Go to sleep my Little Friend
And rest your weary head.
Daylight has faded,
All our words are said.
Go to sleep my Little Friend,
And rest your weary head.
Time to sleep and dream once more,
When day and night are wed.

Peregrin Took sat easily in his saddle, the chill morning air caressing his face with a gentle breeze that he knew would alleviate the warmth of the noontide sun, but at that moment caused him to pull his cloak tighter.

The scenery around him was green and lush, summer seeming to come later to this land than in Minas Tirith. Though only a few days ride from the White City, the air was already decidedly cooler, and the grass was not withered by the heat of the warm, summer days.

Riding beside him, talking quietly with his new bride, Aragorn looked over at a soft sigh from his young knight, brow furrowing slightly at the wistful, almost lost look on Pippin’s face, wondering what sad thoughts had brought that look to such a normally cheerful countenance.

Pippin did not notice, his gaze focused outward on the passing beauty that surrounded him even as his thoughts turned inward.

Boromir, my friend, I wish that you were here with us now, at the finish of our journeys together as a Fellowship. Would that I had been able to stand by your side once more.

Seldom had the young hobbit allowed his thoughts to stray to his lost companion, the heat of battle and the constant worry for his kin, followed by his own injuries and recovery, had necessitated he put them aside. Now, however, surrounded by the vast beauty of a land that was slowly shaking off the shadow that had overlain it too long, he felt free for the first time to remember, and ponder what might have been.

Had Boromir seen this on his journey to Rivendell? Pippin wondered, then realized that the Gondorian had left on his journey roughly about this same time last year, and he was gazing on the same scenery that Boromir would have enjoyed.

Would he be happy now? Saddened for his father? Joyful for his brother? How would things have fared differently if he had been able to return home, if I had been able to look upon the White City with his eyes to guide mine and show to me things not even Beregond could guess at? If I had been able to fight beside him once more?

A peace seemed to settle itself about him, as though comforting arms were wrapping about his shoulders and easing his mind. Wherever he was, Pippin knew suddenly with a certainty he would not deny, Boromir was at peace.

He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the rich smells of new grass and fresh air, inhaling deeply. The cool air settled heavily in his lungs, and he found himself coughing before he could stop himself, earning startled glances from his friends and kin.

“Are you all right, Pippin?” Arwen asked softly, gentle eyes filling with worry.

“I just - ate a bug!” Pippin managed to choke out, still trying to regain his breath as he buried his face into a leather gloved hand.

He was rewarded for his lie by his Queen’s sweet laughter, quickly joined by that of the rest of his companions.

“How did it taste, Pip?” Merry asked from behind him, where he had been in conversation with Frodo. Though he had begun the journey by Théoden’s side, Éomer had requested the honor of riding on the wain on occasion, and the two of them had worked out an arrangement, so that they both might honor their fallen King.

“Much like your cooking,” Pippin grumbled, still coughing into his hand.

More laughter followed, and quickly the incident was forgotten by the others, though the tweenager was left with a decidedly uneasy feeling. Too often had such fits struck him as a youth, followed soon after by bouts of sickness he shuddered to remember.

He glanced behind him, briefly, the green of Merry’s tunic standing out beside Frodo’s fine velvet black, and considered.

No, he thought to himself, turning back to his vigilant watching of the landscape. I will not place this on his shoulders again, not now, not after so much has happened. After all, it might have been just a tickle, nothing more.

Deep down, however, Peregrin Took, Knight of the Citadel, felt suddenly afraid.

Just a bit longer, he thought to himself miserably, sniffling in the cold air. Please let it be just a bit longer!

A soft tread alerted the hobbit a moment before a shadow detached itself from the surrounding darkness. Pippin’s hand moved to his sword even as a deep voice asked softly, “Master Holbytla?” Pippin smiled, his hand easing away from his weapon. “I am your relief.”

It was big man, a Rohirrim, who held his considerably muscled bulk easily as he moved, flashing a grin down at the small knight.

“All is well, save for the unseasonable cold,” Pippin reported, his teeth starting to chatter once more. “Keep your eyes to the brush, however. It is especially thick over to the right, and the path is not always easy to see there in this dark.”

“I will remember that, Master Holbytla. Have a good rest,” the man bid as Pippin turned to head back to the pavilion the four hobbits were sharing, shivering violently now and looking forward to nothing more than lying down under a thick blanket and drifting off to sleep.

He yawned, a deep inhalation of the cold air that had him coughing violently once more. He paused in his walk to the pavilion, though he could see it but a few yards away, until he could breathe once more without gasping for breath. Only then did he start out again, sniffling into the handkerchief he pulled from his pocket as he finally reached his goal.

The inside of the pavilion was much warmer than the outside, thanks to the small braziers hung from the roof. Shivering more than he had realized, Pippin quickly stripped himself of all his outer garments, the long journey behind them having taught him that it was actually colder to remain fully clothed than to sleep in his undergarments. Of course, that had not usually been an option for the travellers, but when it had been, he had taken the lesson to heart.

