They found a sheltering outcropping of rocks a bit further on, obscured by brush and the thick grass that seemed to make up most of the land’s vegetation. Quickly the others set about preparing the camp, every one of them keeping an eye on the small form still cradled gently in the wizard’s arms.

“Gandalf.”

The voice was barely above a breath, a sound more felt than heard.

“Hush, Peregrin. We are stopping for the night, and Aragorn shall make you something to help you feel better,” Gandalf whispered back gently as he watched the smallest hobbit struggle to open his eyes. “Rest now.”

What strength Pippin had seemed to leave him, and once more he became limp, his breath evening out.

Shortly the camp was in order, and a small fire carefully concealed and watched by Aragorn was boiling a pot of tea made with athelas.

“Why is he so ill, Aragorn?” Frodo asked softly, kneeling down beside the man to watch the pot boil. The fragrance seemed to fill the hobbit with hope and calm his nerves. “Why have the rest of us not suffered so?”

“I do not know, Frodo,” Aragorn admitted, placing a calloused hand on Frodo’s shoulder. “My guess is that it is because he is the smallest of you, or perhaps he received more bites than the rest of you. I do not know the type of ant that attacked you nor what their poison might do to one so small.”

Frodo bowed his head, eyes closed against the tears that threatened to fall. Off to his right he could hear Merry whispering softly to Sam, his cousin’s voice tight and strained as the two of them finished preparing the bedding.

“He has always been rather frail,” Frodo finally whispered. “But he has never allowed that to stop him.”

Nothing more was said between them, and after a moment Frodo left the Ranger, moving to where Gandalf was laying Pippin down gently on the blankets Merry and Sam had prepared.

“Pippin? Can you hear me? I need you to try and wake up, Little Bird. Pippin?”

Pippin groaned, both at the pain that seemed to encompass his body and the need to let the rude person talking to him know that he did not want to wake up. He was tired!

“Pip-lad, wake up. Sam is making some broth for you, but you shan’t get any if you don’t open your eyes,” another voice coaxed.

Broth?

“I think that did it, Merry,” an admiring voice murmured a moment before the tweenager forced his eyes open.

Aragorn, Frodo, Merry and Gandalf knelt beside him, peering down at him anxiously.

“Why are we stopped?” Pippin mumbled thickly, confused by the star-studded sky overhead.

“Do you not remember, Peregrin?” Gandalf asked kindly, laying a hand softly on his brow. It felt wonderfully cool against his skin.

“I was sick,” Pippin whispered, closing his eyes again as he tried to recall the events of the night. “And Frodo said we were stopping for the night. I – I don’t remember after that.”

“That is all right, Pippin,” Aragorn soothed. “You are very sick right now, and I need you to drink this tea. It will help with the fever and the pain.”

“What does it taste like?” Pippin asked, trying to smile.

The others laughed, relieved that for the moment, at least, the young hobbit was able to make a joke.

“Drink it and find out, and then you may have a little of the broth Sam is making,” Aragorn coaxed.

Gently, Pippin was lifted to a sitting position, his eyes squinted shut against the sudden dizziness and pain that assaulted him.

“Easy, Dearest,” Frodo murmured, his hand on Pippin’s shoulder.

“I don’t feel well,” Pippin whimpered, face suddenly pale, lines of strain creasing his brow.

Something warm and soft and sturdy was suddenly behind him, supporting him, and some of the pain eased. A moment later Merry’s gentle hand was easing his head back against that familiar chest he had known all his life.

“Just breathe, sweetheart,” he whispered, voice close to Pippin’s ear. “Just one breath, then another.”

The feel of the body behind him, of the movement of inhaled lungs followed by a soft breath upon his cheek, allowed him to concentrate on his own breathing, of the easing of pain as clear air filled him. Slowly his agony seemed to dissipate, vanishing as though upon a cool breeze. The burning, stabbing, pins and needles seemed to recede, and so relieved was he that he slumped back against Merry, his breath escaping in a trembling gust.

A gentle hand rested on his shoulder, though he did not have the strength to open his eyes and discover the hand’s owner. A mug, warm and smelling strongly of athelas, was placed to his lips, and he drank without thinking.

The liquid slid down his throat, coating his tongue in a honey-flavored film.

