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July 26, 2006
~*~
NOT WISELY BUT TOO WELL
~*~
It isn't how it was supposed to be. Not that there was a 'supposed' about it all
because it hadn't really been a plan per se, just an act of instinct when his
choices had been peeled away like the layers of the world, streaming through his
fingers in smears of black and red and colours he couldn't put a name to because
they didn't exist and actually seeing them had hurt his mind, bent
it and stretched it around that one act, that one choice. And he knows now that
it hadn't really been his choice, not even a choice at all, really, but
he only allows himself that excuse when the seeing is too much. And even then,
the solace is bitter.
He sees and he Sees and the seeing would drive him mad, but that's Not
Allowed, is it, because he can only assume that it's more fun to play with a
mind that's sane, drive it to the brink of insanity (and oh, wouldn't that
be bliss?) then wrench it back like a ragdoll, torn and shaken in the jaws of a
little rat-terrier, sanity stitched back to your tottering mind like buttons
sewn back for eyes. Still Seeing.
Seeing.
Knowing.
He knows, oh, and he doesn't want to but there is no want in this world,
this existence, where colours bleed through your mind and blind you but
you stillseestillseestillsee. And pain is a living thing that never kills, but
only snaps at your bones, gnaws with smiling teeth, red with your own blood, and
you can't look away please, oh, please, I want to look away, I don't want to
know, I don't want to hear, I don't want to see and sometimes… sometimes…
Sometimes He smiles back with your own mouth and it isn't a smile but a scream
upside-down. Voiceless.
He hadn't had a choice, there was no choice, for Pippin had seen back
then, when no one else could or would. He'd seen the grey eyes boring into
Frodo, peering through layers of cloth and mithril, blood and bone, seeking and
scraping and finding. He'd heard the quiet steps of booted feet on thick, soft
foliage walking away, following the Thing that sang to doubting hearts, and that
doubt cloaked from prying eyes with a kind smile and reason, reason in
those grey eyes and honour, but Pippin had seen that spark beneath and he'd
known.
Take It, he'd only meant to take It from betwixt struggling bodies, place
himself before his cousin, protect him, because that's what he'd come
for, isn't it? And he'd seen the way Frodo's shoulders stooped and his neck
dipped beneath Its weight and the darkness in his eyes, like endless flocks of
grackles shadowing clear skies, and it wasn't right and it wasn't fair
and he'd only meant to hold It, hold It, keep It safe because it's what Frodo
would want. And Pippin had wanted to help, he'd only wanted to help,
because that's why he'd come and he would only hold It, keep It safe from Men
who used their size against his cousin, doubted him because he was Too Small to
carry the world about his neck, and so he'd stepped between them. And he hadn't
meant to keep It but it seemed to Pippin that the grackles fled from Frodo's
eyes, even as Frodo's mouth begged him to give It back, Pippin, please, you
don't know what you're doing, and he had known, he'd thought
he'd known…
But then the Orcs had come and there were no more choices, were there?
Mine! and then Stand down! and to a wonder, they had. And when
he'd demanded they retreat, he was only surprised at his own lack of surprise
when they obeyed.
He'd taken Frodo's voice from him after a little while because he couldn't bear
to hear the love in it beneath the demands anymore. And Merry's eyes had changed
in that moment as he'd realised what Pippin had done; years of shared purpose
had burnt to cinder as Merry drew himself up, stepped in front of Frodo, and for
the first time in forever, Pippin had seen fear in Merry's eyes, rage and
almost-hatred. And so he'd threatened with his own eyes, told Merry that Frodo
would pay for Merry's mistakes, and Pippin hadn't really meant it and how
could Merry not know he hadn't meant it and Pippin didn't speak a word out
loud, but Merry heard it with his eyes. Merry had kept himself between his
cousins after that and Pippin stopped looking at Frodo then because he may have
taken Frodo's voice from his mouth but he couldn't take his words from his eyes
and Pippin would not know the things those eyes screamed at him. And
something within Pippin would not allow him to take Frodo's eyes as well.
Sam was easy; Pippin only had to smile a little, cut a razor-gaze towards his
master, and Pippin doesn't know what Frodo told Sam with his eyes, but Sam had
never again slid his own to Pippin.
