Summary: At various points in their journey, the Hobbits try to help each other recover from injuries. Told in four distinct ficlets.

Disclaimer: All names, characters, and places contained herein are property of Tolkien Enterprises, with which I am in no way affiliated. I am making no money from the writing of this story. It was written purely for entertainment purposes.

Many thanks, hugs, and Hobbits to shirebound for looking this over for me. Thank you, dear, you are a lifesaver.

Written for Challenge Two at the Tales of the Red Book LiveJournal Community. Marigold provided the first line, which is the same for all four ficlets, and I provided the rest of the story.

~*~*~*~*~

“Try calling his name. Perhaps he can hear you.”

Sam looked into Strider’s face as the Man set him on his feet on the east bank of the Bruinen. The Man’s face was graver than Sam had ever seen it. Strider’s grey eyes were hard, his mouth set in a firm line.

“We do not have the time to spare to tend to your master here,” the Man continued. “We must get to Rivendell as soon as we can. Lord Elrond will be able to tend Frodo better than I.”

Strider looked over his shoulder and Sam, following his gaze, could see Glorfindel struggling to lead Bill, with Merry and Pippin astride, across the water. “I must help Glorfindel.” With that, Strider turned and waded back into the water.

Sam rushed to Frodo’s side and gently turned his master so that he was lying on his back. Sam had to bite back a cry as he caught sight of his master’s face. It was a pale, sickly green color. Dark circles surrounded closed and sunken eyes, almost as if Frodo had smeared his face with soot. His breathing was very shallow.

Kneeling in the wet earth, Sam grasped his master’s ice-cold left hand and began to briskly rub it. He leaned down and spoke into Frodo’s ear.

“Mister Frodo, can you hear me, sir?” he asked, his voice shaking. “It’s me, sir, it’s Sam. Please, Mister Frodo, don’t give in. You need to keep fighting. We’ll be in Rivendell soon, so you’ll be right as rain in no time. But you can’t stop fighting, sir. Don’t give in.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Try calling his name. Perhaps he can hear you.”

Pippin turned in surprise at the sound of the strange voice. An older healer woman, Ioreth, Pippin vaguely remembered, stood in the doorway of Merry’s room. She stood nervously, as if she was unsure if she should enter the room. Pippin and Merry were alone, as Gandalf had left on some errand earlier in the day.

“Excuse me?” Pippin questioned, still holding his cousin’s hand despite the fact that he was twisted around in his seat to see the woman.

“It is custom to speak to the ill and dying,” the woman said. Pippin winced at her use of the word dying. “We do not know if they can hear our voices or not, but if they can hear, then at least they can be comforted by the voices of loved ones.”

“I have never heard of such a thing,” Pippin said, turning again to Merry. He gently stroked his cousin’s hair away from his eyes and forehead. With trembling fingers, he traced the large brown scar that stretched across Merry’s brow.

“I believe that it is only a custom of the South,” the woman answered, still standing in the doorway from what Pippin could tell. “I have never traveled beyond the borders of Gondor, but I have heard from travelers that Men in the North have no such custom.”

Pippin anxiously watched Merry, dearly hoping for some reaction from his too-still cousin. Merry remained eerily still, as he had been for almost a day. “Do you think it will help?”

“I do not know. All I know is that it cannot harm him.” The woman was silent for a moment. “I must return to my other duties. Do not give up hope.”

“Never,” Pippin whispered as the woman’s footsteps echoed away down the empty corridor.

Could speaking to Merry really help? Pippin wondered. Could Merry hear him? Or would his words fall on deaf ears? There would be no knowing unless he tried.

“Merry. Merry-dear, it’s me. It’s Pippin. Please, Merry don’t give in. Please wake up.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Try calling his name. Perhaps he can hear you.”

Merry jumped at the words. He had been wholly concentrated on Pippin and hadn’t heard anyone enter the healing tent. Merry knew that they were safe, in the center of the camp, but he still cursed his inattentiveness. After all, he still wasn’t sure that he could trust all of the Men in the camp.

“Legolas! I thought you were helping to tend to the wounded,” Merry said, moving to stand.

“Please, don’t rise,” Legolas requested, so Merry kept his seat. The Elf moved to perch on the edge of Pippin’s cot, opposite Merry. With graceful movements, he checked Pippin’s breathing, pulse, and temperature. “His fever has dropped considerably. That is good.”

When Legolas fell silent, Merry ventured to ask, “Why do you want me to call out to Pippin?”

Ageless grey eyes met curious blue eyes and Merry had to force himself to hold Legolas’ gaze. “Though your cousin is in a healing sleep, the sound of your voice may impart some peace upon him. If he is as peace and not struggling against us, he may heal more rapidly.”

“I have never heard of this before,” Merry said, finally breaking Legolas’ gaze to look at his beloved cousin. “And I know much of the herb-lore and healing craft of the Shire.”

“An age ago, when there was still friendship between Elves and Men, we introduced the idea to the Men of the South,” Legolas said quietly. “I do not know if Men still have such practices. Elves do not have much need of it.”

“If I speak to Pippin, will it really help him?” Merry asked, looking again at the Elf, who was still watching Pippin.

“If you were both Elves, then I could assuredly answer yes to your question,” Legolas answered, resting his slender hand on Pippin’s wayward curls. “I do not know if the bond between two mortals is as strong as the bond between two of the Firstborn, so I do not know if the sound of your voice will calm his spirit.”

Legolas was still watching Pippin, a thoughtful look on his face. He murmured something too quietly for Merry to hear, and then stood, removing his hand from Pippin’s head. “I must return to the other wounded now,” he said, looking at Merry. “Please try to get some rest yourself, my friend. I do not want to see you in a sickbed again so soon after you’ve risen from one.” With that, the Elf exited, leaving Merry alone with his thoughts once again.

Abandoning his seat, Merry climbed atop Pippin’s cot and seated himself comfortably next to his cousin. He stroked Pippin’s always-unruly hair with one hand and held his cousin’s hand with the other.

“Pip? Pippin, can you hear me? It’s me. It’s Merry. I’m here, Pippin. I won’t leave you, I promise.”

~*~*~*~*~

“Try calling his name. Perhaps he can hear you.”

Frodo looked up as Gandalf entered the tent that he and Sam currently occupied. He watched the wizard walk across the tent and sit in a chair next to Sam’s cot. Though he had seen Gandalf earlier in the morning, Frodo was still amazed by the Wizard’s appearance.

“Why should I call out to Sam?” asked Frodo, who was sitting on the cot next to his dearest friend. He held one of Sam’s hands in both of his own wounded ones. “Will he wake if I call to him?”

“He just might if you ask him to do so,” Gandalf said, gazing at Sam’s peaceful countenance. “His sense of duty and love are too strong to allow him to remain resting when you are awake and may need his services.” The Wizard looked at Frodo, who wondered just how much Gandalf knew of the journey across Mordor.

Frodo turned to look at Sam. The gardener was thin, scarred, and sun burnt, but he looked more peaceful than Frodo had ever seen him before. His breathing was deep and even and a small smile graced his features. Frodo wondered if Sam was dreaming of his garden back home, or maybe of just one specific flower.

“No, I don’t think I shall wake him now,” Frodo said slowly. Now more than ever, he did not want to bother Sam. Frodo did not remember much of their journey once they had entered Mordor, but he was sure that Sam would have done everything for him, at any time, much as he had always done, ever since he was naught but a lad. Sam deserved whatever rest he could get.

Letting go of Sam’s hand, Frodo crawled under the coverlet. Before he settled back, he whispered into Sam’s ear, “Sleep well, my dear Samwise.”


The End