Though the pavilion was quite large, with more than enough room for the four of them to spread out, they had found that all slept more easily while travelling when they reverted to their habit of sleeping close. Merry, in spite of Pippin’s injuries, had often shared a bed in Minas Tirith with his cousin, the closeness seeming to banish some of their nightmares and Pippin’s pain. Sam and Frodo, however, had not, mostly, Pippin thought, because Sam thought it improper.

Now, however, his three friends were snuggled closely on the large bed that had been provided for them, three lumps on the great mattress.

He crawled under the blankets that covered Sam, Frodo, and Merry, snuggling up to his cousin as much for warmth as for the comfort his familiar presence offered. With a squeal, Merry sat bolt upright, bringing Frodo and Sam with him, staring about them with wide, panicked eyes.

“Peregrin Took, your feet are freezing!” Merry hissed loudly, glaring at his cousin.

“S -Sorry,” Pippin giggled, trying to stop his shivering. “It’s rather cold outside!”

“Then get warmed up and get some sleep,” Frodo whispered sleepily, once more lying down, Sam following a heartbeat later, still looking about himself as though expecting an attack.

“Sorry, Sam,” Merry whispered, earning a quick smile in reply as the other pulled the blankets firmly up over both his and Frodo’s shoulders.

“Here, Pip,” Merry coaxed softly, lying back down and dragging his cousin with him,
tucking the blankets more firmly around them. “Put your feet on my legs, they’ll warm faster.”

“But they’re freezing!” Pippin protested, still shivering.

“I know. That’s why I want you to warm them on my leg. You’ll never get to sleep so long as you’re shivering like a leaf in the wind. Now close your eyes and try to get some rest,” Merry ordered.

Pippin obeyed, smiling sleepily as he did as he was instructed, and aside from his cousin’s initial startled jerk, Merry showed no other signs of discomfort, and in fact wrapped his arms around Pippin’s waist, pulling him closer until they were as one body.

The tweenager sighed happily as warmth and love surrounded him, and the chill of the night finally began to fade.

They set out once more shortly after first breakfast, Pippin yawning his way through the meal of fresh fruit and porridge. Riding behind him once more, watching him worriedly, Merry eyed his lethargic cousin as Pippin’s yawns became more and more frequent.

“Does he seem a bit off to you this morning?” Merry whispered to Frodo, whom he rode beside, pointing with his chin to their young cousin.

“He’s probably just tired from standing watch last night,” Frodo answered, though his gaze was speculative as he watched Pippin ride along listlessly. “Although, it might not be a bad idea to keep an eye on him.”

“Just in case,” Merry murmured.

Frodo nodded, then turned to Sam, who had been listening quietly beside him. The other nodded without a word passing between them.

Oblivious to the whisperings behind him, Pippin rode on without his usual energy, trying to keep awake by concentrating once more on the scenery about him. The watch last night had seemed to sap his energy, and even though he had managed to sleep deeply afterward, he found himself fighting a losing battle against his fatigue.
I’m just sleepy, that’s all, he told himself firmly, frowning as another yawn threatened to split his cheeks. I don’t have watch tonight, I’ll be fine. Please, whispered the voice in his mind softly. Let me be fine.

“Pippin?”

He jerked his head up, amazed to find that he had nearly been asleep, to see Aragorn and Arwen staring at him in worry, the Queen’s eyes filled with a calculating worry.

“Are you all right? You seem rather - out of things, today,” Aragorn asked in concern.

The tweenager did not look sick, though the King had spent too many nights putting this one back together to not be alarmed by the odd change in his behavior.

“I think I’m just rather tired from standing guard last night,” Pippin admitted, smiling sheepishly up at his liege. “You got me accustomed to standing still during the day while you rambled on, not pacing back and forth in the middle of the night.”

Aragorn chuckled at the irreverent statement, his own eyes twinkling. “Ramble on, do I?” he asked in a mock growl, only to be met by not only Pippin’s delighted giggle, but Arwen’s.

“Indeed you do, Husband,” she whispered, winking over at Pippin as she did so.

“But we love you anyway, Strider,” Pippin added cheekily.

“I’m glad to hear it,” Aragorn laughed again. “However, I would appreciate it if you tried to love me while staying awake in your saddle.”

“I’ll do my best,” Pippin vowed, his grin matching that of the King’s, even as he wondered how in the Shire he was going to manage to stay awake until second breakfast, never mind all day.

They halted early that evening, the camp already prepared for their arrival, and Pippin found that now the thought of food was nauseating rather than enticing. All he wanted was to lie down and go to sleep, though he knew that if he refused to eat the others would suspect something was wrong.

I’m just tired from riding, that’s all, he told himself firmly, concentrating on taking care of his pony rather than the gnawing fatigue eating at his bones. I am not getting sick. I refuse to get sick. I am perfectly fine. There is absolutely no need for anyone to be bothered. I’m just going to have to get some sleep tonight, and then I’ll be all better in the morning.

Having firmly told himself thus, Pippin nodded, once, and, finished with his pony, set to making himself presentable for the supper he quite sternly told himself he was going to enjoy.

He was rather proud of the fact that he managed to escape the meal with little more than a reprimand from Strider to get some sleep, and Merry and Frodo’s insistence that he retire to bed immediately.

