Repost: The Errand Lad, compilation, part two.

[rabidsamfan]

He didn’t know how long he stood there, clutching the cloth so hard his fingers ached, fighting down the trembling. There was nothing left to fear! Everyone said so. Now that the King had come, the enemies of Gondor were vanquished, the shadows were made safe, the darkness filled with peace. That’s what the songs said. Only a coward would still be afraid. And he couldn’t be a coward. He didn’t dare…

The sound of the outer door opening startled him out of his reverie, and he dove for the hearth without thinking. Master Tollovand would beat him if he was found standing witless in the perians’ bedchamber. Hastily he began to mend the fire, laying kindling across the last few embers and kneeling to blow the sparks that alit on the ragged edges of the wood into flames. He’d just enough fire to begin placing the coals when the light from the doorway changed.

“Pippin?” At the word he jumped -- that voice he had not expected -- and scrambled to his feet, bowing to the King as deeply as he could.

“No, my lord, I mean, King Elessar,” he stammered, not daring to look up too far. “Just the errand boy.” He gestured at the hearth nervously. “I thought… I was going to heat some water. For washing, and for tea at first breakfast.”

“I see the hobbits have not been long in teaching you their ways,” the king said, speaking so soft that Bergil blushed for forgetting to do the same. But there was no anger in his voice and Bergil dared to peek a little higher.

The king was dressed in black and silver, and in his arms he bore a silver tray, with bread and pots for jam and butter, as well as a silver teapot and an ewer that must hold milk. Behind him one of the sons of Elrond carried another tray, with cups and plates and spoons. Bergil watched in amazement as the two came cat-footed into the chamber and placed their burdens on the table. The Lord Steward had never done anything like that, not that Bergil had ever heard.

Without discussion they laid out the table, and then the King came toward the Ringbearer’s bed, and reached for the edge of the curtain. Bergil’s astonishment was washed away in a moment of bright fear. “Oh, please don’t wake him,” he said, before he could stop himself. The King stopped and looked at Bergil, asking a question with his eyebrows. Bergil licked dry lips and wished he were somewhere else. “He had a headache,” he explained, hoping that the King wouldn’t keep the Ringbearer in bed for a week because Bergil had told on him. “In the night. From too much wine.”

“Too much wine, or too much walking, I wonder,” said the King. His eyes were dark with the concern as they turned again to the curtained bed.

“He said wine. And he hasn’t a fever,” Bergil reassured him. “We brought him willow tea, perhaps an hour since, with peppermint and other things in it. There’s some left in the kitchen.”

“We?” The King asked, frowning.

“Master Sam and me. Or is he Lord Sam? He said he wasn’t a prince.” To Bergil’s relief the answer was the right one, for the King smiled, indeed, seemed to have to keep himself from laughing out loud.

“‘Lord Sam!’ Elladan, can you imagine what he’d do if I dubbed him that?”

“Blush, and think the honor far too high, as my father says he did when bidden to eat as guest at our table,” Elrond’s son was smiling too. “And so you will not burden him with that, on top of all the rest. Shall I check to see what was in the tea, Elessar?”

“Please do,” said the King, his eyes falling to Bergil again. “Go with Elladan…” he began, and then caught Bergil’s chin in his hand, one thumb running across Bergil’s cheek as he was turned so that the light from the fire fell onto his face. “I know you, don’t I?”

Bergil didn’t know how to feel. Glad to be recognized, but afraid too, in case the King was one of the people who was mad at his father. “I brought you kingsfoil,” he said, which was true. “For Captain Faramir.”

“Ah.” The King nodded, understanding coming into his eyes, and something that Bergil was terribly afraid looked like pity. “I remember. Go with Elladan, then, and show him the tea, and then you may begin to fetch the bath water.”

“Yes, sir,” Bergil said, grateful to be released. He would have run if he dared, but instead led Elladan to the kitchen and the reserved portion of the tea before finding the water buckets where they were kept by the door.

It wasn’t until he was back from the fountain with the first two pailsfull that he caught sight of himself in the mirror in the entry hall. The rising light of dawn picked out every tangle in his hair, and the darkening half-moons of lost sleep under his eyes. But worst of all, it showed the dirt and coaldust that had somehow gotten from his hands to his face, and the tear tracks, all smudged on one side, that had betrayed him to the King.

Fresh tears welled up in his eyes, which would only make things worse, so he took one of the pails back outside and dunked his head in it, and then washed off his hands before running his fingers through his hair to try to make it presentable. Master Tollovand approved of cleanliness, so he wouldn’t have to explain why his hair was wet when the next boy arrived. It couldn’t be much longer -- the sun was almost up -- and in the meantime Bergil could keep out of the way by fetching water. And if the king asked, although Bergil was quite certain that he wouldn’t, he could always say that the fire had been smoking. He tugged up his tunic to dry his face on the inside of it, which was probably cleaner than the hem.

The water in the pail wasn’t clean at all. He sighed and tipped it out, and then ran back to the fountain. At least it was a lot faster carrying back one bucket than it had been carrying two. It didn’t splash as much either. But he was already late, so he picked up the second bucket and hoped he wouldn’t spill on the carpet as he made his way down the corridor.

The King was still in the bedroom. He’d partially opened the curtains on the Ringbearer’s bed -- Bergil could see the halfling sleeping peacefully through the gap -- and was now sitting on a stool by Sam’s bed, singing softly. Bergil couldn’t see if Sam was awake or not, not without going to look over the king’s shoulder, nor if the fever-rag were still in place, but it was too late to do anything about it. Anyway, Sam hadn’t been worried about being stuck in bed. Bergil bit his lip and reminded himself that he was already in enough trouble and concentrated on trying to fill the copper cauldron set into the side of the fireplace as quietly as he could, though that wasn’t very quiet with the water rattling as it hit the bottom.

