Well, the first chapter where I didn't steal Tolkien's dialogue. Not sure
if it made it better or worse, but I'll let you be the judge of that.
Chapter Three
For Granted
He was home, where he belonged. He was sitting in the open fields, his back pressed against the rough but still comforting bark of the Party Tree. His eyes were closed, but in his mind's eye he could see all that lay before him. There was Bagshot Row, the line of trees nearby, the hobbit children playing in the grassy expanse that surround him, a place where nature prevailed over all. It was so different from everything he had seen on his journey.
His journey? Had he ever returned from that?
It wasn't important; he was home now.
A squirrel clambered up the tree above him, its paws rapping softly against the wood. He smiled, and wondered what the animal's hurry was. It wouldn't be winter for months yet.
But strangely, the sound of rapping continued, and it did not seem to be above him, but below him. And if it was summer, why was there such a chill breeze? And was that a voice calling his name?
"Excuse me?" said the voice again. "Are you Meriadoc the Halfling?"
Irritated that his dream of happiness had been interrupted and that he was no longer in the Shire but in the dull gardens of Minas Tirith, Merry opened an eye and peered down from his tree branch to see who was calling him. As he saw the man, a flash of memory choked him and for a moment, he struggled with reality.
It's Boromir! his mind shouted wildly. He's come back!
But the truth won out over the fantasies in an instant, and as he looked at the man below he realized the differences. He had the same raven hair, but it was longer, almost more like Aragorn's. The eyes too, were more concealed, more shadowed, but somehow keener and wiser than Boromir's had been. Looking at him, Merry thought of Aragorn, and of Gandalf, and of Elves.
"I trust I didn't wake you?" said the man below, who, the hobbit realized suddenly, could only be the Lord Faramir, Boromir's brother. And, unless he was very much mistaken, the Lord and Steward of the City of Minas Tirith.
"No, no, just daydreaming," he said to Faramir. "Were you. did you want something from me?"
Faramir smiled slightly and shook his head. "Only to talk, if you are not previously occupied." His smile widened genuinely as the hobbit swung his legs off the branch so that they hung off the branch. "Sit, sit," Merry assured him. "Daydreams may be put off for a chance to speak with one so honorable as yourself." In truth, he knew only of Faramir's valor from Pippin and Gandalf's tales of what had happened whilst he had been in Rohan, but it seemed like an appropriate thing to say.
Faramir laughed softly. "I am not sure I am worthy of this praise. It is probable that it is I who should be praising you, for your great deeds." He looked at Merry, and the hobbit saw that there was no hint of mocking in the man's comment. He began to realize for the first time that people knew of what he'd done.
He blushed, much to his embarrassment, but it was possible Faramir did not see it as he sat down beside the tree and stretched his long legs out before him, his languid movements in comic contrast to the hobbit's quicker, blunter ones.
"It really wasn't me," he told Faramir. "It was Dernhelm-or Éowyn, I should say. I forget, you know, that they were the one and the same. It's all a bit muddled. What with Frodo and Sam in Mordor, and Pippin off with the Captains."
Merry didn't know it, but Faramir could see the sadness in the hobbit's eyes, hear the loneliness in his voice. He smiled sympathetically and nodded, but did not speak for some time.
Finally he said softly, "Yes, Éowyn. You traveled with her? While she was disguised as a man?""
Merry nodded. "Yes. Her uncle, King Théoden-" At the name Merry felt a flash of grief that threatened to bring tears, for he missed the old man dearly. He fought them back and continued, "he wouldn't let her come and fight. But she wouldn't be left behind." He managed a small smile. "There's no taming that woman."
"No?"
Merry's smile widened at his memories of Éowyn's strong will. "No, none at all." A thought occurred to him then. "Except. one might. Just one."
Faramir looked up, and even his carefully masked face could not conceal his interest. "One? Which, if I may be so bold as to ask?"
"The Lord Aragorn," Merry answered, his voice low. He remembered everything, now, after days of trying as hard as he could not to think about his loneliness and thus not thinking of any of the Rohirrim. Éowyn's obvious misery at Aragorn's lack of affection toward her, her despair in the last moments before her transformation into Dernhelm, and the equally sad expression on Aragorn's face as he had called her back from death's doorstep, then quickly left her with her brother.
