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.