Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

The Fellowship was no more than three days out from Rivendell, in a land of rolling hills and steep valleys. They rose up in the dim half-light of very early morning to prepare for another tiresome day of trudging forward, for Gandalf had said they must cover as much distance as they could during the morning, and sleep and hide from prying eyes when the sun was high. At least this morning they had the brief comfort of a fire-mostly for Merry’s sake, who had a cold. As the hobbits stood around it warming their hands, he sneezed explosively several times. In the near-perfect silence of the wilderness it was as startling as a trio of Gandalf’s Goblin-Crackers going off, and they all jumped.

“Good heavens!” Frodo exclaimed, and then rooted in his waistcoat pocket for a handkerchief. He had learned from his Uncle Bilbo’s example and always kept a couple in his pocket, and Sam had learned to carry extras in his pack. He found one and offered it to Merry, who accepted it gratefully. He wiped his streaming eyes, blew his nose into it with a noise like an oliphaunt’s bellow, then wadded it into a ball and held it out to Frodo.

Frodo grimaced. “You may keep it.”

Merry was pleased: He had left all his own handkerchiefs behind in Rivendell. “Thag you very buch, Frodo.”

Pippin giggled. “Hee, you sound like Cousin Bilbo after he rode that barrel all the way to Laketown.

Merry gave him a sour look. “Id’s nod funny.”

“No, it is not,” Strider said. He came forward and wrapped Merry in his own blanket. “Any illness on the road could become more serious if not taken care of promptly, but I have herbs that should help, and if he is kept warm and dry it should pass.”

“He needs something hot to eat,” Sam said. To Sam, a full belly meant a healthy hobbit.

“And tea would do him good as well,” Frodo said. “We’re going to need more water, though.”

Legolas had returned in time to hear the last part of the conversation, having explored a little while the others slept. “I have scouted ahead. There is a spring that flows over the bluff yonder, a long walk, but easy enough to find again if one follows along the tree line.”

Gandalf was sitting on a stone and smoking his pipe. He lifted his water bottle with his free hand, giving it an experimental shake. He tossed it to Pippin. “Here, my lad! Make yourself useful and spare my old knees unneeded exercise.”

Pippin soon found himself festooned with water bottles, for none of the Fellowship wished to leave the fire, and all of the water bottles were empty, or nearly so. “Well, I can’t carry them all!” Pippin said. “Someone will have to come along and give me a hand. How about you, Merry?”

“Oh, no,” Strider said quickly. “I said he must remain warm and dry.” Everyone looked pointedly at Pippin, as if implying that whoever went with him to fetch water was bound to get wet.

Pippin felt indignant. When he had tumbled into that brook back in Rivendell he hadn’t meant to pull Merry and Frodo in after him. “Now, see here!”

“I’ll come, Mr. Pippin,” Sam said. He poured the last few ounces of his water into a small kettle and pushed it close to the fire to warm, then slung the long strap of the water bottle over his shoulder. He wasn’t made of sugar-candy so he wouldn’t melt if Mr. Pippin splashed him a little, and better that he should get a soaking than Mr. Frodo.

Gandalf spoke up. “One of us must go with them for safety’s sake. We are not so close to Rivendell still that we need not fear the Enemy. His arm is long.”

“I do not fear him, or any of his minions,” Gimli growled, still puffy-eyed with tiredness. He was not particularly pleasant in the mornings, and the cold made him short-tempered. “I will go.”

“I know the way, and I am not dull-witted and stiff with sleep,” Legolas said. The Dwarf and the Elf exchanged venomous glances.

Strider was already crumbling pungent dried herbs into Sam’s small kettle. He raised a hand to cut off any potential argument that might be brewing. “Peace! I will go, but I must see to Merry first.”

Boromir was standing close by, still yawning and stretching, and said nothing. He was a Man of Gondor, not a nursemaid for halflings. Let the others dither over who would go and who would stay.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” Pippin said impatiently. “They’ll stand around all day trying to decide if I let them! Come along, Boromir, let’s get it over with!” Before Boromir could protest Pippin took his hand and was dragging him forward. Sam hurried along after them.

Frodo frowned and looked uncomfortable as he watched them go. Boromir would not have been his first choice as a bodyguard. He was not as familiar with him as Merry and Pippin, having spent much less time in his company, but he recalled Boromir’s proud words at the council with deep misgiving. He seemed a good man, noble and truehearted, but perhaps not very tolerant of hobbit quirks and eccentricities. Oh, he did not really think Boromir untrustworthy, but…

Aragorn laid a hand on Frodo’s shoulder, as if reading his secret thoughts. “Do not concern yourself. Boromir will watch over them and see that they come to no harm.”

