You Can't Share First Place

Much must be risked in war. Is there a captain here who still has the courage to do his lord's will?

You wish now that our places had been exchanged. That I had died and Boromir had lived.

Yes, I wish that.*

Pippin had heard the words, but they rang in his head like news of death or destruction: momentarily not comprehended for the shroud of disbelief that smote his heart like a cold, steel shaft, and he could do nothing more but gape, speechless.

He stared, mouth hung open, at the mighty and wretched steward, garbed in black hanging robes which dangled off his limbs in withered bands, like shadows of the torment ever-clinging to his ravaged soul, twisted by madness and misery. An empty phantom in both love and wisdom.

He stared down to his son with a glower as hard and cold as the stone city in which he ruled. And no love was there in his black eyes, Pippin thought, no warmth beneath their haunted surface of grief and contempt, but only some deeper darkness, some swirling blackness that seemed to extend forever in an inky, pathless, maelstrom.

Faramir nodded, his composure still straight and his head high, but in his eyes Pippin saw an abandonment and sorrow so potent that he wanted to run to him, and embrace him for all the love his father could not give, as those of his own kind would – but he did not. He simply stared, empathy pounding in his chest with every beat of his heart, and his affection went out to him, the steward’s lesser son. His mouth was dry of words, the compassion he felt so strong, that Pippin felt hurt, too, as he watched the grown man’s eyes fill with the tears of a child.

Pippin turned back to his lord, and in his grim and hopeless face saw nothing, no remorse or regret. The young hobbit felt something stir in him then, something hot and angry, and the empathy turned to contempt and pity, and his green eyes were cold and hard like the steward’s for a moment – and when the lord looked to the Halfling he almost started at this expression in the little one’s eyes, and for a fleeting instant, something alien, something like guilt stirred deep inside his callused, empty heart.

The young hobbit stood there, in the void between father and son, and his own heart ached as he recalled those who must have stood in the very same spot for him.

****

"I came as soon as I got your letter!" Eglantine Took could be heard rushing into the front door of Bag End, the cold, whistling wind fighting to snake inside, but shut out by the quick hand of Sam Gamgee.

She shoved her cloak and other apparel into the lad’s hands suddenly, and Frodo peeked his head out from inside the kitchen, frowning at the treatment of his friend.

"Where is Frodo? Where? Where's the healer? Samwise! Samwise, answer me this instant!" was her apprehensive, overwhelmed inquiry.

The young Gamgee stuttered, his face barely peeking out of the load of wet apparel that was just thrust into his arms as he opened the door, "‘Scuse me for the disorder, Lady Took," he apologized ironically, and as Frodo was replacing the pot of chamomile tea he had in his hands on the burner, he rolled his eyes. "But, if’n I’m not mistaken, which I could be, Lady Took," he said, blushing a bit, while Eglantine stood increasingly anxious by the doorway. "Then I think... no wait, maybe not, well, what I thought was, was what I thought you ought to know first ‘afore I went and told you where exactly it was...that they were, of course," said Sam, confusing himself further as he continued.

"Oh, Samwise! I do not care, just spit it out! Where is Frodo?" she instructed impatiently, which, of course, made him even more timid.

"Emm..well," Sam struggled.

"Here I am, cousin Lanie," said Frodo, emerging from the kitchen, and walking down the hall. Sam sighed a sigh of relief, and took the wet things into the other room to dry. Eglantine rushed to Frodo and hugged him, then stood back, "Where is he?"

Frodo smiled to see the concern there in her hazel eyes, and put his hands on her shoulders, "There is no reason to worry now, the worst is over."

She gave a sigh of relief, and then looked back to Frodo, smiling, eased, "He’s in his room, then?"

"Yes, he is. I was just brewing up some tea for his throat. The healer said he ought to be out of bed within a week," Frodo informed and turned to leave, but stopped and looked back, "And as for your question about the healer, he’s now getting some more of the herbs I need for the tea."

"You are very kind," Eglantine said.

"Do not thank me, cousin," said Frodo, a strange note in his refined voice, but it did not register with her, and she merely nodded.

She went down the corridor, and turned to the part of the smial where she knew her son and his cousins usually slept upon visits to Bag End. Walking toward the doorway, she was anxious to see that her son was indeed alright, as Frodo had said he was. She got to the end of the hallway, it was dark, except for the light streaming from Pippin’s open door, and she headed over to it.

But just as she was about to enter, she collided with someone exiting the room.

"What in the name of Lalia..." she said, stumbling backwards, but was caught by the very fiend who had bumped her.

"I’m sorry, Aunt Lanie!" was the husky reply, and she looked up to see her nephew there, Merry. She frowned as inside she felt something twinge at her heart, and she knew it was jealousy.

Merry had stayed with Pippin when he was afraid of the dark, played with him as a tyke, taken him on 'adventures' when he was a lad, and let him join his group of mates as he matured. Pippin’s closest comfort, was simply: his cousin Merry, who had always been there for him, especially when she was not. When he was hurting he would not call for ‘mother’, but for Merry, or Frodo perhaps, but mother would never come first; she knew this. Though Pippin knew he would never have to ask, if only for his cousins, as they would always be there when he needed them, which made her regret sting deeper. And only now had she begun to realize that she had lost the largest place in his life to somebody else who assumed it when she had been too tired and too selfish to want it for herself.

Merry was there, as he always was, and how could she expect any different?

She sighed, "Hullo, Meriadoc, dear," he was a good lad after all, a good lad, indeed. Merry’s smile faded as he looked behind her, and she turned, seeing nothing. "What is it?" she asked.

"He hasn’t come, has he?" was the lad’s expectant question.

