Pippin the Troll Slayer

Disclaimer: The Shire and everything else in Middle Earth belongs to Tolkien. I just get to visit from time to time.

Prologue – Time to Die

It was time to die, it seemed, and it was bitter to Pippin that Merry was not here, at his side. If they all had to die, at least they could do so together. But it was not to be. Merry was far from here, in safety for a little longer at least, before the flood again rose against Minas Tirith and washed away all in it’s path. Then it would be Merry’s turn to stand against the tide and meet his fate. Pippin wondered if Merry would feel as alone as he did right now.

Shaking his head against these thoughts, Pippin drew his sword. There was nothing he could do about Merry, any more than he’d been able to help Frodo and Sam. They had set out to save the Shire and ended up trying to save all of Middle-earth, but they had not even been able to save themselves, in the end. Well, Pippin thought as he stood at the end of everything, alone he may be, and terribly afraid, and doomed to die, but he would certainly not go alone. Squaring his shoulders, he faced the advancing horde of orcs and hill trolls, determined to make such an end as he was able and take as many of the enemy with him as fate would allow.

The trolls were upon them then and there was no more time for thought. There was a flurry of action all around him, as the Gondorian soldiers fought to sell their lives as dearly as possible. Once the battle joined in earnest, Pippin could not see much of anything other than the small space directly in front of him, and found it difficult to fight at all, being little more than knee high to the giant hill trolls. All he could do was dodge the blows aimed at him and try to not get in the way of his larger companions. He felt quite helpless and a surge of rage swept through him that he was to be denied even the chance to take a few of the enemy with him when he died. An exceptionally large troll-chief loomed over him and he quailed, but then, seemingly out of nowhere, Beregond stepped between him and the enemy, taking the blow that was meant for Pippin. Beregond fell and as the troll leaned over to grab at his friend, Pippin reacted instinctively, forgetting the difference in their sizes and his feeling of helplessness. Stabbing upwards with his sword of Westernesse, he penetrated deep into the vitals of the troll, foul black blood spewing over his hand and arm. It was only as the beast toppled over on top of him that Pippin realized the precariousness of his situation, and by then it was too late. He was borne to the ground by the weight of the troll-chief.

Pain flared through his head, and to a lesser extent, throughout the rest of his body as well, and his thoughts flickered like a candle flame in a high wind. There was no longer any fear or regret, only an odd sense of relief that it was all over. His thoughts flitted to Merry and Frodo one last time and he was content in the knowledge that they would be together again soon. His eyes darkened, his thoughts dimmed and fled his broken body.

A/N  I am trying to keep this as consistent with 'A New Kind of Courage' as I can, but as I am writing it, I'm finding places where it doesn't entirely agree with 'Courage.'  My plan is to give 'Courage' a thorough going over, so if you find any glaring errors or inconsistencies, I will be happy to fix them.

Chapter One: Finding

There was nothing, and then there was pain. With the pain came a confusing welter of images and sounds, all jumbled together in a meaningless tangle. Suffocating heat, bare skin exposed to cold air, a hairy face silhouetted against a leaden sky, a foul metallic taste on his lips, lurching movement, a searing pain in his head, violent nausea, a snatch of song which, while he could not make out the words, seemed to speak of love and an easing of pain. Then nothingness again.

***

Gimli sat on a small stool in the hastily erected tent the healers were using, with a bloody rag pressed to his forehead. He’d been sitting here for the better part of two hours, waiting for a healer to look at the cut, and was tempted to just leave. It wasn’t more than a scratch and it would heal just fine without all the fuss and bother, but Legolas had hauled him in here and made him promise to stay put until the wound had been tended. Then the blasted elf had gone off on some errand or other and hadn’t been back since.

Gimli was just working himself up to a fine fume when Legolas reappeared by his side.

"And just where have you been?" Gimli groused, not willing to admit how happy he was to see the elf.

"I wanted to check on our other friends," Legolas replied mildly. "Gandalf has gone off somewhere with the Eagles; to search for Frodo and Sam, I suspect, although I fear there is little hope of finding them." He paused at that, sorrow writ across his face.

Gimli sorrowed as well. It seemed very unlikely the two small hobbits could have escaped the destruction of Sauron’s fortress and he mourned their loss even as he rejoiced over the knowledge that they had somehow, against all odds, survived long enough to complete the task that had been set before them.

After a moment, Legolas continued, "Aragorn is tending the patients with the worst injuries and the handful of men suffering from the Black Breath. I believe he will be busy for some time to come, between healing the injured and all of the other tasks that have settled on him." The elf grinned. "It suits him, being King, although he will never admit it."  He sobered again quickly. "I am worried about Pippin. No one has seen him since the start of the battle. He is so small, and he was standing in the front lines, the last I saw of him. After I leave here, I am going out to the battlefield. I want to be sure he is not still out there, somewhere."

"What?" Gimli jumped to his feet. "Do you mean to say that lad is missing and you’re standing around in here, nattering away?" With a low growl, the dwarf threw the rag down and grabbed up his axe and shield. "Well, what are you waiting for?"  With no further words, he stumped out of the tent.

It was a long search, the two of them scouring the field of battle with the help of the few soldiers that could be spared. It was a gruesome and wearying task, turning over dead orcs and trolls, sometimes having to finish off an enemy that, even at death’s door, tried to fight them. It was equally painful to search under piles of dead or dying Gondorian and Rohirric soldiers. They spoke little and went grimly about their business, trying to move as quickly as possible.

The day was waning into evening and their hopes were fading. Gimli had lost track of how many bodies he’d looked under, but he was determined to move every body on the field, if he had to, in order to find the hobbit. Straightening his back with a weary sigh, he scanned the ground, hoping desperately to see something that would lead him in the right direction.

That’s when he saw the foot. It was sticking out from under the largest hill-troll Gimli had yet seen. With a choked cry, he stumbled over and fell to his knees, reaching out to touch the foot. There was no doubt that it belonged to a hobbit.

"Legolas!" he cried, "help me!" Frantically, he pushed at the troll, straining against it’s great weight to roll it over. A moment later the elf was at his side and together they managed to move the troll. Tears rolled unheeded down Gimli’s cheeks at the sight that then met his eyes.

Pippin still held his sword in his right hand, the blade smeared with the black blood of the troll. His face and body were also covered in that foul, stinking blood, making it difficult to determine what sort of wounds the young hobbit might have suffered. He lay perfectly still, with an oddly peaceful look upon his face and Gimli felt nearly overwhelmed with sorrow that this bright young life had ended in such a cruel and violent way. He thought about having to tell Merry about the fate that Pippin had met and nearly choked, fearful for how the older hobbit would respond to the news.

