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.