Chapter 13: In Good Company

Merry sat holding a long length of white linen in his hands, watching Strider dab at the wound in Legolas’ back.  Outwardly he was quiet and still, but he was in turmoil beneath his skin.  His emotions were in a hopeless snarl; there were so many things that he was feeling that he scarcely knew what to think.  Fear and horror, relief and hope, sadness and joy – they rose and sank within him by turns like children on a see-saw.

Strider worked with the same tenderness that Merry had seen in him when Frodo had been wounded.  Whether he was wiping a thin stream of blood from Legolas’ shoulder or feeling at the Elf’s neck for his pulse, his hands were gentle and sure.  He had not said so, but he had to be tired after walking so far beneath Legolas’ unconscious weight.  Merry was bone-weary himself but he never considered asking for a reprieve.  There was work to be done, and he was needed.  At least the worst of his labor was over.  Watching Strider remove the arrow had not been easy.

The sight of Legolas was not one to inspire confidence.  Despite the fire he seemed scarcely less white than he’d been when he first appeared from out of the snow, dangling behind Strider’s back with ice in his hair.  He breathed, but he was utterly insensible to everything around him.  Merry knew this for a fact, for Legolas had not so much as twitched when Strider wrenched out the broken shaft.

At the moment, Merry had no difficulty counting his blessings – or Legolas’ and Sam’s, for that matter.  “It could have been so much worse,” he murmured.

“Yes, it could have,” Strider replied softly, “and might still be.  I have not yet had the chance to examine either Sam or Legolas thoroughly.  They may have suffered broken bones or blows to the head.”

Merry hesitated a moment before replying, conscious of the sudden stillness beneath the overhang.  It had been some time since anyone had spoken, and he could feel the rest of the company listening.  “But they are alive.”

“They are,” Strider agreed, “and that is no small thing.”

Strider himself was the reason that no one had said anything for a good while.  He had been so tense and snappish since dragging Legolas into the shelter that no one had dared to disturb him, but his calmness now was heartening enough to spur Merry on.  “Is Legolas going to recover?”

“The arrow pierced no vital organ.  If you must be shot, the shoulder is far from the worst place to be struck, and it was not even as deeply buried as I thought it would be.  Perhaps he was underwater at the moment of contact.”

“It’s a pity he wasn’t wearing more armor.”

“Oftentimes, an archer needs little more than these,” said Strider, indicating Legolas’ vambraces, which Merry had removed and set aside himself.

An archer needs a bow, too, thought Merry, considering Legolas’ broken weapon.  No one had so much as considered leaving it behind, and until someone unloaded Bill it remained strapped to the pony’s back.  But then Merry thought of the fight atop the cliff, and he stilled his tongue.  Legolas was far from helpless without a weapon, even when he was bound hand and foot.  And when he had got his hands on his knives, he had been very… efficient… in dispatching the Men.

And Sam…!  What of him?  Merry had certainly not expected him to do what he had done.  None of them had.  Even knowing all that had been at stake, Sam was the last hobbit in the Shire that Merry would have thought capable of such a thing.  It was simply not in his nature.  The Men must have been more blackhearted than Merry could imagine to have driven Sam to attack in such a fashion.  That, or Sam had layers that he had never guessed at.  Perhaps it was a little of both.

“If this wound proves to be the worst of his injuries, then he is very fortunate, and so are we,” Strider continued.  “He can recover quickly from such a hurt by itself.  But his body is already taxed by exposure, and perhaps by other secrets we have yet to uncover.”

“What about these?” said Merry, gesturing at Legolas’ bruises.

Displeasure painted Strider’s face.  “Most of these have been here for some days’ time.  See how they are fading?  They must have been inflicted during the journey through the river.  But these others….  I think that we saw enough atop that cliff to know how Legolas and Sam were treated while in captivity, but we cannot know all until one of them revives enough to tell us.”

“Sam has told us quite a bit already,” Gandalf said abruptly.  He and the others had given up all pretense of deafness now.  Even Boromir had stopped his restless pacing to stand near the shelter’s edge, although he continued to keep an eye on what lay beyond it.  “The Men suspected that he and Legolas had something of value in their possession.”

“He said the Men thought they had It,” said Pippin, placing special emphasis on the word.  “It, not something.”

“And yet Sam has told us that they gave no description of what they sought,” said Gandalf, leveling a significant look at Pippin.

“A group of ordinary Men mightn’t have set themselves upon an Elf and a hobbit wandering around all by themselves,” Pippin persisted, “but Sam said that these are Saruman’s Men.  Saruman knows about… well, he knows, and he’s none too happy with you, Gandalf.  He must have told them to get it for him.”

“Ah, but you are forgetting something,” said Gandalf.  “Think about what it is that Saruman wants.  You have heard how it corrupts, how it can turn the minds of the unguarded.  You need no better example than Saruman himself.  He once was one of the mightiest folk in Middle-earth, and though I would no longer call him wise, he is still both powerful and cunning.  He would not trust anyone with full knowledge of what he seeks, for he knows its nature well.  Saruman would no more take a hired sword into his confidence than he would an orc, and mercenaries are surely what these folk are.  No Men serve him out of love.”

