Title:                 There be Dragons

By:                   Pipspebble

Rated:              G to PG, no swearing, no sex, nothing too gory

Summary:         Merry and Pippin seek healing in Fair Ithilien, April 3019

“Go away!  Leave me alone!”

“Don’t be like that, Pip.  I said I was sorry.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Why not?”

“Because if you were really sorry you wouldn’t be havin’ to say it over and over again.”

“But I truly didn’t mean to upset --.”

“Maybe it’s time ye started thinkin’ hard about why ye keep doin’ what ye do that makes ye keep havin’ to say you’re sorry.  Now go away and leave me alone!  I want to sleep.”

With that Pippin turned his back on his cousin, and Merry finally turned away and left the tent where they had been cloistered for many days now.  Pippin was finally making good progress in his recovery from the troll incident, as Merry had taken to calling it, much to Pippin’s annoyance.  Merry hadn’t realized quite how annoying until now.  Obviously, Pippin had a problem with his elder cousin’s poor attempt at humor.  Perhaps it was time that he stopped doing it, Merry thought.  Moreover, why did he feel he had to joke about it in the first place?

“You look verra serious, Master Meriadoc.  Is all well with your cousin this morn?”

Merry looked up, startled by the dwarf’s voice practically at his ear.  “What?  Oh, sorry, Gimli, I didn’t see you there.  Yes, all is well with Pippin.  Except for the fact that I’ve made him angry again, and he’s banished me from his side.”

The dwarf took him by the arm and led him away.  “Come,” he urged.  “Give the lad some time alone.  He’s well enough by now to take a wee nap wi’out havin’ a nursemaid hoverin’ over him.  Come, walk with me, young Merry, and tell Gimli why you have made your cousin angry?”

Merry hung his head, kicking absently at the sticks and stones strewn in his path.  “I don’t know, Gimli.  I mean, I know what I said that made him angry.  I’ve been doing it all week.  But I don’t know why I keep saying it.  Especially when I know it makes him mad every time I do.”

“Are you going to tell me what it is you keep saying, or am I going to have to knock it out of that wooly pate of yours?”

Merry grimaced, looking Gimli full in the eye as they stopped in the middle of the path.

“I keep referring to Pippin’s mishap as ‘the troll incident.’  It makes him mad every time I do it, yet I can’t seem to stop myself.  Even though I know how serious it was.”

“Maybe you dinna want to think about it in more serious terms,” Gimli said, raising a bushy brow.   “We came verra close to losing young Peregrin.  I myself could have torn out my beard when I first came upon him on the field, trapped beneath that monstrous, smelly beast.  It was hard on us all, especially Aragorn, who feared Pippin would expire before I could bring you to his side.  He agonized over every minute that passed whilst we awaited your arrival.”

The memory of those first few moments after he’d reached Pippin’s tent were still wrenching to Merry, and he blinked back sudden tears, swallowing his emotions, again.  He would not let himself remember any detail of his first sight of Pippin, alone in the big cot meant for a much larger form.  His body broken, his sweet face bruised and torn, his lively green eyes closed, perhaps forever –

No!  Merry snapped himself back to the present.  “I can’t think about that now, Gimli,” he said quickly.  “It hurts too much to remember him like that.  No hobbit should ever be hurt the way he was.  Especially not my Pippin.”

Gimli studied the hobbit with a shrewd eye.  “Perhaps the reason Pippin is upset with you is because you cannot accept the near miss he had with the troll.  Perhaps calling it something clever like ‘the troll incident’ is your way of keeping at a distance the stark reality of what very nearly was.  Perhaps ‘tis only by joking that you can allow yourself to remember how close ye came to losing him forever.”

Merry nodded, thinking hard, as Pippin had asked him to do.  “You may be right, Gimli.  Do you have any words of wisdom for me, any suggestions on how I might make things right with that fool of a Took?”

“Aye, lad, that I do.  But ye may not like it.  Neither will he, I imagine.  But in the end, I vow twill be best for the both of ye.”

As Merry listened to the dwarf’s plan, he found he could not help but agree.    But that did not mean that he was looking forward to it.  Not one little bit.

Pippin rolled over onto his back and stared at the roof of the tent, consciously trying to get his emotions under control.  He blinked furiously, rejecting the self-pity that threatened to wash through him, halting it before it could fully take hold, and turn him into a weeping, hobbit mess.  He was too old for that sort of indulgence.  What had happened had happened, and he should be grateful that it had ended up as well as it had.   He could very well have smothered to death under his massive foe, and sometimes when he remembered too much of it he imagined himself back beneath the troll, struggling for air, each breath harder and harder to take.

