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Harthad Uluithiad - One: Firith (Part 2 of Bronwe athan Harthad)
Author: Aratlithiel Illustration by: Aelfgifu (Emma) Summary: Aftermath of the claiming of the One Ring Rating: PG
(German translation by Cúthalion HERE) |
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August 01, 2003
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A/N – For Shadow.
~*~
HARTHAD ULUITHIAD
Chapter 1 - Firith
~*~
Pippin dragged the footstool across the polished stone of the parlor and placed it beneath the window facing the street. He pulled himself up and braced his elbows on the sill, his eyes narrowing as he peered down the road where Gandalf and Aragorn had gone hours before. They should have been back by now.
He absently gnawed a thumbnail as his eyes darted along the various inhabitants of the city milling about in the street. Frodo was wearing his grey cloak, he knew and Gandalf was always in white these days, so he kept his eyes peeled for those two colors as he shifted from one foot to the other. A rather difficult thing in this city made of stone where everything was a varying shade of the very two colors he now searched for.
Frodo had been very distressed when he fled through the door and down the street what seemed to Pippin ages ago. He had tried to give Pippin a smile as he hurried past him down the hall to the door and flung himself out of it, but it had seemed to Pippin more of a grimace. What’s more, Pippin had seen his eyes and had suddenly known what his cousin had been hiding behind his shuttered gaze for so many weeks. The mask of remote serenity Frodo had been wearing was suddenly pulled back, exposing the anguish and tumult laying siege to his heart. Pippin didn’t think he had ever seen such depths and shuddered to think that his cousin had been drowning in them all this time.
Merry had started to follow, but Pippin had caught him and insisted that he tell him what had put Frodo into such a state. I don’t know, Pip! Merry had said. I only tried to tell him that he wasn’t to blame and he…he just went white and muttered something silly before he turned and…well, ran I suppose is the best word for it.
A brief discussion about who should do the following was interrupted when Gandalf blustered through the door, Aragorn on his heels. After explanations and concerned looks were exchanged all around, it was decided that the wizard and the King should do the following and the soldier and the knight should do the waiting.
“Bugger!” Pippin muttered. Tooks had been called many things in their long and colored history, but as far as Pippin knew, patient was not one of them. He propped his chin on his fists and continued staring in the direction they had hastened, willing himself to calm. Why was he in such a state? Frodo was not some child lost and alone in the wilderness. He was a grown hobbit, after all and he had simply gone for a walk…again. Alone.
No, Pippin reminded himself. Frodo had not simply gone for another of the more frequent ambles alone as had been his wont these days. Frodo had fled. Merry had made what he thought to be a comforting remark and Frodo had actually run from him…from them. Slipping through their fingers and out the door before either of them had the opportunity to stop him. Why?
Slipping through their fingers. It was a phrase Pippin had often associated with his elder cousin through the years. A distinct feeling he sometimes got when Frodo’s eyes would take on that haze of magic and wonder that sometimes drifted from his heart and onto his face.
When Pippin was a young lad he had thought that was the most lovely expression he would ever see on anyone’s face. It made him think of starlight and faeries, of elves and dragons. He often wished that Frodo could somehow take Pippin with him into those dreams that so changed his face from that of a beloved elder cousin to something ethereal and full of magic.
As Pippin grew older, that look somehow began to make him uncomfortable. Not that he didn’t still think it beautiful, but somewhere in his youth it had begun to make his mouth go dry and tears begin to pulse hot and full behind his eyes. He never quite understood it, but found himself clearing his throat impatiently, climbing into Frodo’s lap, book in hand, or simply tackling him and forcibly dragging his cousin back from whatever haven he dwelt in when that look was in his eye. Bringing him back and demanding without words that Frodo remain here, with Pippin and not go to a far off place that he couldn’t find and might get lost in if he tried. Pippin had clung to Frodo at every opportunity, adhering himself to his cousin’s wiry frame like a barnacle whenever he visited the Smials or when Pippin was lucky enough to accompany his parents on a visit to Bag End. Frodo never seemed to mind and acquiesced to the lad’s every demand. Whether story, game or hug, elder cousin never failed to indulge younger with a ready smile and gentle hand.
Pippin had done everything he could think of to keep that look out of his dear Frodo’s eyes. Never quite sure why it bothered him so, Pippin only knew that it somehow made him inexplicably sad and frightened all at once. His mind worked incessantly at inventive ways to keep his cousin ever within reach, clamoring for attention any time it looked to Pippin as if Frodo may begin to drift away from him. Goodbyes were especially painful to the lad, tears rolling freely as he worried over who would be there to make his cousin stay put when Pippin wasn’t there to watch over him.
Then had come Bilbo’s infamous eleventy-first birthday party and Pippin had suddenly realized amidst the puffs of smoke and the smell of sulphur what he had been afraid of for all those years.
Pippin is only eleven and quite unable to fathom that his cousin is today a full century older than himself. It seems amazing to him that there was life at all so long before his birth and it makes him feel smaller than he ever has before.
He has spent most of the evening sneaking cakes and treats from the heaping platters and leaping onto Frodo’s back whenever his elder cousin was not politely greeting a guest. If Pippin is truthful with himself, he will admit that he has spent a great deal of time clamoring quite rudely and insistently for his cousin’s attention. But Pippin is eleven and there are few lads of that age who are honest with themselves about their own behavior. So he dodges around the half-hearted vigilance of his mother at every opportunity and resumes his place at Frodo’s hip until he is caught and cuffed by his father and dragged away once more.
