By: Dana
Summary: Pippin will always be at Merry's side - won't he?
Characters: Pippin, Merry
Pairings: Merry/Pippin
Rating: PG
Warnings: Slash
Author's Notes: Post-quest, angsty. (Beta thanks to Elly.)
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

All around, it was dark and cold.

Voices whispered to him, promises of death and pain and then in turn an end to that suffering. Merry stumbled along in the darkness, unaware of the how and the why and even the where - all that mattered was the shadow's song, cold as ice and sweet as wine.

Merry knew he was alone.

But out of that desolation, there was a counter-melody that rose up, a faded voice that spoke of warmer memories and brighter days. A faded voice, yes, but one that grew stronger with a specific, familiar, insistent force.

Merry felt himself torn. It would be too easy to let the dark keep hold, straightforward simplicity if he were to merely let go; but if he were to reach out to the light, then strength of purpose would guide him, prove who he was.

But who was he, really? Just a lost halfling, alone in the dark.

No, no, something greater. Someone greater.

Wrong, wrong. What mattered most was already gone.

Lies! All of it lies!

Merry felt himself caught up by strong arms, enveloped by the heat of that light. The rushing song of the river drowned out all for a moment, heavy and solid and wet, and Merry was left gasping for breath. He clung to that warmth, that invitation of familiarity, heard a voice cut through the sibilant tangle of whispered threats.

That same voice, welcome and known.

Light, then, an arrow made to pierce through the dark, the approaching song of a well-loved voice.

" Merry? Merry! Come back to me, Merry!"

And he wanted to, oh how he wanted to go. The darkness seemed to bend around him, ripple and sway, and Merry did, forcing through with what strength he could manage. Taking advantage of what strength was freely given.

The stars were shining, but only faintly, and the night was cold, as though the late spring, so close to summer in green and gold, was fading back to winter, so pale and lingering, forlorn. The stars were shining, yes, and Merry felt that he could breathe.

He did. There was Pippin, eyes wide with shadowed concern, lantern light flickering against his cheeks, and it was Pippin who was holding Merry up. Merry lurched, Pippin stumbled, and down then they went to the hard ground. Merry sucked in a deep breath of air, felt the cold cut into his lungs like blades, clutching at Pippin, grabbing hold of his cloak as he clung to his cousin. His tongue was heavy and useless in his mouth. He could say nothing, only make strangled gasps for air.

So Pippin gathered him close. Merry was aware of the river, storming, the spring thaw causing the waters of the Brandywine to surge, and the cold ground, bare stone. It had been a long winter, yes, and even now you could still feel its touch. The wind whispered its threats, now, but didn't scream them, and Merry fell against Pippin, felt the erratic beat of his heart as it tried to lodge itself in his throat.

The little things were coming back. Pippin's warm, strong arms, and Pippin's strong, insistent voice. This was Peregrin Took, after all, the hobbit who would be the Took and Thain - you did not, could not, ignore him, when he spoke in that tone of voice. So Merry lifted his gaze up, but there was nothing that he could say. He felt tired, so tired, sore and aching, and remembered a day back in Minas Tirith, when he thought that he had already died.

"There you are, Merry," and Pippin's voice was ringing true and clear. "Are you here with me, now?"

Merry, a cold lump of silence wedged in his throat, could only nod.

If Merry had no words, then Pippin had many. "Good. Good. I couldn't sleep, thought to find you and see if you shared in my suffering. It was a surprise, dear cousin, to find that your room was emptied. But it had happened before, I thought, and it perhaps would happen again. But I didn't find you wandering your father's halls, no, like I had before, so instead I drew on warmer clothing and my own cloak to come out into the cold. I thought that I would find you, here, Merry, though your own cloak was still hanging on its peg. So I brought it with me, thinking that it would be needed."

A slow smile tugged at Pippin's face, like it wasn't sure that it should be there at all and Merry, mute, nodded. "It must have been you, Merry, that guided me. And here you were, Merry. Here you were."

