Author: Kel (bucklandblues@yahoo.com)
Category: Slash
Pairing: Merry/Pippin
Rating: R
Summary: Merry broods and reminisces in Minas Tirith as Pippin marches off to battle.
Merry wondered if he would ever feel warm again.
Shivering beneath his cloak, he stood at the ruined Gate of Minas Tirith and witnessed the mustering of the army of the West. Banners floated in the chill breeze, and the morning sun glinted off helms and spears, as the gathered companies awaited the trumpets. The steeds of the Rohirrim snorted impatiently, shuffling hooves in the damp earth, as their riders turned stern eyes toward the East.
Merry rubbed his injured arm, wincing at the jolt of pain that shot from shoulder to wrist. He would never ride with the Rohirrim, tall, proud and noble. He would never again fight at the side of his companions in the Fellowship. Meriadoc of the Shire, son of Saradoc, future Master of Buckland, deadweight. Infirm and useless. Too weak and small to join the battle. Forced to watch helplessly as his friends marched to their doom.
Less than a year ago, the lands of Rohan and Gondor had scarcely entered the fringes of his understanding. The Elven-lords and the Numenorean kings were merely characters in Bilbo's stories. They didn't really exist. How could such fantastic figures be real?
The Shire...that was real, that was true. The truth was in a pipe and a mug of ale at the Green Dragon or a swim in the Brandywine on a balmy summer afternoon. The truth was in the heady sweet fragrance of the blossoming cherry trees in Buckland during the first warm days of springtime. The truth was laughing over second breakfast with Pippin in the dining room at Great Smials, while annoyed Took relatives rolled their eyes and complained loudly about the corruptive influence of "that Brandybuck lad" on young Peregrin.
Now...oh, mercy. Now, the truth had shifted and twisted into a cruel parody of itself. With all his companions assembled among the soldiers, the city was full of unfamiliar faces. The landscape was harsh and foreign. The air was cold and dark, thick with smoke from the burning rubble. The stench of destruction and death burned Merry's nostrils and throat. Food rations were scarce, and his belly grumbled inconsolably.
The separation was the worst of all. Reunited merely days ago, and again they were torn apart. Merry felt empty, as if a section of his heart had been cut out. The warm part, the joyful part, forever lost.
He turned his eyes toward the company of Minas Tirith. A remarkably small figure amidst the tall men of the city, Pippin nevertheless stood upright and proud, clad in the silver and black of the Tower Guard. He resembled more a youth of Gondor than a young Hobbit of the Shire. Merry swallowed hard at the lump in his throat. Pippin, *his* Pippin, was being sent out against an incomprehensible evil. Pippin, who deserved laughter and love and a belly that was always full. Pippin, who should enjoy the carefree happiness of a comfortable life.
Now, garbed as a soldier, tiny blade in hand, Pippin would march out to battle. To his death.
Merry shivered violently. He pulled the cloak around his body tightly, trying to ward off the chill, but took little warmth or comfort from the thin Elven fabric.
He remembered spring afternoons, the Shire fragrant in bloom, the Brandywine glittering. If he closed his eyes, he could almost feel the sun warming his face and hear the distant chiming laughter of children at play. If he breathed deeply, he could almost smell the freshly-tilled soil of the fields, rich and earthy.
He remembered the intoxicating thrill of a secret love, the fluttery excitement deep in his belly. The eager clasp of hands as Pippin excitedly led him off to some secluded spot. He and Pippin stole enthusiastic juice-sweetened kisses between bites of apple or pear, delighting in the way fruit tasted even better from a lover's mouth. Busy fingertips deftly peeled away weskits and shirts and breeches, tracing lines and patterns across soft skin that yielded to the gentlest pressure. Murmured endearments were punctuated with long, deep kisses that warmed Merry from the inside out. Kissing Pippin was like tasting sunshine, sparkling, pure and hot, and Merry knew the heat would consume him before he could possibly have enough of it. Whispers mingled into wordless gasps as gentle pushes and caresses turned to clutching and thrusting, until it all came to a shuddering, sweet release.
Merry thought Pippin was most beautiful on those spring days, as the sunlight illuminated auburn glints in his curls and revealed flecks of gold in laughing green eyes. Utterly spent, Pippin would pillow his head on Merry’s chest, sighing contentedly as he draped a lazy arm about his waist. Even then, in the carefree days before the quest, Merry knew that nothing was as precious as those moments of sated bliss, nothing as wonderful as being wrapped in the warmth of Pippin.
The blare of trumpets sounded suddenly, startling Merry from his reverie, and the assembled soldiers readied themselves for the long march. Company by company, the troops moved eastward. The citizens of Minas Tirith filtered back gradually into the city, as each line of troops vanished on the horizon. Though the icy wind whipped his cloak and stung his cheeks, Merry remained at the gate, squinting into the morning sun long after the last soldier had passed from view.
He became dimly aware that the boy, Bergil, had taken his hand and was leading him away from the gate, back to the Houses of Healing. He let himself be led back to the warm, inviting bed and the roaring fire, but he would take no comfort from the ministrations of the Healers.
The East would extinguish his heart and snuff it out like a candle. The warmth, the joy...forever lost.
***
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