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piploverIn a Heartbeat: Chapter Two
He was lying on something soft and warm, a pillowing squashiness that seemed to envelope his body and prevent any thought of movement. Briefly he considered turning his head, then decided it was too much effort, his limbs heavy and leaden.
“Mumph,” he grunted, forcing his eyes open despite their desire to stay shut.
“Pippin?”
The room was dimly illuminated, the single candle burning on the wall opposite where Pippin lay barely enough to outline the figure of the King as he moved to kneel beside his knight.
“Little Bird, can you hear me?” Aragorn asked softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Pippin’s forehead.
“Mmmmm,” Pippin mumbled, struggling to keep his eyes open. “‘M tired.”
“I know you are,” Aragorn answered gently, placing feather light fingertips to Pippin’s neck, reassured by the steady beat. “You were wounded several hours ago, and have lost a great deal of blood. I want you to drink a little water for me, and then rest some more. I have sent Legolas to bring your cousins, and they shall be here when you awaken.”
Pippin managed a small nod, sipping from the mug Aragorn placed to his lips, his eyelids drooping.
“Now sleep, Little Bird. And when you wake next, we shall talk some more.”
As Pippin felt himself drifting off he heard, faintly, Aragorn’s soft voice murmur, “My brave, beloved Knight. Whatever would I do without you?”
Then he knew no more, sinking into a sleep as deep and dark as the mines of Moria.
***
“...we came as soon as we heard!”
“Is he all right?”
“What happened? Where is he?”
“Aragorn, what happened to the lad?”
The worried voices blurred and blended together, until he could not distinguish between one and the next, though he knew all of them better than his own.
“Gentlemen, please, calm down and I will tell you what happened. You must be quiet, however, for Pippin has been sorely wounded and needs to rest. I will allow you to be with him, but you must remain calm and not wake him.”
Aragorn’s strong, soothing voice sent a wave of relief washing over the young knight that was so intense he shivered with it. His King was well! He thought that he had known, from when he had woken up earlier, but to hear that beloved voice and know that he had not dreamed was like drinking a heady draught. For a moment that thought alone was enough to block out the pain hovering just on the edge of his consciousness.
Someone took his hand, a warm, sword-calloused grasp that he would have known anywhere, and he felt some unrealised tension drain from him as Merry whispered, tenderly, into his ear, “My Pip…”
Merry, he thought sleepily, doing his best to squeeze his cousin’s hand, and managed to twitch his fingers. It seemed to be enough, for Merry’s soft breath gusted against his cheek in a relieved sigh.
“What happened, Strider?” Frodo’s anguished voice asked in a strained, almost choking, tone that was barely loud enough to hear.
There was the sound of movement, then of bodies arranging themselves about where he lay.
“There was an assassination attempt on my life made this afternoon during the council session,” Aragorn began, his voice calm and level, though even Pippin, not quite awake, nor asleep, either, could hear the underlying tension in his tone. “Two men, both of them from Far Harad, hired to kill me by an as yet unknown. One of them was a distraction, drawing out my Guards and diverting the attention away from the other, who hid amongst the hedges. Only Pippin’s keen sight and brave heart saved my life. For if not for him, I surely would be dead. He threw himself bodily between me and a blade thrown with deadly skill.”
“But - he was wearing his armour, wasn’t he?” Merry asked, uncertainty wavering his voice.
“Yes,” Aragorn answered, softly. “But the knife, a slim, elongated pick, was designed to pierce the mesh of chain-mail. It is a common weapon used by such assassins.” There was a pause as the others digested the information before Aragorn continued, his voice low and soothing. “My valiant knight fought bravely, nonetheless, despite his wound and the pain he must have felt. He brought down the second man before he collapsed himself.”
There was a muffled sob, followed by the sounds of soothing murmurs. He could tell by Gandalf’s deep rumble, by Frodo’s half heard whispers and Sam’s gentle tones that Merry was the one who had broken down, and he felt himself tremble with grief. His poor Merry! To have to endure once more that his kin had been so wounded...
“It’s all right, Merry,” Sam’s soft voice whispered, followed by Frodo’s, “He’s going to be all right. Won’t he, Strider?”
