Disclaimer: Nay, I don't own any of them. Damn.

A/N: Gosh, it's been a long time since I've posted anything on ff.net. Apologies to my past readers – development of Memories has been suspended till this year is over… Am extremely sorry, it's due to the lack of time – it's gonna be a helluva year ahead *weeps* In any case, hope you enjoy this short vignette on Merry and Pippin =).

"… Your part in this tale is over."

Meriadoc Brandybuck lay broken on the battlefield, Treebeard's words ringing in his ears. The hobbit's lips curled into a sad ironic smile, as he blearily looked up at the clear sky up above. The battle was over, but he did not know who had won. It seemed to him that everyone had died after all.

Théoden was dead. The king had bid him farewell, regretting that he could not see Éowyn one last time. He had passed on before Merry could ease his mind – for his niece was only lying beside him, fallen but still alive.

But Merry was not sure how long more she could live. A thrust of his short sword – not even the fatal blow – into the back of the Witch King had rendered the hobbit's right arm useless, for it was frozen to the bone by an unnatural chill. Éowyn herself delivered the final stroke, vanquishing the accursed Nazgûl forever. But her cry of anguish had blended in with the Witch King's stunned shriek, and the shieldmaiden of Rohan had fallen unconscious almost instantly. The hurt that she had taken must surely be more grievous than his.

The hobbit had crawled with much difficulty towards Éowyn, determined to ensure that the courageous lady was still breathing. But Merry was not learned in the arts of healing, and could do no more than to struggle with his good arm to rest her upon softer ground.

Now, exhausted, Merry lay facing the heavens, ignoring the heavy stench of death all about him. He thought he had never felt so beaten before – not in Moria, not even under the rough handling of Saruman's Uruk-Hai.

Merry began to wonder if his life force was already fading, too.

"Home is behind, the world ahead

And there are many paths to tread

Through shadow, to the edge of night

Till the stars are all alight

Mist and shadow, cloud and shape

Hope shall fail… All shall fade."

In the back of his mind, the melancholy song Bilbo had penned came drifting back to Merry. Hobbits were not commonly fond of sad verses, but this was a rare song that Merry had liked. In fact, it was one of Pippin's favourites –

No. Merry shook his head lightly, trying to dismiss the image of the younger hobbit. He closed his eyes and denied the painful bittersweet memories of his best friend.

No. He would not think about Pippin. Not now.

But the verse adamantly remained in his head. The song was filled with so much despair, the tune bound by so much sorrow – it most certainly seemed to Merry that it fit the turmoil that that all of Middle-Earth had plunged into right now.

His thoughts turned to the burden that lay upon Frodo and Sam, and wondered how they were faring. The fate of Middle-Earth rested upon their small shoulders now, and although it was not spoken amongst the Fellowship, they had long known that the journey might claim their lives.

He thought about Gimli, and how boisterous and humorous the dwarf was. "We short folk should take care of each other, eh?" Merry recalled Gimli's gruff words, as he shared some of his dwarven leaf with the hobbits. The dwarf had treated them like some of his younger kin, always looking out for them.

He remembered the bigger folk too. How wistful Legolas and his songs were, and the elf's dedicated loyalty to his friends. How Strider could look so world-worn and yet kingly at other times, how he always fought courageously in battles. He wondered if they were still alive.

The hobbit's mind drifted to the Grey Pilgrim. How Gandalf had fallen in Khazad-dûm, and the tears the Fellowship had shed for him. How he had returned as a white wizard, all the more powerful. How he had rode upon the magnificent Shadowfax, white staff in hand…

Taking Pip away to safety.

As hard as Merry tried, it was impossible for him to not think about Pippin. No matter how much he tried to deny it, almost every single memory he had had the younger hobbit in it. As far as he could remember, save the first few years of his life, Pippin was always there, with him – for him.

Too weary to fight his rebellious mind any longer, he felt the rush of sorrow overtake him as he finally allowed himself to remember Peregrin Took, the best friend he had left behind.

In a distant memory, Merry remembered the Shire, their beautiful and green home far, far away. Rowing down the Brandybuck River and giving Pip (rather unsuccessful) swimming lessons. Rummaging through Farmer Maggot's crops and taking the Pick of the Week.

"You can drink your fancy ales! You can drink them by the flagon! But the only brew for the brave and truuuuuueee! Comes from the Green Dragon!" The hobbit gave a wry smile at that memory. Singing – and drinking of course – at the Green Dragon.

He remembered Gandalf's amazing fireworks at Bilbo's birthday party. How a giant dragon made of fire and harmless magic in an age of innocence now past, courtesy of the mischief he and Pippin had caused.

