Trishette and Pearl Took: Thank you so much for taking the necessary time to review this story!  I hope you enjoy this chaper!

*********************************

Disclaimer: I might be able to own Lord of the Rings if the copy-right laws expire in a hundred years.  But if I’m still alive by then (by some miracle) then I HIGHLY DOUBT I’ll still be writing fanfiction.  So, I don’t own Lord of the Rings now and the odds of ever owning the books are stacked against me 100:-100 so I guess I never will. Darn it!

Chapter Eight: Frodo-duty

Setting: Middle of Nowhere, October 11, 1418 (four days from Weathertop)

            It had been a trying-time for all of them, that past five days that is: walking for nigh on twenty-miles straight with barely any rest or food.  Save perhaps when the pony’s imperfect trot caused Frodo’s pain to grow, then they would stop to give him a rest for a few minutes.  Those rests, while welcomed by everyone, were very rare.  Frodo mostly kept to himself, while riding a top the pony with a companion whose sole purpose was to keep him from sliding off.  He said precious little, and of what he did speak was not related to the pain.  He had been some-what sociable the first three days, listening to the distracting make-believe tales and memories that his cousins and Sam conjured up to distract him from the pain, but as of this morning, he had been more sullen – in a dream-world as it were.  Sam hadn’t minded, saying that Mr. Frodo needed his rest.  But Strider had purposefully woken him up on several occasions, which hadn’t gone over well with Sam.  Strider had argued that too much rest wasn’t good for Frodo, that it would allow for the Wraiths to get a stronger hold on his mind.  The thought of those awful things tormenting his cousin in his dreams made Pippin uneasy to say the least.  He didn’t know what Strider was getting at, nor was he so certain that he wanted to know.  Some things, as a general rule, were best left unsaid.

            Frodo let out a groan and a hissing pain-filled breath as he came out of his dream-world once again – and Pippin relaxed his grip around Frodo’s waist, to relieve any pain during his waking moments.  They were both on the pony: Frodo because he was too weak to walk, and Pippin was there to hold him, so he wouldn’t fall off while he ‘slept’.  In his heart he knew that the pain drove Frodo into a state of unconsciousness, but as there was nothing he could do, besides bathe the wound with athelas, which was done every night and before every pre-dawn start, he preferred to think of him as merely sleeping.  But he knew that wasn’t the case.  Frodo’s body constantly shook with chills, and Pippin began to fear that the pain creases on Frodo’s brow would remain there to the end of his days.  They certainly hadn’t left since the attack.  Despite the pain, Frodo had shown extraordinary strength with an unknown source. He would always insist on walking after eating lunch, insisting that poor Bill needed a rest, and then he would re-mount the pony once the cold night came.  The chill had begun to work its way down his left side, but it wasn’t really strong there, and he could usually walk, but in the evening hours, the cold air made it nigh unbearable.  Such as was the case now.

            “Shh, it’s alright, I’ve got you,” Pippin soothed, as Frodo began to struggle within his protective embrace.  He tightly, yet hesitantly, held Frodo left hand.  He had learned early on that Frodo often wanted to hold someone’s hand, when the pain began to grow, he would automatically reach out for someone.  Or if it was really intense he would just grab hold of the nearest thing (even if it meant clutching at his own clothes or to clutch at his heart as he tried to fight the pain).  But that never did anything. It would only leave him gasping, breathless, and in tears.  What would always help was to hold a hand.  Whether it was just the comforting presence of a friend, or the physical warmth of the hand, Pippin hadn’t thought to ask.  But one rule still remained the same: the shoulder blade itself was off-limits.  Only Sam and Strider’s gentle hands managed to find their way around that sensitive area when it was ‘medicine time’ and only then.

            “Sam?” Frodo’s voice croaked, just above a whisper, so that none could hear it besides Pippin.

            “No, it’s me,” Pippin whispered softly.  Strider had instructed them not to give away their identity every time Frodo regained consciousness.  He said it was to test Frodo’s over all awareness, so that he could better gauge his condition.  Regardless of whether or not it was for his own good, Pippin (and apparently Frodo as well) thought that it was rather cruel.  But for now Strider was the doctor, and thus his advice prevailed over Sam’s, something that Sam had a very hard time accepting.

            “Pippin?”

            “That’s right,” Pippin whispered softly into his ear. “Do you feel any better, or worse, or just the same?”

            “Better, a little.”

