#merry lotr

[autistook]

random LOTR gifs pt ???????

[howling-medic]

Impertinence

Summary: Five times Pippin call Aragorn Strider in places he shouldn't, and the one time he didn't. With an epilogue and bonus snippet because I couldn't leave it where it ended. This is entirely unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine and mine alone.

A/N: Holy shit. This was kind of a beast to write. I also wrote it mostly while on shift, so I'm really hoping I caught all my mistakes, and it's mostly decent. I am not sure how happy with this I am, but I think it is as good as I am going to get it. If I keep agonizing over it, I'll never sleep today. So, up it goes. Also, I am too lazy to make this into multiple chapters right now. Maybe one day I will, but it is not this day. For now, there are headers at the start of each section

This whole thing came about because I mentioned to someone that I want Fourth Age content because I wanted to see Pippin being a little shit in court, and I was told emphatically that Pippin would clearly grow up and behave himself. I think that's insane. Pippin is a socially skilled class clown with a high level of intelligence. He also has zero regard for authority figures. So I wrote a whole fic about how much of a dork Pippin is and how Aragorn adores that dork - even if he a giant pain in his ass.

TW: MAJOR CHARACTER DEATH, angst, sadness, heartbreak, mentions of alcohol

WC: 7562 words (This was never intended to be this long, y'all.)

Making An Entrance

“Strider!” The shout cut through the den of the courtyard of the Citadel. King Elessar sighed fondly and turned to find Pippin jogging towards him in his road dirtied court attire. In the past two years Aragorn had learned one thing: every time the young hobbit came back to court, he would call the King by his old moniker in public at least once. Usually more. As with each time, everyone in the vicinity turned to search for the source of the disrespect to their monarch.

“Thrain Took,” Aragorn called in greeting. At the use of his title, Pippin’s ears went pink, and Aragorn laughed at the sight of the very moment the young hobbit realized his mistake. To the utter shock of any in the area who did know of Pippin or the story of the name Strider, including the Harad emissaries who had come to discuss a new trade agreement, Aragorn knelt to welcome his friend with a warm embrace. “How are you my dear friend? How was your journey?”

“Ach, I am as well as ever! The road was long, but certainly shorter than my first journey here.” Pippin was about to launch into a long winded tale of the trip and all those he and Merry saw along the way, as well as all the doings of The Shire. Aragorn could see it in the hobbit’s eyes. Just before he could open his mouth, Aragorn interjected, “And I cannot wait to hear all you wish to share. I am certain we have much to discuss politically and personally, but I do not wish to keep you from getting a bite and a bath, so go freshen yourself. Then come to my quarters for dinner.”

Pippin glanced over Aragorn’s shoulder and saw the assembled group of men waiting on his liege to return, and then he looked back to Aragorn. His lips pressed into a thin line. The group of Harad dignitaries looked utterly aghast at his apparent impudence. Aragorn shrugged nearly imperceptibly and rolled his eyes, at which Pippin’s face lit up anew. “As you wish, Strider.” Aragorn barked out a startled laugh and shook his head. 

“Fool of a Took,” he murmured and rose to return to the Harad behind him. “Gentlemen, where were we?”

“You accept such disrespect from a creature so small? Was that a child?” One of the men asked while his eyes followed the retreating form of Pippin.

“That,” Aragorn said in a voice still light with laughter while watching Pippin disappear inside the Citadel, “Was a hobbit of more renown and valor than you could imagine. His name is Peregrin Took. He is the Thrain of the Shire, and a Knight of the Citadel. He was also one of the nine of the Fellowship of the Ring. He, the others of that party, and the Thrain’s kin are the only people from whom I accept that name. So no, my lord, I suffer no disrespect, nor was that a child.” The laughter in Aragorn’s voice died, and he turned back to the group before him. “I would advise you to not disrespect hobbits in this court - particularly those who were a part of the Fellowship. They are much beloved by myself, my household, and this land.” The three assembled emissaries took a collective half step back. Looking at each of the three in turn, Aragorn found his humor and patience was spent. Silent judgment and covert murmurs about his patience with Pippin he could handle, but the incredulity in this man’s voice with no knowledge of what he spoke, of who he spoke, was not something Aragorn could not abide. “I believe we are done with negotiations for today.” He broke off for the briefest of moments and pushed aside the temptation to put these three men, the truly impudent ones in this situation, in their place in favor of remaining diplomatic. “Let us resume tomorrow for I desire to inquire after Thrain Took’s companion, Meriadoc, and hear the news of a region of my land from which I receive very little.” 

“My lord,” they said in unison. 

Aragorn took his leave. As he turned, he caught their shared look of disbelief. “Strider?” he heard one ask. “Hobbits?” another asked. “Strange land and a strange people,” the final man declared. Aragorn chuckled. Once again, he was going to have to have a word with Pippin. No matter how much more he loathed the Harads’ words, Pippin had to watch around whom he spoke in such a manner. Even if Aragorn wished it was not so.

However, later that evening as Aragorn entered the sitting room of the Royal Apartments, the earnest look of joy Aragorn saw in Pippin’s eyes when he exclaimed the name - the one given to him by an innkeeper that Aragorn once loathed - stayed his tongue. With a sigh of relief, the High King of the Reunited Kingdom lifted the winged crown from his head and placed it upon the black velvet cushion on a side table that was as near to the door as possible without blocking it. Then he did away with the heavy blue velvet cloak adorned with the crest of the House of Telcontar selected by his attendants specifically for his meeting with the Harad dignitaries. “Strider indeed, my friend,” Aragorn said with a fond chuckle. “You truly will never let that name remain in the past, will you?”

“Why ever would I?” Pippin asked. His brows furrowed in earnest confusion. “It is the name I first knew you by, and someone has to keep you grounded and your head from flying away with those wings you wear.” 

Aragorn laughed. It started as a choked back sound of surprise and devolved into a truly uproarious, booming laugh. So few dared to speak to him in such a manner that it was refreshing to hear such cheek. “Verily, and I suppose one so close to the ground would be just the person to do so?”

“Precisely! I am glad you understand!” Pippin beamed up Aragorn with mirth and mischief dancing in his eyes that spelled nothing but trouble. The Ranger of the North could not find it within himself to fret over it. 

Of Hobbits and Their Food

“Strider! Do not be absurd!” Pippin cried with his hands thrown up in exasperation. Aragorn resisted the urge to let his head fall to the wooden table before him. The assembled council looked in utter disbelief at the impudent hobbit in their midst. The annual meeting discussing each region’s harvest dragged on well past lunch and was showing no signs of stopping - despite the originally listed eleven o'clock end time for the meeting. Several regions’ summers had been unusually dry, and The Shire’s harvest outperformed all others. As a solution, one of Aragorn’s advisors proposed requisitioning a small portion of its grains and preservable legumes to help offset the dearth from the other areas of Gondor. Pippin was displeased with the notion, to say the least, and turned that displeasure to Aragorn. The King sat with his fingers steepled on the table. It was logical, but many hobbits viewed ‘Big Folks’ with intense weariness. Declaring a portion of their harvest the property of the crown would only validate that weariness and breed resentment in a fledgling political relationship. The crown was meant to protect that vulnerable region, not pilfer from them. Yet, his other territories were in a precarious position with meager stores to last the winter.

Of all the times and days to use the old nickname, this was the least ideal. Years with poor harvests led to contentious, and frequently panicked, fall assemblies of regional Lords. This assembly included many from outlying communities who did not frequently make it to court. Protesting a proposal was one thing. An outburst that - given their ignorance to the background of the familiar title - would appear to these Lords as impudence was another. Impudence they would perceive as tolerated by their King, which they would likely take to mean their King lacked control of his troops and court. Aragorn could feel every eye in the room trained on him, awaiting a response. Awaiting his rebuke to the comment. 

“Nothing has been decided Thrain Took,” Aragorn responded coldly. The emphasis he placed on Pippin’s title drew smirks from several Lords. Pippin did not flinch. 

The ever genial hobbits looked back at his friend with narrowed eyes. An unmeasured emotional outburst may have drawn the name from Pippin, but he showed no signs of being cowed that easily. “My apologies, Lord,” Pippin said bitterly. Aragorn suppressed a sigh of defeat and smile simultaneously.  

“State your case for reserving your resources. It is only right we hear your rebuttal after hearing the argument for requisitioning some of your bounty.” Aragorn’s tone took a more neutral tone. Arguments could remain behind closed doors - in places where the defiant nature of his friend would not raise eyebrows. Now was the time to draw an already overlong meeting to a close without further incident, so Aragorn could rein in his frustration for the time being. 

Pippin spoke eloquently of the need to keep The Shire’s resources within and not dispersing them, his tone turning to a dispassionate recitation of facts and history. He outlined the way they often support outlying communities like Bree and the general distrust nearly all the ‘shire folk felt’ of any situation where resources were taken in such a manner following Saruman’s abuse and subjugation. It was a persuasive case that Pippin would not have possessed the maturity to articulate five years ago when Aragorn met him in the Prancing Pony or four years ago when the hobbit first rode back to his home. The spirit and fierce protectiveness of his kin was the same, but the ability to debate over argue was a new development that Aragorn felt privileged to have witnessed. The inability to relinquish the old moniker of Strider in public seemed an enduring habit, however. 

Lunch was sent for as soon as the King left the meeting hall. Pippin sat before him with defiance radiating off him in waves. The look in his eyes was so similar to that which Aragorn saw in Rivendell when Elrond attempted to send Merry and Pippin back to the Shire instead of with the Fellowship that it nearly made him laugh at the old memory. Almost. “Peregrin Took,” Aragorn started, “We have had this conversation before.”

“Yes, and I have told you before that I am not likely to ever truly change. I may be older, and I may have fancy titles, but I am still no more than a hobbit from the Shire.”

“Is that so? Are you not a knight of the citadel and a member of this court? The designated ambassador from your land and representative of your people?” Aragorn asked, voice stern and lacking any of the humor with which he typically spoke to his friend. Even in their most heated political debates and spirited debate over old history, neither were prone to harsh tones. 

“Aye, I may be, but I am still simple folk. Unschooled in court and prone to gaffs.” Pippin’s protest held no water, and he knew it. Five years of serving in the court as Thrain of the Shire left him well schooled in court affairs - even if he traded on his humble, rural appearance and accent frequently in court dealings.  

“You know it causes a stir throughout the whole of the court each time you do that?” Aragorn asked sharply. “It reflects on how I manage my advisors and troops. I know things change slowly in The Shire, if they change at all, but are you so incapable of change yourself? Can you do as your King and liege lord commands in this, if you won’t do it for your friend?”

Pippin visibly deflated as Aragorn spoke. His shoulders drooped and his eyes fell to the cluttered desk before him. “Aye, Strider. That I can do. So long as I can still call you as I ever think of you out of earshot of those who fuss about such odd things.” Aragorn softened then. As I ever think of you. The simple statement drew a lopsided smile to his face that was reminiscent of the first night he met Pippin in Bree, the one that played across his face each time the four hobbits impressed him with their boldness in the face of fear and peril and each time they showed their heart and wisdom along their long journey. “Do you still see old Strider in me? You did once promise to ground me in that version of myself, did you not?”

