Disclaimer: I still don't own a thing! And even if the copy-right was for sale, I wouldn't be able to afford it anyway, so stop asking me!

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Chapter Nine: A Company Divided

        Pippin watched Sam and Strider disappear into the foliage with a sense of apprehension.

Setting: Middle of Nowhere; October 11, 1418 (four days from Weathertop)

       "Get ready, Pip," Merry whispered from below. "If the Riders come you're going to have to run east. Which way is east?

       Pippin pointed to the right, and tightened his grip around his unconscious cousin. It was folly, the whole plan, but there was no way around it. Their only hope was in secrecy and they would have to maintain it at all costs, unless they seriously believed that a small pony could outrun the Nazgul's steads. Besides that fact, their torches had been extinguished by the earlier drizzle. Confident that the rain would return shortly, they could not afford to waste matches to keep their torches lit for so short a time-frame. So, be that as it may, Pippin Took was going to try to get a head-start on the Nazgul and looked to Merry for the appropriate timing.

       Merry affirmed the youngster's correct answer, then turned his back on the pony and scanned the surrounding forest, waiting for a signal. Then it came - a second, cold screech, this one seemingly nearer than its predecessor. "Now!" he commanded.

       That was all the urging Pippin needed. He kicked the pony into a small gallop, heading straight towards the thickets.

*********

       Merry watched his kin disappear into the night and then took cover for himself in a hollow log nearby while he waited anxiously for Sam's and Strider's return, his hand straying to the hilt of his sword. As he did so, he could not help but to contemplate the irony of it all. Here he was, a Hobbit not to far past his majority, hoping to defend himself against ancient kings with a newly acquired sword. One with which he had not had the opportunity to practice. Who did he think he was to wear a sword anyway? A knight? Not likely, at least not while this Age lasted. Well, one thing was certain, no one would ever say that Meriadoc Brandybuck went down without a fight, however unfair it may be. He fully expected said fight to come at any time, and every sound protruding from the surrounding forest was subject to his scrutiny as though a wraith had manifested itself within the very wind itself. Similar to how Sauron had inhabited the Ring. Such thoughts, however, were soon abandoned with the familiar, soft patter of bare feet, accompanied by those of heavy boots and clattering buckles. "Hoy, over here," he hissed, sticking his head slightly through the large hole in the log, and then proceeding to maneuver his way out. "What did you find?"

         "Nothing of consequence," was Strider's cryptic answer as he lifted the Hobbit out of the hole, much to Merry's embarrassment - after all, it wasn't as though he necessarily NEEDED help. But he accepted it nonetheless, albeit a bit reluctantly at first.

         "What's that supposed to mean?" Merry retorted. As the Master's son, he knew diplomacy when he heard it, and he for one was through with cryptic answers designed to ward off further questions. What he wanted was a straight answer from this Big Person on whom so much depended - and he intended to get it too, right now in fact, if it could be had.

       "It means," Strider continued, apparently in no mood for a debate, as usual, "that it is gone, as well as any trace that I could find. I believe that it was a Rider, for I know of few things which could make that kind of noise, yet I could find no trace of him, and I did not look further for it because I felt I would be of better use here. Do you not agree?"

        Merry eyed the Ranger, not sure of what to say to that, since he had previously patronized the poor Ranger about how irresponsible it was for him to leave him and his kin utterly defenseless upon the mountainside. He was though, attempting to atone for that error, so what fault was there to find with him now? Merry settled for nodding his agreement. "What do you think, Sam?" he questioned. "What did you -?" He stopped short upon realizing that Sam was not paying attention. "Sam- ?"

        "Mr. Merry?" Sam asked, turning around, his expression guarded between rising panic and the desire to not want to jump to conclusions. Merry knew that look because he had seen it on Frodo often enough back in the days when Frodo lived in Buckland, when Frodo shared his room, like the brother he had never had. "Where's Mr. Frodo?"

****************

        Bill wasn't exactly fast according to the standards of the ponies back home in Tuckborough, having been half-starved for so many years by that ruffian, Bill Ferny, and now the poor thing was, more or less, being dragged along as a pack pony on this hopeless trek. As a pack pony, Bill did just fine, but right now what Pippin needed was a race pony. The trees passed by none too quickly as the pony's gait began to falter. Pippin kicked him hard in the side, sending him off into another dead sprint.

       That was all fine and dandy for Pippin, who had a secure hold on the reigns. But for a Hobbit who was slowly regaining consciousness, it wasn't exactly a warm and welcome awakening. Frodo felt his stomach lurch foreword involuntarily, bringing up portions of a very small elevensies, as the world continued to spin in circles. It wasn't easy to get by Pippin's notice, but Frodo slid from the saddle so fast that his young caretaker hardly had time to react before a loud thud was heard on the ground, followed by a heart-wrenching scream.

       "Frodo!" Pippin shouted, before he realized that that wasn't such a good idea. He pulled in the reigns to a hard left, searching for any sign of his fallen kin. "Frodo," he whispered again, dismounting and tying Bill to the nearest tree. He then heard a loud grunting, moan and turned to find Frodo lying face down in the mud. "Oh no!" he groaned, this could *not* be happening. He ran forward and as he drew nearer, he could hear the sound of muffled sobs and labored breathing. The tween knelt down next to his elder, not knowing what to do, and settled for putting a hand to Frodo’s cloaked back, hoping against hope that it brought some comfort, however small. "Come on, cos," he whispered, after letting Frodo catch his breath from the fall for a few precious seconds. "We have to go."

