited for an answer, the faintest of lights blossomed on the end of the staff, just enough to illuminate the tip of the wizard’s sharp nose and the gleam of his eyes. 

Receiving no reply, Merry continued.  “I don’t mean the Ringwraiths.  I mean … I mean by all evil things.  They’re drawn to the Ring, aren’t they?”

The wizard shifted his seat and the faint light of the staff died, returning them to orange-tinged darkness. 

“They can sense it, Merry.  It calls to them, summons them.  All evil things.”  The wizard sighed.  “Yes, Frodo is being hunted.  As are we all, as long as we accompany the Ringbearer.”

Having his fears confirmed brought the hobbit no sense of satisfaction.  “Isn’t there some way to… hide it, or shield it, or confuse the hunters in some manner?  Some enchantment you could lay upon it?”

The wizard sighed.  “You do me too much credit, Meriadoc.  I am no match for the Enemy.  No strength or spell of mine can hide his Ring –and its Bearer – from him.  Our only hope in this Quest is in speed, and silence.”  They sat silent, until at last Gandalf sighed again.  “Speaking of silence, you had best get what sleep you can.  We have a long march tomorrow and must start early.”

If it was early when the Company began the third day’s march, Merry couldn’t have told it.  There was no change in the long dark of Moria, no lightening of the pressing murk.  After a hasty and cheerless breakfast they pressed on again, Gandalf in the lead with his glowing staff, Gimli, the four hobbits in ever-changing configuration, Legolas roving up and down the line, and Boromir with Aragorn as rearguard. 

They had walked for perhaps three hours without a halt when ill chance struck again.  Pippin was somewhat ahead of Merry, Sam and Frodo behind.  Merry generally tried to keep Pip before him, in case the youngster needed a boost over the fallen masonry.  They were climbing up yet another smashed staircase, and Merry was annoyed but not alarmed when the first small pieces of gravel pattered across his hands and down his front. 

“Pippin, quit kicking gravel over me!”  he hissed.  Pippin paused and looked back over his shoulder in surprise. 

“I didn’t,” he protested softly.  “I’ve been very careful.  I –“

Crack!

Merry heard, rather then saw, the huge granite slab that detached itself from higher up and came crashing towards them, one end slamming into a carved cornice and pulling it down in a shower of smaller stones.  Behind them, Frodo and Sam had frozen at the noise, and Merry turned just in time to see Sam‘s hands tangle in Frodo’s cloak and pull him out from under the descending stone.  The two surged up against the wall as the stone shattered right where Frodo had stood a moment before.

Their protective stealth destroyed anyway, the Company assured themselves that Frodo and Sam were undamaged.  Frodo was shaking, his eyes huge as he stared up into the gloom, trying to see where the stone had come from.  Sam was breathing heavily; he had caught up his master and slammed them against the wall hard enough to bruise them both.

“More ill luck,” Merry murmured to himself. 

“Come!  We must leave this place before any come to investigate the fall.”  Gandalf raised his staff again and motioned them forward.  Glancing about to ensure that Sam and Frodo were ahead, Merry saw Gandalf angle his staff down to show Aragorn the thick scratches at the base of the stone, where it had been levered from its place.

* * * * *

Gandalf did not let them rest for several more hours.  Legolas had taken to scouting around them as they walked, checking into corners, gliding behind columns, his light step soundless as he returned again and again to Aragorn to speak with him softly.  By then, the hobbits were stumbling, starved and were ready to rebel.  Giving in to Pippin’s increasingly shrill, “I’m hungry, Gandalf!  I want to eat!” the wizard finally called a halt.

In deference to the long march, Gandalf allowed the hobbits to gather bits of wood and permitted the Fellowship a small fire.  Sam broke out his cooking gear and they enjoyed the simple luxury of tea and hot stew.  Frodo and Pippin fell asleep where they sat, and with a quick look at Gandalf for permission, Merry and Sam eased them down and covered them with their bedrolls.  Sam was rubbing his shoulder and Merry made him take off his cloak and shirt so Aragorn could examine it.

“You’re going to have a nasty bruise, there, Sam, but no permanent damage.”  Sam nodded, stiff but not greatly concerned. 

“I’ve been hurt worse fallin’ off a pony, sir.  I wish you’d look at Mr. Frodo when he wakes up, though.  I had to pull him against that wall awful hard.”

The Ranger glanced over at the sleepers.  “All right.  We should be moving on soon.  Pack up, Sam, and be ready.”  Merry helped him scour the pots and repack them, then they sat down to rest as Aragorn and Gandalf discussed something with Gimli.  The Dwarf seemed to be pressing some point, with which the wizard disagreed, to judge by the head-shaking and finger-drawn maps in the dust.  Boromir leaned over Gimli’s shoulder to look at the dust-drawn diagram.  Merry yawned; next to him, Sam was nodding off.

Merry realized he’d been hearing the soft shushing sound for some time before he really became aware of it.  He sat up a little straighter.  Odd…  Sort of a scratching sound, like … pins and needles … being drawn over a rock?  Merry saw Legolas, sitting cross-legged near his sleeping cousins, raise his head sharply, his superior hearing isolating and defining the faint sounds.   The Elf’s head turned towards one of the high ventilation shafts.

“Legolas, what…” was as far as Merry got.

The Elf surged to his feet, his inarticulate cry of alarm jerking everyone’s head up.  Merry cried out as the air around him was suddenly filled with darting forms, thousands of flitting black figures that swept past faster than his eyes could follow them.  Leathery wings brushed his face, and the cavern echoed with shrill squeaking cries.  Thousands of them…

Gandalf’s staff  roared into radiant light and the air rang with swords being drawn.  Legolas already held arrow to bow, but even the split-second required to loosen the arrow was too long.  Merry had time to see Aragorn, Boromir and Gimli vainly batting at the forms, before sharp teeth grazed his cheek and he dropped, covering his head with his arms.          

“Out!  Out!  Through the passage!”  Gandalf’s voice raised above the shrill squeals, their shrieking seeming to drill through Merry’s head.  Keeping one arm shielding his face, he waved the other at the tiny, furry forms which were settling on his clothes, sinking their small, sharp talons into his cloak.  One clawed at the side of his head, and sank its tiny pointed teeth into his ear.  Merry shook it off with a shudder, reached up and found blood where it had been.  He threw himself to the side, crushing the creatures as he rolled.

He reached Pippin, noted that the youngster already had blood streaming down his face.  Too frightened to scream, Pippin threw himself into his arms and Merry practically picked him up and set him on his feet, pushing him towards the passage.  Another bat smashed into the back of his head but fell away, unable to find purchase in his curly hair.  Two more fastened their teeth into his hand and tore, and Merry shrieked. 

