This story follows the events of “In the Bleak, Cold Winter” and references “The Trouble With Love” and “A Day in the Life”. Written for Dreamflower’s birthday.

Sweet Farewell

23 Halimath, 1418 SR
Merry is 37, Willow 41 (about 24 and 26 in Man years)
 

Merry was not aware of making the decision to leave the Bag End garden, nor was he conscious of his feet leading him down Hill Lane until he was past the Party Field and coming up on Bagshot Row. A small voice in the back of his head protested that he really should be keeping close to Frodo these nights, but another small voice, somewhat louder than the first, reminded him that Fatty, Folco and Pippin were all in the smial and if any group of hobbits can keep Frodo distracted, it was them.

He was halfway down the Lane and nearing the Grange when he realized where he was going. He stopped as suddenly as he had started, staring down the moonlit lane with trepidation. It has been over two years since he last had a reason to be going to his current destination and he wondered at the wisdom of continuing. He really shouldn’t leave Frodo, the first voice reminded him.

He glanced over his shoulder, back up the Hill to Bag End. He could not see the smoke curling out of the parlor chimney but he could see the glow of candles and firelight pouring out of the window. The second voice returned, reassuring him that Frodo and their friends were sitting contently on blankets spread out on the bare floor, every corner of their happy bellies filled to bursting. He had left them lazily sipping the last of the Old Winnyards and smoking pipeweed as Folco entertained them with the wedding plans his lovely lass was making. They all thought Merry was simply taking a stroll through the gardens. They would never miss his presence and they would all be asleep before he returned anyway, the second voice reasoned.

The second voice won in the end and he found himself continuing down the Hill. Soon his feet were padding along the well-worn path to the little cottage tucked into a small expanse of trees beyond the lane to the Grange. He opened the gate into the herb garden and hesitated for a second time.

The cottage was dark. No smoke curled from either of its chimneys and the curtains on all the windows were drawn close. He looked up at the star-strewn sky for the position of the moon. It had been new just a couple of nights before, but he could see the barest sliver of it high overhead and chided himself for the lateness of the hour. It was nearing midnight and the cottage’s occupants, being rather sensible hobbits, would have long ago gone to bed.

Merry was surprised at the disappointment that coursed through him, tightening around his chest making it difficult to breathe. Of course, no proper hobbit would be awake at this hour. Why had he come here? But he knew the answer before he even asked himself the question. He had come for the same reason he always found his eyes straying to linger over the cottage every time he passed it by. He had often wondered over the last couple of years about the hobbitess who lived here and how she was doing.

Willow. She was the only hobbitess he had ever known in love, the only one he had ever truly shared his heart with. Not even Estella could claim that. Was she truly as happy as Frodo and Sam hinted? He wanted to be able to ask her but it had always seemed uncouth to call upon her.

He thought of his last visit to this quaint little cottage three summers ago. Willow had been packing for her annual trip to Greenholm. Every summer, she returned to her homeland on the Far Downs to visit her family and childhood friends. Had she hinted at what was to come? Had there been anything different in her demeanor to warn him? Had she known herself?

They had been courting for a little over two years, a courtship conducted mainly through letters and packaged gifts. Merry had come of age the year before and he was far too busy to leave Buckland at the drop of a hat anymore. On those instances when he did come to visit Frodo, Willow was often busy with her healer’s duties and it was only the rare occasion that they were able to spend time together alone. The old wizened healer, Miss Camellia, kept a very sharp eye on them, demanding that they remain two feet apart at all times, and kisses were strictly off-limits. They would manage to steal away at times, when work was slow and Miss Camellia was away doing her rounds. On those instances, Merry and Willow would make up for their lack of time together, sharing shy kisses that gradually grew more heated. Willow always stopped things before they went too far, a fact that Merry was grateful for now but had always found frustrating at the time.

Their correspondence had been a daily routine at first. During those first months of newfound love, never a day would pass when Merry wouldn’t sit down and write a long and impassioned letter to his lass and receive a letter from her in return. The letters were always a couple of days behind due to the distance they must travel but that only ever pained him when he received a letter in which she was worried about a patient, for he knew it would be four days from the time she wrote to the time she would receive his reassurances that all would be well. She too expressed her regrets when he sent news of ill tidings, and it was then more than any other time that he felt the distance that separated them.

Over the following months, the frequency of the letters trickled down to every other day, then twice a week, to every week or two. They were both just too busy, they apologized in their letters, but they always sought to make up for lost time whenever their schedules allowed them time to spend together and that was usually at night. They would take moonlit strolls through the glades and over the fields and along the Water. They would sit under the concealing boughs of some tree and talk long into the night of anything and everything that came into their minds. On the few instances they got away together during the day, they always prepared a picnic and sometimes Merry would rent out a couple of the ponies from The Ivy Bush so they could ride away from prying eyes.

Their families had still to meet and give consent to the courtship, even after two years had passed. There was something unsettling to Merry to know that their courtship was unofficial, that he had never met the parents of the lass he was enamored with and that she had never met his parents, that every kiss they shared was stolen. She found excuses to not come to Buckland and he could never find the time to go to Greenholm either, and it was of this very topic they had spoken the last time he saw her.

They had been in her room, the apprentice’s room at the rear of the cottage, down the hall from the mistress’s chamber and next to the washing room. The door was open, for they were not allowed to close it, lest Miss Camellia be unable hear everything that passed between them. Merry sat on the floor under the window, watching Willow as she breezed about the room packing away her clothes and gifts to take home to her family and friends. She had refused to let him help with the packing and she was talking about all the things she was looking forward to doing. All her years in Hobbiton training for the prestigious position of Healer, and she was still a simple lass from the hills.