“I would worry more over Boromir. Poor ode fellow, in Pippin’s cludges,” Merry said, and sneezed.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

“You need hobbit lessons,” Pippin announced.

Boromir’s eyebrows rose into his hairline. “Beg pardon?”

Overhead, a pale, wintery light was growing in a sky the color of slate, and the wind was blowing sharp and cold. Sam was ahead, but Pippin had dropped back to walk beside Boromir. “Yes, you know, like those sword lessons you gave to us in Rivendell, except with no swords, of course. You are a wee bit too big for a proper hobbit, but we could give you lessons in eating, drinking, and how to be handy with a jest, or a tale, or a riddle. You are altogether too serious. Now, take riddles, for example-”

“It is a serious world,” Boromir interrupted, but he couldn’t help smiling. How the little halfling did run on, his thoughts hopping from one subject to another, like a mouse in a pile of straw! “And this quest is a serious undertaking, not a walking-party from one meal to the next, as some seem to assume.”

Pippin rolled his eyes. “Now you sound like Gandalf.”

In response to this, Boromir sat down on a large boulder and started removing his boot. Pippin and Sam walked a littler farther on before they realized he was not with them. “What are you doing there?” Pippin called. “Aren’t you going to help us get the water?”

“I am removing a stone from my boot,” Boromir said. “And I do not think you need me to hold your hand. You both are quite capable of filling all of the water bottles yourselves, and I will be along soon enough.”

Sam saw the light of battle in Pippin‘s eye and the stubborn set of his jaw and moved to head him off. He gave Pippin a gentle nudge with his elbow. “Come along, Mr. Pippin, and don’t pester him. The sooner we’re done the sooner we’ll be back at the fire.”

Pippin grumbled but they went on and soon reached the spring. A frozen waterfall of icicles hung over the edge of the bluff, some as thick as a hobbit’s arm. A thin trickle of clear water near the rough jumble of broken stone at its base had fed a small pool, now frozen. The pool might have been a merry sight in springtime when the snowmelt came rushing down from the hills like white foam, and the pool lay sparkling under the sun, like a blue jewel in the cupped hand of the hills; but now it was still, and a thick scum of dirty ice covered the surface of the water, a dulled mirror that reflected nothing. It made Sam shiver, thinking of that inky-black water so close to his feet, but he had no intentions of going any nearer to it, so he turned his back and went to work.

Pippin picked up a water bottle and held it under the trickle. It was an infuriatingly slow task. He shivered and stamped his feet, switching hands often so he could thrust his half-frozen fingers into the warmth of his armpit. “I wish there was some faster way to do this!” Pippin sighed. He glanced out toward the water. Some minor flood in warmer weather had carried a branch to the center of the pool, and the weak winter sun had melted the thinner ice there. His eyes brightened, and before Sam could stop him he had stepped out onto the ice, water bottle in hand.

Sam dropped his water bottle and grasped at Pippin‘s cloak, missing him by inches. “Come back!” Sam cried. What on earth could he do to help if the ice caved in? He hadn’t got any rope, and he couldn’t swim a stroke! “You’ll go through!”

“Oh, don’t be ridiculous, Sam,” Pippin called. “It might be too thin for a Man, but it will certainly hold a hobbit.” He stamped one furry foot for emphasis. Sam’s eyes bulged and he clapped his hands to his head. “See? Perfectly safe. Now toss me that other water bottle while I make this hole a bit bigger.” Pippin chopped at the rotten edge of the ice with his heel.

Sam felt close to swooning with fright. “Mr. Pippin, please! Come back!”

Pippin ignored him. “That should do it. We’ll just dip them in and-” The rest of his words were cut off by a whoop and a splash, and suddenly Pippin was sitting on the ice with one leg through the hole up to his hip, the other stretched out painfully in front of him. “Confound it all! Stop giggling, Sam!”

Sam’s cheeks had turned red and his eyes watered. “Beg pardon, Mr. Pippin.” Miraculously, he kept a straight face. “Will you be wantin’ that other water bottle now?”

“No, thank you!” Pippin said, all offended dignity. He struggled mightily for several minutes to pull himself out of his predicament, but with his leg at such an awkward angle he couldn’t get enough leverage. He looked at Sam mournfully. “I’m stuck.”

