Title: Alone in the Dark (4/?)
Author: Slipstream
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…
Notes: I had long planned the ride from the Fields of Cormallen to Minas Tirith, but I must say that I was greatly affected and influenced by the riding imagery in Elwen's "Journey to the Last Homely House," which I highly recommend. So the original concept of an ill Frodo riding a horse flanked by two 'catchers' came from that wonderful piece of work. On a medical note, the way that Frodo walks, with an abnormally high step, is common amongst blind animals, most notably horses and dogs, and seemed appropriate as, with his hobbit stature, he would have had to walk this way to avoid tripping over the foliage.
Disclaimer: Do not own do not own do not own. How many times must I assert this? Plot mine, characters not.
~~~***~~~
"But Mr. Frodo…!"
"No! I won't put it on!"
"But the healer…"
"Curse the healer, I'm sick of it. Now put it away and let me be!"
Pippin paused at the entrance flap, glancing over his shoulder at Gandalf. Merry was sleeping late, bad dreams having kept him awake most of the night, and had insisted that Pippin go with the wizard to visit Frodo anyway. But from the sounds of the argument coming from within, Pippin wasn't so sure they would be welcome.
He paused, licking his lips. "Maybe we should come back later, Gandalf…"
The wizard raised his eyebrows momentarily before pushing ahead of the young Took. "Nonsense, my lad. Now more than ever I believe that we should intrude. It sounds as if Master Gamgee is in need of assistance dealing with your cousin's stubborn temper." He entered the tent, and Pippin had no choice but to hurry after him lest he be hit by the heavy fabric.
Inside was dim, as usual. Sam stood at the edge of the bed, nervously fingering some bit of cloth, while Frodo sat stiffly propped against his pillows, his arms crossed resolutely in front of him and what appeared to be a hand-towel tied around his head.
"Good morning, my dear Frodo," Gandalf greeted, assessing the situation in a glance. "What seems to be the trouble?"
Frodo scowled. "I won't wear it. You can't make me."
Sam looked at Gandalf imploringly, still holding onto the leather eye-patch. 'Help,' he mouthed, eyes tired and shoulders slumped.
Gandalf nodded in understanding and moved to sit next to Frodo on the bed. The Ringbearer's face was pulled in a writhing grimace of emotion and he winced as the occasional tear trickled painfully down his cheek.
"Now my dear Frodo Baggins," the wizard pulled the thin hobbit close, providing support and understanding. "Perhaps you can tell me why you are giving Master Gamgee such a hard time concerning that little scrap of cloth. I will listen."
Frodo squirmed and fretted, his skin flushed with the final passings of a light fever. "I'm sorry Gandalf, but I can't… I'm tired of the pain and confusion and thinking it might get better. I know that it won't, it only grows darker every passing day, and where I might once have seen light and shape there is now only a whisper of shadow. I would be a fool to try to ignore this, more foolish still to think that it would ever change, so it is best that I…" Here he paused and swallowed heavily. "It is best that I acknowledge that I am blind and always will be and live my life accordingly. Please… I…" He turned his thin face away, twining long fingers in frustration through dark locks.
Gandalf pulled him close, feeling his age as none of the ageless Istari had ever felt before. It pressed upon him with a quickening darkness and weariness much like that autumn day far away in Elrond's council, the day Frodo had taken up the mantel of the Ring. The stars had sung of Frodo's fate since long ago, had been weeping tears of sorrow for all the coming plights of the world since it had first been sung into being, but had they foreseen this irony, that the one who had saved the world from darkness should be trapped in it forever? The small form shivering against his robes was hot and weary, how should he now confront this macabre wisdom?
He pulled back from Frodo briefly, tipping the hobbit's face toward the light. With tender hands he pulled away the towel. Frodo did not resist, merely slumped into the wizard's hands in resignation. Gandalf studied the wane face for a minute, wishing to read the answers in the deep pools of starlight reflected in his irises much as he had once read the skies and constellations, but the blue orbs were cloudy and dark, much like the future. He sighed, finally coming to a decision.
Frodo sagged in despair, ready to receive a good scolding and be forced into wearing that vain hope again, but he was surprised to find gentle fingers wrapping a soft cloth back around his eyes. He inhaled the familiar scent of pipe weed and reached up to touch the new blindfold. It was finer than the tea towel, fitting his face better, not nearly so coarse against his sensitive skin, and tied easier in the back. He groped along the hem until he found a jagged edge where a knife had cut it and the fine fringe of adornment. The feeling of the minute embroidery against his fingertips told him that this new scrap of cloth was from the very sash Gandalf used as a belt.
He gaped. "G-gandalf, I cannot wear this! Why, what will you…"
Gandalf touched him on the shoulder, silencing him, and in the dim gloom of the tent his eyes sparkled like the old wise face of the moon.
"Speak no more of it. Rest now, we have long days and much traveling ahead of us."
