Credit where it's due: To Mr. Tolkien, especially concerning the spoken lines of the Fellowship during their trek on Caradhras. To Chloe Amethyst, my beta-reader! And to all readers. (And, dare I hope, reviewers? If you review, please answer this: Can you tell who is/are my favorite characters by this story? I tend to give what I deem the best/coolest parts to them and I tried very hard not to do that here.)

Enjoy!

Chapter 2: Of Second Breakfast

The wind whistled, blasting snow across the countryside in a storm unusually heavy for the Shire. All was well, however, with the residents of Hobbiton, safe and cozy and (most importantly of all) well fed within their underground homes. In one of these homes, Bag End to be specific, Bilbo Baggins and his young cousin, Frodo Baggins, had just enjoyed a five-course supper that included cream of mushroom soup, rich and smooth and steaming hot (an everlasting favorite among hobbitfolk). After the main meal there were, of course, a couple of refreshing desserts to fill up the corners, as Hobbits say: fresh-baked pies of blueberry and sweet potato, winter treats that were common but nevertheless treasured in Bag End.

Now they had retired to the study. A great fire crackled merrily in the hearth, heating Frodo's toes as he reclined in his favorite couch, a soft blanket draped over his comfortably full stomach. He drew in a deep breath, savoring the aroma of cinnamon from the mug of steaming apple cider cupped snugly in his hands. Best of all, Bilbo's voice seeped through the warmth, painting a vivid scene behind Frodo's closed eyes of a shining figure charging at a towering Lord of darkness. Frodo smiled in his half-snooze when the challenger, terrible injuries and deep despair notwithstanding, vanquished the evil enemy in a final courageous stand. He heaved a satisfied sigh as the hero reunited with his beloved and the story wound to a close. He always loved to hear Uncle Bilbo's tales.

For a while after, all that could be heard was the friendly crackle of the flames. In his own couch on the other side of the hearth, Bilbo started leafing through one of Frodo's journals, searching for more material for his stories. Stories of wonderful adventures and great heroes, Frodo thought to himself. It seemed that someone laid a hand on Frodo's shoulder but, still enveloped in dreams of grand quests, he dismissed the idea, knowing that the chairs stood too far apart for his uncle to reach over. Wonderful adventures . . . great heroes . . .

"Frodo?" Bilbo's voice was distant.

Great heroes who did something glorious, something . . . useful. Frodo heard the windowsills bang open, blown inward by an icy gust that swept through the room and across his cheek. Useful, instead of dragging friends into danger . . .

Bilbo's voice came through the haze again. "Is this all, my boy?"

Frodo's brows knitted. He hated to disappoint Bilbo. "I'm afraid so, Uncle . . ." It was difficult to speak, as if his lips had been chilled to stiffness.

"Well now, my boy, I don't think much of your diary." A few more pages flipped. Something useful, instead of dragging friends into danger . . . "Snowstorms on January the twelfth: there was no need to come back to report that!"

Again, it seemed that someone was shaking his shoulder, but Frodo continued to ignore it and concentrated instead on making his frozen lips form coherent words. The room's warmth had vanished, replaced by cold of a paralyzing intensity. "B-But I wanted . . . rest . . . and sleep . . . Bilb-bo."

"Now, Frodo . . ." It was not Bilbo's voice anymore. Familiar, but not quite Bilbo's; no, not Bilbo's at all, and it was strangely urgent. "Frodo?" Frodo wondered why the voice was so insistent.

"Frodo!"

An especially hard jolt rocked him. His eyes flew open and he suddenly faced the dark grey shadows of a nighttime snowstorm instead of the well-known study in Bag End. His slumber had been heavy but not refreshing, for he had to fight his way back to full awareness. Boromir's anxious voice sounded beside him. "Frodo?" Frodo blinked and looked about, trying to regain his bearings. The other hobbits were sitting up and rubbing their eyes, but beside them was a small hobbit-sized hole in the snow. He realized that Boromir had lifted him out of the drift that had piled up around him as he slept. Concerned faces crowded about.

Boromir set Frodo down, sweeping snow from the hobbit's shoulders. Gimli chuckled, relief edging his robust cheeriness. "Come, lad! High time to awaken!"

