poking at writing...
Jun. 10th, 2006 05:43 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanA longer version of something I posted here
Movieverse, WIP...
"What are you doing? Those things are still out there!" Sam protested.
Aragorn turned a grim face on the little hobbit. "I know. But we are running out of time, Sam. Arwen will...She will do her best to get Frodo to safety."
"But who is she?" Merry asked.
"She is the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven," Aragorn told them, and saw some of the anger leaving Sam's eyes. "She has been seeking us, and it is our great good fortune that she has found us."
"But how are we going to help Frodo if we're not with him?" Pippin asked forlornly.
Aragorn tried to smile, and knew that it wasn't working very well. "All we can do now is follow," he said.
"Then we'd best get started," Sam said, reaching for his pack. Rather to Aragorn's surprise, Pippin and Merry didn't protest. In fact, Merry reached for the water pot to put out the fire.
"We should eat something first," Aragorn said. "You'll walk better for it, and so will I."
Three small faces turned to him then, studying him as if he'd grown an extra head. "I didn't think you ever got hungry," Pippin's usual lack of tact explained their confusion. "Or tired."
This time Aragorn's smile was easier. "I am both," he said. "But cure the one and the other will not matter so much."
Sam looked to Merry at the same moment that Merry looked to Sam, but Pippin, less heedful of the tension, crouched down to the fire again and rubbed his hands in the warmth. “I’d really like something hot to eat,” he admitted. “Sam?” he looked up hopefully.
“There’s a few taters left,” the gardener conceded. “Hasn’t been time to cook them proper till now.”
“Is there any tea?” Merry asked gruffly.
“There is,” Sam said, slowly, “but not water enough for both tea and taters, ‘less’n I bake the taters and that takes longer.”
“I can fetch more water,” Pippin offered quickly. “It won’t take long, really. Maybe you could even cook up some of the sausage.”
“Mr. Merry?” Sam waited for the judgment of the gentlehobbit, which surprised Aragorn, since so far on this trip the gardener hadn’t evinced much confidence in anyone but his master.
Merry bit his lip, but met Sam’s eyes steadily. “No, Pippin, you shouldn’t leave the fireside. Sam can bake the potatoes. And maybe an apple each as well. The longer it takes the Black Riders to figure out that Frodo isn’t with us, the better chance he’ll have.” He turned to Aragorn. “Isn’t that right, Strider?”
If Arwen can slip past them unnoticed. Aragorn qualified the nod he gave in return to the question within his own head, but he was still grateful to Merry for the suggestion. “If we stay on guard, perhaps. So long as they cannot sense his absence.”
“They couldn’t sense where he was for sure when we were right underneath one of them in the Shire,” Pippin said, shuddering at the memory. “And they’d be scared to come too near the fire, wouldn’t they? If that lady – Arwen, did you say her name was? If she snuck past them to find us then she can sneak out again, so maybe it would help to stay still a while.”
So much for keeping my doubts to myself, Aragorn thought, and smiled at the young hobbit. “I am certain she will do her best. There are few I would trust better to reach Elrond in time.”
“And how soon is that, I wonder,” Sam asked under his breath as he rummaged through the pony’s packs. “How long before he turns into one o’ them?”
Aragorn didn’t have an answer to that, but Sam had been speaking so softly it was safe to pretend that he hadn’t heard. “I’ll stand first watch,” he offered. “They’ll expect it of me.”
“I’ll watch the other side,” Pippin said, bouncing up and flourishing his torch. “I don’t want them to sneak up behind us and wreck our supper.”
“And I’ll bundle up some blankets, so it looks we’ve still got Frodo here with us,” Merry said. “It might not fool them if they get very close, but from a distance it will be better than nothing.”
**
How long could Frodo withstand the power of his wound? Aragorn couldn’t help but wonder what whether Arwen would notice the danger in time, should the small person riding before her transform into a wraith. Would the Nazgul command Frodo to hurt her, had they the chance? Or would they just want the Ring. Now that it was too late to think of it Aragorn realized that he might have sent Frodo with Arwen and had one of the other hobbits take the Ring. That would have split the pursuit, at least for a while. I might have taken It myself, and led the Nazgul a merry dance while the others got away.
No. No, that path was not for him. The Ring would leave him drunk with power, swaggering into Minas Tirith to claim the throne that he was not sure that he would ever be ready to hold. No. Perhaps the time when he could rest in the libraries of Rivendell had passed, but he still had much to learn of the ways of Men before he could pretend to lead them.
