hapter Three: No Reason to Make Merry

Eglantine stood at the window to Pippin’s room, half-seeing the full blooms of rose and bridal-wreath bushes that lined the path to the Smials. It would make an attractive welcome for Pad’s sister, due to arrive today on her annual summer visit. Eglantine sighed. If only the welcome inside could be as pleasant.

She turned away from the window to kneel at the bedside and whisper in an ear. “Pippin? Merry’s coming today.” She waited a moment. “Won’t that be fun?” A slow blink of small green eyes, and that was all that moved.


Merry trotted toward Uncle Paddin’s quarters, only a bit put out that Pimpernel had turned her back and rushed into another room at his cheerful greeting. Lasses! He’d never understand them.

His mother had gone to greet her brother, as was proper,and the rest of the Smials was strangely devoid of hobbits in the hallways. Ah, well, all out enjoying the weather, he supposed. But Pip would be waiting for him. After all, the letters said he’d been ill, and they never let him out on his own for a while, after, at least not without someone Merry’s age to to watch after him. Of course, “watching after” could be interpreted so broadly, thought Merry with a grin on his face. Pip was really a fun little lad, and quite handy to have around.

“Hoy! Pip!” he called as he opened the door to his cousin’s room, then stopped in confusion.

Aunt Eglantine was just coming awake from a doze in the chair by the hearth, and this was his cousin’s room, but.... The still lad lying on his side on the bed was dressed in the same breeches and shirt Pippin had worn when he was six, two years earlier, and...weren’t little cousins supposed to get bigger between visits, not smaller? Surely that wasn’t Pippin’s nose, in the middle of that pale face with the skin stretched so tight?

Merry took a half step forward, then was pushed further into the room as his mother burst through the door behind him.

“What is the meaning of this?” Esmeralda Took Brandybuck demanded, her eyes snapping green fire. “Oh!” she uttered a strangled cry as she glanced toward the bed and then continued in a quieter tone. “Why weren’t we told?”

“You were told of the illness,” Eglantine answered softly, now kneeling by the bed and stroking Pippin’s hair. The child’s eyes were half-open, but he did not seem to be seeing the room and the hobbits within it, and he made no motion. “There was no reason to trouble you further, and no reason to make Merry leave his studies early, for the best healers have done all they can.” Eglantine continued to stroke the soft curls.

“All they can?” Esmeralda asked, confused.

“Aye,” Eglantine nodded sadly from her place by the bed. “The fever has broken, you see, and my lad lives. He’s better, now -- better!” and she gave a short bark that might have been a laugh, “and now we can do naught but wait to see if he’ll be well.”

Esmeralda placed one hand on Merry’s shoulder and stepped forward to lay the other on Eglantine’s. “Tell me,” she commanded softly.

“He -- he’ll swallow, some, if we put food in his mouth, but he doesna seem to notice the spoon until then,” Eglantine began, her breath catching as she kept one hand resting on Pippin’s head. “And he doesna speak. Other than to swallow, and his eyes, he doesna move a’tall.” She paused for a moment to ponder the wrongness of a still Pippin.

“Yes? His eyes?” Esmeralda prompted softly, her hand tightening on Eglantine’s shoulder. “You said he moves them?”

Eglantine raised her head to lift her own eyes up to Esmeralda. “He blinks, and the healers say he sees, but he doesna seem to look! It is -- oh, Es, I cannae tell if my babe is sleeping or waking!” Eglantine put both her hands before her face and sobbed as she leaned forward to rest her head against Esmeralda’s waist.

Merry’s mother gave his shoulder a quick pat as she withdrew the hand that held him in order that she might wrap both arms around Eglantine. She gently rubbed the shaking back and drew Eglantine to her feet, casting a sad glance at Merry as she led the Mistress of the Smials into the adjoining room.

Merry took one hesitant step toward the bed; stopped; then another, until he was standing directly in front of his cousin’s still form. He reached a hand out tentatively, stopping it in mid-air. He was afraid to touch.

Pippin looked so fragile, like the dolls some hobbit lasses had at Brandy Hall. They were sculpted from a clay, put through a fire to make it hard, Merry’s da said; but if you bumped them against a wall, they would chip and crack.

Aunt Eglantine’s sobs were louder, now, and Merry could hear her crying out, “Oh, my baby! My poor, poor lad!” as his own mother offered soothing murmurs in counterpoint.

Merry withdrew his hand from the air, squared his shoulders, and slid his hands under Pippin’s knees and neck. He carried the bit of fluff in the gentle cradle of his arms, stopping to stand before the window.

“Hoy. Pip.” His voice choked as tears ran quietly down his face. The teen looked down and shifted the tiny head so the green eyes’ gaze was pointed out the window. A crowd of cheerful hobbit children could be seen running toward the Smials. “We’ve got the whole summer ahead of us.”