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Pippin the Troll Slayer  by Auntiemeesh

 

Chapter Four:  Memory
Beta provided by Pipspebble

Pippin lay perfectly still, trying to bring his mind into focus, but his thoughts were disordered and random. Fractured images flew before his eyes, images of his childhood, of times he’d spent at Brandy Hall or Bag End, visits to the Great Smials, and later visits back to the farm at Whitwell. Walking trips taken with Frodo and Merry merged with tours of the Tookland he’d taken with his father, which then became mixed with solitary rambles through Green Hill Country.

He yawned sleepily and his thoughts scattered like marbles from a spilled bag. Painfully, fighting the hideously throbbing headache that was growing worse by the minute, he tried to gather his thoughts and put them into some kind of order, but it was no use. He yawned again and his thoughts became thinner and more insubstantial, until they had faded away entirely and he was asleep.

Pippin wandered through the garden at Bag End, admiring the care with which the plants had been chosen and tended. Even in the dark of late evening, Pippin could see the love that had gone into this garden. It was funny that he’d never noticed it before and he wondered how long it would take the Sackville-Bagginses to ruin it completely. Old Gaffer Gamgee made no effort to hide his disgruntlement over the change in ownership and Pippin thought it likely the S-Bs were just as unhappy with the neighbours they were acquiring. He imagined it wouldn’t be long before they fired the Gaffer and brought in their own gardener. Pippin shuddered, having seen the monstrosity that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins called a garden.

How difficult this must be for Frodo, he thought with a sigh as he headed back toward the porch and his pack. He knew that his cousin loved Bag End and would never have sold it if it weren’t for the Ring. Pippin frowned briefly as he tried to figure out how long it would take to get to Rivendell, hand the evil Ring off to someone more qualified to take it the rest of the way to it’s destruction, and return to the Shire. He was pretty vague on the distances, having never been outside of the Shire before, and everything beyond its borders was simply ‘outside’ and ‘far away.’ They should be home by Yule, anyway. He made a mental note to talk to Merry about Yule. They must plan a particularly spectacular party in order to distract Frodo and help him feel settled into his new home.

Pippin set his worries aside as Frodo walked up the path and poked his head inside the door, calling to Sam that it was time to go. Taking a last look around, Pippin stood, and shouldering his pack he led the way down the garden path to the low point in the hedge.

Pippin stirred restlessly. He felt feverish and achy, with a headache that wouldn’t leave him even in sleep. He shifted, trying and failing to find a position that eased his pain. But then something cool and soothing touched his brow, easing the pain slightly, and he sighed, sinking back into a deeper sleep.

The day had turned cold and foggy while they slept and Pippin shivered as he looked out over the rim of the hill on which they had fallen asleep earlier in the day. Silently gathering their supplies, the four hobbits led their ponies down into the sea of fog. They stopped at the bottom of the hill to pull out cloaks, as much to ward off the dank, unpleasant feel of the fog as to keep warm. Then mounting their ponies, they rode on in single file, following Frodo in the direction of the road line they had seen earlier.

Dark shapes loomed suddenly, and Frodo gave a call as he surged ahead and disappeared in the fog. Before Pippin and the others could follow him, darkness fell and all was confusion. Pippin tried to keep his seat as his pony reared and screamed, but soon found himself falling. His breath left his lungs with an audible "whoosh" as he hit the ground, and he lay stunned, unable to do more than struggle to draw a breath.

Even as he lay there, it seemed that a tendril of fog swirled around him, coming closer and closer, stretching out like a cold white hand. It touched his foot and he cringed at the deathly chill of it. Still trying to force air into his lungs, he scrabbled desperately and ineffectively against the ground, trying to escape as the fog crept up his body until it had reached his chest, his neck, his face. Even as he finally mastered his lungs and drew breath, the deep cold of the eerie fog covered his mouth like a sinister kiss and he breathed it into himself, falling into a dark, despairing dream of loss and death.

Wake now my merry lads! Wake and hear me calling!
Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen;
Dark door is standing wide; dead hand is broken.
Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open! (1)

The song, starting out as little more than a faint whisper, soon grew to fill the universe and at the last word, Pippin opened his eyes to find himself on a green hillside beneath a clear blue sky, with the cheerful brown face of Tom Bombadil hovering over him.

But even as he ran about in the sun, warming his heart and body, the scene shifted and Pippin found himself in a cozy parlour with Frodo and Sam, and the tall, dangerous-looking Ranger who called himself Strider.

A door slammed somewhere and a moment later Merry came rushing into the room, looking as pale and shaken as Pippin had ever seen him. 

"I have seen them, Frodo," Merry cried wildly. "I have seen them! Black Riders!" (2)

At the mention of Black Riders, Pippin felt his blood go cold and his heart falter. He looked around at his companions, trying to gauge their reactions, but the room had become very dim, all of a sudden, and Pippin found it hard to see their faces.

He blinked, trying to bring the room back into focus, and shrank back for just a moment when he saw a large face looming over him. "Strider?" he mumbled. "What happened? Where - where did everyone go?" He remembered Merry’s words then. "Black Riders! Merry said there were Black Riders here, in Bree. Whatever are we to do? How are we ever to get away now?" He attempted to rise and fell back as pain and dizziness overwhelmed him and the world disappeared in a spiralling black abyss.

