Firelight

By songspinner

Disclaimer: The usual...these characters don't belong to me but to J.R.R. Tolkien and to New Line, Peter, Fran, and Philippa. I make no profit from this story except any positive feedback that happens to wander in my direction...

Author's Notes: The numbering of nights refers to various times during the 13 days before Frodo and Sam wake up in Ithilien. This is, I suppose, a combination of book and film. For the third scene, I just figured that if they'd filmed it, Aragorn would have been there.

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Night Two - Sparks

Gimli had been at the forge for several hours by the time Legolas came looking. It was at the far end of the camp, away from the healers' tents. The dwarf was hammering delicately at something, and all the elf could see was that it was not his ax.

"And who watches over them?" Gimli asked, pausing in his work for just a moment.

"Mithrandir stays at the tent for now. He sent me to get some rest..."

"Advice I see you are ignoring." Gimli resumed his work, sending sparks flying. Out of the corner of one eye, he saw Legolas perch himself on top of a nearby table.

"As did you. I thought," Legolas said, a little too casually, "that you might also seek some rest this night. You watched over the hobbits, and Pippin especially, for many hours today."

"Aye, I did." Gimli answered, breathing hard as he tried to focus on the blade before him. " And now I repair his sword. It is all I can do for the moment, as I cannot heal him as Aragorn and Gandalf have done."

Legolas slid down from his seat on the table restlessly, and walked silently to stand behind Gimli. "You found him when others did not, and that was no small thing. Was there much damage to the sword?"

"It was not broken by the troll, if that's what ye mean. It's nicked a great deal from crossing swords much bigger, but I can smooth those bits out and make the blade keen again."

The elf's voice fell to almost a whisper. "I only wish our friends could be healed as easily, for I fear they are badly broken."

Gimli turned to his friend and reached up to lay one heavily gloved hand on the green-clad arm. "Hobbits are not so easily broken as all that, then, laddie. Surely you have noticed that they rival the elves in being stubborn?" He grinned up at Legolas until he got a ghost of a smile in return. "Now then, can ye work the bellows for me or is that too menial a task for an elf?"

And as the sound of the hammer rang out again, glowing sparks surrounded the two in the darkness of the night.

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Night Six - Heat

Aragorn, kneeling beside Pippin's cot, hardly noticed when Merry came back to the tent with his cargo carefully balanced on his good arm.

"Aragorn,' the hobbit said as quietly as he could. "I've found a few more blankets, but there aren't many left. There are...there are so many wounded, and Gandalf says that there won't be much coming from Minas Tirith for a while. Aside from what came with us yesterday, I mean."

"Hmmm? Oh, I am sorry, Merry. Thank you. I know you've not slept since you arrived. And you've not been well that long yourself. " Stretching a bit as he sat back, Aragorn looked at his young friend critically.

"Oh, I've had enough nights in my life being awake and worried about Pip or Frodo." Merry sighed, and stood for a long moment over the cot where Frodo and Sam lay side by side. Then he went to Pippin's bed and curled back up on the overlarge cot next to his cousin. "How are they, Aragorn? Truly?"

"I spoke truly my young friend. They will heal, as you did." Aragorn rested his chin on one hand. "Their lungs heal slowly after the air of Mordor, and the wounds I stitched will knit in time. Frodo's hand is the only thing I cannot heal beyond the surface. I will wake them when it is safe, but he and Sam will both bear scars, as you and Pippin do."

He put out a hand and lightly brushed Merry's wrists and sword-hand, and then ghosted two fingers over his young friend's forehead.

"There is more than one kind of scar, though." Merry responded softly, and Aragorn heard something dark and sad in the hobbit's voice.

"Aye, there is." And Aragorn could no longer keep his eyes open. After this many days of constant healing and watchfulness, exhaustion was overriding any chance of wakefulness. He was vaguely aware that Legolas had come back to the tent, and had pulled him to his feet, and was leading him to a nearby empty cot.

"Legolas, períaín...laug..." He managed to rasp out a few words as he lay down, hoping he was still at least a little coherent.

The familiar touch of Legolas' hands brushed the hair from Aragorn's face and tugged a blanket over him. "Ea na gwiil, gwador nín. Losto..."* A small sound roused him briefly and he saw through bleary eyes that the elven archer had lit the braziers against the evening chill. Long, fair hair glowed in the firelight as Legolas settled cross-legged on the floor between the hobbits' cots. A quietly sung Sindarin tune wound its way through the tent and the warmth of his friend's hand still lingered on Aragorn's face along with that of the braziers at the center of the tent. And he was not sure which was more of a comfort.

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Night Thirteen - Flames

Someone had brought a pile of cushions to the little clearing in Ithilien, and as the sun went down, their future king ignored the velvet and silk in which he was clad and worked to start a fire.

Merry watched with a smile as Sam fussed around Frodo, tucking a blanket more securely around his body with hands still criss-crossed healing scratches and cuts. "There you are, Mr. Frodo. We wouldn't want you to catch a chill." Frodo rolled his eyes affectionately and scooted a bit closer to Sam nonetheless.

Pippin's hand gently touched Frodo's still bandaged one, and he laid his head silently on his older cousin's shoulder for a moment.

