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By: Dana
When the 15th of March rolls around (a very important date, for those who don't know), Merry loses himself in darkness. It brings to Pippin's mind a something - a something that Frodo once said; a something that Sam drove home whether he knew he was doing it or not. And because of that, Pippin is sure he'll never be far from Merry's side when the Shadow comes a-calling. He hopes for Merry's sake, at least. Now Pippin sits at Merry's side, both hands clasping his cousin's: a ready story, a willing smile, an infectious laugh, and more than enough light for one hobbit lost alone in the dark. That is what Pippin is now, when Merry seems to have gone far away. Merry, with his hand feeling strangely wrong, cold and stiff, like it had an age ago in Minas Tirith when Pippin had found Merry, despairing and almost dead; Merry with darkness stirring in the depths of slate grey eyes. But that isn't what Pippin thinks, at the fore of his mind: what he thinks of, speaks of instead, is a long ago summer day, running from the Hall having roused the ire of Merry's mum and da. And that is what he says he paints a picture of days long gone by. He thinks about, talks about those days when they both had been young and Pippin had acted before thinking, dragging Merry alongside as he dove headfirst into trouble again and then again. These days Pippin is more likely to pause and think before he acts without thought. Birthdays, too, and promises, and days that should be spoken of only with the utmost respect: those are what Pippin speaks of, holding Merry close, when his cousin seems to fall furthest away. Because even the darkest cloud has its silver lining, and that is what Pippin harkens to. He can't picture life without Merry, not when there is so much life yet to live. It doesn't matter if he isn't sure that Merry can even hear all he says. "You know Frodo would never forgive you, Merry, if you ever gave up" Pippin says, his smile shining radiant distress. "We wouldn't want to grieve Frodo, now would we? " But Merry is stronger than that, Pippin knows, and now he doesn't wander alone. Merry will come back. Just be steady, just be calm. Laughter, light, and love, and that is all it takes. Pippin certainly has plenty of that to spare; piled up and spilling over like a dragon's treasure, or even old Bilbo's (now long-gone) oft-imagined hoard. And there's no one Pippin loves quite the way he loves Merry. Even though Merry's hand is motionless, cold, pressed between his own as the candles burn low. Not that he doubts Merry's return - but what if he's wrong? What would he do without Merry? Would Merry just never wake? Or would Merry have to leave the Shire, instead? Would he think this place better without himself, without his darkness there to tarnish its shine? Pippin laughs, though hardly in joy. Merry would not - could not - do as Frodo had done. Merry was no Ringbearer after all and there is no elven ship to carry him West: he had only been one of the Ringbearer's companions, one of a pair of tagalong cousins; and Merry had only helped to bring the Witch King down. Pippin brings Merry's hand to his mouth, dropping his gaze as he presses his lips to the cold curve of Merry's thumb, barely breathing, simply believing, thoughts in a storm. "I'm waiting for you, Merry. You'll come back to me. I know. I'll see you through." But the candles are burning low, and they need that light. It is a promise without words that Pippin makes as he leaves Merry long enough to build up the fire, replace burning-down-candles, build up the light. And one day has passed, and it will be two more days until Merry is back to himself; three days lost, wandering in darkness and in Shadow; three days trapped in nightmares, with only one steady light to be his guide. And Pippin will not speak of those long days when his Merry has returned, and if Merry were to try to push, there's little that Pippin will actually say. Life will have returned to normal at Crickhollow. They will laugh and cry and tell old stories and make new ones of their own, remembering days that are an age away. Pippin will smile first, knowing Merry must miss the feel of the sun and the taste of fresh air like a bundle of daisies left wilting too long indoors; maybe even like their trek in Moria, when one dark night would only turn into another dark day, and there had been nothing Pippin had wanted more than a feather bed, yes, and the wide blue sky overhead. "I was thinking that we could go for a ride; goodness knows our poor ponies must be wasting away. Of course, if you'd rather not, I imagine you might fancy something substantial in your belly. If so, mine agrees," and Pippin gives his a pat, grinning. "No more broth for a while, I suppose." Merry only smiles, pulling Pippin close into a fierce hug. He feels like himself now, and Pippin feels like Pippin, too; and this is all different, new, when Merry had thought that he would never feel it again. "How did you know, Pippin? Why did you wait for me, when there was no certainty that I would come back?" Pippin is quiet for a long moment, hugging Merry tight. "Frodo told me something once, Merry, and Sam would agree: sometimes it's belief in the smallest light that lets it outshine them all. And that's all you needed, Merry - for me to believe." Crickhollow is warm. Right. Home. Pippin is Merry's light, and Merry will never need know that even Pippin had his doubts.
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