Disclaimer: I don’t own them and I’ll put them back when I’m done!

Author’s Note: Thank you, Pip, for the beta!

Chapter Sixteen: Accident

“We forgot to bring torches,” Bergil said softly.

The hobbits traded a martyred look; the lad was right. The hole in the wall was gaping like a maw; they had not seen anything like it since Moria. At least there they had had the torches that Aragorn and Gandalf magically produced from their packs. Pippin wondered at their stupidity. How they had managed to set off on an expedition for a hidden room in an empty wing without torches or candles was beyond him. Even back in the Shire he had known to take some sort of light with him when he went exploring.

“Well, there are plenty of abandoned rooms here,” Merry said at last, breaking the heavy silence. “I’d wager Gimli that there are lamps and flints in at least one of them.”

They turned back down the corridor and walked until they reached a door. This door was made of heavily carved black wood, with a handle that was higher than any of them could reach. In the end, Merry boosted Pippin up and the Took pulled the handle down. With a grinding squeak, the door swung open, and Pippin tumbled forward into the chamber, landing with a thud that raised huge amounts of cloudy dust.

“Oi! That hurt!” he complained, standing and dusting himself off. “I hadn’t expected that.”

“I wonder why they made the handle so high,” Merry mused. “I can’t imagine any children wanting to come into a place like this.”

Pippin nodded, gazing about the room. It was a large room, hung with dark tapestries and heavy red drapes. Several sofas and chairs were scattered about, and Pippin realized that this was an apartment like Arwen’s, with a sitting room coming before the bedroom. The windows were covered, reducing the room to shadows.

“It seems they had an aversion to sunlight, too,” he said. “These people! Honestly, it’s no small wonder that everyone was so happy when Strider became King.”

“Was it this bad under Denethor, Bergil?” Merry asked, scanning the walls for candles. “Nothing. How wretched.”

Bergil looked surprised. “Er, I don’t recall it being bad. I mean, we were at war lots, but that was against the Shadow. Things weren’t always scary. And I never actually saw Lord Denethor close up.”

Merry shrugged. Things were being kept quiet about Denethor’s end, but from what Pippin had told him, Merry knew that he had been mad as a March mare. It still chilled Merry to the bone to think of someone trying to burn Faramir to a cinder. Who would do something like that to their own son?

“I can’t see any lights in here, Merry,” Pippin said, breaking into Merry’s thoughts. “Maybe there are some in the bedroom?”

Merry nodded, and they huddled together as they started towards the dark bedroom door. The hangings in here were red as well, but thankfully they did not have to stay long in the room. There was a huge desk in one corner with many large candles resting on it in ornate gold holders. Each of the lads took a long taper and candlestick and lit it with the flint and steel that Pippin found in one of the drawers. The flickering glow did little to illuminate the room, and they hurried to leave it behind them. All three lads did their best to ignore the fact that they were headed towards a room that was even darker.

The Alchemy Room was open, as they had left it. The statue was still there, of course, but now it seemed to glare at them with a forbidding eye. Pippin gulped as he slunk past it. He wondered whom it was a statue of.

The space behind the statue was more of a small passage than a room. They followed it quickly, eager to see what was there and leave. Pippin shivered in the darkness; he had to admit to himself that he felt braver with a Big Person nearby. It would have been nice to have Eowyn with them, or even Strider. Nothing would dare attack Strider.

“Oh!”

The exclamation came from Bergil, but Merry and Pippin also emitted gasps of wonder. This room was unlike anything they had ever seen before. Tall tables were adorned with strange tubes of twisted copper that ended in glass bottles. Some of the bottles were empty, but others were filled to various levels with amber liquids. Charts and sketches covered the walls, stuck anywhere and everywhere with no apparent order. Everything was covered with the layer of dust and cobwebs that was so common to this wing of the house.

“Bizarre,” Pippin announced finally. “Absolutely batty. Belecthor was quite obviously mad as a fish.”

“I see no argument there. And we thought that Frodo was odd,” muttered Merry.

“The Ringbearer?” squawked Bergil, looking thoroughly shocked at the comparison of the ultimate hero to a mad steward.

Merry nodded grimly, raising his candle to penetrate the shadows. “Frodo has rooms full of books and old paintings. He’ll hole up there for days, reading and sketching, which is part of the reason why the neighbors think he’s so strange. It’s a funny world, lad.”