He is never absent from Frodo’s warm presence for long, though, deftly managing his escapes more frequently in direct relation to the number of tankards his father consumes. Frodo suffers his attentions with the same good humor that has earned him his place as favored cousin in Pippin’s heart; a status that Frodo will hold throughout his life and will probably never understand why.
The fireworks are spectacular. He sits on Frodo’s lap, his hands over his ears, laughter in his belly enough to make him wish he hadn’t eaten so many treats after all. Merry sits beside Frodo and the three of them share their delight over the magic unfolding in the sky above them. There is a dragon and Pippin is caught for endless moments between joyous wonder and consuming terror – that strange exhilaration unique to children who are simply too full of wonder to be completely frightened of anything. He feels the warm arms surrounding him, holding him tight and he is sure that whether this is Ancalagon come back from the dead for vengeance upon the Shirefolk or simply the most magical display he’s ever heard tell of, Frodo’s arms around him will keep him safe and protected. The dragon explodes into an extravagant shower of glittering jewels and Pippin is clapping and hooting for more along with his two cousins, even though it is quite clear that the show is over.
Supper is served and Pippin somehow makes room for the various delights his mother places in front of him, eating until he is quite certain he will burst if he so much as smells another morsel. After supper, the time has come for the inevitable speech. Pippin rolls his eyes and prepares himself for the long, boring adult fare and innumerable pinches under the table from his mother when he finds it absolutely impossible to sit still one moment longer, as he surely will any moment.
He scans the crowd and searches out Frodo, wishing that his cousin does not have to sit at the main table with Bilbo and could sit here with him instead. Frodo always seems to manage to entertain Pippin without irritating his mother – a very worthy talent to have in any older cousin.
He has not been paying much attention to the speech. His eyes wander about the tent, alighting upon Merry (who promptly sticks out his tongue) and then flitting away to study the enormous birthday cake with increasing interest. He has just begun to seriously contemplate whether the last piece of chicken on his dish will fit into his stomach when he distantly hears Bilbo.
‘I am leaving now. Goodbye!’
Pippin looks up in time to be momentarily blinded by a flash of light which dissipates quickly into puffs of smoke. His vision dances with green spots and bluish-white motes.
The collective gasp of the crowd barely registers. Pippin’s head feels suddenly too light and he has the ridiculous impulse to reach up and hold it to his shoulders before it floats away. The blood drains from his face and limbs to rush immediately to his heart which thuds frantically in his small chest. His stomach knots, threatening to relieve itself of all he has so foolishly stuffed into it and very soon if he cannot manage to settle it in the next minute or two. He swallows several times, willing it to hold to its contents. When he is sure it is once again calmed, Pippin bursts into tears.
He is on his feet, stumbling over his chair and begins to frantically make his way away from the table when his mother latches onto his arm and pulls his head to her breast. She shushes and soothes him as Pippin squirms for release, his eyes darting about the empty space where Bilbo stood a moment before.
‘Bilbo’s upset the boy, Paladin’ his mother says. ‘Perhaps we should leave.’
Pippin uses all of his strength and with a mighty wrench, twists his sweaty little wrist from his mother’s grasp. He darts toward the place where Bilbo had been and halts abruptly. He can smell the sulphur hanging thick and heavy in the air, can taste it bitter and tangy on his tongue.
Relief washes over him, nearly making him giddy when he spots Frodo standing next to the chair where Pippin last remembers seeing him before Bilbo had picked up his world and shifted it slightly to the left of center. Pippin watches Frodo lift his glass and drain it, then walk off slowly out of the ring of light and into the black of night with a sad smile on his lips and distance in his eyes. He begins to follow when strong hands nab his collar from behind and he is hoisted onto his father’s hip, a meaty finger wagging before his nose and a stern voice chastising him for running from his mother.
The mother in question catches up with the pair. ‘Leave the boy be, Paladin. He’s just upset.’
Had Pippin yet learned the meaning of the word ‘understatement,’ it may well have crossed his mind now.
Seeing Bilbo disappear has upset Pippin plenty, that much is certain, but not in the same sense that the other guests are upset. Pippin is more than upset – he is well and truly frightened. Not because this is his first real demonstration of true magic about which he has only previously heard tales and only half-believes. No - this is a much deeper, almost primal fear laced with panic so sharp he can almost feel it digging into his brain and clawing at his senses. For Pippin has had a revelation, and it has terrified him to his marrow.
As young as he is, Pippin has suddenly realized that this is the reason why those hooded gazes and faraway looks have always disturbed him so, this is why he clings so desperately to his elder cousin. There is a place deep within his child’s heart that has abruptly discovered that Pippin has always half-expected his beloved Frodo to one day follow the distant path his eyes have set and disappear right in front of him just as Bilbo has done. That if he doesn’t hold fast and keep his cousin close, the mist in his eyes will reach out and envelope him and Frodo will become no more substantial than the puffs of acrid smoke that Bilbo has vanished into. That the mist will blow away on the gentlest of breezes, leaving Pippin grasping fruitlessly at the wisps that will bleed through his desperate fingers.
“Anything yet?”
