This is slash with some het content.
Many thanks to White Owl, who made some nips and tucks which improved this piece a great deal.
When she felt discontent, Estella could take comfort in having defied the band of relatives who'd clucked and shaken their heads and gossiped that Estella Bolger, plain as a pikestaff, would never marry well. She could smile serenely as she swung out of the door on her new husband's arm, or when she appeared at festivals and formalities and meetings by his side. She could revel in the prestige, in the security of knowing she would never lack for companions in the environs of Brandy Hall, in the comfort of having the very best of everything and more even than she needed. The dark months of suffering were behind her, and so were the years of aimless yearning when she had seen fairer and perter lasses tumble into marriage, and had wondered if she would always be alone.
It was a very comforting thing, when all was said and done, to know that one's life had a purpose, that there was useful work to be done, and ample reward for it. Estella stepped into her role as matriarch of Brandy Hall as easily as she stepped into her slippers each morning. She moved through the warren of rooms, considering, listening, giving advice and making plans. She dispensed instructions with dignity: they needed to gather and dry more valerian, as Merry's nightmares were getting worse; there was a small repair to be made to the hangings in her office; the cooks were adding too much salt to the stews again, and she wanted them to create something really special for Merry's birthday this year. She was efficient, assured, calm; the perfect mistress for a smial that now housed over two hundred hobbits, and was no easy matter to keep in order. The practical details of ensuring the Hall ran smoothly were less difficult for Estella than the necessity of maintaining peace among the arguing cousins and querulous aunts. But she was patient and unruffled and accorded all the same attention, and there was harmony in the Hall because of it.
There was harmony of a different kind in Merry and Estella's apartments. Merry was unfailingly courteous to her, always considerate and kind. They shared a sense of humour, and the greatest pleasure of Estella's evening was to tell Merry about the small amusements of the day. A funny comment by a small cousin, or an argument between two irascible uncles. His face would relax and loosen with laughter, and something inside Estella would loosen as well, carrying her into a delicious long slide of subtle pleasure. Sometimes they would laugh so hard that Estella feared she would fly into pieces with it; she would fall over sideways onto the bed, shaking and sputtering with mirth, and Merry would lean on his elbow beside her and grin foolishly at her. These were the moments when she was most content with her new life.
She'd always liked Merry Brandybuck, ever since he'd lifted her over a tree-stump while she was still disentangling her foot from her skirts to step over it. She had been ten years old at the time, following her brother and his friends, lagging behind as the ground grew damp and the long weeds dragged at her ankles. Merry had looked behind to see her struggles and turned back, making a play of gallantry as he put his firm hands on her waist and swung her over the log, his eyes alight with friendly laughter.
Those same hands, long-fingered and firm-sinewed, touched her gently now, and with skill, but without passion. Those same eyes were calm but guarded, and it was not Estella they lit up for.
Never had they spoken of the other that lay between them, insubstantial yet a palpable presence in the room. There was no point. She had known ever since Merry had sat beside her at Pippin Took's wedding, drinking himself silly, pouring his pain into her ear; his worry over his father's ailing health, his mother's wish that he should wed soon and ease his father's passing with the assurance of heirs, his disgust with his own hesitation. When he had told her that he was "no great match for any lass", she had interrupted him angrily and passionately. When he had told her that his heart was already given to one who would not have him she had indignantly railed upon any lass that would turn him down, until he had said, his head sagging disonsolately, "It's nobody's fault, Stella. Or mine, rather, for loving someone who's already married." His eyes had been upon the bridal couple as he said that, and Estella had wondered, for a fleeting second, whether he was jealous of his cousin - but surely he barely knew Pippin's bride?
It wasn't until later, when she caught the fleeting look between Merry and Pippin before the latter escorted his new wife from the great hall and Merry put his face down on the table, that she realised the truth of the matter. Her brother - not very sober himself - came to the table and said gently, a look of pity on his face, "I'll look after him, Stell." Freddy had slung Merry's arm round his neck and staggered away with him. Estella sat at the table, her sleeve damp and crumpled where Merry had clutched it, and wondered how the world could contain so much loneliness.