You have heard how it corrupts, how it can turn the minds of the unguarded.  Merry looked away from the others, filled with disquiet.  Gandalf’s words brushed a little too closely to a secret that he kept closely guarded.  He did not like talking about the Ring; it had been but a few days since he’d picked up his burden, and the wound was still fresh.  What would Gandalf say if he knew?  What would Frodo say?  Merry shivered a little and squared his shoulders.  Well, they were not going to know.  He would rather die than admit it to either of them.

“Still, I think you have the right of the situation in general, Peregrin,” said Gandalf.  “We have no reason to doubt Sam’s assertion that the Men are in Saruman’s employ.  And while I do not think that they know what it is that Saruman wants, I believe that he sent them to find a group of hobbits and bring them to him.  These Men must have understood that Saruman valued them in some way, even if they were not given details.  They found Sam and Legolas alone, took them prisoner, and searched them.”

“And found nothing,” Frodo murmured.

“Do you believe Sam’s insistence that he did not betray us?” said Gimli.  “I mean no offense,” he said, raising his hands in apology when Frodo angrily opened his mouth, “but we knew that these Men were foul when we first saw them.  And after seeing what they did to our Elven companion – or rather, tried to do – I cannot help but wonder.  That Sam would never wish to give us away I do not question, but if he has been tormented….”

Pippin’s face had gone very white.  “Do you really think they…?”

“Sam spoke of a sorcerer,” Gimli continued.  “And he was most anxious to make you believe him, Gandalf.”

“He said that the Men tried to ‘make them tell’,” said Boromir.  “He called their efforts ‘unnatural’.  What qualms could a wielder of the black arts have against terrorizing a hobbit?”

“Oh, Sam,” sighed Pippin, who was on the edge of tears again.  Frodo looked no less distraught, but he did not seem surprised by these theories.  Merry suspected that his own face more closely mirrored Pippin’s than Frodo’s.  Even though he had seen Sam being threatened with a sword from across the river, he had not considered that even worse treatment might have been going on for days.  The thought of Sam being deliberately harmed could not be borne.

“This kind of talk does nothing for our morale,” Strider said quietly.  “It might be that Sam has not undergone any such trial as we fear.”

“Perhaps,” said Gimli, “but we must consider it.  These Men may be coming to try and reclaim their prizes, and I for one would rather be overprepared than not.  ‘Plan for the worst and your surprises will always be pleasant.’  It is well for us that Sam mentioned the sorcerer before falling asleep.  Sam is convinced that he presents a danger to our Fellowship, and if he can make the trees come to life, then I cannot say that I disagree.”

“Oh, I do not think that was the sorcerer’s doing,” said Gandalf.  “He and his Men fled from that phenomenon.”

“Then what was it?” asked Boromir.  “Is this part of the river enchanted?”

“Only when Wood-elves are about.”

Merry, Pippin, Boromir and Gimli all stared at Gandalf.  “Surely not!” said Gimli.

“Legolas can do magic?” said Pippin.

“He would not call it magic,” said Gandalf.  “He and his folk can hear the voices of trees, and the trees can sense them in kind.  I do not know just what happened, but I wager that Legolas had everything to do with it.  It will make for an interesting tale when he awakens.”

“Even if that was Legolas’ doing, it makes the Men no less of a threat,” said Boromir.

“You may be the only one among us who can fight a sorcerer, Gandalf,” said Frodo.

Gandalf favored the Ring-bearer with a grim smile.  “That is not quite true.  A sorcerer can die by the sword as readily as anyone else.  The difficulty lies getting close enough to the sorcerer to use it.”

“So you may have to use your magic after all,” said Pippin, who had regained some of his composure.  “But before – on the cliff – you said you couldn’t.”

Gandalf hesitated for a moment before replying.  “I did.  Perhaps I should rather have said that I would not.  At that moment, I believed that helping Sam and Legolas would severely endanger the Ring-bearer and his Quest.  I would have you know, Peregrin, that weighing our companions against the good of all Middle-earth may have been the wise thing to do, but it was not lightly done.  You must not think that I did not care what befell them.”

“I didn’t think that,” Pippin murmured.

“Well, we are together again despite my decision, if somewhat the worse for wear.  And if this sorcerer thinks to subdue us with his abilities, he shall soon learn that he is no match for me.  Teaching him may mark us out for any who are watching to see, but so be it!  I will not have our errand fail because I did not use my powers when I ought to have done.”