“That I did, and that I do. You may wear fancy clothes and bathe regularly now, so your old rascally look is gone, but that does not mean you are not the rascal I first met. How many times do I have to tell you this?”

“I dare say it will be many times yet in the years we spend together. I find less and less of the Ranger in myself each day I spend in these stone halls.” “Do you not sneak out anymore? Slip past your guards and flee to the woods?” Pippin asked.

“Not in many months. I have been tied to this desk long into the night, and when I am not I am with the little ones. It also seems that many people who have no right to an opinion on the matter feel rather strongly that I ought not to ever be anywhere without a guard.”

“Would it please my lord to escape this evening then?”

“Did we not just say that we need not use titles away from listening ears?” Aragorn inquired through a laugh.

“That we did, but I am still an ass and a Fool of a Took after these many years. I shall do as I please behind closed doors and do as you please beyond them,” Pippin answered simply and grinned.

“I suppose I can abide that,” Aragorn replied and fell silent for a moment. “I do believe an escape into the woods sounds like a wonderful idea - plus none can protest that I will be unprotected with a Knight of Gondor at my side.” 

“Excellent! Then let's settle the matter of the Shire’s crops, so we have no work to haggle over while we are beneath the stars…Strider.”

Feasts are for celebrating

It was the Midsummer’s Feast, and all the remaining members of The Fellowship, their spouses, Éomer, Lothíriel, Éowyn, and Faramir sat at the head table. A few notable dignitaries from Aglarond and Legolas’s kin in Ithilien had also been designated seats of honor with the tightly knit group of nobility. Eight years into the Fourth Age left the lands prosperous and healing. Areas that had long since not seen inhabitants were being rebuilt. Maps were being redrawn with each passing year because they lacked new settlements. That was a struggle all were thrilled to have. 

Eight years of retelling stories, however, meant they only still possessed roots in the truth. With each new recitation details were exaggerated anew. Drama was added. Some events were simply fabricated from nowhere. Some were far guiltier of these transgressions than others. Pippin was fairly notorious throughout the Reunited Realm for embellishments - especially when the wine and ale flowed freely as it did at feasts. As it was at this Midsummer’s Feast. “Strider! Strider!” Pippin called from halfway down the table. The guests of honor from abroad, who were seated next to Pipped, gaped at the hobbit who had already shared many fascinating tales that evening. “I was rather indisposed with dancing and singing, and you were the only one with Frood at the time in the Prancing Pony. Could you tell us the story of what you saw - or didn’t see, for that matter - in the tavern when he disappeared? These lovely gentlemen from Aglarond have not heard that story yet, seeing as we had not yet met Gimli!” 

Each person well acquainted with Pippin, and his propensity to forget proper etiquette, looked around the table and then to Aragorn. Every feast it happened eventually, no matter how many times Pippin was lectured, and each time his friends reacted the same. Aragorn was beginning to wonder if Pippin acted as he did simply to get a rise out of those around him. Someone has to keep you grounded and your head from flying away with those wings you wear echoed in Aragorn’s mind as he watched the familiar sight of the friends he called family react anew to Pippin’s antics. Faramir grumbled something incoherent into his glass of wine, for which Éowyn promptly kicked his shin. Éomer snorted out a rather undignified choked laugh. Lothíriel glared at him. Merry groaned into his hands to muffle the sound. Legolas pressed his lips into a thin line to hide a smile. Sam shook his head in dismay. Rosie giggled into her napkin. Gimli had no such compunctions and chuckled rather loudly. Diamond sighed and looked apologetically at Arwen. Arwen visibly fought back laughter. Aragorn, donning the Winged Crown and Star of Elendil, pinched the bridge of his nose, sighed, and proceeded to give a full recount of the events in the Prancing Pony the first night he met the hobbits. That retelling quickly led to several more tales shared - and debated. Tales of travels and battles, and all the embarrassing mishaps and pranks along the way. The formality of the night quickly devolved, and strict court manners gradually faded from each of the friends. 

After a few more glasses of wine and ale, Pippin was far from the only one at the table who had their fun at the expense of the King sitting at the head of the table. Merry recounted the time Aragorn “mercilessly taunted me while I was ailing in the Houses of Healing! I had just stabbed the Witch King himself, if you’ll believe it, and here was my friend telling me I had lost my gear that was sitting by the bed the whole time!” Gimli and Legolas shared many tales of their time as ‘The Three Hunters’. The one that earned Gimli the most laughter was the abject horror of being awoken well before dawn only for Aragorn to lay himself flat on the ground for “nearly a whole age of men” to declare many horses were nearby…only for Legolas to be able to see them on the horizon and correctly count them. Éomer was all too happy to chime in that Legolas had been only three riders off on his count, before adding his own note on how he nearly killed all three of them on sight. He then apologized to Merry and Pippin, for easily the hundredth time, for almost inadvertently killing them while killing the band of orcs who had captured them. 

By the end of the night, King Elessar doffed his ceremonial headwear and pulled out his pipe. Once he lit it, he tossed a bag of pipeweed to Pippin with a grin and a nod. The court gaped at the King who had turned into a Ranger before their eyes, though many who had seen this mood take their Lord before just chuckled. Aragorn looked around and grinned. They could gape and murmur, for this night was a celebration of all that had been hard won, and the uncouth and unendingly frustrating hobbit gesturing wildly while telling all there was to know of the Battle of Isengard and the Final March of the Ents won much of their bounty back for them. Tonight needed no lecture. 

Joyous News

Nearly silent feet padded down the hallway outside Aragorn’s office. Had Aragorn not spent several decades around hobbits, and a decade listening for that sound in his own palace, he never would have heard it. Pippin had been in Minas Tirith for only two days, and mischief was already afoot apparently. “Stri-” Pippin started and skidded to a halt, and his jaw snapped shut. “My Lord,” he began again and then addressed the Captain- General standing before Aragorn’s desk. “My sincerest apologies to you both,” he mumbled. Glee still danced in the hobbit’s eyes despite the faint hue of pink on his cheeks. “I will come back later. I did not mean to interrupt.” 

“Peregrin,” the officer said and gestured him into the office, “join us. There is clearly news to be shared. Do not let me keep you from it.”

“Sire, please. I mean no offense, but this is news I need to tell Str- King Elessar alone.” Pippin caught himself midway through the old nickname. When he did, he looked up at Aragorn rather abashedly - the pink dusting to his cheeks darkening. Rarely did Pippin truly feel shame for breaking proper court etiquette, but breaking rank in front of his superior military officers was one of few things for which he felt ashamed, however. His place within the army was more ceremonial than anything else at this point, but he drilled each time he came to court and practiced with any those he could at home. It was a matter of pride that he maintained his skills. The practice of going through his drills kept the memory of Boromir alive, and Pippin meant to honor his promise to Denethor to serve Gondor until his dying breath in repayment of his debt for Boromir’s death.

Aragorn sighed and rose from his seat. He was not escaping the back and forth of deference that was brewing between these two. Pippin had already derailed the meeting and taken the focus off the report of Southrond raiding parties harrying several outlying communities. “Captain-General, if you would please excuse us for the briefest of moments. Clearly something urgent of a personal nature has come up, but I will return shortly.” Aragorn’s voice was tight, but he motioned towards the side door that led to a private side room off the office. Pippin shuffled in behind Aragorn. The embarrassment at his multiple slips of the tongue were gone from Pippin’s face when Aragorn turned to face him. All that remained was a grin that stretched from ear to ear. “What on all of Arda is going on? And did no page or guard inform you I was in a meeting?” Aragorn asked.

“Well, as for pages and guards…no, but I did not really give them a chance to stop me either, for all my excitement.” “Then out with it, man!” Aragorn laughed, shaking his head with disbelief and amusement alike. His aggravation was quickly waning in the face of Pippin’s delight.

“I’m going to be a father! Diamond is pregnant!” Pippin exclaimed. 

The Captain-General standing on the other side of the thin wall with his urgent report no longer held even a fraction of his importance as he had moments before. Aragorn dropped to his knees to embrace Pippin. Aragorn’s lingering annoyance at the interruption and Pippin’s continued struggle to keep the name Strider behind closed doors was forgotten. “Well, that is a worthy reason to interrupt a meeting - and a reason to celebrate!”

“I would say so! Though, had I known you were otherwise engaged, I would have at least waited in the hall. It’s not as though the bairn is not going anywhere just yet.”

“No, indeed, but I will gladly be interrupted for joyous news, my good hobbit.” Aragorn looked to the door and then back to Pippin. “I have to hear this last report, but go find Arwen and Diamond. I think we are all done working for the day. It is time to celebrate a new generation of Tooks.” As Pippin turned to leave, Aragorn added, “But Pippin, you have to let the staff stop you next time even if I welcome interruptions for good news - and please, after ten years, stop calling me Strider while we are working.”

“As you wish, Strider!” Pippin called halfway out the door. Aragorn groaned and shook his head, gesturing for the Captain-General to take the seat across from the desk.

“Do not ask, for I have neither the time nor the energy to explain,” Aragorn said in answer to the inquisitive look the man gave him.

Infrastructure of the Fourth Age

“It will never work, Strider,” Pippin interrupted in the middle of Aragorn’s explanation of his plan to dig new wells in the lower levels and outlying communities surrounding Minas Tirith as the city’s population outgrew the confines of its walls - and the limits of their water supply. Most of the assembled advisors, craftsmen, and lords present were well used to the behavior of the Thrain of the Shire. However, Several were not, and they looked wide eyed between the King and his Knight. Aragorn looked at the ceiling as though he expected to find an answer to the riddle of Pippin’s behavior there. There was none. Strictly speaking, he was not even needed or invited to this meeting, but he had a habit of poking his head into court sessions that were not pertinent to his duties or position. 

“Thrain Took. Please. I welcome your thoughts and opinions, but I cannot abide your interruptions or use of familiar names during council meetings. We have discussed this at length,” Aragorn said sternly once he looked back at the hobbit and after a long sigh.

“My apologies, your majesty, but I do not beg your pardon. You cannot hold this old hobbit at fault. I simply forget myself in my advanced age,” Pippin said. The room stilled. Aragorn laughed despite himself. At one point, he hoped and expected Pippin to mellow as he aged, but the opposite proved to be the case. Each year the hobbit became bolder, but he was savvier about it. There were few times, however, where he sounded much like his younger self. 

“I have heard that excuse before from an old hobbit in Rivendell who blamed senility for gaffs. I did not believe him then, just as I do not believe you now,” Aragorn said and smirked.

“You may choose to believe me or not as you wish,” Pippin said with a shrug, “but that does not change the fact that I think this plan is entirely foolish and ill conceived - and I agreed to march on the Black Gates with you. And that was a plan with near certainty of death and small chance of success. This, I would wager, has no chance of success.” A few of the younger people in attendance gasped. Most of the older council members laughed under their breath. Pippin matched Aragorn’s smirk and did not flinch. This was the level of pointed discussion they reserved for Aragorn’s study and had over a bottle of wine. However, Aragorn had not shared this plan with Pippin - as it truly was not a plan that impacted the hobbit in any fashion, nor did it seem a plan that would interest him. Apparently, he should have.

“And do you have another suggestion then, Thrain Took?”

