Hi all! Here is the next chapter of ROM. The big news- FRODO SPEAKS!!!!

Thanks to my betas! CelandineG for her first beta, and all the cool descriptive detail. You’ll never get to see how her work improves the story, but trust me, it makes a huge difference! And Happy birthday to her!

And BIG thanks to Ariel, who took my Frodo and added (if possible) a whole OTHER JAR of finger-licking angst. Yum yum!

VVVVV

Chapter 7: Darkness and Light

I can’t believe I let you talk me into this!”

Pippin prodded his pony forward to catch up to Sam’s, now traveling at an unnaturally brisk pace down the Greenway.

“Sam!”

Sam did not so much as turn toward the other hobbit, but continued on at his relentless pace.

With a grunt of exasperation Pippin pulled his pony to a halt and yelled through cupped hands, “Sam, I’ll not go on until we talk!”

Sam abruptly spun his pony around and gave Pippin a dark look. “Shussh!” he hissed, and then trotted back toward Pippin. “Do you want all of Bree to know our whereabouts!”

“There’s not a soul awake Sam! And who in Bree cares anyway?” said Pippin in a voice of normal volume. “Couldn’t we have waited until dawn at least? There's naught but a sliver of moon out, it's dark as a cave and, if you haven’t noticed, bone cold! And how long do you think we can go on without even a wink of sleep?”

“No one forced you to come, Pip.” Sam's voice was cold, flat, and strangely unlike him.

“Bollocks!” snorted the younger hobbit. “You started off packing with nary a word. I couldn’t let you leave without me. But we’re out of town now, so explain, will you!”

“I did explain!”

"'We’re going now’ is not explaining, Samwise Gamgee! Why did we have to sneak out on Strider? He might have helped us!”

“Just like Merry helped us?" Sam snorted. "Don’t be a fool! Not all as are pretty in word are pretty in deed, my Gaffer says, and I think he'd have a thing or two to say about your Mr. Strider.”

“Not all men are untrustworthy, Sam. He seemed a right stout fellow to me.”

“And I suppose you’ve been a good judge of character of late?” said Sam angrily, ignoring Pippin's sudden irritated glare. “Like as not he seems as suits his purposes. But this is a hobbit matter. No need to get Big Folk fouled up in our business, especially one as is cracked as that one!”

Pippin frowned stubbornly. “He could be the real king, you know. How can you be so certain he’s not?”

Sam laughed out loud. “I just know and that’s flat,” he answered. “Real kings don’t skulk about in the wild.”

“He still might have been helpful," Pippin argued, casting his eyes to the darkness around them. "What do we know of what's really out there in the wild? What if black riders come? What if…”

“Pip! He might've been just as dangerous, all the more so for being closer. He’s just a robber waiting for his chance.”

“A robber who knew the way to Isen…--where they are being taken. Frodo and…Merry, Sam. I'm as eager to get my kin safe as you are, but neither of us has been outside the Shire! We need the guidance of someone who knows these parts.”

“Not no more,” said Sam.

“And what is that supposed to mean? He had maps, Sam, maps of all the roads. As far as I can tell, you've escaped from our best and only hope of finding this Isen… place?!”

A sly grin ghosted over Sam’s face. He drew a rolled-up parchment from his saddlebag and tossed it to Pippin, who undid the leather strap and unrolled it halfway.

“You didn’t!” cried Pippin . He stared at Sam as if he'd never seen him before. "However did you get it? Surely you didn't…"

“You’re the one as wanted a map."

"Sam!" Pippin, flustered, hastily re-rolled the map. "I can't believe this." He looked crosswise at his companion. "And you accused Strider of being a robber! Shame on you, Sam." He handed the scroll back as if it would bite him.

Sam shrugged unrepentantly as he took the paper, and Pippin felt even more surprised. “We needed his know-how," Sam continued, waving his arm ahead of them. "But not him, if you take my meaning. This map says we just follow the Greenway south. That ain’t hard. With this map to guide us, we can travel by ourselves, with no foreigners about to cause trouble or know our business.”

