Counterpoint, Interfolio

Resonance: Richness or significance, especially in evoking an association or strong emotion; when several strings are tuned to harmonically related pitches, all strings vibrate when only one of the strings is struck; the intensification and enriching of a musical tone by supplementary vibration.

* * *

"Pippin." 

Not loud, not anxious even, and a soft knock that seems too soft for the sizeable hand he knows delivers it. 

"Pippin, I know you're in there.  Now, you can let me in so we can talk like grownups, or I can hunt down your mum and get the key."  A pause, probably for effect, Pippin thinks, then, in an annoyingly-confident tone: "But then she'll probably want to come in with me, and nobody wants that, yeah?"

He can take that annoying confidence and shove it up his… all right, down his gob.  No need to get ugly, right?

Pippin snorts a little, though it's completely devoid of any real humour, and he rolls his eyes.  Folds his arms on the table and stares out the window.

Almost as if Merry's got some sort of Magic Eye in the room with him, he calls, "Or you've nice, big windows in there, you know.  Diamond was only yesterday preening over the glass doors that open to the garden."  Another pause, a sigh, then, a little more strident this time: "I'll go around if I have to, but I'd really rather you let me in."

So would Pippin, in a way, but he's not sure he's ready; too many things jumbling about in his head, and he's not sure he wants them spilling out just yet, and certainly not to Merry.  He ducks his head and rests it in the cradle of his arms.  Merry's had his own difficulties, and though Pippin wantswantswants to talk about it all with the one person he thinks might understand, he doesn't want to be the one to revive old ghosts or birth new ones.  Not now, not when Merry's eyes are clear and… and peaceful, yes, that's it, and for the first time in… well.  A very long time, anyway.

His hands have curled into fists, but he doesn't think it's out of anger; tension, most likely, though how would he know, really?  Maybe it's anger.  Maybe it's rage, in fact.  Maybe it's…

"Maybe it's just fear," he mutters to the table, "fear, plain and simple, and how's that for a how do you do, eh?"  The fog of his own breath heats his face and he blinks against the darkness of his little cave.  "Terror," he whispers, feeling the shape of it on his lips, his tongue, tasting it; a grimace at the bitter bite and he squeezes his eyes shut.  "Coward."  He spits that one.

"Pippin." 

Quieter this time; Pippin can almost picture Merry's wide frame leaning against the door, forehead pressed to the smooth finish, mouth nearly touching the seven coats—seven coats, mind, no scrimping, not on this set of rooms, ta very much—of varnish. 

"Pippin.  Love.  Open the door." 

It's one of those things that sounds strange coming from Merry; or rather, strange coming from Merry and pointed at Pippin.  Pippin can probably count on one hand the number of times in his life Merry has called him that, though he'd heard it countless times and in countless intonations, but those were mostly directed at Frodo.  Some people use it as a salutation or a throwaway affectation; Merry's more stingy with it, never says it unless he's serious and he always means it when he does, and… and it's just… 

He sighs and squeezes his eyes tighter.

"If you really don't want to talk to me, you'll have to tell me to go away, all right?  Otherwise, I really am going to come through the garden and Diamond will have my arse if I break any of that new glass, and then I'll have to blame you for it, and… well, none of it will be pretty."  A pause, a long, heavy breath.  "Pippin, it's not that bad.  Honestly.  Everyone gets nerves.  She understands—everyone understands.  They think it's all quite amusing, actually, so no damage done, all right?"

Everyone gets nerves, right, yes, but not everyone almost literally prostrates himself before his love for almost a year, trying to convince her she hadn't made a gigantic mistake to say 'yes' and allow her hand to be bound fast to his own, and then nearly vomits in panic when he's called forth to testify publicly, to affirm the vows he made at that handfasting and is supposed to make official and legal tomorrow.  Not everyone looks at the love in his bride-to-be's eyes, the happiness and pride in his father's, then turns tail and runs the other way.

At the pre-wedding feast.

In front of all those people!

He groans.

For pity's sake, why didn't someone just kill him?  It wouldn't make Diamond a widow, exactly, and he'd already changed his will and all that; bless his mum, she might nag, but it was for all the right reasons.  And she'd found Diamond for him, after all.  At least he's grateful for it; he's not so sure Diamond is right now.  Or should be.  Anyway, Diamond would be provided for if someone came along and put him out of everyone's misery, so why don't they?  Maybe that's why Merry's here.  Pippin thinks a little more seriously about letting him in.

"Pippin?  Please?"

Then again, they'd all have to go through the bother of finding another Thain's Heir, probably have to jump the lines of descent, and the way things are going, they might settle on Merry as the next Thain, and wouldn't that be—

Pippin growls this time, shakes his head.

Bloody depressing, is what it would be, because Merry won't be bloody here, will he, so they'd have to go mucking about in the Family Trees again, and they might even end up with Reginard, for pity's sake, and oh, good glory, trying to imagine that one as Thain is almost enough to send a person completely off his nut, so Pippin is safer putting that one away right now before his pounding head actually explodes… 

"Pippin."  A grumbling sigh, then, quiet and a bit strained: "Damn it all."

Maybe Fatty.  Fatty's not so bad.  A Rebel, after all.  The Rebel.  He'd probably be a good Thain.  Maybe Diamond could go for him; that way, she'll still get to be Mistress and Pippin won't have to feel guilty about being popped off.

Another groan, more pained this time, and Pippin's stomach aches.

Did he embarrass them all?  Did he embarrass her?

His mouth twists into a guilty grimace.

No damage done.  Feh.

"Pippin, will you just—" 

A growl this time and Pippin almost smiles a little.  Almost. 

"Open the bloody door, will you?  For pity's sake, I feel like a stonking great knob out here, have some pity, why don't you."

That gets rid of the almost-smile.  Because if anyone feels like a stonking great knob—

"All right, enough.  I'm coming around through the—"

"Go.  Away!" 

He hadn't really meant to actually snarl it like that—it just came out that way.  Louder than he'd meant, too; he lifts his head a little, tilts it.

Another long sigh from the other side of the door then what Pippin suspects— no, what Pippin knows to be Merry's head thumps against it.

"All right," Merry says quietly.  "Find me when you want to talk."

Pippin blinks.

Sorry, what now?

He narrows his eyes, turns them to the door, props his cheek to his fist and listens.  And lifts his eyebrows when he hears a distinct shuffle and then movement away from the door.  His brow twists.

Huh.

There's an almost-laugh burbling in his throat, though he won't consider that it may well be an indication of building hysteria.  Still, it is quite funny, Merry actually doing something Pippin has told him to do, Merry actually listening when someone says Go away, and not breaking down the door or something else just as dramatic.  It doesn't entirely suit him, or maybe it's just that it doesn't suit Pippin's idea of him, but things change, people change, everything bloody changes, and that's… it's just… 

Just damn it.

