Blood Brothers

 

A/N: This story is based on a scene in Pippinfan1988’s story “All Joking Aside”. I asked her to write a story about it, and I suppose you could say she challenged me to write my own spin on it. Because I wrote this, it will be different from her version (if she ever decides to write it!), so basically, it’s Pippinfan’s idea, and my story. Hope you enjoy!

 

* * * * * *

 

Merry knew he was in trouble from the moment he saw the look on Peregrin’s face. The child’s brow was knitted in a frown, and his mouth twisted into a snarl. Pippin very rarely got angry – especially not with his favourite cousin – but there was no doubting his mood this time. He was furious.

 

“Hullo, Pip,” Merry greeted.

 

“What are you doing here?” came Pippin’s icy reply. “I thought you’d want to stay in Hobbiton, with your new best friend.”

 

Merry sighed. He should have expected this. It was the usual tradition for Merry to spend three weeks of his autumn in Tookland with his Uncle Paladin, Pippin’s father. However, this year, he spent two of those weeks visiting Frodo in Hobbiton, and would only be spending a week at the Great Smials. Pippin, undoubtedly, felt utterly betrayed by his cousin’s decision.

 

“Look, Pippin, I’m very sorry,” Merry tried to explain. “Frodo has been ill recently, and Bilbo asked me to come and cheer him up.”

 

“What about me?” Pippin demanded, red-faced. “I could have cheered Frodo up too!”

 

“Bilbo didn’t want you to get sick too. You’ve only just recovered from the last time you were ill.”

 

“It still isn’t fair!”

 

“Peregrin! What do you think you’re doing?” Pippin’s eldest sister, Pearl, demanded. “Let Merry inside.”

 

With another scowl, Pippin moved aside to let Merry into the Smial. A well-aimed kick connected with Merry’s shin as he passed by.

 

“Ouch! Pippin!” Merry yelped.

 

“I’m telling Mother!” Pearl declared.

 

“But I didn’t do anything,” argued Pippin. “Not my fault if Merry can’t watch where he’s going.”

 

Merry sighed again. It was going to be a long week.

 

* * * * * *

 

For the first time in a great while, dinner with Merry and his Took family was a very strained event. Pippin, no longer openly angry, gave his cousin the cold shoulder. He even went so far as to relay questions via one of his sisters, despite the fact that Merry was sitting next to him.

 

“Pervinca, could you ask Merry to pass the salt? Pim, would you tell Merry to kindly keep his napkin on his part of the table?”

 

Paladin raised his eyebrows to his nephew, an expression questioning his son’s behaviour. Merry just shook his head. There was no point involving his uncle. Pippin would probably just become angrier.

 

Due to his earlier outburst, which Pearl had reported to their mother, Peregrin was sent to bed straight after dinner. He stormed to his room without even saying goodnight.

 

“Now, Meriadoc,” said Paladin, “I know that you most likely don’t want me involved, but would you mind explaining to me why Peregrin is acting so?”

 

“He’s mad at me for going to Hobbiton first,” Merry admitted.

 

Paladin sighed. He should have known that was the reason. Pippin always looked forward to Merry’s autumn visits. “Give him a little time to stew over it. He’ll be fine in no time.”

 

Merry hoped that his uncle was right. Just as he was never one to get angry, Pippin also rarely held grudges. Even the worst offenders were usually quite quickly forgiven.

 

“If you’ll excuse me Uncle Paladin, I’ve had a long day,” he stated, standing. “I might turn in for the night.”

 

“Of course. You room is ready for you. Sweet dreams, Merry.” Paladin dismissed him.

 

As he passed Pippin’s room on the way to his own, Merry thought that he could hear crying. He resisted the urge to check on his young cousin. He was in enough trouble as it was with Pippin.

 

Merry changed into his nightshirt. Just as he settled into the warmth of his blankets, he heard a soft knock. He was too comfortable to get out of bed so, hoping that it was not his uncle, Merry called: “Come in.”

 

The door creaked open, and in the dim light, Merry saw Pippin’s tiny form standing, wrapped in a blanket. His face looked a little grubby, and Merry assumed it was from his earlier crying.

 

“I’m tired of being angry with you, Merry,” he stated.

 

Merry stared back at his younger cousin. “Is that a fact, Pip? Well, maybe I’m not tired of being angry with you. I have a fairly large bruise on my shin.”

 

“Sorry.” Pippin’s bottom lip began to tremble and his green eyes seemed to double in size.

 

Merry cursed to himself. He hated it when his cousins did that. Both Peregrin and Pervinca had mastered a look that left practically everyone unable to refuse them anything. Merry let out a defeated sigh. “All right, Pippin. I forgive you.”

 

Peregrin’s pout instantly disappeared and he jumped onto Merry’s bed. “I really am sorry I kicked you, you know.”

 

“I know you are, and I’m sure I’ll live.” Merry tried to get comfortable again, now that his bed was holding two, and failed. “And I’m sorry I won’t be spending as much time here as I usually do.”

 

“That’s all right, Merry. Frodo’s your friend too.” Pippin suddenly looked down and fidgeted with his fingers. “Frodo’s not mad at me, is he?”

 

“Mad at you? Why would Frodo be mad at you?”

 

“Because you used to be his friend and now you’re mine.”

 

“Pippin…” Merry did not know where to begin explaining the differences between his friendship with Frodo and his friendship with Pippin. Frodo was a close and much-loved cousin; a cousin that sometimes behaved like an elder brother. But Pippin was a brother, in Merry’s mind, despite not by blood. He was a kindred spirit.

