AN: I was reading a pile of excellent Challenge 2 stories when this particular bolt hit me. Inspired a bit by Baylor’s “I Always Know You” and “The Road and The End” and Marigold’s question about when Merry and Pippin died.

“Make it a promise and promise me right. I’ll be a good lad all day and night.” - - - Merry and Pippin in Baylor’s “I Always Know You”

Disclaimer: We swears to serve the Master of the Precious, and we have come to the realization that he will never be us.

I have been told this one should come with a Kleenex warning. Consider yourself warned.

* * * * * *

~Not So Long A Time~

Merry scowled at the baby.

“Really, Meriadoc, he adores you.” Esmeralda assured her son. “You must be patient.”

“But he can’t do anything.” ten-year-old Merry said petulantly.

“Be patient my son.” Esme said again. “Eight years is not so long a time. Only at the beginning.”

* * * * * *

“I’m sorry Mer.” Pippin sat, collapsing on the side of the hill, breathing heavily.

“For what?” asked Merry, trying not to sound too disappointed.

“For always slowing you down.” Pippin’s eyes were sometimes too smart for his twelve-year-old face. “If you’d partnered one of the other lads, you’d be done by now and in the Smial eating dinner.”

“Aye, I could have gone with Fatty and done all of the work myself.” Merry said, beginning to smile.

Pippin returned it, and then his entire face lit up in an expression Merry knew all too well.

“Pearl will save us the best of everything.” Pippin said conspiratorially. “And we won’t have to eat with all the squabblers.”

“That is true.” Merry said, holding out a hand to pull Pippin to his feet. “And think of the holiday we could have tomorrow after you tell my aunt about all the hard work I made you do today!”

“Why Meriadoc Brandybuck,” said Pippin aghast. “Are you suggesting that I take advantage of my own mother?”

The two hobbits managed to keep a straight face for almost a full minute before collapsing into to grass, laughing uncontrollably. When they had more or less recovered, Merry reached into his pocket and handed an apple to his cousin.

“Eight years isn’t so long a time, Pip. Only at the beginning.”

* * * * * *

“You miss him a great deal, don’t you?” said the Steward.

“Yes, I do.” Replied the hobbit, unconsciously looking out of the window.

“It must be hard to miss one so close to you in age when you are alone in a strange city.” Now it was the Steward’s turn to seek the window.

“Oh, we are not close in age.” Said the hobbit, absently.

“Indeed.” Said the Steward, the ghost of a smile on his lips.

“But eight years is not so long a time.” The hobbit smiled. “Only at the beginning.”

* * * * * *

Aragorn Elessar Telcontar watched the hobbit in the too-large bed from the doorway as he had all those years ago. Except all those years ago, he had waited for a hobbit to wake; to know that his healer’s hands had produced another miracle; to hear the White Wizard laugh again.

Lady Arwen slipped her hand into his, and he rested his cheek against her hair. This time, there would be no miracle, and though Aragorn did not doubt that the Wizard laughed, he did so far from the stony heights of Minas Tirith. Arwen was beginning to understand the Doom she had chosen, as their friends began to pass away, but none had affected her quite so much as the one that would next happen.

In the same bed in which he had lain after his slaying of the Witch-King, Meriadoc the Magnificent rested uneasily. His breath was ragged and uneven and distressingly shallow. At times, the sound of it would grow so faint that Aragorn would begin to panic, only to have his wife squeeze his hand, wordlessly telling him that that hobbit still lived.

Peregrin Took had barely stirred from his cousin’s side in days, ever since Merry had taken this last turn for the worse. Sometimes, memory of this room, of this city, threatened to overwhelm him, but he was a Knight, a Walker, a Thain and a Took, so he held his position bravely. His face did not give anything away, but Aragorn knew from past experience that there was a small hobbit-child inside the black and silver armour who longed to cry “Merrymerrymerry” and fly into the nearest set of arms.

