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By: Dana
I. Though Pippin's woken too early, the day is already too warm – and Pippin waking early, well, that's quite a change, given that for years and years and forever, it seems, Merry was the one who'd wake far before day had been given a chance to begin – and wouldn't Pippin know, given that he's so often had a spot in Merry's bed? But day has just come – half-born, still, and the sun is busy rising, turning sky from dark to grey to orange to pinkish-gold, and the Anduin is a ribbon of looping fire about the fields of Pelennor, heading far into the south. He fancies that, if he watches where sky meets earth, that he can see the far off shape of Pelargir – oh, but it is too far, and he knows that he is only thinking foolish, fanciful thoughts. He blinks, and then he yawns, and fancies that he will have himself a cup of coffee before Merry's had the chance to rise – his cousin is sleeping, a bundle of sky-blue covers, though the top of his head shows from beneath it, sand-brown curls that are silvered with age. And they are old – far too old, and sometimes Pippin can't help but think (at the very back of his mind, furthest it seems from the light of day), that they both long ago should have been dead, but instead have somehow weathered through those days. And they are old – grown into themselves, and out of the Shire, and they are tweens no more. It seems, at times, that they play at games that they have become too old for – but Pippin has known Merry too long, Merry, who has been best friend and best cousin and best lover, too. And though it is tempting – to nuzzle into Merry's warmth, to wake him, and make love like, oh, hobbits a quarter of their age – he'll let Merry sleep. Anyhow, he's still somewhat tired, and sore, after last night. So Pippin leaves Merry where he is, snoring gently (one old habit that Merry never has been able to kick), and pulls on his dressing robe, though the morning breeze is warm enough and there's no need for him to go wearing it – well, it would give poor dear Finiel a shock, to see him, well, stark. He smiles at that, and has a laugh, and then he ties off the belt of his robe and leaves the bedroom behind. He never has figured out the hang of brewing it (coffee, that is), and he thinks Frodo made it better, but Frodo is years behind him and a sea away – and for the – oh, he can't even count it all, all the specific times that he's missed his cousin, and it's almost strange that he misses him so much, now, with a cup of steaming coffee held in a shaking hand. And he does miss Frodo now, and he wonders how he fares – for a time, a score of years before, he had dreamt regularly of his cousin, but it seems that an age has passed since Pippin last dreamt of his face. He sighs, and then he shakes his head, and with a weary hand, he rubs at his eyes. He dreams of Diamond more often – Diamond, with her hair down and flowing, glowing bright in the light of a full-shining moon. And when he wakes, he misses her – misses her so much, sometimes, that he's unable to breathe. It will never be right, with her gone – that she died, and went so young. But Diamond went first, and then Estella had followed after, and sometime between that and then, Merry and Pippin had both been left alone. If Pippin hadn't had Faramir... well, he'd have lost himself, he's sure. And Faramir is a much better Thain that Pippin had ever managed, and Peredoc is his father's image and a better Master than all of Buckland could have ever wanted. "Coffee. Good." Pippin nods at Merry, and hands him the cup – hot liquid splashing against his thumb, but he weathers it and smiles at Merry, letting go of those thoughts that tie him still to those who have gone before him, who he's left behind. "Here. I made you a mug." Merry nods, and drinks it – black, and that Pippin can't understand. So he makes himself his own mug, and then leaves it to go cold as he throws open the kitchen window. There is white stone out beyond the window, and a hint of sea-brine hard and bitter on the morning breeze. "Do you know the date?" he asks. Merry thinks and then, from the corner of Pippin's eye, Pippin sees him nod. "Another year has gone," he says, and then the clunk of ceramic settles hard on heavy oak. "I sometimes think," Pippin replies, taking his lonely cup of coffee, and staring at the reflection that looks back from the black. "That, when we rode with Sam to the Havens – oh, we should have followed him, Merry. We should have at least asked." But Merry laughs, weary, as though this is something they have spoken on before – and it is, and Pippin looks at Merry, and says, as pragmatically as he can: "The worst they could have said was no, Merry, and Sam would have – well, he would have spoken for us, I'm sure." Then he looks away, again, and Merry doesn't reply right away, but he does reply in time. "Diamond would have followed you, some how. And Estella... Pippin, for all I would have wanted to go, too, it wasn't our time." "Well then – " Pippin begins, hotly, and then his mug clunks against the table, and he puts his hand on the nape of Merry's neck, and kisses him almost until he forgets to breathe. "Oh, you are still a wonder, Merry, love," he says, and laughs, and Merry glances at him queerly, as though he'd went and grown a second or third head. Touch lingers, and he kisses Merry once more – slow now, a threading of tongue and touch and feeling, and Merry blinks at him, still muzzy from sleep, when Pippin draws away. "Pippin," he says, "whatever are you on about?" "Our time has come, I think," Pippin says. "And I think, as well, that we need to speak with the King."