“As a matter of fact, yes,” Pippin declared in a smug tone with a grin to match. “We just had to manage the exact same issue in Hobbiton - granted we lack the many levels and such owing to most hobbits not even handling homes with second stories well, let alone a city of multiple levels with buildings of even more levels - but good ol’ Merry and some of Legolas’ elves came up with a brilliant way to reroute some of the water from the Brandywine to make new distributaries! I think we may need to do the same here.”

“And why would wells not work as they always have?” Aragorn challenged, but his words held no heat, nor did he ask unkindly. There was an elegance to the idea Pippin was proposing, and Aragorn was keen to hear it. Now came to the political jockeying needed to sell opposition to one of Pippin’s less tactical rebukes of a plan proposed by Aragorn. “How in the world do you think you are going to find new well sites that nobody in the history of this city has found? Are you going to go digging up roads all over the first and second level? No. You most certainly aren’t. Instead you can reroute some small distributaries off the Anduin to create a water source in the outlying communities and then work with Gimli and the other dwarves of Aglarond on a system for running that source up to the first and second levels. They have to have a system for it in their caves.”

“Master Thrain,” Aragorn said flatly.

“Yes, my lord?” Pippin asked.

“I am commissioning you back into my service for this project. You are now the lead on it. But, Peregrin, do not interrupt me like that or address me so in any of the meetings on it again.”

“I shall do as my lord bids me,” Pippin said. The smug grin on his face had never faded for a moment. The old members of the council rolled their eyes, and the young ones still gaped at him. Aragorn sighed and shook his head once again. 

Sounds You Miss

Years dragged on and Aragorn found the gift of his long life became a curse once again. His friends were aging before his eyes while he stayed ever young. Sam sailed after Rosie passed away. Éomer died in the autumn two years before. The men of Aragorn’s guard when he first took the throne were dead or fading before his eyes. Their sons served him now. This was not the first generation of men that had passed before his eyes, but this was the first he had spent the majority of in one place, the first he tied himself to closely. 

Aragorn sat upon his throne and attempted to focus on the day’s open court. Truly, he put a valiant effort towards it, but his mind refused to bend to his will. The citizens of Gondor brought their woes, struggles, and strife to him once a week - more often if he could manage it- and he always listened intently. He did his best to resolve each issue that came before him, and he was known for his attentiveness and benevolence amongst his subjects. Today he simply could not manage to keep his focus trained upon the proceedings. It was instead in the building nearly directly below him where Merry and Pippin had resided for some time now. Neither were well. The ravages of age spared none of the mortal beings of Middle Earth, no matter how desperately those who would outlive them wished it to be otherwise. Their aged bodies looked like shadows of the young hobbits Aragorn had once known. Merry struggled to use his right arm no matter how Aragorn strove to heal it. Pippin fared far worse. His lungs failed him frequently, and his knees plagued him with pain. Despite it all, they still insisted on coming up to the citadel for nearly every meal, and their spirits were high as ever. Age and weariness could not diminish those, nor could it quiet their laughter. Withered as he was, Pippin continued to be as unruly as in his youth. Except for the past few days. Of late, He seemed distant - like he had one foot beyond this land. 

Heavy boots thundered down the hallway towards the throne room. Aragorn tensed. All eyes turned to face the source of the sound. Eldarion came to a skidding halt before his father. He faced King Elessar red in the face and panting. “Pippin?” Aragorn asked. His voice was already thick and choked with tears. His son need not answer. Lest peril had befallen his siblings or mother, there was nothing that would have made him run so. All the same, Eldarion nodded. Aragorn rose slowly from his seat and composed himself enough that he hoped his voice would not shake. “Court is adjourned for the day.” His voice held an air of finality which none dared defy. “Please see the Master of Ceremony on your way out, and he will take note of that which you came to address. When I am able, I will review all issues submitted. Now I must attend to a matter that I fear cannot wait.” With instructions given, Aragorn stepped down from the throne and moved as hastily as he could without looking entirely undignified through the crowd of subjects, but as soon as he was out of sight of the main hallways and corridors, he was running.

The air in Bair Nestad felt stifling. There was a tension that could have been sliced through by a sword. Every healer stepped aside wordlessly and bowed their heads as Aragorn made his way to Pippin’s room. Typically, he was greeted with warm smiles entering this space, and not infrequently he offered aid or advice. Not this day, however. The scene that greeted Aragorn on the other side of the door brought him up short. Merry - old and stiff as he was - was seated cross legged on the too big bed. Tears ran silently down his cheeks while he dabbed at Pippin’s forehead with a wet towel. The younger hobbit’s face was pale. Far paler than he had been even the night before. A cough had plagued him for weeks, but he had continued to claim all was well. Now his lips had gone blue. Even the sound of heavy footsteps did not rouse Pippin. “The fever took him in the night. Didn’t tell a soul,” Merry said without prompting, “he can’t catch his breath anymore.”

At the sound of Merry’s voice, Pippin’s eyes opened slowly. His gaze was unfocused and distant until he saw Aragorn. At the sight, his face broke into a weak smile, but before he could say a word a coughing fit that wracked his entire frail body overtook him. “Let me go fetch some herbs. We can treat the fever and soothe the cough,” Aragorn began, but Pippin shook his head with what little strength he could muster.

“There is nothing left to try,” he croaked. His voice was so faint that it could barely be heard even in the silent room. “Just come sit with me, my old friend.” Aragorn sighed. Every part of him yearned to fight the invisible foe that plagued Pippin. This was no battle that could be won with Andúril, nor yet by all the trainings of Elrond in the days of his youth. This battle was the same one that destroyed the Númenoreans and nearly decimated Gondor itself. It was one with no victory. The battle against time and age. 

“As you wish,” Aragorn answered reluctantly after several seconds.

Aragorn sat beside Pippin for hours. There was idle chatter here and there. Sometimes with Merry while Pippin slept. Every once and a while, he would wake, and the three friends would recount the old days, rather Merry and Aragorn retold Pippin’s favorite stories to him with Pippin correcting them when they forgot the fabrications he added over the years. Eldarion and all those who had come to love the Thrain over the years came by to say their goodbyes. The King never left his Knight’s side. Eventually Pippin let him send for Athelas to ease the pain that came with each coughing fit. It comforted all who sat vigil, and the tension lessened in Pippin’s face while it brewed beside him. The room smelled of the woods of The Shire, and when Pippin first smelled it, he smiled and sighed. “Home…would that I could see it once more.”

“Maybe you can, Pip! We might be able to take one last grand adventure yet!” Merry tried to make the words sound hopeful, but they came out hollow.

“I think the only adventure that awaits me, old Merry, is whatever comes next. If you do make it back to The Shire, tell Faramir I love him for me. I’ll tell Sam and Frodo ‘hello’ for you, when I get wherever I am going - if they ever went there, that is.” Pippin’s words were weak. 

With each time he woke, his gaze became more distant. Both Merry and Aragorn clung tightly to his hands as though they could keep their friend with them for even a few extra moments if they just held on tight enough.

“Merry lad,” Pippin murmured at length. 

“Yeah, Pip?”

“I don’t know if I ever thanked Treebeard for making me the tallest hobbit on record. Could you do that for me, please?” Both Merry and Aragorn laughed through the tears rolling down their cheeks.

“I think I can manage that, but I think he knows you are grateful to him for it. Don’t worry about that just now.”

“I wish I could see him again. Him and Quickbeam. They are such odd fellows. And Bombadill. We never would have made it home without them.”

“We will make sure they all know they were on your mind,” Aragorn said gently and had to swallow down the lump forming in his throat.

“We never could have made it home without you either, and to think we almost didn’t trust you to go with us at all.”

“Well, don’t go counting me in that tally, Pip. I wasn’t there to not trust him, remember?” Pippin laughed. The sound came out more as a wheeze that caused him to start coughing once more. His lips were even more blue than when Aragorn first reached the Houses of Healing, and Pippin’s fingers were cold in his hand. “But I won’t fight your revisions - just this one time,” Merry added as an afterthought.

“Our King and protector from the day we met you,” Pippin said. A smile graced his features, and for just one last moment Aragorn could see the young hobbit that asked him about second breakfast, and then Pippin’s eyes fell closed for the final time. The name Strider seemed to hang in the air, but Aragorn never heard it again. 

Epilogue:

Pippin laid in state for a week. Tradition stated he be laid to rest in his uniform, but Merry insisted he wear his favorite coat and scarf, and so it was. At Aragorn’s insistence, Pippin’s livery lay folded at his feet to carry his honor with him wherever this last journey took him. Aragorn would not dream of laying Pippin to rest in his uniform either. He was a hobbit of The Shire foremost and a soldier second, but he fought valiantly. He needed that honor to stay with him. His sword, in true warrior’s fashion, was placed upon his breast. It was an odd picture: the bright colors of a hobbit’s traditional dress paired with the barrow blade. It felt fitting for the hobbit who caused trouble everywhere he went. Aragorn could think of nothing that would bring Pippin more joy than to know he caused a ruckus in court even in his death.

Mourners lined up all the way down to the fifth level to bid farewell to Ernîl Pheriannath. Each day the queue would begin at sunrise, and each day they came to lay flowers at the base of the bed upon which he rested and say their final goodbyes. A mere few hours before Pippin’s funeral, Aragorn stood before him. Aragorn wore no royal finery - hadn’t since he returned to his chambers from Bair Nestad - instead he wore the same clothes he wore the very first night he met the hobbits in Bree. The coat had more patches and the shirt was more threadbare than that night, but it mattered not. They were more treasured to Aragorn than any ceremonial tunic and cloak. No other hand mended them, not even Arwen. Now more than ever before they felt sacred. A last anchor to the Ranger of the North to which Pippin swore to serve as anchor. 

Each time Aragorn thought he could cry no more tears, more welled in his eyes. Now he wept openly. The sobs rang off the stone walls. It was not the first time in the past week he found himself in this position. The first night Merry found him there, and they cried together. When there were no tears left in either of them, they took a bottle of elven wine to the outer wall and drank and shared stories until the sun rose.

This night nobody came, and Aragorn was glad for it. Anger held his heart as much as grief. Blessed with long life, they said. It was no blessing to watch nearly all he held dear fade before his eyes. It was a curse greater than any he could fathom. There were only so many friends one man could lay to rest and watch sail away from him. Each time Aragorn stood before a crowd and spoke of the courageous deeds of those he fought beside and journeyed with it felt like his world shrunk that much more. Pippin left the world far smaller than his small stature accounted for and quieter than Aragorn could have ever predicted. At each turn he expected to hear “Strider!” called from down the hall followed by the sound of small bare feet slapping the stone. 

With a shaky step, Aragorn stepped up to Pippin. For just a moment, Aragorn saw the hobbit as he was during the War of the Ring: a young hobbit asleep in a bed roll who needed to be roused for another day on the march. A simpler time - albeit infinitely more perilous. A time before Aragorn wore the weight of the winged crown. “Strider I shall ever remain, my dear hobbit, ere I draw my last breath. I shall not let the wings of my crown fly me away from my roots.”

Bonus:

Aragorn never experienced the Sea Longing of the elves, but he knew when it was time to lay himself down for his final rest. His body did not move as it once did, and he was weary. This world no longer held him like it once did. When the time came, he said his goodbyes and felt no regrets. Arwen asked one last time for him to say, but Middle Earth was no longer his home. Aragorn had given every piece of himself to it. To saving it. Rebuilding it. Nurturing it. Growing it. His time had come to an end. When Aragorn shut his eyes for the last time, rest took him quickly, and at last he was at peace. 

