Bag End, Solmath 1420 SR
I look at your hand lying on the covers. Can you tickle as viciously as you used to with nine fingers? Can I help you remember how?
"Do you know why I came here?" I ask timidly.
"Nightmare, what else," you reply half-heartedly.
I shake my head.
"Why then?"
"There is a beast under my bed."
You pull a face. "Pip, you're too old for this!"
"Humor me."
You sigh and roll your eyes. "All right. Does it have two feet?"
"Yes."
"Two hands?"
"Yes."
"Wings?"
"Yes."
"Beak?"
"No."
"Tail?"
"I'm not sure. Never looked at its behind."
"Cheeky. Horns?"
"Yes."
"You can't have a beast with both wings and horns!"
"Oh yes, I can. Go on. Fourteen questions to go."
"Is it green?"
"No."
"Blue?"
"No."
"Yellow?"
"No."
"White?"
"No."
"Black?"
"No. You're being lazy."
"Red?"
"Almost."
"Pink?"
"Exactly."
"What?"
"I count that as a question."
"Pippin, that's not fair!"
"Six to go."
"Does it roar?"
"Usually."
"A pink winged-cow?"
"Cows don't roar. They moo."
"Does it eat hobbits?"
"Raw or cooked?"
"Raw."
"No."
"A pink winged troll?"
"Trolls have no horns."
"A pink dragon?"
"No. You lose. It's a blushing Balrog."
You groan and, as I predicted, turn to tickle me ruthlessly. I let you. I could've run, I could've wrestled you easily, but I choose not to. I am thirty and you're nearly fifty-two, but we roll on the bed, screaming and shouting, like a couple of toddlers.
"No more beasts under the bed!"
"No! No! Stop!" I beg.
"Especially not lame, blushing beasts!"
"I promise! Stop, Frodo, please!"
You pull
your hands off me, leaving me panting and weak from laughing.
"How's this … there is a vegetable under my bed!" I gasp.
With a yell you dive and attack me again.
"It's … curly … and … white … and wr … wrinkled …!"
"I said stop! Stop!" you order between peals of laughter.
"It's an aging broccoli!" I shriek, giggling hard. "You're … you're … you're no good at losing, are you?"
You stop suddenly, staring down at me with eyes dripping pain and horror, your hands poised above me. Nine fingers, twitching, trembling.
You move back and lie down, pulling your blanket around you.
"I'm tired of games, Pip. Go to sleep." You turn to face the wall.
No. Don't. Don't turn away from me. I've pulled you from those grisly memories; stay here. Stay with me. I need you.
I stretch out beside you, staring at your back, defiance rising in my heart.
Don't think I can be that easily thrashed, cousin dear.
"I don't think you're tired, Frodo," I mutter, with as much scorn as I can muster. "You're just lazy."
"Shut up, Pip, or I'll feed you to your blushing Balrog in the morning."
I grin in the semi-dark.
"He really prefers aging broccoli."
You groan and pull the pillow from under your head and pile it on top of your ear.
I peel the corners of the fluffy pillow and whisper in your ear, "Good night, cousin mine. Sweet dreams."
You mumble something under the pillow.
"What's that, Frodo?"
You lift the pillow a bit so it won't muffle your speech. "If the ceiling leaks, you get to move the feather bed."
"What?"
You chuckle lightly under the pillow.
It's a beautiful sound, your laugh. Maybe there is still hope for you. For us.
***