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By: Dana
(aka, Five Things That Might Have Happened to Merry and Pippin)
I. outside the house at Crickhollow Merry goes out into the yard, lantern in hand, and Pippin follows after. The light is unsteady, flickering, and the creeping fog is damp, almost sticky as it clings, and cool. And Pippin follows after, as though chasing after the distant flicker of dancing fairy light, and not once – not once – does he speak – well, what could he say? But that leaves silence, breath and faint footsteps, and the far off sound of a late-night bird's piercing cry. Pippin has no idea how far they go, only that they've left Crickhollow far behind. Then Merry opens a door, and it creaks on worn hinges. The inside of the shed is the pleasant warmth of living things when compared to the emptiness of night-chilled air – almost as pleasant as the house had been, though not near as cozy as the bed. "Here I thought you'd stay and look after Sam while he tended breakfast," Merry says. He hangs his lantern on a hook and then goes and tends to the first of the ponies (one with dark eyes and a smooth coat, dark nut-brown from nose to tail), and Pippin watches him. Pippin supposes, though he's not thought of it much, that the enormity of what they're doing – what they're embarking on, for Frodo's sake, whether it be nothing more than a grand would-be adventure or ends up being something more, or so he likes to think – hasn't struck him, at least not yet. Nor has it struck Merry, but Pippin knows Merry, and knows that he's thinking on it, at least. "I needed the walk. At least I know I won't be going back to sleep." Pippin yawns behind his right hand, and Merry chuckles, checking over the straps and fastenings as he saddles the second of the ponies. "Fool. Shall you help me, then? No, I'd rather you not." "Good. I'd rather sit and watch." And Pippin does watch, though he doesn't sit, standing to the side instead and rubbing still-chilly hands, as they seem reluctant to warm. The third pony is saddled, the fourth, and then the last, and then Merry wipes his sleeve across his brow. He turns, and his gaze settles on Pippin, but he doesn't speak – not for a long moment, at least. Pippin only knows because he's counted, the seconds soft against his tongue as it taps against the roof of his mouth. He doesn't know why he does it, either. Maybe it's just that he's thinking too hard - And Merry says, just as Pippin's thinking it, "You're thinking too hard." A faint nod, and Pippin feels his mouth split open as he grins. "Perhaps. It happens." Merry snorts, and Pippin presses on. "Well, it does happen, Merry, and I'd rather you not act as if it's such a terrible surprise." And Merry presses on, too, "No, you're thinking too hard." Merry steps closer, and his fingers take hold of the edge of Pippin's cloak. Pippin tilts his head to the side, and his grin creeps onto Merry's lips, a twitch at the edge and then Merry's mouth is moving, fluid, and he shows off a flash of his teeth. "Only that we'll not have many beds so fine as ours, this last night, on the road ahead." "You'd think of that," Merry replies, but now his grin is fully in place, joyous as Merry's almost-given-name. Merry lets loose his hold on Pippin's cloak, and winds his fingers about Pippin's hands, first his right and then his left. Pippin is the one who sets his lips to Merry's cheek, kissing lightly, very lightly. When he tilts his head, he catches the edge of Merry's gaze, and holds it. "Did you really think it so fine?" "Well, mostly," is Pippin's reply, though he really does think it had been, for all that they'd shared it – well, perhaps that was what had made it so fine. But it had been easy enough to lose himself in Merry, in kisses, in touches, and in skin. "It was a bit lumpy, now that I've given it thought." A chuckle, and Pippin's mouth is on Merry's, light as breath, for all that Merry jerks back as though there'd been a blow. A chuckle, this one nervous when the last had been carefree, and Pippin shakes his head and gives Merry's hands both a tight squeeze, and sets his mouth back against Merry's, not moving, letting Merry feel, and feeling, the texture of smooth, warm skin. When he draws back, it's not without reluctance, and Merry says, "I suppose we'll make do with a bedroll, if we must." "If we must." Pippin feels his grin widen. "And then Frodo'd regret he ever did allow us along." "Not that he could stop us." "Oh, but you do know he'd try – well, try again." Pippin laughs, and Merry does, too, and Pippin presses Merry's hand tighter, lifts it and presses it against his chest. "We'll just have to prove ourselves, then. I suppose I am rather ahead of you, there." He kisses Merry once more, and Merry draws back, shaking his head as he looks torn between grinning even wider than he has, or laughing, like he just had. "Take the lantern, Pip. If you lead, I'll follow after, and we'll make it back to the house – and find out if Frodo's had luck in removing Fatty from his bed." And Pippin only says, "You can always trust to follow after me," before his hands fall free from Merry's, and his left rises up when Pippin has turned from Merry, lifting the lantern free from its hook. Outside, the night is still dark and dawn seems impossible, and Merry follows after Pippin as he walks out into the darkness, with only the lantern's light to guide, holding the baggage-pony by the reins.