He did so gladly, undressing slowly and then slithering under the covers, sighing as his head came to rest on the soft, goose down filled pillows. In moments he was sound asleep.

A foul smell filled his nose, his mouth, until he could taste the stench, nearly gagging on it. Only his continued fight for breath allowed him to keep down his last meal, though the struggle to draw each breath was becoming harder and harder.

He had to escape, to get away from this awful, crushing weight. He had to do something! He struggled weakly against the darkness, finding it only sapped his strength more and left him seeing bright spots that did nothing to eliminate the darkness.

“Pippin! Pippin!”

Faintly he heard the words, though they sounded as if they were being called from a long distance.

Please, help me! He thought desperately, not having the breath to spare even to beg for aid. Somebody, please!

“Pippin, wake up! Wake up! Sam, get Strider, quickly!”

Sam? Strider? What?

“Pippin!”

He became aware that something warm and comforting was embracing him, not crushing him as he had thought, but cradling him, as one would a child. A terrible wheezing, gasping sound met his ears, and it took him a moment to realize that it was coming from him as he struggled for breath.

“I think he’s waking up, Merry,” Frodo’s worried voice floated over to him, and a few seconds later a hand, gentle and soothing and known from childhood, caressed his face.

“Pippin? Dearest? Can you hear me? Are you waking up, lad?”

For the first time Pippin realized that his eyes were closed, and he pried them open, looking about him in dazed confusion.

“That’s it, Pip,” Merry whispered into his ear, and he realized that it was his beloved cousin who was holding him, one arm around his chest, the other around his waist, keeping him upright to allow him to breathe better. “Slow, calm breaths. Feel my chest move, Pippin, and breath with me. In, and out.”

So many nights when he was a child had he awoken thus, gasping for air, feeling his body struggle for each breath. So many nights had his parents, or Merry or Frodo or even Bilbo sat up with him, holding him thus, easing his fear.

He knew from such experiences that he had to relax, lest he make things worse or panic his cousins. Slowly he forced his clenched muscles to ease, concentrating on each inhalation in time with Merry as he did so, until his struggles had ceased and his breathing was almost normal.

“That’s it, lad,” Frodo whispered beside him, holding Pippin’s cold hand in his much warmer one. “Sam’s gone to fetch Strider, you’ll be all right.”

“You should not...should not have bothered...Strider. It was just a dream,” Pippin whispered, not daring to sit up on his own yet, but moving to pat the arm around his chest in reassurance. “I dreamed...I was under the troll...I couldn’t breathe.”

“It’s all right now, Pip,” Merry whispered, squeezing him gently.

Pippin shuddered, remembering the suffocating darkness, and tried to push the thoughts away, trying to find something to distract himself. He found it as the tent flap opened, admitting a slightly panting Sam, a bare-chested Aragorn, a silk-robed Arwen and a worried Gimli and Legolas.

Pippin felt his face turn hot with the force of his blush.

“What happened?” Aragorn asked immediately, moving to the side of the large bed and kneeling down so he was face to face with the hobbits.

“I dreamed I was under the troll,” Pippin whispered softly before either of his cousins or Sam could comment. “I was being smothered again, and couldn’t breathe.”

“He was gasping like a landed fish,” Sam put in, frowning when Pippin winced at the analogy. “His lips were all blue, and he was paler than Mr. Frodo.”

“Hoi!” Frodo objected, glaring at his friend.

Aragorn ignored Frodo’s indignant comment, placing a hand to Pippin’s neck, his fingers feeling the pulse beating like a frightened rabbit’s. Faintly he could hear a slight rasping sound
each time Pippin breathed in, and he frowned.

“Arwen,” he said softly, turning to his wife. She was by his side in a moment, kneeling next to him. “Listen to his breath,” he said in elvish.

Her eyes widened slightly as she did so, though her face remained carefully blank. She had learned much from her father.

“It could be a remnant from the dream,” she offered hesitantly, also in elvish, frowning as the rasping slowly faded to where it was no longer discernable even to her ears. “But I fear it is something else.”

“I agree,” Aragorn murmured, then switched back to Common, fully aware that Frodo had understood the conversation, and would most likely question him about it as soon as the hobbit could pull him away. “Pippin, how are you feeling now?”

“Fine,” Pippin answered truthfully, though he felt his limbs shake as though he had just finished running a long distance, and his eyes were already starting to droop shut again. “It was just a dream, though a foul one.”

“Nonetheless, I am going to make you something that should prevent any such things from happening again for the rest of the night. And tomorrow, if you are still exhausted, as I think you shall be with the herbs I am going to give you, you shall ride with me.”

“Strider -!” Pippin protested, feeling his face flush once more.

“I think, Husband, that it would be better if he rode with me,” Arwen interrupted, stopping whatever else the young knight might have said.

“You just wish to tell him horrible tales of my childhood, don’t you?” he asked her teasingly, even as he knew the true reason for her suggestion. Sharp as his ears were, hers were better, and would detect if the hobbit’s breathing changed faster than he.

Her only response was to smile sweetly.

“Really, I’ll be fine!” Pippin insisted, feeling his face flush once more at the thought of riding with the beautiful Queen. “I’ll not fall asleep, I promise!”

