CHAPTER 4: BENEATH A DARKENING SKY

They were gone, all of them, the orcs and trolls and Nazgul, even the Eye himself. Gone. Swept away by the perilous earth, fallen into an abyss that opened beneath their feet as His tower fell.

The ragged remainder of the last army of the Men of the West picked across the battlefield among the dead and injured, greeting their surviving comrades with equal amounts of laughter and tears. It was as if a shroud had been cast from the sky after years of darkness, and they could feel the warmth of the sun again.

Amidst the wreckage of the heaviest fighting, two hobbits walked slowly through the battlefield, headed for the healers’ tents pitched far at the edge of the field. One leaned heavily on the other, whose stumbling gait spoke of failing strength.

“Merry,” gasped the one who leaned against the other, “Let’s rest a bit...before going on.”

Merry looked over at Pippin and was alarmed at the pallor of his face, the sheen of sweat collecting on his cousin’s forehead and along his upper lip. “No,” he said. “We have to get you to a healer--”

“You should talk,” Pippin said, cocking a practiced eye at his cousin. “You’re on your...last legs, aren’t you?”

Merry sighed, too tired to argue, and sank to the ground, lowering his cousin next to him. “All right, rest. Someone ought to be searching for us, anyway.” He eyed the setting sun, knowing that when it became dark, it would be much harder for any rescuers to find them on the field.

Pippin coughed; an awful, strangled sound.

Merry turned back to his cousin, but Pippin had slumped to one side, eyes shut, and most alarming of all, Merry could see something bright and red gathering at the seam of his lips and a thin line of blood trickling from his nose. Merry only half-remembered the confrontation with the Nazgul. It was like waking from a nightmare; all he could recall clearly was all-consuming terror and pain. But the vague images he could remember were terrifying--the Nazgul’s beast slamming viciously into Pippin, sending him tumbling across the field. Broken bones, surely. Or worse--internal injuries. And Pippin had continued to fight after.

“Pippin,” Merry said, shaking him. “Pippin, wake up!”

But Pippin didn’t wake. His uneven, shallow breaths whistled in his chest.

Merry cursed his weakness. During the heat of battle after the Nazgul departed, he hadn’t paid attention to his arm. Now it lay limp at his side, numb and painful to the touch. And he was so weary.

Merry leaned over Pippin again, drew his cousin’s elven cloak closely about him. Even at death’s doorstep, Pippin needn’t be cold; Merry himself was shivering. Surprising. The day had been rather warm, but perhaps the dying sun was sapping the air of its heat?

He wished he could trust his feet to bear him to the healing tents and back, even in this sudden change of weather. But he was much too weary, and his cousin was suffering for his weakness. There was only one thing left he could do.

“Help!” Merry cried. “Healer. Please....”

Was his voice failing too? It seemed that what he meant as a shout had passed his lips in the faintest of whispers. And anyway, it seemed that there was no one close at hand who was alive or well enough to answer.

The field was soon bathed in the purples of twilight, and Merry’s shivering grew worse. He pulled his own cloak more snugly about his shoulders, making sure his arm was tucked beneath the cloth. If only it wasn’t so abominably cold, maybe he’d be able to better concentrate. If only the numbness in his arm wasn’t spreading, making his thoughts arrive slow and dark....

~~~

As night fell over the ruins of Morannon, the canvas walls of the healing tents began to glow with the flickering light of lanterns. Inside one of these small tents, two hobbits, their bodies battered, lay still before Aragorn on a man-sized pallet, wrapped in bandages and soft blankets in equal measure. After brushing his fingertips against each of their warm foreheads, Aragorn leaned back on his heels and exhaled softly.

Just as he was beginning to regain his feet, a white-robed wizard entered the tent. Gandalf didn’t speak. He just looked at the two hobbits, his expression unreadable.

“It’s all I can do for them now,” Aragorn said. “We must get them back to Minas Tirith--our supplies out here are too limited.”

“The journey back is long,” Gandalf said. “It will not be comfortable for them, nor will it help their injuries heal.”

Aragorn rubbed a hand against his eyes. “I was planning to send them into a healing sleep before the journey to save them from a large measure of their pain. But I had hoped to wait until Merry and Pippin had a chance to greet them. Once I send them into a healing sleep, they will not wake until their bodies are ready. It could be weeks--months--before we speak with the Ringbearers again.”

Gandalf’s head jerked up from his study of Frodo and Sam. “Merry and Pippin haven’t been here yet?”

“No,” Aragorn said, “and I’m surprised. I would have thought they’d be the first here, as soon as they heard....” His voice trailed off, then he turned startled eyes on Gandalf. “You don’t think--?”

“If they had been able to, they would be here already,” Gandalf muttered.

Aragorn shook his head, disbelieving. “The fates wouldn’t be so cruel....”

“Then perhaps they were brought to another of the healing tents?”

“No, the other healers are under orders to send word if any of the pheriannath find their way to the tents, by their own strength, or another’s.”

Gandalf closed his eyes. “Then something has happened to them.”

“Do you think Merry--?”

“We knew the danger, but we sent him to battle anyway.” Gandalf looked away; in the lantern light, the lines on his face seemed to deepen. “If the Black Breath has returned, it will be even more difficult to fight this time. Do you have athelas?”

“Very little. I must replenish my supply, but my stores are in Minas Tirith.”

“Then we will have to make due with what is available. With athelas or without, I have faith in the healing hands of the King.”

“I hope your faith is well-placed,” Aragorn said as he gained his feet. “I will do what I can. But first we must send for Legolas and Gimli. The moon is bright tonight. Perhaps if we look together, our search will not be in vain.”

Aragorn headed for the tent flap and gestured to a guard stationed outside it. Moments later, the guard left quickly to find the elf and dwarf. As they waited for their friends, Gandalf sat down next to Frodo and Sam.

“At least we know where young Peregrin is,” he said to Aragorn. “He promised he would not leave Meriadoc. He will keep his cousin safe until we find him, if he is able.”

~~~

The whistling in Pippin’s chest had turned into a rattle.

Sometime during the hours of waiting, Merry had slumped downward until he was lying on his back on the battlefield, his frozen arm curled against his chest. He looked up at the dark sky above him, the distant stars, the cold, pale face of the moon.

He didn’t even have the strength to turn his head to look at his cousin’s face, to whisper his name aloud. Instead, he thought it, with all of his mind. Pippin. Stay here, Pippin. Don’t you leave me now, Peregrin Took.