II. at Bregalad's ent-house during Entmoot For a moment, the air stifles him, and Pippin looks to the light, pale as though the colour has drained from it, and beyond, where a dark grey sky bleeds out into lighter shades of hue – and the air was lighter about him, too, tastes of the wind that blows quick beyond the quiet, contained safety, of the dell. Pippin wipes with his sleeve across his brow, and turns his head to look at Merry – Merry who, though he is sitting close, seems a far world away, with his head bent and his shoulders hunched. He's thinking too hard, and too much, as he has since they had first come to Quickbeam's house. Pippin has distracted him as best he can, but he's tired – tired, like Merry must be. There's too much going on, and yet they don't how it all fares. Very faint comes the murmur of Entish voices – it's been going on since dawn, or maybe even before, but that had been when the gathered voices had all risen up together in a great clamoring burst, and Pippin had been left unable to sleep, and Merry, too. Merry had thought that they had come to their decision, but that had been hours before, and now the voices have lowered to something that sounds more like a far-off almost-song. More times than Pippin's felt to count, Pippin's almost been lulled back to slumber. He was tired, too tired. But he'd not felt like leaving Merry's side, even if Merry's been acting as courteous as a put-off Sackville-Baggins. Well, Merry's not so bad, really, but at least when they'd been at Derndingle, they'd been able to walk about – the dell of Quickbeam's house is pleasant, but it doesn't seem so prudent to go out wandering alone. Merry, quite suddenly, lifts his head. He's gazing off, and though Pippin can't look him in the eye, he imagines his cousin's gaze is as distant as his back is tense – and that would make it very far indeed. "Merry? Ah, Merry. No good will come of worrying yourself down." "You're likely right, but I can't help myself, Pip. I think – soon. Look at how Quickbeam is listening – and listen to them, yourself," and Merry turns to him, and closes his wild grey eyes, lips parted faintly as he breathes. Pippin watches him, for a moment, but then turns his gaze to Quickbeam, who is tall and slender and bent intently as he listens – and Pippin sees that Merry is right. When he turns to look at Merry (and Merry, with his eyes still closed), Pippin closes his eyes, too. Dark, and warm, and the house smells of wood and leaf and dirt but water, too, clear cold water, and all around him is the steady beat of Entish voice – deep as the roots of the tallest mountains, and more ancient than even the eldest of trees. It might be faint, but it's fervent, too, and it builds itself, slow but steady – low as the rush of a summer wind, that promises a great storm. "See? Well, don't you hear?" Pippin opens his eyes. Merry sits there, tense, and with his shoulders hunched and bent. He looks too old, too worried, and Pippin would like to take something of that away. "I do," Pippin replies, and then he stands, and steps closer, sitting back down right at Merry's side. And he whispers, as though he needs to, when he says, "What all do you think it means? Are they still on their pleasantries, or have they finally moved on to bigger things?" "Three days, Pippin, it's been three days. I daresay they've moved on from that, even for ones so unhasty as they." Merry takes a breath, and his mouth moves as though he plans to speak – but he hesitates, and he looks away, and Pippin finds himself thinking back – and he sees Merry, pale and cold and with blood stark upon his brow, and Pippin puts his hand to Merry's cheek, and that image fades all the way back into warm-smooth-hard reality. Right where they are. Here. "Soon, then, and we'll be back on the move. It'll be good, I know, though I must admit, I've enjoyed this holiday of ours." Merry's too-grim expression melts away into nothing at that, and he laughs, very low and soft, rumbling as he might if he had been a tree. He presses his fingers into Pippin's curls, fingers sliding flat against his skull. "Perhaps, when we're through with all else, we ought to come back." "Oh, I'd like that. Bregalad has been a very fine host." "The finest. I think – " but Merry hesitates once more, and he looks away. Only when Pippin urges him (and Pippin does) does he look back, and Pippin softly, slowly, shook his head, and bent his mouth to Merry's – and he kisses him, right beneath Merry's bottom lip. Too old, too worried. He would take it all away, if he only could. Pippin knows that there's something that Merry wants to say, and knows as well that Merry must wonder what good there'd be in saying it. Pippin thinks a