Stories of Arda - Lord of the Rings Fan-Fiction Archive

"A plot against the newly crowned King leads to possibly deadly consequences for his smallest Guardsman; and disturbing questions arise for the new Steward to answer, as the entire Fellowship rallies around."

(On November 30, 2005 the PippinHealers Yahoo!group began this Round Robin story. It was finally finished on March 20, 2008. Piplover, Lindelea, Auntie Meesh, Slightly Tookish, Cathleen, Dreamflower, Rosietook, Ariel, Pearl Took, Budgielover, and Gryffinjack were the contributing authors.)

It was the silence before the dawn that always bothered him. Those moments in time when it seemed the entire world had fallen asleep but him, and the White City held its breath in anticipation of another day.

At times he would find himself curled on the window seat, watching for the first rays of sun that would end his nightly thoughts and allow him a few moments of sleep. Others, he would spend in his bed, wrapped in blankets pulled tight against his chin, only his eyes peeking out of his cocoon.

He would listen to Merry's soft breath, and hushed voices of guards patrolling the streets. Sometimes he would find his eyes closing, and hoped that maybe, just maybe, he would be able to sleep that night.

It was these moments that were the worst, for when his mind was halfway between awake and sleep, he would hear the shadows of all that happened.

Boromir's hearty laugh would startle him awake, or the low growl of troll. Battle cries followed him from room to room, and the soft shuffle of his feet became the march of thousands.

Worst of all, however, was when all the noises would stop, and the silence became a sound of its own. Heavy and thick, it would hang about his neck until he found himself gasping, clawing at the blankets in a vain attempt to escape.

Only when he found himself sobbing quietly did the silence stop. And even then, he knew it was still there, waiting for him. Like a shadow holding its breath, waiting to pounce.

‘What ever is the matter with you, cousin?’ Frodo said good-naturedly at breakfast one morning. ‘Do you intend to keep that wonderful marmalade all to yourself this morning? I've asked you twice now to pass it...’

‘He's asleep on his feet,’ Merry said, scrutinizing his younger cousin. He didn't know why it worried him, that the tousled curls were neatly brushed, that the White Tree gleamed from a black surcoat unmarred by a single speck of dust. A peek under the table showed even the curls atop Pippin's feet were brushed and in order.

‘I'm on a chair,’ the young guardsman said with exaggerated patience, as if to a doddering old uncle. ‘And I'm hardly asleep--why, I've got to be attending the King shortly after breakfast! It certainly wouldn't do to be less than my best! I must attend to every detail.’ It took some effort, but he managed to stifle a yawn.

‘As a matter of fact, I did intend to keep the marmalade to myself, for I fear it is too rich for your digestion, but since you insist, Frodo,’ and rising from his chair he lifted the marmalade pot, made as if to toss it across the table, and, satisfied by the flutter of surprise from his older cousins, scampered around to Frodo's place and plopped the pot into Frodo's lap--right side up, thankfully!

Frodo's eyes narrowed as he stared at the closed door. ‘Sam,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Has Pippin said anything to you?’ For he knew that the younger cousin would sometimes confide in the gardener, when he didn't want to “bother” his older cousins with his troubles.

‘Not a word, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam said, hopping up to replenish Frodo's teacup. He stopped to scratch thoughtfully at his ear. ‘As a matter of fact, he's been less chattery, the past few days.’

‘Perhaps he's growing up,’ Frodo said. ‘After all, he has quite a responsible position for a tween... attending the King, through those interminable meetings with the ambassadors from Harad and...’

‘And sparing you the trouble,’ Merry put in, rising and throwing his serviette upon the table. He had a King to attend, himself, that morning. ‘Pip and I stand behind our lords, doughty warriors that we are, kin to the Ring-bearer, slayers of Trolls and other things, and when the lords of East and South grow too obstreperous we simply lower our eyebrows and glower...’

Pippin wasn't glowering at the moment; rather he was grinning and chuckling at a joke told by Targon, one of his firmest friends in the city of Minas Tirith. Together they had marched to the Black Gate; together they had ridden in a wain from the Morannon to Cormallen; together they worried about the anticipated fate of their comrade Beregond, though few words were needed between them on this matter or any other.

But the Citadel guard lowered his voice as Pippin made move to pass through the gateway. ‘Did the sleeping powder not work?’ he said. ‘You look as if you're still quite a few winks short of a night's sleep.’

‘Worked very well indeed,’ Pippin laughed, though in truth the powders were still in a pouch under his pillow. A spoonful in a small amount of strong spirits, Targon had said, tendering the pouch a few days before, when they'd been talking about not sleeping, and Targon had told of a guardsman who'd gone mad for lack of sleep and started slashing with his sword at foes that were only in his imagination... But for one of your folk, perhaps not a spoonful, but merely a pinch, the guardsman had added thoughtfully. You wouldn't want to take too much of the stuff.

Pippin had given the matter some thought, though he wasn't desperate enough to try a sleeping powder--not yet, anyhow. He'd come to the conclusion that, since hobbits seemed to need more food and drink to sustain them than Men, and the powder was something you took in drink, he'd probably need at least as much as a Man, or perhaps more. He'd start small, and if the stuff didn't make him feel sleepy...

He'd been sorely tempted in the wee hours of this morning, though, when the usual half-dream had turned again to nightmare. The talk among the guardsmen last night had been of Faramir, and Denethor, and as if reflecting the somber discussion, this time the shadows were flames.

In his fancy, Pippin had risen, compelled by curiosity to peep in the palantír. He'd crept from his bed to where Gandalf was sleeping, the Seeing Stone hidden in a fold of his cloak. Pippin had stolen away the Stone, as fine a burglar as Bilbo ever was! ...and taking his ill- gained treasure to a private place--the pantry, as a matter of fact, he rested the Stone on a low shelf and closed his hands about it.

Light flared within, and small figures danced, drawing him closer in curiosity, and he saw strange sights. But as he feasted his eyes greedily upon the orb, his expression turned slowly from pleasure to horror, and though he would have pulled his hands away to cover his face, instead his grip tightened helplessly. In the midst of his panic a small, detached part of his mind felt that this was how a fly must feel, encountering the spider's web. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged.

And suddenly he was surrounded by flames, and he heard cruel laughter, and the flames pricked along his skin as the laughter became somehow Denethor's, and the Steward held Pippin's hands in his, forcing the hobbit to hold the Stone, and the flames danced in Denethor's eyes...

And then Pippin was awake, the stones cold under his feet, a round melon in his hands, and the echoes of nightmare fading. He was in the pantry, true, but he had wandered there in dream. Sleepwalking, he thought with a shiver. If my cousins had found me so…

‘What was that, lad?’ Targon said, and Pippin started at a touch on his arm. ‘Is it well with you?’ And the guardsman's face held an expression of concern.

Pippin shook his head. ‘I was wool-gathering,’ he said, standing straighter.

‘You mustn't use too much of that powder,’ Targon said, lifting a warning finger.

‘Just a pinch,’ Pippin said, nodding his head in agreement. There was the sound of a silver horn, and he forced a grin. ‘They'll be starting soon,’ he said. ‘I had best hurry if I don't want one of Mithrandir's frowns!’

Dismissed by Aragorn after yet another seemingly endless meeting with ambassadors from the South, Pippin wandered through the Citadel, trying to find some sort of distraction. His first instinct was to find Merry and inveigle his cousin into some fun, but Merry was far too sharp, and would want to know why Pippin was falling asleep on his feet. Merry had his own nightmares to trouble him and didn't need to be worrying about Pippin, so that was out. In the end, he failed to find anything very tempting and simply returned to the house he shared with the others, ready for a snack and maybe a nap, if such a thing could be managed.

He was daydreaming about the possibilities awaiting him in the pantry when something penetrated his thoughts. He'd been standing on the doorstep for several minutes now, tugging on the door, with no success. It was only after giving it some serious thought that he remembered the door opened into the house, rather than out onto the street. Flushing with embarrassment, even though no one was about to see, he quickly pushed the door open and stepped into the cool, dark entryway. Once he'd changed out of his livery, eaten and made himself a cup of tea, Pippin was feeling at least somewhat refreshed. It was still early, not past mid afternoon, and he had the house to himself.

Determined to enjoy the solitude, something that happened rarely enough, he filled his pipe, selected a book from the well-stocked bookshelf - a history of Osgiliath - and settled down in the study for a good read.

'There you are, Pippin!' Merry's voice startled him out of the half-doze he'd fallen into. His pipe, which had been dangling forgot from one hand, fell to the floor with a sharp crack, hot embers spilling out onto the rug. Pippin jumped up with a curse, sending the book tumbling to the floor as well, and stamped on the smoldering weed before picking up the pieces of his pipe mournfully.

'That's it,' Merry declared as he walked over to Pippin. 'You know better than to fall asleep with a lit pipe in your hand, Peregrin Took. Something is wrong. Tell me what it is.'

'Nothing,' Pippin answered defensively. 'I'm fine, Merry, honestly. I suppose I'm just a bit more tired than I realized. Listening to all that “diplomacy” wears me out.' He attempted a laugh, but Merry was having none of it.

'You can tell me, or we can go find Cousin Frodo and you can tell him. Either way, you're going to tell.'

Pippin wilted slightly under the stern look Merry directed his way. 'It really is nothing, Merry,' he answered, trying to alleviate his friend's concern. 'I didn't get enough sleep last night and I dozed off. I'm sorry if I worried you, but that's all it is.' Merry looked skeptical, but said nothing more on the subject. Pippin sighed in silent relief as he carefully replaced the book, luckily undamaged, on the shelf.

'D'you feel like a pint?' he asked with a hopeful lilt to his voice as he turned back to Merry. 'Targon told me about an inn not far from here that we've never tried. They play an interesting game there, or so he says. They throw little darts at a board and the person with the best aim wins.'

'Well, in that case,' Merry said, preening slightly, 'you'll have no chance. I've much better aim than you, especially when you've been in your cups.'

'Hoy! And who is it beats you at the slingshot competitions every year?' Pippin countered, relieved that Merry had been so neatly diverted. As he disposed of the pieces of his now useless pipe, he determined that he would take some of that sleeping powder tonight. He couldn't go on as things were, unable to open doors and falling asleep in the middle of the day; it would only be a matter of time before he faltered while on duty, and that did not bear thinking about. With this resolution in mind, he put a smile on his face and braced himself for an evening of scrutiny, determined to convince Merry that everything really was well.

On their way to the inn Pippin and Merry had come upon Gimli walking back from a long afternoon spent studying the stonework of various buildings in the City. It had not taken much for the hobbits to convince their friend to join them, and now Pippin and Gimli sat together at a table, each nursing a mug of ale.

From the far end of the room a sudden shout rose above the din, and Pippin craned his neck to see what had happened.

'He'll never let me forget it,' he said with a mournful sigh as he watched a group of men, many of them his fellow guardsmen, surround Merry to offer their congratulations. He had just bested them in a game of darts.

'Your cousin has a sharp eye,' Gimli noted, taking a long drink of ale before setting his mug down with a thump. 'Though I recall your vision being just as keen. What happened tonight, lad?' he asked, eyeing Pippin critically.

Pippin winced. His turn at darts had been nothing short of disastrous, and though he had managed to laugh off his early exit from the game, Merry had suspected something, of course. Though Pippin had managed to avoid having to answer any questions in front of the men, he had felt his cousin's watchful eyes upon him as he headed back to the table.

'It's nothing, Gimli,' Pippin said, forcing a smile. 'I'm just a bit tired tonight.' He drained the last of his ale and tried to ignore Gimli's concerned gaze as Merry approached the table, clutching an enormous bottle in both hands.

'Is that your prize?' Pippin asked. He reached for the bottle to have a closer look but Merry set it aside, keeping it well out of Pippin's reach.

'It is, but we are not opening it tonight,' Merry replied. 'You've had quite enough already for one evening, Peregrin Took.'

Merry raised his eyebrows. 'Then how do you explain your miserable performance at darts? I may have been boasting today, but I never expected you do so poorly. What happened?' he demanded.

'It's more that that,' Merry said. 'And I think it's more than just a bit of sleepiness, as well.' He leaned closer and lowered his voice. 'I'm worried about you, Pippin. Are you in pain? Should I fetch Aragorn?'

'No,' Pippin replied quickly. 'You're worrying too much again, Merry. I promise you, it is nothing serious. None of us have been sleeping well lately, Merry – including you. I know you understand it when I say that my lack of sleep is just catching up to me.'

'Pippin,' Merry began. By the set of his jaw it was obvious that he was about to launch into another lecture, and Pippin resolved to do all that he could to prevent it.

'Merry, I won't have you worry about something so silly,' he said firmly. 'All I want is to relax and have a few more drinks before going to sleep. I'll feel so much better for it in the morning.'

Merry studied Pippin for a long moment, and inwardly Pippin smiled, sensing that his cousin was relenting.

'All right,' Merry said at last. 'We'll have one more drink this evening and then we're heading back and you're going straight to bed. Tomorrow we are both free from our duties and I intend on making sure that you get plenty of rest. And,' he said, peering at his cousin so Pippin was certain to listen closely, 'if this continues I'm bringing you to Aragorn. Even if you say that it is nothing more serious than a bit of sleep will cure, I would feel more at ease if he had a look at you. So don't think that I'm letting you off easy, Pippin.'

'Do you ever?' Pippin asked with a grin. He reached for the bottle and studied it closely. 'Brandy!' he exclaimed, casting a glance at his cousin as he skillfully changed the subject. 'I say we open this and compare it to that Buckland brandy you are so fond of.'

'I'm not the only one who's fond of it,' Merry reminded him with a knowing grin before turning to Gimli. 'Never mind what my cousin says. I am certain that no brandy from Minas Tirith could ever beat one from home.'

Gimli harrumphed, eagerly eyeing the brandy. 'I am willing to give this one a try,' he said and both hobbits laughed as Merry set to work uncorking the bottle.

As he waited for his drink, Pippin's hand drifted to his pocket and withdrew the pouch of sleeping powder that he had tucked there earlier. Beneath the table, he untied the pouch and reached inside, his fingers brushing against the fine grains of the powder.

Briefly, Pippin puzzled over Targon's words: A spoonful in a small amount of strong spirits. But for one of your folk, perhaps not a spoonful, but merely a pinch. He did not want to overdo it, but it seemed to him that a mere pinch of the powder would only make him drowsy, and not be enough to send him to sleep. Then again, he did not want to grow too sleepy too fast, and be unable to make his way back home. What would Merry think of him then? Finally Pippin came to a decision and scooped out a small handful of the powder, clutching it tightly in his fist.

'Here, Pip,' Merry said, sliding a mug to his cousin and jarring him from his thoughts. Pippin smiled in thanks and, when Merry and Gimli's heads were turned, he dropped the sleeping powder into his drink. It dissolved instantly into the brandy.

After a brief toast to Merry's keen eyesight, Pippin took a long sip of his drink.

The brandy was strong but not unpleasantly so, and it mostly masked the bitter taste of the sleeping powder. Smiling a little to himself, Pippin tipped his head back and drained the rest of his mug.

A conversation had struck up between Merry and Gimli, and Pippin was content enough to listen to their voices as the room dulled around the edges. Perhaps he would sleep tonight, just a bit...

The voices of his companions faded into the background as the light in the smoke-filled room also diminished. Pippin struggled to make out the words of the conversation he’d been following only a short time ago. He felt his face growing warm and reached up with a shaky hand to wipe the beads of sweat away. Had someone stoked up the embers in the low burning fireplace?

