The Folly of the Wise ~ Part Six

Waking brought an odd and puzzling sensation to me: for one thing, I found that my blanket had disappeared, though strangely enough, only my legs were cold. The next second, I also discovered that there was something warm and heavy lying across my chest. For several minutes, I simply lay there, my eyes still closed, my mind too much asleep to work out what was on top of me. But eventually, the fog of sleep began to lift and I became aware that whatever it was, it was snoring softly.

I moved slightly, but the thing did nothing more than to yawn and burrow closer into me. Feeling a bit irritated now, I sighed and reluctantly dragged open my eyes. At first I could see nothing in the deep darkness surrounding me, and I wondered where I was. But then full memory came back to me: the caverns of Moria.

Once my eyes had become used to the dim light, I looked down at the thing on my chest. It was Pippin, his small sharp-featured face turned towards me, smiling in blissful unawareness. His tiny hands were curled, one in the blanket (which he had pulled off me and had covered himself with), and the other in the front of my tunic. At the sight of his peaceful, childlike face, my irritation dissipated instantly and I found myself smiling as I tucked the blanket more tightly around him.

Somehow, he reminded me vaguely of Bergil, the son of one of the White City guards. Beregond, his father, was a brave, honorable man, and good company, as Faramir and I discovered several years before. His son could not have been more than ten summers, I guessed, and though he was often quite mischievous and got himself into trouble as a result of his insatiable curiosity, I had never seen such an obedient, respectful and sensible lad when he was called upon to be so—very much like these hobbits.

Suddenly with a start I truly realized, for the first time, what a brave thing young Pippin was doing by accompanying us on the Quest; he was still just a lad, not even of age yet from what I understood. He was immature and reckless at times, and I could only imagine the havoc he must have caused in his homeland. But he was so fiercely dedicated to Frodo and the other hobbits, and I had not seen his courage falter yet. I shook my head in admiration. He was an extraordinary person, just like all of the halflings.

Fully awake now, I turned my head to look around me. The other hobbits were not far away on my right—at least I was fairly certain that the pile of blankets and curly hair was them. The only way I could tell them apart was that Frodo’s dark curls were in the middle, and I could just see an arm protectively draped across that blanket that seemed to be his side—Sam must have been on the other side of his master, farthest away from me. So the closest lump of sandy curls must have been Merry, as usual, so far under the blankets that I could only see the top of his head.

Chuckling slightly to myself, I turned my head the other way to see what the rest of the
Company was doing. Gandalf, at last, was asleep it seemed—his staff still glowed faintly beside him. Legolas lay in his bedroll, his hands clasped behind his head, his face turned toward the roof of the tunnel. His eyes were open, it looked like from my position, but from the even rising and falling of his chest and his motionless form, I knew that he was asleep. Elves, I thought to myself, shaking my head in puzzlement. Can any mortal understand them?

Aragorn lay near Legolas, wrapped in his cloak, deeply asleep, it appeared. He was not far from me, and I could see his face: it was free from the lines of care and worry that normally resided there, and he even seemed to be smiling slightly. Just as I was about to look away, I heard him murmur something so soft I barely heard it. "Arwen…" The word puzzled me for a moment, but then I remembered—Arwen was the daughter of Lord Elrond of Rivendell. This knowledge served only to puzzle me further. Why would Aragorn be speaking the name of an Elf-woman in his sleep? From what I had gathered, the Ranger had visited Imladris frequently, perhaps even lived there for a time, so it was likely that he had met Lady Arwen there and a friendship had grown between them. That, however, did not satisfy my suddenly arroused curiosity, and I continued to contemplate other possible explanations.

"What occupies your interest so, man of Gondor?" the gruff but friendly voice startled me and I looked up to see Gimli approach from the other side of camp. For once, he left his axe behind, leaning against the stone wall where he’d been sitting.

Remembering my decision to attempt friendship with the dwarf, I smiled at him. "Everyone seems to be sound asleep," I told him by way of answer. "Why is it you are awake?"

Gimli smiled back (although it was almost hidden in his beard) and sat beside me—I was forced to look up at him because of my position on my back, which seemed to amuse him greatly. "A dwarf needs little sleep," he informed me, though not defensively. "And it is hard to sleep with the knowledge that I will soon see the wonders of Khazad-Dûm." He sighed heavily, leaning his head back against the wall. "I only hope that Balin still lives; if he does not, and the dwarf colony here is no more, it may mean that we are in grave danger—for it takes more than mere orcs to defeat the dwarves." He looked ominously up the dark tunnel, and I could not help but follow his gaze; I was quickly finding that I disliked being underground even more than being in the freezing snow.

