Chapter 7

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Aragorn,” Frodo whispered, his eyes frightened.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“He is better,” assured Aragorn softly.

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

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

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

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

“Well said, Frodo,” said Aragorn quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * * * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Meriadoc!”

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

“He didn’t, Frodo!”

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

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

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

The End