Hullo again!

This tale is a “second edition” of my very first fic written three years ago. The story is still posted on ff.net in its original format, but beware--let’s just say it’s...different. It’s extremely pre-Pearl Took, lol. I would rather the reader read this version first, if you please, before giving yourself a fright.

There are some things that had to go because it just didn’t do anything to push the plot or compliment the characters, but most of it stayed--the crux of tale is still the same. I did my best...

This version (like the original) is not beta’d, however, if anyone wishes self-torment, lol, just let me know. ;-)

Enjoy.

Disclaimer: All hobbits and Middle-earth belong to JRR Tolkien, but in my dreams, they belong to me.

Chapter 1, Hopelessly Adrift

March 26

Pippin lay in a dark dream; images of dark, hideous shapes and enormous flying beasts filled his mind’s eye. Their incessant screeches pierced his senses until he thought he would go mad with it all. Darkness…utter darkness surrounded his being like a heavy, unwanted cloak. However, this sense of darkness felt familiar…as if he had been here before. Then he saw him. The Questioner. Sauron.

Pippin flinched; he instantly felt weak…his ‘body’ quivered. He wanted to run, but his feet were unyielding, as if they were seized by an iron grip. Unable to run, Pippin screamed in his dream-terror, then instantly felt horrendous pain emitting from his chest…he struggled to breathe.  

I don't have it…I don’t have it. No more questions, Pippin whimpered with arms over his head, as if shielding himself from some unseen foe.  Instead of torturing him with an inquisition, the vision of the Eye of Sauron sailed over Pippin’s hunched form, laughing cruelly as It disappeared into the void behind.

After the Eye left him alone, Pippin wandered about aimlessly in the shadowy cavern of his mind’s dream until he found himself standing amid the plains before the Black Gate. A swift breeze swept against his face and through his curls as the strange, dark clouds of Mordor rent apart in the darkened sky. At once Pippin’s keen, green eyes fixed upon a wondrous sight that appeared through the fissure in the heavens.

“Eagles! The Eagles are coming!” he shouted to no one, for the plains were emptied of any living thing. The bodies of the slain lay in heaps, ready to be burned. Then the gruesome apparition of Denethor burning like a heathen king of old appeared before Pippin. The young hobbit quickly turned away from the grisly sight looking to the Eagles for any hope, but they had disappeared. He sighed miserably.

Deep in his subconscious, Pippin wondered if this was all just a dream. The lad considered his predicament; hobbits just didn’t hover from place to place, drifting from pleasant images, to evil, and then back to things hoped for again. In an earlier vision, Pippin had already imagined seeing a grey curtain and a tall being who seemed to guard it, and then the scene vanished…or so Pippin thought*. The mere thought of that vision rekindled a flicker of hope in Pippin’s heart.

Nevertheless, nothing seemed altogether certain to Pippin anymore. Yet, if there was indeed hope, Pippin knew he had to find it from within. He decided to fight the darkness that threatened to overwhelm his mind.

I feel so weary. Everything seems so dark. Pippin decided to search for light--after all, where there is light, there is hope. In his mind Pippin called out for his cousins and Sam. Thoughts of his beloved Merry came to mind. Dear, dear Merry...I hope you found an easier end. Regardless of how their lives ended, Pippin shouted his friends’ names until he became thoroughly exhausted. Somehow, he felt that they could hear him.

Suddenly, Pippin had the sensation that he was awake...somewhere, lying upon his bedroll. He felt a warm, gentle breeze blow through his curls when he made the attempt to open his eyes. Light! Pippin had found the light, but the light was very blinding--it stabbed his eyes, boring deep into the tween’s eyes making him feel nauseated. Pippin instantly shut his eyes against the light and then heard himself groan...a sure indication that he was indeed alive.

Next, Pippin felt a warm touch on his forehead...a hand--yes, it was someone’s hand. He tried to breathe--no! Pippin found he could not breathe without suffering unbearable pain. He dared not open his eyes again, but he had to know...was it Merry? “Mer...’ was all Pippin could speak; the sound of his own voice felt like a hammer beating upon his head, and he felt nauseous again. He swallowed to keep from getting sick. Without opening his eyes, he could hear low murmurs and discerned that more than one person was present, however, one voice very near to him whispered, “Shhhh, Pippin; you’re safe.” He knew that whisper, but it wasn’t his Merry. Eyes, still closed, Pippin felt another touch on his forehead. He groaned again from the agony--any simple contact with his skin made the lad flinch. Pippin hurt everywhere on his body.

Then someone held a bowl of steaming liquid somewhere close by; Pippin could smell the soothing fragrance it released. The aroma instantly calmed him. The residual despairing thoughts from his earlier dreams had dispersed--his heart now filled with hope and promise. When the bowl was placed near his face, Pippin could feel the warm steam wafting against his skin. He heard someone tell him to breathe. He tried, but still found breathing too painful.

However, Pippin hardly needed to take a deep breath. The scent of Athelas did its virtuous work without him taking so much as a sniff; it seemed to know exactly where all his pain emanated. Pippin felt his muscles gradually relax. After a minute of the Athelas-steam doing its work, Pippin found he could now take shallow breaths with only moderate pain. He opened his eyes to slits, fearing the stabbing headache that would follow once again. The light wasn’t so severe this time, so he opened them just a little more.

Pippin instantly recognised the familiar face that greeted him. He tried his best to smile.

Aragorn smiled back, “He’s alive!”

“Where...is...Mer--ry?” Pippin struggled to speak amid gasping for breath, and whispering his beloved friend’s name took everything he had. Pippin closed his eyes, drifting into a peaceful sleep he had not known since before leaving the Shire.

No death, war, or darkness was in his dreams.

* A reference to another tale, Payment Put Off.

A/N: This chapter really exploded upon submission and I couldn't find where the bits and pieces landed.  If you see any words amiss, please let me know in a pm.

Chapter 2, Back Among Friends

March 28

When he next awoke, Pippin heard the sound of rustling leaves in the treetops outside the tent, birds singing as they flitted from tree to tree. The air that found its way inside the tent was cool and refreshing...and then Pippin remembered certain things. He opened his eyes cautiously so as not to reawaken the wretched headache that plagued him before and upset his stomach. The only thing that Pippin could move without pain were his eyes. Lying still as a stone, the lad let his eyes rove and investigate his surroundings.

He began from his left, scanning the sparse area of the shelter. To his right, Pippin could see Merry curled up on his own bedroll nearby looking utterly spent. Pippin’s heart leapt for joy at seeing his beloved Merry! His Merry wasn’t dead after all.

Sensing Pippin was conscious, Merry opened his eyes, giving his friend a weary smile. He sat up yawning and stretching, and then rubbed at his bleary eyes. Merry went over to kneel beside Pippin, softly running the palm of his left hand over his young cousin’s brow then through his curls. “So, Pip, Merry spoke softly, his voice thick with sleep, “you’ve decided to remain with the living, hmm?”

Pippin’s eyelids blinked slowly, groggy from the medicine he had been given earlier. “You’re...here.”

“Yes, I’m here, Pip,” Merry answered tenderly, tears welled in his eyes. His dear Pippin lay covered in bruises and bandages. “You’re alive, and I’m here.”

“Don’t...cry...Mer--ry,” said Pippin, wishing he could cheer his closest friend.

“Silly gooseberry!” Merry laughed. “These are not sad tears!” The joy of seeing Pippin alive and talking bubbled up from within, and it was a balm to the young Brandybuck.

Pippin was glad to hear those words, so he gave his best smile to his closest friend.

Once again, Pippin let his eyes wander the length and breadth of the tent without turning his head. “Where.....” he whispered to Merry, “...are...we?” Some of the pain was returning to his head and chest, so the tween took his breaths small and careful.

“In Ithilien, of course,” said yet another familiar voice off to the other side of the room.

Momentarily forgetting his predicament, Pippin turned his head slightly in the direction of the well-known voice--then was rewarded with the pounding headache and upset stomach. Pippin grimaced at the sensation, but then mustered enough strength to grin at the very dear friend....Gandalf! Standing beside the wizard was Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli--the dwarf’s features creased with worry.

Gandalf approached Merry, handing him a small leather pouch, saying, “This is not Athelas, I am afraid. Even so, it will help Peregrin feel better.” Merry nodded, taking the pouch from Gandalf.

