Chapter Fifty One - Reaching Out

Three days later…

Esmeralda peered around the edge of the bedroom door, seeing a lone silhouetted figure sitting in a chair before the window. She entered into the bedroom, lit only by the daylight coming inside from the window. As she passed by the wardrobe, Esmeralda surveyed the familiar dress jacket and breeches hanging on a peg inside the open door. A mound of used handkerchiefs had collected upon the unmade bed. She spoke ever so softly, “Hullo, Merry.” He did not answer.

“Your uncle asked me to ensure you were in all right,” she said, slowly approaching her son. “Are you feeling better?” she asked, trying her best to spur the young hobbit into conversation.

Merry sat by the window that looked away west, his tearful blue eyes fixed on a line of trees away in the distant hills. After a long pause, he spoke; his voice sounding small and far away. “I’ll live,” he said.

“When have you eaten last?” his mother asked, then looked over to the tray still sitting on the table. She observed a bowl of half-eaten stew, probably from yesterday’s supper, long since cold. Esmeralda brought her own chair up next to the young hobbit. “Merry darling,” she said, “you must take care of yourself. How do you expect to be able to care for others when you disregard your own needs?”

“I haven’t,” Merry replied a bit nasally, wiping his eyes and nose with a handkerchief.

“Tina informed me that you haven’t been eating or sleeping as you should,” she said, then waited for an answer. Merry continued gazing out the window. His mother pressed, “The situation was understandable, love, but...Paladin said you went pale yesterday and would have fallen over had he not sat you down in a chair.”

“I’m all right, mum,” Merry replied wearily.

Esmeralda gazed at her grown-up son, resembling his dearest friend in the other bedroom mourning the recent loss of his baby daughter. Rosebud’s life--and death--touched every hobbit in Great Smials, the Tooklands, and far abroad in the Shire. Even Pippin didn’t anticipate the amount of hobbits attending the burial march. Word had quickly spread that the Thain’s son and granddaughter had taken ill…then days later, the sombre toll of a single bell sounded. For a while, rumour spread that both father and daughter had perished. Overall, it had been an especially difficult week for the Thain’s family--including Merry.

Estella Bolger returned in haste from her home in Budgeford for the burial of her baby cousin. During the ensuing days, she visited her grieving betrothed every day to check on him, to talk…and to postpone the wedding, originally set to take place in just over a month on the first day of Lithe.

Estella genuinely considered her beloved’s suffering. Taking his hand in hers, she reasoned, “We both need time to pull through this heartbreak--you more so than I. You were the closest to her--next to her own Dad, of course.” She kissed Merry’s hand, “it’s just a delay, my love, not a cancellation. Your heart needs to mend first.”

At present, sitting in the former nursery, watching the tears her son shed, Esmeralda’s heart went out to Merry, “It might help to talk about it, son. I know you’ve found solace in speaking with Pippin about your nightmares. I think I can help in this particular instance, don’t you think?”

Merry looked at his mother, a haunted expression on his face. “Does it ever go away?” he asked, pressing the handkerchief to his eyes brimming with tears.

Esmeralda scooted her chair nearer to Merry, placing an arm around his shoulder, drawing him close. “Does what go away, sweetheart? The pain of losing a child?” she asked, combing his curls with her fingers. Slowly, his mother shook her head in reply, “No…I’m afraid not. It may lessen as life goes on, but no…it never completely goes away.” Her own eyes glistened as she went on, “My heart aches for your brother as if he lived yesterday.”

Unable to contain his emotions any longer, Merry buried his face into the safety of his mother’s loving shoulder and sobbed.

* * *

Across the apartment, Pippin lay abed recovering from his illness. His fever was gone; however, the past four days were an utter blur for the recuperating tween. He could only remember being extremely warm, extremely cold, then being plunged into freezing water. All other recollections seemed to have a greyish haze about them. Drifting in and out of slumber for the past few days, Pippin finally woke up in a damp nightshirt this morning. When he spied the empty space on the bed next to him, he cried. One memory surfaced all too clearly; the dreadful memory of saying goodbye to his baby daughter.

One of the first things his mother tried to do, after he woke up, was feed him--even though he said he wasn’t hungry. Initially, Pippin refused to eat the toasted bread his mother offered to him -- his heart being nowhere near food today. In spite of this, he would never forgive himself if he purposely put his own parents through the same torment that he himself was experiencing. In the end, he nibbled at the bread and sipped the broth that accompanied it, but like his cousin now weeping in the arms of his mother, Pippin couldn’t finish it.