Pushing the emotions down before they could overwhelm him, he reached down to gently pick up the small, limp form and cradle it in his arms. He was shocked nearly into speechlessness when Pippin moaned suddenly and then began retching and vomiting in his arms.

Instinct took over and he carefully eased Pippin onto his side and held onto his shaking form as the hobbit continued to vomit for several minutes before going limp in his arms.

"Pippin?" he asked fearfully.

"He lives yet," Legolas reassured Gimli, resting a finger on the pulse point at Pippin’s throat. "But not for long if he does not get help. Quickly, Gimli, we must get him to Aragorn."

Gimli allowed Legolas to take Pippin before staggering to his feet. The wounded hobbit whimpered weakly at the movement and Legolas hummed soothingly as he moved carefully across the field. It seemed hours later that they reached the healing tents, although it could have been no more than ten minutes.

Upon arriving at the tents, they found that Aragorn had been summoned to an emergency of some sort, no one knew where. One of the healers found a spare cot for Pippin and examined the hobbit, cleaning and bandaging his wounds swiftly but carefully.

"He has a nice gash on his left leg, but it’s a clean cut and should heal well. He’s badly bruised, everywhere, but especially in the torso. His ribcage is strained and there may be one or two cracked ribs, but none are broken, luckily. The gash on his forehead is superficial. Most likely the rim of his helmet cut into his skin. The most serious injury is the bump on the back of his head. He has a severe concussion and I’m concerned there may be a fracture under all that swelling. I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to tell you any more until he wakes up."

Before they could question the healer further, he was called away and Legolas and Gimli were left alone to watch over their friend.

"I will sit with Pippin for a time," Legolas said. "You still need to have that cut tended to, and then you should sleep for a few hours."

Gimli felt bound to argue but Legolas stopped him. "Pippin will need both of us in the days to come, my friend. You can best serve him by getting some rest yourself, now. Come back when you are refreshed."

Unable to deny his own need any longer, Gimli gave in with a muttered promise to return in an hour or so. Pulling himself to his feet, he trudged out of the healing tent and went off in search of a quiet corner in which to get some rest.

It was after midnight before Aragorn returned to the healing tent. The king looked tired nearly beyond bearing, but when he saw the figure lying so still and quiet in the cot, he straightened and looked to Legolas questioningly.

"Gimli found him under a troll. A troll chief, I might add, that Pippin to all appearances killed before it fell on him. He is badly hurt, Aragorn. I fear for him." Legolas went on to describe everything that had happened, including the report by the healer.

With a weary sigh, Aragorn washed his hands and, lighting a lamp and moving it close to the bed, began to examine Pippin. Several minutes later, he sat back. "I agree with the healer that examined him earlier," he stated. "Most of his injuries are superficial, but that wound on the back of his head is very serious. There does not seem to be any depression of the bone, but I won’t be able to tell if there is a crack until the swelling goes down somewhat. Has he been awake at all, since you found him?"

"No. He hasn’t responded to us in any way since he was sick on the field."

Frowning thoughtfully, Aragorn placed a hand on Pippin’s forehead, closing his eyes and calling the hobbit’s name. For a long time there was no response. Aragorn frowned again and spoke more sternly. "Pippin Took, awake. Come, Peregrin son of Paladin, it is time to wake up now."

***

"Come, Peregrin son of Paladin, it is time to wake up now." The voice was stern and demanding, not allowing Pippin to remain in the gentle cradle of oblivion. He moaned and turned his head away from the soft light that was penetrating his closed eyelids. The movement set off a whole flood of unexpected and unwelcome pain, starting at the back of his head and radiating out to every single inch of his skin. He whimpered and clamped his lips together as the pain awoke nausea, which quickly grew to unmanageable proportions. He vaguely felt hands rolling him onto his side as his stomach lurched and he retched and heaved for what felt like days, until blessed oblivion claimed him once again.

Chapter Two: Awakening

Aragorn sat with bowed head, one hand over his eyes. Legolas eyed him in concern. The new king looked to be on the fine edge of exhaustion. Before Legolas could say anything, however, Aragorn straightened up.

"Gandalf found Frodo and Sam. The Eagles have flown them to Ithilien, to the field of Cormallen. One of the Eagles returned for me at Gandalf’s request. They were nearly too far gone when I arrived, but they are strong, these hobbits. I do not think I have ever seen anyone stronger, or more stubborn. There is a good chance they will survive." He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the pathetic sight that had met his eyes when he arrived in Ithilien, the two hobbits barely recognizable, covered in blood and filth, soot and ashes, bones visible through the skin that was barely covered by the ragged remnants of their clothing. It had taken long searching to find their thoughts and their lives had hung in the balance for hours before they’d finally settled into a deep healing sleep and he’d felt it was safe to leave them for a short while.

Returning his gaze to his friend, he continued, "I’ve ordered the rest of the wounded moved to Cormallen as well. They’ve already begun transferring the patients to wagons for the removal. It will be a difficult journey for one so injured." He looked at Pippin, worry showing clear in his gaze. "One of the Eagles has flown to Minas Tirith, to spread the word of our victory, here. I’ve also sent messengers, some of the men who were at Cair Andros, requesting supplies and healers. I’ve summoned Merry, as well. I had no details about Pippin, naturally, although Gandalf seemed to have received some news, and told me you’d found him and that he yet lived, if barely. I’m afraid my note to Merry was rather vague."

He stood up, swaying wearily, and smiled gratefully when Legolas placed a steadying hand on his arm.

"You are exhausted, my friend," Legolas commented, "you must sleep."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed, "but only briefly. The hobbits are not the only ones to be grievously wounded and my skill will be needed many times on this trip."

"All the more reason for you to rest now," Legolas countered, leading Aragorn to an empty pallet not far away, "come now, lie down. I will stand watch and wake you in a few hours."

Too tired to protest, Aragorn laid himself down on the pallet with a sigh, closing his eyes and falling instantly into a deep sleep. Legolas shook out a blanket and draped it over his friend before returning to sit by Pippin’s cot. The young hobbit was sleeping quietly now but his cheeks were flushed with fever and Legolas knew he was not yet out of danger.

***

He drifted. Voices came and went, sometimes demanding a response and sometimes simply murmuring on the edge of awareness. Pain was a constant, sometimes flaring up sharply, other times duller, but never gone, never even close to gone.

