Merry returned from dark dreams to the gentle voice of his dearest friend, and a monstrous, splitting headache. It hurt enough that he truly thought he might be sick. He curled into a ball, feeling his ribs grate as he moved. He held his head, and cursed.

Frodo sounded much like his old self, calm and decisive, as he bade Sam to make a light. "Rest easy, Merry," he said. "I'll be back in a moment."

Only one member of the party remained unaccounted for. With his eyes still shut tight, Merry forced himself to ask, "Pippin?"

"We're finding him," came Frodo's insufficient answer.

Merry felt such a rush of adrenalin that he almost—almost—sat up. The stabbing pains all along his rib cage quickly disabused him of that notion. He collapsed to the floor. For a moment he thought he might vomit after all; his mouth watered, and the area beneath his tongue felt thick.

"Just stay there," Frodo instructed. "We must see how badly you're hurt."

Merry lay still, panting. "It's not… bad." Oh, it hurt to breathe, and speaking was worse. Merry hugged himself, willing the spasm to pass.

"So I see," said Frodo dryly. "Keep still, now. I must find Pippin."

Merry had no choice but to let him. Slowly, the stabbing pains subsided and the nausea receded. Beside him, Sam found flint and candle, and set about making a light. Merry lay in the dark, following Sam and Frodo's progress by sound.

To his relief, Frodo soon located Pippin. Their impetuous cousin was alive, to judge by Frodo's remarks, though apparently unconscious. Sam got the candle going, and tipped it to drip some wax onto the cave floor, to form a base for it. Beyond the flame's glow, Merry saw Frodo, bent over a huddle of cloak and one protruding foot in the corner, touching carefully. When Frodo cried, "Sam!", Merry's heart leaped into his throat.

"Coming!" Sam sprang up from his newly placed candle. In two steps, he had reached Frodo's side.

"Help me get him up," Frodo said. "He's bleeding."

Heart pattering like a hare's, Merry collected his limbs so that he could push himself upright. He moved carefully this time, to prevent… complications. Bracing himself with one arm, he blinked away the spots that swirled before his eyes. Across the cave, Frodo and Sam were discussing Pippin's condition. All that penetrated was Frodo's remark about blood. Through the haze of pain, Merry managed to ask, "Where is he hurt?"

Sam answered. "His head, it seems." While Sam gathered the young hobbit into his arms, Merry looked about. Sam's blanket was near at hand, tied to the back of his pack. Balancing himself, Merry yanked the lacings free, then shook it out the best he could, mindful of his head and ribs. He spread it across the cave floor just in time for Sam to return, doubling the blanket where Pippin's head must rest.

"Wait." Merry eased himself to his knees. "Let me get his pack off."

Sam went down on one knee to make it easier for him. Pippin's limbs swung loosely as Merry eased off one strap, then the other. The drag of Pippin's pack sent a spike of pain through Merry's chest; he dropped it hastily to the floor. He then undid the clasp of Pippin's cloak, and gathered it out of the way. "All set."

Sam lowered Pippin onto the blanket. In the candlelight, the young Took's face looked waxy, unreal. He appeared to be deeply unconscious. Merry spread the cloak over him like a blanket, while Sam gently turned his cousin's head. The back of Pippin's skull was a mass of clotted blood. Merry winced.

Sam bent close, and parted the matted curls. "There's the cut, you see?"

Merry did indeed see. The cut rested upon an enormous egg at the back of Pippin's head. The pack had protected his back, which meant that Pippin's head had taken the brunt of whatever blow had felled him. Blood had gushed from the wound, soaking his hair and collar. Merry groaned, "Oh, Pippin!"

While Sam carefully examined the wound, Merry eased off his own pack. He could actually hear his ribs crackling as he moved; he'd be lucky if some of them weren't broken. He shifted the pack within reach, and worked the lacings with trembling hands. Merry hadn't much in the way of medical supplies; some cloths that could be used for bandages, and some balm to prevent infection, not much else. Well, such as he had, he would use.

He was shaking out a kerchief when Frodo shuffled past him, eyes focused on the door. He continued by without stopping.

"Where are you going?" Merry cried, then regretted his outburst at the flash of pain.

"Strider." Frodo's soft voice brought guilt crashing down on Merry's head. There was one more in their party, as yet unaccounted for. Much as Merry wanted to believe that his injury was at fault, he knew that he wasn't that shaken. In his worry over Pippin, he had managed to forget about the person who had likely saved all of their lives.