Throughout the day and the next, misery took hold of Pippin’s heart as he grieved over the void within. The darkness inside his heart reflected the darkness inside his bedroom. The drapes were pulled shut to keep out all light; not one candle or lantern was lit. The grieving father lay lifeless upon his bed ever since he woke up the morning before. The furniture, still arranged to keep Rosebud inside niche of his bed emphasized the tragic loss of his dear child. Pippin never knew such profound, emotional suffering.

Fever or not, Pippin most certainly did attend his daughter’s burial four days ago; no amount of persuading from Donnabelle--out of concern for Pippin’s health--would change his mind. Paladin didn’t argue with his son, however, he did insist that Pippin ride in the Thain’s carriage underneath a pile of blankets instead of walking.

This day--the fourth since sweet Rosebud died--at this moment, pacing the floor outside Pippin’s bedroom was another mournful father. Saradoc Brandybuck, Master of Buckland, tread uneasily in front of his nephew’s bedroom door. His brother-in-law, the Thain, requested in confidence that he speak with Pippin--having been through the same tragic loss as the tween, albeit nearly forty years ago. Naturally, Saradoc agreed to it; the personal agony he and Esmeralda endured with their first-born son, Saramac, would time and again come to his mind--oftentimes unbidden. Therefore, it wasn’t hard at all to empathize with his nephew.

Better go in and get it over with as soon as possible, he thought. Anxiously, Saradoc knocked on the bedroom door then waited, tugging on his waistcoat from nervous energy. No answer. He knocked again. He shot a glance at Paladin sitting on the couch, who nodded towards the door, mouthing, “Go on”. Once again, Saradoc knocked upon the door, this time opening it.

The elder hobbit flinched at the stagnant air he breathed in. Looking about the room it was virtually pitch-dark inside. The light only that seeped through was where the drapes met the wall; otherwise, no candles, no lanterns. The only sound emitted in the room was Pippin’s nasal breathing. Flashes of memory pierced Saradoc’s awareness. He recalled himself doing this very same thing. All those years ago when his son died, he had locked himself inside his room--not accepting visitors or the compassion of others who had lost a child. Deep inside his room, Saradoc touched no one and no one touched him. His pain was his own.

Today, however, Saradoc was long past that dark grievous period that lasted for some long years--and costing him a great price as it lasted far into Merry’s childhood. Over and over again, Saradoc regretted that period of his life, allowing his misery to control him. He would not let that happen to Pippin. To mourn one’s beloved child for a time was one thing, but to hide away was another.

Bracing himself, Saradoc walked forward. “Are you awake, Pippin?” he asked into the darkness.

“Go away, please.”

Ignoring the request, Saradoc felt the air around him until his hands came upon a bedside chair. Easing himself into it, he said, “Your family is concerned about you.”

Pippin emphatically restated his previous answer, “Please go away.”

“All right…” said Saradoc, quickly thinking up another perspective to express his counsel. “Let me put it to you this way…I am concerned about you, my lad.”

Pippin moaned, “I want to be left alone--if you don’t mind.”

The Brandybuck gave a sad sigh, “That is how it starts--wanting to be alone.” Saradoc bided his time with the tweenager, letting his words sink in. “Then slowly it eats at you…consumes you, festering away inside your mind. Questions like, Why my child?, or Why wasn’t I able to stop it? constantly plague your thoughts.” Saradoc’s voice gradually took on the air of a distant ache. “I was his father--his protector -- I should have been able to stop the sickness. Saramac was a poor, defenceless infant.”

Pippin said nothing, however, Saradoc felt he had gotten the lad’s attention. He went on, “he had the same color of eyes Merry does…the same hair color--the smile…the laugh.” Saradoc could see his first-born’s face clearly before him. “There’s no mistake about it; those lads are--I mean, were--brothers.” He smiled sadly in the dark, “I can still feel my son here,” he patted his heart. “It will never fully go away.”

The elder hobbit let a few silent minutes pass between him and his nephew, allowing Pippin to ponder his words. “Rosebud was a sweet, little lass, Pippin. You must be proud of her.” Saradoc further reached out emotionally to Pippin. “Merry would write to his mum and me--telling us all about Rosebud and what she would do to make life interesting at home.”

Pippin remained silent. Saradoc forged on. “He sent us a letter just before her birthday. In it he told funny anecdotes about his favorite niece. He said that one time at supper, Rosebud pointed towards a custard tart, meaning that she wanted it. You told her she had had enough.” The Saradoc smiled at recollecting the letter, imagining the miniature lass-version of Pippin at her finest. He continued, “Merry said that the very second you turned your head, her wooden spoon went straight into the custard, then she smiled so innocently as she ate what clung to it. Another time…he wrote in his letter how she would laugh and splash to her heart’s content whenever you gave her a bath.”