It was happening again.  He fought to take air into his lungs, wincing with every inhalation as his still healing ribs protested the activity.  His heart was racing, and it seemed something huge and hard had taken up residence in his throat, blocking access to his airways, forcing him to work harder and harder to take in air, failing miserably.

He started to cry out, “Mer --!”

Before he could finish a soothing presence enveloped him and he felt himself lifted and held, and he looked up into the deep blue gaze of a concerned elf, his normally smooth brow creased in concern.

“I am here, Pippin.  I am here.”

“Can’t … breathe …” Pippin panted, panic growing.

He felt himself shifted slightly, until he was sitting more upright, Legolas keeping one arm behind Pippin’s back to steady him.  “You can control it, Pippin.  Listen to me.  Do as I say.  Breathe in through your nose, in, yes, that’s it, breathe in, and out through your mouth.  In and out, in and out, steady on.  There, now you’ve got it.”

Pippin widened his eyes at the elf, realizing that he could, indeed, control the suffocating feeling by doing as instructed.  He concentrated on taking steady breaths through his nose, exhaling slowly and completely, then taking another and another, but in a slow and regular rhythm.  Before long the clog in his throat had loosened, then disappeared altogether, and he found he was able to breathe normally, without a racing pulse and panicked mind.  He smiled gratefully at the elf.

“Thank you, Legolas.”

“You are very welcome, Pippin.  There, your color is coming back.  Are you feeling better?”

Pippin nodded.  “Yes, thank you.  I am much better.”

Legolas settled him back against the pillows and sat down in the chair Merry had vacated.  He reached a slender hand to place his palm against Pippin’s forehead, then smiled in apparent satisfaction.  Pippin scowled in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry to be so much trouble to everybody.”

Legolas cocked his head and peered down at Pippin.  “Why do you say that?”

“Because I am!  Trouble to you and to Gimli, and to Gandalf and especially Strider.  You have other business to tend to besides sitting with a crippled hobbit.”

“You are not crippled, Peregrin.  You walked this very morning, I saw it with my own two eyes.  You walked all the way from your cot across the tent and straight into your cousin’s arms.  You are not a cripple.”

Pippin lapsed into silence, remembering how Merry had caught him as his leg gave way and he fell.  He remembered how kind and supportive Merry had been of Pippin’s meager progress, how his eyes had shone with pride when Pippin walked to him, no matter how wobbly he’d been.

“Where is Merry?” Legolas broke smoothly into Pippin’s thoughts, making him squirm.

“I sent him away,” he confessed, ashamed of himself for his actions.  “But I need to speak with him.  Could you please find him for me, Legolas?  There’s something I need to tell him.”

“I believe he is just outside, with Gimli.  I will send him to you if you are feeling up to it.”  He waited for Pippin to answer, and as the seconds drew into minutes, he put his hand on Pippin’s arm and squeezed gently.  “Do you want to talk about it first?  Perhaps I can help.”

Pippin looked away, fiddling idly with the bedclothes, hoping he didn’t look as guilty as he felt, but fairly certain that he did.  Legolas waited patiently, obviously expecting a response.

“I yelled at Merry and told him to go away.”

“And now you regret it?”

“Yes.  No.  I mean, yes I feel bad that I spoke sharply to him and maybe hurt his feelings, because I know he is doing the best he can.  But at the same time, I wanted to make him stop pretending that this is all a lark and I’ve been a recalcitrant child and somehow brought these injuries onto myself.”

He dared a glance at Legolas and found him waiting, one brow cocked quizzically.

“He thinks I was foolish to take on the troll,” Pippin elaborated.  “He keeps bringing up other times I tried to do something which was beyond me and got myself into trouble, and sometimes hurt, and he had to look after me.  He talks about the ‘Barrel Incident’ and the ‘Cellar Incident’ and the ‘Well Incident’ and the ‘Pig Incident’ and I –“  Pippin broke off, realizing the elf probably did not want to hear that particular story.

“The Pig Incident?”

“You dinna want to know, Legolas.   You must trust me on this.   But I think it bothered Merry in Minis Tirith after the battle, when he had to stay behind in the Houses of Healing, forbidden to ride with us to the Black Gate.  He knew he wouldn’t be there to look after me.  And because he wasn’t, I took it into my head to slay a dragon, as he would say, and nearly got myself killed.”

“Did you?”

“Did I what?”

“Slay your dragon?”

