Little One
Summary: After waiting in the cold for Frodo and Merry, Pippin ends up with 'scarlette fever'. Frodo and Merry remain determinedly by his bedside, fearing he may die. Soppy, hopefully emotional. Basically writing practise for me.
Author's Note: This is my first fic, and basically letting my imagination run lose, really. I don't think that the symptoms Pippin has are the same as what a person suffering Scarlette Fever would really have, but hey. It's really just a name for his illness, which I admit, I learnt of in Little Women. Pippin's 'Great Aunt Flo' is an invention of mine, she's not really a relation of his. Well, she might be, I haven't looked at his family tree in some time, but the point is, I invented her for the purpose of this story. Please r&r
I obviously do not own Tolkien of any of the characters save Malta and Aunt Flo.
Pippin kicked at a pile of snow glumly, hugging his arms to his chest, shivering. The sky was growing dark, and he had been waiting by the farm's gate for over an hour. He climbed upon the sodden wodden railing to sit, tightening the warm scarf around his neck. Frodo and Merry had promised to arrive by four o'clock.
He had been eagerly awaiting their arrival for days now, and no doubt driving his sister's mad with his constant expectant chattering, but four o'clock had come and gone. By five Eglantine was tired of his whining, and pleads, and had allowed him to walk to the farthest fence: by the edge of the woods, to wait for them. It was now well past six, and still his cousin's had not come.
He blew air out the sides of his mouth, rubbing his cold hands together miserably. He knew his mother would order him to come home, had she been there, but she would still be preparing supper, and he wanted to wait as long as possible. It had been far too long since he had last spent time with Frodo: at least a few months. Merry he saw often enough, but he never grew tired of his friend's company.
He felt wet drops upon his face suddenly, and glanced up: starting slightly as he saw white specks falling about him. He sighed. More snow. He rubbed his freezing hands, supposing he really ought to head for home. Merry and Frodo knew their way.
He wished he had thought to wear his woolen jacket. Pearl had offered him her own, large furry coat, but he had declined, not wanting to look foolish in front of his cousins. He fondled his scarf again, smiling vaguely. Merry had given it to him years ago, as a 'bribe' for staying with his great aunt Flo for a week. Flo smelt like burnt vegetables, and was always making him bright woolen jumpers, at least three sizes to big or small. And her hole was always cold.
He abruptly noticed how cold he was: his breeches and jacket were damp, and clinging to his cold skin. His chest felt tight, and his eyes were stinging: they were probably red from the biting snow. Breathing seemed to burn his throat and nose.
Hacking coughs suddenly wracked his body, and he slid off the fence post, kneeling in the snow. He gasped for breath, shivering. Maybe it is time to go home. He waited for the coughs to cease before standing, but he found his knees buckled, and for some time he stood clinging to the fence. He felt drained: he wondered if he would even make it back to the hole just yet. He coughed again, and trembled, sinking again to his knees. He groaned, head spinning.
Perhaps... perhaps it would not hurt to sit down for a while... lean against the cool fence post... just as long as he did not fall asleep...
......................................................................................................................
"Bloody Julian." Merry growled. Frodo nodded, too angry to tell his companion to watch his language. He tapped Malta's side, and the golden coloured pony lurched into a fast trot, finding smooth paths through the snow. He sensed Merry urging his own pony, Stepper, to do the same. They both felt guilty, to have kept Pippin waiting so long.
Over two hours ago had they been due in Tookborough. "Do you suppose the filthy- knew we were in a hurry?" called Merry, restraining himself just in time, but Frodo heard the bite in his voice. He nodded again, cursing under his breath.
"Probably." He replied, folding his cold hands under his coat. Trust Julian to appear at just the wrong moment. They had already been delayed, when Merry's original choice in ponies, Thiasco, as his name predicted, had stumbled and hurt his leg. It would be alright in time, but they did not have any to spare. They had wanted to be in Tookborough before the snow storm hit, and that was a matter of hours away. It was lucky that Stepper had been stabled nearby, and after a quick inspection of Thiasco, they had been on their way, leaving the stable- hobbits to tend to the pony. Frodo had generously compensated him, mind. All Merry had to offer was a few stones and thin copper coins, of little value.
But then they had run into Julian, barring their way out of the town. He had pleadingly begged their assistance, telling them that his beloved younger brother had become caught in old fishing lines down by the pond. In a moment Frodo relived over in his head, he had believed the lying brat and cantered Malta a full quatre-hour back in the opposite direction, with Merry in tow, only to find the pond completely empty of any living thing save fish, and Julian's brother asleep in the small hay barn nearby.
Now they were horribly late, complete with horrible bad tempers.
