Disclaimer:  Hobbits and elves and dwarves and wizards—none of them are mine.  Unfortunately, I can lay a light claim upon humans . . . but I won't, for fear of the rocks sure to come my way.

            Enjoy.^^

Ch. 5

TO TRUST HER

            "Is he dying, Master Elrond?" Merry asked, trying not to choke on his words.  It was too great an effort for his weary heart.

            Merry stood beside a large, elegantly designed, elven bed, where a small form lay enveloped in its great depths.  Pippin's face was horribly burnt, his hands and chest the same.  His face was hot to the touch, though his toes and fingers were like ice.  The blankets were damp with sweat.

            Elrond glanced at Merry, who held Pippin's hand gingerly in his own.  The hobbit was afraid he might hurt him--the burns--but the hand was so cold, there was no life.

            "I will not lie to you, Master Meriadoc," Elrond said softly and Merry's jaw clenched.  "There is naught I can do.  The power that smote your friend is far greater than I could imagine."  He shook his head sadly.  "It is beyond me."

            A soft knock sounded on the door and Elrond looked up.

            "Ah, Gandalf, come in, come in."

            Gandalf's gray robes rustled as he entered.  He came behind Merry and rested a gnarled hand upon the halfling's shoulder.  Merry flinched away.

            "How is he?" the wizard asked softly, staring down at Pippin's burnt face.

            "Not good, I'm afraid," Elrond said.  "How he lives even now, I do not know."

            "Hobbit's are a stout folk," Gandalf said.

            "Aye, so I have seen."  Elrond rubbed his eyes.  "But the fever will not break and every hour that goes by it gets worse, not better.  I am afraid there is little I can do."  He shook his head and turned to Gandalf. 

            "When I healed Frodo, his wound had been given to him by secondary magic.  The Ringwraiths hold great power, that is true, but most I can counter, for they are my balance, and I theirs.  But Pippin . . ."  He turned and looked at the hobbit.  "It was raw power that struck him, Gandalf.  Untamed, uncontrollable.  Such is far worse than either yours or Sauron's."

            "Indeed," Gandalf mused thoughtfully.

            Merry looked from one to the other, trying desperately to comprehend what they were saying.

            "He can't die!" he blurted finally.  Rage filled him and he rounded on the wizard.  "This is your fault, Gandalf!  Yours!  You sent him away.  You sent for the child and brought this all upon us.  Pippin's dying, Frodo won't wake up, and neither will the girl!  Sam's going insane with grief and--and so am I!"  Turning away hurriedly, he buried his face in the sheets next to his cousin.  His small frame shook uncontrollably.

            Elrond looked at the wizard, noted his haggard expression, and clasped him on the shoulder.  "Come, my friend," he said softly.  "We can do nothing."  Elrond led the old wizard reluctantly away.  Gandalf gave Merry's small form one last pitying glance before he was steered from the room.

*     *     *     *     *

            "I am afraid," she admitted; realizing a moment afterwards that that was the first time she had ever spoken those words aloud to anyone. 

            "Where are we?"  Her voice was surprisingly soft and came to her ears only after resounding off invisible walls.

            "I don't know," came the hesitant reply.

            She could only see him now and again, and only if she concentrated constantly on him.  His voice came from a great distance, though at times it seemed he was right behind her.  She always caught herself turning to see if he was there, but he never was.

            "I wish I could see you," she said finally.

            "I'm here," he told her confidently, though he didn't feel so sure.  He had decided for the hundredth time that something had indeed gone wrong.  By now, the two should have been back in Middle-earth, among friends.  They weren't though.  He didn't know where they where.

            Wherever Frodo looked, all was dark and fading; he seemed to be in a world of shadows--in a world of nothingness.  Involuntarily, he shivered.  He was reminded of when he had slipped on the Ring at Weathertop.

            "What happened, Eli--?" she asked, choking on the name.

            "Frodo," he said quietly.

            She didn't seem to be surprised; not at first, anyway.  She was too confused, too much had happened.

            "I am not sure.  I was sent to find you . . ."

            "Me . . . ? But why?"

            Frodo laughed bitterly.  "I don't know."

            He heard a timid "Oh" and his face softened.

            "I'm sorry," he said.  "I am not much help."

            She laughed weakly.  "I am not mad at you.  How could I be?  Your . . ." but she trailed off.  Frodo caught a faint glimpse of her not an arm span away--she had a secretive smile on her face.  He wanted to reach out to her--if for no other reason than to not be alone in this retched dark--but he knew when he tried she would not be there.  This land that they were in . . . it was like they floated about in a horrible nightmare.  None of it made any sense.

