A Slight Case of Magnificence

Summary: Just before one of the turning points in his life, Merry finds himself in an unexpected situation.  A Fourth Age tale.

Setting: Buckland, Late November, 1438.  Pippin is 48, Merry is 56, Sam is 58, Estella is 53, Faramir Took is 8.

A/N: Considering the wait for this chapter, it’s not very exciting.  More of a bridge chapter than anything, but oh well.  And as for the huge amount of time it took to get this up, I don’t know what really to say other than I got busy with work and grad apps and sort of couldn’t look at it for a while.  But I can’t tell you how much it means to me that people still cared enough to send me e-mails and reviews and just to stay interested in my mundane little story.  I especially want to thank Marionros, Pip Brandygin, Lady of Ithilien but everyone else as well.  Your words mean so much to me and I promise I will finish this eventually.  Thank you.

Disclaimer: Characters and places do not belong to me

Chapter Seven: Complications at Crickhollow

                Sam was surprised to find Pippin waiting for him onshore when he crossed into Buckleberry, but there he sat, cross-legged in the grass, munching sloppily on an apple, his pony grazing a few yards off.  He made no wave or other overt sign of noticing his presence, but as Sam lead his pony closer, he saw cheerful acknowledgement in Pippin’s bright eyes.

                He swallowed the last bite of apple and wiped his mouth on his handkerchief.  “Hullo, Sam.”

                “Aye, hullo.”

                “Had a safe journey, I trust?”

                “I did.”

                “Grand.”  Pippin stood then and broke the apple core in half.  He gave one piece to Sam’s pony and then retrieved his own pony and gave her the second piece.  “There’s been a bit of a change and we’re going to Crickhollow instead.  Is that all right?”

                “That’s fine,” Sam shrugged, slightly disappointed that he would not be receiving Brandy Hall hospitality and an Estella Brandybuck dinner in particular, but there were far heavier concerns on his mind.  “Is Mister Merry waiting on us?”

                “Oh, no.  He’s going to be staying on at the Hall, actually.  Not really his business.”

                “No, I suppose it isn’t.”

                “Do you mind walking for a bit?”

                “Not at all.”  Sam watched Pippin carefully from the corner of his eye as they began walking their ponies, side by side down the narrow road that led out toward Crickhollow.  There was an odd tone in his voice that lead Sam to conclude something regrettable had occurred, and it may have been his imagination, but he was fairly certain he’d detected a bit of red mistiness around Pippin’s eyes that suggested that the hobbit had either had a great deal to drink or quite a weeping session.  His countenance was so sober, however, that Sam suspected the latter.

                “Is Faramir…”

                “He’s with Merry.  Safe and sound.”

                “He’s not—he’s not sick, then?”

                “No.”

                “Well, that’s a pretty piece of luck.”

                “It—it is.”  Pippin’s voice wavered then and Sam was certain it would crack and give up the game, but it did not.  Instead Pippin turned to him with a grimly penitent expression.

                “I’m sorry, Sam.”

                “It’s all right, Mister Pippin.  I’m not angry with you.”  This was truth.  Sam understood Pippin’s love and fear for his son too well to hold it against him.  The choices made were not admirable but he had thought long and hard about it and found that he couldn’t blame him for his desperation.  Sam might have done the same, had he been in similar circumstances. He’d like to think he’d have better sense, but you could never say something like that for certain, not til you’d lived a day in the other hobbit’s skin, as the saying went.

                “Well, I’m still sorry.  I mean, I’m not sorry for what I did—I still say I had to and I’m glad for that.  But I am sorry for the way I went about it.  I haven’t any excuse for treating you like that and putting you through what I have.  But I will make it up to you, I promise, and we’ll get everything sorted out and think up a great plan of action, made with plenty of restraint and common sense, just as you would have it.”

                Sam smiled.  It would certainly not be as easy as Pippin made it sound, but at least he was willing and seemed far more receptive than he had the last disastrous time they’d faced the matter.  Perhaps they would get things solved to both their likings at Crickhollow.  “That sounds right good, sir.”

                Pippin laughed then, sounding much more himself.  “Have I embarrassed you?”

                Sam frowned.  “Why do you think that?”

                “Your face is all red.  Aren’t you blushing?”

                “Oh,” Sam felt his cheek curiously, “It does feel a mite hot, sir, but I don’t think I’m embarrassed.  Likely I’m just nervous from the river-crossing.”

                “You’re still afraid of the water, even after all these years?”

                “Aye.  And I’ve no plans to go changin’ at my age.”

