The East Gate
Chapter 4 Running Repairs
Authors The Eastgaters
Cast list
Frodo – Baylor
Samwise – Budgielover
Pippin – Marigold
Merry – Llinos
Legolas – Mainframe
Aragorn – Nilramiel
Boromir – Rachel Stonebreaker
Gimli – Q
Story Editor Llinos
Frodo somehow collected himself, and looked quickly around the little group, noting those missing. Not just Gandalf and Pip then, he realised sadly. He risked a quick glance toward the Gates, while Merry thrashed, calling for his little cousin, insisting he lived still, Frodo hoping against hope that he would see Pippin, Boromir and Gimli running towards them but he knew that all who had got free were here now. He knew that Pippin would not be coming through those Gates. He felt yet another part of his own heart torn away, yet smiled down at Merry's pain-filled, distraught face comfortingly. "Don't fret, Merry-dear. Pip is with Boromir and Gimli. They will look after him."
Merry could feel his sudden burst of strength failing again. Try as he might, he could not force his body upright. He managed to lift his head for a moment, but he sank back down again almost immediately. It had been better when he was floating, for then the pain stopped and he could see what was happening.
Merry closed his eyes and tried to drift off again, but the insistent big people would not relent. Moving him, talking at him, patting his face trying to make him react. Why did they do that? He needed to go back to the floating world so he could see where Pippin was.
What had Frodo said? Pip was with someone? Boromir and Gimli? That wouldn't do. They didn't know what Pippin liked or what he needed. They wouldn't make sure he ate bread with his stew, and cut the crusts off for him. Nor would they tell him to brush his hair thoroughly on his head and his feet. They wouldn't know that he liked to have his left ear lobe rubbed as he fell asleep or remember to tell him not to use his sleeve to wipe his nose.
Merry rallied again, more bemused and delirious now, "Frodo, you d-don't un-understand, I-I have to look after Pip, he'll g-get lost or f-fall down or s-something. Now help me up – please."
Frodo did not know where he found the strength for this – one beloved cousin, just a child really, already dead, and another, equally beloved and not so much older, dying even as he clasped his hand trying to comfort him in some small way as he passed from this world to the next. He had held his dear Merry within an hour after his birth; that he was now helping to ease him into death was unbearable but bear it he must, somehow. He loved the lad so much, how could he do any less?
After this anguish carrying the Ring to Mount Doom would be as nothing. He didn't dare look up at any of the other survivors, or he knew he would break down completely from the sorrow and pity that they must surely have on their faces. They had come to love Merry, they had loved sweet Pippin too, and they knew how much both lads meant to Frodo. But they could not possibly comprehend what losing these two beloved kinsmen meant to him. They had not been there, watching the two grow and thrive, teaching and guiding them, forging a friendship over the years that had gone beyond that of blood kin. He loved them both so much, and that both had died to save him was agonizing.
He couldn't bear this, yet he must, for his dear Merry's sake. With or without the Ring this would have broken him beyond any recovery or redemption, but now he must try to find a way to withstand it.
"Merry-dear, Pip will be all right." Frodo could not believe how calm his voice sounded. "He is a brave, grown-up lad now, you know. You did such a good job helping Pippin grow up, Merry, that he will be fine with Boromir and Gimli until you can come to him again." Frodo did not know if Merry heard him, or if he did, whether or not he understood what Frodo was saying. He prayed that Merry did not understand the veiled meaning behind his words. "Be still, Merry sweeting, let Aragorn tend to your… injury… all right? You will see Pippin soon, love, and he will be happy and well, and so will you." The tears rolled down Frodo's cheeks at the true meaning behind his words and he prayed that Merry would not sense the bitter truth.
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At Boromir's words Pip dropped his blade and grabbed hold of the straps on Gimli's pack, deciding they offered him the best grip in the short space of time he had till Boromir was forced to drop the heavy rock, and pulled until he thought his arms would come out of their sockets. Gimli was heavy! Of course he had on all that chain mail, but even as he pulled Pippin couldn't help but be glad he wasn't trying to tug Boromir anywhere – if Gimli was any example, the much larger Boromir would have been beyond his limited strength, especially the way he was feeling right now.
Somehow he managed to pull the unconscious dwarf back a few feet so that Boromir could release the stone. It was all the little hobbit could do not to fall forward onto the dwarf in his extreme exhaustion, but he managed to keep his feet. If Gimli were badly injured his help might be needed again. He could do it, he thought to himself... just hold on a while longer. Pippin raised his weary head and looked down at the dwarf, anxious at his stillness, wondering how badly his friend had been hurt.
Boromir was tremendously relieved that the little one was able to pull the dwarf free of the rubble. He did not know how much longer he would have been able to hold up the boulder. He realised he, by himself, would not have been able to kick or push Gimli out of the way and was debating frantically just how to set the rock down with the minimal amount of damage to their unconscious companion when Peregrin managed to move the dwarf.
THUD! He let the rock settle with a little added "umphf" of his own and sat back on his heels to catch his breath. Now, he seriously ached! After three quick breaths he assessed the situation. What he saw did not bode well.