"Can you move your fingers?" Aragorn questioned. When Frodo could only muster a few feeble, uncertain twitches, Aragorn took the hobbit's hands in his own and began to rub some warmth back into them.

"Th-thank you," Frodo stuttered. "H-how l-long have I sl-lept?"

Gandalf's face appeared in Frodo's view as the wizard bent to take a closer look over Aragorn's shoulder. "Not even half an hour," he answered, "but we thought it best to wake you, as your lips were turning a bit blue. Boromir feared the worst."

Boromir turned to Gandalf. "This will be the death of the halflings, Gandalf. It is useless to sit here until the snow goes over our heads," he emphasized with a significant glance at the other hobbits. Gandalf followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes in concern. Merry and Pippin brushed a thick layer of snow off their heads as they stood, then pulled their trembling hands into their sleeves. Sam had unconsciously wrapped his arms about himself as he hovered around Frodo and Aragorn. They were only slightly better off than Frodo, who had given the rest of the Company a minor fright when he refused to awake. In a voice that was softer but somehow more pressing, Boromir continued, "We must do something to save ourselves."

Gandalf's eyebrows bristled. As with the conversation he had overheard between Gandalf and Aragorn, Frodo sensed that this was merely a continuation of an earlier debate.

"A small fire would do us more good than harm at this point, whatever spies may be about," Gimli reasoned with a placating look at Gandalf. "Long did my father Glóin teach me the art of kindling flame. I could light a very small one in the corner there, where there is a little shelter from the wind."

Gandalf sighed. "Let us not yet resort to fire. I hope to conceal our presence still, if possible. In the meantime there is something else that may give us a little warmth."

He took three labored steps through knee-deep snow to Bill, dug out his pack from under the pony, and began rummaging through it, mumbling to himself as he tossed out several items impatiently. "Utensils . . . a horsehair brush . . . hm, what's that doing here?" Bill eyed Gandalf warily as the wizard tossed out a small firecracker. "Odd bits of paper, a spool of thread . . . ah! Here it is!" Though they were already watching intently, the rest of the Company perked up at this excited exclamation of discovery, leaning forward to see just what Gandalf had up his sleeve (or rather, in his pack). "My pipe! Well, one of them, anyway."

The Company slumped back down. A moment later, Gandalf's own expression fell as well. "Much good the pipe has done," he grumbled. Nevertheless, he tucked it under his cloak with considerable care and peered into the pack again. "Hmm . . . Interesting . . . never thought to see thatagain . . . Ah, there's that mug I was looking for! Can drink my water properly now. All right, here we have it." Gandalf pulled out a small leathern flask and handed it to Boromir. "Give them this. Just a mouthful each – for all of us."

Boromir groaned inwardly even as he accepted the flask. Brandy? Yes, such a drink could warm the body, but in cold this intense, he doubted that it would even buy a few minutes' worth of heat for one of the hobbits, never mind larger beings. Not to mention that there were nine of them and only one small flask. His head began to pound again, and he raised a hand to his forehead. By the Steward's staff, why the wizard would not allow a fire was beyond him! Boromir had to argue for the best interests of the Company, against other members of the Company, and what's more, the very leaders of the Company, the ones who were supposedly the wisest and most experienced! There was the spat over bringing firewood up the mountain, the debate over waking the hobbits from sleep (sleep that, to Boromir, seemed induced by hypothermia), and now the dispute about using the wood they had taken all the trouble of lugging along. Boromir was truly beginning to believe himself the Company's only consistently sensible member.

Unfortunately, Boromir had not kept his groan entirely internal. Gandalf shot Boromir a look both defensive and accusing.

Ever the capable healer-supplier-leader-peacemaker, Aragorn continued warming Frodo's fingers with one hand, took off his scarf and tossed it to the badly shivering Pippin with the other, and intervened in Gandalf and Boromir's impending clash, all at once. "Try the drink. It's not what you think." Boromir raised his eyebrows, adding Spontaneous Poet to the list of Aragorn's simultaneous functions.

