Chapter 4, False Impressions

April 4

“Oh, this feels so good!” said Pippin, feeling Merry take a soap-lathered flannel to his back.

“You’re going to look a sight better when I’m finished with you, too,” Merry replied with a playful grin.

After his examination this morning Pippin complained of feeling himself ferment, so Aragorn ordered a bath for the lad.

“Now hold the flannel up to your eyes,” instructed Merry, handing a dry cloth to his cousin. Pippin did as instructed and was rewarded with a swoosh of hot water atop his head and down his back.

Merry’s next task was to wash Pippin’s tangled web of curls. As he did so, his gaze always settled upon the healing bruises, the small cut under the lad’s forearm that bore stitches, the cracked ribs that incessantly gnawed with pain.

In a short time, Pippin was rinsed, clean, hair towel-dried, and combed. “I’m going to call for Strider to carry you back to your bed so that I can get you dry,” Merry said, getting up from his knees.

“Don’t go too far,” said Pippin, giving his older cousin an earnest glance over his shoulder.

Merry returned Pippin’s glance with a solemn gaze of his own. “I won’t--I promise. I’ll just be outside the door, all right?” With sorrowful green eyes upon his beloved cousin, Pippin nodded.

Fortunately, Aragorn was sitting with their other companions outside of the door to their own tent and saw Merry signalling for him.

“Feeling better, are you?” asked Aragorn, draping a large towel over Pippin’s shoulders. He then lifted the lad from the tub, setting him on the additional towels that Merry laid upon the bed and then covered him in them.

“Yes, I am,” Pippin answered gamely now that he was squeaky clean. “Now, if only I could get my footing...”

Aragorn smiled amusingly, “A valiant try, Peregrin Took, however, I do not want you on your feet quite yet. The swelling in your legs has gone down some, that is true, but not quite where I would feel comfortable with you on your feet.” With those words, the healer took one of his patient’s feet in hand, running his fingernail under the arch. Pippin did not so much as flinch. Aragorn sighed, “You see?”

“But that isn’t fair,” Pippin countered, “Hobbits aren’t as ticklish under their feet like Men are.”

“True enough,” said Aragorn, “however, there would still be a reaction of a sort. Did you feel anything?”

Pippin answered, “A little.”

“A little is not enough.”

“But--”

“Not today, Pippin, and that is my final word,” Aragorn answered firmly. However, the tween’s crestfallen face was more than enough reason for the healer to give the lad something to look forward to. “Perhaps we will give it a try tomorrow, depending on what I find after I examine you again. Is that more fair to you?” he asked, a hint of a grin playing on his lips.

Pippin’s face instantly lit up with the promise of giving his feet a go. “Yes! Thank you, Strider!” he said with a big smile.

Over Aragorn’s shoulder, Pippin could see the small figure of his best friend sitting at the table, charcoal in one hand, bit of parchment laid before him. Merry had settled himself quietly there while Aragorn examined Pippin again. Pippin’s smile faded; he knew exactly what his cousin was doing.

Pippin said aloud, “I think I should like a cup of water.”

Aragorn looked to the ewer that was on the night table between their beds. He started to fill Pippin’s cup but was cut off by the tween.

“Fresh water, if you please,” said Pippin. He indicated with his green eyes toward his friend at the table. “And you’re not done looking me over yet,” he whispered conspiratorially.

Mystified at Pippin’s sudden change of conversation, Aragorn followed the lad’s gaze to the young hobbit sitting behind him at the table. He looked back to Pippin with a questioning expression; Pippin nodded.

“Merry,” Aragorn spoke to the lone figure, “Pippin is thirsty and he needs fresh water. Would you mind fetching it?” He held the container up for Merry to see.

“Of course,” said Merry, unaware of the ruse. He laid aside his bit of charcoal then surreptitiously covered his parchment before rising from his seat.

Once Merry had left with the ewer, Pippin continued speaking to Aragorn in a subdued volume; no telling if Merry should surprise them and overhear certain things.

“I’m worried about Merry,” he whispered.

“About what, may I ask?”

“He’s been unusually quiet all day.”

“I have noticed that Merry can be pensive at times,” reasoned Aragorn.

“He had another ugly dream this morning,” said Pippin. “He hasn’t spoken much all day, yet his nose has been in front of that parchment whenever he’s not with me. I asked him what he was drawing, and he mumbled something about Whitwell--the farm where I spent my childhood.”

“I did not know that Merry was an artist,” said Aragorn, “He never mentioned it to me. You do not believe his answer?”

“Yes...and no. Merry has perfect vision in his mind’s eye, Strider,” offered Pippin. “He sees something once, and if he likes it, he draws it.”

“You believe he is now drawing objects that he does not necessarily like?” asked the healer. Pippin nodded. Aragorn took in all that his patient had to say about his cousin; perhaps Pippin’s concern was warranted. “You worry after Merry, and Merry worries after you. One would think you two are brothers rather than mere friends,” he said. “Speaking of ugly dreams,” Aragorn continued, “How have you been faring, in regard to your nightmares? When was your last frightening dream?”

