Moving Without Speaking (A Yule Love Story) 

Author: (A lovesick nimrod named) Kit 
Rating: NC-17 
Pairing: Merry/Pippin (more than implied Frodo/Sam) 
Warning:  If you need to be warned that it’s slash, it’s a 
little silly that you’re reading it anyway.  And anyone 
who reads stories sprung from the delicious combination that
 is Merry and Pippin already knows that they’re cousins, but 
don’t we all prefer to ignore that? 
Summary: A winter solstice holiday, some gift-giving, lots 
of eating, and a bit of irrepressible romance. 
Author’s Notes: Hobbits don’t celebrate Christmas, as Middle 
Earth was set in B.C., so I like to think of the Yule 
celebration as something universal and timeless.  Also, the 
images were too cute to pass up.  I finally did something 
right and I’ve gotten this finished in time for it to be a 
Christmas present to anyone who wishes to read it.  As to the 
lovin’ scene, I promised myself I wouldn’t make it 
dirty... and then I did it anyway.  I hope it is enjoyed. 
Distribution:  We all need a little naked hobbit in our lives, 
and I am delighted to share the love, as long as I get an email 
letting me know where it is (hopefully not “in a garbage can”...) 
Feedback:  Bells will be ringing the glad, glad news, oh 
what a Christmas to have FEEDBACK! 
Disclaimer:  Sadly, I think sick little freaks like you and 
me enjoy naked hobbit asses more than the original creator, 
who gave us this beautiful world in the first place.  I can’t 
take any of the credit, it all goes to the good Professor 
Tolkien, to whom I probably owe my soul by now.  I don’t get 
any money for my measely scribblings, I just like to play in 
his backyard. 
Acknowledgements:  With love and mad respect to the coolest 
of hobbits, Mr.Tolkien.  Prostrate thyself before his majesty.  
More heart-quickening affection than I can describe goes out 
to Dom Monoghan who makes Merry the desirable little imp that 
he is, and to Billy Boyd, who does more to me than is 
probably legal, and takes my breath away in or out of his Pippin 
garb.  Without these men, I would probably be sane, and 
then what fun would I be?  Muchas thanks and dedication to 
Maddy, who writes better than I will ever dream, and who was 
the inspiration for this bit of solstice fun.  Schnoogles to 
Sharon, who does Billy justice.  Mad love to Han, thanks for 
all the verbal foot rubs.  A sctratch behind the ears to Lily, 
for the support, wisdom, compliments, Scrabble games, and 
endless chocolate peanut butter sundaes.  Finally, a sigh goes 
out into the void for Billy: take my heart.  
And for everybody: Merry, Merry Christmas. 


 
*   *   *   *   *
 
 
“Merry?”  
 
 
Winter nights are when Meriadoc Brandybuck sleeps the 
deepest.  As a lad in Buckland he could find no better 
position than curled in the old armchair his great 
grandfather had built, wrapped like pastry filling in one 
of the quilts his mother made.  Often he would sit for 
hours with a book in his lap and a good view from the 
nearest window as the blue shadowed snow fell from 
darkening purple skies.  It never took long for him to fall 
asleep in that chair and he was only better off when Pippin 
joined him, and he dropped off in the middle of reading a 
sentence with a lapful of contented Took.  When Merry’s 
mother came to check on them, as she always did before 
turning in herself, she would smile fondly at the boys, 
sometimes chuckling to herself at how falling snow seemed 
to be the best way to ease their rambunctious spirits... at 
least in the evenings.  
 
 
“Oy, Merry...oy!”  
 
 
The snow came quickly this year, but not before Merry and 
Pippin had made the trek to Hobbiton, to tuck themselves 
safely away at Bag End just before the snow began to fall.  
The first flakes of the season spun down just as Frodo’s 
house was in sight, and the pair reached the door of Bag 
End giggling and coated with a sheet of frost, to be 
promptly ushered inside by Sam.  They traveled remarkably 
fast, weighed down as they were with Yule presents from 
both Buckland and Great Smials, and every aunt, great-aunt, 
and grandmother within who had their own pie to contribute.  
 
 
“Wake up, noodlehead!”  
 
 
Merry is delivered a sharp poke to his side as his sluggish 
brain processes the information that he is being spoken to, 
rather than hearing echoes of Pippin’s voice from a dream, 
which has sometimes happened.  He shifts and takes in a 
long breath, opening one eye.  
 
 
Framed against the light coming from his window is the 
silhouette of a hobbit smaller than Merry with a wild 
corona of curls that catch the light from the snow.  
Pippin.  As his eyes adjust, Merry can discern a small nose 
and the curve of a chin.  
 
 
“Mmm, whass it, Pip?”  
 
 
“I can’t sleep... the storm’s getting worse.”  
 
 
“Storm?”  Merry props himself up on his elbows, forcing his 
sleep-thickened eyes to unblur the images around him.  He 
peers at the window and sees the light purple wash of 
driving snow.  It had been bad when he went to bed that 
night, but not this bad.  
 
 
“The thunder is what woke me up.  It doesn’t usually do 
that in the winter.”  
 
 
Pippin’s voice is soft and far away, but clearer for having 
been awake.  Merry blinks a final time and his eyesight 
comes to him fully, Pippin’s anxious face coming into view 
as he looks out the window.  
 
 
“No it sure doesn’t.”  
 
 
“There’s lightening too... and the snow isn’t giving up.  I 
looked out my window, I couldn’t see anything past that 
branch right outside.”  
 
 
Merry shuffles himself to one side of his bed and opens the 
covers, patting the mattress.  Pippin is in his twenties 
and not a baby when it comes to it, but he needs 
companionship like water and Merry understands that.  As a 
low growl of thunder gives its voice he understands that 
very well.  It is rare anyhow that Merry and Pippin should 
sleep apart when they can do otherwise, as they’ve 
discovered over the years the delight of staying up late 
and sharing stories or thoughts.  
 
 
Pippin slips into the warm bed and settles in, feeling 
perfectly at ease.  He plops his head against Merry’s 
shoulder and he sighs happily.  
 
 
“I’ll never get to sleep now,” he whispers.  
 
 
“Why not?”  asks Merry.  
 
 
“The bed’s too comfortable... I don’t want to miss out on 
it.”  
 
 
Merry releases a chuckle into Pippin’s cinnamon curls and 
stifles a yawn.  
 
 
“What are you thinking about?”  
 