He tried to roll over and shield himself from the light to sleep a few more minutes, but then his mind caught up to what he had just done. Aragorn’s eyes snapped open, and he was forced to blink against the brightness until his eyes adjusted to light around him. It seemed to have no clear source. He was laying in an unfamiliar bed. The room was nondescript and unadorned with no windows. Aragorn sat on the edge of the bed, assessing the situation. An open door faced him with an even brighter hallway beyond it. With no other clear option, he slid on the boots beside him. The feel of the old leather brought a smile to his face. Then he grabbed the familiar green leather jacket laying on the end of the bed, and walked out into the hallway. 

One end of the hall was a dead end and the other was the source of all the light. It was a blindingly bright glow that obscured any terminus. Aragorn faced it and concluded that was the only way he was supposed to go. With a sigh, he set out to whatever lay beyond. As he neared the light, it resolved into a large, open corridor with many hallways branching off of it. Aragorn looked from one direction to the other and froze. His eyes flitted from side to side. Anxiety seized him. Just as he was about to choose a direction at random, the sound of small, bare, running feet came echoing down the hall on his left. Aragorn froze. He refused to feel hopeful. Refused to look. “Strider!” a familiar voice cried from his left. Aragorn’s breath caught in his throat. Fifty three years he had waited to hear that voice say the name that had hung in the air since after he died. “Strider!” he called again, and Aragorn turned to see Pippin barreling towards him at a pace the hobbit had not been able to run for many years. He looked just as he had that first night in Bree down to his jacket and scarf. 

“Pippin,” Aragorn sobbed and fell to his knees just in time to catch Pippin in his arms. “My dear, dear hobbit. How I have missed hearing you call that name.”

“Did you manage to stay firmly on the ground, or did those wings you wore fly you away? I hoped I reminded you who you are enough times before I left you, but I have fretted a few times that I didn’t quite do enough.”

Aragorn shuffled back from Pippin enough to take a good look at him and shook his head in disbelief. “You did plenty enough to remind me who I am, but I hope I never have to go without hearing you call my name - whichever you want at any time and in any place - ever again.”

“Well, you are in luck, Strider. As it turns out, we hobbits go the same place men do, and everyone is waiting for you.”

A/N: So I made myself cry like 17 times writing the last parts of this thing. I apologize for the pain, but I hope you enjoyed!

///////////////////////////Tagging those who liked my original post//////////////////

@wisheduponastar

@stayindraw

@randalekobolt

@emmbethsstuff

@salivary-gland

@softboiledwonderland

@denerturee

@thetempleofthemasaigoddess

@xkingevelynx

@mysterious-dark-blue-ocean

@hastyhobbit

@elenna-elrondiel

@gentlegentian

@crazymissbaggins

@thelittletobsterthatcould

@scholarlyhobbit

@unwordy

[stargatesimp]

I had a dumb meme idea

[im-secretly-a-frog]

Thinking about what hobbits think of shoes.

They don't wear them, they've never needed them. Hobbits rarely venture outside their hometowns, and their hometowns are populated exclusively by Hobbits in most cases (correct me if I'm wrong) so most of them never see shoes in their lives.

So, therefore, would they be freaked out by shoes? Would they simply accept this as a weird thing that outsiders do? Like I feel like Merry and Pippin would have bothered their traveling companions with questions about them. "What are you wearing on your feet?" "Why are you wearing those?" "Are your feet weak?"

And then Sam would just assume that those ARE their feet. He would be so freaked out as soon as someone took off their shoes, but he wouldn't mention it to anyone but Frodo. Frodo, being the way he is would have figured out exactly what shoes are and what they're for, though he would still be perplexed as to why anyone would need them, and he would try to explain to Sam. Sam of course would still be freaked out, but would believe him.

I've spent far too long thinking about this.

[strawberrysnscreams]

Not me getting confused between Merry and Pippin while finding pics of them 💀

(Legolas one coming next 💚)

[welikeimagines-andfandoms]

Characters who give off ‘golden retriever boyfriend who loves their goth girlfriend’ vibes

[couldpolyamorysavethem]

ÉOWYN, FARAMIR, and MERIADOC "MERRY" BRANDYBUCK from THE LORD OF THE RINGS

Justification:

"Eowyn had two hands" - Anonymous

[falkreath-stables]

Unlike other characters in the LOTR trilogy for some reason the movie adaptation of Merry and Pippin was completely different to what I imagined while reading? For me I always imagined Pippin as quite feminine (???) for some reason with wispy short hair and long eye lashes, and Merry who (up until they actually leave the Shire) wore lace all of the time(?) although this isn't as strange a idea as my justification was that the Brandybucks were shown to be terribly rich. Merry also had long eye lashes but those imposing blond ones that you sometimes get.

Images to illustrate my point:

(Left: the feminine version of Pippin I imagined. Right: Merry in his dapper lace shirt)

[sarafangirlart]

Gorgophone and Perieres:

Gorgophone and Oebalus:

[maccreadysbaby]

part i ; chapter iii

❝ semblance of starlight ❞

all chapters linked here

⚔︎

THREE DAYS INTO THE JOURNEY, AND ADAVERA WAS ENTERING MIRKWOOD.

The winding, dark paths that cut through the large forest were how they always were... dark, grim, and unnerving enough to keep away even the darkest of creatures that lurked outside its borders. Adavera had been to the wood elves' domain a few times on previous business, but, with its nearness to Dale, she never stayed any longer than she had to. The wood had a way of making her vision tunnel and skin crawl after too much time spent inside. 

During her first journey into the dreaded forest, she was revisited by hallucinations of the broken, battered, and blood-ridden bodies of past targets, looking just as she'd left them, but standing, watching her, whispering things of unintelligible speech. Cepheus ended up having to lead Adhara through the forest via whistles, for Adavera was too incoherent to ride. 

She swore off Mirkwood for a good while after that.

This time, she was pleased to say, she was only passing through.

The massive, winding trees reached far up in the sky, their large, dark leaves keeping the morning sunrise from reaching the forest floor. It created this type of veil that kept the wood separated from the rest of the world -- trapping its own darkness inside to fester and broil into something intoxicating, volatile. Adavera could feel it each time she stepped into Mirkwood, and each time, it was a little heavier. Denser. Colder.

Adavera's company seemed affected by the darkness very minimally, or, in Cepheus's case, not at all. Elves had a strange way of seeing through the thickness that laid over the sick forest. Adavera couldn't explain it, but she knew it were true, seeing as the woodland elves continued to live within the borders even as the forest grew more and more ill.

She wondered what made man so much... weaker.

Adhara, like the good horse she was, was mostly unbothered by the aura the forest gave off. While she had been a little hesitant and antsy upon first entering the wood, she was getting into a groove now — and sticking to the elves' path seemed to help. The trails were typically difficult for non-elvish horses, but they seemed clearer, somehow, like a group had trodden on them in the very near past. The beautiful red horse, a horse of Dale, no less, was doing a good job staying focused and moving at a steady pace.

Adavera, now adorned with her cloak, a leather belted scabbard, and a dagger sheath on her left thigh, looked nothing short of someone ready for battle. Which she would have to be, should she come face to face with any inhabitants of the wood. Animal or elven. 

The deeper into the forest she went, the more her brain fogged. She tried to focus solely on Adhara's hoof-falls, the pat-pat-pat of her steps. She hadn't been in the forest but for a few hours -- and, yet, she could already feel the darkness building on her skin like a dust-storm. Threads of the sickness floating though the air, slithering into her ears, coiling around her brain. A certain familiar coldness settled in her hands and feet. 

But onward she went, for she could not delay if she wished to reach the heir to Gondor before he arrived in Rivendell.

Adavera trodded onward, carried forward by nothing more than a little confidence and sheer force of will. She knew Cepheus was traveling alongside her, even if she couldn't see him. He could lead herself and Adhara to safety should she become incapacitated like the first time. The black-haired elf was hidden amongst the trees, slinking along, undetectable. Adavera wasn't sure where he'd learned that level of stealth -- but she did know he'd been doing it for much longer than she'd been alive. Maybe she could evade the darkness pooling in her fingertips, if she were like him.

She continued to watch Adhara's hooves to distract herself -- to think about the job at hand. Reminding herself of the young Lord's appearance, of the path she would take to intercept him, of how she would carry out the job should he make it to Rivendell before her. 

Adhara chuffed as her hooves dug into some sturdy-but-slick mud, her front-left hoof sliding before it found purchase in an imprint previously left in the wet earth. The horse soon found her footing again, and it took Adavera uncomfortably too long to brush the cobwebs from her brain and realize that these weren't just fortunate imprints Adhara was using to walk in. They were the large, round prints of elvish horses, dug deep into the dirt and mud. Adavera looked up, her eyes bouncing around the trail -- she caught sight of  broken sticks on the undergrowth that lined the path, and plants stamped down into the dirt, indications of swiftly-moving, recently-passing steeds.

Adavera leaned forward and stroked Adhara's mane, trying her best to blink away the fog. "The elves have been moving," She whispered with an exhale, "Urgently. Keep your eyes sharp, darling. I will do likewise. These forests are not for the faint of heart."

Adhara chuffed, stamping one of her feet. Adavera smiled lightly and patted her neck. "Of all the hearts of horses, yours is the least faint of all."

Adhara settled back into a pleased trot.

Suddenly, a whistle pierced the air — rhythmic and melodious and precise, like a long-forgotten bird. 

Adavera and Adhara both perked up, the former's gaze training solely on the dark, whispering forest around them. Like a predator in search of prey, she paused Adhara in her tracks to scan the woods for signs of life.

All she saw was darkness -- winding trees, creeping plants, the small shimmer of the sun far above, and darkness.

That particular whistled melody, tedious and delicate as it was, was no bird. That particular melody was Cepheus, and that particular melody meant that someone was approaching.

From behind.

Adhara chuffed, her head swinging to look around in alarm. Adavera stroked her mane again, urging her onward at a quicker pace. "Stay vigilant, my darling. We'll have come out of the other side in just ere of a week."

Adhara didn't seem to calm, as she kept peering around at her surroundings thanks to the unsettling whistle. It was just then that a new sound met Adavera's ears -- the beating of hooves, coming up quick at their rear. Very quick.

With a soft inhale, she reached subtly toward the daggers that were strapped to her thigh and kept Adhara moving, urging her faster. She listened closely to the hoof-falls behind, trying to decipher the distance, the speed.

Another bird whistle came, melodic and fluttery as the first, but more urgent -- the rider was only one stone's throw away. Which meant, if it were an elf, they could see her.

As the approaching rider grew nearer, Adavera veered Adhara off the path and into the thicker brush beyond. She pulled one of her daggers from its sheath and kept it beneath her cloak, spinning it between her fingertips like a card in the hand of a magician -- a twitch of anticipation, like a bull huffing and scraping the ground before a charge. Most would see it as her being jittery, nervous; Adavera saw it as the wind-up to a perfectly accurate knife-throw.

