Lady Nancy Astor:
"If you were my husband, I'd put poison in your coffee."

Winston Churchill:
"If you were my wife, I'd drink it."

ooOoo

After a pit stop at the infirmary, Radhrion had left her in front of her rooms. When she insisted they camp out together in the kitchens for the night, citing the proximity of certain curious comestibles, he declined; his head ached and all he wished for was Miruvor and sleep. Merrill, worried for him, begrudgingly accepted this, but demanded he wake her if he needed anything. Only when he'd rolled his fair eyes and agreed did she let him leave.

Alone, worried, and with the dregs of upset still fizzling unpleasantly in her veins, she tried to sleep, she really did, but her mind would not shut up; what was going to happen to her? The ring quest was no laughing matter, if she was remembering the movies, correctly, and she could not remember if the events in the movies aligned with the events in the books, so it could actually be a whole lot worse. And Radhrion… Radhrion's wife was missing; that sentence still didn't sound right, even in her head.

How in the hell am I going to survive? How am I going to help him? Nordir has been trying to teach me how to use a bow, but I still fumble the arrows more often than not, and I've only hit the target ten or so times. Merrill flopped impatiently onto her other side and kicked at her blankets with her feet. Why on earth did I never reread the books?! Mom kept recommending them to me, and I just kept putting them off. Though, to be fair, I never thought that reading them more than once might one day save my life. She gazed wistfully at the smooth ceiling, twirling a curl around her finger. I'm proper doomed.

With a disgusted grumble, Merrill tossed her blankets aside and went in search of her boots. If she couldn't sleep, then she might as well do something productive.

Her boots were tucked away in her bureau, freshly shined. She slipped them on and glanced into the mirror. Before her stood a young girl with sleep tossed black curls tumbling over her shoulders, chapped lips, and sleepy, hazel eyes. Merrill glared at her reflection; her pointed ears peeked out of her curls no matter how she arranged them. They were a reminder of all that had changed in the past three weeks, and all that would continue to change. And it was a reminder she could do without.

Merrill scanned her room for something to pull over her nightgown. It was white, lacy, and overlong, and to be seen in it by anyone other than Cailiel, who insisted it made her look 'darling', would be cataclysmically embarrassing.

In fact, it did not make her look 'darling'; it made her look like her grandmother. All she needed was some cold cream slathered across her long nose and dotted along her cheeks, and she'd be set for Halloween.

The bureau, however, contained nothing but the clothes she'd arrived in. Cailiel had washed her jeans, her t-shirt, and her hoodie, even scrubbing her periwinkle blue hi-tops until they shone. Merrill pulled them out with reverential hands. They smelled of lavender. Six satchets had been placed in each shoe.

She held her sweater up to her nose and breathed deeply; if she tried really hard, she could almost smell her fabric softener. Her eyes began to water as she set it back down with shaking hands; the smells brought back memories of her childhood. Of her home. Of her mother and their little, yellow house with the iron gate that creaked when you opened it, and lilac trees planted along the perimeter. In summer, it smelled of wisteria, lilac, fresh cut grass, and laundry detergent, which filtered out from the side of the house and perfumed the air.

Stiffly, she pulled them on. Sliding on her jeans felt like a religious experience, and her hoodie was softer, and warmer, than anything she had worn since. Merrill slipped into her converse, grabbed her practice bow and quiver, and tiptoed down the hall.

It was dark, but the silvery moon lit the walls between the arches just enough for her to see by. This surprised her; at home, she had had the worst night-vision ever. Her ophthalmologist had warned her against driving at night. Now, though, she could creep, cat-like, through the dark without so much as stubbing her toe. Somehow, this new development did NOT bring her the joy she thought it would.

When she came to the front door, she eased it open and stepped out. The night air was cooler than she'd expected, but it helped her to shake away some of her sadness and focus on what she planned to do. She hitched her quiver over her shoulder and strode purposefully towards the training fields. If she was going to spend the time worrying, anyway, than she might as well do something about it.

The training fields were blessedly empty. The moon gilded the treetops in silver glass and settled in dappled pools of light across the ground. Nearby, the stream rushed and sighed and slipped over its rocks, and the velvety blue of the night sky appeared to be littered with pulsing swirls of starlight.

Merrill stood in silence, for a moment, just soaking it all in. Light pollution had spoiled all attempts at star-gazing in her childhood so much that staring up into the sky, then, felt like finally meeting an old relation she'd heard of all her life. She ought to have felt something, been stirred by the sublime beauty of so untainted a world, but her heart was conflicted. It yearned for what it had known all its life, and disregarded what it had now with stubborn willfulness.

