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piploverIn a Heartbeat: Chapter Three
Strong arms were moving him tenderly, shifting him from his side to his back, and he whimpered as pain and confusion assaulted his still sleepy mind.
“Hush, Little Bird, it’s just me. I needed to change the bandage, that is all,” Aragorn’s soothing tone rolled over the young hobbit like a healing balm, and his panic receded.
“Arwen has taken your cousins and Sam down to a midnight supper, as none have eaten since before tea. They protested, but she was rather adamant about it.” There was a wry humour in the King’s tone, and Pippin found himself smiling despite the pain that was steadily growing.
“Strider,” he managed to whisper, though his voice was once more hoarse. He pried his eyes open, gazing blurrily up at the man bending over him. “I hurt.”
“I know you do. I have a tonic that shall help with the pain, and let you rest easy. You lost a great deal of blood, Pippin, which is why you are so sleepy. It is nothing to be worried over,” Aragorn assured the hobbit, gently ruffling his hair.
“It’s not...the nasty...blue one, is it?” Pippin asked, scrunching his nose at the remembered taste of foul peaches and rotten eggs. The very thought of that ghastly drink made his stomach turn.
“No, Little Bird, it is not the blue one,” Aragorn laughed. “You shall remember it when you drink it, but I can promise that you will not be sickened by the taste.”
“Good,” Pippin sighed, then winced.
“Are you thirsty?” the King asked softly, and moved before Pippin could nod, pouring him a drink into the same elaborate goblet Arwen had used.
When placed to his lips, a sweet, familiar smell greeted Pippin’s nose, and he found himself drinking the juice eagerly.
“Easy,” Aragorn cautioned, helping Pippin lift his head. “I don’t want to give you anything solid yet, but this should help if you are hungry.”
Pippin nodded around the goblet, taking smaller sips and savouring the odd taste that he had come to love while recovering from the troll. When he had finished, Aragorn poured another goblet full, but as much as he enjoyed the drink, he could not finish.
“Where am I, Strider?” Pippin finally murmured, trying to make out the room around him.
It was too dark to see much, not even the moonlight coming from the unseen window and the candle sitting on a table beside the King illuminating more than Aragorn’s profile.
A soft chuckle, followed by Aragorn adjusting the blankets more snugly around Pippin’s shoulders.
“In my room. In my bed, actually,” was the astonishing answer.
Pippin felt the blood rush so quickly to his face that he felt dizzy.
“In your-? But what about -? And Lady Arwen -? Where-?” he could not for the life of him complete a sentence, too mortified to get the words out. He tried to sit up, the very thought of even being in the King and Queen’s bed enough to make him attempt to scramble out of it.
Aragorn’s strong hand on his shoulder held him down, though it did not take much effort by the King. Pippin was nearly as weak as when he had first woken from being crushed by the troll.
“Peregrin Took, lie still before you tear those stitches and bleed all over my bed.” It was Strider who gave the firm order in a tone that Pippin did not dare to question. The King, maybe, but not Strider. “Now,” the man continued in a softer voice. “There are several reasons I brought you here, the first being that my rooms were the closest, and I needed to treat you immediately. The second,” and here Strider paused, smiling down at his friend. “Because you deserve no less for what you did. You saved my life today, Peregrin, and for that I shall always be in your debt.”
The King’s tone was soft, humble, and when he took Pippin’s hand in his own, the hobbit felt it quiver slightly.
“But, Strider,” Pippin whispered, “You have already saved my life so many times, it was the least I could do. Besides,” Pippin added, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to fall. “You are my friend. I could not have let you be hurt.”
Gently, yet with a desperation that the hobbit found somewhat strange in his large friend, Aragorn wrapped him in a careful hug.
“Thank you, Pippin,” the King whispered into Pippin’s hair. “For my life, and your friendship.”
For long moments they remained thus, until a sharp twinge had Pippin’s breath catching in his throat as he tried not to whimper. Immediately Aragorn released him and studied his face, fingers finding the hobbit’s pulse easily and frowning at the rapid, but faint, beat.
“I think it is time you had your tonic, and then you must take some more rest. If you are feeling well tomorrow, and the wound shows no signs of infection, then we shall move you to your own room. Until then,” Aragorn continued, his tone suddenly taking on a firmer note. “You are to remain here, sleep well, and dream of pleasant things. Understood?”
Pippin nodded, smiling up at his friend as Aragorn touched his cheek briefly before standing, moving out of the tweenager’s line of sight. When he returned he held in his hand a goblet similar to the one he had drunk from earlier, only this one steamed with an aroma Pippin knew all too well.
“Oh,” he sighed in relief, wincing as his side sent a warning pang that made his toes tingle. “That one.”
Aragorn smiled down at him, helping him drink the tonic that smelled strongly of athelas and other herbs that Pippin could never quite identify, then once more rearranged the blankets.
“What about Lady Arwen?” Pippin asked around a yawn, knowing from previous experience that he would be sleeping deeply soon.
