Pippin’s arms were growing heavier with each orc he brought down, his face so covered with sweat and grime and blood that it was becoming difficult to see the approaching enemies. 

            Barely in time he managed to avoid being skewered by a jagged blade, his ribs protesting the sharp movement with a stab of pain that had him gasping for breath even as he dodged once more. 

            The blood was pounding in his ears, his head throbbing with the dull beat of it, and stars were shimmering before his eyes.  He knew that it would not be long before he could no longer defend himself.

            At first he was unaware of the great commotion slowly spreading from the lower ramparts, so concentrated was he on staying alive, but soon even those who fought beside him were yelling incoherently, their swords lowering in wonderment and fear as shadowy, grotesque figures started to appear over the sheer walls.

            “The Oathbreakers have come to fight for the King!” Gandalf shouted beside him, his voice filled with an exultation and relief that Pippin did not understand.

            Flashes of ghostly arms and legs passed before his eyes, and the screams of the enemy shrieked around him as they were cut down by phantom blades.  Fear gripped him once more, catching his breath and moving him unconsciously to Gandalf’s side.  A hand on his shoulder startled him, and he looked up with wide, frightened eyes, to meet those of the wizard’s. 

            “Be at ease, Peregrin,” Gandalf said, smiling through his weariness down at the small hobbit beside him.  “All is well.”

            Pippin nodded, though he still clutched his sword tightly in white-knuckled hands, and fervently hoped that whatever was happening would end soon.

            Smoke hung thickly in the air, a scent that Pippin would remember for the rest of his days, long past when the scars would fade and the agonized cries of a thousand dying and mutilated men no longer haunted his nightmares.

            The dense air smelled of burned hair and flesh and had a coppery tang that seemed to coat the inside of his nose and throat until he almost gagged.  He struggled to call out Merry’s name despite the lump in his throat and the burning of his eyes that seemed to blind him.  Hastily he wiped away the tears, lest he miss any trace of his cousin.

There were so many bodies, and the battlefield was vast.  He had searched for hours and had found no trace of his lost cousin. How was he supposed to find his Merry with so many bodies?  Never in even his worst nightmares had Pippin imagined the stench of death and carnage could be this foul, that it would knot his stomach and cover him like a slimy cloak.  Never had he imagined that death could take on so many forms. 

            Or have so very many faces.

            Oblivious to those around him, his own pain forgotten, he searched, his bare feet turning red with the blood soaking the battlefield.  Dimly he was aware of small sounds, of people calling out names in strangled voices, desperately hoping for an answer, yet expecting none, and women sobbing over the body of a loved one. 

            Moans from those still being carted off this field of death filled him with trepidation, and the longer he searched the more intense his fear became.  Surely Merry would have been located by now if he were well, his whereabouts told to the others, and someone would have run to tell Pippin. But he could see Gandalf still searching the field far to his left, and the thought that his beloved Merry lay here somewhere among the carnage spurred Pippin on to search each body he passed intently, to steel himself to gaze at the disembodied limbs lest he pass by a beloved hand or foot.  Several times he came close to losing whatever remained in his stomach.  

            And then he froze. He saw, beside the fly-covered carcass of one of the giant Oliphaunts, almost obscured by a hulking enemy corpse, a form smaller than even the youngest of the soldiers, bare feet nearly hidden by the dirt that covered them.

            Quickly Pippin ran to the bodies and heaved the larger one aside. No! Hardly daring to breathe, he knelt down, terror filling him at the sight of his unmoving cousin, and he cradled Merry in his arms. His cousin was cold, cold as the corpses that littered the field and Pippin felt terror and dread in ever fiber of his being. No…no, please no! Not my Merry…

            “Merry,” he whispered, voice catching as he brushed a lock of the dark blond curls from Merry’s forehead.  “Merry, it’s me – it’s Pippin!”

            Slowly, beyond hope, his cousin’s eyes fluttered opened, staring up at him with a dazed relief as he whispered in a voice barely audible, “I…knew you’d…find…me.” 

            “Yes,” Pippin answered softly, gazing into that beloved, bloody face.

            “Are you…going to…leave me?” Merry asked tremulously.

            Pippin gazed into his eyes for a moment, too overcome with relief and fear and sorrow.  When he did speak, it was with a steadiness he had never known he possessed.

            “No, Merry.  I’m going to look after you,” he whispered.

            He gently laid his cousin’s head back down, watching as his glassy eyes closed.  Pippin prayed that they had not closed for the last time. He cast about for something to cover Merry with, settling for a discarded cloak, and then ran quickly to a point where he could see Gandalf, and signaled frantically. When he saw Gandalf begin to run towards him he hurried back to kneel at Merry’s side, then gently, with a tenderness that had usually been displayed the other way around, took Merry’s head into his lap, and awaited the coming of help.