Aragorn stepped closer to kneel at Pippin’s side, surveying the young hobbit’s face. The king with healing hands drew back his patient’s coverlet to gently examine Pippin’s limbs. The lad’s arms and legs were still quite swollen and purple, just as they were two days ago when Aragorn first examined him. Fortunately, no other bones were broken except for a few ribs. Next, Aragorn tested the tightness of the binding that wrapped about Pippin’s chest. The ever so slight a touch made Pippin stifle a cry. Naturally, this concerned Aragorn, however, he was confident that time and a good deal of rest would be the best healer. Finally, Aragorn brushed away Pippin’s honey-brown curls and looked into the hobbit’s green eyes; as expected, they were clouded in pain, but alert. Aragorn ran his fingers through the lad’s thick curly hair as he did with Merry not too long ago in the Houses of Healing, although he was mostly checking for any lumps or other injuries that he may have missed during his initial exam of Pippin.

At length, Aragorn smiled, “It seems you will yet remain with the living, Peregrin Took! Now heed my words; take your ease and rest--it will be needed for your healing.” Aragorn placed the cover back over his patient.

Pippin didn’t feel like he was part of the living at the moment. All he could feel at this point was terrible pain. Pippin looked at Aragorn with a troubled expression. “Where is...Frodo?” he asked, speaking in short spurts. ‘Have you...seen...him?”

The pain in Pippin’s chest was getting worse, yet he had to know. He feared the worst for Frodo and Sam; did they perish in the Quest? Merry was present, and that was enormous relief and comfort to Pippin, but what about Frodo and Sam? Musing upon this, Pippin grew agitated, his breathing had become increasingly difficult.

Still near to the lad, Aragorn noticed Pippin’s growing anxiety. “Remember what I said, Pippin”, he said in attempt to calm the tween. “Take your rest and have no fear! Frodo and Sam are completely safe--they are sleeping in their own tent. Suitable bedding and other supplies are on their way from the City, so all three of you will be able to mend swiftly and near to one another.”

Pippin gazed at all the familiar faces standing round him. It didn’t seem as if they were holding anything back. The young soldier lay back, letting the relief wash over him. The nightmare had ended! It was finished; they were all safe. Pippin tried to swallow the rising lump of emotion in his throat but failed. The months of running, fearing, battles, and nightmares had lifted from his small shoulders. Tears spilled from his green eyes unchecked. Alas, Pippin soon found that mere weeping was also painful with his breath coming in hitches. Nevertheless, now that he started he couldn’t stop.

Merry was right there at his dear cousin’s side with a handkerchief wiping away his tears, kissing his brow. Merry, too, was crying; between Pippin’s narrow escape from certain death and the significance of Frodo’s accomplishment with the help of Sam, Merry’s tears reflected those of his cousin’s.

Aragorn, seeing that his young charge was now in good hands, silently rose from his seat, kissing Merry’s head of thick curls and Pippin’s forehead. With a nod to Legolas and Gimli, the three companions walked toward the entrance. The King with healing hands paused in the entry, smiling with unspeakable gladness, giving the hobbits a slight nod before slipping through the doorway.

Once the Elf, Man, and Dwarf departed, the wizard himself stepped closer to where Pippin lay, placing his hand upon the lad’s brow. Quietly, he mumbled a blessing under his breath. When Gandalf was finished, he also walked out of the tent.

Only Merry remained with Pippin. The two cousins lay peacefully upon their bedrolls for a while, Merry gaping thoughtfully at his friend. Merry wanted to lay beside his young cousin and comfort him, just as they did when they were much younger. However, Merry deemed his movements would contribute to Pippin’s distress...and he also felt his idea might seem ridiculous to Pippin. After all, he himself was a grown hobbit, and Pippin had only four years before Coming of Age. Instead of acting on his impulse, Merry continued to keep watch from his own bedroll near to Pippin and kept the ‘juvenile’ thought to himself.

As for Pippin, having Merry’s company was soothing in and of itself--thus, he inwardly wished that his dearest cousin would slip under the coverlet and lay beside him, putting to flight his fears and tears with his mere presence. Pippin often climbed into Merry’s bed until he entered his tweens, and then seldom thereafter. While he mused on his idea some more, Pippin reasoned that adult Merry might feel a bit uncomfortable lying beside an older tween, even though Merry would yield to Pippin’s request. But mostly, Pippin knew Merry would object to sleeping beside someone infirm. And so it was with the latter thought that Pippin kept his wish in his heart.

After the long companionable silence, Merry saw that Pippin began to fidget, observing that even that bit of activity was aggravating the lad’s injuries. Merry got up, reached for his pack then took out the small pouch Gandalf gave him earlier. He next went to the small fire pit, pouring some hot water into a bowl. Merry then took the pouch and emptied its contents into the steaming water. A fragrance stole over the tent, though not as much as the aroma of Athelas. Still, Pippin’s pain began to ease. Merry took a bit of cloth, dipping it into the healing water and then wrung it. First, he gently wiped the tear stains from Pippin’s face and then uncovered him to bathe the bruised arms and legs with the healing water. Merry did this twice before Pippin began to feel drowsy. Merry dipped the cloth again into the hot water, completely wringing it out this time. He folded it up, placing it on Pippin’s forehead. After Merry did this, Pippin was unable to keep his eyes open any longer; he let sleep take him once more into the sweet forgetfulness of his mind.

Chapter 3,  Always There

April 1

Unlike the first few days of lying upon his bedroll, Pippin now had the luxury of a feather-down mattress and bed frame. The soldiers who helped to carry it in called it a child’s bed. It was still a bit large by hobbit standards, but even so, it mattered not to Pippin. The more he mended, the more he was in the mood for comfort. They brought in a second bed like the first for Merry. The young hobbit would not be coaxed from Pippin’s side except to use the privy.

“Draw,” said Pippin in a flat tone, handing the black slate over to his cousin. They had been playing Noughts and Crosses all afternoon. Over the past hour, the gnawing pain in his ribs began to take its toll on the tweenager, not to mention utter boredom.

Merry sighed, “You’re bored again, aren’t you?”

“But not with you, Merry.”

“I can see your pain has returned.”

Pippin said nothing in reply. He carefully reached over to his night table for a wooden box filled with small, handcrafted toys that recuperating soldiers would make for the young Perian. He took from it a ball and cup; the ball being attached to the cup with a bit of string. He tossed the attached ball up a couple of times but missed catching it with the cup due to the pain. The activity only served to aggravate Pippin’s already aching ribs, so he put the toy away. “Let’s play draughts,” suggested Pippin. Using a quill and ink, the two cousins had fashioned a grid upon an old rag, placing it on top of a food tray to use as a support while they played. Small stones, either light or dark, served as the draughtsmen.

“All right,” said Merry, “You set up the board while I prepare your medicine.”

“I refuse to swallow any more of that foul substance, Merry. The last time I did it made me retch.”

“Strider said that I could mix it with your tea now that you’re feeling a bit better,” said Merry hopefully. “Will you try it with tea?”

“Oh, very well!” Pippin sulked against his pillows, displaying his full dissatisfaction of the whole deal. Inwardly though, he was in a fair amount of pain.

Merry prepared two cups of tea, but into one cup he poured a dark liquid from a vial kept on Pippin’s night table. With each sip, Pippin made a sour face; Merry could not ascertain if it was from the pain or the medicine. After a few moments he asked, “How are you feel--” Without warning Pippin got sick. “Pippin!” he gasped.

Thinking swiftly--and in spite of hurting ribs--Merry turned Pippin onto his side so the lad wouldn’t choke on his own vomit. “Are you finished?” Merry asked while gently holding his dear friend. He heard Pippin let out a muffled cry then felt a slight nod underneath. “I’m going to run and fetch Strider!”

* * *

“Is he asleep?”

Aragorn nodded from where he sat beside Pippin’s bed. Rising up, he ambled over to Merry’s bed where the young hobbit sat with knees drawn up, arms locked around them.

“I cannot give him any more of this particular medicine, Merry. Somehow he must be persuaded to take the tea tonic.”

“He detests it,” Merry spoke softly, blue eyes fixed upon the sleeping tween.

“Between the two of us, perhaps we may find another approach that Pippin will find more pleasing to taste.” Aragorn studied the face of his smaller companion; indeed, it appeared Merry was carrying a weight upon his shoulders. “I hope you do not believe that this was your fault.”

Merry sighed. “I should have known this would happen.”

“How could you have foreseen this?”

Merry had no immediate answer; however, one particular night of sleeping in the bracken after a long day's ride came foremost in the Brandybuck’s mind. Prior to pinching the Seeing Stone, Pippin had spoke of his desire to have another look, but Merry felt too tired to help. And as tired as he was, Merry had a hunch that Pippin might do such a deed on his own. When Pippin was subsequently caught, instead of being there for the lad, Merry turned his back on him. He shuddered, recalling the angry words he shared with Aragorn about the tween after Gandalf took him away toward the White City. Merry felt his stomach reel at the mere thought of it. 

