In the Fading of the Year

Two old gaffers, basking in the Sun,
One fell asleep, and then there was one.
One old gaffer...

 ‘Stop that, Pip!’ Merry said, swatting at the feather tickling his ear. The tickling continued, and he opened his eyes to the bright afternoon sunshine. ‘Stop it!’ he repeated irascibly.

 ‘O the feather!’ Pippin grinned. ‘I thought you meant the song!’ A thoughtful look crossed his face and he frowned slightly. ‘Goodness, Merry, you sound just like an old gaffer.’

 ‘I am an old gaffer,’ Merry said, stretching cautiously. The warm Southland sun had baked his old bones into some semblance of comfort, much better than awakening in his bed in the chill of the morning. No matter that the King had given orders for fires to be burning brightly on all the hearths in the Halflings’ apartments well before they were likely to stir, Merry was still stiff upon arising.

 ‘Never!’ Pippin said. ‘You told me once you’d never grow old, Merry Brandybuck! You don’t know what a turn it gave me, watching over you in the Houses of Healing after Pellenor! I thought you’d somehow had a foretelling all those years before the Quest...’

 ‘Hah,’ Merry said. ‘Don’t believe everything you’re told, young Pip. You’re the one who’ll never grow old.’

 ‘That’s right!’ Pippin laughed. ‘Why, I’m going to live to be an hundred!’ The thoughtful look returned. ‘No, for that’s only four years off. I’m going to live to be as old as the Old Took, or longer. Why, perhaps I’ll make up my mind to live forever!’

 ‘You do that, Pip,’ Merry said with a yawn. ‘Now, was there a reason for this rude awakening? You know we’ll be up late for the feast.’

 ‘That’s tomorrow,’ Pippin informed him smugly.

 ‘Tomorrow?’ Merry said, confused.

 ‘Aye, cousin, you’re a day ahead of yourself. Ring Day is tomorrow!’

 ‘Yes, but honoured guests needn’t wait until the morrow to feast,’ Arwen’s voice was heard, and both hobbits looked up with smiles.

The Queen herself bore a laden tray which she set upon the small table before the hobbit-sized bench in the garden she’d had planted with trees and flowers from the Northlands.

 ‘Teatime already!’ Merry said.

 ‘Indeed, and you were about to sleep through it,’ Pippin answered.

 ‘Come,’ Arwen said, ‘before the tea grows cool.’ She settled to the ground as gracefully as a maiden though the wisdom of ages was in her eyes. She poured out two small cups and two large, for the King and Queen invariably took tea with the hobbits when the King was in Minas Tirith.

Before the fourth cup was filled the King entered the garden, seating himself beside his wife and cutting a large slice of cake for himself. ‘Ah,’ he said after swallowing a big bite. ‘Teatime at four! Whatever would we have done without hobbits to remind us of the finer things in life?’

 ‘How go affairs of state?’ Merry asked.

 ‘Yes, are we at war with anyone?’ Pippin added politely.

 ‘Not at the moment,’ the King said, settling back against the bench. ‘The Easterlings are staying nicely in place, and the Haradrim are busy with disputes amongst themselves, and all is quiet.’ He sipped at his tea. ‘Are you ready for the feast tonight?’

 ‘Hah!’ Merry said. ‘I told you there was a feast tonight.’

 ‘Feast?’ Pippin said. ‘But Ring Day is tomorrow!’

 ‘And there will be a feast on the morrow,’ Arwen laughed. ‘Had you forgotten the welcoming feast for Prince Faramir and Prince Imrahil and their families?’

 ‘Evidently he slept through the planning,’ Merry said dryly, but Pippin only laughed. They talked and laughed as old friends do, through several cups of tea and all the accompaniments one could wish.

 ‘Come, Merry,’ Arwen urged, offering more sandwiches and another slice of cake, all made up with loving care by the head chef himself to tempt a waning appetite.

 ‘No, thank you my Queen, I could not manage another mouthful,’ Merry said, raising a staying hand. He’d eaten more than he wanted as it was, to keep Pippin from worrying. Food had lost its appeal, but he kept eating for others’ sake if not his own. He had a sudden flash of memory, Estella filling his plate, saying as she invariably did, You’re going to let all this good food go to waste?

To which he’d invariably answer, ‘To waist, more likely.’ Ah, Estella.

 ‘What was that, cousin?’ Pippin said brightly.

 ‘O nothing,’ Merry said. ‘On second thought, I’ll take another of those excellent cucumber sandwiches if I may.’

 ‘I’ll take another slice of that seedcake,’ Pippin said with his mouth full. ‘I still haven’t got used to having seedcake at whatever hour I wish, day or night. I ought to have removed to Gondor years ago!’

 ‘Yes you ought!’ Arwen said with a fond smile. ‘But better late than never.’

 ‘Speaking of being late,’ Elessar said, unfolding his legs to push himself to his feet once more, ‘I have a few more matters of business to attend, before our guests begin to arrive.’

