1409 SR, Bag End

It seemed to take me forever to wake up, and when I finally managed it, I wished more than anything that I hadn't. I felt -- well, I felt awful.

My throat hurt. My head hurt. My eyes burned. My very bones ached. But most frightening of all, my lungs were on fire.

Each breath seemed to be a bit harder to manage than the one before, and while I must have been breathing in some of the sweet air my body was screaming for, I could not taste it. I felt as if I was spending all the energy in my body just taking a simple breath, only to be punished by a searing pain each time I achieved my goal. I could not feel this bad, could I? So suddenly? I was only feeling a little ill when we had gone to bed. Perhaps the fire had spilled from the grate and set the room aflame? That would make me feel this awful, I was sure. Instead of being frightened by that possibility, I was shocked to find myself almost hopeful. It shamed me that I would think such a thing, but a foe that could be seen and shared seemed easier to face at that moment than an invisible attacker setting my body afire from within. I could hear my cousin snoring gently next to me, though, so I knew that there was no fire, and that I was indeed ill, apparently so ill that even my thinking was getting a bit muddled. I corrected that to more muddled than it already was, as I certainly had been using my head even less than usual these past several days. Reluctantly, I tried to make myself believe that my being sick was, in the long term at least, better than Frodo's beloved Bag End burning to a cinder, and I made myself take another painful breath.

Perhaps if I just lay very, very still it would be better in a bit. How bad could it really be? I did not answer myself, knowing from experience how bad it could be. But surely I was overreacting. Yesterday it had been such a slight cold, brought on by an ill-conceived journey in the rain and frigid weather. I had ridden through worse before and been fine. But the longer I wallowed in my misery, the more I came to understand that this was not just a cold, as we had thought. Much as I longed to, I could not deny it, or wish it away, or do things over so it hadn't happened. I had to face the reality of the situation, like it or not. I was sick. I was very sick, and I felt a sudden stabbing pain that was not physical, but was fear-borne.

That frightening thought brought my aching eyes open, if it did nothing else worthwhile, and I tried to stay calm and take stock. Thanks to the still-wretched weather, there was little enough light coming through the window to go by, but it seemed to be late morning. We had all been up late the night before, after all, so it was not surprising that we were sleeping late.

Next to me in the big feather bed, my cousin slumbered on. I listened carefully, but I could hear no noises from outside the room, so I thought Frodo and Sam also must be sleeping late. I was horribly thirsty, and knew there was water in the bedside pitcher, so I sat up to get myself a mug and promptly found myself doubled over, arms wrapped reflexively about my tortured ribs, as I coughed so violently I could not draw in the slightest bit of air.

My cousin bolted upright in bed and, despite having been fast asleep himself, was at my side in an instant, calamity already assessed and ready to offer whatever aid he could. I saw fear, worry and distress flit across his face, but then they were gone so quickly that I wondered if they had ever been there as compassion, tenderness and a more subtle worry took their place. Familiarity lending ease to his actions, he gently wrapped strong arms around my upper body to add his support. I leaned into him helplessly and let him hold me upright while I fought to gain any air I could, with no control at all over the coughing that shook my whole body.

"It will be all right," he reassured me. He sounded so calm and sure that I felt my panic lessen. "It will stop, sooner or later. Don't try to fight it; just let it run its course."

I knew he was right, and I tried to be brave, but as the fit continued I began to fear that it would not, in fact, end, at least not before I could not bear anymore. And what would happen then? Thankfully, before I let that thought take hold, he was proved correct (a known, if rare, occurrence) and the fit finally passed. He rubbed my back reassuringly, softly crooning nonsense words into my ear just to let me know that he was still there with me. His gentle words and touches brought me comfort as I hunched over, now savoring each breath even through the pain. When I felt a bit better, I looked up at my cousin, churning with regret, misery and fear.

"I'm so sorry," I gasped. "What an imbecile I am, running about in this weather, never stopping to think I might get sick. You'd think I would know to be more careful."

He kissed the top of my head. "We both know why you did it. And it's not like I'm any better," he said. "Ah, I'm sorry, too. You feel truly awful, don't you?"

I just nodded and leaned into the familiar comfort of his chest with a small whimper that made me feel about five years old. He kissed my head again and rubbed my back some more, and then eased me back onto the pillows into a partly upright position. Somehow he had rearranged them while he was soothing me without my even noticing. I was so much more comfortable like this, and it felt a mite easier to breathe. I was thankful that he was here, knowing just what he could do to ease my distress, however slightly. His gentle ministrations made me feel so loved, as well as lessening my physical discomfort, and I felt a bit calmer.

Careful not to jar me as he slipped out of bed, he padded around to the chest of drawers and got me the mug of water I had so wanted before I could even ask for it. My hands shook, so he steadied them for me, and I managed to get the water down, despite the fact that even the cool water hurt my throat.

My cousin placed the back of his hand on my forehead and frowned at me. "You're really hot," he said, and I nodded at him.

"Yes, but I'm cold, too, so cold, and I ache everywhere. And it hurts to breathe," I whispered, finding that easier on my throat.

His brow was furrowed and his lips pursed in concern as he pulled the blankets over me, tucking them in snugly under my chin. I looked at him, a question in my eyes. He knew what was wrong with me, I felt certain he did, but he was not going to share that information with me. Instead, he smiled encouragingly.

"I'll go get Frodo," he announced, heading toward the door. "You need a healer and I don't know what else, but more than just me." He turned to snatch his robe off the bedpost, grinning at me as he put it on. "Trying to use my head, cousin," he said teasingly, and got a weak grin from me as his reward.

I was glad he had thought of it, as I would never have thought to remind him. He hadn't been well the night before, either, and I didn't want both of us in this condition. "Be right back," he called over his shoulder as he disappeared out the door. I heard him cough slightly as he went down the hall, and felt ashamed that I was troubling him so when he wasn't feeling well himself.

If I was sick and miserable, it was no one's fault but my own, dashing all over the Shire without an ounce of common sense. And now my cousins would be the ones to suffer over my stupid mistake with me, one of them already feeling poorly, and poor Sam probably not much better, the way he had been sneezing last night. The image of Cousin Frodo, an avowed bachelor if there ever was one, trying to manage a burrow of sick tween-agers brought an unexpected giggle to my lips, but it all too clearly threatened to become a cough and I managed to stifle it quickly. A choked sob followed on its heels, but I squashed that as well. Both of my cousins, and Sam, too, would take as good of care of me as it was possible to do, and I wanted them here with me if I had to be so ill, but I suddenly wanted my mother so badly that I knew if I let myself think about it I would cry, a very bad thing to do right now. So I tried to think of other things. Like what might be wrong with me. Not the most pleasant topic, but one that must be faced.

My cousin's cheery demeanor as he'd gone to fetch Frodo hadn't fooled me one whit. I knew how terrible I felt. I was not just sick, I was very sick. I wasn't quite sure, but I thought maybe . . . maybe I was bad sick? We hadn't called it by its true name in years, although we were old enough to now. We used the less-serious name we had made up for ourselves, saying it with the same childish cadence we had always used: bad sick. Easier for a child to combat, or so we pretended, than it would be if we called the illness by its true name.

But I knew its true name. I knew what it was and what it could do, and I knew from personal experience that it was the most serious of foes. What if I had the Winter Sickness?

Surely it can't be, I argued to myself, but deep down I knew that it was. Though he hadn't meant for me to, I had seen it on my cousin's face before he left the room, and I think a part of me had known even before that. Oh, what had I done?

Now I could hear Frodo's voice in the corridor, directing my bedmate to get into his bed before he made himself worse, too. I dreaded Frodo coming in, the worry I would see on his face, knowing I was the cause. He must already be very tired after the past day or two, and now this. When would I ever learn to behave like a sensible, responsible hobbit?

My cousin was answering Frodo, and sounding as displeased with his banishment from my sickbed as I would have if the situation had been reversed. I grinned in commiseration, but I agreed with Frodo. As much as I wanted him to come back, I would never forgive myself if he became bad sick too, because of me. Was it catching? I couldn't remember, though I knew that I ought to know. It was becoming very hard to think at all. I did know with all my heart that the last thing I wanted was to make someone else, and someone I loved dearly at that, ill as well.

I knew how he felt, though. We had always been there for each other, right from the very start. The eight-year age difference had never mattered to either of us, and we had always known it never would. He and I had been best friends the very first time we ever met. Even thinking of him, and knowing that he was as near as the next room, made me feel less frightened of being so ill. I wouldn't leave him, and he wouldn't let me. With that thought warming my heart, I closed my eyes, tuning out the sound of Frodo fumbling around in the corridor, and tried to comfort myself with the well-known and oft-told family story, fondly known as "Merry's Tale of The Day He Met Pippin."In which Merry receives an omen and a new cousin

(Note: Set in the autumn of the year 1390 SR, so Merry is eight, Frodo is 22, Pearl is 15, Pimpernel is 11 and Pervinca is five. Frodo would have left Brandy Hall to live with Bilbo at Bag End the previous year.)

1390, The Great Smials, Tookland

I had never seen the Great Smials so busy, and it is always a busy place. As soon as we came in the door Adelard (being my second cousin once removed, from the Old Took's line) greeted my parents and then pulled them away into one of the studies to speak with them.

"Merry, go find your cousins and be good," Mum called before whisking away.

I didn't mind so much that she and Da went off to do something, probably to talk with Uncle Paddin and Aunt Lala. I have been at the Smials lots and know my way around, so the first place I went was the kitchen, to see if I could get a little snack. Hazel chased me out, but not before Florella sneaked a gingerbreadlad into my pocket.

I wandered around a bit to see what was what. The Great Smials is as good a place as Brandy Hall for wandering about, because passageways lead to rooms that lead to corridors that lead to places you didn't even know were there, no matter how many times you've been in the Smials. As there are always plenty of hobbits about, if you walk around for a bit, you usually can find something fun to do.

On this day, though, everyone seemed to either be very busy, bustling around like they were doing something important, or not doing anything at all except talking to one another in low voices and looking worried. I wondered what was the matter, and tried to hear what they were saying, but every time I got close enough, someone would shoo me off. I hate it when something is going on and I don't know what, so finally I hid behind a chaise in one of the parlors where a lot of grown-ups were. I know it is wrong to listen to grown-ups talking when they don't want you to, but I just couldn't stand to not know what was happening. Opal, one of Adelard's sisters, was there, and she said, "Paladin," that is Uncle Paddin's real name, "is so distraught that he can't eat a bite, and he has not laid down to rest." I didn't know what "distraught" meant, but the other ladies all nodded their heads and clucked their tongues and sighed sadly, so I thought it must be bad. Imagine, not wanting to eat!

Just then, Great-Aunt Tansy came in the room and grabbed me by my braces, saying, "Meriadoc, what are you about? You know better than to sneak around! Your cousins are in their playroom; why don't you go see them and be a good lad?" She sounded rather cross, but then she gave me a sweet as she guided me to the hall that leads to the playroom. I tucked the sweet into my cheek and decided that maybe I could learn more from some of the other children.

Usually, the playroom is loud. I mean, really loud -- you know you are coming near to it all the way down the corridor. But this day, there was no noise at all coming from it, and I thought Great-Aunt Tansy must have been wrong about my cousins being in there. But then there they were, just being very quiet. This is the lasses' playroom, but usually there are some other children there, except on this funny day only my cousins were there. Pimpernel was cross-legged on the rug with a big book in front of her, and Pearl was crouched in front of the sofa, peering underneath.

"Hullo!" I said. "What are you doing, Pearl?" I went to stand beside her and put my hands in my pockets. She looked up at me.

"Well, hullo, Merry," she said. "When did you arrive? I am trying to get Pervinca out from under the sofa," she continued without waiting for an answer, "but she won't come out."

"Maybe she likes it there," I answered, bending to look. Sure enough, I spotted Pervinca's bright curls and gleaming eyes hiding with the dust bunnies and other oddments that gather beneath furniture. "Hullo, Pervinca. What are you doing?"

"I want Mamma," she replied in a stubborn voice, scowling fiercely.

"I would pull her out," Pearl said with a sigh, "but, you know, not a good idea."

I did know -- Pervinca has very sharp teeth and no qualms about using them. I wasn't certain what she was doing under the sofa, but if she wanted to hide under there, I was all for letting her.

Pearl stood up and smoothed down her skirt, apparently reaching the same conclusion I had. Now I had to look up at her, instead of the other way around. "Pearl," I said, "why is it such a very strange day here?" It was strange even in the playroom -- there was no fire, making it seem rather cheerless, and Briony, my cousins' nurse, was not here (which was fine by me, as I have always been rather afraid of Briony). And there was Pervinca hiding under the old sofa and asking for Aunt Lala and no one was going to get her.

Pearl sighed and from across the room, Pimpernel gave me a strange look. Whatever was going on? I was starting to get nervous -- it must be something bad for everyone to act so odd.

"Where did you come from anyway?" Pearl said. "Are your parents here?"

She was not answering my question, only asking questions of her own (and very silly ones at that -- how could I be here if not with my parents?), and I did not care for it much. I walked away and sat down beside Pimpernel and attempted to look at the pictures in the book with her, but her sharp elbows seemed to be getting in my way. "Merry?" Pearl said behind me, sounding a little sharper. She sounded funny -- all worried and almost grown-up and not at all nice and collected, the way she usually is.

"We have been visiting Frodo and Cousin Bilbo at Bag End," I answered, knowing my mum would hear about it if I was rude to Pearl. I was still trying to peer over Pimpernel, but she kept turning her shoulders so I couldn't see. "Da wanted to talk to your father, so we came here instead of going straight back to the Hall." I had had an awfully nice visit with Frodo, and we had stayed for eight whole days. I missed Frodo terribly at Brandy Hall, for he would always play with me and read to me and tell me the best stories, and he taught me to climb trees and swim and never minded that I was littler than he. I had lots of other cousins at the Hall, and Frodo had a splendid new room at Bag End and said he loved living with Bilbo and tramping about on little trips, but I still missed him. I knew he missed me too, because Cousin Bilbo has started teaching him Elvish, and Frodo said one of the first things he wanted to learn was how to say my name in Elvish, which is "Alasseon." (That was nice, but I was glad he still just called me "Merry.")

Pearl came around to face us and sat down on a footstool, resting her forearms on her knees. "I am sorry, Merry," she said sincerely, so I looked at her this time. "It is strange here today, isn't it, and I suppose no one has told you why."

I shook my head and Pimpernel suddenly slammed the book shut as though she was angry. She flounced off to the window seat, taking the book with her and pulling the drapes around it so we could not see her. I stared after her in surprise. Everyone was hiding today! Pearl frowned deeply but didn't scold Pimpernel, and Briony sure would have.

"Merry, our new little brother was born early this morning." Pearl said this solemnly, but I was delighted.

"Oh, the new baby is a lad!" I cried. "I knew it would be!" Then I stopped and thought. The whole family was excited and happy when Aunt Lala had said she was having another baby, so why did everyone seem upset now that it was here? Everyone at the Hall is happy when a new baby comes, and no one whispers and scurries about. "But, then, why doesn't everyone seem happy?"

Pearl clenched her hands together so tightly her knuckles were white. I didn't like the way they looked, like they hurt her hands, so I reached out and patted them, but that made Pearl scrunch up her face like she might cry. She didn't though, and answered my question.

"Because he wasn't supposed to be born yet, not for weeks and weeks, and that means he is very small and sick," she said. "And Mamma is sick, too, and in bed and we aren't allowed to see her or the baby."

"Oh." I didn't know what to say to all this. I knew babies could get sick just like everyone else, of course, but I had never thought that perhaps my new cousin would arrive sick, or that Aunt Lala would be sick too. I wondered what kind of sick it was, and if the healer was making them drink nasty things. I had been sick before, and the healer had made me drink a horrid, burning brew, but she was sorry when it made me throw up on her.

"When will they be better?" I asked Pearl. I had plans for this new lad cousin, after all, and wanted very much to have a look at him before we had to leave for home.

"We don't know, Merry," she said sadly. "We don't know if they will be better yet. But everyone is trying to do everything they can to help Mamma and the baby, and we can help too by staying out of the way and not being any bother. I am sure your parents are with Father and Mamma, so you should probably stay in here, too."

Well, whatever did Pearl mean, 'IF they will be better?' Surely not that Aunt Lala and the baby would die! My stomach suddenly felt all funny, like I had eaten too many sweets. I knew about people dying, because older relatives died from time to time, which was very sad, and then last summer one of the farm hands, Nob, died when he fell off the roof of the livestock barn, and we did have a bunch of chickens get sick and die once, but I had never thought about hobbits getting sick and dying when they weren't old.

Pearl was looking at me expectantly, and I thought it must be rude to ask if her mother was going to die, so I just said, "I'll be very good, Pearl," and she smiled, pleased, and stroked my hair. I was glad I had made Pearl smile, but I still wondered about Aunt Lala and the baby being sick. It felt scary to just have to wait to see when they would be better.

Just then, Pervinca scuttled out from under the sofa and made a break for the door. "Pervinca!" Pearl was after her in a flash, but Pervinca is a quick little thing, and beat her to it. I could hear her little feet thumping down the hallway, and Pearl scurrying after her. Soon after, I heard Pearl cry, "Ouch! Pervinca, stop that!" and I was glad I had not followed to help her catch Vinca.

I cautiously poked my head around Pimpernel's drapes. She was looking at her book again, though I could see quite plainly that it was upside down, and pulled a terrible face at me. "Merry, go away!" she said and snapped the drapes back in place.

I sighed and looked around the playroom. Blocks, wooden toy animals, books with worn covers that were Mum and Uncle Paddin's when they were little: there are lots of fun things to do and look at in the playroom at the Smials, and usually I like it in here very much, but I did not like the thought of spending the rest of the day trying not to upset my cousins, who all seemed to be in quite a state, as Mum says. The sun peeked around Pimmie's drapes enticingly, and I decided to go outside and see if any of the other Smials children were about.