Pippin pulled his attention back to the discussion. They were talking about the recent meeting of ambassadors from the southern realms. He giggled. What a boring lot! Glancing around the room, he noticed that the number of men seated across from them had increased into a rather large group. Curious, he leaned closer to catch some of the conversation. Much to his alarm, the group wavered when he moved. Peering closer, he saw that each man now had a twin. Interesting. Whenever had that happened? Pippin noted with amusement that the bartender now had two shiny bald heads as well as two stout bodies, and scurried about doing twice the tasks at the same time. He chuckled to himself. Twisting slowly around, he watched as two identical men tossed darts at two matching dartboards. The movement of the objects as they catapulted through the air made him dizzy, and he looked away in order to steady himself. He fought to keep his attention on Merry and Gimli as the pair continued chatting.

'Pippin? Did you hear what I just said?' Merry regarded him with a raised eyebrow.

'Uhh, no. I wasn’t paying attention. What were you saying?' Pippin squinted at him, unsure which version of his cousin to acknowledge. Unable to decide he focused on the space between the two.

Merry looked at him strangely and then leaned towards him for a closer scrutiny. 'Are you feeling all right, Pip? You look awfully flushed.'

'Aye, lad.' Gimli studied the red face with his keen eyes. 'Are ye a bit too warm?'

'I'm fine!' The exclamation came out more forcefully then he had intended and it seemed to him that his voice echoed bizarrely about the room. He startled, and then darted a look about guiltily. Merry and Gimli watched him with puzzled frowns.

'What were you saying? Something about--' Pippin paused to yawn widely, trying once more to focus on his cousin.

'Never mind,' Merry snapped. 'Perhaps it's time we were on our way. You need to get to bed.'

'Aww, Merry. You're soundin' just like my mum.' Pippin grinned foolishly at him. His Tookish brogue thickened noticeably. 'Just one more drink and then I promise I’ll go along quietly.' Pippin reached clumsily for the bottle of brandy spilling Gimli's drink as he leaned over the table.

'Here now!' The dwarf jumped up as the alcohol began to drip over the edge and into his lap. He stared wide-eyed at Pippin. 'What's ailin' ye lad? I think your cousin is right. Ye need to be getting home to your bed now. I think you've had enough for one night.'

'Oh, Gimling!' Pippin paused, knowing that hadn’t sounded right. Thinking hard, he tried again. 'Umm, Gibling…Giftling…Gamli--' He felt as if his mouth had been stuffed full of marbles and he struggled to speak clearly in spite of the obstacle.

'That's quite enough, lad! Obviously you've had a wee bit too much to drink!' Gimli started around the table as Merry rose to join him.

'And that, in combination with too little sleep is a recipe for disaster! Come, let’s go.' Merry began drawing him out of the chair. Pippin pried at the fingers clamped on his arm.

'No! I told you I'm not ready to be leavin' just yet,' he objected in a loud voice. 'Why, look at all the new people who've only just arrived.' Pippin waved his arm at the room in a grand gesture. 'We canna be leavin' them all alone!' He began to wobble in his chair.

Nodding their agreement, Gimli and Merry reached down and each took an arm. They hoisted Pippin to his feet in one quick movement. The pouch of sleeping powders that had been nesting in his lap plopped onto the floor at his feet.

'Oh…' Pip clutched at his head, the dizziness overcoming him. 'What'd ya do that for? I can do this by myself.' Pippin batted at the hands keeping him upright.

'What's this?' Merry reached down to scoop up the pouch, careful to keep a grip on his cousin. Merry waved the small bag in front of Pippin's eyes.

'Oh! You found it! I shall be forever in your debt, Sir Meriadoc.' Pippin tried an awkward bow and was up righted by his companions with a firm tug.

'I want to know what this is Pippin! Did you take this?' Merry gave him a little shake.

I canna feel my arms and legs Merry,' Pippin slurred, as his trembling increased.

Gimli reached for the pouch and opened it, one hand seeking to balance the staggering hobbit. He sniffed at the powder suspiciously. Turning to Merry he shrugged. 'I'm not certain exactly what this is. Let's get him out of here, aye? Aragorn should have a look at him.'

Merry nodded, his expression grim. 'I couldn't agree more. We're starting to draw attention to ourselves.'

They headed for the door half hauling, half carrying the still protesting tween with them. Pippin was mouthing garbled pleasantries to the crowd of patrons they passed. Merry shrugged apologetically, bidding the amused customers to please excuse them. As they reached the entrance Pippin stiffened with apparent fear. Sweat poured off his brow and ran down his face. He tried to whisper in Merry's ear, and the whisper became a shout.

'ORCS, MERRY! RUN!!' Pippin tore out of their grip and lurched out the door , managing only a few steps before falling flat on his face on the flagstones. The young hobbit lay very still, hardly appearing to breath.

Together they lifted Pippin up and stared anxiously into his glazed eyes. They were unfocused and it was obvious the lad was unconscious. Gimli felt for a pulse. It was weak and irregular.

'Get Aragorn!' he hissed. The dwarf stood tall and shouted at the top of his lungs to the crowd that had gathered. 'Someone get the King!'

In the Citadel, in the room that he had begun to use as an informal study, King Elessar sighed, and removed his crown and mantle. He seated himself, and made a gesture. 'Please be seated, Faramir.'

'Thank you, sire--er, Aragorn.' It was hard for Faramir to remember sometimes that the King had asked him to use his personal name when they were alone. He hoped it would get easier as time went by.

'On the surface, they seem to be just what they say: petitions to establish peaceful relations with Gondor. Nevertheless, I see things in them that do not seem completely forthright.'

'I agree. I am particularly disturbed by some of the language describing the trade that Far Harad wishes to establish. There are some things in that document with which it is better that we of the West never deal.'

'Among other things.' Aragorn looked again at the petition from Far Harad. It was clear that some of these things had already been coming into the City, and the Haradrim wished to insure that such trade was not stopped.

Aragorn looked up crossly. What could anyone want with him at this time of evening?

The door opened, and a Guardsman entered with an air of urgency. 'My Lord King, we have received word that something is seriously wrong with the Ernil i Pheriannath. He is being conveyed to the Houses of Healing as I speak!'

Without another word, Aragorn moved. Faramir followed at his heels, realizing as he hurried behind, why his liege had been dubbed Strider.

Merry had no need to abandon Pippin to fetch the King, for several Guardsmen had followed from the inn. Some of them were Pippin's comrades from the Third Company. One of them raced up to the Citadel, and another, saying 'By your leave, Sir Meriadoc,' swept Pippin up in his arms and began to hurry up the street. 'We shall take him straight to the Houses of Healing.'

Merry wasted no breath in answering, for he was running as fast as he could to keep up. Gimli was right behind him.

They approached the steps of the building, and almost at the same moment, Aragorn and Faramir came dashing up.

Merry puffed, and then looked up, as he saw Aragorn take Pippin in his own arms.

'Strider,' he held up the small pouch. 'We found this. I don't know what it is, but I think he may have taken some of it.'

The King nodded, and took it from the distraught hobbit. 'Thank you, Merry.' He looked at Gimli. 'Gimli, would you please go and tell the others?'

'Aye,' said the Dwarf. He placed a strong hand on Merry's shoulder and gave it a squeeze. 'It will be all right, lad. Aragorn will take care of him.'

Merry barely heard him. He rushed to keep up, as Aragorn carried his cousin into the Houses of Healing.

Gimli turned and went down the steps. He was not hurrying now. He was trying to think of how to tell Frodo and Sam about Pippin. At least the guesthouse was on the next level.

As he approached the house, he heard a familiar voice hailing him from the top of the courtyard wall. Legolas sometimes sat up there to get a better view of the stars. 'Gimli! What is wrong?'

Gandalf was seated in a chair by the hearthside reading a book and smoking a pipe. Frodo was on a footstool, and similarly occupied. Sam was nowhere to be seen.

The wizard and Frodo looked up, and Frodo's face grew alarmed, as he realized that neither Merry nor Pippin were in Gimli's company, as they had been when they set out for the evening.

Gimli glanced up at Legolas, who nodded, and headed for the inner chamber which the hobbits all shared. A second later, he returned, shepherding the sleepy Sam before him, rubbing his eyes and blinking. 'Begging your pardon, Mr. Legolas, but what's going on?'

Gimli looked at the others, and realized he could no longer put off delivering the bad news. 'Young Peregrin has been taken to the Houses of Healing. The King and Merry are with him. He's in a bad way.'

A chamber had quickly been prepared, and Aragorn laid Pippin upon the bed. Three other healers had joined him, bringing hot water and other items he might need.

Merry and Faramir moved out of the way, to stand against the wall by the door. Merry felt Faramir's hand upon his shoulder, but he said nothing, for he was watching intently all that Aragorn and the other healers were doing.

Aragorn took the pouch Merry had handed him, opened it, and put a forefinger into the powder. He sniffed it, and then put his tongue to it, and his eyes widened in alarm.

'How in Middle-earth could Pippin have got hold of this?' he asked 'This is poppy--very strong and pure--Haradric poppy!'

Merry spoke up. 'I don't understand, Strider! Healers use poppy all the time; what is so terrible about this?'

The King looked over to where he stood. 'Not this kind of poppy; this is altogether different from the poppy we grow. This kind of white poppy comes from Far Harad. It is far stronger and more dangerous than any sort grown here in the West.'

Just then the door flew open, and Frodo and Sam burst into the room, followed by Gandalf. Legolas and Gimli waited just outside the open door, hovering anxiously.

At the sight of Frodo, Merry broke away from Faramir's side, and threw himself into Frodo's arms, bursting into tears. 'Oh, Frodo! It's horrid!'

Meanwhile, Aragorn had turned his attention back to Pippin. With the assistance of the other healers, he had caused Pippin to gag. Then they held the basin near him as he retched, bringing up whatever he had in his stomach. When it looked as though the young hobbit could bring up nothing more, he turned back to one of the other healers.

The hobbits, who had been trying to comfort Merry, suddenly turned. Merry cried out 'Strider, no!' at the same moment, Sam said sharply 'Belladonna? Strider, that's deadly nightshade! It’s poison!'

'I know,' Aragorn responded softly, 'but as dangerous as it is, it is the only thing I know of that will counteract the effects of too much Haradric poppy.'

Aragorn turned to one of the other healers and gave her quiet instructions, then he crooked a finger at the hobbits to come over near the bed, so that they could see Pippin. They clustered together fearfully, Merry now silent, but still clinging to Frodo, remembering his fear in Cormallen when he had last seen Pippin laid low, Sam shaking his head sadly. Frodo looked appalled.

'If we do this, we will make a tiny cut in a vein, and then, through a hollow reed, we will place a drop of the belladonna extract directly into his blood. It will cause his heart to race; it may make it somewhat difficult for him to breathe. Those effects should pass soon, and when he recovers, which should be quickly, he will have a dry mouth and his eyes will be sensitive to light for a few hours. That is if all goes well. I will not deny that the wrong dose could be very nearly as dangerous as that which he has already ingested. But we must do something soon to counteract the poppy, for as small as he is, most of what he took has already entered his system, and he could lapse into a sleep from which he does not waken.' Standing up, the King looked down at Pippin's limp form, and gently brushed aside a curl from his brow. 'Frodo, you are his oldest cousin. By the customs of your own people, you must choose whether I continue.'

Frodo sighed and turned to look at Pippin, as if asking him for advice on what should be done. Early on in their travels, when it was made clear that Pippin would not soon be returning to Tuckborough, Frodo had promised himself that he would make sure the youngest and only male child of the Thain would make it home healthy and in one piece. He'd made this promise not only because Pippin was his cousin, but for the reason that the entire Baggins family would never be forgiven for the actions of the one who managed to get the Thain's heir killed or injured in such a manner that would prevent the family line continuing. Saying no to the treatment Aragorn had in mind would be as bad as if he had fed Pippin to a warg or left him behind in the snows on Caradhras (Pippin had never much liked the cold and the mountain had thus been the bane of the young hobbit's existence).

However, there was still the possibility that the belladonna would not have the desired effect and Pippin would die. It would effectively be Frodo's fault and he would have to be the one to deliver the news to Eglantine and Paladin. The thought of poor Eglantine, who had in her own right been a very motherly figure in Frodo's younger days, weeping over the loss of her youngest child, and Paladin, both sad at the loss of a child and angry with Frodo, made Frodo shudder and shut his eyes tightly.

'Frodo,' Merry said, clinging ever tighter to his cousin's side. 'I don't want Pip to die.'

Frodo opened his eyes and wrapped his arms around Merry, squeezing gently. 'And he won't, not with hands of a king ministering to him. Aragorn,' Frodo said softly, trying to sound strong for Merry's sake. 'Do what you must. If I can trust you with my own life, I can trust you with that of one of my relatives and dearest friends. Please help him.'

Aragorn nodded. 'I will do all that I can. But do not set your hopes so high that they cannot be touched. I suggest you prepare yourselves for the best, the worst, and everything in between. I do not say this to be cruel, only to save you from utter despair should the worst happen. I hope it does not and your words, Frodo, mean more than I can express.' Nodding an acknowledgement to the healers who had brought the water, athelas leaves, and tincture of belladonna, Aragorn then turned his attention to Gandalf, who had separated himself from the hobbits somewhat after realizing that this was not something he should be intruding on and yet wanting to be there to comfort them should they ask for it.

'Gandalf, if I might ask a favour of you once more, stay with the hobbits and try to calm them as best you can while I and the other healers are working with Pippin. I think the stress of worrying over their cousin's health has already begun breaking their hearts and minds.' Leaning in a little closer so that only the wizard and he could hear, Aragorn whispered, 'If you can, try to calm Merry enough so he will sleep. The rest would do him much good right now.'

'I can only try, Elessar. May the Valar protect you and aid you in saving Peregrin's life.' Gandalf nodded respectfully, then quietly ushered the three solemn hobbits out of the chamber, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Even after all the years he had associated with them, it still amazed Gandalf that, through their grief, hobbits could find a part of their stomach still able to hold in food and drink. The small meal had been Sam's idea, being ever trying to make those around him as comfortable as possible, and had consisted of bread, cheese, fruit, and water (Merry had started crying when Sam suggested ale, but Gandalf had saved Sam from the troublesome situation by bringing in a pitcher of water to replace the 'vile drink' as Merry had called it). It was a simple meal, even with the apples, which were still quite valuable in Gondor as the growing of apple trees had not been too successful in most parts of the kingdom, save for a small area near the sea, and yet it seemed to comfort the worried hobbits more than any words from the wise wizard ever could.

After clearing the cups, plates, and bits of cheese rind from the table, Merry decided that perhaps a bit of sleep would in fact be a good idea, even though he insisted on being woken the second any news at all was brought regarding Pippin. This of course followed some gentle prodding from both Gandalf and Frodo, who was probably the more eager of the two to see Merry get some rest. Sam offered whatever help Merry may need, which Merry readily accepted. He was unsure of his ability to do anything more than fall onto the bed, being both mentally and physically exhausted. After the two hobbits had stumbled out of the room, Frodo sighed wearily and slumped down in the chair he'd climbed onto a moment before.

'Oh, Gandalf, I don't know what to do. I feel somehow responsible for all of this. It's my fault that Pippin even joined me on the Quest and in a way, that makes me responsible for what is happening with him now. I never should have left Pippin come with me. He's far too young.'

