A/N: I am really sorry this took so long. I have been slaving away night
and day on schoolwork, and I just haven't gotten around to writing any
more. I'm officially on Spring Break now, though, so here's the next
chapter. Thanks so much for reviewing, everyone! Ten reviews for a
chapter is a treat! Had to throw in an Elvish phrase here; "Telin le
thaed" is a line of Arwen's in the first movie when Frodo first sees her,
and it means "I've come to help you." Anyway, here we go...
Gandalf awoke suddenly, instantly alert. The night was fading away, and the first rays of dawn were peeking over the tops of the trees. He had no idea what had triggered his return to consciousness, but he knew that something wasn't right. A quick glance around the clearing revealed nothing amiss...until he looked down at himself, focusing more intently on his immediate surroundings. Pippin was wrapped in a crazy mélange of the wizard's bedroll and robes, trembling and crying out in his sleep. Gandalf shook him, but the hobbit did not wake, only cried out as if in pain, and continued to shiver. Suddenly Pippin's eyes flew open, and he cried louder, muttering Frodo's name frantically and twisting violently in the wizard's grasp. "Confound it," he growled at the squirming hobbit, although quite sure of Pippin's inability to hear him through the delirium, "we cannot stay in this place another hour, Pippin. Come now, wake up, there's a good lad..."
Gandalf continued in this vein for several more minutes, until he was convinced that the alternating scolding and coaxing was having no effect whatsoever, and that Pippin would not respond to anything he could say or do short of medical measures. "Frodo...no, we can't leave you, no, you can't...Sam, stop him!" Pippin was becoming more and more erratic, and no amount of blankets, teas or cool cloths could calm him or break the fever. His eyes were wide, and Gandalf had to look away from the expression of abject terror in them. "No, it's MY fault...you can't fix it! Frodo, you can't! Run...please, run," he whimpered, tears running freely down his temples. "Not you too," he gasped painfully, desperately trying to catch his breath.
Gandalf sighed heavily as a warm little hand tugged at the blankets and wrapped tightly around his wrist. He knew that he had to call Pippin back, or there would be no cure for this delirium. "Thank the Valar he is conscious," the wizard whispered to himself. "If it were otherwise, only Aragorn could save him now. Such dark thoughts are not easily banished but by the hand of the Elessar." Wrapping Pippin securely in the blankets to keep him from thrashing about, he placed one hand on each side of Pippin's face and forced the small, frightened eyes up to meet his own. "Listen, Peregrin Took, and find the way home. Telin le thaed. Hear me and follow."
He began to hum the first melody that came to mind, an old song of praise for things forgotten that had been born one wintry night in the Hall of Fire to the Evenstar herself, and he had instantly committed it to memory, for he found it at once very fine and very humble, as Arwen was. It spoke of great deeds done by the smallest hand, wisdom gained by the most ignorant mind, and of the green tranquility of the shores of Valinor. Even lacking the ethereal twist of Elvish poetry, the tune was calming, and Pippin soon began to slip back into oblivion. When he was resting peacefully, Gandalf hurriedly put a hand to his forehead and was relieved to discover that it was cooler. "Now, I charge you, do not wake, Peregrin, for we must be gone from this place, and it will be easier if you sleep," he continued, as if he were instructing Pippin in his behavior after some mischief, and scooping him off the ground, blankets and all, he settled the sleeping hobbit on the back of Shadowfax, who had been awakened by Pippin's cries and now stood ready a few paces away at the edge of the clearing. Gandalf gathered their remaining gear and leapt onto the horse's back. "Ride, Shadowfax!" he cried, and the great horse bounded away down the hill like a wild thing.
