At Breakfast

The sweet sound of a high, clear voice lifted in song reaches him on the breeze, and Frodo looks up and smiles, for Pippin is a picture of innocence this morning, untroubled by what they have seen. Yet it hurts Frodo too, to think it, because this moment is doomed to fade and he fears what lies ahead.

Torn between loving and protecting, he knows in his heart that he will lose his young cousin whatever the outcome of his choice, and he longs to hold him close and never let go. But he will let go. He has to.

 Happily ever afterwards (to the end of his days)

A wink and a smile warm with welcome, and that’s all for now - but Pippin could dance for joy just to see Bilbo's dear old face again, to find a piece of home here when they have been so lost.

There are stories to be told, that’s for sure, and he would rather listen than tell, he thinks. So he’ll wait and hope for a night soon to come when they can cast off all the cares and the years, and remember Bag End by firelight, in days when they knew the end of the tale before it even began.

A/N: This is a double drabble, based on one of Shirebound’s lovely plot bunnies – "One evening, Aragorn is drawn to visit the restored White Tree, and finds that one of the hobbits has had the same idea. What do they talk about? Or do they talk at all?" This is a mixture of book and movie-verse.

Peace

I almost mistook him for Frodo, this still, quiet figure sitting alone in the half-light, but for the glimmer of silver on his chest. I almost wish not to disturb him, but I am curious to know what has brought my young knight here. What does this sight mean to him, that which to me is a promise heralded - my last wish fulfilled? I sit beside him without a word, and he does not lift his gaze from the white tree flowering before us.

"I still see it sometimes, in my sleep, you know. The way it was in the seeing stone," he says softly, as though sensing my thoughts, "And then I can scarcely believe it’s all over."

He looks down at the symbol of hope reflected on his surcoat, running his fingers over the embroidery thoughtfully, and only then does he look up at me, with those eyes that belie his tender years. I smile; for there is peace here in this courtyard of stone where once there was despair, and we are both here because of that.

He nods slowly, understanding. "But it is all over," he adds, firmly, with a grin that lights up his face.

The Road Goes Ever On

Merry has no words for this moment as they stop and look back on the Shire, on all they are leaving behind.

"I suppose this is just what happens to Hobbits who meddle in things that are too big for them," Pippin smiles.

In Pippin’s eyes Merry catches a glimpse of the tween who stood here once before, wondering if he would ever return. But now the road leads them onwards and they will be together at least, in whatever distant land they find their rest. He smiles too, and thinks of Frodo and Sam in another far green country.

Positive Thinking

We are lost in a forest that even the Elves speak of with dread. It is hard to breathe in here and we’re running out of food.

Yet Pippin isn’t overly concerned. I listen to him with half an ear as he chatters on about some dusty old place deep in the Smials - until he calls the forest untidy, that is. Untidy! I wonder what the Elves would say to that. He is braver than he thinks, this Took - or sillier. But he’s right, and it is less frightening to think of Fangorn thus.

I prefer it to ‘evil.’

Athelas

He does not know how long he has been walking through this dark forest, but he is searching for something, something very dear, yet lost to him. Black trees crowd around him menacingly, and the heavy silence is broken only by the sigh of leaves and the scraping of bark. They are whispering.

He looks up at them warily, feeling the weight of their watchful gaze, and a little tendril of fear entwines itself around his heart and tightens. He does not understand what they are saying, but the air is thick with their malice. They know what he is looking for, he feels it, and he drags his feet now – afraid to stop, afraid to continue. On the verge of panic, he whirls around.

Why is he here alone?

The trees laugh. It is a cruel, harsh sound, and their words become clear and distinct as he hears their reply in the whispering of branches: his friends are lost and the Shire is gone, like it had never been... and he failed.

Hope is lost too – though he cannot remember the last time he felt hope. He cannot remember coming here, or even how he lost his friends; all he knows is this long tunnel of despair, and his heart darkens with it. He stops and closes his eyes, sinking wearily to the ground. It is all gone, everything he holds dear, and there is nothing left.

For the briefest moment as he lies there, he imagines that he can smell apples, and woodsmoke. He looks up at the black canopy above him, hardly daring to believe it, but weariness slowly ebbs away as he breathes in deeply, desperately, hoping to smell it again, that familiar scent – so well-loved it is, yet just out of reach.

He picks himself up and stumbles on, for something now drives him forward, and ever so often he catches it again – pipeweed and grass and sunlight.

Suddenly, so suddenly, the trees melt away and he comes to the brow of a hill. He feels as though he could touch it, that scent, for it is so close, and he reaches out now even though there is nothing there, sobbing with need as he seeks something to ease this terrible crushing loneliness.

And then before him, as though a sheet of rain that had hidden it from view has now swept on its way, he sees the Shire in the distance, the flowing Brandywine, a patchwork of fields and cows in the pasture. He stares at it in bewilderment, not trusting that this is not some cruel trick, even though it looks so real, and smells… he breathes it in again, deeply.

And hears his name being called urgently.

"Merry! Merry, love, please… wake up."

The vision fades to blackness and Merry opens his eyes reluctantly, almost frightened by what he might see. Dazzled by the brightness of this room he is in, he looks up – and finds just what he was looking for, right here beside him. Green eyes dappled with sunlight, and unruly, golden curls; bowed lips curved in a familiar smile. Home itself, here with him, holding his hands.

He lets out a small sigh and breathes in again, then, for the air is light and fresh here. Unlike his dream, the scent of home has not faded but fills the room instead; it eases his heart, and all thoughts of despair vanish. Only one thought remains.