Gandalf gestured with his free hand as he puffed on his long-stemmed pipe for a moment, then removed the stem from his lips and blew a soft ring of smoke into the air above his head. 'My dear Frodo, however good your intentions, nothing can change what has happened to Peregrin on this journey. He is young, but he is not as naive as you would think. There were times on our ride to the White City, as well as our first few days here, that I became the only person Peregrin felt he could talk to. He confided in me with secrets darker than even you could ever imagine.'

Frodo frowned and cocked his head to the side. 'I don't understand. What do you mean 'secrets darker than I could imagine'?'

'I would tell you, Frodo, but you knowing is not something I can decide. If you wish to know, you will have to ask Peregrin to explain. But I would wait and not put too much stress on him, not just yet anyway.'

Gandalf continued with their conversation on a different thread for a while longer, mostly reminiscing about the past, something both of them were quite good at. Sam never rejoined them, but the reason was soon clear when a high-pitched sound somewhere between a snort and a whistle drifted from the hobbits' sleeping chamber. The fire had died down, been re-built, and begun dying again by the time Gandalf and Frodo decided it was time to retire to their own beds.

But even as they both stood and moved slowly toward their own rooms, a swift knock on the door sent Frodo, who was in the middle of a jaw- cracking yawn, rushing over to hear whatever news was being delivered.

Pippin's last movement, after they'd purged his stomach again and settled him onto the high bed to examine him, had been a feeble attempt to push away the hands of the healers trying to remove his shirt, but he was motionless now, in an deep unnatural sleep, his skin strangely grey in colour, shadowed and clammy and his breathing laboured. The healer who'd brought athelas water looked up from the other side of the bed and shook his head. Pippin was becoming more and more difficult to rouse, even by pain. The first sign, Aragorn grimly noted. It confirmed his greatest fear; Pippin had ingested a lethal quantity of the Haradric poppy and was rapidly succumbing. With such a dose, he might never wake from this cursed sleep.

'I've just seen them away,' Legolas answered. 'Frodo was quite torn. He wished to remain, but for the other hobbits' sake, went with Gandalf. At parting, he asked me to remind you that Pippin is the closest thing his people have to an heir of the blood.' The Elf cocked an unperturbed eyebrow. 'I believe he was trying to indicate that you should not fail.' Aragorn thought he sensed a note of grim amusement from his friend. 'I concur. You must remember Frodo has bested Sauron. I suggest you do not disappoint him.'

Aragorn nodded. 'I'd sooner sever my own leg than see this bright fellow come to harm. But counteracting this poison will be a dangerous business in any case.' He picked up a phial from the table. The tincture within it looked dark and ominous inside the green glass. Belladonna. Potentially as deadly as the Haradric poppy. 'But we can not wait any longer.'

The contraption he picked up next was a small, glass globe with two projections from it. One was long, delicate and ended almost in a point but was hollow like a quill. The other was hollow also but shorter and on the end of it was attached a small bladder. The globe itself had a hole in the very top covered by a waxed stopper. Aragorn removed this and measured out a very small amount of water into the strange device's centre. The amount of the belladonna tincture he would need would be miniscule for a patient Pippin's size. He paused, recalculating the dosage once again. Any more than one drop and the poison would act as a sedative, not stimulant, and Pippin might never waken.

Aragorn had been to Far Harad and had seen the glazed eyes of the poppy eaters before. He had even entered one of their houses once, out of horrified curiosity, but the place had so disheartened him he had to leave it. It was reminiscent of the den of some malevolent spider, its denizens, her prey, beyond hope and help, drugged and waiting for her to drain the lifeblood from them. He carefully dripped one drop into the globe and swirled the mixture gently. He could not have saved the men in that dark house, they had given their souls to the drug long before he had chanced upon them, but he would not abandon Pippin to such a fate. He stoppered the globe and laid it on its side so that the mixture pooled away from the spines and stopper and then turned back to his patient.

He drew back the soft, woolen blanket. Pippin's bare chest was as pale, grey and clammy as his face. The poison was running its deadly course with frightening speed. Aragorn gripped his friend's upper arm, temporarily blocking the blood returning from the limb. After a few moments, he turned it over and tapped the inside of the elbow with his fingers. A small welt rose, the vein running purple beneath it. None of the reeds they had assembled for the purpose looked small enough to direct medication into the course of a hobbit-sized vessel, but it had to be tried. There was no other choice.

Aragorn clamped the hobbit's hand under his arm to keep it still, even though his patient was no longer even trying to resist him. He could feel Pippin's weak, erratic pulse fluttering beneath his hand. The young hobbit was succumbing. There wasn't an instant to lose. He picked up his small knife.

'The moment I have the slit made, you must insert the smallest reed you have into it and hold it there.' He looked up at the healer who was assisting him. Legolas stood behind him and Gimli kept watch on the door behind them.

Aragorn had never seen the dwarf so plainly terrified. Poison was not the kind of adversary one could battle with an axe. The poor fellow was decidedly out of his element, but would not leave the companion whose life he had almost single- handedly saved.

'Keep the reed canted in line with the vein and do not push it deeply into the opening. I will not make a large hole so you must be quick or you will lose sight of it in the blood that emerges. When I fit this bulb over the top of the reed, it is vital that you do not push the thing in too far or I won't be able to get the medication into him.'

When he nodded, Aragorn gave a quick flick with the knife and a tiny slip of dark red appeared on Pippin's arm. The assistant had the tiny reed in place in the next moment and a few seconds later, dark red blood began welling laboriously out of the top of it.

Aragorn fitted the bulb's long protuberance into the reed and turned the glass so that the belladonna liquid drained into the longer tube. Blood mingled with it and began to back up into the bulb. The King eased his numbing grip on Pippin's upper arm and with the other hand very gently squeezed the attached bladder. Tincture and blood were forced gradually from the bulb down the long tube.

When the glass chamber was empty, Aragorn nodded again to his healer and the man quickly slipped the reed from its entry point and covered the wound with a bandage.

'Would you believe from an ancient healer of Eriador?' Aragorn lifted one of Pippin's eyelids. The pupils were still tightly contracted. 'When I was but a boy, an old Ranger came to Elrond's house with a great hoard of ancient books. He said he was the Librarian of the Dúnedain, keeping the tales and knowledge of my ancestors for the day the North Kingdom would be restored. He'd no heir and so brought his treasure to my foster father for safekeeping.' He checked the arm he had injected the medicine into. It was still chilled, but whether that was from his grip or the effects of the poison, he could not tell. 'I devoured them. While exploring the cache of herbs and tools here in the Houses of Healing, I saw this device neglected on a shelf. I don't expect any here knew what it was or what it could be used for, but I had seen a diagram of it in one of those ancient books and recognized it immediately.' He drew the blanket back up to Pippin's still frighteningly unmoving chin. 'Let us hope that my chance find was a lucky one for Peregrin.'

Legolas' sharp tone brought the King swiftly out of the nap he had sorely needed and had been loathe to take. He rubbed his face to rouse himself and was on his feet in an instant.

Aragorn re-entered the small room, still drawing on his jerkin. Pippin was moving though without strength and his motions were directionless and confused. Gimli held him from behind, his eyes bright with unshed tears, to keep the young hobbit from throwing himself off the bed.

'He's no idea who we are,' the dwarf agreed. 'Poor bright lad, it's as if his mind has gone!'

Gimli had one arm wrapped tightly around the hobbit's chest; the other held his forehead while Pippin's arms flailed freely. Aragorn caught them and checked the hobbit's pulse. Though it had strengthened, due probably to his ineffectual thrashing, it was even more wildly erratic than before. Dank, cold sweat also now covered the youngster's body, but most alarming of all was his glassy, unseeing and terrified gaze.

Aragorn took his patient's face into his hands and forced him to look into his eyes. No recognition flickered there. He wasn't even focusing on what was before him.

Legolas did not even ask for clarification, but was off as quickly as only a wood elf could move.

Gimli stroked the small, sweat-slicked brow. Pippin remained oblivious. 'Do you think he will recognize them if he does not know us?' As if in answer, the hobbit shrank away from the dwarf's touch, clawing weakly at the arm that held him until his eyes rolled back and he sagged.

Aragorn shook his head. 'I don't know, but this is the turning point of his treatment. If any can call him back, it will be his kin. If even they cannot, then they will at least be here when…'

Gimli gripped his charge tighter though Pippin seemed almost too spent to struggle. 'Aye,' he nodded.

'You must come and quickly.' Legolas's bright eyes flicked from Gandalf's worried face to Frodo's grim and pale one. 'Aragorn has called for you. Pippin's condition is coming to crisis. He feels your presence would aid the young one.'

'No,' Frodo answered quickly before the Elf could. 'Don't wake them, Gandalf. I am eldest and this was my choice. I am solely responsible for the consequences. Merry might be furious with me, but there's really nothing he can do but worry. They've just got to sleep… If it looks that dire, I will call for them, but let's let them sleep while we can. They'll be more use to Pippin later if they've rested.'

The Elf frowned. 'I am no healer,' he said, 'but I believe you, Frodo, are the best hope he has. You will be able to command him with both authority and love. Merry loves him, but is distraught. Cool heads are needed now. If you wish, I will stay here with them and await word.'

'That would be a kindness.' Frodo nodded, accepting. 'Let us hope I won't need to send it.'

The strangled scream that met Frodo's ears as he entered Pippin's sickroom was both familiar and frighteningly alien. Aragorn sat beside his cousin on the bed, his forehead bent, touching Pippin's, his eyes closed in concentration. Gimli looked up from his position holding the younger hobbit upright. A third healer held Pippin's legs.

A visible shiver ran down Aragorn's back and he straightened. He turned and looked at the Ringbearer. 'He's fighting me, not letting me in to calm him.' He nodded, as if thinking. 'Yes. Yes, it is good you came alone, Frodo. You are eldest, Pippin will listen to you.'

Frodo could almost not tear his eyes away from his young cousin. Dark shadowed, wildly staring eyes looked unseeingly out of a pale, glistening face. He looked haunted, haggard.

'Pip… 'Frodo looked away from the frightening visage. 'Pippin was never much of a one for listening to anyone.' Their patient convulsed and let out another baleful cry. 'But, I will do whatever I can,' he finished in a terrified whisper.

'I'm going to take you with me into his mind.' When Frodo shook his head, confused, the King put a hand on his shoulder. 'I am no wizard or seer, Frodo, but I can call the injured spirit. You too have skills yet unguessed, but this time you need only rely on your love and strength. Pippin needs both now. I dare not give him any more of the drug, but together, we can give him a guide in his delirium, a path to follow out of this madness, and I believe you can show him a way to keep this evil from consuming him from within, how to live beyond the darkness.'

Aragorn smiled, the warmth, respect and love in his face almost embarrassing Frodo.

'You took the One Ring into its maker’s lair and destroyed it under his nose. I think my confidence very well placed.'

Aragorn's hands were gentle and steady as he laid the right upon Pippin's forehead and the left upon Frodo's. For long moments the only sound to be heard in the room was the harsh breathing of the young hobbit.

Frodo felt the blood thrumming in his veins, could feel the pull of Aragorn's bright light and the push that was his cousin's resistance. Sweat began to bead upon his brow, his palms moist with it as he felt his hands clench with effort.

But there was no response from Pippin, and even his struggles of before had subsided, only a sliver of green showing beneath heavy eyelids.

'He does not recognize us,' Frodo finally whispered, his hoarse voice breaking the silence so suddenly that Gimli started, scowling.

'What is to be done then?' the dwarf demanded, and even his beard seemed to be bristling with indignation at his lack of ability to fight this unseen enemy. Only Legolas' hand upon his shoulder kept him in place, and when the elf turned despairing eyes to his friends, Frodo felt his heart sink in a way he had not thought possible.

'It is up to Pippin now,' Aragorn whispered softly, using the hand still resting on Pippin's brow to gently stroke the pale temple. 'Only he can decide if he is strong enough to come back to us.'

The smell of grass, sweet and bitter at the same time, tickled his nose, blades of brilliant, emerald green poking insistently into his cheek. He turned his head slightly, felt the rustle of hair over silken stems, and wondered where he was.

The voice, soft and gentle as any snowfall he danced with in his youth, sounded close above him, and when Pippin squinted he could just make out the figure sitting beside him, a blade of grass stuck between his teeth.

'A mistake?' Pippin repeated, dazed. A tickle in the back of his mind warned him that something was wrong, but he could not quite picture it.

'A very grave one, I am afraid,' Boromir agreed. 'However, you still have a chance to fix it.'

A fond smile touched the pink flushed face, and for a moment the world shone as bright as any sun on a hot summer day.

'Do you remember the tale of the sleeping princess?' Boromir asked instead, eyes crinkling at his friend's confused nod. 'You ate the poisoned food, Little One, and like the princess, you sleep without dreams.'

'I wanted to sleep,' Pippin whispered after a moment, eyes closed as he struggled to grasp memories that floated, like so many spider webs on a Spring day, just out of his reach. 'I was so very tired, Boromir.'

'A hardship shared by many a soldier,' Boromir agreed, sucking on the blade of grass a bit longer before he sighed. With little effort he pushed himself up, looking down at Pippin expectantly as he offered him his hand.

'Is it time for me to go now?' he asked, sitting up slowly and taking the proffered help.

'It is. The others are waiting for you, and there is still much to be done. But don't fear, Little One, you'll get your rest. Now that Aragorn has you in his clutches, you can be assured of that.'

The two walked in silence, Boromir shortening his stride so that his small friend could easily stay by his side. After several moments, he stopped.

'I cannot go with you, but the way is simple enough. Just follow that path to the edge, and then off you go.'

For one moment Pippin was certain he had heard wrong. 'Are you daft?' he finally demanded, glaring at his friend. 'I am a Took! And though I am quite fond of Strider calling me his Little Bird, I can honestly say that I have never grown a feather in my life!'

Boromir's laughter was rich and deep, and he ruffled Pippin's hair easily. At the hobbit's continued scowl, he knelt down to gaze gently into his friend's eyes.

'What happens when we fall, Little One, and cannot get up on our own?' he asked, so gently it hurt something inside Pippin's throat and eyes, so he had to blink to clear them.

'Yes,' Boromir agreed. 'All you have to do is fall, Peregrin Took. Someone will be there to catch you, I give you my word.'

Strong arms surrounded him, a barrier against the fear that started to flutter around his chest. Then they were gone, and Boromir was standing.

Pippin nodded once, his eyes large as he gazed at his friend, drinking in the sight of him as he would a mug of cold water on a hot day. Then he turned, without another word, and made his way along the path, his feet stumbling slightly was the way become uneven and jagged. He did not look back, nor did his pace falter when he reached what appeared to be the very edge of the world.

Closing his eyes for only a moment, Peregrin Took, Knight of the Citadel, allowed his feet to carry him over the edge.

Faramir was not one to stand inaction. From the moment Elessar had pronounced the white powder “Haradric poppy” his mind had begun working at the puzzle. Haradric poppy... how would Pippin have come by such a thing?

He knew enough of healing to realise that there was a fight before them, a long fight or a short one: “short” if the young hobbit should succumb to either the poison or its equally poisonous remedy, and from the apparent speed with which Pippin had been overcome, Faramir was not feeling optimistic about the possibility for victory.

He listened with only half his attention as Elessar laid the case before Pippin’s cousins.

He did not wait to hear Frodo’s choice, whether they would take up the fight with belladonna, or let the poppy take its course. It hardly seemed to matter. A little of the old darkness that he’d known, doggedly pursuing his duty in the face of his father’s grim despair, settled upon him. But he’d faced hopelessness before, and combated it with action.

