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A hobbit story
First of all, I just wanted to say thank you to everyone who commented on my last entry. It really meant a lot to me. This story has been in the works for a...very long time. Thankfully Marigold had emailed me the last beta, and I was able to finish it up.
So, for your enjoyment, I present part one of In a Heartbeat. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think. Part two will be up tomorrow.
Piplover
Pippin yawned. Not a quiet yawn, or a small yawn, or even a discreet yawn, but one that threatened to split his face in two and gusted out noisily. Beside him, trying to keep his face as straight as his posture, the Guard standing duty with the hobbit did his best to stifle his own yawn.
“Stop it,” Pippin hissed, too quietly for any of those in discussion to hear him. “We’ll be going back and forth all day.”
“You started it,” the Guard hissed back, a man by the name of Oren who had fought by Pippin’s side during the last battle.
The young knight’s only response was a grin he knew the other could see out of the corner of his eye. After all, he had been the first.
After several moments of silence, Pippin found himself yawning again, and barely managed to muffle his laughter at Oren’s cross look as the big man fought valiantly against the inevitable.
They had been standing guard over the King’s council for two hours, the tedium of their duty lifted slightly by their location. Aragorn, having become tired of staying cooped up inside all day during the council sessions, had moved this morning’s meeting to the King’s Garden, the members spaced out comfortably on benches in the warm sunshine.
As with his previous day’s duty, and the day before that, and the day before that, Pippin stood quiet and still, sword sheathed at his side. The two Guards would not be relieved for their luncheon for two more hours, and then only to grab a hasty meal before returning for the rest of their shift.
At the thought of food, Pippin’s stomach rumbled, and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing outright at Oren’s expression.
“If mine starts answering...” the big man growled threateningly.
Pippin was almost certain his face was bright red with the effort to keep quiet and still, something he never would have been able to do only a few months ago. As it was, even with his newfound discipline and his understanding of how serious the council sessions were, he had to blink away the tears of mirth that formed in his eyes. This was definitely more fun than he would have had if he had been off duty and gone with his cousins and Sam and Gandalf. They were off seeing some old ruin of “historical significance” with Prince Imrahil, somewhere outside the City.
When his stomach rumbled again, it was almost too much, and he hid his laughter by coughing into his hand as softly as he could, hearing an answering snicker from Oren.
We should never be placed on guard together again, Pippin thought ruefully as he tried to compose himself, still fighting his giggles. We simply have too much fun.
A good deal of it, Pippin knew, was that neither of them had slept much the previous night, Pippin kept awake after being talked into a game of chess with Frodo that lasted until well into the wee hours of the morning, when he had finally won, and Oren due to his new daughter, who was colicky.
A shuffling footstep erased all traces of mirth from both, however, and they found themselves standing straighter, cringing slightly as they watched Aragorn’s slow approach, his burgundy tunic blazing in the sun. Perhaps they had been louder than they realized?
“Gentlemen, we are going to break for a quarter hour. I suggest that you move about a bit.” This last was said with a twinkle in the King’s eyes, and Pippin knew he had heard their whispered conversations. Lucky for both of them, Aragorn was amused rather than put out.
Pippin smiled up at him, earning an answering grin, and shifted slightly, stretching his arms and sighing hugely. Beside him, Oren did the same, without the sigh, his expression stiff and stern once more when presented with the King himself. For some reason that Pippin didn’t quite understand, his fellow Guards, though they, too, loved their King, seemed to be rather intimidated by him.
Aragorn moved back to the council members, whispering something to Legolas as he passed, who grinned back at him, eyes resting for a moment on Pippin before he nodded and went inside, pulling Gimli along with him and giving the hobbit a wink as he passed.
Uh-oh, Pippin thought.
Beside him, barely loud enough for even his hobbit ears to catch, he heard Oren utter the same, and found that this time, he could not control himself. He stifled his giggles behind his hand as best he could, but was undone at the snort that escaped him.
He knew he was truly done in when Oren’s laughter joined his own, and had to pity his friends for what he knew was going to be an interesting day.
***
A few moments later the unmistakable sound of Gimli’s boots clattering down the hallway inside alerted both Guards to the missing members return. Pippin and Oren straightened themselves from where they had been stretching, resuming their posts with a seriousness others of the Shire never would have thought the young hobbit capable of.
