Merry set his tools down next to the leaf-covered garden bed. Spring had come early to Crickhollow, and all around him, whispers of green were emerging from their slumber, poking up through the leaves, stretching to reach the sun.
He had purposely left a layer of dead leaves and detritus over the beds last autumn, to protect the plants from snow and cold. Now they must be uncovered.
He raked and scraped for a time, now standing up, now on his hands and knees, gently peeling back the crinkly brownish carpet without disturbing the plants he wished to keep. The work was not difficult, and he soon found himself humming a little nonsense song.
Until he cleared away one patch, and found a clump of old friends staring up at him. He sat back on his heels and drew a deep, startled breath.
Simbelmynë. Merry stared down at the tiny white flowers, braced for the wave of heart-breaking grief that always rolled over him when he saw the little blossoms.
But it didn't come. The awful darkness, the horror of watching Théoden King cut down by the fell beast, his own helplessness- they were memories, not images forcing themselves before his eyes.
Instead he saw the great and kindly lord bidding him sit beside his chair and tell him stories of the Shire. He remembered the gifts he had been given, and the king's gentle laughter when he stammered his thanks. The sun on his banner, the white horse upon green snapping in the breeze as it was raised above their heads. A mighty host of warriors, riding on to glory whether they survived or perished. And the memory of their deaths merely hovered in the background of his mind, a reminder of past pain that only had the power to touch him if he allowed it.
He did not. Instead, he gently cupped a flower in his hand, not plucking it from its stem.
Evermind, it was called in the Common Tongue. Always remembered.
And he would always remember his friends who had gone before him. But it did not necessarily follow that those memories must be sad.
Merry heaved a great sigh, smiled, and went back to clearing away the detritus of winter. The little flowers bobbed their white heads in the sun, nodding in approval of his work.