By: Dana
Summary: It is at waking when Éowyn sees that she is not alone.
Characters: Eowyn, Pippin, mention of Merry
Pairings: Merry/Pippin implied, Merry/Eowyn implied, Merry/Eowyn/Pippin-dynamic
Rating: G
Warnings: None

Author's Notes: I did a drabble/ficlet request. This was for Mordelhin.
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.

It is at waking when Éowyn sees that she is not alone – a holbytla, very much like her own dear Merry, was sitting in a high backed chair that had been drawn close to the bedside, wearing all black and dangling his legs over the chair's edge. His attention was unbound, shiftless as the wind, and he hummed a cheerful-sounding tune, fingers tapping out the rhythm where his hands were resting at his knees. "I should know your name," she says, though her head is still cushioned against her own hair and the soft pillow, and she has not yet risen. At that, the halfling starts, then smiles, and oh but that smile is bright as the sun, and his attention comes to rest fully upon her.

"I thought you still slept."

"Only until just now," she says, curling her fingers over into a loose fist. "I still don't know your name."

He laughs, smiling still. "Peregrin Took, my lady, though must call me Pippin." Then, he hops down from the chair, and gives a grave bow, too solemn for one who seems so young and bright. When he stands, she notices at last the Tree of Gondor emblazoned in white upon the rich fabric of his surcoat. It only intensifies the brightness of his eyes, and Éowyn recalls the lush green of her far off home, of rocky crags and rolling hills, and a great hall upon a great hill, shining in the glory of the sun. She thinks, in a way that is not hers at all, that she should have stayed and tended to the Golden Hall – if it has not been her place to die as her kin, then perhaps that is all that she was intended to do.

"At your service, and your family's," he says, more as afterthought than anything else.

Her family. Éowyn's throat aches and her eyes sting, though no tears gather, impatient to fall. She closes her eyes, and tightens the grip of her hand, and she hears but does not see the sounds that Pippin makes as he crawls back up onto the tall chair. The tightness in her throat eases, slowly, and she lets out a slow breath.

Good. She would not weep, not for one to see.

"Merry has told me much about you, my lady," Pippin says. "Well, what little he knows, he has shared. He is very fond of you, you know."

She almost smiles, and opens her eyes. The tension is gone, at least, distant enough that it does not weigh upon her so heavily. "He is – " but she stops, then, not knowing what else she might say.

"More fool than I," Pippin replies, though his tone is amicable, and his smile is still bright as summer light. "But, we'll keep that to ourselves, between our ears and these walls."

These walls. She wants to stand, to see the sky, to run, or to ride. But there is a tired sickness in her heart, and she feels it coil tighter. "How is Merry?" she asks, thinking that she should. "I have not seen him since – " she closes her eyes, for a long moment, and her smile is pain. "I should like to know."

"Well enough, my lady, though he thinks that it is foolishness to keep him abed. He is more stubborn than a Took – and I'm a Took, so I should know – but Strider thinks it best, and Strider – Aragorn, that is – knows more than the both of us when it comes to healing and things. And he worries – he worries, for you."

Éowyn's heart pangs. For a moment, she thinks he means Aragorn, but she soon realizes the truth of his words. "Whyever would Merry worry? Though he is very dear to me, and I am glad…"

Again, she does not know what else she might say, and she closes her eyes, her lashes now damp with unshed tears. She so well knows her despair. But Merry lives, at least, else she thinks this Pippin would not speak with such blithe, yet steady, cheer.

"Because he loves you, if you do not mind me speaking so bold, though I suppose he would deny, with each breath left to him. And he cannot come and sit with you himself, so he has sent me to see to his task. I do not mind. I've become something of a messenger, these last few days." His gaze grows distant, and Éowyn blinks the tears from her eyes. No, no. She will not weep.

It is difficult, though, as she continues. "Have you a message for me, then?"

"Not anything I've not already said."

His gaze is earnest, yet his tone is practical. His heart is on his sleeve, and Éowyn supposes that he loves Merry just as much as he says Merry loves her. Which she cannot guess is very much – but no, Merry is too dear, and she is fond of him, and –

A white-knuckled grip, and Éowyn exhales. "I should like to rest."

Once again, Pippin hops down from his chair, and his small hands settle over her left. "You were there," she says, suddenly, memory washing over her like the cool, fresh scent of athelas. "When Aragorn – "

She can say no more.

But he nods, and smiles. "When he called you back. And then, Merry."

Yes, she thinks, gazing at him as he says Merry's name, the look at his eyes and the way his mouth softens as he smiles, and remembers. All his heart, and more, she has given to Merry, and she understands and does not think she minds that Merry is not only hers. She winds her hand about Pippin's, though she is too tired to try and move her right arm, and it still feels heavy, and cold.

And she thinks, the war is not yet through. She might be stuck here, abed, and Merry, too, when she is wanting nothing but to take up her sword again. She supposes Merry would want the same. But she has eyes, and she can see, and she knows the way of this world – and Pippin is a guard of the Citadel – that is the bold mark he bears with some pride upon his chest – and he will walk into darkness, though it is not likely he will go alone. She tightens her grip even more, and he smiles, then shakes his head, and laughs, softly, as he squeezes her hand.

"I knew I should have known your name. Merry has told me – well, he has told me something of you, though not nearly all that he should know. There is more – more, and I should like to know."

He does not speak, nor does she, and her gaze falls onto the gentle tangle of their hands. "I do not know you, then, at least not very well," she says, at length, "but that is not how you make me feel."

She needn't look at his smile, not when she can feel it. And he says, "And that is good? I hope that I have not been a bother – "

"No, no. Not a bother."

The room is cool and quiet and she tilts her head back, still against the cushion of her pillow, and she smiles, perhaps because she envies him his position – yes, perhaps it is that. But it is Pippin who speaks, and his tone is grave though there is light like a smile in his eyes. "That is high praise, my lady. Now, shall I let Merry know that you are awake, and well?"

When she does not know what else to say, she nods. "Mostly awake," she says, as an afterthought, and he draws away, letting his arms hang at his sides. Her fingers curl again, into a slow fist. All she wants, right then, is to sleep.

"Rest then, my lady," he says, and bows, as he had, though the tension of his body is not so grim. "And thank you, for our talk."

"We should talk again," she replies, but her eyes have already closed.

"That is possible, my lady. Perhaps."

When he is gone, it seems that the light has gone, too, and the sky is too grey and the clouds are too thick for the sun to shine through. Her eyes close, and she falls back into sleep, where there is still no light to touch her dreams.