We give thanks.

Pippin stared at the field about him, at the bodies slowly being consumed by the funeral fires, and the wailing of family members seeing them off. He stared at the blood soaked field, and even though his eyes were blury from concusion and his mind a distant haze, he was still able to form a single thought.

We give thanks.

He watched as the young soldiers he had fought beside clung tightly to their families, as fathers wept into their children's hair as they held them close, knowing that it could have been their child laying on the funeral pyre.

We give thanks.

He closed his eyes as Merry took his hand, gently squeezing it between his own cold fingers, whispering comforting words to his beloved cousin even as tears threatened to drown his tone.

We give thanks.

Pippin lay silently in the healing tent, the medicine Aragorn gave making him sleepy. Distantly, the smell of Old Toby came to his nose, as familiar and comforting as the scent of the earth after a rain. Gandalf's deep rumble was answered by Legolas' quiet whisper, and Gimli's bass.

We give thanks.

Peregrin Took, Knight of the Citadel, gazed down on the fields below, remembering, wondering. How many had perished that day? How many more had perished in front of the Black Gates? He would probably never know.

A strong hand rested gently on his shoulder, and he looked over, to see Faramir standing beside him, his own gaze distant as they watched the sun set.

"What are you thinking, Master Peregrin?" the Steward finally asked him, softly.

"That I give thanks," Pippin whispered, seeing shadows dance upon the field as the sun slowly vanished. "For all that I have, and all that was lost."

We give thanks.