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Pippin stood in an empty hallway, closed doors on every side, and tasted the salty tang of blood in his mouth. He had been chewing the inside of his cheek. He couldn’t stop himself.
Why did no one ever listen to him?
First Faramir—nearly burned alive because no one cared what a hobbit thought, even if the hobbit loved him dearly.
Then Merry—forgotten and left behind out in a field of battle and everyone else was distracted so Pippin had to find him all on his own.
And now Frodo and Sam—brought to the House of Healing, fighting just to stay alive, and one of the healers shooed Pippin out of the room because he was in the way.
He wasn’t in the way. He was just trying to help.
Now he found a random stone bench to sit on and kicked his heels against the legs of the bench and tried to figure out what to do. Maybe he didn’t need to do anything. Maybe the healers had everything in hand.
But they were so busy and there were so many wounded and maybe most importantly: they weren’t hobbits.
Frodo and Sam and Merry, they all needed a hobbit around to make sure they got the care they needed.
So Pippin waited outside their rooms. And waited. And waited.
And occasionally healers hurried by with a purposeful pace and spared nothing more than a nod for him and if he tried to say anything or ask any questions, he was told, “I’m sorry, Master Halfling, but I’m in a terrible rush; someone else will be by to speak with you,” but no one else came by who didn’t just say the same thing. No one listened.
Was it ’cause he was so young? Or ’cause he was a hobbit?
There was a window at the end of the hall, looking north, towards home. The shadows shifted as time passed until the sun began to set, and still Pippin sat alone on his bench. His stomach growled but he didn’t dare leave his post.
Finally, finally, the door to Sam’s room opened, and outstepped a ragged healer. Her dark hair was falling out of its bun and there were circles under her eyes and Pippin would have bet that she was about as hungry as he was.
But he had to talk to her.
He hopped off the bench. “Excuse me, miss…?”
She turned her tired eyes to him. “Oh.” Her voice was soft, lightly accented, and hinted at her surprise. “Master Halfling. Hello. You must want to see your friends.”
“Yes, please, very much. But also—”
“Samwise is sleeping, but you can sit in his room, if you like.” She offered a small smile to go along with her words.
Pippin hesitated. “Thank you, I will, but also—”
“I will leave you to it, then.” She started to walk away.
“Wait!” he burst out.
She stopped, turned, eyebrows raised.
Pippin felt his cheeks redden. “I’m sorry, but I have to know. What care are you giving them? Have you tried athelas? And are they able to eat? How are you feeding them?”
Her hand drifted up to press at the high space on either side of the bridge of her nose, as if warding off a headache. “I am afraid I cannot answer your questions. I have only been keeping watch while Samwise sleeps. You will have to ask others about his care.”
“But…” Pippin trailed off. There was no point. She wasn’t lying: she really didn’t know.
With a little nod, she turned and walked away.
Pippin’s heart sank, but what could he do?
He slipped into Sam’s room. It was dark, with curtains drawn. No, that would never do; hobbits needed sun. Especially Sam. Pippin went to his window and threw back the curtains until light streamed over the bed. There, that was better.
Now Pippin turned and got a good look at Sam.
The hobbit on the bed was not Frodo’s sturdy, sunburnt, dirt-smudged gardener. The hobbit on the bed was not the wide-eyed hobbit who’d ran out of Bag End with a felt cap on for a hat, excited to see elves.
This hobbit looked…old. Thin. Sick. There was no hint of a smile on his face, but there was a crease in his forehead like even in his sleep, he was worried or anxious. Pippin didn’t smell the fresh, cleansing smell of athelas and it didn’t look like Sam was eating enough and there was a fire in the hearth but it was burning low and the room was too cold for a hobbit as thin as Sam was but there was no one Pippin could talk to about any of this.
And so Pippin pulled up a chair close to Sam’s bed and sat, listening to his own breaths and Sam’s echoing around an empty room.
He told himself sternly to stop being so ridiculous. Sam was alive. Frodo was alive. Merry was alive. And Pippin was alive! That was more than any of them really expected, wasn’t it? He shouldn’t be so ungrateful.
But he was still so worried. If only Gandalf were here. He could be prickly, but he cared about hobbits. He really cared. And besides, people listened to a wizard. If Gandalf said Sam needed athelas or more food or a bigger fire, people would trip over themselves to get it done for fear they’d be turned into a mouse or something if they didn’t.
His shadow stretched over Sam’s bed, longer and longer as the minutes ticked by. Now Pippin was biting his lip for a whole new reason: after that last woman left, no one had come. If Pippin weren’t here, no one would be watching Sam at all.
He should go find someone.
But that would only work if they listened.
Maybe he shouldn’t leave, then. Maybe he should stay right in this spot as long as it took, to make sure at least someone was here.
But what if Merry was left alone, too? And Frodo? Pippin couldn’t be everywhere at once!
All of a sudden, he felt his throat tightening and his eyes stinging with tears. He couldn’t say if it was more anger or frustration at being so helpless—
“Peregrin?”
He jumped, almost fell out of the chair, and spun around, wiping furiously at his eyes. There was a woman, not one of the healers. Or was she? Wait, he knew her. His eyes widened.
“Lady Éowyn!” he gasped.
One corner of her mouth tilted up in the tiniest hint of a smile. “You know me?”
“Well, not directly, exactly, but Lord Faramir talks about you enough.” Then Pippin blushed again. “Don’t tell him I said that.”
She suddenly laughed—went straight from barely smiling to laughing. “You needn’t worry about that. Indeed, I am inclined to think he told you to say it to me himself.”
Hesitantly, Pippin grinned. “Well, no, but he does talk about you all the time.”
“I’m sure he does.” The words were stately, like royalty, but in her eyes there was a girlish shine. She stepped farther into the room, glanced around, and tilted her head. “Where is the healer?”
“I…I don’t know. She left.”
Éowyn frowned. “I will find a replacement. You should not be here watching all by yourself.”
“Lady Éowyn—” Before he quite knew what he was doing, he grabbed her sleeve.
She paused, turned, and looked down at him. “Yes?”
“Could you…” He swallowed. His eyes were stinging again. Oh, no. Now he was going to look like just a silly child in her eyes. He blinked hard and stood up as tall as he could. “Could you please send for Gandalf?”
Éowyn let out a tiny breath. “I am not sure where he is. He has much to do.”
“But—” Pippin cut himself off. It did no good to whimper and complain and it would only make him look more childish.
Then, to his shock, Éowyn adjusted her skirts and knelt down until their eyes were level. “I saw you sitting on the bench earlier this morning. Have you been waiting all this time to see how your friends fare?”
Not daring to speak, Pippin simply nodded.
“Well, then.” Something changed in her expression. There was still kindness there, but now sadness, too. “I know something of what it is to wait on one whom you love dearly, but is ill. And I know something, also, of what it is to be overlooked.”
Pippin quickly dropped his gaze.
But she reached out and put a hand on his shoulder. Her grip was strong. This wasn’t a feeble, patronizing touch. This was the grip of one warrior to another. “I cannot promise what will happen to your friends, but I want you to know that I see you and I see your love for them. You are not alone.”