“Stop scratching at them.”

Merry gently slapped his cousin’s hand away from where it was absently digging at his shoulder.

“But-“

“You’re going to make it worse, and you already look like you like you’ve been used as Mother’s pincushion. Stop it!”

Pippin gritted his teeth, clenching his hands into fists to keep from rubbing at the burning, itching welts. Beside him, Frodo looked just as miserable.

“But it itches!” he hissed.

“Aragorn said not to touch them until he gets more of that foul paste on us, Master Pippin,” Sam reminded him even as he eyed the tweenager sympathetically.

“Stop it, Mr. Frodo,” he added absently, catching a glimpse of the eldest hobbit reaching for his leg.

“Do we have to do what we did when you had the spots, Pippin? I don’t think Aragorn would mind binding your hands!” Merry threatened as he firmly grabbed his cousin’s wrist, which had started to creep once more to his shoulder.

“Ow, ow ow, Merry, let go! I’ll stop, really!” Pippin gasped,

Merry did so, looking remorseful as Pippin gently shook his abused wrist.

“I’m sorry, Pippin, but you have to stop scratching at them, you already have a few of them bleeding!” Merry sighed, gently taking the other’s hands in his and frowning. The skin was very warm.

Pippin, guessing what his cousin was thinking, smiled disarmingly up at him. “I’m all right, Merry,” he murmured.

Though dusk was soon approaching, none of the hobbits had slept peacefully, and all bore shadows under their eyes and pale faces as proof. None of them were looking forward to that night’s march, eyeing their packs warily, as though they were some kind of vile beasts to be avoided at all costs.

“Are you certain Aragon said we are marching tonight?” Merry whispered softly to Frodo, eyes taking in the red skin and swollen hives on both of his cousin’s arms and faces.

“Oh, yes,” Frodo sighed, turning his head to point with his chin to where Aragorn and Boromir were talking softly to each other, bundling up blankets and breaking down the camp. “I asked him first thing when I woke up if we could stop and rest here for a day or so, seeing as how we are all so uncomfortable still and Pippin looking so sickly. He told me we were falling behind schedule, and could not delay, even for our discomfort. I suspect since none of us are falling down with fever or talking to trees in delirium yet, we are deemed fit to march tonight.”

Merry raised his eyebrows at his cousin’s bitter tone, though he could not suppress a smile.

“Grumpy tonight, aren’t we?” he asked, and quickly ducked behind Sam as the fierce glare turned his way.

“Oh, no, keep me out of this,” Sam grumbled, nimbly moving out of the way. “I’m goin’ to fill the water skins.”

“I’ll join you,” Pippin hastily piped up, following the gardener with a wicked grin on his face.

“Traitors,” Merry mumbled, eyes following the two hobbits as they departed.

Frodo’s hand smacking the back of his head caught him off guard, and he stumbled a step.

“All right, all right, I surrender!” he laughed, darting away from his scowling kin. “If you’re determined to be in a bad mood, far be it from me to try and lighten it!”

Frodo could not help the slight smile that came to his lips as he watched Merry limp over to Legolas, offering his aid in packing up the rest of the camp.

It was going to be a very long night.

Finally, after what must have been several hours, Gandalf dropped back far enough to murmur a few words to Aragorn, and shortly after the Ranger called a halt for a brief rest. The hobbits collapsed where they stood, not even bothering to drop their packs, but using them to rest against.

After a few minutes, however, Pippin struggled up, wiggling free from his straps and staggering into the bushes off to their left. A few moments later the sound of retching could be heard.

“Pippin?” Merry asked, sudden worry turning his voice sharp as he struggled to his feet, Frodo and Sam determinedly doing the same.

Aragorn looked up from where he was gathering an exotic herb, barely discernable in the dark, the movement of the other three hobbits catching his attention.

“What’s wrong?” he demanded, but the others did not answer, rushing to find their fourth member.

Leaving the herb, Aragorn followed them, motioning for Legolas to follow and Boromir, Gimli and Gandalf to stay seated. They did not have to go far before they found the four hobbits, Merry gently holding Pippin as he continued to retch, Frodo tenderly holding Pippin’s hair from his face and Sam rubbing a soothing hand on the tweenager’s back.

“What is wrong?” Aragorn demanded, kneeling down swiftly beside them and carefully moving Sam and Frodo aside, ignoring their disapproving frowns.

“Pippin?” he asked, placing a hand to the other’s brow and frowning at the heat. He moved the hand down to Pippin’s neck, felt the rapid heartbeat, like a frightened rabbit’s.

