Authors Note:  This story is canon in the sense that in an original draft, Tolkien killed Pippin off--understandable, when you take the combination of his experiences in WWI, his dislike for Pippin, and the way the chapter "The Black Gate Opens" concludes.  I play a bit fast and loose with the evocation of Hela here;  she collected the souls of those who didn't die in battle.  However, the story was written for a song challenge, and it was a song about Hela that got me here!

Many thanks to Dana for beta-reading.

The sunlight was thin, the watery light of early spring.  It shed light but no heat, that day, when Merry stood vigil.  His armor kept him warm enough, though at the time he was unconcerned with anything so mundane.

He watched his cousin, that day.  Dispassionate, at first--Pippin did not look like he was only sleeping.  His face was too peaceful for that, too still.  He looked as though he’d been made out of clay.  He was clad in the finest raiment they could find; Merry had only needed to say “Ernil I Pheriannath”, and obtaining chainmail that was newly-shined, black silk and wool that was swiftly stitched into the costume of the King’s Guard had been no problem at all.  And Pippin’s helmet, newly polished by Merry’s own hands.

Pippin lay still, and straight, as they had not found him.  Merry and Legolas and Gimli had washed his body in sweet-smelling water, the athelas briefly lightening their hearts, and straightened crushed and broken limbs.  In his armor, Pippin looked as though nothing had ever touched him.

Later, when the sun had set, Merry carried the torch to light Pippin’s pyre.  His hand did not shake, although tears gleamed in his eyes, in the firelight.  A small group of those who had known Pippin gathered with him;  the remains of the Fellowship, Faramir, soldiers he had served with.  A young lad, who had tears pouring down his face.

They passed a horn of mead around, toasting Pippin as he burned.  The honey-wine was sour in Merry’s mouth, and he choked as it sloshed out of the horn, and down the front of his uniform.  But he had raised it to the cousin he loved more than all others, and wished him speed to the Hall of Mandos.

Now he watches the flames die down, and only Pippin’s scorched armor is left behind;  that and the reek of burnt flesh.  Death comes to all creatures;  Merry has long known this.  Death came for his Pippin;  Merry accepts this.   He sits, now, and wonders.  About when he will see Pippin again.  If he will see Pippin again.  Pippin was crushed a by troll, an ugly creature of the Dark.  Merry can accept that, though;  Pippin was no longer a child.  He knew Evil, knew it intimately, although it never left its mark on him, until now.  Merry will vividly remember this night forever, flames licking at his cousin’s body, and, earlier, gently washing that body, straightening crushed limbs, wiping lines of pain from his face.

Merry hopes his death had been quick, and painless, as he sits there, waiting for the dawn.