Summary: Pippin's POV during the fellowship
Disclaimer: I do not own the wee hobbit or LOTR
A/N: This is only my opinion of what he might of thought. Any reviews are welcome, flames just amuse me
To those who reviewed
Eleven Kitten: Thank you!
xtyuru: You have given me one of the highest compliments! That my fic brought you to tears, as it so often does me as I write
Chapter 6
On the edge of the battleground stood one lone hobbit. He had not participated in the actual battle, but the scars from it touched him nonetheless. As he surveyed the mounds of orcs bodies, he spotted Eomer carrying what could only be Eowyn back inside, and his mind whirled. Why wasn't Merry with them? He wanted to ask of his friend, but Eomer's eyes were haunted with the death of Theoden.
He saw the usually stoic face now brimming with tears, the look of loss on his face shining clearly through. Pippin thought her dead and wept for her. His tiny body sat there amongst the dead, weeping for Eowyn, for Theoden, and for Boromir. Why was so much death necessary? Why were they taken why he stood here alone in his fears?
Wiping his hand across his face, he took in a deep breath and wandered through the bodies. He was looking for only one thing, and that was the piece of himself that had been broken away, that was Merry.
All day long he searched, turning over body after body, getting nothing in return for his efforts but eyes staring back at him, forever their gaze now locked in a cold death. Now the day was spent, his clothes smelled of blood, his hands were marred with the black and red smears from the victims who lay beneath his feet, yet he could not stop. He had to find Merry, even if it took him all night -- and it nearly did.
Pippin stopped, his arms tired from lifting the dead, his eyes weary from the tears, and his feet sore from stepping on shards of broken swords, but he spotted it out of the corner of his eye -- an elven cloak -- and he ran.
"Merry!" he screamed, running towards him, and then he stopped, if only for a second. What if Merry, too, were dead? Could he face the reality of his friend never sharing another secret, never helping him pull off another prank? Not caring about the outcome, he flung an orc body from Merry and rolled him over. He saw not the playful eyes he was used to, but tearful ones. Merry looked defeated; his arm had a black tinge to it, and Merry could not lift it.
"I am going to take care of you," he whispered, and that was what Pippin was determined to do.
It was a long trek back to Minas Tirith, and Merry could not walk unaided, if at all. Pippin scanned the battlefield. Earlier there had been many warriors carrying off those who were injured, but now all that he could see were those weeping over the dead. He would not be deterred, though, and, with a grunt, he hauled Merry into the standing position.
For over two hours Pippin weaved in and around the bodies on the battlefield. His eyes which were once lost in the innocence of The Shire and its surroundings, now knew death, destruction, and the look of death in all its shadow. He was tired, his feet wanting to give way beneath him, his mind whirled with images. The most prominent was the illusion he had that Gandalf could defeat anyone, and now even that had been shattered, like the wizard's staff.
As he made it into the lower level of Minas Tirith, Gimli spotted him and took Merry from his arms. Pippin followed and watched Aragorn glow with a golden light as Merry's injuries were healed. He had come to know him as Strider, a filthy and yet nice ranger who had led them from their homes were it was safe and into evil's playground. He held respect for this man, for he had stood in harm's way and had searched for Merry and himself, slaying many foes to get to them, but even he could not help Frodo and Sam, and this weighed heavily on Pippin's mind.
In a couple of days they would leave again for a new battle; the plans had been overheard by the inquisitive hobbit. He sat upon the edge of a window sill, his feet dangling over. Already they had lost so many. True, Eowyn had lived, but Theoden had fallen, along with many others. Denethor was gone -- even in his madness, Pippin had seen his love for Faramir at the end. Pushing everything else from his mind Pippin looked back at Merry.
"I will protect you my friend," he whispered to the sleeping hobbit.
Pippin had not left his side for the last two days, and now he knew what he had always known -- that one day Merry could no longer protect him. One day Pippin would have to throw away his carefree illusions of childhood and walk alone through the world, and today was this day. He would face battle with courage, with the determination of a hobbit whose innocence was gone, replaced with the battle scarred soul he now carried.