                Pippin laughed again.  “I don’t suppose you do.  But a good meal or two should help to calm your nerves.  Estella insisted I take some provisions with so we needn’t set up in an empty kitchen.  Nothing too fancy, just some bread and some ham and some beans and some tarts and perhaps some mushrooms…”

                Sam smiled genially but couldn’t help but feel that even an Estella Brandybuck meal would not make the evening much easier.  He fished the handkerchief out from his pocket and mopped up a layer of sweat that seemed to have appeared from nowhere along his hairline.  Goodness but he was tired.  He didn’t know if it was still nerves from the ferry or that he had pushed himself harder than he should have to get to Buckleberry on time or just the pressure he’d been under these past weeks.  Sam didn’t cotton to lying at all and he never would have if he’d seen any other way around the matter, but as it was, he had been lying to a lot of people more or less since the day Pippin had stormed out of Bag End and, frankly, it was an exhausting business.  At least after tonight, he promised himself, there would be no more lying.

                Thank the stars for small luck.

~~~~

                Brandy Hall after Pippin’s departure had become a very somber place.  Merry had said not a word about the discussion gone horribly wrong but Estella could surmise what had happened easily enough by the way he entered the bedroom, sat on the edge of the bed farthest from her and put his head in his hands.  Pippin had ducked in briefly once more to ask if it was all right if Faramir stayed.  It was then Estella insisted Dilly fetch him a basket for his and Sam’s supper.  Pippin had thanked them politely and formally and then that had been all.

                At suppertime, Faramir emerged from the study and took his meal silently with his two cousins, no one having the heart to even attempt conversation.  Then the dishes were cleared and Faramir kissed them a tentative goodnight and left for the bedroom he had previously shared with his father.

                Merry changed into his nightclothes, his jaw fixed so stiff it would have ached had he mind to notice, and slid heavily into bed.  When he felt the merciful touch of Estella’s soft arms around his shoulders, he gave in and collapsed against her.

                “I am a terrible, horrible hobbit.”

                “Shhh,”  Estella brushed the curls from her husband’s brow and traced the strong lines of the face that she so loved, “Try to forget about it and sleep.”

                “How can I forget about it?  The things I said, the way I acted…utterly foolish and unforgivable.  I’m so ashamed…”

                “Hush.”

                “No, I--”

                “Merry, listen to me, please.”

                “I--”

                “Merry.  Listen to me.”  She scooted as close to him as she could and whispered, her breath hot and moist against his neck, “Stop trying to be perfect.”

                Merry sighed and Estella could feel, even in the dark, his patronizing smirk.  “You don’t understand…”

                “Yes,” she hissed, “Yes, I do understand, Merry.  I understand that you’re the Master of the Hall and that you are the older cousin and that everyone expects you to be wise and infallible and a model hobbit, but you aren’t that.  You’re just one hobbit, Merry, one plain, ordinary hobbit!  You are allowed to make mistakes, you are allowed to make you own decisions and they don’t always have to be what everyone agrees is the most reasonable thing.  And you are allowed to have a temper, Merry.  You are allowed to have emotions.  And you are allowed to stop trying for perfect all the time because perfect does not exist.  You can chase it all you want but you’ll only exhaust yourself.”

                Estella waited with anxiety for any reaction from Merry—it had been a speech she’d been putting off making for some time and there was a lot of emotion behind it.  It seemed dreadfully small to her, now that she’d finally managed to speak it.

                “Merry?”  She touched his ear hesitantly, then paused as he murmured something into the pillow.

                “What was that?”  She asked.

                “I said ‘I love you’.”

                Estella sighed and settled deeper into the bedclothes.  “You’re a good hobbit, Merry.”

                “Mmm.”

                “And whatever happened out there today, I’m certain Pippin will forgive you.  He loves you too, you know.”

                Merry rolled over and kissed his wife.  “You should sleep now.”

                “Well…”  She gazed at him, far too many troubles seeming to weigh down on the strong planes of his features.  Nothing she could say could lessen that weight.  At least not on this night.  “Goodnight, then, I suppose.”

                “Goodnight.”

                Merry lay in the dark for sometime unable to relax into sleep, despite his exhaustion.  It was a difficult thing to do when your heart felt so plain sick and your mind refused to stop sprinting through painful events, over and over and over again.  For as sweet and well-meaning as she was, Estella just didn’t understand.  No one did.  No one else had to deal with what Merry did.  No one else had such responsibility.  At least not in the Shire. 

He flopped onto his back and wondered idly whether the King felt like this.  He had so very many people depending on him, even more than all the hobbits in Buckland and he surely must have times where he didn’t say exactly what he should have or do the best thing that he might have.  Perhaps sometime when things were better, Merry would write and ask.  Might be a bit forward, though.  This was probably yet another great thing he would have to figure out himself.

                “Uncle Merry?  Are you awake?”

                Merry nearly leapt out of his skin but managed to stay composed as he made out the shape of a small figure at the foot of the bed.  The child must have the eyes of a mole to see his way in here in the pitch darkness of the apartment.

                “I am.  Can you not sleep either?”

                Faramir climbed up onto the mattress, careful not to disturb Estella.  He crawled up to the head and whispered to Merry: “I think the baby is missing me.”

                “Is that so?”

                “Yes.”

                Merry smiled as the boy scooted under the covers and made himself comfortable between the two adults.  “Are you missing your Da?”

                Faramir shook his head.

                “You certain?  Not even a little?”

                “He’ll be back soon.  He said so.”

                They were quiet after that.  Merry listened for a time until he heard Faramir’s light snores mingling with those of Estella.  He marveled at the odd stubbornness of the lad.  There had almost certainly been some row between Pippin and Faramir, and it had effected Faramir enough that he had spoken hardly a word all evening, moving as quiet and timidly as a bird and yet he refused to even admit that he might be upset.  Such forced restraint seemed perverse on that young a child and Merry couldn’t help but feel it was strange and dangerous.  A child has to cry at some point, doesn’t it?  What sort of a child doesn’t cry on occasion?

                ‘Well,’ he reasoned, ‘perhaps that’s just what makes Faramir such a unique sort.  And at least he isn’t a squirmer.’  Pippin used to squirm something terrible in his sleep but, thankfully, the boy seemed not to have inherited this annoying trait of his father.  For this Merry was extremely grateful.

                He wondered idly whether Pippin still slept like that or if he had outgrown it.  Merry had shared a bed with both father and son briefly that night in Frogmorton some weeks back but he had slept so heavily himself that he doubted whether he would have noticed.  As he dropped off to sleep, sufficiently distracted from his previous worries, Merry’s last thought was that he would have to ask Diamond next time he saw her whether Pippin was still a squirmer.

