Aragorn stared forlornly up at the stars that dotted the sky, pinpricks of light in a velvet curtain that covered and protected them. Shame hung about his head, thick as a dense fog and just as stifling.

He stood a bit apart from the group, feeling the need for solitude more than he had yet on this Quest. Still able to hear the voices of the rest of the Fellowship behind him, he kept an unconscious ear on the hobbits, their voices too low pitched even for his sensitive hearing to catch their words. Only their tone, filled with worry and fear, could be made out.

A low moan from Pippin turned his head, to see Legolas place another mug of athelas tea to the tweenager’s slightly blue lips, and after a moment Pippin was quiet again, his breathing easing slightly.

“How could I have ever been so foolish?” he asked softly of the night, watching the small hobbit drift back into the fever induced sleep he had maintained for the past hour before turning away once more, facing the dark of the night and his own guilt.

“Better to ask, Dúnadan, how could we all have been so foolish? All, save for those who knew better than we who are supposedly wiser, that is,” a soft voice answered from behind the Ranger.

Aragorn turned his head once more, to see Gandalf approach. He smiled sadly at the wizard.

“I have been so intent on this Quest, on accomplishing this mission, that I have forgotten what it is truly about,” Aragorn whispered. Gandalf’s slow tread took him to a spot slightly to the right and in front of the Ranger, who watched him with weary eyes.

“And what would that be, Aragorn?” Gandalf asked just as softly, not turning. He, too, seemed wrapped in his own thoughts and feelings of guilt.

“Saving all that we love and cherish.”

Gandalf finally turned, his ancient eyes seeing through the man with a compassion that far surpassed even his years.

“Perhaps it is not too late to accomplish that,” was his only answer.

Aragorn smiled sadly, turning his eyes once more to the dark and forbidding landscape that had become their refuge for the night.

“I do not know what else to do, Gandalf,” he finally whispered, unable to meet that knowing gaze once more. “None of the others show the same signs that Peregrin does, yet all were bitten! Why him? Why do the bites affect him so, and why does nothing I do work?”

There was bitter frustration in his voice, self-reproach for being unable to solve this riddle.

For a moment the wizard was silent, staring intently up to the stars, remembering past Tooks and present ones. When he did speak, his voice was distant, filled with a fondness the Ranger never would have guessed at.

“Peregrin was born much earlier than he was supposed to be,” he began, smiling at the memory of the tiny, weak baby that had contained, and still did, such a bright and fiery spirit. “He has suffered for his early birth all his life. Small even for a hobbit, quick to fall ill with sicknesses that linger when most lads shake them off in a few days. Fighting his way through deadly bouts of the Winter Sickness and triumphing every time despite the fears of those who love him. And never has he given up, or allowed himself to become bitter.”

The wizard finally turned his gaze back to the Ranger, who was listening to his words in awed silence.

“It is no wonder Elrond did not wish Pippin to join us. Certainly he wanted one of the hobbits to return home and warn them of impending danger, but also he could sense the difficulty Pippin would have along the way should he accompany us.” Here Gandalf chuckled gently, fondly. “Though he is a handful at times, and hard put to use the most common of sense at others, there is not another hobbit save for Merry and Sam that I would have chosen to accompany the Ring-bearer on his Quest.”

Here he fell silent for a moment, gathering his thoughts. Then, so softly Aragorn had to lean forward to hear the words, whispered, “I am a fool.”

Nothing more was said between them for several moments, listening to the sounds of the nocturnal animals around them, going about their lives. Then, without a word, Aragorn turned, heading back once more to what he feared was becoming a losing battle.

He stopped suddenly, eyes captured by an odd sight. Boromir was sitting a few feet away from where Gimli was distractedly puffing on his pipe. The warrior of Gondor had his head in his hands as though in pain, the fingers of his right hand gently massaging his temple.

“Boromir?” Aragorn asked softly, diverting his path to the Gondorian. “Is everything all right?”

The man looked up, startled. Even in the dim firelight Aragorn could see the faint flush of fever in the other’s cheeks. Gimli looked up, a startled expression on his face, as though just realizing that the man sat near him.

“I am fine, Aragorn,” Boromir responded stiffly, trying to sit up straighter.

“I beg to differ, my friend,” Aragorn objected, moving closer. Yes, the warrior was definitely running a fever. “Why did you not say anything?”

