Fanfiction (gulp)
Yes, I've been quiet here. I have been writing, but not the slash parody. In fact, for some odd reason, I've written...actual fanfiction. Het, to be specific. I'll post it, but will be standing by to mark it "private" if the cowardly mood strikes me.
By the way, feel free to let me know if I made any totally unnecessary deviations from canon. I get mixed up sometimes between book and movie.
The Last Night in the World
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Eowyn/Merry
Summary: On the ride to Minas Tirith, two lonely soldiers of Rohan take comfort in each other.
Disclaimer: I'm just rehashing various pieces of 'The Lord of the Rings' by J.R.R. Tolkien, with slightly more sex than he originally included. No disrespect is intended to the Professor or his work - in fact, quite the contrary. Also, there are lots of canon lines included or adapted in this story, from movie and book both. I do not claim credit for those either.
* * *
They watch, two small figures in a sea of tall folk, as the Lady Eowyn swings her flower-strewn hair over her shoulder and kisses Faramir. The crowd cheers. The newly married couple laughs, and Eowyn throws a flower, underhand and accurate, in Gimli's direction. He makes a show of being flattered and embarrassed, but grins in triumph up at Legolas.
Pippin, beside Merry, is laughing and cheering as well. Merry claps along with the rest, but his smile is melancholy as he watches the bride and groom. Pippin elbows his friend. "Where's your mind off to, Merry?"
Merry gives him a brief glance, and resumes watching the couple as they make their way out into the crowd, where they clasp hands, exchange curtseys and bows, and accept kisses. "Just wondering what kind of cake they'll be serving us; that's all," Merry answers, but he sounds more wistful than the topic of cake should call for.
"Spice, I would imagine," Pippin speculates. "Have you seen the crates of the lovely spices they import here? We'll take some home with us. That'll cheer you up, won't it?" His voice has become anxious. He can't easily forget how cold Merry's arm felt, wounded by that Nazgul, and how long it took him to recover. Pippin hopes Merry isn't relapsing, hopes he will laugh and become his vibrant self again.
"I'm not in danger, Pip," Merry assures. He is still watching Faramir and Eowyn; they are moving closer to the hobbits now. "There's a lot to think about these days, that's all."
"Well, that's true," Pippin has to admit.
The bride and groom are upon them.
"Master hobbits," says Eowyn, and there is a catch in her voice.
Faramir kneels, face-to-face with them; Eowyn sinks down at his side. Pippin, for a moment, is too stunned to speak.
"We each owe our lives to one of you," Faramir says. "There is scarce anything we can say or do to repay you, except to promise you lifelong friendship, and any wish we can grant you."
Merry seems tongue-tied. Eowyn's fond eyes move from one hobbit's face to the other. She is smiling, and on her young cheekbones the sun touches light freckles, which Pippin has never noticed before.
"The friendship of a pair so noble and gracious as you is payment enough," Pippin says, with his most gallant bow. "We wish you the greatest happiness!"
"All the best," Merry echoes, bowing beside him.
"My dear friends," Eowyn murmurs, and before Pippin knows what is happening, she is kissing each of them, on the forehead, with a hand in their curls, and then the couple is rising and leaving them.
Pippin dusts off his waistcoat proudly, watching them go to Frodo and Sam, for whom even deeper bows are produced. "Well. I daresay even spice cake won't seem exciting compared to that!"
"I wonder if she'll ever tell him." Merry's words are indistinct, far away.
Pippin looks at him. "Tell him what?"
"About...before she met him."
Pippin looks at Faramir and Eowyn again, who are still in the midst of thanking a flustered Sam and Frodo. He frowns. "Her childhood? Of course she would. Why shouldn't she?"
"No. Not that." Merry sighs.
It dawns on Pippin - or at least he thinks it does. "Her feelings for Strider, you mean? Oh, I hadn't thought of that. It could be awkward, couldn't it?"
"He knows that, Pippin," Merry scolds. "If you know it, and you didn't even ride with us, then surely he's heard by now."
"Then I'm sorry, Merry," says Pippin, affronted, "but I don't know what on earth you're talking about. Plain language always suited you best, you know."
Merry's gaze flicks to Pippin's, then turns to rove across the crowd. "I shouldn't have spoken. Not here."
"Merry, tell me."
"Not here, I said."
"Very well, then." Pippin takes Merry's arm and guides him away, ducking under the elbows and capes of big people as they wind a course through the courtyard of Minas Tirith and out into a quieter street. They reach a stone bench under a tree. They are up on the highest level of the city, and if they stand on tiptoe they can see over the parapet to the fields stretching beyond the gates, hundreds of feet below. But they are content to turn their backs on those fields for now, having seen quite enough of them; and they sit on the bench, where they can look up at the mountain-tops instead.
Pippin waits for Merry to speak, though it takes all his patience and self-discipline not to ask him again.
"She and I..." Merry finally says. "Well."
"You rode together," Pippin suggests. "You became friends." Merry is gazing upon the mountain, and doesn't react to either of these statements, as if they're insufficient. "You were in love with her?" Pippin guesses, saying it as soon as he thinks it, his voice seeking higher pitch in surprise.
That earns him a guilty glance. Then Merry bows his head and picks at a healing scratch on his hand, which lies listless on his lap.
"Oh, Merry," Pippin says, pity blooming in his heart.
"It wasn't just a stupid fancy," Merry defends, his eyes still lowered. "She felt for me as well. At least enough to...to get us both through it. Through that war, that ride."
"I'm sure she did," Pippin soothes. "I can tell she has great affection for you."
"But you don't understand. We actually -" Merry shuts his lips and glances around. "I shouldn't say. She's a lady, not to mention a queen - or near enough."
"Yes, and I'm your favorite cousin, so tell me before I -" Suddenly Pippin takes in a breath, understanding. "You and she..." he says faintly.
Merry's chin lowers in a firm nod.
"Oh, Merry," Pippin repeats, this time with a laugh of wonder dancing through his voice. "How in the world?"
* * *
Merry first saw her at Dunharrow, in the faint light of dusk, when she rode out to greet them. It had surprised him, a woman - and a very young woman at that - wearing armor, and riding like a man, and carrying a sword. It also surprised him that after a greeting to Theoden - whom she addressed as "Uncle" - she turned her horse and came directly to him, to Merry.
Rather, she came directly to Strider, whose horse Merry happened to be sharing. Ah.
It was clear she and Strider knew each other, from the way they entered into conversation. "Lady Eowyn," he called her; "Lord Aragorn," she called him at first, slipping into just plain "Aragorn" a bit later. Strider introduced Merry, and the Lady gave him a grave nod, examining him with interest but respect. She said, "Well met, Meriadoc," and did not give him the demeaning smile that big people often did, the one that made him feel like an exotic pet brought round for their amusement. He liked her at once for that.
He also thought it strange, as she led them into camp, that Strider had never mentioned her. They must have met at Edoras, when Merry and Pippin were still with the Ents, and apparently she was a figure of no small importance among the Rohirrim, being Theoden's niece and Eomer's sister and one of the leaders of the people. She was also beautiful - anyone could see that - and very much interested in Strider. (Anyone could see that, too.) Strider's failure to say anything about her reminded Merry of his silence surrounding the Elven maid, the Lady Arwen. From talking with Legolas, Merry had guessed what Arwen meant to Strider, but the man never spoke of her. He was indeed a reticent fellow when it came to the ladies. If Merry had been besieged by beautiful noblewomen, he thought, he would have let a few proud words drop about it here and there. He would have lauded the grace of his lady-friends with high-flown words and poetry, the way Gimli spoke of Galadriel, or Frodo addressed Goldberry. But not Strider. He had secrets wrapped all around him.
Merry thought all this without any joy or real interest, though. He moved in a fog of sorrow, which had descended when Pippin had been taken away to Minas Tirith, and which showed no sign of clearing in the foreseeable future. Furthermore, any thought of Frodo and Sam twisted his stomach with grief and terror, and he felt wretched for worrying about himself when those two were out there alone in Mordor. It seemed to Merry, as he sat perched upon extra cushions at the camp dinner table that night, listening to grim talk of strategy and battle, that the four hobbits would never meet again. It seemed, in fact, as if the world at large might not be here a year from now; or, if it did still exist, it would be overrun with nothing but Orcs and sniveling creatures like Wormtongue, and all good people like hobbits and Ents and Rohirrim would be dead.
Merry picked at his food, desolate. When Theoden turned to him at the end of the meal and invited him to talk about the Shire, Merry's tongue was heavy at first, reluctant to give up such treasured memories. But as he began speaking, they came swifter and more readily, and buoyed his spirit, until he was actually making the Rohirrim laugh with tales of the antics in Brandy Hall. He felt an ache in his heart whenever he spoke of Pippin, but he carried on. And he felt Strider's eyes on him whenever he mentioned Frodo, but Merry was careful to name him only as a dear cousin, not as a companion on the quest.
By the time the metal dishes had been carried off by the soldiers serving the King, and the lamps had begun to gutter, his small group of listeners had been won over. Theoden and Eomer, and even Strider, were relaxed and smiling. Legolas and Gimli had been inspired to relate their own bantering tales, aimed at ridiculing each other. Eowyn's eyes shone in the lamplight, and her straight white teeth flashed in her laughter. Lovely though she looked when grave, she surpassed herself completely in happiness, Merry thought, giving her a shy second look.
Who would be the lucky fellow to make her happy, one day, if there was a future to look forward to?
Well, Strider could, if he weren't such an ass about these things, Merry mused, with affection.
It was in this rush of warmth, after supper in the low lamplight, in the King's tent, that Merry was moved to pledge his allegiance to Theoden. He couldn't have said why he did it, as pledging himself to any army would have seemed ridiculously unlikely to him just a few months earlier, but at the time he felt it the only logical course of action. In a way it was as simple as wanting a family to belong to, one that really was a family and would hold together, not a ragtag bunch of fellows whose numbers kept dwindling by the week.
He was very fond of Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, of course, and hoped still to fight beside them if he had to fight beside anyone, but at the same time sensed that it would be wise to link himself to new allies too. Heaven knew they were scarce enough.
Apparently he couldn't have picked a better time. Or apparently Aragorn interpreted his avowal as permission to abandon him. For it was barely three hours later that Strider, Gimli, and Legolas, with a band of Rangers, left the camp in the dark of night and vanished into the Haunted Mountain.
