Merry looked up at the sky anxiously. There was going to be a change in the weather, he had no doubt, and not for the better. Suddenly sleeping out under the stars didn’t seem such a good idea as it had in front of the fire at Bag End, sipping tea and nibbling at a biscuit, with the dark on the proper side of the round windows.

Dark lit by moon and stars was one thing, dark of cloud broken only by lightning’s flash and grumble of thunder was quite another. Worse, everything looked different in the dark. He wasn’t sure he could find his way back to the smial; he could not even see the watch-lamps in the windows through the thickening darkness.

Stupid! ...to fall asleep after reaching the bottom of the picnic hamper. It had been a rich meal, and heavy, though he’d cheered himself with the thought that the empty hamper would be no burden at all to carry back to Bag End. Pip had eaten himself into a state of sleepiness, and when Merry settled back on the soft grass, the better to digest the meal, the littler cousin had rested his head in Merry’s lap. Both of them had made up stories about the fleecy clouds floating above them: this one a dragon, and that one a dwarf, and another a troll, and wolves, and eagles, and...

As the Sun sought her bed, she pulled out her paintbox and tinted the clouds in glorious shades: golden, crimson, purple-black. Pip had fallen asleep watching the display, and Merry had watched the stars come out, one by one, and jolly round Master Moon rise smiling gold above the eastern horizon. Soon it would be time to pick up the hamper and waken his little cousin, to walk back through the Old Orchard planted by Bilbo’s father, to the smial, where Mrs. Gamgee would have supper ready and waiting.

The pleasant visit had gone all wrong; it was one thing to keep company with Frodo, who was suffering from a head cold, while Bilbo was off wandering, meeting elves or dwarves or whatnot. Frodo had endured just as much cheering as he could before shooing Merry and Pippin out to the meadow for a picnic, “a breath of fresh air” for them, though he really meant a space of quiet and rest for himself... He’d never say so, of course, but Bell Gamgee was in complete agreement and had made up a hamper full of enough food to keep the exuberant young cousins occupied for quite awhile, before finishing her cleaning duties and taking herself back to Number Three to tend to her own brood.

It was another thing to be here, afraid to stir foot in any direction and thunder threatening. Merry didn’t know what to hope for... for Frodo to miss them, grow worried, and come in search, lantern in hand, or for Frodo to keep tight inside with his cold, not risking something worse. Perhaps he’d go to Number Three and fetch the Gaffer and Samwise; that would be the sensible thing to do. Frodo wasn’t always sensible, though. Sometimes he was more heroic than was good for him.

Merry wrapped his coat around shivering Pippin and considered. If he could just get his bearings, he could find their way back to the smial. He imagined his triumphant entrance. ‘Of course we’re safe, you silly Baggins! You weren’t worrying your stuffy head on our behalf, were you?’

He stood to his feet. ‘Come along, Pip, we’re going back to Bag End now.’

 ‘About time,’ Pip squeaked. He huddled closer, as a sharp gust of wind rattled them. ‘I’m hungry.’

 ‘That’s right, Pip,’ Merry said. ‘Nothing to fear.’

 ‘What’s to be frightened of?’ Pip demanded bravely. His Merry was worried, he could see, and needed bolstering. That’s what cousins were for, to bolster one another, after all.

Merry was feeling the slope of the ground. To one side of their picnic meadow was the Old Orchard, and Bag End beyond. To the other side was a sharp drop, steep and rocky. There was a twisty path of sorts where one could pick his way down amongst the rocks, but to step off at the wrong place was inviting injury, possibly serious.

Unfortunately, they were on top of a little hillock and the ground sloped down in all directions. Merry would just have to wait for a flash of brighter lightning to show him the silhouettes of the trees in the Orchard.

At that moment he felt his hair stand on end. Instinctively he threw himself to the ground, taking Pippin with him, rolling down the side of the little hill. There was a blinding flash accompanied by a deafening boom in his ears, as of a giant’s drum, a terrible tingling in all his limbs, a blast of fearful heat followed by dark, cold, silence... and then a hard pelting rain that he scarcely felt, numb all over as he was.

The young hobbits lay insensible where they’d ended.

They didn’t hear the exclamations, or see the lantern light, or feel the blankets wrapped about them or the warm, sheltering arms that lifted them and carried them to safety.

It was some time later that Merry opened his eyes and found himself, blanket wrapped, propped before the roaring hearth in Bag End, Frodo beside him and Pippin tucked in between.

 ‘Merry!’ Frodo rasped. ‘Bilbo, he’s wakening!’

A shadow moved and suddenly Bilbo was on his other side, kneeling down as swiftly as if he weren’t just short of an hundred-and-eight years old (or young, as it were). The old hobbit had returned to Bag End just ahead of the storm, congratulating himself on keeping dry... but had found himself shortly after his arrival fetching a lantern and Master Hamfast and going out to the meadow in search of the missing lads.

Ah, well. Wet clothes could be exchanged for dry ones, after all... Young cousins were not so easy to replace. He’d feared the worst when they’d come upon the burned and blackened hamper. His tears had mingled with the hard rain, before young Samwise had shouted, pointed, as the lightning flashed to light up the world around them and revealed the huddled bodies lying on the soaked grass some ways away.

 ‘Merry—lad,’ the old hobbit said. ‘Mistress Goodbody said you’d taken no lasting harm... do you hear me, lad?’

 ‘You don’t have to shout,’ Merry said, too groggy to be tactful.

Bilbo laughed and clapped him on his blanketed shoulder. ‘You weren’t struck deaf,’ he said joyfully. ‘She warned that you might not be able to hear when you wakened.’

