Chapter Two: Awakening

Aragorn sat with bowed head, one hand over his eyes. Legolas eyed him in concern. The new king looked to be on the fine edge of exhaustion. Before Legolas could say anything, however, Aragorn straightened up.

"Gandalf found Frodo and Sam. The Eagles have flown them to Ithilien, to the field of Cormallen. One of the Eagles returned for me at Gandalf’s request. They were nearly too far gone when I arrived, but they are strong, these hobbits. I do not think I have ever seen anyone stronger, or more stubborn. There is a good chance they will survive." He closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the pathetic sight that had met his eyes when he arrived in Ithilien, the two hobbits barely recognizable, covered in blood and filth, soot and ashes, bones visible through the skin that was barely covered by the ragged remnants of their clothing. It had taken long searching to find their thoughts and their lives had hung in the balance for hours before they’d finally settled into a deep healing sleep and he’d felt it was safe to leave them for a short while.

Returning his gaze to his friend, he continued, "I’ve ordered the rest of the wounded moved to Cormallen as well. They’ve already begun transferring the patients to wagons for the removal. It will be a difficult journey for one so injured." He looked at Pippin, worry showing clear in his gaze. "One of the Eagles has flown to Minas Tirith, to spread the word of our victory, here. I’ve also sent messengers, some of the men who were at Cair Andros, requesting supplies and healers. I’ve summoned Merry, as well. I had no details about Pippin, naturally, although Gandalf seemed to have received some news, and told me you’d found him and that he yet lived, if barely. I’m afraid my note to Merry was rather vague."

He stood up, swaying wearily, and smiled gratefully when Legolas placed a steadying hand on his arm.

"You are exhausted, my friend," Legolas commented, "you must sleep."

"Yes," Aragorn agreed, "but only briefly. The hobbits are not the only ones to be grievously wounded and my skill will be needed many times on this trip."

"All the more reason for you to rest now," Legolas countered, leading Aragorn to an empty pallet not far away, "come now, lie down. I will stand watch and wake you in a few hours."

Too tired to protest, Aragorn laid himself down on the pallet with a sigh, closing his eyes and falling instantly into a deep sleep. Legolas shook out a blanket and draped it over his friend before returning to sit by Pippin’s cot. The young hobbit was sleeping quietly now but his cheeks were flushed with fever and Legolas knew he was not yet out of danger.

***

He drifted. Voices came and went, sometimes demanding a response and sometimes simply murmuring on the edge of awareness. Pain was a constant, sometimes flaring up sharply, other times duller, but never gone, never even close to gone.

Occasionally something was placed to his lips and a soft voice would urge him to drink. Cool, soothing fluid moistened the parched tissue of his mouth and sometimes he would move his lips, trying to ask for more. More often, he would drift off again before he was able to do more than swallow the first drops of moisture.

Cold and heat vied for dominance in his body, one moment finding him weakly trying to escape the blankets that cocooned him and the next moment shivering painfully and wondering who had allowed the fire to go out. Surely Mum and Dad could see that he was cold. He grumbled at them, trying to explain, but they faded away before he could make them understand. And then it was hot again and once more he was trying to push the blankets off his overheated body. Finally, a quiet voice began crooning soothingly to him, while a strong but gentle grip captured his hands and held them still. Unable to fight, he finally drifted away again.

***

"Did he say something?" Gimli asked, leaning over Pippin and observing his flushed face with something close to alarm.

Legolas wiped the hobbit’s face with a damp cloth as he answered, "He’s delirious, I’m afraid. I believe he was talking to his parents."

Aragorn had spoken truly when he said it would be a difficult journey. Gimli and Legolas had taken turns sitting in the wagon that carried Pippin, doing what they could to make their friend comfortable, and helping the healers with the other wounded men as well. It was nearing noon on the second day of travel and they had no more than five miles to go before arriving at the new camp. Legolas was greatly relieved. There had been no rest for Pippin while they traveled and the hobbit was exhausted, feverish and confused.

"I’ll sit with the lad a while," Gimli said, taking the cloth from Legolas’ hand. "You haven’t eaten yet today, and elf or no, you need food the same as the rest of us do."

