Day Four, March 28
Pippin did not sleep right away for his struggle to understand was too great. Frodo and Sam had succeeded. They lived. But how could that be? The Voice of Sauron at the Black Gate had offered terms that Gandalf rejected. Would not the Enemy have slain them? And how could the Ring have been destroyed if it were in the Enemy's hands?
Then there was the problem of himself. He was alive. Despite his despair when Gandalf rejected the terms, despite the troll, he lived. Strider had told him he was dead when they had found him. He remembered vividly the last moments as he lay crushed beneath his fallen foe, with the breath forced from his body and the horrid stench surrounding him. He even recalled his heart slowing, unable to continuing beating with the enormous weight bearing down on him. Yet, somehow, they had found a way to return his spirit to his body.
Pippin shifted on the pallet and grimaced. Yes, there could be no doubt that he was alive. He was acutely aware of every painful breath disturbing his ribs, of the ache inside just below that, of every beat of his heart as it pounded in his head. There were no such hurts when the blackness had taken him.
He began to feel ashamed. He had been granted a second chance at life when so many worthy others had perished. Why did he live, he who had lost hope and despaired? Beregond - what of him? And his son Bergil, who had come the closest to filling that lonely void Pippin had felt since he had been parted from Merry? He did not know if he could bear news of sad tidings about his newfound friends.
What sort of world did he dwell in if such goodness and innocence and joy could be snuffed out as easily as a tallow candle? His eyes had been opened since the death of Denethor. Evil existed in forms he would not have recognized had he not left the Shire. Pippin was uncertain whether or not this was for the better.
So, alive he was and alive he would most likely remain. And being alive meant dwelling with all the evil of the world. For the sake of those who had died Pippin would not wish for death but bear his burden silently, as best he could, and try to honor their memory.
*****
March 28, midday
Merry peered up into the bright sunlight shining down among the pine branches of Ithilien. For nearly a full day and night he had sat curled up in the corner of a rations cart, betwixt a mound of blankets and carefully piled bottles of herbs. He had lost the feeling in his feet and legs but he did not mind. Ever since the messenger from the last battle had arrived in Rohan his thoughts had been solely for his fellow hobbits.
The message contained some general statements for all of Rohan, and a few lines directed towards a few folk. The War of the Rings had ended triumphantly for the forces of Men but the casualties were great. Any healers that could be spared were to be sent to Ithilien to tend the wounded. For Merry, two curt lines assuring him that Frodo and Sam lived, though they required a great deal of healing. Of Pippin, that he lived but had been gravely wounded. He had begged permission of Lady Eowyn to depart with the healers and she, seeing his great need to be reunited with his kin, had acquiesced.
Merry struggled out of the cart and stumbled as his legs failed to hold him upright. He grasped out for a nearby tree with his left hand for his sword hand too was numb.
"This is too much," he muttered. "One limb I may do without but three is going a bit too far. At least I know this shall pass quickly."
"Ho there, Master Perian," called one of Rohirrim healers. "Do you grow faint already without having so much as looked upon one injured soldier?"
"No," Merry answered. "I merely wait for my body to remember that it is a hobbit and not a water flagon."
"May your body recover its memory quickly," she replied. "The wounded from the Black Gate arrive now and from their numbers I judge we will be in sore need of all available hands."
Merry squinted his eyes, not yet ready to loosen his grip to shade his gaze. Already he could count half a score of carts amidst perhaps fifty swaying horsemen, and more were following. He stamped his feet impatiently and felt the blood tingling in them up to the thigh.
The healers unloaded their carts, setting up tents with medicines, bandages and bindings, metal tools of healing, and blankets. Tents for food appeared, as did more for residence. All was briskness and practicality though there was an air among them that was similar to that of soldiers about to enter a battle. Merry was chilled to see a few carts pulled off to the side, with only shovels nearby. It was a battle, he realized, but one fought with poultices and teas rather than swords and shields.
At last his legs felt steady enough to bear him and he sought out the healer who had called to him. "What do you wish me to do?"
The healer, called Imrohil, looked him over knowingly. "Help unload the carts and stack the supplies so that like rests with like. When that is finished, seek out your kin."
"But there will be wounded to tend!" Merry protested.
"There will indeed," Imrohil said, "but I will need one whose mind resides with the here and now and not with the where and when. Go and complete your task."
