Can I reach you with my voice?
Can I reach you with my words?
Can I reach you with my dreams...
(Noa)
***
By the time they dismounted and entered one of the large tents where the injured were being treated, Merry had learned that Pippin had been brought here, though Legolas had volunteered no further details and he had asked for none, fearing the answers might cause him to lose his hold on the fragile hope he had allowed to start growing within himself. Thus, the ride had passed in a strange, strained silence.
Apparently, Legolas had been sent away before he could gather more information. Merry hushed the little voice inside his mind whispering that maybe the elf didn't want to tell him more.
But that didn't matter. Merry didn't want to let go of his positive thoughts. His worst fears had been wrong, Pippin was back, he hadn't died on the battle-field, as Merry had thought. Many others had been lost, but they had found his cousin! Merry's spirits were high, almost enthusiastic and his strides were longer and swifter than ever. He felt that this keenness might well be looked upon strangely, but fate couldn't be cruel enough to have Pippin found for him and then taken away again. It simply could not. Smiling brightly, he strode on.
Subconsciously, though, he felt fear driving his mind to an almost desperate exhilaration.
When Merry entered the area shaded by long white curtains, he had to stifle a grin. It looked strange, ridiculous. Pippin was almost swallowed by the huge white pillow and the covers. Pleasantly enough, though, Merry noted, they had chosen a bed almost Hobbit-sized in altitude, taking into account the Halfling's fear of heights. Pippin rested comfortably, as though sleeping, only the mop of curls was visible from where Merry was standing now. A radiant smile touched Merry's lips. He took tentative step forward, eager to get to Pippin's side. His heart was ready to burst. The faint scent of athelas in the air only managed to heighten his joy even more. So Aragorn had called Pippin back as well, like he had done for Merry himself. Just knowing that his best friend was there made him happier than he had ever been. A few more steps, and he would be able to see his cousin fully, he would stand next to the bed, and Pippin would open his eyes, and he would smile, and . . .
Someone coughed uneasily, and Merry looked around at the others in the tent.
Aragorn and Gimli stood vigil at the foot of the bed. Legolas slowly strode to stand next to the dwarf and exchanged a quick glance with the ranger.
The moment Merry saw Aragorn's eyes, the smile died on his lips.
This wasn't right. The ranger looked pale and overwrought, almost haggard. Why didn't Aragorn seem happy? Pip was here, he was well, why . . . He noticed Aragorn giving the elf a barely visible shake of his head. Merry's gaze flew back to Legolas. He had seen that expression on the fine elvish features before. When they had left Moria and Legolas had helped him to his feet – the elf had carried the same, anguished expression of a grief too deep for words.
Merry's steps dragged to a stop half way between the companions and his cousin. Suddenly, he wasn't all too sure if he wanted to come any closer to the bed in which Pippin rested. He couldn't sense his cousin. The aura which was usually so powerful that Merry was able to sense it sometimes when Pippin was asleep, was gone. Fear constricted his heart in a cold, iron grip.
The usually refreshing scent of athelas burned in his nostrils.
Dwarf and elf looked at the man, an expectant plea in their eyes.
The tall ranger drew a shaky breath and closed his eyes briefly, as though steeling himself. Merry could see that he failed. He saw tears welling up in Aragorn's exhausted eyes - a sight that scared Merry more than he could tell. The ranger had never been the one to openly display his emotions. Eyebrows knitted together, Aragorn reached out a hand for the Hobbit at his side, a helpless gesture in this far too stifling spot in the pavilion.
"Merry." Aragorn's voice broke and Merry knew. Knew with a certainty. Like a sudden, vicious blow to the stomach, reality crashed down on him. It was really here. The moment he'd been dreading most, but had prayed would never come.
He couldn't breathe, couldn't feel his body. Everything grew numb. Icy cold. Merry swayed slightly when the darkness closed in on him.
He tried to take a step towards the bed, then hesitated. He didn't want to lose that last picture of his cousin, before the battle, snuggled next to him like the little brother he had always been to Merry, his breathing even and deep. He didn't want that picture to be replaced by the nightmarish one he was about to see.
Tremors ran through Merry's body. He needed to get closer. One step closer. He couldn't. But he couldn't stop either.
Finally, his feet carried him to the bedside. He looked at the face, marred by cuts and bruises, barely recognisable. Underlying all those wounds and bruises, there was a ghastly paleness to his cousin's skin, showing through under the closed eyes.
Merry almost expected Pippin to open those eyes and wink at him, to see the usually so vibrant features shape into one of those charming smiles. But Pippin's features were utterly, unnaturally still.
Of its own accord, Merry's hand reached toward his cousin, but stopped just before it touched Pippin's face.
"No," he whispered. "This isn't true." Merry threw a pleading glance in Aragorn's direction. "It cannot be true. Please. Tell me this is a dream."
Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see Gimli taking a step forward and Legolas stopping him with a hand on the dwarf's shoulder.
Merry turned back to his cousin. His hand still hovered just above Pippin's cheek. He mustn't touch the lad. Pippin would be in pain if he . . .
"Wake me up, please. This cannot be true," Merry whispered, pleading.
His hand moved to hesitantly brush Pippin's curly bangs out of his eyes, careful of the injuries. It was a gesture so common to him. He had done this countless times since Pippin had been born, sometimes soothing, sometimes teasing. But now – what now? Merry's touch was light and gentle, not wanting to hurt the younger one. It took him a while to understand that in the place where his cousin dwelled now, there was no more pain.