We were silent for a few moments, for I could find nothing to say and Gimli made no attempt to continue the foreboding conversation he’d started. Then, abruptly, his mood changed and he looked at me with a twinkle in his brown eyes. "Young Master Peregrin seems to make a good blanket," he observed with a deep rumbling chuckle. "And you make a good pillow."

I laughed softly and looked down at the small hobbit. He was still sound asleep, but it almost seemed that he’d heard Gimli’s words, for he smiled and burrowed his head closer into my stomach. "So it seems," I answered the dwarf, still watching the young halfling. "He is very warm, although a bit too heavy for a blanket." As if on cue, Pippin moved in his sleep and one small, sharp elbow jabbed me in the stomach, producing an "oomph" from me, much to Gimli’s delight.

Slowly and carefully, so as not to wake him, I pulled myself up into a sitting position, leaning against the wall. Pippin did not stir, save to wrap his arms tightly around me chest and bury his face contentedly into my tunic. I pulled the blanket over us both.

Another silence fell over us, and again my eyes wandered over the rest of the Fellowship. Aragorn still slept peacefully, the smile lingering on his face, but his hand was now up, stroking a white jewel hanging on a fine silver chain; I had noticed it long before, but it had not occurred to me to ask about it until now. I wondered if perhaps it had been given to him by the Lady Arwen.

"Again you seem to find Aragorn’s sleep fascinating." Gimli’s voice had a note of curiosity in it. "What is it that puzzles you?"

I had not known that dwarves could read thoughts so well. "That white jewel he wears," I said quietly, pointing. "Do you know who gave it to him?" I did not know why I thought Gimli might be able to tell me more, but I felt strangely intrigued by both the jewel and Aragorn’s murmuring the name of Lord Elrond’s daughter, and my curiosity urged me to do all I could to find out more.

The dwarf looked where I pointed and shook his head. "I do not," he replied; "but it seems of Elven make."

"Yes," I mused, my determination to find out more growing stronger still, "and who would give such a gem, but an Elf?"

Gimli looked up at me, thick brows raised quizzically. "What is it you are thinking?" he asked. "Aragorn has had many dealing with the Elves—it is not so strange that he should wear something of their make."

I looked down at the dwarf, smiling slightly. "I know not why it interests me so."

Gimli smiled back. "Aragorn is a puzzle no one can solve, I think," he said. "But you might ask Master Frodo more about the jewel—and the Elf who gave it to him."

"What would Frodo know of this matter?" I asked in surprise.

"The hobbits traveled long with Aragorn before reaching Rivendell," Gimli explained, "and Sam has told me that Frodo spent much of his time in Rivendell conversing with the Elves—he knows a fair amount of their tongue. Perhaps he would know more about the matter."

Somehow, I was not truly surprised at this revelation; all four of the hobbits were remarkable, and I was beginning to think that there was nothing they were not skilled in—besides fighting, perhaps, and even that was improving.

"I shall ask him, then," I said, for the moment putting aside my curiosity. I sighed—another odd sensation with Pippin’s weight against my chest. The young halfling had not stirred at all since I moved into a sitting position, except that he continued to snore. He was surprisingly heavy on top of me, but as he was also quite warm, I felt no inclination to move him.

I opened my mouth to start another conversation with Gimli when the object of my previous thoughts awakened noiselessly and sat up to observe us with a smile.

"When did the son of Gondor’s Steward become reduced to a pillow?" asked Aragorn playfully, stretching briefly and then quietly coming over to crouch beside me, fondly ruffling Pippin’s disheveled curls as he settled against the wall. Evidently the cheerful mood that had blessed Gimli and I was shared by him, as well—none of his usual grimness was visible beneath

his good-natured smile.

"Sometime during the night," I replied with a grin. "And without my consent, I might add."

Aragorn chuckled. "Are you complaining?" he questioned, with feigned seriousness—knowing as well as I did that I would not have moved Pippin unless for great need.

"Aragorn and I could remove him for you, if you wish," Gimli added helpfully, putting out one gloved hand as if to do exactly that.

