CHAPTER 5: ALL NIGHTS FADE INTO DAWN

Gimli’s eyes were used to seeing in dark places, but the battlefield before the ruined Gate was darker than most. It reminded him of the long dark of Moria, the way it stretched endlessly before him, filled with eerie moon-shadows cast by the unmoving forms of the dead. Even though he knew Sauron was fallen and no evil lingered here, the marks of the Dark Lord’s wrath were all around him in the brave fallen men scattered upon the field. His heart quailed at the thought of two hobbits--his friends--still lost amidst this stink of orcs and death and pain.

He bent to close the eyes of a soldier of Gondor whose expression was still frozen in an expression of wide-eyed astonishment and pain. As Gimli crouched over the body, he saw the moonlight catch on something silver and luminescent a stone’s throw away. It was resting atop a small, crumpled bundle (half a body?--he shuddered to think of it). His eyes were drawn to its glittering light, for though small, the object shone with an otherworldly radiance he associated only with mithril or particularly fine elven craftsmanship.

The brooch. It was the leaf brooch given each member of the Fellowship in Lothlorien.

With a cry, Gimli gained his feet and ran to the cloak-covered bundle. (Not dead. Not dead. Please, not dead.) Closer, he could see hobbit feet, and he had never been so glad to see the bare, begrimed soles, their foothair matted with blood and dirt. Not just one pair of hobbit feet to guide him to his fallen comrades, but two, side-by-side on the field.

He fell to his knees by their sides, bending over so the tip of his beard rested on young Peregrin’s chest. Both their faces were pale and still, blood-smeared. Gimli let out a choked exclamation of grief.

But then he heard it. A hollow rattle, the strained sound of Pippin’s breathing. He looked closer, holding his breath--there, movement! Merry’s eyes flickering beneath his lids, as if trapped in a dark dream.

“Legolas,” he roared, “Aragorn! Over here, and quickly!”