Merry thought he might have felt the cold stab of tears in his eyes. Here was down by the river, the whistling of the wind spiking sharply, a cold and lonesome song. Here, and he had been at the edge, pushing himself further. He could almost taste the river water, bitter like ice.

Pippin went on.

"You scared me, Merry. You were supposed to be there in your room, Merry, and you weren't, and when I found you I thought you were about to go and throw yourself into the Brandywine. No Brandybuck likes the river that much, cousin." Pippin sounded like he could laugh at his little joke, but put Merry half at arm's length instead, anguished concern in his eyes . "Are you here with me, for real? Speak to me, Merry. What brought you here, cousin? You should know that you needn't wander off alone, you dear old ass. I'm always here by your side."

"I'm here now, Pip," gasped Merry. "I'm here."

And he was. The darkness seemed too thick and Merry clung to Pippin, shaking, right down into his bones. "So cold," he whispered, burying his face against the warmth of Pippin's shoulder, wrapping his arms around Pippin, grasping at him with no intent to ever have to let go. But Pippin drew away from him, took his own cloak from his shoulders, then, ignoring Merry's protest as he wrapped it around Merry's, over his own, that Pippin had put there as well, fastening it at his throat.

"You shouldn't have forgotten your cloak, and then perhaps then you wouldn't have to steal mine. You'll remember next time, won't you? Of course, if we're lucky, then there won't be a next time. You ought to keep that in mind."

Merry laughed, bright and sharp, but felt that rise fall sharply. He felt delirious, for one brilliant moment, then felt the cold dragging him back down, like stones had been tied to his ankles, and he had been cast out into the murky waters of the Brandywine. "Right! I will, Pippin, I will."

He pulled at the cloak, huddled against the ground, reaching for Pippin with need that he couldn't put to voice. It was a summons that Pippin could not deny. He reached for Merry, wrapped him up again, with love and his own two arms. They sat there, silent and still, for a very long time. The rush of the river, a discordant song, with long flats and broken chords, music that swirled up, surged, drowned out the howl of the wind, the promise of that storm come undone. Merry found it hard to follow that melody, clung to Pippin instead. When Pippin began to hum, a song from childhood that Merry couldn't pl ce, Merry focused instead on that music, that promise of hope and light.

He felt warm, suddenly, through out, warm and drowsy. He closed his eyes, slumped against Pippin. "Oh, I could sleep forever," he whispered. Pippin laughed and kissed Merry's brow.

"Shall we make our way back to the hall, Merry? The hair on my feet has started to freeze." Pippin did not wait for Merry to answer him, rising up and guiding Merry to his feet. He spoke again, words that Merry could not make out, when all the world was humming along with the river. Merry drifted in and out of sleep, guided by Pippin. When he was next aware, he was being stripped of his damp, cold clothing, toweled dry, then dressed again in a long, warm shirt.

Then he was lying down, reaching out for Pippin. There was his cousin's laugh once more, but it was further still. The song was frantic, overwhelming Merry. He could feel nothing but the softness of the bed, said something, but could not be sure; then, suddenly, Pippin's voice was sharp, a steady contrast.

"Let me tend the fire, cousin, and I will join you then."

Pippin did, warm skin and cloth and still warmer arms. Merry nestled into those arms and slept, his safe haven in a storm - one that was as much his own creation as it was not.

For once in what felt like forever, he didn't dream.

In the morning Merry woke, stiff and sore but thankfully warm. The first thing he was aware of was that heat, and then of the soft curls that tickled his nose. Merry breathed in, exhaled against Pippin then buried his face in Pippin's soft hair. His cousin snored softly, wrapped up in some far away dream. Merry thought that he could sleep again.

So he did.