Pippin startled, jumping so high he nearly upended from his perch on the footstool. He steadied himself and turned to see Merry in the doorway, his eyes weary and his face full of sadness and worry. Merry ambled over to the sofa and threw himself onto it.
“No,” Pippin replied, “nothing yet.” He turned back to the window and renewed his vigil. “Merry,” he said, “what did you say to Frodo before he left?” Nothing but silence behind him so Pippin turned once again to look at his cousin.
Merry stared at the ceiling, his fingers kneading his forehead.
“I said he wasn’t to blame,” he offered simply.
Pippin’s brow furrowed. “For what?”
“I don’t know, Pip,” Merry said. “For anything. Everything. For whatever it is he thinks he should be held accountable for. For suffering while he carried the bane of the world against his breast, for giving himself to it piece by piece to keep it from reaching for one of us, for…” Merry stopped and covered his eyes with his hand. “…for not being able to look us in the eye. I don’t know, Pippin! For whatever it is he can’t forgive himself for!”
Pippin got down from the stool and went to his cousin. He knelt beside him, watching the grief-stricken face expectantly.
“And what else?” Pippin asked gently.
Merry reached into his pocket and drew out a handkerchief. He wiped his brow and breathed a leaden sigh.
“I told him that he wasn’t to blame that he couldn’t defeat it in the end.” He looked to Pippin, guilt and sorrow at war in his eyes. “I thought if he knew I understood that, he might come back to us. I thought I could bring his heart back from wherever it was that he left it.”
The door rattled and they both jumped. Pippin stilled, listening intently to the gruff voice that rumbled down the hallway. He sprang to his feet and walked quickly down the hall.
Aragorn stood by the door, holding it open as Frodo walked slowly into the house, Gandalf behind him with a hand resting on his shoulder. Pippin scanned their faces quickly, noting with dismay the grave looks worn by both Gandalf and Aragorn. Frodo kept his eyes cast to the ground, docilely allowing the wizard to guide him into the house and down the hall to his room.
Pippin reached out his hand as they passed, grasping Frodo’s sleeve and halting them in their path. Frodo looked to the hand on his arm and then up to Pippin.
Pippin wanted to cry out but forced himself to remain calm, his face showing nothing of the tumult that seized his heart. Oh, Frodo, my love, where are you?
He let his hand drop bonelessly to his side and Gandalf led Frodo on their path to his room, steering him through the door and closing it behind them. Pippin let out a shaky breath and whirled on the King.
“What have you done to him now?” he demanded, his voice tight and his eyes flaming.
“Pippin!” Merry said behind him and placed a warm hand on his shoulder. Pippin shrugged it off and turned.
“What?” he asked, anger rising. “They should not be held accountable for the state our cousin is in?”
“There is only one who is accountable for your kinsman’s state,” Gandalf stated calmly, stepping into the hall and closing the door softly behind him. “But since that one is no more, we can only offer comfort where we may and try to mend the damage that has been done.”
“And what did this ‘mending’ entail?” asked Pippin harshly. “Did you drag him further across the coals he’s made for himself?”
“Pippin,” started Merry, “you can’t--”
“We did no such thing, Peregrin Took,” interrupted Gandalf, “and I will remind you that we went in search of Frodo at your request.”
“You did no such thing,” Pippin returned. “You stopped us from going in search of him and bade us wait here like children. And then you brought him back here in worse condition than when he left! I’ll ask again, what have you done to him?”
“We have done nothing,” interjected Aragorn, the stern tone of voice belied by the anguish etched so plainly on his face. “We found him alone and full of sorrow and did what we could to comfort him.”
“I saw him!” cried Pippin. “I saw his eyes. He’s not there!”
“Oh, he’s there, young Peregrin,” said Gandalf sadly, “of that I can assure you. Perhaps he just needs assistance in finding a way back to himself.”
Pippin rolled his eyes and brushed off the hand that Merry laid on his arm.
“And what does that mean?” he asked angrily. “Why must you always speak in riddles?”
“It means,” said Aragorn, “that there is not much we can do to help him right now--”
“Not much you--!” sputtered Pippin. “Not…oh, indeed! His heart and soul lie in the balance! How can you leave him blind and shattered after all he’s done? How can you leave him wandering alone in the dark? You must help him!”
“We have not given up hope, Master Took,” said Gandalf. “We are doing what we can to--”
“What you can? Stars above, Gandalf, you’re a wizard! Surely you can manage to mend one broken heart, repair the damage you’ve done!”
“That is enough, Peregrin,” Aragorn voiced evenly. “The damage was done by the hand of one and one only. This was not Gandalf’s doing, nor mine. Nor Frodo’s for that matter, but it will take more than we can offer to convince him of that and I fear the damage will never be wholly undone.”
“What do you mean, never?” asked Pippin. “Surely you don’t mean--”
“Pippin.” Merry spoke softly and laid his hand once again on Pippin’s arm. “Stop. Aragorn is right. It is enough.”
Pippin sagged, trembling under Merry’s grasp, anger burning bright in his eyes.
“But…but, never, Merry…” he choked.
Merry drew Pippin’s head to his shoulder.
“I know, Pip,” he soothed. “But Frodo’s a hobbit. A Brandybuck and a Took besides. How many times have those around him underestimated him?” He raised his eyes to Gandalf’s. “Even kings and wizards don’t know all things.”