"She loved him," he continued, but almost more to himself than to Faramir, who, under very close inspection, was bearing the expression of a man working to not look as interested as he was. "But he couldn't give it back, for he is betrothed to the Lord Elrond's daughter, Arwen Undómiel. But I think he felt for Éowyn, even if it was only pity."
Below him, Faramir said nothing. The Steward appeared to be deep in thought, seemingly musing on Merry's words. The silence gave the hobbit time to do his own wondering on the stern faced yet soft spoken man, so different from his brother, who Merry had liked well. The appearance had tricked him at first, but he could see that there the similarities ended, for the most part.
When Faramir he spoke again, his tone was light and the subject had changed.
"Tell me about your home, Master Meriadoc. I had not the chance to ask your cousin, what with-" he stopped abruptly and swallowed. It took Merry a moment of thought to figure out why this seemed so sudden.
He realized it was the first slip of composure he had seen the man commit. But before a second's time, Faramir had collected himself and continued, "What with his duties for my father, and for Gandalf. Yet I dearly would like to hear of a place such as the one I have heard you come from."
Merry could not help thinking of Théoden, the King who had asked him to tell this very tale. Yet Faramir did seem interested, and anything was better than grieving, worrying and wistful dreaming. So Merry began to tell his tale. Maybe Théoden was listening, somehow, somewhere.
But after a time, his tale began to slide into his journey with Frodo and the Fellowship. He thought the Steward would want to hear of his brother, but at the first mention of this, Faramir held up a hand.
"Your pardon, Meriadoc, but that is not the tale I wished to hear today." He looked at the sky and smiled slightly. "Forgive me, I have kept you long at this."
"No forgiveness is necessary, my Lord," said Merry quickly, worried he had bored the man, and for a moment he wondered how Faramir knew how long they had spoken. The sky was still its regular, monotonous, sullen gray.
The Steward of Minas Tirith and Gondor stood, and looked out to the East. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, and his face was so full of emotions that Merry could not even begin to decipher them.
Softly, Faramir spoke. Merry wasn't immediately sure if the Steward had spoken to himself or to Merry.
"Have you ever. ever taken anything for granted?"
Deciding to answer-for if Faramir had spoken to himself in such a way it was likely that he wouldn't hear the response in any case-Merry's mind washed over everything in his life. Of course, he had taken days for granted, friends, memories. But hadn't everyone?
He looked to where Faramir's gaze rested, and all of a sudden he was struck with a terrible wave of homesickness. The familiar questions came to mind. What was he doing here? Why were Frodo and Sam trekking through that horrible, dangerous place?
"My life," he murmured. "The safety of the Shire. I didn't know. I didn't know how much it mattered to me until I didn't have it anymore." He shook his head, and looked up at Faramir, who didn't appear to be listening, but Merry was relatively sure he was.
"And you?" asked the hobbit, subduing his own sadness, or at least putting it aside for a time. It was a polite rejoinder, but it was also born out of the unquenchable curiosity of a hobbit.
Faramir turned to look at him, and Merry was taken aback by the misery that lurked behind that proud face. The words that came were even, but it seemed to Merry that at any moment the man's misery would choke him.
But Faramir only answered, "Of course. Who has not?" He looked away, not over the east wall, but to Rath Dínen, the Silent Street.
Of course, thought Merry. He had heard the stories, of course. He too knew how difficult it was to keep a secret in Minas Tirith.
And he thought again of Boromir, of that day on Parth Galen, but only now did he see how much harder his death must have been on his brother than on Merry, who had only known him half a year. Faramir turned back to him, and but for the sad half-smile, he appeared as calm as one speaking of the weather.
"Do not let me trouble you with my own sorrows, Master Meriadoc."
The hobbit took the proffered hand with his own, smaller one and shook it. He smiled weakly and replied, not without reverence, "My Lord Faramir."
As Merry watched the Steward leave, the full reality of Faramir's life struck him. He realized that at least Pippin was alive, or to the best of his knowledge. No one knew for certain if Frodo and Sam had perished. Théoden was gone, but in honor, after a long life. Éomer and Aragorn had a chance of return.
i What must it be like, /i he wondered, i to be so totally and definitely alone? /i
He hoped he would never have to know.
