The Green Book

Being the memoirs of Meriadoc Brandybuck

(with interruptions by Peregrin Took)

Chapter One - Since We Were Very Young

SR 1484

Brandy Hall

"Well," Pippin says, in that voice that tells me he would just as soon voice an opinion, but is showing great forbearance so as to spare my feelings. He gives the large volume resting atop my desk a gingerly poke for good measure, as if the thing might somehow be shamming dead, and could come to life at any instant, to the cost of one's fingertips. "You weren't thinking of...?" He falls silent, and for long minutes all I hear is the heavy tick of the mantelpiece clock just behind me, the crackle of the library fire and the leaden thud of my own heartbeat.

I cross my arms over my chest in an attempt to dull the sound--to my own ears, at least--but Pip only shakes his head at me.

"For someone who looks nothing at all like Frodo," he tells me, "you looked exactly like Frodo just then." He mutters something else beneath his breath, but one would need to possess elf-ears to determine what it was.

"The book was a gift." I try clearing my throat, but it doesn't help; the great lump is still there, and my voice sounds odd.. "From Frodo. On his last birthday before..."

"Ah." For just a moment, my cousin's eyes flash up at me, green as the book's dappled cover. "Before." Neither of us wants to say, "Before he went away forever." This economy of words isn't really like him but, at the same time, it's hardly necessary for Pip to actually state his thoughts: I read it all in that glance; in the tilt of his shoulders, in the caress of his fingertips on the soft leather.

My poor, dear Merry, he means to say. After all this time, can't you put it to rest? Can't you leave it alone?

"Frodo told me I should write in it. My own words. I've been..." How can I explain to him that the thoughts, the feelings, the dreams over which I have no control rise in me now like the Brandywine in Spring Flood, stronger than they ever were on all those nights I woke to Estrella's hand on my shoulder, or stroking my cheek, her gentle voice in my ears, telling me, "It's all right, now, Merry. It's all right. It's over now."

"I've been a long time getting there," I finish up quietly.

In the old days, I was the one who never cried. Once, not long after Frodo had gone, Samwise asked me how it was that I could kiss my cousin goodbye, watch the boat sail off, and never shed a tear? How I could ride home from that parting with a song on my lips? For the life of me, I can't remember what I told him--certainly nothing that made much sense. Perhaps that the songs were only a dam to hold the tears away?

I no longer know if that is true, or WHAT is true, except that I've come to understand, I think, our dear Ringbearer's need to seek peace on that distant white shore, while at the same time missing him every single day since. I miss Sam now--solid, trustworthy, stouthearted, wise Samwise. And I miss my Estella, who slipped away from me in the Winter of 1482 (the same year Sam lost his Rosie, and he himself left the Shire).

Two years now, or near enough, and I still expect to come upon my sweet and patient wife bustling round some corner of the Hall, a list in her hand, hair-ribbons flying. I'll often wake feeling Estella's warmth in our bed and stretch out my arms for her, only to find the empty space. She was, for me, the essence of the Shire itself: the deep roots; the tilled earth; the long, soft summer days.

I find myself all but rootless now, nearly ready to run off down the road like Bilbo, without a pocket-handkerchief, following the first itinerant wizard that comes along--and the truth is, I felt that way even before the message came to me, by what circuitous route I can scarcely even guess, all the way from the plains of Rohan.

The missive had been written out on fine parchment, in a well-schooled (if somewhat tremulous) hand, with the fair and courteous words usual to such a communication, all of which came down to this: Eomer King wished to see Master Holdwine again.

And what did Master Holdwine wish? Oh, so many things they can hardly be listed: to ride out once more into the wide world and feel the wild wind in his face; to look upon old sights both sad and joyous; to talk and laugh and drink with old friends. To set down all the events of his life within the covers of a book given to him by a beloved cousin he would never see again, so that, perhaps, in the end, they might all make sense to him.

What he doesn't want, most emphatically, is to grow old and foolish by his own fireside, never having accomplished any one of those things.

But giving way to such thoughts can only lead to his shameful secret: he can't go without his Pippin, and he can't be so selfish as to ask his Pippin to come along.

Pip clears his own throat, loudly, in an obvious bid for my wandering attention--wearied, no doubt, by my gaping at him for such a long time, with such a stupidly stricken expression.

"You know, Merry," he tells me, after a slight pause for effect, and with what I can only believe is a deliberate thickening of his Tooklish accent, "I can't think that someone so very elderly as yourself should attempt this...story...on his own. At your age one is bound to get things upside-down and hind-side-to." Pippin says this, as he's said all such outrageous things over the years, with the green sparks dancing in his eyes, and the little crinkles at their corners--with that smile that curls up only the corners of his mouth, even as it lights his face entirely. "Someone...er...rich in wisdom." He's close to making himself laugh now, as he comes around the desk toward me. "And...ahem...suitably energetic."

My eyes are brimming, but I can't help but laugh along with him, even if it is a poor sound. My Pip. My wonderful wise Pip, playing the fool for me.

"Master Meriadoc the Magnificent," Pippin teases. He's quite close now, scarcely an arm's length away, and for all his ninety-four years, his face is as bright and full of mischief as ever it was. Not for the first time, I wonder exactly what change those Ent-draughts of so long ago wrought in us (besides stretching us to our unusual heights). We are old, but not aged--it's remarked upon wherever we go.