Faramir drew a deep breath and slipped from the room. Not only would the King be tied up here, for an unforeseeable time to come, but there was an urgent need to trace the deadly poppy to its source, and make someone pay dearly for this night’s work.

He met with the captain of the Guard and the company commanders. Security was already tight, with the foreign representatives among them, but the guard would be doubled from this point. In addition the men would be questioned, and the barracks and buttery searched for evidence. Beregond would be a logical candidate to head up the search; set apart as he was until his hearing should take place had distanced him in a subtle way from his comrades.

When he returned to the Houses of Healing, all was quiet and calm. Faramir hid his apprehension as he inquired after the young knight, but he could not completely suppress his sigh at the news that the fight continued. 'And the pouch?' he said.

'Sir, I—' But seeing his set expression, the healer nodded, excused himself, and returned shortly, leather pouch in hand.

Faramir took the thing as if it might be a snake ready to bite, turning it cautiously over in his hand. 'Citadel guard,' he said slowly. 'Standard issue... a salt pouch...'

Salt was a valuable commodity, rationed in times of war or siege, and salt was part of the pay received by the guardsmen of Minas Tirith. They were free to use the stuff themselves, or trade it for goods, though if they endangered their health, collapsing in summer heat due to a lack of salt in their diet, they were subject to disciplinary measures.

Of course, with victory, one could find salt selling in the marketplace for a pittance. No need to hoard the stuff, and its value in trade had dropped dramatically.

Opening the pouch, shaking out some of the white, powdery stuff into the palm of his hand, he could see clearly that there was no salt, not even mixed in, no attempt to disguise the deadly powder gleaming in his hand. Whatever guardsman owned this pouch had to know that there was no salt therein.

Could Peregrin mistakenly have used the stuff to salt his food? How had he ingested such a deadly portion?

'I want to look through Peregrin's effects,' Faramir said, and called for the clothes the hobbit had been wearing when he'd been brought to the Houses of Healing. He found nothing, but then Pippin had changed from his livery before proceeding to the public house, so Faramir's next objective was the guesthouse where the hobbits were living.

'Show me Lord Peregrin's rooms,' Faramir said, his tone brooking no obstruction.

'He sent you to fetch something?' the woman said uncertainly, for this was Lord Faramir, Steward to the new-returned King, and while she might expect young Bergil to come seeking, the Steward was quite another matter. 'O I beg your pardon, my Lord, of course he didn't. If you'll just walk this way...'

Faramir thought privately that he'd never walk quite that way, not unless he disguised himself once more with women's skirts, for a prank, like the time that Boromir had wagered with him... How Peregrin had laughed, to hear that story! ...but that was neither here nor there, he thought, pulling his scattered thoughts back to the matter at hand.

Peregrin had among his possessions his pouch of salt, a little less than half full, which meant he'd likely shared his portion with others since its issue. But if Peregrin's salt-pouch contained what it ought, the pouch containing the poison must belong to some other Citadel guard.

But what was a Citadel guard doing with this powder? Was there some conspiracy, reaching all the way to the highest levels of the City? Was the King in danger?

And felt strong arms about him. A familiar hand on his brow. Long, gentle fingers, a cool palm.

He gasped, and then gave a sigh, and with a movement of confidence leaned into the welcome embrace.

'Frodo,' he tried to murmur. He could not hear his own voice. His eyes remained closed. If he was to speak, it was too much work to open his eyes.

'Fro…' it came out that time, a raspy whisper, scarcely audible, except to the loving ears that strained to hear.

'Easy Pip, I’ve got you. Hush, now dearest. You’re going to be all right now.' Even as Frodo spoke, he cast an inquiring glance at Aragorn, who nodded. Frodo felt the tension leave his body at the confirmation that his words were, indeed, true.

Frodo buried his face in his cousin’s sweaty curls, his tears of relief mingling with the dampness there. 'Who said that, Pippin-lad?'

A shiver ran through Frodo. How close had his cousin come to leaving the bounds of Arda? He sent a silent prayer of thanks to the fallen Boromir, for watching over Pippin one more time.

Aragorn leaned over the two hobbits, making no attempt to separate them, and took Pippin’s wrist. The pulse was still a bit thready, but stronger than it had been, and growing calmer. He felt the clammy brow, but no fever was present.

Obediently, Pippin’s eyelids fluttered open. There was a brief glimpse of dark eyes--the green nearly swallowed up by the blackness of the apples of his eyes.

Aragorn nodded. 'It is one of the effects of the belladonna. It will make his eyes very sensitive to light for several hours. But he needs rest and natural sleep. By the time he wakens, he should be over the worst of it.'

The door opened, and Legolas ushered Merry and Sam in. The hobbits rushed to Pippin’s side.

Merry gave a sob, and Sam put a comforting arm around his shoulders, for Frodo was still holding on to Pippin.

Aragorn looked at them. 'I think Pippin will sleep the better for your presence,' he said, and patted the covers next to his small patient. That was all the encouragement the others needed to clamber up alongside and arrange themselves around Pippin and Frodo.

The other healer, who had been watching quietly, looked up at this. 'My Lord King—' he said diffidently, hesitating to object to the King, of all people, but perplexed at this breach of the usual way of things.

Aragorn looked at him, and shook his head. 'Men may rest better alone; not so hobbits. Let us close the shutters, and leave them to their well-earned rest.'

The healer turned and pulled the shutters inward, and soon the room was cool and dark. Men, Elf and Dwarf began to file out of the room, but Gandalf sat down in the chair by the bed, and to Aragorn’s inquiring look, said 'I will abide here until they all awaken.'

Once the door had closed behind them, Aragorn turned to look at Legolas, Gimli and the other healer. 'Do any of you know where Lord Faramir might be?'

Targon tossed and turned in his cot in the barracks. He’d had three nights of amazingly deep and trouble-free slumber, before he’d given his pouch of sleeping powder to young Sir Pippin. Perhaps he should not have given it all to him so impulsively, but the lad had looked so weary, and Targon well knew what kinds of things must be keeping his small friend awake.

But Targon was feeling very restless now. Since his friend Eldil in the Fourth Company had given him the powder, he’d thought that he would easily come by more. But he’d had no chance since then to find Eldil. And his friend had not told him the name nor location of the apothecary who’d provided the powder.

Just then, there was a good deal of commotion in the corridor. Targon and a few of the others who had retired for the night got up to go see what the problem was.

'I’ve seen the hobbits in their cups before,' Borondir was saying, 'and they have never acted like that! Nor have I ever seen any of them so much the worse for drink that they passed out!'

'We shall have to wait, I suppose, for Meldil to return. He was the one who carried our little halfling prince to the Houses of Healing!'

Targon suddenly felt his heart drop, and the world spin around him. 'Something is wrong with the Ernil i Pheriannath?' he asked.

Immediately several voices clamored to tell of the events in the tavern that evening, but the ringing in his ears and the fear that gripped his soul kept him from understanding the half of it. Was it his fault? Perhaps what was helpful to a Man for sleeping was poison to a halfling? Should he say something? But to whom?

Suddenly, the call of 'Attention!' caused every mouth to shut with a snap and every spine to straighten.

Striding up the passage were Captain Beleg, another guardsman, Artamir, and Beregond, whom few had seen since the Last Battle.

'Listen up you lot!' Beleg’s face was as angry as any of the Men in the Third Company had ever seen it. 'Beregond has a commission from the Steward to search these barracks. And all of you are to produce your salt pouches immediately!'

Targon swallowed. He hesitated only long enough to take a deep breath, before saying firmly, 'Excuse me, sir, but that will not be necessary! I think that I know what you are looking for.' He had no doubt that he was in serious trouble. But none of that mattered if he had caused harm to befall his dear little friend.

None of the King’s companions had any idea of where the Lord Faramir had taken himself, but a few questions of a nearby guardsman--Adrahil, his name was, and it was he who had gone to fetch the King in the first place, soon revealed that the Steward had gone about the business of investigating where that Haradric poppy could have come from.

King Elessar drew in a deep breath of relief. He was exhausted, and needed rest, but he would not have been able to do so if the matter of the poppy had not been taken in hand already. Still, perhaps he should seek Faramir out; see if he had learned anything yet…

Faramir studied the pale and troubled face of the Guardsman before him. 'So you believed this to be a harmless sleeping powder?'

'So my friend Eldil informed me. It--it helped to keep the nightmares away, my Lord.'

'Three, my Lord Steward. I slept deeply, and though I had vivid dreams, they were not unpleasant--though I could not remember them later.'

'Because--because he looked as though he needed it more than I. I hated to see him looking so wan and tired.' Targon hesitated briefly, and swallowed, continuing, 'I feared very much what might have happened if he should grow so weary as to fall asleep on duty.'

Faramir nodded. It would have been dreadful. Now that the War was ended, Elessar had made it clear he wished to mitigate the more severe punishments that had been put in place over the past few generations. But he had not yet time to do so. To have to administer a public flogging to the Ernil i Pheriannath, beloved cousin of the Ringbearer, would have been little short of a disaster. He did not believe the King could have brought himself to do it. And that would have been a different sort of disaster.

'What were you told by your friend when he offered you this ‘sleeping powder’?'

Gandalf sat and watched the sleeping hobbits, monitoring their dreams, and taking care that their slumber this day would be pleasant and undisturbed. It was not a thing he could do on a regular basis--bad dreams, like good ones, served a purpose. To suppress them completely could cause further problems later on. But on this occasion, the Wizard felt they needed as much undisturbed rest as they could.

And he would nudge Peregrin to be the first to awaken. He needed to talk to the foolish young Took about what had occurred, without interference from the others.

Targon was pale and exhausted by the time the Lord Steward finished his questions.

Faramir sat quietly for a few moments, contemplating the notes he had taken. Then he looked up. 'Targon, you are relieved of duty until this investigation has been completed. You are assigned to help in the Houses of Healing for now. Do not say anything to anyone about what has happened. You are dismissed.'

As Targon left the room, Faramir went to the door and summoned Beregond, who, with Captain Beleg had been waiting outside the room.

'Beregond, I need you to find Eldil, of the Fourth Company, and bring him to me.'

Beregond nodded. 'Yes, sir!' It was very good to be occupied in helping Lord Faramir find out what had happened to Pippin. But he could not help being concerned about the hobbit, or about his friends. How far had this drug spread? And where was it coming from?

Pippin’s eyes fluttered open, and then closed once more. Even the dim light of the shuttered room was nearly too much. He gave a slight wriggle, snuggling closer in to his cousins’ slumbering bodies. He could not quite remember what had happened--he’d been sick somehow--but it was very comforting to be here between Frodo and Merry, with Sam’s gentle snores just the other side of Frodo. What had happened? He tried to cast his mind back…

'Peregrin Took.' Gandalf’s voice was gentle but firm. 'I know that you are awake.'

'Why did you not tell us of the troubles you were having sleeping? Why did you take such a chance of taking an unknown sleeping powder?'

'I didn’t want to be a bother. Everyone has their own worries. They don’t need to be plagued with mine.' He was still whispering, for he didn’t want to wake the others, but also because it hurt to admit this.

'My dear young Took,' said Gandalf, 'how does it make you feel when the others respond in that manner to your concern for them?'

'Gandalf!' Pippin whispered in a horrified voice, 'what did I do? I only meant to spare them, and now I've made everything worse!'

'I suppose I shall have to talk to them--tell them…oh, Gandalf, how can I tell them of the dreams that won't let me sleep? I can't stand to think about them.'

'Peregrin, you dream for a reason. Your mind needs to sort through the experiences you have had, and hiding from those thoughts and memories only make the dreams worse.'

'It is possible that telling your dreams will help the others. They too, need to talk of the things that happened to them--especially Frodo. Tell me, how does it make you feel to keep things from them?'

Pippin blushed and bit his lip. Not talking to them about what bothered him was miserable.

'I think that you will find they have many of the same nightmares and bad memories as you do. Speaking of the dreams will not make them go away entirely, but it will help you to draw off some of the evil memories that plague you. In time, it will make a difference. But you do need to speak to them, and to speak from your heart. Taking a drug to put your mind into oblivion is not the solution.'

In the small room that the King used as his informal office, he sat across from Faramir and listened in dismay to the report of what his Steward had discovered about the poppy.

'It seems that the Guardsman who gave the poppy to Pippin was relatively blameless. He was concerned about the hobbit's lack of sleep, and feared what would happen if Pippin fell asleep on duty.'

Aragorn winced, and sighed. 'I have really got to do something about that. In a time of war, I suppose penalties need to be harsh. But there is no need for such measures now.' He tried, and failed, to imagine himself ordering a flogging for Pippin. All that came to his mind were the horrified and accusing stares of the other hobbits--especially Frodo. He shuddered.

Faramir nodded, and continued. 'Targon received his poppy from a Guardsman in the Fourth Company, one Eldil. Again, the poppy was simply given with the motivation to help, and without any realization of the dangers. However, unlike Targon, Eldil has been taking the powder on a regular basis for weeks now. It is going to be very difficult to get him to stop--I am afraid he will no longer be of use to his Company, nor fit for duty.' Faramir's eyes were sad; it was clear that Eldil had been taken by the drug and it had begun to take its toll.

'Eldil had begun in the same way as Targon and Pippin: his difficulty in sleeping and facing the nightmares of the war drew the attention of a friend in the Second Company. However, here we find a difference. It seems that this friend, one Ingold, has seemingly disappeared. It has only just been noticed, for he had been given three days leave--he had fallen ill, and his captain sent him away, with orders to visit the Houses of Healing. However, the three days were up yesterday, and when the captain sent inquiries to the Warden at the Houses of Healing to discover if perhaps his man was still lying ill, it was discovered that he had never arrived.' Faramir paused here, and Aragorn leaned forward in interest.

'He was suffering from the lack of the drug,' the King said. 'He must have gone to find his supplier.'

'That was my thought as well. Captain Meneldor had already begun to make inquiries into his man's whereabouts. With what I was able to tell him about what we suspected, he will be better able to direct his attention. I expect a report from him by the fifth hour past noon. I have also asked all the captains to report to me any of their men who have appeared to be ill or otherwise behaving in an unusual manner.'

'This is very disturbing, Faramir,' Aragorn said. 'So far it appears that this drug use is concentrated among the companies of the Tower Guard. Have you heard any indications that it might be making its way among the general populace?'

Faramir shook his head. 'Not so far. And it appears that the trouble began soon after the coronation.'

The King leaned back. 'We need to deal with this. I would like to get it cleared up before Midsummer's Day, if possible.' He looked for a moment as if he would say more, but then he sighed, shook his head, and then in a completely different tone, said 'Thank you, Faramir, for taking this in hand so quickly. I am very pleased with the way you are handling things.'

Faramir blushed a little, and felt gratified at the praise--it was not something that had often been granted him in the past by anyone save his brother.

'Continue as you have been. And tomorrow morning, I wish to meet with my captains of the Tower Guard companies, all five of them.'

After Gandalf had spoken to him, Pippin had wept a bit, silently, and then drifted off to sleep once more. His body was weary and wracked from its ordeal in fighting off the poison, but his mind and heart were finally beginning to find some ease.

