Title: Keep It Secret

Author: Adalanta

Email: adalanta14@yahoo.com

Rating: PG

Characters: Merry, Pippin

Categories: Drama, Angst

Summary: After the battle of the Black Gate, Merry begins to notice that Pippin is acting strangely and is determined to find out what is wrong with him. But secrets are kept for a reason…and oaths are not easily broken. Movie verse. NO SLASH.

Disclaimer: Merry and Pippin are Tolkien's.

Author's Note: My deepest thanks to everyone who has reviewed. I appreciate all of your comments and your encouragement. Thank you very much! Well, this is the final chapter, and all is revealed – finally. Please take a quick second to let me know what you think and if you liked the story as a whole. Enjoy!

Keep It Secret

Chapter Four: The Truth Revealed

Pippin let out an agonized shriek and collapsed to the ground, cradling his right hand awkwardly in the crook of his left arm while curling his left arm around his right.

Merry watched in shocked disbelief and horror as great, big tears squeezed out from beneath tightly clenched eyelids and rolled down cheeks that were now deathly pale. For a brief moment, the only sounds in the tent were raspy, gasping breaths interspersed with short, panicked cries as the young hobbit tried to draw in air through lungs near paralyzed by excruciating pain. Time slowed – each second frozen in time, sight and sound crystal clear in terrifying detail.

Then, the timeless moment ended, and Merry was on his knees in the short grass, holding his beloved cousin in a firm yet cautious embrace. Pippin's head soon rested in Merry's lap, though he seemed not to realize it. Gently stroking the mass of curls with one hand, he left the other wrapped around the tweenager's stomach, all the while murmuring reassuring words to comfort the distraught hobbit. "Shhh, it's all right. It's okay. Breathe, Pip. Come on, take a deep breath. I'm here for you. Shhh, shhh. It's all right."

Even as he continued to soothe the writhing ball of hobbit in his arms, part of his mind was busy trying to figure out what exactly had happened – No, what I did, he added bitterly, gorge rising up in his throat – to cause the tweenager such terrible pain. I swear I didn't pull hard on his hand. What happened? Could I have hurt his shoulder? His elbow? Or was it hurt before? What's wrong with him? He wracked his mind, quickly going back over the past few days, recalling each instance of odd behavior and examining it in greater detail.   

And then he understood. It wasn't Pippin's shoulder or his elbow.

It was his hands.

Suddenly, everything made sense: Pippin's awkward handling of his knife and fork at luncheon, his not holding on to Gandalf after he'd collapsed, why he had not returned the Wizard's hug. He had missed catching the apple, not because he could not, but because he would not – it would have been too painful for him. Merry cringed as he remembered how he had grabbed Pippin's hand and pulled him towards the tent to eat earlier that day. No wonder he couldn't use his knife and fork! Oh, why didn't he tell me he was hurt?! I only made it worse!

"Oh, Pip," he groaned, lowering his head, guilt welling up inside his chest like the Brandywine River during a flood. "I'm sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

Slowly (much too slowly, in Merry's opinion), Pippin's cries changed to moans and then faded into occasional whimpers as the young hobbit's pain lessened. The panicked writhing finally stopped, and he settled down against Merry, breathing steadily except for a slight hitch now and then, the aftermath of his sobs. For a while, the older hobbit said nothing, allowing his cousin some time to calm down before he asked anything else of him. He knew more now than he had before, but there was still much he wanted to learn, not the least of which was what exactly was wrong with his hands and how it had happened in the first place. Lost in his thoughts, he continued to comfort the tweenager, the gestures so familiar to him that he hardly realized he was still doing it. At last he noticed that Pippin had grown still beneath his hands. Wondering if he'd fallen asleep after such a painful ordeal, he asked softly, "Pippin?"

A weary sigh answered him.

