"I'm sorry, Frodo," Pippin sniffled, his voice muffled in Merry's second-best nightshirt, which Frodo was pulling on over his head. It had been made to fit Merry's sturdier shape and broader shoulders, and it hung on Pippin's smaller frame like a sack on a scarecrow.

"You should be," Merry said sharply. He was wearing an old shirt of Frodo's that had been found in the back of a wardrobe. It was clean, and wonderfully well worn and soft, but a bit threadbare, and there was a large, ancient ink-stain on the sleeve. "I very nearly drowned!"

Frodo made an irritated sound and frowned at Merry, who suddenly became very interested in the ties on his shirt. "There, there, Pippin, I'm not at all angry, and you're not the only little lad that has ever wet his bed."

"He's not a little lad," Merry whispered under his breath. "He's eleven."

"Merry," Frodo said, in a warning tone. "Enough." Pippin's chin was starting to quiver. "All little hobbits have an accident a time or two." He looked pointedly at Merry, who blushed. "And now into bed and off to sleep with you both, or you'll never get up tomorrow and I'll be forced to eat every bite of first breakfast all by myself." Pippin squealed happily as Frodo scooped him up and hurled him into the bed, nearly squashing Merry, who decided to vent his wrath by pummeling Pippin with the pillow.

Frodo cringed as the down started to fly. "Hoy, those are my best pillows, lads, not potato sacks!" He headed for the blanket chest at the foot of the bed, but misjudged distance and barked his toes on the bedpost. Frodo grimaced and hopped about, then called the bedpost some very uncomplimentary names, and gave it a slap with the flat of his hand for emphasis. He had somehow forgot the presence of two pairs of pointed ears, attached to two highly interested young hobbits, who had given up wrestling at the sound of the first muttered oath and were now sitting up in the bed, absorbing the fascinating new adjectives into their vocabulary.

"Mammy says a proper gentlehobbit shouldn't say those words," Pippin pointed out, and Merry snorted.

Frodo felt a blush creep into his cheeks. "And she is quite right. But when a gentlehobbit has suffered an injury, say if he has broken all of his toes, as I seem to have done, it is entirely acceptable for him to swear. Loudly and at length." (Here Frodo paused. In his mind's eye he saw Eglantine Took arriving on his doorstep, armed with a mother's wrath and a bar of soap for the filthy mouth of the Master of Bag End.) "But don't tell her I said that." Frodo lifted the lid of the chest and found it empty, except for a scattering of dried lavender and herbs in the bottom. Frodo bit his tongue. "Drat," he said carefully. "I have to fetch some blankets, boys, and I shall need the lamp. Will you be all right without it?"

"Really, Frodo," Merry said. "I'm not a child anymore, you know. I'm not afraid of the dark, and Pippin isn't either, are you, Pip?"

"No," Pippin said. But he thought he might be, a little bit.

"Brave lads," Frodo said. He pulled the quilt up and ruffled Pippin's hair. "I'll be back as soon as I can."

They listened to his footsteps as Frodo limped off down the hall, then spent some time entertaining each other with riddles, and stories made up on the spot, most of them involving Brave Sir Merry and his esquire, Young Pippin. ("Why can't I be Brave Sir Pippin, and you be the esquire?" Pippin complained. "Because I'm telling the story, that's why. Now hush.") But before too long they fell silent. Pippin crept closer until Merry could feel his warm breath on his shoulder. The room seemed larger and emptier without Frodo in it. The night wind was rising, and somewhere outside something fell over with a rattle and a clang-perhaps a bucket or kettle of some sort-and rolled off down the hill. The ivy that grew around the window rustled and whispered faintly against the glass, like bony fingers seeking a way in. Tap squeak tap squeak.

Enough of that, Merry-lad, Merry scolded himself. You're nineteen and you'll be a tween next year, so don't be a ninny. But he grasped Pippin's sleeve for comfort. "So, Pippin," Merry said, trying to keep his voice steady. "So why didn't you sleep in your own bed tonight? I thought you wanted a room all for yourself this visit?"