“My sisters will be there, my mother’s planned a whole family reunion,” Willow had said, folding clothes and placing them just so into her case so that everything would fit. Willow never wasted an inch of space if she could help it. “I can’t wait to see my nieces and nephews, I bet they’ve grown so much. The oldest will be twelve now. Twelve! Can you believe it? Dad keeps asking when I’ll be moving back and starting my own family, says they could use another healer, one that doesn’t live down in the town. My friends have planned a grand picnic luncheon for my first day back. Daphne tells me that most of the old gang will be there, and Corbin will be bringing his lute and there’ll be dancing and songs.”

“Maybe I can come,” Merry had said suddenly. Willow stopped what she was doing and looked at him, startled. “Well, not right now, but I can send word to Father and Mother and let them know I’ll be a couple weeks late in returning. I’m sure they can manage without me for that long and they have Berilac to fill in for me. I can come up in a few days. I’ll bring Pippin, I’m sure he’d love a little adventure. We can stay at the inn in town.”

“Oh, well… You’re welcome to come of course,” Willow stammered. “Everyone keeps asking about you, I’m sure they’d love to meet you.”

“But?”

“But after I’m settled in, we’ll be going to the Downs Fair. Dad’s got some prize rams he wants to sell at auction and Mum’s got the wool all bundled up for trading. We go to the Downs Fair instead of the Free Fair. It’s closer and doesn’t require so much time away from the flocks. It’s a few hills away to the south, so we won’t be in Greenholm when you come. I can tell you how to get there,” she offered but she looked so uncomfortable that Merry quickly took back his offer and pretended interest in the grain of her birch wardrobe. She knelt down in front on him and took his hands in hers. She looked at him in earnestness, pleading for him to understand. “It’s not that I don’t want you to meet them, I’d just rather not surprise them with you. You’re gentry after all, and they would be so flustered to hear that you’re coming, even with plenty of warning.”

“I understand,” Merry had quickly reassured, but he could never fool her. She knew he was disappointed and she promised to make it up to him the next time they were together.

Only the next time never happened. He had seen her off the next morning, pressing a daisy into her hand as he politely pecked her cheek under Miss Camellia's scrutinizing gaze, and then she was gone, carried away on a pony-trap over the bridge and down the East Road. Miss Camellia patted his shoulder supportively before bending over the herb garden and Frodo had whisked him off for breakfast at Mable’s Teahouse. Merry had never had ale with breakfast before, but he found he did not object to it that morning. Looking back on it now, Merry wondered if they had somehow sensed what was coming.

He had received her letters when she arrived home and then when she arrived at the Downs Fair, but the next letter he received would not come for another month when he was back in Buckland. The post-messenger handed him a letter with Willow's familiar flowery writing, and with it came a well-wrapped package that for some inexplicable reason filled Merry with dread just to see it.

He had taken the package and letter to his room and stared at them for nearly an hour before opening the package. Inside had been some of the courtship gifts he had given her in the course of their relationship, though not all of them. He realized these were only the ones he had seen her pack to take with her, a shawl for the cold nights up on the downs, a little book he had filled with her favorite sonnets, some hair ribbons and clips, and a brand new leather satchel for her healer's things.

His legs had betrayed him then and he collapsed onto his bed, too stunned to think or move. All he could do was stare at those love tokens, the letter clutched tightly in his hands. It took him even longer to open the Sweet Farewell letter. This letter was what every courting lad and lass feared most. They were rarely sent and so became a matter of instant legend whenever one was known to have been delivered. Merry did not know of anyone who had received one in his lifetime.

He had read the letter several times, believing it less and less on each pass, but there could be no denying it. Willow was officially courted and betrothed to an old childhood friend at the Downs Fair and their wedding was set for that autumn. The lad’s father was also a shepherd, but as he had three younger brothers, he was not needed on the ranch. He was going to be moving with her to Hobbiton to start their family after they were wedded. He was a carpenter, the eldest of five children, and when his mother had died in childbirth, it had been him who stayed home to take care of his siblings as his father cared for the sheep. He was willing to stay home and take care of any children that he and Willow might have, as he could easily do his carpentry work at the back of the house, in the small clearing between the cottage and the trees.

Merry had waited a month before writing his response, a short letter congratulating her on her happy news, and with it he had sent back the courtship tokens, bidding her to keep them or give them away as she pleased. Her response was also short, thanking him for his understanding. A week before the wedding, he sent a gift, a watercolor he had painted of her cottage as lit by the rising sun, smoke curling from the chimneys and birds playing amongst the herb garden. He sent no note with it and had his cousin Melilot address it to her, with no return address, so that Willow wouldn’t know who sent it. Yet three weeks later he received a letter thanking him for the painting, and that was the last that he ever heard from her.

He had thought often of just stopping by when he visited Frodo and seeing how she was doing, but he knew it would only lead to awkwardness and strained silences. So why had he come now? The simple answer was that he wanted to see her one last time, even if all he could do was look, and he had finally run out of excuses not to. In the morning he would be leaving with Fatty Bolger for Buckland and just days after that, he and Pippin would be accompanying Frodo out of the Shire, or following him like dogs. He knew there was a very real possibility that they might never return. He knew that this adventure was already so much more dangerous than old Bilbo’s had ever been and that they were likely to be pursued by enemies as soon as they stepped outside the Bounds. And if they did return, there would never again be a reason for Merry to come to Hobbiton as Frodo would be living in Crickhollow. Merry would never again pass this little cottage.

The darkened windows gave him no encouragement. He would likely have to stand out here all night to even hope to see her in the morning. The autumn night was warm and balmy and he knew he could easily remain here without growing chill, but he could not risk that one of his friends would notice he never returned from his walk. He really should turn back, the first voice urged. But it would be impossible to scrape together ten minutes in the morning to come down here again, the second voice reasoned and Merry knew it was correct. They would be too busy packing the last of Frodo’s things and loading the cart for him to get away again.