I put on my coat and buttoned it up tight, as the autumn day was rather blustery (which means just what it sounds like -- all crisp and blowy and just perfect for this time of year). Then I realized there were no grown-ups about to tell that I was going outside. I went 'round the hallways a bit, puzzling over where everyone who was hanging about before had gone and thinking maybe I would at least find Pearl, but on this strange day there was no one to be found, so I finally just went out.

Some older cousins had a game of roopie about, so I watched for a while. I'm not big enough to play yet, but I want to be ready when I am, so I can be as good as Frodo is. I know that Da used to be a splendid player, and sometimes he will take me out to play with a ball. I love when we do this, for Da is very busy, and even though he lets me come with him a lot while he works, it is nice when we can play, just him and me. Da says watching how something is done can help you learn how to do it, so I like to watch the lads at the Hall or other places play, hoping I will learn what works and what doesn't.

Some lads, just a few years older than me that I had played with before at the Smials, stopped to watch the game for a bit and showed me an enormous toad they had caught. They asked if I wanted to go back down to the stream with them to look for more, but I felt kind of funny and didn't want to, though I usually love to muck about in the water. It was like the strangeness of the day had gotten into me somehow, and I didn't feel much like playing. Not even the roopie game seemed like much fun, so finally I wandered away from the game and went off by myself and sprawled under a big sycamore tree, looking up at the brightly colored autumn leaves. There were red ones and yellow ones, and all the shades in between, and usually such pretty leaves would make me happy, especially when they were dancing in the wind, but this day was different and I couldn't feel happy at all. I lay and watched some of the leaves drifting down from the tree as the wind shook them loose, and for some reason this made me feel even sadder.

I thought very hard for a while about Aunt Lala and my new lad cousin. I very much wanted them to get better. Aunt Lala is not as much fun as my mum (naturally, but that is not her fault since she was a Banks and not a Took before she got married, and everyone knows the Banks are not as much fun as the Tooks and Brandybucks), but she is quite nice and once when I was just a little fellow I fell down and scraped up both arms, and she held me and made me laugh while the healer cleaned up the cuts with very stingy stuff. I knew that if she died, Pearl and Pimmie and Vinca would be very sad, and I did not want that. Everyone would be sad if Aunt Lala died -- my mum and da, and Uncle Paddin, and me too. It made my stomach feel like I had eaten too many sweets again to think about Aunt Lala dying.

Then I thought about our new baby and how I surely did not want him to die either. I had been waiting for him forever, it seemed, and now that he was here it would be too sad if he went away before we could be best friends, just like I knew we would be. Now that I finally had a little lad cousin, I would teach him so many things, like how to climb and swim, and where to find the best berries, and we would go wading in streams and running in fields and catch butterflies, just to let them go. Then when we were older, we could visit Frodo and Cousin Bilbo and go hiking with them, and maybe even sleep outside and stay up late looking at the stars and listening to Cousin Bilbo tell us stories about dragons and dwarves and wizards and men who turn into bears. Such adventures we could have together! I was getting quite sad to think that my new lad cousin might die, and I might have cried, but just a little.

So I lay there and thought about things and watched the sky, and then I ate my gingerbreadlad, for I was missing tea, but did not feel like going back inside. I wasn't sure that one had tea when one's aunt and baby cousin might be dying, anyway. It was nice under the tree, and the day smelled like autumn, all crisp leaves and juicy apples and far-off smoke. I watched the clouds moving across the sky for a bit, and that was when I noticed some type of bird against the pale blue. It was moving fast and getting closer, and sometimes it swooped downward before veering back up.

I sat up and looked hard at it, and when it got close enough, I saw that it was a falcon. I looked close to see what kind it was, and so that I would remember just what it looked like in case it was a kind I didn't know and I had to ask Da later. It circled once over the field, and then landed in a tree not too far away from me, and then I could see that it was a peregrine falcon. I knew because Da and I had seen one this past summer, and Da had told me that they were rare in the Shire. I wondered if this was the same one. It was very big -- almost as big as me! -- but I wasn't afraid of it.

It was very still for a long while, and so was I, and as I watched it, I thought about the story Cousin Bilbo had told me just the night before, about the Battle of the Five Armies and the great eagles who helped save them. I had heard this story many times before, but it is one of my favorites, and I love the way Cousin Bilbo tells it. He had talked a lot about birds and how smart they are and how they know things we do not. Then I thought about Frodo telling me a poem with a bird in it, and it was about something called an omen, way back last year, and how an omen is a hint about something that is going to happen in the future, good or bad. I had liked the way the word sounded, the big round "O" and the deep humming "M," and I said it quietly to myself as I watched the falcon. Could the falcon be an omen to me? Suddenly, I felt certain that it was, and I was scared and excited all at the same time. I knew that omens are not something that came to every lad, even if their father was to be Master of Buckland, and I did not want to get things wrong.

By then I was afraid to take my eyes off of it, lest I misunderstand the omen. The great bird was turning its head all about to survey all of Uncle Paddin's lands, and then, quite suddenly, it looked straight at me for a long time, and I didn't even dare to breathe for wonder that I had my very own omen in the form of such a great bird. I wondered what it was thinking about, looking at me that way, so solemn and intent. Then, as if it had made up its mind about something, it lifted off from the treetop and flew directly above me, where it circled three times and cried out before swooping off behind me. By the time I had scrambled up to my feet and turned around, it was already a small black speck in the distance, headed toward where Buckland lies.

I lay back down and puzzled over these things. I felt certain that the falcon must really have been an omen, but what did it mean? I thought very hard, so hard that I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew Pearl's voice was saying, "Merry! Come on, now, I have been looking everywhere for you!"

I opened my eyes. The sky was all rosy with sunset and Pearl was standing over me, smiling. She held out her hand.

"You are going to miss supper, silly! And you've had no tea, you poor lad!" she said as I took her hand and she pulled me upright. Pearl is strong, for all that she is a lass.

"You look happy, Pearl," I said, and she did. She was smiling so that the smile went all the way into her eyes, the way Uncle Paddin smiles when he picks me or one of the lasses up and twirls us round and round and round so our feet don't even touch the ground. My stomach didn't hurt anymore when I saw how happy Pearl was.

"I am very happy," she said. "Mamma is much better, and Pimmie and Vinca and I got to go into her room just for a bit to see her and talk to her. The healers say that she is going to be all right." She was so happy that she spun us around in a circle, but only once, as she is already 15 years old and just last spring she told Uncle Paddin she was too old to be twirling around anymore.

This made me happy, too, but then I thought about my new lad cousin and all of the things I was afraid we would not be able to do together. "What about the baby?" I asked as Pearl and I started back toward the Smials, still hand-in-hand.

She squeezed her fingers around mine. She still looked happy, but not as happy as she had looked when she told me Aunt Lala was getting better. "They think that he will be all right, but he is very small and will need lots of care," she said. "But Father let us look at him, and I got to hold him for a moment. Merry, he is so small that he is like one of Pervinca's little dolls! And he has the most beautiful green eyes."

I was so happy to hear that my baby was going to be all right that I could feel it all the way down in my toes (though I really didn't mind what his eyes looked like). We went inside where it was snug and warm and smelled like baked apples and gingerbread and other good things to eat. Pearl went to find Pervinca and try to make her clean up for supper, and told me to do the same. I went to one of the bath rooms and washed my hands and face and shook all of the bits of leaves out of my hair. I couldn't find a hairbrush, so I just mushed my hair down a bit with my hands, and then brushed off my weskit and straightened my collar.

I decided I wanted to see my mum before I had my supper, just to make sure everything was better like Pearl said, so I crept quietly down to Uncle Paddin and Aunt Lala's apartments. The door to the sitting room was open just enough for me to press my face up and peer in.

Mum was sitting on the sofa holding a bunch of blankets in a way that let me know the baby must be inside. She was making all those soft, silly noises grown-up hobbits make at babies. Uncle Paddin was standing beside her, leaning over so he could look inside the blankets, and he was smiling very big. I squeezed forward just a bit more, to see if anyone else was in the room, but that made the door squeak, and Mum and Uncle Paddin looked up at me.

"Well, there's my lad!" Mum said, smiling, and Uncle Paddin smiled at me, too. "It's all right, Merry, come and meet your new cousin."

I felt strange again, this time like I was meeting an important grown-up hobbit for the first time. I went over to Mum and looked inside the blankets, but all I could see were two flailing hands and some tufts of brown curls that stuck up out of the blankets like little bird's feathers. I could tell that the baby was tinier than other babies I have seen, though. He was making a funny little sound kind of like baby lambs do. It worried me a bit, because I had never heard a baby make a noise like that, so I asked, "Why is he making that sound?"

"He isn't strong enough to cry like other babies do," Uncle Paddin said, "so this is his way of crying."

"Don't worry, Paladin," my mother said with a laugh, "I am certain he will be crying loud and long enough for you soon. Won't you?" she said to the baby. "You will be a great big lad before any of us know it."

"I know he will be, because I had an omen that he would be all right," I told Mum eagerly, proud that I had understood the falcon right.

"An omen?" Mum said, puzzled, while Uncle Paddin said, "Whatever do you mean, Merry?"

"I saw a peregrine falcon today, and first he watched me for a long time, and then he flew over me three times and cried out, and he was an omen, like in Frodo's poem, and I knew it must be a good one because all the great birds Cousin Bilbo knows about have been good, so I knew it meant that the baby would be all right, because him getting better so that we can do fun things together is what I was thinking about when the falcon came," I explained in a rush, because they looked so confused.

Mum was giving me her thinking-hard look. Once, I asked her what she was feeling when she made that face, and she said she was thinking hard about why she deserved such a good lad as her son, so now I call it her thinking-hard face. "Merry," she said, "would you like to hold the baby?"

I felt proud that Mum trusted me to hold such a new baby, but I knew I could be careful enough. I nodded, and sat down beside her when she said to. Then she carefully put the bundle of blankets in my arms and showed me how to hold it and put her arms around mine to help, and he fit just perfectly in my arms. Now I could look down at the little face, for he had stopped flopping his hands about the very minute Mum put him into my arms.

Big green eyes in a tiny face looked up at me. His brow was all furrowed with displeasure and his little mouth was scrunched up. He looked at me hard, as if to say, "Well, there you are; it's about time," and because he was so familiar, I said, "Oh, it is you!" in surprise and delight.

Uncle Paddin laughed and said, "You would think the lad had been expecting him, Esmie!" but Mum gave me her most serious thinking-hard face and kissed my forehead. I felt like a big bubble of happiness was stuck right in the middle of my chest, and the feeling was too big to put into words, so I didn't try to tell Uncle Paddin and Mum that I had been expecting just this very little lad baby.

"What's his name, Uncle Paddin?" I asked, still looking down at that crinkled-up face that was looking up at me just as if he knew who I was, too.

"Well, we had thought to name him Paladin III, but call him Pippin," Uncle Paddin said, "but maybe that is not his name after all, hmm, Merry?"

"Oh, no," I said, for I knew it was right as soon as Uncle Paddin said it, "his name is Pippin, definitely."

Uncle Paddin crouched down beside me so he could look at the baby's face too, and put a hand on my knee. "Oh, yes, that is still what we will call him," he said. "But I think that maybe his name is Peregrin. We'll have to drop the 'e,' of course, to make it a proper lad's name. But after all, he had his very own omen, and we should honor that, don't you think?"

"Peregrin Took," Mum said thoughtfully, looking down on the baby I held so carefully. "Yes, I believe it suits him."

I looked at Uncle Paddin and smiled real big, because I was so happy that I had been right about the omen, and now the baby had his name because of it. Then Peregrin kicked me right in the chest with one of his little feet, and when I looked back down, he seemed to be saying, "Hoy, you're supposed to look at me!" So I did, and gave him a special big smile that I had been keeping just for him.

"Hullo, then, Pippin," I said, "you're just in time for supper."

(Note: The name Peregrine is from the Latin "peregrinus," which means traveling or wandering. I have never read that Tolkien intended a connection between this species of falcon and Pippin, and the idea actually came to me from Marigold.)

1409 SR, Bag End

Oh, but this was misery. All I wanted to do was be left in peace to lie on the bed quietly curled up in a little ball and not move and not speak and just concentrate on breathing, which took up more and more of my attention with every endless minute that dragged by. But no one would let me alone to bask in my agony. Instead, they had to pull me upright (always just after I would finally manage to find a position that hurt a bit less than the one I had been huddled in before) and speak in overly loud voices, not to mention in the manner one speaks to a child. "Come on now, it's time to sit up. That's a good lad, just sit up now. Here we go!" The forced cheeriness did not fool me -- I was dreadfully sick and I knew it, and they knew it, so the façade did nothing but annoy me.

Ugh. If I wasn't ill already, being treated like a helpless child would have made me so. And when I would try to explain to them, quite politely and logically, that all I wanted was to rest for a while, that I would be fine in no time if they would just stop bothering me so, they would treat me like I was a cranky nursling. In fact, I was quite certain I had heard Frodo saying to that Ponto Goodbody that I really was a pleasant lad and I was just a little grumpy right now. Well, maybe if they'd let me alone for a while, I wouldn't be so grumpy. Ugh. Just ugh.

But the fun didn't end once they got me upright, for then I was either made to suffer through yet another pointless herbal steam or coerced into swallowing one dreadful concoction after another that Mr. Goodbody had cooked up for my 'own good,' that would 'make you feel better,' but certainly didn't. (I must have still looked leery of the old healer, for Frodo kept reassuring me that he was an old friend of Cousin Bilbo's and very skilled in the healing arts. I was not reassured, knowing too many people that were in good standing with Cousin Bilbo.) And if it wasn't some supposed cure, it was tea or broth or soup or water or who knows what that they tried to force down my throat, no matter how desperately I tried to explain to them in a painful whisper that it hurt to swallow. If I was grumpy, it certainly wasn't my fault.

The worst by far, however, were the coughing fits that left me too weak to fend off my alleged caretakers. They would go on and on and on, and exploded from my body with such force that if I hadn't been in the sturdy arms of one of my cousins I thought surely I would rattle apart and then roll about the floor in a thousand different pieces. After, I would want nothing more than to just be still for a moment, to try to breathe, and relearn to direct my own limbs, and even to remember who and where and why I was. It bothered me vaguely that this knowledge dangled out of my reach occasionally, but I didn't really care. A good sleep would clear my thoughts and I would be fine, I was sure. That was all I needed, a good, long sleep. But my self-proclaimed caretakers would have none of that, and a coughing fit always produced the worst flurry of activity of all. I would be allowed a much-too-brief moment of rest, and then I had to have a new nightshirt, and I had to have new sheets, which meant I had to get out of the bed and move to a chair for a few moments. That I couldn't get to the chair unless I was supported by a cousin, or sometimes two, or even more embarrassing, once carried there in Sam's capable arms, should have made it quite obvious to them that I needed to be let alone to rest as I'd asked, but they didn't listen to me, and that made me angry, but then being angry when they were just trying to help me made me ashamed and yet more frustrated still. Then, just about when I started to actually drowse off in the chair, they would decide it was time to make me get back in bed, and we would repeat the process in reverse. Then there would be water and tea and pasty, tingling concoctions that Mr. Goodbody would rub into my chest. In other words, there was not the bit of peace and rest I longed for with every aching bone. I wanted to cry in frustration, but I absolutely would not give my tormentors the satisfaction. Besides, crying would just make me cough, and the whole miserable moving about would begin again, and I just couldn't bear it. I couldn't. But I had to.

Oh, but this was misery.

The only comfort I was granted was when Mr. Goodbody and Frodo and even Sam would finally, finally retreat to the kitchen (where they no doubt were creating new and viler "cures" for me) and I was left blessedly alone with the cousin I loved best. Then the room was dark and quiet and pleasant and he would take my hand so carefully in one of his and brush my hair back from my brow with the other, and in a soothing, familiar voice as comforting as any lullaby I had ever heard, he would wander through all of our favorite old lays and tales. We knew them all, word for word, and I found peace in their comfortable familiarity.

Oh, how we had loved these stories when we were younger! Trolls and dragons and Elves and ships sailing on a silver sea. Wizards and eagles and the stars above you as you slept -- the deeds of valiant young heroes brought to life through the magic of tales had launched countless perilous treks and dangerous quests through the forest and glorious dashes across the meadows and courageously daring dives into the River. It was always the two of us, sharing each adventure side by side. And there were so many memories of times spent together that we had made into simple tales of our own. It was one of those sorts of tales he was telling me now, telling me a memory he called it. While the storm outside grew in tempo and pitch, mirrored by the worsening illness in my body, I drifted to sleep, calmed by the familiar sound of his voice, taking me back to days long ago, and in my fevered state, the memories were as vivid as the reality. In which Pippin goes adventuring,
and Merry and Frodo are sure to get into trouble for it(Note: Set in the autumn of the year 1398 SR, so Merry is 16, Frodo is 30, and Pippin is eight. Frodo would have been living with Bilbo for nine years, but it is still three years before Bilbo leaves the Shire.)

1398 SR, Green Hill Country, between the Tookland and Woody End

The small figure was struggling mightily to conquer the crest of the hill, doggedly putting one little foot in front of the other, back stooped under the weight of its pack. Frodo and I looked down the hill in silence, as yet unobserved by the object of our scrutiny.

Frodo threw his hands skyward in exasperation. "Well, what am I to do about this, I ask you? That, that LAD!" He turned his back to the slope and the resolute little lad clambering up it, and walked a little away, but then I heard him start laughing. When I turned around, he was bent over with his hands on his knees as he chortled.

"Really, Merry, he will be the death of us both someday," he said, but in spite of his harsh words his tone was amused, and he continued to laugh.