            The Houses of Healing smelled strongly of herbs and oils, of vomit and blood and urine.  The wails of the wounded, the moans of those in too much pain to form coherent words filled the small hobbit’s ears.  But through it all, he remained by his cousin’s side, ignoring his own aching head and stabbing ribs.

            He had known, when Gandalf had pulled him from under the rubble brought down by the troll, that he had been injured.  But with the battle still raging around him, and then his need to search for his cousin, he had been able to push aside his own pain and concentrate on what needed to be done. 

            Now, standing worriedly by his cousin’s cot as he watched Aragorn work desperately to recall Merry back from the black void he seemed to have fallen into, he felt the world start to tip and whirl under his feet.

            NO!  He told himself firmly, silently, forcing the bright stars away from his vision, willing the world to be still once more.  His Merry needed him, and he would not let him down.

            Not again.

            “Master Peregrin, are you all right?” a weak voice asked off to his left, and he turned, to see one of the men he had been fighting beside looking over at him with one eye, a thick bandage covering the other.

            “Yes, Oren,” he whispered, managing to dredge up a smile from somewhere within himself.  “Do you need anything?”

            “Some water,” the man whispered thickly, his eye closing.

            So Pippin found himself doing small things for those around him, all the while keeping an eye on his unconscious cousin, watching for any sign of Merry’s awakening. Getting water for those allowed to drink, fresh bandages for the healers, and helping to clean up the inevitable messes that came from tending to the very sick. 

It was a half an hour later that Merry finally stirred, blinking his eyes open dazedly, staring about himself in confusion and fear.  Pippin dropped the roll of bandages he was rolling and was by his cousin’s side in a heartbeat, taking the cold right hand into both of his, trying to warm it.

“Strider, Merry is waking up!” Pippin called, hailing Aragorn who was seeing to another soldier.  Immediately he turned the care of his patient over to another healer and hurried to the hobbit’s side. 

“Pippin,” Merry whispered, his eyes fluttering closed again.

“Merry,” Pippin sighed, bending down to touch his forehead to the cool brow.

For a long time he stood there, holding his cousin’s hand, trying to stop the tears from obscuring his vision as Aragorn went about making certain Merry was stable and comfortable.  Only when he was certain that his cousin would not awaken again for a while did he allow himself to go back to his busy-work.

He worked slowly, methodically, going where he was needed, helping when it was asked, all the time trying to ignore the growing agony in his head and ribs.  Every move was becoming a trial, but all he needed was to look about him to those who could barely speak, and he found it within himself to push aside his pain for just a bit longer.   

            It was only when a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, bringing his attention back from the pile of sheets he was diligently folding, that he looked up, to see Strider standing over him. 

            The man looked exhausted, dark circles under his wearied eyes.  Still, the smile that played about his dry and cracked lips coaxed one from the young hobbit. 

            “You have done very well today, Pippin,” Aragorn whispered.  “I know you have not eaten yet.  Why don’t you go to the kitchens and bring us both some food?  We’ll see if we can get Merry to eat something, as well.”

            Pippin was about to protest, not wanting to leave his cousin’s proximity for even a moment, when his stomach betrayed him by growling.  He started to scowl at the surprised chuckle that escaped Aragorn, only to find himself smiling back at the man. 

            “All right,” Pippin whispered.  “I’ll be right back.”

            Aragorn’s smile grew, and he gently squeezed Pippin’s shoulder before releasing him. 

            Pippin was only a little way down the corridor, however, when an overwhelming bout of dizziness had him clutching the wall for support.  The world spun about him, the blood pounded in his ears, and after a moment he felt himself sliding slowly to the floor.

            “Noooo,” he groaned weakly, trying to force his weary and bruised limbs to cooperate. 

            This time, however, they refused to respond, and the bright sparkling lights exploding before his eyes combined, then slowly faded into blackness.

            Aragorn looked up distractedly from where he was re-bandaging a soldier’s arm, a noise from the hallway catching his attention.

            “Lord Aragorn!  The Ernil i Pheriannath has collapsed!” one of the apprentice healers cried as she ran into the room, stumbling to a halt by the man’s side.  “He’s not responding to me at all!”

            Quickly he placed the bandage in the girl’s trembling hands, sparing only a moment to squeeze them between his own before racing out to the hallway, where one of the young servant lads was kneeling beside Pippin, looking up at Aragorn’s approach with wide, terrified eyes.

