An Hour to Sing

Merry knows. Frodo wonders how long he has known; if it is just now, when he and Pippin are leaving tomorrow, that Merry can see the years Frodo has lost when it has only been weeks. Perhaps he has known longer and has hoped, with the comfort of distance, that light and colour and life will return to him if he is only given more time. But they share a look now, in this too-bright room, and there is defeat, and understanding, in Merry’s eyes. There’s not enough time left ahead for that.

Pippin knows too, perhaps, though it’s a recognition he half-accepts, half-denies. He has stoked up a great fire against the chill of summer’s decline, and lit lamps all about as if to ward off the day’s ending too. And his eyes are also too-bright, as he demands that their last night here be a cheerful one, as he talks himself hoarse, far into the night; but the others let him, joining in for his sake and their own, and that evening it might be that there is no brighter place in the Shire than the front room of Bag End.

Frodo knows, as time creeps on and the lamps begin to wane, that he should try to fill – with laughter or hope – these silences that his cousins’ banter can hide no longer; should give them both whatever he has left in him. But he is tired now, and he would really rather sleep than talk, and forget than try to remember memories that sound sweet to his ears but do not touch him; faded, distant echoes of a life he cannot get back. Still, as he listens, his eyes half-closed, to the rise and fall of Pippin’s steady chatter and the sometimes-sound of Merry’s low voice breaking in, he wishes too that this moment might never end, for Pippin has the right of it, though none of them had really thought so, and Frodo despairs to think of letting them go… of leaving them again.

In the end, even Pippin stops, looks at them both staring now at the embers and sighs, so tired. In the shadows, the sudden silence is peaceful, and it is a comfort, almost, to find that this moment is not so terrible, now it is here. Perhaps it is even a relief. Frodo’s eyes meet Merry’s, and they smile, and nod and stand, and Merry gently hauls Pippin to his feet. Without a word then, seeking darkness and pillows and warmth, Frodo and Merry curl in tightly around Pippin and each other, and Frodo listens to the steady rise and fall of their breathing (Pippin’s is light; Merry’s deeper, just as it has always been) as each is overcome by sleep, and his quiet thank-yous go unheard.

Though it is dark now, Frodo knows that there will be light again. He knows that… and they will know it too, with time.

***

A/N: The title comes from "March" by Edward Thomas, a poem about lingering winter, and birdsong in the last hour before dark.

Not till night had half its stars
And never a cloud, was I aware of silence
Stained with all that hour’s songs, a silence
Saying that Spring returns, perhaps to-morrow.