The dwarf lay still as stone and Pippin was clearly exhausted beyond his endurance. Just how much dare he push this youngling? He'd seen remarkable fortitude among all four of the little ones but they must have their limits.
He turned his attention to the unconscious dwarf and ran a critical eye over the prostrate form. Nothing terribly amiss on the outside... No seeping wounds, no bones poking through. But it was impossible to actually see much, given the amount of armour, clothing and hair!
Carefully Boromir removed Gimli's helm and began unfastening the waist belt and cross pieces. The tunic was easily opened but the chain mail posed a problem. How to get it up and off without hoisting the poor dwarf! Not an easy feat but more importantly, Boromir did not wish to cause any more damage with his rough handling. Better to assess as he may without any rough and tumble mail removal.
As the dwarf began to stir, Boromir's spirits rose a little. This was a good sign. Fainting from intense pain was not uncommon. But remaining unconscious was not a good thing.
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Sam could not bear to watch, to hear the gentle, deceptive words Frodo delivered in that oh-so-calm and reassuring voice. When Frodo glanced up from his cousin's face to look around at those of them who had escaped, Sam kept his face down, eyes averted. To meet Frodo's gaze would be to expose his master to all his own grief and sorrow and a steadily growing core of burning rage.
He did not follow as Frodo knelt by Mr Merry's side and clasped his hand, and spoke what comforting words he could to him. Only the sight of one other hobbit would help Merry now, and Sam knew that he was not the one. Where was all the miraculous healing magic of the elves that old Mr Bilbo had told him stories of? Surely Aragorn, with all his training and experience as a healer, could be doing something useful?
Sam's whole existence had been built on "doing something useful." While his master and the Big Folk concentrated on Merry, Sam quietly gathered all their waterskins and filled them from the nearby stream, returning them quietly without their owners' notice. He checked his and Frodo's packs, ensuring that nothing had come loose, tying down his pans again. There was a great slash across the back of his pack that must have come from a sword. Good thing it hadn't taken a pan off. He'd sew it up when they got to Lothlórien – if they got to Lothlórien.
That done, he looked about for something else to do. But there didn't seem to be anything else he could turn his hand to. Sam sat down a little back from the others, where he could keep an eye on the Gates and put his head in his hands, fighting against despair. From here, he could catch Merry's words, increasingly confused and discordant, and be at hand should anyone need his services.
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While Boromir examined Gimli for injuries Pippin sat quietly waiting, letting the man concentrate. Pippin doubted that Boromir knew any more about dwarves than he did himself, but he certainly knew more about how to treat injuries in general so the best thing he could do was be quiet and stay out of Boromir's way.
Concerned for his friend Pippin looked down into the lax face. At least Gimli was not feeling any pain while he was unconscious but Pippin wished he would wake up for a moment at least, so that they knew if he was all right.
He tried a technique that he had often used with great success on Merry when the older lad had warned him at bedtime that Pippin was not to bother him next morning before Merry was good and ready and had managed to wake up by himself, thank you very much. A technique that wasn't blatantly obvious in that it didn't involve shaking, or excessive noise, or launching himself bodily, full upon his sleeping cousin, or tickling, or droplets of water, or standing on an overturned washtub outside the open window of Merry's bedroom pelting him with tiny pebbles, or wafting the aroma of hot, buttered crumpets under his nose, although Merry usually didn't mind that, or most especially poking, which always made Merry quite cross.
Pippin simply stared intently at Gimli, as he had at Merry so many times, willing him with all of his might to wake up, now, please.
It didn't work.
Worst of all he was thinking of Merry again, of mornings without count when Pippin had delighted in being the first of them to wake so that he could tease his older cousin out of bed to enjoy the day with him. Mornings that would not come again, ever. This time the realisation and the memories were too much for Pippin to bear and he felt his eyes overflow with tears, and a few slipped down his cheeks before he managed to stop himself. He just couldn't help it.
He wiped the tears from his cheeks as surreptitiously as he could. "Sorry Boromir, I didn't mean to cry, I was just thinking about Merry. I used to try to wake him up this way. He called it my 'thinking him awake trick' but it doesn't seem to be working on poor Gimli."
Ashamed of his lapse Pippin looked away from Boromir and back down at Gimli. He had seen the dwarf without his helm on numerous occasions on their journey, but the occasions had all been brief. Though Pippin didn't know how Gimli could possibly be comfortable enough to so much as doze wearing such a heavy, cumbersome thing, he had never failed to drop into a deep, contented sleep when the Fellowship made camp, helm and all.
The hobbit thought that it was most likely something that dwarf lads and maybe lasses were taught to do at a young age, along with the proper way to braid a beard, and work a forge, much like small hobbit lads and lasses were taught to cook simple things, and recognise edible mushrooms, and keep their foot hair neatly groomed.
Or maybe he just seldom took it off because of that one time Pippin had decided that it would be quite handy for fetching water in for dousing the fire. It was just too bad that Gimli had put the helm back on before Pippin had actually got round to dousing the fire. Actually, remembering how swiftly Gimli had come after him despite the weight of his chain mail made Pippin reflect that the dwarf probably did not find the helm to be any sort of encumbrance at all.