Gandalf spoke so confidently that Merry’s spirits rose a little.  He almost felt foolish for worrying about this sorcerer, this Garan, as Sam named him.  What trouble could a barely-trained Man bring that a wizard could not handle?  Merry could not remember precisely when it had happened, but at some point he had begun to suspect that there was more to Gandalf than fireworks.  The Elves of Rivendell had treated him with the utmost respect, and Merry blushed to think of the wizard’s reputation in the Shire.  Many hobbits routinely gave him less than a warm welcome.  Gandalf did have a tendency to stir things up a bit whenever he came, and though hobbits did not like to be stirred, it was no excuse for rudeness.  The bowls of still-steaming water caught Merry’s eye.  So boiling water with the wave of a hand was a small matter, was it?  He looked back at the wizard, still clutching his pipestem between his teeth and supporting Sam in his lap.  What could Gandalf the Gray really do?

“It is time for that bandage, Merry,” said Strider.

Merry looked down at Legolas.  He had been so distracted by the conversation and his own thoughts that he had not noted Strider’s progress.  The Elf’s back had been meticulously cleaned and a folded wad of white cloth had been placed over the wound.

“We must lift him to wrap these linens about his chest,” Strider continued.  “I will hold him up if you will do the rest.  Move quickly, if you can.  He is still very cold and may yet be in danger.”

Merry did as Strider asked and worked as rapidly as he could.  As it happened, the work took very little time, and soon he was tucking the end of the long, white bandage between two of its own layers.  Strider had required Gimli’s aid to hold Legolas up, being wearier than he had known or perhaps wanted to admit, and the two of them began to lower him back to the blankets on the ground.

“A moment!” Boromir enjoined them.  He unfastened the clasp of his fur-lined cloak, pulled it from his shoulders, and handed it into the shelter.  “Take this.  I have a plainer,” he added, seeing the look of surprise on Strider’s face.  “It is not as warm, but this fire and an extra blanket will more than make up for the lack.”

With a strange look on his face, Strider reached out and took the offering.  “A man who gives selflessly is noble indeed.  Surely the people of Gondor do not love you without cause.”

It was Boromir’s turn to be taken aback.  Merry wondered whether it was because the praise was unexpected or because it came from Strider.  To his eye, the two Men were not always entirely comfortable around each other.

“I hope that is so.  I was once instructed by one of the Wise on the nature of nobility.  It is earned, he said, and not by birth.”  A small smile played about the corners of Boromir’s mouth as he shifted his gaze to Gandalf.  “I was young, but I never forgot it.  Neither did my brother.  You were most forceful in your teaching.”

“I am glad to hear it,” said Gandalf.  “In matters of such importance, forcefulness is imperative.”

“Help me,” Strider said softly, and Merry aided him in wrapping Boromir’s cloak around Legolas.  He glanced at the weary Ranger as Gimli helped to settle the Elf to the ground again and saw that his eyes glistened beneath a sheen of tears.

“What happens now?” Pippin asked.  His voice sounded too loud to Merry, but it was no fault of Pippin’s.  Strider had turned away from the others, and they could not see his face.

“I will check them for other injuries… as well as I can,” said Strider.  He was still staring down at Legolas.

Merry and Gimli looked at each other from either side of Strider.  Gimli’s expression echoed the sympathy that Merry felt welling up inside him.  Impulsively, he reached over and patted Strider’s arm.  Strider did not look at him, but after a long moment he closed his eyes, smiled tightly, and turned away.  Gimli gave Merry a brief, approving nod when the Man was no longer looking.

Despite Gandalf’s exhortations that Strider take some thought for himself, Strider refused to rest until he had fully examined both Legolas and Sam.  Apart from his arrow-wound and chilled body, Legolas’ hurts amounted to an older cut on one of his legs that had not healed as well as it ought to have done and bruises that were cast helter-skelter across his skin.  Strider expected more bruises to appear as a consequence of the fight they had witnessed, but even so, he was relieved.  “At least they did not manage to stab him,” he said.

It was not until Strider turned his attention to Sam that he learned of the state that the hobbit had been in when Boromir rejoined the company.  To Strider the news did not seem unexpected, but Gimli listened raptly as the others explained what Merry had done.  They generally made him out to be the hero of the story, and Merry found himself wishing that they wouldn’t make such a fuss about it.  It had not required any great deal of courage to do what he did; he had simply done what he had been taught to do.

Though he was reluctant, Merry was forced to recount the whole ordeal to Strider, who was very keen to hear the tale from his point of view.  He answered the Ranger’s questions but made the telling as brief as possible.  Talking about Sam’s revival brought his tangled feelings to the surface again, and he still did not know how to sort them out.  It would be easier, he thought, if he could stop thinking about it.

“Alas that I was not with you,” Strider murmured when Merry had finished.

“Sam was breathing when you returned,” said Boromir.  “What more could you have done?”

“Even I would not have asked you to put Legolas aside,” said Frodo.  “Surely his need was the greater at that moment.”

“After Boromir and I parted ways I almost turned and went back,” said Strider.  “I feared that Sam might not be breathing when he was pulled from the water.  But then I remembered that we had a wizard with us, and I ran on.  And now I find that I ought to have placed my faith in quite another member of our company!  I still wish that I could have seen to Sam immediately, but it seems that you had matters well in hand, Merry.”