~~~~

                The morning sunlight at Crickhollow was weak and dim, making it the sort of morning that did not particularly inspire one to cast off warm bedclothes and eyesleep.  Sam also fancied that it was to blame for the ache that had invaded his bones.  With a heavy groan, he pulled the linens up tighter and returned to a weighted, almost drunken-feeling slumber.

                When he woke the next time, the lantern clock on the far wall read half past ten.  Sam chastised himself for his laziness as he threw on his dressing gown and headed for the kitchen.  There was important business to be taken care of (not to mention meals to be cooked) and here he was lazing about like a spoiled tween.  To think he had spent the past two weeks muttering to Rosie about the Thain’s irresponsibility.  ‘Aren’t you a pretty kettle, Sam Gamgee…’

                In the kitchen, Pippin was no where to be found, but evidence of his presence was all about: a mostly blackened pot of porridge on the stove, dirty dishes and toast crumbs on the table, and a messily chalked message on the bit of slate that hung beside the door.

                Have gone for a ride to gather my thoughts.  Hope you don’t mind that I have let you sleep but you look as though you need it.  Breakfast if you want it on the stove.

                                --P.T.

                Sam peered once more into the burned and congealed mass of oats and without hesitation threw it into the dishpan.  He gathered up the breakfast dishes and put them in too, alongside the dishes that were still soaking from last night’s supper.  They still hadn’t had a proper discussion over the matters they had come here to talk about but they had managed to make their way through nearly all the provisions Estella Brandybuck had sent.

                “Don’t bode well at all, no sir.”  Sam muttered as he began scrubbing the supper dishes.  When they were dried and returned to the cupboard he poured himself a glass of water and sat down on the bench, strangely tired from the activity.

                “Needn’t keep the fire so blazin’ hot in here.”  He scrubbed his handkerchief across his forehead and eyed the hearth bitterly.  He then gazed for sometime at the dismal landscape beyond the window and wondered how long Pippin would be gone. “Back for the noon meal, most likely.”

                That thought made Sam’s stomach growl and he decided to start a little early making the meal.  If he didn’t Pippin might come back and insist on making it himself and that would be…well, Sam would just prefer to do the cooking on his own, that’s all.  The problem was that there wasn’t a lot to work with, just a bit of meat and some bread, not a green or any mushrooms left at all.