"Hands off! Touch my blanket and you will meet severe resistance, Master Dwarf," I retorted, tightening my arms around the still-snoring Pippin. I looked at Aragorn with jesting defiance. "And I will not hesitate to exchange blows with even one of my race over my warmth and comfort."

Aragorn sat back on his heels, grinning mischievously. "He does look warm," he commented thoughtfully. "I would not mind a hobbit-blanket myself at the moment." He glanced at the other three sleeping halflings with a slight shrug, then looked at Gimli and raised his eyebrows. "Do you think that they would wake if we carried them each over and used them all as blankets?"

Gimli peered around Aragorn and I. "I don’t know," he said; "they appear to be quite soundly asleep. Perhaps if you were very slow and quiet…"

"Oh, and now it is I alone?" Aragorn laughed. "What happened to ‘we’?"

"I never said that I wished to have a hobbit myself," Gimli replied with a satisfied shrug, settling back against the stone wall. "You are on your own in this venture."

Aragorn sighed, assuming a mournful expression for a moment. He looked down at Pippin with a grin. "You can keep Peregrin, Boromir," he told me. "I think he might be too sharp for me."

Again, right on cue, one of Pippin’s small elbows drove into my stomach, eliciting another undignified "oomph" from me. "Why should he would want to leave me to be your blanket?" I quipped. "Why should any of the hobbits would wish to leave their snug nest of blankets to serve as your warmth? Obviously I am the chosen favorite."

Aragorn pretended to be affronted and did not answer. Gimli and I laughed, and Aragorn only held out a second before laughing as well. Our mirth awoke poor Pippin, who raised his head and blinked up at me with sleep-filled green eyes.

"Boromir?" he questioned groggily. He looked with confusion at his own hands, still tightly holding onto my tunic. "What am I doing on top of you?"

Aragorn and Gimli still chuckled, and I smiled at Pippin. "I should ask you," I said. "I woke up with you on me." I shot a pointed glance at Aragorn.

Pippin looked as though he could not decide whether to be mortified or amused by this revelation. He evidently decided upon the latter, for he returned my smile (though I did notice that the tips of his pointed ears turned a bit red). "Oh," he said simply. Then his expression abruptly changed, and he appeared puzzled for a moment. "Boromir, I had the strangest dream about you."

Gimli and Aragorn, noticing the peculiar expression of frightened bewilderment on Pippin’s face, tactfully moved away to pack up their bedrolls and get out some food for our breakfast, leaving myself and the hobbit to talk privately.

"What was your dream about?" I asked him gently, preparing myself for silence.

Pippin did not answer for a long moment, and I began to accept that he would not, but then he spoke, in a voice barely above a whisper and trembling with some dread. "I-I saw you…you tried to…" He swallowed hard and to my surprise and concern tears filled his eyes as he looked at me for only an instant before looking down at my tunic, which his fingers began nervously playing with.

"Go on," I urged him softly; not knowing what else to do, I lightly ran my fingers through his sandy curls, in what a hoped was a soothing gesture. Apparently it was, for he leaned his head slightly back into it and drew a deep breath. I kept my hand there, stroking his hair absently.

"There were wolves—wargs," he began again, his voice steadier this time. "Just like that night, when you were bitten. Only this time, we were in here, in Moria." He shivered. "And we were running away from them, through a great big, dark hall—I couldn’t see anything because of the darkness—and then onto a narrow stone bridge. And we all ran across that, and when we got to the other side, we turned around and you and Aragorn told us hobbits to stay back, and you both raised your swords—they were shining in the dark, a sort of reddish-silver, if that makes any sense. I don’t know where Gandalf was, but I thought I heard his voice, though I couldn’t make out the words.

"Anyway, you and Aragorn stood in front of us and Legolas was behind us, ready to shoot at the wolves when they came across. And we could here them coming, but then suddenly, a huge, bright light appeared from across the bridge—it looked like fire. And some enormous black…thing was walking towards us, and the fire was all around it. The wolves were on the bridge and they howled and fell off. You and Aragorn wouldn’t move, even though Frodo and me were yelling at you to, and the thing was getting closer and closer…" He paused for a moment, got control of himself, and continued. "And then all of a sudden there was a person all in white in front of you—about the size of you and Aragorn, although it was hard to tell because it shone so brightly—and he shouted something at the fire-creature, and he sounded like Gandalf. But then they both fell off the bridge and disappeared.