As the loud hoof-falls came to a climax, a silky, dazzling white horse thundered by as though it were late for something. Its rider was undeniably an elf. They were dawning a silver cloak and long, flowing platinum hair. The horse was moving quick, but Adavera managed to catch sight of a bow and quiver strung across their back, and the horse's carefully crafted saddle -- which was quite unusual, seeing as elves typically preferred to ride bare-back. That either meant that this particular elf wasn't a very good rider, or they wanted more control over their steed for a swift, urgent journey.

Merely five or six yards ahead, the horse whinnied and bucked up onto its hind legs as its rider tugged on the reins. Adavera clung tightly to her dagger, moving Adhara slowly, deeper into the underbrush.

Unsurprisingly, the rider's elvish gaze landed on her anyways.

"If your goal is to remain undetected-" The elf started, in a soft, strangely fluttery tenor tone that indicated it was, in fact, a male. "-it would be in your best interest to veer from the path before a second rider approaches. I have been watching your horse for just ere of ten minutes."

Adavera, keeping her dagger tight in her hand, slowly nudged Adhara out of the underbrush and back onto the dark path. The elf's icy blue eyes followed her all the way. Even beneath the canopy of illness inducing forest, he still managed to catch the golden glimmer of sun and starlight that elves always seemed to have. His platinum hair, twisted out of his face by intricate, dainty braids was very nearly glowing in the darkness of the wood. His white horse, silver cloak, and unblemished skin were doing likewise. He made no moves to grab his bow, though Adavera kept her dagger close; as elves, nimble and agile, could go from unarmed to releasing an arrow before she could blink. Especially woodland elves.

And for some reason that she couldn't quite place through her permanent brain fog, Adavera knew this one's face.

"I was unaware who was approaching," She replied lightly, keeping her eyes trained on the elf's hands, should he make a move for his weapon. "So you have spotted me; now be on your way."

On the contrary to her words, his horse shimmied closer, which had Adhara chuffing and scraping at the dirt beneath her with her hoof. The elf's eyes were trained on something at Adavera's torso -- she shifted uncomfortably.

"Your dagger," He started, eyes flicking up and back down. "You've come from Dale."

Adavera glanced down, and quickly realized her dagger was slightly visible past the hem of her cloak. The engravings on the blade were more than a telltale sign of her origins -- for the dragon Smaug had been skillfully embedded in the blade, along with a rune of old. 

"What of it?" She questioned.

"It is not often a lone rider from Dale passes through; even less often a lone rider whose face I know," He started, his eyes straining to comprehend every detail of Adavera in an oh-so-elvish way. He kept his posture poised, his expression neutral, though there was something she couldn't quite place hidden among the starlight in his eyes. "Tell me, who are you?"

Adhara shifted beneath Adavera, and she shushed her by stroking her mane. "I am just as you said; a lone rider from Dale."

The elf shifted again on his horse, a look of realization falling over his soft, ageless features. "You are the young blacksmithing master who came for my father's permission to study our weaponry."

Adavera drew in a deep breath, knuckles turning white around her dagger as she drew it farther into her cloak. She remembered her first trip into the heart of the woodland realm like it was yesterday — if the ride hadn't been troubling enough, facing King Thranduil in all his elvish glory was an experience beyond any other; and quite possibly the most she had ever feared for her life. The King of the woodland realm was a cryptic, unreadable being of immense power and knowledge, and, to be completely honest, she had underestimated just how easy it would be to get inside his kingdom. Just how easy it would be to talk to him. (The fact that he had to be at least two and a half feet taller than her didn't seem to help her social skills in the slightest.) But alas, he did not cut off her head.

Though he probably would, if he knew what she'd done while she was there.

If this elf said she had asked his father for permission, then that meant...

"My apologies, my lord. I did not realize I was in the presence of the prince," She started, sheathing her dagger and managing a small bow even on Adhara's back. She knew now where she'd seen his face before — at his father's right hand. "All I wish is to be granted travel through your land; for I am seeking safe passage to Rivendell."

A soft smile quirked up on the prince's lips, almost one of amusement. "I am not your prince. You need not bow to me."

Adavera said nothing, glancing up into the trees in search of a black haired elf she knew she wouldn't find. This was a detour they simply could not drag out, if they wished to intercept the heir of Gondor before he arrived at the elven city.

"As it comes to be, I am also traveling to Rivendell. If it please you, we will grant you safe passage by allowing you to ride alongside us," The young prince started, flicking his eyes away from Adavera and looking into the forest beyond. Even his eyes moved gracefully, bouncing from here to there like some kind of animal or machine, seeing far deeper into the undergrowth than she could. His expression was quick to fall. "Darkness lurks far closer than it ever has before — I can feel it."

Adavera watched his gaze grow long, his eyes bore deeper into the forest. It was quite an offer, though not so strange since she'd been in his presence before, she supposed. A kind offer; one that not a single common traveler like herself would ignore. 

He tugged on his white horse's reins, spinning it back toward the open path but keeping his eyes on her. "I must take my leave, though the offer stands."

Adavera looked down at Adhara, who seemed to have calmed in the presence of the elf prince. She stroked her mane indecisively.

To refuse his offer would be suspicious, for no human woman in her right mind would refuse an escort from an immortal elf prince with luscious hair who seemed to glow even in the darkest forest. Especially a human woman who had met him before. (Though she could only really remember seeing him standing near his father's throne.)

To accept his offer would be putting herself at the mercy of the elves' timing, which, while she assumed they didn't stray off-course very often, wasn't high on her priority list. She worked only with Cepheus for that exact reason, for groups were slower than individuals, and timing was of the utmost importance in her line of work. How was she to double back and intercept the heir of Gondor if she was traveling with a pack of woodland elves?

With a quick decision made, she ushered Adhara forward, behind the spritely elven horse as it took off prancing. "I will join you — but I must take my leave before we reach Rivendell. I have to intercept a parcel from a village at the base of the misty mountains; it will require me to double back and go south, toward the river Bruinen."

The prince wasn't looking at her anymore, but instead riding ahead, Adhara having to gallop lightly to keep up with his trotting steed. "It is safer west of the mountains — do as you must."

Adavera nodded lightly even though he wasn't looking, glancing up at the treetops above her. Cepheus was most likely preparing a long speech for the end of the journey about how stupid this decision was. Or, in fancy Cepheus talk, highly unintelligent and precarious.

Adavera didn't mind, for exactly that reason — he'd have to wait until the end of the journey, when they returned to Dale, to let his opinions slip.

She would revel in it.

"May I have your name, now that you travel alongside me?" The prince questioned, sending a graceful glance over his shoulder.

The assassin straightened. "Adavera."

"I am Legolas,"

There was a moment of silence, and Adhara chuffed in annoyance.

"And my painfully-prideful steed is Adhara." 

The horse made a sound of disapproval, and Adavera could've swore she saw the prince — Legolas — smile.

⚔︎

a familiar face already! trying my absolute best when writing this boy I swear~

⚔︎

tag list!

@inkedmoth

[autistook]

DAISIES - pt 19

Merry Brandybuck x fem!hobbit!reader / soft oc

Words: 5.4k

Summary: Minas Tirith is burning and you and Merry arrive on the battlefield. It's time to fight for your lives.

TW's: Blood, violence, death, near death, graphic descriptions, angst

AN: For more feels, re-read chapter 12 before this one ♡

PREVIOUS CHAPTER

-

It felt like every other step the horse took, a tree branch smacked you across the face. No matter how much you tried to dodge the twigs; another scratch formed on your skin. If you pressed your face down; there were leaves tickling the top of your head. Your small grunts of frustration could be heard by everyone who was riding their horses near you. Merry stretched his arm back a little to give your knee a supportive squeeze whenever he noticed any discomfort in you, but eventually even he got irritated by the tough path everyone was traveling through, and he too groaned whenever a branch made his skin sting.

There was still quite a bit of road ahead, but with the lead of King Théoden and some newly found unknown allies, you all took a more discreet route instead of traveling down the main road. Unfortunately, this meant difficult terrains and rough paths.

“Not much longer until we can rest,” Éowyn whispered in your ear. “Please try to hold on.”

“This is frustrating. I am all scratched up!” you complained quietly back to her. 

“Just a little more,” Éowyn encouraged, slightly lowering her tone when she realized Merry was listening. 

“Dernhelm, you can see her?” Merry asked quietly.

“Yes, Merry. Why do you ask?”

Merry tried to turn his head to see your face, but he could not move his body quite enough without discomfort.

“Would you please take a quick look at her scratches? I don't want her to get wounded,” he said. Your body felt like it went limp for a few seconds as a wave of affection rushed through you.

“Of course,” she said and called your name. She gently examined your face as Merry held the reins. After she made sure you were nothing more than a little scratched up, she spoke again. “She seems alright. Nothing to worry about, Merry.”

“Thank you,” Merry responded and squeezed your knee again. You pressed your cheek against his back and he could feel your affectionate smile even through his armor. 

Your own armor had become more of a burden than useful. It was heavy on you and too big for your figure. You thought you would have gotten used to it by then, but every passing second it felt heavier, and you began considering tossing it aside completely.

You shifted your position, trying to get more comfortable and the clinking of the chainmail got the attention of a nearby rider.

“Getting heavy there?” he asked and you nodded, feeling more and more exhausted from holding the chainmail's weight. The man was maybe closer to the King in his age, and he had a few greys here and there in his beard. His green eyes seemed as desperate as any other soldier's, but behind the desperation, they seemed to be holding in a spark of hope and joy.

“Very much so,” you responded to the rider. 

There was a silent agreement with everyone who had traveled near you to keep the presence of you and Merry quiet. They knew how important it was for you both to ride to war with them, so they helped to cover up for you the best they could and at times were even chit chatting you and Merry on the long, difficult road.

“You might still want to hold onto it,” he said quietly, but his tone was firm; almost commanding. As your eyes locked on his, you saw a hint of concern in them. It felt like he was reading your mind. He looked at you for a long time before resuming: “You don't want to get hurt out there. It's better for you to have some form of protection, little one.”

You gave him a tiny, wary nod. Your body was tired and you just wanted to rip off the heavy metal off your body. 

Your thoughts kept circling back to the sense of relief losing the chainmail would bring, but every time you turned your head to the ground to see where you could possibly stop and get rid of it, the rider's eyes locked on yours and his firm gaze kept you in your senses. You needed the armor. 

“I am going to pass out,” you whispered as the darkness surrounded all of you, the lack of rest consuming you, while everyone was riding onward slowly but securely.

“We'll get to rest soon,” Merry said, his tone heavy with worry. “Please, just hold on for a little more.”

“I can't stay awake,” you muttered, fighting a losing battle with your eyelids.

“You can sleep, just do not faint,” Éowyn said softly. She scooted closer to you and so did Merry, making you fit more securely between their bodies.

“Are you certain?” you asked, eyes already closed.

“Yes, sleep now. We will wake you when we come to a halt,” Éowyn said.

And with that, your head hit Merry's back, your cheek squished against his armor and your arms went limp around his waist. Merry took your arms in his lap and held you tightly, even though it made it significantly harder for him to keep his balance in check. He wanted to smile as he felt your warmth against him, but his mind and heart were consumed with worry for you and for his friends.

“Hey,” said Merry softly, as the tip of his finger was poking your thigh. You let out a disapproving grunt before he poked you again. Merry's voice was gentle and almost paternal. “I'm afraid you need to hop off the horse with us and get some proper sleep.”