“She is an elf, remember?” Aragorn chuckled gently. “She needs little rest, and is content to sit in the parlour reading tonight, or by my side with you. As for myself, I am quite comfortable right here, and should you need anything, you have only to ask. Now get some rest, my brave knight.”
Even if that last had not been a direct order from his liege, Pippin would have had no option but to obey, drifting off to slumber peacefully.
***
He awoke once more during the night, his side sending dizzying waves of pain throughout the rest of his body that had him jerking awake with a muffled whimper of distress. Immediately Aragorn was by his side, mug in hand, and the tonic that slid easily down Pippin’s throat had him slumbering once more.
It was some time later, he could not tell when, as the room was still uncommonly dark, when a familiar voice by his side brought him to consciousness. He blinked open blurry eyes, focusing on the face next to his, Merry sitting in the chair Aragorn had occupied earlier, reading a book almost too large for his lap by the light of a single candle set on the nearby table. Pippin had a sudden flash of memory; Merry at eleven or twelve, sitting in the big chair in his room in Buckland and reading aloud in a whisper from a too large book by the light of a single candle when both of them were meant to be abed and sleeping. For a moment Pippin was disorientated, and then Merry spoke and he knew where he was again.
“So the ephedra should be given in a tincture?” Merry asked softly, his voice pitched low as he looked up from the book.
Pippin could not see to whom he was speaking, but Aragorn’s answering voice drifted over to where he lay.
“Exactly. It can be given safely three times a day for short periods of time, but you must watch out for side effects. This is a very powerful herb, Merry, and though it will help Pippin greatly with his lungs, it can also cause certain problems. His heartbeat may become erratic, and he may develop tremors. If he has trouble sleeping, or becomes nauseated, you must cease treating him with it for at least a season.”
Why is it always herbs that they are talking about? Why not something fun, like roopie, or conkers, or dancing? Pippin wondered absently, trying not to wrinkle his nose as their voices continued on, using him as a reference. And it’s not as though the herbs even smell good! You have to drink half of them in nasty, foul tonics that turn your tongue strange colours.
“And astragalus?” Merry continued, referencing the book once more.
“That will help with his immune system, helping him to fight off common colds and such. It can be chopped up and used in cooking, or in a tincture taken twice a day,” Aragorn answered.
“Ickkk,” Pippin mumbled before he could stop himself, and immediately Merry set the book aside on the floor, carefully, and was taking his hand, Aragorn appearing beside him and bending down to look the young hobbit in the eyes.
“How are you feeling, Pippin?” the King asked softly, placing a hand to his brow and one to his neck, smiling at the steady, strong beat and lack of fever.
“Better,” Pippin mumbled, rubbing his nose. “My side doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”
“I am very glad to hear that,” Aragorn whispered, smiling down at the two hobbits beside him. “I shall leave you two for a few moments, but be certain you do not wear him out, Merry,” he cautioned, standing.
“Really, Strider,” Pippin protested weakly, looking almost indignant. “After being squashed by a troll, this is nothing. I should be up in a day or two.” At the King’s steady stare, Pippin cleared his throat and amended, “Or maybe a week. A week sounds like a lovely amount of time.”
“A week, at the least,” Aragorn agreed. “If you need anything, just call.”
Then he moved, out of Pippin’s sight once more, and it was just him and Merry, who still held his hand gently, absently stroking his cousin’s wrist with his thumb.
“You were very brave yesterday, Pip,” Merry whispered, his voice starting to quaver slightly. “I am so very proud of you.”
There was fear in his cousin’s face, tears that had yet to be shed, mixing with the pride he spoke of, and the love that had always been there. Pippin reached over weakly, his arm trembling, and touched the hand holding his gently, smiling at Merry’s startled glance.
“You would have done no less,” he whispered. “I just happened to be the one who was there this time.”
Words unspoken passed between them, then, an understanding that Merry had thought his younger cousin would never know. Suddenly he understood completely, for the first time since their reunion after his wounding of the Witch-king, that Pippin held the same love, respect, honour and duty to Aragorn as Merry had had for Théoden, and still held for his King.
Only his cousin’s love was different. Not deeper, or more profound, for such things could not be measured, but separate from what Merry had felt for Théoden King. Whereas Merry had viewed the man as a second father, and would have gladly died for him, Pippin’s love for Aragorn was that of a friend, of a colleague, and as a vassal to his liege.
Just as Merry had faced death and been wounded while trying to save Théoden, Pippin had done the only thing he could have to save Aragorn’s life. Both suddenly found in that moment a deeper knowledge about the other, and themselves, than they had thought was possible to attain, and Pippin smiled wearily up at Merry.
“We do what we must,” he whispered, and the words seemed to convey so much more than the current situation.
All of the trials they had faced seemed to bear down on them in startling focus, and Merry closed his eyes against the pain of remembrance. A gentle pressure against his hand opened his eyes once more, to see a hobbit lying before him wiser and more world-weary than any hobbit had a right to be.
“Merry,” Pippin whispered, and his voice had become sleepy, his eyelids starting to droop. “Shadows can only dance when there is light, and there is too much darkness yet in this world. So let us shine as bright as we can, and never let them be still.”
