His hands were calloused.  Rough to the touch, and snagging on fabric that was delicate and seeming light as air.  Pippin stared at it in fascination as he ran his fingers over the hem of the thin, gauzy material that made up the dress tunic Faramir had presented him with that afternoon, along with other gifts.

            In the dim moonlight that filtered in from the window that illuminated his room, it had been easy to forget that he no longer bore the smooth, delicate hands of a youth unaccustomed to hard work.  Distantly he heard the bells toll three, signalling the changing of the guard, and he felt a small lurch in his heart.  In a few hours time it would be his turn to stand duty, and yet he knew that sleep would elude him this night.

            As it had the past several nights.

            Looking over to the softly snoring form of his cousin, Pippin sighed, more from weariness and a longing for the sweet release of sleep than anything, and wished, for just a moment, that he were not considered fit for duty.  At least then, he might have found a moment to take a nap.  He seemed to have no trouble sleeping during the day.  Only in the lonely hours of night did rest elude him.

            Once more he turned his gaze back to the garment in his hands, and considered the sword calluses and scars that marred the flesh.  His right hand, still slightly swollen and discoloured, looked as though it belonged on someone else.  Someone brave and bold and daring. Someone other than one Peregrin Took of the Shire.

            Who did this hand belong to?  Certainly not the young hobbit that had set out so long ago with his cousins and friend on an adventure.  That hobbit never would have been able to wield a sword in battle, or speak calmly to a beloved cousin as he lay wounded, perhaps dying, in his arms. That hobbit would never have been a friend to kings, and princes and nobles of every race. That hobbit would never have been accounted as one of the great heroes of the Age, as he had been told that he was.

            That hobbit had never been troubled by nightmares that were more memories than imagination. 

            Sighing softly, Pippin put the wondrous gift back on the neatly folded pile of new clothes and looked to his bed longingly.  Perhaps if he lay down, as he had for the past several nights, staring blankly up at the tiled ceiling, sleep might finally catch up with him. 

            He crawled under the covers, the thick blankets fighting off the early spring chill, and he felt his muscles relax under that warmth.  Truly, the tiling was quite beautiful, once one got over the plainness of it.

            His eyes felt as though dirt had been ground into them, and his mind was dulled by lack of sleep, yet he could not find the release that he craved.  Beside him, snoring peacefully, Merry slumbered on, oblivious to his cousin’s dilemma.  Pippin was happy that at least one of them was resting.

            His knee ached, his hand thrummed in time with his heartbeat, and his head pounded with such force that the very thought of food turned his stomach. Still, Peregrin Took stood his duty without a word of complaint, the soldier beside him stiff and silent as a plank of wood.

            Before him, sitting at a table just large enough to accommodate the five beings that occupied it, Aragorn, Éomer, Faramir, Legolas and Gimli were deep in conversation, discussing plans and suggesting solutions to problems that seemed endless. 

            This was his fifth day standing such duty, and it seemed to take all his willpower to remain so silent and still, his mind wandering and his body swaying as it tried to follow.  A muffled cough beside him from the plank of wood alerted him he was dangerously close to falling over, and he consciously righted himself, stifling a yawn.

            No one had ever told him that being a hero involved long days of doing absolutely nothing but standing still, or that being a king involved so much talking and planning.  He had never guessed that people could talk for so long without saying anything new.

            A sharp twinge in his knee brought his thoughts back abruptly to the present, and he found himself straightening once more.  Truly, he wondered how he would make it through the next several hours without falling asleep. 

            Then he pondered how he would spend his night, when sleep would be the farthest thing for him to attain.

            His nose hurt.  That was the first thing he was aware of when he opened his eyes, wondering what had happened and what in the Shire he was doing laying down when he was supposed to be on duty.  The second thing he noticed was that he was no longer wearing his livery, and that a warm, thick blanket covered him.

            He was laying on something extremely soft and comfortable, and for a moment he contemplated just lying there, allowing himself to sink back into the sleep that beckoned him.  Then a pang of guilt raced through him, and he reluctantly made to sit up. He had responsibilities now, and he would not shirk them.

            A wave of unexpected dizziness hit him with such force that it literally left him gasping for breath, and clutching the blanket as an anchor against the spinning of the room.

            “Pippin?”

            He carefully turned his head, to see Frodo staring at him in worry as he set aside the book he had been reading, sliding off the too-tall chair to move over to where Pippin still sat, struggling to focus his eyes.   Much as he loved his elder cousin, two Frodos was simply one too many. 

            “What happened?” Pippin asked thickly, wishing he could rid his mind of the thick fog that seemed to have acquired permanent residence there.  “Where am I?”

            “Lie back down, Pippin,” Frodo said instead, moving to push the young knight back onto what appeared to be large cushions.  “You are in Aragorn’s study, and he carried you here after you collapsed.  He should be back any moment.”

            “I collapsed?” Pippin asked, confused, scrunching his nose and then regretting the fact as pain lanced through his face.

