Éowyn took Merry to where the armor was held. Merry accepted a helm and shield awkwardly and felt that he was somehow out of place and quite unprepared. I don't belong here, he thought to himself. He was Meriadoc Brandybuck, a simple hobbit from the Shire, not a warrior. His thoughts now were not upon how he would get to fight, but what if it would come to pass. Never in a thousand years could he have seen himself in such a situation, perhaps marching straight to the Black Gates themselves, wielding a sword and giving the battle cry with hundreds of others as the enemy poured out from the dark land with hatred so complete that none could foresee the end of it's want and need for absolute destruction. And yet, here it could be happening right before his very eyes. If the harsh coldness from the metal of his helm had not grazed his arm as Éowyn was handing it to him, he would have scarce to believe his sight and thought he was having a horrible nightmare that seemed to never cease.
Throughout all these thoughts racing through his head there was a feeling at the pit of his stomach that he soon recognized to be not fear, but a sense of urgency; something that needed to be completed very soon, and if not, things would go horribly awry. A mere stranger though he be in this city he felt as compelled to fight as if this country were his own. It was not simply out of the good nature of his heart that drove him, but friendship and the sole will to rid evil from all corners of this world. Could someone so small and unimportant as he considered himself to be make any sort of impact on the course of the future? It seemed a silly thought, laughable yet mirthless. But it did not matter if the very second he drew his sword he would be hewed down mercilessly; he would fight, he would help in any way he saw possible, if it only be a riding companion for some other lonely soldier. He had pledged his sword to Théoden; his promise was made and nothing would break it.
He gave a stiff, short bow to Éowyn and left the tent to go to his own to mull on things while he had the chance.
***
Not more than an hour and a half later he was woken by a solemn guardsman who told him that the rest of the camp were almost prepared to leave and that he should be as well. Gathering what little possessions he still carried, Merry brought them to tie to Stybba.
"You have been very faithful to me thus far, Stybba," he said, stroking the pony's snout. "I shall be upset to part with you." Stybba just snorted softly and found an interesting curl of Merry's hair to nibble on.
Before him the king climbed on to his horse, his battle armor also in place.
"Lord," said Merry, keeping his focus straight in front of him and not on Théoden. "I wish to go to war with you." Théoden gave a sad smile.
"I know, Meriadoc, I know." The king gazed at him for a few moments and then turned his horse to face down upon his regiment. Merry gave a broken sigh and swallowed.
As the waning sun sank over the hills, it seemed as if the tips of the spears of the horsemen were on fire, and their helms gleamed with a soft light. The horses pawed the ground and snorted; anxious they were, and wondering when they would commence. There was a solemn air about them; no one spoke more than a hushed whisper. With a silent nod given to his left tenant, the King and his company moved forth.
Not a leaf stirred nor a bird's call was heard throughout the land. To Merry it seemed as if the world was silently holding it's breath for what it knew was the worst to come. It did not further dishearten him, but only solidified the darkness that was so tightly wrapped about his heart.
***
They rode solemnly on until the sun was directly above them, and only then stopped for a short while. Merry knew in his heart that it would not be long before he would get the final word from Théoden. His fears were confirmed when he saw the king slowly walking towards him. Pretending not to have noticed yet, Merry thought as hard as he could as quickly as possible for any sort of speech that could sway Théoden's decision. His brows furrowed; he was coming up empty handed.
"Master Meriadoc," the king prompted. The hobbit rose to his feet and bowed.
"My lord?" asked Merry, no hope or optimism present in his voice.
"It is here that I release you from my service, but not my friendship. I hope that the remainder of your days be well fulfilled, for you and your kin." He then turned to leave the hobbit gaping in shock over how abrupt and swift his discharge was. For some reason unknown this made Merry feel not only put-off but more desperate than ever. Before he could stop himself, he opened his mouth to protest.
"Lord Théoden!" he called, his voice near shrill. The king stopped but did not turn. He knew it would not be as simple as he hoped. But all the same he wished Merry's stubbornness was borne of another want, even though he knew it was out of love.
Merry wished that he had kept his mouth shut, but it was too late to turn aside now. He tilted his chin up and made a slight sprint to Théoden. He rounded the man and drew a breath.
"I offered you my sword," he said resolutely. "Surely that means more than just a brief outing across the countryside! Why then did you receive me? I do not wish to be left behind." His voice dropped to a whisper. "Please." The last word uttered was the single last desperate effort Merry could manage. No other word, he felt, could mean so much and yet take so little to say.
Théoden's eyes shut and his mouth crinkled into a thin line. Merry involuntarily took a small step backwards, thinking that perhaps he had crossed the line in his final plea. However the king stood silent, whether in thought or anger Merry could not tell. He seemed so weary... like one that strives with all his might to bring around some sort of good but is weathered greatly by his attempts. Merry's head drooped slightly and he stood meekly awaiting his fate.
