A/N: A story written for Slightly Tookish, based on this movie-bunny of Shirebound's:

Witnessing Saruman’s horrific death, and being confronted by the Witch-king again, has a rather hobbity effect on Pippin, who is now overflowing with questions for Gandalf. If even a wizard can be killed, he wonders, what hope is there for the rest of them? Does Pippin ever wonder what became of the palantir? Does he still long to see it? Is Gandalf still a wizard without his staff? Just what is a wizard, anyway? Thank you, Shirebound!

My Pippin has been running rings around my Gandalf with his questions since he was eight, but this time he's wondering about many, many things that Didn't Happen In The Book, so I had to improvise a bit. I hope it's plausible enough! :)

***

Time to Think

It was quiet in this corner of the Houses of Healing; too quiet really, Pippin reflected, his ears still ringing from the roar of battle. He was alone now, for the injured were sleeping and the healers tending to others elsewhere. Gandalf was sitting in a chair beside Faramir’s bed on the other side of the room, but he had not spoken for some time and Pippin supposed he was asleep, though it was difficult to tell. Pippin ached from head to toe and he wished for some rest himself, but no matter how long he sat in his chair and tried to get comfortable, sleep was proving elusive tonight. With the horror of the battle over and Merry here safe by his side, Pippin’s mind whirled as he tried to catch up with himself and make some sense of all that had happened in the last few days.

He sighed and opened his eyes, looking down at Merry as he gently stroked his hair. The colour had returned to his cheeks now and he was much less cold than he had been before Strider saw to him. Gandalf had taken Merry straight to him, reassuring Pippin that Merry could be in no better hands as though Strider had some special power that none of the other healers possessed; and he must have, because Merry was much better, and so was Lady Eowyn. After watching their ranger friend help Frodo after Weathertop, Pippin had never doubted the man's healing touch, but this was just another mystery added to all the others that Pippin as yet had no explanation for.

And Strider was different. Pippin had seen it as soon as they met again on the battlefield – a new strength, a kingly light in his eye, and the power to lift a curse on the army of dead he had summoned from some deep place of the world. Dead, they may be, but they had saved Pippin’s life and the lives of all those around him when the trolls breached the great oak door of the citadel. But what had struck Pippin most of all was seeing Gandalf bow to Strider, and Strider’s calm smile of acknowledgement, as though he had done something long expected of him. Despite all Gandalf had hurriedly explained to him about kings and stewards when they arrived at Minas Tirith, Pippin still wasn’t entirely sure what it all meant, but it was clear that Strider was doing things that no-one else could do… that not even a white wizard could do.

Especially not one without a staff.

Pippin frowned, and sighed again restlessly, wishing that someone might let him in on some of the deeper workings of the story he was in. As soon as he thought it, he immediately rolled his eyes and cursed himself quietly, remembering just exactly what trouble such a desire had led him into once already, and more importantly, the promise he had made to Merry: I won’t do it again.

The thought of the palantír made him look over at Gandalf, whose eyes were closed, his head leaning back against the wall. He looked very tired, and his eyes were ringed with dark circles. Not very surprising really, after these two long days and nights, and Pippin supposed that he probably looked quite a state himself – maybe even worse than poor Merry. He smiled, and tightened his hold on Merry’s hand as he turned again to Gandalf, studying him thoughtfully.

“What is it, Peregrin?” Gandalf said sharply, his voice resonating in the stillness of the night. Though he had not spoken loudly, Pippin started guiltily at the sudden sound.

“It’s nothing, Gandalf,” he said hastily, regretting the directions his busy thoughts had been leading him. Gandalf had probably only been pretending to sleep in case he needed to catch Pippin in the act of some mischief, he thought with a sigh. If only there was some way of telling when the wizard was asleep.

“To my knowledge, Hobbits don’t fidget and sigh to themselves in the middle of the night unless they have something on their minds,” the wizard replied. Pippin felt very uncomfortable as he studied the wide-eyed hobbit deeply for a moment, and then finally relaxed a little, apparently satisfied with what he saw. Holding Pippin's gaze more gently, he added kindly; “It isn’t often that you choose to keep your thoughts to yourself. Tell me, my lad.”

“Well, I can’t sleep, Gandalf," Pippin replied tentatively. "All the things that have happened since we were in Isengard have been going round and round in my head."

"Hmm."

"Well... I suppose what I was wondering is - what happened when the Witch-king broke your staff? You are still a wizard, aren’t you, Gandalf? Even without it?”

Gandalf made a sound that Pippin hoped was a chuckle and sat up straighter, rubbing his eyes wearily with one hand. As the moonlight pouring through the windows lit up his face, his eyes gleamed and Pippin trembled a little, feeling oddly reassured at the same time. Gandalf certainly still looked like a wizard.

