Title: Frodo’s Bane and Pippin’s Stomach

Author Pen Name: Arwen Baggins

Chapter One: To Eat or Be Eaten

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man.  Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them?

Author's Note: This story is not based on either the book or the movie - it's a combination of both.  I've taken my favorite parts from each of them (plus a few additions of my own) and I've forced them to work together.  So if you haven't read the books, part of this story won't make and sense.

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Setting: Midge-water marshes.  October 2, 1418 (Shire- Reckoning), three days after leaving Bree.

            “This is intolerable!”  Peregrin Took mumbled.  “Not a bite to eat since First Breakfast.  And to make it worse, I am being eaten alive by these confounded midges!”

            “Indeed!  What do they eat when they can’t get Hobbit?”  The voice was that of his first cousin and closest friend, Merry Brandybuck, the only person who seemed to be paying any attention to him.  Strider was too far ahead, scouting out their next course of action through these midge- infested marshes.  Frodo, the oldest and apparently fastest of the four trudged on several feet ahead of Pippin, thought too preoccupied with his own dark thoughts to pay much attention to his young cousin.  And then there was Sam.  Good-old Sam Gamgee, who out of the kindness of his heart had volunteered to take up the rear with Bill the Pony so that, “Mr. Pippin won’t fall behind and lose his way.”

            This last mark, at the time, had infuriated Pippin.  *Lose his way?* Absurd!  He was a Took.  Tooks were known for their adventures, going all the way back to his great-great-grandfather Gerontius Took.  The very thought of a Took getting lost on an adventure was utterly ridiculous.  It would a family disgrace!  But upon second thought, perhaps Sam had been right after all.  There could be no accurate way to discern their whereabouts amidst this never ending marshland, save perhaps by the position of the Sun (whose rays were being shielded by several clouds) or the North Star (which would not be visible for several more hours).  Besides, most Tooks went on adventures when they were of-age, and since Pippin was still a Tween, perhaps they wouldn’t be too offended by his adventurous short-comings.  His wandering mind caused his pace to slacken, allowing Merry to stumble into him.  Pippin promptly fell down, submerging his small body in the disgusting bog.

            “Pippin!  Hurry up!” the voice of Merry scolded.

            Pippin normally would have been delighted at being told to hurry up, particularly because the adults back home in Tuckborough were forever telling the energetic tween to slow down and focus his energy on more important tasks.  Unfortunately, these tasks did not include raiding Farmer Maggot’s mushroom patches.  “I’m going as fast as I can!” he mumbled in frustration.  He picked himself up off the ground and began the hopeless task of cleaning the filth from his hair and face.  And so the day continued with little conversation and no change in scenery.

*          *          *

            Pippin had never known that walking could be such a tiring task.  And for once in his life the tweenaged bundle of energy would have welcomed an early bed.  But that luxury was delayed by several hours, as there was no suitable place to lie down, unless one had no intention of waking again.  In which case they could safely lie beneath the bog and silently drown.  And for a half a moment Pippin had this very desire, if only to rid himself of the ache beneath his feet.  But no!  Frodo needed him!  He, along with Merry and Sam, had agreed since the earliest days of their conspiracy to aid Frodo in whatever way possible, which ruled out the possibility of death.  After all, what good could come of a dead Hobbit?  So then, with a renewed sense of duty and determination, Pippin trudged on, despite his protesting feet, which seemed to be going numb, since he could barely feel them.  *Well, at any rate, I shan’t feel the ache much longer* he thought, in a vain attempt to raise his spirits.  There was one thing, however, that would undoubtedly do the trick.  “Strider, When do we stop for Supper?” he dared to ask.  He could not determine how he had had the nerve to ask that question, for it had been repeated several times in the past hour, and always with the same result.

            “Soon, Master Took,” came the Ranger’s customary reply.

            “And would it be too much trouble to ask for your definition of ‘soon’?”

            “Before bed,” was the curt reply.

            “And when might we have that pleasure?”  This time, though, it was not Pippin, but Frodo, who spoke.  Frodo had been particularly paranoid for those past three days.  He appeared to be very confident that his Burden would draw the Nazgul to them, and as there was no way to hide from those fell creatures in broad daylight, he had often welcomed both the cover of darkness and the peace of mind that came with a not-so-comfortable bedroll.

            “Just a few more miles,” Strider answered, regarding the Ring-bearer with concern.

            Frodo saw the Ranger’s unspoken question and answered it.  “I’m fine.  Let us continue.”

            Pippin stared at his cousin, shocked.  Despite Frodo’s youthful appearance, he knew, as well as the other Hobbits, that Frodo was now into his fifties and should therefore be tiring long before the rest of them.  And yet here he was claiming to be fine!  *I will not be done in by that perpetually youthful cousin of mine!  Perpetually youthful?  Where did that come from?  Perhaps I actually was paying attention to my tutors for all those years. *Pippin shrugged the matter off and continued to follow his elder cousin’s lead.  He managed to somehow place one nearly numb foot in front of the other for another four miles, though it may as well have been forty, before they came to the end of the bog.  They proceeded a few yards inland and unloaded their packs and bedrolls from Bill’s back.

            Once his bedroll was out, Pippin, the youngest and supposedly the most energetic of them all, immediately fell onto the hard floor, too tired to notice the resulting headache.  He had in fact fallen asleep so quickly and so soundly that he did not hear Strider’s offer to hunt for a late Supper, nor the announcement of its arrival when Strider returned with a young deer that he had slain with his arrows.

            Needless to say, the young Took had never had the “pleasure” of partaking in cold, raw, deer meat.  But by the time he had awoken he was so starved, having eaten naught but an apple since Elevenses and a few pieces of bread for First Breakfast, that he didn’t question the Supper Menu until much later when his stomach started to protest.  This accounted for several hours of lost sleep and a lack of trust in the Ranger’s culinary skills.  The other Hobbits hadn’t fared much better and by Noon the next-day Sam had been unanimously nominated (among the Hobbits) as the official campfire cook.

Title: Frodo’s Bane and Pippin’s Stomach

Author Pen Name: Arwen Baggins

Disclaimer: I don’t own anything in this story, it all belongs to Tolkien, brilliant man.  Really, I mean, who else do you know who can create different languages, cultures and thousands of years of history with them? 

Setting: The Middle of Nowhere. October 4, 1418 (Shire- Reckoning), five days after leaving Bree.

Chapter Two: Which Will It Be, Cousin?

            *Good grief!  How can anything possibly live here!* Pippin thought, and would have said these very words out loud, but he didn’t dare.  No doubt the others were getting tired of his complaints and besides, he knew that if he even opened his mouth he would more than likely start coughing again.  The midge-water marshes had been a bad enough nuisance, but this was downright sickening!  The cold wet ground of the marshes and the Hobbit-eating midges were behind them, and in their place was a desolate wasteland, which was covered with a thick coat of inhospitable vapors, which refused to dissipate during the course of their short stay.  Not that Pippin was allowed the pleasure of actually seeing them right now.  He knew that they were there from the damp chill that clung to his hands and feet, and the fell fumes that occasionally found their way into his mouth when it was uncovered, and sometimes even when it wasn’t.  But he hadn’t actually seen the vapors – or any of their surroundings - for the past several hour.

            There were several lessons that Pippin was learning on this expedition, and one of them was that no matter how foul a place may be, there was always something, or someone, that found it to be a suitable, if not hospitable home.  Then again, maybe not, for to his limited knowledge, the only animals that resided in these parts were birds, who were able to fly and sing far above the vaporous fumes.  Under other circumstances, Pippin may have enjoyed their singing, but not now.  Now any bird-song that the sang, however melancholy, was a mockery – because it was a reminder that they weren’t suffering in the same way that the Hobbits were.  At least they were able to open their beaks without choking on what was, in Pippin’s mind, akin to poison.  Then again neither was Strider.  The head of the six-foot tall Ranger extended far above the low-lying fumes, and he was therefore the only one that was able to see a few feet ahead, which was a good thing.  After all, no one wanted to follow a blind guide.

            “Of all the confounded nuisances!  Pippin!  Watch where you’re going!” the muffled and irritated voice of Merry snapped as Pippin walked right into him AGAIN!  Upon bumping into Merry, he miss-stepped backwards and knocked into Sam, which sent them both falling onto the cold, though not so hard, ground.

            “I can’t!”  Pippin snapped back, picking himself up.  “And neither can you.  Unless you’ve got super-eyes!”

            “I don’t, but I can still see.  These blankets aren’t that thick, you know.”

            “Well mine is!”

            Behind him, Sam muttered something, but it could not be heard beneath the thick wool blanket, and for that Pippin was grateful.  Merry, being the older cousin had no problem reprimanding Pippin for his childish clumsiness.  Sam, on the other end of the political spectrum, thought it a bit below his station to scold the Thain’s son and therefore left that task to his relations.  However, when it came to his master’s well-being Pippin had often found himself the target of Sam’s wrath.  But such was not the case now, since Frodo was walking in front of Merry and was rarely ever knocked over, and for that Pippin was grateful.  Incurring Merry’s frustration was an unfortunate occurrence.  Sam’s inevitable wrath – should any harm come to his master – would be a deadly force to be reckoned with, and Pippin had no desire to meet it.

            This unfortunate string of accidents, though, was not entirely Pippin’s fault.  It was mostly due to Strider’s ingenuity, though Pippin didn’t dare mention this, as he would likely incur the Ranger’s wrath as well.  More than likely that would simply result in an extra five miles of walking before a break, which Pippin just couldn’t afford.  The point in question was that Strider, who had known what was to come, had warned the Hobbits in advance and had instructed them to take out their blankets and wrap them around their heads so that they wouldn’t breathe in the fumes and so that their eyes wouldn’t be stung.  As far as their safety was concerned it was a good effort, but in the matter of comfort, it was a lost cause.  Due to their temporary and self-inflicted blindness, the foursome had created a Hobbit-chain, starting with Frodo, who held onto the Ranger’s belt and ending with Sam who held onto Bill’s reigns.  They were forever bumping into and tripping over one another.  And in all cases, like the unfortunate one that had just taken place, whenever Pippin happened to bump into Merry, he ended up dragging Sam down with him.  It was bad enough being a nuisance to Merry, and testing Sam’s patience wasn’t exactly helping the situation.  But even worse yet was the inability to reach into his jacket pocket for an apple, as that meant that he and Sam could very easily become separated from the group.  Pippin could scarcely believe it: he was so hungry that Tea in Lobelia’s parlour sounded like a good idea!  *Oh, no, Pippin, don’t go there.  You’re not that desperate!  Not yet anyway!* So on and on they trudged, through the chilly wasteland with their heads double-wrapped in wool blankets, until at last the vapors were behind them. 

            “You may remove the blankets now,” Strider said after what seemed like an eternity.  And to Pippin it very nearly was, for it was past Dinner time and his head had been wrapped since before Elevenses.

            A few seconds later, Strider was looking on with amusement as the four child-sized adults collapsed on to the floor, gasping for fresh air.  The first real words were Pippin’s question of, “When do we eat?”  Upon asking this question, the Tween’s bottomless – pit of a stomach was prepared for the worst, but it never came. 

            The normally consistent Ranger suddenly broke his well – earned reputation with six simple words.  “How about now, even I’m starved.”  He turned around to find four dropped jaws and eight bulging eyes.  “Well, Rangers get hungry too you know.”

            “Really, I would never have known,” Pippin remarked.  He dug into his pocket and pulled out his emergency apple and half of a carrot that were left over from a pre-First Breakfast meal that they had partaken of before leaving around dawn.  The older and ‘more patient’ Hobbits made a be-line for Bill and quickly relieved him of their packs.

            During their short meal, Pippin found himself gazing at his eldest cousin in amazement again.  Though now the attention was not given out of amazement, but concern.  Frodo’s eating habits hadn’t always been to his satisfaction, but as he’d never had a say in it, he’d kept his mouth shut.  But now they were in entirely different circumstances.  Not only was he encouraged to aid his cousin in whatever way possible, it was also his obligation as a fellow conspirator.  Normally the task of getting Frodo to eat a proper serving of food would be left to his over-protective servant.  But Sam’s attempts were proving to be quite futile as Frodo was being stubborn, insisting that they save their rations for when they would be more needed.  So Pippin, for once having an excuse to reprimand and advise his elder cousin – without the chance being reprimanded himself— took it without hesitation.  He handed Frodo some pieces of dried fruit.  But instead of taking the food, Frodo raised his eyebrows in question.

            “This walk is certainly doing you some good, cousin,” Pippin explained before Frodo could ask.  “You look twice the Hobbit you were before.  But such energy requires an equal amount of food.  You don’t want to over-compensate food for exercise, now do you?”  In other words, the walking may have been good for you, and you may be in better physical shape, but loosing too much more weight can’t be good.

            “Twice the Hobbit?”  Frodo remarked curiously.  “Very odd.  Considering there is actually a good deal less off me.  I hope the thinning process will not go on indefinitely, or I shall become a wraith.”

            Pippin was about to say that was exactly what he had meant, but Strider opened his mouth first.

            “Do not speak of such things!” he said with an urgency that surprised his companions, but Pippin just shrugged off their leader’s paranoia.  Their leader might know a great-deal about the ancient beings, but the idea of becoming one was just ludicrous.  It simply wasn’t possible. 

            “So cousin, what do you say?  You can either eat my fruit or be a wraith,” he whispered once Strider was no longer paying attention to their conversation.  “Which will it be?”

            Frodo was about to politely refuse the offer, but then thought twice.  It would be akin to slapping Pippin’s face if he refused, however politely it may be done.  One just didn’t refuse food offered by Peregrin Took because it was never given out on a whim.  It was Pippin’s way of saying that he loved you, and was deeply concerned.  Such an act would also only spread the sediment of concern around the circle, so Frodo was trapped.  If he refused and claimed to be fine, he would be offending his dear cousin horribly.  But if he accepted, he would be admitting that he was moving towards the dangerous side of ‘thin.’  Oh why did things have to be so complicated?  Reluctantly, Frodo accepted the fruit and took a few bites, and the others sighed with relief.

            Pippin smiled.  “Well, cousin, welcome back to the land of the living.”

            Frodo just rolled his eyes.  *Why is Pippin being so lame?  He’s Pippin, does that answer your question?* “Pippin, will you please stop it!  It’s not like I’m actually in danger of becoming one of those –THINGS!”

            “Of course, not cousin.  You’re eating.  And as long as you eat, you’ll be fine!”

Title: Frodo's Bane and Pippin's Stomach

Author Pen Name: Arwen Baggins

Chapter Three: Nothing Safer

Disclaimer: How many times do I have to do this?  Once more?  Alright!  I don’t own anything in Lord of the Rings, or the people, places and things in this short-story.  It all belongs to Tolkien.  Not that I wouldn’t like to own it…

Setting: Chetwood/ Amon Súl.  October 6, 1418 (Shire-Reckoning).  One week after leaving Bree

            Pippin trudged on with the rest of the company, determined to keep up for once.  He had done a good job when they had first arisen, after being able to sleep in two hours past dawn.  He had tried to calculate that into Shire clocks in his mind, but had failed miserably as he hadn’t a clue as to when, the sun “woke up.”  They had eaten a horribly small Breakfast at the time, but now his limited energy was beginning to wane, which wasn’t helped by the fact that Strider was currently engaged in telling a romance story to the other three Hobbits, who some how seemed interested in every detail.  The only details that he had managed to catch were that the man in the story, Beren, was indeed a man, not an Elf-lad… and that he was in-love with an Elf-maiden named Lúthien.  Pippin, not being yet of-age, hadn’t found lasses to be all that much fun, and Elf-maidens it seemed were even less so.  Not that he would ever dare mention that to Sam, who had long been fascinated by Elves and was utterly beside himself with the idea of traveling with someone who had not only met them, but who appeared to be as learned in their lore as old Mr. Bilbo.  The idea that he was actually going to meet them himself hadn’t quite made its way through his thick skull.  Perhaps one more day would do the trick.

            In the meantime, it was high-time that they stopped for food again.  One more mile and he was certain he’d just pick up anything on the ground and shove it in his mouth.  He wouldn’t care how foul it tasted, or if it was even edible according to Hobbit standards, if he didn’t get SOMETHING in his mouth, and soon, he would certainly loose any remaining shred of civility and Hobbit-sense that he might possibly have managed to retain over the past week.  No, make that the past TWO weeks.  They had left Hobbiton on the night of September 22^nd, and the journey from Bag-End to Bree hadn’t exactly been what one would call “pleasant.”  Indeed it had certainly been the exact opposite.  But, there was no time to dwell on those horrid memories, there would be plenty of that during the late hours of the night with the comfort of his blanket.  Right now, he would have to address the issue of food, a conversation that everyone was tiring of, except for him.

            “Strider – ?”

            Before his question could be asked, there was a resounding chorus of “NO,” from all his three companions.

            “But I –”

            “No, Pippin we will not stop until we have reached the summit of Amon Súl.”  The tone of the Ranger’s voice left no room for argument – and no argument would be given.  But an explanation?  Now that might be attainable.