 

Suddenly, Merry thought of a story his Uncle Saradas had told him. Saradas was a rather frequent visitor to Bree, and would often bring back ideas and amusing anecdotes. He had once told Merry and several of his cousins about a group of Men that were also often seen in Bree. Merry could not recall the name of this group, but he did remember his uncle telling him of a ritual that they practised. Often, two of the Men were bonded by friendship or experience. The ritual officiated this bond by naming them Blood Brothers. Merry had found the story fascinating, though his cousins, Mentha and Melilot had squealed, and thought it disgusting.

 

“Pippin, as close as I am to Frodo, I’ve always been closer to you,” Merry finally said to his cousin. “After all, Frodo had Bilbo, and Sam too.”

 

“Well, I suppose…”

“Stay here. I’ll be back.” Merry climbed out of the bed and slipped from the room. He quietly made his way to the kitchen. Fortunately, it was empty, being late enough for all to have gone to bed by now. He found the cutlery drawer and recovered a small, but sharp knife. Merry was quite certain that it was used for boning chickens, and would probably suit his purpose for it. Satisfied with his find, he returned to his room.

 

“Where did you go?” Pippin demanded.

 

“To get this,” replied Merry, brandishing the knife.

 

Pippin’s eyes widened in fear and he stammered: “What are you going to do with that?”

 

“Oh, you silly ass, do stop cowering! My Uncle Saradas told me about a ceremony that some of the Big Folk in Bree carry out. I want to prove to you that you are closer to me that anyone else.”

 

“Y-you’re not going to kill me?”

 

“Of course not!” Merry ran over to the fireplace and held the blade of the knife over the flames. Pippin hesitantly climbed out of the bed and came to watch over Merry’s shoulder.

 

“What are you doing?”

 

“I’m sterilizing the blade like the healers do. We wouldn’t want to catch an infection, would we?”

 

“No…but Merry, you still haven’t told me what we’re doing.”

 

Still heating the knife, Merry explained. “The Big Folk in Bree, sometimes when they’re very good friends – like we are – they become ‘Blood Brothers’, even if they weren’t even related before.”

 

“How does that work?”

 

“Well, first, they both make a little cut on one of their hands. Then they hold hands, so that their blood mixes, and as they do, they make a pledge to be brothers for the rest of their lives.”

 

“You want us to do that?”

 

Merry nodded. The blade was now white-hot, and Merry removed it from the fire. “But we don’t have to if you don’t want to.”

 

Instead of answering, Pippin held out his hand to Merry. Merry smiled. He decided it would be best if he cut himself first, giving Pippin one last chance to change his mind. He ran the knife over the flesh between his left thumb and forefinger, wincing a little as it stung. A thin line of blood seeped out. Merry handed the knife to Pippin.

 

“Just do exactly what I did,” he said.

 

Slowly, Pippin cut his own hand. He gasped as first, but quickly squeezed his eyes shut and ignored the pain. He handed the knife back to Merry.

 

“Well, now we have to hold hands and make the pledge,” Merry stated. “Just say what I say.”

 

Pippin nodded. He grasped Merry’s outstretched hand, feeling the odd sensation of their mixed blood oozing through their fingers.

 

“From now on, until our lives end,” said Merry, and Pippin repeated, “we swear that we shall be more than cousins, and more than friends. Blood Brothers we shall be, and with blood we seal this vow.”

 

They let go, and Pippin inspected his bloodied hand. The cut seemed to have stopped bleeding now. Pippin grinned at Merry. “That was fun.”

 

* * * * * *

 

Minas Tirith, 3019 (S.R. 1419)

 

Merry sat with Faramir in the gardens of the Houses of Healing. The new Steward noticed that Merry constantly played with the flesh between his left thumb and forefinger. If he looked closely, Faramir thought he could see a small scar.

 

“What happened to your hand?” he asked, softly.

 

“What?” Merry cried, startled. He had been off in his own little world, worrying about Pippin going off to battle, and remembering a more pleasant time twenty years earlier. “Oh, nothing. Just an old scar.”

 

“So I can see, but how did you get it?”

 

Merry blushed. “You’ll think I’m silly.”

 

“Don’t be so sure.” Faramir held out his own, much larger, hand to reveal an almost identical scar. “The Bond of Blood id a traditional ritual that was oft practised by the people of Númenor. Though, how a hobbit of the Shire came to find out I am interested in finding out!”

 

“Rangers! That’s who my uncle meant!” Merry realised. “My uncle once told me about the ritual. He had heard about it in Bree, no doubt from the Rangers.”

 

Faramir nodded. “That does make sense. You bonded with your cousin?”

 

“I did. I was only sixteen at the time, and he was eight. What about you?”

 

“Boromir, of course.”

 

“But why? You were already brothers.”

 

Faramir laughed. “My friend, being Blood Brothers is more than being brothers. Surely you have learnt that by now. It means understanding one another, knowing each other’s feelings, and always being there, even if not in body. And most of all, it means loving each other.” Faramir’s smile faded. “Losing a brother is a painful experience, Meriadoc. Losing a Blood Brother is worse. I hope you never have to endure it.”

 

“Neither do I.” But deep in his heart, Merry knew he would never have to. He knew that Pippin would be all right. It was something he had always known.

 

* * * * * *

 

A/N: The Bond of Blood is just something I made up to add to the story. I’ve found no canon evidence that the Men of Númenor actually practised anything like it. I just thought it would sound good! After all, the hobbits had to find out about it from somewhere!

 

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