My Pippin, he talks in his sleep. Perhaps he always has, I can’t know for certain, but he has ever since we’ve been married. Most often it is bits of nonsense, sometimes snips of songs. Sometimes he wakes us both with laughing. Little Faramir once heard us both laughing, and when he came to investigate found us asleep. When Pip heard that he took my hand and said ‘Diamond my lass, that is why I married you.’ All other times he tells folks it’s because I make the best mushroom soup in the Four Farthings. Pippin is nothing if not a sweet-talker.
And so we’ve lived for many years in laughter, watching the green of the Shire grow unchanging. My memories are all of starry nights, happy songs, good harvests, and raised flagons. Even before he became Took and Thain, such parties my dear would have! He and Merry would dress up in their Eastern finery and have feasting all night. When those two are together I feel as if I have two husbands, or perhaps two mischievous Tween sons. One is never far from the other, to be sure. At least now they do not get into so much trouble as when they were lads. I still care for them both, Merry has no wife to look after him. He’s in Tuckborough so often he keeps a trunk of his own clothes here. I don’t mind, how could I? Folks say that Merry and I are so much alike, I think Pippin surrounds himself with those that complement him best. He is smarter than he seems, my Pip.
But they both say I worry too much. Look at Rosie, they say. The Mayor’s wife, and thirteen children besides. And Samwise, always with that sliver of his heart somewhere else. But even after they both kiss my cheek and laugh at my blushing, sometimes the look they exchange makes me worry all the more. It is not often that I catch them remembering, or hurting, but the Shire cannot erase such a history as theirs. There are some things that I can never know, though I know all the versions of the great tale. The tavern version, with flourishes and exaggerations. The version he tells to Faramir, with a proud glint in his eye. The quiet version that only the three of them can understand, with long silences, private grins, and hushed tones of respect. But I also know the whispered version that Pippin sometimes tells me late at night when we’re alone. About how afraid and in doubt he was. It was so long ago that the memories of many summers dull the pain and fear, and it does not often intrude on waking life.
But sometimes he talks in his sleep. It doesn’t always wake me, anymore, but sometimes I hear him whispering to Frodo or Gandalf, murmuring “Eagles!” or “Merry?” I used to wake him, to hold him close and listen as he told of the city on fire, the dark tombs, the crushing troll, the Eye of Flame. Now I let him sleep, and he does not remember in the morning.
My Pippin is never solemn, never grim. As Thain he must sometimes be serious, but there is always that indomitable cheer that wells up inside, that cannot help but spring out and envelop all those around him. Even at roaring parties I’ll catch his eye (a few inches above the crowd, of course) and the tiniest wink will set me to laughing. He is never solemn, this we have always shared.
But there are some things we cannot share. I think that someday I will go East with him, to see the city and lords he speaks of, to see who he becomes when he is there. But another part of me wishes only to stay here, to keep him from dark memories. This is the land he saved, the land he loves. I have never been outside the Shire, and it is hard for me to think past next year’s harvest, or if Faramir will ever ask his Goldilocks to wed.
And sometimes I wish that he had never become the grand hero that he has, that he would simply be Peregrin, husband of Diamond, hobbit of the Shire. He would still be my Pip without his grand tales and great height; he would still have his laughter and his songs, but no cause to talk in his sleep.