 ‘Will you walk with me?’ Arwen said, her gaze going from Pippin to Merry. The latter was about to refuse, she saw with concern, but the younger hobbit jollied him into “taking the air”. Whatever would Merry do without his Pippin? She sighed, but smiled brightly at Pippin’s inquiring look. For that matter, what would Pippin do without his Merry? The older hobbit was sleeping more, eating less, smiling more than he laughed these days.

 ‘I’m as lazy as an autumn afternoon,’ Merry said as if following her thoughts. He looked up and squeezed her hand. ‘Don’t worry, Arwen, I’m just weary. I didn’t sleep well last night, and then my young cousin interrupted me in the middle of a dream.’

 ‘Worry?’ Arwen said, a slight wrinkle creasing her flawless brow.

 ‘It takes one to know one,’ Merry said cryptically, and Pippin laughed.

Looking up at the Queen, he said with a twinkle in his eye, ‘Merry’s rubbing off on you, y’know. He always carried all the cares of the Shire on his shoulders so I wouldn’t have to.’

 ‘Is that the truth?’ Arwen smiled.

 ‘Yes,’ Merry said, ‘but there’s no worrying allowed after teatime.’

 ‘I’m glad to hear that,’ the Queen replied. They walked slowly all around the highest level of the White City, gazing over the walls to the rich land and the sparkle of the Great River beyond. When they reached a bench that enjoyed the full afternoon sunshine, the Queen stopped. ‘Why not watch here?’ she said. ‘You’ll have a fine view of the arrivals.’

 ‘A goodly plan,’ Merry said, ‘and I can finish the nap that was so inconveniently interrupted.’ The hobbits bowed the Queen on her way, and Pippin kissed her hand in parting with a wink of his eye.

They watched the Queen out of sight, then Pippin leaned his arms on the wall to look over. ‘You may nap, old gaffer,’ Pippin said. ‘I’ll keep watch and waken you when it’s time to cheer.’

 ‘You do that,’ Merry said, settling back, folding his hands, and closing his eyes. Chances were, Pippin would also fall asleep waiting, but that was all to the good. A gaffer needs his rest, after all, if he plans to live forever.

***

He was dreaming of the River again, as he had so often lately, that great wide span of water rolling under the boat, taking him... taking him... where was the River taking him? This wasn’t like the lazy summer days in the shallows by Brandy Hall, paddling boats about, dabbling feet and fishing lines and waiting for the call to come in for supper.

They were paddling, paddling, letting the current take them as the day waned and the night shadows came on. The night grew dark, but the stars above were strangely bright, and there was a glimmer on the face of the River... and suddenly it was not the River at all, but the Great River, the Anduin, and they were riding in elven boats of silver-grey.

Sam lay in the prow of the leading boat, a watchman peering into the gloom, for Aragorn had decreed that they would venture one more journey by night before reaching the Sarn Gebir and its dangerous rapids. Frodo dozed, or his cousin thought he dozed; by the starlight he could see the Ringbearer’s head fallen forward on his breast.

He wondered what time it was, but did not want to speak aloud. It must be nearly midnight, he thought. They had been drifting for some while, letting the River take them, using the paddles only on occasion to steer around a rock or stony eyot in the stream. It must be nearly midnight, he thought again, that, or perhaps this journey would go on forever and the dawn would never come.

Sam cried out suddenly and in the next moment the boats were swept into a swift current which swung them towards the eastern shore, where pale foam rose as the River lashed against the sharp teeth of jutting rocks. Boromir shouted a warning, and Aragorn ordered them to back-paddle, to turn if possible, and all bent to the paddles, but it was hard work against the current. Even as they managed to bring the boats about they were driven nearer the eastern bank.

 ‘All together, paddle!’ Boromir shouted. ‘Paddle! Or we shall be driven on the shoals!’ A grating sound accompanied his words, and at that moment there was a twang of bowstrings: several arrows whistled over them, and some fell among them. One smote Frodo between the shoulders and he lurched forward with a cry, letting go his paddle. The hidden mithril coat saved him, but his cousin was not so fortunate.

He stared in horror at the arrow tip protruding from his chest, his mouth working soundlessly, the paddle falling from his hands to splash into the River, floating away on the current until it lodged in the stones of the eastern shore. The stricken hobbit sank gently to the bottom of the boat as his companions paddled frantically to move the boats out of range.

When they reached the cover of bushes on the western shore they halted and drew breath; all but the wounded hobbit who could not draw breath for the pain in his chest. He felt beloved arms seize him, turning him over, pulling him close. He heard his cousin’s voice beg him to answer, rise in a panicked shout for aid, fall again into low tones of mourning.

***

 ‘Look at me! Open your eyes and look at me!’ The pounding of the guards’ boots, come in answer to his frantic summons, grew louder and stopped.

 ‘Call for the King!’ one of the guards snapped, and then he was kneeling by the bench, one hand outstretched, not quite touching the hobbits huddled there. ‘Sir,’ he said.

