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Merry's Errand  by Budgielover

Chapter 2

Four black bruises decorated the front of Merry’s shoulder the following morning, and one wider black bruise on the back. He hitched his shoulder uncomfortably and tried to work out its stiffness by helping Sam bury the fire pit and rake earth over it. The quiet rage engendered in him the previous night remained; normally an easy-going hobbit, Merry was surprised at the anger he felt. Not at what the men had almost done to him (they had paid for that), but that the men had hunted his friends and meant to do them harm, for gold, at another’s cowardly bidding.

And that they meant to hurt Frodo… Rage boiled suddenly in him and he made a choked sound.

Sam paused in his raking and gave him an odd look over the turned ground. "It don’t do no good ‘ta dwell on it, Mr. Merry," he said with his usual perceptiveness. When Merry only raised smoldering eyes to his, he continued, "We’ve got to focus on getting Mr. Frodo to Rivendell. Nothing’s more important than that, right now."

After a moment Merry nodded and dropped his eyes. But if he ever saw that miserable half-orc again…

Pippin finished lashing Frodo’s pack to the pony and joined them. He’d gotten their cousin to drink a cup of tea and eat a broiled tomato and half a sausage. But even Pippin’s saddest lost-puppy look could not persuade Frodo to take more. When Frodo refused the mushroom that Pippin had found and saved for him, the tears in the youngster’s eyes were genuine. Merry put his arm around Pippin’s shoulders and gave him a brief hug before the two of them sat next to Sam and Frodo to wait for Strider.

Frodo looked a little better this morning, Merry thought, examining his cousin from the corner of his eye. He thought he had gotten away with his unobtrusive inspection until Frodo half turned towards him and met his gaze, those beautiful morning- glory eyes weary but amused. Caught, Merry flushed and grinned at him. "All right, there, Cousin?" he asked softly.

Frodo was saved from a useless reassurance by the Ranger’s return. Aragorn strode into camp, a coney slung over his shoulder, almost as quietly as a hobbit could move. Swiftly tying the rabbit onto Bill’s panniers, Aragorn talked to them over his shoulder. "No sign of them. I found their trails at first light and followed them until they converged, not far from the clearing. Then both started west. My guess is that, having failed, they are headed back to Bree." He turned and surveyed them. "Are you all ready to move out?"

It was Merry’s thought that the Ranger did not want to leave them alone too long, should the men circle back and come at them again. Four hobbits, one badly injured and the other three unfamiliar with weapon-work, were no match for two armed Men. Or one man and one half-orc, he thought darkly.

Merry couldn’t bear to watch as the Ranger bent and lifted Frodo to place him on the pony. As gentle as Aragorn was, as careful, Frodo could not suppress a cry of pain as the movement pulled at his shoulder. Bill snorted and the skin on his withers twitched. Well acquainted with ponies, Merry knew Bill didn’t like the smell of blood, either Frodo’s or the fresh-killed rabbit.

Then it was back to the plodding they had been doing for days. Plod, plod, plod... Sam led Bill and Merry walked with Pippin on one side of the pony, while Aragorn half-supported Frodo on the other. Their cousin rarely spoke now, and Merry felt himself and Pippin becoming increasingly quiet and anxious. It seemed that all of them entered a half-trance-like state, a retreating of the mind, dealing only with the demands of the road.

Merry wasn’t really aware of much until Aragorn signaled a halt for the midday rest and meal. The party made camp off the road in some nameless, windswept dell. Sam bent over a small fire, laying out his supplies and stirring his kettles. Merry foraged for firewood, staying close to camp. Pippin had offered to go, seeing that Merry still moved stiffly, but Merry had refused him with a quickness and a vehemence that surprised his cousin. Raising his eyebrows, Pippin remarked, "Well, there’s no need to jump down my throat. Fine, you get the firewood."

