Chapter Text
It was a perfectly reasonable thing for a hobbit to be afraid of water. Water was cold and wet, putting it in total opposition to the things hobbits valued most, which were generally warm and comfortable. Worse than that, it could be deep, and a creature of less than four feet was easily lost beneath the waves. And if the water was running? Forget it. Anyone hobbit who fell in would be drowned in an instant and his little body swept away to anywhere in the world. Any of these alone were perfectly sensible reasons for hobbits to steer well clear of rivers, let alone all of them together. It was completely logical. Utterly understandable. The right thing.
It was with a head full of these very rational thoughts, and a stomach full of butterflies, that Pippin stood frozen on the riverbank, eyeing the path ahead with apprehension.
A few paces front of him, Frodo had already set foot upon the first stepping stone, seemingly unfazed by the lapping water as he steadied his walking staff on the next. Just moments later, he was already almost halfway across the river. Pippin watched him in amazement, mouth slightly slack. Such a change had come over his cousin in the past few weeks. He remembered old Bilbo Baggin’s eleventieth birthday, when a spider had scuttled past the fruitbowl, and Frodo had jumped a mile. Now, as he surged ahead with an air of resignation, nothing in Frodo’s path seemed to faze him. Even though it sounded like a good thing, Pippin wasn’t sure it was one.
It should have been his turn next. But as he stood there, perfectly still, shoulders aching from the pack on his back, and the first seeds of hunger beginning to bite at him (it was an hour since they had eaten, after all), he just couldn’t seem to make his feet move. They remained, quite stubbornly, rooted to the spot.
Work, he thought as hard as he could at his own feet. Just take a step. What’s wrong with you? But in his heart, he knew perfectly well what exactly was the matter.
“Not afraid, are you?”
Merry had appeared from behind him, a challenge in his voice as he adjusted his own pack.
“No!” Pippin insisted at once, his voice very high. “Are you?”
“’Course not.” Merry breezed determinedly, eyeing the way ahead. “What are you waiting for, then?”
“I’m…” Pippin tried to disguise a gulp. “I’m just taking it slow. You know I’m prone to slipping!”
Anyone who knew Merry well could see that he was scared. There was a wideness in his eyes, a quiver in his tone, and he was clutching the strap of his pack so tightly that his knuckles were in danger of bursting through his skin. But Merry was made of sterner stuff. And so, with a quick scruff of Pippin’s hair, he set foot, albeit gingerly, on the first stone. As he went, he cast a very hard look back over his shoulder. “Wuss!”
Pippin watched as Merry picked his way after Frodo, steadying himself on each stepping stone as it came and making his way slowly across the river. As he stared at the retreating back of his best friend, Pippin could hear his mother’s voice in his mind as loudly as if she had been standing next to him. He could even feel her hands around his knee bandaging the latest cuts and bruises, as she fixed him with that all too familiar look of exasperation: If Meriadoc jumped off a bridge, would you jump too?
Yes, he remembered his younger self thinking defiantly. Yes. I’d follow Merry anywhere.
What of that, now Merry was almost halfway across? As Pippin looked down at the lapping white-capped waves of the rushing water, the butterflies in his stomach seemed to turn into snakes. There was no way around it. He was frozen – literally frozen – with fear. Oh, for goodness sake, everyone else could manage just fine – what was wrong with him? He was so furious with himself he felt he could have burst into stupid, embarrassed tears. Merry was right; why did he have to always be such a baby? It was just like Frodo had said last night –
“Go on, then.”
At the sound of this new voice, Pippin almost jumped out of his skin. In his terror, he had forgotten that behind him, at the end of their little train, there was one last hobbit to come. One who also needed to cross. Pippin steeled himself, waiting for more ridicule –
But far from sounding irritated, new voice was soft. Understanding. Encouraging.
“It’s just one step at a time, that’s all.” Sam murmured, so close behind him that his breath tickled Pippin’s ear. “That’s all you ever have to worry about in life. One step at a time. You can do it, I know you can. And I’ll be right behind you all the way, I will.”