Frodo chewed his lip, still fingering the torn hem. "Actually, I was hoping to maybe take a walk today…"
"Mr. Frodo," Sam warned. "The healer didn't say no such thing about you walkin' yet…"
Frodo waved him down and turned back to Gandalf. He misjudged the wizard's position so his stare was directed rather surreally towards a distant corner of the tent.
"Please Gandalf… We leave in a few days for the white city and I haven't even taken a circuit around this tent. I've been closed up in here with hot steam and foul smelling medicines… let me feel the grasses of Ithilian if only once between my toes. Pippin could help me. He knows that I a merely blind, not a cripple, and Sam's wanting a nap, if his mood this morning is any indication."
"W-w-what?" the young Took jerked to attention, suddenly wary of being drawn into the argument.
"I'm not the only one needing a nap," Sam grumbled. Frodo smiled and patted his hand but continued his attack.
"I am sick of naps. Napping is all I do. Fresh air is what I want, and to stretch my legs. Friend that you are, Sam, you'd press me to stay in this bed even if all of Lord Elrond's court showed up spectacularly drunk today for an early wedding."
Pippin fidgeted with the hem of his mail-coat, occasionally sending nervous glances in the wizard's direction. Much to his chagrin, Gandalf did not immediately protest to the idea of Frodo out of bed, indeed he seemed to be mulling over the idea with great thought and interest. He grumbled low in his throat for a few moments, and then a twitch of a smile touched the corner of his lips as he nodded to himself. "A walk. Yes, that may be what our Baggins needs, if only to convince him to stay off his legs a while longer. Only a short one , mind you. Master Peregrin will accompany you."
Frodo smiled in genuine pleasure and as happy as Pippin was for his cousin, he could not help but feel the knot in his stomach tighten at the thought of the stern glare and angry tongue wagging he would receive from Sam if so much as a mosquito bit his master. Peregrin Took, having been in the business of making trouble for all of his twenty-eight years, knew it when he smelled it.
"Thank you, Gandalf," he enthused, then bent double as a bout of coughing drove a dust darkened wad of phlegm from his throat. Gandalf rubbed soothing circles until the fit passed.
"A *short* walk, Master Baggins," he chided softly.
Frodo hacked a final time, his voice still raspy. "Yes, of course."
There was a bit of a fuss getting him out of bed and dressed to Sam's satisfaction, wrapped in many layers and extra cloaks to warm his thin frame. Pippin hooked a guiding arm around his cousin, dismayed to feel the bony ridge of his spine even through thick layers of wool and cotton. For a moment of horror he imagined the feel of warm blood soaking through cloth, could almost feel scabs opening beneath his hands, but he shook his head and brought his thoughts away from the past and back to the Frodo in his arms.
"Ready to go, cousin?"
Frodo itched at his nose, readjusting the blindfold. "As I'll ever be." He stumbled a little on his first step but, biting his lip in determination, he and Pippin managed to stagger out of the tent without further incident. Sam made a move as if to follow them, but he found his way blocked by Gandalf's staff.
"Oh no, Master Gamgee. I believe *you* have had enough exercise for a good bit. Rest is what you need, and despite your master's protests, a good nap never hurt anyone."
~~~***~~~
They stepped out into the early morning sunlight, their toes crinkling on the still-frosted grass. The sun was rising steadily and soon its warmth would melt away the little slivers of ice, but the air still held the crisp chill of early spring. The camp rattled and thrummed with the noise of life: the cadence made by marching feet, the call of the guard, horn-blasts marking the hour, the crackle of the cooking fires as they worked to produce food for an army. For a moment Frodo froze, his head twisting this way and that in confusion.
"Here, Frodo, just hold tight and follow my voice," Pippin tightened his hold on his cousin, wrapping an arm around his back for support and guidance.
"The moment of truth," he muttered and licked at dry lips. He cautiously took a few steps forward, staring at the ground as if he could see what dangers lay before his feet, waiting to trip him and bring him down. Pippin encouraged him quietly, wishing it were Merry, who always knew what to say and when to say it, easing Frodo into the world.
Frodo's gait was slow and a little awkward, testing various styles to see which worked best. He drug his feet a bit, afraid to lift them from the ground, and when that left him only tangled and wet from the long grass he lifted his feet high and planted them slowly, looking for all the world like a child climbing an overly large staircase in the dark. "I feel like a horse being put through his paces," he confided, and Pippin laughed.
They soon had it figured out, however, Frodo lifting his feet only a little higher than the average person and then dragging the toes in search of hidden obstacles. Pippin was very careful to keep to smooth ground, ever watchful for stray arrowheads or fire flints that could hurt his cousin's still tender feet. Soldiers stared at them, some hailing them and bowing respectfully before turning to whisper to their comrades tales and exaggerations of the Ringbearer's quest. Frodo, not knowing to whom he was speaking or where they were, muttered a few greetings but mostly clung tightly to Pippin.