The young hobbit coughed, trying to catch his breath.

“I – I’m all ri-right,” he stuttered, not able to look up yet. “I thi-think Gimli’s cooking did-didn’t agree with me.”

“Much as I would normally agree with you, young hobbit,” Aragorn said softly, turning for a moment to cast Legolas a wry grin. The elf returned his smile, if a bit hesitantly, and the Ranger turned back to the hobbits. “But I think that perhaps this may have more to do with this morning’s incident than our dwarf’s questionable cooking.”

Finally feeling his stomach begin to settle, Pippin risked looking up at the others. His face was sweaty, the welts that covered his pale cheeks standing out sharply. He was trembling slightly, and his lips were pressed into a thin line.

“I’m all right now,” he repeated softly.

“Hush, Dearest,” Frodo whispered. He placed a hand on Pippin’s back, frowning at the obvious trembling under his fingers. Something in his eyes hardened, his lips thinned, and his shoulders tensed.

“Aragorn,” he said, very softly, and Merry and Sam looked at each other knowingly. When Frodo used that tone, there was no arguing with him. Period.

Frodo looked up, meeting the Ranger’s eyes unflinchingly. “We are stopping for the night. Now.” Aragorn narrowed his own eyes. Before he could open his mouth, however, Frodo continued. “We cannot go on, Aragorn. We are stopping.”

“Frodo,” Pippin whispered weakly.

“Hush, Peregrin. We are stopping for the night, you are going to rest and drink whatever horrible concoction Aragorn gives you, and if you are feeling better tomorrow night we shall continue.”

Pippin, as well, knew better than to argue with his older cousin when he assumed that tone, and wisely kept quiet as Aragorn scowled at Frodo.

“We are falling behind schedule, Frodo. I know that you are all uncomfortable and not feeling well, but if we do not push on –“

“No.”

Frodo’s voice was quiet, yet it had no trouble cutting over Aragorn’s. His blue eyes were hard as steel, and the hand on Pippin’s shoulder stilled its comforting movements.

“We are not moving any further tonight, Aragorn, save to find a more sheltered spot.”

None of the other hobbits spoke, eyes moving from the Ranger to the eldest of them.

“Frodo, I think I need to lie down for a moment.” Pippin’s small voice finally broke the tension, turning all eyes to his shivering form once more.

Surprisingly, it was Legolas who stepped forward, almost forgotten in his silence.

“I shall take him back to the others,” he said softly, bending down and tenderly helping the tweenager to stand. Once on his feet, however, it was clear to all that Pippin could walk no further that night, watching as he swayed and turned a shade paler.

Without a word the elf picked him up gently, cradling him to his chest and breathing something in Pippin’s ear too soft for the others to hear.

For a moment Legolas’ eyes met Aragorn’s. “I shall tell the others that we will not be moving on tonight,” he finally said, softly.

The hobbits watched the Ranger’s jaw clench, but the man said nothing, watching as the elf left as quietly as the sighing wind.

“Merry, Sam, we should return to the others as well. Aragorn, thank you.” Frodo stood, meeting the man’s eyes with a nod of his head, turning and heading back to the camp without another word.

Merry and Sam, looking at each other uncertainly, followed quickly. It didn’t happen often, but when Frodo fell into this mood, one did not upset him further. As it was, they highly doubted that even Gandalf would be able to sway him from his course.

Aragorn, still kneeling in the prickly grass, sighed, his head bowed against the inevitable. Obviously, they would not be going further that night.

“Legolas?”

Gandalf, his eyes crinkled in worry, stood quickly when the elf returned to where the others had remained, the small form in his arms clutching him tightly.

“Pippin is very sick, Gandalf. We are stopping for the night,” Legolas explained softly.

“Where is Aragorn?” Boromir asked even as he moved to the elf’s side, placing a hand to Pippin’s brow. “He’s burning up.”

“He is coming shortly, with the other hobbits. Gandalf,” Legolas began, turning troubled eyes to the wizard.

“We need to find a more sheltered spot for the night, Gandalf,” Frodo’s soft voice said, halting whatever else the elf might have said.

“So Legolas has told me, Frodo,” the wizard murmured, eyebrows wrinkling. “Though I would prefer if we managed a bit further. Surely Aragorn explained –“

“We are stopping for the night, Gandalf,” Frodo said again.

Merry, Sam, and Gimli, who had joined the two hobbits as they emerged from the bush, remained silent, sharing a solemn glance between themselves. Gimli had never seen the Ring-bearer in such a mood before, but the hobbits had.