His eyes narrow again and he turns them to the garden doors this time.  He's quiet for another long moment, suspicious, listening, shallowing his breaths so he can hear, but there are no telltale footsteps from the garden, no stealthy shadows passing through the bright squares of yellow-gold draping in through the glass of the doors.

He frowns this time.

Huh.

Anyway, it's just as well.  Why drag someone else into all this… this angst, and more like tween-aged angst at that, for pity's sake, and here he'd been thinking that his reputation as a bit of a fool was long-since disproved.  Grown and changed and better, right, of course, a bloody Hero, or so they tell him, and he doesn't exactly negate it, does he?  No, he only smiles—grins, really—and lets them stand him for drinks, watches their greedy eyes as he spins them a tale of The War in return, and he's got so good at it over the years that he can almost see when their hearts pick up pace at the bloodier parts, can almost watch them glaze over when he tries to sneak in bits about the Ring and the Real Hero, and he always comes away from it feeling not at all drunk, but a little bit dirty.  And he tries not to hate them for it.

He thinks maybe that's why he fell so hard for Diamond, or at least part of it—she'd wanted to hear about… well, everything.  All of it.  She'd asked Pippin.  And she'd read The Book; had even proof-read for him when he'd been copying it.  Not a conventional courtship, to be sure, but… but how could you not fall in love with someone who wept at the parts of the Story that made your own throat clog and your palms slick up with cold sweat; how could you not worship the person who shared your secret griefs and took them into her heart, made them her own and made them easier to feel; how could you not want to spend your life with someone who understood that you could want something more than life and yet not want it at the same time, how you could love something and hate it, too, how one single, slender moment could bring you rage and joy and pain and bliss and all of it all at once and—

And, damn it.

"I'm so bloody sorry."

Pippin thumps his head to the desk, takes a long, deep breath.  He's being an idiot.  No—he's compounding his already-existent idiocy. 

Because he does want to talk.

He doesn't allow himself to think on it one more second; he's been thinking far too much already, and maybe that's his problem right there, and it hasn't helped the great lump of achepainhurtow that is his head, so there's really no point in continuing a course he already knows isn't working.  He straightens, shoves his chair back and stands, then thumps grimly over to the door.  The key turns smoothly in his clammy fingers, the mechanism brand-new and fresh-oiled, and screws like a hot knife through the butter of the lock; the snick of it is nearly lost as he twists the knob, flings the door open—

And nearly jumps out of his skin.

"Fuck, Merry, what in bleeding—"

"'s all right, Aunt," Merry cuts in, flicks a narrow, sideways smirk up at Pippin, before blinking it away into an innocent grin towards—Pippin gulps a little—Pippin's mother, standing just down the tunnel a ways, hands on hips and frowning.  Despite the fact that Merry is lounging on the floor of the hallway in front of Pippin's door, and despite the fact that Pippin nearly went arse-over-elbow when he'd only just stopped himself from tripping over him, Merry looks for all the world as though it's not the least bit unusual to be grinning charmingly up from the floor at his by-now-almost-appalled aunt.  He actually looks comfortable.  "Pippin's mouth always gets a little filthy when it's just us lads.  Scandalous, really." 

Pippin has a moment of surreal, near-indignant shock.  Did Merry actually just… did Merry just tattle on him?

Eglantine's expression has moved from near-horror to almost-amusement; Pippin is relieved to see her eyes twinkle.  "Mm," she says, looks sidelong at Merry.  "And here I've always thought you were the bad influence, Merry-lad."  Merry snorts a little, but she doesn't give him a chance to retort, instead snapping her glance to her son; her gaze is sharp and assessing, but Pippin can easily see the warmth and worry beneath it.  "Are you all right, lad?" she asks him softly.

Of any of the mortifying events of the afternoon, that soft look is surely the most painful.  Pippin clenches his jaw to stave off the blurring of his eyes, manages a small, jerky nod.

"Of course he is," Merry says equably, "or he will be soon."  He tilts a glance upwards at Pippin.  "Just let me have him for a tick, all right?" he says to Eglantine, but his eyes remain steady on Pippin; there is no smart-arse little lilt to his voice and his gaze is sure and serious, but a soft, knowing smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

Pippin's temper should be flaring, what with Merry answering for him like that, both of them looking at Pippin as though he's some fragile child who needs a wary talking-to and perhaps even a swat on the bottom before they're through; all he can seem to feel is a pathetic sort of gratitude, because he thinks if he'd had to answer that gentle look of concern in his mother's eyes, he just might have burst into tears.  His throat's already nearly clogged and burning with them.

Merry slides up to his knees, gives Eglantine that ridiculously-charming grin again, and sweeps her an even more ridiculously-formal bow.  "We'll just retire to his rooms, where he can cuss and swear to his heart's content in private, shall we?  Once it's out of his system, I'll haul him back to the noose— I mean ballroom."

"Ballroom," Eglantine affirms, with a bemused little tilt of her mouth at Merry.  "The noose is for tomorrow."

"True enough," Merry returns agreeably.

I'm right here, you know, it's rude to talk about a person as though he's not standing right next to you, Pippin wants to say, but he's afraid of what might come out if he actually opens his mouth to speak.

Eglantine eyes Pippin again, almost starts towards him; he must have flinched or something, because she stops short, sighs.  "You'll see to it?" she asks Merry, though her gaze is still on Pippin.

"My word," Merry answers, and again, Pippin wants to be angry at the confidence in that tone, but the anger is somehow not coming.  "Or, failing that," Merry goes on, "I'll at least bring his scalp.  His hair is the only thing Diamond really likes about him, anyway."

Eglantine rolls her eyes a little, but can't stop the sideways smile.  "He does have lovely hair," she agrees. 

And that's enough, it's just enough, he can't take one more second of this.  Pippin takes a long breath, says, "Mum," and even though he'd suspected as much, he's still sort of appalled at the loose quaver of his voice.

She moves in on him, and she doesn't stop this time, even though Pippin is sure he backs up a small step.  She only softens her smile, reaches up and drags her fingers through his hair, and even though her hands have always seemed to Pippin like delicate little birds, their touch has always been strong and soothing.  He closes his eyes briefly, and isn't the least surprised that he's forgotten what it was he'd wanted to say.

His mum leans in close, but doesn't embrace him, and Pippin is grateful, because he might just shatter if she does.  "She loves you madly," is all she says.

He makes do with a jerky a nod.  "I know," is all he wobbles back, and manages to bite back the rest: That's the problem.

