A/N: Okay, I must have had the weirdest inspiration for this fic. I was reading another fic, and saw the word "weathered". That was it. I decided I needed to write a fic with that title. So here it is. All recognizable characters do not belong to me. They belong to J.R.R. Tolkien. I'm not making any money off of this. Flames will be used to ward off my grandfather. .
Pippin's POV.
Weathered
By Freakish Lemon
When we left the Shire three years ago we didn't expect what was in store for us. We had no idea. We thought we'd go for a bit, do whatever Gandalf wanted us to do, and go back home, like we never left.
Ha.
Those were foolish thoughts, made by those too naïve to know that an adventure, by its very nature, changes you. It leaves a mark on you, one that nobody can see unless you let them, but never allows you to forget. But we did not know that then. I don't think we would have left if we had known.
It didn't matter when we first arrived back home. The Shire had been turned into one of the war-torn places that we were too familiar with. Our changes were welcomed with open arms.
But, after our victory, the Shire steadily became what it once was, and everyone went back to their place.
Except for us.
Still I hear constant rumors concerning Frodo's frail condition as he relapses into sickness several times a year, though by now it is common knowledge. I still hear the whispers about Sam's sudden outspokenness and the disapproval that accompanies it. I frown at their rather inflexible way of thinking and say that I think it is good that my friend can overcome the stereotypes he has been placed under. I see the looks of shock as they hear Master Meriadoc of Buckland laughs less and takes things more seriously.
And they still talk about me.
They ask questions and make up stories about evil enchantments to explain my behavior. Friends I once had avoid me, repelled by my inability to laugh at the games I now see as silly and pointless.
But worst of all is my family.
Everyday I see the hurt in my mother's eyes as she looks upon a hobbit she does not know. I see her worry when I decide to read a book instead of climb a tree. She frets when I show no incentive to rush to Buckland to visit Merry after not seeing eachother in a month. I can see the tears in her eyes when I clean and sharpen my sword.
My father tries to talk to me; tries to get me to recount what I've experienced. It hurts to see the confusion and ignorance in his eyes. He cannot possibly understand the matters of Elven warriors and Black Riders.
My sisters all avoid me at any time they can. They still miss the Pippin that had left three years ago. But I know that Pippin can never fully return.
War has changed the people of the Shire, but it has not changed them enough.
I was 28 years old when I had left with the others. At 28, the other hobbits were just beginning to feel the pressures of adulthood. At 28, I had tasted war.
They can't understand that Saruman's hold over them was just a corner of a whole sheet of darkness. Even if I told them what had happened, they would never fully understand. They would still expect to be a little boy.
Every event that happens to someone is like sand on a block of wood. It shapes who you are. The other boys in the precarious years of the late tweens had been shaped by good harvests and green fields and living safely and comfortably in warm hobbit holes. I was shaped by living off small rations and sleeping in shifts to warn the others of intruders and learning the hard way that not paying attention could lead to serious mistakes. I had to grow up. They didn't.
The other hobbits lead smooth carefree lives. Our lives have be weathered, tossed into a storm on the sea and spit back out when all is done. We know now we can never go back to the way it was. Not completely. But maybe one day, we will smooth out again, when our nightmares no longer howl in the night.
~Fin~
A/N: Yeah, extremely out of character, but hey… I tried. Good? Bad? Please review. *holds out the collection tin*