"Pippin," Merry says, when they are dressed, and Pippin has told him all his plans. "I think, at last, that you have gone mad. It took you a long while." "Yes," Pippin answers, doing up the top buttons of his coat. "It did take its time, don't you think? Vinca was mad years and years ago, and your mother never did recover with that dalliance of hers, with that Brandybuck she wed..." Now Pippin is grinning, and Merry shakes his head and tousles Pippin's curls. Pippin turns, and catches hold of Merry's hand – his right, and Pippin thinks, there has been too much Shadow in our lives and now, beyond the end of all... perhaps there will be some other sort of light. He bows his head, kisses, very softly, the curve of Merry's palm. "It is rather cracked, I know, but I think – oh, our time has come, I think." "I don't think you're mad," Merry murmurs. "I know you are. But still – oh." He closes his eyes, and shakes his head, and Pippin embraces him, briefly, but – "But what else do we have, now? All else is gone, and our sons are left behind us." There is something wistful in Merry's voice, and Pippin touches his cheek, then draws away. "Come now," Pippin says. "We will have our audience with the king – and perhaps, if we are lucky, old Strider will think to humour this," and this, Pippin thinks, is rather wistful sounding, too, "perhaps, our last request." "How morbid," Merry whispers, though then, he gives a name-worthy laugh. "You would think we were riding – ah, sailing to our deaths." But Pippin only smiles at Merry, a pained smile that must seem somewhat hard and thin, and Merry nods back at him, the mirth of his laughter hanging somewhat tentatively in the air – and sometimes, gesture and silence say more than any words, and Pippin needn't speak any more than he has.
"If I can help you, my friends," Elessar says, and Pippin knows, means it – they are very good friends, after all, very old friends, "then I will do that for you, and all that I can."