Gimli without his helm and unconscious was not nearly as intimidating as Gimli with his helm and awake, and Pippin reached over and gently brushed some unruly wisps of hair out of his friend's eyes.
"Poor Gimli," Pip said softly, and continued to stroke his hair with great gentleness, careful not to cause his companion any discomfort, watching for any sign that he might be returning to them.
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"No, Frodo, I can't hide here any longer," Merry was saying as he grasped Frodo's hand tightly. "They'll find us and Pip will get caught. You know he can't play tig-tag-tog very well when he has to be 'it'."
Merry saw that Frodo was listening to him, but was not attempting to help him up. It was strange because usually Frodo would be the first to stand up for him or Pippin when they got into trouble, especially when it had actually been their fault.
But this time it was merely a game – just playing. Only Pippin, because he always insisted on playing with the older lads, tended to get picked on. He would hold his own, but very often ended up in a scrap usually with a bloody nose.
Merry and Frodo tried to prevent such outcomes without their youngest cousin knowing, but whenever they played tig-tag-tog Pippin would get caught, because he would hide with his bottom sticking up in the air, and then when he was 'it', the last player would get home safe and tog out all his tigs. Pippin would claim unfairness and it usually ended up in a fight – which Pip inevitably lost as his opponent was usually much bigger and stronger.
"I have to go and get tigged or at least try to tog out Pip so he isn't… Merry trailed off. What was he talking about? What was Frodo saying? Something about an injury!
"What injury, Frodo?" Merry struggled briefly, much weaker now. As the delirium faded out again, Merry was shocked back into the present reality and the pain stabbed through him once more. "Frodo – help me please. You ha-have to find Pip… I can't get up… I think I'm dying."
Merry could see now the tears splashing down Frodo's cheeks and he knew he was crying too. "Are you going to bury me now?"
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Gimli woke, wondering why a man and a hobbit were peering down at him, until he realised where he was. "My leg," he whispered, and began to sit up. Pippin pushed at him till he was seated, and all three stared at his leg. "I am not certain but I fear it is injured." A tinge of trepidation crept into Gimli's voice. He loathed admitting it but he suspected the leg broken. Given his experience with his own self and the knowledge many, many years of tending similar injuries gave him, he was positive his leg had sustained more than a bruise.
"T'is broken possibly," Boromir offered, knowing full well, something was amiss but attempting to spare the dwarf any pandering and Pippin looked from one to the other in concern.
"No, really? How did you know?" Gimli pulled out his smallest knife and reached forward to slit his trouser leg. The effort caused his breath to hitch and he hesitated.
"Let me," Boromir said gruffly, and took the knife from the dwarf's hand. He gingerly pulled the garment from the top of the boot and neatly slit it from hem to hip. One raised eyebrow was all anyone saw in his admiration of Gimli's exceptionally sharp knife.
Peeling back the material revealed nothing untoward. He sighed a quiet groan of thanks that no bones protruded. Perhaps it was just bruised after all. Boromir did not relish the idea of hefting the dwarf any great distance. What he truly fancied was a good long drink of cool water, a hot bath, some decent food and a bed. Any bed. He wasn't choosy.
Gimli was also relieved to find that it appeared to be a clean break, for a break he knew in his heart it was. But a broken leg of any kind meant probable disaster for his companions for they would never leave him and escape on their own. He tried to cover his dismay with gruffness. "You didn't need to slit my breeks so high! Now you've ruined them," he fussed at Boromir.
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Aragorn was relieved when Frodo had come over to take Merry's hand. He had been torn between seeing how the Ring-bearer was faring and devoting all his attention to the dying hobbit in his hands. But Meriadoc still lived and was in terrible agony, he could not just abandon him to painful death without trying to save him.
Merry was obviously delirious and, as he had stripped away his clothing to examine the wound more closely, the hobbit had fought frantically with his ebbing strength. Now that Frodo had come to him, he at least was distracting what little attention Merry had away from the Ranger's desperate ministrations.
Aragorn called for clean water and cloth and almost instantly, Samwise appeared and provided both. The man bathed away blood from around the wound with water from one of the skins and realised at once that the jagged dagger was still embedded in the hobbit's chest, so close to his heart that any hopes for his survival were dashed again.
The Ranger pondered for a moment, resting his hand on the hobbit's fevered brow. In one day they had lost Gandalf and then, under his leadership, they had lost Boromir, Gimli and Peregrin. In addition, Legolas and Merry were both wounded, with Merry unlikely to live.
Now he was faced with a terrible decision for the poor little hobbit, crying and writhing under his touch. Should he remove the dagger in the hope that Merry could be saved or should he leave it alone and let the little one die in peace?
Aragorn sighed and examined the wound more closely, running his finger along the edge of the protruding part of the blade. It was notched upwards, designed so that if the victim were still alive, when it was pulled out it would most likely kill them, causing the maximum amount of agony in the process. But if he left the blade where it was, Merry would certainly be dead within the hour.