"I am hungry. What is the time?"

A/N: A letter from Pippin to Bilbo, in response to Shirebound’s letter-writing challenge.

(Written in Pippin’s best handwriting - until the last three lines, which were rather scrawled).

***

To: Bilbo Baggins

c/o: Gandalf

Dear Bilbo,

I wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed your party, since I didn’t get a chance to tell you before. It was the best party I’ve ever been to, and it was very clever how you disappeared like that! It was very exciting too, just like being in one of your stories. There were a lot of people who weren’t so pleased though, like Frodo, and because of that I had to go home instead of stay at Bag End with him like we’d planned.

When are you coming back? I did enjoy the joke and I expect you’re having a lot more adventures now, but we all miss you, especially Frodo. He’s rather lonely, I think, up in Hobbiton all by himself. I told him that you have to come back because you did the last time you went away, and this time you’ll have even more stories to tell, and what is the point of having more adventures if you don’t come back and tell us about them? That didn’t make him feel much better, I don’t think, although he smiled and told me not to worry.

That’s really why I’m writing, Bilbo, as well as for the other reasons. I think Frodo and Merry might go off on an adventure too, and try and find you, and it’s not fair because I’m not old enough to go yet and they won’t let me go with them. If they do go without me and find you one day, will you tell them to come back home again? Because they’d need me if they went on an adventure, they really would, and I wouldn’t be slow at all, and I wouldn’t complain if I got hungry or anything. I’m just not quite big enough to fight goblins yet, but I will be if they would just wait a little. Of course, I’m sure that you’ll be back soon enough and there won’t be any need for that kind of adventure, but I don’t want them to run off and leave me before you get back.

I forgot to say that I hope this letter finds you well – but I expect you won’t have so much trouble this time because you know all about spiders and trolls and goblins now, and I should think you’ll keep away from them, won’t you? I don’t really know when you’ll get this, but I’m going to ask Gandalf to give it to you, as he seems like the sort of person that would know where to find you. I hope he doesn’t forget to give it to you when he sees you, because it’s very important.

It’s time for tea now, Bilbo.

Love,

Your cousin, Pippin

A/N: Set just after Gandalf tells the hobbits that he won't come with them back to the Shire.

Among the Great

"When are we going to see you again, Gandalf?" Pippin asked tentatively as he rode up alongside the old wizard, touched by a sudden fear that they might be saying goodbye forever, and wanting very much to be close to him, and to not let him go just yet, if that were possible. "You could come to the Shire, you know. There’s no need for you to help us, if you think you shouldn’t. You could leave us to do whatever needs to be done, and afterwards we could sit on The Hill and smoke our pipes, like you and Bilbo used to do." He looked up at his friend, his throat tight with emotion. "I thought you would want to see the Shire again nearly as much as we do."

"Do not fear, my lad." Gandalf replied, smiling down at the young hobbit. "We will see one another again. You will understand soon enough why I must leave you."

"But we wouldn’t even be here if it wasn’t for you," Pippin replied sadly, wishing that he could make the wizard reconsider.

"Perhaps not," Gandalf replied. "But you would not be here either, if it were not for your own courage and faith. The time has come when you shall lead, Peregrin Took, and you will do so with the same qualities that have led you this far. You no longer need me, even though it may not seem that way yet."

After a moment’s thought, Pippin met Gandalf’s gaze with a new resolve. "I shall do my best then, Gandalf," he answered. Gandalf’s confidence was never misplaced, after all, and Pippin would never stop wanting to earn it.

"I know you will," the wizard reached out to clasp his shoulder encouragingly. "And you will not be alone, of course." He glanced at the other hobbits riding ahead and turned back to smile warmly at Pippin, his eyes twinkling.

"Thank you, Gandalf," Pippin whispered, blinking back tears. "For everything. I shall miss you ever so much."

"And I shall miss you, my brave lad. We have travelled far indeed, have we not? And I have watched you grow not least of all." Gandalf patted his shoulder. "I shall miss the cheerful company of all my dear friends, but I have no doubt that you shall give me cause to smile on many a lonely night to come. I am proud of you, Peregrin."

He winked at Pippin, but the young hobbit could not find the words to reply. Perhaps no more words were necessary, for when Pippin glanced up at the old wizard again, Gandalf seemed deep in thought; and did not speak again until they reached the crossroads where, long months before, the four hobbits had parted with Tom Bombadil.

***

Their paths did cross one more time, as Gandalf predicted, and Pippin found he had grown and learnt still more. Here on the shores of the Sea there was little time for parting words, and it comforted Pippin greatly that the wizard knew already what was in his heart. He always had though, hadn’t he, he thought with a small smile, as he watched the ship sail slowly into the West, bearing away forever the wisest people he knew.

Precious Things

Beneath the boughs of Lorien, his wandering eyes often rested on the open collar of Frodo’s shirt, straining for a glimpse of the precious thing worn beneath it. Sometimes he fancied he saw a reflected glimmer of light playing on the hobbit’s skin, remembering how brightly it shone when its beauty was first revealed.

But he no longer yearns for riches, for the fairest treasure he will ever lay eyes upon has stolen his heart. This knowledge grieves him, yet he pities Boromir more, for his eyes also stray – helplessly drawn by the insistent call of the hobbit’s heavier secret.

