“There is no real going back. Though I may come to the Shire, it will not seem the same, for I shall not be the same.”  

Frodo, Homeward Bound

It was in his dreams again.

The long approach, the beckoning edge, the soft scrape of the pebble as he pulled it into his palm.

He looked up to see if he had been noticed, the cold at his fingertips welling like drawn blood into his face.  Gandalf debated with Boromir and Aragorn. Legolas meditated, Sam bustled, and Merry became preoccupied with his own pack. Frodo ignored them all.
His eyes then returned to the dreadful well, questions flitting through his mind as pure emotion rather than thought. The unknowing had nagged him since they entered this terrible room.

And in the dream, while his heart hammered for his muscles to stop, he watched his small hand, a hand he could scarcely call his own, reach out over the abyss …

…and release the pebble. It fell in a trail of regret.

And this time, Gandalf did not hear the cold impact of stone on water, nor did the wizard yank him to his feet and scold him.  This time, the sound itself reached up ....

and up...

and up...

He squirmed, caught between hard fear and harder fascination, tried to push away from the edge, muscles thick like treacle.  The echo became soft lights burbling from tragic depths, roiling lights of echo ... pulsing stronger ...

Pippin felt his mouth drop in wordless terror, unable to breathe or sigh.  In the rising bile of dismay, he felt the approach of a familiar question:

Who are you?

***

Perhaps it was the glowing colors of the sunset behind the mountains where Minas Tirith was braced that gave Peregrin Took pause for thought, or the idle chit chat between Frodo, Gandalf, and King Aragorn.   The rim of the sun hovered like molten gold over the edge of the horizon and Pippin blinked.  A moment later, the last drop of daylight left.  The air turned a rarified shade of twilight as the remaining beams hanging in the air grew cold and blue, causing him to glance nervously at the wretched outline of the mountains surrounding Mordor.  Even though the Ring was gone, night still held a certain horror.

He had led his friends to the embrasure overlooking the Pelennor Fields, scorched and marked as it was by black smears of Sauron’s offal.  Pippin and Beregond took refuge here on his first day in the City, perched as it was above the spread of the city, its posture like an eagle content with its brood, now that the Dark Lord had been defeated. 
Consuming death had shrouded the world then, yet he and the boy had laughed.  Now he sat in a time of great joy and all he could think about were the infernal dreams.

Pippin wished the others had come along, but Gimli had excused himself to the armory, Legolas to the remaining elves; and Pippin could only guess where Merry might have gone.  On this rare occasion not even Sam had accompanied Frodo, choosing to putter about in the gardens of Minas Tirith, offer advice among people that still called them Halflings – even though Merry and Pippin were the size of boys come of age.  This time, it was only he and Frodo out on the ledge and even though he laughed at Gandalf’s laughter and teased Aragorn as they had in the old days, Pippin could tell: Frodo had something on his mind.

Turning to stand on the bench that was propped against the balcony sill, Pippin did what he learned to do on that first evening and stood tiptoe; out of the corner of his eye, he saw Frodo do the same, so that they were both resting their arms upon the ledge and gazing out toward Minas Ithil across the Anduin river, an ancient city hunched, defeated, forlorn.

Like Frodo, was Pippin’s sudden revelation - he could see it in every line of his cousin’s face.  He remembered what Sam had said, that the old Frodo that they knew and loved was "returned," something meant as an encouragement, to be sure; but the assurance seemed to ring false for Pippin.  He’d never been as close to Frodo as Sam or Merry were, but close enough to see that the Frodo he used to know had been long lost in the wastes surrounding Mordor.

Does Frodo still see it, the Ring in its fiery glare? In moments of unguarded silence, Pippin could almost see confirmation of that; but then, someone would pick up the conversation and the flashes of pain were lost.

He suppressed a sudden shudder, the images of his dream returning unbidden. It had been weeks since he had dreamt anything memorable, and now, lately, every night had been the same one.  The dream was as livid as anything he had experienced since uncovering the Orthanc stone, the palantir from Isengard, nightmares strong enough to evoke waking fears, fears that the victories over Mordor should have dispelled. He should be happy. He should be at rest. What is wrong with me?

