Chapter 5

“We will know very soon.  It would strike the hobbits more quickly, with their smaller bodies and swifter metabolisms.  And the excitement of battle and race back through the corridor might aggravate it and speed the infection.”  The wizard’s florid face paled as he spoke, his voice very soft.   “Aragorn,” Gandalf said softly, his eyes closing in pain.  “Pray that it is not the foaming sickness.  If it is … there is nothing that I, or anyone, can do.”       

Gandalf followed the Ranger back to the little group of hobbits with his heart in his throat.  Swiftly he knelt down at their sides, a smile on his face that was not echoed in his sharp eyes.  Frodo and Sam looked at him tiredly.  But it was the looks on the other two’s faces that stopped the easy words of reassurance on his lips; Merry was hugging Pippin tightly and the youngster’s curly head was buried in his older cousin’s chest.  Merry met his eyes steadily but the young hobbit’s face was paper-white and hopelessness was in his blue eyes.

“We’re all right, Gandalf,” Frodo said, struggling to summon a smile.  “None of us were injured.  And Merry killed one!  Sam might have, too.  Pip and I,” and here the hobbit rubbed the young one’s back, puzzled by Pippin’s shaking, “just tried to stay out of the way.”

The wizard nodded, his eyes still on Merry’s.  “Aragorn tells me you all acquitted yourselves bravely.  To have killed an Orc in one’s first battle is no small thing, Merry.  I would like to look at you all anyway; sometimes hurts taken in battle do not make themselves known until later.  Sam, Aragorn said you are having trouble standing?”

Sam had pulled his legs under him and was now sitting tailor-fashion, supporting himself against the rock he had been laying on.  Already his hands were busy, using a cloth to clean his sword.  Finished, he passed the cloth on to Frodo, who began wiping down Sting.  Like Gandalf’s own Glamdring, faint blue flames crawled yet along the elven sword’s length, but the edging fire was faint.

“I had a mite o’ trouble getting up, sir,” Sam explained, “but I’m fine now.  Just shock, I think.  Never did anything like that before … killing somebody, I mean.”  The stocky hobbit was silent for a moment, his face pale.  “I hope he didn’t die,’ Sam added softly.  “I mean … I hope I didn’t kill him.”  He flushed and stared at the ground, tears glittering in his grey eyes.

Frodo reached over and pressed Sam’s shoulder gently.  The wizard nodded, his own eyes shadowed.  “And you and Pippin, Frodo?  Do you two have a fever and a headache?”

Pippin refused to raise his head, trembling violently against Merry.  Very gently, Gandalf reached over and stroked the youngster’s curls.  Frodo and Sam looked on, knowing now that something had occurred which they were not aware of.  When Pippin did not relax or respond, Frodo spoke.  “Yes, we do.  Kind of a throbbing at the base of our skulls.”  Frodo massaged the back of his neck, then stopped and pressed a hand to his forehead.  He reached over and gently pried Pippin’s head away from Merry and felt his.  “But I don’t think a fever – we were just hot from exertion.”

Gandalf nodded again.  “Merry?”

Merry startled; his whole attention had been on Pippin.  “I don’t feel well, either,” he said after a moment’s self-examination.  “My head aches.  Throbbing, like Frodo said.  And I feel rather sick.”

The wizard watched as three other curly heads nodded in union, Pippin’s very jerkily.  Merry fell silent again and stared at Gandalf.

The wizard reached out and felt each curly head in turn, gently laying a hand on each sweating brow.  Then he cupped a hand under each chin and rested the other on the back of each small skull, turning the hobbits’ head gently from side to side and up and down.  They submitted to this quietly, though Frodo could not help an “Ow” when the turning pulled at the deep bites on the back of his neck.

To Sam and Frodo’s surprise, Gandalf then asked them to open their mouths.  The glowing crystal at the tip of his staff brightened as the wizard peered into each small mouth.  Merry found that he had been clenching his jaw, and opened his mouth with difficulty.  Pippin refused completely and would not unwind himself from his cousin’s embrace.  Gandalf leaned over him and murmured softly to him for some time, but the youngster would not look up.     

“We’ll see if we can’t come up with something to help with those headaches,” the wizard said softly, fear in his deep eyes.  “Rest now…  We will have to be moving on soon but can at least catch our breath here.”  Gandalf used Merry’s shoulder to lever himself up, pressing it once as he rose.  The wizard could feel fatigue settling into his old bones.  He also could feel the young hobbit’s eyes on his back, and wished again that Merry’s hobbit-inquisitiveness had not prompted him to overhear his and Aragorn’s conversation in this place.

“Merry, what is going on here?”  Merry’s attention was abruptly returned when Frodo’s soft but authoritative voice intruded on his thoughts.  Merry grimaced; he should have schooled his features better.  He had barely opened his mouth when his cousin overrode him.  “Oh no, you don’t, Meriadoc Brandybuck.  I know that innocent look.  You will tell me the truth, young hobbit.  Now.”

Beside him, Sam looked miserable, trying to find some point in the middle horizon to stare at.  Caught between cousins, he heartily wished he were somewhere else.  “We could all use a cuppa tea,” he said, rising stiffly.  “I’ll just -”

“Sit, Sam.”  His master’s morning glory eyes raised briefly to him then returned to bore into poor Mr. Merry.  Feeling deeply sorry for Mr. Merry but glad it wasn’t him, Sam sank back down.

Merry rubbed at his blond curls … the throbbing seemed to be growing worse.  Pippin had frozen against him, hoping to be overlooked.  Merry noticed that Frodo seemed to be hurting, too, his dark brows quirked and his pale face strained.