"I couldn't stay in there," Pippin said. Merry could see the shine of his eyes in the dim moonlight coming through the window, and they looked the size of dinner plates. "There was a Goblin under the bed."

"Now that's just silly," Merry scoffed. "Goblin indeed! It was probably just a pair of your breeches, or a wadded-up blanket, or something. You wouldn't know a Goblin if it bit you on the nose."

Pippin put a hand over his nose protectively. "Would, too. I saw his eyes, and his long arms. He almost got me, Merry."

"You've never seen a Goblin, goosey."

"Goosey yourself," Pippin said. "Neither have you."

"I think I may have, once," Merry said. "Brandy Hall is right up against the Old Forest, you know, and we keep the doors locked after dark. There's even a servant whose job it is to go up and down, making sure all the doors are shut fast, and the windows are latched. There was one night, when a storm was coming up, and I woke up and saw..." Merry remembered himself as a very small hobbit-lad, wakened by some dreadful feeling he had no name for: A crawling sensation of being watched, and a shape at the window, looking in. Merry shivered. "Well, never mind what I think I saw. I was probably dreaming."

"I wish Frodo would come back soon," Pippin whispered, and his voice trembled. "Oh. Oh, Merry, do you suppose the Goblin got him?"

"You and your Goblins," Merry muttered, but he had a sudden, overwhelming longing to see Frodo, to touch him with his hands and make sure he was well and safe. He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. "He's probably just lost track of the time. I'll go fetch him-"

Pippin squealed and grabbed at Merry, jerking him backwards and nearly tearing the clothes off his back. "Don't leave me, Merry!"

"All right! All right!" Merry wheezed, fairly strangled by Pippin's grip on his collar. He managed to disentangle his clutching fingers long enough to slide out of bed. "Come along, then."

Pippin crawled across the bed and into Merry's waiting arms, then slid down and pressed close to his side. Some of Pippin's fear had infected Merry: Every object in the room, innocent and blameless in daylight, now seemed a lurking shadow, crouched and menacing and filled with a hunger for tender hobbit-lad. Merry made his way over to the fireplace and fumbled around until he found the coal shovel. He handed this to Pippin, and then chose the poker for himself. It had a nice weight and heft to it that he hadn't noticed before, having never considered it as a weapon, and he thought it might do nicely, just in case.

In case of what, you mad Brandybuck? Spoke Frodo's voice in Merry's head, and he sounded highly amused.

"Oh, do shutup, Frodo," Merry mumbled. "It's better to be safe than sorry, that's all."

"I'm scared," Pippin whispered.

"Nothing to be afraid of, Pip." Merry said. He pushed the bedroom door open. The main tunnel of Bag End loomed before them, silent and dark. "Let's go find Frodo."

It had taken Frodo longer than expected to accomplish what he had set out to do. First, while he was thinking about it, he went to Merry's room, stripped the bed and turned the mattress. It was large, and awkward, and well stuffed with feathers, and a lot heavier than it looked. Frodo was panting by the time he finished, and he wondered how on earth little Marigold Gamgee ever managed them by herself when she made up the beds. (He made a mental note to add some extra silver pennies to her usual wages.) Frodo swiped the sweat off his forehead, tossed the damp bedding into a basket, then went down the hall to the guestroom where Pippin had slept (briefly) before leaving it to crawl into bed with Merry. The clothespress there had all the blankets he needed, and he thought it might also be a good idea to fill up the empty chest in his room, just in the event of another unfortunate nighttime 'accident'. He gathered up a large armload, and then he realized he couldn't carry the lamp and his bundle at the same time. Oh, bother it all! Frodo sighed and picked up his burden, adding extra pillows on top for good measure. He would just have to make his way in the dark and come back for the lamp.

Frodo silently ticked off the doors as he went by. He had walked Bag End's tunnels in the dark many times, and so he had a blind sort of sense of how far he must go, and how many doorways he would have to pass before he reached his room. He wondered, a bit nervously, how the poor feather pillows had fared while he was gone, but cheered himself with the idea that Merry and Pippin had probably long since tired of wanton destruction, and were no doubt sound asleep. They were fine lads whom he loved very much, and he enjoyed their visits to Bag End, but it would be wonderful to have a nice, quiet cup of tea, and a bit of reading, and a pipe, before he went to bed-without the worry of salt in his sugar bowl, pressed bugs between the pages, or leaves in his tobacco jar.