“Pip?” Frodo’s face was tilted in such a way as to suggest that he recognized an unusual mood. There had been a few days of uncertainty after their reunion, each one of them trying hard to reconcile the hobbit they had known before with the hobbit that remained. Whether it was the long influence of the Ring or the blessed nature of their Elven friends, they discovered Frodo had developed a knack for honing in on more sensitive thoughts.

Pippin turned on one of his brighter smiles, more out of self-defense than welcome. He loved Frodo too much right now to break the thin skin of peace.

“Minas Tirith is just as Boromir said it would be, in the sunset,” he answered, then regretted it, for Frodo’s face blanched slightly at the mention of the former Walker. Frodo covered it quickly with his old amused expression, one he always seemed to have on his face when dealing with his youngest companion.  Pippin used to think it was condescending, but in the joy of finding all four of them alive, he felt the expression was now the most wonderful thing he could see on his cousin’s face.

“Yes, I remember his description. I remember wanting to come to Minas Tirith. That he wasn't with us when we finally arrived makes it that much more ...” he floundered.

“More beautiful?”

“I think more bittersweet, but yes, beautiful, too.”

“In a way,” Pippin replied. “I am glad he did not see it when the horrors of Mordor crossed the River.” He paused, not wanting to sound plaintive, so he added, “I am glad for many things.” He knew he did not sound it, though.

“Then why so glum? I have never seen you like this,” Frodo pressed, voice quiet. Gandalf and Aragorn had moved away, oblivious to the hobbits.

“I’m not sure what I was thinking,” Pippin began, realizing that to tell Frodo of his dreams was asking for further analysis and he was not ready for that. “Perhaps something Bilbo said Gandalf had told him at the end of his quest, about how it could not possibly be our sole ambitions that brought us where we are. That there is some greater destiny involved. I always used to wonder at that.”

“Sam said something very similar when we were in Mordor. It helped me a great deal,” Frodo said, nodding.

“I think, perhaps, I am still wondering what I have to do with it all, with all that I have done.” There I go. It would come out, anyway. 

“Besides outwit an orc, converse with trees, rummage through wizard’s belongings, and defend the stricken son of a Steward? Not much at all, I would say!” Frodo jested, his laugh a bit startling.

“I did not tell you everything yet.”

“No, but Gandalf did.”

It was Pippin’s turn to wince.

“He said …” Frodo hesitated, “he said that you saw Sauron, too.”

“It won’t go from me!” Pippin burst.  “After all that has happened, it keeps …”  He clamped his lips shut.  He was not going to let himself fall into a childish whine.

Frodo rubbed thoughtfully, unconsciously, at the nub where his index-finger had been.

“You know,” he admitted, voice lower now, almost wistful. “I can still feel it, like an echo of what had been.”  It was on Pippin’s tongue to ask if it were the Ring or the finger he referenced, but Frodo went on, “it is almost as if it is a ghost that shouts for attention.”

Something inside Pippin’s stomach flopped. 

“We’ll never be the same,” he stammered, without thinking.  He wanted to believe Sam was right about his master, but the sorrow behind the words was too close to his own dreams.

Like a sharp glimmer of sunlight, a very loving expression spread across Frodo’s face.  He placed his arms about Pippin’s shoulders and sighed.

“No, Pip. But see, it is the end of the Third Age, and the echoes will die away … not because you have forgotten, but because you and Merry will direct them elsewhere.”

“What destiny will that have?”

“You don’t know yet?”

Pippin gave a short laugh.

“I thought I would know, but it seems …” here his voice grew rusty.  He couldn’t explain it if he tried now.  The dreams tied him up, somehow.

“Ah, let’s see.  What destiny will Peregrin Took, son of the Thain, child of the Shire, what will he have, after all that has been done?  That I cannot say,” Frodo replied, his voice comforting.  “I know what you are thinking, Pip.  Of your family, the trust that has been put upon you.  Pippin.”  Frodo turned him so that they faced each other a hand on either shoulder.  “I see a brave and noble hobbit,” he said. “One worthy of the title of Thain.  And that is the destiny I am looking forward to seeing when we get back to the Shire.”

Pippin turned away, tears rising in his eyes.  Frodo’s ability to see past his words provoked his gratitude and he could only fall silent.  He needed to think this one out before he spoke.