            “Why?” he asked.  He hadn’t bothered to ask, ‘But why?’ knowing that if he protested, his words would be cut short by a piercing stare if nothing else.  “Why can’t we eat along the way?”

            “Because,” the Ranger explained, “I have questions that may be answered on top of that mountain.  And we must reach it before nightfall.  I myself will not have much difficulty ascending it at night, as I am accustomed to things of this nature, but I do not wish for one of you Hobbits to fall to your death.  Therefore, we will press foreword until we reach our destination.”

            Well that pretty much settled things.  Hungry as he might be, Pippin had no desire to sit down to a late Luncheon if he thought it could seriously be his last, which the Ranger obviously did.  There was only one question left that need asking.  “Where exactly is Amon Súl?”

            “The mountain that the Elves have named Amon Súl and that Men call Weathertop, is no more than seven more miles away and can be seen from here.”

            Pippin let out a frustrated sigh as he looked on ahead at the not-so-distant hill, adorned at the summit with what appeared to be decayed statues and walls.  Seven miles might not be much to for one of the Big People, but going seven more miles, to a Hobbit just didn’t seem very probable.  But then again –.  Pippin took the opportunity to look behind him and realized that he couldn’t even see the Marshes on the outskirts of the horizon.  If they had come that far, then by golly they could go another seven miles!  But not on an empty stomach!  Pippin was bound and determined to snatch a few stray pieces of growing fruit on passing bushes.  He would have preferred to grab a carrot or an apple from the pack, but Strider was carrying the food pack, and his own pack was on the pony and, consequently was being guarded by an ever-watchful Sam.  It seemed that that Hobbit never got a proper night’s rest.  Last night, Pippin had tried to sneak a morsel while the Ranger was out scouting and had been caught with his hand in the mushroom bag by a very angry gardener.  One whom Pippin could have sworn had been snoring not three minutes earlier.

            So it was that Pippin trudged and lagged for another few hours, tripping over his own feet and grapping a few ripe and a few unripe raspberries and blueberries from the passing bushes.  But there were precious few to be found and more often than not getting to them required straying from the path, which was simply not allowed.  However, he did not complain of the ache in his feet nor the emptiness of his stomach; for both were painfully obvious by his lagging pace and the growling organ that did indeed seem to have both a voice and mind of its own.  Near to the six hour mark, Sam’s heart began to sympathize with the Tween and had after much arguing and cajoling managed to gain permission for Pippin to ride the pony.  They stopped for a few precious moments to rearrange the baggage so that they were carried on the side, precariously attached to the saddle.  They all, Pippin included, hated to force the pony to carry so much extra weight.  Pippin had protested loudly, saying that he would carry his own weight and take the ache as much as the others.  They therefore had all agreed to give Pippin a second chance.  But when the sleep-walking Tween had taken the wrong turn at the fork of the ancient road upon which they were walking.  That had been the last straw and the softly snoring Tween was thus placed on the pony’s back so as not to slow them down any further.  Pippin may have had all the intention in Middle-earth to keep up, but pushing a body to its limit is rarely wise and the past week of traveling had finally taken its toll.  There was however, no way that Pippin could stay upon his mount for the remainder of the distance until reaching the summit.  It would be hard enough to get the pony to the summit as it was – one ill step would be the end of any rider. 

            Merry looked at his young cousin with a mixture of pity and shame.  Any right Took should be able to keep up, but then again this one WAS only a Tween.  But only a certain amount of slack can be allotted for age, and Pippin had used up all of his on the previous days.  He was further ashamed that Pippin had even come along, that he had failed to both see and admit to his traveling limitations.  These emotions however soon turned to concern and pity upon remembering that he had been the same in his youth.  There had been a number of excursions on which he had forced the walking party to halt for his sake alone.  But never had he even considered (well not seriously) a journey beyond the boarders of the Shire, then again he hadn’t exactly been given that opportunity.  He observed his cousin’s slumped form and cautiously and rather reluctantly put his hand on his cousin’s hip, which was a far as he could reach, and nudged him.  “Pippin!  Pip, wake up!”  His voice was urgent yet soft and both words and motions had to be repeated before Pippin finally awoke, with a bright smile and dreamy look to his green eyes, no doubt awakening from a dream in which he had triumphed in a certain prank.

            “Huh, wha—”  He looked around cluelessly, until his gaze came up Strider and his face fell.

           “Oh.  For a half a moment I thought I was eating Mum’s apple pie.”

Frodo laughed.  “Really, dear Pip, looked to me as though you had gotten away with some sly prank – if the glean in your eyes was anything to go by.”

            “Well, that too.”  Pippin had an embarrassed grin and failed to continue explaining his dream, for which Strider was immensely grateful.

            “C’mon, Pip,” Merry said, when the explanation failed to come.  He was both disappointed and glad of that fact.  He had a great amount of curiosity for what sort of prank his mischievous cousin had dreamt up.  But then again he also knew that they could not afford the time that would be required to tell even half of the tale.  The sun was beginning to set and they had better get a move-on.  “We need to go.  Bill can't walk up the summit, so you need to use your own feet for the rest of they way.”

            Pippin groaned.  He had known this from the beginning, upon looking at he size of the hill before him, but he had post-poned it for as long as possible with his dream story, though he wasn’t inclined to finish it as he knew he would be the joke of many days if he dared to speak of it.  Having no more distractions in mind, and knowing they wouldn’t be tolerated even if they had existed, he took a deep breath, and with Merry’s help, dismounted the pony and landing on his own wobbly, still-asleep legs.  Taking one more deep breath, he stepped foreword, determined to take the lead for once, even if it were to only last for naught but a few minutes.

            Needless to say, the next thirty minutes were perhaps the longest ones he had ever lived, but at last they reached the summit and the four Hobbits sank to the ground on the western slope and watched with relief as the sun continued to fall.  There wasn’t much left of it left, but they were safe no the less.  Strider looked amused at their fatigue, if such a cruel act were even possible, and then set a bundle of black cloth on the ground and rolled it aside to reveal a set of deadly weapons, no doubt more weapons for Strider to hunt with.  That at least was Pippin’s hope, for in his mind it was the only common-sense thing for the Range to do after taking them through his “shortcuts.”  They had been excruciatingly long and painful.  But on second thought Pippin didn’t mind, upon recalling that they had managed to avoid Hobbit-eating trees and barrow-wights while in the Ranger’s company.  Not to mention the Nazgul.  While all of these not-so-pleasant thoughts were running through Pippin’s head,  Merry’s eyes went wide in awe at the sight of the weapons, but Pippin was panting and too tired to pay them any mind, until one was placed upon his trembling chest.

            “These are for you,” Strider said, “keep them close.  I’m going to have a look around.”

            *For us?  Wha—?* “Be sure to bring some Supper back,” he called, more out of habit than anything else.  The Ranger smiled in return, but Pippin didn’t remain too hopeful since he made no promise, indeed no word of any kind, before disappearing up the hill, towards the summit.  *There’s more!*  Well of course there was more, those statues he had seen in the distance weren’t anywhere to be seen now.  They were above the traveling party and Pippin didn’t ever think he’d get the chance to see them for real.  How the ancient people had managed to haul all of the stone up the hill to build the statues and walls in the first place was beyond Pippin’s imagination. 

            After Strider had left, Pippin carefully sat up and unsheathed his sword, which was really no more than a long knife to the big folk.  But still it did look mighty deadly.  Pippin felt a cold lump form in his throat as he fastened the sheath around his waist and went back to sleep.  He forced his mind back into its previous dream about trouble-making in the Shire and his mum’s apple pie.

            *          *          *

            “ – know what you mean, Mr. Merry.  The poor lad’s ‘ad a rough time and no mistake.  An’ Mr. Frodo ain’t been farin’ much better if you take my meanin’.  He don’t complain nearly as much as Mr. Pippin, but e’s been in right pain, been too ‘fraid to talk, if you ask me.  ‘Fraid them Nazgul will as come out ‘an get him if he has a mind to speak.”

            Sam.  Had to be Sam, no one else would address him as Mr. Pippin.  Strider still stuck to formality and called him “Master Took,” Merry usually used his baby nick-name, “Pip.”  Frodo used “Pippin” and occasionally “Peregrin” as an alternative to yelling if the need called for it.  But Sam was the only one who would address him as “Mr.”

             “What are you talking about, Sam?” He sat up groaning to face the two older Hobbits.  “And where’s Strider?”  He didn’t’ bother looking around for the Ranger, knowing that his black clothes would blend in to the night perfectly.  It would be a wasted effort.

             “He’s still out looking for answers to his 'Question,' Merry answered grimly.  “Been gone for about three hours too.”

             “Three hours!  Maybe we should go help him!”  The bold, yet hesitant offer was met by two sets of wide eyes and sarcastic looks of disbelief. 

             “Pippin, have you lost your mind?!”

             “Maybe,” Pippin admitted, albeit a bit reluctantly upon recalling the Ranger’s warning about Hobbits falling down the hill without proper visibility.

             “Whatever he’s facing, he can handle, and it’s his mess anyway.  He told us to stay here.  And I for one have no problem following orders!” 

             Well that is certainly a first, thought Pippin.  He would have further entertained the thought of reminding his older cousin of times when that had not been the case, but refrained – distracted once again by the sound of a hungry stomach.  His hungry stomach.  “Merry, I —”

             “Alright, Pip, here!”  His cousin handed him an apple.  But for once it wasn’t appealing.  He had eaten so many of them in the past days that the idea of eating yet another made him want to vomit.  He wanted real food!  He reluctantly took it and then mustered up the courage to ask for something nice and hot.  Bacon, perhaps?  There followed a heated debate which was silenced by Sam who looked as though a ghost or (Elbereth forbid) a barrow-wight or Nazgul might pop out of no-where.  But following Sam’s gaze, he found that the watchful eyes were instead focused upon a sleeping figure.  Frodo.

             “Wake him up and you’re dead!” The threat was, of course, idle.  Sam wouldn’t really dare to kill him, but the venom in those words made him step back involuntarily.

             “So, Sam, what about a cooking fire?” Pippin asked again, this time making sure to keep his voice low.

             “I don’t know, Mr. Pippin.  Might be right dangerous if you ask me.”

             “C’mon, Sam!  The Wraiths won’t find us if that’s what you’re thinking.  You saw them sniffing around, back in the Shire.  They can’t even see a few feet ahead of themselves, let alone way up here!  We’ll keep the fire small and we’ll sit around it to block out most of the light!  Please, I’m starved.  Besides the Nazgul probably aren’t anywhere around.  We haven’t caught a singe sight of them since Bree, in a week.  Strider’s sure to have lost them by now!”

             “Well – ”

             “Besides, wouldn’t you like to see your master eat a nice hot dinner.  Would do him a lot of good.”  *And others besides!*

             “Okay, Mr. Pippin.  But just a small fire mind you, and I don’t want it goin’ long neither.  You just cook a small somethin’ an’ be done. I got your promise on that, right?  Short and small.”

             “Yes, of course, Sam.” *YESSSSS!!!!!!!  A good hot meal.  There was nothing better in  - or in this case OUT - of the Shire.*  “Now, lets see – ”  Pippin dug into the food pack until he found what he was looking for:  Tomatoes, sausages, and bacon, which would soon be nice and crispy. He looked longingly at the mushrooms, but decided against them.  There were very few left and they would be  eaten at their celebration feast upon arriving to Rivendell, which they would no doubt treat themselves to, with or without the Elves’ permission.  It wasn’t much but it would have to do.  A nice hot dinner in the most concealed and highest spot on Middle-earth. Sam would soon find that all of his worries were for nothing, after all,  what could possibly be more safe?

Title: Frodo's Bane and Pippin's Stomach

Author Pen Name: Arwen Baggins

Chapter Four: My Fault

Disclaimer: Am I the only one getting bored with this? Do I really need to repeat myself? I do? Aw, shucks! Alright, I don't own anything relating to Lord of the Rings in this short-story (which would be everything), it all belongs to Tolkien. There, happy now? Good.

        Pippin flipped the tomatoes in the hot frying pan and tried to hide a smug smile of victory. Finally, a proper meal. Something they hadn't had since, well since they had stayed the night at old Tom Bombadil's house, nigh on nine days ago. "So, Merry? Sam? Either of you know what exactly Strider's up to?"

        Merry shook his head. "Not exactly. He's been awful close - like old Gandalf."

        "Gandalf?!" Pippin sounded incredulous. He couldn't rightly tell his companions what the grim and dirty Ranger reminded him of. But it certainly wasn't old Gandalf.

        "Well, I know," said Sam , not taking his eyes off of his cooking. He had been well-trained in the art and wouldn't let the quality of his work suffer for lack of attention. He also didn't feel too comfortable including himself in the conversations of his betters, even if he WAS their elder. But these were desperate times and be that as it may, desperate measures were needed. "Well, you see, a matter o' three days back, but my reckoning, there were lights over this hill. Lots o' lights. All huge and bright. Reminded me o' Old Mr. Ganalf's fireworks they did. But these fireworks were right scary and no mistake. Mr. Strider thought it might've been them Riders fightin' with Mr. Gandalf. But they wouldn't 'ave stayed around this long and Mr. Strider, while you lads was asleepin', he went ta check on where they'd gotten to."

        "You mean the Enemy was HERE three days ago?"

        "That's right, Mr. Pippin. If Mr. Strider ain't mistaken."

        As if on cue, all of the Hobbit turned to check on Frodo, who was fast asleep, if the volume of his snoring was to be any indication. A nagging suspicion began growing which left his blood cold. "But if the Riders were here naught but three days ago, they would've been able to FEEL the Ring, wouldn't they?" The stare he got from Merry quickly silenced him on the matter and they instinctively turned to Sam, who just shrugged off their concern - a little too easily for their liking.

        "I've given some thought to that long and hard, mind you," he said. "An' I figure they can't. After all they didn't find us in Bree and they was right close to it then. You were right, I think, Mr. Pippin. They won't find us here. Besides, even if they did FIND us, like as not they probably wouldn't be able to get up here. Seein' as they can't see too far ahead o' themselves. In fact, if you ask me, I'm thinking that's why Mr. Strider brought us up here to begin with."

        This logic seemed right to the Hobbits, but Pippin suddenly had a sudden urge to extinguish the fire, but let it go. If Strider was right and they could sense the power of the One, then a fire would scarcely make a difference. But all the same it shouldn't be going for too long and Pippin promised himself that he would put it out as soon as he was done. But he figured that it could wait, since Sam was just handing out dinner and putting some more sausages and tomatoes on the pan.

        "Oi! My tomato's burst!" Pippin lamented as the over-cooked tomato burst and splattered its juice onto his clothes. He carefully scooped it out of the pan with his fork. "Could I have some bacon?" He noticed with disdain that all of the bacon had gone to two plates. One of which was on Merry's lap and the other lay next to Sam and was no doubt being saved for Frodo. Merry reluctantly handed over two of his "spare" pieces. He would have taken them from Frodo's plate (as if he'd ever know) but Sam would never allow it. Pippin had just taken a rather large bite of the delicious crispy bacon when he heard an alarmed cry of "What are you doing?" Pip looked up form his plate to see Frodo staring at them. To the end of his days he could never quite find the right way to describe the look on his cousin's face. It was something between horror (at the thought of what could happen), shock (that they even had matches left), and disbelief (at their stupidity for even having the nerve to entertain the notion of a cooking fire at this - or indeed any - time of night). At the time, however, Pippin didn't give it a second thought. He merely smiled.

        While Frodo was scared stiff, Merry answered: "tomatoes, sausages, nice crispy bacon."

        Pippin smiled at Frodo, waiting for the exclamation of gratitude that was sure to come once Frodo realized that there weren't any Nazgul about. He even thought about telling Frodo that it had been his idea, but refrained. Surely that was obvious.

        "We saved some for you, Mr. Frodo," Sam added, helpfully, handing the full and lonely plate to his master.

        Frodo either didn't hear or pointedly ignored his servant and made a be-line for the fire-pit. "Put it out, you fools! Put it out!" His three companions watched in astonishment as he stomped on the flames with his furry, leathery feet, thus scattering the ashes onto Pippin's plate of all places.

        "Oi! That's nice! Ash on my tomatoes!" was all that he could think to say. He didn't have anything to say to Frodo's outburst. He didn't even know what to THINK. The only thing he was sure of was that his dear cousin (Mad Baggins the Second, as some elderly folk in the Shire liked to call him from time to time) had finally "cracked." There was absolutely no call in all of Middle-earth to go panicking immediately upon awakening as Frodo had just done.

        Upon extinguishing the fire, Frodo ran wordlessly to the edge of the cliff. Pippin followed Frodo, albeit a bit more slowly than the others, and peered over the edge. He was about to reprimand his elder cousin for worrying over nothing when he saw them: five large, sinister black figures approaching the base of the watchtower.

