None of these are mine...they belong to JRR Tolkien alone, and it is as it should be. Slightly AU, obviously, but I've tried to stay true. Also, I have no beta, so any mistakes are mine alone. If you see an error and would like to let me know, I'd be pleased to fix it. Please read and review.
He could see the glow of starlight on the river, hear the keening chirrup of crickets in the reeds as he walked along, hands in his pockets. He pursed his lips to whistle but thought better of it. Better not to disturb the sounds of the evening, better to let the night wend its way through the Shire as it had for longer than his recall. He smiled as he remembered long midnight tramps with Merry and Frodo at the Smials, tripping lightly across the stone bridge over the ravine, watching the rabbits play tag in the newly cut fields. He could taste the sweetness of the water from the well, tapped deep and cold from the good Shire earth. He could feel the cool summer breeze that followed the sunset of a lengthy summer day. He could see...
Darkness...
Pippin woke with a start, struggling for a moment with his blankets, staring about wildly, willing his eyes to adjust to the gloom. Then recall rushed over him...the Houses of Healing...he was in Gondor...
Giving a little mumble of protest and blinking sleepily, Pippin rose from his nest of blankets on the stone floor and stepped to an overlarge bed, in which his cousin was sleeping. He gave a grimace, reminding himself, "No, not just sleeping..." He pulled a thick woolen blanket to Merry's chest, tucking it tight, and stared at the pale, waxy face of his kin and best friend. Merry's hair was lank with sweat, and plastered over his forehead. He looked as poor, if not worse, as he had when Pippin found him in the tunnel underneath the gates. He blanched at the memory of poor Merry, retching and heaving, convinced that he was dead and on his way to his own burial.
Pippin gently brushed a curl away from Merry's eyes, his heart wrenched with fear. Long hours had he passed at Merry's bedside, bathing his forehead and coaxing healer's potions past Merry's pallid lips. For a time, Merry rolled his head from side to side, murmuring in a dream, delirious and unheeding. But as evening fell, he stilled and a gray pallor seemed to creep over his face, shining wet with the cold sweat of fever. Despair threatened to crush Pippin, and he laid his head across his cousin's chest, listening for the reassuring beat of Merry's heart, slow and steady. The rise and fall of Merry's breast lulled him back into sleep, with a tiny voice murmuring in his head, "dying...dying...dying..."
That was how Gandalf found him, draped across Merry's chest, sleeping the deep sleep of the embattled soldier. There was a crease in his brow, and his thin mouth was pursed and frowning. "Peregrin," the wizard whispered, in a voice gentle but coarsened with age and weariness. The young hobbit lifted his head, his hair standing on end, his eyes squinted against the light of the Gandalf's torch. "You must go to rest. You can do no more for Meriadoc now..."
"What?" Panic raised Pippin's voice to a near squeak, and he clutched at Merry's limp arm. His heart was hammering and a lump rose in his throat. "He's not..."
"No, lad, he is not dead. He is gravely ill, but not dead." Gandalf encircled Pippin with his long arm and led him away from the bedside. "But you need food and rest yourself. It does you no benefit to linger here and neglect your own health. I have one hobbit to care for, and I do not need another." Pippin nodded, looking back at Merry for a moment, then he stumbled over his own feet as he stepped into the corridor. Gandalf gestured to a near chamber, where there was laid a meal of roasted chicken, hot, thick stews, breads and cheeses and fruits. Pippin's stomach rumbled suddenly, making Gandalf raise his hand to hide a smile. Pippin clambered into a chair and served himself large portions of all the dishes, spooning the stew into his mouth with a little mumble of pleasure. Gandalf sat across from him, produced his pipe from the folds of his robe, and set to filling it.
"What is going to happen, Gandalf?" asked Pippin around a mouthful of coarse bread and honey. "Why won't Merry wake up? And the White Lady?"
Gandalf puffed his pipe in silence, concentrating on the glowing embers and watching smoke wisp toward the carven ceiling. He did not know how to tell the hobbit that his cousin may well never awaken, and if he did, he would likely never be the same hobbit again. "Well, Master Took, I cannot say what will happen," he finally said, after a deep and throaty sigh. "To strike a Nazgul is to risk deadly hurt yourself, and this was not just a Nazgul. This was the Lord of the Nazgul, the Witch King of Angmar, that your cousin and the Lady Eowyn dared to strike down. He was very powerful, an ancient necromancer and king. Their bravery is not without consequence, and they have taken grave hurt."
Pippin put down his spoon and stared into his bowl. He took a deep, steeling breath. "I know I have other duties now, Gandalf, duties to Gondor. But I need to be with Merry. He shouldn't be alone." Gandalf looked at him with sad and gentle eyes.