 
“Love,” Pippin says, smiling up at the ceiling.  “And 
spiderwebs.  You ehm... promise you won’t laugh?”  
 
 
“Master Took, I would never promise such a dreadful thing.”  
 
 
“You know what I mean.  Anyway... you know how when a 
spider’s web gets knocked down, the spider just rebuilds 
it?  That’s its home, its whole life, but it can get so 
easily broken or swept away or ruined somehow... I think 
love is like that, y’know, the spider always goes on, 
always rebuilds, it makes its web stronger or better 
somehow, just going on until it’s perfect.”  
 
 
“You’ve been thinking about this a while, haven’t you?”  
 
 
“All night.”  
 
 
For a moment the room is bathed in blue light.  The two 
hobbits brace themselves for the crack of thunder that 
comes shortly after, shaking the window frame.  
 
 
 
*   *   *   *   *  
 
 
 
The first thing Merry is aware of is the heavenly light 
flooding into the room, making a warm cloud of the Bag End 
guest room.  As he blinks himself into focus, he notices 
other things: the snow piled against his window, the 
squashy comfort of the bed and quilts cocooned around him, 
the smell of cooking bacon, and the gently snoring Took at 
his side.  Pippin’s deeply earth-colored curls have fallen 
partway into his face, brushing a cheek and one of his 
closed eyes.  Merry moves to tuck the renegade tendrils 
behind his cousin’s ear, but he stops himself, realizing 
that he doesn’t dare disrupt the way he looks right now.  
 
 
After a silent moment, Pippin breathes in deeply and 
shifts, eyes and nose scrunching.  Merry holds backs 
laughter.  The curls obstructing Pippin’s face fall away as 
he, half conscious, rolls onto his back.  Before his eyes 
open, his sweet and sleep-clouded voice breaks the still in 
the room.  
 
 
“I smell bacon.”  
 
 
Now Merry’s laughter escapes unchecked, coasting through 
the bright winter morning like a bubbling stream.  Pippin 
opens his eyes, gives a great yawn, and turns to look at 
his cousin.  
 
 
“Good morning Pip,” Merry giggles.  
 
 
“Why didn’t you wake me?” he pokes Merry’s side with mock 
indignation.  “We might have missed breakfast.”  
 
 
“And that would have been heartbreaking,” Merry slaps away 
the sprite’s finger.  “But anyway, Sam’s cooking wakes you 
up better and faster than I ever have.”  
 
 
“Oh let’s just stay here...” says Pippin with a happy sigh, 
flopping horizontally across Merry’s middle.  “Sam can 
bring us breakfast and we can just stay in bed all day.”  
 
 
“That’s a rather adult perspective you’ve taken,” Merry 
eyes the younger hobbit.  “Don’t you want to play in the 
snow and soak us both and run from Sam for a half-hour 
after putting a snowball down his shirt?”  
 
 
“No,” Pippin stretches languidly.  “Yes.  But brekkish 
first.”  
 
 
“Of course.”  
 
 
“You’re not moving.”  
 
 
“Neither are you.”  
 
 
“I’m not getting up until you do,” Pippin grins, slipping 
into playfulness as he invariably does.  
 
 
“Oh no?” Merry darts up to tickle the other’s sides and 
Pippin, having anticipated this attack, rolls away, Merry 
on top, pinning the laughing imp to the mattress.   Pippin 
squirms beneath his older cousin in vain and finally 
slumps, defeated.  Merry’s burning and triumphant gaze 
catches Pippin’s attention, Merry’s bluebell eyes drilling 
into him like ice, with such a crisp smile on his face as 
Pippin has sometimes seen when Merry looks at him.  For 
reasons long since hidden, he feels exposed under that 
stare; vulnerable, anxious, naked.  
 
 
“You still didn’t get me out of bed,” Pippin says, 
challenging.  
 
 
Merry smiles, bouncing an eyebrow, and slides onto the 
mattress, off of Pippin.  
 
 
“Get up now or I’ll tickle you till you have no breath left 
to scream.”  
 
 
“Cracking good argument, I wonder if breakfast is ready,” 
says Pippin, vaulting out of bed and racing for supremacy 
of the washroom.  
 
 
 
*   *   *   *   *  
 
 
 
Firelight bathes the room in orange and where Pippin is 
concerned the whole world (excepting the cobalt blue of the 
snow outside) is the same color.  The sky has shifted to an 
inky blue-black, night having washed away the energy and 
noise of the daytime and replacing it with a satisfying, 
tired glow in the four hobbits.  Frodo’s sitting room is 
large and warm, filled with crackling fire and sleepy 
hobbits and a tall pine tree brought inside by Sam a few 
days before.  
 
 
Merry and Pippin insist on giving Sam a break from the 
kitchen, especially after Yule Eve dinner which was a 
magnificent affair.  They shoo him out to decorate the tree 
with Frodo while they make hot chocolate.  Being 
monumentally hopeless in the kitchen (except where it comes 
to nicking food, in which case they are grand proficients), 
they know where nothing is that looks vaguely hot-
chocolatey and are therefore obliged to investigate.  This, 
for Merry and Pippin, means tearing through everything.  
 
 
“What in the Shire are you *doing* in there?” Frodo calls 
when one of the pots goes clattering to the floor.  
 
 
“Sorry!” Merry and Pippin call in unison, giggling.  
 
 
They peer out at Sam and Frodo, who are setting up the tree 
decorations.  Some of the ornaments were made by Bilbo and 
some–––ones that Sam insists should be put on the tree, 
even as a laughing Frodo protests that they should not–––
were made by Frodo when he was very young.  They are crude 
and poorly constructed, lacking the fineness that hobbit 
ornaments are usually meant to have, but Sam holds them 
against his heart, smiling as Frodo tries to pry them out 
of the gardener’s strong hands.  
 
 
Merry and Pippin stifle their laughter and whirl back into 
the kitchen to complete (or begin) their work.  
 
 
When they’ve filled a teapot with hot chocolate and cleaned 
up the mess as best they can, Merry carries a tray out to 
Sam and Frodo, who have now stopped bickering about the 
ornaments and are quietly disagreeing about the placement 
of candles on the Yule tree.  
 
 
“Can you put out an ‘undred foot fire?” Sam is asking 
Frodo.  “Because I don’t believe there’s many of us in the 
Shire as *can* do.  These trees catch awful quick, 
Mr.Frodo, and I’d hate to see flames licking the ceiling of 
your lovely home.”  
 
 
Frodo giggles a bit.  
 