The silence of the early morning fell between them and Frodo was content to be just up and walking for a while until he felt some purposeful turn in their stride. "Where are we going?"
"A surprise."
Frodo grunted. "You like surprises."
For some reason the smile didn't come this time. "You'll like this one, too. Promise."
They hobbled forward, Pippin slouched almost double to make up for his height and Frodo's slumped figure. The sounds of camp fell away behind them to a sort of quiet bubble of spring promises circling the two of them. Frodo was trying to guess where they could be walking, but, having never seen the camp or ventured beyond his own tent, he was completely lost until a gentle gurgling noise made itself known.
"Pip," he gasped, grip death white. "You don't mean to say that there's a…" His cousin was silent but the crunch of smooth bank stones beneath his feet and the feel of something wet lapping against his ankles gave him his answer.
"… a river."
He swayed, and it seemed that he was back in Mordor again, back pressed against the ash and sharp rock. Sam was panting above him, urgently calling his name while pressing the mouth of their leather water canteen to his cracked lips.
~Frodo… Frodo… come back to me master… Here, here… have a bit of water… no, you drink. Your Sam's already had some. Drink… Drink…~
But he hadn't, clever foolish Sam, giving Master all the water and taking none for himself. They were miles from water, miles from even a trickling of spilt spit, and surely that wet cold against his toes and in his mouth was just some cruel illusion.
A buzzing filled his ears and then everything was fuzzy and hot again and Pippin's voice broke through the fog. "A creek, really, but bless me if it isn't a wonder to be able to take a good dunk and get all clean again. Remember that stretch of road right out of Rivendell where Aragorn was doing his paranoid ranger thing? I don't believe he bathed for a month."
"I-I remember… I think…" Pippin had hoped that the anecdote would cheer his cousin up, but Frodo's knuckles were white were they grasped his cloak, breaths coming fast and shallow. Frodo swallowed, fighting his rising nausea, and bent to grope before him. "How close is the edge?"
"We're almost in it, here, up a few steps." Cool rocks beneath their feet, squishing with mud and shallow water. Frodo wiggled his toes experimentally and then extended a hand as if to touch the surface. "Mind your bandage," intoned Pippin and was startled at how very grown up he sounded.
Frodo reached out a tentative hand to skirt along the top of the water, laughing as the cool water splashed and trickled across his fingertips. He spread both hands wide and pressed them into the stream, emerging himself up to his elbows.
"Oh!" he gasped. "It's cold!" But he did not move his hands, only wiggled them deeper into the mud. Little tadpoles squirmed around his thin wrists in the water, tickling him with their long tails.
Pippin settled onto the bank. He dug around for a bit in his tunic and produced his pipe and tragically empty tobacco pouch. He shrugged, used to short rations by now, and contented to chew on the stem while he watched his cousin slowly explore the complexities of the streambed.
Frodo's voice was a little breathless when he spoke next. "It has been long since I have seen a river I trusted, Pippin. Since Lothlorien or Rivendell, I think."
Pippin nodded, remembering the tale of a long waterless march. "Aye. Still, I'd much rather see our own Brandywine again. It seems so long ago since we were but lads wiggling like fish through the river-weeds."
"I'm not even sure that I've ever fully trusted the Brandywine," he said quietly, still wiggling his fingers absently in the current.
"Nor I the lands outside the Shire boundaries, yet here we are, and there they are." The pipe stem was bitter in his mouth. Pippin suddenly wished his smoke-pouch wasn't empty. "Wonder how many miles we've traveled so far? Further than ol' Bilbo, at any rate."
Frodo eased upward, standing with the care of the ancient. "Many miles, and then them double again going back."
"But not yet. First we go back to the White City."
Frodo sighed. "Not yet, not yet. I guess we'll have to wait a while longer for our back again, Pip."
Peregrin said nothing, just closed his eyes to the growing burn of the sun's rays. The little dell swayed with the noise of crickets and distant horses, but it was the gentle splashing that Frodo made wading through the shallows that kept him from succumbing to the dark.
~~~***~~~
The Fields of Cormallen were awash with the sounds of activity as the soldiers broke camp, saddling horses and packing the tents into roles. All had been made ready for the journey to Minas Tirith the day before, and now only the barest of necessities were still standing: the cook-tent, command quarters, and medical facilities. Most of the bed-ridden still too ill to ride had already been sent ahead to the city, but the few who weren't were being loaded, cot and all, onto specially designated carts under full guard.
Naturally, Frodo refused to go in the cart, which explained the hubbub and fuss around one small, gentle pony.
"You sure you want to ride, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam, fussing again over the reign and stirrup lengths. "This ain't no Shire pony. I know I'm right nervous about these men horses. Too much leg and stomping hoof, if you ask me."
