Stories of Arda Home Page
About Us News Resources Login Become a member Help Search
swiss replica watches replica watches uk Replica Rolex DateJust Watches

Naked Dancing Hobbits  by Pipfan

Pippin was sleeping restlessly, his brow creased, eyes squinted even in slumber against the pain that seemed to have become a constant part of his body. His breathing was even more labored and he had begun to wheeze, gasping breaths that eerily reminded his kin of Pippin’s numerous battles with the Winter Sickness. Merry knelt beside him, one hand gently holding Pippin’s left, his thumb absently circling the wrist, the other running tenderly through red-gold hair. He looked up as Frodo approached.

Aragorn, on Pippin’s right, looked up as well, his eyes worried, frowning. Briefly he lifted his gaze to somewhere over Frodo’s shoulder, and the eldest cousin knew without looking that Gandalf stood behind him.

“How is he?” Frodo asked softly, eyes taking in the pale complexion, bruised eyes and swollen, red and white-ringed welts on his youngest kin.

“No better I fear,” Aragorn whispered, placing one finger on a welt that marred Pippin’s shoulder. It was different then the others, rimmed in white and swollen, a red area surrounding it. Quite a few others like it dotted the hobbit’s body. “I do not understand this,” he hissed, almost to himself. “The tea should have at least brought his fever down! His breathing becomes more difficult! And these welts, they should be fading!”

Frodo frowned, moving to kneel down beside the Ranger, placing a hesitant hand to Pippin’s brow. His scowl deepened at the heat.

“What are you going to do?” Frodo asked.

For a moment Aragorn said nothing, his gaze lingering on the prone hobbit before him before turning eyes back to Frodo. Something in his gaze was all the answer the Ring-bearer needed.

Gandalf placed a wrinkled hand on the Ranger’s shoulder, guiding him a few steps away from the others. His voice when he spoke was too soft for human ears, though hobbit senses heard the conversation without trouble.

“How is Peregrin, Aragorn? Besides the obvious ant bites,” Gandalf whispered, the two of them turning their backs slightly to those they discussed. The wizard’s gentle eyes sought the still form of the hobbit under discussion.

“He worsens, old friend,” Aragorn sighed, running a hand through his hair in an uncharacteristic display of frustration. “His fever is not responding to the tea, but rises! His welts become worse, he gasps for every shallow breath, his heartbeat is rapid. I do not know what to do!”

This last was said in a strained hiss, the Ranger’s shoulders tense.

“Will he survive the night?” Gandalf asked in a breath so soft that the words were almost lost to even hobbit ears. The wizard’s expression was bleak, his eyes filled with an immense sorrow that seemed to encompass the whole of his being.

There was a moment of silence, in which all of the night seemed to hold its breath in anticipation of the answer. Frodo, watching Merry anxiously, saw his cousin’s eyes narrow, his ears twitch, and felt his own heart quicken.

“I do not know,” Aragorn finally admitted.

Behind them, listening intently to every word, Merry suddenly released Pippin’s hand with a cry which seemed to be ripped from his very soul, launching himself over his cousin’s legs and over the fire, his feet teasing the flames as he crossed.

The move carried him to where the two stood, stunned by his sudden actions, and he plowed into Aragorn. Both went down, the Ranger flat on his back, Merry straddling him, glaring at the man, anger and fear turning his face sharp. He cocked his arm, fist trembling in his rage.

A hand descended, clutching Merry’s wrist as it began to move and stopping its motion. The enraged hobbit looked up, eyes glinting as he opened his mouth to berate whoever had dared to stop his attack.

Frodo stood over him, face in shadow as the firelight flickered behind the eldest hobbit. For a moment neither spoke, staring into each other’s eyes, daring, compelling, challenging. Frodo, his own eyes hard and filled with a smoldering anger that singed all those he turned that gaze upon, slowly shook his head, murmuring one word, softly, cautioning.

“Merry.”

His tone conveyed a thousand things, his expression only one.

Merry nodded, slowly lowering his hand. Frodo would take care of things.

Reluctantly he stood, unaware of the eyes watching him from the rest of the Company, their gazes shocked and astonished.

“Go have Sam see to your feet,” Frodo whispered, placing the same hand he had used to restrain on Merry’s cheek. “Then go to Pippin. He needs you now.”

Merry cast one last loathing glare to Aragorn and Gandalf, eyes narrowed, before he turned, limping over to where Sam stood, eyes wide, face pale. Too keyed up to sit down, he paced uncaring of his discomfort, oblivious to Sam’s nervous gaze.

Aragorn was kneeling, hand on his chest where Merry’s knee had caught him, and was eyeing the Ring-bearer warily.

Frodo turned to stare at the man, eyes calculating, scowling.

“Frodo – “ Aragorn began, trying to find the right words to explain the situation.

With surprising speed, the hobbit shoved the Ranger, hard. Aragorn fell back, landing on his backside in surprise. The others watched, stunned, Legolas, Gimli and Boromir uncertain as to what to do.

Aragorn made to stand again, lips pressed tightly together, and Frodo surged forward, shoving him once more with all his might, both hands descending with bruising force.

The Ranger splayed on his back, eyes wide in astonishment, before turning to look enquiringly at Gandalf. The wizard met his gaze sadly, giving the barest of headshakes.

Frodo took a step forward, glaring fiercely, hovering over Aragorn’s much larger form. Legolas made to move, either to help the Ranger or try to soothe Frodo’s anger the others did not know. But as he started to approach, Merry, pacing still, turned and took one deliberate step towards the elf, his challenge plain. Behind him Sam moved closer.

The expression on Meriadoc’s face was enough to send Legolas back a step, Gimli and Boromir watching in open-mouthed astonishment.

For a moment there was silence save for the crackling of the fire and Pippin’s labored breathing. Then, advancing slowly to loom over Aragorn, Frodo stopped, glaring down at the man with undisguised anger darkening his face. He said nothing, the silence lengthening until it was nearly a sound of its own. Then a movement, and Merry was next to Frodo in silent support, Sam taking Merry’s place protectively between the others and the unfolding drama.

“You knew my cousin was sick,” Frodo finally said in a voice none had heard before, his frame shaking with suppressed rage. “You knew we were all sick. Yet you pressed us onward. For what? To save a day? Perhaps two?” He took another step forward, his face inches away from Aragorn’s, eyes two large pinpoints in the flickering shadows, face pale with anger. Aragorn said nothing, his own eyes wary, watching every move the hobbit made. “Or did you think the death of my cousin would have us moving faster?” His voice cracked, and two large, angry tears rolled from his steel hard eyes.

Frodo’s voice lowered, and in a hiss that sent chills down the spines of all who heard, warned, “If he dies because of this, then make no mistake. I will follow you to the very depths of Mordor, Aragorn, but then I will cast you into the Cracks of Doom along with this cursed Ring!”

For a moment none moved, and Aragorn swallowed, looking from the two hobbits before him to the prone form of their cousin, and read the promise in both their eyes.

Frodo moved, to take a step back. He straightened, still glaring at the man before him. Then he turned, eyes taking in those watching the scene in shock, then to Merry, who met his gaze unwaveringly. When he turned to Sam, the gardener nodded, once. Then Frodo and Merry moved to where Pippin lay, and knelt beside him, each taking a hand.

Preparing to spend the long night in a wakeful vigil both had performed too often in their lives.






<< Back

Next >>

Leave Review
Home     Search     Chapter List