Sam sprang to his feet, to exchange soft words with Frodo near the door. Merry turned back towards Pippin. At least he could help out here. That would free Frodo and Sam to find Strider, and help him if they could—if he was alive to help. Merry wasn't hopeful. There hadn't been a sound from outside the cave since he'd come around. If Strider was alive, wouldn't they have heard something from him by now?

Grimly, Merry doused the cloth with water from the flask. Bending, he dabbed cautiously at Pippin's wound, clearing away the grit. The blood flowed freely; all too soon, the handkerchief was soaked. Merry fetched another. When that, too, was soiled, he rinsed them and wrung them out. While so doing, he noticed that the entrance was empty. Frodo and Sam had vanished into the night.

Merry turned back towards Pippin, placing the damp cloth against his wound. "I reckon you never counted on this," he said softly. "Trolls and Black Riders, and being eaten by a tree." He pressed firmly to staunch the flow of blood. "We never imagined any of it—did we, Pip?—back when we and Fatty formed our conspiracy."

The blood flow appeared to be slackening. Merry fetched the balm, opening it one-handed as he continued to apply pressure. He dipped the second cloth into the jar. The balm smelled tart and pungent—wholesome. Merry had no idea what was in it, but the healer at Brandy Hall used it, and that was good enough for Merry.

"Yes, Pippin, we've seen some things." He switched handkerchiefs, pressing the one with the balm to the cut. "Just think of it. One evening we're trapped in a wight's barrow, and the next we're in Bree, surrounded by those tall Men, and their taller houses made of wood. I thought Sam was going to have a fit, his eyes were so big. He wasn't too happy about Strider, either."

The bleeding had definitely slowed. Merry searched for yet another cloth, which he carefully wound around Pippin's head. He knotted the bandage over Pippin's forehead to secure it, then started to undo the young hobbit's collar. Who knew how battered his cousin was, beneath his clothes? "But that worked out for the best. That is, it did for us. I'll never feel right about it, if it turns out that Strider died to save us."

Merry glanced at the door. Frodo and Sam weren't back yet. Perhaps that was a hopeful sign; if Strider were dead, wouldn't they be inside again by now?

Merry shook his head, refusing to speculate. He finished unbuttoning Pippin's shirt, then pushed the cloth aside. Gingerly, he ran his hands over Pippin's chest, testing his ribs and belly for tenderness, and as far around back as he could reach. Nothing seemed to make an impression on his young cousin, and he felt no broken bones. Merry covered Pippin back up, then ran his hands along his arms and legs, gently rotating each wrist and ankle. In the end, Merry concluded that Frodo's first impression had been correct; Pippin's bones were whole. It was only his head that was injured.

Only his head. Merry scooted up to Pippin's face, then peeled back an eyelid. The eye was rolled slightly back, but the pupil was visible. Merry placed his hand over the eye, blocking the light, then moved it aside to let the candlelight in. The pupil swelled in the dark, and contracted in the light. Merry had heard that that was an encouraging sign. He repeated the experiment on the other eye, with the same results. That marked the extent of Merry's medical knowledge.

Worried, Merry glanced again at the door. Frodo and Sam were taking an awfully long time. Merry addressed his unconscious charge. "Pip, I'm going to check on the others." Merry tucked the cloak cozily around his cousin's neck. "I want you to stay nice and warm, and I'll be back soon. Don't argue with any trolls while I'm gone."

Merry braced himself, and then rose. Dizziness assaulted him, and pain streaked through his chest. Now that he had recovered somewhat, he could isolate it. The worst pain came from halfway down his rib cage, on the outer edge of the left-hand side. All right, Merry would go easy on that side. He turned, spreading his arms for balance. There, that wasn't so bad. He was getting stronger every minute. The room had stopped whirling, now that he'd stood for a moment. Even his headache was bearable. All he need do was avoid stressing those particular ribs, and he was practically as good as new. Probably stronger than Frodo at the moment, although he'd be reluctant to put it to the test.

Merry stepped out of the cave mouth into the darkness. The reek from the troll intensified the moment he passed the door. Merry wondered how the beast could have stood its own stench. He followed the bulky outline of the troll into the night. A few steps beyond the door, the candlelight failed utterly. He shuffled forward, completely blind. "Frodo?"

