Note: Written for Marigold's Challenge #2

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The bright sun made the ripples on the water shimmer like gold.  Overhead, the leaves danced in the breeze.  Pippin knew that if he opened his eyes, the sun would be shining through the leaves, turning them a fiery, golden green.  Beyond where he lay, a bubbling brook ran into a small puddle, creating a collection of ankle deep, glassy water before continuing its course away beyond the small grove of trees.  The water chimed away softly, creating a comforting background noise that could be listened to or forgotten, as needed. 

The light breeze ruffled Pippin’s hair and sent the smell of the plants nourished on Sam’s precious dirt to his nose, bringing to mind the long days spent in Ithilien.  Pippin inhaled deeply and felt his mind slipping away.  There was a slight gust of wind and the sound of running water merged with the sound of a knife scraping over wood.  A soft voice hummed a sad little melody.  Pippin remembered the soldiers of Minas Tirith singing it gently while waiting for the waves of the dark lord’s dominions to break over the walls of their city.  The melody trailed away into silence.

“Your Shire is beautiful,” Boromir said, “I understand now why Frodo was willing to risk so much to save it.”

“Frodo will be leaving us soon,” Pippin answered, “He risked too much.”  Try as he might, he could not keep the bitterness from his tone.  If only Frodo had held back a little, the Shire might have healed him.

“You cannot reproach him for it.  We all risked much.”  Pippin clamped his mouth shut, abashed.  In his mind’s eye, he could see Faramir, sacrificing his life for his father’s approval, and Denethor, who had dared to struggle with the power of the Palantir and failed.

“Your brother is—”

“I know.”

“But your father is—”

“Pippin,” Boromir said quietly, his voice almost lost in the rhythmic scraping of wood, “I know.”  Pippin nodded and felt tears press against his eyelids.  Suddenly, he felt the crushing weight of grief return.  If only this wasn’t a dream.  If only he and Merry hadn’t pulled that ill-conceived stunt on the orcs.  He wished with all his heart and mind and soul and body that he could see Boromir again, if only for a moment.  If only, if only.  He felt the wish fill his small body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes.  It rose and fluttered away, leaving him feeling empty.  The pressure of his tears pounded in his eyes and throat and heart until Pippin suddenly found himself crying.

“I’m sorry Boromir,” he managed through his tears, “I’m sorry I took your life away.”  Boromir stopped his whittling and there was silence for a moment, broken only by Pippin’s sobs.

 “Pippin, open your eyes and look at me, this is very important.”  Without really believing that his eyes would open, Pippin obeyed, dashing away tears with his sleeve.  Boromir sat by his side, looking him straight in the eyes.  The foul arrows were gone from his chest and he appeared younger somehow, healthier.  Pippin thought that his eyes could shine out with light, if they weren’t darkened with worry for his small friend.

“You could not take my life,” Boromir said, “It was mine to give.  Do you understand?”  Pippin knew that, whatever his companions said, he would never have laid aside his guilt.  Yet the simplicity and truth of this statement caught his breath away.  Boromir’s eyes looked straight into him and did not lie.  At last, at last, he understood.  Pippin nodded with wide eyes.  His hand snaked out and touched Boromir’s knee. 

“You’re really here,” he whispered.

“I am as really here as you wish me to be,” Boromir said with a smile.  There was a moment of stunned silence.  Then Pippin threw himself into Boromir’s arms with a wordless shout that made the sun flare brightly and the leaves rustle in response.  The man caught the flying hobbit and held him in a strong bear hug.  They remained there for what seemed like a moment that could stretch into eternity and was still all too short. 

“Pippin,” Boromir finally said.  Knowing what was coming, Pippin clung tighter.

“Not yet,” he pleaded, “Please, not yet.”  Gently, Boromir started to loosen Pippin’s grip.

“Pippin, it’s time to close your eyes again.”  Reluctantly, Pippin released him and obeyed.  He felt something drop into his pocket, but when he reached for it, Boromir stayed his hand.

“Not until later,” he said.  “Not until I’m gone” hung in the air between them.  Pippin nodded and allowed Boromir to guide him back to the ground.  As he felt the man shift to stand, Pippin grabbed his hand, not quite willing to let go yet.  Boromir paused and gently brushed his hair from his forehead before his fingers slipped from Pippin’s grasp. 

The wind blew across Pippin’s face and the sound of water running down through the trees seemed to come newly to his ears, carrying him through his dreams and back into wakefulness.  When he opened his eyes, the sun was sinking beyond the horizon.  He stood and searched the small clearing for any sign of his imaginings but found nothing, not even a footprint in the grass.  His mind told him it was only a dream, but it was his heart that drove his fingers to slip into his pocket.

With a gasp that was surprise and joy and sadness all in one, he withdrew a small, roughly hewn figure.  Its curly haired head tipped back to the sky and it sat wrapped in a cloak fastened with a leaf shaped broach.  When Pippin looked closer, he could see the uniform of Gondor through the folds of fabric. 

Pippin smiled at the figure and felt a weight fall away from his shoulders as he listened to the rustling leaves and running water.  Maybe they were telling the story of unusual homecomings and gentle healings to the world and maybe someday, somehow, Boromir would hear it.