Frodo smiled, groping blindly to pet the smooth coat of his mount. "Yes, I'm sure I want to ride, Sam. After three months of walking, it will be good to sit on a horse for a while."
"I hear that we won't be riding the whole way," piped Merry from where he was adding a few last provisions to the pony's saddle bag. "The king's men say that we'll sail once we get to the river."
"Boats…" groaned Sam. "I'm right nervous about them, too."
Frodo squeezed his hand. The pounding of hooves shook the ground and a high spirited horse snorted and shook its halter as it drew up next to them.
"Greetings," hailed Legolas as he swung down lightly into the grass. A low stream of cursing and a heavy thud of chain mail told Frodo that Gimli was behind him.
"Greetings," he called, tilting his face upward in the direction of the elf's voice. "Tell me friend elf, is the weather fair today?"
"The weather is always fair, rain or shine, now that the Dark One has fallen," replied Legolas softly. "But if we do not leave before long I fear our rear guards will sustain a heavy sprinkle. There are a few gray puffs to the east."
Frodo closed his eyes beneath the blindfold and breathed deeply. The air was sweet with the first hint of spring, and indeed a heaviness that spoke of rain rode the back of the light wind.
"Yes. It smells of rain. Strange that it should."
"Aye," grumbled the dwarf's low voice. "But then your senses should be getting sharper to compensate for what you have lost. No doubt our Baggins will be like a blood hound soon, sniffing for the rain or when young Pip gets into trouble."
Frodo's smile was nowhere near what it had once been, the pulling of the corners more of a chore than a joy, pale gums and twinge of sadness turning any mirth there bitter, but every slow, creeping grin was a whisper of eventual healing, or so Sam prayed. He finished fiddling with the leather straps and gave a nod to Legolas, signaling that all was ready.
"I fear that we shall have to leave soon, Frodo," said the elf. "If you are ready we shall settle you ere we leave and save a hurried rush later."
Frodo nodded, and Legolas carefully picked him up and sat him atop the pony's wide back. A high backed saddle had been fashioned and the stirrups shortened to hobbit height. The members of their party would be taking turns leading the pony, so the horn where the reigns would normally be looped was being used as an anchor for a sort of a belt about the Ringbearer, further preventing him from tumbling off. Once mounted, Frodo was wrapped in warm, soft blankets and urged to keep still and quiet and perhaps doze a little, if he wished.
But when it was suggested that he take some soothing draught to ease his slumber while they journeyed, he protested loudly. "I am sick of being drugged into a drooling stupor," he said. "I shall take the headache and the rough road if only for a chance to be doing something other than sleeping."
Just as Sam had, out of nervousness, begun to check the leather fastenings of the saddle for the thousandth time (one can never be too careful with these sorts of things, especially on a Man horse and saddle), a great rush of noise clattered through the bit of meadow where they stood and a troop of horses cantered by, among them Aragorn and Gandalf, who pulled out of the formation and reigned their mounts to a gentle stop just out of the hobbits' earshot.
"Hail, friends Aragorn and Gandalf, " greeted Legolas, leaving the pony's side to bow low.
"Hail and good morning to you. How is Frodo?"
Legolas wiped a stray strand of windblown hair from his eyes and turned to look at Frodo, huddled and wrapped like an old woman. "Not as well as he will lead you, but humor him while the road is yet easy."
Aragorn's brow furrowed in thought while he stroked his horse's neck idly. "I thought as much. He insists on riding, then? Yes, of course he would, and though I do not think he will be able to manage the rougher roads I am gladdened to see some return of spirit."
He flicked his eyes skyward, eyeing the storm clouds Legolas had spotted earlier, then towards the hobbits, nodding in approval of the saddle and riding arrangement . "Let him ride, then, for now, but not alone. Two at least should ride abreast with him, one to lead his horse and another to steady him lest he fall."
Gandalf hummed his approval. "I shall take the honor this leg of our journey. Perhaps the presence of another old fool will soften the blow to his dignity." So taking his leave of the company he spurned Shadowfax towards the hobbits.
"Greetings young Baggins. I think that my old bones shall ride with this part of the party today, where the pace is slower and the young soldiers not so wont to race each other and fling mud everywhere."
"Hello, Gandalf. Are we actually going now?" His voice was soft, as if on the edge of sleep, but he scrabbled frantically for the horn when his horse kicked at a particularly insistent fly.
The wizard peered into the distance, watching the front of the column begin to surge forward in a blaze of trumpets and whipping of banners. "It appears so. The company rides towards Minas Tirith. A pleasant journey, I should hope, with all worries gone. But come, Master Samwise. Mount your pony before the armies of Gondor depart without us."
And so, around mid-morning, once Sam had settled into his saddle and taken up Frodo's reigns, they set forth, three cloaked figures on white horses, Ringbearers all.
TBC….