Methodically, Merrill set out an archery target, cloth stuffed full of straw, leather, and other, soft bits, strapped her quiver to her back, and strung her bow. The target was set close enough that even she might have a chance of hitting it, though, even with the odds weighted so heavily in her favor, that outcome was unlikely; she just hadn't had enough time to practice, and, if she were being honest, she hadn't wanted to. In the back of her mind, she told herself she would be going home soon, and she wouldn't need such skills, there.

She rolled her neck and shook out her wrists; pulling the string back was still a challenge, and it helped to be as loose and relaxed as possible before she tried. Her bow was light in her hands, the wood warming at her touch. She grabbed an arrow and nocked it, setting the shaft along the slight divot Nordir had carved for just such a reason.

Breathe, Merrill.The fletching tickled her ear as she pulled back. The world shrunk to nothing but the target. The noises of the night faded until all she could hear was her breath and the creak of the bow.

She released.

The arrow sped off and into the night. Merrill held her breath. Then a dull thud echoed back to her; she had hit yet another innocent tree.

What did I do wrong? She thought crossly as she stomped into the forest to retrieve her arrow. My feet were set, my elbow straight and tense, my pull was fluid, and I anchored the arrow near the corner of my mouth. What gives!?

The arrow had embedded itself in a tree that had been a victim of her careless aim in the past. Merrill patted its abused trunk apologetically and whispered, "It's a good thing you have such thick bark, my friend, because it does not appear my aim will be improving any time soon."

The trees' tired thoughts brushed against her mind consolingly and Merrill shuddered; she still wasn't used to that particular bit of elfy-ness.

A noise from behind her alerted her to someone's presence.

"It is not your aim, but your stance, that leads to your friends' injuries, Merilinith."

Merrill didn't bother turning around, nor did she react with surprise; her elven ears were getting better, it seemed. "Nordir would probably agree, though he does so enjoy insulting me. Perhaps you and he should get together and form a club, Prince." She yanked her arrow free and trudged past him back to the field.

Legolas fell into step beside her. "That is hardly fair. It is you who has taken great pleasure in being as contrary as possible to me."

Merrill ignored him. She lined back up with her target, settled her feet, and pulled the arrow back. She let loose, praying silently as it flew through the air until it thudded against the base of the target.

"Well, that could have gone worse, I suppose," she said to herself.

Legolas began to circle her. "It could have gone better, too," he remarked casually.

Merrill followed him with her eyes, turning with him. "Do you have words of wisdom to impart, oh God of Archery? Or did you come here just to annoy me?"

He stopped circling, a look of some consternation overtaking his face. "I hardly know."

"What does that mean?" She retrieved another arrow and took her time nocking it.

Instead of answering, Legolas gently tugged the bow from her hands, nocked it, and fired all within the span of three seconds. The arrow landed triumphantly dead center. It shook with residual force. He handed her bow back, and said neutrally, "I could train you, if you'd like. You have the makings of a fine archer."

She laughed at that, but there was no real humor in it. "You don't need to lie; I suck. Besides, how could I ask a prince to teach me archery? No, you'd be better off spending your time elsewhere. It's just as you said: we don't exactly get along."

"I never said that," Legolas replied quietly.

"Didn't you?" she asked airily, squinting at the target.

Legolas shook his head, a shock of silver hair spilling over his shoulder. "I did not. And I would prefer you call me by my name, Merilinith. I am not your prince, and you are not one of my subjects. Nor is this a formal occasion. Also," he held up one finger to forestall her protestations. "You were sick on me. That, if nothing else, gives me the right to ask this of you."

Merrill's face burned as she remembered her ill-fated tree-climbing attempt; she had hoped that she'd made that part up, misremembered or imagined puking on the princeling's boots. Why me? Merrill internally smacked her forehead against a wall and groaned. I'm asking that question a lot lately. God, this sucks.

Legolas's brow drew down when she didn't respond and he asked softly, "Can you not just accede to this small request? Is it truly so difficult to call me by my name?"

What the hell sort of tone was that? She bristled. Why does he sound like Tiny Tim wishing Scrooge a Merry Christmas after having his cane kicked out from under him?

She cleared her throat resolutely and answered obliquely, "Fine, then, Legolas. What am I doing wrong? Why can't I hit the target?"

"Take your stance and I will show you," he offered with a hopeful smile.

