Work Text:
Bag End was quiet, the curtains drawn, the candlelight dim, the fire dying. Rosie, with her belly high, was in bed, and the tea cups and kettle they could leave morning.
Pippin took the Sting off the wall, held it in his hand, and noticed with surprise that it had been dulled. Sam had had both his weapons dulled as soon as Elanor could walk, and bundled one of them in a box in the bottom of the storage room, too. The Sting hung above the fireplace still, high enough, they all hoped, to be safe from little fingers.
Pippin caressed the fey curve of the sword, admired its alien beauty, and his eyes grew distant. When he looked back at Sam they were full of Frodo.
Sam stood up and walked over to him, took the Sting, and held the tip against Pippin's neck. It was a dull, lifeless act, not a threat but a communication, a memory. He could see Pippin remembered, as his eyes grew larger and his cheeks grew flushed.
'Show me how you used to kiss him,' he said in a dark voice, and Sam did.
There were such a few things left to them.