When he woke once more, Pippin was gone and Merry was left alone in bed. He rose up, wincing at a crick in his back, stretching and then reaching for the robe that had been left at the bedside. He pulled it on as he pulled himself from bed and to his feet. The chill of spring seemed far away, the cold and darkness like some near forgotten dream. And the night before was faded out, a vague ball of black and grey and ice and cold that he could not discern one from the other. He walked over to the fire, put on a fresh log, lingering for a moment before the dancing flames, when a knock came at the door.

It was Pippin, Merry learned, as he didn't even wait to be invited.

Pippin flashed a grin instead, carrying a tray, as he went over to sit on the unmade bed. "I had hoped to surprise you," he said, as Merry padded back over to the bed. "But I am not disappointed. Here, I had Cook make you your favorites."

"My favourites?"

Pippin grinned as Merry took his seat. He balanced the tray on his legs, filled first Merry's cup of tea and then his own. There were griddle cakes on one platter, fresh butter and warm syrup, with a rasher of bacon and scrambled eggs with melted cheese on another. It was more than enough for two. "I had hoped that you would be hungry." Pippin smiled at that, offered him his fork.

Merry laughed, accepted it. Merry wasn't just hungry, he felt that he'd been starved. They ate for the most in silence, speaking only rarely, but when they did their words were bright and joyous. As the meal came to an end, the platters emptied of their contents, the pot of tea emptied of its as well, Pippin set the tray on the chest at the foot of the bed, then stretched out over the covers, crossing his legs one over the other and giving a great sigh of contentment. "Oh, that was good."

"That was," said Merry, before he was silent. "Shall we lie in for a bit, Pip? I doubt that we are needed. And if my father needs me that much, well, then, I just guess that he will have to find some other hobbit to be his son for the day." Merry yawned.

"I had thought of that, actually," said Pippin, watching Merry with only one open eye. "So I told Uncle Doc that you would need the day for yourself. And he said right away that he would not accept it unless I was here to stay." Pippin yaw ed. "So, here we are." That one eye closed and Merry laughed, settling down next to Pippin.

"Oh, I feel so good," said Merry, throwing one arm over Pippin's side, curling against his cousin so that there was nothing left between. "Mmm, so do you." Pippin laughed softly, resting against him, and arms and legs tangled as comfort was found. They slept again, all meshed together, and once again, Merry did not dream.

If this kept up, then he would never let Pippin go from his bed. Merry woke again, with Pippin settled right above him, his head tucked up under Merry's chin. He was hot all over, and it was anything but uncomfortable. In fact, Pippin made away with the disappointment of having to wake. Merry simply felt good, good like he hadn't felt in a very long time. He could lie like this forever. He would, in fact, if Pippin would agree. Merry remembered distant summers and far-away pleasure, just the two of them exploring; and when they had trekked all they could over the span of Buckland, they turned then to each other, to learn their bodies like they had the lay of the land.

It had been long, thought Merry, too long since they had clung to one another, like that. They had grown out of it, perhaps, but Merry felt that he was growing back.

Pippin yawned, waking.

"Oh, good morning again, Pip," Merry said with a smile, and Pippin mumbled sleepily against him. He stretched and yawned again, and Merry was startled at how much better good could get. He almost felt that his blood was about to boil in his veins. It would be easy, so easy, just to kiss Pippin. Merry felt that Pippin would kiss him back. And there would be no other problems, then, no other worries to concern himself with. At least, that was, for the moment.

They were still and silent for a bit more, just lying together, until Pippin drew himself up and said, with a deep yawn, "Shall I fetch second breakfast, cousin?"

Merry nodded and Pippin, sleepy eyed, claimed the empty tray and padded from the room. Merry sat up, watched the closed door, thinking it might soon open, until he rose up again and made to dress. He found Pippin's cloak thrown over the chair beside the fire and he again thought back to the night before. It was still thick and black like ink. Merry couldn't pull out the details. But it had been cold. So cold.

He brushed his fingers over Pippin's cloak, tried not to remember. He stepped away from those thoughts, and that chair, busied himself with changing and then dressing again instead.