 ‘I hear you just fine,’ Merry said, but sudden fear seized him. ‘What about Pippin?’ he said in alarm.

 ‘I hear you just fine,’ Pippin echoed. ‘A bit too fine, if you ask me. Do let a fellow sleep, will you?’ He sounded much older than his eight years, but of course he was quoting an oft-heard sentiment of Frodo’s...

Frodo laughed and hugged both his cousins, though he turned his face away to cough.

 ‘Very well,’ Bilbo said with a fond smile for the three of them. ‘Why don’t you just roll up and sleep in front of the hearthfire this evening, and pretend to be sleeping under the stars? I promised you I’d take you wandering, and I will, but not until Frodo’s cold is better.’

 ‘I can’t think of anything better at the moment,’ Merry said, and yawned. Really, he felt deliciously sleepy, and the patter of rain outside the windows added to the comfort of the blankets and fire. The distant rumble of thunder sounded more homey than threatening now.

 ‘There’s a change coming in the weather,’ Bilbo said. ‘It’ll rain all tomorrow, but the next day ought to be dry and warm.’

Merry murmured something inaudible and snuggled closer to Pippin. Within a breath or two he was asleep.

Author's Note:
This was written for two purposes, as part 2 of Marigold's challenge 7, and as a birthday present for Dana. (Happy birthday, Dana!)

Material from "The Uruk-hai" and "Flotsam and Jetsam" from The Lord of the Rings by J.R.R. Tolkien has been incorporated here and shaped into new form.

*** 

Merry looked up at the sky anxiously. There was going to be a change in the weather, he had no doubt, and not for the better. He could hear the grumble of thunder, shaking the air around him, and dark clouds obscured his vision. An eye-blinding flash seared his aching head.

He ought not to be on the River with thunder coming on, but he’d lost his oars trying to grab for the fish he’d caught—someone had removed the pins from the oarlocks, a stupid, thoughtless trick!—and the little boat was carrying him ever farther from Brandy Hall. He looked from one riverbank to the other, trying to gauge which was closer, that he might make a swim for it, to no avail.

 ‘Help!’ he shouted again, hopelessly. ‘Help me!’

He thought he heard a faint reply. ‘Merry!’

 ‘Pippin?’ he cried. He hadn’t told anyone he was sneaking away to do some fishing and thinking. How had Pippin known? It occurred to him then that Pippin might have been the one who removed the pins from the oarlocks, causing the oars to fall out of the boat when Merry let them go to draw the net over the fish he’d caught on his line. Pippin had probably not suspected that his trick would work so magnificently.

 ‘Pippin!’ he cried, but his voice was drowned in the booming of the thunder. The wind came up, rocking the boat violently. He saw the floating log before the boat hit it, but with no way to steer all he could do was look in horror, grabbing hold of the gunwales as he hit, for all the good it did... He shouted as the boat went over, for it scored his forehead with agony, and he struggled to grab hold of the boat or the log or anything, to fend off the burning pain, to hold tight lest he sink in the River and drown.

He was sinking in the water, his head splitting from the knock it had received as the boat went over. He tried to move his arms and legs but they were strangely heavy and unresponsive. He opened his mouth to cry out again, and the River poured into him, but instead of icy cold it was burning in his throat and down into his innards and he felt a hot fierce glow flow through him.

He found himself standing on his feet, surrounded by foul Orcs, and memory returned. He and Pippin had run, shouting for Frodo, into the midst of a group of the horrid creatures. He was sure they were for it then, but the Orcs didn’t strike with sword or club, not even when Merry cut off several of the hands that grabbed at him and at Pippin.

At last an Orc gave an exasperated roar and struck with his club from behind them. Merry saw the blow take Pippin to the ground, and in grief he sprang forward, to stand over his cousin’s body, to take the next blow on himself. The club descended indeed, knocking his small sword to the ground. Before he could regain it, a great Orc scooped it from the ground together with Pippin’s.

How he glared! Merry stood straighter, seeing his death in the creature’s eyes, waiting for the stab to come. Instead the great Orc gave a howl and threw the knives away as if they burned him. ‘Little scum!’ he growled. ‘You’ll pay for that!’ He drew his iron-gloved fist back and struck Merry sharply, rocking the hobbit’s head on his neck, and Merry fell into darkness.

But now he was awake, staring about him. There was no sign of Boromir, whom he’d last seen plucking a black-feathered arrow from his side. They weren’t at Parth Galen at all, he realized, but at the top of a narrow ravine leading down to the misty plain below.

Just then, to his relief and chagrin, he spotted his younger cousin. Pippin stood not far away, pale and defiant, though worry for Merry shone from his eyes. Ah, Pippin, they’ve taken you too, he thought. But it’s nice to know you’re alive, at least. He shook himself mentally, strove to find something cheering and heartening to say.

 ‘Hullo, Pippin!’ he said. ‘So you’ve come on this little expedition, too? Where do we get bed and breakfast?’

 ‘Now then!’ said the ugly Orc that he’d soon learn was called Ugluk. ‘None of that! Hold your tongues. No talk to one another. Any trouble will be reported at the other end, and He’ll know how to pay you. You’ll get bed and breakfast all right: more than you can stomach.’

Merry’s heart sank. He was fairly sure as to the identity of “He”—the Dark Lord himself, he wouldn’t wonder. He wished he could lie down and die then and there, but what good would that do Pippin? Grimly he climbed down the ravine, trying to catch a glimpse of Pippin though more than a dozen Orcs separated them.

