Title: Frodo's Bane and Pippin's Stomach

Author Pen Name: Arwen Baggins

Chapter Four: My Fault

Disclaimer: Am I the only one getting bored with this? Do I really need to repeat myself? I do? Aw, shucks! Alright, I don't own anything relating to Lord of the Rings in this short-story (which would be everything), it all belongs to Tolkien. There, happy now? Good.

        Pippin flipped the tomatoes in the hot frying pan and tried to hide a smug smile of victory. Finally, a proper meal. Something they hadn't had since, well since they had stayed the night at old Tom Bombadil's house, nigh on nine days ago. "So, Merry? Sam? Either of you know what exactly Strider's up to?"

        Merry shook his head. "Not exactly. He's been awful close - like old Gandalf."

        "Gandalf?!" Pippin sounded incredulous. He couldn't rightly tell his companions what the grim and dirty Ranger reminded him of. But it certainly wasn't old Gandalf.

        "Well, I know," said Sam , not taking his eyes off of his cooking. He had been well-trained in the art and wouldn't let the quality of his work suffer for lack of attention. He also didn't feel too comfortable including himself in the conversations of his betters, even if he WAS their elder. But these were desperate times and be that as it may, desperate measures were needed. "Well, you see, a matter o' three days back, but my reckoning, there were lights over this hill. Lots o' lights. All huge and bright. Reminded me o' Old Mr. Ganalf's fireworks they did. But these fireworks were right scary and no mistake. Mr. Strider thought it might've been them Riders fightin' with Mr. Gandalf. But they wouldn't 'ave stayed around this long and Mr. Strider, while you lads was asleepin', he went ta check on where they'd gotten to."

        "You mean the Enemy was HERE three days ago?"

        "That's right, Mr. Pippin. If Mr. Strider ain't mistaken."

        As if on cue, all of the Hobbit turned to check on Frodo, who was fast asleep, if the volume of his snoring was to be any indication. A nagging suspicion began growing which left his blood cold. "But if the Riders were here naught but three days ago, they would've been able to FEEL the Ring, wouldn't they?" The stare he got from Merry quickly silenced him on the matter and they instinctively turned to Sam, who just shrugged off their concern - a little too easily for their liking.

        "I've given some thought to that long and hard, mind you," he said. "An' I figure they can't. After all they didn't find us in Bree and they was right close to it then. You were right, I think, Mr. Pippin. They won't find us here. Besides, even if they did FIND us, like as not they probably wouldn't be able to get up here. Seein' as they can't see too far ahead o' themselves. In fact, if you ask me, I'm thinking that's why Mr. Strider brought us up here to begin with."

        This logic seemed right to the Hobbits, but Pippin suddenly had a sudden urge to extinguish the fire, but let it go. If Strider was right and they could sense the power of the One, then a fire would scarcely make a difference. But all the same it shouldn't be going for too long and Pippin promised himself that he would put it out as soon as he was done. But he figured that it could wait, since Sam was just handing out dinner and putting some more sausages and tomatoes on the pan.

        "Oi! My tomato's burst!" Pippin lamented as the over-cooked tomato burst and splattered its juice onto his clothes. He carefully scooped it out of the pan with his fork. "Could I have some bacon?" He noticed with disdain that all of the bacon had gone to two plates. One of which was on Merry's lap and the other lay next to Sam and was no doubt being saved for Frodo. Merry reluctantly handed over two of his "spare" pieces. He would have taken them from Frodo's plate (as if he'd ever know) but Sam would never allow it. Pippin had just taken a rather large bite of the delicious crispy bacon when he heard an alarmed cry of "What are you doing?" Pip looked up form his plate to see Frodo staring at them. To the end of his days he could never quite find the right way to describe the look on his cousin's face. It was something between horror (at the thought of what could happen), shock (that they even had matches left), and disbelief (at their stupidity for even having the nerve to entertain the notion of a cooking fire at this - or indeed any - time of night). At the time, however, Pippin didn't give it a second thought. He merely smiled.

        While Frodo was scared stiff, Merry answered: "tomatoes, sausages, nice crispy bacon."