When Pippin returned, Merry was sitting at the window looking at the day beyond. Merry heard the click of the tray as it was set down, but couldn't manage to pull himself away from the view beyond the window. Pippin came to sit with him instead. It was a window seat, after all, and though they were bigger now than had been, once, there was still enough room to fit them, though the fit was tight. Merry could remember a dozen times when he had sat with Pippin, in this very window seat, when he had been sick and Pippin had thought that a story would make it all better, or Pippin had simply been unable to sleep, and even just because it could be done - those times when Merry would read to Pippin, and Pippin would sleep halfway through the story, and they would sit there till morning. It was set deep in the side of the hill, and though it offered a wonderful view of the courtyard beyond, a hobbit would be hard-pressed to look in from beyond.

"Is it a very nice view?"

Merry laughed and leaned back against Pippin. Pippin's arms very naturally went around Merry, and Merry tucked his head back against Pippin's shoulder. "It is the same view that it has always been, Pippin. I hardly see what would be different this morning."

Pippin laughed softly, held Merry tight. "Are you here with me, cousin? Our second breakfast will get cold, if we sit here too long."

"Well, we wouldn't want that."

"No, not at all."

Though neither of them wanted that, it still took them minutes to get to their food. They sat at the table near the hearth, this time, close together. They talked more as they ate, warm toast and fried eggs, sausage and fried potatoes. There was cold milk to wash it all down, and when they weren't speaking or eating, they laughed.

If he couldn't remember the night before, then Merry would just live with it; and it was better to live in the light, than to think about what lurked about forgotten in the dark.

They had found their way back to the window seat, and Pippin had his arms around Merry's waist, the tip of his chin resting against the curve of Merry's shoulder. There was a whole world out there, and they could watch it together. "Looks like Berilac is going out for a ride," said Merry, and Pippin sighed against his shoulder, watching their cousin as he spoke with stable-hobbit, then in turn as he mounted and rode out from the courtyard of the Hall.

"Good for Berilac," was Pippin's response. "I wonder if he's off again to see that lass of his down in Rushy."

"Oh, Uncle Mac would never consent," said Merry, grinning wide. They knew as well that Merimac would not, but that did not mean that Berilac would listen to what his father thought sound advice.

"Well, it's not hurting Berilac, and its not hurting Uncle, and the Valar know its not hurting the family. Let Berilac have his fun, while he can."

"Oh, before Lillian Sandybank gets her claws into him, you mean?"

"I might just have meant that, you know."

They shared a laugh, and Merry continued to watch Berilac as he faded into the distance, riding off on his pony into the green. "Perhaps my father has drafted him as errand hobbit for the day."

"Sounds like something that Uncle could do. See, aren't you glad you're not in his shoes today, Merry?" Pippin stretched a bit, though not by much, and Merry felt a sudden warm rush down the length of his spine.

"Pip, he hasn't any shoes."

"Oh, you know what I mean."

"I suppose so."

"Oh, you know so."

They shared another laugh and Merry shifted his head so it was lying back against Pippin's shoulder, cheek to cheek. Merry sobered a bit, closed his eyes. "Oh, I am glad that you are here with me, Pippin."

"And I am glad that you are here with me, Merry," Pippin replied, with a whisper of distance there, as though he was speaking from some great length. Merry shifted so that he could gaze at Pippin's profile, and Pippin turned so they were left nose to nose. Merry felt a bit breathless, forcing a grin, taking in the way that Pippin's lips twitched when he tried not to smile. If it had been easy before, now it was just begging, hanging in the air between them. Merry needed to force himself to speak.

"That was rather silly to say, Pippin," he managed in a gasp.

"Well, Merry, I am rather silly myself."

"No, no. You're you're - "

What? What could Merry possibly say? Pippin was so much more than silly, as he had proven time and time again, but Merry couldn't help but think that the thoughts of the hobbits who thought they knew Pippin best, would continue on - long after Pippin had proven that he was capable of more than just filching pies. Merry couldn't find the words to go on, not at first, and settled back against Pippin once more.