Merry bowed to her and climbed back into the cart to pass supplies to those waiting. He lost count of how many blankets passed through his hands, of what herbs he came across, and of the purposes for some of the equipment he saw. It seemed an age had passed before the last of the carts was bare, save for the small bundle of Pippin's old clothes he had though to bring. He looked one more time to Imrohil, who waved him away, before climbing down to look for Frodo, Pippin, and Sam.
It was not hard to find where the Ringbearer was kept. Merry saw a flash of dazzling white among the throngs of people and immediately recognized the king of horses, Shadowfax. Merry hurried over to him.
"Shadowfax," he panted. "You here! Does this mean Gandalf is with you?"
The horse whickered softly and tossed his mane in such a way that the hobbit understood it to be a confirmation of Gandalf's presence. He reached up a hand to stroke the white side.
"And what of my kinsmen? Are they here as well? And Sam?"
Again Shadowfax tossed his mane and began to step away. "Wait!" Merry cried and struggled to catch up. Shadowfax looked over to see if Merry followed but did not halt until they arrived at one tent on the edge of the encampment. Merry could hear two familiar voices as he approached but neither belonged to the hobbits he seeked.
"Gandalf?" he called softly and entered the tent.
The wizard was there as was Legolas. Between them stood two small cots upon which lay two wasted forms. Only two; no more.
"Merry!" Gandalf gestured him back. "Wait a moment before you come closer, my lad. You must understand some things first."
"I have waited so long!" he protested. "Why do you deny me the sight of them? And who is the hobbit missing?"
Gandalf sighed. "You see before you Frodo and Sam but they are much changed, Merry, even as you yourself are. They have undergone much since they parted company from you. They have traveled far on little food and little water, beaten and frightened and smothered with the fumes of Mordor. They were very near death when the Eagles brought them more than half dead from the cliffs of Mount Doom." He stopped and smiled reassuringly. "But the hands of the king are the hands of a healer as you have reason to know. Aragorn has tended them and put them into a deep sleep while their bodies recover. And now, if you feel ready, you may see them."
Merry trembled slightly under the weight of what he was told but he came forward. Legolas drew the blankets down somewhat to aid his view.
He was unsure if they were as bad as he had expected for he did not know what, exactly, he had expected. Frodo and Sam had become so thin he half expected them to shatter. Their skins were taut and pale and covered in sores just beginning to heal. Their lips were cracked and seemed to have bled from dryness at some point. Dark shadows lay beneath their eyes and their cheekbones threatened to poke through the skin. The fingertips were rubbed raw. Frodo's right hand was bandaged oddly and Merry realized with a start that it was because the middle finger was missing.
"Frodo put on the ring at the end," Legolas said quietly. "Gollum bit off the finger to gain the ring but fell into the molten rock."
Merry turned his head, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "It is so horrible," he whispered. "I can scarce recognize the master and servant of Bag End. Are you sure they will recover?"
"Quite sure, Master Meriadoc," said Gandalf. "Though it will take much time. Patience and do not be hasty, as Treebeard would advise."
Merry sighed and recalled the small bundle he still clutched. "Where is Pippin?" His heart seemed to freeze when Gandalf and Legolas did not answer but merely looked to each other. "Where is he?" he repeated shrilly. "Please tell me. It is the unknown that will kill me." He stopped and whispered, "He is dead."
"No." Legolas' voice was swift and sure. "No, Merry. Pippin lives. He was left with others equally injured so that he could gain the strength for travel."
"He was wounded so greatly?"
Legolas crouched down to look the hobbit in the eye. "He was indeed. Take pride in his actions, Merry. He slew one of the hill-trolls from Gorgoroth that would have taken the life of Beregond of Gondor. Sadly, he was caught beneath the foul creature as it fell. Gimli discovered him in the evening. There was no life in him then."
Merry paled so quickly the elf put out a hand to steady him. "But you said he lives . . ."
"His spirit is too strong and too loving of life to be parted from Middle Earth so easily," Legolas said gently. "Ere it had flown far it returned. Aragorn and Gimli tend him now and will accompany him to Ithilien when he is more recovered." The elf rested a slim hand on his shoulder. "Do not fear, Merry. Pippin is in safe hands. You will see him soon."
Merry clutched the bundle tighter and looked towards Frodo and Sam. "Can I help them in any way?"