Eglantine doesn't say any more, only gives a bit of a tug to his hair and tucks a strand or two behind his ear.  Then she sighs, turns, gives Merry another appraising look and strides down the long tunnel towards the main smials.  Pippin watches her back until she takes a turn and is gone; he lets his breath flow from his chest in a great gust, leans himself against the doorjamb, thumps his head back and closes his eyes.

"What are you doing here?" he asks Merry.

"Well, I like that," Merry retorts.  "D'you know how many hobbits would line up to get me in this position?  I mean, here I am, on my knees, and all you can ask is what am I doing here?"

Pippin wants to growl, he really does, but he only just manages to hold back a snort.  "You said to come and find you when I was ready."

"And here I am," Merry tells him.  "I am amazed and impressed by your superior tracking skills."

Pippin opens one eye, narrows it at Merry.  "Is this a new thing?  This jolly bit of flattery to make people do what you want?"

"I'm trying it out," Merry tells him.

"Well, stop trying it out on me," Pippin retorts.  "It doesn't suit you and it isn't working besides," though he really can't help the smile now and it sort of pisses him off a little, because it obviously is working, and he thinks maybe the most annoying part of it all is that he wants it to work.  He stuffs his hands in his pockets, pushes himself away from the doorframe, and turns.  "Come on, then."

He waits for Merry to climb to his feet, make his way through the door; Pippin shuts it and turns the key again, pockets it, before turning a gimlet eye on Merry.  Despite everything, a wicked little smirk pulls at Pippin's mouth; he cranes his neck a bit then finally grabs Merry by the arm and turns him about.  Merry resists a little—mostly out of surprise, Pippin thinks—then merely eyes Pippin over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" Merry wants to know.  "If you wanted an unimpeded view of the goods, you only needed to—"

"I'm looking for the flying pigs," Pippin tells him.

Merry's hand flies to his arse, as though he thinks there really might be a pig or two coming out his trousers, then shrugs out of Pippin's grip, turns on him with a sardonic, bewildered smile.  "Beg pardon?"

Pippin only shrugs.  "Well, you're actually doing things I ask you to do," he says, lifts an eyebrow.  "I figured it must be the end of the world or something."

Merry rolls his eyes, saunters over to the small couch by the huge glass doors and flops himself onto it.  "See, this is why Tooks shouldn't be allowed to breed," he mutters.  "I've used my 'jolly bit of flattery' to do exactly the opposite of what you asked me to do and get what I want in the process, and you've not even noticed the charisma I employed to do it.  I'm wasted on you lot, I swear."  He makes a business of adjusting his cufflinks.  "I'm quite charming, in case you didn't know.  I think I've done quite well."

"Well, you're a Brandybuck, you don't know any better."

"Managed to get in here, didn't I?"

Pippin lets him have that one.  He knows what Merry's trying to do and he should probably let him do it, but he doesn't think he can, not now.  He's been waiting for this, even before he knew he wanted it—since he'd sat with Merry in Frodo's bedroom and wondered at a dried up chain of broken petals; since he'd sat beside the Ford and pondered a molten sunset sharding over desultory waters—and now that he does know he wants it, it has to come now.

"You've changed," he tells Merry quietly, and moves slowly across the room, drops back into the chair, narrows his gaze.

Merry has gone still for a moment, wary, but it only lasts a breath or two.  He draws up a smirk, looks down at himself and flicks at the lapel of his jacket.  "The blue didn't quite suit."  A cheeky grin is gathering at the corners of his mouth.  "I thought the green—"

"Just since you've got here," Pippin cuts in.  "Or maybe…"  He eyes Merry steadily, watches that grin slide away, then shakes his head.  "I don't know, but you've changed.  You're… I've never seen you so… so at home in your own skin."

Merry frowns a little now.  "I've been having a nice time," he says slowly.  "It's a celebration, innit?  Or it will be, once you stop being such a twat."

Pippin ignores that last bit, shakes his head.  "It's not only that, it's…  You seem lighter, like nothing can touch you.  Even Reginard couldn't get the better of you and I've seen him piss off sweet little old gammers."

A small shrug that looks a little uncomfortable to Pippin, but Merry tries not to let it show.  "He kept feeding me straight lines, what was I supposed to do?  I couldn't just let them lie there."  When Pippin doesn't snort, only keeps staring at Merry, Merry sighs, rubs at his brow.  "Pippin, what is this about?  What's wrong?"

And stars, how is he supposed to answer that?

There's too much, just too much, it's all jumbled together, making no real sense at all, and yet it's making too much sense, too, only not the kind of sense he wants or understands completely, and if he can't make it all form some sort of trail of breadcrumbs in his mind, one he can actually follow without wandering right off a metaphorical cliff, his head's likely to explode.  He wants to say it all boils down to fear, and it does, sort of, and who doesn't have at least a small dose of cold feet right before his wedding?  But it's not that kind of fear, it’s something deeper, too deep, maybe, and he's never liked to sink too deep inside himself, for fear of the things he might find lurking in what he'd convinced himself he'd laid to rest.  And the thing is, he knows exactly what he wants, what he needs, but—

"Pippin, if you'll just talk—"

"Why didn't you ask him to stay?"

It comes out all angry—furious, even—sharp and accusing, and Pippin closes his eyes, clenches his jaw.  He hadn't meant to say it like that—he's not even sure he'd meant to say that at all—but the question has been winding through him for weeks now, and he's not all that surprised that it jumped out at its first real opportunity.  And anyway, done is done.  Still, he wishes he hadn't sideswiped Merry like that, and Pippin clenches his eyes tighter.

The silence is complete, profound, pounds against his ears, makes his head throb and his chest tighten, and he has to really try to swallow now, because his throat has clogged so thoroughly he thinks he might choke.

He can picture Merry, jaw hanging and face screwed up in reminded grief and guilt, can almost feel the sick twist of shock in his own gut, but he won't open his eyes.  Can't open his eyes.  He doesn't want to see that light die again, doesn't want to know that he's the one who killed it… doesn't want to know that he'd meant to do it.

It's so quiet that Pippin can hear Merry's quickening breaths, can almost count the heartbeats between each one.  Merry shifts a little, pushes out a soft little, "Huh," on a puff of exhalation that sounds almost like a dazed laugh.  "I'd thought as much."  A slow murmur, no real surprise inside it.

Pippin cautiously opens his eyes, peers over at Merry.  He's surprised, because Merry doesn't look sad and he doesn't look hurt and he doesn't look like he's thinking of coming across the room and tossing Pippin through the glass doors; he looks thoughtful and kind, and he gazes back at Pippin steadily.

