The room was silent, dark, illuminated only by a small, guttering candle placed near the bed.  Shadows danced across the walls, an illusion of socialization where there was none.  Only one shadow never changed, sitting silently in the farthest corner, hidden from all but the most persistent of seekers. 

            Peregrin Took, Knight of Gondor, friend to the King and kin to the Ringbearer, sat very still upon the chair too large for his small frame, feet dangling a good foot above the floor.  In his cold and lifeless hands he held a lute, seemingly carved to fit him precisely. 

            It was made of a polished wood that seemed almost alive, and the fittings were of pearl and mithril. The neck was gracefully curved, the metal strings tuning at the merest touch over the plump body.  When plucked, they emitted a sound more pure and heartbreaking than any he had ever heard before.

            And yet…

            He scowled down at his right hand, awkwardly resting on those strings.  The fingers were still swollen and numb, bruising discoloring the joints and beyond to his wrist, and when he moved to form a chord his hand took several seconds to respond. 

            After several failed attempts he bowed his head in defeat, and let his tears christen the never-before-played instrument. 

            As things stood, it would remain so.

                                                            ***

            The Hall of Fire was peaceful, calming to nerves that had been scraped raw and were still healing.  Pippin, Frodo, Sam and Merry, along with Strider, sat contentedly in a small circle around Bilbo, listening as he wove about them a tale of love, loss and romance.

            “And then, the light that shone through the window disappeared, as though a great gust had caught the flame and taken its life.  But there was no wind, nor whisper of breeze,” Bilbo said in a voice barely loud enough to be heard.  His audience leaned forward, unaware of the small group of elves that were making their way over to the ancient hobbit.

            “So Lenhelm began the long climb to the top of the tower, his heart racing, throat dry, knowing that whatever awaited him was – Oh, hello there, what might we do for you?”  

            There was a collective groan from the hobbits as the spell was broken, and all looked up at the group of elves that stood above them, grinning down at their reactions.

            “We have heard that the young hobbit Peregrin knows much of playing stringed instruments, and we have come to ask if he will grace us with a performance,” one of the elves said softly, her dark hair reaching past the small of her back in a loose braid, her eyes smiling as she gazed gently down at the suddenly blushing tweenager.

            “Oh, ah, no, really – I couldn’t,” Pippin stammered, turning scarlet under the combined stares of the elves and Strider and his kin.

            “Go, on, Pip!” Merry encouraged, nudging him with a foot.  “Play something!”

            “Yes, yes, Peregrin, I am very much looking forward to hearing my youngest cousin’s talent!” Bilbo prompted, making a shooing motion with his hands.  “I have heard so much about it!  Why, I remember when you were but a wee lad and could charm the birds from the trees with those fingers…or so it seemed!  Now off, and let me hear what Frodo and Merry have been boasting about!”

            “Please, Pippin?” Frodo begged, unashamedly making his eyes large and pouting his lip just a bit.  Sam had to turn his head to hide his snicker.

            “Yes, Pippin, please?” Strider prompted, smiling.

“Oh, all right!” Pip sighed, still a dark crimson as he stood. 

He followed the three elf maidens to the center of the room, where he froze for a moment, realizing they had meant for him to perform for the entire hall.

“Umm –“ he said, suddenly very shy under their tender gazes. 

“Please, Master Peregrin?” the one who had spoken before asked, bending down so her eyes were level with his.  She blinked them lazily at him, and he found himself suddenly unable to remember why he was making such a fuss.

“A-all right,” he mumbled, taking the lute she handed him a bit dazedly before moving awkwardly to the center of the hall, where a stool had been placed for him.

He tuned the lute quickly, expertly, marveling at the craftsmanship and design of the instrument.  It was a bit overlarge for him, but he thought that he would have no trouble compensating. Suddenly, he realized that all eyes were staring at him, and felt himself blush again.  Quickly, before he could lose his courage, and cursing his cousins under his breath, he started a lullaby that was deceptively simple sounding, yet took years of practice to master.  It was also one of his favorites.

The soft notes echoed off the walls, and he closed his eyes as the music seemed to acquire a life of its own, his fingers finding their way without conscious thought.