Gandalf sighed, and once more felt regret at how it had been necessary to spend his small friends' innocence in order to defeat Sauron. Of the four of them, he thought that Sam would come out of these troubles most easily. His sturdy practicality and the Gaffer's solid teachings would see him through without much looking back. Sam was already looking ahead to home. Merry and Pippin worried him--the darkness they had dealt with had left its mark. And Pippin was so young; in the reckoning of his people not even an adult yet. This bout with the poppy had taken its toll as well--in the future, he would not be able to rely even on the common poppy that was used for healing without awakening the dreadful need in him once more. Frodo was still upon the brink; as long as he was needed by someone else, as long as he could put his mind and heart into helping those he loved, he did well. But he could not seem to find any reason to help himself, and when he thought about himself, he brooded. Gandalf feared that true healing for Frodo might not come easily, if at all.

Sam awakened next, and sat up. He was followed by Merry. The two of them slipped from the large bed, moving carefully, so as not to awaken Pippin or Frodo. Just then, the door opened slightly, and one of the healers put his head into the room.

'Ah, good morning,' he said diffidently. He was a bit awed by the presence of the Wizard. 'I just wished to see that all was well.' He moved silently to the bed, and took Pippin's wrist. Pippin stirred, but did not open his eyes.

'He seems to be doing well. His skin is neither clammy nor hot, and his pulse is steady.' He turned to Gandalf, with a questioning look.

'In that case, the King ordered that a meal be brought--for all the pheriannath.'

Merry and Sam greeted this pronouncement with grins. Sam's belly chose that moment to rumble, and he blushed. The healer chuckled. 'I shall order that a tray be sent up. You may wish to awaken your friends and prepare them to eat.'

Pippin's eyes were still sensitive, and probably would be for a few more hours yet, so the windows remained shuttered, but he and Frodo were quite cheerful and hungry when they woke, and were very glad when the door bumped open, and two servants wheeled in a trolley from which toothsome smells were coming.

There was tea, and a tray of small cakes filled with nuts and dried fruit; there was porridge laced with cinnamon and honey; coddled eggs; smoked ham and a pile of toasted bread and butter--quite enough to feed four hungry hobbits and a wizard.

In a small dingy room behind a battered building on the Second Circle, the Guardsman Ingold wept and pleaded. 'Please! Please let me have some of the powder! I'll do anything! Anything! Anything you want!'

The two swarthy Men exchanged a satisfied glance. 'Anything?' one of them asked with a smile.

Ingold drew a deep breath and nodded solemnly. His tears were forgotten quickly and a glimmer of hope shone in his desperate eyes. 'Anything at all, I swear it, if you will but give me more of the powder.' His voice trembled only slightly.

Pippin allowed his cousins to persuade him into taking another nap after they had all eaten their fill. After they left him he lay awake pondering for some time. Gandalf was right, of course, though he was reluctant to admit it. He did need to talk to them, share with them the despair he'd felt, the horrible dreams that sometimes came even during his waking hours. There was so much he didn't understand yet. Pippin wondered if either of his cousins or Sam were troubled by the same waking dreams. He sighed and shifted to his side, continuing to think.

But where should he begin? Pippin was at a loss. He wasn't even certain what bothered him most, the dreams, or his need to keep everything inside and not share the horrors with anyone. He'd felt a sense of desperation, a need to keep the memories to himself while still holding them at arm's length in order to avoid acknowledging their hold over him. Truth be told, the power of those dreadful recollections was more frightening than anything else. The shadows were always there, always lurking, threatening to consume him. And so, he had refused to concede their presence or their command over his mind whenever he was the least bit vulnerable. If he refused to speak of them then he didn't have to acknowledge their existence. Just how was he going to share his dark thoughts with those he cared for the most, those who had already suffered enough?

Pippin flipped over onto his back and threw an arm over his eyes. They were still very sensitive, even in the darkened room. He sighed, recalling the day he had accepted the pouch of powders Targon had offered. He'd really thought he wouldn't use it, but the lack of sleep had finally driven him to the desperate measure. But he hadn't listened to his friend. Pippin recalled how he had scooped up not a pinch, as he had been advised, but a small handful of the powder and deposited it into his drink. He shuddered. Targon had no doubt already been questioned and would be in trouble for giving it to him. How many people had been hurt by his stubborn refusal to seek help? He turned over again and balled his pillow up, punching it in frustration before burying his face in its softness while he wept.

Frodo wandered into the gardens. Sam was working so hard to create beauty once more where naught but destruction had lingered for so long. He knew this task was very important to his friend. Sam yearned to restore the loveliness of nature that the gardener treasured so highly. Middle-earth would indeed be rich with bloom again because folks like Sam worked so diligently to make it so.

Frodo paused, the corners of his mouth turning upwards in a gentle smile as he watched. His friend sensed his approach and sat back on his heels regarding Frodo with a little grin.

Sam nodded a greeting but remained silent. He watched while Frodo took a seat on the stone bench near the gate. Sam rose to join him. Settling next to him they sat together in the comfortable silence shared only by the closest of friends. He waited for Frodo to speak.

Trudging down the streets of Minas Tirith he barely saw anything or anybody he passed, soon finding himself down in the lowest level of the city. He stepped away at last and stood gazing sadly in the direction of the vast fields of Pelennor, his mind awhirl with the memories of the great battle. Pippin had not given up on him. He had searched for Merry for a very long time before coming upon him.

Merry shook his head in sorrow. What thoughts must have been going through his cousin's mind during all those hours Pippin sought after him? Just how much had Pippin suffered through this experience? Merry only knew the nature of his own pain for certain, and much of it was still incredibly raw. He had been reluctant to trouble anyone with his suffering. Perhaps that had been a mistake.

Maybe if he'd told Pippin about his own feelings, his own difficulty in sleeping and the vivid flashes of memory that seemed so real returning him to the middle of battle at times when he least expected it.

Merry shuddered at the thought and an icy feeling crept up his injured arm. He rubbed at his shoulder almost absent-mindedly while he considered what to do. His younger cousin was good-hearted and very sensitive to the pain of others. What a fool he had been not to comprehend the torment that Pippin must have been going through! Of course Pippin would try to make everyone think he was fine. That was his way. Merry knew he should have realized what was happening so much sooner.

He hadn't wanted to burden Pippin with the knowledge of his own distress, either. But he'd never considered the idea that Pippin might be feeling the same way. Merry knew he'd only wished to protect him, though he hadn't been able to shield him from some of the greatest hurts of their lives. He felt a tear slip down his cheek and brushed it away while continuing to stare at the field.

'Why didn't he tell me? We've always shared everything with each other! How could he have shut me out like that? He could have died…he very nearly did.'

Merry slid down the wall coming to rest with his knees up to his chest. He buried his face in his hands and sobbed.

'Why didn't I do something Sam?' Frodo stared straight ahead as he spoke. 'Why didn't I see he was in a bad way?'

'You mustn't blame yourself. Your cousin keeps things close when he's of a mind to. You know that.' Sam slanted a knowing gaze at his friend as if to suggest that Pippin was not the only one among his kin who did that.

Frodo sighed, choosing to ignore Sam's pointed look. 'Nevertheless, it's very difficult for me not to blame myself, Sam. I vowed I would take care of him and Merry. I was even happy that they came with me, though I felt guilty for feeling that way.' Frodo lowered his head into his hands. Sam slipped an arm around his shoulder to comfort him.

'He didn't see fit to confide in me either, you know. Mr. Pippin has done that often enough, whenever he didn't want to burden you or Mr. Merry. He sometimes felt comfortable in talking things out with me. I feel bad that he didn't trust me enough to do that this time.'

'No Sam, you shouldn't blame yourself! Pippin is my responsibility.' He turned to look at his friend. 'Gandalf told me that Pippin had confessed some very dark secrets to him while they were alone here in Minas Tirith.'

'Yes. And I've been thinking a great deal about that. I can't help but wonder if much of Pippin's nightmares and sleeplessness doesn't have to do with the time he looked into the palantír. It seems to be the one memory he doesn't discuss with anyone, even Merry.'

Sam nodded slowly. 'It is an experience that none of the rest of us shared in.' Rubbing his chin thoughtfully, Sam pondered Frodo's words. 'I wonder if it might be the one thing he's afraid to talk about.'

'Gandalf alluded to that possibility in a conversation we had.' Frodo clutched Sam's arm tightly. 'Sam, we were told how horrific Pippin's reaction to the palantír was. When he gazed into it and was confronted by Sauron he was exposed to pure evil. How ghastly that must have been for him!' Frodo shook his head sadly. 'And I quite honestly had never even considered that until this moment.'

'Yes, he was. And after Pippin told Gandalf what he'd seen and heard that was apparently the last mention of the incident, as far as I am aware.'

Frodo and Sam looked up in surprise. Merry watched them from the entrance into the garden where he'd paused to listen to their conversation, his hand still resting on the latch of the gate. His face was weary, yet held a look of determination.

'Now we have to let him know we're there for him, and that we'll listen and try to understand what he went through, when or if, he wants to talk about it.' Merry's voice was quiet. He approached them, arms crossing over his chest.

'I've been thinking a great deal about everything that's happened,' Merry said, his voice still soft, 'and I'm caught somewhere between being angry with myself and him, and feeling like I failed him somehow.' Merry sighed and sank onto the bench beside Frodo. 'I can't believe the lengths he went to in order to hide his suffering from all of us.' He shivered. 'And taking that dreadful sleeping powder! I want to know more about that, including exactly where it came from!'

'Yes, I do too. But the time for blame is in the past. Now it's time for all of us to talk.' Frodo looked from Merry's face to Sam's. 'And share forthrightly. Agreed?'

'All right. Here's what we want you to do.' The men shared a knowing smile before the taller one turned to Ingold. 'You are prepared to do whatever you are bid? Regardless what we command of you?'

'Yes, yes! That is what I said, is it not? Please…do not toy with me any longer! Name your price and I shall do whatever you propose. But first, pray give me just a little of the powder! I shall surely go mad if you do not, then I will be of no use to you.' Ingold threw himself on his knees and begged even more shamelessly, his need becoming greater with each passing minute.

The men laughed cruelly and traded looks of satisfaction. 'Excellent,' the tall one nodded to his friend who quickly dispensed a tiny amount of the powder into the hand of the desperate man at their feet. Ingold greedily shoved it into his mouth without benefit of drink and immediately sputtered and choked on the bitter powder. The men laughed again.

'All right.' The tall one spoke again. 'We wish for you to return to your Company under cover of night. Seek out the Steward and tell him you have important information to share…'

Pippin opened his eyes slightly at the knock upon the door and winced as the dim light penetrated the crack under his lids. He rose up on one elbow, a question on his face as his kin and Sam filed in. Merry and Sam took their seats but Frodo remained standing.

Pippin looked at his cousins and friend and swallowed. Hobbits were not the sort to talk of deep matters, but when had his folk last known such dire circumstance? The fact that he had been driven to the lengths that he had for a bit of sleep proved that it was long past time for him to speak.

'I've been troubled,' he began, staring at the ceiling as if unable to meet their eyes. Frodo, seeming to sense a long tale in the making, drew a third chair up to the foot of Pippin's bed and sat.

'For a long while, I thought my troubles would fade with time; that the feelings I felt while I held that black stone were from him, and not my own.' His voice grew sad and full of dread. 'But I can't deny them any longer.' He sighed. 'I've had… such dark thoughts. I'd always thought myself quite grown for my age, but before… Well, before I touched that stone and knew in my heart what that kind of malice and cruelty felt like….' He turned his head and sought each of his friends' gazes. His voice turned gruff. 'I always thought Lalia was evil for what she put my sister Pearl through.' A curious frown touched Frodo's face, but flitted away just as quickly as Pippin continued. 'But we folk have no concept of what evil is. I don't think any hobbit ever has.' He paused. 'Until now.'

He turned to Merry, his green eyes wide and looking sadder and older than any lad of his brief years should. 'It's as if something's been stolen from me. That I've lost something that I'll never be able to get back.' He shook his head. 'I hope none of you know what I mean when I say this, but I'm afraid you all do.'

Merry rubbed his arm and lowered his eyes, nodding slowly. Even Sam looked sad and thoughtful, but it was Frodo who spoke.

'Innocence,' he said softly. 'It is your innocence that was stolen from you.' The older hobbit looked even more disturbed by his pronouncements than Pippin did. He shifted in the chair and finally had to stand. 'Poor Pip. You've had to come of age younger than any of us did. You're right. This journey has marked us all, but at least we three hadn't sacrificed our youth for it.' He placed his hand over his cousin's larger one. 'I am sorry, Peregrin. Truly. Though if there's any comfort in it, your steadfastness and bravery has shown me what a worthy Thain you will one day be.'

'You're right to talk about it, Pip,' agreed Merry. 'I've been close mouthed myself and oughtn't. Dark thoughts, you said. I've had them too, ever since I cut that black rider.' He shivered. 'The things I've seen done to men, the dank evil stink of it. But the worst part of all is realizing what horrible things I could be driven to do.'

'Here now, Mr. Merry!' Sam sat up in his chair, ready to rise to the other hobbits' defense. 'I've had my share of evil dreams myself this past year, it's only to be expected considering what we've all been through, but just knowing what evils have been done in the world doesn't mean you're going to do them too. You've got a choice in the matter yourself.'

A smile tugged almost unwillingly at Frodo's cheek and Pippin found his mood lightening with surprising swiftness. It did indeed help to talk. He almost found himself answering Frodo's reluctant smile.

'Bilbo always said that while adventuring he found strength in himself that he never knew he possessed. So I think it will be with you, Pippin. And you too Merry.' Frodo's smile grew in earnest. 'Sam is right. It is not what you realize you could do, but what you do do that is important. The choices you make.' He picked up Pippin's hand; it was noticeably larger than his own. 'Perhaps knowing the kinds of choices are possible will make choosing the right path all the more meaningful?'

Pippin nodded and his gaze returned to its thoughtful study of the ceiling. 'I can tell you one choice that will evermore be very easy to make.'

The four friends all shared a laugh, both at Pippin's comment and from the release their short talk had brought to them all. They spoke lightly of the food and drink they had been served while in Minas Tirith and the foods and drink they were most looking forward to when they returned home to The Shire. Eventually Frodo and Sam bid Pippin farewell for time being; Merry remained where he was, slouching in his chair with his feet up on Pippin's bed.

Merry said nothing at first, merely nodded his head ever so slightly as he stared at the wall opposite him. His cousin let him think while he sat up, tugged his pillows around until they comfortably supported his back, then he leaned back with his hands cradling the back of his head.

'We didn't talk about it much, talk about what we had been though, after we got away from the Orcs,' Merry murmured.

'No. But then again, it isn't quite what we hobbits do is it? Going on at length about the bad bits in life.'

'And it's not as though there aren't bad bits to life back home. I mean, hobbits get hurt or ill. They die young or die slowly and in pain.'

Pippin looked over at Merry. His eyes were now closed and Pip almost wondered if he had fallen asleep. He waited to see if Merry would begin to snore.

The lad had jumped a bit when his cousin spoke, but he regained himself quickly. 'Feel what, Merry?'

'That there was going to be more . . . pain on the journey than we had ever imagined.'

That wasn't what Pippin had been expecting, but before he could give it much thought, Merry continued in the same quiet manner.

'All those years that we heard Bilbo's stories; nearly having to watch the Dwarves get eaten by Trolls. Gollum would have killed him if he could have. Wolves. Spiders.'

'Having to hide and steal food in Legolas' father's halls. Riding an old, wet slippery barrel,' Pippin put in.

'Yes. Facing Smaug. Being called a coward . . .' Merry paused, 'Facing the battle and waking up alone amongst the carnage.'