Somehow the touch of grass on his feet when he reached the valley heartened him, and he raised his head once more.

There was some shouting amongst the Orcs, and then Merry was prodded forward. He was forced into a run, with three Orcs around him to act as guard and goad. He wondered how long he could keep this pace, having had no food since morning, but the fierce glow still burned in his innards and somehow he made his legs move steadily up-and-down. When he faltered a whip would sing and curl about his back or legs, painfully cutting through his clothes as a knife, leaving his skin burning. And still he ran. He could not see Pippin, so his cousin must be behind him. He hoped Pippin was behind him, at least. He could not spare a moment to look around, for any time his pace faltered the whip sang once more.

Suddenly he heard Ugluk yell, ‘Halt!’

As his orc-guard stopped, he dropped to the ground, panting, then tried to get a look behind him. A great arm cuffed him down, and a voice growled, ‘Lie still, you maggot!’ Merry could not see what was happening, but he heard a stifled cry from Pippin and then Ugluk shouted, ‘Enough! He’s still got to run a long way yet!’

All the way to Mordor, Merry thought gloomily. He didn’t hear anything else, for his guard now pulled him to his feet and prodded him into motion once more.

He ran, and he ran, striving to keep up the pace set by the Orcs, feeling the lash of the whip when he faltered or stumbled. At last he could run no more and he fell. The whip bit twice, a third time, and then an Orc shouted and he was seized by cruel talons and dragged for some distance before he could regain his feet.

At last he fell a last time and lay insensible, welcoming the darkness. Surely they would beat and kick him to death, and this misery would end. He was only dimly aware when the cruel hands seized him once more and lifted him into the air, to settle him against a rock-hard surface that jolted him up and down, making all his arms feel as if they’d be pulled from their sockets. Somehow he was able to pass once more into a swoon, and he was aware of little that passed besides the feeling of being thrown down to the ground, hearing orc-voices arguing, and then being taken up like a sack once more, for more painful pounding.

He wakened when he felt cords being drawn mercilessly tight about his legs, binding them together. He felt rather like a trussed roast about to be suspended over the fire, and wondered if that was to be their fate. Just then he heard Pippin hiss.

 ‘Merry!’

Looking over, he saw Pippin’s face, pale under its smearing of dirt, not far away. The Orcs were making a great deal of noise, shouting and clashing their weapons. Evidently some enemy threatened.

 ‘Merry!’ Pippin hissed again, then cast a wary look about him to see if any Orc had heard. ‘Merry, do you hear me? How are you holding up?’

 ‘I don’t think much of this,’ Merry said. He was too heartsick and bone-weary to try for a cheerful tone. Indeed, if he were about to die, he might as well speak truthfully. ‘I feel nearly done in.’ He looked about at the Orcs, busy about whatever it was concerned them, and paying no mind at all to the hobbits. It would be a perfect opportunity to fade into the high grass, just as he had on sunny days in the meadow near Brandy Hall, waiting for Frodo to find him... But then, he hadn’t been trussed like a fowl at the time.

Looking about them again, Pippin lowered his voice to the merest breath. ‘They’re not watching at the moment! I think we can...’ He broke off as an Orc crossed between them.

He tried to swallow with a mouth as dry as dust, and when the area was clear again, said, ‘Don’t think I could crawl away far, even if I was free.’

 ‘Lembas!’ whispered Pippin. ‘Lembas: I’ve got some. Have you? I don’t think they’ve taken anything but our swords.’

Merry thought of the waybread they’d saved in their pockets, to nibble on during the long, boring hours on the Great River. ‘Yes, I had a packet in my pocket,’ he answered, ‘but it must be battered to crumbs. Anyway I can’t put my mouth in my pocket!’

Pippin smiled, his face young and innocent under the coating of dirt. Merry’s heart shattered within him, to think of the agonising death that surely awaited his young cousin. ‘You won’t have to,’ Pippin breathed. ‘I’ve—’. He stopped speaking as a guard kicked him savagely in the side, but tried to smile for Merry’s sake.

The night was cold and still. Merry almost wished for the storm of his dream, for at least rain would pour down from the sky and he could open his mouth to catch the life-giving water. Thirst was a growing torture, and he fell once more into half-dream of storm and thunder.

The thunder was hoofbeats, he realized in one of his waking moments, sounding in his ear as he lay on the ground, though when he turned his head he heard nothing of the riders, for they made no sound. The enemy circled the Orcs, watch-fires all around the hillock, but too far for the Orcs to shoot with any effect.

There was a sudden outcry on the east side of the knoll and the hobbits’ guards followed Ugluk to beat off the attack.

Merry sat up, for all the good it would do, and blinked at Pippin through the darkness. He opened his mouth to ask what Pippin had meant, earlier, when a long hairy arm took him by the neck, and suddenly he was pressed against Pippin. One of the Orcs, Grishnakh, began to paw the hobbits and feel them with his hard cold fingers, his foul breath hot on their faces.

To his astonishment, Merry heard Pippin speak lightly, as if they were in the middle of a party game back in the Shire. ‘I don’t think you will find it that way,’ he whispered. ‘It isn’t easy to find.’

’Find it?’ the Orc said, and his fingers stilled their raking search. Merry dared to take a breath, but he stopped breathing again when he heard Pippin make a noise deep in his throat: gollum, gollum.

 ‘O ho!’ the Orc hissed, but Merry missed the next few words, for he was thinking furiously. ‘Very ve-ry dangerous, my little ones.’