Slowly, all noise in the Hall faded, until only those soft notes could be heard.  When Pippin opened his mouth and softly sang the first words to the lullaby, it was as though the whole of the world was holding its breath in anticipation.

            “Hush, hush, little one,

            Close your weary eyes,

            Daylight has faded,

            The owl now cries.

            Hush, hush, little one,

            Lay down your weary head,

            Snuggle deep in blankets,

            Tis time for all to bed.

            Hush, hush, little one,

             Dream away the night.

            Know that mother’s near,

            No reason now for fright.

            Hush, hush, little one,

            The stars are all alight

            So off to sleep, little one,

Dearest one shining bright.”

The room was perfectly still as the last notes faded off into silence, and Pippin, lost in the music, slowly blinked himself back into awareness.  He took a shuddering breath, feeling himself begin to blush again, and made to detune the lute.

“Please, may we hear another?’

He looked up, startled, and saw with astonishment that most of the elves were nodding their heads in agreement, enthusiasm on their faces.

“Yes, Pip, play another!” Merry called, though Pippin could not see him in the crowd.

“All right,” Pippin mumbled, settling back down again.  He thought for a moment, trying to decide on the tune.

“Play The Maid and The Miller!” Frodo encouraged, and Pippin felt himself blush once more.

“Frodo – “ he began, and then gave it up as a lost cause when both Sam and Merry agreed enthusiastically.

Without another word he started the intricate tune, closing his eyes again and allowing the sweet music to flow from his fingers.  Once more his voice rang clear and true, and the song poured forth from him more perfect than ever he had played and sang.  And when the last notes faded, it took very little prompting to move him on to the next song.

                                                ***

“Pippin?  What are you doing in here, all dark and dreary?”

The guttering candle moved, shadows once more dancing their macabre steps, and soon several other candles had been lit. 

“There, now I can see you.”

A hand on his shoulder startled Pippin, and he looked up with lost, frightened eyes.

“What’s wrong, dearest?” Merry asked, frowning.  “What’s happened?”

“I can’t – I can’t play, Merry!”  His voice was heartbroken, lost and scared, and tears continued to fall from those dazed eyes.  “I tried, but my hand -!”

Gently Merry removed the lute from Pippin’s limp grasp, setting it aside on the bed carefully before turning back and gathering his cousin up in his arms.  Little sobs continued to shake the form pressed to his breast, and he murmured soothing sounds and words. 

“What shall I do, Merry?” Pippin asked between broken breaths, looking up long enough to cast a pleading gaze to this one whom had always made things right for him. 

“Calm down, Pippin,” Merry whispered, gently wiping away tears from cheeks gone pale.  “We shall talk to Aragorn, and see if he can recommend anything that will help you regain the use of your hand, all right?  After all, it may be as simple as doing those exercises that I have to do!”

Pippin nodded, sniffling, and mutely accepted the handkerchief Merry produced.

            “Now, you have missed both elevenses and luncheon and your tea, and everyone is becoming most worried about you.  I suggest you clean up and come with me, and we shall find out a solution to this problem, all right?”

            Pippin nodded once more, sliding off the too-large chair gingerly, still favoring his bad leg, and did as he was instructed, washing his face from the basin of cold water by the bed and brushing his hair quickly.

            Merry nodded at his appearance and they made their way to Aragorn’s room, where they found the king enjoying a quiet smoke with the rest of the fellowship, save Legolas, who was watching indulgently. 

            “Ahhh, and here is our lost member,” Gimli greeted them as they entered.

            “We were wondering what had come of you.  Are you all right, Dearest?” Frodo asked worriedly, years of caring for his young cousin alerting him to the signs of crying a quick wash could not dispel.

            “What’s wrong, lad?” Gandalf asked, sitting up straighter and leaning forward in his chair.  His pipe was held forgotten in his hand as he looked to the smallest hobbit with a frown creasing his aged face.

            Suddenly reluctant to bring up his plight, Pippin mumbled something that not even he could understand.  Merry promptly stomped on his foot.

            “Ouch!” he yelped, looking up in shock.

            “You Ninnyhammer,” Merry sighed fondly, earning a surprised chuckle from Sam.  “Just tell them!”

