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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement XXIII - Theme AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG SUMMARY: Revelations are not always dramatic. ILLUSTRATION: 'Theme' by Daffodil Bolger.
Theme: The principal melodic phrase in a composition, especially a melody forming the basis of a set of variations.
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THEME
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It was funny, the way time stretched and pulled itself like taffy in greased fingers, yawning long and thin then snapping itself back, folding over itself until days turned to minutes and then years and ages, faltering into seconds and split-seconds bridged into lifetimes. He stood on the Pelennor for ages, he was sure of it, could remember one single drop of blood from some nameless soldier working itself in a slow trickle, following the furrow made by veiny traces of a black wing, travelling years within Ages to its destiny within oblivion. A part of him stood there still, watching that jewelled spark of ruby slip-slither to the ground, listening to wretched screams -- some of them his own -- falling into vengeful grey eyes and living the life of another within the lifetime spent in the blink of his own, dying another's death within his own split-second eternity.
Another part of him would dwell forever on his knees on that sandy quay, howling his loss into briny mist, swirling in the darkness of his own worst nightmare come to life. It was just a wide, gaping blank spot in his mind, that eternal moment, but the pain of it was in his bones, if not in his memory, and he knew he would carry it now through his own forever.
Still more parts of him would ride the sweeping valleys and
rolling landscape of his home, breathe the scent of fresh-turned earth, sink his toes into rich black loam and smile as soil closed about skin and fur in instinctive embrace. Summer sun beating on his shoulders, warming the crown of his head and leaving its brand on the bridge of his nose. Winter sun, thin and sharp against eyes narrowed in its glare, always keeping the promise of Spring's return by its mere presence.
Yet there was always another presence on the periphery, walking alongside those parts of him -- sometimes laughing, clear and musical; sometimes whispering low and throaty against sweat-damp skin; sometimes screaming in silence through eyes that refused to give up telltale tears… always, always in his bones, beneath his skin, winding about his heart.
"What are you thinking about?"
Merry turned his eyes from their study of shadow-branches swaying through a pocket of late-afternoon sun, filtered through stiff linen curtains and spatter-dropped across the wall. Pippin lay sprawled in the chair on the other side of the hearth, a book in his lap and tea at his elbow. The fire gilded him in wavering shadow, made jewels of his eyes, but Merry could see that he was weary and hadn't been sleeping as much as he should.
"I was thinking about how grotty you're looking these days," Merry replied, rolled slowly to his back on the couch.
He'd whined and cajoled for days to get them to let him move from the bed. He knew without doubt that the walls of his bedroom inched closer every time he closed his eyes and it was already hard enough to breathe. Not something he could just take care of himself, either, for he still needed an arm about him just to visit the loo, though he'd put his foot down -- albeit a bit weakly -- about accompaniment there at least.
Week three, by his count, though he would admit that he hadn't exactly been keeping track very well. The first week at least had been nothing more than a vague blur of fire and ice, voices -- mostly familiar, some not so much -- speaking above him mostly, but sometimes trying to coax responses from him, and he thought he'd cooperated for the most part but he does remember reciting 'Bugger off' over and over again for a while like some twisted mantra. He hoped that hadn't been to his mother but he wouldn't dare ask; in fact, he fully intended to claim non-remembrance, should anyone ever cite him for it.
A lot of what he remembered held only a very vague dream-reality for him. He remembered a rush of warmth and soft hands upon him and an overwhelming sense of Mother not too long after he'd been brought back to the house. And he remembered sinking into that touch, weeping like the bairn he'd been when he'd first been held within it.
He remembered carrying on conversations quite often with Frodo but Frodo kept turning into Pippin and Merry couldn't seem to follow the exchanges anyway, so he doesn't remember anything that might have actually been said. Eäreneth had made an appearance and Merry does remember quite vividly trying to crawl from the bed and make his way over to the mirror so that he could finally see the face that looked back at him from behind his own eyes. He only managed to roll himself off the bed and whack his forehead on the edge of the nightstand -- that he remembered quite clearly because he'd thought Pippin was going to have an apoplectic fit when Merry had just looked up at his surprised face and snorted, blood running hot from the gash and into his hair. Pippin had only rolled his eyes, told him he was bloody lucky he didn't decide just to kick him in the head and leave him there but he rather liked the carpet and hated to see it ruined. Merry had laughed so hard that he'd started coughing again and couldn't seem to stop; he'd heard soft footsteps moving quickly towards them both, remembered trying to make his mouth work and he thought he'd managed to mutter, 'Mum' and everything went to black after that. He didn't remember more.
He'd done it to himself and had no excuse. Bad enough he'd had his own little three-day piss-up, but he'd ended it by the River in the middle of Winterfilth and with only a daycoat to keep him warm, and a bottle of… what had he been drinking anyway? He had no idea if he'd seen a bed in those three days and if he had, whose it might have been. All things considered, he supposed it was a lucky thing he hadn't ended up in the River.
'Lung infection' was bandied about quite frequently and Merry supposed it should have scared him more than it did, and especially when the healer his mum had brought said it because it seemed to echo when it came out of his mouth, like the skies should go dark and thunderclouds roll in, complete with well-timed lightning-strikes, every time the dramatic utterance crossed his tongue. Merry probably shouldn't have snickered at the poor fellow as often as he had but it made Pippin have to hide his own smiles and stifle laughter, so it was all to the good, in Merry's opinion.
Pippin closed his book, kept a finger between the pages to mark his place. "You're not supposed to lie on your back," he chastised softly.
Merry smiled a little. "Mum says I can lie on my back so long as I don't lie flat."
"Oh," Pippin retorted with a smirk and a roll of his eyes, "well, if Mum says so then I suppose it must be true. Mums always know best then, don't they?"
Merry snorted softly, held back a small cough, said, "Mine does," and the corner of his mouth curled up into a smirk of his own. "Don't be making fun of my mum, else I might have to roll myself across the rug and… well, I suppose I could manage biting at your ankles without too much bother. Provided you hold still anyway. Although…" He turned his head on the pillow, looked Pippin over thoughtfully. "I might be able to reach your kneecaps without too much effort."
Pippin shook his head. "My legs are longer now, you know, and thusly, my kneecaps are farther off the ground. You'd have to drag yourself up on your elbow at least and I know for a fact that you are weak as a kitten and completely at my mercy." He lifted an eyebrow. "Were I a less honourable person, I could take wonderful advantage of it, you know."
