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?