moment longer (and never has he thought through a moment that felt like an age), and slides his fingers back along Merry's jaw, and he sets his mouth to Merry's, kissing him not-at-all softly – so bold, and so sudden, pressing with tooth and tongue as though he would devour Merry's mouth, if he could. Pippin feels the change, though – and knows that Merry's attention has been brought back fully into focus. (Merry's hold had gone slack, had fallen to Pippin's shoulder, but now he brings both his hands to Pippin's face, presses his hands into Pippin's hair and holds him there.) And it's Merry who breaks the kiss, as Pippin feels he could kiss him – oh, longer, at least. Merry gasps, fingers still bunched in Pippin's hair, and with his grey eyes so bright. "Pippin – " Merry's been thinking too much, and too hard, and Pippin knows Merry far better than Merry might think he does, and he knows that no good ever comes of that. And Pippin says, "Whatever it is – well, we've made it this far, Merry. I imagine we can make it full to the end." Merry blinks his eyes – hard. Then, after his hands have slid slowly down to Pippin's shoulders, a look of wonder comes to his face – and he laughs. Pippin only grins back at him, and then he taps Merry's chin. "Laugh at me, if you must, but you know – you must know I'm right, Merry. That doesn't happen so often, so you'd best listen to what I have to say." "You're right – you are," and Merry bends his brow to Pippin's, and closes his eyes. "But Frodo – " "Frodo – he – he'll make it back, too." "You don't know – " But Merry didn't finish, presses his mouth shut, and instead presses a hard-mouthed kiss to Pippin's brow – and Pippin returned it, turning his face against Merry's and kissing where the flesh is darker, rougher, along a long brown scar. "What do any of us know? Nothing, at least, when it comes to the scheming of those with power, of those who are great and wise. We are but two hobbits – and we are right where we should be, I reckon, having made what choices have been made. But there's no turning back, Merry – and we were offered that, as well." "Pippin, it can't be so simple." Merry shakes his head, and Pippin winds his arm slowly about Merry's shoulder, presses his hand to Merry's cheek. "Not when – " "But it is, Merry. I think – no. I know it is." Merry lets out his breath, slowly, and this time, when Pippin kisses him it's slow, as well. "You'll see," he whispers, against Merry's damp lips. And Merry whispers, back, "Soon. Soon enough, we'll both see." And it isn't all that long until the Ents come with their answer. But for the time, they sit there in Bregalad's house with the almost silence all about them, and wait.
III. at the Houses of Healing Night is lengthening into something more, and dawn will come soon enough – Pippin knows what that means, and he knows Merry does as well. Well, they've argued over that (well, Merry had shouted more than Pippin), and Pippin can't help but feel that they'll argue over it at least once more before he's gone. He's tired now – not so tired that he could sleep, but tired enough that he would rather think of other things. He's paced around and about the narrow room and he has watched the candle melting down to wasted hours and wax, and he thinks it something of a miracle that he didn't wear circles into stone but now he returns to the side of Merry's bed. And he knows, before he even looks, that Merry is still awake. "Merry, you should get what rest you can." Merry's voice is light enough, in the darkness and a candle's flickering flame. "You keep telling me that. But still, I don't sleep." It almost seems more than that – and it is a funny thing, Pippin thinks, to be so tired than you can't actually sleep. He takes his place at the bed – sitting gingerly in the space that has been left as his own. Merry's back is to him, and Merry's right hand is pillowed at the side of his head. Pippin lightly touches his cousin's shoulder and thinks of how dark it had all seemed, when he had first found him wandering after the battle had ended. He had been too frightened to be properly frightened, and it hadn't been until he thought that he would lose Merry, that Merry would die, that he had let himself be frightened. "And they say I'm the stubborn one," he says, stroking his fingers back over the curve of Merry's shoulder. "Merry, you're acting near as blockheaded as a Bracegirdle." A weary chuckle is the answer Merry gives, and then, "Oh, but you are the stubborn one, Pip." Pippin smiles for some time, and when his cheeks begin to ache he finally speaks. "Take that back," he says and doesn't feel that he means it near as much as he should, or might, "and while you're at it, why don't