"There is not much any of us can do for them now," Gandalf replied. "They require only rest and quiet. I myself will return to the battle site within the day to help escort the last of the wounded here."
"Then let me go with you!" he cried. "You say I cannot help them. Let me go to where I might do some good."
Gandalf shook his head. "Merry, the healers need aid here. You can help by remaining in Ithilien."
The hobbit set his jaw stubbornly. "When I arrived in Minas Tirith, ill and cold, Pippin stayed with me when no other did. He stayed by my side until all of Gondor was called out to fight and he left me only when he had no choice. Pippin gave me hope when I had none. He needs me now, Gandalf, and I will go to him if I have to walk the entire way!"
Merry's words hung in the silence of the tent. He stood defiantly though suddenly frightened as the wizard gave him a stern look.
"Meriadoc Brandybuck, would you leave Frodo and Sam, and others in need of care to journey to your cousin's side?"
He trembled but answered honestly. "I would. It tears my heart that I cannot be in two places at once but he needs me even as I need him. "
Gandalf rose, towering above even Legolas. For a moment Merry quailed beneath the gray eyes. "Very well, then," said Gandalf. "We ride for the Slag-hills of Mordor." He then departed the tent.
Merry stared at Legolas with eyes rounded with astonishment, not yet ready to believe his ears. "Hurry, if you are coming!" Gandalf's voice drifted back to them and he took to his heels to catch up.
Legolas smiled and tucked the blankets back around the hobbits. "It is just as well, then, that I am left alone to tend you for now," he said softly. "I would not be Aragorn nor Gimli for the world if even one of the Maia gives in to an onslaught of Meriadoc the Terrible."
*****
March 28, evening
"I am sorry, Strider," Pippin said in a small voice. His face was gray beneath the flush of fever and beads of sweat sat on his brow and soaked his hair. His chest heaved with the effort of drawing more air but the bout of vomiting had passed.
Aragorn patted his arm. "It is not your fault. I should have known better than to force soup on you when your stomach is still tender. It does not help either that I disturbed your sleep. I am glad, though, that the bleeding has stopped."
Pippin's eyes widened. "I did not know I had been injured in that way."
Aragorn nodded. "It was the greatest cause for concern for us. Though I like not this low fever you have. It would not do for you to fall ill." He rose from beside the pallet and crossed the tent to where the herbs were kept.
Pippin silently agreed with the last statement. There was always someone nearby to tend him though he knew there were others in danger that were in need to tending as well. If he grew ill would not his friends be even more burdened? As it was, he was trying hard to recover quickly. If only his body would cooperate.
Aragorn returned with a mug in hand. "This is a tea to fight off disease. Are you able to drink now?"
"I can drink but I do not know if it will stay where it is supposed to," Pippin admitted.
"I have added a root that will ease the nausea. It is not of our lands but possesses healing qualities." Aragorn allowed Pippin to take the mug in both hands, though they were still bandaged and stiff.
Pippin kept his gaze on his hands while he drank in small sips. There was an example of how his body was betraying his best efforts to heal. The fingers were mottled with bruises that had darkened into hues of purple and blue and were swollen still, though perhaps not as much as yesterday. They flexed only with the greatest of effort and then not without a good deal of pain. Still, the warmth from the drink eased the ache somewhat.
Aragorn watched Pippin with some concern. There was a melancholy about him that was uncharacteristic, and he was far quieter than expected. Aragorn wondered if there was another, undiscovered injury Pippin was keeping silent about. Yet upon examination nothing new met his eye. The cuts and bruises about his face were unpleasant but healing quickly and his ribs were doing likewise. The hands were swollen but movable now and the right elbow was able to bend slowly. Even Pippin's left ankle had lost some swelling although Aragorn judged it was not yet ready to be manipulated. And the fever would break soon.
A thought struck Aragorn as he watched Pippin lower the mug and blink as though he struggled to keep his eyes open. Shortly before he had woken the hobbit, Pippin had gasped out Merry's name in his sleep. It could be that he missed his kin more than suspected.
Aragorn gently drew the mug out of the hobbit's unresisting grasp. "Sleep, Pippin. Merry will find a way to your side."
Pippin managed a smile and obediently shut his eyes. He would not, however, admit to longing his cousin's presence next to him. He did not like to think of Merry traipsing to Mordor with his arm still wounded from smiting the Witch-king just for his sake. Even if part of him did wish it to be so.