“I suspect you’ve been left to think for far too long,” Gandalf smiled and stood up slowly, making his way across the room to the other side of Merry’s bed. He put his hand on Merry’s forehead for a moment and then sat down, facing Pippin.

“I am indeed still a wizard, my lad. I suppose you are thinking about Saruman, and what happened to him after his staff was broken.”

Pippin nodded vigorously, rather encouraged. “I was, a bit. But I was thinking more about you, I suppose. Can you die, like he did?” He paused and bit his lip worriedly, his brow furrowing in confusion. “Would you be able to come back again?”

His head began to hurt a little bit; the drowsiness was making it hard to think, and he was only now realising how very little he understood about Gandalf.

“Well,” Gandalf sighed, “There is certainly more to being a wizard than wielding a staff, and Saruman had already diminished before I broke his. He was once more powerful than I, you’ll remember, until he strayed from his path and fell under Sauron’s influence.”

He paused for a moment and felt around in his robes for his pipe, then went over to a lamp burning beside the door to light it with a taper. Pippin watched him impatiently, hoping he hadn’t finished. He wasn’t likely to have any more chances to talk to Gandalf alone after the end of this strange, quiet night, and Pippin was inwardly delighted that Gandalf seemed to be taking him seriously. Perhaps he had finally earned that, Pippin wondered, feeling his lips curve into a smile at the thought.

Once Gandalf’s pipe was lit he sat down again, and puffed thoughtfully for a few moments before continuing from where he had left off. “It has always been possible for wizards to be slain, Peregrin. That has not changed. When I became Gandalf the White I did not ‘come back’; rather, I was sent, because my task here was not done.”

“But can you still fulfil your task if you don’t have your staff?” Pippin asked him, without a moment’s hesitation. “Don’t you need it if we’re to fight the Nazgul and all the orcs?”

Gandalf frowned and then glanced down at his hand, the one that was not holding his pipe. Inexplicably, his expression lightened and Pippin followed his gaze, narrowing his eyes and trying to guess in the half-light what Gandalf was looking at.

“I think, my lad, that there is little sense in worrying about such things,” Gandalf replied slowly. “We near the end now, when all will be decided – and my task too, is near its end. It is indeed probable that there is no more I can do. But there are older and greater powers at work in the world besides Sauron,” he added, his eyes glittering. “And smaller ones that have gone unnoticed. Each of us now must put our hopes in them and do what he can, whether it is great or small.”

Pippin took a deep breath and nodded, even though it seemed that there were many things that Gandalf wasn’t telling him; most of all, that the wizard no longer had the power to protect them. It made him want to weep, but as he met Gandalf's eye again, he saw something in the old wizard's expression that made his heart lift a little instead; reminding himself that he had always trusted Gandalf, just as much as he trusted Bilbo and his own grandpa, and long before he knew what Gandalf really got up to. He had always felt safe when he was near him, too, and nothing had changed that, Pippin realised, even though the Gandalf he knew as a lad was gone.

Feeling a little braver, he smiled then, a smile that reached his eyes, and Gandalf chuckled softly around the stem of his pipe. Pippin leaned forward and rested his arms on Merry’s bed, laying his head on them and looking sideways at Gandalf. With a deep sigh and a mutter about something under his breath, the old wizard seemed to drop off again, just like that, and though Pippin was a bit disappointed, his eyes were very heavy and he wondered if he might now be able to sleep for a bit.

Only… it was so very quiet.

“Gandalf?” he whispered.

Gandalf stirred and opened his eyes; “Yes, Peregrin,” he answered, slightly less agreeably than before.

“I still don’t understand how Merry and Lady Eowyn killed the Witch-king, when you couldn’t.”

Gandalf sighed, his brows drawing together irritably, and Pippin winced, realising too late that the time for inquisitiveness had passed.

“Maybe they were the only ones that could do it," he offered. "Like Strider was the only one that could help Merry..." He nodded to himself, avoiding Gandalf's gaze. "Yes, I’m sure that’s it.”

Gandalf harrumphed, and stifled another yawn as his eyes began to close. It was not long before he was asleep; Pippin could tell because the pipe fell from his hand onto the bed, and Pippin picked it up hastily, putting it on the shelf beside him. He rested his chin once again on his arms, watching Merry, and then blinked slowly, and sighed.

“I expect you know the answers to one or two questions, yourself," he whispered to him, taking Merry's poor hand in his once more. "I suppose at least you've made the score a little more even. Gandalf might be a bit battered, but at least we still have him. Their leader is gone forever,” he added with satisfaction. "Well done, Merry-lad. The Witch-king said he’d be back, you know, so I’m sure Gandalf’s very grateful that you got to him first, even if he doesn’t show it.” He smiled, and looked down at their hands. “I’m just grateful that you’re both still here. We'll go into battle together next time, won't we?”

He closed his eyes then; finally, gladly, letting sleep overwhelm him at last. 

In the darkness, Gandalf smiled.