“Go!  Go!”  Aragorn leaped past him, ducking one that had thrown itself at his eyes.  Merry turned towards the doorway, seeing that he and Aragorn were the last.  The light of Gandalf’s staff was disappearing around the corner.  Strangely, the host did not seem inclined to follow.  Instead, the entire swarm swirled around them and concentrated on…

Frodo.  His cousin lay on his side, nearly covered with the crawling things.  Both arms curled over his dark head to shelter his face.  He rocked up, trying to gain his knees but the sheer weight of the flying horrors on him bore him back down. 

Useless sword sheathed, Aragorn was pulling the bats off Frodo, grasping their small writhing forms with his hands and flinging them away.  Bats clung to his hands, his arms. Merry reached up and caught at them with his own small hands, tearing the creatures off  as they landed.  They turned in his grasp and bit, scratching with needle claws.  Each one he pulled away tore with it a small bite of flesh, and all three were covered with little flowing wounds.

Then Boromir was there, sweeping his great shield off his back and ‘round to cover Frodo.  The sharp edge of the battle shield sliced into or crushed the clinging creatures and their small sharp cries filled the air.  In a heartbeat, the edge of the shield was slimy with blood.   

The swarm circled around the Ringbearer, their echo-sense confused by the solid barrier.  Aragorn and Boromir lifted him to his feet and sheltered both halflings under the shield, holding it between them above the hobbits’ heads.  Stumbling, all four ran for the doorway.   Gandalf met them in the passageway.  Shouting something incomprehensible, the wizard thrust his staff at the following horde and a great stream of white fire erupted from its tip.  Small forms shrilled and died, furry bodies crisping in an instant. White fire flowed again, washing through the cavern like a wave.  The surviving creatures fled, shrilling and shrieking, back into the dark upper recesses of the hall.

Not trusting the retreat, the five raced after the rest of the Fellowship, colliding with them in the passage.  On seeing his bleeding master, Sam caught Frodo just as his knees gave way and he collapsed.  Turning swiftly, Aragorn caught him up.  Boromir reached for Merry but Merry shook his head, slinging blood out of his eyes.  “I’m all right.  It wasn’t me they were after.”

Swiftly the Fellowship moved through the dust-ridden halls, desiring only to leave the carnage and smell of burned fur and flesh behind them.  They did not halt till far away, falling gasping into a sheltered nook.  While Sam quickly heated water, Gandalf moved among them, pressing on each a salve from his pack, instructing them to apply it generously to every bite or scratch.  It burned in the wounds; Merry gritted his teeth when Pippin rubbed it into the bites on his back and shoulders, and he saw Frodo doing the same as Gandalf applied it to his fair skin. 

His cousin had fared by far the worst, which surprised Merry not in the least in the light of his earlier revelations.   All evil things…  Merry shuddered as the salve entered a particularly painful slash on his hand.  Pippin looked up into his tense face, sorrow at hurting his loved elder cousin in his green-gold eyes.  Merry tousled his curls with his free hand and looked back to Frodo.  Gandalf was winding bandages around the worst of the bites, the salve making a greasy stain on the clean linens.  Frodo sat with his eyes closed, exhausted.

Merry did not know what additional protection he could provide his friend and kinsman, but now that he understood, he was determined to add his small strength in defending the Ringbearer.  At that moment, the wizard glanced up, meeting his eyes.  Merry saw unspoken understanding in his sharp gaze, agreement.   Gandalf nodded at him and stroked Frodo’s dark hair.  Merry sighed as Pippin began to carefully apply the salve to the wound on his ear.  Somehow, he was sure there would be more opportunities to test his resolve before this Quest was done.

* TBC * 

Chapter 2

At last the wizard sighed and dragged himself to his feet, leaning heavily on his staff.  Frodo opened his eyes and looked up at him, pain and exhaustion so clearly mirrored in his bandaged face that the wizard reached down and laid a gentle hand on his shoulder.  “I’m sorry, Frodo, but we must move on.  On your feet, my friend.”  After a moment, Frodo nodded and rose unsteadily on shaky feet.  Once on them, he swayed and Merry rushed to his side and placed a shoulder under his cousin’s arm.  Frodo smiled at him gratefully and hugged him in thanks, gasping as the action tugged at the wounds across his back.

That was the signal for the rest of the Fellowship to pry themselves off the floor.  Tears gathered in Pippin’s eyes as his every movement pulled at his bites.  He brushed them away quickly before the others saw.  Groans and stifled curses punctuated the echoing silences of the caverns of Moria.  “Be still!” Gandalf hissed, “All of you, be silent!”

When Frodo reached for his pack, Boromir caught it up.  “You are too hurt to carry it, Frodo.  I will bear it until your back is better.”

“Thank you,” Frodo whispered.  Looking at his cousin’s pale face, Merry thought that soon one of the Men would have to carry him, too.

After applying the salve to his own wounds, Legolas had stood in the center of their rough circle, eyes closed, turning his head as he sought out the faintest sounds of pursuit or attack.  Of all of them, the elf had suffered least in the attack; his quickness had allowed him to evade many of the attacks the rest had endured.  In answer to Aragorn’s look of inquiry, he said, “I hear nothing.  Even their squeaks have faded.  It is odd … I should be able to pick up some of their shrieking cries.  It is almost as if they were ordered to be silent –"  Seeing the Ranger’s grimace, the Elf fell suddenly silent.

“Gimli,” the wizard called softly, “come forward with me, if you would.”  The dwarf gave a final swipe to his axe, cleaning off blood and fur and bits of wings and paced to Gandalf’s side.  The two began a soft conversation, with much pointing ahead of them, as the others arrayed themselves after and followed.  The four hobbits kept close together, as they ever did when stressed, with Pippin leading Merry and Frodo, and Sam directly behind.  As Frodo stumbled on, Sam could see his cloak darkening in places as blood oozed through the bandages.  A slight clearing of his throat brought Merry’s attention to him, and Sam made a face and gestured at the seeping wounds.  Merry nodded over Frodo’s bent head and shifted his grip across his cousin’s shoulders, rolling his arm briefly to show Sam the blood patterned across it.

Enough was enough.  Sam let the other three draw slightly ahead of him then threw himself prone on the cold stone floor, emitted a loud “Whumf!” as he fell.  For good measure, he added a pitiable groan as the Company turned to locate the source of the sound.  The groan was partially genuine; he had misjudged the hardness of the stone and managed to bruise his elbows most painfully. 