“Peregrin Took, you are going to ride with Arwen tomorrow, and that is an order,” Aragorn said firmly, his gaze strict. “The last thing I want is for you to fall out of your saddle and break your neck.”

“But-“ Pippin whimpered, the very thought of having to sit in front of Arwen, her bosom right behind his head should he happen to fall asleep, was enough to turn his very ears pink in mortification. “It’s not proper, “ he whispered.

Only Sam managed to refrain from laughing at the comment, casting a sympathetic eye to the young knight.

“You have been given your orders, Sir Peregrin,” Aragorn repeated, though his lips turned up in a slight smile as he stood. “Now, I am going to make a rub for your chest, and a tonic that you must drink, though I fear it shall taste rather - dreadful.”

“So long as it’s not blue,” Pippin grumbled, shuddering as he remembered one of the many ghastly potions he had been forced to drink during his recovery.

“No,” Aragorn laughed, ruffling Pippin’s hair before he turned to leave. “I believe it is a muddy green.”

After he had left, Gimli and Legolas moved further into the pavilion, Legolas kneeling beside Arwen while Gimli stood on the other side of the bed.

“Do not worry, Pippin,” Legolas whispered, his eyes twinkling. “Now that Aragorn is married, I am certain his lovely lady shall ply him with plenty of concoctions.”

Arwen laughed, though she did not refute the statement.

“Go, both of you,” she said instead, making a shooing motion toward the entrance. “You need your rest as well, and all is taken care of here. Besides,” she added, eyes sparkling. “I doubt you want to smell the potion Aragorn is preparing.”

Legolas laughed, bowing to her as he stood, smiling. “Your wish is our command, Lady,” he replied. “Come, Gimli, I believe you still owe me a tale. How, exactly, did you manage to get your beard caught in that lady’s bracelet at the ball?”

Gimli’s response was lost as the two left, and Pippin found himself yawning against his will. Almost, almost, he could feel his throat threatening to close, could feel the muscles in his chest clamp as a fit of coughing hovered on the edge of his control. His breath hitched, and Arwen’s gaze was on him once more.

Merry, too, sensed his struggle, and tightened his grip slightly.

“Would you like some water, Pippin?” Arwen asked softly, moving to get him a mug before he could answer.

He felt himself blush as she poured water from a pitcher set in a basin, both placed on a low camp stool. It just wasn’t right, to have the Queen serving him.

“Here,” she said softly, and watched as he drank slowly, smiling her gentle, sweet smile that always seemed to make his heart flutter. “Why don’t you lie down for a bit until Estel
returns? He should not be much longer,” she suggested.

Before he could even open his mouth, to refute or agree, Merry was laying down, bringing Pippin with him. Immediately his eyes drooped shut, and as Arwen’s soft voice began an elvish lullaby he had never heard before, he found himself yawning again.

That’s not fair! He thought sleepily. She’s fighting dirty!

Just as he had begun to drift off, he heard the flap open and a breeze of cool air drifted into the pavilion. He opened his eyes and saw Aragorn, now fully dressed, bearing a small bowl and a mug that steamed.

Pippin eyed the mug with distaste, preparing himself for the foul concoction as he sat up. Beside him Merry stirred, blinking sleepily at him. Apparently, he had not been the only one affected by Arwen’s song.

“Drink it quickly,” the Queen advised as Aragorn handed him the mug. “And pinch your nose. You cannot taste if you cannot smell.”

He took one look at the thick, dark green liquid and did as he was told, catching a faint whiff of rotten eggs and dirty feet before he pinched his nostrils closed and gulped down the concoction. As the Queen had said, he did not taste anything.

Until he removed his hand from his nose and took a breath in.

“Agghh!” he choked, coughing on the awful taste. Merry patted his back even as he laughed, and a muffled giggle to his left alerted him that Frodo was doing the same.

“Here,” Arwen prompted, handing him the mug of water. “This should help.”

He would have thanked her, but all he could manage was a choked, “Thksmghbe,” as he quickly drank from the mug.

“And now that the horrible tonic is dealt with, let me take care of this and then you may sleep,” Aragorn said softly, kneeling.

He lifted Pippin’s shirt, making certain the blanket covered his stomach and legs since Arwen was still present, and smeared a minty, slightly heady ointment onto his knight’s chest. As it touched his skin, a pleasant warmth seemed to seep into his chest and lungs, and he found himself breathing easier.

“There,” Aragorn whispered, watching as Pippin’s eyes drooped, not moving until he was certain the hobbit was asleep.

When he stood, he offered his hand to Arwen, who took it and rose gracefully, bending down to place a gentle kiss to all four hobbit’s foreheads. Then she left, silk robe trailing behind
her like wings on an overlarge butterfly.

“Strider,” Frodo whispered as the King made to follow his wife, and the man stopped, turning back to the hobbit with a small smile on his lips.

“He shall be fine, Frodo,” he said, already knowing what his friend would ask. “I believe that this chill air is affecting his lungs, which were badly bruised by the troll. We are going to keep an eye on him, and make certain it is nothing more serious. Be at peace, Frodo,” Aragorn added, placing a hand on Frodo’s shoulder.