Before this afternoon’s incident when Pippin winced after each sip of his medicine, Merry thought he should have been on the lookout for his friend becoming sick; it had happened twice before when Pippin was a child.

“I know my cousin, Strider,” Merry finally answered. “I’ve known him all his life. When we were children we swore an oath that we would....” Merry trailed off his last thought, realising he was divulging more than he wanted. “I just know my cousin, is all.”

Aragorn perceived that Merry would not disclose whatever was on his mind until he was ready. He took Merry’s chin in hand to look him in the eyes so that his words would find a secure place. “Very well, Merry, but do not blame yourself over matters that are beyond your control. I have learned that blame is a heavy weight to carry.” Aragorn rose up to take his leave of the young hobbit “I shall return to examine him tomorrow.”

* * *

April 2

“Where have you been?” Pippin asked Merry when he entered the tent. Pippin woke to a warm, spring morning, but Merry was not in the tent. When his absence grew longer than a mere trip to the privy, Pippin’s curiosity got the better of him. Also, being that second breakfast was upon them, the tweenager was hungry.

Merry plopped down upon his mattress. “I went to see about breakfast for the both of us and then I went to look in on Frodo and Sam.”

“You’re the lucky one,” said Pippin, sulking on his pillows.

“How so?”

“You get to see Frodo and Sam any time you want to,” answered Pippin.

Merry got up to gently sit beside his friend on the bed. “You’ll see him before long,” he said. “Strider said that you ought to be able to get out of bed and test your legs soon.”

“But I want to see him now,” Pippin said sadly. “You said Frodo is missing a finger. I should like to be at his side when he wakes up.”

“I whisper things like that in their ears as much as I can--for the both of us,” said Merry, trying to cheer up Pippin. “I tell Frodo and Sam that we’re never far from them.” Merry wondered if his bit of encouragement touched the dreams of the Ringbearer and Sam. “They probably can’t hear me, but I tell them nonetheless.”

“Merry,” Pippin spoke after long and thoughtful moment, “as soon as I am able to stand up, I want to visit Frodo.”

“That won’t be today,” said Merry solemnly. He lay back with Pippin upon his pillows, then reached up, placing a hand of tender support onto his friend’s shoulder. As long as the movements weren’t rough, Pippin could withstand a bit of company in his bed. “Your legs are still swollen and your ribs still trouble you, but I daresay that most of your bruising has gone away.”

“Good old Merry,” said Pippin, trying to sound cheery. “It’s been with your help. You’ve always been there looking out for me. Now you’re looking after Frodo and Sam. I want to be there for them, too.”

“I know you do,” Merry answered almost absently. As soon as Pippin’s words left his tongue Merry’s thoughts were immediately elsewhere; where he and Aragorn left off last evening while Pippin slept.

The astute tween caught the distant ring in his cousin’s voice. “What’s wrong, Merry?”

Merry took in a long breath before taking the plunge. “Remember when Gandalf broke Saruman’s staff, and then we rode for hours on end before making camp for the night? You and I made a bed out of the bracken; I was on the verge of sleep when you began to toss and turn as if you had an ant hill underneath you.”

“I remember,” said Pippin, wondering where this conversation was going. Was Merry going to bring up his ridiculous act of taking the Palantír?

“I did something foolish that night,” confessed Merry. “Utterly foolish.”

“What do you mean?” asked Pippin, turning carefully to face his friend. He was quite surprised that Merry took the matter in another direction--his.

Merry hesitated, his eyes welling with tears, but there was nothing for it except to speak what was on his heart. “I...I, um...”, he stammered, “I turned my back on you. You see? I haven’t always been there for you.” Pippin was stunned, his mouth gaping wide, so Merry went on. “We didn’t speak of it in the Houses of Healing, and yet I wondered what you must think of me--after we took an oath so long ago.”

“Think what of you?” Pippin asked with alarm. “My dear Merry! How long have you been carrying this burden?”

Wiping away his tears with his sleeve, Merry replied, “Ever since my anger wore off--soon after Gandalf took you away and I thought I’d never see you again. Will you ever forgive me?”

Pippin leaned his head upon Merry’s shoulder. “Forgive you?” he asked, then his voice softened. “I saw it all. I saw you turn your back...and it hurt me so. But,” he paused, hearing his dear cousin groan as he wept. “If I recall...we both did something utterly foolish that night. I stole something that didn’t belong to me and was beyond my reckoning.” He kissed Merry’s forehead, “Of course I forgive you, you goose! Because I love you--and that’s what brothers do. Now...will you forgive me?”

Merry sniffled, embracing his friend. “I do.”

Together, they lay quietly beside one another until sleep finally claimed them.

Chapter 4, False Impressions

April 4

“Oh, this feels so good!” said Pippin, feeling Merry take a soap-lathered flannel to his back.

“You’re going to look a sight better when I’m finished with you, too,” Merry replied with a playful grin.

After his examination this morning Pippin complained of feeling himself ferment, so Aragorn ordered a bath for the lad.

“Now hold the flannel up to your eyes,” instructed Merry, handing a dry cloth to his cousin. Pippin did as instructed and was rewarded with a swoosh of hot water atop his head and down his back.

Merry’s next task was to wash Pippin’s tangled web of curls. As he did so, his gaze always settled upon the healing bruises, the small cut under the lad’s forearm that bore stitches, the cracked ribs that incessantly gnawed with pain.

In a short time, Pippin was rinsed, clean, hair towel-dried, and combed. “I’m going to call for Strider to carry you back to your bed so that I can get you dry,” Merry said, getting up from his knees.

“Don’t go too far,” said Pippin, giving his older cousin an earnest glance over his shoulder.

Merry returned Pippin’s glance with a solemn gaze of his own. “I won’t--I promise. I’ll just be outside the door, all right?” With sorrowful green eyes upon his beloved cousin, Pippin nodded.

Fortunately, Aragorn was sitting with their other companions outside of the door to their own tent and saw Merry signalling for him.

“Feeling better, are you?” asked Aragorn, draping a large towel over Pippin’s shoulders. He then lifted the lad from the tub, setting him on the additional towels that Merry laid upon the bed and then covered him in them.

“Yes, I am,” Pippin answered gamely now that he was squeaky clean. “Now, if only I could get my footing...”

Aragorn smiled amusingly, “A valiant try, Peregrin Took, however, I do not want you on your feet quite yet. The swelling in your legs has gone down some, that is true, but not quite where I would feel comfortable with you on your feet.” With those words, the healer took one of his patient’s feet in hand, running his fingernail under the arch. Pippin did not so much as flinch. Aragorn sighed, “You see?”

“But that isn’t fair,” Pippin countered, “Hobbits aren’t as ticklish under their feet like Men are.”

“True enough,” said Aragorn, “however, there would still be a reaction of a sort. Did you feel anything?”

Pippin answered, “A little.”

“A little is not enough.”

“But--”

“Not today, Pippin, and that is my final word,” Aragorn answered firmly. However, the tween’s crestfallen face was more than enough reason for the healer to give the lad something to look forward to. “Perhaps we will give it a try tomorrow, depending on what I find after I examine you again. Is that more fair to you?” he asked, a hint of a grin playing on his lips.

Pippin’s face instantly lit up with the promise of giving his feet a go. “Yes! Thank you, Strider!” he said with a big smile.

Over Aragorn’s shoulder, Pippin could see the small figure of his best friend sitting at the table, charcoal in one hand, bit of parchment laid before him. Merry had settled himself quietly there while Aragorn examined Pippin again. Pippin’s smile faded; he knew exactly what his cousin was doing.

Pippin said aloud, “I think I should like a cup of water.”

Aragorn looked to the ewer that was on the night table between their beds. He started to fill Pippin’s cup but was cut off by the tween.

“Fresh water, if you please,” said Pippin. He indicated with his green eyes toward his friend at the table. “And you’re not done looking me over yet,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Mystified at Pippin’s sudden change of conversation, Aragorn followed the lad’s gaze to the young hobbit sitting behind him at the table. He looked back to Pippin with a questioning expression; Pippin nodded.

“Merry,” Aragorn spoke to the lone figure, “Pippin is thirsty and he needs fresh water. Would you mind fetching it?” He held the container up for Merry to see.

“Of course,” said Merry, unaware of the ruse. He laid aside his bit of charcoal then surreptitiously covered his parchment before rising from his seat.

Once Merry had left with the ewer, Pippin continued speaking to Aragorn in a subdued volume; no telling if Merry should surprise them and overhear certain things.

“I’m worried about Merry,” he whispered.

“About what, may I ask?”

