One, two, three, four, up we count and then some more.  Five, six, seven, eight, enemies are at the gate…

            That’s not how it goes, Pippin thought to himself, grimacing as he shifted in the overlarge bed.  Whatever had put that phrase in his head? 

He turned bloodshot eyes to the great window in the room he shared with Merry, noting by the pale grey light that filtered in that it was going to rain that day.  Though the weather in Minas Tirith had been wonderful, as of late it had become more eclectic, one day sunny, the next overcast and cold. 

He shifted again, hissing sharply through his teeth as pain shot through his still healing knee.  He could tell without moving that it was already swollen, fiery bolts of pain shooting all the way down to his foot and up his hip.

Just breathe, he told himself, closing his eyes against the pain.  Think of something to distract yourself. 

One, two, three, four, up we count and then some more.  Five, six, seven, eight, who’s that knocking at the gate?  Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, into darkness we must delve.

He shook his head angrily, trying to banish the horrible rhymes that his mind was all too eager to provide. 

How did that last line really go?  Oh, yes.  Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, put the books upon the shelves. 

He could not remember how the rest of the song went, a game sung by children as they played in the fields or tried to outdo each other skipping stones.  The higher the singer could count, the longer the game they played would last. 

“Pippin?”  Merry’s voice, just off to his side, sounding sleepy and somewhat confused.  “What are you doing up?  The sun isn’t even awake yet.”

“Nothing, Merry,” he murmured softly, closing his eyes so his cousin would not see the signs of his sleepless night.  “I just had to pee is all.”

A sleepy mumble was his cousin’s only reply, and Pippin returned to his silent contemplation of the predawn light.  He could tell by the ache in his chest that his ribs were going to be paining him as well that day, and a soft sigh escaped him before he could suppress it.  He knew there were worse things than to stand guard duty with aching bones, and he supposed if all the old warriors he had met during his time here could do it, so could he. 

He closed his eyes once more, trying to turn his mind from the pain that was by now threatening to bring tears to his eyes.

One, two, three, four…

“Pippin, dearest, wake up!”

A hand was gently rubbing his shoulder, bringing him awake with a start from a sleep he had not thought possible.  Immediately he regretted his quick movement as nausea and pain hit him with a force he had not anticipated.

“Pippin!” Merry exclaimed, startled and worried at how pale his cousin had suddenly become.  He tightened the hand already on Pippin’s shoulder and wrapped the other around his waist.   “What is it, Pip?  What’s wrong?”

It took a moment for the other to answer, his breath coming in hard little sobs that only increased the pain in his chest. 

“Just – Just a little pain from my wounds is all.  I’ll be fine in a moment, Merry, really,” he managed to say, though his voice was weaker than he liked and, by the look on his cousin’s face, weaker than Merry liked as well.

“Pip, you’re as pale as a ghost.  I’m going to get Aragorn,” Merry said, gently easing the tweenager back onto the pillows. 

“No!” Pippin protested, trying to sit back up, then giving it up as his knee shot daggers through his leg.  “Don’t bother Strider, Merry, I’ll be fine.”

“Pippin, you are supposed to start your duty in an hour.  There is no way you shall make it in this condition, let alone protect our King should anything happen.  Now I am going to get Aragorn, and you shall remain in this bed until I get back,” Merry said in a tone of voice that Pippin knew better than to disagree with. 

He nodded meekly instead, watching in resignation as his cousin departed, already dressed in his own knightly garments. 

One, two, three, four, up we count and then some more.  Five, six, seven, eight, who’s that knocking at the gate?  Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, put those books upon the shelves.  Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen…all the horrors we have seen.

He swallowed, hard, and turned his head once more to the window, to see that his cousin had pulled the drapes open to reveal a steady downpour.   The world outside had turned into a grey mass, holding neither shape nor form, blurring in his vision.  Or was it the tears in his eyes that made the world about him shapeless and dark?

Quickly he wiped his eyes, and just in time, as the door opened a moment later to admit not only Merry and Aragorn, but Frodo and Sam as well. 

“Hello,” he whispered, trying to smile. 

“How are you feeling, Little Bird?” Aragorn asked softly, sitting carefully on the side of the bed and putting a calloused hand to Pippin’s forehead. 

“Not so well, Strider,” Pippin admitted, grimacing as he shifted to allow the king access to his leg. 

“Your knee and ribs?” Aragorn asked gently, feeling with feather-light fingers the swollen joint.  He frowned as he moved his hands up to Pippin’s chest, feeling along his ribs and then moving to the still bruised and battered hand.   “I do believe that you shall be staying in bed today, my young Knight,” he finally pronounced, pulling the blankets back over Pippin’s slightly shivering form.  “I shall brew you some tea that will help with the aches, and put some cold compresses on your leg that should take care of the swelling.  Other than that, you are to rest, and if you are feeling better tomorrow, I may consider allowing you to resume your duty.”

Pippin frowned at this pronouncement, though he knew better than to argue.   

“Will I get this way every time it rains?” he asked instead, hearing the slight quaver in his voice and hating himself for it. 

“Unfortunately you shall most likely always experience pain when the weather changes, Pippin, but it will not be this intense.  However, since it has barely been a month since your adventure in troll furnishings, it is no wonder you are in quite a bit of pain this morning.”

Pippin smiled at the colorful description of his encounter with the troll, earning a quick ruffle of his hair as the king stood. 

“Sam, Merry, would you like to help me prepare the tea and compresses?  I think Frodo can keep our young charge occupied until we get back,” Aragorn asked, placing one hand on either hobbit’s shoulder. 

“Course, Mr. Strider,” Sam agreed, laying a hand on Pippin’s forehead briefly before turning away, Merry placing a kiss to Pippin’s cheek before the king lead both of them from the room. 

“You look dreadful, Cousin,” Frodo said conversationally as he crawled into the large bed, pulling the blankets around the both of them.  He could feel his young cousin shiver against him and frowned. 

“Why, thank you, Frodo,” Pippin sighed, smiling. 

“Is the pain very bad, dearest?” Frodo asked after a moment of silence. 

Pippin shook his head, which was now firmly resting against his older kin’s shoulder, his body pressed comfortingly against the other as he had done since he was a child.

“Liar,” Frodo whispered, placing a soft kiss to those golden curls.  “I can tell by the way your eyes get all squinty.”

A giggle escaped Pippin before he could stop himself.  “Squinty?” he asked, blinking up to his cousin with a wry grin.

“Squinty,” Frodo affirmed.  “Now close your eyes and rest, or Strider will have my hide for keeping his favorite knight from obeying his king’s orders.”

After a few moments of silence, in which Frodo absently stroked his cousin’s curls, Pippin whispered, very softly, “Frodo?”

“Yes, sweetheart?” Frodo asked, just as softly.

“I’m tired.”

“Then go to sleep, dearest,” Frodo urged, bending down to kiss his temple. 

As his mind began to drift away, softly, as though from across the span of many years, he heard Frodo’s voice.

“One, two, three, four, up we count and then some more…”

Five, six, seven, eight, enemies are at the gate.  Nine, ten, eleven, twelve, into darkness we must delve.

Then the blackness swallowed him, and he knew no more until Aragorn woke him some time later to tend to his pain. 

Thirteen, fourteen, fifteen, sixteen, all the horrors we have seen.