She set herself into the stance she'd been taught, her feet shoulders' width apart, elbow parallel to the ground so that she formed a 'T' shape with her upper body, left shoulder pointing toward the target. She straightened her back and settled the arrow at its nock point, pulling the arrow back with three fingers until the feathers brushed against the corner of her mouth.

Legolas circled her again. She tried to relax, but his gaze made her nervous. Is he some type of predator or what? Even the way he sets his feet down as he walks is measured. He tenses his whole body in that way big cats do right before they pounce on the poor, defenseless Caribou and rip it to shreds. Maybe Elves are Middle Earth's apex predator. Merrill peered at him from the corner of her eye and felt goosebumps ripple down her spine. Come to think of it, they really are. If they decided to abandon their tree hugging, peace and love attitude, Elves could absolutely annihilate every other species… They're immortal, intelligent, overwhelmingly attractive, hardy, and innately talented at everything. They are imposing in every possible way: mentally, physically, even spiritually with the spirit healing they can do. I wonder why they don't just take over? Her arms began to tremble with the effort of holding the bowstring, and a droplet of sweat slid down her nose. God, is he going to examine me all night? I get it, my posture sucks! Just -

Without warning, his hands shot out and gripped her hips, swiveling them forward, his fingertips burning through her t-shirt as they trailed up her ribs to her shoulders and pushed down. He murmured into her ear, his voice low, his breath warm against her neck, "Tuck your hips under you and narrow your stance; it is far too wide."

Merrill's throat went dry and goosebumps exploded wherever he touched her. His breath smelled of crushed mint, his hair of flowers, and the faintest scent of leather clung to the green wool of his tunic. In one, exceedingly ill-timed move, Merrill turned her head to meet his eyes and found that they were already on her. Within them she saw irritation, exasperation, and something brighter peeking from behind it all. It was like the sun rising up from behind a mountain range, heralding a new day. Starlight drifted onto his hair, gilding him in silver light, and for a single, heady moment, she could see herself reflected in the deep blue of his eyes. She nodded mutely, not trusting her voice enough to speak, and resettled herself.

"Better. Now, aim." He pulled back on her forearm. "And remember to let the string slip from your fingers. Don't pluck it or try to follow it with your fingers; it will knock the arrow askew. Breathe." The silk of his lips grazed the tip of her ear and her pulse stuttered. "Release."

The arrow got tangled in her fingers on release and the arrow came to a stop at the outer edge of the target.

Merrill stepped away from him; his proximity did nothing for her coherence. It rather left her feeling irrationally angry. "I know, I know. I mucked up the release. Let me try again."

He held one hand out, palm up, indicating she should do as she liked, a slanted smile on his lips and a sparkle in his eyes.

Her ears tingled at the sight. Okay, ignore pretty-boy and breathe; settle your shoulders, and don't forget to let the string go without jerking or trembling on release. Merrill assumed her stance and took aim. God, if that didn't sound dirty. And I can't even say, 'That's what she said,' because no one here would get it, or, if they did, they'd probably sneer or die of shock.

"Breathe," he reminded, interrupting her internal monologue.

"Fat lot of good that'll do me with you here," she muttered under her breath, then released. The string slipped from her fingers and, in that moment, everything was just right. She knew, without looking, she would hit the target.

The arrow hit the third circle out from the center; not the best by the standards of others, but for Merrill, it was nothing short of miraculous. She jumped into the air, squealing in excitement. "I hit it! I hit it!"

"Yes. Now you must endeavor to do so every time, and with greater accuracy."

Merrill pulled a face at him, but refrained from sticking her tongue out. "You couldn't just tell me I did a good job, could you?"

Legolas tucked his hands behind his back and leaned forward, the earnestness of his demeanor confusing her. "Would you like to be coddled, then? Would you allow such familiarity? Forgive me, but I was under the impression that you should dislike that more than anything, especially if it was I who made such overtures."

"It's not coddling, Legolas. It's encouragement. Big difference, dude." She nearly skipped to the target to retrieve her arrows. When she turned around, she'd made her mind up. Here goes, she thought nervously. "I think we should try to be friends, and I'd like it if you could, you know, help me with this whole archery thing whenever you're not busy doing princely stuff." When he didn't reply, merely smiled enigmatically, she barreled on. "If I am better with a bow, and we're not at each other's throats, it'll make trekking out into the wilderness together that much easier. I mean, we're already going to have enough to worry about on the quest. Don't you think it'd be easier if we got along?"

The boyish smile faded. "Quest?" he echoed.

"Yeah, you know the one. Evil jewelry in need of destroying? The Fellowship? I'm coming, too."