                Frowning, Sam lit a candle and headed down to the cellar.  Although no one had officially maintained a residence at Crickhollow for some time, Merry and Pippin still used the home regularly as a retreat and Sam thought it was likely there might be a bit a store kept up, perhaps some potatoes at least, cool and dry down in the bins.  Harvest hadn’t been that long ago and it seemed the sort of sensible thing Estella might have suggested.

                The trip down the stone steps made Sam a bit woozy, however.  He sat down on the bottom step and tried to will his head to stop spinning.  It was the heat, he decided, the moving from the stuffy, hot kitchen down to the chilly, drafty cellar.  Enough to make anyone feel a mite ill.

                He stood again and moved forward, peering into the dim illumination that the candle provided, trying to make out the shadowy shapes around him.  Eventually he saw shelves and jars (preserves!), old furniture, garden tools, a frock dummy (discarded by Diamond, no doubt), and then barrels.

                “Now that looks promising.” 

Carefully, Sam set the candle on top of an old trunk and set about trying to guess the contents of the barrels.  Each wore a label bearing the inscription “B.H.,” but they did not elaborate what Brandy Hall goods were inside.  A good shake showed one to be filled with a liquid, most likely wine and another had a thick powdery white dust about the rim that proved to be flour.  A third, however, made a very queer sound when Sam knocked at the side and it aroused his curiosity.  Stepping back from it, he spied a mallet and chisel laid against the wall near the barrels.  Immediately, he snatched them up and set to work.

After a great deal of grunting and far more force than he would have expected, Sam managed to pry open the top.  The smell of what greeted him caused Sam to stagger backwards in disgust.  He stumbled and landed on his rump, a hand clutched firmly to over his nose and mouth.

The scent was over-powering in the small space and Sam froze in chill fear that he was going to be ill.  Before he could follow through on that act, however, he passed out.

~~~~

                Estella closed her eyes and tilted her head back with a sigh.  “Oh, Merry…”

                “Is that better?”

                “It feels marvelous.  I don’t understand how my feet can ache so badly when I haven’t even been on them in weeks.”

                “Just lacking in adoration, I imagine,” Merry rubbed her arches firmly, “They get jealous, the rest of you getting so much attention.  ‘What’s so special about a tummy?’ they ask.”

                “Mmm.  Or a bosom.”

                “Yes, can’t seem to help myself favoring that, I’m afraid.  Feet don’t look nearly so nice when they are swollen.”

                “Hush.  Faramir’s only in the other room.”

                “You did bring it up.”  Merry noted drolly and rested Estella’s feet on his shoulders.  She was reclined on the settee while he was seated below her on the floor.  A few paces away, the fire burned brightly and it made the entire room feel quite cozy.

                “Are you enjoying yourself?”  He asked, running his hand absently over the base of her calf, “Being allowed out of your pen for the afternoon?”

                “Yes, it feels like a holiday, even if it is just lying in the sitting room instead of lying in the bed.  It’s wonderful not to be staring at those dreadful drapes all day.”

                “Marroc said it might do you some good.”

                “Aye.  I feel like I can think again.  I got more work done this morning than I have all month.  Every last scrap of that mending that’s been piling up for ages.”

                “You could have just sent it out, you know.  You don’t generally do it all yourself anyway.”

                “Yes, but I’m not doing anything else useful right now.  It seemed a shame to send it out when I’ve got two perfectly good hands.”

                “Have they gotten all swelled up as well?”

                “A bit.”  She held out one small hand for him to see.

                He toyed with her wedding band, but it wouldn’t budge.  “Not getting that off any time soon.”

                “Why should I want to?”

                Merry smiled.  “Faramir wasn’t too much trouble while you were trying to work, was he?”

                “Goodness, he was a great help.  He darns better than I do.”

                “He knows how to darn?”

                “Mmm.  He fixed up all your woolens.  And much quicker than I ever could.  He’s got a very neat hand.”

                “Where does an eight-year-old learn to darn?”

                “From his mother, I imagine.  She’s useful for something.”

                Merry shook his head.  “A lad shouldn’t be learning to mend clothes.”

                “Whyever not?”

                “It’s just not right.  He ought to stick to lad things.”

                “You don’t think that a skill is a skill and it can only do you good to learn as many as you can?”

                “It won’t do you good if it just gives the lads at the inn more to tease you about.  You end up looking right foolish then.”

                “Really?  And do you not think my brother Fredegar looked right foolish two weeks after our wedding when he showed up on the doorstep with a sack of dirty laundry and a button for me to sew back on his cuff?”

                Merry laughed at the memory.  “You did spoil Fatty something awful.  He was terribly put-out when you left.”  When he saw the glare Estella was giving him, he sobered.  “Yes, but, see, that’s different.  Fatty’s a bachelor.  Bachelor’s just hire a lass to take care of those things for them.  It’s what Pip and I always did.  That’s what everyone expects bachelors to do.  They don’t expect them to take up knitting.”

                “Well, I think it’s a good idea for a young person to try and learn anything that might be of value to them.  If our son wants to learn to sew or to knit, I see no reason to stop him.”

                “Taking childrearing advice from Diamond Took—I never thought I’d see the day.”

                Estella pulled her feet away from Merry sharply.  “I’m doing no such thing.”

                He took a deep breath, far too tired to feed an argument from a pleasant conversation.  “I’m sorry.  I’m still sick over yesterday.  I don’t mean to take it out on you.”

                He felt her hand appear gently behind his ear and they began to make a soothing circle, playing where his curls bent slightly wayward anytime he let his hair grow out.

                “Did you have a good morning, though?”  She asked, softly.  “Did you get lots of work done?”

                “Yes, and there’s still plenty more to do.  The Hall has got to be set for winter when it comes but apparently everyone’s been waiting on my word to start the preparations.”

                “Well, you are the Master.”

                “Yes, so I remembered today.  I managed to get quite a bit accomplished but I’m afraid I’ll still have to be working in the main of the Hall for the rest of the week.  Will you mind?”

                “No.  I hardly missed you today, I’m sure it will be fine.”

                “Grand.  And after this week I should have everything set so that they can finish up without my being there every moment. I’m planning to leave word not to disturb me after that so that you and I can spend our last weeks alone together.  And then…”

                “And then we won’t be alone again for a very long time.”

                “Indeed.”

