Chapter Text
Merry was surprised to hear a knock on his door in the mid-morning. It was unlikely to be Pippin, and he had no idea of who it might be otherwise. He carefully lowered himself off the high feather bed (understandably it was made for a Man, not a Hobbit) and went to see who it was.
The Warden entered, beaming. “Master Meriadoc, a good day to you! The Lord Steward wishes to ask you some questions. Do you feel well enough to speak with him?”
Merry looked at the Warden curiously. “What manner of questions?”
“He seeks your advice on a matter involving the Lady Éowyn.”
Merry had no idea why the Steward might want to talk to him about this topic, but he knew Pippin thought highly of the man. Regardless, his loyalty was to the Lady Éowyn, and he was disinclined to discuss her with the Steward.
He said brightly, “It depends on what kind of advice he wants, I suppose. I should warn you and the Lord Faramir that I do not know much of Big People and their ways, so I doubt I can say much.”
“You need not fear,” said the Warden. “Our new Lord Steward is a very honourable man. It is just that the Lady has sought his permission to join King Éomer and Lord Aragorn—”
Merry put his hands over his eyes. “O no! Now I understand! I am sadly unsurprised.”
“Would you mind explaining the Lady’s background to the Lord Steward, and why he must not accede to the Lady on this?” said the Warden, shaking his head. “I did not put all that effort into setting the Lady’s arm for her to go and break it again, or worse, get herself killed.”
“Very well,” said Merry, and trotted out of his room to the Lord Steward’s chambers, and knocked on the door.
The new Steward of Gondor still looked grey. Merry had heard from the staff at the Houses of Healing that Faramir had been closest to death of any of them, and he still did not look well.
He smiled up at the man as Faramir welcomed him into his chambers. “Hullo Lord Faramir! I believe you seek my advice?”
Faramir bowed and smiled gently back. “Master Meriadoc, greetings. The Warden has indicated to me that you may be able to explain why the Lady Éowyn sought to join the march upon the Black Gate?”
“Do not let her go, if she asks again!” Merry implored Faramir. “She is really not well enough—
“Aye, verily. That is why I thought I might speak with you. I let her move to a different room, so that she could look eastwards, but—” Faramir gestured at a table laden with tea and scones. “Please take a seat. Help yourself, Master Meriadoc. What with one thing and another, I am accustomed to the noble hunger of Halflings—”
Merry beamed. “Why thank you!” There was silence while Merry ate, and Faramir looked on with a smile.
Eventually, Merry stopped eating and peered out of Faramir’s wide window at the Garden beyond. “I hate this darkness, don’t you? Can I ask you: Pippin told me you met Frodo and Sam in the wilderness. I was so relieved to hear that they still lived. How were they?”
“Frodo visibly struggled with his burden; Master Samwise is a loyal and strong friend.” Faramir looked in the direction of Mordor and said, “I hope that they fare well in that place I cannot name. I think of them often—”
“So do I. Frodo is a cousin of sorts; and one of my dearest friends.”
“I am humbled by the resilience of Halflings.” Faramir stared at the table, while Merry waited.
Eventually he spoke again, “Master Meriadoc, to return to the matter upon which I wished to consult you, why would the Lady Éowyn seek to be released from this House?”
Merry shrugged. “What did she say to you, my Lord?”
Faramir laughed. “You remind me now of your kinsman: turning my questions back on me.” Then his expression became solemn. “She sought death and I thought it would be a pity if such a fair woman died thus.”
Merry caught a slight change in tone. “Are you sure, Lord Faramir, that your intentions are entirely honourable?”
Faramir drew himself up. “I would not take advantage of a vulnerable, injured woman. And, in the unlikely event that I had any intentions towards any woman—” He paused, and Merry was sure that his pale cheeks coloured slightly. “Hypothetically, you understand—entirely hypothetically—I am the kind of man who would wish to marry such a woman.”
Merry took another scone. “Well, entirely hypothetically, if I were to meet a man had developed any interest in the Lady Éowyn, I would warn him that he might face a difficulty, in that some of her unhappiness stems from an unfortunate unrequited affection for our Strider.”
Faramir’s eyebrows shot up. “Who is “Strider” again?”
“We call Aragorn “Strider”,” said Merry, after he had finished the scone. “It is how we were introduced to him in Bree.” Then he sighed. “It was after Aragorn rejected Éowyn’s affections that she decided to join the Muster, in disguise as a man. And I joined her.”
“You were also in disguise as a Man?” said Faramir, looking Merry up and down.
Merry laughed. “No. Éowyn pretended to be a Rider called Dernhelm, and I hid under his cloak, without realising who he really was. King Théoden, bless him, had said I was to stay back in Rohan with Éowyn, which in retrospect, was really quite a sensible idea. However, Dernhelm invited me to join him, and so foolishly I did.”
“Why did you go?”
“Because I hated being left behind,” said Merry. “Dernhelm said that he did not want me to be left behind either, and that he was used to that feeling. I could see in his eyes that he sought death.” To his embarrassment, he suddenly feared he would burst into tears at the memory.