The aroma of fresh bread and cheese wafted to Pippin’s nose, his mouth watering at the scent. His stomach rumbled once more, and this time it was Oren who snickered. A moment later Legolas and Gimli appeared, trays in their hands filled with not only the bread and cheese that smelled so tempting, but fresh fruit and ginger biscuits.
“The King thought you might be a bit hungry,” Legolas whispered as he stopped in front of the two on duty, handing each two still-warm slices of bread with melted cheese, an apple, and a biscuit. He winked as he turned back to the group of council members, and Pippin smiled up at him.
Nothing was said between the two as they ate hastily, devouring the unexpected treat as though neither had eaten in days rather than a few hours, knowing they would have to be finished by the time the session started again.
“Much better,” Pippin sighed happily when he finished.
Oren just nodded, and the two of them resumed their positions once more, finding it a bit easier to stand straight and still after their rest. Moments later, Aragorn signalled silently, and the session resumed, the soft drone of voices floating over the heads of those standing watch, eyes and ears ever vigilant for any threat to their King.
Out of the corner of his eye, watching those who watched over him, Aragorn took in Pippin’s crisp appearance and smiled.
***
His knee was bothering him again. Not the sharp piercing pain he had become accustomed to during the first days of his recovery, but a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to pound in time with his heartbeat.
They had been standing for at least five hours, straight and rigid as statues, with a half hour for lunch breaking the tedium. Only the occasional snicker passing between them ruined the image.
“That’s six,” Oren muttered suddenly, only his lips moving, distracting the hobbit from his pain.
“Are you certain?” Pippin whispered back, also barely moving his lips. “I thought it was five.”
“No, six. See? He just did it again,” Oren observed.
Pippin gave the barest murmur of assent, watching as Éomer flicked his hair over his shoulder for the seventh time.
“What about Legolas?” Pippin breathed after a few moments.
“Four,” was the short answer, and they fell silent once more, watching the session.
A sudden clattering on the stone inside the corridor had both of them standing rigid, hands going to their swords as the noise approached. Those in session looked up briefly as the noise became louder, their voices trailing off.
“Go,” Pippin hissed, not yet drawing his sword, though his muscles were tense as his blood began to pound in his ears, all pain forgotten for the moment.
Oren nodded, drawing his sword as he went to investigate the disturbance. Dimly, Pippin was aware of the members of the council rising to their feet.
“Gentlemen, I believe that another break might be in order,” Aragorn said softly, his eyes focused on the entrance to the garden.
A sudden cry of challenge, followed by the unmistakable sound of swords clashing, had everyone running, Pippin in the lead, to where Oren stood in battle with a man clothed in an ill fitting footman’s livery. The hobbit arrived just in time to see Oren run the man through the right shoulder, a shrill shriek echoing through the halls.
Within moments more Guards were approaching, running with their swords drawn and grim determination on their faces. However, having dropped his sword after being wounded, the intruder gave no struggle as he was hauled to his feet.
“Legolas, Gimli, go with this man and find out his intent if you will,” Aragorn ordered, face tense with anger. “Faramir, get me the Commander of the Guards. I want to know how this man came to be here and a search started to determine if he was alone.”
All three nodded, moving to their assigned tasks. Pippin, sword still drawn, scowled as the man was led away, moaning and swearing the whole time. Something did not feel right.
“I think you may put your sword away now, Master Holbytla,” Éomer murmured, though his own eyes followed the progress of the attempted assassin.
Pippin nodded, though he was slow in doing so, eyes searching the landscape and hallways, uncertain what he sought, blade still in his hand.
“I guess that the meeting has been adjourned for the day,” Éomer sighed, looking to Aragorn with a resigned grin.
“Perhaps for the moment,” Aragorn agreed.
The two Kings turned, heading back into the garden to collect the cushions they had each brought to soften the benches. Pippin, still uneasy, saw something glint out of the corner of his eye, and moved before he could think.
“Strider!” he shrieked as he threw himself in front of the blade that was aimed for his King’s heart. A piercing pain lanced through his side, though he paid it no heed as the one who had thrown the knife moved forward, revealing a thin, black clad form that seemed to blend into the shadows.
“Pippin!” Aragorn yelled, though the hobbit paid no more attention to the shout than he did the pain in his side, blocking the intruder‘s advance as he pulled a sword.
The man was clearly startled, having obviously thought this small person before him inconsequential. Quickly disabusing him of such notions, Pippin moved in a series of thrusts and parries that Boromir had drilled into him, disarming the intruder and dropping him to the ground with a well placed kick to the kneecap. His sword was at the man’s throat before the would-be assassin’s knees hit the ground.