“They tell me I killed a troll, though I dinna remember anythin’ except thrusting upward wi’ my sword and it falling.   Then everything went black.”  Except for random memories of slow suffocation and all encompassing pain.  He swallowed hard and looked away again.

“Breathe, Peregrin,” Legolas commanded.  “In through your nose, out through your mouth.  You can control it, remember.”

Pippin lapsed into silence again and concentrated on his breathing.  Was it going to be this way always?  Was he going to revert to uncontrolled panic every time he remembered, every time he had to talk about it?

“It will get better, Pippin.  The more you talk about it the less it will haunt you because it will become familiar and less frightening.  And as long as you consciously work on controlling your breathing you can keep the anxiety at bay.  It is over.  You accomplished a feat of incredible bravery, and some of the most heroic acts in history have been accomplished in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds.  You did what you had to do.  And you survived, Pippin.  You survived, and are stronger for having done what you did.”

Pippin shook his head.  “My body isna so strong anymore.”

“It will be.  You are recovering at a steady pace.  You have made very good progress in the last few days.  You will be up and about your duties again before you know it, and then perhaps you will wish for the time to tell those who love you all the things you know they need to hear.  You may not have the leisure for long conversation ere long, and then you will wish that you had told certain people certain things when the opportune moment presented itself.”

Pippin said nothing and looked away, looking instead deep inside and realizing that there was, indeed, much he and Merry had to talk over.  He knew he had battled his own personal dragons of despair and heartbreak when he’d gone after the troll on the battlefield.  He wondered if Merry had taken on his own when he’d dared to strike the Witch King.

Of a sudden, it was imperative that they discuss it.  “Please, Legolas,” he spoke urgently.  “I thank you for your counsel, but I very much would like to see my Merry now.  Would you be so good as to fetch him for me?”

Legolas smiled serenely and stood up, giving Pippin a little bow.  “Of course, Peregrin.  I am ever at your service.”  He walked toward the flap of the tent and lifted it, letting bright sunshine stream in to paint a golden path toward Pippin’s cot.  “I will fetch your Merry.  I trust you will work things out between you.  Good day, Pippin, and good luck.”

Pippin leaned back against his pillows, breathing in through his nose and out through his mouth.  This time, he determined, he would not let Merry make a joke of what had happened.  This time, they must talk it over, everything that had happened, everything that they had felt, and all that they were feeling now.  This time, he would not let Merry avoid it.  They would get through this, together.  Or not at all.

“Pippin?”

Pippin looked up from his cot across the tent.  “Merry.”

“Are you still angry with me?” Merry asked as he cautiously entered the tent and walked over to the cot.  Pippin looked back down into his lap, his good hand restlessly bunching the covers.

“Sit down, Merry,” Pippin said, nodding toward the bedside chair.  “We need to talk.”

Merry sat down nervously, eyeing his cousin with concern.  Pippin seemed overly anxious, Merry could see it in the pulse that beat in his throat.  All his life, Merry had used it as a gauge, always picking up on Pippin’s emotions by its telltale throb.   “What d’you want to talk about, Pip?”

Pippin looked up and met his cousin’s gaze head on, his green eyes clear and determined, his lips turned up just slightly at one end.  “The Troll Incident.”

Merry swallowed and started messing with the covers himself, knowing full well that he was trying to dodge the conversation, knowing also that it was useless.  He knew that tone that Pippin was using, and it was one against which Merry had never prevailed, not one single time since his cousin had grown old enough to use it, old enough to let Merry know that he would not be treated like a faunt.  “Why do you want to talk about that, Pippin?” he finally asked, knowing the topic could not be evaded.

Pippin grew a little paler and looked off into an empty spot across the tent, but Merry could see the dragon darting through his shadowed eyes, alongside his clear determination to slay it.  “Because I have to,” he said quietly.

“Pip –“

The green eyes flashed at him again and Pippin’s voice took on an edge.  “And ye cannot laugh about it, or make it into a joke, or do anythin’ but listen, Merry.  I have to talk about it or it will never go away and I can’t live like this Merry, I can’t have it haunting me all the time, I canna –“

He had grown quite pale, and his breathing faster, heightening Merry’s concern.  “It’s all right, Pippin,” he soothed.  “I’ll listen.  You can tell me anything you want.  Just breathe.  You can do it.”

Pippin looked up, startled, and Merry was glad that Legolas had told him about this method of helping Pippin to calm himself.  Already he was inhaling deeply through his nose, out through his mouth, and he did this several times over until he appeared to have himself under control.

