A/N:  This is a movieverse ficlet, which means that Merry knew who Éowyn was as they were riding into battle.

Disclaimer:  Everything belongs to the good Professor.  I'm just playing around in the sandbox.

Upon the Tide of Ruin

*~*~*~*~*

Éowyn had hardly spoken since their departure from Dunharrow, and her continuous silence was starting to unnerve Merry.  He wanted to prod her into conversation, but could find no words of his own.

The Rohirrim had made camp on their first night after the ride began; Merry and Éowyn lay slightly apart from the rest of their company, close enough to the others so that they did not arouse suspicion but far enough away so that their forms could not be easily discerned.

Heaving a sigh, Merry pulled off his gauntlets and massaged his wrists, not so much because they were sore but because it gave him something to do.  He watched Éowyn out of the corner of his eye; the young woman lay on her back, her golden tresses bundled underneath her head.  A flicker of her eyes in the dark told him that she was glancing towards him, and he quickly looked away, his face growing warm.

“Are you well, Merry?” she asked softly.  He was surprised not only by the fact that she even spoke, but by the gentle tone coming from such a hardened warrior.

“I’m all right,” he replied, staring down at his hands.  “Just a little anxious, I suppose.”  He looked over at her, finding her now gazing up at the ominous black sky.  “And… how are you feeling?”

She turned her head to look at him, her grey eyes meeting his, and for a moment Merry thought he saw a hint of vulnerability flash across her shadowy face.  But the moment was fleeting, and Éowyn’s face hardened once more as she returned her gaze to the starless sky.  “I am well.”

The silence that Merry found so unsettling returned, and it was only a few minutes before he could bear it no longer; he rolled onto his side facing her and asked tentatively, “Éowyn?”

“Yes?” was her terse reply.

He had not really had any particular statement in mind when he’d first spoken, and so he blurted out the first question he could think to ask.  “How old are you?”

She looked at him again with raised eyebrows.  “I am 24.”

“24?” he exclaimed.  “You aren’t even of age yet!”  He blushed at the bemused look she was giving him and stammered, “Well, by my people’s standards, anyway.  In the Shire, a hobbit isn’t considered an adult until he turns 33.”

“Oh?” she said, looking genuinely curious.  “And how old are you?”

Merry fidgeted, feeling strangely uncomfortable about replying.  He was shocked to find out that this woman he looked up to and admired was so much younger than he was.  Clearly, the Big Folk aged much quicker than hobbits.

“37,” he mumbled.

She stared at him in quiet surprise for a moment.  “You do not seem nearly so old,” she said at last.  “Your people must age a great deal slower than mine.  You look no older than my brother, and yet you are nearly ten years his senior.”

“Maybe that’s just because I look like a child compared to him,” said Merry, with more than a hint of sullenness in his voice.

“But your heart is no less great,” she responded gently.

He smiled at her, his face brightening.  “Really?”

Returning the smile, she answered, “Really!”

Merry found it comforting to see her face light up in such a way; he had grown accustomed to seeing her features heavy with grief for reasons that he could not fathom.  It frightened him, watching a lady so young and fair waste away under some unnamed shadow.

“Éowyn?” he whispered.

“Yes, Merry?”

He moved closer to her, his eyes wide and fearful.  “Have you given up?”

She frowned at him and replied slowly, “There is small chance of victory, but we must still fight as best we can—”

“I’m not talking about the battle.”  After a moment’s hesitation, he reached out timidly and touched her hand.  “Have you given up hope?”

She did not reply for several heartbeats, but laced her fingers together with his.  When she spoke at last her voice was low and lovely and sad.  “I have nothing left to hope for, save perhaps an honorable death in battle.”

Her words threatened to break Merry’s heart in two; he squeezed her hand and said, his voice shaky and desperate, “But… isn’t there a chance that you could fight… and live?  Honorably?”

Éowyn turned away, her lips parting as she took several deep breaths.  “I do not know.”

“Couldn’t you try?” he asked pleadingly.

She regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before shifting onto her side to face him, taking his small hands between hers.  “I shall do all I can to live through this – for you, my friend.”

Merry had a feeling that that was the most promising response he would receive from her, and he was comforted by it somewhat; and yet, he wished she would have wanted to live for herself as well.

*~*~*~*

Merry lay awake hours later, desperate for sleep’s release but unable to bring it about.  Éowyn was lying perfectly still beside him, but he was not sure if she was really sleeping or simply wishing she could.

He could not shake from his mind the images of what lay ahead:  fire, death, orcs, and countless other horrors that his imagination conjured and that he dared not give name to.  He wondered if the city they rode to save had already been destroyed, if Pippin was already dead…

A sob rose in Merry’s throat, but he choked it back forcefully, determined not to lose control.  He was a soldier of Rohan now, an esquire of the King, and it was not suitable for a warrior to cry.

But despite all of that, he was still a hobbit lost in the world of Men and their wars, his only friends having been swept far away.  And it was not suitable for a hobbit to feel so alone.

These miserable thoughts were all that could occupy Merry’s mind until he heard Éowyn shift beside him.  Looking over, he saw that she was indeed asleep, her fair face for once devoid of turmoil.  Not for the first time, he wondered what could possibly fill this lovely creature’s eyes with such sorrow.  What hurt was plaguing her, causing her to spur headlong towards devastation?

At first he had thought her cold, grim demeanor to be a characteristic of all warriors in this dark time; but now it was clear to him that Éowyn was quite different from the other Rohirrim soldiers in that respect.  It was not war that filled her eyes and soul with anguish.  He only wished that he knew the true source of her unrest, so that he might help her as she had helped him.

A fierce determination was sparked in Merry’s heart then; she would not die – he would not let her die.  His fear of what was to come remained, but a new feeling was slowly growing to match it in strength.  The thought of battle was terrifying, but he knew now that it was necessary.  He would fight – for Éowyn, for Pippin, for Frodo and Sam and all good things that had been left behind and that were still to come.

Éowyn may have lost hope, but that did not mean that Merry could not hope for her, and for all that they both held dear.

*~*~*~*

“Whatever happens,” Éowyn whispered, “Stay with me.  I’ll look after you.”

He tightened his grip on her arm.  He felt his entire body pulsating with his frantic heartbeat.  The clang of the King’s sword against the soldiers’ spears coupled with Théoden’s words sent a massive surge of adrenaline coursing through Merry until he thought he would burst with unreleased energy.  All around him the men of Rohan roared in wrathful defiance.

For the briefest of moments, in the blink of an eye, the deafening fury of the present faded as Merry caught a glimpse of the gentle home he had left behind.  There was his mother as he had last seen her, asking him not to get into too much trouble.  There was Estella Bolger, kissing him on the cheek after one of his playful advances.  And there was Pippin, from a time long gone, grinning without a care in the world.

In a second’s flash the visions evaporated, and Merry returned to this angry new world he had found himself shoved into.  His brief tranquility was snapped away as the fire in his soul was rekindled.  Éowyn was gripping him so tightly that it hurt, but he did not mind the pain.  Her firm hold gave him confidence; as long as he stayed with her, he could protect her, as he had vowed to do.

His heart swelling with the courage he did not know he had possessed, the young hobbit lifted his sword against the shadows ahead.

“Death!”

*~*~*~*~*