“Yes,” came the firm response. “Though the wound was deep, and he lost a great deal of blood, Pippin shall make a full recovery. None of his organs were harmed, nor was the blade poisoned, thank the Valar. As it is, he will be very weak for several days, and in a great deal of pain. I hope to keep him to his bed for at least a week, though I doubt even my skills can reach that far.”
Sniffling laughter, followed by several deep breaths.
“We’ll just have to make certain he remains in bed, then, won’t we?” Merry declared, and Pippin cringed at the tone. He knew it all too well, and had hoped never to hear it again.
“Yes, Merry,” Aragorn agreed, and Pippin would have sighed if he had not known it would hurt terribly to do so. With the both of them against him, he knew that there was no possibility of leaving his bed. Perhaps Frodo would come to his aid?
“We’ll keep him occupied, Mr. Strider, have no doubt. Even if we have to sit on him, he isn’t going to leave his room once he is put there, right, Mr. Frodo?” Sam, gentle Sam, suddenly sounding none too gentle.
“Right, Sam,” Frodo agreed, and Pippin’s last hope was dashed. He knew better than to hope for anything from Gandalf, who was as much a worrier at times as Sam.
“As for now, I think we shall not move him yet. I do not want to tear any of the stitches, and he seems to be resting fairly comfortably. Perhaps tomorrow, depending on how he fares during the night, we can move him to his room,” Aragorn murmured, and the warm blanket that covered him was shifted slightly, tucked tighter about his shoulders.
If I’m not in my room, where am I? I know it’s not the Houses of Healing, it is too quiet for that… Pippin wondered, wishing he had the strength to open his eyes and look about. As it was, he felt what little awareness he still possessed begin to slip away.
“He should sleep for most of the night, though I can not guarantee that it will be a sound slumber. And now, I must see to these men, and deal with them appropriately.” There was a deadly calm, a seething fury, in the King’s tone at that moment, and Pippin was very thankful indeed that he was not going to be on the receiving end of such anger.
He was vaguely aware of strong hands gently stroking his hair, then nothing at all as sleep fully claimed him once more.
***
A voice, gentle as a breeze on a summer day, fresh as ripened apples, and more beautiful than a sunset over the Shire, sang softly by his side. The words teased his ears, as though his heart understood them fully, even if his mind did not.
Pippin blinked his eyes open, turning his head slightly as he tried to catch a glimpse of the singer in the moonlight that was streaming in from an unseen window. The visage before him caught his breath, and for a moment he felt his heart flutter.
Arwen sat in a chair but a few feet from him, her gaze focused on something he could not see above his head, tears sparkling in her gentle eyes. Light radiated from her slender form as the moonlight embraced her face, shimmering tear tracks marking delicate paths down her pale cheeks.
She wore a gown of palest blue that captured and enhanced her beauty, and the young hobbit felt certain he would never again witness anything so amazing or wondrous as the sight before him.
His understanding of Gimli increased a thousand fold in that timeless moment, for he suddenly realized how the dwarf could love the Lady Galadriel so completely, and count nothing fair save for her grace.
Then Arwen noticed his regard, and her voice stilled, catching the hobbit’s eyes with her own and conveying to him what words could not. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks as gently, with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wings, she took his hand in both of hers.
“The debt I owe you today can never be repaid,” she whispered softly, moving to stroke his hair with her other hand. “For my husband’s life, I thank you.”
He wanted to answer her, to tell her that there was no need for thanks, or that a debt between them was unthinkable. Only the words stuck in his throat, and he found himself mouthing silently, captured by her eyes once more.
“Do not speak, beloved Pippin. Your cousins and Samwise are with Mithrandir right now, in session with Estel over the fate of these men who came here seeking a life. Legolas, Gimli and Faramir are also in attendance. Since it was you who took the wound, Estel felt it was only fitting that those who care most for you have a say in these men’s outcome. Your cousins will return to your side once the decision has been made.”
“Please,” he managed to whisper, his voice a coarse rasp compared to her melodious words. “Don’t...don’t let them...”
She hushed him with a slender finger placed to his lips, and smiled so sweetly down at him he was struck once more by how beautiful she was.
“Their fate shall be just,” she whispered. “Estel shall make certain of that. You must concentrate on healing now, and turn your thoughts away from such troubling things.”