“It was enormous, Merry,” he finally began in a faraway voice, his eyes drifting again to the other side of the tent.  He stopped to breathe in, then slowly exhaled and continued.  “I thought the troll in Moria was big.  But this one was even bigger.  There was a whole company of them.  Huge and horned, with hideous hides and massive knotted hands, wielding hammers as big as a man, or at least a stout hobbit.  They all crashed into us with the first wave of the assault.”

He paused again, breathing; in, out, in, out.  Pippin valiantly went on.

“They swept through our line, beating on helm and head, shattering shields, turning spears to splinters, throwing aside those that got in their way.  One of them struck and felled good Beregond, then bent over him, ready to rip out his throat.  I didn’t have time to think, Merry.  I just did.”

Merry swallowed hard, picturing the scene as Pippin described it, knowing what was about to happen, wishing with all his might that he didn’t have to hear it.  But he had promised Pippin that he would hear him out, and would make no jokes or sarcastic comments.  No matter how hard it was for them both, Merry was determined to let Pippin talk as much as he needed.

“I stabbed upwards with my sword and it pierced the troll’s hide and went deep, nearly up to the hilt.  Its vile, black blood splashed my face and poured around my sword where it stuck in him, and I held it, just as Boromir taught us, and I didna let go.  Not even when the full weight of the beast fell upon me.  I think that’s what broke my arm.  I could feel my bones breaking, and it hurt, Merry.  It hurt so bad, more than anything I had ever imagined.  And there was nothin’ I could do but just lie there and wait to die, wi’ the creature’s hot blood soaking through to my very bones, covering me in it, crushing me to death.  I couldn’t breathe.  I couldn’t breathe, and I hurt so bad, and Frodo was dead and you were back in Minis Tirith and I knew that I’d never see you again and all was lost.  All was lost.”

Pippin’s eyes welled over and tears ran down his pale face as he told his tale of woe, and Merry felt moisture on his lips and realized that he was crying right along with him.  He suddenly couldn’t stand to be even as far away as the chair and climbed carefully up on the cot next to his cousin, gingerly enfolding him in his arms, and Pippin let him.  Merry bent his cheek to rest against Pippin’s head as the young Took spoke again.

“I remember hearing someone crying that the eagles were coming and I thought for a moment of Bilbo and then somehow that I’d got the stories mixed up, his tale and mine.  Then I knew that mine was over, and I was resigned to dying, and I closed my eyes and I think I died.”

Merry gave him a gentle squeeze, his heart pounding in his chest hard enough for Pippin to surely feel.  “But you didn’t, Pippin,” he reminded them both, choking back tears.  He had well known that it would be painful to have this conversation, painful to share what had befallen them.  Thus, he had avoided this wrenching subject for as long as he could, and would have likely continued had not Gimli made him see reason.  “You survived.  You’re here.  You did what you had to do.  And now you’re back and safe and it is all over.”

They were silent for a few moments, both of them sniffling and Merry wished he had a handkerchief but remembered he did not.  Pippin wiped his nose on his sleeve, and Merry couldn’t help but smile at the sight, for it reminded him so of countless other occasions when he had held and comforted a weepy Pippin and seen him do that very thing.

“Were you scared, Merry?” Pippin spoke from the folds of Merry’s shirt.

“Yes,” he admitted, remembering his own dragon.  “I was terrified.  All around me I had seen death and dismemberment, blood and gore, and a goodly bit of it I had spilt on my own.  I don’t know how many I struck that day, Pippin, and I do not wish to know.  The only strike that matters is the last time I struck, and it was not a killing blow.  That was the Lady Eowyn’s feat.  All I could do was lie back and watch.”

“What happened, Merry?  Can you tell me, or is it too hard?”

Merry smiled sadly.  “No, Pippin, ‘tis hard, but not too hard.  You laid your dragon before me, now I’ll lay mine before you.”  This time Merry let the memories come as they would, and replayed the scene in his mind.

“He was going to kill her.  My Lady had already done so much that day, and she was so weary and could barely stand, yet she fought him tooth and nail.  He had already shattered her shield and broken her arm and he was leaning over her with his mace raised to strike her again.  I simply struck him first.  I crawled up behind him and buried my sword in his knee and his stroke went wide.  It was then that the Lady drove her own sword between crown and mantle, and he simply fell to pieces, crumbling in on himself, until his black robe lay empty on the ground where he had fallen, empty and smoking.”

