Pippin’s Solution

The situation only grew worse as the next week began. King Elessar had announced that by the end of the week a delegation of Elves from Imladris and Lothlorien would be arriving and that the day after their arrival would be the wedding of himself to Arwen Undomiel, daughter of Elrond. The entire city was a hive of activity as the people of Gondor made ready to receive their new Queen.

It seemed that as the mood of the citizens of the city and it’s environs rose, the heart of Sir Peregrin took sank into gloom and bitterness. Though each time he left the house he was indeed followed, he did not catch the follower. Usually it was Legolas as he was the most stealthy and, if he was caught, truly what would Pippin be able to do to an Elf?

But it was Gimli who came upon Pippin one afternoon. The Dwarf was, as was his habit in the Stone City, looking about at the areas in need of repairs. Which places could be rebuilt? Which should be replaced by something of an improved design.

Gimli was walking along what had been a narrow street but was now mostly in ruins. He looked down at what was there to support new construction. He looked up to see how best to fit the new buildings to the lay of the mountain side. It was a good thing he looked up when and where he did, for there, on the partial remainder of a once pleasant balcony sat Peregrin Took. His legs were dangling over the rough edge where some missile of the enemy’s had smashed through the left half of the building. It didn’t take the trained eyes of the Dwarf to see the cracks running through the slab of stone on which the hobbit was sitting.

Pippin was oblivious to the fact that he had been found. At the moment he was too full of pride for having spotted Legolas following him. As his friends and kin had surmised, Pippin realized there was little to be accomplished in confronting the Elf - so he promptly lost him. Legolas had been more than piqued when he realized Pippin had gotten away from him.

Gimli carefully climbed to stand as near to Pippin’s perch as he dared to get, seeing as he was a good deal heavier than the hobbit.

“I didn’t . . .”

Gimli didn’t get any further on the first try. Pippin jumped in surprise at hearing a voice so close behind him. The lad scrambled back as a bit of the edge crumbled away beneath his legs.

“I didn’t think wee hobbits liked perching like birds,” Gimli said as calmly as he could. “Ya shouldn’t be sittin’ where you’re sitting, young hobbit.”

“Yes. And I shouldn’t take a bath by myself and I shouldn’t go waking around by myself. I managed to lose Legolas, by the way. I should get some sort of medal for that. No easy thing, losing an Elf. I’ll come down off my perch when I’m ready. Go find the Elf. I’m sure he’s lonely.”

What Pippin didn’t know was that Legolas had spotted him earlier, and had gone to get some rope. He now come up beside the Dwarf, motioned to him to say nothing but to keep Pippin talking, while he made a slipknot and loop in one end of the thin Elvish rope he borrowed from Sam.

“Most likely he is, laddie. Doesn’t like being bested does our pointy eared princeling.”

Pippin scowled, though the Elf and Dwarf couldn’t see it. “I would be careful with the comments about pointy ears. I happen to have pointy ears too. So does Merry and Sam and Mr. Ringbearer himself. You need to be nice to the . . .”

Pippin was stopped in mid sentence by the loop of rope dropping over him and his being suddenly jerked away from the edge of the ruined balcony. More of it crumbled away as Pippin was hauled backwards.

Legolas was tempted to carry Pippin back to the house but chose to at least spare Pippin that humiliation. He was given a stern lecture from Merry, Frodo and Gandalf. And to everyone’s surprise, the lad seemed truly contrite. He wept as he apologized.

“I don’t know what’s happening to me,” he sobbed. “I can’t seem to keep my mind on anything, not draughts, nor patience*, nor any books. I feel I’m in prison, even though I am out walking about. That horehound stuff has steadied my stomach, somewhat, but my head still aches and spins. It keeps me awake and gives me strange dreams. I need to get out . . . but I’m not sure out of what, or where. Can I go to sleep?”

Merry and Legolas took their sorrowful friend to his room, helped him change into his night shirt, then Merry lay down beside his cousin as Legolas sang them both to sleep.

For the rest of the day, Pippin seemed calmer. He was less belligerent and his house mates hoped his experience on the edge of the crumbling balcony had frightened him enough to put and end to Pippin’s ill temper.

The next day shattered those hopes.

Sam awoke fairly early, as was his custom. Being the primary cook for the household it simply made good sense that he would be the first person up in the morning. He made his trip to the privy. He washed his face at the basin in his room. He combed his hair and dressed. He knocked on the connecting door between his room and Frodo’s until Frodo responded, told his master he was on his way to make breakfast and headed off to the kitchen.

Sam stopped dead in his tracks in the kitchen doorway.