Gandalf halted the Company and Aragorn turned to hurry back to him.  Stretched out on the floor, Sam met Merry’s eyes and nodded at Frodo, who was only now coming out of his fog and becoming aware that his friend seemed to be hurt.  Frodo reached for him but Merry was speaking softly in his ear, urging him to let the Ranger attend Sam.  As the Ranger lifted him easily and set him on his feet, Sam cried out and curled one leg under him, almost falling again.  Aragorn caught him and eased him down to a seated position as Sam hugged his leg, trying to keep the Man from examining the non-existent injury.  Around him, the other members of the Company were sinking to the ground, gritting their teeth as muscles cramped and protested the movement.  Peering around Aragorn’s kneeling form, Sam could see Mr. Merry easing his master down on his side and covering him with a blanket, then going immediately to Gandalf and tugging on the wizard’s robes.  Heads at a level, they spoke a moment then Gandalf followed Merry back to his Mr. Frodo.

“Sam, you must let me see your leg.  Is it the ankle or the leg itself?  I do not see any blood.”  The more Aragorn tried to uncurl Sam’s fingers from around his leg, the tighter Sam clutched.  But his strength was no match for the Ranger’s and all too soon, Aragorn’s strong hands were kneading the flesh of his leg.  Finding nothing wrong, Aragorn looked up from the leg and raised puzzled eyes to Sam’s.

“I had ‘ta, sir,” Sam whispered in his softest voice.  “He wouldn’t stop and he wouldn’t let us tell you he was hurting and –“

“Ah,” Aragorn returned softly.  “So this is all a ruse to spare your master’s pride?”

“Yes, sir.  I’m sorry, sir, but I had ‘ta –“

Though the wizard could not possibly have heard the soft whispers, Gandalf’s quiet voice floated over to them from where he bent over Frodo.  “Aragorn, as Sam seems to be unhurt, would you help me over here?”

Aragorn rose, resting his hand on Sam’s shoulder for a moment.  “You are forgiven, Sam.  If  Frodo were less stubborn…”  the Ranger grimaced at the uselessness of that thought and went to assist Gandalf. 

Merry plopped himself down by Sam’s side.  “Oh, well played, Sam.”  Sam rubbed his elbows.  Merry sighed and arched his back, then reached out an arm to gather Pippin to him as the youngster half-crawled over to them.   The bite over Pip’s eye was turning red and inflamed, and Merry rubbed some of the generously-applied salve dripping into his ear on the wound.  Pippin cuddled against him, his wide, still-frightened eyes on what he could see of his cousin between the Big Folk.

Looking over at them, Gandalf said, “Sam, would you …  no.  No.  Legolas, would you and Gimli gather wood and start a fire?  Only a small one, mind.  Let the hobbits rest.”  The wizard was gently unwinding Frodo’s bandages as he spoke and Sam would have bristled at the thought that the wizard thought him too tired to work, if he’d any bristle left.  Pippin hid his face in Merry’s chest and sagged against him, asleep almost instantly.

Merry leaned forward as Gandalf and Aragorn worked on Frodo, their hands as gentle as possible.  Cradled in his arms, Pippin made a soft, sleeping cry and clenched his hand in Merry’s cloak.  “Hush, Pippin-lad,” Merry reassured him.  “Hush, my dear.”  Straining his ears, he still could not hear the Big Folk’s quiet discussion.  “Sam, will you take him?  I want to find out what is happening.”

Sam nodded and held out his arms.  Merry gently transferred the sleeping youngster into them, smiling as Pip muttered an inarticulate protest then snuggled into Sam’s warmth.  Sam pulled the edges of his cloak over the small form, and began to rock him very gently.  He caught Merry’s arm as he rose.  “You’ll tell me what they’re sayin’?”

“I will, Sam.”

Ignoring his own soreness, Merry sank down by Aragorn, across from Gandalf.  All conversation stopped as he joined them, kindling an instant terror in his heart.  Looking at his frightened face, Gandalf hastened to say, “It’s all right, Merry.  He is sleeping.  So is Pippin, I see.  Good...  We will rest here a little while.”      

Merry nodded gratefully, reached down to stroke Frodo’s exhausted face.  His cousin had sheltered his face as much as he could, but still Frodo’s face and throat were marked by sharp, slicing teeth.  Like Pippin’s bites and his own, the wounds were becoming inflamed and increasingly tender.

“I’ve been thinking,” Merry began, and ignored Aragorn when the Ranger emitted a soft groan.  “Do you think those bats might have been spies?  Eyes for a distant master?  Like Saruman’s crebain.”  Gandalf’s gaze sharpened on him but the wizard was silent.  “If that is the case, then we can expect some kind of assault against us, as soon as the creatures’ master learns of us and can organize his forces.”

Boromir joined them, his soldier’s instincts alerted by Merry’s quiet words.  He had been helping Gimli move aside shattered masonry to gather wood and restock the torches they carried.  The fire was going well now, and the Elf and the Dwarf crouched over it, measuring tea into a kettle.  They spoke together softly, though Legolas’ head turned constantly as he focused that precise elven hearing in one direction after another.

“A thought also occurs to me,” Boromir almost whispered into the silence that followed Merry’s statement.  “A distant general may not be the only one his scouts alert, do those scouts raise enough havoc in their passing.    Any outlying patrol would know of an invasion by those scouts’ very actions.”

Abruptly the wizard laughed, a short unhappy sound.  “Would anyone else care to impart good news?  Surely there is yet one more thing that could go wrong.”

By the fire, Legolas and Gimli exchanged a glance.  Then the Elf rose gracefully to his feet and drifted over to them.  “I had not intended to say anything,” he said softly.  “But Gimli counsels that I do.”  The Elf sighed.  “Since before the attack of those evil things, I have been aware of a soft pattering behind us … sometimes to the side, now and again before us.  Only one, I think.  I have not heard it for some time, not since we emerged back into the main colonnade.  But the footfalls are from unshod, flapping feet.”

“Have you seen anything?”  This from Aragorn, as his dark eyes searched beyond the dim illumination of their fire.

“Nothing.  I hear, only.”

Now Gimli included himself, leaving only Sam and Pippin apart from the meeting around the sleeping Ring-bearer.  Merry glanced over his shoulder at them, checking that they were all right.  Sam was still rocking Pippin gently as the youngster curled in his lap, but his round face was set and strained as he struggled to make out their words.   Merry nodded at him and Sam relaxed somewhat, though he obviously wanted to know what passed among them.

“I have seen something,” the Dwarf rumbled.  For a moment, Merry envied him his heavy mail coat and thick leather surcoat, the helmet and the luxurious beard that protected his face.  Most of the bites and scratches he bore were on his face and hands, but those were very many.  “Eyes.  Eyes that glow faintly in the reflection of a torch or fire.”  Son of a people who had lived underground for millennia, the Dwarf’s dark vision was probably the best among them, and none of them thought to question his identification.