It is a fine looking boat, Pippin thinks, though he has not seen all that many – well, none so fine, at least, and the wood is silver-grey, polished, and the ship, from head – ah, from bow to stern. "Have you ever seen such a fine ship?" Pippin asks. It has been – oh, months, since Merry had first told Pippin that, at last, he had gone mad. And it is a fine vessel – not hobbit-sized, but still, built so that a hobbit could handle it, wherever it might go. There will be no crew – just him, and Merry, and they have both been hanging at lessons like lads, and Pippin thinks, well, it is a good thing I can swim. Merry shakes his head, but it's Legolas who says, laughing brightly as he does: "No, I've never seen so fine a ship." But Pippin looks at him, and thinks, is it always the way of elves, to smile, even when they are sad? "Can't see as how they're any use," Gimli says, tone gruff though kind. "Well," Pippin replies, and stretches out, breathing in sea-scented air, "I hear that the sea air is good, very good, on old aching bones." It is much the opposite, he knows, but still, it seems better that something is said, than nothing. "It will get us where we're going," he continues, though he doesn't say, wherever that may be. He has looked through the great maps, and he has lived a good part of these last months in the Citadel archives, learning all he can. And he knows – oh, he knows that this is foolish, an errant thought born of madness – but Tooks always have been very good at being mad. Gimli looks at Pippin, but then he nods, and then he looks to Legolas. "Now," he says, voice rumbling like moving stone, "Don't you go and getting any thoughts in that head of yours, elf." Legolas turns from the moving water, and smiles, as if it to say, it's not yet my time. And then Merry says, "We should thank you, then," and this, he says to Legolas. "If not for you – well, that is it, isn't it? If not for you, we'd not have our chance..." And Pippin could say something else, about chance and all, but he clasps Gimli's hand in his, and then takes hold of Legolas' by the other. He could say something, but what words could he manage? So he smiles, and says thank you, instead. Then Merry claps him on the shoulder, and slides that arm about Pippin's waist. He might have spoken – then, at least – but still, he is unable to manage it. He thinks of writing to Faramir, of telling his son good bye – he thinks of watching Merry, as Merry wrote a letter to his own eldest child, to say much the same. He lets out his breath, and doesn't let the tears that have gathered bother him, as they might have. They will ride back to Minas Tirith, and there will be a great feast, and then, when they have ridden back in the morning, like the rushing tide, they will be gone.
The going away feast is a rather more intimate affair than Pippin had expected – the King and his Queen, the Prince and his Lady, a dwarf and his elf, and others of the City that Merry and Pippin can count amongst their closest friends – and Pippin doubts, for a moment, that this is not their proper course: that they should stay, and live out their days here on these well-known shores, with these people who love them, who - But it's not the sea that calls him – it's something stronger, something more.
II. Night is still heavy, though it feels at last that autumn has come – as Pippin wakes, he blinks, then closes his eyes, and breathes it in. The moon is gone from the sky, and there are still stars out, but there is lightness in the east that promises that day will soon come. And there is a faint chill in the air – faint, indeed, though it causes a subtle aching in old bones. But Merry is warm against him – his arm is long, and heavy, where it crosses over Pippin's stomach, and Merry's breath is hot like fire, where it steadies and falls against skin. So Pippin turns, and pushes one hand into sleep-mussed curls, and he whispers against Merry's mouth, "Good morning, my love." Nothing, a snorting snore, and Pippin's mouth curls into a smile. But Merry's eyes blink open, slowly, and he smiles against Pippin's mouth. "Is it morning already?" "Close enough," Pippin says, and then he kisses Merry – ah, sinking into the moment, letting it wash over and pull him under. Merry is very warm against him, and soon enough, they will need to rise – oh, Pippin thinks, but there is something more urgent, right now, more pressing. "I love you. We will have to go, and – they will see us off, and I will see us killed, most likely." "At least," Merry murmurs, sleep think in his voice, "I'll be dying where I'm meant." "And you think me morbid – well, rightfully, I'm sure." And he kisses Merry, once more, kisses him hard and demanding – kisses him until he feels fire pulsing under skin, Merry's hand at his nape and sweetest song, Merry as he groans. "We needn't leave, right away," he murmurs, and he wraps himself around Merry – with arms and legs, and pulls Merry to him. "We are packed, and but for rising, and our breakfast – oh, we are ready, don't you think?" Merry's eyes are wide, and his voice is somewhat rough. "Oh, indeed," and he rolls Pippin back and then again, and it's Pippin who grinds his hips down – Merry arches, then Pippin laughs, and presses his face into the sweet warmth of Merry's neck, sharply breathing in. "Oh, Merry, my Merry," he whispers, and almost laughs again. "Make love to me, once more – one last time," and he smiles, as Merry frowns, and he touches the lines at the corner of Merry's eyes. "Not forever, dearest Brandybuck – but for now." "Pip!" Merry laughs, near exasperated. "We are too old for such..." And he is, and they are, but that hasn't been stopping them for years now, and it needn't stop them now.