***

A/N: Based on another Shirebound plot bunny: "In Lothlorien, Gimli wonders how to get another look at the Ring-bearer’s dazzling mithril shirt." Sorry there's no Pippin in this one - normal service will be resumed shortly ;)

A/N: This is a collection of three drabbles and a drabble and a half ;)

Through the Ages

"I was never a baby," Pippin declared when he was eight years old, as he peered into his new cousin’s crib and wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sleeping lad baby inside. When his amused mother asked him why, he replied quite seriously that he couldn’t remember being one.

"And, Mama," he added, his voice muffled in her sudden embrace, "Merry would never have wanted to play with me. This baby just sleeps and eats and yells all the time. So I must have always been a hobbit lad, because Merry has wanted to play with me since forever."

~~~~***~~~~

"I wish you weren’t so old, Merry," Pippin muttered as he brought two ales over to his cousin, now thirty-three and about to get terribly responsible and serious. "I suppose you’ll have a family and all sorts now, and you’ll have to work with your da and there’ll be no time for tramping or fishing or –"

"Oh, Pip." Merry sighed. "Nothing’s changed."

"It has changed," Pippin frowned. "This is just another thing you’ll do before me but this time it will all be different forever."

"Daft Took," Merry replied fondly. "Drink up, Pip. It’s time we had a song."

~~~~***~~~~

"I feel like you came of age a hundred years ago," Merry remarked, following Pippin’s pensive gaze down to the field below where the Tooks were making final party preparations. His curls tousled by the breeze, the lad looked younger if anything; though his eyes betrayed cares Merry alone understood.

Pippin sank back beside him with a sigh, "Well, it’s official now." He turned to Merry, his eyes bright. "It’s funny how one day makes all the difference, isn’t it?"