“Gollum?” asked the wizard.

The Dwarf spread his thickly-muscled hands.  “I do not know.  I have not seen more than two luminescent eyes, shining at us from behind some broken remnant of Khazad-dûm.   Whatever it is, it hides itself well.  But I have seen no sign of it since yesterday.”

Gandalf sighed and despite himself, a slight smile tugged at his bearded lips.  “That should lesson me not to ask for further trouble.  It always comes when asked, it seems.”

* TBC *

Chapter 3

On that less-than-cheerful note, the Company’s informal meeting adjourned.  Each embroiled in their own thoughts, the members of the Fellowship drifted back to their places, resting, checking gear, sipping the overly-strong tea that Gimli and Legolas had prepared.  Picking up a mug for himself and one for Sam, Merry returned to where Sam sat with Pippin still sleeping in his lap, rocking the young hobbit gently.

“It’s not very good,” Merry cautioned in his softest voice, mindful of the Elf’s excellent hearing and how sound echoed in the vast caverns of Moria.  Quickly, he filled Sam in on the discussion that he had missed.  Sam nodded and sipped his mug with the hand not cradling Pippin; his eyes tearing as he gasped after swallowing. 

“Let me give him back ‘ta you,” Sam said.  “Maybe if I add more water an’ some honey, I can save it.”  The transfer was accomplished with Pippin barely stirring, except for an unintelligible mumble and a sigh.  Taking one more sip and shaking his head, Sam rose and went to assist Gimli and Legolas, who were holding a quiet but animated discussion about the proper way to brew tea.

Checking that Frodo was still asleep, Merry glanced around to make sure he knew where everyone was.  Gandalf and Aragorn was moved off too, closer to he and Pippin.  They had their heads close together and immediately Merry’s interest was piqued.  Unobtrusively, Merry leaned back and tried to eavesdrop.  The wizard and the Ranger were deeply involved in their conversation and did not notice the tilt of pointed ears in their direction.

“…concerns me greatly.  It is not common among such evil creatures, but not unknown, either.”  Gandalf shook his head, his lined face tense and worried.  Merry was careful not to turn his head further towards them, to do nothing that would attract their attention and halt their conversation. 

“Could we tell by examining the bodies of the creatures?”  Aragorn looked strained … no, more than strained, Merry thought.  Frightened.  Frightened and – sickened?

“No, not unless it was far advanced.  The first symptoms we would experience would be fever, headache, a general weakness in our limbs.  Then, as the days pass, insomnia, anxiousness, confusion.  There might be a slight or partial paralysis of our bodies … hallucinations, and uncontrollable salivation.  Death would follow within days of being infected.”

Merry had gone very cold.  His eyes centered on the deep, inflamed bite over Pip’ eye, at the many bites and scratches on his own hands and face.   All of them, covered with wounds.   And Frodo, bitten most deeply and most often.

The foaming sickness…

He had never seen it, or known anyone who had it.  He knew it came from sick animals, very often bats, and was some kind of inflammation of the brain.  He knew that those who had it died of it, always, within days, screaming and maddened.  He knew there was no cure.

Merry’s hand flew to his mouth as his stomach heaved.  The sudden movement turned Gandalf’s head towards him and Aragorn followed the wizard’s gaze.  Both of their faces whitened when they realized that they had been overheard.  “Merry, “ said Gandalf, very softly, but the hobbit paid him no heed.  His gaze was directed downwards, meeting the wide-open and terrified eyes of the young one in his lap.

* * * * *

“We must move on.  We cannot linger.”  Sam looked up to see Aragorn gathering up the Company to resume their march.  Gandalf was crouched down, talking to Merry and Pippin, who had apparently just woken up.  Looking at them past the wizard’s back, Sam could see that both looked sick and frightened, and his heart went out to them.  The wizard reached out and stroked Pippin’s curls, rested his hand on Merry’s shoulder as he rose.  'This dark, horrible place,’ he thought, ‘no wonder they’re scared.  I’m scared, too.  Looking forward ‘ta getting out o’ this dreadful place tomorrow.’  Regretfully, he laid a gentle hand on Frodo’s shoulder and woke him.

While his master drank a cup of the much-improved tea, Sam put out the fire with Boromir’s assistance, scattering the ashes carefully to ensure that nothing remained burning.  Sitting with Pippin, Sam had watched as the Man spoke with the others then started to clean his great shield.   It had been covered with blood and bone and the smashed, sliced bodies of the foul things.  Boromir had exclaimed in disgust as he pried off the crushed body of one of the bats, pushing it distastefully to the ground.  Aragorn had hurried over and donning a pair of leather gloves, had picked up the small corpse to examine it.  In the Shire, Sam reflected, the little brown bats were welcome guests, honored for the insects and other pests they ate. Many a bat-house he’d put up, hoping to entice to the helpful little creatures to live nearby.  But these were different, these were … evil.  Sam shuddered as he watched the Ranger turn this one over in his hands; he never wanted to see another one of the vile things again.

Sam had to almost lift his master to his feet.  The rest had helped, but Frodo was still shaky and needed Sam’s strong arm to impel himself into moving.  Sam carefully slid his arm under Frodo’s shoulder, avoiding the deep bites on the back of his neck, and they fell into line behind Legolas and Gimli.  Merry and Pippin came up behind them and Sam sent them both a smile, but neither returned it or even noticed. Young Pip looked ghastly, like he could barely walk.  ‘Ah, poor lads,’ thought Samwise.  ‘Just one more day in this awful place … jus’ one more day.’

* * * * *

The hobbits had long ceased to try to track time in the Black Pit; they halted when Gandalf said ‘halt’ and walked when the wizard said ‘walk.’  Increasingly they fell into a dark dream, withdrawing their minds from the pressing blackness and dank, stale air about them.  Merry found his thoughts returning again and again to summers spent on the Brandywine; boating and swimming in the gentle river, fishing, long afternoons idled away on its banks, doing nothing more than watching the water pass.    

Merry wasn’t aware they had stopped again until he ran right into Frodo, drawing a surprised and pained gasp from his cousin.  Merry grimaced an apology, sorry that he had bumped the deep bites.  Merry’s own bites were burning, and he was more than glad when Gandalf dug into his pack and passed around the salve again.  ‘From what good it might do,’ he thought, then cut that off.