Merry and Pippin tiptoed down the hall, as quiet as two young and frightened hobbits could possibly be. A cool draught whispered around their ankles, and the cozy and familiar tunnel seemed as huge, and dark, and strange as any Orc-hole out of Old Bilbo's tales. They hadn't gone very far when they heard a door open and close at the far end of the hall, in the gloom beyond their sight, and the sound of slow, shuffling footsteps.

Merry stopped short and felt Pippin's nose bump against his back. He held his poker at the ready.

"Frodo?" he whispered, or rather tried to whisper, for his throat had dried and tightened, and his voice was no more than a dusty mouse-squeak. An enormous monster, faceless and terrible, with a huge misshapen head, was coming toward them.

Merry stood in frozen horror as it approached, but some mad impulse of bravery stirred in Pippin's small heart. It seemed clear to him that Frodo had already been eaten, and he and Merry were the next course, and there was nothing to do now but sell his life as dearly as he could. But he was a Took and a descendant of the Bullroarer, Brave Sir Pippin, knight and gentlehobbit, and he would save Merry first, if he could. He put his hands on Merry's hip and shoved with all of his might. Merry flew as if propelled out of a cannon, right into a coat-rack, and an entire season's worth of cloaks, coats, hats, and scarves descended on him like an avalanche.

Pippin charged. He hit the Frodo-eating beast squarely in the midsection with his round, curly head. It doubled over with a strangely familiar-sounding grunt of pain, folding over him like a collapsing tent, and a mass of bedclothes flew up and then buried them. They hit the floor together and the young knight rapped his head hard enough to see stars.

Covered as he was in layer upon layer of cotton and wool, Frodo could still feel the dull thud of Merry's fists, and hear his frantic cries of "Pippin! Pippin!" Luckily for him, Merry had gone completely past the point of rational thought and had abandoned his chosen weapon, and so neglected to give the attacking Frodo-Goblin a good bash on the head with the poker. Frodo managed to free an arm and grabbed one of Merry's flailing fists. "Merry! Get hold of yourself, for pity's sake!"

"Frodo, it's you!" Merry cried in relief.

"Whom were you expecting?" Frodo said hotly, sitting up and throwing off a blanket. "Father Yule? Of course it's me!" The pleasant image of tea, book, and pipe fluttered away and was gone. "Why aren't you in bed? And why in creation did Pippin attack me?"

"Pippin!" Relief turned to dismay, and Merry gasped. He knelt down and tossed bedclothes left and right. "You've squashed him, Frodo!"

Pippin's head ached a bit, and he lay still. He knew there was no point in trying to talk or rise up when one had been flattened by a Goblin. He could dimly hear Frodo's voice, as well as Merry's. It was good to know that Frodo hadn't been eaten after all, and that Merry was safe. It was a shame he couldn't say the same about himself. He had a brief and satisfying vision of Brave Sir Pippin, the fallen hero laid out in shining mail, the weapons of his enemy beneath his feet, the coal shovel on his breast under his folded hands, and all of his relatives weeping bitterly around the bier. Especially his older sister, Pervinca, who often pinched him, and Cousin Estella Bolger, who had put a frog in Pippin's eleventh-year birthday cake. Pippin's nose crinkled in happy satisfaction, and the corners of his mouth quirked. Hah, wouldn't they be sorry now.

Frodo patted Pippin's face. Though his eyes were closed, he was breathing rapidly, and he seemed to be smiling. "Come along, Pippin-lad, all's well."

Merry squeezed Pippin's hand. "Open your eyes! Why won't he open his eyes, Frodo?
Speak to us, Pippin!"

"I believe he's quite all right, Merry," Frodo said soothingly. Good heavens, had he been this melodramatic when he was nineteen? "Though he may have bumped his head. Hang on while I fetch the lamp."