Merry’s face flushed a little despite himself.  “That’s what comes from growing up in Brandy Hall.  All Brandybucks know how to revive hobbits who have fallen afoul of the Brandywine.”

Strider listened to Sam’s breathing and heartbeat and pronounced himself pleased by what he found.  His examination of Sam’s body, however, brought no smiles to his face or anyone else’s.  Sam’s bruises were more numerous than Legolas’.  Frodo grasped the hilt of Sting and drew himself up, eyes flashing, when Strider murmured over the beginnings of a bruise on Sam’s cheek.  By now it almost went without saying that Sam and Legolas had been maltreated, but that did not make seeing the evidence any easier to bear.  If one of the Men had suddenly appeared in their midst at that moment, the Ring-bearer might have tried to dispatch him single-handedly.  In such a fey mood, thought Merry, he might have been able to do it.

Sam’s other wounds were no more serious in nature than his bruises but were no less cause for concern.  Especially troubling was a long, thin cut across his neck, just below the chin.  Grim silence fell when Strider discovered it.  Merry could not see how it could be anything other than what it seemed to be, although he wished it were not so.  At least Sam’s splinted wrist had the potential to be explained away.  Strider pointed out the careful smoothing of the two splints as evidence that Legolas might have done the work himself.  The Men would not have taken such pains to make Sam comfortable, he said, and they would not have let Legolas near a knife; therefore, Sam’s wrist could have been bound long before the two groups met.

Only when he was satisfied that he had done everything possible for Sam and Legolas did Strider cast himself down to rest.  At the others’ urging, Boromir wrapped himself in a blanket and oiled cloak and joined him.  The two men were asleep almost as soon as they closed their eyes.

Frodo plainly wished to remain at Sam’s side.  When Gandalf carefully passed Sam into his master’s care, it did not rouse the sleeping hobbit in the least.  At first Frodo gazed intently down at his charge, but as minutes passed uneventfully and Sam slumbered on, his head began to droop.  Eventually he nodded off where he sat with one of hands covering one of Sam’s own.  No one woke him.

By an unspoken agreement the waking remainder of the Fellowship took up positions near the edge of the overhang to keep watch.  Gimli sat in one corner while Merry and Pippin sat opposite him, looking upriver.  Gandalf took it upon himself to unburden poor Bill, who had been nearly forgotten, before choosing a place between Gimli and the hobbits.  He promptly refilled his pipe and resumed puffing away, his brows drawn down forbiddingly, staring out over the ground that Boromir had so restlessly paced.

The four of them sat without speaking for a long time.  They could hear the rushing noise of the river, which was hidden from view by boulders and the trunks of trees.  The wind was not as cutting as it had been, but now and then it would rise enough to wail through the treetops and fling snow beneath the Fellowship’s meager shelter.  Merry watched the fire out of the corner of his eye, ready to tend to it should it begin to falter.  On behalf of the sleepers he begrudged every gust that slipped beneath the overhang, but the wind disturbed Frodo and the Men very little and Sam and Legolas not at all.

Even with the ever-present sound of wind and water, it was quiet at the base of the cliff.  Merry supposed that it was impossible for things not to seem quiet after the frenzy and noise of the past two hours.  No one spoke, not even Pippin, who seemed to be lost in his own thoughts.

Thinking and waiting were all that was left for Merry to do, and in the stillness, his thoughts turned once again to Sam’s revival.  He could not seem to help focusing on it.  He didn’t want to; while the sight of Sam’s eyes opening had been joyous, the time that passed before had been torture.

Boromir came pounding up, winded and red-faced, bearing what could only be Sam in his arms.  He shuddered to a halt, dropped to his knees and lowered Sam to the ground as gently as he could.  Sam’s head fell back, exposing his face.  Merry’s heart skipped a beat.  Sam was as white as the snow….

The scene was unfolding before him again.  Merry groped about for something else to think about, something that would take his mind off of what had happened, but nothing else was strong enough to block it out.

Merry stood rooted to the earth in shock.  He had never thought to see Sam in this condition.  Drowning was the death that Sam had always feared.

“He’s not breathing!” Frodo cried, his voice breaking.  Merry staggered forward as if Frodo’s wail had been a physical blow.  He was grieved and shocked, but he could not stand still and be dismayed.  He was quite possibly the only person present who knew what to do.

Merry’s body had returned to life, but Pippin’s had not.  He stood stock-still where he was, staring openmouthed at Sam in horror and disbelief.  “Get out of the way!” Merry snapped.  It came out more roughly than he had intended, but fear had him in its grip and he could not help himself.  There was not a moment to be spared.

For Merry, Pippin and Frodo might as well have ceased to exist once they had both stumbled out of his line of sight.  The icy edge of Sam’s cloak crackled beneath his weight as he knelt and pressed his ear to Sam’s chest.  Please, he silently begged, straining to catch what he desperately wanted to hear.

There was nothing.