“He’s been unusually quiet all day.”

“I have noticed that Merry can be pensive at times,” reasoned Aragorn.

“He had another ugly dream this morning,” said Pippin. “He hasn’t spoken much all day, yet his nose has been in front of that parchment whenever he’s not with me. I asked him what he was drawing, and he mumbled something about Whitwell--the farm where I spent my childhood.”

“I did not know that Merry was an artist,” said Aragorn, “He never mentioned it to me. You do not believe his answer?”

“Yes...and no. Merry has perfect vision in his mind’s eye, Strider,” offered Pippin. “He sees something once, and if he likes it, he draws it.”

“You believe he is now drawing objects that he does not necessarily like?” asked the healer. Pippin nodded. Aragorn took in all that his patient had to say about his cousin; perhaps Pippin’s concern was warranted. “You worry after Merry, and Merry worries after you. One would think you two are brothers rather than mere friends,” he said. “Speaking of ugly dreams,” Aragorn continued, “How have you been faring, in regard to your nightmares? When was your last frightening dream?”

Pippin smiled sadly and then his eyes welled with tears, his voice hoarse when he answered, “This morning...before I woke up.”

For a moment, Aragorn inwardly cursed the evil of the world that had stolen the innocence of these young hobbits. He took Pippin in a tender embrace, comforting the young hobbit as he wept. “I shall have a word with Merry--alone...when he goes down to the stream with the other soldiers to wash for supper.”

* * *

Aragorn sat at the table set outside his tent deep in conversation with Gandalf and the head cook about a certain celebratory feast certain to take place in the very near future. As they wrapped up the meeting, Aragorn was momentarily distracted by the sight of a young hobbit walking toward the stream. The small figure walked with shoulders slumped, as if carrying the weight of the world. “One last matter, Gelios,” said Aragorn absently, his grey eyes remained focussed on the sauntering hobbit, “I will take my evening meal with the Pheriannath, Peregrin and Meriadoc, inside their tent. Please ensure there is enough for two Perian and one Man.”

The cook smiled, “Enough for approximately, five Men, my Lord?”

“You understand hobbits more than I thought,” answered Aragorn, a bit amazed.

“I cared for young Master Meriadoc during his stay in the Houses of Healing, my Lord,” said the cook, then took his leave of the future king and the wizard.

Gandalf followed Aragorn’s gaze toward Merry approaching the stream. “Is there something troubling our young hobbit? Or both of them?”

“Pippin does have valid concerns,” Aragorn replied, “and yes, I fear troubles have come to them both.” Gandalf nodded thoughtfully. Aragorn continued in a forlorn voice, “Our friends' dispositions are not always what they seem to be.  It would have been naive of me to think that these innocents would come out of these battles unscathed. And yet I still hoped for it. Please excuse me, Gandalf.”

“Hello, Merry,” Aragorn greeted the young hobbit washing at the stream.

“Hullo, Strider,” Merry responded in kind between splashes of cold water on his face and arms.

Aragorn dipped his hand into the cool water, rinsing them, and then washed his face.

As he dried his face with the towel he brought, Aragorn noticed that Merry had already departed, heading back toward his and Pippin’s tent.

He called out, “Merry--wait!” Catching up to the young hobbit, Aragorn took up a smaller pace beside him. “I intend to take my evening meal with you and Pippin this evening inside your tent. Do you mind if I walk there with you?”

Merry did not bring his towel with him, so his chin dripped a bit of water while he spoke. “Not at all, Strider.” Although there was not much enthusiasm in the tone of his voice.

“Is Lord Éomer going to sup with us as well?” asked Merry, walking at a more leisurely pace.

“I think not,” Aragorn replied. “At least not today. He has expressed his wish to break fast with you again soon. He appeared to enjoy yours and Pippin’s company yesterday.”

“We explained to him about Tobold Hornblower and how pipeweed came to the Shire,” said Merry. “He asked to hear more about the Shire in general, so Pip and I obliged. It was a very pleasant meal.”

Passing through the entry of the tent, Aragorn noted that Merry went straight for the desk he had been working at all day long. Aragorn followed closely behind. Merry did his best to furtively hide the sketch he was working on, but Aragorn caught sight of it before he had the chance to fully cover it.

“Is that your drawing?” Aragorn quickly asked in a low volume so as not to wake Pippin who was napping on his bed.

Merry knew he was caught; he handed the paper over to Aragorn, but said nothing.

Aragorn perused the sketch of an Orc, dagger impaled in his throat, blood spilling down his chest. Embedded over the left eyebrow was a Dwarf axe while thick rope bound the body’s hands and feet.

Aragorn was stunned...and yet, not so. “I ask again, Meriadoc, is this yours?”

Face reddened with various emotions, Merry looked away. “Yes.”

“Does this help you cope with your nightmares--with having been held captive?”

Merry shrugged. He was a bit surprised by Aragorn’s questions, feeling sure that criticism was next on the agenda. “I don’t know about that,” he said in reply, “but when I have a nightmare, drawing helps it to go away for a while. Pippin will hum a tune whenever an ugly dream plagues his thoughts. He misses his fiddle.”

Aragorn handed the graphic, gruesome sketch back to its owner. *“Tomorrow, I shall return with something that may be of help--and then all three of us are going to talk.”

“About what?” Merry inquired, unsure of Aragorn’s intent.

“About...stuff, as you say,” Aragorn answered.

*A/N: This last bit was inspired by something I had written in The Falcon’s Watch. I wrote that Pippin, Merry, and Aragorn frequently shared their feelings on battle and such after the hobbits removed to Gondor in their senior years. As I wrote that part, I envisioned that the *trust* in “sharing” had to have been built years and years before; no one just steps into something like that all of a sudden. Well, here is where I imagine it started.

Merry's "expressive" sketches were referred to in The Courship of Peregrin Took.

Chapter 5, On Your Feet

April 5

Inside the tent of Pippin and Merry there was very little light even though it was near to noon outside. The light inside their tent emitted from the small, glowing fire that kept the patient warm and the draft air out, and also from the vent above them used to aerate the excess heat and smoke created from the fire pit. The tent flap and windows had been closed and tied shut; Aragorn himself gave the order for no intrusions. The trust between Aragorn and the wizard was so intense that the future King left all matters in the hands of Gandalf for at least one hour, and all decisions would be rendered by him. If Gandalf felt an issue was imperative, then only he was given permission to interrupt Aragorn’s visit to the young hobbits.

In the dim light of the tent, not one eye was dry. Merry sat with Pippin on his bed; a pile of soiled handkerchiefs lay between them. Aragorn held a couple of soft, wadded cloths in his hands. Today was a start in getting the young hobbits to open up. Not much was said by either cousin; Aragorn felt the reason was probably because everything was still too near to memory--they were still a bit frightened to speak of the evils they had met in their path. In order to gain and build upon their trust, Aragorn spoke of his first forays into battle from his youth...how they had affected him. This seemed to help them to articulate a small chip in the boulder of their own harrowing experiences.

After a period of thoughtful quiet, Aragorn was the first to stir. He rose up from his seat, untying the cords that held fast the door flap. Rays of sunshine flooded inside chasing away the gloominess. “Are you ready, Pippin?”

Called out of his reverie, Pippin looked at Aragorn. “Ready for what?”

Aragorn smiled. “Ready to regain your footing?”

“Yes!” the lad fairly shouted his reply.

Merry took his place beside Pippin’s bed--he meant to be of assistance when it concerned his Pippin. “What can I do, Aragorn?” he asked.

“You are going to be Pippin’s walking stick, if you will,” said Aragorn, approaching the pair.

“Splendid!” Merry beamed at the prospect of such an important task.

“Scoot onto the edge of your mattress,” instructed the healer. “Help him, Merry.”

Not really having to be asked, Merry was already assisting his cousin’s efforts. “Easy, Pip.”

Pippin softly grunted or winced, but he gamely made it to the brim of his mattress.

“On, your feet, Soldier!” Aragorn commanded good-naturedly. “Slowly now, Pippin,” said Aragorn standing a pace away from the pair as Merry assisted Pippin to slide off the bed.

In his eagerness to stand up, Pippin slipped off his bed with little assistance. He stood only for a moment before his vision began to cloud over with blackness. He felt his legs grow weak.

At once, the healer saw Pippin’s eyes roll to the back of his head, his legs give way underneath. Quickly, Aragorn stepped forward to help Merry catch the falling tween and then lifted Pippin back onto the bed.

Pippin immediately began to stir, saying, “I’m all right! I just needed a moment is all.”

“Is he all right, Strider?” asked Merry.