"No, it is not," Gandalf confirmed Aragorn's words rather huffily. Suddenly Boromir felt himself attacked both by the spoken words and by Gandalf's piercing gaze. "It is very precious." Unlike any drink you could provide the Company, the wizard's glare seemed to insinuate. "It is miruvor, the cordial of Imladris." No, not whiskey or brandy – do not even think to compare them to this! "Elrond gave it to me at our parting." What did he give you, now, hmmmmm? "Pass it round!" He gave you nothing? Exactly what I thought!

Boromir frowned suspiciously, though it hurt his head more to do so. Reading the expressions of others had always been his brother Faramir's strength, not his. Was the wizard invading his mind somehow? Was he unwilling to confront Boromir directly in front of the others, and therefore using some devious trick to insult him in this craven manner? That would be just the sort of thing a wizard would do. Come to think of it, not only wizards used such tricks, for how many a tale was told in Gondor about elf-magic? And if elves could manipulate good, honest folk, then a man raised by elves– well, it went without saying that he'd not have the best interest of Men in mind! Boromir's hands accepted the flask of their own accord, while he questioned, for the thousandth time since agreeing to this joint quest, the wisdom of his choice during the Council in Rivendell. How could he let such a powerful thing as the One Ring fall into the hands of such deceitful people! He should have insisted that it go to Gondor! He twisted off the cap of the flask with a strength that was almost savage. A strange scent emerged but he hardly noticed it, focused as he was on his headache and his anger.

But . . . but no. Gandalf probably had such sneaky abilities, but he would not use them on fellow members of the Company . . . would he? Despite the pain, Boromir shook his head, and was quite surprised when the throbbing actually faded. Pausing, he glanced back at Gandalf only to see that the wizard's scowl still followed him, and he half-expected the mental barbs to resume. Yet the voice sounded no longer. Blinking away the last vestiges of confusion, he turned toward the hobbits with the flask, offering it first to Frodo, who was closest.

Attentive as he was to his master, Sam had not missed how Boromir squeezed his eyes shut and how his hand moved reflexively to his head. It was disturbing, how much it reminded him of Frodo. Oh yes, it did not happen often, but Sam had seen Frodo fight the Ring's temptation a few times. His master would stare at the thing or stare off into the distance, fingering it all the while, until suddenly he would shut his eyes and clench the Ring tightly, as if to smother its evil influence. These apparent headaches had troubled Boromir for quite a while, and they only seemed to get worse. True, it could be simple headaches, but somehow Sam doubted this was the case.

It seemed that Gandalf had not missed Boromir's sudden daze either, nor Aragorn, nor Gimli. All watched closely as Boromir held out the flask. Frodo hesitated slightly as he accepted it, focusing on the warrior's face instead of the proffered drink. Distinctively uncomfortable, Sam could do no more than keeping one eye on his master and one on the Gondorian warrior.

Yet the tension passed, as such moments had passed before. Sam let out a breath. A clean fragrance caught his attention and diverted his gaze to Frodo and the flask. Sam was glad to see Frodo straighten as soon as he swallowed a little, as if a heavy burden had been lifted from weary shoulders. The flask went round to Merry, then Pippin, and then Sam, with the same effect. Sam found that as soon as the warm drink touched his lips he felt revived beyond what the short sleep had done for him. He even found himself thinking that he could trek the rest of the way through this mountain easily, snowdrifts or no. Wonderful folk, Elves! This beats anything out of the Green Dragon for refreshment and is a match in taste, and that's saying much! The rest of the Company had their shares too – even Gimli, whose rather suspicious look transformed slowly into a great, satisfied grin. Each found his strength and hope renewed.

A small smile crossed Gandalf's face. Of course, he was still ruffled – it remained impossible to smoke, after all – and so he made quite sure to pull the corners of his mouth down rather quickly and grimly.

"Quite marvelous!" Pippin declared, happily oblivious to the myriad changes Gandalf's expression. "I feel as if I've slept on a down bed with a warm quilt, and eaten a good, decent breakfast into the bargain!"

"I suppose you still wouldn't mind second breakfast?" Merry ribbed good-naturedly. Pippin, however, cocked his head seriously to consider this, though it took all of half a second for him to reach a conclusion.