From his seat on the floor, applying the salve to Pippin’s hurts while Pip did the same for him, Merry watched as Gandalf and Gimli gathered before a wall, running their hands over it and discussing something in low voices.  It was a just a blank wall, black, polished sheer stone … nothing to commend it.  Merry pulled himself to his feet and followed his curiosity over.  Pippin came after, staying very close to his older cousin.  Despite his and Gandalf’s and Aragorn’s reassurances, Pip still had that terrified look deep in his green-gold eyes and would say very little.  He clung to Merry like his cousin was the rope that kept the terror from dropping him into a deep abyss of horror.

The wizard eyed them sharply as they drew up but did not send them back to their places.  Gimli was rumbling and muttering to himself under his breath, his deep voice almost musical as it vibrated in his throat, running the palms of his hands over the wall.  At last he drew back and wiped the dust off on his cloak.  “I measure it as but a few inches thick, Gandalf.  It could be a danger.”

As the Dwarf spoke, Merry realized that the vibration he felt in his ears did not come completely from Gimli’s thoughtful rumbles, but from the wall itself.  He placed a hand against it and felt movement behind the stone, the cold feel of rushing waters contained.   “It’s an underground river,” he said softly, in awe.

“Aye, a swift one.”  Gimli knelt and felt the bottom of the wall then stretched as far up as he could.  “And a great one.  Perhaps it fed the broken aqueduct we saw before entering the Doors.”

“How could it be a danger?”  asked Merry, wanting to understand. 

“The force of the water is very strong.  Were it to break through, it could flood this area in minutes.  It would tear more of the wall out as it did, creating a cycle of freeing itself from the wall as the wall freed it.  Like a ravening beast, it would consume all in its path.”

“Oh.”  Beside him, Pippin clung tighter and Merry slipped an arm around him.

Gandalf had stood silent while Gimli explained, his sharp eyes darting about the cavern.  The glowing crystal that tipped his staff had muted, now it blazed again and at that unspoken signal, the Company struggled to its feet and they continued on.  The salve helped, Merry thought – he could move more easily, without feeling that his skin was being torn.  Checking on Frodo and Sam, he saw that same relief reflected in their faces.  Frodo has even recovered enough to drop one particular slimy dollop down the back of Sam’s shirt.

‘Past teatime,’ Merry thought.  Pippin’s stomach rumbled loudly, confirming his guess, and his cousin looked embarrassed at the noise.  Merry was pleased to see any expression on Pip’s face rather than that look of frozen horror.  

As if he had heard (or had his own insistent internal clock), Gandalf glanced back along the line of march.  “A little farther,” he assured them, “a more sheltered place, and we will rest and eat.”  Merry’s own face reddened as his stomach answered the wizard as loudly as Pip’s, and he hurriedly pressed an arm into his belly to stifle the growls.  Pippin laughed softly and Merry thought his stomach could embarrass him as much as it liked if it would lift Pip’s spirits.

Gandalf found a spot suitable to his taste after just a short march, less than a half-hour’s walk.  They halted in what must have been a corridor at some time, a narrow passage between the cavern they had just exited and the one before it.  Legolas scouted the forward cavern on light feet, and returned to report nothing more than more dust and broken masonry.  Satisfied, the wizard instructed Aragorn and Boromir to use the torches they carried to light another fire, and Sam quickly set up his cooking gear.

Supper was consumed quickly, scarcely doing justice to the amount of work that Sam had put into preparing their dinner.  Merry licked his spoon clean, capturing the last bit of stewed carrot.  All hobbits were able to cook and most were good cooks, but Sam was a treasure.  After a moment’s thought, Merry told him so, and watched his friend’s face shine at the compliment.   Sitting beside Sam, Frodo laughed softly, and warned his cousin against designs on Sam’s service.  The gentle teasing went on for some time, relaxed and cheerful, and the four hobbits were not aware of the smiles their banter evoked around them as the Big Folk marveled at hobbit resilience and fortitude.

The wizard regretted interrupting their rest but if they were to cross the Bridge of Khazad-dûm and exit the Gates on the morrow, they still should put some miles behind them before camping for the night.  It would place their arrival at the Gates earlier in the day, and Gandalf knew that the sooner they quitted Moria, the better.

Again, it was the Elf who had the first alert of danger, and Gandalf’s heart sank as he saw Legolas raise his head and turn it towards the forward cavern.  A moment later the hobbits picked it up, then the rest of the Company.  All surged to their feet and checked their gear, tightening buckles and straps, as Aragorn joined Legolas and both stood silent, listening. 

“What is it?” asked Merry, though he feared he already knew.

“Yrch,” replied Legolas in his own tongue, his fair face twisting in dismay. 

“Orcs!” repeated Aragorn.  “They have had word of us.   Whether it was carried by those evil bat-things or that follower in the dark, I cannot say.  But they know we are here, in this narrow place, and they are coming.”

* TBC * 

Chapter 4

“Can we win the end of the passageway?” asked Legolas, his bow already in his hands. 

Boromir moved through the line, placing himself at the fore.  He positioned his great shield before him and unsheathed his sword.  “It is better to retreat to ground we know.  Behind us, there is cover and we have some familiarity with the chamber.  We do not know what lies ahead.”

“Wisely said, Boromir.”  Aragorn strode forward to stand beside the other two. Silently, Gimli joined them, his heavy axe over his shoulder, relaxed yet ready.  Looking at their upright backs, Merry wondered how much use he and his folk were going to be in this battle.  He loosened his small sword in its scabbard and saw the other three doing the same. 

Then he felt a great hand descend on his shoulder.  “Come,” said Gandalf softly.  “We will return to the chamber and choose our battleground.”  His other hand on Frodo’s shoulder, the wizard turned them and pushing Sam and Pippin ahead, guided them back to the place they had just quitted.  With another push, Gandalf indicated that the hobbits move behind pieces of the broken masonry.  They obeyed, with many glances of apprehension among themselves.  Merry crouched down behind an overturned bench, half of it smashed into dusty rubble.  Pippin crowded next to him, trembling.  Where was … ah.  Merry thought Frodo looked awful, as if he could barely keep his feet.  A cant of his eyes in his cousin’s direction brought Sam to kneel next to him, and slide a hand under his elbow.

Now the advancing sounds could be heard more clearly, shrill shrieks, cries and the clash of weapons struck against each other.  The undulating cries echoed through the caverns, further distorting them and adding to the hideousness of the noise.  The warriors of the Company entered the chamber and arrayed themselves behind cover, bows aimed and swords and axes at the ready.  Merry gripped the hilt of his sword tighter and drew it, trying to order his racing heart.

Shadows writhed in the brilliant light of Gandalf’s staff, magnified and distorted in the passageway.  Forms congregated at the opening of the passageway, snarling and slavering, but none entered the chamber.  “Cowards,” growled Gimli, his dark eyes filled with loathing.  “None wishes to be the first to accost us.”

