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“Are you going to bury me?”
The words swirled incessantly through Pippin’s mind as he waited. Hours had passed since he and Gandalf had brought Merry to the Houses of Healing, and still, he’d heard no word from the wizard or from Aragorn. The pair cycled between three adjoining rooms—Merry’s, Faramir’s, and Lady Éowyn’s—but had barely glanced Pippin’s way. He was left to wait in the corridor, which made him feel like a child, or some kind of misbehaved pup. When he’d asked after his friends or requested to sit at Merry’s bedside, Gandalf only shook his head, brow furrowed, and moved on to the next patient. Briefly, Pippin had caught a glimpse of Aragorn tending to Faramir; the man stood quietly by the bed, deep in thought, every now and then placing his palm on Faramir’s barely-rising chest. But Gandalf had caught Pippin peeking, and had quickly shut the door.
The silence was what Pippin found most unsettling: the waiting around, the solitude. He’d hardly had a moment’s peace for months and months, but now, when the battle was over and said peace—however fragile—was long overdue, all he desired was noise and busyness and life. If he couldn’t have that, he at least deserved to be involved in looking after his friends. He’d found them, both of them, after all. Yet even after fighting as a soldier of Gondor in a frightful battle, on top of everything else, he was still being treated as naive and inexperienced by the companions he trusted most of all. Why were Aragorn and Gandalf shutting him out? He’d always had a bond with the wizard, and truly believed that Gandalf saw him as more than the hobbit he was when this all began; surely, he would understand why Pippin was so desperate to be of use somehow? All of Pippin’s instincts told him to pester Gandalf until he relented, but Pippin had learned much on this journey, and part of that was that his instincts were not always to be trusted. (He shivered as he remembered the pain and terror he felt when he touched the palantír.) Gandalf, and then Aragorn, and then Gandalf again had guided him through so many dangers—they both had abilities that Pippin could not dream of, and would not try to. He willed himself to be content leaving things in their hands, as he had so many times before.
Yet he could not stop thinking about Merry’s words. Bury him? That was absurd—why on earth would Merry say such a thing?
When he’d stumbled upon Merry in that empty lane, his second thought (his first having been overwhelming joy at finding his best friend alive) was that Merry did not look at all well. The hobbit’s face was unnaturally pale, and he walked with the weariness of a much older soul. In his eyes, Pippin saw there only confusion and sorrow—a darkness that was not at all like the Merry he knew. It scared him, perhaps more than anything he’d seen or done since this whole journey began. What were Black Riders, or flaming pyres, or even the gaze of The Dark Lord against the grief and sickness that seemed to have overtaken Merry? Pippin had taken Merry’s head into his lap, gently stroking Merry’s matted curls as he lay shivering on the cobblestones. They did not speak—Pippin was not used to them sitting in silence, and he found it deeply unsettling. He couldn’t tell if Merry had fallen asleep or not, but he listened intently to Merry’s breathing all the same, grateful at each inhale and exhale as if they were his own. He waited, holding his older cousin in his arms, for what felt like a very long time.
Once Gandalf arrived, Pippin had thought, all would be well. He would help Merry, like he helped everyone, and things would be as they once were, or close to it. Of course, there were faces missing from their party: Frodo and Sam were far beyond their reach, and Boromir even farther. Faramir was grievously injured, maybe Éowyn as well. But he’d seen Frodo much worse off with an injury of the same kind, and he had come through. Merry would come through, too.
He had to.
But the fear Pippin had seen in Gandalf’s eyes at the sight of Merry was far from reassuring. They’d walked up to the Houses of Healing in near-silence, Merry lying unconscious and small in Gandalf’s arms. Pippin did not know exactly what had happened to Merry, but he explained to the wizard as much as he could piece together. Gandalf had said little in reply. As they traversed the hills into the upper level of the city, Pippin tried to push away the sense of dread that was slowly crawling up from his stomach. He needed to believe, for Merry’s sake, that everything would be all right. They’d found each other—when Gandalf had whisked him up to go to Gondor, Pippin had feared that he would never see his dearest friend again. Once the fighting had begun, any slivers of hope for a reunion had been crushed; the violence was too great, the devastation too widespread. Pippin had not expected to survive and, despite his terror, he tried to face his death with the kind of traits he saw in his friends: Boromir’s sacrifice, Gandalf’s wisdom, Frodo’s courage. And always, always, Merry’s cleverness. Yet here they were: alive, somehow, in the wake of such awful things. That must mean something, Pippin thought as they climbed over rubble and past unmoving bodies. It will all be fine, now that Merry is here.
