Chapter Twenty-One – In a Place Silhouetted by Sunshine

“Pippin dear,” Arwen said gently. “You are weary. Sleep. I will awaken you when we come to the inn.”

Pippin was dozing in the saddle before Arwen, swaying from side to side in her arms. At her voice he jumped and looked up into her face. For a moment he was utterly still, entranced, then he found his voice.

“Thank you, my lady, but I don’t want to miss a moment of this ride. I’ll stay awake, thank you.”

Wondering how she could possibly take offense at his lack of obedience, Arwen laughed and hugged the warm bundle of hobbit seated before her. She began a soft, slow song pitched for his ears alone. Pippin sighed and nestled back against her, as happy as he had ever been in his life.

Merry put his hand on the reins and tugged surreptitiously. Éowyn glanced down at him and slowed her horse, dropping behind the Queen. Aragorn, Faramir and Éomer made room for her and a wave from Merry brought Gandalf closer, Legolas and Gimli following.

“What is it, Merry?” Aragorn asked.

Merry checked that Pippin would not overhear them. The hoof falls of the following soldiers and Riders quite conveniently masked his words from those riding ahead. “We’re coming up on the Gates, Aragorn. I don’t want Pippin to see … what’s on a pike there.”

“No doubt the King’s justice has been carried out by now,” Faramir agreed, standing in his stirrups to see ahead. The Gates of Minas Tirith loomed before them, blazing white under the sun. Tiny figures scurried about on the guard walk. They were still too distant to make out anything as small as a head impaled on a pike.

“He won’t go to sleep if he can help it,” Gandalf agreed, frowning.

“You wish to … help him along,” Legolas said.

Merry grinned at him. “It’s for his own good. But how?”

The obvious answer occurred to them all. Merry grimaced at the aghast stares. “No, I didn’t mean that. Pip’s been hurt enough. I was thinking of something more…”

“Insidious,” Legolas breathed.

“You’re learning, Legolas,” Merry told him, eyes sparkling. “Gimli, did you happen to bring that flask of yours with you?”

“Never without it,” the dwarf rumbled, handing the heavy flask over to Merry.

Merry caught it with both hands and listed sideways in the saddle but Éowyn caught him and pulled him upright. “Dwarf-ale?” she said with very evident disapproval.

Merry pulled out the stopper and allowed himself one sniff, trying to keep his eyes from crossing. “Regular ale won’t work – Pippin could swill it all day and never even hiccup. Dwarf-ale, on the other hand…”

“Are all hobbits so ruthless?” Faramir whispered to Gandalf.

“We prefer to think of it as ‘practical’,” Merry interjected, hefting the flask with difficulty. “Pippin is a stubborn little thing. All those Tooks are.” Intent on the flask, he missed the looks exchanged above his head.

“Right!” Merry looked up into Éowyn’s amused face. “If you would, my lady…”

The men bowed in the saddle. Éowyn set heels to her horse and set it trotting after the Queen and her passenger. “Hoy, Pippin!” Merry caroled, “look what I have for you!”

* * *
More voices in the dark, one less familiar than those which had interrupted his sleep earlier. Aragorn he knew, and Merry of course, though Merry’s voice sounded oddly slurred. But the other…

“Are they always like this when sodden? It is like trying to pick up a sleeping cat.” There was a creak of bedsprings and his mattress shifted under an additional burden. Frodo struggled with the voice then placed it at last: Prince Faramir.

“The nightshirt is stuck on his head – there.” A rustle of blankets of being pulled up. “Fortunately, the hobbits did not have much opportunity to get soused during our Quest. Else we would have had to have carted them across the face of Middle-earth.” That voice belonged to Aragorn. Frodo felt faintly insulted.

“Begging your pardon, sir,” came a reproachful voice, “but you’ve got no reason to say that. It was Mr. Merry and Mr. Pippin who had to be dragged out of every taproom we passed.”