Pippin did not sleep right away for his struggle to understand was too great. Frodo and Sam had succeeded. They lived. But how could that be? The Voice of Sauron at the Black Gate had offered terms that Gandalf rejected. Would not the Enemy have slain them? And how could the Ring have been destroyed if it were in the Enemy's hands?
Then there was the problem of himself. He was alive. Despite his despair when Gandalf rejected the terms, despite the troll, he lived. Strider had told him he was dead when they had found him. He remembered vividly the last moments as he lay crushed beneath his fallen foe, with the breath forced from his body and the horrid stench surrounding him. He even recalled his heart slowing, unable to continuing beating with the enormous weight bearing down on him. Yet, somehow, they had found a way to return his spirit to his body.
Pippin shifted on the pallet and grimaced. Yes, there could be no doubt that he was alive. He was acutely aware of every painful breath disturbing his ribs, of the ache inside just below that, of every beat of his heart as it pounded in his head. There were no such hurts when the blackness had taken him.
He began to feel ashamed. He had been granted a second chance at life when so many worthy others had perished. Why did he live, he who had lost hope and despaired? Beregond - what of him? And his son Bergil, who had come the closest to filling that lonely void Pippin had felt since he had been parted from Merry? He did not know if he could bear news of sad tidings about his newfound friends.
What sort of world did he dwell in if such goodness and innocence and joy could be snuffed out as easily as a tallow candle? His eyes had been opened since the death of Denethor. Evil existed in forms he would not have recognized had he not left the Shire. Pippin was uncertain whether or not this was for the better.
So, alive he was and alive he would most likely remain. And being alive meant dwelling with all the evil of the world. For the sake of those who had died Pippin would not wish for death but bear his burden silently, as best he could, and try to honor their memory.
*****
March 28, midday
Merry peered up into the bright sunlight shining down among the pine branches of Ithilien. For nearly a full day and night he had sat curled up in the corner of a rations cart, betwixt a mound of blankets and carefully piled bottles of herbs. He had lost the feeling in his feet and legs but he did not mind. Ever since the messenger from the last battle had arrived in Rohan his thoughts had been solely for his fellow hobbits.
The message contained some general statements for all of Rohan, and a few lines directed towards a few folk. The War of the Rings had ended triumphantly for the forces of Men but the casualties were great. Any healers that could be spared were to be sent to Ithilien to tend the wounded. For Merry, two curt lines assuring him that Frodo and Sam lived, though they required a great deal of healing. Of Pippin, that he lived but had been gravely wounded. He had begged permission of Lady Eowyn to depart with the healers and she, seeing his great need to be reunited with his kin, had acquiesced.
Merry struggled out of the cart and stumbled as his legs failed to hold him upright. He grasped out for a nearby tree with his left hand for his sword hand too was numb.
"This is too much," he muttered. "One limb I may do without but three is going a bit too far. At least I know this shall pass quickly."
"Ho there, Master Perian," called one of Rohirrim healers. "Do you grow faint already without having so much as looked upon one injured soldier?"
"No," Merry answered. "I merely wait for my body to remember that it is a hobbit and not a water flagon."
"May your body recover its memory quickly," she replied. "The wounded from the Black Gate arrive now and from their numbers I judge we will be in sore need of all available hands."
Merry squinted his eyes, not yet ready to loosen his grip to shade his gaze. Already he could count half a score of carts amidst perhaps fifty swaying horsemen, and more were following. He stamped his feet impatiently and felt the blood tingling in them up to the thigh.
The healers unloaded their carts, setting up tents with medicines, bandages and bindings, metal tools of healing, and blankets. Tents for food appeared, as did more for residence. All was briskness and practicality though there was an air among them that was similar to that of soldiers about to enter a battle. Merry was chilled to see a few carts pulled off to the side, with only shovels nearby. It was a battle, he realized, but one fought with poultices and teas rather than swords and shields.
At last his legs felt steady enough to bear him and he sought out the healer who had called to him. "What do you wish me to do?"
The healer, called Imrohil, looked him over knowingly. "Help unload the carts and stack the supplies so that like rests with like. When that is finished, seek out your kin."
"But there will be wounded to tend!" Merry protested.
"There will indeed," Imrohil said, "but I will need one whose mind resides with the here and now and not with the where and when. Go and complete your task."