“You do not have to speak any more if you do not want to,” said Faramir, gently.
“I can speak of it; in some ways it is a relief. It is just that it makes me weep,” said Merry. “I did not realise who Dernhelm really was until … until … King Théoden fell from Snowmane because of the Black Rider—” At that point, as predicted, he started to cry.
“I am sorry,” said Faramir. “He was fortunate to have your love and allegiance.”
Merry took a deep breath. “Anyway, the Black Rider tried to get to King Théoden as he lay dying, and everyone other than Dernhelm and me had been slain, or fled. Even Windfola, our horse, had run off somewhere. But Dernhelm stood in front of Théoden.”
Faramir’s face was white and still. “Blocking the King of the Nazgûl?”
“Yes. And he, I mean she, told the Black Rider he was not allowed to touch King Théoden, and the Black Rider laughed and said no man could hinder him—” Merry had to stop to dash tears away.
“What did she do then?”
Merry sighed. “She took off her helm and said she was not a man, and slew the ugly beast on which the Nazgûl rode. Then the Black Rider went to hit her with his mace, so I stabbed him in the back of the knee. It was all I could manage, and better than I had managed for poor Frodo on Weathertop. I could not leave her to die like that, you understand. And so the Black Rider’s blow went awry and hit her arm instead.”
To Merry’s surprise, Faramir wiped tears away too. “I know what it is to face that fear. Like your kinsman, you are very brave, Master Meriadoc.”
“Brave and stupid,” said Merry. “So after Éowyn killed him, our swords burned up like wood, and Éowyn fell and I thought she had died, and I wept, and my arm went cold.”
They sat in silence again for a long time, and then Faramir said, “I did not mean to make you revisit that incident. I just wanted to understand why she seeks death, and how to help her. I am sorry if I caused you distress, and grateful to you for explaining.”
Merry sighed. “Well, there is a lot more to it than that. Strider told me that King Théoden had been falling into illness and dotage for years, under the influence of Saruman and Gríma Wormtongue. And Éowyn was unable to do anything until Gandalf made Wormtongue flee—”
“I know what it is to watch someone you love as your liege and father fall into madness over long years,” said Faramir, quietly, pushing crumbs around the table with his forefinger.
Merry paused. “I suppose you do, although at least you were allowed to go off and fight, I presume, whereas she was stuck in Edoras. But there is another thing—that man I mentioned, Wormtongue—he was the King’s chief counsellor, and Saruman’s creature. He was a very nasty piece of work. Éomer said that he had been obsessed with Éowyn—”
Faramir’s face went still. “In a … romantic … way?”
Merry poured himself another cup of tea before he responded.“Romantic is too nice a word—”
Faramir’s face twisted with disgust. “What happened to the counsellor? Was he slain?”
Merry shrugged. “The last I saw of him, he was trapped in Isengard with Saruman by the Ents; effectively a prison.” He laughed. “A piece of advice: you really don’t want to get Ents angry. They tore a lot of Isengard to shreds.”
“Wise advice, Master Meriadoc.” Faramir looked out dreamily into the distance. “I would love to meet one of the onodrim. I am in awe that you did. What were they like?”
“It is very difficult to explain them. Imagine a tree suddenly walking and—no. Treebeard, he’s the oldest—his eyes, they flicker—it is like seeing into a very deep green pool, or the heart of a forest and—” Merry shook his head. “You see, I can’t.”
They sat quietly for some time, occupied with their own thoughts.
“It was right to refuse to let her go, Lord Steward,” Merry said to Faramir, eventually.
Faramir shrugged. “I was not worried that I had made the wrong decision, although I do not think she liked me much for it, not at all. I will not change my mind and let her go, Master Meriadoc, do not fear.” He paused and his expression softened. “She is beautiful and deserves to live, and she does not yet know it.”
“I must ask again: are you sure you are neutral in this matter?” said Merry.
Faramir looked serious. “It does not matter in the least what she thinks of me; I only care that she think better of herself. That is my concern.”
“Well I am glad that someone is thinking of her above himself, my Lord,” said Merry. “From what I saw in Rohan, she was often taken for granted, although as I said to Pippin about myself, it is not always a disadvantage to be overlooked. It does mean that you can slay the King of the Nazgûl without anyone realising you are there.” Then he paused. “You are right. She is very fair, and one of the worthiest Big People I know. But I warn you now, before you get deeper into this than you already have: she is also very sad.”
Faramir laughed, but it had a bitter edge. “Well, in relation to the latter, that makes two of us. It is that which first drew me to her.”
“Do you think we might be able to sit outside so that I could have a smoke?” asked Merry. “The Warden does not like it if I smoke inside.”
“By all means,” said Faramir, and held open the door courteously, waiting while Merry got his pipe and weed.
They walked around the garden. Merry smoked his pipe, and wondered when Faramir would admit to himself that he was in love with Éowyn, when Éowyn would realise this, and what she would think about it when she realised. Recovering in the Houses of Healing was going to be more interesting than he had thought.