Chapter 4

Hobbit Knight, Hobbit Holdwine

April 8

Minas Tirith, Gondor

It was not Pippin's fault. Even Duurben had agreed on that point. But somewhere between a diligent night watch and an early breakfast in the kitchens, the hobbit had discovered the errant Gilraen in the act of scaling a tall cabinet of books. What with him being as short as he was and she being as determined as she was to reach her goal — namely: the interesting shiny thing in the glass case on top of the cabinet — she was too far up for him to reach.

For a moment he had debated about whether he had enough time to fetch Aragorn, Arwen, or a chair, and then all decisions were taken from him as the girl lost her grip on the carved scrollwork and fell backwards with a startled shriek. Stepping forward, the hobbit caught her and was slammed full length to the floor, cracking his head hard enough to see stars.

Arien had discovered them a few minutes later, her desperate combing of the palace finally drawing her to the unique scene of a dazed halfling leaning heavily against the wall and a small girl prattling to him about the shiny thing in the case, and how dirty her dress was, and how Eldarion had carved a wood figure of Uncle Legolas all by himself. Gratefully the handmaid had taken the child and left Pippin to muddle along towards the kitchen again.

It was only discovered later, when he complained mildly of still hurting everywhere, that he had broken one of his ribs.

"Valar above, Peregrin," Duurben had exclaimed, examining the dark bruising on his subordinate's small chest, "how could you not notice such a thing?"

"I was hungry," Pippin shrugged.

His captain had merely shaken his head, an exasperated humor in his eyes. "Hobbits."

So he had been dismissed from duty for the day and was instead in the Houses of Healing, awaiting the attention of the Warden and feeling distinctly bored. Humming one of old Bilbo's songs under his breath, he bounced his heels a few times off the oversized chair and finally hopped up with a wince and poked his head around the half open door across from him.

"Hullo, Tantur!" the hobbit greeted the room's occupant. "Are you still in here for that infection of yours? You had Captain Duurben quite worried."

The soldier laughed through his short beard, a little ruefully, "There is nothing quite so embarrassing as to stab yourself with your own sword and wind up sick because of it."

"Even the best make mistakes," Pippin pointed out. It was an interesting fact that the hobbit was actually a good deal better with his little sword than almost half of the other city guards were with their large ones. He wasn't as good as Tantur, though. "If it makes you feel any better, he's proud of you. Except I suppose you're too old for that to please you, eh?"

Tantur shrugged. "I'm not so old as all that, I should hope, but it is an uncle's duty to be proud of his nephew, no matter what the nephew's skill."

"It is not," Pippin declared, thinking of a few of his own uncles who considered him a wandering scamp.

The man conceded the point. "What are you doing here, Master Peregrin?"

"Oh, broken ribs or something," he sighed. "Inconvenient nuisance, if you ask me. I'll miss luncheon and the food they serve here is kept light to prevent upset stomachs."

At that moment one of the Healer's assistants leaned her head about the door and gave a sigh of relief, "There you are, master halfling. The Healer is ready to help you."

"Right," Pippin acknowledged gloomily. "Well, good luck Tantur. Hope they don't keep you locked up here all the time."

Shaking his head, Tantur reassured the hobbit, "No, we are allowed to wander at will so long as we do not overtax ourselves. But though I will be free to go by this afternoon, it is quite fascinating to see the herbs and techniques which are used to heal the sick. I shall almost be sorry to leave."

"Sounds horrid to me," Pippin frowned, "but to each their own and I won't say doctoring is not a useful skill to have. I'll see you tomorrow then, or the next day if Duurben refuses to let you back on duty immediately."

"The next day, then, Master Peregrin," smiled the soldier thinly as he inclined his head. "I know my uncle's cautious streak like a book."

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April 10

Edoras, Rohan

Outside the Golden Halls the perpetual wind that blew between the mountains lashed the last of winter's chill through the clothing of the Rohirrim. At least, through the clothing of those unfortunate few at work outdoors.

Eomer was not one of those unfortunate few, but he was cursed in a far more unique fashion. Sir Meriadoc, his continually hardworking and cheerful right-hand hobbit, called it 'the sheer plagueiness of being king'. Not that he ever said such things inside or even remotely near the Golden Hall itself. No, Eomer had discovered that the best way to induce such bouts of charmingly blunt honesty was to take the hobbit down to the cellars for an evening tankard of ale. And while it was nice to know he could count on Merry never to say anything inappropriate while on duty, there were times when Eomer wished the hobbit had not trained himself quite so well. There were times when Eomer needed blunt honesty.

This was one of those times.

