Tremendous thanks and big hugs to Pipwise for the helpful betaing and even more helpful encouragement. I can’t thank you enough! :)

Thank you also to Marigold for supplying me with logistical information and the most wonderful plotbunny. It truly was a joy to write :)

I will not say the Day is done,
Nor bid the Stars farewell.

~The Return of the King, Book 6, “The Tower of Cirith Ungol”

The early hours of March 26

After the Eagles had brought Frodo and Sam out of the fire and into the night, they took the hobbits to the makeshift camp that was set up at the Morannon. Aragorn was waiting for them, and Gandalf remained with the hobbits, watching as the king worked into the early hours of the morning, bringing them back from the brink of death and sending them into a peaceful healing sleep.

Aragorn and the other healers then turned their attention to Frodo and Sam’s minor injuries. The tent occupied by the Ringbearers was silent aside from the small sounds of bandages being unrolled and wrapped around limbs, but it seemed all the more quiet with the absence of one who was expected to be underfoot and asking questions.

As he worked, Aragorn explained how Gimli had discovered Pippin crushed beneath a hill-troll, giving a voice to the fear that had already crept into Gandalf's heart.

“Pippin’s situation is very grave,” Aragorn said quietly. “Many of his ribs were crushed, and this is putting a strain on his breathing. He also has a broken sword arm and a sprained ankle, and is feverish. Fortunately there is no sign of internal bleeding.” He paused to arrange Frodo’s hands so that the injured one rested in a comfortable position before turning to face Gandalf.

“I treated his injuries as best I could,” Aragorn continued. “But I am very worried. Where Pippin’s spirit wanders, I do not know. He was very near death when Gimli brought him to me, and it was a struggle to call him back.”

With a heavy sigh Gandalf circled the tent, closely watching the sleeping hobbits. He suddenly looked old and withered, his previous joy at finding Frodo and Sam tempered with the fear he felt for Pippin.

“Have you sent for Merry?” he asked finally.

Aragorn nodded. “I sent word that he should travel with the first supply wains, and meet us at the rear camp we established in Ithilien.”

“Good,” Gandalf replied, half to himself. “Merry must be here whether all goes well or ill.”

There was a light rustle as the tent flap was pulled open, and both turned to see Legolas enter, his eyes shining with hope.

“Pippin has not stirred,” he said quickly, in response to the unasked question written clearly upon both their faces. “Gimli and I received word that Frodo and Sam have been brought back to the camp alive. I have come to see how they fare.”

“Come, Legolas, and look upon our friends,” Gandalf said, resting a hand on the elf’s shoulder as he guided him closer to the hobbits’ beds. “Altered though they may be, Aragorn has promised that they will survive.”

Legolas smiled at the hobbits, reaching out a hand to touch each of their foreheads in turn. He shook his head and sighed a little. “It is a joy to see Frodo and Sam again. My heart has grieved for Pippin this night.”

“Do not grieve overmuch when there is still breath and Tookish resilience to consider,” Gandalf said, smiling a little at the thought.

“Has there been any change in Pippin’s condition?” Aragorn inquired.

“No,” replied Legolas, shaking his head sadly. “His breathing still suffers, and his mind continues to wander. I tried to make contact with him, to gain some response, but I could not reach him.”

“We will soon be moving to the camp in Ithilien,” Aragorn said. “We must leave the foul air of Mordor, but I fear the journey will take a toll on those who were seriously injured.”

The three friends were silent for a moment, their eyes turning toward the two hobbits.

“The Eagles,” Gandalf said quietly. “I shall ask the Eagles to transport the gravely wounded.”

Aragorn smiled appreciatively. “That would certainly ease my mind. It will be a slow and bumpy road to Ithilien, and I fear we will lose many of our critically injured if they are forced to travel by cart.”

“I shall ask Gwaihir at once,” Gandalf said before turning to Legolas. “Someone needs to meet Merry when he arrives with the wains. He must arrive at Ithilien as quickly as possible, for his own sake as much as Pippin’s. I fear that the Shadow will increase its hold over Merry once he hears the news, and he will no doubt be frantic.”

“I shall meet him at the river,” Legolas offered. “A friendly face should be more welcome than a stranger’s, and we shall travel faster to Ithilien together than if he is forced to wait for the supplies to be unloaded from the ships.”

Grateful, Gandalf smiled and clasped the elf’s arm in thanks. “Now I must find Gwaihir,” he announced, before going first to Frodo, and then Sam, and whispering softly in their ears. With a final glance at the hobbits he strode away to where the Eagles had gathered.

