A/N: There is a bit of pre-fic info to read right below this, which whilst I was reading inspired me to write this. Thanks for reading.

The Battle of Bywater was the last battle of the War of the Ring. The battle was fought on November 3, 3019, in the village of Bywater. The hobbits defeated the men and freed their land from the rule of invaders. In the end, nearly 70 Men were killed and 12 were taken prisoner, while 19 Hobbits died and about 30 were wounded. The dead Men were buried in a nearby sand-pit that came to be called the Battle Pit. The Hobbits were buried on a hill in Bywater, and a stone was placed on their grave with a garden around it. A Roll was made of the names of all the Hobbits who fought in the Battle of Bywater, with Captains Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took listed at the top.

( The paragraph above, and that alone, was gotten from: tuckborough . net, I in no way claim to have created it)

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The Next Day (Or November 4th)

Miserable images of what once had been now stood even darker under the low and dreary sky. Though the day was not yet at its peak, no sunlight shone from behind the thick veil of clouds that hung over the dense fog that had settled to the soggy floor. A drizzling rain fell from the sky, while a slow mist rose all 'round, turning distant objects to greying shadows. It was chilly, a sharp, straight-to-the-bone chilly, like it can only be when all the world seems forlorn, and a heavy silence falls upon all life.

Estella Bolger worked, on her hands and knees in the soggy, sinking mud of the hill in Bywater. Her best dress soaked and stained, reduced to dirty rags upon her lithe form. The only sounds she heard being the squishing noises of her small hands plunging deep into the muddy ground, bringing up globs of dirt and grime to cover her extremities in dripping filth. Her dark hair fell loose, the curls once pinned high stuck to her face, clinging with the humidity to her skin. Her dark eyes watched the gurgling ground as it sucked in the falling rain while she ripped up root and rock, but nothing green to contrast the murk surrounding her.

She sniffed, and the tiny sound seemed grand in the desolate quiet, and as she dug, she reached to wipe her eyes with her arm while she choked back another sob. The noise of her stifled crying came quickly as short gasps and broken sobs, her brown eyes spilling tears to leave clean tracks down her dirty face. She could see nothing in front of her except the white wall of miserable fog, though she did not look up to notice, and would not have realized but for the whisps of mist snaking along the ground at which she dug.

What is she doing? Other hobbits had wondered, once they saw, despite the haze beclouding her. Some had walked out of their doorways, and others had ventured even so far as to the bottom of the hill, hoping for a glance of the desperate lass. Some frowned and started in protest once they noticed her digging, but stayed themselves in wonder of what she meant.

The hill was recently dug, so its earth was loose and the soil soft, now muddy even, on this raining day. The reason for its delving had been this: to bury the nineteen hobbits lost to the Battle of Bywater. They had been buried as first priority, after the battle was fought, 3 November, 3019.

The date today was November fourth, just one sunrise and set had it been their forever resting place.

Just one day since the limp and battered bodies of hobbits had been dragged from a bloody battle, an honorable defense of their homeland and people. Hobbits who had once taken runs to the markets, and spent simple happy nights drinking with fellows in the Green Dragon. Hobbits who had loved wives and families, hobbits who where still not nigh of age, who had feasted during Yule and danced at Bilbo's Birthday Party not fourteen months ago. Hobbits that had made appearances in many lives, and that had never been expected to leave. Hobbits who were fathers, and sons, and brothers, and friends.

Those hobbits, gone, never again to see the light of the sun, or to hear the crickets chirp loud in the summer nights, or to see the first snowfall ere Yule should come, or to witness another sunrise or clear, starry night.

Was it fair? Was this just? Was it fitting then, that this day above all others did rightly rain down tears, for mourning laid new and heavy on all hearts? Was it right then that no sun shone to break the wall of grey clouds covering the silent land? That the lands which once had been great and green, the lands that they gave their lives for, now ruined and turned to an ugly, hideous, wasteland, stay desolate and barren of beauty, still now after loss had been the greatest, and loss no longer need be taken?

Estella dug her hands into the mud, trying to make in the soggy, loose ground the smallest of holes, but the earth fell back into place after each scoop she made and made her effort futile. She could hear whispers now, whispers of others, others watching her. But still she dug, mud caked under her once cleanly nails, and dirt streaked all over her tired, shivering body. Tears still stained her face as the slow rain drizzled down. Her breath hitched as she thought of the hobbits – the lads, the ones she had known and laughed with, down beneath her, eyes shut to an eternal slumber below the sodden mound. Her breathing became a series of hiccups, sobs and gasps as she attempted to complete her task.

Now more hobbits had come to watch her, and their eyes first went to the slick black rock at the top of the hill. Wet from the rain, the newly placed headstone bore the names of the nineteen hobbits that rested beneath it.