"Westu hal, Eomer King," Merry greeted from the door, the Rohirric carefully pronounced and yet still carrying that endearing hobbit warmth. As if, without using any such words, he'd just announced the sun was shining outside. "Queen Lothíriel told me I was to make sure you didn't work straight through the afternoon meal again."

"She thinks I don't eat enough?" the king snorted. He began shuffling aside a pile of parchment.

"Something of the kind, yes," Merry nodded, closing the door and approaching the desk. "Personally I think you're worrying yourself over something."

Eomer glanced up at the hobbit to find that Merry was already staring right back at him. Perhaps today would be an honest day after all. "Perceptive. What am I worrying myself over, then, Master Holbytla?"

"Maybe those accusations of horse thieving Marshal Eodreth has put to Marshal Freca? Or perhaps the threat of Marshal Helwine to keep for himself Marshal Gleolaf's lower grazing lands if his rights to the eastern side of the river aren't given back. Or perhaps the new, highly unpleasant, rumor that Marshal Fram has kidnapped Marshal Elfwild's granddaughter on the eve of her wedding to Captain Theodran." The hobbit tilted his head and sighed. "Seems to me there's not a whole lot to choose between them — could be any which of them that's bothering you. More likely it's all the above."

"Again I say: perceptive. Do I even want to know where you get your information?" Eomer growled. He wasn't upset with the hobbit, but he didn't like the unexplained volatility that list revealed in his Marshals.

Merry shrugged. "Listening. It's something of a hobby of mine. As Frodo found out to his dismay when he tried to take the Ring to Rivendell with only Sam for company." He grinned a little and Eomer found himself smiling back, albeit with a crease still marring his forehead.

"You have an inkling of how much work I have done to ensure Rohan cannot be approached from foreign enemies without warning," the king said, leaning back in his carved chair. "Both my uncle and grandfather nearly fell to unexpected attacks — Thengel to the Haradrim and Theoden to Saruman — and I swore it would not happen under my charge. Yet it seems I've spent too much time looking outwards. How can so many quarrels and attacks have occurred from within my own borders? How could they have escalated so quickly? I have sent spies to the far corners of Middle Earth, and yet here in Rohan, with Fram and Elfwild suddenly out for blood, our entire southern border is in chaos."

"Good thing the only people to the south of us are Gondorian," Merry put in, taking a seat of his own.

"Aye, Gondorian. And any orcs that might still be lurking in Enedhwaith."

Merry's blue eyes were warm with sincerity. "My lord, if I could speak plainly?"

"Please do."

"Well, then, Eomer, your people love you. More than ever they loved your father or grandfather or any of the others before — and I don't mean that as a slight on your relatives. They trust you. That'll hold them together, no matter what they think their neighbors have done to them. It's a bother and a nuisance having them all picking and squabbling like tweenagers," Eomer had to smile at his description, "but this will pass. And we can't have you making a wreck of yourself with all this worrying."

"Thank you, my friend. I just wish this particular enemy was one I could see."

The hobbit tilted his curly head and flipped the corners of a stack of parchment idly between his thumb and forefinger. "It does seem odd for them to start acting like this all of a sudden, doesn't it? Hm." He fished in his belt pouch for his pipe. "If I may?"

"Please," Eomer nodded, retrieving his own pipe. Between Aragorn and Merry, the king of Rohan had successfully adopted a love for pipe weed. Especially when he needed to think.

Soft rings of smoke began to drift towards the ceiling, translucent and delicate as grass shadows in the evening, or fog over a river.

"You know," Merry said thoughtfully, almost unaware that he was speaking aloud, "when I was about twenty-three and Pip was fifteen he came to spend Yule at Buckland with me. It was crowded and everyone was busy decorating and so forth. So, of course, no sooner had Pippin got there but he proceeded to cause enough mischief to draw every single woman in the place after his head. My mother had a set of tea cups she was particularly fond of, so of course Pip broke three, and then Cousin Celandine found a funny sort of paint on her mirror so that it made her seem to have whiskers when she looked in it, and then Cousin Hilda's spectacles were found tied to the cat's tale, and so forth." He gazed into his pipe and grinned. "Pip's got quite an imagination for someone with cotton instead of brains," he said fondly.

Eomer smiled back, allowing himself to relax. What was it about hobbits that could allow life to be just this simple? Maybe this explained where Aragorn had gotten it.