As he listened, Pippin could have sworn his heart slowed from a sprint to a jog. That soft, low voice, the warm, heavy presence at his back, the kindness of his words…He took a deep, shuddering breath, in and out. One step at a time…Alright. Alright. I’ll be right behind you all the way…
Summoning every last inch of his courage, at last, Pippin took that first, impossible, step. The grass beneath his feet turned to cold, damp stone.
“There you are. Not so bad. Keep on. Keep on.”
“…I should never have let him come."
Pippin’s eyes shot open. In a daze of exhaustion, having emptied his mind of all else but his feather pillow at home, the yellow blanket his grandmother had knitted for him, and the memory of what a good supper felt like inside him, he had been almost on the cusp of sleep. He doubted he would ever grow used to sleeping on the ground, outside in the elements, with the night wind often blowing straight through his bones. However, he had begun to develop a technique of sorts; if he simply closed his eyes and lay still for long enough, pretending to be asleep, he would eventually drift off. Increasingly weary and hungry as he was while the days on the road wore on and endlessly on, sleep seemed, mercifully, to arrive more quickly with each sunset. But now, at the sound of Frodo’s whisper, he was completely alert.
Beside him, he could hear the soft grunting noises Merry had always made in sleep’s deep breathing. He was dead to the world, lucky old thing. But by the light of the half moon, Pippin could just make out two figures curled up on the grass just beyond them, their heads bent close together as they whispered. There was nothing Pippin could do but lock every bone in his body, pray they would not detect his wakefulness, and listen as hard as he could.
“Well. He’s only young, he is.” Sam’s voice answered.
“My point exactly.” Frodo sounded as though he had a terrible headache. “He’s too young, little more than a child – and a liability at that.”
“Well.” Sam paused thoughtfully. “I don’t know much of history, but I don’t think there’s many hobbits who are suited for such a thing as this, Mr Frodo.”
From somewhere far away, an owl was hooting. Pippin was as tightly wound as a spring as he strained to listen.
“I remember when he was born…” Frodo sighed. “Looking down into his cradle...he was just this funny little scrap of a hobbit, clutching a yellow blanket and mewling fit to burst. I’d never seen anyone so small. He was only a few days old – but goodness, Sam, you’ve never seen such awfully hairy feet on an infant. The state of them...”
“Ha.” Sam was chuckling now. “I can imagine that.”
But Frodo was far from mirth. “…I keep thinking about his poor mother. He’s the youngest, their baby...He’s still her baby…” Now, his voice became horribly thick. “Oh Sam, he’s my little cousin, and if anything happens to him, it will be all my fault...”
“No it won’t be!” Sam protested at once. There was a rustle of leaves on the grass. It was far too dark for Pippin to see anything properly, but he could have sworn that Sam had reached out towards him. “Now, look here, Mr Frodo, you’ve enough to be getting on with, and no mistake. Listen, let me –“
“You’ve shared enough of my burdens, Sam.”
“Don’t you ever talk like that. Don’t you ever.” Sam hissed, straight from the heart. “I want you to share all you can with me, and don’t you hold back on anything. From now on, all the care I have in me is yours, and yours alone. I swear it. It’s all for you.” Another rustle of leaves, followed by a tiny silence. What had filled the silence, Pippin did not know, but when it had ended, Frodo made no more protests. “That’s right, Mr Frodo.” Sam whispered, suddenly sounding oddly as though he was smiling. “There’s nowt more that needs to be said. I’ll keep an eye on him for you.” A pause – and a snort. “Well, two. Plus one in the back of my head…”
As the river rushed away behind them, the previous night’s conversation played over and over again in Pippin’s mind. He wasn’t used to dwelling on something for so long; it was starting to give him a headache. How strange life had become on the road to…where, again? Honestly, he still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure where exactly it was they were –
“Ouch!”
Pippin let out a squeak of shock and pain as he tripped over a mole hill, landing flat on his face in the mud.
“Ha!” He could hear laughing above his head as a pair of familiar hands took handfuls of his shirt and pulled him to his feet. “You idiot!” Merry was chuckling. “How on earth did you miss that? It’s the size of a birthday cake!”