"Thain Peregrin the First," I respond, rough-voiced, though with great effort at solemnity.

However, I'm utterly unable to hold the pose--not with my Pip. I end up ruffling his hair, as I've done perhaps a million times since we were lads, and pulling him close with one arm round his neck, to plant a kiss upon his brow. Pippin rests his head upon my shoulder, just as simply and as comfortably as he has always done, the warm weight of him no burden at all, tendrils of his ever-flyaway hair tickling my cheek.

"Oh, Merry," he sighs, as his arms reach out to circle my waist. We hold each other close for the longest time. Then, "I believe you're standing too close to the fire. There's a distinct smell of singed wool."

I laugh again into his still-silky curls, even though my eyes have long since passed beyond the stage of feeling merely wet--and although I suspect that he might be right about my over-nearness to the study fire. Still, I don't move, not until Pip steers me away, three steps, as if we were dancing.

"There, now," he murmurs, breaking away from our embrace only enough to see into my face, his expression changing as he takes note of the tears. "Oh, Merry," he breathes again, in a tone both amused and tender, "You CAN stay here to write your silly book, you know. You needn't be like Bilbo and go away forever."

I try hard as I could to blink them back, but the tears spill over my lower lids in great profusion, and all of a sudden I can't bear to be looking so closely at my Pip, watching those moss-green eyes grow shadowed with concern. I turn my face, but Pippin's hands, rough now with callus, yet as gentle in their touch as I remember my mum's being, when I was quite small, rise to turn it back again. His thumbs stroke the tears from my cheeks.

"Silly Merry," he tells to me, in that voice with which I never could argue. "Of course I'll go with you. Whatever did you imagine?"

I shake my head violently, but again Pip holds it still. When had he got so strong? Years ago, it must have been, but have I only just noticed? I try to argue with him, even manage to articulate a word or so, of which "Thain" and "Faramir" are the only ones I can remember. Pippin merely continues to hold me.

"Merry," he says at last, patiently, when I've spluttered to some sort of halt. "Don't quarrel with me. You know you can't win. Foolish Brandybuck." He steers me backwards, in another--for my part--awkward dance, until I sprawl into one of the overstuffed armchairs set a bit back from the fire.

For a few moments he's busy across the room. Though I'm too blinded by emotion to see what he's doing, I can guess well enough: there's a clinking of glass upon glass, and a liquid sound. We are Hobbits, and we know such moments must call for something to eat or drink, or perhaps a quiet pipe shared between friends. Sure enough, Pip quite soon wraps my fingers round a cup, then drags up the footstool to sit before me. His toes brush mine, curling into the fur, and I laugh --he's done that since we were very young, absently, without thinking. It's a gesture I find comforting, without knowing why.

"That's better," he tells me softly. "That's my merry Merry."

I laugh again, a small hiccough of sound.

"No more tears, my dear," he says, and rests one hand softly upon my knee. The other raises his own cup, and Pip's eyes close as he savors the good red wine. "Merry! This can't be the 1420!'

"Hmn," I respond, finally imagining I might recognize my voice as my own. I sip, holding the flavor on my tongue: the warm crimson taste of sunshine, and youth.

"You know," Pippin informs me, after a pause. "Honestly, you're no better at holding in a secret than Frodo ever was. Though at least I don't catch you traipsing all over the Shire, murmuring, 'Shall I ever look into this green valley again?'" Pip shakes his head, laughing. His impression of our departed cousin is flawless, and I marvel, not for the first time, at the way he can speak so easily of Frodo, when for me to do so is a knife-thrust to my heart--and even imitate his voice, with such perfect clarity after all these years.

"How long have you known?" I manage to ask at last, though only after I've downed a good half of my wine.

"Oh, I've read it in your face a long while now," Pippin answers. "Every time you've looked at me, you brows draw all together, with that little line between, and your mouth turns down--which can only mean that either I've been turned into a troll without my knowledge, or you're asking yourself, 'However will I tell Pip?'" He pauses for a healthy swallow from his own cup. "My sweet, silly Hobbit, even Sariadoc has noticed. He's no fool, for all that he's your son."

What can I say to this? Pippin takes another drink, a little of the laughter leaving his face, though none of the kindness.

"You wouldn't go without me," he says. A statement of fact.

I shake my head. "Not so much wouldn't as couldn't."

Pip has his pondering face on. "We should let the king know we're coming. Both the kings, actually. And there will be a great many papers to get through before we depart. I'll expect your help with them, you know. It's the least you can do, under the circumstances." He tips up his cup, catching the last drops of the 1420 in his mouth. "I'll like seeing Minas Tirith again. And Edoras, I think. And I won't miss being Thain, you know, so put that out of your mind. Faramir is more than ready to take on the job."

"He'll miss you," I say quietly.

"And I will miss him," Pippin answers, setting his cup down by the hearth and moving to a perch on the arm of my chair, "For I love him dearly. I love the Shire dearly, as well." His fingers twine gently in my hair, and I tip back my head to see his face better, so familiar, so beloved. "But you are my Merry," he concludes, "and that's all there is to it."