Merry loves it when the horses are running, and the thunder of thousands of hooves surrounds him and shakes the earth. The horse he rides runs smoothly and swiftly and wind is in his helmet and his eyes, and an armored arm is by his side. Inside the concealing armor that has given her the shape of any other man whose horse runs beside them is a woman, an amazing woman, a beautiful woman.
The mountains race by and he has grown accustomed to moving with the horse, and when they run like this, her arm is around his waist and her leg presses up against his, and he wonders what it would be like to hold her waist, to run his hand along her leg and kiss her mouth deeply until he can't tell where Merry ends and Éowyn begins. He's never wanted to touch someone as much as he wants to touch her. She smells of horses and sweet honey and something strange and arousing and frightening that he's only ever smelled on a woman before, and it scares him and excites him all at once. He wishes the horse would never stop running, and not because he is afraid of what will happen when they reach their destination. They are running to their doom, and Merry barely cares, because Éowyn is behind him, and every move she makes thrills him.
The horse is running, and Merry's heart is racing, and they are riding to death; but Merry does not care, for he is more alive than ever at her side.