Chapter Seven

I step up to the hobbit and quickly examine his wound. It is a deep slash in his right side, but the wound does not answer why the lad is unconscious. Next to the slumped lad, I also see the body of a Harad soldier lying beside him; a butcher’s knife embedded in his chest and an iron skillet on the floor next to his head. Looking at the boy, I ask what had happened.

The boy, obviously distressed, sat down to answer. “A wounded Harad came into the house and demanded mother to treat him, or he said he would kill the children. When he perceived mother too slow, he hit her. I jumped up, but the halfling was swifter. He picked up the rod from the fireplace and stabbed the soldier in the back of his leg. The soldier turned around in his pain and slashed the halfling there where you see. The soldier then cuffed him hard and left him for dead. Mother was also quick; grabbing the iron pan from the sideboard, she hit the soldier from behind. Then I ran into the kitchen and got the…the…,” The shaken boy faltered and couldn’t go on.

“Bring the child here onto the table,” the woman calls out, wiping it clear of small items with one sweep of her harm. I note there is a darkening bruise underneath her eye.

“The lad needs immediate care.” I lift Isengar into my arms and see his blood dripping upon her floor. “I must get him back to the ship.”

“I can treat him here, Mithrandir!” The woman takes up a needle and some strong thread and holds it up, “I have stitched up my own husband and son more times than I care to remember.”

Holding Isengar in my arms, I look to Mirgalond for confirmation. Fortunately, he nods and displays a neatly healed scar on his forearm. I reason that if I do not accept the woman’s offer, Isengar will not survive his return to the ship. I accept her offer. I take my young charge over to the table and gently lay him down upon it. The woman wastes no time in beginning her ministrations.

When she has made her first stitch, Isengar begins to stir. As she pierces him a second time, he struggles weakly. I hold him down firmly as he wakes up while she continues her stitching. I explain to him what is being done to his wound. He grits his teeth and purses his lips, but he does not cry out. Tears escape his eyes at each penetration of the needle through his skin. He reaches up and takes my hand in his, feeling him clench it tight with every prick.

I have seen lesser men swoon at such suffering. For all of the lad’s cheek and aggravation, I decide then and there, that young Isengar Took is the bravest hobbit I have ever laid eyes upon.

* * * * * * *

“Gandalf?”

The voice is Peregrin’s. He is waking up from an elixir-induced sleep. He lifts his head and wearily looks around, but is too weak to do much more than that. He closes his eyes, laying his head back onto his pillow and says nothing more, seeming to have fallen back to sleep.

“Do you know where you are, Peregrin?” I ask.

The young hobbit puzzles at my question. His countenance conveys the ache in his head remains.

“No,” he whispers.

Three days ago, after the last battle, it was Gimli who discovered a hobbit’s foot underneath a heap of bodies. The foot belonged to Peregrin. Gimli thought for sure he was returning to camp with a dead hobbit in his arms, but it was Aragorn who deemed the lad was still breathing, though faintly. His broken body was taken at once to the tent where other healers were comforting the injured.

Presently, I take a cloth from a warm bowl of water mixed with king’s foil and wring out the excess water. I lightly wipe his face with the cloth, endeavoring to let the fragrance fill his nostrils. He takes in a deep breath, but then grimaces at the pain.

“Once more, Peregrin.”

“No.” His eyes are still closed.

I dip the cloth again and repeat what I had just done.

I coax him along as I place the cloth directly under his nose. “Take just a small breath, Peregrin--a little at a time.”

Little by little, each breath the lad takes is a joyful sign that the healing is progressing. I seek to comfort Peregrin a bit more by telling him his cousin Meriadoc should arrive sometime around nightfall. Legolas has been dispatched to bring him here from Minas Tirith.

Peregrin lies quietly, making no answer, but I can see that his face brightens at the mention of Meriadoc.

“Drink this, my lad.” I have concocted a tincture to put him at ease, and hopefully put him to sleep again. He drinks most of what is in the cup as I hold it to his lips.

As I set the cup aside, I feel the touch of his cool fingers upon my hand. His green eyes, clouded with pain, are now filled with tears. I cannot imagine the bodily suffering of this young hobbit, crushed beneath the weight of an enormous troll and dead bodies of soldiers and orcs.

He whispers, “Don’t leave me, Gandalf…please.”

I take his bandaged hand and gently clasp both of my hands around his. I smile warmly, running my hand through his thick curls, “I will not leave you, Peregrin Took.”

My brave hobbit…Ernil i Pheriannath.

Note: Some folks believe that Isengar Took “went to sea as a youth” and then never returned. How I see it, is unlike Hildifons, the Took Family Tree never says that Isengar never returns. In fact, it not only gives a year of birth, it also gives a year of death. The Tooks wouldn’t know the year of his death unless he was in the Shire when he died--at least that’s my reasoning. It does specifically state that Hildifons went on an adventure and ‘never returned’, and omitted the year of his death.

However, everyone is entitled to their own imagination, and mine says that he did return, and as only hobbits can do, he spun the wildest tales!