They both sat silent for a while then Pippin softly spoke. 'It all sounded so exciting and grand to hear it told . . . but it isn't quite the same when you're in it all yourself.' He thought more than said, 'It is and it isn't. I felt oddly eager to meet the foes before the Black Gate. Ready to make even a small dent in that huge army of Orcs.'

'I felt the same as we rode onto the Pelennor. Absolutely terrified, yet ready to do whatever I could. But, I'll put my question to you again, Pippin.' Merry sat upright, suddenly intense. 'When did you first feel it, Pippin? When did you know that terrible pain might await us all?'

The younger hobbit hung his head. 'When Gandalf fell,' was his quiet reply. 'I truly felt it was all my fault and I couldn't imagine us having any hope of the whole . . . thing succeeding without him.' Even more softly he added, 'I wasn't sure I could go on without him.'

'Not sooner?' Merry asked, some the intenseness leaving his voice. 'With all that happened before that, it didn't strike you sooner than that?'

'No. All the other times I was horribly frightened and most likely would have felt as though there was nothing awaiting us but terrible times, but each time just as I was about to lose heart, something would happen to rescue us or turn the tide, so to speak.'

He looked up, his usual sparkle in his eyes. 'But who ever would have thought of Gandalf coming back from being dead?'

A hint of a grin graced Merry's lips. 'True,' he said nodding slowly. 'That had to be just about the most unexpected thing that happened to us.'

'After he fell,' Pippin went on, the twinkle fading from his eyes, 'I no longer felt safe. Then Boromir being killed right in front of us. . .' He stopped, drew in a deep breath which he let out in a deep sigh. 'That just sealed it. Even after I knew Gandalf was alive, after he was killed falling in the abyss with the Balrog I knew anything could happen to any of us.'

'For me it was Weathertop.' Merry said, his voice suddenly distant sounding. 'I knew the Ringwraiths were after Frodo, but I just simply couldn't imagine him being hurt by anything. Well, not seriously hurt.' Merry stared at the wall again as he slipped back into a slouched position in his chair, as though all his strength was draining from him.

'I fell to the Black Breath in Bree, and then they struck Frodo down on Weathertop. I knew then that there would be no safety for any of us anywhere.'

Once more the cousins sat in silence, each with his own thoughts, remembering the feeling those incidents had brought to their hearts. How sure of themselves and others they had been to that point in their lives and how exposed they had felt afterwards.

'I wonder if that happens to Men or Elves or Dwarves?' Pippin asked no one in particular.

The voice made both hobbits jump. Faramir stood in the doorway of Pippin's room, looking rather embarrassed.

'I must beg your pardons. I fear I've stood here longer than is polite, listening to your conversation.'

Pippin grinned. 'I think we can forgive your trespass.' He indicated the chair Frodo had earlier occupied at the foot of the bed. 'How much did you hear?'

'Most, I am thinking as I saw Frodo and Sam as they left your room. But to finish what I started to say, yes; Men too lose their innocence in much the same ways. Especially, for us here in Gondor, in the times Sauron was gaining strength. For me, it befell when I went as a new soldier to check on reports of Orc attacks near the Grey Woods.'

As the hobbits had before him, Faramir's eyes focused on something far from the room in which they sat as, in a quiet voice, he continued his tale.

'It is the burden of nobles that we are never merely soldiers, but enter into our military careers as officers. So there I was, Captain Faramir, all of twenty one years of age, leading my first command on what was our first mission that held much threat of danger. As is usually the case, I was not the eldest nor most experienced in the company merely the man of highest rank.'

His eyes closed as his thoughts traveled back, and he sighed deeply before going on.

'As we approached the farmstead that had been the place of the attack, my second in command - a man twenty years my senior and much experienced - signaled me to call a halt.'

'Might I suggest, Captain,' said he, for my ears only to hear, `that you let myself and two others of my choosing go in first.’

'I am not one of those captains that will order his men to go where he will not,' I replied, a bit hotly as I took offense at what I perceived as his implying I was weak. 'You and I will enter the dwelling and see what there is to see.'

Faramir looked at his friends with haunted eyes. 'As you said, tales rarely give a clear picture of the evil in the world. I had heard that the cruelty of Orcs knew no bounds, but at that moment I found it was true. And like all good story tellers I will not describe to you the horrors I saw in the kitchen of that humble farmhouse. Suffice it to say I vomited then swooned and my lieutenant had the honor of carrying my unconscious body out of the farmhouse. For months afterwards that sight stole my sleep from me, and even to this day it still, on occasion, will haunt my dreams.'

Silence filled the room for several minutes until Sir Peregrin Took brought himself back to the present with a quick shake of his head.

'Best to know that we aren't alone in having to pass through such things, but come! It won't do to dwell on the gloom for too long.' Pippin shook himself again then stared into Prince Faramir's eyes, his own twinkling with mischief. 'I know you had a message recently; what word have you had from Lady Éowyn?'

In the main kitchen of the Citadel, Ingold, in control of himself since he had had a dose of the powder, had easily found out from one of the cook's servants which meals were those of King Elessar and Prince Faramir. With the explanation that he had orders to keep watch over their meals, he found it easy to add some of the opium to the soup of both the prince and the king.

The sight of an unknown man, definitely not a cook, bending over the King's supper stopped the old man in his tracks. Sarnor blinked, rheumy eyes struggling to focus, automatically cursing his failing eyesight. Even the knowledge that the King's Food-taster needed his senses of smell and taste more than sight did not lessen his self-recrimination for growing old.

'What are you doing, soldier?' Even ten years ago, Sarnor reflected, his voice would have come out strong and sure instead of weak and whining. How strange that he might well die simply of old age; the first son of his fathers to do so in over three hundred years--the Enemy had often tried to put an end to the Stewards’ Line.

The man whirled, a stirring spoon dropping from his hand. Stumbling back against the counter, the soldier clamped one hand on the pommel of his sword. For an insane moment, Sarnor thought the man might draw on him.

'Watch it there!' said one of the servants sharply as the spoon clattered against the flagstone. Tossing aside a dishcloth, he hurried back to where the soldier stood rooted. 'You're not a cook, soldier! What is your name and rank?'

'It – It was burning,' the soldier stammered. Gaining more confidence, he retrieved the spoon and tossed it onto the counter. 'You cannot serve the King burnt soup.'

Summoned as if by the magic of the word 'burnt,' the master cook appeared. Even Sarnor stepped back; a friendship of forty years would not protect him if Nicolas thought he was interfering with his kitchens' duties. Like Sarnor, Nicolas' life was his work, and also like Sarnor, the master cook would allow nothing to stand in the way of his service to the Returned King.

'I stopped the soup from burning,' Ingold said loudly, straightening. He glanced quickly into the pot, but the last of the white powder had already dissolved into the simmering brown liquid.

'Dish it up, then,' the master cook ordered. 'This is all I had ingredients for. If it is ruined, I will have both of you whipped.'

The servant hurried to obey, carefully ladling the steaming soup into two bowls. One was of beaten silver, adorned around the edges with a pattern of White Trees. Ingold's stomach lurched as he recognized the insignia of the Steward. Almost he cried out, stopped the servant, but the white powder he had ingested bound his tongue. That tongue dried in his mouth as the servant then ladled the soup into the second bowl, of gold, bearing seven stars and a crown.

The master cook leaned over the bowls and peered at them, then sniffed them critically. 'It is not burned. Lucky for you, Harcord.' The servant nodded, his face relieved. 'Hurry, hurry. Put them on a serving tray. I will not have the King wait!'

'Hold!' Sarnor said sharply. 'Nothing goes to the King or Steward from this kitchen without passing my lips first. Nothing!'

The master cook looked towards the door with a sinking heart. The pheriannath were always honoured guests in the kitchens, not a whit less so for their very frequent visits, but this course – this one course – he had been hoping to save for the King.

'Of course you mustn't send Aragorn anything less than perfection,' Frodo said sincerely, looking up at the towering Men with his most winning smile. 'Being a hobbit, I am obviously the most qualified to judge the quality of the soup. Hand over those bowls, lad.'

This last was directed towards Harcord, who automatically started to obey. Pausing with the tray in his hands, he looked at the master cook in appeal.

'Lord Frodo, Lord Samwise,' Nicolas began. 'Forgive me, my lords, but mushrooms are hard to come by in the City; the farmers just starting to bring in their carts from the farms. This is all there is, my lords. The King–'

'Isn't all that fond of mushrooms anyway,' Frodo interrupted, leaning forward to sniff the curling steam. 'Throw some caterpillars and beetles in a bowl; that will make him happy.'

Next to him, Sam snorted. Seeing the looks of horror on the Men's faces, he laughed. 'Inside joke, sirs,' he told them gravely, one side of his mouth turning up. 'What with the King being a Ranger and all. You don't want to get him started on `the high-quality protein sources all around us, if you know where to look'.'

'Mr. Pippin's been teaching me, sir. He does a wicked Aragorn. You should hear him do Gandalf … when the dear old wizard's not around, of course.'

'I shall remember to ask him. And I will give him the soup with the kitchens compliments, my good masters. My deepest thanks – as you might have heard, the lad hasn't been well lately, and this is just the thing to put the swagger back in his step.'

'Excellent! Well, come along, Sam. We want to get this to Pip before it gets cold–'

'Lord Frodo!' Sarnor's protest halted the Ring-bearers just before the door. 'I must check the soup, my lord! As the King's Food-taster–'

'Oh.' Frodo's face fell. 'You must do your duty, of course.' Regretfully, he began to hand the tray to the old man. Sam sighed, brown eyes fastened on the bowls.

The master cook looked at the hobbits' crestfallen faces. 'Master Sarnor, the soup's not going to the King, is it? It's for the Ernil i Pheriannath.'

Frodo looked up, his eyes gleaming, his whole face lighting up. Samwise beamed at them. Handing the tray to his friend, Frodo stepped forward and bowed deeply, his hand over his heart. 'I am forever in your debt, good sirs. If you ever have need of anything within my power, you have only to call upon Frodo Baggins–'

'To empty my kitchen of anything remotely edible,' Nicolas replied, rolling his eyes. 'Oh, get on with you, my lord.' Around them, the kitchen staff grinned, then turned quickly back to their work when the master glared at them.

The hobbits were gone as quickly and silently as they came. 'Don't know how they do that,' Nicolas muttered to Sarnor. 'I think they have a watch posted on the kitchens. Fraternizing with the Guard, no doubt. Speaking of which–' he looked around, a frown crossing his features. 'Now where did that soldier get to? I never even got his name.'

'There's two bowls, Mr. Frodo. Mr. Pippin don't need them both. Not with his stomach being a mite delicate, yet. I'm just pointing that out.'

Far from the kitchens, far from any place he might meet his comrades, Ingold kicked aside a bucket and slammed shut the broom cupboard door, sagging against it. In the darkness, he could smell wet mop and soap and the wax used on the marble floors. It was dank and cool and so quiet his heart seemed to hammer in his ears.

The tiny amount of powder the two men had given him was already wearing off, and he needed more. Much more. Hands shaking, Ingold scrubbed at his face, fancying he could feel little feet scurrying on his skin under his uniform. Little things crawling on him. When the Ringbearer had mentioned insects, he could hardly refrain from scratching. It was then he knew that he had to get away, before they could question him, before they saw what he was.

And he had allowed the drugged soup to go with the Ringbearers. Like all of the soldiers of the White Tower, of the City of Gondor, of every citizen of his country, he revered the Ringbearer. He owed Lord Frodo, not only for his worthless life, but for the freedom of his City, and his country, and his world. He had heard how the pheriannath were mad for mushrooms, and had little doubt that at least one of those bowls would find its way into those two's bellies. Lord Frodo was not yet so strong, he knew; the White Wizard and the King were still deeply concerned about him. He, Ingold, had stood his watch in the Throne Room and seen the worry in the King's eyes when Elessar looked at Frodo, and heard his King and Mithrandir fret over the hobbit, about how he was not recovering from his ordeal as quickly or well as they had hoped.

And the Ernil i Pheriannath… Ingold knew Pippin, of course. Not well, but all of the White Tower knew him. The little soldier's joyous spirit had been more of a balm in the Houses of Healing than any of the healer's arts. Ingold did not know what a strong infusion of the drug would do to him. Having once been soiled by it, what damage would a strong, concentrated second dose inflict? Covering his face with his hands, Ingold dropped to his knees and wept.

'Oi, Pippin, what do you think you’re doing? Get back in - don’t give me that look, you know it doesn’t work on me. Oh, that’s mature…'

Merry’s voice, floated easily to Frodo and Sam’s ears as they paused outside the partially opened door to Pippin’s bedroom. The two hobbits shared a grin at the exasperation in Merry’s voice, knowing it for a good sign.

'Is the patient up for a bit of soup?' Frodo called as he pushed the door open completely, grinning at the sight before him as Sam placed the tray onto the table nearest Pippin’s bed, where the young hobbit was propped up with several pillows, a fierce scowl on his still too pale face. Beside him, Merry stood with arms crossed, a dark bottle in one hand and spoon in the other.

'Oh, Frodo, good! Maybe you can talk some sense into his thick head!' Merry sighed, casting Pippin an annoyed frown. 'Our young lad here refuses to take his medicine!'

Pippin shrank slightly at the glare all three graced him with, though his chin remained stubbornly set.

'It tastes like wet laundry smells!' he complained weakly, pulling his blanket tighter about his chest as he cast a pleading look to Frodo.

'And how would you be knowing what laundry smells like, Master Pippin?' Sam asked, lips twitching as he tried not to smile.

'I’ve been around when you’ve done the washing,' Pippin grumbled, ignoring Merry’s snicker and Frodo’s cough into his hand. 'But that is beside the point. That medicine smells horrible, and I feel much, much better, so I really think -'

'That you should follow your King’s order and take it until the bottle is done,' Frodo interrupted in his best older cousin voice. 'Besides, Sam and I stumbled upon some lovely mushroom soup that is growing cold even as we discuss this. The sooner you take your medicine, the sooner you can have a bowl.'

Pippin’s whole body perked up at the mention of mushrooms, and Sam wafted the scent of the still steaming bowl his way.

'Mushrooms?' Pippin asked, leaning forward slightly even as Merry echoed his move, his arms uncrossing without his notice as he closed his eyes and inhaled the delicate scent.

'Mushrooms. The last in the Kingdom, apparently,' Sam agreed, crossing his arms as he looked sternly at Pippin. 'Now take your medicine so we can all have a taste!'

Obviously torn, it took several moments longer than the others had expected before Pippin finally growled and nodded his head sharply, clearly unhappy. Apparently, Aragorn’s medicine was truly vile.

'That’s what I thought,' Sam murmured, his mouth watering in eager anticipation.

'Now then, Pippin, just open up,' Merry cooed, smirking at his cousin’s scowl.

As Pippin’s mouth closed around the spoon, eyes screwed shut against the taste, a loud crash from the stairs leading up to the chamber startled all the hobbits, only Sam’s quick reflexes saving the soup from where his startled jump had sent it dangerously close to tipping over.

'What is going on out there?' Frodo murmured even as Merry and Sam quickly drew up next to him, Merry’s hand automatically going for a sword he no longer wore.

'Stop him!' a voice shouted from somewhere down the stairs, followed by another loud crash and a scream that sent shivers up the backs of those who heard.

Ignored by his cousins, who were focused on the doorway, Pippin spat the fowl medicine into his chamber pot and threw off his blankets, standing on shaky legs even as he looked about for his sword, which rested on the windowsill clear across the room.

