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piploverThis is all Shirebound's fault. After she read Gentle Hands, she wanted me to write a sequal. Though not as good as the first, I think, and un-beta-ed, I hope that you all enjoy.
Small Hands
The hands tenderly grasped within his own were small, tiny even, and the sword calluses clashed with their size. It was hard to think of those hands wielding a sword, harder even to think of the bones that had been crushed doing just that. Even now, the tips of purpled and blackened fingers stood out in stark contrast to the clean, white bandage that bound the healing appendage.
How long Gimli sat there, the sound of the day slowly fading into night, the chirrup of crickets replacing the chatter of people, he was unable to say later. It seemed to the gruff dwarf that the world narrowed, and the regular concerns passed from his mind, replaced by the simple joy of watching Pippin’s breath even out and his color slowly return.
Three days the lad had fought the fever that soaked his sheets and garments, leaving pale lips chapped and eyes swollen. Aragorn had spent a great deal of those three days sitting with the two hobbits, for Merry was seldom from Pippin’s side, and Gimli could tell by the set of the Ranger’s mouth that this fever was a worrying thing.
When the summons had arrived that morning from King Éomer, begging Aragorn’s help with a problem that demanded the other’s attention, the King had been reluctant to leave Pippin’s side, and Merry even more so, despite the letter asking for him by name to help with the task. Only with Gimli and Legolas’ firm promise that they would not leave Pippin’s side did Merry relent, clearly torn between his two duties.
Then a summons had arrived for Legolas to join the two Kings, and with reluctance he had left, clearly reluctant to leave his two friends alone. Only Gimli’s growled threats to the elf’s hair had convinced him to leave, his eyes solemn as he glanced over his shoulder before leaving the healing tent.
So Gimli had found himself caring for the tweenager alone, contenting himself to wash away the dust and snarls that had accumulated in the mass of thick curls. When that task had been accomplished, he had moved on to Pippin’s feet, remembering from their long trek the meticulous care that the hobbits had displayed for their foot-hair.
Then he had sat, enjoying the results of his patience, smiling slightly at the thought of Pippin’s reaction when he would awake to find himself at least somewhat presentable. Still, in the quiet of the night, Gimli puffed contentedly on his pipe, one hand tenderly holding that of his small friend. Unable to let go.
****
“But I’m not hungry!” a slightly petulant voice complained from the inside of the tent, drawing a smile from the dwarf and elf as they approached, their own trays held securely in their arms.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Merry’s voice answered sternly. “You have to eat something, Strider says so! Don’t you?”
There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of a grunt, as though someone had been kicked, and Aragorn’s hasty answer of, “Yes, yes I do!”
Gimli and Legolas entered the tent just in time to see the King ruefully rubbing at his shin from where he sat beside the cot that held the complaining hobbit. Merry, sitting next to Aragorn, smiled in satisfaction, his foot once more resting on the carpeted floor.
“And what is this?” Gimli asked in a gruff tone, placing his tray down next to Pippin’s own untouched one. “A hobbit refusing to eat?”
“Surely the sun has decided to trade places with the moon,” Legolas agreed, earning snickers from all of them.
“I just don’t have an appetite, that’s all,” Pippin defended himself, trying to look put upon and failing.
“And understandably so,” Aragorn agreed, moving with a speed usually reserved for fighting the enemy to stand and escape Merry’s foot. “Do not force yourself to eat, though I do want you to drink as much of this juice as you can. The fever drained you, my friend, in more ways than just stealing your strength, and this shall help replenish you.” So saying, Aragorn poured a generous amount of a thick, light green liquid into a goblet and allowed Merry to hold it to his cousin’s lips.
Pippin did not protest as he drank, though the effort clearly cost him, and when he had finished, he was settled back, eyes drooping.
“Sleep, Pippin,” Aragorn ordered, bending to place a gentle kiss to his friend’s brow before turning to Merry. “Come, Merry. Now that Gimli and Legolas are here, we have duties to see to. And don’t worry,” he added, seeing the stubborn glint that came into the older hobbit’s eyes. “I do not think we shall be more than a few hours, and Pippin will still be sleeping by the time you get back. The herbs in the drink will see to that,” he added, winking.
Merry smiled, standing stiffly and squeezing Pippin’s shoulder as he left, murmuring his good-byes to the two who remained behind.
Legolas sat gracefully in the chair Aragorn had vacated, and Gimli took Merry’s seat on the side of the cot, absently running a hand through Pippin’s curls, once more in need of a good combing.
“What a mess, Young Hobbit,” Gimli sighed, almost too softly for even Legolas’ ears to detect.
“Not even you could get all the tangles out,” Pippin mumbled, forcing his eyes open with obvious effort.
For a long moment their eyes met, Gimli’s deep brown and Pippin’s slightly dulled green, and a quite understanding passed between them. Watching from the side, Legolas smiled, ducking his head. He knew that should any find out the tough dwarf had spent an afternoon patiently untangling snarls and combing out foot-hair, his friend would never forgive him.
But as the dwarf’s hand closed almost absently about Pippin’s, the small fingers nearly engulfed in the large clasp, Legolas could not help but note that, despite the tweenager’s tiny appendage, the one being held by the dwarf wrapped securely around it, as though to keep it safe.
And let the other know that his secret was secure in those small hands.