Pippin sat at the table, bold as you please, drying his hair with a towel. He wore his uniform trousers and the shirt that went under his mail. It was clear from the damp footprints on the flag stones that he had done more than simply wash his hair.

“Eh . . . Good morning, Pippin,” Sam quietly said, still looking at the footprints.

“Yes,” Pippin snapped. He glared at Sam as though daring him to do something with the obvious evidence. “I took a bath . . . all . . . by . . . myself. And, oh look! I didn’t drown.”

Frodo’s head appeared over Sam’s shoulder. He had wondered why Sam was standing in the doorway, until he heard his youngest cousin’s snide voice.

“Hello Frodo!” Pippin said cheerily, but it was cheerfulness with an icy core. “Oh good! You’re gaping too. Whatever shall we do with naughty Pippin, eh?”

Pippin’s voice was loud and it’s high pitch carried. Merry and Gandalf’s heads could now be seen poking around the edges of Frodo, Sam and the door posts. Merry looked over at the wizard who shook his head in return. Frodo edged past Sam to cross over to the opposite side of the table from the glowering Pippin.

“I took a bath. I stumbled into the bathing room as though I’d been on an all night dunk, my head is pounding and I’m puking again.” He slammed his medicine cup on the table. The watchers were all surprised it didn’t shatter.

“Fill it up, Frodo the barkeep! Let’s make Pippin sicker.” The lad laughed in a drunken sort of way. “I read the same paragraph in a book three times last night. Well, I tried to. I kept losing my place.” Pippin began to get weepy. “Let me see. Fits and bad spells.” He gestured with his left hand. “Or sick as a drunken dog.” He gestured with his right hand. It flopped awkwardly on its weak wrist. “Ooo! Forgot about that.!” He flopped his hand in front of Frodo’s face. “Look, Fro! I’m a cripple!”

Frodo’s face darkened causing Pippin to close his mouth and pull back from the edge of the table.

“So am I, Pippin,” Came the steely reply as Frodo held up his right hand. “Quit your whining, Peregrin Took.”

Pippin looked shocked. He opened his mouth to speak but he said nothing. He seemed to wilt in his chair.

“Quit whining as though you’re the only one of us with any problems. You’re not. I’m glad to be alive, Pippin. I’m hopeful that when we get home I’ll be even more glad. You’re alive, Pippin. Quit your whining and start living.”

Pippin sat there, staring at Frodo. Outside, he still looked to be in a state of shock, inside he was in turmoil. The positives and negatives of what seemed to be not only his life but the lives of the others were slamming about inside his already aching head. No matter which way his mind turned, there seemed to be no good answers.

Frodo had poured the morning dose of medicine into the cup and set it quietly, gently, in front of his young cousin.

“Drink it, Pippin.”

As though in a daze, Pippin did as he was told but when he finished he threw the cup at Frodo, hitting him squarely in the center of his forehead.

“Happy now!” Pippin screamed. “Are you all happy now? I took it. I’ll stay sick and worthless. I’ll . . .”

Pippin’s eyes widened. Frodo had put his right hand to his forehead and now blood was dripping over the nub of his missing third finger. All the color drained from Pippin’s face.

“I’m worthless . . .” he breathed. His voice cracked. “I- I’m vile . . . cruel . . . Frodo?” His look pled for forgiveness, but he didn’t wait to see if it would be granted. He once again, as he had done so many times of late, fled down the garden path and out through the small wooden gate.

Sam had already moved to Frodo’s side. Merry was starting for the door before Gandalf grabbed his arm to stop him.

Merry was livid. “Why are you stopping me? He’s out of control. He’ll hurt someone else. He’s turned into some sort of monster.”

“Meriadoc Brandybuck,” Gandalf reproached the hobbit. “It is a good thing your cousin didn’t hear that. He is no monster, no matter what has happened here. Stay here and help Sam tend to Frodo. I will go and speak to Parsow and Aragorn. Under absolutely no circumstances are any of you to try to find Peregrin. I shall see to that.”

Frodo wasn’t as upset as Merry was, feeling he had brought some of it on himself by letting himself get angry with Pippin. Merry and Sam weren’t so sure. Sam in particular felt it was about time they had got tough with the lad. Eventually the cut stopped bleeding and Frodo lay down on the sofa in the parlor to rest. Gimli and Legolas joined Merry and Sam, sitting at the table in the kitchen waiting for the wizard, or someone, to tell them what was happening.

Pippin stumbled erratically down the streets. It was a good thing he had not put his tunic on or he would have been in dire trouble from behaving in such a manner while in uniform.

He needed to think. He needed to hide. He needed to escape.

Something deep inside him took him to the only place in the vast city that reminded him a bit of home.

The stables.

