Chapter 6, In the Still of the Night

April 5, just before midnight

Pippin felt himself float to the surface of wakefulness. He rolled over, trying to will himself back to sleep, but to no avail. No matter which way he turned, the fullness in his bladder followed. It must have been all that water he drank just before going to bed, he thought ruefully. After supper, Strider had Merry walk with him once more inside the tent, which left Pippin worn out and very thirsty.

“Merry!” he whispered loudly to his snoring cousin.

No answer.

Pippin tried again, “Merry! Wake up!”

Rather than shout and wake up his tent neighbours, Pippin let his legs drop over the side of the bed, slipping his feet to the floor. At once Pippin heard his healer’s words from earlier in the day: “you are not to rise from your bed without Merry by your side nor are you to leave this tent.”

“I’m only going to the privy!” he reasoned under his breath, though no one was awake to listen to it. Rather than head straight for the convenience that had been situated behind a privacy screen earlier in the day, Pippin decided to see if he could rouse Merry from his bedside. However, when his eyes caught sight of the serene expression on his cousin's face, Pippin relented. How could he disturb such a peaceful slumber? He and Merry got so little of it of late. Gazing at his best friend, Pippin saw that Merry indeed looked every bit of his thirty-seven years and then some. Instead of waking Merry, Pippin reached for his dear cousin’s blanket, pulling it up to keep him warm. “Poor old Merry!” Pippin thought to himself.

Pippin next ambled over to the privy do what he got out of bed to do--and feeling every muscle his body used to get him there. When he finished his business Pippin found that his thirst had returned with a vengeance. Consequently, when he returned to his bed Pippin also discovered that his water pitcher was empty. He turned round, looking at Merry...then looked at the empty ewer in his hand. He searched for any sign that Merry was not in the deepest of slumbers, yet the soft, audible snores coming from the nose of the sleeping hobbit suppressed any hope of that.

Pippin sighed. Perhaps if he stood in the doorway a passing soldier might be kind enough to do this one favour of fetching fresh water from the stream. Again, Pippin focussed all of his energy toward a goal; this time, the entryway of his tent. Slowly, and ever so achingly, he finally made it there. Pippin’s ribs were beginning to smart with every movement he made.

Peeking through the door flap, Pippin felt a brush of crisp, clean night air touch his cheek. He took in a deep breath...until a sharp pang in his ribs reminded him that he needed to slow down a bit. Looking up, Pippin saw that the moon was starting His western descent beyond the silhouetted boughs. Not a soul stirred throughout the area of Pippin’s tent, save those on watch on the perimeter of the camp.

“Perhaps I ought to wake up Merry,” he thought sadly when no one passed by. Pippin did not wish to interrupt his dear Merry’s slumber, but the longer he stood here waiting for someone, the more bent he became from the growing pain in his ribs.

But then, as he turned to retreat back inside his tent...

Pippin saw him.

Across from his own tent was Frodo! His dear, dear Frodo.

Pippin’s sharp, green eyes were riveted upon the glorious sight of his beloved cousin and Sam lying upon their beds through the entryway of their own tent, which stood right across from his. Pippin could see the soft glow of the golden lantern light upon the faces of his dear friend and cousin. Something even more marvellous occurred right then as he watched: Frodo turn over in his sleep. Pippin’s keen ears caught a sound upon the breeze; did Frodo sigh?

The empty pitcher dropped to the ground out of Pippin’s grasp, his attention taken elsewhere.  His eyes remained fixed upon the Ringbearer and his servant.

Pippin felt drawn to their tent--the warning Strider gave earlier in the day became a distant drone in his head. Willing or no, little by little, Pippin’s feet began to move forward.

Halfway across the path, Pippin was forced to take a rest, his hands resting upon his knees while he caught his breath. “I’m going to be in for it now!” he said to himself, knowing he would be in trouble with Aragorn, yet he couldn’t stop himself. Pippin looked up, seeing again the sweet faces of his friends deep in blessed slumber. Need drove Pippin forward, heedless of the warnings his body gave to rest a bit longer.

By the time Pippin reached the entrance, his breaths came in hitches, his eyes watered from the pain. He stepped inside.

Wonder came over Pippin; he had not laid eyes on his dear old cousin for ages, it seemed. “He is too thin,” Pippin thought as he leaned upon the footboard for support. His ribs felt as if they were being stabbed by many knives. The face Pippin now saw barely resembled that of the easy-going hobbit he knew as a child. Lines of worry and care etched Frodo’s Face, and no less upon Sam’s. Like Merry, these two looked every bit their ages...more so for Frodo. And his finger! Tears welled in Pippin’s eyes. A bandage swathed over his right hand covered the wound; however, Pippin knew his sword, Troll’s Bane, would find a good place to stick that foul creature Gollum--if he was still alive. It was he who bit off Frodo's finger.

“Pippin? What are you doing out of bed?”

Startled, Pippin leaned away from Frodo’s bed, searching for the voice's origin. Stabbing pain renewed its efforts to overcome the young hobbit. The voice did not belong to Frodo or Sam, of course. Seeing the white-robed figure sitting in the beside chair, Pippin knew it belong to Gandalf. He looked over to the wizard, wordlessly pleading for help as sank to his knees gasping for air. Pippin was losing his battle in fighting the pain.

Time slowed to a near stand-still as darkness closed in around Pippin. Gandalf rose from his chair...Pippin felt his body fall forward, unable to stop the momentum before his forehead grazed the post of the footboard. But he did not feel it. Pippin was already unconscious before he hit the ground.