Bergil shrugged, storing that information away and turning his attention the spectacle before them. The room was so fascinating that he was filled with awe. Their candles barely penetrated the darkness of the room, which pressed in at them like a tangible thing, and filled them with a peculiar sense of dread. It was as though something was watching them, an unearthly thing like a remnant of the Shadow. Bergil shuddered.

“Oh, look, it’s a book!” Pippin said suddenly, pointing to a stack on the worktable. “Maybe Belecthor kept a journal.”

He left their tight huddle and strode towards the table. The darkness kept the footstool from Pippin’s line of sight, and the Took, moving quickly, tripped over it and went crashing into the worktable. He threw his hands out to catch himself and only succeeded in crashing into the table before falling to the floor. The equipment on the table shivered, swaying dangerously, then seemed to still. Merry breathed a sigh of relief; Pippin looked to be out of harm’s way. It seemed that he breathed a moment too soon, though, for the gently swaying tubes and bottles suddenly crashed down around Pippin.

“Pip!” bellowed Merry, grabbing Bergil and leaping away as the wreckage came hurtling down around his cousin.

Pippin didn’t have time to move. The last thing he saw was a copper pipe hurtling towards his face.

*****

“Really, I think of all the people in this kingdom, only the two of you have the nerve to disobey me. And you’ve dragged poor Bergil into it as well. How many times must I ask you to stay out of that wing?”

Pippin opened his eyes slowly and blinked. Merry and Aragorn were glaring at each other, planted firmly apart on the floor, looking furious. Bergil sat nearby, looking terrified.

“I should imagine I’ve told you at least four times by now, most likely more. And you keep going over there! Pippin could have died, Merry! Again!”

That, Pippin thought, was a tad unfair. He had not died when the troll fell on him, just been rather squashed, and he did not think that a pipe would do him in after that. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a soft groan came out.

“Meh…”

At once, Merry and Aragorn ceased their quarreling and turned to him. Aragorn bent low over him, and placed a hand on Pippin’s forehead.

“How do you feel, Pip?” he asked concernedly. “How’s your head?”

Pippin considered a moment, biting his lip. “Odd,” he said at last. “It hurts.”

Aragorn smiled a little dryly. “I don’t doubt it. Anyone who has copper pipes come crashing down around them would be lucky to escape with less than a headache. Luckily for you, that’s all you’ve got. Now, how many fingers do you see?”

“Three.” Pippin smiled weakly. “Well, that’s good then. So. Are you going to yell at me like you did Merry?”

“I should,” Aragorn replied. “But I think you’ve learned your lesson.”

“I daresay,” Pippin replied. “And don’t be angry at Bergil. We dragged him into it.”

Aragorn rolled his eyes. He did not doubt the veracity of that statement for a moment.

“Get some rest. I’ve got a potion for you to take that should alleviate your headache within an hour or so. You’ll be fine.”

Pippin shrugged in place of nodding, drank the potion Aragorn handed him, and grimaced. “I do think that your potions will be the death of me, Strider. They’re utterly horrid and always will be.”

Aragorn smiled at him despite himself. “Don’t be melodramatic. Now rest. You need it.”

Pippin shrugged again and closed his eyes. Within moments, he was sound asleep.

Aragorn straightened up and turned to Merry and Bergil. He was met with looks both defiant and fearful. Wordlessly he beckoned them to follow him from the room.

Once they were in the sitting room, Aragorn sat down in an armchair and turned to face the lads.

“Really, Strider, you can’t blame us for being curious. I’m sure you would have done the same thing when you were young,” Merry said, folding his arms and looking belligerently at Aragorn.

Aragorn rolled his eyes again and turned to Bergil. The lad visibly shrank several inches.

“Relax, lad,” he said. “I’m not angry at you.”

“You’re not?” squeaked Bergil, who obviously was fully expecting to be ridden out of the city on a rail.

“No,” said Aragorn. “I’m not. Slightly annoyed, perhaps a bit chagrinned, but not angry. For some reason I find it difficult to remain angry with Merry and Pippin for long.” He ran a hand over his face and shook his head. “That being said, I am honestly considering putting a new lock on that door and keeping the key on my person at all times.”

Merry gave him a small grin. “I don’t think that would work, Strider. Queen Arwen would just take it away from you while you were asleep and give it to us.”

Aragorn blinked at him. Merry gazed back, grinning from ear to ear. Bergil looked from one to the other, uncertain of how he should react. Several moments passed, then Aragorn threw his head back and laughed.

