Disclaimer: All original plots and original characters are the property of the author. The Lord of the Rings and all its characters and settings are the property of the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien, New Line Cinema and their licensees. These works were produced with admiration and respect, as fan fiction for entertainment purposes only, not for sale or profit. Written for Marigold’s 18^th Challenge, with thanks for her beta.
This and all my other stories may be found at my website: http://budgielover.com.

Pride Goeth After a Fall

Peregrin Took straightened the post of the pasture he was fencing and listened intently. The oddest sounds had been coming to his ears—almost inaudible whistles and toots that made him shake his head and grimace. He stuck a grimy finger into one ear and wiggled it vigorously, but the strange sounds continued. It was because he was listening so intently that he heard the first faint cry. It was more of a strangled yowl, actually. The second cry not only confirmed that he had indeed heard a scream, but that it was originating somewhere in the next meadow. It wasn’t until the third and loudest screech that he identified the voice as Merry’s.

Those unfamiliar with hobbit-kind can be amazed at how quickly they can move over short distances. Natural sprinters, as a dwarvish friend of The Travellers had once said. Casting aside his mallet, Pippin tore over the gentle grass shrieking, “Merry! I’m coming, Merry! I’m coming!”

Pippin crested the knoll and looked about frantically. The green hills of the Tookland rolled away from him, the Thain’s sheep dotting the grasslands like little puffs of cotton. The bright mid-morning sun glinted off thickets of wild blackberries and raspberries, their ripening fruit still too green to eat. Merry had grumbled good-naturedly at being put to work during his visit, but his ready agreement had been enough that Pippin had given him a suspicious look. Now the section of fence Merry had been working on reared unfinished to his left, but his cousin was nowhere in sight. “Merry!” Pippin cried, “Merry, where are you?”

“Down here, Pip,” came the flat voice that Merry used when struggling to control his irritation.

Pippin looked down. A few feet from his toes lay one of the meadow ditches, long, narrow, excavations designed to keep the flocks safe from rare incursions of wolves and other predators. The bottom was planted with thorny bushes that dug deep into fur and skin, discouraging even the most hungry four-legged hunter from a sheep dinner. His cousin squatted at the bottom of the ditch, scratches on his face, sitting up and hugging one ankle with both hands.

“Well, don’t just stand there! Get me out!”

Pippin inched forward and crouched down with his palms laid on his knees. “How did you get down there?” he called, considering this a perfectly reasonable question.

Merry grit his teeth and a red flush began to creep up his collar. “I was trying out the dog-whistle. The one I found in that village the Fellowship passed through.* And I fell in the ditch.”

“How did you fall in the ditch?” Pippin asked, unable to connect the two activities.

The red flush continued up into Merry’s face. “I was chasing the sheep,” he admitted, “to see if they reacted to the whistle at all. I thought maybe I could buy one of Farmer Maggot’s pups and train it up to obey the whistle and herd your da’s flocks.” Merry’s face lit with enthusiasm. “Think of it, Pip! Trained sheep-dogs! Dogs trained to herd sheep so hobbits don’t have to work so hard. I could have any asking price I wanted...” Merry paused, obviously loath to continue.

Pippin raised an eyebrow. “And how does the start of this new industry begin with you in a ditch?”

Merry sighed and continued reluctantly, “And all of a sudden we were at the edge of the ditch and the sheep went one way and I went the other … and I fell in.”

“Silly Merry!” Pippin laughed. “You should be glad you didn’t break your neck. I imagine those nettles hurt, though.”

Merry growled something under his breath and Pippin leaned forward, green eyes narrowing. “Are you swearing at me in Rohirric?” he asked sharply.

“Pippin! Get me out of this ditch!”

Merry reached up to take the proffered hand, leveling himself to his feet. Suddenly he gasped and lurched forward. He slammed against the soft earth side of the ditch and slid back to the bottom, an expression of pain on his face.

“Merry!”

“I’m all right, Pip. I just twisted my ankle when I fell.”

Pippin was down the steep slope in a shot. Sliding to a stop amongst little cascades of dirt, he knelt with one hand in the dirt and motioned to his cousin. “Lean on me, Cousin. All right, let’s see.” Merry supported himself with one hand on Pippin’s shoulder and climbed gingerly to his feet, one foot off the ground and angled back. Pippin reached out to gently manipulate the ankle, causing Merry to hiss sharply. “It’s starting to swell,” Pippin said worriedly. “Can you move it?”

Grimacing, Merry did, then wiggled his toes cautiously. “Not broken, then,” Pippin said in relief. He let go of the ankle and Merry straightened, supported by the younger hobbit. “Really, Merry,” Pippin teased to cover his relief that his cousin was uninjured except for a sprained ankle, “I wouldn’t think you would be the one falling in ditches. Frodo usually does that.”