You sat up straight and rubbed some of the sleep out of your eyes.

“What time is it?” you asked, yawning.

“Late,” Merry responded and hopped off the horse. As he landed on the ground, he reached up and took your hands in his, steadying you before helping you on the ground. His heart fluttered as he felt your delicate hands in his. “But we are almost out of the woods now. Back near the main road.”

“Is the ride long?” you asked as you started scanning for a place to lie down. Merry guided you down to a small secluded area away from the largest groups of riders.

“Not so long. We are closer to Minas Tirith than I would have thought,” Merry responded and sat you down, carefully keeping your sleepy body steady by the small of your back. 

“How come?”

“You see that?” Merry asked and pointed through the trees, where in the distance was a small ball of fire.

“Is that Minas Tirith… on fire?” you asked, nearly panicking and Merry could not hold back a soft, amused chuckle.

“No, no. It is not. It's the hill of Amon Dîn and that is their beacon. At least according to Elfhelm.”

You nodded, half asleep and clueless.

“Of course,” you responded, trying to appear at least slightly awake and aware.

Merry sat down next to you and looked at you, his lips finally curling up into a wide smile. He admired how the soft light of a nearby campfire created dancing shadows on your face that made your eyelashes look even longer than they really were, and how your lips pursed slightly when you pressed your head on his lap. His heart skipped a beat when you cradled up into his lap, but almost instinctively he put his arm around your back and began stroking your hair to soothe you back to sleep.

“Dernhelm?” Merry asked quietly as Éowyn walked past.

“Yes?” she asked, smiling a little as she saw you curled up into a ball in Merry's lap. She found herself puffing her chest slightly when Merry looked her way, hoping it would somehow make her disguise as Dernhelm more believable to the young Hobbit.

“Is it far?”

Éowyn shook her head. Merry gave her a small nod before turning his gaze back to you. Éowyn observed you two for a few more seconds before walking away from you to get some rest, and to give you and Merry some privacy. Merry sighed and admired your sleepy, peaceful face. Your rosy cheeks were partly covered in faint scratches from the tree branches and he softly caressed his thumb over them. You let out a soft, quiet groan of disapproval.

“Is something wrong?” Merry asked.

“You stopped,” you mumbled back with a small pout.

“Stopped what?” Merry responded, confused, as he tried to analyze your face for any clues on your sudden disapproval.

“You stopped caressing my hair,” you pouted, barely aware. Merry's cheeks flushed from affection, and he immediately brushed a stray strand off your face and resumed combing through your hair delicately with his fingers.

“I'm sorry, my lady,” he whispered with a smirk. “It won't happen again.”

“Good,” you mumbled and gave him a tired, approving nod. 

“You know,” Merry whispered after a while, caressing your curls and moving them behind your pointy ears. “You would look rather beautiful with a daisy behind your ear right now.”

He had a big smile on his face despite you not hearing him, as you had fallen into a deep sleep in his comforting embrace. 

You flinched as the loud sound of the horn of Rohan reached your ears. Merry had fallen asleep with his arm on your back and the other one was still resting on the top of your head, likely left there from dozing off while caressing your hair.

“Merry?” you said, sitting up. Merry stirred and stretched his arms. His eyes were half-lidded, and he turned his head left and right, dazed from his deep sleep.

“Hm?” he mumbled. 

“We need to keep going,” you said quietly. 

“How long did we sleep for?” Merry asked, his voice low and heavy with tiredness. “I am still feeling exhausted.”

“Not long,” responded Éowyn with her low tone, still disguising herself in front of Merry. “A few hours at most.”

Merry nodded and stood up, stumbling on his tired feet. The chainmail on you felt heavy on your weary body, and Éowyn had to help you up on your feet.

“Are you sure you can–,” Merry started.

“Yes,” you responded, cutting him off mid sentence. Merry gave you an understanding nod, but his heart was in turmoil; in that moment he feared for your safety more than anything and a small part of him had hoped you would change your mind before arriving at Minas Tirith.

The horses were moving forward faster than before, and the sound of the horses galloping forth was filling the otherwise quiet air. 

You narrowed your gaze and scrunched your nose. A nasty scent spread all around you and your stomach made a backflip.

Smoke.

“I smell smoke,” Merry stated quietly. You gripped his leather armor with your fist, slowly trembling as fear crept up your back. Merry tried his best to keep himself in check and seem courageous, but his fingers were shaking as you approached Minas Tirith.

Screams.

“Merry,” you whimpered quietly and reached for his hand. He instinctively searched for yours and squeezed it tight.

“I know,” he responded.

You closed your eyes and swallowed loudly. Your knees began to feel weak and it was not only the chainmail that was pulling your body down; fear was making your body limp, though the muscles on your arms tensed up. You opened your eyes as the horses began to slow down.

Flames and smoke.

You closed your eyes in an instant and let go of Merry's hand, wrapping your arms tightly around his waist again. Your heart was thumping in your chest, and Éowyn too could feel it as she was pressed against your back, her body tense from fear.

The sound of clashing swords. Screams of terror.

Your ears began to ring. Your body began to shut down, every other sound drowning away, but the sound of your own rapid heartbeat.

Thump.

Thump. 

Thump.

Thump.

Thump.

Your ears perked up and your eyes flew open.

“Death! Death! Death!” everyone roared, their swords and spears in the air. You felt Merry raise his arm, his battle cry rumbling against your chest. 

“Death!” Merry cried along with the many men and Éowyn. Your throat was too dry to make a sound. And then the horns blew again, seeding courage into the men of Rohan.

Slowly, led by Théoden King, the horses began to gallop, their speed growing faster and faster. From the distance you could see spears and arrows pointed towards your direction, each and every one of them held by orcs, each uglier and scarier than the other.

“Death!” roared Éowyn behind you and her sword swung through the air, taking an orc out swiftly. 

Some men and horses fell down to your left, loud tumbling filling the air. Spears clashed against each other as the horses began running the orcs over, taking them down one by one.

To your right you saw a spear piercing through a horse's chest and an arrow taking down the soldier riding it.

Thump. Down. 

You looked to your left and saw the rider, who had been so concerned for your safety, take a tumble with his horse, both crashing to the ground. As you looked over your shoulder at the man, there was no more hope or joy in his green eyes. There was nothing.

Another one down.

You clung to Merry more tightly and he was swinging his sword in every direction he could, as fast as his body allowed him to move. His heart was beating fast, distractingly fast, but his mind was set on protecting you at all cost.

You heard a roar from an orc, and before your brain had a chance to comprehend what was happening, your arm was already gripping your sword, pointing it towards the source of the roar and piercing the creature with a loud swoosh and splat.

Thump. 

The orc was down.

Your eyes widened as you pulled back your sword and saw that it was covered in black blood. Your hand trembled as your head was filled with images of the orc lying on the ground all those months ago when you were protecting Rath with all the courage you could muster.

You could not move for a while. You held your sword with your right hand and with your left you clung to Merry, your knuckles turning white. All around you were the burdening sounds of war and death. The air smelled rotten and smokey, the chainmail on your body felt more heavy than before and your heart was beating so rapidly you feared it might burst out of your chest.

You looked up at the white city, the first layer of it burning, the front gate busted to dust. Loud cries of women, men, children and orcs were rumbling through the air, and in the sky you could see creatures that looked like they crawled out of your darkest nightmares; they looked like dragons, but much more terrifying and you could only describe them as an omen of death. 

As one of them let out a screech far away, you instinctively felt the need to cover your ears to muffle the horrible sound that pierced your ears; the sound that felt like it emptied your soul. You let go of your sword and Merry and pressed your hands firmly on your ears. Your ears were quivering with fear and your hands were cold. You thought about the first time you had heard those cries; back in Buckland, when Merry, Frodo, Sam and Pippin had first left for their journey. 

And you thought of your dear friend Pippin, who you knew was somewhere in the layered white city in front of you; the city that was starting to get covered in flames and death, and in your heart grew a fear that Pippin might not make it.

‘Poor Pippin!’ you thought. ‘Poor Frodo. and poor Sam! I wonder if they’re alive at all. Is there any hope left?’

Before you had time to give any more space to those thoughts, there was an almost deafening low rumble near your ears, announcing itself and its purpose to destroy.

Thump. Rough ground hit your back.

The horse that was just beneath you let out a loud whinny before getting crushed with a sound that you could never forget.

Éowyn screamed your name. She screamed Merry's name.

But there was no response from Merry; and no response from you. You were laying there in shock, overstimulated by all of the sounds and movements around you, fear darkening your vision and your back hurting severely from the fall.

‘Why is he not answering?’ you thought.

You sprung up on your feet and dodged a few horses that ran past you. Your eyes widened and your knees buckled as you saw a large oliphaunt, harnessed with red banners, charging towards your direction, making it clear it was what brought down the horse the three of you were riding. On top of the mûmakil were war towers, and on them spearmen and archers, each more terrifying than the other.

You stumbled to your left and the large creature stomped its way past you and towards other soldiers. Your breathing was ragged and your legs quivered in fear; you could not see Merry or Éowyn anywhere. All you could see was people facing their demise and the chaos that was surrounding them.

Your eyes scanned the battlefield relentlessly. There were splintering spears and clashing swords, enemies like you had never seen before, and many faces you had seen before - and many that you had not - laying lifeless on the ground, and around the field were spots of ground that were covered in black and red splatters of blood.

There was a round rumbling sound behind you and a crash so loud followed, that you felt your heart stop. Dust and sand spread in the air and blinded you for a moment.

You rubbed the specks of dust out of your eyes and when you opened them and turned around, you could see a large oliphaunt lying dead on the ground. For a split second it felt like Eru himself had laid protective arms over you, for you could not comprehend how you got so lucky the oliphaunt did not crush you to death. 

You turned around again, desperately seeking for Merry with your gaze.

“Merry!” you yelled, your voice raspy and faint from the fear in your heart and the dust in your lungs. “Merry!”

Your eyes widened as you saw an orc sprinting towards you. Its eyes were wide and green, with vertically slit pupils that it used to pierce right to your very soul. The orc's body looked like it was thrown in a bath of boiling water with sugar, and then thrown into a puddle of mud afterwards. As the enemy charged towards you, your knees buckled again. You took a few quick steps back and landed on your back, having stumbled on something. 

You could not believe your luck. It was your own sword you had dropped a moment before when you fell off the horse.

The orc screamed in a high-pitched tone before your sword cut its cries short, piercing through the orcs throat and making it fall limp on the ground next to you, a gurgling noise coming out of its mouth.

Your stomach twisted from the sound and you felt sick; but this was not the time to stay there and linger in dread. 

You sat up as straight as you could, wincing as you started to climb back on your feet. Your heavy armor kept pulling you towards the ground and it limited your ability to stand up, let alone fight. Your heart beat rapidly in your chest.

“Screw this,” you muttered to yourself in desperation.

Your palms and fingers hurt from pulling the chainmail off, but the second it hit the ground with a clang and a thump, you felt lighter and less fearful. Moving was easier and very swiftly you made it to your feet, the ground steady beneath you.

“Merry!” you screamed again. No response.

You saw a glimpse of a helmet you thought might have been Éowyn's, so without a second thought, you were already running.

