1. Pale Spring 

It is early morning. Eowyn lies in her bed in the House of Healing, but she does not start when old Ioreth touches her shoulder. "My Lady? I do not wish to wake you, but-"

"I was not asleep," Eowyn says, keeping her face turned to the wall. Her arm aches in its linen sling, and she wishes only to be left alone. "What is it?"

"The halfling, Lady, the Periannath, he's in a dreadful temper," Ioreth says.

Eowyn pushes aside the blanket. "How so? Is he in pain?"

Ioreth helps her sit up. "He is not any great pain, as far as I can tell, though I'm sure his arm troubles him, but he refused the sleeping draught the Warden offered him, and quite sharp he was about it, too. And when poor Miriel tried to help him dress this morning, he hurled his breakfast at her! Now no one dares go in, for fear of what will fly out next." Ioreth was nearly wringing her hands. According to the Lord Aragorn's instructions, the Lady of Rohan was to keep to her bed, no matter her condition, for at least eight days yet, but she was at a loss as to what else to do. "Lady, you know him, will you not go in and find out what is amiss?"

"I will go," Eowyn says. She does not know what good she can do, but it is better than lying abed, listening to the moans of wounded men, and feeling grief and hopelessness creeping up around her, like a dark tide to drown in.

Ioreth takes her arm, and Eowyn leans heavily against her as they walk down the hall. Several maidservants are clustered outside the room, whispering together. Ioreth gives them a sharp look and they go quiet.

The door is open and Eowyn looks in. The room is ominously silent, but it is not the shambles she expected it to be. A tray with a capsized bowl lies near the door, and Merry is sitting on the floor in the middle of the room. He looks very small next to the man-sized cot, no bigger than a boy, and his curly head is bowed.

"Merry?" Eowyn says quietly. He makes no answer, but he lifts his head a little, and something like shame passes over his face before he looks away again. Eowyn turns to Ioreth. "Leave us alone together, for a little while."

Ioreth nods her head and turns to go, shooing the Maids down the hall as she leaves. Eowyn feels dizzy and tired, and she is glad to sink down on the floor next to Merry.

Eowyn sees that his shirt is only partially buttoned, and here and there dotted with porridge, how his right hand lies cupped and useless in his lap. Without a word, she reaches out to straighten his collar.

Merry pushes her hand away, and scowls. "I can feed and dress myself. I am not a child."

"No," Eowyn says gently. "But it is not a childish thing to need a little help. Hold the cloth taut with your left hand."

He does, and Eowyn, slowly and with effort, slips each wooden button through a buttonhole, then raises a sisterly hand to smooth away the wrinkles in the cloth. She does not know what to say after that, so they sit in silence.

"Pippin helped me before," Merry whispers, near tears, and there is that look of shame again. "I didn't mind it so much when he...I wish I had told him...I wish..."

"I know," Eowyn says, and she takes hold of his cool right hand, hoping to warm it. Eomer had sat long at her bedside in the hours before the muster, and they had talked not of the battle to come, or of how they felt, but of little things, of brighter days long ago. There were not enough words to say all that was in their hearts. Now she and Merry were truly brother and sister in their shared sorrow: Two wounded soldiers, left behind again to wait without hope, and the ones they loved were far away.

"Thank you, Lady," Merry says at last, meaning the shirt.

"My dear Merry," Eowyn says, and she is filled with a sudden affection for this small being who had come so far with her, and stood by her side under the Shadow when tall Men fled-and who would stand by her still, though all the world be covered in Shadow. "Have we not gone through enough together for you to call me by my name?"

"Eowyn." Merry blushes a little. "Thank you."

"You are most welcome," Eowyn says, and when Merry is moved by hobbit impulse to put his arms around her, she does not protest. Her eyes sting with tears, and in her heart she feels a sudden warmth and thaw, like spring.

**************

The end ( of this piece, but more short ficlets to come.)

Author’s Note: The title is a quote from The Two Towers, ‘Thus Aragorn for the first time in the full light of day beheld Eowyn, Lady of Rohan, and thought her fair, fair and cold, like a morning of pale spring that is not yet come to womanhood.’

2. The Dark Places

For Lindelea, who cheered the loudest as this story staggered across the finish line. Many, many thanks.

"Pippin! Take my hand," Merry whispered.

"But then I would have three," Pippin said lightly, keeping his own hands at his sides. "And you would be left with only one, and then we'd both be in a pickle."

They were walking in single file through the long darkness of Moria, Gandalf leading the way. The path beneath the Fellowship's feet was once smooth and paved, well-crafted by the fathers of the fathers of the Dwarves of Moria, but time and the damp had done their worst, and now it was cracked and buckled, and strewn with lumps of upheaved stone. The heaps of rubble were no great obstacle to the taller members of the party, but for the sake of speed the hobbits had often been lifted over them. Pippin had at first rather enjoyed the sensation of being lifted up and swung from one pair of arms to another, but it had quickly worn thin. He was tired of being pinched and poked, (however unintentionally,) and of being passed from hand to hand like a bag of sugared walnuts at a Yule party. He was very nearly a grown hobbit. He had missed meals and slept on the ground, and faced Black Riders, and wargs, and the Watcher, and he had nearly frozen solid on Caradhras, and he did not need to be led by the hand, thank you very much.

Merry gave an exasperated sigh that meant humor me, won't you? "Well then, take my sleeve." Hungry shadows lay on every side, kept at bay only by the faint illumination of Gandalf's staff. It would be all too easy for a curious Took to get himself lost if he paused to woolgather. "We have a long way to go and we mustn’t stray too far apart, any of us."

"Little chance of that," Pippin said. The Big Folk kept the hobbits bunched together like hens-and-chicks. But as a compromise he grasped the edge of Merry's cloak and gave it a little tug, so that Merry could feel it. "There, mammy dear, now I shan't get parted from you. Do I get cider and biscuits in the nursery later?"

"No, you shan't," Frodo said, having overheard. "Cheeky faunts don't get treats, they get a thrashing from their elders." He looked back at Sam, who was walking close behind him. Sam's face was grimy, and sweat and tears had made tracks through the dust. It had been a dreadful blow to him, leaving poor Bill behind. "How are you holding up, Sam?"

"Well as can be expected, sir," Sam said, but Frodo thought that his voice sounded strained. "But I already feel near to going blind, what with looking at naught but shadows and stone. How far did Mr. Gandalf say it was again?"

"Forty miles or so, as the crow flies," Frodo said. "But when you think about, Sam, it really is less than a walking-trip from Hobbiton to Brandy Hall, and Bilbo and I have done that for a lark." He was trying to lift Sam's spirits, and refrained from mentioning that he had been quite young then, and he and Bilbo had been well-rested and at ease, walking in the bright sunshine on a good road through safe and settled country. "If we keep up a good pace, and don't stop too often-"

"And if we do not meet up with any trouble in this forsaken place," Boromir said, quietly and uneasily, almost as if he were talking to himself.