Merry did not wipe the tears that fell from his eyes, but bowed his head before the wisdom of this one who should not be seeing the shadows at all, but basking in the sunlight of his youth. When he raised his head it was to see Pippin’s eyes closed, his breath evening out in slumber once more.
He sat for a very long time, until the dawn began to appear over the mountains, its warm light bringing with it new hope, and banishing what shadows remained.
***
Warmth caressed Pippin’s face, his shoulders, and he found himself smiling as he blinked open sleepy eyes, trying to find the source of such a wonderful sensation. From the hidden window, sunlight streamed into the room, illuminating his surroundings for the first time.
He had certainly spent plenty of nights in Aragorn and Arwen’s sitting room and study, but never had he imagined their bedroom would be so completely stunning. Light shone over hard wood surfaces and thick rugs, tables gleamed to a fine polish, and the blankets that covered him were nothing coarser than fine silk of a rich burgundy.
To his left, snoring slightly, Merry sat in what looked to be a very comfortable chair, head tilted back, the big book lying open across his chest.
Slowly, so as not to disturb his cousin, he sat up, gingerly, hissing as the skin on his side was pulled. He paused, waiting to see if his slumbering cousin stirred, and let out a small sigh when he showed no sign of waking.
I am not disobeying Strider, he thought to himself as he levelled himself up on his elbows. Sitting up is not disobeying. And I felt much worse after that business with the troll. Now, if I were to swing my feet over the side, for instance, that might be disobeying him. Unless, of course, it was just to use the privy. I can do that. No one has to know. Everyone is so tired, and I’ll come right back. Poor Merry has had to empty more than his share of chamber pots, and I refuse to make anyone else do it. Now, how in the Shire am I supposed to swing down? This bed is far too high to be reasonable, really!
He pondered his situation for a moment, his feet dangling a good foot above the floor, and finally decided his best option was to just slide down the sheets. He landed with a soft plop, his legs going out from under him, and he gasped as his side sent a wave of agony through him.
Trying to catch his breath, he waited anxiously to see if any had heard the noise, and froze as Merry snuffled in his sleep, then turned slightly, still slumbering. It was apparent to the young hobbit that his cousin was exhausted. Dark shadows bruised his eyes, face pale in the warm sunlight.
Pippin held his breath for a moment, trying to quiet his slightly raspy breath. Though he had already been proficient at sneaking away from a wary Merry since he was a small lad, his recuperation in Cormallen had nearly perfected his ability to slip away from his cousin without being heard. Now, using what he had learned, he figured his chances of not being caught were significant.
When the dizzying waves of pain finally subsided, and he had caught his breath, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, looking down at his bare chest to the thick bandage that covered his left side from front to back. He touched it gingerly, wincing as his fingers encountered a particularly sensitive spot beneath one of his ribs, and grimaced at the image he must make.
Clad only in his smallclothes, bruised and bandaged, he wondered for a fleeting moment where the rest of his garments had got to, then dismissed the thought. The livery had most likely been ruined and beyond repair. His only recompense was that during his slumber someone had fastened the necklace about his neck, and now it hung just below the hollow in his throat, a cool weight against his skin.
And here I thought I was done with bandages and such, he thought in disgust, shuffling slowly toward where he guessed the privy to be. He paused several times on the way, fighting a growing queasiness and a strange tendency to list to the left, clutching whatever handy piece of furniture was closest to steady him as the world swayed dizzyingly.
Finally he reached the door, pausing to gather his breath, and moved to open it. Just as his hand settled on the latch, the door swung back, thankfully toward the person who opened it or otherwise he would have been flattened.
First a troll, now a door, he thought absently as he gazed at a pair of legs that, when further investigated, belonged to Aragorn; Legolas and Faramir were close behind him. For a moment all four stood completely still, no sound save for a lone fly buzzing along a windowsill filling the room.
Then Aragorn’s brows drew down, and his face began to turn an interesting shade of red. His scowl was so fierce that Pippin was uncertain if he should try to play dead or flee like a scared rabbit, the two animal instincts warring within him.
“I take it that’s not the privy,” he finally managed to squeak out, backing up a step as Aragorn took one towards him.
“No,” Aragorn agreed, his tone deadly and quiet.
“I’ll just head back to the bed, then,” Pippin said in as calm a voice as he could manage, turning slowly and starting to make his way back to the bed that seemed much larger than it had before.
“Sir Peregrin Took. Don’t. Move. Another. Muscle.”
Pippin froze, wincing at the tone. He had only heard it once before, when he had sneaked away from Merry in Cormallen and gone for a stroll around camp. He had been caught that time too, and treated to that exact tone. And he had been very, very sorry for several days after.
“Can I put my foot down?” he managed to ask plaintively, as he had been mid step when Aragorn had given him the order.
A muffled chuckle behind him reminded him of Faramir’s presence.
“No,” Aragorn said in exasperated anger, stooping next to the hobbit to pick him up gently. “You are going back to that bed, I am going to make certain you did not tear any of those stitches, and when Merry wakes up, you can explain to him why you disobeyed a direct order from your healer. And your King!” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Amazingly, the other hobbit continued to slumber, and Pippin swallowed, hard, at the thought of having to explain to him what he had just done.