"You're to be married," he says, soft and sympathetic, "and you always thought he'd be the one to stand Second."

Pippin looks down, blinks several times.  "I never—"  His voice is too thick and shaky, so he clears his throat.  "I don't think I even ever thought about it, not before—"

He doesn't know why he has to stop there, doesn't know why he all at once can't seem to say things that, until only hours ago, were merely words with a little more meaning attached to them than others.

"Before he left," Merry finishes for him.

Pippin almost wants to snarl, because it's as though they've switched places, Pippin suddenly unable to speak of it without his heart bleeding out through his eyes, and Merry saying things out loud he couldn't even bring to the top of his mind without shattering only a several weeks ago.  It isn't right, it's too… different, changed, and it's not bloody fair.

Merry tilts his head a little.  "Why didn't you?"

An involuntary curl of his lip, and Pippin snaps his gaze to Merry's, doesn’t even try to understand why he suddenly wants to stalk across the room and slap that calm look of understanding off his face.

"Why didn't I what?"

Merry smiles a little; it's soft and knowing, but lacks even the barest hint of condescension.  He allows Pippin the denial, for what it's worth, which isn't really a whole lot.

"Why didn't you ask Frodo to stay?"

Pippin almost blanches at the voicing of that name, and it makes no sense, no sense at all—it should be Merry who can't say it, it should be Merry twisted up in knots, and this shouldn't have anything at all to do with Frodo, but it does; somehow it has everything to do with him.

He looks down again, shakes his head.  "Because it wasn't my place," he says slowly.  "I hadn't that right.  You were the only one—"

"Balls, Pippin, I slept with him, that didn't give me any more right to love him than anyone else.  It was your place as much as anyone's, so why didn't you ask him?  Why didn't—"

"Why didn't I what?  Presume to know what he needed better than he did?"

Merry's eyes narrow and his lips tighten, his face taking on a fractured look of… betrayal, damn it, and Pippin supposes this is a betrayal of sorts, but…

There is no 'but', though Pippin desperately wants there to be, and he wants to stop his mouth from spewing accusation like this, because he doesn't really mean it, but his mind won't seem to settle on what he's really after, only keeps circling around that grey, brine-misted day like some kind of carrion bird that smells its dinner but can't seem to find it.  He has no idea why, can't figure it for the life of him, but it's driving him mad, won't stop playing itself out behind his eyes, even when they fill and burn until he has to shove his fists into them, presspresspress, and try not to see Diamond with sea-foam lacing about her ankles and her heart in her fist—offering.

"I'm sorry," Pippin says, as earnestly as he can make it, because he really is.  "That was… it was unfair."

Merry says nothing to that, only tips his head back, stares at the ceiling for a good long moment, and draws a long, heavy breath.  He nods a bit, looks down, and pretends to pick at lint on his trouser-leg.  Pippin knows that Merry thinks it was entirely fair, but he hasn't the wherewithal to argue him out of it right now.

"He wasn't perfect, you know," Pippin goes on, stares down at his hands.  "He was… I mean, there was perfection about him, in him, but it's almost… cheap to call him perfect.  Cheap and unfair, because it doesn't leave room for mistakes, and how does a person live up to that?"  He glances up, but Merry's still engrossed in the weave of his trousers.  "There was a certain sort of…"  He falters for a moment, shakes his head.  "Grace, I suppose, but that seems… I kept hearing people calling him 'Your Grace' in Minas Tirith, and he hated it, he would always—"  A tilt of his head and Pippin's surprised to find a small weary smile winding onto his mouth.  "Did you ever meet Radhruin?"  His smile tilts a little when Merry only blinks and slants a wary glance to him at this sudden jag in an already-nonsensical conversation.  Pippin shakes his head.  "No, of course you wouldn't've.  He was one of the Librarians—always there in the mornings when we went early.  He and Frodo used to have this in-joke between them.  Radhruin would say, 'Hallo, Your Grace, and how was your evening?' and Frodo would always answer back, 'I assure you, good sir, grace had nothing whatever to do with my evening.'" 

Pippin snorts, shakes his head again, pleased to see a small, knowing smirk curling up the corner of Merry's mouth, though he doesn't look up, still working at that imaginary lint on his knee.

"You sounded just like him for a second there," Merry says, voice distant but fond.

It gives Pippin a small, sharp chill and the bit of a smile congeals.  He swallows, ignores what Merry has just said, tries to forget entirely that he said it, but now it's there, just there, hanging in the space between them like a sniggering ghost.

"And that was sort of it, you know?" Pippin goes on, tries to keep his voice from shaking.  "There was perfection and there was grace, but it wasn't… I mean, he sort of wandered in and out of it—stumbled, sometimes, maybe."  His jaw tightens and his hands fist.  "So, what made him so different?"  It's almost a whisper, hissing out between clenched teeth.  "What made us like so much dust in the tail of his comet?"

Merry frowns now, slips a guarded glance sideways.  "Is that an actual question?" he wants to know.

It tweaks Pippin, and he's not exactly sure why.  "Not one for which I expect you to have an intelligent answer," he retorts, and it's a little more snide than it should be, considering, but he can't help it.  Anger keeps rising up out of nowhere and ambushing him, and he keeps turning around and ambushing Merry, and it wouldn't be so bad, maybe, if he could only suss why.  "I mean, I keep thinking about sitting there in the Library with him, and him going on about Beren One-hand and Tύrin Turambar and what made those people follow them into death like that, and I knew what he was getting at, but I didn't… I mean, what was I supposed to say?"

Merry shakes his head, finally looks fully at Pippin, his whole face twisted in confusion.  "What was he getting at?" he wants to know.  "What are you getting at, and what has anything got to do with all these old legends and mouldy books in Minas Tirith that—?"

"Oh glory, Merry, he's a legend, don't you understand?  We're legends for all that, and we're none of us perfect—couldn't be further from it, really."

"Pippin…"  Merry sighs, throws up his hands.  "All right, you've lost me entirely.  Somehow we've gone from night-before-the-wedding jitters to all of…"  He waves his hands about, gives a helpless shrug.  "…I don't know—whatever all this is.  Are you trying to find a way 'round to saying that Diamond isn't perfect enough for you, that you're not in love with her because she's not perfect?  Because, Pippin, honestly, if you're—"

"No!" Pippin snarls—and it is a snarl.  "There is perfection through love's eyes and there is the myth of real perfection, and we're none of us perfect, not you, certainly not me, not…"  Damn it, why does he keep stumbling over that name?  "But see, I used to think he was, I really did, even his mistakes I used to think were a part of some great plan that only he knew about, and even as we walked out of Bag End that night after his birthday, I really thought he knew what he was doing, and that made all of it all right—he had to go and get himself stabbed before I started to wonder if maybe…"  He clenches his teeth, blinks several times to clear blurry eyes.  "Because he made mistakes and he wasn't perfect.  I watched him walk onto that ship because I still kept thinking, well this is… well it's him, of course he knows what he's doing, except I wasn't sure anymore, I wondered if maybe he didn't, but I didn't ask him to stay because he might have done!"