 
“*I’ll* be putting the candles on if it’s gonna be done at 
all,” Sam pulls the small white candles out of Frodo’s 
hands.  Frodo smiles up at Sam, a little embarrassed, but 
trusting.  
 
 
“Hey,” says Merry softly.  “Have a break, you two, the 
drinks are ready.”  
 
 
With a little persuasion, Sam stops working and sits down 
by Frodo, shyly taking the proffered cup.  For a moment 
they are all in peace, listening to the crackling of the 
fire, basking in its warm caramel glow.  Occasionally one 
of them will break the comfortable silence to make a 
comment on the tree, or the Yule gifts yet to be put under 
it.  Before long, Sam hops up, setting his cup down, and 
returns to placing the candles around the tree.  
 
 
“Frodo lad,” says Merry.  “Let’s have some music.”  
 
 
Even though he always insists that he doesn’t play well at 
all, Frodo is in love with his fiddle, a beautiful cinnamon 
violin made by his father when he was alive.  Though he 
isn’t as skilled at playing as some Shirefolk have been in 
the past, his fingers not as quick or as unused to 
mistakes, his easiness of spirit and obvious love for his 
instrument makes him a delight to all who hear him.  He may 
not play perfectly, but no one can deny that he plays 
beautifully.  
 
 
At Merry’s request, Frodo grins and runs into his room to 
get his fiddle.  When he comes back, he sits at the chair 
closest to where Sam is fussing with the tree and begins to 
play something lively and cheerful that must have come out 
of Buckland on a night like this when they’d given 
dangerous thoughts like boats and water a well-needed rest 
and concentrated instead on the music that would play as 
rabbits chase each other through the tall grasses of the 
Shire.  
 
 
Merry stands, offering Pippin his hand with a typical 
Brandybuck smile, and the Took, standing, responds with a 
smile typical of his own heritage that distinctly gives the 
impression that he’s up to something, even on the rare 
occasion when he is not.  With them both on their feet and 
Frodo’s bouncing tune twirling through the air, the only 
option is to dance.  Merry twirls his cousin around him, 
watching the way Pippin’s red-brown curls catch the light 
of the crackling fire as if he were glowing from within.  
 
 
Merry spins them both in a circle, everyone (including 
himself) laughing.  There is no lass or lad in the world 
that he’d rather be dancing with, and as he thinks this he 
tightens his grip on Pippin’s waist (which Merry now has 
the good fortune to be holding), that still has that 
charming little layer of baby fat he’s had all his life.  
He loves Pippin’s body, something about the flat space of 
his chest and the underside of his chin and his pointed 
little nose and that curve of his lower back and the back 
of his neck and his sharp and perfect mouth and his holly-
green eyes and the cave behind his knee where he’s more 
ticklish than most hobbits are anywhere on their entire 
bodies.  And the way he smells... the way you smell after 
coming home from a night in front of a bonfire where the 
beer and the spiced cider is good and this person’s been 
daring you to kiss this lass and somebody brought a violin 
and here’s something we can use for a drum so let’s make 
some music and as you watch the glowing ashes fly up toward 
the stars you know that all is right with the world.  On 
nights where this happens, everyone smells that way, but 
Pippin is like this every day.  
 
 
With a last twirl of the both of them, Merry stops as Frodo 
switches to a slower song.  Merry and Pippin catch their 
breath, laughing, and flop down on the couch to watch the 
snow while Frodo’s beautiful and mournful tune glides over 
the evening.  
 
 
“Nights like this are all I want out of life,” says Pippin.  
 
 
Merry looks over and sees Pippin in the firelight, smiling 
at him.  He shifts closer and slips an arm around Pippin’s 
shoulders, taking in that woodfire smell again.  The other 
wriggles into that Pip-shaped groove in Merry’s side and 
remembers with distaste the Yules spent Merryless, when the 
Brandybucks and the Tooks were, for some reason, unable to 
come together for the solstice.  Pippin had always been 
desolate when such Yules came and went with no Merry to sit 
with by the fire, to fall asleep with watching the snow, to 
play with outside and end up in trouble with and sometimes, 
late at night when he thought Pippin was asleep, to carry 
him into bed and kiss him very lightly and secretly on the 
forehead before blowing out the candles.  
 
 
It wasn’t most Yules that Merry and Pippin weren’t 
together, but too many for Pippin’s liking and enough to 
make him afraid every time the solstice rolled around and 
the thought crossed Pippin’s mind that he and Merry might 
not be together.  
 
 
Now they’re adults and this Yule is the first they’ve spent 
away from the business and noise of their homes.  Sam had 
decided not to join his gaffer on a visit to relatives, and 
Frodo had invited them all up to Bag End with him.  
Convinced that four gentlehobbits couldn’t survive on their 
own, the women who said goodbye to Merry and Pippin 
tearfully sent their love and, of course, their pies.  
 
 
“I don’t ever want to celebrate the solstice without you, 
Merry.”  
 
 
“It’s a good thing you said that,” Merry smiles at him.  
“As I wasn’t planning on spending another solstice without 
my Pippin as long as I live.”  
 
 
My Pippin.  Both parties feel a warm glow at the words.  
 
 
After a few more songs, Frodo announces that it’s late, and 
the party retires to bed.  
 
 
 
*   *   *   *   *  
 
 
 
“It’s your turn tonight,” says Pippin from under the covers 
as Merry gets ready for bed.  
 
 
They have given up even pretending to sleep in their own 
rooms, deciding that company is best and the best company 
is right next door, and (after a discreet glance out the 
door before changing) that it’s all right because Sam isn’t 
sleeping in his own room either.  
 
 
“My turn, hm?”  Merry folds his trousers as he always does 
before getting into bed, setting them next to Pippin’s 
balled-up ones.  “What story tonight, then?  Something 
about spiders and their webs?” he adds, half joking, 
remembering Pippin’s thoughts the night before.  
 
 
“You mean you want to tell me a love story?” Pippin asks.  
“Or something with a *moral*?” here he crosses his eyes.  
 
 
“Love *is* a moral, Pip,” Merry says as he blows out every 
candle but one.  “It’s just a little more dangerous than 
the others.”  
 
 
Pippin––who is strangely excited talking about love with 
Merry and would rather do that than hear an old story about 
some farmer who sold his only pig for some beans––decides 
to encourage the subject.  
 
 
“Dangerous?” he says.  “The way the family talks about it 
it always seemed so dull... like something you *have* to 
eventually do.”  
 