"We’ve made it this far, Pip." Merry squeezed his hand and smiled. "I don’t think there’s any difference at all."

~~~~***~~~~

"He is rather fascinating, isn’t he?" Pippin asked for the umpteenth time that day, as he rocked Faramir gently, his voice hushed with awe.

"I think it’s fascinating," Merry mused, "that he looks so much like you did when you were a babe."

Pippin frowned as he looked at his tiny son more closely. "What did you ever see in me back then, Merry?"

"Not much," Merry grinned. "You were very small, and surprisingly loud. But you followed me around as soon as you could crawl, and have done ever since."

"You wanted to play with me," Pippin retorted in the softest voice he had ever used in an argument with Merry; though he threw Faramir’s stuffed sheep at his cousin for emphasis.

The toy bounced off Merry’s head and Pippin laughed helplessly. Faramir howled then, and Diamond spoke up wearily from her bed:

"Lads, will you ever grow up?"

Written for the hobbit_ficathon "Pippin's POV" challenge.

Heroes of the Shire

We’ve been sitting here in silence for a long time, Merry and I. This great stone before us looks rather out of place here on the hillside; even more so when one remembers why it’s here. It’s a solid thing with its list of names clearly engraved on it so that no-one will forget the hobbits who fell two years ago. As if we ever could! I have thought of them often. Riding about the countryside so proudly in my bright uniform it sometimes hits me so hard that I have to stop and sit down for a while, and ask myself why I deserve to be so fortunate, and so honoured wherever I go, when these hobbits here did no less than I did. They chose to fight for the Shire too, but it still makes me sad that they had to make that choice, and that we could not protect them in the end.

Yet all the while I sit here and remember them, it is Frodo I am really thinking of, for he is gone forever, and I wonder if he will ever be honoured as he deserves to be.

I thought once that battles were an adventure and heroes always defeated their foes and returned safely, living happily ever after ‘til the end of their days. It certainly was never supposed to be like this. I am far too old to think such things, but I still wish it could have been like in the stories; that Frodo could have lived on at Bag End, as he has for the whole of my life, re-inventing his own tales to make them fit for little lads and lasses’ ears. But if it was like in the stories, we wouldn’t be sitting here now, remembering those brave hobbits, or thinking of our cousin who gave us everything he had so that we may have our Shire. I love it all the more for knowing that, though now I seem to cry as often as I smile for loving it so much.

"Come on then, Pip," Merry says suddenly in a bright voice, using my shoulder to support him as he stands up, shaking the stiffness from his legs. "Sam will make us regret it if we’re late."

His eyes aren’t nearly as bright as his words, but I decide to go along with what he wants, and I even manage a smile. "He’d better not start eating without us again."

There are reasons enough to be cheerful after all. There is the prospect of Rosie’s apple crumble, Elanor’s smile, and surely a Frodo-lad to come before long. There is my Merry of course, and all the others out there in Middle-earth who I miss more dearly now than ever before. Sometimes I wonder if Strider is keeping an eye on us, and I rather hope he is, for it makes me smile to think so, strange as it is. I wonder what else he has seen… if he too watched Frodo leave us.

When we arrive at Bag End, light spills from the windows and we are welcomed with smiles and warm embraces. It isn’t long before we are seated around the table piling food on our plates. Frodo isn’t there of course, but he is part of our stories and laughter later on, and our quiet moments on The Hill even later as we smoke our pipes. I am glad of that, even though we can't pretend that Bag End isn't different, for whilst he is in our thoughts, he doesn't feel nearly so far away. So we shall think of him with every new season, and every babe we are blessed with, and every day in between, because that is what he has given us, and no name on a piece of stone, even if it stood forever as a record of what he did, could remind us of that dear old hobbit so well.

A double drabble:

At the Black Gate

***

"quick thoughts raced through his mind, even as he watched the enemy come charging to the assault." - "The Black Gate Opens," ROTK

***

Pippin found he was almost surprised that it had all ended. This is it, he told himself, his hand straying to the hilt of his blade once or twice, wondering how best to hold it, and how it would feel to be engulfed in the first wave of roaring, trampling orcs – whether he would be able to think anymore, and if he would want to.

I suppose it wasn’t quite like this for the Bullroarer. He glanced again at the small blade at his side and up at the vast army bearing down on them now, a dark and merciless sea of bodies on the horizon. The ground shook beneath them and the air was malice itself, searing him as he breathed, for surely all fury in the world had boiled to the surface here and unleashed itself upon them.

Choking with despair, he took another shuddering breath, and in the darkness felt a hand on his shoulder, and there was Beregond, the defeat in his eyes chased away for a moment by the flicker of a smile. From somewhere deep within him, Pippin found an answering one.

We won’t let them know that we just want to go home.

A double drabble... I've left the POV open to interpretation :)

Nightfall

There’s something about the night air. The cool breeze ruffles his hair, carrying the scent of woods, grass, smoke, and a peculiar freedom that he cannot define; but it’s there, in the moonlight and shadows, rekindling a flame that he has long tried to smother for his family’s sake. He longs to walk out of the door and vanish into the night, pausing only for a deep breath and a lingering glance at the small points of homely, golden light dotted amongst the darker shapes of rising hills. He wants to feel the wind in his hair, to sleep beneath the stars, and to roam across this silver landscape until there is no beginning or end in sight.

But these wishes all belong to the past… to overnight expeditions and overactive imaginations. He is older now, and memories temper the wild thrill of being alone with the darkness and whatever it hides. Memories of innocence, and memories of loss.

He turns away from the open window and seeks his wife’s soft embrace, knowing the secret smile she hides in his shoulder, as he breathes in the scent of her hair, reminding himself once more of warmth and love, and home.

This sort of follows on from "At the Black Gate". Shirebound gave me the idea for a second part about what Pippin was thinking when Beregond was about to be killed by the troll. Thanks, Shirebound! This is a triple drabble, by the way, if there is such a thing ;) 

A Heavy Hand

Tall and proud and noble, Pippin had thought admiringly of him that first day they met, when Beregond had a glitter in his eye as he looked ahead to battle.