“I don’t suppose I could just write lines, could I?” he asked faintly, suddenly feeling as though all the blood were rushing to his head, his stomach turning at the swaying of Aragorn’s stride.
I will not be sick, he told himself firmly, swallowing hard several times.
“Aragorn!” Legolas called softly, sudden alarm in his voice alerting the hobbit that his friend had noticed his trouble.
“I’m...all right,” Pippin managed to gasp out thickly, fighting the urge to be sick with all he had, knowing it would hurt terribly otherwise.
“If you become any greener you will be the Ernil I Pheriannath of frogs,” Aragorn murmured, setting him down quickly next to a chamber pot in the corner beside the bed that he had not even noticed. Pippin’s legs had become like jelly, and he found himself gently guided to his knees by the King’s strong hands.
Pippin struggled against the urge to be sick, closing his eyes as he concentrated on his breathing.
“It’s all right, Pippin,” Aragorn soothed, kneeling and rubbing his back gently. “If you must be sick, then do so. You will feel better after.”
Pippin shook his head in denial, grimacing, and then, much to his chagrin, was, indeed, sick, heaving into the chamber pot until he felt certain his insides might make an appearance and introduce themselves. Blinding waves of pain assaulted him, radiating from his side to the very tips of his fingers, and for a moment he wondered if he were going to pass out.
“Wha- What’s going on? Pippin?”
Merry’s concerned voice floated over to him an instant before hands he knew better than his own came to rest on his shoulders, supporting him as he continued to retch. Black spots danced before his eyes, and he struggled against the pain that was almost overwhelming.
“What happened?” Merry demanded in a voice filled with strain and fear as he continued to support Pippin’s increasingly limp form.
“I’ll explain in a moment,” Aragorn sighed, his hand resting on Pippin’s curls as the small group waited out the bout of sickness.
When Pippin had finally finished, bringing in burning gasps of air, he felt Aragorn’s hand at his throat, testing his pulse, and then moving to his forehead.
“Feel better?” he asked after a moment, and Pippin nodded, slowly, unable to speak. From somewhere a cool cloth had been produced, and Aragorn used it to wipe his sweaty face. “Does it feel as though you tore any stitches?” the King asked worriedly, all traces of anger seemingly vanished in his concern.
Pippin shook his head, then gagged once more, though there was nothing to bring up, and he spent several more moments with his head hanging limply over the chamber pot, Aragorn’s gentle hand on his back, the cool cloth on his neck, and Merry stroking his curls, whispering soothingly into his ear.
Movement caught out of the corner of his eye suddenly reminded Pippin that he had an audience, and he felt the blood rush to his face in embarrassment. A low murmur, then someone bending down next to him, holding a mug of water close to his lips for him to swish his mouth out. Dimly, he recognized Faramir, and his shame increased. Bad enough having Strider and Merry see him like this! But the Steward and Legolas?
“Do you think you can move now?” Aragorn asked gently after several more moments, and Pippin nodded, once, trying to focus on his friend and the calming murmurs of his cousin as he inwardly writhed with embarrassment.
“Just relax a moment, and I’ll have you back in bed. Honestly, Pippin,” Aragorn sighed as he gently removed his Knight from Merry’s protective hold, fond exasperation colouring his tone. “What am I to do with you?”
Pippin had no answer, instead placing his head wearily on Aragorn’s shoulder, and regretting quite fully his decision. Only, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time!
The bed was just as soft he as he remembered, and it only took a few moments for the King to unwind the bandages from his side to investigate, Merry standing on the chair looking on in worry as Legolas and Faramir quietly left the room. Luckily, none of the stitches had torn, but the wound was an angry red from being agitated, which Strider was quite quick to point out before he smoothed an ointment over it and then replaced the bandages.
“Strider?” Pippin murmured, gazing sleepily over at his friend. To think, he had had so much energy just a bit ago! And Merry, gazing at him with those shadowed eyes, pierced him to the heart with guilt for making him worry.
“Yes, Little Bird?” Aragorn asked softly, pulling blankets up over Pippin as Merry crawled into the bed next to him, taking Pippin’s limp hand in both of his.
“I’m glad you are all right.”
Aragorn paused, one hand resting on Pippin’s shoulder, his eyes misting over slightly as he said, very softly, “So am I, Little Bird. And I owe it to you. And I want you to be all right too. So close your eyes, and no more unscheduled trips, all right?” he asked firmly.
Pippin nodded, smiling sweetly. As he began to drift off he heard Merry ask, in a startled tone, “What unscheduled trip?”
Strong arms were moving him tenderly, shifting him from his side to his back, and he whimpered as pain and confusion assaulted his still sleepy mind.
“Hush, Little Bird, it’s just me. I needed to change the bandage, that is all,” Aragorn’s soothing tone rolled over the young hobbit like a healing balm, and his panic receded.
“Arwen has taken your cousins and Sam down to a midnight supper, as none have eaten since before tea. They protested, but she was rather adamant about it.” There was a wry humour in the King’s tone, and Pippin found himself smiling despite the pain that was steadily growing.