“I…” Pippin stammered, his gaze flicking to the hobbit who was staring at him over Merry’s shoulder. “I was thinking, that’s all.” Frodo said nothing, but his blue eyes were steel.
“Thinking?” Merry frowned. “That’s not like you, Pip.” He peered at him oddly, as if he was ill.
“Come on.” Frodo murmured. He fixed Pippin with one last, long look, before turning from him and walking on. “It’s getting dark. We need to find somewhere to rest.”
Happy to forget all about what had just happened, Pippin scampered after him, thinking only of dinner and sleep – but not before a handkerchief had been pressed into his hand. It was a large thing, off-white with many washes. Cross-stitched into the corner in cheap thread, there was a wonky “SG”.
“Wipe your face.” Sam looked back over his shoulder as he followed closely behind his master. He offered Pippin the smallest smile he had ever seen. “You mucky pup.”
He did.
By the time they settled down for the night, the air was bitingly cold. Though the little alcove of trees they had found acted as a bit of a windbreak, there was nothing they could do against the chill, which seemed to flow from the ground up through Pippin’s very bones. Goodness, he was not built for this…As he sat there, cold, hungry, and thinking longingly of the roaring hearth of home, the smell of his mother’s apple pie, the sound of his sisters’ laughter…he found his attention being drawn to something altogether more present.
He had never really noticed him before.
Pippin did not know much, but he knew better than to admit that he largely ignored servants. He was never outwardly hostile to them, for that was not in his nature, but he could not even tell most of them apart. Their faces all blended together into one tireless, intrepid being who indiscriminately cooked and cleaned, fetched and carried, trimmed and pruned. All his life, it had simply been expected that he would wake up in fresh sheets, put on clean, pressed clothes, and eat a hot breakfast cooked by those whose names he had never thought to learn. All those things had seemed to appear to him, like leaves floating down a river, and it had never occurred to him that he might one day have to do them for himself. But now, he slept in the dirt, he washed his own clothes in rivers and wore them crumpled, and he hadn’t had a hot breakfast in weeks. It seemed fitting that in his ignorance he should learn his lesson the hard way. If he ever got back to the Shire, he was sure it would be as a very different hobbit.
But it wasn’t just the work he had always taken for granted. It was Sam. Over the years, he must have walked past him well over twenty times (probably far more, but Pippin could not count higher than that) as he worked in old Bilbo’s garden. Childishly, he had always rather imagined that the gaffer’s son must spring up every morning from that garden, like the flowers he tended, pruning sheers in hand, ready to begin the day’s work. He had never considered that there might be anything in Sam’s mind but cabbages and potatoes.
But now, as he watched Sam slice the stale end of their last loaf of bread, he considered. He more than considered.
He was such a caring hobbit, Pippin thought, as he idly watched Sam making Frodo’s plate. He watched as he piled it noticeably higher than his own, giving him the best cut of their scrap of meat, the centre of the bread while he took the heel, most of his own share of the dried fruit. To be fair, wan, pale Frodo looked as though he needed it. It didn’t suit a hobbit to grow thin; slender is for elves, he could hear his mother saying as she fed him his fourth helping of pudding. And Frodo was already tightening his belt buckles. Come to think of it, so was Pippin. Oh goodness, he hoped Sam wasn’t. Sam was built like a well-stuffed armchair, and never seemed to gain or lose weight, staying steadily solid, as if he were made of marble. Pippin didn’t think he could stand it if he grew thin; it would feel like chipping away at a monument…
“Oi.” Suddenly, a fist bopped him on the shoulder, bringing him sharply out of his thoughts. “Close your mouth, dozy." Merry scolded him as he accepted a plate from Sam. "You'll catch flies."
Indeed, thought Pippin as his own pitiful plateful landed in his hands, if he got much more hungry than this, some flies might not go amiss...As he chewed his portion of stale bread, wondering if it would ever soften, he found himself watching Sam once again. He simply could not stop. Until a few weeks ago, Pippin's world had been small and cosy, full of soft surfaces, hot food, and the friends he had known since birth. Now, the world seemed as cold, vast, and merciless as that awful river. It was a relief to know, therefore, that someone so selfless was looking out for him. More than a relief. Even just looking at him brought an odd sort of comfort...