He hadn't meant to shout that, but there it is, echoing in the stillness, adding another bit of a thudthudthud inside his head.  Pippin looks away again, clenches his jaw, doesn't even wonder why his chest is tight and aching and a stinging swath is unfolding behind his brow.  He can feel Merry looking at him, can feel the good intentions and the love coming at him in waves, and if he could make them something tangible, he thinks he'd bat them away, fling them to the floor and grind them beneath his heel; he doesn't think he could bear the weight of them.

"Tell me what that means," is all Merry says.

Pippin rolls his eyes, snaps a sharp glare to Merry.  "You know what it—"

"I know what it means to me," Merry cuts in, voice still soft but firm, too, brooking no argument or evasion.  "You've never told me what it means to you."

And why is Pippin so angry, near-furious?  Isn't this exactly what he wanted?  Isn't this why he'd opened that door?

Pippin sighs a little, exhaustion creeping in on the dip of it.  "All right," he says, more to himself than Merry, and he stands, shuffles across to the doors, leans against the frame and presses his forehead to the glass.  "All right." 

It seems odd that sunlight should be making his eyes crinkle and narrow, that birds should be out there cavorting and doing their bird-things, singing and whatnot, that the grass should be lush and green and smell sweet as life; perhaps because only a little more than five years ago—a small wrinkle in the fabric of Time—none of it was a given.

"It means… I wanted…"  He needs to connect his heart directly to his mouth and stop letting his brain get in the way of everything.  He closes his eyes, opens his mouth and, "I didn't want to be the reason," slips out on another weary sigh.  He shifts, draws in a deep, long breath.  "When I thought of him leaving forever and never seeing him again, I almost couldn't breathe, but the thought of him not going was even worse."

There.  That's at least close.

"Why?" Merry wants to know, still quiet and calm, but it doesn't seem to be pissing Pippin off as much as it did a few minutes ago.  "Because he was dying?"

Although, that question almost brings the anger back, just that quick.

"Yes!" Pippin snaps, then shakes his head, growls a little.  "No…  I mean yes, that had a great deal to do with it, but…"

He can't finish, doesn't know how, so he just shuts his mouth, broods into the sunlight, and waits for Merry to finish for him.

"But it wasn't the only reason he left," Merry supplies.

Pippin pauses, turns slowly to peer at Merry.  It wasn't the answer he'd been expecting.  He's a little surprised that Merry would know that, would admit it, would admit that there was more to it all than simple physical survival… that there was something between them that he couldn't fix.  It brings new tears pushing behind Pippin's eyes, because it really must have been bad for Merry—someone who, in Pippin's experience, really can fix just about anything—to understand that he couldn't even touch the one problem he would have traded his own life, heart and soul to make right.  It adds another facet to the sadness and disquiet wending through Pippin's heart.

There's more, and Pippin wonders if Merry knows it, can see it, the most shameful part of it all—If you're going to be the reason, you also have to be the solution, you have to fix it, you have no choice, even if you don't even know where to begin, and if you can't, it's your fault, your responsibility—and he thinks yes, of course Merry knows it.  The difference, Pippin thinks, is that Merry's always been willing to accept that responsibility, even if he might have no idea what it really means, while Pippin… well, Pippin almost always knows what it means.  He wonders sometimes if that's the difference between Merry's definition of sanity and his own.

Merry only continues to look steadily at Pippin, doesn't seem like he wants to add anything, or maybe he's waiting for Pippin's response, gauging him, to see what he should say next.  It should make Pippin furious, knowing he's being played like a… well like a fiddle, and that only serves to jab another something sharp into his chest, but he doesn't know why, so he tries to ignore it.  He only shakes his head, shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at his feet.

"No," he answers quietly, and it's strange to him, because it's like all of the fight that he didn't understand in the first place has drained out of him.  He sighs a little.  "There was something in him at the end that simply didn't belong here anymore, something that would have… would have…"  He shrugs, kicks at the carpet beneath his feet, leans wearily against the doorframe.  "I don't know, but he wasn't only a hobbit of the Shire anymore—he was more, he was of the World and of Other and things we'll never understand, and it was just too big to stay here, it would have swallowed him whole and… and snuffed him out beneath its weight because he wasn't perfect and he wasn't made of grace, and…"  He has to blink, swallow down the lump that's grown large in his throat.  "And I don't know, but I think I almost know how that is, because we don't belong here any more than he did—we don't even look like hobbits anymore."

Merry's eyebrows rise at that one; he slips an involuntary glance down at himself then gives Pippin a subtle once-over.  And for all that he looks mildly surprised, somehow Pippin doesn't think that's a new thought to him. 

Pippin narrows his eyes a little.  "D'you remember what it was like to lead in battle?" he asks quietly.  "D'you remember the way… the look in the eyes of those who followed you?"

A pause, more prickly than the last, and Merry looks down.  His answer is a simple and very quiet, "I do."

"It was hungry," Pippin says, his own voice smaller than he likes, so he swallows.  "Like if you handed them a glass of sand and told them it was water, they'd drink it and honestly believe they weren't thirsty anymore."

Merry's only answer is a still-quiet, non-committal, "Mm," but he shifts uncomfortably and keeps his gaze averted.

Pippin nods slowly, chuffs out a small broody laugh.  "You liked it, too, didn't you?"  Merry's eyes snap up, flare for a quick second—anger? guilt? surprise?—then flicker back deliberately into calm.  "For a little while, anyway," Pippin answers, agreeing with something Merry's not said.  "But only for a little while.  After that, it got…"  He frowns, shrugs his shoulders and looks down.  "Dunno."

"Scary," Merry whispers.

Pippin peers up from hooded eyes, nods.  He smiles just a little, despite himself.  Yes, Merry understands this much, at least.

"I didn't ask him to stay," Pippin says, "one of the reasons… I was afraid that if he looked at me too hard, he'd see that look in my eyes."  Now the tears threaten harder than they have all morning.  "He'd already been nearly eaten alive."

"In all ways," Merry adds, only it's so small and cracked that it doesn't sound like him at all.  He glances over at Pippin; Pippin catches a look of such bleak sorrow on his face that he almost flinches; Merry doesn't so much try to hide it as almost wish it away: he conjures a neutral expression, shrugs a bit and clears his throat.  "I still don't know what this is about, Pippin.  If you want to just sit here and reminisce and wallow in what-might-have-beens, then that's what we'll do, but I don't think that's what you want."

