Chapter Text
March 27, 3019. Dawn was breaking on the Field of Cormallen. Pippin awoke blearily, thinking he had been summoned for duty (he usually had it in the afternoons, though in the early morning that was not easily remembered). He sat up and felt pain stab him in the head and arms. That roused him suddenly, though still not fully, and he strove to remember his circumstances. The battle at the Black Gate. What on earth had happened? He had fainted clean away after the ordeal with that monstrous troll. There had been an Eagle, he recalled, and cries of joy unlooked-for in that terrible moment of despair. Had the War been won after all?
He looked around. He was at the corner of a sick-tent, and all around him lay the sick and wounded. But even the worst-hurt among these Men smiled and spoke gaily; and, peering outside, Pippin found that the sun was shining on the grass of this unfamiliar field in (he guessed) the fair land of Ithilien. The air was light and free of all the swirling storms that had haunted it ever since Pippin's ride south. He marvelled to feel it, and to see the world about him renewed.
So it was true, then: the Dark Tower had been thrown down, and peace was returning. His cares were finally at an end. Soon it would be time to put away the garments of the Citadel, much though he loved them, and say his good-byes to Beregond and Faramir and all the Big People of Minas Tirith that he cared for. Yes, he would even have to part with the other members of the Company, for he was going home to the Shire with his friends.
His friends. Pippin blinked and opened his eyes fully. Frodo. What had happened to Frodo and Sam? They must have destroyed the Ring, if victory had been won. But were they here? Were they safe? He was awake now, and desperate to know. The heady feeling of triumph would have to wait.
“Master Perian,” stammered a healer as Pippin dressed and made ready to depart the sick-tent. “You have lain unconscious for a day, and I was told that you must rest awhile longer ere you depart--”
“You were told wrong,” Pippin replied as he marched out. His spare shirt was wrinkled and missing a button, and his trousers were a tad too large after all he had been through, but he hardly noticed. Around him were dozens of tents, housing all the men who had marched on the Black Gate and who now rested, or patrolled the camp, or chased what few enemies remained back to their holes in the East. But nearby stood a large yellow tent that stood out from the rest; it was near the beech trees at the edge of the camp, draped in sweet fragrances and swaying sunbeams. Merry was standing near the entrance, fidgeting with worry. Pippin was surprised to see him, since he recalled that Merry had stayed behind in Minas Tirith to recover from the wounds he had sustained on the Pelennor. Though on the outside there did not seem to be much wrong with him, his face was grey, and he was gripping his right arm which hung limply from his shoulder.
“Hullo, Merry!” Pippin said, trying valiantly to sound light-hearted. “A sight for sore eyes, you are. Can you believe it’s all ended?”
“Pippin!” Merry looked him up and down. “I heard you got bowled over by a troll, but you don’t look any worse for wear to me.”
“Well, with the War over and all, I expect I’ll be right as rain in no time. And so will you,” Pippin added quickly. “But what’s brought you all the way here?”
Merry’s smile faded quickly. “I rode out as fast as I could, when I heard that Mordor was overthrown. I was worried about you and everyone else. In particular--” His eyes drifted to the tent.
Pippin shook him by the shoulders. "And? And? Are they in there? Are they--" --alive, he finished in his head.
"I don't know," Merry said grimly. "I’ve only just arrived. Strider and Gandalf are tending to them at the moment. We can look once they’re finished.”
They did not have to wait long. Soon Gandalf came out of the tent, seeming older and wearier than he had just the day before. “So you are determined to see them?” he asked.
Pippin and Merry nodded.
“Then you must be ready,” he said in a low voice. “Your friends are not as they were when you saw them last on the banks of the Anduin. Much changes in these dark days, and none have seen darker than these two. Now come in, and for heavens’ sake, stay quiet!” He lifted the flap and led them inside. No candle had been lit, and seconds passed before Pippin could see what lay before him on the two small beds.