“Strider,” he managed to whisper, though his voice was once more hoarse. He pried his eyes open, gazing blurrily up at the man bending over him. “I hurt.”
“I know you do. I have a tonic that shall help with the pain, and let you rest easy. You lost a great deal of blood, Pippin, which is why you are so sleepy. It is nothing to be worried over,” Aragorn assured the hobbit, gently ruffling his hair.
“It’s not...the nasty...blue one, is it?” Pippin asked, scrunching his nose at the remembered taste of foul peaches and rotten eggs. The very thought of that ghastly drink made his stomach turn.
“No, Little Bird, it is not the blue one,” Aragorn laughed. “You shall remember it when you drink it, but I can promise that you will not be sickened by the taste.”
“Good,” Pippin sighed, then winced.
“Are you thirsty?” the King asked softly, and moved before Pippin could nod, pouring him a drink into the same elaborate goblet Arwen had used.
When placed to his lips, a sweet, familiar smell greeted Pippin’s nose, and he found himself drinking the juice eagerly.
“Easy,” Aragorn cautioned, helping Pippin lift his head. “I don’t want to give you anything solid yet, but this should help if you are hungry.”
Pippin nodded around the goblet, taking smaller sips and savouring the odd taste that he had come to love while recovering from the troll. When he had finished, Aragorn poured another goblet full, but as much as he enjoyed the drink, he could not finish.
“Where am I, Strider?” Pippin finally murmured, trying to make out the room around him.
It was too dark to see much, not even the moonlight coming from the unseen window and the candle sitting on a table beside the King illuminating more than Aragorn’s profile.
A soft chuckle, followed by Aragorn adjusting the blankets more snugly around Pippin’s shoulders.
“In my room. In my bed, actually,” was the astonishing answer.
Pippin felt the blood rush so quickly to his face that he felt dizzy.
“In your-? But what about -? And Lady Arwen -? Where-?” he could not for the life of him complete a sentence, too mortified to get the words out. He tried to sit up, the very thought of even being in the King and Queen’s bed enough to make him attempt to scramble out of it.
Aragorn’s strong hand on his shoulder held him down, though it did not take much effort by the King. Pippin was nearly as weak as when he had first woken from being crushed by the troll.
“Peregrin Took, lie still before you tear those stitches and bleed all over my bed.” It was Strider who gave the firm order in a tone that Pippin did not dare to question. The King, maybe, but not Strider. “Now,” the man continued in a softer voice. “There are several reasons I brought you here, the first being that my rooms were the closest, and I needed to treat you immediately. The second,” and here Strider paused, smiling down at his friend. “Because you deserve no less for what you did. You saved my life today, Peregrin, and for that I shall always be in your debt.”
The King’s tone was soft, humble, and when he took Pippin’s hand in his own, the hobbit felt it quiver slightly.
“But, Strider,” Pippin whispered, “You have already saved my life so many times, it was the least I could do. Besides,” Pippin added, trying to fight back the tears that threatened to fall. “You are my friend. I could not have let you be hurt.”
Gently, yet with a desperation that the hobbit found somewhat strange in his large friend, Aragorn wrapped him in a careful hug.
“Thank you, Pippin,” the King whispered into Pippin’s hair. “For my life, and your friendship.”
For long moments they remained thus, until a sharp twinge had Pippin’s breath catching in his throat as he tried not to whimper. Immediately Aragorn released him and studied his face, fingers finding the hobbit’s pulse easily and frowning at the rapid, but faint, beat.
“I think it is time you had your tonic, and then you must take some more rest. If you are feeling well tomorrow, and the wound shows no signs of infection, then we shall move you to your own room. Until then,” Aragorn continued, his tone suddenly taking on a firmer note. “You are to remain here, sleep well, and dream of pleasant things. Understood?”
Pippin nodded, smiling up at his friend as Aragorn touched his cheek briefly before standing, moving out of the tweenager’s line of sight. When he returned he held in his hand a goblet similar to the one he had drunk from earlier, only this one steamed with an aroma Pippin knew all too well.
“Oh,” he sighed in relief, wincing as his side sent a warning pang that made his toes tingle. “That one.”
Aragorn smiled down at him, helping him drink the tonic that smelled strongly of athelas and other herbs that Pippin could never quite identify, then once more rearranged the blankets.
“What about Lady Arwen?” Pippin asked around a yawn, knowing from previous experience that he would be sleeping deeply soon.
“She is an elf, remember?” Aragorn chuckled gently. “She needs little rest, and is content to sit in the parlour reading tonight, or by my side with you. As for myself, I am quite comfortable right here, and should you need anything, you have only to ask. Now get some rest, my brave knight.”
Even if that last had not been a direct order from his liege, Pippin would have had no option but to obey, drifting off to slumber peacefully.
***
He awoke once more during the night, his side sending dizzying waves of pain throughout the rest of his body that had him jerking awake with a muffled whimper of distress. Immediately Aragorn was by his side, mug in hand, and the tonic that slid easily down Pippin’s throat had him slumbering once more.