Legolas smiled at the dwarf’s gruff words and relinquished his spot in the wagon. Leaping lightly to the ground, he walked over to the supply wagon, snagging some fruit, bread and cheese, and ate as he walked alongside the wains of injured soldiers. It had been a hard trip for everyone. A number of men, badly wounded in the battle, had died in the last day and a half. It was always the same, in the aftermath of a battle, and the elf mourned the loss of life.

They had reached the borders of Ithilien and Legolas inhaled deeply of the fresh air, rejoicing at the smell of green growing things. Finishing off his meal, he untied Arod from the back of Pippin’s wagon and mounted. Setting heels to the horse’s side, he moved along the line of wagons, searching for Aragorn. Approaching the head of the line, he spied Eomer and rode up alongside the King of Rohan.

"Hail, my friend," Eomer greeted him warmly. "How fares the holbytla?"

"As well as can be expected, under these circumstances. Aragorn seems to be satisfied with his condition."

"You disagree?"

"I am not a healer," Legolas frowned. "All I know is that Pippin is exhausted and in pain. I will be greatly relieved when we reach Cormallen and he can rest easier."

"Ah, well it won’t be long now."

Eomer spoke truly. It was less than two hours later that the wagons came to a halt in a large, green field next to a large wooded area. Tents had already been set up and everyone busied themselves moving the injured men from wagon-bed to soft cots. A small tent had been prepared for Pippin, situated near the edge of the area set aside for healing, and not far from Aragorn’s own tent.

Aragorn came to check on the hobbit a short time after they settled him into his new cot. "Has he been awake at all?" he asked as he examined his patient.

"Not truly awake," Gimli answered. "He stirs from time to time, mutters a word or two occasionally, but he hasn’t opened his eyes yet."

"Well, he is doing much better than I had dared to hope," Aragorn said as he concluded his examination. "He is fevered, but the fever is not dangerously high and there is no sign of infection in any of his wounds. I think with plenty of quiet and rest, his injuries will heal fully. It is the head wound that still worries me most. There is no way to know how much damage has been done until he wakes."

He moved away to a small brazier sitting near the center of the tent. Opening a packet, he dumped the contents in a cooking pot and poured in hot water, stirring until everything was well mixed, and then scooped a small tin cup into the resultant brew. Returning to Pippin’s side, he carefully spooned the contents of the cup into the hobbit’s mouth, watching carefully to see how well Pippin swallowed each spoonful. The young hobbit seemed to be at least partially conscious, opening his mouth slightly to accept the spoon, and swallowing the drink without choking.

"See that he gets a dose of this mixture every four hours. It doesn’t have to be hot, but he’ll respond better to it if it’s at least warm."

Gimli nodded in acknowledgment, watching Aragorn’s gentle handling of his patient. The lad looked more dead than alive, lying so still, with large black and purple bruises covering most of his body, except where swathes of bandaging covered the skin. He hoped that Aragorn spoke truly when he said that Pippin was doing well.

After a few more minutes, Aragorn bid Gimli farewell and went on his rounds, checking on each wagon load of patients as they arrived and were settled into the tents. Left to his vigil, Gimli lighted his pipe and made himself as comfortable as he could in the camp chair that had been set up next to Pippin’s bed.

***

"Come on laddie, just a few more sips and you’ll be all done." A deep, gruff voice penetrated his sleep. He felt something touch his lips and opened his mouth slightly, swallowing the bitter liquid automatically. He frowned at the taste, feeling vaguely indignant that someone would feed him such foul stuff when he was sleeping and defenseless. When the spoon came back to his lips, he pressed them together, preferring to be thirsty.

"Pippin, you have to drink this. Come now lad, you’re almost done. Just a few more sips and then I’ll give you some water." The voice was unfamiliar and Pippin was beginning to wonder who was speaking to him and what was happening. His head hurt and, a bit more distantly, the rest of his body ached as well.

The spoon was at his mouth again. He really didn’t want any more of the bitter tasting concoction, but the spoon would not be denied and before he could prevent it, the liquid was in his mouth. He held it there for a moment, not sure if he could swallow it, or if it might not be better to just spit it out again. After a moment, however, good breeding won out and he reluctantly swallowed the liquid.