“Yes, Merry, he is fine,” said Aragorn. “The blood rushed from his head, is all. It comes from being abed for such a long time. If your places were switched the same would have happened to you. I allowed you to rise from your bed much sooner in the Houses of Healing than with Pippin here.”

“Can we give it another go?” asked Pippin, rubbing his eyes.

“In a moment, Pippin,” Aragorn answered. After a short time of the lad catching his breath, the healer prompted his patient to the edge of the bed again. “Have a care this time, Pippin.”

Carefully, Pippin let his toes touch the ground...and then his heels. He closed his eyes, feeling the blood drain from his head again, but it wasn’t nearly as severe as the first time. He took a deep breath before opening his eyes. He looked to Merry with bright, green eyes, “I’m standing, Merry!”

Merry became tearful at seeing his younger cousin, his best friend, back on his feet. Little more than a week ago, Pippin’s life hung in the balance. He looked up at the tall Man, grateful of his healing hands. “Thank you, Strider.”

“Yes,” said Pippin, leaning heavily on Merry, “thank you!”

Aragorn returned their gratitude with a smile. “You are most welcome,” he said. “Now that you’re on your feet, Pippin, I want you to try to walk to the end of your bed.”

With Merry’s support and with little steps, Pippin gradually met with the foot board of his bed. He was out of breath, forehead glistening with perspiration, and his ribs started to give him grief for his efforts. By the time Merry got him turned round and headed back toward his pillows, Pippin was walking a little bent, hands grasping at his sides. When he reached his goal, Aragorn, once again, gently lifted the tween onto his bed.

“Well done!” Aragorn was delighted with his patient’s progress. “You are well on your way to recovery, my dear hobbit. We will do this again later in the afternoon. However,” he continued in a serious tone, “you are not to rise from your bed without Merry by your side nor are you to leave this tent. You are still very weak in your legs and your ribs. I do not want you to overexert yourself so soon.”

Pippin lay upon his bed panting for air, wiping his brow. “Can I get out of bed to use the convenience now?” Now that Pippin had his feet back, lying in bed seemed extremely tedious.  Pippin was rearing to go--regardless of sore ribs.

“With Merry’s help, you may, but I would caution you against exhausting yourself. Remember, there is more exercise for you later.” He smiled, “Little by little, we will have you ready for a special feast that will take place very soon.”

Pippin and Merry had heard snippets of the plans and were excited about it all. “I wish Frodo was awake now,” he said. “Then we could have our feast, yes, but mostly...I will feel better when he is awake. I want to hear his voice--to listen to his tale apart from the Fellowship from beginning to end.”

“Frodo does have a tale, indeed,” Aragorn said in reply. “I must attend an important gathering to plan a bit more for that feast, so I shall take my leave of you both. Before I do, however, I want to give something to each of you. Merry’s gift I have with me, but Pippin, I’ll send in your gift once I have met with him.”

Both Pippin and Merry exchanged surprised looks.

Aragorn reached into his pack, then brought out a leather-bound tablet and a lead-stick. “For you, Merry. I thought it would suffice until we return to the City where there are a few art shops.”

The young hobbit gaped in wonder at the gifts his healer had bestowed upon him. “Thank you, Strider!” Merry opened it up, leafing through the empty pages all ready to be filled in with his expressive sketches.

“It belonged to the official Scribe of the army,” said Aragorn. “Fortunately, he brought more than he needed. I was able to convince him that this one was needed elsewhere.”

“The Gondorian army has a Recorder?” asked Pippin. “I didn’t know that.”

Aragorn answered, “He is a soldier firstly, a scribe secondary.”

“Well, I’ll put this extra tablet to good use,” said Merry, placing the tablet on the table.

Satisfied that the morning had gone well, Aragorn started for the door. “I will send your gift in shortly, Pippin.”

* * *

Merry sat at the table busy as a Shire bee outlining a new drawing -- something to reflect his good humour. This sketch was going to be a portrait of Bilbo sitting in the Hall of Fire at Rivendell. A slight rustle of the door flap indicated someone had entered his and Pippin’s tent. He looked up and smiled. “Hullo!”

“Greetings,” said Legolas, trailing behind him was Gimli.

“Good afternoon, lads,” said Gimli as he pushed aside the flap.

Pippin sat upon his bed with his legs dangling over the side. “Hullo, Legolas...Gimli.” From his hand he let loose a smooth round object, letting it fall toward the ground...and there it stayed at the end of its string. The tween grunted in frustration.

Legolas laughed, “A *kelicam!”

“Commonly called a *quiz by the Dwarves who make them,” Gimli chimed in.

“Frodo gave me one for his birthday when he came of age,” said Pippin, “but we never had a real name for them. Not many hobbit-lads had one. I wonder what I’m doing wrong...?”

“May I?” Legolas inquired, taking the offered toy. “There are Elf children who might play with one, but kelicams do not hold their amusement for very long.”

Pippin watched with fascination as the Elf took hold of the string by the finger-loop and then spun the toy rigorously on its extended string. “What are you doing?” he asked, taking the ball-and-cup out of his box of toys. More than anything, the ball-and-cup was more to give his fidgety hands something to do.

“The string is not coiled enough,” answered Legolas, eyes on the spinning toy. “A taught cord helps it to spring back more swiftly.”

Gimli took in the comical sight of Pippin and his array of handcrafted toys. “Do the other soldiers take you for a child, Pippin?”

Merry laid aside his charcoal to join in the fun. “Wouldn’t you? Just look at him!”

“They’re gifts, Merry!” Pippin said in mock offence. “What am I supposed to do--let them sit and collect dust?” His remark garnered laughter from the others.

“Good afternoon, my lords,” said a strange voice.

The laughter ceased and all eyes were upon the lone figure standing inside the entry. He stood tall with fair hair, wearing colourful raiment and bearing objects covered in leather. He appeared to be around the same age as Faramir. Merry got up from his seat to stand protectively beside his young cousin. Who was this Man? Merry did not remember seeing him before now.

The man grew nervous at the open stares. “I believe knocking upon sturdy cloth does not aid a man to gain entry as a guest,” he spoke timidly.

“Pray tell, who are you?” asked Legolas in an even tone. He returned the toy to Pippin.

The Man bowed low to them. “My name is Celeblin, son of Malbrindor, at your service.” Still a bit nervous he added, “I am--was--a minstrel of Lord Denethor’s court. Lord Aragorn sent me to speak with the Perian...Pippin, son of...” Celeblin trailed off, unsure of how to address the halfling.

Pippin grinned, understanding the minstrel must be Aragorn’s delayed gift from earlier. “Paladin,” he said, supplying the information. “I am Paladin’s son, but we hobbits have surnames that we go by. My name is Peregrin Took, but I am generally called Pippin. This is my cousin, Merry Brandybuck. Beside him is Legolas, son of Thranduil, and standing by the table is Gimli, son of Gloín. Why did Stri--er, Lord Aragorn send you here?”

“Hobbits, you say?” he said thoughtfully. “Lord Aragorn mentioned that you are an accomplished musician and requested I lend you one of my instruments for a time--to aid in your healing, he said. As opposed to mere lending, I offer Ernil i Pheriannath any one of my humble instruments as a gift!”

Merry snorted a laugh when he heard the title bestowed upon the tween by the unwary citizens of Minas Tirith. Gimli rolled his eyes, Legolas smiled.

Celeblin uncovered his finely handcrafted violin, lute, and harp. “Please, Master Pippin, tell me which of these you will have.”

Pippin gazed wide-eyed at their beautifully polished wood. “I...I don’t know what to say,” he said.

Celeblin smiled, “Say that you will take one!”

Pippin couldn’t help but grin with delight. “Well, if Lord Aragorn says that I may do so, then I will. Until then, I shall be happy to keep one for a time--as he requested.” Pippin immediately laid aside the cup-and-ball he held in his hand and then chose the violin. Placing the bow to the strings, Pippin tried a few notes only for his ribs to protest the wide, angular movement from his arm. His second choice was the lute. Here, Pippin found his arms could relax a bit while making sweet music.

For a while, as he played a folk song native to the Shire, Pippin’s mind flew up and away from Ithilien, away from all of the horrid memories of fearing and battling dark nightmares. Soaring high above snow-capped mountain peaks he sailed northward...toward home.

*A/N: After conducting research on the yo-yo -- which has been around for eons, I discovered that the name “yo-yo” is actually a word in Tagalog (Philippines) meaning, “come back”. Historically, “Britons” called it a quiz (among others). I did the best I could in researching what I thought the Elves might have called it. I welcome suggestions! :-)

Chapter 6, In the Still of the Night

April 5, just before midnight

Pippin felt himself float to the surface of wakefulness. He rolled over, trying to will himself back to sleep, but to no avail. No matter which way he turned, the fullness in his bladder followed. It must have been all that water he drank just before going to bed, he thought ruefully. After supper, Strider had Merry walk with him once more inside the tent, which left Pippin worn out and very thirsty.

