"Actually, it's impossible to speak about Pippin without mentioning Merry.

His [Pippin's] whole life is about his friends, and especially about Merry.

The two of them are as close as friends can be- closer than family

- so close you can't even imagine one of them doing

something without the other."

(Billy Boyd)

***

The broth was wasted on him. They should have given it to someone who was in need of it. To someone who wished to sustain life. To him, everything was tasteless, colourless, cheerless, pointless. Everything had lost its meaning since the candles had died.

Never before had he felt so helpless. Merry knew that he couldn't possibly have stopped Pippin from going to battle. He knew it was the younger one's duty to serve in the great army, but still, he wished . . . The image of his cousin, his hair the usual mass of unruly curls, with grey eyes sparkling mischievously and an infectious smile on his lips, stared at Merry. Memory stood as a last fortress of light shining on his bleak inner landscape.

Left were memories, cast over with a misty hue, already beginning to fade when he had the desperate wish to cling to everything and anything which connected him to Pippin. The face which looked at him from the shadows was a memento of happy times, times in which he often had believed them to be brothers much rather than cousins.

Merry remembered his own battle at the Pelennor fields. He remembered seeing Theoden fall, and the pain of seeing the one who had been like a father to him die. He remembered the Houses of Healing. He remembered how time had seemed not to exist as he had hovered between life and death, so near to the brink of no return. Shadows. Shadows and darkness. A terrible cold. Until a soft voice had called him back.

Aragorn had been the one to bring Merry back from the brink of the abyss, but he could not remember him doing so. The soft voice he remembered was the one who had urged him to live. The one which had pleaded with him to return. The voice had been Pippin's.

Shivering, he pushed back the memory. No one should have had to face the things he had seen. Certainly not gentle Pippin, not the one who had brought him back with his familiar voice, his careful touch and the bright light of his friendship.

But Merry knew that Pippin had faced the terrors of warfare now. There was no hope he – the young Hobbit-lad with no experience in battle – could have escaped unscathed.

So many good people had left Middle-earth forever.

Merry had lost them all – Frodo, Sam, Boromir, Theoden and most of all – Pippin. Foolish, big-hearted Pippin. His was a loss that could not be borne and the emptiness that Merry felt, knowing Pippin was gone, left a raw wound on his soul that would never ever heal. If friendship truly was one soul shared between two people, this wound *could* not heal.

As though kindled by the woe, the icy ache in his arm resurrected. The throbbing had worsened since Eowyn had brought him the dreadful news. The physical pain in his arm was almost an act of mercy: If he solely concentrated on the pain, maybe the memories would be stopped from surfacing. Maybe the physical pain would overpower the mental anguish.

Maybe. He stirred the broth, which had gone cold long ago. It mattered not. Time had slowed down immeasurably since he had watched his cousin depart. For all he knew, eternities had passed, eternities of waiting and wondering. Eternities of being torn between hope and utter hopelessness. Merry lifted the spoon and watched idly as the broth dripped back into the bowl. What was the use in eating if there was no one to share the food with?

Eowyn hadn't said that Pippin was dead.

For a while there had been the wild and unlikely hope that his best friend may have come out of the battle unscathed, but that spark had died quickly. He had faced battle before Pippin. He knew the face of war, knew the face of death. How was his cousin – a boy, really, not even come of age yet – how could this frail, fae lad survive in a raging battle of such sheer magnitude? What hope was there left for Merry to cling to, thinking about the huge size of the foes against a tiny, lone Hobbit?

Hope – it was something that was out of reach for Merry since he had attacked the Nazgul King. It danced before his eyes, but he couldn't get a firm grasp on it, like a fair bird, flying away whenever he tried to catch it. The only time he had been able to hope for a good ending of the whole story had been that night, spent next to each other. Without words they had shared precious moments of complete understanding and pure nearness, learning anew how powerful a force friendship could be. Pippin's falling asleep next to him, so full of trust that the older cousin would watch over him, had given Merry serenity and peace which had shone like a bonfire of hope.

Now the shadow had returned, and it was impossible to flee the darkness in his soul.

He stirred mechanically, tired beyond measure. The spoon clinked softly against the bowl. The room was silent. A soft jingle there and then. The sound of the soup, swishing in the bowl. It mattered not. Nothing mattered. He was alone.

***

He was flying. Soaring high above the world known to him into a place yet unheard of. There was a blissful lack of thoughts – nothing disturbed him in his solitude, nothing stopped his flight. A gentle wind carried him higher, rustled his hair like the caress of a familiar hand.

***

Days had passed since that dark afternoon. A few hours, spent in uncomfortable wains going over rocky paths. Then days upon the ship, surrounded by nothing but people talking about how the battle had been won and how bravely the Armies of the West had fought. Rumours spread like wild-fires, spirits were high and the general mood was hopeful. Hopeful that the healers would be able to help, that the direly needed healing supplies would reach the wounded in time.

Merry shared none of the hopes.

Days, passing like grey clouds.

How many had passed exactly, Merry could not have said. He sat in the wain and stared out at the landscape going by. He did not see the beauty of it. He barely even noticed the change from wain to boat, barely felt the soft motion of the vessel when they followed the flow of the river Anduin towards the Field of Cormallen. He merely did as he was bade, sat where he was placed, took the berth shown him upon the ship, and just *was*...

