Title: Frodo's Bane and Pippin's Stomach

Author Pen-name: Arwen Baggins

***EDITED @ 7:40 on 9/22***

Chapter Seven: The Truce

Disclaimer: See chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, and/or 5

Setting: Amon Súl (yes, they're finally leaving), October 6&7, 1418

        One would think that the closer they came to dawn, the more hospitable the environment would be. It would be brighter, warmer, and would chase away all images of dark and danger, like the first light after a long and dangerous blizzard. But such was not the case tonight. Dawn drew nearer with every hour, but the stillness of the night seemed to freeze their blood. They jumped at every shadow, convinced beyond a doubt that the Wraiths would attack once exhaustion took them to a sleep from which they would be unable to awaken. It was for this reason that the three guard Hobbits had decided to split up, so that the Wraiths would not be able to catch them unawares a second time. But of course they couldn't all spilt up, that was nigh on ridiculous and absolutely out of the question. They needed to have as much protection surrounding the sleeping Frodo as was Hobbitly possible. For this reason, it had been suggested that one Hobbit go down to the cliff-side and watch the road from a distance, though he would not be permitted to take a torch. They had to keep Frodo warm with the fire, and therefore the fire had to stay as far from sight as possible, which of course meant on top of the dell, where the blaze would be hidden safely behind the old statues - not on the cliff-side where it had been seen in the first place. If the Wraiths had suspected them to be smart enough to leave, then so much the better. As it was, the only way to discern their whereabouts was the smoke - the unmistakable sign of theirs (and Strider's folly) for staying here - which was barely visible in the night sky. Having come to this group decision, Pippin had volunteered to take the first watch. His companions had eyed him suspiciously when he had volunteered to do this, but had not questioned his motives - and for this Pippin was very grateful. Receiving no arguments from the elder Hobbits, Pippin had gone back down the path to their former camp, mindful of Merry's caution to watch his step, not that he really needed it. In that night alone he had trodden the path so many times that he now felt that he had every rock and crack memorized.

        His decision to take the watch had been made not too long after Frodo had called his faithful servant away from an act of bloodshed. Pippin at the time had still been too scared to go anywhere near Sam, and had thus volunteered to take the first watch- if only to get away from what he imagined to be Sam's Look of murderous accusation. He was now sitting in the same spot where Frodo had lain sleeping when all of this had started not long ago. Though this time his thoughts were not on food, but on the Road below - and on Sam. The more Pippin thought about it, the more he came to realize the folly of his own presumptions. Of course Sam would be mad at him for the fire, and Hobbit with good sense would be angry at him and anxious for Frodo, but fortunately, Sam possessed what he had heard the Gaffer call "good Hobbit-sense". Meaning that no matter how mad he was, he wouldn't take it out on Pippin - at least not physically. He might give the irresponsible Tween a lecture that would put both the Thain and the Master of Buckland to shame, but he wouldn't dare to even lay a hand on the not-so- innocent child. So the sense of immediate danger to his life had faded away none too soon, but not his guilt. Try as they might, neither Sam nor Merry could convince him that he was not solely to blame. So there he sat wallowing in his guilt and promising his half-asleep brain that he couldn't afford to fail again.

        He had wanted to prove his worth to his companions by being the perfect guard Hobbit all night long. What he hadn't considered was that poor hungry Hobbits - particularly growing Tweenage lads - can only go so long without sleep. So it was that he found himself trudging slowly up the slope, to turn in. Better to admit his weakness (as he perceived it) than to have Frodo suffer from yet another attack by the Black Riders. "Your turn, Merry." He tried to conceal a huge yawn as he stood over the apparently sleeping form of his cousin. He knew though that that was not the case. Merry had his emergency torch stick still in hand, and he wasn't snoring, something that he always did when he slept. No one could sleep that night, pretend though they might..

        "Finally," Merry mumbled. "Sam and I were just talking about going down to check on you. See if you'd fallen asleep or not."

        "Me? Fall asleep on guard-duty!" Pippin pretended the look of one with slaughtered pride. But he wasn't a very good actor. "Of course not!" He may have dozed off once or twice in his own thoughts, but he had never fallen to snoring.