“I think you should ask Gandalf about that,” Merry temporized.  He didn’t want to explain to his friends what he had overheard.  He didn’t even want to think about it – it was too terrifying.  And now they felt sick…

“I’m asking you, Meriadoc.”  Frodo halted and rubbed at his head, further disarraying the dark curls.  He inhaled deeply and with a visible effort, refocused on Merry.  Merry glanced around in hopes of rescue, but the Big Folk were gathered in tight converse.  He winced; the effort of turning his head had caused the throbbing to go to pounding.

Merry was surprised to hear Sam groan and looked up to see his friend rubbing his head with both grimy hands.  “Sorry,” Sam muttered.  “Me head feels like a long night-after at The Green Dragon.”

“Merry?”  They were all surprised to hear Pippin’s soft voice.  Seeing them all looking at him, Pippin flushed then rubbed at his eyes.  “I feel sick, Merry,” he said quietly.  “And everything’s blurry.”

Frodo gently turned Pippin’s face towards him and stared into the unfocused green-gold eyes.  “Sam,” he said, keeping his voice even and reassuring, “would you be kind enough to ask Gandalf and Aragorn to come over here?”

“Aye, sir.”  Sam stood up, lost his balance and promptly toppled over sideways.  Frodo caught him before he crashed to the hard floor, knocking them both over.  The movement caught the attention of the others and they all hurried over, much to Samwise’s embarrassment.  Merry noticed that Gimli had removed his heavy helmet and was rubbing his head, too.

Again Gandalf examined them, Aragorn by his side.  The Ranger began asking the hobbits questions, and his frightened eyes met the wizard’s when the replies he received began to lack in sense.  “Something is affecting them, Gandalf,” Aragorn muttered.  “It is moving too rapidly to be the illness we discussed.”  Gimli glanced at them sharply then returned to stretching his short neck and rubbing his head.  Legolas and Boromir exchanged a puzzled glance.

“Does anyone else feel ill?” Aragorn asked.  Gimli grimaced then volunteered that he felt nauseated and very tired.  After a moment’s hesitation, the two taller ones agreed.  Aragorn felt something click in his mind, in spite of the numbing headache he felt forming.  Taller ones … taller? 

“Gimli!”  The Dwarf jerked then stared at him.  “Could the release of the waters below us have released something else as well?”

The Ranger struggled to order his thoughts.  It seemed to be difficult to think, somehow.  He was vaguely aware that Boromir was now leaning against a broken arch, and that Legolas had sunk to one of the stone benches, his bow held loosely between his long legs.  Gimli stared at him, obviously fighting to respond.  Forcing himself, Aragorn continued, “Something unseen and unfelt … colorless, odorless, tasteless…  A gas, Gimli?  A gas that would crawl along the floor, affecting the smaller folk first, then rising to affect us?”

“Aye,” the Dwarf rumbled.  “Aye, a gas.  It is known to my people.  What we are feeling is true to what I have heard of such poisoning.  Aragorn, Gandalf, we must leave this place and seek higher ground and clean air – now.”

“Legolas!  Boromir!  Take Merry and Pippin.  Gandalf, will you carry Sam?  I will take Frodo.  We must leave this place.”  Aragorn bent and picked up the hobbit, noting that the Ring-bearer and the others seemed only half-aware.  “Boromir!  Pick up Pippin!”  With a start, the man pushed himself away from the wall and picked up the youngster, raising him so that Pippin’s head was cradled against his shoulder. 

“Quickly now,” said Gandalf, Sam limp in his arms.  “Gimli, will you lead?  Take us back to the main colonnade.  From there, we can choose another route out of this dreadful place.”

The Dwarf nodded and strode ahead, his axe at the ready should they meet more Orcs.  The two Men, the wizard and Elf trudged after, each fighting this new battle to win free of the entrapment of Moria.  The Little Folk were dead weight in their arms.  Aragorn cursed himself for not recognizing the symptoms of gas poisoning sooner and prayed that Frodo and the others would not suffer for his slowness.

The five walkers were puffing like long-distance runners when they gained the vast open space of the Hall of carved columns.  Gimli stumbled through first, demanding that they move far from the passage they had traveled.  Once they were sufficiently beyond the creeping reach of the gas, the Company lowered the hobbits to the ground and began to make them cough, as they themselves were doing.  Boromir held a great pinch of dust under Pippin’s sharp nose, and rubbed his back as the little one inhaled then coughed and coughed, eyes tearing under the strain of his lungs.  They made so much noise that the wizard was nearly frantic, but for once, nothing rose to threaten them from the deep, cold darkness.

When at last all of the Company had cleaned most of the toxic air from their lungs, Gandalf made them drag themselves to their feet and take shelter in one of the little alcoves that lined the colonnade.  It was a more defensible place than the open, many-pillared Hall and all of them felt safer for the cover.  The hobbits dropped off to sleep almost immediately and Aragorn refused to include them in the watch rotation, saying that those who had suffered most, most needed to rest.  The others quite agreed and Gandalf volunteered for the first watch.

Before laying himself down to sleep, Aragorn joined the wizard and they sat side-by-side staring into the unyielding darkness.  After a companionable silence, Aragorn ventured, “It is very early morning instead of late evening.  Let us hope that we have endured enough on this, our last day in Moria.”

The wizard nodded, his aged features exhausted in the dim light of their sheltered fire.  His staff lay across his knees, unlit, as his sharp eyes roved through the darkness.  “If we quit this evil place with meeting nothing more dire than bats and Orcs and foul gases, I will be grateful, my friend.”

The Ranger smiled, too tired to laugh.  “Indeed.  I am surpassingly grateful that those wicked bat-things were not rabid.”  He yawned, stretching out weary muscles.  “We have a long march today and the Bridge of Khazad-dûm to pass.  You will call me for the second watch?”  He yawned again, then smiled as a twitch among the blankets caught his attention.  “Merry, stop listening and go back to sleep.”

The End