Merry bowed to her and climbed back into the cart to pass supplies to those waiting. He lost count of how many blankets passed through his hands, of what herbs he came across, and of the purposes for some of the equipment he saw. It seemed an age had passed before the last of the carts was bare, save for the small bundle of Pippin's old clothes he had though to bring. He looked one more time to Imrohil, who waved him away, before climbing down to look for Frodo, Pippin, and Sam.
It was not hard to find where the Ringbearer was kept. Merry saw a flash of dazzling white among the throngs of people and immediately recognized the king of horses, Shadowfax. Merry hurried over to him.
"Shadowfax," he panted. "You here! Does this mean Gandalf is with you?"
The horse whickered softly and tossed his mane in such a way that the hobbit understood it to be a confirmation of Gandalf's presence. He reached up a hand to stroke the white side.
"And what of my kinsmen? Are they here as well? And Sam?"
Again Shadowfax tossed his mane and began to step away. "Wait!" Merry cried and struggled to catch up. Shadowfax looked over to see if Merry followed but did not halt until they arrived at one tent on the edge of the encampment. Merry could hear two familiar voices as he approached but neither belonged to the hobbits he seeked.
"Gandalf?" he called softly and entered the tent.
The wizard was there as was Legolas. Between them stood two small cots upon which lay two wasted forms. Only two; no more.
"Merry!" Gandalf gestured him back. "Wait a moment before you come closer, my lad. You must understand some things first."
"I have waited so long!" he protested. "Why do you deny me the sight of them? And who is the hobbit missing?"
Gandalf sighed. "You see before you Frodo and Sam but they are much changed, Merry, even as you yourself are. They have undergone much since they parted company from you. They have traveled far on little food and little water, beaten and frightened and smothered with the fumes of Mordor. They were very near death when the Eagles brought them more than half dead from the cliffs of Mount Doom." He stopped and smiled reassuringly. "But the hands of the king are the hands of a healer as you have reason to know. Aragorn has tended them and put them into a deep sleep while their bodies recover. And now, if you feel ready, you may see them."
Merry trembled slightly under the weight of what he was told but he came forward. Legolas drew the blankets down somewhat to aid his view.
He was unsure if they were as bad as he had expected for he did not know what, exactly, he had expected. Frodo and Sam had become so thin he half expected them to shatter. Their skins were taut and pale and covered in sores just beginning to heal. Their lips were cracked and seemed to have bled from dryness at some point. Dark shadows lay beneath their eyes and their cheekbones threatened to poke through the skin. The fingertips were rubbed raw. Frodo's right hand was bandaged oddly and Merry realized with a start that it was because the middle finger was missing.
"Frodo put on the ring at the end," Legolas said quietly. "Gollum bit off the finger to gain the ring but fell into the molten rock."
Merry turned his head, eyes stinging with unshed tears. "It is so horrible," he whispered. "I can scarce recognize the master and servant of Bag End. Are you sure they will recover?"
"Quite sure, Master Meriadoc," said Gandalf. "Though it will take much time. Patience and do not be hasty, as Treebeard would advise."
Merry sighed and recalled the small bundle he still clutched. "Where is Pippin?" His heart seemed to freeze when Gandalf and Legolas did not answer but merely looked to each other. "Where is he?" he repeated shrilly. "Please tell me. It is the unknown that will kill me." He stopped and whispered, "He is dead."
"No." Legolas' voice was swift and sure. "No, Merry. Pippin lives. He was left with others equally injured so that he could gain the strength for travel."
"He was wounded so greatly?"
Legolas crouched down to look the hobbit in the eye. "He was indeed. Take pride in his actions, Merry. He slew one of the hill-trolls from Gorgoroth that would have taken the life of Beregond of Gondor. Sadly, he was caught beneath the foul creature as it fell. Gimli discovered him in the evening. There was no life in him then."
Merry paled so quickly the elf put out a hand to steady him. "But you said he lives . . ."
"His spirit is too strong and too loving of life to be parted from Middle Earth so easily," Legolas said gently. "Ere it had flown far it returned. Aragorn and Gimli tend him now and will accompany him to Ithilien when he is more recovered." The elf rested a slim hand on his shoulder. "Do not fear, Merry. Pippin is in safe hands. You will see him soon."
Merry clutched the bundle tighter and looked towards Frodo and Sam. "Can I help them in any way?"
