Chapter 2. Interlude

The door opens slowly, silently, no warning tap that might waken the Thain from hard-won slumber. It is the Thain’s personal hobbitservant, Sandy, face sober as always for that hobbit is ever on his dignity, but there is a difference from his customary mien. His eyes are red and swollen, and he blinks in the dim light.

At my inquiring look, he jerks his head towards the sitting-room beyond; someone or something awaits me there.

With a glance for the Thain, whose eyes are closed—he makes no sign of hearing—I rise from my chair as Sandy takes up the watcher’s post, and the Thain’s hand, on the other side of the bed. I creep from the room, overcome by the urge to walk a-tiptoe.

A meal is waiting on the table. Too late for late supper, much too early for early breakfast, I suppose it could be called midnight supper. I seat myself and though I know better, I bolt my food. I do not want to be away, in the event—

In any event, I clear the plate without noticing what it contained, or even if the contents had a pleasing flavour. I’ve left the door open, and rising to return to the bedroom I see the two of them, Thain and servant, sitting as if they are statues carved from stone. But no, there is one sign of life. A tear falls from Sandy’s eye, coming to rest on the back of the hand that holds the Thain’s, and he rubs it gently away with his free hand.

Without speaking, I resume my seat, and Pippin’s hand. It is cold, colder than it was before? ...but difficult to determine, as I have just warmed my hands on a steaming mug of tea, brewed strong that I might continue alert into the depths of the night. As if I could sleep...

Sandy rises, laying down the hand he holds with infinite tenderness. How he loves Pippin and his family, as if they were his own. He would lay down his life for them; he would exchange places, even now, if it would save the hobbit gasping on the bed.

When the door has shut behind the hobbitservant with the faintest of clicks, the sunken eyes open wearily.

 ‘So,’ he says, and the fingers twitch in my grasp. ‘Was it good?’

 ‘Sir?’ I say.

 ‘Midnight supper,’ he whispers. ‘Many’s the time, Sandy’s heard us talking in the night, over a nightmare or a thorny piece of business or somewhat, and laid the table with a light meal fit for a king and laden with foods that encourage sleep.’

His breathing is somewhat better for the moment, and I gather that some of his rest was indeed sleep, just now. But he was aware enough, to know that I left, and when I returned. It has always been difficult to put anything past the hobbit.

 ‘It was good,’ I answer, forcing a smile.

 ‘Was it tasty?’ he asks, and there is something in his eyes that prompts me to honesty.

 ‘I don’t know,’ I say, and he smiles, even nods, a feeble jerk of the chin reminiscent of better times.

 ‘It is good to know you are ever truthful,’ he says.

 ‘What do you mean?’ I say, stirred to curiosity by his tone.

He hesitates, but time is pressing, so little of it is left to him now. ‘Do you think—?’ he says, and stops.

I give his hand a gentle squeeze, though my finger remains on the pulse point from long years of habit.

 ‘Do I think?’ I prompt. He closes his eyes, and I think he is drifting into sleep once more.

At last he speaks again. ‘Do you think me a coward?’ he asks.

Startled, I lean forward. ‘A coward?’ I say, louder than I intended, perhaps, for he opens his eyes.

 ‘Aye,’ he breathes.

 ‘I’ve never known a braver or bonnier—’ I begin, but he shakes his head slightly.

 ‘Frodo was braver,’ he says. ‘Much braver than any hobbit I’ve ever known.’ His eyes bore into mine for a moment and then he continues. ‘Am I a coward, to give up the fight this way? I feel as if...’

 ‘As if...?’

He swallows, making a face at the dryness of his mouth, and I pick up the cup of water to lift it his lips for a sip. When I put the cup down, he continues, though for the moment he seems ashamed to meet my eyes. ‘I am a great coward,’ he says, ‘to lay down the fight. It is only that I am so very weary...’ His mouth twists, and he raises his eyes to mine once more. ‘If I could but rest...’

Every breath a knife’s thrust.

 ‘Your lungs are filling with fluid,’ I say softly. ‘And the only thing to keep you from drowning is to cough it out. But you’ve already broken a rib with coughing...’

 ‘But I might live,’ he says. ‘Merry asked me to keep on fighting, before he was called away.’ He closes his eyes. ‘To keep fighting,’ he whispers.

 ‘Do you want to try and cough?’ I say. ‘Perhaps a meal, first. A little broth, to strengthen you?’

He smiles without humour. ‘You do think me a coward,’ he says, ‘to have given over so easily.’

 ‘You have fought long and hard,’ I answer. ‘And death takes us all, in the end.’ I dare not betray the hope that rises in me, hope, and dread with it, having watched his valiant fight these past years against encroaching death. Can he yet hold it off...?

Fennel, my chief assistant, helps in this, holding Pippin on one side while Sandy, clearly hoping against hope, supports him on the other. I’ve given him something that, rather than soothing the cough as we’ve endeavoured since he began to turn his face from life, will instead stir up the stuff in his pipes and encourage coughing.

When, during our preparations, I would send for his wife, he stays my hand. ‘Wait,’ he says. ‘I would not have her suffer...’ Of course he would not have her watch his painful effort to gain more breath, for her sake if not his own.

...but the coughing, in the end, is a dismal failure. When at last we lay him back upon the pillows, his ashen face betrays the depth of his exhaustion. Rather than gaining him some ground in the fight, I fear we have sent him skidding ever closer to the edge.