“Strider?” The hobbits had learned to speak to him when they were approaching from behind. Sam in particular tended to walk as quietly as an Elf, and that had nearly made for an unfortunate incident near the Midgewater Marshes when he’d stepped away to visit a tree and left Pippin in charge of the pony. Fortunately, Aragorn had not been quite so tired at that juncture. But Merry had witnessed the whole thing then and by his voice was standing well back now. “Strider, will you come and eat your supper? I can take the watch.”
“Thank you, Merry.” Aragorn ran a hand across his face as if to scrub away his uncomfortable thoughts, and then shifted his weight away from the rock he’d been leaning against. It took a moment longer to set his balance than it would have if he weren’t quite so tired and by the look on the young hobbit’s face, Merry had noticed. I need to worry about the here and now, and not Gondor far away, Aragorn reminded himself. The hobbits are still depending on me. “It smells good,” he said politely, and then realized that he meant it. “Did Sam cook the sausage after all?”
Merry smiled, suddenly less wary. “He did. And you should get your share before Pippin gets to the fire or there won’t be any left.”
***
Pippin shivered as he waited for Sam or Merry to come and let him get his supper. The stone leg of the troll blocked the heat of the fire from this vantage point, but that wasn’t what was making him shake and he knew it. It hadn’t been any fun to take a turn on watch before they’d got to Weathertop, and now that he’d actually seen what the Nazgul could do, it was all he could do to stand here without letting his knees wobble. Worse than Old Maggot’s dogs, they were, and the sword hanging on his belt worse than useless against them. He shifted the torch from one hand to the other whenever his fingers started to ache from holding it so hard and watched to make sure it wasn’t going out. Strider’s torches had frightened those things. Once burnt, twice shy, wasn’t that the way of it? They’d stay back from a flame.
“If I had some of old Gandalf’s fireworks I could really put a scare into them.” Pippin told the torch. “Then we’d be even.” Well, not even really, not after they’d hurt Frodo, but it would make up for being chased out of the Shire and getting dragged through the swamp and all. He swirled the fire in front of him, whistling through his teeth and puffing out his cheeks with small explosions as he pretended to chase away the Riders. “Why, if I had Bilbo’s Ring, I could disappear and then sneak up and put a rocket right up their robes,” he said, and then scowled.
“Oh, drat. The Ring is still in Frodo’s pocket!”
“Of course it is, where else would it be?” Sam’s voice behind him made Pippin jump. He turned to find the gardener regarding him with amused eyes.
“Oh, Sam, it’s you,” Pippin observed unnecessarily while his heart slowed down. “I was just thinking that if I had the Ring I could use it to scare the Black Riders away. Set them on fire or something.”
“I don’t see how, seeing as it didn’t do poor Mister Frodo any good to vanish back there in the fight. That Ring on your finger makes you easier for them to find, not harder, don’t you understand that yet?” Sam rested a hand on Pippin’s shoulder, giving it a gentle shake instead of the good rattling that Merry would have delivered for forgetting anything as important as that, and Pippin smiled sheepishly.
“I guess I’m just too hungry to think straight,” he said apologetically.
Sam smiled for the first time since Weathertop. “That’s easily mended,” he said. “Your supper’s waiting for you now. No – leave me the torches, I’ll need them! Half of what's left is Strider's, mind
you. And don’t forget to fret over that scarecrow of Merry’s while you’re at the fire!” Sam let go of Pippin’s shoulder at last and Pippin darted quickly back through the legs of the troll to get to the food before Sam could think of any more instructions.
Strider was already there, settled next to the fire and sliding the last of the sausages out of the pan and onto his plate. Pippin squeaked, “But I haven’t had any yet!”
“This is yours,” Strider said. “I’ve got mine over here.”
Pippin tipped up onto his toes to see past the fire. Sure enough, there was another plate sitting on a rock, and a quick count of sausage proved that the Ranger hadn’t cheated. At least, probably not. His fingers weren’t greasy and neither was his beard. Pippin had noticed how Men kept catching their food in their beards when he was in Bree and thought how glad he was not to have one. It was hard enough remembering to get crumbs off your shirt before anyone noticed them. “That’s all right then,” he said, taking the plate that Strider offered him and crouching down to roll his potato and his apple out of the ashes so they’d be cool enough to eat when he finished his sausage.
