9. Another Shortcut

The sun was shining through the tall window, bright and hot, right on the chair where Pippin was perched, his feet dangling. He was getting very warm under the black wool of his uniform, and the fine silver embroidery on his surcoat was beginning to chafe. He very much wanted to swing his legs, or hum, or run a grubby finger around his collar where the sweat was gathering, but that would betray his nervousness, and he must hold firm. Frodo, Merry, and Sam were depending on him. He studied the auburn curls on his feet, now caked with mud, and wiggled his long toes, pretending great interest. He just had to keep a grip on himself, that was all. After all, Old Strider-that is, his King Elessar, was a busy man, he couldn't possibly stare holes in him forever.

Aragorn drummed his fingers on the table, quite prepared to stare holes in the young hobbit forever if need be. His other hand toyed idly with the meager contents of the small basket before him, then he lifted one perfect specimen to his nose and breathed deep. A fine scent it was, earthy and strong, warm and sweet and smelling of the dim, wooded glades where it grew, truly a gift of Yavanna. He placed it gently back into the basket, then steepled his fingers under his chin. "You are quite sure there are no more?"

His gaze grew even more piercing, if that was possible. Pippin swallowed with an audible gulp. Steady, steady, old lad.

"No, none at all, I'm afraid," he said lightly, his eyes wide and innocent. "A pity really, but the land around Minas Tirith just isn't the proper kind of country for them, I suppose. Too dry, too rocky, not enough trees. Too dry." He realized he was beginning to ramble and cut himself off. There was a rather uncomfortable pause, then Pippin cleared his throat. "Would there be anything else, my Lord?"

Aragorn frowned so darkly that Pippin squeaked inwardly, but then he relaxed and gave a resigned sigh. Given his long acquaintance with hobbits, he should have realized that nothing on earth, not great friendship or loyalty, not oath of fealty nor kingly scowl, would do him much good where this particular subject was concerned. "No, no. You are free for the day, my friend."

Pippin jumped off the chair and made a bow. Aragorn gave a little nod of the head in return, and Pippin walked away, outwardly calm but with his knees secretly a-tremble. He expected any minute to be recalled, so upon reaching the threshold he fairly leaped through the doorway.

Merry, Frodo, and Sam were there to catch him in their arms. He staggered a bit as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Frodo put an arm around his shoulders to hold him up. "There, there, cousin. It's all over now."

"Poor old fellow," Merry said, fanning him with the hem of his surcoat. "Take a moment to catch your breath."

"My, but you were in there a long time," Sam said, patting his hand sympathetically. "Did he question you cruel hard, Mr. Pippin?"

"Yes, he did," Pippin said. "I knew he reckoned me to be the weak link in our chain, but I didn't crack, no matter how he stared. He looked as though he wanted to eat me. Stars above, I feel as if I've been whipped!" He let out his breath in a big gust. "I do feel a bit bad about deceiving him-he spent so many years guarding the Shire, he must be very nearly half a hobbit, you know."

"But it had to be done, my lad, and our secret is safe," Frodo said. "That's what matters."

There was much sage nodding at this pronouncement. A great patch of mushrooms was a thing to be cherished, more precious than gold (gold being highly inedible,) and the location was never revealed except to those nearest and dearest to the finder. And sometimes not even then, unless your nearest and dearest happened to be with you when you stumbled across your treasure and couldn't be fought off.

"You’re a brave lad." Merry clapped Pippin on the shoulder. "A true Knight of the Citadel and a gentlehobbit. Now, let's hurry and go get the rest of them!"

Frodo and Sam passed around the sacks they had brought, a proud and hungry gleam in their eyes, and the four conspirators crept away together toward the motherlode.

(more ficlets to come...)

Hopefully this takes the edge off the angstfest that was the previous chapter of this collection. Written for Marigold's 15th Story Challenge, and inspired by hunger for the humble and delicious Morel mushroom, a gift of Yavanna indeed.