Chapter 65. Early Morning Cheer

Next day of course Pippin was up early, slipping out of the bed so as not to disturb sleeping Diamond, curled next to him, and Farry, somehow snuggled between them. He dressed rapidly and silently. One thing they’d learned was not to hide his clothes from him, for he had no compunction about going out in a nightshirt, if he had to, and somehow it scandalised others much more than it bothered him.

It was very early yet, still before dawn, and the corridors were deserted and quiet, lit only by the turned-down lamps that hung at intervals. At the far end he saw a healer sitting at a table, bent over, writing something. To go that way would invite unwelcome comment, perhaps gentle coaxing to get him back into the bed. Gentle? Hah! More like the iron fist in the velvet glove, of the old story Bilbo had told long ago. Come to think of it, they’d had trouble keeping him in bed then as well.

He crept in the other direction, only to be stopped by a soft hail from another room further on. He froze, debating whether to flee, and deciding that such a course was undignified and unnecessary. They had no cause to chain him to a bed, after all! He felt fine—or at least what passed for fine, for him, these days.

He stepped into the room, to avoid exciting the attention of the healer on duty at the far end of the corridor. ‘Yes?’ he said politely. ‘You wanted something?’

 ‘Sir,’ the healer’s assistant said. ‘Denethor, here, has been asking for you. What a stroke of luck that I caught you, just now, before you left the House.’

Pippin looked to the bed for the first time, to see the guardsman propped up there, bared torso crossed with bandages. ‘Denny!’ he said.

 ‘Good to see you, sir,’ the guardsman whispered. His breath still came short, and pain crossed his face as he tried to sit up at attention.

 ‘None of that now,’ the assistant said hastily, and Pippin crossed to the bed, taking the guardsman’s large hand in his own.

 ‘At ease,’ he said, just as if they were on the parade ground.

A ghost of a smile crossed Denethor’s face. ‘Sir,’ he said weakly.

 ‘Would you like to take the chair, sir?’ the assistant said. She’d kill two birds with one stone: she’d calm Denethor, who’d been restless with a mild fever, and she’d ensure the Ernil i Pheriannath wouldn’t be wandering about in the pre-dawn darkness before the King or head healer had issued orders regarding his release. ‘If you wouldn’t mind sitting with him, I’ll go and brew a pot of tea if you so wish.’

 ‘Very good of you,’ Pippin said, releasing Denethor’s hand in order to climb up on the chair, whereupon he took up the hand once more. ‘Hobbit healing,’ he said to the guardsman, who nodded. He’d seen as much in his duties, shadowing the hobbits.

The assistant bowed and removed herself.

The two patients sat in silence together for a time, but neither felt sleepy.

 ‘Your hand,’ Pippin said. ‘It’s warm.’ He thought of fever, and what it might mean. The red swelling could be growing inside the guardsman until it became a raging monster that would consume him in the end.

 ‘Fever,’ Denethor agreed. ‘They tell me it’s to be expected, a sign that my body is healing itself.’

Pippin nodded, not convinced. ‘Why did you do it?’ he asked.

Denethor shifted uneasily on the bed and winced. He was not used to having to be still. He couldn’t seem to find a position that was comfortable for more than a moment or two, but they kept lecturing him to be still. The pain that movement caused was a deterrent, or would be, perhaps if it preceded a move rather than following one.

 ‘Why did I do what?’ he murmured.

 ‘Why did you run right into that arrow?’ Pippin said. ‘It seemed a rather desperate and unconventional move to me.’

 ‘It was my duty,’ Denethor said simply.

 ‘To throw your life away?’ Pippin said, incredulous.

 ‘To do what must be done,’ Denethor said. ‘He would have shot Mayor Samwise in the next breath. He had pulled back the string, had aimed, and was ready to release. He had to be stopped.’

This long speech had taken more breath than the guardsman could spare, and he panted for air, but the effort hurt him. He closed his eyes, tense against the propping cushions.

Pippin waited in silence until the guardsman relaxed once more and opened his eyes.

 ‘You might have distracted him, drawn his attention away without rushing into his arrow,’ he said.

