Disclaimer: Don't own it, never will.
A/N: Forgive me.
Chapter 18
THE CHILD
Morgainne turned from the path long before she came upon Legolas, her mind too full of turmoil to face him or any other for that matter. If truth were told she couldn't decide if she wanted to cry or lash out. Lashing out at herself would have been all the better, though she feared if she saw another she would hurt them, not herself.
She needed to be by herself, to think, to sort.
The she-elf wandered the woods for what seemed only several moments but was far longer, for Morgainne saw that the sun had reached its zenith and was now slowly sinking in the West. It was only then that she heard the yell. At first it was soft, far away, and she discarded it, too preoccupied with her own thoughts to take any notice of the trivial matters of others. After a time, though, it came louder and she soon caught something specific in the cry--her name.
Morgainne glanced around, located the direction in which the noise came and determined the owner of that voice. The elf scowled, shook her head.
Can he not take a hint? Men are all the same, whether old, young, dwarf, elf, man or hobbit. Let me be, will you? Let me be.
But the shouts continued, grew stronger and more urgent until Morgainne frowned in worry.
This isn't like him . . . She bit her bottom lip. Something's wrong.
And she ran to find him.
* * * * *
He couldn't tell how long he had been in the black plane but for all the times he convinced himself that it wasn't long at all, he had the unnerving sense that he had always been there.
At Apryl's request he had stayed in the same spot, holding back the urge to run fast and far so that she might be able to find him. That is all that kept him from moving--her seeking him out. He would have given anything to find her, to not be alone in this wretched world.
"Pip!"
Pippin jumped and turned around. He had heard his name both in his head, as before, and echoing throughout the blackened world. Feverishly he looked all around, straining his already sharp sight for any sign of her.
"Over here," she cried and, indeed, there she was running across the ash-covered land, stumbling, barely managing her feet, but running to him nonetheless. With a cry, Pippin dashed off toward her.
They ran into each other rather than to each other, landing in an unceremonious heap upon the ground. Neither cared, though, for both were too relieved to see the other. Fear, as cold and as hard as lead in the pit of their stomachs, had whispered dark terrors of never seeing another living being again. They had proved this Otherworld false, though, and had found the other.
Apryl was crying. She reached over and grasped his hand and when he pulled her close, they embraced and neither let go of the other for many long moments. Eventually, reluctantly, Apryl pushed away and peered intently at Peregrin's small form. "Are you well?" she asked finally, breathlessly.
"Aye," he nodded, looking her up and down just as intently. "You?"
She nodded. "I'll live." Suddenly, she frowned and reaching out, touched his face.
"What is it?" he asked, worried.
Her eyes were wide, luminous, seeming to reflect the entire land with a much more appealing glow. But her face was dark, saddened. "Your face . . ." she whispered.
Pippin pulled away from her touch, turned away "I know--"
"I'm so sorry, Pip," she mourned. "So very sorry . . . ."
Peregrin Took awakened in the same room of the same House he had fallen asleep within only so long before, but for some odd reason, he felt different. He felt worse than before, laden down with some unseen force. What it was, though, he could not say.
"Morning, Cousin," came an annoyingly cheerful voice. "Or Afternoon, should I say?"
Pippin spied Merry seated in a chair that was both too big and too tall for the likes of any hobbit and made his cousin seem amusingly childish. It fit Merry perfectly.
"Go 'way, Merry," Pippin slurred sleepily. He peered about him, noting with delight that the fire roared in its hearth, banishing any chill that had earlier lingered in the room. However, the fire had a difficult time dispelling the one that resided in Pippin's body. Oddly, he was quiet chill. He wished he might get up and warm his hands by the fire but he realized after trying to do just that that his body had other ideas. Ideas about doing absolutely nothing.
"Easy there, Pip," Merry said soothingly, seeing his cousin struggling weakly to sit up. "You've been gone for a little over two days."
"Two days?" Pippin asked weakly, peering at his cousin in bleary-eyed wonder.
Merry nodded. "Your fever came back. You were in and out often enough but after a time we couldn't get you back." The older hobbit's eyes were overshadowed and Pippin could easily detect the note of fear in his cousin's voice.
Pippin managed a shaky smile. "As good as ever, now, Merry. I feel like I could take on an entire army of those Black Riders."
Merry looked at his cousin skeptically.
"Mind, a very small army. More like a imaginary one, say?"
Merry grinned. "Yes, lets." The hobbit shook his head of light curls. "How do you fare, Pip?"