Author: Slipstream
Rating: PG (angst, medical drama)
Archive: Ask, please. (slipstream_chan@hotmail.com)
Summary: The journey through Mordor has left Frodo more deeply injured than any could fear, robbing him of the ability to see the first blossoming of hope in the land…
Notes: I had long planned the ride from the Fields of Cormallen to Minas Tirith, but I must say that I was greatly affected and influenced by the riding imagery in Elwen's "Journey to the Last Homely House," which I highly recommend. So the original concept of an ill Frodo riding a horse flanked by two 'catchers' came from that wonderful piece of work. On a medical note, the way that Frodo walks, with an abnormally high step, is common amongst blind animals, most notably horses and dogs, and seemed appropriate as, with his hobbit stature, he would have had to walk this way to avoid tripping over the foliage.
Disclaimer: Do not own do not own do not own. How many times must I assert this? Plot mine, characters not.
~~~***~~~
"But Mr. Frodo…!"
"No! I won't put it on!"
"But the healer…"
"Curse the healer, I'm sick of it. Now put it away and let me be!"
Pippin paused at the entrance flap, glancing over his shoulder at Gandalf. Merry was sleeping late, bad dreams having kept him awake most of the night, and had insisted that Pippin go with the wizard to visit Frodo anyway. But from the sounds of the argument coming from within, Pippin wasn't so sure they would be welcome.
He paused, licking his lips. "Maybe we should come back later, Gandalf…"
The wizard raised his eyebrows momentarily before pushing ahead of the young Took. "Nonsense, my lad. Now more than ever I believe that we should intrude. It sounds as if Master Gamgee is in need of assistance dealing with your cousin's stubborn temper." He entered the tent, and Pippin had no choice but to hurry after him lest he be hit by the heavy fabric.
Inside was dim, as usual. Sam stood at the edge of the bed, nervously fingering some bit of cloth, while Frodo sat stiffly propped against his pillows, his arms crossed resolutely in front of him and what appeared to be a hand-towel tied around his head.
"Good morning, my dear Frodo," Gandalf greeted, assessing the situation in a glance. "What seems to be the trouble?"
Frodo scowled. "I won't wear it. You can't make me."
Sam looked at Gandalf imploringly, still holding onto the leather eye-patch. 'Help,' he mouthed, eyes tired and shoulders slumped.
Gandalf nodded in understanding and moved to sit next to Frodo on the bed. The Ringbearer's face was pulled in a writhing grimace of emotion and he winced as the occasional tear trickled painfully down his cheek.
"Now my dear Frodo Baggins," the wizard pulled the thin hobbit close, providing support and understanding. "Perhaps you can tell me why you are giving Master Gamgee such a hard time concerning that little scrap of cloth. I will listen."
Frodo squirmed and fretted, his skin flushed with the final passings of a light fever. "I'm sorry Gandalf, but I can't… I'm tired of the pain and confusion and thinking it might get better. I know that it won't, it only grows darker every passing day, and where I might once have seen light and shape there is now only a whisper of shadow. I would be a fool to try to ignore this, more foolish still to think that it would ever change, so it is best that I…" Here he paused and swallowed heavily. "It is best that I acknowledge that I am blind and always will be and live my life accordingly. Please… I…" He turned his thin face away, twining long fingers in frustration through dark locks.
Gandalf pulled him close, feeling his age as none of the ageless Istari had ever felt before. It pressed upon him with a quickening darkness and weariness much like that autumn day far away in Elrond's council, the day Frodo had taken up the mantel of the Ring. The stars had sung of Frodo's fate since long ago, had been weeping tears of sorrow for all the coming plights of the world since it had first been sung into being, but had they foreseen this irony, that the one who had saved the world from darkness should be trapped in it forever? The small form shivering against his robes was hot and weary, how should he now confront this macabre wisdom?
He pulled back from Frodo briefly, tipping the hobbit's face toward the light. With tender hands he pulled away the towel. Frodo did not resist, merely slumped into the wizard's hands in resignation. Gandalf studied the wane face for a minute, wishing to read the answers in the deep pools of starlight reflected in his irises much as he had once read the skies and constellations, but the blue orbs were cloudy and dark, much like the future. He sighed, finally coming to a decision.
Frodo sagged in despair, ready to receive a good scolding and be forced into wearing that vain hope again, but he was surprised to find gentle fingers wrapping a soft cloth back around his eyes. He inhaled the familiar scent of pipe weed and reached up to touch the new blindfold. It was finer than the tea towel, fitting his face better, not nearly so coarse against his sensitive skin, and tied easier in the back. He groped along the hem until he found a jagged edge where a knife had cut it and the fine fringe of adornment. The feeling of the minute embroidery against his fingertips told him that this new scrap of cloth was from the very sash Gandalf used as a belt.
He gaped. "G-gandalf, I cannot wear this! Why, what will you…"
Gandalf touched him on the shoulder, silencing him, and in the dim gloom of the tent his eyes sparkled like the old wise face of the moon.