The door rattled and all eyes turned as Sam blustered through it, followed closely by Legolas, relaxed smiles on both of their faces. Sam moved to the side to allow entrance for the elf and closed the door, half-turning to the crowd in the hallway as he did.
“Ah, I see we’ve a houseful already,” he observed with an easy smile. “What’s everyone doing in the hall?” He scanned the faces in front of him more closely and the corners of his mouth drew down. “What’s this, then?” he asked. He glanced down the hall toward the bedrooms, then back to the troubled faces. Without another word, he brushed past them all, making his way swiftly to his master’s room and quietly letting himself in.
~*~
Gandalf and Aragorn walked in silence, their feet taking them on a blind course to the Citadel while their minds turned with the events of the day. Each heart held a sorrow and fear it had not known since the dawnless day and thought never to see again. They trod up the stone steps and entered the massive structure, ignoring the guards and attendants who halted and bowed as they passed. They made their way to the King’s chambers and Aragorn fell into the nearest chair, exhausted and shaken. Gandalf strode to the window and peered out on the courtyard, rubbing his chin thoughtfully and leaning against the stone frame.
“They are right you know,” Aragorn said after a few moments. “We must share blame in this.”
“Nonsense!” replied Gandalf. “Did you hear nothing of the words I spoke to Frodo? There is no blame to be had here except that which must be laid upon other Powers. Large we may seem in these times, my lord, but we are still very small in the designs of the Powers of the world.”
Aragorn pounded his fist on the arm of the chair. “Damn it, Gandalf,” he grated irritably, “can we dispense with the titles for today? I’ve grown entirely too weary of them.”
Gandalf chuckled and turned. “I see the mantle does not rest so easily as you would pretend, my dear Ranger. Must we don our worn travel attire to make you feel more at ease?”
Aragorn smiled wearily. “I find the responsibility of leading the free peoples of the world somewhat less daunting than…” The smile left his face. “…than the task of rescuing a soul that remains captive in the wastelands of Mordor. This is beyond me, Gandalf, and I fear beyond you. I fear we are both helpless and Frodo is lost to us.”
Gandalf turned back to the window. “Helpless?” he mused, gazing at the Ring upon his finger. “Perhaps so. But there are other avenues we might seek, other individuals we might consult.”
“Yes,” Aragorn agreed. “I have decided to speak with Arwen about the matter when she arrives. And perhaps Elrond as well. Their insight may prove useful and perhaps the power of the Elves can soothe where we cannot.”
“Hmmm. Yes, yes,” said Gandalf absently. He turned and walked toward the door, stopping to place a reassuring hand on the King’s shoulder. “I think that would be wise,” he said and left the room.
~*~
Pippin crept down the darkened hallway toward the kitchen, his nightshirt sticking uncomfortably to his back. It would only be Forelithe in the Shire, he knew, but the weather here in Minas Tirith tended to be warmer than northern regions, or so he had been told. Still, the evening was rather chill and weather conditions did not necessarily explain the sweat covering his shivering body when he had awoken only moments ago with a cry on his lips.
He made his way through the darkness, intending to have a drink from the pump in the kitchen. He stopped short in the doorway, his breath halting in his chest.
Frodo sat in the shadows of the room, staring into the banked coals of the fire, his elbows on the table and his chin propped on his fists. Sparkles of gold drifted slowly down his cheeks, tears catching the firelight and reminding Pippin of distant stars burning bright and desperate against the chill of a November twilight.
Pippin mourned within himself, silently cursing the fate that had brought this brave cousin of his to such a pass. This gentle spirit who was more a part of the Shire than anyone else he had ever known but at the same time somehow apart from it…above it somehow, yet not through any wish of his own. A hobbit who was more of that which every hobbit aspired to be, yet removed from his fellows by something deep within him, something that pulled and tugged at his spirit and separated him unwilling from that which he loved most.
Pippin stood quietly, watching this cousin of his who had always been a beloved enigma to him. This gentle soul who had swallowed fear and defied darkness for the love of home and kin. Yet now here he was, far from home and drowning in a self-imposed distance from those he loved, seeking to protect them still - head bent in supplication to the shadows that enfolded him, sitting now alone in the darkness, weeping stars.
Pippin felt his own tears slide wet and hot down his cheeks and stifled a sob. The distance was back in Frodo’s eyes and Pippin didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified. It was, of course, better than the vacant stare that had adorned his face when Gandalf had brought him home and yet…
There was something new there now, a sort of puzzled sorrow that melded with the dreaminess and gave it a more agonized tone. A muted depth that cried out for succor and a sad resignation that denied the possibility.
Pippin decided that this look frightened him as much as it always had, or perhaps now even more so - for the new facet added something even more mournful and heartbreaking in that visage. Unwilling to surrender his childhood protector, kin and friend to the despair that battled for purchase, Pippin squared his shoulders, wiped the tears from his face and softly cleared his throat.
Frodo startled, jumping as if he had been pinched and quickly swiped his sleeve across his face.
“Bloody hell, Peregrin!” he choked, darting a quick glance to the doorway then away. “What are you doing sneaking about this time of night?”
Pippin watched in fascinated awe as his cousin shuttered his gaze with a swiftness that spoke to long practice. The pain and bewilderment so evident on the beloved countenance only seconds ago was visibly throttled and suborned, a mask of fragile peace and good humor adorned in its place.