Another cry from an orc caught your ears as it ran towards you, but swiftly you took it down, its legs giving up under your quick reaction time and the pierce of your sword. Your feet pattered on the ground and the wind howled in your ears. You called Merry's name and you called Éowyn's, but there was no answer. And she was nowhere to be seen anymore. But you kept running.

It was quick. Suddenly you were at the grumbled gate of Minas Tirith, dodging arrows and crawling by people's feet. It was one of those moments when you felt glad about your small size; you mostly tended to go unnoticed past the enemies, and the ones that saw you, fell to the ground fast.

The stone beneath your feet would have been cold to touch, had it not been taken over by the battle and Sauron's army. Now the lower streets of Minas Tirith were hot and burning, the smoke making it hard to see forth and forcing you to keep crawling at times in order to move forward.

“Merry!” you called out again, but all you could hear were unnatural sounds from orcs and trolls, the screams of dying soldiers and the cries of helpless people, forced to face their doom.

You ran up a street, not seeing two feet in front of you. Your fingers crossed you went forward, hoping to find Merry, Éowyn - or even Pippin; anyone who could give you comfort and a sense of security. And more than anything, you needed to see they were alright.

The smoke was making you cough uncontrollably and your eyes were stinging and watering. Finally you stepped on stone that felt a little cooler than the others as you made your way closer to the next level of the city. 

You gasped for air as you finally pushed through the smoke and made your way above it, onto a platform. You looked around through a misty vision and tried to search for any familiar faces through your growing desperation, but it was no use.

Nipping pain.

Merry was crawling on all fours, eyes closed and his body trembling in fear. His mind was set on finding you, but he could not get his body to respond. The large shadow passing over him felt too overwhelming and both his head and body refused to follow his orders.

And then he heard a strange noise. A high-pitched, almost proud laughter.

“No living man am I!”

As he opened his eyes, he saw her. There was Éowyn, her hair golden and her eyes sparkling with bravery, yet grim with an acceptance of death. 

In front of her stood the Witch-King, large, terrifying and dark, and he made Merry's blood cold. He was standing there, speechless as in front of him stood a woman, threatening to smite him if he laid his hands upon what Éowyn held the dearest; King Théoden.

The black figure swung his flail at Éowyn, and though many she dodged, one stroke fell on her shield and splintered it, along with it her arm.

Merry's heart was full of pity, fear and determination. He could not allow her to die, not alone. She meant a lot to him; and even more to you. He thought of you and how much you meant to him; how much he hoped you were alright; and how much he hoped you would forgive him, for he was certain he was now facing the end.

He crawled quietly behind the dark figure, lifted his blade and struck.

With a deafening screech the Witch-King crumbled down to his knees and Merry's right arm fell cold.

“Éowyn! Éowyn!” Merry cried, and the shieldmaiden pierced the enemy with her sword. The Witch-King of Angmar withered before them and all that was left was an empty helmet and cloak.

Éowyn fell unconscious before Merry, and he did not know if she had died. Whether or not, in front of him was also lying Théoden King, death in his eyes and blood on his mouth. Merry crawled up to him, to the man who he had started to see as a father, tears in his eyes, his gaze darting between the King and the pale, unconscious shieldmaiden of Rohan.

You looked to your right and the orc lifted its sword again. You swung your own weapon so quickly the orc did not have time to defend, and with a loud crash it fell through rubble and onto the street below you.

You touched your lower belly and winced. Something did not feel right.

The cries had quieted down. Some of the most courageous ones were still fighting, but many enemies had either retreated or had been slain. Many soldiers, good and bad, were lying dead on the battlefield and the streets of Minas Tirith.

Merry did not look at them. All he could do was try and stay awake; his arm had gone numb and cold, his eyes were misty and his brain was in an overdrive. Were you hurt? Was Éowyn dead? Were Pippin, Boromir and Gandalf safe inside the walls of Minas Tirith? Or was everything lost?

He was following other people who carried the King and Éowyn towards the upper levels of the city, but at some point he absent mindedly made a turn to an alley, where to his surprise and joy, he ran into Pippin.

“Merry! Thank goodness I've found you!” Pippin said, his heart lighter and his eyes lighting up from relief. He was wearing a black armor, decorated by the white tree of Gondor.

“Pippin?” Merry asked, tears in his eyes.

Merry stumbled into his arms, hugging him with his working arm as tight as he could and Pippin helped him to sit down. 

“Gandalf sent me to look for you when you didn't arrive with the others. I am so glad to see you again!” Pippin said, hugging him tightly. He pulled back slightly and looked at him, worried. “But are you hurt? Are you wounded?”

“No,” Merry stammered. “Maybe. I can't feel my arm. I can't use it at all. Not since… Where… where is she? It's all going dark again, help me, Pippin!”

“It's alright,” Pippin reassured and put one of his arms around Merry, lifting him up on his feet. “Come now! Foot by foot. It's not far.”

“Are you going to bury me?”

Pippin's heart filled with pity and fear.

“No, Merry. I'm going to look after you. We are going to the houses of healing.”

They walked the streets of Minas Tirith together and Pippin quietly listened to Merry, who was mumbling to himself; mostly mumbling your name. Pippin’s heart twisted and stomach turned. ‘Poor Merry,’ he thought. ‘Still feeling burdened from leaving her behind.’

“Pippin!” shouted Boromir as the two came to his view and he quickly ran towards the Hobbits. He kneeled in front of Merry and touched his cheek gently, trying to get eye contact with him. “Merry, can you hear me?”

Merry did not respond vocally, but he lifted his gaze to Boromir. He felt the urge to smile, but he felt too weak to do so. Merry had missed him dearly; like a big brother he was, but his arm was burdening him and it felt like death was trying to claim him.

And suddenly Pippin pat Merry's shoulder.

“Merry?” Pippin asked in distress and shock. Merry looked at Pippin and turned his gaze to the direction his friend was gesturing at.

Merry’s stomach turned and a surge of adrenaline pumped through his veins. He sprinted off of Pippin's and Boromir's grasps.

“Merry!” Boromir called out and before he had time to do anything, Pippin was running after Merry.

Merry knelt beside you and with his uninjured arm he lifted your head on his lap.

“No, no,” Merry mumbled, his heart shattering at the sight. When he got your head comfortably on his lap he reached his hand on your wound, blocking the bleeding the best he could. “It's alright. You're alright.”

“Merry,” you gasped through your tears. “Please, help me.”

“You're alright,” Merry said, visibly panicking. Pippin knelt down on your other side, looking at the blood leaking out of your stomach, his eyes widening in horror. He thought you were safely in Buckland.

“Boromir!” Pippin called. Boromir made his way beside you and he too kneeled down, a confused look on his face.

“Who is–”

“Help her!” Pippin begged. Boromir nodded and ripped a part of his cloak off, pressing it on your wound to slow down the bleeding. You winced from pain and more tears poured from your eyes.

“You're alright,” Merry repeated. He couldn't manage to say anything else; he needed to reassure you and himself. “You're alright.”

“I'm going to die,” you sobbed, gasping for air, while your brain was fuzzy from the shock and your ears ringing from the pain. Your fingers were cold in Pippin’s hands as he held to you, trying his best to provide some comfort.

“You're not going to die,” Merry said, his voice cracking. He put his hand on your cheek, firmly, but with care. He gazed into your eyes with a stern look. “You're not allowed to die.”

You nodded, though your vision was growing more blurry. You looked up at the sky and noticed there was a twinkling, bright star showing for the first time in what seemed like an eternity. A small smile crept up on the corner of your mouth as you gazed at the sky above, gasping for air again, your chest heaving raggedly.

“I've heard much about you, Miss Baggins,” Boromir said suddenly, trying to soothe down your nerves, hoping to calm Merry and Pippin down in the process.

You chuckled through your tears of pain and fear. “And I of you. Boromir, son of Denethor, I presume?”

“What gave it away?” he asked with a soft smile.

“You look like a true soldier,” you responded. His smile would have comforted you, but you could see it in his eyes; he was certain you were dying. You looked back up at the sky, your heart pounding faster from fear.

“You're alright,” Merry said again, his voice cracking from dread. He turned to look at Pippin and Boromir. “Is… is there… she needs help,” he stuttered, tears in his eyes.

“Gandalf is coming,” Boromir said, but his tone was not reassuring. “He said he would follow me right behind.”

Merry nodded, trying to find relief in Boromir's words, but as he looked back into your eyes, his relief was long gone and he began to feel hopeless.

“You're alright,” he said again.

“Merry,” you stuttered, tears falling from your eyes as you whimpered in pain. Boromir pressed your wound harder and you let out a loud cry of pain. “Merry, I'm going to die. And I….I…”

“You’re not going to die,” he said, his tone desperate and his last bit of bravery crumbling. He had now forgotten about his own pain completely, his mind consumed by looming grief.

“I…”

“I know. You're alright,” Merry said and ran his hand through your hair tenderly, his eyes wet and his gaze pleading desperately. “You're not going to die."

You swallowed as your vision started to blur more.

“I don't want to die,” you said, your voice barely a whisper now. Merry let out a sob. Pippin closed his eyes, crying silently, his heart growing heavy with fear.

“You're not going to die,” he said, lips quivering. He moved his hand to caress your cheek again. “I promised Frodo I would keep you safe.”

You tried to get a word out, but your mouth had gone dry and it took all of your strength just to stay awake. You focused your gaze solely on Merry, and you squeezed Pippin's hand weakly. Your ears were ringing loudly.

“Boromir, do something!” Pippin weeped, and Merry's fingers trembled on your cheek. Boromir kept pressing the wound; it was all he could do.

“You can't leave me,” Merry whispered through tears. You said nothing as your vision grew more hazy and your grip on Pippin's hand weakened. Pippin looked at Merry, falling apart, trying to hold your hand harder, hoping it would somehow give you enough strength. 

“Merry!” Pippin panicked. 

“Please, don't go,” Merry begged in despair and held your cheek more firmly, caressing it lovingly. “Please. Don't leave me. I need you here. You can't… you can't leave me behind. Please, don't go.”

Your ears stopped ringing and everything went black.

NEXT CHAPTER

---

@chatteringfox @shiinata-library @ahobbitsjourney23 @mayo-advance @datglutengoblin @mournthewicked @channiesbedbug @nicksworld0715

[howling-medic]

I have had no Adderall and too much caffeine, and I have been thinking. A dangerous combination, but a very fun one. I have reached many conclusions about many things, but the thing I have become most convinced of is that almost every single character JRRT has ever written is some form of little shit and/or chaotic gremlin. Here are a few outlined. Please add more:

* Aragorn: *gestures wildly at the entirety of the Prancing Pony chapter* *points emphatically at the houses of healing exchange with Merry* need I say more? The man may be Isildur’s heir, but he is a little shit. I love him for it.

* Gandalf: my man straight up just had no real reason for choosing Bilbo to be the thief for thorin’s company. He could not explain himself even once. Then there’s the whole Beorn debacle. Then there’s the dramatics with how he returned to Aragorn, Legolas, and Gimli. Chaotic gremlin. Little shit.

* Merry and Pippin: they’re getting clumped together. I don’t think I need to explain.