He came to himself again some time later and tried once again to sit up. This time he found himself unable to move.

"Easy, Pippin," a low voice murmured from close by, "just lie still a few minutes. Your fever is up and you were a bit disoriented the last time you awoke."

Immobile, he had little choice but to do as he was told and lay quite still, trying to control his fear and understand what was happening. He was in a dim room with a small fire burning in a brazier near the foot of his bed. Looking about as best he was able without moving, he spied Strider sitting on a stool beside his cot. The memories stirred up by his dreams were merging and separating, mixing and spinning through his mind in complete disarray, but gradually, as he focussed on trying to make sense of everything, the memories began to fall into place.

"Strider," he began again, but faltered, not sure what he intended to say. "Why can’t I move?" he finally asked, holding on to the myriad of other questions that were bubbling up at the back of his throat and threatening to choke the life out of him. One thing at a time, he told himself sternly.

Strider looked at him gravely but then smiled. "Have no fear, Pippin. You have not further injured yourself. I was holding you still so that you would not try to rise again when you woke."

"Oh." Pippin lay quietly as he digested this. It was true, as he found when he tried to shift his limbs experimentally. He even moved his head, cautiously, and was satisfied that he had movement, although that reassurance cost him a measure of pain.

"What’s happened, Strider?" He forced the question out around a lump of anxiety. "Did...did we get attacked by the Black Riders?" His voice fell to a low whisper as he continued. "Where are the others, Merry and Frodo and Sam?"

"A great deal has happened, Pippin, more than I can explain to you at this time," Strider answered unhelpfully. "The Black Riders have certainly played their part, but rest at ease. They are gone now and will bother you no more."

"That’s all well and good, but..."

Strider held up a hand to forestall the questions that were about to spill from Pippin’s lips. "No buts, Pippin. I will answer your questions in good time, but first you must eat." The Ranger sounded very firm on this and Pippin sighed in resignation, knowing when he was beaten. "Now, lie still," Strider continued, "and let me do all the work. I am just going to prop you up on some pillows so that it will be easier for you to eat."

Suiting words to actions, Strider gently slid one arm under Pippin’s shoulders while he very carefully cupped the back of Pippin’s head with the other hand. Pippin lay as still as he could, trying not to flinch when Strider’s hand brushed against the sensitive lump on the back of his head. He closed his eyes as Strider lifted him and the room began to lurch around him. He whimpered once and then bit his lip to prevent any other sound from escaping.

A moment later, he was lying still again, repositioned to sit comfortably against a pile of pillows. Pippin wondered vaguely how many arms Strider had, to be holding him up and positioning pillows at the same time, but decided not to worry overmuch about it. He waited several minutes before opening his eyes again, giving the dizziness a chance to recede.

When he did open his eyes, he realized he must have dozed off for a time. Strider was standing several feet away from the cot with his back to Pippin, speaking to someone that the injured hobbit did not recognize. He did recognize, almost immediately however, that the stranger, dressed in green and brown woods garb, was an elf. His thoughts flew back to Gildor and the other elves he’d met in the Woody End, and he wondered what this elf was doing here. He tried to listen in on their conversation but although he could hear the low buzz of voices, he could not make out individual words. After a moment, Strider left the tent and the elf approached Pippin’s cot.

"It is very good to see you awake at last, Pippin," the elf said. "Do you remember me?"

"No, I don’t. I’m sorry," Pippin replied hesitantly, oddly reluctant to hurt or offend this new person. The elf merely smiled, however, with a trace of sorrow in his ageless eyes.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. My name is Legolas, son of Thranduil, of Northern Mirkwood. We have been companions on this Quest for some little time now, and you may not remember me at the moment, but I know you well. It pleases me to see that you are recovering from your wounds."

Pippin blinked at this speech, not sure what to make of it. "Pippin Took, at your service and your family’s," he answered lamely, aware that it wasn’t the most appropriate response to the elf’s introduction, but not entirely certain what was appropriate under these circumstances.

"Aragorn tells me you have not yet eaten and you must be hungry indeed. It has been several days since your last meal." Legolas retrieved a small bowl and spoon that had been waiting on a table nearby, and then seated himself on the stool by Pippin’s cot. "Will you allow me to assist you?"

Although he was not feeling very hungry, there seemed no way to refuse without offending and so he agreed with a quiet affirmative. The elf carefully lifted the spoon to Pippin’s mouth, and he parted his lips to allow the warm, soothing liquid to roll over his tongue. The mildly flavoured broth awakened his dormant tastebuds and he found his appetite returning, but even so, it took very little to sate him.

"No more, please," he said as Legolas moved the spoon back towards his mouth once again. "I thank you, but I feel quite full." Indeed, he was feeling tired and a trifle ill, as well as full, and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and escape back into sleep. His body ached from his wounds and the fever, and his headache, which had receded a bit earlier, had returned in full force.

"Very well," Legolas replied, setting the bowl aside. "But I have something for you to drink before you sleep." He brought a mug to Pippin’s lips and Pippin dutifully drank. The brew was bitter and unpleasant, and he drank it down as quickly as he could. He allowed his eyes to close then, barely aware of the mug of water which Legolas offered him next. He managed only a few small sips of that, just enough to clear the foul taste from his mouth, before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.

(1) Sung by Tom Bombadil in The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 8 – Fog on the Barrow-Downs

(2) Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 10 -- Strider





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