The voices were getting closer, as was the sound of booted steps running and many voices cursing. Unconsciously the hobbits took several steps back, quickly glancing around the room for anything that could be used as a weapon. Merry’s eyes fell on Pippin, making his slow way to the windowsill, moving determinedly enough that the older knew he would not be stopped.

Just as Merry opened his mouth, either to shout at him or to encourage him even Merry did not know, the door to the chamber burst open, banging against the wall with enough force that it splintered.

The man who stood in the doorway was dressed in the garb of a soldier, his sword drawn and dripping blood as he gazed around the room with crazed, red rimmed eyes. As soon as he spotted the table beside Sam he darted forward, sword raised. For a moment all four hobbits stood rooted to the spot, too unnerved to do more than watch the horrible scene unfold before them.

'Forgive me!' the man sobbed as he moved, his steps stumbling as he made his way further into the room.

Three Knights crashed into the room, swords drawn, eyes set on the crazed man before them. The white trees emblazoned on their tunics seemed to glow in the dim candlelight, as though a forest moved once more.

'You shall not harm them!' one of the men shouted, lunging forward so he stood between the helpless hobbits and the danger.

'No, I shall not!' the man shouted, swiping his sword across the table even as the three Knights moved at once, running him through with their swords. The bowls of soup crashed to the ground, shattering and leaving grey puddles to pool on the polished wood.

Frothy red bubbled out of the man’s mouth as he slid to the floor, sliding off the swords which had impaled him. A gurgled laugh escaped his lips as he grinned up at the hobbits, staring at him in horror even as they stumbled away from him. Pippin, his legs suddenly weak and aching, carried him over to where the others stood, men and hobbits unable to tear their eyes away from the horrific vision. The man slowly ran his hand through the congealing soup by his head and brought it to his lips, sucking on his fingers even as blood seeped down his chin.

'Ingold?' Pippin whispered softly, brokenly, as the man before him turned glazed eyes on him. 'What - why did you -'

'Forgive me!' Ingold begged, coughing harshly and spewing blood across the floor and onto Pippin’s feet.

The young Knight stumbled back even as the three men clutched their swords tightly, seeming to be waiting for the order to finish the guard off.

'Please…' Ingold implored, his fingers twitching as though in entreaty to those around him. His breath rattled in his lungs even as blood continued to gurgle from his mouth. 'I did… not mean… No harm… I never…'

The man’s eyes rolled back into his head, body jerking and shuddering before letting out one final horrible, gurgled breath. His body stilled as suddenly as it had begun to spasm, a harsh silence broken only by the panting of the Knights filling the room.

Pippin, his right hand rising to clutch at his suddenly tight chest, brought in a shuddering breath that did little to fill his lungs. The sightless eyes of the guard he had once dinned with stared up at him, begging forgiveness. The young hobbit’s world seemed to shudder, a grey haze filling the room even as it tilted about him. Distantly he heard voices beside him, though they sounded muffled and far away. Something clutched at his arm but he could not tear his eyes away from the pleading gaze.

Closing his eyes, pressing the words out around the lump in his throat, Pippin whispered, 'I forgive you.'

As his heartbeat reverberated through his head, drowning out the sound of his own harsh breathing, the last thing Pippin heard was the sound of a thousand feet running through a forest and the cry of a friend who had also begged forgiveness.

(with thanks to Dreamflower, for comments and suggestions, and to SurgicalSteel for technical advice)

A tap on the door, an acknowledgment from the King, and the Steward entered, nodding pleasantly to the guard posted outside. He shut the door firmly and sank into a chair at Elessar's wave, throwing a folded paper onto the desk.

'Read it,' Faramir nodded at the paper. 'It was left upon my desk, though no one saw the messenger.'

Elessar unfolded the paper on the desk, absently smoothing the creases as he bent to read. A furrow appeared in his brow and he took up the paper, reading on intently. He looked up. 'Ingold?' he said.

'This, to explain his absence?' Elessar said, re-reading the brief missive. '...overheard by chance, but had the ill luck to stumble and drew their attention... hunted... fear I am marked for death... gone into hiding...'

'Why not simply retreat to the Citadel, inform his captain, set a formal investigation in motion?' Faramir said.

'...will send word when I've discovered more...' Elessar concluded, and laid the note down again. 'It could explain his absence.' He nodded, steepling his fingers and frowning thoughtfully at the peak. 'From what I remember of Far Harad, a formal investigation would drive the rats back into their holes, and we'd never discover who they were or the extent of the plot...'

We don't know that he's been compromised by the drug,' Faramir said, feeling relieved on the guardsman's behalf, for he had great pride in the Men of the Tower Guard, who had served under him with courage and loyalty. 'Only that he passed the powder on to Eldil. Perhaps his story is not so different from that of Targon, who only used the powder for two or three days before he gave the bulk of it to Pippin.'

'Perhaps,' Elessar said. 'In his dealings with the source, he might have stumbled upon the plot he mentions.'

'Highly likely,' the Steward nodded. 'But what sort of plot, I'd like to know. I only wish he'd been a little less cautious in the wording of his warning.' He added, 'In any event, I've sent Beregond to try and ferret out the Men who are providing powder to my guardsmen...'

The door flew open and a small, panting figure pushed his way in, unhindered by the guards, who had standing orders to let one of his ilk enter at any time - an errand runner for the Houses of Healing, Elessar recognised, rising from his chair in sudden alarm. He could think of several among the ill and injured who might merit such urgency... but the lad's first words, gasped out in a breathless rush, froze his blood.

'What is it, lad?' Faramir said, catching at the boy, half-supporting him as he sank to his knees, sobbing wildly.

'Murderers!' the boy sobbed, clutching at the Steward. '...slaying the Pheriannath...'

In a blur of motion, the King was gone from the room; Faramir heard the guardsmen in the corridor shouting the alarm and then the heavy sound of their boots, following. His first impulse was to run after them, but he could not leave the fainting lad, not in this state, and not with his awful knowledge. He couldn't just hail a servant; the news would be all over the Citadel, and the Steward did not want to think of the resulting uproar, especially when the facts had not been established. No, he must have more information.

He lifted the boy to his feet and shook him. 'Now, lad,' he said. 'The King will soon have all in hand...'

But the errand boy raised a tear-stained face, gulping back sobs, and said bleakly, 'Too late. He'll come too late.' And he buried his face in his hands once more.

Faramir shook him again. 'Come along,' he said. He half-carried the boy to the door, but then the boy, drawing on the dregs of courage that had brought him through the siege, straightened in the Steward's grip.

'I'm all right,' he said, drawing a sleeve across his face, and then he pulled at Faramir's hand. 'I fear,' he said, and gulped, but forged on bravely, 'I fear the Halflings are all slain, for a whole host dressed as guardsmen pounded into the Houses, swords drawn and bloodied, and I heard someone shout the Ernil i Pheriannath's name...'

'Surely they were not unopposed,' Faramir said, to reassure him, but his heart was not so sure, and now Ingold's warning of a plot against the King reared up in his memory - perhaps this was only the start of it! 'Come!' he said, and together Steward and errand boy ran in the King's wake.

Two men, plainly dressed, sat hunched over mugs in a dark corner of the Silver Swan. There were more colourful patrons, and others as self-effacing.

The younger man was sweating profusely despite the recent dose he'd been given, to hold him for this final task. He stiffened as two swarthy figures sauntered through the door and sought another table in the far shadows, well away from the windows. His companion laid a cautioning hand on his arm, and he forced his eyes away from the newcomers, meeting his companion's steady gaze. They are the ones! he nodded, his eyes intent.

You're quite sure. Calm, but grim, purposeful was the gaze returning his urgent look.

They are the ones! I'm sure of it! That day I followed Ingold, to see where he went to renew his supply of the sleeping powder...

All this was said without words, with just a look, a grimace, a tightening of the fist to convey his emotion, his fury, his shame and regret.

A squeeze on his arm, and his companion nodded once more. Go on. You know what to do.

Eldil rose, abrupt and jerky, shoving back his chair so that it clattered against the one behind him. He stalked to the newcomers' table, staring down at the occupants.

'Yes?' the bulky man said smoothly, teeth flashing in the dim light. 'You would like a seat, perhaps? Plenty to be found.' His sweeping gesture indicated a number of chairs, drawn up to other tables.

'I...' Eldil said through his teeth, and as he wiped sweat from his brow he saw the southerners exchange glances of satisfaction. 'The powder... I need more of it. Ingold told me I could buy it here...'

'Buy?' said the thin man, reminiscent of a weasel with his glittering, predatory eyes. 'We have no powder to sell...'

'But,' Eldil said desperately, and if not for the dose the healers had given him, before he'd led Beregond to this place, he'd've truly been desperate - and the dose was already wearing thin - he grabbed at the bulky man's sleeve. 'But Ingold said...!'

'It seems you are having trouble sleeping, my friend?' the bulky man said in a soothing tone. 'We have no powder to sell, surely, for there are laws in this land, but as a friend...?'

'A favour for a friend, truly,' the bulky man said with a nod and gentle smile that chilled Eldil to the bone.

'Sit yourself down, have a sip of beer,' the bulky man said, shoving his own untasted beverage at Eldil. 'When you've finished the glass, follow...' His eyes flicked to the rear exit, leading to a hallway with a few small, dingy sleeping rooms for let to travellers with low standards, little money, or little choice in the matter.

'I think not,' Beregond said - Eldil hadn't heard him approach, but he was there, having heard enough to make his move.

With another hiss, the weasel struck swiftly, but Eldil, nerves jumping, moved with him, intercepting the slim blade meant for the interloper. He gasped with the fire of its assault, even as the room erupted around him - Beregond had held his sword ready under his cloak, as they'd entered, and wielded it now, shouting for reinforcements who boiled into the common room from the kitchen.

The weasel died squirming on Beregond's blade, but they managed to take the bullish man alive, wounded in his struggles to escape, but alive.

Elessar ran, heedless of kingly dignity, faster perhaps than he ever had in his long years, yet bitterly aware that the tragedy would have played itself out long before he could arrive on the spot.

Heart in his mouth, he paused only briefly at the steps to the Houses of Healing where healers bent over a bloodied form, but then he ran on, bounding up the steps. Healers' attentions meant the man was still living... but what would he find inside?

The usually quiet corridors were in an uproar, healers and their assistants rushing here and there, ill or bandaged patients in their short gowns leaning in their doorways or against the walls, having all too evidently dragged themselves from their beds. There was a huddled heap draped in blood-stained linen part-way to Pippin's quarters, a body decorously covered, but in haste and obviously no time for more, and another small cluster of healers tending a wounded man just beyond. One of them called after the King as he passed, but Elessar had already reached Pippin's room.

He heard Frodo's voice raised in warning, 'Stay away!' and touched the shoulders of two of the guardsmen crowding the entry. With startled looks behind them, they pressed against their fellows to either side to allow the King to enter. The small gap grew as the group became aware of the King's arrival, and Elessar pushed his way through the opening, stopping at the sight that met his eyes.

The bloodstained form of a guardsman lay sprawled near the bed, the ruins of the bedside table shattered in splinters to either side of him. Two bowls had been hurled to the floor with enough force to dent their fine surfaces of beaten gold and silver. Congealing soup lay in puddles and unidentifiable blobs - though Elessar thought with a sniff that mushrooms might comprise the principle part.

It had been but a few moments since Ingold had breathed his last, but it seemed an eternity to the distraught hobbits. Merry, with a cry, had stumbled to Pippin as the younger cousin crumpled, with Frodo and Sam right behind. The Ring-bearer, thin and pale, looking as if a breeze might blow him away, had grown suddenly stern, holding off the three sword-bearing guardsmen and those who boiled into the room after them with no other weapons than a word, a look, and an upraised hand. He and Sam now hovered protectively to either side of Merry, who sat on the floor, cradling the unconscious Pippin, his head bent as he whispered entreaties and reassurances by turns.

'What has happened here?' Elessar said, himself grown stern, though his insides felt limp with relief.

'He - madness took him, and - we thought he'd slay the Ring-bearer - ' Hador, foremost in the furious chase, wrenched his gaze from his bloodied sword to meet the King's look.

'No,' Frodo put in firmly. 'He came - ' and paused at a loss. He wasn't sure why Ingold had come, but from the look on his face it was clear to Elessar of his certainty that Ingold had meant him no ill.

'He said he would not harm us,' Merry said, raising his head, disclosing haunted eyes. 'He swore he meant us no harm. He only - '

'We were able to strike him down before he could do any harm,' Hador said, standing straighter.

'He might've struck down the three of us at a blow,' Sam said steadily enough, but the shaking hand he held out to the King mirrored the depth of emotion in his troubled brown eyes. Though the hobbit had seen horrors enough in the Black Lands, Elessar knew he'd never thought to see such sudden violence here in this time of hard-won peace. 'But he didn't.' The gardener's look turned to one of confusion. 'He was that determined, to strike a blow, and that he did, but...'

'A mighty blow,' Pippin said groggily, and chuckled without any humour in the sound, as the other hobbits bent closer to him with soft exclamations, and Elessar fell to his knees, heedless of the mess on the floor. 'I fear the mushroom soup cannot be saved.' His face was deathly pale, his breathing ragged, and he turned his face away from Ingold's huddled form and swallowed down sickness before forcing his eyes to look upon the slain guardsman once more. 'He begged my pardon...' he finished simply, and then he laid his head on Merry's sheltering arm and wept.

The soup! Elessar thought, and then, in sudden remembrance, A plot against the King!

He bent closer to examine the nearest of the fallen bowls, its proud gilding battered and dented, the heavy inner lining of crockery, meant to keep the contents warm, ruined. White shards dotted the floor, but the bottom of the bowl remained intact, if crazed with cracks, and a small puddle of soup resided there.

The King's eyes narrowed as he took up the remains of the bowl for a closer look, and he dipped a finger in, bringing up a gritty residue from the bottom. Gritty... and bitter, to the cautious touch of his tongue.

The soup had been laced with Haradric poppy, a deadly amount, though to what purpose, Elessar could not fathom. The dose might have been effective, introduced in food or drink that could better mask the characteristic bitterness of the drug, but a knowledgeable man - or hobbit for that matter - tasting the soup, would have known at once.

He looked up. 'Send for Sarnor!' he snapped. 'And the cook who had charge of the kitchen when this was made. Master Cook Nicolas, was it? I want them both brought here without delay!'

Merry was speaking Pippin's name now, patting and rubbing his young cousin's back, for the youngster's shoulders were shaking. Elessar saw with concern that Pippin was laughing and weeping in the same moment, overtaken by strong emotion, and weakened as he was by his recent ordeal...

He laid down the bowl and moved to take the tween from his protectors. Merry resisted a moment, but Frodo laid a gentle yet commanding hand on his shoulder, and he gave up his burden to the Man.

Elessar took up Pippin as if he were a little child, pulling him close, hearing the broken voice repeating over and over, 'Slew the stew...' He wiped his hand absently against his shirt and laid his palm over the cold, sweat-beaded forehead, and closing his eyes he listened a moment, and then began to sing, low and gentle, in a language that only Frodo, among the hobbits, recognised bits and snatches. He felt the tension leak away as the taut muscles relaxed, the shuddering breaths steadied, and Pippin at last gave a deep sigh and lay still.

'He's not,' Merry said, starting up, but the King met his gaze with a look of reassurance.

Elessar stood slowly to his feet, lifting the limp, sleeping form, and moved to the bed, settling Pippin and drawing up the covers to warm the hobbit. They'd have to move him to another room before he wakened, but for the moment the King wanted the hobbit under his eye, and he must get to the bottom of this matter without delay, serious as it was.