*

The Eagles agreed to help, and Gandalf hurried back to tell Aragorn. The king, with Legolas’ assistance, immediately began preparing Frodo and Sam for travel, while Gandalf went off in search of Pippin’s tent.

It was not difficult to find, guarded as it was by two grim soldiers of Gondor. Gandalf recognized them as members of the company Pippin had been serving with at the Last Battle, and tonight their faces were stretched thin with worry over their small friend as they opened the tent flap for Gandalf.

Nodding in greeting, Gandalf passed them and entered the dimly lit tent. The smell of blood hung in the air. Gimli paced alongside the cot, and Gandalf settled himself at Pippin’s side and carefully inspected his friend.

Despite Aragorn’s detailed list of injuries, Gandalf was not quite prepared to see Pippin so still. There was no smile or quizzical look to be found on the young hobbit’s face, which was set in a blank expression so unfamiliar for this lively creature.

Blood and dirt had been washed away, exposing the extensive bruising covering almost every visible patch of Pippin’s sallow skin, and it was obvious that he struggled for breath. A bit of the bandaging that covered Pippin’s torso was visible through the loosely tied laces at the collar of his nightshirt, and there was a bulky splint on his right arm. Pippin looked like a tiny broken doll, swaddled in blankets on a too-large bed.

Ceasing his restless pacing, Gimli stood beside Gandalf and cleared his throat. “Is it true? Have Frodo and Sam returned to us?”

“Yes,” Gandalf said, managing a smile. “They sleep now, and will for many days yet, until their strength returns. Perhaps you might go and see them now, before we break camp and set out for Ithilien.”

Gimli snorted. “Good, they must not spend any more time in this intolerable place.” His eyes betrayed his eagerness to see Frodo and Sam again, as well as his unwillingness to leave Pippin’s side. Gandalf watched with concern as Gimli resumed his pacing, his face troubled.

“I have failed him, Gandalf,” Gimli said finally.

“Failed him?” Gandalf asked, his brow furrowed. “How?”

“I made him a promise. Before the battle, I said to him, ‘Pippin, I will do everything in my power to see you returned safely to Merry’s side.’” A few tears trickled down Gimli’s face and into his beard. “How will I ever face the other hobbits?”

Gandalf sighed heavily. “Gimli, you did not fail Pippin. You simply made a promise that no one can truly keep.”

“Aye,” Gimli grumbled, wiping roughly at his eyes. “I know that now.”

“But certainly, you did your best to honor your word. You found Pippin beneath the troll and brought him to Aragorn,” Gandalf continued.

“I found him too late, I fear,” Gimli said.

“That may be,” Gandalf admitted. “But do not forget that hobbits are a sturdy folk who heal quickly. Not unlike dwarves,” he added with a smile. “There is still hope yet for Pippin. When there is life, there is hope.”

Gimli smiled a little at that. “Will Pippin be moved to Ithilien tonight, as well?”

“Yes,” Gandalf said. “The Eagles have promised to bear all of the most gravely injured. I must prepare him for travel soon.”

Gimli nodded with satisfaction. “I shall leave you, then, and visit with our other friends while I may.” He gently patted Pippin’s uninjured hand before exiting the tent to visit Frodo and Sam.

Drawing his chair closer to Pippin’s cot, Gandalf regarded him with a sad smile.

“My brave lad,” he said softly, and reached out to smooth back the hobbit’s curls.

Gandalf let his hand linger there on Pippin’s bruised and feverish brow, and shut his eyes, concentrating. He, too, could sense that Pippin’s spirit was muddled, made confused by the excruciating pain. There was a chance that Pippin would not find his way back, a terrible chance that grew with each hour that passed without his regaining consciousness.

“Tiny wanderer,” Gandalf muttered, before opening his eyes and addressing Pippin as if he were awake.

“You did better than anyone ever could have hoped or expected, Peregrin Took, but now I must make one final request. I know that you are struggling, and that you are in pain, but you must not grow weary now.”

He sighed a little before continuing. “All those times in your young life when you were forced to fight against one illness or another have prepared you for this moment, Pippin. Frodo and Sam are here and recovering from their own injuries, and Merry is on his way.” Gandalf smiled a little, and hoped that Pippin would sense it. “You must not disappoint us, my lad.”

Pippin’s breathing remained shallow, and he did not stir. After a few moments Gandalf stood and carefully wrapped the hobbit in blankets. Though Pippin was taller now, Gandalf lifted him easily, blankets and all, and carried him outside to the waiting Eagles.