“And the first to die,” responded Legolas, his bow swinging marginally from one target to another, waiting for the first to gather its courage and attack.

“They are very many,” Boromir said softly, “we are greatly outnumbered.”  Gimli growled again.  Then the Dwarf’s brow darkened and his gaze strayed to the cavern about them … and the sheer blank wall he and Gandalf had examined earlier.  Abruptly he whirled and ran to the wall, calling for the wizard.  Gandalf backed up to join him, Glamdring shining in one hand and the staff glowing in the other.

Merry had no more time to wonder what the two were up to, as the Orcs broke through in a great, seething mass.  They spilled out of the narrow corridor, trampling the bodies of the ones brought down by the Elf’s and the Ranger’s arrows.  Merry’s first sight of the horrible creatures brought his heart into his throat.  Some were only slightly smaller than the Men; all were much larger than the hobbits.  Their skin was scaled or warty, a greenish-gray color, as of something long dead.  Their hands and feet were clawed; some wore boots and some not, to make use of those long claws.  Lank hair or none lay across their misshapen skulls.  But it was their faces that horrified Merry; snarling fanged mouths, great bulbous eyes adapted to life in the perpetual dark.  Hatred for all that walked free in the warm sunlight was writ on their faces and in their intentions.

As one, the hobbits surged forward, relying on their size and speed to shelter them and allow them to attack and be gone before their larger foes were aware of them.  Merry ducked a swipe and sunk his sword to the hilt in the body of an Orc, felt the jar run up his arm as it struck bone.  The creature screamed and scalding-hot blood rushed over his hand.   Suddenly limp, it slid silently off his sword.  Unbidden tears flooded his eyes and threatened his vision.  He had never killed any thinking creature before.  He had killed…

“Well done, Merry!”  Boromir’s hand slapped his back, nearly knocking him over.  “One for the Shire!”  Then the Man was gone, back into the whirling maelstrom of violence and death.

His breath sobbing in his throat, the hobbit pulled himself up and leaned back against a broken carving.  Looking before him, he could see that only the narrowness of the opening and the growing pile of the dead constrained the numbers of the attackers.  As his moment of shock receded, he became aware of sound again; the screams of the wounded, battle-cries, the clash and screech of metal.  Suddenly the cavern seemed unbearably hot.  Where were the others?

He realized suddenly that he did not see Pip.  Frantic, he cast about.  Where was Pippin?  Where was he?

Looking about him desperately, Merry saw that Gandalf and Gimli were not in the battle.  For some incomprehensible reason, Gimli appeared to be trying to drive the handle of his axe into the wall, using a second smaller axe as the hammer.  Gandalf stood facing outward, defending the Dwarf while he worked.  An Orc that had made it past the Men tried to come in under the wizard’s guard and was decapitated.  A stinking rush of black blood spurted from the severed neck as the body fell.

As Merry watched, stunned, a small stream of water trickled from around the edge of the axe handle.  The Dwarf made an explosive sound and adjusted the angle of the handle at it by leaning on it and twisting.  “That’s done it, Gandalf,” the hobbit heard him rumble.  “Best warn the others.”

If the wizard’s staff was brilliant before, that was nothing to the radiant light that blazed from it now.  All action paused as the cavern was flooded with blinding light, the combatants unable to see except for drifting blue spots.  Gandalf’s great voice rang out over all, “The Fellowship!  The Fellowship!  To me!”

Merry did not question.  Like the rest of the Nine Walkers, he surged to the wizard’s side, relieved beyond bearing to find Pippin there, and Sam and Frodo.   With a final shout of “Gondor!” Boromir ran his opponent through and followed, flanked by Aragorn, blood dripping from his long sword.  Legolas came last, still firing, taking down every one of the hated creatures that he could.

With a great effort, Gimli pulled his axe handle free.  Merry had not the Dwarf’s understanding of hydraulics and the force of water under pressure, but he knew what happens when you pull out the cork of a bottle of sparkling wine that you just shaken.  The water sprayed out of the small hole with the power of the entire river behind it.  Merry watched disbelieving as the Orc leading the charge was lifted from his feet and smashed back against its fellows, the force of the water pinning them against the wall.  A ridiculous grin split his face as he realized that the foul horde could not advance against the thrust of the water.  Beside him, Legolas had begged arrows from the Men and was still sending death into the Orcs’ midst, determined that none should survive.

Gimli paid them no heed, his eyes only on the erupting river.  With a breathing space about him, Merry now saw how carefully the Dwarf had chosen his spot, where the rock wall was thinner and the thicker stone around it directed the colossal flow.  Gimli crouched low by the opening, his hands stretched out on either side of the trembling stone around the opening.  His dark eyes never left it as the icy water roared through. 

The Orcs were pushed back … back.  The water lifted the corpses and tumbled them bonelessly into the corridor, carrying them away as the rushing waters sought a lower level.  Funneled by the cavern walls, the waters picked up more speed and force as they rushed through.   To his dumfounded amazement, Merry saw the last of their attackers disappearing in the flow, only a drowned arm or black form visible in the white-tipped waters for the briefest of moments.

A laugh of pure relief rose to his lips.  Behind him, he heard Pippin’s clear ringing peal of joy.  Then he felt spray upon his back, icy cold, chilling him instantly.  “It is beginning to give!” Gimli shouted, as the water tore out a great hunk of rock and sent it tumbling with such force that it struck the opposite wall and gouged out a huge chunk of stone.  More freezing water poured from the enlarged opening, more uncontrollable force.  “Run!” Gimli shouted, “Run!”

They did.  Back up the way they had so laboriously come, terror lending them both strength and speed.  The water followed after, having torn itself free of the confining wall.  But it slowed as it followed, as the greater part of it was channeled down the narrow descending passageway.  Gasping and stumbling, the Company entered the smaller cave where Merry had eavesdropped on Gandalf and Aragorn.  There, they could go no farther and fell to the stone floor like dead things.

After a while, Merry dragged himself up and checked on the others.  His limbs felt stiff and unwieldy.  His kin and Sam were unhurt by battle; they had been incredibly lucky.  And small enough to be overlooked and underestimated, Merry admitted to himself.   Sam, too, had marked an orc but he did not think it was killed.  Pip had several more scratches.  Frodo had reopened the deepest bites and they bled.  Begging more of the slimy salve from Gandalf, Merry and Sam made him sit while they applied it.   Though the young hobbit was unaware of it, the other members of the Company smiled to see the four pressed close together; Frodo and Pippin sitting on the cold floor, the younger cousin leaning against the elder’s back, while Sam sprawled on his belly on a rock beside them, and Merry kneeled beside them, checking for injuries. 