"Are you sure this is what you want to do?" "Of course it is," Pippin says. They've had this talk before. Faramir doesn't seem to understand, though – leaving. Eowyn had said something – almost, like a shadow of her self, though her eyes are still as bright and her hair is white as snow: something about the wild, and hearing its call, and how you should do what it calls you to do, no matter what the price. Then Pippin looks at the Prince, and smiles at him. "Now, don't look at me, and so. Just know that I'm taking my madness off, for only Merry to have to – ah. Deal. And he can manage me very well, I think. He should be able to – he's done a good deal of Pippin handling, over the years." "I am glad you have him, still." Pippin smiles at the Man. "Oh, I'll always have him, I think. I've been a very lucky hobbit, you know," and it's very true, because he has. "Now, come along. I'm sure our king will think you've gone and stolen me away, and where would that leave dear old Merry?" And Faramir laughs at that, shaking his head and giving Pippin's shoulder a brief, lingering squeeze. "Yes, come along," he says, and they go down to where the others stand at the white stone pier, and there is gold and silver on the river water and the sun is hanging low, and new, in the sky. The ship is there, of course, fine and silver-grey, and Legolas looks upon it with a sort of longing – not quite sad, Pippin thinks, but almost. It has been a very, very long time since they said their goodbye – to Frodo, when he had been set on leaving, and Pippin has wondered – well, often enough – that they had cut it close, very close, indeed. He's thought about it, less than often and he's glad of it, what it might have been like, if they had been late. It had broke his heart just to say goodbye, and that saying nothing of what Merry had felt, and what Sam had felt, too. It constricts his throat, even now, and Pippin knows it's not sea-salt that he tastes, when he breathes in. There's no Frodo now, and Pippin takes Merry's hand. It seems a smile is stuck at the corner of Merry's mouth, tentative, and he gives Pippin's hand a squeeze. Pippin thinks, still, there is yet time – how could they, just two hobbits, make it all that way? But Legolas has faith in this ship – he has said that himself – and he helped make it, with his own hands. And perhaps, Pippin thinks, something of the lasting magic of the elves. The ship might be small, but it's sturdy, too, and Pippin knows that it will prove its worth and more – and they all know, don't they, that you needn't be a towering giant just to prove your worth. Aragorn is there, Arwen, too, and Faramir joins Eowyn, who takes his hand with a weary smile. Legolas looks to Gimli, and Gimli puts his hand on Pippin's shoulder. And Pippin feels, all of a sudden, very, very young, and he is not young at all, at least not anymore – he is not even the youngest of them, standing at the water, though he supposes Eowyn would not look kindly at him if he were to mention that, now. So he lets his breath out, very slowly, as it seems pained, and he looks to the water with a sudden longing that he knows he can't stand. There is still time, but their way has been set. They will answer this call – Pippin will answer his, and Merry will follow after. And Pippin supposes, it is about time that Merry did the following, as he has been playing at catching up with him since he was really very small. This is, he thinks, it: their supplies have been bought and stored and the vessel has been made sea-worthy and the course has been plotted and now all they need to do is leave. Well, he thinks, stars and sea before them, he can only hope that Ulmo blesses their way. He supposes, if Ulmo is at all against this, then they will be seeing less of stars and land, and more of raging waves. "Well then," he says, and it is a wonder that he doesn't cry, "I guess this must be goodbye."
It is not very large, their ship – there is room enough to move about on deck, and there is room for them to sleep and eat, and the mainmast is thick and long – but still, their ship is not very large. This is not the first time that they have taken it out on the water – well, otherwise, it would have been untested and that would have been madness. But they have taken it down the river, and they have taken it all the way to Belfalas. So, this is not the first time that their ship has tasted sea, nor is it the first time that Merry has stood at its helm. And they are in no rush (they have waited years, Pippin says, what more is extra days?) and it is a slow-going two days before they reach open water. But the bow is now pointing to the west, cutting through gold-lit water – beyond Belfalas, the water will be deeper, and darker, and the wind will blow colder. But that is a very long beyond, and they still have quite a ways to go. After their first day out in open water, they see a pack of dolphins – Merry'd only read of them and, excited, he goes on: "They are more wonderful than I'd thought," and his curls are all mussed and his cheeks are tanning and he is more wonderful than he's ever been before, Pippin thinks.