Faramir came then, and the messenger boy with him burst into fresh tears - of relief, this time, on seeing the hobbits alive - and was escorted away by an assistant healer to be soothed. The Steward was much relieved to find the report so much worse than the reality, but his face was grim as he took up the remains of the bowl the King indicated, stuck a cautious finger into the broth, and tasted. 'Poppy,' he said, no question in his voice.

'Ingold did the same!' Frodo said suddenly, and Merry added in confirmation, 'Even in his dying, he was trying to warn us against the soup!'

Samwise drew his sleeve across his eyes, blinking away sudden tears. What a terrible tragedy, the guardsman slain, his actions fatally misconstrued, struck down in the midst of saving them from poisoning, or worse!

The master cook came puffing up, escorted at a trot by grim guardsmen, though the old food-taster entered a bit later, brought at a more decorous pace, and both were pale and shaken at the splotches and puddles of blood they'd seen in their coming, on the stairs and in the corridor - and shocked speechless at the sight of Ingold, still sprawled on the floor in the middle of Pippin's room.

The story came out, of the soldier bending over the pot. Neither could identify Ingold as that soldier, though King and Steward thought it likely. That soldier had known of the plot, had pretended to play a part, had deliberately introduced the powder into a dish where it would be easy for the food-taster to detect - and then panicked when the soup bypassed the taster and was carried away by the hobbits, heroes of the City, and one of them Ingold's comrade-at-arms.

And now the King ordered Ingold borne away, to be gently tended and prepared for his final rest, with all honour, in accordance with his efforts on the part of Halflings and King.

When the guardsmen, his somber slayers among them, were gone with their burden, Elessar turned to the three hobbits standing by their sleeping fourth. 'You are well?' he said, with a searching look for each.

Merry shook his head. 'As well as might be expected,' he said. 'Who would have thought that such a feast would turn into a funeral?'

'I'm that sorry,' Sam said low. 'If we'd've left the soup, as was intended for you, Strider, rather than acting as burglars, it all would've come out well, and not like this at all.' He sniffled, and swallowed hard, and it was clear he blamed himself for Ingold's death.

'I'm just as much to blame, Sam,' Frodo said. 'As a matter of fact, it was more my doing than yours.'

Workers were hovering in the doorway, bearing scrub-brushes and buckets, and Elessar thought it better to take the discussion elsewhere. Taking up Pippin from the bed, blankets and all, he cut the recriminations short as he walked softly from the room, finding an empty room readied and waiting not far down the corridor.

He laid Pippin on the fresh bed and covered him warmly, calling for bedwarmers and a brazier to warm the room, and warm, sustaining drinks and nourishing food for the other hobbits, who had climbed up on the bed and settled themselves about the youngster in a protective huddle.

And then Beregond's detail arrived, bearing their prisoner. The Southron died of his wounds shortly after arriving at the Houses of Healing, but not before glaring a final defiance at Steward, healers, and guard detail. Eldil, too, had been wounded in the skirmish, but it appeared he'd recover, though there'd be some difficulty with the complication introduced by his dependence on the Haradric poison. Faramir's quiet praise was something for the guardsman to cling to, as the healers began their work, and Beregond stood by him to sustain him, eyes shining with pride on his behalf.

The Steward was able to identify the prisoner as a minor under-server to the party of dignitaries from Far Harad, and he returned to Elessar with this news.

'I must leave you now, for the time being,' Elessar said to his friends. 'Eat, and rest, and wait for my return.'

'I'm not going anywhere,' Frodo said firmly, but the sentiment was rather spoilt by the large yawn that followed on his words. His look of surprise was so comical that Elessar found himself echoing Merry's laugh.

'That's a mercy,' Sam said under his breath, and aloud added, 'Well, Master, I should imagine you wouldn't be - why, you've been short of sleep since...'

Yawns are contagious, and Frodo's was no exception. Merry and Sam both found themselves yawning at this juncture, though after Merry brought his hand down from his mouth, he chuckled again, and there was no sleepiness in his bright eyes. The crisis was over, Pippin was sleeping, recovering, and it behooved him to keep things as light as possible, that Frodo might relax enough to fall asleep himself.

Elessar nodded in tacit agreement with Merry's significant look. 'I'll just leave you to your guarding,' he said. 'Don't let him up out of the bed, should he waken, but send for me.'

'Your least wish is our greatest desire,' said Merry, giving as good an imitation of a sweeping bow as a sitting hobbit might.

Thus reassured, the King left the hobbits, holding a whispered conversation in the hallway with the head healer, which resulted in an apprentice being stationed just outside the door to Pippin's room, to listen for any word of summons.

'Far Harad,' Elessar said, his brow furrowed with thought, as he and Faramir slowly descended the steps from the Houses of Healing. 'How far do you think the rot has spread?'

'The ambassador himself seems an honorable sort,' Faramir said. 'Very brave in battle, and his Men are loyal to him, protective…'

'He was one of the first to throw down his arms, before the Black Gate, and he shouted orders for his troops to do the same, to save as many lives as he might when he saw that all was lost,' Faramir said.

'And so he is sent to Gondor to sue for peace, perhaps meant to fail miserably in his mission, that his head might be easily lifted from his shoulders upon his return,' Faramir said.

Elessar nodded thoughtfully. 'Call him to the Hall of Kings,' he said. 'Bring the bodies of the two slain malefactors... No, wait.'

Faramir waited while his King turned over various thoughts, at last looking up with a nod.

'Send word to the delegation from Far Harad, to claim the bodies of their dead,' the King said. 'Say that they were killed in a tavern brawl, that there was an argument, and one of them pulled a knife on a guardsman who tried to intervene...'

Faramir nodded. It was essentially the truth, lacking a few details. 'And the ambassador?' he asked.

Elessar smiled, a grim smile, and the light of battle was in his eyes. 'I think a private word of warning to the ambassador will not go amiss. Let us see to it that the ambassador's peace mission is a resounding success,' he said.

'With the help of the king of Far Harad, or failing that, in spite of him,' Elessar said and his Steward nodded in understanding and complete agreement.

The hobbits had all succumbed to sleep by the time Elessar returned to Pippin's room, much later. The three guardsmen who'd chased down Ingold were with him, two bearing bowls of steaming water and the third a stack of soft, folded cloths. The messenger lad who'd brought the fell news to Steward and King followed by the King's orders at their heels, bearing a few precious leaves folded into a cloth, and a number of healers and assistants, one of them supporting Eldil, brought up the rear of the procession.

The King entered Pippin's room and moved to the bedside, where he stood a moment looking down upon the slumbering occupants of the bed. Pippin lay in the middle, with Frodo on one side of him, close enough to share the plump, snowy pillow, their noses nearly touching, Pippin's face slightly wrinkled in concentration, Frodo's brows knit together even in sleep. Merry was snug against Pippin's back, one arm extended as if in protection over both cousins. Sam curled at Frodo's feet, where he'd fallen asleep on watch. Their breathing mingled in a soft chorus of susurrus, a gentle rhythm of rest.

The King extended an open palm to the messenger lad, who started, recalled to himself, and hastily unfolded the cloth, exposing the athelas leaves he bore. With a nod and reassuring smile, Elessar took up the leaves and breathed upon them, and crushed them, and all in the room straightened as a living freshness filled the air, sparkling as joy released in laughter. Elessar cast the leaves into the bowls, and taking one from its bearer, held it before the clustered faces of the cousins.

Sam stirred first, though he was not so close to the athelas as the others. 'By my word,' he muttered. 'Spring, at last? Seems I ought to be digging the beds...' and then he rubbed his eyes and was fully awake, and his heart was lighter than it had been since Ingold's ghastly death before his eyes.

Merry wakened, then, with a murmur of “bacon and eggs”, sitting up and withdrawing his arm, looking down on Frodo and Pippin. Frodo's face relaxed, and he sighed, and in the next moment his eyes, too, opened and he sat up and smiled. 'All's well again, is it, Strider?' he said. A shadow crossed his face, but it could not remain, not with the freshness of athelas in the air surrounding him.

The remedy was having its effect on the guardsmen, as well, lightening the pain in their hearts that they'd known since they'd been made to understand their mistake. They'd not forget their guilt, but it would leave them wiser. The healers and assistants, too, stood straighter, some of the memory of horror in this place of healing now fading, and Eldil felt himself strengthened, and the trembling of his body, wanting more of the powder, was eased for the moment.

Elessar gestured, and the crowd behind him eased out of the room, the guardsman bearing the steaming bowl still in their midst. He'd carry the bowl through the corridors of the Houses of Healing, letting the fragrance of athelas bless the halls that had recently known the ringing of steel, the splashing of blood spilled in battle.

At last Pippin's eyelids fluttered; he stretched and yawned, squinting at the bright sunshine outside the window. 'Morning, is it, Strider?' he said. 'I haven't slept so well in... in just ages. What's for breakfast?'

Merry laughed and hugged him close, and Frodo hugged them both, and Sam hopped up from the bed as if he'd go in search of breakfast at that moment.

But a good King is far-sighted, and knows the needs of his people, and takes steps to deal with those needs even before a word might be spoken. Breakfast was arriving, at that moment, on large trays: enough, even, for four very hungry hobbits, and one weary - but satisfied - ruler.

(Between June 2006, when Piplover posted Chapter 9, and Sept. 2006, when Lindelea posted Chapter 10, there was a rather lengthy time in which poor Pippin and his friends languished, neglected by the writers. In order to encourage the group to continue the story, Gryffinjack posted this rather humorous reminder to get a move on, LOL! It did, indeed, renew our determination to finish, and we all thought it too darn funny not to include in the archived version of the story…)

Closing his eyes for only a moment, Peregrin Took, Knight of the Citadel, allowed his feet to carry him over the edge.

"Isn't anyone going to catch me?" he wondered to himself. "It seems like months have passed since I first began to fall."

Frodo and Gandalf waited in a small room outside the room where Aragorn and the other healers were tending to Pippin. They had been working on him for an awfully long time.

"Gandalf, I know I should not complain, especially when Pippin is so ill and fighting for his very life, but does it not seem like we the healers have been operating on Pippin for ages?" asked Frodo.

"It does indeed, my lad," said the wizard gruffly. "It seems as long as the First, Second, and Third Age put together."

"Are you sure Aragorn knows what he is doing? Does he have a license? Does he have insurance?" Frodo asked. "What if he's a fraud just trying to get into Guiness' Book of Middle Earth Records for conducting the longest operation ever recorded?"

"I should not worry about such things, Frodo," Gandalf reassured him. "I have known Aragorn for a long time now and I have never known him to be concerned with such pursuits. However, I do wish he would move things along a bit. My new white dress robes are beginning to look grey again from sitting here so long."

Just then, an enormous growl came from Frodo's stomach and he quickly crossed his two hands on top of it to try and still the noise. "I'm getting awfully hungry," he said apologetically.

"As am I." Gandalf reached for a plum that had been sitting so long that it now resembled a prune much more than a plum. He looked at it for a moment with a frown, and then plopped the shrivelled plum in his mouth, careful to remove the pit before he swallowed. "Not very satisfying I am afraid. And we are the fortunate ones to have food brought here while we wait."

"You are dear to me, Little One, but I am afraid I am tiring of operating on you," said Aragorn as he stood over the tiny unconscious form of Pippin.

The other healers in the room woke from their stupors and stared at him, aghast that their new king should say such a thing about the Ernil i Pheriannath.

Aragorn looked around at their stunned faces and his cheeks reddened with embarrassment. "Oh, I'm sorry. Did I say that aloud?"

"I do apologise," said Aragorn. "It's just that my hands are beginning to weaken from operating for so long. My strength is failing and I fear that I may not be able to continue much longer. How long has it been now?"

"Over two months?" Aragorn stared at her incredulously, his mouth agape. "Do I get paid overtime for this?"

"I am afraid not, my lord. You see, there is a clause in the contract that you and the Ernil i Pheriannath signed before we began trying to save him from his foolishness. It says that no amount of overtime is to be charged unless it is the fault of the patient," replied the healer.

"What do you call this? Had he not been foolish enough to take such a drug in the first place..."

"Yes, but that is why you are allowed to charge for the surgery. The delay is not his fault," the healer retorted.

"Well then, do enlighten me. Whose fault is it?" said Aragorn sarcastically. The strain from months of performing surgery really was beginning to get to him.

"It is nobody's fault, my lord. The writers have simply had a delay due to events and other things happening in their own lives," she explained. "Incredible as it may seem, there is more to life than what goes on here in Middle Earth."

"Hmmm... I do seem to recall Lord Elrond and Mithrandir discussing events in realms that we mere mortals will never be allowed to go. Perhaps that is what has befallen the writers," said Aragorn thoughtfully.

"But I do wish they would hurry," Aragorn continued. "I want to finish in time to see if I can audition for a role in 'The Hobbit' if they ever untangle the legal mess and film it."

Just as Frodo had picked up a shrivelled plum to eat, having given up hoping that fresh food would be brought to them as they waited, the doors to the room burst open. At Frodo's gasp of alarm, Gandalf put a firm hand on the hobbit's shoulder as he looked toward the doors. "Steady now, lad."

"They're dead," said Gimli sadly. The Elf next to him tried in vain to look hurt and confused as he pondered this thing called 'death.'

Each of them had a dead hobbit. Legolas was carrying the body of Sam in his arms while Gimli was holding Merry's form across his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. Well, he was shorter than Legolas and Merry was tall for a hobbit, so it only made sense that it was more difficult for Gimli to carry a hobbit than for Legolas to do so.

"Starvation," Gimli replied. "If you recall, Sam and Merry went off to their room to get some sleep while Aragorn operated on Pippin. Well, the writers never came back to write that they had woken up, so the poor lads have been asleep all this time. Asleep with no food or water. Eventually, it was too much for them and they starved to death."

"They shall not awaken, Frodo," said Legolas. "They are as dead as Boromir is or Gandalf was before he made a miraculous comeback." Legolas turned to Gandalf in confusion, "It's things like that that make it difficult for me to truly understand death."

Gandalf shrugged his shoulders weakly by way of explanation. "It's that Tolkien fellow. I was all prepared to die, but he had other plans in store for me."

"Well, we cannot blame Tolkien for the deaths of Merry and Sam," Frodo sobbed. "I want my cousin and my gardener back! Here I was, supposed to be worried about Pippin dying, yet he appears to still live while Sam and Merry are dead!"

Gandalf thought upon it for a moment, stroking his beard. "Perhaps if these writers are able to pull themselves away from other matters for a few moments ... perhaps they could find the time to write that Sam and Merry were still alive. That may just be enough to do it."

Frodo stopped his sobbing, his incredibly large, blue eyes still red and filled with tears. "You mean there might still be hope?"

"There may just be at that," smiled the wizard. "That is, if the writers cooperate."

"Oi! Strider! Healers! Is anyone out there?" cried Pippin. "I'm really pretty tired of falling now. And I wouldn't mind if this operation were over either. I promise I won't take drugs not prescribed to me anymore, and especially not without checking the label for the proper dosage for a tweenaged hobbit grown taller from having taken an Ent draught or two."

Silence. The only noise being made was Pippin's body whooshing through the air as he continued to fall.

"You know, I think I've had enough hurt now!" Pippin yelled to anyone who might listen. "Would someone please write some comfort?" he implored.

To Sleep, Perchance to Dream by PippinHealers Group