A/N: This chapter represents the end of the material I accumulated on my train trip in February, so posting will unfortunately slow down until my next trip in July.  I hope to get out one more chapter between now and then, but it’s possible I won’t manage it.  On the plus side, this chapter is about 30% longer than the last few have been.  :)  Thanks again for all your wonderful reviews (they really do motivate me) and your patience. 

8. Pippin the Grey

It was late afternoon when Frodo and Pippin heard a soft tapping at the door.  They looked up to see May at the door. 

She smiled at them.  “I hope you’re feelin’ better, Mr. Frodo.  Dr. Hornblower has come.”

May stepped back so the doctor could enter.

“And how are we this afternoon, young fellow?” Dr. Hornblower said to Frodo, setting his bag on the dresser.

“We’re bored out of our heads and could do with some fresh air,” Frodo said hopefully.

The doctor laughed and began removing Frodo’s bandages.  “We’ll see, Frodo.  Is he behaving himself, Pippin-lad?”

“Well, he squirms a lot,” Pippin reported honestly.  “And he keeps muttering about going down to Bagshot Row, or out to the kitchen, but then I glare at him and he stops it.”

Frodo grimaced, for Pippin’s account was fairly accurate.

“Hm,” said Dr. Hornblower.  “I’m afraid he’ll be pretty grouchy the next couple of days.  These burns are probably getting more uncomfortable, eh Frodo?”

Frodo nodded, surprised.  “I thought I was imagining it,” he said, trying not to rub at the raw skin on his left arm.

The white-haired doctor shook his head.  “The way it works with a burn sometimes is that at first the aspects of the skin that give you sensation are damaged, so the pain is somewhat dulled.  As the skin heals, you gradually regain sensation.  The healing process can, unfortunately, be quite painful, but the salve I left you yesterday will help to numb the pain.  Make sure you put it on twice a day—have someone help you with the areas that are hard to reach—and cover your burns with clean bandages.  And put it on thick, mind.  Whoever did it last—Merry, I assume—didn’t put on enough.  Make sure you tell him that.”

The whole time Dr. Hornblower spoke, he bustled about Frodo’s bed, inspecting the burns, applying fresh salve and new bandages while Pippin watched, wide-eyed.

“Now, I can hear that your voice is better,” Dr. Hornblower went on, “but open your mouth and let me have a look.”

Frodo reluctantly opened his mouth, and let the doctor turn him to face the light so he could see better.

“Hm,” said the doctor again.  “Still inflamed, but improving.”  He pressed an ear to Frodo’s chest, listening as he breathed.  “Have you felt dizzy since last night?  Short of breath?”

“No, I don’t think so,” said Frodo.  Although he would have to stand up and move about to know for sure.

“Probably your lungs are all right, then.  They sound fine, at least.  That’s the greatest concern.  I’ve brought you more salve—you’ve cleaned me out, young fellow!  I shall rebuild my stock tomorrow, and call again the day after to check on your progress.  Will that suit?”

“Oh, yes,” said Frodo.  “But what about my feet?  Can I move about now?”

The doctor shook his head sympathetically.  “You must be careful, Frodo.  You can’t yet feel the full extent of the damage to your feet.  You will increase the damage without realizing, if you put too much weight on your feet.”  He thought for a moment as he packed up his bag.  “You can be out of bed, and as active as you like while sitting down, but you’d best see that you aren’t on your feet for more than a few moments at a time, at least till I come back.”

Frodo sighed.  “Well, all right.  Thank you kindly for your trouble, Dr. Hornblower.”

“Always a pleasure, lad,” he nodded at Frodo.  “Keep up the good work, Pippin!” he added with a wink as he went out the door, ruffling Pippin’s hair on the way.

Frodo sat back and thought about the situation.  “It would be so much more bearable,” he mused aloud, “if only I could do my convalescing in the sitting room, where I can see everyone and not be shut away like an invalid.  And maybe I could be of some use, even if it’s only peeling taters for supper.”

 “Now, Frodo, I’ve promised to keep you off your feet,” Pippin reminded him, watching uneasily.  “If you wait till everyone is back, maybe Sam will fetch one of the neighbours to carry you to the sitting room…”

Frodo smiled.  “We’re not waiting till then, Pip.”

“We’re not?”

“No.  Help me down to the floor, Pippin-lad.”

“The floor?” Pippin repeated blankly.

“Yes, the floor,” Frodo said firmly.  “My hands and knees aren’t burnt, are they?”