I didn't join him in his mirth, as I hadn't yet decided if I was amused, worried or angry. I turned away from Frodo to look down the slope again. The determined little figure was nearly to the top, but had reached the steepest incline and was slowed to a crawl. I had to admire his spirit, that much was certain. Well, however I ended up deciding to react to this little escapade, I couldn't let him harm himself trying to get to the top with his pack on.

"Pippin, wait!" I called to him, and started down the hillside. My younger cousin stopped, panting heavily, and squinted up at me.

"Merry!" he said, gasping from his exertions but smiling in triumph. "I have caught you at last!"

"So it would seem," I said, reaching him and kneeling beside him. I ran a practiced eye over the lad for any visible hurts or damage, and was relieved to see nothing but a scratch or two, undoubtedly received when trailing us through a bramble patch we had briefly become entangled in, courtesy of one of Frodo's infamous 'shortcuts.'

"Here, give it here," I ordered, and he flailed hands and arms around in an awkward attempt to unburden himself. I stilled his movements and began unbuckling the pack myself. No wonder he had been having so much trouble with it coming up the hill, for while he had fastened it on correctly, it wasn't properly tightened. I would have to teach him how to do it properly if he was going to start tramping about with us. Once I got the pack off, I pulled his shirt off his shoulders a little. Sure enough, there were red marks where the pack's weight had settled, but at least the skin wasn't raw. I rubbed gently at the sore spots. Pip wrinkled his nose in a way I knew meant it stung, but he did not complain.

Pippin's breath was still coming in great heaves, and he was watching me with cautious eyes, trying to determine if he was in trouble. Frodo ambled down the slope to us and roughly mussed Pippin's hair.

"Well, Merry, whatever have you captured?" he said playfully. "A little hobbit-lad for our supper? He looks like he'll be tender and juicy!"

"Frodo!" Pippin said, giggling. "You won't eat me!"

Frodo crossed his arms in front of his chest and bent over until he was nose-to-nose with the eight-year-old. "I wouldn't be so sure of that if I were you, Master Took. Naughty lads who go running about in the wild without supervision often get eaten for supper."

Pippin swatted at Frodo's upper arm. "Nah, you're teasing," he said confidently. I was relieved to see that his breathing was slowly but surely returning to normal. He looked sideways at me, even though his next words were addressed to Frodo.

"I told you I was big enough to come this far. You aren't slowed down or anything!"

Pippin was clearly seeking my approval, but I was still too concerned over all of the things that could have happened to such a little lad alone in such terrain as we had hiked to feel forgiving as yet. "Oh, yes," I said, "and we're just delaying our supper because this hill was too big for either of us to manage on our own." I stood up and picked Pippin's pack up in one hand. I reached my other hand out to Pip. "Come on," I said, "to the top, now."

Pippin scowled at me and did not take my hand. Instead, he reached out for Frodo, who raised his eyebrows at me but grasped Pippin's hand in his. I rolled my eyes at Frodo in a mixture of exasperation and amusement. The three of us trudged the rest of the way up to where Frodo and I had relieved ourselves of our own packs.

Well, this was a fine mess. I had been staying over at Bag End for most of the month of September, up until Frodo and Bilbo's birthday, and Frodo and I had decided a pleasant way to get me back to Buckland would be a leisurely hike through the Shire, interspersed with plenty of stops and visits. Our first such stop had been in the Tookland at the Smials, where we had spent two nights.

But we had neglected to include a certain hobbit-lad in our calculations, a fact we had only realized the previous night when Pippin had matter-of-factly asked what he should pack for our trip through Green Hill Country and on to Buckland. Tears, wheedles, promises, threats and earnest logic followed our gentle explanations that this wasn't a trip for such a young cousin, and the evening ended with Pippin refusing to kiss either of us goodnight.

We should have been more alert when morning dawned to a very cheery Pippin at breakfast, and to a tearless farewell later in the day. We didn't leave until after tea time, as Frodo likes to walk in the evening, and it wasn't until we stopped for supper, a good two hours into the hike, that we had spotted the small figure trailing behind us.

The three of us crested the hill, Pippin finding it much more easily vanquished without the burden of his pack. We flopped down on the grassy spot Frodo and I had already picked for our evening meal and Pippin gave us both his most engaging smile. I carefully kept my defenses up, but Frodo chuckled.

"Well, Meriadoc, what shall we do with this scamp?" he asked.

"See what he brought us for supper," I said. "That will do for a start." I set Pippin's pack between my legs. It was quite lumpy and heavy, and I could see an apple and some cloth material poking out of the top. I opened it up. "Let's see what we have."

"Hoy!" Pippin said. "That is my pack, Merry! I got it ready myself and everything."

"Did you now?" I shot back. "Did you do this before or after you told us goodbye and pretended you weren't scheming to follow at our heels?"

Pippin crossed his arms in front of his chest and gave me his fiercest scowl, but I ignored him and turned my attention to the little pack. I began pulling items out and setting them neatly and deliberately on the ground about me.

Apples. Sweet biscuits. Toy wooden animals. Change of clothing. Bar of soap. Slingshot. Nightshirt. Pippin's favorite wooden carved milk mug, given to him by Bilbo and featuring a funny dwarf face. A two-foot length of string. A broken pocket-watch that my father had once given Pippin to keep him amused and had never been able to retrieve. A hairbrush. A large wooden spoon. An entire jar of blackberry jam.

The last item undid me and I struggled to contain my laughter, finding that I was amused, after all. I risked a glance at Frodo, who had been watching my exploration of the little pack, and found his shoulders twitching. He carefully schooled his expression.

"Did you pack this all by yourself, Pippin?" he asked, and Pippin nodded eagerly.

"Yup!" he said proudly. "There's food and clothes and stuff to eat with and even soap!" I wondered if the last item was to impress us with his maturity and readiness for a serious adventure, as soap is not something that Pippin would usually give thought to.

"Yes, everything seems in order," I said as solemnly as I could. Pippin, who had sat down closer to Frodo than to me, crept a little bit nearer, sensing that my ire was evaporating. "But tell me, Peregrin," I held up the blackberry jam, "on what should we eat this? The biscuits?"

Pippin's face drooped for a moment as he realized there was no corresponding bread, but then it brightened. "We can always just eat the jam, Merry," he pointed out. "I brought a spoon."

I fought it for a moment, but then a giggle escaped, and as soon as I was lost, so was Frodo. We held our sides and had a good belly-laugh while Pippin, perceiving that the danger of scolding had passed, shrieked with giggles.

"We are laughing at you, you silly goose!" I gasped, reaching out to grab his nose between two fingers.

"Nunh-ah, Merry!" he squealed. "Leggo!"

"Hold him tight now, Merry," Frodo ordered, and reached out to snatch Pippin around the waist.

"No, no, no, no TICKLING!" Pippin shrieked with delight, small body squirming as I joined Frodo and we unerringly, unmercifully hit each ticklish spot. When we finally decided he had had enough, all three of us flopped onto our backs to catch our breath, little snippets of giggles still burbling out sporadically.

When we had calmed, I rolled to my side and grabbed hold of Pip, hauling him across the grass to me. He grinned up at me, all flushed cheeks and tousled hair and shining eyes. I gave him a little raspberry on his cheek and shook him gently.

"Pippin," I said, "we are going to be in so much trouble! Do you know that?"

"Nooo," he said, sweetly reaching up to pat my face. "Why would we be in trouble, Merry?"

Frodo sat up and began rummaging through his own pack and pulling out items for our now-overdue supper. "Why? Why do you think, Peregrin?" he said good-naturedly. "Don't you think your parents are going to wonder about you when you don't show up for supper? Or bedtime? You can't just go wandering all about the countryside by yourself with no one knowing where you are!"

"Frodo," Pippin said in the voice one uses to explain something to a small child, "I'm not by myself, I'm with you and Merry. And I said where I was going and no one said I couldn't, so why would we be in trouble?"

I started laughing. "Oh, you said where you were going, did you? And who exactly did you tell?"

"Everyone," Pippin said earnestly. "I went to the kitchen and told Florella and she gave me things to eat to pack. And Mamma saw me getting my pack ready and asked where I was going and I said I was going adventuring with you and she said, 'Don't forget to pack your hairbrush!' so I did. And then right before I left I went into the playroom and told Briony and Pearl and everyone, and Briony said, 'Watch out for trolls and giant spiders!'"

This was too rich, and Frodo and I both were soon howling again. I thought to myself that Pippin's nurse would be sorely regretting those words about the time she had to tell the Thain and his mistress that she had given Pippin permission to go off into the wild with us. Of course, Pippin often announces that he is going "adventuring," but usually he just adventures down at the stream or in one of the barns, or maybe all the way out to the south fields if he's feeling especially bold.

"What?" Pippin asked, swatting at my chest with his little hands. "Why are you laughing, Merry?"

"Pippin," Frodo said, laughter slowly subsiding, "did anyone actually see you leaving your father's lands?"

Pip nodded vigorously. "Vinca did," he said confidently. "She laughed and said, 'Tell Merry and Frodo that this is their reward for encouraging your wild ways.' So, now I've told you. See, we're not in trouble, and I knew you wouldn't be cross once you saw I could keep up and had all my own stuff and everything."

He was looking up at me with such an open, earnest expression, anxiously awaiting my approval and full restoration to my graces, that I could not resist and pulled him into my arms, kissing his curls. "Oh, Pippin, I do love you so," I said, and he threw his arms around me in delight.

"I love you, too, Merry," he said, then bounded out of my arms to throw his hands in the air in delight. "Hurray! We're going adventuring!"

Frodo was shaking his head, but smiling fondly at the lad. "Well, first we are eating," he said. "And then maybe we can find a little adventure, but, Pippin, we will have to take you back to your parents before bedtime."

"What?!" Pippin's shriek of dismay reached the treetops, where it disturbed a blue jay that took off, cawing. "But we're going to Buckland together and walking under the stars and sleeping outside by a fire!"

Frodo shook his head firmly at Pippin, putting on his "I'm serious" face. "No, dearest, we will have to take you back home, and Merry and I will just have to spend another night at the Smials and leave again for Buckland tomorrow. I know that you told everyone you were going adventuring with us, and that was very good of you, Pippin, but I am certain that they thought you meant make-believe adventuring, not for-real adventuring."

Pippin's little bow-shaped mouth was agape with his distress. "Oh, no, Frodo, I didn't say make-believe! No one said I couldn't come, not even Briony! You and Merry will take good care of me, you always do, and it will be such a splendid time."

Frodo stood up and went to stand in front of Pippin, stooping down and putting his hands on his knees so he could look Pip in the eye. "We are going back to the Smials tonight, but you can decide by how well you behave if we go straight back as soon as we finish supper or if we build a fire and stay out for a bit and you hear a few stories. Which will it be, Pippin?"

Pip grabbed Frodo's hand and mustered his most beseeching face. "Oh, please please please, Frodo, I want to sleep outside so very much!"

I was glad Frodo was in charge, not me, because that face gets me most every time. When Frodo raised an eyebrow, though, Pippin knew he was defeated and stuck his lower lip out in a pout. "All right," he said sullenly. "I will be good about going home. But I still don't see why we have to."

Frodo stood up and patted Pippin's head. "That's my good lad. Now, will you help Merry gather some wood for our fire?"

"Oh, yes!" Pippin went from pout to full-blown enthusiasm in the blink of an eye. I had been repacking Pippin's pack (and making sure everything was in a more orderly fashion than I had found it in) but now I stood and reached for Pip's hand. This time he took it eagerly. I hated to voice what I was thinking in front of our young cousin after Frodo had just diffused the impending storm, but I was worried about this little escapade.

"How late are we going to stay out, Frodo?" I said. "I don't want Uncle Paladin and Aunt Eglantine to think anything bad has happened to Pippin."

Frodo was arranging cooking supplies and generally organizing our supper site with practiced ease. He waved a hand at my concerns. "They will work it out, and if they don't, they have Miss Pervinca to 'fess up to her part in Master Peregrin's escape. It's going to take a good two hours to get back to the Smials anyway; no, make that three, once it turns dark, so I don't see as how a little story by the fire is going to make much of a difference. At least we will all be warm and rested when we start back. Now go fetch me some wood!"

I looked down at Pippin, who was grinning up at me. "Merry, it will be dark soon," he said, impressed by the thought of being in the woods in the dark.

"Yes, it will," I answered. "Aren't you glad we noticed you? Were you planning to walk alone in the dark behind us if you hadn't caught up with us before nightfall?"

"I knew you'd stop to eat, Merry," he said, sounding somewhat disgusted by my lack of faith in his reasoning skills, and I hid my smile. We started foraging for firewood, hand-in-hand.

"I can't believe you walked all that way by yourself, Pip," I told him. "I bet it's the furthest you've ever walked."

"It was a long, long way, wasn't it, Merry?" he answered with a sigh. "I got tired, but I kept walking, just like Cousin Bilbo in Mirkwood Forest."

"Indeed," I said dryly. "Just like that."

***

A fire, supper, the biscuits, a smoke for Frodo and the telling of Bilbo's adventures in Mirkwood (in honor of Pippin's great trek through the forest), and we did an about-face back toward the Tookland. The sun had set and it was getting chilly. Pippin had had the foresight to wear his coat, but not his cloak, so we made him put on his spare shirt for extra warmth, then added one of my shirts, tucked into his breeches and with the sleeves rolled up. I also had discreetly slipped quite a few of the items from his pack into both my and Frodo's packs. We made good time before it got really dark, and Pippin followed the new walking-after-dark-in-the-countryside rule of holding a bigger hobbit's hand at all times without making a fuss.

After about an hour, though, he started to straggle, and his heretofore steady stream of excited chatter dwindled off. This would have been his bedtime at home, and he had had a lot more activity that day than he usually did. After another half hour of walking in silence, I noticed Pippin's chin drifting down into his chest, then snapping back up as he struggled to stay awake.

I yawned loudly. "Lawks, but I'm tired!" I exclaimed. "Aren't you, Frodo?"

Frodo was a little ahead of us and had turned to me in surprise when he heard me yawn. I nodded my chin at Pippin, who was swaying a little on his feet.

"Oh, yes, now that you mention it, I am quite tired, Merry," Frodo said. We all stopped, and Frodo continued, "Let's take a little break, lads. All right, Pippin?"

Pip's head had drifted back down and came up quickly when he heard his name. "Yes, if you're tired, Frodo," he said without a trace of irony.

We took off our packs, and Frodo unrolled his blanket and gestured to it. "Here, lads, the ground is cold. Let's sit on this." We obediently arranged ourselves, Frodo and I on either side of Pippin. Then we sat in silence and waited. One minute. Two minutes. Three -- whomp. Pippin had tumbled sideways into my lap, fast asleep. Frodo and I looked at each other in the dim light of the stars and the half-moon.

"This has been quite a hike for a little fellow," Frodo said fondly.

"It has indeed," I answered. "I can't believe he walked all this way and didn't lag further behind. Actually, I just can't believe he walked all this way." I smoothed Pip's rumpled curls fondly, feeling his chest rise and fall steadily against my leg.

Frodo leaned back on his hands and stretched out his legs in front of him. "Well, you're always trying to build up his strength, Merry. Today has proved you're doing a good job."

I am always trying to build up Pippin's strength. He was so little when he was born, and has been playing catch-up with the other lads ever since. On top of that, he has had more than his share of illnesses, including the dire Winter Sickness several times, most recently just the past winter, when he was in bed for more than a month. At some point in our childhood, I had gotten the idea that his trying to keep up with me would help make Pippin bigger and stronger, so I let him come everywhere with me and the other lads, something Pippin needed no encouragement with. After all, I was right there to help him if he started having trouble.

Frodo stirred in the darkness. "My dear cousin," he said solemnly, "we are going to catch it right good when we get him home."

"You're the one who said a fire and a story wouldn't make any difference," I pointed out.

Frodo sighed. "They wouldn't. At that point, we were going to catch it no matter what, so why not let the lad have a little fun? He had his little plan so well worked out, it seemed a shame to disappoint him completely." He put his pack on and stood. "Let's get to it, then," he said, pushing Pippin's pack toward me with a foot. I stood, and he scooped Pip up, wrapping him snug in the blanket as he did so.

"Come along, Meriadoc, doom awaits us, and her name is Briony," he said cheerily, getting Pippin positioned comfortably on his shoulder. I strapped on my pack and picked up Pippin's in my arms, then followed my cousins into the night. For love of them, I would even face the dreaded ire of Pippin's nurse.

1409 SR, Bag End

They didn't need to tell me aloud that I was getting sicker, not that they would have dared to do so. If I had not already figured it out from the ever-increasing effort each breath required, I could have read it plainly on their faces, no matter how they tried to hide the truth. Frodo was the worst -- his eyes get so large and his face so drawn when he is worried.

There was also so much more activity going on in the room, but this didn't bother me as much as it had before. I did not know if I had grown accustomed to it, or if I simply was too ill to care anymore. I suspected that it was the latter, but I was not quite so ill that I was unaware of the people coming and going in a steady stream, and I remembered that such comings and goings when a person is ill is generally not a good thing. I noted voices and movements by sound, but kept my aching eyes closed unless someone addressed me directly.

I wanted to sleep, to rest, so desperately, but could never quite seem to drift off into real slumber. Neither could I rouse myself from the fevered stupor that had settled into my body and mind. Dreams and memories and reality intermingled, and I scarce could tell where one began and another ended, or even be sure why it mattered so much that I know the difference. I shivered beneath the mound of blankets over me, so cold that it was a physical pain, but at the same time I soaked the sheets with sweat and my face felt like it was on fire.

Someone gently placed a cool cloth across my eyes, and it was the most blessed relief I had ever known. I wanted to thank this benevolent bringer of comfort, but my throat burned and my mouth was dry, so instead I just made a little smacking sound.

"Here," the kind, wonderful person said softly, and cool water trickled onto my lips. "Just let it slide down your throat instead of trying to swallow." I obeyed, and found that the soothing water slid effortlessly down my tortured throat. How clever this person was!