“Is that meant to be Frodo?” he asked, surveying the bundle of blankets that was propped against the packs nearby. The sausage was good, but he was still nervous and when he was nervous he liked to talk while he ate. “It doesn’t look very much like a hobbit.”
“It’s the right size around, and long enough,” Strider said. “And we have nothing better. They know how many hobbits came with Frodo and they’d miss one if we tried wrapping one of you up.” He picked up his own potato and hissed through his teeth as he tossed it from hand to hand to cool it enough to break open onto his plate. “But it might fool them from a distance.”
“We’ll have to feed it then,” said Pippin, “if it’s meant to be a hobbit, I mean. Only not really. It would be a waste of sausages.”
Strider shook his head, his shoulders shaking. “We couldn’t feed Frodo sausages if he were here,” he said. “Tea, perhaps. Infused with athelas.”
“Athelas?” Pippin asked around a bite of potato. “Is that the plant that Sam brought back?”
Strider swallowed what he was chewing before he answered. “Yes – kingsfoil. I didn’t know he’d found any.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have come back to the fire without it, would he? It’s on that patch of moss by the biggest troll.” Pippin pointed with his elbow, his hands being busy. Sam had brought a whole clump of plants, roots and all, and parked them on a thick bed of moss he’d had Merry pour water on – although Pippin hadn’t had a chance to ask why he’d wanted the water before the lady had ridden up on her horse and frightened them all nearly to death. And Strider hadn’t wanted water at all – he’d just chewed on the leaves and stuck the mess right on Frodo’s wound. Pippin paused between bites and swallowed hard, trying not to think about the way Frodo’s shoulder had looked in the firelight. Better to think about the kingsfoil. “Does it taste good?”
Strider shook his head. “Not exactly. A bit like mint, perhaps. But it is a medicinal herb not a salad herb. It can be taken as tea, but I use the brew more often to wash wounds and to banish weariness.”
Pippin looked at him sideways. “Banish weariness? You mean you can drink the tea and not be tired any more? Is that how you can not want to sleep more than a few hours at night?”
“To ease it, perhaps, would be more the truth,” Strider said, with a small smile for Pippin. “I find the smell of athelas refreshing.”
“Would it work on hobbits, do you think?” Pippin asked. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my whole life.”
Strider nodded. He tipped the pot that Sam had left near the fire to look inside. “There’s enough water left… would you like try some?”
Pippin nodded. “And we can pretend to give some to Frodo too,” he remembered. “Sam said to fret over him.”
“That would be a good idea,” Strider said. He pulled some crumpled leaves out from where they’d been tucked into his sleeve and dropped them onto the hot water. Almost right away the scent began to spread and Pippin sniffed at it. It was like… like new-mown hay, or the foam on a good dark ale. Like spiced bread … or breakfast waiting while your nose was still under the covers of a morning, and half of what you were smelling was the clean ironed sheets.
He got up and dug through the packs for cups while Strider swirled the pot to encourage the brew. It was hard to wait for his portion to be poured out, but when he tasted the tea it was a disappointment. “Wish we had sugar,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the bitter undertone.
“Just breathe the steam,” Strider advised. The Man scooted back so he could lean against one of the trolls and picked up Merry’s scarecrow, cuddling it on his lap as if it were Frodo and bringing up his own cup of athelas tea to its “face”, where the steam would rise into his own face as well.
Pippin settled by the fire and finished his supper, pausing now and then to breathe in the tea-steam. It was best when his eyes were closed, really, as if the steam could find its way all the way down to his legs and toes more easily in the dark.
He was beginning to feel more like himself for the first time in days. He wriggled his shoulders as they relaxed, remembering what it felt like not to be afraid. Even if athelas tasted like the dregs of a draught of garden cuttings, the smell more than made up for it. “This stuff isn’t bad, Strider,” Pippin said conversationally, looking up to thank the Man for introducing him to something new.
But Strider had put his head back and his eyes were closed, the lines on his face eased for the first time since they’d met in Bree. He was still holding “Frodo”, as carefully as if he were sheltering the real hobbit and not some blankets, but he was definitely asleep.
*******
Movieverse, WIP...
"What are you doing? Those things are still out there!" Sam protested.
Aragorn turned a grim face on the little hobbit. "I know. But we are running out of time, Sam. Arwen will...She will do her best to get Frodo to safety."
"But who is she?" Merry asked.
"She is the daughter of Elrond Half-Elven," Aragorn told them, and saw some of the anger leaving Sam's eyes. "She has been seeking us, and it is our great good fortune that she has found us."