He was, after all, a farmer’s son. He had grown up around the smells and sounds of animals and barns. Pippin stumbled toward a mound of hay at the far end of the stable. Picking up a pitchfork, he stabbed viciously at the hay.

“Horrible! Worthless! Vile! Worthless Took”

He tore at some old harnesses that hung on the wall, dragging them off of their hooks and onto the floor. Then, spying a riding crop, Pippin grabbed it and began hitting himself on the legs and chest.

“They made me get so angry! Why do they want to keep me so sick? Why did I hurt Frodo?”

Eventually, in truth rather more quickly than it seemed to Pippin, he slumped to the wooden floor, exhausted, whimpering and sobbing. Then he heard a horse nicker. Through his tears he saw a white horse’s head turned towards him over the half door of it’s stall.

“Shadowfax?” Pippin mumbled. He had not realized he had gone into the stable that held the magnificent stallion. Pippin stood, but his legs would not hold him and he crumpled to the floor. He crawled over to the white horse’s stall then tried to stand again.

The mighty horse lowered his head and gently nudged the hobbit. Pippin grabbed hold of Shadowfax's mane with his good hand as the horse lifted his head until the lad was standing.

“Thank you,” Pippin sighed then stood for a while, clutching the long coarse hair, as strength seemed to flow from the horse through his hands, into his body and down into his legs. When his legs no longer felt like jelly, Pippin opened the door of the large stall and went in.

He patted and stroked the soft hair of Shadowfax’s neck and twined the fingers of his good hand in and out of his long mane. Oh how he loved the feel and smell of a pony or a horse! He left the stall in search of a brush or two. Finding an awkward, man sized body brush, curry comb, and pocketing a mane comb, he returned to the stall on legs that were once again turning wobbly.

“Want a bit of brushing, Shadowfax?” he asked the horse, who nickered and bobbed his head in return.

Pippin smiled and set to work, brushing as much of the huge horse as he could reach. It was difficult; he couldn’t move very fast, his legs still wobbled, and the brush and comb were too big for his hands. If they hadn’t had leather straps on the back of them it would have been futile, as grooming a horse who was larger than most horses was, in and of itself, harder for any hobbit than grooming a pony back home in the Shire. He brushed the stallion with his left hand, then dragged the body brush through the curry comb that was actually on his right forearm instead of held in his semi-crippled right hand.

After a while his head started to spin and ache till at last Pippin let the brush and comb fall into the deep straw. He leaned against the horse until his head cleared a bit then went over to the manger. With more effort than he knew it should take him, he climbed onto the manger then onto Shadowfax’s broad back. Pippin lay down with his legs hanging down against the horse’s strong, white shoulders and his head resting comfortably on top of his padded rump.

Despite his aching head, he smiled. He knew he looked ridiculous, laying backwards on such a beautiful horse, but he also knew that a horse’s withers were not a soft place to lay one’s head. Pippin relaxed. He breathed in the warm horsey smell. He fell asleep and dreamed a soothing dream of the farm in Whitwell where he had grown up. The most powerful horse in Middle-earth stood quietly, occational nuzzling his small charge’s legs with his gentle velvety muzzle.

Pippin awoke feeling better than he had in a long while. He lay there, enjoying the pleasantness of not feeling ill, thinking about his dream, thinking about the Green Hill country and his childhood on the farm. Eventually, he knew it was time to get down and go back to the house, but he made the mistake of sliding down from his lofty, living bed too quickly. A sharp pain shot through his head when his feet hit the wooden floor beneath the bedding of the stall. The stall spun around him. He stumbled into a clean corner, dropped to his knees and vomited. Eventually, he flopped over onto his side, being careful to avoid the straw he had just soiled.

Pippin lay there a long while. The White Wizard’s mighty horse stood with his head and neck protectively over him. Pippin’s anger flared once more but this time he channeled it into planning. He was tired of feeling so horrible. He was tired of being watched over like a child. He was Pippin Took and Pippin Took had always taken risks. When he finally stood he had a determined gleam in his eyes.

He was finished with the madness. Let them put what they wished into their powders and elixirs. He knew how to use a mortar and pestle. He had helped grind herbs into powders for his mother many times, her being a healer. Peregrin Took had taken the last of those stupid medicines. The next day was the day before the royal wedding and he was determined that on the following day, he would be at Strider’s wedding; sane, well, stable, and happy.

“Thank you, Shadowfax,” he said as he patted the horse and hugged his head. “You’ve done me a great service. Thank you.”

But Shadowfax was the Lord of the Mearas and sensed many things. He knew things were not well with the small one.

Pippin went back to the house, his new plan making him feel more confident than he had for a long time.