Pippin awoke some time later, feverish and shivering. He was terribly afraid, but he wasn't sure what he should be afraid of. He recognized the rocking beneath him; Shadowfax somehow was easy to wake up to. He knew also who was holding him, perhaps more tightly than necessary, and although he was grateful, he was also very uncomfortable. Hesitatingly, he opened his mouth, knowing for once that caution was vital, or Gandalf might just pitch him off the horse's back. "Gandalf... my arm is asleep. Would you mind terribly..." Instantly the wizard's grip loosened, as if he had been caught in the middle of something. "Thank you," said Pippin. He didn't really know what to say; he knew he had been violently ill, he could feel the weakness and the fever that raged through his system, and he knew that Gandalf had saved his life. This trip with the wizard was one of the most curious he had been on since he left the Shire. Something was there in Gandalf's eyes that he had never seen before, something that regarded Pippin. Pippin's eyes widened as he saw that Gandalf respected him. He would never have believed it.
He had always been the idiot, the troublemaker, the one who by rights should be left behind or excluded when something was truly important. But now he was important too, at least in Gandalf's view, and he was overjoyed. His head spun as he threw his arms around the wizard's middle, but he ignored it. Gandalf only harrumphed, but one hand rested lightly on the hobbit's back for a few moments, then was gone. Pippin, however, didn't let go, feeling comforting strength and white light flowing into him. There was one thing bothering him, however.
"Gandalf?"
"Yes, Pippin, what is it now?"
"I had a dream...back there in the clearing. I saw Frodo on the... on the bridge, after... well, he was frozen there, as if he'd forgotten how to move, and I wanted him to run away, to follow Aragorn with the rest of us, but he wouldn't run, and he looked as if he would jump... and, and follow you down..." Pippin broke off here, unwilling to say anything more for fear of hurting Gandalf, or of making the memory of the dream too real for himself.
"I know," said Gandalf quietly, in a voice that Pippin had never heard before. "You were quite...vocal in your dreams, my lad. And I saw your mind when I brought you back. There is nothing you can tell me of your thoughts that I do not know, Pippin. But you might be surprised to know..." The wizard broke off abruptly, as if he had said far more than he had ever meant to. His expression grew closed again, but there was no anger, only a pensive look that Pippin did not dare to understand. He was intensely curious about what Gandalf had been about to say, but he simply rested his head against the wizard's beard, knowing full well that it would be folly to ask any questions now. He simply drifted into sleep, dreaming now of the Shire and magnificent fireworks.
Gandalf awoke suddenly, instantly alert. The night was fading away, and the first rays of dawn were peeking over the tops of the trees. He had no idea what had triggered his return to consciousness, but he knew that something wasn't right. A quick glance around the clearing revealed nothing amiss...until he looked down at himself, focusing more intently on his immediate surroundings. Pippin was wrapped in a crazy mélange of the wizard's bedroll and robes, trembling and crying out in his sleep. Gandalf shook him, but the hobbit did not wake, only cried out as if in pain, and continued to shiver. Suddenly Pippin's eyes flew open, and he cried louder, muttering Frodo's name frantically and twisting violently in the wizard's grasp. "Confound it," he growled at the squirming hobbit, although quite sure of Pippin's inability to hear him through the delirium, "we cannot stay in this place another hour, Pippin. Come now, wake up, there's a good lad..."
Gandalf continued in this vein for several more minutes, until he was convinced that the alternating scolding and coaxing was having no effect whatsoever, and that Pippin would not respond to anything he could say or do short of medical measures. "Frodo...no, we can't leave you, no, you can't...Sam, stop him!" Pippin was becoming more and more erratic, and no amount of blankets, teas or cool cloths could calm him or break the fever. His eyes were wide, and Gandalf had to look away from the expression of abject terror in them. "No, it's MY fault...you can't fix it! Frodo, you can't! Run...please, run," he whimpered, tears running freely down his temples. "Not you too," he gasped painfully, desperately trying to catch his breath.