“Oh, bother,” said a familiar voice from across the room. “Now I have to wake up.” An arm emerged from one of the farther beds and fumbled underneath for a chamber pot without success. A tousled head followed the arm, and Pippin leaned out of the bed, looking underneath it before he realized that the amenity was sitting on a shelf underneath the bedside table. “I could take a morning swim in that,” the halfling observed, blinking at the expanse of porcelain. He looked around a bit more, but there was nothing else to hand. Pot and Pippin vanished back inside the curtain.

Bergil giggled and poured the second bucket a little more noisily to cover the sounds from the bed. Pippin still didn’t sound like a prince, for all that he’d been a hero of the battle at the Black Gate. Bergil picked up the other empty bucket and started back for the fountain, feeling better all of a sudden. There were so many questions he wanted to ask, but he didn’t dare to ask the grownups, and none of the other boys were likely to know the answers. He could ask Pippin.

By the time he got back, Pippin was seated at the table, smearing butter across a slice of bread as he talked softly to the king, who had closed the curtains again on Sam’s bed and gone over to the last bed, which had to belong to Master Meriadoc. “I don’t think any of them slept all that well, Strider. I didn’t hear Frodo come in to go to bed until awfully late, and Sam and Merry both kept finding reasons to get up.”

“And what about you?” the King asked, over his shoulder.

“Well, I heard them didn’t I?” Pippin said. “But after all those ceremonies yesterday I thought I’d better at least pretend to sleep. I’m surprised you’re awake so early, with all that fuss and folderol. Couldn’t they let you sleep until breakfast time? I‘ll come up and guard your door tonight, if you like, and then they‘ll leave you alone in the morning.”

Bergil, who was being very careful how he poured the buckets this time, bit his lip and wondered if he’d get a chance to talk to Pippin after all. But the king said, “No need. I rose early of my own choice. There will be many consultations and ceremonies this day, and for many days yet, I’m afraid. And Imrahil thinks -- and I agree -- that all the Free Peoples should be represented in my meetings with the Easterlings and Southrons.” He stood and closed the curtains on Meriadoc’s bed before coming to the table and appropriating Pippin’s slice of buttered bread. Pippin squeaked a protest, and then sighed and reached for another piece. “Frodo would be the most appropriate of you to stand for the Shire,” the King said, around a mouthful of bread and butter. “But I am not entirely happy with the look of him this morning. Elladan has gone to fetch athelas, if the Herbmaster has found any by now. Would that I had thought to bring more of the leaves which we found in Ithilien.”

“There’s athelas in the kitchen,” Bergil said, and blushed and made a hasty bow because he’d interrupted again. “I mean… I beg your pardon, sir, but Mardil sent some down with Master Sam and me. I saw it when I put it away. Athelas is kingsfoil, isn’t it?”

The King swallowed his mouthful, and exchanged a glance with Pippin before he answered. “Yes. Yes, it is. Run and fetch it, please.”

Bergil ran. The packet was just where he remembered it, with Mardil’s crabbed handwriting identifying the contents. He opened it and looked, just to be sure, and then remembered that the king had used hot water with the athelas before and grabbed up the pot he’d washed. When he was coming back to the bedroom he heard Pippin saying, “…don’t see how he could know with everyone who actually saw what happened standing with us at the…” but when he turned into the room the halfling broke off his sentence and said “There you are, Bergil. Tell me, does everyone in this city rise before cockcrow?”

But the answer would have to wait. Bergil knelt quickly and offered the packet of athelas and the cookpot to the King, sure this time that he was doing it right. Master Tollovand had made them all practice until they’d bruised their knees. “May I be of further service, sir?” he asked, as he’d been taught.

“When did you get this?” King Elessar asked.

Bergil thought a moment. “It was halfway between four and five by the Herbmaster’s water clock when we got there,” he said. “Maybe… fifteen minutes later?”

“And Sam was with you?”

“Yes,” Bergil looked up at the king. “He wanted to know the way.”

The king shook his head. “Small wonder he’s tired again,” he said, as much to himself as to anyone else.

“I slowed down for him,” Bergil offered, “and he liked the garden.”

“The garden!” Pippin said. “That’s an idea, Strider. You could tell Sam and Frodo to go spend the day in the garden. No one’s going to expect them to be at councils and meetings if you say they’ve gone to the Houses of Healing, and it’s not like I haven’t stood for the Shire before.”

“So you have,” said the King, “but no one was asking you to sign treaties, then. Still, Merry is of age, and if the two of you are together you can take turns at staying awake. Legolas and Gimli will be needed too, and Gandalf will probably choose to come, but those three are well enough.” He sat carefully on one of the hobbit sized chairs and beckoned to Bergil, who approached him nervously. “How much longer are you on duty, lad?”

“Until Master Tollovand says I can go,” Bergil said. “Though I do not think he will keep me here much past the time that people are waking. And I heard him tell Ansell that he should be the errand runner come morning.”

“Sir Peregrin tells me that you were his guide to the city when he first came.”

“And a good guide too,” Pippin added, reaching for the jam.

The King nodded. “And you were running errands for the Healers, were you not? Do you know the look of a fever, or when someone is hiding pain?”

“I think so,” Bergil said, and because that didn’t seem to be enough he explained. “You can’t just see if people have a fever, you have to touch them, but if their eyes get shiny, and their faces get red or pale you know you should check. And when people hurt inside they get tight eyebrows.”

“Tight eyebrows?”