 ‘Perhaps,’ Merry put in, determined to help Pippin in this game any way he could. ‘Perhaps; and not only for us. Still you know your own business best.’ He took a deep breath. ‘Do you want it, or not? And what would you give for it?’

It was a dangerous game, as the Orc had said, and yet the hobbits played him as delicately as a great fish on a slender line, on the River of a misty morn.

Merry knew by now that they were bound for Isengard; he’d heard some of the arguing and realised that Saruman was behind this abduction, though Sauron’s Orcs would have taken them to Mordor by treachery had they been stronger. Now he said, ‘If we come to Isengard, it won’t be Grishnakh that benefits: Saruman will take all that he can find. If you want anything for yourself, now’s the time to do a deal.’

The Orc’s face twisted with rage and desire. ‘Have you got it—either of you?’ he snarled.

 ‘Gollum, Gollum!’ Pippin said.

 ‘Untie our legs!’ Merry pressed.

He felt the Orc’s arms trembling violently and wondered if he’d pressed too far. Still, death would be another sort of freedom. He steeled himself as the Orc hissed, ‘I’ll cut you both to quivering shreds...’

The Orc seized them, but instead of carrying out his threat at that moment, he tucked one under each unsavoury armpit, crushing them fiercely to his sides so that Merry could not draw breath. Even had he been able to breathe, a great stifling hand clapped over his mouth, ensuring his suffocation. He felt the Orc moving and realised the creature was attempting to escape into the darkness, to escape Ugluk and the riders beyond. He struggled desperately to breathe, but a roaring was in his ears and he felt once more as he had in the River, drowning, though this time there was no Frodo to pluck him from the waters.

Faintly Merry heard the snort of a horse and a man calling out, and then there was a shock as he was flung to the ground, the crushing weight of the Orc atop him. He heard the faint ring of Grishnakh’s sword and thought, ‘Now, at last!’ But the blow never came. Instead he heard a shriek from the throat of the Orc, a quick beat of hoofs, and a hideous shivering cry.

Before Merry could move a horse ran towards them, but as he tensed, awaiting the crushing hoofs, the horse lifted and sprang lightly over the hobbits. Though none came close to them where they lay, they remained still, too crushed for the moment, and too afraid to move.

At last Merry stirred slightly, testing his bonds, to no avail. He was tied securely, hand and foot and legs. He turned his head towards Pippin and whispered, ‘So far so good; but how are we to avoid being spitted?’

Behind them they heard the Orcs shouting and screaming. ‘Ah,’ Pippin whispered. ‘Our hosts have discovered that we’ve left the party.’

 ‘No worry,’ Merry whispered in return as the galloping of horses was heard, and more screams. ‘It seems that more guests are arriving.’ He listened intently, and realised suddenly that they were now outside the circle, with nothing between them and escape.

 ‘Who needs arms and legs?’ Pippin said whimsically. ‘Look at all we’ve accomplished just lying here!’

 ‘But now,’ Merry said, ‘if only we had our arms and legs and hands free, we might get away. But I can’t touch the knots, and I can’t bite them.’ Weak as he was, he’d tried.

 ‘No need to try,’ Pippin said as if he’d seen his cousin’s struggles in the darkness. ‘I was going to tell you: I’ve managed to free my hands. These loops are only left for show. You’d better have a bit of lembas first.’

To Merry’s amazement, Pippin slipped the loops of rope off his wrists and fished out a packet from his pocket. The cakes were broken but still in their leaf-wrappings, still fresh. Pippin fished out a piece and held it to Merry’s mouth.

Merry accepted the bite though he thought his mouth too dry to swallow. Somehow the lembas brought saliva to his mouth as he chewed, and he was able to get the stuff down without trouble, opening his mouth for another bite when Pippin held it ready. ‘Eat some yourself,’ he managed through the mouthful.

 ‘Of course,’ Pippin said, affecting cheer, and proceeded to suit action to promise. Merry chewed his mouthful, thinking of fair faces, and laughter, and wholesome food in quiet days now far away. He saw the strain leave Pippin’s face, and a thoughtful look in his cousin’s eye, even through the darkness that surrounded them, and the cries and sounds of the nearby battle seemed farther away than Lorien for the moment.

Pippin finished chewing and swallowed. ‘We must be off,’ he said. ‘Half a moment!’ With his hands free he could pull himself forward until he found Grishnakh’s body. He fumbled, his lip curled in distaste, until he found a sheath and in it a long sharp knife. Drawing this forth, he cut his legs free, then crawled to Merry and freed hands, feet, and legs.

 ‘Now for it,’ Pippin said. ‘When we’ve warmed up a bit, perhaps we shall be able to stand again, and walk. But in any case we had better start by crawling.’

Though his hands and feet were numb and clumsy, Merry managed to crawl through the deep and yielding turf. What he really wanted was to lie himself in the grass and sleep forever. Pippin would not countenance that, he suspected. His young cousin might even raise a row, enough for the Orcs or the Men to discover them, which would be a disaster. And so the older cousin gathered his courage and forced his numb and tingling limbs to move.

Finally they’d managed to skirt the nearest watch-fire and came to the edge of the river, gurgling away in the black shadows under its deep banks. The sound of the water was torture, and the thought of water drove all other thoughts from Merry’s mind.

Pippin seized his shoulder. ‘Look,’ he hissed. ‘It won’t last much longer.’ The sky was paling in the East, and the Riders were waiting silently, watching the Orcs, ready to attack with the dawn to finish the creatures.