"There is not much any of us can do for them now," Gandalf replied. "They require only rest and quiet. I myself will return to the battle site within the day to help escort the last of the wounded here."
"Then let me go with you!" he cried. "You say I cannot help them. Let me go to where I might do some good."
Gandalf shook his head. "Merry, the healers need aid here. You can help by remaining in Ithilien."
The hobbit set his jaw stubbornly. "When I arrived in Minas Tirith, ill and cold, Pippin stayed with me when no other did. He stayed by my side until all of Gondor was called out to fight and he left me only when he had no choice. Pippin gave me hope when I had none. He needs me now, Gandalf, and I will go to him if I have to walk the entire way!"
Merry's words hung in the silence of the tent. He stood defiantly though suddenly frightened as the wizard gave him a stern look.
"Meriadoc Brandybuck, would you leave Frodo and Sam, and others in need of care to journey to your cousin's side?"
He trembled but answered honestly. "I would. It tears my heart that I cannot be in two places at once but he needs me even as I need him. "
Gandalf rose, towering above even Legolas. For a moment Merry quailed beneath the gray eyes. "Very well, then," said Gandalf. "We ride for the Slag-hills of Mordor." He then departed the tent.
Merry stared at Legolas with eyes rounded with astonishment, not yet ready to believe his ears. "Hurry, if you are coming!" Gandalf's voice drifted back to them and he took to his heels to catch up.
Legolas smiled and tucked the blankets back around the hobbits. "It is just as well, then, that I am left alone to tend you for now," he said softly. "I would not be Aragorn nor Gimli for the world if even one of the Maia gives in to an onslaught of Meriadoc the Terrible."
*****
March 28, evening
"I am sorry, Strider," Pippin said in a small voice. His face was gray beneath the flush of fever and beads of sweat sat on his brow and soaked his hair. His chest heaved with the effort of drawing more air but the bout of vomiting had passed.
Aragorn patted his arm. "It is not your fault. I should have known better than to force soup on you when your stomach is still tender. It does not help either that I disturbed your sleep. I am glad, though, that the bleeding has stopped."
Pippin's eyes widened. "I did not know I had been injured in that way."
Aragorn nodded. "It was the greatest cause for concern for us. Though I like not this low fever you have. It would not do for you to fall ill." He rose from beside the pallet and crossed the tent to where the herbs were kept.
Pippin silently agreed with the last statement. There was always someone nearby to tend him though he knew there were others in danger that were in need to tending as well. If he grew ill would not his friends be even more burdened? As it was, he was trying hard to recover quickly. If only his body would cooperate.
Aragorn returned with a mug in hand. "This is a tea to fight off disease. Are you able to drink now?"
"I can drink but I do not know if it will stay where it is supposed to," Pippin admitted.
"I have added a root that will ease the nausea. It is not of our lands but possesses healing qualities." Aragorn allowed Pippin to take the mug in both hands, though they were still bandaged and stiff.
Pippin kept his gaze on his hands while he drank in small sips. There was an example of how his body was betraying his best efforts to heal. The fingers were mottled with bruises that had darkened into hues of purple and blue and were swollen still, though perhaps not as much as yesterday. They flexed only with the greatest of effort and then not without a good deal of pain. Still, the warmth from the drink eased the ache somewhat.
Aragorn watched Pippin with some concern. There was a melancholy about him that was uncharacteristic, and he was far quieter than expected. Aragorn wondered if there was another, undiscovered injury Pippin was keeping silent about. Yet upon examination nothing new met his eye. The cuts and bruises about his face were unpleasant but healing quickly and his ribs were doing likewise. The hands were swollen but movable now and the right elbow was able to bend slowly. Even Pippin's left ankle had lost some swelling although Aragorn judged it was not yet ready to be manipulated. And the fever would break soon.
A thought struck Aragorn as he watched Pippin lower the mug and blink as though he struggled to keep his eyes open. Shortly before he had woken the hobbit, Pippin had gasped out Merry's name in his sleep. It could be that he missed his kin more than suspected.
Aragorn gently drew the mug out of the hobbit's unresisting grasp. "Sleep, Pippin. Merry will find a way to your side."
Pippin managed a smile and obediently shut his eyes. He would not, however, admit to longing his cousin's presence next to him. He did not like to think of Merry traipsing to Mordor with his arm still wounded from smiting the Witch-king just for his sake. Even if part of him did wish it to be so.
