The Fire

by Lullenny

email: gutter2stars @ yahoo.com

*

Merry watched Pippin feed the fire with bits of dried twigs.  Smoke 
mingled with the smell autumn leaves, moist and dark, and Merry sat 
straighter and looked quickly round, a feeling of loneliness and 
danger settling on him like a sodden wool cloak.  

Pippin looked up from his contemplation of the flames.  "What's 
wrong?" 

Merry drew his palm over the back of his neck.  "Nothing.  I just 
felt a shiver, like I was being watched."

Pippin's gaze cast about, and he squinted, trying to pierce the 
shadows.  Merry looked again as well, and he listened, too.  Their 
ponies drowsed peacefully nearby.  There was no sound but the 
snapping of the fire and the small sounds the hobbits themselves 
made.  Pippin relaxed and resumed breaking off twigs to toss into 
the fire.  "There's nothing out there.  The ponies would give us a 
warning."  

"They would," Merry agreed, yet he still felt uneasy.   The flames 
cracked and hissed on damp wood.  It was an old sound, familiar to 
Merry, though distant.  He listened carefully and watched the sparks 
fly up into the night to join the stars.  Abruptly he said, "You 
have been quiet all evening, Pippin.  You've said nothing about 
Diamond, nothing about the children, no songs, no gossip.  That's 
hardly like you."  

"You saw them when we left; there's nothing I can add to that," 
replied Pippin.  "And I guess I'm not in the mood for songs or 
jests."  He threw the last of his twigs into the fire and sighed.  
"At least we have a fire tonight," Pippin added, sounding 
distracted, as if he spoke to the end of a different conversation.  

"But it's not the same."  

Pippin looked up at him curiously.  "Not the same as what?" 

"We always sat together, you and I," said Merry, and suddenly he 
knew now why he felt watched, as if unseen things stalked the night.  
"For warmth, at night.  Every night."

"And the days," said Pippin softly.  "We traveled at night after 
Rivendell, and slept during the day."  

But Merry recalled better their journey before Rivendell.  It was 
hard to imagine, but once, the lands between the Shire and Rivendell 
had been dangerous; once, Merry had thought Strider sinister and 
unsavory: a possible bandit out of the untamed Wild.  When he did 
not rob them or lead them astray, Merry had still thought him dour 
and blunt; not until after Strider's actions at Weathertop did Merry 
give over his entire trust to the Man.  Merry smiled a bit at the 
name: <i>Strider</i>.  Aragorn, the King Elessar, seemed a wholly 
different person.   

Of course, they had all changed.  

Merry decided it was the smell that brought him this impression from 
the past -- smoke and wet leaves and wool during a rainy autumn -- 
but it was an incomplete impression without the overlay of Pippin's 
warmth and scent.  "Was it really so long ago, Pippin?"  

Pippin appeared to think about it.  "Thirteen years ago this month 
we left Buckland.  Not so terribly long, not really."

"Long enough for us to marry and have lots of children," said Merry.  
"How many does Sam have now?"

Pippin chuckled.  "I lost count."

Merry smiled.  His affection for Sam was like his love for the 
Shire: warm and unshakeable.  There were other ways to love, though, 
some of which led to great sorrow.  He drew in a careful breath and 
slowly said, "It took far less time for you and I to let each other 
go." 

He met Pippin's gaze through the shimmering heat of the fire.  
Pippin was older now, just as Merry was older, and his thoughts no 
longer ran across his face freely for all to see.  "Do you miss it, 
Merry?" 

Merry didn't know how to reply.  For all that they'd been friends 
forever, Merry suddenly didn't know the hobbit sitting across from 
him.  "Do you?" 

Pippin looked down.  "Diamond's a North Took.  They're a bit, ah, 
clannish.  Possessive, even."  

"Ah."  Merry found an old branch in his hands.  He worried it, 
peeling off curls of bark and flicking them into the fire.  "I'd 
gathered as much, then, though it seems to me she's mellowed since 
chasing after four young hobbits." 

Pippin made a non-committal sound.  The flames brightened with the 
new fuel Merry fed it.  Merry poked the embers and the spent logs 
collapsed, blasting his face with dry heat that felt good.  He 
closed his eyes and leaned into the warmth.  

"Move over, Merry."  Pippin stood suddenly on Merry's side of the 
fire.  Merry scooted to make room on his blankets, and Pippin sat.  
Pippin leaned against his side, and Merry slid his arm around him.  
It was a familiar feeling, Pippin's weight nestled close, and not at 
all distant.  Merry would not be surprised if Strider suddenly 
entered the ring of firelight, a rabbit or bird in hand, dressed for 
roasting.  If he squinted, maybe he would see Frodo's dark-eyed 
ghost across the fire, Sam at his side. 

Pippin moved under his arm.  "You're right," he said, "it's not the 
same." 

"Has it," began Merry, and he had to wet his lips, "has it been too 
long?  Is it forever lost?" 

Pippin drew away and looked at Merry.  "I don't know.  Maybe."  
Pippin's regard swept over Merry, touching his hair that he knew 
glinted with strands of gray at his temple, his broad waistcoat, and 
his feet folded neatly under him.  Pippin took Merry's hand in his.  
"I love you, though, and that has never been lost, no matter how 
else I might have missed you." 

Merry closed his eyes, his heart hurting from both happiness and 
regrets.  They snapped open again when Pippin clasped him close, and 
Pippin's lips pressed a kiss onto the corner of his mouth.  "Pip?"  
The old nickname came without thought, just as Merry's skin heated, 
outside his will. 

"Is this all right?" asked Pippin softly.  

"I don't know," said Merry.  He looked long at Pippin's sober face: 
the patient longing that was always there; the maturity brought on 
by war, time, and family; and a shadow of the imp that yet lived 
deep inside.  Perhaps Pippin saw something inside Merry, for he drew 
him close again and covered Merry's mouth with his own.

<i>This will change us,</i> Merry thought even as heart leapt, 
<i>change us like the War changed us, and time, and family.</i> 

Breathless, Pippin pulled back enough to speak.  "Oh, Merry, it's 
like it used to be, like burning up from the inside." 

Merry wondered if this fire would leave them with nothing but ashes, 
but aloud he repeated softly, "I know, I know."  And he kissed 
Pippin back until the campfire slumped into embers hot enough to 
last until they added wood the next morning.

*