He hated to ask the young Took to move when he was clearly exhausted, but he had the feeling that the conversation he intended to have might take a while. He wanted both of them to be comfortable during that time. "Ah, so you are awake," he went on as if Pippin had spoken aloud. "I hate to ask this of you, Pip, but, well, can we move to your cot? The grass is still a bit wet, you see, and soon my pants will be damp in a rather embarrassing place."

The form in his arms shifted slightly, and a low moan filled the air as Pippin attempted to sit up on his own – a difficult task as both hands appeared too sore to be of much use. Merry quickly moved to assist and within a moment, the injured hobbit was standing, albeit rather shakily, with his cousin's help and moving towards his own bed. Merry was relieved to note the rumpled covers – certain proof that Pippin had followed Gandalf's advice and had taken time to rest upon returning to his tent. It gave a true insight into the young hobbit's condition. He must feel truly awful to have rested in the middle of the day without someone there to keep him still. He never did like to take naps, even as a child. Too much to see and do, I suppose, he mused. Helping him carefully up onto the bed, he hesitated only a second before hopping up to sit beside him on the coarse, gray blanket.

The brief silence that followed was filled with thoughts and words formed and then quickly discarded. Once again, Merry was stumped about how to approach the matter with the small figure beside him. Pippin sat silent and still, staring down at his hands now lying palm up in his lap. Merry, too, stared at the black clad hands, and only then understood why Pip had so strongly refused to take off his gloves.

Pippin had been using the thick gloves to hide what was wrong with his hands.

The revelation floored him. He thought back to the last time he'd seen his cousin without gloves – when they'd said their tearful goodbyes in Edoras. Surely he hasn't been hurt for that long, he protested, refusing to believe that he could have overlooked his cousin's suffering for so many days. "Pip?" The name sounded loud in the silence of the tent.

"Yes?" The exhausted, rough voice bore little resemblance to its normally fair tones.

"It's your hands, isn't it?" Merry asked quietly. "Something's wrong with your hands."

This time Pippin did not answer verbally, just nodded his head a little at the question.

Stomach twisting a bit more with each un-Pippin-like answer, Merry was forced to swallow hard before speaking again. "Can I look at them?"

Pippin gave a sort of half-laugh, a harsh noise that only drove Merry's fears to a higher level. "You are looking at them," came the sarcastic reply.

"No," he countered firmly, "All I can see now are gloves. I want to see your hands."

The young hobbit actually blinked at that and finally turned to look Merry in the face, his green eyes striking against the bloodless skin. Pain, fear, and resignation crossed his face before he looked back down and wordlessly began to take off the black gloves. He started with the tips of his left fingers, tugging slowly at each one, and winced heavily as he pulled the material all the way off of the hand revealing a bandaged palm. Then, after taking a deep breath, he repeated the same procedure on his right hand, pale features pinched, but this time an involuntary whimper escaped between his white lips. Clenching his teeth against the pain, he gradually loosened the sable cloth from one finger and then moved on to the next, slowly working the glove off his hand. By the time he started to pull the glove over his palm, his face was beaded with sweat, and he was breathing heavily, wincing with each and every movement of the black cloth. He made a sound somewhere between a relieved gasp and a pained moan as the glove finally came off with one last determined tug.

Merry gasped at the sight before him. Pippin's right hand was almost completely swathed in bandages, the white linen wraps starting at the base of his palm and extending to the tips of his middle three fingers. "Oh, Pip!" Merry cried, unable to keep the horror from bleeding into his voice. "What happened?"

Pippin kept his gaze on his hands, staring at them like he'd never seen them before. "They're burned, Merry," he said flatly. "I burned them."

"Burned?! What? How? When?" He sputtered, completely shocked. Burned…that was the last thing he would have guessed. "Pippin, what happened?"

"I used them to put out a fire," he said simply, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Merry gaped. "Why?"

"…there was nothing else to use."

"Now, hold on a minute," Merry ordered, more confused than ever. He shook his curly head, trying to make sense of the conversation thus far and failing miserably. "I don't understand. What do you mean, 'there was nothing else to use'?"