 ‘No,’ the old hobbit whispered, cradling his cousin’s limp body ever closer. ‘No,’ he sobbed.

It was not long before Elessar himself was there, kneeling beside the twain. ‘Let me look,’ he said softly.

 ‘No,’ came the answer, but the King’s gentle hands pulled the weeping hobbit away just long enough to see the still face of the cousin he held.

 ‘Merry,’ he said softly, his hand tightening on the grieving hobbit’s shoulder. ‘Come away.’

 ‘He was going to live to be an hundred,’ the hobbit said brokenly. ‘He was going to live forever...’

 ‘There’s nothing to be done,’ Elessar said.

 ‘O yes,’ the hobbit contradicted in a faraway voice. ‘He needs to be washed, and dressed in his best, and laid in his bed, a coverlet over him, and one who loves him must watch over him until the dawn. At dawn we bury our dead, you know.’

 ‘I know,’ the King whispered.

All these things were done for the fallen hero as the guests were arriving for the grand celebration. Two places were empty at the feast, set for the one who was gone and the one who watched with him through the night. The burial would take place at dawn, on the day when Halflings were honoured throughout the land of Gondor. The feast was a solemn affair, more of a memorial than a welcome, though the memorial itself would take place on the following day.

The old hobbit watched by the side of the bed. His cousin might have slept; the flickering firelight played across the peaceful features, giving the illusion of life. ‘Ah, Pip,’ he whispered. ‘If only you were asleep... I’d watch with joyful heart and never begrudge the loss of sleep, just to greet you with the dawning light.’

He felt his eyelids growing heavier, and at last he stretched out beside the still form on the bed and gave himself up to weeping until, exhausted, he slept.

***

The Old Forest was alive with the groaning of the trees, the whisper of leaves, the mutter of imprecations dark and beyond knowledge. He never went into the Old Forest after dark. Even in daylight it was a fearful place, though he had a truce of sorts with the trees, for he came to sketch and write down notes, not to cut living wood, and as long as he left the trees alone, they grudgingly tolerated him.

He was running now, afraid of something behind, but what would pursue him in the Old Forest? Still, his heart pounding, he ran fast, faster, until the trees were flying past him. No, he was flying. Somehow his feet were dangling in the air and he was moving through the trees while a great voice boomed and growled threats.

 ‘We’re not orcs!’ he protested as great woody fingers tightened about him, so tight he could not breathe. He heard a choked cry from Pippin, and despite the pain that blackened his vision he sought his cousin. ‘Pip!’

 ‘We’ll see what the White Wizard has to say,’ the walking tree said, its eyes grimly surveying the two captives.

 ‘White wizard,’ the hobbit whispered, his heart sinking. They had escaped the orcs, only to be delivered to torment and death by this tree-herder out of legend. ‘No, please,’ he said, not for himself but for his young cousin. He was not too proud to beg for Pippin’s life.

The trees stopped moving past them and he realised they had stopped. The woody fingers tightened again, agonisingly, such that the hobbits thought they might well be crushed to death before the wizard could question them. That would be all to the good, for Frodo’s sake.

But no. Treebeard turned them about, to see blinding brightness before them, and lowered them until they were almost to the ground, then dropped them to sprawl in fearful dismay upon the mossy ground.

 ‘Welcome,’ the blinding one said, and Merry frowned, for the voice was familiar. A bright hand was extended downwards to lift him to his feet, and he rose from the white sands, looking up in wonder to a sky he’d never seen before. The land rose from the sparkling blue of the Sea behind, beckoning fair and green before him.

 ‘Gandalf?’ he whispered, and heard the wizard’s laugh, a laugh he’d never expected to hear again in Middle-earth.

 ‘Welcome!’ Gandalf said, ‘Welcome, Meriadoc! The feast is laid, and awaits only the last two honoured guests to begin.’

 ‘The feast?’ Merry said stupidly, and Pippin laughed beside him.

 ‘The feast to honour Frodo and Sam, did you forget, you silly Brandybuck?’ Pippin said.

 ‘But...’ Merry said, confused.

 ‘It’s Ring Day!’ Pippin chortled. He looked up at Gandalf. ‘The feast is laid, did you say?’

 ‘Indeed,’ Gandalf said. ‘We are keeping Frodo and Sam waiting!’

 ‘We cannot have that!’ Pippin said, loosing Gandalf’s hand to run a few steps up the shore and turn, the old mischievous grin on his shining face. ‘Are you coming, Merry?’

 ‘I’m right behind you,’ Merry said as he always did.

Gandalf gave his hand a squeeze. Released, Merry hurried to catch Pippin up, to take his cousin’s hand, to run lightly towards the sounds of music and merriment. Following behind them, the white wizard added his own laughter to the joyous sounds of celebration just over the crest of the hill. A cheer arose, and a burst of welcoming song, and the feast began.