Oh, Merry had begged to come along. He had insisted to Strider in the vibrating undertone he hadn't used since he was a willful child, "I won't be left behind! Don't do this to me." But Aragorn, gentle yet firm, would not budge. Merry was to stay, under the protection of the new allies he had chosen.
Eowyn tried too. Merry overheard her, when he himself had been rebuffed and had gone to sulk in the shadows beneath a stand of trees. She caught Aragorn alone, readying his horse. In no uncertain terms, to Merry's ears, she told him she would follow him anywhere, out of love. Strider said something about his heart wandering in Rivendell - and though it was vague, Merry had a good idea what that meant, even if Eowyn didn't. A few more bitter words from her, a few more rueful words from Strider, and they parted. Aragorn was gone. Eowyn fled into the darkness on the other side of the camp.
Merry stayed where he was, sinking down to sit beneath the trees, stunned at how his already-bleak world had managed to grow so much bleaker in such a short time. The Fellowship was in pieces, and he was the loneliest fragment of all. Frodo and Sam had one another. So did Pippin and Gandalf, and so did the three who had just left. But no one remained with Merry. Like so much unnecessary baggage, he had been abandoned.
Some time later he saw Eowyn walking near, alone and silent. "Lady?" he said.
She was startled. "Master Meriadoc," she answered. "I did not see you there."
"I know. I'm too small; no one does." He tried to sound merely self-deprecating and not resentful, as she of all people didn't deserve his bitterness.
"No, it isn't that," she said, and came closer. She sat down beside him, bringing a waft of smoky-sweet air from her dark robes. She had changed out of the armor and into an embroidered brown and red gown for supper. The scent reminded Merry of his aunts and cousins and friends back home, and he knew in a pained instant how much he missed his womenfolk. "It's your cloak," Eowyn said, and took up a corner of it to feel it. "It makes you quite invisible in dark places like this."
"Oh," Merry said. "Yes, I suppose it does."
"Your companions wore them too." She pressed the cloth flat between her palms.
"Yes. We...we were given them in Lothlorien."
"Ah. I thought they might be of Elvish make." Her head was bowed, and her unbraided golden hair fell to hide it. "Lothlorien. Not Rivendell?"
"No." He pitied her, and decided the truth was kindest: "But we did stay at Rivendell, with Lord Elrond, for a time. Strider - Lord Aragorn I mean - knows the Rivendell Elves quite well. Elrond seemed a father to him, and his daughter Arwen - well."
"I see." She turned the corner of the cloak in her hands, and let it drop. "Some riddles are easily explained, aren't they."
Having dealt her this blow, Merry didn't know what else to say. But she soon continued herself:
"But you didn't hail me to tell me of your cloak. What is it you wished to say?"
"I only wanted to know: what day are we riding from here?"
"Two days from now, perhaps. As soon as the rest of our Riders are here, and have rested long enough."
"And then it's off to..." Our deaths, he nearly said. "Minas Tirith."
"Yes. For the Riders. My uncle wishes me to stay behind, and look after the people."
Merry looked at her. "You don't wish to," he said.
"There will be nothing left in Rohan to rule if all able bodies do not fight now. I am able. I should go." She gave a hopeless gesture with both hands, flaring out the sleeves of her robes. Her wrists fell limp in her lap. "But they see only that I am a woman, not that I am one who could fight."
"And my friends have left me," Merry said, now letting himself sound just as bitter as he felt, "for they don't see I'm anything but a Halfling, who shouldn't have come along in the first place."
"Not all your friends have left you," she answered. Her vehemence surprised him. "You would not have got this far without being of great worth. You'll go farther still, if you wish."
"I wish it," he said. "I wish anything, other than being left behind."
"Then we understand each other."
They lapsed into quiet. Some Riders were drawing near, talking as they walked. The subject under discussion was Aragorn and his companions, whose disappearance into the Dwimorberg had reached the ears of the whole camp by now. "They're Elvish wights, the lot of them," said one, and the other two rumbled in agreement. "Let them go where they belong, into the dark places, and never return. The times are evil enough."
His companions seemed to feel he had spoken true, and consoled each other with repeating those sentiments in various words until they had gone out of earshot of Merry and Eowyn. Merry felt especially depressed to hear such things spoken of his friends, and wondered how he would be treated hereafter, since he'd arrived in camp with the "Elvish wights." When he looked aside at Eowyn, she appeared to be nearly trembling in fury - she clutched her hands together in her lap, crumpling folds of her robe in her fists, staring at the ground with wide eyes and set lips.
"They aren't evil," Merry burst out, though he kept his voice low. "They don't belong in the dark. And they're not cowards, and not traitors, either. They're some of the bravest and truest folk I've ever known."
"I believe it," she said. "My uncle believes it as well. And everyone will know it before the end."
After that he felt better, just sitting next to her in silence, the two of them bonded by friends in common, even though those friends had gone away and might indeed never return.
* * *
Eomer muttered suspicious things about those who had gone into the Haunted Mountain, and looked askance at Merry sometimes in the next two days with what Merry assumed was distrust. But Theoden and Eowyn, at least, continued to speak kindly to him, and insisted upon seating him at their table for meals, where they included him in their talks of the upcoming war. It still made Eowyn bristle, Merry could see, when Theoden referred to her staying behind. Her fair cheeks would set aflame with angry color, and she would lower her gaze, long eyelashes hiding the grey eyes.
Aragorn's name set off a reaction too, but the color would wash away to dead white in her face at such times. It hurt Merry to see - and not just because he also feared for Aragorn.
Silly, he told himself. Of all the people to be jealous of! When did a hobbit ever stand as honest competition against the rightful King of Men, in a contest for a lady's heart?
But Merry could make her laugh, so he did that, whenever the time seemed right. His stock of absurd poetry was now more useful than it had ever been. She had a robust sense of humor: you could recite the kind of jokes you wouldn't normally tell to a lady, and she would laugh as long and comfortably as any man. Merry made a mental note (with a sad twinge in his heart) to thank Pippin for repeating those verses so often and so loudly in his hearing. If he ever saw Pippin again.
Somehow, though, Merry did not realize that Theoden meant to leave him behind too. He didn't realize it until the night - if it could be called night - when the King stood gazing at the eerie blackness that had spread across the sky, and summoned everyone out of their tents to prepare to ride. Merry, though his knees trembled at the first look at that immense and evil darkness above him, knew at once that his only option was to fight - to fight for his friends, for his family, for the Shire, for Rohan, for the Lady Eowyn's grey eyes and the laughter that transformed her into the loveliest thing he'd seen.
And it was then that Theoden told him he was to stay behind, for Merry could not ride fast enough on a pony to keep up, and none of the Riders could bear his weight.
"If you will remain friend to Rohan, stay and serve the Lady Eowyn," Theoden told him - which tempted him strongly, to be sure, but how could he face her when all the real heroes had ridden off to battle?
He was speechless with chagrin as Theoden touched his head fondly and then strode away. A hand alighted on his shoulder; and he lifted his gaze to see in the gloom the pale figure of Eowyn.
"Come with me, Merry," she said.
He followed, expecting to be given lessons on taking care of the wounded or looking after orphans, so was surprised when she brought him into her own tent and began hauling out battle gear in small sizes, and kneeling to put it on him. "Aragorn only asked one thing of me," she said: "that you should be armed for battle."
He did not answer that, lowering his eyes and examining the smooth thickness of the armor over his ribs instead.
She guessed right at his silence. "But I would have done it even if he hadn't asked," she added. He looked up, and found her head close to his own, as she knelt there. A smile broke across her face, and her hands squeezed his mail-clad shoulders. "You are very unlike him, you know, but I hold you just as dear."
He smiled too, but ruefully. "Even though I'll never get the chance to show myself to be just as brave?"
"You might yet." She rose to her feet, looking down at him, the lamplight shimmering through her curtain of wavy locks. "If you see the chance, Meriadoc, seize it. You're armed for it now." Then she turned and stowed the rest of the gear away in a trunk. "Goodnight, my friend," she said, packing and latching the trunk without a glance at him. "Get some sleep, if you can."
He went back to his own tent, which looked tiny amidst the others, and lay down still clad in his armor; he took off only the helmet. He almost felt that if he set aside the rest, someone would take it away from him. He curled up under his blanket, clutching the short Rohirrim sword she had given him, and repeated over and over to himself in a whisper, "I'll fight, I will." And clinging to the thought of all the folk in the world who were worth fighting for, he fell asleep at last.
* * *
It was not long before he was roused again, this time by the call to ride. He stumbled out of his tent to find the sky still black, but no stars visible. The blanket of evil hung heavy overhead. Around him, tents were being folded and whisked away, horses were being saddled and packed, and men were forming units in which to ride together. In this confusion it was hard to reach Theoden, but Merry managed it; and wearing his full armor, down to the helmet, he seized the King's hand and begged not to be left behind.
It was to no avail. Theoden commended him for his loyalty, but refused to allow it. "See to the Lady Eowyn," he urged. "She will make use of you."
And Merry staggered backward, watching Theoden ride away, trying to console his wounded pride by imagining standing next to Eowyn at a final battle, when the dark forces came at last to Edoras. Perhaps he and she could die side by side, the last two soldiers of Rohan...
But before he could manage to make this image seem appealing, a Rider reined in a horse beside him, and thrust down a gauntleted hand. "Ride with me," he said.
Merry looked up in amazement, but could not recognize the few pale features he glimpsed under the helmet. "Thank you, sir," he said, grasping the hand. He was swung up onto the horse, and with a kick they were off. Merry clung to the saddle's horn, and repeated over his shoulder, "Thank you indeed! Though I do not know your name."
The Rider leaned in and said, in soft tones he suddenly knew quite well, "Do you not?"
He nearly fell off the mount in his twist around to look at her. There was no mistaking it: the grey eyes, long-lashed, regarded him with gravity and pride from beneath the metal. "My lady," he breathed.
"Hush," she said, and the eyes kindled with a touch of amusement. "On this journey, 'Dernhelm,' if you please."