Panting, Gandalf leaned on his staff and summoned the Dwarf to him.  “Gimli,” the wizard asked, “will the waters follow us here?  Are we safe?”

“For a while, Gandalf,” Gimli replied, his own thick chest still heaving like a bellows.  “The rushing waters will eventually fill the lower caverns then work their way upwards.  The flooding will continue for as long as there is more pressure inside the wall than outside.  It is my belief that the entire wall will eventually give way and the water will only stop rising when the cavern is completely filled and a great lake is formed.”  The Dwarf paused and blew out a great puff of air, the gust lifting his braided mustaches.  “If word has not already spread of our journey here, all who dwell in this damp darkness know now.  There are many entrances and exits to the lower caverns, Gandalf.  Like rats, the Orcs will desert the nether regions and flee ahead of the rising waters.  We will likely meet more of them as we choose an alternate route to the Gates.”

The wizard nodded wordlessly, leaning on his staff.  Its glow was again muted, reflecting Gandalf’s wearied state.  He watched as Aragorn checked on each member of the Company, moving among them and taking stock of their hurts and needs.  Soft words passed between the Ranger and the Company, and the recovering wizard smiled to see the gentleness which Aragorn treated the hobbits.

That smile faded when Aragorn rose and drifted back to him, booted feet silent in the dust.  Beneath the runnels of sweat, the Ranger’s face was tense and strained.  “Gandalf,” Aragorn said softly, “Frodo and Pippin both have a fever and a headache.  Sam is having trouble standing.  Merry, too, seems ill.”  The Ranger paused and put his head closer to the wizard’s.  “Is it the foaming sickness?”

* TBC *

Chapter 5

“We will know very soon.  It would strike the hobbits more quickly, with their smaller bodies and swifter metabolisms.  And the excitement of battle and race back through the corridor might aggravate it and speed the infection.”  The wizard’s florid face paled as he spoke, his voice very soft.   “Aragorn,” Gandalf said softly, his eyes closing in pain.  “Pray that it is not the foaming sickness.  If it is … there is nothing that I, or anyone, can do.”       

Gandalf followed the Ranger back to the little group of hobbits with his heart in his throat.  Swiftly he knelt down at their sides, a smile on his face that was not echoed in his sharp eyes.  Frodo and Sam looked at him tiredly.  But it was the looks on the other two’s faces that stopped the easy words of reassurance on his lips; Merry was hugging Pippin tightly and the youngster’s curly head was buried in his older cousin’s chest.  Merry met his eyes steadily but the young hobbit’s face was paper-white and hopelessness was in his blue eyes.

“We’re all right, Gandalf,” Frodo said, struggling to summon a smile.  “None of us were injured.  And Merry killed one!  Sam might have, too.  Pip and I,” and here the hobbit rubbed the young one’s back, puzzled by Pippin’s shaking, “just tried to stay out of the way.”

The wizard nodded, his eyes still on Merry’s.  “Aragorn tells me you all acquitted yourselves bravely.  To have killed an Orc in one’s first battle is no small thing, Merry.  I would like to look at you all anyway; sometimes hurts taken in battle do not make themselves known until later.  Sam, Aragorn said you are having trouble standing?”

Sam had pulled his legs under him and was now sitting tailor-fashion, supporting himself against the rock he had been laying on.  Already his hands were busy, using a cloth to clean his sword.  Finished, he passed the cloth on to Frodo, who began wiping down Sting.  Like Gandalf’s own Glamdring, faint blue flames crawled yet along the elven sword’s length, but the edging fire was faint.

“I had a mite o’ trouble getting up, sir,” Sam explained, “but I’m fine now.  Just shock, I think.  Never did anything like that before … killing somebody, I mean.”  The stocky hobbit was silent for a moment, his face pale.  “I hope he didn’t die,’ Sam added softly.  “I mean … I hope I didn’t kill him.”  He flushed and stared at the ground, tears glittering in his grey eyes.

Frodo reached over and pressed Sam’s shoulder gently.  The wizard nodded, his own eyes shadowed.  “And you and Pippin, Frodo?  Do you two have a fever and a headache?”

Pippin refused to raise his head, trembling violently against Merry.  Very gently, Gandalf reached over and stroked the youngster’s curls.  Frodo and Sam looked on, knowing now that something had occurred which they were not aware of.  When Pippin did not relax or respond, Frodo spoke.  “Yes, we do.  Kind of a throbbing at the base of our skulls.”  Frodo massaged the back of his neck, then stopped and pressed a hand to his forehead.  He reached over and gently pried Pippin’s head away from Merry and felt his.  “But I don’t think a fever – we were just hot from exertion.”

Gandalf nodded again.  “Merry?”

Merry startled; his whole attention had been on Pippin.  “I don’t feel well, either,” he said after a moment’s self-examination.  “My head aches.  Throbbing, like Frodo said.  And I feel rather sick.”

The wizard watched as three other curly heads nodded in union, Pippin’s very jerkily.  Merry fell silent again and stared at Gandalf.

The wizard reached out and felt each curly head in turn, gently laying a hand on each sweating brow.  Then he cupped a hand under each chin and rested the other on the back of each small skull, turning the hobbits’ head gently from side to side and up and down.  They submitted to this quietly, though Frodo could not help an “Ow” when the turning pulled at the deep bites on the back of his neck.

To Sam and Frodo’s surprise, Gandalf then asked them to open their mouths.  The glowing crystal at the tip of his staff brightened as the wizard peered into each small mouth.  Merry found that he had been clenching his jaw, and opened his mouth with difficulty.  Pippin refused completely and would not unwind himself from his cousin’s embrace.  Gandalf leaned over him and murmured softly to him for some time, but the youngster would not look up.     

“We’ll see if we can’t come up with something to help with those headaches,” the wizard said softly, fear in his deep eyes.  “Rest now…  We will have to be moving on soon but can at least catch our breath here.”  Gandalf used Merry’s shoulder to lever himself up, pressing it once as he rose.  The wizard could feel fatigue settling into his old bones.  He also could feel the young hobbit’s eyes on his back, and wished again that Merry’s hobbit-inquisitiveness had not prompted him to overhear his and Aragorn’s conversation in this place.

“Merry, what is going on here?”  Merry’s attention was abruptly returned when Frodo’s soft but authoritative voice intruded on his thoughts.  Merry grimaced; he should have schooled his features better.  He had barely opened his mouth when his cousin overrode him.  “Oh no, you don’t, Meriadoc Brandybuck.  I know that innocent look.  You will tell me the truth, young hobbit.  Now.”