        Merry laughed, the first sound of merriment to be heard among the walking-party since they had left the Shire. "Alright. My turn." He smiled as he turned his back to his companions and headed down the familiar path. As soon as he was out of sight, his smile transformed into a look of guilt and dread. Well it had finally happened: he had left Pippin and Sam alone! Well, Frodo was still there, but he somehow doubted that Frodo would have the strength to wake-up and stop Sam a second time. No, Frodo was out stone- cold from exhaustion and pain from the wound. He wouldn't be waking up until late the next morning. In the meantime, Pippin and Sam needed to reconcile their differences among themselves and Merry knew he would only get in the way, at least on Sam's part.

        Back by the camp-fire, Sam and Pippin sat watch over the sleeping Frodo: Sam on his left and Pippin to the right. For the next hour or two, they sat in obstinate silence, too preoccupied with their mutual concern for Frodo to even bring up their own differences. Pippin, for his part, avoided eye-contact with the gardener/servant/body-guard. His eyes instead found their focus on Frodo, who didn't appear to be having peaceful dreams. At times, he would cry out in his sleep and toss about weakly, seized by nightmares that he had not the strength to fight. Then at other times, he would smile and mumble something about "mum and dad."

        At all times, these included, Pippin found himself stroking Frodo's pale cheek, murmuring what he hoped were words of comfort. He didn't know what it was like to lose one's parents - especially at such a young age. But Frodo had- and it was no secret. Indeed, it seemed that most everyone in the Shire had heard about the unfortunate accident along the Brandywine River that had taken both of Frodo's parents over-night when he had been no more than twelve years of age - a good decade before Pippin himself had even been born. Well for that matter, it had happened before either Merry or Sam had been born as well. Pippin hadn't thought much about Frodo's deceased parents, since he had never met them. But he remembered the first time he had heard the local-belief regarding the death of Frodo's parents years later. He had seen Frodo's usually kind features take a hard and abrupt turn to grief and rage when they had found the local gossipers telling their own version of the deaths of Drogo and Primula Baggins. The kindest rumor to go around had been about Drogo being so over-weight that his weight alone had caused the boat to capsize. Then of course there was Ted's version of how Frodo's parents had drownded each other. About how the 'queer Brandybuck lass' had taken her sensible Baggins husband on a boat trip for the sole purpose of killing him, and how in a final act of revenge, Drogo had pulled her down as well and held her weak body underwater until they both drownded. He remembered with astonishing clarity how Frodo had left the pub a few minutes later (after giving the townsfolk a piece of his mind) and how he had broken down in tears as soon as the door of Bag-end was safely locked behind them. That look of grief greatly resembled the one that now played across Frodo's features as he called out for his parents in a dream that had about as much pain as the present.

        Pippin had never given much thought to it before, but now he found himself wondering what his cousin had been like with his own parents. How would his life have been different?  He never would have been adopted by Bilbo, never would have inherited Bilbo’s fortune – or the Ring for that matter.  With a start Pippin found himself realizing the Frodo wouldn’t be HERE, and in so much pain if they hadn't climbed in the boat on  that fateful night nearly forty years before! He shook his head ruefully. Forty- years! He often forgot that is cousin was nearly twice his age! Frodo still looked like a Tween, and Pippin had to sometimes remind himself that Frodo was his elder by over twenty years. Now of course they knew why that was. Frodo had stopped aging upon inheriting the Ring at his coming- of-age so many years ago. But now the true identity, if you will, of Old Bilbo's Magic Ring had finally been discovered and Frodo's time to give it up to the Elves would soon be at hand. Then, without the Ring, he would start to age! Pippin found himself stroking Frodo's dirt-covered, chocolate-brown curls in a mixture of amusement and dread at the thought of them turning grey, or perhaps even white within the next few months. Or perhaps even the next few days, who knew? Pippin allowed himself an amused smile at the thought of a grey-haired Frodo, walking around with creaking joints and the help of a cane! That would certainly be a sight to behold!

        He hadn't even noticed his small laugh until San interrupted to question him about it. "What's so funny, Mr. Pippin?"

        "Nothing much," Pippin answered hesitantly. He was suddenly aware of how Sam might react to Pippin's amusement at his master's impending ageing. He might not be so quick to see the humor behind it.

        Sam, who had more important matters on his hand than the pranks that he imagined Pippin remembering with relish, turned wordlessly back to his master, bathing the injured shoulder. That job had landed with him for two reasons. One, Pippin refused to get near the gaping wound for fear of brining further harm to it, and secondly, Sam wouldn't have trusted it to anyone else even if they HAD offered to relieve him of it. As he saw it, caring for his master was HIS job, and such a strong sense of duty was what kept him from seeing that he had done everything that he could to help. In his eyes, his master was wounded and all of his past actions had amounted to failure, plain and simple. But he realized also that dwelling on the past would amount to nothing, turned back to the youngest member of the walking-party: the only one who seemed to be able to smile. "Oh it's not nuthin', Mr. Pippin."