Grey streaks ran through their curls now, and their faces were lined as those who have laughed and wept and loved and lived are, but their eyes were still as hobbity as ever, full of spark and mischief. It pained all who saw Merry now, and had heard the songs of his bravery to see him like this: unmoving and so quiet.

A black liveried messenger came out of the stair well and saw his Lord and Lady standing in the hallway. He was loathe to interrupt them, but they had heard his approach and turned to meet him.

“My Lord and Lady,” he said, bowing deeply. “There is an elf to see you. He says he has tidings from Legolas of Ithilien.”

Aragorn nodded and he and Arwen followed the messenger out of the House and back to the citadel where the Elvish envoy was waiting. They had sent their fastest messengers to Legolas when Merry became so ill, but the rains had come, and Legolas had no permanent hall in Ithilien, so the Men who sought him had endured a long search in increasingly soggy conditions to find him.

Merry stirred and Pippin sat forward, ignoring the protests of old muscles that did not enjoy sudden movements. The Master of Buckland opened his eyes, and looked confused.

“Pip? Pippin? Where are we?”

Pippin abandoned the chair altogether, and climbed into the bed with his cousin.

“Minas Tirith, Merry.” Pippin said gently. “Strider’s been taking care of you.”

“I’m sorry Pippin.” Merry said in a tired voice.

“Whatever for?”

”I am about to break a promise, I think.”

“What promise is that?” Pippin asked, although he had a feeling that he knew the answer to his own question.

“All that long time ago, when I promised you I would take good care of myself so we’d never be parted,” Merry smiled at the memory. “I’m so tired Pippin. I don’t think I can any more.”

Pippin’s eyes filled with tears, and they began to fall as he took his cousin’s hand in his.

“It’s all right, Merry.” His voice broke, but he gained it back. “I release you from your promise.”

“Thank you, Pippin.” Merry said, his voice oddly calm. “I’m glad you’re here with me. At the end.”

“I promised to take care of you too, Merry.” Pippin’s voice was thick with tears. “And that’s one promise you’ll not be releasing me from.”

“I know, Pippin. I know.”

There was silence in the room then, except for the breathing of the two old hobbits. Then, Merry sighed, and only one breathing pattern was left. It was soon joined by soft sobs.

Thus it was that Aragorn found them; Merry lying still, but smiling, in Pippin’s arms. Pippin raised his tear streaked face at his Lord’s approach, and the King knew instantly what had come to pass. He crossed the room in a few steps, and reverently put his hand on Merry’s brow. He lifted Pippin into his arms, and carried the old hobbit out to the balcony, where the sun was setting behind the mountains, and cast the long shadow of the city across the Pelennor.

“How - ” began Peregrin, but then he lost his words and began to weep uncontrollably.

Aragorn held his smallest knight until the worst of it had passed.

“How am I going to do anything?” Pippin asked, sounding so heartbreakingly empty. “There has always been Merry.”

Aragorn said nothing, because there was nothing to say. Pippin was the last of his group and the only one of his kind in a far away land. He grieved deeply, and there was nothing Men could do.

“I’m sorry Strider. That wasn’t very Knightly of me, was it?” Pippin tried his best to smile, but it faltered and failed when he looked over Aragorn’s shoulder and saw the Healer’s dressing Merry in his armour.

“Not all tears are evil.” Aragorn reminded him, pointedly blocking Pippin’s view of the room.

Pippin looked across the Pelennor to the gleaming white jewel that was the rebuilt Osgiliath, and north to the Morannon where the Last Battle had been fought in such desperation. Mount Doom no longer smoked and spewed flame, but Pippin remembered all too well when it had, and recalled the deeds and glory of his closest friends.

“Eight years is not so long a time, Strider. Not to Elves who live so long, and not to you, with the blood you carry.” Every once in a while, a hobbit would say something so surprisingly deep and somber that Men’s hearts would break from the simple truth of it. “No, eight years is not so long a time. Only at the beginning. And at the end.”

* * * * * *

~finis~