"There was no time," Pippin answered in a distant voice, staring sightlessly at his hands. "I had to put the fire out."

The older hobbit watched his cousin carefully, noting with alarm the absent voice and unseeing eyes. This was not the first time he'd seen someone act this way, so far removed from their body, their mind completely caught up in past events. Frodo would often appear far away when speaking about the deaths of his parents and the terrible days that had followed. Gandalf had gotten the same look when pressed about his time at Isengard as Saruman's prisoner. It had always been unnerving to say the least, but now…He was scared for Pippin. For his hands, yes, but most of all for his mind. He swallowed at the thick lump in his throat that threatened to choke him, afraid to ask the next question…and even more afraid of Pippin's answer. "Why did you have to put the fire out?" he finally asked.

"Because…he was burning."

The hushed words left Merry reeling, but Pippin wasn't quite done yet. "I thought he'd be safe once I pushed him off the pyre, but I was wrong. His clothes were on fire and the flames…they were spreading so fast." He raised his head and fixed his distant gaze on the tent in front of him. "There was no time to think. If I'd waited, he…he would have…I wasn't going to let that happen. Not to him. He'd suffered so much already…" His words trailed off.

Not certain what to say, Merry waited quietly for his young cousin to continue. The image in his mind grew more detailed with every word that was spoken, but he still didn't know who Pippin had saved, or what exactly had happened. It tore at his heart to see Pippin so withdrawn, but he knew better than to interrupt. There are times to talk and times to listen, he told himself, and, though it took every ounce of self-control he possessed, he remained silent.

"I…I can't…" He blinked rapidly, and a look of fear crossed his pale face. "It was so hot…and loud…the flames roaring and crackling…and the smoke so thick that I…it was hard to breathe…"

The distant, remote attitude was gone now. Pippin grew more agitated as he went on, eyes growing wide, seeing only the terrifying, vivid memory that replayed itself before his eyes. "But he wasn't moving. He j-just lay there like…like he was – but he wasn't. He wasn't!"

Suddenly, Pippin twisted his upper body to the right and truly looked at Merry for the first time since he'd begun to explain things, fury staining the colorless cheeks and darkening his voice. "How? How could he do that? How could anyone do that? He knew he was alive! Even now, I can't – b-believe – " Tears began to stream unheeded down Pippin's face, and he swallowed hard, visibly trembling from the emotions coursing through his small body. "How could he try to kill his own son?!" he choked out and then began to sob. 

Merry reached out and pulled his trembling cousin into his arms, holding on to him tightly, too stunned by the ghastly story to speak. Rocking the distraught hobbit back and forth, he murmured softly to him, reassuring him with his steady presence, but made no move to stop his crying. How could he when he felt his own cheeks dampen with tears? He still had no names but in his heart, somehow, he already knew, and the mere thought made him physically sick, his stomach twisting so hard that he thought it'd lose its contents. Who else could have affected Pippin this much but Faramir, brother to Boromir? He remembered the Took speaking of Faramir in glowing terms – of his bravery, loyalty, courage, and honor – and knew that he held him in as high regard as he'd held Boromir, despite the short time they'd known each other. And if what he suspected was true…Shock was not a strong enough word to describe what Merry felt.

As the sobbing, huddled form leaning against him started to calm down, Merry finally spoke, his words hushed, forcing himself to keep an even tone. "Pippin…who was on fire?" It was important, he knew, for Pippin to say it out loud – the first step to facing and accepting what had happened.

"Faramir," the tweenager whispered, shuddering violently. "Denethor…t-tried to burn F-faramir…alive."

So it is true, he moaned, closing his eyes and hugging his cousin even closer to him. He rested his head on top of Pippin's soft curls and sighed deeply, feeling nearly as weary and drained as he had when he'd woken up in Minas Tirith. Try as he might, he could not wrap his mind around all that Pippin told him. He could not understand what would drive a man to kill his son – his own flesh and blood. After a few minutes of struggling mentally, he came to a conclusion…and a simple one at that.