It isn't, and Pippin almost breaks right there, because Merry really would hash it all out with him, if that's what he asked, and the simple fact that Merry is willing to put himself through that touches him more profoundly than he thinks anything ever has.  But that isn't the place he wants to go right now, and he's not really sure exactly where he does want to go, but it's not there; the only thing he is sure of is that somehow he has to get through all of this to get to that.  And he's going to have to haul Merry with him.

"I was afraid of what I'd see in his eyes, too," he goes on.  Merry's still looking at him, still waiting for him to find a point in all this somewhere; Pippin meets Merry's concerned stare with the smallest of shrugs, then he slumps the few steps over to the couch, folds slowly down.  He gazes out onto the small swath of lawn he can see through the doors, licks his lips.  "I don't want you to think I was standing there at the Havens thinking nothing but unselfish thoughts.  And even the unselfish ones weren't so terribly unselfish.  But the worst of the selfishness…"  He pauses—for courage, he thinks, but he doesn't find much.  "I was afraid to look too deep into his eyes, was afraid of what I might see there, because… because if you looked closely enough, looked behind his eyes, there was… there was something… screaming back there."

And just that quickly, Merry's sprung up from the couch, like Pippin's just flung ice-water at him.  He just stands there for a moment, head bowed and hands fisted, breath coming a little too quick and heavy.  Pippin thinks, Ah, well, there it is, there's the breaking point, and I expect I knew there was one.  He's only sorry he's pushed it too soon, before he's had a chance to figure out what he's even trying to do.  Now, all he can hope is that he'll somehow figure it out on his own, after Merry has left him to his locked room and self-indulgent brooding.

Except Merry doesn't leave; he takes a long, deep breath, shakes himself a little then shambles over to the sideboard.  There's half a cup of cold tea that's been sitting there since… yesterday afternoon, Pippin thinks; Merry downs it like a hobbit throwing back a shot of bourbon, and Pippin winces a little—whether in sympathetic revulsion at what it must taste like, or the reminder of what the action itself echoes.  He's seen Merry do that very thing more times than he wants to remember, with things a lot less innocuous than tea.  Merry never exactly swore off drink altogether, but it's been a long time since Pippin's seen him have more than a pint or a sip or two of wine to share a toast.  It's like he's stepping back in time—in all ways possible—and dragging Merry back with him, and it shakes him more than a little.

"Stars, Merry, I'm sorry," Pippin says, nearly trips over himself getting from the couch to the sideboard.  Merry's just standing there, hunched over, one hand still gripping the cup, the other fisted on the top of the sideboard, holding him up.  Pippin stops just short of reaching out and gripping his arm.  "Merry, I'm sorry, really.  I don't know what this is, I don't know what—"

"This would go a great deal faster," Merry says, low and strained through clenched teeth, "if you would only tell me what it is that's got you so bloody terrified!"

Pippin sags, stares at Merry's profile, head bowed and teeth clenched, the knuckles of his right hand and his glare both threatening to put holes through the top of the sideboard.  Again, he feels the compulsion to reach out, lay a hand to Merry's arm or shoulder, because he really is sorry—he hadn't intended any of this, but that's the way things always seem to go with him, for one reason or another—but he thinks if he actually does reach out, he's likely to draw back a stump.

Instead, he sighs, offers the truth, because it's the only thing he has right now that might mean anything.

"It's only that…"  His eyes burn and he swallows against that damnable lump in his throat.  "I mean, why did they follow Beren?  Why did we follow him?  Why did they follow us?  I'm no bloody Captain!  What makes a person so…"  He growls now, because it's here, right here, but he can't make it come out.  "It's only that… well, there's Diamond now, isn't there, and she's become… she's… necessary.  To everything I am, and how did that happen?"

Merry goes utterly still for a moment, almost to the point where Pippin wonders if he's stopped breathing.  Then he slumps, drops his chin to his chest.  He closes his eyes, shakes his head, and… snorts. 

"For pity's sake," he mutters, to himself it seems, then rubs a hand roughly over his face, turns on Pippin.  "Idiot!"  He laughs this time, a real laugh, and whacks Pippin on his ear.  Pippin would protest, but Merry's eyes are misted over, like he's been holding back tears; his expression is so profoundly relieved that Pippin's almost afraid to say another word, so he only rubs at his ear, frowns at Merry.  "You great bloody ass," Merry goes on, nearly manic now.  "You're in love, of course.  It scares everyone spitless, you know, what made you think you'd be so special?"

No, that isn't it, that isn't it at all.  Well, it is, but…  Damn it, why can't this be easy?

"Was that how it was for you, then?" he asks Merry, surprised himself when the venom in his voice freezes Merry's smile, curdles it a little, and vague bewilderment flits over his face, but Pippin can't stop now, even though he almost wants to.  "Is that how it is?"

Merry's eyes narrow and he frowns.  "What—"

"D'you think that's how it was for him?"

Merry snaps straight, pushes away from the sideboard, and draws himself up.  His fists are clenched; Pippin almost thinks Merry wants to hit him, but he only stares at Pippin—glares at him, really.

"If we're going to keep along this path," Merry says evenly, "you'd best at least re-learn how to say his name."

Pippin pauses.  Fair enough.

"Frodo," he says, slowly, like he's trying it out.  "Is that how it was for Frodo?"

Merry stares for another moment, anger burning high and hot behind his eyes.  Then he flicks his gaze down, away.  "I'm sure I don't—"

"Don't!" Pippin growls, spins and stalks across the room, takes up his former place in front of the wide glass doors, stares out at nothing.  "You don't know—right."  That last was almost a snarl.  "He needed you like breath, and you don't know."  He rubs his hands over his face, digs the heels of them into his eye-sockets—presses hard.  "Did you do it all for him?"

"Do—"

"Are you doing this for him?"

"—what, Pippin, what in bleeding perdition—"

"D'you think he did it all for you?"

"—are you talking about?" 

Pippin drops his hands, whirls.  "Tell me why you did it.  Tell me why you formed the Conspiracy, tell me why you charged into that room with a sword in your hand, tell me why you would have followed all the way to Mordor if you could've done—tell me why you let him go."

Merry looks like he can't decide between anger, confusion, pain or betrayal.  "How did all of this get to be about me?"

