Five More Days to Rivendell
Jun. 29th, 2006 04:38 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanhttp://rabidsamfan.livejournal.com/243852.html#cutid1 -- part one
http://rabidsamfan.livejournal.com/245239.html#cutid1 -- part two
http://rabidsamfan.livejournal.com/246353.html#cutid1 -- part three
He was really in trouble this time. Not that his foster father had ever actually said that small boys weren’t allowed to walk along the tops of balcony walls, of course, but because he was meant to have better sense than to try to do all the same things as grownups did -- especially not when the grownups were Elladan and Elrohir, who got very silly when they were showing off and trying to help him not think about the way that his mother was fading. Dying.
The tree had caught him though, and if he could just manage not to fall any further someone would come looking for him. Someone would climb down to him, untangle him from the twigs and things that were keeping him balanced on the broad, hard branch, and bring him inside again. And Ada would make his arm and his leg and his head stop hurting.
The wrong arm is broken.
But he couldn’t move. Not till they came. If he moved he’d fall, and not even Elrond Halfelven could put him together again. It was so far to the ground! But some of the twigs poked into him, hurting, and he couldn’t help the tears that were leaking out from under his eyelids. Oh, come and find me, please come and find me, Mama.
“Mama.”
“Did he just ask for his mother?” Pippin asked, dancing nervously on his toes as he watched Sam and Merry examine the injured Ranger.
“Hush, Pippin, you’d be wanting your mother too if you’d taken a ding to the head like that.” Merry said, when Strider flinched away from the younger hobbit’s inadvertantly loud question.
Pippin immediately made himself go still, or at least stiller, “Well, yes, but it’s just that… well, he’s so big,” he said, much more quietly.
“He must have been small once,” Sam pointed out, pausing to cover another bleeding cut on the Man’s left arm with the last handkerchief out of his pack. “Here, help me tip him onto his side so as I can make sure nothing’s hurt on the underside. Pippin, you steady his head, but be careful not to stand in the way in case he starts to spew. And don’t go grabbing the bump, now!”
“Right, Sam.” Merry moved into position promptly by Strider’s shoulders. Pippin moved a little more uncertainly, putting a hand on either side of Strider’s face to avoid touching the bloody patch behind his left ear.
The wind was blowing, pushing him, tipping him until he could no longer tell which way was up and which was down. Something caught at his ears, but it was too late, his stomach had already leaped up into his throat, bitter and acid. He grabbed frantically for the branch by his head to keep from falling, and the tree squealed with dismay as he vomited, helpless to keep his supper where it belonged.
“SAM!” Pippin’s arm felt like he’d caught it in a coil of rope, near squeezed into breaking by the Ranger’s sudden grasp. He couldn’t help but hang on harder to the Man’s ears, those being the only reasonable handles on the oversized head, as he was jerked into stumbling by Strider’s convulsive movements. He tried to keep his toes clear of the half-eaten sausage and taters as they fell, hating the splash and the horrible slimy feel between his toes, but he couldn’t let go until he was let go of.
Merry might have gone to Pippin’s aid were it not for Sam’s bark of “Keep him on his side or he’ll choke!” when the trouble started. He braced himself to with a grunt of effort while Sam kept on quickly moving the stones Strider which had been laying on out of the way, finishing his work as he reached the Man’s shoulders and head. He gave one last glance at the cleared ground before kneeling behind Strider’s shoulders, and reaching over to begin prying gently at the large hand that was holding Pippin. “Easy, Strider, easy. We’ve got, you… we’ve got you safe now.”
“Safe?” Merry repeated incredulously.
“We’re safe enough,” Sam said, soothingly, coaxing Strider’s hand into relaxing with gentle strokes, even while he nodded reassurance at Pippin. “Them things ain’t gonna come back for us when they’ve got the Ring to chase after.” Merry might almost have believed him, if it weren’t that Sam’s voice was half a note too high.
