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LifeWatch  by Lindelea

Chapter 8. Getting Better

Merry entered Pippin's grove the next day to the sounds of merriment. A guardsman whose name he didn't know was perched on the chair next to Pippin's bed, hands gesturing as they illustrated the story he was telling. Pippin's face was bright with mischief.

'...you should have seen his face! And then the Orc pulled him into the stream after itself!' The guardsman laughed again, in recollection.

'So he got his bath after all!' Pippin said. He was hugging himself and trying not to laugh. 'O Marach, stop! Don't tell any more, let me get my breath.'

Merry came forward with a smile. 'I've heard there's healing in laughter, but this might be too much of a good thing,' he said.

The guardsman rose and nodded acknowledgment to Merry. 'Master Perian,' he said. 'He's all yours.' They shared a grave look and the guardsman marched out.

'You're late!' Pippin said to Merry.

'You're not the only fish I have to fry,' Merry said.

'Mmmm, fried fish, I wonder what's for elevenses. Why are you late?' Pippin persisted.

Merry shook his head, smiling, but there was a weariness in his eyes that Pippin had seen before, when they were being carried by Orcs towards Isengard, and later, when the pain from Merry's brush with the Nazgűl returned to haunt him.

'You forget, I'm still a rider of Rohan,' Merry answered, 'And into the bargain Strider finds tasks for me. I've been at everyone's beck and call this day, it feels like, and it is a pleasure to sit down.'

'When can I get up?' Pippin asked, but he didn't really mean it; he was testing his cousin, to see Merry’s response, and he wasn't surprised at Merry's answer, after seeing the look in his eyes.

'Don't start with me,' Merry warned, holding up a quelling hand. 'I'm not up to it at the moment.'

'What is it, Merry?' Pippin asked quietly. Merry put his hand down, but not before Pippin had noticed the slight tremble of the fingers.

Merry sighed, straightened his shoulders, and pasted on a smile. 'It's nothing, Pippin, really. I'm just out of sorts. I miss the Shire, and I wish we could be amongst our own sort again, just for today.'

'Our own sort?' Pippin asked.

'Sensible hobbits! I'm tired of the Big People, their strange customs, their ways, their laws, the way they look at us as if we are children. I want to be a plain hobbit amongst common-sense folk again,' Merry finished, rubbing his eyes.

'You'd miss the feasting,' Pippin said. 'Surely you don't want to go home before the great feast everyone keeps talking about.'

'No, that would hardly be fitting for a hobbit,' Merry answered.

Pippin patted the bed next to him. 'Come, lie down here, cousin; you look tired. You won't hurt or jar me if you do. I'm getting much better.'

'Not well enough to get up yet,' Merry said.

'I didn't mean that. I meant you look as if you could use a nap, and since they've taken that extra bed out there's nowhere for you to lie yourself down. I promise I won't try to sneak off if you close your eyes.'

It did not take much coaxing to get Merry to lie down next to his cousin, and soon he was asleep. Pippin waited until he heard a soft snore before touching the right hand. It was cold, and Pippin pulled a blanket over his cousin and settled himself to keep watch.

When Aragorn came later in search of Merry, Pippin met him with a stern look and finger to the lips. The Ranger nodded and smiled, leaving Pippin to his watching.

It was one way to keep the injured hobbit abed.

***

Targon and Beregond entered the grove together, later that afternoon.

'He's still asleep?' Beregond asked.

Merry stretched and yawned. 'No, I'm waking up,' he said. 'What time is it?'

'Nearly suppertime,' Pippin said. 'You've slept through elevenses, dinner, and teatime, too.' The guardsmen exchanged an amused look at this quaint Halfling way of telling time.

'I've come to escort you to the buttery,' Beregond said. 'With missing so many meals, the Lord Aragorn told me to make sure you eat something.' Merry gave him a sharp look, but he only smiled.

'And I'm here to take up where we left off,' Targon said, taking the chair by the bed. 'Now where were we...?'

'You were telling me how Beregond got that scar on his arm,' Pippin reminded.

Beregond threw up his hands, 'Then I am leaving!' he said, 'for I do not want to be reminded!' He looked down at Merry. 'Come, Master Perian, let us make our escape before the story starts.'

They left the grove, but Beregond turned away from the buttery, taking them deeper into the woods of Ithilien, and Merry followed, wondering. When they reached a jumble of rocks, Beregond seated himself and indicated that Merry should do the same.

'What is it, Beregond?' Merry asked.

The guardsman smiled. 'I think you know,' he answered. 'I'm told you know of my... situation.'

Merry could not meet his eyes. He had learned this morning, to his shock, that the guardsman was marked for death. Beregond had looked for death in battle, only to be saved by Pippin's actions, but he expected to be called forth in a muster any day now to face an executioner's sword, a consequence of his leaving his post during time of battle, and of slaying Men wearing the livery of the Steward. Merry had sought out Strider, trying to get some reassurance, but had found none. The Ranger was as troubled as Merry, and though he said he was trying to find some way to help Beregond, his eyes were not hopeful.

'I know,' Merry admitted, 'but I have yet to understand.'

'Master Perian,' Beregond began, then leaned forward, speaking earnestly, 'Merry, there are laws that govern the ways of Men--is it not the same in the country of the Halflings?'

'We have laws, yes, where they are needed.'

The guardsman nodded. 'And I have broken our laws, more than one of which carry the penalty of death.' When Merry would have spoken he held up his hand. 'I spilled blood in the Hallows of the White City; I killed men, and not enemies either, but men who wore the uniform of the City.'

'You did it to save Faramir!'

'Perhaps Captain Faramir might have been saved without murder.'

'You fought to defend yourself from their swords,' Merry protested.

'Not all,' Beregond said, and his eyes were haunted. 'I did not have to kill the porter at the Door, I could have disarmed him. My strength was beyond his, he was an old man. But I struck out of reflex.' He stared down at his hands as if seeing blood still upon them.

'Beregond,' Merry murmured, but he had no words of comfort to offer.

The guardsman raised his eyes, attempted a smile. 'And there is the matter of leaving my post in time of war,' he said. 'Any guardsman finding me away from my post without explanation could have struck me down that night ... and under the Lord Denethor, I would have paid swiftly for my actions afterwards, and likely a less honourable death than my Captain has promised me since, but with the War and the City suspended between Steward and uncrowned King, I have had to wait.'

Merry shook his head. 'What do I tell Pippin?'

'Tell him nothing,' the guardsman said fiercely. 'He is still weak, and I would not have anything interfere with his healing. 'Twould be best if all were finished while he still lay abed, less of a shock for him than to have to stand in the muster while the deed is done.'

Merry looked down at his hands, and the guardsman continued, 'It is a hard secret to keep, but all the guardsmen have sworn not to tell Master Peregrin. Do I have your word as well?'

'You have my word,' Merry said slowly, but it was his own eyes that were haunted now, and when Beregond moved to escort him to the evening meal, he sent the man away, promising to join him shortly.

But Merry did not eat the evening meal that night, and the healers tending the Ring-bearers watched for him in vain, while the blankets they kept warm for him went wanting. It was only in the grey of dawn that he arrived, his own face grey and pinched with weariness and sorrow, and he sat down without a word between Frodo and Sam, laid his left hand upon their clasped hands, and bowed his head for a long and silent hour.

Wyeth was about to send for the Lord Aragorn when Merry cleared his throat, fumbled to wipe at his eyes with a stiff right hand, and launched into another of his seemingly endless supply of stories.





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