“Not every one, Sam. I am quite certain we missed one in Bree and there are at least two left in Minas Tirith we haven’t been to yet.” 

“Thank you for the correction, Merry. You had better sit down before you fall down.”

“I’m fine, Aragorn. Fiiiinne,” Merry drawled. “Pippin’s a good lad. I don’t know that I would have shared my dwarf-ale with him.”

“Do you need me for anything else, sire?” Faramir asked.

“No, Faramir. Thank you. Will you tell Lord Elrond that we are ready for him?”

“I will, my lord.” A moment later Frodo heard the door open and shut.

Prying his eyes open, Frodo saw that someone had pulled the shutters and the room was dim and musty. Dust motes danced in sunbeams streaming through the slats. A fire had been lit and the cheerful snap crackle sounded warm and friendly. He felt almost too hot. Shifting a little, he found that someone had placed his arm in a sling, no doubt to reduce the possibility of movement of his injured ribs.

An arm’s reach across from him lay Pippin, asleep with a smile on his face, clad in a nightshirt far too large for him. As he himself was, Frodo discovered. Someone had given him a bath. He devoutly hoped it was Sam, though Marly seemed the more reasonable choice. She had done it before, after all. Frodo felt his cheeks burning. Then he forgot his embarrassment as he caught sight of the garment Aragorn was holding up to examine.

“That’s my jacket,” Frodo said, inching up on his pillow with a grimace. “My new jacket. What happened to it? It was almost new.”

“You said that, Frodo,” Aragorn replied, rolling the filthy, torn, shredded jacket into a ball.

“It was new. I had barely worn it–”

“What’s wrong with him?” Merry whispered.

“He’s a little … confused,” Sam whispered back. “Lord Elrond gave him a draught to ease his pain and make him sleep.”

“I don’t know if it is a good idea to put Pippin next to him,” Merry said, settling himself into an easy chair by the fire. “It may be a huge bed but Pip’s a restless sleeper.”

“I suspect Pippin won’t move for hours,” Aragorn said thoughtfully. He leaned over and prodded the tweenager’s shoulder with a finger.

“No tickling,” Pippin mumbled. Groping for the pillow, he dragged it down where he could curl around it.

“What have you done to Pippin?” Frodo demanded. “He’s–”

“Relaxed,” Aragorn said firmly. “We will tell you about it when your mind is clearer, Frodo. You need to go back to sleep.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do.”

 “No, I don’t. Meriadoc, you answer me right now!”

There was no reply. Merry was asleep, sprawled into the chair with his head thrown back, mouth open. Sam shook his head and lifted Merry’s feet onto a footstool. 

The door opened and Elrond glided in, an all-too-familiar tonic bottle resting on a tray between his hands. “Good afternoon, Master Frodo. I am delighted to see you awake.” He looked at the other two hobbits and Sam, who bowed. “And your cousins deep in healing slumber. Excellent.”

“I have to go to sleep now, too,” Frodo said hurriedly.

“No, you don’t,” Elrond returned, shaking the bottle.

Yes, I do.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yes, I do,” Frodo yawned theatrically and made one last desperate effort. “Aragorn said I must.”

“After you take this tonic,” Elrond replied. He watched approvingly as Frodo complied. Ignoring his patient’s strangled gurgles, he asked of Aragorn: “Has Peregrin shown any signs of waking?”

“None.”

Elrond nodded. “The scrapes and bruises will heal. He is more tired than any other thing. I will just check once more…” Frodo and Sam watched as Elrond examined Pippin next. Or tried to examine him. Every attempt was met with a flailing arm and the murmur, “Crumpets. With jam, please…”

Elrond sighed and gave up. “While I do not approve of your method of calming him, I cannot argue with its effectiveness. I suspect he will awake no more than sore and hungry, possibly even without a headache. Ah, the advantages of youth.”

“Will someone please tell me what has happened?” Frodo asked in a bewildered voice. The question was accompanied by an unwise decision to sit up, forcing a gasp from him.

