It happens too fast.

One moment she’s beside me — close enough that I can hear the steady rhythm of her breathing beneath the chaos — and the next the forest explodes with shouting, steel, and smoke.

Orcs crash through the trees from two sides.

Aragorn yells for us to split.

I turn to shout her name—

—and someone slams into me from behind.

I hit the ground hard.

By the time I’m on my feet again, Merry is dragging me toward cover, Gimli roaring somewhere to my left, Boromir’s horn echoing sharp and desperate through the trees.

“Pippin!” Merry shouts.

“I have to get back—”

“You can’t!”

I twist free, but the brush is thick and the orcs have driven a wedge straight through us. I catch one glimpse of white hair disappearing through the smoke—Legolas at her side—and then they’re swallowed by bodies and noise.

“No,” I breathe.

No.

The fighting stretches too long and not long enough. By the time the last of the orcs scatter or fall, the forest feels wrong.

Too quiet.

Too empty.

I turn in a frantic circle.

She isn’t here.

Legolas isn’t here.

Boromir wipes blood from his blade and looks at me carefully.

“They were driven east,” he says. “We were forced west.”

“That’s not an answer,” I reply, my voice already shaking.

Merry puts a hand on my shoulder. “Pip—”

“How do I know she’s alright?” The words come out sharp and broken. “How do I know she isn’t hurt? How do I know someone’s telling her what’s happening?”

Aragorn crouches, studying tracks. Calm. Infuriatingly calm.

“She is not alone,” he says. “Legolas is with her.”

“I’m always with her,” I snap.

The words leave me before I can soften them.

I am always with her.

When we walk, I tell her where the roots break the path. When we camp, I describe the sky. When the others argue, I narrate the faces they’re making.

Who’s doing that now?

Who’s telling her where the ground dips? Who’s explaining the silence after battle? Who’s standing close enough that she knows she isn’t surrounded?

Gandalf puffs on his pipe "She's very capable."

Yes, she is.

She is stronger than most men I’ve ever seen.

But that isn’t the point.

“She can fight,” Boromir says quietly.

“I know she can fight!” I say, nearly laughing at the absurdity of it. “I’ve seen her fight! She’s extraordinary!”

My chest tightens painfully.

“But who’s explaining the world to her?” I whisper.

No one answers that.

Because they know.

It’s me.

It’s always me.

Aragorn stands. “We follow.”

Merry squeezes my arm. “She’s with Legolas. If anyone can guard her—”

“She doesn’t need guarding,” I mutter fiercely. “She needs—”

Me.

The word lodges in my throat.

I scrub my hands over my face, breathing too fast.

I can see her in my mind—steady, composed, listening to chaos and mapping it with terrifying precision.

She isn’t fragile.

She isn’t helpless.

But she is my wife.

And the space beside me feels unbearably empty.

“What if she thinks I—” I stop.

“What?” Merry asks softly.

“What if she thinks I fell?” I finish. “What if she thinks I’m hurt? What if she’s standing somewhere right now, listening for me, and I’m not there?”

The thought knocks the air from my lungs.

Legolas would tell her where he is. Aragorn would speak. Gimli would growl reassurance.

But none of them would chatter the way I do.

None of them would say, “I’m smiling, in case that matters.”

None of them would lean just close enough that she can hear the warmth in it.

“I need my wife,” I say quietly, the bravado gone entirely.

Boromir looks at me then—not amused, not teasing. Just steady.

“We will find her,” he says.

Aragorn nods once. “She is capable, and she is not alone.”

I swallow hard.

I know she’s capable.

I know she can carve through orcs without seeing a single one.

But I am not worried about her strength.

I am worried about the silence.

The fire crackles somewhere behind us as we prepare to move.

For the first time since this quest began, I feel small in a way that has nothing to do with height.

I hope she knows.

I hope she knows I am coming.

Because I am.

I am coming back to stand beside her.