Sam sighed. “Hang on then, I’m coming.” He didn’t feel quite brave enough to stand, so he crawled out onto the ice on all fours, moving forward foot by slow, creeping foot. The rough surface scraped his hands and his knees ached with the cold, but he could feel a greasy sweat break out on his forehead. He could very nearly feel the hungry pull of the dark water through the ice.

“Do hurry a little, Sam!” Pippin said at last, exasperated with Sam’s slow progress. “My leg is freezing!”

“Almost there,” Sam said, and his voice didn’t tremble…much. He came up behind Pippin and put his hands under his arms. “You give a heave and push off as best you can, and I’ll pull. At the count of three: One, two..”

“Wait!” Pippin’s eyes widened. “Do you hear something?”

“Hear what?” Sam said sharply. He was frightened and in no mood to deal with Mr. Pippin’s foolishness. But there was a sound, an ominous sound, a high, thin creak growing louder by the minute. Sam’s mouth went dry. “Oh. Oh dear.”

The ice broke into shards like a brittle plate and suddenly there was nothing under Sam’s feet, and he was sinking in icy darkness with no idea which way was up. Pippin knew how to swim and had no fear of water, and though the shock took his breath away he bobbed to the surface like a cork. Sam popped up a few seconds later, flailing and choking and clutching at Pippin for dear life.

“Stop! Stop!” Pippin spluttered. “Calm down, Sam! You’ll drown us both!” He managed to pry loose Sam’s clinging hands and guide them to the floating branch. It was an unsteady perch and inclined to roll, but it gave Sam something solid to hang on to while he caught his breath.

“That didn’t work so well,” Pippin said cheerfully while treading water. Sam held the branch and breathed gratefully. A wonderful thing, just breathing. “Well,” Pippin said again when Sam didn’t answer. “I suppose we should get out now, shouldn’t we?”

Now that the hole was bigger, Pippin had plenty of room to maneuver. He dogpaddled to the edge, placed the palms of his hands against the ice, and heaved himself up and out like a landed fish, plopping onto his stomach with a wet slap. “Your turn, S-sam!” His hands were shaking and his teeth were clacking so he could barely spit the words out. Pippin held out his hands and Sam crawled along the branch to the edge of the hole. They clasped hands and Sam held on like grim death, stark fear in his eyes. Pippin would bear the marks of his fingers for many days to come. “Don’t pinch, I’ve got you. Up we go!”

But Sam was a much bigger and stouter built hobbit than young Pippin, and the icy water had soaked his heavy woolen clothes through to his skin. The fur-lined cloak and jacket given to him by Master Elrond drew water like a sponge, adding to his weight. Pippin yanked hard, his arms trembling with effort, but with each tug Sam’s broad chest met the brittle edge of the ice and broke it away, and he fell back with a splash.

“This isn’t working, Mr. Pippin,” Sam gasped. His head and shoulders were out of the water, at least, but he was shivering hard. With each heartbeat Pippin could feel the chills running down the length of his arms, like the wind humming through a tightly stretched cord.

Pippin was panting and his face was running with sweat in spite of the cold. “Very well. Let’s rest a bit and think.”

“You need to go on,” Sam said, after a pause. “No need for both of us to freeze. Go find Captain Boromir, he’ll fish me out.”

“Gracious, no!” Pippin cried. “And what’s to keep you from sinking like a rock while I’m off looking for him? Oho, you’re not getting away that easily, Sam. Gandalf will no doubt turn me into a spotted toad for losing his water bottle, and I’m not about to travel across the mountains in Merry’s pocket by myself!”

Sam laughed weakly. “All right then, let’s give a shout.”

Pippin squeezed Sam’s hands and took a deep breath. “Hi! Boromir! Help! Help!”

“Hoy! Help! Captain Boromir!” Sam bellowed for all he was worth. The cold wind seemed to pick up their small hobbit voices and whirl them away into the gray sky, and mocking echoes returned to them from the brown hills, but Boromir did not come.

****************
TBC

The wind blew and the trees swayed, bringing the sweet, clean odor of the pines to him, and Boromir was reminded, sharply and almost painfully, of the ancient trees of the White Mountains in far away Gondor. He sat on the boulder at the foot of the rocky slope, lost in homesick memories of his city, and he thought of his brother. Was Faramir there in Minas Tirith, standing on the walls of the White City as they turned rose and gold in the morning sun? Or perhaps he was on patrol and slept uneasily on some rough bed of boughs in Ithilien, awaiting the horn-call to battle. Feeling strangely restless, Boromir put on his boot and began to climb up toward the trees. It would be pleasant to walk among them, just for a little while, while the halflings finished their task. Surely he would hear them if they called, and in any case what possible harm could come to them in this empty land?