“Yes, and they make their mouths all stiff. Like this.” Bergil pulled his eyebrows together and made his mouth a straight line, the way he’d noticed that the soldiers who wanted to go back to the walls even though they were bleeding made their faces when they talked to the Healers. It had never fooled Mardil, of course, although sometimes the herbmaster pretended that it did.

“You’ve good eyes,” the King said, smiling. “Think you you can stay by Sam and Frodo this morning? Lead them to the garden or about the city and watch to see if either of them falters or falls ill?”

“Do you think they will?”

There was a shadow on the king’s face when he answered. “I do not know. But they were sorely tried and their strength has been slow to return. I would have them rest today, if they can. But though I cannot stay to tend them, and needs must have the other Companions by my side, I would not want to leave them alone.”

“Frodo’s not likely to want an honor guard escorting him around the city,” Pippin said. “And it would put the wind right up Sam.” He waved the jam-laden knife for emphasis. “Now, don’t you go fussin’, Strider,” he said in an imitation of Sam’s way of speaking. “We’re grown hobbits, both of us, and we know when we ought to go to bed.” Pippin snorted as Bergil put a hand over his mouth to hide his grin. “And then he gets so interested in the story someone’s telling he goes to sleep right where he is, and Frodo’s not much better. Just try to keep them from carrying too much or trying to do everything at once, and you can let the King or me know if they do anyway.”

“But what if they tell me not to tell you?” Bergil asked.

“Tell them the truth, that I asked you to report to me,” the King said. “It will not be for too long, Bergil. By noon I should have sorted through enough to send Pippin back down, or someone else in his stead. Can you stay awake that long?”

Bergil wished he could chew on his fingernails. That always made it easier to think. To guide the Ringbearer and Sam would be high honor indeed. And he didn’t think it was allowed to say “no” to a King, even if you were sleepy. He took a deep breath. “Can I have breakfast first?”

“Of course you can,” said Pippin. “And second breakfast too, if I know Sam.” He pushed the bread and jam toward Bergil’s side of the table.

“They will not be awake for a while yet,” The King said. “Now that I have athelas, I shall soothe their dreams, to let them sleep more restfully. But eat a little now, if it will keep you awake, and when the cooks come you can eat your fill.”

Break bread with the king? Bergil didn’t even know how to start to think what Master Tollovand would say, but Pippin started to carve another slice off the loaf, and the king got up from his chair, so it wasn’t like he was actually eating breakfast with him after all. He took the bread from Pippin and poured some jam onto it from the jar. The sweet scent of the jam filled his nose and made him even hungrier, and he bit into the bread gladly. He grinned around the mouthful at Pippin, but Pippin was watching as the king filled his pot from the boiler and set it over the fire.

“You don’t want me to go back to bed, do you Strider?”

“No, Pippin. Since you’re awake I think I’ll make use of you. Faramir has warned me that the food stocks are still being distributed from the central storehouses, and there was not time to select supplies for the kitchen here. The palace cooks will send meals down, of course, but I thought you might prefer to make some meals for yourselves.”

“Sam would like that,” Pippin said. “And so would I.”

“Come back to the palace with me, then, and you can choose what you like.” The King peered into the pot and nodded to himself, taking two of the athelas leaves from the packet to crumple into the water. He wrapped the end of his sleeve around his hand and picked up the pot, carrying it over to the Ringbearer’s bedside.

As the king swirled the pot gently and sang something soft, Bergil caught the fresh, clean scent of the herb. It reminded him of the day that the Lord Aragorn had come and saved Captain Faramir, and how new hope had filled the Houses of Healing. He hadn’t been afraid of him then -- there had been too many worse things to fear than a Ranger from the north that day -- and now, listening to the deep voice winding Elvish words around the benediction of the athelas, Bergil forgot to be nervous of his new king and looked his fill.

His clothes were nicer, new-made cloth and cut to fit, and he’d had a bath this time, and brushed his hair. But those were easy to change, and he’d changed more; his face was not as tired as it had been that day, and he’d been eating better, His eyes were still worried but there was joy there too, and his hand was steady as it skimmed across the Ringbearer’s brow, undisturbed by the exhaustion which had underlain all his movements before.

The King, having settled Frodo, got up to go to Sam’s bed, and repeat the process. The scent of athelas came from his pot, making Bergil think of the herbs that were stuffed into his mattress.

“If you really want Sam to sleep easier,” Pippin observed through a yawn, “what you ought to do is push his bed alongside Frodo’s and tuck back the curtains so that he doesn’t have to climb out of bed when he wakes up to check if Frodo needs anything ten times a night. I can see why you want curtains on the beds with no proper door between us and the balcony, but it’s lonely waking up in the dark without Merry kicking, or Sam snoring, or Frodo trying to steal back the blankets.” He yawned again fit to crack his face and scrubbed at his hair drowsily.

“Perhaps you should try to rest a little longer,” the King said.

“No, if I laid down again now I’d be no use until noon.” Pippin pushed back his chair and got to his feet, “Come on, Bergil, I’ll help you fetch more water.”

“Help me fetch…” Bergil’s astonishment held him still a moment too long, and Pippin had already collected the buckets and started for the door before he realized that he’d have to run to catch up. “Sir Pippin, wait!”

He heard the king chuckle and turned to make a hasty bow and that made him almost trip over his own shoes when he turned again to go. He didn’t catch up to Pippin until he was already outside. Bergil took hold of one of the buckets handles. “Master Tollovand wouldn’t want me to let you help me do this,” he said.

Pippin let him take the bucket. “Master Tollovand wouldn’t want you doing it either. Didn’t I hear him telling you to stay in the hall and keep quiet so you wouldn’t waken anyone?”