Frodo smiled, feeling his shoulders relax, and lay back down, pulling the blankets back up over his shoulders. It was not long before the only sound in the pavilion was that of four slumbering breaths.

I am not going to fall asleep. I am not. I will remain upright and dignified, and I will NOT fall asleep!

Sitting astride Arwen’s horse, the Queen riding easily behind him, one arm around his waist, Pippin felt his muscles begin to quiver with the effort of sitting so stiff and still for the past three hours.

Just think of something, anything! I will not lay my head back, even though she is rather soft and she smells so good and it would be so -–

He firmly gave himself a mental shake, widening his eyes as he stared at the passing scenery to try and wake himself up more. It had been a losing battle all morning, ever since Merry had practically pried him out of the bed.

Now Aragorn rode beside them while Frodo and Sam chatted easily behind and Merry once more rode on King Théoden’s wain. Sitting in front of the Queen, Pippin found himself casting about for anything, anything, to keep his eyes open.

“If you are tired, Pippin, you can lay your head back and take a nap,” Arwen whispered softly into his ear as he struggled against a mighty yawn.

“I’m fine,” he replied quickly, sitting up straighter when he realized with horror that he had begun to droop.

Beside them, Aragorn flashed his wife a bemused grin. She smiled back, a twinkle brightening her eyes, and softly began to sing.

HELP! Pippin thought, feeling his muscles relax. Must. Not. Sleep.

He felt his eyelids droop, his posture bend, and before he knew it he was being pulled back onto something soft that smelled of lavender and fresh air.

He sat up again, quickly, rubbing his eyes as his face turned a deep scarlet. Unperturbed, Arwen continued her song, her voice wrapping about him like a warm blanket on a cold night, the words reaching some part of his soul that seemed to understand the elven words. Once more his eyes drooped, his head nodded, and the last thing he knew he was drifting to sleep on a lavender scented cloud.

Strong arms were lifting him, holding him gently. The scent of lavender faded, replaced by that of soap and leather, and Pippin stirred, trying to open heavy eyes.

“We are stopping for the night, Pippin,” Aragorn whispered softly into his ear, shifting the hobbit so he could rest his head on the man’s shoulder. “You have slept the entire day, and I suspect you shall sleep away the entire night as well.”

“Mph,” Pippin mumbled, closing his eyes once more and burrowing his head deeper into Aragorn’s shoulder. At the moment, he did not care about propriety.

“All right,” Aragorn laughed, and the gentle swaying of his friend alerted him that the King had begun to walk. “If you wake up hungry in the night, there shall be a plate set aside for you.”

“Mmmmhmmm,” Pippin agreed, already starting to feel himself drift off once more.

“What’s wrong with him?” Merry’s worried voice asked from somewhere around Pippin’s knees. “Why is he so tired?”

“The herbs I gave him last night are very powerful, Merry, and I believe our young friend here is fighting off a slight cold. He should be much better in the morning after this long rest,” Aragorn answered calmly.

“Do not worry, Merry,” Arwen’s sweet tone floated to the sleepy hobbit, perking his ears up. “We are keeping an eye on him.”

Then he was drifting off again, not even aware when he was placed gently into the large bed the hobbits shared. Only when, sometime later, Merry crawled into bed and snuggled up against him did he stir, turning sleepy eyes to his cousin as Merry arranged himself.

“Go back to sleep, Pip,” Merry prompted, placing a slight kiss to his cousin’s brow. Then he frowned slightly in confusion. “Pippin, why does your hair smell like lavender?”

Pippin did not answer, but felt his face and ears turn a brilliant scarlet.

Why is it so dark? Where is my Merry? And Frodo, and Sam? Why can’t I breathe? I need to breathe! Merry? MERRY! FRODO! Help me, please, anyone! Strider?

But there was only the dark, stifling him, choking off what breath he had remaining, and he felt his body become heavy as lead, and just as still. He wanted to close his eyes, but when he tried, he realized they were already shut. Slowly, he opened them.

Faintly, as though from a very far distance, he heard a whisper of voices, though he could not make out what they were saying. He paid them no heed as his eyes roamed around the beauty before him, and then stopped.

Walking easily upon the sands, feet as bare as a hobbit’s and clad only in a loose jerkin and rolled-up trousers, Boromir approached, smiling a carefree smile that Pippin had never seen upon his face.

“Boromir,” he whispered, his breath catching in his throat as sudden tears filled his eyes, and he found himself running to greet the other, throwing himself into those strong arms that had fought so valiantly to save Merry and himself on that bleakest of days.

Boromir laughed, a sound of pure happiness, and caught the hobbit in mid air, spinning him around as he drew him close in a warm embrace.

“Boromir!” Pippin sobbed into the soft material of the man’s shoulder, not caring if he was dampening the tunic with his tears.

“Hush now, Little One,” Boromir soothed, his tone calm, gentle “I am here.”

He allowed the hobbit to weep himself out, kneeling so that when the tears had finally faded, he pushed the small form gently away from him, staring into the brilliant green eyes with tender fondness as he rested his hands upon those small shoulders.

