Disclaimer: Of course I just now remembered to put this up, heh. The characters, storyline, and appropriate phrases scattered throughout are not mine and never will be mine, alas. All belongs to Mr. J. R. R. Tolkien.

Author's Note: Feedback and constructive criticism are very much welcome. An author is always pleased to see what an audience thinks of their work. I am a bit mighty nit-picky about my writing and for that reason it takes a little longer than it should to write out one single chapter. However a nudge here and there will certainly make things move along a bit faster. ;) And without further ado...

Whispers Through the Night

Introduction

Meriadoc twisted on his side for the fifteenth time this night at least, he surmised. The ground was damp and cheerless and much harder than any land he had slept upon heretofore. It was ironic, really; all those nights as a lad he lay out under the comforting stars with Pippin (and on special occasions his dear cousin Frodo would accompany him) and he never gave any thought to the firmness of the ground. Now it was as if even the earth itself secretly contrived to be a nuisance to him.

He sighed, annoyed, and rolled on to his back again. He frowned as he gazed up into the sky. The solace of the stars was not with them tonight. Nor any night past while being in this place, he recalled. The inky blackness of the heavens was far too unsettling. It was odd how greatly one missed something when it is taken away. A silent appreciation for the little things was something Merry was quickly becoming accustom to. The nightly noises of the camp were stirring all around him; uneasy horses stomped and snorted, soft murmuring of the soldiers who’s turn it was to keep watch, the twisting and turning of some of the other troops who were probably having the same problem as Merry. And yet, it somehow made him feel very alone and cut off from everyone. He twisted his head around to find Dernhelm, who had departed from him for the evening and had not yet come back. Dernhelm was, in reality, the only person of the camp who spoke to him. And even then they were only discreet whispers. But for this there was a perfectly good explanation....

To him, it seemed as if the days were not divided by day and night; but from picking up one encampment and moving on, steadily on toward the next. His feet dragged and his heart was heavy. As the pale daytime slowly crept into a foreboding dusk they finally stopped. After well over a days march and little resting time in between Merry was exhausted. He threw himself on to the ground and slept soundly; if only for a small amount of time. It had only felt like a few minutes of slumber when he was suddenly awoken by a rough shake from a man.

"Master Holbytla! Wake up! The king calls for you," he said.

"Is something the matter?" he cried, looking out from the tent flap to see it was still dark. Surely the king would only call for him during the middle of the night if something was wrong.

"No, not at all. He just wishes to speak with you," the man replied, reassuring him.

"But it is still dark out. The Sun has not yet risen," said Merry while flinging on some clothes. The man suddenly became grave.

"The Sun will not rise today," he said in a low voice. "Nor anytime soon, I should expect. Indeed dark days are upon us." Merry just pinned his brooch on his cloak and followed his caller outside.

Men were gathered all along the camp whispering hurriedly to one another. None paused to give him a glance as he walked by. Their stern, dogged faces would be forever etched in his memory. He could not only see their determination, but feel it. With all their might they tried to blow away the feeling of dread and despair all round them and replace it with fervent resolve that they could, that they would somehow overpower this Black Shadow. How it would be done, however, seemed out of their mental grasp. But it seemed to no avail. Fear still clung to each man’s heart tenaciously; the darkness of the foreboding dark sky seemed too heavy. Merry felt the sudden urge to cry aloud woefully.

They reached the entrance to the king’s abode and Merry entered inside to find that Theoden was engaged in a conversation with another man. He stood silently by the door and waited for the king to acknowledge his presence.

Hirgon the messenger of Gondor was speaking to the king. His voice was strong but there seemed to be hidden within a tone of fearfulness. If he was frightened he showed no outward signs of being so.

"The Shadow, my Lord. It is coming from Mordor. Last night as I rode I saw it. It is coming from the hills of the Eastfold. It will surely come our way and though my heart quails I - we, we would find great solace if you and your people were to come along side us and bear arms. I fear that if we do not act quickly and especially hand-in-hand the result will not be favorable. My Lord," he said, the utmost importance clearly evident in his voice. "If we do not stand together we will fall. War has begun. We need your help."