        *What the - ? How did THEY get here? They're supposed to be several days away!*

        "Go! Run!" The voice was undoubtedly Frodo's and as Pippin turned to face his cousin, he saw that Frodo had already drawn his sword and was running towards the summit as fast as his short legs could carry him. Pippin couldn't for the life of him figure out WHY they were running. There was no way those old half-dead things could climb the watchtower, and even if they could a few meters would hardly make a difference. But be that as it may, they all ran to the summit, almost knocking each other over in the process.

        Then at last Pippin got a good look at the old statues, but they didn't look nearly as magnificent as he had imagined they would. They were old, decayed, and quite frankly filled him with a sense of terror and foreboding. The one in the far corner in particular scared him. It looked Elvish with its long hair and solemn face. Almost like a statue set over a tombstone as it were.

        For several minutes the three Hobbits formed a protective circle around Frodo, weapons at the ready. When nothing happened, Pippin decided it was high-time to convince Frodo that he was safe. But upon looking at his cousin's shaking body and wide eyes, he decided that it would be a lost cause. It would take at LEAST two hours of waiting to convince Frodo that the Wraiths weren't climbing after him. Though, come to think of it, the Wraiths wouldn't leave knowing that the Ring was on the top of the hill and the Hobbits couldn't on the summit forever! There wasn't enough food! Food! Pippin sighed. He'd only gotten to eat one piece of bacon. If one fire was going to cause so much trouble, when why couldn't it at least be WORTH it? Why couldn't - ?

        Pippin's questioning the ways of Middle-earth was cut short by a loud THUMP and then another, and another. All four Hobbits turned, and to their horror found that the Wraiths had in fact climbed the watchtower and were headed straight for them. It would be no use hiding behind the old statues now! Pippin took his place next to Merry and in front of Frodo - too scared to move any further.

        Sam, on the other hand, had enough gusto for the four of them combined. "Back you devils!" he ordered, as though he intended to attack them if they didn't obey. They didn't - and he did. One blow. Two. Then he was dismissed and thrown against the nearest wall. Weapons out and ready, they approached Pippin and Merry, who were now the only ones that stood between them and the Ring-bearer. Or, more precisely, between their master and un-ending victory.

        Pippin tried to stop shaking and in his mind, he kept repeating: "Must protect Frodo! Must protect Frodo-" But as the Wise would say, "The mind was willing, but the flesh was weak." Pippin had had the intention of following Sam's example of defiance, but before he could move, he was picked up by a Wraith and tossed out of the way. And he could only guess that Merry had met the same fate as well.

        * * *

        Pippin lay senseless on the ground for an incalculable amount of time, at least in his opinion, though it really wasn't more than a minute or two. At first when he regained consciousness he thought that it had all been naught but a dream. But then, if it had been a dream his head wouldn't ache -

        "O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!" a voice suddenly cried out. The cry was soon followed by a blood-curdling scream.  But whether it was out of agony or fear, Pippin couldn’t tell.

        Nope. This certainly wasn't any nightmare of his. No dream he'd ever had (good or bad) had included Elvish phrases. Perhaps an Elf or two, but he had never been able to dream-up the Elvish language! Also, something about that voice wasn't quite right. It sounded alien, like a terrified creature of sorts, but then again, there was something familiar about -

        FRODO! The answer hit him hard and sudden, but he quickly dismissed the implications without solid evidence. NO! Surely Frodo was just calling that name to scare the Wraiths - as it seemed natural that they would detest anything that was in any way related to Elves. As Pippin turned around, though, he was confronted with an image that was beyond his worst nightmare: there was Strider (where had he come from?) throwing flaming torches at the Enemy (where had he gotten the fire from? Their own cooking- fire had been extinguished. Frodo had seen to that), while at the same time fighting them with his sword. And just beyond Strider were two Hobbits crouched down beside a small figure that could only be Frodo. With Hobbit "magic" as the Big Folk called it, he slipped past the fray and joined Sam and Merry who were protecting his cousin from further harm.

        Sam's hand lay on Frodo's brow, attempting to soothe the pain creases and to wipe the sweat from his master's brow, while Merry held a trembling had. Pippin took a seat at Frodo's side, just opposite of Merry. He felt nervous just sitting next to the wounded Hobbit, seeing that Frodo seemed to take the brunt of the consequences for Pippin's careless actions. The most recent of these being the episode in Bree when he had foolishly recounted the story of Bilbo's Party to many Hobbits in the Common Room of the Prancing Pony. No don't think about that now!

        "Where is he?" he heard Frodo mumble weakly, terror plain in his voice.

        "Where is who, dear Frodo?" Merry asked, his voice shaking.

        "THE PALE KING? WHERE IS HE?"

        All of the uninjured Hobbits looked at each other, confused. What was Frodo talking about? What pale king? All they had seen were each other, Strider, and the Wraiths. And while the Wraiths had been kings in ancient days they were now anything but pale.

        "They're not here, Mr. Frodo. And they'll not get you neither, not while your Sam's here! And he'll not leave you a second time! Even if they do have a mind to come back." While Sam tried to talk some sense into his delirious master, Merry massaged his right arm and muttered comforting words that Frodo probably wasn't even listening to.

        Unable to bear helplessly watching his cousin's pain, Pippin decided to follow Merry's example and laid a hand on the wounded shoulder in an attempt to soothe the pain, but to no avail. As soon as his hand touched Frodo's shoulder, his cousin jerked away with a cry of agony.

        "Don't touch - shoulder. Hurts!" Frodo gasped between breaths.

        Pippin looked at the ground, determined not to let the others (especially Frodo) see the tears gathering in his eyes. But as he looked at the ground he noticed something else besides just the dirt - a hand. Frodo's hand, palm upward, and arched slightly towards Pippin, as if inviting him to hold it. Pippin hesitated for a moment and then slowly placed his hand inside Frodo's. He held his breath, hoping he hadn't somehow caused his beloved cousin even further pain. He had already done so once in an attempt to comfort him (as if the pain of the knife-wound wasn't bad enough). He couldn't bear the thought of a second thoughtful action going array - and was overjoyed beyond words to find that Frodo had squeezed his hand back, without jerking away. But even this simple act of forgiveness (for indeed he did perceive it as Frodo's way of saying "I know you were just trying to help") wasn't enough to change his tears from ones of grief to almost-joy.

        The fact of the matter that now occurred to him was both plain as day and equally terrifying. Gone were the days when punishments had been mere groundings, skipped meals, and broken bones. This time, unless they got a miracle, the consequence would be Frodo's death, and it would be all his fault -

        NO! It 'WOULDN'T' be his fault. That phrase merely implied that he still had a chance of escaping the blame. As it was, Frodo was already wounded and looking once more at the agony in his eldest cousin's eyes, he knew that it WAS his fault - and nothing could convince him otherwise. Just as Frodo could find no other solution than to blame himself.

Title: Frodo's Bane and Pippin's Stomach
By: Arwen Baggins

Chapter Five: It's NOT Your Fault
Setting: Amon Súl, October 6

Disclaimer: Am I the only one getting bored with this? Do I really need to repeat myself? I do? Aw, shucks! Alright, I don't own anything relating to Lord of the Rings in this short-story (which would be everything), it all belongs to Tolkien. There, happy now? Good.

Warning: This chapter is rated PG-13 for suicidal depression.  After all what would you do if you thought you were to blame for the near-death of a family member of close friend.

Pippin sat on the cold, stone ground of Weathertop's dell, holding his wounded cousin's hand. He hoped that he was hiding his fear, though he very much doubted this since he could feel - and see - his body trembling, but then again it was very dark, so perhaps -

Pippin's frantic musings were abruptly cut short as one of the wraiths let out a wailing scream. It hadn't occurred to the Tweenager that the hated creatures could even know fear or pain. They seemed so fearful and indestructible in and of themselves. But as he turned around, he vaguely saw Strider's smug grim of satisfaction as the last of the blazing shadows retreated from the dell. Pippin found himself wondering yet again, who this *Strider* really was. He clearly had dealt with these creatures before. What events had led him to gain such a proficiency in defeating them? Well, perhaps he better not know ALL of the details. One thing was for certain. He was more than a Ranger, the rest of the riddle would have to wait until later. Right now they needed to focus on taking care of Frodo.

At that moment, with the fear of his enemies gone, the terrified Ring- bearer's voice returned with a vengeance, and he let out a cry that did not pierce Pippin's heart, but instead went straight for his soul. But at the same moment, that agonizing scream had filled his with an unlooked-for hope. His cousin had seemed so weak and helpless at first, but this scream instilled Pippin with the hope that perhaps he could fight this. Maybe he could live through it! Then reality struck home. No, one could gauge a Hobbit's strength based on the first few minutes of trial. They were so far from Rivendell, even if Frodo lived through the night, there was no guarantee that he would continue to do so. There was no guarantee of any kind.

"Strider!" Sam's voice pierced through the stillness of the night, and either it was Pippin's imagination, or there was a commanding edge to Sam's voice. This shocked Pippin beyond words: Sam had not only dropped the "Mr." that he seemed to use when addressing anyone not within his immediate family. Even more shocking was that Sam had the nerve for once, to not only give orders, but to one of the Big Folk no less! Sam had shown quite enough reluctance as it was to scold Pippin for raiding the pantries on his visits to Bag-end. But this - ?

Noticing that he was sitting right where Strider needed to be, Pippin quickly (and gently) released Frodo's hand and went to join Merry, which was as far from trouble as he seemed to be able to get for the time being.

After looking around to make sure that some over-zealous wraith wasn't attempting to make a come-back, Strider the Ranger heeded Sam's order and knelt down next to Frodo's trembling body.

"Help him, Strider," Sam pleaded, the commanding edge having vanished without a trace.

Strider knelt down in the same place that Pippin had occupied a moment earlier. Strider, however, wasn't looking at Frodo. Instead his gaze was fixed on the ground. He reached down and brought into view a very long sword, something that Pippin had missed entirely. Strider sat still for a moment, examining the hilt, seeming to ignore his patient. And from the look on Sam's face, that would have to change within a matter of seconds, or else the Ranger would have to suffer the brunt of Sam's wrath. This the other Hobbits saw plainly, but as Strider wasn't looking at them, he remained oblivious and continued to examine the sword with a interest the only one of Big Folk could possibly possess under such dire circumstances.

When he seemed satisfied with his examination, he put the sword back down and finally turned to Frodo, who hadn't moved so much as an inch. The screams had gone out of his voice and were replaced by a pitiful moaning sound, which to Pippin seemed to convey not a lessening of pain, but rather failing strength - for indeed he had not the strength to release the scream that had pierced Pippin's heart and soul to their core only moments earlier.

Strider knelt down and very gently picked Frodo up and moved him towards the center of the dell and once again laid him down on the cold floor. The transportation was complete before Sam could utter a word, not that he would have known what to say to someone who seemed to be handling his master with a care that appeared to be beyond his capability. This by itself was enough to surprise the Tween, but he went the extra mile, so to speak, to prove his intentions, for the next thing he did was to remove his own cloak and carefully wrap it around Frodo's shivering form. Whether the shivering was from the cold or lingering fear, Pippin didn't know - nor was he sure he wanted to.

"Merry, Pippin?" The Ranger turned to the two Hobbits who had assumed that they had been forgotten. "Would you please go back to your camp-fire and retrieve your supplies? I want you to start a fire. Frodo must be kept warm!" Before either Hobbit could respond to this absurd and foolish suggestion, Strider quickly explained himself: "Fire may have been your demise just now. But it is also the only weapon that can be used successfully against such creatures. Should the Nazgúl return you will wield a weapon that even they fear."

"Why would he need to be kept warm?" Sam shot back angrily. Any confidence in the Ranger that his master had drilled into him was long- gone. "He's wounded not sick! Why not keep the fire out and wrap him in blankets if it's so important? The fire will just bring them back!"

"You must trust me, Sam!" The Ranger insisted, meeting the gardener's defiant glare. "I do not think they shall return, but if they do, you must be prepared. He is your master and it is your decision, but it shall go better for you if you heed my advice, however ill it may seem to you." Having said all that was required of him, Strider turned around and without a second thought, began to descend the watchtower and was soon out of sight.

"Come on, Pip, let's go get that equipment," Merry said softly, helping Pippin to his feet. Pippin nodded his agreement and solemnly followed his elder cousin down to the lower-level of the watchtower, using the same trail they had ascended no more than 10 minutes earlier. They had barely left when they heard a sudden burst of tears. The tears, however, seemed not to come from pain, but from grief, which meant it could only be one Hobbit: Sam. Pippin did not need to turn around to know that Sam was bending over his master's prostrate body, weeping in his grief. Putting a hand to his mouth to stifle his own cry and threatening tears, Pippin followed the barely-visible form of Merry. With the moon absent and the fire behind them, it would be impossible for anyone (save perhaps an Elf) to see more than a couple feet ahead. He remembered Strider's warning about Hobbits falling to their deaths - but he didn't care anymore. In fact, he began to wonder if perhaps they wouldn't be better off if he had fallen in the ascent or drowned himself back in the Marshes. For a second he contemplated the possibility of "accidentally" taking a bad step off the edge of the cliff -

*NO!* "No," Pippin whispered, almost regretfully, shaking his head. The damage had been done already. He would gladly have taken his own life for the chance to go back and change the events of that night, but since such a thing was not possible, the idea of suicide would have to be abandoned. Having come to a decision, Pippin aided Merry in gathering up their firewood and travel packs, without inflicting any personal harm upon himself. While completing his share of the task, Pippin bent down to retrieve a large piece of firewood and noticed a conspicuous plate of now cold bacon, sausages and fragments of a burst tomato.

*Stupid food* Pippin shouted in mental rage as he kicked the cookery against the stonewall. He thankfully wasn't facing westward towards the cliff-edge, or else the plate surely would have landed with full-force on some innocent animal on the forest-floor - as if he hadn't been the catalyst of enough misery already. His feelings of self-damnation had yet to dissipate and looking once again at the dirty, ashen, travel-worn plate, he realized that the thought of filling it with warm, delicious food did not settle his nerves as it once had. In fact, it served no other purpose than to further ignite them. His destructive intentions against the plate had proved fruitless, indeed it hardly looked worse for the wear and tear it had just received against the hard wall. Unlike Frodo - The memory of his cousin's agony and bleeding shoulder, sent him into a violent rage - which basically consisted of attacking the wall with his newest weapon - the plate. *Why was it so hard to cause harm to something that had already created more than its fair share?* The ferocity displayed in his attack astonished him, but that didn't stop him. What eventually DID stop him wasn't a "What" but a "Who". And who eventually did stop him, was Merry.

Merry, having retrieved his share of the supplies, turned around and headed back up the summit. The rational part of his brain told him that Pippin was following close behind like he usually did. Unfortunately, what he didn't know was that Pippin was everything but rational at that moment. "Pippin, come on. Hurry up," he said to the cousin who was supposedly following at a lagging pace. When he received no answer, he turned around and felt his eyes bulge at the sight that greeted them. His young cousin attacking a wall with a plate was the last thing that he expected to see. He wouldn't have been too surprised to see the Nazgúl return. Alarmed, yes - surprised, no. But this? Yes, this was defiantly unexpected. Two seconds later he had dropped his pack and firewood and ran over to the distraught Tweenager. "Pippin! Pippin, stop! Pippin!" Merry wrestled the "weapon" away from his distraught cousin, and held him close. He wanted to say that everything would be okay, but he couldn't bring himself to tell such an obvious lie, so he just held him. It took only a matter of seconds for Pippin's fury to turn into worry and hopeless grief, soon he was sobbing on Merry's shoulder, soaking his clothes with hot tears, but if Merry noticed he gave no sign of it. He didn't need to ask what the matter was. There was only one thing that could be bothering his cousin. But why? Why was Pippin reacting so violently? He knew that different people had different ways of handling grief and pain but this was ridiculous! Pippin had never been one to resort to violence under any circumstance. He had about a dozen different questions that needed answering, though figuring that Pippin wouldn't even pay attention to any question that might be posed, he kept his mouth shut and waited for Pippin to explain himself. The question was just one of "when" not "if". Pippin had far too big of a mouth to keep feelings like this to himself for long. All he had to do was give him ample time.

A few minutes proved to be more than enough time. "It's my fault!" Pippin sobbed, his voice shaking almost beyond comprehension. "He's going to die! And I could have saved him!"

"No, Pippin," Merry soothed. "It's not your fault! You musn't think that!"

"But it is, Meriadoc!" The grief was gone from his voice, and in its place was raw anger. The seriousness of which was conveyed through his use of Merry's proper name: something that Merry assumed Pippin had forgotten, since he had never used it before. "I cared so much about food! If I hadn't insisted on that cooking-fire this wouldn't have happened! Frodo would be in his warm blankets sleeping right now. Safely! Not curled up on the cold floor in pain and his shirt wouldn't be soaked in blood.! It's my fault! I should have taken the blow! But I didn't! I let the Black Riders throw me aside! I was his last defense and I failed him." He looked down at the floor and added in a barely audible whisper, "I deserve to be drowned in the Marshes for all the help I've been!"

