Spring

The rain was pitter-pattering away on Pippin's straw hat, pouring off the brim in a steady stream. He went a bit cross-eyed with staring at it, and then stuck out his tongue in an attempt to catch the drip.

"You'll never catch that," Merry said. "Your tongue isn't long enough." He was sitting comfortably, legs stretched out and ankles crossed, his own eyes on the fishing poles jammed into the mud. The lines were stretched tight, pulled by the current of the rain-swollen Brandywine, but alas, untouched by fish. Whoever had said fish bit a hook better in the rain was fooling himself.

Pippin stuck out his tongue again at Merry, then leaned back on his elbows, mouth open, and caught the stream quite neatly. "Hah!" he said in triumph, then leaned just a tad too far for another try, and his hat fell off in the muck. "Drat!"

"And ho ho," Merry laughed. He scooped up Pippin's hat, shook the silt out of it, and clapped it back on his little cousin's head. "Outfoxed yourself there, didn't you?"

Pippin merely sighed. "I'm tired of fishing anyway. We haven't caught a thing." His heels were in the river, and he thrashed them around in a bored fashion, making a nice backwash that soaked the hem of Merry's breeches.

"I can't imagine why," Merry said. His gaze strayed down the bank, to the small rowboat tied to a tree and slowly filling with rain. It was a present for his fourteenth birthday that he had yet to try out: His father had forbidden him to go out on the river while the water was high, at least not without a grown hobbit aboard. But it had been raining for days and days with no sign of a let-up, and he was bored with fishing, and he did so want to use it by himself. Just looking at it, he could picture himself at the oars, smoothly propelling the craft along, the pleasant stretch and burn of the young muscles across his shoulders, battling the current, testing his strength against the river-

Before he knew it, he was on his feet, Pippin at his heels, striding to the boat and working at the damp hemp-knot with nervous fingers. His dad had never used a switch on him before, he had never needed to, and he wasn't that kind of hobbit, anyway, but if he ever found Merry misbehaving this badly he might make an exception. "Want to go boating, Pippin?"

Pippin jumped up and down. "Yes! Yes! Can I row?"

"You're too little," Merry said, and Pippin made a face. "You're not strong enough. If we're going to do this, you must do exactly what I say and sit still, and no matter what happens, for pity's sake stay in the boat. Understand?"

Pippin was nodding, agreeing to anything, as long he didn't end up stranded on the bank watching Merry have fun without him. Merry lifted him under the arms and Pippin brought his legs up-thank goodness he wasn't very heavy-and Merry heaved him over the bow and plopped him in, then shoved the boat away from shore.

He waded in nearly hip deep before he climbed in himself, then he sat on the bench and took the oars in hand, grunting with the effort. The current was very strong, and slightly frightening in its power, but he was grimly determined to do this now. It was just a river, after all. He was stronger than a little water.

Pippin gazed all around, admiring the brown river sprinkled with overlapping circles of silver raindrops, the living, fishy smell of it. They seemed to be travelling very fast downstream, and when Merry turned to go against the current the muscles bunched and jumped in his arms, and his face turned red. It was a little scary, but Pippin told himself that Merry was a big, strong hobbit, almost grown; he knew what he was doing. They could get back to the shore (which seemed very far away, suddenly, though they were not even that far out,) anytime they wanted. Pippin leaned over a bit-not too far, Merry had said not-tempted to trail his fingers, and his hat fell off again and was swiftly carried away. "My hat!" Pippin cried.

"You and that hat..." Merry groaned, and then sighed. If he was quick, he could catch the wretched thing. He stowed the oars as fast as he could, leaned out and made a grab at it-missed, blast it! -And he had nearly lost it now, so he got up on the bench with one knee and stretched out farther, farthest...

Oh, the Brandywine was a tricksy thing, wasn't she, and she had taken many an older, wiser hobbit with more knowledge of her ways than one foolish young Brandybuck. He was easy prey. The boat turned smoothly in the current and over he went on his head, and she swallowed him down like a trout gulping a fly.