"Dernhelm," he promised, hardly able to hold back a grin, and turned to face forward again. The horse jolted over a patch of rough ground, and Eowyn slipped her arm round Merry and held him secure. He leaned back, closer to her. The awkward plates of his armor clinked against hers, and the saddle was tough beneath him, but somehow he felt comfortable, and even happy. For the first time, he didn't miss the rest of the Fellowship too terribly.
* * *
Merry wasn't half bad on a pony back in the Shire, but he had never ridden this hard or this fast or this long, and certainly never on a horse like this. By the end of the first day he was living in an aching blur. Even the good Rohirrim saddles and gear didn't keep the bruises and stiffness from forming, nor did the cushioning effect of Eowyn's arm around him. But he refused to let it show, and worried more about his presence - or hers - being detected and reported.
He needn't have concerned himself. She wore her helmet at all times until the pitch darkness fell, and anyway she had some sort of understanding with the leader of their unit. That fellow was apparently willing to look the other way for the sake of his Lady - and indeed, Merry thought, who wouldn't? The protection extended to her chosen squire, the Halfling, as well, so Merry was politely ignored by the Riders they hid among.
"It will be better if you stay with me," she said to him as they shared rations of hard bread and dried meat, that first night. "If anyone closer to my uncle comes through, I might not be recognized at a glance, but your stature will give you away at once. My tent is the safest place for you."
"As you wish, my la- my friend," Merry stammered. He hadn't quite got used to calling her "Dernhelm," or indeed anything other than "my lady."
It made her smile now, young eyes crinkling in the firelight, and he smiled back.
When the Riders were settling in to sleep, Eowyn set up a small tent - just large enough for a Man-sized person to curl up in, and just strong enough to keep off the rain if any were to fall. She crawled in and summoned Merry. Hesitant, he crawled in after her. She was lying on her side, her hair released from her helmet at last, and strewn in a tangle on her pack, which served as a pillow. Her cape, on which the horse-pattern of Rohan glimmered gold in the faint torchlight, was draped over her as a blanket. She patted the ground beside her, inviting him to lie down in the concave space formed by her body. Merry set aside his own helmet, cloak, and gloves, and lay down with his back to her. Her arm and cloak fell across him at the shoulder, warm and comforting even through the chain-mail shirts they both still wore.
She took a long breath and let it out, settling deeper against the pillow. He felt the air move against his neck. "Sweet lady, I'm sore," she murmured.
"Oh, thank goodness. I thought it was just me."
"It's as well neither of us weighs more," she said. "The bruises would only be worse."
"Maybe it'll be easier tomorrow," he suggested.
"No," she said, sleepily, "it will be harder tomorrow. After that it will start to get easier."
And a few days after that, Merry thought, we will reach Minas Tirith, and fight, and likely die. He closed his eyes, and shrank back against her as if she were a haven of hearth-light against the dark night. With the sound of her breathing steady in his ears, he fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
Eowyn was right: it was harder riding the next day. Everything hurt; and besides that it was raining half the day. When they lay down to sleep that night, endless hours later, she shifted and bumped against Merry's legs, and he involuntarily whimpered in pain.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It's all right," he said.
"I can barely move myself," she added.
"Pathetic, aren't we?"
"Tomorrow will be easier." And she brought him closer, beneath her arm, and despite the dampness and the ache, he felt better and was able to sleep.
The next day was in fact easier. The sky was grey, a very dark and unnatural grey, still dominated by the blanket hanging over them from Mordor, but the rain held back and the breeze smelled as fresh as it could be expected to smell when you rode behind a thousand horses. He was now used to the way it felt to ride with Eowyn, and they had found a comfortable set of positions, shifting from one to the other to ease the stiffness. Sometimes she held the reins, her hand in front of Merry's chest, and he would lean back into her to accommodate it. Other times she would hand them to him, and he would set himself forward and hold tight with his legs to the saddle; and both of her arms would fold around him, loose at his waist.
Since they rode so hard, it was not easy to talk above the thunder of the hooves and the wind in their ears; nor did anyone want to get dust in their mouth if the ground was dry. But sometimes, on terrain that required slower passage, or on the brief rests they took, there was opportunity to talk, and Merry took advantage of it. Silence only allowed him to think too much. So he asked her about living among the Rohirrim, and what it had been like to grow up as a daughter of kings; and after she had answered she asked him about the Shire, and what the hobbit folk knew of the world of Men.
The talk turned to their friends in common before long, of course. On the fourth evening, before getting into their tent, Merry spoke of meeting Strider in Bree, and what a mixed impression he had made upon them. Eowyn smiled, but was quiet for a time. She watched the rag move along the knife she was cleaning, and asked, "Do he and the Lady Arwen intend to marry?"
"I'm not sure," Merry said honestly. "He'll speak of many things; but of her, almost never."
"I suppose that's gentlemanly of him," she admitted, but did not seem much pleased.
"Yes, I think he just doesn't like to speak of ladies. He...he hadn't told us of you either, but I could tell he esteemed you very highly, when I saw him with you." Now Merry looked down at his own grimy hands, wishing he had never spoken, wishing he were a tall handsome Man who could do a better job of taking her mind off Aragorn.
But when she spoke, he heard dry humor in her voice. "It's all right," she said. "I never knew him long. There was just a great deal of...hope. In many ways."
Merry looked at her. She was putting away the cleaned knife. She had taken off her helmet, and her hair was in disarray, and she had a grey smudge on her forehead from the metal. In the brown leather and iron-grey mail, she hardly looked the picture of femininity; and yet she remained, somehow, a perfect vision of beauty. "Hope, yes," he echoed. "Strider carries hope for all of us." He closed his eyes and lowered his face, thinking in a sudden shot of pure grief, And so do Frodo and Sam; even more. Oh, mercy, save them.
"I have heard he has an Elvish name," Eowyn continued, "which is their word for 'hope.' It was well chosen."
Merry nodded. "And what does your name mean?" he asked, for conversation's sake; to think about anything other than death.
" 'Joy of horses,' in the old runes, they tell me."
"Then that was well-chosen too."
"And yours?"
"Oh." He shrugged in modesty. "Just what it seems - 'merry.' 'Jolly, happy'..." He cast her a sheepish half-smile, aware he had been anything but "merry" for quite some time now.
But she rested her chin on her hand, and her smile broadened. "You strike me as very much so. No one with such a stock of delightful poems could be otherwise."
He broke into a soft laugh, and covered his face for a moment. "I'm afraid that's hobbits all over. Or it is with my kin, at least. Making jests at the most inappropriate times. We scarcely know how to handle great and heavy events."
"I am favorably impressed so far," she promised, and clicked her metal-shod riding boot against his.
Their gazes held, across the small campfire, for a space of several seconds. When Merry looked away, he felt light-headed and a little breathless. "And look at what you've done," he reproached, pretending to be outraged. "Made a hobbit wear shoes! I hope you're proud of yourself."
She laughed, gave his leg another shove with her foot, and got up. "Oh, I'm very proud. Now put out the fire, if you please. We should get some rest."
But that night when she put her arm around him to settle in for sleep, he felt her face nestle against the back of his neck, warm in the cold air. His eyes snapped open and he waited with breath held.
"Merry," she whispered.
"Eowyn?" he whispered back.
"I'm glad you're with me."
He turned slowly, onto his back, to look at her; but in the darkness of the tent she was only a shadow. "I wish I could do more," he confessed - which, under the circumstances, meant all kinds of things, but he decided not to list them.
Her hand found his cheek. She shifted, and a strand of her hair fell across his neck. Then her lips touched his. He nearly melted into the ground, quite convinced that this was worth dying for. He closed his eyes and returned the soft, smoky-flavored caress. But it lasted only a moment, and soon she lifted her head and lay down again. "Sleep well, my friend," she said.
"Yes," he answered, which again meant a lot of things; and turned over onto his side. Though his head was filled with flashing and lovely thoughts, darting about like butterflies and interrupting all weightier concerns, he soon slept, and slept well.
* * *
The next day, word reached them that they if they rode far enough today, they would arrive outside Minas Tirith tomorrow. They were all told to be ready for battle from this hour forward. Merry felt as if a ball of cold lead had suddenly formed inside his chest. He wondered if the taste it brought to his mouth, dry and metallic, was what death would taste like. He felt Eowyn tighten her hold on him, on their mount, and heard her swallow. "Courage, Merry," she whispered, but there was a tremor in her voice. The horses moved forward in a wave. She gave a kick, and they joined the sea.
All that day he steeled his mind by thinking of how he was at least drawing closer to Pippin and Gandalf now, and how the soldiers of Gondor would soon be near and would help them fight; and how perhaps Aragorn would arrive with his Rangers, if he had survived the Haunted Mountain. Perhaps even, by some miracle, Frodo would succeed, and the power of Mordor would drop away in one instant and the sun would come shining out from behind this dark veil, and no one dear to him would have to die. Part of him believed it, too.
But part of him whispered, It's no use: we'll die tomorrow, Eowyn and Theoden and I and all these Men, and I'll never know what happened to Frodo or Sam or Pippin, and never see my kinfolk again. And then he shuddered, and wished to turn around and hide in Eowyn's embrace, and let them kill him there.
But he staved off the fey mood through supper that evening, even managing a wry comment or two about the deteriorating quality of their food, and earning a smile from Eowyn. After eating, when it grew dark, she got up and took a large metal dish from her pack, and said, "I cannot stand the filth any longer. There's a river not far. I'm going to get some water, and wash." He nodded and let her go, and sat to watch the fire. But she was back within minutes, looking disgusted. "Look at this water," she said, and lay down the half-full dish at his feet, where it caught the light from the fire. It was murky and reddish.
"It looks as if there's...blood?" he said.
"Looks it, and tastes it too. The river runs thick with it. There's been fighting upstream." She shuddered. "I don't know whose blood I'd less wish to bathe in: my enemies', or my allies'." She flung its contents into the bushes, then came back and sat beside him. They were both silent, watching the fire. Soon, cold drops of rain began to fall, hissing on the embers and ringing on the armor all around them.
Merry looked up dismally, resigning himself to the night ahead being wet as well as lonely and horrible.
"Very well," Eowyn sighed, and rose again. "Then I'll bathe in the rain."