The Queen moved, releasing Pippin’s hand long enough to pour him some water into a goblet that would have made old Lobelia salivate. She held it to his lips, and watched closely as he sipped the water. He closed his eyes at the soothing relief it brought to his dry mouth and throat. When he had drunk enough to satisfy his thirst she placed the goblet aside and took his hand once more.
“You must rest again soon, as you are still weary. But before you do so, I would like to give you something.” Once more she placed a single finger to his lips to stifle whatever protest he would have made.
Moving with the grace of her people, she took from around her neck a thin silver chain, placing it into the hobbit’s hand she still held and closing his fingers around it.
Pippin looked at her in awe for a moment before turning his gaze to his hand, moving his fingers to reveal a small, perfectly wrought butterfly. He could not tell of what it was made, though it was so thin that moonlight illuminated patterns on the wings not noticed otherwise, and for a moment he fully expected the creature to beat its wings and fly away.
“This belonged to my mother,” Arwen whispered, smiling at the hobbit’s startled expression. “Estel has told me of the...flutterby...you both saw in Ithilien.”*
For a moment he could not speak, a lump forming in his throat that was almost painful to swallow around. When he did finally find his voice, it was hoarse and strained.
“My Lady, I cannot...it belonged to your mother,” he protested.
Arwen’s smile grew, until her very eyes shone with it, and the tear marks on her cheeks faded.
“And now it belongs to the most valiant knight Gondor has ever seen,” she whispered, bending down to place a tender kiss to his cheek. “May it bear all your dreams to the stars, so they may light your path when you have forgotten the way.”
He looked to her for a moment more before he returned her smile a bit shyly, and clutched the precious necklace to his chest.
“Now you must sleep, and regain your strength,” Arwen murmured, brushing petal-soft fingers against his cheek.
Before he could speak, she began to sing once more, a lullaby that he had never heard, and he found his eyes drifting shut of their own accord.
As he faded once more into slumber, his Queen’s gentle voice damping the pain that had begun to make itself known, he realised that he had spared more than Aragorn’s life that day.
He was lying on something soft and warm, a pillowing squashiness that seemed to envelope his body and prevent any thought of movement. Briefly he considered turning his head, then decided it was too much effort, his limbs heavy and leaden.
“Mumph,” he grunted, forcing his eyes open despite their desire to stay shut.
“Pippin?”
The room was dimly illuminated, the single candle burning on the wall opposite where Pippin lay barely enough to outline the figure of the King as he moved to kneel beside his knight.
“Little Bird, can you hear me?” Aragorn asked softly, brushing a stray lock of hair from Pippin’s forehead.
“Mmmmm,” Pippin mumbled, struggling to keep his eyes open. “‘M tired.”
“I know you are,” Aragorn answered gently, placing feather light fingertips to Pippin’s neck, reassured by the steady beat. “You were wounded several hours ago, and have lost a great deal of blood. I want you to drink a little water for me, and then rest some more. I have sent Legolas to bring your cousins, and they shall be here when you awaken.”
Pippin managed a small nod, sipping from the mug Aragorn placed to his lips, his eyelids drooping.
“Now sleep, Little Bird. And when you wake next, we shall talk some more.”
As Pippin felt himself drifting off he heard, faintly, Aragorn’s soft voice murmur, “My brave, beloved Knight. Whatever would I do without you?”
Then he knew no more, sinking into a sleep as deep and dark as the mines of Moria.
***
“...we came as soon as we heard!”
“Is he all right?”
“What happened? Where is he?”
“Aragorn, what happened to the lad?”
The worried voices blurred and blended together, until he could not distinguish between one and the next, though he knew all of them better than his own.
“Gentlemen, please, calm down and I will tell you what happened. You must be quiet, however, for Pippin has been sorely wounded and needs to rest. I will allow you to be with him, but you must remain calm and not wake him.”
Aragorn’s strong, soothing voice sent a wave of relief washing over the young knight that was so intense he shivered with it. His King was well! He thought that he had known, from when he had woken up earlier, but to hear that beloved voice and know that he had not dreamed was like drinking a heady draught. For a moment that thought alone was enough to block out the pain hovering just on the edge of his consciousness.
Someone took his hand, a warm, sword-calloused grasp that he would have known anywhere, and he felt some unrealised tension drain from him as Merry whispered, tenderly, into his ear, “My Pip…”
Merry, he thought sleepily, doing his best to squeeze his cousin’s hand, and managed to twitch his fingers. It seemed to be enough, for Merry’s soft breath gusted against his cheek in a relieved sigh.
