"I wanna grow old with you,
I wanna die laying in your arms.
I wanna grow old with you,
I wanna be looking in your eyes."
*Westlife – I Wanna Grow Old with You*
Merry sank down in the chair by the fire. His intense eyes followed Pippin, wearily, as he took the laiden tray from the servant, closed the door whilst balancing it, and came over.
"Merry…" Pippin's voice was soft, tentative. He sounded like a young, shy, hobbit, and yet his voice bore signs of age and long labours. "Merry, will you have a bite to eat?"
Merry sighed and looked up to meet Pippin's eyes. Pippin calmly looked back at Merry. In the depths of Pippin's eyes were a naivety that was now long gone out of reach, buried behind the good judgement and wisdom that come with age and experience. Merry considered the sharp lines at Pippin's eyes, his face had been roughened with weathering, but it was still gentle and soft. His curls – grey – hid the lines on his forehead, the remnants of worries that had mostly been forgotten now.
Yet, this was still Pippin, his Pippin. The foolish, bothersome little cousin that had trailed behind Merry everywhere as a youngster, worshipping his older cousin and never giving him peace; what with his constant string of questions that demanded a straight answer. The boy – nearly adult – that had insisted on going with the company oh so many years ago, and had been a right bother but suddenly seemed to have grown up overnight and he had stopped making stupid mistakes that used to irritate Merry, and he now missed.
It was here, in this city, that Pippin had done a good deal of the growing up. Merry remembered the surprise he had felt when had woken out of unpleasant dreams to find Pippin by him, when those green eyes had caught his gaze, and held it, and the childishness that used to be there seemed to have been pushed away, hidden behind the first signs of wisdom, of growing up, of *age*.
This was the same Pippin whom he had tended, just a few weeks after the realisation of this change had fully come to him, as he lay in feverish dreams and was drifting in between life and death. The very same Pippin that had woken up, and for the first time ever there had been evidence of bitter pain in his eyes, and Merry had looked into those eyes and seen the despair one feels when childhood dreams and fairytales are crushed as the evils of the world are revealed to you in the worst possible way.
The very same Pippin that he had at that instant realised he could not live without, the cousin whom all of a sudden had not been a bother, but a friend that Merry wanted to treasure and protect. The very same Pippin he had been when the horrors had slowly faded and Merry could meet his gaze and know that Pippin was thinking the same thing, feeling the same thing. Yes, that very Pippin, his Pippin.
"Merry?" Pippin shifted uncomfortably under Merry's gaze.
"Yes…" Merry whispered finally. "Yes, I will have some supper." His voice quivered slightly and he gave a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Pippin nodded wordlessly and handed a plate to Merry, giving him a generous amount of the stew, potatoes and mushrooms that had been supplied. Then he got a plate for himself, put the tray aside and sat down in the other chair.
They ate in silence. Merry felt too weary to speak, he was content with the silence. He had come to that point in life now – they both had – when speaking somehow had lost its charm and silence was comfortable, a welcomed time for thoughts and reflections.
Pippin couldn't speak, he found it hard just to swallow his food and get it past the lump that was growing fast in his throat as the thought that this could be their last meal ever settled in his mind.
He looked at Merry from beneath lowered lashes, careful not to let the emotions flood him, because Merry didn't need that right then. Merry looked so weary, so old. Had he given up? Almost, Pippin thought, almost. Thin, bony, fingers and shaky hands, holding the cutlery and guiding food from plate to mouth – a movement that had been perfected by age and was done without any great thought or effort – even though moving his arms seemed a great strain to Merry.
Merry had aged gracefully, although not fully as gracefully as Pippin himself. His back was slightly bent – whilst Pippin still stood almost as tall as he had when they returned from their quest. His fingers were more crooked than Pippin's own, his hair greyer, his feet more shrunken, his movements stiffer - as if everything he did was as great a task as climbing up a hill on a hot summers day. But then, Merry *was* older than Pippin, and Pippin thought that in seven years he might look like that himself.
He quickly diminished that thought. He would not look like anything in seven years, because if Merry was really ready to give up now, on this day, then Pippin should not wish to live another seven years without him.
Merry looked up and their gazes locked again. He pushed his plate away, and suddenly the silence was awkward, tense.