Elrond straightened immediately. “Are you in pain, Master Frodo?”

“I … ahhhh…” Strong hands fastened on his shoulders and eased him back down. Frodo blinked; Elrond had moved from Pippin’s side of the bed to his and he seemed to have missed it. Blink, over there. Blink, over here. Elves really were amazing creatures.

“Master Frodo? Frodo?” He could not respond; a spear had been thrust into his chest. No mithril vest, he thought muzzily. The Cave Troll’s succeeded this time. White flashes of light were sparking through his vision.

“I don’t think he is hearing you,” Aragorn said. “And his eyes are not focusing.”

“Mr. Frodo? You all right?” Sam’s voice penetrated Frodo’s haze where Aragorn’s had not.

“Sam? The Cave Troll…”

“Breathe, Frodo. Slowly.” Frodo bridled; how could Strider expect him to breathe with a spear in his chest?

“Let me look at him in the light. Open the shutters.” A pair of arms was lifting him from the warm covers. Frodo protested but another blanket was being wrapped around him, and he was cradled against a tunic that smelled of herbs and pipe-weed. Aragorn, then. He forgot to complain as he was carried the short distance to the window and settled onto a bench beneath it. The room suddenly became immeasurably brighter and he closed his eyes.

 “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “It is better now.” He felt Sam’s hand creep into his and grasped it gratefully. Sam squeezed back, careful of the bandaged stub.

“Indeed,” came the Elf-lord’s dry voice. “I think I will be the judge of that.” The healer’s long hands skated over Frodo’s chest, checking his handiwork. “There is a little discharge from the cutting, but nothing out of place. I think you merely moved wrong, Frodo.”

Frodo nodded. The sun was making him sleepy and overly warm. “May I lie down again? My head is spinning and the light hurts.”

The shutters were closed again. “Is that better, sir?” Sam asked.

Arms slid under him again and Frodo braced himself as Aragorn lifted him. Then the room seemed to dip and sway and he held tight to the sweet-smelling tunic. “Easy, friend,” Aragorn murmured in his ear. Frodo exhaled carefully and tried to loosen his death-grip.

“I suggest we let him sleep,” Aragorn said as he eased Frodo back into the bed and pulled up the covers. “It is the best thing for him. For all of them, really. Sam, that includes you.”

“Yes, sir. After I see him settled in.”

“I will have water and ice and a tonic sent up for each of you,” Elrond told Sam as he escorted them to the door. “You may give it to them when they awake.”

“I’ll try, milord,” Sam replied, not sanguine about his chances of administering the last.

Stifling a tired groan, Sam breathed a sigh of relief as the door closed. His feet ached and he looked forward to being off them for a few hours. Duty first, though. Checking that Frodo was sleeping comfortably, he circled ‘round the bed to wrestle the pillow from Pippin and slide it under his head. “Frosted tea buns?” Pippin mumbled hopefully before returning to sleep. Smiling, Sam shook a blanket over Merry and tucked it in. That done, he took the chair across the fire from Merry, and fell asleep himself.

* * *
When Frodo next woke, he was alone and it was late in the day. A lamp had been lit and the room was quiet and still. He lay in the semidarkness, remembering. Pippin. Yes, he had seen him. Moving cautiously, he reached out and felt the Pippin-shaped depression on the other side of the bed. Still warm. Frodo sighed; it had not been a dream. And Merry, asleep in a chair and Sam, aggravated about something Aragorn had said. His lads were all right.

 “Master Frodo?” No, not alone.

“Marly?”

“Aye, sir. It’s me.” What he had taken for a shadow in the corner rose from its chair and came forward. “Lord Elrond asked me if I would sit with you. He sent up a potion for you, sir, if you’re feeling poorly.”

“Not yet, thank you,” Frodo replied hastily. Reluctantly, he took stock of himself. Stiff, sore, aching, and so tired his bones hurt. Nothing he could not live with. “Sam and Merry and Pip?”