But his words came clearly to Frodo's ears, and to Sam's ears as well. Frodo saw Sam gulp and look around miserably at the impenetrable darkness beyond their small Fellowship.

Frodo gave his shoulder a comforting squeeze. "We'll be all right, Sam."

Sam swallowed hard and nodded, but he didn't look very convinced. Frodo sighed, then took a step and pretended to stumble.

Sam was instantly filled with concern, forgetting his own fears for his master's sake. "Are you all right, Mr. Frodo?” His voice dropped. “Is It very heavy? We could ask for a rest, if you're tired."

"No, no, I believe I can go on quite a long way yet," Frodo said, but he rubbed his shoulder, as if it pained him. "It’s just that the darkness makes my eyes feel tired. Would you mind if leaned against you for a while?"

"Not at all," Sam said. He lifted Frodo's hand and patted it, then tucked it into the bend of his elbow. "There now, sir, you just lean on me as long as you like."

Frodo sighed heavily again, in mock-weariness. "Thank you, Sam."

Good old Frodo, Merry smiled to himself. He tucked his head down and concentrated on placing one foot before the other-a harder task than it seemed, considering that he could scarcely tell where he was putting them-until there was an unexpected halt up ahead.

Merry stopped so quickly that Pippin walked on his heels. "What is it now?" Pippin asked in a loud whisper. "More rocks?"

"I don't think so," Merry said, craning his neck in an attempt to see around Boromir's broad back. Gimli had been walking quietly behind Gandalf, and kept his hand on the hilt of his axe-Moria had not been his home, and his knowledge of the place came secondhand, in tales told to him by his father and kin. He would have been little help as a guide, but now Merry saw that he and Gandalf were standing together, talking in low voices and looking at something on the path before them.

Aragorn and Legolas said a few quiet words to each other in Elvish, then Aragorn went on to join Gandalf and Gimli. Pippin tugged on Merry's cloak again. "Let's get a closer look."

Legolas put his long hands on the hobbit's shoulders and held them back. "Wait, my friends, do not be so eager to rush ahead in dark places; let your guides lead the way, if you have them."

But Aragorn motioned them forward. "Let them come, Legolas," Aragorn said. "Frodo and Sam, as well. There is no danger here now-whatever evil things were done here happened long ago. Let us hope that they see no worse than this before we reach the end of our journey."

Merry and Pippin went on, less eagerly now, until they stood beside Frodo and Sam. Gandalf lifted his staff, and a pale light glittered on the tarnished helm and coat of mail that lay before them. The corpse lay face down on the dusty floor. It had been dreadfully mutilated by the dark creatures of Moria, and ill-used by time. Little of it remained whole, except for head and helm and ragged cloak, and one hand clutching an axe with a notched blade. Scattered Goblin-bones lay here and there around it, like drifts of brittle snow. Pippin felt them crunch under his feet, and shuddered.

"Did you...did you know him, Gimli?" Merry asked.

"It is hard to say," Gimli said. "But I do not recognize his axe or helm; I do not believe he is any kin to me, and for that much I am glad. But I am grieved to see him here, forgotten in the dark, unknown and unmourned, while time has crept on outside, sunrise and sunset, rain and cloud, sun and snow." His voice faltered and he bowed his head.

They stood in silent sympathy for a few moments, then Gandalf touched Gimli's shoulder. "We must go on, my friend."

"Aye," Gimli nodded. But he bent down, pulling up the rotten cloth to cover the corpse, and rested his fingers lightly on the shrouded bones. "Here you have done deeds worthy of song, Nameless One, though perhaps none were left to sing of you. Sleep well!"

They turned away, but Pippin stood still, wide-eyed, feeling chilled and a little sick. Forgotten in the dark. He was very nearly a grown hobbit, yes, but he suddenly felt horribly, horribly young, defenseless, and small. This could be Frodo, or Merry, or Sam, or himself, or any one of the Fellowship, these sad, dry bones, forgotten and lost, no more green grass and sunshine, or bright Yule days, no more pints or pipes or pretty lasses-

"Steady there, Mr. Pippin," Sam said. "Poor lad's got the shivers, and no wonder."

"He does look a bit pale," Frodo said. "Take his arm, Merry."

"Ah, but then I'd have three, wouldn't I, Pippin?" Merry said, and though Pippin could barely see him he could hear the smile in his voice. "And you would have only one-"

Pippin had gone cold to his very bones, but he felt Merry close on his right, and Frodo on his left, and their nearness warmed him and gave him comfort. He managed to dredge up a sickly grin.  "-Then we'd b-both be in a p-pickle.”

"There's a good lad," Frodo said, clapping him on the back and giving him a little push forward, away from fear. "Come along now."

Pippin reached forward blindly as they walked away, reaching for Merry's cloak, but found his hand instead and held on tight. He didn’t look back, but Frodo‘s hand was on his shoulder, and he knew that Sam was holding on to Frodo, and so they were all linked together that way, like a chain, and if the links held fast it would see them safely through all the dark places of the journey still to come.

**************

The end (of this, but more ficlets on the way.)

Author's Note: Another Story Challenge ficlet, written for Marigold and her 12th story challenge at her website. Gratitude also to Sulriel and the helpful folks at the Stories of Arda Yahoo Group for technical help.

4. In His Dream

In his dream, Merry sees Pippin standing on the walls of Minas Tirith, and his joy is so great that he does not ask himself how that could be. Pippin turns to look at him and smiles, and Merry runs to him and takes his hand. "Pippin, how wonderful to see you!"

Pippin only smiles again, rather sadly this time, and a shadow passes over his face. He looks down at their clasped hands, and Merry sees that his sword belt is empty. "Merry, dear old Merry. I've thought of you a great deal, since I left you here. Through all the marching and riding, I've wondered what you were doing, and how you were faring, and I missed you. I wished you were with me, but now I'm glad you were not. Mordor is a terrible place, so grey and dreary, and the ground is nothing but sour earth and hard stone. No birdsong, or sunlight, or hint of green." Pippin lifts his head, his gaze weary and old. "That's all I wanted: A bit of sunlight, and the feel of grass under my feet, and to see you again."

Merry realizes that Pippin's fingers are cold, and that in itself is wrong-Pippin's hands were always warm, unless he had been frolicking in the snow without his mitts, or was very ill. His mouth feels parched. "Pippin, don't talk like this."

"Ah, I'm frightening you," Pippin says sadly. He has the repentant look of someone who comes bearing bad news. "And I don't mean to, but there's no help for it. You must promise me that you will be very brave, Merry, in the days to come."

"I don't know what you're trying to say." But Merry is afraid he does know, and an awful, black grief is rising up inside him.

"Dear, dear Merry," Pippin says, low and sad, and his eyes are filled with a terrible, understanding sort of pity that makes Merry shiver. Holding both of Merry's hands, he leans forward and presses his cool lips to Merry's warm brow, and they burn his skin like a brand.