Darkness closed in on Merry when he ran his hand through his best friend's baby-soft curls, now matted with perspiration. No more would Pippin protest that he was too old to have his hair ruffled. No more . . .
"It is my fault."
It was a statement of utter agony.
He moved his shaking hand away from Pippin's hair and balled it into a fist. "Why did you have to grow up just so that you could die . . . ?"
Merry never would have expected be able to feel this much pain. His world had shattered in pieces too numerous to ever be put together again. It had started with the loss of Boromir. Then his dear friends Frodo and Sam. Theoden. Each of those losses had torn out parts of his heart and soul. And now Pippin. He could not cry. The task of remembering how to breathe was almost beyond his powers.
Breathing. In and out.
There was no other sound.
Breathing.
In.
How much pain could a single person take without falling apart completely? How much more could he stand without going insane?
Breathing.
Out.
Without the only thought being how to follow the ones he had lost? For follow he knew he would – a soul which was torn so severely as was his, could not survive.
Breathing. There was nothing but this sound.
How much?
Where there should have been feelings, there was nothing, just pain, like an overpowering, icy knife thrust into his heart - pain that was unending, and at the same time accompanied by an empty loneliness that was unbearable and incurable.
What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he cry?
In a last desperate attempt to regain the forever lost nearness, Merry found himself bending down and laying his head on his cousin's slim chest. It was still warm, just as though he still lived. Merry could smell the clean, energetic smell that was all Peregrin Took. Somehow, there was still a bit of the baby in this scent - the baby Merry had watched grow into a lively, cheerful tweenager. But Pippin wasn't breathing, wasn't reacting to him. There was no sudden poke in Merry's ribs, showing him that his cousin was awake. No small hand gently squeezing his shoulder to assuage his grief as Pippin would have done.
As much as Merry wanted it, nothing happened, aside from the fact that the pain suddenly swept over him like a tidal wave.
Merry sank into a heap next to his cousin and something broke loose inside him.
The scream that flew from his lips was filled with guilt and anguish and anger. All the pain he had kept deep down inside of him since the candle had died was released into this scream.
He wanted to cry so desperately. His eyes hurt and his head ached from those uncried tears, but they wouldn't flow. What was wrong with him? Why couldn't he even cry for his best friend, cousin, his . . . brother at heart?
Pippin was gone.
Forever.
Dead.
There would be no happy end, no triumphant song like at the end of Bilbo's story, no "small hero finds his way back and lives happily ever after". Nothing. There could be no happily ever after . . . not without Pippin there to share in it . . .
Nothing was left to Merry but emptiness and a lifetime of sorrow and guilt. He felt numb. But at the same time his heart ached so much that he believed it would stop beating any moment.
If it only would.
"Merry?" The sympathetic tone of the dwarf's usually gruff voice was unbearable. "I'm sorry. It took me too long to find him . . ." There was so much torment in those words.
Still, Merry couldn't see past his own grief. Raising his head from his cousin's chest, he turned tearless, anguished eyes towards Gimli and shouted: "He never should have gone with you at all. You should have protected him!" His voice rang sharp and cold through the tent.
His gaze followed the sound of his own words, seemingly still ringing in the height of the pavilion. It was then that he noticed that none of the candles surrounding Pippin's bed was lit. None of the candles in the tent had been, he realised suddenly. There was no light except for the cruel, uncaring sunbeams penetrating the white hangings.
Uneven breathing. A face, mask-like, not showing emotions. Merry wasn't sure if the dwarf was angry or trying to hold back his own tears.
Merry looked at the youthful face of his cousin, marred by bruises and encrusted blood, waxen and lifeless.
"It was your responsibility! He was but a Hobbit, the smallest among you. How could you fail to protect him? How could you all fail?" He threw glances of the deepest accusation at the big people around him. At that moment, it didn't matter that Pippin had freely chosen to go. It didn't matter how much Merry belittled his cousin's bravery. The glaring white pain suffocated the voice of reason.
His gaze fastened on Aragorn, a raging fire burning in it. "You," Merry spat out. Then the anguish in Aragorn's eyes registered and Merry's anger drained away, and he was left with the onslaught of the tears finally welling up. "Why did you come, you and your athelas plant? Every one of my kin who was on this quest is gone. I have lost them all! What was the use in bringing me back from death when now I am the only one left? What was the point? Why did you sentence me to live?"
Hanging his head, Merry rested a hand on the rough material of Pippin's grey shirt. Grey. It had never been his colour. It made him appear much too grave, too solemn for the quirky Hobbit he was.
How many times had Merry heard the steady beating of the heart now silent under his fingertips? In the nights when Pippin, barely more than a toddler back then, visiting his Buckland relatives, had woken up from nightmares, and had crawled into his cousin's bed, allowing the older one to comfort him. The little heart had beat fast at first, still noticeably concerned with the dreadful images of the nightmare, images only seen by children, lost to the more sensible minds of adults. Then slowly, after a lot of hushed words and soft caresses of the curly head next to Merry's, the thumping had slowed down, until the quiet breathing of the wee Hobbit and the heart-beat had become the perfect duet and only then would Merry allow himself to drift back to sleep as well.
Now there was nothing. The silence was deafening. The utter stillness cut into his soul.
He shouldn't have expected it, but a part of him had hoped, had hoped so desperately that maybe this time he was the one trapped in a nightmare and he would wake up to the steady heartbeat, like he had done in those nights when they had been children.
"Do not leave me alone." The desperate plea floated through the athelas-spiced air.
TBC