Three days passed in silence. Three days in which his thoughts dwelled on nothing but memories and self-accusations. Three days – but they all swam into one.

***

Merry couldn't tell when he had slipped into the memory. But all of a sudden it was there.

Eowyn was clad in white, gleaming in the hall like a star that had fallen out of the night sky and graciously gave its light to the world now. Before, he would have been blinded by her beauty. Now, he only registered it with a numb sort of interest. Had it not been for his deep sense of duty and courtesy, he would have refused to come. All he wanted to do was crawl away somewhere and not be bothered. Maybe he would be forgotten. Maybe, if they all stopped caring about him so much and left him alone, he would simply not wake up anymore one morning. That was all he wished for - to sleep and not feel the emptiness of his loss ever again.

But as it was, there had been no excuse to deny Eowyn's plea to come to her.

The Lady of Rohan wore a black ribbon in her hair, a sign of her grief, standing out sharply against the golden curls. When she saw Merry entering, she motioned for the door-wardens, who had escorted the Hobbit, to leave. The hall was silent, and her soft steps produced an eerie echo in the high room.

With an incredible effort, Merry raised his eyes and looked at Eowyn. "You asked me to attend you, Lady?"

The tall woman reached his side and motioned for him to follow her to a pair of chairs.

"I am very glad to see you here, Merry." Her voice was sincere. "How are you faring?"

This was beyond absurd, and Merry would have given a sarcastic snort had the situation been any less serious. He just looked at the Lady, not hiding any of his grief from her.

Eowyn's hand moved up in a comforting gesture, but stopped half-way. She was the white Lady of Rohan. She was the one people looked up to, she was the one giving hope where there was none. But being as it was, showing feelings was impossible for her. Her heart almost broke , though, when she looked at the Hobbit sitting next to her. Merry had changed during those past days since the Armies of the West had marched away. He had been vibrant, charming and surprisingly strong. He had overcome his deepest fears in battle, had been fiercely loyal and yet still managed to keep the cheerfulness which was so typical for Hobbits. But since his cousin, Peregrin, had left, Merry had started to fade. At first, no one had seen it. It had been a slow process, and she had been too wrapped up in her own dark world of despair and hopelessness to see it. But after the eagles had come, she had found new meaning in life. She had accepted her place in the world which was about to unfold itself anew. She had found someone to share her life with.

But Merry . . . It had pained her to seek him and bring him the news, tidings all of woe. Yet she had known that it was her duty to do so.

What shocked her most, was looking at Merry now. He had grown thin, pale and haggard. His usually gleaming blonde curls were dull, his face was grey and his eyes were older than even the ones of the Fair Folk. It wasn't possible. Yet she saw it, right there next to her, in the small Hobbit, whose once so radiant aura was now feeble and barely there anymore. The look in his eyes was . . .

Eowyn shivered. It was almost . . . dead.

She hadn't known exactly what she would tell him, or what she could do to help him.

But upon scrutinising Merry, she unexpectedly knew what was needed.

"Did you see the wains on your way here?" she asked, gently. The Hobbit nodded, though it seemed as though ages passed until he did.

"They are going down to the Field of Cormallen, to bring healing supplies and help to the wounded."

Without any interest, just out of politeness, Merry turned. "Yes?" Again, Eowyn was taken aback by the emptiness she saw in those icy blue eyes.

She cleared her throat. "I want you to go with them."

The reaction she received wasn't exactly what she had hoped for. Merry sighed and looked down at his hands. His whole posture was defeated. Tired. Too tired to even argue.

"Why?" There was no curiosity in his voice.

The Lady of Rohan fought a raging battle inside herself. She wanted to shake the Hobbit and bring him out of his lethargy, but she knew there was no use in trying. She had never told him that his cousin had indeed fallen into shadow – into death. No one knew. But Merry seemed to be certain that the younger Hobbit had. How could he be so certain? There was hope left.

But Eowyn knew that speaking of hope would have sounded like bitter irony to Merry. She had faith in the Hobbit lad, Pippin. She had fought with Merry, and she knew that far more strength was to be found in Hobbits than everyone thought – if Merry was anything to go by. And Eowyn knew he was.

He just needed to see. There was hope. Even in the darkest of places. She had found it. And she knew, with all of her heart, that Merry would, too.

"Go with them, Merry. They have a need for helping hands and sharp eyes down there. Do what good you may, it will be greatly longed-for."

That said, she rose. But before she called the servants back in, she gently stroked Merry's cheek, an uncommon gesture from the white Lady. She bent forward and placed a soft kiss on the crown of his hair. It was a gesture of friendship, a delicate attempt to show her compassion to the Hobbit who had grown dear to her, but even to Eowyn, it felt oddly like a blessing.

***

TBC

People!! I have checked on Murron's wee corner of ff.n, and she still doesn't have any more reviews for "Reniad". The story is extraordinary. It's beauty. It's perfection. Read it, and review, Please. The story's worth it!!!!!!!!

Also extremely worth reading: "Drowning in Amber" by s1ncer1ty