King Theoden sat in silence for a while, his face hidden by his hand upon which he was leaning. At length he gave a great sigh. "I should have known. I should have known that in the end it would come to this. It has come at last. We have passed from one great evil to the next; one battle after another. It grieves me." And then as if speaking to no one in particular he muttered, "So much death...." Merry felt his heart pang for him. If only there was some way he could help. If just somehow he could aid the King he would have done it in an instant. This newfound reverence for a man he barely knew was only slightly overwhelming, but Merry could not hold it back. He felt that he owed his allegiance and service to Theoden for a reason other than Merry’s sworn duty. 

Suddenly the King stood up; quite abruptly for Hirgon jumped back a little. He seemed wearied no longer but determined and impatient.

"Hirgon," he said. "Tell Denethor that he shall have his man-in-arms. We are coming to war." For Hirgon it seemed a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, but Merry swallowed resolutely, and stood up ever straighter.

"My Lord, I thank you. We shall never forget this day. Let the alliance between Gondor and Rohan never waiver again!" He bent low in gratitude and respect.

"We do not have much time for gathering together all our provisions," the King mused. "Have you much store and provisions?"

"Yes, a very great store has been long prepared," replied Hirgon. He continued almost hesitantly. "If you should be off, do so now. The approaching Doom shall not wait for the unprepared when delivering It’s strike."

"Indeed," Theoden murmured. He turned to his nephew. "Eomer," he said. "Call the heralds. The Riders shall be sent forth into the midst of battle!" Eomer departed from the tent and very soon the sound of trumpets was heard, lowing and ominous.

Theoden, again, seemed deep in thought and Merry wished not to disturb him. So much was at stake, so impending and pressing was the darkness and he himself was an unimportant little Hobbit from the Shire, or so he thought; this was not his land, these were not his people and yet he found himself compelled to aid them in any way possible. He felt that he was just a trivial, insignificant piece of the puzzle at this point.

Merry did not know how to make his presence known but was saved from trying when King Theoden turned to look at him.

"Ah, Master Meriadoc," he said with a sad smile upon his face. "I am leaving for war. Very soon we shall take up the road and be on our way. It is not my pleasure to do so, but I feel that I must relieve you from your service to me. Our friendship, however, I do not wish to sever. You shall stay and serve Eowyn instead, who will be taking on the governing of our people. Your service to me, though short, shall never be forgotten."

Merry stood silent, his face contorted in confusion and grief. Released? No, no. He was too ready, too willing to follow the man he was sworn into service with. He could not be let go.

"B-but, lord," the words came clumsily from his tongue. "I was sworn to serve you. I offered you my sword. I wish - I wish follow you! I do not want to be parted such as this, King Theoden. All my friends, they have gone off to war!" He glanced downwards with his brow furrowed. "I would be ashamed if I were the only one not to go," he said softly.

Theoden said nothing at first, but stood in silent admiration of this more than willing perian. Though his time in service to the King was brief thus far Theoden gathered that Meriadoc was not saying this just to make the King think he was stout and courageous, but that he actually meant it. It stirred Theoden’s heart to see Merry’s dedication and fervor to a man that he hardly knew. But even so he felt that he could not let his servant accompany him. For someone so young and innocent to be made to march off to war was something Theoden could not do. Though he knew not about hobbits and their homeland and customs, there was a certain air of the lad that once was pure and carefree, lighthearted and cheerful; now marred and stained by the evils of war and war itself. Yet, somehow, the light still shown through, like beams of the sun penetrating a disheartening gray storm cloud. To further that darkening, however, was heartbreaking; Theoden would not allow it.

"But," said the King, his mind working furiously. "We ride swift on horseback. And we have no horse that would suit your needs, I’m afraid."

"Then tie me on to the back of  your horse!" Merry said pleadingly. "Let me hang from a stirrup or pack me into a bag or…" he trailed off, uncertain what to do or say anymore. He flushed in annoyance and embarrassment for begging like a child to a King.