But then Merry invited her to visit two days later, and apologised for boring her during the wedding. When he suggested that she tell him her problems now, she had smiled and playfully shaken her head. But he had plied her with rich cool wine and soft words until she had talked; about the grim months under Sharkey's heavy hand, nursing her brother back to health afterward, her loneliness, her desire to do something worthy with her life. Merry took a deep breath, clasped her hand and said calmly "Estella, I like you more than any lass I know," and kissed her. The wine made her heart beat too fast, but when she realised the plan that was in his mind it seemed to her as sensible as lighting a fire in the winter.
If Merry had loved another lass, she might have been jealous. But Estella could find no reason to hate Pippin and every reason to love him, with his bright eyes and quick laugh and his face that changed expression more often than the wind blew. To her he was still little Pippin, who had run after Merry and Freddy and the older boys even more often than she had, and whom she'd often been expected to look after and keep out of trouble while the older boys schemed and climbed and roamed. She remembered holding Pippin's small grubby hand in her own, watching as the boys waded through streams strong enough to have swept the little hobbit off his feet; Merry would always turn back and call "You be good and mind Estella, now, Pip!" before racing after the others. In the late afternoon, when Pippin had fallen asleep after she'd stuffed him wtih cakes and read him stories, Merry would return and look around the door, his face lighting up when he saw them together. He would always smile at Estella before leaning over to wake Pippin by ruffling his hair.
These days she was pleased and calm when she thought of the life she'd stitched together for herself here; and she couldn't fault Merry's attentiveness, his respect, his unfailing courtesy. There would be children, later; a boy with Merry's strong jaw to be jounced on his father's knee, perhaps a lass who took after Merry's mother, and might make a match for Pippin and Diamond's little Faramir. There would be births to attend and weddings to celebrate, old uncles to mollify, young girls to teach embroidery to or to console after their first heartbreak; there would be festivals to dance at and feasts to preside over and new books to read curled up in the library, her feet tucked under her while Merry smoked and worked on his herb lore. The fire would crackle, the kettle sing, the apples in their basket gleam wholesome and sweet. There was work to do, and the sweetness of rest afterwards, and the quiet contentment of sharing her life with one who appreciated her quick mind and steady nerve.
Even if he did not want her heart.
Many thanks to White Owl, who made some nips and tucks which improved this piece a great deal.
When she felt discontent, Estella could take comfort in having defied the band of relatives who'd clucked and shaken their heads and gossiped that Estella Bolger, plain as a pikestaff, would never marry well. She could smile serenely as she swung out of the door on her new husband's arm, or when she appeared at festivals and formalities and meetings by his side. She could revel in the prestige, in the security of knowing she would never lack for companions in the environs of Brandy Hall, in the comfort of having the very best of everything and more even than she needed. The dark months of suffering were behind her, and so were the years of aimless yearning when she had seen fairer and perter lasses tumble into marriage, and had wondered if she would always be alone.
It was a very comforting thing, when all was said and done, to know that one's life had a purpose, that there was useful work to be done, and ample reward for it. Estella stepped into her role as matriarch of Brandy Hall as easily as she stepped into her slippers each morning. She moved through the warren of rooms, considering, listening, giving advice and making plans. She dispensed instructions with dignity: they needed to gather and dry more valerian, as Merry's nightmares were getting worse; there was a small repair to be made to the hangings in her office; the cooks were adding too much salt to the stews again, and she wanted them to create something really special for Merry's birthday this year. She was efficient, assured, calm; the perfect mistress for a smial that now housed over two hundred hobbits, and was no easy matter to keep in order. The practical details of ensuring the Hall ran smoothly were less difficult for Estella than the necessity of maintaining peace among the arguing cousins and querulous aunts. But she was patient and unruffled and accorded all the same attention, and there was harmony in the Hall because of it.
There was harmony of a different kind in Merry and Estella's apartments. Merry was unfailingly courteous to her, always considerate and kind. They shared a sense of humour, and the greatest pleasure of Estella's evening was to tell Merry about the small amusements of the day. A funny comment by a small cousin, or an argument between two irascible uncles. His face would relax and loosen with laughter, and something inside Estella would loosen as well, carrying her into a delicious long slide of subtle pleasure. Sometimes they would laugh so hard that Estella feared she would fly into pieces with it; she would fall over sideways onto the bed, shaking and sputtering with mirth, and Merry would lean on his elbow beside her and grin foolishly at her. These were the moments when she was most content with her new life.
