Notes for Chapter 4:  “Swamp malaise” is a reference to the illness contracted by Aragorn and Frodo that I invented for “Quarantined”.  If you catch it (and survive), you’re immune for life.  (Middle-earth bog gases and their effects are, likewise, my own invention, although the general idea is based on pockets of natural methane.  I make no claims that the symptoms, effects, or description of recovery are even remotely medically accurate; they are that which serve the story.)

BY CHANCE OR PURPOSE

Chapter 4 --- Breathing Easier

October 2

“Where are they?”  Sam dropped Bill’s lead rope and spun around in a full circle in disbelief. 

“They wouldn’t have just walked off,” Merry frowned.

“Stand perfectly still, both of you,” Aragorn said.  He scanned the small campsite, instantly spotting the slight trail in the damp grass left by at least one hobbit, possibly two.  He could see no signs of a struggle.  But Merry was correct -- they wouldn’t have just walked off… would they?  Without a word, he walked quickly through the tall grass, with Sam and Merry right at his heels.  After a dozen steps, he found himself at the top of a gentle slope, leading down to…

Aragorn froze as he spotted Frodo and Pippin lying, unmoving, a short distance below him in a small clearing.  Frodo was on his back, and Pippin lay in a crumpled heap at his side.  In less than a heartbeat, the Ranger’s eyes and ears swiftly took in a large bubble breaking the surface of a thick, murky bog; barely a sound from Sam’s ‘neekerbreekers’; and no sign of an enemy.

“Stay here,” Aragorn ordered, in a commanding voice neither Sam nor Merry had heard him use before.  He took a deep breath, held it, and raced down the slope to where both hobbits lay unconscious.  In the back of his mind he made note of a faint path in the damp ground, leading from the bog to where Frodo lay.  Hastily wrapping one arm around each of them, he made his way back up the slope, his lungs burning for want of air.

“Strider!” Merry cried, as the Ranger re-emerged from the tall grasses, a limp hobbit dangling from each arm.  Aragorn could go no further, and he stopped, his chest heaving as he gulped in deep draughts of air.  He shook his head as Merry and Sam raced towards him.

“No,” the Ranger gasped, striding forward again.  “Back to camp.”  He strode so quickly that Sam and Merry had to run to keep up with him.  Back at the campsite, Aragorn fell to his knees and laid his small burdens on a blanket.  Both Frodo and Pippin were breathing very slowly, and their faces were flushed.

“Copy me, Merry,” said Aragorn urgently, still getting his own breathing under control.  “Do exactly as I do, except I want you to use both hands.”  With that, he rolled Frodo onto his stomach, placed his right hand on the hobbit’s upper back and pressed down, carefully but firmly, compressing Frodo’s lungs and forcing him to exhale sharply and completely.  Merry, on his left, hurriedly rolled Pippin over and pressed down on his cousin’s back with both hands.  He could hear the air rushing out of Pippin’s lungs.

“Let him breathe,” Aragorn said.  He and Merry paused while Frodo and Pippin both took deep breaths.

“Why’re you doin’ that?” asked Sam anxiously.  “They’re both breathing.”

“They are,” agreed Aragorn, pausing for a moment, “but their lungs are full of foul vapor from that bog.  It is a rare thing, but from the tales I have heard, it can send people into a deep sleep before they are even aware of the danger.  Forcing some of it out, and getting them to take deeper breaths, will help clear their lungs.”

“Could they…” Sam was holding one of Frodo’s limp hands.  “…could they have died?”

Aragorn looked at him and said nothing, and Sam swallowed hard.

“Again, Merry.”

“Come on, Pip,” Merry whispered.  Copying Aragorn’s motions precisely, he pressed down again and again on his cousin’s back.

Just then, Pippin convulsed and began to cough.

“Sit him up, Merry,” advised Aragorn, “and hold onto him.”

Merry quickly sat and pulled Pippin up, supporting his cousin as he began coughing uncontrollably.  As his lungs cleared and he started to take deeper breaths, Pippin’s coughing calmed and his eyelids fluttered.

“Pip?  Are you all right?”  Merry held onto his cousin with one hand and gently stroked his face with the other.  “Can you hear me?”

Pippin groaned and coughed a bit more, then his eyes slowly opened.  Groggy, he looked around in confusion.

“What… Merry?”

“I’ve got you,” Merry said softly.  “Are you awake?”

“What are you… talking about?”  Suddenly Pippin took in the scene before him.  “Frodo!”  Pippin gasped.  He tried to reach out to Frodo, still unconscious, but Merry was holding him tightly.