The ragged fringes of panic rose in Merry’s gut, but he reflexively suppressed them almost as soon as they were born.  In their wake remained only the dull knowledge of what had to be done.  The hobbits of the Brandywine Watch had taught him well.  “No heartbeat,” he said, and Pippin promptly began to sob.  Boromir’s proud neck bent in defeat.

They thought that he was announcing Sam’s death, but Merry knew otherwise.  Sam might very well be beyond his reach, but if he was not, he would not become so for lack of trying.  Merry pinched Sam’s nose shut with one hand, drew a deep breath, and pressed his lips against Sam’s slack mouth.  Sam’s chest expanded slightly, but Merry’s relief was fleeting; he could not get as much air in as he would have liked.

Merry inhaled deeply and blew out once more.  Sam did not stir, but Merry had anticipated as much.  He had not been able to find a pulse, and that meant that Sam’s heart would have to be restarted.  At least he would not have to do both the breathing and the heavy lifting by himself.

Moving quickly, Merry slid backwards and swung one leg across Sam’s body so that he was sitting on the fallen hobbit’s legs.  He leaned over, seized Sam’s shoulders with his hands, and pulled Sam’s back up off the ground.  Frodo gasped from somewhere behind him when he threw Sam back down and began repeating the motion over and over.

“Pippin!”  He was still shouting, but Merry could no more control his voice than he could bring back Sam if he truly were dead already.  “I need you to breathe for him!”  He spared only a brief glance at Pippin when he stumbled into view and knelt beside Sam’s head.  He was still weeping, still horrorstruck, but at least he was there.

“Give him two deep breaths when I say,” said Merry, punctuating the order by throwing Sam’s back against the ground again.  Twice more he repeated the motion before looking up at Pippin.  He moved a hand from one of Sam’s shoulders long enough to straighten Sam’s head, and then cried, “Breathe!”

Pippin breathed, and Sam’s chest rose a little.  Inwardly, Merry railed against the water that was blocking the way.

“Nothing,” Pippin choked out, dashing away tears with one hand.

Merry grasped Sam’s shoulders and pulled him up off the ground again.  “We’re not giving up,” he replied.  A few more lifts, a few more throws.  He was sweating already; senseless bodies were heavy.  “I’ve seen hobbits take longer than this to come around!”

But the words rang hollow in his ears.  Sam had that look about him already; at best, he was skating the razor’s edge.  How far had Boromir had to run since finding him?  How long had it taken to reach the rest of the company?  There was no way of knowing how much time had passed since Sam had stopped breathing.

“It’s too late,” sobbed Pippin.  “He’s so cold and blue!”

“Breathe!” said Merry.  This time, Pippin steadied Sam’s head back by himself.  Two breaths went in.  Sam lay quiet.

Fear was welling up inside Merry again despite his training.  Not all drowning victims could be saved, and not even the eldest members of the Brandywine Watch knew why.  He ought to be controlling his fear better – it was imperative that the rescuer distance himself from the victim – but he could not.  This was Sam beneath his hands.

Up and down, up and down.  It required an increasing effort on Merry’s part not to throw Sam against the ground as hard as he could.  He had to jar Sam’s heart back into motion, but a beating heart would do Sam little good if his skull had been cracked.  Merry could not help feeling that he was trying to grasp sand in his hands.  Time.  If only he had more time!

Merry threw Sam’s back against the ground once more and shouted, “Breathe!”

A spasm contorted Pippin’s face, but he bent down dutifully, and….

Merry felt tears gathering behind his closed eyelids.  His father had always said that the sound of a beating heart was the sweetest sound there was.  Merry had thought he’d understood, but he hadn’t really known what Saradoc had meant until now.  In his mind he saw again Sam’s eyes opening, heard the sound of his first wheezy breaths.  The event had been so desperately desired that his strength had evaporated, leaving him with only with weakness in his limbs.  Unless it had been on Weathertop, he did not know when he had ever been so afraid.

“Do you think this snow will ever stop?”

Merry jumped, startled by the sudden sound of Pippin’s voice.  He had been so lost in thought that he had become quite unaware of his surroundings – including his cousin.  He scrubbed at his face to wipe away the tears that had fallen.  Pippin did not seem to have noticed; he was still looking out over their surroundings.  “I don’t know,” he replied when he had collected himself.  “I suppose if it continues on like this, we could wind up with a fair bit on our hands.”

“I’d just as soon it didn’t.  I don’t much care for the thought of digging our way out of this canyon.”

“I expect we won’t be leaving for a few days at least, Pip.  Frodo won’t be willing to leave Sam behind.”

“What about Legolas?” Pippin said softly.  “It’s a nasty hole he’s got in his back.”

“Strider thinks he’ll be all right,” Merry said as reassuringly as he could manage.  “He says he can recover quickly, so long as he’s not hurt too badly.”

“But how quickly?” Pippin countered.  “From the way he looks you’d think he needed bed rest for two weeks at least, and never mind his being shot.”

“I know,” Merry sighed.  “But there’s nothing to do now but wait until he wakes up again.”

