The world outside is cool and misty.
Dinah perches on the old windowsill, wrapped in a thick white woolen blanket. She slept hard through the short night, and she still feels caught in the cobwebs of her dreams: her eyes bleary, her limbs heavy, her mind as hazy as the courtyard below.
The sun hasn't risen over the purpling horizon, but the distant trees can sense its coming. Every branch seems to hold itself a bit higher, braving the biting chill. Every leaf hangs on a little tighter, daring the droning wind. The dense fog that swirls in the trickling fountain moves faster in a desperate last dance, curling out across the rippling pool. If Dinah looks long enough, listens hard enough, she can almost convince herself that she hears the steady rushing of the icy water, the sharp whistle of the blustery breeze.
She yawns and stretches, humming softly to herself as she leans back against the wall. It is the second to last day of September. Time moves too quickly when it paces with a curse of immortality – did the seasons slip by this fast when she was a little girl, still blessed with a mortal life? She rests her warm cheek on her shoulder as she checks on the little room.
Liesel is still sunk deep into her fluffy pillow, her auburn hair sprawled around her like a gauzy bronze shield. Even in sleep, her face bears the faint traces of smile lines. It's such a wonderous, happy twist of fate that Liesel was here, her sister was in this inn of all places in the wide world. Dinah almost smiles as she looks at her, a mess of red curls and a little sparkling line of drool – but then she remembers the near-hysterical reaction that the mere mention of another war elicited. She turns away.
The Hobbits took the beds closest to the fire, which still crackles even after burning strong all through the night, and there the four of them still so soundly snooze, a slight snore rising from their cuddled clump. They trust so easily, though they know so little of the world beyond their Shire. In a way, that must be freeing – only knowing what's familiar, never worrying about what's beyond.
Strider's broad back is far too tense for him to be drifting very deeply. When Dinah woke about thirty minutes ago, she offered to take over the watch, letting him get a few hours of rest before they set off to wherever a Wizard and a Man of the Wild would deem a good hiding place. Though Strider agreed, Dinah can tell that resting isn't something he does often, if he can help it. He might not even know how.
As frustrating as it is, Dinah has to trust Strider – trust that he and this Gandalf know a safe place for the Hobbits, for the One Ring. All her too-long life, Dinah has focused on chasing the Nazgûl; she has never been the one to hide, only the one to hunt. She wouldn't have a genuine suggestion for where to send Frodo and his friends, other than a place with a lot of sunlight.
What can be done, really? Hide the Ring forever? Hope the Nazgûl never know? Wish that Sauron is truly gone, no matter if the mounting evidence indicates otherwise?
There's a soft groan, and suddenly Merry emerges from the pile of blankets. His rich honey curls are a tangled mess, and his dark eyes are squinted beneath his furrowed brow as he slowly takes in the dim room.
When he sees Dinah, he lets out a grunt of greeting. He slides out of the big bed, dragging a great green quilt that is several times his size with him. It trails across the hardwood floors as he pads over to her, like the emerald cape of a grand ruler. He hauls himself up onto the windowsill.
"I thought this was all going to be a dream," Merry murmurs, his voice scratchy. "That I'd wake up at home in the dark of my boring bedroom, like always."
"Good morning," Dinah says softly. "What do you eat before bed, to have such dreams?"
"I smoke," he tells her. His forehead falls against the window with a small thud. His sigh fogs the glass. "Longbottom Leaf. It relaxes me."
"And what is it that troubles you?"
Merry thinks quietly for a moment. "I suppose it's the same as what troubled Sam, and Pippin, and Frodo, though we never spoke of it. We love the Shire – it's our home. But it's the same thing every day! The same people, the same places, the same routine. There's no adventure, no chance of anything interesting or unusual happening. Until old Bilbo's party, the most exciting thing that ever happened in Hobbiton was when Gandalf would come to visit with his fireworks. Pippin and I would look for something really great to do, something that would be remembered for all time, but all we'd cause was mischief."