Merry felt the blood freeze in his veins at the sound of those words. He had known that this journey would effect Pippin, after all he was so young and so far from home, but he could never have imagined this. To hear his young cousin speak of suicide so seriously drove home the full magnitude of how much it really HAD changed Pippin. "No, Pippin, it's NOT your fault! The Ring drove them here. The could sense IT. The fire just made the locating easier for them. It brought them here sooner. They would have caught up with us either way! Pippin, look at me!" Pippin, who until that moment, hadn't given any acknowledgment to his cousins to his cousin's words, complied.

Merry looked into the depths of his green eyes and where he had once seen joy and laughter, he now saw a guilt that they had never been known to harbor in the past twenty-eight years. Even the worst beating from Farmer Maggot for thieving mushrooms hadn't produced this kind of effect. "Pippin," he began again, reaching out to wipe the tears from his cousin's cheek, "IT'S NOT YOUR FAULT!"

Pippin, at that moment, felt an uncharacteristic urge to punch Merry in the face for having the folly to say such ridiculous words. But violence wasn't his way - it never had been and he didn't want to change that any time soon. So to restrain himself he kept his fists clenched at his side and out of Merry's sight. "Yes, it is," he choked looking at the ground. From first glance one might think that he did this in shame, which he did, but it was also another part of his self-control to keep himself from inflicting harm on yet another cousin. Not that a black-eye was lethal or anything. "Yes, it is," he repeated softly, hardly believing his own words. In the past, when the adults had declared him innocent of a charge that had been laid upon him by either his cousins or sisters, he had never dared to argue the final decision.. But tonight his overwhelming sense of guilt caused him to act out of character in more ways than one. "If I hadn't insisted on that confounded fire, then the wraiths would still have come - yes! But Strider would have been here also! You saw him fight those Black Riders! He would have been able to protect Frodo! But he wasn't there! The least I could have done was to WAIT and ask Strider - then everything would have been fine! But it isn't."

Merry thought about it for a moment and found more than a grain to truth to what Pippin had said. Yes, Strider would have been able to save Frodo from being wounded. Yes, the wraiths wouldn't have found them until later - until after Strider had returned. But even then what was to stop the incident. They already knew where the Ranger stood on the fire issue. Had he just now ordered the Hobbits to construct a fire for safety purposes? But, then again, he might be telling them to use the fire as a safety measure (now there was a novel idea), but that was probably because the wraiths already knew where they were. And Merry doubted that Strider would have approved of its use while the location was still hidden. Thus finding no words of comfort to offer to his very young (at least for an adventure of this magnitude) and very distressed cousin, he simply gave him a fake and sympathetic smile as he handed Pippin his pack. "Come on, Pip. Sam's probably wondering where we are. And Frodo needs this fire if what Strider says is anything to go by."

Pippin wondered for a moment why Merry was even taking Strider's advice seriously? Perhaps it was because he had fought so hard to protect Frodo - a department in which some of them were still lacking a great deal of skill, or luck as some might call it. Head bowed and pack loaded, Pippin took the lead and headed back up towards the summit. When he came within sight of Sam, singing some unidentifiable tune to soothe his master's pain, Pippin had a sudden urge to flee. He remembered his previous thoughts in the Marshes, the one about Sam's inevitable wrath, should any harm come to his master. At the time Pippin had been thinking about Frodo spraining a wrist if Pippin tripped him while they were walking blind through the vapors. But now that it came to the point, Pippin realized that Sam was probably over the shock and shaking with rage at Pippin's stupidity and selfishness. He was about to turn back, but Merry stopped him.

"Go on, Pippin," he urged, giving his cousin a little nudge up the trail. "I'm here. You have to face him sometime, and Frodo could use a fire. We have to help him in any way he can." Finding no way to deny the obvious truth of Merry's words, he turned back around. He would deal with Sam's wrath - come what may. It could hardly more emotionally crushing than the guilt he already harbored. But physically? Pippins shuddered at the image of himself lying on the floor with every bone in his body in pieces. But that image was soon replaced by that of Frodo in his current state, and his fear dissolved. He had said that he should have taken the blow for Frodo, but he hadn't. What ever Sam gave him could hardly be as painful as the pain and death he deserved. He would face Sam's wrath head-on, come what may, he was ready for it!

Title: Frodo's Bane and Pippin's Stomach

Disclaimer: See the previous five chapters! I'm not in the mood for repeating myself right now!

Chapter Six: The Blame Game

Setting: Amon Súl, October 6, 1418. (Yes, we're still there)

        Pippin forced his feet to drag themselves back up the pathway, with no other choice. No more than thirty seconds ago, he had been confident that he could face Sam's wrath. Now, as Sam's huddled form came slowly into view, he found that he suddenly couldn't. He couldn't move, he couldn't bear to see his cousin in such pain, nor the thought of Sam's strong arm breaking his own. He planted his feet firmly to the ground, only to have Merry bump into him.

        "Go on, Pip. I'm right behind you," Merry said, hoping to be of some encouragement, but Pippin hardly seemed to be listening. Merry gave him a little nudge and propelled him foreword, till he stumbled into Sam's view.

        "Hi, Sam," Pippin said, trying to control his shaking voice. He bent down to place the firewood on the ground by Merry's feet. "We brought the firewood."

        The only response he got was an unintelligible sound and a barely perceptible nod, for which Pippin was grateful. At least he would be able to relax before he was slaughtered. In the mean time, he looked down at Frodo's still form. There wasn't any evidence of lingering pain that he could see, and he wasn't sure whether he liked that or not. "How's he doing?"

        "Sleepin'." Sam answered softly, his eyes still locked protectively on his wounded master. Pippin noticed then that Sam's right arm wasn't staying still, it was moving up and down Frodo's left one, as if he were massaging it.

        "What're you doing?"

        "Rubbin' it. Tryin' ta warm it up, Mr. Pippin."

        'Mr. Pippin', Pippin reflected thoughtfully. 'He'll no doubt drop any and all forms for respect when he finds out .' "He's cold?" Pippin prompted, out of both curiosity and a desire to take his mind off of its current course.

        "Aye. I don't know what happened, but he just started goin' cold."

        "Don't worry about that, Sam, it's a cold night. We're all cold."

        Sam nodded, but didn't stop. He couldn't shake the thought that something else was wrong with his master, but decided not to mention his fears to Mr. Frodo's cousins. No need to worry them over what would surely turn out to be nothin' of consequence. It certainly would not be considered out of the ordinary for Mr. Frodo to be cold, but somethin' about the way the cold had encompassed primarily the wounded area so quickly made him uneasy.

        "Have you got that fire ready, Mr. Merry?" Sam knew he should not have left such drudgework for a gentlehobbit, but at the moment, he couldn't find the will-power to move away from his master. Both he and Pippin turned around to find Merry with the stone and match, mumbling curses at the stubborn equipment.

        "Almost," Merry answered through gritted teeth. "Stupid rock," he mumbled as he broke yet another match. Wordlessly, Sam reached over and grabbed the rock and match-box from him. The matches were far too precious to be broken down into unusable pieces. Maybe when they got to Rivendell he would teach them a few survival skills, which would include a few lessons about how to build a successful fire.

        In a matter of seconds, Sam had the perfect fire going, and positioned his master's unresponsive body in such a way that the left shoulder was closest to the fire. Too close, perhaps, for the flames at times seemed to come dangerously close to synging his master's clothing.

        For a good half-hour, the three guard-hobbits formed a protective fire around the circle, sticks at the ready. If any wraith dared approach they would be ready. They would also be praying to the Valar that their "torches" didn't burn away before there was the chance to use them. In the meantime, they sat in uneasy silence - afraid to talk about the only thing that was on their minds. Pippin in particular was shaking, though thankfully it wasn't noticed for Pippin sat on the opposite side of Sam, who rarely took his eyes off of his master. Pippin also noticed, with great concern, that Sam kept touching the skin around the wound, and on the pulse-point of his right wrist.

        During the duration of that time, Pippin found himself considering that perhaps Sam didn't see his blame, or perhaps he was waiting to bring up the issue when his master was better and he had nothing else to worry about. As these thoughts were running frantically through Pippin's head, he vaguely heard Sam trying to suppress his tears. "I'm sorry, Master Frodo! Oh but I am a ninny-hammer. This is all my fault!"

        At those words, Pippin felt his eyes bulge. *What was Sam talking about? How could it possibly be his fault? He had been the only one of the three of them to even do anything. Had he not defiantly shouted "Back, you devils" and when they did not obey, had he not attacked them with as much strength as he could muster? If anyone he held the least blame for the horrid events of that night. "Sam, what are you talking about?" he asked, his astonishment completely unveiled, as he got up and took a seat next to Sam, and rested a reassuring hand upon his shoulder. "You aren't to blame for this at all. You were the only one who challenged those wraiths. You did everything you could!"

        But these words provided no comfort for the gardener/bodyguard. "No I didn't," he sobbed miserably. "I shouldn't've let those things throw me aside! I should have gotten right back up and run back to my master! But I didn't. I laid there like the ninnyhammer I am and watched it happen!"

        "Sam," Merry spoke up from the other side of the fire, "there was nothing you could have done! Frodo put on the Ring! He was invisible. What do you mean 'you watched it'?"

        "I mean that I watched it!" Sam shot back angrily. "I watched those things close in on him! I watched him put on the Ring! And I didn - " As the reality of his own words sunk into his thick skull, Sam held his head in his hands and cried - for his master, and for his own selfishness. When his master was on the brink of being slaughtered all he had done was to lie against the stone wall, swooning from the mild headache that was already gone. At this confession, Pippin found himself staring at Sam, with a his eyes bulged and his jaw dropped: *Frodo put on the Ring! What possessed him to do that! If that be the case, then perhaps it was all Frodo's fault. But no, he obviously had thought to escape them when he was invisible - and who could blame him in that regard. It had always made him invisible before, and yet somehow the wraiths had still found him? Ah well, that still didn't change the fact that if Pippin hadn't drawn the wraiths towards them with the cooking-fire then Frodo would never have had the need to put the Ring on in the first place.* Having come back to the same conclusion that he had started with, he put his head in his hands, and looked at the grieving Sam one again and sighed.

        To Pippin, this scene was becoming far too familiar. It also meant that Sam had been too preoccupied with his own thoughts to hear the discussion that he had had with Merry regarding this same issue. And by blaming himself, it also occurred to Pippin that Sam didn't hold any of it against Pippin. This, of course, meant two things: he could either sit quietly and let Sam drown himself in guilty tears, or he could lie the blame where it truly belonged - on himself. After a mere second of contemplation, Pippin decided that he had done so many things out-of character that night that surely one more wouldn't make a difference. He had never before pointed the blame to himself, when others gladly took it off of his shoulders - whether they did it knowingly or not. But this was no crime of stealing cookies and pies from the pantry. This was far too serious to let stand. "Sam, it's not your fault! You can't jump back up after such an impact, it's just not possible. Nor can you possibly defend an invisible Hobbit. Even if you had jumped back up, you would not have arrived in time to help him, nor would you have gone unnoticed, the wraiths would have just tossed you aside again. Besides, I'm really the one you should be blaming!" *Here it comes!*

        "What do you mean, Mr. Pippin?"

        *Could he really not see the truth? Was his devotion to caring for his master so great that it had blinded him from the truth of how he had become so mortally wounded?* "The cooking-fire," Pippin explained softly, hardly believing his own words, "if I hadn't insisted on that fire then the wraiths never would have found us in the first place. You wouldn't even have had the opportunity to make your 'mistake'."

        Sam remained silent for several moments contemplating the issue. Meanwhile, Pippin and Merry both held their breaths almost to the point of suffocation. "I suppose you're right, Mr. Pippin," Sam agreed, though Pippin couldn't quite figure out how he had maintained the title 'Mr.' if Sam did indeed believe that he was too blame. "But you didn't mean anything by it. We all thought that the Wraiths were several days away, and that they wouldn't be able to climb the watchtower. If we had been correct then it would have been safe, but we weren't and now - " He looked down at the sleeping Frodo - who was hopefully having pleasant dreams, but somehow they all doubted it - and decided that it would be best not to elaborate on the obvious details. Pippin had just let out an enormous sigh of relief, but soon realized that it was a bit pre-mature. "BUT," he began again. This time the tone of his voice was not one of grief, but one of stern warning, though this one topped all of the ones he had received from his parents in both voice and body-stance. His voice was low, the kind that made you wish your parents would yell rather than force themselves into a state of serenity, and the glare in his eyes and the angry set of his jaw said that his word was not to be doubted. "But if he dies, I'll not hesitate to make you wish you were dead too!" After this threat, Sam noticed the Tween's shaking body and returned to his normal voice and composure. Right now though, he's not dead, and as long as he lives I'll not hurt you!"

        At the end of that short and simple, yet terrifying speech, Pippin oddly enough found himself relaxing. *Well at least I won't die tonight!* "Now where's that Strider gotten himself into anyhow?"

        Just as he said that, a shadow descended upon the fire and Sam immediately jumped in front of his master's body, sword drawn while Merry and Pippin stuck their "torches" in the fire, ready to do combat. But there was no need, for as the towering figure drew closer, they could see with unmistakable clarity that it was Strider, not some Wraith as they had feared.

        "I am not a Black Rider, Sam," nor in league with them. "I have been trying to discover something of their movements; but I have found nothing. I cannot think why they have gone and do not attack again. But there is no feeling of their presence anywhere near at hand."

        He now found his attention turned to Frodo and, despite Sam's protest, nudged him awake. "Frodo, how do you feel?"

        "Cold," Frodo answered drowsily, as though the only thing wrong with him were sleepiness. "But it feels weird, just isolated by the shoulder. I know it's a cold night, but my shoulder - I don't know, it just feels far more cold than it ought to."

            Strider nodded in apparent understanding. "Sam, may I speak with you alone for a second?"

            Sam nodded hesitantly, and just as hesitantly, left the young Hobbits in charge of his master's care. In the meantime, Merry and Pippin tried to figure out what Frodo meant by his shoulder being more cold than the rest of him. As they were contemplating this puzzling matter, they over-heard Strider give a peculiar confession to Sam. "I do not blame you for being angry with me, Sam," he said so softly that the Hobbits barely heard him. It was the next line that caught their attention, "For I can imagine that you find fault with me for this incident, since I - knowing that danger was still present - left you unguarded and without advice on how to conduct yourselves in my absence. Since this be the case you are right in lying the blame upon me. But I assure I will do all that I can to see your master safely to Rivendell." After this they heard nothing besides Gandalf's high opinion of Frodo (no surprise there) and once again the caution to keep him warm.

            Once the conversation with Sam had ended, he turned to Merry and Pippin and ordered them to empty their water bottles, fill the kettles and set them over the fire. "He must be kept warm, bathe his shoulder with the water, but do not use all of it. I realize now the extent of this situation and known not how to treat it, but how to lessen the pain. There is an herb, called athelas that I need, I will go looking for it now, but do not use all of the water, for when I return I will need to use it in conjunction with the herb... It is effective by itself, though far less so. Guard him well while I am away."

            After Strider had left them, once again, Merry and Pippin dropped their torches (which were now burning dangerously low to their hands) and tossed them back into the fire. They did as they were told and soon had a kettle of boiling water going. They dipped their handkerchiefs in it, and reluctantly began bathing Frodo's wounded shoulder. None of the wanted to perform this duty, for it seemed that boiling water would only burn his skin, and thus cause more pain. But this was not the case. They found that Frodo actually relaxed and invited the hot, burning liquid, asking for more, and insisting that it was quite "warm". While they were doing this, Frodo seemed to regains some of his lost strength and voice. "I heard that," he mumbled.

            "Heard what, Mr. Frodo?" Sam asked, hoping that he sounded clueless.

            "You all blaming yourselves," he answered. "You really shouldn't have. After all, it is my fault, on one else's."

            "Frodo what are you talking about? How can you be blamed you were defenseless! We were your defenses and we failed you, we're the ones to blame!" Pippin argued, almost vehemently.

            But Frodo just shook his head. "No, you all DID make mistakes, but it wouldn't have counted for anything if I had not been stupid enough to put on the Ring! I showed them where I was, until that moment I had a moment to escape. They could feel the presence of the Ring, but not the exact location. I could have made a run for it! But I didn't, I allowed myself to be cornered, and then fell to my knees and attacked his feet when I should have stood my own ground."

            "YOU ATTACKED HIM!!!!!?????" all three of his companions shouted in awe and amazement.

            Frodo nodded.  “Then they kicked me back in the stomach. I saw them approaching and was so terrified that I put the Ring on. Then they saw me and stabbed me." His companions could all see the tears gathering in his eyes and guessed that he kept the tears and bay so he would not be forced to move his shoulder. "I didn't realize it at the time, but that's what the wanted me to do! They kept telling me in my head that I had to put it on, as if daring me to run away! Saying that it was my only escape. I took the 'dare' if you will and put it on. And that's just what they wanted me to do! It all worked to their advantage! I should have seen it coming, should have known, after all Gandalf warned me repeatedly not to put it on, but I did. I obeyed not his advice, but that of the Enemy! How could I have been so stupid!?"