"Speak no more of it. Rest now, we have long days and much traveling ahead of us."
Frodo chewed his lip, still fingering the torn hem. "Actually, I was hoping to maybe take a walk today…"
"Mr. Frodo," Sam warned. "The healer didn't say no such thing about you walkin' yet…"
Frodo waved him down and turned back to Gandalf. He misjudged the wizard's position so his stare was directed rather surreally towards a distant corner of the tent.
"Please Gandalf… We leave in a few days for the white city and I haven't even taken a circuit around this tent. I've been closed up in here with hot steam and foul smelling medicines… let me feel the grasses of Ithilian if only once between my toes. Pippin could help me. He knows that I a merely blind, not a cripple, and Sam's wanting a nap, if his mood this morning is any indication."
"W-w-what?" the young Took jerked to attention, suddenly wary of being drawn into the argument.
"I'm not the only one needing a nap," Sam grumbled. Frodo smiled and patted his hand but continued his attack.
"I am sick of naps. Napping is all I do. Fresh air is what I want, and to stretch my legs. Friend that you are, Sam, you'd press me to stay in this bed even if all of Lord Elrond's court showed up spectacularly drunk today for an early wedding."
Pippin fidgeted with the hem of his mail-coat, occasionally sending nervous glances in the wizard's direction. Much to his chagrin, Gandalf did not immediately protest to the idea of Frodo out of bed, indeed he seemed to be mulling over the idea with great thought and interest. He grumbled low in his throat for a few moments, and then a twitch of a smile touched the corner of his lips as he nodded to himself. "A walk. Yes, that may be what our Baggins needs, if only to convince him to stay off his legs a while longer. Only a short one , mind you. Master Peregrin will accompany you."
Frodo smiled in genuine pleasure and as happy as Pippin was for his cousin, he could not help but feel the knot in his stomach tighten at the thought of the stern glare and angry tongue wagging he would receive from Sam if so much as a mosquito bit his master. Peregrin Took, having been in the business of making trouble for all of his twenty-eight years, knew it when he smelled it.
"Thank you, Gandalf," he enthused, then bent double as a bout of coughing drove a dust darkened wad of phlegm from his throat. Gandalf rubbed soothing circles until the fit passed.
"A *short* walk, Master Baggins," he chided softly.
Frodo hacked a final time, his voice still raspy. "Yes, of course."
There was a bit of a fuss getting him out of bed and dressed to Sam's satisfaction, wrapped in many layers and extra cloaks to warm his thin frame. Pippin hooked a guiding arm around his cousin, dismayed to feel the bony ridge of his spine even through thick layers of wool and cotton. For a moment of horror he imagined the feel of warm blood soaking through cloth, could almost feel scabs opening beneath his hands, but he shook his head and brought his thoughts away from the past and back to the Frodo in his arms.
"Ready to go, cousin?"
Frodo itched at his nose, readjusting the blindfold. "As I'll ever be." He stumbled a little on his first step but, biting his lip in determination, he and Pippin managed to stagger out of the tent without further incident. Sam made a move as if to follow them, but he found his way blocked by Gandalf's staff.
"Oh no, Master Gamgee. I believe *you* have had enough exercise for a good bit. Rest is what you need, and despite your master's protests, a good nap never hurt anyone."
~~~***~~~
They stepped out into the early morning sunlight, their toes crinkling on the still-frosted grass. The sun was rising steadily and soon its warmth would melt away the little slivers of ice, but the air still held the crisp chill of early spring. The camp rattled and thrummed with the noise of life: the cadence made by marching feet, the call of the guard, horn-blasts marking the hour, the crackle of the cooking fires as they worked to produce food for an army. For a moment Frodo froze, his head twisting this way and that in confusion.
"Here, Frodo, just hold tight and follow my voice," Pippin tightened his hold on his cousin, wrapping an arm around his back for support and guidance.
"The moment of truth," he muttered and licked at dry lips. He cautiously took a few steps forward, staring at the ground as if he could see what dangers lay before his feet, waiting to trip him and bring him down. Pippin encouraged him quietly, wishing it were Merry, who always knew what to say and when to say it, easing Frodo into the world.
Frodo's gait was slow and a little awkward, testing various styles to see which worked best. He drug his feet a bit, afraid to lift them from the ground, and when that left him only tangled and wet from the long grass he lifted his feet high and planted them slowly, looking for all the world like a child climbing an overly large staircase in the dark. "I feel like a horse being put through his paces," he confided, and Pippin laughed.
They soon had it figured out, however, Frodo lifting his feet only a little higher than the average person and then dragging the toes in search of hidden obstacles. Pippin was very careful to keep to smooth ground, ever watchful for stray arrowheads or fire flints that could hurt his cousin's still tender feet. Soldiers stared at them, some hailing them and bowing respectfully before turning to whisper to their comrades tales and exaggerations of the Ringbearer's quest. Frodo, not knowing to whom he was speaking or where they were, muttered a few greetings but mostly clung tightly to Pippin.