He could not remember a time when Merry was not at his side—or, rather, when he was not at Merry’s. Their families always used to say that Pippin stuck to his cousin like glue. Some of his earliest memories were of running up the slopes of Bag End behind Merry, struggling to keep up on his little legs, the two of them shouting until Bilbo came to the door. “We’ve come for a story, Uncle Bilbo!” Merry would announce with a huge grin on his face, striding past their uncle and letting himself into the house. “Yes, a story!” Pippin would chirp as he followed close on Merry’s heels. Bilbo would sigh, but nothing could hide the gleam in his eyes as he closed the door behind them. “Which one would you like to hear today?” Bilbo would ask, knowing very well that the two young hobbits would just beg for another after, and another, until the afternoon had dwindled into twilight; when Merry and Pippin came to Bag End, it was reasonable to expect that nothing else would get done that day. The two swept in like a hurricane, setting all of Hobbiton on edge, but Bilbo didn’t mind: the young hobbits’ cheery faces and belly laughs and wide eyes were reward enough. He would settle into his big armchair, while Frodo usually listened from his seat beside the fireplace, smiling after undoubtedly hearing these same stories a thousand times prior. Sometimes Samwise, the gardener’s son, would come in for tea, and would stand awkwardly in the corner as Bilbo spoke, rapt with wonder. Merry would plop down on the floor at Bilbo’s feet, taking Pippin into his lap, until he grew too big for it. “You’ll love this one, Pip,” Merry would whisper excitedly, as they watched Bilbo close his eyes and find the perfect place to start his tale. It was as if magic had settled over the room as the old hobbit drew in a deep breath and began, his voice hushed, like this was a secret only they were privy to. Merry would stare at Bilbo as he spoke, a smile blooming between his rosy cheeks. But Pippin watched Merry, thinking to himself that he would follow his cousin anywhere, be it Farmer Maggot’s fields or into the heart of the Misty Mountains.
Pippin was roused from his memories at the creak of an opening door. Out stepped Gandalf and Aragorn, their expressions filled with fatigue and concern. They both turned to meet Pippin’s anxious gaze after closing the door to Faramir's room quietly behind them. Pippin quickly stood up from the bench where he’d been waiting and took a few steps towards the men, trying not to seem too eager or immature. His heart leapt into his throat, and he struggled to speak, the words coming out stilted and broken.
“Please…tell me…”
“They live yet,” Aragorn said, his voice low. “But they are consumed by darkness, a shadowed sickness that runs deep. It is much like what Frodo suffered at Weathertop. They are stronger than most, but their wounds are grave.”
“Even Faramir?” Pippin inquired, looking towards his friend’s room. “I had thought that he was injured in battle, and burned from the fire.”
“Yes, that is all true. But it seems that a Nazgûl arrow pierced his chest.” It was the same sickness that Éowyn and Merry had, Aragorn explained, but was closer to the heart, which proved deadly. “They are beginning to succumb; I fear their time is running out.”
The words knocked the air out of Pippin’s lungs. “Is there nothing to be done?” he said weakly, despair finally taking hold, his heart sinking somewhere very deep and far away.
“Perhaps. Elrond is the only one I have seen with the power to fully heal an injury of this nature, but I can slow the progression as I did with Frodo. Here I must put forth all such power and skill as is given to me.” He turned to the eldest of the women of the Houses of Healing, Ioreth. “Have you athelas? It is also called kingsfoil.”
Pippin did not hear much after that. He swayed where he stood, numbness spreading like a stain throughout his body. He vaguely noted Ioreth’s departure to find the healing plant, and Aragorn’s return to Faramir’s sickbed. But the world around him moved slowly, as if through thick, murky water.
“My dear hobbit.” A familiar voice came from high above him, gruff yet somehow equally tender. Pippin looked up into Gandalf’s piercing blue eyes, which were partially obscured by his bushy, knitted brows. A gentle smile rested upon his lips, and he reached out a wizened hand. “Why don’t we sit down for a moment?”
Pippin could have collapsed on the spot, his legs shook so, but he allowed Gandalf to guide him back to the bench. Once sitting, he stared at his feet swinging a few inches off the ground, tears pricking his eyes. There seemed to be no words for what he felt, no language or song that could accurately describe any of it.