Occasionally something was placed to his lips and a soft voice would urge him to drink. Cool, soothing fluid moistened the parched tissue of his mouth and sometimes he would move his lips, trying to ask for more. More often, he would drift off again before he was able to do more than swallow the first drops of moisture.

Cold and heat vied for dominance in his body, one moment finding him weakly trying to escape the blankets that cocooned him and the next moment shivering painfully and wondering who had allowed the fire to go out. Surely Mum and Dad could see that he was cold. He grumbled at them, trying to explain, but they faded away before he could make them understand. And then it was hot again and once more he was trying to push the blankets off his overheated body. Finally, a quiet voice began crooning soothingly to him, while a strong but gentle grip captured his hands and held them still. Unable to fight, he finally drifted away again.

***

"Did he say something?" Gimli asked, leaning over Pippin and observing his flushed face with something close to alarm.

Legolas wiped the hobbit’s face with a damp cloth as he answered, "He’s delirious, I’m afraid. I believe he was talking to his parents."

Aragorn had spoken truly when he said it would be a difficult journey. Gimli and Legolas had taken turns sitting in the wagon that carried Pippin, doing what they could to make their friend comfortable, and helping the healers with the other wounded men as well. It was nearing noon on the second day of travel and they had no more than five miles to go before arriving at the new camp. Legolas was greatly relieved. There had been no rest for Pippin while they traveled and the hobbit was exhausted, feverish and confused.

"I’ll sit with the lad a while," Gimli said, taking the cloth from Legolas’ hand. "You haven’t eaten yet today, and elf or no, you need food the same as the rest of us do."

Legolas smiled at the dwarf’s gruff words and relinquished his spot in the wagon. Leaping lightly to the ground, he walked over to the supply wagon, snagging some fruit, bread and cheese, and ate as he walked alongside the wains of injured soldiers. It had been a hard trip for everyone. A number of men, badly wounded in the battle, had died in the last day and a half. It was always the same, in the aftermath of a battle, and the elf mourned the loss of life.

They had reached the borders of Ithilien and Legolas inhaled deeply of the fresh air, rejoicing at the smell of green growing things. Finishing off his meal, he untied Arod from the back of Pippin’s wagon and mounted. Setting heels to the horse’s side, he moved along the line of wagons, searching for Aragorn. Approaching the head of the line, he spied Eomer and rode up alongside the King of Rohan.

"Hail, my friend," Eomer greeted him warmly. "How fares the holbytla?"

"As well as can be expected, under these circumstances. Aragorn seems to be satisfied with his condition."

"You disagree?"

"I am not a healer," Legolas frowned. "All I know is that Pippin is exhausted and in pain. I will be greatly relieved when we reach Cormallen and he can rest easier."

"Ah, well it won’t be long now."

Eomer spoke truly. It was less than two hours later that the wagons came to a halt in a large, green field next to a large wooded area. Tents had already been set up and everyone busied themselves moving the injured men from wagon-bed to soft cots. A small tent had been prepared for Pippin, situated near the edge of the area set aside for healing, and not far from Aragorn’s own tent.

Aragorn came to check on the hobbit a short time after they settled him into his new cot. "Has he been awake at all?" he asked as he examined his patient.

"Not truly awake," Gimli answered. "He stirs from time to time, mutters a word or two occasionally, but he hasn’t opened his eyes yet."

"Well, he is doing much better than I had dared to hope," Aragorn said as he concluded his examination. "He is fevered, but the fever is not dangerously high and there is no sign of infection in any of his wounds. I think with plenty of quiet and rest, his injuries will heal fully. It is the head wound that still worries me most. There is no way to know how much damage has been done until he wakes."

He moved away to a small brazier sitting near the center of the tent. Opening a packet, he dumped the contents in a cooking pot and poured in hot water, stirring until everything was well mixed, and then scooped a small tin cup into the resultant brew. Returning to Pippin’s side, he carefully spooned the contents of the cup into the hobbit’s mouth, watching carefully to see how well Pippin swallowed each spoonful. The young hobbit seemed to be at least partially conscious, opening his mouth slightly to accept the spoon, and swallowing the drink without choking.

"See that he gets a dose of this mixture every four hours. It doesn’t have to be hot, but he’ll respond better to it if it’s at least warm."

Gimli nodded in acknowledgment, watching Aragorn’s gentle handling of his patient. The lad looked more dead than alive, lying so still, with large black and purple bruises covering most of his body, except where swathes of bandaging covered the skin. He hoped that Aragorn spoke truly when he said that Pippin was doing well.

After a few more minutes, Aragorn bid Gimli farewell and went on his rounds, checking on each wagon load of patients as they arrived and were settled into the tents. Left to his vigil, Gimli lighted his pipe and made himself as comfortable as he could in the camp chair that had been set up next to Pippin’s bed.

***

"Come on laddie, just a few more sips and you’ll be all done." A deep, gruff voice penetrated his sleep. He felt something touch his lips and opened his mouth slightly, swallowing the bitter liquid automatically. He frowned at the taste, feeling vaguely indignant that someone would feed him such foul stuff when he was sleeping and defenseless. When the spoon came back to his lips, he pressed them together, preferring to be thirsty.

"Pippin, you have to drink this. Come now lad, you’re almost done. Just a few more sips and then I’ll give you some water." The voice was unfamiliar and Pippin was beginning to wonder who was speaking to him and what was happening. His head hurt and, a bit more distantly, the rest of his body ached as well.

The spoon was at his mouth again. He really didn’t want any more of the bitter tasting concoction, but the spoon would not be denied and before he could prevent it, the liquid was in his mouth. He held it there for a moment, not sure if he could swallow it, or if it might not be better to just spit it out again. After a moment, however, good breeding won out and he reluctantly swallowed the liquid.

"Good lad. I know it tastes foul, Pippin, but you’re almost done. This is the last sip, I promise." The ever present spoon found it’s way into his mouth once again, and Pippin forced himself to swallow. He sighed in relief when the spoon was taken away.

"Well done, Pippin. That’s it for the medicine. Would you like some water, now?"

Pippin frowned again, feeling a stitch of pain across his forehead as he did so. This wasn’t right. He thought he knew all the hobbits at the Smials but he didn’t recognize this voice at all. It sounded wrong somehow, too deep and guttural to be a hobbit. As he picked at this odd puzzle, his mind started waking up a bit more, and he realized that his eyes were still closed.