With battle upon him and the glitter all but gone, still he had stood unbowed and defiant, even as the enemy charged. Clasping his sword with both hands, Beregond had turned to him and slapped the hilt of his blade with a grim smile and a wink before leaping into the first wave of orcs that broke upon them.

We cannot strike till some foe comes within our reach. Then our hand must be heavy.

Alas! My own hand feels as light as a feather.*

But now, falling boneless to the bloodied earth, he is certainly lost, and Pippin watches, frozen in horror as the troll-chief bends down to finish him, and his friend has lost the sword he once held so firmly in his grasp.

What can he do now to stop this; when he knows this is the end of the story, and there is nothing one small soldier in this great battle can do to change anything? They will never leave this place, for the world will be covered in darkness, and the small, brave hope they stood for will be forgotten.

There is really no time for thoughts, yet one persists still, slicing fierce and keen through suffocating despair.

No-one else will stop this.

It is not much, but it is enough for this hobbit in a soldier’s uniform, and his friend will not be taken this way. A great claw reaches out to deal the last blow and Pippin takes a short, shallow breath; and clenching his own blade firmly now, knowing he will never let go, he stabs upwards to meet his final doom.

***

*Beregond's words (slightly adapted), and Pippin's thoughts in response are taken from "Minas Tirith", ROTK.

A drabble and a half, Merry's POV:

The Long Dark

That Took. If he hadn’t had to drop that dratted stone, I would be able to sleep.

No creature hammering away in the depths could keep me awake like a frightened Pippin: that noisy, bothersome cousin of mine, shuffling about in the smothering silence of these caverns. I expect it’s cold by the door, and all sorts of invisible threats must be dancing through his vivid imagination, for I can hear his short, quick breaths and muffled gasps ‘til I'm so attuned to every little sound that I wonder if the pulse pounding in my ears is my heart or his.

Gandalf takes pity on him at last, thank the stars, and Pippin is soon curling up by my side. His icy hands make me shiver, but he is safe, and still and silent too, with my arms and my blanket around him. May a dreamless sleep welcome us both.

A drabble and a half, Merry POV. Written for Nickey :)

Waiting

Eowyn has requested a room facing east. Does she seek her brother’s return, or a tide of darkness to drown in? I know even less what I look for when my gaze turns eastward. My heart lies neither with her cold despair, nor with Faramir’s quiet hope. It is drawn home, to gentle green hills in the north, and to these black mountains too as I wait and fear for news of what is happening behind them. There's no hiding from the shattering truth that it is over for me, that I am alone, just one soldier fallen by the wayside… though another voice persists faintly still. It is Pippin’s, the last I saw him, reminding me of my duty to be here when they return; and if Pippin, with his sad eyes and bright smile, can battle his fear, I must conquer this shadow.

Perhaps I can still fight.

A Light in Dark Places

They are each alone with their own wounds and sorrows, but there is fellowship to be had whilst they wait together for whatever news may come from the east. Merry’s companions seem accustomed to solitude and loss, for years of war and darkness have long been their curse; the noble families of Rohan and Gondor each consumed slowly from within by despair, ambition, and treachery disguised as counsel. Yet they have lessons to teach this hobbit of the Shire who has never wanted for company or love, growing up in the warmth and security of a large family in peaceful times. He remembers home now as a bright, pure place in his heart at this loneliest point of his life, trapped between knowing how much darkness there is in the world, and being powerless to help fight it.

Merry finds his lessons in the youthful confidence of Bergil and the grave compassion and clear sight of Faramir: that hope need not die while their friends and brothers yet live... and that light and love may still be found unlooked for even in the darkest hours.

If it is possible that the gentle contest playing out before him daily in the gardens may portend the outcome of the war in the east, he hopes, for all their sakes, that the warmth of the sun in Faramir's regard for her will soon drive away the lingering shadow on his shield-sister’s heart.

An Hour to Sing

Merry knows. Frodo wonders how long he has known; if it is just now, when he and Pippin are leaving tomorrow, that Merry can see the years Frodo has lost when it has only been weeks. Perhaps he has known longer and has hoped, with the comfort of distance, that light and colour and life will return to him if he is only given more time. But they share a look now, in this too-bright room, and there is defeat, and understanding, in Merry’s eyes. There’s not enough time left ahead for that.

Pippin knows too, perhaps, though it’s a recognition he half-accepts, half-denies. He has stoked up a great fire against the chill of summer’s decline, and lit lamps all about as if to ward off the day’s ending too. And his eyes are also too-bright, as he demands that their last night here be a cheerful one, as he talks himself hoarse, far into the night; but the others let him, joining in for his sake and their own, and that evening it might be that there is no brighter place in the Shire than the front room of Bag End.

Frodo knows, as time creeps on and the lamps begin to wane, that he should try to fill – with laughter or hope – these silences that his cousins’ banter can hide no longer; should give them both whatever he has left in him. But he is tired now, and he would really rather sleep than talk, and forget than try to remember memories that sound sweet to his ears but do not touch him; faded, distant echoes of a life he cannot get back. Still, as he listens, his eyes half-closed, to the rise and fall of Pippin’s steady chatter and the sometimes-sound of Merry’s low voice breaking in, he wishes too that this moment might never end, for Pippin has the right of it, though none of them had really thought so, and Frodo despairs to think of letting them go… of leaving them again.

In the end, even Pippin stops, looks at them both staring now at the embers and sighs, so tired. In the shadows, the sudden silence is peaceful, and it is a comfort, almost, to find that this moment is not so terrible, now it is here. Perhaps it is even a relief. Frodo’s eyes meet Merry’s, and they smile, and nod and stand, and Merry gently hauls Pippin to his feet. Without a word then, seeking darkness and pillows and warmth, Frodo and Merry curl in tightly around Pippin and each other, and Frodo listens to the steady rise and fall of their breathing (Pippin’s is light; Merry’s deeper, just as it has always been) as each is overcome by sleep, and his quiet thank-yous go unheard.