Merry glanced at her in surprise, but she was already taking the dish and some rags, and stalking away into the woods. He busied himself with setting up the tent, so that she could have shelter from the rain when she returned. By the time he was done, the shower had become a downpour, and he was wet through. In utter misery and discomfort, he took off his helmet and boots and set them in a relatively dry place under the tent flaps, then stood and looked about, not knowing whether to crawl into the tent even though he was soaked, or stay out and hope the rain stopped soon. And did it really matter anyway, since the weight of the world was going to crush him into oblivion tomorrow?
Sorrow conquered him then, and the sea of smoking campfires became a misty blur in his eyes. His breath came short against the pressure of impending tears, and he instinctively looked for Eowyn. She was still gone. He couldn't bear it if anything happened to her now, so he set off, barefoot as a hobbit should be, into the dark woods to find her. Wet branches whipped against him, and the wind in the trees sounded like the moans of walking ghosts, but he kept forward.
She hadn't gone far, and soon he was upon her: a pale slim form in a clearing, lifting her face to the sky, running wet hands over her shivering naked limbs.
He stopped short and caught a breath, startled into practicality, realizing that he shouldn't be here. But she heard him and looked back quickly. "Merry?" she said.
He averted his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "Sorry...I...was worried. I had it in my head something might have happened..."
"I don't mind," she said, sounding only tired. In the corner of his vision he saw her pick up a blanket, and wrap it around herself. "There. You can look again."
He approached. He could see her by cloud-light, sitting at the base of a tree, drying her legs with the blanket. "Tomorrow," he said, "...tomorrow, do you think we'll..." The words stuck in his throat.
"Die?" She went on rubbing her limbs. "Likely enough. Though there is always hope."
He sank to his knees at her feet, feeling the chilly rain run through his hair. "My parents don't know where I am," he said. "If I die, and if Pip dies, they may never know what became of us. They'll live wondering if I'll ever come home; and I'll be dead, never even having said them a proper farewell..."
She had stopped moving, and was quiet, as if to let him speak.
"I know that doesn't matter, in the larger view," he went on, head bowed, eyes hot with salt-water. "But I can't even begin to think of the larger view without despairing. I wanted to see great things when I left home, but I've seen too many. There's too much happening out here, and I can't stand to think of what might be lost. The numbers - the deaths - the cities - on such a scale...and I'm not even in the worst danger of all: I have friends out there..." But at that he fell silent, still not daring, even now, to tell her about Frodo and Sam. It was just as well; his voice was quite failing him. He swallowed, and wiped away the mix of rain and tears on his cheeks.
Eowyn moved, and her arms were around him, enfolding him into the blanket. The fragrance of her cool wet hair filled his lungs. "I don't want to die either," she whispered, and she sounded afraid.
He found he had latched his arms around her neck, and was kneeling between her legs. Some part of his mind recalled she was naked beneath the blanket, but at the moment he thought only what he said aloud: "I won't let you die, if I can stop it at all."
"Nor will I let you," she said. "We'll look after each other."
There was still a blanket between his armor and her bare skin, so he didn't feel it was wrong to lean back with her against the tree, cradling her head to his neck while his body was cradled against her chest. They rested there, the tree shielding them from the worst of the rain.
"I just wish we didn't have to wait like this," he said after a spell. "Wet and cold and hungry. I wish I could have had one last evening in solace. Just one night to shut out the world in a comfortable room, with a fire in the hearth."
She stirred, and pushed back her damp hair, and lifted her face to him. "Will it do if I offer a tent, with a warm companion?" And she pulled down his chilly hand, and brought it inside the blanket to her breast.
He was astonished, and felt a laugh quiver through him. The anticipation that now seized him was an energy alive and bright, nothing like the heavy crushing fear he had felt for so long. Furthermore, within seconds he was no longer the least bit cold; in fact, he could have sworn steam began rising from his wet clothes. She gave his hand a squeeze, forcing it to squeeze her soft flesh in turn. He wobbled and sank closer to her.
"Forgive me for asking," he said, fingers cupping and exploring almost on their own; "but what does that invitation mean, exactly?"
She left his hand to its wanderings, and stretched her arm out to drape around him again. "Well," she mused, "in truth I'm not sure. There are many things I've never done..."
"Same with me," he interjected, anxious to provide that disclaimer, in case he did anything completely wrong.
"But," she went on, "is that best? Should we go pure and virginal to our deaths? Or should we go with knowledge and experience of..." Her hand slipped up to stroke his face. "...certain things? Which do you suppose is better?"
Eowyn, he sensed, wasn't one to play games in which she only pretended resistance in order to draw him in. She did sound as if she honestly wanted to know his opinion. But he was as lost as she, and probably more so, in fact. He bent his head in shyness to kiss her bare shoulder, and said, "I know which way would make the night pass faster."
She laughed again, the light laugh of a young maiden. "I do admire your hobbit practicality."
He lifted his head, and found her mouth seeking his. The taste of rain was on her lips, mingling with the last trace of salt from his own tears. His hand inside the blanket, which had fallen still in awaiting her explanation, reawakened and flexed, and slid lower. She was so smooth, so firm and strong and young. Touching her cleared away the morbid clouds that had massed around his thoughts, sending them scattering on a fierce wind, and leaving him with a shining desire to live.
"Let's go back to the tent before we're missed," she murmured, into his lips.
He nodded, and they disentangled to collect her armor and dash back to the camp in the rainy night.
* * *
"Then what?" demands Pippin, who has turned sideways on the bench to drink in Merry's story.
"What do you think?" Merry returns.
"Merry. Am I to understand that the next heir to Faramir's household may in fact be a Brandybuck?"
"No! And I'll thank you to lower your voice."
"Well, you said - "
"There are other things people can do," Merry informs him in a curt whisper. "Even then, even thinking we wouldn't last out the week, neither of us wished to get her with child."
Pippin seems chastened. "Of course. I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask." Then he makes a face of frustration, and clinches together his hands in his lap. "But what was it like? Did you - was it - "
Merry smiles in sympathy. Pip is at just the age where he's always dying to know about this subject, but isn't considered quite old enough to be told. Merry remembers what that felt like. "It was," he tells Pippin, "like the best dream I ever had. And I'll never forget a moment of it."
This seems to satisfy Pippin, who leans back with a sigh and gazes at the mountain for a while. "Then," he says eventually, "did she let you..." He bites his lip and squints, apparently searching for a polite phrase.
"Hands could go anywhere," Merry says, guessing at the question.
"Oh." Pippin's eyebrows lift, as if this mostly answered it. "And, er...mouths?"
Merry shifts his shoulders against the stone wall, and looks away. "Yes, Pippin."
"Ah. So when you say there are other things people can do...ultimately, was it - "
"I am not answering that, Pip."
"All right, fine," Pippin says, in conciliatory fashion, capitulating with a lift of his hands.
"Anyway," Merry concludes, "that's all there is to tell."
Pippin snorts. "Hardly! What about the next day? The ride? The Pelennor Fields?"
"Oh. Everyone already knows about that. It's just as I've told you before."
"But the two of you - you kept your word, then. You saved each other from death."
"We defeated him," Merry says, his face lowered. He picks at one of his battle scabs again. "But it wasn't just to save each other. He killed Theoden, and nearly killed Frodo. That was reason enough for me."
"And when I found you - oh, Merry!" Pippin's voice has swelled with pity again.
"I was weeping for Theoden," Merry defends, then bows his head even lower. "And because I thought she was dead. And thought I was dying, too, and had only found you in time to die on you. It was all a bit much, that's all."
"I'm not judging you, you silly ass. If you knew how I wept after you collapsed - well, but never mind."
Merry glances at him with gratitude, and sits up straighter, sighing. "Then," he finishes, "it took me so long to heal, and her as well...when I awoke, I knew it all had to be put behind us."
"And you left her to Faramir." Pippin sounds faintly astonished.
"They're a much better match for each other."
"But...you're sad, Merry."
"I'm sad for now. I'll get over it."
"If I'd known," Pippin says, with sudden fierceness, "why, I'd never have - "
"Saved him?" Merry fills in, with a laugh. "You'd have let him burn? Don't be ridiculous, Pippin. You did exactly right."
"But I would have managed to bring her to you in the Houses of Healing, or something! It isn't fair to you!"
"Think how much worse things could be now," Merry says. "Think how many of us could be dead. Think if Frodo and Sam hadn't made it. Yes, she means a great deal to me, but I know we can't be together. We did what we did because we thought it was our last night in the world, and the fact that it wasn't is reward enough."
Pippin slumps back against the wall. "Oh, I suppose," he says.
"Having a Shire to go back to is all I need," Merry assures. Then he nudges Pippin and adds, "Besides, very few hobbits can say they've done what I have. I'm not above admitting it makes me proud."
"And well it should!" Pippin laughs. "Pity you can't tell anyone."
"Oh, knowing is enough."
"What about Frodo and Sam? Can we tell them?"
"Someday. Maybe. We'll see."
Pippin dusts off his lap and jumps to his feet. "Let's look for some cake. What do you say?"
"I say it sounds fine. I'll follow your nose, Pip. It never fails." Merry hops off the bench, and finds himself being quickly and vivaciously hugged by his cousin. Then he's dragged away down the street in quest of spice cake.
[The End.]
NOTES/QUOTES
"I won't be left, I won't." And repeating this over and over again to himself he fell asleep at last in his tent. ("The Muster of Rohan")
Summary of "Muster of Rohan" happenings: Theoden tells Merry to stay behind and "serve the Lady Eowyn"; and won't hear of letting Merry fight. Eowyn takes Merry aside to give him gear: "This request only did Aragorn make to me...that you should be armed for battle." ..."Farewell now, Master Meriadoc! Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I."
And some said: 'They are Elvish wights. Let them go where they belong, into the dark places, and never return. The times are evil enough.' ("The Passing of the Grey Company")
When she picks him up to ride with her; book canon:
"Thank you, sir, though I do not know your name."
"Do you not?" said the Rider softly.
(Movie canon divergence, also used here: he looks closely and recognizes her: "My lady!")
"It was a skyless world, in which his eye, through dim gulfs of shadowy air, saw only ever-mounting slopes, great walls of stone behind great walls, and frowning precipices wreathed with mist. ...He loved mountains, or he had loved the thought of them marching on the edge of stories brought from far away; but now he was borne down by the insupportable weight of Middle-earth. He longed to shut out the immensity in a quiet room by a fire." ("The Muster of Rohan")
By the way, feel free to let me know if I made any totally unnecessary deviations from canon. I get mixed up sometimes between book and movie.