It was some time later, he could not tell when, as the room was still uncommonly dark, when a familiar voice by his side brought him to consciousness. He blinked open blurry eyes, focusing on the face next to his, Merry sitting in the chair Aragorn had occupied earlier, reading a book almost too large for his lap by the light of a single candle set on the nearby table. Pippin had a sudden flash of memory; Merry at eleven or twelve, sitting in the big chair in his room in Buckland and reading aloud in a whisper from a too large book by the light of a single candle when both of them were meant to be abed and sleeping. For a moment Pippin was disorientated, and then Merry spoke and he knew where he was again.
“So the ephedra should be given in a tincture?” Merry asked softly, his voice pitched low as he looked up from the book.
Pippin could not see to whom he was speaking, but Aragorn’s answering voice drifted over to where he lay.
“Exactly. It can be given safely three times a day for short periods of time, but you must watch out for side effects. This is a very powerful herb, Merry, and though it will help Pippin greatly with his lungs, it can also cause certain problems. His heartbeat may become erratic, and he may develop tremors. If he has trouble sleeping, or becomes nauseated, you must cease treating him with it for at least a season.”
Why is it always herbs that they are talking about? Why not something fun, like roopie, or conkers, or dancing? Pippin wondered absently, trying not to wrinkle his nose as their voices continued on, using him as a reference. And it’s not as though the herbs even smell good! You have to drink half of them in nasty, foul tonics that turn your tongue strange colours.
“And astragalus?” Merry continued, referencing the book once more.
“That will help with his immune system, helping him to fight off common colds and such. It can be chopped up and used in cooking, or in a tincture taken twice a day,” Aragorn answered.
“Ickkk,” Pippin mumbled before he could stop himself, and immediately Merry set the book aside on the floor, carefully, and was taking his hand, Aragorn appearing beside him and bending down to look the young hobbit in the eyes.
“How are you feeling, Pippin?” the King asked softly, placing a hand to his brow and one to his neck, smiling at the steady, strong beat and lack of fever.
“Better,” Pippin mumbled, rubbing his nose. “My side doesn’t hurt as much as it did.”
“I am very glad to hear that,” Aragorn whispered, smiling down at the two hobbits beside him. “I shall leave you two for a few moments, but be certain you do not wear him out, Merry,” he cautioned, standing.
“Really, Strider,” Pippin protested weakly, looking almost indignant. “After being squashed by a troll, this is nothing. I should be up in a day or two.” At the King’s steady stare, Pippin cleared his throat and amended, “Or maybe a week. A week sounds like a lovely amount of time.”
“A week, at the least,” Aragorn agreed. “If you need anything, just call.”
Then he moved, out of Pippin’s sight once more, and it was just him and Merry, who still held his hand gently, absently stroking his cousin’s wrist with his thumb.
“You were very brave yesterday, Pip,” Merry whispered, his voice starting to quaver slightly. “I am so very proud of you.”
There was fear in his cousin’s face, tears that had yet to be shed, mixing with the pride he spoke of, and the love that had always been there. Pippin reached over weakly, his arm trembling, and touched the hand holding his gently, smiling at Merry’s startled glance.
“You would have done no less,” he whispered. “I just happened to be the one who was there this time.”
Words unspoken passed between them, then, an understanding that Merry had thought his younger cousin would never know. Suddenly he understood completely, for the first time since their reunion after his wounding of the Witch-king, that Pippin held the same love, respect, honour and duty to Aragorn as Merry had had for Théoden, and still held for his King.
Only his cousin’s love was different. Not deeper, or more profound, for such things could not be measured, but separate from what Merry had felt for Théoden King. Whereas Merry had viewed the man as a second father, and would have gladly died for him, Pippin’s love for Aragorn was that of a friend, of a colleague, and as a vassal to his liege.
Just as Merry had faced death and been wounded while trying to save Théoden, Pippin had done the only thing he could have to save Aragorn’s life. Both suddenly found in that moment a deeper knowledge about the other, and themselves, than they had thought was possible to attain, and Pippin smiled wearily up at Merry.
“We do what we must,” he whispered, and the words seemed to convey so much more than the current situation.
All of the trials they had faced seemed to bear down on them in startling focus, and Merry closed his eyes against the pain of remembrance. A gentle pressure against his hand opened his eyes once more, to see a hobbit lying before him wiser and more world-weary than any hobbit had a right to be.
“Merry,” Pippin whispered, and his voice had become sleepy, his eyelids starting to droop. “Shadows can only dance when there is light, and there is too much darkness yet in this world. So let us shine as bright as we can, and never let them be still.”
Merry did not wipe the tears that fell from his eyes, but bowed his head before the wisdom of this one who should not be seeing the shadows at all, but basking in the sunlight of his youth. When he raised his head it was to see Pippin’s eyes closed, his breath evening out in slumber once more.
He sat for a very long time, until the dawn began to appear over the mountains, its warm light bringing with it new hope, and banishing what shadows remained.
***
Warmth caressed Pippin’s face, his shoulders, and he found himself smiling as he blinked open sleepy eyes, trying to find the source of such a wonderful sensation. From the hidden window, sunlight streamed into the room, illuminating his surroundings for the first time.