"I'm not 'weak as a kitten'," Merry retorted somewhat truculently. He turned his head on the pillow, closed his eyes. "I'll have you know I'm at least as strong as a very large cat… perhaps even a fauntling. Have someone bring me one; I'll arm-wrestle him and then we'll see who's weak."
A choked snort from Pippin. "How about I just take your word for it?"
Merry nodded a little with overdone satisfaction, abstractly pleased that it didn't make his head thump. "So long as you do," was his mumbled reply.
Silence fell, warm and comfortable. Merry listened to the pop and rustle of the fire, let himself drift.
It was rather nice, actually, this weariness, this inability to remain awake for more than bits and snatches of time. It prevented thinking for the most part, dulled the ache somewhat, painted the world in a soothing non-reality. It wouldn't last, he knew; he was recovering and that was good because his chest hurt like a bugger and a half and he'd be glad when he didn't feel so much like knives had been embedded in his ribs. But he wasn't looking forward to when the gauze that had wound itself around his mind would be peeled away, leaving him raw and exposed and… less.
There was no way around it -- he was not what he once was, never would be again, and yes, it was time he sucked it up, took it on the chin, let it give him its very best shot in the jaw so that he could go about the business of picking himself up off the floor. But right now, he couldn't seem to reprimand himself too seriously for the fact that he was perfectly comfortable cocooned in the grey hazy limbo he'd made for himself, splitting head, aching muscles and sore chest notwithstanding.
"What are you thinking about?" Pippin asked again, softer this time.
"What are you, a twelve-year-old girl?" Merry frowned, opened his eyes, turned to his cousin. "Nothing, why?"
An eyebrow arched. "You're lying," was the quiet accusation. Pippin looked away briefly when Merry's frown deepened then took a breath, turned back to him. "You're thinking about… about him."
Why hadn't he pretended to be asleep? Merry closed his eyes again, swallowed.
"You can say his name, Pip. I promise not to toddle off to the pub if you do."
"As if you could." Pippin looked down into his lap, traced a finger over the soft leather of the book cover. "Hurts to say it," was the soft furtherance. A small rueful chuckle and a loose shrug as Pippin's eyes followed the path of his finger on the book. "Your mum can't say it, either, you know. I think now I understand the superstition of not speaking the names of the dead; it's not that anyone's really afraid that it would keep their ghosts bound to the earth but rather that it's too painful to say a name out loud once the person who owns it isn't about anymore."
Odd, how quickly the numbness crept back in. Merry opened his eyes, slowly turned to Pippin.
"You said he was all right." His voice was a rough whisper and he swallowed. "You said you Saw it."
"He is all right," Pippin answered quickly, forcefully. "I didn't mean it like that." He shifted, slipped his finger from between the pages of the book and slid it onto the table. "I know he's all right because to believe anything else…" A quick jerk of his head and a grimace. "I didn't See anything; it doesn't work that way for me. Sometimes I dream things that come true and sometimes I feel things that turn out to be right but…" He sighed. "And anyway, I thought you didn't believe in all of that."
Merry didn't answer -- mostly because he had no idea what he believed anymore.
Pippin had fallen silent, shifted uncomfortably before he stood, walked to the hearth and gripped the mantel with both hands, rested his brow to the backs of them. He looked so tired.
"I mean, they wouldn't have taken him away for nothing, would they? It had to be some kind of reward, didn't it, else they'd not have put him through it all, and you know that the leaving had to have hurt him, too -- and worse than it did us, or he'd never have done it. The leaving was the better thing, right? Had to be, else he'd not have done it."
It sounded too much like Pippin was trying to convince himself and Merry felt again the sting at the knowledge that he'd left Pippin quite alone in his grief over the past year while he'd nearly drowned in his own. And worse, he knew that he was not ready to help anyone through their own sorrows just yet, not when he'd barely even acknowledged his own.
"You're angry with him, aren't you?"
The question, spoken into the soot-stained stone of the hearth, startled Merry a little. He drew a careful breath, only felt a slight rattle.
I'm sorry but I just can't do this yet.
"I think I'd like some tea now, Pippin." Pippin turned to him, narrowed his eyes; Merry only looked back calmly, even smiled a little. "That is, if you don't mind."
Pippin studied him closely for a moment and Merry submitted to the scrutiny, kept his face pleasant until Pippin sighed, gave a slight nod then went to make the tea. Merry watched him go as he quit the room then he closed his eyes, blew the breath out slowly. He pretended to be asleep when Pippin returned.
* * *
When he next became aware that he was no longer asleep, the sun through the curtains had shifted to the bright yellow-white of early morning and it was Esmeralda who sat in the chair opposite the couch, small, round glasses perched low on her nose, a pool of flaxen linen in her lap and a needle and thread in her hand. Merry wasn't sure he'd ever seen his mother with such; a pen was more likely in her hand than a needle and receipts or account books in her lap more probable than anything else. It made him smile a little.
"You don't sew," he told her softly by way of greeting.
She paused only briefly, tilted her head but didn't look up. "And you don't cook but we both make do when we have to, don't we then?" The needle slipped smoothly in and out, a tiny glint from the sun spilling dust motes through the window and catching at it as it moved swiftly back and forth. "And anyway, Pippin tells me you've both simply been tossing out clothes you've abused instead of mending them. Terribly wasteful and shame on the both of you. Everything you own now has to be specially-tailored and for you to just toss it in the bin when you've gone and…" She shook her head, tied off the thread then severed it with her teeth, knotted the end and set to work tightening loose buttons. "Money out the window," she went on. "I don't know what your Aunt Eglantine would say because she always has spoilt your cousin so, but I thought I taught you better than that, would you like some tea, are you hungry?"
Merry blinked. "Er--"
"Lots of fluids, Overton says, but Paladin's sent some of that cider you like so much and I suppose I could warm some of that with cinnamon, if you'd rather, but I thought--"
"Mum."
"--tea might feel better on your throat and I could put a headache powder in it if you think you need one, though you've got some colour to you for a change--"
"Mum!"
The needle stopped but only briefly. "What?" was the soft reply.
Merry stared at the top of her head, the long, straight part through auburn-touched honey only just recently shot through with a dash of silver. A tell of her Fallohide ancestry but pragmatism had tamed the Took in her long ago.