He remembered innocence abruptly ripped out of him as he helplessly watched on with horror when the Nazgûl stabbed Frodo. When the goblin wallcrawlers surrounded the Fellowship and the Balrog robbed them of Gandalf.

When Boromir forfeited his life in exchange for his and Pippin's.

When he failed to stop Pippin from looking in that accursed crystal ball.

*

"Why did you look? Why do you always always have to look?" Merry angrily berated Pippin for his curiosity that led the younger hobbit to look in the palantir. Merry refused to look at him, following Gandalf.

"I don't know, I can't help it." Pippin's innocent voice came from behind, still too naïve to comprehend the gravity of the matter. "I'm sorry, all right? I won't do it again."

Merry stopped in his gait and turned around, furious at Pippin's ignorance. "Don't you understand? The Enemy thinks you have the ring. He's going to be looking for you, Pip. They have to get you out of here." The weight of his own words sunk in, and Merry's heart grew heavier and heavier as he realised what it truly meant.

"And you're coming with me." Pippin said hopefully. But even the young hobbit grew uncertain. "…Merry?"

Merry did not answer.

"Come on."

All the way to the stable, Merry could not bear to turn back and look at his best friend. Fumbling with his pocket instead, the hobbit took out a tobacco pouch and kept in his fist. Gandalf set Pippin on Shadowfax, and Merry handed the pouch to Pippin.

"The last of the Longbottom leaf?" Pippin spoke, surprised.

"I know you've run out." Merry said quietly, at a loss of what else to say at this parting he feared would be their last. "You smoke too much, Pip."

The younger hobbit grew puzzled. "We'll see each other soon. Won't we?" Gandalf climbed on Shadowfax, briefly turning to look at Merry with a knowing glance. But the wizard said nothing, and took up the reins.

Merry swallowed heavily. He took a few steps back, his mind still reeling from the shock of this sudden parting.

"I don't know. I don't know what's going to happen."

"Merry?" Pippin whispered, suddenly afraid.

"Run, Shadowfax. Show us the meaning of haste." Gandalf whispered, commanding the steed.

"Merry!"

Merry's heart broke.

One word, full of horror and uncertainty, a final plea to tell him that everything was going to be all right. How could Merry tell him that nothing would be back to the way it was any more?

So Merry just stood silent, numb with sadness, the words of farewell dying in his throat as he saw the wild fear and pain flashing in Pippin's once-innocent eyes.

Aragorn had put a hand on his shoulder, but it gave him no solace. When the horse sprang forth, he pushed Aragorn away. He ignored Aragorn's worried calls for him, as he sprinted all the way up the stairs to the watchtower, where he watched Shadowfax bear Gandalf and Pippin away from him.

Forever.

How could he ever be able to forgive himself for letting his best friend go?

Gondor was so – so very close to the Dark Lord's fortress. War would strike Minas Tirith soon enough.

And Pippin was never very good with a sword, Merry knew that. Gandalf may be with him, but surely the wizard had far more important things than to take care of a certain fool of a Took. He might be able to battle a Balrog, but even he was afraid of Sauron – weren't they all?

Merry had no illusions that his best friend could still be alive.

Secretly, the battered hobbit had always envied the elves for their Grey Havens. They could leave Middle-Earth once their tasks were done, resting at last. He wondered if hobbits had any place of rest – or if this charred and bloodied ground would be his burial ground for both his body and his soul.

He wondered if he might see Pippin again after life.

*

Now, from the acrid smoke rising from the burnt battlefield, Merry dimly saw a small shadowy figure approaching from his left. He was too tired now, too tired to care if it was friend or foe. If it was an orc, he prayed that the fatal blow would come swiftly.

"Merry?" A small hesitant voice called out – a voice so painfully familiar.

Perhaps his faithless hope turned out to be true, after all.

"I knew you'd find me." Merry said weakly, squinting at the ghostly image partially shadowed by the sun over-head. His parched lips cracked into a weary smile,.

But even now, Merry wondered if Pippin could ever forgive him for leaving him behind. He searched the guileless face of the hobbit he knew so well, and his heart ached as Pippin's spirit drew closer, and he saw that the innocent brown eyes were now tainted with a tinge of sorrow.

"Are you going to leave me?" Merry asked the spirit in a hoarse whisper, afraid that it may well be time for his retribution. But instead, Pippin bent down and grasped his hand in a firm grip.

"No, Merry. I'm going to take care of you."

Merry smiled, and closed his eyes, finally at peace at last.

Pippin had come to take him home.