Though it is dark now, Frodo knows that there will be light again. He knows that… and they will know it too, with time.

***

A/N: The title comes from "March" by Edward Thomas, a poem about lingering winter, and birdsong in the last hour before dark.

Not till night had half its stars
And never a cloud, was I aware of silence
Stained with all that hour’s songs, a silence
Saying that Spring returns, perhaps to-morrow.

Unspeakable

Merry looks so small in this bed. While he sleeps I hold his poor hand and tell myself he’ll be all right, for the Wraith-king is gone; nothing but a fallen, bested old king of Men now, powerless to hurt my cousins anymore.

It’s easier to say such things than to speak of Him, the one who’s really to blame for it all, though I remember saying His name rather lightly in another world. I don’t dare now, not with the Shadow so near… I’m frightened of what He has seen in me already – and what He might see still.

A drabble written for Birch Tree :)

Swordthain

I don’t want to be left behind, kept safe like a child, nor a burden to the Riders; but if that is to be my choice, I would rather be a burden. I’ve been one often enough on this journey after all, and I’ve yet to be of any use. I don’t seek to be remembered in song for great deeds in battle, for my sword and I are too small for such things - I just want to be where I am supposed to be. The Riders may not need me, but Pippin does, and he should never have gone.

A triple drabble written for Melnotmeli, who asked for bittersweet post-quest Pippin and Frodo :)

***

Respite

"Frodo..? Are you in here?"

The tatters of an uneasy sleep flee as Frodo wakes abruptly, groaning softly and squeezing his eyes shut against the light flooding the room. "Pip?"

"Ah… so you have been hiding. I suppose this means you’d rather not join in the dancing." A padding of footsteps and the bed shifts as his cousin lies down behind him, putting a tentative hand on his back. "I don’t blame you, of course," Pippin whispers. "Cousin Petunia has already asked me where you are three times, and now she’s started on poor Merry."

"Oh, Pippin," Frodo sighs, turning to face him. "I’m so very tired."

"Poor Frodo," Pippin says sympathetically, his eyes graver than Frodo was expecting. "The Tooks have worn you out again. Sleep, then... our brave Merry will take your place."

Frodo closes his eyes gratefully and feels Pippin place a gentle kiss on his forehead. Drifting off, he is dimly aware of being held tightly, of a sweet lullaby sung faraway. He frowns then, and drags himself out of slumber again, enticed by curiosity.

"Pippin? Whenever did you learn Elvish?"

"I didn’t, Frodo-dear… You used to sing it to me, when I was small." Pippin lifts his head and looks at him closely. "You’re getting forgetful in your old age, cousin."

"I suppose I must be," Frodo mumbles with a small sigh, and hugs Pippin to him. "Will you remind an old hobbit how it goes, then?"

Pippin nods, shifting nearer. "I would like to hear you sing it too, though," he whispers, and Frodo feels his young cousin smile into the crook of his neck. "It makes me feel like a lad again."

"You are still a lad," Frodo reminds him quietly before he closes his eyes, and adds his voice to Pippin’s song.

Passing the Time

Diamond was a regular letter writer; a fact greatly appreciated by Pippin and Merry, who both suffered whenever word failed to come from Long Cleeve.

“I can’t bear it,” Pippin groaned from deep within a mound of bedcovers one morning, three days after the Messenger had brought Diamond’s last letter. He’d already missed breakfast, and the anxious and pale face revealed to Merry when Pippin pulled the sheets down over his head suggested that Pippin had neither the will nor appetite to attempt seconds either.

“I shall sleep til the Messenger comes,” he muttered, shifting onto his side and turning forlorn, green eyes at Merry. “If he doesn’t come, I’ll sleep til tomorrow.”

Merry sighed and scrunched his cousin’s curls sympathetically before he left the room. Dramatics aside, Pippin was quite hopelessly in love with the lass, condemned to the sweet agony of waiting for letters each day, and Merry humoured him when he couldn’t distract him, knowing full well that if he were in the unhappy situation of loving Estella from afar, he would be quite sick from it too. Besides, forcing Pippin out of bed would mean inflicting an impatient, fidgety Took lad on himself for the whole morning, one that would jump out of his chair and run to the door at the slightest sound from outside, and it was better, surely, to avoid that.

Two hours later, Pippin awoke to find Merry sitting beside him with a plate of bread and cheese in one hand and a letter in the other. Grabbing the letter with hope, curiosity and fear in his eyes he saw, as Merry had, that it was addressed to him in Diamond’s delicate script, and he swallowed, and opened it carefully.

A moment later his face lit up and he beamed at Merry and laughed, and read on, reaching absently for a chunk of bread as he did so, and Merry grinned and kissed his cousin on the brow, sighing with relief that his cousin need not die of heartbreak, at least not today.

Written for the "20_rings" livejournal challenge. Theme = "food" :)

Picnic

"Pippin, not the mud, please dearest," Frodo said absently as he turned the page of his book with only half an eye on what he was reading. Eventually he sighed as his cousins’ protests grew louder, putting the book down and turning over to squint at one of the younger lads. "Merry, this is hopeless."

Merry had the baby on his lap and was trying to pry a stone from Pippin’s tiny fingers. Pippin’s bottom lip was starting to quiver, and both lads looked up at Frodo with identical expressions of frustration on their faces. Frodo tried not to smile and crossed his legs, holding out his hands to take Pippin from Merry, who sighed and scowled, surveying the remains of their picnic scattered across the grass. "It is hopeless," Merry retorted. "He hasn’t eaten anything edible since elevenses, and what’s left is all ruined."

Pippin had been single-minded in his determination to let nothing but grass and soil and worms in his mouth this lunchtime, although his hands had been busy enough in the jam and honey and butter and cheese. Swirls and blobs of red, yellow and brown reminded Frodo exactly where Pippin had been as he looked around at the multicoloured canvas created by the small Took’s busy, sticky hands. The lad himself, he realised, was gazing up at him happily now he’d found a more forgiving cousin, wide green eyes protesting such innocence that Frodo couldn’t help but grin back at him. The stone came out of Pippin’s grubby hands easily enough now he’d been distracted, and Pippin put his newly free thumb in his mouth, closing his eyes as he chewed on it gummily.

"I wonder what that tastes like," Merry snorted.

Frodo smiled at him, "I don’t know, but he seems to like it."