            He heard a quiet gasp.

            "Apryl--?"

            "Frodo, do you see?"

            Frodo looked around but he could spy nothing except the eternal darkness.

            "What is it?" he asked.

            "I--I don't know," was her response.  It seemed to come from very far away; further than any time previous.  "A child? . . ." it was no more than a whisper.

            Frodo looked around.  "Apryl?"  Her presence was fading.

            "No . . . not a child . . ."  He could barely hear her now.

            "Apryl!" he cried, searching through the darkness like a hobbit-child searching through his toy chest.  "I can't--"

            "Oh, Frodo!" came the delighted cry.  "He's a hobbit!  A hobbit, like you!"  And as her voice faded into nothingness, he could feel more than hear a terrible dread creep into her voice.  "He--he's hurt."

            And, then, Frodo was home.

            The light that filtered over his tired frame was the most blessed thing Frodo could ever remember feeling.  It gave his insides a warmth that the hobbit prayed would never leave.

            His sapphire eyes cracked open just a hair.  The room held such a dazzling light that he shut them hurriedly.  A moan escaped him.

            "So the great hero finally decides to grace us with his presence."

            The voice was soft and lilting and could only be elven.

            "Legolas," Frodo mumbled, struggling to open his eyes.

            "You still have your wits, I see," Legolas grinned.

            The elf sat cross-legged at the end of Frodo's bed, a wooden flute held delicately in his fine, smooth hands.  He brought the instrument up to his lips and a soft, sweet melody floated from it.  Frodo smiled.  He looked around as Legolas played and spotted Sam fast asleep in a chair beside him.

            "Poor Sam," Frodo said fondly.  "Has he been here long?"

            "As long as you," Legolas said, removing the flute from his lips and placing it gently by his side.

            Frodo looked over at the elf.  "Have I been here long?"

            "Almost two days."

            Frodo shook his head.  He wondered how often he would be one place only to wake up and find himself in a bed, resting comfortably in Elrond's home.  As far as he could tell, this was the second.

            "Is Apryl all right?" Frodo asked suddenly, remembering his mission--or more specifically, the child.  If he wound up in bed once again, perhaps she did too.  Surely, he had completed the task Gandalf had placed before him and had gotten her here safely.

            "Who?"  Legolas' nose twitched.

            He had forgotten.  "The child."

            Legolas frowned.  "She is here, if that is what you mean, Ring-bearer."

            He wished people would stop calling him that.

            "Is she well?" Frodo demanded.  "I end up in bed for no reason that I am aware.  What about her?"

            "You both arrived here unconscious.  She hasn't awoken yet."

            Frodo was silent a moment.  "Where's Gandalf?" he asked finally.

            Legolas opened his mouth to respond, but at that moment Sam stirred in his seat, rubbed his eyes, and as they fell on Frodo--awake and well--he cried out in joy and launched himself at his master.

            "Oh, Mister Frodo," Sam sobbed, hugging Frodo tightly.  Frodo returned the embrace fondly.  "I thought you were never coming back.  I thought you would up and die on poor old Sam!"

            "There, there, Sam," Frodo patted his friend on the back, trying not to grin too broadly.  "I am well.  No need to cry.  I am well."

            But Sam wouldn't cease.  He sobbed into Frodo's sheets and would not be quieted.  Worried, Frodo looked over at Legolas but the elf would not catch the hobbit's eye.

            "Legolas?"  Still, the elf refused to look.  Frodo turned back to Sam.  "Sam?  What is it?  What's wrong?" 

            Mournfully, Sam looked up at him.  "It's Pippin."

            His heart chilled in his breast.

            "Frodo, do you see? . . . He's a hobbit!  A hobbit, like you! . . . He--he's hurt."

            Frodo scrambled from the bed and stepped onto the cool wood floor.  The long white shirt that covered his small frame hung down past his large, hairy feet and the sleeves trailed past his small hands.

            "Frodo, wait!"  Legolas sprang to his feet; he reached out to halt the fleeing hobbit.  Sam scrambled to his own feet, but tripped in the process.  Being near at hand, Legolas caught Sam right before he landed on his nose.

            "Thanks," Sam mumbled as the elf righted the flustered halfling. 

            "Careful," Legolas said sharply.  Releasing Sam, he looked up.

            Frodo was gone.

            He was curled in upon himself; in a small ball of pain and misery.

            "Hello?" she called softly, tentatively.