“You’ve even got my wife in on it, you rascal. Fine. Just be careful. I can’t stress that enough. Come to Gandalf or myself if you have any desire to go exploring, and we’ll make sure you have what you need. No need to go sneaking around anymore. Understand?”

Merry and Bergil nodded. Aragorn could see that Pippin’s injury had frightened them more than they were admitting. It had been an hour since they had fetched him. It had been Bergil who came running to the throne room, covered in dust, his face streaked with tears.

“Sir Pippin is hurt, sir! Sir Merry sent me to fetch you!” the lad had cried, startling several dignitaries, who all glared at the lad in annoyance that he would dare interrupt the King.

Aragorn, however, had leapt up from his seat, ordered Faramir to see to the dignitaries, and had followed Bergil at a run to the Alchemy Room. Too worried about Pippin to pay much attention to the mysterious room, Aragorn had not bothered to ask much about what they had been doing. That had come later, when Pippin was firmly ensconced in his bed with a damp cloth over his head.

Now, though, Aragorn could concentrate on the most burning question in his mind: how they had managed to find that secret room in the first place. When he put it forth to Merry and Bergil, both lads shrugged and exchanged a glance.

“It was on an old map we found in the Great Library, sir,” Bergil ventured at last. “We were curious, so we went to investigate.”

Aragorn nodded. “And Pippin tripped and knocked over all that equipment. Fool of a Took. You were right in coming to me, Bergil.”

Bergil beamed at the praise. Aragorn smiled back at him, liking the lad in spite of himself. He had spirit.

“That being said, I am serious about not exploring that place without myself or Gandalf. I do not trust it at all, not after what happened so long ago. But I am not about to shout at you for it,” Aragorn said, and gave them a small, pitying smile.

“Why?” Merry asked nervously. He did not like that look on anybody’s face; it could only mean one thing.

“Because I think you are about to get the talking-down of your life, Meriadoc,” the King replied, and beckoned to the door, which Frodo had just silently passed through. The Ringbearer was swelling like a bullfrog, and Merry inwardly groaned.

“I’ll leave you alone,” Aragorn said, stepping quickly towards the door. “Come, Bergil.”

Leaving Merry to the furious storm cloud that was Frodo, Aragorn and Bergil made a hasty retreat.

“Poor lad,” Aragorn said to Bergil, shaking his head. “Frodo is a good hobbit, and very kind, but he is not one to be angered.”

Bergil was not certain how to respond to this. He settled for a respectful nod. The King looked down and gave him a kindly smile.

“I keep forgetting you’re not a hobbit, lad. I do apologize,” he said.

Bergil nodded. “Thank you, sir.”

At least it’s not ‘My Lord King’ anymore, Aragorn thought with a smile. They walked in silence for a few minutes, and Aragorn could see that Bergil was working up the courage to ask him a question.

“Er, did Merry and Pippin really put ink in your tea, sir, or were they making it up?” Bergil finally burst out.

Aragorn laughed again. “They did much, much worse before they got to that.”

“They said something about blowing up a privy,” Bergil said shyly, sneaking a glance at the King.

Aragorn snorted at the memory. “Yes, well, let me tell you about that. It all started when Merry found an old map of Eriador…”

*****

Eowyn woke up around dusk, and lay in her bed staring at the ceiling. Something was strange, but she did not know why. Sitting up, she reached for a soft old robe that someone had found her and slipped it on. Perhaps it was the quietness of the corridor: it was a set of rooms arranged for the Rohirric royal family, and it was usually bustling with marshals reporting to Eomer and their friends coming in to visit at all hours. For it to be so quiet now was unsettling.

Deciding that a dress was probably more respectable to wear as it was getting on towards dinnertime, Eowyn discarded the robe and pulled on a simple blue gown. Stepping out into the corridor, Eowyn looked around for someone. There was no one down the corridor, so Eowyn turned and looked behind her. She jumped several inches and emitted a tiny squeak of shock.

“Finally awake then, lass? Good,” Gandalf said, nodding at her. “Young Peregrin has had a bit of an accident. Hit his head, it seems, whilst exploring a secret room in the locked up wing. Did I not tell you to come to me if anything like this were to occur?”

Eowyn blinked at him, startled. “Pippin is hurt? Is he all right?”

“Quite well, luckily. He’s seen worse, that lad,” Gandalf gave her a measured look. “I think it’s time to suggest to you that you stop delving into the ghosts of two hundred years ago and start concentrating on that lady whose place you will shortly be taking.”

With that, Gandalf strode down the hallway and left the Rohirric rooms.

TBC