“Oh, Merry,” Pippin murmured, “I tried to drag him back here, but…” He paused, puzzled.  “I can’t remember anything else.”

“It was a vapor, Pip, from the bog down there,” said Merry.  “Strider says it put you both to sleep so fast, neither of you probably even knew it was happening.”

“A vapor?”  Pippin couldn’t take his eyes off Frodo.  “Is he all right?”

“I think he’ll be fine,” Aragorn said.  He touched a finger to the pulsepoint in Frodo’s throat and nodded to himself, gently rolling the unconscious hobbit onto his back.  Sam took one of Frodo’s hands in his as the Ranger went over to take a look at Pippin.

“Frodo probably breathed in a lot more of the bad air than you did, Pippin, and it’ll just take him longer to wake.”

“Promise?”  Pippin looked scared.

“I promise.”  Aragorn smiled at the young hobbit.  “I could tell how far you dragged him.  By getting Frodo away from where the air was most foul, you may have saved his life.”

“I couldn’t pull him any further,” Pippin said, distressed.  “I really tried, Strider.”

“We know you tried,” Aragorn reassured him.  “What were you and Frodo doing down there?”

“Frodo said he needed to be alone for a few minutes,” Pippin explained.  “He insisted on going for a walk.  You said not to let him be alone, so I followed him.  I was right behind him…”  He leaned back weakly against Merry, feeling sick and dizzy.  “My head hurts…”

“Here, why don’t you lay down?” Aragorn asked, reaching for him.  Pippin just shook his head and twisted around to curl up in Merry’s lap.

“He must still be groggy,” Merry said.  “Pip tries to be so grown up; he hasn’t been in anyone’s lap in years.”  Pippin’s eyes closed, and Merry felt him relax.  “Is it all right if he goes back to sleep?”

“I hope so,” Aragorn chuckled softly, “since it appears that he already has.  We can’t risk a fire to make a tea for his headache, so perhaps more sleep will ease it.”  He checked Pippin’s pulse and breathing, then helped Merry tuck a blanket around him.  Sitting back, he looked thoughtfully at the young hobbit.  “From what I understand, Pippin is the only son of a very prominent family.”

“That’s right,” agreed Merry.

“I assume he’s been denied very little,” continued Aragorn.  “He’s led a comfortable, secure life, well loved and given every advantage.”

“Yes.” Merry frowned.  “What are you getting at, Strider?”

“Many, in such a position, would not work so hard to prove their worth, Merry.  They would see themselves as the center of everything, with no need to exert themselves or earn respect.”

“I suppose that’s true,” said Merry thoughtfully, “but Pip has never been like that.  He feels that unless something is well earned, it has no value.”  He looked up at the Ranger.  “Earning your respect has great value to him.”

“Perhaps; but I suspect that it is your trust and respect that he values the most,” said Aragorn.

Merry just smiled, settling Pippin more comfortably in his arms.  Aragorn looked over at Sam.

“How’s he doing?”

“I’m watchin’ him, sir,” said Sam.  He hadn’t budged from Frodo’s side.  “He’s breathin’ easier, and his color’s a sight better now.”

Aragorn felt some of the tenseness start to leave him.  “They were both very fortunate.”

“It’s lucky that you’re here with us,” said Merry quietly.

“Luck?  I wonder…”  The Ranger looked at Merry.  “I never asked why you were here, Merry.  Did Frodo ask you and Pippin to leave the Shire with him?”

“No.”  Merry smiled slightly.  “Frodo can’t hide his feelings, you know.  We all knew he was planning to leave… to leave alone, and take all the danger away with him.  We watched him all year, and made our own plans, and… just came.”

Aragorn motioned to Pippin.  “This tweenager couldn’t have imagined what lay ahead.”

“Could any of us?  Could Frodo?” Merry countered.  “Besides, there’s more to Pip than most people know; he’s just never had a chance to prove himself.”

“Aye,” agreed Sam, “Mr. Pippin’s a fine lad, he is.”

Aragorn nodded.  “When Frodo collapsed, he was nearly at the edge of the bog, where the fumes were no doubt heaviest.  Pippin dragged him away from there, but it may take a bit longer for the effects to---”

“Strider!” Sam said urgently.  “I think he’s wakin’ up a little.”  He was peering intently into Frodo’s face, where he thought he had seen a flicker of movement.  Just then, the limp hand in his moved slightly.

Frodo had been floating in a hazy dream, dark and quiet.  Ever so slowly, things got brighter, and louder, and he became aware of a dull, throbbing ache in his head and a heaviness in his chest.