Merry thought he knew the river, and he could swim. He knew must get back to Pippin and the boat before they drifted too far. The river was brown as ale and cold, and he knew Pippin would be afraid and he must hurry. He automatically righted himself and hurled himself up to the surface, like a cork out of a bottle, and the hard bottom of the little rowboat connected with the crown of his head. It wasn't a hard blow, but it hurt, and he unthinkingly opened his mouth to yelp. Suddenly the Brandywine was in his ears and eyes, his mouth and nose, filling his chest like cold mortar. He panicked, his nails scrabbling against the keel as he started to sink, and he knew this was it, this was how it had happened to all those other poor hobbits lost over the years: The foolish mistake, then the terrible pull down toward the bottom, and what would happen to poor little Pip now, all alone on the cruel, unforgiving Brandywine?

Something heavy splashed down through the water next to him, and a small arm snaked around his chest, yanking him up into light and air. Pippin was there, holding on to him, pulling him strongly toward shore. Pippin was struggling and Merry was heavy, and they both sank and came up again more than once, but before too long Merry felt his toes touch bottom, and they crawled up through the mud together and collapsed in the grass. Merry coughed for what seemed like an age, then he looked over at Pippin. When on earth had he learned how to swim, anyway?

Pippin gagged and spat. His mouth tasted like fish and cold river-mud. "That wasn't much fun," he said faintly.

Merry boggled. "Fun? It wasn't meant to be any sort of fun, you goose, I was drowning!"

"Oh," Pippin said. With a child's perfect faith in the whims of an older cousin he had somehow assumed that Merry meant to go overboard, although he was pretty sure swallowing half the river hadn't been part of the plan. He sneezed and wiped his nose on his sleeve. "Let's not do that again."

"Not if I can help it," Merry vowed. His nice new boat was a speck in the distance. He wondered where it would fetch up.

Pippin lifted the hem of his muddy shirt. He and Merry both were mud and muck from heels to crown. "We're in trouble, aren't we?"

"A lot of trouble," Merry said mournfully. By the look of them, no one would believe they had done nothing but fish, and the missing boat would be a dead give-away. He‘d be lucky if he was ever allowed to so much as dabble his toes in the river again, in flood or drought. "But I'm glad you didn't stay in the boat, Pip."

Pippin shrugged, stood up, and fruitlessly brushed off his knees, a bit embarrassed. He had seen his cousin's face under the water and he hadn't given it any thought, he had just went, because Merry was leaving him behind, sinking down and away under a froth of green-brown river, and he couldn't go away without Pippin, could he? Merry stood up, staggering a little, and Pippin put his arms around him. "What are we having for luncheon?"

"Hopefully not fish," Merry coughed, and he ruffled Pippin's hair.

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

TBC...

Summer

On his way in, Merry passed the lookingglass in the hall and paused to give the leaf-shaped brooch at his throat one final tweak. He decided he looked very presentable. His sword was on his hip, every curly hair on his head and feet were brushed to a shine, and his green surcoat with the white horse of Rohan pressed and neat. This was a wedding, and the only thrown missiles would be the bridal-posy and handfuls of petals, so he had left off most of his heavier gear. Through the half-open door drifted the sweet summer-smell of cut grass and humid earth. He heard the sound of merriment and laughter, a few painful squeaks and squeals from the band tuning up, punctuated by a few toots on penny-whistles by assorted hobbit youngsters who were impatient for the vows to be done and the party to begin.

Pippin had felt a little flushed and had gone in to splash some cool water on his face. He had been gone for so long that a few of the groom's party had started to drift toward the ale kegs, and several of the younger bride's maids were showing dangerous signs of North-Took temper. "Pippin!" he said. "Let's get on with this, before I have to put down a mutiny!" His voice echoed, and there was no sound of hurrying footsteps, and no sight of his missing cousin. He closed the door behind him. "Pippin, where are you?"

Pippin's face peeked around the edge of a doorway. He didn't look flushed anymore, except for bright spots of colour high on each cheek. "Hide me," he said. His voice was very timid.

Merry laughed. Pippin always was a funny fellow. "Hah, Diamond's family would hunt you down wherever I put you, so you may as well come out."

"I've changed my mind," Pippin said, still in the same voice.