Pippin dropped his fork and finally lost the battle with his emotions. "Merry, no!" He broke eye-contact and looked down as tears stubbornly fought to break free.
Merry swallowed hard and opened his arms. "Pippin… Pip, come here." Pippin was in his arms in a flash, crying bitterly into his cousins chest, Merry stroking his hair and whispering to him. They had done this so many times before, but this time Pippin was inconsolable.
"You cannot leave me Merry." He finally mumbled. "No, Merry, no. Please…"
Merry sighed. It was as if an instant Pippin was back to being just a child. Maybe he had never been anything else. Merry thought that Pippin had never really grown up properly, that childish innocence had been constantly buried ready to resurface at any given moment. A moment like this one.
"Pippin." He tried softly, but Pippin only cried harder. "Pip, please, please don't cry. Please. I don't want you to cry. Hush, hush…"
Pippin sat up and with a surprising force caught Merry's face in his hands. "Why?" He demanded, his gaze searching for hidden answers. "Why, Merry? Why?!"
Merry felt his own tears trickling down his cheeks as he met his cousins eyes, so full of pain, agony, all caused by him. "I can't go on." He whispered hoarsely. "I cannot go on."
Pippin's frail body shook with forceful sobs and he fell forward, his forehead against Merry's and his tears dripping down Merry's cheeks, mixing with Merry's own, forming streams that glittered ominously red in the firelight.
Merry could say no more, and he closed his arms around Pippin, holding him as tight as he could. Pippin clutched at Merry's sweater, and they sat like that for a long while, long after their tears had stopped and everything was silent again, holding onto each other as if their lives depended on it.
"Merry." Pippin finally whispered. "Merry, if you are going to give up now, then I will go with you." He felt drained now, a numbness had replaced the pain and shock. He was scared, scared of dying, but also scared of living without Merry, because he had never lived without Merry and could not imagine it to be quite possible.
"Oh, Pip." Merry said weakly, and he took his cousins hand and brought it to his own lips and kissed it. "Pip, look at me."
Pippin looked up, and suddenly his whole soul laid before Merry, in Merry's hands, and the love and trust that he offered brought fresh tears to Merry's eyes. Merry shakily reached a hand to brush a few grey locks from Pippin's eyes, still beautiful despite the pain in them at that moment.
"Oh, I don't know what to say." Merry said finally, his gaze still held by Pippin, as if he was hypnotised.
Pippin's hand pressed his, and he smiled, a small smile, but content and without any sign of pain. "Tell me you love me, Merry." Pippin whispered breathlessly. "Tell me you love me, and that you want me to do this."
Merry blinked furiously against the tears, but he did now know if he was happy, or sad, or maybe even scared because his emotions were all muddled together in a great blur. "Oh, dearest Pippin, I love you so, so, much. If you want to do this, then do it, because you are my favourite cousin, and my dearest friend and I could never deny you anything you want, wish or need."
A peace came over Pippin, and as he looked at Merry it spread, and Merry too felt peaceful and heavy and…
"I love you, Merry." Pippin said, and it was barely louder than a whisper.
Merry nodded and didn't break eye contact. "I won't say goodbye Pip, cause surely we shall meet again sooner than I would have hoped." Things were starting to swim before his eyes, and soon the only thing he could see was Pippin's green eyes, never faltering, keeping fears and shadows at bay. With a small sigh the light within him flickered, and went out.
Pippin pressed Merry's hand a little, and looked at his lifeless eyes. He was feeling weary, terribly weary, and darkness was closing in. It overcame him, and engulfed him, and he was in a shadowy land, but he was not scared because he was not alone and one who was as loved as he was had nothing to fear.
The servants of the house found the pair a while later, huddled together, eyes still staring into each other and hands still clutching tight. They were born to the great hall where they were laid out, still holding hands. And even though the loss was a grievous one poeple couldn't grieve fully because they knew that the Halflings had not gone in pain, but they were loved, and safe, and together.
And arrangements were made and a few days later an escort brought them both down into Rath DÍnen and laid them out together, and there they lay until all memory of any such deeds as they had been part of had passed even out of old legends and songs and hobbits, and elves, and dwarfs and men as valiant of those of Gondor were beyond existence or recall.
