Disclaimer: Hobbits are unfortunately not my creation, but belong to JRR Tolkien. Rámos is an O.C., and is not based on any person who bears a similar name.  Written for Marigold's Challenge 6.

PAYMENT PUT OFF

By Pippinfan

Rámos stood outside the Grey Curtain, greeting the spirits of the slain. There were many of late; the Great War of the Ring was a constant provider of brave souls to the Halls of Mandos. As he was contemplating the madness of it all, he spied a small, lone figure drifting over the expanse of the sea. Anger rose up inside Rámos. There were far too many innocents these days. Sauron’s malice knew no bounds it seemed; even young children were prey to his malicious evil. As the child came nearer, Rámos thought he could detect faint laughter. Then instantly, he received a message from Námos, his superior. This small one would not be allowed to enter through the Grey Curtain. “You cannot enter,” he spoke aloud.

The child stopped, turning to the tall being, he replied, “And why not? I’m dead, aren’t I?”

Rámos was taken back for a moment. Never before had such a one questioned his authority. “If you had truly perished, then you would be permitted to enter.”

The child looked around at the other souls entering through the Curtain, sighing impatiently, he replied, “I’ve been travelling for a long time, and now I’m thirsty. Do you have anything to drink? Any beer?”

At once, Rámos understood that this child was indeed not a child, but was one of the Little Ones. They were not of the Firstborn--the Elves, Second Born--Men, or of Dwarves, but born of Illuvitar himself. The Little People were created with a purpose in mind. Illuvitar saw beforehand the enmity between the first three races, and that a race of merry Little People would be the means to bring them all together.

Rámos smiled at the child, for he perceived this young soul to possess a childlike spirit. “I am sorry,” he replied. “Though you will find what you are searching for in abundance in the land you came out of.”

The child shuddered, “What is set before the Black Gate that I would want to go back to? I wish to enter here, if you please.”

Looking at the resolute little soul, surely Námos would allow… Kneeling down to the child’s level, Rámos placed his hands on either side of the lad’s face, enabling him to see what would transpire in a world too soon without him.

The child closed his eyes at the touch of the Being’s hands upon his face. In his mind, he saw his mother sitting alone by the hearth, weeping. Tears welling in his eyes, the child asked, “Why does my mother weep so?”

“When your kinsmen returned to your homeland, your people had been under the tyranny of yet another malevolent spirit. There were none to wake up your people to fight against it. Your father was pierced with arrows from those who aided in the oppression.”

The child became anxious. “But there are four of us. Could not one of us have sounded the alarm?”

“Not so,” Rámos answered. “If you are allowed inside the Curtain, then there would only be two.” He watched the Little One hold up his hand, working out the sums on his fingers. Rámos placed his hands upon the lad’s face once more. He felt the child shudder at the scene that played out in his mind.

What the child saw, was his closest friend lying abed; face ashen, refusing to eat. The Ring-bearer and his servant tended to his friend. Tears streaming down the young lad’s face, he began to sob. “Why?”

Rámos wiped the tears away. “Your friend never made it back to your homeland. He died before he returned home. At this time in his life, young child, you are the other half of his heart. When you perished--that is, if you are allowed to enter the Curtain--he will succumb to the terrible grief in his heart.”

“I must go back!” said the child. “I’m sorry--I won’t be able to taste your beer right now, but my father and friends need me.”

“I understand,” Rámos answered with a smile. “Payment for your valour and brave deeds are only put off…for now.”

The child remembered hearing that phrase once before, but the urgency of returning to his kinsmen took precedence.

In a flash, the child was back amongst chaos on a field of ruin and battle. Soldiers ran by him--heedless of the lad standing at the feet of a great mountain troll. He saw a dwarf and an elf toiling to heave the enormous carcass from something beneath it. “Hullo, Gimli!” he shouted, but the dwarf paid him no mind. “Legolas!” he called out. Nothing. He saw as the dwarf lifted in his arms the limp body of a… It was him! That was him! As he looked on, the child was stunned watching the elf run ahead yelling for help. The dwarf wasn’t far behind the elf. The child ran after them, “Wait!”

Moments later inside a large tent, the child’s broken body lay upon a cot, lifeless and covered in mud and blood. Those who worked feverishly to revive him were already tired and haggard from their own battles. The child hesitated, but only for a second. He remembered his father and his closest friend. He walked forward to lie down upon the cot.

Immediately, his eyes opened…

“He’s alive!” Aragorn shouted, letting out a long breath, smiling at the lad.

Pippin never knew such extreme pain before in his life. “Merry…,” was all he would mumble before he swooned into merciful, healing slumber. In his dreams, the child saw himself old and grey; obviously later in life. He sat under a swift sunrise with Rámos in a far green country…sharing laughter and beer.

The End