#lmao it took five years to write these 3000 words

[anghraine]

“we also are daughters of the great” - chapter two

I wrote the first chapter as a one-shot promptfic, but ... idk, I got moved to continue it, so here’s some Merry and Fíriel/f!Faramir (among others).

Last chapter:

As she walked away, Éowyn called out,

“Lady Fíriel!”

Fíriel paused, and glanced over her shoulder. “Yes?”

Do not leave me alone here, Éowyn thought.

This chapter:

“You have already done a great deal for my people, Meriadoc—more than we could ever repay. But I would ask something still further.”

He would not have said that he’d do anything for her, the way Pippin had. But Pip seemed right enough that she was a creature of the heights. Not so high as Aragorn could be, but with a more constant and immediate force of personality alongside her gentleness. It made for an agreeable but very odd impression.

chapters: one

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For Éowyn, the remaining hours of the day passed gradually. Her thoughts dwelt on her uncle and her brother and Aragorn, and whatever doom awaited them, then skittered nearer, to her own fate, and her useless present. Her arm ached; though she could endure pain, she knew it would have made her an easy target on a battlefield—even if she could have escaped the city, caught up with the army, and fought among them. She must have seemed ridiculous to Lady Fíriel.

Éowyn shifted her weight from one leg to another. The idea sat uncomfortably with her. Although they had only just met, and spoken briefly, she disliked the idea of appearing childish or silly to her. Fíriel had betrayed admiration rather than disdain, but that might arise from pity as well, whatever she said. Éowyn did not wish to seem weak to anyone, and certainly not a gentle, composed lady of Gondor—and the last of Cirion’s line, no less.

At least Fíriel had been true to her word; not long after their conversation, two healers appeared to lead Éowyn to her new, east-facing chambers. So she stood there at the window, gazing at Mordor and worrying, while the minutes crawled slowly by.

For Merry, however, everything seemed very fast indeed. 

One minute he had been watching Gandalf defend Théoden even as the terrible Ringwraith king descended, throwing all but Gandalf himself from their horses. Dernhelm rose, still defiant, and Merry’s horrified gaze fixed on him—her—Éowyn? Éowyn, so fair and valiant! Gandalf or no Gandalf, he had known suddenly what he must do. He stabbed his dagger into the wraith’s knee, and Éowyn drove her sword into the wraith until it shattered.

The Lord of the Nazgûl disappeared into nothing—Éowyn collapsed—Théoden was weeping over her, and Merry too, while a chill numbed his right hand and crept up his arm. It was Gandalf who insisted Éowyn was alive, and ordered her and Merry carried in a rush to the Houses of Healing. Everything grew colder yet, and hazy, until he could scarcely move and scarcely see. Before he quite knew what had happened, he fell asleep.

His sleep was unpleasant: cold and grey, filled with terrible voices that whispered of the dead he had not saved. Some of the voices sounded like the king of the Ringwraiths and he kept stabbing at it, then remembering that the Barrow-dagger had broken. They were all dead, Pippin and Éowyn and Théoden and, somehow, Gandalf and Strider. But no—that didn’t make sense—he couldn’t quite remember—

Another voice joined in, and even in that icy dream, it surprised him.

“Awake,” said Strider, in the commanding way he had sometimes. 

He sounded very far away. Merry couldn’t see through the mists, or pinpoint the source of the call.

“Awake,” Strider repeated, even more firmly, and Merry felt a growing warmth, driving the cold off. Even his hand no longer felt numb, and he couldn’t hear any voice but Strider’s.

“Merry.”

Merry opened his eyes. Strider stood nearest him, pulling his hand back from Merry’s head, but Pippin was there, too, alive and well but for his anxious face, and Gandalf just behind him. A mildly sweet fragrance filled the air about him. Just the smell of it made him feel better. And starving.

“I am hungry,” he announced. “What is the time?”

“Past supper-time now, though I daresay I could bring you something, if they will let me,” said Pippin, his voice a little unsteady. Now Merry could see that Pippin had acquired armour, too: a chainmail hauberk made of some black metal, and a black surcoat over it, embroidered with the symbol of a white tree. He had never looked more like the Thain he would be someday.

