A/N: This story sprang to life all its own one night when I was unable to sleep. It is book-verse based, and as true to canon as I could make it. It is rated PG for serious themes, and mild discussion of violent actions. It is my first completed attempt at writing fanfiction, so gentle reviews are appreciated so I can improve.

Many thanks to my beta, my daughter The One Last Elf, for her help, suggestions and encouragement and for introducing me to fanfiction not quite a year ago.

DISCLAIMER: The Lord of the Rings in all its formats belongs officially to Professor Tolkien's estate and New Line Cinemas. This work of fiction was produced for the love of the characters and enjoyment only, not for sale or profit.

The Measure of Friendship

Merry made his way slowly and somewhat shakily into the green garden area of the Houses of Healing. He’d been up and moving around for a couple of days now, but he was used to having Pippin’s support, or perhaps that of Gimli or Legolas. But they were a day out of Minas Tirith now, and Merry hadn’t felt like asking one of the healers or their assistants to help steady him as he walked. So instead, he took it slowly, sitting when he tired, and steadying himself against a wall or pillar if he felt dizzy.

As he stepped onto the cool green grass, he looked up and saw that he wouldn’t be alone in the garden. There was a figure sitting with his back to him on one of the many benches dotted around the grass and along the walkways. This one was placed in the grass, under a shady tree.

Merry sighed, as that happened to be his favorite bench. From it he could see over the wall to the city below, and across the Pelennor fields to the distant mountains in the east.

The figure on the bench apparently had heard his sigh, and turned. Merry recognized Faramir, the younger brother of Boromir and another resident of the Houses, from Pippin’s descriptions and from the brief glimpses he’d had since he’d been allowed to get out of bed.

Faramir’s face brightened a little at the sight of the young hobbit and so Merry walked carefully across the grass towards him.

“Do you mind if I sit here with you?” Merry asked.

“No, please do. I would enjoy the company,” Faramir replied with a smile, followed by a sigh of his own. “It is so quiet here since everybody left yesterday.”

“Yes, it is,” Merry agreed. He smiled, but his face looked strained.

“I guess you miss your cousin Master Peregrin,” Faramir said, looking out over the walls toward the east.

“Yes, I do. And Gimli, and Legolas, and Strider… er, Aragorn, I mean,” he corrected himself at Faramir’s puzzled look. “Even Gandalf. He’s quite different now. Not so grumpy as he used to be.”

“You speak of Mithrandir?” Faramir questioned. At Merry’s nod, he went on quietly, as if to himself. “Yes, I miss him too.”

He took a deep breath then, and looked at Merry, “Master Meriadoc, isn’t it?”

“Just Merry, really. That’s what my friends and family all call me. Please, just call me Merry. I would prefer it.” He added with a grin, “Mostly my family, and Gandalf, calls me Meriadoc when they’re unhappy with me. Merry is much more comfortable.”

“Merry then, and you may call me simply Faramir, and we can be companions at times to each other while we are here in these Houses.” Faramir smiled again at Merry, and Merry smiled back, without the strain this time.

“You brother was a good companion to Pippin and me, too.” Merry said quietly after a brief silence spent gazing towards the east. “He taught us sword fighting, did you know that?”

“Pippin told me,” Faramir replied. Looking a bit sad, he added, “He was a good big brother to me. He used to work on sword fighting with me as well. He was so good at it. Everybody loved him. I worshiped him when I was little. My father…” his voice trailed off.

Merry tried to keep his face straight when Faramir mentioned his father, Lord Denethor, but the horror he felt about what Pippin had told him of Denethor’s final madness and fiery end must have shown because Faramir looked sharply at him.

“Merry, what do you know of my father? I am not surprised he has not come to visit me, but whenever I ask one of the healers about him they are evasive and do not answer me. I hear them whispering in dark corners but when I approach they stop, and will not look at me.” Faramir turned to him. “Please, what is it they do not tell me? I see from your face that you know something. Please, tell me!” His face was full of anxious concern.

Merry shifted uneasily on the bench, his short legs dangling. He looked around a bit, hoping to see one of the healers, but there was no one. “Faramir, I do not think that I should say anything,” he began, uncomfortably, but Faramir cut him off.

“Please, tell me what you know. Was it so bad? Did my father make a scene, denouncing me as his son, telling the world that he would rather I had died than Boromir?” he asked, somewhat bitterly. “That would be nothing new to me.”

”No, no, it is nothing like that,” Merry interjected, his voice rising with distress and discomfort. He looked around again, almost desperately, wishing someone would come, but no one did. “Your father loved you, he really did. He repented his harshness to you and the words he left unsaid, when you lay burning with fever from the Nazgul’s dart.”

