Chapter Thirteen

Some time later, Pippin sat wrapped in a blanket sipping hot tea, but he was still shivering. His own clothes were torn and ruined and he now wore one of Frodo’s old shirt and trousers. His feet felt like ice on a cold winter’s morn While is arm began to throb. His eyelids were heavy from a sleepless night...and a little too much ale. A hot bath was being prepared for him in the wash room.

After the others came up with Merry they took him into his own room prepared by Frodo and laid him on the bed. They took off his wet clothes and replaced them with a dry nightshirt. Frodo and Sam checked his arms and legs for broken bones but found none.

“Look Frodo,” Sam pointed at a bleeding gash above Merry’s right ear. “I see it, Sam. It looks quite bad. Please run and get your mother.” Though she did not bear the official title of healer, Bell Gamgee had ministered herbs and healings on many occasions to Bilbo and Frodo--earning her the unofficial title at Bag End.

A short while later she appeared in Merry’s doorway and hesitated. “May I come in, master Frodo?”

Frodo looked up, “Yes, please! Thank you for coming!” By this time Bilbo was awake and in his night-coat surveying the injured boys. All he could do was shake his head.

Bell went straight to Merry’s side and examined the gash in his head. A look of concern creased her brow, and then she bit her bottom lip in thought. She looked up at Bilbo and Frodo, “You’d best fetch his mum and dad.”

They exchanged looks of horror. Frodo asked, “He will be all right, won't he?”

“It looks as if he‘ll be all right, Mister Frodo, and truth be told, I haven’t seen too much of this type of hurt. But I do know him bein’ a teen and all--his mum and dad should know about him.”

“You’re right,” said Bilbo. Immediately, Fredegar and another lad were dispatched to Whitwell and Buckland, respectively. The second lad would arrive at Brandy Hall just after sunrise if he made haste. In the meantime, Bell would sit at Merry’s side and keep vigil.

Frodo stepped out into the hallway to catch his breath and think about all that had happened in the span of a few short hours. He was tired and leaned against the wall, letting out a huge sigh. This was his thirtieth birthday; it was supposed to be a celebration, not an occasion for grief.

“What kind of host are you?”

Frodo startled at the voice interrupting his thoughts. He turned his head towards it--it belonged to Pearl Took. He never felt so foolish. Goodness, he thought, Here it begins.

“I said--what kind of host are you--allowing a small boy to drink his fill of ale?” As Pearl moved to the side, Frodo could see behind her. Pippin was now heaving into a small pail.

Will this nightmare end?, thought Frodo. Not only did Pippin fall out of the tree and break his wrist, now he sits heaving up his last meal into a pail because the wretched host forgot his duties to his young guest. And yet another of his closest friends lies abed nearby with a gash in his head. The look of inconsolable worry was etched in Frodo’s face.

Pearl took a deep breath and calmed down and decided not to provoke her cousin further. She leaned against the wall next to Frodo and quietly spoke, “I know it was an accident, Frodo--though a stupid one.” Pearl made no apologies when it came to her one and only brother. “I get so tied up in knots when I see him so miserable.”

Frodo returned her gaze and said, “I am truly sorry, Pearl. I feel like such a fool; I should have been more responsible.”

Pearl could see Frodo looked very troubled, “I feel that way, too, cousin. I’m just as much to blame. I wasn’t watching him, either.”