Pippin looked at him doubtfully, as though he was sure this was a bad idea, but couldn’t pinpoint why.  But he automatically reached out to help Frodo lower himself to the floor on his knees.

Frodo sat on his knees for a moment, then brought both hands to the floor and began to crawl for the door.  He was glad no one but Pippin was there to witness this undignified locomotion.

Crawling on carpet was comfortable enough, he decided as he made his way slowly down the hall to the sitting room.  He had to pass several guest rooms, a parlour, dining room, kitchen, and pantry to get there, but he was determined.

Pippin followed along gamely enough.  “Are you sure this is all right, Frodo?” he asked anxiously when Frodo stopped for the second time to catch his breath.

“Almost there, Pippin-lad,” Frodo said, trying to sound energetic.  In truth he was wondering the same thing; he could not seem to catch his breath, and the distance from his bedroom to the sitting room had never seemed so great.  Frodo leaned against the wall and sighed.  “Just a quick break,” he said in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

Pippin sat down beside him, watching doubtfully.  “Do you want me to get you anything, Frodo?” he asked after a long silence.

Frodo shook his head.  “No, I’m ready to resume our journey.”  He got back to his hands and knees and felt rather suddenly unwell, his vision going gray at the edges.  “On second thought…” he slumped back against the wall and squeezed his eyes shut.

“Frodo?”  Pippin sounded worried now.

Frodo laughed weakly.  “You know, this reminds me of when I was close to your age, Pippin.  When I first came to Bag End, I was so excited to be living with Bilbo, I liked to sneak through these halls, pretending I was Bilbo on his adventure.”

Pippin smiled, distracted as Frodo had hoped.  “Ooh, can I be Gandalf?” he said.

“Absolutely,” Frodo smiled.  “I’ll be Bilbo again, and we’re off to find a dragon’s treasure.”

They played the game for a little while, imagining what they were doing and what danger lurked around the next turn in the hallway.

Frodo by this time had recovered his breath, and indicated to Pippin that they would continue. 

“You look very pale, Frodo,” Pippin observed after Frodo sat up.  “If I was really Gandalf, I would magic you back to your bed.”

“Nonsense, Gandalf, I feel hale and hearty,” Frodo retorted with a smile, for the light-headedness soon passed, and he was able to continue his crawl to the sitting room.

They were almost at their destination, with only one more corner to turn, when they heard a rustle in the sitting room.

“Halt!” Pippin cried, springing forward with his imaginary staff held before him.  “Friend or foe?”

“Friend, I promise!” gasped a startled Marigold.  “Mr. Frodo, whatever are you doin’ down there?”

Frodo sat up on his knees to address the young lass from a relatively more decorous position.  “Ah—I thought I’d like to spend the evening in the sitting room, you see.”

Marigold’s eyes narrowed.  “And you’re still not s’posed to walk, are you, Mr. Frodo?”

“No, he’s not,” Pippin broke in, “and he wouldn’t listen to me, even though I am Gandalf, mightiest wizard that ever lived!”  He brandished his imaginary staff.

Marigold laughed.  “Well, you’re almost there, I reckon you might as well come in.”

She helped Frodo very awkwardly maneuver into his favourite easy chair and brought a stool so he could put up his feet.

When Frodo had his wits about him again, he asked Marigold what she was doing.

“Why, I thought I’d start supper, as it’s nearly time, and I expect everyone is famished,” Marigold replied.  “I was just goin’ to your cellar to get some taters.”

Frodo finally had his opportunity to do something.  “Excellent!  Won’t you bring them to me after you’ve washed them?  The least I could do is peel some for you.”

“No, the least you could do is sit there an’ rest like you’re supposed to,” she said pertly, then smiled.  “But I suppose that would be all right.  With Gandalf’s permission, of course.”

Pippin nodded regally.  “You may proceed,” he said.

It was a rather dusty but cheerful group of hobbits who gathered around the supper table at Bag End that night.  Most of the able-bodied folk in the surrounding area who hadn’t gone to the Fair had turned up to help, bringing clean rags and wash buckets to clean the thick layer of soot that covered the interior of Number 3, Bagshot Row.  The Gamgee lasses had washed every scrap of fabric that could be washed, for everything smelled of smoke.  The next day they would get to work repairing the damaged wall in Sam and Hal’s room and refilling all the mattresses. 

