Forcing the Issue

They had been in Minas Tirith for nearly a month when the matter could no longer go unmentioned. Several things happened to make it no longer possible to ignore.

Frodo was fighting his own battle with the guilt Aragorn had feared would assail him. He grew wary of being left alone with Pippin, it pained him so deeply to see the troubles the lad was having with his hand. It was difficult being with Merry and seeing the shadow in his eyes. There were days Frodo even avoided Sam, knowing the horrors through which he had dragged his dear friend.

The darkness of the Black Breath danced around the edges of Merry’s soul. He took his turns serving King Eomer . . . and his turns as a guard standing solemnly at attention beside Theoden’s bier. Mixed with his grief was fear for Pippin’s being able to cope with his handicaps. He knew Frodo had been avoiding all of them at times but wasn’t sure how to help. He had caught Sam hobbling when Frodo wasn’t around.

Sam chafed to go home. Rosie Cotton was in the Shire, not here in this great stone city of Men. He knew when they were home he could settle into his proper place once again with none of this “Ring Bearer” nonsense. Mr. Frodo was the one who deserved title and finery, not him. When they were home everything would be fine; Mr. Merry would loose his haunted look, Mr. Pippin would be well and find his bad hand to not be a problem, Mr. Frodo would be his old self again.

Legolas, Gimli and Gandalf had noticed their small friends were not as cheery as they had been and it was decided that something needed to be done. Though the Wizard wasn’t quite sure of the wisdom in Gimli’s solution, it was the only thing they thought of that would most likely appeal equally well to all four Hobbits.

One evening as they were finishing their dinner, the Dwarf stood. “Well my lads,” he said looking at the four Hobbits. “What would you say to a night away from the house and away from the court? I am inviting you all to my favorite tavern.” He scowled at them from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “And I will not accept ‘No’ for your answer.”

Pippin laughed heartily. “Then we shan’t say no!” It sounded grand to him. Merry had scolded him again earlier in the day and Pip had no real desire to sit about the house with Merry glaring at him all evening. At least at a tavern, his older cousin would be easier to ignore.

Quite unexpectedly, to Pippin, Merry fell into step along side him as they made their way down Minas Tirith’s winding main street.

“I’m sorry for this morning, Pip,” he said, genuine sorrow showing in his voice. “I think I’m . . . well . . .” Merry paused, took a deep breath and continued. “I think I’m letting my grief put me in a sour frame of mind. Let me stand you your first half to make it up to you?”

Pippin felt a tightness he hadn’t noticed was there fade from his shoulders. “Well, thank you, Merry!” He smiled, draping his weak arm around Merry’s shoulders. “Not that it will put you out. You know they won’t let us pay.”

“Why do you think I offered?” Merry teased, receiving a punch on the arm from Pippin.

All was well between them.

The evening was in high spirits already as the group entered the cozy common room of the Tower Tavern. The Companions of the Ring were heartily welcomed and, indeed, never had to show any coin for their drinks or food. At first they all took a turn singing, playing games and telling tales with the regulars, enjoying feeling as though they were simply a part of that evening’s regular patrons.

It was the Wizard and the Elf who first noticed Pippin had moved himself into a corner. He sat barely sipping from his fourth ale. They kept an eye on him.

“Pippin my lad!” Merry called from over by the hearth. “Come and sing. These fine Rohoorim . . . Roha . . . horse riders, need to hear the sweetest voice in the Shire!”

“Bugger off, Merry!” Pippin slurred in response.

Merry looked a bit shocked, then shrugged and turned back to the Rohirrim. After a bit, he looked over at Pippin. He clearly wasn’t having a good time. Merry wondered if it was his fault, seeing as he was with the Riders instead of with Pippin. Perhaps, he thought, he should go sit with his cousin for a bit. But just then Grinhault put an arm around Merry and drew him into the song the Rohirrim were singing.

A bit later, Gimli asked Pippin to try his luck at the shell game. The response he received was a barely intelligible Dwarvish curse.

“I never thought you’d turn that on me, young Hobbit, or I’d not have taught it to you!” He rose, and looked as though he might get rough with the lad. It was a particularly offensive curse and the Dwarf was quite hurt that Pippin had hurled it at him.