        Pippin sighed. "I was just thinking about when we get to Rivendell, how Frodo's going to age once he gives up the Ring to the Elves. Picturing him with wrinkled skin, grey hair and a cane!"

        To his utter amazement, Sam actually laughed. "Aye, Mr. Pippin. An' somehows I'm a-thinkin' that Mr. Frodo won't mind. He wants to get rid of the Thing right quick. Tis a small price to pay to be rid of the cursed thing. But somehows I'm also thinkin' that Mr. Frodo will be changin' his mind right quick when he starts buying some ointment for his joints, just like me Gaffer!"

        "Come on, Sam! He's not that old! He's ONLY what - 52?"

        "Naw. I think 'e's 51."

        "Oh one year, big difference. Just think Sam, next year we'll REALLY have to drink to his health!" In the Shire it was a tradition to drink to the health of the birthday-lad, especially among the elder folk. Such a tradition was always considered a joke when it was directed at the inhabitants of Bag-end, simply because they had always enjoyed unprecedented health. But no longer.

        "Aye," Sam whispered once again gently rubbing his hand across the pain creases that still lined his master's brow. "Next year. I hope it comes soon. I don't know about what's comin' with the Ring and them Wraiths all but the sooner it's done the better. Just so long as my master's safe in his own bed in Bag-end with a good book and warm cup of tea. Might not be wishin' for much but I'd rather see that than all the Elves in Middle- earth!"

        Pippin chuckled. "You'll be waiting quite a while, Sam. Somehow I doubt the S.B.'s will let Frodo back into Bag-end, since they have the deed now."

        Sam grimaced in disgust. "Oh, I'd clean forgotten! My poor flowers! They've been ruined by now! Sure as my name's Samwise Gamgee!"

        They were getting off topic! This had all started out about Frodo, and as much as Pippin wanted to put aside his cousin's misery for a few minutes, he needed to address something before he lost his nerve all together. "Sam?" He swallowed nervously. "Did you really mean what you told Frodo about not killing me?"

        Sam was genuinely shocked and concerned about what could have given the Tween such an idea, and horrified by the suggestion that he would lie to his master. "Of course, Mr. Pippin! Why do you ask?"

        Pippin hung his head, and sighed trying to hold back the tears that threatened to return. "Because it's my fault! When I told you that a hot meal would be good for your master, I wasn't really thinking about Frodo! I was just saying that to get you to say 'yes' it was really all about me! All I cared about was my own bottom-less stomach! And look where it's gotten us! Where it's gotten FRODO!"

        "Pippin, Pippin, Pippin," Sam scolded gently, shaking his head with what might have been a slight smile. "You always were stubborn. We've been through this already! It's not your fault! If anything it's Strider's!" Before Pippin could interrupt to point out the obvious, Sam continued. "I know, Mr. Pippin. I know Mr. Strider came to Mr. Frodo rescue. But he came too late." By now Sam's voice had turned from the gentle scolding to what appeared to be raw anger, and Pippin silently thanked the Valar that the Look and Lecture were not being aimed at him. "He came, and for that I'm grateful." He turned back to Frodo, trying not to think about how worse things could have been. "But he should have warned us first and - wait where is he anyway? Shouldn't he be back by now. It's almost dawn!"

        "I don't know," Pippin answered softly. "He'll be back. Give him another half-hour. Knowing him, we'll be getting up and leaving as soon as the sun is fully risen!" They both looked down at Frodo, wondering what the Ranger would do about him. How would they get him down without hurting him? Aw well, they'd deal with that when the time came. In the meantime - "You were saying?"

        "I was gong to say," Sam continued, "that we can't change anything. Much as we might like to, and be that as it may, well Mr. Frodo won't benefit from our arguing so I want it to stop! We've got to think about Mr. Frodo, not our own guilt. If we do that well - let's jus say we'll have a lot more to feel guilty for. Mr. Frodo's still alive, and while he is I don't' want no talk about blame! Mr. Frodo's got enough problems without us sharing ours with him. Alright, lad?"

        Pippin nodded, and groaned inwardly. This would not be easy! He wanted to just fall into Frodo's arms and say how sorry he was. But it was not to be. Pippin might not have had Sam's brains to think of such logic under such pressure. But thinking about it, there was no use denying the truth of his words.