Boromir walked and wandered aimlessly, lost in thought. His mind touched idly on different things: His father and brother, battles lost and won, but his thoughts kept returning again and again to the folly of sending helpless little folk to do what the hands of the wise and strong might more easily accomplish. These halflings were goodhearted, foolish little beings, without an ounce of meanness. To send them into the wilderness on this suicidal quest was more than folly it was madness. More than madness, it was cruelty. They were as merry and lighthearted as children, as quick to laugh and sing as they were to mourn-although even the youngest child of Gondor would not have wept over a spilled tray of sweets, as Pippin had done at a feast in Rivendell before their departure. (Though truthfully, Boromir was not sure if this was a characteristic of all halflings or merely a peculiarity of this one in particular.) None of them were very skilled with a blade. The little one was quick on his feet, but too eager to rush to the attack. His elder cousin was a more promising pupil, confidant and determined, if perhaps slightly overcautious. The eldest halfling and his stout manservant were completely hopeless. The servant was too softhearted and handled his sword as if it were a gardening tool. The master was too gentle, with the long, white hands of a gentleman scholar, too weak to swing a sword, much less to carry his dreadful burden to the Fire. That in itself was ridiculous-why cast away such a weapon? A dangerous weapon, it was said, but a weapon is only as strong as the hand that wields it. Imagine what could be done with such a thing, were it in the hands of someone more fit! Now, if he had the ring-

Boromir had been walking with rounded shoulders, as if weighted with a heavy load, and staring at the ground before his feet. Now he laughed sharply and wiped his face with a trembling hand, then straightened and looked about him, returning suddenly to himself. What had he been thinking? The sky was thick with clouds and the sun was veiled; he could not tell how long he had wandered. Surely the little ones had finished, why had they not sought him out?

Filled with a strange dread, Boromir began to walk quickly down toward the trail. For a moment the wind was quiet and the murmuring pines were still. A high, thin wail came to Boromir’s ears and he halted. It sounded like the little one, Pippin. Boromir swore an oath and began to run. Pray heaven that he would not be too late to avert any evil his wanderings might have caused!
~~~~~~~~~

Pippin shivered and shook. Sam had become so cold that he could no longer lift his upper body out of the water, and Pippin’s arms ached terribly from the strain of bearing Sam’s full weight. The wind felt like being stabbed with dull knives, and his fingers were so numb he could no longer feel Sam’s clutching hands. Sam’s pale face was mere inches away from his own. How much worse the cold must be for him, half-submerged in ice water! Sam’s lips were tinged blue and his eyes had gone closed. Pippin felt a thrill of terror. “Sam!” he cried. He squeezed Sam’s hands tight enough to bruise. “Sam, wake up!”

Sam blinked and raised his head. “My, did I fall asleep? I didn’t mean to, but I’m so tired, Mr. Pippin.” His arms and legs felt like lead, but strange warmth was spreading up from his toes, like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

“Stay awake!” Pippin said. Oh, how he wished Boromir would hurry! He wished Gandalf or Strider were here, or Frodo, or Merry, or anyone! He had gotten Sam into this pickle and now he wasn’t strong enough to get him out of it. What could he do? “Boromir will be here soon, but until then keep your head up! Think of a story or a song, or a riddle! A riddle, Sam! How about, twelve pairs hanging high, twelve knights riding by, each knight took a pear, and yet left a dozen hanging there.” This was one of Cousin Bilbo’s riddles told to him by Frodo, and being a little lad then and not very good at arithmetic, it had stumped him for months. “What’s the answer, Sam? Sam!"

Pippin’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. Why was he pinching his hands so tight, anyhow? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to rest his eyes for a bit, just a little bit, until Captain Boromir came.

Pippin watched Sam’s eyelids droop and close, and a long wail of misery rose from his chest. Hot tears leaked from his eyes and ran down his cold cheeks, pattering on Sam’s knuckles, freezing into crystal beads on the cuffs of his jacket. All the world was silent under the pitiless sky, and Pippin had never felt so small and helpless and alone. What could he do? And the only answer was keep holding on. Well, he would hang on to poor Sam until his hands froze off, if that was what he had to do. But he wished Boromir would hurry!
~~~~~~~~~~

Boromir plunged down the hill, stumbling as the loose stones and brown pine needles slid beneath his feet. He reached the boulder and skittered, falling to one knee and tearing his garment, but touched the cold ground briefly with the palm of his hand and hurried on. His shield banged painfully against his back, his lungs burned in the crisp air, his hand was on the hilt of his sword. Whatever the little ones had encountered he meant to ready for it. He cursed himself for his foolish woolgathering in the wood, when he should have been keeping watch. Had he been guilty of such a dereliction of duty in Minas Tirith he would have been flogged, or worse, son of the Steward or not, and he would have richly deserved every stripe.