There was no understanding.

Better to leave it at that, he decided. No sane Hobbit would ever try to kill his child and from what I know of Men they're the same. Denethor must have been crazy.

Moments later, Pippin repeated his thoughts aloud and in a shaky, tearful voice, slowly recounted the events of that horrible night. The telling was quite an ordeal for the small Guard of the Citadel, who had to stop several times when it became too much for him. During that time, Merry would hold him close and wait for the tears or shivering to let up.

"After it was all over, we…well, Gandalf, really, thought it best not to speak of it," Pippin sniffed, straightening up and using his left hand (which was less burned) to carefully wipe his tear-stained face with Merry's handkerchief. "We swore not to tell another person about what had happened with Faramir and – and Denethor. No one should have to live with that…knowing that your own father tried to kill you. He was so sick …I don't know how much he remembers."

"He'll have to be told sometime, Pip. You can't hide something like this forever. He'll want to know how his father died."

Pippin winced, the thought obviously never having occurred to him. Shoulders slumping in defeat, he nodded wordlessly and gazed down at the cot.

Merry watched as the Took fiddled nervously with the borrowed handkerchief, the bandages covering his small hands making the movements awkward and slow. He frowned slightly upon realizing that Pippin had not yet told him about his injury other than how it had happened. "And what about your hands?"

"My hands?" he shrugged, glancing over at his cousin. "The burns aren't that bad. Gandalf took care of them after…afterwards. He thought it was a good idea to keep my gloves on, that they would help protect them more than just the bandages."

And keep other people from noticing it, Merry mentally added. "Was that all Gandalf said?" he asked, remembering the White Wizard's words outside his tent earlier that day – "If you had only done as I asked…" That rascal, he's still not telling me everything.

"Well, no." The young hobbit literally squirmed on the cot for a minute before he admitted quietly, "Gandalf tried to get me to stay back in Minas Tirith – to give my hands more time to heal, he said." Pippin rushed on as Merry opened his mouth to protest. "But they didn't need it, Merry, honest! They were a bit sore, of course, but nothing bad enough to keep me from going. And besides," he added, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Gandalf was the only one who knew about it, so he was the only one who could take care of them for me, and how could he do that if he was here and I was back there?"

The Brandybuck considered that for a moment and was reluctantly forced to admit that Pip was right. Then, as he thought about, it suddenly dawned on him what Gandalf had been doing, what he'd been hiding from him. "Pippin…Is that why you went to see him after luncheon?"

Pippin nodded again. "He wanted to soak my hands in some medicine that he'd brought along and to change the bandages. He did it right before we set out, but they need to be changed every day or two. And it's, well, quite hard to do it myself, as you can imagine."

Ah, so that explains the tear-streaked face, and why he looked so ill when he came out of Gandalf's tent. "Are they healing? I mean, are they going to be all right?" he asked anxiously as he picked up Pippin's right hand and examined it closely.

"They're fine, Merry," Pip said shortly, allowing his concerned cousin to look over the hand for a few seconds before carefully pulling it out of his grasp, ignoring the glare that followed. "I admit that fighting a battle with burned hands wasn't the best idea I've ever had, and yes, it did hurt – quite a lot actually. But the reason I…Well, the reason my hand hurt so badly when you grabbed it was because Gandalf had just treated them, and they tend to be quite tender for several hours after he's done. Something to do with the medicine he uses, I think. I'm not exactly sure."

"And the fighting didn't make them worse than they were?" Merry narrowed his eyes at the ensuing silence that followed the question. Crossing his arms, he stared intently at his cousin, waiting for an answer, and finally interpreted the heavy silence as an admission of guilt. "I thought so. Pip, what am I going to do with you?"