        Pippin smiled at Frodo, waiting for the exclamation of gratitude that was sure to come once Frodo realized that there weren't any Nazgul about. He even thought about telling Frodo that it had been his idea, but refrained. Surely that was obvious.

        "We saved some for you, Mr. Frodo," Sam added, helpfully, handing the full and lonely plate to his master.

        Frodo either didn't hear or pointedly ignored his servant and made a be-line for the fire-pit. "Put it out, you fools! Put it out!" His three companions watched in astonishment as he stomped on the flames with his furry, leathery feet, thus scattering the ashes onto Pippin's plate of all places.

        "Oi! That's nice! Ash on my tomatoes!" was all that he could think to say. He didn't have anything to say to Frodo's outburst. He didn't even know what to THINK. The only thing he was sure of was that his dear cousin (Mad Baggins the Second, as some elderly folk in the Shire liked to call him from time to time) had finally "cracked." There was absolutely no call in all of Middle-earth to go panicking immediately upon awakening as Frodo had just done.

        Upon extinguishing the fire, Frodo ran wordlessly to the edge of the cliff. Pippin followed Frodo, albeit a bit more slowly than the others, and peered over the edge. He was about to reprimand his elder cousin for worrying over nothing when he saw them: five large, sinister black figures approaching the base of the watchtower.

        *What the - ? How did THEY get here? They're supposed to be several days away!*

        "Go! Run!" The voice was undoubtedly Frodo's and as Pippin turned to face his cousin, he saw that Frodo had already drawn his sword and was running towards the summit as fast as his short legs could carry him. Pippin couldn't for the life of him figure out WHY they were running. There was no way those old half-dead things could climb the watchtower, and even if they could a few meters would hardly make a difference. But be that as it may, they all ran to the summit, almost knocking each other over in the process.

        Then at last Pippin got a good look at the old statues, but they didn't look nearly as magnificent as he had imagined they would. They were old, decayed, and quite frankly filled him with a sense of terror and foreboding. The one in the far corner in particular scared him. It looked Elvish with its long hair and solemn face. Almost like a statue set over a tombstone as it were.

        For several minutes the three Hobbits formed a protective circle around Frodo, weapons at the ready. When nothing happened, Pippin decided it was high-time to convince Frodo that he was safe. But upon looking at his cousin's shaking body and wide eyes, he decided that it would be a lost cause. It would take at LEAST two hours of waiting to convince Frodo that the Wraiths weren't climbing after him. Though, come to think of it, the Wraiths wouldn't leave knowing that the Ring was on the top of the hill and the Hobbits couldn't on the summit forever! There wasn't enough food! Food! Pippin sighed. He'd only gotten to eat one piece of bacon. If one fire was going to cause so much trouble, when why couldn't it at least be WORTH it? Why couldn't - ?

        Pippin's questioning the ways of Middle-earth was cut short by a loud THUMP and then another, and another. All four Hobbits turned, and to their horror found that the Wraiths had in fact climbed the watchtower and were headed straight for them. It would be no use hiding behind the old statues now! Pippin took his place next to Merry and in front of Frodo - too scared to move any further.

        Sam, on the other hand, had enough gusto for the four of them combined. "Back you devils!" he ordered, as though he intended to attack them if they didn't obey. They didn't - and he did. One blow. Two. Then he was dismissed and thrown against the nearest wall. Weapons out and ready, they approached Pippin and Merry, who were now the only ones that stood between them and the Ring-bearer. Or, more precisely, between their master and un-ending victory.

        Pippin tried to stop shaking and in his mind, he kept repeating: "Must protect Frodo! Must protect Frodo-" But as the Wise would say, "The mind was willing, but the flesh was weak." Pippin had had the intention of following Sam's example of defiance, but before he could move, he was picked up by a Wraith and tossed out of the way. And he could only guess that Merry had met the same fate as well.

        * * *

        Pippin lay senseless on the ground for an incalculable amount of time, at least in his opinion, though it really wasn't more than a minute or two. At first when he regained consciousness he thought that it had all been naught but a dream. But then, if it had been a dream his head wouldn't ache -

        "O Elbereth! Gilthoniel!" a voice suddenly cried out. The cry was soon followed by a blood-curdling scream.  But whether it was out of agony or fear, Pippin couldn’t tell.