"It will heal, Pippin dear. It will heal." Frodo said softly. "But right now, we've told our tale and I'd like to hear of how you fared in Minas Tirith. You and Merry have told us of orcs and ents and Isengard, you've become a knight of Gondor, after all, so there must be adventure in it somewhere."

With an oddly intense look at the wizard who sat opposite him across the fire, Pippin straightened up and let go of Frodo's hand. "Some, but I cannot...in time, perhaps..." Pippin murmured.

Aragorn's kind, grey eyes looked over at his smallest knight. "The moments of sorrow and fear we understand needing time before the telling, Pippin, but surely the beacons?"

Merry cocked his head to the side to gaze at his younger cousin. "What beacons? Do you mean the ones that brought us to march to Minas Tirith?"

Gandalf and Pippin exchanged another look, and then the hobbit spoke softly. "Gandalf had things to attend to and he asked me to get the beacon lit. He knew I could climb..."

"Towers, trees, ladders, and pantry shelves, Peregrin Took." The wizard said with an affectionate chuckle.

Pippin's smile didn't quite reach his eyes. "I climbed the side of the tower. There were guards, but I tried to be very quiet, and then I lit it. Had to jump off when the whole thing went up at once, though..."

"Now that does not surprise me, young hobbit." Gimli chortled from the other side of the fire.

"Well, I didn't know it would do that." Pippin added a bit defensively. "And I'm still not sure how I got down and back to Gandalf without being caught."

Merry started to add sticks to the fire absently, still listening intently to his cousin's story. "Lots of practice, I should think," he said, "And I've been there over the years for most of it. You climbed that tower? Faramir showed it to me at the City...it's so tall!" Eyes wide, Merry looked admiringly at Pippin.

The fire flared up suddenly, with a rushing sound and a whoosh of sparks. And all were startled further when Pippin cried out and scrambled back away from the flames.

"Pip, did you burn yourself?" Merry's worried voice broke off when he realized that Pippin didn't seem to hear him. Wide green eyes stared at something unseen in the flames.

They all heard Pippin's whisper clearly in the silence that filled the clearing. "Everything's burning...He saw me ...and he's made Denethor mad...oh, they're on fire..."

Merry knelt beside Pippin and began speak softly, but not touching him yet. Over a few rough and feverish nights, he'd learned not to until his younger cousin was no longer inside his memories. On one of those nights, Gandalf had told Merry of Faramir and the Steward. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean for that to happen. I didn't mean to frighten you. Pip, nothing's burning except the campfire, just to keep everyone from getting chilled. You're safe here, we're in Ithilien now."

"You are safe indeed, my lad." Gandalf said, and he knelt beside the hobbits on the grass. "The dark lord is gone and he has no more power. And Faramir is safe, Peregrin. The only fires here now are those for comfort. He can hurt no one now. Come back to us."

"Merry?" At Pippin's blessedly normal, if small voice, Merry held out one hand to Pippin, who grasped it and let himself be drawn into a tight embrace.

"I didn't know about the beacons. Oh, you had so much courage, Pip," Merry murmured in his friend's pointed ear. " To climb up there and do that, despite the Balrog, despite the Palantir. All that fire, and then to face it all over again to save Faramir. I'm so proud of you."

"But..." Pippin managed to say. "I lit the beacon and then all those men and you, Merry, rode to battle. You were hurt and so many died..."

Frodo pushed aside his blanket and laid a gentle hand on Pippin's curls. Tears in his blue eyes glimmered in the firelight. "Ah, Pippin, in lighting the beacons, you were loyal to Gondor, to us, and even to Boromir."

Looking rather intently at his feet, Pippin answered his older cousin. "I did not think that you would wish to hear about Boromir. Sam said that he...that you..."

"I of all people can't blame him for what happened because of the ring." Frodo replied with a long glance exchanged with Sam. "I know that his truest wish was to have his city free again. Boromir would be proud of you, as well."

"Do you believe us, Pip? That we have no blame for you, only pride?" Merry settled back against Gandalf, allowing the wizard to wrap a blanket around both himself and Pippin.

Shivering in the cool air, Pippin burrowed a little into the blanket and against Merry. "Aye, I suppose, but...that wasn't all the fires."

"Pippin?" Merry asked, puzzled.

"Mt. Doom." Legolas' words startled them all as he moved to gracefully ease himself down to the grass beside Aragorn. "All before the Black Gates watched and most cried out in joy, but there were some few of us who wept for loss and grief. We thought it had taken Frodo and Sam when the ring was destroyed."

"Fire kept taking us, one by one, it seemed." Legolas continued softly. "The Balrog took Mithrandir. We feared that Merry and Pippin were dead and thought that we stood at their pyre, and for some of us there were flames at Helm's Deep and when we stood before the Black Gate. We feared that the flames had taken...others..." Aragorn's strong hand came down on the elf's shoulder then, easing the little shudder they all pretended not to see. Legolas reached up to cover Aragorn's hand with his own and smiled warmly at Pippin. "I do not know many men or elves who could have withstood all that. And when we feared three more had been lost, all were found."

"For which we are grateful." Gandalf said firmly, and they all sat in silent companionship for a long while under the trees and stars. And the fire calmly danced before their weary eyes.

The End

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* translations: períaín...laug = hobbits...cold

Ea na gwiil , gwador nín. Losto... = Be at peace, my brother. Sleep...