Pippin heaved a little sigh, looking first down at his bandaged hands and then back up at Merry, his gaze more serious than ever. "I know that you're mad at me for keeping this from you, and if I was in your place, I would certainly feel the same way. But you must understand why I did it. I couldn't tell you about my hands without telling you the rest because you would have wanted to know how it had happened and…"

He paused, his voice trailing off as he thoughtfully touched the White Tree of Gondor embroidered on his black tunic, his left fingers feeling the smooth material on his chest. "I swore an oath, Merry," he continued softly, "and I wasn't about to break it – not for myself…not even for you. I've messed up so many things since we left the Shire – The Prancing Pony, Weathertop, a-and Moria," his voice fell to a whisper at the mention of that dark, terrifying place, remembering the heartache of Gandalf's fall. He blinked quickly, but not before a single tear escaped his damp eyes and rolled down his cheek. "But not this time. This time I was going to do it right – no matter what. This was too important." 

Gazing at the young hobbit beside him, Merry felt a swell of pride rise up within him, warming his heart pleasantly like a mug of ale warms the body on a cold winter's night. "Pippin," he shook his head and instinctively hugged the sable clothed hobbit, utterly amazed by the selflessness, bravery, and loyalty he had seen. As he held the familiar form in his arms, he closed his eyes, picturing the carefree, boisterous tweenager that had left the Shire with him so many months ago, his arms laden with cabbages and carrots, his lilting voice bright and cheerful despite being chased by a furious Farmer Maggot. A part of him knew that that Pippin was gone forever, pieces of his old life scattered along the path from the green hills of the Shire to the remnants of the Black Gate…and for a long, dark moment, he grieved at the loss, his heart and soul aching fiercely.

Then the darkness lifted as he remembered who it was that he held in his arms. This new Pippin had been tempered and reshaped by the events he had gone through, but had not let it destroy him. Instead, he had grown stronger and more determined than ever, shown himself to be a dedicated soldier older and more serious than his years. It was a startling change. Not necessarily bad…just different. 

Things will never be the way they were, he decided, resting his chin on Pippin's soft, chestnut curls for a moment before reluctantly pulling away, but then, why did I ever think they would? How can they, when we've changed so much? 

Silence reigned in the tent for several minutes as each hobbit sat lost in his own thoughts. Sounds drifted into the tent from the Men outside – the lively conversations between the soldiers of Gondor and Rohan, the harsh grinding of notched weapons being resharpened, the muffled hoofbeats of a single horse walking between the rows, and the occasional snap of canvas when caught just right by the wind. They were the common, everyday sounds of a military encampment, and yet… To Merry, they were the sounds of continued life and hard-won freedom.

They were the sweetest sounds he'd ever heard.

Finally, Merry broke the silence. "Pippin…about your hands…" He paused, waiting until he had eye contact before continuing. "I wish you would have told me about it when it happened. But…I understand why you didn't. And I want you to know that, I'm very proud of you and of what you've done."

"Really, Merry?" Pippin asked, the tips of his pointed ears turning pink while his face glowed with pride, a curious mix of embarrassment and delight that was uniquely Pippin.

"Really, Pip," he nodded, and then, grinning widely, he threw a companionable arm around the thin shoulders. "Now, what are we going to do about all of that food?" He gestured to the table and the heavily laden plate that sat patiently waiting. "I don't know about you, but I'm starving! Do you think you're up to eating, or shall I be forced to finish all of that delicious food by myself?"

Seconds later, both hobbits were sitting at the table, cheerfully fighting over who was going to get the last apple as Merry cut the meat slices into smaller pieces that were easier for Pippin to pick up with his injured hands. Merry smiled, enjoying the sound of his cousin's voice, that melodic Tuckborough accent that he had not heard for so many days, and all the while, he wondered about what was going to happen next and what the future had in store for them. And then there was the matter of this new Pippin sitting across from him. I'm going to have just as much fun getting to know this Pippin, as I did before when we were growing up. And one thing's for certain, he added wryly. With Pippin around, things are bound to be interesting.

The End