Only then did he become aware of voices shouting and the sound of men running, of blurred movements to either side of him and a stabbing agony racing through his side. He felt his legs begin to quiver with the pain of it and fought off the weakness, his sword held unwaveringly.
“Sir Peregrin!” a familiar voice bellowed, and a moment later several well-armed men were surrounding his prisoner, swords levelled at frightened, black eyes.
Sudden dizziness washed through the hobbit and he stumbled back, almost dropping his own sword as he clutched at his side. Before he could fall, however, strong arms caught him, lowering him gently to the ground. Aragorn stared down at him, fear and worry and shock warring in his eyes, hands moving almost automatically to staunch the stain slowly wetting Pippin’s black tunic. The hobbit stared at the King’s bloody hands in dazed confusion.
“Strider...” Pippin breathed, grey clouds starting to obscure his vision.
“Hush, Pippin,” Aragorn whispered, face suddenly pale.
“Are you all right…are you...?” He had to struggle to get the words out, but Pippin needed to know.
“I am not hurt, Pippin,” Aragorn said softly, tears gathering in his eyes. “Thanks to you, Little Bird, I am not hurt. You, however…” The King’s voice trailed off, blending with the rising noises all about them.
“S’all right. I would...die...for you...Strider,” Pippin managed to gasp out.
His eyes shut despite his efforts to keep them open, and not even Aragorn’s firm voice ordering him to remain with him could stop him from slipping down into the dark that beckoned.
***
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 asked, 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, 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 comfortably. Perhaps tomorrow, depending on how he fares during the night, we can move him back 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 Cousin Lobelia salivate. She held it to his lips, and watched closely as he sipped the water, closing 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 flap 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.
http://piplover.livejournal.com/98743.html#cutid1
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So, for your enjoyment, I present part one of In a Heartbeat. Enjoy, and please let me know what you think. Part two will be up tomorrow.
Piplover
Pippin yawned. Not a quiet yawn, or a small yawn, or even a discreet yawn, but one that threatened to split his face in two and gusted out noisily. Beside him, trying to keep his face as straight as his posture, the Guard standing duty with the hobbit did his best to stifle his own yawn.
“Stop it,” Pippin hissed, too quietly for any of those in discussion to hear him. “We’ll be going back and forth all day.”
“You started it,” the Guard hissed back, a man by the name of Oren who had fought by Pippin’s side during the last battle.
The young knight’s only response was a grin he knew the other could see out of the corner of his eye. After all, he had been the first.
After several moments of silence, Pippin found himself yawning again, and barely managed to muffle his laughter at Oren’s cross look as the big man fought valiantly against the inevitable.
They had been standing guard over the King’s council for two hours, the tedium of their duty lifted slightly by their location. Aragorn, having become tired of staying cooped up inside all day during the council sessions, had moved this morning’s meeting to the King’s Garden, the members spaced out comfortably on benches in the warm sunshine.
As with his previous day’s duty, and the day before that, and the day before that, Pippin stood quiet and still, sword sheathed at his side. The two Guards would not be relieved for their luncheon for two more hours, and then only to grab a hasty meal before returning for the rest of their shift.
At the thought of food, Pippin’s stomach rumbled, and he had to bite his lip to keep from laughing outright at Oren’s expression.
“If mine starts answering...” the big man growled threateningly.
Pippin was almost certain his face was bright red with the effort to keep quiet and still, something he never would have been able to do only a few months ago. As it was, even with his newfound discipline and his understanding of how serious the council sessions were, he had to blink away the tears of mirth that formed in his eyes. This was definitely more fun than he would have had if he had been off duty and gone with his cousins and Sam and Gandalf. They were off seeing some old ruin of “historical significance” with Prince Imrahil, somewhere outside the City.
When his stomach rumbled again, it was almost too much, and he hid his laughter by coughing into his hand as softly as he could, hearing an answering snicker from Oren.
We should never be placed on guard together again, Pippin thought ruefully as he tried to compose himself, still fighting his giggles. We simply have too much fun.
A good deal of it, Pippin knew, was that neither of them had slept much the previous night, Pippin kept awake after being talked into a game of chess with Frodo that lasted until well into the wee hours of the morning, when he had finally won, and Oren due to his new daughter, who was colicky.
A shuffling footstep erased all traces of mirth from both, however, and they found themselves standing straighter, cringing slightly as they watched Aragorn’s slow approach, his burgundy tunic blazing in the sun. Perhaps they had been louder than they realized?