            Having no answer that he would listen to, and knowing that it would be a wasted effort to reason with Frodo Baggins in his current, stubborn state, they said nothing. They allowed him to doze off back to sleep and in the meantime continued bathing his wound in an eerie silence, which was eventually broken by Merry. "Well," he said, "apparently I'm the only one not lying the blame upon himself!" At first their was nothing to follow but obstinate silence, but soon they found the jest behind the words and began laughing in spite of themselves. Even Frodo seemed to smile in his sleep at the ridiculousness of the whole situation.

            In fact, unbeknown to them, Frodo had not yet fallen asleep, and had recalled a portion of the conversation that he wished very much to address to them while he remembered it. "Sam," he croaked, refusing to open his eyes, knowing that the fire was there and would likely blind him if he did.

            "Yes, Master."

            "I also heard something about killing Pippin. I wasn't mistaken was I?"

            Pippin's blood chilled at the sounds of those words, despite the blazing fire only inches from his face.

        "No, Master Frodo, you weren't. Mr. Pippin said it was his fault, and I said 'Well if that be the case, then if Mr. Frodo dies, well then, I'll make sure you'll wish you were dead too'." Pippin noticed that Sam's face blushed several shades with embarrassment at having been over-heard saying such things about his master's little cousin.

        "I am assuming that that was said in jest, am I right?"

        "Yes, Master. Of course I wouldn't hurt Mr. Pippin. I might want to, but I wouldn't"

        "That's good," came Frodo's drowsy response as he fell asleep.

        At that Pippin sighed and gave a silent prayer of thanks to the Valar. Good old Sam would never go against his master's wishes. He was safe from Sam's wrath as he could possibly be. Sam was so loyal to his master that Pippin realized that Sam would honor a promise made to his master, even if his master was not alive to hold him accountable. But then again - Sam hadn't exactly PROMISED anything. Pippin held his head in his hands, shaking his head in silent misery *Oh shoot! Here we go again!*

~TBC~

        A/N: Last time I up-date, a matter of what, three days ago, I said an update would be a ways away. But I wrote this in one sitting and I want to get it up. Though, I must say that I want to get it up so that I can post an author note and request.

        Tonight, my Opa (that's German for Grandpa) called up and said that according to an MRI, my Oma (Grandma) has a growth on her brain. Nothing is known for certain about it, tests will be done tomorrow. But for those of you reading this believe in the power of prayer, I would ask you to pray that this is something of a relatively small magnitude (for something of its nature) and that it can be taken care of. But I have a sense of peace because my Oma is a Christian and I know that, should the worst happen, she will go to the Lord Jesus in Heaven. My Opa, however, is not, so please pray that he comes to a saving faith through this, if nothing else, and ask the good Lord to help him through such a difficult time.

        I was nearly done with this chapter when we received the call. But now that it has arrived I won't be able to work on my stories for a while. So if it seems like I have abandoned them in taking a long time to up-date, please know that that is not the case for either of my stories. I will soon finish the Party chapter for "His Little Evenstar" - I need something light-hearted to work on, not dying, painful stories of guilt like this one, right now - and I will be posting a similar message at the end of chapter five of that story.

        Thank you all and God bless!

        And if any of you would like up-dates on her condition please leave an e-mail and I WILL get back to you. I would also like to ask that you take this request to your church and prayer groups! Please, it can do nothing but help! 

     I have a continual up-date on her condition going on.  You can find it by going to my Links, one of which is my new Lord of the Rings Homepage, then go to the section entitled "Oma Update Info". If you want to know how she's doing you can just read it there and drop me an e-mail if you want to, which I would encourage.  

        Oh, and one more thing! I PROMISE to get them off of Weathertop next chapter. *smiles* I think I might just be enjoying torturing you people with suspense! Not that it's too much suspence since you all probably know the books backwards and forwards by now anyways.

Title: Frodo's Bane and Pippin's Stomach

Author Pen-name: Arwen Baggins

***EDITED @ 7:40 on 9/22***

Chapter Seven: The Truce

Disclaimer: See chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, and/or 5

Setting: Amon Súl (yes, they're finally leaving), October 6&7, 1418

        One would think that the closer they came to dawn, the more hospitable the environment would be. It would be brighter, warmer, and would chase away all images of dark and danger, like the first light after a long and dangerous blizzard. But such was not the case tonight. Dawn drew nearer with every hour, but the stillness of the night seemed to freeze their blood. They jumped at every shadow, convinced beyond a doubt that the Wraiths would attack once exhaustion took them to a sleep from which they would be unable to awaken. It was for this reason that the three guard Hobbits had decided to split up, so that the Wraiths would not be able to catch them unawares a second time. But of course they couldn't all spilt up, that was nigh on ridiculous and absolutely out of the question. They needed to have as much protection surrounding the sleeping Frodo as was Hobbitly possible. For this reason, it had been suggested that one Hobbit go down to the cliff-side and watch the road from a distance, though he would not be permitted to take a torch. They had to keep Frodo warm with the fire, and therefore the fire had to stay as far from sight as possible, which of course meant on top of the dell, where the blaze would be hidden safely behind the old statues - not on the cliff-side where it had been seen in the first place. If the Wraiths had suspected them to be smart enough to leave, then so much the better. As it was, the only way to discern their whereabouts was the smoke - the unmistakable sign of theirs (and Strider's folly) for staying here - which was barely visible in the night sky. Having come to this group decision, Pippin had volunteered to take the first watch. His companions had eyed him suspiciously when he had volunteered to do this, but had not questioned his motives - and for this Pippin was very grateful. Receiving no arguments from the elder Hobbits, Pippin had gone back down the path to their former camp, mindful of Merry's caution to watch his step, not that he really needed it. In that night alone he had trodden the path so many times that he now felt that he had every rock and crack memorized.

        His decision to take the watch had been made not too long after Frodo had called his faithful servant away from an act of bloodshed. Pippin at the time had still been too scared to go anywhere near Sam, and had thus volunteered to take the first watch- if only to get away from what he imagined to be Sam's Look of murderous accusation. He was now sitting in the same spot where Frodo had lain sleeping when all of this had started not long ago. Though this time his thoughts were not on food, but on the Road below - and on Sam. The more Pippin thought about it, the more he came to realize the folly of his own presumptions. Of course Sam would be mad at him for the fire, and Hobbit with good sense would be angry at him and anxious for Frodo, but fortunately, Sam possessed what he had heard the Gaffer call "good Hobbit-sense". Meaning that no matter how mad he was, he wouldn't take it out on Pippin - at least not physically. He might give the irresponsible Tween a lecture that would put both the Thain and the Master of Buckland to shame, but he wouldn't dare to even lay a hand on the not-so- innocent child. So the sense of immediate danger to his life had faded away none too soon, but not his guilt. Try as they might, neither Sam nor Merry could convince him that he was not solely to blame. So there he sat wallowing in his guilt and promising his half-asleep brain that he couldn't afford to fail again.

        He had wanted to prove his worth to his companions by being the perfect guard Hobbit all night long. What he hadn't considered was that poor hungry Hobbits - particularly growing Tweenage lads - can only go so long without sleep. So it was that he found himself trudging slowly up the slope, to turn in. Better to admit his weakness (as he perceived it) than to have Frodo suffer from yet another attack by the Black Riders. "Your turn, Merry." He tried to conceal a huge yawn as he stood over the apparently sleeping form of his cousin. He knew though that that was not the case. Merry had his emergency torch stick still in hand, and he wasn't snoring, something that he always did when he slept. No one could sleep that night, pretend though they might..

        "Finally," Merry mumbled. "Sam and I were just talking about going down to check on you. See if you'd fallen asleep or not."

        "Me? Fall asleep on guard-duty!" Pippin pretended the look of one with slaughtered pride. But he wasn't a very good actor. "Of course not!" He may have dozed off once or twice in his own thoughts, but he had never fallen to snoring.

        Merry laughed, the first sound of merriment to be heard among the walking-party since they had left the Shire. "Alright. My turn." He smiled as he turned his back to his companions and headed down the familiar path. As soon as he was out of sight, his smile transformed into a look of guilt and dread. Well it had finally happened: he had left Pippin and Sam alone! Well, Frodo was still there, but he somehow doubted that Frodo would have the strength to wake-up and stop Sam a second time. No, Frodo was out stone- cold from exhaustion and pain from the wound. He wouldn't be waking up until late the next morning. In the meantime, Pippin and Sam needed to reconcile their differences among themselves and Merry knew he would only get in the way, at least on Sam's part.

        Back by the camp-fire, Sam and Pippin sat watch over the sleeping Frodo: Sam on his left and Pippin to the right. For the next hour or two, they sat in obstinate silence, too preoccupied with their mutual concern for Frodo to even bring up their own differences. Pippin, for his part, avoided eye-contact with the gardener/servant/body-guard. His eyes instead found their focus on Frodo, who didn't appear to be having peaceful dreams. At times, he would cry out in his sleep and toss about weakly, seized by nightmares that he had not the strength to fight. Then at other times, he would smile and mumble something about "mum and dad."

        At all times, these included, Pippin found himself stroking Frodo's pale cheek, murmuring what he hoped were words of comfort. He didn't know what it was like to lose one's parents - especially at such a young age. But Frodo had- and it was no secret. Indeed, it seemed that most everyone in the Shire had heard about the unfortunate accident along the Brandywine River that had taken both of Frodo's parents over-night when he had been no more than twelve years of age - a good decade before Pippin himself had even been born. Well for that matter, it had happened before either Merry or Sam had been born as well. Pippin hadn't thought much about Frodo's deceased parents, since he had never met them. But he remembered the first time he had heard the local-belief regarding the death of Frodo's parents years later. He had seen Frodo's usually kind features take a hard and abrupt turn to grief and rage when they had found the local gossipers telling their own version of the deaths of Drogo and Primula Baggins. The kindest rumor to go around had been about Drogo being so over-weight that his weight alone had caused the boat to capsize. Then of course there was Ted's version of how Frodo's parents had drownded each other. About how the 'queer Brandybuck lass' had taken her sensible Baggins husband on a boat trip for the sole purpose of killing him, and how in a final act of revenge, Drogo had pulled her down as well and held her weak body underwater until they both drownded. He remembered with astonishing clarity how Frodo had left the pub a few minutes later (after giving the townsfolk a piece of his mind) and how he had broken down in tears as soon as the door of Bag-end was safely locked behind them. That look of grief greatly resembled the one that now played across Frodo's features as he called out for his parents in a dream that had about as much pain as the present.

        Pippin had never given much thought to it before, but now he found himself wondering what his cousin had been like with his own parents. How would his life have been different?  He never would have been adopted by Bilbo, never would have inherited Bilbo’s fortune – or the Ring for that matter.  With a start Pippin found himself realizing the Frodo wouldn’t be HERE, and in so much pain if they hadn't climbed in the boat on  that fateful night nearly forty years before! He shook his head ruefully. Forty- years! He often forgot that is cousin was nearly twice his age! Frodo still looked like a Tween, and Pippin had to sometimes remind himself that Frodo was his elder by over twenty years. Now of course they knew why that was. Frodo had stopped aging upon inheriting the Ring at his coming- of-age so many years ago. But now the true identity, if you will, of Old Bilbo's Magic Ring had finally been discovered and Frodo's time to give it up to the Elves would soon be at hand. Then, without the Ring, he would start to age! Pippin found himself stroking Frodo's dirt-covered, chocolate-brown curls in a mixture of amusement and dread at the thought of them turning grey, or perhaps even white within the next few months. Or perhaps even the next few days, who knew? Pippin allowed himself an amused smile at the thought of a grey-haired Frodo, walking around with creaking joints and the help of a cane! That would certainly be a sight to behold!

        He hadn't even noticed his small laugh until San interrupted to question him about it. "What's so funny, Mr. Pippin?"

        "Nothing much," Pippin answered hesitantly. He was suddenly aware of how Sam might react to Pippin's amusement at his master's impending ageing. He might not be so quick to see the humor behind it.

        Sam, who had more important matters on his hand than the pranks that he imagined Pippin remembering with relish, turned wordlessly back to his master, bathing the injured shoulder. That job had landed with him for two reasons. One, Pippin refused to get near the gaping wound for fear of brining further harm to it, and secondly, Sam wouldn't have trusted it to anyone else even if they HAD offered to relieve him of it. As he saw it, caring for his master was HIS job, and such a strong sense of duty was what kept him from seeing that he had done everything that he could to help. In his eyes, his master was wounded and all of his past actions had amounted to failure, plain and simple. But he realized also that dwelling on the past would amount to nothing, turned back to the youngest member of the walking-party: the only one who seemed to be able to smile. "Oh it's not nuthin', Mr. Pippin."

        Pippin sighed. "I was just thinking about when we get to Rivendell, how Frodo's going to age once he gives up the Ring to the Elves. Picturing him with wrinkled skin, grey hair and a cane!"

        To his utter amazement, Sam actually laughed. "Aye, Mr. Pippin. An' somehows I'm a-thinkin' that Mr. Frodo won't mind. He wants to get rid of the Thing right quick. Tis a small price to pay to be rid of the cursed thing. But somehows I'm also thinkin' that Mr. Frodo will be changin' his mind right quick when he starts buying some ointment for his joints, just like me Gaffer!"

        "Come on, Sam! He's not that old! He's ONLY what - 52?"

        "Naw. I think 'e's 51."

        "Oh one year, big difference. Just think Sam, next year we'll REALLY have to drink to his health!" In the Shire it was a tradition to drink to the health of the birthday-lad, especially among the elder folk. Such a tradition was always considered a joke when it was directed at the inhabitants of Bag-end, simply because they had always enjoyed unprecedented health. But no longer.

        "Aye," Sam whispered once again gently rubbing his hand across the pain creases that still lined his master's brow. "Next year. I hope it comes soon. I don't know about what's comin' with the Ring and them Wraiths all but the sooner it's done the better. Just so long as my master's safe in his own bed in Bag-end with a good book and warm cup of tea. Might not be wishin' for much but I'd rather see that than all the Elves in Middle- earth!"

        Pippin chuckled. "You'll be waiting quite a while, Sam. Somehow I doubt the S.B.'s will let Frodo back into Bag-end, since they have the deed now."

        Sam grimaced in disgust. "Oh, I'd clean forgotten! My poor flowers! They've been ruined by now! Sure as my name's Samwise Gamgee!"

        They were getting off topic! This had all started out about Frodo, and as much as Pippin wanted to put aside his cousin's misery for a few minutes, he needed to address something before he lost his nerve all together. "Sam?" He swallowed nervously. "Did you really mean what you told Frodo about not killing me?"

        Sam was genuinely shocked and concerned about what could have given the Tween such an idea, and horrified by the suggestion that he would lie to his master. "Of course, Mr. Pippin! Why do you ask?"

        Pippin hung his head, and sighed trying to hold back the tears that threatened to return. "Because it's my fault! When I told you that a hot meal would be good for your master, I wasn't really thinking about Frodo! I was just saying that to get you to say 'yes' it was really all about me! All I cared about was my own bottom-less stomach! And look where it's gotten us! Where it's gotten FRODO!"

        "Pippin, Pippin, Pippin," Sam scolded gently, shaking his head with what might have been a slight smile. "You always were stubborn. We've been through this already! It's not your fault! If anything it's Strider's!" Before Pippin could interrupt to point out the obvious, Sam continued. "I know, Mr. Pippin. I know Mr. Strider came to Mr. Frodo rescue. But he came too late." By now Sam's voice had turned from the gentle scolding to what appeared to be raw anger, and Pippin silently thanked the Valar that the Look and Lecture were not being aimed at him. "He came, and for that I'm grateful." He turned back to Frodo, trying not to think about how worse things could have been. "But he should have warned us first and - wait where is he anyway? Shouldn't he be back by now. It's almost dawn!"

        "I don't know," Pippin answered softly. "He'll be back. Give him another half-hour. Knowing him, we'll be getting up and leaving as soon as the sun is fully risen!" They both looked down at Frodo, wondering what the Ranger would do about him. How would they get him down without hurting him? Aw well, they'd deal with that when the time came. In the meantime - "You were saying?"

        "I was gong to say," Sam continued, "that we can't change anything. Much as we might like to, and be that as it may, well Mr. Frodo won't benefit from our arguing so I want it to stop! We've got to think about Mr. Frodo, not our own guilt. If we do that well - let's jus say we'll have a lot more to feel guilty for. Mr. Frodo's still alive, and while he is I don't' want no talk about blame! Mr. Frodo's got enough problems without us sharing ours with him. Alright, lad?"

        Pippin nodded, and groaned inwardly. This would not be easy! He wanted to just fall into Frodo's arms and say how sorry he was. But it was not to be. Pippin might not have had Sam's brains to think of such logic under such pressure. But thinking about it, there was no use denying the truth of his words.