Why couldn't he tear his eyes away?
Far too quickly, the meal ended. It was time to wash the crockery in the nearest stream, and settle in for another glorious night on the ground. Eager to prove that he was worth his place on this mission to - well, wherever - Pippin leapt up to collect the plates.
"Here, I'll - whoops!"
Somehow, in a matter of a few seconds, every single plate had ended up on the ground. Pippin blinked at them, as surprised as anyone. This was impressive even for him. How on earth had he managed that?
"Oh Pippin, why can't you just leave things alone?" Merry was half amused, half familiarly exasperated. As three sets of eyes bored into him, Pippin felt his cheeks beginning to burn. Standing helplessly in the midst of his own clumsiness, all of a sudden, his eyes found Frodo's. It was impossible to miss them, after all - those enormous blue eyes that seeemed to say a thousand words without so much as a sound. They did not regard him with harshness, however - that was the worst thing of all. They were not angry. They were not even frustrated. They were simply, and acutely, worried sick.
"It's alright." Though it felt like a thousand years, it was only a matter of seconds before Sam had broken the silence and got to his feet, his eyes also fixed on Frodo. A similar worry flickered within - but it was quickly quenched with determination. "Not to worry. Ain't no real harm done." His tone was as steady as a ship as he turned to Pippin. "Come on, my lad, make yourself useful."
Glad of any kind of distraction, Pippin groped on the ground until all the plates had been retrieved, and followed Sam like a lamb to the water's edge. After the horror of the river, the tiny trickle was almost calming. Unfazed, Sam had already knelt down, and was scrubbing the remnants of supper from the plates.
"Get those dried off, will you?" he instructed, passing Pippin a teatowel. This, Pippin did at once, getting to work with gusto. How bizarre it was, he thought, for the son of the Shire-Thain to take orders from the gaffer's boy! How peculiar this new life had become...and yet, he did not question it. That warm, heavy presence beside him, that gentle care and understanding, brought him more comfort than he had felt in weeks, and he found, to his surprise, that he wanted nothing more than to please him. Suddenly, pleasing him seemed like the most important thing in the world.
He had such a pleasant face, Pippin thought. He had never really noticed it before. Rounded, ruddy cheeks, and the kindest eyes he had ever seen...
"Thanks." As he collected the plates into a small stack and stowed them back into his pack, Sam offered him a small, tight smile. "You did a good job there, you did." Such a lovely smile...How had Pippin never noticed it before? And why did it make his chest feel...strange?
Tearing his eyes away, Pippin looked instead into Sam's pack. Tucked away beside the crockery, he spotted a tiny, wooden pot.
“What’s that?” he asked curiously, pointing at this mystery item. They had only brought essentials with them.
Now, Sam's smile became rather guilty. He reached into the bag, retrieved the wooden pot, and cracked the lid open. Pippin peered inside, and found thousands of tiny white crystals glistening back at him. It took him a moment to realise what exactly he was looking at. What exactly Samwise Gamgee had considered essential.
“Just a bit of seasonin’.”
Having replaced the lid of his stash of salt, Sam got to his feet, hoisted his pack over his shoulder, and began to make his way back to camp.
But Pippin did not - could not - follow. For once more, he had found himself frozen to the spot.
Deep inside his chest, something exploded. It sent a wave of warmth from the top of his head, to the tips of his fingers, right down to the soles of his feet, as if his entire body was being bathed in the light of an internal sun. Now, the sickening jolt his stomach made had nothing to do with hunger. It brought with it a tingle of excitement, an inexplicable sense of joy - and, as the initial shock wore away - a deep and certain dread.
Pippin did not know much. But now, for once in his life, he understood everything perfectly. And everything he now understood and knew to be true...was nothing but a complete and utter calamity.
Oh, ninnyhammers! Oh, noodle! Oh, no, no, no, no, no! Not not now, not here! Not like this!
But it was already far too late.