“We need him, don’t you think?  He’s handy in a pinch.  Strider might have just been trying to make us feel better at the time, but I think what he said about an Elf having a better chance of surviving in that river than anyone else was true.”

The wind picked up again, sending a shiver down Merry’s spine.  He pulled his cloak more tightly about his body.  “Strider’s worried about him.”

“Well, they’re friends, you know.  I’d be worried about you if you’d been shot.”

Merry did not respond.  He thought of the look he’d seen on Strider’s face, the one that only he and Gimli had glimpsed.  He didn’t know if gratitude for Boromir had played any part in that look, but he knew two things for certain: Strider was afraid for Legolas, and he didn’t want the rest of the Fellowship to know just how much.

Merry was still shaken by the memory of Sam’s rescue and could think of nothing to say, but he expected that Pippin would be speaking up again very shortly.  By the way he was restlessly shifting his weight, he was either uncomfortable in his position or determined to talk, and Merry was banking on the latter.  If there was something on his cousin’s mind, it would come out sooner or later.  Pippin had never been known to be reticent.

“Sometimes I wonder if Lord Elrond did the right thing, sending us along,” Pippin said after a minute or two of fitful stirring.  “Instead of more Elves, I mean.”

Merry smiled incredulously.  “After all that fuss you made about not being left behind?  We may not be warriors, but Gandalf did stand for us.  And we’re not completely hopeless with our swords anymore.  Boromir’s a good teacher.”

“Well, there is that,” said Pippin, “but that’s not really what I meant.”

“What did you mean, then?”

Pippin looked away and shifted his weight again.  Merry frowned.  What was it that had Pippin so agitated?  He opened his mouth to speak again, but Pippin saw him and said, in a rush, “I’ve got a confession to make.”

“A confession?  Whatever about?  There’s no way that you could have done anything worth confessing to in the last few days.  I’d have noticed.  Unless you’re referring to that business with Bill and the apple, and we all know that was you anyway.”

“You’d think so, wouldn’t you?  You always did think better of me than most, but then, it’s my own fault.  I suppose I’ve pulled one too many pranks.”

Merry blinked at the bleak expression that had appeared on Pippin’s face.  His cousin looked… ashamed.  Pippin never looked ashamed, even when he ought to.  “What on earth is the matter, Pip?  You look upset.  Truly, you do.”

“I’ve got reason to be,” said Pippin, dropping his voice to a whisper that Merry had to strain to catch.  “I’ve heard it.”

“Heard what?” Merry whispered back.

“It,” Pippin breathed.  His eyes darted over to where Gandalf sat.  “The Ring.”  Merry sat still, dumbstruck, and Pippin mistook his silence for disapproval.  “I couldn’t help it,” he added quickly.  “All of a sudden it was just there in my head.   And that’s not even the worst of it.  I didn’t just hear it – I listened.  I didn’t want to, but putting my fingers in my ears didn’t do any good, and I was paying attention almost before I knew.  I thought about it later, after the voice had gone, and I can’t figure out why I listened.  It wanted me to do things I’d never do, not if I were in my right mind.  I’ve been wanting to tell someone for days now, but I couldn’t stand the thought of telling anyone but you, and every time I got the chance I couldn’t bring myself to do it.”

Pippin was looking directly at Merry now, pleading silently with his eyes.  Merry knew exactly what it was that Pippin wanted, because he wanted the same thing himself.  He wanted someone to tell him that it was all right – that he wasn’t weak-minded, or bad somehow, or unworthy to be on the Quest.  He wanted to know that he wasn’t alone.

Merry had never considered that he might not have been the only one that the Ring had singled out.  He had been too busy feeling guilty about it to think about the rest of the Fellowship.  They had been nearly a week out of Rivendell when he had first heard the whispers in his mind.  He didn’t have to ask Pippin how he knew that it had been the voice of the Ring; he had just known.  He did not understand how an inanimate object could speak to him in such a way, but apparently the Ring was not entirely inanimate.  The way Gandalf and Elrond talked about it – how it wanted this, it desired that – it sounded as if the band of gold had a mind of its own.

For a moment Merry was too surprised by Pippin’s revelation to speak, but the initial shock was quickly replaced by something else: relief.  He had wished desperately not to be the weak link in the chain even though he wondered if having company would make him feel any better.  He didn’t want the Ring to have any more chances to make trouble than it already had, after all.  But he did feel better knowing he wasn’t alone.  Pippin wasn’t weak-minded or secretly evil, and if he had heard the Ring, then Merry couldn’t be any of those things either.

Merry suddenly realized that he felt better than he had in days, and for the second time that afternoon he had a real reason to smile.  “It’s all right,” he said softly.  “I’ve heard it, too.  It’s not just you.”

Pippin’s eyes went as wide as they would go.  “You have?” he stammered.

“It did just what you said.  It made me want things that I’d never wanted before – and still don’t want.  And I couldn’t block it out, either.”

“And while it was talking to you – did it make a strange sort of sense?”