In a huff, Pip moved over to Frodo and sat beside him to chop carrots. Merry winced; he had overreacted to the thought of Pippin being out of his sight and alone. He wondered if he was going to have to ‘fess up to what had actually happened the previous night and half-regretted that he and Aragorn had agreed not to tell the others the truth.

Seeing Frodo awake, Pippin dumped the carrots into a kettle. "Hullo, Frodo," he said. "How do you feel? May I get you another blanket?"

"No, I’m all right." Frodo tried to smile reassuringly at his cousins. He yawned, finding the contrast between the cold air on his face and the warm nest of blankets refreshing. The warmth of the blankets did not seem to touch his wounded side, but just escaping the jolt and sway of the pony’s back was a relief. He felt better, except for the mist that seemed to drift in front of his eyes only.

Aragorn looked up at the soft murmur of voices, then rose and came to them. Merry watched as the Ranger laid his hand on his cousin’s brow and looked deeply into the blue eyes. The man’s own grey-blue eyes narrowed as the fire reflected in Frodo’s extremely contracted pupils. Sam gave the stew a quick stir and followed a moment later, kneeling by his master’s side. Merry realized Sam carried a small steaming kettle, and saw Pippin capture Frodo’s right hand in both of us.

Still without speaking, Aragorn unbuttoned the staghorn buttons of Frodo’s jacket and waistcoat and carefully eased back the soft maroon-brown cloth. Merry turned his face away, unable to help and unable to continue watching.

Frodo’s shirt was unbuttoned, then Aragorn’s strong fingers were probing gently at the wound. Frodo paled and set his throat to stifle any inadvertent cry.

"Easy, easy," Aragorn said softly. "It has bled through the bandage. I will have to pull a bit."

As Aragorn peeled the blood soaked bandage away, Frodo determinedly tried to focus on something else. The smell of the stew made him feel ill. Choose something else, then! Ah, the aroma of the king’s foil herb, what Aragorn called athelas, was soothing. Frodo risked a quick glance back. Aragorn was crumbling more of the leaves into Sam’s kettle. Then Aragorn was carefully washing the wound, cleaning away the clotted and still-seeping blood. Frodo gritted his teeth against the searing pain of hot water in the wound, then began to relax as his skin adjusted and the water became merely warm and pleasant.

"There, Mr. Frodo," whispered Sam. "Almost done now. Just a clean bandage, and then we’ll have a bite o’ lunch." Aragorn picked another leaf out of his pouch and put it in his mouth, moistening it. This he placed directly over the wound, holding Frodo down with his other hand. Frodo jerked violently despite his resolution to lie still. Gasping, he lay back as Aragorn finished the bandaging.

Sam and Aragorn returned to the fire, letting Frodo recover himself for a moment. "Burn the bandages, Sam," Aragorn instructed. "We want to leave nothing behind by which the Nine could harm him. And few things could do more mischief than blood." Sam cast the cloths into the fire and determinedly stirred up the flames.

Sam dished up the stew and the party settled down to consuming it. Every movement caused Frodo pain, and seeing this, Sam insisted on feeding him. Frodo did not feel he could manage the food—he did not want the stew, but Sam had insisted he at least swallow the broth. Shamed, Frodo had forced the food down his throat and after struggling to keep it behind his teeth, felt the better for it. Then the greyness seemed to overwhelm him, and he sank gratefully back into the escape of sleep.

Returning to the fire, Sam made certain that the last scrap of the bandage linens were consumed by the flames, then sifted the ashes to the wind. Merry rose and checked on his cousin, pulling the blanket higher on the still form. Careful not to wake Frodo, he placed his hand over the pale left hand outside the blanket and felt his heart wrench when there was no trace of warmth in the flesh. He lifted the cold hand carefully and sheltered it under the blanket. Frodo grimaced in his sleep and moaned.