"It isn't about you, it's about me—I did it for Frodo, all of it, and I want to have done it for her, and I know that makes no sense, but I think I did do it for her, or for the idea of her, anyway, and it's as though time sort of doubles over itself somehow and I can actually remember thinking about her before I even knew her and...  and I'm terrified of how much I love her because I've seen something like it in your eyes, and in Frodo's, and I see what it did to you both, what it's still doing—"

"Glory, Pippin, stop, will you?"  Merry runs a hand through his hair, clutches at a hank of it.  He looks blindsided, shaken.  "You're working yourself up into a lather over love, for pity's sake—this isn't life or death, you know, it's your bloody wedding!"

"Isn't it life or death?"  Pippin tilts his head, narrows his eyes.  "Frodo would have stayed if you'd asked him to, you know he would have."  He feels a heavy pang as Merry visibly controls a flinch, but he can't stop, he's gone too far, and he's almost there now, he can feel it coming to a head.  He wants to look away from Merry, because it pains him to know he's hurting him like this, but he thinks that's a coward's way.  He swallows, goes on, "He would have stayed, even knowing that it would be the end of him, in more ways than you or I can even understand, and he would have done it because that kind of love has that kind of power.  All those years he spent keeping everyone at arm's length, refusing to let anyone have that kind of power over him, and yet he handed it to you without you even asking—without either of you even knowing it.  Look at you—you still don't know it.

"But I can see it, I can see that power he has over you even now, and he's been gone for years, and he never even wanted it to begin with!  Yet here you are, happier than I've seen you in bloody forever, and all because you've just decided that the chance of having it all again is worth the risk of who-knows-what, and—"  He chokes a little, shakes his head.  "And I can look at you and see myself in there somehow."  There's a sob caught in his throat, because there it is, that's it; that one small sentence is what has been burning holes in his chest and his gut, and saying it out loud hasn't helped at all.  "I mean…"  He gulps, fists his hands because they're shaking.  "I mean, I think I'd do that if I had to, I really think I'd give anything at all to keep what I've got or to get it back again and I don't know what to do with it all!"

Merry shrugs helplessly.  "Why do you have to do anything?"

"Why…?"  Pippin rolls his eyes, clenches his teeth, because he really thinks that's pretty obvious.  "Because when I leave this room and walk into that ballroom, my father is going to lift his glass, look at me and ask me if I am prepared to give Diamond my heart.  And I have to look into his eyes and give him my answer."

"And what is your answer?"

"That I already have!  That she can take it and squash it and rip it to pieces, and I know, I know that's what love is, but I'm not—"

"No," Merry cuts in, all confusion gone now, and his voice is clear and steady.  "No, see, that's where you're getting it all wrong.  Not just power; you give another permission to break your heart—rip it out and stomp all over it—but you also trust them not to.  And Pippin, you can trust Diamond, I know you can.  I see the way she looks at you and do you really think I could love her as I do if I didn't recognise that look?  If I hadn't seen it so many times looking at me from Frodo's eyes?"

"And look what it brought you to!"

"And look where it's brought me now!  Look what it gave me for all those years before…"  Merry pauses, rubs at his forehead, sighs.  "Look, I know it's frightening, and all at once, as it was, but Pippin, she loves you—I see it, I recognise it, I know it.  You have to trust that.  You have to trust her—that's what it all comes down to, you know, and for all its complexities, it really is that simple."

"But I don't know if I'm to be trusted, can't you see?  The things you and Frodo did for each other—to each other—and all for a love that…"  He thumps his chest.  "I could do that, you know?  I could hurt her like that, if I knew it was what was best for her.  I could do it and it seems so cold and cruel to me in a way, but it isn't, not really, because she's in me and there's no getting her out now, and watching her be hurt would be like ripping a piece of myself away, but I could do it and… and even that's not the worst part.  I don't know how to…  I mean, it's not that I'm afraid that I'd do that sort of thing for her, because I already know I would—I'm afraid she'd do it for me."  He holds out his hands, pleading.  "She looks at me that same way sometimes—like you looked at Frodo and he looked at you; like the hobbits at Bywater looked at us both—like she'd follow me to Mordor if I asked her to, and what am I supposed to do with that?"

Merry's eyes change, earnest compassion sliding like an avalanche right down into intense hostility, and he grabs hold of Pippin's hands—hard.  "What do you want to do with it, Pippin?"  His eyes are bright and hot, angry, and his grip crushing.

Pippin's eyes widen.  "What—?"

"Do you want to grind it out of her?  Push her away until she doesn't look at you like that anymore?  Make her into someone she's not so that you don't have to be terrified anymore?"

"No, I—"

"Or do you want to just walk away from her—protect her from yourself, because yes, Peregrin Took, he's so bleeding special that he has the power to ruin people's lives like that, just by being in them.  But you'd better be quick about it, because she already loves you and you want to get away now, before she loves you too much, right?  Break her heart a little now, so you don't have to break it a lot later, right?"

Pippin tries to twist his hands away, but Merry tightens his grip, drags him in so they're almost nose-to-nose.

"And maybe while you're at it," Merry goes on, teeth clenched, eyes nearly on fire now, "you can stop looking at her like that, too.  Stop loving her now, or at least pretend you have, because stars and fire, this love thing is hard, innit?  People expect you to actually show it sometimes, and we wouldn't want to do that, would we?  It might make them expect you to be about for a while, and you'll just disappoint them in the end, so it's probably best you disappoint them now."  He lets go Pippin's hands with a bit of a shove, very nearly sends Pippin stumbling backwards.  "You're right, Pippin," he says, voice even but not in the least calm.  "You should stay holed up in here.  It's best to do it this way, it really is.  I mean, people go on and on about how lucky you are if you manage to find that kind of love once in your life, but really I think you're lucky if you don't.  Saves you all of that bothersome feeling."

Pippin swallows, shame heating his cheeks, and he watches as Merry takes a long, steadying breath, adjusts his cuffs, straightens his waistcoat.  He's furious—absolutely bloody furious—and Pippin thinks he's every right to be, considering.  Still.

"You said I was just like him," he says quietly, a little piqued that his voice is so thin.

Merry shakes his head, jaw twitching, and he rolls his eyes, fractious and impatient.  "When did I say that?"

"In the Forest," Pippin replies, clears his throat because he can't seem to make his voice stop shaking like a little lad's.  "Fangorn."

A tic at the corner of Merry's mouth and he slits his eyes.  "I spent the better part of two years completely off my nut, Pippin.  There are very few things during that time for which I submit to being held accountable."  His voice is dangerous, a warning.

Pippin should heed it, because he'd sworn and he doesn’t take that lightly.  But Merry was never as crazy as he thinks he was; even at his worst, he was sharper than just about anyone Pippin has ever known, and his instincts never failed him.

"You kissed me," Pippin says, soft insistence, "and when I said I wasn't him, you said—"

"We're done here, Pippin," Merry breathes, voice so quiet and controlled that Pippin's throat nearly closes up. 