 ‘We must get under cover,’ Pippin said urgently, ‘Or we shall be seen. It will not be any comfort to us, if these riders discover that we are not Orcs after we are dead.’ He got up and stamped his feet. ‘Those cords have cut me like wires; but my feet are getting warm again. I could stagger on now. What about you, Merry?’

Merry’s hands and feet tingled fiercely, burning with the agonies of returning circulation. He fought himself to his feet. ‘Yes,’ he said, attempting a smile. He forced the words out though his tongue felt thick and dry. ‘I can manage it. Lembas does put heart into you! A more wholesome sort of feeling, too, than the heat of that orc-draught. I wonder what it was made of. Better not to know, I expect. Let’s get a drink of water to wash away the thought of it!’ The water was only a step away, really, if one didn’t mind a tumble down the bank.

 ‘Not here,’ Pippin said. ‘The banks are too steep.’ He would brook no contradiction; his head was luckily clearer than his cousin’s. He put on his most commanding air. ‘Forward, now!’

They turned and walked side by side slowly along the line of the river as the light grew in the East behind them. Pippin talked lightly, and Merry found himself answering in a similar vein. He listened with astonishment to Pippin’s account of cutting his bonds and looping the rope around his wrists, of running free of the body of Orcs, to drop his brooch and leave a few clear marks for followers. He felt himself growing stronger with every step farther away from the Orcs and the impending battle. Why, he could almost make believe he was walking into the Old Forest, to show Pippin his latest find, a new fern or flower or herb growing in a sunlit glade.

 ‘A new beginning,’ he murmured. The weather had changed, indeed, the threatening clouds that had covered the moon in the night were no match for the rising sun. Dawn was coming. The bank was growing lower, and it would not be long before they were able to fall on their knees beside the water and scoop handfuls into their parched mouths.

 ‘What was that, cousin?’ Pippin said, taking his hand. ‘Come along now, we’re almost there.’

 Almost where? Merry wanted to ask, though he suspected he knew rather better than Pippin. Instead, he said, ‘You seem to have been doing well, Master Took...’

Author's Note: Thanks to Rorrah for beta-reading!

***

Merry looked up at the sky anxiously. There was going to be a change in the weather, he had no doubt, and not for the better. He looked once more at the message in his hand, summons from the King of Rohan. Eomer’s health was failing, and he wished to see Master Holdwine once again, before the end.

He ought to send a response to the guard of honour waiting by the North Gate, waiting to escort him to Rohan. They didn’t know it yet, but they’d be taking a message back instead of a Meriadoc. He did not want to send a rider out into the gathering storm, however. The Rohirrim would have to wait.

Behind him Estella stirred restlessly on the bed and called his name. He turned from the window and moved quickly to her side, taking up her hand once more and pressing a kiss into the palm. ‘I’m here, beloved,’ he said softly.

 ‘Is it... finished?’ she said, her words blurred, distorted by the unresponsive muscles on one side of her face. She struggled to focus on his face. ‘The Shadow is... defeated?’

 ‘I am safe for another year, beloved,’ Merry said, smiling reassurance and stroking the silvered hair back from her forehead. ‘I don’t know how I’d fight off the Shadow without your help.’

March the fifteenth had come and gone, the anniversary of the Shadow’s attempt to claim him. Strange how it returned every year, even though the Dark Captain had been destroyed so many years ago now. Merry wondered again if Frodo still felt the effect of the Morgul blade, away there in Elvenhome. He shook himself. Of course he didn’t... no evil thing could reach across the Seas to the Undying Lands.

Every year the Shadow returned, to sink its claws into him, to try to drag him down, and every year his friends and family gathered in the Master’s study to fight off the Shadow with love and laughter and song. This year the battle had nearly gone against them, for in the midst of it Estella had faltered, swayed, crumpled to the floor.

Somehow Merry fought off the Shadow at his son’s panicked, Mother! ...finding his way back to his blanketed body, tucked up in the comfortable chair, reaching out with cold, numbed hands for Estella even as they lifted her. They’d carried her from the brightly lit study, to the cosy bedroom down the corridor.

They’d come back for Merry, taking him from chair to bed, to lie beside his beloved. As life and feeling returned and the Shadow retreated he held her close, listening to her laboured breathing. When his strength returned, he moved to a chair by the bed, but he never let go Estella’s hand, until the message arrived and he moved to the window to read the contents.

The young healer had come to examine Estella, her eyes sad with the knowledge she took away. While she was examining the Mistress of Buckland, the summons had come from the King of Rohan. At any other time, Merry would have dropped everything to go to the side of his lord, with Estella’s blessing. At any other time...

There were murmurings in the corridor, and some time later the old healer came, old Robin, who’d retired some years before, though they still called him in on occasion.  ‘If you please, Master Merry,’ the old healer said now, patting Estella’s hand and rising from the bed, nodding towards the doorway. Merry and Estella’s eldest hovered nearby.

 ‘I’ll watch with her, Father,’ their youngest said, settling down by the side of the bed to take her mother’s hand, the one that still responded somewhat to Estella’s will.

Merry kissed his daughter’s cheek and turned to the doorway. ‘What is it, Robin?’ he said, as soon as they were in the corridor. ‘What’s happened to Estella?’

 ‘It was a brain seizure,’ the old healer said. ‘We see these mostly in older hobbits, with varied effects. Mistress Estella’s fit... has left one side of her body unresponsive, though she still can speak after a fashion. That’s a mercy; sometimes these seizures steal away words and wit as well.’

 ‘How long...’ Merry asked, ‘how long will it take for her to recover? What must we do?’

 ‘Master Merry,’ Robin said, laying a gentle hand on the old Traveller’s shoulder. ‘I’m so very sorry.’