His eyelids felt as though they were weighed down with sandbags or sacks of flour. He forced them up, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The room was spinning and far too bright. Moaning in distress, he closed his eyes again and waited for his sense of equilibrium to return.

"Pippin, lad, can you hear me?" The voice was back, speaking in tones of concern now. He wanted to respond, but wasn’t sure he was able.

"It’s all right, Pippin. I’ll just let Aragorn know you’re awake." He heard heavy footsteps receding and a murmur of voices right at the edge of hearing. Then the footsteps returned to his side. "He will be here shortly. Would you like some water while we wait?"

He decided to risk opening his eyes again, still curious about this person who sounded so very unfamiliar. This time, the room was steadier, and he squinted against the brightness of the light as he looked about the room and tried to catch a glimpse of the speaker.

As he looked around, he began to wonder again where he was. This room was as unfamiliar to him as the voice. It didn’t have the look of a hobbit hole at all. The walls went straight up to a high ceiling, and seemed to be made of some sort of heavy fabric. Looking around cautiously, he saw that the light came from an open door. Looking closer, he realized it must be a tent of some sort, although it was a strange sort of tent, with those absurdly high ceilings. Why, he thought, I bet Gandalf or a Big Person could stand up in this tent and have plenty of head room. It was an odd thought, that seemed to trigger something at the very edge of his memory, but he couldn’t catch whatever it was and soon forgot about it.

He turned his head slightly and froze, closing his eyes, as pain washed through him. He didn’t realize he was whimpering until the voice returned. "Don’t try to move, Pippin. Just lie still until Aragorn gets here."

That was the second or third time this person had made reference to someone named Aragorn, as though that would mean something to Pippin. He took a deep breath and then bit back the cry that tried to burst from him when his strained ribs protested the movement. He was becoming truly frightened now. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Why was he in so much pain, where was he, and who were these strangers?

Bracing himself, he opened his eyes again and tried to find the owner of the deep voice. He saw that there was a chair pulled up next to his bed and on that chair...on that chair was a dwarf. It could be nothing else. He’d seen dwarves a few times, once at old Bilbo’s famous Birthday Party, and once or twice since then, and there could be no doubt. That was a dwarf sitting there glowering at him.

"Easy, Pippin. You’re safe, here." Now he knew where that deep, gravelly voice came from. Pippin unconsciously pressed back and away as the dwarf leaned over him. He didn’t understand what was going on. Desperately, he cast back in his mind, trying to remember what had happened and how he had ended up here, wherever here was. Meanwhile, he continued to press back into his pillows, fighting the panic that was welling up in his mind.

"Who...where am I?" he whispered roughly. His voice caught in his throat and he began coughing, pulling at his sore ribs once again. The dwarf was at his side instantly, lifting him up slightly and bringing a cup to his lips. He was unprepared for how much his head would hurt when it was moved, however, and between the coughing and the sudden burst of pain, he was unable to swallow the water in his mouth, choking and gasping as it went down the wrong way, only adding to his fear and pain.

That was the limit of what Pippin was able to take, and he began to fight weakly, trying to get away from the dwarf’s grip. He was too exhausted to fight for long, however, and soon went limp as the pain overwhelmed him. He was only dimly aware of the dwarf laying him back down on the pillows and moving away. His head was pounding and he felt sick to his stomach. Unable to deal with any more of this strange, frightening situation, he withdrew, curling up as much as he was able and closing his eyes. He could hear the dwarf speaking to him, but refused to answer. His exhaustion quickly overwhelmed him and soon he fell into a welcoming sleep.

Chapter Three: Confusion
beta provided by:  Pipspebble

It didn’t take long for Gimli’s messenger to find Aragorn, who was in his tent, eating the first decent meal he’d had since before the battle several days previous. He had just taken a sip of wine and had barely tasted his stew when there was a scratch at the flap of his tent. A moment later a Guard popped his head inside. "My lord, there is a messenger here from the dwarf, Gimli."

Aragorn looked up with a frown of worry creasing his brow. "Send him in, please, Dargol."

Dargol’s head withdrew and soon another figure was entering the tent. A young Guard, who looked barely old enough to hold a weapon, bowed deeply, keeping his eyes on the ground. "My lord," he began in a hesitant voice, "Gimli the dwarf bids you come as soon as you are able. He says the hobbit has awakened, and that you would wish to know this."

"Thank you, ah..." he paused, not knowing the lad’s name.

"Marek, sir."

"Thank you, Marek. Please tell Gimli that I will be along shortly." Dismissing the Guard, he took a last longing look at his meal and sighed as he turned away, searching out his bag. Most likely, Pippin would be asleep again by the time he got there, but if the hobbit had spoken with Gimli at all, it would give them an indication of how severe that wound on the back of his head was. As he passed the table again on his way out, he paused to grab a heel of bread. There was no knowing how long it would be until he made it back to his interrupted meal. Taking a bite of the bread, he stepped out into the night.

Shortly after he left his tent he heard a light voice hailing him from behind and turned at the familiar sound. "Well met, Legolas," he said as he slowed to allow the elf to catch up with him. "Are you rested?"

"I went for a walk through the woods and now I feel much refreshed," Legolas replied. "Alas, I can see that you have had no rest at all."

"True," Aragorn acknowledged with a wry smile, "I was just sitting down to sup when Gimli sent word that Pippin had awakened. I am on my way now to see him."

"I will accompany you, then, as I was on my way to relieve Gimli." Legolas matched his stride to Aragorn’s and the two friends continued on in silence, each absorbed by his own thoughts.

It was a short walk to Pippin’s tent and once inside, Aragorn pushed aside his weariness, instead focussing his thoughts on his patient’s needs. As he’d suspected, Pippin was asleep once again, but Aragorn had not expected to find him lying on his side, curled up in a loose ball. Turning to Gimli, who was pacing the width of the tent, he found the dwarf looking a trifle pale and shaky.

"Tell me what happened," he murmured while gently straightening Pippin out and examining him for further injury.

"I don’t rightly know what happened," Gimli confessed, moving over to stand near the cot. "He woke while I was giving him the tonic you prepared. His eyes seemed to bother him; he opened them and closed them up again quickly. When he opened them again, he was squinting. He asked where he was." Gimli paused unhappily a moment before continuing, "I don’t think he knew me, Aragorn. He was pressing back into the bed, as far from me as he could get. I tried to give him some water and he choked on it, then started to scream and fight me when I tried to help him. Next thing I knew, he’d gone limp. I backed away and he curled up just like you saw him."