The silence of the early morning fell between them and Frodo was content to be just up and walking for a while until he felt some purposeful turn in their stride. "Where are we going?"
"A surprise."
Frodo grunted. "You like surprises."
For some reason the smile didn't come this time. "You'll like this one, too. Promise."
They hobbled forward, Pippin slouched almost double to make up for his height and Frodo's slumped figure. The sounds of camp fell away behind them to a sort of quiet bubble of spring promises circling the two of them. Frodo was trying to guess where they could be walking, but, having never seen the camp or ventured beyond his own tent, he was completely lost until a gentle gurgling noise made itself known.
"Pip," he gasped, grip death white. "You don't mean to say that there's a…" His cousin was silent but the crunch of smooth bank stones beneath his feet and the feel of something wet lapping against his ankles gave him his answer.
"… a river."
He swayed, and it seemed that he was back in Mordor again, back pressed against the ash and sharp rock. Sam was panting above him, urgently calling his name while pressing the mouth of their leather water canteen to his cracked lips.
~Frodo… Frodo… come back to me master… Here, here… have a bit of water… no, you drink. Your Sam's already had some. Drink… Drink…~
But he hadn't, clever foolish Sam, giving Master all the water and taking none for himself. They were miles from water, miles from even a trickling of spilt spit, and surely that wet cold against his toes and in his mouth was just some cruel illusion.
A buzzing filled his ears and then everything was fuzzy and hot again and Pippin's voice broke through the fog. "A creek, really, but bless me if it isn't a wonder to be able to take a good dunk and get all clean again. Remember that stretch of road right out of Rivendell where Aragorn was doing his paranoid ranger thing? I don't believe he bathed for a month."
"I-I remember… I think…" Pippin had hoped that the anecdote would cheer his cousin up, but Frodo's knuckles were white were they grasped his cloak, breaths coming fast and shallow. Frodo swallowed, fighting his rising nausea, and bent to grope before him. "How close is the edge?"
"We're almost in it, here, up a few steps." Cool rocks beneath their feet, squishing with mud and shallow water. Frodo wiggled his toes experimentally and then extended a hand as if to touch the surface. "Mind your bandage," intoned Pippin and was startled at how very grown up he sounded.
Frodo reached out a tentative hand to skirt along the top of the water, laughing as the cool water splashed and trickled across his fingertips. He spread both hands wide and pressed them into the stream, emerging himself up to his elbows.
"Oh!" he gasped. "It's cold!" But he did not move his hands, only wiggled them deeper into the mud. Little tadpoles squirmed around his thin wrists in the water, tickling him with their long tails.
Pippin settled onto the bank. He dug around for a bit in his tunic and produced his pipe and tragically empty tobacco pouch. He shrugged, used to short rations by now, and contented to chew on the stem while he watched his cousin slowly explore the complexities of the streambed.
Frodo's voice was a little breathless when he spoke next. "It has been long since I have seen a river I trusted, Pippin. Since Lothlorien or Rivendell, I think."
Pippin nodded, remembering the tale of a long waterless march. "Aye. Still, I'd much rather see our own Brandywine again. It seems so long ago since we were but lads wiggling like fish through the river-weeds."
"I'm not even sure that I've ever fully trusted the Brandywine," he said quietly, still wiggling his fingers absently in the current.
"Nor I the lands outside the Shire boundaries, yet here we are, and there they are." The pipe stem was bitter in his mouth. Pippin suddenly wished his smoke-pouch wasn't empty. "Wonder how many miles we've traveled so far? Further than ol' Bilbo, at any rate."
Frodo eased upward, standing with the care of the ancient. "Many miles, and then them double again going back."
"But not yet. First we go back to the White City."
Frodo sighed. "Not yet, not yet. I guess we'll have to wait a while longer for our back again, Pip."
Peregrin said nothing, just closed his eyes to the growing burn of the sun's rays. The little dell swayed with the noise of crickets and distant horses, but it was the gentle splashing that Frodo made wading through the shallows that kept him from succumbing to the dark.
~~~***~~~
The Fields of Cormallen were awash with the sounds of activity as the soldiers broke camp, saddling horses and packing the tents into roles. All had been made ready for the journey to Minas Tirith the day before, and now only the barest of necessities were still standing: the cook-tent, command quarters, and medical facilities. Most of the bed-ridden still too ill to ride had already been sent ahead to the city, but the few who weren't were being loaded, cot and all, onto specially designated carts under full guard.
Naturally, Frodo refused to go in the cart, which explained the hubbub and fuss around one small, gentle pony.
"You sure you want to ride, Mr. Frodo?" asked Sam, fussing again over the reign and stirrup lengths. "This ain't no Shire pony. I know I'm right nervous about these men horses. Too much leg and stomping hoof, if you ask me."