            “Yes, right on your nose, which is why you look as though you have been tangling with another troll.  I don’t think it’s broken, but Aragorn said he won’t be certain until some of the swelling goes down.”  Frodo’s tone was light, belying the worry evident in his blue eyes as he gently brushed a strand of hair from Pippin’s forehead.  

            Pippin was trying to will his face to stop hurting when the sound of a door opening, followed by faint, familiar murmurs, floated to his ears.  Then Strider appeared, bearing a tray containing a mug that steamed warm and welcomingly, Merry close behind carrying a tray of his own filled with dishes of fruit and bread that had Pippin’s stomach churning at the sight.

            Yet another thing that young hobbit would never have believed; that the sight of food could make someone ill.

            “Awake, are we, Little Bird?” Strider asked softly, kneeling beside the divan Pippin lay on and placing his tray at the foot.  “How are you feeling?”

             He tried.  He really did.  But the words to deny any discomfort simply would not come to him, and he found himself whispering in a small, timid voice he barely recognized as his own, “Tired.  And sore.”

            The King nodded, as though expecting nothing less, and took up one of the mugs. 

            “This should help with the swelling of your nose, and take away some of the pain.  Also, it will help you rest.  But first, I want you to eat some of what your cousin has brought, and tell me why my young knight fainted while on duty and nearly scared the life out of me.”

            Though the tone was teasing, there was no denying that the words were an order.

             Frodo helped Pippin sit up, layering the pillows behind him to prop him up, while Merry set about making a plate for his cousin that consisted of fresh fruit, slices of bread, and fresh cheese.  Pippin knew that any argument on his part would be for naught, and so did his best to eat all that was given him, struggling to keep it down.

            When he had choked down all that he could, leaving only a few slices of the bread and some of the fruit, he was met by his Liege’s patient stare, and his cousins’ expectant faces. 

            “I - Well, I haven’t been able to sleep the past few nights,” Pippin admitted softly.

            “How many nights?” Aragorn asked shrewdly, his eyes never leaving the tweenager’s face.

            “Ummmm...Perhaps five or six,” Pippin whispered.

             “Pippin!” Merry exclaimed, his eyes glinting.  “Why didn’t you tell me you weren’t sleeping?”

            “Or me?” Frodo demanded softly.

            “Or me?” Aragorn asked, just as quietly. 

            “Er, well, I, um, you see,” Pippin mumbled, feeling his face flush and almost welcoming the pain that accompanied it, as it helped him to gather his thoughts.  “I…I didn’t want to be a bother.”

            The looks on Aragorn and Frodo’s faces were so alike that Pippin almost giggled.  Almost.  Merry simply looked as though he were going to strangle someone, probably someone lying on the divan in front of him. 

            “I think it goes without saying,” Aragorn finally said, in a voice that sounded as though he were struggling to keep it calm, “that that was probably the most inane thing you have ever said, Peregrin Took.  And that should you ever even think such a thing again...”  Aragorn’s voice trailed off, the warning evident in his silence. 

           “Understood?” he finally asked.

            Pippin nodded sheepishly, and meekly drank the tea from the mug that the King placed to his lips. 

            “Next time you have trouble sleeping,” Merry growled next to him, where he was watching Pippin with exasperated worry, “just tell me and I’ll knock you over the head.”

            “I don’t know, Merry, his head is awfully thick,” Frodo sighed, brushing another stray lock of hair from Pippin’s brow.  “It may take a few times.”

            Pippin’s response was cut short as the door to the Study was opened once more.  All looked up to see Sam, his arms filled with several blankets and pillows, coming into view.

            “Here we are, Mr. Frodo.  These should be enough for all of us, I think,” he said cheerfully.  “Ah, I see you’re awake Master Pippin.  How are you feeling, besides your nose being all black and blue, that is?”

            “Ummmm,” Pippin mumbled, at a loss for words.  “What are you doing with all those blankets, Sam?” he finally asked, though he had a nagging suspicion he knew the answer.

            “Why, we’re going to be taking a nap with you, Master Pippin.  Since you’re not to be moving from that spot for a while, Mr. Frodo thought it would be nice if we could all take a sleep here.  Since King Strider doesn’t seem to mind us taking up his study, and all,” was the explanation.

            He didn’t have the strength to argue with his friends, so Pippin merely swallowed the rest of his tea and lay back on the soft, squashy pillows, watching with a rather detached air as the other hobbits prepared their bedding, Aragorn observing with an amused eye.

            He could feel himself slipping away, his eyes drooping shut against the sudden weight of his fatigue, and knew that blessed sleep would soon claim him.  As though from a distance, he heard the soft murmurs of the others floating around him, and allowed himself to relax.

            No, that young hobbit who had left the Shire so long ago would not recognize this sleepy form before him, surrounded by those he loved and cared for.  For not even Bilbo’s most fantastic tales would have prepared him for the reality of the world.

            Or the cost of becoming an adventurer.