It is a kiss of farewell. Merry knows it in his heart, and he wants to cry out, but he can only whisper, "Don't go, Pippin. Don't go, don't..." And Pippin's hands are becoming lighter and paler, slipping from his grasp like melting snow. "Come back, Pippin!"

Merry was thrashing in his bed, bound up in the blankets. He felt a firm hand press him down, and a kind, womanly voice made soothing sounds. "Merry, Merry, it's all right. It's just a dream."

He gasped and opened his eyes, and Eowyn was bending over him. Her arm was still bound in a sling, and in the light of the lamp she had brought, there were tight lines of weariness and pain around her mouth. She heard his cries and left her own sickbed in the Houses of Healing to come to him. Merry instantly felt ashamed of himself: Crying out in his sleep like a child! "I'm so sorry, my Lady. It, it was just a nightmare. I'm sorry it woke you."

"I was already awake." Eowyn put her hand on his forehead. "You feel warm. You have a little fever, I think."

"It's just a bit close in here," Merry said. "My Lady, please, I'm fine and you're hardly well, please go back to your bed, and don't worry yourself about me." And he was blushing as he tried to disentangle himself from the bedclothes, because after all the days of riding toward death together, after all the quiet words of swords and fate, he was at last seeing Eowyn not as a fellow-soldier but as a young woman. Her hair was unbound over her shoulders like a bright veil, and he could see her bare, white feet peeking out from under the hem of her wrap. A proper gentlehobbit did not appear before a well-bred Lady in nothing but his nightshirt. But Eowyn, without any of the embarrassment a well-bred Lady should show, casually yanked the blanket off and shook it out over him, tucking it around him as if she were his mother.

"Thank you," Merry muttered. "You are very kind."

"And you are very courteous," Eowyn said, with the hint of a smile, and the way she said it sounded so similar to Pippin's usual brand of cheekiness that it gave Merry a start. "Even while in your nightshirt."

Merry couldn't help but grin, though his ears were flaming red. "Thank you again."

"You are very welcome." She turned to go, but her face went pale and she swayed on her feet. "May I sit down for a moment?"

Merry was alarmed. "Gracious! I think you should lie down-go ahead, I don't need much room." It wasn't exactly proper for a well bred Lady to recline on a young hobbit's bed in the middle of the night either, but oh, propriety be hanged for once. Better for her to lie down than to collapse in a heap on the floor. But somewhere in the back of his thoughts he could hear Pippin laughing fit to burst: Hah! Try explaining this to the maids of the House in the morning.

"You keep a civil tongue in your head, Peregrin Took," Merry whispered. Eowyn frowned and looked at him strangely. Merry laughed and fell heavily back onto his pillow. "You know, perhaps I am a bit fevered."

"Do rest yourself," Eowyn said. "It seems neither of us are as well as we might pretend to be."

Merry was glad to do as ordered. The coarse pillow felt delightfully cool against his flushed face. Eowyn seemed relaxed and breathed deeply and evenly beside him. He looked at her profile in the dim lamplight and decided that she was really quite attractive after all for one of the Big Folk, though her eyes were always too sad, and she was, of course, ridiculously tall and not as pleasingly pink and plump as a proper hobbit-lass would be.

She had closed her eyes and gone quiet for so long that Merry supposed she had fallen asleep, but then she spoke. "What did you dream of, Merry?"

"It was nothing," Merry lied quickly. He wasn't sure he wanted to examine the contents of his nightmare too closely, as if drawing it out into the light would be tempting fate. "I scarcely remember it now."

"But I heard you call out the name of your kinsman. Was it very bad?"

Merry could admit to that much. "Yes," he said thickly, embarrassed to feel himself close to tears, grown hobbit and soldier of the Mark that he was. "It was terrible."

"Poor Merry!" Eowyn said. "It is a bitter thing to be always left behind." Her voice dropped to a whisper, and her gaze went sad and far away. "He is always in my thoughts, and I, too, am troubled by unhappy dreams."

Merry knew it wasn't just Eomer she was speaking of. He had seen how she looked at Aragorn. She had yearned toward him, as a prisoner in a dark cell might yearn toward the hidden sun that he cannot see, but that he feels and longs for in his heart. Merry ached with pity, and wished very much that he could tell Eowyn of some wonderful Shire-cure for unrequited affection, but he had no cure to give. Hobbit-hearts were as easily broken as those of Men, but they were not prone to melancholy. Perhaps if she spoke to the Warden of the House he could help her somehow, give her some meaningful work to do. Perhaps busy hands could help heal a wounded heart.

"Eowyn?" Merry said quietly, but now she truly was asleep. He gave her a poke with one finger, (gently! She was a Lady, after all, not a hobbit cousin to be cheerfully mauled into wakefullness.) She murmured and rolled over to face him, tucking her folded hands under her pale cheek, but she did not wake. Merry sighed. "My dear Eowyn, this lying abed is no good for either of us. I'm sure there is some sort of duty I should take up while we wait for-" (Here Merry shivered, feeling again the weight of dream-Pippin's sorrowful gaze, the press of his familiar and beloved hand, so terribly cold.) "-For whatever is coming, even if I must perform my tasks with only one good arm. And you should do the same." He whispered in her ear. "I think you should talk with the Warden in the morning. Don't you think that's a good idea, Eowyn?"

Eowyn's eyes were closed, but she nodded, and a little smile touched the corners of her mouth, as if she heard some other well-loved voice speaking to her out of the past. Merry was glad to see her smile, even if only in her dreams, and he pressed a gentle kiss to her white forehead. Then he sat up, pushed aside the blanket and slid out of bed.

There was a chair against the wall under the window, and Merry climbed up on the seat, kneeling there with his elbows on the deep stone windowsill. Down below the city lay in shadow, dark as a pool of ink, and the night breeze brought to him the scent of cold stone, damp earth, and the bitter reek of smoke. But the wind was still out of the west, and the gloom of Mordor had thinned for a time. If he strained his eyes, Merry fancied that he could just make out a thin slice of new moon, no bigger than a fingernail paring, and the faintest twinkle of half-hidden stars. He wondered how far Pippin's company had got in the time since they had marched away, and hoped with all of his heart that Pippin still slept safely and warmly under those stars, without worry or fear, and that all of his dreams were kindly dreams of green hills, and home, and peace.

***********

The end

(But more ficlets on the way.)

 5. Tookish Luck

What could Merry see and hear of Pippin running off to drop his brooch, and of the orcs reactions and retribution?