“Merry!” he whispered loudly to his snoring cousin.

No answer.

Pippin tried again, “Merry! Wake up!”

Rather than shout and wake up his tent neighbours, Pippin let his legs drop over the side of the bed, slipping his feet to the floor. At once Pippin heard his healer’s words from earlier in the day: “you are not to rise from your bed without Merry by your side nor are you to leave this tent.”

“I’m only going to the privy!” he reasoned under his breath, though no one was awake to listen to it. Rather than head straight for the convenience that had been situated behind a privacy screen earlier in the day, Pippin decided to see if he could rouse Merry from his bedside. However, when his eyes caught sight of the serene expression on his cousin's face, Pippin relented. How could he disturb such a peaceful slumber? He and Merry got so little of it of late. Gazing at his best friend, Pippin saw that Merry indeed looked every bit of his thirty-seven years and then some. Instead of waking Merry, Pippin reached for his dear cousin’s blanket, pulling it up to keep him warm. “Poor old Merry!” Pippin thought to himself.

Pippin next ambled over to the privy do what he got out of bed to do--and feeling every muscle his body used to get him there. When he finished his business Pippin found that his thirst had returned with a vengeance. Consequently, when he returned to his bed Pippin also discovered that his water pitcher was empty. He turned round, looking at Merry...then looked at the empty ewer in his hand. He searched for any sign that Merry was not in the deepest of slumbers, yet the soft, audible snores coming from the nose of the sleeping hobbit suppressed any hope of that.

Pippin sighed. Perhaps if he stood in the doorway a passing soldier might be kind enough to do this one favour of fetching fresh water from the stream. Again, Pippin focussed all of his energy toward a goal; this time, the entryway of his tent. Slowly, and ever so achingly, he finally made it there. Pippin’s ribs were beginning to smart with every movement he made.

Peeking through the door flap, Pippin felt a brush of crisp, clean night air touch his cheek. He took in a deep breath...until a sharp pang in his ribs reminded him that he needed to slow down a bit. Looking up, Pippin saw that the moon was starting His western descent beyond the silhouetted boughs. Not a soul stirred throughout the area of Pippin’s tent, save those on watch on the perimeter of the camp.

“Perhaps I ought to wake up Merry,” he thought sadly when no one passed by. Pippin did not wish to interrupt his dear Merry’s slumber, but the longer he stood here waiting for someone, the more bent he became from the growing pain in his ribs.

But then, as he turned to retreat back inside his tent...

Pippin saw him.

Across from his own tent was Frodo! His dear, dear Frodo.

Pippin’s sharp, green eyes were riveted upon the glorious sight of his beloved cousin and Sam lying upon their beds through the entryway of their own tent, which stood right across from his. Pippin could see the soft glow of the golden lantern light upon the faces of his dear friend and cousin. Something even more marvellous occurred right then as he watched: Frodo turn over in his sleep. Pippin’s keen ears caught a sound upon the breeze; did Frodo sigh?

The empty pitcher dropped to the ground out of Pippin’s grasp, his attention taken elsewhere.  His eyes remained fixed upon the Ringbearer and his servant.

Pippin felt drawn to their tent--the warning Strider gave earlier in the day became a distant drone in his head. Willing or no, little by little, Pippin’s feet began to move forward.

Halfway across the path, Pippin was forced to take a rest, his hands resting upon his knees while he caught his breath. “I’m going to be in for it now!” he said to himself, knowing he would be in trouble with Aragorn, yet he couldn’t stop himself. Pippin looked up, seeing again the sweet faces of his friends deep in blessed slumber. Need drove Pippin forward, heedless of the warnings his body gave to rest a bit longer.

By the time Pippin reached the entrance, his breaths came in hitches, his eyes watered from the pain. He stepped inside.

Wonder came over Pippin; he had not laid eyes on his dear old cousin for ages, it seemed. “He is too thin,” Pippin thought as he leaned upon the footboard for support. His ribs felt as if they were being stabbed by many knives. The face Pippin now saw barely resembled that of the easy-going hobbit he knew as a child. Lines of worry and care etched Frodo’s Face, and no less upon Sam’s. Like Merry, these two looked every bit their ages...more so for Frodo. And his finger! Tears welled in Pippin’s eyes. A bandage swathed over his right hand covered the wound; however, Pippin knew his sword, Troll’s Bane, would find a good place to stick that foul creature Gollum--if he was still alive. It was he who bit off Frodo's finger.

“Pippin? What are you doing out of bed?”

Startled, Pippin leaned away from Frodo’s bed, searching for the voice's origin. Stabbing pain renewed its efforts to overcome the young hobbit. The voice did not belong to Frodo or Sam, of course. Seeing the white-robed figure sitting in the beside chair, Pippin knew it belong to Gandalf. He looked over to the wizard, wordlessly pleading for help as sank to his knees gasping for air. Pippin was losing his battle in fighting the pain.

Time slowed to a near stand-still as darkness closed in around Pippin. Gandalf rose from his chair...Pippin felt his body fall forward, unable to stop the momentum before his forehead grazed the post of the footboard. But he did not feel it. Pippin was already unconscious before he hit the ground.

Chapter 7, Pippin’s Reward

April 7

“Pippin...”

Pippin’s eyelashes fluttered as he came fully awake. He heard various sounds about him, however, it was mostly the echo of someone calling his name in the far reaches of his mind that brought him to.

“Pippin?”

This time, the voice was not of the echoes, sounding very near.

Pippin covered his eyes with one hand, feeling a thin bandage on his forehead. “Strider? What is the time?” he asked.

“Almost nine o’clock,” answered Aragorn.

When Pippin opened his eyes, he no longer saw a Man dressed in the rough, dusty green clothes that a Ranger would wear. Who Pippin saw before him was a noble lord--a kingly Man dressed in cloth of fine, deep red velvet. No crown was upon his brow, yet he looked every bit a king, nonetheless. Pippin did not ask about the new garments, figuring a lord will do as he will.

“How do you feel, Pippin?” Aragorn asked, shifting uneasily in his chair--he had a few questions for this young hobbit.

Initially, Pippin’s tongue was tied, feeling a bit intimidated by Aragorn’s bearing, but soon he regained his Tookish resolve. The tween had never seen royalty up close before; kings were considered ancient legend back in the Shire. Finally Pippin sighed. “I want to say that I feel stupid...but I won’t apologise for having a look at Frodo and Sam. I couldn’t help myself. Besides, everyone else got to see them.”

“You were not a part of everyone else because you were injured, Pippin,” Aragorn reminded the lad. “Just a few days ago you had taken a sleeping draught for the pain in your ribs.” The healer in Aragorn softened his words toward his patient. “Tell me why you might feel stupid, and then I will be the judge of such thought, though I am curious as to what transpired.”

“I didn’t mean to disobey you,” Pippin began, a bit distracted by the goings-on around him. Gamling and two Soldiers of Rohan were busy rearranging the furniture inside the tent, setting out a few chairs in a straight line as if there would be an audience of a sort. Oddly enough, Merry was missing. Pippin forged on in recounting to his healer the events that led up to his collapse in Frodo’s tent.

“Merry was frantic with worry,” said Aragorn. “He must have sensed your distress, for he woke up to discover that you had gone from your bed. We all were worried over you, Peregrin. What do you say to that?”

Pippin fidgeted under the gaze of his healer. “That I...that I am sorry to have troubled everyone, but still...,” he stole a glance toward Aragorn, “I do not regret going to see Frodo.”

Aragorn sat back in his chair scrutinising his young charge. “Even though you disregarded the instruction I gave to not leave the tent?”

Pippin nodded apprehensively.

“Very well, Peregrin Took,” Aragorn replied, “then I have only one question left to ask you.”

“What is that?” said Pippin, wondering where all of this was going. He also wondered what sort of punishment he would receive for his cheek.

“Do you trust me?”

Pippin was a bit shocked by the query. “Why do you ask that? Of course I trust you,” replied Pippin. If not for the grave expression on Aragorn’s face, Pippin might have been amused by the inquisition.

Aragorn expounded upon his question. “Trust entails complete faith in another’s deeds--sometimes accepting his words on blind faith alone. Can you do that with me?”