            “He – he just went down,” the lad whispered in an unsteady whisper.  “I saw him fall!”

            Aragorn placed one hand on Pippin’s forehead, the other on his neck, checking the hobbit’s pulse.  He felt his own shoulders relax slightly at the steady thumping beneath his fingers, and the lack of fever.

            “Thank you, lad,” he murmured, looking up long enough to meet the frightened eyes.  “I need you to do an errand.  I need you to find Mithrandir and bring him to me.”

            The lad’s eyes were steady despite his fear as he nodded, climbing to his feet swiftly with only the barest of backwards glances before he set off, his soft-soled boots slapping softly on the cold stone. 

            “Pippin?  Can you hear me?  Can you wake up, Little Bird?” Aragorn asked softly, gently patting a pale cheek.  There was no response from the hobbit, and the man felt his jaw tighten. 

            Tenderly, trying not to jar the tweenager, he picked Pippin up, cradling him in both arms.  When he reentered the triage room, all eyes seemed to be upon him as he directed the young healer lass who had alerted him to move one of the few empty cots over next to Merry’s. 

            The girl watched as Pippin was laid carefully on the cot, not stirring.

            “What is wrong with him?” she asked in a small whisper, as though afraid of the answer, eyes large as she took in the two small forms before her.  Almost like children they looked, yet from the tales she had heard, they were as brave as the staunchest of warriors.  “Is it – is it the Black Breath? Like his kinsman?    

            “I do not know, yet,” Aragorn replied gently, turning his attention from his new patient long enough to cast an understanding gaze upon her.   “I need you to get me some warm water, and a mug with a spoon.”

            She nodded, scampering away as quickly as the servant boy. 

            Aragorn turned his attention back to the pale face of his friend, his brow creasing slightly as he once more felt the pulse at the hobbit’s neck.  The steady rhythm assured him, even as Pippin’s continued unconsciousness concerned him. 

            “Aragorn?”

            The Ranger turned, to see Gandalf standing in the doorway, a worried, frightened expression on his face.

            “What has happened?” the wizard demanded as he approached, taking in both the young hobbits lying still and pale on their cots.  “I was on my way to check on Merry when a servant told me that Pippin had collapsed.”

            “I have not yet examined him,” Aragorn said softly, moving to allow Gandalf a closer look at the tweenager and his cousin.  “He seemed fine before I sent him to fetch us supper! He appeared only greatly weary, and frightened for Merry.”

            “I fear I have been remiss, my friend,” Gandalf sighed, moving so he was able to sit on the edge of Pippin’s cot and clasp Merry’s icy hand in one of his.  “Merry is not the only hobbit to have won honour with his deeds this day.  During the battle, our young lad here performed a wondrous feat, and saved a fellow Guardsman with his valor. He nearly paid with his life for his courage.  I feared he had been injured, but –“

            “What happened?” Aragorn interrupted, kneeling by Pippin’s side to stare Gandalf in the face.

            “He killed a troll,” Gandalf whispered, the pride in his voice tempered by the worry in his ancient eyes.  “A troll, Aragorn. One larger than even the cave troll in Moria.  He was not swift enough to avoid its collapse, and was only saved from death by a piece of the wall that fell with the beast.”

            Aragorn closed his eyes for a moment, the image of this small, brilliant spirit almost crushed beneath such a foul monster enough to make his stomach turn.  So close, so close!  And still, the war was not yet won.  How many bright flames would be extinguished before the nightmare was ended?

            “My lord,” a hesitant voice whispered by his side, and he turned, to see the healer girl standing arm’s length away, holding out a steaming mug and a wooden spoon to him, eyes wide as she gazed at Gandalf in wonder. 

            “Thank you,” Aragorn whispered, smiling gently at her as she quickly darted away, then turning back to Gandalf.  “Will you lift his head, old friend?  I want to try and get this tea into him,” the Ranger murmured as he quickly bruised some leaves from the pouch that was ever at his side and added them to the hot water.  The smell of athelas filled the air, and a faint, sleepy sigh escaped Merry before the hobbit settled once more into deep sleep.

            Both Ranger and wizard eyed the sleeping cousin a moment before turning back to Pippin, assured that at least one of their friends was slowly starting to recover.  With the spoon, Aragorn held the Athelas leaves to the bottom of the mug, until he felt satisfied with the color of the tea.

            Carefully they fed the tweenager the tea, placing small spoonfuls to his lips and watching as the liquid trickled down his throat.   They were rewarded by a slight twitching of his nose, and then a sleepy murmur before Pippin, too, fell back into unconsciousness.