Theoden, however, took no notice of the presumed childlike beseech but instead felt his heart break with pity and compassion. Such loyalty was immensely difficult to turn aside. It would be arduous indeed to find a man among the ranks of Rohan who displayed such ardor as Meriadoc.

Pushing down his most immediate feelings, he gave a small rueful smile to the dismal looking hobbit. Theoden hunched down so that he was eye level with him.

"Your heart is great, Master Merry, perhaps even bigger then you yourself. And that is quality not to be overlooked." The King paused, a thoughtful look upon his face. After a moment, he spoke again. "Meriadoc," he prompted with a strained air. 

"My lord?" Merry was crushed at what the King had forbade him to do and at this point wanted nothing more than to bow out humbly and return to his abode. He forced himself to keep his focus on what King Theoden had to say.

"I cannot say that I would not like to have you accompany me, for I surely would at such a time as this. However, it is imperative that you do as I say." The King gave a small sigh. "Do not think I do this out of spite, Meriadoc," he said gently. "For great company we have become to each other. But friend or not I would have you spared from the evils of war at all costs, if I can. Memories from the battlefield are not too soon to be forgotten," he added with a touch of bitterness.

Merry knew that King Theoden’s decision could not be overruled. He bit his tongue and kept his thoughts to himself. Of course he took what he had said to him to heart, every word. But what should he tell his friends when they all returned (Or if they returned? He shoved that thought very far down into his mind.)? That he alone was left behind and had not helped serve the King unto which he had given his sword? He could not let that happen. He would not let that happen. He had not gone through all that he had to just sit and worry and fret about how the others were fairing. He wished to be standing next to them, a brother-in-arms, a soldier, fighting for whatever good was left in this world. It would be utterly humiliating not to.

"My lord," he said, disheartened. "If that is what you wish, so be it." Merry averted his eyes to anything other than to whom he was speaking. Theoden nodded.

"I am sorry, Merry," he said softly. Merry just swallowed, and nodded as well.

The King cleared his throat. "Eowyn, have Master Meriadoc be given some gear and be taken back to Stybba; he shall ride with us to Edoras and from there we march on to the plains of battle." Merry’s head shot up; he had not even noticed that Eowyn was in the tent with them. Sure enough, she came forth, a look upon her face that which Merry could not quite determine.

"Yes, my lord," she replied. Together they strode out of the tent.

"Do not be so dismal," Eowyn murmured to him after a ways. "If you keep your hope, you will find a way." Merry looked up at Eowyn, confused, but she said no more.

Chapter 2

Eowyn took Merry to where the armor was held. Merry accepted a helm and shield awkwardly and felt that he was somehow out of place and quite unprepared.

I don’t belong here, he thought to himself. He was Meriadoc Brandybuck, a simple hobbit from the Shire, not a warrior. His thoughts now were not upon how he would get to fight, but what if it would come to pass.  Never in a thousand years could he have seen himself in such a situation, perhaps marching straight to the Black Gates themselves, wielding a sword and giving the battle cry with hundreds of others as the enemy poured out from the dark land with hatred so complete that none could foresee the end of it’s want and need for absolute destruction. And yet, here it could be happening right before his very eyes. If the harsh coldness from the metal of his helm had not grazed his arm as Eowyn was handing it to him, he would have scarce to believe his sight and thought he was having a horrible nightmare that seemed to never cease.

Throughout all these thoughts racing through his head there was a feeling at the pit of his stomach that he soon recognized to be not fear, but a sense of urgency; something that needed to be completed very soon, and if not, things would go horribly awry. A mere stranger though he be in this city he felt as compelled to fight as if this country were his own. It was not simply out of the good nature of his heart that drove him, but friendship and the sole will to rid evil from all corners of this world. Could someone so small and unimportant as he considered himself to be make any sort of impact on the course of the future? It seemed a silly thought, laughable yet mirthless. But it did not matter if the very second he drew his sword he would be hewed down mercilessly; he would fight, he would help in any way he saw possible, if it only be a riding companion for some other lonely soldier. He had pledged his sword to Théoden; his promise was made and nothing would break it.