Bergil blushed. “He said we should help if you needed anything,” he defended himself. “All the boys who were chosen are supposed to make ourselves useful.” He snuck a peek at Pippin. “He said you asked for me particularly.”

“I did,” Pippin agreed. “Your father asked me if I would.”

“Oh.” Bergil wasn’t sure how to take that. “I thought maybe you wanted to see me again.” They’d reached the fountain by then, and he placed his bucket under one of the outflow pipes to fill.

Pippin cupped his hands under the flow from the next pipe and splashed his face before he placed his bucket. “That’s better,” he said, shaking water from his hands. He propped himself on the side of the fountain and grinned at Bergil. “I did want to see you,” he said.

“You did?”

“Yes, very much,” Pippin said, trailing his fingers through the water in the basin. “It’s been weeks since we left, and I know there must be all sorts of rumors and stories in the City, and I thought you could help me sort out which ones were true.”

“How can I do that?” Bergil asked, peering into the bucket to see if it were full yet.

“Oh, if we put our heads together I think we can figure things out,” Pippin said. “For example, I heard two of the servants saying that they didn’t think Lord Faramir was very happy at being told he would still be the Steward. Why would they think that?”

“Because,” Bergil grunted as he lifted the bucket down, “he was going to go to Rohan after the King came.”

“To Rohan?” Pippin echoed. “Why would he want to go to Rohan?”

“To be with the White Lady,” Bergil said, checking to see if Pippin’s bucket were ready too. “He’s in love with her. Everybody knows that.”

“With Eowyn?” Pippin laughed delightedly and sent a trail of water into the air, the droplets glittering when the sunlight caught them at the top of the arc. “Merry said he asked about her. Do you think she likes him too?”

“Well, she kissed him back,” Bergil said, practically. He lifted down the second full bucket.

“Oho!” Pippin chortled. “Who told you that?”

“Nobody,” Bergil grinned since Pippin looked so happy about it. “They kissed each other right on top of the wall by the Houses of Healing, right at lunchtime. And when they stopped kissing they kept looking at each other and smiling. Like this.” he clasped his hands together in front of his chin and tried to look as besotted as the Steward and the Lady had looked as they drifted in towards the Warden’s chambers, and then let his eyes cross when Pippin’s laughter rang out all the clearer. He couldn’t keep his face straight very long and ended up laughing too, collapsing in a happy heap beside Pippin and both of them laughing until they couldn’t laugh any more.

“Bergil! Bergil Beregond’s son! What do you think you’re doing? And Ansell…” Master Tollovand’s voice trailed away and he paused in his wrathful descent on the fountain, so plainly off-balance that even the certainty that he was in trouble now couldn’t keep Bergil from having to bite down giggles as he scrambled to his feet.

Pippin rose more leisurely and regarded the elderly majordomo with a pleasant but bland expression. “Good morning to you,” he said.

“You!” Master Tollovand’s face twisted through horror and dismay. “The perian who… the esquire to Lord Denethor…”

“I’ve been promoted,” Pippin said cheerfully, though his eyes were narrowed as they studied the man. “I’m a knight now. To the King.”

Bergil felt his laughter die away as he watched Master Tollovand make a brief, stiff bow. He’d straightened his face before he straightened his back, but Bergil still felt sure that Master Tollovand didn’t like Pippin very much. It was going to be very uncomfortable to be caught between them.

Evidently Pippin thought so too, for he patted Bergil’s arm and said. “Take the buckets, Bergil. I’ll join you in a minute.”

“Yes, sir,” Bergil said, bowing gratefully as he took the chance to escape. He listened hard as he walked away, and didn’t know whether to be grateful or sorry that the two behind him waited until he was out of earshot before continuing their conversation.

When he got to the house he found Ansell just arrived. Ansell was thirteen, and had been sent with the wagons before the siege, not as a refugee, but as one of the guards, chosen for his skill with a quarterstaff. He was a short, pale, heavyset youngster with a squint and a slow way of speaking, but one of Master Tollovand’s favorites nonetheless, because his wits were quicker than his tongue. When he’d heard Bergil’s hasty explanation of what he was doing he pursed his lips for a long moment in thought.

“The kitchen cistern?” he asked, taking one of the buckets.

“Still half full,” Bergil said, leading the way toward the bedroom. The King was just coming out when they reached the door and he nodded acknowledgement to their hasty bows.

“They should be waking in an hour or so,” Elessar told Bergil. “I’ve written a note for you to give to Frodo. Between baths and breakfasts they should be busy for a while, but I’ll need Meriadoc to come to the court by nine, or send a messenger if he cannot come. Frodo and Sam are to go to the garden, with an eye to which herbs and flowers from the Shire might do well here. If either of them seem unwell to you, put him in the care of the other and come to me yourself.”

Bergil put down his bucket and wiped his hands on his pants before he took the folded note and tucked it into his pocket. “Yes, sir. What if they ask me to go for a healer first?”

“If a healer is closer, of course,” the King said. “But come to me as well.”

“Yes, sir,” Bergil said, and Ansell nudged him and whispered, “Yes, my lord king.” Bergil blushed and corrected himself, bowing hastily.

The king grinned, “‘Sir’ will do, if it’s still before breakfast,” he said. “You would be Ansell, come to the morning duty.”

Now it was Ansell’s turn to blush and swallow hard. “I am, my lord king. Sir.”

“Have you had your breakfast?”

“Not yet,” Ansell said, the blush fading from his cheeks as the curiosity grew in his eyes. He tugged a packet out of his tunic and unwrapped it, displaying a palmsized chunk of cheese and the heel of a loaf of bread. “It’s here, sir.”