        Nope. This certainly wasn't any nightmare of his. No dream he'd ever had (good or bad) had included Elvish phrases. Perhaps an Elf or two, but he had never been able to dream-up the Elvish language! Also, something about that voice wasn't quite right. It sounded alien, like a terrified creature of sorts, but then again, there was something familiar about -

        FRODO! The answer hit him hard and sudden, but he quickly dismissed the implications without solid evidence. NO! Surely Frodo was just calling that name to scare the Wraiths - as it seemed natural that they would detest anything that was in any way related to Elves. As Pippin turned around, though, he was confronted with an image that was beyond his worst nightmare: there was Strider (where had he come from?) throwing flaming torches at the Enemy (where had he gotten the fire from? Their own cooking- fire had been extinguished. Frodo had seen to that), while at the same time fighting them with his sword. And just beyond Strider were two Hobbits crouched down beside a small figure that could only be Frodo. With Hobbit "magic" as the Big Folk called it, he slipped past the fray and joined Sam and Merry who were protecting his cousin from further harm.

        Sam's hand lay on Frodo's brow, attempting to soothe the pain creases and to wipe the sweat from his master's brow, while Merry held a trembling had. Pippin took a seat at Frodo's side, just opposite of Merry. He felt nervous just sitting next to the wounded Hobbit, seeing that Frodo seemed to take the brunt of the consequences for Pippin's careless actions. The most recent of these being the episode in Bree when he had foolishly recounted the story of Bilbo's Party to many Hobbits in the Common Room of the Prancing Pony. No don't think about that now!

        "Where is he?" he heard Frodo mumble weakly, terror plain in his voice.

        "Where is who, dear Frodo?" Merry asked, his voice shaking.

        "THE PALE KING? WHERE IS HE?"

        All of the uninjured Hobbits looked at each other, confused. What was Frodo talking about? What pale king? All they had seen were each other, Strider, and the Wraiths. And while the Wraiths had been kings in ancient days they were now anything but pale.

        "They're not here, Mr. Frodo. And they'll not get you neither, not while your Sam's here! And he'll not leave you a second time! Even if they do have a mind to come back." While Sam tried to talk some sense into his delirious master, Merry massaged his right arm and muttered comforting words that Frodo probably wasn't even listening to.

        Unable to bear helplessly watching his cousin's pain, Pippin decided to follow Merry's example and laid a hand on the wounded shoulder in an attempt to soothe the pain, but to no avail. As soon as his hand touched Frodo's shoulder, his cousin jerked away with a cry of agony.

        "Don't touch - shoulder. Hurts!" Frodo gasped between breaths.

        Pippin looked at the ground, determined not to let the others (especially Frodo) see the tears gathering in his eyes. But as he looked at the ground he noticed something else besides just the dirt - a hand. Frodo's hand, palm upward, and arched slightly towards Pippin, as if inviting him to hold it. Pippin hesitated for a moment and then slowly placed his hand inside Frodo's. He held his breath, hoping he hadn't somehow caused his beloved cousin even further pain. He had already done so once in an attempt to comfort him (as if the pain of the knife-wound wasn't bad enough). He couldn't bear the thought of a second thoughtful action going array - and was overjoyed beyond words to find that Frodo had squeezed his hand back, without jerking away. But even this simple act of forgiveness (for indeed he did perceive it as Frodo's way of saying "I know you were just trying to help") wasn't enough to change his tears from ones of grief to almost-joy.

        The fact of the matter that now occurred to him was both plain as day and equally terrifying. Gone were the days when punishments had been mere groundings, skipped meals, and broken bones. This time, unless they got a miracle, the consequence would be Frodo's death, and it would be all his fault -

        NO! It 'WOULDN'T' be his fault. That phrase merely implied that he still had a chance of escaping the blame. As it was, Frodo was already wounded and looking once more at the agony in his eldest cousin's eyes, he knew that it WAS his fault - and nothing could convince him otherwise. Just as Frodo could find no other solution than to blame himself.