"Why won't you look at me?" he wanted to know.
His mother sighed, rested her hands in her lap and looked up. "There," she said. "I'm looking at you. What am I supposed to be seeing?"
Merry frowned, shook his head a little. "I don't know," he answered then he paused, ventured, "You're angry with me, aren't you?"
She only stared at him for a moment then arched an eyebrow, went back to her task. "Why should I be angry?" she asked him, her tone indifferent and perhaps a little cool. "My only son gamely gives drinking himself to death a go but I don't suppose I'm one to--"
"I didn't!" Merry pulled himself up on an elbow. "Mum, you--"
"Lie down!" Esmeralda snapped and Merry did, slowly. She frowned at him for a moment then went back to her needlework, said, "All right, so you didn't," and went silent.
Merry was quiet for a long moment then: "It was an accident, you know." He waited until she looked at him, went on, "I mean… well, I didn't mean to make myself sick and I didn't mean to worry anyone, I only…" He sighed, shook his head a little. "I wasn't thinking clearly, Mum. I'm sorry."
She stared at him, asked, "And are you now? Thinking clearly?"
The rebuke was clear and Merry pinked a little beneath it. "Haven't a clue," he replied, the temperature of his tone deliberately matching his mother's, and why did everyone seem to want to Talk all of a sudden anyway? "Why don't you pose me a riddle and we'll see if I can make an answer?"
Her eyes narrowed at the sarcasm then her face smoothed and an eyebrow quirked up. "All right then," she said and Merry knew this tone all too well and realised too late that he'd let himself in for something he had no strength or desire to try and wend through right now. "What sort of a lad is handed the gift of more tomorrows by the one he loves best and then tosses that gift back into the giver's face?"
Merry's teeth clenched. "I've done no such--"
"You nearly died, Merry!"
Sharp and harsh. She was shaking. Her cheeks were high with colour and her eyes glittered at him, though with anger or withheld tears, he couldn't tell.
Merry dropped his gaze, shrugged, muttered, "Wasn't the first time."
"Oh," Esmeralda whispered, shook her head slowly, "I know it, don't I? And a Proud Mum, I am, too, and why shouldn't I be? My only son running about, stepping in front of creatures out of dark tales from the very pits of the earth, trying so hard to prove that he's not his father, trying so hard to keep the love of one who couldn't take it away without ripping away half of himself, and walking right up to Death itself with a polite bow and a hearty handshake, practically begging it to take him away--"
"That isn't true!" Merry shouted, coughed a little. He swallowed, said, "I did what I had to do; it was necessary, Mum -- I had no choice! -- and it had nothing whatever to do with Dad or--"
He stopped. Pippin was right: it hurt to say his name. And anyway, it wasn't entirely true, was it? It had everything to do with him.
"I know it was necessary, Merry," Esmeralda said and her face and voice both had softened. "And I'm more proud of you than I could ever say, don't ever think I'm not." She balled up the shirt, stuck the needle through and tossed it all to the table at her side, took off her glasses and put them aside, too. She leaned forward, looked hard at her son. "But there will always be a part of me that is very cross with you for putting yourself in such danger. I am the mother of an impetuous little hobbit who grew up faster than he had a right and then went off into the Blue and almost got himself killed only to return a Hero. You'll forgive me if the mother sometimes wills out."
Merry turned his face away, closed his eyes. "Hero," he muttered and chuffed a small laugh. "What could you know about it?"
"Nothing," Esmeralda responded and even behind his closed lids, Merry could see the fire flare in her eyes. "Nothing but what Pippin tells me and that's sparing little enough." Silence for a moment then: "And proud of your deeds I may be, but I am ashamed of you for what you've done to that lad."
Merry's eyes popped open at that one; he dragged himself up, narrowed his eyes at his mother. "What I've--"
"You're not the only one who's lost him!"
The air vibrated heavily for a moment, pressed a thick band of tension about Merry's skull. He swallowed, whispered, "I know it."
"Do you?" was the soft query. "Don't think I don't know how you love him, Merry, and I wish I could make it better for you, I do. But do you understand that when you lost your love, Pippin lost both of his best friends? And he's nearly lost you several times over and what do you think that's done to such a trusting heart, eh, finding you the way he did? Do you think he will ever - ever - forget that day by the River?"
A pause and a watery sigh. "And do you think I will ever forget the ride from the Hall to here when Beri showed up all a-bluster to collect me?"
Shame took him and he sank into the cushions of the couch. "I never meant…" He shook his head, blinked away the tears that seemed to come all too quickly these days. "Mum, I never meant… I'm sorry."
"I know it," she answered. "Sorry for more things than you could possibly own but that's always been the way of it with you -- always trying to make up for everyone else's choices and mistakes, loving more than a body can bear and doing your level best to keep everyone and everything you love close and safe and happy." Esmeralda paused, shook her head. "You are so very much like your father."
That one stung bitterly and his teeth clenched tight. "I am nothing like my father," he told her, voice quiet and strained.
A knowing little chuckle and Esmeralda sighed. "You think not, do you? Tell me, my fair-haired lad: what do you suppose Meriadoc the Magnificent would have done, had he been here when the Troubles started, hm?"
He narrowed his eyes, cocked his head. His mother lifted an eyebrow.
"Ah, hadn't thought about that one, had you?" she asked him then she nodded, said, "Don't think your father didn't think on it long and hard and then do exactly what he thought his son might have done."
Merry frowned, bewildered. "What are you talking about?"
"I am talking about a hobbit who always means well and has more love in his heart than a body has a right to hold; a hobbit who is so used to getting his own way that he has no idea how to be when he simply can't; a hobbit who had no choice but to step in when his father began to fail, even when he knew it was too much for him, because there was no one else to do it; a hobbit who holds onto his sorrows like stones in his pockets until they weigh him down so much that he finds himself drowning in drink."
She stopped, leaned closer. "Now answer me this riddle," she said softly: "do I speak of the father or the son?"
Merry was mute. It wasn't true -- couldn't be true. His father was a selfish bastard who left his wife to shoulder his responsibilities and spent his time showing the world exactly why it was a better thing. He had put those worry-lines on his wife's face, he was responsible for every one of the grey hairs on her head, he was the reason that spark of Took Merry had fallen so hard for in Frodo's eyes had died from hers so long ago that he wasn't sure he even remembered when it had been there. And now…
"You're defending him?"
