My eyes are unable to see you, but I know you are there.  I have never needed my sight to tell when you are near.  I know your footstep, can tell by the way your step speeds up slightly when you approach me, or slows to a shuffle when it is time to leave.

 I can hear you breathing.  Know your chest is moving slightly with each inhalation as you sleep, and that your breath would be cool against my skin if you laid your head down next to mine.  I shift slightly, to try and hear you better.  The way your body sounds to my ears that have heard it all my life. 

 You move, and I can feel you waken, know you look at me for a moment, to make sure I am comfortable before you fall back to slumber, exhausted.  Good.  You need to sleep.  You never take care of yourself properly, Merry, not without me there keeping an eye on you. 

You sigh slightly, shifting again, and I feel your hand settle on my forehead.  How you can sleep sitting up like this is a mystery to me.  I always did need to sleep lying down, and more than not found myself in a small ball when I awoke the next day.  Or curled around you or Frodo.

 The feel of your skin next to mine is as familiar to me as my own.  I have always felt your body next to mine in some way or another.  You used to hold me when I was a baby, rocking me to sleep until you were in a doze yourself.  Or later, when I was able to walk, holding my hand as I took my first steps.  I know your palms better than my own, for I have felt their strength since before my first memory. 

I know there is a scar, just below the knuckle of your right pinky, that you got when we were playing swords and I hit your hand by accident.  Or the longer scar on your left palm.  You got that from Pervinca, when she was trying to teach us how to chop up the onions for stew.  And now the newer ones that I have barely begun to learn, but know that in time shall be as familiar to me as if they had always been there. 

Your hand is cool against my brow, and I know I have another fever.  Is that why Legolas is still in here, humming softly to himself, making odd noises as he goes about some Elven business?  It is odd to not be able to tell what is happening.  I always know what you are about, even before you do sometimes. 

 You shift again, and slide down slightly, so your body is pressed close to mine and your scent fills my nose. 

 I sigh, snuggling closer, hoping you do not wake again.  I feel your hand move slowly down my face, past the bandages around my eyes, to my cheek, and stop, twitching slightly as you dream. 

No, I have never needed my eyes to know that you are with me.  I have always known, before I knew your step or your breath, this scent that is uniquely you.  The whiff of pipeweed and slightly tangy sweat, of clean hair and soap.  Even on the long journey here, when we had not bathed for so very long, you still smelled like my Merry. 

You shift slightly, press your cheek to my curls, and murmur in your sleepy voice, “Pippin.” 

I smile slightly to myself.  No one would believe me that you have different voices.  There is the one that you use when we are alone, gazing at the sky as we lay upon the warm grass and making pictures of the clouds, blowing smoke rings.  The soft murmur that is lazy and indulgent, happy and content.  It rumbles out of you, from deep in your chest and seems to wrap around my soul, bearing it up to those clouds with our smoke. 

Or the soft sigh you use when you sleep, a whisper that barely reaches me.  It is soft and gentle, like the night wind, carrying only to my ears.  You whisper your soul in your sleep, and allow it access to the world around you only when you slumber. 

And then there is your angry voice, the one you use when I have done something wrong, or am about to do something wrong, or haven’t done anything and you think I should have.  That voice I don’t like so much, but it is a part of you, and I have loved even that, too, since I was little.  Though I wish that the sound of my full name was not a death knell upon your tongue when spoken thus.  But I know that you will forgive me for whatever I have done.

Because you use that other voice, the one you only use with me, the one that makes me want to cry and laugh at the same time.  It is the tone you use when you look into my eyes and crumble beneath my tears.  It softens into a gentleness that maybe your own child shall hear one day.  It is exasperated and filled with love, resigned to the fact that years from now you will still be saying,”It’s all right, Pip, I know you didn’t mean to…”

And I know that you love me, because of that voice, and all the other voices, that are only you. 

I wish I could see you, dearest cousin, but if I should never see you again, I would always know you.  For you are a part of me, as much of my being as my heart and my skin. 

And I know, as I slowly drift off, that when I awaken, our breaths shall be as one, and our hearts beating together.  For you are a part of me, Merry.  And I do not need my sight to tell me so.

You look so young, laying here in this huge cot.  I am almost afraid to lie down next to you, but you are restless, your hand reaching blindly for something, and I know the only way to still you is to allow you to feel me.  For some reason you have always been comforted when you sleep next to me. 

I snuggle as close to you as I can, my back pressed against the numerous pillows that prop you up so you put less strain on bruised lungs.  It must be hard to sleep thus.  You always did need to lay down flat when you slept.   

You settle, and for a while we both sleep.  I know I am exhausted, still healing from my own battle with the Witch King, but I cannot leave you.  I have to know that you are all right, that when you shift, like now, you are not in pain. 

I can hear you breathing, slow, labored breaths that sound strained in my ears, though I doubt the others notice.  Aragorn says you are healing well, but he has not spent countless nights since you were a babe simply listening to that soft intake of breath.  He has not lain next to you when you were a child, frightened of the thunderstorms and hiccupping in fear.  Or been at your side when you recovered from the Winter Sickness that left you so weak, your lungs forever scarred, though you do not admit it. 

My hand moves down your face, past the bandages that cover your vibrant eyes, to rest on your cheek.  How hot you feel!  I know I am more asleep now than awake, but even in sleep I know that this is not right.  My Pippin, I think, and am not sure if I say this out loud or not.  I press my face closer to your curls, looking for that scent that is all yours.  

Apples and cinnamon and fresh air.  Even as a baby you smelled thus. 

I feel your body relax slightly and know that sleep is finally creeping up on you.  Your breath eases, and for a moment, before I finally succumb to the bone-weariness that pulls at me, our breaths are as one. 

As it should be, for you are a part of my soul, dearest cousin, and always have been.

Then sleep takes us both, and for a while at least, we are back at the shire, blowing smoke rings into the heavens.