"Pippin admitted to me that his mother and sisters were used to his antics and usually paid no mind, and he admitted that my relatives seemed tougher, but by then it was too late. It took three days for things to get really serious, and he was going to be staying for a month, so I told him he'd best watch his back because I had no intention of watching it for him. 'No worries, Merry,' he says to me, 'don't you think I can keep myself out of trouble? Trust me.' Needless to say I washed my hands of the affair; it's always the best plan when Pip gets that look in his eyes. But I watched too, and the funniest things kept happening…"

Merry paused to exhale a particularly large cloud. "Every time one of my aunts or cousins would start to come after him, ready with a tongue-lashing, a cat would suddenly leap at their hair, or one of my dad's hounds would start barking for no reason at all, and once one of my Uncle Merimac's ponies came trotting right into the sitting room before old Grandmother Menegilda could properly heft her cane. I knew it couldn't be a coincidence, and sometimes I'd just catch sight of Pip making an odd movement right before it happened, but nobody could figure it out. Inside a week Pippin had been almost completely forgotten. The topic of debate was fastened firmly onto the family pets and what was addling them. Celandine began to wail at anyone who'd listen that all the cats had gone mad, and Mother said that if Dad's dogs made one more sound they were sleeping in the barn, and Uncle Meri said 'not while his ponies were still in there', and Dad said the ponies might be Uncle Meri's but the stables were his, and Cousin Seredic said Uncle Meri's ponies could stand to be trained better anyway, and Berilac said Seredic's wife had a nose like a prune, which of course led to Cousin Hilda slapping poor Uncle Meri."

Perhaps the hobbit noticed that he his lord was looking lost, for he paused and said helpfully, "Hilda is Seredic's wife and Berilac's Uncle Meri's son."

"Ah," Eomer murmured. He supposed it shouldn't count as a lie, since hadn't actually claimed to understand.

"Suffice it to say it was absolute mayhem at the Hall. I barely managed to keep my nose clean and stay out of harm's path, and the disagreements got more outrageous by the day. Absolutely the strangest thing I'd ever seen… Especially with a bunch of good-natured hobbits. Odd, don't you think?"

Eomer's brown eyes grew suddenly sharp, staring with intensity into the hobbit's face as the small story teller turned to gaze back at him. "A strange happening indeed, Master Merry. Very strange. And it sounds as if guessing the source of the mischief did not help you much in tracing it."

"No, I suppose not, but I didn't really try either."

For a while they smoked together in the silence of their own thoughts. Eomer's mind was moving quickly through the possibilities. He couldn't actually fathom who might want to orchestrate such a thing, but he was more certain than ever that his Marshals did not have such crimes in them. Something else was at work. Or someone.

"Were the arguments finally brought to rest?" Eomer asked absently.

"Well, yes," Merry nodded, grinning and exhaling the last of his smoke. "Family peace was restored, and then some, just in time for us to light the Yule log."

"How?"

"Oh, it was my mother, of course. Eyes in the back of her head, ears for whispers, and a nose for trouble. She went to clean Pip's room and low and behold: a little bottle of Aniseed (it attracts every cat in fifty miles, you know), and one of those whistles dogs can hear but hobbits can't, and twenty other such bags, bottles, and oddments. I don't know where he got it, but it was clear what he'd been doing with it. Everyone was so busy lecturing Pippin for the rest of the month that they had no cross words left for each other." He stood up and tucked his pipe away. "Except for Uncle Meri, who wasn't a bit cross. I don't know why, but he thought it was the perfect joke and that Pippin was brilliant; said he'd like to take a leaf out of Pip's book. And when the bottle of Aniseed disappeared from Mother's confiscation cupboard… well, nobody was very surprised that every cat in Brandy Hall spent the rest of Yule following Cousin Hilda around."

Eomer could not help but chuckle as Merry finished and bowed. "May I return to my duties, my lord?" he asked.

"If you wish, then by all means. Tell Lothíriel I will eat in just a few minutes."

It was another hour after the hobbit left, and Eomer was still wrestling with the mystery, when a messenger entered and presented him with a three narrow scrolls — several were his usual spy reports. The first two were from the north borders and said little of much interest, which was comforting. The seal of the third bore a crouching cat. Slitting it open, he laid it flat and after reading the first half he exhaled in relief. "Very good, Merry. If only more kings were as clever as hobbits." Holding the paper closer to the light, he continued to read… but now his face darkened. What was he to make of this?

The message was short, implying that the informer in question was concerned about interception. It read simply: Crimson Lady and Advisor beginning work on masterpiece. Transmits disguised infection to the horse's hooves; avoid seaweed. Immanent threat to Lord Ranger and family; 10^th of month. White tower in peril of deluge. Gold hall in peril of fire. - Queen Beruthiel

'Immanent threat to Lord Ranger and family'… Eomer stared fixedly at the paper, his calloused fingers clenching hard. The information of 'Queen Beruthiel' he would never doubt.

But it was already the tenth of the month.

"Oh Valar," he breathed. "Send the help I cannot give."