Faramir went still. “Loved?” He focused intently on that one word. “Loved me, you say? But why do you speak of him in the past tense?” He turned then, and the intensity in his face frightened Merry. “Please, Master Meriadoc, you must tell me what you know. Is my father all right?” His voice, though quiet, pinned Merry in place, and for a long moment he could not look away from the desperate plea in Faramir’s eyes.

Finally he looked down, and his back sagged wearily. He sighed heavily, and began to speak in a very small voice, not looking up again at the tense man sitting next to him, who looked so like Boromir, and yet unlike also.

“Pippin told me what happened. Your father was devastated by your injury. He said Denethor seemed to age before his very eyes. He would not give direction to the men who came seeking it, telling them to seek out Gandalf. He would not leave your side.” Faramir looked almost disbelieving as Merry spoke, but a light shone in his eyes in spite of his disquiet.

Merry went on. “When word came that the city was burning, a madness seemed to come over him. He declared all was lost, and … and..” He faltered at the thought of saying what happened next.

“Please, Merry. I must know,” Faramir pleaded quietly. Merry glanced at Faramir’s face but quickly looked away again, unable to bear the mix of hope and dawning despair he saw there.

With a lump in his throat, Merry continued, slowly, and so quietly Faramir had to lean in to hear his next words.

“He had you put on a bier, and went with you to the Rath Dinen. He instructed the men to bring wood and oil, and build a pyre.” Merry did not see the dawning horror on Faramir’s face as he kept speaking.

“Pippin had attended your father this whole time, but when he saw what he was about to do, he ran to find Gandalf. On the way he saw Beregond and told him what was happening. Beregond left his post and ran to the Silent Street, and drew sword against those who were bringing fire to put to the wood.”

He glanced up quickly at Faramir’s gasp at such a desecration of the Hallows, then looked back down again, hurrying on now to finish his dreadful tale. “Meanwhile, Pippin found Gandalf and brought him there and Gandalf stopped the fighting. He went to the bier where you lay, already drenched with oil even, and lifted you off and began to carry you away. But… you stirred, and called for your father, and he begged that you not be taken from him; that you be allowed to die together.” Another quick glance showed Merry that Faramir was intently studying the blades of grass under his feet, but tears gleamed brightly in his eyes.

“Gandalf said that you must be brought here, to find healing hopefully, but that your Father’s place was on the field of battle, leading his people in the defense of the city. He tried so hard to convince your father, and though Pippin didn’t understand all they said, he thought that your father almost was convinced. But then… then…” Once again Merry faltered, feeling he couldn’t say the horrible words.

Faramir didn’t look up, and said nothing, but he reached out one hand and grasped Merry’s hand tightly in his own, and in his touch Merry found the courage to say the final words. Gently, with tears streaming down his face, Merry said, “Faramir, your father had one of the Seeing Stones. He’d been deceived by Sauron, and had given in to despair of any hope of victory. He… he…” he took a deep breath and forced himself to go on. “He grabbed one of the torches and set fire to the bier, and laid himself down on it. Faramir, I’m so sorry, but your father is dead.”

Merry took a deep breath, and let it out again, but otherwise did nothing and said nothing more. Faramir also was still for a long time, but his hand still clasped Merry’s without loosening. They sat like that for a time, as a bird hidden in the trees sang a lone song. Finally, Faramir stirred, giving a great sigh, and he looked at Merry. Merry could hardly bear to look at him, his face tight and strained by grief, though free of tears, but Faramir said gently and kindly “Thank you, my dear friend, for telling me the truth. And my thanks to your cousin for defending me so bravely. I owe you both a great debt.”

“No, my lord Faramir,” Merry exclaimed, tears still streaming down his face. “Pippin did what he did because he had grown to love you, and I am coming to see why. You owe us nothing.”

Merry leaned against Faramir’s side and buried his face in his hands for a few moments, overcome with weakness and grief at the telling of such a difficult tale. Faramir put his arm around his shoulders and held him tight for a moment until Merry recovered a bit.

Then Faramir said, with a slight catch in his voice, “Then I thank you again, for friendship to perform such a service. If you would do me one more favor, I would like to be alone for a bit now.”

At these words Merry was troubled, and looked at his face searchingly, fearing to find a return of the Shadow on him. But though his face was racked with grief and sorrow, Merry could see no sign of despair, and so he got up, gave Faramir’s hands one last squeeze, and walked slowly away. When he reached the edge of the grass and was a step or two away from the door, he turned to look back one last time. As he looked, he saw Faramir’s hands come up to cover his face as his back bowed. Though Faramir's shoulders began to shake, Merry heard no sound from him at all as he turned and went inside.