Chapter 1: Lindelea
‘What ever is the matter with you, cousin?’ Frodo said good-naturedly at breakfast one morning. ‘Do you intend to keep that wonderful marmalade all to yourself this morning? I've asked you twice now to pass it...’
‘He's asleep on his feet,’ Merry said, scrutinizing his younger cousin. He didn't know why it worried him, that the tousled curls were neatly brushed, that the White Tree gleamed from a black surcoat unmarred by a single speck of dust. A peek under the table showed even the curls atop Pippin's feet were brushed and in order.
‘I'm on a chair,’ the young guardsman said with exaggerated patience, as if to a doddering old uncle. ‘And I'm hardly asleep--why, I've got to be attending the King shortly after breakfast! It certainly wouldn't do to be less than my best! I must attend to every detail.’ It took some effort, but he managed to stifle a yawn.
‘As a matter of fact, I did intend to keep the marmalade to myself, for I fear it is too rich for your digestion, but since you insist, Frodo,’ and rising from his chair he lifted the marmalade pot, made as if to toss it across the table, and, satisfied by the flutter of surprise from his older cousins, scampered around to Frodo's place and plopped the pot into Frodo's lap--right side up, thankfully!
‘What's got into him?’ Merry said, staring after Pippin's departing back.
Frodo's eyes narrowed as he stared at the closed door. ‘Sam,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘Has Pippin said anything to you?’ For he knew that the younger cousin would sometimes confide in the gardener, when he didn't want to “bother” his older cousins with his troubles.
‘Not a word, Mr. Frodo,’ Sam said, hopping up to replenish Frodo's teacup. He stopped to scratch thoughtfully at his ear. ‘As a matter of fact, he's been less chattery, the past few days.’
‘Perhaps he's growing up,’ Frodo said. ‘After all, he has quite a responsible position for a tween... attending the King, through those interminable meetings with the ambassadors from Harad and...’
‘And sparing you the trouble,’ Merry put in, rising and throwing his serviette upon the table. He had a King to attend, himself, that morning. ‘Pip and I stand behind our lords, doughty warriors that we are, kin to the Ring-bearer, slayers of Trolls and other things, and when the lords of East and South grow too obstreperous we simply lower our eyebrows and glower...’
****
Pippin wasn't glowering at the moment; rather he was grinning and chuckling at a joke told by Targon, one of his firmest friends in the city of Minas Tirith. Together they had marched to the Black Gate; together they had ridden in a wain from the Morannon to Cormallen; together they worried about the anticipated fate of their comrade Beregond, though few words were needed between them on this matter or any other.
But the Citadel guard lowered his voice as Pippin made move to pass through the gateway. ‘Did the sleeping powder not work?’ he said. ‘You look as if you're still quite a few winks short of a night's sleep.’
‘Worked very well indeed,’ Pippin laughed, though in truth the powders were still in a pouch under his pillow. A spoonful in a small amount of strong spirits, Targon had said, tendering the pouch a few days before, when they'd been talking about not sleeping, and Targon had told of a guardsman who'd gone mad for lack of sleep and started slashing with his sword at foes that were only in his imagination... But for one of your folk, perhaps not a spoonful, but merely a pinch, the guardsman had added thoughtfully. You wouldn't want to take too much of the stuff.
Pippin had given the matter some thought, though he wasn't desperate enough to try a sleeping powder--not yet, anyhow. He'd come to the conclusion that, since hobbits seemed to need more food and drink to sustain them than Men, and the powder was something you took in drink, he'd probably need at least as much as a Man, or perhaps more. He'd start small, and if the stuff didn't make him feel sleepy...
He'd been sorely tempted in the wee hours of this morning, though, when the usual half-dream had turned again to nightmare. The talk among the guardsmen last night had been of Faramir, and Denethor, and as if reflecting the somber discussion, this time the shadows were flames.
In his fancy, Pippin had risen, compelled by curiosity to peep in the palantír. He'd crept from his bed to where Gandalf was sleeping, the Seeing Stone hidden in a fold of his cloak. Pippin had stolen away the Stone, as fine a burglar as Bilbo ever was! ...and taking his ill- gained treasure to a private place--the pantry, as a matter of fact, he rested the Stone on a low shelf and closed his hands about it.
Light flared within, and small figures danced, drawing him closer in curiosity, and he saw strange sights. But as he feasted his eyes greedily upon the orb, his expression turned slowly from pleasure to horror, and though he would have pulled his hands away to cover his face, instead his grip tightened helplessly. In the midst of his panic a small, detached part of his mind felt that this was how a fly must feel, encountering the spider's web. His mouth opened, but no sound emerged.
And suddenly he was surrounded by flames, and he heard cruel laughter, and the flames pricked along his skin as the laughter became somehow Denethor's, and the Steward held Pippin's hands in his, forcing the hobbit to hold the Stone, and the flames danced in Denethor's eyes...
And then Pippin was awake, the stones cold under his feet, a round melon in his hands, and the echoes of nightmare fading. He was in the pantry, true, but he had wandered there in dream. Sleepwalking, he thought with a shiver. If my cousins had found me so…
‘What was that, lad?’ Targon said, and Pippin started at a touch on his arm. ‘Is it well with you?’ And the guardsman's face held an expression of concern.
Pippin shook his head. ‘I was wool-gathering,’ he said, standing straighter.
‘You mustn't use too much of that powder,’ Targon said, lifting a warning finger.
‘It'll linger, and muddle you just when you are wanting a clear head.’
‘Just a pinch,’ Pippin said, nodding his head in agreement. There was the sound of a silver horn, and he forced a grin. ‘They'll be starting soon,’ he said. ‘I had best hurry if I don't want one of Mithrandir's frowns!’