The night held it’s breath as the two stood, peering into the inky black that surrounded them.  Aragorn tightened his hold on the young hobbit as he saw what had frightened him so, feeling the taut shoulder tremble under his hand. 

Two glints of moonlight stared back at them, unblinking and still as death. 

“Aragorn –“ Pippin hissed, sounding faint and frightened as he lifted a shaking hand to point to a second set of eyes that joined the first.  Then a third. 

A low growling filled the air, like the sound of a thousand angry bees caught in a jar. 

“Wake the others,” Aragorn hissed, drawing his sword as he gently but firmly pushed the hobbit towards the others.  “Quickly.”

Pippin did not hesitate, scrambling over the unseen bushes and rocks in his path as he made his way towards where the others slept.  He stumbled, falling onto the nearest form. 

“What the -!” an angry voice gasped, muddled with sleep and indignation at having his rest spoiled. 

“Wake up!  Wake up!” Pippin snapped, shaking the shoulder of the unknown.  “There is something out there!”

He did not wait for a reply but hurried to the next form, now stirring sleepily. 

“Wake up!” he moaned, fretfully turning his eyes back to Aragorn, relieved to see he still stood immobile, seemingly staring down their invisible attackers.  “Please, wake up!”

“What’s going on?” Legolas asked, already standing with his bow in his hand. 

“Something is out there,” Pippin whispered, moving to the other forms that were by now all moving, throwing blankets aside as they sat up wearily, seeking weapons hidden by shadows.

“AAAAAAAAAHGGGGGGG!” 

The cry startled all of them, followed by the sound of a sharp yelp of pain, though human or creature they could not tell.  Legolas was running before Pippin could blink, and a stout form brushed past him as Gimli let out his own battle cry, ax at the ready. 

Boromir joined them a heartbeat later in the dash to Aragorn’s side, while the Hobbits struggled to gain their feet and their weapons at the same time.  Gandalf appeared seemingly out of nowhere, his staff held high, voice grim as he warned them, “Prepare yourselves, Lads, the battle has begun.”

Pippin’s chest felt as though it might burst, and he suddenly realized he had stopped breathing.  He took in a gasping breath, drawing his sword with a shaking hand as he huddled close with the others.  Merry was at his side, though he could not remember how he got there.

He had only known such intense fear once before, on Weathertop with the attack if the Ring Wraiths.   Then, as now, his world seemed to slow, the blood rushing in his head blocking out the sounds of battle.  He was vaguely aware of yelps and howls, of movement beside them, and then Gandalf yelling at them all to move, while Merry grabbed his arm. 

“Look out!” Sam shouted.

And suddenly the monster was in front of them.

            For a moment the world ceased to breath, and only silence rang in his ears.  A wolf, larger than any Pippin had seen or heard of, barred their path, lips pulled back in an enraged snarl to reveal white, glinting teeth. 

He met the creature’s eyes, and for the barest of heartbeats, saw the whole of the world in their depths. 

 Perhaps, he thought absently to himself as Gandalf appeared with a great yell and engaged the beast, not all monsters are monsters by choice.  And then he thought no more as another beast appeared beside the first.

 As one the hobbits charged, screaming shrilly as they did so, distracting the second wolf from its attempt to corner the wizard.

 His blade met flesh, knew the others had hit their mark as well as a great screech filled his ears.  The wolf snarled, whipping its head around and catching him in the stomach.  He flew backward, landing awkwardly on his side.  Something exploded in his head, and for a moment not even Gandalf’s fireworks could match the brilliance of the stars before his eyes.  And then they, too, twinkled and died.

He was cold, a cold that seemed to seep into his bones and rattle them.  For a moment he could not breath with it, as though his lungs were filled with ice, and panic gripped him. 

  “Calm down!”

  He knew that voice, though it took his fuzzy brain a moment to register who it belonged to. 

 “Calm down, Pippin.  The battle is over, it’s all right,” Aragorn soothed, and for the first time he was aware of a gentle hand working its way through his hair.  Fingers brushed the back of his head, just above the neck, and he yelped as a sharp pain had him gasping for air again.

“Hush, hush, it’s all right.  I’m sorry, Pippin, I had to see how bad the wound was.”

  For the first time he realized that he was sitting up, body canted forward and supported by the Ranger’s strong arm.  He opened his eyes with effort and then wished he had not as the world seemed to spin dizzily around him.

His breath hitched in his throat and he knew he was going to be sick.  Apparently Aragorn did as well, for he quickly shifted him to his side, allowing him to vent his stomach without choking. 

 “Easy, Little One, I’ve got you,” he soothed, stroking Pippin’s back as he continued to dry heave long after his insides were empty.  Finally the terrible nausea eased, and he was able to breath again. 

 “Better?” Aragorn asked softly, and Pippin managed to nod, then wished he hadn’t as a dull throb met the movement.

 “What –“ he rasped, then coughed with the dryness of his throat.  He was shivering now, and barley able to get the words out once he regained his voice.  “What happened?  Is anyone hurt?”

 “Only you were truly hurt, Pippin.”  Aragorn answered the last question first as he gently laid the hobbit back down onto what felt like blankets.  “As for the attack – all I can say is that wolves do not normally attack prey such as us.  There were seven of them, now all dead.  Borimir and Gimli are burying the bodies as we speak, and the others are packing our gear.  Once they are done, we must move out.”

Knowing what he was going to say before he could even open his mouth to ask the question, Aragorn smiled encouragingly and added, “Do not worry about moving about, Master Took.  Myself or Boromir shall carry you for as long as we must.  Now, I need you to try and drink this, and then rest until it is time to go.”

 A warm mug was held to his lips, and though it smelled strongly of something very unpleasant, he drank it gratefully just for the warmth it presented.  After he had done so Aragorn bandaged his head as gently as he could, then allowed him to lay back down, drained and feeling utterly spent.  He did not even realize when he fell back into sleep.