He had certainly spent plenty of nights in Aragorn and Arwen’s sitting room and study, but never had he imagined their bedroom would be so completely stunning. Light shone over hard wood surfaces and thick rugs, tables gleamed to a fine polish, and the blankets that covered him were nothing coarser than fine silk of a rich burgundy.
To his left, snoring slightly, Merry sat in what looked to be a very comfortable chair, head tilted back, the big book lying open across his chest.
Slowly, so as not to disturb his cousin, he sat up, gingerly, hissing as the skin on his side was pulled. He paused, waiting to see if his slumbering cousin stirred, and let out a small sigh when he showed no sign of waking.
I am not disobeying Strider, he thought to himself as he levelled himself up on his elbows. Sitting up is not disobeying. And I felt much worse after that business with the troll. Now, if I were to swing my feet over the side, for instance, that might be disobeying him. Unless, of course, it was just to use the privy. I can do that. No one has to know. Everyone is so tired, and I’ll come right back. Poor Merry has had to empty more than his share of chamber pots, and I refuse to make anyone else do it. Now, how in the Shire am I supposed to swing down? This bed is far too high to be reasonable, really!
He pondered his situation for a moment, his feet dangling a good foot above the floor, and finally decided his best option was to just slide down the sheets. He landed with a soft plop, his legs going out from under him, and he gasped as his side sent a wave of agony through him.
Trying to catch his breath, he waited anxiously to see if any had heard the noise, and froze as Merry snuffled in his sleep, then turned slightly, still slumbering. It was apparent to the young hobbit that his cousin was exhausted. Dark shadows bruised his eyes, face pale in the warm sunlight.
Pippin held his breath for a moment, trying to quiet his slightly raspy breath. Though he had already been proficient at sneaking away from a wary Merry since he was a small lad, his recuperation in Cormallen had nearly perfected his ability to slip away from his cousin without being heard. Now, using what he had learned, he figured his chances of not being caught were significant.
When the dizzying waves of pain finally subsided, and he had caught his breath, he pulled himself unsteadily to his feet, looking down at his bare chest to the thick bandage that covered his left side from front to back. He touched it gingerly, wincing as his fingers encountered a particularly sensitive spot beneath one of his ribs, and grimaced at the image he must make.
Clad only in his smallclothes, bruised and bandaged, he wondered for a fleeting moment where the rest of his garments had got to, then dismissed the thought. The livery had most likely been ruined and beyond repair. His only recompense was that during his slumber someone had fastened the necklace about his neck, and now it hung just below the hollow in his throat, a cool weight against his skin.
And here I thought I was done with bandages and such, he thought in disgust, shuffling slowly toward where he guessed the privy to be. He paused several times on the way, fighting a growing queasiness and a strange tendency to list to the left, clutching whatever handy piece of furniture was closest to steady him as the world swayed dizzyingly.
Finally he reached the door, pausing to gather his breath, and moved to open it. Just as his hand settled on the latch, the door swung back, thankfully toward the person who opened it or otherwise he would have been flattened.
First a troll, now a door, he thought absently as he gazed at a pair of legs that, when further investigated, belonged to Aragorn; Legolas and Faramir were close behind him. For a moment all four stood completely still, no sound save for a lone fly buzzing along a windowsill filling the room.
Then Aragorn’s brows drew down, and his face began to turn an interesting shade of red. His scowl was so fierce that Pippin was uncertain if he should try to play dead or flee like a scared rabbit, the two animal instincts warring within him.
“I take it that’s not the privy,” he finally managed to squeak out, backing up a step as Aragorn took one towards him.
“No,” Aragorn agreed, his tone deadly and quiet.
“I’ll just head back to the bed, then,” Pippin said in as calm a voice as he could manage, turning slowly and starting to make his way back to the bed that seemed much larger than it had before.
“Sir Peregrin Took. Don’t. Move. Another. Muscle.”
Pippin froze, wincing at the tone. He had only heard it once before, when he had sneaked away from Merry in Cormallen and gone for a stroll around camp. He had been caught that time too, and treated to that exact tone. And he had been very, very sorry for several days after.
“Can I put my foot down?” he managed to ask plaintively, as he had been mid step when Aragorn had given him the order.
A muffled chuckle behind him reminded him of Faramir’s presence.
“No,” Aragorn said in exasperated anger, stooping next to the hobbit to pick him up gently. “You are going back to that bed, I am going to make certain you did not tear any of those stitches, and when Merry wakes up, you can explain to him why you disobeyed a direct order from your healer. And your King!” he added, almost as an afterthought.
Amazingly, the other hobbit continued to slumber, and Pippin swallowed, hard, at the thought of having to explain to him what he had just done.
“I don’t suppose I could just write lines, could I?” he asked faintly, suddenly feeling as though all the blood were rushing to his head, his stomach turning at the swaying of Aragorn’s stride.
I will not be sick, he told himself firmly, swallowing hard several times.
