October 16/17
For the first time, Sam noticed -- or was it his imagination? -- that Strider was beginning to look a bit anxious. The steep line of hills between them and Rivendell had forced the Ranger to steer a more northerly course, with the hills on their right, searching for a way to cross over them. It had been ten days since Weathertop, and provisions were beginning to run low. But the worst of it was the rain, which had been coming down since the day before. Last night had been bad enough, Sam thought to himself, with everyone soaked and no chance of a fire, but today…
Frodo sat astride Bill, shivering. Long stretches of time had begun to pass where he drifted in and out of awareness of where he was. The thick mists and heavy rain deepened the shadows that would unexpectedly cloud his vision, and his thoughts. Warmth and ease and a time without pain and fear… he was beginning to forget what any of that was like. It would be so easy to just give in… to let the groping, whispering, waiting darkness have him… but then he would force himself back to awareness, and concentrate on holding onto Bill’s wet guide-rope and return an encouraging look or smile from one of his dear friends.
With a relief that he was unable to conceal, Aragorn spotted a shallow cave in the rocky hillside. He had to get Frodo dry and warm, somehow… somehow. As the tired hobbits followed him, stumbling up onto the rocky shelf and out of the rain, he turned and surveyed his small companions.
Not one word of complaint out of any of them. For hobbits to go through such hardship, for such a period of time, with fear and doubt plaguing their every weary step, was a feat not to be dismissed lightly. Each was exhausted, cold, and hungry -- and in desperate need of sleep, as the rain and soggy ground had kept everyone awake throughout the previous long, wet night.
Merry and Pippin let their packs drop onto the rocky ground. Pippin unclasped his sodden cloak and collapsed, breathing hard, reveling in the relatively dry shelter. Sam threw his own pack down, and moved quickly to where Aragorn was lifting Frodo off Bill.
“I’ll see to Frodo, Sam,” Aragorn said. “Would you make sure Bill is tended to?”
“Aye, sir, I will,” Sam replied. He watched with concern as the Ranger quickly bore the shivering hobbit to the back of the cave. He knew that Strider had to be as tired and cold as the rest of them, but he never seemed to show it.
Aragorn threw his cloak aside, and removed Frodo’s. The wounded hobbit was soaked, and shivering uncontrollably. The Ranger quickly returned to where Bill stood; Sam and Merry were pulling down packs and bags from the patient animal’s back, and Aragorn grabbed one of the bulky packs where they had stuffed most of their blankets in hopes of keeping them dry. Pulling out several, he returned Frodo.
“All right now,” Aragorn murmured. He kneeled in front of Frodo and unbuttoned the hobbit’s coat, then vest. “I need to get you out of these wet clothes, Frodo. Are you with me?” He peered anxiously into the dulled blue eyes, but Frodo nodded. Aragorn worked quickly to remove the hobbit’s outer clothing, then wrapped him in two layers of blankets.
“I suggest that all of you get out of your wet clothes as well,” Aragorn said to the others. “Merry, would you help Pippin?” He looked around. “There’s enough dry brush here to start a fire, but we need some larger pieces to keep one going. I’ll see what I can find.” He started to rise, but was stopped by a small, insistent hand on his shoulder.
“No,” Sam said firmly, “I’ll go. You can’t do everything, Strider, and Mr. Frodo needs you here.”
“I can--” Pippin started.
“No,” Merry said. “Frodo needs you here too, Pip. I’ll come with you, Sam.”
“All right,” Aragorn agreed. “The inner bark of trees should be dry. Look under logs and large stones that may have created a dry space. And--”
“We know,” Sam assured him. “We’ll be back right soon.” He cast one last, worried look at Frodo, then he and Merry dashed back out into the rain, each carrying one of the emptied saddlebags.
“May I help?” Aragorn knelt in front of Pippin, who was trying to unbutton his coat with cold-numbed fingers. When the young hobbit nodded, Aragorn got him unbuttoned, then removed his own wet outer tunic. He laid his weapons aside, and gathered into a pile as much dry brush as he could find beneath the rocky outcropping. Finally, the Ranger returned to where Frodo sat, still shivering, the blankets clutched fiercely about him with his good hand. Aragorn sat down and settled Frodo against him.
“I’m all right,” Frodo insisted, “my shoulder just… aches a little.”