~~~~

                A chill wind swept through Buckland and the midday sun gave little warmth as Pippin returned to the yard at Crickhollow.  He shivered as he put the pony away in the barn, fed and watered Sam’s as well and then headed up to the house.  Readjusting the package under his arm, he rubbed his hands together and silently hoped that Sam had something hot cooking on the stove.

                The kitchen, however, was cold and dark when Pippin entered.  He made his way immediately to the hearth and rekindled the small fire that had been just about to go out.  Then he stood and called out.

                “Sam?”

                There came back no answer and after quickly checking all the other rooms, Pippin was back where he started.  He called out once more then noticed that the cellar door was partially open.

                “Sam?”  He whispered into the blackness from the head of the stairs.  He cleared his throat and spoke more loudly.  “Sam, are you there?”

                He startled when he heard a low groan answer him back.

                “Sam!”  Without hesitation or thought to get a candle Pippin galloped down the steps, promptly tripped over a trunk and found himself sprawled on his back on the dirt floor, blinking into the cool darkness around him.

                “Where are you, Sam?”  He asked calmly.  “Have you hurt yourself?  Or are you stuck somewhere?”

                He was surprised to realize Sam was on the floor, just inches away.

                “I’m sorry, Mister Pippin.  I…I think I must’ve…fallen to sleep.”

                “On the floor of the cellar?”

                “Well, I…I don’t remember.  I just felt funny and then…I don’t remember until I heard you calling.”

                “Sounds like you swooned, then.  Have you hurt yourself?”  He crawled to his knees and felt around until he was beside Sam.  He grabbed what he rightly guessed to be the Gamgee’s elbow and yanked him up to a sitting position.

                Immediately, Sam reeled and brought his hands to his head.  “I don’t feel right at all.”

                “You must have hit your head when you went down.”

                “I don’t remember.”

                Pippin wrinkled his nose, suddenly catching the scent of something awful.  “Whatever were you doing down here?  It smells…wretched.”

                Sam gulped.  “It’s that barrel I opened.  I think it’s pickles.”

                Pippin sniffed again then stuck his tongue out.  “Pickled cabbage is what it is.  I thought we’d gotten rid of it all.”

                “Pickled cabbage?”

                “Yes.  It’s a Dwarven delicacy, believe it or not.  Gimli likes to send me a barrel every so often and I always must write back how very much I enjoyed it.  The first time I opened one of the barrels, I was certain whatever he’d sent had spoiled.  One of the stinkiest customs I’ve ever found.”  Pippin shook his head and glanced about but the darkness was deep in every direction.  “Why’d you come down without a lantern?  It would’ve made a bit more sense, to my mind.”