Sam accepted the basket of bread Marigold passed him and generously buttered a slice.  With any luck they would be back in their own beds and out of Frodo’s hair by tomorrow night.  This was good in the sense that they wouldn’t be imposing anymore, but bad in the sense that Sam found he liked staying in Bag End and being able to help his master.

He was pleased to see Frodo up and about, although he still looked too pale for the young gardener’s liking.  Frodo made light of it, but Sam knew that folks who spent too long breathing the fumes of an enclosed fire, as Frodo had, often suffered illnesses, and sometimes even death, weeks or months after the fact.

“What are you mulling over, Sam?”

Sam looked up in surprise to find Frodo regarding him curiously from across the table.

“Why, not much to speak of, sir,” he replied.

“It’s just you’re tearing that bread to pieces as though it had done you an injury,” Frodo pointed out, amused.

Sam looked down to find that he had indeed.  “Oh…”

“Maybe ‘e likes it in bite-size pieces, like Petunia,” Hob suggested.

Daisy smirked.  “It’s been a few years since Sam needed his food cutting up for him.”

“Really?  How many?” asked Hob.

“At least two years,” said Marigold before Sam could answer.

“Oh yes, it was the summer he first learned to dress himself,” Daisy said nostalgically.

Hob eyed him scornfully.  “Really?  Cuz I can almost dress myself already, and you’re way older’n me.”

Sam sighed.  “They’re just teasing you, Hob.”

“Actually, we’re just teasing you,” Marigold told Sam with an impish grin.

“Poor Sam,” Pippin said sympathetically.  “I’ll bet you’re looking forward to getting your brother back again.  I know what it’s like to have nothin’ but sisters.”

Sam choked back a laugh as Frodo commented, “I always thought your sisters were very nice, Pippin.”

Merry leaned over to ruffle Pippin’s hair.  “That’s because they never tried to make you join their tea parties or weave flowers into your hair,” he told Frodo with a smirk.

“And just last week, Pervinca made me try on her new apron.  It was trimmed with lace!  I looked so silly,” Pippin added indignantly, not understanding why everyone else laughed. 

“Well, Halfred will soon return to protect you from sisterly teasing, Sam,” Frodo said.

“Divide their attention, anyway,” Sam muttered.

“But Pippin will have to go back to Tookland, and it wouldn’t surprise me if his sisters brought back all manner of lacy things from the Fair,” Frodo added with a twinkle in his eye.

“Oh no,” Pippin groaned, but Daisy, May, and Marigold were nodding.

“I hear lace-trimmed hats are very fashionable this year, and that’s a fact,” Daisy commented, bouncing little Petunia on her knee.

“Aye, and don’t forget bows,” Marigold said excitedly.  “I saw Estella Bolger in town t’other day with a lovely sash tied in a big bow round her waist, and you know Miss Bolger’s always real fashionable.”

This started the lasses on a discussion about fashion, for although they led simple lives they were as interested in the topic as any young lady from a well-to-do family.

Frodo, Sam, Merry, and Pippin exchanged dismayed looks.

“May I please be excused, Mr. Frodo?” Hob piped up, clearly having grown bored long ago.

“I think we can all be excused at this point,” Frodo said drily. 

“Come, Pippin, let’s you and I do the dishes,” Merry said.

“Shall I come help you, Mr. Merry?” Sam asked uncertainly.

Merry shook his head.  “No, thank you, Sam.  You can stay out here and keep Frodo company, if you like.”

Sam nodded politely at Merry, impressed again with how willingly the other lad had assumed responsibility.  Just a few days ago he would have been shocked to hear Merry speak to him in such a friendly manner, let alone insist on helping with chores.  Frodo had been right about Merry, Sam realized; Frodo had seen past the surly attitude and temper tantrums to the potential that was always there.  And, Sam acknowledged guiltily, he himself bore part of the blame for the recently frosty relationship between himself and Merry.  He had jumped to conclusions; he had not tried to give Merry the benefit of the doubt as Frodo did. 

But there could be no doubt that Merry was rising to the occasion.  Apart from cheerfully helping with menial chores—Sam remembered Merry joking with Daisy as he helped wash the Gamgee quilts that afternoon—Merry was supervising the household, playing host, taking the burden off Frodo, for which Sam was grateful. 

He pondered this as he helped Frodo to the sitting room.  His master still looked pale and wan, but Frodo clearly knew he could rely on Merry and did not seem unduly worried about anything.

“I’ll just fetch the salve and change your bandages then, shall I, sir?” Sam said once Frodo was settled with his feet up on a stool.

