SWEET DREAMS
Bag End, Solmath, 1420 SR
It's not enough to know that you are somewhere nearby. I need to feel that closeness, that tangible feel of companionship. Alone in this room I feel the shadows hemming me in, taunting me: shadows I thought I had drowned in the sunlight and starlight of triumph and glory. But it comes back to me, viciously, vividly, the long trek south and west from Parth Galen. I remember the sickening reek of decay that emanated from the uruk who carried me on his shoulder. I remember his coarse, leathery clothes grating and biting into my skin. His grip threatened to break my arms, his grunt echoed in my nightmare.
And I remember Grisnakh: his long, crooked fingers feeling me, searing me with loathing and anger where they touched my skin; his breath, foul and suffocating, close to my face; the glitter in his eyes stabbing me with pure terror, the likes of which I had never felt. It was the first time I met evil so close and real, the first time I was reminded of my vulnerability, my mortality. Escape seemed improbable and help unlikely and death loomed dark and sinister over me.
A tremor runs through me and I whimper, looking at the walls painted with swaying shadows of the rowan tree outside my window. I am safe, within familiar rounded walls once more. But all I see are the grassy plains of Rohan, where I lay shivering on the ground, looking into the leering promise of unspeakable torment in Grisnakh's eyes, and weeping in silence for the Shire I thought I would see no more.
Yet the Shire had been saved, hadn't it? And I have come home. Then why do I feel so lost tonight? Lost, and alone.
It still feels odd to be inside a smial again, after long months of sleeping under trees, under stars; after the dream-like weeks spent within rooms too angular, too high-ceilinged for my taste. The bed, all fluff and warmth and my size, feels peculiar. Everything feels funny. The only familiar things are you, Merry and Sam. Do you feel this way too, Frodo, as though you have come home to a different smial, not the one you left behind? As though the long, devastating journey—the journey that is now over but lingers still with us—is the only thing that is real, and the rest: home, family, friends, are nothing but dreams; fleeting, though sweet and pleasant.
I need to be with you, Frodo, and feel anchored by your presence. I need to feel at home, truly home, so I can sleep and rest. I gather my pillow and blanket and trot to your room. I don't even need a candle to light the way. I know all the turns I have to take to find your room at the eastern corner of the smial. I know what table, what cupboard and what shelves I have to watch out for so I won't stub my toes and bump my head and raise the entire smial by my unearthly howl. I know the exact way to turn the door handle so it won't squeak loud enough to wake you up.
Or I thought I knew…
It's as if you weren't asleep when I came in. You jerk and sit with a gasp, staring with large, panic-stricken eyes at the door, when I push it open. In the pale light of the fire you look so small, like a child jolted awake by a violent nightmare. I freeze by the door, uncertain.
I know your sleeping habit is…different now, Frodo. Hadn't I heard enough of your incoherent mumbling that rapidly crested to a desperate scream, in Gondor, in Rivendell, all the way home? Didn't I notice the dark circles around your eyes that spoke of nights spent in frightened vigil against apparitions that to you seemed even more palpably real than the down covers and cloud-like pillows that surrounded you?
But I thought coming home could cure you of them. I thought returning to your own bed would finally allow you the sleep, the deep, restful sleep, that you've been deprived of. I was wrong. It breaks my heart to see you so scared and helpless against the demons that haunt you. But what can I do? And here I am by your door, hoping I can lean on you the way I did in days long past, wishing to re-discover the secure haven that I always found in your room, in your arms, in your calm, steady voice.
"Pippin!" you sigh with obvious exasperation. "What are you doing here?"
I wither and melt under your gaze. I can't be Peregrin the lordly of the Battle of Bywater. I can't be Peregrin the grim who rode to the battle in Morannon. I can't be Peregrin the bold who escaped the uruks to drop the leaf-shaped brooch for Aragorn to find. I am but Pippin, your much younger cousin, shivering and frightened in the shadowy doorway; your mischievous little Pippin, running scared, chased by the night. It's the only role I can remember with any clarity now, stripped bare of all pretense of courage and daring.
"Are you with someone, Frodo?" I ask solicitously. "I do not wish to intrude."
You laugh; a hollow, bitter laugh. "Very considerate of you, Pippin, to inquire about that after bursting in without so much as a knock. Fortunately I'm alone. What's the matter?"
I step closer, and sit on your bedside. I wish could be witty; I wish I could be jolly. But I tremble with a concealed sob and it is all I can do to keep my voice level as I ask, "Can I sleep here tonight?"
You lift an eyebrow and tilt your head, a concerned little smile teasing the corners of your mouth. "What is it, Pip?" you ask. "Your room not good enough for a Knight of Gondor?"
Oh, Frodo! I take your hand and look into your eyes, begging you to stop the present: the Knight of Gondor and the gap between your fingers that make it painfully impossible for you to answer my grip. Stop it now. Let us be cousin Frodo and little Pippin of old. Just for tonight. Just for now maybe we can pretend the quest has never been.
The exasperated yet teasing sparkle drains from your eyes and they glow now with warm concern and love.
I shake my head slowly. "Please," I beg hoarsely.
You quietly nod and squeeze my hand, then shift to make room for me. I put my pillow beside yours and lie down, and only then realize that I am shaking. I turn away from you so you will not see the tears of shame and pain running down my cheeks. You pull a blanket around me and gently, awkwardly, almost hesitantly, run your hand through my hair.
I close my eyes, but sleep escapes me. It used to be easy, falling asleep. When we were together---what with the long march and the knowledge that sleep was a precious thing: rare and easily broken by guard duty---it was the easiest thing. As was being brave, being strong. There were Gandalf, and Aragorn, and Boromir, and Legolas, and Gimli. And there were Merry and Sam, and you. I couldn't let all of you think that I was still Mummy's little puppy; I couldn't let on how scared and depressed I was; I couldn't let you all see how young and vulnerable I felt. But you know me, Frodo, don't you? None of those fancy mail-shirts and swords could ever hide the real Pippin from you. You know me.
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