        "And," Sam continued, knowing the lad's mind and what was probably going on behind it, "Mr. Frodo already knows that you feel guilty, so helpin' 'im will show your sorry better than any words. You don't have to tell 'im the whole story. He already knows it. If you REALLY want to show me that you've learned your lesson then you'll do just as I say. Truce?" Sam extended his hand out to Pippin's.

        Pippin smiled. This was going MUCH better than he had ever hoped for. "Truce," he agreed. So it was that they shook hands in a truce agreement, right over Frodo's prone body, that they were sworn to protect. Pippin would not mention his guilt of his own free will and Sam would not bring any harm of any kind to Pippin so long as he did everything within his power to help see Frodo safely to Rivendell. Punishment would only result if he brought further harm upon his cousin through prideful means. Basically, don't be so eager to help that you can't ask for some yourself when you need it. Truce settled and minds cleared, they turned back to caring for Frodo, who seemed to be unaffected by the heart-felt truce that had just been held between two of his dearest friends.

        Another half-hour later, Frodo stirred and awoke with a painful grimace and a cry of pain.

        "How do you feel, Mr. Frodo?" That question of course was meant as 'Are you feeling much worse'? Even someone with half a set of working eyes OR ears could tell that Frodo was in pain.

        "Still hurts! So cold. It's getting worse."

        Sam shook his head sadly. He had been hoping that he was wrong. He had felt the chill spreading. But had attributed it mostly to the dying fire. The fire had gone out sometime ago. The chill wind had blown out the fire and they could not start up another one. The long over-due talk with Pippin and the chill breeze that came with the dawn, had discouraged Sam from trying to build another one. That and the necessity to save the matches. He had no desire to waste the precious cargo on a hopeless cause, but feeling the distinct icy chill of the wound now making its way down Mr. Frodo's arm and to the left side of his torso, made Sam grab the matches with a vengeance. The things would HAVE to work with him.

        He wasted about three of the precious things before he had a nice fire going - and none too soon either. They noticed Frodo looking up at a Black Shadow that had descended over them, his eyes wide with fear. "Where's Merry?" The sudden tension that had taken the small company was some-what relieved upon recognizing Strider.

        "He's standing watch by our old camp-site," Pippin answered, his voice still shaking from the shock. Couldn't Strider just for once, announce his presence without scaring them half to death?

        "Call him back, we must leave soon."

        Pippin complied and practically ran down the trail in his hurry to leave this cursed place. "Merry, come on! Strider's back! Let's go!" No answer. "Merry?" He looked around for a second to find Merry sleeping on the ground. His head in the pile of ashes where there fire had been before. "Merry, are you sleeping?" Pippin teased.

        "Huh? No!" By now Merry was up and wearing a huge grin on his face, which disappeared once he realized that the events of that night - no, now it was 'last night' had not in fact been the nightmare he was hoping for. "I was keeping watch in - my own special way!"

        "Sure, Merry. But don't worry, I won't tell Sam. Besides you need your sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us."

        "That's for sure," Merry sighed, picking himself up off the ground. "So, how did your talk with Sam go?"

        "I'll tell you later. But let's just say my life is no longer in any danger!"

        Merry smiled with relief and pride. So Pippin had FINALLY faced Sam without either his or Frodo's intervention! It was about time too! "I'm proud of you, Pip. You didn't come running back to me for help dealing with Sam. And you came out of it in on piece!"

        Pippin simply savored the praise knowing that it was not wholly false. It had had much to do with Sam's understanding. But he had been the one to broach the subject without turning back to reclaim his guard- post. "Come on, let's go." The whole story would have to wait for later. Perhaps once they were within the safety of Rivendell perhaps.

        Merry, making sure to brush the ashes out of his unkempt hair, eagerly followed Pippin back to their camp on the dell, where they found Strider bent over a large piece of black cloth and a long sword with what appeared to be a slightly notched blade. Pippin at first thought he might be examining his own cloak and weapon. But that made no sense! "What is it, Strider?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

        In response the Ranger showed him a small tear in the cloak. It was about a foot above the crudely stitched hem, and small enough for only one thing - a small sword. Frodo's sword! Until that moment Pippin had forgotten that Frodo had attacked the foot of his enemy once he had fallen to the ground.

        "This was the stroke of Frodo's sword! The only hurt that it did to his enemy, I fear; for it is unharmed, but all blades perish that pierce that dreadful King. More deadly to him was the name of Elbereth. And more deadly to Frodo was this!" His gaze now turned away from the cloak and to the sword hilt. As he raised it towards the hazy light of the morning, it vanished like a puff of smoke from the fire. "Alas!" he cried. And for the first time the Hobbits heard the first thing from him that even remotely resembled dread and panic. "It was this accursed knife that gave the wound. Few now have the skill in healing to match such evil weapons. But I will do what I can." From a pouch on his belt he drew out several leaves and explained that it was Athelas, a sweet-smelling and rare weed that could be used to combat such wounds, though he seemed to have little hope that it would do much good. It would hopefully slow the poisoning and lessen the pain, but it was far from a cure. He added a few leaves to the pot of still- boiling water and began to gently rub in the Athelas-water before Sam- or any of them could protest. What protest they would have voiced were silenced by Frodo's almost pleasurable sigh of relief: like one bathing in hot water after a hard-days work. Though surely none of them had ever dared to bathe in water that would utterly burn the skin. But once again, Frodo didn't seem to mind. In fact he seemed much more at ease in that moment than he had the whole night. What Frodo didn't know was that he wasn't the only one affected by the weed. It's fragrance was soothing, like as Sam would later say 'one who went to a garden to ease the mind. The most beautiful garden, mind you. It was truly amazin'.

        Strider looked at the wound again, with what appeared to be a healer's expertise, and for a moment Pippin thought that he might yet have cure. But his hopes were dashed. "This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs Elvish medicine."

        "We're sixteen days from Rivendell!" Sam called out into the night as he watched Strider run into the night with Frodo slung over his shoulder. "He'll never make it!"

        *Thanks, Sam! We really needed to hear that!* Pippin sighed. He was inclined to believe Sam. It was amazing that Frodo had even survived the night. How was he supposed to last for another two weeks or more? Pippin sighed, there was nothing they could do for Frodo besides what they were already doing. No point in making a debate about it - that was the last thing Frodo needed to hear.

        "That is true, Master Gamgee. But that is only if we keep up the slow pace that we have been using for the past several days. We have to hurry now. Come on!"

        *Slow pace! What slow pace? He'd been a slave driver for the past week! If he thought that that was slow-?* Pippin swore beneath his breath. His feet would fall off at the pace he imagined Strider taking. But if that was to be the punishment for his selfishness then he would take it. His aching feet were a small price to pay to see Frodo to safety of Rivendell.

        With Frodo settled once more, they turned their minds to more pressing matters. Having Frodo walk was out of the question, and the very suggestion was defeated by Sam before it could even be made. Any one with eyes could see that he could not walk, so Sam wouldn't even let Frodo try. The next day perhaps but not now! Now his master needed to rest and gain back what strength he could. So it was grudgingly decided among the Hobbits that they would have to carry the luggage themselves, while Bill carried Frodo. But Bill was tied down below to a tree by the base of the watchtower. So Strider would carry Frodo down.

        As they were climbing down, Frodo cried out for Gandalf in a scream that chilled Pippin's blood. Whether he was crying out, wishing for Gandalf's gentle arms that wouldn't be hurting him so much during the descent or fear of what had happened to the wizard, the other Hobbits didn't know. But they suddenly found themselves giving much thought to the wizard's whereabouts. The most puzzling question of all was why had Gandalf written that letter about Strider? And why had he left it with Barliman Butterbur at the Prancing Pony? Had Gandalf known that he wouldn't be able to help them? And if that be the case, then who was this Strider to earn Gandalf's trust in such an important issue such as the Ring? Had he not said that Men were the last people to trust with power? Why was Strider the apparent exception? Pippin sighed as he remembered what Gildor the Elf had told them back in the Shire - what seemed like an eternity ago, even though it had been scarcely more than a week: 'Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, of they are subtle and quick to anger.' A quick grin came to Pippin's face at the thought of Gandalf finding him and Merry at Rivendell: he was expecting Frodo and Sam to be the only Hobbits arriving in the Last Homely House. He would be mistaken - and horribly shocked. Oh but that was going to be a sight to behold indeed. He could hardly wait!

~TBC~

A/N: Why do you look so surprised? I told you I'd get them off Weathertop, didn't I?

Please review, that "Leave Review" button at the bottom is getting lonely!  According to my personal info. My previous chapters have been read nearly 40 times a piece, yet there are no reviews for chapters  1-5! 

Please, if you read, be kind enough to click the lonely button at the bottom and fill in the empty box.  I really - REALLY- enjoy reviews. 

 Then again, who doesn't?

Trishette and Pearl Took: Thank you so much for taking the necessary time to review this story!  I hope you enjoy this chaper!

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Disclaimer: I might be able to own Lord of the Rings if the copy-right laws expire in a hundred years.  But if I’m still alive by then (by some miracle) then I HIGHLY DOUBT I’ll still be writing fanfiction.  So, I don’t own Lord of the Rings now and the odds of ever owning the books are stacked against me 100:-100 so I guess I never will. Darn it!

Chapter Eight: Frodo-duty

Setting: Middle of Nowhere, October 11, 1418 (four days from Weathertop)

            It had been a trying-time for all of them, that past five days that is: walking for nigh on twenty-miles straight with barely any rest or food.  Save perhaps when the pony’s imperfect trot caused Frodo’s pain to grow, then they would stop to give him a rest for a few minutes.  Those rests, while welcomed by everyone, were very rare.  Frodo mostly kept to himself, while riding a top the pony with a companion whose sole purpose was to keep him from sliding off.  He said precious little, and of what he did speak was not related to the pain.  He had been some-what sociable the first three days, listening to the distracting make-believe tales and memories that his cousins and Sam conjured up to distract him from the pain, but as of this morning, he had been more sullen – in a dream-world as it were.  Sam hadn’t minded, saying that Mr. Frodo needed his rest.  But Strider had purposefully woken him up on several occasions, which hadn’t gone over well with Sam.  Strider had argued that too much rest wasn’t good for Frodo, that it would allow for the Wraiths to get a stronger hold on his mind.  The thought of those awful things tormenting his cousin in his dreams made Pippin uneasy to say the least.  He didn’t know what Strider was getting at, nor was he so certain that he wanted to know.  Some things, as a general rule, were best left unsaid.

            Frodo let out a groan and a hissing pain-filled breath as he came out of his dream-world once again – and Pippin relaxed his grip around Frodo’s waist, to relieve any pain during his waking moments.  They were both on the pony: Frodo because he was too weak to walk, and Pippin was there to hold him, so he wouldn’t fall off while he ‘slept’.  In his heart he knew that the pain drove Frodo into a state of unconsciousness, but as there was nothing he could do, besides bathe the wound with athelas, which was done every night and before every pre-dawn start, he preferred to think of him as merely sleeping.  But he knew that wasn’t the case.  Frodo’s body constantly shook with chills, and Pippin began to fear that the pain creases on Frodo’s brow would remain there to the end of his days.  They certainly hadn’t left since the attack.  Despite the pain, Frodo had shown extraordinary strength with an unknown source. He would always insist on walking after eating lunch, insisting that poor Bill needed a rest, and then he would re-mount the pony once the cold night came.  The chill had begun to work its way down his left side, but it wasn’t really strong there, and he could usually walk, but in the evening hours, the cold air made it nigh unbearable.  Such as was the case now.

            “Shh, it’s alright, I’ve got you,” Pippin soothed, as Frodo began to struggle within his protective embrace.  He tightly, yet hesitantly, held Frodo left hand.  He had learned early on that Frodo often wanted to hold someone’s hand, when the pain began to grow, he would automatically reach out for someone.  Or if it was really intense he would just grab hold of the nearest thing (even if it meant clutching at his own clothes or to clutch at his heart as he tried to fight the pain).  But that never did anything. It would only leave him gasping, breathless, and in tears.  What would always help was to hold a hand.  Whether it was just the comforting presence of a friend, or the physical warmth of the hand, Pippin hadn’t thought to ask.  But one rule still remained the same: the shoulder blade itself was off-limits.  Only Sam and Strider’s gentle hands managed to find their way around that sensitive area when it was ‘medicine time’ and only then.

            “Sam?” Frodo’s voice croaked, just above a whisper, so that none could hear it besides Pippin.

            “No, it’s me,” Pippin whispered softly.  Strider had instructed them not to give away their identity every time Frodo regained consciousness.  He said it was to test Frodo’s over all awareness, so that he could better gauge his condition.  Regardless of whether or not it was for his own good, Pippin (and apparently Frodo as well) thought that it was rather cruel.  But for now Strider was the doctor, and thus his advice prevailed over Sam’s, something that Sam had a very hard time accepting.

            “Pippin?”

            “That’s right,” Pippin whispered softly into his ear. “Do you feel any better, or worse, or just the same?”

            “Better, a little.”

            Frodo’s mostly unresponsive form lay in Pippin’s arms so that his head was laying back against the tween’s shoulder and Frodo’s face was turned towards Pippin’s neck, eyes closed and his left arm hanging like dead-weight at his side.  As Frodo was talking, Pippin ran his hand through Frodo’s dirty curls: they were sweat-soaked, dirty and unkempt.  But Frodo would have it no other way.  Sam had tried to brush his hair about two days ago, but the effort had proved fruitless.  Frodo simply wouldn’t allow it.  The motions such an action required usually jerked his head back, and thus jarred his shoulder.  So this simple act was the only way for Frodo to gain back some slight resemblance of the gentlehobbit that they all knew he was, and this Pippin did as he contemplated Frodo’s words.  He wanted to believe that such a statement meant that he was getting better, but he knew that it wasn’t so.  It had been lightly raining earlier in the evening, and like as not, it was probably the ceasing rain that had dissipated the chill in his left side, not the lessening of poison.

            *Poison* Pippin thought ruefully, as a cold shudder past through him, and he vaguely wondered how much worse such things were for Frodo.  Even during relatively warm afternoons, his arm was still ice-cold to the touch.  These cold rains had to be pure agony.  But he never spoke of it.  Even though Frodo lived with such agony day in and day out, Pippin still had a hard time believing that it was happening.  He felt as though any moment now, he would surely wake up screaming in his own bed, to discover that this was only just a horrible dream.  Then he would get on his pony, ride to Bag-end and find Frodo, sleeping in late (as usual) and Sam trying to drag him out of bed to greet the pleasant morning, but his mind was slowly, very slowly, convincing him that it was indeed reality.  He could scarcely imagine that someone would actually be capable of attacking another person, like the Ring-wraiths had done to Frodo (not that the Wraiths were actually people anymore, but that was beside the point).  What astonished him to no end was that the Black Riders would apparently soak their enormous weapons in a foul poison – as if the knife wound itself wasn’t enough to kill their victims: they had to be poisoned as well!  Though what kind of poison it was Strider seemed reluctant to say.  He had settled with, “the Enemy is the keeper of many foul poisons.  It is impossible to know for sure which one has been used in this case.”  Pippin suddenly remembered Merry’s words about Strider only a few short hours before the attack: “He’s been awful close, like old Gandalf.”  He hadn’t understood the words then, but he was starting to understand them now.  It was obvious the Ranger was keeping something from them: about the poison, for one, and also he hadn’t exactly told them how it was that he came to know Gandalf, which made Pippin wonder if they even did know each other.  But he did not speak of his suspicions, because he knew that the other two ‘guard-hobbits’ harbored the same doubts was well.  The only one who ever seemed to trust the Ranger was Frodo, who after only one day on the trail had told Merry: “I think a servant of the Enemy would look fairer and feel fouler.” Merry’s reply to that had been an indignant, “He’s foul enough.”

            Perhaps Frodo had been right all along.  Strider might be the dirtiest, slave-driver of a Ranger in Middle-earth, but he was doing what few people of Bree would have dared to do: help them.  Whatever else Strider might be hiding from them, Pippin would let it rest, so long as he saw to Frodo’s safety.  Pippin hugged his cousin close as another series of violent chills shook his body, and a silent cry died on his lips.  Pippin had seen this several times: it would look as though a heart-piercing scream was on the way, then Frodo would gain some control of himself from an unseen source of strength, and the cry would die before it could come.  Pippin just shook his head in admiration, if it was him in Frodo’s place he would be screaming for as long as his voice could hold out.  But not Frodo!  The only signs of his pain were moans, grimaces, and silent tears – and for this Pippin was grateful.  The last thing they needed was for Frodo’s cries to alert the Enemy to their whereabouts.  It was a secret for now, and that was how it was supposed to stay. 