"He is my husband," she answered in a level tone.
"Well, I know that, don't I?" Merry asked with some bit of heat. "But I thought--"
He stopped and his mother looked at him with a sad shake of her head.
"You really don't understand, do you? Did you think he was born in a bottle? Buckland is the love of his life but he knew it was too much for him, that what he had to offer wasn't enough, and so he willingly handed it over to someone who did: first it was his wife and then his son and how easy do you think it must have been to watch his son exceed him by his fifteenth summer? If he never did anything else in his life for which you should be proud of him, that one thing should be enough -- even for you, who is almost as hard on him as you are on yourself.
"He is my husband and I love him and respect him for things that most people will never know and wouldn't see if they did." She paused, threw a direct gaze at her son. "But I will not watch you become him."
Merry's head was whirling; he shook it, tried to speak -- couldn't. He only watched dumbly as his mother got up, crossed to the couch where he lay. She smiled at him, ran soft fingers through his hair.
"I'm guessing you're needing a trip to the loo," she said.
Merry only stared for a moment then breathed a great gusting breath, choked back a whimper that was half-relief, half-gratitude. She always did know when he'd had as much as he could take and he silently thanked her for abetting this small escape.
He was steadier on his feet today, only needing to rest his weight on her when rounding corners, the turning, however slow, still giving him a small dizzy spin. They didn't speak as she led him there and then back again to the couch, Esmeralda fluffing blankets and plumping pillows with practical efficiency as Merry eased himself back down. Still silent, Merry half-dozed as she disappeared into the kitchen, came back with tea, most likely laced with the promised headache powder, and set it on the small table beside the couch.
He came back to full-awareness beneath the tender touch of her fingertips grazing his brow.
"You're off, then?" he muttered, cracked a small smile when she nodded; it faded quickly. He licked dry lips. "Mum," he said, "I really am trying," and felt his eyes burning again.
Esmeralda nodded, tried to smile. "I am so proud of you, love," she told him and he watched tears crowd at the corners of her eyes but they didn't fall. "But it's time you took hold of the life you've been given and stopped wasting it. He--" She paused, bit her lip. "Frodo would be very cross with you if he knew, you know."
The damnable tears were back again, running hot down his cheeks and he nodded, closed his eyes against them. A tender kiss to his brow and Merry looked at his mother, who smiled softly at him.
"And he'd probably punch you right in the mouth for Pippin." It surprised a watery snort from Merry and Esmeralda grinned through her tears. "He always doted so on that lad," she told him and Merry nodded again, still mute, and gave her a shaky smile.
She kissed him again, said, "I shall leave you to collect yourself and rest a bit. I won't be back for a day or so; Pippin knows what to do." She stood, tossed her sewing into a small knit satchel. "And so do you," she furthered then took up her coat and stepped to the door.
"Mum," Merry called after her and when she stopped, turned, he said, "I'm sorry; I know you miss him, too."
She nodded, gave him a sad smile. "I didn't get to say 'goodbye'," she told him then she shrugged a little, blew him a kiss and left.
Merry sank into the pillows at his back, blew out a long breath, again absently grateful that it didn't emerge as a wheeze. He tipped his head, stared at the ceiling.
I have loved you always… say you understand…
He scrubbed at his face, closed his eyes. "I swear," he whispered, laid his arm across his eyes. "I'm trying."
* * *
PART TWO
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He hadn’t meant to doze this time. He came awake to a soft stir of breeze, a wisp of sound. He opened his eyes, saw Pippin skulking, apparently trying to silently collect his book from beneath Esmeralda's teacup and saucer without disturbing Merry.
Merry could have just closed his eyes again, pretended he was asleep, left it all for later. Or never. Pippin would forgive him; he always did. But somehow, the idea of having done something yet again for which to even be forgiven was less appealing than earning that forgiveness.
"Pippin," he called softly.
Pippin jumped a little, juggled the cup and saucer with a small chatter of porcelain. He turned to Merry with a rueful smile.
"I was trying not to wake you."
"You didn't," Merry lied, smiled back. "Come here, will you?"
Pippin laid the dishes back down on the table, crossed the few paces to Merry's side, peered down at him expectantly. When Merry moved to sit up, Pippin slipped an arm about his shoulders to help. Merry's head spun dizzily for a moment and he closed his eyes until it passed then he gave Pippin a bit of a shrug, patted the cushion next to him.
"Sit down."
Pippin eyed him suspiciously. "Do you know, you look exactly as my dad did when he wanted to give me The Talk." He wrinkled his nose. "Only he wasn't quite so gamey."
Merry snorted, shook his head. "Why do I suspect that you ended up giving him a thing or two to think about?"
A cheeky grin. "Because you know me too well."
"Come on," Merry chuckled and patted the cushion again. "Sit with me, will you? I'll have a wash after, I promise."
Pippin hesitated. "You know…" He looked away, shifted from one foot to the other. "I'd better not. I've things to do and…" A shrug and Pippin backed a few paces. "I really should--"
"I'm sorry, Pip," Merry told him quietly.
Pippin paused but didn't look at him. "Merry, I…" He ran a hand through his hair, looked everywhere but at Merry. "Look, I appreciate what you're trying to do but I… I mean, I don't need to… I thought I did but--"
"As you say," Merry cut in, "I know you too well." He sat back, regarded Pippin steadily. "You do need to and so do I and…" He paused, swallowed around the lump forming in his throat, tried to think through what he wanted to say and couldn't. And knew that there was no way to do this but to just do it. So Merry girded himself, said as steadily as possible: "I miss him, Pippin. And I know you do, too, and I'm sorry I've left you alone for so long."
Pippin's shoulders slumped and he swayed for a moment, seemingly undecided as to whether he wanted to take up Merry's invitation or bolt through the front door and never come back. In the end, Merry's calculated look of entreaty seemed to do the job: Pippin breathed a great sigh of resignation, re-traced the few paces back to the couch then lowered himself to sit beside Merry, laid his head back on the cushion and closed his eyes. The fact that he'd submitted to Merry's request so docilely told Merry things that he would prefer not to know, but he was done with avoiding things… at least those things he could actually do something about. He slipped his arm about Pippin's broad shoulders, pulled him closer, toyed with loose curls.
"You've been…" Merry paused, shook his head. "I don't know what would have happened to me if you hadn't been about to look after me, Pippin. And I'm sorry that I've been so busy bleeding with my own pain that I haven't given you time for your own."