His old companions were barely recognisable, so blackened their faces were by the Mountain’s labors. The healers had tried to clean their bodies, but with little success, for they were loath to touch the many dark wounds on their cracked skin. Everywhere Pippin looked he could see wounds aplenty. Frodo especially had suffered: his neck was scarlet, rubbed raw by the weight of his burden; his shoulder was marked by strange gashes, of tooth or claw perhaps; and the third finger on his left hand had been cruelly bitten off at the knuckle. Worst of all to Pippin was how thin Frodo and Sam had become. It was plain to him that they had not drunk nor eaten for many days. Recalling Sam’s stout brown arms as he worked in the Bag End garden and Frodo’s rueful comments on his expanding waistline, Pippin felt a surge of horror and grief overcome him. There seemed little hope that they would survive.
Only minutes he had spent there, but that was long enough. He turned to leave, and saw a pile of battered objects lying forlornly in the corner. Quietly he picked them up and carried them out into the light, with Merry close behind.
“Are those--” Merry asked, his voice hardly above a whisper.
Carefully Pippin set the pile down. On top were the remains of Sam’s pack. Large and coarse it was still, but torn in many places, and missing a strap. Pippin reached in and felt the shapes of many different things that Sam and Frodo had carried, haphazardly thrown inside by their rescuers amid the chaos of yesterday’s triumph. First was a small box of grey wood, plain but for a G-rune on the lid. It was near spotless, and had obviously not been handled much. Pippin thought it familiar. “Oh! It’s the Lady’s gift to Sam!” he said suddenly.
“Better not mess with it, then,” advised Merry, setting it aside. Next came a single dry drooping water-bottle, and a cake of lembas, jostled and fractured. Underneath was Sting, still in its fine sheath. “So Frodo didn’t lose it after all!” exclaimed Pippin, delighted. “And we’ve got his silver coat that Bilbo gave him, too. What luck! He’ll be glad to see it back.”
“If he ever wakes up, that is,” said Merry gloomily. Their spirits sank low once more.
Tangled around the little sword were two sets of clothing, tattered and soot-covered, the very same that their friends had worn when they set out from home. The hobbits found little to say, struck with emotion as they were, and laid the torn outfits aside. Lastly they uncovered the elven-rope of Lórien and, at the very bottom, the Phial of Galadriel. As Pippin wiped away the grime, he saw the clear light beginning to well faintly through his fingers, visible even under the bright sun. He set it reverently down on the grass beside Sam’s box.
But this was all. This small heap of beaten objects was all that Frodo and Sam had carried into Mordor, into that treacherous wasteland of fire and smoke where not even the doughtiest warrior dared to tread. He sucked in a breath. Even Sam's cooking gear was nowhere to be found, he realised. Pippin remembered all the times he had jostled those precious pots and pans by accident, or used them as a fly-swatter (perhaps less by accident), only to find himself on the receiving end of Sam's righteous wrath. Sam would never have parted with them, not unless it was a choice between their little weight and death itself. Pippin shuddered. He could not imagine such a journey, and he doubted he ever would.
At that moment Gandalf emerged again. “I see you have found their belongings,” he said.
Merry ignored the statement, or perhaps he had not even heard it. “Gandalf? Are Frodo and Sam going to get well?”
Gandalf sighed. “Nothing is certain. Already they were close to death when they were brought out of the fire, and their bodies refuse all nourishment. You have seen how frail they are now.”
Pippin bowed his head, crushed by the news. Then Gandalf placed a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Do not lose all hope! The Shadow has departed, and hope grows anew. The hands of a King have power even with ailments such as these.”
“But Aragorn must be tired, and there are other people here who need his help,” objected Merry.
"He is not tired," said Aragorn, appearing suddenly before them. "And the men in his care beg him to heal the Ring-bearer first before all. Fear not, Merry. I shall devote all my strength to them."
Pippin thought that he did look tired, and his face was grave. On him the cares of a nation were soon to fall, and the age-old weariness of his battles lay heavy on him. But he was still keen-eyed and kingly, as he had been ever since he had ridden out from the White City; wisdom and power shone in him, and Pippin felt, just as he had so long ago in the wild lands east of Bree, that Aragorn was truly a man like no other.