Merry sighed in exasperation and came to take Pippin's arm. "Come on, Pip, everyone's waiting." Pippin didn't resist when Merry pulled him out of hiding. Pippin looked like a prince in his sable and silver Gondorian uniform-a prince going to a funeral, judging by his expression. “Great heavens, you look faint! Are you all right? Here, come sit down, I'll get you something to drink. Where do they keep the brandy around here?"

"I don't want any," Pippin said. He sank down on a footstool and put his head in his hands. "I can't go through with this Merry."

Merry pulled up another footstool and sat in front of Pippin, so they were knee to knee. This sounded serious. "Why not?"

Pippin groaned. "I'll make a terrible husband, that's why not! Diamond deserves better. I slurp my soup, I chuckle in my sleep, I bend dog-ears in the pages of every book I read, and I can't compose a letter to save my life!"

Merry nodded sagely. "You’ll steal all the blankets, too."

"Yes, exactly!" Pippin cried, while Merry's dry jest went completely over his head. "I mean, really, what on earth was I thinking? I'll drive her mad in a month and end up sleeping in the goat-shed-"

Merry bit his lip to keep from laughing out loud. "Pippin-"

"And the children!" Pippin's expression went from simple fear to stark horror in a matter of seconds, and he gripped Merry's shoulders with sweaty hands. "Great Gerontius! We'll have children, Merry!"

"Most hobbits do," Merry said. He took Pippin's hands and held them. "Dear Pip, breathe a little slower and listen to me. You love Diamond very much, don't you?"

"Oh yes." There was no timidity there.

"And she loves you."

A long exhale, a much calmer sound. "Yes."

"Then everything will be all right," Merry said, and it was true. When a hobbit gave his or her heart away it was given away entirely, and it was the rare hobbit marriage that didn't last to the grave. And perhaps even farther than that. "Just look at all you've done, following Frodo and Sam and me halfway across the world into dreadful danger, and facing down Dark Riders, and wargs, and Orcs, all before you had even come of age. You took down a troll all on your own and nearly got yourself squashed flat, then hopped out of bed and rode home to save the Shire." Merry remembered well Pippin's sword point at the throat of the Ruffian who had dared to call the Ringbearer little cock-a-whoop. He had been so proud of him then. "If you can do all that, marriage to a beautiful lass who loves you to bits should be nothing at all. You're going to be a wonderful husband and father, Pip, and you're going to have a long, happy life together."

"How do you know?" Pippin whispered.

"Because I know you," Merry said. "You're a fine, upstanding hobbit and Took."

Pippin smiled. "But not a fool of a Took?"

Pippin had been many things: Cousin, soldier, friend and brother, and he had occasionally acted thoughtlessly, but he had never, never been a fool. "No,” Merry said. “Unless you continue to sit here and dither, in which case you'll soon be beaten about the head and shoulders by a horde of outraged soon-to-be in-laws, accompanied by a rear guard of mothers, gammers, sisters, and aunties armed with sun-shades, and I shall wash my hands of you."

"Heavens, I'd rather face the Orcs," Pippin laughed, then took a deep breath. "Well, I think I'm ready now. How do I look?"

Merry patted down Pippin's hair, which had gone a bit wild with his running his hands through it, and brushed an imaginary speck off his shoulder. "Very fine. Diamond will certainly think so."

"Then let's not keep her waiting any longer." He and Merry stood up, and quite unexpectedly, he put his arms around him. "Thank you, Merry."

Merry felt very moved. "It was nothing. Just had to warm up your cold feet, that's all."

Pippin pulled away and they moved toward the door together, then Pippin paused. "Ah...you won't tell anyone about this, will you? I wouldn't want this written down in a book or something." The last part was rather pointed: Merry was considering writing a book on herb lore, but he might decide to slip in some amusing anecdotes between chapters. Pippin didn't want his cold feet to go down in history, immortalized on some Buckland library shelf.

Merry gave Pippin's shoulder a comradely slap. "Oh, no need to worry yourself about that..."

It was a lovely wedding, and a truly enormous party that hobbits in the Tookland talked about for years to come, and if anyone wondered why the groom's Buckland cousin got the first dance with the new bride, their curiosity was never satisfied. Pippin wouldn’t enlighten them, and Merry never said a word.

Tbc...