Small Hands
The hands tenderly grasped within his own were small, tiny even, and the sword calluses clashed with their size. It was hard to think of those hands wielding a sword, harder even to think of the bones that had been crushed doing just that. Even now, the tips of purpled and blackened fingers stood out in stark contrast to the clean, white bandage that bound the healing appendage.
How long Gimli sat there, the sound of the day slowly fading into night, the chirrup of crickets replacing the chatter of people, he was unable to say later. It seemed to the gruff dwarf that the world narrowed, and the regular concerns passed from his mind, replaced by the simple joy of watching Pippin’s breath even out and his color slowly return.
Three days the lad had fought the fever that soaked his sheets and garments, leaving pale lips chapped and eyes swollen. Aragorn had spent a great deal of those three days sitting with the two hobbits, for Merry was seldom from Pippin’s side, and Gimli could tell by the set of the Ranger’s mouth that this fever was a worrying thing.
When the summons had arrived that morning from King Éomer, begging Aragorn’s help with a problem that demanded the other’s attention, the King had been reluctant to leave Pippin’s side, and Merry even more so, despite the letter asking for him by name to help with the task. Only with Gimli and Legolas’ firm promise that they would not leave Pippin’s side did Merry relent, clearly torn between his two duties.
Then a summons had arrived for Legolas to join the two Kings, and with reluctance he had left, clearly reluctant to leave his two friends alone. Only Gimli’s growled threats to the elf’s hair had convinced him to leave, his eyes solemn as he glanced over his shoulder before leaving the healing tent.
So Gimli had found himself caring for the tweenager alone, contenting himself to wash away the dust and snarls that had accumulated in the mass of thick curls. When that task had been accomplished, he had moved on to Pippin’s feet, remembering from their long trek the meticulous care that the hobbits had displayed for their foot-hair.
Then he had sat, enjoying the results of his patience, smiling slightly at the thought of Pippin’s reaction when he would awake to find himself at least somewhat presentable. Still, in the quiet of the night, Gimli puffed contentedly on his pipe, one hand tenderly holding that of his small friend. Unable to let go.
****
“But I’m not hungry!” a slightly petulant voice complained from the inside of the tent, drawing a smile from the dwarf and elf as they approached, their own trays held securely in their arms.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Merry’s voice answered sternly. “You have to eat something, Strider says so! Don’t you?”
There was a moment of silence, followed by the sound of a grunt, as though someone had been kicked, and Aragorn’s hasty answer of, “Yes, yes I do!”
Gimli and Legolas entered the tent just in time to see the King ruefully rubbing at his shin from where he sat beside the cot that held the complaining hobbit. Merry, sitting next to Aragorn, smiled in satisfaction, his foot once more resting on the carpeted floor.
“And what is this?” Gimli asked in a gruff tone, placing his tray down next to Pippin’s own untouched one. “A hobbit refusing to eat?”
“Surely the sun has decided to trade places with the moon,” Legolas agreed, earning snickers from all of them.
“I just don’t have an appetite, that’s all,” Pippin defended himself, trying to look put upon and failing.
“And understandably so,” Aragorn agreed, moving with a speed usually reserved for fighting the enemy to stand and escape Merry’s foot. “Do not force yourself to eat, though I do want you to drink as much of this juice as you can. The fever drained you, my friend, in more ways than just stealing your strength, and this shall help replenish you.” So saying, Aragorn poured a generous amount of a thick, light green liquid into a goblet and allowed Merry to hold it to his cousin’s lips.
Pippin did not protest as he drank, though the effort clearly cost him, and when he had finished, he was settled back, eyes drooping.
“Sleep, Pippin,” Aragorn ordered, bending to place a gentle kiss to his friend’s brow before turning to Merry. “Come, Merry. Now that Gimli and Legolas are here, we have duties to see to. And don’t worry,” he added, seeing the stubborn glint that came into the older hobbit’s eyes. “I do not think we shall be more than a few hours, and Pippin will still be sleeping by the time you get back. The herbs in the drink will see to that,” he added, winking.
Merry smiled, standing stiffly and squeezing Pippin’s shoulder as he left, murmuring his good-byes to the two who remained behind.
Legolas sat gracefully in the chair Aragorn had vacated, and Gimli took Merry’s seat on the side of the cot, absently running a hand through Pippin’s curls, once more in need of a good combing.
“What a mess, Young Hobbit,” Gimli sighed, almost too softly for even Legolas’ ears to detect.
“Not even you could get all the tangles out,” Pippin mumbled, forcing his eyes open with obvious effort.
For a long moment their eyes met, Gimli’s deep brown and Pippin’s slightly dulled green, and a quite understanding passed between them. Watching from the side, Legolas smiled, ducking his head. He knew that should any find out the tough dwarf had spent an afternoon patiently untangling snarls and combing out foot-hair, his friend would never forgive him.
But as the dwarf’s hand closed almost absently about Pippin’s, the small fingers nearly engulfed in the large clasp, Legolas could not help but note that, despite the tweenager’s tiny appendage, the one being held by the dwarf wrapped securely around it, as though to keep it safe.
And let the other know that his secret was secure in those small hands.
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Date: 2004-10-04 07:28 pm (UTC)no subject
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Date: 2004-10-05 03:54 am (UTC), Gimli puffed contentedly on his pipe, one hand tenderly holding that of his small friend. Unable to let go.
*more happy sighs*
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Date: 2004-10-05 07:24 am (UTC)Do you have your fics archived anywhere?
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