Perhaps if he could dull the pain a little it might be possible to remove the dagger without causing Merry any more trauma than necessary. Aragorn looked around for his pack, which he had thrown down in his haste to tend to the hobbit. He knew it contained a precious few leaves of athelas. It was then that he noticed a bluish-purple moss growing among the rocks. "Glaslichen!" he exclaimed, pleased to have encountered one piece of fortune in this dreadful day. The moss had excellent properties and he could use it to dull Merry's pain, if he could manage to force a quantity of the magical plant into the delirious little one's system. He would need to get him to swallow some, which would probably be best mulched up with water.
Aragorn glanced up at Legolas, who was still cradling Merry's head, trying to calm him with force now that words had failed. The elf held his arms still and stopped his head from thrashing from side to side. Frodo was holding Merry's hand and talking to him, trying to reassure him that Pippin was safe, even though they all knew it was a lie.
Aragorn shuddered at the thought of what might have befallen the littlest hobbit. At least Merry was an adult – for all he was young and inexperienced, he was still a grown-up, presumably acquainted with death and hardship, at least as much as any halfling was. But Pippin was so young, not just in years, but in his childlike happiness and naïve approach to everything. The thought of that little one dying in pain, hurt and frightened, was too much to bear.
Aragorn forced the thought away and turned his attention back to the suffering of the little one before him now. He could not leave Merry's side as he was staunching the blood flow with a cloth placed strategically around the dagger and pressed into the wound. It was as though he was holding the precious life in place with just his bare hand at that moment – he could not let go.
Legolas and Frodo were occupied with Merry also. Aragorn looked around and saw the solution sitting on the rocks with his head in his hands. "Samwise!" he called urgently. "I have a very important job for you." Without waiting for the gardener to respond, the Ranger issued urgent orders. "Gather up enough of this blue moss – it's called glaslichen in the high tongue – to fill one of your cooking pots. Then mulch it down to make a good infused liquid. Come on, Sam – quick as you can. Merry's life depends on you."
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A broken leg would make it difficult for them to escape, if escape were even possible, but, Pippin supposed, it could have been worse. At least though if Gimli did have a broken leg it was an injury he could help with. Without distracting the others he got to his feet and trotted across the chamber.
He reached his destination and began to search for what he needed, once again thanking Merry for having taught him yet another useful lesson.
It had been the summer that Merry had turned twenty-two, and Pippin had of course been at Brandy Hall for the festivities, and was staying till harvest as he usually did. A few days after the party Uncle Saradoc had asked Merry to gather a lad or three, and clean up the property at Crickhollow. The thunderstorms that Spring had been the talk of the Shire and there had been a few leaks in the roof of the house and some other slight damage that needed repairing before it became any worse.
Of course Pippin had volunteered and Merry had recruited Berilac and Robin as well, and the four lads rode their ponies out to the pretty little place, bringing plenty of provisions along, thinking they might be a few days. There hadn't really been much wrong though, and Merry soon had them sorted out, each lad with a list of chores.
"Berilac, you check the inside for any water damage to the floor, and any cracked windows, or warped window and door frames."
"Pippin, please clean up the leaves and other debris outside. If there is a branch or something that is too heavy for you be sure to wait till one of us older lads can help you." He fixed Pippin with a look that told the youngster that he meant it, and Pip nodded in acceptance. He had no desire to get himself hurt with the true Summer just begun.
"And Robin, since you have such a good head for heights, will you check the roof with me?"
The lads all agreed to their assignments and split up. Several hours later Pippin had moved what he felt was half the Old Forest to a pile near the tool shed, and was just getting ready to draw a bucket of water from the well so that they could all have a cool drink when he suddenly heard Robin scream and Merry shout in alarm. Dropping the bucket with a gasp he raced around the side of the house and reached Robin just as Berilac did.
Robin was lying white-faced on the ground, flat on his back, and Merry was nearly sliding down the ladder in his haste to get to his cousin.
"Merry, what happened!" Berilac panted, out of breath.
Merry had fallen to his knees beside Robin, and was examining him carefully, making soothing noises to calm the injured teenager. "We had just finished the last of the patching and were coming down for a bite to eat. Robin must have slipped on the ladder. Is that what happened, lad?" he asked the youngster who was trying not to cry. Pippin was very scared and he could tell Robin and Beri were too, but Merry's calm, even voice had a soothing effect on all of them, including their injured cousin.
"Yeees..my foot slipped. One minute I was on th-the l-ladder and the next minute I was down here... Merry, my leg really hurts!"
Beri hovered in concern and Pippin crouched down and took Robin's hand while Merry examined the leg in question. "That's what you get for trying to get to the food faster than anyone else," Pippin joked, in what he hoped was a reasonable imitation of Merry's calming voice. Robin managed a little grin.
"Well, I had to get to it before you d-did, or there'd be nothing left…owww!"
Merry brushed the curls out of Robin's eyes. "Sorry Robin, I couldn't help it hurting a bit. I'm afraid your leg is broken. It isn't bad though, so just try to lie still while we patch you up, all right?" Robin nodded and Merry turned to the other two.
"Beri, take your pony and run to Mr Coltsfoot's farm, as it's closest. Send him back here with his pony and waggon – help him with the harness as you know he has bad joint ache in his fingers. Then you ride on back to the Hall so that they can have a healer ready for our Robin-lad the minute we get back."
Berilac nodded and ran for the stable.
"What shall I do Merry?" Pip squeezed Robin's hand comfortingly and looked up at his other cousin.