The second night on open water (their fourth, since leaving land behind) is a full moon and a wide sky, clear of cloud and filled with sharp-bright stars. They have their supplies, and they are making an easy pace, and they spend their time fishing – all in all, it is a very languid passing. And they do still have quite a ways to go.
Darkness spreads in the west. There has been a shifting in the air, something Pippin thinks he shouldn't notice but he does, and it seems a storm is coming.
III. It sounds like Frodo is calling (shouting) his name, and that makes no sense, as he's standing right there and Pippin is sitting right here, so Pippin stands up and shouts (yells) at Frodo, "What are you yelling at me for? Can't you see I'm right here?" If there had been an edge, it is taken off by the shape of Pippin's wide Took-grin. The sky is smudged dark and the sun is weak and watery, hanging in the west, and Frodo laughs, and slings his arm about Pippin's shoulder, and Pippin notices that Frodo's not as tall as he was at Lithe, and Pippin hopes that means he'll be catching up to Frodo soon. Frodo's even taller than Merry, and Pippin has no worries that he won't end up taller than Merry, but he does wonder if he'll ever be taller than them both. And Frodo says, "Walk with me, Pip," and they walk, down from Brandy Hall and through Bucklebury, taking that lane that will take them to the river. Pippin's very glad that Frodo's visited – he's missed his cousin, and he's had no chance to see him at Bag End, and ever since the incident with that pair of Bracegirdle brothers... well, his father has been less than eager to let him go trekking across the Shire on his own. So it's good for him that Frodo's at Brandy Hall, and good for Merry, too. Merry should be here, he thinks, but Merry must still be at the Hall. Oh well, he'll catch up with them later, and Pippin's been wanting to go for a swim. "We can go swimming if you'd like," Frodo says, and Pippin beams, liking the sound of that. "It's been too long, I think." Pippin nods, then moves away from Frodo, and down the lane, and it's like nothing and then they're at the river, dangling their feet at the water's sharp edge. The sun is making streaks across the surface, and the water is honey-brown and thick. Pippin kicks his reflection, and frowns at it, and wonders at the rushing in his ears and how it sounds like, somewhere far off, someone is saying his name. He leans towards his disturbed reflection, and then feels Frodo's hand on his back. "Careful, Pippin, don't fall in." "I won't," Pippin replies, grinning ear to ear. "I think I'll dive." And then he's up and he strips off his shirt, throwing it over a low branch – there is an old tree, and one of the massive branches is long and bent and wide and leaning out across the water, so close that water touches green. "Frodo! Watch me!" "Of course I'll watch you," Frodo says. "Just be careful!" Of course he'll be careful. So he scrambles up onto the branch, edging out as far as he dares – he can see his reflection, again, looking back at him – a too-skinny hobbit lad, his hair all messed, and it's clear enough that Pippin can see the freckles scattered across his cheeks and nose. Then he frowns at the reflection, and hears that rush again, and then he springs forward, going head and arm-first into the water – and there was a time where he didn't want to swim, definitely didn't know how to swim, and if it wasn't for Frodo and Merry, he still wouldn't know (his mother had had a fit, when she learned that he did). And he hits the water and it's cold and hard and he's been punched before because he's young and he's done foolish things and there was that incident with that pair of Bracegirdle brothers, after all, and this feels like he's been punched. He can't breathe – of course he can't breathe, he's wrapped in bubbles and brown-green water, and the sun is a distorted streak of yellow-green high above. He can swim, and this isn't right – his arms feel too heavy, but that might be the water, and he kicks and fights and struggles but it's too deep and he's not strong enough and his lungs are burning and if he screams, then he'll get a mouth full of water – and that's what he gets, bitter-tasting river water, and he fights harder and then he feels air when he breaks surface, coughing and choking and screaming for Frodo, over and over again and then the water pulls him back down – but it's not the river that holds him, it's Frodo, Frodo's face that's looking back at