“That will do for a start,” the King said. “But it’s not enough to share. Go to the palace kitchens and tell them that the Companions will be ready for their breakfasts between the first hour and the second. Fetch back food enough for you and for Bergil, as he will be staying with the hobbits this morning. Bergil, get Pippin’s bath ready -- I want him to come up to the palace and have his breakfast with me.” He looked up as the muffled chime of the morning bell came to them from the highest tower. “I have to go. When Elladan returns tell him I have gone back to my chambers.”

“Yes, sir,” both boys chorused, making bows to his back as he went out the door. Ansell patted Bergil’s shoulder.

“I thought I’d have to wake you up,” he said, his eyes still wide. “But I guess you weren‘t bored.”

“Only a little,” Bergil said. And then the thought of sleep caught him unawares and he yawned. He rubbed at his face with both hands, trying to chase away the temptation. “I’d better get the bath water hot.”

“Bring water from the kitchen cistern,” Ansell suggested. “It’s not so far to carry, and already halfway warm. I’ll help you fill it again when I get back.”

****

Bergil had made two trips before Pippin turned up, leaning against the kitchen doorway with a thoughtful air. “That’s a clever idea,” he said.

“Ansell thought of it,” Bergil admitted. It was harder to pull the water up from the cistern but it was easier to carry it the shorter distance, so it worked out well enough. “What did Master Tollovand say to you?”

“A lot of things. If I‘d known how many things a knight‘s not allowed to do I‘d have told Strider I didn‘t want to be one,” Pippin made a face.

“Like what?” Bergil wondered.

“Like hauling water,” Pippin said, taking the one of the buckets from him. “Or talking to servants.”

Bergil scowled. “But how can you not talk to servants? I mean, you have to tell them what you want them to do, don’t you? And I know that Lord Denethor used to talk to Master Tollovand. He said so.”

“Lord Denethor?” Pippin hesitated and set down his bucket, and something in his face made Bergil hesitate too. “Bergil,” Pippin asked, quietly, carefully, “what do the stories say about how Lord Denethor died?”

Bergil’s stomach twisted and he looked away from Pippin’s face, at the floor, at the walls, at the water sloshing out of the bucket he still held in shaking hands. “They say… some of them… they say a Fell Rider… they say it came and made him so cold … he tried to get warm. And he burned.”

“Some of them?”

“Some of them say other things,” Bergil whispered. “Things I know aren’t true. Mithrandir…it’s not his fault. He would have saved Lord Denethor if he could. He didn’t let it happen. He didn’t make it happen. And my father didn’t help to …” He felt the tears slipping down his cheek. “But there was blood on his sword. And he wouldn’t tell me where it came from.”

“He couldn’t,” Pippin said, softly. “We promised not to tell, so that Faramir wouldn’t hear the tale before he had the strength to understand it.”

Bergil breathed a breath that went all the way down to his toes. One question answered. “Is that why? Is that why everyone who saw what happened left with the Captains? They said Mithrandir sent them all to die to hide what he had done.”

“And do they say why Gandalf would do such a thing?” The question came even quieter. The drip of water from the side of Bergil’s bucket sounded loud in comparison.

Bergil made himself answer. “For the king. Because Lord Denethor was in the way.”

“Do you believe that?” Pippin’s voice cracked on the question and Bergil had to look. The hobbit was as white as a cloud. “About Gandalf?”

“No,” Bergil shook his head. “No, I never believed that. I saw how hard he worked in the Houses of Healing, trying to fight back the Black Breath. I know…” Bergil would have said more, but he heard voices in the corridor. Quickly, he reached for Pippin‘s bucket. “Someone’s coming.”

Pippin swung the bucket back, “No. They’ll have to take us as we are -- even Master Tollovand,” he said grimly, the color coming back to his cheeks and a light coming into his eye. He stalked out of the kitchen into the corridor and Bergil followed nervously. But it wasn’t Master Tollovand after all. Ansell was holding the door for two of the cooks from the palace, and all three were laden with trays and baskets.

“Good morrow, Sir Peregrin,” one of the women said, curtseying to Pippin, although her eyes rested a long moment on the bucket. “We have come to prepare the kitchen and the breakfast, by your leave.”

“Oh, hello, Berylla, good morning, Catrienne,” Pippin recovered himself with an ease that Bergil could only envy. “I wasn’t expecting you. Did the King send you down? And did you bring any of those lovely cakes you were making in the kitchens yesterday afternoon?”

“The Lord Steward tasked us to come each day as soon as the morning bell has rung,” the older of the two woman said. “And yes, we did save cakes for you and your countrymen.” She led her companion in, and Pippin and Bergil moved to one side to let them pass. The baskets smelled good, like fruit and fresh bread. Ansell followed them more slowly.

“Didn’t you tell him?” he asked.

“No. There wasn‘t time.” And they‘d been talking about other things. “Sir Pippin, the King wants you to go and have breakfast with him, as soon as you’ve had your bath.”

Pippin took one last big sniff of the warm smells coming from the basket in Ansell’s arms and sighed. “Just as well,” he said. “I need to talk to Aragorn anyway -- and I can’t imagine they’d bring us cake and not give him any.”

“And Master Tollovand wants to see you,” Ansell said to Bergil, “right away.”

“The king said I should stay with the hobbits,” Bergil remembered that quickly enough. His stomach knotted up again just thinking about what Master Tollovand would say.

“It sounds to me as if Master Tollovand will have to come here, then,” said another voice. They all three turned and found Meriadoc, the hobbit, coming soft footed down the corridor in his nightshirt and bearing the last few bites of a piece of jam and bread in one hand.

“Merry!” Pippin sounded as relieved as Bergil felt. “What are you doing up so early?”