"No, that would be capital, especially as we did not really have any breakfast at all. Though I don't suppose we shall ever have second breakfasts on this journey."

"In that you are unfortunately correct," Merry agreed solemnly. "But just think, at least we do have a little dry food with us. Imagine if you were Bill, Pip! Then you wouldn't have anything natural to eat at all while we're on this mountain!"

"Downright unfair for the poor thing," Sam muttered. "Here we are feeding him food that's unnatural to him, and him mistreated so badly in the past. We should be able to do better for him."

"You'd be quite right to feel sorry for me, Sam," Pippin laughed. "I thank you for your sympathy!"

"Beg your pardon, but I was talking about Bill!"

"He knew that," Merry said with a glance of mock reproach at Pippin.

"In any case we all deserve much more for meals than we've been getting, don't we?" Pippin glanced toward Aragorn, who was seating himself beside Gandalf after returning the flask. "It looks like we won't move on for a little while at least, so there might be time for a bite or two. In fact," Pippin nearly cheered, "the drink was not nearly so substantial as we're used to, but if we count that as a first breakfast, we may have our second breakfast today!"

"I suppose we could, Pip," Merry chuckled. "Let's go through our packs a bit, shall we?"

"Here's forks and knives already!" Pippin brandished a fistful of utensils. "I say if we have second breakfast, we do it right, in a properly civilized manner."

"Very well, Pip," Merry agreed cheerfully. "We shall make it as proper as is possible in the middle of a snowstorm."

"As proper as is possible without a stove to cook on," Sam grumbled. "What would the Gaffer think if he knew I ever laid a table this way – without even a table?"

"Still, the choice of food is not half bad," Frodo said, hiding his amusement behind a soothing tone in order to assuage Sam's misgivings of propriety. "Dried fruits and nuts, and some biscuits from Rivendell. And I'm sure Strider still has some of those dried smoked meats flavored with honey."

"Dried fruits, dried meat," Pippin laughed. "A proper second breakfast to follow a first that was entirely liquid!"

Merry paused rummaging for a moment. "I say, Sam, we hobbits might not have anything for the pony, but what of the Big Folk?"

"That's right, Sam!" Pippin exclaimed. "Why don't you ask? It wouldn't surprise me at all if Strider could concoct something, at least to keep Bill's strength up. Or maybe Legolas would have something – he seems to get on quite well with Bill and with animals in general. And what about Gandalf? A pony's hunger cannot be too great a problem for a wizard."

"That's what I'm afraid of, that it's too small a problem for him!"

"By the way, where is Legolas?" Pippin wondered, looking all about.

"Probably off scouting, as usual," Merry reasoned. "Did you see him float along on the snow? As easily and smoothly as a bird on a breeze!"

"It couldn't hurt to ask, Sam," Frodo encouraged.

"No, that it couldn't," Sam agreed. "And Bill really does need some nourishment after all this climbing about."

As the others prepared for a small, quick meal, Sam struggled through the snow – it was much easier to think about continuing amid a storm than to actually plow through snowdrifts, after all – and tugged at Gandalf's cloak. "Beggin' your pardon, but I don't suppose you'd have anything for Bill, would you sir?"

Gandalf's eyebrows stiffened. Yet perhaps they were already over-exercised that day, or it just might be that Gandalf was simply, truly touched rather than irritated by Sam's concern. In any case, the gleam in Gandalf's eyes softened. "No, I have nothing in particular for Bill, Sam. Yet the cordial of Imladris should revive him as well, for the food and drink of the Elves would not harm any good, living thing. Here, take this dish; you may pour some for him if you like."

Bill indeed appeared considerably less mournful after lapping a few mouthfuls. The storm's fury did not lessen and the wind blew ever stronger, keening in their ears angrily, but for the first time since they began their ascent of Caradhras, the Company was at peace. With Gimli's aid, Aragorn sorted through supplies, refastening packs in preparation to move on. Boromir cleared some snow from the pathway into the little alcove. And although it was a small, dry meal after a mere mouthful of drink a few minutes earlier, the hobbits finally enjoyed a second breakfast.

to be continued . . .

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