Estella now knew many onlookers watched while she whimpered and dug, she could hear them and could feel their outrage and anxiety. She only hoped they would leave her be. But she cared not for their eyes, and again forgot they were there in the face of the terrible grief all around her, still bent on achieving her task in the slippery rain and ground. She sniffed again, and she heard the sound of footsteps behind her, steady and strong but slow as they approached her, squishing in the deep, sucking mud. And though she did not look, or even think or wonder, she knew it to be Merry.

She paused a moment to wipe her eyes again, but then continued digging while getting no place. Merry stood to her back, his face anguished with a deep and hurting empathy. Loss of life could not be replaced, no matter what greater good the loss was given to, nor the willingness of those gone to die for cause. In an ironic sense it left those left behind lost and lifeless as well. The sun may shine out the brighter afterwards, but the cloud that was bereavement kept it from ever seeming the same.

He thought to stop her from whatever she was doing, to take her, and let her cry upon his shoulder in comfort and in privacy, to show her that she was not alone in this forlorn devastation, to help her to grieve properly, for that was what was expected of him; and he thought this while regarding the eyes of many others. But he held back, if not by his mind's will, then by his heart's, for if he had learned anything, it was to trust in the love and devotion of friends. He watched her, pathetic as she seemed, and sensed that amidst her distorted state, and uncovered emotional turmoil, she strived for a greater purpose.

And he, Meriadoc Brandybuck, walked to her side, and then looking to her once more, as she kept to her unwavering task, kneeled into the mud himself, beside her, and not knowing what he was doing, began to dig along with her. They said nothing to each other for a long while, but kept clawing at the soggy earth together, she bent on her chore, and he in earnest alongside her. The others watching knitted their brows in confusion and wonderment, staring as the future Master of Buckland, a gentlehobbit in his own right, a leader in the battle against the ruffians, once and always concerned and respectful to propriety and purposefulness, kneeled in the mud and rain, dirtying himself from head to foot in the muck like a surly stable boy, digging like a toddler alongside this seemingly wayward lass.

Their hands touched, and he watched as she looked up slowly, large, brown eyes, glistening with unshed tears, regarding him in unspoken gratitude. He nodded in the rain, his hair already soaked to his skin, the water dripping into his eyes, so that it seemed as if he, too, was weeping; and they turned back to their task.

Other hobbits had grown more curious and ventured closer now to watch the two. The idea that such an important hobbit such as Merry himself would do such a thing, out on such a miserable and solemn day, which called for properness and respect, could not register with them.

As Estella dug with one hand, tears still flowed silently from her eyes, and Merry then placed his own hand above the newly formed hole before the mud and dirt could cave in on it, showing that once it was made, it only needed another's aid to survive.

Estella sat back and he looked to her, though she paid him no mind, and for a moment, just looked up to the shining black stone and sniffed. She sat silently, her red, puffy eyes getting lost in the distance as she thought of those who were dead, and those left wounded by their passing. She thought again of the devastated state of the Shire, and the hardships endured during the Fell Year, while adventurers went off to save the world, and then came home to save their people.

Her eyes regarded the tombstone a moment longer, her face pallid in the grey light, her eyes dark and solemn as dark thoughts crossed, and dark memories promised to stay.

It is over, she thought then, as she finally took her eyes from the death mark and looked past it into the white shroud. What will come next? It is time for healing now, time for beauty to bloom once more... so what we have lost will never be for naught. And although she knew that healing would take a long time to come, she resolved to think this.

And with that thought, she recoiled her hands, and Merry watched silently as she reached into her muddy, soggy pocket and pulled from it a flower.

For this he was surprised, and looked to her, but she merely took the healthy, bright red marigold and held it in her dirty hands with utmost care. The roots hung from the stem, like hungry hands reaching for replenishment, and the bright petals stood a stark contrast to the grey all around. With gentle fingers she reached forward and placed the flower into the hole just deep enough for the budding flora. Merry then removed his hand and let the mud slide down to fill the gap and close the flower into its new home.

"I think it is the last flower in all of the Shire," Estella said, her voice lost in sadness.

Merry looked to her once more and stood, "No, Estella," taking her hand and pulling her up as she looked to him, he told her, "I think it is the first."

They looked to it for long moments after that, and the other hobbits that had clambered around to see what they had done stared at the little red dot on the muddy mound, and then the two of them, begrimed and soiled, walked away together, her arm in his, slowly ready for the sun to shine out once again.

And for every flower blossomed that year, two more where planted in the Garden on the Hill, as it came to be called, around the grave of many friends never forgotten, but always remembered in thankfulness and esteem. And every year, after winter's harsh cold, the flowers in the garden were always the first green things to blossom out in the sunshine of spring, like as reminders that after every dark there is always a light, that love and friendship are stronger than hate and evil, that grief and gratitude should not be strangers, and that there is always something worth fighting for.

A small, red marigold blooming first.