                “I had a candle.  Must’ve gone out.”

                “How long have you been down here?”

                Sam didn’t say anything and Pippin felt worry leap up in his belly.  As bad as the smell was, it certainly shouldn’t be cause enough for someone to faint.  He reached out to touch his shoulder again, to help him up so that they could get back upstairs and into the fresh air, but his fingers came into contact with the side of his face by mistake.

                “You’re burning up.”

                “I…I don’t feel right.”

                “All right, Sam, all right.  Let me help you up and we’ll get out of here.”  Pippin scooted until he was positioned behind Sam’s shoulders.  “We’ll get you back upstairs, have a nice glass of water, maybe you’ll have a good lie-down for a bit.”  He stood slowly, taking Sam up with him then gritted his teeth sharply as the hobbit fell back bodily on him.  Pippin’s feet started to slide but he managed at very awkward angle to find some purchase keep them both from toppling.  He leaned forward then and wrapped his arms around Sam’s middle but soon realized by the weight already pushing back on him that lifting him entirely was not going to be an option.  Not for the first time in his life, Pippin cursed his own physical weakness.

“Sam, I’m sorry,” He whispered, “I may be taller but I’m not all that strong.  You’re going to have to help me carry you.  Can you walk at all?”

                Sam nodded faintly and attempted to straighten up but then groaned and fell back down.  He would have hit the floor, but Pippin caught him before he came in contact with the hard packed dirt foundation.

                “All right…” Pippin breathed shallowly through his teeth, holding back a shudder from his nerves as he struggled to figure out what to do.  “All right…I’m going to have to drag you, Sam.  I will try to make it quick, though.”

                “I’m sorry Mister Pippin.” Sam murmured pathetically.

                Pippin barked a laugh.  “Oh, no, don’t you be sorry too, Samwise.  Only one hobbit’s allowed to be sorry right now and that’s me.  Now, buck yourself up because I doubt this will be too pleasant.”

                With a grunt he hefted Sam up as best he could, scuttled in an awkward circle so that he was now in front and could walk backwards up the steps, dragging Sam’s upper body one step at a time.  It was a tedious process and though it was pitch dark Pippin could sense Sam’s head lolling in a painful way from the jerky movement.

                He paused to rest midway up the staircase, setting Sam down slightly so he could rest his arms but still not let go of him.  He allowed himself a few deep breaths, then asked “All right there, Sam?  Still with me?”

                There was a pause, then a shaky “Aye.”

                “All right.” Pippin repeated.   It seemed in some subconscious way that if he just kept repeating that phrase eventually it would become true.