"Their light stayed, and I watched you; you turned around and looked at Frodo and—" he broke off abruptly, and it was obvious that he would not continue. I asked him anyway, however, for I wished to know what I did or said to Frodo in his dream, if he would tell me.

"What happened then?"

"I don’t remember any more," Pippin answered resolutely, though I knew it was not the truth. But I did not wish to pain him further by pressing him to relive the nightmare, so I did not ask again. Instead, we sat in silence for a long while, until I thought of part of his dream that reminded me of something.

"Pippin, I never did discover exactly what happened to you and the other hobbits that night the wargs attacked us," I said. "How did that great wolf leader come to be killed?"

"Oh!" Pippin exclaimed, obviously pleased at the change of subject. "Didn’t you hear about that? I should have thought Sam would have told everyone about it by now."

"Why?" I asked, surprised. "Did he kill the wolf?"

"Well, not by himself," said Pippin, shaking his head. "It was really all four of us together—but mostly Frodo and Merry." He threw a glance at his soundly-sleeping cousins before plunging eagerly into the tale.

"When that wolf jumped at us and we were all separated, it just stood there for a second, looking at all of us as though it was trying to decide who to jump at. That was the worst part of the whole night—having it stare at you like that." He shivered again. "It jumped at me first, since I was the youngest, I suppose, and I was so frightened, I couldn’t even move. But then Frodo—he was the closest to me, I think—jumped in the wolf’s way, just as Merry did. Merry’s sword got it in the shoulder, and Frodo’s got it in the chest. But then it fell on top of Frodo and nearly flattened him. Then I came to and helped Merry push it off him, right after Sam ran over and finished it off; it was still alive, you see. It took all three of us to move it, and Frodo couldn’t even talk for a minute once he was free—which scared us half to death, I can tell you. But once he could breathe properly again, he sat up and can you guess what was the first thing he said? ‘Are you all right, Pippin?’ he asks; not so much as an ‘ouch.’ Then we all stood up and Aragorn came over and asked us if we were all right, which we were of course, and then you came over," he finished, chuckling.

I was silent a moment, churning over his story in my mind. "So, Frodo and Merry were the heroes of the night," I said at last, smiling at him. "And you four hobbits brought down the wolf, which I could not overpower myself, and came out of it unscathed."

"Well, I didn’t really do much," said Pippin quickly. "I was too scared to move—more frightened than I’ve been in all my life, if you want to know."

"And the boldest could not blame you," I assured him truthfully, fondly ruffling his hair. "Wolves are terrifying creatures—even men fear them greatly. And do not forget that he was twice your size! I count it a brave deed to have been able to move at all when you did, and to continue on this Quest in the face of such dangers."

Pippin looked up at me quickly. "There is nothing that would stop me from continuing," he said firmly, looking incredulous at the very thought. "After all, Cousin Frodo would not stand a chance of getting to Mt. Doom without my navigational skills!"

I nearly laughed aloud, but caught myself just in time, not wishing to wake the rest of the Company, and reduced it to a restrained chortle. "Where would we be without Peregrin the Navigator?" I teased, earning a hastily muffled laugh from him. "I shudder to think what would happen to us without him."

"But a great navigator I cannot be without food," Pippin quipped, sliding off me and shaking off the blanket in a way that reminded me of a wet dog. "And that in good supply. Speaking of which," he continued, raising his voice and directing his words to Aragorn and Gimli, "there is an appalling lack of victuals this morning—will no one start some breakfast?"

So saying, he hurried over to the other hobbits and woke them faster than any of us could have done; for each he used a different tactic, and I watched with curious interest, ready to stow away his methods for future use if the need arose.

He began with Merry first, and his approach was quite simple: he began shaking him by the shoulders, rather forcefully; and nimbly avoiding his kinsman’s fist that shot up defensively in the air, he threw off the blanket. In an instant, Merry was on his feet, eyes alert, and his first act was to race over to his pack, dig through it a moment, and bring out an apple—how he kept the seemingly endless store of them fresh is a mystery to me. He offered Pippin no help in waking the other two, but walked over to join Aragorn and Gimli, quickly becoming engaged in conversation.