The Last Night in the World
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Eowyn/Merry
Summary: On the ride to Minas Tirith, two lonely soldiers of Rohan take comfort in each other.
Disclaimer: I'm just rehashing various pieces of 'The Lord of the Rings' by J.R.R. Tolkien, with slightly more sex than he originally included. No disrespect is intended to the Professor or his work - in fact, quite the contrary. Also, there are lots of canon lines included or adapted in this story, from movie and book both. I do not claim credit for those either.
* * *
They watch, two small figures in a sea of tall folk, as the Lady Eowyn swings her flower-strewn hair over her shoulder and kisses Faramir. The crowd cheers. The newly married couple laughs, and Eowyn throws a flower, underhand and accurate, in Gimli's direction. He makes a show of being flattered and embarrassed, but grins in triumph up at Legolas.
Pippin, beside Merry, is laughing and cheering as well. Merry claps along with the rest, but his smile is melancholy as he watches the bride and groom. Pippin elbows his friend. "Where's your mind off to, Merry?"
Merry gives him a brief glance, and resumes watching the couple as they make their way out into the crowd, where they clasp hands, exchange curtseys and bows, and accept kisses. "Just wondering what kind of cake they'll be serving us; that's all," Merry answers, but he sounds more wistful than the topic of cake should call for.
"Spice, I would imagine," Pippin speculates. "Have you seen the crates of the lovely spices they import here? We'll take some home with us. That'll cheer you up, won't it?" His voice has become anxious. He can't easily forget how cold Merry's arm felt, wounded by that Nazgul, and how long it took him to recover. Pippin hopes Merry isn't relapsing, hopes he will laugh and become his vibrant self again.
"I'm not in danger, Pip," Merry assures. He is still watching Faramir and Eowyn; they are moving closer to the hobbits now. "There's a lot to think about these days, that's all."
"Well, that's true," Pippin has to admit.
The bride and groom are upon them.
"Master hobbits," says Eowyn, and there is a catch in her voice.
Faramir kneels, face-to-face with them; Eowyn sinks down at his side. Pippin, for a moment, is too stunned to speak.
"We each owe our lives to one of you," Faramir says. "There is scarce anything we can say or do to repay you, except to promise you lifelong friendship, and any wish we can grant you."
Merry seems tongue-tied. Eowyn's fond eyes move from one hobbit's face to the other. She is smiling, and on her young cheekbones the sun touches light freckles, which Pippin has never noticed before.
"The friendship of a pair so noble and gracious as you is payment enough," Pippin says, with his most gallant bow. "We wish you the greatest happiness!"
"All the best," Merry echoes, bowing beside him.
"My dear friends," Eowyn murmurs, and before Pippin knows what is happening, she is kissing each of them, on the forehead, with a hand in their curls, and then the couple is rising and leaving them.
Pippin dusts off his waistcoat proudly, watching them go to Frodo and Sam, for whom even deeper bows are produced. "Well. I daresay even spice cake won't seem exciting compared to that!"
"I wonder if she'll ever tell him." Merry's words are indistinct, far away.
Pippin looks at him. "Tell him what?"
"About...before she met him."
Pippin looks at Faramir and Eowyn again, who are still in the midst of thanking a flustered Sam and Frodo. He frowns. "Her childhood? Of course she would. Why shouldn't she?"
"No. Not that." Merry sighs.
It dawns on Pippin - or at least he thinks it does. "Her feelings for Strider, you mean? Oh, I hadn't thought of that. It could be awkward, couldn't it?"
"He knows that, Pippin," Merry scolds. "If you know it, and you didn't even ride with us, then surely he's heard by now."
"Then I'm sorry, Merry," says Pippin, affronted, "but I don't know what on earth you're talking about. Plain language always suited you best, you know."
Merry's gaze flicks to Pippin's, then turns to rove across the crowd. "I shouldn't have spoken. Not here."
"Merry, tell me."
"Not here, I said."
"Very well, then." Pippin takes Merry's arm and guides him away, ducking under the elbows and capes of big people as they wind a course through the courtyard of Minas Tirith and out into a quieter street. They reach a stone bench under a tree. They are up on the highest level of the city, and if they stand on tiptoe they can see over the parapet to the fields stretching beyond the gates, hundreds of feet below. But they are content to turn their backs on those fields for now, having seen quite enough of them; and they sit on the bench, where they can look up at the mountain-tops instead.
Pippin waits for Merry to speak, though it takes all his patience and self-discipline not to ask him again.
"She and I..." Merry finally says. "Well."
"You rode together," Pippin suggests. "You became friends." Merry is gazing upon the mountain, and doesn't react to either of these statements, as if they're insufficient. "You were in love with her?" Pippin guesses, saying it as soon as he thinks it, his voice seeking higher pitch in surprise.
That earns him a guilty glance. Then Merry bows his head and picks at a healing scratch on his hand, which lies listless on his lap.
"Oh, Merry," Pippin says, pity blooming in his heart.
"It wasn't just a stupid fancy," Merry defends, his eyes still lowered. "She felt for me as well. At least enough to...to get us both through it. Through that war, that ride."
"I'm sure she did," Pippin soothes. "I can tell she has great affection for you."
"But you don't understand. We actually -" Merry shuts his lips and glances around. "I shouldn't say. She's a lady, not to mention a queen - or near enough."
"Yes, and I'm your favorite cousin, so tell me before I -" Suddenly Pippin takes in a breath, understanding. "You and she..." he says faintly.
Merry's chin lowers in a firm nod.
"Oh, Merry," Pippin repeats, this time with a laugh of wonder dancing through his voice. "How in the world?"
* * *
Merry first saw her at Dunharrow, in the faint light of dusk, when she rode out to greet them. It had surprised him, a woman - and a very young woman at that - wearing armor, and riding like a man, and carrying a sword. It also surprised him that after a greeting to Theoden - whom she addressed as "Uncle" - she turned her horse and came directly to him, to Merry.
Rather, she came directly to Strider, whose horse Merry happened to be sharing. Ah.
It was clear she and Strider knew each other, from the way they entered into conversation. "Lady Eowyn," he called her; "Lord Aragorn," she called him at first, slipping into just plain "Aragorn" a bit later. Strider introduced Merry, and the Lady gave him a grave nod, examining him with interest but respect. She said, "Well met, Meriadoc," and did not give him the demeaning smile that big people often did, the one that made him feel like an exotic pet brought round for their amusement. He liked her at once for that.
He also thought it strange, as she led them into camp, that Strider had never mentioned her. They must have met at Edoras, when Merry and Pippin were still with the Ents, and apparently she was a figure of no small importance among the Rohirrim, being Theoden's niece and Eomer's sister and one of the leaders of the people. She was also beautiful - anyone could see that - and very much interested in Strider. (Anyone could see that, too.) Strider's failure to say anything about her reminded Merry of his silence surrounding the Elven maid, the Lady Arwen. From talking with Legolas, Merry had guessed what Arwen meant to Strider, but the man never spoke of her. He was indeed a reticent fellow when it came to the ladies. If Merry had been besieged by beautiful noblewomen, he thought, he would have let a few proud words drop about it here and there. He would have lauded the grace of his lady-friends with high-flown words and poetry, the way Gimli spoke of Galadriel, or Frodo addressed Goldberry. But not Strider. He had secrets wrapped all around him.
Merry thought all this without any joy or real interest, though. He moved in a fog of sorrow, which had descended when Pippin had been taken away to Minas Tirith, and which showed no sign of clearing in the foreseeable future. Furthermore, any thought of Frodo and Sam twisted his stomach with grief and terror, and he felt wretched for worrying about himself when those two were out there alone in Mordor. It seemed to Merry, as he sat perched upon extra cushions at the camp dinner table that night, listening to grim talk of strategy and battle, that the four hobbits would never meet again. It seemed, in fact, as if the world at large might not be here a year from now; or, if it did still exist, it would be overrun with nothing but Orcs and sniveling creatures like Wormtongue, and all good people like hobbits and Ents and Rohirrim would be dead.
Merry picked at his food, desolate. When Theoden turned to him at the end of the meal and invited him to talk about the Shire, Merry's tongue was heavy at first, reluctant to give up such treasured memories. But as he began speaking, they came swifter and more readily, and buoyed his spirit, until he was actually making the Rohirrim laugh with tales of the antics in Brandy Hall. He felt an ache in his heart whenever he spoke of Pippin, but he carried on. And he felt Strider's eyes on him whenever he mentioned Frodo, but Merry was careful to name him only as a dear cousin, not as a companion on the quest.
By the time the metal dishes had been carried off by the soldiers serving the King, and the lamps had begun to gutter, his small group of listeners had been won over. Theoden and Eomer, and even Strider, were relaxed and smiling. Legolas and Gimli had been inspired to relate their own bantering tales, aimed at ridiculing each other. Eowyn's eyes shone in the lamplight, and her straight white teeth flashed in her laughter. Lovely though she looked when grave, she surpassed herself completely in happiness, Merry thought, giving her a shy second look.
Who would be the lucky fellow to make her happy, one day, if there was a future to look forward to?
Well, Strider could, if he weren't such an ass about these things, Merry mused, with affection.
It was in this rush of warmth, after supper in the low lamplight, in the King's tent, that Merry was moved to pledge his allegiance to Theoden. He couldn't have said why he did it, as pledging himself to any army would have seemed ridiculously unlikely to him just a few months earlier, but at the time he felt it the only logical course of action. In a way it was as simple as wanting a family to belong to, one that really was a family and would hold together, not a ragtag bunch of fellows whose numbers kept dwindling by the week.
He was very fond of Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli, of course, and hoped still to fight beside them if he had to fight beside anyone, but at the same time sensed that it would be wise to link himself to new allies too. Heaven knew they were scarce enough.
Apparently he couldn't have picked a better time. Or apparently Aragorn interpreted his avowal as permission to abandon him. For it was barely three hours later that Strider, Gimli, and Legolas, with a band of Rangers, left the camp in the dark of night and vanished into the Haunted Mountain.