"Poor Pippin... I promised him we would be there at four." Muttered Merry at his side, squinting ahead at their path; judging the distance to the farm. Frodo knew their young cousin would be disappointed, but hopefully he would not mind their delay if he stayed a few extra days. He saw not nearly enough of Pippin of late.
"I think he'll forgive us after time." Said Frodo dryly, glancing at his cousin. Merry had a habbit of over-compensating when it came to Pippin. Merry was no doubt thinking the same of Frodo, however.
Malta nickered abruptly, and slowed, pawing at the ground. Frodo rubbed a hand along her neck: at Frodo's request of an Elvish name, Bilbo had christened the filly Malta, meaning golden. She rarely spooked, even when it snowed.
"What is it, Malta?" he muttered, straining his eyes to peer ahead. Merry slowed Stepper too, looking uncomfortably at his cousin.
"What do you think it is?" Frodo shrugged.
"It could be just the cold wind... or perhaps a bird." All the same, he squinted ahead vainly, and listened out. Abruptly he noticed a dark smudge in the snow ahead: it was lying just below what seemed to be the fence posts, lining the borders of the Took's land. It was not moving, but Frodo could not make out what it was. It did not appear to be a rock, and it was too far into winter to be a plant.
"What is... Merry, stay here." Merry scowled, but all the same, Stepper slowed further to a halt, and his cousin straightened in the saddle, looking forwards apprehensively. Frodo urged Malta on, clutching at a large branch he had earlier plucked from the ground. As he approached, he suddenly realised what he was looking at, and he felt his heart skip a beat. He felt the colour drain from his face.
"Oh, no..." He all but fell of Malta in his hurry to the ground, and darted to the hobbit's side, pulling him out of the snow. "Pippin!" His cousin's young face was white, lips and eyelids tinged blue. He did not respond to Frodo's gentle shaking: simply slumped in Frodo's arms.
"Pippin!" gasped Merry, scrambling down from Stepper's back to rush to his side. "Pip! No, Frodo he's not dead, is he? He can't be. Is he alright-"
"Hush, Merry." Muttered Frodo, tearing open Pippin's coat, and laying an ear upon Pippin's chest. Faintly he heard his heart beat, and his chest was rising and falling ever so slightly. He let out a sigh of relief, but it was not much of a comfort. "He's alive." He announced at length. "But not very well."
Merry didn't respond: he was kneeling by Pippin's head, gingerly rubbing his cousin's colourless cheeks. Frodo forced himself to think straight: it was no good to sit here in the snow and watch as Pippin grew worse. He lifted Pippin up into his arms, and staggered to his feet, hastily pulling off his cousin's soaking jacket. He slipped out of his own clumsily, and wrapped it around Pippin's limp form tightly. He looked down at Merry measuringly, and took a deep breath, preparing for the argument.
"Merry, quickly: ride ahead and tell Paladin to get a fire started, and warm blankets." Merry looked at him, horrified.
"I'm not leaving him-"
"Merry, I don't have time to argue." Cut in Frodo quickly, lifting Pippin onto Malta's saddle, holding him up carefully. "We won't far behind, but I can't gallop with Pippin in front of me. Please, I'll look after him." Merry put a foot in Stepper's stirrup, but gazed at Pippin miserably.
"But-"
"Merry, for Pippin's sake, you have to do this. Please?" Merry still seemed reluctant. "Merry, it will take you all of five minutes to get there, and we will be ten at the most. Please, go. Now!" Merry hesitated momentarily before clambouring up upon Stepper's back, and immediately kicking the pony into a gallop.
Frodo sighed and hurried up onto Malta, wrapping his arms around Pippin and tapping the pony into a brisk trot. He felt his eyes stinging, and angrily pushed his fears to the back of his mind. He was furious at himself now: how could he have believed that lying runt Julian? Now Pippin was sitting less than half-alive before him, and it was all his fault.
Pippin stirred slightly, and coughed weakly: Frodo grimaced, as his cold body trembled. "Pippin? Pip? Can you hear me?" Pippin nodded numbly, eyelids fluttering open.
"...Frodo?" he murmured. Frodo felt like crying in relief.
"Oh, Pip... are you alright?" Pippin didn't answer, coughing painfully. "Of course you're not. Pippin, I am so sorry we were so late. It..." Pippin disliked Julian as much as he did, but somehow he doubted that the little hobbit was taking in much of what he said. There was little point in blaming Julian, just yet, in any case. Pippin grimaced, and let his head fall back against Frodo's chest, breathing raggedly.
"Why did you stay out here, silly?" scolded Frodo gently. "Weren't you cold, little one?" Pippin snorted, but it may have been indignation at his old nickname. The rest of the way was travelled in tense silence, after Pippin slipped further towards oblivion. Frodo spurred Malta into a slow canter, but he began to fear even a gallop would not get Pippin inside and warm in time.