Pippin then targeted Sam, despite the face that Frodo was closest; and again, his trick was simple: he merely bent his head close to Sam’s ear, and said in a voice that was not raised even slightly above normal, "Sam! Get breakfast ready for half-past nine! Have you got the bath water hot?"

As though roused by a bell, Sam sat up, still bleary-eyed and confused. "No, sir, I haven’t, sir!" he said quickly; then rubbing his eyes, he saw Pippin standing before him, grinning, and he returned the gesture good-naturedly. "You never fail in wakin’ me up, Mr. Pippin," he remarked, and with a glance down at Frodo, who was still asleep, and a quick, fond squeeze of his master’s hand, he quietly got up and began getting out the things needed for a cold, rather scant breakfast.

It was then that I saw why Pippin had kept Frodo for last. The Ringbearer had hardly stirred when Sam was awoken, and was again soundly asleep—a blessing he did not often receive, I had noticed. I knew, as did Pippin, that he would wish to be woken up with the rest of us, but I could not help but feel that he should be allowed as much sleep as he was able to attain.

Evidently Pippin felt the same, for he silently sat down, cross-legged, beside Frodo, the mirth now gone from his face, replaced by an uncharacteristically somber, thoughtful expression. Observing that he desired a quiet moment alone with his cousin, I respectfully busied myself with other things—I drew out my sword and began polishing it; no idle task, for in this eerie, black Mine it seemed good sense to keep our weapons at the ready.

Listening to the others’ cheerful conversation—Gandalf and Legolas had now awoken—I did not hear what Pippin was quietly murmuring to Frodo, or to himself, and it soon my mind was thinking on other things. It was not until a fair ten minutes later when I realized that Pippin and Frodo were the only ones not huddled together in the circle, eating breakfast as merrily as was possible; and I turned curiously to see what could be taking them—I had never seen Peregrin Took late for food on all our long journey.

I turned and saw both Pippin and Frodo, sitting beside each other and speaking in low voices. Pippin’s face was somber and his eyes downcast; he held both of Frodo’s hands in his own and seemed to be clinging to them tightly while his cousin spoke to him. It seemed that Frodo was trying to convince of something, for he was speaking earnestly and bending his head down to meet Pippin’s eyes.

This scene both confused and worried me, and I wished to go over to them and learn what the trouble was; but I decided against it, for it did not seem right to intrude—though I could not help but watch them in concern.

After a moment, their fervent discussion became a quiet argument—Pippin raised his head and was speaking sharply, it looked like; and Frodo was replying firmly and confidently, countering everything Pippin said with quick, low words.

I could not now tear my eyes away from the two, although it may have seemed discourteous to watch their private discussion. But it was only out of friendly concern that I did so; I had never seen them argue, and I was deeply worried for Peregrin.

Pippin’s voice was rising in agitation, and Frodo hushed him with a quick word, which brought an unexpected change in the younger hobbit’s manner. He stopped midsentence, and suddenly his expression became grief-stricken and he turned to Frodo, mumbled something, and then bent his head as though ashamed. Frodo’s eyes filled with concern, and he placed his free hand on the top of Pippin’s head, his fingers lightly stroking the unruly sandy curls, and murmured something I could not hear.

Pippin looked up as if in disbelief. "But Boro—" he cried, loud enough for me to hear. He turned to look at me, and both he and Frodo started to see me watching them. Pippin turned crimson and his eyes seemed to fill with tears. Alarmed, and not wanting them to think ill of me, I hurried quietly over to them.

"Forgive me for watching you," I said softly, placing my hand on Pippin’s small shoulder. I was surprised and dismayed when he flinched and made as if to move away from my touch; then he lifted his head to look at me and allowed my hand to stay where it was, although he still felt tense. "I did so only out of concern for you," I continued earnestly, fearful that Pippin would become unfriendly with me. "You both looked distressed—is there aught I can do to help?" I knew before the words were spoken that there was not, and guessed that this had something to do with Pippin’s dream, but I attempted anyway.

"You are very kind, Boromir," said Frodo, trying to smile at me, although it did not seem genuine. "I fear there is nothing you can do at the moment, but I thank you for your concern."

