(Written for Dana's birthday, beta'd by Lindelea.)

DREAMSONG

25 Solmath, S.R. 1420*

Sleepless. Merry's head was far too filled with memories for sleep; his legs felt restless, and he had to admit to himself that he feared to fall asleep, fearing the dreams that would follow, as surely as winter followed autumn. He sighed, and twisted, and glanced at the cup of chamomile tea he had made for himself, allowed to grow cold without tasting. He hoped Pippin was sleeping better than he was, himself.

But a sharp outcry gave him to know his hope was in vain. He sat up and raced from his room to Pippin's, where his younger cousin thrashed about. “Boromir! No! Boromir!”

He sat on the edge of Pippin's bed and gentled him awake. Pippin sat up, trembling and sobbing, and allowed himself to be gathered into Merry's arms.

“Shh…Pip! I'm here, you're here. It was just a dream; all is well…”

Pippin gave a shudder and looked up into Merry's face. “No,” he said, “No, Boromir really is dead.” His face was pinched, stark and white, and the green eyes were wide.

Merry nodded slowly. Of course. It's what they'd avoided talking about all the day, losing themselves instead in the plans for their first party at Crickhollow on the following evening. A year ago *today* Boromir had sacrificed his life for theirs, and they had been carried off into captivity by the Uruk-hai. Both of them had remembered, but neither of them had been willing to talk about it--they had exchanged glances, conspiring without a word being said, to let the day go by without comment.

But obviously, their night was not going to be so easy. Pippin began to shiver, and Merry got up and handed him his dressing gown. “We might as well give it up. We'll not sleep well tonight,” he said. They left Pippin's room, and passing his own room, Merry grabbed his own dressing gown.

Pippin went into the parlor. “I'll stoke up the fire,” he said.
Merry nodded, and went into the kitchen. “I'll make some athelas tea.” All of them had been sent home with a generous supply of it, prepared by the King's own hands, for just such times as this.

When Merry returned, the fire in the hearth was blazing brightly, and the two of them sat down together on the settee and sipped the tea in companionable silence, shoulder to shoulder. The scent of athelas brought to mind the beloved face of Strider, their friend, healer and King, and they breathed the soothing fragrance, as much as they sipped of it, and the horror began to recede, replaced instead by grief. Merry sighed when he finally put his cup down; he glanced at Pippin, whose eyes were swimming in unshed tears. He pulled his younger cousin close and kissed the top of his head, and then said, “Play for me, Pip.”

Pippin looked at him and gave a sort of crooked half-smile, and then he got up and went over to the shelf next to the hearth where his instruments were kept. He laid a wistful hand on his bagpipes, but then picked up his fiddle and bow. It was his first, and most comforting, instrument. It brought with it the memories of his lessons under his Aunt Esme's watchful eye and gentle hand, as Merry watched them fondly from a corner.

He stood next to the hearth, the glow of the fire behind him limning him in light, took a couple of strokes with his bow, tuned a wayward string, and then began to play.

Merry leaned his head against the back of the settee and closed his eyes to listen. Pippin played a familiar Shire ballad at first, a sweet and sad one, and then he began to improvise. Merry could hear in the ever-changing melody their journey and their friends: Frodo, dearer than dear, best beloved all their lives; and Sam, loyal and steadfast; Gandalf, whom they'd known since their childhood, and yet never truly known till they thought they had lost him; Strider, so much more than he seemed at the start, lordly and high beneath his Ranger guise; the lightness that was Legolas, merry and grave at the same time; the sturdiness of Gimli, stalwart and true. And Boromir was there as well, brave and proud and sorrowful and doomed…Fangorn, and Rohan, and Gondor…and home…and through and under and within every lingering note, the hopefulness of his Pippin…

“Why, Mr. Merry! Mr. Pippin!”

It was the surprised voice of Bluebell Grubb that brought both of them awake with a start. Merry opened his eyes, and realized as Pippin sat up, that Pippin had at some point put his fiddle away and fallen asleep with his head in Merry's lap.

Bluebell was the matron Merry's mother had engaged to come in and cook and clean for Merry and Pippin three times a week. “I let myself in to make an early start today, what with your party tonight, and all!”

Merry finally found his voice. “I do apologize, Mistress Bluebell! We seem to have fallen asleep here last night.”

She shook her head with an amused smile. “So I see, young sirs!”

Pippin sat up, scrubbed through his curls with his fingers, and shook his head briskly. “We were too excited to sleep last night,” he chirped.

Bluebell nodded her head knowingly. “Ah,” she said. “If you'd like, I'll go and stir you up some breakfast, then, while I start the baking.” She took herself off to the kitchen.

Merry turned an incredulous look to Pippin. “ 'Too *excited* to sleep'? You made us sound like a couple of faunts the night before Yule!”

Pippin shrugged nonchalantly. “Best I could do on the spur of the moment.”

Merry chuckled ruefully and then sobered. “Thank you, Pip.” He meant for the music that had settled them both.

Pippin gave his cousin a quick embrace and then stood up. “I don't know about you,” he said with a grin, “but I'm starved! And we've got a party tonight!”

Merry shook his head fondly, and then, gathering the teacups, followed his cousin to the kitchen. They had weathered another storm together.
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*February 25, 1420