“I was thirsty,” Pippin said softly and walked to the pump. He picked up two cups, filled them with cold water and sat at the table across from Frodo, pushing a cup in front of him.
Frodo picked up the cup, thanking him absently. He took a quick swallow and placed the cup in front of him, staring into it. Pippin wondered if the white-knuckled grip Frodo had on the stoneware was to prevent the tremors that seemed to be wracking his shoulders from traveling to his hands.
Pippin took a swallow from his own cup. “How did you manage to sneak past Sam’s door without him accosting you with teas and sleeping potions?”
Frodo chuckled. “In the same way you managed to sneak up on me, I suppose,” he said. “We hobbits are a stealthy lot.”
“I wasn’t sneaking, Frodo,” Pippin said sincerely. “I was just thirsty. I suppose I’m just naturally more stealthy than other hobbits.”
“Oh, you suppose so, do you?” Frodo said, a wry smile sneaking onto his face. “I seem to recall a tiny hobbit lad who couldn’t help giggling and tripping over his own clumsy feet whenever he attempted to sneak up on his elder cousin.”
“I never did!” said Pippin indignantly. “Frodo Baggins, I do believe you’re making things up. Besides, I wasn’t sneaking anyway, so it’s rather beside the point, isn’t it?” Pippin took a drink from his cup. “And I’m not a tiny hobbit lad anymore either.”
Frodo’s smile faded. He lifted his eyes from their study of the cup and directed them past Pippin to the remnants of the fire.
“No,” he said quietly. “That you’re not.”
Pippin felt the mood around him suddenly shift, the air around him gain weight, and he struggled against it. He felt very much like the small lad he had only just denied, trying to bring his cousin back from the dreams Pippin so feared. Only the dreams now held a very real danger, and not just the unreasoning fear of the boy he had been. There was now a more insistent need to bring Frodo back to himself before Pippin lost him forever. He briefly considered tackling Frodo as he had so many times all those years ago, then immediately dismissed the idea as ridiculous. Pippin had grown larger and Frodo had…well, tackling him right now was not the best idea Pippin had ever had. So instead, he reached across the table and deftly flicked his cousin’s nose.
Frodo flinched and startled, peering at Pippin, his jaw hanging. A slow smile started at the corners of his mouth and Pippin met it with an innocent one of his own.
“Cheeky git,” said Frodo, his eyes dancing with a mirth that Pippin hadn’t seen for…he didn’t know how long it had been since he had seen it which made it that much more beautiful now.
Pippin feigned indignance. “A git, am I?” was the haughty retort.
Frodo rubbed at his nose. “Don’t forget cheeky. You should have spent more of your youth learning respect for your elders instead of honing your talent at disarming them.”
“Say what you will about my cheek, Frodo love, but I daresay my youth was a bit more well-spent than that of certain cousins I could name.”
“Ah!” countered Frodo. “The misspent youth of one Baggins cannot compare to the outrageousness of an entire line of Tooks.”
“Outrageous?!” Pippin sputtered. “I beg your…well, alright, I’ll give you that one. But I wouldn’t speak so freely of it if I were you. A Baggins you may be but I happen to know there is more than plenty Took blood flowing in those veins.”
“Yes,” Frodo admitted, a sly smile on his lips. “That’s how I explain my misspent youth.”
“Wha…?!” gasped Pippin, lending the exclamation far more syllables than it properly deserved. “My dear cousin, I would venture to say that you have received a great deal more than a penchant for mischief from your Took side.”
“Oh?” mused Frodo, stifling a snort. “Am I then to understand that you’re quite prepared to tell me what else the Tooks have so generously contributed to the temperament of this poor, undeserving Baggins?”
“I thought you’d never ask,” said Pippin and tapped his finger to his chin. “Hmmm, let’s see. Besides the Tookish influence, we can’t forget you’ve also got some Brandybuck in you. I think our dear cousin Meriadoc demonstrates beautifully how very dangerous it can be when those two bloodlines merge. I daresay the Tooks and Brandybucks should look to him as an example and stay well away from each other in the future. Can’t have them mating and producing more of his sort, now can we?”
“Oh, Pippin!” chuckled Frodo. “I wonder if our dear Merry is aware of your disapproval of the Brandybucks curling the leaves of your family tree.”
“Certainly not!” Pippin responded, aghast. “A spirited bunch they may be, but not a one of them can take a joke without planning swift retribution. And if you tell him, I’ll just pound you into the ground like a fence post. I’m bigger than you are now, incase you hadn’t noticed.”
“Oh, I noticed,” Frodo asserted, dismissing him with an impatient gesture of his hand. “Please, Master Took, do go on.”
“Mmm, where was I? Ah, yes,” said Pippin. “One can’t forget the Baggins’ contribution to this unusual blend, can one? A fine, respectable name, Baggins. Of course, until Bilbo ran off and spoiled it for all the rest of them. A fact I daresay Lobelia will never forgive the lot of you for – and her a Bracegirdle and nothing more before she had the good fortune to marry well. That is, if you consider Otho as a husband marrying well.” Pippin seemed to think about that for a moment then shuddered.
Frodo laughed outright, clapping his hand over his mouth so as not to disturb the rest of the house. Pippin’s heart melted. When was the last time he had heard Frodo laugh?