"No rider can bear you as a burden," Théoden said simply at last. "I received you to do as I bid, and this is now what I have decided. I will say no more." Merry's spirit crumpled in finality. He drew aside from Théoden to let him pass and as he did so, wondered if this could be the last time he would ever see the man. That in itself was a sorest of all blows. He stood motionless only a few moments longer and then despondently walked back to Stybba.
***
Through a helm peered shrewd, clear gray eyes with a keen understanding of what they had just witnessed. They well knew and understood the hearts of both persons; so recently had something quite similar to this occurred. A burden though it may be it would be rather ignoble to leave behind someone who was nearly in the same situation. It would be easy enough to manage; a mere cloak thrown over the Halfling's legs should be inconspicuous. The other men of the camp would not pay attention to another simple soldier anyway; or so that was hoped. In one swift movement the eyes had closed and moved quickly away to assemble the last remaining items before they took their leave.
***
Slumping on to the grass next to Stybba, Merry felt a great weariness descend upon himself. It seemed fruitless to try to do anything otherwise. He picked at a trampled blade of now-brown grass and not for the first time in the journey felt homesick for the emerald green fields of his homeland. A simple thing like the fresh, springy grass beneath his feet was such a small entity to ask for but was terribly out of his reach.
He wondered now what he would tell the rest of the fellowship and whether they would believe him when he said he had tried with all his might to make his way by the side of Théoden and yet failed miserably. Surely they wouldn't take his failure for cowardice? An uneasy feeling washed over him.
How long had it been since Gandalf and Pippin had left? Recalling the maps that Merry had looked at so long ago (so it felt) at Rivendell, their ride for Minas Tirith was quite a dist--
He stopped short and his breath caught in his throat.
"Pippin..." he breathed. Since they had departed, Merry seemed to be constantly busy and did not give a second thought to where his cousin was actually being taken. Gondor. Closer to the Black Lands than Merry himself might ever be. His stomach turned. Certainly Pippin wouldn't be called out to fight? The mere thought of his dear cousin surrounded by such a perpetual evil amongst the ranks of men was severely distressing; there was no possible way Pippin would be watched out for. He would be overlooked and disregarded if such times came to pass. Though it was not his say to do anything otherwise, Merry knew he should not have let Gandalf separate them. Gandalf could not watch over Pippin at all times; he had plenty of other very important things to take care of. And now Merry was powerless to prevent anything from happening, lest anything should happen. Frustrated and worn, Merry gritted his teeth and hit the ground with his fist. It seemed he was going in circles and ending up always in the same place with no gain on his ground whatsoever.
So deep he was in his thoughts that he did not hear the soft steps of boots behind him. A Rider bent down and whispered softly in the hobbit's ear.
"Where will wants not, a way opens, so we say," the voice said. "And so I have found myself."
Somewhat started, Merry looked up and saw a slight figure dressed in the same armaments as the rest of the camp, though this soldier had his helmet on so it covered his face. He must have looked confused, so the soldier continued.
"I have seen the devotion you would give your Master, ere you would be given the chance to prove such worth." The slightest of smiles showed on the face of the Rider. "And such ardor is not to be overlooked, especially when it can be remedied quite easily. You truly wish to ride with the King?" Merry stood, a feeling of hope rising once more.
"I do," he said firmly.
"Then you shall ride with me. Come quickly; gather your things. My cloak is large enough to cover you." He paused and glanced up at the sky. "The darkness seems to be growing with every passing hour.... Hiding you should not be a problem."
Merry stood for but a moment in utter shock, his mouth hanging slightly open. Here was his chance, laid before him like a light just within his grasp through a bitter darkness. Hope surged through him, rekindled. With a grin from ear to ear and a hasty bow, Merry ran off to collect his things.
"So I have not found my way out of this tale just yet," he thought to himself. "I must find some way to help. I must." He looked to the East where the shadows loomed; a chill spread in his heart.
"I'm coming, Pippin," he murmured.
***
Quickly he came back with his things. Stybba was still standing where Merry had left him with an almost mournful look in his eye. Merry stroked his snout and whispered his good-byes despondently. He had grown fond of the animal.
It was then that Merry realized that he had not thanked the Rider to which he was eternally grateful, nor did he know his name. Whilst climbing onto the horse (with some help from the Rider, of course), Merry decided to quell his inquisitiveness.
"I thank you indeed," he said, pulling the cloak more securely around himself. "It truly means a great deal to me, though, I'm afraid I don't know your name, sir." The Rider paused in his movements.
"Do you not?" he whispered softly. "Then call me Dernhelm."
A trumpet sounded. The company gathered in its ranks and began the long march to bring whatever aid they could to the city of Minas Tirith.
***
It seemed as though those events had taken place in another world some hundreds of years ago to Merry. But that was only four days ago and just leagues away. They had ridden quite far in such a short amount of time.
Sighing once more and shifting slightly yet again, Merry gave up on trying to wait up for Dernhelm. Though good company he was, sleep seemed more important at the moment. Pleased that he had found a halfway decent position on the bothersome bit of ground, he slowly drifted off into an dreamless sleep.