            He didn't even twitch.  His hair was matted in sweat-soaked curls and his feet were scorched and blistered.  Of his hands she could see nothing, for they were tucked away from sight.  His face, too, she could not spy; the curls hid him.

            Suddenly, she was fearful and backed away several paces.

            He moaned.

            Her heart gave a stab of pain and she flinched at the tortured noise.

            It hurts.

            Her eyes widened; they were upon none but the small form before her.  She tilted her head to one side.

            What hurts?

            She did nothing more than think it; never did she speak it.  And yet--

            Ever'thing.

            She took a hesitant step forward.

            Are--are you Sam?

            The air about her stirred.  It didn't seem right, though, for in this plane--this existence that she found herself--she didn't believe there was any air.  She wasn't even sure she was breathing--wasn't sure if she needed to.  It seemed so irrelevant, somehow.

            No.

            Merry, then?  She knew it wasn't so, though.

            No.

            Another step.  The air about her crackled.

            Pippin.  It wasn't even a question, for she knew.

            He twitched and moaned.

            Hurts . . . .

            She knelt beside him, touched him gently on the head.  The air sizzled; it scorched her flesh.  Slowly, she laid him out and saw the air about his face and hands, and even his feet, shimmer and shift; it snapped and sparked.

            "Wake up," she whispered.

            No.

            Despite herself, she smiled.

            "Peregrin . . ." she mused aloud, though no louder than a whisper.  She doubted even if the hobbit could hear her.  "Beautiful creatures . . . strong and swift."  She looked at him--at his broken body.  She bit her lip.

            What had happened to him?  Why was he here?  Why was she here?

            Peregrin.  They are birds of prey, Pippin.  Of prey.  She ran her hand gently over his forehead, brushing the damp strands aside.

            He screamed. 

            She flinched but did not pull her hand away.  She couldn't, for if she did something . . . horrible . . . .

            They are small--so very small--but strong, stout, fierce.

            His wail pierced her ears.  Tears brimmed in her eyes but she willed her hand to stay.  How she wanted to take it away.  His pain ripped through her like a thousand bloodied swords, stabbing again and again and again.  But the hobbit's pain was worse.  Somehow, she knew, it was far greater.

            She closed her eyes.  You are Peregrin Took.  Her right hand slid to his chest, where it rose one time for every ten it should have.  You are the Shire's future Thain.  Her left hand she placed on her own chest.  There was a determination in her face that she did not know.  You, my small fierce falcon, shall not die.

            The magic shattered and his screams ceased.

*     *     *     *     *

            The first thing Pippin did when he awoke was . . . well, he was sick, and it just so happened that Merry received the blessing of his cousin right in his curls, as it would happen, for he had laid fast asleep beside Pippin for many a lonely hours.  Merry never minded (though he did later berate his cousin, with a good-natured sense, of course) and Pippin smiled weakly, a tiny hint of that mischievous glint in his tired fever-touched eyes, before he drifted into a healing sleep.

            Elrond came as soon as he heard Merry's crazed shouting--the wee halfling running up and down the halls.  At first, the half-elf had feared Pippin had finally gone and his cousin was mad with grief, but it wasn't so and Elrond found the fever had finally passed.  When the elf came upon the halfling he was sleeping in a quiet world where nightmares wouldn't disturb him, and dreams encompassed him.

            Gandalf came in then, followed closely by two very anxious hobbits (one of whom wore naught but a long white night shirt) and an elf, and when he saw the hobbit, well and peacefully asleep, the wizard's old worn face cracked into a smile that seemed to have been pent up for ages.  He nodded as though it had all turned out as he had planned.

            "She found him," he said, quite satisfied, and stroked his beard.

*     *     *     *     *

            She was alone again.  Upon the misty plane of darkness and shadows, she was the only soul to be found.

            Under her palm, he had faded and disappeared.  She had wanted nothing more than to remove her hand, for if she did she knew he would have remained and she feared the solitary dark.  Something was out there, she deemed.  Something horrible.            Despite the cold chill in her heart, though, she did not remove her hand, but watched Pippin fade into nothing.  He did not belong in this realm, she knew, and surely he would have died had he remained.

            Now she was truly alone, and a presence was out there somewhere--an evil presence.  Her gray eyes searched out the mysterious depths of the haunting plane and she shivered as a chill ran up her spine, settling itself quite contently in her heart.

            "I suppose I must find my own way home," she said finally, softly.

            And she did.

*****

poooor pippin!!!  Review for me and tell me what a horrible person I am . . . to hurt pippin!  WAH!!!