The words were out of his mouth before he thought. Pippin clamped down on his tongue but it was too late. He felt Merry stiffen beside him and felt his own grief welling up in his throat like a flood. Together they climbed out of the hollow and settled down on its bank, breathing nosily.

“Do you think he’s happy?” Pippin murmured. “And well?”

“I could not have let him go if I didn’t believe that, Pip,” Merry said simply. “I couldn’t bear it otherwise.”

Pippin closed his eyes for a moment and shuddered, wondering if these sharp stabs of loss would ever fade. Not go away; he did not want that. But fade to at least a bearable level. Merry had turned his face away from him, but his shoulders were beginning to quiver. Pippin had to do something before they both broke down.

“We don’t need Man-whistles, or dogs, to herd our flocks, Merry,” Pippin said, springing to his feet. “Watch.” With that the tweenager took a few steps away from his cousin and cupped his hands around his lips. “Here, sheep!” he called. “Here, sheep, sheep, sheep! Who wants a sweet, then? Here, lasses! Sweets!”

The nearest, a black-faced ewe that Merry thought had a wicked look, moved forward eagerly and butted Pippin with her head. Pippin laughed and pulled her floppy ears, rubbing along the side of her muzzle. She licked his hands messily. The others crowded around him eagerly, baa-ing with anticipation.

Merry watched in disbelief as Pippin reached into his pockets and pulled out a handful of tiny bright green balls, each no larger than a thumb-tip. “Balls of grass rolled in salt,” Pippin explained over his shoulder. These he fed to the excited sheep, cooing to them and calling them names of endearment. “Who’s a good lass, then,” Pippin crooned, rubbing one’s head. “What a pretty girl! That’s a good sheep. Lovely lass, yes you are. No pushing, Adeline. Let Linny have some, you greedy ewe.” Talking and petting, Pippin moved among the flock and they followed after him like puppies.

Pippin fed them the contents of both pockets, including two of his own boiled sweets that had got in by accident. “Off with you, now,” he told them, scratching their heads until their long-lashed eyes closed in bliss. Seeing no further treats were forthcoming, the flock wandered away regretfully except for the black-faced ewe, who held out stubbornly. She trailed after him as he returned to Merry, wiping his hands on the back of his breeches. “Now we’ve got to get you to the Great Smials,” Pippin said. “I certainly can’t carry you. You’ll have to ride a sheep.”

“What?” Merry squawked, offended. “I am a Knight of the Riddermark! I ride beside Éomer King! I’m not riding any sheep!”

Pippin shrugged. “Well, I suppose you can hop on one foot. It’s probably less than a quarter-league.”

Merry growled under his breath and Pippin looked at him suspiciously. “There’s never a Man about when you need one,” Merry muttered. “Strider or Boromir would have carried me.”

“Well, neither of them are here,” Pippin rejoined, setting his shoulder under Merry’s arm. Merry staggered but managed to balance, his arm flung across Pippin’s shoulders. “So Adeline and I will have to do. Up you get, Cousin.”

The black-faced ewe came obediently when Pippin called her and even stood while Merry dug his hands into her fleece and pulled himself up on her back. Riding, however, was another matter. Adeline clearly did not appreciate a very large hobbit clinging to her pelt and swearing under his breath. She balked, twitched her skin, and neatly dumped Merry off.

“She did that on purpose!”

“I don’t doubt it, Merry. That last one was Entish, wasn’t it? Perhaps she didn’t approve of your language.” Pippin cooed to the suspiciously watching sheep but it took the last salted grass ball, excavated from the depths of Pippin’s deepest pocket to entice her near. The rest of the flock had surrounded the three and were watching with great interest. Merry glared at them, mortified.

“This is humiliating!” Merry complained as Pippin helped him up again on her back. “And her wool doesn’t cushion anything. I’m probably never going to father children.”

“Stop grousing and hold on,” Pippin replied, struggling to hold the ewe’s head. “That’s a good girl, Adeline. Stand still now—sorry, Merry!” With astonishingly quickness, Adeline had ducked her head and reversed, leaving Pippin clutching two handfuls of matted fleece and Merry sprawled on the ground.

“That tears it,” Merry growled as Pippin helped him up. “We’re walking. And I’m going to ask your mum if we can have mutton for dinner tonight.” One of the sheep chose that moment to baa in what seemed to the young hobbit in a most derisive manner. “Mutton!” Merry shouted at it.

He looked back at the gathered sheep as they laboriously made their way down the hill and onto the sheep-path that led back to the Smials. They had lined up along the half-completed fence, tails swishing and calling after Pippin wistfully. Merry glowered at them and the sheep gazed innocently back. He could have sworn they were laughing.

The End

* “Some Nameless Place” by Budgielover