By the bedside Pippin, unseeing, fretfully plaits and unplaits his fingers; Merry tosses uneasily, muttering under his breath, as Gandalf stands over them both.

What a day's work is this, Sauron! Thou hast twisted and broken a good man, and brought him to despair and fiery death. And through his madness and thy evil how many more are laid low? Faramir sweating in fever, Éowyn and Merry beneath the Shadow; Théoden King and countless thousands slain…

The wizard sighs. Enough. He pats Pippin on the shoulder. "I'll return; I must speak with the lord Imrahil. And here... we need Aragorn."