Pippin rubbed his cold hands together to warm them and stared curiously at his companion. "You know, Sam, I'd have sworn you’d never stolen so much as mushroom before. What has come over you?”

Sam returned Pippin's stare with keen and steadfast eyes. “Frodo," he said, his voice cold and determined. "I’m going to find him, Pip. With or without your help.”

Pippin was again surprised by the intensity of his companion's manner. “Now there's no call for that, Sam. I said I was going to help you and I will. I just don’t understand your not even giving this Strider fellow a chance. He said he knew the way and I was willing to trust him.”

“Trust him? Might I remind you you ran away from your first meeting like you were being chased by hungry wolves?”

Pippin winced, but his face flushed with the beginnings of anger. “I was frightened, Sam. He came out of no where. Though he didn’t seem so bad close up. Regal even, if you look beyond the dirt and grime.”

"Then maybe you should go back to your precious king," continued Sam, his voice uncharacteristically taut and strained, "if you think you can do better than present company. P’raps he could swing at the Dark Lord with his little broke sword. But as for me, little Took,” he growled as he urged his pony forward, “I’m going to find Frodo!”

VVVVV

Frodo blinked his eyes open to find his new valet had particularly bad teeth.

“There, imp, there. Scur’s washed your clothes, such as you have. Now sit up, will you, and we’ll get you dressed!”

Imp?Frodo wondered at the title, but allowed the big man to help him sit up and nodded dully as he patted his shoulder. The slight motion elicited such enthusiasm in this fellow that Frodo found it almost comical. He wondered if he had hired a replacement for his faithful Sam and forgot that he had done so. Frodo’s mind was in a jumble but he didn't think he would have engaged such a seedy looking fellow. The whiff of a campfire stirred a memory and Frodo suddenly remembered puzzling over his bound hands. He frowned and tried to focus his scattered thoughts. Things were amiss though he dared not speak until he made sense of it.

Frodo let himself be eased into his clothes. The big man had a gentle touch, as if he were handling a pet, and Frodo had no fear of him, but he felt as if he normally did such things unassisted and that puzzled him. A big man dressing him made no sense either. And why would he have employed a man at all?

No. Something is wrong here.

Frodo frowned, puzzling at the mists that seemed to curl at the edges of his memory. His small buttons were fastened for him. The man's huge, awkward fingers fumbled with the tiny buttonholes. His brow furrowed deeply as he concentrated but when he had finished, he grinned at Frodo with his yellow-toothed grin.

“It’s alright, little one. The bad imp, he’s over there, tied up, secure as you please, and freshly whipt too. He won’t hurt you no more.”

The bad one?

A sharp image came back to him; of a pale body laced with red in the sunshine as two men stood over him. The mists gave up their secrets slowly, but as Frodo's will bore down on them, the last of their shreds receded. The bad one, Merry, his cousin, Meriadoc, had held him captive, hurt him, broke him, even. But why? Because…

Though the mists had gone, they left no new memories in their wake. His mind was clearing, and indeed, if he concentrated, he could claim a moment's lucidity, but there were still many things he didn't understand about his current situation, and that made him wary. He didn’t know where he was, or why he was there, but what he was certain of was a thick, sharp anger against the bad one – his cousin. It raged in him and darkened his thoughts. But that felt wrong as well.

Frodo grimaced as he tried to sort it out. It felt like his brain was barely functioning and that was starting to irritate him. Surely the knowledge of what had happened to him was somewhere in his mind. There was a reason they were here…the reason they were here…had something, something to do with his own rough handling in…

Crickhollow

The name seared him. That was where it had happened. He saw an image of a small, low house but it seemed as if a red light lit it. His anger, feeding on snippets of remembered outrage, grew until he clenched his teeth and his fists trembled. He drew himself in, defensively, and his eyes darted around the encampment like a wild animal seeking escape.

But, no. Bag End was his home. Had something taken him to Crickhollow? Did he have some business there? Or had he been coerced to go there, or worse, abducted? Each time Frodo tried to make his newly freed mind address the problem at hand it slid inexorably into rage, which made it impossible to think clearly. Had he been abducted from his beloved home? Apparently that was only the first of many crimes committed by the hands of Meriadoc. His fury grew.

