Adaptation
A/N:
This story is set during The Return of the King, around the time of
Gimli’s discovery of Pippin on the Battle Fields. Legolas is probably a little
more like his movie self, rather than his book self in this fic, in that he’s a
bit more close and reclusive. Obviously, I don’t own the characters, but I hope
the Prof won’t mind me using them too much!
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* * * *
In
my time spent with these mortals, I have learnt so many of their strange
traditions and customs, and the gift that they posses and loathe. Perhaps that
is why my father kept me away from mortals in my youth (of it could even be
called “youth”). One would think that by now I would be used to death; I
have seen so much in my wanderings from Imladris, and yet still it barely has
meaning to me. I have not, you may say, adapted to it, as I have adapted to the
need of hobbits to have six meals a day. Or the curious pass-time of smoking
pipes that all of my companions seemed to enjoy. Or the desirability of ale. Or
the fierce competitiveness of dwarves, especially when it is against an elf.
No,
I have not yet adapted to death.
When
Gandalf fell, I was grieved for his loss, but I seemed not to comprehend it in
the same way that my companions did. Poor Peregrin hardly spoke a word for many
a day afterwards, and it was rare to find Frodo with dry eyes. I shared their
pain, but I knew it was different. I suppose it was because I felt that I would
see Gandalf again, some day. I knew that he was one of the Maia, akin to the
Valar themselves. And perhaps, one day, if it would be my fate to pass into the
West, I would meet with Mithrandir once more. But the mortals would not, for
death is their gift, or their curse.
The
pain was much worse when I came upon Aragorn and Boromir. At first, I feared
that they had both been slain, for Aragorn moved not, so great was his grief.
But the slightest movement revealed that we had lost only one of the men of our
company. At that moment, I realised how definitive death was. Never
again would I see Boromir’s stern, proud smile. Never again would I hear his
voice, strong and loud, as he befriended the halflings. Never again would he
ride to his city to be greeted by the people that loved him so. He had been taken
from this world, taken from those that loved him, and they would never see him
again.
It
was an odd feeling, to say the least. I have never forgotten the pain that
welled up inside.
But
nothing can compare to the grief I feel at this moment. Nothing could have
prepared me for it. It seems unfair that this should be our payment for all the
deeds that we have done for this world. Gimli’s cries of sorrow fall upon deaf
ears, for I have time only for my own despair.
Peregrin.
Pippin. Pip. He had so many names. “Fool of a Took” seemed to be Gandalf’s
favourite. As I look upon his small, limp form resting in the arms of Gimli,
who is weeping uncontrollably, I feel my own eyes mist over. Another strange
feeling, for I cannot remember the last time tears fell from my eyes. Perhaps
when I was a small child, but that was a great many lives of men ago.
I
cannot find the words that I wish to speak. I doubt the Gimli would hear them
anyway. But I want to release the guilt that I feel along with my grief. It is
my fault. It is my fault that the smallest of us has fallen. He was standing so
close to me when the battle began. I am sure that I heard either Gandalf or
Aragorn (with all the noise, I cannot be sure which one it was) cry out to me:
“Watch out for Peregrin.”
But
I did not. As the waves of the enemy washed over us like a sea, I lost site of
Pippin. So small was he, amongst so many, I suppose it could be argued that no
one could have been able to keep a close watch. But I, Legolas Greenleaf,
Prince of Mirkwood, should have been able to. I should have stayed closer to
him. I should have called to him to stay close by.
My thought suddenly turns to Merry, waiting patiently in Minas Tirith. How shall we tell him this grievous news? And Frodo and Sam? It has said that they have been found, but is this the prize that they should receive for their toil? To wake up and find that the youngest and dearest of them has been slain?
I
hope that Merry will deal me a painful death for not keeping Pippin
safe.
I wonder
if Elrond did not foresee this. Gandalf had told me that he had been reluctant
to send Peregrin along with us. Is it not possible that the Lord of Imladris
foresaw this cruel end that fate had in store for the most beloved member of
our company? He knew what would befall on this dark day and tried to prevent
it. He tried to allow the world to hear Pippin’s laughter and feel his
infectious joy.
My
sorrow slowly turns to anger. If this is so, why then did Gandalf not agree
with Elrond’s decision? So much could have been saved if not for the
stubbornness of the wizard.
I
know the answer, just as I know it is not my place to deal judgement. Pippin
would have come with us, whether he was permitted to or not. Such is the will
of a Took, I am told. More stubborn than any wizard.
Gimli’s
cries have now been reduced to pathetic whimpers. Such a strange sound to be
coming from the dwarf. I am used to his gruff snarl and sharp tongue, both
suited to his look. He looks up to me with eyes redder than the sunrise.
“Even
now, he frustrates me so!” Gimli states. He places his hands on Pippin’s cheek
with surprising gentleness. “I want to shake the life back into him. I want to
bring him back. Never did I think that I, Gimli son of Glóin, could care so
much for one so small.”
I
nod numbly, and bend to pay my own last respects. Pippin always had so much
trouble keeping his curls in order, and even now a lock of hair blocks the view
of his closed eyes, matted with the blood of another. Even as my hand comes
close to his skin, I feel an unforeseen warmth. This day has seen me touch
enough clammy faces to know the feel of one who has died, and as my hand
finally comes into contact with the halfling’s soft skin, that is not what I
feel.
He
is far from the warmth that I have felt at other times, on the rare occasions
he sought comfort from me, as it was his cousins that had caused his distress.
But his feel is not that of one that is dead. Further investigation reveals
other signs that we had missed in our hastiness. Pippin takes small breaths, so
shallow that we can be forgiven for thinking the breathing had stopped. My hand
strays to his chest, where I can feel the very faint thud of his heart. A
startled gasp finally escapes from my throat.
“What?”
the dwarf demands. “What is it?”
“He
yet lives, my friend.” And as I speak, the tears finally find their way down my
cheeks. “You may still have your chance to shake him, and vent your
frustration.”
“Alive?”
Gimli’s eyes search my face to find any trace of jest. A foolish deed; how
could I jest about something like this? Not finding what he searched for, a
grin spreads across what mouth I can see beneath his beard. “Alive! That is a
joy beyond hope.” He looks down at Pippin. “You shall certainly get it from
Gimli, small one, once you are well enough. He does not like to be tricked into
grief!”
I
laugh. “Come, Gimli, we must bring him to Aragorn! I am pleased that we do not
have to return bearing ill news and only the body of a brave hobbit.”
Gimli
nods and stands. Again, I am amazed by the care he takes when moving. He must
fear causing further hurt to Pippin’s already broken (but alive) body.
I
follow after Gimli. I believe I have found another curiosity that I have not
yet adapted fully to. The will of the Tooks is not so easily repressed. Perhaps
one day I will understand that it will take much more than battle, or being
crushed by a troll to extinguish Peregrin’s spirit.
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A/N:
This story was somewhat inspired by Baylor’s “Fate and the High King’s Falcon”.
I tried to put my own little spin on Legolas and Gimli’s discovery of Pippin’s
“body”, because it was a scene that always interested me from the books. Let’s
all hope it’s in the movies!