Farewells
Betaed by Pipspebble
Disclaimer:  Middle-Earth and everything in it belongs to Tolkien, I just get to visit from time to time.

“Meriadoc Brandybuck, if you do not sit still and stop squirming this instant, I shall snip your ears off!”  Frodo emphasized this threat with a wave and snip, snip of the small shears he was using to trim the hobbit lad’s unruly mop of curls.

Merry giggled even as his hands rose up to cover his delicately pointed ears.  “No, Frodo!” he squealed, “I’ll sit still, I promise.”  A scowl of fierce concentration on his face, the ten year old sat perfectly still for nearly twenty heartbeats before unconsciously starting to fidget again.  His toes curling around the sides of the high stool he was sitting on, he began tapping his toes against the wood. 

“Frodo?” he asked after another minute, turning to look at his older cousin, “who cuts your hair?”

“Bilbo, usually,” Frodo replied as he turned Merry’s head back to face front.  “Sit still, Merry,” he reminded the lad, more gently this time.

“Oh.”  Merry was quiet for a long moment before adding, “Does he give you a sweet, after, like Mummy does?”

“Not usually, no.” 

The little lad jiggled his knees, thinking that answer over.  A lock of freshly cut hair tickled his cheek and he twitched, reaching up to brush it away.  There was a pause in the steady snip, snip, snip as Frodo reached down and put Merry’s hand back in his lap.

“Frodo?” Merry asked again, more hesitantly this time.

“Yes, Merry-mine?”

“Are you ever coming home?”

Merry awoke in a sweat, his pulse sounding a fierce, unsteady tattoo in his ear.  He had been dreaming of hearth and home, he was sure, although he could remember no details.  Why this should leave him feeling so unsettled he had no idea, but then, lately nothing about his dreams had anything to do with reason.  Rolling onto his side he wondered what time it was.  Judging by the restless sounds filling the darkened hall, he decided he had not been asleep very long.  Sighing, he rolled over onto his other side, trying to make himself more comfortable. 

They were gathered in the drawing room of his parents’ private quarters at Brandy Hall, his mother and father; Uncle Merimac with his wife Amaryllis and their son, Berilac; the healer, Haldabur Underbank and his youngest daughter, Camilla who was also his apprentice.  It seemed a static scene to Merry, with his father sitting oh so still in his favorite chair, his mother standing behind him, her hands on his shoulders.  Uncle Mac was holding tight to Aunt Lissa with one hand and Beri with the other.  Old Hal, a long-time friend of the Brandybucks as well as their healer, was standing at the hearth, one hand on the mantel, the other arm hanging limply at his side.  Camilla stood behind her father shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, and her movement drew Merry’s shocked attention like a blaze.  There were tears in her eyes and as Merry watched, she reached up and wiped her cheeks free of the unwanted moisture with the back of her hand.           

Merry’s own eyes clouded over and he fought to deny the unwelcome tears, forcing them back through sheer force of will.  He was the Heir now, he had to prove that he was master of himself.  And so he simply stood, frozen, at his father’s side as old Hal explained that there was nothing he could have done for Granda Rory.  The old hobbit had passed quickly at the end, although the illness had been upon him since midwinter and the leaves were now thick and green upon the trees.

The next days passed in a blur as the Hall prepared for the funeral of the old Master and the official ascension of the new.  The night after the funeral, Merry was unable to sleep and wandered down to the kitchens for a hot drink and found his parents instead.   The nearly empty wine bottle in his father’s lax hand was proof that he, too, was finding sleep elusive.  His father was speaking in a soft, slurred voice that was too full of pain for comfort, if too low for comprehension, and his mother answered equally softly, her voice full of shared sorrow.  She looked up and met Merry’s eyes as the older hobbit seemed to crumble slowly into her arms, weeping.  Merry had never seen his father so undone and the sense of vulnerability it engendered in him was too much; he turned and fled.

Merry stirred uneasily and opened his eyes, staring at the barely visible beams high overhead.  Memories crowded around him, thick and tangible in the dark.  The hall was stuffy and his nightshirt was sticking unpleasantly to his back and chest.  Pushing his light blanket aside, he padded silently out of the hall onto Meduseld’s porch.  Breathing deeply of the fresh, clean air, he gazed up at the stars, shining clear and bright in the thick, velvety darkness.  It took only a moment for the brisk wind to chill him and he returned to his blankets, stepping lightly over Frodo and Sam on the way.  Thumping his pillow into shape, he settled back down with a sigh.

