Being a Mary Sue was highly overrated, I thought to myself as I followed the others, carrying Peregrin Took on my back. If my name had been Alpernertathiluthiel or some-such I'm sure I would have had it much easier. But as it was . . . I was stuck here marching in Moria and carrying the wrong hobbit, who, I might add, was heavier than he looked. While I was no push-over, I was a bit irked that with all the strong males in the Fellowship, they were not more chivalrous and offering to carry the grimy little porker themselves.

Of course, Boromir had his hands full already---oh, did he, and oh, did I ever want to trade places with him. But my dreams of hobbit-swapping were not to be, judging by the way the big Gondorian carried Frodo practically molded to his body. Frodo was well-wrapped in blankets, the tricksy little circle of gold hidden, but nonetheless, the man kept looking down at his sleeping charge's face with an expression one could only describe as intense.

A moment later I saw Frodo tremble a bit and sneeze; the noise echoing in the cavernous space. He must have had a stuffed-up nose. Oh yes, those delicate flaring nostrils had been quite red the last time I looked. Quite red. And then my hobbit coughed. Several times.

"Aragorn," Boromir called, pausing, "perhaps we should stop for a bit, so that you may give Frodo another dose of medicine. He feels a bit warm."

Immediately Aragorn walked back to Boromir, pulling the blanket back from Frodo's brow (as it was wrapped about his head, giving him a look not unlike a small Russian peasant. A very ADORABLE and noble Russian peasant.) and smoothing Frodo's curls. The hobbit was just slightly awake, drifting in a warm drowsiness that made me yearn to clutch him to me---it was almost painful, so great was the urge.

The ranger's face, too, was very concerned, and I like to think it reflected the yearning on my own. "Let us stop then at the first opportunity, when we have a secure area . . . I've some liniment that might help his congestion if rubbed on his chest."

*Oh yes, let us stop and rub cream on Frodo's chest. Please.*

Aragorn continued to regard Frodo, slipping a hand into the hobbit's blankets to ostensibly feel his temperature. "Boromir, allow me to take him for a while and ease your burden."

The Gondorian looked taken aback. "He is no burden, Aragorn, and I am glad to be of help. If nothing else, he is keeping me warm with his body heat in this dank place."

"That is well and good, but we should take turns, at least. Although he is not heavy, he is still heavier than your pack, and it wouldn't do to tire yourself out." Brooking no argument, Aragorn held out his hands for Frodo, who was again sleeping peacefully and quite unaware that he was about to be the victim of a manly tug-of-war.

But, as it turns out, the Gondorian hesitated, conceding to the son of Arathorn's wishes and reluctantly transferring said hobbit over.

Aragorn looked most relieved, pressing Frodo to his chest and making sure he was warmly covered. Then, he did something that quite truly made me *very*angry. Holding Frodo in the crook of one arm, he tugged his pack off with one hand and threw it down, fishing a small jar out, before slinging his pack back on and straightening. Gandalf gave us the signal to move on.

Oh, I was mad now.

For I smelled a camphor-y smell and saw Aragorn looking down, his back to me, and DARN it, if that ranger wasn't rubbing that liniment onto Frodo's chest at that moment. I could see nothing from my spot, just Aragorn's stupid elbow moving slightly. From the way his neck was bent, staring down at Frodo, he'd either discovered the hobbit's rosy nipples or the mithril coat, one or the other. And I wasn't there to see. Damnit all to heck.

Soon enough, my real world came crashing back as the Took fidgeted, kicking me in the ribs with his dirty feet. I have nothing against hobbit feet---I find them quite cute, actually, in their furriness, a bit like animal paws. And of course, feet that don't wear shoes will certainly get dirty . . . but the honest-to-God truth is that I don't ever want *anyone's* feet touching me if I can help it. Except for Frodo's. In fact, I could see them up ahead, sticking out of his blankets, until Aragorn felt of Frodo's toes ever so tenderly. I gather they must have been cold, for then our ranger pulled the blankets down and covered them up. Sigh.

Back to Pippin. Not a very interesting subject, but it bears warning others about. To top it off, his breath would have put Smaug to shame. Granted, all of us could have used a little Crest (except for Frodo, I'm sure---I refused to believe *my* hobbit suffered from halitosis) but Pippin's mouth was fumier than I'd ever smelt. I think he must have indulged in too many sweets in his young life and had a few rotten teeth festering in there somewhere.

I would be very interested to see, once we got out of Moria, if the Fellowship attended to their dental hygiene in any way, such as scrubbing their mouths with twigs or any other cool wilderness practices I'd seen in old Westerns and wagon-train movies. Somehow I doubted it. I guess when Orcs are coming at you with bad intent, a few caries seem trivial in comparison.

However, believe it or not, Pippin's halitosis was by FAR not the worst part---the worst was that he talked *constantly,* even though Gandalf told us over and over and over to BE QUIET. Lest the Orcs capture and rape and torture us and then eat us in small pieces. And that would have been the easy way to die.