        "And," Sam continued, knowing the lad's mind and what was probably going on behind it, "Mr. Frodo already knows that you feel guilty, so helpin' 'im will show your sorry better than any words. You don't have to tell 'im the whole story. He already knows it. If you REALLY want to show me that you've learned your lesson then you'll do just as I say. Truce?" Sam extended his hand out to Pippin's.

        Pippin smiled. This was going MUCH better than he had ever hoped for. "Truce," he agreed. So it was that they shook hands in a truce agreement, right over Frodo's prone body, that they were sworn to protect. Pippin would not mention his guilt of his own free will and Sam would not bring any harm of any kind to Pippin so long as he did everything within his power to help see Frodo safely to Rivendell. Punishment would only result if he brought further harm upon his cousin through prideful means. Basically, don't be so eager to help that you can't ask for some yourself when you need it. Truce settled and minds cleared, they turned back to caring for Frodo, who seemed to be unaffected by the heart-felt truce that had just been held between two of his dearest friends.

        Another half-hour later, Frodo stirred and awoke with a painful grimace and a cry of pain.

        "How do you feel, Mr. Frodo?" That question of course was meant as 'Are you feeling much worse'? Even someone with half a set of working eyes OR ears could tell that Frodo was in pain.

        "Still hurts! So cold. It's getting worse."

        Sam shook his head sadly. He had been hoping that he was wrong. He had felt the chill spreading. But had attributed it mostly to the dying fire. The fire had gone out sometime ago. The chill wind had blown out the fire and they could not start up another one. The long over-due talk with Pippin and the chill breeze that came with the dawn, had discouraged Sam from trying to build another one. That and the necessity to save the matches. He had no desire to waste the precious cargo on a hopeless cause, but feeling the distinct icy chill of the wound now making its way down Mr. Frodo's arm and to the left side of his torso, made Sam grab the matches with a vengeance. The things would HAVE to work with him.

        He wasted about three of the precious things before he had a nice fire going - and none too soon either. They noticed Frodo looking up at a Black Shadow that had descended over them, his eyes wide with fear. "Where's Merry?" The sudden tension that had taken the small company was some-what relieved upon recognizing Strider.

        "He's standing watch by our old camp-site," Pippin answered, his voice still shaking from the shock. Couldn't Strider just for once, announce his presence without scaring them half to death?

        "Call him back, we must leave soon."

        Pippin complied and practically ran down the trail in his hurry to leave this cursed place. "Merry, come on! Strider's back! Let's go!" No answer. "Merry?" He looked around for a second to find Merry sleeping on the ground. His head in the pile of ashes where there fire had been before. "Merry, are you sleeping?" Pippin teased.

        "Huh? No!" By now Merry was up and wearing a huge grin on his face, which disappeared once he realized that the events of that night - no, now it was 'last night' had not in fact been the nightmare he was hoping for. "I was keeping watch in - my own special way!"

        "Sure, Merry. But don't worry, I won't tell Sam. Besides you need your sleep. We've got a long day ahead of us."

        "That's for sure," Merry sighed, picking himself up off the ground. "So, how did your talk with Sam go?"

        "I'll tell you later. But let's just say my life is no longer in any danger!"

        Merry smiled with relief and pride. So Pippin had FINALLY faced Sam without either his or Frodo's intervention! It was about time too! "I'm proud of you, Pip. You didn't come running back to me for help dealing with Sam. And you came out of it in on piece!"

        Pippin simply savored the praise knowing that it was not wholly false. It had had much to do with Sam's understanding. But he had been the one to broach the subject without turning back to reclaim his guard- post. "Come on, let's go." The whole story would have to wait for later. Perhaps once they were within the safety of Rivendell perhaps.

        Merry, making sure to brush the ashes out of his unkempt hair, eagerly followed Pippin back to their camp on the dell, where they found Strider bent over a large piece of black cloth and a long sword with what appeared to be a slightly notched blade. Pippin at first thought he might be examining his own cloak and weapon. But that made no sense! "What is it, Strider?" he asked, his curiosity getting the better of him.

        In response the Ranger showed him a small tear in the cloak. It was about a foot above the crudely stitched hem, and small enough for only one thing - a small sword. Frodo's sword! Until that moment Pippin had forgotten that Frodo had attacked the foot of his enemy once he had fallen to the ground.