Night had fallen. Now Pippin was far behind with his guard of three Orcs, and a dozen or so more were between them. Merry wanted very badly to see how Pippin was faring, and had tried once or twice to slow a bit and look over his shoulder as he ran, but each attempt had been met with a brutal cuff or kick, or flick of the whip. Even when he and Pippin had briefly been side by side they had been forbidden to talk, and so he had not even heard Pippin squeak since they had descended to the plain, only snarls and curses, the rapid, tireless thud of iron-shod feet and the pounding of his own heartbeat in his ears. A cold voice inside him was whispering that perhaps he hadn't heard Pippin because he hadn't been able to keep up, and the Orcs had tired of dragging him and clubbed him into the earth for sport while Merry had been lost in a haze of his own misery. After all, it was really only necessary that one small prisoner be brought alive to Isengard, wasn't it? One small prisoner, grieving and broken, to tell all that he knew and bring the world to ruin.

"No," Merry croaked. Dread rose up to choke him and he stumbled blindly, heedless of the Orcs around him, raising his bound hands in a desperate attempt to turn back. He had to see. "Pip-"

"No talking!" There was the long hiss of the lash descending and the crack as it struck, once, and again for good measure. Merry cried out and fell on his knees, and a clawed hand grabbed his hair and dragged him upright again. "Eyes front!"

"Stop it!" shouted a small voice, breathless and pained, but fearless for Merry's sake. "Leave him alone!"

Good lad, Pippin! Merry thought, torn between joy that Pippin was still on his feet and in one piece, pride at his courage, and fear of what his protest might cost him. Whistle and crack and a muffled cry of pain, and Merry winced with tears in his eyes, as if each blow had fallen on his own shoulders, knowing that Pippin had got a taste of the whip. It was some cold comfort to him that Pippin's portion, at least, had been smaller than his own.

The butt-end of the whip handle thumped him sharply and they were off again, Merry trying to keep up with the greater strides of his captors. His parched throat burned still with the oily taste of Orc-draught, but the heat of it was fading and he felt cold and dizzy, and his head throbbed. He fell into a dazed, half-sleep as he ran, into a dreadful dream of pursuit through a dark wood, where the very trees themselves were in motion all around him. He called for Frodo, and Sam, and especially Pippin, but cruel echoes made a mockery of his frightened cries, and a cold wind carried his small hobbit's voice away into nothing.

Merry was brought back to wakefulness by the feel of soft, sodden ground that squelched under his bruised feet. He had no idea how far they had come, but from what he could see they had gone down into a shallow bowl of land, filled with cool mist. The moon was out, a bright, thin crescent of silver over the blue-shadowed plains of Rohan, but Merry, despairing and sick at heart, had no eyes for the beauty of it. He only wondered wearily if it was rising or setting, and what time it was in civilized places.

The moonlight and open space seemed to disturb the Orcs around him, and they slowed nearly to a halt, muttering uneasily among themselves. Their attention was away from Merry, and he took the opportunity to take a good, long look back without fear of reprisal. To his great relief he caught a glimpse of Pippin at last, his small, white face nearly hidden among the darker, shadowy figures of the Orcs. He looked grubby and weary and the worse for wear, but seemingly unharmed.

Pippin saw Merry, too, and his face brightened. Hullo, Merry.

From the rear of the group, Merry heard one of the big Orcs (Ugluk, he thought it was,) bark an order. Pippin's gaze slid away from Merry, toward the Orcs around him, and he tensed, digging his toes into the earth.

Merry's heart jumped into his throat. He knew that look, that pose, having seen it more than once in happier times, under kinder circumstances: It meant flight. Oh, Pippin, no, no, what are you playing at? They'll kill you!

Many times over the years Pippin had looked into Merry's eyes and known what he was thinking without his saying a word, but he was not looking at him now. Merry held his breath as he saw Pippin dash away from the reaching arm of the nearest guard, landing on his stomach on the wet ground. Then he gathered his legs under him and jumped to his feet (as well as any tired hobbit with bound hands could jump,) and ran. The Orcs were taken by surprise, but not for long, and they were after him in an instant, baying and snarling like a pack of hounds after the hare.

Merry's heart pounded till he thought it would burst, and the Orcs were milling around in front of him again, and he couldn't see, he couldn't see, and he wasn't sure he wanted to see anything anymore anyway, because Pippin's mad attempt to escape (and that had to be what it was,) was surely going to get him torn to pieces before his eyes, and oh, oh how would he ever tell Frodo?

Hard hands pushed him down, suddenly, a sour stench was in his nostrils and something painfully heavy landed on his bruised back, crushing him to the ground: Perhaps fearful of the potential escape of their remaining prisoner, one of the Northern Orcs had sat on him.

Good thing it's one of the little ones, Merry thought, feeling the crazed urge to laugh, and he might have laughed if he had had enough breath left to do so, and if the situation hadn't been so terribly grim, and his terror for Pippin so overwhelming. One of those big, beastly-looking fellows would have squashed me like a rotten gourd!

Breathless and half-smothered as he was under the weight of the Orc, Merry could still hear, dim and far away, the sound of the whip as it rose and fell. He shivered in misery, face pressed against the earth. Even here, far from the home he reckoned he would never see again, the earth smelled sweet, and the crushed grass was soft and green under his cheek. Poor Pippin!

Sight and sound faded away from Merry for a while, he wasn't sure for how long. He faintly felt the burden on his back lift away, but remained still until he was stirred by the heavy thud of something landing on the ground beside him. It was Pippin, his face streaked with sweat and tears, but alight with hope. Merry thought he must be dreaming again, but for the briefest instant Pippin's familiar hand, warm and real and alive, clasped his own.

Merry choked a little with relief, but no more tears would come to his dry and stinging eyes. They would no doubt perish on this journey, or shortly after, and he felt horribly sorry that his younger cousin would come to such a cruel end, but at least now they might perish together. He squeezed Pippin's fingers. Fool of a Took again.

Tookish luck. Pippin smiled. Hang on, Merry!

And they were wrenched apart. Merry was driven to his feet with kicks and savage oaths, orders were shouted, and the dreadful race began again. The Orcs moved forward, driving their exhausted prisoners toward torment at Isengard.

It was only much, much later that Merry truly understood what Pippin's look and touch had meant and he felt a spark of real hope return, like a candle flame in the dark, when he realized that Pippin's brooch had been missing.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Tbc, sort of...

(That is, more short fics to be posted soon, including the companion piece to this one, also written for the challenge.)

5. And Sleep To Meet

"How long?" Pippin asked.

He stood in the doorway, looking out into the garden. It was a high, windswept thing, Merry's garden, like all gardens in Minas Tirith, but over the years he and Pippin had filled it, little by little, with the flowers and sweet herbs and familiar trees of the distant Shire. Merry was not so far off dozing in the shade, propped up on cushions to keep his old bones off the hard ground. Bright flecks of golden Autumn sun dappled his white hair, but he had a blanket tucked up to his chin. He was always cold, lately.

"Till springtime, perhaps," Aragorn answered. "Certainly no longer."