Now when I licked my lips and ordered my voice to speak, it obeyed, and I whispered a small, "Thank you," in a gravely voice that I did not recognize.

"You're welcome," the person whispered back to me, and took my hand in his, and now I recognized my cousin's familiar touch. How could I be so befuddled that I would not know his voice? I always knew him, always. This upset me greatly, and I whimpered in distress and shifted around a little in the bed, as though I could move away from my own mental disturbance.

"Shh, don't do that," my cousin said. "Just lie still and rest. I'm right here." He squeezed my fingers a little reassuringly, and I squeezed back, so glad he was with me.

"All right," I said, already forgetting what had upset me, my mind finding comfort just in his nearness. I lay still and worked hard at breathing. From somewhere, I could hear Frodo and Sam Gamgee talking. They sounded very serious, so I tried hard to understand them, as I wouldn't want to miss anything important, but I couldn't make out the words, and I soon abandoned the effort.

"Do you know what I dreamed about last night?" my cousin asked, and I jumped a little in surprise at his voice. I could tell he had laid his head beside me on the bed, and felt him gazing at me. He didn't wait for an answer, or even seem to expect one, and I was relieved that I could just lay quiet and listen to his voice. That's all I wanted to do, anyway.

"I dreamed about that day in the barn with the kittens," he continued. "Remember that? Remember the teeny tiny one?"

I felt a weak smile tug at the corners of my mouth. Of course I remembered. I remembered it all, every minute we'd ever spent together. Sometimes I even fancied that I could remember every minute we'd yet to spend together, our whole life laid out in front of me, if only I knew how to reach out and capture it.

"Well, I dreamed about it as clear as if it just happened yesterday," my cousin went on, but his voice trailed off. "Are you listening?" he asked in a nearly inaudible whisper. "Do you know I'm here?"

I wanted to answer, but my mouth was dry again, and really, breathing was taking up all my air, with none left over for frivolities like talking. I couldn't hold onto his hand anymore, either, much as I wanted to, but he kept a soothing hold on mind. I had so wanted to hear him tell me his dream about the kittens, but I could feel myself slipping again into that place where understanding was so very difficult. Maybe he would tell me anyway? That would be nice, and I tried to tell him so but a funny moan was all that I could manage. Well, he would know what I wanted, I was sure.

"You're so much worse, and I'm so scared," he whispered, and he sounded so worried that I wanted to comfort him, but I was already melting into dreams, and he was fading away. As darkness stole over me, I heard his comforting voice begin to murmur something about kittens and I felt his hand grip mine just a bit tighter, then I let myself go, knowing that he was there and would keep me safe.In which Pippin causes a ruckus, gets a surprise and makes a promise

(Note: Set in the spring of the year 1400 SR, so Merry is 18, Pippin is 10, and Pervinca is 15. Ferumbras, Robin and Daisy are original characters not listed in the family trees.)

1400 SR, Brandy Hall

"Give it back!"

"What's the matter, little baby? Come and take it back if you want it!"

"Don't make him shriek, Ferumbras, you'll get us in trouble. Pippin, it doesn't matter if he gives it back, you're not coming with us."

"I am so!" The last word hit a high note and ended in an indignant screech. I picked up my pace and hurried down the passageway to the cloakroom nearest the Hall's southern entrance.

Ferumbras was securing Pippin's cloak atop a wardrobe, precariously balanced on the inner ledge with one of the doors swinging open, stretched on his tiptoes to his full height so he could reach. Just as I opened my mouth to reprimand him, Pippin grabbed hold of the older child's waist and picked his feet off the floor, using all of his weight to tumble Ferumbras backwards.

Both miscreants landed on the floor with a thud, Pippin beneath the larger lad (and Ferumbras is a big 13, at that), and for a moment I held my breath as the wardrobe quivered a little. But the old piece of furniture had been made to withstand greater forces than squabbling cousins, and did not budge from the place it had probably stood for the past hundred or so years.

Now Pippin had his hands in Ferumbras' curls and from the look on Rumby's face was inflicting quite a bit of pain. Rumby, for his part, was using his greater body weight to attempt to squish Pippin as flat as a sheet of parchment beneath him. Pippin's sister Pervinca was ignoring them both and prissily adjusting her outerwear, while Daisy and Robin, other Brandybuck cousins and both 12, stared in wide-eyed shock at the wild behavior of our relatives.

I decided it was time to make my presence known and came through the doorway with enough stomping of feet to be heard over the lads' commotion. "Peregrin Took and Ferumbras Brandybuck, stop that this instant!" I bellowed, and both lads froze in shock. The next moment, they were scrambling off the floor and as one they pointed accusing fingers at each other and began firing off their grievances.

"Merry, Rumby says I can't go down to the River to watch them repairing the ferry and he took my cloak away and called me a baby," Pippin spilled out, as Ferumbras recited, "Merry, I just tried to tell Pippin he is much too little to come anywhere with us for we don't want to dawdle so that he can keep up and he jumped on me and pulled my hair."

I folded my arms in front of my chest and did my best to look just like my father. "I don't care," I declared. "I don't care who said what or did what. Just stop it before someone older and bigger than me hears all this ruckus and every one of us gets into trouble." I reached up to the top of the wardrobe and pulled down Pippin's cloak. "Now, are we going down to watch them repair the ferry?"

Pervinca decided to grace us with her say at this point. "You are welcome to come, of course, Merry, but you know that Pippin is just getting over that cold and we can't have him holding us back."

I gave her my fiercest look, but wild wargs couldn't intimidate that one, and she just smoothed down her bright curls before pulling her hood over them. "Besides," she continued, "we are all ready to go now, and aren't waiting any longer."

"But Vinca," Pippin wailed, "that's not fair! I would be ready if Rumby hadn't taken all my things! I'll be ready in a minute and you can walk as fast as you want, I'll keep up."

Ferumbras had decided that discretion was the better part of valor and had finished putting on his outerwear while I matched wills and glares with Vinca, and now had the door open and was hauling Robin out into the damp, chilly day. Vinca snagged Daisy by her hair and pushed her out after them, then stuck her tongue out at Pippin and said, "Oops, too late!" before shutting the door after herself.

Pippin gave an infuriated little squeal and looked nearly ready to burst into tears. I put my hand on his head to remind him that I was still here, and still on his side. "Come on, Pip," I said, "we don't need them. Get your gear on and let me pull on some things and we'll go down by ourselves. We don't even have to talk to that rotten crew if we don't feel like it."

My cousin's face brightened considerably and he reached out with both hands to grab me by the waist, tipping his face up to look at me. "Can we, Merry? Just you and me? That will be so much better than going with nasty old Ferumbras anyway!" Pippin and Ferumbras were only three years apart and certainly shared an adventurous spirit, but seemed fated to clash over every little thing.

I handed Pippin his cloak. "Get to it, then," I said, "for we want to be back by luncheon!" I began rummaging around and outfitting myself and soon we were ready. Pippin took my hand and beamed up at me and I basked in the glow of his open adoration as I opened the door.

And then our fortune turned and wrath fell upon us.

"Meriadoc Brandybuck, have you quite lost your mind?! And you, young master, you disobedient little thing, just what do you think you're doin'?!"

Before I could quite process what was going on, my small companion's hand had been yanked from mine and his outerwear was flying off his body and back into its proper place in the wardrobe. I stood with my mouth open as Briony, Pippin's nurse, skillfully divested him of clothing and then loomed over him like some dark harbinger of ill will. One look at Pippin's rueful face and I knew I had been unwittingly ensnared in an act of rebellion.

Briony had her hands on her hips, and her stormy expression was directed right at -- me. I closed the door very, very carefully and began removing my own outerwear.

"Do not think, Master Brandybuck, that just because we are avisitin' at your home that what I say regarding this one is not the law," Briony barked. "When I say he is not to go outside, he is not to go outside. You should try employin' a little o' that common sense you Brandybucks claim to have in spades. Why, the lad was in bed with a cold not two days ago, and well you know it, the way you were underfoot the whole time, and here you are ready to take him out trompin' through the mud and breathin' in the damp. Why don't you just dunk him in that River while you're at it?"

I hung everything in its appropriate place, moving slowly, as if not to startle a mad animal.

"And you," the thundercloud redirected itself toward Pippin, "is there something about the words, 'No, love, you cannou' go outside today,' that you did not understand? Hmm? No? More trouble than all three lasses put together, that's what you are! Now get back in this here smial and don't even think about pokin' even the end of your little nose outside of it for the rest of the day!"

Pippin slunk into the passageway. Briony stood in the doorway, hands still on her hips. I looked at her, uncertain what was expected of me. Finally, she sighed in exasperation and pointed a finger in the direction of my cousin.

"Go on!" she said. "See if you can find some entertainment for him that will not end with him needin' a healer!"

I slunk after Pippin, staying carefully out of Briony's reach, and we slithered down the hall, darting glances behind us to see if Briony was still guarding the cloakroom. (She was, naturally.) We finally made it to the third study, which was uninhabited at the moment, and let out our breath in mutual relief.

"I'm sorry, Merry," Pippin said ruefully, but I knew from the look on his face that what he was mostly sorry about was not being able to go down to the River.

"Pippin," I said reproachfully. "And you know how I live in terror of Briony." I had never had a nurse, and the proprietary, sharp-tongued Briony had always intimidated me.

Pippin gave me a doleful little smile and shrugged his shoulders, his whole demeanor clearly saying, "It was worth a try." He looked terribly crestfallen, and I just couldn't bring myself to be angry with him.

"I know," he sighed, "but this was supposed to be a fun trip, and I haven't gotten to do anything fun at all. Stupid cold, and I'm all better anyway. And I don't care what she says, I'm not taking a nap like a baby today."

The poor little lad, he hadn't had a good visit, what with falling ill the day after they arrived and being held prisoner by Briony in his bedroom for the past several days. I had tried to amuse him as best I could, but I knew he wasn't having the fun he had hoped for. This one little cousin has gotten me into more trouble than all the rest of the brood combined over the years, but I can never stay mad at him. I ruffled his curls.

"Pip, you shouldn't go outside if Briony says you're not well enough to," I said, adding, "And you shouldn't go getting me into trouble by doing things you know you're not supposed to but I don't know you're not supposed to."

Pippin traced a line in the rug with a toe. "I know," he muttered, looking at the floor and not me. I made a little note in my head to have a chat with Pippin about being more careful of his health once he was more receptive.

But for now, bribery seemed the best method. "Tell you what," I proposed, "I will stay inside and play with you all day, and if you are good -- and that includes taking a nap without a fuss -- I will smuggle you out to the livestock barn for a special surprise later today."

Pippin looked at me now, both hopeful and suspicious. "What kind of surprise?" he asked.

I laughed. "If I tell you, it isn't a surprise, now, is it? But I'll say this -- Ferumbras doesn't know about it, and I'm certainly not going to tell him, so it will be just your surprise."

Now Pippin looked intrigued. "Oh, yes, I'll be good," he said eagerly. (I knew that offering him something Ferumbras the Evil Cousin of Woe could not have would seal the deal.)

"Make it a promise, and promise me right," I said.

"I'll be a good lad, all day and night," he answered in our favorite children's rhyme, and I bent down so he could complete the ritual with a wet, smacky kiss on my cheek.

****

We holed up in the third study, which we turned into a great battleground between the clothespin dolls and the carved wooden animal armies, emerging only for meals. Briony poked her head in periodically, and I figured all was forgiven when she brought us a piece of cake to share and some cider. By two o'clock, the wooden animals had decimated the clothespin dolls and both victorious and conquered soldiers had been put back into the toy chest. I figured we had time for Pippin's surprise and then his nap before tea.

"Are we going to get into trouble again, Merry?" Pippin asked as I wrapped him with care in coat and cloak, tied his favorite scarf snugly around his neck, and then slipped my own coat on.

"No," I said, thinking he sounded much too eager about doing something that would get us into more trouble. Then I added, "Well, I don't think so." I decided I'd better make sure, and poked my head out of the cloakroom for a quick Nurse-check, but there was nary a skirt in sight. "Not if we go right now and come back before Briony notices," I finished, wrapping Pippin in a blanket I found at the bottom of the wardrobe and picking him up. We darted out the door undetected.

"Merry, down!" Pippin commanded, but I shook my head.

"Oh, no," I said. "Briony is right, I ought to use my head more often. You are just getting over being sick, and the ground is all cold and wet and you don't need to get those little feet all frozen. Besides, we will do my surprise my way, or not at all."

The threat of losing his surprise quieted Pippin, and he clung to me as we made our way to the livestock barn, where I set him down. "Now, let's see," I said, hunting around the hay in the bottom of an empty pony stall. I knew I had seen them here just last night . . .

"There, Pippin," I whispered, and pointed.

Pippin drew in his breath and clasped his hands together in delight. In the far corner of the stall was a large gray cat, and squirming all about her were half a dozen kittens, so new that their eyes weren't open.

Pip fell to his knees and leaned in closer to see, moving so quietly and carefully that I could scarcely believe this was the same child who had been shrieking and toppling older cousins in the cloakroom that morning. I knelt beside him and reached for one of the kittens. Old Winnie watched me cautiously, but didn't object. I cupped the kitten in my hands and held it out to Pippin, who was barely breathing in his excitement as he reached out to pet it.

"Oh, Merry, it's so soft!" he exclaimed. "Look how little and sweet!" It was little and sweet, and so was the picture Pippin made carefully stroking the downy fur. The kitten's mews rose in distress as it blindly searched my hands for its mother, so I set it back down with its siblings.

"Oh, Merry, look at this one!" Pippin was peering into the depths of the haystack at a small, wiggling creature, and when he drew back with his prize he was holding a brown-and-gold-striped kitten in his cupped hands.

"It's so little," he said in wonder, running a finger tenderly along the kitten's spine.

"Careful," I cautioned him. "It looks the tiniest of all." I looked at the little kitten rather in awe myself. Despite being not nearly the size of the other kittens, it was quite full of life, squirming on Pippin's hand blindly and opening its mouth to emit the tiniest "mew."

"Why is it so much smaller than the others?" Pippin asked, still staring raptly at his furry bundle. He was still stroking it with a gentle care seldom exhibited by the rambunctious lad.

"Oh, sometimes babes just get born smaller than they should be." I was studying Pippin's face as I said this, following smooth forehead to delicate eyelashes to sharp nose to sweet bow mouth. I remembered a tiny, tiny hobbit baby with all these beloved features already in place, squirming in my arms and making a noise not unlike the kitten's mew, and I was suddenly struck anew with the force of my love for this smallest of cousins.

"Here, you hold it," Pippin said, and then oh-so-carefully placed the wee thing in the palm of my hand. I held it gingerly and noted with astonishment that it fit completely in my hand, it was that little. It had not looked so tiny held in Pippin's hands, and I realized with a jolt how much smaller than I he was.

Pippin had his cupped hands back out, so I deduced that my holding time was up and transferred the kitten back to him. "It will be all right, won't it, Merry?" he asked anxiously, running another careful finger over the runt's head. "Its mother will take good care of it, won't she?"

"Of course she will, Pip," I replied. "But if you want, we can bring it some extra milk and special treats to help it grow big and strong."

Pippin didn't tear his eyes from his precious find, but he smiled broadly in delight. "Oh, yes," he said, "we need to do that. This one needs extra love to grow up."

I knew that if Pippin looked up at me right then, he would never understand why my eyes were damp. I leaned nearer to him, both to look at the kitten in his hands and to feel his warm little body pressed close to mine.

"You know, Pip, you were small like this when you were born," I began.

"Like this?!" he exclaimed, jerking his head up to look at me with huge eyes.

I laughed. "Well, no, not small like this kitten. I meant you were smaller than most hobbit babies are when you were born."

"Oh." He had no interest in this information and returned his focus to the kitten. I knew he had heard many times how he was sick when he was born but then he got better and that made him a very special little hobbit. I had seen him roll his eyes at the recitation of these facts by various elderly aunts (who usually managed to pinch his cheeks while relating the story of his birth).

"I was so happy you were finally here, so you could get bigger and play with me," I continued. His head moved ever-so-slightly, and I knew his interest had piqued just a tad. I finished reeling him in by leaning even closer and whispering in his ear, "And I was so glad you weren't another lass!"

Pippin giggled at this. "Me too!" he declared.

I jostled his shoulder, very gently so as not to make him drop the kitten. He was stroking it tenderly with a single tiny fingertip, and the little creature seemed to be falling asleep.

"I was even happier when you got better after you were so sick when you were first born," I said. "I couldn't wait for you to be able to run and play and talk, and now look at all the things you can do with me. But sometimes you need extra care, too, just like this kitten, because of being born so little. And we all just want you to grow up big and strong."

Pippin was frowning intently and not looking at me, quite intentionally, I felt sure. "I'm not a little baby anymore, Merry. I was just sick when I was a baby, you know, not now."

It had been about two years since Pippin had suffered a serious illness, so this wasn't strictly true, but remembering how I had calculated years during my own early childhood, Pippin probably designated anything beyond a year ago "babyhood." Certainly the direness of that last bout with the Winter Sickness was a hazy, long-ago memory to him, even if it was sharply, painfully clear in my head.

I carefully put an arm around his shoulders and was pleased when he didn't shrug me off, as it meant he was still listening to me. "No, you're not a baby anymore, and you did get better after being so sick when you were born. But, Pippin, hobbits aren't supposed to be born that small for a reason, because they aren't all grown inside as well as out. That's why the healers think you've had so many illnesses in your chest, because your lungs weren't done growing when you were born. It doesn't mean you're sick, but it does mean you have to be extra careful about taking care of yourself and not falling ill. It means when your mother or Briony tells you that you can't do something the other lads are doing you should listen, because they just want to make sure you grow up big and strong, as you want the kitten to grow up and be healthy."