“They will indeed,” said Gandalf. “And anything else that this Rider of Rohan may desire, if it can be found in Minas Tirith, where his name is in honour.”

Well, that sounded very nice.

“Good!” Merry said. “Then I would like supper first, and after that, a pipe, if Strider will provide what is needed.”

“Oh?” said Strider.

“I had some of Saruman’s best in my pack,” said Merry, “but what became of it in the battle, I am sure I don’t know.”

Strider looked sternly down at him. Really, he was bigger than anyone had a right to be. Maybe he’d drunk Ent-draughts at some time or another—though Éomer was nearly as tall, like Boromir had been, and Merry couldn’t imagine either of them doing it at all. 

“Master Meriadoc,” Strider said, in his severest tones, “if you think that I have passed through the mountains and the realm of Gondor with fire and sword to bring herbs to a careless soldier who throws away his gear, you are mistaken. If your pack has not been found, then you must send for the herb-master of this House. And he will tell you that he did not know that the herb you desire had any virtues, but that it is called westmansweed by the vulgar, and galenas by the noble, and other names in other tongues more learned, and after adding a few half-forgotten rhymes that he does not understand, he will regretfully inform you that there is none in the House, and he will leave you to reflect on the history of tongues.”

Merry blinked.

“And,” Strider added, “so now must I. For I have not slept in such a bed as this, since I rode from Dunharrow, nor eaten since the dark before dawn.”

Guilt jolted through Merry and he seized Strider’s hand, kissing it. 

“I am frightfully sorry. Go at once!” he said. “Ever since that night at Bree, we have been a nuisance to you. But it is the way of my people to use light words at such times and say less than they mean. We fear to say too much. It robs us of the right words when a jest is out of place.”

Strider’s scowl dissolved into one of his rare smiles. He said, “I know that well, or I would not deal with you in the same way. May the Shire live forever unwithered!”

With that, he bent down to kiss the top of Merry’s head, then left with Gandalf. As soon as they were gone, Pippin started to laugh.

“Was there ever anyone like him? Except Gandalf, of course. I think they must be related.” 

Now entirely perplexed, Merry just stared at him.

“My dear ass,” said Pippin, “your pack is lying by your bed. He saw it all the time, of course. And anyway, I have some stuff of my own. Come on now! Longbottom Leaf it is. Fill up while I run and see about some food. And then let’s be easy for a bit. Dear me! We Tooks and Brandybucks, we can’t live long on the heights.”

Merry thought about it—about Great Smials and Brandy Hall, and Meduseld and this monumental city, about their families back home, and Boromir and Éowyn and Strider. Aragorn.

“No,” he agreed. “I can’t. Not yet, at any rate. But at least, Pippin, we can now see them, and honour them. It is best to love first what you are fitted to love, I suppose: you must start somewhere and have some roots, and the soil of the Shire is deep. Still there are things deeper and higher; and not a gaffer could tend his garden in what he calls peace but for them, whether he knows about them or not. I am glad that I know about them, a little.” Then he shook his head, clearing it. “But I don’t know why I am talking like this. Where is that leaf?”

Pippin’s armour clinked as he climbed off his stool and produced the pipe and leaves. Merry almost laughed, himself, at the sight of him, looking as near a fine soldier as any hobbit could be, but with a pipe in one hand and a little pouch of Longbottom Leaf in the other. His face must have spoken for him; Pippin wrinkled his nose and ran off to get some food.

By the time that he returned, Merry was truly ravenous, enough that he didn’t think to ask much of anything until he’d swallowed half of the meal in front of him. Then he slowed, new thoughts jabbing into his mind.

“Lady Éowyn,” he said. “Do you know what happened to her? Is she—”

“Alive,” said Pippin. “Strider brought her back, just like you. She is resting not far from here. The king and Éomer are seeing to their people, I believe.”

Merry relaxed, but Pippin had hardly spoken when his brows drew together.

“What is it?” Merry asked. 

“I don’t mean to be ungrateful,” he said slowly, “but I wish he—Strider, I mean—Aragorn—I wish he could have gotten here just a little earlier.”

Merry chewed, then swallowed. “Why is that?”