“Yes, it did.  But not after, when I had a chance to think about it.”  Merry felt as if his heart would burst for the look of purest gratitude that had come over Pippin’s face.  “It’s not just you.  Really.  And I’m glad to know that it’s not just me, either.”

Pippin did not reply right away.  He gazed out into the falling snow, looking both relieved and thoughtful.  For his part, Merry was content to revel in his own feelings of solace.  It was as if a great weight had been lifted from around his neck, a weight that he had not truly felt the burden of until it was gone.

Several minutes passed before Pippin spoke again.  “I suppose if you and I have both heard it, then it’s not just the two of us, either.  Do you think it’s gotten to Sam?  Or Strider?”

“Now that I think about it, I wouldn’t be surprised if we’ve all heard it by now,” said Merry.

“Even Gandalf?  And Legolas?”

Merry stared at his cousin.  “So that’s what you meant about sending Elves instead of hobbits.”

“Elves are immortal,” said Pippin with a shrug.  “I thought maybe they wouldn’t be susceptible like we are.”

“I don’t think that’s true.  The Council decided that no one could wield it, not even the Elves.  It wants to get back to its master, and that’s none of us here.  The Council must have thought that it could get hold of anyone.  After all, Elrond did warn us all – not just you and me.”

Pippin gave a little shiver.  “I don’t know if that makes me feel any better.”

“Then take comfort in this,” said a kindly voice.  Merry and Pippin both jumped.  Gandalf had heard them!  “I would not have advocated your coming if I did not think that you possessed enough strength of will to resist its lure.”

For a moment Merry could only goggle at Gandalf.  “How much did you hear?” he demanded, albeit weakly.

“Not everything – you were very quiet in the beginning – but I am not so deaf as you believe me to be.  I heard enough to deduce what you were talking about.  If you want to tell secrets to each other, you will have to do the telling a little further from me.”

Gandalf’s eyes were twinkling, but Merry felt terrible.  Hadn’t he thought he would rather die than admit to Gandalf that he had heard the Ring’s voice?  Despite his own assertion to Pippin that the entire company had probably heard its call by now, he wished that Gandalf had not found out.

Gandalf’s expression softened when he saw their distress.  “Peace, young ones!  I think no less of you for this; I was sure that it had already happened to you, for it has certainly happened to me.”

“It has?” Pippin said faintly.  Merry thought he looked uneasy.

Gandalf smiled gently.  “Merry is right – we are none of us immune.  It is your will that will keep you safe.  The whispers that you hear are persuasive, but they cannot make you act.  You have still got some say in the matter, Peregrin.”  He leaned closer and dropped his voice.  “And let me take this moment to remind you: do not speak aloud of Rings!  Sauron’s spies are legion, and there are enemies about.”

“What can it be that has you all so intrigued?” Gimli said abruptly from the far side of the shelter.

Merry had nearly forgotten Gimli’s presence altogether.  Apparently Pippin had, too; the two of them stared at the Dwarf, mutely wondering what they ought to say.  Merry feared that it was already too late for anything they said to sound plausible – they had to look positively guilty – but he had no wish to lay his soul bare to everyone in the Fellowship.

“There’s no need to look like you’ve been caught pinching the comb from the honey-jar,” said Gimli when no one replied.  “You may keep your secrets!”

Merry could feel heat suffusing his cheeks.  Surely he was every bit as scarlet as Pippin had gone.  But apparently Gimli had meant what he said; he had already turned his back to them and was gazing out among the boulders.

Merry exhaled slowly and exchanged a long glance with Pippin before turning toward the landscape again.  They sat that way for a long time, watching the wind swirl the falling snow and disturb the skeletal branches of the trees.  Neither of them said another word.

------------------------------------

It took Merry a moment to recall where he was and why when he first opened his eyes.  It was dark outside the shelter – in the small hours of the morning, by the feel of things.  At a certain time of night, a waking soul invariably felt that he was the only thing living in the whole wide world.  Everything was certainly still now.  There was no wind, no more falling snow, and the fire was burning soft and low.

Merry had been sleeping back to back with Pippin for warmth.  Pippin was still there, drawing the slow breaths of sleep.  Merry stayed huddled in his blankets and let his eyes search his surroundings for signs of whatever it was that had woken him.  He could see Frodo standing guard at the far edge of the shelter.  When night had fallen and Sam had still not roused, the Ring-bearer had volunteered for a turn at the watch.  Strider sat a little way from him, silent and expressionless.  Boromir was on watch as well, but Merry would have had to move in order to see him, and he didn’t want to disturb Pippin.

Sam lay near the fire, partially screened from stray breezes by Gandalf’s body.  He was so thoroughly covered in blankets his forehead and eyes were the only parts of his body that showed.  At some point in the night he had curled himself into a more comfortable position, and so he looked comparatively better recovered than Legolas, who still lay rigidly upon his chest on the other side of the fire.  It didn’t look as if Legolas had stirred since Strider had….