“The sun’s up isn’t it? And someone was banging a tin tub by the hearth a while ago,” he cast a conspiratorial grin at Bergil. “And just now, I heard you mention cakes -- so I thought I’d better come and get some before they were all gone.” He planted himself before them and paused to devour the last of his bread and lick the jam off his fingers. “Good morning, Pippin, good morning, Bergil. Good morning, whoever you are. Have I missed anything important?”

Pippin grinned, "One or two things. Ansell, when you've put those things in the kitchen run and tell Master Tollovand that Bergil can't come just now, please."

"That'll just get me into worse trouble," Bergil protested unhappily.

"Not as much trouble as disobeying the king," Ansell said. "I forgot about that part. Don't worry, Bergil, I'll tell him. I think he just wants you to put on a clean tunic."

"Do you think so?" Bergil looked down at himself. His tunic didn't look that bad, except for some wrinkles and a few wet places where the bucket had spilled. And a sticky place where he'd dripped some jam or honey or something, but that didn't show very much against the black. "It looks all right. And my other tunic has a hole in it."

Ansell rolled his eyes. "If you're going to be with the Ringbearers this morning, maybe I should lend you one of mine." He shook his head and went on into the kitchen.

"Be with the Ringbearers?" Merry asked.

"Let us get rid of these buckets before they pull our arms out first," Pippin said, heading for the bedroom. "You're not the only one with questions."


Bergil followed the two hobbits into the bedroom. Pippin, reaching the copper, started to lift his bucket to pour its contents in with the rest and grimaced when he got it as high as his shoulder. Merry stepped up and helped him steady the bucket as it poured. "That's what you get for showing off," he chided the younger hobbit gently.

"It's not going to get better if I don't use it," Pippin countered, although he accepted the help. He set the bucket down and rubbed at his right shoulder with his left hand. When he saw Bergil's look of dismayed guilt he grinned. "I got sat on by a troll, and it knocked everything out of place."

"Dislocated knee, dislocated hip, dislocated shoulder…" Merry listed. They were both keeping their voices low, so as not to disturb the sleepers.

"Dislocated thumb," Pippin waggled his right thumb to show that it was working. "It's mostly the shoulder that still bothers me now and again. But Aragorn says I've got to use it or it will stiffen up and I won't be able to use it at all."

"Oh." Bergil sighed with relief. He had heard the healers say that sort of thing to some of the men who were getting well enough to leave the Houses. "Master Tollovand better not know you still hurt though, or he'll fuss even more at you."

"Where did he come from anyway?" Pippin asked. "I don't remember him being here before the battle."

Bergil lifted his own bucket and poured it out. "He used to be one of the Chief Servants of the Palace but he retired to Lossarnach. And then when the wagons came back with all the women and children he came too, because Lord Faramir had asked for extra men to help repair and rebuild. Only he's too old to do that, and since Jeris died when the fireball hit the guest house Lord Faramir thought that Master Tollovand would be a good person to be master of the boys – for the time being anyway." He bent down to pick up the other bucket before he turned to Pippin again. "He's old, and he's cranky, and he's not always fair, but since he came it's not as confused. We always know where we're supposed to be at least, and what time. And he found us all places to sleep, and got us permission to eat at the Guard butteries whenever it's time for a meal."

"Is he the one who thinks that Gandalf killed Lord Denethor?" Pippin asked, nodding to acknowledge Bergil's attempt at being fair.

"What?" Merry yelped, and then hushed himself. They waited, but the curtains on the two occupied beds didn't stir, and Sam's snoring could still be heard.

When he was sure that they hadn't woken the Ringbearers, Bergil answered. "I don't know what he really thinks, but he knows those stories. And he asks questions out loud – questions no one knows the answers to. Although I expect they'll be answered soon, now that the king is here and all of you are with him."

Merry frowned thoughtfully and went over to the table to cut another slice of bread. "Does Aragorn know about this, Pip?"

"I didn't find out until after he'd left." Pippin joined him at the table and opened the jam.

"He was here?" Merry passed the slice to Pippin and started on another.

"Can't you smell the athelas?" Pippin said, accepting the first slice of bread and starting to spread it with jam.

"Well, I suppose we should take the lad up to speak to him then."

Bergil shook his head. "But I'm supposed to stay with the Ringbearers and take them to the gardens." He put down the pails and fumbled in his tunic for the note. "Here, see? And Sir Pippin is to bathe and go to the king for breakfast and you're to bathe and have breakfast and go to him by nine."

Merry took the note and unfolded it. His eyebrows went up and he scowled at it. "It's in Elvish!" His eyes flickered from word to word, lingering on some of them. "Let's see… that means Frodo… and that's garden… and that's…" he made a rude noise and folded the paper again, handing it back to Bergil. "It's beyond my scholarship," he shook his head. "I hope Frodo can make more of it. What about Gandalf and Gimli and Legolas?"

"They're to go to the palace too, when they've eaten," Pippin said. "Negotiations with the Southrons and Easterlings. He wants all the free people represented."

"Oh. Well you'll have to straighten out Tollovand then, Pip."

"I can't. Not until Faramir's been told what happened." Pippin's knife stopped mid-stroke. "I wonder if Gandalf told him last night?"

"Couldn't have," Merry said. "Faramir was with Eowyn and Eomer last night – at least until the time that Eomer sent me off, and I got the feeling they'd be talking a while yet. Gandalf was with Imrahil and Aragorn, wasn't he?"

Bergil watched in fascination, a little distracted from the conversation by the way that Pippin and Merry passed bread and butter and jam back and forth to each other without missing a beat. They had two platefuls ready in no time at all and it wasn't until Merry peered into the silver teapot that Bergil remembered to bestir himself. The king had rinsed out the small pot and refilled it, leaving it over the fire to boil for the tea, and he fetched it over, using the fever-rag he'd stuffed in his pocket before dawn to protect his hand from the hot handle.

