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the-blind-one-speaks · 2 years

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The Life of a Pippin

Whatever Pippin had been expecting — to be chained up in the dungeons, or led outside to the gallows to hang, or for the Lieutenant to run him through in the courtyard — being led to the servant’s dining hall wasn’t it. He stared about with bewildered eyes, some of the tension dropping as he traded his proud bearing for one of anxious confusion. He cast a hesitant glance at the soldier holding him, trying to get a glimpse of his purpose. The Lieutenant stared straight ahead grimly, his grip hard enough to bruise. Pippin wasn’t going to fight him, though. They knew about his mother and his uncle, now. He couldn’t get his family into trouble.

He scuffed the toe of his shoe across the cobblestone floor. Well, any more than he’d already gotten them into. He just had to hope that punishing him was enough to satisfy the court.

He gulped as the Lieutenant steered him across the crowded, bustling room to a long table by the back. It was occupied entirely by soldiers — guards that patrolled in servant’s uniforms, sweeping the hidden serving corridors and ensuring that everything was as it should be. Pippin only knew who they were when they saluted crisply at the Lieutenant’s approach. There’d been whispers of a secret unit in the castle.

Well, if he survived this, Pippin could now impress the girls with proof that it was true. If one grocer boy’s word could count as proof.

The Lieutenant forced him into the nearest empty seat at the long table. Instantly, he was the subject of many measuring glares. Hard suspicion greeted him on all sides. The man directly to his left wore the inconspicuous garb of a cleaning servant. He also had hands corded with thick muscle and knuckles far too scarred to have only been wielding a cleaning rag. He clapped one of those heavy hands onto the back of the boy’s neck as soon as the Lieutenant released him.

Pippin squirmed beneath the grip. His eyes darted from one unfriendly face to the next. “Ey, leggo — there’s no need fer this, I ain’t gonna try nothin’!” He licked his lips, his voice coming out far less indignant and too shrill. He hunched his shoulders, finally accepting the pressure. Avoiding the hostile eyes fixed on him, he stared at the table’s scarred surface. “I… I ain’t gonna try nothin’, sir.”

The Lieutenant grunted. “That’s better. Finally remembering your manners, are you?”

Pippin bit his lip. His back prickled with sweat. He should have been more conscientious in the courtroom. He’d half expected to be gutted on the spot, and he’d wanted to go out fighting, but…. It was stupid. He should have been more cooperative. Maybe then he wouldn’t have punched the Queen. Maybe then he wouldn’t have ended up being passed to the guards. He was fairly certain he’d just been sentenced to death by designation as a punching bag. Maybe they’d use him as target practice. He shuddered.

The Lieutenant slid into the seat on the other side of the man gripping Pippin’s neck. He grunted as his armor clinked. Resting his forearms on the table, he leaned forward and tapped the wood. “Ale, and then I’ll give you your assignments. And something for the boy.”

Pippin’s eyes widened. He glanced up quickly, then returned his eyes to the table. He’d been trying to hold himself back from licking the crumbs off the scarred wooden surface ever since he’d noticed them. His stomach tightened. Was he going to get to eat?

One of the men, dressed as a butler, slid a tankard across to the Lieutenant. After taking a long pull, the man sighed. Pippin’s heart thudded against his rib cage.

“So, first things first.” He gestured at Pippin with his gloved hand, the tear prominent where his pale skin flashed through dark leather. “The little bastard bites.”

“Want me to get a muzzle?” One of the women leaned forward, her eyes hard. Pippin blanched. She folded her arms over her maid’s apron. “I think we’ve got one about his size.”

Pippin opened his mouth to protest. The man gripping the back of his neck shook him roughly. He winced and snapped his mouth shut, staring at the table with increasing concentration. He was sweating freely, now.

“I think I can handle him,” the man said with dark amusement. Pippin shivered. The man’s fingers tightened. He flinched, his shoulders jumping up to meet his ears. Skin crawling, he screwed his eyes tightly shut and bit down on his lip. After a moment, the man’s grip relaxed. “He won’t be any trouble at all.”