        "This was the stroke of Frodo's sword! The only hurt that it did to his enemy, I fear; for it is unharmed, but all blades perish that pierce that dreadful King. More deadly to him was the name of Elbereth. And more deadly to Frodo was this!" His gaze now turned away from the cloak and to the sword hilt. As he raised it towards the hazy light of the morning, it vanished like a puff of smoke from the fire. "Alas!" he cried. And for the first time the Hobbits heard the first thing from him that even remotely resembled dread and panic. "It was this accursed knife that gave the wound. Few now have the skill in healing to match such evil weapons. But I will do what I can." From a pouch on his belt he drew out several leaves and explained that it was Athelas, a sweet-smelling and rare weed that could be used to combat such wounds, though he seemed to have little hope that it would do much good. It would hopefully slow the poisoning and lessen the pain, but it was far from a cure. He added a few leaves to the pot of still- boiling water and began to gently rub in the Athelas-water before Sam- or any of them could protest. What protest they would have voiced were silenced by Frodo's almost pleasurable sigh of relief: like one bathing in hot water after a hard-days work. Though surely none of them had ever dared to bathe in water that would utterly burn the skin. But once again, Frodo didn't seem to mind. In fact he seemed much more at ease in that moment than he had the whole night. What Frodo didn't know was that he wasn't the only one affected by the weed. It's fragrance was soothing, like as Sam would later say 'one who went to a garden to ease the mind. The most beautiful garden, mind you. It was truly amazin'.

        Strider looked at the wound again, with what appeared to be a healer's expertise, and for a moment Pippin thought that he might yet have cure. But his hopes were dashed. "This is beyond my skill to heal. He needs Elvish medicine."

        "We're sixteen days from Rivendell!" Sam called out into the night as he watched Strider run into the night with Frodo slung over his shoulder. "He'll never make it!"

        *Thanks, Sam! We really needed to hear that!* Pippin sighed. He was inclined to believe Sam. It was amazing that Frodo had even survived the night. How was he supposed to last for another two weeks or more? Pippin sighed, there was nothing they could do for Frodo besides what they were already doing. No point in making a debate about it - that was the last thing Frodo needed to hear.

        "That is true, Master Gamgee. But that is only if we keep up the slow pace that we have been using for the past several days. We have to hurry now. Come on!"

        *Slow pace! What slow pace? He'd been a slave driver for the past week! If he thought that that was slow-?* Pippin swore beneath his breath. His feet would fall off at the pace he imagined Strider taking. But if that was to be the punishment for his selfishness then he would take it. His aching feet were a small price to pay to see Frodo to safety of Rivendell.

        With Frodo settled once more, they turned their minds to more pressing matters. Having Frodo walk was out of the question, and the very suggestion was defeated by Sam before it could even be made. Any one with eyes could see that he could not walk, so Sam wouldn't even let Frodo try. The next day perhaps but not now! Now his master needed to rest and gain back what strength he could. So it was grudgingly decided among the Hobbits that they would have to carry the luggage themselves, while Bill carried Frodo. But Bill was tied down below to a tree by the base of the watchtower. So Strider would carry Frodo down.

        As they were climbing down, Frodo cried out for Gandalf in a scream that chilled Pippin's blood. Whether he was crying out, wishing for Gandalf's gentle arms that wouldn't be hurting him so much during the descent or fear of what had happened to the wizard, the other Hobbits didn't know. But they suddenly found themselves giving much thought to the wizard's whereabouts. The most puzzling question of all was why had Gandalf written that letter about Strider? And why had he left it with Barliman Butterbur at the Prancing Pony? Had Gandalf known that he wouldn't be able to help them? And if that be the case, then who was this Strider to earn Gandalf's trust in such an important issue such as the Ring? Had he not said that Men were the last people to trust with power? Why was Strider the apparent exception? Pippin sighed as he remembered what Gildor the Elf had told them back in the Shire - what seemed like an eternity ago, even though it had been scarcely more than a week: 'Do not meddle in the affairs of wizards, of they are subtle and quick to anger.' A quick grin came to Pippin's face at the thought of Gandalf finding him and Merry at Rivendell: he was expecting Frodo and Sam to be the only Hobbits arriving in the Last Homely House. He would be mistaken - and horribly shocked. Oh but that was going to be a sight to behold indeed. He could hardly wait!

~TBC~

A/N: Why do you look so surprised? I told you I'd get them off Weathertop, didn't I?

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