        "Why?" Frodo demanded softly between tears and hiccups. "They're going to get me! I can run - but hide?"

        With time running against them, he knew that they needed to hurry, but how? Frodo wouldn't get up, and Pippin couldn't carry him. "Why not?" he countered, finding nothing else to say, and remaining determined not to let Frodo see his own hopelessness. "They can't see too well. Hiding is probably better than running anyways."

       Frodo said nothing to that, but he stopped crying and the prostrate form relaxed beneath Pippin's trembling hand.

       "Ready, Frodo? We've got to get you up."

       "Yes!" he replied with a stubborn edge to his voice - the one which broached no argument, nor any question to his determination.

      "That's the spirit, lad!" Pippin encouraged, and to Frodo as though he was being treated like a child, which he found amusing, and even managed a weak smile. Pippin, though, did not see it because he was behind Frodo, helping him to sit up. Slowly but surely, each movement inviting a new type of agony in and of itself, Frodo was brought to his wavering feet, leaning on Pippin as one would a cane. He released a sigh he didn't know he had been holding once this was accomplished, and straightened up to his full 3'8".

        Pippin watched with admiration as his old cousin, who just a few moments before, had been cowering on the floor in pain and despair, managed to master himself to stand upright with his head held high. Finding himself at a loss for words, he merely patted him on the back and turned him around back towards where the pony had been tied.

        By the time they reached the not-so-menacing beast of burden who was snacking on what appeared to be a thorny berry bush, Frodo's confidence had not diminished in the slightest, but to the untrained eye, that was what it looked like since he was once more stooped over and leaning on the shoulder beneath him. Fortunately, though, Pippin's eyes were trained and he had seen this on all previous days since Weathertop. Frodo’s strength may have been diminishing, but his will and determination were about as strong and stubborn as ever.

       "Let's find some place to sit down," Pippin suggested as it started to rain again. He swiftly mounted Bill and was about to motion for Frodo to follow suit, when the stupidity of the idea hit him. It had always been Strider who put Frodo on the pony in the morning. There was no way he would be able to mount on his own. It took two hands to mount a horse and, at the moment, Frodo didn’t have that. Well, he DID have two hands, but one arm was all but worthless for the time-being. When Pippin finally looked down at the Hobbit in question, his eyes were greeted by Frodo who, instead of rubbing Pippin's own thoughtlessness through his thick skull, appeared to be sizing up the situation while cradling his useless left arm. Frodo wasn't one to give up at all - let alone easily- and while his good hand massaged his neck, (which was still aching from the fall) the rest of his mind was preoccupied with figuring out a way to get on that animal's back. Having been the instigator of mischief and trouble all of his life, Pippin could smell it from a hundred leagues away, and this was definitely it, right beneath his nose. "No, Frodo," Pippin answered before Frodo could even open his mouth to protest. "I'm not going to risk you falling off that pony again. The wraiths aren't anywhere near-by, since you're up and walking. Therefore, we're just going to find some place out of the rain where we can wait. Besides," he added with a hesitant laugh, "I'd hate to face Sam if that happened again!"

         Frodo nodded in reluctant understanding. "Very well, Master Took, lead the way."

*************

        That night it rained with a vengeance, as though the skies were determined to empty all of their cargo from the past year, right on top of the weary travelers. Wrapped in their blankets and huddled beneath an enormous tree root, it seemed to Pippin as though they might only be camping. That all of this was just a dream, and that the sleeping cousin at his side would wake him well AFTER dawn to resume the trek off to Buckland. But it was not so.

       Frodo had been none to pleased with the idea of Pippin keeping watch, but as he recognized his own need for sleep in his weakened state, he had not argued for long. He was sleeping now, but Pippin realized that it would not last for long and began to count down the seconds in his head. His cousin was beginning to mumble in his sleep, and within thirty seconds he was clamping Frodo's mouth shut as he awoke with what would have been a terrified scream. His face was dripping in sweat and his dilated pupils seemed to have found their focus on anther plane of existence. At least he assumed that Frodo was sweating, if his heaving chest hot cheek were any indication, though it was hard to tell with the fierce wind blowing the rain in their direction.

       "I'm here," Pippin soothed, taking his friend's trembling body in his arms. This felt so strange - and, somehow, so wrong! How many nights had Frodo done the same for him. Whenever he visited Bag End, he would never run to his parents about his nightmares, but always to Frodo - who seemed to know just what it was that he needed to scare the phantom-monsters away. He had never once imagined that the roles could be reversed, but they were, and now he desperately wished to repay Frodo in kind, but had no idea what to do. He doubted that it helped Frodo to know that he was there, after all, what could he DO exactly. Frodo had begun to shake violently and the left side of his body felt like an ice-cube and nothing that he could do seemed to help at all. And when the pain drove him to tears all he could do was hold him in his arms and hope that it was enough.

       "So warm," Frodo murmured, drawing closer to what he perceived to be an enviable source of heat. Pippin tightened his protective hold on his cousin, and felt his eyes well up with tears upon realizing that he hadn't felt this cold since the snow-ball fight with Merry last Yule. "Thank you for keeping me warm, Pip," Frodo whispered leaning his head against the tween's shoulder.

       Pippin tried to hide the built-up tears as he readjusted the blankets around his sick ward. "You're welcome, dear Frodo."

~To Be Continued~

So, how was that for a Frodo&Pippin chapter? You all know how much I love to hear your opinions, so just press that lonely button at the bottom of the page. Yep, that one!