Merry caught himself listening for the thunder of hooves, and the half-forgotten sounds of songs he never truly understood.  He often fingered his clothes; they seemed strangely soft and drab after days of rough leather and shining mail.  Summers he would stare into the Old Forest, wondering if Tom was gathering water lilies again for Goldberry.  He woke nights in winter, thinking Éowyn called his name--it was time to ride now, ride to Gondor and either glory or death or both…the realization that he already had done so brought him no relief, only a strange longing in his heart.