He reached the shore of the frozen pool and stood for a moment, stricken to the heart. Pippin was stretched out on his stomach in the center of the pool, gripping Sam’s hands. Sam lay with his cheek against the ice and only his head and arms out of the water, seemingly asleep, and his face was very white. Boromir’s gaze kept returning with horrified fascination to the sight of those small, clasped hands, blue with cold, but doggedly clinging to each other. Even in death they would not give up their hold.

Boromir could hear nothing but his own pulse beating in his ears, but he must have made some sort of sound, for he saw Pippin raise his head. His face was streaked with tears that had frozen on his cheeks, and his teeth chattered. “Boromir, help me! Sam-”

“Hold on, I am coming out to you,” Boromir called. He threw down his shield and unbuckled his sword belt, laying it and his horn gently on the ground. He must make himself as light as possible. He flattened himself on the ice, which creaked dangerously under his weight, and crawled forward until he could grasp Pippin’s heels. “Now, I dare not come any closer, so I must pull you both. You must hold tight to him a little longer.”

“You must hold!” Boromir said, and began to pull. It was short work to haul him to the edge of the ice, dragging Sam along with him. Sam was dead weight in his arms as he lifted him up, and Boromir’s heart sank. He had seen strong men perish of the cold in far less time than this little one had been in the water.

“I think he is merely faint with weariness and cold,” Boromir said, more for Pippin’s sake than because he had any real hope. He lay Sam down on the gravel and wrapped him in his cloak. Pippin, still weeping, began to rub Sam’s feet.

“Samwise, awake!” Boromir said, chafing Sam’s small, cold hands between his large, warm ones. “Come on, now.” Grief rose up in his throat to choke him. Barely started on the road, and he had already lost one of the littlest and least of their Fellowship! The dark shadow of this disgrace would haunt him for the rest of his days and shame would follow him always, like a ghost of this little one that he had failed.
~~~~~~~~~~~

He was sitting in front of the fireplace at Number Three, Bagshot Row. The fire crackled and the wind blew hard, snow was on the roof and frost on the windowpanes, but the cold couldn’t touch him. The room was dimly lit, but he could see his Dad to one side, comfortable with his pipe and his feet on a stool. On the other side his Mam was sitting, singing quietly while doing her mending and rocking Marigold’s cradle with her foot, and oh it was so good to see her sitting there, so pink-cheeked and young, with not a bit of gray in her hair. The fire felt wonderful and Sam stretched out his legs and wiggled his furry toes in the warmth. Something was nagging at him, something he was supposed to do, or have done, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall what it was. Something to do with Mr. Frodo, wasn’t it? He was the new young master at Bag End, Mr. Bilbo’s newly adopted heir, and they were going to go on some sort of journey together…weren’t they? Oh, he felt so sleepy and his head was so muddled. Far away a sorrowing voice was wailing 'oh Sam, oh Sam', and a deeper voice answered 'I think he is merely faint with weariness and cold'. He wondered who it could be. The first voice sounded rather like Mr. Pippin, but now that was just silly: Mr. Peregrin Took wasn’t no more than a wee babe in a little white gown, toddling about away off in the Tookland.

“How about that riddle, Samwise?” Sam’s Gaffer said. “Have ye found the answer yet? Times is getting short.”

Sam was surprised. His Dad had less use for riddles than most hobbits. “Twelve pairs hanging high,” Sam murmured. He thought it had something to do with pears and pairs. Twelve pairs of pears? That would be…

“Don’t pester the lad, Ham,” Mam said, and suddenly dropped her mending and scooped him up into her lap, holding him tight. The lace ribbons on her cap scratched his face and she smelled odd, but familiar somehow, like wool, and leather, and the rank odor of Big Folk’s sweat. “There, there. You’re tired, but you mustn’t sleep. Samwise, awake! Come on, now.”

All he wanted was sleep, but she was squeezing him so he could hardly draw breath, and her arms were cold, so cold. He was frightened and tried to struggle, but the remorseless arms clutched tighter and tighter. Twenty-four! Sam wanted to shout. There’s twenty-four pears, that’s how come the knights could all take one and still leave twelve! But there was no air to shout with, and the cold was creeping in, and Marigold began to wail with a sound like the wind…
~~~~~~~~

Sam opened his eyes. He was lying on the shore of the little pool, the hard stones poking into his back. Above him he could see the gray sky and the worried face of Boromir peering down at him. He sucked in air and gasped, “Twenty-four! Twenty-four pears!”