“No, sir,” Pippin breathed. It was so quiet he wasn’t sure if anyone heard. If they had, nobody reacted. Pippin tried to hide his shaking hands in his lap. Staring meekly at the table, he tried to ignore the churning of his stomach. As the conversation continued on, his mind kept circling back to the Lieutenant’s order. Something for the boy certainly wasn’t an order to bring him food. He hadn’t earned any kindness from these people. He clenched his jaw tightly, locking his knees so his legs wouldn’t bounce and possibly annoy his captors. What would they bring for him? Shackles? A whip? A cane? He’d attacked their monarch, accidental as it was. They all hated him.

“Kid.” His eyes snapped up. Every eye was on him. He swallowed back a sob, trying to ignore the prickle of oncoming tears as they stung the back of his eyes. The man gripping the back of his neck tapped a single finger against his clammy skin. “You’re shaking.”

He was. His entire body was quaking, every muscle shuddering out of control. He groaned as he tried to stop and found that he couldn’t. “I’m sorry, sir.” Of course his voice was shaking, too. The tears welled damningly on his lower eyelids. He bit his lip. “I — I can’t stop, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

The table stared at him silently. He bit the inside of his cheek, trying desperately not to cry. Who knew how berserk they’d go if they saw tears.

The Lieutenant heaved another sigh. “Where’s — ah, thank you, Anders.” Pippin shut his eyes, ducking his head as far as he dared. Whatever Anders had brought, he didn’t want to see it. He just wanted to crawl under the table and disappear. But did he really want to be on the ground and surrounded by all these people’s boots? No, he decided. He did not.

There was the sound of something sliding across the table. He flinched when the scrape stopped in front of him. The grip on the back of his neck shook him, not as roughly as it had before. “Eat that, and don’t forget to thank Anders for going out of his way to fetch it for ya.”

Pippin cracked his eyes open with a ragged breath. He couldn’t stop the tear that plopped down his cheek, but he did stare in open amazement as it landed in a bowl of porridge. It was steaming faintly, and he could see the pale swirls where milk had been stirred in. He glanced up, eyes darting around the table.

“This-“ He swallowed, mouth watering. “This’s for me?”

The Lieutenant snorted. He lifted the tankard to his lips and took another pull. “It’s what you’re getting. Eat up, prisoner.”

“Thank you, sir.” The man paused at the reverence in the boy’s tone. He took a hard look at the boy’s face. Pippin was staring with wide eyes at the bowl like it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen. The Lieutenant set down his ale.

When the boy began to eat, he savored the first bite with a hazy-eyed look of wonder. Within minutes, the bowl had been scraped clean. The Lieutenant narrowed his eyes, noting for the first time the thinness of the boy’s wiry shoulders.

Pippin looked up after he’d set the bowl back on the table, his expression filled with sheepish gratitude. “Thank you, Anders, sir.” He licked his lips.

The table had fallen silent as they’d watched him eat. The Lieutenant studied the boy’s ragged clothing, his malnourishment that could be attributed to natural slenderness. Now that he was considering him, he was more ragged than the average citizen. He’d already discovered the boy was employed. It was a humble occupation, but not one that would leave him starving. He crooked a finger at the boy.

“You, there.” Pippin’s eyes immediately snapped up to meet his, a shadow of fear falling across them. The Lieutenant eyed him. “How often do you eat?”

Pippin swallowed. He looked at the bowl, then darted his gaze back to the Lieutenant like he thought he’d be punished for looking. “Every three days, sir.”

There was a muttered hush that raced around the table. Pippin cringed, ducking his head. “I — I’ll thank ye every time ye feed me, sir, I won’t cause no trouble. I can go longer —“ He licked his lips, darting another longing glance at the empty bowl with something like regret in his eyes. “I kin go longer wi’out, sirs, I kin an’ wi’out complainin’ none.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the Lieutenant said slowly. He lifted the tankard to his lips but did not drink. “Why do you wait to eat? You make enough to spend more.”

“Been sendin’ it all to me mum, sir. I kin do me share o’ work wi’out much eatin’. It ain’t hard labor.” He looked up, suddenly afraid. “Though I kin do me best to do ‘ard labor for ye, sir, if’n that’s what ye want.”