He pulls the blanket a little tighter around himself. "Now we're learning our lesson. A Hobbit should never go looking for adventure because it will only bring him trouble."
Dinah nods as she scans the puddled streets. There are a few people out in the pre-dawn chill, bundled in snug coats as they waddle to work. "Is trouble always bad?"
"Well, that tends to be what it means. Something bad happening."
She can't help it – Dinah laughs, try as she might to stifle it. Poor Merry looks so alarmed. She covers her mouth with her hand, quickly glancing around the room, but no one stirs. Even Strider seems to be breathing deep and even now. She takes care to keep her voice low when she speaks again. "Sometimes a little trouble is good for us. In the moment, it's a hard trial to endure, but in the end, it helps us grow."
"I… never thought of it that way," Merry replies. "But I think you might be right. This adventure, wherever it takes us, will be good. Just think of the stories we'll have to share when we go home! Perhaps even better than Bilbo's!" He grins, but his eyes aren't seeing the Prancing Pony, or the village, or even the wraith-huntress seated before him. They've gone glazed, as if they're looking out over rolling fields and rows of flowers and red dirt roads.
"Who is Bilbo?" Dinah asks.
"Oh, he's Frodo's uncle. One of the only Hobbits to ever leave the Shire on an adventure – before us, that is. He's an odd character. He robbed a dragon once!"
"Did he really?"
"Well, so he says." Merry wiggles his toes, which poke out from beneath his comforter. "He's the one who had the Ring first, you know. He gave it to Frodo before he went away to live with the Elves in Rivendell." He twists his lips. "Bilbo has always known how to be brave. But I…" He sighs. "I have to tell you a secret, Dinah. I have never been more scared than I was last night, when the Black Riders were chasing us. I didn't know why, and I felt so helpless. I wanted to protect my friends, but I didn't know how – and then you came." When he finally looks at her, his wide brown eyes are so earnest that Dinah's heart breaks just a little more. "Were you scared?"
For a girl who wants to be believed, it is so tempting to lie.
Dinah looks away – she has to, staring at her reflection in the window and then forcing herself to look beyond that wretched, wretched woman, too. The trees outside the towering gates of Bree are now dark promising silhouettes rather than looming black shapes. The far horizon is slowly, slowly lightening, turning the prettiest shade of blue.
She takes a deep breath. "Fear is something every rational creature feels, Merry, even if they won't admit it. It's natural, inevitable – but it's also nothing to be ashamed of, because it keeps us alive, reminds us that we're alive.
"Sometimes the presence of fear is more of a reason to do something than not to do something." She can feel him watching her closely, hanging onto her every word. Her face feels hot. She shifts her weight, her body sore. "We get to choose courage. It's not something we are; it's something we decide."
"That's how you killed the Black Rider?" He prods. "You chose to be brave?"
Dinah closes her eyes. She sees tall grey trees, the smear of pink skies behind a ghastly hood. Feels the cold racing up her arms again as her blade finally, finally slides home, true and sure. "I don't know," she says softly. She stares at the folds of her blanket, wishing it was warm enough. "I knew you needed my help. I knew it was my duty. If I'm honest, in that moment, I wasn't thinking of courage, or anything admirable. I was just angry."
"Angry?"
"I thought you children." She shrugs. "I snapped."
"Surely you must have some idea how you did it, though, Dinah. You seem very bright." When she shakes her head, Merry tilts his in thought, rocking himself. The fire pops. The snore pitches. "What about your weapons? They look… special."
She stands, aching, and crosses the room to her small pile of belongings. Her braid is still slightly damp from when she bathed before bed; it falls over her shoulder, wetting the side of her neck. She unsheathes one of her swords, which gleams in the faint light, as if delighted to be drawn, and after a moment's pause, she collects one of her Bombadil daggers, too.