Frodo fidgeted, clearly uncomfortable having Sam do such a personal thing for him.  But Sam carried on without waiting for a response, coming back into the room with the bandages and things he had helped Merry use earlier.  Fortunately Frodo was too tired to protest much, and Sam soon had the old bandages off.

“Ouch, your poor feet,” Sam murmured when he got his first good look at the damage.  He felt rather presumptuous but it needed to be done.  He opened the jar of salve and went to work, gently applying it to every burned area he could see.

Frodo flinched occasionally but otherwise made no movement.  When Sam finished tying off the bandage he was working on he looked up.

“How are ye feeling, Mr. Frodo?” he asked.  Frodo had gone very pale and was clutching at the upholstery.

Frodo swallowed and opened his eyes.  “I’m all right, Sam,” he said with a shaky smile.

Sam looked at him sympathetically, knowing such burns must be abominably painful.  “Is there anything else I can do, or get for you, Mr. Frodo?”

“No, thank you.”  Frodo shook his dark head. “Won’t you sit down, Sam?”

Sam hesitated, wondering if he should help in the kitchen.  But Merry had said he should keep Frodo company, so he settled himself on a nearby chair with a well-worn wooden back.  It was a good thing Frodo didn’t sit in the good parlor very often; that’s where Bilbo’s fine furniture was kept, and Sam didn’t think he would ever be comfortable on one of those elegant chairs, even assuming Frodo asked him to sit down.

“We’re all done!” pronounced Pippin, coming in from the kitchen with soapy hands a little while later.

Merry followed, wiping his hands on a dish towel.  “Aren’t we forgetting something, Pip?” he said pointedly, tossing the damp towel at Pippin.  It landed on his curly head.

“Hey!” Pippin exclaimed, slightly muffled.  “Gandalf needs no dish towel,” he added with great disdain, and turned to wave his soapy hands in Merry’s direction.

Merry sputtered and proceeded to tickle Pippin, who squealed and ran to hide behind Frodo’s chair.

“Actually, I seem to recall he, as in the real Gandalf, did use a dish towel,” Merry said.

“When?” Pippin popped up to challenge him.

“At Cousin Bilbo’s long-expected party.  Remember when he had us doing dishes for nicking his fireworks?”

“Yes,” Pippin said from behind the chair.

“And you dropped a stack of dishes in the water and it splashed him?” Merry continued.  “I definitely saw him reach for a dish towel then.”

“Oh yes,” Pippin said, standing up.  “I was afraid he would turn me into a toad!  But he didn’t.”  He finally took the towel off his head and wiped his hands.

Frodo laughed.  “Come and sit by me, Great Wizard,” he said, patting his arm rest.  “I was hoping I could persuade you to read us all a story.”

Later that evening, after the little ones had been put to sleep, Merry bumped into Sam in the hall. 

“Hob and Petunia asleep?” he asked in a low voice.

“Aye,” replied Sam.  “Marigold and I just tucked ‘em in.  They were worn out by all the doings today, and that’s a fact.”

“Good,” Merry said.  “Well, I’ll bid you good night, Sam.”  He turned to go, but paused when Sam touched his sleeve hesitantly.

“I just wanted to say thankee, Mr. Merry, for all you’re doin’ for us.  The lasses and I are real grateful to ye.”

Merry was momentarily startled; it had been awhile since anyone had singled him out for doing something right.  “Maybe my Dad was right after all,” he mused, and gave a half smile.  “Frodo is a good influence on me.”

“Sir?”  Sam looked puzzled. 

Merry shook his head.  “Listen, I owe you an apology.  You and Frodo both, but especially you.  I’ve been a real ninny to everyone lately and I have no excuse for it.  I wasn’t there when Frodo needed me, but I’m sure as sherbet going to make his friends at home when he isn’t able to.”  Merry knew he was colouring and he couldn’t bring himself to meet Sam’s frank gaze.

After what seemed to Merry like an interminable pause, Sam said “I reckon we have more in common than ye think, Mr. Merry.”

“Oh?” Merry said.

“Aye, we both want to be there when Mr. Frodo needs us.”  Sam was smiling slightly when Merry looked up.  “And I accept your apology, thankee, sir.”

Merry grinned, pleased.  “As we are of one mind, would you do me the honour of helping me convince Frodo to go to bed before he exhausts himself?”

Sam inclined his head.  “That I would, Mr. Merry. That I would.”

TBC… likely in July 2012.