Pippin smiled sadly and then his eyes welled with tears, his voice hoarse when he answered, “This morning...before I woke up.”

For a moment, Aragorn inwardly cursed the evil of the world that had stolen the innocence of these young hobbits. He took Pippin in a tender embrace, comforting the young hobbit as he wept. “I shall have a word with Merry--alone...when he goes down to the stream with the other soldiers to wash for supper.”

* * *

Aragorn sat at the table set outside his tent deep in conversation with Gandalf and the head cook about a certain celebratory feast certain to take place in the very near future. As they wrapped up the meeting, Aragorn was momentarily distracted by the sight of a young hobbit walking toward the stream. The small figure walked with shoulders slumped, as if carrying the weight of the world. “One last matter, Gelios,” said Aragorn absently, his grey eyes remained focussed on the sauntering hobbit, “I will take my evening meal with the Pheriannath, Peregrin and Meriadoc, inside their tent. Please ensure there is enough for two Perian and one Man.”

The cook smiled, “Enough for approximately, five Men, my Lord?”

“You understand hobbits more than I thought,” answered Aragorn, a bit amazed.

“I cared for young Master Meriadoc during his stay in the Houses of Healing, my Lord,” said the cook, then took his leave of the future king and the wizard.

Gandalf followed Aragorn’s gaze toward Merry approaching the stream. “Is there something troubling our young hobbit? Or both of them?”

“Pippin does have valid concerns,” Aragorn replied, “and yes, I fear troubles have come to them both.” Gandalf nodded thoughtfully. Aragorn continued in a forlorn voice, “Our friends' dispositions are not always what they seem to be.  It would have been naive of me to think that these innocents would come out of these battles unscathed. And yet I still hoped for it. Please excuse me, Gandalf.”

“Hello, Merry,” Aragorn greeted the young hobbit washing at the stream.

“Hullo, Strider,” Merry responded in kind between splashes of cold water on his face and arms.

Aragorn dipped his hand into the cool water, rinsing them, and then washed his face.

As he dried his face with the towel he brought, Aragorn noticed that Merry had already departed, heading back toward his and Pippin’s tent.

He called out, “Merry--wait!” Catching up to the young hobbit, Aragorn took up a smaller pace beside him. “I intend to take my evening meal with you and Pippin this evening inside your tent. Do you mind if I walk there with you?”

Merry did not bring his towel with him, so his chin dripped a bit of water while he spoke. “Not at all, Strider.” Although there was not much enthusiasm in the tone of his voice.

“Is Lord Éomer going to sup with us as well?” asked Merry, walking at a more leisurely pace.

“I think not,” Aragorn replied. “At least not today. He has expressed his wish to break fast with you again soon. He appeared to enjoy yours and Pippin’s company yesterday.”

“We explained to him about Tobold Hornblower and how pipeweed came to the Shire,” said Merry. “He asked to hear more about the Shire in general, so Pip and I obliged. It was a very pleasant meal.”

Passing through the entry of the tent, Aragorn noted that Merry went straight for the desk he had been working at all day long. Aragorn followed closely behind. Merry did his best to furtively hide the sketch he was working on, but Aragorn caught sight of it before he had the chance to fully cover it.

“Is that your drawing?” Aragorn quickly asked in a low volume so as not to wake Pippin who was napping on his bed.

Merry knew he was caught; he handed the paper over to Aragorn, but said nothing.

Aragorn perused the sketch of an Orc, dagger impaled in his throat, blood spilling down his chest. Embedded over the left eyebrow was a Dwarf axe while thick rope bound the body’s hands and feet.

Aragorn was stunned...and yet, not so. “I ask again, Meriadoc, is this yours?”

Face reddened with various emotions, Merry looked away. “Yes.”

“Does this help you cope with your nightmares--with having been held captive?”

Merry shrugged. He was a bit surprised by Aragorn’s questions, feeling sure that criticism was next on the agenda. “I don’t know about that,” he said in reply, “but when I have a nightmare, drawing helps it to go away for a while. Pippin will hum a tune whenever an ugly dream plagues his thoughts. He misses his fiddle.”

Aragorn handed the graphic, gruesome sketch back to its owner. *“Tomorrow, I shall return with something that may be of help--and then all three of us are going to talk.”

“About what?” Merry inquired, unsure of Aragorn’s intent.

“About...stuff, as you say,” Aragorn answered.

*A/N: This last bit was inspired by something I had written in The Falcon’s Watch. I wrote that Pippin, Merry, and Aragorn frequently shared their feelings on battle and such after the hobbits removed to Gondor in their senior years. As I wrote that part, I envisioned that the *trust* in “sharing” had to have been built years and years before; no one just steps into something like that all of a sudden. Well, here is where I imagine it started.

Merry's "expressive" sketches were referred to in The Courship of Peregrin Took.