Chapter Three
For Granted
He was home, where he belonged. He was sitting in the open fields, his back pressed against the rough but still comforting bark of the Party Tree. His eyes were closed, but in his mind's eye he could see all that lay before him. There was Bagshot Row, the line of trees nearby, the hobbit children playing in the grassy expanse that surround him, a place where nature prevailed over all. It was so different from everything he had seen on his journey.
His journey? Had he ever returned from that?
It wasn't important; he was home now.
A squirrel clambered up the tree above him, its paws rapping softly against the wood. He smiled, and wondered what the animal's hurry was. It wouldn't be winter for months yet.
But strangely, the sound of rapping continued, and it did not seem to be above him, but below him. And if it was summer, why was there such a chill breeze? And was that a voice calling his name?
"Excuse me?" said the voice again. "Are you Meriadoc the Halfling?"
Irritated that his dream of happiness had been interrupted and that he was no longer in the Shire but in the dull gardens of Minas Tirith, Merry opened an eye and peered down from his tree branch to see who was calling him. As he saw the man, a flash of memory choked him and for a moment, he struggled with reality.
It's Boromir! his mind shouted wildly. He's come back!
But the truth won out over the fantasies in an instant, and as he looked at the man below he realized the differences. He had the same raven hair, but it was longer, almost more like Aragorn's. The eyes too, were more concealed, more shadowed, but somehow keener and wiser than Boromir's had been. Looking at him, Merry thought of Aragorn, and of Gandalf, and of Elves.
"I trust I didn't wake you?" said the man below, who, the hobbit realized suddenly, could only be the Lord Faramir, Boromir's brother. And, unless he was very much mistaken, the Lord and Steward of the City of Minas Tirith.
"No, no, just daydreaming," he said to Faramir. "Were you. did you want something from me?"
Faramir smiled slightly and shook his head. "Only to talk, if you are not previously occupied." His smile widened genuinely as the hobbit swung his legs off the branch so that they hung off the branch. "Sit, sit," Merry assured him. "Daydreams may be put off for a chance to speak with one so honorable as yourself." In truth, he knew only of Faramir's valor from Pippin and Gandalf's tales of what had happened whilst he had been in Rohan, but it seemed like an appropriate thing to say.
Faramir laughed softly. "I am not sure I am worthy of this praise. It is probable that it is I who should be praising you, for your great deeds." He looked at Merry, and the hobbit saw that there was no hint of mocking in the man's comment. He began to realize for the first time that people knew of what he'd done.
He blushed, much to his embarrassment, but it was possible Faramir did not see it as he sat down beside the tree and stretched his long legs out before him, his languid movements in comic contrast to the hobbit's quicker, blunter ones.
"It really wasn't me," he told Faramir. "It was Dernhelm-or Éowyn, I should say. I forget, you know, that they were the one and the same. It's all a bit muddled. What with Frodo and Sam in Mordor, and Pippin off with the Captains."
Merry didn't know it, but Faramir could see the sadness in the hobbit's eyes, hear the loneliness in his voice. He smiled sympathetically and nodded, but did not speak for some time.
Finally he said softly, "Yes, Éowyn. You traveled with her? While she was disguised as a man?""
Merry nodded. "Yes. Her uncle, King Théoden-" At the name Merry felt a flash of grief that threatened to bring tears, for he missed the old man dearly. He fought them back and continued, "he wouldn't let her come and fight. But she wouldn't be left behind." He managed a small smile. "There's no taming that woman."
"No?"
Merry's smile widened at his memories of Éowyn's strong will. "No, none at all." A thought occurred to him then. "Except. one might. Just one."
Faramir looked up, and even his carefully masked face could not conceal his interest. "One? Which, if I may be so bold as to ask?"
"The Lord Aragorn," Merry answered, his voice low. He remembered everything, now, after days of trying as hard as he could not to think about his loneliness and thus not thinking of any of the Rohirrim. Éowyn's obvious misery at Aragorn's lack of affection toward her, her despair in the last moments before her transformation into Dernhelm, and the equally sad expression on Aragorn's face as he had called her back from death's doorstep, then quickly left her with her brother.