She'd always liked Merry Brandybuck, ever since he'd lifted her over a tree-stump while she was still disentangling her foot from her skirts to step over it. She had been ten years old at the time, following her brother and his friends, lagging behind as the ground grew damp and the long weeds dragged at her ankles. Merry had looked behind to see her struggles and turned back, making a play of gallantry as he put his firm hands on her waist and swung her over the log, his eyes alight with friendly laughter.
Those same hands, long-fingered and firm-sinewed, touched her gently now, and with skill, but without passion. Those same eyes were calm but guarded, and it was not Estella they lit up for.
Never had they spoken of the other that lay between them, insubstantial yet a palpable presence in the room. There was no point. She had known ever since Merry had sat beside her at Pippin Took's wedding, drinking himself silly, pouring his pain into her ear; his worry over his father's ailing health, his mother's wish that he should wed soon and ease his father's passing with the assurance of heirs, his disgust with his own hesitation. When he had told her that he was "no great match for any lass", she had interrupted him angrily and passionately. When he had told her that his heart was already given to one who would not have him she had indignantly railed upon any lass that would turn him down, until he had said, his head sagging disonsolately, "It's nobody's fault, Stella. Or mine, rather, for loving someone who's already married." His eyes had been upon the bridal couple as he said that, and Estella had wondered, for a fleeting second, whether he was jealous of his cousin - but surely he barely knew Pippin's bride?
It wasn't until later, when she caught the fleeting look between Merry and Pippin before the latter escorted his new wife from the great hall and Merry put his face down on the table, that she realised the truth of the matter. Her brother - not very sober himself - came to the table and said gently, a look of pity on his face, "I'll look after him, Stell." Freddy had slung Merry's arm round his neck and staggered away with him. Estella sat at the table, her sleeve damp and crumpled where Merry had clutched it, and wondered how the world could contain so much loneliness.
But then Merry invited her to visit two days later, and apologised for boring her during the wedding. When he suggested that she tell him her problems now, she had smiled and playfully shaken her head. But he had plied her with rich cool wine and soft words until she had talked; about the grim months under Sharkey's heavy hand, nursing her brother back to health afterward, her loneliness, her desire to do something worthy with her life. Merry took a deep breath, clasped her hand and said calmly "Estella, I like you more than any lass I know," and kissed her. The wine made her heart beat too fast, but when she realised the plan that was in his mind it seemed to her as sensible as lighting a fire in the winter.
If Merry had loved another lass, she might have been jealous. But Estella could find no reason to hate Pippin and every reason to love him, with his bright eyes and quick laugh and his face that changed expression more often than the wind blew. To her he was still little Pippin, who had run after Merry and Freddy and the older boys even more often than she had, and whom she'd often been expected to look after and keep out of trouble while the older boys schemed and climbed and roamed. She remembered holding Pippin's small grubby hand in her own, watching as the boys waded through streams strong enough to have swept the little hobbit off his feet; Merry would always turn back and call "You be good and mind Estella, now, Pip!" before racing after the others. In the late afternoon, when Pippin had fallen asleep after she'd stuffed him wtih cakes and read him stories, Merry would return and look around the door, his face lighting up when he saw them together. He would always smile at Estella before leaning over to wake Pippin by ruffling his hair.
These days she was pleased and calm when she thought of the life she'd stitched together for herself here; and she couldn't fault Merry's attentiveness, his respect, his unfailing courtesy. There would be children, later; a boy with Merry's strong jaw to be jounced on his father's knee, perhaps a lass who took after Merry's mother, and might make a match for Pippin and Diamond's little Faramir. There would be births to attend and weddings to celebrate, old uncles to mollify, young girls to teach embroidery to or to console after their first heartbreak; there would be festivals to dance at and feasts to preside over and new books to read curled up in the library, her feet tucked under her while Merry smoked and worked on his herb lore. The fire would crackle, the kettle sing, the apples in their basket gleam wholesome and sweet. There was work to do, and the sweetness of rest afterwards, and the quiet contentment of sharing her life with one who appreciated her quick mind and steady nerve.
Even if he did not want her heart.