He gave a stiff, short bow to Eowyn and left the tent to go to his own to mull on things while he had the chance.

***

Not more than an hour and a half later he was woken by a solemn guardsman who told him that the rest of the camp were almost prepared to leave and that he should be as well. Gathering what little possessions he still carried, Merry brought them to tie to Stybba.

"You have been very faithful to me thus far, Stybba," he said, stroking the pony’s snout. "I shall be upset to part with you." Stybba just snorted softly and found an interesting curl of Merry’s hair to nibble on.

Before him the king climbed on to his horse, his battle armor also in place.

"Lord," said Merry, keeping his focus straight in front of him and not on Théoden. "I wish to go to war with you." Théoden gave a sad smile.

"I know, Meriadoc, I know." The king gazed at him for a few moments and then turned his horse to face down upon his regiment. Merry gave a broken sigh and swallowed.

As the waning sun sank over the hills, it seemed as if the tips of the spears of the horsemen were on fire, and their helms gleamed with a soft light. The horses pawed the ground and snorted; anxious they were, and wondering when they would commence. There was a solemn air about them; no one spoke more than a hushed whisper. With a silent nod given to his left tenant, the King and his company moved forth.

Not a leaf stirred nor a bird’s call was heard throughout the land. To Merry it seemed as if the world was silently holding it’s breath for what it knew was the worst to come. It did not further dishearten him, but only solidified the darkness that was so tightly wrapped about his heart.

***

They rode solemnly on until the sun was directly above them, and only then stopped for a short while. Merry knew in his heart that it would not be long before he would get the final word from Théoden. His fears were confirmed when he saw the king slowly walking towards him. Pretending not to have noticed yet, Merry thought as hard as he could as quickly as possible for any sort of speech that could sway Théoden’s decision. His brows furrowed; he was coming up empty handed.

"Master Meriadoc," the king prompted. The hobbit rose to his feet and bowed.

"My lord?" asked Merry, no hope or optimism present in his voice.

"It is here that I release you from my service, but not my friendship. I hope that the remainder of your days be well fulfilled, for you and your kin." He then turned to leave the hobbit gaping in shock over how abrupt and swift his discharge was. For some reason unknown this made Merry feel not only put-off but more desperate than ever. Before he could stop himself, he opened his mouth to protest.

"Lord Théoden!" he called, his voice near shrill. The king stopped but did not turn. He knew it would not be as simple as he hoped. But all the same he wished Merry’s stubbornness was borne of another want, even though he knew it was out of love.

Merry wished that he had kept his mouth shut, but it was too late to turn aside now. He tilted his chin up and made a slight sprint to Théoden. He rounded the man and drew a breath.

"I offered you my sword," he said resolutely. "Surely that means more than just a brief outing across the countryside! Why then did you receive me? I do not wish to be left behind." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please." The last word uttered was the single last desperate effort Merry could manage. No other word, he felt, could mean so much and yet take so little to say.

Théoden’s eyes shut and his mouth crinkled into a thin line. Merry involuntarily took a small step backwards, thinking that perhaps he had crossed the line in his final plea. However the king stood silent, whether in thought or anger Merry could not tell. He seemed so weary…like one that strives with all his might to bring around some sort of good but is weathered greatly by his attempts. Merry’s head drooped slightly and he stood meekly awaiting his fate.

"No rider can bear you as a burden," Théoden said simply at last. "I received you to do as I bid, and this is now what I have decided. I will say no more." Merry’s spirit crumpled in finality. He drew aside from Théoden to let him pass and as he did so, wondered if this could be the last time he would ever see the man. That in itself was a sorest of all blows. He stood motionless only a few moments longer and then despondently walked back to Stybba.

***

Through a helm peered shrewd, clear gray eyes with a keen understanding of what they had just witnessed. They well knew and understood the hearts of both persons; so recently had something quite similar to this occurred. A burden though it may be it would be rather ignoble to leave behind someone who was nearly in the same situation. It would be easy enough to manage; a mere cloak thrown over the Halfling’s legs should be inconspicuous. The other men of the camp would not pay attention to another simple soldier anyway; or so that was hoped. In one swift movement the eyes had closed and moved quickly away to assemble the last remaining items before they took their leave.

