He was left. And then, just like that, he was left again.
"I think it's your path to remain with King Theoden, and to ride with him, if he'll take you."
"It would be my honor."
Theoden was a kind king, and a gentle man. He talked to Merry with respect, as if Merry had accomplished great things of his own on the quest. Merry knew that to be allowed to accompany him was an honor.
But this would mean saying goodbye to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. To the fellowship, all gone off together different places and leaving him behind. Baggage, as he'd called himself minutes ago. He was baggage left to be taken up by whoever would be less inconvenienced.
He smiled as he accepted, though. His thoughts were dark but he was not without civility or honor of his own, and when he offered his sword to Theoden, he was appeased at least a little by the seemingly authentic joy in which his offer was received.
But when he watched the three of his fellowship ride away with the Rangers, he felt a bleak despair coming over him. Everyone was gone now. Everyone had left. He was the last.
He rode beside the king, and Theoden lifted his spirits. As they rode the king talked to him - really talked, not out of boredom or obligation. The king asked him about his Shire, and he told what he could in their limited time riding. Theoden spoke of his own home and youth, and Merry was warmed to find that the king was really as gracious and kind as he acted.
Merry's heart warmed towards Theoden, and he found himself regarding the old king as something of a father. Silly, perhaps, given who he was compared to the great king of Rohan, but Theoden seemed pleased at the idea, and made sure to keep Merry beside him in the great mass of men.
But at night, alone in his little tent left to listen to the comings and goings from the king's tent beside, it was hard not to let melancholy come over him again.
Boromir was alive. That arrow didn't kill him, but...but he was off to Gondor, to face some huge, terrible coming war. He and Pippin, off to the front lines of a fight no one expected to survive.
He lay in his little bed listening to the voices of important men, and he could shut his eyes and remember the feel of Boromir, warm and alive and tucked behind him on that horse, holding him to keep him safe and upright. He had never felt anything more vibrantly than he had felt the wonder at seeing Boromir again, riding up to the gates of Isengard as casual as anything.
And then he rode off without a word. Without a chance to talk, without giving Merry a chance to tell him some of the things that had been bubbling up. He didn't have a chance even to thank him for saving his life.
And he didn't know how the great tides of war might have swayed Boromir's thoughts.
Time was so short, and growing shorter all the time. To not have had time while Boromir was there to say anything...
It was hard. Too hard. The more he thought about it the worse he felt.