“Tis just a headache,” Boromir answered quickly. “Truly, Aragorn. Your talents are needed elsewhere this night, and I would not have you wasting time on a simple headache when there is another far worse off than myself.”

“Nonsense, Boromir,” Aragorn chided gently, kneeling by the warrior’s side. “As I have been reminded tonight, there is no such thing as a minor illness on the road. Now, let me have a look.”

Boromir fidgeted uneasily, absently scratching at his arm. Aragorn noticed, and immediately stilled the action, hand clenching almost painfully on the other man’s.

“You were bitten as well?” the Ranger asked softly, pulling the shirtsleeve up to reveal a small welt, the size of the tip of his little finger, ringed in white.

“By a spider, this evening, as I was helping the hobbits prepare their gear. I think it was in my cloak,” Boromir explained, slightly puzzled.

“What type of spider?” Aragorn asked, sudden fear warring with hope. “Please, Boromir, this is important!”

Spurred on by the urgency in Aragorn’s tone, Boromir closed his eyes, trying to remember, fighting the pain in his head.

“A green spider, flecked with yellow. Long legs, and a larger body. It quite startled me when I saw it,” he added, almost to himself.

“Boromir, if what I think is correct, you may have just saved our young friend’s life!” Aragorn whispered, putting his hand on the other’s shoulder, squeezing tightly. “Please, be patient a bit longer, but Pippin needs me!”

He was gone before Boromir could protest that he had already said as much.

“This should reduce his fever and ease his breathing,” the Ranger whispered, easing Pippin’s head back down to the pile of blankets. “Now that I know what I am facing, I believe we shall see progress very soon.”

“Aragorn, what is wrong with him? What has changed?” Frodo asked, softly. The anger from before had faded as quickly as a misted breath on a cold day, and left the elder hobbit tired and fearful.

“You see these bites? How they differ from the others?” Aragorn asked, pointing to a small, white-ringed welt. “I did not think anything of it until I noticed the same marking on Boromir, and realized that these were not caused by the ants, but by a spider.”

Frodo’s eyes widened, and he turned once more to his cousin, counting the spider bites.

“He must have at least twenty of them!” he murmured in horror.

“Yes,” Aragorn agreed, grimly.

“But how did he get them?” Merry asked in a tight voice, his hand unconsciously tracing one of the bites. “None of us have these!”

“I do not know, Merry,” Aragorn whispered mournfully. “My only guess is that a cluster of them found refuge in Pippin’s blanket, and bit him in retaliation when the ants started to swarm. Boromir said he found one in his cloak this morning, and that is how he acquired his bite. If one bite can make a man of his size feverish and sick…” The Ranger did not finish the sentence, allowing it to hang in the air between them all.

Nothing more was said for several moments, all eyes turned toward the still hobbit, who’s labored breathing was the only sign of his continued struggle for life.

Legolas, sitting beside Merry and running one graceful hand through the red-gold curls that were plastered to the sweaty forehead, burning with fever, started to sing, softly. Aragorn felt his eyes well with tears unexpectedly at the ancient lullaby, and turned his head away quickly, standing awkwardly and moving to the fire to start another pot of tea, wiping his eyes as he did so.

“He’ll be fine, laddie,” a gruff voice said to his side, startling him.

Aragorn did not look up, crushing leaves with more force than was necessary into the pot, staring intently into the fire.

“I could have killed him,” he finally whispered when Gimli did not leave. “I would have pushed him until he collapsed if Frodo hadn’t stopped me.”

A hand, calloused and hesitant, as though unused to such displays of emotion, rested briefly on his shoulder.

“But you did not,” Gimli murmured. “Aye, you made a mistake, and a foolish one at that,” the dwarf added, and Aragorn could not help but smile at the tone. “But you know better now, and will not do it again. That is what matters, lad. That you get the wee one better, and we continue on this blasted Quest. The others will understand, once their fear has faded a bit. Just give them time, and you’ll see.”

Aragorn reached up and placed his own hand over the dwarf’s, finally turning his head to meet the crinkled, wise eyes.

Gimli nodded, satisfied by whatever he saw in the man’s face, and squeezed Aragorn’s shoulder quickly before he turned away. Aragorn watched him walk over to stand beside Gandalf, who had assumed the guard. The two of them stood there quietly, staring out into the night, thoughts wrapped about them like a warm blanket against the chill of their worry.

Shaking his head, Aragorn turned back to the task at hand. All his attention was required now, to see his young friend through the night. He would not let him down again.