“So he could have saved Lord Denethor,” said Pippin, his face clouding over. “I swore myself to his service, in return for Boromir, and … well, because I wanted to. He fell leading the retreat against the Black Riders; he and the Prince were the only ones who could hold the soldiers together, and he got pierced by an arrow. The healers kept him alive for awhile, but not long enough. He died just after they brought you and Lady Éowyn here.”

“Oh,” said Merry, feeling rather blank. He knew of the Steward dimly, through Boromir’s proud accounts of his father, and through the message sent with the Red Arrow, which had struck him as courteous. But he thought of Théoden, and felt a burst of sympathy. “I am sorry, Pip. Was he kind to you?”

Pippin nodded, then shook his head, then just deepened his frown, looking bewildered as much as anything.

“He was strange,” he said. “More like Gandalf and Aragorn than Boromir, though not as powerful as Gandalf, I think. But the same sort of person, if that makes sense. Gandalf said Denethor could see people’s thoughts, even people far away.”

All right, not like Théoden.

“I think it was true,” Pippin added. “You’d understand if you met him.” He grew solemn again. “Not that you can. He’s gone, like Boromir. There’s only Fíriel left now.”

“Is that Boromir’s sister?” said Merry. He had even less of an idea of her, beyond a vague impression of her existence and Boromir’s affection for her. But he felt sorry for the unknown lady, nevertheless—all the more when he thought of how her brother had died. Despite everything that had happened since then, his throat tightened.

“Yes,” Pippin said, and thankfully, his smile returned. “I like her.” 

The words would have been tepid enough on paper, but Pippin pronounced them with so much fervour that Merry’s brows rose. 

“What is she like?” he asked.

Pippin tilted his head, thinking about it. In fact, he thought about it for so long that Merry might have poked him, if not for the chainmail.

“A bit Elvish,” he said at last. “She belongs to the heights, right enough—but isn’t so far-off, if you understand me. It’s hard to explain. You can talk to her, and at the same time, she … you can’t help feeling that you would do anything for her.”

He flushed a little as he spoke. Merry hid a smile. 

“Did you ask for a strand of her hair?” he said.

Pippin turned redder. “No! Don’t be absurd, Merry. It’s not like that. You’ll meet her sooner or later, and then you’ll see.”

Merry just laughed, more amused to see Pippin admiring a daughter of Men than he would have thought he could be by anything, a few hours ago.

Regardless, it seemed that he’d scarcely finished talking and smoking with Pippin when Legolas and Gimli came to see them, and they all walked and talked until he grew tired, and they told him of their (terrible!) adventures coming to Gondor. It was a pleasant way to spend an hour—but before long, the rest were all riding out to confront Sauron himself, in Mordor. 

Merry watched sadly, feeling very alone, and fearful of what might happen to them all. Pippin’s young friend led him back to the Houses of Healing, saying something meant to be reassuring, but Merry barely heard it. And in the Houses, the hours rushed inexorably on, while Merry tried to calculate the army’s progress in his head, for no messengers came, and nobody seemed to know anything about what was happening out there. But the more the time passed, the closer they had to be getting—and here he was, doing nothing.

As dreadful as he felt, it seemed like he’d only just turned around when he realized it’d been two whole days. They wouldn’t be in Mordor yet, but they’d be making progress, unless something else had gone wrong.

“Master Meriadoc! Master Meriadoc!” 

Merry turned to squint at a servant of the Houses. He’d mostly been left to his own devices, apart from the healers who insisted on examining him every day. 

“Yes?” he asked.

“If it is no inconvenience,” said the servant, “there is someone who would like to see you.”

“See me?” repeated Merry. He couldn’t imagine who would feel the slightest interest in him, except perhaps Éowyn, and he gathered that she was still recovering. “Who wants to see me?”

The servant straightened, looking proud. “The Lady Fíriel, master. She is waiting here in the Houses now, if it pleases you to speak with her.”

Merry didn’t know whether to take this as real concern for what pleased him or not, or just part of the people of Gondor’s odd way of talking.

“Well—certainly,” he said, baffled but curious. 