“Oh Sam,” Pippin cried, throwing his arms around Sam’s head and dribbling tears all over him. “Oh Sam, I thought I’d killed you with my foolishness!” He was squeezing a mite hard, but Sam was content to let him hug the ears off of him, as long as he let him have plenty of air while he was doing it.

“We must hurry you both back to the fire,” Boromir said, and scooped Sam into his arms, wrapping the cloak around him. Sam was surprised to feel the big man shaking as he flung him onto his shoulder, and Sam realized that Boromir had been horribly afraid.

Sam patted Boromir’s broad back. “I’m all right, sir. Don’t take on so.”

Boromir said nothing, but he drew in a ragged breath and briefly placed his warm hand on the back of Sam’s curly head. It was almost a caress.
**********
TBC

Strider’s pot of herbs soon stewed down to an odorous, green sludge, so odorous, in fact, that it had driven Legolas completely away from camp, and he still stood some distance away under a tree with his arms folded across his chest.

“It bothers me not at all,” Gimli was quick to say, but Frodo saw him gasp like a stranded fish when an errant breeze brought the smell to him, and he made sure to move upwind.

Merry was sitting on a blanket when Strider brought the small kettle to him, wrapped in a cloth, and set it between his knees. “What in the name of creation..?” He turned pale. “Surely I am not meant to..to..eat..this stuff, am I?”

“Only a little,” Strider said. Merry glanced up at Frodo with pleading, watery eyes and clutched at his sleeve, and Frodo blanched. Strider laughed at their stricken expressions. “No, no, my friends! That was only a small jest; do not look so pale! Although eating this would not do you harm, if you could force it down your throat, you need only lean over it and breathe in the vapors for a while to clear your head.”

“Thank heavens for small mercies,” Merry muttered, then coughed as the steam rose into his face. Strider handed Frodo a blanket to place over Merry’s head. Merry held it aside and took hold of Frodo’s hand, looking solemnly into his face. “Dearest cousin, best of friends, if this cure finishes me off, give my love to Pip and tell him he may have my blanket. I’m sure he must be very fond of it, since he robs me of it every time we sleep. Out of all my cousins named Frodo, you are my favorite.”

Frodo laughed. “I am his only cousin named Frodo.” He pulled the blanket over Merry’s head. “That’s enough out of you, you mad Brandybuck.”

“I only hope to survive long enough to apologize to Sam for the ruination of his kettle,” Merry added sadly, his voice muffled under layers of wool.

So they stood around for a length of time, shivering in the cold while the fire died down. Gandalf fretted and walked back and forth, looking in the direction the missing three members of the Fellowship had gone, and tapping his staff impatiently on the ground. Merry claimed to be suffocating and made a half-hearted attempt to throw the blanket off, until Frodo put his hand on the back of his head and held it in place. Light grew in the sky and the stars, half-seen through flying shreds of cloud, began to wink out one by one. Boromir, Sam, and Pippin did not return.

When Strider finally released Merry from his cloth prison his cheeks were red and tears streamed down his face, but his breathing was much improved. “I feel as if I’ve been under there for an age!” Merry scrubbed his face with Frodo’s handkerchief and looked around. “Shouldn’t they have returned by now?”

“I’m beginning to wonder about that, myself,” Gandalf said. Legolas was still at his lonely station under the tree and Gandalf called to him. “Hullo there, Legolas! Do you see them yet?”

Gimli looked alarmed and reached for his axe. Strider was suddenly alert. “Are they being pursued?”

Merry tossed the blanket aside and jumped to his feet. Frodo felt worry collect in the pit of his stomach like a lump of lead, and an urge came over him to reach up to touch the shape of the ring beneath his shirt, as if it were a living thing that could give comfort; then he felt Merry’s warm, familiar hand on his shoulder as he stood up, and he stuck his hands in his pockets.