“So,” he continued, “which branch gave you which trait? It should go without saying that your wit and wisdom comes from the Took side.”
“Indeed,” agreed Frodo, smiling. “Such wisdom as it is at any rate. And wit depending on how it’s meant.”
“It’s meant in both senses, dear cousin, I assure you.” Pippin averred. “Moving on,” he continued briskly, “I suppose we’ll have to attribute your cleverness to the Brandybucks. And your spirit as well.”
“You’ll give cleverness to the Brandybucks?” asked Frodo, surprised. “I would have thought you would hand that directly to the Took side.”
Pippin waved his hand dismissively. “Well, I never said the Brandybucks didn’t have some good points,” he replied. “I just said the Tooks had better. And if I have to choose between wisdom and cleverness, I’ll choose wisdom. Although, I happen to have both so in my case it’s a moot point.”
“Oh, yes,” said Frodo seriously. “You’ve always been known for your wisdom. Peregrin Took, renowned in all the land for his wisdom and good sense.”
Pippin’s eyes narrowed. “Frodo Baggins, I do believe that was a bit of sarcasm that just dripped from your lips.”
“Never!” admonished Frodo with as much gravity as he could muster.
Pippin gave him an appraising look. “Quite,” he said with a raised eyebrow. “But you may want to wipe your chin before it stains your shirt.”
Frodo snorted again. “So,” he said, “we have wisdom and wit – in both senses of the word, of course – from the Tooks. Spirit and cleverness from the Brandybucks. What, pray tell, oh wise Peregrin, have I received from the Baggins side?”
Pippin put his chin in his hand and drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “Hmmm,” he said, looking thoughtful. “That’s a very good question. I confess I’ve never thought of you as a Baggins, in the strictest sense.”
Frodo’s smile slowly waned. “Oh?”
Pippin was staring at his drumming fingers, distracted. “No, not really,” he pondered. “You’re nothing like the stodgy lot of them. In fact, you’re quite unlike anyone I’ve ever known.”
“Hmph,” said Frodo. “I believe ‘cracked’ might be the word you’re looking for.”
“Oh, don’t be so morose, Frodo. ‘Cracked’ is hardly the word I’d use to describe you, or Bilbo for that matter, although he’s not as…alert as he once was, I’ll grant you.”
Frodo was silent. “No,” he murmured after a moment. “No, I don’t suppose he is as ‘alert’ as he was before…”
“Yes, before,” said Pippin, staring into his cup. “But I don’t think you’re very much like him anyway. Bilbo, for all his adventures and eccentric interests was still more of an ordinary hobbit. I don’t think even Bilbo would have been able to do what you have done. You’re quite extraordinary, you know.”
“I’m afraid I don’t know quite what you mean, Pippin,” Frodo said calmly. “I’m really quite ordinary.”
“Ordinary?” Pippin scoffed. “I should say you’re anything but--” Pippin broke off as he lifted his gaze to see Frodo’s eyes had drifted once again to the glow of the hearth. The look was back and whatever Pippin had been about to say was forgotten. Oh, Frodo, please don’t go away. I didn’t mean to talk about it. Stay here with me.
Frightened now, Pippin cast frantically through his mind for something, anything to say that would bring his cousin back to him – even if for just another moment. “What do you think you got from the Baggins side?” he asked. A lame question, he had to admit, but at least it was something.
Frodo was silent for a long moment, brooding into the failing fire. The room grew quiet, the air heavy. Pippin hadn’t really expected an answer and so almost jumped when Frodo spoke.
“My fate,” came the soft reply.
Pippin felt gooseflesh crawl over his skin and he suppressed a shudder. His tongue was a dry lump in his mouth and he couldn’t have made a response even had he had one. What could one say to something like that? Instead, he reached across the table and grasped his cousin’s hand.
Frodo’s hand clung back tight. He bowed his head. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I don’t know why I said that.”
Pippin had no response, so he stood, tugging on his cousin’s hand gently. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s get you back to bed, love.”
Frodo allowed himself to be led down the hall to his room and when Pippin crawled into the bed beside him, Frodo simply curled into his cousin’s embrace and watched the muted indigo of night turn slowly to the lavender and rose of early dawn.
~*~
He could still move rather swiftly for an old wizard when he really wanted to. Speed was not really necessary when it came to it; getting the message to the messenger stables five minutes sooner was not going to make any difference in the scheme of things. Still, he strode quickly, the urgency of his thoughts moving his legs in a rapid gait whether he willed them to it or not.
The stables were bustling with activity, the messengers of Minas Tirith having been pressed to further service with the business of bringing word to and fro from the many emissaries and diplomats who now begged audience with the new King. Horses, sweated and frothing, deposited their weary riders in the stableyard. They eagerly followed the stablehands to the promise of much-deserved oats and rest while their replacements were led out, fresh and anxious to stretch their legs on the road that awaited them.
Gandalf made his way across the yard, scanning the milling men in search of the one who appeared to be in charge. He spotted a man shouting directions to several mounted horsemen, handing satchels up to some and receiving them from others as his voice rang across the dusty yard. He made a path to the man and rested a hand on his shoulder.
The man spun, a coarse reprimand ready on his lips before he saw who had accosted him. He quickly choked down what had promised to be a very colorful scolding and bowed low to the wizard.