“Gentlemen, we are going to break for a quarter hour. I suggest that you move about a bit.” This last was said with a twinkle in the King’s eyes, and Pippin knew he had heard their whispered conversations. Lucky for both of them, Aragorn was amused rather than put out.
Pippin smiled up at him, earning an answering grin, and shifted slightly, stretching his arms and sighing hugely. Beside him, Oren did the same, without the sigh, his expression stiff and stern once more when presented with the King himself. For some reason that Pippin didn’t quite understand, his fellow Guards, though they, too, loved their King, seemed to be rather intimidated by him.
Aragorn moved back to the council members, whispering something to Legolas as he passed, who grinned back at him, eyes resting for a moment on Pippin before he nodded and went inside, pulling Gimli along with him and giving the hobbit a wink as he passed.
Uh-oh, Pippin thought.
Beside him, barely loud enough for even his hobbit ears to catch, he heard Oren utter the same, and found that this time, he could not control himself. He stifled his giggles behind his hand as best he could, but was undone at the snort that escaped him.
He knew he was truly done in when Oren’s laughter joined his own, and had to pity his friends for what he knew was going to be an interesting day.
***
A few moments later the unmistakable sound of Gimli’s boots clattering down the hallway inside alerted both Guards to the missing members return. Pippin and Oren straightened themselves from where they had been stretching, resuming their posts with a seriousness others of the Shire never would have thought the young hobbit capable of.
The aroma of fresh bread and cheese wafted to Pippin’s nose, his mouth watering at the scent. His stomach rumbled once more, and this time it was Oren who snickered. A moment later Legolas and Gimli appeared, trays in their hands filled with not only the bread and cheese that smelled so tempting, but fresh fruit and ginger biscuits.
“The King thought you might be a bit hungry,” Legolas whispered as he stopped in front of the two on duty, handing each two still-warm slices of bread with melted cheese, an apple, and a biscuit. He winked as he turned back to the group of council members, and Pippin smiled up at him.
Nothing was said between the two as they ate hastily, devouring the unexpected treat as though neither had eaten in days rather than a few hours, knowing they would have to be finished by the time the session started again.
“Much better,” Pippin sighed happily when he finished.
Oren just nodded, and the two of them resumed their positions once more, finding it a bit easier to stand straight and still after their rest. Moments later, Aragorn signalled silently, and the session resumed, the soft drone of voices floating over the heads of those standing watch, eyes and ears ever vigilant for any threat to their King.
Out of the corner of his eye, watching those who watched over him, Aragorn took in Pippin’s crisp appearance and smiled.
***
His knee was bothering him again. Not the sharp piercing pain he had become accustomed to during the first days of his recovery, but a dull, throbbing ache that seemed to pound in time with his heartbeat.
They had been standing for at least five hours, straight and rigid as statues, with a half hour for lunch breaking the tedium. Only the occasional snicker passing between them ruined the image.
“That’s six,” Oren muttered suddenly, only his lips moving, distracting the hobbit from his pain.
“Are you certain?” Pippin whispered back, also barely moving his lips. “I thought it was five.”
“No, six. See? He just did it again,” Oren observed.
Pippin gave the barest murmur of assent, watching as Éomer flicked his hair over his shoulder for the seventh time.
“What about Legolas?” Pippin breathed after a few moments.
“Four,” was the short answer, and they fell silent once more, watching the session.
A sudden clattering on the stone inside the corridor had both of them standing rigid, hands going to their swords as the noise approached. Those in session looked up briefly as the noise became louder, their voices trailing off.
“Go,” Pippin hissed, not yet drawing his sword, though his muscles were tense as his blood began to pound in his ears, all pain forgotten for the moment.
Oren nodded, drawing his sword as he went to investigate the disturbance. Dimly, Pippin was aware of the members of the council rising to their feet.
“Gentlemen, I believe that another break might be in order,” Aragorn said softly, his eyes focused on the entrance to the garden.
A sudden cry of challenge, followed by the unmistakable sound of swords clashing, had everyone running, Pippin in the lead, to where Oren stood in battle with a man clothed in an ill fitting footman’s livery. The hobbit arrived just in time to see Oren run the man through the right shoulder, a shrill shriek echoing through the halls.
Within moments more Guards were approaching, running with their swords drawn and grim determination on their faces. However, having dropped his sword after being wounded, the intruder gave no struggle as he was hauled to his feet.