Boromir and the two hobbits came into sight and the Fellowship rushed to greet them. Boromir was sweating and breathing hard as he stood Sam on his feet-Sam was not small, for a hobbit, nor was he thin. Sam was pale and shivering, but in surprisingly good condition for a hobbit that had come close to freezing to death. Pippin stopped and bent over with his hands on his knees, panting like a wind-broke pony. Merry very nearly had to hold him upright to keep him from collapsing into the fire. Frodo hurried over and put his own blanket around Sam’s shoulders. “Poor old Sam! We were getting worried about you, and I can see now we had good reason!”

The three exchanged a strange look, almost of shame. “The little ones...” Boromir began, but his voice faltered. How was he to explain his own part in this near disaster?

“The ice broke when we were fetching the water,” Sam said before Boromir could speak again. “We’re all right, but we might have come to a bad end if it weren’t for Captain Boromir.”

Gandalf was standing before Pippin and looked down at him sternly. “My heart tells me that you are at the bottom of this bit of mischief as usual, Peregrin Took. What have you got to say for yourself?”

“There was a pool near the spring and I went out on to the ice, and Sam followed me, and we fell through.” Pippin said quickly, and swallowed hard. His face was dirty and tear-streaked, and his eyes were still rimmed with red. “We..I..I have lost your water bottle.”

Boromir knew that Gandalf looked upon these little folk as a kind, old grandsire might look upon his children’s children, but surely now the little one would be punished. Boromir saw Merry, Sam, and Frodo move in to flank Pippin, and Merry put his hand gently on Pippin’s elbow, as if ready to whisk him out of harm’s way. The Ranger, the Elf, and the Dwarf did not seemed overly concerned, but Boromir tensed; he hoped that Gandalf would not be too harsh.

To his surprise, Gandalf laughed. “Now my lad, that is nothing to be so upset about! If my water bottle was lost during your rescue, well, that is a small price to pay for your safety. Perhaps I might have got another water bottle, someday, but where would I have found another bothersome, foolish little Took?” He put his hand on Pippin’s head, and Pippin smiled gratefully. There was much more to this tale than was being told, Gandalf guessed, and perhaps it would come out, if given time. “Come along now and get warm, and let us see if we can cover any distance today.”
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

There was a delay while the hobbits changed into dry clothes, Boromir and Legolas went to retrieve the water bottles and Boromir’s sword, shield, and his horn, and yet another delay while tea was made-how the halflings loved their tea!-before they started off, and there was no more time to discuss what had happened. Sam and Pippin seemed to suffer no ill effects from their chilly dip in the pool, and marched along as if they had done no more than stumble through a puddle. Sam had squawked at finding the green, smelly mess in his only kettle, but once it was dumped out and washed-another delay!-and tucked safely into his pack, he was content. Pippin did complain that thanks to Strider his blanket now smelled worse than sour oats, and how was he ever going to sleep again with that stink in his nose?

They did not get far that day. The hobbits did not sing quietly together, as they usually did, or chat idly about meals, and rest stops, or various features of the scenery. They kept their heads together and seemed to be having a council. Boromir saw startled and sometimes pitying looks cast in his direction as the story was apparently discussed at length, and he feared their council was about himself. Perhaps they were deciding exactly when and how to tell the rest of the Company about his near-fatal lack of attention where Sam and Pippin had been concerned. Well, he was the son of the Steward, a Captain of Gondor, and no weakling; he would face his judgment when it came. But he could not help but glance anxiously at the wizard as he went along. Gandalf was very fond of the little ones, and Boromir did fear his wrath, just a little. Wizards were a vengeful lot, no matter what Faramir had said to the contrary.

They sought shelter early on and hid themselves as best they could among a cluster of short, scrubby trees. Legolas kept the watch and awakened them in the late afternoon.

“Four o’ clock they’d call it back home, I reckon,” Sam said, squinting at the sunless, gray sky.

“With some sweet rolls, and good butter, and honey,” Pippin sighed, looking sadly at his bit of brown bread and dried fruit.

But there were none of these things to be had, of course, except for the pipes, and there was not enough time for a leisurely smoke. They ate and drank in haste, shouldered their packs and went on. Night fell and Gandalf walked ahead bearing his staff, which seemed to glow faintly and cast a pale light before their feet. It became very cold, and each exhalation of breath hung before them like a cloud.

When they could walk no more, Gandalf called a halt. The ground was rocky and nearly treeless and covered with a low, strongly scented ground cover, but there was no other shelter and the travelers were nearly asleep on their feet. They would have to trust to luck and hope that the darkness would hide them from unfriendly eyes until they awoke in the pre-dawn hours to go forward again. The hobbits spread their blankets in a hollow of the land, like a dry ditch, lined with the small, prickly bushes. The taller members of the Fellowship then spread their own blankets over them and covered them with uprooted pieces of brush. Sam muttered unhappily about going to ground like a coney, and how he’d rather stew one than sleep like one, but Pippin declared it the warmest place he had slept since Rivendell.