“Mmm.” The Lieutenant drained the last of his drink. He stood, nodding to the man holding Pippin. “You’ll be fine with this, Grindle?”

The man grinned. He shifted his hand off Pippin’s neck and into his wild curls. Pippin winced. He ruffled his hair playfully, laughing. “I think we’ll get along just fine, sir.”

“The rest of you have your duties. I’ll see you this evening for your reports. Grindle, if he tries anything, you let me know. I expect you on your best behavior, Fairwaithe, you hear me?”

The boy nodded rapidly, his face pale. His eyes shot around the table, then fastened back on the stern face of the Lieutenant. He was much calmer and seemed more docile after his meal. The Lieutenant wasn’t sure how long that would last when the looming threat of so many soldiers had faded, but he trusted Grindle to knock him back into shape if he stepped out of line. He nodded sharply. The unit got up and dispersed. When Grindle stood, Pippin grabbed his bowl and shot to his feet, casting furtive glances about.

Grindle rapped him on the head. “Leave that where ya got it from, boy. No need to steal from the kitchen.”

The boy’s face flushed. “I wasn’t stealin’!” As Grindle’s face darkened, he paled. “S-sir, Ah thought I’d be wanted ta wash et, sir, should I-?” He flinched as Grindle stared down at him. “Should I — jest… put et back, sir?” His voice trailed off. He slid the bowl back onto the table, ducking his head. “Sorry, sir. Didn’t mean ta steal nothin’ an’ talk back none, sir.” He mumbled, shoulders hunched as though expecting a blow.

Grindle rested a heavy hand on his shoulder. “Well, you minded me in time, so come on then. I’ve got work to do. You just stay in sight and outta the way and we’ll get along fine. Got that?”

“Yessir.” The reply was so fast Grindle raised an eyebrow. The boy took it as a lack of confidence. He swallowed. “Ah’m ta stay outta the way an’ in yer sight, sir.”

Grindle nodded. “That’s right. This way, then.” He led him through the hall and into one of the serving halls. Pippin had to trot to keep up. Grindle’s hand never left his shoulder. As the burly guard dusted the chandelier in the ballroom, Pippin stood in the corner and gawked. His eyes were taking in everything, but Grindle, long used to assessing visitors to the palace, knew he wasn’t looking at things with the eyes of a man casing a joint. Grindle kept a sharp watch on him from the corner of his eye, but the boy stood without moving from the spot he’d put him in.

As Grindle moved to the next chandelier, Pippin slid to the ground, sitting on the cool floor. His eyes drooped shut. By the time Grindle had finished his tasks, the boy was curled up sleeping on the hardwood floor.

Pippin awoke alone. He jerked upright, rubbing his eyes. “Grindle? Sir?” His voice echoed in the empty ballroom. He cast a wild glance about the room, eyes darting to see if he could find the man. The ladder Grindle had been using to reach the chandeliers was gone, as was his keeper. Pippin glanced out the windows. Dusk was falling, red and gentle, over the palace grounds.

He swallowed past the tightness in his throat. “S-sir?” The last he remembered, early morning sunlight had been streaming into the ballroom and Grindle had been dusting the chandelier at the end of the hall. He scrambled to his feet. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep. He hadn’t been listening to the Lieutenant when he’d told Grindle his tasks. He had no idea where to find the man. And to be caught wandering the palace without a guard….

He shivered.

“S-sir?” The call echoed, bouncing off the arched ceilings of the empty hall. Pippin wrapped his arms around himself, cursing silently. Some part of him had hoped, now that the Queen herself had heard what was happening, that they’d take his story more seriously if he behaved. He’d been trying to remember his manners since hitting the queen. Despite all he’d expected, he really didn’t want to die just yet. Especially while his family was still counting on him.

He sank to the floor, plotting rapidly. Someone would find him sooner or later. He knew Grindle’s name, and he could always plead to be taken to the Lieutenant. If they didn’t realize he was the boy who’d hurt the Queen, he still might survive this.

He might be killed on the spot if they didn’t believe him. And if the Lieutenant blamed him for falling asleep, he could end up in the dungeons after all. He shuddered. There would be no porridge with milk in the dungeons, he bet.