The tower of Orthanc loomed above Merry and Pippin, sitting on the lowest step with their backs to the massive stone edifice.  Just a short while ago they had been laughing and smoking, joyous in their reunion with dearly missed friends.  Now, in the turning of a moment, they had once again somehow been relegated to the roll of useless baggage, waiting in impotent frustration while Gandalf and the others debated with Saruman.  Merry was feeling very small and insignificant, and was uncertain if this was a good or bad thing.  He was still smarting from Saruman’s snarled comment about small rag-tags, and marveling at Gandalf’s command of the situation when a...something...came flying over his head to land with a heavy thud on the ground just steps away from where he and Pippin were sitting.  He flinched involuntarily as he realized how close that peculiar object had come to his head and then returned to his solitary thoughts.  He didn’t realize Pippin had moved until his friend came trotting back towards the stairs with a large ball in his hands.  Before Merry could say anything, Gandalf had swept down and taken the ball in his gnarled hands,  with a sharp word of warning for Pippin.

That night, after riding for several hours, Merry and Pippin tucked themselves away into a quiet corner of their camp, sharing a rather uncomfortable pile of bracken.  Merry was exhausted and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep, but Pippin squirmed and tossed like a small child with ants in his breeches  In helpless horror, suddenly very much aware that this was a dream, but unable to change the outcome, Merry watched as Pippin slipped out of his blankets, stole over to the side of the sleeping wizard and plucked the Palantir from Gandalf’s arms.  The dream Merry was fast asleep, but the dreaming Merry watched in constrained silence as Pippin  struggled, screaming in pain and terror, unable to unlock fingers that clutched tightly to the Palantir.

It couldn’t be altered, Merry knew, no matter how hard he tried to make things happen differently.  This wasn’t a Shadow driven false image, painful as it was; it was far too real. Unable to change a thing, he watched helplessly as Gandalf bundled Pippin up and onto the back of Shadowfax,  wizard and hobbit soon lost to the night as Shadowfax dashed away.  Once again, he was alone, one small hobbit among an army of Men and he did not have much hope of ever seeing any of his friends again.

Only half waking, Merry rolled over, seeking a more comfortable position, a position that would allow him to sink into deep, dreamless sleep.  Sprawling on his stomach, arms and legs spread wide, pillow pushed out from under his face, he finally settled again.

‘As a father you shall be to me,’ he’d said to Theoden King, but Theoden had been felled.  Merry stood quietly by as men came and lifted Theoden and Eowyn on biers.  He followed numbly behind them as they walked up into the city, neither knowing nor caring where they were going.   He grieved over the death of Theoden, but even more so he found it impossible to accept that Eowyn should have died as well.  She was young and fair with a combination of strength and weakness, bravado and vulnerability that had struck Merry like a knife.  That this sorrowing maiden would never have the chance to find joy and love and fulfillment seemed incomprehensible to him.  As a fog of pain and Shadow rose to cloud his mind, Merry wondered briefly about his friends; how they might have met their own ends, for in his despair he had no hope that any of them yet lived, and then that thought fell away from him as well, leaving only darkness as he plodded along. 

Merry woke yet again and rolled onto his back, staring at the ceiling with an aching head and burning eyes.  Through the windows lining the sides of the hall, he could see that the sky was beginning to shade to grey with the approach of dawn and men were stirring all around him.  He sighed in exhausted relief; it was time to get up.

A few hours later, dressed in all his armor, sword at his side, shield on his arm and helm upon his head, he followed behind Theoden King’s bier with a bowed head and heavy heart.  It was his duty, as the king’s esquire, to carry his arms, as indeed he’d done since they left Minas Tirith.  As he walked down the long path to the burial mound, he pondered the strange paths fate had taken to bring him to this place, so far from home and taking part in a ritual that was so very different from the simple burial rites of his own people.  Despite the grief he felt, his eyes were dry as he carried out his final duty to Theoden King.

Later, after everyone else had returned to Meduseld to feast on funeral meats and drink copious amounts of mead and lighten their grief by sharing tales and company, Merry lingered among the burial mounds, inhaling the sweet scents of Simbelmyne and crushed grass, trying to find some sense of peace and acceptance, but having luck only at making himself even more unhappy.  The dreams of the previous night lingered, reminding him of times past when he’d been forced to say farewell to those he cared for long before he was ready to let them go.  

“Here you are, then, cousin.”  Pippin’s voice broke into Merry’s gloomy reverie.           “I thought I might find you out here.”  The younger hobbit clasped Merry’s right hand in both of his and gave a gentle tug.  “Come back to the Hall, Merry.  Frodo was beginning to get a bit worried when you didn’t show up at the feast;  Sam, Legolas and Gimli are all searching for you.”

“But you found me,” Merry murmured quietly, “again.  I’m a lot of work for you, aren’t I, Pippin?”

Pippin grinned.  “You are that, old lad,” he rejoined cheerfully, “but I suppose we all have our burdens to bear, and mine seems to be to bring you back when you’ve gone wandering.”  Releasing Merry’s hand, Pippin wrapped an arm around his friend’s shoulders and led him back up the hill.

Merry leaned into the strength and comfort of Pippin’s arm for just a moment as he walked, grateful beyond words for his cousin’s presence.  Then he began to speak, slowly and quietly, of the love he had felt for a brave and dignified old man who had refused to allow the darkness to claim him.