Now Pippin thought he knew where the conversation was going. “If you’re saying that my actions implied a lack of trust in your abilities as a healer,” said Pippin, “let me assure you, it was not. It was somewhat a lack of judgement on my part, yes,...and yet...” Pippin paused for the right words to come to him. “And yet it was something beyond my control, so to speak,” said Pippin, looking the lordly Man in the eye, “You are my friend! I could no more turn my back on you, my lord, if you and yours were ever in danger--no more than I could turn my back on Merry or Sam--or Frodo after seeing him last evening.”

A light came into Aragorn’s sombre features, and he smiled. “Then I believe we understand one another, my dear friend.” When Pippin gave an inquiring look, the King went on. “To my recollection, your heart--and Merry's--has been moved on many occasions to prove that claim you just made. Neither you or Merry had any idea what would befall you, yet you both accompanied Frodo on his Quest out of love for him. Many such deeds you both have shown since then in like manner, all out of love. In your case, Faramir...Beregond, to name two at present. I believed your behaviour two evenings ago was out of love for your cousin and friend, yet I wanted to hear it for myself.

“Lord Éomer and I have been discussing something for the past week, and I would bring the matter before you for your decision. Éomer wishes to reward Merry’s valour on the battlefield, bestowing him rank--making him a Knight of Rohan. I also desire to reward your courage, your great heart as it is--with rank. I wish to make you a Knight of Gondor--with all of its responsibilities and privileges. Yet, I must know something first. Therefore, I ask you again--do you trust me?”

Pippin’s eyes were wide with amazement. “A Knight?” he whispered. So that is what Gamling was doing! He was getting things ready for Merry’s ceremony. Pippin’s heart swelled with pride for his cousin. And yet...here Aragorn was offering him the same reward. The same feeling that moved Pippin when he first set eyes on Faramir, moved him once again for Aragorn. Tears of joy came to his eyes when he spoke. “Yes, I trust you, my lord, for so you are. You are no longer my Healer, but my King, and I hereby place my utmost trust in you.”

Aragorn smiled sincerely, and then laughed. “Stop, Pippin! Your own ceremony will take place after Merry’s. That is why I am dressed as I am. I had full confidence in the decision you would come to. And I am glad of it.” He leaned down, taking a parcel from at his feet, placing it atop Pippin’s bed. He watched the young Knight-to-be eagerly open the package.

Pippin held up a surcoat of sable velvet with a tree and silver stars embroidered into the breast. The coat appeared to be full-length by its size. He gasped at its splendour.

“That is for you to wear at your ceremony,” said Aragorn, enjoying Pippin’s delight. “Gandalf will help you put it on while I fully dress for the occasion in my own tent.

After Aragorn spoke his last remark, Gandalf came into Pippin’s view. “You gave us all quite a scare the other night, young hobbit!”

Pippin’s brow furrowed in thought. “The other night? You both have indicated that my accident occurred two nights ago. I thought it was just last night.”

“No,” Gandalf laughed, “Today is the 7^th of April. Aragorn sent you into sleep much like your cousin, Frodo. He recalled you so that you may join us in today’s celebration.”

Pippin’s gaze switched to Aragorn.

“I had to, Pippin,” Aragorn confessed, “so that your body would be rested and healed enough to withstand tomorrow’s celebration and feast. Tomorrow, Frodo and Sam shall wake--and I know you and Merry want to be there, as you should, for you are his kin.”

“Frodo will wake tomorrow--and I’ll be there to see it!” Pippin said with excitement.

“Today is yours and Merry’s day of honour. However,” Aragorn continued, “though I will allow you out of bed for today, I want you to take things easy. You will find that you are now able to move about much easier, with residual pain, but that can be easily remedied with medicine. No running, no frolicking, or you will find yourself right back inside this bed. Have I made myself more clear this time?” Aragorn’s last words were firm, yet there was a sparkle in his eye when he said them. He then held out a hand to assist Pippin to his feet.

Pippin readily nodded as he gingerly put his feet to the ground.

TBC

A/N: Whether she likes it or not, lol, I must credit shirebound’s “Shelter” with the idea of honouring Merry and Pippin’s valour separate from Frodo and Sam’s. She so graciously allowed me to include the idea from her story here in my own tale. Without reading “Shelter”, I doubt my muse would have dreamt it up in time for my own story. “Shelter” is a brilliant tale authored by shirebound, set in Cormallen amid a storm and wonderful hobbits. Hope she doesn’t mind me giving a link: http://www.storiesofarda.com/chapterlistview.asp?SID=4592

The Knighting of Merry and Pippin, however, is an obvious conclusion in the books, as we see the two cousins wearing their new livery at Frodo and Sam’s feast. Pippin also declares it himself to Sam. I decided not to detail that ceremony(ies) for my own lack of knowledge on that subject. I would have to do some in-depth research because I’d want to do it all proper.

One more chapter!

Chapter 8, Gift of Love

April 7

Merry studied the game-cloth intensely and then smiled when Pippin let go of his “draughts-pebble”. “Hullo!” he said, taking the double jump with his own dark coloured pebble. Looking at Pippin, Merry made an observation at his friend’s expression. “You’re not concentrating, are you?”

Pippin shook his head. “Normally, I’d be giving you a run for your pence, but I can’t help thinking about Frodo when he wakes up tomorrow.”

Merry nodded in agreement, squinting in the rays of the setting sun, “Me, too.”

After their Feast of Honour held late in the afternoon, the cousins decided to play a few games of draughts. Sometimes Gimli or Legolas would join in and play the winner, but usually, it would be Merry and Pippin against one another.

Aragorn stretched his long legs out in front of his chair, smoking his pipe at the table of honour set up under the shade of a tall oak tree. He had been watching the pair play their latest draughts game. “A watched pot never boils, my friends,” he said with a slight grin at Pippin’s comment.

“Yes, if you continue to dwell on it, tomorrow will never come,” Gimli chimed in, also taking his ease at the table. He, too, spouted smoke from his mouth.

“In a little while,” Aragorn continued, “Éomer and I will take you both aside and instruct you on your serving duties for tomorrow’s feast. Perhaps that will help the evening pass more quickly for you.”

“Aye, it will,” said Pippin, covering his mouth as a wee belch escaped past his lips. “Today’s feast was most excellent!”

“Yes, it was!” Merry added, patting his full tummy. “Thank you again, Aragorn.”

“You are most welcome, Merry,” replied Aragorn, “however, the feast was intended to thank you and Pippin.”

Both Pippin and Merry blushed. It was about this time that a pleasant diversion approached the table at which the hobbits and their friends sat.

“Good evening, my lords,” said *Beregond with low bow. In his arms he bore a thin, rectangular box covered with a white cloth. Around his forehead was wrapped a white linen bandage from his own injury in battle with the same troll that nearly crushed the life out of Pippin. “May I?” he asked Aragorn, although Beregond’s grey eyes held a sparkle as he glanced toward Pippin. He had inquired to Aragorn earlier if he could present a gift to the person who had saved his life, nearly forfeiting his own in the process. Once he had seen the gift, the King readily assented.

“By all means,” Aragorn answered.

Beregond approached, carefully setting the cloth-covered box upon the table. The former Guard of the Citadel knelt to look the young Perian in his bright, green eyes, but before he could utter the first words he had practiced all day long, his own eyes filled with unshed tears. He bowed his head until the overwhelming emotions passed.

“I...,” Beregond began in a whisper, “I wish to...” He pushed the formality and recital of words aside in favour of expressing himself straight from the heart.

Pippin had no idea of what his friend was trying to say, however, he took one of Beregond’s hands in a tender gesture, hoping it would give this stout soldier the emotional support that he needed at the moment. No sound could be heard; only the twittering of birds high above in the treetops.

Finally, the tall Man mastered his voice again, looking Pippin in the eyes, he spoke. “There...are no words, Sir Peregrin, that can express my deepest gratitude, my heartfelt thankfulness, for saving my life.” Beregond sniffled, taking the handkerchief Merry offered to wipe his nose and eyes. “It is because of you that my son is not fatherless.

“As a lesser token of my gratefulness, I offer you this gift--in remembrance of our friendship while you are far away in your own little country...and in no small measure, my undying friendship.”**

Pippin cast an astonished glance toward Merry and then Aragorn.

“Open it, Pip,” Merry’s soft voice prompted his beloved cousin.

Pippin quietly removed the white cloth that was concealing the gift.

“Oh!” Pippin said in complete delight at the dark, well-polished wood. “It’s...it’s... What is it?”

Beregond laughed, “Open the latches.” He turned the box around in Pippin’s hands and assisted the tween in releasing one of the brass flip-latches, then allowed him to open the other one on his own.