He lingered just inside the gate, leaning against the post until the moon sank to one o’clock. His feet seemed unwilling to turn and take him back up the Hill, and his brain was not much inclined to argue, the first voice having finally resigned to the second. He thought instead of his times with Willow and the heartbreak of losing her so suddenly, of Berilac coming to sit quietly in his room as he painted his wedding gift, never saying a word but offering silent support. Only his parents, Berilac, Uncle Mac and Aunt Berylla knew about the Sweet Farewell letter, and they had kept their word about not spreading the news. Melilot had asked him why she was addressing a package to his sweetheart, but one look at his pinched face had been answer enough, and she too kept it quiet. Yet it had become common knowledge all the same that Merry had been let loose and by Yule of that year, the available lasses were once again letting it be known that they were interested in giving him their hands. Even Estella had approached him, though she had only expressed her sympathies before her suitor Gordibrand whisked her away.

Merry sighed heavily and stuffed his hands into his trousers pockets. He wondered what the occupants of the cottage would think to wake up and see him standing there in the dark. He would likely scare them half out of their wits but then she would come with her satchel in hand, expecting some emergency at Bag End and not just a forlorn Brandybuck who had inexplicably lost the ability to walk. He would have to explain himself and it was that more than anything else that finally stirred him to action. He stood up from the gate post and turned around to go back up the Hill.

His hand was on the gate swinging it open when he saw her coming up the Lane from town. He had to squint to be sure he was actually seeing her, that it wasn’t simply hopeful wishing making the shadows under the trees take form in front of his eyes. A gentle wind blew through the tree tops, making their shadows dance on the lane, and for a while he could not be sure at all of what he saw. But then she appeared out of the shadows at the end of the path, walking cautiously, her eyes undoubtedly on him, watching him as he watched her.

His heart began to race and he wished now he had listened to the first voice sooner. But then he felt that familiar thrill coursing through him, raising goose pimples on his flesh that had nothing to do with the wind and everything to do with that lovely creature standing at the end of the path. He gripped the gate harder, determined that nothing would cause him to leave now, and he only hoped his trembling would not be too noticeable, even as he knew that nothing about him ever escaped her notice.

Even from a distance, she was just as he remembered her. Her sandy-colored hair, which he knew curled all the way down to her narrow waist, was pulled into a tight bun atop her head. In the course of the day’s duties, a few strands had come loose, framing her face prettily. Her brown skin seemed to glow silver-blue under the starlight, and he knew if he dared to touch, her skin would be soft as satin. She wore the usual healer’s garb, a dark green frock covered with a grey apron, a painfully familiar and well-worn satchel held loosely in her right hand. Merry was glad to see she had kept it, if nothing else.

Her footsteps slowed as she approached the gate but she did not stop. Soon enough she was standing right in front of him and only then did Merry notice that he had paused halfway in the act of opening the gate. He pushed the gate fully open and she stepped through, her keen brown eyes never straying from his. Another gentle breeze blew through the yard as she stepped past him and Merry was delighted to discover that she still smelled of cloves and lavender, but she also smelled of ointments, salves, poultices and other medicaments, and there was the unmistakable lingering scent of mother’s milk. Her apron, he could see now, was covered with splotches and stains from her day’s work.

“Good morning, Merry,” she greeted, breaking the silence first. She spoke warmly, as though she had found him standing here in the bright afternoon rather than the dead of night.

“Good morning, Willow,” he replied, just as casually. “You’re out late.”

“As are you,” Willow returned, offering no explanation for her lateness. Merry could only assume she had been serving a patient who lived near enough for her to walk home.

“How have you been?” Merry asked next, for lack of anything better to say. He realized too late that he should have spent the last hour and a half rehearsing what to say when he saw her. Now he found himself floundering for something witty and intelligent and coming up horribly short of the mark.

Willow gave a short amused laugh. The absurdity of the situation was not lost on her but all she said in return was, “I am well. How are you?”

“I’m…” Merry began, intending to say ‘I’m fine’ but he could never effectively lie to her, not since that day ten years ago when he had made her an unwilling accomplice in a prank he had played on Frodo. That had been the first time he had ever seen her and spoken to her and he had been taken with her immediately. Had he known then what would happen between them, would he have done things differently? The answer was simple and immediate: no.

He cleared his throat and shrugged. “I’m visiting Frodo, helping him with the move.”

“So I’ve heard,” she replied.

She squinted at him, scrutinizing him closely, taking in every little detail with her sharp healer’s eyes. He knew she would notice the circles under his eyes that everyone else missed, that she could see the tension in his shoulders and even his slightly shallow breathing that indicated he was under stress. From the short time they had courted she would also know that he only hooked his fingers in his belt loops, as he found himself doing now, when he was trying to appear casual and nonplussed. She would know from the way he kept catching himself digging a toe into the dirt that there was something on his mind, and she would know, by the mere fact of his presence here so late in the night and after so many months of never once visiting, that he was desperate to see her.

She knew all of this but when she spoke again, she only said, “I heard he sold Bag End to the Sackville-Bagginses and was moving back to Buckland. I didn’t quite believe it at first, till I heard it straight from him myself. So he’s leaving today then?”

Merry nodded. “Fatty and I will be going ahead with the last cart. We’re going to get things set up for Frodo at Crickhollow before he gets there. He’ll be walking there with Pippin and Sam, one last trek through the Westfarthing.”

“I heard Sam would be going with him, and he’s not spoken to Rosie Cotton yet,” Willow said. She seemed to have discerned quite a lot from this little bit of information but she said nothing more about it. “How have you been?” she asked again, as Merry had not answered the first time. “Would you like to come inside and have some tea? We can talk.”