There was much muffled laughter and chatter until Gandalf threatened, only half in jest, to turn them all into coneys and set foxes on them if he was not allowed to sleep in peace. It got quiet rather quickly after that.

Boromir took the first watch, although there was not much to see. The sky was overcast and the stars were hidden, and the silence was so deep that he could hear every breath or snore of his companions. After a long spell of quiet the halflings had begun to talk softly again, and if Gandalf heard them this time he made no sign. Boromir was sitting nearest to their resting place and could hear odds and ends of the conversation. He heard his name mentioned and sat up a little straighter. There were rustling and crunching noises as they threw off the brush and four dim shapes climbed out of the ditch, and then more furtive rustling as they seemed to be searching through their packs. What were they up to? Was this, then, the moment of their decision at last, when his disgrace would be revealed to the rest of the Company?

But they did not go to Gandalf and wake him, nor to Strider. They came to where he was sitting. Boromir’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness so he could see them well enough when they were close, although their individual features were mere smudges. Frodo stood before him with his hands clasped behind his back, as if ready to recite a school lesson. “It appears we owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Boromir let out a breath he had not realized he was holding in. “There is no-”

“Let me finish. We owe you a debt for saving Sam and Pippin, one we cannot possibly repay out here in the wilderness, but we hobbits always pay our debts, and so we have decided to do the best we can.”

Frodo stood back and Merry came forward and threw his blanket around Boromir’s shoulders. “Thank you, Boromir,” he said simply. From what Pippin had told, he and Frodo had come perilously close to losing two people who meant more to them than their own lives, and he did not trust himself to speak more. He pressed Boromir’s hand and stepped away.

Sam stepped up and placed something round and cool into Boromir’s hands. Boromir felt the shape of it and knew it was an apple, quite wrinkled and going soft, and the sweet smell of it brought to mind memories of sunny, autumn orchards far away. Heaven only knew how long Sam had been saving it, for whatever reason. “I didn’t have no pears,” Sam laughed quietly, and Boromir laughed too, filled with relief and some other emotion he could not name. “Thank you, Captain Boromir.”

Pippin came next. “I’d offer you my blanket but it still reeks of Strider’s cure, I’m afraid,” Pippin laughed. “And so I have offered to take half of your watch. Frodo will take the other half.”

“The long half, no doubt,” Frodo said. He held out his hand and Boromir grasped it, feeling the strength in those slim fingers for the first time. For a single moment of time, Boromir seemed to see Frodo grown tall and filled with light, and he felt all that he had or had not done that day at the spring was known, his wanderings and secret thoughts forgiven-then between a blink and heartbeat the moment passed. Frodo was only a hobbit, after all, with a handsome, careworn face, shivering in the cold night air and his brown hair mussed by the wind. “Thank you, Boromir.”

“And goodnight!” came Gimli’s plaintive, drowsy voice. “Do hobbits never sleep?”

“Coneys and foxes, gentlehobbits!” Gandalf said in a warning tone, but he did not sound angry. “Must I repeat myself?”

Pippin’s eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth. Boromir felt color rise into his face. Legolas and Strider, dimly seen as shadowy lumps in the dark, were chuckling. “Thank you, Boromir!” Pippin whispered. Boromir gave him a roughly affectionate pat on the shoulder, still too filled with emotion to speak, then stood up so that Pippin might sit in his place. Frodo walked back to the ditch, staggering a little with weariness, but Boromir saw him carefully pull the brush over the shrouded forms of Merry and Sam before he himself lay down. Pippin walked to and fro, yawning like a cavern and humming very softly to keep himself awake.

Boromir found a place to lie down, tossed aside a few inconvenient rocks, and wrapped himself in Merry’s blanket. Well, my brother, Boromir said to himself, speaking to Faramir in his thoughts as he often did when they were parted. It seems I have learned a lesson or two, although perhaps not what Pippin intended. Perhaps there was more to these halflings than he had guessed, a strength beyond that which was needed to lift a sword-the strength to love, laugh, and forgive, to endure and continue to hope even when all seemed dark. A resolve grew in him to do whatever was needed to protect them under any circumstances. He would not fail them again.

Hobbit Lessons by Citrine