            “Shh,” Pippin soothed, wiping some stray tears away from Frodo’s cold cheek, still keeping a firm grip on the limp body.  “I’ve got you.  Just relax and don’t cry.”  Oh how he hated saying those words! ‘Don’t cry’!  What was he supposed to do?  Tell Frodo, ‘Oh, don’t worry, the pain will pass when we reach Rivendell in another week’?  That wouldn’t help for the time-being.  But he was merely following orders.  Strider had commanded them to all stay quiet, so as to not attract unwanted attention, and this included Frodo as well.  If Pippin could have his way, he’d hold Frodo in his arms and let him cry until his voice was hoarse.  It had to be killing him to remain silent for so long!

            “I’ll try.”

            “That’s all I ask for,” Pippin whispered.  He looked down on either side of him to find Sam and Merry looking up at them, their wide eyes locked on Frodo.  Pippin gave them each a half-hearted smile.  He knew that they also wanted to help his cousin.  But they would have to wait their turn.  As a general-rule “Frodo-duty” changed shifts every two hours, and his had barely started.  He wanted to help care for his cousin in any way possible, and if this was all he could do, then he would do it for as long as was allowed.  Hugging his cousin close and keeping a firm grip on the cold hand, he began to hum the tune of an Elvish song.  Distracting though that was, it nearly put Frodo to sleep, and they couldn’t have that – for some reason Strider wouldn’t allow him to sleep for very long at any given time.  So instead Pippin decided that it was high-time that he let his cousin in on the secret dream that he had had while riding Bill (alone) on the way to that ancient and equally cursed watchtower.  “Remember that little rascal, Sancho Proudfoot?”

            No answer.  Pippin was afraid for a moment that Frodo had drifted off into another ‘Wraith-dream’.  “Frodo?!”  An almost unintelligible mumble escaped his cousin’s lips.  “If it hurts to talk just squeeze my hand once with your good hand for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’, okay?”  He felt a single distinct squeeze from Frodo’s relatively warm hand, then continued his story.  “Well I had this dream a few nights ago.  Sancho and I were little again, at your 30th birthday.  Remember that?”  One squeeze, somewhat weaker than the other.  He had better get to the good part fast before Frodo dozed off too much.  “Well the S.B.’s were there too.  And old Lobelia had on this really ugly dress and we decided that it was much to fancy for a party, so you know what I did?”  Another squeeze: this one stronger.

            Frodo nodded, and spoke, his voice just a touch above what one might call a raspy whisper.  “Yes, I remember that party, but you were only about seven.  How do you remember?”

            Pippin smiled.  “I don’t remember much.  But I thought about my mum’s apple pie before I went to sleep and I think that’s how I had this dream.  It wasn’t quite the same as the real thing.”

            “Oh.”

            “So anyway there was Lobelia, talking to Sandyman about why she should get Bag-end because Bilbo… well you know her opinion about him!” Frodo nodded slightly and Pippin was momentarily afraid that he had broached a subject that might be a little too painful for him to remember, but Pippin took his chance.  “So anyway there she was, with Lotho and Otho in tow of course, and we decided to teach them a lesson.  Well of course this isn’t what really happened, but anyway, Sancho and I really wanted to hear her scream.  So I went out to collect worms while Sancho went to the party table – he didn’t trust me with the food if you can imagine that!”

            “Easy.” Frodo mumbled.  “That’s easy!”

            “What?” Pippin gave a look and a voice of mock indignation.  “You wouldn’t trust me either!”

            “Corse not.”

            “So then we met back at the party table and Sancho had cut up three pieces of the apple pie, one for each of the S.B.s.  And then we hid behind a bush and stuffed the apple-filling with worms!”

            Frodo moved his head slightly to look his cousin.  “You din’t!”

            “Oh didn’t we!” A sly smile crossed Pippin’s face at his cousin’s almost-comic look of disbelief.  “So then we approached the S.B.s and pretended to be real gentlehobbits, or at least we looked like we were trying to be gentlehobbits.  We didn’t quite look-the-part as you might say, we could hardly keep a straight face and then all at once they bit down… and Lobelia had worms hanging out of her mouth! You could have heard her screaming all the way from Buckland!”

            He hadn’t expected much of a response other than an amused smile from his elder.  But Frodo surprised him by laughing, loud and hard.  So grateful they were to hear such a heart-warming sound from Frodo of all people, that everyone (including Strider) joined him in laughing, until their merriment was cut off by a strange shrieking, howling sound, which resembled that of a Black Rider.

            “Quiet!” Strider ordered with a harsh whisper, though it was hardly necessary.  The Hobbits had already clamped their mouths shut and were now forming a protective circle around Frodo’s pony, swords out and ready (or in Sam’s case, his sword in one hand and a frying pan in the other).  “Sam, follow me!”

            Without a word, and only one glance back at his master, Sam followed, leaving Frodo with only his cousins for protection.  Pippin held Frodo close and vowed to take the wound for Frodo this time if need be, but also praying to the Lady Elbereth, that such an action would not be proven necessary, but somehow he doubted that.  “We’re here for you, Frodo.  We won’t let them get you again!”

            But Frodo – limp and shaking violently (either from fear or wound pain, Pippin couldn’t tell), had fallen unconscious in his arms.

~To Be Continued~

A/N: I will try to write chapter 3 to “Mithril” probably Saturday, Sunday or Monday during study breaks, those chapters are relatively easy to write, but I’m not making any promises.

This will be the last up-date in a while, because I have Midterms!!  I hate tests!  Anyway, in the meantime, I would like you to do me a favor, go to my Favorite Stories list (on fanfiction.net) and go the one called “A Hero Lost” by Moriel.  It’s really good and she’s put it on hold while editing some Tolkien mistakes, she has only finished editing one of the eight chapter and she won’t update until she finishes all of them!  So I think some more recent reviews might encourage her to hurry up.  I must warn you though, it’s a Frodo-death fic from Sam’s point of view.  It’s really sad, and I’m giving nothing away since the first chapter is entitled death, and Frodo’s death I believe is mentioned in the summary.  Also my enthusiasm for this story can be reflected in the fact that I have submitted the past eleven reviews over the past six months, since the story was last up-dated.

Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing! And even if the copy-right was for sale, I wouldn't be able to afford it anyway, so stop asking me!

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Chapter Nine: A Company Divided

        Pippin watched Sam and Strider disappear into the foliage with a sense of apprehension.

Setting: Middle of Nowhere; October 11, 1418 (four days from Weathertop)

       "Get ready, Pip," Merry whispered from below. "If the Riders come you're going to have to run east. Which way is east?

       Pippin pointed to the right, and tightened his grip around his unconscious cousin. It was folly, the whole plan, but there was no way around it. Their only hope was in secrecy and they would have to maintain it at all costs, unless they seriously believed that a small pony could outrun the Nazgul's steads. Besides that fact, their torches had been extinguished by the earlier drizzle. Confident that the rain would return shortly, they could not afford to waste matches to keep their torches lit for so short a time-frame. So, be that as it may, Pippin Took was going to try to get a head-start on the Nazgul and looked to Merry for the appropriate timing.

       Merry affirmed the youngster's correct answer, then turned his back on the pony and scanned the surrounding forest, waiting for a signal. Then it came - a second, cold screech, this one seemingly nearer than its predecessor. "Now!" he commanded.

       That was all the urging Pippin needed. He kicked the pony into a small gallop, heading straight towards the thickets.

*********

       Merry watched his kin disappear into the night and then took cover for himself in a hollow log nearby while he waited anxiously for Sam's and Strider's return, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword. As he did so, he could not help but to contemplate the irony of it all. Here he was, a Hobbit not to far past his majority, hoping to defend himself against ancient kings with a newly acquired sword. One with which he had not had the opportunity to practice. Who did he think he was to wear a sword anyway? A knight? Not likely, at least not while this Age lasted. Well, one thing was certain, no one would ever say that Meriadoc Brandybuck went down without a fight, however unfair it may be. He fully expected said fight to come at any time, and every sound protruding from the surrounding forest was subject to his scrutiny as though a wraith had manifested itself within the very wind itself. Similar to how Sauron had inhabited the Ring. Such thoughts, however, were soon abandoned with the familiar, soft patter of bare feet, accompanied by those of heavy boots and clattering buckles. "Hoy, over here," he hissed, sticking his head slightly through the large hole in the log, and then proceeding to maneuver his way out. "What did you find?"

         "Nothing of consequence," was Strider's cryptic answer as he lifted the Hobbit out of the hole, much to Merry's embarrassment - after all, it wasn't as though he necessarily NEEDED help. But he accepted it nonetheless, albeit a bit reluctantly at first.

         "What's that supposed to mean?" Merry retorted. As the Master's son, he knew diplomacy when he heard it, and he for one was through with cryptic answers designed to ward off further questions. What he wanted was a straight answer from this Big Person on whom so much depended - and he intended to get it too, right now in fact, if it could be had.

       "It means," Strider continued, apparently in no mood for a debate, as usual, "that it is gone, as well as any trace that I could find. I believe that it was a Rider, for I know of few things which could make that kind of noise, yet I could find no trace of him, and I did not look further for it because I felt I would be of better use here. Do you not agree?"

        Merry eyed the Ranger, not sure of what to say to that, since he had previously patronized the poor Ranger about how irresponsible it was for him to leave him and his kin utterly defenseless upon the mountainside. He was though, attempting to atone for that error, so what fault was there to find with him now? Merry settled for nodding his agreement. "What do you think, Sam?" he questioned. "What did you -?" He stopped short upon realizing that Sam was not paying attention. "Sam- ?"

        "Mr. Merry?" Sam asked, turning around, his expression guarded between rising panic and the desire to not want to jump to conclusions. Merry knew that look because he had seen it on Frodo often enough back in the days when Frodo lived in Buckland, when Frodo shared his room, like the brother he had never had. "Where's Mr. Frodo?"

****************

        Bill wasn't exactly fast according to the standards of the ponies back home in Tuckborough, having been half-starved for so many years by that ruffian, Bill Ferny, and now the poor thing was, more or less, being dragged along as a pack pony on this hopeless trek. As a pack pony, Bill did just fine, but right now what Pippin needed was a race pony. The trees passed by none too quickly as the pony's gait began to falter. Pippin kicked him hard in the side, sending him off into another dead sprint.

       That was all fine and dandy for Pippin, who had a secure hold on the reigns. But for a Hobbit who was slowly regaining consciousness, it wasn't exactly a warm and welcome awakening. Frodo felt his stomach lurch foreword involuntarily, bringing up portions of a very small elevensies, as the world continued to spin in circles. It wasn't easy to get by Pippin's notice, but Frodo slid from the saddle so fast that his young caretaker hardly had time to react before a loud thud was heard on the ground, followed by a heart-wrenching scream.

       "Frodo!" Pippin shouted, before he realized that that wasn't such a good idea. He pulled in the reigns to a hard left, searching for any sign of his fallen kin. "Frodo," he whispered again, dismounting and tying Bill to the nearest tree. He then heard a loud grunting, moan and turned to find Frodo lying face down in the mud. "Oh no!" he groaned, this could *not* be happening. He ran forward and as he drew nearer, he could hear the sound of muffled sobs and labored breathing. The tween knelt down next to his elder, not knowing what to do, and settled for putting a hand to Frodo’s cloaked back, hoping against hope that it brought some comfort, however small. "Come on, cos," he whispered, after letting Frodo catch his breath from the fall for a few precious seconds. "We have to go."

        "Why?" Frodo demanded softly between tears and hiccups. "They're going to get me! I can run - but hide?"

        With time running against them, he knew that they needed to hurry, but how? Frodo wouldn't get up, and Pippin couldn't carry him. "Why not?" he countered, finding nothing else to say, and remaining determined not to let Frodo see his own hopelessness. "They can't see too well. Hiding is probably better than running anyways."

       Frodo said nothing to that, but he stopped crying and the prostrate form relaxed beneath Pippin's trembling hand.

       "Ready, Frodo? We've got to get you up."

       "Yes!" he replied with a stubborn edge to his voice - the one which broached no argument, nor any question to his determination.

      "That's the spirit, lad!" Pippin encouraged, and to Frodo as though he was being treated like a child, which he found amusing, and even managed a weak smile. Pippin, though, did not see it because he was behind Frodo, helping him to sit up. Slowly but surely, each movement inviting a new type of agony in and of itself, Frodo was brought to his wavering feet, leaning on Pippin as one would a cane. He released a sigh he didn't know he had been holding once this was accomplished, and straightened up to his full 3'8".

        Pippin watched with admiration as his old cousin, who just a few moments before, had been cowering on the floor in pain and despair, managed to master himself to stand upright with his head held high. Finding himself at a loss for words, he merely patted him on the back and turned him around back towards where the pony had been tied.

        By the time they reached the not-so-menacing beast of burden who was snacking on what appeared to be a thorny berry bush, Frodo's confidence had not diminished in the slightest, but to the untrained eye, that was what it looked like since he was once more stooped over and leaning on the shoulder beneath him. Fortunately, though, Pippin's eyes were trained and he had seen this on all previous days since Weathertop. Frodo’s strength may have been diminishing, but his will and determination were about as strong and stubborn as ever.

       "Let's find some place to sit down," Pippin suggested as it started to rain again. He swiftly mounted Bill and was about to motion for Frodo to follow suit, when the stupidity of the idea hit him. It had always been Strider who put Frodo on the pony in the morning. There was no way he would be able to mount on his own. It took two hands to mount a horse and, at the moment, Frodo didn’t have that. Well, he DID have two hands, but one arm was all but worthless for the time-being. When Pippin finally looked down at the Hobbit in question, his eyes were greeted by Frodo who, instead of rubbing Pippin's own thoughtlessness through his thick skull, appeared to be sizing up the situation while cradling his useless left arm. Frodo wasn't one to give up at all - let alone easily- and while his good hand massaged his neck, (which was still aching from the fall) the rest of his mind was preoccupied with figuring out a way to get on that animal's back. Having been the instigator of mischief and trouble all of his life, Pippin could smell it from a hundred leagues away, and this was definitely it, right beneath his nose. "No, Frodo," Pippin answered before Frodo could even open his mouth to protest. "I'm not going to risk you falling off that pony again. The wraiths aren't anywhere near-by, since you're up and walking. Therefore, we're just going to find some place out of the rain where we can wait. Besides," he added with a hesitant laugh, "I'd hate to face Sam if that happened again!"

         Frodo nodded in reluctant understanding. "Very well, Master Took, lead the way."

*************

        That night it rained with a vengeance, as though the skies were determined to empty all of their cargo from the past year, right on top of the weary travelers. Wrapped in their blankets and huddled beneath an enormous tree root, it seemed to Pippin as though they might only be camping. That all of this was just a dream, and that the sleeping cousin at his side would wake him well AFTER dawn to resume the trek off to Buckland. But it was not so.

       Frodo had been none to pleased with the idea of Pippin keeping watch, but as he recognized his own need for sleep in his weakened state, he had not argued for long. He was sleeping now, but Pippin realized that it would not last for long and began to count down the seconds in his head. His cousin was beginning to mumble in his sleep, and within thirty seconds he was clamping Frodo's mouth shut as he awoke with what would have been a terrified scream. His face was dripping in sweat and his dilated pupils seemed to have found their focus on anther plane of existence. At least he assumed that Frodo was sweating, if his heaving chest hot cheek were any indication, though it was hard to tell with the fierce wind blowing the rain in their direction.

       "I'm here," Pippin soothed, taking his friend's trembling body in his arms. This felt so strange - and, somehow, so wrong! How many nights had Frodo done the same for him. Whenever he visited Bag End, he would never run to his parents about his nightmares, but always to Frodo - who seemed to know just what it was that he needed to scare the phantom-monsters away. He had never once imagined that the roles could be reversed, but they were, and now he desperately wished to repay Frodo in kind, but had no idea what to do. He doubted that it helped Frodo to know that he was there, after all, what could he DO exactly. Frodo had begun to shake violently and the left side of his body felt like an ice-cube and nothing that he could do seemed to help at all. And when the pain drove him to tears all he could do was hold him in his arms and hope that it was enough.

       "So warm," Frodo murmured, drawing closer to what he perceived to be an enviable source of heat. Pippin tightened his protective hold on his cousin, and felt his eyes well up with tears upon realizing that he hadn't felt this cold since the snow-ball fight with Merry last Yule. "Thank you for keeping me warm, Pip," Frodo whispered leaning his head against the tween's shoulder.

       Pippin tried to hide the built-up tears as he readjusted the blankets around his sick ward. "You're welcome, dear Frodo."

~To Be Continued~

So, how was that for a Frodo&Pippin chapter? You all know how much I love to hear your opinions, so just press that lonely button at the bottom of the page. Yep, that one!

Author's Note: What do you mean? You thought I'd abandoned this fic? Never!

Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing! And even if the copyright was for sale, I wouldn't be able to afford it anyway, so stop asking me!

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Chapter Ten: The Choices of Bill the Pony.

Setting: Middle of Nowhere; October 12, 1418 (five days from Weathertop)

Sam stood in the middle of the clearing, wondering how much he could take before he lost his temper at this young hobbit who was actually wasn’t much younger than himself.  He approached young Merry until he could feel the lad’s nervous breath against his skin.  “You did what?”