Merry was taking off his shirt and beginning to tear it into strips.
"You run and find me two sturdy sticks, Pip, both about the length of Robin's leg. Then we'll splint it so that he's more comfortable for the ride back home."
Pippin had done as Merry asked, running to the pile of debris and finding several pieces of wood that he thought might be what Merry wanted, and fetched them back to his cousins. Merry chose two pieces the correct length and began to splint the leg, Pippin alternately holding Robin's hand or helping Merry to tie the knotted material around the leg and splints. Then he had left Robin in Merry's capable hands and run back into the little house and collected up several thick quilts and pillows for his poor cousin to lie upon during the bumpy waggon ride, and next fetched his and Merry's and Robin's ponies.
As soon as Mr Coltsfoot had arrived and they had got Robin situated, he and Merry had hurried to the ponies to follow the waggon, but before they mounted Merry had turned to him and said, "You were a big help to me today, Pip. I'm really proud of you. Thank you." Pippin puffed up a bit at the words of praise and Merry had given Pippin a big hug.
Pippin had been surprised that Merry was shaking. "Are you all right, Merry?"
"Just scared to death that's all." That had not been the answer that Pippin had expected and he said as much.
Merry had laughed. "I was very scared. But my Da say's that you can't let being scared stop you from doing what you need to do. Always remember that Pippin, cause you know my Da is always right."
And because Pippin knew Merry was always right as well, it was a lesson he had tried hard never to forget.
"And you can't let being very sad stop you from doing what you need to do either, right Merry?" Pippin whispered to himself now, searching through the scraps of wood that used to be a ladder. Finding several pieces that looked to be about right Pippin turned and hurried back to Boromir and Gimli.
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Samwise levitated to his feet seemingly without any intermediate motion, obeying Aragorn's words before they registered in his conscious mind. His strong, nimble hands were gathering up the moss and laying it carefully in his largest stew pot, sharp grey eyes seeking out the next patch while he harvested the one before him. The bluish-purple plant felt strange in his hands, almost oily, and he could have sworn that the tiny tendrils curled briefly around his fingers as he whispered apologies to them for uprooting them, citing desperate need.
"It's for Mr Merry," Sam explained, not caring if the others thought him odd for talking to plants. He'd always done that, telling them what he was doing and why, and he believed in his heart that they understood, or at least understood his intent. He welcomed the seedlings when he put them in the ground and coached them during growing and sorrowed over their harvesting, explaining to them how they would go to nourish other lives, and they had his thanks for it. "He's hurt awful bad, and Aragorn – he's that big man over there – says you can help. You will, won't you? Mr Merry is a good sort, a good hobbit, and he don't deserve to die. He's my master's cousin, you know, and it would just kill Mr Frodo if he died. Please…" Sam babbled on, scarcely aware of what he was saying, knowing only that there was comfort for himself in the soft-voiced words, whether the glaslichen heard him or not.
Despite the speed with which he worked, he placed the layers of moss into his cooking pot gently, smoothing the layers and being certain that they were not crimped. The strange moss was not plentiful but he found it easily, knowing by instinct that it would seek higher points on the barren ground, where it could reach for the sun but still find water in the stony cracks. In moments the stew pot was almost full, and Sam picked up a good-sized rock, wiped it against his jacket and began to crush the spongy growth.
The tendrils spurted small amounts of liquid, seeming to give up its fluid easily, the moss disintegrating into a stew pot of bluish liquid that resembled nothing so much as elderberry juice diluted with water. An odd sweet smell rose from it, making Sam feel strangely light-headed as he crouched over the pot, mulching frantically. The stone ground against the bottom of the pot with a painful scraping sound and he hastily adjusted his hold and changed the angle.
Another couple of grinds and he could no longer feel gentle resistance. Peering into the stew pot, he saw that the moss was fully infused. Wrapping his arms around it carefully, Sam rose and carried it over to Aragorn, settling it carefully by the Ranger's side. "Here it is, sir. Is there aught else I can do?"
"Thank you Sam, and yes, there is more you can do. First, bring me all the clean cloth you have in your pack, and a small cup or ladle. Then, I need you to hold Merry's legs as still as you can. Sit on them if you must, but he needs to be as still as possible." Aragorn looked up into Legolas' grim face. The elf nodded slightly, tightening his grip on Merry's shoulders. He knew what his friend was about to attempt – both the importance and the risk.
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Boromir had a hard time hiding his smile. He was beginning to understand why the elf enjoyed baiting the dwarf so much.
"Be glad I didn't slip and ruin something a bit further up..."
Gimli flushed at the man's off-colour and totally inappropriate remark. A dwarf could be quite touchy about certain topics and Boromir had managed to find one of the touchiest.
"Watch that kind of unseemly talk! The lad might hear..." he managed to sputter, hoping that his using Peregrin as an excuse would explain his embarrassment, though in truth he half expected to hear a snicker come from the youngest member of the Fellowship.
Boromir started to examine the dwarf's leg in earnest. Though he did not turn his head from his task, he heard Peregrin going about some self-appointed task on the other side of the chamber. That was good, sometimes his jesting words could be considered inappropriate for young ears. Soldiers' banter could be crude. Meaningless words of reassurance did nothing to help an injured, seasoned warrior, while rude quips often relieved tension at times like this.