His cousin lay across the fire from him in the little glade. Frodo's human valet was still at hand and seemed to be trying to figure out his other garments. Frodo looked at bound figure's pale face. He remembered now, the cousin had wanted pity after his own punishment, pity for his own suffering. And Frodo remembered that he had precious little to spare.

“Stand up little one,” said the man gently, lifting Frodo up under his arms. “I have to set you by the fire now, though a bit apart from that one. Don't worry, my imp. I won’t be away long, and if he tries anything, you just cry out and your Scur will come!”

Scur An ugly name, Frodo thought as he stumbled along, keeping his eyes blank and his expression confused. His 'valet' had treated him as some kind of simpleton and until Frodo knew more about his current situation, it seemed wise to keep up that pretense. When he was carefully placed on the grass, his eyes settled inexorably upon the long-time comfort and solace of the fire. Its dancing flames beckoned him with sensuous fingers. He could have stared into its warm, bottomless depths forever, letting his mind return to a gently contrived peace.

But across from the fire, he was there, draining the warmth of comfort--the hurter, the cousin, the enemy. The sight startled Frodo out of his growing daze and he realized, grimly, that his mind was not yet entirely under his control. If he were not vigilant he would slip back under the hypnotic spell of the flames or the comforting shadows of the mists before he even realized it. And something told him that he no longer had the leisure for such escapes.

…Cry out and your Scur will come!

Frodo felt Merry's eyes upon him, waiting for something. The anger felt like a cold weight in his stomach, making him want to lash out but also leaving a foul taste in his mouth. He did not give his cousin the satisfaction of returning the look.

"I’ll be back with some vittles,” said Scur, patting Frodo on the top of his head.

Frodo cocked an eye at him with grim amusement. The simple fellow's bad-toothed smile was sincere though Frodo could see, underlying his current indulgence, the capacity for cruelty. Frodo would have to be very careful with this one. He nodded slowly.

“Thank you,” he said.

Scur’s smile widened into an ear-to-ear grin, his grin expanded into a laugh, and his laugh into a cheer.

“I made him speak!” he cried as he ran off to fetch the others. “Lads! Lads! I made the imp speak to me!”

Across the fire, Frodo could see his cousin staring at him. Merry's eyes were wide with despair and loss. Tears glittered in them and they drank him in with open hunger and longing, anxiously begging for something. Suddenly Frodo understood. Merry had not only wanted his pity, but his companionship and his speech too. In pain, loneliness and guilt, he was desperate for it. And Frodo had shown the big man graciousness instead of Merry.

Good.

VVVVV

Barliman Butterbur knew that whoever was pounding on his door at this ungodly hour meant business.

“Fie! Fie!" he yelled, half in sleep. “By and by I come! And this had better be important to raise a tired innkeeper from his sleep!

“Barliman!” called the voice. “This is indeed a dire matter! Open up!”

Barliman fumbled for the candle-holder with leaden fingers and stumbled though the half-light to the door. The moment the last of three bolts gave, the door swung open and he found himself looking at the taller-than normal outline of the ranger.

“You!” he growled. “I might have known." He turned his back and shuffled across the room to the fireplace, poking at the banked coals with an iron rod. "I know what you’ve come for,” he said, stretching his cold hands out toward the warmth.

“Then tell me when and where they went,” Strider ordered sternly, following him inside.

“That I won’t do, rascal. Hobbits are a big part of my business. Can't afford to shake them off, you know.” The innkeeper groaned as he bent and threw some tinder into the embers, watching them leap into flame. "So I’ll not be one," he turned and straightened up with another groan, looking the ranger in the eye. "To let my little customers be intimidated."

“Is that what they told you?" asked Strider. "That I pressed them?”

“That and a good deal more!” said Barliman, turning back to stoke the fire. “The stout one had some hard words against you."

"He knows nothing!"

"That may be," continued Barliman as he added larger pieces of wood to the flames. "But I made a promise on my mother’s dear heart that I wouldn’t do nothing to help you find them. I might have known that a rascal as yourself would be in the…highway business, so to speak!”