Autumn

The window of Merry's study looked out over a garden, quite a pleasant view in warmer weather. Now in autumn the grass was brown and all the greenery nipped by frost. The more delicate plants had been covered with large pots by the busy gardeners of the Hall, and leaves lay piled around them, gold and red, like a dragon's hoard.

Merry turned away from the window and back to his desk. It was covered with drifts of white paper, torn and folded into vague flower shapes, and Merry smiled to look at it. Estella wanted a bridal garland of violets for her hair-rather impossible to come by this time of year-and so he thought he would surprise her with these fragile paper blossoms. They were parchment white, not nature's deep purple that went so well with her dark hair, but he knew she would laugh and happily thread the silly things together and wear it with her veil, just because he was fool enough to make it for her, and she loved him.

There was a quiet rap at the door, and Merry started a little, he had been so lost in his thoughts. Gracious, how his mind was wandering. But then again, he told himself, a hobbit didn't get betrothed everyday. "Come in," he called, and Pippin peered around the door. "Pippin, how splendid to see you! We have so much to talk about, do come in and sit down."

Pippin came in, but he didn't sit. He looked sad, almost grieved. "Hullo, Merry."

Merry was concerned. His plans could wait. "Is everything all right in the Tookland?" Mercy, he hoped Diamond was well, she was still a young wife, but you never know...He put his hand on Pippin's shoulder." Is it Diamond?"

Pippin's face fell even more, and when he spoke his voice was thick. "Everything is fine, Merry. It's you I'm worried about."

Merry laughed. "Me? I'm quite all right, Pippin. Well, aside from daydreaming a bit too much: Instead of tending to the Hall's accounts, I've been making this love-gift for Stella, to go with her veil and her bridal-posy. It's silly of me, I know, when there is so much else to do-"

"Merry, Merry," Pippin said, and now there were tears in his eyes. "Look at me, come back from wherever you've gone and really look at me."

His cool hands, his aged cool hands, weathered and knotted, came up and cupped Merry's face, and Merry was afraid, something was going on, something terrible. He didn't want to be here, he didn't want to think about it, he didn't want to see, but the years were flying by him like leaves..."'Stella-"

"She's gone, Merry." Pippin's hair was white again, not the rich red-brown of moments ago, years ago. "Do you remember now? It was very quick, she wasn't feeling herself, and she went to bed and just couldn’t get up again."

"Yes," Merry said, and he felt so old, so weak and cold. His arm ached. He would fall down if Pippin weren't holding him up. He remembered holding her hand, and though he had pressed it to his lips, it never got warm again. "She left me, Pippin."

"But she didn't want to," Pippin said, petting his cheek, wiping his tears. "It was just her time, and she had to go."

"But you won't leave me?"

"No," Pippin said, and he managed to smile. "I'm right here in your pocket again, just like old times."

Merry took a deep breath. The children and grandchildren had come, he remembered that, too, and they must be so frightened now. They had lost their mother and grandmother, and he had left them alone in that cold room where she was sleeping.

“I’m so sorry. I...I don’t know what I was thinking. It was good of you to come fetch me, Pippin.” Merry rubbed his head as if it pained him, and then turned back toward the desk. "She wanted violets," he said vaguely.

Pippin scooped the parchment flowers up and poured them into Merry's hand, then gently folded his fingers around them. "Then let's go give them to her, cousin."

He put his arm around Merry, and he leaned heavily on his shoulder. Together they left the study to go to the place where the children and grandchildren had gathered, where Merry's love was waiting for his farewell kiss.

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

tbc...

Winter

"Merry, wake up." Pippin's voice was low, so as not to startle his sleeping cousin. He would've have given him a nudge, but his hands were occupied with a large bowl of piping hot broth. "Merry, this crockery is getting very hot, and if you don't open your eyes right this instant-"

"All right, all right," Merry grumbled. He peeked over the edge of the blanket and groaned. "Mercy on a sick old hobbit! Not more broth! I'm practically floating as it is."

"The king's orders," Pippin said. "Just be thankful it's broth, and not more tonic."

Merry shuddered. "Then I am thankful." He pulled himself up in the bed and pretended to put on a delighted face. "Oh, be still my heart: Broth. Wonderful, just what I wanted."

