In His Worst Nightmare
pippin
In his worst nightmare he was standing in the House of Steward, helplessly watching the flames wrapping themselves greedily over a standing figure on the stone table. He would see a glimpse of Denethor's gleaming eyes plunging sharp and icy-cold into his heart. …oath-breaking with vengeance.
Then suddenly the writhing figure on the table was no longer Denethor but Merry: his agonized shriek rose above the loud crackle of the burning wood, his face a rigid mask of pain behind the curtain of dark grey smoke. "Pippin! Help me!"
But he could not move. He could not run and pull Merry down from the ring of fiery death. And this do I hear, Denethor son of Ecthelion, Lord of Gondor, Steward of the High King, and I will not forget it…
"I'm sorry, Merry," he sobbed aloud. "I'm sorry."
But Merry had gone and in his place there was Gandalf, standing erect, staring down at him with sadness and reproach, the fire creeping up his white robe in a jagged line of black and orange-red. He had half expected the wizard to spit out the words "Fool of a Took!" but Gandalf said nothing, though his eyes eloquently spoke of his disappointment.
He fell to his knees, choking in the fume and tasting his own tears on his trembling lips. "No, no…" he repeated in a reedy whisper.
Swear to me now!
He raised his face, feeling the sharp tingle of the heat penetrating into his skin. The heat waves distorted his vision, but he could see Frodo behind the wall of fire.
"No," he groaned beseechingly, crawling closer to the stack of blazing wood. "Not Frodo, please… Not Frodo…"
Frodo gazed at him sadly. Please, Pippin the older hobbit mouthed silently. Please.
The air was full of ash and cinder; he coughed and choked, his tears fell in an endless stream down his scorched face. I am scared his lips moved without a sound.
He saw the frightened young face of Bergil, dark eyes locked trustingly with his own. You will save me those eyes told him. I know.
Here do I swear fealty and service … He crawled to the black shiny ball that lay in a forgotten corner of the chamber.
… to do and to let be …
He closed his eyes and took a deep, searing breath.
… in living or dying …
He placed both of his palms on the smooth surface of the sphere.
So say I, Peregrin son of Paladin of the Shire of the…
The Eye reared from the foggy depths of the black orb, filled his entire range of vision and drove spikes of fire into his mind, kindling his blood. The pain made him howl, and he writhed on the ground, begging for the mercy he knew would never come forth.
…halfling…
A hideous, malicious lust coiled itself around him, strangling him. What do you want, halfling?
Let them go.
What can you offer?
Myself.
The derisive laugh set his nerves ablaze. I have no need of you. And with that a river of flame surged from the seeing stone and swallowed him before he could utter another word.
…oath-breaking by vengeance.
He woke with a start, in a knot of sweat-dampened sheets and tear-soaked pillow. His throat felt tight and dry and he wondered if he had cried out in his dream. He pulled on a robe against the chill air and went to the kitchen for a cup of cold water.
After gratefully pouring the water down his aching throat, he sat at the table and only then realized that his hands were shaking.
Was this Denethor's way of exacting revenge for his traitorous act in Minas Tirith? But Denethor released him from the Steward's service before commanding the servants to bear Faramir to an untimely death by fire in the House of Steward.
Still, he did persuade Beregond to violate his oath as a soldier and he did cause blood to be spilled in the hallows of Rath Dinen, good enough reasons to earn the wrath of Denethor should he remain alive and learn about all his impertinence and provocation. …oath-breaking by vengeance. There used to be a time when he thought he was too clever to be frightened by apparitions, ghouls and all manner of ghostly beings. But after the Ringwraith, after Barrowdowns… He shivered involuntarily and pulled the robe tighter around him.
His eyes traveled to where his fingers clutched the edges of the robe. It was one of Frodo's that he left in Crickhollow for when he stayed over on his infrequent visits to Buckland. The fabric had the soft, downy feel of clothes that had seen a lot of wear; the hem and collar appeared slightly frayed, but it still retained its deep green hue, and the embroidered initials of Frodo's name still stood out in shiny black on the left breast. Trust Frodo to choose for himself only the best in garment, simply because he loathed all the fuss of buying them and expected whatever clothes he had purchased to last a lifetime.
He smiled in fond memory of his cousin as he walked back to his room. He did not remove the robe but instead climbed to bed in it, pulling it closer about him, before piling covers and blankets over himself. Thinking of Frodo helped cast aside all lingering terror of his nightmare and he was smiling when sleep claimed him.
He dreamed again of the sound of galloping ponies, running through woods already tinted with the red and yellow and brown of autumn, Merry riding in silence beside him, the hood of his elven cloak pulled over his head. Merry had known Frodo longer, grown up with him in Brandy Hall in fact. The loss would be harder for him.
But he also could not remember when he was not in love with Frodo, when he was not happy beside the much older hobbit, when he did not worry over Frodo during the Quest, when his heart did not ache to see how reclusive Frodo had grown after their return. With a shaky hand he twitched his hood up to hide his own tears and spurred his pony to trot faster. The woods were silent.
They spoke little until they arrived in the Grey Havens in a dizzying rush of tears and laughter. Frodo held Merry and stood on tiptoes to kiss his taller younger cousin. Merry clung to Frodo for a long time while Frodo gently stroked him on the back, murmuring words only Merry could hear, until Merry released him with a sob.
He bowed his head to let Frodo kiss him on the brow. Farewells were altogether too painful and he wished he could say something flippant and cheerful. But "I love you, cousin" was the only thing he could whisper when Frodo pulled him into an embrace.
He closed his eyes and let his senses drink in this last image of Frodo. The feel of Frodo's hair brushing against his cheek. The soft flapping sound of Frodo's cloak in the wind. The fistful of Frodo's velvet coat. The warmth of Frodo's body in his arms. Frodo's clean, sweet scents. Frodo's hands around him, pressing him close. Frodo's caressing voice as he whispered "My Pippin. My unquenchable sunshine." Frodo.
"Be brave for me, my Pippin lad," whispered Frodo—staring into his eyes—when they let go of each other.
"I will, cousin," he promised in earnest, his voice quivering. Frodo smiled and gave his arm a gentle squeeze before moving on to Sam.
And so it was that he started a merry Gondorian dancing song when they rode back toward Buckland along the East Road. Merry gave him a look that plainly showed he was contemplating whether to cuff his Took cousin on the head for being misguidedly lighthearted, or hold him close by way of gratitude, but in the end he only heaved a philosophical sigh and joined in when the song warbled into the second bar.
When Merry came to wake Pippin in the morning, he found his younger cousin mumbling snatches of a Gondorian song in his sleep; he was smiling, but there were tears on his cheeks.
A/N: Some of the lines were taken from the chapter "The Steward of Gondor" in The Return of the King.
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