“Aragorn!” Legolas called softly, sudden alarm in his voice alerting the hobbit that his friend had noticed his trouble.
“I’m...all right,” Pippin managed to gasp out thickly, fighting the urge to be sick with all he had, knowing it would hurt terribly otherwise.
“If you become any greener you will be the Ernil I Pheriannath of frogs,” Aragorn murmured, setting him down quickly next to a chamber pot in the corner beside the bed that he had not even noticed. Pippin’s legs had become like jelly, and he found himself gently guided to his knees by the King’s strong hands.
Pippin struggled against the urge to be sick, closing his eyes as he concentrated on his breathing.
“It’s all right, Pippin,” Aragorn soothed, kneeling and rubbing his back gently. “If you must be sick, then do so. You will feel better after.”
Pippin shook his head in denial, grimacing, and then, much to his chagrin, was, indeed, sick, heaving into the chamber pot until he felt certain his insides might make an appearance and introduce themselves. Blinding waves of pain assaulted him, radiating from his side to the very tips of his fingers, and for a moment he wondered if he were going to pass out.
“Wha- What’s going on? Pippin?”
Merry’s concerned voice floated over to him an instant before hands he knew better than his own came to rest on his shoulders, supporting him as he continued to retch. Black spots danced before his eyes, and he struggled against the pain that was almost overwhelming.
“What happened?” Merry demanded in a voice filled with strain and fear as he continued to support Pippin’s increasingly limp form.
“I’ll explain in a moment,” Aragorn sighed, his hand resting on Pippin’s curls as the small group waited out the bout of sickness.
When Pippin had finally finished, bringing in burning gasps of air, he felt Aragorn’s hand at his throat, testing his pulse, and then moving to his forehead.
“Feel better?” he asked after a moment, and Pippin nodded, slowly, unable to speak. From somewhere a cool cloth had been produced, and Aragorn used it to wipe his sweaty face. “Does it feel as though you tore any stitches?” the King asked worriedly, all traces of anger seemingly vanished in his concern.
Pippin shook his head, then gagged once more, though there was nothing to bring up, and he spent several more moments with his head hanging limply over the chamber pot, Aragorn’s gentle hand on his back, the cool cloth on his neck, and Merry stroking his curls, whispering soothingly into his ear.
Movement caught out of the corner of his eye suddenly reminded Pippin that he had an audience, and he felt the blood rush to his face in embarrassment. A low murmur, then someone bending down next to him, holding a mug of water close to his lips for him to swish his mouth out. Dimly, he recognized Faramir, and his shame increased. Bad enough having Strider and Merry see him like this! But the Steward and Legolas?
“Do you think you can move now?” Aragorn asked gently after several more moments, and Pippin nodded, once, trying to focus on his friend and the calming murmurs of his cousin as he inwardly writhed with embarrassment.
“Just relax a moment, and I’ll have you back in bed. Honestly, Pippin,” Aragorn sighed as he gently removed his Knight from Merry’s protective hold, fond exasperation colouring his tone. “What am I to do with you?”
Pippin had no answer, instead placing his head wearily on Aragorn’s shoulder, and regretting quite fully his decision. Only, it had seemed like such a good idea at the time!
The bed was just as soft he as he remembered, and it only took a few moments for the King to unwind the bandages from his side to investigate, Merry standing on the chair looking on in worry as Legolas and Faramir quietly left the room. Luckily, none of the stitches had torn, but the wound was an angry red from being agitated, which Strider was quite quick to point out before he smoothed an ointment over it and then replaced the bandages.
“Strider?” Pippin murmured, gazing sleepily over at his friend. To think, he had had so much energy just a bit ago! And Merry, gazing at him with those shadowed eyes, pierced him to the heart with guilt for making him worry.
“Yes, Little Bird?” Aragorn asked softly, pulling blankets up over Pippin as Merry crawled into the bed next to him, taking Pippin’s limp hand in both of his.
“I’m glad you are all right.”
Aragorn paused, one hand resting on Pippin’s shoulder, his eyes misting over slightly as he said, very softly, “So am I, Little Bird. And I owe it to you. And I want you to be all right too. So close your eyes, and no more unscheduled trips, all right?” he asked firmly.
Pippin nodded, smiling sweetly. As he began to drift off he heard Merry ask, in a startled tone, “What unscheduled trip?”
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Date: 2005-06-24 07:48 am (UTC)And Pip's "escape attempt" was so funny and sad at the same time. This is just a wonderful h/c!
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Date: 2005-06-24 10:57 am (UTC)My goodness! That's wonderful.
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Date: 2005-06-24 12:56 pm (UTC)I loved this: Then Aragorn’s brows drew down, and his face began to turn an interesting shade of red. His scowl was so fierce that Pippin was uncertain if he should try to play dead or flee like a scared rabbit, the two animal instincts warring within him.
It can't be easy, being Pippin's healer but Aragorn probably has slightly better luck with it than anyone else would.
:D
Very Nice
Date: 2005-06-25 03:56 am (UTC)A very lovely chapter... Pippin will always be pippin and will never change ... Just a few bending of the rules, but he still got caught...Very nice,can't wait for more...