By: Dana
Summary: Pippin is tempted.
Characters: Pippin, others
Pairings: None
Rating: PG
Warnings: None
Author's Notes: Written for Isn't It Iconic? Ficlet-A-Thon challenge. For Vivien (lj user vivien529). 449 words - the challenge called for the ficlet to be from 250 - 750 words.
Based on this icon:
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

He catches sight of a glimmer in the water (like gold and silver and molten iron all blurred together as one) and Pippin doesn't think as a sudden urge grips him; he slides down off Brego and immerses himself in cold water, feels it soak through cloak and cloth and skin.

Pippin isn't sure if it's Aragorn who shouts his name, and even if he was, he doesn't care, striding forward with purpose, feeling the pull of the water pushing against his legs. He slips once, mud under foot, but regains his footing, and he nearly gasps in triumph as he reaches his goal. He bends down and the water makes him shiver; but he doesn't care, when he feels it.

Triumph, yes, this is triumph, and this is his; and he never has wanted something like he wants this, when he can feel it lodged in his throat, when he can taste it when he breathes, when he can feel it like worms under his skin, worms that wriggle and bite and squirm and itch.

And now it's his.

It should weigh more than it does, he guesses, but it doesn't, and Pippin holds the perfect sphere (hard black and soft white and crimson flame buried down deep) between the shape of his hands.

Perfect, yes; he's never seen something like this. And what is it? he wonders, turning it slowly and he's certain that he sees a flash of light down in the dark depths and he peers closer, intent, feeling the hair at the back of his neck stand on end (it must be the cold), and he's almost certain that there is a whisper in his mind (I see - ), but he snaps back, and reality is frigid in comparison to water that is now lukewarm.

"Peregrin Took," and Gandalf is looking at him, looking through him, and the sphere is deadweight in Pippin's hands, "I'll take that, my lad."

Pippin looks up looks up, and doesn't care that this is Gandalf, Gandalf who fell and came back to them, Gandalf who is frowning and maybe it's that frown that makes Pippin certain and he knows he doesn't care.

"Quickly now," Gandalf urges, and it isn't just the water pressing against Pippin as he lifts the sphere up, and hands it over (but I want it, he wants to say, I only wanted to look), and Gandalf is scowling, unhappy, and he doesn't speak (he doesn't even have to speak) as he wraps the sphere in a fold of his cloak.

The water almost feels sluggish to Pippin, slowly cooling (numbing like ice), and Pippin's hands still tingle where they had touched smooth stone.