“Downstairs, sir. Mikah’s having Cook prepare tea, then a feast to celebrate  … well, everyone being all right, I guess.”

“Good,” Frodo answered, distracted. He had never noticed what a melodious voice this woman had. Not that there had been time, of course, but she really did have a lovely voice. A little flicker of light in the dark.

 “What’s wrong, Frodo?” Marly asked gently.

Frodo felt an inexplicable desire to weep. “I feel like I’m watching life from the far end of a spyglass, and listening with cotton wool stuffed in my ears. It all seems so distant, somehow.”

“Why do you think that is?”

Frodo ducked his head, unwilling to meet her eyes.  “I suppose it is because they all have something to come back to. A sweetheart and a hole of his own for Sam, a family and land and position for Merry and Pippin. All I had was a Ring of fire and pain, and now even it is gone. I have … nothing.”

“Nothing? How could that be?”

“My home … I didn’t know if I would ever be coming back to the Shire. I thought not, really. So I sold it.” Frodo made a little moue of distaste. “I sincerely doubt the new owners would be willing to sell it back to me. They have been after Bag End for ninety years or so.”

“Surely there is more than a house waiting for you?”

Frodo made a dismissive gesture. “Oh, friends, of course. And family. Lots of it. Bagginses and Brandybucks and Tooks and Boffins and Bolgers and … good heavens, I can’t even keep count.”

“But no one close?” Marly asked, her voice very soft.

Frodo was silent for long moments before replying. “Dear Sam, of course. And his family. But no one living close. And, no … no one close.”

“Why not?”

Frodo shrugged, still staring determinedly at his hands. No, not at his hands. Marly saw he was staring at the stub of the amputated finger. “I always meant to get around to it. A wife, a family… Bilbo wanted Bag End to always have a Baggins in it, but he never got around to it, either. That’s why he adopted me, you know. One of the reasons, anyway.” Frodo smiled, his beautiful eyes shining with memories. “Bless the old hobbit.” The smile faded. He shuddered, turning his face from the woman who waited so patiently. “Now … I’m … afraid … of dark nights spent alone, of the future. Of memories…”

“Bad memories?” Marly pressed.

Frodo could not look at her. “Terrible. Terrible.” He was staring at his hands again.

Moving slowly, Marly leaned forward and laid her hands over his. Warm fingers laced through his. “Tell me.”

* * *
Elrond Halfelven, Master of Rivendell, Lord of Imladris, sat in the room below with his eyes closed and his face tight with concentration, eavesdropping. To his left hovered Aragorn, King Elessar, his hand entwined with that of Arwen, called the Evenstar. To their right waited the White Wizard.

“Well?” Gandalf whispered.

“It is working,” Elrond murmured. “He is talking to her.”

Gandalf dropped into a chair, scrubbing at his eyes with a sleeve of his shining robes. “Thank the Valar.” Elrond nodded and opened his eyes, leaving the two in the room above to their private conversation.

“Indeed,” Aragorn murmured, and any who might have doubted his love of the Ring-bearer would put aside that doubt upon seeing the relief on his face.

“Yes,” Arwen agreed, the same relief on her face as on her husband’s. “Now at last may the poison he has held inside himself start to drain. He will begin to heal in mind as well as body.”

“It will still be a dark road for him,” Elrond said.

The grief on Aragorn’s face was difficult to witness. Arwen looked at her husband thoughtfully and one slender hand rose to toy with the white gem at her throat. “The memory of fear and darkness will always trouble him. Yet perhaps there are things his friends can do to light his way.”

“What are you all doing in here?” Merry demanded, leaning around the doorway. “Tea’s ready!”

* * *
By the time Marly came out of Frodo’s room, tea was over and it was edging on to supper-time. Aragorn had taken the hobbits aside and explained that they could not return to Frodo’s room just yet. He did not say why, exactly, but the hobbits knew. After tea he had suggested a smoke and they joined him readily, as did Gimli and Gandalf. Mikah sent them all outside.