For the first time since she arrived, Merry’s eyes left hers to return to the darkened windows of the cottage. He had to remind himself that her bedroom would no longer be at the left rear of the house. She would be in the mistress’s bedroom now, its round window just visible around the corner, and in it sleeping soundly… “He won’t mind?” Merry asked.

Willow laughed. “He sleeps logs. I doubt we’ll wake him.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Merry said, smiling also.

“I know that, and no, Corbin won’t mind none,” Willow assured. “Come inside.”

Inside the foyer, Willow lit a lamp that was kept there for her on the nights she came home late. Merry noticed her cloaks and jacket hanging along the wall next to a fellow's coat and sleeker before she led the way out of the foyer and through the little house to the kitchen. Merry followed at a respectable distance, peering around in the dim lamplight as they went.

While the outside of the house had not changed at all over the last couple of years, there were some noticeable differences inside. The settee and armchairs in the parlor had been reupholstered, and all the portraits and trinkets had been replaced, save a few that had belonged to Miss Camellia. A basket of stuffed toys and soft blankets now sat on the floor behind the settee.

Willow paused at the study to put her satchel away. This room was very much the same: the same desk, the same chairs, the same charts of herbs and healing tonics on the wall, the same rack of drying herbs in the corner, the same hutch of medicinal supplies. The only difference was that the spinning wheel and sewing basket from the sewing room were now stuffed into one corner, and the bookcase containing all of Willow’s patients’ charts and herbals now also held books on fishing, bird-watching, golfing and woodworking.

The sewing room itself had been converted to a nursery and Merry could hear the deep steady breathing of a bairn inside her cot. Willow stopped here too, stepping inside to catch a quick glimpse of her daughter. Merry remained in the doorway, looking at the bairn through the wooden bars of the cot. She was said to resemble her mother in many ways but Merry had also heard that the child had her father’s grey eyes and button nose. Willow reached down to straighten the blankets around the bairn and pressed a whisper of a kiss on the bairn’s thick curly tresses before rejoining Merry.

In the kitchen, Willow set the lamp on the table. She pulled out a chair and indicated for Merry to sit down, then began setting wood in the grate to begin a fire. Merry was on his feet again instantly, taking the wood from her.

“Let me do that,” he offered.

Willow did not argue but instead lit a couple of candles before taking up the lamp again and disappearing down the hall.

A few minutes later, Merry had the fire lit in the hearth. He was standing up and admiring his handiwork when he heard muted mumblings coming from the bedchamber. Apparently, Corbin was not sleeping logs this night and Willow must be explaining why she was returning so late and that Merry had come calling. Merry couldn’t make out any of the words but he did notice that Corbin’s voice had grown irritable by the end of the conversation.

Merry poured water into a kettle (the healer had at least three) and set it on the spit over the fire, wondering now more than ever why he had come here so late. He supposed it was because they had so often in the past been forced to get together at night. He knew well enough why Willow had brought him to the kitchen. When Miss Camellia had lived here, she had dictated that they spend their time together in the kitchen. The matron healer had thought it less cozy than the parlor and she had the additional advantage of being able to hear them from any spot in the house.

He stepped back from the hearth and gazed around the kitchen. The table and chairs were new, probably created by Corbin's skilled hands. On the counter next to the washbasin were bairn-sized dishes, decorated with birds and lambs, drying on a cloth. There was a highchair, also newly made, pulled up to the table and bibs hung on a hook by the cupboard for easy access. On a little shelf behind the high chair, by the door to the kitchen garden, were a pipe and a weed box.

‘Or,’ he thought to himself, ‘you came here because you’re a glutton for punishment.’

He was staring mesmerized by the pipe and highchair when Willow returned. She had freshened up, washed her face and brushed out her hair so that it hung loose and beautifully down her back and over her shoulders in the way Merry loved so much. She had removed her apron but had postponed changing into her sleeping gown until her company had gone. She shuffled to the larder and brought out some tins that Merry knew to contain tea leaves and herbs.

“What would you like?” she asked. “I’ve got mint, chamomile, cinnamon, ginger, apple cider; there’s rosemary and lavender, rosehips…”

“I’m sorry,” Merry said suddenly, tearing his eyes away from the pipe and highchair. He looked at Willow with a mixture of regret, resignation and yearning. “I shouldn’t have come here.”

“And yet here you are,” she said kindly, “on the very last night you’ll likely ever spend in Hobbiton. You wanted to talk me about something?”

Just like that, they were at the heart of the matter, and Merry was no more prepared now than he had been outside by the gate. He couldn’t blame her though for wanting to get to the point; it was quite late for company and she had undoubtedly just finished a very long and tiring day. He knew that had he been anyone else, short of a patient in need of care, he would have been told to return in the morning at a more decent hour.

Merry shrugged, noticed his thumbs were again hooked in his belt loops and yanked them free. “I just wanted to see you,” he said lamely.

Their eyes met again and neither of them spoke or moved for some time. Then Merry stuffed his hands in his pockets, shifted his weight to his other foot, and continued to stand there awkwardly.

“Chamomile it is then,” Willow said at length. She added the leaves to the boiling water and took the tins back to the larder. She came back with a half-loaf of rye bread, a crock of butter and a jar of blackberry currant. She set these on the table and Merry made himself useful setting the table with plates, mugs, spoons, knives and napkins as Willow ducked back into the larder for honey for the tea and a small wheel of cheese to go with the bread.

The kettle began to whistle then and Willow immediately removed it from the fire, cringing, her ears pointed toward the nursery. A few tense moments passed in which neither of them dared to move until they were certain the bairn’s slumber was not disturbed. Relieved, Willow set the kettle on a pot holder in the center of the table so the tea could steep, then sat down. Merry had no choice now but to join her, choosing the seat cattycorner to hers and across from the highchair.