“I am no robber,” said Strider. He cast back his cloak and set his right hand upon the hilt of his sword. “Yet I am a warrior. And it would be in your best interest not to cross me if you value the lives of those little folk.”

Barliman had been watching from his crouched position. "Lor!" he muttered, turning and instinctively stepping aside. Then mastering himself, he splurted out, “And now there’s a threat to boot! I'll thank-ye to find lodgings elsewhere from now on, Mr. Strider, or whatever your name is.”

Strider sighed and removed his hand from his sword. “I do not threaten, Master Butterbur, but say true. If those hobbits are not found by me, they may be found by something much more sinister.”

“Your ruffian buddies, most like!" snorted Barliman. "Well, I’ve heard enough! Get out of my inn now! I’ll be nothing but relieved to see the back of you!"

“I shall leave, and quickly, as soon as I may know when, and in which direction the halfings set out. They are in terrible danger. Now which way?”

“South,” said a quiet voice from behind him.

“Nob! You ass!” cried Barliman. “Where’s your mind, you melon-headed slowcoach!”

Strider spun to face the fat hobbit, looking sleepy and rumpled, yet dressed as if summoned for a particularly early morning.

“Speak, little master,” said Strider urgently.

“It was Mr. Underhill, sir! He told me." Nob stared past the ranger at the building fire and at the equally heated face of his boss. He grimaced. "Well, Mr. Underhill, sir, methinks he wanted you to know, leastways he sure made no attempt to conceal it."

"Tell me!" Strider leaned down closer, his voice more calm.

"Well, mind you," Nob glanced again at Barliman and swallowed noisily. "I mean, his servant was uncommon bossy, I say…'though both of 'em was strange anyway, even for Shire hob…”

“Nob,” said Strider, “Tell me all Mr. Underhill said.”

Barliman gave his employee a venomous look, yet it did not detour the hobbit.

“Well, sir, ah, as the servant fellow left to get the bags and bring 'em to the stable, ah, that’s…that's after they made plain they was leaving and all, Mr. Underhill muttered that no good was to come of this, and some other things."

Stride‘s features softened. "Go on, lad."

The hobbit nodded, avoiding Barliman's eyes. "Yessir, well, I wondered at that, as he seemed to want to open up to me and all. But just as we heard the other fellow returning, he suddenly whispers to me, all intense like, that they was going south along the Greenway, should one named Strider come asking."

"South." Strider whispered the word to himself, his mind lost in thought.

"He said it like he knew you'd ask, sir. He said you'd guess the destination."

Strider caught his breath and opened his mouth, but Nob continued faster, seeming to know his boss was reaching the end of his patience and would not let him say his piece much longer.

"Then when the stout one appeared, Mr. Underhill gave a great cough, like to cover up his talking to me. Afterwards the two of 'em just rode off into the night.”

“Nob,” said Strider, leaning down on his haunches. “When precisely did they leave?”

He darted a glance at Barliman, who was listening intently. “I don’t rightly know, sir. But it was some hours after middle night, and long before the cock crowed. I don’t think they slept a wink."

Strider suddenly stood tall and shifted his pack on his shoulders as he turned to the innkeeper.

“Be grateful to your servant, Master Butterbur. Thanks to him, you shall be rid of me with naught but a small ransom of bread and cheese for the road.”

Nob shivered forlornly in the doorway, wishing for bed and warmth with all his heart, but he knew it would take many days of hard work to make his employer forget about this night's business. He nodded sheepishly at his employer and scurried off as fast as his short little legs could take him.

“Go back to sleep, Barliman,” said Strider benignly. “Though I daresay you may soon regret my absence.” With that he turned on his heel and hurried toward the dark hallway.

Barliman slammed the door loud enough to make a statement and deposited himself into a comfortable chair by the hearth. He stretched his hands out to the now-blazing fire and with an obligatory snarl, huffed, “Good riddance!”

VVVVV

“Frodo!” whispered Merry with pathetic joy. “By the stars, you can speak!”