“Legolas, Gimli, go with this man and find out his intent if you will,” Aragorn ordered, face tense with anger. “Faramir, get me the Commander of the Guards. I want to know how this man came to be here and a search started to determine if he was alone.”
All three nodded, moving to their assigned tasks. Pippin, sword still drawn, scowled as the man was led away, moaning and swearing the whole time. Something did not feel right.
“I think you may put your sword away now, Master Holbytla,” Éomer murmured, though his own eyes followed the progress of the attempted assassin.
Pippin nodded, though he was slow in doing so, eyes searching the landscape and hallways, uncertain what he sought, blade still in his hand.
“I guess that the meeting has been adjourned for the day,” Éomer sighed, looking to Aragorn with a resigned grin.
“Perhaps for the moment,” Aragorn agreed.
The two Kings turned, heading back into the garden to collect the cushions they had each brought to soften the benches. Pippin, still uneasy, saw something glint out of the corner of his eye, and moved before he could think.
“Strider!” he shrieked as he threw himself in front of the blade that was aimed for his King’s heart. A piercing pain lanced through his side, though he paid it no heed as the one who had thrown the knife moved forward, revealing a thin, black clad form that seemed to blend into the shadows.
“Pippin!” Aragorn yelled, though the hobbit paid no more attention to the shout than he did the pain in his side, blocking the intruder‘s advance as he pulled a sword.
The man was clearly startled, having obviously thought this small person before him inconsequential. Quickly disabusing him of such notions, Pippin moved in a series of thrusts and parries that Boromir had drilled into him, disarming the intruder and dropping him to the ground with a well placed kick to the kneecap. His sword was at the man’s throat before the would-be assassin’s knees hit the ground.
Only then did he become aware of voices shouting and the sound of men running, of blurred movements to either side of him and a stabbing agony racing through his side. He felt his legs begin to quiver with the pain of it and fought off the weakness, his sword held unwaveringly.
“Sir Peregrin!” a familiar voice bellowed, and a moment later several well-armed men were surrounding his prisoner, swords levelled at frightened, black eyes.
Sudden dizziness washed through the hobbit and he stumbled back, almost dropping his own sword as he clutched at his side. Before he could fall, however, strong arms caught him, lowering him gently to the ground. Aragorn stared down at him, fear and worry and shock warring in his eyes, hands moving almost automatically to staunch the stain slowly wetting Pippin’s black tunic. The hobbit stared at the King’s bloody hands in dazed confusion.
“Strider...” Pippin breathed, grey clouds starting to obscure his vision.
“Hush, Pippin,” Aragorn whispered, face suddenly pale.
“Are you all right…are you...?” He had to struggle to get the words out, but Pippin needed to know.
“I am not hurt, Pippin,” Aragorn said softly, tears gathering in his eyes. “Thanks to you, Little Bird, I am not hurt. You, however…” The King’s voice trailed off, blending with the rising noises all about them.
“S’all right. I would...die...for you...Strider,” Pippin managed to gasp out.
His eyes shut despite his efforts to keep them open, and not even Aragorn’s firm voice ordering him to remain with him could stop him from slipping down into the dark that beckoned.
***
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 asked, 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, 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 comfortably. Perhaps tomorrow, depending on how he fares during the night, we can move him back 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 Cousin Lobelia salivate. She held it to his lips, and watched closely as he sipped the water, closing 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 flap 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.
http://piplover.livejournal.com/98743.html#cutid1
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*sigh*
Well done.
Kudos to you and to Marigold.
You said your computer crashed? Glad this wasn't lost.
*hugs*
Lin
Re: *sigh*
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I cam completely understand your anger and frustration about your computer dying. My did the same thing last Halloween, taking my multi-chapter story with it. I actually cried over everything I lost. Hope things get better soon.
Looking forward to the next chapter. This is great.
GT.
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I did cry when my computer went the way of the dodo. I lost everything I had been working on, all my files. Sigh. At least a few things survived that I had saved to email.
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(a goblet that would have made Cousin Lobelia salivate)
That gave me a laugh.
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Lovely characterization and description - I could really picture this one.
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This is a wonderful tale indeed. I went through so much emotion from reading this. From pride at seeing Pippin as the disciplined guard, giggling insanely at the way he and Oren were observing Eomer and Legolas flicking their hair, tensing at the drama when Pip was fighting with the assasin to a feeling of wonder at the way you described Arwen.
Thank you.
*off to next chapter*
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