“A fire will help,” Aragorn said softly. He suspected that Frodo’s shoulder more than ‘just ached’, and he was growing increasingly concerned about the brave hobbit. Frodo was becoming terribly pale, with dark circles under his eyes. He was unable to get warm, and the cold, driving rain had made things worse. So cold… and yet, to Aragorn’s gentle hand on the hobbit’s brow, there was still the warmth of fever.
“Pippin,” Aragorn called softly, “come sit down for a few minutes.”
Pippin stumbled over to where Aragorn was sitting with Frodo, and, with a deep sigh, sank down on the Ranger’s other side.
“I’m all right,” Pippin said gamely. “I’m just awfully tired, Strider.”
“We all are,” Aragorn said softly. Keeping one arm wrapped around Frodo, he pulled Pippin closer with the other, and held the two shivering, blanket-wrapped hobbits as closely as he could. “This journey is very difficult,” he said to them. “I’m very proud of all of you.”
“P. . Pip,” Frodo whispered, “something… warm… remember that summer… and the pond where…”
“I remember.” Pippin smiled and leaned against Aragorn. “Oh, Strider, it was so hot that summer, you wouldn’t believe it. We practically lived in Bywater Pond. We’d splash around and get all worn out, then jump out for awhile, have something to eat, then it was so hot we’d jump back in…”
Aragorn felt Frodo relax almost as soon as Pippin started talking; it was truly remarkable what an effect the youngster had on him. For his part, he sat listening -- to the rain, which seemed to be easing off, and the sound of Bill contently chomping on a bush that was conveniently growing through the rocky floor -- and worrying. They had to get over these hills without going any farther north. North was…
“…and remember Frodo, how at night it was still so beastly hot, and I got permission to stay out with you and Mer, and we watched the stars until we all fell asleep?”
“I remember,” Frodo murmured. “That was the summer you learned to swim, you little fish.”
“That was fun,” Pippin yawned. Realizing that he was in danger of falling asleep, he immediately sat up. “I’ll get some of the food out -- it’ll be nice to have a fire.” He stood up and frowned. “Strider, how can we fix this blanket so it doesn’t fall off?”
“I have just the thing,” Aragorn said with a smile. He pulled over his cloak and removed the pin. “Try this.”
Pippin took the pin, wide eyed. It was a silver star, as big as his hand. He wrapped the blanket around him and pinned it tight, and was delighted to find that it didn’t slip off when he moved.
“Don’t lose that, Pip -- it’s a special pin,” Frodo said quietly. “It belonged to Estel’s father.”
“Heavens, Frodo, I’m not about to run off with it,” Pippin said, starting to rummage through packs, glad for something to do. He didn’t like how frail Frodo was starting to look, and sound. He didn’t know where Rivendell was, but he hoped they were getting close.
Just then, Merry and Sam returned, dragging a log as big as they could manage.
“The rain’s stoppin’,” said Sam, shaking water out of his curls and dropping the heavy saddlebag, filled with fairly dry tinder.
“This log’s wet on one side,” Merry said, also dropping his bulky pack, “but pretty dry on the other. We’ve brought enough dry sticks to keep a fire going, and maybe it’ll be hot enough to burn this, too.”
“You did well,” Aragorn said. He made Frodo comfortable, leaning him against the rocky wall of the shelter, and in just minutes, had the driest, smallest tinder blazing. Little by little, he fed in larger branches, the wood smoking and spluttering, but soon a steady fire was warming the small shelter, and drying clothes spread out on the rocks.
“I like what you’re wearing, Pip,” Merry grinned, pulling off his wet outer garments. “Are you an honorary Ranger, now?”
“You’re just jealous, Meriadoc,” Pippin sniffed. “I don’t see Strider letting you near any of his things.”
“You’re right,” Merry laughed. He looked more closely at the silver star. “This really is beautiful, Strider.”
“It belonged to his father,” Pippin said proudly.
“Did it?” Merry sat down near the fire and basked in the warmth. Soon Sam and Pippin joined him, bringing cheese and dried fruits with them for everyone.
“What was his name?” Pippin asked.
“Arathorn, son of Arador,” answered Aragorn. “I don’t really remember him, Pippin -- he died when I was very, very young.”
“Oh,” Pippin said softly. “Did you know your grandfather?”
“I’m afraid not,” Aragorn said quietly. “My grandfather was killed by hill-trolls -- some distance north of here. He was the leader of the Dúnedain -- what you call Rangers -- as was my father.”