“You must go back, Peregrin,” the man whispered softly, though there was no sorrow in his tone. “You cannot remain here.”

“But -“ Pippin started to protest, feeling his lips begin to quiver. A finger, absent of the sword calluses it had worn in life, stilled his protest.

“Listen to me, Peregrin,” Boromir whispered intently, squeezing the hobbit’s shoulders slightly. “You have a responsibility now. To your King, your kin, yourself...and to me.”

Pippin closed his eyes against the sudden onset of tears this last brought to his eyes, and nodded miserably. “I am a knight now,” he whispered.

“That is not the responsibility I speak of, Little One,” Boromir said softly. At the tweenager’s uncomprehending stare, he shook the hobbit slightly as he explained, in mild exasperation, “I want to see you live, Pippin! To marry, have children, grow old! I want to see you resting tired bones before a hearth, grandchildren about your knees! And you cannot leave Merry, not now.” Grief briefly clouded the warrior’s eyes, and he looked away, above Pippin’s head, as though seeing something the hobbit could not. “The shadow still lays heavily upon his soul, and should you pass now, he will not be long in joining you. And he, too, has a full life he may live, given the chance. ”

Then he turned his gaze back, and Pippin saw only love and compassion in those eyes.

“But, Boromir,” he managed to whisper, the words seeming to stick in his throat as he struggled to get the words out. “I am afraid.”

“And so are all who live and breathe,” Boromir smiled, gently moving one hand to rest it on Pippin’s curly hair.

“But that’s just it!” Pippin whimpered, his voice very small and young sounding. “How can I live, when even a little cold makes it so I cannot draw breath? How can I ever sleep again, when I am so afraid to close my eyes, lest I never open them?”

“Oh, Little One,” Boromir sighed, bringing the slight body close to his once more, his breath cool against Pippin’s cheek. “I pledge you this: every night as you drift off to sleep, I shall be there, holding your hand, until the day that you may walk by my side once more.”

“You promise?” Pippin asked in that same, small voice, not moving his head from where it pressed against Boromir’s chest.

“I swear it, one Knight to another,” Boromir answered, placing a tender kiss to Pippin’s head. “And now you must go.”

“But, I do not know the way!” Pippin whispered, pulling back slightly to gaze into that face once more, knowing his friend was at peace, and that Boromir’s sacrifice had not been regretted.

“There is one who does, and if you listen closely, you shall hear him,” Boromir whispered, standing slowly, one hand lingering on his friend’s shoulder before he gently pushed him back.

“Follow Aragorn, Little One, and he shall bring you home. I have no power to help him, but I can steer you in the right direction.” And thus saying, Boromir pointed to what appeared to be a bridge, though Pippin had not seen it before when he had arrived. “Go, brave Knight of Gondor, and serve our King once more.”

Pippin swallowed, hard, and nodded. Then he turned, though his feet shuffled slightly as he made his way over to the bridge that seemed to span a lifetime, crossing the sea and fading into the distance.

He looked back, once, and saw Boromir standing still where he had left him, watching closely. Then he placed his foot upon the bridge, and heard, clearly, Aragorn’s voice, a desperate note making it sharp.

“Peregrin Took, come back to me!”

Dimly, he could make out a form some distance down the bridge, and determinedly started toward it. As he neared, the figure slowly took shape, until Aragorn’s features were gazing down at him. Without a word, his friend held out his hand, and Pippin placed his small fingers within that grasp.

White light blinded him, and he knew no more.

“Pippin, come back to me.”

His eyes opened as he took a large, gulping gasp of air, as one who has surfaced after being under the water too long. Aragorn was above him, one hand still resting against Pippin’s brow, face pale and fearful. Beside him, Gandalf watched in concern, the wrinkles around his eyes suddenly more pronounced. Distantly, he could hear the sound of weeping.

He struggled to speak, to ask what had happened, and where were his cousins, but all he managed was to bring in another struggling breath.

“Easy, Little Bird,” Aragorn soothed, moving the hand from Pippin’s brow to his cheek, his fingers light and tender. The King’s voice was so filled with relief and exhaustion that it wavered, and for a moment Pippin feared that his friend might faint, or that his legs would give way. “Just concentrate on your breathing for now.”

“Pippin!”

A flurry of motion, followed by Merry’s arms wrapped about him desperately, though gently. Pippin smiled into his cousin’s shoulder, reveling in the ability to breathe once more, and managed to pat Merry’s back awkwardly.

“Pip!”

Another movement, and then Frodo and Sam were about him as well, tears marking a trail down their cheeks as they sobbed his name and held him close, until it was hard to tell where one hobbit began and another ended.

“Now, now, lads, enough of this, you must let him breathe,” Gandalf rebuked gently, starting to pull hobbits off of the slightly crushed tweenager, even as he himself wiped at his eyes.

“I’m...all right,” Pippin managed to whisper, smiling up at his friends.

He felt his eyes begin to droop once more, knowing he was safe and warm and loved, and did not fight the urge to sleep.

After all, Boromir was waiting for him.

“Lgls,” Pippin rasped, surprised at how difficult it was to force the words from his throat. His chest hurt, nearly as badly as when he had been crushed by the troll.