"Yes, Peregrin. You should go to him. In this time, perhaps the love of a friend can give him the strength and hope that he needs. But you must not neglect your own health. You must remain sound and strong, so that when the time comes, you can serve Gondor as you pledged." Pushing his chair back, Gandalf took Pippin by the hand, and together they walked in silence back to the bower where Merry lay. As they entered, they found Aragorn bending over Merry's bed, his face grave and weary.
Fear stabbed at Pippin and he rushed forward, crying "Poor old Merry!" For it seemed that years had settled upon Merry's face. His skin was gray, and lines of sorrow and time were etched upon his brow. Pippin was reminded of another face, the grief-filled visage of Denethor as he slumped upon his throne, clutching a cloven horn. Aragorn laid a hand on Pippin's shoulder, and the strength of it calmed Pippin's wildly beating heart, as if with Strider there, nothing bad could happen to Merry.
Aragorn knelt at Merry's bedside, and looked at him long. He laid his hand upon Merry's right arm, testing the temperature, flexing the fingers, bending the elbow. He probed at Merry's shoulder, inspecting the color of the skin. He then rested his hand upon Merry's forehead, pushing the curls away with his thumb. Sighing deeply, he sat back on his heels and shut his eyes. In the fading light of the day, he seemed suddenly to Pippin as an aged man, stooped with time but full of wisdom. One of the healers laid at Aragorn's side a bowl of steaming water, upon which he cast a crushed handful of kingsfoil. He dipped his hand in the bowl, then drew his dripping fingertips gently over Merry's eyelids, murmuring under his breath. Pippin shut his own eyes, breathing the cleansing scent of the athelas, feeling it fill him with hope and new energy.
For a long moment Merry did not stir, but then his chest heaved in a deep, shuddering breath, almost like the rattle of death in the chest of an old man. His eyelashes flickered once, and then eased open, the pupils dilating to a pinprick in a sea of blue. He blinked once or twice against the dying light, focused upon Gandalf's face, then let his eyes rove the room and rest on each face in turn. For a moment, Pippin feared that Merry did not recognize them, but when Merry's gaze fell upon him, a small smile quirked his lips and his eyes creased a bit at the edges. But then, as though stricken by a blow, Merry's head dropped back to the pillow and he shut his eyes, tears glistening upon his lashes.
Pippin started forward, again fearful, but Gandalf stopped him with a glance that was both reassuring and daunting. The wizard laid his hand upon Pippin's shoulder, and stooped to whisper in his ear, "Why don't you fetch your cousin some dinner, Peregrin." Pippin nodded wildly and hurried from the room, for he feared losing control of the sob that was threatening to burst from his throat. He stumbled blindly into the dining chamber and began loading a plate high with food, trying not to think of the pain in Merry's face. A plate slipped from his hands, shattering upon the stone floor. As he stooped to gather the shards, tears dripping from his chin onto the pieces of pottery, he heard bootsteps behind him and dashed at his eyes, thinking to himself, "Steady, Pip...Soldier of Gondor, Tower Guard...Steady, show your worth."
"Peregrin." Gandalf's voice was quiet. "He will be all right, Pippin." Gandalf knelt at his side, removing the remainder of the plate from Pippin's hands. "He will long remember this battle, and his grief and loss. Pain will plague him for a long time, perhaps forever. But he needs you now. He has always been your strength, and he has brought you through the trials of the journey, protected you. He now needs you to protect and care for him." Pippin nodded silently and snuffled a bit, not trusting himself to answer. Instead he handed a plate of food to Gandalf and they walked slowly back to Merry's chambers.
Aragorn was at Merry's side, holding his hands and speaking quietly to him. He bowed his head, bumping his forehead to Merry's, and said gently, "May the Shire live forever unwithered." He then lightly kissed Merry's forehead, smoothed his hair with a gentle touch, and stood to leave. At a look from Aragorn, Gandalf gathered his pack and together they left the room, pulling the heavy wooden door shut behind.
Pippin dragged a chair to Merry's bedside and rested the laden tray of food across his cousin's legs. Merry attempted to grasp the spoon, but his right arm was fairly well useless, and even his left arm was weak and tremulous. Making no mention of this, Pippin steeled himself, and began to feed Merry, the cousin who had done the same for him many a time when he was a babe. The irony did not escape him. As Merry ate, Pippin tried to remain lighthearted, chatting about the goings on of Minas Tirith, occasionally dribbling hot stew on Merry's chin, just to prod him.