 
“No, that’s marriage,” Merry sets the candle on the side 
table and crawls into bed next to Pippin.  “Love and 
marriage are two very different things and it’s quite nice 
when they have something to do with each other, but they 
don’t always.”  
 
 
“Why d’you think that is?”  
 
 
“Hm?  I dunno Pip, I s’pose sometimes–––hey, didn’t you 
want a story?”  
 
 
“Not really, I only brought it up because I wanted to hear 
you talk,” Pippin leans his head on the older hobbit’s 
shoulder.  “But I like this better.”  
 
 
It’s nice to talk to Merry like they’re both adults, which 
in fact they are, but it often feels different due to 
Pippin’s wild and young-hearted personality.  Hearing Merry 
speak is one thing––that soft, low voice with a bit of a 
growl to everything that makes something deep in Pippin’s 
chest and belly start vibrating pleasantly and often he 
pays attention only to the way Merry’s voice sounds and 
flows and peaks here and the way he smells lying next to 
him, like he’s a creature woven from memories of beer and 
Fall’s apples and ginger and cinnamon and something golden 
and sugary that can’t be placed.  
 
 
But now, not only *hearing* Merry speak but also paying 
attention to what he’s saying, Pippin finds himself even 
more comforted than lying in Merry’s arms with a faerie 
tale and a few good memories.  And talking about love, 
well.  This is much better than hearing Merry talk about 
Farmer Gillgrub’s back problems or other round-town news.  
 
 
“Why so curious about love all of a sudden, Pippin?”  
 
 
He blinks.  “Well, I’m getting on in years now, aren’t I?  
I feel like I *ought* to know something about it by now but 
I don’t... and you do, how do you know?”  
 
 
Already Pippin feels the beginning pull of jealousy though 
as yet undirected.  
 
 
“I dunno, actually,” says Merry.  “I’ve just been thinking 
about it for a long time and watching what other people 
do... What about you, Pip?” he turns his head toward the 
younger hobbit at his side.  “Have you got a lass in mind?”  
 
 
They both feel an unpleasant lurch at the idea.  
 
 
“A lass?  Me?” Pippin gives a nervous laugh.  “No, I don’t 
even think that’s possible.”  
 
 
“What do you say that for?” Merry lifts his head.  “You’re 
a catch, you know that?  Any lass in the Shire would be 
lucky to have you.”  
 
 
“They’d be luckier to snag you, Merry.”  
 
 
“D’you say ‘snog’?!”  Merry breaks the moment, grinning and 
laughing.  
 
 
“*Mister* Brandybuck!” Pippin giggles with would-be shock.  
It occurs to both of them, that Merry’s comment is more 
something that Pippin might say.  “*Snag*, I said, you 
noodle noggined nincompoop!”  
 
 
It is just like Pippin to invent these kinds of insults 
that Merry–––possibly *only* Merry–––finds clever and 
hilarious (though Merry suspects that Pippin keeps them 
ready for when he needs them, and thinks of them in the 
between-times, like when in the bath or on rainy days).  
 
 
“’Snag’, eh?  A likely story!” he jumps up and pins the 
laughing sprite’s wrists against the pillow, meaning to 
tickle him for calling him names, but not getting farther 
than the green eyes that look up at him once Pippin 
recovers from his giggles.  “Say whatever you like, but I 
know your secret, Master Took, so be careful or I’ll...”  
 
 
He is not quite sure what to threaten, so inadvertently 
leaves it hanging.  
 
 
*I know your secret, Master Took...* the words ring in 
Pippin’s mind, though he can’t tell why.  His insides fizz 
and though he takes Merry’s comment in the joking way it 
was meant, he begins to feel all the danger of being paid 
too much attention to.  Musing, his mind goes over the 
secrets he’s had, and which (if any) had been kept from 
Merry.  Nothing from the past comes to mind, but at the 
moment, he doesn’t think he’ll share the way he’s beginning 
to tingle at how Merry is looking at him––not at just 
*being* looked at, but being looked at by Merry.  
 
 
Pippin’s mind has been thus occupied, but Merry has been 
lingering in the silence after his comment and wondering 
what Pippin is thinking.  
 
 
“Well anyway,” he grumbles, poking Pippin in the side and 
making him squirm with another giggle.  “Shouldn’t have 
called me a nincompoop.”  
 
 
“But you *are*, Merry,” says Pippin with fondness, and 
still with a small flutter of laughter.  
 
 
“Hey,” says Merry softly, looking out the window at the 
darkness, tinged with light purple from the snow.  “It’ll 
be Yule Day in a few hours.”  
 
 
“I can’t wait for you to see my present,” Pippin smiles.  
“I’ve had to keep my mouth shut about it for too long.”  
 
 
“Oh, you can tell me,” Merry says, grinning.  
 
 
“Nope,” Pippin crosses his arms.  “Not when we’re so close 
to Yule day.”  
 
 
“Well what did you get Frodo?”  
 
 
“A set of new quills, remember?  And that nice ink, in 
crimson and turquoise?  You were there when I got it.”  
 
 
“Ah.  And what did you get Sam, then?”  
 
 
“That recipe book I put together from my aunts and my mum.”  
 
 
“And what did you get Merry?”  
 
 
“Oh, this nice–––hey!” Pippin growls at Merry, eyebrows 
crinkling.  “I don’t think so.”  
 
 
Merry curses under his breath, grinning.  
 
 
“Nice try though, eh?” he says.  
 
 
“I think not!” Pippin shouts with indignance.  “You give me 
credit for being half a horse’s ass, Merry Brandybuck, but 
you *never* have me going, not even for a minute!”  
 
 
“*Oh* what a lie!” Merry cackles, jumping forward to tickle 
Pippin under his ribs.  
 
 
“Yaahhh!” Pippin squeaks and jumps away only to be caught 
when Merry throws his arms around the other hobbit and 
pulls them together, trying to keep his laugh quiet.  
Pippin struggles in vain and scowls at Merry.  Everything 
stops for him just then.  Merry’s catty eyes, as deep blue 
as the snow when the sun has just slipped under the cradle 
of the horizon, are lit with laughter and sweet passion.  
In an instant, Pippin is captivated, and he couldn’t pull 
away to save his life.  Merry notices his quarry’s sudden 
quiet.  
 
 
“What is it, Pip?” he asks.  
 
 
“Nothing...” he stammers.  “Your eyes, they’re... 
different...”  
 