Legolas looked up immediately, putting aside his bowstring to move to Pippin’s side, bending over Merry to place a soothing hand to Pippin’s brow.

“How are you feeling this morning?” he asked softly, brushing curls back from the hobbit’s forehead.

“‘M chst hrts,” Pippin mumbled, trying to force the words out around. He tried again, forcing his lips to move correctly. “My chest hurts.”

“I have no doubt,” Legolas whispered, and a shadow flickered in the elf’s eyes. “You were very, very ill last night, Pippin. For long moments, we thought that we had lost you, for you ceased to draw breath, and became still. For a time, before Aragorn called you back, he had to breathe for you.”

Pippin swallowed, hard, at this revelation, and turned his gaze to his cousin.

“Yes,” Legolas murmured, answering his unspoken question. “Merry, too, had a very dark time last night, thinking that he had lost you, but he is also recovering. The shadow did not claim him, though it was a near thing.”

“It won’t…have him. Not so long...as I am here,” Pippin whispered, determination filling his voice.

A soft snore turned both their heads, to see Sam, curled up next to Frodo, both of them looking as though they had fallen asleep crying on each other’s shoulders, tear marks still evident on their cheeks.

“Why, Legolas?” Pippin whispered, turning back once more to his friend. “Why...did this happen?”

It was becoming easier to talk, as though his lungs were becoming accustomed once more to the action. Legolas sighed, closing his eyes for a moment as he gathered his thoughts.

“You developed a chest cold,” he began, opening his eyes once more to stare deeply into Pippin’s. “Apparently, the bruising done to your lungs by the troll was more extensive than we had realized, and the congestion caused the scar tissue to swell, preventing you from breathing.”

“Will...will this happen - every time I get sick?” Pippin asked in a trembling whisper, only fading memory of white shores and a pledge made by a beloved friend keeping him from being too frightened.

“For a while...yes,” Legolas answered regretfully. “Should the illness be one that affects the lungs. But it should fade as you grow older, and your lungs stronger. For now, however...” The elf sighed, and tenderly placed his hand on Pippin’s cheek. “You must take care of yourself, and do what you may to prevent getting sick for a while.”

Remembering the responsibility the Boromir had placed upon him, Pippin nodded.

“Now, let me get you something to drink, and then I shall let Aragorn know that you are awake,” Legolas murmured, moving to pour the hobbit a mug of water from a pitcher by the chair he had been sitting in, helping Pippin sit up to drink it, and then easing him back down.
“Will you be all right for a few moments?” he asked, clearly hesitant to leave the young Knight’s side and reluctant to wake one of the other hobbits.

“Go,” Pippin smiled, shooing his friend out. “I am better already.”

Legolas paused only long enough to touch Pippin’s cheek once more before he left the tent, moving with the grace and speed of his race. Only a few moments later he returned, Aragorn following close behind, wearing a robe over a soft leather tunic and trousers that reminded Pippin of the outfit worn by Boromir.

“Good morning, Little Bird,” Aragorn greeted him softly, moving to kneel beside the bed as Legolas resumed his seat. “Legolas tells me you are feeling better, though your chest hurts you.”

“Yes,” Pippin whispered, catching Aragorn’s hand as the King went to take his pulse. His friend’s eyes were slightly startled as he met Pippin’s gaze. “I am sorry, Strider,” Pippin breathed, feeling his breath begin to hitch in his throat and forcing himself to calm down. “I am sorry I did not tell you I was feeling ill.”

Aragorn’s eyes softened, and he smiled tiredly. “That is all right, my brave Knight. I knew that you were becoming ill, though as usual you were too stubborn to say anything. I had not anticipated such a severe reaction, however, and that is my fault.”

Pippin shook his head, tightening his grip slightly on Aragorn’s hand. Though the grip was weaker than the King would have liked, he was encouraged by the fierceness of it.

“I just need to be more careful, Strider,” Pippin whispered. “You won’t always be there to put me back together again, and I...” He paused, trying to even out his breath once more and stop the tears that threatened to form. “I have a responsibility to live, now. And I’ll do my best to make sure I stay around as long as I can.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Aragorn chuckled. “But for now, I am here, and I can put you back together. So I am going to rub some more of that ointment on your chest, and give you another potion, and you are to remain in that bed for at least another few days.”

Pippin opened his mouth to protest, knowing that the return of King Théoden to his home was the priority. Aragorn silenced any comment with a severe look.

“We can afford to stop for a few days, and I will not risk your life again so soon after nearly losing it,” the King reproached. “You need to gather your strength, and your stamina, and when you are more recovered, then you shall ride with myself or Arwen until we are certain the danger has passed. There will be no argument, either, for this is a direct order from your King.”

Pippin nodded, swallowing his embarrassment and guilt for slowing them down.

This is part of taking responsibility for myself, he told himself firmly. If I have to be a little embarrassed, then so be it.

“All right, Strider,” he finally murmured, sighing. The movement hurt, and he winced, scrunching his nose.

“Good. Now, let me get that rub, and then you can go back to sleep. I want you to try and eat some breakfast in a few hours, and then, if you are feeling up to it, you may sit in the sun for a bit.” Aragorn smiled at the look of relief on Pippin’s face, and tweaked his nose, gently. “I am learning,” the King whispered, and both Pippin’s and Legolas’ laughter were his reward.