"But how are we going to help Frodo if we're not with him?" Pippin asked forlornly.
Aragorn tried to smile, and knew that it wasn't working very well. "All we can do now is follow," he said.
"Then we'd best get started," Sam said, reaching for his pack. Rather to Aragorn's surprise, Pippin and Merry didn't protest. In fact, Merry reached for the water pot to put out the fire.
"We should eat something first," Aragorn said. "You'll walk better for it, and so will I."
Three small faces turned to him then, studying him as if he'd grown an extra head. "I didn't think you ever got hungry," Pippin's usual lack of tact explained their confusion. "Or tired."
This time Aragorn's smile was easier. "I am both," he said. "But cure the one and the other will not matter so much."
Sam looked to Merry at the same moment that Merry looked to Sam, but Pippin, less heedful of the tension, crouched down to the fire again and rubbed his hands in the warmth. “I’d really like something hot to eat,” he admitted. “Sam?” he looked up hopefully.
“There’s a few taters left,” the gardener conceded. “Hasn’t been time to cook them proper till now.”
“Is there any tea?” Merry asked gruffly.
“There is,” Sam said, slowly, “but not water enough for both tea and taters, ‘less’n I bake the taters and that takes longer.”
“I can fetch more water,” Pippin offered quickly. “It won’t take long, really. Maybe you could even cook up some of the sausage.”
“Mr. Merry?” Sam waited for the judgment of the gentlehobbit, which surprised Aragorn, since so far on this trip the gardener hadn’t evinced much confidence in anyone but his master.
Merry bit his lip, but met Sam’s eyes steadily. “No, Pippin, you shouldn’t leave the fireside. Sam can bake the potatoes. And maybe an apple each as well. The longer it takes the Black Riders to figure out that Frodo isn’t with us, the better chance he’ll have.” He turned to Aragorn. “Isn’t that right, Strider?”
If Arwen can slip past them unnoticed. Aragorn qualified the nod he gave in return to the question within his own head, but he was still grateful to Merry for the suggestion. “If we stay on guard, perhaps. So long as they cannot sense his absence.”
“They couldn’t sense where he was for sure when we were right underneath one of them in the Shire,” Pippin said, shuddering at the memory. “And they’d be scared to come too near the fire, wouldn’t they? If that lady – Arwen, did you say her name was? If she snuck past them to find us then she can sneak out again, so maybe it would help to stay still a while.”
So much for keeping my doubts to myself, Aragorn thought, and smiled at the young hobbit. “I am certain she will do her best. There are few I would trust better to reach Elrond in time.”
“And how soon is that, I wonder,” Sam asked under his breath as he rummaged through the pony’s packs. “How long before he turns into one o’ them?”
Aragorn didn’t have an answer to that, but Sam had been speaking so softly it was safe to pretend that he hadn’t heard. “I’ll stand first watch,” he offered. “They’ll expect it of me.”
“I’ll watch the other side,” Pippin said, bouncing up and flourishing his torch. “I don’t want them to sneak up behind us and wreck our supper.”
“And I’ll bundle up some blankets, so it looks we’ve still got Frodo here with us,” Merry said. “It might not fool them if they get very close, but from a distance it will be better than nothing.”
**
How long could Frodo withstand the power of his wound? Aragorn couldn’t help but wonder what whether Arwen would notice the danger in time, should the small person riding before her transform into a wraith. Would the Nazgul command Frodo to hurt her, had they the chance? Or would they just want the Ring. Now that it was too late to think of it Aragorn realized that he might have sent Frodo with Arwen and had one of the other hobbits take the Ring. That would have split the pursuit, at least for a while. I might have taken It myself, and led the Nazgul a merry dance while the others got away.
No. No, that path was not for him. The Ring would leave him drunk with power, swaggering into Minas Tirith to claim the throne that he was not sure that he would ever be ready to hold. No. Perhaps the time when he could rest in the libraries of Rivendell had passed, but he still had much to learn of the ways of Men before he could pretend to lead them.
“Strider?” The hobbits had learned to speak to him when they were approaching from behind. Sam in particular tended to walk as quietly as an Elf, and that had nearly made for an unfortunate incident near the Midgewater Marshes when he’d stepped away to visit a tree and left Pippin in charge of the pony. Fortunately, Aragorn had not been quite so tired at that juncture. But Merry had witnessed the whole thing then and by his voice was standing well back now. “Strider, will you come and eat your supper? I can take the watch.”