Pippin furrowed his brow in thought, but still didn't look at me. Finally, he said, "It would be sad if he got sick and died, wouldn't it, Merry?"

I leaned my cheek against his curly head. "It would be the saddest thing that ever happened to his family, Pippin," I said seriously.

"Well," he said, "I will have to come and see him every day, because the mama cat will need some help making sure he is taken care of good. She's got all these other kittens, too, you know."

I made a noncommittal sound. I was not certain if I had lost him during my little moral tale, or if he had simply resolved the issue in his head and moved on.

"So I know he'll be all right, then, because it will be just like you do," he continued.

"What?" I asked, unable to follow his logic.

Pippin finally tipped his face up to look at me. "You help make sure I get taken care of good, Merry, so I don't get sick and die," he said with the casual, brutal honesty of a child.

I was taken aback and simply opened and shut my mouth a few times before I could compose an answer. "It's what I try to do, Pip," I finally said.

"Oh, you do, Merry," he assured me positively. "But don't worry, I promise I'll grow up good. Otherwise you'll be sad, and I hate when you're sad."

I was unable to find an appropriate answer to my cousin's promise, but doubted I could have gotten it around the sudden lump in my throat anyway. Fortunately, Pippin's mind was already on other things. The mother cat had come over to investigate where her missing baby was, and Pippin set his bundle down on the hay carefully. "Here he is," he told her cheerily. "All asleep and happy." The cat scooped the slumbering ball of fur into her mouth and scurried back to her pile of mewling kittens.

He leaned comfortably against me and I put my arms around him, and for a few minutes we watched as the mother cat arranged herself and the babies began to nurse. I tucked the blanket about his shoulders where it had slipped. "I think it's time to go in, Pippin, what about you?"

He heaved a great sigh. "All right, but it's more fun out here," he said in the tone of one who suffers greatly from the ignorance surrounding him.

I tweaked the tip of his ear. "I'm sure we can find something fun to do after your nap," I said.

"Aw, Merry," he said. "A nap?"

I stood up and stretched out my arms to him. "That was part of our deal, Pippin, and you know it," I said firmly.

He looked up at me with a scowl for a minute, and then smiled in acquiescence and reached out his arms to be picked up. I scooped him up and tucked his layers in around his body before heading out of the barn.

"Do you know what I think, Merry?" he said into my ear as we headed back to the Hall.

"What do you think, Pippin?" I answered.

"I think I wanted to be born early because I couldn't wait to be your cousin," he said, and then gave me a little squeeze.

I pressed my face into his curls for a second, swimming in pure love for the small cousin in my arms, and gave him a squeeze back. "Well, I'm glad you liked me. Imagine how disappointed you would have been if you made all that fuss about coming early to see me, and then you just couldn't stand me? What if I had been . . . Ferumbras?!"

"Ew, Merry!" he said, laughing. "I would have been angry! But I knew it was you. I always know you, Merry."

I touched my forehead to his. "I always know you, too, Pip."

And together we snuck back to the Hall, anticipating naps and tea and stories and pastries, and hoping to avoid the ire of Briony and the malevolence of Ferumbras.

1409 SR, Bag End

My eyelids felt so heavy, and for a moment I contemplated not bothering to open them, but the need to see what was happening in the world outside of my own personal agony won out, and I forced them apart with great effort. I seemed to be able to think more clearly . . . or was I just imagining that? But from the physical discomfort -- best be honest, terrible pain was a better description -- I knew the sickness was no better. If I needed confirmation of that, the never-ceasing struggle to catch my breath and the awful sound I made trying to do so served as such. Still, I should use this moment of seeming lucidity to look about me, so I did.

I thought it was nighttime. At least, it seemed quite dark in the room, where the light from the fire or candles did not fall. Frodo and Mr. Goodbody were not to be seen, but, oddly enough, Sam was asleep in the armchair near the fire with a blanket over him. My sight wandered to the territory nearer the bed, and I discovered my cousin in the second armchair, pulled directly alongside me, as close as it could get. He was watching me with assessing, worried eyes, and when I managed to make eye contact, he leaned closer in, brushing my damp hair off my sweat-soaked brow with tender care.

"Hullo there, sleepyhead," he whispered with a little grin. I wanted to answer, but it would have been just too much effort and strain. Instead, I tried to move my mouth in an approximation of a smile. I must have succeeded at least enough for him to know what I was aiming for, for he smiled back at me again, this time softly and sadly. He picked up my hand lying closest to him and enfolded it carefully in his own hands. A simple thing for him to do, but his hands holding mine brought such a feeling of security that I would have wept in relief had I been able. It would soon be all right, and I would not give in so long as he was there to support me in my struggle.

I closed my heavy eyelids again, feeling the cool and soothing sensation of my cousin's thumb gently stroking the back of my own hot hand, and wondered that so simple a gesture could be so comforting. Concentrating on his soft, rhythmic touch made the pain recede to an almost manageable level, and afforded me some distraction from the dreadful sounds of my gasping breaths. I wondered if he knew how much better it made me feel, and decided that he certainly must know. I wished I could comfort him somehow in return, but right now the only way to do that would be for me to get well, and I would . . . I would get well. There was no other choice, for I could not leave these beloved ones behind, the one at my bedside most of all. If I did not get well . . . No, I would not think that. But what if I didn't? What if even our combined determination was not enough this time? Would he be angry with me because I lost the battle in the end after all? No, he would be sad, I decided, a sadness that would never go away, and his sorrow would be all my own doing. Oh, just the thought of the hurt I was causing everyone now, and if the worst happened . . . I was so ashamed. What a wasted death that would be, brought about by my own stupidity, by not thinking things through. If I were to die, I wanted it to be for a greater good, like a hero in one of Cousin Bilbo's tales, or, better yet, at a ripe old age after a life well lived. Not because I had no common sense. The heroic death was out then, good judgment being pretty necessary to heroism, and heroes certainly did not wallow in sickbeds of their own making dwelling on thoughts of death and defeat.

Well, a hero I was not, and never would be, but I needed to stop thinking of death and defeat, or defeated I surely would be. I would get well, and the Winter Sickness would fail to claim another victim. Certainly I was not nearly as ill as the last time it had struck, no matter how bad I felt. No, it was not nearly as bad this time. I would never, never forget the last time.

I fought to stay awake a little longer, and managed to open my eyes again. My cousin was gazing sightlessly off toward the mantle, lost in thought. It was not difficult to guess at what his thoughts were. He and I had battled this particular demon together enough times, after all. I was so terribly sorry to be the cause of his worry, but so glad he was there with me. It would have been unbearable otherwise. It was almost as if I could feel the strength of his love as a tangible thing, to hold onto, and to keep the illness at a distance. If I concentrated on that love and nothing else, eventually the illness would pass through me and be gone.

I was getting quite poetic -- must be an effect of that last awful concoction Mr. Goodbody had poured down my throat, or rather, had gotten my favorite cousin to tease me into drinking, guessing rightly that I was not going to give him much of a fight. He had been so soothing and gentle and persuasive about it that I had finished the potion almost without realizing it. How did he do that? Too tired to smile outwardly, I did so inwardly, knowing that he would be expecting me to exact a bit of revenge when I was better. His guard would be up, but I would await the proper moment. Let's see, perhaps some red pepper instead of nutmeg atop a lovely bit of custard? Best he couldn't see me smiling, as he would have known immediately that I was plotting no good.

I knew that this was one of the things that I was really too old for now (and certainly that others thought I was too old for such nonsense), but I also knew that I would never be too old for a bit of fun, no matter what others thought. Besides, he would be expecting me to do something, and we would both be disappointed if I didn't. Growing up did not mean I had to change who I was, I told myself, and I was a hobbit who would lovingly sprinkle hot pepper onto my devoted cousin's favorite dessert, then laugh myself silly and keep well out of his reach until he started laughing even harder than me. Our growing up did not have to mean growing apart, I vowed, and this sudden reaffirmation by my mind of what I knew in my heart made me feel a little better. Being grown up would mean things would be different, but the same. . . . Now, what did that mean?

I was wandering now, my thoughts unfocussed as I drifted away. As if he could sense I was slipping away once more, my protector looked down at me, concerned, and for a brief moment our eyes met in shared pain and understanding. He had been thinking of last time, I could tell, and I wanted so much to reassure him that it wasn't really as bad as all that, but I could stay no longer and felt myself falling back into the darkness of my dreams, abandoning him to his own dark reality and painful thoughts, even as I heard him call my name in a high, frightened voice.In which Merry learns what love really feels like

(Note: Set in the winter of 1404 SR, so Pippin is 14, Merry is 22, Frodo is 36, Fredegar and Berilac are 24, and Pearl is 29. Bilbo would have left the Shire three years earlier, but it is 14 years before Frodo leaves the Shire with the Ring.)

1404 SR, Brandy Hall

"I am telling you, Merry lad, the secret is to let them think you are dimwitted and incapable of devising any type of attempt upon their maidenhood. Then, the next thing you know, they are the ones begging for just another moment behind the barn," Fredegar boasted. I laughed, partly because he was puffed up so, and partly because I knew it was true, if the stories about Freddy's luck with the hobbit-lasses were even half reliable.

"So you say, cousin," Berilac countered as we trudged across the snow-covered field back to the Hall, "but while I know you may have had more than your fair lot of lasses behind the barn, I've yet to see you sneaking off to a bed with one of them."

"Or been caught in a haystack with one of them, either," I added, and earned a snowball to the back of the head from Berilac. I suppose I deserved it, since Robin had found Berilac and Petunia Boffin in a most unbecoming (but quite intriguing) position last summer in one of the hayfields, and he was quite sensitive about the topic.

Still -- I stooped to capture my own snowball, and turned to level it at his chest just as his second missile caught me on the side of the face. "Hoy!" I yelled, and all-out chaos erupted. By the time it was done, Berilac and I were both quite wet, and Freddy was quite a ways ahead of us, comfortably dry.

That didn't last long, despite poor Fredegar's pleas for mercy. Fortunately for him, it was too cold out for a sustained attack, and we released our quarry and trotted back toward the Hall, shivering from the cold, Freddy trailing behind us. This winter had been downright nasty, snow and ice and biting winds that continued even now, into early March. In general, it had been a long, bleak and miserable season, made even more so by a vicious strain of the Winter Sickness that had struck half of the Hall at one point or another.

The three of us had been so restless with being cooped up inside that we had eagerly taken my father up on the suggestion that we hike out to the Hedge and make sure no tree limbs had come down across it after the last ice storm. (I think Father's suggestion was in no small part prompted by a new game of our own devising that involved a mop, a roopie ball and Celandine's old toy duck on wooden wheels.) The day was cold, but the sun was shining and the crisp, clean air tasted wonderful after the moist, wooly smell of the Hall after a long winter. Our appointed task completed, our thoughts turned to luncheon and dry clothing as we picked up our pace.

Uncle Merimac was standing outside the northeast entrance, wrapped in a coat and scarf and smoking his pipe. He also was moving his feet in that repetitive forward-backward motion that meant bad news. My footsteps faltered. I could not say why, but I wanted to wait outside a bit more. Just a bit . . . I forced myself up to the entrance. I could feel Berilac giving me a funny look, but I did not meet his eyes.

Uncle Mac took his pipe out of his mouth. "Inside, lads, and get yourselves warmed up," he said, looking down at the pipe in his hands and not at us. "Merry, your mother wants to see you in her parlor."

Berilac gave my upper arm an encouraging squeeze as he brushed by me and disappeared into the Hall. I was not in trouble. I knew I was not in trouble. Something bad had happened. Someone was hurt or sick or . . . Uncle Mac put his hand on my shoulder and pushed me gently inside. "Go on, now," he said gruffly, but I caught a glimpse of his eyes, and they were filled with pity.

Barely inside the door, I scrambled out of my outerwear and tossed it aside, uncaring where it fell, then ran down to Mum's parlor. She was seated at her reading desk, a letter held tight in one hand, the other hand pressed to her mouth. She looked up when I came in, and I could see the worry lines marring her forehead and the corners of her mouth. Even this small deviation from her normal composure was enough to frighten me even more.

"Mum," I gasped, heart thudding in my ears, "what is it? Is Da . . ."

"Your father is getting the ponies ready," she said, and though strained, her voice was steady. "Merry," she began.

My heart stopped beating. "Pippin," I breathed. If it wasn't Da, it was Pippin. I was suddenly so very, very cold, and it wasn't from the weather.

Mum's face was grave. "'Tis the Winter Sickness again," she said, and for a moment I could not see the room through the grey veil that covered my eyes. I passed a hand in front of them, then reached out with it to steady myself on the back of the sofa. No, no, not now, not when he'd been so healthy for years. We were past all this, surely . . .

"Now, don't fret yourself into your own sickbed, Meriadoc," Mum said in a voice as strong and unflinching as oak, and I took a deep breath to help gain control of my rioting emotions. "Paddin says he is right sick, and has been asking for you, so you must go, and I'll not have you riding alone in this weather, so your father will go with you. I would go myself, as well, but the carriages cannot get through the roads, and there is simply too much to be seen to here, what with so many of the household ill or recovering. But you must not think the worst. Pippin has grown into a right strong lad these past years, and I am certain he will be clamoring to get out of bed in no time and you will have your hands full keeping him entertained. So get into some dry clothing and then get down to the kitchen -- Ruby has set aside a hot plate for you -- and you'll be off, with no fuss and bother."

She stood up and took my hands, squeezing them both, then leaned in to kiss my cheek. She smiled tightly at me when I just stood there, immobile with the deep dread that had come over me. I had not missed her slip in calling her brother "Paddin," the name she (and I after her) had called him in childhood, and it spoke volumes to me about the direness of the situation. "Mum," I said thickly, "what does Uncle Paladin write?"

Her mouth tightened. Mum cannot stand when folks will assume the worst, and she downplays bad news. She also thinks her brother has a tendency to exaggerate facts. True as that may be, he had sent a messenger through this bitter weather to send for me.

For a moment she did not speak, and the look in her eyes was one of a mother desperate to spare her only child great pain, at least as long as she had power to do so. I met those eyes squarely, needing to know, and saw her relent slightly. "He writes that you should come at once, without delay," she said in a low voice.

We looked silently into each other's eyes for a long minute, and I knew she would not tell me more of what was in that letter. It didn't matter, because suddenly all I could think of was getting to Pippin as quickly as I might. He needed me and wanted me and I was not there. I nodded to Mum and leaned in to kiss her cheek. She reached her arms up to embrace me.

"Go change your clothes, Merry, and eat that meal. I'll see to getting a pack together for you, and your father is taking care of everything else. You just get yourself to our lad and be what comfort you can to him," she said, and though she hugged me with despairing strength, her low voice was still even. I have never seen my mother cry, and this has troubled me at times, but at that moment, I was glad she did not cry. If she had started to cry, then I would have started to cry, and the whole scene would have delayed my departure.

As I scrambled to obey, tearing in and out of clothing and shoveling food in my mouth, all with shaking hands, I wondered if Mum would cry once we had left, or if she had simply laid off tears sometime in childhood, as we set aside old toys and games. But my mind soon skittered away from the reflection, as it seemed unable to light on any one thing for longer than a moment, and was forgotten by the time Father and I rode away toward the Bridge.

****

The door to Uncle Paladin's private quarters was closed. I stood numbly in front of it, for I could not remember ever seeing it shut before, and was at a loss as to what to do. Surely there was a simple answer, but I had not been able to properly function, it seemed, since I first saw Uncle Mac outside the northeast entrance, my whole being and attention taken up with one word, a prayer in and of itself, that repeated with my heartbeat: Pippin. Pippin. Pippin. Pippin.

Fortunately, I did not have to try to deduce how to conquer the closed door, for it opened of its own accord, and Pearl, pale and weary, greeted me.

"I thought I heard footsteps," she said, and her voice was as calm as always, but without the faintest hint of her usual merriment. "Come in, Merry, come in." She reached out and drew me inside by the elbow, and then embraced me. I managed to order my arms to return the gesture, but I already was looking down the corridor.

"Is he . . ." I stopped, not knowing what I asked. Is he asleep? Is he fretful? Is he in pain? Is he better? Is he worse? Is he . . .

Pearl pulled back and patted my arm. "He's struggling," she said, and now I could hear the strain beneath her composure. "The healers are doing their best to make him more comfortable so he can rest. Father is with him right now; Mamma and the lasses are resting, at Hortensia's insistence." She drew a deep, quivering breath, and now I could feel her small hand shaking a little where it still rested on my arm. "But he is fighting, Merry, oh so very hard."

I nodded. That's my brave lad, I thought with fierce pride, eyes focused down the hall to the entrance to Pippin's room, where a servant had just exited laden down with towels and cloths. "My father is seeing to the ponies and our things," I told Pearl absently, already drawing away and starting toward that door. "I need to . . ."

I felt her hand on my back. "Come on," she said quietly. "He's been asking for you."

Pippin's room was so bright with lanterns and the fire that my first absurd thought was, 'Well, of course he can't get any rest with all of this commotion and light about.' Briony, the Took children's nurse, was putting nightshirts and linens into the chest of drawers -- restocking, it appeared. Hortensia, the chief healer at the Smials, was at Pippin's reading desk, now covered with vials and bottles and jars, sorting through them all. I noted that Pippin's books had been carefully stacked on a chair next to the desk. Uncle Paladin was seated in a straight-backed chair directly beside Pippin's head, and holding a wet cloth that he wiped gently across Pippin's face with a trembling hand.