            Frodo’s mostly unresponsive form lay in Pippin’s arms so that his head was laying back against the tween’s shoulder and Frodo’s face was turned towards Pippin’s neck, eyes closed and his left arm hanging like dead-weight at his side.  As Frodo was talking, Pippin ran his hand through Frodo’s dirty curls: they were sweat-soaked, dirty and unkempt.  But Frodo would have it no other way.  Sam had tried to brush his hair about two days ago, but the effort had proved fruitless.  Frodo simply wouldn’t allow it.  The motions such an action required usually jerked his head back, and thus jarred his shoulder.  So this simple act was the only way for Frodo to gain back some slight resemblance of the gentlehobbit that they all knew he was, and this Pippin did as he contemplated Frodo’s words.  He wanted to believe that such a statement meant that he was getting better, but he knew that it wasn’t so.  It had been lightly raining earlier in the evening, and like as not, it was probably the ceasing rain that had dissipated the chill in his left side, not the lessening of poison.

            *Poison* Pippin thought ruefully, as a cold shudder past through him, and he vaguely wondered how much worse such things were for Frodo.  Even during relatively warm afternoons, his arm was still ice-cold to the touch.  These cold rains had to be pure agony.  But he never spoke of it.  Even though Frodo lived with such agony day in and day out, Pippin still had a hard time believing that it was happening.  He felt as though any moment now, he would surely wake up screaming in his own bed, to discover that this was only just a horrible dream.  Then he would get on his pony, ride to Bag-end and find Frodo, sleeping in late (as usual) and Sam trying to drag him out of bed to greet the pleasant morning, but his mind was slowly, very slowly, convincing him that it was indeed reality.  He could scarcely imagine that someone would actually be capable of attacking another person, like the Ring-wraiths had done to Frodo (not that the Wraiths were actually people anymore, but that was beside the point).  What astonished him to no end was that the Black Riders would apparently soak their enormous weapons in a foul poison – as if the knife wound itself wasn’t enough to kill their victims: they had to be poisoned as well!  Though what kind of poison it was Strider seemed reluctant to say.  He had settled with, “the Enemy is the keeper of many foul poisons.  It is impossible to know for sure which one has been used in this case.”  Pippin suddenly remembered Merry’s words about Strider only a few short hours before the attack: “He’s been awful close, like old Gandalf.”  He hadn’t understood the words then, but he was starting to understand them now.  It was obvious the Ranger was keeping something from them: about the poison, for one, and also he hadn’t exactly told them how it was that he came to know Gandalf, which made Pippin wonder if they even did know each other.  But he did not speak of his suspicions, because he knew that the other two ‘guard-hobbits’ harbored the same doubts was well.  The only one who ever seemed to trust the Ranger was Frodo, who after only one day on the trail had told Merry: “I think a servant of the Enemy would look fairer and feel fouler.” Merry’s reply to that had been an indignant, “He’s foul enough.”

            Perhaps Frodo had been right all along.  Strider might be the dirtiest, slave-driver of a Ranger in Middle-earth, but he was doing what few people of Bree would have dared to do: help them.  Whatever else Strider might be hiding from them, Pippin would let it rest, so long as he saw to Frodo’s safety.  Pippin hugged his cousin close as another series of violent chills shook his body, and a silent cry died on his lips.  Pippin had seen this several times: it would look as though a heart-piercing scream was on the way, then Frodo would gain some control of himself from an unseen source of strength, and the cry would die before it could come.  Pippin just shook his head in admiration, if it was him in Frodo’s place he would be screaming for as long as his voice could hold out.  But not Frodo!  The only signs of his pain were moans, grimaces, and silent tears – and for this Pippin was grateful.  The last thing they needed was for Frodo’s cries to alert the Enemy to their whereabouts.  It was a secret for now, and that was how it was supposed to stay. 

            “Shh,” Pippin soothed, wiping some stray tears away from Frodo’s cold cheek, still keeping a firm grip on the limp body.  “I’ve got you.  Just relax and don’t cry.”  Oh how he hated saying those words! ‘Don’t cry’!  What was he supposed to do?  Tell Frodo, ‘Oh, don’t worry, the pain will pass when we reach Rivendell in another week’?  That wouldn’t help for the time-being.  But he was merely following orders.  Strider had commanded them to all stay quiet, so as to not attract unwanted attention, and this included Frodo as well.  If Pippin could have his way, he’d hold Frodo in his arms and let him cry until his voice was hoarse.  It had to be killing him to remain silent for so long!

            “I’ll try.”

            “That’s all I ask for,” Pippin whispered.  He looked down on either side of him to find Sam and Merry looking up at them, their wide eyes locked on Frodo.  Pippin gave them each a half-hearted smile.  He knew that they also wanted to help his cousin.  But they would have to wait their turn.  As a general-rule “Frodo-duty” changed shifts every two hours, and his had barely started.  He wanted to help care for his cousin in any way possible, and if this was all he could do, then he would do it for as long as was allowed.  Hugging his cousin close and keeping a firm grip on the cold hand, he began to hum the tune of an Elvish song.  Distracting though that was, it nearly put Frodo to sleep, and they couldn’t have that – for some reason Strider wouldn’t allow him to sleep for very long at any given time.  So instead Pippin decided that it was high-time that he let his cousin in on the secret dream that he had had while riding Bill (alone) on the way to that ancient and equally cursed watchtower.  “Remember that little rascal, Sancho Proudfoot?”