"As soon as that!" Pippin murmured. "Well, I suppose that isn't so bad, leaving in spring, when all the world is green and waking up. To close one's eyes on a blue sky and a bright day."

Pippin sighed, as if he could already feel the kindly warmth of that future sun, but Aragorn sank into a chair, shoulders rounded in defeat. It was bitter to know that even his great skill in healing could not mend all ills, or buy one more season of time for the ones he loved best. "It will be hard news to hear, even from the lips of a dear friend-"

"That's why we're not going to tell him," Pippin said firmly, his fingers tightening on the handle of his cane. Then his face softened and he came to Aragorn and put his hand on his shoulder. "He hasn't said anything, but he can tell that I haven't been quite myself lately, and he has been so terribly worried, you see, that I might go first and leave him. He is coming to the end of his road, Aragorn. Let him go to his own rest now when it comes, in peace, thinking that I have years and years yet to go, to feast and be glad, and to sit by the fire with my pipe."

"If that is your wish," Aragorn said.

"It is," Pippin said. He paused as his sensitive hobbit ears caught the distant sound of Afternoon bells: Four of the clock, or thereabouts. "And now I believe the Maids will be bringing in the trays soon; it is almost time for our Tea, and yours as well. I had best go rouse Merry, so he doesn't doze off again in the midst of it, nose-first in the jam." He was smiling, his bright eyes like two chips of green glass caught in nets of wrinkles, and Aragorn couldn't help but smile in return, though his heart was heavy. "You have been a great king, my Lord, and a good friend. You have done so much for us Shirefolk, more than we can ever repay. Please don't feel sad for us. We've so been blessed, Merry and I, with home, and happiness, and kind friends, and good work. It's been a good life."

Aragorn knelt and embraced him. Tears stood in his eyes, and he could barely speak. "It is I who owe, my friend."