him, Frodo and a manic grin (no, no, Frodo was the one who'd pulled him from the water, Frodo's the only reason he didn't die, he'd never seen Frodo like he'd been that day, grim and frantic, and he'd sent Merry running to the Hall and Pippin remembers, sometime after when he'd been able to breathe again, Frodo had gathered him up in his arms and held him tight, and made him promise he'd never do anything so foolish again – and it had been something foolish, and he'd not been paying attention and he'd put himself at risk) and he's choking on the water and his own breath and he can't fight against Frodo because it's Frodo, and he's just Pippin, too little, too weak – "Frodo!" He can breathe and it almost hurts and it had been dark, but that darkness clears and the light almost seems too bright. He's sitting straight up and he's breathing hard, and it's Merry's voice that he hears, Merry's hand at his cheek, and Pippin breathes in far too deeply, and thinks he might just swoon again, but then he's crying and he's laughing and he throws his arms about Merry, and holds him tight. "I had," he says, with a wrenching breath, "the most awful dream." And he knows awful dreams, they both do – fire and darkness and death, but this was – oh, it was Frodo, and it was too much, and Pippin shoves his face into the crook of Merry's neck, breathes in something faint and clean, and the clinging scent of sand and sea. When he can't cry any longer, Merry draws back and runs his fingers back across his cheek, and then he kisses him like – oh, it's nice and long and very deep, and when Merry draws away, Pippin's lips sting but he does like the feel. "I thought I'd lost you," Merry says, blinking and wearing a sorrowful grin. "I thought I'd lost you, here, when we'd come all this way... you'd not wake, and I feared for the worst. Even Gandalf... well, he couldn't make you waken, but then we were told that you would wake in due time." Pippin blinks. And then he coughs. He's tired, and he's hungry, and he realizes that the bed he's lying on almost feels too soft and too fine, and the light is still too bright and Merry is somewhat faded against it all. "Gandalf?" Pippin gasps, croaks. "They?" Merry nods, smiling so wide it looks painful, like it might break, and Merry along with it. "I don't know how it happened... well, there was the storm, and then... and Gandalf said something about Frodo having asked for a boon, and, well, though he didn't explain it very well and I don't understand it very well, either... but there was a storm, and we headed right on into it – I suppose I wasn't the very best choice to have at the helm, but I did have a feel for our ship, and..." "You can't say we made it?" Pippin whispers. He thinks he might cry – he can feel the sting, already, gathered at the corners of his eyes. How could Frodo know? How could they have made it? He never did think, not really, that they would. But he thinks back and he can remember the storm, somewhat, dark water and then more dark water, stinging rain and raging waves, and it was all very turbulent and his head aches, the more that he remembers. Oh, but he'd struck his head, and he remembers holding on but not being able to, and then he'd less fallen and more been dragged into rolling water.
And he remembers, too, though it had been more dream and less reality, something like a lightening in the darkness, a curtain of grey rain that turned all to silver glass. He was right, he thinks, or at least, that was what he'd been thinking, if he even could. Frodo had been right. "I don't..." Pippin actually doesn't know how he feels. Overjoyed, perhaps, but it's like he's seen death, again, and life doesn't ever feel right when put next to that. So he nods, and then he laughs, and it hits him like a punch (and that, he does know) – overwhelming relief, and joy, and then he's asking, no, demanding, "Well, where is our cousin? I want to see him – " wants to do more than that, wants to hug him and perhaps shout at him, and then thank him with all of his heart. But he's tired, even more than he's hungry, and he thinks he might need to sleep. "I – oh. I'm rather tired, I think." "Sleep," Merry says, and kisses Pippin's brow, and then his mouth. "Sleep, and morning will soon enough come." He wants to say, he's hungry, too hungry, and that he'd rather eat, but he sinks back towards the too-soft mattress, and takes Merry with him, and Merry murmurs something against his cheek as Pippin feels himself falling back towards sleep.