***

Slumping on to the grass next to Stybba, Merry felt a great weariness descend upon himself. It seemed fruitless to try to do anything otherwise. He picked at a trampled blade of now-brown grass and not for the first time in the journey felt homesick for the emerald green fields of his homeland. A simple thing like the fresh, springy grass beneath his feet was such a small entity to ask for but was terribly out of his reach.

He wondered now what he would tell the rest of the fellowship and whether they would believe him when he said he had tried with all his might to make his way by the side of Théoden and yet failed miserably. Surely they wouldn’t take his failure for cowardice? An uneasy feeling washed over him.

How long had it been since Gandalf and Pippin had left? Recalling the maps that Merry had looked at so long ago (so it felt) at Rivendell, their ride for Minas Tirith was quite a dist—

He stopped short and his breath caught in his throat.

"Pippin…" he breathed. Since they had departed, Merry seemed to be constantly busy and did not give a second thought to where his cousin was actually being taken. Gondor. Closer to the Black Lands than Merry himself might ever be. His stomach turned. Certainly Pippin wouldn’t be called out to fight? The mere thought of his dear cousin surrounded by such a perpetual evil amongst the ranks of men was severely distressing; there was no possible way Pippin would be watched out for. He would be overlooked and disregarded if such times came to pass. Though it was not his say to do anything otherwise, Merry knew he should not have let Gandalf separate them. Gandalf  could not watch over Pippin at all times; he had plenty of other very important things to take care of. And now Merry was powerless to prevent anything from happening, lest anything should happen. Frustrated and worn, Merry gritted his teeth and hit the ground with his fist. It seemed he was going in circles and ending up always in the same place with no gain on his ground whatsoever.

So deep he was in his thoughts that he did not hear the soft steps of boots behind him. A Rider bent down and whispered softly in the hobbit’s ear.

"Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say," the voice said. "And so I have found myself."

Somewhat started, Merry looked up and saw a slight figure dressed in the same armaments as the rest of the camp, though this soldier had his helmet on so it covered his face. He must have looked confused, so the soldier continued.

"I have seen the devotion you would give your Master, ere you would be given the chance to prove such worth." The slightest of smiles showed on the face of the Rider. "And such ardor is not to be overlooked, especially when it can be remedied quite easily. You truly wish to ride with the King?" Merry stood, a feeling of hope rising once more.

"I do," he said firmly.

"Then you shall ride with me. Come quickly; gather your things. My cloak is large enough to cover you." He paused and glanced up at the sky. "The darkness seems to be growing with every passing hour…. Hiding you should not be a problem."

Merry stood for but a moment in utter shock, his mouth hanging slightly open. Here was his chance, laid before him like a light just within his grasp through a bitter darkness. Hope surged through him, rekindled. With a grin from ear to ear and a hasty bow, Merry ran off to collect his things.

"So I have not found my way out of this tale just yet," he thought to himself. "I must find some way to help. I must." He looked to the East where the shadows loomed; a chill spread in his heart.

"I’m coming, Pippin," he murmured.

***

Quickly he came back with his things. Stybba was still standing where Merry had left him with an almost mournful look in his eye. Merry stroked his snout and whispered his good-byes despondently. He had grown fond of the animal.

It was then that Merry realized that he had not thanked the Rider to which he was eternally grateful, nor did he know his name. Whilst climbing onto the horse (with some help from the Rider, of course), Merry decided to quell his inquisitiveness.

"I thank you indeed," he said, pulling the cloak more securely around himself. "It truly means a great deal to me, though, I’m afraid I don’t know your name, sir." The Rider paused in his movements.

"Do you not?" he whispered softly. "Then call me Dernhelm."

A trumpet sounded. The company gathered in its ranks and began the long march to bring whatever aid they could to the city of Minas Tirith.

***

It seemed as though those events had taken place in another world some hundreds of years ago to Merry. But that was only four days ago and just leagues away. They had ridden quite far in such a short amount of time.

