#13 Nightmares
Pippin used to get them when they were younger, and Merry would always be willing to stay up late into the night and cuddle the hobbit as he cried. They had stopped for a while, but on the journey they began again, and every time Pippin woke from one of the dreams he'd hear his cousin's voice at his elbow, "You're okay, Pip. Go back to sleep. You're okay." And somehow, after that, he was.
Meriadoc Brandybuck opened one eye and immediately shut it again, willing the figure next to his bed away. When, two seconds later, his eyes opened again, he sighed and sat up, "What, Pip?"
He loved his little cousin. Everyone in the Shire knew that. The two often spent weeks together, forgetting which house actually belonged to them, swapping clothes and sisters and secrets like tradable items. But Merry really did prefer Pippin in the daytime, after the sun had been up for a decent interval and he'd eaten first and second breakfasts.
Pippin was a lot to handle sometimes, to say the least.
But now, the six year old was at his bed, looking so pathetically small that Merry, as always, couldn't resist petting the dark red, curly hair sprouting from the top of Pippin's head. It was only then that he realized the tiny hobbit was crying, and crying in earnest.
Merry couldn't stand it when Pippin cried. His cousin Frodo, who was ancient at nearly twenty and would know of such things, said that, really, he shouldn't fall over himself so much, and a good cry once in a while was actually good for small hobbits, especially Tooks, who were known to be quite the sensationalists.
But Merry didn't have the heart to deny his cousin anything, and, humming distractedly to himself, he picked up Pippin in one arm. He'd noticed, last summer, how much bigger he was than Pip, and had been quite disconcerted by it until the Gaffer assured him that hobbits usually grow at Merry's age, around ten, and if Pippin was still barely over a foot tall…well, he'd grow, eventually, or stay tiny like some of the Proudfoots, who never reached two feet. Either was respectable, if you were a hobbit.
The house breathed with the sighs of Pippin's sisters, his parents and two dogs. It was dark, as Pippin slept in the nursery at the center of the house, and Merry slept with Pippin when he visited. In the blackness, Merry fumbled to set Pippin upright on his knee, but eventually both boys were perched in a way that made them happy, if not completely comfortable.
"Mewy, 's vewy dawk," Pippin lisped into the silence, and Merry held him close and continued humming. All hobbits knew how to hum, and to sing, as music was one of their great pleasures. Merry was not a particularly good singer, but Pippin, even at his young age, was excellent, with a high, sweet soprano that made their girl playmates sigh with jealousy, wishing their voice sounded that pure.
His humming eventually got Pippin to stop shaking, though Merry knew the sobs which racked the boy's body would stop only with sleep. Pippin, active imagination that he had, was subjected to frequent nightmares, no less than three times a week, and Merry often comforted him in the quiet hours of the morning.
"Do you want a story, little Pip?" Merry asked, hoping to tease the boy out of this awful silence, or, if that didn't work, to distract him until he was once again consumed by sleep.
Usually being called 'little' would have worked Pippin up to a lather, until he was screaming and spitting that he was normal sized, and Merry wasn't so big, really. This would inevitably lead to a wrestling match that turned to tickling, and Pippin would be mercilessly pinned beneath Merry until Frodo, tasked with keeping half an eye on them most afternoons, tore them apart and told them to go bother Sam in the garden if had so much energy.
At night, though, Pippin cowered with fear of…oh, everything it seemed. Fear of the dark, and spiders and mice. Fear of things far away, like the Big Folk and dragons and a huge lake of water called Ocean. He would recount these fears, one by one, if Merry tried to tease his nightmares out of him, and work himself up into a fright all over again.
No, the only thing to do at night, when Pippin was upset and Merry was feeling like a very poor cousin indeed, was to tell a story, and then perhaps, if Pippin was still awake, to sing.
"Which story do you want?" Merry asked, and felt, rather than saw, Pippin shrug against him, hands clutching Merry's under-shirt.
"Okay then…" Merry thought for a second, then gathered a deep breath. He wasn't the best story teller. In fact, Frodo and Sam both told much better stories than he, and Pippin would, too, if he didn't lisp so and remained focused on his story. But Merry could keep track of plots and characters, weave interesting tales, even if he didn't talk quite so earnestly of battles and mountains and mist hanging in branches of elven-trees.
"Once upon a time there was a hobbit, and he was a respectable hobbit, for he grew to almost three and a half feet tall and threw excellent parties." Pippin loved parties, and went to as many as he could, even if he snuck in. He would inevitably drag Merry along with him, but they were never reprimanded, primarily because the only thing hobbits liked better than going to parties was throwing them, and, after all, more really was merrier.
"He ate every one of his meals, and spent most of the day either cooking or eating, though he did tend his garden, so that his mushrooms were always fresh." Food was never far from any hobbit's mind, particularly Pippin's. "He never read from books, preferring to listen to stories his cousin would tell him at night when he couldn't sleep." Merry felt Pippin's smile against his stomach and continued, rubbing the child's small back.
"He spent his evenings on long walks that brought him all over the Shire, but never farther, for he never understood why one would ever want to leave such a beautiful place. But this hobbit lived right in between Tookland and Buckburough, and often went into Hobbiton and even, if he was feeling especially brave, down into the Old Forest."
Both hobbits agreed that they would never want to leave the Shire, ever. The world, according to Uncle Bilbo, was such a big, loud, hasty place, and neither boy had been fond of adventure. Sam liked tales of elves and woods, and Frodo always listened, wide-eyed, when Bilbo spoke of races of men and dwarves, peoples hobbits scarcely remembered, but both Merry and Pippin were content in the Shire, weren't tempted by tales of battles and fortresses and Kings. Who needed them, when you had such a slow, calm, familiar life here?
"This hobbit," Merry continued, noticing Pippin begin to calm in his arms, "Lived to be over a hundred years old. He had a whole host of nephews and nieces, but no children, for he never really liked girls." Merry laughed as Pippin stuck out his tongue. Pippin, at six, saw girls, especially his sisters, as cackling, loud, boring folk who never had any fun, and why would he ever want to marry one of them?
"And when he died during second breakfast, his last thought was that the mushrooms were very good, and he should pick some more before teatime." Pippin laughed at that, and Merry hugged him, glorying in the innocent sound.
"That how I is gonna live, Mewy!" Pippin declared, as Merry eased him onto the bed so they were on their sides, hugging to keep from falling out of the tiny bed.
Merry patted Pippin's hand, "You're going to grow very old and never have a single adventure?" He questioned, though he believed it. That was the dream of every hobbit.
"Yup! An' you is gonna be wit' me, an' we won't ever go away!" Pippin sighed contentedly, burrowing himself into Merry's arms, "Pombise?" The small boy mumbled, not waiting for the answer before he fell asleep, still smiling.
"Yeah," Merry murmured, "I'll be with you. We won't ever go away." He paused, hugged the child tighter to him, "I Promise."
Thanks to everyone who reviewed the first chapter! There's going to be one-shots like this between all the chapters, whichever drabble ya'll like best, basically. So please review and tell us!