Willow sliced the bread while Merry sliced the cheese into wedges. They then each occupied themselves with spreading butter and jam on their bread. They each bit into their slice at the same time, their eyes meeting again as a glob of jam trickled down Merry’s jaw and landed with a soft plop on the table. He froze, his eyes widened, and a moment later they were both laughing silently.

“You always did put too much on,” Willow said and Merry bit his tongue so as not to add, “Only around you.”

He wiped his mouth with his napkin then grinned unabashedly when he was done. They both laughed again and finished the rest of their snack in silence, neither of them willing to break the delicate ease that hung between them. Willow poured the tea and added the honey, two spoons for him and one for herself. She stirred the tea and slid Merry’s mug to him, then sat back in her chair.

“So,” she said at last.

“So,” echoed Merry. He sipped his tea once, never shifting his gaze from hers. Oh, but how the firelight illuminated her golden eyes. “Frodo’s just about all packed up,” he began, though he knew it was far from what he actually wanted to say. “There’s just a few more little things to box up and then we’ll be loading the last cart in the morning. Fatty Bolger will be coming with me to Crickhollow, but I already told you that.”

Willow only nodded.

“I’ve never known anyone who moved before, not really. Frodo moved here from Buckland of course, but he only had a few bags to take with him at the time. Bilbo left and the smial got turned out then. That was quite a fiasco but I always thought that was only because of all those hobbits marching in and out all day long. I’ve just never realized how much clutter one tends to accumulate until it came time to pack it all up,” Merry said and just like that, they were over the hump of awkwardness.

“That’s because you weren’t here when Miss Camellia retired. She certainly had her share of clutter!” Willow said, her eyes glittering as she recalled the month she and Miss Camellia had spent getting the cottage ready for Willow to take it over. “We thought we’d have it all done in a week, but three weeks later we were still finding things tucked into corners and stuffed under cupboards and desks. Can you believe we found a quilt from her great-aunt tucked between the medicine cabinet and the bookcase in the study? She had put it there for safekeeping and then forgotten where she put it.”

“My father does that all the time,” Merry said. “He keeps telling my mother he knows exactly where he put my Grandfather Adalgrim’s silver-leaf cufflinks that she gifted him for her seventieth birthday but he really hasn’t the slightest clue where they are. But wherever they are, at least they’re safe!”

Willow laughed, nodding her head in understanding. “My mistress could always tell you where all the herbs and ointments and bandages were located, and she could recall a complicated poultice mixture without blinking an eye, but ask her where she put the broom or the wash rags and she wouldn’t have the slightest idea. Memory is a funny thing.”

“Grandfather Rory was always of the opinion that there’s only so much one can be expected to remember,” Merry said. “Whenever someone asked him how much that was, he’d always say ‘as much as you do remember!’ Grandmother, however, saw no excuse for forgetting things. She thought it was just a sign of not paying attention and if you weren’t paying attention then you were being disrespectful. She always remembered everything and so Grandfather really had very little hope of ever winning an argument.”

“My parents are the same way,” Willow said. “My mother says that lasses just have a better memory for things than lads do.”

“Nonsense. We lads have excellent memories!” Merry boasted.

“Really? Then what’s my mother’s name?” Willow asked, resting her chin on her hand and wriggling her eyebrows up and down. She started to laugh before Merry could even stumble his answer.

“Well… I know it, I do. It’s just, when I say that lads have an excellent memory, we do of course, but it’s…”

“Only for important things?” Willow supplied. “Like who ran the fastest leg in the hundred-yard dash at the Free Fair of 1392, or who was the only hobbit to hit par on every course in the Northfarthing?”

“That’s easy,” Merry said. “Lark Tunnely won the race that year, and it was the Bullroarer himself who set the par for the Northfarthing links. He was the first to play on every track and however many hits it took him to sink the ball became the par count for that hole.”

“And my mother’s name again?” Willow teased.

“Well, if you can’t remember your own mother’s name,” Merry began and had to quickly duck to dodge a playful whack. “And it would be Holly. She grew up on the farthest reaches of the Far Downs and at nights in the winters she sometimes could see lights twinkling on the horizon in the direction of the Tower Hills. It used to scare her so much that she couldn’t sleep and eventually she was sent to spend the winters with her aunt and uncle in Greenholm, where she met your father.”

“You remember that?” Willow said, impressed. “I will have to tell her then that not all lads are entirely hopeless.”

“Have I redeemed my gender?” Merry asked.

“I think you’re the exception rather than the rule,” Willow said and patted his arm when he pouted. “Sorry, love.”

“The other lads will be so disappointed,” Merry bantered and resisted the urge to take her hand in his when she pulled away, returning her hand to the safety of her mug. Still, she had said ‘love’ and said it with affection. He would have to be content with that.

“Remember the last time we stayed up to the wee hours of the night?” Willow asked suddenly.

“Is this another test?” Merry said and nodded. “I do. You had just become a full-fledged healer and you were worried that you might disappoint Miss Camellia by misdiagnosing your first patient or forgetting how to set a broken bone or putting too much goldenseal in an infusion. No such thing ever happened of course, for you’re an excellent healer and always have been. I remember you were wearing a yellow dress with a violet sash and I had put daisies in your hair. One of the flowers was beginning to wilt, the petals kept tickling your ear but you didn’t want to pull it out.”

“And you were wearing that fancy blue suit of yours, looking quite dashing,” Willow replied. “You wanted to put more than just daisies in my hair though, as I recall. You tried talking one of the maid-children into making me a wreath to wear but my mistress wouldn’t hear of you tearing up the herb garden for such a silly reason.”

They smiled fondly at the memory and Merry chuckled. “You sipped on the same mug of ale all night long, too afraid to get intoxicated in case there was some emergency. We took a stroll along the Water and found that little niche between the boulders to snuggle into and we talked there until three in the morning, long after everyone else had gone home or gone to sleep. Who was it who found us?”