“I would not fault you for being afraid, Pippin.” Pippin couldn’t bring himself to look at the wizard. “War leaves many wounds, but none of them so painful as seeing the ones we love suffer.” Gandalf rested his large hand on Pippin’s back.
The gesture only made Pippin’s throat swell uncomfortably. He sniffed, rubbed the back of his wrist across his eyes. He would not cry, not when others struggled and fought so much more than he had. “Frodo was much the same, but he was at least awake during the day, usually,” he said. “I don’t understand why it is so different, with Merry.”
“It might have been many things,” said Gandalf thoughtfully. “Frodo was stabbed by the Nazgûl, whereas Meriadoc was the one that thrust the sword. Perhaps that had an effect. And then there’s the matter of Frodo wearing the Ring when he was hurt.”
“But the Ring hurt Frodo very much! It seemed to cause him pain to carry it.”
“It both gives and takes power and life from its wearer. Why do you think Bilbo lived to be eleventy-one and yet had the look of a much younger hobbit?”
Pippin thought about that for a moment, and decided that Gandalf’s answer was not very satisfactory, nor comforting, for that matter. Frodo had survived, but barely—if it were not for his possession of the Ring and for Elrond’s assistance, perhaps he would not have survived. Which made Merry’s circumstances very bleak, indeed.
Pippin blinked away the static that had crawled into the edges of his vision. He needed to do something, anything, to make these thoughts stop.
“Let me be with them, Gandalf,” he pleaded. “Let me give them what small comforts I can.”
“You have fought bravely, Pippin. You should rest.”
“No—” Pippin stood abruptly, though his legs felt wobbly. “No, I could not rest while Merry and Faramir and so many others lie here! Do not make me abandon them!” He tried to make his voice steady to compete with the rising shakiness that threatened to silence him.
Gandalf looked back at him, his eyes full of a knowing sadness. “I do not ask you to abandon anyone. But Aragorn is their best hope, for now, and his work will take time.”
“But he said that they don’t have time.”
“You must trust Aragorn, as you have for many months—”
“There is nothing I must do! I have done what was asked of me and more, and all I ask in return is to sit beside them. I shall not be in the way, I promise.” Pippin took in a quivering breath. “Do not make me sit idly by while Merry is in this state. And Faramir—had I not come and found you, he would not need healing, for he would be beyond anybody’s help. I may not have the talents that you and Aragorn possess, but that does not mean I should have to—to turn my back on my friends. Please, Gandalf, do not ask this of me. If you do, I will have to disregard all that you say, and that has never ended well in the past.”
It was then that a small gleam came into Gandalf’s eye; he was remembering, no doubt, the many times he had chastised the hobbit for his carelessness. “Fool of a Took,” he murmured, but he could not hide the way his lips quirked into a smile. “Your obstinate nature will forsake you, someday.”
Pippin puffed out his chest, defiance coursing through him as if it were blood. “When it does, I shall let it gladly. I would not be Peregrin Took without it. And I have learned it only from the best.” His gaze flicked towards the door to Merry’s room.
Gandalf stood, so that he towered over Pippin once more. But, for the first time, the hobbit did not feel intimated or small beside the wizard: he felt strong and sure that he was right. “Very well, my friend,” Gandalf said. Pippin had a feeling that there was something else Gandalf wasn’t saying, as if he understood something Pippin did not. “Go to them, if you must.”
Without another word, Pippin crossed the corridor towards Merry’s room. He heard Gandalf let out a long sigh, but he did not stop to look back. His heart pounded faster as he approached the door, his shaking hand hovering just over the knob. He took a deep breath, steeling himself, and stepped inside.
He peered around the room. It had a strange smell to it—stagnant, was the only way Pippin could describe it. Like the air itself lay in wait for something to occur. Rays of bleak, grey light filtered in through the large windows, casting strange, shimmering shapes on the large bed (which, in truth, was a very averaged sized bed—but could probably hold three or four hobbits, with room to spare). Upon the bedside table sat a carafe of water, a glass, a porcelain basin, a cloth, and a collection of salves and potions. Underneath a pile of heavy blankets lay the outline of Merry. Pippin crept over to the bed, clenching and unclenching his hands into fists to counteract the restless feeling that only comes when everything else is eerily still. Standing on his toes to look upon Merry, it took everything in him to hold back a gasp.