It was a long speech for the taciturn dwarf, who now clumped back to his chair and sat down, pulling out his pipe and fussing about with it, although he didn’t light it. Aragorn, shooting a fast glance at him, saw tightness around the eyes and white knuckles clutching the bowl of the pipe. Clearly Gimli was very much disturbed by Pippin’s behaviour.

"It isn’t at all unusual for patients with severe head wounds to be disoriented or confused when they first begin to wake up, Gimli," he said reassuringly. "That he was able to speak at all is a positive sign." It was little enough to go on, and Aragorn did not want to build up false hopes, but it was enough for now.

"Legolas, would you please bring me a bowl of hot water?" Fishing out a small packet of herbs from his bag, he emptied them into the water the elf brought and let it sit for a few minutes as he unwound the bandage from around Pippin’s calf. He frowned when he saw that the linen was spotted with fresh blood, and a moment later his concern was confirmed when he saw that the wound had pulled open, most likely while Pippin struggled with Gimli.

Dipping a cloth into the warm, aromatic water, he bathed the wound carefully before rebinding it. He repeated this process with several of the larger and uglier cuts and bruises covering Pippin’s body, before carefully and gently lifting the hobbit’s head just enough to remove those bandages as well. When he had finished bathing each of the wounds and had settled Pippin back onto his cot, he pulled a light blanket up over the hobbit’s chest and sat back. Gimli had fussed with his pipe throughout the examination. Now he tucked it away in a pocket and stood to approach his friend, clearly waiting to hear the prognosis.

"He still has a fever but it has not risen since this afternoon," Aragorn said, looking to the dwarf and smiling reassuringly. "Several of his cuts have opened and bled a bit, but I think he has taken no real hurt from his battle with you, Gimli."

He looked over his shoulder at the elf. "Legolas, Gandalf is sitting with Frodo and Sam, in a beech grove not far from the edge of the camp. Please let him know I desire his consultation on a delicate matter. I know you were planning to sit with Pippin for a few hours, but if you could sit with the Ringbearers for a time instead, it would be most helpful."

"Of course, Aragorn. I will send Gandalf directly." With a nod of his head, Legolas exited the tent.

Aragorn turned his attention back to Gimli. "When was the last time you had any sleep, Master Dwarf?"

"I had a few hours last night," Gimli replied, seeming surprised by the question.

"And when did you last eat?"

Gimli paused, as if he had to think before he could answer. "I...had a bite a few hours before we arrived here, I suppose."

"And you’ve been keeping watch here since you arrived?" Gimli nodded and Aragorn frowned reproachfully at the dwarf. No wonder he looked so tired.

"Gimli, my friend, it is time for you to find something to eat and then sleep. Your concern for Pippin is admirable but you will be of no help to him or anyone else if you fall over from exhaustion."

Gimli snorted dismissively. "And when do you plan to rest, Aragorn? Even you must sleep on occasion."

"I will sleep soon, Gimli," Aragorn replied, touched by his friend’s concern. "But first I must speak with Gandalf. Go and rest. When you have slept and are refreshed, you may return, but not until you are truly rested."

With a minimum of grumbling, Gimli took his leave and left Aragorn alone with Pippin. Pulling Gimli’s chair closer to the bed, the king sat down and studied the injured hobbit for a time, then put one hand to Pippin’s forehead and picked up a small, limp hand with his other. Closing his eyes, he concentrated on reaching out to the confused and frightened spirit of his friend.

After a long while he sighed and sat back, opening his eyes again.

"And how is the impertinent young Took?" Gandalf asked in a soft voice . Aragorn, though deep in a trance had still felt the wizard’s arrival and drew comfort from his presence.

"Damaged, I fear," he answered soberly, "although I hope not permanently so. The thoughts that I can touch are clouded with confusion. He does not remember leaving the Shire."

Gandalf moved to Pippin’s side and took one of the hobbit’s hands in both of his. He was silent for several minutes before sighing and placing Pippin’s hand back on the cot.

"Yes, I see what you mean. This would be easier for him if one of his cousins were here."

"I do not think it advisable to keep him asleep until Merry arrives. I was hoping that you would be a familiar enough sight to prevent him from panicking again when he wakes up."

Gandalf lowered his bushy eyebrows in thought. "It is true he knew me before he left the Shire, although not well. He was still a child when last I spent any great amount of time at the Smials. Still, I suppose you are right. If he does not remember any of the Quest, he would be quite frightened by the sight of a strange Man or Dwarf looming over him when he awoke. A kindly figure from childhood might indeed be the better option."

"I am glad you agree, my friend." Aragorn moved back and away from the bed, so that he would not be in direct sight when Pippin awoke. Gandalf settled himself comfortably in the chair, once again taking one of Pippin’s hands in his.

***

Pippin was being pulled inexorably towards wakefulness, a process he fought tooth and nail. He didn’t want to have to deal with the strange and frightening things he’d seen the last time he’d come awake. Someone was calling him, though, very insistently, and it was becoming more difficult to resist. The voice was deep and rough, too deep to be a hobbit’s, and it reminded him unpleasantly of the dwarf’s voice. Please let it just have been a dream, he thought with all the intensity he could muster. When I open my eyes, it will all have been a dream, and I’ll be in my own room, with Da whispering to me. It’s just because I’m asleep that his voice sounds so strange and...and big.

The voice refused to resolve itself into proper hobbitness as Pippin came closer to wakefulness, but there was something vaguely familiar and oddly comforting about it.

"Come now, Pippin, I know you are awake," the voice rumbled. "Open your eyes, now, and we’ll just take a little look at each other."

Pippin opened his eyes slowly. Much to his relief, the room did not spin about this time, but stayed blessedly still. Blinking painfully against the light, which was still too bright, he tried to bring his eyes into focus. After a moment, a large, white blob to his left began to resolve itself into the shape of a person. A very large person with bushy eyebrows and a long white beard. Pippin shrank back, remembering the dwarf, but stilled as he continued to look at the figure. There was something familiar about this person. He frowned as he tried to place the oversized figure.

"G...Gandalf?" he whispered hesitantly.

The wizard smiled as he brought one hand up to gently cup Pippin’s cheek. "Yes, my dear Pippin. I am pleased that you remember me."

Pippin leaned into the comfort of the touch, even as he tried to make some sense of things. "What is happening, Gandalf? Where are we..." he broke off as his throat protested and he began to cough.