“Farmer Mugwort,” Willow said, giggling also. The look of scandal on the old farmer’s weather-worn face when he found Willow cradled in Merry’s lap, her head resting on his shoulder as he tickled her neck with a blade of grass could still reduce them both to giggles. “Do you think he ever believed that we were only talking?”

“He shouldn’t have because we weren’t only talking,” Merry reminded, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively. “Imagine if he had found us during one of our kissing sessions? He would have had a fit! Still would like to know what he was doing wandering around so late in the night.”

“So early in the morning, you mean, and he was up because of his arthritis,” Willow explained sagely. “I could tell by the way he favored his right knee.”

“At least he didn’t say anything to Miss Camellia or Frodo,” Merry said.

“He likely forgot. His memory isn’t as good as it used to be,” Willow pointed out.

“Now it’s my turn,” Merry said after taking another sip of his tea. This was a game of theirs that they used to play. One of them would relate some tale or joke or reveal some secret wish or desire, and then the other would reciprocate. It could be a very amusing and revealing game at times and was a favored way of passing the time.

Merry leaned back in his chair, propping his feet up on the bottom rung of the highchair across from him. He considered Willow thoughtfully as she waited with equal anticipation. So much time had passed and it hung between them like a smoky veil, yet when she looked at him like that the lost time didn’t seem to matter anymore.

“Remember that day we rode out to Three Farthing Stone for a picnic?” he said. “You had made cucumber sandwiches and berry juice and jelly tarts. I made bread pudding and a green salad with that cranberry sauce that you always devour before anyone else even has a chance to blink. I brought a book of poems and songs that Bilbo had wrote and we read them to each other and acted them out all afternoon. You brought an herbal, determined to turn me into a healer, and quizzed me on everything you had taught me the last time I visited. You were so serious. I could tell because you sort of purse your lips together and tilt your mouth to one side, like tilting your head instead would require too much effort.”

“You would have made an excellent healer,” Willow insisted. “With your head for details and your thoroughness and meticulousness, you could have been great.”

“I don’t get to choose what I want to be,” Merry reminded her, not at all sour or put upon. He took pride in his responsibility as the Master’s heir, and if there was any reason he did not look forward to the day he would take over the position, it was knowing his father would have to pass away first. “If I could choose though, I would like to teach the children in Buckland to read. All of them, not just the gentry or those hobbits who need the rudimentary skills for their work.”

“I could see you doing that,” Willow said, a soft smile now on her face. “You are always so patient with little ones. If I couldn’t be a healer, I’d like to be a sempstress. I’m designing a new healer’s dress, something a little more comfortable and serviceable than this one. A healer simply needs more than just two pockets.”

“You made that yellow dress, didn’t you?” Merry said, only now remembering. “I liked it very much.”

“As I duly recall,” she replied and indeed she did remember the way Merry’s mouth dropped open the first time he saw her in it. “Just as I remember that other picnic we took down at the Little Water,” she continued, speaking of the tributary that flowed into the Water from Overhill. “You wanted to go fishing and you got upset with me for letting that trout go.”

“That was the biggest trout I ever saw!” Merry said heatedly, obviously still sore about this slight. “My Uncle Mac wouldn’t have believed it. He’s never managed to catch a trout that big. And you let it go.”

“Yes, and then I got to listen to you lecture me for the next half-hour about the glorious time-honored activity of fishing,” Willow continued. “How did it go again? There was something about ‘becoming one with the river’ and, oh yes, ‘immersing oneself into the current of the ever-flowing waters.’ I think at one point you even drew pictures in the sand.”

Merry had the sense to look abashed. “I guess I do get carried away at times.”

“Oh, it’s nothing compared to what I hear from Corbin now,” Willow assured. “He’s much worse. I’ve stopped going fishing with him but he’s insisting on teaching me to play golf.” She made a face.

“You? On the links? Now that’s worth seeing,” Merry replied, trying to imagine the healer navigating the holes of the Hobbiton track. “How’s your game?”

“My short game is decent, but my long game is hopeless,” Willow said with a shrug. “I do enjoy seeing Corbin’s face turn various shades of red though.”

“My long game’s not the best either,” Merry admitted. “Frodo always wallops me every time we play together.”

“I didn’t know Frodo played.”

“Well that’s the rub, isn’t it? He only plays to humor me. But one of these days, mark my word, I am going to best him,” Merry vowed and Willow was wise enough to nod in agreement.

“Are you still playing pranks?” she asked next, remembering that horrible prank he had played on Frodo all those years ago.

“No, I had to give that up,” he answered, mild regret in his voice. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t still give the younger lads a tip or two. You should have been in Bucklebury last month, when a group of young rascals went tearing through town, a stolen pie from the sweets shop held over their heads.” He chuckled and shook his head. “They really needed a better escape route other than right through the marketplace. They’re not the brightest bunch but they do try hard, so I gathered them together after they’d been scolded and told them that going around the back of the sweets shop and lifting the pies out of the window might work better for them. Then they can slip into the woods and eat their goods before anyone even notices anything is missing.”

“You didn’t! Merry!” Willow admonished, but she was chuckling too. “You shouldn’t be encouraging them to such ends.”

Merry shrugged. “There’s always been a group of rascals making things interesting for the Bucklanders. First it was my father, Uncle Mac and Cousin Marmadas; after them was that legendary gang: Frodo, Morti, Fendi, and Edon; then it was me, Berilac, Dodinas and Ilberic. This new generation is quite lacking in wily troublemakers. It’s bothersome.”

“Don’t you mean peaceful?” Willow teased.

“Part of being young and innocent is causing mayhem and having adventures,” Merry insisted. Willow shook her head in amused adoration. “You never caused mayhem in your days?”