He looked like he'd been smacked over the head with a mallet. "Surely you are mistaken."

Merrill's eyes narrowed dangerously.

"Who gave you leave?" he demanded, his playful demeanor vanishing in favor of righteous indignation.

"Radhrion asked me if I would come, and I agreed. He's talking to Lord Elrond in the morning." So there, she thought smugly.

"No."

"Excuse me?"

Legolas shook his head, his arms crossing stiffly over his chest. "You will not be coming. You are hardly suited for so perilous a task, and what warriors we do have will be wholly absorbed with protecting Frodo. We shall not be able to protect you, and you are clearly unable to protect yourself." He gestured vaguely towards the target as though citing a collection of evidence proving her incompetence. "None of us can afford any further distractions. You understand this, don't you? The quest is of vital importance to the continuation of this earth; we must each of us be willing to make sacrifices to ensure its' completion. Perhaps this is yours."

"Gah! I have never, not once, met someone as arrogant and unknowingly condescending as you. Your sense of superiority really knows no bounds. But I'll let you in on a little secret that is sure to shock you: you do NOT get to make such decisions for me, no matter how you feel about me coming. My life is not predicated on your feelings, you ass." She snatched up her bow and quiver and marched further down the field, intent on continuing her practice alone. "I will work on my archery elsewhere; I'd hate to be a distraction."

"You behave as an elfling denied a sweet, Merilinith."

Merrill whirled round and advanced, poking him hard in the chest. "What gives you the right? I know full well, probably more so than you, how dangerous this quest is going to be, and have decided to go, anyway. I will not be a danger to you or the others – Radhrion will be there, and he will keep me safe. Plus, I don't intend to be a total deadweight – I have some talents that will prove useful to you all, not the least of which is healing."

Legolas leaned into her space, his eyes glinting, his jaw tight. "Your appalling lack of concern for the well-being of the others only proves how unfit you are to join us. This is a journey of warriors, of brothers-in-arms, whose first impulse, and most ardent desire, must always be the safety of his companions. But you-" He pulled away and stared up into the night sky, clearly attempting to rein in his temper. He exhaled wearily, dragging a hand across his eyes. "Merilinith… this quest is beyond all of us. Though unspoken, we all know in our hearts that it is unlikely we shall ever return, whether we are triumphant or no. We have very little hope." His eyes flicked back to her own, and he said earnestly, "There is not one amongst us who would wish to subject you to such hardships, to encourage you to walk the dark path upon which we now set our feet. It is a fell mantle we have taken up, but we have done so to defend what goodness and innocence remains. You cannot believe, then, that we would willingly welcome you into our ill-fated party - you are what we go to preserve."

Merrill wanted nothing more than to smack him, but a part of her recognized some of what he said was true. If she went along expecting Radhrion to protect her, it was likely he would be injured in her defense. Her presence might even cause the ring to fall into enemy hands… But did she really care? This wasn't her world. If she was right, it wasn't even real; just some fictional reality created by a bored Englishman in the thirties… Why should she base her decision on them? They were just characters!

If they're just characters, then why isn't Radhrion in the books? Why aren't you mentioned? Is Cailiel fake, too? Are you going to jeopardize them by insisting on this? Are you really that selfish? Her conscience asked.

Oh, shut it! I'm done making sacrifices for this place – don't you think my being here is sacrifice, enough? I just want to go home. I want to sleep in my own bed, take a shower with my wonderful showerhead, hug my mom, watch a movie with Annie, and finish my degree! Is it really so wrong of me to want any of that? To not want to wait two months after they've left to leave, too? To not want to be separated from Ronny? He's the only damn person I have here!

Massively frustrated with the direction her traitorous thoughts had taken, Merrill flung her quiver across her back. "You don't understand… my being in Middle Earth is a sacrifice, already, and I'm done making those." She turned on her heel before she remembered something and shouted furiously over her shoulder, "And once and for all - my name is NOT Merilinith! It's Merrill!"

A/N:

Told you I'd update soon!

These two idiots just don't understand each other at all, do they? But do not fret - they will get there, eventually... though they are going to take the long way 'round, obviously. :) And Merrill is adorably selfish, isn't she? To be fair, she's also low key terrified; she hasn't faced the reality of her situation fully, yet, and Middle Earth's Codes of Honor and Ethics, etc. are VASTLY different from the codes she has grown up with.

Thanks for the reviews, faves, and follows - I appreciate every one.

Happy holidays/joys of the season/just general good wishes if you don't celebrate anything! I'll 'see' you in 2019!

Be safe & Best wishes ~