Again they lapsed into silence, holding onto each other as if by doing so they could keep further dragons at bay.  Clearly, Merry thought absently, they were going to be dealing with their dark memories for many days, perhaps months or years to come.

“Do you know how proud I am of you, Pippin?”

“I thought you were angry with me.”

“Angry?  Whatever for?”

“For trying to reach beyond my abilities, for tackling a foe against whom I had no hope of winning.”

“No, my Pip.  Not angry with you.  I was never angry with you.  I was angry with myself, for not being at your side, for not slaying the troll before it reached you.”

“Is that why you tried to joke about it, like you always do every time I get into trouble?”

Merry chuckled, remembering.  “I don’t always joke about it.”

“Yes, you do.  You joked about the time I was trapped in the barrel, the cellar, the well –“

“Don’t forget the pig.”

“As if I ever could,” Pippin snorted.  “No, really, Merry, is that why you made a jest of what happened?  Because you were angry with yourself?”

Merry moved his hand from around his cousin’s shoulder and up to stroke Pippin’s soft curls, endlessly grateful that he still could, and that he had been spared the sight of them blood encrusted from his wounds.  “Maybe.  You know how it is, Pippin.  It has always been the way of our people to use light words in times of great emotion, and say less than we truly mean.  I used it as a means of defense against my own emotions.  When I first heard that you were hurt I was frightened out of my mind, and on the long, long journey to reach your side, I kept up a litany in my head to keep me from falling apart.  ‘Fool of a Took!’ I called you, and ‘addle-pated’ and ‘reckless.’  And then when I finally saw you --”  He shuddered, unable to help himself.

“I’m sorry, Merry,” Pippin said softly, and Merry could hear the tears in his voice and tightened his arms around his cousin, as if to assure himself that Pippin was really there, and recovering, and not the broken hobbit he’d found when he’d first arrived.  He was getting better, truly he was, he must remember that and not dwell on the horror of the moment when he had first seen him again.

“I’m sorry, too, Pippin.  Sorry that I wasn’t there by your side.  Sorry that I did not slay the dragon for you.  Sorry that you had to suffer so.”

“You’ve suffered, too, Merry.  And you had your own dragon to slay.  I think that part of growing up is finding the strength within yourself to slay your dragons and emerge the victor, stronger and more resilient and able then to meet whatever else lies ahead.”

Merry smiled into Pippin’s curls, turned his head and planted a kiss there and squeezed him gently.  “How wise you are, my Pippin.  And how proud I am of you.”

“I’m proud of you, too, Merry,” Pippin said, hugging him back.  “I have always been proud of you.  You don’t know how happy it makes me to know that you feel the same about me.”  He yawned and settled his head more snugly against Merry’s neck.

Merry kissed his curls again then rested his cheek against their softness.  “I don’t know about you, Pip, but I’m done in.  How does a nap sound?”

Pippin remained silent and Merry looked down at him, noted his breathing deep and regular, and realized that his cousin had already fallen asleep.  Smiling in relief, and feeling lighter than he had in weeks, months even, Merry closed his eyes and let sleep claim him as well.

“Well, my friend, it looks like your plan worked,” Legolas remarked as he peered through the flap of the tent to see the two hobbits side by side on the cot, wrapped up in each other and sound asleep.

“Of course it worked,” Gimli grumped.  “I knew it would be hard for them to talk about, but also that neither of them would progress in their recovery until they did.  I suspect that now we will see great improvement in them both.  Very soon we shall have our cheerful hobbits back, and the woods will ring with the sound of their laughter.”

“How wise of you, Master Dwarf.”

“And you as well, Master Elf.  ‘Twas good advice you gave young Peregrin, on how to control his anxiety.  Perhaps you should offer your services to the people of Gondor.  You could set up your own shop.  I could see it now:  Legolas of the Woodland Realm, Advisor to the Masses, Healer of Hearts.’”

“I shall leave that to you, my friend.  Come, let us leave them alone.  I think our work is done here.”

“Agreed.  But come, we are not finished.  There are two other hobbits who may have need of our counsel.  Let us away to Frodo and Samwise.  Last time I looked, they had a few dragons of their own circling their tent.”

As they walked down the path, the elf’s voice rose above the breeze in the trees.  “When they wake, we must be sure to ask them what they know about the Pig Incident.”

The dwarf’s low chortle mingled with the song of the leaves, and the laughter of the elf, and the sounds of the birds in the trees.  And the snoring hobbits in the tent behind them did not hear them at all, but slept, at peace, dragons slain, both of them stronger for the ordeal, and fully armed to handle whatever lay ahead.

-END-