Disclaimer: The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinemas, and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. This story and all my others may be found on my website, http://budgielover.com.  My thanks to my dear Marigold for the beta.  

The Ruin of Men and Elves

Chapter 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Frodo nodded wearily.  “Thank you.”

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Mr. Merry, you shouldn’t –“

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

* TBC *