“No,” she answered, “not until I decided to become a healer and moved here to study with Miss Camellia. My father never really recovered from the shock of it all. He thought I’d stay on the ranch shearing sheep and making wool for the rest of my days, become a farmer’s wife and have a houseful of bairns by the time I turned fifty. He wasn’t much happier when I started courting you, thought I was getting too big for my petticoats.”

She grew serious suddenly, sitting up to place both her hands on the table in front of her. She looked at Merry intently and he could see in her eyes a deep remorse and knew she was about to say words she had long held back. He waited patiently, allowing her the time she needed to figure out exactly what she wanted to say, glad that if this summer of conspiracies had taught him one thing, it was patience.

“Merry, I’m sorry,” she finally said, gulping the next words down. She took another sip of her tea and cleared her throat. “I wasn’t fair to you. Looking back on everything, I should have let your crush for me remain just that. I shouldn’t have pursued you as I did.”

“Don’t think for a moment that I regret any of the time we shared together,” Merry said, sitting up likewise. Now he did reach across the table and took her nearest hand, interlacing his fingers with hers and pressing their palms together gently. Her hand was warm from the mug but he could feel the slightest hint of a tremble. He realized that she was just as nervous as he was and he grasped her hand tighter and waited for her to raise her eyes to look at him.

“I can never regret loving you,” Merry continued. “You taught me so much, not just about herb-lore but about life and love and what it means to share that with another.”

“And what it means to lose it,” Willow said. She gulped again but held his gaze, squeezing his hand in return, grateful for his touch. He scooted his chair closer and when he settled again, she reached out and took his other hand. “It’s sweet of you to say you don’t regret it, but I know how I hurt you. I can’t tell you how many nights I stayed up awake, wondering if I did the right thing to give up on us so quickly.”

“A year and a half isn’t exactly quickly,” Merry pointed out. “We always knew there was a chance it wouldn’t work out, that there were likely going to be obstacles neither of us could overcome. We both agreed to take that risk, and it’s a risk I would take again and again. Just… how did it happen?”

There it was, the question he had been wanting to ask for the last eighteen months, the question that had knotted his insides and turned his heart to a cold stone every time he thought of it. His heart now raced in his throat and his breathing quickened. Willow made to release his hand and pour him more tea, but he held on tight until she answered. They looked at each other long, Willow’s face filled with compassion and regret, and finally she nodded, a small little bob of her head, hardly discernable in the shadows cast upon her by the candlelight.

“Corbin and I have always known each other. Before I decided to become a healer, it was always thought that we’d wed some day,” she began. “I was only twenty-five when I left, he was thirty. I figured he’d marry eventually but he never did. When he learned about you, he seemed to think that he had been patient long enough. Every time I visited, he would propose and promise to join me here and help raise our family. I had worked too hard for what I had to give it up, he said. No member of the gentry would be able to understand that, he said.

“The truth though was that I was impatient. I wanted a family, I had been ready for one for a while, and you weren’t ready yet to make such a commitment. I’d be willing to wager you still aren’t. I loved you Merry, but sometimes that just isn’t enough. Aside from our troubles of just finding time together, I was terrified of the prospect of one day becoming the Lady of Buckland. I come from common folk and I wasn’t meant for anything as grand as that. It’s frightening enough just being here sometimes and being held in such high esteem, nearly equal to the Bagginses in some ways. To move to Buckland, out of the Shire… I just couldn’t imagine it, and I see my family so rarely now as it is.”

Tears slipped down her cheeks, glowing in the candle’s flame. Merry took a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped them away, then clasped her hand again.

“It was not an easy decision to make, and I struggled over it long and hard,” Willow continued, her voice beginning to shake as more tears escaped her eyes. “Writing that letter and sending back your courtship tokens was the hardest thing I ever had to do. I cried until there were no tears left and I often wanted to rush after the post messenger and take it all back. I did get on a pony a couple of times, determined to ride clear across the Shire if I had to. Only I could never bring myself to do it. I suppose that’s choice enough. In my heart I knew it was the right thing to do, but it didn’t make it hurt any less. We come from different worlds, Merry. It could never have worked.”

“You underestimate yourself,” Merry said kindly, wiping her tears again and keeping his own in check. He needed to be here for her now and he was glad that for once his body didn't betray his emotions. His voice was strong but gentle when he spoke again. “You would have made an wonderful Lady of Buckland. Why did you never tell me of your fears? You’re usually so forthright.”

“Because I knew the moment I told you about them, it would be over,” Willow answered, her tears in check now and her voice strong again, but soft. “It would be admitting how terribly fit for each other we were.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” Merry allowed. After all, he could hardly be surprised by this line of reasoning. He had heard it numerous times from Sam over the years, but he had never despised the class difference more than he did at this moment. He brought her hand to his mouth and kissed it gently. “In that case, I’m glad you didn’t say anything. Like I said, I don’t regret a single moment we spent together. They were so few, and each of them are precious to me. I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Just answer one more question. Are you truly happy?”

Willow smiled, her eyes sparkling with her unspent tears and mirth. “Yes, I am. I can’t imagine ever being happier than I am now.”

“Then I’m glad for you and I wish you many more years of happiness,” Merry declared, meaning every word. He wiped her cheeks dry and pulled his hands away. He poured them more tea and added the honey this time, two spoons for him, one for her. He laughed as he pushed her mug toward her. “You know, I think that’s the key to a lass’s happiness. I court her, or even just think about courting her, and she’ll soon enough find the perfect lad for her. It worked for you and Estella. Maybe I should offer my services to Mentha. She’s been having trouble getting a worthy lad’s attention.”

Willow raised her eyebrows at this but smiled to humor him. “Estella is still courting that other lad?”

“Gordi? Yes. They’re betrothed now actually,” Merry said. “The wedding is set for the Spring Feast.”