            “Now, let us see what our Little Bird has done to himself, shall we?” Aragorn murmured, gently moving his hands over the small body in practiced movements that were becoming all too familiar to both of them.

Someone was holding his hand.  That was the first thing he became aware of as consciousness slowly returned.  The next was the throbbing pain in his head, dulled only in comparison by the pain in his ribs, which sent sharp little stabs of agony throughout his chest with each breath. 

            “I think he’s waking up,” a familiar voice whispered above him.

            Pippin blinked his eyes open, staring blurrily up into the kindly eyes of Gandalf as the wizard smiled down at him.

            “What – what happened?” he managed to ask thickly. 

            “You collapsed, Little Bird.”

Pippin looked over Gandalf’s shoulder, to see Aragorn, a mug in his hand and a frown on his face. 

            “You should have told me you had been injured, Pippin,” the Ranger reproached gently, moving to the side of the cot the young hobbit could not remember being placed on. 

            “I don’t-” Pippin stopped, the world starting to spin again. 

            “Easy,” Aragorn soothed, placing his hand on the cool brow.  “You have a concussion, and some broken ribs.  I’m surprised you lasted as long as you did with that goose egg on the back of your head.”

            “There was too much to do,” Pippin whispered faintly, swallowing with an effort around the lump that had formed in his throat.  “And…and I couldn’t leave Merry.”

            “I know, Peregrin,” Gandalf whispered.  “And we are all very proud of you.  But it is time to rest now, and let us take care of you for the moment.”

            Pippin would have nodded, but the very thought made his head spin even faster, and he was very grateful that there was nothing in his stomach to bring up.  As it was, he allowed himself to be given more Athelas tea, and found himself drifting off to sleep.

            “…and the brave hobbit smiled up at his mother, and knew that everything was going to be all right.”

            The familiar words to one of Pippin’s favorite stories drifted to his ears as though on a soft breeze, and he found himself turning his head towards the voice, knowing without opening his eyes that Merry would be lying next to him, bodies close yet not quite touching.

            “Are you awake, Pippin?” Merry asked softly, and there was a vulnerability in that voice, a quiet sorrow that had never existed before.   

            “A little,” Pippin whispered, keeping his eyes closed as he felt a gust of breath caress his cheek, and a familiar hand, shaking slightly and cooler than normal, touched his brow.

            Pippin opened his eyes slowly, blinking sleepily into a face that was more worn and weary than he ever remembered seeing it.  For long moments they gazed into each other’s eyes, whole conversations passing between them without words, until Pippin nodded, once, and Merry gave the barest of smiles in reply. 

            The two of them were lying on their cots, so close that Pippin could feel the heat from his body warming the too cool flesh of his cousin.  Both were covered by several blankets, and the room was illuminated by what appeared to be several candles, though Pippin could not bring himself to look around, to take his gaze from the beloved face he had been terrified he might never see again.

            “I feared I had lost you,” Pippin finally whispered, the words nearly sticking in his throat as he gazed into eyes haunted and shadowed.   Tears threatened to spill from his own eyes, and he blinked rapidly.  “I could not stand it if I lost you again, Merry!”

            “Hush, now, Pip,” Merry whispered, though he did not seem to have the strength to reach out again to his cousin. 

            Pippin moved for him, his hand shaking slightly as he weakly clasped Merry’s cold right one.  He squeezed, gently, and was rewarded by a slight pressure back.

It unnerved him how weak his Merry seemed.

            “I’ll always find you, Merry,” he whispered, knowing by the other’s deep breaths that sleep had already claimed him once more.  How long had he lain awake while Pippin slept, talking to him to try and bring him back to consciousness? Looking after him.

            “It’s my turn, Merry,” he whispered after a moment of simply gazing at his cousin’s face, taking silent delight at each inhalation.  “I won’t let anything hurt you now, not even in your dreams.”

            Merry’s breathing seemed to deepen, and a slight flush of color slowly tinged his cheeks. 

            Long into the night and the coming dawn, watching the sun rise upon a day many had feared would never come, Pippin kept an eye on his cousin’s sleep, and tried not to wonder what the new day would bring.

            It was only after the sun had fully risen that he allowed his eyes to droop, knowing that should the worst occur, he had at least had this moment, this one more time with his cousin.  Sunlight bathed them both in its warmth, more calming than any elixir or tonic, and, finally, Pippin slept, hand still clutching Merry’s protectively. 

            And in their sleep, for the first time in many days, they no long grasped about blindly in search of something their hearts sought with desperation.  For they had found it again, if only for a few brief hours.