A/N: The two chapters I’ve posted today (39 & 40) are shorter than my normal ones. However, put together, they measure roughly the same length as one of the long chapters. In other words, I “split” a chapter because the views were too different to read as one chapter. Thank you to the faithful readers and reviewers--Loveofthering, Grey Wonderer, Carcilwen, Pervinca, Connie, Merrymagic, Pipspebble, Beruthiel--just to name a few--there are a LOT of you! I *never*, in my wildest dreams, ever thought this story would be enjoyed by so many. A very humble Thank you. I plan to give a huge Thank You “card” at the end of the story, naming all the readers who have been kind enough to stick with me and leave reviews.

Chapter Thirty Nine - Dearly and Beloved

The following day, Pippin sat staring into the flames of the hearth, as if hypnotized by the dancing embers that crackled, floating freely up into the dark void of the chimney. Stunned. That was a good description of how he felt. No…empty. Half empty. One-half of his life was gone. Tears glimmered upon his face as they fell down his cheeks, illumined by the golden fire light as he recalled the exuberant life of his dear Lilas.

She woke up twice after he gave her the tea the day before--her mind in a fog, not really knowing her surroundings--probably due to her high fever and the medicine Merimas would administer to ease the pain. Lilas may not have known her surroundings well, but she knew whether Pippin was at her side or not. Delirium took her late in the evening, then her exhausted body weakened more and more throughout the night.

This morning, he was there lying next to her when she drew in her last breath. It was a quarter past six when she died. At first, he said nothing to the healer, wanting to linger, gazing into her tranquil features, committing her face to memory. Pippin held Lilas in his arms for a long while, refusing to leave her side. Merimas finally sent for Paladin and Merry to take Pippin so that the women could tend to Lilas. “She’s just sleeping!” he cried while his father and Merry dragged him out into the sitting room.

“Pippin, look at me,” Paladin commanded, using his voice to calm his son. Fighting his own tears, he continued, “She’s not sleeping.”

The tea , Pippin chided himself, sitting in the chair, eyes fixed on the flames. He should have known better. Merimas was notorious amongst the family for his homemade concoctions. When Frodo handed him a cup of tea, Pippin should have suspected--but he didn’t. Merimas knew that Pippin wouldn’t accept the tea if he offered it, so he asked Frodo to give it to the fretful tween. Pippin didn’t sleep long--perhaps an hour or two. He was far too upset to let the tea do its work.

Had he even moved from this chair all day? Pippin couldn’t recall, except for a few trips to the privy. Did he remember to eat? He sighed. It didn’t matter. It matters t’ me!, Pippin heard a distant voice echo in his head, seeming to belong to his late wife. Rosebud stirred in his lap as he held her. He shifted her to his shoulder, covering her with one of the many baby blankets that Lilas knitted for her; worried that their baby wouldn’t have enough. He felt Rosebud rest her little head on his shoulder near his neck. He could hear her soft breathing as she settled in for another nap. Nap? It was completely dark inside the sitting room, except for the light emitted from the warm fire. It was dark outside, too. The young hobbit blinked his eyes as more tears flowed down his face; weariness covering him like a warm blanket. He heard a rustle of clothing next to him.

“It’s time for bed, Pip,” Merry spoke softly, crouching down next to the chair his cousin sat in. Pippin didn’t move, so Merry slowly reached for the baby. “Pimpernel is here with me,” he said, as Pippin allowed him to take Rosebud.

“It’s time for Rosebud to eat,” Pimpernel whispered, taking the sleeping infant from Merry. “Are you going to help him to his room?” she asked her cousin.

Merry nodded, now standing up. “Come on Pippin,” he urged his young friend, taking Pippin by the shoulder to help him stand.

Pippin felt like a puppet as he mechanically stood up for Merry. “This way,” he heard the elder cousin say, steering him towards the outer door.

“No.” Pippin said flatly. “I must say goodnight to her,” he said, turning out of Merry’s grasp.

Saying goodnight seemed harmless enough to Merry. At least Pippin wasn’t so out of sorts that he would argue to stay the night. Rather than start a disagreement, Merry let Pippin walk in the direction of his bedroom. “All right, but you’re sleeping in my room tonight.”

Walking into the bedroom, Pippin was struck by the piercing silence. The room held the fragrance of cinnamon and spices. In the bed, Lilas lay motionless upon her pillows; her arms resting on her stomach, seemingly asleep. Glowing in the candle light upon her wrist was the bracelet Pippin gave her as a betrothal gift--long after they were married. The ladies had bathed her body and washed her hair earlier in the day, dressing her in the fine gown that Pimpernel had given her to wear at their hasty wedding in Afteryule. Her long, auburn tresses were brushed and swept down over her shoulders. Rose petals had been sprinkled all over the bed and on the floor around it.