It wasn’t like he had anything better to do, anyway, and he didn’t want to be impolite, particularly not to Boromir’s sister. He trotted after the servant towards a wall overlooking the gardens, where a few healers and recovering soldiers were walking to and fro. He didn’t see Éowyn among them, but he did see a woman standing at the wall. He couldn’t make out much of her beyond black skirts and black hair that hung loosely down her back; still, he felt sure that she was indeed Fíriel of Gondor.

“My lady,” the servant began, and the lady turned around.

She had a pretty face, but Merry was struck less by this than by how much it resembled Boromir’s. And Aragorn’s, in some odd way that he couldn’t immediately identify—more of an air than any particular feature. 

“You must be Meriadoc,” she said.

Merry bowed, a little awkwardly; he couldn’t think of anything else to do.

“I am,” he said.

Fíriel swiftly walked over, and held out her hand, which Merry took in some confusion. She shook his in the manner of the Shire, her face lighting with a pleasant smile that only deepened her resemblance to her brother. Merry appreciated this, even while feeling a little unsettled. She was tall like Boromir, too—very tall. The Men of Gondor generally stood higher than the Rohirrim, to be sure, but though no man, she must be taller than many if not all of the Riders. Certainly more than any woman he’d seen except Lady Galadriel.

“I am Fíriel, daughter of Denethor,” she said in a low voice. “Thank you for coming.”

The servant quietly withdrew, leaving Merry and Fíriel all but alone, her gaze fixed on him. He repressed the impulse to dust off his borrowed clothes, unable to escape the feeling that her clear grey eyes saw everything there was to see about him. That, perhaps, was what reminded him of Aragorn: both the colour and a keen, intelligent attention. 

“You are, er, welcome,” he said. Even to himself, his tone seemed flat and strange.

“Perhaps you would walk with me, unless the exertion is too much,” said Fíriel.

“Oh, no,” Merry said, then flushed. “I mean, it isn’t.”

She gestured towards the steps that led down to the gardens, a certain gentle command in the gesture, and they walked together on the greensward, among the early foliage. After a minute or so of silence, she said,

“You have already done a great deal for my people, Meriadoc—more than we could ever repay. But I would ask something still further.”

He would not have said that he’d do anything for her, the way Pippin had. But Pip seemed right enough that she was a creature of the heights. Not so high as Aragorn could be, but with a more constant and immediate force of personality alongside her gentleness. It made for an agreeable but very odd impression.

“What is it, my lady?” he asked, hoping he didn’t sound rude.

“I am a healer, of sorts,” said Fíriel, which did not at all surprise him. “I have often worked in these Houses, and I wish to help those whom I can. I just met with one of these people, a person recovering in body but not in spirit, and I hoped you might be able to assist me.”

More puzzled than ever, Merry said, “Well—if I can help—but I don’t quite see how.”

“You accompanied the Lady Éowyn to Minas Tirith, I believe,” she replied. 

All at once, his confusion cleared. “Oh! Yes. Is she the one you’re trying to help?”

Fíriel nodded.

“I would like to help her,” he said frankly, “but I still don’t see how.”

“I know very little of her,” Fíriel told him. “I thought you might tell me more, so that I might better understand her malady, if you can without breaking her confidence.”

Merry was already nodding, now eager to comply. Despite how little he knew or understood Fíriel, he felt a sudden conviction that this gracious lady might indeed be able to help, if anyone could. 

“I don’t think there were any confidences,” he said, thinking it over. “Except as Dernhelm, of course, though she still didn’t tell me.”

“Dernhelm?” said Fíriel.

“That was the name she gave when she brought me with her,” said Merry, realizing how little Fíriel—or anyone here—would know of the story. Nothing, really.

So he took a deep breath, and told her everything.

---------

Notes (LOTS OF NOTES)

1) One minute he had been watching Gandalf defend Théoden: One of the underlying ideas of the verse is that canon Faramir wouldn’t be there to exercise his vaguely supernatural command over “men and beasts” in the retreat across the Pelennor, which has multiple consequences, but one of them is that there’s no pyre preventing Gandalf from joining the battle. He suggests in LOTR that he would have been able to save people in the battle if not for the pyre.

2) “I am hungry,” he announced: much of this scene is taken from the book, but of course without Merry’s mourning of Théoden.