I took all this in from the corners of my eyes, for as soon as I walked in the door, I could look at nothing but the small form in the bed. He had looked so big this past fall, I remembered, that I had told him he would soon be as tall as me, and he had pulled himself up even taller and puffed out a little to announce that he felt certain he would be taller than me by next summer. Now he looked like a small, frail, sick child, and there was little resemblance to the lad who had managed to dunk me in the River on Midsummer's Day. His face was as white as the snow falling once again outside, except for the bright red patches on his cheeks. The covers were flipped back and his chest was covered with cloths, apparently steeped in some type of medicine because they made my eyes water and my nose trickle. Beneath the cloths, his chest rose and fell in an unsteady rhythm. I could see the skin at his collarbone stretch with each inhalation from the effort it took to bring in air, and his breaths were so loud they seemed like rattling wagons to my ears. His mouth hung open, lips cracked and chapped, and I fancied I could see the air passing between them. His eyes were closed.

"Meriadoc." Hortensia startled me from my stupor when she touched my hand. I had not even been aware of her approach, but now she smiled kindly at me.

"How," my voice cracked, and I swallowed hard, "how is he?"

"He has the determination of a goat and the obstinance of a mule, and he went into this a strong lad," she said, and her words eased me slightly. "But you are old enough to know truths, and the truth is that it is bad. I do not know if he will live through this. He has been sick for a week, and seriously ill for four days, and day by day, the fight wears him down. If we are to win, it must be soon."

Her bluntness shocked me, and the words, "I do not know if he will live through this," wove themselves around my heart and squeezed so tightly I thought it might stop. Hortensia must have seen my distress on my face, because she patted my shoulder gently.

"Do not despair, though, young Master Brandybuck," she said quietly. "I will put forth all my skill, and he has fight in him yet. I am glad you are here -- he has asked for you, and I know you will lend whatever virtue and comfort you have to him."

'Lend it?' I thought. 'I will give him every attribute I possess if it will help,' but to Hortensia I only whispered, "I will do everything I may."

She nodded, satisfied, and guided me to Uncle Paladin's side. "Mr. Took," she said quietly, "let Master Meriadoc spell you for a while, and you can take some rest and see to your wife and daughters."

Uncle Paladin looked up as though dazed, and noticed me for the first time. "Merry," he said slowly. "Merry." He swallowed hard. "He's wanted you."

I nodded, and any measure of comfort Hortensia had brought me dwindled at the sight of my uncle's hollowed-out eyes and wan features. His voice was flat and without hope, and I was stunned out of my own grief and fear enough to feel sympathy for this kind uncle who had waited so long for this most precious son.

"Come now, Mr. Paladin," Hortensia was guiding him up, "let Mat take you to get a bite to eat and to see to Mistress Eglantine." I was even more befuddled than I thought, for Uncle Paladin's manservant had come into the room and right behind me without me taking note. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but the lad in the bed, waging his battle breath by breath, minute by minute. Dimly, I was aware of Mat leading my uncle away, and Hortensia guiding me into his chair. I sat and leaned forward until my face was inches from Pippin's.

"Pip," I said softly. "Pip." His eyelids fluttered, but did not open. I reached out and stroked his curls off his forehead with a shaking hand, noting the heat of his skin and how his hair was damp with sweat. "Pip, sweetheart."

His eyes opened oh so slowly, as though with great effort. His mouth closed a little, and his tongue moved out to dampen his parched lips. He swallowed and his breathing changed a bit. "Mer," he said, a breath, a gasp, a whisper. "Knew . . . you'd . . . come." The hand nearest me twitched, but apparently he did not have the strength to move it. I clasped it with one of my own and stroked gently with my thumb.

"Of course I came," I said softly. "Silly goose. Where else would I be?"

The faintest hint of a smile tugged at Pippin's lips, and then his eyes slid shut and his features slackened again. I put my head down onto the bed at his side, dropping my hand from his forehead. I was afraid to touch him any further, least I cause pain or discomfort. I buried my face into the sheets for a moment, then turned my head so I could see his face again. His fingers, still cradled in mine, lay near my head, and I moved ever so slightly so that I could kiss his fingertips.

"Pippin," I whispered, and then I was crying quietly, not noticing or caring if anyone else were in the room to witness my tears. "Pippin. Pippin." At some point, I stopped murmuring his name, but my mind repeated it with each breath until I finally fell asleep, my head resting on the bed still beside his fingertips.

****

Later, I could never quite piece together the following three days into a coherent pattern. I woke at daybreak when Pippin stirred again, whispering in a hoarse, pathetic voice, "Merry, I'm bad sick."

"I know, sweetheart," I answered, trailing the ever-present cool cloth across his features. "I'm sorry." His eyes mutely begged me for relief and comfort before wearily closing again.

I blindly obeyed relatives and healers and servants, staying by Pippin's bedside when they allowed, moving when Uncle Paladin or Aunt Eglantine wanted to claim the spot. My father would grasp me firmly by the elbow and steer me to the kitchen or a bedroom, and I would eat what Hazel put in front of me, or lay down briefly to nap. I was always up within a few hours, checking to see if I could resume my post. When I could not stay right by Pip's head, I slunk to the back of the room and leaned against the mantelpiece, trying both to stay out of the way and be readily available. When Hortensia ordered me out of the room, I paced the floorboards in front of Pippin's doorway until I was readmitted.

Hortensia was intent on producing every concoction known to the healers, or so it seemed. She forced them down Pippin's throat, and rubbed them onto his chest. She brewed them in basins and then had us hold him upright to stoop him over them and breathe in the steam. She steeped cloths in them and spread them on his chest, or wrapped them round his neck. She poured them into the cool baths we eased Pippin into to lower the fever, and once she even tossed a handful of something into the hearth.

She also called in a master healer, who made an herbal steam with a vile-looking oily black substance and then flipped Pippin face-down over his arm and pounded on his back until he coughed up startling amounts of phlegm, a process that left him too weak to speak or move and with tears trailing down his scarlet cheeks.

Through this all, Pippin seemed near oblivious to the ministrations of the healers and the nurses. His whole attention was turned inward toward the battle, or so it seemed to me, and he would only fleetingly give note to those around him. Whenever his bleary eyes did open, they would turn toward the figure in the chair, and he would breathe a name -- Father, Mamma, Merry -- and sometimes try to reach out his hand to us. Then, apparently reassured by our presence, he would drift back to that grey world between sleep and awareness where his struggle took place.

When I had my turn at the watch, at first I whispered all of his favorite stories to him, from the fairy tales of our early childhood to Bilbo's adventures to the lengthy, ancient rhymes of adventure that were his current interest. When I ran out of those, I began to relate our own stories. "Pippin, do you remember when Frodo and I taught you to swim for the first time?" "Pippin, do you remember our trip to the North Farthing, when we saw the wolf?" "Pippin, do you remember when we ate Great-Aunt Tansy's birthday cake before the party and then tried to make her a new one so we wouldn't get into trouble?"

"Pippin, did you know I had an omen when you were born?"

"Pippin, do you remember when you made me a promise, the day you had that dreadful row with Rumby and then held the new kitten? Do you remember what you promised me? Do you?"

He never answered outright, but if I stopped talking, he grew uneasy and restless, sometimes mumbling fretful incoherencies, so I kept up the steady murmur, hoping that it brought him comfort, and reminded him of those waiting for him to return.

****

Finally came the darkest day. Pippin's face took on an ashen hue, and around his lips I could see the faintest tint of blue. He lay completely still and limp, not once opening his eyes or so much as twitching a finger, not even when Hortensia or a nurse would move him about to minister to him. The deep rattling of his breathing had passed, and in its place was a wretched sucking, scraping noise, like dragging heavy wooden furniture across a bare floor. I refused to acknowledge the cold fear growing in my heart, and kept up my whispered thoughts and memories and endearments to let my Pip know that I was still at his side, waiting for him to come back to me.

Sometime after noon, Hortensia touched my shoulder. "Let his mother sit with him," she murmured, and I retreated to my little spot near the hearth. Aunt Eglantine stroked her son's hair and sang soft lullabies to him, her weary face somehow peaceful. But Hortensia lead Uncle Paladin from the room and I could hear their voices, too sharp for the solemnity of the situation, a word or two sometimes discernible, and more than I wanted to hear -- "nothing more," "must be," "give up hope," "accept."

I knew what they were saying, but I blocked it from my conscious mind. Pip would wake up soon, and be all better, because he must. I could not bear it to be otherwise. I listed to myself all of the ways I would keep Pippin amused and quiet while he recovered. I planned spring and summer excursions that would help him regain strength while not tiring him overmuch. I skipped ahead to his tween-aged years, and planned bigger trips for us, with Frodo too, perhaps all the way to Rivendell. In my mind, we found Bilbo, happy and full of tales of new and grand adventures. I stood Pippin his first half-pint, and teased him about his first endeavor with a lass. We celebrated my coming of age in great style, and, later, Pippin's in even greater style. We were the most dashing young hobbits in the Shire, sons of the Master and the Thain, and our elders looked upon us with pride and affection, while the lasses giggled as we walked by. We stood as witnesses for one another's weddings, and one day I held in my arms a disgruntled-looking lad-baby with a sharp little nose and rosebud mouth, and Pippin swelled up so in his pride that I thought his waistcoat buttons would pop off. We lounged back on a hill, pipes in our mouths, looking over Buckland to the River, and watched small hobbit bairns chase each other through the fields, squealing and shouting with the joy that is youth and good health.

While my mind wandered through things yet to come, the daylight faded. Uncle Paddin had returned to Pippin's room, and knelt on the floor with his head in Aunt Lala's lap. Hortensia, moving as silently and unobtrusively as a shadow, would periodically move to the bed and feel Pippin's pulse, or study his face, and then slip back to her own watch at the reading desk. It did not escape me that no one was forcing remedies upon Pippin anymore.

Nightfall came, and lamps were lit. My father came in briefly, and leaned down to ask if I would come have something to eat, but I shook my head silently, the first movement I had made in hours. Da put his hand atop my head, and then left without further attempts.

After many long hours at her post, with Pippin little changed for the passing of time, Aunt Lala seemed to crumple in upon herself, like a cake that has fallen in the oven, and Hortensia moved swiftly to call for her maid. Rose and Uncle Paddin stood on each side of my aunt and guided her out of the room, giving me the opportunity to claim the bedside post.

"Pippin," I whispered, and laid my head upon the linens and kissed his fingertips, as I had the night I first arrived. "Pip, sweetheart."

He did not respond, and the harsh sound of him pulling in air did not change. I lifted my head so I could look down at his face. "Please, please, sweetheart," I whispered, willing him to hear me. "I know you've tried so, so hard, and you're so tired, but please don't go . . ." I trailed off and fought back hot tears for a moment.

"There once was a small hobbit named Ferdinich Brownlock, but everyone just called him Nick," I began the tale Pippin had asked for over and over when he was very small. My voice was surprisingly calm, and I carefully told the story exactly right, hearing Pip's familiar giggles in my mind at all of the correct places, and I knew I was telling the story as much to comfort myself as Pippin. There was no sign of recognition or response, but I continued on through the grogoch Nick kept hidden in his room to the soiled linens and the uprooted lavender to the lost lamb that fell over the cliff.

"'Oh, Nick,' his mother said as she tucked him into bed, 'I just don't know what we are going to do with you.' But then she kissed him hard on the forehead and ruffled his hair and he knew that she loved him," I finished, then stood and leaned over my cousin to kiss his brow and ruffle his hair, as I always had when finishing the tale, so that Pippin would know I loved him. I hung over him for long minutes, eyes closed, feeling his presence with some unidentified sense, until I felt an arm about my shoulders that I knew was my father's.

"Come along, son, let Paladin sit with him for a bit," Da whispered, and I wondered how long the two of them had been standing there, listening. I let Da guide me away from the bed and crept back to my waiting spot. Uncle Paddin sank into the bedside chair, seeming old and tired. He picked up Pippin's hand, then sat still with lowered head.

It could have been hours or minutes when the change finally came, terrifying and swift. Abruptly, the sucking sound of Pippin breathing changed, and now it sounded like a creaking door thudding against the wall over and over -- desperate and unfulfilled. My heart lurched, but before I fully comprehended what was happening, Pip's whole tiny body shuddered and then stiffened, his fingers splaying out and his back arching. His grey face turned red, and as it did, I could see his lips no longer showed a faint tint of blue about their edges, but were blue.

Hortensia was out of her seat immediately, calling for her assistant and barking at Uncle Paddin, "Sit him up! Sit him up! Get him over your arm!" My uncle had stiffened at the change in Pippin's breathing, but it took the healer's shout to snap him into moving with lightning reflexes to dangle Pippin's limp form face-down across his forearm.

The previously quiet room was suddenly overflowing with hobbits as Hortensia's assistant rushed in, followed by Briony and a nurse, while at the entrance Mat hovered. I was desperate to do something, anything, but I knew the best thing I could do was stay out of the way. There was a great flurry of activity, but my eyes were fixed on the form in Uncle Paddin's arms, and my ears strained for the now-absent sound of Pippin's laborious breathing as my heart thudded painfully in my chest. Hortensia began to pound on Pippin's back so hard I could see his feet jerking, as she issued orders in a voice no one would dare question. I could not make out her words, for the room suddenly seemed far away and the noises small and distant. I panicked for a moment as it seemed as though I, myself, could not draw in breath, and I tugged at my collar. A cold sweat broke out on my face, and my stomach lurched. I could not bear it, to see my own beloved lad handled so, to witness what was coming.

Before I knew what I was about, I was out of the room and stumbling through the corridors. A roaring like the River in spring sounded in my ears, and when Pearl, weeping in the hallway, called my name, I barely discerned it and gave her no notice. I groped unseeing until I reached a sofa, and then collapsed upon it face-first, and curled in upon myself.

I did not weep, but lay until the strange blackness that had been upon me passed. I opened my eyes and realized I was in the old playroom, now really a study given over for the use of the Thain's children. My sight wandered over the familiar items, noting the state of the room -- Pervinca's cloak was tossed over a chair that was burdened down with books, a map of the Tookland was rolled open on the low table and held down with Pippin's old wooden toy animals, an empty tea cup and dessert plate perched on the hearth. I moved to sit up, and as I let go of the pillow I had somehow clutched to my chest, my fingers brushed something wedged in between the cushions, and I pulled it out. It was Pippin's favorite scarf.

I touched it reverently, and pressed it to my face. It smelled of gingerbread and dried leaves and apples. One end of it was dirty with old mud. There was a hole from where Pippin had caught it on a hook in the cloakroom in his haste to go outside and play. There were some faded red stains from when he had once used it to wipe his face off after I scolded him for walking around with jam on his face.

I sank weakly back into the sofa, and then I started to cry. I found a wellspring within me the size of the Brandywine, and I wept and wept and wept, falling forward again onto the sofa. I wept for the future I had glimpsed just that very day. I wept for my Pippin. I wept for Uncle Paddin and Aunt Lala. I wept for Pearl and Pimmie and Vinca. I wept for Briony. I wept for Frodo. I wept for the imagined children of my future who would not have a Cousin Pippin to get them out of scrapes with a wink and a nod and a promise to never tell their da. And finally I wept for myself, deep, harsh sobs that tore at my throat and my heart.

When I began to climb out of that deep hole, I became aware of my father's hand rubbing my back, and his deep voice uttering soothing, meaningless phrases. "There, there, son, 'tis a bitter thing, I know," he said quietly, and reached up to stroke my curls. It eased my sobs to gulping breaths, and then finally I lay quiet. After long minutes, I found my voice, but it sounded foreign to my ears -- quavering and high and raw.

"Is he dead, then?" I asked.

Da sighed. "He was not just before I came looking for you. Pearl saw you come this way. But Paladin says that Hortensia does not expect him to see morning."

I nodded, once, jerkily, and slowly sat up. My body ached down to my very bones, and now I felt empty and laid open. I rubbed at my scalding, scratchy eyes and then forced them open to look at Da. His face was somber and concerned, but not despairing. He tipped his head down to get a good look at me, then settled back in the sofa beside me, putting an arm around my shoulder. I sniffled and snuffled as I leaned back against him. Da began fumbling in pockets for a handkerchief, but came up empty-handed. "Ah, I gave it to Briony earlier," he said ruefully, and then raised one eyebrow inquiringly at me. I shook my head.

"Vinca," I whispered.

"Ah, well," Da answered, "here, then," and he wiped my face off with his shirtsleeve. "Don't tell your mum," he muttered, and I nearly laughed, but it caught in my throat and became a garbled cry.

"Oh, Merry," Da said tenderly, and pulled me to him. I went willingly. I wanted to be small enough again for him to pick me up in his arms as he would do when I would suffer the childhood hurts of broken toys and scraped knees, and pat me gently on the back as he said in a half-laughing voice, "Oh, my Merry, there now, it will be better soon."

But I was much too big for my father to pick me up, and this would never be better soon.

Da settled us back on the sofa again and I leaned heavily against his shoulder, more weary than I had ever been in my life. Despite my exhaustion, I did not feel sleep ready to take me. My eyes were dry now and wide open, and I was as acutely aware of my body and surroundings and the beloved scarf clutched in my hands now as I had been oblivious to everything when fleeing Pippin's room. I was too weary to even be ashamed of my cowardly flight.

I breathed in Da's familiar scent of pipeweed and hay and let it slow my thudding heart and warm my chilled limbs. We sat silently awake for nearly half of an hour before Da spoke, his voice rumbling in his chest beneath my ear.

"No one warns you beforehand, do they, Merry lad, of what love really feels like?" he said quietly.

I pulled in a shaky breath, for I had just had this very thought. "No, sir," I answered, and though my voice was tremulous, it was my own again.

Da kissed the top of my head and said no more. I knew he spoke from harsh experience. Before I was born, there had been two other Brandybuck children, two little lasses, who had died when scarlet fever broke out one year in the Hall, taking 14 hobbits before it was done, eight of them children. Lilias hadn't seen her third summer, and Linnet had not seen her first. I had known this all my life, but it was a vague, hazy knowledge, the way I knew of ancestors who had died long ago. It wasn't until I was a teen-ager that I had fully comprehended that these two lasses would have been my big sisters, and that my parents had lost two children.