 ‘She’s not...’ Merry said, breathing shallowly. ‘Estella!’

 ‘She’s growing weaker, not stronger,’ the old healer said. It was best to get the truth out quickly. ‘She can scarcely swallow, and she’s having difficulty breathing. She won’t last, I’m afraid. Soon, she’ll sleep.’

 ‘No,’ Merry moaned, burying his face in his hands. A great crash and boom was heard outside the Hall as the storm broke overhead. Merry felt comforting arms close around him; he leaned upon a strong shoulder and sobbed out his impending loss, crying the name of his beloved. His anchor. His stronghold against the Shadow.

Spent at last, he lowered his hands from his face, to look into the understanding eyes of his son. No words were needed. The heir to Buckland nodded, turned away. He’d see to the business of the Hall, and then return to bid his mother farewell.

The old healer lingered, holding out a snowy handkerchief as Merry turned back to the room to take up this final vigil. Merry carefully wiped away all traces of tears before returning to his wife’s side.

 ‘Merry,’ she whispered.

 ‘I’m here, my love,’ he said, taking her hand from their daughter’s. He felt Estella’s fingers flutter in his. ‘I won’t leave you again.’

 ‘Go,’ she whispered, and he blinked in confusion.

 ‘My love?’ he whispered.

 ‘Gondor,’ she forced out. She forced her one responsive eye as wide as she could, staring into his face. ‘When I’m gone,’ she said, a breath between each word. ‘Shadow. Don’t let...’

She was expending precious energy in her effort, and he stroked and soothed her hand, smiling into her face. ‘Your least wish is my greatest desire, my love,’ he said.

 ‘Beloved,’ she whispered, her eyelid drooping wearily. She sighed, and managed to say, ‘Hold me.’

Merry stretched himself upon the bedcovers beside her and tenderly took Estella in his arms. He remained there until at last she slept.

While Merry kept vigil by her side, their children held counsel together, and decided to send for the Thain.

***

Pippin laid down the message, staring out the rain-washed windows. Spring had been generous with her showers this year—not so much as to wash away the newly seeded crops, but steady, gentle rains that nurtured the young plants and gave promise of a fine harvest to come. The growing crops were well established now, able to resist the thunderstorms that had rolled over the Shire the past few days.

 ‘What is it, Father?’ Faramir said, putting down his quill.

 ‘The Mistress of Buckland is dying,’ Pippin said quietly.

Faramir rose abruptly, crossing to the elaborately carven desk, taking up the message. ‘Uncle Merry will need you,’ he said. ‘I know you fear he will fall into despair, and let the Shadow take him, without Aunt Estella’s love to bolster him.’ They’d talked of this so many times, what would happen to Merry if he lost his Estella. Faramir fought down the feeling of loss that threatened to overwhelm him. When Estella died, his father would take Merry to Gondor, to be near the healing hands of the King, to keep the Shadow from claiming him at last. Farry had known he’d lose his father eventually; the knowledge had been brought home to him, hard, with his mother’s death the previous year. But eventually had turned into now, and he was not ready.

His father needed him to be strong in time of trouble, a prop and stay in his waning years, as he was fond of saying. Very well. Faramir straightened his shoulders, looking up from the message. He would be strong. ‘You’ll be wanting to depart for Buckland at once, I take it.’ Faramir comforted himself with the small comfort that his father would return to Tookland at least once more, before departing Southwards. This was not the final farewell.

 ‘I must go,’ the Thain agreed.

 ‘I’ll make all the arrangements,’ Faramir said, laying the message upon the desk. He left the Thain’s study to set the first of many things in motion.

Pippin smiled after him. ‘Good lad,’ he said under his breath. ‘I’ll leave the Shire in good hands.’ He would take Merry to Gondor, just as soon as he could persuade that stubborn Brandybuck to go...

***

Merry would not go, however. ‘What?’ he said. ‘Leave before Remembering Day? Not honour Estella properly? You must be mad!’

Remembering Day was months away, a time when hobbits remembered their dead. It marked the last of the fine weather and the beginning of winter’s storms. Travel would be difficult until Spring returned once more... and if they waited until Spring, it would be too late for Merry. Or so Pippin feared. They must be in Gondor, near the healing hands of the King, before the next anniversary.

 ‘You can remember in Gondor as well as in the Shire,’ Pippin said stubbornly.

But Merry would not hear him. Instead he changed the subject, sometimes an effective tactic to take with Pippin. If he could distract his younger cousin, absorb him in another subject, he might be able to escape Pippin’s insistence on travelling to Gondor. Truth be told, he didn’t want to leave the Shire. If the Shadow took him in the Spring, so be it. At least he would lie in the grave by Estella’s side, and they’d be joined once more beyond the Sundering Seas.

‘Here,’ he said. ‘Take a look at this.’

Pippin took the sheet of parchment from his hand.

Merry bowed his head and closed his eyes as Pippin read the summons. He felt anew the strong pull of his duty to his lord, his obligation... but it was overlaid by the weariness of disastrous loss. He felt he might never stir from the study again, save perhaps to lay flowers upon Estella’s grave.

Grief in his tone, Pippin exclaimed, ‘Not Eomer too!’

 ‘We’re all growing older, I’m afraid,’ Merry said sadly. ‘Legolas and Gimli will outlive us all. Frodo’s gone, and Samwise...’

 ‘Samwise is undoubtedly alive and well in the Undying Lands,’ Pippin said. ‘And still catching Frodo up on all the Shire news he’s missed. It’ll take years!’