* Sam: he may be the most sane of all of these fuckers. Truly. He’s the most pure hearted and least chaotic. He still was trimming the verge a little late, and he was in cahoots with Merry and Pippin. Chaotic gremlin adjacent

* Bilbo: do I need to explain this one? He used the One Ring to hide from annoying relatives. Little shit and chaotic gremlin are his defining characteristic traits

* Legolas: danced atop the snow while everyone was drowning in it. Declared he would attempt to get the sun to come help them. Let Aragorn listen for horses he could literally see and describe. Built his own boat 120 years after the last one sailed and BROUGHT A DWARF

* Gimli: his entire personality is silver tongued snark with a large side of intelligence and violence. He was going to be mad at Merry and Pippin for dying because of the energy he put into finding them. I’m pretty sure he proposed counting kills to Legolas.

* Frodo: chaos. Thinks he’s going to just venture off into the woods by himself. Little shit. Thinks nobody is going to realize something is up. Love him. He’s bad at both

* Boromir: tries to oppose the wisdom of people literally over 150 times his ago. Kinda little shit energy, but he didn’t do it to be contrarian, so it’s the weakest entry so far

* Faramir: let’s talk about henneth annun. Let’s talk about the way he let Sam freak out only to start laughing. Dude is a little punk, and I love it

* Eomer: declares Aragorn not Strider but Wingfoot. I can’t explain his placement on this list really. He’s just chaos gremlin vibes

* Eowyn: my sweet horse girl. My caged warrior. She is chaos gremlin incarnate as driven by wanderlust and desperation. Truly my kindred spirit. I will die for her. You know she was wonderfully insufferable and a pain in her brother’s ass - in the best way.

* Melkor: literally the original little shit. Everything started going sideways because he was a petulant child and then it got worse the more jealous he got. Because the OG chaos gremlin. It just so happens that there are cosmic level consequences when he acts out

* Denethor: falls more under petty bitch than little shit or chaos gremlin. My man was so threatened by Thorongil that he was glad when he left and turned men against Gandalf because Aragorn counseled that Gandalf should be trusted. Just….fuck Denethor…with a cactus.

* Saruman: the ploy with Radagast to get Gandalf to Isengard was 10/10 chaos gremlin energy. Evil chaos gremlin energy, but chaos gremlin energy nonetheless

Alright, with that, I’m out of ideas. I’m certain I can come up with stuff for Galadriel at the very least, but I lack the requisite focus at the moment.

[meliabrandybuck]

Sweet Talk

Merry x OC who is Sam's younger sister

First date to Bilbo's 11th birthday party.

“What do you mean? I thought you liked Fredegar!” the old Gaffer said to his daughter after she protested to the arranged date for Bilbo’s 111th birthday. “I mean… I do like him as a friend… but I just wanted to go to the party and spend time with my friends! Not having to go and behave on a date!” Melian retorted. Ever since her coming-of-age birthday a few years ago, her old man was determined to find her a spouse, though she was never too keen on his choices.

“I made a promise to Rosamunda, so my hands are tied… you’ll have to go with Fatty,” Gaffer concluded. “Ok, fine…” Melian replied, still not happy with having to go with Fatty as her date to the party, but she loved her father enough to tolerate it. “Oh, I promised Mr. Bilbo I would help with the set-up this morning, so I’m off!!” Mel added, realizing the time. She headed toward Bag End to give her old friend a hand with his party planning.

*Meanwhile in the Green Dragon*

Fatty searched through the pub until he spotted the pair of companions that he was looking for… Merry and Pippin. “There you guys are!! I’ve been looking all over town for you!” he said, taking a seat next to Pippin across from Merry. “What are you on about??” Pippin asked him, realizing how out of breath he was. “Sorry,” Fatty replied, taking a sip of Pip’s ale, clearly still reeling from his running around. “I had to find you and tell you… sounds like my mum set me up on a date tonight during old man Bilbo’s party,” he said, breathing between sentences. “Well, that’s great, Fatty!” Pippin said. “Yeah, good on ya, mate!” Merry added before taking a big swig of his mug.

“It’s a date with Melian,” Fatty replied, causing Merry to spit/choke on his ale at the same time. “Mel??” Pippin said, looking over at Merry to see his reaction. “Why tell us that??” Merry said, looking down into his mug thoughtfully. “Oh, don’t play dumb, Merry… I know how much you like her! That much has been apparent ever since her big coming of age party! Ever since then, you’ve viewed her as more than just a childhood friend!” Fatty said. Merry blushed wildly but knew there was no way he could deny his friend’s claims.

“Anyways, I had to tell you that I don’t feel right in bein’ Ms. Melian’s date to the party… I hope you know that I’d rather you be goin’ out with her,” Fatty concluded. Pippin giggled, causing Merry to look at him confusedly. “Y’know, if you’d just asked her out when I told you to, you’d be the one taking Melian to Bilbo’s party,” Pip explained, trying to hold his laughter. “No point in thinking about the ‘what-if’s’ now,” Merry retorted, taking one final swig of his ale and then getting up and leaving. Once he knew it was just the two of them, Pippin nudged Fatty’s arm. “Y’know… I have a few ideas of how to arrange it so that Merry and Melian end up becoming dates…” he said, piquing Fatty’s interest. “Let’s hear them,” Fatty replied, leaning in as if to conspire.

*Later that evening*

Melian put on her long yellow dress, the same one that she wore at her coming-of-age birthday, and now brought out only on special occasions. “Melian!” she heard with a knock on her bedroom door. “Come in!” she said, finishing up pulling her hair half-way back into a ponytail. Her brother Sam opened the door and peeked his head in. “Fatty is here to walk you over to the party—say, you look so beautiful tonight,” he said. “Thanks, Sam,” she said, smiling at him. “I’ll see you there!” she added, slipping past her brother and kissing his cheek as she did so.

“Hey Fatty…” she said, once she was outside their yellow door, cordial as ever. You wouldn’t be able to tell by her countenance that she wasn’t too thrilled about going to the party as his date. “Ready to go??” he asked with a smile as the two of them began to walk down the street to where the party was being held. They chatted a bit about their days, with Melian telling him about the party set-up and everything to expect. Once the pair arrived at the already bustling party, they found their hands full with plates of food and looked for a free spot to sit.

“Listen, Melian,” Fatty began. “I know neither of us want to be on an exclusive date with each other. It was my mum that set this whole thing up… anyways, with all the Shire here tonight, I think it’d be more fun if we just relaxed and hung out with all our friends,” he said, much to Melian’s delight. “Really?? I couldn’t agree more… I’ve been looking forward to spending tonight with my friends… no offense to you of course, you’re a good friend,” she replied. He nodded and said, “I’ve been wanting to catch up with some of my old cousins that I don’t see too often, so I’m off to find them!”

Melian, now solo, looked for any of her friends in the crowd of hobbits that she could sit with, but to no avail. She did find an empty table for two and decided to take a seat, as the plates she was holding were getting heavy. She started to eat, while still looking around for her friends, and noticed Pippin up on the stage playing with the band. He always had a knack for music, so she was proud to see him up there and using his talents.

Frodo and Merry walked together with hands full of mugs of ale. “Say, isn’t that Melian over there?? Why is she sitting by herself?” Frodo thought aloud. “Not sure… I heard she was going out with Fatty tonight,” Merry observed. The pair sat down side-by-side at a table, joining Sam and another hobbit their age. While the other three hobbits chatted, Merry kept his eyes on Melian. Partially because he found her so nice to look at, but also because he was waiting to see if Fatty would show up and sit with her.

“You should just go talk to her already,” Frodo prompted, causing Merry to come out of his trance. “I don’t know how you mean,” he replied, causing even Sam to shake his head. “C’mon, Merry… everybody knows that you’re fond of my sister… well, except her maybe… the fact is, I saw Fatty sittin’ with the Bolger crew, meanin’ Mel is over there all by herself,” Sam said. Merry looked over at her again, and then mustered up his courage to pick up his ale and stroll over there. What was wrong with him?? He always talked to Melian and had no problems hanging out with her… ever since they were kids… but… why was his heart beating so fast now?

Melian was so entranced by Pippin’s singing that she didn’t notice the young hobbit in a plaid yellow waistcoat approach her from the side until he was right next to her. “Oh!! Merry!!” she said, beaming as she stood up and hugged him out of instinct. “I’ve been looking all over for you! Where have you been?” she asked, sitting back down as he sat down in the seat across from her. “Oh, just drinking some ale with Frodo,” he said, motioning to his mug, and not mentioning anything about her brother or what he said.

“Where’s Fatty? I thought you two were coming together tonight!” Merry observed. “I guess he told you, huh?? Well, we came together, but only because our parents wanted us to… truth is, neither of us wanted to come together… and he wanted to spend some time with his family,” Melian explained. Merry twiddled his thumbs under the table. “Well, you can just stick around with me tonight instead,” he replied, not wanting to know how badly he was probably blushing. “You mean, as… a date?”  Melian asked, able to read between the lines after seeing Merry’s bashful face.

“Only if you want to, that is!  You look too lovely to not have a date tonight,” he replied, causing Melian to chuckle. “Meriadoc Brandybuck… since when were you such a sweet talker??” she teased him. “Don’t poke fun at me, Mel!! I mean it!! Yellow is such a lovely color on you,” he said. “I like yellow because it’s such a happy color, I guess… but I think the reason I like yellow so much is because you wear it often,” she said, blushing. “Who’s sweet talking now??” Merry teased as they both laughed. With similar senses of humor, the pair were used to making each other laugh with their sarcasm and wit.

Pippin watched the whole encounter from the stage… and though he couldn’t hear what they were saying, he could tell that things were going according to plan. As their song ended, he turned to the rest of the band and whispered to them to play one of Melian’s favorite songs. A love ballad that Pippin had written earlier that year, one that she thought paired well with his singing voice. Melian recognized it right away and turned her attention to the stage mid-conversation. “I love this song!!” she said, watching Pippin and listening as she stuffed her mouth with another bite of food.

“Melian Gamgee,” Merry said, getting up from his seat and bowing. “Would you give me the honor of dancing with you?” he asked as he offered her a hand. Her mouth was still full as she chewed, so she couldn’t exactly give an answer, but before she knew it, Merry had taken her hand and swept her off to the dance floor. After swallowing she said, “Mer, you know I’m not a good dancer!” she said embarrassedly. “Don’t worry, just follow my lead!” he said, placing one of her hands on his shoulder and the other in his hand. With his other hand, he placed it on her waist and then began swaying her to the music.

Though she knew Merry was a gentleman, this was one of the first times he had treated her like… well, like a girl. “I don’t think I ever gave you an answer to being your date tonight,” she observed, causing Merry to stop in his tracks and drop his hand. “You’re right… I’m being too hasty, aren’t I?” he said, embarrassedly. She chuckled and took his hand, putting it back on her waist and holding his other hand said, “not at all! If I were to be here with anyone tonight, I wanted it to be you.” Merry grinned from ear-to-ear as they continued to dance, and he wondered if he could be any happier in this moment.

At one point during the dance, Merry locked eyes with Pippin on the stage, who winked at his friend and gave him a thumbs up, making Merry nod at him, as if acknowledging Pip’s apparent working in making sure he and Melian ended up dancing together at this very moment.

[i-wear-sunglasses-inside]

That one scene in the two towers

[peterbscaprisweatpants]

say it with me meriadoc brandybuck