you shut your eyes and get a bit of sleep." "Still at it, eh?" "Oh, do you that think I plan to stop?" Merry's head shifts slightly, but he doesn't turn and watch Pippin, though Pippin wishes that he would "You only have so much breath. Ah, Pippin. It's just I'd rather not… I'd rather not sleep." That wedges something in Pippin's throat – a lump of something that he'd rather not think on. Does Merry know? Pippin tenses, but only because he could have lost Merry forever, and after that he had lost him for real, for a little while. Well, long enough, and it hadn't been losing more than that Merry had been taken away from him and into the darkness. "Well, what else could you do?" "I could have you sit right there where you are sitting, and have you tell me a story. Oh, any one you'd like, really – just as long as it's not about that first Yule that I went and kissed Rosemary underneath the mistleberry bough. It took her three seasons to let me live that down." Another weary chuckle, somewhat more worn than the last. Merry's fingers curl in on themselves, slowly, as if with great effort and force. Pippin just shrugs, and then he pushes the covers back – he's undressed enough, already, and the space beside Merry is bare and lonely, and he fills it with his own body, pressing close until there's no space left between. Merry grumbles as Pippin slides his arm over Merry's side; breathes out softly, when Pippin's fingers fold around Merry's right wrist, where the skin is still somewhat chilly to the touch; Merry might have grumbled, but Pippin feels how slightly Merry has relaxed beneath his touch. He can feel Merry, and he can hear Merry's breath and the beating of his heart, and he pulls the covers back up about them and then whispers, "I daresay you deserved it, Merry. And anyhow, if I were to go about recollecting winters' past, then I might as well go ahead and talk about the time that you kissed me beneath the mistleberry bough. Or I could not, and I could just kiss you now, instead." Merry draws no breath to pause, "I might like that. Yes, a kiss would do me well." "Just one?" Pippin lets loose his hold on Merry's wrist, runs his fingers back up the length of Merry's arm. His fingers pause at the hemmed edge of a dressing gown and then brush back to touch Merry's cheek. And Merry looks at him, then, groaning as he turns. He had been up and about during the day, but he is tired still – well, of course he is tired, and the darkness wears on him still. But he is Merry – Pippin's own Merry – and he has seen him standing on his own feet. He gives Merry that first kiss – a light one, soft and chaste – and draws back. Merry is looking at him, still. So Pippin smirks and he touches the corner of Merry's mouth with his thumb. "Well, maybe two," Merry says, lips parting slightly as he grins. And Pippin's smirk broadens, and he feels something giddy and exhilarating rushing beneath skin, and he feels as well as if he might weep. "If you're set for two, I could make it three." He slides his palm over Merry's cheek, and leans down over him – their foreheads are nearly touching, and Pippin feels a stinging in his eyes and the warmth of Merry's breath touching against his lips. Then he gives Merry that second, and Merry's mouth opens to him in a way that it hadn't, the one kiss before. Pippin moves back, looking at Merry – the moonlight is faint and the candlelight is stronger, and Merry is ghostly pale but bathed in a wavering light. His right arm is folded across his chest and Pippin can see how tired he is – but he sees something else, as well, and Pippin wonders if Merry will bring up how Pippin will be leaving in the morning. But he doesn't – he touches Pippin's cheek with his left hand instead, and his lips press together in a long, thin line, and Pippin understands that there is nothing more that Merry will say about that. What is done has been done, and what is yet to be will happen as it needs to. There is darkness in Merry's eyes, but Pippin blames that on the night – and he shifts and musses the covers as he resettles himself, swallowing at last the lump that had wedged itself so tightly in his throat. Merry won't argue, because Merry understands that Pippin must leave – not because he wants to, but only that he does. Pippin nearly cries out, but gives Merry that one more kiss – not one last – and then Pippin feels the tension of his body falling away. When Pippin draws away, Merry murmurs: "Pippin, you'll tire me out with all this kissing." Pippin laughs – a short, hard burst of it, more a chuckle than not, and he smiles even wider and his cheeks are aching once again. "Yes, and when I'm through with you, Meriadoc Brandybuck, I promise you, you'll sleep."