 
“Different?”  
 
 
“Darker, I think... or, or lighter...”  Pippin releases a 
breath of a chuckle at his own fumbling.  
 
 
Merry doesn’t laugh; something in him has just shifted, 
making him feel as though his heart is hitting the walls of 
his chest a little harder, a little faster.  Pippin’s own 
eyes are a wide oasis of green, pulling him in like a 
deadly siren.  He tries to hold that gaze that washes 
through him, but his eyes keep trying to pull down to look 
at Pippin’s lips, which are parted the slightest bit, 
reminding Merry forcefully of Cupid’s bow.  Merry doesn’t 
dare look down, knowing that if he does he’ll notice that 
Pippin’s lips look as soft as flower petals, and that he 
will want to kiss them, to find out the sensation for 
himself.  
 
 
“We should get to bed,” says Pippin, apparently oblivious.  
“So we can wake up early for presents!”  
 
 
They climb back under the covers and blow out the final 
candles, the square of blue snowlight illuminating the 
room.  One rule of hobbit life is never to go to bed 
hungry, and both Merry and Pippin turn in tonight with 
sufficient food for thought.  
 
 
 
*   *   *   *   *  
 
 
 
“Wake up wake up wake up wake up!”  
 
 
Merry stirs at the relentless verbal percussion as Pippin 
bounces on the bed, his widest grin already in place.  
 
 
“You can’t get your Yule presents until you *wake up*!” on 
these last words, he shakes Merry vigorously and is 
rewarded when Merry’s eyes snap open.  
 
 
Merry had woken up with Pippin sitting on top of him.  My, 
what a lovely gift...  
 
 
“All right, all right, you bug, I’m up,” he grumbles, 
sitting up and rubbing his face with both hands.  
 
 
“Cracking good!” Pippin throws his arms around Merry, 
knocking him back against the pillows and undoing all the 
work it took to get him to sit up in the first place.  
 
 
The four hobbits converge beneath the evergreen, the honey 
morning sunlight pouring in through the front window.  
Frodo’s sitting room is wide and circular, with thick, warm 
rugs on the floor and the Yule tree in the corner by the 
fireplace (but, at Sam’s insistence, not too close).  
Beneath the tree are several parchment-wrapped packages of 
curious and exciting shapes.  Sam has already gotten a fire 
going in the hearth.  They each grab the packages they’d 
wrapped and set out themselves and distribute them to the 
hobbits they were meant for.  When the flurry of delivery 
has died down, they place themselves around the tree.  It 
may not be solstice tradition in the Shire, but these 
particular hobbits have made a tradition of making 
ridiculous guesses at what is in their package before 
opening it.  
 
 
“Well, it’s obviously a new tea kettle,” says Frodo with a 
grin as he holds a rectangular package from Merry.  He 
lifts away the paper to find a large, leather-bound book.  
 
 
“It’s a history of dragons,” Merry explains.  “The 
illustrations are what made me get it...”  
 
 
Frodo opens the book to find wonderfully detailed pictures, 
some taking up entire pages, some creeping over and around 
the text, dragons winding their tails around the words or 
breathing fire onto the next page.  Some are even in color, 
and Frodo can smell traces of the paint mixtures of eggs 
and berries and roots on the vellum paper.  Excitedly, 
Frodo shows it to Sam, who has never seen such 
illustrations or such colors.  
 
 
“There’s only one other place I’ve seen such a bright 
blue,” said Frodo, taking his eyes from the simmering blue 
dragon resting on the bottom of one page to look up at 
Sam’s bright eyes.  
 
 
Sam blushes deeply.  
 
 
Paper rustles and many excited “thanks” are heard around 
the room as packages are being opened, among them Sam’s 
often stunting humility, saying things like, “Don’t see as 
how I’m fit to be given gifts...” and “Now mind you, it 
ain’t as fine as it could be...” when someone opens a 
present from him.  Frodo hands Sam his gift, a small lumpy 
package.  
 
 
“I’m guessing it’s an oliphant,” Sam smiles as he holds it 
on the palm of his hand.  Shyly, he removes the paper as 
though uncovering a precious and delicate artifact.  As the 
paper falls away, Sam is left holding a small carved wooden 
figurine, painted over with a finishing glaze.  The 
figurine is an animal with enormous ears, a long trunk, and 
four long tusks above two shorter ones.  
 
 
“It *is* an oliphant!” Sam breathes, grinning.  “But Mr. 
Frodo, how did you ever...?”  
 
 
“I made it,” says Frodo with a shrug.  
 
 
Sam’s face reddens with pride and he regards his new 
treasure reverently, following with many sweet and bumbling 
thanks.  After he regains his composure, he points out a 
large rectangular package next to Frodo.  
 
 
“That’s my gift to you, Mr. Frodo,” he says.  “Now it ain’t 
much...”  
 
 
Frodo unwraps a wooden bookcase, no doubt made by the 
strong Sam himself.  Frodo’s face splits into a smile and 
he turns back to the gardener, having only time to sigh “Oh 
Sam!” before pouncing on him and enveloping him in the 
tightest of hobbit-hugs.  
 
 
Merry gives Pippin something long and thin.  
 
 
“It’s six live chickens, I’ve no doubt,” Pippin smiles, and 
unwraps it with haste.  Beneath the paper is a handsomely 
carved flute, made of wood so dark it looks like stone.  
“It’s beautiful,” he says softly.  
 
 
“Hearing Sam and Frodo over there makes me wish I’d made it 
myself,” says Merry with a self-depreciating shrug.  “You 
know me, I’m no good at carving.  But that’s ebony, that 
is, and guaranteed to make a nice bit of noise.  As if you 
need the help...” he adds with a chuckle.  
 
 
“It’s lovely, Merry,” Pippin exults with his wide Took 
smile.  “I’ll drive you mad learning to play it!”  
 
 
“I’ve no doubt of that,” Merry says as Pippin passes him 
his gift.  Merry regards the rectangular package with what 
might be a serious expression.  “It’s a new set of ear 
warmers.”  
 
 
“Merry, you must have peeked!” Pippin laughs.  
 
 
Merry rips open the paper to find a book, smaller than the 
one he gave to Frodo and a little bendy at the cover, which 
was a softer, sweet-smelling leather.  
 
 
“That’s for you to write in,” says Pippin.  “It’s not big, 
but I watched them make it... Merry, do you know they have 
*four* people to work on it together?  First someone has to 
powder the pages and then someone has to string them 
together and oh, it’s amazing to watch.”  
 