He leaned back against the wall. Staring out the window, he waited to be found.

The Lieutenant stormed in, Grindle hot on his heels. “He was out like a light, I knew he wouldn’t move!��

Pippin scrambled to his feet, heart racing. He shrank back into the corner as the two men strode rapidly towards him. Grindle seemed annoyed but relaxed. The Lieutenant had the same icy look in his eyes that Pippin had seen when he’d been pinned against the stone column. His knees gave out. He hit the floor and cowered.

“M’sorry, sir, dinnt mean to fall asl’p, sorry sir I’m so sorry please sir don’t kill me m’sorry!” He couldn’t hold back a sob. He covered his head with his hands as the Lieutenant’s steel-shod boots stormed closer. Taking a deep breath, he held it, flinching in dreadful anticipation. The floor here was so clean. Were they gonna make him mop it up if he got his blood all over the place?

“Stand up.” Pippin bit his lip and forced himself to his feet, trembling. The Lieutenant gathered the collar of his shirt in one fist and stared him down. Pippin tried to keep his feet, but his knees gave way again. He sagged in the Lieutenant’s grip, crying openly.

“M’sorry sir, won’t happen again, please sir mercy —“

“Where have you been today?” The Lieutenant’s voice cut through his panic. He gulped back the string of apologies on his tongue.

“R-right here sir, dinnt move from this spot, on me oath I dinnt, sir!” His voice was high, quivering with panic.

The Lieutenant studied him coldly. “If I remember correctly,” he said softly, “that’s the phrase you used after striking the queen.”

Pippin’s face lost all color. He croaked out an attempt at a response, but he’d lost his voice. He was shaking like a leaf, only held upright by the Lieutenant’s strength. The Lieutenant lowered him thoughtfully, his hand still resting on the pommel of his sword. Pippin slumped into a sobbing heap on the floor.

Grindle was staring at the boy guiltily. The Lieutenant glanced at him. “You are dismissed, Grindle. I will be taking charge of the prisoner from now on. We will discuss this lapse in discipline later.”

“Yes, sir.” He saluted crisply. As his footsteps faded away, Pippin curled further in on himself. A muttered string of pleas punctuated by sobs seemed to be the only noise he could make.

The Lieutenant hauled him upright. “Come on, boy. You’ll be joining me for dinner tonight. The Queen will decide your fate. Until then, you’ll live. You’re not dying tonight.”

The pleas dissolved into stuttered gratitude. The Lieutenant ignored him as he dragged him down the halls to his office. He nodded sternly to those curious enough to meet his gaze, offering no explanation for the sobbing boy stumbling at his heels. When they reached his chambers, he closed the door behind them with a sigh. A light push sent Pippin stumbling into the nearest chair. The boy fell into the seat and huddled there, swallowing his sobs. He gulped in great gasps of air, hiding behind his drawn-up knees. His eyes watched the Lieutenant’s boots as he moved about the room, not daring to look any higher.

“You don’t put up nearly as much fight anymore,” the man’s voice rumbled. He was moving about the room, shuffling the papers on his desk. He sat down with a stifled grunt. Pippin was beginning to recognize it as a sound of pain. “Hardly what I expected from the spitfire that ruined my hunting glove.”

“M’sorry, sir,” Pippin managed to choke out. He hunched his shoulders higher, staring fixedly at the desk rather than meeting the gaze of the man behind it. “Was stupid of me, sir, I won’t be no trouble no more.”

“Mmmm.” The Lieutenant did not sound convinced. Pippin flinched. He hugged his knees closer to his chest, heart pounding.

“You can relax, boy.” The man’s voice was soft, weary. Pippin darted a glance at his face. The Lieutenant had his eyes closed, one hand massaging the bridge of his nose. He was definitely in pain. “I fault Grindle for what happened today. You’re in no trouble.” He huffed a soft laugh. “Well, no more than you already were.”

“Yessir.” The boy’s whisper made him open his eyes. He looked at the small form huddled in his chair for a moment before opening a desk drawer. Rummaging around in it, he pulled out a polished wooden figurine. “Here,” he said. “Catch.”