                They didn’t stop again until they reached the top of the stairs.  Pippin settled briefly on the stoop, grateful to be back where there was light but also horrified, as he could now see Sam’s face clearly and Sam was not well at all.  There was pox rash all over him.

~~~~

                The sun was sitting low in the sky when Merry gazed at the amber wash it gave all the fields and hills of Buckland.  The days were getting very short now, he mused, and chillier.  Soon he would have to find an alternative to their evening walks, an indoor activity where the constant fire in the hearth would assure Faramir’s warmth.  Pippin had said he would return for the boy in a few days but Merry knew he would not take him home to Tookland with him—not if the pox was still rampant there and especially after he had gone to such lengths to get him out of there and away from infection in the first place.  What he intended to do with him, then, Merry did not know, but he had his suspicions that, had they not had the terrible blow-up, Pippin would certainly have asked him to play guardian.  With shame, Merry knew that now that would most certainly not happen.  Pippin did have his pride.

                But what, then, was he going to do with the boy? Long Cleeve seemed too long a distance to cart him, even if his mother was there.  Too far at least when there was a grand emergency in Tookland that the Thain had already left boiling over for too long.  Hardbottle, too, where Pimpernel lived with her family, would be just as out of the way.  No, it would have to be somewhere closer.  Buckland?  All Pippin’s Buckland relations were in the Hall, so that was out of the question.  Fatty Bolger?  For a moment, Merry considered this, then shook the notion away.  Fatty was a bachelor.  As Estella had pointed out earlier, he barely knew how to feed and dress himself.  No one with any right sense would leave their child with him.

                Ah, but this was Pippin, Merry reminded himself.  Right sense for anyone else was not necessarily right sense for Pippin.  In Pippin-sense, Fatty Bolger was the obvious choice.  The image suddenly popped into Merry’s head of Fatty taking Faramir with him for his nightly supper at the Howling Hound Inn, surrounded by all the regulars, sour brew flowing easily, the perfect accompaniment to the greasy fish and chips…

                Merry closed his eyes tight and resolved that when Pippin returned, he would insist the boy stayed here.  He would discuss it with Estella later tonight, but he was certain she would agree.  Blow-up or not, Brandy Hall was the best place for Faramir right now.

                “Uncle Merry?”

                Merry opened his eyes with a start.  A moment ago, Faramir had been playing quietly on the other side of the hilltop.  Now he seemed to have skipped over and was crouching in front of Merry, who sat beneath the only tree on Mount Took.

                “Were you sleeping?”

                Merry shook his head and found his voice.  “No, I was just taking in the view.”

                Faramir smirked.  “With your eyes closed?”

                “Yes,” Merry nodded, then grinned.  “No, I was just busy thinking, actually.”

                “What were you thinking about?”

                “I was thinking that it’s getting a bit too chilly and we should probably head back to the Hall.”

                “I’m not cold.”

                “Let me feel your hands.  Ah, they’re like ice.”

                Faramir flushed and drew his hands back.  “I’ll keep them in my pockets,” he muttered, “But I don’t want to go back yet.”

                Merry softened.  He had spent a great deal of his youth having conversations like this with another Took.  “Come get under my cloak, then.  I’ll warm you up a bit.”

                Agreeably, Faramir climbed into his lap and Merry re-fastened the cloak around the both of them.  “Better?”

                He didn’t answer.  Instead he took one of Merry’s hands into his own and frowned.  “Why aren’t you cold too?”

                “Because I’m a fat old hobbit and I have a lot more stuffing to keep me warm than you do.”

                Faramir frowned more deeply at this but did wriggle back until he was comfortably settled into said stuffing.  “Do you know how to make Ent Draught?”

                Merry suppressed a laugh at the sudden change in topic.  “No, I’m afraid I don’t.”

                “Da doesn’t either.”

                “You’ve asked him?”

                “Yes.  But he says that if he ever sees an Ent again, he’ll get me some.”

                “That’s a pretty tall promise.”  Merry smiled at his own wit.  Were Pippin here, he would have laughed.  Faramir, however, did not catch the pun.

                “Do you think there are Ents in the Old Forest?”

                “Well, I wouldn’t say no, but the only Ents I have ever met personally were in Fangorn Forest.”

                “Then I should never meet one, I suppose.” 

Merry was alarmed at the amount of sadness in the lad’s tone as he said this. “Why do you say that?”  He asked, “It’s not such a far-off idea that you might do some traveling when you are older, like your father and I did, and you might meet some of our old friends.”

                Faramir shook his head.  “No.  I’m not even allowed out of the Smial in the winter.  They’ll never let me go traveling.”

                “It’s only because they care about you, Faragrin.”  Merry winced as he heard himself use such a tired phrase.  He wondered how often it had been said to the boy.

                “If I got to meet the Ents they wouldn’t have to care so much.”

                “Why’s that?”

                “Because if I met the Ents, the Ents would let me drink Ent Draught and then I wouldn’t be small anymore.”

                “Oh, Farry,” Merry pressed his cheek against the top of the boy’s head, “Don’t be in such a hurry to grow up.”

                “I’m not.  I just don’t want to be small.  I want to be tall.  And strong!  Like you and Da are.”

                “Small doesn’t mean you aren’t strong.”

                “Yes it does.  I always get sick.”

                “But you always get better.  You have to be strong to do that.  Fighting, you know?  Just like your Da.  He was the strongest little fighter I ever knew.”

                Faramir turned and looked at him.“Da was sick?”

                “Of course he was.”

                There was a queer expression on Faramir’s face, but before Merry could place it, he had turned his back to him once more.  He sat more stiffly, though, and did not recline as he had been a moment before.  Merry got the distinct feeling that he had done something wrong.

                “Hoi,” he said lightly, squeezing him a bit, “Are you angry with me?”

                Faramir shook his head but did not turn around.

                “Certain?”

                “Yes.”

                Merry waited for the lad to say more but he didn’t.  “Why so quiet, then?”

                “I’m thinking.”

                “What about?”

                “I don’t know.”

                “You must be thinking about something.”

                Faramir was quiet for a minute, then he spoke in a much brighter tone.  “What are you going to name the baby if he’s a lad?”

                Merry grinned, satisfied that whatever had gone amiss seemed to have sorted itself out.  “Have we not already had this discussion?”

                “No.  You said that if he is a girl that Auntie Estella wants to call him Astor but you didn’t say what you want to call him if he’s a boy.”

                “You’ve a good memory.  I suppose we haven’t discussed it then.” Merry settled back, pleased to note that Faramir relaxed with him.  “What would you name him?”

                “Beorn.”

                “Beorn?”

                “Yes.”

                “Well, it’s more of a name for a bear.  I can’t see giving it to a little baby.”

                “But he won’t always be a baby.”

                “Yes, but he won’t ever be a bear.”

                “He might be.  Maybe he will change like Beorn did.”

                “Let’s hope it never comes to that.  No, if he is a boy, we are probably going to name him after a great man, as you are named.”

                Faramir sat up straight.  “You’re going to name him Faramir?”

                “No, not the same great man for whom you are named.  I would like to call him Théodoc.”

                “Who’s Théodoc?”

                “Théoden, is the great man.  The ‘doc’ would make him a Brandybuck in my line.”

                “Oh.  Théoden was your king.”

                “He was the king of Rohan, yes.”

                “Da says he was very nice.”

                “He was.  He was also a very brave and noble man.  He died fighting alongside many of his people in a great battle.”

                “Did you fight in the battle too?”

                “Yes.”   

Faramir turned then to face him.  Not for the first time Merry was taken aback by the intensity of that small face.  “Is that where you got your scar?”

Merry brought a hand up unconsciously to his brow.  He always took such care hiding the scar behind his hair that he himself almost forgot it was there.  Almost.

“No,” he said softly, “That scar is from a different occasion.”

Faramir brought his own hand up to inspect it.  “Did it hurt very much when you got it?”

“I don’t really remember it happening, but it did hurt, yes, after I woke up.”

Faramir nodded.  “I should like to have a scar like that.”

“Oh, Farry, if you lived your entire life and never got a scar like this I’d be very happy.”

“But it’s a nice scar!  And everyone can see it, not like Da’s.”

                Speechless, Merry thought about how relieved he had been when they discovered that the long scar on Pippin’s sword arm was neatly covered by the sleeve of his shirt.  Seeing the ugly thing disappear under crisp, white linen had felt like the final step of its mending.  For a moment, he considered how to explain to Faramir how wrong it was to be impressed by something so awful, but then he gave up.  It wasn’t wrong, it was just natural.  Little boys would always be interested in macabre things, just as he himself had once been intrigued by his uncle’s missing toe or the fact that Frodo didn’t have any parents.

                Instead he cleared his throat and stood, pulling Faramir to his feet as well.

                “It’s nearly dark now, love.  We’d better go.”