Frodo smiled, groping blindly to pet the smooth coat of his mount. "Yes, I'm sure I want to ride, Sam. After three months of walking, it will be good to sit on a horse for a while."
"I hear that we won't be riding the whole way," piped Merry from where he was adding a few last provisions to the pony's saddle bag. "The king's men say that we'll sail once we get to the river."
"Boats…" groaned Sam. "I'm right nervous about them, too."
Frodo squeezed his hand. The pounding of hooves shook the ground and a high spirited horse snorted and shook its halter as it drew up next to them.
"Greetings," hailed Legolas as he swung down lightly into the grass. A low stream of cursing and a heavy thud of chain mail told Frodo that Gimli was behind him.
"Greetings," he called, tilting his face upward in the direction of the elf's voice. "Tell me friend elf, is the weather fair today?"
"The weather is always fair, rain or shine, now that the Dark One has fallen," replied Legolas softly. "But if we do not leave before long I fear our rear guards will sustain a heavy sprinkle. There are a few gray puffs to the east."
Frodo closed his eyes beneath the blindfold and breathed deeply. The air was sweet with the first hint of spring, and indeed a heaviness that spoke of rain rode the back of the light wind.
"Yes. It smells of rain. Strange that it should."
"Aye," grumbled the dwarf's low voice. "But then your senses should be getting sharper to compensate for what you have lost. No doubt our Baggins will be like a blood hound soon, sniffing for the rain or when young Pip gets into trouble."
Frodo's smile was nowhere near what it had once been, the pulling of the corners more of a chore than a joy, pale gums and twinge of sadness turning any mirth there bitter, but every slow, creeping grin was a whisper of eventual healing, or so Sam prayed. He finished fiddling with the leather straps and gave a nod to Legolas, signaling that all was ready.
"I fear that we shall have to leave soon, Frodo," said the elf. "If you are ready we shall settle you ere we leave and save a hurried rush later."
Frodo nodded, and Legolas carefully picked him up and sat him atop the pony's wide back. A high backed saddle had been fashioned and the stirrups shortened to hobbit height. The members of their party would be taking turns leading the pony, so the horn where the reigns would normally be looped was being used as an anchor for a sort of a belt about the Ringbearer, further preventing him from tumbling off. Once mounted, Frodo was wrapped in warm, soft blankets and urged to keep still and quiet and perhaps doze a little, if he wished.
But when it was suggested that he take some soothing draught to ease his slumber while they journeyed, he protested loudly. "I am sick of being drugged into a drooling stupor," he said. "I shall take the headache and the rough road if only for a chance to be doing something other than sleeping."
Just as Sam had, out of nervousness, begun to check the leather fastenings of the saddle for the thousandth time (one can never be too careful with these sorts of things, especially on a Man horse and saddle), a great rush of noise clattered through the bit of meadow where they stood and a troop of horses cantered by, among them Aragorn and Gandalf, who pulled out of the formation and reigned their mounts to a gentle stop just out of the hobbits' earshot.
"Hail, friends Aragorn and Gandalf, " greeted Legolas, leaving the pony's side to bow low.
"Hail and good morning to you. How is Frodo?"
Legolas wiped a stray strand of windblown hair from his eyes and turned to look at Frodo, huddled and wrapped like an old woman. "Not as well as he will lead you, but humor him while the road is yet easy."
Aragorn's brow furrowed in thought while he stroked his horse's neck idly. "I thought as much. He insists on riding, then? Yes, of course he would, and though I do not think he will be able to manage the rougher roads I am gladdened to see some return of spirit."
He flicked his eyes skyward, eyeing the storm clouds Legolas had spotted earlier, then towards the hobbits, nodding in approval of the saddle and riding arrangement . "Let him ride, then, for now, but not alone. Two at least should ride abreast with him, one to lead his horse and another to steady him lest he fall."
Gandalf hummed his approval. "I shall take the honor this leg of our journey. Perhaps the presence of another old fool will soften the blow to his dignity." So taking his leave of the company he spurned Shadowfax towards the hobbits.
"Greetings young Baggins. I think that my old bones shall ride with this part of the party today, where the pace is slower and the young soldiers not so wont to race each other and fling mud everywhere."
"Hello, Gandalf. Are we actually going now?" His voice was soft, as if on the edge of sleep, but he scrabbled frantically for the horn when his horse kicked at a particularly insistent fly.
The wizard peered into the distance, watching the front of the column begin to surge forward in a blaze of trumpets and whipping of banners. "It appears so. The company rides towards Minas Tirith. A pleasant journey, I should hope, with all worries gone. But come, Master Samwise. Mount your pony before the armies of Gondor depart without us."
And so, around mid-morning, once Sam had settled into his saddle and taken up Frodo's reigns, they set forth, three cloaked figures on white horses, Ringbearers all.
TBC….