“We’ve already found Bilbo’s trolls,” Merry pointed out, keeping his own voice as low and unalarmed as he could manage. “I never believed in them, or giant spiders, or goblins, nor even talking Eagles, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“You forgot the wolves,” Pippin squeaked. He was less frightened now that Strider’s spasms were diminishing and Sam was getting him loose. His eyes were still wide and bright, but he was trying to smile. “Did you believe in the wolves?”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of wolves,” Merry said, nonchalantly. “I’ve seen that old skin hanging at the Great Smials, and they’re just big dogs.”
His stomach was as empty as it could be, and he hadn’t fallen yet. Hadn’t fallen to the wolves below. But weren’t the wolves in a story? His head still hurt dreadfully, but he was less frightened now. He could hear the birds talking among themselves, arguing in a friendly way about which side of the Misty Mountains the goblins lived on, and how far it was yet to Rivendell. Aren’t we in Rivendell? He tried to remember the story, but all he could remember was the storyteller, kicking his heels and waggling his toes with delight as they sat together on the bench overlooking the valley. But that was after she died. He’d been a visitor, the storyteller, come again to Rivendell after adventures the like of which the Elves had long since turned into poems for a boy to memorize. Stories he told, tumbling out this way and that, full of battles and treasure and a dragon and Gollum.
A small hand was laying on top his own, another small hand was resting on his shoulder. He remembered now, how strange it had been to meet someone shorter than he was himself, and how he’d had to practice his Westron harder than ever before just to listen to the stories that the visitor told. He remembered now, remembered Gandalf and the dwarves and Bilbo. Remembered Bilbo finding him while he was sitting by his mother’s grave and listening as he’d tried to explain why she had left him alone, even though he barely understood it himself. Remembered the home-hunger in the hobbit’s eyes, and knowing that their friendship would be brief, even as they went together to beg pies of the cook.
He must have come back for a visit, he thought, but he couldn’t open his eyes to greet the hobbit back to Rivendell. Couldn’t stay awake any longer. Perhaps when his head stopped hurting…
http://rabidsamfan.livejournal.com/245239.html#cutid1 -- part two
http://rabidsamfan.livejournal.com/246353.html#cutid1 -- part three
He was really in trouble this time. Not that his foster father had ever actually said that small boys weren’t allowed to walk along the tops of balcony walls, of course, but because he was meant to have better sense than to try to do all the same things as grownups did -- especially not when the grownups were Elladan and Elrohir, who got very silly when they were showing off and trying to help him not think about the way that his mother was fading. Dying.
The tree had caught him though, and if he could just manage not to fall any further someone would come looking for him. Someone would climb down to him, untangle him from the twigs and things that were keeping him balanced on the broad, hard branch, and bring him inside again. And Ada would make his arm and his leg and his head stop hurting.
The wrong arm is broken.
But he couldn’t move. Not till they came. If he moved he’d fall, and not even Elrond Halfelven could put him together again. It was so far to the ground! But some of the twigs poked into him, hurting, and he couldn’t help the tears that were leaking out from under his eyelids. Oh, come and find me, please come and find me, Mama.
“Mama.”
“Did he just ask for his mother?” Pippin asked, dancing nervously on his toes as he watched Sam and Merry examine the injured Ranger.
“Hush, Pippin, you’d be wanting your mother too if you’d taken a ding to the head like that.” Merry said, when Strider flinched away from the younger hobbit’s inadvertantly loud question.
Pippin immediately made himself go still, or at least stiller, “Well, yes, but it’s just that… well, he’s so big,” he said, much more quietly.
“He must have been small once,” Sam pointed out, pausing to cover another bleeding cut on the Man’s left arm with the last handkerchief out of his pack. “Here, help me tip him onto his side so as I can make sure nothing’s hurt on the underside. Pippin, you steady his head, but be careful not to stand in the way in case he starts to spew. And don’t go grabbing the bump, now!”