Eglantine was silent a moment, and then looked back up to her nephew, who looked back at her with some strange emotion brewing in his blue-grey eyes, "He has not."

Merry released an irritated sigh. "I knew he wouldn’t, you know," he said, the emotion in his gaze turning out to have been an impending storm of anger and disgust, "I knew it," he paced a few steps, then turned, "How could you let him do this, again?"

Eglantine thought instantly to slap the boy for his boldness, but stayed her hand, the hard, set stare of Merry stopping her, and she realized, he was not a lad any longer. She felt so like she was on the outside, and sighed, she had missed so much. "I don’t know... I can’t make him, he’s busy –"

"He’s busy. Busy. Isn’t that always the excuse?"

She was silent again, truthfully not knowing what to say. But then she decided to try once more, for both the absent and her own conscience’s sake, "He is though, Merry. He is Thain, you know."

"And being Thain excuses you from coming to your sick son’s bed?" he paused, still angry, "I know it wasn’t, but, what if this was like the time he caught the Willow Fever?" Eglantine closed her eyes, ashamed. "He almost died then," said Merry as if to deepen the wound, "And you weren’t there. Either one of you. You were too ‘busy’." His tone softened and he sighed. "You didn’t even open the letter. Uncle Pal put it on the bottom of the incoming stack, and he didn’t get to it well until after Pippin was alright again," Eglantine gave him an affronted look, Merry shook his head, "I know; my mum told me."

There was a long silence between them.

"Is he sleeping?"

"No, he’s not," said Merry, and stepped to let her in, "But he still needs his rest," that emphasized statement was directed into the room at assumably the one who was in the bed, who then gave a loud and rather irritated sigh, and was heard voicing, "Mother hen."

Merry rolled his eyes, "Oh, stow it, Pippin," but then he blushed, remembering his language in front of his aunt and Lady of the Shire.

Eglantine ignored the exchange and walked in, Pippin’s eyes seemed to light a moment, as he lay beneath a mountain of quilts, looking terribly ill. "Mum? What a surprise! And a pleasant one, besides. What brings you to Bag End?" he asked cheerily, sounding positively silly because of his blocked nasal passages, so cheery in fact, that his mother and Merry never would have never guessed that his sharp ears had picked up their conversation just moments before.

Eglantine stood for a moment, anger and confusion welling up inside of her at once. He really does not know why I have come? She asked herself incredulously... but then, no, he is joking, she realized, he does that, and she walked closer, relieved, and stroked the curls on his forehead, which were wet from perspiration, "I have come to make sure you are alright, my lad," and she smiled.

"Well, you’re a bit late for all the fun things," said Pippin, looking up to her, and she tensed again.

"The... fun things?" she asked glancing to Merry, who just rolled his eyes again.

"Oh aye, the fun things, the bitter teas, the vapors, the hacking, the phlegm... oh, especially the phlegm, that was nice, wasn’t it, Merry?" The green-eyed lad asked, all his youthful vigor back, longing to escape his still tired body.

"Oh, positively delightful, Pippin," replied Merry.

Eglantine felt somewhat left out of their playful banter and sighed, only to discover she had sighed quite loudly and they both looked to her now, Merry questioningly, but Pippin, he knew why, and Eglantine lowered her stare from the clear gaze of her bright-eyed laddie.

"Anyways, mother," said Pippin, assuming a pleasant air, "Has anyone else come?" Merry cringed, and sighed, and felt sad for the void to be reopened in the moments to come.

Eglantine waited a moment, but then, "Pearl has come."

"Pearl!" Pippin’s face lit up, and he smiled, he loved his sister Pearl, "Where is she?"

"Coming in from outside, I assume," said his mother.

Merry almost thought he forgot a moment, but as he went to leave he heard an almost hesitant: "And... what about Da?" coming from inside the room, and his heart sank, as he left his little cousin with his mother, while he headed to fetch some medicines from the kitchen.

Inside the room Pippin looked to his mother, waiting for the answer he already knew, but would not let himself except, until he was told for sure.

Another pause. "I’m sorry, Pippin," Pippin stared at her a moment, apathetic, "He said he’d rush as soon as he could come. This is the week when all the flocks are counted and measured for quality. He was busy," Pippin didn’t say anything, then looked away.

A moment later, "Oh, alright then," disappointment and sadness played as subtle notes in the lilt of his voice, and he tried to smile, but it seemed unnatural and queer even to his mother. Eglantine would have smacked her husband, Thain or no, right then for the look of desertion in her son’s large eyes. It was his voice that pulled her from her thoughts, and she looked up again to see his face, forcefully happy for the moment, but happy all the same, "Where has Merry gone?"

***

Brought back to the moment by the loud echoing of his lord Denethor walking back to his chair by the throne, his gaze returned to Faramir, who was making ready to depart.

Pippin watched as he mustered the voice that would not come to him:

If I should return, think better of me, father.

Pippin almost gasped, his heart going out to the soldier and son of a man long lost upon the paths of madness and mourning, as he remembered thinking that very same thing, when he had looked back to the Shire behind him, one long, last time, before he had walked with his cousins, completely naive to the peril he was so unknowingly stepping into.

Pippin felt bare, as if Faramir’s broken, wounded words were but an echo of his own thoughts coming back to him from some private, hurting place in his full and loving heart, long after he had thought them on that hill looking back over to his home and all he once knew.

And he couldn’t help but think then, that his father’s answer would have been the very same cold and thoughtless:

That will depend on the manner of your return.

And as Faramir stopped a moment then, while he walked away, perhaps being struck with the heavy pain his father’s words had dealt him, Pippin watched him leave, and bowed his head.

I know, I know how it feels, Faramir. You can’t share first place.