Now I wondered how they had borne it. How could someone feel pain this sharp, this slicing and bone-deep, and go on laughing and loving and building and planning?

A niggling notion about why I had never seen Mum cry teased at the edges of my thoughts, but sleep was finally laying claim to me, and I fell into blessed oblivion before I could piece it together.

****

When I woke sunlight was sneaking in around the pulled drapes. I was stretched out on the sofa with a blanket over me, so I guessed Da must have put me down and covered me up. The room was empty and the door still slightly ajar, but only the faintest muffled sounds came to my ears. I shivered in the early morning cold, and pulled the blanket around my shoulders as I shuffled out. The beloved scarf was still clutched in my hand, and I stowed it in my jacket pocket where it would be safe, and where I could finger it at will.

Once in the hallway, I could see Uncle Paddin and Aunt Lala in my aunt's parlor. Hortensia was with them, placing a glass of what looked like brandy between Aunt Lala's lips. Uncle Paddin leaned over her chair, speaking in a low voice. Pearl was asleep on the sofa, arranged with a blanket over her just as I had been moments before. I idly wondered if Da had seen to her, too.

After staring numbly at the scene in the parlor for several moments, I continued down the hallway. Briony was on the bench outside Pippin's room, face buried in her apron, sobbing nearly inaudibly. The door to Pippin's room was slightly ajar. Bright sunlight gleamed through it and illuminated a patch on the hall floor. The storm outside had stopped as the storm inside had died away as well. I felt numb and empty and full of grief, yet knew I must go forward and enter and face this dreadful new day, and my forever-changed life, however much I dreaded it. But not just yet. The future could wait just a moment or two longer, 'til I could find enough strength to make my way to Pippin's side and say goodbye.

I stood very still for long moments, but no tears came. I had shed every one that was inside of me last night. Suddenly, my mind made the connections it was too weary to last night, and I knew that my mother never cried because losing those two bairns took every tear given to her, for all time. And then I knew just as clearly that the night before was the last time I would ever cry, for how could I know a greater grief than this?

Rather than striking me down, this thought prompted my feet to begin moving and before I knew it, I stood in the doorway to Pippin's room.

The rising sun was pouring in through the open drapes, bathing the room in rich, luminous colors. A figure stooped over Pippin's bed, but I blinked stupidly in the too-bright room, unable to see whom it was. The snuffling, heavy sound of Briony's tearful breathing came to my ears. The little figure in the bed was covered with quilts and was still, save the rhythmic up-and-down movement of the covers . . . movement of the covers?

I blinked owlishly and swayed a little on my feet. I rubbed my eyes with a fist, but the quilts continued to move up and down. I took a few hesitant steps into the room, and realized suddenly that it was not Briony's heavy breathing I heard, but Pippin's.

Pippin was breathing.

And then I wasn't. In fact, I think my heart stopped beating. Then Frodo, for it was he, looked up from over Pippin's bed and said quietly, "There you are. I was going to wake you in a bit, but your father said you were horribly tired, so I wanted to let you sleep awhile longer." He moved his fingertips gently across Pippin's brow. "Resting gentle now," he said tenderly, looking back down at the lad in the bed.

I must have made some sound that alerted him, for Frodo somehow caught me before I could fall, easing me into an armchair by the hearth. "All right, easy now, Merry lad," he murmured. "I've got you, just breathe deep." He half-embraced me, chin on my head to keep it down, one hand rubbing circles on my back while the other rested on my knee. "Steady now," he said quietly, and I dragged in great gulps of air.

I finally lifted my head, now more fearful than I had been in the hallway when I was certain Pippin was gone. "He's not dead?" I asked Frodo stupidly, but Frodo was kissing my hair and pulling me to him even as he said, "He's much better, Merry, much better. I thought someone in the hallway must have told you. He's been sleeping more comfortably for about two hours now, and really sleeping, not like before."

I swallowed hard and dug my fingers into Frodo so deep I must have left bruises. "I saw . . . I thought . . . Hortensia was giving Aunt Lala brandy in the parlor," I said stupidly. It was as though I was afraid to let myself believe what Frodo, and my sight of the lad in the bed, were telling me.

Frodo rocked me a little and let out a small chuckle. "It's been a hard night, my lad. I think you could use a dollop of brandy yourself. But he's much easier. The fever broke before dawn, but even then, they thought for a while . . . Well, he didn't improve for several hours. But now he sleeps, and his breathing is less labored."

"He's getting better." I knew I was making blindingly obvious statements, but I could not help myself, nor could I help looking up into Frodo's face for confirmation.

He nodded and smiled gently. "He's getting better," he said in a firm voice.

I was weak-kneed and bewildered and overjoyed and thunderstruck, so I did the only thing possible -- I burst into tears, but they were tears of relief and joy, and then I was even more overwhelmed by the fact that I was able to cry again, after all, so I just buried my face in Frodo's shirtfront until it was sopping wet. Fortunately, good old Frodo always has a handkerchief, so at least I didn't have to wipe my nose on him when I was finished.

"When did you get here?" I asked as I handed him the moist handkerchief back. He took it prissily between two fingers and looked at it distastefully before stretching to drop it on the chest of drawers.

"Just after you'd fallen asleep, apparently," he said. "The first messenger couldn't get through the snow to Hobbiton, so I never received word that he was this ill, or I would have come sooner. Your father thought to try to send for me yesterday." His voice trailed a little at the end, and I knew that Da sent for him so that he could be there for me, not for Pippin, once it was over.

This thought drove me to my feet, and I peered down at Pippin's face in fear and awe and love. But he was just a sleeping child today, like any sleeping child, with tousled curls and slack mouth and eyelashes like delicate half-wings on his pale cheeks. I reached out with a shaking, tentative hand, but his hair was the same baby-fine texture it always had been, and his smooth cheek was warm and alive and made my hand tingle.

"Pippin," I whispered. "Pip, sweetheart." He slept on, peaceful and unaware, but his face turned toward me almost imperceptibly and his mouth scrunched up a little for a moment. I heard Frodo behind me softly murmur, "Ve lisse lótse surië melda Anar," and recognized it as something from Bilbo had once said about Pip and I, an Elvish phrase about a flower seeking the sun. I knew that Frodo saw me as the sun and Pippin as the seeking flower, but after facing the prospect of a world without Pippin last night, I knew also that Frodo had it backwards.

Frodo moved to my side, hands in his pockets, head cocked to one side as we watched our cousin sleep. "Hortensia says he'll not be out of bed until summertime," he said quietly, and then added, "Well, at least Hortensia says he should not be out of bed until summertime."

I laughed, but it made me cry a little again, and Frodo hugged me. "Come on, now, he's all right," he said. "Here, sit down, and I'll go get you that dollop of brandy, and I'll find your father. Both will do you good, you big soaking heap." He patted my back, and then paused before leaving the room to touch Pippin's brow with his fingertips one more time, and I noticed that my eyes were not the only ones full of tears.

I sat down in the straight-backed chair, still in its place by Pippin's head. Never in my life had I gone with so little food or sleep, but I felt the need for neither right then. I picked up Pippin's hand and kissed it, before leaning forward to kiss his forehead.

I had everything I needed.

(Note: The Elvish phrase Frodo murmurs is in Quenya and translates literally as "As a sweet, small flower seeks the beloved sun." Thanks to Marigold for the phrase and the translation.)

1409 SR, Bag End

Day blended to night blended to day and I could not tell the difference. There was only this single, unending moment of misery that would not pass. I was drowning in myself, lungs searing, throat tearing, head swimming, body burning up. I floundered in the dark waters, flailing, desperate for rescue, and someone grasped my hand gently and I felt a cool cloth glide across my body, but it brought me no comfort. "Shh, shh now," a familiar voice soothed.

Waking images, dreamscapes, and memories blurred into one until I knew not what was in this world and what was in the other. My cousin slumped over in a chair, exhausted and grey-faced, his head resting upon my bed, and kissed my fingertips where they lay on the linens. This confused me -- this was something that had happened already, had it not? Was that before, or was now before? Then he scrambled to support me as the wracking coughs took me so violently that finally I dove into dangerous, painless blackness, and I could not stay despite the fear I heard in my cousin's voice as he called out to me not to leave him.

I thought I saw Frodo looking down at me, blue eyes shimmering with worry. A gruff voice ordered, "Sit him up, sit him up now!" A door slammed and feet scurried along the passageway. I saw my father, younger than I ever remembered seeing him, twirling a wee, laughing lass that was my sister while my mother watched, holding a small baby and smiling at their combined joy. I smelled sweet grasses I could not identify and the blowing of horns filled my ears. We peered desperately down at Frodo, pale as death and motionless on the cold ground, and Sam said, "Thinking we can trust him is not enough, not with my master as he is."

From somewhere, I thought I heard my mother's voice, and I wished for her with an almost unbearable intensity. I could smell the good, baking smells of our familiar kitchen, and Mum leaned down to tuck a bit of gingerbread, still warm, into my mouth. I smiled up at her, and she smiled back and stroked the hair off my brow. "What a big lad you are!" she said. "Why, you will soon be as big as a pony, and then we will have to send you out to a stall in the stables to live! Would you like that, to live in the barn with the other wild animals?" I laughed, because she was silly, but I nodded vigorously at her, and then flung my arms about her waist in sheer joy that this was my mum.

I dangled my legs down from Bilbo's lap and fiddled with the wondrous toy boat come all the way from a place called Dale, listening fascinated as Bilbo continued, "And then Smaug snapped, 'Your information is antiquated. I am armored above and below with iron scales and hard gems. No blade can pierce me.'"

The kindly voice changed abruptly to one of such evil that I thought I would die of fear at the very malevolence it possessed. "Thou fool! No living man may hinder me!" and I knew that in that voice alone was the power to devour my soul if I would let it. I sought to throw off my terror and found myself crawling, weeping, through the mud toward a kindly faced old man who lay upon the ground. I must help him, somehow I must help him. He needed me, had wanted me with him, and at his side I would stay forever. Suddenly the man was gone, and it was the face of my own dear lad that lay upon a field of death, surrounded by groaning and screaming wounded men. My hot tears fell upon his broken body, and then I touched his face, but he did not open his eyes. Oh, please, sweetheart, open your eyes! I was filled with greater terror than I had been even at hearing that cold, cold voice. Comforting arms suddenly held me close, and I heard my father's voice saying, "There, there, son, 'tis a bitter thing, I know." I shuffled down a hallway, toward a patch of sunlight that gleamed through an open door, feeling emptiness and grief, but knowing I must go forward and enter to face the new day, however much I dreaded it.

I clung tight, tight, tight to Frodo as he held me, chest-deep in the River. "It's all right," he reassured me, "I've got you. But you're never going to learn how to swim if you don't get into the water, you know." I reached inside myself for all of the courage I could find, and unwound my limbs from his body. He held me firm about the waist, and I bobbed in the water.

"Now, stretch your arms out in front of you and start kicking your feet," he instructed, and I obeyed. "Now, move your arms like I showed you," he added, and I did. Frodo loosened his hold on my waist, but I could still feel his fingers about my ribs, making sure I did not slip beneath the water. And then, suddenly, I was moving forward, and my body was miraculously staying above the water of its own accord.

"Good!" Frodo said. "Look at you, you're swimming!" He laughed, and I laughed too, proud and delighted and happy. But then I started to sink a little in the water, and I gulped in a great mouthful of the River. I coughed and sputtered, and even as I heard Frodo say, "Oh, no, that's all right. What a good start, though -- you really swam!" I was aware that I was coughing and sputtering in another body, in another time, and that not just my mouth but my lungs were full of water. I gagged and hacked wretchedly as someone pounded mercilessly on my back and I began to cough up vile substances from deep within my body.

"Are you awake?" I heard Frodo asking me in a falsely calm, overloud voice. "Are you with us?" I wanted to snap at him that just how did he expect me to answer while I was choking, but instead I just hacked up more poison from my inflamed lungs. My chest and sides hurt with a deep, slicing pain that I had not known before, and each cough exacerbated it and I felt I could not bear this anymore and wanted only release. A particularly violent cough tripled the pain in intensity, just before sending me back to the darkness I now sought as a blessing, slumped back in the safety of my cousin's embrace. As I slipped away, I felt a soft rain falling upon my cheeks.

A falcon circled above me and cried out.

****

Echoing cries of my name seemed to be ringing in my ears and the vivid image of the falcon was still before my bleary eyes when next I opened them, and I blinked in confusion several times until the great bird faded and in its place my eyes saw only my cousin, exhausted, in rumpled clothing, hair unkempt, and the most welcome sight of my life. Acting purely out of instinct, I tried to reach out for him, and in a harsh voice that seemed not to be my own, I croaked, "Pip."

My arms dropped limply back onto the bed even as I tried to raise them, too weak to wait to be embraced, but it didn't matter because he was out of his chair like an arrow from the bow and was holding me both tight and gentle at the same time with trembling arms and bathing my face in his tears. "Merry," he sobbed. "Oh, Merry-mine."

I made some inarticulate sounds before deciding it was useless to try to speak yet, not that I needed any words, anyway, not with Pippin. I clung to him, breathing in that unique Pippin smell that never failed to remind me of the day he was born -- baked apples and falling leaves and gingerbread.

He finally pulled back a bit, and all of my world was taken up with red-rimmed, wet green eyes. "Merry," he said again in a tremulous voice. He looked so tired, my poor lad, his cheeks sunken and pale, and dark circles shadowing his eyes. I had scared him badly, and how well I knew that feeling, and how it would be long before that fear would fade sufficiently to become a memory and not a daily consternation. My poor Pip.

"Pippin," I whispered back at him, and smiled. I wanted to reassure him, tell him he could stop being afraid, but for now my smile would have to do. There would be time for talking later.

He smiled back and then leaned in to rest his forehead gently on my shoulder. I managed a little tug on his braces that told him it was all right to climb up beside me, and he did, curling up into a familiar ball at my side, careful not to jostle. Maybe he would sleep, and I found such comfort in his nearness.

"I'm glad you're here with me," I managed to rasp out, and he gave a half-laugh that was nearly a sob.

"You're glad that I'm here?" he asked incredulously, lifting his head to gaze at me, an odd expression on his face. "Merry, I'm . . . I . . . you . . . you almost . . ." He broke off, his lower lip beginning to tremble, then mastered himself, managing a tiny quirk of a grin. "You silly hobbit, I'm the one who's glad you're here."

I nodded at him, but even as I did so my eyes were drifting shut again. "Tired," I muttered. He gave my cheek a gentle caress and blessed me with a soft smile of understanding. I let my eyes close and nestled my face against his soothing hand.

"Go to sleep now," Pippin said in the most tender of voices. "I'll still be here later, you know."

"I know," I whispered. "Thank you, Pip."

"You're welcome, Merry," he whispered back, and it was the last thing I heard before I fell into a deep, forgiving slumber.

(Note: The quote from Smaug is directly from J.R.R. Tolkien's "The Hobbit," from the chapter "Inside Information," and the quote from the Lord of the Nazgûl is directly from "The Return of the King," from the chapter "The Battle of the Pelennor Fields.")

In which Merry is comforted by his mum

1409 SR, Bag End

Something was different when I woke again, and I lay with my eyes closed for several minutes, trying to put my finger on it. Finally, I realized: I was not struggling to breathe and my throat did not hurt as much. As I inhaled, I could still feel the extra effort it took, and something in me rattled a little, but I was drawing breath naturally, without having it take over every thought and mite of energy in my body. I vowed I would never take such a simple thing as breathing for granted ever again.

I left my eyes shut for a while and lay still, savoring this most basic of necessities. Slowly, I became aware of other things: fresh-smelling linens on the bed, the warmth and crackle of a fire in the hearth, the aroma of herbal tea nearby. Then, the familiar rustle of skirts and the well-known combination of lavender and rosemary and clover that is my mother.

I opened my eyes and found her looking down at me. Her eyes were crinkled a bit in concern, but her face was tender, and when I looked at her, she laid her hand on my cheek. "Oh, Merry," she said, and looked at me with such love that I wanted nothing more than her arms around me and I reached out.

We held each other tight for a bit, and I breathed in deeply, absorbing the smell of home and love, and choked out several times, "Mum," in a raspy voice, but could find no other words. Finally, it felt safe to let go, and she adjusted and fluffed pillows in the comfortable way only a mother can until I was propped upright. I ran a hand over my eyes, tired even from this small effort.

"What time is it?" I asked, and then half-chuckled. "What day is it, for that matter?"

Mum smiled and clucked my chin with her fingers. "It is Thursday and nearly tea time, love, and high time that you woke up and greeted your mother. How do you feel?"

I listened to my body for a moment before answering. "Much better. Mostly just tired and a little out of breath. Mum, how can it be tea time Thursday? It was Thursday when I got here. When did you leave for Hobbiton, and why were you coming here?"

Mum stroked my hair gently. "It's Thursday because you've lost a week, Merry. You came to Bag End late on Wednesday, or early on Thursday, whichever you prefer, and have been sick all week. I just got here yesterday evening. Your father will be along shortly, I am certain, but he was down to Rushy and I had to send for him."

I was stunned. Had it been a week? How could it have been a week? I could remember bits of time passing, certainly -- Ponto Goodbody plying me with draughts, Frodo changing my nightshirt, Pippin softly telling me a story that I could not follow, the comfort I felt when he curled up beside me that first time I had awakened. But I could not remember my mother arriving, nor piece together an entire week passing. There wasn't a moment of my life past very early childhood I could not remember in vivid detail if I reached hard enough into my memory, and I was disoriented to think I had somehow misplaced seven days.