He worked hard to keep the grin off his face. Dwarf baiting was enjoyable. He made a mental note to discuss this with the elf should they ever have the opportunity. Though for the sake of decorum he'd not lay into Gimli as he would one of his own men as he did not yet know to what extent he could push the injured dwarf. He glanced to where the unsheathed battle-axe lay in case he seriously miscalculated Gimli's sense of humour. It lay just out of reach.
"The 'lad' seems to have had the wisdom to move out of the way. Which, had I known the outcome of your handiwork, I would have suggested of you as well. Though the damage of a few indecorous words on the ears of an innocent do not compare at all to that inflicted by the several ton of rock upon your leg. What possessed you Master Dwarf?" Boromir's wicked sense of humour was battling to come to the fore as he contemplated just how to punctuate his examination with jibes that would not offend but instead would relieve some of the tension the obviously embarrassed dwarf was experiencing at having another soldier offer assistance.
Carefully he ran his hands over the solid muscle of a leg nearly as large as his own. Were these creatures made of the iron they mongered? Given the difference in their height, Boromir was impressed. The dwarf just might outweigh him, especially with the full complement of armour. He'd just about determined the location of the suspected break and prodded a bit more below where he thought the fracture was.
"Do Dwarven men court their women as successfully as they court disaster?" His last comment, he realised, came a bit too close to offence. Dwarves may not have as great a penchant for sarcasm as his own troops especially in the area of the fairer sex – if he could ever consider any dwarf, even a female... fair. He suppressed a snicker. He carefully but firmly grasped the dwarf's leg with both hands and gave it a slow press where he thought the break might be, watching for a telltale wince, probably the only clue the dwarf would give him.
"Stop your poking and prodding!" He batted at the man's hands, certain that Boromir had found the location of the break and anxious to get him to stop his examination of the area before Gimli embarrassed himself any further than he already had today by howling in pain. Bringing a stone wall down upon himself in his hurry, breaking his leg which would further hinder his companions, fainting from the pain... he would not add to these foolish mistakes and weaknesses by giving voice to the cry of agony that was ready to burst from his throat.
"Stop it I say! You have found the source of my… discomfort... now leave it alone! I can handle things myself and don't need your misplaced maternal fondling. Look after one who needs a sharp eye on him. Where has Peregrin got to?"
"He probably was hoping to get out of earshot of your whining," Boromir had about finished with handling the dwarf delicately both literally and figuratively. "Now, if you don't mind, be still. If I act as a mother, it's because you act as a child! You and this leg will need some care."
'Oh, really! Do you think so? Brilliant assessment!' Gimli fumed albeit silently, forcing his temper back. Eventually he managed to speak in what he hope was a civil enough tone," I'm quite capable of taking care of myself."
"If that were true why would you be sitting in a pile of rubble?" Boromir quirked his mouth to the side as he baited the dwarf.
The leg was broken, beyond doubt. This was an appalling situation, much worse than he'd originally thought. An unseasoned youngling, an injured dwarf who would not accept assistance, several tons of rock blocking their exit, with a horde of orcs on the other side waiting for them. Boromir smiled his mouth in a firm straight line. "Don't worry, it'll be fine!"
-00000-
Merry knew he was dying and he was filled with grief at the prospect. This was a bad and sad place to die. He had been of no use to anyone and now Pippin was lost and Frodo would be abandoned by all his kin. Merry felt the tears wring from his heart at how pointless and futile his inclusion in the Fellowship had been. And he had done wrong the one thing that Boromir had impressed upon Pippin and him over and over – 'Don't let go of your sword!' He hadn't meant to lose it but the troll had thrown him and suddenly the sword was gone.
Frodo's voice still hummed comfortingly above him. At least he would not die alone, although Merry could no longer make out what his cousin was saying to him. For a second he wished that Pippin were here too, just to say goodbye – to kiss his brow and bid him safe journey. But then he knew that he was glad his little cousin was not witnessing his death. He imagined how he would feel, watching Pippin die and he remembered the times when he thought he was. The pain had been unbearable, as if his very soul had been ripped in two. No, he would not wish that heartbreak upon Pippin. Let him mourn in his own time, after he was dead and his remains probably burned and the ashes scattered to the winds.
Maybe Pippin would even visit this spot sometime, perhaps kneel and say a few words for him in remembrance – that would be enough. Even the thought of it hurt Merry as he lay there, seeing into the future, seeing Pippin utterly bereft at his loss – just he would have been to lose Pippin. He saw him stumblingly trying to relate to his parents what had happened, his mother's inconsolable deep pain and his father's stunned disbelief at the loss of their only son. Merry managed to stutter to Frodo as this sad vision crossed his muddled thoughts, "T-tell Mum an'… an' D-dad I'm s-s-sorry. T-tell them I-I love them, Frodo."
Merry concentrated on each breath, trying to last as long as he could so as to savour memories and happy images of his friends. But it was hard to hold on to any coherent thoughts any longer.