“What happened, Strider?” Frodo’s anguished voice asked in a strained, almost choking, tone that was barely loud enough to hear.
There was the sound of movement, then of bodies arranging themselves about where he lay.
“There was an assassination attempt on my life made this afternoon during the council session,” Aragorn began, his voice calm and level, though even Pippin, not quite awake, nor asleep, either, could hear the underlying tension in his tone. “Two men, both of them from Far Harad, hired to kill me by an as yet unknown. One of them was a distraction, drawing out my Guards and diverting the attention away from the other, who hid amongst the hedges. Only Pippin’s keen sight and brave heart saved my life. For if not for him, I surely would be dead. He threw himself bodily between me and a blade thrown with deadly skill.”
“But - he was wearing his armour, wasn’t he?” Merry asked, uncertainty wavering his voice.
“Yes,” Aragorn answered, softly. “But the knife, a slim, elongated pick, was designed to pierce the mesh of chain-mail. It is a common weapon used by such assassins.” There was a pause as the others digested the information before Aragorn continued, his voice low and soothing. “My valiant knight fought bravely, nonetheless, despite his wound and the pain he must have felt. He brought down the second man before he collapsed himself.”
There was a muffled sob, followed by the sounds of soothing murmurs. He could tell by Gandalf’s deep rumble, by Frodo’s half heard whispers and Sam’s gentle tones that Merry was the one who had broken down, and he felt himself tremble with grief. His poor Merry! To have to endure once more that his kin had been so wounded...
“It’s all right, Merry,” Sam’s soft voice whispered, followed by Frodo’s, “He’s going to be all right. Won’t he, Strider?”
“Yes,” came the firm response. “Though the wound was deep, and he lost a great deal of blood, Pippin shall make a full recovery. None of his organs were harmed, nor was the blade poisoned, thank the Valar. As it is, he will be very weak for several days, and in a great deal of pain. I hope to keep him to his bed for at least a week, though I doubt even my skills can reach that far.”
Sniffling laughter, followed by several deep breaths.
“We’ll just have to make certain he remains in bed, then, won’t we?” Merry declared, and Pippin cringed at the tone. He knew it all too well, and had hoped never to hear it again.
“Yes, Merry,” Aragorn agreed, and Pippin would have sighed if he had not known it would hurt terribly to do so. With the both of them against him, he knew that there was no possibility of leaving his bed. Perhaps Frodo would come to his aid?
“We’ll keep him occupied, Mr. Strider, have no doubt. Even if we have to sit on him, he isn’t going to leave his room once he is put there, right, Mr. Frodo?” Sam, gentle Sam, suddenly sounding none too gentle.
“Right, Sam,” Frodo agreed, and Pippin’s last hope was dashed. He knew better than to hope for anything from Gandalf, who was as much a worrier at times as Sam.
“As for now, I think we shall not move him yet. I do not want to tear any of the stitches, and he seems to be resting fairly comfortably. Perhaps tomorrow, depending on how he fares during the night, we can move him to his room,” Aragorn murmured, and the warm blanket that covered him was shifted slightly, tucked tighter about his shoulders.
If I’m not in my room, where am I? I know it’s not the Houses of Healing, it is too quiet for that… Pippin wondered, wishing he had the strength to open his eyes and look about. As it was, he felt what little awareness he still possessed begin to slip away.
“He should sleep for most of the night, though I can not guarantee that it will be a sound slumber. And now, I must see to these men, and deal with them appropriately.” There was a deadly calm, a seething fury, in the King’s tone at that moment, and Pippin was very thankful indeed that he was not going to be on the receiving end of such anger.
He was vaguely aware of strong hands gently stroking his hair, then nothing at all as sleep fully claimed him once more.
***
A voice, gentle as a breeze on a summer day, fresh as ripened apples, and more beautiful than a sunset over the Shire, sang softly by his side. The words teased his ears, as though his heart understood them fully, even if his mind did not.
Pippin blinked his eyes open, turning his head slightly as he tried to catch a glimpse of the singer in the moonlight that was streaming in from an unseen window. The visage before him caught his breath, and for a moment he felt his heart flutter.