Pippin still did not speak, but Saradoc could hear muffled sobs. Pippin was crying into his pillow. Saradoc got up from the chair, taking a seat on the bed, tenderly rubbing his nephew’s shoulder, speaking softly. “Cry as long as you want, son. Eventually, you will learn to breathe again; your heart will slowly begin to beat. The scars will heal over time…though they will never disappear.”

Deep in his heart, immersed in endless pain, Pippin knew his uncle was reaching out to him. After thinking about it, he realized that within his circle of family and friends, if anyone could know what it was like to lose a child it was his auntie and uncle. Pippin turned over to face Saradoc. “She was my child, Uncle Sara,” he wept. “She was a part of me.”

Saradoc lifted the lad up to sit, rocking him in his arms, letting him cry on his shoulder. “I know, son--and she always will be. Don’t give in to the fear that no one will remember her. Anyone who has been touched by Rosebud’s laughter and smiles will always keep her in their hearts.”

“It’s too hard to talk much about her right now, Uncle,” said Pippin, wiping his nose.

Saradoc wiped away a lone tear running down the lad’s cheek. “It won’t always be this difficult. There will come a time when you’ll be able to tell these same stories to your other children--ones that you will have when you’re a bit older.”

“I--I can’t,” Pippin sniffed, wiping his nose with a wet handkerchief. “I don’t think I can do this again.”

“You don’t seriously mean that, do you?” Saradoc looked at his nephew, handing him a fresh handkerchief. “Pippin--everyone knows that your heart is far too big to not share it with another. It’s…” he hesitated, searching for the correct word. “Unnatural.” Saradoc smiled, trying to lure Pippin into a smile. When Pippin only blinked like an owl, he added, “Well…it still may be too early to smile, but that, too, will come back in time--in little steps.”

Pippin was comforted in having someone nearby who knew how he felt. Merry was close, however, he was hurting as well. Pippin felt powerless against helping his closest friend get through the sorrow of losing his niece. His Uncle Saradoc knew the pain first-hand; perhaps he could help them both. The only the problem with having the Master of Buckland as his uncle was that he lived too far away. Through tearful eyes Pippin asked, “Are you going to stay for a while, Uncle Sara?”

“For a while, my lad,” replied Saradoc, still hugging the tween. “Though I can’t stay more than a fortnight. I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did, Pippin--and I will be visiting you quite often to make sure.”

* * *

The following morning, Pippin opened his eyes to a dark room. He dwelled on is uncle’s words from the day before, ‘I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did’. Suddenly, the room with no light seemed stifling and oppressive. Pippin sat up in his bed, turning up the lantern on his nightstand. He sat there gazing at all the reminders of his beloved Rosebud. Her rag doll…the wooden spoon with it’s multitude of indentations--from Rosebud cutting her wee milk teeth on it…her nappies, clean and folded on the bureau…and the biggest heartbreaker: the silver music box. One part of him wanted to wind it up to listen to his Muffin’s favorite song while another part of him didn’t even want to touch it. Pippin held her much-loved pink blanket under his nose; it still carried her fragrance. Tears threatened to overwhelm him again as he sat there on his bed. Pippin’s heart ached for his daughter. Life would never be the same.

Pippin’s personal goal this morning was to walk to the window. Don’t make the same mistake I did… Reluctantly, Pippin swung his legs down from the mattress, his toes touching the mat on the floor. For a long moment, he sat there staring at the pattern of colors. The quiet was deafening, his thoughts racing.

Before Rosebud became ill, she would be chattering away to him as if he understood every syllable, or pointing at her favorite toys--wanting to share playtime with her papa or cousins. No matter where he looked in the bedroom, there were reminders of his Rosebud. Pippin sighed, his heart no longer desiring an attempt to reach his goal. He lay back down, pulling the covers over himself, sinking back into his dark depression.

“Pippin?” Merry had knocked upon the door, stepping inside. His hair had been combed and face washed, however, his features could not hide the fact that he still lacked sleep. Merry came over to the bed, sitting down next to his young friend. “I wanted to see how you were doing.”

“I feel like I want to die,” replied Pippin matter-of-factly.

“You don’t mean that,” said Merry.

“Yes, I do,” said Pippin, speaking barely above a whisper. He turned over onto his back, wearily drawing his arm over his eyes. “Whatever reason I had to live before is now gone. I can’t even get out of my bed.”