 
“This is wonderful, Pip,” Merry smiles.  “I’ve been 
thinking of writing for some time, it’s a perfect book for 
it... not too hard at the page nor brittle at the 
binding...” he reaches over and taps Pippin’s nose.  “You 
did well, young Took.  Thanks so much!”  
 
 
“Ah, don’t mention it Merry,” Pippin tries out a few notes 
on his new flute and looks at it with a contented sigh.  
“Happy solstice, old fellow.”  
 
 
*   *   *   *   *  
 
 
 
The dancing goes on for most of the night, and as Sam is no 
longer so shy (possibly aided by a few steins of foaming 
ale) he allows himself to be swung about by a jovial Frodo 
as Merry and Pippin play the flute and the fiddle.  Sam’s 
cooking is particularly sumptuous, and with four hobbits in 
the house there is plenty to be had of it.  Everyone 
manages at least eight helpings of everything.  The dancing 
continues until well after midnight, and eventually even 
Merry and Pippin’s hobbity exuberance is tired out, and all 
four trip off to bed with many hugs, thanks, and pleasant 
murmurings of what a lovely Yule they’ve had.  Sam and 
Frodo slip into Frodo’s room, and Merry and Pippin, with a 
wink at one another, retire to Merry’s room.  
 
 
“Ehm, Merry,” says Pippin the moment they’re in the room, 
as he’s been waiting half the night to get him on his own.  
“I didn’t want to show you in front of Sam and Frodo, but I 
got you another present.”  
 
 
“Aw Pip...”  
 
 
“It’s not much,” says Pippin, but Merry pays no attention 
to that as hobbits must always abuse whatever they’re 
giving, no matter what it is.  “I wanted to give it to you 
on your own,” comes Pippin’s voice from inside his satchel, 
his entire head buried inside it.  “It might have looked 
mean if I gave you two presents and everyone else got 
one...”  
 
 
Merry sits on the bed, smiling at Pippin.  He loves when 
Pippin fusses over little things like this.  At last, he 
emerges with a very lumpy package.  He tries in vain to 
squash it into a nice shape before presenting it, but gives 
up and chews on his bottom lip as he stands in front of 
Merry, shifting from foot to foot.  
 
 
“I made it,” he thrusts the package at its recipient.  “So 
don’t you dare laugh...”  
 
 
“I wouldn’t,” says Merry, opening the paper to find a 
thick, fuzzy mound in alternating stripes of blue and 
lighter blue.  He pulls it out and it unrolls onto the 
floor: a scarf.  A lovely warm perfectly Merry-sized scarf.  
 
 
“Oh Pippin...”  
 
 
“Now I know it’s not the best,” Pippin says, looking at the 
floor.  “Pimpernel taught me how and you know Nel’s 
bollocks at knitting...”  
 
 
“Pip,” Merry smiles, crinkling his eyebrows and setting a 
hand on the other’s shoulder.  “It’s the best scarf I’ll 
ever see, and one of the best solstice presents I’ve ever 
received.  Not least of all because you made it.  No 
funning, you *made* this, Pip?” he holds it up, examining 
it.  “You made something other than a mess?  I’ll be the 
only hobbit in the Shire with a blue scarf, and everyone 
will look on me with envy.”  
 
 
“I used blue dye because it’s the prettiest, and the rarest 
I could get,” he shrugs, muttering, “Matches your eyes and 
all...”  
 
 
“My my,” Merry smiles.  “That was almost sentimental, I’m 
astonished.”  
 
 
“I can well be sentimental!” Pippin straightens, 
challenged.  
 
 
“I don’t know about that...”  
 
 
“That there is sentimental,” he jabs his finger at the 
scarf.  “I made that because I love you.”  
 
 
Merry’s heart tumbles at the words.  He holds Pippin’s 
scarf as if that will ground him, and keep him tethered to 
the Earth where otherwise he would go spinning out into the 
sky.  I love you is nothing.  Hobbits say it all the time, 
of course.  But somehow hearing it from Pippin made it feel 
like more.  
 
 
“Thank you so much,” he says quietly.  “I’ll wear it 
daily.  Even in the summer.”  
 
 
“Even in the summer?  My dear old ass!”  
 
 
“Even in the summer, sir, I’ll be as proud as I am 
sweltering,” he grins.  “Now I wish I’d gotten something 
extra for you...”  
 
 
“Nonsense,” Pippin smiles.  “All I need is to not be alone 
on Yule.”  
 
 
“I hope you never will be,” says Merry and as he looks at 
Pippin his heart feels like it’s swelling to three times 
its accepted size.  
 
 
He takes in the curve of Pippin’s jaw, the bright eyes that 
haven’t changed throughout all their years together, the 
dangerous incurvations of his perfect lips; he longs to 
have that face, to hold it in his hands and catch on to all 
the feelings and memories and discoveries and follies and 
sensations so new, yet so so old.  His mind races like a 
falcon over the years of memories, firesides and skinned 
knees and daring apple heists and summers in the sloping 
fields when they were entangled and scary stories that 
shouldn’t have been told so late at night and beds just big 
enough for both of them and falls where the smells and 
tastes and sights were all so crisp and winters just like 
this, where they were together, just like this.  Merry’s 
courage rises and drains, rises and drains, like waves 
rushing over his cupped hands, trying desperately to hold 
in the falling water before being refilled when the next 
wave approaches.  How can he ever keep everything he’s 
trying to hold on to?  His heart is too full, it’s all too 
much...  
 
 
He presses his lips together, blinking at Pippin.  
 
 
“Pippin,” he sits forward, his fingers brushing over the 
other’s hand.  
 
 
Pippin turns his head to look at Merry with an encouraging 
smile.  The moment Merry finds himself run through by those 
bright, magnificent eyes his voice is sucked from his 
throat and the wave of courage that surged up pulls back.  
What *is* he doing?  What impulse is he acting on?  He 
won’t know until it’s over, and by then it will be too late 
to use his judgment.  
 
 
“What is it, Merry?”  Pippin smiles and raises his eyebrows 
in question.  Merry’s intense blue eyes are riveted to his, 
and there’s that feeling again of being entirely naked in 
front of him, entirely open to heartbreak.  There is a draw 
there, oh yes, something is pulling Pippin closer, 
compelling him to do something.  *Do something.*  He 
reaches forward and brushes away one of Merry’s gilded 
curls with a tender smile.  *That wasn’t enough,* says the 
voice in his head, but Pippin is shaky and satisfied by the 
feel of that silky hair against the backs of his fingers, 
and the effect it has on Merry is curious.  Merry closes 
his eyes and a shiver seems to pass through him.  Pippin 
watches him, repeating his previous question.  “What is 
it?”  
 