But Merry frowned. "Still, there is a great deal he will have to do--" he interjected again.
“Do not forget many more healers have arrived from Minas Tirith, though their speed could not match yours, Master Meriadoc,” added Gandalf. “They have skill in these matters, and can tend to Frodo as well as the men who lie wounded. Go now! There is nothing that you kindly souls can do for them or for anyone else at present. The morning is growing old, and I have never seen a hobbit miss a meal when he can get one.”
Afternoon came. Pippin rested for a while, on strict orders from the healers, and then arose again. He and a few able-bodied men of Dol Amroth were sent out on patrol, to chase away any foes that might still lurk among the fair trees of Ithilien, waiting to strike when they would be least expected. Pippin spent the time running his hand nervously over his sword-hilt, but he need not have worried. The patrol encountered no Orcs or Easterlings, only green glades and clear streams that sparkled in sunlight or leapt quietly from hill to valley. But the marks of the Shadow were still visible; scars and filth marked the forest not far from the road in many places. Cautiously poking through the undergrowth, Pippin stumbled across a pile of charred bones, not even a month dead, half hidden by a clump of briar. Evidently they had been Gondorians, of the Rangers of Ithilien: few others had dared to venture under the shadow of the Ephel Dúath during the War. Pippin reminded himself once more that it was all finished for good. He could still hardly believe it.
Once he returned to camp, Pippin changed out of his livery, ate supper, and promptly made for the yellow tent. “Gandalf? Strider?” he whispered as he came in. “Is there anything new?”
“Gandalf is taking his rest now,” said Aragorn looking up from Frodo’s bedside. “Little has changed. All of Sam’s major wounds have been found and bandaged, and nearly all of Frodo’s, but their breath is shallow, and still I can coax no water down their throats.” Pippin looked at his friends; the dust and dirt on their skin had been wiped away, and now the paleness of their faces became ever more apparent. As he watched he could see their chests rising and falling slightly, but it was faint and difficult to notice even with his sharp eyes.
“Have--have you gotten any sleep, Strider?”
Aragorn smiled wanly. “A little, ere suppertime, but as long as my charges linger on the threshold of death, I too shall lie uneasy.” He turned back to Frodo and took no further notice of Pippin. Unsure what to do or say, Pippin sat on the floor beside him, lost in his own thoughts. He watched Aragorn clean a deep gash on Frodo's forearm, before inspecting the place where his ring finger had been. Pippin quickly turned, unwilling to see such a wound on the hand of his dear old cousin. Again he thought of the terrible journey that had taken that finger from him, and quailed.
At that moment Merry came in, dressed in the garments of the Rohirrim. “Have they gotten better?” he asked.
Pippin shrugged sadly. “That’s what I asked earlier, and the answer’s no.”
Merry’s face fell. Then Aragorn stood and took a water-skin from the table. “Though perhaps it may be yes, if this goes well. Come, Merry. Hold Frodo’s jaw down. Be gentle; there are no cuts there, but his skin is fragile.”
Merry did as he was told, looking apprehensive. Frodo’s mouth opened slightly. The inside was withered to Pippin’s dismay, looking hardly like a mouth at all. Aragorn tipped the bottle forward and squeezed gently; a few drops of water trickled down. A moment later they came back out, accompanied by unconscious heaving. Pippin stumbled backward, missing a tentpole by a few inches. “Careful, Pip,” Merry called, failing to hold back a small chuckle even in these dire straits. Aragorn wisely refrained from commenting.
Next came Sam. “Pippin, you can do it this time,” Aragorn said. Pippin touched Sam’s chin and flinched. It seemed almost reptilian in its roughness, and dry like the pages of an ancient book. With as much delicacy as he could muster he pried Sam’s jaw open and pushed it downwards as Aragorn poured more water-drops into his mouth. For long seconds they waited with bated breath. Sam’s body twitched, and some of the water came back up. Some of it did not. He could swallow, at the very least.
Pippin let out a sigh of relief. “Merry, I think the answer’s yes. Or half a yes, anyway.”