The boy fumbled it when he tossed it over, but managed to grab onto it with his bony fingers. He held it in cupped palms, staring at it for a second, before returning his gaze to the Lieutenant. The bewildered look in his eyes voiced the question that he did not speak.

“I’ve work to do,” the Lieutenant said gruffly. “Amuse yourself with that for a while.” He deliberately leaned forward in his seat and began poring through the papers on the top of the nearest stack. The boy looked down at the little wooden toy he held. His eyebrows drew together in a bemused scowl, no doubt protesting that he was not a child any longer, but he made no comment.

When the Lieutenant glanced up again a few moments later, Pippin was tracing the swirling wood grain in mindless circles over the little horse’s back.

Satisfied, the Lieutenant allowed himself to become engrossed in his work. When the door opened and his attendant brought in dinner, he glanced up to see that Pippin had fallen asleep again, clutching the toy in a white-knuckled grip, his knees still drawn to his chest. The servant placed the tray on the soldier’s desk and left without a word, understanding his preference to work uninterrupted, in silence. The man considered the boy, noting how his thin face was drawn and pale, even while resting. He turned his gaze back to the reports, but his mind was caught on the child’s reports of things up North.

If what Pippin had claimed was true, things could be shaping into a rebellion, and from within the kingdom’s own forces, at that. The Queen had ordered the camps disbanded. To maintain them would take quite a bit of manpower. This was no miscommunication.

He woke the boy with the quiet order to eat when he noticed the child whimpering with a nightmare. Pippin swiped his cheeks free of tears and devoured the simple fare. He thanked the soldier with a gratitude and reverence that made the Lieutenant uneasy. He could not forget the youngster’s blow against his Queen, but he knew it had been meant for him. The longer that Pippin was his prisoner, the more that he was inclined to believe him, which meant things within the kingdom had gone horrifically wrong. He chewed his meal in thoughtful silence, pondering the boy. Pippin Fairwaithe, all too aware of his gaze, huddled behind his knees and played with a child’s toy.

Watching him run the little horse up and down his own legs made the soldier wonder how long it had been since the lad was able to act his age. The war had forced too many to grow up before their time. If he could find the youngest Fairwaithes, the Lieutenant resolved to do everything in his power to prevent the same from happening to them — and to any child living in the North where apparently, the war had not yet ended.

Jordan Passerville could not understand how his nephew had managed to so thouroughly ruin his life so fast. The boy was anxious and hotheaded, a stunning combination that led to catastrophe all too often. From getting his behind handed to him by the local boys to driving off a loyal customer simply because she had remarked on his “lowbrow dialect,” the boy had already caused no end of trouble for the quiet storekeeper. Still, when he hadn’t returned home from his last explosive departure after Jordan had assured him there must be some mistake in how he was sending his pay northward, the man was beginning to worry.

He kept watching the street, waiting for the boy to come slouching back up it with his hands in his pockets and a scowl on his thin features. He had taken the broom from its hook and leaned it up against the door, ready for Pippin’s calloused hands when he returned. Jordan waited, puttering around the shop, and waited some more.

When the sun set and Pippin still had not returned, Jordan felt something akin to terror. He’d never realized he was attached to the boy until he found himself gathering his coat from the back of his closet, intent on venturing out into the night. The fiery young man he quietly fretted over as he watched him waste away reminded him too much of his dear younger sister; he could see the same stubborn resolution to make things right that she had carried in the eyes of her curly-haired son. He never had met the boy’s father, but he always wondered whom she had met who could match that mettle.

Just as Jordan was slipping his feet out of his house slippers and into his shoes, there was a knock on his door. The pounding was thorough, rattling the wood like someone had battered at it with the side of their fist rather than their knuckles. It was not a friendly sound.

He found himself frozen for an instant before he slowly made his way over, shoes forgotten. His bare feet scuffled through the dust on the floor, another unpleasant reminder of his missing nephew. He paused at the door, suddenly filled with dread. Leaning against it, he croaked out a wavering: “Who is it?”

There was silence for a moment. A gruff voice answered. “Queen’s business. Open up.”