Frodo's hooded eyes looked sideways at his cousin. They glittered coldly in the firelight and for many minutes he said nothing. Then, glancing about warily, he answered. “You heard me, did you not?” He raised his chin in subtle defiance, but scooted away from Merry when the other hobbit made to wiggle towards him. “No! You shan’t come closer! Leave me alone!”

“Frodo…Cousin…”

“No!” Frodo hissed forcefully. “You hurt me. I remember you hurt me.”

Merry ignored his protests and shimmied forward on his belly.

“Stay back!” cried Frodo, jumping to a ready crouch. “I shall call the guard! Stay back." His voice had risen to a strangled cry, but before he could spring away, his eyes glazed and he looked confused again. His hands reached out blindly and he swayed, losing his balance, and dropped heavily onto the ground.

"NO…” he cried and covered his face with his hands. "I will not let them take me. I will fight…" His voice wavered and he began muttering low and urgently to himself. “But what has happened? I am lost, It is lost. I want to hide away but there is no safe place here. No one to trust between the bad teeth and the cruel one. Where shall I find rest? ”

“Oh, Frodo…. No…” sobbed Merry forlornly, wiping the tears from his eyes with bound hands. “Don't go back into those depths. I…" He choked back a guilty sob. "I…could not bear it. You must stay with me here for both our sakes! I will explain. Please hear me. I will tell you what has happened and I swear to you that I shall never hurt you again!”

Frodo shook his head as if to clear it and fixed his cousin with an angry glare. “You shan’t have the chance! You will not touch me again!”

Merry held up his bound hands, palms upward, in a beseeching gesture. He spoke as if his heart was breaking and tears now flowed freely down his cheeks. “I won’t, Frodo. I would sooner smite myself, I swear to you. But you must hear me out. We are in—"

Distant footsteps. Frodo stilled.

“Shuush!” hissed Merry. “Listen, Frodo, the men can NOT be allowed to hear us speaking.”

Frodo's eyes narrowed and he glared at Merry with suspicion. “Why?"

“Because these men hold us captive. We’re their prisoners.”

“No,” answered Frodo, though not with confidence. “That does not make sense. You are the prisoner. What did I do?”

“My dear Frodo,” said Merry regretfully, “we’re both prisoners.”

Frodo looked abstractedly down at his hands, then back up to Merry. He frowned. “I'm no captive,” he answered, though not with confidence. “What would men want with hobbits anyway?”

“It was nothing you did, my dear, but what you have…had.”

Frodo reacted to the catch in Merry's voice and the other hobbit held his breath as Frodo’s eyes grew wide and his expression, longing. He clutched at his collar absently. “Gone…" he murmured, and for a moment it seemed he was drifting again. He looked up at the sky and seemed to pay no further notice of his companion. Merry dropped his head on the grass, in pain from more than his back. It startled him when Frodo's voice, soft and eerily lucid, asked, "What did I have, Cousin? What’s gone?”

Merry opened his mouth, thought better of it, and closed it again. There was no time, and clearly Frodo's mind was not yet ready for the truth. He pushed himself up on his elbows and looked his cousin right in the eye. His voice rang with an old air of control and authority. “Nothing important, Frodo, but you must be silent!”

Frodo slowly brought his gaze to earth and fixed his infinitely cold orbs to Merry's face. There was a smile in there somewhere, but it was distant and without humor. Merry feared he had played his hand too soon. "Must I?" the older hobbit asked, in a dangerous, unbalanced voice. "And what trust do you think still remains between us that I should listen to you?"

“Frodo! You shall doom us both if you do not!”

“I recall no reason to distrust these men, but I do recall reasons to distrust you!”

Merry looked up to see Scur lopping over with a bowl of food.

He only had seconds. “Frodo, Frodo, I know your anger is hot, but you must listen. These fellows are not your friends! They are taking us to a very bad place, a place we must not reach. You must act as you did! Stare ahead, look at nothing, say nothing, be still! Please, Frodo.”

Frodo looked away, confused and irritated.