Beside him, Sam looked miserable, trying to find some point in the middle horizon to stare at.  Caught between cousins, he heartily wished he were somewhere else.  “We could all use a cuppa tea,” he said, rising stiffly.  “I’ll just -”

“Sit, Sam.”  His master’s morning glory eyes raised briefly to him then returned to bore into poor Mr. Merry.  Feeling deeply sorry for Mr. Merry but glad it wasn’t him, Sam sank back down.

Merry rubbed at his blond curls … the throbbing seemed to be growing worse.  Pippin had frozen against him, hoping to be overlooked.  Merry noticed that Frodo seemed to be hurting, too, his dark brows quirked and his pale face strained.

“I think you should ask Gandalf about that,” Merry temporized.  He didn’t want to explain to his friends what he had overheard.  He didn’t even want to think about it – it was too terrifying.  And now they felt sick…

“I’m asking you, Meriadoc.”  Frodo halted and rubbed at his head, further disarraying the dark curls.  He inhaled deeply and with a visible effort, refocused on Merry.  Merry glanced around in hopes of rescue, but the Big Folk were gathered in tight converse.  He winced; the effort of turning his head had caused the throbbing to go to pounding.

Merry was surprised to hear Sam groan and looked up to see his friend rubbing his head with both grimy hands.  “Sorry,” Sam muttered.  “Me head feels like a long night-after at The Green Dragon.”

“Merry?”  They were all surprised to hear Pippin’s soft voice.  Seeing them all looking at him, Pippin flushed then rubbed at his eyes.  “I feel sick, Merry,” he said quietly.  “And everything’s blurry.”

Frodo gently turned Pippin’s face towards him and stared into the unfocused green-gold eyes.  “Sam,” he said, keeping his voice even and reassuring, “would you be kind enough to ask Gandalf and Aragorn to come over here?”

“Aye, sir.”  Sam stood up, lost his balance and promptly toppled over sideways.  Frodo caught him before he crashed to the hard floor, knocking them both over.  The movement caught the attention of the others and they all hurried over, much to Samwise’s embarrassment.  Merry noticed that Gimli had removed his heavy helmet and was rubbing his head, too.

Again Gandalf examined them, Aragorn by his side.  The Ranger began asking the hobbits questions, and his frightened eyes met the wizard’s when the replies he received began to lack in sense.  “Something is affecting them, Gandalf,” Aragorn muttered.  “It is moving too rapidly to be the illness we discussed.”  Gimli glanced at them sharply then returned to stretching his short neck and rubbing his head.  Legolas and Boromir exchanged a puzzled glance.

“Does anyone else feel ill?” Aragorn asked.  Gimli grimaced then volunteered that he felt nauseated and very tired.  After a moment’s hesitation, the two taller ones agreed.  Aragorn felt something click in his mind, in spite of the numbing headache he felt forming.  Taller ones … taller? 

“Gimli!”  The Dwarf jerked then stared at him.  “Could the release of the waters below us have released something else as well?”

The Ranger struggled to order his thoughts.  It seemed to be difficult to think, somehow.  He was vaguely aware that Boromir was now leaning against a broken arch, and that Legolas had sunk to one of the stone benches, his bow held loosely between his long legs.  Gimli stared at him, obviously fighting to respond.  Forcing himself, Aragorn continued, “Something unseen and unfelt … colorless, odorless, tasteless…  A gas, Gimli?  A gas that would crawl along the floor, affecting the smaller folk first, then rising to affect us?”

“Aye,” the Dwarf rumbled.  “Aye, a gas.  It is known to my people.  What we are feeling is true to what I have heard of such poisoning.  Aragorn, Gandalf, we must leave this place and seek higher ground and clean air – now.”

“Legolas!  Boromir!  Take Merry and Pippin.  Gandalf, will you carry Sam?  I will take Frodo.  We must leave this place.”  Aragorn bent and picked up the hobbit, noting that the Ring-bearer and the others seemed only half-aware.  “Boromir!  Pick up Pippin!”  With a start, the man pushed himself away from the wall and picked up the youngster, raising him so that Pippin’s head was cradled against his shoulder. 

“Quickly now,” said Gandalf, Sam limp in his arms.  “Gimli, will you lead?  Take us back to the main colonnade.  From there, we can choose another route out of this dreadful place.”

The Dwarf nodded and strode ahead, his axe at the ready should they meet more Orcs.  The two Men, the wizard and Elf trudged after, each fighting this new battle to win free of the entrapment of Moria.  The Little Folk were dead weight in their arms.  Aragorn cursed himself for not recognizing the symptoms of gas poisoning sooner and prayed that Frodo and the others would not suffer for his slowness.

The five walkers were puffing like long-distance runners when they gained the vast open space of the Hall of carved columns.  Gimli stumbled through first, demanding that they move far from the passage they had traveled.  Once they were sufficiently beyond the creeping reach of the gas, the Company lowered the hobbits to the ground and began to make them cough, as they themselves were doing.  Boromir held a great pinch of dust under Pippin’s sharp nose, and rubbed his back as the little one inhaled then coughed and coughed, eyes tearing under the strain of his lungs.  They made so much noise that the wizard was nearly frantic, but for once, nothing rose to threaten them from the deep, cold darkness.

When at last all of the Company had cleaned most of the toxic air from their lungs, Gandalf made them drag themselves to their feet and take shelter in one of the little alcoves that lined the colonnade.  It was a more defensible place than the open, many-pillared Hall and all of them felt safer for the cover.  The hobbits dropped off to sleep almost immediately and Aragorn refused to include them in the watch rotation, saying that those who had suffered most, most needed to rest.  The others quite agreed and Gandalf volunteered for the first watch.

Before laying himself down to sleep, Aragorn joined the wizard and they sat side-by-side staring into the unyielding darkness.  After a companionable silence, Aragorn ventured, “It is very early morning instead of late evening.  Let us hope that we have endured enough on this, our last day in Moria.”

The wizard nodded, his aged features exhausted in the dim light of their sheltered fire.  His staff lay across his knees, unlit, as his sharp eyes roved through the darkness.  “If we quit this evil place with meeting nothing more dire than bats and Orcs and foul gases, I will be grateful, my friend.”

The Ranger smiled, too tired to laugh.  “Indeed.  I am surpassingly grateful that those wicked bat-things were not rabid.”  He yawned, stretching out weary muscles.  “We have a long march today and the Bridge of Khazad-dûm to pass.  You will call me for the second watch?”  He yawned again, then smiled as a twitch among the blankets caught his attention.  “Merry, stop listening and go back to sleep.”

The End