Oh, Merry had begged to come along. He had insisted to Strider in the vibrating undertone he hadn't used since he was a willful child, "I won't be left behind! Don't do this to me." But Aragorn, gentle yet firm, would not budge. Merry was to stay, under the protection of the new allies he had chosen.
Eowyn tried too. Merry overheard her, when he himself had been rebuffed and had gone to sulk in the shadows beneath a stand of trees. She caught Aragorn alone, readying his horse. In no uncertain terms, to Merry's ears, she told him she would follow him anywhere, out of love. Strider said something about his heart wandering in Rivendell - and though it was vague, Merry had a good idea what that meant, even if Eowyn didn't. A few more bitter words from her, a few more rueful words from Strider, and they parted. Aragorn was gone. Eowyn fled into the darkness on the other side of the camp.
Merry stayed where he was, sinking down to sit beneath the trees, stunned at how his already-bleak world had managed to grow so much bleaker in such a short time. The Fellowship was in pieces, and he was the loneliest fragment of all. Frodo and Sam had one another. So did Pippin and Gandalf, and so did the three who had just left. But no one remained with Merry. Like so much unnecessary baggage, he had been abandoned.
Some time later he saw Eowyn walking near, alone and silent. "Lady?" he said.
She was startled. "Master Meriadoc," she answered. "I did not see you there."
"I know. I'm too small; no one does." He tried to sound merely self-deprecating and not resentful, as she of all people didn't deserve his bitterness.
"No, it isn't that," she said, and came closer. She sat down beside him, bringing a waft of smoky-sweet air from her dark robes. She had changed out of the armor and into an embroidered brown and red gown for supper. The scent reminded Merry of his aunts and cousins and friends back home, and he knew in a pained instant how much he missed his womenfolk. "It's your cloak," Eowyn said, and took up a corner of it to feel it. "It makes you quite invisible in dark places like this."
"Oh," Merry said. "Yes, I suppose it does."
"Your companions wore them too." She pressed the cloth flat between her palms.
"Yes. We...we were given them in Lothlorien."
"Ah. I thought they might be of Elvish make." Her head was bowed, and her unbraided golden hair fell to hide it. "Lothlorien. Not Rivendell?"
"No." He pitied her, and decided the truth was kindest: "But we did stay at Rivendell, with Lord Elrond, for a time. Strider - Lord Aragorn I mean - knows the Rivendell Elves quite well. Elrond seemed a father to him, and his daughter Arwen - well."
"I see." She turned the corner of the cloak in her hands, and let it drop. "Some riddles are easily explained, aren't they."
Having dealt her this blow, Merry didn't know what else to say. But she soon continued herself:
"But you didn't hail me to tell me of your cloak. What is it you wished to say?"
"I only wanted to know: what day are we riding from here?"
"Two days from now, perhaps. As soon as the rest of our Riders are here, and have rested long enough."
"And then it's off to..." Our deaths, he nearly said. "Minas Tirith."
"Yes. For the Riders. My uncle wishes me to stay behind, and look after the people."
Merry looked at her. "You don't wish to," he said.
"There will be nothing left in Rohan to rule if all able bodies do not fight now. I am able. I should go." She gave a hopeless gesture with both hands, flaring out the sleeves of her robes. Her wrists fell limp in her lap. "But they see only that I am a woman, not that I am one who could fight."
"And my friends have left me," Merry said, now letting himself sound just as bitter as he felt, "for they don't see I'm anything but a Halfling, who shouldn't have come along in the first place."
"Not all your friends have left you," she answered. Her vehemence surprised him. "You would not have got this far without being of great worth. You'll go farther still, if you wish."
"I wish it," he said. "I wish anything, other than being left behind."
"Then we understand each other."
They lapsed into quiet. Some Riders were drawing near, talking as they walked. The subject under discussion was Aragorn and his companions, whose disappearance into the Dwimorberg had reached the ears of the whole camp by now. "They're Elvish wights, the lot of them," said one, and the other two rumbled in agreement. "Let them go where they belong, into the dark places, and never return. The times are evil enough."
His companions seemed to feel he had spoken true, and consoled each other with repeating those sentiments in various words until they had gone out of earshot of Merry and Eowyn. Merry felt especially depressed to hear such things spoken of his friends, and wondered how he would be treated hereafter, since he'd arrived in camp with the "Elvish wights." When he looked aside at Eowyn, she appeared to be nearly trembling in fury - she clutched her hands together in her lap, crumpling folds of her robe in her fists, staring at the ground with wide eyes and set lips.
"They aren't evil," Merry burst out, though he kept his voice low. "They don't belong in the dark. And they're not cowards, and not traitors, either. They're some of the bravest and truest folk I've ever known."
"I believe it," she said. "My uncle believes it as well. And everyone will know it before the end."
After that he felt better, just sitting next to her in silence, the two of them bonded by friends in common, even though those friends had gone away and might indeed never return.
* * *
Eomer muttered suspicious things about those who had gone into the Haunted Mountain, and looked askance at Merry sometimes in the next two days with what Merry assumed was distrust. But Theoden and Eowyn, at least, continued to speak kindly to him, and insisted upon seating him at their table for meals, where they included him in their talks of the upcoming war. It still made Eowyn bristle, Merry could see, when Theoden referred to her staying behind. Her fair cheeks would set aflame with angry color, and she would lower her gaze, long eyelashes hiding the grey eyes.
Aragorn's name set off a reaction too, but the color would wash away to dead white in her face at such times. It hurt Merry to see - and not just because he also feared for Aragorn.
Silly, he told himself. Of all the people to be jealous of! When did a hobbit ever stand as honest competition against the rightful King of Men, in a contest for a lady's heart?
But Merry could make her laugh, so he did that, whenever the time seemed right. His stock of absurd poetry was now more useful than it had ever been. She had a robust sense of humor: you could recite the kind of jokes you wouldn't normally tell to a lady, and she would laugh as long and comfortably as any man. Merry made a mental note (with a sad twinge in his heart) to thank Pippin for repeating those verses so often and so loudly in his hearing. If he ever saw Pippin again.
Somehow, though, Merry did not realize that Theoden meant to leave him behind too. He didn't realize it until the night - if it could be called night - when the King stood gazing at the eerie blackness that had spread across the sky, and summoned everyone out of their tents to prepare to ride. Merry, though his knees trembled at the first look at that immense and evil darkness above him, knew at once that his only option was to fight - to fight for his friends, for his family, for the Shire, for Rohan, for the Lady Eowyn's grey eyes and the laughter that transformed her into the loveliest thing he'd seen.
And it was then that Theoden told him he was to stay behind, for Merry could not ride fast enough on a pony to keep up, and none of the Riders could bear his weight.
"If you will remain friend to Rohan, stay and serve the Lady Eowyn," Theoden told him - which tempted him strongly, to be sure, but how could he face her when all the real heroes had ridden off to battle?
He was speechless with chagrin as Theoden touched his head fondly and then strode away. A hand alighted on his shoulder; and he lifted his gaze to see in the gloom the pale figure of Eowyn.
"Come with me, Merry," she said.
He followed, expecting to be given lessons on taking care of the wounded or looking after orphans, so was surprised when she brought him into her own tent and began hauling out battle gear in small sizes, and kneeling to put it on him. "Aragorn only asked one thing of me," she said: "that you should be armed for battle."
He did not answer that, lowering his eyes and examining the smooth thickness of the armor over his ribs instead.
She guessed right at his silence. "But I would have done it even if he hadn't asked," she added. He looked up, and found her head close to his own, as she knelt there. A smile broke across her face, and her hands squeezed his mail-clad shoulders. "You are very unlike him, you know, but I hold you just as dear."
He smiled too, but ruefully. "Even though I'll never get the chance to show myself to be just as brave?"
"You might yet." She rose to her feet, looking down at him, the lamplight shimmering through her curtain of wavy locks. "If you see the chance, Meriadoc, seize it. You're armed for it now." Then she turned and stowed the rest of the gear away in a trunk. "Goodnight, my friend," she said, packing and latching the trunk without a glance at him. "Get some sleep, if you can."
He went back to his own tent, which looked tiny amidst the others, and lay down still clad in his armor; he took off only the helmet. He almost felt that if he set aside the rest, someone would take it away from him. He curled up under his blanket, clutching the short Rohirrim sword she had given him, and repeated over and over to himself in a whisper, "I'll fight, I will." And clinging to the thought of all the folk in the world who were worth fighting for, he fell asleep at last.
* * *
It was not long before he was roused again, this time by the call to ride. He stumbled out of his tent to find the sky still black, but no stars visible. The blanket of evil hung heavy overhead. Around him, tents were being folded and whisked away, horses were being saddled and packed, and men were forming units in which to ride together. In this confusion it was hard to reach Theoden, but Merry managed it; and wearing his full armor, down to the helmet, he seized the King's hand and begged not to be left behind.
It was to no avail. Theoden commended him for his loyalty, but refused to allow it. "See to the Lady Eowyn," he urged. "She will make use of you."
And Merry staggered backward, watching Theoden ride away, trying to console his wounded pride by imagining standing next to Eowyn at a final battle, when the dark forces came at last to Edoras. Perhaps he and she could die side by side, the last two soldiers of Rohan...
But before he could manage to make this image seem appealing, a Rider reined in a horse beside him, and thrust down a gauntleted hand. "Ride with me," he said.
Merry looked up in amazement, but could not recognize the few pale features he glimpsed under the helmet. "Thank you, sir," he said, grasping the hand. He was swung up onto the horse, and with a kick they were off. Merry clung to the saddle's horn, and repeated over his shoulder, "Thank you indeed! Though I do not know your name."
The Rider leaned in and said, in soft tones he suddenly knew quite well, "Do you not?"
He nearly fell off the mount in his twist around to look at her. There was no mistaking it: the grey eyes, long-lashed, regarded him with gravity and pride from beneath the metal. "My lady," he breathed.
"Hush," she said, and the eyes kindled with a touch of amusement. "On this journey, 'Dernhelm,' if you please."
"Dernhelm," he promised, hardly able to hold back a grin, and turned to face forward again. The horse jolted over a patch of rough ground, and Eowyn slipped her arm round Merry and held him secure. He leaned back, closer to her. The awkward plates of his armor clinked against hers, and the saddle was tough beneath him, but somehow he felt comfortable, and even happy. For the first time, he didn't miss the rest of the Fellowship too terribly.