IV. Homeward Bound They stop once, between Gandalf's leave-taking before the Barrow-downs and the long ending of the pale-washed day before night is given its chance to fall. Pippin is hungry, and tired, but more hungry than tired, and they set themselves to the side of the East Road, where Sam and Merry tended to the fire, to ward off the chill of the lasting day. Sam's gaze often lingers on the west, the distant smudge of darkness that hints at rolling hills and spreading green: that he should have came quicker than he had, and certainly he must feel as they all do. Well, Pippin knows that Sam must feel as he does, as it is how he himself feels. But Sam's gaze is left to the west, and then he says: "Gone as long as we have, it almost seems we've longer to go, with our homes just almost in reach." "You and Frodo have less to go than Pippin here," Merry says, giving Pippin a nudge, cheery enough though there is an open uneasiness in the air. Pippin, though, grunts quietly and grins back at him, giving the offending foot a squeeze at the ankle. "You should all go with me to Great Smials, then. Ride along as proper escort." He smiles at the thought of it, and Merry gives Sam a rather helpless look, accompanied by a shrug, as he settles down next to Pippin to sit. "Just think of it. How very grand. My father would have something to say of it, I'm sure." Merry snorts. "Something, I suppose. But then you'll have to ride back to Brandy Hall, Pippin; I suppose my father would have other things he'd need to say, if you like it all the same." "Then we'll join Frodo and Sam when they ride to Bag End. It all works out very well." Then, as crackles of fire-spark lit the emptiness above the dancing flame, Sam looks to Frodo, and Pippin finds that he follows after Sam's gaze: Frodo, who stands near to old Strider, uneasy where he has left himself at the roadside. And Frodo's gaze is looking back, set upon the far reaches of the east. Too much to worry of, still. Gandalf's words aren't the sort a hobbit could ignore: something is waiting for them, something that they can't quite imagine. Even after it all, Pippin assumes that it is something, knowing that there are worse things than knowing: not knowing is a different sort of dread and fear. "Well, sir, we're almost back again. What shall you first want to do?" Sam asks. "I suppose I'll figure that out when we're there." "Pippin." Ah. Well, that's Merry, now, and Pippin will listen to him now. "Ah. What is it, Merry?" "Pippin, you are thinking too hard. Give yourself room to breathe." Pippin snorts, and then he laughs. He leans against Merry, and sets a kiss at the very corner of Merry's mouth – where Merry's lips are splitting, and where he begins to smile. "You've no trouble taking my mind off such troubles," he says. He kisses Merry again, a proper kiss, and he doesn't leave it at that – one is good, and two is better, but Pippin does like going for thirds. But then he turns and looks at Frodo and at Sam, and no, they don't know what else they might face – for all that Barliman told them, back in Bree. But Pippin had seen Sam and Frodo while they had still slept, and he didn't much mind that he could have died – and if he had, well, Merry would have joined him in the end. And here they are, and almost home. Whatever is left, Pippin can't think it would be more than what they'd already done and seen. Well, they'll all be home, and soon enough. They'll see what they'll see.
V. inside the house at Crickhollow The door shuts with a soft click, sounding no less final for being so faint, and Pippin wonders if they really have made it back. Back here to Crickhollow, and it is almost that they've made it back to the start – it almost seems, he thinks, that they have been going round in circles. Where better to end, than the start? "Bless Frodo," he says, rubbing at the tired in his eyes. "How kind of him to go and sign Crickhollow over into our names." Our names. Our home. Pippin's tired, but that must mean something – for the both of them – now. That they've grown into something more. That's there's nothing more important than finding your way home. "And we've room, too, with Frodo gone." There had been a week when they had all lived there together, and Sam, too. Pippin thinks it might have been because they didn't know if they could live without the others in very close proximity. For all they'd gone their separate ways, beyond the very end they had all made it back to each other. Well. At least, maybe that's what Pippin feels. He really doesn't know. "I'm tired. I think I could sleep." "I think you should," Merry says. Pippin looks at Merry, vision blurring for a moment, but then he forces a smile and slings his arm, for a moment at least, about Merry's now-broader shoulders. "Well, don't think I'd let you go, and as easily as all that. I'd expect you to join me, and stay through the night." "Well, we'd not sorted out whose room is whose," Merry replies. "And the same goes for beds. A bit of sharing never did do harm," and he puts his mouth to Pippin's, and it might be the tired – Pippin really could sleep – but it does him better than a first, and better than any proper sleep. "Let's sort that out, now," Pippin says, when he can, mouth against Merry's. "I could race you, I think, though my legs do seem to ache..." Merry just grins at him, and that makes Pippin think. He hadn't wanted to leave Merry, not during that long week, and he's glad that Merry's not thought to leave him, either. He doesn't know what he'd do, if Merry had. But they do part, Merry shifting back, though Merry is still close enough – when had Merry's arm crept about him? Well, it all seemed quite nice – and he looks Merry in the eyes, then kisses him once more. There's been too much fright and worry, too much darkness and almost dying, and at the end of it all – well, beyond a proper ending – they'd thought they'd come back to their own home, to peace and quiet, but that had not been the way of it. Too much had happened. Too much had changed. Pippin draws back, memory on his tongue, but it's Merry who kisses him next, almost swings him off his feet. Then they both laugh, and Pippin feels that it is because they can, and then when he's breathless, arms about Merry, and Merry's arms both about him, he begins to speak – Oh, but Merry hardly gives him the chance. "We shall sort out property later on," Merry says, and sweeps him up into his arms – though that nearly knocks them both over, and knocks the breath from Pippin's lungs, and Pippin's lost his feet. "Here, now, how does that feel? Should be nice, and for your poor aching legs..." "Merry!" And Merry's laughing, though he somehow seems as serious as can be.
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