Frodo stood up and clapped Merry on the shoulder, in a buck-up-young-hobbit sort of way, but Merry's nerves were shot. Merry lifted Pippin up and gave him a little shake, then crushed him to his chest. "Pippin, say something, for heaven's sake!"

Pippin breathed out his muffled exasperation on Merry's neck. It was a good thing he was already killed, because Merry was smothering him. "I can't talk, Merry, I'm squashed."

Frodo returned with the lamp in time to see Pippin squirming helplessly in Merry's tight embrace. Merry laughed and planted several large, wet kisses on Pippin-forehead, cheek, and chin-over his loud and vigorous protests. "Help, Frodo!" Pippin cried, making a terrible face. "He's gone mad!"

"Bedtime," Frodo said firmly, his jaw set. He was going to pour several quarts of warm milk down them both, until they floated away or fell asleep, whichever came first. And then he was going to have a shot of brandy for himself. Frodo grimaced and rubbed his stomach. His toes throbbed. Perhaps several shots.

Much, much later, after several helpings of buttered seedcake, and toast and cheese, and warm milk, the Goblin-slayer and the Fallen Hero found themselves tucked up in bed again. Frodo was between them on top of the covers, waistcoat unbuttoned but still fully dressed. A cold cup of tea, liberally laced with brandy, sat on the nightstand. His injured foot was propped on a pillow, and a cool, damp cloth was draped across his bruised stomach. A book was tented open on his chest, and he was snoring. "I'm sorry about his poor toes," Merry said quietly, although the blame really belonged to the bedpost, not to him.

"I'm sorry about his stomach," Pippin said, and he meant it, although he was privately considering how to use his head-down attack method on Vinnie the next time she gave him a pinch. And on 'Stella too, if could avoid a thrashing afterwards.

"And I'm sorry I was angry with you earlier. I was petrified, but you were really very brave."

"No, I wasn't," Pippin said. "I was frightened. I thought Frodo was a Goblin and he was going to eat us. I would never let a Goblin eat you, Merry, or Frodo, either."

"I know you wouldn't, Pippin," Merry said. "If Frodo ever goes off adventuring, like Bilbo, he'd certainly need a good hobbit like you along for defense."

"Really?" Pippin squeaked. He sat up and bounced a little in his sudden excitement.

Frodo's eyelids flew up to half-mast and he lifted his head. "Ho, lads, still awake? Another story, then?" His hands fumbled with the book. "What page were we on?"

"No, thank you, Frodo," Merry and Pippin said together.

"Good lads," Frodo mumbled. He folded his hands over the book again.

Pippin giggled and Merry held a finger to his lips. "Now, Frodo will need me along as well, to do the thinking and the planning," Merry went on in a whisper. "And Sam should come, too. He'd never let Frodo leave without him, anyway, and he's a very good cook."

"I want Gandalf," Pippin said sleepily. He reached across Frodo for Merry's hand. He had his head on Frodo's shoulder now, and the vibration of his low, rumbling snore was making him drowsy. "Can Gandalf come, too?"

"Don't see why not, if he's agreeable," Merry said, taking hold of the offered hand. He was feeling quite tired himself. He supposed it wouldn't hurt to close his eyes while they talked. "Frodo might decide to go off very suddenly, and he'll want to leave us behind, for our own good. We'll just have to keep a careful watch, and when we can't be here, Sam will be our lookout. He loves Frodo, too, and I think we can talk him into it when the time comes. Don't you think that's a good idea, Pippin? Pippin?"

Pippin's eyes had gone closed and his face was slack, but Merry felt his fingers twitch in answer, and he smiled.

The end

Small Author's Note: Yes, I know there are no cannons in Middle earth. Like Tolkien, I love a good anachronism:o)

This was originally written for Marigold's Sixth Story Challenge. Be sure to go visit her website, where the latest Story Challenges (and all the previous ones, too,) are still available to read, and if you feel inspired, leave a few reviews for the authors.

As always, if someone with sharper eyes than mine spots an error in spelling, punctuation, or whatnot, don't hesitate to chime in, and I'll fix it ASAP.