Mum got up and began fussing with things in the room while I pondered. I remembered that wretched fight with Pippin, when I lost my temper and started all of this, and then dashing off across the Shire after him, both worried and angry, my foolish terror after hearing he was ill, and waking all of Frodo's household in the middle of the night. Everything was dim after that -- Pippin's voice, high and frightened, calling my name; aching so much it felt the pain was coming from my very bones; putting every bit of energy I had into drawing one more arduous breath, then another, then another. I remembered, too, how awful Pippin had looked when I woke up after the illness had started to pass. By the time Mum came back to my bedside with a mug of tea, I was feeling quite ashamed -- how I must have frightened everyone, and the trouble I had put them all through.

"Here, drink this," she said, placing the mug in my hands and then steadying it. "Little sips now, Merry."

I managed a few swallows. It was lemony and soothing to my abused throat. I forced myself to raise my eyes from the mug to my mother's steady gaze.

"I'm so sorry, Mum," I said, and was going to continue, but she stopped me.

"Of course you are," she said. "So that's all of that I'll hear from you, thank you, Meriadoc. You behaved foolishly and have paid dearly for it, and I've no doubt the lesson is well-learned. I cannot find it in me to chastise you after all you've been through, and certainly not when I consider that all of this foolhardy running about was out of love for our Pippin. So, what's done is done, and all's well that ends well, and I am out of sayings so we'll be done with it."

I smiled at her, affection and love warming me from head to toe. I drank some more of my tea, and then asked, "He's all right, then?" I could tell from her tone that he was, but I needed to hear her say it.

Mum touched my hand so that I looked back up at her. "He has been frightened out of his wits, and has scarcely slept or eaten for a week, and Frodo too, so do not let either of them tell you differently. But he doesn't have the least bit of a sniffle, at least not since I have been here, and anything else that is wrong with him will be fixed the moment he sees you really awake and healing."

I swallowed hard. "I thought he was -- Mum, I thought it was -- It just made me panic. I could think of nothing but that last time, when he . . . he . . . I just had to get here to him."

Mum touched my hair with her fingers and stroked my brow with her thumb, something I had found soothing since I was just a wee lad, and she looked at me with her thinking-hard face. "Do you remember when Pippin was born?" she asked.

"Of course, Mum," I said, rather puzzled at this turn in the conversation.

"Do you remember what you said when I put him in your arms for the first time?" she continued.

I reached back in my mind and felt that squirming bundle again, and looked back down at that displeased face that seemed to be saying, "Merry, whatever have all of these people been doing to me, and where have you been?" and the memory made me smile.

"I remember," I said quietly.

Mum nodded. "I saw that very moment what the two of you would be to each other. Sometimes that much love can feel like it will break you in half, but never forget that it is worth every pain that comes with it."

I forget, sometimes, that my mother is brilliant, and that she sees all of life as clear as a summer day in the Shire.

I opened my mouth to say -- something -- to her, but instead, to my surprise, I yawned enormously, and she laughed and pinched my cheek.

"Enough serious talk for you!" she said, taking the tea mug from my hands. "Go on, now, back to sleep." And she tucked the blankets up around me.

I didn't resist (not that there would have been any use of it) and let her settle me, just like she had when I was a small lad and some terror had woken me from sleep. She stayed perched on the edge of the bed and gently stroked my hair. I sneaked a hand out from under the blankets, and she caught it and clasped her fingers about it.

"I love you, Mum," I said sleepily.

"I love you too, my Merry," she answered softly. As I drifted off, she began to softly hum the lullaby of my childhood.

(Note: The name of the chapter is from a traditional Welsh lullaby, which I had intended for Merry's mum to actually sing to him. I ended up ditching the verses and keeping the name, since I was listening to this song when I wrote this segment. For some reason, it just feels "hobbity" to me.) In which Merry gets an eye-opener, and Pippin gets a promise

1409 SR, Bag End

The next time I woke, I was immediately more oriented, and promptly opened my eyes. Morning light was peeping in around the curtains. The fire crackled merrily and the room smelled crisp and freshly cleaned. Pippin was sitting in the armchair near the bed, cross-legged as though he were sitting on the ground, and holding a large book in his lap. He was looking at me, though, and not his reading material, his head cocked to one side and a faint smile on his lips at seeing me awake.

I blinked at him and licked my lips. "Hullo," I said, suddenly unsure of just what to say to him, and though my voice sounded weak, it was my own.

"Hullo," he answered, and smiled a little more, but he did not get up from the chair. "Feeling better, then?"

I nodded slowly, closing my eyes again briefly and passing my hand over them to try and rub the sleep out. I took a deep, deep breath, and it was such a pleasure to do so without pain or effort that I took several more. When I opened them again, Pippin still had not moved, and he had a strange look on his face that I could not place. I wasn't certain what it was -- appraisal? aloofness? anger? -- but it was nothing like the open affection I was used to, and I found it disconcerting.

I was relieved to see for myself, however, that he was well, and much improved from the exhausted state he had been in when I first woke. I had vague memories of the fevered dreams and recollections I had experienced over the past . . . how many days had it been? It had been a week when I woke up to find my mother with me, and I guessed that this was the following day. I knew I had dreamed mostly of Pippin and his own youthful illnesses, no doubt brought on by the fear for his health that had led me to Bag End in the first place. Reliving those experiences had brought a resurgence of love and concern to me, and I also felt increased respect and awe for this small cousin who had fought this dire battle over and over again, and triumphed every time. I had known before that every breath cost him, but now, from my own personal experience, I understood that I had been guilty of underestimating this small, determined hobbit his entire life.

I started to say something to him, but a small, dry cough came out instead. My throat was still raw and parched, and my lips dry and cracked. Pippin set his book aside and came over to the chest of drawers to pour me a mug of water from the bedside pitcher. I found, to my delight, that I could sit myself up and handle the mug on my own. Watching me out of the corner of his eye, Pip busied himself with some things on the chest of drawers, and when I handed him back the water mug, he placed a fresh one of hot tea in my hands.

"Thank you," I said after taking a few sips.

"You're welcome," he said, hovering near the bedside. He stood at his post until I had finished my tea, and then dutifully took the mug from me and put it back on the chest of drawers. "Do you want anything else?" he asked.

I shook my head, then reached out for his hand. "Come here," I requested, but instead he pulled away, putting his hands in his pockets and moving back from the bed.

"Pippin!" I exclaimed in surprise. I could see the tension in every line of his body, from his clenched jaw to his curled toes.

"You were horribly sick, you know, Merry," he said in a grave voice.

"Oh, Pip," I answered, thinking I understood the problem. "I know, and I'm sorry, but I'm all right now. You don't have to be afraid -- everything is going to be just fine."

He gave a little snort of a laugh, restlessly rocking on the balls of his feet. "Afraid?" he said. "Is that what you think I am?" Then those green eyes flashed at me and I realized I had completely misjudged the situation.

Pippin was angry with me. He was angry with me so seldom that in my weakened state I had not recognized it. I took a deep breath and folded my hands.

"Pippin," I began, intending to tell him that it was not surprising he should be angry with me, and that it would pass as his fears dimmed, but he cut me off.

"Oh, be quiet," he said, scowling. "Be quiet and let me speak, Mr. You-Need-To-Start-Thinking-About-The-Consequences-Before-You-Act."

My jaw snapped shut again, and I clutched the edge of the quilt, as if it could help me ride out the incoming squall. My sweet-tempered cousin was seldom ever angry with anyone, but when he was he was a force to be reckoned with, and I could not recall ever having seen him as angry as he was at this moment. And that he was this angry with me was something I found almost inconceivable. Pippin was pacing now, and I wondered how I could have mistaken this righteous anger for fear. He stopped and whirled on me, and I instinctively pressed myself back into the pillows.

"My whole life, you have looked out for me, in every way imaginable. You've taught me, you've protected me, you've cared for me, all so much that now I begin to wonder if there is any room left inside you for anything else." His voice shook from anger and strain wrought over so many days and nights beside my sickbed.

I said nothing, for I could not dispute that sometimes it did seem as though all of my being was given up with love for Pippin.

Pip's lips were trembling, but I was not certain if it was anger or tears he was holding in. I could see that his hands were clenched inside his pockets, and his shoulders were back. When he spoke next, however, his voice was calmer.

"And in taking care of me, you have always demanded that I take care of myself. But do I not deserve the same consideration from you? Do you somehow imagine that my pain from losing you would be any less than yours should you lose me? Do you think my world would be any less shattered? If I had been so ill as you feared I was, what good would you have done me having made yourself sick in your hurry to get here? You know better, Merry, I know you do, you who are always telling me I should think things through before doing them."

I was breathless again, but now it was with self-reproach and revelation. No, it had not ever occurred to me to imagine how Pippin would feel at losing me. My only thoughts had ever been of how I could not bear to lose him. I stared at him in shock. I knew that his love for me was no less all-encompassing than mine for him, yet such an obvious truth had never so much as crossed my mind.

"Oh, Pippin," I whispered. "I am so, so sorry."

"You should be," he said angrily, moving a bit closer to the bedside. "You of all people know what it feels like to think the person you love dearest in all the world may leave you. How could you endanger yourself so thoughtlessly and put me through that? How could you, Merry?"

Now he was crying, hot tears and gulping breaths and shaking limbs. "I love you more than anything, Merry," he choked out. "What is the point of you taking care of me if you throw away the only thing I really need?"

"Oh, Pip," I cried as my own tears started to fall, and I started to get out of bed and go to him, but before I could, my arms were full of wet, shaking hobbit and I just buried my face in his curls and sobbed, "I'm sorry, Pippin, I truly am, I never meant to hurt you. You are right, I never thought . . . Please, please, please forgive me."

"I'm sorry, too, Merry," he sobbed, pressing his face into the crook of my neck. "I know it could have just as soon been me, that I behaved foolishly as well, but you were so sick and I was bad scared and then I was so angry with you because I love you best of all," and then we just held each other until we were cried out, Pippin's fingers clutching the front of my nightshirt while mine dug into the back of his weskit.

Finally, Pippin pried himself away from me, and I nearly wept again at his absence. He was back soon enough, pressing a handkerchief into my hand and wiping his own face off with another. My poor handkerchief was drenched after the first pass over my face, and Pip took it back from me. "Oh, here," he said, tossing the soiled handkerchief onto the chest of drawers and throwing a handful of fresh ones onto the bed. Then he clambered up beside me, sitting cross-legged as he had earlier in the armchair, and reached out to take one of my hands in both of his. He sniffled one last time for good measure.

"I never knew what it was like for you," he said.

"I never meant you to," I said around the lump in my throat that was threatening to erupt in a fresh bout of tears. I wondered if my mother had spared me the scolding that I deserved because she suspected that I would be on the receiving end of one from Pippin that would be harsher than anything she might have said. And Pippin was right, and I deserved it. I had truly never given much thought to myself, or my own mortality, or how my own illness or loss would affect the ones who loved me best, but certainly I had made sure in many small ways that Pippin understood his responsibility to safeguard his health as much as he could. He had taken the lessons to heart, whilst I, the teacher, had never understood that what I was teaching applied to myself. How very silly, and blind, I had been.

Pip sniffled again and squeezed my hand. "No, I mean really," he said. "We were afraid for you, your fever kept getting so high and we couldn't get it to stay down, and I was horribly frightened, of course, but I can scarce imagine how you faced up to going on, Merry, thinking that I had died and you had lost me forever."

I stared at him -- the memory of that day, so recently relived in my fevered state, was very near the forefront of my mind. But I had never spoken to Pippin of all that had transpired during that dreadful time, least of all that grim morning.

"Pippin, I never told you about that day . . ."

He grinned weakly at me. "Merry, I have not left your side for more than an hour or two all week. You talked a lot -- delirium, Mr. Goodbody said, brought on by the fever -- and I made Frodo help me piece together what little I could not work out. I stood with you outside the door to my room while you gathered enough courage to come in and say goodbye." A single glistening tear rolled down his face, still flushed and puffy from his earlier bout of weeping.

"I'm so sorry, Pip. I never meant that you should know about . . ." I tried to look away, overcome by the memory and disconcerted by Pippin's knowledge of it.

"Don't be sorry." I looked back into clear green eyes that did not seem distressed by this new knowledge. "Is it such a bad thing, Merry, to know you are so beloved?" He reached out to touch my cheek with a single fingertip, and the gesture prompted my own tears to well back up.

"Here, now, don't you go crying like that again, or you'll not be able to breathe and I will be in trouble with Mr. Goodbody," Pippin said, smiling reassuringly and fumbling about the quilt for the handkerchiefs he had tossed there earlier. I took the proffered handkerchief with a mumbled thanks and hid my face in it for a moment as I composed myself.

"You spoke a lot in your dreaming, Merry, so much of it about me that sometimes it seemed as if you didn't know if it was you or I that was ill," Pippin said softly once he saw that I was able to listen once more.

I thought back through what I remembered passing through my confused mind those past days. "Sometimes I didn't," I had to admit, and looked into Pippin's eyes and found myself locked there by solemn wisdom that belied my cousin's youth and disposition.

"You worry so about me that you are in danger of losing yourself," he said, then took a deep breath, clearly steeling himself for something. "I do not wish to be the one standing outside your bedroom door one day, trying to summon enough courage to enter."

I nodded at him, and reached out my hand to take his and squeeze it. "I never want you to have to go through what I went through that day," I said, my voice a bare whisper.

Pippin was very still and solemn. "Then I want a promise, Merry. I made you a promise once, and I have done my best to keep it, and will continue to do so. Now I want the same from you."

I swallowed hard, quaking a little. Hobbits take promises very seriously, and if I made one to Pippin, I would keep until always. I thought of my words carefully before speaking, and made certain they were ones I could live by.

"Peregrin Took, from now on I will care for myself with the same vigilance that I safeguard you with," I said gravely, meaning every word. Pippin looked me hard in the eyes for long, silent moments, and then let his breath out in a gust and smiled tenderly at me.

"I could not ask for better than that. But make it a real promise," he said affectionately. "Make it a promise, and promise me right."

I smiled a little as I answered, "I'll be a good lad, all day and night," but when he leaned over for the wet, smacky kiss on the cheek we had always used to seal the promise, instead I reached out with my hands and tipped his face so I could place a long, firm kiss to his brow.

"I love you, Pippin," I said as I let go, because the simplest words seemed the best, and I held my arms out to him. "I love you too," he said in a muffled voice that trembled only slightly. When we finally moved apart, he flopped beside me in the bed rather than sit upright again. He turned to look at me and grinned broadly, then reached out with his feet to poke mine through the covers.

"Now that you've been properly chastised, and have promised to behave yourself, I'll stop nagging and we can talk about other things for awhile," he said conversationally. "Your mum and Mr. Goodbody say you are going to have to stay here at Bag End until you are completely well, and that could be weeks, so of course I will be staying as well. We are going to have to find some things to do to take up the time, though. I think we should plan some trips for this summer. It will be fun, Frodo has so many maps we can look over, and see just where we want to go. It's been a long time since we went to the North Farthing -- maybe we could go visit some of the Tooks up there for a bit. You know that Frodo will be up for that. I wish we could get him to take us somewhere real, outside of the Shire, I mean." He gave me the little delighted grin that generally meant I would be the one in trouble for our fun sooner or later. I grinned back.

"Someday he will, Pip, I am sure. But for now, I can't think of anything I'd rather do than tramp around the Shire with the two of you this summer. Maybe Frodo will even convince Sam to come along on a ramble or two."

His grin got a little wider (and a little more mischievous) and it warmed me to my toes. "I'm so glad you're better!" he said in a near-whisper that still managed to be an exclamation. "And awake! You have been asleep forever, you know."

"Mmm," I said, loathe to admit that I was getting sleepy again. But before I did fall asleep, I too had something to say. I was quite aware that any time I had understood anything at all of what was going on about me while I was ill, I had known that Pippin was there with me, lending me his strength and willing me to get better. "Thank you, Pippin, for taking such good care of me. I couldn't have borne it if you hadn't been with me." He snuggled next to me and took my arm and wrapped it around himself.

"I just tried to do the things you've always done to make it easier for me whenever I was ill. I didn't think I could be brave enough, or strong enough, so I just did my best and tried to take care of you like you always take care of me."

I squeezed him tight. "I'm not brave or strong when you're ill, Pip. Like you said, I just do my best and hope that I can love you so much that it will make a difference somehow."

He squeezed me back a bit and was silent, so I let my heavy eyelids drift shut.

"I heard you, you know," he whispered in a voice more hushed than I had ever heard come from him. "You said, 'I know you've tried so, so hard, and you're so tired, but please don't go,' so I knew I couldn't leave, knew I couldn't stop fighting, no matter how tired I was, because I had to come back to you. I knew it was you, and I'd made you a promise, so I came back."

I didn't know what to say, overwhelmed and awed to hear my exact words coming back to me, and to know that they had made all the difference, so I just held Pippin closer and shut my eyes tighter against the tears. As if he knew I was exhausted, he nestled a little closer. "Go to sleep, cousin. You're so tired, I know you are. Mr. Goodbody said sleep is the best thing for you, and it turns out he seems to know what he is doing, no matter how odd he acts."

I wanted nothing more than to follow his advice, but I had slept so much I was reluctant to give in to my weariness. I realized I didn't even know for sure what time it was, not that it mattered so much, but I did want to make sure that I hadn't lost any more days that I couldn't remember.

"Pip, it's Friday, isn't it?"

"Yes. Nearly luncheon by now, I would think."

"Mmm," I muttered as I began to drift off, finding that I found the thought of luncheon rather intriguing. "Wake me up for it?"

I heard him laugh, then he teased, "After I've gone to all the trouble to wear you out again? Frodo is making his mushroom soup in honor of your being better, and if you're asleep I feel fairly certain that if I look sad and hungry enough I can wheedle your share as well as my own. Besides, you do need your rest, you know."

Even though I couldn't gather enough energy to open my eyes I managed enough of a tickle to make Pip squeak and giggle, and then he hugged me with careful exuberance. I let myself drift off into peaceful slumber in the safety of his arms, his laughter reverberating in my ears and floating off with me into pleasant dreams.

THE END