By: Dana
Summary: Pippin thinks he'd feel much better, if only they'd let him sleep.
Characters: Pippin, Merry
Pairings: None
Rating: G
Warnings: Cormallen ficlet, but nothing really, other than that
Author's Notes: For slightlytookish. ♥
Pippin's pov, same verse as Upon a Field of Gold.
Prompt: Fixed (#72). Words: 541
32/100.
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.

Pippin thinks he'd feel much better, if only they'd let him sleep; he wakes so often, and for all he's dreamed of late, it's impossible to tell what's real and what's not. 'Don't let them bury me too deep,' he gasps, breathless, as if he's still being crushed. Maybe he still is being crushed. 'If they do, then I won't be able to breathe.'

Some part of him knows that should be impossible, being crushed, with him seeing Merry – the panic in his eyes is sharp and real. But for all Pippin knows, Merry might just be another dream.

Pippin realises, some time after that, for all he sleeps and dreams, he is alive still; broken, yes, but alive. But then he wakes again and Aragorn is there and Pippin, not trusting much to words, nods when Aragorn asks him if he'd like to sit. 'You are doing quite well, Pippin,' Aragorn tells him. Pippin doesn't feel as if he's doing very well. He still feels as if he should be dead, but maybe that's just because he'd made his peace in the end.

But Merry doesn't need to know that.

Merry is there as well, glorious as he ever was, for all he has been worn down by all his worries; he is slumped sideways in the little chair beside the bed, resting his head on his left arm. Aragorn leaves them, and Merry as if by magic wakes, sits up, and blinks through the bleariness that comes after waking.

He sits up, rubs his left arm awkwardly with his right, as though his right isn't working as well as it should; and Pippin watches him, though he feels half-asleep himself, and certainly he must sound half-asleep: ''Lo, Merry' is all that he can manage.

Then Merry is reaching for his hand, the one that isn't bandaged, and Pippin feels his heart sing out; and in that moment, he almost feels as though he can hear all sound, all song, in all creation, and he realises how small his own part is. He thinks of Gandalf, and of what Gandalf might say. Size alone doesn't factor in, in the matters of the Wise, or in the great music, which has been since the beginning; and Pippin's part does seem very small, and of no great importance, but it is one small part amidst others, and all a part of something great.

And his part is his.

Pippin sleeps again, though now he'd rather not; he might be broken, or still feel as if he is broken, but he is healing, and in time no doubt he will run and sing beneath the sun, green grass beneath his feet. But for now, he falls once more into sleep, his protest going still upon his lips. He can feel Merry's hand, still, and all the questions that had clamoured for his attention, had wanted to be ask, will just have to wait for when he is awake again. It is never too good to be too curious. And Pippin has gotten very good at waiting, when he must.

And now he must.

He feels better now than he ever thought possible, and that is no dream, no shadow of his sleeping mind.