Sighing once more and shifting slightly yet again, Merry gave up on trying to wait up for Dernhelm. Though good company he was, sleep seemed more important at the moment. Pleased that he had found a halfway decent position on the bothersome bit of ground, he slowly drifted off into an dreamless sleep.

Chapter 3

The candlelight danced and flickered across the pallid hue of the walls, making the shadows seem almost comforting. Well, that was something out of the ordinary; or leastways out of the ordinary during such a time as this. These were soft and enveloping. However, shadows of a different sort plagued the edge of his mind: threatening, tormenting, and unable to be dispelled. A stifling and choking mass of darkness that seemed relentless in it’s iron grip on his mind. But shadows they were, consuming yet fragile, and even the lone candle seemed to engulf the darkness for the time being.

Pippin never quite grasped the concept of aloneness until now, it seemed. His whole life he had been surrounded by flighty sisters, over-endearing aunts and uncles, and of course his dear cousins. His heart ached just to see Frodo again, and even though his separation from Merry had happened not a week ago he missed him as though he hadn’t seen him in years. Aunt Esmie had always said him and his cousin were like food and drink; one did not feel quite right without the other. Now the weight of the reality of separation slammed heavily down upon him.

He shifted in his cot, trying to quell a rumble in his stomach that threatened to make itself heard. If loneliness was the worst feeling in the world, then hunger was a very close second. He was very thankful for the meager rations that the people of the city shared with him, but it was frightfully more scant than what he was used to, even through this whole journey. He knew he shouldn’t complain, but just thinking about a regular, no where near elaborate tea time sounded like a feast. Perhaps it was best to move on to another subject to think upon, or at least go to sleep. Gandalf would not be pleased if he heard Pippin still awake. Tomorrow would promise to be another long day, and he needed all the rest he could get.

Speaking of Gandalf, where was he? Near dusk he had left Pippin to his own devices, telling him that he had important matters to take care of and that he would be back shortly. "Shortly" turned into an hour, an hour to five, and Pippin finally decided to turn in, mostly because of a lack of anything better to do. Leaving his abode was something he dared not do; somehow in the back of his mind was a warning that said he’d be properly chastised if he left without the wizard’s consent. So he had gazed out of the windows that looked down upon the city (purposely avoiding the third, in which Mordor could be seen more clearly), watching the few people who were still about. He had fidgeted and felt anxious for reasons which he could not quite put his finger on. It was so quiet.

Fearing that he would wear a rut into the ground with his pacing, Pippin tried to settle himself by climbing into bed and attempting to sleep. Well, "bed" was a bit of a stretch; the cot was remarkably uncomfortable. All sheets and blankets were being used elsewhere for those in need, and since he was not necessarily in need, his cloak had sufficed. Perhaps the cot was uncomfortable because of his restlessness. Oh, if only Gandalf would come back!

Slowly but inevitably, time passed. The candles burned lower, and the shadows continued to dance across the walls, slightly soothing his troubled mind. His stomach, however, protested the silence by rumbling loudly in annoyance at the lack of food.

"Peregrin Took, if you do not quiet that stomach of yours, it will soon be the bane of your existence," muttered a stern voice. However when Gandalf came around the corner a smile played on the corners of his lips. "A wizard cannot concentrate with such a ruckus going on."

Pippin thought he must have nearly jumped to the ceiling when he heard Gandalf’s voice. Gathing his wits about him again, he sputtered, "Gandalf!" Unconsciously, he reached out for the wizard to take a seat next to him. Gandalf’s brows knit in concern.

"Is there something troubling you, my lad?" he asked as he took a seat next to the hobbit. Pippin did not readily answer him but fidgeted with the edge of his cloak.

"Peregrin?" Gandalf prompted.

"No. Well… at least nothing worth getting concerned over," Pippin said slowly. "It’s just… it’s dark. And so very quiet. And when I’m alone I can’t help but think…." He took a slow, deep breath. "That voice. It’s there, in the darkness, in the stillness. I didn’t know it could ever get so dark and so cold." His voice steadily dropped until it reached a whisper. Looking down, Gandalf saw that Pippin’s hand was clenched tight to his cloak, and his gaze seemed far and distant, eyes open but unseeing. It grieved Gandalf to see him in such a state, but such was the consequence of the young Took’s voracious curiosity. A stinging reminder that would not soon disappear.

