Merry had never minded being small and unimportant. He was one small member of a very large family back home, and since coming on this trip he'd been overlooked by nearly everyone at one time or another.

As he stared, wide-eyed, at the golden-haired elf lady who was talking to Frodo and Legolas and Gimli and all, he was glad she hadn't given him more than a quick glance before. Her eyes were old, and he was disconcerted by it.

Beside him Pippin was twitching, looking in all different directions at the trees and boughs and the silver-haired elf lord and the lady herself. Merry felt the wonder but felt removed from it, as if he was just imagining himself in a tale Pippin was telling.

They spoke of Gandalf, and Moria, and the journey, and Merry listened but didn't hear. His attention wandered, and the journey itself seemed already far away. He wished suddenly that it was over, but there wasn't much chance of that. Still, how nice would it be to stay here in these woods for a time, to get to know his new companions in friendship instead of hardship. To get to know...

Foolishness.

Then again, he was quite good at foolishness. Fond of it as well, most of the time. He wondered that part of him was sad about it.

Maybe he was just growing up on this trip, finally, as his parents wished he'd grown up when he'd come of age.

He sighed to himself, and Pippin sent him a wide-eyed stare of wonder. He saw that wonder and knew it was not echoed in his own face. Indeed, Pippin blinked at him and his brow furrowed, silent question in his eyes.

But then the lady, Galadriel, spoke again. This time she looked at them all again in turn, taking them in as she addressed them. "Your quest stands on the edge of a knife. Stray but a little and it will fail, to the ruin of all."

Merry followed her gaze at the end as she locked eyes with Frodo, who looked away after a moment. Then Sam, who almost instantly blushed and took a small step back. She went down the line in turn, looking at them all, and Merry's apprehension grew. He watched Boromir as her eyes held his. The man stood for a moment still, then straightened where he stood. Pride was in his eyes , and a sort of defiance. Sadness, too, Merry though, but buried beneath the rest.

Pippin breathed in when she looked at him, and his cheeks went pink with a blush.

Then her eyes found Merry, and he found himself looking without conscious will. There were those depthless eyes; that old, wise, sad and strange gaze. He found his mind cleared suddenly, and he knew with a conviction as strong as anything that if he turned back now he would have the Shire, and his cousin, and a hole away from great numbers of wearisome family. And then an image came to his mind, of seeing the White City in peace, of being shown the secrets of the seven levels by a smiling, carefree Boromir.

Then further images came, of fondness and friendship and then a feeling even stronger.

He blinked suddenly, and tore his eyes away, and knew only the blink of an eye had passed since he looked at her. His hands clenched into fists, and he wished for a moment, fervent, that it would come true. But Frodo was there at the other end of the line, and the Fellowship wasn't at their homes, and the White City Boromir loved wasn't at peace. He knew things had to go on, and he knew he would go on with them.

Her eyes, for a moment, changed and became gentle, and then she looked away to Aragorn, and he sighed and his shoulders slumped. Pippin took his hand and squeezed it, but Merry didn't look at him.

His face, he could feel, was red and burning, and though the happy images were cruel he wanted them back.

He couldn't speak of it later, when they had time away from the watch of elves to speak about what had happened. He started to, in conversation, but remembered himself and stopped. He couldn't dare speak of it to Boromir, who would think him silly, and he didn't think the other hobbits would understand.

He didn't really understand himself.

Boromir was unhappy about the whole thing, but speaking of it seemed to anger Gimli and Legolas, so their conversation turned to other things.

But Merry found him later, drawn as always to his side. Boromir sat distant from singing elves and the others in the Fellowship, and Merry approached uncertainly. "Do you wish silence?"

Boromir smiled, though it seemed dim. "No, my friend. Join me."

Merry warmed and obeyed, sitting beside him against the hard but smooth trunk of the silver tree the path was built beside. "It's an odd place, isn't it?"

Boromir looked out at the paths and houses beyond, and didn't reply.

Merry followed his gaze. "It's very sad. Very humbling, as well. At least to me."