* * *
Merry wasn't half bad on a pony back in the Shire, but he had never ridden this hard or this fast or this long, and certainly never on a horse like this. By the end of the first day he was living in an aching blur. Even the good Rohirrim saddles and gear didn't keep the bruises and stiffness from forming, nor did the cushioning effect of Eowyn's arm around him. But he refused to let it show, and worried more about his presence - or hers - being detected and reported.
He needn't have concerned himself. She wore her helmet at all times until the pitch darkness fell, and anyway she had some sort of understanding with the leader of their unit. That fellow was apparently willing to look the other way for the sake of his Lady - and indeed, Merry thought, who wouldn't? The protection extended to her chosen squire, the Halfling, as well, so Merry was politely ignored by the Riders they hid among.
"It will be better if you stay with me," she said to him as they shared rations of hard bread and dried meat, that first night. "If anyone closer to my uncle comes through, I might not be recognized at a glance, but your stature will give you away at once. My tent is the safest place for you."
"As you wish, my la- my friend," Merry stammered. He hadn't quite got used to calling her "Dernhelm," or indeed anything other than "my lady."
It made her smile now, young eyes crinkling in the firelight, and he smiled back.
When the Riders were settling in to sleep, Eowyn set up a small tent - just large enough for a Man-sized person to curl up in, and just strong enough to keep off the rain if any were to fall. She crawled in and summoned Merry. Hesitant, he crawled in after her. She was lying on her side, her hair released from her helmet at last, and strewn in a tangle on her pack, which served as a pillow. Her cape, on which the horse-pattern of Rohan glimmered gold in the faint torchlight, was draped over her as a blanket. She patted the ground beside her, inviting him to lie down in the concave space formed by her body. Merry set aside his own helmet, cloak, and gloves, and lay down with his back to her. Her arm and cloak fell across him at the shoulder, warm and comforting even through the chain-mail shirts they both still wore.
She took a long breath and let it out, settling deeper against the pillow. He felt the air move against his neck. "Sweet lady, I'm sore," she murmured.
"Oh, thank goodness. I thought it was just me."
"It's as well neither of us weighs more," she said. "The bruises would only be worse."
"Maybe it'll be easier tomorrow," he suggested.
"No," she said, sleepily, "it will be harder tomorrow. After that it will start to get easier."
And a few days after that, Merry thought, we will reach Minas Tirith, and fight, and likely die. He closed his eyes, and shrank back against her as if she were a haven of hearth-light against the dark night. With the sound of her breathing steady in his ears, he fell into an exhausted sleep.
* * *
Eowyn was right: it was harder riding the next day. Everything hurt; and besides that it was raining half the day. When they lay down to sleep that night, endless hours later, she shifted and bumped against Merry's legs, and he involuntarily whimpered in pain.
"I'm sorry," she whispered.
"It's all right," he said.
"I can barely move myself," she added.
"Pathetic, aren't we?"
"Tomorrow will be easier." And she brought him closer, beneath her arm, and despite the dampness and the ache, he felt better and was able to sleep.
The next day was in fact easier. The sky was grey, a very dark and unnatural grey, still dominated by the blanket hanging over them from Mordor, but the rain held back and the breeze smelled as fresh as it could be expected to smell when you rode behind a thousand horses. He was now used to the way it felt to ride with Eowyn, and they had found a comfortable set of positions, shifting from one to the other to ease the stiffness. Sometimes she held the reins, her hand in front of Merry's chest, and he would lean back into her to accommodate it. Other times she would hand them to him, and he would set himself forward and hold tight with his legs to the saddle; and both of her arms would fold around him, loose at his waist.
Since they rode so hard, it was not easy to talk above the thunder of the hooves and the wind in their ears; nor did anyone want to get dust in their mouth if the ground was dry. But sometimes, on terrain that required slower passage, or on the brief rests they took, there was opportunity to talk, and Merry took advantage of it. Silence only allowed him to think too much. So he asked her about living among the Rohirrim, and what it had been like to grow up as a daughter of kings; and after she had answered she asked him about the Shire, and what the hobbit folk knew of the world of Men.
The talk turned to their friends in common before long, of course. On the fourth evening, before getting into their tent, Merry spoke of meeting Strider in Bree, and what a mixed impression he had made upon them. Eowyn smiled, but was quiet for a time. She watched the rag move along the knife she was cleaning, and asked, "Do he and the Lady Arwen intend to marry?"
"I'm not sure," Merry said honestly. "He'll speak of many things; but of her, almost never."
"I suppose that's gentlemanly of him," she admitted, but did not seem much pleased.
"Yes, I think he just doesn't like to speak of ladies. He...he hadn't told us of you either, but I could tell he esteemed you very highly, when I saw him with you." Now Merry looked down at his own grimy hands, wishing he had never spoken, wishing he were a tall handsome Man who could do a better job of taking her mind off Aragorn.
But when she spoke, he heard dry humor in her voice. "It's all right," she said. "I never knew him long. There was just a great deal of...hope. In many ways."
Merry looked at her. She was putting away the cleaned knife. She had taken off her helmet, and her hair was in disarray, and she had a grey smudge on her forehead from the metal. In the brown leather and iron-grey mail, she hardly looked the picture of femininity; and yet she remained, somehow, a perfect vision of beauty. "Hope, yes," he echoed. "Strider carries hope for all of us." He closed his eyes and lowered his face, thinking in a sudden shot of pure grief, And so do Frodo and Sam; even more. Oh, mercy, save them.
"I have heard he has an Elvish name," Eowyn continued, "which is their word for 'hope.' It was well chosen."
Merry nodded. "And what does your name mean?" he asked, for conversation's sake; to think about anything other than death.
" 'Joy of horses,' in the old runes, they tell me."
"Then that was well-chosen too."
"And yours?"
"Oh." He shrugged in modesty. "Just what it seems - 'merry.' 'Jolly, happy'..." He cast her a sheepish half-smile, aware he had been anything but "merry" for quite some time now.
But she rested her chin on her hand, and her smile broadened. "You strike me as very much so. No one with such a stock of delightful poems could be otherwise."
He broke into a soft laugh, and covered his face for a moment. "I'm afraid that's hobbits all over. Or it is with my kin, at least. Making jests at the most inappropriate times. We scarcely know how to handle great and heavy events."
"I am favorably impressed so far," she promised, and clicked her metal-shod riding boot against his.
Their gazes held, across the small campfire, for a space of several seconds. When Merry looked away, he felt light-headed and a little breathless. "And look at what you've done," he reproached, pretending to be outraged. "Made a hobbit wear shoes! I hope you're proud of yourself."
She laughed, gave his leg another shove with her foot, and got up. "Oh, I'm very proud. Now put out the fire, if you please. We should get some rest."
But that night when she put her arm around him to settle in for sleep, he felt her face nestle against the back of his neck, warm in the cold air. His eyes snapped open and he waited with breath held.
"Merry," she whispered.
"Eowyn?" he whispered back.
"I'm glad you're with me."
He turned slowly, onto his back, to look at her; but in the darkness of the tent she was only a shadow. "I wish I could do more," he confessed - which, under the circumstances, meant all kinds of things, but he decided not to list them.
Her hand found his cheek. She shifted, and a strand of her hair fell across his neck. Then her lips touched his. He nearly melted into the ground, quite convinced that this was worth dying for. He closed his eyes and returned the soft, smoky-flavored caress. But it lasted only a moment, and soon she lifted her head and lay down again. "Sleep well, my friend," she said.
"Yes," he answered, which again meant a lot of things; and turned over onto his side. Though his head was filled with flashing and lovely thoughts, darting about like butterflies and interrupting all weightier concerns, he soon slept, and slept well.
* * *
The next day, word reached them that they if they rode far enough today, they would arrive outside Minas Tirith tomorrow. They were all told to be ready for battle from this hour forward. Merry felt as if a ball of cold lead had suddenly formed inside his chest. He wondered if the taste it brought to his mouth, dry and metallic, was what death would taste like. He felt Eowyn tighten her hold on him, on their mount, and heard her swallow. "Courage, Merry," she whispered, but there was a tremor in her voice. The horses moved forward in a wave. She gave a kick, and they joined the sea.
All that day he steeled his mind by thinking of how he was at least drawing closer to Pippin and Gandalf now, and how the soldiers of Gondor would soon be near and would help them fight; and how perhaps Aragorn would arrive with his Rangers, if he had survived the Haunted Mountain. Perhaps even, by some miracle, Frodo would succeed, and the power of Mordor would drop away in one instant and the sun would come shining out from behind this dark veil, and no one dear to him would have to die. Part of him believed it, too.
But part of him whispered, It's no use: we'll die tomorrow, Eowyn and Theoden and I and all these Men, and I'll never know what happened to Frodo or Sam or Pippin, and never see my kinfolk again. And then he shuddered, and wished to turn around and hide in Eowyn's embrace, and let them kill him there.
But he staved off the fey mood through supper that evening, even managing a wry comment or two about the deteriorating quality of their food, and earning a smile from Eowyn. After eating, when it grew dark, she got up and took a large metal dish from her pack, and said, "I cannot stand the filth any longer. There's a river not far. I'm going to get some water, and wash." He nodded and let her go, and sat to watch the fire. But she was back within minutes, looking disgusted. "Look at this water," she said, and lay down the half-full dish at his feet, where it caught the light from the fire. It was murky and reddish.
"It looks as if there's...blood?" he said.
"Looks it, and tastes it too. The river runs thick with it. There's been fighting upstream." She shuddered. "I don't know whose blood I'd less wish to bathe in: my enemies', or my allies'." She flung its contents into the bushes, then came back and sat beside him. They were both silent, watching the fire. Soon, cold drops of rain began to fall, hissing on the embers and ringing on the armor all around them.
Merry looked up dismally, resigning himself to the night ahead being wet as well as lonely and horrible.
"Very well," Eowyn sighed, and rose again. "Then I'll bathe in the rain."
Merry glanced at her in surprise, but she was already taking the dish and some rags, and stalking away into the woods. He busied himself with setting up the tent, so that she could have shelter from the rain when she returned. By the time he was done, the shower had become a downpour, and he was wet through. In utter misery and discomfort, he took off his helmet and boots and set them in a relatively dry place under the tent flaps, then stood and looked about, not knowing whether to crawl into the tent even though he was soaked, or stay out and hope the rain stopped soon. And did it really matter anyway, since the weight of the world was going to crush him into oblivion tomorrow?