            “Tell us what?” Legolas prompted gently.

            “I –“ To his horror, Pippin felt the tears well up once more and start to trickle down his cheeks. 

            Before he could blink them away he felt three separate sets of arms around him, and realized after a moment of sniffling and trying to control himself that the arms belonged to Merry, Frodo and Sam.

            “Hush, now, Pip-lad,” Sam soothed, rubbing a calming circle on his back.  “Whatever it is, we’ll face it together!”

            “Aye, Dearest,” Frodo agreed, kissing his cousin’s shoulder gently.  “Now calm down, and have something to eat, and tell us what has you troubled.”

            He was steered to a chair, and handed a plate of sliced apples while Merry prepared him a more substantial dinner.  He wiped his eyes self-consciously, feeling himself blush.

            “I – I can no longer play,” he whispered, looking at the apple slices but not touching them.

            “Play?” Gimli asked. 

            Frodo looked horrorstruck, his eyes suddenly haunted.  Sam looked stricken.  Gandalf closed his eyes for a moment, hiding the sharp pain that came into them.

            “The lute, nor most likely anything else,” Pippin clarified, sniffing again. 

            There was silence for a moment, then a shadow fell over him and he looked up, to see Aragorn.  The king knelt beside him, gently taking his battered hand in his own large, gentle one. 

             He instructed him gently to move his fingers in certain patterns, smiling at the fierce concentration on Pippin’s face as he did so, forcing fingers that had been broken and cut to do his bidding.  After what seemed a very long time Aragorn nodded, smiling in relief.

            “I believe, young Knight, that you shall play again,” he said softly.

            Pippin looked up, sudden hope adding color to his pale cheeks.  Distantly, above the pounding in his ears, he heard Frodo and Merry whoop, and Sam’s thankful cheer. 

            “Now, it will not be easy,” Aragorn cautioned, holding up a warning finger.  “You will have to be diligent in your exercises, and practice as much as you can.  Also, it will most likely be very painful, but if you truly wish this, and I know you do, then you shall play again.”

            “Thank you, Strider!” Pippin exclaimed, throwing his arms around his friend with a quickness that caught the former Ranger off guard.  He laughed, hugging the tweenager happily. 

            “You are very welcome, my brave Knight,” he whispered into soft, golden curls.  “Now, I want you to eat your dinner, and after I shall show you the exercises.”

            Pippin obeyed, smiling brilliantly as he finished off every bite of the hearty stew Merry presented him.

                                                            ***

It was a fortnight after his first devastating attempt to play when Pippin walked hesitantly into Aragorn’s rooms, where the fellowship was once more gathered as they enjoyed a quite supper and smoke after a long day.  All fell silent when he entered, lute in hand.

            “Pippin?” Frodo asked gently, hope lighting his eyes.

            “I thought that you all might enjoy a song,” he said shyly, ducking his head as he felt his cheeks flush.  “I’m not – well, I can’t play as well as I once did, not yet, but – “

            He was cut off as Merry’s strong arms surrounded him in a fierce embrace.

            “I think some music would be very nice,” Gandalf said softly, grinning.  “Come, lad, sit by me and play us a tune.”

            Merry walked with him over to the chair next to the wizard, arm draped about his shoulder still, relinquishing his hold only when Pippin sat down and began to prepare the lute.  

            Her paused for a moment, placing his fingers carefully, closing his eyes as he envisioned the song.  Then, slowly at first and a bit hesitantly, then with more confidence, he began to play.  And as he started to sing, the world once more seemed to hold its breath.

“Hush, hush, little one…”

The room was dark.  Too dark.  With only a single candle for illumination, Merry could barely make out the slight form perched on the overlarge chair in the corner. How long had he been sitting there all alone, so still and silent? 

            Pippin’s presence had been missed as early as elevenses, though none of them had worried overmuch.  After all, Pippin was a Knight of Gondor, and as such had many duties and responsibilities that kept him busy.  It was only when tea had rolled around, still with no sign of the tweenager, that they had begun to worry.  And when Aragorn had joined them, asking curiously where Pippin was, they all suddenly understood that something was amiss.