“My lord,” he said, straightening. “I am Hasful, Stablemaster to the King. How may I be of service?”
“I have a very urgent message that must go farther than any of your men have traveled before,” said Gandalf. “It must travel far to the north and into Eriador. It will need to be delivered and answered by Mid-Year. Do you have a man who is up to the task?”
Hasful drew himself up. “Yes sir,” he said. “I have several men who would be suited to it.”
“I am not interested in several,” the wizard countered irritably. “I am interested only in the one who can do it. Here,” he said, thrusting the message into the stablemaster’s hands. “All of the information he will need will be found thereon. I expect the utmost discretion in this matter. He is to read what is on the outside of the package only. Have him start out immediately and see to it that he does not dawdle.” With that the wizard turned and strode away.
The stablemaster stared after him for a moment, clutching the parchment in his hand. He looked down, reading the information the wizard had referred to, his eyes going wide. He turned and shouted for his assistant to saddle up a horse…now!
~*~
Sam stood over the kettle, arranging cakes on a plate while he waited for the water to boil. Merry was sitting in the parlor with Frodo curled up on the sofa, his head in Merry’s lap. They were all waiting for Pippin to finish his duties and return so they could share tea together.
Several weeks had passed since Sam had gone with Legolas to learn about the plants and crops of this new, southern country. He had been amazed at the new types of fruits and flowers he’d seen, yet even more so when he saw something he recognized. It seemed almost unbelievable to him that the daisies and phlox so plentiful in the Shire could also thrive here in this strange country so far away, and that boasted such new and wondrous things as citrus fruits and magnolias. He had been delighted with the new discoveries of that day and more still with the company of the elf. Legolas had led him to spots he knew the gardener would find fascinating and seemed to delight in Sam’s joy at the wonders around him. ‘Trust a wood elf to know where to take a gardener,’ he’d thought.
Legolas had asked him to accompany him again twice in the past weeks but Sam had begged off both times. He remembered all too well the situation he’d come back to that day and would not leave his master to the care of others again. Not when he was just beginning to be able to look Sam in the eye.
Frodo had gone to the King only last week and begged leave to depart for the Shire. Sam knew that his master’s heart longed for home and he agreed that maybe heading back was just what his master needed. Maybe the joy and comfort of the Shire that Frodo so loved would be enough to finally drive the darkness and quiet desperation from his eyes. Of course, they’d both have to get used to the idea of life without Bag End. But Bag End or no, there was still life and Sam thought that was something worth his gratitude. Crickhollow wasn’t so bad, all things considered.
But Aragorn had asked them to stay, citing a day long awaited and his desire to have them near when it arrived. They acquiesced, of course. How does one say ‘no’ to one’s King, after all?
So they waited, all keeping silent watch on Frodo, ready to jump and run to his room when his screams rang through the house in the dead of night or bring him back to the here and now when his gaze would drift within himself to things best left unremembered. There was unspoken agreement among them now that Frodo should not be alone without someone to drag him back to the world when he wandered away from it. The three of them kept a vigilant eye and a cheerful façade, often making their way to his room at night one by one to huddle against him and each other, keeping the darkness away while he slept.
Frodo did not complain, and that worried Sam - gnawed at him with the minute, dull prick of small, blunted teeth. It was not like his master to be so compliant when he thought his freedom was being threatened. This was a hobbit who had steadfastly remained a bachelor despite endless matchmaking attempts and continual nagging from a multitude of aunts; a hobbit who had stubbornly maintained his odd affection for wandering under starlight and all things elvish despite rumors and gossip from his neighbors. It was not like Frodo to calmly accept his friends suddenly not allowing him from their sight when ordinarily he would have chafed and taken them to task for hindering his privacy. But, Sam had to admit there was really nothing ordinary about their world anymore and if this was a change in his master that was here to stay, Sam could think of worse things they could have left Mordor with.
The heavy resignation and wild panic that had adorned his master’s face all through Mordor was still there, but subdued now by a hopeless emptiness that Sam found he liked even less. Frodo tried to cloak it, of course, and sometimes thought he did so well enough that he would meet Sam’s eyes or those of one of his cousins. But by and large, Frodo spent a great deal of time with his head bowed and eyes on the ground. Whether he thought anyone saw it or not was anyone’s guess, but Sam rather suspected that Frodo thought himself a fairly talented deceiver and had no idea his friends could easily read him, whether he looked at them or not.
Sam didn’t know if Frodo’s cousins understood what they were seeing, but Sam certainly did. He had watched this same battle between loathing and longing for endless months. The fact that it still waged war upon his master’s heart was enough to break Sam’s own. He found his mind often pawing over Gandalf’s words on that spring day so long ago. The wizard’s assertion that his master’s mind would be broken should the filthy thing be taken from him by force haunted Sam and he wondered if that was the very result he was bearing unwilling witness to now. It had indeed been taken from him – twice. Was the shroud of melancholy and hopeless yearning that threatened to drown his master evidence of a mind slowly crumbling? Was the hand wandering to his breast of its own accord only to grasp a void a sign that the spirit that once burned so fiercely within had indeed been doused and broken?