Denethor shook his head. ‘He might have shot the Mayor first and then turned his attention to me,’ he said. ‘I could not take that chance.’

 ‘But...’ Pippin argued.

 ‘It was my duty,’ Denethor said, his voice a little louder. He was using valuable energy, such that he could not spare, and so Pippin leaned forward and patted his hand.

 ‘It was your duty,’ he agreed. ‘We are all most indebted to you.’

This was not as calming as he’d hoped; Denethor stared at him, tensing once more in his astonishment, and Pippin could see a sweat breaking out on his brow.

 ‘Indebted?’ the guardsman said. ‘For doing my duty? Nonsense!’

 ‘Steady, lad,’ Pippin said. ‘They’ll chuck me out of here in another moment, for rousing you up when you ought to be resting.’

Denethor smiled weakly, relaxing against the cushions. ‘Probably just what you were after,’ he whispered.

Pippin chuckled. ‘Indeed,’ he said. ‘House of Healing!’ He shuddered. ‘And they’ve nearly completed the next building in the plans, making it Houses of Healing!’

 ‘Twice the bother,’ Denethor said.

The assistant returned with a tray complete with teapot and mugs, one of them conveniently hobbit-sized. She poured out, gave Pippin his cup fixed just as he liked it (scalding hot, strong, no milk or sweetening), fixed another mug for Denethor, and lifted it to the guardsman’s lips, discouraging him from trying to lift the mug himself.

 ‘They’re cooking your breakfast now,’ she said, ‘and your wife awakened and asked after you, sir. I told her you were visiting Denethor and she said she’d see you later, then.’

 ‘Later?’ Pippin said.

 ‘Limited visitors,’ Denethor said, between sips. ‘They want to keep me quiet for some reason.’

 ‘The head healer has a wager on with the King,’ Pippin said in a conspiratorial tone. ‘One said ‘twould be impossible to keep you quiet for any length of time, and the other said you’d be so desperate to get up out of the bed just as soon as might be that you’d cooperate fully and keep just as still as a brick.’

Denethor squeezed his eyes shut, stiffened, and began to quiver. Pippin stared at him in consternation, while the assistant put the mug down hastily and seized the guardsman’s wrist.

 ‘Denny?’ Pippin said anxiously, squeezing the hand he held. The hand returned the squeeze, very gently, and the grey eyes opened for a momentary glance, which seemed to be an attempt to reassure, though they shut tight again nearly at once. The guardsman let out a pent-up breath in a sharp exhalation, sucked in a breath and groaned.

 ‘Denny?’ Pippin said, more alarmed than before. The assistant showed every sign of jumping to her feet and running for the healer on duty.

 ‘You shouldn’t—’ Denethor gasped, drawing another painful breath while Pippin and the assistant leaned forward, their own breath abated, awaiting whatever awful revelation was trembling on the guardsman’s lips. ‘Shouldn’t—make me—laugh!’ he forced out before stiffening again to fight off the agonies of laughter.

 ‘O my,’ the assistant said softly, and began to rub the guardsman’s arm with the flat of her hand. ‘Steady now, Denethor.’

 ‘Steady,’ Pippin said, gripping the hand. He remembered fighting laughter, long ago now, while recovering from the crushing injuries he’d suffered when the Troll fell upon him before the Black Gate. Somehow the sympathy in his tone was able to calm the guardsman, and his breathing steadied once more. Soon he’d relaxed against the cushions, opening his eyes and attempting a wan smile.

 ‘Sorry,’ the guardsman breathed.

 ‘It is I who should be begging your pardon,’ Pippin said. ‘Fancy my telling you a joke, in your condition.’

 ‘Nearly died laughing,’ Denethor whispered.

 ‘You’re incorrigible,’ the assistant said, taking up the mug again.

 ‘It’s a failing of mine,’ Denethor said. Pippin resisted the laughter that rose in him, not wanting to set the guardsman off again, but his eyes sparkled with mischief and Denethor grinned weakly to see him so. The hobbit had been entirely too subdued for his liking. Yesterday’s trouble had left a mark on the Thain, something he couldn’t put his finger on, but there was a definite difference.

He wondered if it was just a fever fancy.