"Merry, I don't--"
"Hush now," Merry told him. "Let me finish." Because this was important and well past time.
"No," Pippin answered quietly, and the soft touch of bitterness in the tone was unmistakeable. "I don't want you to finish. I don't want to hear about how sorry you are and how we'll get through it all and pretty soon we'll be all right and we'll forget a little bit more each day until one day we'll wake up and we won't realise we haven't thought of him at all until we lay our heads down for sleep again." He opened his eyes, turned them to Merry's, and Merry found he wasn't surprised at the glint of steel beneath the emerald. "I don't want to forget, I don't want to be all right; I want to remember every single thing he did, every single time he cuffed me upside my head or hugged me for no reason, every single time he laughed or made me laugh, every single time he wept and I couldn't help.
"I am bloody tired of people being surprised when I say I still miss him and always will, because they look at you and then they look at me and just assume I couldn't have loved him as much. You stopped your life and I carried on with mine -- and yours -- and it's just the way we are, it's who we are, and I never begrudged you a single second of it. You've saved me from being trapped in my own heart more times than I could count and it's about time I got to return the favour in whatever way you needed me to."
He leaned close, found Merry's hand and gripped it tight. "Don't be sorry -- not for me. And don't you let anyone ever tell you to forget him."
Every time Merry thought he knew Pippin, Pippin would somehow manage to yank the rug from beneath his feet and send him reeling. He almost laughed in amazement, shook his head, said, "I can't forget -- I won't -- and anyone who would ask it of me doesn't know me very well."
Pippin only stared for a moment, his brow quirking, then he snorted, looked down, shot Merry a sideways glance and snorted again. "Meriadoc Brandybuck: Future Master of Buckland, Holdwine of the Mark, Messenger to the King of the Free Peoples and Master of Understatement."
He relaxed a bit, settled back into the cushions of the couch and loosed his grip on Merry's hand. A quiet chuckle, a shake of ochre curls then Pippin sobered, turned an intense gaze on Merry.
"You frightened me, Merry, I won't lie. I thought I'd lost you both and I didn't know how I might carry on, if that were the case. But..." Pippin paused, bit his lip, took a long breath. "But I'm also grateful to you because you took what was in my heart, things I might never have allowed myself to look at, and laid it all out before me where I couldn't not see it, couldn't not feel it." He shrugged a little, brought a small, weary smile to his face. "You mourned for us both," he said. "You showed me that I don't have to put it all away like everyone thinks I should, that I can love him and miss him and perhaps even be angry with him and yet still draw breath, still let my heart beat, though it hurts so sometimes."
Merry tried a smile and didn't manage it very well. "I did all that?" He lifted an eyebrow and this time the smile came, though slowly and without much humour. "Wish I'd meant to; it would have made it all so much more noble."
Pippin's mouth turned up and he closed his eyes, rested his head to the back of the couch. "Well, what do you say we save nobility for everyone else? When it's only you and me, I'd really rather…" He paused, chewed his lip, opened his eyes. "I've missed one thing," he told Merry. "I've missed talking about him; I've missed saying his name."
And if that didn't give Merry's heart a twist. He reached out, drew Pippin in until his head rested on Merry's shoulder; Pippin came along with no struggle, accepted Merry's offer of long-delayed comfort. And it was strange, because Merry hadn't really expected this to feel good, but in an odd, poignant way, it did. He closed his eyes, wrapped his arms about his cousin.
"You can," he told him. "And so can I, I think. I think I even want to." And it was true -- he did want to talk about him and he wanted to remember him, and he wanted to stop weeping every time he did either. He squeezed a little. "Tell me something you remember about Frodo." And the name on his tongue didn't burn.
Pippin shook his head a little. "I don't want to, not right now."
Merry sighed, turned his eyes to the fire. "All right," he told Pippin. "Then tell me why you're angry with him."
Pippin stiffened, pulled away and sat up. He stared down into his lap, tugged on his fingers.
"I'm not really--"
"You just said so, Pippin," Merry reminded him. "And it's not like… I don't know -- like you're being disloyal or something. We've a right, I'm thinking, and I'd really like to know." He put a hand to Pippin's shoulder, squeezed. "Tell me." And perhaps it was a little deceptive, but not truly a lie, if he thought about it, so Merry spoke the only words to which he knew Pippin would yield: "It would help me."
It worked. Pippin was silent for several long moments, twitching a little and hands twisting in his lap then: "For things I've no right to be angry over," was the soft reply. He shook his head, clenched his hands together. "For being who he was and making me love him so hard I almost can't breathe when I think I'll never see him again; for the way he used to make up voices for the characters in every book when I was small and he would read to me and now I'll never be able to read those same stories to my own children without hearing his voice beneath my own; for teaching me how to bait a hook and now I will never go fishing again without feeling his fingers over mine when I ready my line…" Pippin's brow drew down, his jaw clenched. "For being chosen and for… for…"
He turned his head and Merry watched the hands in his lap twist in on themselves, watched the knuckles turn yellow-white with the pressure of the grip. He kneaded at Pippin's shoulder, felt the tremor in the bunched muscles beneath his hand.
"And for saying 'yes'?"
Pippin's head whipped 'round and he turned a narrow gaze upon Merry. "Yes," he answered in a choked whisper and his eyes widened, as though surprised he'd actually said it out loud. And then his lip curled a little and his teeth clenched tight. "He's a hobbit," he went on, thin and tight, "he had no business in some Elvish history they couldn't quite find a happy ending for and they had no right to ask it of him!"
He sprang from the couch, paced the room a few times, jaw set tight and shaking his head slowly back and forth. He paused in front of the chair, plucked up Esmeralda's teacup and turned it over and over in his hands.
"It shouldn't have been him," he muttered, glanced Merry's way but Merry had the distinct impression that Pippin had forgotten he was even in the room. "Shouldn't have been him but it had to be him and they had to ask it of him, didn't they, and he had to say 'yes' because he wouldn't have been him if he hadn't."