"There, there, don't take on so." Pippin put his sharp old chin on Aragorn's shoulder, and patted his Lord's broad back, as if he were the elder cousin comforting a grieving younger hobbit. "It's all right, it's all right. Everything ends, you know. It's a comfort to me, really, to know that Merry and I won't be parted for long."

~~~~~

Pippin walked over the grass to where Merry was sleeping and looked down at him fondly. Merry's hands were folded over his blanket-covered chest. He looked very quiet and content, and a little smile was hovering at the corners of his mouth. Pippin wondered what Merry was dreaming of.

Merry opened one eye. "Hullo, Pippin. Is it time for our Tea?"

"Nearly," Pippin said. He slowly lowered himself to the ground and leaned his back against the tree. "How did you know?"

"I heard the bells," Merry yawned. "Brandybucks are famous for their excellent hearing, you know."

"And their incredible boasting," Pippin chuckled.

"No, truly," Merry said sincerely. "Why, when we were among the Orcs all those years ago, I could hear everything that was happening to you, even when I couldn't see you. When you ran off to drop your brooch, my head was all muddled: I thought you had gone mad and were trying to escape, and the Orcs would tear you to bits. I could hear the whip, every sound you made, every blow." He gave a little shudder. "I don't know which was worse, the fear that you would fail and be killed, or that you might succeed and leave me. I knew we were both bound for a very bad end, and my only hope was that we might come to an end together. Does that sound terrible?"

"Perfectly dreadful," Pippin said, pretending to be horrified. "As if I would have left you to your fate like that, wounded as you were! Your mother would have torn out my inwards for it. Safer to take my chances with the Orcs."

"Must you jest about everything, you cheeky Took?" Merry said. "I'm quite in earnest here."

"So am I, " Pippin said, suddenly turning serious. He touched Merry's hand. "I would never have left you like that, Merry. Never."

Merry was deeply moved. "Ah, I know. I know you would have tried to stay with me to whatever end-"

"-But everything turned out all right after all, so I don't know why we're talking like this. It was all so long ago." Pippin yawned hugely. "Gracious! Now you've gone and made me sleepy, too."

"Shall we get up?" Merry suggested.

"I don't think that I can. Get up, that is, now that I'm down here," Pippin sighed. "Ah well. It's a warm day, anyway, and the grass is soft. Let's just stay here, for a while."

"I suppose the Maids will fetch us," Merry agreed. His chin dropped to his breast and his eyes closed.

Pippin watched Merry begin to snore softly. He wasn't really as tired as he had let on, and he had no desire to sleep, but he was quite warm and comfortable. He supposed if the Maids were a bit late with their Tea, he probably would put his head on Merry's shoulder and end up nodding off in spite of himself, following on Merry's heels again, as he had so often all down through the days of his long, long life. Our evening rest and sleep to meet, Pippin thought, and smiled.

(More ficlets to follow...)

For Widfara

6. Tomorrow

He has passed away at last, the last mortal in Tol Eressea, my dearest friend, my brother in every way that mattered, in every way but blood. I watched him breathe his last, slower and slower each one, until at last there was no breath at all. He was very, very old for his kind, and tired, and his beard lay on his breast like a blanket of snow. Mithrandir is here, and the room is filled with Elves, both great and lowly, but it feels empty now to me. Empty and cold. I touch his hand and feel the hollowness of a mortal husk whose fea has fled. He has left me, but I cannot begrudge him his rest.

"So passes Gimli, son of Gloin," a voice murmurs. More voices raise in lament, but silence fills me. Tomorrow the sun will rise, I will walk on the white sand as I shall for countless ages to come, and the cold sea will foam over my feet. How shall I feel it for the greater, colder pain under my heart? Tomorrow Elbereth's countless stars will shine bright above me. How shall I see them for the tears in my eyes?

*****

Tbc...

7. Hope and Memory

"I'm here, Pippin," Merry said. "Aragorn summoned me, and I came as quickly as I could."

He wondered if Pippin could hear him. He looked very small, little and broken, and Merry's heart ached with a pity that was yet too deep for tears. Quietly he knelt next to the cot, and very gently lifted Pippin's shattered right hand-his sword hand, the hand that had felled a troll ten times his size-and kissed the chilled and blackened fingers. How badly is he hurt? he had asked upon his arrival in Ithilien, and Gimli had looked away and said, He is not in any pain, an answer that was not an answer at all.

Pippin opened his eyes. The corners of his mouth curled up, and Merry smiled in return, though he felt as if a knife were twisting under his heart. "Well, there you are at last." He tried to laugh a little. "I've been waiting for hours to tell you 'good morning', and now it's afternoon."

Pippin was far too weak to laugh. He had been fevered, and he had bled, and though the bedding had been changed again and again, the stains remained. Even now he was bleeding inside, a wound that could not be healed. He was slipping away, inch by inch, moment by moment, and neither Merry's great love, nor hope, nor Aragorn's skilled hands, could hold him.

Pippin’s pale lips parted and his voice emerged as a mere whisper of sound: Frodo?

"He is well and safe," Merry lied. The words stuck in his throat. No one knew what terrible end Frodo had come to, but Sam was in a tent not so far away, a thin and battered shadow of the hobbit Merry had known in happier days. Livid marks of clutching fingers marked his throat, and he sat like a ghost, empty-eyed, and never made a sound. "He and Sam are resting, as you should be if you are to get better."

Tired, Merry. Pippin closed his eyes wearily, and then opened them again. Home now?

"Yes," Merry choked, and inside him something was tearing and twisting, breaking into jagged shards, and he thought he would die from the pain of it. Surely no one could hurt this badly and live. "You may go home now. Fly away home, Pippin. Sam and I, we'll be along as soon as we can."

Merry began to sing softly and brokenly, a simple Shire-song of green hills and warm, tilled earth, and the bees in the heather, and little rivers sparkling in the sun. Pippin's eyes opened wide, wide as if he could truly see the hills of home, and he made a small, glad sound in his throat, and then he sighed.

Merry's voice hitched and stopped. There was a deep stillness now in the tent, and he did not need to look up to know that kindly death had taken Pippin away, far from grief and pain, to some safe, green place where he could not follow.

Merry rose up unsteadily and leaned over the cot, reaching out a trembling hand to close his eyes. Pippin seemed almost to be smiling in his deep sleep, and for a long while Merry looked at him. For all the long days of his life, he would keep that last, bittersweet image of Pippin's beloved face in memory: Beautiful he seemed then in the hour of his passing, and full of peace, a youth beyond the reach of time.

(More stories to come...)

Written for Embitca's 100 Ways to Kill Your Lover Challenge, where the challenge was to do in your favorite characters. And yes, I do hate myself a little for this.

9. Another Shortcut

The sun was shining through the tall window, bright and hot, right on the chair where Pippin was perched, his feet dangling. He was getting very warm under the black wool of his uniform, and the fine silver embroidery on his surcoat was beginning to chafe. He very much wanted to swing his legs, or hum, or run a grubby finger around his collar where the sweat was gathering, but that would betray his nervousness, and he must hold firm. Frodo, Merry, and Sam were depending on him. He studied the auburn curls on his feet, now caked with mud, and wiggled his long toes, pretending great interest. He just had to keep a grip on himself, that was all. After all, Old Strider-that is, his King Elessar, was a busy man, he couldn't possibly stare holes in him forever.

Aragorn drummed his fingers on the table, quite prepared to stare holes in the young hobbit forever if need be. His other hand toyed idly with the meager contents of the small basket before him, then he lifted one perfect specimen to his nose and breathed deep. A fine scent it was, earthy and strong, warm and sweet and smelling of the dim, wooded glades where it grew, truly a gift of Yavanna. He placed it gently back into the basket, then steepled his fingers under his chin. "You are quite sure there are no more?"

His gaze grew even more piercing, if that was possible. Pippin swallowed with an audible gulp. Steady, steady, old lad.

"No, none at all, I'm afraid," he said lightly, his eyes wide and innocent. "A pity really, but the land around Minas Tirith just isn't the proper kind of country for them, I suppose. Too dry, too rocky, not enough trees. Too dry." He realized he was beginning to ramble and cut himself off. There was a rather uncomfortable pause, then Pippin cleared his throat. "Would there be anything else, my Lord?"

Aragorn frowned so darkly that Pippin squeaked inwardly, but then he relaxed and gave a resigned sigh. Given his long acquaintance with hobbits, he should have realized that nothing on earth, not great friendship or loyalty, not oath of fealty nor kingly scowl, would do him much good where this particular subject was concerned. "No, no. You are free for the day, my friend."