            It was only as supper was approaching, however, that Merry went in search of his elusive cousin, assuring the others that had gathered in Aragorn’s rooms that he would find their missing companion.  Although anxious about the absent hobbit, the others had refrained from offering their services in helping to ascertain his whereabouts, knowing that, should he need assistance, Merry would be the one he would turn to.

            So Merry had begun in the most obvious starting place:  Pippin’s room.   Now he stood in the doorway of the darkened quarters, gazing with worried eyes at the still form hunched over the magnificent lute.

            The instrument had been a gift from Faramir, presented just two days ago.  Merry could not remember the last time his cousin had smiled with such stunning delight, or when his eyes had lit up with such wonder and sincere gratitude.  It had been a gift that all had been awed by.

            Now that gift was held limply in hands that had never been meant to be still. 

            For a long moment Merry stood there, overcome with a sense of disquiet, watching as the shadows danced upon the wall, moving with a carefree abandonment.  Only one shadow remained still, unmoving in that changing world of light and dark.  Only one shadow.     

The one that had never managed to be still its entire life.   

Shaking his head against such thoughts, Merry deliberately lightened his tone as he took a step into the room.

            “Pippin?  What are you doing in here, all dark and dreary?” 

            He moved swiftly, afraid to remain still in that smothering quiet, using the guttering candle to light the others, the illumination banishing the shadows from the room.  It also showed the weary slump to his cousin’s shoulders.

            “There, now I can see you.”

            Still there was no reaction to his presence, as though Pippin were not even aware he was there.  Suddenly afraid, he placed a gentle hand on his cousin’s shoulder.  And almost staggered back at the devastated look on the other’s face when Pippin looked up, startled. 

            Green eyes met his, and for a moment it was almost as though he was staring into the face of a stranger.  Those eyes, which before the Quest had nearly always held a smile or glimpse of mischief, now held only a loss so profound it was as though the very soul of Pippin had been poured out and replaced by an emptiness that threatened never to be filled.

            His eyes seemed as a sorrowful river, pouring over the banks of his eyelashes to slide down pale cheeks gone hollow with all the pain endured over the past months.  And that look frightened Merry.

            “What’s wrong, dearest?” he asked softly, unable to tear his eyes away from that lost and frightened look.  “What’s happened?”

            “I can’t – can’t play, Merry,” Pippin whispered, his voice fragile, heartbroken and trembling.  Even as he spoke more tears escaped those dazed eyes, following the paths left by others before them.  “I tried, but my hand…”

            His voice trailed off, fading as the sun fades from the day and leaves the night air chill. 

            For a moment Merry could not speak, the impact of the words sinking slowly into his heart.  Pippin could not play.  Pippin, who had always been musically gifted, even as a wee lad, who had played numerous instruments since he was barely large enough to hold them.  Pippin could not play.

            The world seemed to rush around Merry in a sudden dizzying moment, and he took a deep breath to try and steady his racing heart.  Calmly, so as not to upset his young cousin even more, he took the lute from those limp fingers, privately pleased to note his hands did not shake, and set it upon the bed.  Then he turned and gathered his cousin in his arms, as he had done so often since they were mere lads and knew nothing of hurts save that of a scraped knee or cut finger.   

            Pippin could not play.  Even as the tweenager sobbed into his shoulder, the thought reverberated around his head, filling him as one would fill an empty glass.   Vaguely he was aware of a steady stream of soothing sounds and meaningless words pouring from his lips.  Long years of comforting had trained his heart, so that when his mind was overcome with such emotions as raged in him now, he could still offer the solace that was sorely needed. 

            What would they do?  How could they pass this hurdle, so much more awful for the fact that this battle did not have an enemy they could stare down?

            As though reading his thoughts, Pippin asked between broken, shuddering sobs,  “What shall I do, Merry?”

            Their eyes met, and the plea in his cousin’s eyes was enough to shock him out of his own turmoil.  Pippin needed him, and that one thought was enough to keep calm his voice as he answered, the words coming from someplace within him not affected by the anger and guilt and sadness that seemed to seep through his veins.