Frodo and Sam were already there, having been brought through the camp in high honor, and now they were borne up by Landroval and Meneldor. They circled through the air, leading the column as the other Eagles lifted the most seriously wounded and joined them in the sky. Gwaihir the Windlord presided over it all, and now Gandalf approached him.

“Gwaihir, I imagined that three times would have been enough for you to bear me, but now I must ask you again. This is my young friend, one of the Ringbearer’s kin, and a brave soldier gravely wounded in the last battle.”

“He is but a small burden,” Gwaihir replied, “and any of my folk should be glad to bear him. I shall carry you both.”

“Thank you, my friend,” Gandalf said, and he held Pippin tightly as they were lifted up and carried away toward the fragrant land of Ithilien.

*

March 27

Pippin did not stir during the journey to Ithilien, and it tugged at the wizard’s heart when he thought how excited and curious the hobbit would have been about such an adventure had he been awake.

Several times Gandalf grew unnerved by his stillness and leaned close to the small bundle in his arms, and each time was relieved to discover that Pippin continued to breathe, however shallowly. He was grateful, too, for the smooth flight of the Eagles, knowing that if Pippin had been forced to travel by cart it certainly would have caused him an unbearable amount of pain.

It was just after dawn when the camp at Ithilien first came into view. The Eagles bearing Frodo and Sam arrived first, and the healers already stationed there busied themselves with settling the Ringbearers in a quiet grove of trees. Last of all, Gwaihir soared over the camp, descending in a large open spiral, and landed with the gentlest of hops upon the ground.

With whispered thanks and an affectionate pat on the Eagle’s feathered back, Gandalf made his way through the camp, led by a pair of healers who guided him to a tent near the grove where Frodo and Sam were sleeping.

The healers had already received word from the king to treat his friend, the young perian, with special care, but they had hardly needed his orders, having already heard about the Ernil i Pheriannath from the few soldiers and healers left in this field hospital before the battle, and they were anxious to honor this small friend of Gondor.

Some of Pippin’s bandages had come undone during the journey, and others were now blood-soaked, so as the healers turned their attention to tending his wounds, Gandalf left for a time to stay with Frodo and Sam, and watch them sleep.

In the late afternoon Aragorn arrived with Gimli, ahead of the slow-travelling host of the uninjured and lesser-wounded. Legolas had gone already to Cair Andros, to wait for Merry when he arrived with the supply wains.

As the hour grew late the three members of the Fellowship divided their time between the three hobbits, watching as Frodo and Sam rested peacefully and slowly regained their color, and as Pippin’s mind seemed to draw further into himself.

Finally it was night, and Gandalf found himself seated at Pippin’s side once more. The hobbit’s fever had risen during the day, and now his breath came in short little gasps through his dry, cracked lips.

A healer was there, a tall man called Belecthor whom Gandalf recognized from the Houses of Healing. The wizard knew that Pippin was on friendly terms with him, as he was with all the healers there, and he also knew that Belecthor’s particular specialty was teeth, so he asked curiously if the hobbit had lost any, wondering why he was tending him.

Belecthor seemed startled by the question. “No, my lord Mithrandir, his teeth are undamaged.” His eyes dropped to the hobbit lying so still on the cot. “There were other healers here before, and they did all they could for Master Peregrin before they left to treat the other wounded. He is under my care now.”

The wizard frowned deeply, realizing that the other healers were losing hope, and he watched in silence as Belecthor bathed Pippin’s face with cool, wet cloths before leaving the tent with a quick bow.

Gandalf took Pippin’s uninjured hand. It felt clammy and hot in his own, and he smiled sadly.

“Where do you wander, Peregrin Took?” he asked quietly. “Wherever it may be, do not stray too far. Your Merry will be here soon.”

Pippin’s breath hitched, and a hoarse choking noise escaped from his lips. Gandalf stood quickly, prepared to call for Belecthor, but then Pippin’s breathing evened out, and though it was still labored, it seemed deeper than before.

Gandalf sat again, and placed his other hand on the hobbit’s feverish brow, trying to tap into his confused thoughts. Shutting his eyes, Gandalf concentrated, deep in thought until finally he sat back and opened his eyes with a smile.

He glanced down at the small hand he still held, and looked at it closely, turning it over in his own much larger one.

“I wonder…”

***Gimli’s promise to Pippin and the character of Belecthor are both found in my story "In the Company of Friends"***