“Take no offense, Master Dwarf. I think our lad has had a bit more than is good for him,” Gandalf waved at Gimli to sit as he reached to pat Pippin’s hand. Whatever had got into the hobbit? He had seen Pippin drink before and four ales had never made the lad mean. Peregrin was usually a congenial drunk.

Pippin yanked his hand away, screaming the curse at the Wizard. “Not had too much, ya dotty old bugger! Leave me ‘lone.”

Now Gandalf knew something was very wrong. His brows knit together in concern for Pippin.

The entire tavern went silent. Frodo appeared at Pippin’s side. He whispered into his cousin’s ear.

“No, Fro. I’m no’ being rude. All pickin’ at me. You . . . you too, Fro. All angry a’ me.”

“How many ales?” Frodo mouthed at Legolas.

The Elf held up four fingers.

Frodo’s eyes widened for a moment. Four ales were normally just getting started for Pippin who, along with Merry, had a reputation for doing well at holding his ale.

“Pippin?” Frodo shook the lad a bit.

Pippin nodded his wobbly head.

“I’m not feeling well,” Frodo fibbed. “Would you walk me home?” He had drunk enough that he was light-headed but unlike the rest of the Hobbits, he wasn’t drunk.

“Want me?” Pip slurred. “Don’ wan’ Sammy?”

Frodo thought fast. “It’s dark out and Sam still gets lost easily here. You know the way.”

“Hear tha’,” Pippin said loudly. “Hear tha’, Sir Mer’adoc Bran’y-bastard ‘n Samwide Garden-grubber Ring . . . Ring . . . Person. ‘E wan’s me!” He thumbed his nose at the two wide eyed hobbits he had just insulted, then roughly grabbed Frodo’s arm. “I know t’ way. C’mon Fro-o.”

Frodo walked Pippin out of the tavern with Legolas silently following close behind. The Elf had the feeling Frodo might need some help with his inebriated kin as Pippin’s legs were as unsteady as his speech.

Merry and Sam started to follow. Merry was a little shaky, though Pippin’s insulting outburst had sobered him a bit. Sam was more sober than the Brandybuck, but had passed his usual limit as well. Both of them were worried. This was not the Pippin they were accustomed to. Gandalf reached out and pulled them both over to the table.

“Let them go lads,” the Wizard said in a kindly voice as he smiled. “You have both been having a good time. I’m sure Peregrin will be fine. Let Frodo and Legolas take care of him.”

If they had been more sober themselves, they might have argued with Gandalf, as it was, they nodded and went back to the groups of men they had been with. Gandalf’s smile faded. He was worried about the youngster too. In fact, he was concerned about all of his dear hobbits.

“You wan’ed me, Fro-o,” Pippin kept repeating as they walked slowly up the street. He was now crying and seemed unaware that Legolas had come up and gently taken hold of him under his right arm. “They don’ wan’ me no more, Fro-o. I’m no’ mo’ good. No good. Broke. All bro’en. You wan’ed me, Fro-o”

At the last, Legolas had to pick Peregrin up and carry him the rest of the way to their house. They carefully undressed him, put him into a night shirt and tucked him into his bed. Frodo lingered a moment to kiss his young cousin’s forehead. He sadly wondered what was happening to the lad. He certainly had not been his usual self tonight, not even the usual for a drunk Peregrin Took. Frodo gently brushed a bit of Pip’s sweaty hair off his forehead, then left the room, closing both the door to Merry’s room and the one to the hallway.
*************

Pale moonlight shone through the window as Pippin awoke. He ached all over and his bed seem unusually hard. There was an odd taste in his mouth. He started to sit up, but it made his head swim. He dropped back, bumping his head on something hard. A sharp pain at the back of his head made him come even more awake.

His head felt badly bruised and he suddenly realized he was on the floor.

“Idiot!” he thought. “You haven’t fallen out of bed since you were a wee lad.”

The front of his head didn’t feel right either. His good hand moved up to his left eyebrow. It was sticky and tender to the touch. He must have hit his head on the night table when he fell. That was the odd taste in his mouth; blood. He could barely remember anything after they had arrived at the tavern. He must have got horribly drunk. Pip tried once more to sit up.

It was then that Pippin noticed something else. He felt damp and sticky, as though . . .