THE END
I wanna die laying in your arms.
I wanna grow old with you,
I wanna be looking in your eyes."
*Westlife – I Wanna Grow Old with You*
Merry sank down in the chair by the fire. His intense eyes followed Pippin, wearily, as he took the laiden tray from the servant, closed the door whilst balancing it, and came over.
"Merry…" Pippin's voice was soft, tentative. He sounded like a young, shy, hobbit, and yet his voice bore signs of age and long labours. "Merry, will you have a bite to eat?"
Merry sighed and looked up to meet Pippin's eyes. Pippin calmly looked back at Merry. In the depths of Pippin's eyes were a naivety that was now long gone out of reach, buried behind the good judgement and wisdom that come with age and experience. Merry considered the sharp lines at Pippin's eyes, his face had been roughened with weathering, but it was still gentle and soft. His curls – grey – hid the lines on his forehead, the remnants of worries that had mostly been forgotten now.
Yet, this was still Pippin, his Pippin. The foolish, bothersome little cousin that had trailed behind Merry everywhere as a youngster, worshipping his older cousin and never giving him peace; what with his constant string of questions that demanded a straight answer. The boy – nearly adult – that had insisted on going with the company oh so many years ago, and had been a right bother but suddenly seemed to have grown up overnight and he had stopped making stupid mistakes that used to irritate Merry, and he now missed.
It was here, in this city, that Pippin had done a good deal of the growing up. Merry remembered the surprise he had felt when had woken out of unpleasant dreams to find Pippin by him, when those green eyes had caught his gaze, and held it, and the childishness that used to be there seemed to have been pushed away, hidden behind the first signs of wisdom, of growing up, of *age*.
This was the same Pippin whom he had tended, just a few weeks after the realisation of this change had fully come to him, as he lay in feverish dreams and was drifting in between life and death. The very same Pippin that had woken up, and for the first time ever there had been evidence of bitter pain in his eyes, and Merry had looked into those eyes and seen the despair one feels when childhood dreams and fairytales are crushed as the evils of the world are revealed to you in the worst possible way.
The very same Pippin that he had at that instant realised he could not live without, the cousin whom all of a sudden had not been a bother, but a friend that Merry wanted to treasure and protect. The very same Pippin he had been when the horrors had slowly faded and Merry could meet his gaze and know that Pippin was thinking the same thing, feeling the same thing. Yes, that very Pippin, his Pippin.
"Merry?" Pippin shifted uncomfortably under Merry's gaze.
"Yes…" Merry whispered finally. "Yes, I will have some supper." His voice quivered slightly and he gave a small smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.
Pippin nodded wordlessly and handed a plate to Merry, giving him a generous amount of the stew, potatoes and mushrooms that had been supplied. Then he got a plate for himself, put the tray aside and sat down in the other chair.
They ate in silence. Merry felt too weary to speak, he was content with the silence. He had come to that point in life now – they both had – when speaking somehow had lost its charm and silence was comfortable, a welcomed time for thoughts and reflections.
Pippin couldn't speak, he found it hard just to swallow his food and get it past the lump that was growing fast in his throat as the thought that this could be their last meal ever settled in his mind.
He looked at Merry from beneath lowered lashes, careful not to let the emotions flood him, because Merry didn't need that right then. Merry looked so weary, so old. Had he given up? Almost, Pippin thought, almost. Thin, bony, fingers and shaky hands, holding the cutlery and guiding food from plate to mouth – a movement that had been perfected by age and was done without any great thought or effort – even though moving his arms seemed a great strain to Merry.
Merry had aged gracefully, although not fully as gracefully as Pippin himself. His back was slightly bent – whilst Pippin still stood almost as tall as he had when they returned from their quest. His fingers were more crooked than Pippin's own, his hair greyer, his feet more shrunken, his movements stiffer - as if everything he did was as great a task as climbing up a hill on a hot summers day. But then, Merry *was* older than Pippin, and Pippin thought that in seven years he might look like that himself.
He quickly diminished that thought. He would not look like anything in seven years, because if Merry was really ready to give up now, on this day, then Pippin should not wish to live another seven years without him.
Merry looked up and their gazes locked again. He pushed his plate away, and suddenly the silence was awkward, tense.