Then suddenly a foul taste was in his mouth and he choked and spluttered as a disgusting liquid was poured down his dry, clenched throat. Merry fought the drink, but his strength was almost at an end and he was forced to swallow as more and more of the horrid-tasting brew was tipped into his mouth.
Why was someone torturing him like this? Why could he not be allowed to die with grace and dignity? But gradually, as the narcotic reached his system, Merry felt his struggles growing weaker as his mind faded to blackness. The tearing pain in his side diminished and he felt his soul leaving his body and floating upwards once more.
He reached out his hand, flailing into the blackness that now surrounded him, his heart filled with fear as a great shadow engulfed him. But then someone grasped his hand, pulled him through the dark and enfolded him against a warm comforting breast. Merry looked up in wonder and gave a small gasp of awe. "Grandmamma Gilda! I'm sorry I died, I didn't mean to."
"Be at peace, my love," Menegilda soothed her dear little Merry. "Don't you fret, you stay by Granny now and she'll keep you safe."
-00000-
Sam did as Aragorn bid him, kneeling down by Merry's side and grasping his legs, leaning his weight over the limbs even as Merry fell still and quiet after Aragorn forced the glaslichen down his throat. Merry's legs felt cold, oddly soft, as if the mortal clay that comprised them was already disintegrating. When Aragorn put his hands on the knife, Sam closed his eyes for a moment and turned his face away. The elvish words the Ranger spoke as he gripped the knife calmed his racing heart, but to Sam, they seemed to affect Mr Merry the more, sending him into an unconscious state so deep that it resembled death. Sam dared not look at Frodo, did not think he could endure the pain he knew was etched on that pale face. Instead, he kept his eyes on his hands as they grasped Mr Merry's legs, white-knuckled and sweating.
Suddenly fearful as he felt the last resistance leave Mr Merry's muscles under the combined effect of the glaslichen moss and the elvish words, Sam looked up unwillingly, his gaze captured and held by the man's great hands as they moved delicately over Merry's body. There was more blood when the knife was slowly withdrawn – how could there possibly be more. Not known for having a weak stomach, Sam nevertheless felt oddly unfocused, and had to remind himself to ease up his grip or he well might break a bone. His effort seemed unnecessary; beneath his hands, Merry never moved.
He didn't want to watch the blade emerge from the labouring chest, inch by bloody inch, so he stared at the ground. Totally focused on collecting the glaslichen, he saw for the first time that it was not the only growing thing in this barren place. A tiny white flower bloomed here and there, no larger than his smallest fingernail, five petals, and a tiny centre of scarlet. Sam had never seen its like. Right odd to find something beautiful that dared to bloom in the shadow of darkness. Blinking hard, Sam looked back up to see what was happening with Merry, and found Aragorn pressing a poultice of moss over the wound. Legolas responded to some silent request of the man's, raising Merry slightly as Aragorn fixed strips of cloth around the hobbit's chest to secure the dressing.
"I fear this little one needs more help than I can give," Aragorn said gravely as he bound the bandages. "Lothlórien is not so far distant. Legolas, if you are not too injured to travel, I would have you run with him for the Golden Wood, as fast as you may. We will follow as we can." He gestured to Frodo and Sam. "These two are also hurt."
Legolas only hesitated a moment, to look at Aragorn and receive a confirming nod that this was the best course of action. Then he stood, gathering Merry into his arms. Frodo rose to his feet with him, still clutching Merry's limp hand.
Frodo blinked back tears, struggling to compose himself. "Do you hear that, Merry-lad?" he said softly, though he knew his cousin was beyond hearing. "You just go on ahead with Legolas, and we'll catch up with you later. They'll have you right as rain before we old slowcoaches manage to join you, I'm sure."
"Sir?" Sam interrupted, and Frodo turned his head before realizing that Sam was addressing Aragorn and not him. "You ought to take Mr Frodo and go with Legolas," the gardener said. "He's the Ring-bearer – you shouldn't leave him here when there might be more o' them beasts coming out. I can trail you fair enough. You should take him and go."
Aragorn laid his hand on the stout hobbit's shoulder.
"Samwise, you are brave, and your concern for your master is valid, but if Merry does not gain help within a matter of hours, I do not think he will live."
He raised his other palm before Sam could protest. "Since we have left the Mines, I have seen Frodo walk on his own two legs, speak, weep, sit up, and drink water. I have no doubt that he is hurt, but not unto death, I think." The Ranger's tone softened. "And you also are injured, Master Samwise. I will tend to you both now, then we will follow Legolas as fast as we may."
Sam looked at the man with reluctant, guilty, fretful eyes, but he nodded, and Aragorn squeezed his shoulder. He straightened, then paused, lifting his eyes beyond Sam to the mountain. And what of the other three? Should he venture back to the Gate in the hopes of helping Boromir, Gimli, and Pippin, when the Ring and its Bearer were vulnerable?
He sighed. This leadership had been thrust upon him unready. How he longed for Gandalf – his power, his wisdom – but most of all, his quiet faith.
"Oh Gandalf, my old friend," he sighed inaudibly, "how shall we go on without you?"
He looked again at Sam, and then to Frodo, still clutching his cousin's hand. Even as Aragorn watched, Frodo placed a kiss to the small palm before letting it go, whispering, "I shall see you soon, my Merry-lad."