Gandalf waited until the fit had passed and then helped him drink some water. "Is that better?"

"Mm," Pippin nodded his head cautiously, braced for pain. It hurt, but not as much as before, though it did make him a bit dizzy, prompting him to close his eyes for a moment until the spell had passed.

"There was a...I thought, when I woke up before..." he paused to drink a little more water and try to gather his thoughts. "I thought there was a dwarf here, when I woke up before."

"Yes, Gimli son of Gloin, a good friend of mine," Gandalf smiled. "He is very worried about you, but we have convinced him to leave you to us for the time being. When you are feeling a bit better, he would like to visit with you again."

"Why should he be worried about me? I’ve never met him before." This made no sense to Pippin. Nothing was making any sense. "Who is ‘us’?"

"Ah." Gandalf looked as though he regretted something, but after a moment he smiled and answered. "‘Us’ in this instance is myself and Aragorn, who is sitting somewhere behind me. Aragorn is your healer."

Pippin moved his eyes beyond Gandalf’s head, careful to keep his own head as still as possible, and soon spied another Man, coming forth from the shadows of the tent. Pippin stared at him, with no thought for politeness. There was something...something nibbling at the back of his mind. He had seen that face before, could almost see it in his mind, but...but, and then it was gone. Pippin sank back, confusion and a splitting headache warring for dominance in his awareness.

"I – I don’t understand," he murmured weakly, looking back to Gandalf. "I thought...it seemed for a moment as if I must know him, but I have never seen any Men in the Shire. I don’t understand," he repeated plaintively. "Where am I? What has happened?"

This new Man, Pippin didn’t remember what Gandalf had called him, came and sat carefully on the edge of his bed, on the side opposite Gandalf, looking very large. Pippin found himself shrinking back ever so slightly toward the wizard and stopped himself, not wanting to appear as a frightened child.

"I know this must be very difficult for you, Pippin," the Man said in a kind voice that was at odds with the grave expression that seemed carved on his face as if on stone. "You have forgotten some things and it will take a little time to remember them, but I believe you will in the end." He smiled and suddenly the somber visage fell away, leaving Pippin once again sure that he had met this person before, although that seemed impossible. But still, no one had answered his questions and he was beginning to wonder about that. Why would they not tell him where he was or what had happened to him? Where were his parents? If he was hurt, or ill, they should be here with him. Had something happened to them as well?

Before he could say anything about this, however, Gandalf interrupted his thoughts. "I want you to tell me the last thing you remember, Pippin. Take your time and see if you can bring your thoughts into focus, just as you did with your eyes when you first woke up."

Pippin wanted to protest and demand answers to his questions, but he remembered very clearly that Gandalf never answered questions he did not want to answer. Sighing, he cast back in his mind, trying to do as the wizard asked.

Chapter Four:  Memory
Beta provided by Pipspebble

Pippin lay perfectly still, trying to bring his mind into focus, but his thoughts were disordered and random. Fractured images flew before his eyes, images of his childhood, of times he’d spent at Brandy Hall or Bag End, visits to the Great Smials, and later visits back to the farm at Whitwell. Walking trips taken with Frodo and Merry merged with tours of the Tookland he’d taken with his father, which then became mixed with solitary rambles through Green Hill Country.

He yawned sleepily and his thoughts scattered like marbles from a spilled bag. Painfully, fighting the hideously throbbing headache that was growing worse by the minute, he tried to gather his thoughts and put them into some kind of order, but it was no use. He yawned again and his thoughts became thinner and more insubstantial, until they had faded away entirely and he was asleep.

Pippin wandered through the garden at Bag End, admiring the care with which the plants had been chosen and tended. Even in the dark of late evening, Pippin could see the love that had gone into this garden. It was funny that he’d never noticed it before and he wondered how long it would take the Sackville-Bagginses to ruin it completely. Old Gaffer Gamgee made no effort to hide his disgruntlement over the change in ownership and Pippin thought it likely the S-Bs were just as unhappy with the neighbours they were acquiring. He imagined it wouldn’t be long before they fired the Gaffer and brought in their own gardener. Pippin shuddered, having seen the monstrosity that Lobelia Sackville-Baggins called a garden.

How difficult this must be for Frodo, he thought with a sigh as he headed back toward the porch and his pack. He knew that his cousin loved Bag End and would never have sold it if it weren’t for the Ring. Pippin frowned briefly as he tried to figure out how long it would take to get to Rivendell, hand the evil Ring off to someone more qualified to take it the rest of the way to it’s destruction, and return to the Shire. He was pretty vague on the distances, having never been outside of the Shire before, and everything beyond its borders was simply ‘outside’ and ‘far away.’ They should be home by Yule, anyway. He made a mental note to talk to Merry about Yule. They must plan a particularly spectacular party in order to distract Frodo and help him feel settled into his new home.

Pippin set his worries aside as Frodo walked up the path and poked his head inside the door, calling to Sam that it was time to go. Taking a last look around, Pippin stood, and shouldering his pack he led the way down the garden path to the low point in the hedge.

Pippin stirred restlessly. He felt feverish and achy, with a headache that wouldn’t leave him even in sleep. He shifted, trying and failing to find a position that eased his pain. But then something cool and soothing touched his brow, easing the pain slightly, and he sighed, sinking back into a deeper sleep.

The day had turned cold and foggy while they slept and Pippin shivered as he looked out over the rim of the hill on which they had fallen asleep earlier in the day. Silently gathering their supplies, the four hobbits led their ponies down into the sea of fog. They stopped at the bottom of the hill to pull out cloaks, as much to ward off the dank, unpleasant feel of the fog as to keep warm. Then mounting their ponies, they rode on in single file, following Frodo in the direction of the road line they had seen earlier.

Dark shapes loomed suddenly, and Frodo gave a call as he surged ahead and disappeared in the fog. Before Pippin and the others could follow him, darkness fell and all was confusion. Pippin tried to keep his seat as his pony reared and screamed, but soon found himself falling. His breath left his lungs with an audible "whoosh" as he hit the ground, and he lay stunned, unable to do more than struggle to draw a breath.

Even as he lay there, it seemed that a tendril of fog swirled around him, coming closer and closer, stretching out like a cold white hand. It touched his foot and he cringed at the deathly chill of it. Still trying to force air into his lungs, he scrabbled desperately and ineffectively against the ground, trying to escape as the fog crept up his body until it had reached his chest, his neck, his face. Even as he finally mastered his lungs and drew breath, the deep cold of the eerie fog covered his mouth like a sinister kiss and he breathed it into himself, falling into a dark, despairing dream of loss and death.