He's pushed Merry far past the point of angry confusion and right down into wrath.  He's only seen Merry like this twice in his life, and both times, Pippin had been both awed and terrified; he doesn't know which he is right now, but having that seething look of supreme fury directed at him has to be one of the more surreal experiences of his life.  He actually takes a small step back.

"I don't know what this is about," Merry goes on, the livid tone of his voice all the more unsettling for the thick threads of control laced through it, "and I no longer have any interest in finding out."  His arm lifts and Pippin almost flinches back, but Merry merely points a finger to the door.  "If you're looking for some excuse to break that girl's heart, you won't be getting it from me."  Now the finger points squarely at Pippin's chest.  "And if you're so bloody determined to be a complete tit, you can do it locked up in here alone.  I wish you joy of it, but I won't play anymore."  His hand turns over, fingers splayed.  "Give me the key."

Pippin's hand goes instinctively to his pocket, finds the hard line of the key and closes his fingers over it.  He should do this, he knows he should—he's pushed and pushed and pushed some more, and he's done things like this to Merry before, but never with such self-centred intent behind it.  He's mortified that he's let it come to this, nearly crushed beneath the weight of his own selfishness and the grief and guilt he can see spiking beneath Merry's rage, but he doesn't think he's needed something in his entire life so badly as he needs this answer.

"We were so tired and scared and lonely for home and you started talking about Frodo," he pushes on, voice nothing more than a determined whisper, "wondering if he was all right, and you wouldn’t look at me but I could tell you were crying.  I remember babbling, saying of course he was, and I think that was more for me than for you, because I needed to believe it, too, but it was for you, too, because you were scaring me, you were just so… broken."  Merry takes a step towards him and Pippin instinctively takes one back.  "And then you finally turned around and looked at me—you kept staring—and you said something about the eyes not being right, but then you…"   

Merry hasn't stopped glaring at him, that dark look of rage turning shocky and betrayed.  His hand is still outstretched, but now his arm dips down and his fingers curl loosely over his palm.  It's like Pippin's beating him, pummelling him, without laying a hand to him, and he looks so close to how he looked that night in Fangorn that it's almost like Pippin has dragged them both back through time.  He can almost taste the earthy clarity of the ent-draught on his tongue, can almost feel the low vibrations of their songs through his chest.

"And when I pulled away, when I said you were seeing things where they weren't, that you really wanted Frodo and I wasn't him…"  He shakes his head slowly, gulps down something that feels too much like a sob.  "You said I was Frodo without the tragedy," he warbles; he tries very hard to keep his eyes from leaking and his tongue from tripping over itself.  "You said I was what he might have been, had he had an easier time of it growing up, but that you were almost grateful because you loved his tragedy, too.  I didn't really understand that at the time, but I think I do now, and it's making me—"

"I made you cry," Merry says, voice thread-thin and raspy.  "I remember that.  Great, wrenching sobs that shook right through my palms…"  The anger has gone from his gaze; now there's only that confusion again and that hated guilt that Pippin hadn't meant to revive.  Merry slumps down, his gaze going to his hands, open palms-up in front of his chest now; he looks dazed and shaken.  "I'm sorry," he breathes.  "Did I ever tell you I was sorry?"

The tone is so thick with defeat that Pippin feels it like a punch to his own chest.  He pulls his hand out of his pocket, meaning to take hold of Merry, maybe—hug him tight or shake that look of weary culpability from his face, he can't tell which.  Except the key is in his hand, outstretched and offering; Pippin watches Merry's muddy gaze slip over it, watches his hand slowly pluck it from Pippin's fingers.  And then he only stares at it, like he has no idea what it is or what he's supposed to do with it.

"I don't want you to go," Pippin says.

Merry only shakes his head slowly back-and-forth.  "Pippin, I don't know—"

"I don't want you to go!" Pippin repeats, louder this time, and with a note of manic penitence beneath it that shames him.

Merry catches both meanings this time, narrows his eyes, vacant stare suddenly sharper and pointed right at Pippin, dismayed.  "What?"

He doesn't really need it repeated again; he just can't believe Pippin actually said it out loud.  Neither can Pippin, really.

There's pain in Merry's eyes now—real and deep—and yet a flash of inflexibility beneath it all nearly makes Pippin choke out a bitter laugh, because that's it, there it is, there's the answer he was looking for, and now he really doesn't want it after all.  Merry's arms drop heavily to his sides, but his fist clenches tight about the key.

"I have—"

"Idiot!" Pippin growls.  "Of course you have to, d'you think I don't know that?  D'you think I hadn't thought about going myself if you didn't?"

"Then what is this about, Pippin?"  It's full of helpless entreaty.  "Is this some kind of… of revenge for blundering into that kiss?  Have you been holding that against me all this time?"

"No!  I didn't mean it like—"

"For saying you were like Frodo, then?"

"Of course not!" Pippin denies.  "I wanted to be like him—when I was a lad and too stupid to know better, I wanted to be him."

"Then what in bleeding—"

"I don't want that anymore!" Pippin shouts, voice ragged and strained.  "I don't want anyone to follow me to death and back, I don't want to be someone who could stomp all over someone else's heart because it's best for them, and I sure as damn don't want the love of my life sitting beside the River, trying to decide whether that next breath is really worth it or not!"

Merry only stares for a moment, draws in a great, long breath, closes his eyes and pushes the breath back out slowly.  "Oh," is all he says.  Then he nods, looks down, slides the tip of his finger over the edge of the sideboard.  "M' mum said you wouldn't ever forgive me for that."

A morose little snort and a shrug from Pippin.  "I won't," he agrees.  "Talk about a bloody tit."  And when Merry only slants a sideways glance at him, Pippin tries to smile a little, fails; he only shrugs again, angles slowly around Merry then slumps back into his chair.  He stares out the window, furthers, "But I've always understood it."  He crooks his arms onto the desk, rests his chin atop them.  "Or anyway, I thought I did."

"And what makes you doubt it now?" Merry asks softly.

Pippin shrugs again.  "Because she loves me like that," he answers, voice small and tired.  "And I love her like that."

"And is that something you want to change?"

Pippin snorts again, somewhat grimly this time, and his eyes burn.  "Can't, can I?" he mutters.  "People are what people are and you can't change it."  His hands try to curl into fists again, but he doesn't let them.  "Anyway, they bloody-well change themselves without warning a person, don't they?"

"True enough," is all Merry says.

"Like the River," Pippin goes on.  "He was like—"  He shakes his head, grits his teeth.  "Frodo was like the River.  Rushing strong, and if it can't get