"Thank you," Merry said, as Bergil poured the water into the teapot. "It's just going to have to wait then, Pippin. I mean, you should tell Aragorn at breakfast, but I don't think anything will get done today. You know they've got to deal with the prisoners first."

"I do?" Pippin said, looking as if he'd been called on to recite a poem he hadn't memorized.

"Yes, you do, cloth ears. Or weren't you paying attention when they were talking with Imrahil and Gandalf last week about how much food it was taking to feed everyone and when the harvests and replantings would start to be large enough to make up for the fields that were lost in the battle. Most of the Southrons and Easterlings that were wounded are well enough to go home now, and eat their own crops." Merry shook his head fondly at his cousin.

"Oh…" Pippin brightened. "Well, they'd mentioned food you see, so after that I was thinking more about whether we'd have to go on short rations again then about the rest of it. Bergil, are they rationing in the city?"

"Some things," Bergil said, accepting the jam and bread that Pippin held out to him. "Meat mostly, but the ships from Belfalas have brought lots and lots of salted fish. The storehouses were filled as full as they could be before the battle, and only two of them were burned, so there's lots of some things like grain for bread. Except that there's all the extra men from other parts of Gondor, and from Rohan but I expect that a lot of them will go home now."

"Full warehouses?" Pippin said. "You'd never have guessed it from the scanty portions they were serving," he told Merry cheerfully.

Bergil's appetite left him. "Lord Denethor planned it. He said that the longer the garrison held at Minas Tirith, the longer the rest of the free peoples would have to prepare for what was coming, or to find places to hide away. There was food for at least a year on careful rations." No one had expected the army of the Enemy to break through the gate so quickly, anymore than anyone had expected the fireballs. Hunger or disease, that's what felled walled cities according to Mardil, and he'd made Bergil wear a cloth over his mouth and nose and gloves when he was boosted up to the roofs of the houses to fetch down the severed heads which had lodged out of reach of the men to be burned. He put down the bread. "I'd better get more water."

He didn't miss the puzzled glance that Pippin gave him, or the sudden pity in Merry's eyes. "There's plenty of water for now," Merry said, catching Bergil's arm and steering him into one of the chairs. "You sit and have a cup of tea. You look like you've been up all night."

"He has, or half of it," Pippin said, saving Bergil the necessity of answering. "Go on, eat something, or you won't be able to keep up with Sam and Frodo when they wake up. I'll go see if they've brought those cakes and you can tell Merry what you told me about Eowyn and Faramir."

Bergil nodded, but all he could do was stare at his clenched hands and try not to let them shake. Merry waited until Pippin had gone and then patted Bergil's shoulder. "It's all right," the hobbit said. "I get reminded too, when I least expect it." He poured some tea into one of the cups and added milk. "Pippin too, and I can always tell because he goes even paler than you just did."

"He does?" Bergil was so startled that he looked up, and realized that it was not just pity, but understanding too on Merry's face. "But I … I thought it was just me." He swallowed, waiting for Merry to say something, but Merry was still listening, so more words tumbled out. "Everything's supposed to be all right now that the Enemy is dead and the King has come. Everybody's supposed to be happy all the time. Aren't they?"

Merry's eyes went dark and he rubbed at his arm, looking for a moment as cold as he had seemed on the balcony when they had watched the host marched away. "Not everything sad has come untrue," he said. And then he seemed to remember where he was and he smiled at Bergil sadly. "Not even a king can change some things, Bergil. The dead are still dead. And there is still work to do, still orcs and worse things hidden in the deep places of the world. It would be shameful to forget those we lost, and foolish to pretend that all evil has perished."

He meant Theoden, Bergil realized, and it made him feel better somehow to know that other people were sad sometimes, or frightened. "What about the Nazgul?" he asked carefully. "Are they still out there?"

"No," Merry's shook his head and his smile was realer now. "No, when the One Ring was destroyed they were free to die at last. Gandalf says that the Power of the Rings is broken – even the Rings which Sauron never touched have begun to fade."

"There was more than one Ring?" Bergil hadn't heard that before, and his curiosity began to get the upper hand.

"It's too long a story for breakfast," Merry laughed. "Later perhaps. Drink your tea now, and tell me about Eowyn."

Bergil sipped at his tea obediently and took a deep breath as the tightness left him. "Didn't she tell you? I mean, you were with her last night."

"Last night there were too many of the Knights of the Mark with Eomer, and all of them trying to tell her and Faramir and the other Riders who had been too badly injured to go to Ithilien about the battle at the Black Gate." Merry smiled wryly. "She hardly had a chance to say anything. But Faramir stayed with her, long after he presented Eomer with that gift of bread and ale. And I saw her eyes follow him when he was summoned away. He's why she didn't come to Cormallen, isn't he?"

"He would have let her go, if she'd wanted to. But the Warden wouldn't have. At least not until afterwards and then I don't think she wanted to go." Bergil reached for his piece of bread and jam, feeling better about the whole idea of food now.

"Afterwards?" Merry asked, settling into the other chair and pulling his own plate into comfortable reach.

"After they were kissing on the wall," Bergil said. He didn't think somehow that Merry thought it funny the way the Pippin had, so he didn't make any faces. "And she started smiling. After that."

"I see." Merry ate a little, thoughtfully. "I wonder if Theoden would have liked Faramir."

"I don't know," Bergil said honestly. "But if he liked you he probably would like Lord Faramir. I mean, you're both brave, and smart, and nice. And you're both friends with Eowyn."