 
“I don’t know,” Merry whispers.  
 
 
He raises his eyes once again to Pippin’s and forces 
himself to move forward, placing a kiss on Pippin’s lips.  
 
 
Merry thinks of flower petals, Pippin thinks of pillows, 
both of them feel a powerful stirring deep in their chest; 
something has been lying in wait all their lives, and has 
just been shaken awake.  
 
 
Merry sits back and blinks at Pippin, unable to move any 
further.  Pippin stares back for a moment, then his lips 
widen to an inspired smile.  
 
 
“Oh, do that again, do it again!” he cries joyfully, 
throwing his arms around Merry’s neck and knocking him back 
against the mattress.  
 
 
Merry feels a fire growing inside him, made wilder by the 
weight of Pippin on top of him, all the right pressure in 
all the right places and he wraps his arms around Pippin, 
keeping his hands locked together at the base of Pippin’s 
spine where they fit so well.  Pippin’s lips attack Merry, 
searing whatever skin they can find and Merry feels as 
though they may leave burns wherever they touch.  At last 
they find Merry’s lips again and whole worlds are 
discovered in this second, longer kiss.  Just as Pippin 
pouts when upset or in the midst of some tomfoolery, so 
does he pout when he kisses and Merry is undone in an 
instant.  
 
 
They move and bend and roll, each on top for a moment.  It 
is as if they can’t make a wrong move, everything they do 
feels better than the last, as if they are each other’s 
puzzle pieces.  
 
 
“Merry...” Pippin breathes into Merry’s mouth, his sweet 
breath mingling with the other’s, tasting of spiced cider.  
“I think... I love you.”  
 
 
Merry stops, eyes closed, as he freezes on the mattress, 
Pippin arranged on top of him.  
 
 
“Say that again?” he says in a low voice, just above a 
whisper.  
 
 
“I love you,” Pippin bites his bottom lip.  
 
 
“Once more, Pip,” Merry smiles faintly.  
 
 
“I love you!” Pippin laughs.  
 
 
“That’s the best thing I’ve ever heard,” Merry sits up, 
embracing Pippin again and kissing him.  “I love you 
back...”  
 
 
“Oh jolly good!” Pippin hugs him tightly.  
 
 
“It’s crazy,” says Merry.  “But I’ve *been* loving you 
back...”  
 
 
“Not nearly enough!” Pippin cackles, kissing him with more 
insistence.  
 
 
They fall back onto the bed in a glorious tangle of limbs, 
a sizzling urgency flashing up between them.  Merry’s 
breath disappears as he feels Pippin’s fingers rapidly 
undressing him, then comes back to him in deep gasps as 
Pippin lays his lips on the newly exposed skin.  The 
younger hobbit’s warm hands explore the planes and dips and 
curves of Merry’s body like wildfire and Merry covers his 
face with his hands, trying to hold back whatever it is 
inside him that’s fighting to get out.  Pippin slides on 
top of Merry, and there’s that pressure again.  Pippin’s 
hands leave the other’s torso to tug at his wrists.  
 
 
“You can’t do a thing like that, Merry, look at me,” he 
commands in a soft, shaky voice.  He pulls Merry’s hands 
from his face, to find eyes shut tight and lips parted with 
heavy breath.  
 
 
“Look at me,” the sprite demands again.  
 
 
Merry opens his eyes to be shocked by Pippin’s unique 
beauty.  Pippin leans down to kiss him, and as he does 
Merry becomes dimly aware that all of his clothing has been 
removed but his underclothes, which do not hide Merry’s 
reaction to Pippin.  He slides his hands around Pippin’s 
back and yanks the other’s shirt over his head, parting 
their lips for only a moment, and rearranging Pippin’s hair 
in a spray of unruly curls.  He sets a hand on the back of 
Pippin’s head and turns him over to lie beneath him on the 
featherbed.  He takes a moment to look at Pippin, smiling 
with bated breath, half naked beneath him.  Never has he 
seen him like this, and never has he wanted so badly to do 
something about it.  
 
 
As he slides his hands down Pippin’s sides to the top of 
his breeches, a high breath of a gasp comes from Pippin, 
and Merry immediately longs to hear it again.  He slips the 
breeches and underclothes off, taking his time and making 
sure that Pippin feels every move his hands make.  Merry 
throws the clothes by the side of the bed and surveys his 
companion, prone and panting on the quilts, his wrists 
thrown up by his shoulders, and his face turned into the 
pillow.  Those gorgeous lips are open, eyes closed, and he 
is immaculate, glowing, entirely naked.  
 
 
Merry sets his hands on Pippin’s waist, and presses his 
lips into the curve where his hip meets his stomach, mere 
inches away from where all of Pippin’s tension is focused.  
Pippin releases a startled “ah!” and Merry smiles against 
his skin.  
 
 
As Merry’s lips inch the slightest bit closer, Pippin 
throws a hand over his mouth, burying the other in Merry’s 
soft curls.  Wave after wave of dizziness washes over him, 
and all at Merry’s lips being so near.  He feels as though 
he could unravel already, right now, at just one more move 
from Merry, no matter what it is.  He writhes beneath those 
scorching lips, arching his back and making tiny whimpering 
noises in the back of his throat, which Merry soaks up like 
sunshine.  One inch closer with his lips, and Pippin bites 
his fingers, unable to keep from moaning, “Oh Merry... oh 
Merry...” with desperation.  His hands move mindlessly now, 
clenching and unclenching, grabbing the sheets beneath him, 
covering his face, diving into Merry’s hair.  
 
 
Merry lifts his head, taking his lips away.  Pippin cries 
out in anguish, only to suck in another breath when those 
lips are replaced on the inside of a feverish thigh.  
 
 
“*Mercy*, Meriadoc, don’t torture me!”  
 
 
Merry chuckles, his warm breath ghosting over Pippin’s 
skin.  Merry could do this for hours, if only to hear those 
noises made again and again, and his name on that breath, 
with such urgency.  He draws his hands down from Pippin’s 
hips to gently open his legs a bit more.  Merry’s lips are 
set further up, and dangerously close.  Any closer, Pippin 
feels, and he will burst.  To his agony, Merry sits back 
instead of going further.  
 