His heart hammered. He laid thin, trembling fingers on the lock, then paused. How was he to know this wasn’t a robbery? He swallowed. What had Pippin done?

“The shop is closed,” he tried. His forced his voice to be firm, though it was still quiet and rather meek. “Please return in the morning. I am not obligated to conduct business at this hour of the night.”

“Either you open up or I bust this door down,” the voice replied. Jordan hesitated. The pounding started again. He winced, hearing one strike land with a definite splinter. With shaking hands, he opened the door.

It swung to reveal — not bandits, to his momentary relief. He sagged against the doorframe, gazing at the armored breastplate of a uniformed member of the city guard.

“Thank goodness, I thought you were here to rob me.” He swung the door further and shuffled back to allow the man room to file past him. The soldier stood in the entryway, filling the doorframe with his bulk. When he did not continue into the shop, Jordan felt his fear return. He swallowed shakily.

“How can I — help you?” The soldier was glaring at him, face pulled into a formidable scowl. Jordan’s eyes dipped. He was resting one gauntleted hand on the hilt of his sword. The shopkeeper clasped his thin hands, rubbing them together nervously. His drooping eyes were riveted on the weapon.

“Your name is Jordan Passerville?” The guard demanded. Jordan dipped his head in a small nod. He shuffled further into his shop, easing his feet back into his slippers. The guard watched him with sharp eyes.

“That is my name, yes.”

“You were about to leave. Where were you planning on going tonight?”

Jordan shrugged. He carefully seated himself on the stool behind the counter, breathing a silent sigh of relief as he took his weight off his crooked knees.

“I’m not certain, really. I was going to go out in search of my nephew. He disappeared quite suddenly yesterday afternoon. I’m not certain where he could have gone.” He glanced up suddenly, fear lancing through him. “This isn’t about the boy, is it?” His worry was not soothed by the tightening of the soldier’s jaw. He groaned, dropping his face into his hands. “I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t have let him storm off like that. Please, tell me, is he — alive? Injured? He hasn’t done anything foolish, has he?”

The soldier’s silence made him glance up again. His voice pitched up, a little shrill. “Has he?”

The soldier shifted his stance. His fingers tightened on the hilt of his blade, creaking. Jordan froze, folding into himself ever so slightly. He could feel his heart beat heavily in his chest. His knees ached.

“Jordan Passerville, you have been summoned to the castle. You will accompany me to the commander’s quarters and answer his questions. Is that clear?”

Jordan swallowed. His mouth was suddenly dry. He nodded his head, suddenly aware that he was shaking.

“Please, tell me. What has the boy done?” The helplessness must have been clear in his voice because the soldier relaxed suddenly, dropping his hand from the hilt of his sword. He crossed his arms over his chest, watching as Jordan shuffled over to his shoes.

“He broke into the post office, and when brought in for trial, assaulted the queen.”

Jordan fainted.

The castle was awe-inspiring. Though he lived in its shadow, pressed up against the towering stone walls like the rest of his city, Jordan had never once ventured closer than business required. He clung to the arm of the soldier escorting him, grateful that the originally brusque and threatening man was willing to shuffled along at his speed without comment. His knees ached abominably, and as they drew closer to the looming walls, lit by torches, their pace slowed to little above a crawl.

Finally the soldier stopped them, one hand splayed against the bony expanse of Jordan’s chest. He kept his voice to a low murmur. “I was only supposed to escort you this far, but you may rely on me to see you to the commander’s quarters. I will do the talking. Just focus on getting there, alright?”

Jordan nodded his head, dazed. Apparently his timidity had sparked compassion rather than contempt in the man. He was grateful, despite his inability to communicate it. He was all too used to being looked down upon by those more able than he. It had been especially fierce during the war, the disgust that the soldiers defending their lands had looked at him with. He wished he could say Pippin did not harbor that same disgust. He wished his sister hadn’t.

If he got the chance to learn this soldier’s name, he would. Maybe he’d write him into his will. Surprise him with a little something once he had passed. The man was at least a decade younger than he; without an active war, surely he’d outlast him. No good deed should go unnoticed, and all that.

He comforted himself with that thought as they shuffled into the looming castle’s shadow.

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