Merry looked distinctly un-Merry-like. His complexion was far more shocking than it had been earlier in the day—it was sallow, verging on grey-white. His skin was coated in a thin sheen of sweat, and his lips were dry and cracked, as if he hadn’t had enough to drink in days. Pippin placed a careful hand to Merry’s forehead, but there was no fever; he was clammy and cold. “...Merry?” Pippin whispered. Merry did not stir. He lay quite still, taking slow, shallow breaths.
Pippin had the distinct feeling that something was slipping through his fingers, and there was no way to grasp onto it. In vain, he took Merry’s cold hand into his own, squeezing it tightly, hoping he could warm it somehow. It was not enough.
“Oh, Merry,” Pippin said, his voice small and thin. He willed it not to break, even though there was no one around to hear. Merry looked like…well, he looked as if he might—
No, Pippin thought, No, I cannot assume the worst. Aragorn is going to heal him. But despite his internal protestations, the dreaded thought had taken root.
He sat there for some time, watching for a change in Merry’s breathing or some kind of movement, anything to indicate that his friend was not beyond help. Sometimes it seemed, though he barely moved, that Merry wept in his dreams. He’d softly whimper from time to time—not a sound of physical pain, but of grief—before falling silent again. Once or twice, Merry murmured something in his sleep, but Pippin could not understand. Merry’s voice was hollow, greatly changed from its normally warm and thoughtful timbre. As if the very thing that made him Merry was being drawn out of him.
Pippin tried to remember the last conversation they’d had. He realized that he didn’t know: after he’d touched the palantír, Merry had sat beside him for a while, but he had not spoken. Pippin had wanted to say something—to apologize, or tell Merry how frightened he had been. Merry always knew how to cheer him up. But Pippin had felt too tired and shaken, and Merry hadn’t seemed in the mood for conversation, anyways. He’d just stared at Pippin, something like disappointment shining in his eyes. Now and then, he would look away, like it was exhausting just to look at Pippin. Pippin felt his heart constrict painfully every time. It was clear that something had shifted between them—their silences, few and far between, had never felt so heavy. Merry’s gaze was usually warm, safe, but now, it was all Pippin could do not to shrink beneath it. Pippin was no stranger to feeling like he’d failed someone he cared about—Gandalf, Boromir, Frodo, the names were piled high, a tower of his mistakes. But in all of their years together, he had never felt that way with Merry. No, with Merry, he was fine, just as he was.
A few hours later, he had been on the way to Gondor with Gandalf.
He’d never gotten to say goodbye to Merry. Never had the chance to ask for his forgiveness. And it was all his own doing: if he had not disobeyed Gandalf and given into temptation from the palantír, he would not have been sent to Gondor in the first place. Merry would have no reason to be cross with him, and they would not have parted as they did. He would have stayed with Merry in Rohan, would have fought by his side if it came to that. Perhaps they would have died together, which, though Pippin hated the thought, seemed preferable to their current situation. No, he still would have followed Merry anywhere, even if it was to the end.
He now desperately wished he had said something, that final evening they had together. But how do you tell the person whose trust you’ve broken that you’d do anything for things to be the way they were again, to reshape yourself in their eyes? How do you make things right when time is running out, and you have no power to stop it?
Pippin thought, not for the first time, that to sit beside a person who is ailing and have no way of helping them was a particularly cruel kind of torture, for both the sick and the sentinel. Pippin was not the most selfless hobbit, he knew this, but in this moment he would have given anything to switch places with Merry, if only so this guilt he felt would recede.
Pippin suddenly felt much older than he ever had—he’d seen so much, and lost so much, and his body ached with fatigue. He felt so…lost. So unsure of what was to come. But he could not turn to Merry for answers or comfort, like he was so wont to do—no, Merry needed him now.
Tears once again burned his eyes, and this time, he let them fall. They rolled silently down his cheeks, dripping onto his and Merry’s intertwined hands. There were so many things left unsaid, and he found that he did not have the strength left to voice them. The confidence he’d shown to Gandalf had vanished entirely, leaving behind something feeble and timid in its wake. Pippin pulled himself up onto the bed with what little energy remained and curled up beside his cousin, holding his hand all the while. He lay there, listening to Merry breathe, praying, desperately, that it wouldn’t stop. He leaned in closer to Merry, trying to transfer warmth into his body, still longing for that safe feeling of being held in his lap, the world just a magical story laid out before them. They were going to explore it all together—weren’t they?
The words swirled through his mind once more, lingering like a deeply-rooted ache:
Am I going to bury him?