“Did you never tell her how you feel about her?” Willow asked, watching him keenly.

“I had a chance this past Rethe,” he answered with a shrug. “I couldn’t do it though. Gordi was going to be arriving any day to propose to her. I couldn’t have him showing up and finding out I’d stolen her away from him. He’s a good lad, he deserves better than that. Besides…”

“Besides?” Willow pressed when Merry fell silent.

Merry shook his head. “It’s nothing. I just… It’s nothing.”

“Your nothing sounds like something to me,” Willow said. “This is what you wanted to talk about then?”

“There’s no fooling you is there?” Merry said grudgingly and shook his head. “There’s just so much going on right now. Everything’s unsettled and there’s no way to tell where everything is going to land.”

“Are you talking about Frodo’s move?” Willow asked and Merry nodded. “But he didn’t announce his move until Forelithe.”

“There’s a lot going on,” Merry repeated. “I wish I could tell you more, but you wouldn’t understand. I don’t even fully understand it all. Right now, I just want to get Frodo to Crickhollow safely.”

“Is he in some sort of trouble then?” Willow asked, surprising Merry with her astuteness, though he wasn’t sure why. She always had a way of knowing things. It was what made her such a good healer. “He’s been looking dreadful for months, though I reckon I’m the only one who’s noticed,” she elaborated. “He and Sam both are as skittish as I’ve ever seen them. Now Frodo’s sold his lovely hole to the S.-B.’s, whom he loathes. Sam’s going off with him, like they don't have worthy gardeners in Buckland, like he doesn’t already have ten other job offers lined up, and he hasn’t spoken to Rose yet. Now you’re down here in the middle of the night, looking rather dreadful yourself, looking at me as though you’re never going to see me again. What sort of trouble is it? Can I help?”

Merry shook his head. “It’s best if you don’t know anything. But, if you hear anything odd or unusual, especially about us after we leave, don’t say anything to anyone, not even Corbin.”

“All right,” Willow agreed, a cold thrill rushing through her at these ominous words. “You just promise me you’ll take care of yourself, Merry Brandybuck, and that you’ll come to visit from time to time. You visit Tookland often enough and we’re not that far away.”

“I’ll be careful,” was all he could promise.

They finished their mugs and Willow escorted him back outside. As he stood to leave the kitchen, he looked up at the wall over the doorway and saw his watercolor hanging there. He stared at it for a moment until Willow touched his arm. He looked down at her and she smiled.

“It’s a beautiful painting,” she said. “I had it in the bedroom for a while, but Corbin thought it’d look better here. I put that sketch you drew of me and Miss Camellia in Corliss’s room.”

Merry only nodded. There was nothing more to be said here.

Outside, the wind was still blowing gently from the east, warm and pleasant and carrying the scent of wood fire. Merry opened the gate, then lingered, still reluctant to go. Willow reached up hesitantly and ran her fingers through his hair.

“I’ve missed you,” she said. “I’m glad you came.”

Merry bent down and lightly kissed her cheek. “I’ve missed you,” he said, his voice tight with unshed tears. He fought them back as he stood up, and he reached out to caress her cheek one last time, her silky curls falling against his hand. “Farewell Willow.”

He stepped into the lane and closed the gate behind him. He waited until Willow was back inside before heading up the Hill. With each step he seemed to shed some unknown weight, a burden he had not known he’d been carrying until now.

He reached the Party Field and turned to look one last time down the Hill. As he stood there a sudden movement caught his eye and he turned to see Sam stepping out from the shadow of the Party Tree. The gardener was still wearing his clothes from the day before and Merry wondered how long he had been sitting out there. Had Sam seen him head down the Hill? How long had he been gone? He checked the moon and saw that it was nearing three o’clock.

“You couldn’t sleep either?” Sam ventured, leaning against the fence and looking over the Hill to the Water. “I just checked up at Bag End. They’re all asleep, but I didn’t see you nowhere. Figured I’d sit out here and wait for you.”

“I went to see Willow,” Merry supplied and Sam nodded knowingly.

“I’ve got to see Rosie today myself,” he said.

“What are you going to say?”

Sam shrugged. “Don’t reckon there’s much I can say. She knows something’s up, keeps asking me what’s wrong. She’s even got Marigold hounding me now. I went up to the farm the other day to visit her and Tom and spent the whole of it listening to Goldie going on about how worrit Rosie is about me. It were hard not to confide in her, Goldie that is. I’ve always told her everything. Tom too. He just shook his head and said whatever it is, I best get it out of my system afore Rosie gets tired of waiting.”

“Are you going to leave her a letter?” Merry asked, for he had one written to his parents and he knew Pippin was going to send one to his folks as well.

Sam shook his head. “She’ll hear the rumors soon enough and put it all together on her own. If I leave her a letter, she’ll just get upset that I didn’t bother to tell her afore I left.”

Merry laughed bitterly. “Sounds like a lass.”

“That she is,” Sam agreed. “How’d it go with Miss Willow?”

“Well,” Merry said. “We’ve said our farewells.”

“Are you going to be seeing Miss Estella also?”

“Have to. Fatty needs to stop by the manor and get a few things,” Merry said. “We don’t really have anything to say to each other though, Estella and I. We’ve already said everything that needed saying in Rethe. I’ll probably just stay with the cart.”

“Going in?” Sam asked, motioning toward Bag End.

“Not yet,” Merry decided and pulled himself up to sit on the fence next to Sam. He pulled his pipe and weed box from his pocket, and Sam took out his pipe. They remained at the fence, talking lightly of their days in Hobbiton as they smoked Old Toby and watched the sky slowly brighten with the coming of the sun, each one soaking in their last glimpse of this peaceful country and sending it their heartfelt farewells.

The end.

GF 6/30/07