Merry chuckled, a ghost of the old laugh. ‘Strider and his Queen will live long beyond us as well,’ he said. ‘You and I, our story’s nearly done.’

 ‘Perhaps,’ Pippin said thoughtfully, ‘and perhaps not. I plan to rival the Old Took, you know, and I’m not even an hundred yet!’ He levelled a severe look at his cousin. ‘You might take a page out of his book, yourself.’

 ‘I’m tired, Pippin,’ Merry said, and sighed.

Pippin laid the parchment down upon the desk and tapped it with his finger. ‘What you need is a Quest,’ he said, ‘and here’s one, ready for you. Go to Rohan, and give comfort to your old friend in his last days or months.’

 ‘I sent the escort on back to Rohan, with my deepest regrets,’ Merry said. ‘I did not know how long Estella would linger...’ His voice broke and he covered his face with his hands. Pippin rose from his chair to embrace his older cousin, and they stayed so for many minutes until Merry took out his handkerchief, to wipe his face, to put away his grief once more.

 ‘But now there is nothing to hold you,’ Pippin said, feeling his way delicately. ‘We haven’t needed an escort to ride South, the last few times. The King’s Guardsmen keep the Roads very well indeed.’

 ‘Soon,’ Merry said vaguely.

Pippin recognised the word from long-ago promises of fishing and other adventures. Merry always kept his promises, but when he was preoccupied he sometimes had needed a fair bit of reminding.

He turned his face away to cough, a cough that shook him alarmingly as he pounded a fist against his chest.

  ‘What’s this?’ Merry said, starting up in alarm.

 ‘Ah, just a little tickle,’ Pippin gasped. ‘Makes it hard to catch my breath sometimes.’

 ‘I thought you’d been freed of the old trouble,’ Merry said, for though Pippin had suffered from weakened lungs for a number of years after the Quest, his lungs had been cured by an ent-draught some time back, and he’d continued in remarkable health afterwards.

 ‘I’ll fetch a healer,’ Merry said.

Pippin shook his head and held up a restraining hand. ‘Already seen the healer,’ he wheezed.

Merry waited while his younger cousin got his breath back, and then demanded, ‘And...?’

 ‘Silly old fellow, says I ought to move to a warmer climate. The South Farthing, or even the Sunlands, he says. For some reason he thinks the Winter damp is going to carry me off. Imagine the cheek of the fellow!’

 ‘Then you’re the one to go to the South!’ Merry said.

Pippin shook his head. ‘And leave you here alone?’ he retorted. ‘Not on your life!’ He put a hand flat on his chest and drew a few more careful breaths before relaxing. ‘That’s got it,’ he said, ‘but mercy, I’m weary! I think I’ll take myself off for a nap.’

 ‘You do that,’ Merry said, ever more alarmed at his cousin’s admission that he wanted a nap. This was Pippin, who slept less than any other hobbit of Merry’s acquaintance.

 ‘Well, then,’ Pippin said, rising from his chair. ‘I’ll see you at dinner.’ He walked rather unsteadily out of the Master’s study and down the corridor to the guest wing, where he found Merry’s children clustered and waiting.

 ‘Well?’ they asked, singularly and together.

 ‘I’ve just about got him convinced to go to Rohan, and it’s just a step beyond to Gondor,’ Pippin said with a wink. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me...’ They parted to let him go, and he entered his room and stretched out on the bed. The coughing fit had not been entirely feigned, and it had taken more out of him than he wanted to admit.

***

Not long after, Thain Peregrin stood to his feet after a festive breakfast, his glance sweeping the convocation of Tooks that he’d called together. His eyes though faded with age were as sharp as ever, and the hobbits’ buzz of speculation quieted, their attention riveted on him.

 ‘I have called you together for a purpose,’ Pippin said. He smiled faintly as his words brought back an echo of the past, and then went on. ‘To hear a story, to begin with...’

The Tooks had heard this story many times, for he’d made sure of it, though they’d never heard the whole story straight through before, long as it was. The sun rose in the sky outside the Great Smials as he spoke of the making of the great Rings, the Nine, the Seven, the Three... and the Ruling Ring, and all that came after.

Servants quietly cleared away breakfast and laid elevenses, and did the same for nooning and tea as the story went on, and yet the old Thain’s voice never faltered nor faded in the telling. Little hobbits slept upon their mothers’ breasts, but their older brothers and sisters listened, wide-eyed, as the Ring came at last to the Shire, to rest for a time, until it changed hands once more.

The Thain stopped speaking and looked about the room again. ‘No one here remembers the Party, I think,’ he said quietly. In the faces before him he saw ghosts of old friends and relatives, here the eyes of Reginard, there Ferdibrand’s nose, next to it Mardibold’s chin, and hair the colour of Pearl’s. ‘We must not forget...’ His voice trailed off, but before the younger hobbits could begin to stir restlessly, he began again.

He spoke of a young hobbit, “taller and fairer than most”, who came of age that day, and into his inheritance—which included a small golden Ring. He spoke of the desperate decision that hobbit made when the truth of the Ring was revealed, and the journey that followed. He did not gloss over his own part in the adventure, but spoke matter-of-factly, not as a hero returned out of fire and death but as one who has done what needed to be done.

 ‘Not many of you were alive during the Troubles,’ the Thain concluded, ‘and scarcely any remain who saw the waters fouled and the trees cut down. The Shire is as green and lovely as she ever was, thanks in great part to Samwise Gamgee and his descendants. It would be easy to forget that any such troubles ever happened.’