He clenched the cup in his hands and Merry worried that he'd clutch it so hard it would shatter in his fist. "Pippin, give me that cup, you're going to--"
"It was all set," Pippin said through his teeth and he turned on Merry, his eyes glittering dark. "Made for it, he said to me once -- said that he'd been made for it all and not to be too cross because it wasn't anyone's fault." He paused, laughed a tiny bitter laugh. "Made for it! Like that's supposed to make everything all right because Someone made him for it, and he was only doing what he was made for, and who decided that he hadn't a clue, but that's what they told him and that's what he believed, and when they told him he couldn't stay here anymore or he'd fade away, he believed that, too, and I…" He stilled, gripped the cup in one hand, curled the other into a fist. "I knew it," he whispered. "I knew something was wrong, I knew he was planning…" A helpless shrug. "…something and I kept my mouth shut to him, oh yes, because it was what he wanted and it was the only thing he wanted and I had to give it to him, didn't I? Because he used to read to me and he used to take me fishing and he always pretended he didn't know I was cheating at draughts, and doing what I knew he wanted was the only thing I could do back and--"
He snarled, drew his arm back and hurled the cup to shatter against the stone of the hearth. Merry watched it all, more stunned than he should have been; half of him surprised that it had been so easy to get Pippin to open up so quickly and the other half knowing it was because Merry himself had kept his cousin so close to the edge for so long that it was inevitable.
Pippin just stood there, breathing heavy and staring at the shards on the stone. "That…" He ran a shaky hand through his hair, breathed a small bewildered laugh and turned to Merry. "That felt really good."
Merry closed his hanging jaw, blinked. He lifted an eyebrow, not quite sure what to make of it all, and Pippin snorted, shook his head.
"Don't ask me where it all came from," he warned Merry, "because I've no idea. I'm not even sure I remember what I said."
But Merry did. And there was suddenly nothing more important in the whole of the world than making Pippin understand that he wasn't alone with this anymore -- that he didn't have to be. He mustered himself, gave Pippin a small sympathetic smile, wordlessly patted the couch. Pippin pulled a face, rolled his eyes, but he complied and re-seated himself beside Merry with no argument.
They were quiet for a moment before Merry ventured, "How did you know all of that? Did he…" He bit his lip, not really sure he wanted to know. "Did he talk to you about… about--"
A loud snort from Pippin. "Oh, surely," he said, sarcasm dripping from every word. "Frodo told me all about it because he was so very good at talking about those things, you know -- always loved to flop his thoughts and feelings in front of everyone and let them pick through--"
"Yes, all right." Merry scowled. "I get the idea." He turned to face Pippin. "So then how do you know so much?" he pressed. "Did you guess it? Feel it? See it?"
"I read it," Pippin said dryly. When Merry frowned at him, Pippin grinned a little. "Not quite so impressive, is it then?"
"Where did you read it?" Merry wanted to know.
Pippin gave him an impatient glance. "Your mind is your friend, Merry," he answered. "You should leash it up and stop letting it wander off on its own so often." When Merry just blinked at him, Pippin rolled his eyes. "Well, in the book he was writing, of course, daft idjit."
Merry shook his head, scowled in disbelief. "He wrote all of that in that book?"
"Don't be stupid," Pippin retorted. "You know as well as I do that he wouldn't."
Merry's head began to pound again; he closed his eyes, rubbed at his temple. His teeth clenched.
"Will you please," he said as calmly as possible, "make just a little bit of sense?"
Pippin snickered, reached over and pinched Merry's cheek. "Ah, you are better, aren't you then?" he managed before Merry swatted his hand away. He grinned at Merry's reluctant snort, sobered then said, "No, of course he didn't put it all in the Book… at least I doubt he did but I haven't read it yet, so who can really say?" He paused, shook his head. "No, I'm betting that isn't in there anyway. But I'm a snoop, as you well know, and I peeked at his notes. Well, don't look at me like that; you had your own look once upon a time, if I recall correctly, nicking a look through Bilbo's tale. Not that Frodo wrote it all down but I can read between the lines as well as anyone and from what is there and from things I know my own self, it isn't hard to figure out some of the rest.
"They told him things and he believed them and…" He paused, looked down, all good humour drained for the moment. "I suppose that's what I'm most angry over," he said quietly, thoughtfully. "That he believed them so easily, you know? For someone who made a person really work for his trust, he certainly threw it about when it came to Big People, didn't he?"
Merry sat back, stared at Pippin. "You know, I never really thought about it like that." He paused, pondered, said, "You're right. I wonder why that was?"
Strange, that he hadn't thought about it in quite that way before. He had been incensed in Bree when Frodo had trusted Strider so easily; it was odd that Merry hadn't put more thought into it all at the time. He supposed there were so many other things going on that it hadn't seemed important then.
Pippin shrugged. "I think we all trusted a little more than we should have done and just got lucky that it was well-placed, for the most part." He frowned a bit and Merry wondered if Pippin's thoughts had turned, as his own had, to Boromir. "It's…" Pippin paused, and his frown deepened. "It was like being in a story, you know?" He turned to Merry, smiled a little. "I mean, it was a story, when you think about it, and it's so easy to tell who the heroes are in those, isn't it?" The smile disappeared. "Elves and Wizards are wise and strong and if a Wizard tells you you're never going to heal and an Elf Princess gives you passage to somewhere you can…" He didn't finish, only looked down, went silent.
"Are you angry with him for leaving, Pip?" Merry asked softly.
Pippin's eyes snapped to Merry's, wide and horrified. "Never!" he said fiercely. "If it was leave or die, there wasn't a choice, was there? Don't you think I'd rather he be gone and alive than here and in the ground?" He paused and his eyes narrowed a little. "Is…" He peered at Merry closely, leaned in a little. "Are you angry with him for leaving?"
It was a question he'd refused to ask himself, one he was afraid to ask himself, for Merry knew himself well and knew that he could be selfish and far too possessive when it came to Frodo. He always had been. And hadn't he spent the past year in a hazy fog of grief, unable to let go even when Frodo himself had done everything he could to push him away? His hold so firm and stubborn that even at the last, when he knew the choice Frodo had made and further knew that he'd had no choice, even then Merry had almost -- almost -- tried to keep holding on, almost asked Frodo for the one thing he couldn't afford to give but that he would have anyway if he'd been asked.
Only a little over two months ago he'd watched those white sails swallowed up by the stars, yet it felt like forever and it felt like yesterday and Merry still wept on his knees in the sand. And yet Merry sat here, grounded and relatively-whole, beside someone he loved and who loved the one he loved, and they both mourned in their own ways. It wasn't until this very moment that Merry realised exactly what he'd been mourning for.