Smiling, he left the tent.

“You scared me last night, Pippin,” Merry finally whispered, looking away from the other, to the trees waving gently in the light breeze. “I thought I had lost you, and for one moment...” Merry’s voice trailed off, his gaze distant.

“Merry?” Pippin asked, softly, reaching out to touch Merry’s hand. It was cold, though not as chilled as it had been after his initial wounding. Merry looked up, startled, as though having forgotten where he was. “Merry,” Pippin whispered again, and brought his cousin closer, moving his grasp to Merry’s shoulders and wrapping him in a warm embrace. “I promise: I won’t leave you, so long as you don’t leave me. All right?”

His cousin nodded into Pippin’s shoulder, and the young hobbit could feel Merry’s tears dampening his shirt. He held him for quite a while, his eyes closed as he enjoyed the feel of the other next to him, of the warmth slowly returning to cool flesh.

Soft footsteps finally broke them apart, and Merry sat up, wiping his eyes quickly as Aragorn approached, smiling down at them. He knelt between them, so that he could meet each of their eyes with his own steady gaze.

“Are you all right, my friends?” he asked softly, and smiled when both of them nodded. “Then I have some important things to discuss with you both. Though we shall not be moving for a few days, I thought it would be best to discuss this now rather than later.” Aragorn held up a small, dark jar, which he held out to Merry, who took it in steady hands.

“This is the rub for Pippin’s chest. Keep it close at hand, especially at night, for the next few months.” He held up his other hand, which held a small, burgundy pouch. “This is an herbal mixture that I want you to carry with you at all times,” he said seriously, placing the pouch around Pippin’s neck. “Should you even so much as get chilled, you are to make it into a tea immediately. Two pinches is all you will need, but I shall prepare a few more bags for when you get back to the Shire, and write down the ingredients of the tea and the rub for you Merry, so that you will know how to make more.”

His gaze was very serious, and Pippin and Merry both nodded.

“I do not believe that your lungs shall remain this weak for long, Pippin,” the King reassured, placing a hand on each of their shoulders. “The slightly thinner air and different climate were a part of the problem, but also the recent activity you have been doing, and this odd chill in the air at night. I truly believe that as you get older, and your wounds become more distant, your lungs shall be whole once more. Better even than they were during your childhood, I am certain. Until then, however,” he added, tapping the pouch and the jar. “Keep these items close.”

Both hobbits nodded, and Aragorn smiled once more, standing.

“Do not wear him out too much,” he cautioned Merry, leaving them as softly as he had arrived.

Pippin met his cousin’s gaze and smiled sweetly at him.

“I’m going to smell like a lass for the next year or so, aren’t I?” he whispered, and Merry could not help the chuckles that escaped him.

“That’s all right, Pip,” he managed to say around his snickers. “I won’t let the lads kiss you.”

“Thanks,” Pippin whispered wryly, taking Merry’s hand once more.

His cousin squeezed it gently, and the rest of the afternoon was spent in silence, the two of them enjoying the gentle breeze, and the sound of their two breaths mixed together.

Pippin moved gingerly before the warm fire, setting the teakettle back on its hook with some difficulty, his wrinkled hands weakened with age. Night had fallen some time before, and for the first time in many years, he stared at the empty bed that waited for him, knowing that his Merry would not be there to comfort him that night.

Then he smiled, and Aragorn, gazing at his friend with worry, wondered at the strange, peaceful expression that crossed his face. How could this small one, who had just that morning lost his best friend of his lifetime, smile such a sweet grin?

“I do believe I am ready to sleep, Strider,” Pippin whispered, moving slowly on painful legs to the beckoning bed.

“Pippin,” Aragorn murmured, feeling his own pain at Merry’s loss once more like a knife to his heart. “Will you be all right alone tonight?”

Once more that strange smile graced the old hobbit’s lips, and he turned mischievous eyes to his King.

“I’ll be fine, Strider. I won’t be alone,” Pippin assured him, climbing unsteadily into the bed with his friend’s help. He patted the King’s hand, lying back with a satisfied groan.

For a moment Aragorn looked down at his beloved knight and dear comrade, then smiled sadly. Bending down, he placed a tender kiss to the wrinkled brow.

“Good night, old friend. Sleep well,” he murmured, allowing his gaze to linger for a bit longer before he doused the candle and left the room, knowing that by the morning, his friend would have followed his Merry once more.

Pippin sighed as he felt himself drift off to slumber, feeling tender fingers that had held him and steadied him throughout his life gently take his hand, leading him to a place of emerald green hills and white shores.

Off in the distance, a figure strode toward them, smiling and laughing as two hobbit voices floated to his ears, the end of a long day apart finally behind them.

“I knew you wouldn’t leave me behind,” Pippin whispered into his cousin’s ear, and was rewarded by Merry’s sweet smile and warm embrace.

“How could I leave my heart behind?” Merry asked softly, and the two of them ran towards their beloved friend, smiling and clasping hands, knowing they would never have to let go again.