The wind blew and the trees swayed, bringing the sweet, clean odor of the pines to him, and Boromir was reminded, sharply and almost painfully, of the ancient trees of the White Mountains in far away Gondor. He sat on the boulder at the foot of the rocky slope, lost in homesick memories of his city, and he thought of his brother. Was Faramir there in Minas Tirith, standing on the walls of the White City as they turned rose and gold in the morning sun? Or perhaps he was on patrol and slept uneasily on some rough bed of boughs in Ithilien, awaiting the horn-call to battle. Feeling strangely restless, Boromir put on his boot and began to climb up toward the trees. It would be pleasant to walk among them, just for a little while, while the halflings finished their task. Surely he would hear them if they called, and in any case what possible harm could come to them in this empty land?

Boromir walked and wandered aimlessly, lost in thought. His mind touched idly on different things: His father and brother, battles lost and won, but his thoughts kept returning again and again to the folly of sending helpless little folk to do what the hands of the wise and strong might more easily accomplish. These halflings were goodhearted, foolish little beings, without an ounce of meanness. To send them into the wilderness on this suicidal quest was more than folly it was madness. More than madness, it was cruelty. They were as merry and lighthearted as children, as quick to laugh and sing as they were to mourn-although even the youngest child of Gondor would not have wept over a spilled tray of sweets, as Pippin had done at a feast in Rivendell before their departure. (Though truthfully, Boromir was not sure if this was a characteristic of all halflings or merely a peculiarity of this one in particular.) None of them were very skilled with a blade. The little one was quick on his feet, but too eager to rush to the attack. His elder cousin was a more promising pupil, confidant and determined, if perhaps slightly overcautious. The eldest halfling and his stout manservant were completely hopeless. The servant was too softhearted and handled his sword as if it were a gardening tool. The master was too gentle, with the long, white hands of a gentleman scholar, too weak to swing a sword, much less to carry his dreadful burden to the Fire. That in itself was ridiculous-why cast away such a weapon? A dangerous weapon, it was said, but a weapon is only as strong as the hand that wields it. Imagine what could be done with such a thing, were it in the hands of someone more fit! Now, if he had the ring-

Boromir had been walking with rounded shoulders, as if weighted with a heavy load, and staring at the ground before his feet. Now he laughed sharply and wiped his face with a trembling hand, then straightened and looked about him, returning suddenly to himself. What had he been thinking? The sky was thick with clouds and the sun was veiled; he could not tell how long he had wandered. Surely the little ones had finished, why had they not sought him out?

Filled with a strange dread, Boromir began to walk quickly down toward the trail. For a moment the wind was quiet and the murmuring pines were still. A high, thin wail came to Boromir’s ears and he halted. It sounded like the little one, Pippin. Boromir swore an oath and began to run. Pray heaven that he would not be too late to avert any evil his wanderings might have caused!
~~~~~~~~~

Pippin shivered and shook. Sam had become so cold that he could no longer lift his upper body out of the water, and Pippin’s arms ached terribly from the strain of bearing Sam’s full weight. The wind felt like being stabbed with dull knives, and his fingers were so numb he could no longer feel Sam’s clutching hands. Sam’s pale face was mere inches away from his own. How much worse the cold must be for him, half-submerged in ice water! Sam’s lips were tinged blue and his eyes had gone closed. Pippin felt a thrill of terror. “Sam!” he cried. He squeezed Sam’s hands tight enough to bruise. “Sam, wake up!”

Sam blinked and raised his head. “My, did I fall asleep? I didn’t mean to, but I’m so tired, Mr. Pippin.” His arms and legs felt like lead, but strange warmth was spreading up from his toes, like being wrapped in a warm blanket.

“Stay awake!” Pippin said. Oh, how he wished Boromir would hurry! He wished Gandalf or Strider were here, or Frodo, or Merry, or anyone! He had gotten Sam into this pickle and now he wasn’t strong enough to get him out of it. What could he do? “Boromir will be here soon, but until then keep your head up! Think of a story or a song, or a riddle! A riddle, Sam! How about, twelve pairs hanging high, twelve knights riding by, each knight took a pear, and yet left a dozen hanging there.” This was one of Cousin Bilbo’s riddles told to him by Frodo, and being a little lad then and not very good at arithmetic, it had stumped him for months. “What’s the answer, Sam? Sam!"

Pippin’s voice seemed to be coming from far away. Why was he pinching his hands so tight, anyhow? Surely it wouldn’t hurt to rest his eyes for a bit, just a little bit, until Captain Boromir came.

Pippin watched Sam’s eyelids droop and close, and a long wail of misery rose from his chest. Hot tears leaked from his eyes and ran down his cold cheeks, pattering on Sam’s knuckles, freezing into crystal beads on the cuffs of his jacket. All the world was silent under the pitiless sky, and Pippin had never felt so small and helpless and alone. What could he do? And the only answer was keep holding on. Well, he would hang on to poor Sam until his hands froze off, if that was what he had to do. But he wished Boromir would hurry!
~~~~~~~~~~

Boromir plunged down the hill, stumbling as the loose stones and brown pine needles slid beneath his feet. He reached the boulder and skittered, falling to one knee and tearing his garment, but touched the cold ground briefly with the palm of his hand and hurried on. His shield banged painfully against his back, his lungs burned in the crisp air, his hand was on the hilt of his sword. Whatever the little ones had encountered he meant to ready for it. He cursed himself for his foolish woolgathering in the wood, when he should have been keeping watch. Had he been guilty of such a dereliction of duty in Minas Tirith he would have been flogged, or worse, son of the Steward or not, and he would have richly deserved every stripe.