"Good lad. I know it tastes foul, Pippin, but you’re almost done. This is the last sip, I promise." The ever present spoon found it’s way into his mouth once again, and Pippin forced himself to swallow. He sighed in relief when the spoon was taken away.

"Well done, Pippin. That’s it for the medicine. Would you like some water, now?"

Pippin frowned again, feeling a stitch of pain across his forehead as he did so. This wasn’t right. He thought he knew all the hobbits at the Smials but he didn’t recognize this voice at all. It sounded wrong somehow, too deep and guttural to be a hobbit. As he picked at this odd puzzle, his mind started waking up a bit more, and he realized that his eyes were still closed.

His eyelids felt as though they were weighed down with sandbags or sacks of flour. He forced them up, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The room was spinning and far too bright. Moaning in distress, he closed his eyes again and waited for his sense of equilibrium to return.

"Pippin, lad, can you hear me?" The voice was back, speaking in tones of concern now. He wanted to respond, but wasn’t sure he was able.

"It’s all right, Pippin. I’ll just let Aragorn know you’re awake." He heard heavy footsteps receding and a murmur of voices right at the edge of hearing. Then the footsteps returned to his side. "He will be here shortly. Would you like some water while we wait?"

He decided to risk opening his eyes again, still curious about this person who sounded so very unfamiliar. This time, the room was steadier, and he squinted against the brightness of the light as he looked about the room and tried to catch a glimpse of the speaker.

As he looked around, he began to wonder again where he was. This room was as unfamiliar to him as the voice. It didn’t have the look of a hobbit hole at all. The walls went straight up to a high ceiling, and seemed to be made of some sort of heavy fabric. Looking around cautiously, he saw that the light came from an open door. Looking closer, he realized it must be a tent of some sort, although it was a strange sort of tent, with those absurdly high ceilings. Why, he thought, I bet Gandalf or a Big Person could stand up in this tent and have plenty of head room. It was an odd thought, that seemed to trigger something at the very edge of his memory, but he couldn’t catch whatever it was and soon forgot about it.

He turned his head slightly and froze, closing his eyes, as pain washed through him. He didn’t realize he was whimpering until the voice returned. "Don’t try to move, Pippin. Just lie still until Aragorn gets here."

That was the second or third time this person had made reference to someone named Aragorn, as though that would mean something to Pippin. He took a deep breath and then bit back the cry that tried to burst from him when his strained ribs protested the movement. He was becoming truly frightened now. Something was terribly, terribly wrong. Why was he in so much pain, where was he, and who were these strangers?

Bracing himself, he opened his eyes again and tried to find the owner of the deep voice. He saw that there was a chair pulled up next to his bed and on that chair...on that chair was a dwarf. It could be nothing else. He’d seen dwarves a few times, once at old Bilbo’s famous Birthday Party, and once or twice since then, and there could be no doubt. That was a dwarf sitting there glowering at him.

"Easy, Pippin. You’re safe, here." Now he knew where that deep, gravelly voice came from. Pippin unconsciously pressed back and away as the dwarf leaned over him. He didn’t understand what was going on. Desperately, he cast back in his mind, trying to remember what had happened and how he had ended up here, wherever here was. Meanwhile, he continued to press back into his pillows, fighting the panic that was welling up in his mind.

"Who...where am I?" he whispered roughly. His voice caught in his throat and he began coughing, pulling at his sore ribs once again. The dwarf was at his side instantly, lifting him up slightly and bringing a cup to his lips. He was unprepared for how much his head would hurt when it was moved, however, and between the coughing and the sudden burst of pain, he was unable to swallow the water in his mouth, choking and gasping as it went down the wrong way, only adding to his fear and pain.

That was the limit of what Pippin was able to take, and he began to fight weakly, trying to get away from the dwarf’s grip. He was too exhausted to fight for long, however, and soon went limp as the pain overwhelmed him. He was only dimly aware of the dwarf laying him back down on the pillows and moving away. His head was pounding and he felt sick to his stomach. Unable to deal with any more of this strange, frightening situation, he withdrew, curling up as much as he was able and closing his eyes. He could hear the dwarf speaking to him, but refused to answer. His exhaustion quickly overwhelmed him and soon he fell into a welcoming sleep.