As Pippin scraped the last of the potatoes from the plate, Merry nodded toward the corner. "Where is that leaf? And get my pipe out of my pack, if it isn't broken." Pippin nodded, spooning the last bite of stew into Merry's mouth. Merry sighed contentedly, shifting to sit a bit straighter in the bed. Pippin rummaged in the pack for a moment. He came up with a pouch of leaf and tossed it to Merry, but it bounced off his chest and rolled across his injured arm. Pippin flushed.
"I'm sorry, Mer, I forgot."
Merry shook his head and smiled. "It's all right, Pippin. My pipe should be wrapped in the front pocket of the pack." Pippin located it and returned to Merry's side. He sat on the chair, but Merry scooted over to make room for him on the bed, smiling an invitation. Pippin settled in next to him, careful not to jostle his injured arm, and set to preparing the pipe. He gently shook pipeweed into the bowl, inhaling deeply of the earthy aroma, and took an extra moment to tamp it down perfectly with his thumb. "That would be a pipe even your old da would be proud of, Pip," said Merry. Pippin ducked his head to hide a blush of pride, and dug around his pockets for a flint. With a practiced hand he lit the pipe, puffed once or twice to make sure the weed was burning, then placed it in Merry's left hand. Merry grasped it awkwardly, hand trembling slightly, but he managed to get it to his mouth without spilling it.
"Take care, there. If you set your bed alight, Aragorn might decide he's had enough of you and not come to your rescue," admonished Pippin. Merry grinned, held the pipe a little tighter, and took a deep pull at it. He sighed a bit, shutting his eyes and smiling.
"This, my dear cousin, is what I've been waiting for since yesterday." He smiled wider, and puffed again.
Pippin paused. "I've been waiting for you, Merry, for a lot longer than yesterday. I didn't know what to do without you. I was just a bit of luggage bumping along behind Gandalf, then deserted here in Minas Tirith with nobody to talk to."
Merry laid his head back against the carven bedstead, his face growing serious. "It's funny you should say that, Pippin, because I felt the same way. When Gandalf spirited you away, I didn't know what to do. I wasn't sure that you would be all right, after what happened with Saruman's palantir. I was afraid that the illness would come back upon you and Gandalf wouldn't be able to bring you back. There I was, with King Theoden, and Aragorn, and Eomer, and all of those great men. And I was just a hobbit. I think they may have left me behind at Isengard if I hadn't spoken up. They may have forgotten I was even there. I felt like a piece of baggage myself, and I missed you terribly." He paused, and a sudden sheen of tears slicked his eyes. "When you found me in the tunnel, I could scarcely believe it. I was so happy to see you, but part of me felt that perhaps I was dreaming, because I had begun to think I should never see you again."
"I was frightened when I found you there." Pippin grasped Merry's right hand, inspecting the fingers, feeling with relief that the icy chill had begun to recede. "I was excited to see you, but then you were ever so sick. I was afraid you would die. And then I really would be alone, with Sam and Frodo off in Mordor, and Gandalf running all over Gondor. And if I ever did get back to the Shire, I would have to explain to your mum and da that...that I hadn't been able to see you home..." Pippin started to sniffle.
"Oh, Pip," sighed Merry, lowering his pipe. He ducked his head to look Pippin in the eye. "No matter what happens, we started this journey together. And I'm not going to allow them to separate us like this again. You and I are going home together." Pippin nodded, dashed at his eyes, and patted Merry's still cool right hand. Merry started to speak again, but was interrupted by a cavernous yawn that he did not have the energy to cover. Pippin smiled through his tears and took the pipe from Merry's slackening fingers. He tapped the smoldering embers into the cooling bowl of kingsfoil that Aragorn had left behind. The smell of the pipeweed mingled with the scent of kingsfoil, the smell of clean soil and soft athelas. Pippin felt warm all over and his eyelids grew heavy.
He looked down at Merry, who was drowsing, fighting to keep his eyes open. Pippin carefully pulled the coverlet over Merry's chest, tucking his arms under the heavy blanket the way he remembered his nurse doing for him when he was ailing. Merry soon lost his battle with weariness and his eyes fluttered shut. Pippin watched as Merry drifted into deep sleep, the furrow in his brow softening and the lines around his mouth fading. Pippin ran his fingers over Merry's forehead, brushing his curls away from the lashes that fringed his cheeks. He again made sure that Merry was well tucked under the quilts, then blew out the guttering candles on the night table. Merry gusted a sigh in his sleep, his face pallid and pasty in the moonlight. Pippin took a long look at him, and at the brown scar upon his brow, understanding with a pang that to this visible scar had been added an unseen one in Merry's heart.