“Right, Sam.” Merry moved into position promptly by Strider’s shoulders. Pippin moved a little more uncertainly, putting a hand on either side of Strider’s face to avoid touching the bloody patch behind his left ear.
The wind was blowing, pushing him, tipping him until he could no longer tell which way was up and which was down. Something caught at his ears, but it was too late, his stomach had already leaped up into his throat, bitter and acid. He grabbed frantically for the branch by his head to keep from falling, and the tree squealed with dismay as he vomited, helpless to keep his supper where it belonged.
“SAM!” Pippin’s arm felt like he’d caught it in a coil of rope, near squeezed into breaking by the Ranger’s sudden grasp. He couldn’t help but hang on harder to the Man’s ears, those being the only reasonable handles on the oversized head, as he was jerked into stumbling by Strider’s convulsive movements. He tried to keep his toes clear of the half-eaten sausage and taters as they fell, hating the splash and the horrible slimy feel between his toes, but he couldn’t let go until he was let go of.
Merry might have gone to Pippin’s aid were it not for Sam’s bark of “Keep him on his side or he’ll choke!” when the trouble started. He braced himself to with a grunt of effort while Sam kept on quickly moving the stones Strider which had been laying on out of the way, finishing his work as he reached the Man’s shoulders and head. He gave one last glance at the cleared ground before kneeling behind Strider’s shoulders, and reaching over to begin prying gently at the large hand that was holding Pippin. “Easy, Strider, easy. We’ve got, you… we’ve got you safe now.”
“Safe?” Merry repeated incredulously.
“We’re safe enough,” Sam said, soothingly, coaxing Strider’s hand into relaxing with gentle strokes, even while he nodded reassurance at Pippin. “Them things ain’t gonna come back for us when they’ve got the Ring to chase after.” Merry might almost have believed him, if it weren’t that Sam’s voice was half a note too high.
“We’ve already found Bilbo’s trolls,” Merry pointed out, keeping his own voice as low and unalarmed as he could manage. “I never believed in them, or giant spiders, or goblins, nor even talking Eagles, but I’ve changed my mind.”
“You forgot the wolves,” Pippin squeaked. He was less frightened now that Strider’s spasms were diminishing and Sam was getting him loose. His eyes were still wide and bright, but he was trying to smile. “Did you believe in the wolves?”
“Oh, I’m not afraid of wolves,” Merry said, nonchalantly. “I’ve seen that old skin hanging at the Great Smials, and they’re just big dogs.”
His stomach was as empty as it could be, and he hadn’t fallen yet. Hadn’t fallen to the wolves below. But weren’t the wolves in a story? His head still hurt dreadfully, but he was less frightened now. He could hear the birds talking among themselves, arguing in a friendly way about which side of the Misty Mountains the goblins lived on, and how far it was yet to Rivendell. Aren’t we in Rivendell? He tried to remember the story, but all he could remember was the storyteller, kicking his heels and waggling his toes with delight as they sat together on the bench overlooking the valley. But that was after she died. He’d been a visitor, the storyteller, come again to Rivendell after adventures the like of which the Elves had long since turned into poems for a boy to memorize. Stories he told, tumbling out this way and that, full of battles and treasure and a dragon and Gollum.
A small hand was laying on top his own, another small hand was resting on his shoulder. He remembered now, how strange it had been to meet someone shorter than he was himself, and how he’d had to practice his Westron harder than ever before just to listen to the stories that the visitor told. He remembered now, remembered Gandalf and the dwarves and Bilbo. Remembered Bilbo finding him while he was sitting by his mother’s grave and listening as he’d tried to explain why she had left him alone, even though he barely understood it himself. Remembered the home-hunger in the hobbit’s eyes, and knowing that their friendship would be brief, even as they went together to beg pies of the cook.
He must have come back for a visit, he thought, but he couldn’t open his eyes to greet the hobbit back to Rivendell. Couldn’t stay awake any longer. Perhaps when his head stopped hurting…