Pippin jumped off the chair and made a bow. Aragorn gave a little nod of the head in return, and Pippin walked away, outwardly calm but with his knees secretly a-tremble. He expected any minute to be recalled, so upon reaching the threshold he fairly leaped through the doorway.

Merry, Frodo, and Sam were there to catch him in their arms. He staggered a bit as he wiped the sweat from his brow. Frodo put an arm around his shoulders to hold him up. "There, there, cousin. It's all over now."

"Poor old fellow," Merry said, fanning him with the hem of his surcoat. "Take a moment to catch your breath."

"My, but you were in there a long time," Sam said, patting his hand sympathetically. "Did he question you cruel hard, Mr. Pippin?"

"Yes, he did," Pippin said. "I knew he reckoned me to be the weak link in our chain, but I didn't crack, no matter how he stared. He looked as though he wanted to eat me. Stars above, I feel as if I've been whipped!" He let out his breath in a big gust. "I do feel a bit bad about deceiving him-he spent so many years guarding the Shire, he must be very nearly half a hobbit, you know."

"But it had to be done, my lad, and our secret is safe," Frodo said. "That's what matters."

There was much sage nodding at this pronouncement. A great patch of mushrooms was a thing to be cherished, more precious than gold (gold being highly inedible,) and the location was never revealed except to those nearest and dearest to the finder. And sometimes not even then, unless your nearest and dearest happened to be with you when you stumbled across your treasure and couldn't be fought off.

"You’re a brave lad." Merry clapped Pippin on the shoulder. "A true Knight of the Citadel and a gentlehobbit. Now, let's hurry and go get the rest of them!"

Frodo and Sam passed around the sacks they had brought, a proud and hungry gleam in their eyes, and the four conspirators crept away together toward the motherlode.

(more ficlets to come...)

Hopefully this takes the edge off the angstfest that was the previous chapter of this collection. Written for Marigold's 15th Story Challenge, and inspired by hunger for the humble and delicious Morel mushroom, a gift of Yavanna indeed.

9. April 6th, 1420

It is the first real day of Spring, warm and sunny, the early flowers bright and blooming, the birds busy and cheerful. As I sit at my writing desk, Sam comes to me-his Mallorn has bloomed in the Party Field. "Look, Master Frodo! It's flowered at last!"

I lay down my quill and he tips a fall of golden blossoms into my cupped hands. "An't they lovely, sir?" Sam says in awe. "And the smell of them! That's 'Lorien all over. I thought you might want them here on your desk. Doesn't it lift your heart somehow, sir?"

Sam, your dear face is so hopeful, so filled with sorrow and love. I cannot tell you how the chill of winter lingers within me. I am hollow as an old reed, I feel as if the wind could blow me away, and I think now that all your longing, all your kindness, cannot heal me and make me whole.

"They're beautiful," I say, and how it gladdens me to see you smile at my pretense of delight. I lift the sweet petals to breathe in their scent: Clean and sharp, like the smell of salt or tears, like the sea.

(tbc...)

 Originally written for Marigold's 16th (!) Story Challenge at her website, where the challenge this time was to write a story with a weather-related starter sentence provided by Marigold. The first line here was my starter, and this double-drabble was the bit of angst it inspired.

For Jeodo Brandybuck

10. Someday

Eternal summer lies sweetly over Elvenhome, but even there the day, no matter how joyful, must draw to a close. The blue twilight has fallen and two friends, having laughed and talked and wept over the joys and sorrows of sixty years apart, now sit in chairs before the fire. At Frodo's feet is a chest filled with all the affection and longing of a lifetime: Letters, faded autumn leaves, ribbons, locks of hair, Shire-earth brown and darkest gold.

Frodo holds a page in his hands and murmurs words Sam had written long ago, on the other side of the sea. "And someday, Master dear, if what I hope comes true, I'll bring all these birthday greetings to you..." Frodo can scarcely speak. This gift of kindly memory Sam has brought to him is more precious than jewels.

"Someday," Sam whispers, his face filled with growing wonder and joy, like one waking at last to find his most impossible dream come true. "Why, this is it, isn't it, Master Frodo? This is our Someday."

"It is indeed, my dear Sam," Frodo says, taking his hand, and they sit then in a deep and loving silence that needs no more words.

the end

(of this one, but more ficlets on the way...)

11. Thranduil's Lady

She sat on a low stool under the ancient trees, and the red leaves fell in her hair. The Elven-king knelt at her feet and kissed the hem of her garment. "Lady, do you not love me?"

She looked into his eyes. "More than my life."

"Then stay," he begged, humbling himself before another for the first, and last, time in all his long life. "There can still be light and joy in this world for us."

She turned away. "Not for me. Everywhere I look I see some place where a well-loved face should be, but is no more, and even in my dreams I hear their cries. I am weary and sick of the Shadow that devours our Greenwood. Will you not let me go to the Havens in peace?"

Thranduil said bitterly, "So be it. Depart then, but without my blessing, and without what you most value: Our son. I will not have all my treasures slip from my hands."

"And though it grieves me," she said, looking on him with pity, so proud, so cold, so wounded by time. "I leave him behind, for I foresee that he has much yet to do in Middle earth."

There was no more to say. Thranduil's Lady hummed a sad, wordless song as they sat together. The Elven-king heard in it the sighing of waves on a white shore, and gulls calling across a grey sky, and he wondered if it was his doom then, to part with all that he loved.

*********

The end

(but more ficlets to come...)

12. Fallen

Loudly the horn-call echoed in the hills, heard even above the voice of Rauros, but help arrived too late. In a little glade he found the tall warrior, his back against a tree, pierced with many arrows. There was time enough for a few broken words of comfort, time enough to put his bloodied sword into his hand, and then he breathed no more.

Legolas and Gimli found them there, one standing bent with sorrow, one prostrate on the ground. Gimli stood silent and choked with grief, but Legolas cried aloud:

"Estel! Estel! What hope have we now without you?"

********

Originally written for a quick-drabble challenge on TheOneRing.net.

 *Hides from outraged Aragorn fans* Boromir fans can share the wrath by reading the (slightly darker) expanded double-drabble version of Fallen on my stories page at Ff.net.  

13. Beyond the World

Another loss in this city of stone, one of many, but each loss remains in memory: Time does not heal all wounds. This the Elves know well. My brother Elessar has departed and I sit with his queen in the Courtyard of the White Tree. The waters of the fountain play and the White Tree blooms, rejoicing in the coming of spring, but there will never be another springtime for Undomiel. All the winters of her life have fallen upon her at last, as bitter snow upon a hill once green and fair, and her eyes are haunted and old, dark with grief. I have no words of comfort for her, so I hold her hand, and together we are silent. As we watch, a curled leaf falls from the tree and floats upon the water, a small white ship filled with reflected sunlight.

"Home, Legolas," she sighs. My sorrow is such that I cannot speak. Undomiel, sister of my heart! I know it is not Rivendell, nor even Lothlorien that you sigh for, but that far place beyond the world where all mortal things must go, where you fear to tread, where your love stands in the light, waiting.

*******

tbc....

14. Before First Breakfast

Merry was so deeply asleep that he didn't even hear the door creak, or the soft pitter-pat of stealthy hobbit-feet. The room was filled with the grey twilight of very early morning, and even if he had been awake, he might not have seen the small figure pull itself up on the bed.

Little Pippin gazed at his big cousin fondly and tugged on the quilt. "Merry, 'wake."

Merry snored. Like most healthy hobbit-children, his great concern, waking and sleeping, was finding the next meal. Right then he was in the middle of a lovely dream, where every room in Brandy Hall had turned into a pantry, full of rashers of bacon, nicely browned, and bowls of custard as big as washtubs.

Pippin pulled on the quilt again, but Merry only clutched it tighter (while his dream-self was busy pulling the cloth off an enormous wheel of Marish cheese,) and smacked his lips. Why did big hobbits sleep so much? Pippin thought, then giggled. He carefully inserted two pudgy fingers into his beloved cousin's nostrils, and with the other hand he carefully pinched Merry's lips shut.

The effects were startling and spectacular. Merry flew up with a frightened snort, bedclothes flapping, then fell back against the pillows, his mind filled with fading, nightmare images of attacking foodstuffs. "Oh, Pippin, it's you."

"Merry! Merry!" Pippin cried, bouncing on the bed. "Merry 'wake! Tory, Merry?"

Merry yawned, and squinted at the mantel clock across the room. "No story, Pippin, it's too early."