“Thank you, Merry.” Aragorn ran a hand across his face as if to scrub away his uncomfortable thoughts, and then shifted his weight away from the rock he’d been leaning against. It took a moment longer to set his balance than it would have if he weren’t quite so tired and by the look on the young hobbit’s face, Merry had noticed. I need to worry about the here and now, and not Gondor far away, Aragorn reminded himself. The hobbits are still depending on me. “It smells good,” he said politely, and then realized that he meant it. “Did Sam cook the sausage after all?”
Merry smiled, suddenly less wary. “He did. And you should get your share before Pippin gets to the fire or there won’t be any left.”
***
Pippin shivered as he waited for Sam or Merry to come and let him get his supper. The stone leg of the troll blocked the heat of the fire from this vantage point, but that wasn’t what was making him shake and he knew it. It hadn’t been any fun to take a turn on watch before they’d got to Weathertop, and now that he’d actually seen what the Nazgul could do, it was all he could do to stand here without letting his knees wobble. Worse than Old Maggot’s dogs, they were, and the sword hanging on his belt worse than useless against them. He shifted the torch from one hand to the other whenever his fingers started to ache from holding it so hard and watched to make sure it wasn’t going out. Strider’s torches had frightened those things. Once burnt, twice shy, wasn’t that the way of it? They’d stay back from a flame.
“If I had some of old Gandalf’s fireworks I could really put a scare into them.” Pippin told the torch. “Then we’d be even.” Well, not even really, not after they’d hurt Frodo, but it would make up for being chased out of the Shire and getting dragged through the swamp and all. He swirled the fire in front of him, whistling through his teeth and puffing out his cheeks with small explosions as he pretended to chase away the Riders. “Why, if I had Bilbo’s Ring, I could disappear and then sneak up and put a rocket right up their robes,” he said, and then scowled.
“Oh, drat. The Ring is still in Frodo’s pocket!”
“Of course it is, where else would it be?” Sam’s voice behind him made Pippin jump. He turned to find the gardener regarding him with amused eyes.
“Oh, Sam, it’s you,” Pippin observed unnecessarily while his heart slowed down. “I was just thinking that if I had the Ring I could use it to scare the Black Riders away. Set them on fire or something.”
“I don’t see how, seeing as it didn’t do poor Mister Frodo any good to vanish back there in the fight. That Ring on your finger makes you easier for them to find, not harder, don’t you understand that yet?” Sam rested a hand on Pippin’s shoulder, giving it a gentle shake instead of the good rattling that Merry would have delivered for forgetting anything as important as that, and Pippin smiled sheepishly.
“I guess I’m just too hungry to think straight,” he said apologetically.
Sam smiled for the first time since Weathertop. “That’s easily mended,” he said. “Your supper’s waiting for you now. No – leave me the torches, I’ll need them! Half of what's left is Strider's, mind
you. And don’t forget to fret over that scarecrow of Merry’s while you’re at the fire!” Sam let go of Pippin’s shoulder at last and Pippin darted quickly back through the legs of the troll to get to the food before Sam could think of any more instructions.
Strider was already there, settled next to the fire and sliding the last of the sausages out of the pan and onto his plate. Pippin squeaked, “But I haven’t had any yet!”
“This is yours,” Strider said. “I’ve got mine over here.”
Pippin tipped up onto his toes to see past the fire. Sure enough, there was another plate sitting on a rock, and a quick count of sausage proved that the Ranger hadn’t cheated. At least, probably not. His fingers weren’t greasy and neither was his beard. Pippin had noticed how Men kept catching their food in their beards when he was in Bree and thought how glad he was not to have one. It was hard enough remembering to get crumbs off your shirt before anyone noticed them. “That’s all right then,” he said, taking the plate that Strider offered him and crouching down to roll his potato and his apple out of the ashes so they’d be cool enough to eat when he finished his sausage.
“Is that meant to be Frodo?” he asked, surveying the bundle of blankets that was propped against the packs nearby. The sausage was good, but he was still nervous and when he was nervous he liked to talk while he ate. “It doesn’t look very much like a hobbit.”
“It’s the right size around, and long enough,” Strider said. “And we have nothing better. They know how many hobbits came with Frodo and they’d miss one if we tried wrapping one of you up.” He picked up his own potato and hissed through his teeth as he tossed it from hand to hand to cool it enough to break open onto his plate. “But it might fool them from a distance.”
“We’ll have to feed it then,” said Pippin, “if it’s meant to be a hobbit, I mean. Only not really. It would be a waste of sausages.”