Merry only once before, when he was 17 and visiting Frodo and Bilbo with Pippin. Lobelia Slackville-Baggins had come to Bag End, making a ruckus over something he could no longer remember. Pippin had been napping at the time, still recovering from a bout of Winter Sickness, and Frodo had become livid. He had never before or since seen Lobelia flee so quickly in his life.

Sam, on the other hand, had seen both Mr. Frodo and Mr. Bilbo in such a state before, several times, and often having to do with Lobelia and Lotho. He had learned long ago from his Gaffer to leave well enough alone, and let the two deal with their relations in their own way. As they watched the eldest hobbit stare down the wizard, he wished that Gandalf had learned the same lesson.

A rustling of leaves behind them caught their attention and they turned to see the Ranger emerging from the brush, his expression wry as he took in the situation.

“I believe the Ring-bearer has spoken, old friend,” he said softly to Gandalf, tone neutral as he looked to Frodo. The hobbit’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“Aaaghh!”

All eyes turned toward Pippin, still held tenderly in the elf’s firm grasp. His eyes were closed, breaths coming in sudden, shallow sobs. A faint sheen of sweat beaded his forehead and upper lip.

“Pippin?” Merry asked, moving to go to him.

They all watched in horror as Pippin began to convulse, writhing in the elf’s arms.

Aragorn moved as Legolas went to his knees, trying to steady the hobbit as the small body jerked and spasmed.

“Pippin!” Merry cried, halted from rushing to his cousin’s side by Sam’s strong arms around his shoulders.

“Let them help him, Mr. Merry,” he whispered in a strangled voice, the both of them watching in horror as a thin trickle of blood dribbled down the side of Pippin’s mouth.

“Pippin!” Frodo screamed and shook off the halting hand Gandalf laid on his shoulder. He stopped before he reached his cousin, however, watching in shocked fascination as Aragorn laid his hand on Pippin’s forehead, his face white and tense. After a moment, the hobbit’s body stilled and became limp.

“Pippin?” Merry asked softly, fear pitching his voice high.

“It was a fever spasm,” Aragorn whispered, gently prying Pippin’s mouth open to inspect the damage. He sighed, his shoulders slumping. “He bit his tongue, that is where the blood comes from,” he whispered.

Frodo felt his own shoulders slump in relief, moving slowly to stand beside the kneeling man and elf. Aragorn looked up, his face solemn as he met the hobbit’s gaze.

“I am sorry, Frodo, for not listening to you. It will not happen again.”

Frodo nodded, his gaze focusing on his cousin’s pale face. When Pippin’s eyes fluttered, then slowly blinked open, the eldest hobbit felt his own fill with tears.

“Pippin,” he whispered, dropping to his knees. “Pippin, dearest, can you hear me?”

Tenderly he reached out a shaking hand and cupped Pippin’s cheek.

“Pippin?” Aragorn asked, once more placing his hand on the tweenager’s brow. “Can you answer us, Little Bird?”

Frodo looked at the man next to him, startled by the use of the unfamiliar nickname. Though he had heard it before, he still found it a little jarring. The Ranger did not notice, his attention on the still form before him.

“Wh-what ha-ha-happened?” Pippin asked thickly, trying to focus glassy eyes on those above him.

“You had a fever spasm, Pippin,” Frodo whispered, bending closer to place a kiss gently on the sweaty, burning brow. The welts on the young hobbit’s face were livid and red, his eyes shadowed and bruised. “Like when you were younger, with the Winter Sickness.”

There was a rustling beside them, and Frodo, Aragorn and Legolas looked over to see Merry and Sam standing next to them, Merry’s eyes filled with tears, Sam’s hand resting on his shoulder.

“Pippin, Legolas is going to carry you for a bit longer, until we can find a sheltered spot for the night. I want you to relax and try and get some rest. I’m going to make you some tea, and you must drink it all.” Aragorn’s voice was soft, gentle.

“I shall take him, Aragorn.”

The Ranger looked up, startled, to see Gandalf approach. Pippin’s eyes followed the wizard’s movement dazedly, unfocused. The others parted, watching as ancient, but surprisingly strong arms gently, tenderly, lifted up the smallest hobbit.

“Gandalf,” Pippin whispered tremulously, his eyes closing.

“I have you, Pip-lad,” Gandalf whispered, bowing his head for a moment, hiding the tears that glistened his eyes. “I have you.”

The youngster in his arms went limp, a soft sigh escaping parted lips.

“Come,” Gandalf said softly, turning. “We must go.”

Slowly, the others followed him.