"Tory!" Pippin insisted, his rosebud mouth beginning to quirk. Merry knew that continued refusal would lead to a wail that would wake every hobbit in Brandy Hall, or at the very least, baby tears that would wring his heart with guilt. Merry really was very fond of his little Took cousin, even if he did often interrupt perfectly good dreams in the wee hours of the morning, and he would never hurt his tender feelings if he could help it.

Merry lifted the quilt. "Oh, very well, but get in under the covers." If he got Pippin warm and settled, perhaps they could both get more sleep before first breakfast.

Pippin stood up, wobbling a bit on the soft surface of the mattress, then staggered up to the headboard of the bed and plopped his nappy-covered bottom down on the pillow. He stuck his thumb in his mouth, then scooted down until he was snug against Merry's side. Merry sucked in his breath-Pippin's feet were, as always, colder than a Goblin's hindquarters-and pulled the coverlet up and tucked it firmly around him, with an extra poke or two in the ribs to make him giggle. "There you go, nice and warm. Now, what shall I tell you?"

Pippin's thumb came out of his mouth with a wet-sounding pop. "Tory?"

"Yes, yes, but which one?" Merry searched his mind for something terribly dull that might quickly bore a little hobbit into a stupor, but since most of the stories that lingered in his memory had come from Cousin Bilbo, or Frodo, and involved exciting subjects like dragons and treasure, he was at a loss. "Well, once upon a time-"

"Ponna time," Pippin whispered, and snuggled close. Even a little hobbit knew good stories started with those words.

"Once upon a time," Merry began. "There was a hobbit-lad who lived in a great Hall, with his Mam and Dad, and Grandad Rory, and lots and lots of other relatives. His Mam was very pretty and kind, and his Dad and Grandad were very, very wise and important hobbits, so whenever there was trouble or something needed to be done, all the other hobbits in the Hall looked at them, because they always knew what to do. He was a lucky hobbit-lad, and he had his own room, and plenty of other lads to play with-and lasses, too, sometimes, even if they do act silly-and the food was very good. Even though he hadn't any brothers or sisters, he still felt lucky, because he had an older cousin who was his good friend, his best friend. His best friend had no Mam and Dad, so he lived in the lucky lad's room, and they were like brothers then, and had two beds side by side. And sometimes, when it was raining, or very cold, the lucky lad's best friend would let him crawl into his bed, and he would tell him the most wonderful stories, and they both lived very happily that way for a long time."

Merry thought about stopping right there, but Pippin's eyes, wide and expectant, were fixed intently on his face. "But one day, the Very Old Cousin came to visit. He was a nice old fellow, and he knew a lot of good stories, and riddles too, and he always had sweets, and often he would bring the lucky lad and his cousin presents, even if it wasn't his birthday. He liked the lucky lad's cousin an especial lot. One day he asked him, would you like to come live with me in my great, big smial far away, and be my boy? You shall have your own room, and brand new things that will belong to just you, and no one will ever call you Orphan anymore. And the lucky lad's best friend said, yes."

Here Merry went quiet. Pippin's small face puckered with concern, and he reached out to touch his cheek. "Merry cry?"

"I'm not," Merry said, wiping his nose on the sleeve of his nightshirt. "Only babies and lasses cry." He took a breath. "At any rate, Frodo-that is, his older cousin, put all his books and clothes in a trunk and kissed the lucky lad goodbye, even though he was a grown hobbit all of seven years old, and he went away. He wrote lots of letters to the lucky lad, but it wasn't really the same, not having him there, and he missed him. But..."

Pippin held his breath, but then Merry smiled, and to Pippin it was like the sun coming out. "But the lucky lad knew that it made his best friend very happy to be someone's boy again, and that made him feel a little better. And before too long the lucky lad got a new lad-cousin, and when he got old enough he would teach him riddles, and how to swim, and ride a pony, and catch a fish, and they would go for long walks and visits together. The lucky lad, and his best friend, and the little lad-cousin would have great adventures and never be parted from each other ever anymore. The end."

Pippin laughed and clapped his hands. "Again!"

Merry groaned and buried his face in the pillow. "Not again. Hush."

"No!" Pippin cried, arching his back like a fish and kicking his feet to toss the blanket aside, but Merry had already closed his eyes. His arm was stretched over Pippin's chest, too heavy to throw off, so Pippin at last sighed and lay still. He put his thumb back in his mouth for comfort and twined his fingers in Merry's mess of brown curls. He lay quietly for a long time, listening to the steady whisper and rush of Merry's breathing, until drowsiness crept up around him like a warm tide and carried him off to sleep.

********

the end

(of this, but more to come...)

15. For Marigold, On Her Birthday

Little Pippin kicked his feet as he sat on the tall stool. On the writing-desk before him was a rather battered and wrinkled piece of parchment. There was just as much ink on Pippin's cuffs, his fingers, and the end of his nose as there was on the page. It had been a much nicer looking piece of paper when he had taken it from Uncle Saradoc's desk, and his shirt had been considerably cleaner, too, but it wasn't his fault that the wretched pen wouldn't behave. Writing was harder than it looked. Pippin pursed his lips, gripped his pen, and went back to his work.

"What are you up to?"

Pippin jumped, turning his attempt at the letter 'M' into an illegible smudge. "Merry! You scared me!"

"Sorry, Pip," Merry said. He was munching a piece of toast and leaned in for a look. "What are you writing?"

"Do stop blowing crumbs on it," Pippin said. "Sending birthday greetings to Marigold."

"Really?" Merry said with interest. He popped the last bit of toast in his mouth, brushed the crumbs from his chin, and pulled up a chair. "How far have you got?"

Pippin sighed. "Not very far. I'm not very good at this."

"Now, now, it's not so bad," Merry said. "Just a bit messy, and it's the thought that counts. There are two p's in 'happy', by the way."

"Oh, bother," Pippin said. He dipped the ink pen, wiped the nib on the inkwell, and drew a careful line through the misspelled words. He wrote for a minute or two more, then breathed on the paper to dry it. He held the page up for Merry's inspection. "There. How does that look?"

"Dearest Marigold," Merry read. "Happiest of happy birthdays to you. We are very very fond of you and wish you many many many even happier returns of the day and hope you find lots and lots of lovely sticks." Merry frowned and scratched his head. "Sticks? Now, Pippin, why in creation would she want sticks? You had better leave that off."

Pippin shrugged. "Frodo said she liked sticks."

Well, perhaps she was into some sort of craft, woodworking or something. "Then it's lovely, Pip. Now hurry and sign it and get it in the post, and we'll go fishing."

Pippin whooped and made a hasty jab at the inkwell with his pen. In his sudden excitement he clipped the bottle and sent it rolling. Merry caught it before it fell off the edge, but the desk was awash with ink, and the birthday greeting was obliterated. There was a mad scramble to sop up the mess as best they could with any bit of crumpled paper they could find, and when they finished they stood there, panting.

Pippin took a deep, hitching breath and leaned against Merry's hip. Merry put his arm around him, leaving a black handprint on the back of his shirt. "There, there, it's all right, Pip-here now, don't rub ink in your eye, use my handkerchief. There we go."

"Well," Pippin sighed. "Maybe she'd rather have flowers."

*******

the end

(but more on the way, of course...)

As is rather obvious, just a little bit of birthday fluff for Marigold:o)

16. Rosie's Gift

Sometimes I think if I see another soiled nappy or mess of spilled pap, I'll chuck the lot. Rose Gamgee, you were a fool to wed, says I to myself. I might have stayed a tidy old maid, keeping house for Dad.

But then I remember Sam touching my face in the dark and breathing Rose, my Rose, against my cheek. I remember the wonder of a little life fluttering under my heart, like a bird waiting to fly free.

I'm no foolish girl with naught in her head but romance. I could keep the babes from coming, Mam showed me the herbs to take and the moon-times to take them in. But when I see my Sam at dusk, a book across his lap and our little children gathered round his knees, their dear faces turned up like flowers seeking the sun, I feel such joy.

Master Frodo broke my Sam's heart when he left us. P'raps it'll never be mended, not in this world, not by me, but I'll do what I can. This is my gift to you, my Sam: Love to heal you, and a new babe's cry to drown out the sound of the sea.

the end

A/N: Well, I've come to the conclusion that this particular collection is as long as it needs to be, so I think this is a comfortable place to end it, at Bag End with Rosie and Sam and their children. Any new ficlets, drabbles and double-drabbles will appear in New Roads and Secret Gates. If you've traveled all the way through to read this, thank you, Constant Reader. I hope my words made you feel, and think, and gave you joy.