Sorrow conquered him then, and the sea of smoking campfires became a misty blur in his eyes. His breath came short against the pressure of impending tears, and he instinctively looked for Eowyn. She was still gone. He couldn't bear it if anything happened to her now, so he set off, barefoot as a hobbit should be, into the dark woods to find her. Wet branches whipped against him, and the wind in the trees sounded like the moans of walking ghosts, but he kept forward.
She hadn't gone far, and soon he was upon her: a pale slim form in a clearing, lifting her face to the sky, running wet hands over her shivering naked limbs.
He stopped short and caught a breath, startled into practicality, realizing that he shouldn't be here. But she heard him and looked back quickly. "Merry?" she said.
He averted his eyes. "I'm sorry," he said. "Sorry...I...was worried. I had it in my head something might have happened..."
"I don't mind," she said, sounding only tired. In the corner of his vision he saw her pick up a blanket, and wrap it around herself. "There. You can look again."
He approached. He could see her by cloud-light, sitting at the base of a tree, drying her legs with the blanket. "Tomorrow," he said, "...tomorrow, do you think we'll..." The words stuck in his throat.
"Die?" She went on rubbing her limbs. "Likely enough. Though there is always hope."
He sank to his knees at her feet, feeling the chilly rain run through his hair. "My parents don't know where I am," he said. "If I die, and if Pip dies, they may never know what became of us. They'll live wondering if I'll ever come home; and I'll be dead, never even having said them a proper farewell..."
She had stopped moving, and was quiet, as if to let him speak.
"I know that doesn't matter, in the larger view," he went on, head bowed, eyes hot with salt-water. "But I can't even begin to think of the larger view without despairing. I wanted to see great things when I left home, but I've seen too many. There's too much happening out here, and I can't stand to think of what might be lost. The numbers - the deaths - the cities - on such a scale...and I'm not even in the worst danger of all: I have friends out there..." But at that he fell silent, still not daring, even now, to tell her about Frodo and Sam. It was just as well; his voice was quite failing him. He swallowed, and wiped away the mix of rain and tears on his cheeks.
Eowyn moved, and her arms were around him, enfolding him into the blanket. The fragrance of her cool wet hair filled his lungs. "I don't want to die either," she whispered, and she sounded afraid.
He found he had latched his arms around her neck, and was kneeling between her legs. Some part of his mind recalled she was naked beneath the blanket, but at the moment he thought only what he said aloud: "I won't let you die, if I can stop it at all."
"Nor will I let you," she said. "We'll look after each other."
There was still a blanket between his armor and her bare skin, so he didn't feel it was wrong to lean back with her against the tree, cradling her head to his neck while his body was cradled against her chest. They rested there, the tree shielding them from the worst of the rain.
"I just wish we didn't have to wait like this," he said after a spell. "Wet and cold and hungry. I wish I could have had one last evening in solace. Just one night to shut out the world in a comfortable room, with a fire in the hearth."
She stirred, and pushed back her damp hair, and lifted her face to him. "Will it do if I offer a tent, with a warm companion?" And she pulled down his chilly hand, and brought it inside the blanket to her breast.
He was astonished, and felt a laugh quiver through him. The anticipation that now seized him was an energy alive and bright, nothing like the heavy crushing fear he had felt for so long. Furthermore, within seconds he was no longer the least bit cold; in fact, he could have sworn steam began rising from his wet clothes. She gave his hand a squeeze, forcing it to squeeze her soft flesh in turn. He wobbled and sank closer to her.
"Forgive me for asking," he said, fingers cupping and exploring almost on their own; "but what does that invitation mean, exactly?"
She left his hand to its wanderings, and stretched her arm out to drape around him again. "Well," she mused, "in truth I'm not sure. There are many things I've never done..."
"Same with me," he interjected, anxious to provide that disclaimer, in case he did anything completely wrong.
"But," she went on, "is that best? Should we go pure and virginal to our deaths? Or should we go with knowledge and experience of..." Her hand slipped up to stroke his face. "...certain things? Which do you suppose is better?"
Eowyn, he sensed, wasn't one to play games in which she only pretended resistance in order to draw him in. She did sound as if she honestly wanted to know his opinion. But he was as lost as she, and probably more so, in fact. He bent his head in shyness to kiss her bare shoulder, and said, "I know which way would make the night pass faster."
She laughed again, the light laugh of a young maiden. "I do admire your hobbit practicality."
He lifted his head, and found her mouth seeking his. The taste of rain was on her lips, mingling with the last trace of salt from his own tears. His hand inside the blanket, which had fallen still in awaiting her explanation, reawakened and flexed, and slid lower. She was so smooth, so firm and strong and young. Touching her cleared away the morbid clouds that had massed around his thoughts, sending them scattering on a fierce wind, and leaving him with a shining desire to live.
"Let's go back to the tent before we're missed," she murmured, into his lips.
He nodded, and they disentangled to collect her armor and dash back to the camp in the rainy night.
* * *
"Then what?" demands Pippin, who has turned sideways on the bench to drink in Merry's story.
"What do you think?" Merry returns.
"Merry. Am I to understand that the next heir to Faramir's household may in fact be a Brandybuck?"
"No! And I'll thank you to lower your voice."
"Well, you said - "
"There are other things people can do," Merry informs him in a curt whisper. "Even then, even thinking we wouldn't last out the week, neither of us wished to get her with child."
Pippin seems chastened. "Of course. I'm sorry. I shouldn't ask." Then he makes a face of frustration, and clinches together his hands in his lap. "But what was it like? Did you - was it - "
Merry smiles in sympathy. Pip is at just the age where he's always dying to know about this subject, but isn't considered quite old enough to be told. Merry remembers what that felt like. "It was," he tells Pippin, "like the best dream I ever had. And I'll never forget a moment of it."
This seems to satisfy Pippin, who leans back with a sigh and gazes at the mountain for a while. "Then," he says eventually, "did she let you..." He bites his lip and squints, apparently searching for a polite phrase.
"Hands could go anywhere," Merry says, guessing at the question.
"Oh." Pippin's eyebrows lift, as if this mostly answered it. "And, er...mouths?"
Merry shifts his shoulders against the stone wall, and looks away. "Yes, Pippin."
"Ah. So when you say there are other things people can do...ultimately, was it - "
"I am not answering that, Pip."
"All right, fine," Pippin says, in conciliatory fashion, capitulating with a lift of his hands.
"Anyway," Merry concludes, "that's all there is to tell."
Pippin snorts. "Hardly! What about the next day? The ride? The Pelennor Fields?"
"Oh. Everyone already knows about that. It's just as I've told you before."
"But the two of you - you kept your word, then. You saved each other from death."
"We defeated him," Merry says, his face lowered. He picks at one of his battle scabs again. "But it wasn't just to save each other. He killed Theoden, and nearly killed Frodo. That was reason enough for me."
"And when I found you - oh, Merry!" Pippin's voice has swelled with pity again.
"I was weeping for Theoden," Merry defends, then bows his head even lower. "And because I thought she was dead. And thought I was dying, too, and had only found you in time to die on you. It was all a bit much, that's all."
"I'm not judging you, you silly ass. If you knew how I wept after you collapsed - well, but never mind."
Merry glances at him with gratitude, and sits up straighter, sighing. "Then," he finishes, "it took me so long to heal, and her as well...when I awoke, I knew it all had to be put behind us."
"And you left her to Faramir." Pippin sounds faintly astonished.
"They're a much better match for each other."
"But...you're sad, Merry."
"I'm sad for now. I'll get over it."
"If I'd known," Pippin says, with sudden fierceness, "why, I'd never have - "
"Saved him?" Merry fills in, with a laugh. "You'd have let him burn? Don't be ridiculous, Pippin. You did exactly right."
"But I would have managed to bring her to you in the Houses of Healing, or something! It isn't fair to you!"
"Think how much worse things could be now," Merry says. "Think how many of us could be dead. Think if Frodo and Sam hadn't made it. Yes, she means a great deal to me, but I know we can't be together. We did what we did because we thought it was our last night in the world, and the fact that it wasn't is reward enough."
Pippin slumps back against the wall. "Oh, I suppose," he says.
"Having a Shire to go back to is all I need," Merry assures. Then he nudges Pippin and adds, "Besides, very few hobbits can say they've done what I have. I'm not above admitting it makes me proud."
"And well it should!" Pippin laughs. "Pity you can't tell anyone."
"Oh, knowing is enough."
"What about Frodo and Sam? Can we tell them?"
"Someday. Maybe. We'll see."
Pippin dusts off his lap and jumps to his feet. "Let's look for some cake. What do you say?"
"I say it sounds fine. I'll follow your nose, Pip. It never fails." Merry hops off the bench, and finds himself being quickly and vivaciously hugged by his cousin. Then he's dragged away down the street in quest of spice cake.
[The End.]
NOTES/QUOTES
"I won't be left, I won't." And repeating this over and over again to himself he fell asleep at last in his tent. ("The Muster of Rohan")
Summary of "Muster of Rohan" happenings: Theoden tells Merry to stay behind and "serve the Lady Eowyn"; and won't hear of letting Merry fight. Eowyn takes Merry aside to give him gear: "This request only did Aragorn make to me...that you should be armed for battle." ..."Farewell now, Master Meriadoc! Yet maybe we shall meet again, you and I."
And some said: 'They are Elvish wights. Let them go where they belong, into the dark places, and never return. The times are evil enough.' ("The Passing of the Grey Company")
When she picks him up to ride with her; book canon:
"Thank you, sir, though I do not know your name."
"Do you not?" said the Rider softly.
(Movie canon divergence, also used here: he looks closely and recognizes her: "My lady!")
"It was a skyless world, in which his eye, through dim gulfs of shadowy air, saw only ever-mounting slopes, great walls of stone behind great walls, and frowning precipices wreathed with mist. ...He loved mountains, or he had loved the thought of them marching on the edge of stories brought from far away; but now he was borne down by the insupportable weight of Middle-earth. He longed to shut out the immensity in a quiet room by a fire." ("The Muster of Rohan")