By the time they finished their pipes, the early night was falling and the first stars were glittering overhead. When Marly emerged from Frodo’s room, Aragorn saw the hobbits start, and realised they had been waiting to hear the door. He followed them back in just as Marly came down the stairs, wiping tears from her eyes. She smiled at them tremulously and sought out the Elf-lord. “I offered him the draught, but he wouldn’t take it,” she told Elrond with a curtsy. “He needs to rest, my lord.”

“Not with such memories foremost in his mind,” Elrond told her. “His dreams would be riddled with nightmares and horror, and perhaps undo much of the good you have done.”

“I have something that will please him, I think,” Aragorn said.

Gandalf smiled, his eyes twinkling. “Go. I will arrange the rest.”

“What? What is it?” asked Pippin as they trailed Aragorn and Elrond up the stairs. He paused on one, biting down on a whimper. Merry dropped back and slid an arm around his waist, taking some of his weight.

“Something that will please him,” Aragorn repeated maddeningly. “And I want you to rest that leg tomorrow, Pippin.”

“We will not keep him long,” Elrond added as he knocked on the door to Frodo’s room.

“Come in!” Frodo’s voice through the door sounded somewhat thick, but when Elrond opened it, there was no sign of tears on the Ring-bearer’s face. Only a healer or a loving cousin or friend would have noticed the slight trembling of his hands.

“Do you feel up to visitors, Frodo?” Aragorn asked.

“Visitors?” Frodo seemed to debate with himself for a moment, then nodded.

Aragorn and Elrond entered, followed by three hobbits. Shortly after came several Elves, a dwarf, Marly and Peter, Faramir and Éowyn, Éomer, Mikah, and most of inn's staff. Though the most spacious accommodation the inn offered, Frodo’s room felt small by the time everyone crowded in. Frodo greeted them all politely, obviously at a loss.

“You may have guests only for a short time,” Elrond told him when everyone had found a place to sit or stand. “Then supper, the draught, and bed.”

“All right,” Frodo said. “But why–” A high voice from downstairs interrupted him, shrill and excited. A second voice, wobbling between childhood and adulthood, shushed the other.

“Here they come now,” Aragorn said with a smile.

Feet pounded on the stairs. The thunderous advance stopped abruptly before the door and was followed by a faint, careful knock. “Boys,” remarked their mother wryly.

“Enter,” Aragorn called.

Rich and Brion came in, their arms laded with changes of clothing and pipe-weed pouches and personal items. “We’ve brought everything you said, Merry,” Rich said hesitantly, looking at all the people with trepidation.

Merry took the bundles from them and passed them to Pippin and Sam. “Thank you, lads. Now I think the King wants to talk to you.”
                         
“What’s happening?” Brion asked.

“We are gathered to witness my performing one of the great joys of being King, Brion.” Aragorn smiled at the children, recalling words spoken on another night in a small, nameless town, when the present seemed an unobtainable future. He had spoken first with their parents, for it was no small thing he asked. Peter and Marly had given their permission, their faces shining with joy. Now tears of happiness escaped Marly and slid down her glowing face.

“Mama?” Brion asked, starting to go to her.

“Rich and Brion, kneel,” Aragorn said with his usual economy of words. The boys obeyed, not without worried looks at their parents. “I told you not long ago,” Aragorn continued, “that should a certain thing ever come to pass, I would remember and reward the kindness you and your family showed us, then … and now. Richard.”

The boy looked up, startled at the use of his given name. Brown eyes stared into grey. “Richard son of Peter,” Aragorn said formally, “I require your service as a royal squire, then as a healer or a knight in the service of Gondor. Do you give it?”

Rich gaped at him, stunned. This was reward beyond the wildest dreams of the common-born. He looked at his father and Peter nodded, tears of pride shining in his eyes. The boy turned back to Aragorn and bowed his head. “I do, my King.”