He stopped talking a moment to look from one face to another, and somehow each of the Tooks assembled there thought he was directly addressed by the next words of the Thain.

 ‘Heed my words: These great and terrible deeds must never be forgot! So long as you cherish what was won for you, at great cost, Tookland will stand and the Shire will be green and growing, forever, perhaps. But if you forget...’

The assembled Tooks and Tooklanders held their combined breath as the Thain paused, and then continued. ‘If these things be forgot, then Tookland will fall and the Shire will fade to nothing, and hobbits will be little more than memory in the hearts of others who will walk the deserted lands.’

Absolute silence reigned in the great room as the Thain bowed his head in sorrow at painting such a picture. He raised his head once more to say, ‘Mark my words.’ The assembled hobbits stared; some nodded, others shuffled their feet, but all had the determined look of accord.

The Thain smiled then, cleared his throat, took a sip from the glass at his place, and said, ‘But I didn’t just call you together for a story! There are more deeds yet to be done!’ He turned to his eldest son, sitting by his side, and said, ‘Faramir, arise!’

Turning back to the Tooks, he said, ‘I called you together for a purpose, as I said. I am leaving you this day.’ There were gasps, though some nodded wisely; the Talk had said as much, over the last few days. ‘I ask you to confirm the succession: the office of Thain passes now to Faramir Took, my son and heir.’

He spoke the ritual words, received the proper response from the Tooks, administered the oath of office, and slipped the ring, seal and signet of the Thain, from his finger, pushing it onto Faramir’s.

 ‘Looks well,’ he said under his breath, smiling in spite of the tears in his eyes. What a burden to lay upon his son’s shoulders, but Faramir had been trained to the task, nearly from his birth. ‘Be well,’ he said softly.

 ‘And you,’ Faramir said. They embraced, and then Pippin, no longer Thain Peregrin, turned to go. There was a scraping of chairs behind him, and had he looked back he’d have seen the entire room, Tooks at the tables and Tooklanders and servants who stood against the walls, bowing low as he left them.

He’d said his goodbyes to his children and grands the evening before, and given hugs all round ere the breakfast began, insisting on slipping away alone after the convocation after the manner of Frodo and Bilbo before him, but he didn’t leave Tuckborough then and there. No, he went instead to the burial ground, to visit a number of Tooks he’d known and loved, to stand and remember once more.

Before Reginard’s marker, he said, ‘Watch over Tookland for me, cousin. Your son will make Faramir a fine chancellor, and the steward you trained up to take your place was the best choice you ever made in a long life of sound choices.’

Before Ferdibrand and Pimpernel he stopped to say, ‘Old friend, I know I said I’d go the day you did. Forgive me for lingering awhile; it is hard to lay such a burden on one’s son. I go now, on that last journey we spoke of.’

He swallowed, and added, ‘Yes, Nell, I’m “off again”, as you so often jested. I’ll leave you to sleep in Ferdi’s arms, and see you on the Other Side someday. Soon, perhaps.’ He fought off a coughing fit and moved to his parents’ grave.

 ‘Mother,’ he said, ‘I’m going again, but at least this time I won’t break your heart by leaving. And Da...’ He was silent a long time. ‘I tried to be the son you always wanted, to be the Thain you expected me to be, to be a fine father to my own sons. I’ve made my share of mistakes, and I understand you better than I did, all those years ago. Faramir is so much like you! D’y’know, when he wants to get away and think, he goes out to the fields and walks behind a plough? How he loves the land! I wish you’d been able to pry yourself away from that great burden of a desk to do the same. Things might have been different. But all we can do is our best. You did your best, and so did I, and so shall Faramir who follows us.’ He paused, and whispered, ‘I love you, Mum and Da.’

He spoke to each of his other sisters in turn, and their husbands, and stopped at last at the resting place of his beloved Diamond. Tears spilled over, and he stood long in silence with his head bowed, but his heart was full. ‘You understand, my dear,’ he said at last. ‘I have to do this thing for Merry’s sake. I hate to leave you, my love, but then, we talked of this before...’ He swallowed hard and whispered, ‘I’ll be seeing you anon, heart of my heart.’

Blinking, he put his cap back on his head, turned and walked to where his hobbled pony grazed, mounted, and rode away from the Great Smials, never to return.

***

The last two Travellers rode out the Buckland Gate and paused to look across the foggy Brandywine, to the green and mist-shrouded Shire beyond. ‘I understand Frodo a bit better, I think,’ Pippin said. ‘I even found myself saying the other day, Shall I ever look down into that valley again, I wonder?’

Merry laughed, though it was more of a choke. ‘You don’t have to go, like he did,’ he said. ‘You can always change your mind, take back your ring, and settle down in Tuckborough for the rest of your days.’ He was half-reconsidering his urgency to take Pippin to Gondor for the sake of his breathing; his cousin had seemed so well in the past few days.

Pippin gave a mock shudder. ‘The ring has passed on,’ he said. ‘It is beyond me now.’ He couldn’t trust Merry to go on to Gondor after stopping in Rohan. The silly Brandybuck would likely return to the Shire just in time for the Shadow’s attack.

Still, Pippin’s shoulders slumped as he turned from his beloved Shire, and he held his handkerchief to his mouth as another coughing fit wracked him. Merry steadied him until he nodded, raised his head, and set his shoulders.

 ‘Onward,’ Merry said, pointing his pony’s head to the Road.

 ‘Ever onward,’ Pippin agreed, wiping his mouth and putting his handkerchief away. ‘Are you coming, Merry?’

As ever, Merry answered, ‘I’m right behind you, Pippin!’

Ever onward.