"Friends?" Merry echoed. "Do you think that he and Eowyn are friends, and not just in love?"

Bergil had to think about that one. He didn't think it was possible to be in love and not be friends, although to tell the truth he wasn't entirely sure what being in love felt like. "Well," he said, trying to think of what he'd heard and seen. "They talk to each other a lot. And she helped him get things ready for the coronation, because there were lots of people to help in the Houses of Healing and not very many people to help at the court. And they give each other things. She made him a bracelet of horsehair that he wears all the time, and he gave her one of the swords from the armory so they could practice together." Ioreth had been scandalized at the notion, but the Warden had laughed and said that the exercise would do them both good.

Merry smiled. "I expect she liked that."

"Yes, and they go riding together sometimes." They'd gone riding after Faramir had gone to fetch the crown from Rath Dinen. Bergil had seen them going down from the palace stables, with Eowyn leading the solemn Steward through the streets as gently as if he'd been wounded again. They'd been gone all that afternoon – the one time Faramir had left the city since he had taken up his post – but it had done him good, the old women agreed, for he'd come back laughing, and with eyes to see the people around him and greet them as he and Eowyn went back up the hill. He'd even remembered Bergil's name, and asked how he was doing. Which was good and bad, because Bergil had told him about not being sure where he was going to find supper, and it was the day after that Master Tollovand had been put in charge of the remaining boys.

Which reminded him. "Do you think I should change my tunic?"
"You're too tall to borrow Pippin's old one," Merry said, accepting the change in topic easily. "And the trees are different, aren't they? Yours has leaves."

"More time to add them on, I expect," Pippin said, coming in with a tray of neatly sliced cake, and having overheard. "The leaves are part of the royal crest, not the stewards', so they gradually stopped putting them on even the Citadel Guards' outfits. When did they make you a page, anyway, Bergil?"

"It was Master Tollovand's idea," Bergil said. "So he would know which boys were his responsibility to yell at if they were fooling around now that the others have come back." He reached for one of the pieces of cake and Pippin obliged him by swinging the tray closer before he remembered that he should have asked permission. By then it was too late, so he just said, "Thank you," and bit into the sweetness.

Pippin nodded and passed the tray to Merry, having snagged a piece for himself. "How many of you are pages then?"

"We're not pages, not exactly. Not unless the King takes us into his service once he's had a chance to think about it," Tollovand had warned them all about that, repeatedly. "There are 19 of us now, if you don't count Randly and Derwent, but they're still healing so they don't do any errands except small ones for Mardil or the Warden." Jeris had gotten those two out of the burning guesthouse, and gone back in to find Vinsen when the roof collapsed, and neither he nor the youngest of the boys who had stayed for the battle had come out again. Out of the ten boys who had stayed in the city, only he had died, though Randly and Derwent would have died too if it hadn't been for Gandalf and the King helping the healers. Four of the others had gone back gratefully to their mothers once the wagons had begun to come back from Lossarnach, and one had gone the other way, to live with relations far from the smell of burning. But Bergil and Mosten had been joined by nearly twenty new orphans and half-orphans among their schoolmates, and Faramir had said it was best for them to work for their keep while they waited for fathers to come home from the Black Gate or for other arrangements to be made.

"Well that's plenty of others to help carry the water, then," Pippin said, stretching out his legs and wriggling his toes in the air. "I didn't like to think of you having to haul enough for Gandalf and Gimli and Legolas too."

"Which reminds me," Merry said. "Aren't you supposed to be getting yourself clean instead of getting yourself sticky, Peregrin Took?"

Pippin licked a blob of frosting off his fingers and attempted to seem offended. "I took a bath yesterday evening," he said. "I thought I should save the water for you and Frodo and Sam."

Merry leaned on one elbow and raised his eyebrows. "You fell in the river, trying to impress Sam and Frodo with how many fish you'd caught and had to be fished out yourself, and it was the day before yesterday. Go on, then Pip. Soap, this time!"

Pippin grinned, undaunted and winked at Bergil. "Oh all right. But you'll have to help me fill the tub, Merry, and Bergil, you can guard the door so that the cooks can't walk in." He clasped his arms across his chest and fluttered his eyelashes foolishly. "I'm terribly modest, you know!"

"I could see if there's a screen somewhere," Bergil offered, and then surprised himself by yawning.

"No, no," Merry said, saying something else private to Pippin with his eyes. "You help Pip and I'll go keep the cooks busy."

"You just want to see what they've brought to eat," Pippin accepted the change in plans cheerfully.

"Of course I do." Merry grinned. He went to put on his trousers and overtunic while Bergil and Pippin started to transfer water from the copper to the tub. He stopped back just as Pippin decided that there was enough and looked over the preparations judiciously. "That's hopeful. Don't leave the floor awash this time, unless you've time to mop," he warned Pippin, and then he took Bergil aside while the younger hobbit began to strip off.

"Remember, you're to stay with Sam and Frodo, unless they send you on an errand," he said so soberly that Bergil wondered if he'd been able to read the letter the King had written after all. It felt funny to have to bend his head down to someone who was giving him instructions in that tone, and Bergil remembered all over again that the hobbits were a lot older than they seemed. Merry was a lot more grownupish than Pippin, at least just at the moment, and Bergil nodded and tried to look just as solemn.

"Yes, Sir Meriadoc," he said, hoping to match the hobbit's mood, and it was the right thing to say because Merry smiled and patted his shoulder.

"You can make sure Pippin washes his hair while you're here," he said, a lot more loudly, aiming the words at his cousin.

"I thought you didn't want the floor awash," Pippin retorted, but Merry just laughed and went on out.


part three