6. Prices Paid

With every armed guard he had passed on his way to Tuckborough, the tiny kernel of anger inside Pippin had grown.  Closed borders, empty fields, abandoned farmsteads, drawn and worried faces, all brought back the memory of that desperate ride into Gondor and the dreadful days of waiting in the shadow of coming war.  Nearly a year after the last of the ruffians had been chased from the Shire, the Tookland remained under siege, in fear of an enemy that no longer threatened.  Now he found himself standing outside his father’s study, belly full of fire, trying hard to regain some scrap of composure.  All the excuses and rationalizations his mind had conjured in the last months to counter the rumors had been burned away by the reality, and the joyous words of homecoming that had hummed hopefully in his heart were ash on his tongue.

He finally nodded curtly to the guards at the door and was shown in.  Maps, tallies and reports were strewn about the room, mostly on the massive oak desk that dominated the space.  The remains of a barely touched tea balanced precariously on the edge of a chair nearby.  Paladin Took, thin as winter and gray as morning fog, rose from his seat and stepped towards him, dislodging several stacks of papers, which slid gracelessly to the floor.

“Peregrin!  So, you’re back then,” the old hobbit said.  “Well, at least you had the good sense to go armed and leave that troublesome cousin of yours at the border.”

Pippin shook his head.  “Not a good way to start off, Da, if you’re looking for me to stay.  Lucky for you, I have some sense of what could happen if you keep on as you have, and I mean to set things straight hereabouts.”

“Oh truly!” his father replied, narrowed eyes sweeping the young hobbit from head to toe.  “Your fine gear and fancy friends have turned your head if you think to wrest from me what is mine, Prince of the Haflings,” he growled, flicking a battered letter at him.

He caught it and read the fine script on its envelope.  “Peregrin Took, Ernil-i-Pheriannath, Tookland, The Shire.”  The wax seal set with Faramir’s mark had been broken, the letter obviously read.

“You read it?” Pippin asked, not yet trusting himself to look up.

“And had translated what I could not understand.  Someone thinks well of you somewhere, though what good the opinion of Big Folk would do you I can’t imagine.  Seems to me you’d best sit and learn a bit more before you go telling your betters what’s what,” he finished, fussing at the papers on the desk.

“It was a misunderstanding…” Pippin started softly.

“What?”

“That title, it was a misunderstanding.  They assumed I was their better because I spoke straight and fair to their Lord, and looked in his face.  They mistook my ignorance of courtly manners for the familiarity of an equal.  I told them my father was a farmer, but it was too late.  This,” he said waving the parchment, “This is the joke of a friend, who, by the way, is a prince.”

“Well, prince or no, you’ve no call being so friendly with your people’s enemy.”

“The Steward of Gondor is no more our enemy than the hobbits outside of Tookland are!  There is a king again, and the Rangers have returned to watch the empty lands outside our borders.  We have nothing more to fear from those ruffians.”

“Place your trust in foreign hands if you want, but I’d be a fool to let them slip by again.  Not ever again!” he shouted, voice atremble with emotion.

“I’ve been riding the bounds all year.  There’s no sign of any trouble anywhere but here,” Pippin stated, finger stabbing down upon their location on the large map between them.  “What is going on?  Why are you guarding Tookland from the rest of the Shire?”

The older hobbit turned away and leaned heavily against the stone mantel of the fireplace.  Pippin was suddenly, and forcefully, reminded that his father was far from young, and that the office he had so recently inherited had never sat comfortably on him.  At a time when he had begun to pass responsibilities down to other to enjoy the plenty he had worked so long to gather, the summons had come from Great Smials.  Paladin Took had taken up the duties of Took and Thain without flinching but had little joy in either.

“They took her in the night…” he said, low murmur barely audible over the crackling flames.

Pippin stepped closer to hear.

“No ruffian could have snuck into Great Smials that night.  We had refugees though…  Many had been coming in through the summer, we turned none away.”  He grasped his son’s arm tightly, dark eyes boring into him.  Pippin could feel the trembling strength of his emotion even through the mail.

“Hobbits took her.  To them.”

“Took who?” he asked, though he did not want to hear an answer that could only bring grief.

“Your sister….  Vinca…” Paladin released his grip on him and sat wearily on the hearth, face in his hands.

Pippin stood silent, numb with shock.

“My poor lass…” Paladin continued brokenly, “She was meek as a lamb when they brought her back, our little firebrand.  Like a ghost she was, so quiet…  A week later she...  We found her in the pond by the old brockhouse.”

“What are you saying?  What’s happened to her!”

“We don’t know, she never spoke a word after…”

“Where…?” he choked out, fighting a dark flood of rage and tears.

“Whitwell, beside the Honey Tree.”

Pippin turned and left the study without a sound.  Making his way through the long halls, he saw none of the faces of those he passed nor did he hear their murmured sympathy.  He finally found himself in the gardens, thankfully empty in the failing light.  He stumbled over a snacking root and fell hard against the large shade tree.  He sank to his knees, rough bark scratching his cheek, and burst into tears.

“Oh, Vinca…!”  he sobbed, helpless to stop the memory of her laughing face and flashing eyes.  He’d seen too much to doubt the cruelties that would drive a hobbit lass to so desperate an end.  There was nothing natural or right about a meek and silent Pervinca…  Contrary and brash, she had turned the Great Smials on its ear when they’d moved in, but her wit and beauty had kept a steady line of young hobbits at her beck and call.

Gentle fingers brushed his hair and he turned into his mother’s embrace.

“Hush now, my lad.  Tears cannot bring her back…  Not even yours, my darling boy,” she murmured, tipping his face up, and brushing a soft hand against his cheek.  “More stubborn Tooks have tried,” she added with a sad smile.

“If only I’d…” he started.

She stopped him, placing fingers wet with his own tears against his mouth.  “No, my son, no blame comes to you for this.  It is too late for that, or for vengeance.  But if you loved her, help me bring her father back.  You’re the only one who can.”

He nodded and stood, roughly wiping tears from his face.  “That I can do,” he murmured.

She smoothed her hand down the dark fabric of his surcoat, fingers lingering over the pale embroidered tree upon his breast.  “How you have grown, Peregrin Took,” she said, looking up into his face.