"Well?" Pippin urged him, bemused. "What am I, cousin?"

"You're just you, and that's good enough for me."

"Well then, it'll be good for me as well."

They were silent after that and Merry sighed softly as he closed his eyes. "Remember me a story, Pippin," he said and Pippin answered him a soft laugh.

"Which should I remember, then?"

"Oh, don't make me choose."

"See, now, you're getting lazy in your old age," said Pippin, but he shifted so that they were both more comfortable in the window seat, "but I have just such a story to remember, so I doubt that you'll complain."

Merry didn't, content as he was - especially since, right now, Merry could almost forget that there h d ever been a quest at all, that t had all been some long dark dream instead, with Pippin's warmth surrounding him, his breath against Merry's cheek. "It had been - "

"Now, that's not a proper beginning," Merry commented lazily, and Pippin laughed again, kissed his cheek. "You should know better than that, Pip."

"Ah, yes," he responded. "Whatever was I thinking?"

"Nothing at all, I suppose. Well, start again. We have the day."

"We do." Pippin was silent for a moment, then chuckled. "All right, all right. I have it. It was a dark and stormy night, and all the hobbits of Brandy Hall were sitting in the great hall, enjoying the warmth of fire and friend and drink, seeing out the Last Day, and waiting for the First. It was a Yule to beat all Yules - and Yule at Brandy Hall, as you know, is the finest that a Yule can get." Merry nodded, lulled by Pippin's voice into a drowsy, content place, where he could feel slumber pulling at him, weighing him down. Pippin continued to speak, and Merry felt that he was falling further and further away - where it wasn't so much that he was hearing Pippin's words, it was more that he was feeling them, and living the night again.

It had been a warm night, a mix of the company and the fire that roared in the massive hearth at the head of the great hall. Merry remembered Pippin having bumped into him, sharing a secret smile as they laughed and brought their glasses, filled with fine brandy, together. "To the end of the old and the start of the new!"

And Merry could remember something more about the night, something that Pippin left out of his telling. Something under the laughter and the good cheer, someplace hidden, hot kisses like the Hall's finest pouring from Merry to Pippin. Hiding out in old rooms that hadn't ever seen the light of day - celebrating on their own, finding their own new beginnings after the endings of the old. Merry remembered the night painfully, then, and snapped from his drowsy reverie with a gasp.

"Merry?"

"Ah, Pippin."

Merry turned so that he was facing Pippin, and the tight fit only seemed more so, now, with Merry leaning so close. An ucomfortable expression rested on his cousin's face, and Pippin furrowed his brow. "Now Merry -"

"Oh, Pippin." Merry sighed, leaned closer, nuzzled Pippin's cheek. Pippin sighed and put his hands on Merry's shoulders, holding very still. And Merry could feel Pippin pressed against him, and the wall of the compartment pressed against his back. "It's been too long, Pip."

"Oh, Merry, I thought that we grew out of that." It wasn't no, but Pippin sounded sad, too sad, and Merry didn't want to think of his cousin and such an emotion. So Merry ran his lips over Pippin's. He shivered, or that could have been Pippin, but it felt good, and it had been too long. He did it again.

"I'd thought the same thing," said Merry, letting his lips rest against Pippin's. Pippin shuffled against him, cornered by indecision, by Merry's arms and the wall behind him, even the angle of Merry's leg, making it hard for him to simply slip away.

"Oh, Merry, you have to know, I didn't do this so - "

"Do what?" Merry asked, nipping at Pippin's lips. They both quieted for a moment, and Pippin gave in, and Merry pushed against him. They just kissed, a tangle of emotions and tongues, the click of hard teeth and the taste and feel of a time that Merry had forgotten. He liked it, more than he could think possible, wondered why he'd ever let it go. He guessed that the quest would have been very different, if they'd been there as lovers, and not just as cousins and best friends.