Pippin dropped his fork and finally lost the battle with his emotions. "Merry, no!" He broke eye-contact and looked down as tears stubbornly fought to break free.
Merry swallowed hard and opened his arms. "Pippin… Pip, come here." Pippin was in his arms in a flash, crying bitterly into his cousins chest, Merry stroking his hair and whispering to him. They had done this so many times before, but this time Pippin was inconsolable.
"You cannot leave me Merry." He finally mumbled. "No, Merry, no. Please…"
Merry sighed. It was as if an instant Pippin was back to being just a child. Maybe he had never been anything else. Merry thought that Pippin had never really grown up properly, that childish innocence had been constantly buried ready to resurface at any given moment. A moment like this one.
"Pippin." He tried softly, but Pippin only cried harder. "Pip, please, please don't cry. Please. I don't want you to cry. Hush, hush…"
Pippin sat up and with a surprising force caught Merry's face in his hands. "Why?" He demanded, his gaze searching for hidden answers. "Why, Merry? Why?!"
Merry felt his own tears trickling down his cheeks as he met his cousins eyes, so full of pain, agony, all caused by him. "I can't go on." He whispered hoarsely. "I cannot go on."
Pippin's frail body shook with forceful sobs and he fell forward, his forehead against Merry's and his tears dripping down Merry's cheeks, mixing with Merry's own, forming streams that glittered ominously red in the firelight.
Merry could say no more, and he closed his arms around Pippin, holding him as tight as he could. Pippin clutched at Merry's sweater, and they sat like that for a long while, long after their tears had stopped and everything was silent again, holding onto each other as if their lives depended on it.
"Merry." Pippin finally whispered. "Merry, if you are going to give up now, then I will go with you." He felt drained now, a numbness had replaced the pain and shock. He was scared, scared of dying, but also scared of living without Merry, because he had never lived without Merry and could not imagine it to be quite possible.
"Oh, Pip." Merry said weakly, and he took his cousins hand and brought it to his own lips and kissed it. "Pip, look at me."
Pippin looked up, and suddenly his whole soul laid before Merry, in Merry's hands, and the love and trust that he offered brought fresh tears to Merry's eyes. Merry shakily reached a hand to brush a few grey locks from Pippin's eyes, still beautiful despite the pain in them at that moment.
"Oh, I don't know what to say." Merry said finally, his gaze still held by Pippin, as if he was hypnotised.
Pippin's hand pressed his, and he smiled, a small smile, but content and without any sign of pain. "Tell me you love me, Merry." Pippin whispered breathlessly. "Tell me you love me, and that you want me to do this."
Merry blinked furiously against the tears, but he did now know if he was happy, or sad, or maybe even scared because his emotions were all muddled together in a great blur. "Oh, dearest Pippin, I love you so, so, much. If you want to do this, then do it, because you are my favourite cousin, and my dearest friend and I could never deny you anything you want, wish or need."
A peace came over Pippin, and as he looked at Merry it spread, and Merry too felt peaceful and heavy and…
"I love you, Merry." Pippin said, and it was barely louder than a whisper.
Merry nodded and didn't break eye contact. "I won't say goodbye Pip, cause surely we shall meet again sooner than I would have hoped." Things were starting to swim before his eyes, and soon the only thing he could see was Pippin's green eyes, never faltering, keeping fears and shadows at bay. With a small sigh the light within him flickered, and went out.
Pippin pressed Merry's hand a little, and looked at his lifeless eyes. He was feeling weary, terribly weary, and darkness was closing in. It overcame him, and engulfed him, and he was in a shadowy land, but he was not scared because he was not alone and one who was as loved as he was had nothing to fear.
The servants of the house found the pair a while later, huddled together, eyes still staring into each other and hands still clutching tight. They were born to the great hall where they were laid out, still holding hands. And even though the loss was a grievous one poeple couldn't grieve fully because they knew that the Halflings had not gone in pain, but they were loved, and safe, and together.
And arrangements were made and a few days later an escort brought them both down into Rath DÍnen and laid them out together, and there they lay until all memory of any such deeds as they had been part of had passed even out of old legends and songs and hobbits, and elves, and dwarfs and men as valiant of those of Gondor were beyond existence or recall.
THE END