The others had to be watched carefully, closely, because they hadn't realised at
first that he could See, and they'd tried to take Frodo from him and Merry had
helped or tried to and that was what had hurt Pippin the most, that Merry would
help them but wouldn't help him. He'd almost taken Merry's breath
then, almost let himself revel in the sounds of it, the gurgling, the gasping,
but he'd blinked it away when he understood the smile within his mind. And
Pippin wouldn't look at Frodo but he'd known what Frodo was weeping at him,
screaming at him, and didn't he know that it was all because Pippin loved
him so? But Frodo couldn't See like Pippin could and so he hadn't taken the
breath from Merry in the end, even though Pippin's rage had almostalmostalmost
got the better of him, and he would have missed him, too, after all, because
oh, he loves his cousins, even if they couldn't understand that he'd only
done as he'd had to, he'd no choice.
One by one, the Big People slunk off and Pippin knew it but he let them. All the
better to show Frodo that they'd never really intended to help him anyway and
wasn't it better that they three cousins and Sam -- Hobbits, just like
Bilbo had said -- do this alone and only depend upon each other? Let the Big
Folk run off to their White City and their spider-infested haven-homes and hide
beneath their mountains -- Hobbits would do the job they couldn't, even though
that was about when Pippin had first begun to suspect that this 'job' might not
be the best thing all around. Why destroy It, after all? Couldn't It do just as
much good as It could evil? And anyway, It was his now, wasn't it? And with
Pippin to hold It and Frodo to guide him…
Pippin wondered if that was why Elrond had been so insistent that he not be
allowed to join The Company; perhaps he'd seen the strength in Pippin and been
afraid. And it would frighten Pippin as well, but he had Frodo and Merry and
they all had Sam and they would help him, even if he had to make them.
And when the Nazgűl had come, beseeching him his command, Pippin had smiled,
turned to his companions. You see? Just as I said.
He gives Frodo's voice back to him sometimes, when He would have Pippin
hear, and sometimes it's Pippin's voice he takes, so Pippin can't tell Frodo
he's sorry, so sorry, I was tricked, blinded, please, I love you, I'm sorry,
I never meant this, not this. And he would close his eyes against the
pain in Frodo's own, the sorrow, the grief, the forgiveness, but it's Not
Allowed, Not Permitted, and so Pippin has to Look, has to See and he thinks the
love and forgiveness is the worst sometimes, though, oh, he clings to it.
He has never asked what happened to Sam or Merry but he thinks he knows, since
They would have had to get through them to get to Frodo. Pippin would have
warned them if he could have and he tried, he tried, and he thinks maybe
Frodo heard when Pippin reached out, whispered to his heart, spoke in a silent
song of urgent tones. But Pippin had taken Frodo's voice, see, and he must
assume precious seconds were lost. So, he doesn't know what happened to Merry or
Sam, but he wonders sometimes if he'll find out someday, when His other games
have grown to bore Him.
He hears news sometimes, and he dares to hope, though hope is Not Allowed and
it's probably useless anyway, but in this he dares because he must, it's his
nature, or what is left of it. Though what he hears is spoken low in the Common
Tongue, guttural voices sneering names -- Mithrandir; Half-elven -- and
Pippin sometimes has to wonder if these are for his benefit, to make the games
more fun when that hope is eventually shattered.
But Pippin waits and he hopes and he watches the light die in Frodo's eyes too
many times to count, only to be re-birthed through tears that look like the
stars that Pippin still remembers. Almost-life and almost-death in an endless
cycle and sanity swings like a pendulum between the two and never stops, can't
stop, because He won't let it, it's Not Allowed. And Frodo may cry out if he has
his voice that time, but his eyes will seek out Pippin's, forgive him again and
again, and at least this He can't take from them, though Pippin knows He
will try one day.
Miserable slaves because it please Him and it's all too true and Pippin
lives an existence where the silence is worse than the screaming, where colours
run like blood from your pores and they blind you but you can still see, where
circles are squares sometimes and where 1 + 1 = 627 when it pleases Him and it
hurts your mind, bruises your soul when eyes full of death and stars stare at
you and ask you why?! and then hate you/blame you/love you/forgive you.
Oh, and Pippin is sorry, sorrysorrysorrysorry, and he looks to Frodo,
watches the life ebb from his eyes another time and can only wait, watch the
grackles descend and count the eternities until they retreat once more, watch
the awareness return, the realisation flare and then horror, pain, depthless
sorrow, as stars begin to bleed from Frodo's eyes. And all Pippin can do is curl
his tongue about the words one more time:
I'm sorry, so sorry. It isn't how it was supposed to be.
~*~
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