Merry spoke urgently through his teeth, “They have thought you a simpleton, and they MUST continue to believe it if we want any hope of escaping! If you fool them, we can talk again, we can plan!”

That got Merry a returned glance, but Frodo still said nothing.

“Please,” begged Merry, exhaling hard. “Just do this one thing, if not for me, then for you! If they think you are sane, you shall be bound and watched like a hawk and we will have no chance then to get free. This is my fault, and I shall fix it, but you must do this one thing!"

Frodo’s eyes tilted upwards and Merry felt himself kicked swiftly with a boot, awaking all the nerve endings in his damaged back. His mind reeled as he raggedly caught his breath, closing his eyes in agony.

“Stop pestering my imp!” said Scur. “If I find you’ve worked ‘im up, I’ll have your hide,” Scur paused, eyed Merry’s battered back, and added, “again.”

“Why are you worried?” said Merry. "He can’t understand a damn thing anyhow.”

The man sat down on his haunches, eyeing Merry suspiciously. “I thought you said he weren’t teched.”

“I was wrong,” answered Merry. “I was hopeful, but wrong. There is no cure for him.” Merry shook his head dramatically. “He shall never really speak.”

Scur lifted his eyebrows and stepped over to Frodo. He laid a hand gently on his dark curls. “Well, seems like I know a thing or two that others don’t then! I heard the imp speak! He spoke for me.”

Merry stared at Frodo, pleading silently, for as long as he dared. Then he looked up, high into the man's face. “Well, of course,” sighed Merry, raising himself awkwardly on his elbows again. “If you mean cries, groans, and moonsick chatterings! It is but the ravings of a babe.”

“No." Scur's expression became more belligerent as he glared down at Merry. "He spoke to me. Said thank you to me clear as day! And what’s more," he continued proudly, "I’m the one who made him speak!”

Frodo sat still as death, his eyes focused in the distance, but Merry could tell his cousin's mind had not flown yet. Emotions played subtly across his face, too faint for any but one who knew him as well as Merry did to see. Frodo was listening to their exchange intently. Then, as Scur's voice rose in anger, an almost inaudible sound escaped his throat as, slowly, his small fingers closed in upon his palms, tighter and tighter, into white, bloodless fists.

Merry rolled over, his eyes bright from pain and artifice. “You!” cried Merry dramatically. “You made my cousin speak! By what miraculous power? For I do not lie when I say he has not spoken even to his parents for decades!”

Scur barely suppressed a smile. “Well, not like a villain such as yourself would understand, but I just got a way with him.”

“By the Valar, Scur,” said Merry quietly, staring intently up at the man. “You are a true marvel!” But after a thoughtful pause, he continued, his voice changed, “Do the others know? I mean, do they believe it?”

“They will,” Said Scur. “When I show ‘em how the imp talks.”

Scur turned his head to see Grimbold and Broga approaching and Merry took his advantage, clearing his throat.

Frodo's eyes flicked in Merry's direction, and his younger cousin gave him a firm, insistent look, desperate that his earlier words would be heeded. Frodo frowned but kept silent.

“Come here, fellas!" shouted Scur enthusiastically. "Waitillya see what he does!”

Scur knelt down and spooned some soup into Frodo’s mouth, whispering words of encouragement until the other men hovered above. Hoping to get the same two words as before, Scur patted Frodo on his head once again, in exact imitation of his earlier actions.

“Have ye had enough, little sir?”

Before Frodo could react one way or the other, Grimbold pointed to Frodo’s feet. “Curse it Scur, pet or no, you have to keep the prisoner bound. Now tie his ankles.”

Merry noticed the uneasiness that flitted over Frodo’s features as Scur begrudgingly wrapped the leather thong around his ankles and cinched it tight. Frodo seemed then to master himself and then stared straight through Scur as if on command.

Scur looked up at Grimbold, crushed. “Dammit, boss, it made him go all murky again. He won’t say nothing now!”

Broga laughed cruelly. “So I bet as soon as we leave, your imp starts reciting poetry and such! That how it works, Scur?.” He stared down at a motionless Frodo and dissolved in laugher.