Gandalf sighed heavily as a warm little hand tugged at the blankets and wrapped tightly around his wrist. He knew that he had to call Pippin back, or there would be no cure for this delirium. "Thank the Valar he is conscious," the wizard whispered to himself. "If it were otherwise, only Aragorn could save him now. Such dark thoughts are not easily banished but by the hand of the Elessar." Wrapping Pippin securely in the blankets to keep him from thrashing about, he placed one hand on each side of Pippin's face and forced the small, frightened eyes up to meet his own. "Listen, Peregrin Took, and find the way home. Telin le thaed. Hear me and follow."
He began to hum the first melody that came to mind, an old song of praise for things forgotten that had been born one wintry night in the Hall of Fire to the Evenstar herself, and he had instantly committed it to memory, for he found it at once very fine and very humble, as Arwen was. It spoke of great deeds done by the smallest hand, wisdom gained by the most ignorant mind, and of the green tranquility of the shores of Valinor. Even lacking the ethereal twist of Elvish poetry, the tune was calming, and Pippin soon began to slip back into oblivion. When he was resting peacefully, Gandalf hurriedly put a hand to his forehead and was relieved to discover that it was cooler. "Now, I charge you, do not wake, Peregrin, for we must be gone from this place, and it will be easier if you sleep," he continued, as if he were instructing Pippin in his behavior after some mischief, and scooping him off the ground, blankets and all, he settled the sleeping hobbit on the back of Shadowfax, who had been awakened by Pippin's cries and now stood ready a few paces away at the edge of the clearing. Gandalf gathered their remaining gear and leapt onto the horse's back. "Ride, Shadowfax!" he cried, and the great horse bounded away down the hill like a wild thing.
Pippin awoke some time later, feverish and shivering. He was terribly afraid, but he wasn't sure what he should be afraid of. He recognized the rocking beneath him; Shadowfax somehow was easy to wake up to. He knew also who was holding him, perhaps more tightly than necessary, and although he was grateful, he was also very uncomfortable. Hesitatingly, he opened his mouth, knowing for once that caution was vital, or Gandalf might just pitch him off the horse's back. "Gandalf... my arm is asleep. Would you mind terribly..." Instantly the wizard's grip loosened, as if he had been caught in the middle of something. "Thank you," said Pippin. He didn't really know what to say; he knew he had been violently ill, he could feel the weakness and the fever that raged through his system, and he knew that Gandalf had saved his life. This trip with the wizard was one of the most curious he had been on since he left the Shire. Something was there in Gandalf's eyes that he had never seen before, something that regarded Pippin. Pippin's eyes widened as he saw that Gandalf respected him. He would never have believed it.
He had always been the idiot, the troublemaker, the one who by rights should be left behind or excluded when something was truly important. But now he was important too, at least in Gandalf's view, and he was overjoyed. His head spun as he threw his arms around the wizard's middle, but he ignored it. Gandalf only harrumphed, but one hand rested lightly on the hobbit's back for a few moments, then was gone. Pippin, however, didn't let go, feeling comforting strength and white light flowing into him. There was one thing bothering him, however.
"Gandalf?"
"Yes, Pippin, what is it now?"
"I had a dream...back there in the clearing. I saw Frodo on the... on the bridge, after... well, he was frozen there, as if he'd forgotten how to move, and I wanted him to run away, to follow Aragorn with the rest of us, but he wouldn't run, and he looked as if he would jump... and, and follow you down..." Pippin broke off here, unwilling to say anything more for fear of hurting Gandalf, or of making the memory of the dream too real for himself.
"I know," said Gandalf quietly, in a voice that Pippin had never heard before. "You were quite...vocal in your dreams, my lad. And I saw your mind when I brought you back. There is nothing you can tell me of your thoughts that I do not know, Pippin. But you might be surprised to know..." The wizard broke off abruptly, as if he had said far more than he had ever meant to. His expression grew closed again, but there was no anger, only a pensive look that Pippin did not dare to understand. He was intensely curious about what Gandalf had been about to say, but he simply rested his head against the wizard's beard, knowing full well that it would be folly to ask any questions now. He simply drifted into sleep, dreaming now of the Shire and magnificent fireworks.