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His sisters are surrounding him, their colorful skirts pooled on the hearthrug, and he leans against Pimpernel and breathes in the scent of blackberries and pie crust in her hair as he watches her embroider - the hoop is his mamma’s wooden one and the needle moves rhythmically as it weaves flowers and butterflies into the aida cloth. Pervinca pokes his side and scolds him and Pearl scolds Vinca, and somewhere his father is laughing. The fire is warm… he can’t remember the last time he was so warm… and then, there it is, an oddly bitter taste in his mouth that he knows to be grief. But how could it be grief? He had nothing to grieve for… here in the Shire, surrounded by his family. Content. Safe.
Pervinca’s poking becomes more insistent - he tries to smack her hand away but he can’t quite move. He’s awfully sleepy…
“Pip!” Merry jabs him awake and he stares up at his cousin, who is ruffled and tired-looking, with mud in his hair. “Wake up, Pip.”
The dream shatters - the feeling of summer and safety - and Pippin shakes it from his shoulders and blinks the sleep away, then sets about packing his bedroll.