"Do this," said Pippin, afterwards, a wry grin on his lips, shadows in his eyes. "I had just wanted to help you, Merry, to be there for you. Last night - " Merry was surprised to see tears spring up in Pippin's eyes, tears that Pippin quickly dashed away with the cuff of his long sleeve. "Last night, I thought that I could lose you, Merry. All I want to do is keep you safe."

"And all I ant is you," Merry whispered, and Pippin's look softened.

"Now where did this come from, Merry? It was not here just yesterday, cousin, it feels rather strange."

Merry sighed, managed to wrap his arms around Pippin as he drew him close. "Oh, it's been there forever," said Merry. He paused, pressed his lips to Pippin's, and they kissed again, just the sound of breath and the rustle of fabric showing that there was any sound at all. When they spoke again, when words were needed, Pippin pressed his cheek to Merry's and exhaled, his breath laced with bitterness.

"You don't remember, do you?"

"I don't think that I want to, Pippin," Merry replied rather frankly. "If it's not needed, then I needn't worry. But you do, don't you?" Pippin needn't say yes. Merry already knew.

"But it gets worse and worse each year," Pippin bit out, trying hard not to give into emotion, to give into tears. Merry silenced him with a kiss, again, deep and long, and now matter how long and deep it was, Merry craved more. He shifted against Pippin, and that must have been good, because Pippin moved against him, strong arms and silent kisses. When they were finished, they simple sat against each other, and Merry listened to the sound of Pippin's breath, felt the beat of his heart.

"Do you not want to know, Merry?"

"If you think I need to know, Pippin, then make it so. Otherwise"

Pippin lifted his gaze to Merry's, began to speak. "I could not sleep. That is, I thought that you would find it hard to sleep. You know what the day is, don't you, Merry? What yesterday was, and what it meant?"

Merry thought a moment, then nodded, darkness clouding his vision for a breath. "I could not forget. How could I forget?"

"Last night, I thought to find you in your room. And I would stay at your side, and I would hold your hand, and I would be there for you. But I was late, Merry. You were already gone. I I found you down at the river, Merry. Like you weren't aware of the world around you. I thought you were going to step right out into the water. And you would have been lost forever. Or, perhaps, the both of us would. I do not think you could swim in that state, and the current was just too strong. I was scared, Merry, so scared. You had always come back, but I thought that you were really going to go, now. We already lost Frodo, Merry. I couldn't bear to lose you."

Pippin was silent, then, and Merry felt reality sinking home, chilling his bones. He clutched at Pippin, held him tight. "Oh, but I am here now, Pippin," he said, urgent. Pippin clung back to Merry, heard the rush of Pippin's whisper.

"But for how long?"

"Let's not worry about that, then," said Merry, and he rose up to his feet, stretching as he remembered what it was to stand, holding out his hand to Pippin's. Pippin looked at him, remembered, set his hand in Merry's. Then he stood, and laugh-lines crinkled around the edge of Merry's eyes. "When did you go grow taller than me, Pip?"

"Oh, it's been a while now, Merry," said Pippin, encircling Merry with his arms. Merry nodded, slid his arms around Pippin, kissed his lips and throat. "Mmm. Perhaps you're rightperhaps it really has been too long, Merry."

"Love," Merry corrected, "love."

Pippin murmured consent, smiling slightly, just faint enough that Merry thought that he had all that he would never need, that Pippin really wanted his, needed it too. They kissed, soft growing needy and hungry, as they stumbled back to the bed. They lost the need for clothing, re-remembered the lines of their bodies, mapped out once before; and Merry learned Pippin again, with mouth and hand. Pippin seemed made to give Merry all that he needed.

Or perhaps that was just what Merry was meant to think.

They bathed afterwards, and the day passed them by. Dinner was served, and except for Pippin, Merry did not see another living soul till after the rise of the sun the next day. He woke to silence, the place where Pippin ought to be, empty. Merry bathed nd dressed, then went to the great hall to eat breakfast; there was no sign of Pippin, though, and Merry was greeted first by his mother, and then his father. He found it rather difficult to ask about Pippin, as his mother made certain that he ate more than he guessed he had eaten in years. Half way through his second plate, Merry managed to get his mother's attention again, spearing egg on his fork.