“Brion.” The younger boy looked a little frightened, sensing his life would be forever changed. “Brion son of Peter, I require your service as a royal page, to someday be a squire, then a knight in the service of Gondor. Do you give it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Rise.” A moment later both boys were swept into their parents’ arms and thoroughly hugged. The solemn atmosphere dissipated at once and everyone began talking and laughing.

Mikah had to shout “Supper’s ready!” three times before anyone heard him.

* * *
As Lord Elrond had decreed several days of bed-rest for Frodo, Merry and Pippin asked to stay with him rather than return to their own quarters and duties. Aragorn and Éomer granted their requests immediately, knowing the hobbits needed to be together for a time. Sam, of course, stayed with his master.

“He’s better,” Merry said thoughtfully two days later. They were in the courtyard of the inn, having been shooed off by Elladan while Elrond checked their cousin’s healing injuries. Pippin had undergone Elrond’s attentions first, and been pronounced fit to go outside, through all strenuous exercise was forbidden. Which was fine with Pippin, not being enamoured of strenuous exercise anyway.

The hobbits were lolling in the sun on the steps, Pippin licking the sugar off a ginger biscuit while Merry smoked languidly. A constant stream of sweets and treats were being sent to the hobbits, not only from the Inn’s kitchen staff but from every quarter of the citizens of Minas Tirith. For one of the few times in his life, Pippin had more food than he could eat. He was trying valiantly, though.

“Of course he’s better,” Pippin returned. “I heard Lord Elrond say his ribs are knitting faster than he would have thought possible.”

Merry leaned over him and snagged a biscuit from the basket. “I mean better … inside. In his head.”

“Oh.” Pippin nibbled at his biscuit. “Do you think he’ll be all right now?”

“Hope so.”

Merry’s brief reply could not hide his anxiousness from Pippin. “Is there anything we can do?”

“More than what we are?” Merry shook his head. “Stay close to him, I think. You might save him some of those ginger biscuits.”

“Who is that?” With a wave of the biscuit, Pippin gestured towards one of the intersecting alleyways. A Man was hovering there, an older man with a florid face, peering at them from behind the cover of stacked barrels and crates. He did not look to be a threat but both hobbits were instantly on their guard.

“Hullo!” Merry called cheerfully, climbing to his feet. He kept his face friendly but his hand crept to the hilt of his sword. Though off-duty, he and Pippin were armed and Merry carried his throwing dagger. It had not been discussed between them but they would remain armed until Frodo was better.

“I can get Elrond and Elladan down here with a shout,” Pippin murmured, smiling at the Man.

The Man stumbled suddenly into the open, as if he had been pushed. Pippin stood up hastily. The two parties stared at each other. Then from behind him emerged the little girl who had helped them after Frodo’s abduction. Merry smiled again, genuinely this time, and the little lass grinned back.

“Hello! Hello!” She called, waving at them. “My friend here has a present for the Ring-bearer!”

The child pulled the man forward. The hobbits saw that between his hands was a fine platter, covered with a white linen cloth. An enticing aroma rose from it in little whorls of steam. That, more than the man’s face, identified him to Merry.

Merry laughed and elbowed his cousin in the ribs. “That’s him!”

“Him who?”

“The man who brought Frodo the creamed mushrooms. The one we attacked and broke his platter, and frightened him near to death.” Merry smiled at the pair. The little girl smiled back and tugged on the man’s arm.

Slowly the pair approached, the man eyeing the hobbits as if they were about to shift shape into dragons and attack him. Well, he has reason, Merry admitted to himself. Summoning every ounce of Brandybuck charm, he beamed up at the Man. “Well met, good sir! I cannot tell you how sorry my cousin and I are for our previous misunderstanding. It is immeasurably kind of you to give us another chance…” Still talking, Merry led the two into the inn, Pippin following and making sure nothing untoward happened to the creamed mushrooms.

End