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Swords

By Elendiari

 Merry was lying on his back in the brilliant sunshine, a book resting on his face. He was very much enjoying himself, lying on his back in the garden outside the Houses of Healing, smelling the grass and the wind and the flowers that the healers kept planted. There was also the fresh baked bread and cheese and roasted meat that they had packed for his lunch. The book smelled quite pleasant, too, now that he thought of it, like parchment and fresh ink. In fact, the world was so extremely pleasant and wonderful that if he could just doze a little, he would be able to disregard the fact that Eowyn was sitting in the tree above him, idly dropping nutshells onto his body.

   Plunk.

   “Stop that.”

  Plunk.

  “I’ll tell Faramir on you.”

  Plunk, plunk.

  “Unless, of course, you’re doing this to make me get Faramir, in which case, I’ll send a message to Aragorn at the Cormallen, and he shall come and spank you.”

  Plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk, plunk.

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Eowyn said lightly, dusting her hands off.

  Merry raised the book from his eyes and glared up at her. Eowyn had climbed into the tree shortly after he had lain down to rest. He sometimes had to remind himself that he was still older than her, no matter how tall she was, and that she really should respect her elders.

   “I can get you. You would not believe the things that I have done to Aragorn, my lady,” he growled.

   “Try me.”

   Merry rolled his eyes and began ticking off items on his fingers. “Stealing his old sword, crawdads in his pockets, frogs in his boots…shall I say anymore?”

   Eowyn was grinning broadly. “Yes, go on.”

   “Alright. Pippin and I broke into his room in Rivendell and replaced all of his elvish wine with the Gaffer’s homebrew. Knocked him flat. We actually got into trouble for that one.”

   Eowyn snickered and sat back. “Very well, Master Menace. I shall leave you alone.”

   Merry sighed in relief and put the book back over his face. Where had he been? Ah, yes. There were bees humming in the flowerbeds and birds singing in the trees. Someone was playing a wooden flute in the street, and by the smell of it, Ioreth was making an apple pie. The Ring was destroyed, the sun was bright, the day was warm, the sky was blue…and Merry was ripped from his daydream again by the sound of boots marching up the stone path. He groaned dramatically and clamped the book to his face.

    “Faramir, if that’s you, know that I know where you sleep and I know where you eat. You are utterly vulnerable to me. I am trying to rest. Go away.”

   This was met by soft laughter, and then a voice spoke. “We had not intended to disturb your rest, Master Holbytla. However, since I am not the Lord Faramir, may I assume that my food and bed are safe?”

    Merry lowered the book to see several young Riders standing on the path in front of him. One, the leader, had a large, bulky package under one arm, and all stood with that casual grace that befitted the Rohirrim. Merry recognized them as some of the men in the company that he and Eowyn had ridden in.

   “Oh, hullo,” he said. “I thought that you might be Faramir, coming to pester me about the location of Lady Eowyn. How can I help you?”

   The lead Rider grinned again, and bowed slightly. “We came looking for you and for the lady Eowyn,” he said. “Could we fetch her before I show what it is we’ve brought?”

   Merry sighed and called up into the tree. “Eowyn! There’s a Rider here who wants to speak to us both! Come down here right now!”

   His answer was a small, hard nut hitting his head and bouncing off. Then, with a flurry of white skirts and blue sash, Eowyn clambered out of the tree.

   “Hullo, Gaer, how do you fare in this great city?” she asked.

   Gaer bowed. “Very well, my lady. My friends and I have come to deliver gifts to you and to Master Holdwine, from all of the Riders left in Mundberg.”

   Eowyn frowned slightly, looking disconcerted. “A gift? What sort of gift?”

   In response, Gaer set down his bundle and untied it. Two slimmer bundles, one long, one short, were revealed. Gaer handed the smaller one to Merry, the larger to Eowyn. The lady and the hobbit pulled the wrappings aside, and gasped in unison.

   Their swords, shining bright and new, rested in their hands. Both had been destroyed in the battle with the Witch-king, one shattered, one consumed by fire. The blades had been reforged, and the hilts were polished and gleaming.

   “Oh,” Merry murmured, staring at his own sword. The blade was inscribed with curving runes, something that he could not read, but which looked noble. The hilt was newly polished, and gleamed in the sun. He looked up at Eowyn.

   The look on the White Lady’s face was indescribable. She stood straight and tall, gripping her reforged sword’s hilt tightly. Her blade gleamed with polish and runes, too, and the runes had brought tears to her eyes. The Riders saw this, and glanced at each other uneasily.

   “Does it please you, my lady?” Gaer asked, worriedly.

   Eowyn roused herself and smiled at him, a brilliant smile like sunshine on a cloudy day. “Aye, it does. You have named it to honor me, I think?”

    Gaer nodded. “Yes, we thought the name fitting, for both your sword and Master Holdwine’s.

    Eowyn looked down at Merry’s blade and grinned broadly. “Yes, I think so, too. How do you like the name Halfling’s Arm, Merry?”

    Merry blushed. “Is that what it says? That’s a nice name, but I don’t know that the sword is my arm yet.”

   The Riders grinned at him, and Eowyn laughed. “Yes, it is, Merry, so don’t be coy about it. It was your quick thinking that saved me.”

   Merry could find no response to that. Instead, he followed Eowyn’s lead in bowing to the Riders, who bowed back and returned to their duties with happy faces. He went inside and tucked his sword into its sheath carefully, laying it on his pack to be ready to take with him to Cormallen on the morrow.

   Later that night, as he lay in his bed with the window open, letting the spring smells drift though, he kept seeing Eowyn’s face as she looked at her own re-forged sword. The young Rider had said that the names were fitting, but he did not know what they had named Eowyn’s sword. Curious, Merry rolled out of his bed and walked down the corridor to Eowyn’s room, which now faced the East, by Faramir’s decree. Even as he raised his hand to knock, the door opened, and Eowyn burst out, nearly bowling him over. Merry went over with a squawk.

   “Oh! Merry, I’m sorry, I did not see you!” Eowyn cried, catching the hobbit and steadying him. “Are you alright?”

   “Yes, yes, I’m fine,” Merry said. “I was just coming to see you.”

   Eowyn grinned wryly. “And I you. What is it?”

   Merry hesitated, than spoke quickly. “What is your sword’s name?”

   “They named it ‘Witch Slayer’,” Eowyn replied. “Is that fitting?”

   Merry nodded, grinning slightly. “Yes, most definitely. Do you like it?”

   Eowyn nodded, but her face seemed troubled. “I am going to be remembered for this, aren’t I? It’s not that I’d planned for it to be this way, but it is. We are both the stuff of legends now, Merry.”

    Merry squeezed her hand. “I know. It’s strange, but I think that we’ll get used to it. And no one will ever doubt you again, anyway.”

   Eowyn laughed. “Aye, that’s a blessing. Good night, Holdwine, may you sleep in peace.”

  “Good night, Eowyn. Be sure to show Faramir that sword tomorrow.”

*****

The halfling was sleeping, and so the smith was quiet. He looked over the reforged knife in its sheath, the knife that in such little hands was a sword. He had made it to kill the Witch King, and so it had done. No other blade could have done such a thing, no matter who wielded it.

   The smith smiled to himself. No more were his weapons needed. The world was at peace. He hummed a soft tune under his breath, and faded quietly into the starlight. If any had looked in his direction then, they would have seen a man in ancient garb standing there, fading, as the starlight shone through him.

The End.