Everyone was still sitting at the kitchen table. It provided the right amount of closeness they were all in need of as well as making it easier to drink and nibble at the coffee, tea and scones that Sam had prepared. Dear Sam, he hadn’t been able to sit still. He had mixed and baked the scones, and now had the last tray of gingerbread hobbits baking in the oven. They all looked up anxiously when they hear the gate at the end of the garden open.

Pippin had been following the smell of gingerbread from when he had turned the far corner and started down the small, narrow street that went past the house and its garden. His mouth was watering by the time he came to a stop in the doorway.

Parsow (Gandalf had sent him to the house), Gimli, Legolas, Frodo (with a bandage on his head) and Merry looked at Pippin from their places around the table. Sam stared at him as well as he came over from where he had set the tray of biscuits to stand beside his injured master.

Pippin hung his head. “May I come in?” he quietly asked.

“Do you want to come in?” Frodo, as quietly, replied.

The lad nodded, then, still not looking up at anyone, made his way to the empty chair that was his usual place at the table. He sat down and laid his head on his arms, face to the well scrubbed wood of the table. For several minutes they all sat in silence, then Pippin turned his face to the side so he could be heard.

“I don’t know what I can say that . . . Nothing is going to . . .”

His head came up quickly and he looked straight into Frodo’s eyes.

“Sorry isn’t good enough. Al . . . although I-I mean it, mean it as deeply as I can . . . it really isn’t good enough anymore. I . . . I have to say it so often.” Pippin got up and started pacing, his steps wobbly, his body tense. “I just feel so angry inside. I-it’s like, like I’m on fire with anger. And so I am nasty to everyone. I’m even nasty to myself, but it doesn’t help. It’s like going at a fire with the bellows. It’s gone now. Gone for now.”

He walked over to Frodo and tugged-up his right trouser leg. Frodo’s eyes widened at the sight of the wheals the riding crop had left on Pippin’s leg.

“I hurt myself,” Pippin whispered, sounding hysterical. “I beat myself for you. I-I punished myself for you, though it would have been better if you had beat me. You should have beat me, Frodo. Does it make the ‘I’m sorry, Frodo.’ good enough? Does it? Is it good enough?” He went down on his knees, laid his head on Frodo’s thigh and began stroking his cousin’s knee as he wept and kept muttering, “Is it good enough?”

Revulsion shot through Frodo as, in a flash, Pippin had become Smeagol whimpering and fawning over him. He nearly shoved his cousin off of his leg, but the vision faded as fast as it had come, and his heart broke for the lad weeping on his lap. He ran his fingers through Pippin’s golden brown curls.

“Yes, Pip-lad. It is all good enough, Pip. It’s good enough.”

Sam and Merry had had a clear view of the red welts on Pippin’s leg and it twisted sickening knots in both of their stomachs. A chill ran through Merry’s right arm as his mind kept repeating Pippin’s “I beat myself for you. You should have beat me, Frodo”. Hobbits didn’t beat each other. Oh, there were those few that Merry had heard rumor of, but it was not anything Pippin had experienced. The darkness that sat just at the edge of Merry’s thoughts deepened with the images his mind showed him of his cousins . . . Frodo beating Pippin with a whip as the Orcs had beat them while they were captives.

Eventually, Pippin got up. He washed his face at the kitchen sink, then insisted on helping Sam with afternoon tea, for which Gandalf had returned to the house. He also doted on Frodo, waiting on his every need.

Parsow watched Pippin closely and in general, though the lad didn’t appear to notice, all of them were feeling awkward around him, not knowing when the monster within him would rear it’s head causing him to lash out once more. But Pippin stayed calm all through the evening, taking his medicine without complaint before he went to bed.

That night, when the house was dark and quiet, Peregrin Took crept silently along the passages from his bedroom to the kitchen. He went straight to the cupboard where the herbs for making his medicine were kept. They had already been somewhat crushed and were stored in jars with tight fitting wooden lids. It was a challenge for him to work off the lids with only one strong hand. He had to be careful to use things that didn’t have much of an odor of their own. He left a bit of the real herbs in each jar, to keep the correct odors, but replaced, most of it with parsley, hay he had managed to cut into bits, and dandelion leaves.

Pippin smiled as he tiptoed back to his room. He didn’t think Merry and Sam would really inspect the herbs. They had been given to them by Strider and Parsow and he knew his friend and cousin would trust that they were correct. They would grind them to a fine powder, mix them in the liquid they had been given by the healers, and give it to him.

In the morning, he would take his medicine. In the evening he would take it again. And the day after that.

Yes, he would take his medicine.

A/N: *patience is the British name for the card games Americans call solitaire.