Merry looked sympathetically at his dear cousin, “That is what friends are for.”

Pippin peered at Merry from under his arm, chuckling derisively, “That’s like the miserable comforting the miserable. When have you slept last?”

“I don’t deny that I’m miserable, Pip,” said Merry, “but I’m more worried about you.”

“Don’t.”

Merry lay down next to Pippin, “The day I am no longer concerned for you is the day the sun no longer rises.”

“It already no longer rises for me,” said Pippin.

Merry breathed out a long breath, though not exasperated. A few minutes passed as his mind leafed through more ideas in which he could touch the shattered heart of his friend. He spoke tenderly, “I remember how you would so lovingly hold Rosebud in your arms after her nap, walking her around the apartment until she was fully awake. I could tell by the sparkle in her eyes when she had woke up. She’d smile then turn her face in towards you, burying her sweet face into your neck. That was when I knew I wanted a little one just like her.”

Pippin pondered this memory of is late daughter. “That was my favorite part of the day. I loved those moments,” he said wistfully.

Merry asked, “Do you remember the first time you fed Rosebud crushed peas?”

A slight smile played at the corner of his mouth, recalling the incident. “We were at my birthday supper; she spit them out all over the front of her dress--promptly giving a handful to cousin Saffron.”

Merry laughed, “I’ll never forget the look on her face!” He could see Pippin’s amused expression out of the corner of his eye.

Then the next moment, Pippin was on the verge of tears again. “I’m going to miss Rosebud so much.”

“I will, too.” Merry stole another glance at Pippin; the lad’s eyes glistened in the bit of light emitted from the cracks of the drapes. Merry sat up on the bed, “Come on, Pip--stand up with me.”

Pippin sighed. “Not today, Merry,” he said.

“Yes, today,” said Merry, pulling the blanket off his friend. “If not today, then when? When you’re ninety years old and can truly no longer get out of bed?” He looked Pippin in the eye, “Do it for Bergil-lad,” he said.

The tweenager asked, “Bergil?”

Without missing a beat Merry answered, “Yes--he’s Daisy-lass’s older brother.”

Pippin looked awestruck at his cousin. “You’ve truly gone and done it--you’ve cracked, Merry.”

Merry was so happy at Pippin’s jest that he had to laugh. “No, I haven’t! Come on now--one foot at a time, just as you told me when you found me in the streets of Gondor.” Merry waited a brief time before imploring once more, “For the children…please?”

“Not until you tell me who the children are,” replied Pippin, eyeing his cousin warily.

Worn out from his attempt to goad Pippin out of bed, Merry sat upon the bed and answered. “They’re just names I picked for the children you will have with a lass that you fall completely in love with later in your life.” He held up a hand when he saw Pippin was about to object, “Half a minute -- I’m not finished. There is another side to this. Bergil and Daisy-lass could easily be the children who will suffer because you won’t give yourself the chance to recover from Rosebud. You will hide away in your darkened room, never touching their lives until they do something drastic to get your attention. Something like…” Merry paused in thought.

Pippin recalled one particular summer when he and Merry were lads. “Something like…running away from home?” Not entirely proud of what he did, Merry nodded. Pippin looked at his dearest friend with a new perspective, recalling again his Uncle Saradoc’s words, ‘I don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did’. Slowly, though determined, Pippin brought his feet down to the mat again.

Merry smiled, “That’s it, Pippin! You can do it.”

Little by little, with Merry’s help Pippin stood up. All at once, the blood rushed from Pippin’s head, darkening the lad’s vision. Merry grabbed onto his friend before he could fall. “Easy, Pip--not so fast.”

Ever so slowly, the young hobbits walked up to the window. Pippin opened the drapes just a little bit. “We’ll do this again later,” said Merry, watching Pippin cover his eyes from the bright light. “After that, each time we’ll go a bit further, eventually making our way out to the sitting room, then the dining room, then lastly outside to the garden.”

And so it happened.

TBC

1/01/05 A/N: Okay…what I was saying in regard to the next two chapters…chapter 52 I believe will be the last one. The next chapter won’t have a number, but will pick up at some point from the latter part of Rosebud’s storyline. I will insert a note at the top to bring readers into it, but *that* chapter will have a different ending for sweet Rosebud. It’s for those (like me!) who wouldn’t mind a wee glimpse into what things *could* have been like for her and Pippin.

Another thank you to Meldwen Ilce and Connie for their grammatical/typo error helps! I think I got them both…

Thank you for reading Roses! Happy New Year!