Merry sat by the bright fire, holding his baby cousin. Well, not so baby anymore; Pippin had just had his first birthday that past autumn, and he was already crawling everywhere, and beginning to pull himself up to stand. His favorite new game had been to let Merry cuddle him for a little while, and then pull himself up by Merry’s shoulders and quickly bob up and down, looking like he was about to jump at any moment. This would all be accompanied by a toothless grin, and much baby-laughter, with 9-year-old laughter often joining in.

But now it was late evening, long after supper; a sleepy, warm, hobbity time in winter. And Merry sat curled up in an armchair, his favorite cousin falling asleep in his arms. Pippin’s chestnut curls were already riotous; Merry didn’t even want to concieve of what they’d look like when the lad grew his hair out to proper length.

Pippin was staring straight at the leaping flames, hypnotizing himself with their dance, and Merry smiled to see him so still--usually he was zipping around on the nursery room floor, particularly if Merry happened to have just arrived, and was kneeling in the doorway holding his arms out to his beloved lad, as had happened earlier that day.

But now, all was sweet, and quiet, and peaceful, in the big soft chair, with Pippin now nuzzling against him, sighing as he drifted off to sleep. Merry kissed his curls, and held him closer, treasuring the weight against his chest. He still got a sour taste in his mouth when he remembered his mum telling him how frail Pippin had been when he was born, and how they’d all worried that he wouldn’t live out the day, let alone his first birthday.

But that was past, now, and his lad was strong and beautiful and, if not exactly good, generally sweet-natured. So Merry, too, watched the flames on that winter night, deeply happy with who he was and where he was. And snow began to fall, silently, outside the nursery window.

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