"No," he told Pippin. "I'm not angry with him for leaving, I'm angry for the way he did it. Had I known, had he just trusted me, told me…" He looked away, breathed deeply, tried not to let the anger get a foothold. "I'd have told him to go, you know?" He turned back to Pippin, who looked at him with eyes soft and sad.
Pippin shook his head. "No, you wouldn't," he said quietly. Merry opened his mouth to protest hotly but Pippin stayed him with a hand to his arm. "You wouldn't," he insisted, not unkindly. "You'd have talked him into letting you take him to see Elrond, and when that didn't work, you'd have dragged him to Lothlórien, and when that didn't work, you'd have convinced him to go back to Minas Tirith with you to see Strider. And if he couldn't help, you'd have followed any old-wives' tale you'd ever heard, and tried every herb and berry you knew of, and researched what you didn't know, and you wouldn't have given up until he breathed his last.
"And he would have been miserable, Merry, because he wouldn't have been able to stand watching you be so sad and hopeful. And he would have to stand it because he would have been too weak to do anything but what you insisted on. He wouldn't have the heart to take away your hope when he knew there wasn't any before he even got back home. He would have had no peace and would have spent his last hour worrying over what was to become of you."
Pippin paused, drew in a deep breath.
"If he had told you he was dying instead of sending you away as he did, he would have spent his last days with you hauling him across Middle-earth, trying to cure him and only killing him more quickly. And tearing yourself apart in the process." He squeezed Merry's arm. "He could stand seeing you unhappy for a little while, but he couldn't bear it if he thought it would be forever. And if he'd let you hold him as he drew his last breath--"
"Stop it," Merry whispered and shook Pippin's hand off.
"You know I'm right, Mer--"
"I said, stop it!"
Pippin made another grab for Merry's arm and Merry shoved him away, tried to stand, tried to get away and couldn't. He sank into the cushions, jaw set hard and his hands were shaking. He swallowed, closed his eyes.
His chest was a heavy knot and he couldn't breathe. He wanted to deny everything that had just spilled from Pippin's mouth, maybe even clock him a good one for saying it in the first place, but he couldn't. Save him, was he that selfish?
Everything Pippin had described, Merry could see behind his closed eyes. It was all too probable and he could hear himself making his arguments to Frodo, could hear the sadness and resignation in Frodo's acquiescence, but he wouldn't have really heard it, would he? No, he'd only have heard exactly what he'd wanted to hear, would have refused to believe that there was something over which he had no control, would have refused to know because he'd have been too busy trying to believe it all into reality.
True, it's all true, every bit of it, and what am I that I could do that, that I could be that? I would have used my love for him as a weapon against him and… and he would have let me because… because he loves me so…
A sob tried to explode from his chest, wrench behind his ribs, but he choked it back, coughed, couldn't stop, couldn't breathe. Stars died behind his eyes, re-birthed then swallowed themselves, shook moments off their shoulders in a shower of mortal eternity, pummelled him with pieces of his own life.
Time slipped and slurred again, bent in on itself, and Merry watched Frodo slowly fade between Weathertop and Rivendell then watched him race the wind on Hickory's back; heard him laugh in delight when he opened the wooden duck Merry had given him as a joke on his thirty-sixth birthday --
"You need a bath," Merry had told him a month or so before. "And me with no tub-toys," Frodo had snorted back at him…
-- then heard him scream in horror and pain as a black knife found its mark; tasted pears and Old Winyards from Frodo's tongue then tasted the salt-copper tang of blood as iron pierced his own heart; smelt snow and winter wind in raven hair then oily smoke as he stumbled broken and weary to his grave…
Felt smooth skin lightly sheened with sweat slide against his own then a thin hand wound into his hair, another gripping his arm.
"…say you understand."
Strong arms encircled him and he wanted to throw them off, wanted to batter and rip and tear and scream until he ruptured his throat. And all he could do was sink into Pippin's arms, allow his head to be guided to Pippin's shoulder, allow himself to be pulled into him and rocked as Pippin shushed and wept into Merry's hair and rubbed up and down his back with long strokes of his broad hand. And it was so odd because Merry was dry-eyed and silent and Pippin was the one who was weeping, yet the nonsense-humming went on, the comfort pressing into his skin, and some part of Merry willed it back to its giver, understood that Pippin's cosseting was more for himself than for Merry.
"…past time," Pippin was saying and Merry heard it as though through a layer of cotton, Pippin's voice shaky and muffled and Merry's hair damp where Pippin's tears were still falling. "Time we both figured out what we're mourning. I mean, it isn't about us, is it?"
"And I'd've cheered you on and told you to run faster."
The storm calmed a little and Merry found he could breathe again. He didn't pull back, however -- only leaned limp against Pippin, willing him to keep holding on, for he couldn't bear for him to let go just yet. He clutched onto Pippin, tried to make himself speak because this was important, perhaps the most important thing he'd ever had to say in his life.
"You're right," he croaked, feeling stunned and weak and dizzy. "I gave him no choice." An odd, breathless little laugh slipped from his mouth and into Pippin's shoulder, and Merry burrowed in closer, somehow completely bewildered and knowing all at once.
Grieving was, by its nature, an exercise in selfishness, and Merry'd always known he had that and to spare within him but oh, he'd not known the half of it. Grieving for what had been, what he'd lost, what he wished he'd done and what he might have done, had he been given the chance, and all of it narrowing down to this one moment of awareness. Missing Frodo, oh, yes, and no doubt, and so much he could feel the pain in the marrow of his bones. And angry over how he'd been used and stolen away, what he'd gone through and why he'd done it and how it had all been flung back in his face in the end until he had no choice but to leave everything he'd ever loved and lie to those he loved through his silence just to keep the courage to do it. Yet most of Merry's anger was directed at himself because Frodo didn't like to lie, had never lied in his life if he could help it, not until the Ring had come upon him and he'd been forced to keep things within himself, allow others to believe tacit untruths because the truths would hurt them so much worse. And a part of Merry had known all along, had seen the lies and the truths, and pushed away what he didn't want to know, pounded square pegs into round holes with a sledgehammer, and Frodo had watched it all from deep within his own sorrow and made decisions for himself based on how those he loved would carry on in the aftermath.