"Humbling." Boromir repeated the word quietly. "Yet why should it be? Perhaps the cities of men and halflings aren't as grand as this, yet are they not things to be proud of as well? Why should any man wish to roam in the trees of another race when he has walls and roads and buildings of his own?"

Merry hesitated. "You're thinking about Strider, aren't you? I mean, Aragorn."

Boromir turned to him then. "You surprise me, Merry. You're inside my thoughts, it seems at times. I've thought about him much since we arrived here. He is the heir to the throne of my city. A man descended from the mightiest race of men who have yet lived. Even the humblest man should be proud of his race, and he comes from the greatest. Yet when he is here, amid these people, he is content to speak as they do and tell their stories and pay homage to them. I don't understand it, and it's not to my liking."

"Why not?" Merry watched in the distance as two very different figures, a tall slender elf and a stout, heavy dwarf, took to the trees. The elf gestured grandly with graceful arms, and the dwarf watched with doubt. "Should it matter what race you are, then?"

"Don't mistake me, Merry. I know these lands are wonderful. I am lucky to be here, and when I return to my own home my brother will envy me. There was grandeur in Moria, and there is beauty here different than any I have ever seen. To love something is good. Losing yourself in it can be quite another story."

"Do you think Aragorn loses himself in the elves?"

"I think at times he would wish to." Boromir frowned. "It troubles me that he speaks so distrustfully of our own people, the men of Gondor, of Rohan. He doesn't trust us to help in this quest, yet he would give over to an elf without question. Is this how the future king of my land should behave?"

Merry fell silent for a time, watching the two friends in the distance move out of sight through the trees. They were an odd match, those two - oddest that could have been made from the company. But Merry thought it was in their differences that the found so much to fascinate them about the other. "I don't know much about Strider, I'm afraid. When we first met him we feared he was a thief or an enemy, and the history of his race doesn't mean much to hobbits walking the fields of the Shire. I know my own cousin Frodo is very trusting of the elves - more than any other race, I think. Sam is of course in awe of them entirely. But their wish is to know more, to be among the elves, not to become elvish themselves."

"Perhaps." Boromir smiled faintly. "You do seem a very contented race."

"We are, for the most part."

Boromir looked at him suddenly, and his gaze was felt so strongly that Merry looked from the trees to him, and for a moment met those burning eyes and was dazed. "Tell me, Merry. What did the lady offer to you? What could tempt a hobbit, so contented with things as they are?"

Merry blushed instantly, but couldn't bring himself to look away. "Just that. Contentment. Peace beyond what we already know. I can't speak for the others, but I saw...I saw a future happiness I have much wished for lately."

"And what happiness is that?"

He did look away then, down at his fingers fidgeting on his lap. So small next to the large hand of Boromir laying flat against his thigh. "Nothing more than anyone else would wish. A home and love and never a lack of food to eat."

"Ah."

"And you?" He asked fast, both from a desire to know and a chance to get the attention off of his silly dreams of the future. "What made you straighten so and regard her with such pride?"

Boromir hesitated. "You were watching me."

Merry spoke quietly. "I often do."

Boromir regarded him, and after a moment answered. "I looked with pride because I recognized the challenge as what it was. The men of Gondor can face any test of will, and though we are less subtle in our dealings we can stand up to the subtlety of others. As to what I saw for myself...peace for my land. No more dying soldiers. My family safe."

"But what for yourself?"

"That would be a better gift for me than any amount of gold given to just Boromir, son of the steward. My city and my people are everything, Merry. Perhaps I will find what you wished for one day. A family of my own, sons raised to lead the future armies of the White City. But those are not high in my thoughts. They have never been."

Merry nodded, and fell quiet. He was suddenly, deeply ashamed of his own selfish, tiny, unimportant desires. Such a man as this...could there be many in the world? A man like this was unreachable by petty fondness or desire. He was a man to be admired, to be followed. Not to be stared at and lusted after like some barmaid.

They were quiet after that, sitting together watching the shadows of elves move about the trees.