Wake now my merry lads! Wake and hear me calling!
Warm now be heart and limb! The cold stone is fallen;
Dark door is standing wide; dead hand is broken.
Night under Night is flown, and the Gate is open! (1)

The song, starting out as little more than a faint whisper, soon grew to fill the universe and at the last word, Pippin opened his eyes to find himself on a green hillside beneath a clear blue sky, with the cheerful brown face of Tom Bombadil hovering over him.

But even as he ran about in the sun, warming his heart and body, the scene shifted and Pippin found himself in a cozy parlour with Frodo and Sam, and the tall, dangerous-looking Ranger who called himself Strider.

A door slammed somewhere and a moment later Merry came rushing into the room, looking as pale and shaken as Pippin had ever seen him. 

"I have seen them, Frodo," Merry cried wildly. "I have seen them! Black Riders!" (2)

At the mention of Black Riders, Pippin felt his blood go cold and his heart falter. He looked around at his companions, trying to gauge their reactions, but the room had become very dim, all of a sudden, and Pippin found it hard to see their faces.

He blinked, trying to bring the room back into focus, and shrank back for just a moment when he saw a large face looming over him. "Strider?" he mumbled. "What happened? Where - where did everyone go?" He remembered Merry’s words then. "Black Riders! Merry said there were Black Riders here, in Bree. Whatever are we to do? How are we ever to get away now?" He attempted to rise and fell back as pain and dizziness overwhelmed him and the world disappeared in a spiralling black abyss.

He came to himself again some time later and tried once again to sit up. This time he found himself unable to move.

"Easy, Pippin," a low voice murmured from close by, "just lie still a few minutes. Your fever is up and you were a bit disoriented the last time you awoke."

Immobile, he had little choice but to do as he was told and lay quite still, trying to control his fear and understand what was happening. He was in a dim room with a small fire burning in a brazier near the foot of his bed. Looking about as best he was able without moving, he spied Strider sitting on a stool beside his cot. The memories stirred up by his dreams were merging and separating, mixing and spinning through his mind in complete disarray, but gradually, as he focussed on trying to make sense of everything, the memories began to fall into place.

"Strider," he began again, but faltered, not sure what he intended to say. "Why can’t I move?" he finally asked, holding on to the myriad of other questions that were bubbling up at the back of his throat and threatening to choke the life out of him. One thing at a time, he told himself sternly.

Strider looked at him gravely but then smiled. "Have no fear, Pippin. You have not further injured yourself. I was holding you still so that you would not try to rise again when you woke."

"Oh." Pippin lay quietly as he digested this. It was true, as he found when he tried to shift his limbs experimentally. He even moved his head, cautiously, and was satisfied that he had movement, although that reassurance cost him a measure of pain.

"What’s happened, Strider?" He forced the question out around a lump of anxiety. "Did...did we get attacked by the Black Riders?" His voice fell to a low whisper as he continued. "Where are the others, Merry and Frodo and Sam?"

"A great deal has happened, Pippin, more than I can explain to you at this time," Strider answered unhelpfully. "The Black Riders have certainly played their part, but rest at ease. They are gone now and will bother you no more."

"That’s all well and good, but..."

Strider held up a hand to forestall the questions that were about to spill from Pippin’s lips. "No buts, Pippin. I will answer your questions in good time, but first you must eat." The Ranger sounded very firm on this and Pippin sighed in resignation, knowing when he was beaten. "Now, lie still," Strider continued, "and let me do all the work. I am just going to prop you up on some pillows so that it will be easier for you to eat."

Suiting words to actions, Strider gently slid one arm under Pippin’s shoulders while he very carefully cupped the back of Pippin’s head with the other hand. Pippin lay as still as he could, trying not to flinch when Strider’s hand brushed against the sensitive lump on the back of his head. He closed his eyes as Strider lifted him and the room began to lurch around him. He whimpered once and then bit his lip to prevent any other sound from escaping.

A moment later, he was lying still again, repositioned to sit comfortably against a pile of pillows. Pippin wondered vaguely how many arms Strider had, to be holding him up and positioning pillows at the same time, but decided not to worry overmuch about it. He waited several minutes before opening his eyes again, giving the dizziness a chance to recede.

When he did open his eyes, he realized he must have dozed off for a time. Strider was standing several feet away from the cot with his back to Pippin, speaking to someone that the injured hobbit did not recognize. He did recognize, almost immediately however, that the stranger, dressed in green and brown woods garb, was an elf. His thoughts flew back to Gildor and the other elves he’d met in the Woody End, and he wondered what this elf was doing here. He tried to listen in on their conversation but although he could hear the low buzz of voices, he could not make out individual words. After a moment, Strider left the tent and the elf approached Pippin’s cot.

"It is very good to see you awake at last, Pippin," the elf said. "Do you remember me?"

"No, I don’t. I’m sorry," Pippin replied hesitantly, oddly reluctant to hurt or offend this new person. The elf merely smiled, however, with a trace of sorrow in his ageless eyes.

"Then allow me to introduce myself. My name is Legolas, son of Thranduil, of Northern Mirkwood. We have been companions on this Quest for some little time now, and you may not remember me at the moment, but I know you well. It pleases me to see that you are recovering from your wounds."

Pippin blinked at this speech, not sure what to make of it. "Pippin Took, at your service and your family’s," he answered lamely, aware that it wasn’t the most appropriate response to the elf’s introduction, but not entirely certain what was appropriate under these circumstances.

"Aragorn tells me you have not yet eaten and you must be hungry indeed. It has been several days since your last meal." Legolas retrieved a small bowl and spoon that had been waiting on a table nearby, and then seated himself on the stool by Pippin’s cot. "Will you allow me to assist you?"

Although he was not feeling very hungry, there seemed no way to refuse without offending and so he agreed with a quiet affirmative. The elf carefully lifted the spoon to Pippin’s mouth, and he parted his lips to allow the warm, soothing liquid to roll over his tongue. The mildly flavoured broth awakened his dormant tastebuds and he found his appetite returning, but even so, it took very little to sate him.

"No more, please," he said as Legolas moved the spoon back towards his mouth once again. "I thank you, but I feel quite full." Indeed, he was feeling tired and a trifle ill, as well as full, and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and escape back into sleep. His body ached from his wounds and the fever, and his headache, which had receded a bit earlier, had returned in full force.