Merry shifted closer to Frodo and watched his little cousin curiously. He’d found a piece of pie that still looked edible, plucking some blades of grass off it exasperatedly before taking a bite. "One day he’ll learn that it’s silly to waste food," he frowned. "If he likes eating his finger so much, why wouldn’t he have some of this pie?"

Frodo shrugged, casting about for ideas. In the end, only one reason came to mind. "He’s a Took, Merry-lad; and Tooks don’t make much sense."

Merry nodded understandingly, as though he’d heard the unexplainable explained this way before. "I suppose I’d better get used to this, then," he said, patting Pippin’s curly head. "He is rather sweet, I suppose, even when he’s being daft."

Frodo grinned and pulled Merry closer to him. A moment later, Merry found a bundle of smiling Took lad back in his lap and he grinned, reaching for a piece of bread that had had its crusts cut off and was now spread aimlessly with jam and cheese and something brown. He pulled it in half and offered one bit to his attentive cousin. The other half he tried himself. "Mmn," he said uncertainly. "It tastes all right. See, Pip?"

Pippin patted Merry’s face happily with one sticky hand and squashed the bread into his mouth with the other. Merry rolled his eyes, though he was smiling at his achievement, and he turned to Frodo. "Do you think he’ll do what I tell him when he gets older?"

Frodo chuckled as he looked at them both; two pairs of big eyes turned to him as they munched away. Pippin was behaving now, but he was probably hungry. If his elder cousin would eat a mud sandwich for his benefit, Frodo suspected that Pippin would get the better of Merry when he was older too. But such things were impossible to guess when dealing with a pair like this, and Frodo put the thought aside with a shrug and a wink at Merry as he joined them in filling up the corners with a strange snack.

A/N: Written for the Live Journal "20 Rings" challenge - Boromir, Merry, Pippin and music. 

Thank you so much to Marigold G for recommending this as one of her Best Bets!

***

A Walking Song

"Old Tom Bombadil is a merry fellow; bright blue his jacket is, and his boots are yellow…"

Boromir muttered darkly under his breath as the song met his ears for the hundredth time that evening, but the youngest halfling had just launched into the tune again with gusto, and showed no sign of stopping. His cousin Merry was encouraging him by prancing along at his side and adding ridiculous flourishes to the song, with a merry dol here and a ring a ding dillo there. It was utterly exasperating; even more so, because Boromir could not tell whether the other members of the company were finding the halflings' choice of walking song equally frustrating, or whether they were enjoying the diversion.

Gimli cast him a sideways glance but offered no comment as he trudged along, and between the helmet and beard it was impossible to tell whether the dwarf was sympathetic or not. Certainly the young hobbits had fair singing voices, and put to better use, Boromir had found the time passed much more pleasantly when he listened to them. But this… this nonsense was a torment, and despite his curiosity about that strange fellow who lived far away in the north, Boromir was now entirely glad he would never meet him. Only two days from Rivendell, and he was uncharitably wishing the same could be said of the high-spirited young folk marching along behind him.

Blessedly, the singing stopped as Merry and Pippin turned their attention towards their stomachs, and for a few minutes as they munched quietly on apples, Boromir heard nothing but the sound of heavy footfalls on rocky terrain.

"Ho! Tom Bombadil…"

This time a deep voice had broken the silence, and Boromir was dismayed to find that it had been his. He stopped abruptly, swallowing hard as his nearest companions turned and stared at him, expressions of delight, sympathy and wry amusement written clearly across their faces despite the gathering gloom.

After a small, awkward pause Boromir sighed, lifting his hands in a gesture of utter helplessness. "What is to be done?" he asked, pointing at the hobbits behind him, who were now bent double with laughter, though Merry at least was biting his hand in an attempt to stop. "This cursed song will be lodged in my mind for all eternity."

"Perhaps you were not aware of the Shirefolk’s love of music, Boromir," Gandalf said, following Boromir’s gaze with a fond smile at Merry and Pippin. "Whenever they go on walking parties, they like to sing."

Boromir stared at him, surprise mingling with dismay. The walking party would be a very long one, especially if the halflings persisted with this peculiar torture, and that Gandalf could compare their quest to save Middle-earth with a carefree stroll in the Shire was yet another reason to be concerned.

"I’m sorry Pippin’s singing isn’t to your taste, Boromir," Merry spoke up then. "Perhaps you could teach us one of your soldiering songs instead, if you would rather?" As Boromir glanced down at the hobbit, he caught the sly smile Merry gave him, just as Pippin nodded eagerly in response.

"Yes," the youngster exclaimed, "I’d like to hear some new ones. I think we must have sung almost all the songs we know already."

Boromir smirked, agreeing wholeheartedly with this, but the thought of teaching the lad any of his own songs was a little disturbing, especially now he felt the weight of the Ringbearer's gaze on him. "I certainly don’t think I will be teaching you any of those," he said, frowning at Pippin.

Pippin looked a little disappointed, and pouted at Frodo as the older hobbit moved off, but he brightened again quickly as the rest of the company started walking once more, and as if by some silent agreement the two hobbits did not resume singing. Instead, Boromir found the two lads keeping pace with him, looking up curiously from time to time.

"We don’t have any soldiers in the Shire," Pippin told him conversationally. "I can’t imagine what it must be like always fighting battles and such. Is it very grim?"

Boromir’s mouth fell open in surprise at Pippin’s boldness, and did not miss Gandalf’s chortle from up ahead. Tempted to offer the two rascals a lengthy and definitive reply about how grim life as a soldier of Gondor could be, he glanced down at them, but the words died on his lips at the sight of their open, cheerful faces, and a strange wave of protectiveness went through him.

"Boromir?" Merry persisted. This hobbit was very perceptive; there was a knowing gleam in his eye, and somehow he knew the man was weakening.

"Far too grim for your ears," Boromir said finally. It was better that the Shirefolk know as little of such things as need be, for now, and Boromir suspected a time would come all too soon when he would miss their merry voices. Accepting his fate with a small sigh, he added, "Come, Master Took, sing us another song… but a different one, if you please."

Pippin grinned and squeezed Boromir’s hand. "Only if you agree to join in, rather than glowering away to yourself like you usually do."

"I do not---" But Boromir gave in before he could finish his own sentence, and nodded with a smile, briefly tightening his fingers around Pippin’s small hand as the young one began to sing:

"The road goes ever on and on…"

Before long the rest of the Big Folk followed, and for a short while before Aragorn called for quiet, their deeper tones blended with light hobbit voices, and the wind carried their songs into the dark.

Real

He is weary, and his clothes are as dirty as they have ever been, torn from battles in Moria and beyond. He’s still our Strider. But while he stands deep in conversation with Lady Galadriel, he seems somehow other than that. A glimpse of the king he’ll be one day flashes across his brow, determination chases the doubt from his eyes, and she in turn seems less fearsome, and more kind.

Legolas says she is Lady Arwen’s grandmother...

...and I’m glad for Strider, if he calls these woods home. But I should be afraid to hug her. And I don’t suppose she has a sharp tongue, or makes apple crumble, or ever falls asleep reading by the fireplace.

I want to be somewhere real again.

A/N: This is a little WIP that finally got finished after four years. :)

March 25

Winter, 1420

“I don’t know if it will catch on, Pip,” Merry frowned. “Yule just isn’t Yule when it’s not Yule, if you know what I mean.”

Pippin eyed him suspiciously. “You’re starting to sound like me, Merry. So how can you possibly not agree with me?”

“I don’t know, Pip. I suppose it’s just that it doesn’t sound like a very good idea.” Merry smiled despite himself as he shaded his eyes and looked up at Pippin again, seated on the gate in his livery, muffled up in his scarf and gloves with the bright winter sun shining down on them. He had been out there long enough to make Merry think he must be thinking on something hard, and Merry’s instincts were rarely wrong about Pippin.

“I think ‘second-Yule’ is an excellent idea. If they’re doing it in Gondor it will certainly catch on in Tookland. The Tooks are all rather keen on Gondor now, you know, convinced that Strider will come and stay at the Smials one day. Of course we’ll have to make some arrangements if that happens…”

Knowing that the Smials’ Royal Suite was not what Pippin really had in mind, Merry ignored Pippin’s Took-centric thinking and wandered closer so that he could hop up onto the gate and talk to his cousin without blinding himself in the sun.

“Anyway, my Da reckons that Yule is just a custom we borrowed from the North-men, and doesn’t really mean anything at all. Why not borrow second-Yule from the south and have it mean something really important?”

Merry smiled at him. “I’m not sure everyone will think about Frodo and the Ring so much as enjoy the excuse for some more feasting and idling. I know just how you feel, Pip, and it bothers me too that Frodo’s got so left out of things. It still bothers me how everyone behaved when Frodo resigned during Overlithe. Imagine, instead of paying tribute to him.”

No-one had even remembered that Frodo had resigned once the alcohol had worn off, and Pippin scowled at the memory. “Sam said there were Hobbits knocking on his door for days afterwards swearing he’d done no such thing because they’d had their heads under a cask of ale for a week.”

Merry glanced behind them at their little cottage, where so many festivities had taken place. They had all earned this great joyous year of plenty, but of late it had become tainted by increasingly frequent news of Frodo’s illnesses.

“But that’s why it matters,” Pippin continued. “Da’s already got half a mind to propose a “Pre-Yule” festival to celebrate the Battle of Bywater. Can you imagine? Celebrating our own little victory without a day that celebrates Frodo too?”

“A third-Yule, now?” Merry frowned at Pippin’s sharp elbow in the ribs. “And what is Tookland doing talking about a pre-Yule without the involvement of the magnificent leader of Buckland’s army?”

“Well I don’t see his magnificence taking much interest in third-Yule yet, which is far more important,” Pippin scowled. “I’m sure all we need to do is say that it’s celebrated in Gondor and it should catch on.”

Merry sighed. “Gondor is right to celebrate it, Pip... I just don’t know if we are. I know you need to feel like we’re doing the right thing by Frodo. But… in Gondor that day really does mean something and Frodo is honoured as he should be. We had our own battles here, and we won them justly, at the cost of Hobbits’ lives. It wouldn’t be wrong for us to celebrate our victory and honour our dead.”

Nor was it wrong that they’d felt joy again that year. He put his arm around Pippin’s shoulders and frowned, trying to find the right words. “If Frodo’s deed is to be remembered at all, I would rather have it remembered by the four of us, and Rosie, and no-one else, than throw a great party that is just like any other.”

Merry pretended not to notice as Pippin swiped at his eyes. “You’re right, Merry. But sometimes I just wish we could be in Gondor again. I wish Hobbits would open their eyes.”

Merry smiled inwardly as he pictured to himself ridiculous old Farmer Bolger conversing with the King about foreign politics and new treaties… or the slow bartender Ned Bracegirdle musing with his regulars over the decline of the Elves. What would they say if they really knew what happened at Mount Doom… or thought they did? There were darker sides to that picture and he did not want to think on them.

Poor Pippin, who had been mercilessly babied by his sisters until he left the Shire, had found himself knowing far too much about the great things of the world and now wanted for someone to talk to about it all. To let him know how he should feel. But those who knew the same things would rather not talk of it. More than ever, Merry missed Gandalf, who had proved such an unexpectedly considerate friend to the lad – and no-one could know more than he.

Pippin looked up at the sun and sighed. “Merry, you are very right, as always. I don’t know what I was thinking… third-Yule… as if Frodo would approve of that. He’s the last of us that would celebrate, knowing… you know. I hadn’t thought of that. I just feel that he’s very alone, apart from Sam. I want him to know how much we love him.”

“He knows, Pip. But we’ll be there anyway, won’t we? Like we always used to be.”

***

It was late in the evening and Frodo, Merry and Pippin were sitting outside Bag End smoking pensively in the glow of lamplight.

They were there, just the three of them, and no-one had yet given the day a name, besides Pippin, who had already made sure to toast the New Year in Gondor.

They had been waiting for much of the day, but there was still more than an hour left of it when Sam came out of the guest room, red-faced and beaming, and announced the arrival of his firstborn daughter… Elanor.

Gathered around Elanor as she took her first turn in Frodo’s arms, they could all see she was the fairest child they had ever known. Pippin glanced at Frodo’s captivated face and then turned to meet Merry’s gaze, and Merry saw joy there again too. His heart so full, he could not help but laugh aloud.  

“She’s perfect,” his cousin whispered to Rosie, laughing face turned up to them. The perfect gift of life to Frodo, on this very day, and no-one needed say or do anything to better it.