"Take a little nap," advised Aragorn, repacking his medicinal supplies. "I will watch. I want to move on again in an hour. We still can put many miles behind us before moonrise." The hobbits were exhausted and an hour’s sleep would not lessen that, but they had no choice. Merry signaled to Pippin and with a nod, the youngster rolled himself in his blanket and gently curved himself around Frodo’s right side. Merry did the same on his left.

Even Bill was too tired to stand; the pony lowered himself to the ground and Sam eased down against him, using his soft, warm barrel as a backrest.

"You didn’t rest last night, sir," Sam said to Aragorn softly, "what with going after Mr. Merry last night, and taking the watch then followin’ those men this morning. I don’t feel like sleeping—too aching yet. You sleep, Mr. Strider, and I’ll watch." Aragorn nodded, his face for a moment betraying his weariness. He cast himself down and was asleep within seconds.

Sam watched the faint smoke of the campfire drift into the distance. Merry had chosen only seasoned wood, long on the ground, so there was little smoke. He was growing sleepy himself and thought of waking Pippin to continue the watch. He’d prefer to have Mr. Merry take the watch, but Merry too was exhausted. When Strider had gone after the men to discover their movements, Merry had been unaccountably tense and jumpy. Sam was beginning to think that there was something Mr. Merry wasn’t telling them. He yawned ... he should wake Merry, or Strider…

Suddenly, Frodo began to have trouble breathing. He began to wheeze, as if he could not draw enough air into his lungs. Sam scuttled swiftly over to him and knelt behind him, raising him slightly. Merry and Pippin slept on like logs.

Sam pulled Frodo up against him, dismayed at how little his master seemed to weigh. Frodo’s breathing improved, the upright position easing him. His eyes opened and Sam stared down into Frodo’s aware, agonized gaze. "Hullo, Sam," he whispered softly. "What’s the time?"

"Two hours after midday, sir," Sam answered. "I was just thinkin’ I should wake Mr. Strider and we should be moving on. How are you feeling, Mr. Frodo?"

Frodo did not seem to hear the question, his gaze seeking out each of the sleepers, then returning to his cousins. "I shouldn’t have brought them, Sam," he whispered. "They don’t belong in this. Pippin … he’s just a lad. Merry can’t protect him against what follows. They should be back home in the Shire, raiding Farmer Maggot’s crops and getting into mischief. If we win through to Rivendell, you must convince them to go home."

"I don’t know how to do that, Mr. Frodo," Sam returned, equally softly. "They said they were in this till the bitter end, sir, and I don’t think you’ll be able to turn ‘em from it."

Frodo closed his eyes again, for the moment too spent to continue. When he had recovered some strength, he looked up again into Sam’s honest face. "Sam," he said, "you must take the Ring. If I don’t get there, you must take the Ring and go on to Rivendell with Aragorn. Then ask Elrond for an escort and take Merry and Pippin home."

Sam’s world had stopped when his master said, "If I don’t get there..." His hold tightened involuntarily and Frodo gasped, starting him coughing softly. Quickly, Sam lifted him further upright until Frodo could again breathe.

"Don’t you talk like that, Mr. Frodo!" he hissed. "We are going to get to Rivendell just fine and the Elves will heal you. They can do anything, those Elves, and Master Elrond is said to be the wisest o’ all of them. You’re going to be just fine!"

Frodo smiled up at the vehemence in Sam’s voice. "Dear Sam," he said softly. "You are going to have to be strong enough for both of us, I fear. I don’t think I can stand much more, Sam. I’m sorry. I feel like my life is trickling out of me, like water washing through sand." Frodo stopped and closed his eyes.

Sam thought his heart would burst out of his chest. A great lump the size of a cabbage seemed to have lodged in his throat. "We just have to get to Rivendell, sir, and you’ll be fixed right up. I’m goin’ to wake Strider now. It’s time we were movin’ again."

Frodo nodded and was silent as Sam carefully eased him down and propped him against the packs. Sam crept over to Strider’s side and was preparing to call him when he saw the glitter of tears in the Ranger’s eyes and realized that the man was awake.

* TBC *





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