The familiar voice greeted him not six feet away. "Merry! You should not be out here."

"I came to see if you were all right."

"I'm no worse than I was before. Are you all right?"

"I'll live." Merry picked his way carefully; the many rocks buried under the fuzzy groundcover made the footing treacherous. He could see something of Frodo now as his night vision built, a tiny dark shape crouched at the peak of a bigger blot. Something pale resolved out of the general darkness; Merry realized that it was their guide's face. The Man lay unmoving upon his back, eyes closed. Frodo's hands were upon his head. Merry made himself ask, "Is he…?"

"Aragorn's alive, thankfully." Frodo's words sent a rush of relief through him. The Man lived. Merry closed his eyes in gratitude.

"Sam has gone to find a lever for us to free him," Frodo continued. "How's Pippin?"

Merry wished he knew. He reported what little he had determined. "Unconscious. He took quite a knock to the head. What happened?"

"When the troll grabbed hold of you, Pippin drew his dagger and leapt onto its arm."

Merry's mouth dropped open in amazement. Pippin? Little Pippin, who had been shaking so hard during their rock-throwing diversion that Merry had thought to send him back inside?

"He struck well, to judge by the scream that followed." Merry heard the wry amusement in Frodo's voice. "He's the reason you're still alive."

Pippin. Little Pippin. Merry couldn't move, for the wonder of it. "Mercy."

"To pay him for his trouble, the troll smacked him into the wall."

Merry winced. He'd suspected something like that, but to hear it confirmed brought a fresh edge to his fears. How could anyone survive a blow like that?

Frodo interrupted his thoughts. "Have you your flask?"

Merry started. "It's inside, next to Pippin."

"Would you bring it? I must get this poison off him."

Merry looked down. His night vision had improved to the point where he could see that Strider, and much of the turf around him, was stained with the black blood of the troll. Merry curled his lip. The smell alone told him how toxic it must be; he shuddered to think of that stuff touching his hands, let alone coating his face. If any of it got into Aragorn's eyes, it might blind him. Merry nodded, and started back. Frodo called after him, "And bring a light, if you would."

"Right." Merry made his way to the entrance, glowing before him like a beacon. His pace increased as the light that spilled from the cave illuminated his path. When Merry stepped inside, it seemed almost bright.

He paused, looking down at his cousin. Little Pippin. Who would have imagined?

Something sparkled against the far wall. Wonderingly, Merry approached it. As suspected, it was the jeweled hilt of Pippin's sword, resting upon a tumble of rock, near Strider's oversized pack. Careful to bend as little as possible, Merry raised the sword reverently, noting the rank troll blood that stained the last few inches of the blade. Merry looked at Pippin. "Little warrior," he whispered.

He had no spare cloth to wipe the blade clean. He reached for Strider's pack, intending to drag it to a spot where he could open it and look inside. He'd hardly begun to pull before pain sliced through him, making him hiss. There was no way he could shift it; the thing weighed as much as two whole hobbits. Abandoning his idea, he propped Pippin's weapon against the stone wall, where its gems twinkled and gleamed. This sword, that stroke, had saved his life. Merry shook his head. More quickly, he returned to his pack. Keeping his torso straight, he sank to his knees. Pain flashed through his side briefly, but it was bearable. That's all right, Merry thought, rummaging in his pack for a candle, and his remaining clean kerchief. I can manage this. He soon found what he needed, and set it aside.

He hefted the water flask, and frowned. It was more than half empty. He didn't want to take Pippin's, for drinking water they must have. Perhaps this bit would suffice to clean the worst of the poison off the Ranger's face. After that, they could plan their next steps. Firewood and water. That would be enough for now. To have just that, would make Merry deeply grateful.

He lay his fingers against Pippin's cheek. The skin was cool. His friend and rescuer slumbered on. Merry stroked his curls, twining an errant strand behind his ear. "Thank you, Pippin. Little Pip."

There was no response to his whisper—not that Merry expected one. Merry tipped his candle to the other to light it. Holding it on one hand, and grasping the cloth and water flask in the other, Merry straightened. He swayed against the dizziness, and gritted his teeth against the pain. After a moment, both discomforts subsided. I can manage this.

Holding his prizes in his hands, Merry turned his back on the most precious prize of all, and shuffled into the night.