Merry’s lips parted in astonishment.  Legolas’ eyes were open!  He was awake!

An instant later Legolas’ eyelids fluttered, and Merry realized his error.  Legolas waking up, but he wasn’t yet fully there.

Merry felt unable to move.  An irrational fear that this was all a dream seized him, and he fought against closing his eyes for even an instant.  But at last his eyes demanded that he at least blink, and when he did, Legolas remained unchanged.

“Strider,” Merry whispered.  When the Man did not move he tried again, a little more loudly.  “Strider!”

Strider turned, took in the look on Merry’s face, and immediately saw what had transfixed him.  A moment later he had launched himself from his seat.  The scrape of his boots on the ground was loud in the quiet.  “Legolas!” he whispered urgently.  He placed one hand on Legolas’ uninjured shoulder and bent down to look him in the face.

Merry saw Gimli sitting up somewhere on his right.  Across the fire, Gandalf raised his head.

Strider placed the back of one hand against Legolas’ cheek, checking to see if he was warm, and repeated his name.  Legolas’ furrowed brow and slowly blinking eyes gave him a disoriented look.  One of his own hands appeared from inside Boromir’s cloak, moving palm-down over the ground.

Without warning Legolas’ eyes went wide and his whole body jerked.  Merry gasped aloud and heard Pippin do the same behind him.  “No, Legolas!” said Aragorn, tightening his grip on Legolas’ right side.  “Stay still!”

Legolas pressed against the ground with his hand and jerked again in an attempt to throw Strider off.  Merry was astonished to realize that he was trying to get up, and violently so.

Elvish words burst from Legolas’ mouth, none of which Merry recognized save one: Sam.  Strider seemed so surprised by the outcry that he was unable to say a thing until the still-struggling Elf had repeated himself in an even more desperate tone.  Strider leaned his weight against Legolas to hold him down, although Merry could see that he was trying to do so as gently as possible.  He spoke rapidly into Legolas’ ear, and though Merry did not know what was being said, he could tell that the same phrases were being repeated over and over again.  At first Legolas did not seem to hear, but presently his eyes lost their wild look and he stopped fighting.  Strider’s voice grew soothing as the Elf calmed.

“He is here,” Gandalf said quietly when Legolas lay still and Strider stopped speaking.  “He is here, and he is well.”  He gently put his hands on Sam’s form, showing where the hobbit lay sleeping.  Sam was the only one among them who was not awake; everyone else was watching Strider and Legolas with varying degrees of hope and trepidation.

Legolas stared at Sam with an unnerving intensity for a long minute, but then Strider spoke into his ear again, and his face relaxed.  Strider murmured words of consolation and eased his hold on Legolas’ arms, although he did not let go altogether.  He continued to speak until Legolas’ eyes drifted shut, and just like that, the Elf was gone again.

The entire company seemed to exhale together.  “Well,” Pippin said a trifle shakily, “that was startling!”

“Their tale must be one for the annals of both their peoples,” Boromir added quietly.  “See how concerned each is for the other!”

“Is he going to be all right?” asked Frodo.

“I hope so,” said Strider.  A smile had dawned on his lips, and some of the tightness around his eyes had vanished.  “He is much warmer now, and it certainly seems that there is life in him yet.  The next time he wakes, he will be calmer.”  The various members of the company smiled at each other at this announcement, and the atmosphere around the fire grew noticeably more relaxed.

“Perhaps his rest will be easier knowing that Sam is safe,” said Gimli.

“I think we will all rest easier now,” said Gandalf.  He was stretching himself out on the ground again, looking for all the world as if Legolas’ outburst had been nothing out of the ordinary.  “Go back to sleep, Merry, Peregrin!  There is nothing more to be done at this hour, and we do not know what tomorrow will bring.”

There was no arguing with a wizard in the dead of night, and so Merry and Pippin wrapped themselves in their blankets and lay down again.  Merry could hear Gimli and Gandalf trying to find comfortable positions in their own corners of the shelter.  Frodo and Boromir went quietly back to their watches, but Strider lingered near the fire for a moment, adding more wood and tucking Legolas’ arm back under the cloak that encircled him.  When he returned to his post at the edge he was humming softly to himself.

Pippin quickly dropped off despite his muttered protestations that he was too excited to do so.  The sigh from Gimli as he rolled over and the soft, occasional snore from Gandalf announced that they had gone back to sleep, too.  Merry lay staring at the fire and Sam and Legolas on either side of it, wondering how they could all slip away so easily.  There was still so much to think about.  He was glad that Strider thought there would be a next time for Legolas, but how long would it take him to heal?  What exactly had he and Sam endured?  Would the Men leave them alone, or were they trying to find their lost prisoners?

At first Merry thought he was destined to lie awake for the rest of the night, but drowsiness crept up on him despite his lingering questions.  He was feeling pleasantly warm, Pippin was breathing steadily behind him, and Strider’s contented humming hung over everything, a song so soft that it was scarcely audible.  The need for rest trumped the need for thought, and at last he descended into slumber.