"Oh, my dear Pippin," murmured Gandalf, gently laying a hand on the Pippin’s tense clenched fingers. "They are naught but whispers through the night and shadows that lurk when gloom is near. He is gone, and though remnants of shadow may remain for a time, I deem you will think twice before attempting such a foolish thing again."

Pippin’s head drooped and shoulders sagged in guilt. He felt slightly bad for himself, but much worse when he considered the full weight of his consequences. However he could think of nothing worse than if something had happened to Gandalf again. It was his foolishness and curiosity that had led to the incident at the bridge in Moria (so he brought upon himself) and here now again was almost the same matter. Had he learnt nothing?

"I didn’t mean to," he whispered. "Merry always said--" he choked a little but forced himself to go on. "Merry always said I say that every time I do something wrong, but I truly do mean it. Gandalf," Pippin looked up, his bottom lip quivering slightly. "I truly do." An overwhelming guilt took hold and he started to weep, for he felt he could do nothing else.

Gandalf put a comforting arm over Pippin and pulled him close, choosing to stay silent for the time being. He reckoned Pippin had never said anything more earnest, nor more pitiful.

Slowly the tears ebbed to hiccuping sobs, but Pippin felt no better than when he began. Merry was still not here, and Frodo and Sam were somewhere out in the middle of nowhere, carrying the sole purpose for all their anguish. And here he could do nothing but weep for what he could do nothing about. He felt like a nuisance and most utterly useless.

"You should get some rest," Gandalf said softly. Pippin sighed and frowned.

"I… I don’t think I can. At least, not yet, anyway." He knew Gandalf didn’t approve but the wizard said nothing. Pippin rubbed his sleeve over his eyes.

"What were you doing?" he asked, hoping he could find some distraction for the time being.

"Nothing that would interest you for long, I’m sure," Gandalf said,  standing. "There are many plans that still need to be drawn up." Pippin followed Gandalf into the next room and saw several maps, a quill, and some pieces of parchment scattered on the table. Pippin climbed up on a chair.

"The day is drawing nearer," Gandalf murmured. "We must be as prepared as we can be. I had hoped Faramir would be here by now. He will be needed."

"Is Faramir bringing many soldiers?" Pippin asked.

"Doubtful," Gandalf replied. "The news from Osgiliath is not necessarily the best. When Faramir returns what is left of his army will not have the strength to fight again so soon. But—" he sighed. "We must try." Pippin nodded absently. His eyes roamed to the crinkled maps, yellowed with age and worn with use. He put his finger lightly on a small drawing of city with the name "Gondor" beneath it in the loveliest of calligraphy. From there he traced his finger up the Cair Andros, into which the Entwash flowed, and then to Fangorn. From there his finger went to Emyn Muil, and then up the Anduin to Lórien. Moria. Rivendell. Weathertop. Bree. And then the finger abruptly stopped at the Shire. He said nothing for quite some time.

"It’s what we’re fighting for, isn’t it," he said softly. "For everyone and everything there."

"It is indeed," replied Gandalf. "And I have never seen such a greater cause." This earned a tiny smile from Pippin.

"You are the only wizard I know that would put care into such a place. No one here really knows about the Shire," he said.

"I daresay that is because I am the only wizard you know, Peregrin. And I doubt rumors of the land of the Halflings will stay rumors for much longer. Too much is still yet to be done." Pippin took one last look at the map before Gandalf rolled the parchment up. "I have one last errand that must be completed before the night is out," he continued. "You, however, have a long day ahead of you tomorrow, and I highly suggest you get some rest. I shall be back soon." And with that, he left, leaving Pippin feeling slightly alone yet again. As he climbed into his cot his stomach gave one last rumble, reminding him of his hunger. Whatever tomorrow brought, he thought with a sigh, he hoped there would be a decent breakfast to begin it.