"It does have something to do with these," she says as she returns to the windowsill. She ignores the way Merry gulps and glances nervously between the two blades. "Though I can't be certain just how much. The curse has given me long life, even longer endurance, and the solemn duty to rid the world of my father's shade – but each huntress still needs something corporeal and pure that can complete this great task. I don't know why I was the first to accomplish this feat – we were all of us evenly matched in skill and arms. I don't believe it possible to kill one of the Nazgûl with bare hands."
"Because you're girls?"
"Because they are wraiths."
She sets the sword in his lap, carefully, ensuring he doesn't flinch away. The Dark Herald winks at her in the shadows, reflecting the roaring flames behind her. "This is made of steel and steel alone. It was cooled in the purest waters of Middle Earth. It can only be wielded by me – see, there, my father's mark, now mine." She points to the keen, deathly corvus with the amethyst eye.
"That's why Strider called you the Raven," Merry marvels softly, almost to himself. "If your father is the Herald of Mourning… And the raven's cry carries for miles… I've heard they can even deliver messages…" Slowly, his trembling fingers touch the jaggedly carved feathers. Dinah wants to snatch her sword away. Instead, she clears her throat.
"This," she holds up a glinting bronze dagger, "was a gift from Tom Bombadil, Guardian of all Forests. Have you heard of him?"
"I've met him – we all have. He led us to the trail in the Old Forest, the one where we met you. He said to stay on it, but we saw some mushrooms on the side of the road, and we were so hungry, and then… Well, you know the rest."
Dinah's eyebrows raise. "You've met Tom Bombadil?" She and her sisters only found him when they were in a great deal of danger. She isn't sure if she wants to know what brought the Hobbits and the Guardian together.
Merry nods easily. "Stayed in his house for two days. He gave me a dagger, like that one, only…" His eyes go to his feet, which swing as they dangle over the edge of the sill. "I dropped it in the Brandywine last night by mistake."
A stern scold rises in her throat, washing away all her shock, but the blush on Merry's honest cheeks lets her know that he is well aware that to lose a Bombadil dagger is a hard loss indeed. So, she leans her sword against the wall and places the knife in Merry's hand. "The daggers Bombadil gifts to those he deems worthy are charmed to suit the user. Look, here, how he engraved poppies and gladioluses into the hilt for me. Liesel's has lilies and tulips."
"And what of your other sister?" Merry scowls. "I forgot her name. Sorry."
"Sage never let me see hers," Dinah says flatly – ages later and she is still annoyed by Sage's stubborn nature. "She wouldn't say what flowers Bombadil gave her, either."
"Why not?"
"Because she's the most disagreeable woman in all Middle Earth," Dinah mumbles.
"What?"
"I'm not sure," she replies evenly. Yes, I am – she knew I wanted to know, so she kept it to herself just to spite me. "Sage will do what Sage does."
"That doesn't make any sense."
"That's Sage."
Dinah strokes the back of her scarred knuckles down the bronze blade. It pulls at her calluses but never tears. She has felt this knife, along with its twin, carefully strapped to her thighs for the better part of two ages. It has fed her, protected her – and most recently, earned her the finest horse she has ever ridden. She has never named the daggers – nor has she named her swords – only because she could never think of titles quite good enough for weapons that have served her so faithfully.
Slowly, so as not to startle him, she coaxes his little fingers to properly curl around the hilt. "Merry…" She begins, not having the nerve to meet his curious brown eyes, not knowing if she truly wants to do this, but confident that it's the right thing to do. "I never want you to feel helpless again. If your heart truly burns with the will to fight, then I would have you carry this."
He gapes. "But, but Dinah-"
"At least on this journey." She bites her lip. "It will not fail you. A clever strike will grant you victory, even if all hope seems lost." She glances down at her own bare feet, cold on the hardwood floors. "I have not had the pleasure of many friends in my life. Six of them are dead, and there was nothing I could do."
"I understand," Merry breathes. "Thank you… I will carry this with as much honor as a Hobbit can muster."
Dinah bows her head, hiding her smile and her watery eyes. "I know you will." Then Merry tries to spin it on his finger, and nearly stabs himself in the leg trying to catch the dagger. "Perhaps some lessons are in order."