“Frodo, listen to me.”  Aragorn’s urgent voice penetrated the fog.  “I need you to cough.  Take a deep breath, Frodo, and cough.”

His thoughts starting to clear, Frodo realized that he was sitting up, propped against Aragorn.  He sighed, starting to slip back into sleep.

“Frodo!”  Frodo groaned and opened his eyes as he felt the Ranger, for some reason, start shaking him.  “Cough, Frodo.  Now.”

Only barely conscious, Frodo took a deep breath, and suddenly started coughing violently, unable to stop.  It was nearly a minute before the coughing fit eased, and he clung with one hand to Aragorn’s tunic, feeling as tired and breathless as if he had just run a race.

“What… why…” Frodo tried to catch his breath.  “What’s happening?”

“Just keep taking deep breaths,” Aragorn said.  “Sam, hand me that blanket, please.”  The Ranger wrapped Frodo in a thick blanket and rested the hobbit against his chest.

“Estel,” Frodo gasped, shaken by another fit of coughing, “Bilbo said I couldn’t ever catch it again.”

“Catch what?”

“The swamp malaise.”  Frodo turned frightened eyes up to Aragorn’s face.  “We… we’re in a swamp, and I feel so…”

“Oh, Frodo,” Aragorn chuckled.  “That’s not it.  You breathed in some dangerous vapors coming from the bog down below.  Bilbo was correct -- you can’t catch it ever again.”

“Vapors?”  Frodo was relieved, but puzzled.  “I thought something was… down in the water.  I tried to…” He frowned, looking around.  “What happened?  How did I get here?”  Suddenly he realized that Pippin, also wrapped in a blanket, appeared to be sound asleep in Merry’s lap.  “Pippin…?”

“Pip followed you,” said Merry.  “He tried to drag you back up here, but the vapors got to him, too.  Strider found you…” He grinned.  “…and we had to practically sit on the both of you to get you breathing properly again.”

“What?”  Frodo groaned.  “Sam, did you let this Ranger sit on me?”

“Of course not!” Sam gasped.  He looked at Merry reproachfully.

“Meriadoc…” Aragorn sighed, “and to think I was just about to compliment you on keeping such a cool head.”  He looked down at Frodo.  “How are you feeling?”

“Strange… a headache…”  Frodo was assailed by another, milder coughing spell.  “There were bubbles in the water, but I didn’t…  I tried to… suddenly I was here.  What happened?”

The Ranger smiled.  “I have no doubt that Pippin will entertain us with the whole story in the morning.”

“It will be quite a story, if Pippin’s telling it,” Merry chuckled.

“Is he really all right?”

“He’ll be fine, Frodo,” said Aragorn reassuringly.  Merry was very carefully laying Pippin down.  “You will both feel better after a good night’s sleep.”

“I was asleep,” Frodo murmured, “until you sat on me.”  He reached a hand out of the blankets, and the Ranger closed his larger hand over it.  “Aragorn…”

Aragorn smiled; he remembered, from years before, that Frodo only used his real name when he had something very important to tell him.

“Yes?”

“Thank you,” Frodo whispered.

“No more wandering off,” the Ranger said softly.  Frodo nodded weakly.

“Sam, why don’t we settle in and have some dinner,” Aragorn said, “but no fire; it’s dangerous to light fires near a bog such as lies below us.  And we need to find some way to tether Bill…” He smiled at Sam’s outraged look.  “…just for tonight.  We can’t take a chance that he might wander down that slope.”

“Is it all right to stay here?” Sam asked worriedly.

“Apparently, the fumes stay low to the ground,” replied Aragorn.  “As your ‘neekerbreekers’ are singing so vigorously up here,” he smiled ruefully, “I suspect we have nothing to fear.”  He gently tucked Frodo’s hand back under the blanket.  “You can eat when you’re feeling up to it, little one.”

“No food,” Frodo whispered, “I don’t feel… very well…”

“Little one?” Merry asked.  “Frodo’s tall for a hobbit, Strider.”

“He’s always called him that, Mr. Merry,” Sam said with a smile.  He saw that Frodo was keeping his eyes open only with an effort.  “I think he might have a bit more sleep in him.”

“Everything wants to put us to sleep,” Frodo said drowsily.  “Old Man Willow, and those barrow wights, and now these marshes… If the Black Riders find us, perhaps they will wish us only… a good night’s sleep…”

Aragorn’s arms tightened reflexively about Frodo, and  Merry and Sam, seeing the look on the Ranger’s face, exchanged glances.

“Strider?”

“It is no jest, Sam,” Aragorn muttered with frightening intensity.  “They must not find us.”

** TBC **