"And where is Pippin this morning?"

"Oh, that cousin of yours," was Esmeralda's reply, shaking her head. She smiled, though, nodded in Saradoc's direction. "Your father needed a message run to Deephallow. Pippin offered his services, and Saradoc couldn't turn him away. He ought to be back for nuncheon. Now finish up, son, there's another plate waiting for after."

Merry nodded, returning his attention to his food. After breakfast, he spoke with his father in the study. By the time that they withdrew, talk of old ledgers and the spring planting, it was time for second breakfast.

"I'm glad that you're back with us, son," said Saradoc.

Merry smiled faintly, thinking of Pippin. "Well, I'll never go too far that I can't come back."

He felt very good this day, good like he hadn't felt in a very long time. Later after elevenses, he had his own pony saddled and went out for a ride. The warm sun was shining bright, high up in the sky, and birdsong mingled with the laugh of distant children at play. He took in the scenery, the new flowers in bloom, listened to the clump of his pony's hooves as they trotted along the path. The grass was new and green, as though under fresh paint. Even the sky seemed as though it had been made especially for this day.

So different from the night before, a voice whispered, when it had started with Merry thinking of Theoden King and his fall. And it had only grown from their, shadow and flame, and then the cold. The heavy weight of his arm, cold, and all light had seemed to fade away Merry only faintly remembered being lost in his own home, wandering alone. Beyond that, there was nothing.

For a heavy moment, Merry reeled in his saddled, holding tight to the reins. It was all dark and he could hardly breathe. When the day came back, a great weight had been lifted from his chest. Still, Merry gasped for breath, tears blurring his vision. Lies, oh, he remembered the lies. That all that mattered was gone and done, and he was soon to follow.

Pippin.

He felt drawn to the river again, pulled helpless, and when his pony calmed, he urged him on. "Good lad, good lad," said Merry, his tongue heavy like cotton in his mouth. Down they went, across the wild lawn, until the Brandywine was shining bright like a ribbon of fresh gold. There was a dark smudge against it, though, against the backdrop of blue sky and dark-green forest beyond. When Merry drew closer, he saw that it was Pippin.

"Merry?" said Pippin, rising to his feet. Merry slowed his pony, came to a stop, and he seemed to slip like liquid down to the ground. He was in Pippin's arms, then, dizzy and weak.

"Oh, I had hoped to find you here, Pip," said Merry, even if he wasn't quite sure.

"And here I am, Merry. I was just taking a break, before continuing on towards the Hall. But I am glad that I found you here. Uncle will just have to wait a bit more for his message, I fear."

Merry laughed, but did not feel it, nor was there much light in his eyes. He sank down to the ground, with Pippin's arms around him, supporting him, linking him back to life and light and all things good. "I feel like one day, I will simply fly away."

Pippin laughed as well, just as hollow. "You see then, Merry, my earlier fear."

But Pippin was holding him, now, and that fear felt distant. Merry clung to Pippin with what strength he could manage, and could already tell that it was growing - that there would be no great losses, at least for now, and to think of such things was silly indeed.

"I am here," said Merry, "I am here."

"And I am with you, cousin."

And Pippin was, arms wrapped tight about Merry, Merry's own encircling Pippin with all the strength that he could manage. "And I will stay here as long as you need me, love," said Pippin, continuing on, "and then when you do not, I will stay. I fear that I will not be so easy to remove."

Merry thought other things of this, laughed through the sudden tears in his eyes and kissed Pippin's cheek. "I do not think that I will ever simply cast you aside, Pippin."

"Good, Merry, good."

They sat together in silence, and though the sun warmed them both, Merry felt ice building up in the pit of his stomach. He held Pippin a bit tighter, but could already tell that his cousin was slipping away.

He still felt alone.