Tomorrow morning, friends and family would come and pay their last respects to his dear wife. At noontime, one of the servants would sound the bell of Great Smials as the family trailed the funeral bier to the Tooks’ ancestral graveyard a few miles away. A somber toll it would be; not like the exultant ringing a week ago when Rosebud was born.

Pippin bent down to kiss her brow, nearly recoiling at the coolness his lips felt. This wasn‘t Lilas--at least, not the lively lass he was married to. He whispered in her ear, “Goodbye Lilas. I love you.” Leaning towards the night table, he blew out the candle.

The following day, Pippin walked at the head of the line as a crowd of hobbits trailed behind him. In front of him was a pony-drawn wagon, upon which a long rectangular box had laid. Flowers still lay upon the empty wagon as it made its way back towards the Smials. Pippin could hear the sniffling of Lilly and his mother walking close behind him. Then he felt rain drops fall sporadically from the overcast sky on his head and shoulders, as if the Shire herself was mourning the loss of her dearly beloved, daughter.

Pippin entered the Smials’ main entrance, his face expressionless. He saw the large wreath hanging on the outside of the door, symbolizing a household in mourning. Making his way to his apartment, he hesitated turning the door handle when he saw yet another wreath had been placed upon on his own door. He lifted it up to read the sign behind it: “Pippin and Lilas Took” was written, with a more recent addition of “and Rosebud Took” under their names. Sighing, he dropped the wreath back in place, ignoring the sad reminder the placard held.

Inside his apartment, Pippin took off his dress-jacket, laying it over the back of the couch as he walked towards the hearth. The fire had burned down to ashes while he was away burying his wife. He put more firewood onto the grating, then stoked the ashes with kindling to build another fire. Unfastening the collar button on his shirt, he sank into the same chair that he occupied the night before. Once again he stared into the small flames licking up the new fuel. Pippin didn’t know exactly how much time had passed before he heard footfalls behind his outer door. The door handle twisted, then someone entered.

Merry set the tea tray down on the eating table then took the baby Pimpernel held out to him. “One of us will bring her to you when she gets hungry,” he said to her in a low voice. Pimpernel glanced towards her brother facing the fireplace. If anyone could lighten his downtrodden heart, it would be Merry. Those two had just spent well over a year travelling together, so if any two hobbits were the closest of friends, it was those two. She gave Merry’s arm a gentle squeeze before leaving to mind her own children.

Merry held his Rosebud carefully in one arm as he dragged over a table chair to sit in front of the fireplace next to Pippin. Once seated, he set her in his lap to face her father. “Isn’t this the cutest little dumpling you ever laid eyes on?” Merry asked, his voice soft amid the stillness of the room.

Pippin broke his stare to glance at his daughter, but said nothing.

“What was that?” Merry leaned closer to the infant, sucking on her hand again. “You want your old dad to smile?”

Pippin remained looking at his baby daughter, dark circles under his tweenaged eyes.

Merry knew he now had his friend’s attention. He shrugged apologetically to Pippin, “I don’t know where she gets this wild idea from, but she says she loves you.” Merry watched his young cousin blinking like an owl in the firelight. For a second he was afraid that he overdid it. “I brought a tea tray in with me.”

Pippin’s gaze was now fixed on little Rosebud sitting in her uncle’s lap; staring at her wispy auburn curls. “I’m not hungry.”

“You have to eat, Pippin,” said Merry. “You missed tea and supper yesterday. Did you eat anything this morning?” Pippin didn’t answer. Merry rose from his chair, handing Rosebud to her father.

Pippin took her, cradling his daughter in his lap, watching her continue to suck on her hand. He could hear Merry fussing with teacups and spoons behind him. After a couple minutes, he returned with two cups of tea, setting one on the table next to Pippin’s chair. Going back for the plate of biscuits, Merry finally sat down with his own cup of tea, nibbling on one of the wafers. “So, what are you thinking right now?” Merry asked.

Knowing his closest friend wouldn’t leave him alone until he ate something, Pippin resignedly took a biscuit from the plate. “How much I failed her.”

Merry couldn’t believe what his ears just heard. “Failed who? Lilas?” Pippin didn’t answer, instead he bit into his wafer. “How could you have failed her? You loved her.”

“No, I didn’t,” he replied sadly. “At least, not how she deserved. In the beginning, I wanted nothing to do with her. I resented her.”

“Well,” Merry said, “you have to admit your beginnings weren’t exactly traditional.” Then he looked his friend in the eyes, “You may not have been in love with her, Pip, but you loved her the best way you knew how. We all loved her…and she loved you. She was happy with you. Don’t start blaming yourself.” From his vantage point, Merry saw tear drops fall into his cousin’s lap, barely touching his cheeks. Quick to push aside the tea table, Merry sat upon the armchair embracing his dearest friend.

“Merry?” said Pippin, sobbing into Merry’s shoulder. “I buried my wife today.”

“I know,” replied Merry, sharing Pippin’s tears, hugging him tight. “I know,” he sniffed, “everything will be all right.”