home

Title: In Lothlorien
Author: kiltsandlollies
Characters: Merry/Pippin
Rating: G, omg.
Notes: *deep breath* My veryvery first attempt at FPS. Movie canon, though could be book, too, I suppose. Let us hope it does not suck.


Merry cannot imagine feeling more lost than now—than here tonight, underneath the spreading, dark trees of Lothlorien.

He knows that their hosts will protect their lessened Fellowship, that he is safe under the watchful eyes of these new Elves, more intimidating than those he encountered in Rivendell. He misses Rivendell terribly—its warm colours and wonderful, tempting apples and breads, and the heady wine he and Pippin stole from a storeroom the very morning Frodo finally opened his eyes from his long healing sleep.

When Merry closes his eyes and concentrates, he can still taste that wine. Can still see the blush rise up in Pippin’s cheeks and the traces of red on his lips glowing like jam. Can still hear Pippin’s contagious laughter when they were caught by a huffing, shocked Samwise.

It has been days since Merry last heard Pippin’s laughter, and hours since his cousin has said anything at all.

Of course, Pippin has been polite, minding his manners in a way he rarely remembered back in the Shire, and settling down on his bedroll quietly, without his usual begging for a song or a story before sleep. Merry would gladly provide those things and more if only Pippin would speak his need for them, but Pippin remains silent, his hands opening and closing on his chest as he thinks—or tries desperately not to, Merry imagines.

Merry’s eyes search around them in the dark, finding Sam nearby, flat on his back and breathing heavy in his sleep. Frodo, too, is asleep, though he is restless and his breathing quick. Pippin, however, is no more asleep than Merry himself. Merry shifts on his bedroll, turning himself so that his head is now near Pippin’s, his hand only inches from Pippin’s red–brown curls.

“Pippin,” he says softly, and swallows when Pippin does not answer. “Pippin, please.”

“I can’t see the stars, Merry,” Pippin whispers. His voice is raspy, so unlike the gurgling, cheerful lilt Merry has heard day and night since his little cousin learned to speak. “And I hate this place. It’s too dark, and these aren’t trees like our trees, Merry, and I need a bath, and I want to go home, and we can’t, and Gandalf—”

“Pippin,” Merry sighs, finally allowing his trembling hand to fall into Pippin’s hair. “The stars are still there, high above you and high above these trees that aren’t like our trees. D’you remember when I took you down the Brandywine and you almost fell asleep on the ferry slats? You were watching the stars then, too, and the sky went cloudy, and you fussed, Pip. All of ten years old and you fussed as though someone had taken the very sky from you.” Merry inches closer, reaching with his free hand to clasp Pippin’s, still resting on his chest. “The stars came back that night, and they’ll come back again, Pip. I promise you.”

“Gandalf won’t,” Pippin murmurs, turning to face Merry. “Merry, what’s going to happen now?”

“Strider’s going to take care of us, Pip. And Boromir. They know where we’re going, just like Gandalf did. And we have our friends. They’re not going to leave us.” Merry pauses, his eyes again looking over to Sam and Frodo. “And we’re not going to leave them.”

“You can’t know that,” Pippin whispers, flushing at Merry’s answering chuckle. His voice is thick now, quavering and caught half in his throat. “You can’t, Merry, no more than I can know where the stars have gone, where Gandalf’s gone—”

“Oh, Pippin,” Merry sighs, his heart filling. He reaches for Pippin and pulls him in tight until Pippin’s shaking body rests in the crook of his own. “Lovely cousin–mine. No, don’t stop crying; cry until you can’t anymore.” Merry leans back, allowing Pippin’s fingers to curl up into the buttery yellow fabric of his vest, feeling the warmth of Pippin’s tears trickling down his neck. Pippin shudders and shakes for long moments, and Merry holds on tight, riding out Pippin’s grief as he has not yet had the chance to do for himself.

That will come later, when they are home and safe again.

When, Merry thinks and he clutches Pippin tightly. When, not if. There is a strange, softly rushing sound above them, akin to velvet brushing skin to Merry’s mind, and Pippin’s choking little breaths abruptly cease as he turns in Merry’s arms.

“What was that?” Pippin whispers, eyes bright and wet. Merry does not answer at first, waiting for Pippin’s gaze to follow his own up to the canopy of dark trees above them. Pippin gasps at the forest opening to the wind, at the sight of stars moving over their little encampment on the mossy ground. Merry feels Pippin’s hands opening and closing on his own chest now, sees the tears rapidly drying on his cousin’s face.

“The stars came back for you, Pip,” Merry smiles into Pippin’s hair. “Like I promised they would.” Pippin’s smile starts slowly, spreading across his face like the leaves opening above them, and his giggle, lower and throatier now but still so uniquely Pippin’s, comes from deep inside him to burst out, warm and welcoming to Merry’s ears.

“Merry, Merry, how did you know?”

Merry laughs a little himself, shaking his head. “I’m sure I didn’t, sweet Pip. D’you think you can rest now?” Pippin nods, but does not move just yet, choosing instead to stare at the sky for a few moments more. It is only at Merry’s soft touch on his back that Pippin settles down into Merry’s chest, his breathing slower and his body still, and he falls into sleep so gently that Merry cannot help but want to join him there. Merry’s own eyes are heavy now, and he closes them slowly, taking just one more glance at the stars before he surrenders to the rest he so desperately needs.

And as he does so, Merry wonders silently if perhaps there is something— someone—more than stars watching over them. After all, Merry does not have to concentrate hard at all now to recall Rivendell, to taste apples and wine, to hear Sam’s scolding and Pippin’s laughter. He fancies he can see Gandalf’s smile, by turns indulgent and hardened, can feel the sun on his face as he runs along the Brandywine.

On any other night, Merry might still, after everything he’s seen, question the elf magic or protection he has fallen under—for whatever else could it be?—but not tonight. Tonight, Merry has been found, underneath the spreading, dark trees of Lothlorien. And for tonight, it is enough.


home