“Shush!” snarled Scur. “You’ll see! You won’t make fun when you sees what I done with the imp!”

“Can’t wait,” sighed Grimbold. "But there's work to do if we're to move on.” With that he turned and stomped away, his heavy boots sticking in the mud.

“Can hardly wait for your lousy puppet show, Scur," jibbed Broga, as he followed his master away. Snickering to himself, he called over his shoulder, "and how much'll ya charge for the entertainment, eh?"

Scur sighed loudly, his hand still on Frodo's curls.

“Scur?”

The man looked down at Merry menacingly. “Don’t,” he said bitterly. “I ain’t in the mood.”

“Scur, I want to say that I, for my part, believe…well, I believe that maybe you do have a way with my poor simpleton cousin. And maybe you can make some progress…yes, even make him speak, if you keep at it and he feels, well, as comfortable as possible. He glanced at Frodo's bound ankles, making his point. "And despite things as they are, I do thank you.”

Scur gave Frodo's curls a tousle as he grunted in acknowledgement. "Just you stay away from my imp, you hear? I'll whip you myself if you touch him." Scur trudged away and finally caught up with his companions who were loading up the horses.

Merry exhaled at last. “Oh, thank you, Frodo. Thank you.”

Frodo didn't move for so long that Merry was afraid his mind really had flown again, but, slowly and stiffly, he turned. In his eyes was rage, but his stare was cold, complex, and terrible to behold. It froze Merry's blood. He closed his own eyes and swallowed hard.

VVVVV

Pippin dismounted from his pony and threw his pack to the ground.

“That’s it, Samwise! It’s mid-day, we’ve been tramping about for hours, and I must rest now or sleep where I stand.”

Sam turned his pony and trotted back to Pippin, his face worn and tired despite the intensity of its set expression.

“Very well, Pip,” he sighed. “As long as we are out of sight.”

“I shall curl up in a rabbit warren as long as it means I may sleep!” said Pippin. And casting a second glance at Sam, added in a softer tone, “You look half-dead yourself, Sam. You can’t go on at this pace without a rest.”

Sam nodded wearily. Once he had stopped moving, his gritty momentum evaporated out from under him and he was as spent.

“I just hate to waste a moment resting…when I might be catching up to Mr. Frodo,” he said regretfully. “Wouldn’t it be handy if we didn’t need no sleep?”

Shading his eyes from the bright sun, Pippin gave Sam a weak smile. “That, my dear Samwise, is the most unhobbity thing I have ever heard you say!”

Sam did not smile. He shaded his own eyes and scoped out the landscape for shelter. At last he pointed to a section of the surrounding thicket where trees clustered together tightly, as if for mutual protection.

“I think we could set ourselves up in there without being spotted. Even so, one of us ought to keep our eyes skinned.”

“No!” said Pippin. We have both been up for nearly two days! We need sleep, and that’s flat, as you'd say. I can’t stay awake and you shouldn’t. We’ll bury ourselves in the grass, and cover our ponies with branches if that’s what you need to feel safe, but we both need rest!”

Sam snorted in displeasure, but demurred, too exhausted to argue. They tied their ponies deep among the trees, and then curled in the hollows between the thick roots. Sam had a brief vision of being swallowed up by a tree, but even this memory faded in the haze of exhaustion.

As he drifted off, however, a vague longing came over him and a powerful fear that needed solace. They melted into the same emotion, twisting around each other, transformed somehow and reaching out to him with love and comfort. Sam's lips curled up into a small smile as his swarthy hand fell instinctively, not on his dagger, but over the bump in his pocket. And thus the hobbit slept.

Pippin waited until he heard the first of Sam’s snores rising above his blanket. Carefully he climbed out of his mossy bed and made his way slowly and silently through the brambles, back to the dusty road, still deserted under a dull November sun. He stopped for a minute staring north and then he sighed, heavily and loudly, almost like a sob if anyone had been there to hear. Finally, Peregrin Took reached into his weskit pocket and pulled out his bright yellow kerchief. He wiped his hot forehead with it and then with a sigh, bent down and deposited it, dead in the center of the Greenway.

TBC

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