"She loved him," he continued, but almost more to himself than to Faramir, who, under very close inspection, was bearing the expression of a man working to not look as interested as he was. "But he couldn't give it back, for he is betrothed to the Lord Elrond's daughter, Arwen Undómiel. But I think he felt for Éowyn, even if it was only pity."
Below him, Faramir said nothing. The Steward appeared to be deep in thought, seemingly musing on Merry's words. The silence gave the hobbit time to do his own wondering on the stern faced yet soft spoken man, so different from his brother, who Merry had liked well. The appearance had tricked him at first, but he could see that there the similarities ended, for the most part.
When Faramir he spoke again, his tone was light and the subject had changed.
"Tell me about your home, Master Meriadoc. I had not the chance to ask your cousin, what with-" he stopped abruptly and swallowed. It took Merry a moment of thought to figure out why this seemed so sudden.
He realized it was the first slip of composure he had seen the man commit. But before a second's time, Faramir had collected himself and continued, "What with his duties for my father, and for Gandalf. Yet I dearly would like to hear of a place such as the one I have heard you come from."
Merry could not help thinking of Théoden, the King who had asked him to tell this very tale. Yet Faramir did seem interested, and anything was better than grieving, worrying and wistful dreaming. So Merry began to tell his tale. Maybe Théoden was listening, somehow, somewhere.
But after a time, his tale began to slide into his journey with Frodo and the Fellowship. He thought the Steward would want to hear of his brother, but at the first mention of this, Faramir held up a hand.
"Your pardon, Meriadoc, but that is not the tale I wished to hear today." He looked at the sky and smiled slightly. "Forgive me, I have kept you long at this."
"No forgiveness is necessary, my Lord," said Merry quickly, worried he had bored the man, and for a moment he wondered how Faramir knew how long they had spoken. The sky was still its regular, monotonous, sullen gray.
The Steward of Minas Tirith and Gondor stood, and looked out to the East. He seemed to be lost in his own thoughts, and his face was so full of emotions that Merry could not even begin to decipher them.
Softly, Faramir spoke. Merry wasn't immediately sure if the Steward had spoken to himself or to Merry.
"Have you ever. ever taken anything for granted?"
Deciding to answer-for if Faramir had spoken to himself in such a way it was likely that he wouldn't hear the response in any case-Merry's mind washed over everything in his life. Of course, he had taken days for granted, friends, memories. But hadn't everyone?
He looked to where Faramir's gaze rested, and all of a sudden he was struck with a terrible wave of homesickness. The familiar questions came to mind. What was he doing here? Why were Frodo and Sam trekking through that horrible, dangerous place?
"My life," he murmured. "The safety of the Shire. I didn't know. I didn't know how much it mattered to me until I didn't have it anymore." He shook his head, and looked up at Faramir, who didn't appear to be listening, but Merry was relatively sure he was.
"And you?" asked the hobbit, subduing his own sadness, or at least putting it aside for a time. It was a polite rejoinder, but it was also born out of the unquenchable curiosity of a hobbit.
Faramir turned to look at him, and Merry was taken aback by the misery that lurked behind that proud face. The words that came were even, but it seemed to Merry that at any moment the man's misery would choke him.
But Faramir only answered, "Of course. Who has not?" He looked away, not over the east wall, but to Rath Dínen, the Silent Street.
Of course, thought Merry. He had heard the stories, of course. He too knew how difficult it was to keep a secret in Minas Tirith.
And he thought again of Boromir, of that day on Parth Galen, but only now did he see how much harder his death must have been on his brother than on Merry, who had only known him half a year. Faramir turned back to him, and but for the sad half-smile, he appeared as calm as one speaking of the weather.
"Do not let me trouble you with my own sorrows, Master Meriadoc."
The hobbit took the proffered hand with his own, smaller one and shook it. He smiled weakly and replied, not without reverence, "My Lord Faramir."
As Merry watched the Steward leave, the full reality of Faramir's life struck him. He realized that at least Pippin was alive, or to the best of his knowledge. No one knew for certain if Frodo and Sam had perished. Théoden was gone, but in honor, after a long life. Éomer and Aragorn had a chance of return.
i What must it be like, /i he wondered, i to be so totally and definitely alone? /i
He hoped he would never have to know.