Merry gulped and glanced over at Strider, who was conveniently keeping his distance and pretending to study the scenery.  Stupid Ranger, I thought he was here to protect us.  Looking back at Sam, he tried to appear confident, but to no avail. Sam could smell the fear on his breath. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.  We couldn’t just sit there and wait for them to come! Besides, I ---“

“Oh never mind,” Sam broke off impatiently.  “It won’t do no good, no how, Mr. Merry.   Arguin’ an’ all. We gotta find, Mr. Frodo, straight away!”

Sighing in relief, Merry picked up his extinguish torch and followed the two leaders and joined them in their soft calls for Frodo and Pippin.  Merry was about to call out again when he bumped into something – Strider.  He was stopped down on the ground, gazing intently… at the dirt? Whatever for? “Come on, Strider, you won’t find anything here.  The rain would have washed it all away.”  Hobbit footprints were rather light and left very little imprint.  There was little hope, if any, that there remained any trace of his cousins.  What Merry didn’t know was that Strider had been tracking them all along with eye-sight and tracking skills far superior to anything the Hobbits had ever encountered.

“It is not footprints I am now tracking,” Strider explained patiently, stepping aside.  There in plain view, virtually unobstructed by the elements was a hobbit-sized imprint in the mud.  The shape was distorted, almost as though he had curled up onto one side.  What had his cousin been doing on the ground?

“If Frodo was hurt once more, then they cannot be too far ahead.  Come!”

Merry followed obediently, and found it hard to miss the barely suppressed anger behind Sam’s grim expression.  If that impeccable tween had brought harm to his master…again…

No time to think about that, Sam, he decided as he trotted after Strider and Merry.

*******************

Pippin slowly opened his eyes, and, not being an early riser, he noted the dark sky outside his window and closed his eyes once more.  Then he felt it: water dripping onto his nose.  There wasn’t a leaking roof in Great Smials, his father had certainly cracked his ceiling many years prior, but it had never leaked before. So why now?  And why was Frodo curled up next to him….underneath, what was this anyway, a tree root?  Then it hit him, again.  Frodo’s wound.

For a moment, Pippin almost imagined that his dream had come true, that they were back in The Shire, with his cousin curled up next to him.  But it was not so.  They were not in The Shire, they weren’t even in a proper bed.  Pippin turned to face Frodo and tried to get the other Hobbit’s head off of his shoulder when he noticed it: that twisted look of agony on his cousin’s face and his heart went out to him once again.  His face was pale and his eyes were squeezed shut as though they had frozen in a grimace of pain. Pippin gave him a gentle nudge, careful of the wounded shoulder.  “Come on, Frodo.  We have to move, now.  It’s almost daylight.”  He could hardly believe his own words.  When did he get used to this routine anyway?

Frodo moaned as he opened his eyes. “It’s still dark out,” he mumbled, allowing his head to limply fall back onto the youngster’s shoulder.

“Oh, no, you don’t, silly! Time to get a move-on.” He attempted to force Frodo onto his feet by pulling on the good right shoulder, but it was no use. He just would not budge. “Stubborn Baggins,” he mumbled as he appraised the situation again. It wasn’t easy being forceful with his wounded cousin, but it was all he could do. Sam would no doubt be sick with worry and the sooner he returned Frodo to his care-taker unharmed, so much the better.  That’s it! Pippin realized with sudden clarity.  He sat down back in the mud and put a comforting hand upon Frodo’s left shoulder. Best he not appear too forceful in the matter. “Come on, lad. Can’t keep Sam waiting now, can we?”

Frodo’s heavy eyelids blinked a couple of times before turning around and looking straight into the tween’s beseeching eyes. Pippin tried to release his pity at the sight of the black circles beneath those once clear-blue eyes, but he couldn’t do it. Even though he knew he was doing the right thing he could not bring himself to fully justify his waking Frodo so early. No one had ever had to do this before. Strider would always put him on the pony while he slept on, but today he would need his own feet. There was no way around it.

“Five more minutes,” Frodo grumbled desperately. The chill lingered in the air, penetrating the wound and making it all the more excruciating. How could his little cousin expect him to walk when the pain begged him to return to the blissful, pain-less land of dreams? Besides, wasn’t it best for lost travelers to stay put?

“Sorry, Frodo,” Pippin cut in before Frodo could make his plea. “But we can’t stay here. If the Wraiths track our steps here, we’re done. We have to throw them off the trail. If we stay here much longer we’re asking for trouble.”

Frodo shook his head slightly, attempting to rouse his hibernating brain. “We have plenty of that!”

“My point exactly,” Pippin agreed with a triumphant grin: at last he was getting somewhere.  “There is certainly no need to add to it.  So come on, let’s go.”

Sighing in frustration, Frodo grabbed hold of Pippin’s left hand with his right and allowed himself to be pulled to his feet.  The effort was more than Frood had anticipated and Pippin noted with concern that his companion’s face seemed to have lost a shade of color. The effort left him weak at the knees, cradling his useless left arm with a look of contempt.  “Too early,” Frodo insisted, as if that was all the explanation needed for his sudden weakness.

Pippin smiled at that, remembering the times as a child when he had jumped on Frodo’s bed to arouse him for an early meal or an anticipated surprise. Frodo was a notoriously early riser but even he had his limits, ones which Pippin had pushed on more than one occasion. “Here, Frodo, lean on me. Like when I was little.” It was true. Frodo also found himself smiling at the plenty of memories he had of leaning on a very young Pippin as he was cajoled into the kitchen to fill the child’s bottomless pit, which he had mistaken for an actual stomach.  “Just like old times,” Pippin encouraged, wrapping an arm around the too-thin body of his wounded cousin. “What would you do without me to wake you up?”

“Sleep,” was Frodo’s drowsy, yet definite answer.

“That’s right, you’d sleep your life away. Now that wouldn’t be any fun would it?” Pippin teased gently as they neared the tree where they had left Bill.

Frodo just shook his head ruefully. Where would he be indeed?  They took their sweet time, getting through the fauna and foliage of the woods to the place where they had tied the pony.  Pippin may not have been a prodigy navigator, but his sense of direction was decent to say the least and he was sure he had not taken a wrong turn. So where then was the pony?

***************

This is hopeless, Sam thought miserably. The rain had washed away all sign of Hobbit footprints. The only sign now visible were the pony’s hoof prints. But those provided them with a strange riddle, for in following them they soon found themselves traveling in endless circles.  “Mr. Strider, you don’t have to pretend you know where yer goin’, sir. We all know yer lost.” They had trudged on through the night and now the sun was just waking up – with no sign of the lost hobbits. The only comfort Sam found in that was that he hadn’t heard a piercing scream: the wraiths hadn’t returned as near as he could tell.

The Ranger didn’t answer because he had no desire to further frighten the Hobbits. It was true that they had not heard anything untoward coming from the thickets, but that did not necessarily mean anything positive. Their lost companions could have been silently killed before they even had a chance to call for help. No, it would not serve his purpose to present that possibility just yet.

Merry was walking silently behind Sam and Strider impatiently. If he had had his way he would have gone running off in the other direction searching for his kin, but Strider had strictly forbidden such a thing. 

“Oi! What’s this!” Sam’s voice shouted from the back of his mind.

Merry looked up hesitantly, slightly comforted by the fact that his friend didn’t sound alarmed. When he looked up, he found himself staring at their former beast of burden, Bill the Pony, eating the local shrubbery, oblivious to all else around him. This would have been his dream come true were it not for the fact that the other Hobbits were nowhere in sight.

“Hey, Bill,” he cheerfully greeted the pony while Sam fetched a carrot from his pack.  “What have you done with my cousins? Is that Pip-lad foraging for mushrooms again?”

Bill looked up for a moment, chewing thoughtfully on the delicious plants, then looked away.  Some help you are! Merry thought with a roll of his eyes.  He picked up his pack from the cargo on the pony’s back. “But thanks for returning this.”

“You know where they are, don’t you, lad!” Sam spoke softly, stroking the pony’s mane. “You can take me back to my master.” He broke off the section of carrot that was in the pony’s mouth.  Bill was none to happy about his caretaker stealing a long deserved meal and made his opinion known quite loudly.  “Now, now, none of that! You’re as bad as me little sister, Mari, ya know that?  Makin’ a fuss an’ all. When I got my master back you’ll get your food.  Now, come on. Straight away, back to Mr. Frodo and Mr. Pippin with you. And shame on you for leavin’ them”

The pony made a snorting sound in reply.

“Well, we was all wet an’ miserable an’ hungry last night. That ain’t no excuse. Now go on with you!”

At last the pony seemed to take a hint and trotted along his not-so-merry way.  “Hoy, Strider, Mr. Merry. Hurry it up now, I ain’t waitin!”

Merry and Strider stood together, dumfounded, wondering how it was that the timid gardener had taken control of the situation.

~*~To Be Continued ~*~

Chapter  Eleven: Windows to the Ring-bearer’s Soul

Setting: Middle of Nowhere; October 13, 1418 (six days from Weathertop)

The first ray of light shone through the trees and warmed the confused face of a lost and bewildered Took.

“Lost again, are we?” a hoarse voice croaked next to him.

Pippin shifted his weight to support his weak cousin, who had stubbornly insisted he had rested enough for the night. The fact that they were facing the sun told him that he had turned the right way, so then where was the pony? “No, Frodo, we aren’t lost. But it would seem as though Bill is. I’m certain I tethered him right here. And I was right, theirs is rope.” Pippin sighed and looked at the rope on the ground when he heard no response from his companion. “So what do we do? Just wait here? Frodo?”

“No.” Pippin turned around to find that Look in Frodo’s eyes, that stubborn Baggins determination and he knew what was coming. “I have to get to Rivendell. Something’s happening to me. I don’t know what it is. But Strider thinks the Elves can help and they can’t help if we sit here, and who knows when the others will find us. They know our goal! We’ll meet up there. We’re wasting time waiting for them.”

Pippin nodded. He knew his cousin had the right of it, but that still didn’t chase away the knot and butterflies in his stomach. Pippin knew from the start that it was pointless, but he could not keep silent. "Frodo, this is madness! You can't walk all that way, you'll wear yourself out!"

"I have to and I will!" was the predicted reply. The hobbit in question turned his back to his cousin and began walking with his head held high and a painful grimace spreading across is face. "Frodo, where are you going?"

"To Rivendell, of course. Silly little Took!" "No, you are not." That way will take you back to the Shire. Rivendell is to the east and you have the rising sun to your back!"

Frodo stopped in his tracks. "Are you sure? "Pippin had been told all his life that staring was impolite, but at this moment he couldn't help it. He walked cautiously toward his cousin, hoping that this was all a stupid joke. But as Frodo hadn't been in good humor as of late, that was not likely to be the case. "Frodo, how many fingers am I holding up?"

"Three," Frodo answered correctly. Pippin sighed in relief. "Well, at least you aren't blind." But he wasn't entirely convinced. Frodo was staring straight at the sun, oblivious to the bright rays shining on his face. Anyone with a working pair of eyes would have been squinting or at best, shielding their eyes with a hand. But Frodo was doing neither, and did not look bothered at all. Then Pippin got an idea. He bent down and picked a flower off a near-by bush. "Frodo, what color is this flower?"

Frodo frowned at him, puzzled by the question. "White, of course."

Pippin swallowed and gaped, glancing frantically between his cousin and they yellow rose in his hand. Something was definitely wrong. "Come on!" He hoisted his pack on his shoulders and took a firm hold of his cousin's hand. "We're getting you to Rivendell straightaway!" Frodo made no effort to breakaway from his cousin. He was rather surprised that Pippin had relented to continue on the journey without their companions, so quickly. Even more puzzling was the fact that he could hear Pippin's stomach grumbling, but he had not even taken some breakfast from his pack.

***********************

Merry munched on a crunchy apple as he walked along side Bill the Pony. They had long since given up calling out the names of their companions. It was likely they were either sleeping or had ventured beyond hearing range. Either way, Strider though it was unwise to draw unnecessary attention to themselves

In the meantime, their handy Ranger companion studied the earth while Merry and Sam kept their eyes open and alert for anything abnormal that might lead them to their lost companions. But they had no such luck as of yet. But Strider insisted that their plan was foolproof. They would simply follow the pony's hoof-prints back to where Pippin had tied him up. With any luck they would find Frodo and Pippin still sleeping behind a bush or in a log or something. If not, well, it had not rained in several hours so it was likely that hobbit footprints would be relatively unobstructed. They were fortunate, indeed, that their pursuers had very little in the way of eyesight. "Well, this is the end of the line," Merry mumbled hopelessly. They had reached a tree and at the base of it was Bill's abandoned lead rope. Merry bent down and picked it up.

"That's where you're wrong, Meriadoc," the Ranger amended. "Their tracks go off in this direction. Let's go." Merry couldn't help but roll his eyes, trying to remind himself why they had brought the Ranger along in the first place. It wasn't as though they couldn't track footprints on their own. But upon recalling Weathertop, he quickly remembered. If not for Strider and his flaming torches, they would all have been killed that night. He ran around the front of the Pony, over to where Aragorn was surveying the dirt. "Strider, you never told us how you came by those torches that night!"

Strider looked up for a second at the small figure crouched in front of him. "As if an intelligent young hobbit like yourself, didn't know."

Merry frowned, not knowing whether he should take that as a compliment or an insult. He only shrugged his shoulders, for lack of a better response. "I could be wrong." The Ranger smiled at the hobbit's quick recovery. We had thought it was plain enough, but apparently. He had thought it was plain enough, but apparently it was not so obvious to one who was not a Wanderer such as he. "If you must know, Master Hobbit, the four of you left your supplies on the ledge before you ran up into the dell. I merely grabbed some large sticks from the forest floor when I saw the smoke form your small fire. I feared what had happened and ran up the hill and then used your matches. Simple enough, is it not?"

Merry felt the blood rise to his face in embarrassment. The Ranger's keen eyes certainly saw this, but he was gracious enough to make no comment as he returned to his little investigation.

Frodo stumbled along the path behind Pippin. He was used to being the leader, but this time around he was glad that the roles were reversed. This way, Pippin could not see the tears clouding his vision and there was no need to try to hide the pain in his eyes. It had been like this constantly since Weathertop. Only before, he head been riding Bill and the rest he was able to get while on the pony enabled him to conjure the strength to give the poor animal a rest. But now? Now there was no rest. Now, every movement jarred his shoulder and if there would be any hope of a cure they would have to continue at a relentless pace. He would have to hide his pain or else Pippin's compassion would compel him to stop against his better judgment. There was also a matter concerning his eyes. It was expected for everything to look gray-shaded and hazy in the pre-dawn hours. But some hours must have passed and the color of their surrounding had not changed much at all, and none of it for the better. None of this made any sense. Why was his eyesight so alarmingly different and why was his left shoulder always 10-15 degrees colder than the rest of his body?

It just made no sense. He had been wounded with a sword blade, not a foul poison. He knew the risks of infection, but if that be the case he would feel the onset of a fever and the site of the wound would be red and swollen. As it was, that was not the case. It had healed over nicely with a faint white scare. That was another thing, why white? Wounds were supposed to heal a lighter shade of pink than the rest of the skin, not white as the first winter's snow. From the speed he was moving at and the urgency in his voice, Pippin had at least some of the answers that he sought. But Frodo decided to keep his silence, deciding that in cases where nothing could be done at the present moment to remedy the situation, ignorance was bliss. There was nothing they could do, other than to alleviate the pain with athelas every so often. True healing would come in the form of Elvish medicine only when they reached the haven of Rivendell. Just the thought of a painless night, propelled Frodo's feet onward, hoping that every step they took would lead them one step closer to their goal.

Pippin knew he would have to be deaf not to hear the sighs, groans and occasional sobs from behind him, but he chose to ignore them to the best of his ability. He knew that Frodo often tried to conceal his pain, not wanting to burden or worry his friends. Frodo had to know that such a thing was impossible in his current situation and he also (undoubtedly) knew that there was nothing to be done to alleviate the pain at the present moment. They had some athelas, yes, but most of the supply had been on the pony and they and they had to use it sparingly, or they would run out. He could possibly take his cousin in his arms and comfort him with lies and a warm embrace. That he promised to do, but not until Frodo was no longer able to even attempt concealing his pain. At which time, Pippin would suggest a break for food and then he would put to use every comforting trick he possessed when they were already taking a break. But they would press on towards their destination for as long as Frodo was able to. Time was too precious to waste in relaxation and food whenever the desire struck.

To Be Continued

Now, don't anyone say that I never update or that I've forgotten about this wonderful and not-so-little story. I've got I've got Writer's Block. This story will pick-up speed once I work out some plot problems. I hope you all enjoyed this chapter in the meantime. Hopefully I'll figure out something out soon. If you have any suggestions, my new email (yes, I've recently changed it) is arwenbaggins88@yahoo