He blinked hurriedly to clear his eyes, then reached over to rest a hand on Merry’s forehead, then Pippin’s. “You’ll be fine now, lads. You’re found at last.”

~~~

Merry woke as if from a nightmare, sitting straight up in bed with a jolt and a gasp, cold sweat trickling between his shoulder blades.

“Pippin!” he gasped, before his mind registered his surroundings, the warm blankets and soft mattress, the smell of athelas in the air (the fresh and green of it), the sunlight streaming pale and yellow through an open window by his bed.

Through the window he could see walls of cool, white stone, but his room seemed distinctly hobbity with its mug of wildflowers on a bedside table, even if the scale wasn’t right, the mug much too big for hobbit-hands. There was an empty bed beside his, the covers rumpled as if someone had recently left it. No Pippin in sight.

But this was Minas Tirith. How could that be? He last remembered lying on a battlefield with Pippin, watching the stars darken above him as his cousin’s life slipped away, sliding between Merry’s numb and useless fingers like a fading dream.

Had he dreamed it?

Perhaps he’d never left Minas Tirith. Perhaps he’d been told to stay here while the Fellowship went off to fight without him. Perhaps Pippin, even now, was out on the battlefield, dying.

“Pippin--!” he said again, and this time he struggled against the bedclothes that held him to his bed, trying to move to the edge and gain his feet.

“Peace, Merry.”

In his agitation, Merry had failed to notice Aragorn half-asleep in a chair in a corner of the room, his feet propped up against the unmade bed. But now the Ranger who would be King rose and came over to him, placing a hand on his shoulder, stilling him.

“Pippin is well,” Aragorn said. “He just stepped out for some air, and will be disappointed that he wasn’t here when you woke--he’s been quite a nuisance about it, asking about you every spare moment he has.”

“But I thought...I thought he was dying.”

Aragorn regarded Merry with compassion.

“Maybe it was a dream,” Merry amended. “It’s just that it seemed so real.”

“It was no dream,” Aragorn said. “Gimli barely found you in time. There were hours when we feared we would lose all four of you in one night.”

“All four? Then Frodo and Sam--”

“Are in a healing sleep. They will wake, much like you did--when their bodies are ready.” Aragorn clasped Merry’s right hand and nodded in satisfaction when Merry squeezed it back.

Merry was surprised at how weakly his hand grasped Aragorn’s, but since Aragorn seemed pleased, he tried not to look too alarmed. His whole right arm and side ached faintly, and he stretched in the bed, feeling the muscles extend reluctantly.

Just then, a happy yelp sounded in the doorway, and a bolt of cinnamon curls rushed toward Merry and threw an arm around him, giving a fierce, lopsided hug.

Merry leaned into the embrace and closed his eyes in relief.

But Pippin broke away much too soon and sat himself on Merry’s bed with a bounce, an enthusiastic gesture somewhat marred by the way he cradled his left arm against his body and had to throw out his other arm to steady himself.

“I can’t believe you woke up now,” Pippin said, talking animatedly with the hand he’d used to steady himself, “I was gone for just a few moments Merry, truly, all that time waiting and you wake just when I go--it’s like watching pots! Maybe hobbits can’t be watched if they’re to boil, or wake I mean, and if that’s the case I’ll never look in on Frodo and Sam again, except once or twice, so they’ll wake sooner--”

Merry knew he’d never get a word in this way, so he grabbed his cousin’s waving hand and pulled it to Pippin’s side, motionless.

Pippin stilled. “Yes, Merry?”

Merry smiled and said, softly, “It’s good to see you too.”

“Oh, yes.” They looked at each other solemnly for a moment, and then Pippin laughed, breaking the spell. “Just you wait! So much has changed now--did you notice? Strider isn’t nearly as scruffy now, I think since he knows he’s going to be King soon he’s started bathing, and it’s about time--”

Pippin waved with particular excitement at Aragorn, using the hand Merry wasn’t holding down, but then his words broke off unexpectedly. He stiffened, hunching in upon himself, and turned away from Merry.

“Pippin?” Merry said, anxiously.

Aragorn rose and knelt in front of Pippin. “It’s all right, Merry.”

Pippin made a strained, gasping noise, and Merry started forward, reaching for him.

“N-no, stay there, it’s nothing, Merry,” Pippin said, his voice small. “I just forgot I shouldn’t use this arm, is all.”

“What did I tell you about getting carried away?” Aragorn murmured, running his hands along Pippin’s shoulder and side. “You’ll undo all of our hard work, Peregrin Took.”

Aragorn lifted up Pippin’s shirt and Merry saw white bandages gleam, briefly, across his cousin’s bruised torso, before Aragorn dropped the shirt again, apparently satisfied that the bandages hadn’t come loose in all the fuss.

“Oh Pippin,” Merry said.

“Now sit still and take deep, calm breaths,” Aragorn shot a look at Merry, “the both of you, and I’ll get yousomething for your pain, Pippin. And cloth for another sling. I can’t have you using that arm again, even accidentally.”

With a nod at both of them, Aragorn left the chamber.

“Well, that worked,” Pippin muttered. “I begged Aragorn to take the sling off so we wouldn’t scare you when you woke, and he said only if I was very very careful not to move it and only if I promised not to get carried away, and then I had to go and--”

“Pippin, those bandages,” Merry said, and swallowed hard. “Just how badly were you--?”

Pippin shrugged. “Couple broken ribs. Cracked collar bone. Wrenched shoulder.”

“And Strider let you get up?”

“It’s been a while since the battle, Merry. You slept for days.”

“But aren’t you--?”

“I’m feeling much better now, thank you,” Pippin said, with a cordial nod of his head.

“Pippin....”

A dark expression flickered across Pippin’s face, but he brushed it aside and flashed Merry a vague smile. “I’ve an idea--let’s talk about something else.”

“I can’t. I have to tell you.... I have to apologise.”

Pippin looked up, startled. “About what?”

Merry sighed. “I’m sorry I didn’t listen to you. I shouldn’t have gone to fight. I drew the Nazgul to us. If I hadn’t been there, you wouldn’t have had to...you wouldn’t be hurt....”

“Don’t be daft, Merry. If you hadn’t gone to battle, I’d probably be squashed under a troll somewhere.” Pippin looked down at his hands. “Anyway, if there’s anyone should be sorry, it’s me.”

“Now who’s being daft? What could you possibly be sorry for?”

“The Nazgul, Merry.”

“Well, that wasn’t exactly your fault, was it?”

“Not...exactly. But Merry, I knew about the danger. Gandalf and Strider told me what might happen...with your arm, and all.”

Merry drew away from Pippin, leaning back against the headboard of his bed. “And you didn’t tell me?”

“I didn’t want to hurt you,” Pippin said, and he raised his head to look at Merry, anguish in his eyes. “But I did! Maybe you would have stayed here, if you knew. And instead, you were in such pain on the field, I thought you were going to die, or they were going to kill you. And then they left, but I could see the signs--the darkness in your eyes--your arm cold and stiff--I knew the Black Breath was returning. And when I woke in the healing tents, Strider was tending you but you were so still, I thought you’d left me for good. You didn’t move, not once, all the way to Minas Tirith, and then--”

“But I’m fine, Pippin,” Merry said, opening his arms and pulling Pippin to him.

Pippin shook his head and sniffed softly. “You weren’t before.”

“Well, I am now. And you are too, and so are Frodo and Sam.”

Pippin leaned in and sighed against Merry’s chest, the warmth of it making the last of something cold uncurl itself from Merry’s arm and vanish.

“I know,” Pippin whispered. “It’s all done, isn’t it?”

“It is.”

“Well, I guess neither one of us have to feel sorry, then, do we?”

Merry shrugged, and smiled sadly. “No, I guess not. But that doesn’t stop me from wishing you were never hurt.”

“Me too.”

Pippin leaned back against the pillows next to Merry and Merry smiled slightly to himself, savouring the quiet sound of his cousin breathing next to him. They were together and untroubled by darkness or orcs or mischief, for once.

Just as Merry thought Pippin was about to drift off to sleep, Pippin sat bolt upright and glared at Merry.

“Are you sure you’re not angry at me for not telling you about the Nazgul? You’re not going to yell at me for that later? Because sometimes you do that, you know. You pretend it’s all right and then--”

Merry rolled his eyes and pushed a pillow into Pippin’s face. “You are daft.”

Pippin pushed it back. “I’m just making sure; you can never be too sure, you know--”

“Pippin,” Merry said firmly, hoping to rein his cousin in before he launched into another rambling monologue.

“Yes?”

“Do you hear that?”

Pippin let the pillow drop to his lap. “Hear what?”

“I think there’s a garden nearby,” Merry said. “You can hear the birds chirping.”

“Oh,” Pippin said, and cocked his head to one side to listen. When he turned back to Merry, Pippin’s eyes were filled with memories of green and distant hills. “So they are."