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.