            “Calm down, Pippin.”  He gently wiped away tears from the pale cheeks, his own hand as icy as Pippin’s flesh.  “We shall talk to Aragorn, and see if he can recommend anything that will help you regain the full use of your hand, all right?  After all, it may be as simple as doing those exercises that I have to do!”

            Pippin nodded, sniffing, and Merry quickly produced a handkerchief from his pocket.   

            “Now,” Merry pronounced, trying to keep his tone businesslike and calm.  “You have missed elevenses and luncheon and your tea, and everyone is becoming most worried about you.  I suggest you clean up and come with me, and we shall find out a solution to this problem, all right?”

            Pippin nodded, sniffing a few more times as he gingerly slid off the chair, favoring his bad leg, and hobbled over to the washbasin by the bed.  As he cleaned his face and ran a brush through his hair, Merry took the time to compose himself, setting aside his own worries as he had done so often recently.

            When Pippin turned back to him, Merry was able to nod at his appearance, and the two of them headed out.  They did not extinguish the candles, leaving the room filled with shadow and light. 

                                                                        ***

            It had been five days since Aragorn’s pronouncement that Pippin should one day be able to play once more, and Merry had seen little of his cousin since then.  Though both of them were busy with their knightly duties, they had always managed before to find time to slip away for a bit. 

            Now, however, Pippin, when not on duty, could scarcely be convinced to leave his room.  Every waking moment seemed to be filled either with duties or his practice, and although Merry was proud of his cousin for his devotion and determination, he also worried. 

            He knew, more than anyone, how much music meant to his cousin.  If he should fail to get it back-

            The thought did not bear completion, and he quickly shook his head to banish that line of thinking.  His Pippin would play again, of that he had no doubt.  The only question was, what would it cost him to attain that goal?

            Already he had taken the tweenager to task over blistered and cramped fingers, having resorted to threatening him in order to get him to leave off practicing for a night.  Even so, the next day had found his cousin once more bent over his lute, scowling fiercely in concentration as he tried to make his still healing hand function.

            And all Merry and the others could do was watch, and marvel over the ferocity of this battle none of them could fight. 

                                                                        ***

            It was evening, the spring air warm and pleasant to those who were weary from a long day of council sessions and duties.  Frodo and Sam, playing a game of draughts on the floor while puffing contentedly away on their new pipes, talked quietly together. Merry, sitting next to Frodo, every now and then would suggest a move to one or the other, earning him either a deadly scowl or a bright grin.   

            Watching the game lazily, Gimli sat in one of the large, overstuffed chairs, also puffing happily on his pipe, Legolas beside him smiling at the scene.  Aragorn and Gandalf sat a bit away, smoking and talking as was their wont, and relaxing in the rare moment of inactivity. 

            A movement in the doorway alerted them all, and suddenly the room fell quiet as they looked up to see who had come to intrude on their peace, and saw Pippin, lute in hand, an awkward smile playing about his lips.

            “Pippin?” Frodo asked quietly, hope lighting his eyes when he saw the instrument.

            “I thought you all might enjoy a song,” Pippin said shyly, flushing as he ducked his head.  “I’m not – well, I can’t play as well as I once did, not yet, but-“

            Merry had sprung up at Pippin’s first words, and cut his sentence off as he threw his arms around his cousin.  He could feel both their hearts racing, knew that Pippin was nervous and scared, and tightened his embrace slightly. 

            No words were needed between them as he held his cousin, a thousand unspoken conversations racing with their hearts. 

            “I think some music would be very nice,” Gandalf said, his voice breaking into their silent joy.  “Come, lad, sit by me and play us a tune.”

            Arm still around his cousin, Merry guided Pippin to the empty chair beside the wizard, and only when Pippin sat did Merry move away, back to his seat beside Frodo.  He felt a hand, bereft of a finger, slide into his, and he squeezed, ever so gently. 

            All three of the hobbits watched as the smallest Knight of Gondor tuned the lute, then, carefully setting his fingers just so, closed his eyes and began to play. 

            The soft sound of the music, and the gentle voice that accompanied it, was the sweetest song any had ever heard.  And the tears that fell from seven sets of eyes that night were left unchecked.

For not all tears are an evil.