Merry

He was my friend before he was my brother's.

'Keep my Fatty safe,' I say. 'I'll try,' he replies, and his eyes are the most serious I've ever seen.

'Will you stay safe too?' I ask, grabbing his arm.

This time, he does not meet my eyes.

It is a dark, rainy night. The door of our hobbit-hole rattles like something posessed, and I can almost feel the raindrops pounding in my bones. I shiver and draw my shawl tighter around my shoulders. It is still cold.

A knock sounds, and I open the door. I have been expecting this guest. But I do not know if I am glad to see him.

Sharp, clear eyes flit across the room, finally coming to rest upon my face. Those eyes soften, just a little bit, and he smiles apologetically.

"Fatty?"

The end raised just a little, as if he has not decided whether it is to be a question yet. I shift, taking a step back, and he enters our hole, closing the door softly behind him. Rain falls of him in rivulets and pools beneath his feet.

I bite my lip.

"In the living room," I say. "He broods."

I do not want to meet his eyes. He has ever been a good friend – he was my friend before he was my brother's. Stout, loyal, sharp. clever, ever a ready shoulder to lean upon. A good hobbit.

But I am afraid – if I meet his eyes, now, I might shout, yell at him, this nameless sense of blame and foreboding taking over, and that is no way to bid a friend farewell.

Oh, this harebrained conspiracy of theirs.

I know of it. Fatty did not want me to, for I was ever his sweet sister, never to be defiled or sullied by darkness or danger, but – I am not a friend to Merry for nothing. I am sharp, in my own way, too.

Baggins. Nothing but trouble.

I wonder. Am I the most harebrained of us all? For I am the one who is letting them go.

Oh, insane. I am insane.

I wanted to make them stay. But Merry gave me that resolute look of his, eyes steady and unyielding, that apologetic curve to the mouth, so – so clear, and courageous, and heartbreakingly loyal. And then I could not.

After some time, Fatty makes his way out of the living room. He must have heard the voices, I suppose, for our home is no mansion. He lays a reassuring hand upon my shoulder, squeezing lightly, but I notice that his hands are trembling a little. I do not tell him so.

"Merry," he says simply. "I'm ready to go, lad."

He is making an effort to sound upbeat, and Merry puts on a wan smile at that too. I think I have never seen the pair of them more scared. And I have never seen those two so damnably resolute.

On a whim, I reach out, grabbing Merry's arms and squeezing.

"Keep my Fatty safe," I say. I look up at him. His gaze steady, and deep, and I think I see something lingering in those depths. He grins.

"I'll try," he replies. The corners of his mouth are still turned up. His eyes are the most serious I've ever seen.

"Will you stay safe too?" I ask, grabbing his arm.

His arm is neither slender nor thick, soft enough for me to dig my fingers in, firm and steady and so much like him that I never want to let go.

He smells like pipe-weed and the summer nights of the shire, of earth and growing things and the faint, watery scent of the river. He smells like all those days we'd spent together under the sunlight, laughing, fishing, swimming, farming, talking.

"I will try," he replies, at length, and it sends a shiver up my spine. He does not meet my eyes.

Oh, this damned hobbit of mine.

I bite my lip, again. I think it will bleed before long.

"Take care," I say, and that is the last I see of them for a very long time.

The hobbit hole Fatty and I lived in isn't large, but it is awfully lonely with just one hobbit-lass in it.

I knit, I sew, I go to the market, the inn, anywhere. I wander, and at night, I am careful to light all the torches and the fireplace, to never let a stranger in, to keep the darkness out.

Some nights, I look out the window, and wonder.

I wonder, and I worry, for my dear brother and my greatest friend, and sometimes I do not know which of them I miss more.

It is a disturbing thought.

I remember how I sent them off. I remember how Merry did not meet my eyes.

For the first time in my whole life, I close my eyes, and pray, wordlessly, to whoever will listen. Merry has been the best friend I'd ever known, not that we'd ever been much crazy about each other. But I'd always been fond of him, for his quick mind and stout heart, for his ability to laugh in the worst of situations. For so many things.

Dear friend.

But then I feel this worry, this nameless emotion slowly gnawing away at me, almost as persistent as my fear for my brother, and I am not so sure anymore.

Friends.

Or perhaps something – more.

Hurry home, Merry. For I have much to say indeed.

Coming Up : Sam and Rosie

'It was Sam the Gardener I fell for, not Sam the Hero.'

A/N : I am sincerely sorry for how long it took me to get this out. Life has been hectic - I moved two times, and lots of college orientations, the whole virus debacle, and so on. And then - well, and then I got lazy. :( It is not my very best work, I suppose, but I liked it well enough, and figured I should uploat at least something so I could warm up to writing again.

Hope you enjoy it! :)