Pippin was instantly humiliated. Tears sprang to his eyes. He was wet and he stank. He had apparently lost all control of himself. Never, never before, no matter how drunk he had been, had he ever done such a thing. In fear and frustration he began to tear at the front of his nightshirt. He absolutely would not risk anyone finding him like this and, bad hand or no, he was not going to pull that nightshirt off over his head.

Finally, he tore enough buttons off to slip his shoulders through the opening. He wadded the soiled garment up as best he could, anything to get as little of the mess on the rest of himself as was possible. He made his way unsteadily to the bathing room, gagging as he went. He scrubbed himself for nearly fifteen minutes.

He returned to his room. It stank. He gagged again. After wriggling into a clean nightshirt Pippin picked up the ruined one. What should he do with it? He couldn’t put it in the laundry basket. Burn it? No. It was too wet and besides the smell would be hideous. He finally stuffed it into his chamber pot then returned to the bathing room to wash his hands. Pippin’s head was throbbing and he was nearly asleep on his feet. He would wait until morning to decide how to dispose of the soiled nightshirt. Feeling grateful that he had not pulled the bedding with him when he had fallen out of bed, he collapsed onto his bed and in a few moments was deeply asleep.
*******************************

It was second breakfast by the time Pippin showed his face. He was dressed in a shirt with no buttons and trousers that were held up by the braces, having no buttons and being loose enough for him to take on and off himself as the call of nature may demand. He sat down at his place at the table without a word and started eating the porridge Sam set in front of him. After the events at the tavern, his silence did not seem at all strange to his cousins and Sam. What did seem strange was the cut above Pippin’s left eye.

“What happened to you, Pippin?” Merry exclaimed. Sam turned around to take a closer look at the lad. “Frodo, did that happen to him at the tavern?”

“No, it didn’t.” Frodo looked harder at Pippin who had lowered his head hoping to have his hair better cover the cut over his eyebrow, but Frodo could still see it. “Are you all right, Pippin?”

“Fine,” Pip mumbled around a mouthfull of porridge. He swallowed. “I’m fine. It was there when I woke up. I don’t know what happened. It doesn’t hurt.” He hadn’t looked up as he spoke and now he hastily shoved more porridge into his mouth.

Merry started to ask Pippin another question but suddenly thought it might not be a good idea. Pippin had been touchy enough lately and he obviously didn’t wish to discuss the injury further. He switched his attention to Sam who had been in a bit of a rush getting the meal on the table. “You were a bit late getting second breakfast started, Sam,” Merry said in a teasing tone. “I nearly raided your kitchen to make it myself.”

“And you’d be more than welcome, Mr. Merry, you know that. I had some cleaning to do in the bathing room.”

Pippin choked slightly on his bite of porridge. The cloths and towel he had used to clean up - he had left them laying about in the bathing room. He hoped no one noticed his reaction and would say something. Pippin kept his head down.

Pip didn’t see Sam raising his eyebrows in surprise. His cousins hadn’t noticed either. Sam scowled. He was beginning to think he might know what was going on, and he didn’t like where his thoughts were taking him.

“I think you said you were free of duty today Merry. Is that right?” Frodo asked Merry. “They have a huge herbarium in the library and I thought you would enjoy going with me to see it.”

“That does sound interesting, and yes, Frodo, I’m off duty today. Pour me some more tea, would you, Pip?” Merry held his cup in the general direction of his young cousin, but his attention and eyes were on Frodo. “Do you know if there are any herbs here that will grow as far north as the Shire?”

“I didn’t ask, nor have I seen the collection myself yet.”

Merry nodded and smiled. “I’ll just have to se . . . Ow!” Merry screamed. His overflowing tea cup dropped from his hand to smash upon the table. Pippin was staring blankly as tea still flowed from the pot in his left hand, flowed over the pieces of broken porcelain from Merry’s cup to run off the table’s edge. Then the pot fell from his grasp and smashed.

Pippin looked in wide eyed surprise at the mess. “What? I - I’m s-sorry, Merry. It w-won’t happen again.”

“Sorry! Sorry?” Merry yelled as Pippin shrank back into his chair. “Of course you’re sorry. You’re always sorry. Just like with the stone down the well and the palantir.”

The world froze.

Sam and Frodo stared openmouthed at Merry. They were still staring at him when, after a few moments, Pippin stood and without a word walked out the kitchen door and into the garden. The three in the kitchen barely heard the garden gate slam shut behind him.