            No answer.  Pippin was afraid for a moment that Frodo had drifted off into another ‘Wraith-dream’.  “Frodo?!”  An almost unintelligible mumble escaped his cousin’s lips.  “If it hurts to talk just squeeze my hand once with your good hand for ‘yes’ and twice for ‘no’, okay?”  He felt a single distinct squeeze from Frodo’s relatively warm hand, then continued his story.  “Well I had this dream a few nights ago.  Sancho and I were little again, at your 30th birthday.  Remember that?”  One squeeze, somewhat weaker than the other.  He had better get to the good part fast before Frodo dozed off too much.  “Well the S.B.’s were there too.  And old Lobelia had on this really ugly dress and we decided that it was much to fancy for a party, so you know what I did?”  Another squeeze: this one stronger.

            Frodo nodded, and spoke, his voice just a touch above what one might call a raspy whisper.  “Yes, I remember that party, but you were only about seven.  How do you remember?”

            Pippin smiled.  “I don’t remember much.  But I thought about my mum’s apple pie before I went to sleep and I think that’s how I had this dream.  It wasn’t quite the same as the real thing.”

            “Oh.”

            “So anyway there was Lobelia, talking to Sandyman about why she should get Bag-end because Bilbo… well you know her opinion about him!” Frodo nodded slightly and Pippin was momentarily afraid that he had broached a subject that might be a little too painful for him to remember, but Pippin took his chance.  “So anyway there she was, with Lotho and Otho in tow of course, and we decided to teach them a lesson.  Well of course this isn’t what really happened, but anyway, Sancho and I really wanted to hear her scream.  So I went out to collect worms while Sancho went to the party table – he didn’t trust me with the food if you can imagine that!”

            “Easy.” Frodo mumbled.  “That’s easy!”

            “What?” Pippin gave a look and a voice of mock indignation.  “You wouldn’t trust me either!”

            “Corse not.”

            “So then we met back at the party table and Sancho had cut up three pieces of the apple pie, one for each of the S.B.s.  And then we hid behind a bush and stuffed the apple-filling with worms!”

            Frodo moved his head slightly to look his cousin.  “You din’t!”

            “Oh didn’t we!” A sly smile crossed Pippin’s face at his cousin’s almost-comic look of disbelief.  “So then we approached the S.B.s and pretended to be real gentlehobbits, or at least we looked like we were trying to be gentlehobbits.  We didn’t quite look-the-part as you might say, we could hardly keep a straight face and then all at once they bit down… and Lobelia had worms hanging out of her mouth! You could have heard her screaming all the way from Buckland!”

            He hadn’t expected much of a response other than an amused smile from his elder.  But Frodo surprised him by laughing, loud and hard.  So grateful they were to hear such a heart-warming sound from Frodo of all people, that everyone (including Strider) joined him in laughing, until their merriment was cut off by a strange shrieking, howling sound, which resembled that of a Black Rider.

            “Quiet!” Strider ordered with a harsh whisper, though it was hardly necessary.  The Hobbits had already clamped their mouths shut and were now forming a protective circle around Frodo’s pony, swords out and ready (or in Sam’s case, his sword in one hand and a frying pan in the other).  “Sam, follow me!”

            Without a word, and only one glance back at his master, Sam followed, leaving Frodo with only his cousins for protection.  Pippin held Frodo close and vowed to take the wound for Frodo this time if need be, but also praying to the Lady Elbereth, that such an action would not be proven necessary, but somehow he doubted that.  “We’re here for you, Frodo.  We won’t let them get you again!”

            But Frodo – limp and shaking violently (either from fear or wound pain, Pippin couldn’t tell), had fallen unconscious in his arms.

~To Be Continued~

A/N: I will try to write chapter 3 to “Mithril” probably Saturday, Sunday or Monday during study breaks, those chapters are relatively easy to write, but I’m not making any promises.

This will be the last up-date in a while, because I have Midterms!!  I hate tests!  Anyway, in the meantime, I would like you to do me a favor, go to my Favorite Stories list (on fanfiction.net) and go the one called “A Hero Lost” by Moriel.  It’s really good and she’s put it on hold while editing some Tolkien mistakes, she has only finished editing one of the eight chapter and she won’t update until she finishes all of them!  So I think some more recent reviews might encourage her to hurry up.  I must warn you though, it’s a Frodo-death fic from Sam’s point of view.  It’s really sad, and I’m giving nothing away since the first chapter is entitled death, and Frodo’s death I believe is mentioned in the summary.  Also my enthusiasm for this story can be reflected in the fact that I have submitted the past eleven reviews over the past six months, since the story was last up-dated.