It's odd, then, that Pippin does cry – his vision blurs over and his throat constricts and he wonders, would Diamond laugh at him? Oh, she would, and Estella would, too, and he almost feels like he's been running from them – running from what was made their end. But he wears his wedding band, still, and he loves Diamond with all of his heart (and he loves Merry differently and yet all the same), and she would be laughing at him, that he made it, and now all he has is tears. But Merry's thumb smears through the wet on his cheek, and Merry says, "Don't you cry, now," and sets a kiss on damp skin. "Up and up," Merry goes on. "You must be hungry." And he is, and his stomach rumbles and Pippin lets Merry pull him to his feet. "Rumpled," Merry mutters, and fingers through Pippin's curls. "But dear as can be." Pippin almost laughs – and there's something else in the air, not just cool and sweet, and he breathes in deeply and, oh, it smells delicious, whatever it is. "Of course we eat here," Merry says, a bit of awe still in his voice – and Merry would be one who'd only be somewhat awed. "Sam must be around – oh, Pippin, I thought... you were gone, and even Gandalf couldn't wake you. I thought you'd sleep and sleep, and never wake." "Sam," Pippin laughs, and then he thinks he might cry again, and there's a hard aching in his chest. "Oh, and Gandalf. And Frodo..." He looks at Merry, watching him intently, but Merry only smiles, a very secret smile. "Oh, blast you," Pippin laughs, again, then rubs his cheeks on his sleeve, like a child might, and then catches Merry up in his arms. "Come, then. I'll let you lead the way." And Merry does, but not until he's kissed Pippin until breathing seems like something that only a fool might do, and Pippin wouldn't mind having to play the fool: they go from the bright-lit bedroom, with its too-big bed, and down a long hall with rounded walls, honey-pale with borders rich nut-brown. And they go to the kitchen, where Sam is standing – Sam! Oh, he'd not seen him in years – and Pippin doesn't mean to laugh, can't help it, and he almost cries again for thinking such thoughts. "Oh, goodness. Sam." Sam turns and looks at him, and it's Sam as he remembers – but not quite, somehow younger, but still as old. "Good to see you've wakened, Pip," he says, and it's easy as breathing. And there's breakfast and there's sun and starlight and there's music in the air, and Pippin catches Sam in a tight embrace and feels he might just crush the breath from him, so he reluctantly loosens the grip of his hold. He doesn't say a thing, just hugs Pippin in return, and Pippin laughs again and then draws back, puts Sam's face between his hands, and Sam smiles up at him and there are laughing-crinkle lines at the corners of his eyes, and Pippin thinks, distantly, that he always knew he'd end up the tallest. "Oh, old Gamgee, I never thought – I, oh, it seems I've gone and lost all my words." So he hugs Sam once more, and presses him tight, and he wants to ask him a million, no, more than that, things, and he draws back and he draws breath but then – Oh. He turns, hands at Sam's shoulders, and there's Frodo, almost glowing (and is it him, or the light behind him?), and he forgets all he might have said, and he turns fully and his hands fall away. He takes a step forward, and then another, and it's Frodo - Frodo as he's been, in his memories, the Frodo that left him those years ago, and Pippin shakes his head at the wonder of it, and laughter finds his way back to his voice – before any words, before he'll throw himself to Frodo and hold onto him like he's not been able to in years. And, laughing through his tears, Pippin says: "I have found you again, after all."
Illustration: fanart inspired by Years After and a Sea Between (Hyel)
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