3) a chainmail hauberk made of some black metal, and a black surcoat over it, embroidered with the symbol of a white tree: taken from the earlier description in the book.

4) Éomer was nearly as tall, like Boromir had been: UT says Éomer was of like height with Aragorn, inheriting the trait from his Gondorian grandmother, while Boromir is described in Fellowship as only a little shorter than Aragorn. In another note, Tolkien says that Aragorn would be at least 6′6″ (so potentially even taller!) and Boromir, “of high Númenórean lineage,” 6′4″. Very tall indeed to a hobbit :)

5) he bent down to kiss the top of Merry’s head: in the book, he does kiss Merry before he goes!

6) he and the Prince were the only ones who could hold the soldiers together: one of the other consequences of no canon!Faramir to do it. The fic assumes that Denethor’s avoidance of battle wouldn’t extend to a situation where he’s probably the only person who can lead against the Witch-king/Ringwraiths (with Imrahil needed for the sortie). 

7) But the same sort of person, if that makes sense: while Denethor is obviously not a Maia, we do hear in ROTK that “Pippin saw a likeness between the two,” and also that Denethor is more reminiscent of Aragorn than Boromir. 

8) I like her: Pippin’s instant love for Faramir in the book is carried over to Fíriel here.

9) A bit Elvish: in ROTK, Faramir is described as “one of the Kings of Men born into a later time, but touched with the wisdom and sadness of the Elder Race”

10) you can’t help feeling that you would do anything for her: genderbent version of “he knew now why Beregond spoke his name with love. He was a captain that men would follow, that he would follow, even under the shadow of the black wings.”

11) “Did you ask for a strand of her hair?” he said: one of the things that’s always entertained me about this verse is that Pippin’s love for Faramir basically becomes a scaled-down version of Gimli’s for Galadriel.

12) they told him of their (terrible!) adventures coming to Gondor: I didn’t feel like replicating the fairly extensive conversation they have about it in the book.

13) Pippin’s young friend: Bergil does lead Merry away in the book.

14) there is someone who would like to see you: in the book, we only hear that the Warden tells Faramir that Merry would know more of Éowyn and accordingly, “Merry was sent to Faramir” and “they talked long together.”

15) She had a pretty face: Faramir is described as having a “fair face.”

16) how much it resembled Boromir’s: from ROTK—“Pippin gazing at him saw how closely he resembled his brother Boromir.”

17) She shook his in the manner of the Shire: since Fíriel isn’t in battle, I imagine that she spent a bit more time with Pippin and picked this up.

18) a pleasant smile that only deepened her resemblance to her brother: Frodo describes Boromir’s face as “fair and pleasant” in FOTR.

19) She was tall ... very tall: Faramir is described as “very tall” in TTT and elsewhere said to strikingly resemble Denethor, who was “very tall and in appearance looked like an ancient Númenorean.” Fíriel isn’t quite as towering as Faramir (who has to stoop to kiss the forehead of the tall Éowyn), but she’s still over six feet.

20) The Men of Gondor generally stood higher than the Rohirrim: this is according to UT.

21) a keen, intelligent attention: TTT—“a keen wit lay behind his searching glance.”

22) unable to escape the feeling that her clear grey eyes saw everything there was to see about him: Faramir is generally portrayed this way, but ROTK specifically says that Faramir picks up more than Merry actually says in this scene.

23) a certain gentle command in the gesture: Faramir is described as “commanding” in TTT, but also gentle throughout.

24) Not so high as Aragorn could be, but with a more constant and immediate force of personality: ROTK says Faramir has an air “such as Aragorn at times revealed, less high perhaps, yet also less incalculable and remote.”

25) “I am a healer, of sorts”: this is necessary for Fíriel to be present at all, but I also thought that a Faramir who couldn’t be a warrior would be, in some ways, freer to follow his(her) temperamental inclinations, so it seemed pretty natural for Fíriel to be a scholar/healer. It’s “of sorts” because she does have Númenórean gifts, but they’re very different from Aragorn’s kingly healing.

26) this gracious lady: Denethor accuses of Faramir of always trying to appear lordly, generous, gracious, and gentle; my interpretation is that he (and therefore Fíriel) really is those things.