"Very well," Legolas replied, setting the bowl aside. "But I have something for you to drink before you sleep." He brought a mug to Pippin’s lips and Pippin dutifully drank. The brew was bitter and unpleasant, and he drank it down as quickly as he could. He allowed his eyes to close then, barely aware of the mug of water which Legolas offered him next. He managed only a few small sips of that, just enough to clear the foul taste from his mouth, before slipping into a deep, dreamless sleep.

(1) Sung by Tom Bombadil in The Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 8 – Fog on the Barrow-Downs

(2) Fellowship of the Ring, Chapter 10 -- Strider

Chapter Five:  Questions and Answers
Betaed by Pipspebble

Pippin slept for most of the remainder of that day, coming awake long enough to have a few sips of broth and to drink the medicines Strider prepared for him. He passed the night in fitful dreams, images of the trip to Bree replaying in his mind, but he never managed to see beyond that night in the Prancing Pony. In the early evening he woke, covered in sweat but with a clear mind, and knew that his fever had broken. Looking around the dim tent, he spied the dwarf, Gimli, sitting not far from his bed. He thought to speak but found himself too drowsy and allowed sleep to claim him once more.

It was morning when he woke again.

"Good morning, Pippin. How are you feeling?"

It took Pippin a moment to locate the voice, which came from the far side of his bed. Blinking sleepily, he carefully turned his head to the side to see Strider. The movement, which made him slightly dizzy but less so than the day before, revealed the Ranger standing by the brazier, stirring something which Pippin suspected would turn out to be medicine for him.

"I’m feeling better, today," Pippin answered. "What day is it, Strider?" he asked after a moment’s pause. "I suppose it must be at least the first or second of October, but I haven’t been able to remember anything past that day in Bree, so I’m a little out of my reckoning."

"A little out of your reckoning, indeed," Strider said with a smile. "Today is the 29^th of March."

"But..." Pippin was unable to find a response to that rather stunning revelation, so he simply trailed off into silence, closing his eyes against the terrible knowledge he had just received. Somehow, he’d assumed that whatever had happened to him, had happened in the days immediately following their visit to Bree.

He felt his cot dip and opened his eyes to see Strider sitting on the side of the bed, gazing at him in concern.

"I’m sorry," he managed to say. "You just took me rather by surprise. Has it...how could I have lost six months?" The question came out plaintively.

"It happens that way sometimes, Pippin," Strider answered gently. "A great injury, especially to the head, can cause the mind to revert back to a previous moment. I cannot tell you why your mind chose that particular moment, six months ago. However, I can reassure you that there is every reason to believe that your memories will return."

Pippin let the words flow over him, knowing the Ranger meant to comfort him, but it wasn’t comfort he wanted. He was feeling terribly adrift and alone here, in this strange place with all these Big People. He wanted something familiar, something that he could recognize and understand without explanation.

He was aware of Strider examining his wounds but paid him little heed, withdrawing into himself for a time. He summoned up an image of his home, the large, sprawling smial at Whitwell. Although his father had become Thain two years ago, and the family had lived nearly full time at the Great Smials for several years before that, Pippin still considered the farm his home. There was nothing he loved more than waking up early on a spring morning and smelling the fresh scent of the blossoming dogwoods and wild apple trees. He always slept with his window open, in spite of frequent scoldings from his mother, who was of the firm opinion that night airs were harmful.

It didn’t smell like Spring, here, Pippin realized suddenly. The fresh smells of the season, if they were there at all, were overridden by the odors of sickness and injury, unwashed men, armour and animals. The image of home wobbled and disappeared, and Pippin opened his eyes to find Strider gazing at him in concern once again.

"Where are my cousins?" he demanded in sudden anger. He’d asked before but somehow, no one had ever answered him.

"Merry is on his way to you, Pippin. He should be here this afternoon, or tomorrow at the latest." Strider rested a hand on Pippin’s forearm. "I trust you won’t mind sharing your tent with him? Good," Strider rose before Pippin could answer. "I’ll have another cot brought in. Now, it is time for you to eat." So saying, he turned to a tray sitting on a small table.

"You handled the broth I gave you yesterday very well but I know hobbit tastes and appetites, so I thought you might appreciate something more akin to real food." The Ranger set the tray on the side of the cot where Pippin could easily reach the food.

Pippin didn’t want to be sidetracked from his questions, but the food did smell good and his stomach, turning traitor, chose that moment to growl loudly. Muttering under his breath, Pippin grudgingly gave in and ate. The food, a nourishing stew and soft, warm bread, had more substance and taste than the broth of the day before while still being easy on his stomach. Even so, it didn’t take much to leave him feeling satiated. When he’d eaten as much as he could and pushed his plate away, Strider handed him a warm mug.

"It would be best if you drink it straight off. There is not much I can do to ease the bitterness of this brew, but it will help you to rest more comfortably."

Grimacing at the nasty taste, Pippin did as he was told and swallowed it down in a few quick gulps. "Gah," he muttered as he set the cup down. "That tasted awful." He gratefully accepted the cup of water Strider handed him next, and drank until his mouth was clear of the foul taste of the tonic.

"Strider?" Pippin started to ask about Frodo and Sam, but the Ranger hushed him.

"Rest, Pippin. It is what your body needs most now. I must check on my other patients and meet with my advisors, but someone will stay here with you. I’ll send Legolas in for now." With that, the Ranger strode out of the tent.

Pippin lay back, already feeling sleepy again. He struggled to stay awake, determined to get some answers out of the elf when he arrived, but the tonic was potent and Pippin was unable to fight against its demands for long. He was asleep within minutes of Strider’s exit.

He surfaced briefly when someone, possibly Legolas but Pippin was too sleep-muddled to tell, held a cup to his lips and again some time later to see that a new cot had appeared beside his, but for the better part of the morning he slept.

It was a sound that woke him next. Someone was moving around in the tent. Pippin lay still for several minutes just listening, not quite awake enough to open his eyes and see who was keeping watch over him now. There was very little to hear, the occasional footfall, a slight susurration of fabric, an exhalation of breath. Pippin smiled as an image of his visitor grew in his mind.

"It’s about time you got here," he mumbled, voice still thick with sleep. Everything would be all right now. Merry was here.

The end

A/N  This chapter aligns with Chapter Five of 'A New Kind of Courage', bringing Merry and Pippin together.  At this point, I'm ending this fic but not Pippin's story.  There are several other scenes that I want to write from Pippin's perspective, but they will be individual fics rather than a continuation of this one.