He reached the shore of the frozen pool and stood for a moment, stricken to the heart. Pippin was stretched out on his stomach in the center of the pool, gripping Sam’s hands. Sam lay with his cheek against the ice and only his head and arms out of the water, seemingly asleep, and his face was very white. Boromir’s gaze kept returning with horrified fascination to the sight of those small, clasped hands, blue with cold, but doggedly clinging to each other. Even in death they would not give up their hold.

Boromir could hear nothing but his own pulse beating in his ears, but he must have made some sort of sound, for he saw Pippin raise his head. His face was streaked with tears that had frozen on his cheeks, and his teeth chattered. “Boromir, help me! Sam-”

“Hold on, I am coming out to you,” Boromir called. He threw down his shield and unbuckled his sword belt, laying it and his horn gently on the ground. He must make himself as light as possible. He flattened himself on the ice, which creaked dangerously under his weight, and crawled forward until he could grasp Pippin’s heels. “Now, I dare not come any closer, so I must pull you both. You must hold tight to him a little longer.”

“I’ll try,” Pippin wept. “But I can’t feel his hands anymore.”

“You must hold!” Boromir said, and began to pull. It was short work to haul him to the edge of the ice, dragging Sam along with him. Sam was dead weight in his arms as he lifted him up, and Boromir’s heart sank. He had seen strong men perish of the cold in far less time than this little one had been in the water.

“Oh Sam, oh Sam,” Pippin wailed.

“I think he is merely faint with weariness and cold,” Boromir said, more for Pippin’s sake than because he had any real hope. He lay Sam down on the gravel and wrapped him in his cloak. Pippin, still weeping, began to rub Sam’s feet.

“Samwise, awake!” Boromir said, chafing Sam’s small, cold hands between his large, warm ones. “Come on, now.” Grief rose up in his throat to choke him. Barely started on the road, and he had already lost one of the littlest and least of their Fellowship! The dark shadow of this disgrace would haunt him for the rest of his days and shame would follow him always, like a ghost of this little one that he had failed.
~~~~~~~~~~~

But Sam was having the most wonderful dream.

He was sitting in front of the fireplace at Number Three, Bagshot Row. The fire crackled and the wind blew hard, snow was on the roof and frost on the windowpanes, but the cold couldn’t touch him. The room was dimly lit, but he could see his Dad to one side, comfortable with his pipe and his feet on a stool. On the other side his Mam was sitting, singing quietly while doing her mending and rocking Marigold’s cradle with her foot, and oh it was so good to see her sitting there, so pink-cheeked and young, with not a bit of gray in her hair. The fire felt wonderful and Sam stretched out his legs and wiggled his furry toes in the warmth. Something was nagging at him, something he was supposed to do, or have done, but for the life of him he couldn’t recall what it was. Something to do with Mr. Frodo, wasn’t it? He was the new young master at Bag End, Mr. Bilbo’s newly adopted heir, and they were going to go on some sort of journey together…weren’t they? Oh, he felt so sleepy and his head was so muddled. Far away a sorrowing voice was wailing 'oh Sam, oh Sam', and a deeper voice answered 'I think he is merely faint with weariness and cold'. He wondered who it could be. The first voice sounded rather like Mr. Pippin, but now that was just silly: Mr. Peregrin Took wasn’t no more than a wee babe in a little white gown, toddling about away off in the Tookland.

“How about that riddle, Samwise?” Sam’s Gaffer said. “Have ye found the answer yet? Times is getting short.”

Sam was surprised. His Dad had less use for riddles than most hobbits. “Twelve pairs hanging high,” Sam murmured. He thought it had something to do with pears and pairs. Twelve pairs of pears? That would be…

“Don’t pester the lad, Ham,” Mam said, and suddenly dropped her mending and scooped him up into her lap, holding him tight. The lace ribbons on her cap scratched his face and she smelled odd, but familiar somehow, like wool, and leather, and the rank odor of Big Folk’s sweat. “There, there. You’re tired, but you mustn’t sleep. Samwise, awake! Come on, now.”

All he wanted was sleep, but she was squeezing him so he could hardly draw breath, and her arms were cold, so cold. He was frightened and tried to struggle, but the remorseless arms clutched tighter and tighter. Twenty-four! Sam wanted to shout. There’s twenty-four pears, that’s how come the knights could all take one and still leave twelve! But there was no air to shout with, and the cold was creeping in, and Marigold began to wail with a sound like the wind…
~~~~~~~~

Sam opened his eyes. He was lying on the shore of the little pool, the hard stones poking into his back. Above him he could see the gray sky and the worried face of Boromir peering down at him. He sucked in air and gasped, “Twenty-four! Twenty-four pears!”

Boromir looked baffled and deeply relieved all at once. “What?”

“Oh Sam,” Pippin cried, throwing his arms around Sam’s head and dribbling tears all over him. “Oh Sam, I thought I’d killed you with my foolishness!” He was squeezing a mite hard, but Sam was content to let him hug the ears off of him, as long as he let him have plenty of air while he was doing it.

“We must hurry you both back to the fire,” Boromir said, and scooped Sam into his arms, wrapping the cloak around him. Sam was surprised to feel the big man shaking as he flung him onto his shoulder, and Sam realized that Boromir had been horribly afraid.

Sam patted Boromir’s broad back. “I’m all right, sir. Don’t take on so.”

Boromir said nothing, but he drew in a ragged breath and briefly placed his warm hand on the back of Sam’s curly head. It was almost a caress.
**********
TBC