“You need to drink some more, Pip,” Merry whispered, and the mug was pushed once more to his lips. “Just a little.”

Obligingly Pippin opened his mouth, licking his lips as he did so, before drinking once more. The warm steam from the mug wafted against his face, drops of moisture clinging to his eyelashes.

“Try and get some rest, Pip,” Frodo urged. “We won’t be going anywhere until you are feeling better.”

For a moment Pippin managed to open his eyes a crack, peering at his cousins through the slits. Frodo was looking pensive, eyes large and worried as he tried to smile reassuringly down at his young cousin. Beside him, Aragorn was kneeling, the mug in his hands.

“Get some sleep, Pippin,” the Ranger whispered, voice tense as his shoulders.

Without a word the tweenager closed his eyes, the calming rise and fall of Merry’s breathing a soothing lullaby against the remaining misery that seemed to encompass his body.

Within moments, he was asleep, Merry’s arm wrapped protectively around his thin chest.

“I’ll be back in a moment, Dearest,” Frodo whispered, his jaw once more assuming and iron set. Without another word, he left his kin, heading over to where Gandalf stood, several feet away, talking softly to Legolas.

“Gandalf, may I speak with you?” Frodo asked quietly, absently nodding politely to the elf.

The wizard nodded, murmuring a soft word to Legolas that Frodo paid no heed to. The two of them moved slowly to the edge of the camp.

“How is Pippin doing?” Gandalf whispered, leaning heavily on his staff.

Frodo took a few steps back the way they had come, stopping with his arms crossed against his chest.

“He is sleeping now. Though for how long we do not know. Aragorn says that the tea will help his fever, and the swelling of his bites.” There was a long silence as the wizard digested the words. Then, softly, with an icy calmness that chilled Gandalf, Frodo breathed, “Why, Gandalf?”

The hobbit spun around as only silence greeted this question, to see the wizard looking at him sorrowfully.

“Our mission is too great to be slowed, Frodo. Even for Pippin,” was the soft answer.

A shutter slammed shut in Frodo’s eyes, his lips thinning as his jaw clenched.

“Nothing is more important, Gandalf.” There was steel in his voice the wizard had never heard before, a stiffness to his spine that seemed to add inches to the hobbit’s height.

Gandalf sighed, closing his eyes as he took a seat on a nearby boulder, his staff leaning against his thigh.

“Do you not think that I care for Pippin as much as you?” he asked finally, his gaze searching as his ancient eyes encompassed the other’s face. “Do you think that I would put him in harm, if there were any choice?”

“There is no choice before you, Gandalf,” Frodo whispered, tone as hard as his gaze. “I shall not put Pippin at risk for a few days time. We are staying here until he is well again.”

The wizard opened his mouth to reply, his own eyes slowly turning hard.

“Frodo-“ he began, voice gaining an edge.

“No, Gandalf,” Frodo said. His voice was still soft, still calm, but there was no denying the firm resolve that filled it. “If you want to carry the Ring, be my guest. But I shall not put my kinsmen in harm’s way to gain a few days. We shall remain here, and if you wish to do otherwise-“

His hand withdrew the Ring from beneath his shirt, the gold of the small band glinting dimly in the starlight. Gandalf’s indrawn breath was sharp, his face tightening at the sight of the malevolent thing.

“I was appointed the Ring-bearer, Gandalf,” Frodo murmured, eyes never leaving the wizard’s face. “Either you place your trust in me, or you don’t. But do not doubt that I will release this burden in a heartbeat if Merry and Pippin, or Sam, are risked so foolishly again.”

A moment of silence hung heavily between them, their eyes locking in a gaze of silent wills. After a moment, Gandalf dropped his gaze, admitting acknowledgement of Frodo’s terms without speaking a word.

Satisfied, Frodo replaced the Ring under his shirt.

“You, of all people, should have known better than to play with Pippin’s health, Gandalf.” His tone was sharp, accusing, and the hobbit’s eyes were glinting with anger. “You, who’ve known him all his life, and held him as a babe, proclaiming that he would live despite the fears of his parents. I expected more from you, Gandalf.”

Frodo turned, walking stiffly back to his kin, leaving the wizard to contemplate his words. And the actions that had prompted them.