Aragorn nodded to the elf. "Go, mellon, and do not stop for nightfall."
"Namarie," Legolas whispered as his eyes swept the remainder of the Fellowship before turning and speeding light-footed across the rocky terrain.
His cloak billowed out behind him, and his hair whipped at his face as he clutched his precious charge close and sped towards the distant forest's edge, glad to be leaving the peril of the Mines and the open lands for the lush green, welcoming cover of the forest.
"Elbereth! Guide me, I must not fail!" his heart cried in a silent plea as he left the Gates far behind.
-00000-
TBC
Author's Notes
Hope you're all enjoying the tale so far, thanks a lot for all the reviews, they are cherished and valued.
If you would like extras to this story there is an extended version running under the same author name of Eastgaters, entitled "Behind the Scenes at The East Gate". This is the Director's Cut and contains off-camera correspondence between the characters in this adventure. These will be updated at about the same rate as the main story, until we run out.
Llinos
Merry and Pippin are again fielding your comments (oh and one from Gimli):-
Shirebound: I feel obligated to tell you that I'm VERY WORRIED about Merry.
Merry: Glad you feel your obligations strongly – do you think you could get me a doctor – a real one – I'm dying here!
Anso the Hobbit - Pippin is so brave and valiant…
Pippin – Yes, I am rather. It's in my bloodline, though I have rather surprised myself.
pipinheart: I feel so bad for Merry, he thinks Pip is lost and Pip thinks Merry is...
Merry: Go on – say it! He thinks I'm dead doesn't he?
pipinheart: Really good!!
Merry: No it's really bad! Oh – I see what you mean, sorry.
Elijahs-gurl - Well, I don't know what else to say, so I'll just stop talking.
Pippin – That never stops me!
Elijahs-gurl - I've never seen anything this dark before…
Pippin – Neither have I! This place is very dark without Gandalf's magnic rock!
Isil: Thank you for sharing this.
Merry: We're always happy to share our stories with appreciative readers – food no! Stories fine!
pipspebble: Argh! You people are so very mean to keep leaving us in the lurch this way.
Merry: Try it with a dagger in your chest!
pipspebble: please, please HURRY!
Merry: My sentiments exacterly!
barb:): - Tell Pippin how fabulous he is for me!
Pippin – Perhaps you'd like to tell me yourself? I know a little bistro in Lothlorien where we could get to know one another better…Ack! Merry! I was just going to talk to her, I wasn't going to try anything!
TTTurtle - I am assuming there will be more than enough suspense for Gimli, Boromir and Pippin as they still have to figure out how to get out of the mines!
Pippin – There is certainly more than enough for me! I think Gimli is rather enjoying the whole thing though, as he gets to complain and be gruff quite a lot.
fliewatuet - I love the maturity Pippin displays in this chapter, even though it is a sad tale in itself that he should leave his innocence behind in a grim situation like this.
Pippin – It is very sad, isn't it? Sniff. People should send me hugs and kisses and cuddles to make me feel better. And food. And ale. Um, maybe I'm not as mature as I am trying to be…
Neige: "confused flailing"- I don't know why, but that made me laugh. Perhaps because "flailing" is, in general, such a strange word. And Boromir! Boromir is perfect for Hobbit comfort. I like Boromir. I like Hobbit comfort. Except that Merry is hurt! bites nails He'll get better soon, won't he?!
And Sam, I would love to read your "little book" on Merry and Pippin. Should I be more worried?
galadrielady: WAHH! NOT MERRY!
Merry: My sentiments exactly!
Nayana Baggins: You will not kill Merry or Pippin or Sam or Frodo! Well to make it more enjoyable maybe Frodo.
Merry: Hey you certainly know how to have a good time! We could all have fun with that!
Elwyna: Very good! I am now quite worried for Gimli...what will happen to him?
Gimli: Well I should get a decent storyline and some good dialogue for once!
Elanor: I of course don't know what the original form looked like
Llinos: Your worst nightmare – well my worst nightmare actually.
Elanor: but I imagine it was pretty hard to make into a narrative story...
Llinos: Well yes…
Merry: Take no notice of her, she just looking for sympathy, whereas I'm the only one who needs sympathy around here.
Melilot hill: I might have to write another "ode to" for this story :)
Merry: All gratefully received – we need all the odes we can get!
Hyperactive Forever: please don't let anyone die!
Merry: That's what Pip and I said – but I don't know if they're listening.
Sam - The way Pippin behaves really "shows his quality" …
Pippin – Who would've guessed! Not me certainly!
Celebrean: I hope Merry's okay and Frodo and Pippin and Sam, and Gimli, and Legolas...uh, the others aren't hurt at all are they?
Merry: No Aragorn and Boromir are fine as far as I know. Just as well – someone's got to look after Pip and me.
lindahoyland: I'm still worried about Merry and hope for more of him and Aragorn in the next chapter
Merry: Hold that thought and keep it there.
hobbitsandkilts - Hopefully he won't lose his Merry…
Pippin – But he was so badly hurt! I can't help but think that he must be dead, sniff…Oh, my Merry!