Had Merry thought -- even briefly -- that Frodo hadn't known him? Knew him too well and so withdrew, pushed away, and Merry had gone because it was what he did, it was what he was good at, and he was a creature of habit, and so he'd gone away and stayed away, and the only thing he didn't do according to Frodo's plan was let go. Merry had put on his mask and he'd pretended just as well as Frodo had, and he wondered now if Frodo saw through him as clearly as he saw himself now; wondered if he'd managed to give Frodo the one gift he couldn't ask for as they stood together that last time and Merry held back tears Frodo had to know would drown him if he'd set them loose.
And yet, Frodo hadn't known, or perhaps he'd forgot, just how deep and strong Merry's love ran, and yes, Merry wanted to believe he would have told Frodo to run faster way back when the first real nightmare began, and he so desperately wanted to believe that had he known of that final gift that Frodo'd been offered and the consequences of not accepting it… he would have let go.
Could he have let go? Maybe… though maybe only after all other possibilities had been exhausted. Because Merry hadn't believed in magic in a very long time. He would have listened, surely, kept the possibility always in the back of his mind, and then gone about doing everything Pippin had described in order to prevent that final leaving. Because if you want something badly enough, believe in it hard enough and pretend relentlessly that it's so, there is always the chance, however slim, that it will, eventually, be true. And perhaps, by the time he'd come to admitting to himself that his own sort of magic was useless…
Merry had been mourning lost-opportunity, weeping and drinking away regrets over staying away when going back might have been the one real regret. He didn't need Frodo's forgiveness because he'd done only as Frodo had wanted him to, for going back, breaking down those walls Frodo had so carefully constructed, might have been the true end of them both.
"Such an end," he whispered into Pippin's shirt and shook his head a little against that broad chest.
One prophecy, at least, that had not come to pass.
He had been mourning all the wrong things. Not lost opportunity but the loss of shared knowledge, a shared heart, trust, and what must it have been for Frodo to have lost those things so well and good that he didn't even remember what it had been like to have them? That he had ever had them at all? To have had the part of him that knew so thoroughly wiped away?
That unthinkable act in Rivendell that Frodo had so cruelly tossed into Merry's face in his last desperate attempt to make him let go… it still screamed shame and horror to places within Merry he would most likely never dare go. And the way it had been used against him in the end brought pain and guilt and a deep well of rage. But now he wondered if the guilt and shame had been misplaced all along; now he wondered if he really could have gone through with that desperate act of love had it come to it. He was so sure as he'd forced his way into the room, sure even as he'd wondered what it would feel like when his sword slipped between Sam's ribs. And yet, when it really came to it, when he looked down upon the sleeping face of the one he loved best… could he have done it? Did he love enough to do it? Or was his love so weak and self-centred that he would have balked at the last moment, doomed the one he loved because his need to have and possess was stronger than the love itself?
No answers, not ever, and this was a knowledge that came more quietly than he might have thought. He would never know if he really could have made a stand to take the life of the one he had needed above all to save if taking that life meant saving a soul; would never know if knowledge would have turned him into Frodo's saviour-cum-gaoler at the last.
It was better so. Things played out only as they had to and yes, he'd rather have Frodo alive and gone than here and in the ground. Such a huge revelation and yet it was so small a thing. No moment of clarity, no heart-stopping realisation, no white light swooping over his senses; just a quiet knowledge and acceptance of things he'd known all along and perhaps had needed the almost complete deconstruction of himself to understand. Or perhaps accept that he'd never understand.
Somewhere along his long, wearying journey, Merry had learnt that love did not mean possession and that sometimes, the letting go really was less painful for those one loved than the holding on. And his dearest wish at that moment was that he had indeed succeeded in his tearful deception at the Havens, for it wasn't truly a deception, not in the true sense and not in the way he'd thought. He'd known it and believed it all along, hadn't he? He just needed to start acting like it.
He pulled himself upright, took Pippin by the shoulders. Tears still ran from Pippin's eyes and Merry swiped at them with the corner of the blanket.
"You're right," he told him. "But you're wrong, too, because it is about us. If nothing else, this right here is about us; about carrying on and accepting and... It's…" He looked away, scrubbed a hand through tangled hair. "It played out only as it had to," he whispered then shook his head, bent his neck a little tiredly, still amazed at the simplicity of the words and the truth within them.
Pippin only blinked slowly, shrugged a little, said, "Small comfort," then gave a watery sigh, bowed his head.
"Maybe," Merry answered softly.
He pulled Pippin back again, this time with Pippin's head resting on Merry's shoulder. Pippin came along, limp and compliant. They sat together quietly for several moments then:
"How did we get here?" Pippin asked, his voice stretched and thin, almost inaudible.
And there were so many answers to that question, so many shifting notes in the songs that had brought them to where they now sat, to be the people they now were. Merry shook his head against Pippin's curls, squeezed his shoulders.
"The same way we'll get to the other side," he answered: "One weary step at a time."
Silence again and Pippin relaxed into Merry's chest, wrapped an arm about his waist. The morning was waxing long, the shadow-branches turning the corner near the hearth in their routine dance across the room. Merry was warm, his head throbbed only a little and if he stayed put and didn't move, he could almost forget that his chest hurt.
He felt… not quite peaceful but... Quiet. More at-rest than he remembered feeling since… it seemed like forever.
I think I finally know how I was supposed to love you, he thought and stared at the ceiling. And perhaps finally, I can be the person you always saw in me. Too late and I can only take comfort that the 'how much' has always out-weighed the 'how' and I wish I could know that you knew how much. I know you would say that it was enough but I don't know if I'll ever be sure.
But I promise you… I did the very best I could, I loved the very best way I knew how.
And now I must learn to live without you, must learn to live without answers if I can. Must learn to finally let go. I'm not sure I can ever let you go completely. But I will let you go as much as you and I both need me to. For I will not waste the gift you gave us all by refusing to live the life you wanted for me.
And then he closed his mind and heart, took a deep long breath and pushed it away. Perhaps the next time he picked it up, it might hurt a tiny bit less.
He wondered after a while if Pippin might have drifted off to sleep when he stirred, shifted against Merry's chest. "Merry?" he asked softly.
Merry closed his eyes, breathed deeply and only felt a slight flutter behind his ribs with the slow expansion of his chest. "Hm?"
"I hate to spoil such a lovely, quiet moment," Pippin told him then pulled away and wrinkled his nose. "But you really are rather rank."
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