Arwen sat in a chair but a few feet from him, her gaze focused on something he could not see above his head, tears sparkling in her gentle eyes. Light radiated from her slender form as the moonlight embraced her face, shimmering tear tracks marking delicate paths down her pale cheeks.
She wore a gown of palest blue that captured and enhanced her beauty, and the young hobbit felt certain he would never again witness anything so amazing or wondrous as the sight before him.
His understanding of Gimli increased a thousand fold in that timeless moment, for he suddenly realized how the dwarf could love the Lady Galadriel so completely, and count nothing fair save for her grace.
Then Arwen noticed his regard, and her voice stilled, catching the hobbit’s eyes with her own and conveying to him what words could not. Fresh tears ran down her cheeks as gently, with a touch as light as a butterfly’s wings, she took his hand in both of hers.
“The debt I owe you today can never be repaid,” she whispered softly, moving to stroke his hair with her other hand. “For my husband’s life, I thank you.”
He wanted to answer her, to tell her that there was no need for thanks, or that a debt between them was unthinkable. Only the words stuck in his throat, and he found himself mouthing silently, captured by her eyes once more.
“Do not speak, beloved Pippin. Your cousins and Samwise are with Mithrandir right now, in session with Estel over the fate of these men who came here seeking a life. Legolas, Gimli and Faramir are also in attendance. Since it was you who took the wound, Estel felt it was only fitting that those who care most for you have a say in these men’s outcome. Your cousins will return to your side once the decision has been made.”
“Please,” he managed to whisper, his voice a coarse rasp compared to her melodious words. “Don’t...don’t let them...”
She hushed him with a slender finger placed to his lips, and smiled so sweetly down at him he was struck once more by how beautiful she was.
“Their fate shall be just,” she whispered. “Estel shall make certain of that. You must concentrate on healing now, and turn your thoughts away from such troubling things.”
The Queen moved, releasing Pippin’s hand long enough to pour him some water into a goblet that would have made old Lobelia salivate. She held it to his lips, and watched closely as he sipped the water. He closed his eyes at the soothing relief it brought to his dry mouth and throat. When he had drunk enough to satisfy his thirst she placed the goblet aside and took his hand once more.
“You must rest again soon, as you are still weary. But before you do so, I would like to give you something.” Once more she placed a single finger to his lips to stifle whatever protest he would have made.
Moving with the grace of her people, she took from around her neck a thin silver chain, placing it into the hobbit’s hand she still held and closing his fingers around it.
Pippin looked at her in awe for a moment before turning his gaze to his hand, moving his fingers to reveal a small, perfectly wrought butterfly. He could not tell of what it was made, though it was so thin that moonlight illuminated patterns on the wings not noticed otherwise, and for a moment he fully expected the creature to beat its wings and fly away.
“This belonged to my mother,” Arwen whispered, smiling at the hobbit’s startled expression. “Estel has told me of the...flutterby...you both saw in Ithilien.”*
For a moment he could not speak, a lump forming in his throat that was almost painful to swallow around. When he did finally find his voice, it was hoarse and strained.
“My Lady, I cannot...it belonged to your mother,” he protested.
Arwen’s smile grew, until her very eyes shone with it, and the tear marks on her cheeks faded.
“And now it belongs to the most valiant knight Gondor has ever seen,” she whispered, bending down to place a tender kiss to his cheek. “May it bear all your dreams to the stars, so they may light your path when you have forgotten the way.”
He looked to her for a moment more before he returned her smile a bit shyly, and clutched the precious necklace to his chest.
“Now you must sleep, and regain your strength,” Arwen murmured, brushing petal-soft fingers against his cheek.
Before he could speak, she began to sing once more, a lullaby that he had never heard, and he found his eyes drifting shut of their own accord.
As he faded once more into slumber, his Queen’s gentle voice damping the pain that had begun to make itself known, he realised that he had spared more than Aragorn’s life that day.
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no subject
Date: 2005-06-24 07:37 am (UTC)What a lovely picture you paint of poor Pippin lying there half-awake, and Arwen watching over him. And the butterfly was just so sweet. This is wonderful!
I also love his eavesdropping on his cousins and Strider, and realizing that he is going to be well and truly *stuck* in bed for several days. Ah, Pip, so irrepressable!
no subject
Date: 2005-06-24 10:52 am (UTC)Great
Date: 2005-06-25 03:33 am (UTC)Please continue...