"Well enough. Tired, I'd say, but none the worse for the wear. Where are the others? Cousin Frodo and Sam?"
"There around," Merry assured him. "I'd say they're with Gandalf, getting underfoot, no doubt."
"Oh, aye?" Pippin said, mildly curious. "And what is old Gandalf up to, aside from being his usual irritable self."
Merry could merely smile at his cousin's antics. "Attending to Apryl I should imagine. They haven't been able to rouse her either." The hobbit frowned. "Not since Frodo found her near the pool."
"The pool?" Pippin said, confused. "Why, what happened at the pool? Is she well? What's happened? Tell me."
Merry shushed his cousin. "Calm down, Pip, she's alright. Sam had an unlikely spill into the water and she jumped in after him, that's all."
"Well, then, what's wrong?" Pippin demanded.
Merry shrugged, though inwardly he was fretting almost as much as Pippin. "She caught a slight chill. She should be well by now. In fact, Gandalf's not all that certain as to why she hasn't awoken already--" Merry cut off suddenly, realizing what he said and the way it must have sounded. He hadn't meant to upset his cousin but he obviously had. "I didn't mean--" he began, trying to correct his error. "Pippin, stop that! Lie back down," he demanded but Pippin would have none of it and he struggled to a sitting position before the world flashed bright and then rapidly went dark. He reached out wildly as the world began to spin and Merry caught hold and grasped his younger cousin. "Stop this," he hissed, holding Pippin, who was gasping in breathless fits. "Calm down, Pip, just calm down now. There's no need to get upset. What do you expect to do? Gandalf's already there and if anyone can do ought he can. You know that as well as I."
Pippin clutched Merry by the arm, his eyes wide and searching, filled with terror, for he could see naught save the blackness . . . and that terrible world of shadow.
Not again! he pleaded. Never again. Merry, help me! Don't let it come, don't let me go!
"Pippin," Merry said, his voice laced with concern. "Shh, Pip, shh, I'm here. Don't cry, don't cry. I'm here. Shh."
The shadows slowly faded, overtaken by the brightness, and the world--the real world--returned.
"Merry," Pippin sobbed into his cousin's tunic, "Oh, Merry, I left her. I left her all alone . . . all alone . . . ."
* * * * *
She did not wake up.
One would think it odd at the way the House grieved, if they did not understand, and indeed many did not. The dwarves thought it curious that so many would mourn for one small human child, only one saying naught but remembering the dinner only so many nights before. The humans muttered among their kind that elves were truly a queer folk, only one voicing this so much louder than his fellows.
None, however, seemed to note the peculiar little halflings, who mourned as much, if not more, than those tall, serene Elvish folk, each in their own way. Sam, the stouthearted little hobbit that was most protective of his master, could be seen wandering the gardens, fidgeting, talking to himself or the flowers, none knew which. He would say little to others, save the occasional mutter beneath his breath and savage shake of his head.
Pippin slept fitfully and often, crying out, moaning, tossing and turning. None could do ought to comfort him, not even quite, bright-eyed Merry, who sat beside his cousin all through the terrors of the younger's dreams. He'd hold Pippin's hand tight, brush his curls aside, and cry silently at his side. It could not be told for whom he cried, his cousin or the girl, or perhaps both.
And the Ring-Bearer, he who spoke little, save to comfort or reassure when he himself was in so much pain, sat beside her bed in such a way as to just be there should she need him. He did not say ought, did not move, save to reach out as if to take her hand in his own but faltered always at the last, snatch his hand away and set it, trembling, upon his lap.
He did not so much as look up when Morgainne came into the room, looking, pacing, talking, crying. The she-elf ranted and raved, cried and cursed, and finally laid down upon the bed beside Apryl. Just laid there. Just laid there and . . . .
Wake up, Apryl, wake up. I'm so sorry, so terribly, terribly sorry. Do not leave me. You can't, you can't, you can't. I won't let you, can't let you! Can't!
But no matter what anyone did, no matter how much they mourned, how much they hoped, she did not wake.
Two days after Pippin woke, four days after Sam had almost drowned, Morgainne started awake from the dead of night and looked across the bed to her hand, which rested upon Apryl's arm. Her friend was still, cold to the touch. Morgainne felt for a pulse, found none, and wept.
Two others woke that night: Merry was jerked suddenly awake by the terrible screams that erupted from Pippin, who could not be shushed nor stilled no matter the coaxing; Gandalf did not weep, did not mourn, but merely passed beyond the House where he looked to the heavens, sighed, and closed his eyes.
* * * * *