Gandalf may have seemed a bit harsh in the way he talked to the youngest hobbit, but trust me, Gandalf held back nicely. If I'd been the wizard, the irritating speck of hobbitry clinging to my back would have been turned into a piece of melba toast with a flick of my staff LONG ago.

Actually, I would have made Peregrin Took the Ring-bearer, just to rid the world for a little while of his presence. And then I would have left Frodo in Rivendell, all snug as a bug in a rug in his warm room, with lots of elves and Bilbo and me, of course, for company, and as much food as a hobbit could possibly want, with plenty of books to read.

Oh yes, I'd tuck him into that big feather-bed in Rivendell and massage his limbs and whatever else he wanted done and I would plump him up with delicacies and good country Shire foods. Oh yes, his cheeks would be rosy when I was through with him. Isn't that the dream of all Mary Sues?

But, I was not a dead professor nor a round, hair-covered New Zealander. So.

Suddenly I felt Pippin yanking my ponytail, and then, the hobbit's accented voice just in my ear---not to mention that breath.

"Your hair's a strange color," he said. "Well, actually, more than one color! What happened to it?"

Ah. So there it was, then, my first Mary Sue experience. Of course all Mary Sues had unique hair, and it was always a point of conversation among the Fellowship members. It didn't matter that the world was about to be overtaken by darkness and every living creature not bowing down to Sauron wiped off the face of the earth---Mary Sue's hair was always a source of delight and wonderment. I smiled to myself, feeling a bit smug. "Why do you ask?"

"Well, it's strange . . . not like Goldberry's or Legolas's. The ends are light and the roots are really dark, and underneath, it looks really dark too. Kind of blocky. I've never seen hair like this before."

My smile was fading.

"It's bleached. The color is taken out of it, and it's grown out a bit."

"Oh, I see, like when Pervinca puts juice on her hair and sits in the sun," Pippin said, and I could feel his small hand grasping my hair again. "Why do you want to take the color out for?"

"Because I don't like my real hair color."

"Well, that's awfully strange. But then, I guess it is . . . nondescript, not like the elves' in Rivendell or, as I said, Goldberry's. Hers was long and rippling and golden, really lovely. Frodo certainly liked it . . . I even saw him touch it once or twice in wonder. But the ends of your hair look sorta . . . burned off. Were you in a fire?"

I gritted my teeth, determined not to comment as I digested this tidbit about Frodo and this interesting hobbity observation. Damn Goldberry and her blasted rippling hair. If I'd been screwing the oldest, most addle-pated, and arguably one of the most powerful people in Middle-earth I'm sure I could have had the hair I wanted, too. And burned! Of all the . . .

I'll tell you what was burning. I was still wearing Frodo's extra pair of braces tied between my legs, of course, to my utter embarrassment if anyone knew. They'd been doing a fine job of holding everything in place, but were chafing rather unpleasantly between my flabby thighs. I'm sure I had a bad case of eczema or contact dermatitis or jock itch down there. Now I'd have to steal some sort of ointment from Aragorn's bag. I was sure he had some.

Of course, there was the added difficulty that carrying Pippin on my back, with his legs wrapped about my waist, was causing them to . . . loosen just a bit. Uh-oh.

But there was no help for it now but to march onward, grimacing.

AFTER MORE ENDLESS HOURS OF MARCHING AMID THE DARKNESS, DAMPNESS, AND RANCID DWARF-CORPSE STENCH OF MORIA . . .

Well, we were finally here. In the dreaded Chamber of Marzarbul, waiting for our gooses to be cooked. I didn't really care---I was just glad to have Pippin off my back. Ugh.

Gandalf's voice rang out. "They are coming. We cannot get out." On that very positive note, the wizard closed the giant dusty tome, eyeing all of us. Aragorn, expecting a need to defend the others, had finally set Frodo down, and the stubborn hobbit was standing up and looking all flushed and sniffly and endearing.

My thoughts were suddenly interrupted, because that's when it happened. You know the drill. That idiotic Took curiosity got us in trouble once again and suddenly, drumbeats grew louder, and faster, and closer. I was scared out of my wits---I didn't even have a weapon, for criminy's sake. I needed to grab an axe from a dwarf corpse, and quick. Perhaps this would be the chance to show my Mary-Sueness in action---I was pretty sure I could hold my own in battle, if I didn't get beheaded first. I was *very* good back at home with a cordless power drill.

Sam's voice. "Mr. Frodo!"

Ah, he'd noticed Sting glowing blue. Anyone wonder why everyone BUT Frodo notices Sting glowing in the presence of Orcs? Because they're looking *down,* at, if I may be so crude, Frodo's crotch or his buttocks. A good thing he wears Sting low on his hip, because as long as he does, and we're all with him to look there, we'll always have advance notice of an Orc onslaught.

After all, I remind you, does anyone EVER notice Glamdring glowing? And it does, people . . . glows very obviously, I tell you. But does anyone in the Fellowship ever notice it? Um, no. Because no one is staring at Gandalf's crotch to see if they can determine the size of his wizardhood, thank you.

Thanks to the ADORABLE one's wearing snug breeches, we might survive another day.

To be continued