Merry leaned up on the table for a better view as Pippin opened his gift. Both young hobbits gasped at the splendour they saw inside. Pippin could smell the new leather of the hand-crafted playing board that bound the wood, which was polished to a high gloss. The grid on the playing side was painted in alternating light and dark brown squares to match the leather. Round, flat disks painted in red and black were neatly lined inside the brown velvet space that encased the draughtsmen. There was a small gold knob upon a velvet lid that Pippin lifted, but it only revealed an empty compartment underneath. Pippin politely said nothing, merely continuing to admire the artistry and skill of the maker.

“Did you make this, Beregond?” Pippin asked, still quite stunned.

“Some of it, yes,” the man replied. “I made the draughtsmen, polished the game board and glued the velvet to the box. However, I must confess that I had help otherwise.”

“This is wonderful!” Pippin exclaimed. He looked up at Merry who smiled back at him. “Do you mind if I asked who helped you?”

“Another comrade of ours, Brandir, is a master craftsman with wood. When he discovered who I was presenting this to, he begged to carve the chess pieces. The empty space you saw will soon be filled with intricately carved chessmen. Not only did he wish to honour you in his own way, but you apparently remind him of his son who, in appearance, seems to be about your age although I have since conveyed to him that there are differences when it concerns the Pheriannath.”

Pippin once again looked over the lavish gift. “This is beautiful!  I...I don’t know what to say, Beregond.”

Beregond smiled. “Merely say that you will accept this small symbol of our everlasting friendship.”

“I do,” Pippin said with a sincere smile. “Thank you.”

TBC

Sorry--I accidentally lied again. I thought I’d be able to wrap it up in this last chapter. Guess not.

* Beregond is a new addition to the story. I entertained the idea of bringing his character into the story when I started the re-write, however, it was Lindelea's review that really nudged me.

**Lastly, this is the same draughts game that Pippin so reverently shares a game with Diamond and Merry in “The Courtship of Peregrin Took”. Garnet Took wondered in one of her reviews how Pippin came upon his gift. There you are, G.T.!

Chapter 9, Gift of Life

April 8

Pippin sat leaning upon the table, head held up by an arm, legs swinging underneath his chair. He impassively watched Merry doodling objects in his tablet; his cousin dealing with his own nervousness of what was about to happen. Two plates held half-eaten scones, eggs, and salted pork sat off to the side of the table. Pippin felt as if a multitude of butterflies were fluttering their wings inside his belly, so he ate little. Merry barely touched any of his breakfast. At length, the entry flap opened up.

“Are you ready?” Gandalf asked the lads.

Pippin stood to his feet at once, feeling a slight twinge from his ribs from the weight of his chain-mail. “Yes!” he said unhesitatingly. Merry, too, rose from his seat along with his dear friend.

“Then let us make our way over to Frodo and Sam,” the wizard replied, a hint of a smile on his lips. “Aragorn is waiting for you two before he calls them back.”

Gandalf ushered the cousins outside and toward a familiar copse of trees further out from the tent where Frodo and Sam lay sleeping. “Not in there,” he said to the young hobbits when they marched in the direction of tent. Without a word, the pair fell into step behind the tall wizard. “Aragorn had them both taken out to the fresh air this morning for their awakening,” Gandalf said to the lads.

This was not the first time Frodo and Sam had been sent out to breathe in fresh air; in fact, Pippin, and many of the injured soldiers, had been taken outside on occasion while healing, so this was not unusual. Aragorn was the type of healer who made use of all of nature’s healing properties; including the pure, untainted air of Ithilien.

“Once you are sitting their bedside, you must not make a sound,” Gandalf instructed as they walked. “Aragorn will call their names and then we shall wait for Frodo and Sam to wake. Do not make a move toward them no matter what; allow them to adjust to their surroundings first--let them make the first move.”

As they walked, dressed in their full livery for the festivities later on, Pippin took up the rear behind Merry, paying little attention to the wizard’s instruction, though he could hear the words spoken. Dew drops sparkled in the pale early morn, soaking the hair on his foot as he paced through the bracken. Pippin wished that they were already at Frodo’s bedside and watching him wake. His chief concern being that either hobbit--especially Frodo--was hale and whole again.

Merry, at least, half-listened to Gandalf’s “dos and don’ts” while they walked, however, like Pippin, his mind was elsewhere. It was a little further down the path already beside the bed of his beloved cousin. For the last twenty feet of their march, after the wizard finished his solemn charge, the only sound heard were metal ringlets tinkling with or against small, moving limbs.

When they entered the shelter of a group of trees, they found the Ringbearer and his faithful servant lying beside one another in a large, man-sized bed. Pippin and Merry stood at the foot of the bed in front of Gandalf while Aragorn sat in a bedside chair next to Frodo. In a firm, but gentle voice, the healer called the name of the Ringbearer. “I call you back, Frodo Baggins! Return to me.”

Blue and green eyes darted between their cousin and the King, half fearing something magically to happen, yet they said nothing as they had been instructed. Aragorn repeated the same command for Sam, calling him by name. Neither slumbering hobbit stirred immediately; however, instead of fully waking, Sam began to snore ever so deeply. Merry and Pippin looked at each other, each with a wry grin on his face. Sam, at any rate, seemed to have somewhat come out of his unnatural slumber without the help of magic, although he now slept just as he would as if he were in his own bed at No. 3 Bagshot Row back in the Shire.

Frodo, after a few seconds, did stir a bit, taking in a few soft breaths before his eyelids fluttered open. The dark circles underneath his eyes were nearly gone, yet contrasted the clear blue eyes that stared up into the boughs high above his bed. Without a word or a sigh, Frodo let his eyes travel around the frame of his view, and then sensing the presence of others, his gaze met the faces of...Aragorn--this face he was all too familiar--and a few strangers. But no! Thos two could never be strangers to him, yet they were unquestionably different. Frodo could almost swear his cousins were larger--if that be possible at their ages. In spite of the inexplicable growth of his cousins, Frodo kept coming back to the tall being with the white beard. It couldn’t be!

“Gandalf,” Frodo spoke in a weak voice. “What?...You...you...”

“I am here now, my lad,” Gandalf tenderly assured the waking hobbit.

Sharing the bedside chair that Aragorn had occupied just moments before, Pippin and Merry glanced at one another, disappointed that Frodo had not recognised them. Perhaps they had grown beyond his recognition. Pippin was clearly crestfallen.

Frodo’s eyes met with Aragorn’s and they both shared a smile at one another. Without warning, Frodo turned his head to thoroughly examine his cousins. “Pippin...look at you! Your mother will box my ears when she sees you.”

Pippin’s eyes filled with tears as he answered, “No, she wouldn’t! She’d hug you and kiss you and thank you for saving the Shire. She’d fill you up with her famous mushroom and potato stew and then apple pie for afters.”

Quickly, and in hushed tones, Merry and Pippin filled their cousin in on what happened after the breaking of the Fellowship, every now and then interrupted by Gandalf or Aragorn. However, they all stealthily kept out the more gruesome details for later when Frodo would be stronger.

“Well, there are definitely some things that you all are keeping hidden from me, I can tell,” said Frodo, “After all, I can plainly see that you two have been well rewarded for your valour.”

“Anything and everything that we did, dear cousin,” said Merry, “was out of love for you, our dear and beloved friend.”

Frodo lifted his hand to Merry’s cheek, tenderly wiping away his cousin’s tears. It was then that the elder hobbit took in the sight of his bandaged hand and missing finger. He held it aloft, turning it this way and that. Merry took Frodo’s injured hand in his, drawing it up to his lips then kissed it.

Moved by Merry’s gesture, Pippin kissed Frodo’s forehead and then also his hand. “Aye, we were so worried about you.”

Noting the bewildered and mournful expression on Frodo’s face, Aragorn decided that his patient had enough of visitation. “The time is near for your duties to begin, my good Sirs. Frodo needs a bit more rest ere he prepares for his own bountiful feast.”

Pippin and Merry bade their farewells to their cherished cousin, taking their leave of the King.

As he and Merry left the seclusion of the trees, Pippin glanced over his shoulder for one last look. He could see Frodo lying back against his pillows, one arm behind his head, his injured hand resting upon his chest. Gandalf would keep vigil until later. Pippin smiled; they had all made it, as far as the hobbits went. And soon they would be back home in the Shire, comfortable in front of the heart, sipping tea, and telling stories of their adventures.

The End

A/N: This chapter took me a while to write, as it wasn’t part of my original tale. Dreamflower mentioned Frodo’s waking in one of her reviews, and I thought it was a nice idea.

Note 2: I forgot to mention one thing--I will pull the story on ff.net later tonight for anyone still wanting to torture themselves.  Later this week I will replace it with this edtition.