They set off again as soon as the sun set, Pippin walking unsteadily beside Merry.  His head was pounding something fierce, and the world had an odd tendency to list and slip out from under his feet at unwelcome times. 

“For pity’s sake, Pip,” Merry finally growled as his cousin clutched his arm for the fifth time in less than a quarter hour.  “Why didn’t you just let Aragorn carry you like he wanted?”

There was worry in his tone despite the words, and Pippin grimaced at him in apology.  “I thought I was up to it,” he explained simply, trying to right himself.

“Is everything all right?” Frodo asked anxiously ahead of them, stopping to turn around and glance back at them.  His frown deepened at Pippin’s near gray complexion. 

“I think –“ Pippin began, then stopped as a wave of nausea had him doubled over, retching miserably.    Vaguely he was aware of someone helping him to the ground, Merry probably, and someone else rubbing his back soothingly. 

“Is there a problem?” Boromir asked somewhere off to his left, though his eyes were closed as he fought another round of heaving and unable to see the man’s expression. 

“Pippin’s sick,” Merry told the warrior worriedly. 

“What’s happening?”

Pippin groaned as Legolas’ voice joined the others and he wished for everything he was worth that he could simply crawl into a hole and shrivel up.  Being sick in front of his cousins was one thing; they had tended to him since he was a babe and had dealt with his soiled nappies and spit up. 

The others were another matter altogether.

 “I’m all right now,” he managed to get out between breaths of air that seemed suddenly strained.

“No, you’re not!” Sam pointed out grimly, kneeling down next to him and placing a cool hand to Pippin’s brow. 

“Really, Sam –“ he tried to protest, though he never had been able to argue with the gardener about anything more serious than a stolen taste of whatever was cooking.  He was too honest a friend. 

“Hush, Pippin,” Frodo ordered, and Pippin realized it was him who was still rubbing his back. 

The three hobbits looked up at the sound of approaching footsteps, and then Aragorn was kneeling next to him, nodding slightly to Sam as the other was forced to move slightly. 

“How are you feeling now, Pippin?” he asked worriedly, placing his own large hand to the tween’s head. 

“Sick,” Pippin whispered, closing his eyes again. 

“Is he all right?” Gimli asked worriedly, Gandalf close behind him. 

“He will be once he rests a bit more,” Aragorn assured everyone.  “Let me get him something to drink and then we shall be on our way again.”

This time he did not protest as he drank the foul liquid Aragorn had apparently prepared beforehand.  And when the large Ranger picked him up tenderly to carry him, the only thing he felt was grateful that he was able to hide his face in the other’s cloak until sleep could erase the shame burning around the lump in his throat. 

He used to enjoy sleeping.  Often times his mother would come into his room in exasperation, throwing aside his blankets and declaring for the third and last time that if he did not get up he would not get second breakfast for a week. 

The feel of leaden muscles, of eyes contentedly heavy and a mind dulled to all around it had been the greatest of comforts.  Whether laying upon thick, warm blankets with a soft pillow cradling his head, or on the side of a hill in summer, the smell of fresh grass in his nose, sleep had been more relaxing than any drought of ale.

But now his slumber was troubled, and the dreams he used to look forward to as he closed his eyes at night had fled.   All that remained were shadows with gleaming eyes and faces hidden by a darkness that no light seemed to pierce. 

“I am worried about Pippin, Gandalf.”  Frodo’s voice was soft, filled with worry as he gazed at the sleeping form held so gently in the Ranger’s strong arms as they continued to climb the never ceasing mountain.  “I have known him since he was but a few days old, and never have I seen him so quiet or withdrawn.”

Gandalf sighed, his own eyes seeking that silent form even as one of his wrinkled hands came to rest on Frodo’s shoulder.  He, too, had his worries.  Much as he had complained of Pippin’s constant chatter and endless questions, he missed them.  In all his long years he had known a great many number of Tooks, each of them a shining light even in the darkest of hours.  Rarely had he ever seen any of that clan falter in their curiosity and cheer. 

But when they did…

Even the stars at night dimmed in sorrow at the loss of such rare innocence and simple love. 

“Is there nothing we can do?” Frodo asked.  “He won’t even speak to Merry now when we stop, just says he is tired and doesn’t want to talk.”

Gandalf’s eyes narrowed for a moment, then he squeezed Frodo’s shoulder and smiled encouragingly down at him, an odd twinkle in his eye.

“I will speak with him when we stop for the night.  And let us see if he will refuse to have words with me.”

Frodo smiled up at him in relief.  So long as Gandalf was around, he knew his Pip would be all right.