~~~~

                The lantern had long since burned itself out and the only light at Crickhollow came from the dying embers in the spare room. 

“Sam?  Sam, can you hear me?”

                Pippin put the back of his hand to the hobbit’s flushed cheek and then sighed.  All Evening Sam had lain in bed, hardly showing any response to Pippin at all.  Now he was still as death, lost in feverish dreams.

                “Sam, you really must try and drink some water.”

                He peeled the sweat-chilled blankets off once more and replaced them with the first set which, though not any cleaner than when they had been removed, were at least dry.  Sam shivered, his only response.

                Pippin peered at him, taking in the flush and the angry pock-marks and obvious pain that had not changed all day.  He felt his eyelids grow heavy, aware of his own exhaustion.

“All right, then.  I suppose I’ll try again in the morning.  I’ll be right here if you need me.” 

He took a seat in the arm chair he’d dragged near to the bedside and pulled off his dressing gown, allowing it to stand in for a blanket as he was far too tired to go and find another.

                “Sleep well, Sam, where ever you are.”

~~~~

                Faramir curled tight into himself and pulled the blankets over his head.  He could not sleep at all.

                After a while it became too hot beneath the covers and he kicked them all off violently, then flopped onto his back with a whimper of frustration.  He rolled his head back and forth, closed his eyes, tried to count lambs.

                Da was sick.  Da had been sick once.  Da could be sick.  Da could die.

                He pulled the blanket back up to his chin, folded his knees up near his shoulders.

                But he’s not sick now.  He’s fine.  Da’s always fine.

                One lamb, two lambs, three lambs, four…

What if Da died?

Faramir rolled over and pressed his face into the other pillow.  Da had slept here just two nights before and it still smelled like him.  He would come back.  He said so.  Even though Faramir had said mean things to him, Da had said he would come back.

Faramir pulled away slowly from the pillow, holding his breath.  That scent might have to last a long time and he must be careful now not to ruin it.  Faramir had ruined lots of things and now he couldn’t even tell his Da he was sorry.