“Your grandfather led the Rangers, and your father after him?” Merry leaned forward. “And now… you do?”
“Yes,” said Aragorn simply. Merry just looked at him thoughtfully.
“My father’s father died before I was born,” announced Pippin, “but Merry knew his.” He took some food over to Frodo. “How are you doing, Frodo?”
“Right as rain,” Frodo smiled. “You’ll not be rid of me quite yet, you rascal.”
“Oh,” said Pippin, looking disappointed. “Well, we’ll try to put up with you for awhile longer then, you stubborn Baggins.”
“Silly Took,” Frodo murmured. He grimaced as his shoulder began to throb a bit more fiercely. Pippin instantly sat at his side and began a soft, distracting litany of Took lineage.
The rain finally pattered to a stop, and Aragorn went to the edge of the rocky outcropping and looked around. Sam soon joined him.
“He’s still got that fever,” Sam said quietly, “but I don’t think it’s any worse.”
Aragorn nodded. “He’s holding on, Sam,” he said just as
quietly.
~*~
“No!” Frodo sat up, gasping for breath.
“Mr. Frodo?” Sam sat up as well, awakened by Frodo’s scream. The shelter was cold, and the night was dark, but the clouds were breaking up, and the few stars now visible gave enough light to see by. Aragorn moved quickly to Frodo’s side.
“They… they were…” Frodo tried desperately to focus on Sam’s face, then Aragorn’s. It wasn’t real… it couldn’t be… “A dream,” he murmured, shivering. “Just a dream…”
“Tell us,” Aragorn said.
“They were here,” Frodo whispered, looking about. “They bent down and tried to… smother me.” He took deep, gulping breaths, trying to calm himself. “They said I should stop fighting, that I should… it’s so dark… they’re not here, are they?”
“It’s just us, sir,” Sam said softly. “We’ll not let anythin’ get you.”
Frodo nodded, and sagged weakly against Aragorn. “I want to see Bilbo again,” he whispered.
“So do I,” Aragorn replied lightly.
“No, I mean…” Frodo shivered again and pressed closer to the Ranger’s warmth.
“I know what you mean,” Aragorn said quietly. “Frodo, Elrond is the wisest, most experienced, most gifted healer in all of Middle-earth. You cannot imagine how old he is, and how much he knows -- and has seen. You will get the best care.” He kept talking softly, hoping Frodo could fall back to sleep. “Bilbo’s been living in his House for many years now, and has no doubt taught him much about hobbits! I wouldn’t be surprised if there are now mushrooms growing in every garden.”
“Mushrooms don’t grow in gardens, you silly Ranger,” Frodo murmured.
“Is there any ale there?” Sam asked.
“No, Sam,” Aragorn chuckled, “but once you rascals have invaded Rivendell, the Elves may no longer recognize the place.”
Frodo was restless. “When we get the Ring to Rivendell, and I’m… better, what then?”
Nearby, Pippin pressed against Merry, trying to stay quiet. Merry held his cousin tightly, feeling Pippin’s hot tears soaking into his shirt.
“I do not know,” Aragorn said. “I am assuming that Gandalf will have reached there, and will have news for us.” He lay down, bringing Frodo with him. “There is great wisdom in that fair valley, Frodo. Tomorrow we’ll get over these hills and start back south, down towards the Ford. When we cross the River, Elrond’s folk will…” Frodo slowly relaxed, curling up again between Aragorn and Sam.
~*~
Long after the others had fallen back to sleep, Sam lay awake, staring at the sky, watching the clouds dissipate and the first faint glow of pre-dawn. He hadn’t seen Mr. Bilbo in seventeen years… he had been barely a tween at the Party, and Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin not even that. Mr. Pippin probably didn’t remember what Mr. Bilbo even looked like, but Sam could picture his dear face as if he had just seen him yesterday. So smart he was, and always so kind to folks. It would do Mr. Frodo a world of good to be with him again.
If those Black Riders come back, he thought, they’ll have to kill me this time before they get to him; I don’t care if there’s a dozen of ’em, all riding on trolls. The resolve made him feel stronger, and the image that had arisen in his mind, unbidden, of Mr. Bilbo weeping with grief, was replaced by the dear old hobbit’s joyous smile at seeing Mr. Frodo again, safe and well. Safe and well… with a smile, Sam felt himself slipping back into sleep.
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