He is so small, my Little One.  I watch the three of them walk determinedly toward the stable, faces set, jaws clenched.  Does he know what has happened?  Can he even comprehend what has befallen?  I can see by the fear in his eyes that Merry does, and he is afraid, oh so afraid.  And right he should be.

            Gandalf, watch over him.  Keep him safe, as I could not. 

            I place a hand on Merry’s shoulder, offering him all the strength I have to give, for he will surely need it by the time this is over.  I feel him tremble slightly beneath my palm, know that he is fighting back the tears.

They reach the horses and the wizard places Pippin upon Shadowfax.  He is still weak, still muddled over what has happened, but he is beginning to understand now. 

            “How far is it to Minas Tirith?” Pippin asks weakly, sudden fear turning his face pale as he turns it to Gandalf. 

            “Three days, as the Nazgul flies, and you had better hope we do not have one of those on our tail,” the wizard says gruffly, making sure the small Hobbit is firmly in place. 

            Pippin swallows hard, glancing around himself as if trying to find some sense in all that has happened.  His attention is caught by Merry, approaching grimly and holding out a small pouch as he does so. 

            “Here,” he murmurs, waiting for Pippin to take the parcel in trembling hands.  “Something for the road.”

            His young cousin’s eyes gaze at the pouch as though he had never seen it before, and the sight is enough to have me gripping one of the beams of the stable, restraining myself from running to the two of them and throwing my arms around them.  I want to shout to the Overheaven to let them be, that they have suffered enough, though I know deep down that their suffering has not truly begun.      

            “The last of the Longbottom leaf,” Pippin whispers almost reverently, for a moment not understanding what the gift means, the sacrifice that necessitated the giving. 

            “I know you’ve run out,” Merry says softly, almost whispers.  Then, as though it were an afterthought, a habit ingrained by years of association, he adds,  “You smoke too much, Pip.”

            “But –“ Pippin whispers, fear turning his voice high, making his brow scrunch.  “We shall see each other soon.”

            For a moment Merry turns to Gandalf, and I can see in their faces that they have already realized what my young bird has yet to see, that this may be the last time these two cousins ever see each other again.  For his part Gandalf looks weary, and I can feel the stress of the past day radiating off of him.  Grief and regret are overlaid with guilt, making him look very old for a moment, his eyes, so ageless, seeming to stare into the void that had changed him forever. 

            “Won’t we?” Pippin begs, his eyes pleading, asking for a mercy that was not his cousin’s to give. 

            “I don’t know,” Merry whispers as Gandalf mounts behind his small charge, and I can see the agony this parting is causing my usually staunch little friend.  He begins to back up, away from the large horse, away from his cousin that he has loved so deeply and for so long.  Away from the pain that is slowly overwhelming all of them.  “I don’t know what is going to happen, Pip,” he chokes out. 

            Gandalf realizes that he must leave now, before their will can break, before Merry or himself gives in to that pleading, begging look. 

            “Merry?” Pippin asks, voice barely above a breath, watching his cousin backing away with disbelief and fear shadowing his face. 

            “Ride, Shadowfax, show us the meaning of haste!” Gandalf grits out, his eyes determined, though clearly he wishes there was any other way he could accomplish this mission, any other way to keep this most precious little one safe.

            “Merry!” Pippin cries, now understanding as the horse begins to move, as he sees his cousin being left behind.  “Merry!”

            I reach for the one next to me, but he is already running, to the top of the lookout to catch one last glimpse of his beloved Pippin.  It is a moment before I realize that we are no longer alone, that Aragorn has seen and followed, placing his hands on Merry’s shoulders as he finally gives in to his grief, staring at the retreating figures for as long as they can be seen. 

            I look into the Ranger’s eyes, know he will keep an eye on our small friend, and comfort him as best he can in this time of cold despair.  I nod to him, warrior to warrior, and turn to leave.  My Little One needs me now, more than ever.

            They are riding hard, the wind whipping away the Hobbit's tears as they fall, though his small body shudders against the larger frame of the wizard.  He can offer no comfort save for that of an arm around his shoulders, steadying him against the jarring of the horse as well as holding him against his body. 

            “Why did you not keep a closer eye?” I ask softly, knowing that he cannot hear me, that he is repeating the same question to himself as Pippin sobs uncontrollably.  He, who has known this indomitable spirit all it’s life, can feel only guilt and grief for the actions, and inactions, of all of them. 

            They ride hard, not stopping for several hours, by which time the youngling has cried himself into a fretful sleep, body pressed closely to the old man’s, head lolling against the other’s chest.  It is only when the horse begins to stumble that they stop, Gandalf easing to the ground stiffly, Pippin held tenderly in his arms.  He gazes at him for a moment, and I can only wonder what he is thinking, then lays him down tenderly upon the ground as he prepares their sparse camp.  Blankets for them to sleep in, but no fire. 

            Neither of them eat, the wizard allowing Pippin to sleep, and he himself too worn to feel hungry.  The horse will watch for danger, and Gandalf’s wizard senses will pick up what the horse’s will not.  They are safe enough without me standing guard, so I lay down beside Pippin, wrapping my arms around him, feeling him burrow closer to me.  His little body is trembling, and I feel my arms tighten for a moment.

            “Hush, Little One,” I whisper, feeling the tears drip from my eyes unwillingly.  “Soon it will be over, I promise.”

            His breathing quiets and he seems to settle down, though I do not relax my guard.  He is my charge, now, and I will not let anything touch him in his sleep, not even the terrifying nightmares I know lurk just beneath the surface.  He has already faced enough this day.

            Gandalf stirs, though does not awaken, and I feel myself fighting the urge to yell and scream at him.  He could not have known, could not have prevented what was meant to be.  But that does not make the knowing any easier. 

            “Sleep, Gandalf, I am on watch tonight,” I whisper, and soon the only sound is that of the night creatures and the uneasy breath of two weary and fatigued beings. 

            After a few hours of sleep they are up again, Gandalf forcing Pippin to eat a small breakfast, and the wrongness of that hurts more than anything.   A hobbit being forced to eat is just unnatural.  Then they are off, leaving with the same haste of the day before, and once again it is not long before Pippin falls into a troubled sleep.  I think the wizard had a hand in that, as he looks worriedly down at him frequently. 

            The rest of the day and much of the night is spent in that hurried state, Shadowfax once more carrying them late into the evening until his strength is about to give.  Then Gandalf makes the same camp as the night before, only this time Pippin is awake to help, awkwardly silent as he goes about his duties.  When they lay down to rest, I know that he will silently cry himself to sleep. 

            I wrap my arms around him as I had done many times before and feel the tears fall from my eyes.  He sits up, startled, and says in a tired, almost cranky voice, “Is it starting to rain?”

            “There is not a cloud in the sky, Peregrin, it is only your imagination.  Now kindly go to sleep, as we have a long day ahead of us,” Gandalf says gently, doing so himself. 

            Pippin looks to the drop of wetness on his hand and frowns, though he is too exhausted to really be curious.  He lies down and closes his eyes, curling up into a tiny ball, looking for all the world like a lost and lonely child.  Once more I wrap my body around him protectively, watching as he drifts off to sleep.

            I press my face into his curls, inhaling his scent, feeling his body relax.  “Dream sweetly,” I whisper, wishing he could hear me, could know I was with him. 

            He shifts slightly, and whispers, from somewhere out of the darkness, my name. 

            “Boromir.”

            And I know he has heard me, and knows he is not alone.