I nodded. "Pippin," I said, and he raised his eyes almost fearfully to meet mine, "can I get you anything? Would you like me to—"

"No, Boromir," Pippin interrupted me. "I mean, no thank you. I am all right now—I didn’t feel well a moment ago, but it’s passed now." To convince me, he stood up and he smiled, truly. "And it has been replaced with hunger—is breakfast ready yet?" He grinned at me, evidently making up, and I returned the gesture in relief. With a glance down at Frodo, who also smiled at him, and a final squeeze of his kinsman’s hands, he scurried over to the others, immediately joining in their conversation, as merrily as though nothing at happened.

I stood, and then bent and reached down a hand to help Frodo to his feet. He seemed as confused as I by Pippin’s sudden mood change, but after watching his cousin for a minute, he clicked his tongue in playful reproach. "He seems to enjoy worrying the rest of us half to death and then suddenly bouncing back to his normal self unexpectedly," he told me, shaking his head with a laugh—although I knew that his explanation did not apply to what had just happened.

"He’s quite good at it, isn’t he?" I asked, playing along, as we made our way to the others.

"Oh, yes," Frodo agreed. "And he should be, with all the practice he gets—I fear we three old hobbits are quite gullible."

"Old?" I exclaimed, laughing. We had paused a few feet away from the group.

"Well, compared to a tween like Pip, we’re quite old," said Frodo. "Although really Merry and Sam aren’t that much older than he is."

"How old are they?" I asked curiously, eager to know more of this interesting race of people.

"Merry’s thirty-six, and Sam is thirty-eight," Frodo told me. "Barely of age."

"And you, Frodo?" I questioned, wondering why he had only mentioned Merry and Sam’s ages, when surely he could not be more than a few years older than Pippin? He looked younger than the other two, certainly. "How old are you?"

The laughter left Frodo’s eyes and he smile faded. "I’m fifty," he said with a sigh. "Middle-age for hobbits, you know, although Pippin seems to think I’m terribly old."

I could not speak for astonishment, looking down at the halfling beside me, with his young, fine-featured face and dark curls without a hint of grey. Frodo saw my shock and smiled a little. "I know, I don’t look it," he said before I could speak. "We Bagginses tend to be long-lived, although…" He paused for a moment, as though unsure whether or not to continue. "…although the Ring is mostly responsible for that."

Before I could reply, he mumbled an excuse and abruptly went to join the others, sitting wordlessly beside Sam and seeming troubled. I stood there for a moment longer, the surprise fading away and being replaced by mingled frustration and sadness—sadness that such a gentle creature should be so tormented by that Thing that it caused him distress to even speak of It. But frustration that no one seemed willing to listen to me and spare him this suffering.

I stopped that thought before I grew angry, and hastened over to sit down with the others, eager to get my mind on other things. In that I was successful, and both Frodo and I were soon as merry as the others while we ate breakfast. Then Gandalf stood, and instantly the mood of the Company was darkened as he spoke.

"I fear it is time to move on," he said heavily. "We cannot linger in any place too long, and if we move quickly, we may get through Moria in four days."

With a sigh, we all got to our feet and prepared to leave, the morning’s cheerfulness instantly disappearing at the thought of more traveling through the gloomy, no doubt dangerous mines. The packing was done quickly, as we had not unpacked much, and we were soon on our way again up the broken, stone staircases and through the dark tunnels of Moria.

All this darkness and silence has effected my mood, and I am now pensive and rather depressed, walking quietly beside Aragorn, who also shares my disheartened frame of mind. The Ring troubles me, as do the Mines, and I find myself thinking wistfully of what could happen were the Ring entrusted to me and brought to Gondor.

I am so deep in these imaginings that I jump when I feel a touch at my elbow and a small voice speaks up. "Boromir," Pippin says, "I’m tired. Do you know how much farther there is to go?"

I smile wearily, at Pippin, who is panting and truly does look exhausted already. "Here, little one," I say, kneeling down. "The ceiling is high here—you can ride on my shoulders for a while, if you do not mind the rather undignified position. I daresay it’s more comfortable than being on my back."

He hesitates for a moment, and then grins and I help him clamber on. "Thank you, Boromir," he says earnestly, bringing a genuine smile to my face. I hear Aragorn chuckle tiredly beside me, but my attention is on Pippin.

"Let me know when you wish to come down," I tell him, standing up.

"Oh, I’m sure that won’t be for a long while," he replies mischievously. "I rather enjoy being up so high…"

Might I have just made a mistake in letting him up there?

To be continued...