Pippin chuckled. "Ho ho, you're not fooling anyone." He climbed up the wooden step next to the bed (placed there for the benefit of hobbit-sized legs, as all the beds in Minas Tirith were so very high,) and sat himself down very slowly. A large napkin was in the crook of his elbow, and he (carefully) wiggled his elbow a trifle to draw attention to it. Merry pulled it out and draped it across his lap, then flopped back against the pillow. He was on the mend from a bad cold he had picked up during the last windy ride from Rohan to Gondor, and still dreadfully tired. In his youth he had walked half-way across Middle-earth, in the rain and the cold, and slept on the hard ground, and had not caught much more than a sniffle, but that was long ago and far away, and he was not a young hobbit-nor even a middle-aged hobbit-anymore.

Pippin rearranged Merry's napkin, tucking it into the neck of his nightshirt, then balanced the bowl on his knee, dipped in the spoon and blew gently on the broth. He touched it to his own lips to make sure it wasn't too hot. "Now then, let's get this in you. Open up."

Merry sighed, but did as he was told. "I'm not a complete invalid, you know. If you would let me give it a bit of effort, I'm sure I could manage."

"Aragorn said complete rest, no exertion," Pippin said firmly. "And if you had waited a day or two for the weather to turn, you wouldn't be sick now, so you brought it on yourself."

Another sip. "No one ever caught cold by going out in the wind and weather."

"Hm. So you say."

"So Aragorn says. He says that Master Elrond told him that colds and sickness are caused by...well, tiny little things, like invisible insects in the air. They get on you, or you breathe them in, and they make you sick."

"Invisible insects." There was a long pause. Pippin looked both deeply worried and highly amused. "Ah...do you see them now?"

Merry gave him a sour look. "No, you old addlepate. They're invisible-oh, never mind." He supposed he had better get off this tack, before Pippin leaped off the bed and ran away screaming for help. "I had a curious dream last night."

Pippin raised an eyebrow at this obvious change of subject, but he let it go. "Really."

"More than one, actually. It was if I was watching scenes from my life, our life, starting from the beginning."

"Nothing dreadful, I hope."

"No, no, not really. They were quite pleasant. Except for the last one."

Pippin wasn't sure he wanted to hear about it. He pulled up the napkin and dabbed at Merry's chin. "Hello, got a bit clumsy there, sorry-"

"I saw myself being taken to the Silent Street."

Pippin was glad holding the bowl gave him something to do with his hands. It wouldn't do for Merry to see them shake. "Was it...terrible?"

"It was peaceful," Merry said. "I did hate leaving you behind, that was the bad part, but at the same time I was glad that was the one place you couldn't follow me, not then, anyway." He sat still, lost in thought, then he saw Pippin's stricken look and wished he had kept quiet. "Pippin, please don't look like that, it wasn't a foretelling, it was just a silly old hobbit's dream." He smiled. "It's just a cold, not the plague, I'll survive it. Anyway, I can't very well go anywhere when I've only just arrived, and you haven't even unpacked the luggage."

Pippin smiled back, and took a deep breath. "You would bring that up. Well. Well, I suppose you've had quite enough of this." He pulled the bowl of broth into his lap and sat looking into, as if it were Galadriel's mirror. He was glad it wasn't-he had no wish to see the future, especially one without Merry in it. "Do you want anything else? I could read to you."

Merry stifled a yawn. He felt like a complete beast for giving Pippin such a turn, but 'least said, soonest mended', as Sam used to say. "No, thank you. I think I will probably fall asleep again. But you can stay and keep me company until I fall out, if you like."

"All right." Pippin took away the napkin and put it aside. Merry closed his eyes, and Pippin watched him, studying the dear face that he had seen and loved, in all its moods and seasons, from the earliest days of his life. He had followed his cousin all down through the years, all over the Shire and across Middle-earth and back again, and if fate decreed that he ended up trotting right at his heels one more time, well, it wasn't his fault that old habits were so hard to break.

"And in any case, I'll be jiggered if I'll let you go on an adventure without me," Pippin said cheerfully to Merry's sleeping face. "So there." Then he tipped up the bowl and drank the last of Merry's soup.

***********

The end