No – not broken. Bent perhaps and damaged, but those things could be mended. Bent things could be straightened and damaged things could heal. Those things Sam knew how to manage. But broken… Sam’s experience with broken things was that they could often be put back together, stitched at the ragged seams and bandaged over, but they were never really the same after the deed had been done. Broken things never came to be unbroken.
Not broken, Sam thought stubbornly. This was something that he could – would mend. As soon as they were away from this city of Men where the shadow still lingered in the East and reached every moment for his master’s heart. As soon as he could get his master home.
Maybe then Sam could put the revelations of that heartbreaking afternoon aside.
He opens the door silently and steps into the room without waiting for invitation or permission. He closes the door behind him and stands facing it for a moment, taking deep breaths to calm his suddenly jangled nerves. He muses that only moments ago he was relaxed and laughing and he is amazed that he can even remember how it felt. It seems ages ago already and his current state of anxious unrest and worry has become so natural to him in the past weary months that he can scarcely believe he has ever felt any other way – even though his mind insists that he has and only a moment ago.
There is heavy silence in the room, broken only by his own deep breaths and the faint sound of an argument in progress on the other side of the door. It is mid-afternoon and this room has a generous window, but the light seems to be stoppered on the other side of the glass pane, displaying the light and world outside but allowing none of it into the room.
There is a darkness creeping into his skin, a shadow that encroaches upon the room and steals all light. It winds itself around his chest, slithers down his throat, chokes him with its malignant touch. It is a touch he is all too familiar with; a touch he has loathed for so long now that he cannot remember a time when the hatred for it did not burn in his heart; a touch he cannot abide yet endures willingly, for to turn from it is to turn from the one he loves most and that he cannot even fathom.
He turns slowly, seeking the surest source of light he’s ever known – the one being in all the world whose light, shadowed and guttering though it is, has never truly dimmed. He wishes he could place his hands protectively around that flame, shield it from the winds of fate that have sought to bend it and extinguish its valiant, defiant light. He wishes he could stoke the blaze that has been banked by torment and sorrow, hardship and evil. But he cannot reach the light within and thinks it may well incinerate him with its intensity and beauty if he could. He cannot touch it, but he can touch the one who holds it still within. So he moves across the room, cutting the darkness with his own defiance as he goes.
He stands beside the bed where Frodo lays quietly, facing the wall, unmoving except for the trembling of his gaunt frame sunk deep into the mattress of the huge bed. He reaches out a hand and strokes the dark hair, pouring his love and wishes into the touch, coaxing the light to defy the darkness and shine forth as brilliantly as it once did. Begging it through his fingertips to kindle bright and drive away the shadow that threatens to devour the soul it protects.
Frodo stirs and turns, his eyes drifting to Sam’s and Sam has to hold his breath for an endless moment to prevent his throat from releasing the moan it threatens to voice. He looks into the eyes he has not seen clearly since gazing into them on the brink of death on a mountain that sought to drag them into its own destruction with belches of fury and fiery vengeance. His master has not truly met his eyes for weeks until this moment and Sam wonders if maybe that has been better all along and he simply hasn’t understood it until now.
The eyes are utterly empty. Devoid of life, devoid of hope. Eyes that shun even the tears that have left their ghosts on the cheeks that shine ashen in the not-light of the room.
He blindly reaches for the hand that lies beside his, clutching to it as if to pour his own life into the body that trembles still before him. The hand is cold and limp in his grasp and before he can stop it, his mind muses that if not for the tremors he can feel vibrating into his palm, he might as well be clutching to a corpse whose empty eyes have not yet been closed and weighted down with coins.
Sam swallows and gathers his wits, aching to give voice to the love and fierce protectiveness that roils in his breast. Yearning to speak the poetry of healing and weave a tender, sheltering web around the battered soul that hides behind those empty eyes.
Yet he is aware that his simple speech holds no curative power and so relies on touch. He holds to the hand and strokes the brow, softly humming a tune that has comforted his master in places of gloom and malevolence before. He bends to kiss the cheek and when he straightens, the eyes are mercifully closed.
He stays for a long while, humming and wishing, caressing and hoping. Frodo breathes steadily and evenly, sleeps peacefully in the gloaming of the evening. Sam bends again and places a soft kiss on the smooth brow, then turns quietly for the door. His hand reaches the knob and stops abruptly when a soft voice emerges from the gloom behind him.
“I want to go home, Sam.”
‘Home,’ Sam thinks. He has almost forgotten what a comfort so small a word can be.
A small smile creeps onto his face and he turns, his eyes seeking the light that still burns beneath the shroud of sorrow. He fastens upon it, willing it to continue its fight, begging it to carry on its weary, bloody battle against the specter that mocks it from the East.
“Aye, sir,” he says softly. “I think that’s a right good idea.”
The hiss of the water boiling over from the kettle to the coals below reeled Sam back to his surroundings. He rescued the protesting kettle, finished with tea preparations and headed to the parlor, laden tray in hand.
~*~
TBC
~*~
A/N – Firith - Sindarin = ‘fading’ Harthad Uluithiad - ‘Hope Unquenchable’
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He looked at Frodo, still in
his day clothes, legs dangling from the man-sized chair, shoulders slumped and
tears tracking endlessly down the beloved face to puddle on the polished wood of
the table. In all the time spent in the great, wide world amongst Men and
Elves, Pippin had never before felt as small as he did now, gazing at his
cousin’s feet suspended several inches from the floor.