 
“Are you certain of this?” Merry asks.  
 
 
“*Sweet* mother of creation, Master Brandybuck, what a time 
to ask!”  Pippin pants, speaking through his teeth.  “Of 
*course* I’m certain, but *if you keep me waiting I’ll 
never survive!*”  
 
 
Merry smiles.  Pippin is pressed hard against the pillow, 
his whole body flushed and trembling, both hands clutching 
the pillow so hard that his hands are white.  
 
 
Crouching low over his prey, Merry shocks Pippin into a 
quickly muffled shout when Pippin feels a hot mouth over 
the source of his near-panicking tension.  Merry is 
astounded by Pippin’s taste, a mirror of his smell, like 
fire and fall’s apples.  Pippin’s head swims, his eyes 
opening and closing, and his breath catching in his chest.  
He needs to be swallowed whole, and as Merry moves further, 
faster, he feels as if this is just what’s happening.  In 
moments, Pippin has quickened and he throws his head back 
with a final cry as he explodes from within, colors 
flashing before his closed eyes.  After being certain that 
Pippin is through, Merry sits back, smiling at the way 
Pippin has collapsed against the mattress, his chest rising 
and falling with exhausted breath.  
 
 
“My... my goodness...”  says Pippin.  
 
 
Merry lies next to him, stroking hair back from Pippin’s 
face.  He can see tiny irises of sweat at Pippin’s temples 
and brushes them away, then curls an arm around his 
divinely naked pixie.  Pippin  buries his face in Merry’s 
neck, breathing over his skin.  Once he gets his breath 
back to a steady cadence, he presses a few soft kisses to 
the smooth, golden skin of Merry’s neck and jaw.  Pippin 
lays one hand on the other side of Merry’s neck and as he 
lifts himself to lie on top of him, the other hand settles 
on Merry’s chest.  His kisses intensify now, covering 
Merry’s neck and collarbone, eliciting short breaths.  
Pippin’s tongue darts out, tasting the honey of Merry’s 
skin, and very quickly driving Merry to distraction.  
 
 
“Pippin,” he says in no more than a whisper.  “You’re going 
to make me...”  
 
 
Slowly, Pippin sits up, looking down into Merry’s sky-blue 
eyes with a smile that Merry had never seen before.  It 
conveys trust, mischief, love, and a dangerous desire that 
excites Merry more than his kisses.  Keeping his gaze, 
Pippin slides off of Merry and onto the bed beside him, his 
closest hand drifting down the length of Merry’s torso to 
the top of his very inhibiting undergarments.  Merry’s eyes 
widen with a soft cry and he begins to sit up, but Pippin 
sets a hand on Merry’s chest, shaking his head with a soft 
“tsk.”  Slowly he pushes Merry back against the bed, 
reveling in the anxiety plain on Merry’s face.  
 
 
“You’re not getting shy, are you?” Pippin asks in a low 
voice that makes Merry tremble.  
 
 
Merry has no breath to answer because at that moment, 
Pippin’s hand returns to Merry’s waistband and in a moment, 
the underclothes are on the floor.  Pippin makes no secret 
of staring.  Merry is beautiful in the firelight, almost 
like a painting that can be touched.  
 
 
“Oh Merry,” Pippin says.  “I should undress you more 
often.  I think I shall make a habit of it...”  
 
 
Pippin reaches forward to brush the backs of his fingers 
against Merry’s arousal and as he does, Merry cries out, 
covering his face once more.  Pippin notices this, and 
takes his hand from Merry, pushing Merry’s hands away and 
uncovering his face.  
 
 
“I don’t think so,” says Pippin.  “Let me see your eyes, my 
love.”  
 
 
Merry is reluctant to obey, but Pippin sets a hand on 
Merry’s face, which makes his shivering die down, and he 
opens his eyes.  Pippin smiles, brushing Merry’s cheek.  
 
 
“There,” he says.  
 
 
Merry’s tension only increases when Pippin’s hand 
disappears.  After a moment of breathless anticipation, 
Merry feels Pippin’s hand on him and he cries out, covering 
his face once more.  With his free hand, Pippin uncovers 
Merry’s face again, forcing him to meet his eyes.  Merry’s 
cheeks flush a deep red, but he can’t make himself look 
away.  As Pippin’s hand moves its own silent dance, holding 
and caressing Merry and bringing him nearly to tears, 
Merry’s eyes sometimes close or roll back, unable to keep 
that contact with Pippin’s startling and sincere gaze.  
Should he make the instinctual move to cover his face 
again, Pippin will only hold him down and keep his eyes as 
he increases the pressure that takes Merry’s breath away.  
 
 
“Pip... Pippin...”  he moans helplessly, feeling his body 
tighten, and seem to grow as his urgency mounts.  
 
 
Pippin’s strokes intensify and grow faster, his eyes still 
locked on Merry’s face, taking in every reaction and every 
sigh.  Merry writhes, pushing himself up to Pippin’s hand 
as his breaths grow faster and then, with a final gasp, he 
releases.  The tension drains from him, leaving a tired and 
satisfied glow.  
 
 
Pippin looks down at his good work and reaches over to the 
nightstand to grab a towel and clean them both off with.  
Merry lies entirely still, breathing.  When Pippin is 
through, he sits back on the bed, smiling.  Merry holds out 
a hand, gesturing that Pippin should lie next to him, which 
he does, curling into Merry’s side.  He turns his head and 
looks out the window into the deep purple of the outdoors.  
The sky looks frosted in a way, and as Pippin looks closer 
he sees that it has started to snow again, fat flakes 
spinning down onto the already thick blanket outside.  He 
sits up and lifts the covers from beneath them, holding 
them open for Merry to slip into.  Inside their warm cocoon 
and deliciously naked, they hold each other close, Pippin 
settling his head on Merry’s chest as Merry buries kisses 
in the other’s hair.  
 
 
“Oh, but I love you, Pip,” says Merry in that low bedtime 
voice that Pippin has always adored.  
 
 
“I love you too,” he says with a gleeful sigh.  “This is a 
lovely solstice present, Merry.”  
 
 
“Aye, you’d better watch out next year,” Merry grins.  
 
 
They giggle together as the fire crackles and snow dances 
down from the purple sky, its secrets blown in on the 
wind.  Outside, the wind passes in frozen circles, pushing 
up against the windowpanes.  But inside, winter never felt 
so warm.  
 
*   *   *   *   *