Strider shook his head, his shoulders shaking. “We couldn’t feed Frodo sausages if he were here,” he said. “Tea, perhaps. Infused with athelas.”
“Athelas?” Pippin asked around a bite of potato. “Is that the plant that Sam brought back?”
Strider swallowed what he was chewing before he answered. “Yes – kingsfoil. I didn’t know he’d found any.”
“Well, he wouldn’t have come back to the fire without it, would he? It’s on that patch of moss by the biggest troll.” Pippin pointed with his elbow, his hands being busy. Sam had brought a whole clump of plants, roots and all, and parked them on a thick bed of moss he’d had Merry pour water on – although Pippin hadn’t had a chance to ask why he’d wanted the water before the lady had ridden up on her horse and frightened them all nearly to death. And Strider hadn’t wanted water at all – he’d just chewed on the leaves and stuck the mess right on Frodo’s wound. Pippin paused between bites and swallowed hard, trying not to think about the way Frodo’s shoulder had looked in the firelight. Better to think about the kingsfoil. “Does it taste good?”
Strider shook his head. “Not exactly. A bit like mint, perhaps. But it is a medicinal herb not a salad herb. It can be taken as tea, but I use the brew more often to wash wounds and to banish weariness.”
Pippin looked at him sideways. “Banish weariness? You mean you can drink the tea and not be tired any more? Is that how you can not want to sleep more than a few hours at night?”
“To ease it, perhaps, would be more the truth,” Strider said, with a small smile for Pippin. “I find the smell of athelas refreshing.”
“Would it work on hobbits, do you think?” Pippin asked. “Because I don’t think I’ve ever been this tired in my whole life.”
Strider nodded. He tipped the pot that Sam had left near the fire to look inside. “There’s enough water left… would you like try some?”
Pippin nodded. “And we can pretend to give some to Frodo too,” he remembered. “Sam said to fret over him.”
“That would be a good idea,” Strider said. He pulled some crumpled leaves out from where they’d been tucked into his sleeve and dropped them onto the hot water. Almost right away the scent began to spread and Pippin sniffed at it. It was like… like new-mown hay, or the foam on a good dark ale. Like spiced bread … or breakfast waiting while your nose was still under the covers of a morning, and half of what you were smelling was the clean ironed sheets.
He got up and dug through the packs for cups while Strider swirled the pot to encourage the brew. It was hard to wait for his portion to be poured out, but when he tasted the tea it was a disappointment. “Wish we had sugar,” he said, wrinkling his nose at the bitter undertone.
“Just breathe the steam,” Strider advised. The Man scooted back so he could lean against one of the trolls and picked up Merry’s scarecrow, cuddling it on his lap as if it were Frodo and bringing up his own cup of athelas tea to its “face”, where the steam would rise into his own face as well.
Pippin settled by the fire and finished his supper, pausing now and then to breathe in the tea-steam. It was best when his eyes were closed, really, as if the steam could find its way all the way down to his legs and toes more easily in the dark.
He was beginning to feel more like himself for the first time in days. He wriggled his shoulders as they relaxed, remembering what it felt like not to be afraid. Even if athelas tasted like the dregs of a draught of garden cuttings, the smell more than made up for it. “This stuff isn’t bad, Strider,” Pippin said conversationally, looking up to thank the Man for introducing him to something new.
But Strider had put his head back and his eyes were closed, the lines on his face eased for the first time since they’d met in Bree. He was still holding “Frodo”, as carefully as if he were sheltering the real hobbit and not some blankets, but he was definitely asleep.
*******
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(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-10 10:52 pm (UTC)I love the description of the smell of athelas, all those wonderful fresh smells-not really sweet, but so warming and refreshing.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-12 02:24 am (UTC)Glad you liked it!
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-11 02:21 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-12 02:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-11 02:43 am (UTC)((((RSF))))
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-12 02:25 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-11 12:34 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-12 02:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-11 06:06 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-12 02:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-11 07:26 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-12 02:26 am (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-11 09:09 pm (UTC)Three small faces turned to him then, studying him as if he'd grown an extra head. "I didn't think you ever got hungry," Pippin's usual lack of tact explained their confusion. "Or tired."
I liked that bit rather a lot, you know.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-12 02:27 am (UTC)I had a lot of fun writing movie-Pippin for this bit though.
(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-13 05:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-06-14 12:47 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-10 11:35 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2006-07-26 09:20 pm (UTC)