Chapter two: Truths

Merry was standing at his window, taking an occasional puff of his pipe and staring out into the distance. He had been helping the kitchen staff earlier in the day, pushing meal trolleys from one room to the next, delivering food to those patients too ill or injured to leave their beds. It was about all he was able for until some more strength returned to his arm, and it left him feeling tired and sad. So many men had been injured in this war. Some of them horrendously injured, missing arms or legs, some having lost an eye or ear. Each of them needed someone to talk to, someone who could understand their fear and pain, their uncertainties about what would be in store for them when they were recovered enough to go home. The worst were those who were all alone here. Merry had been trying to spend as much time as he could with them, knowing how lonely he was, and he was able to move around and keep himself busy. How much worse must it be for those confined to a bed in a lonely room, isolated from everyone else. The healers did their best but were overworked and pressed for time.

This morning Merry had been sitting with a young Rider of Rohan, more lad than man, with a fluff of down on his chin that he proudly called a beard, who had lost an arm in the battle. The lad was homesick, in pain and frightened of what his life was going to be like now that he was forever maimed, but determined to put on a good front. He had been telling Merry about the lass he had left behind in Dunharrow. Although he had not said so, it was clear to Merry that the lad was afraid his lass would no longer want him when he returned to her. There was not much Merry could do to reassure him and he’d tried distraction instead. He’d told a story about a lass he had once fancied, in his tweenage years. He had told of all the outrageous things he had done in order to draw the attention of this lass to himself, only to find once he succeeded that his own interest had wandered off and gotten lost somewhere. The lad had laughed and for a moment Merry had felt some of the weight of his own despair lift a little.

There were so many, though, and he wasn’t able to help them all. No one was. One of the men in Eomer’s mark had died that morning. There had been no real reason for the rider’s death. His wounds had been healing well and he would soon have been able to leave the Houses of Healing. He had suffered from the Black Breath, though, and never seemed to come all the way out from under the shadow. He had been found by one of the healers, having taken his own life in order to escape the darkness. It wasn’t the first time this had happened in the days since the battle and it wasn’t likely to be the last, either.

Merry’s thoughts were distracted by a knock at the door and he gratefully admitted entrance to the Warden of the Houses of Healing, finding himself curious as to the man’s purpose here.

“Master Brandybuck, how is your arm today?” Merry bit back a grimace at the man’s formality. He had tried to convince the man it was perfectly proper to call him Merry, but it seemed this was as good as it was going to get. It was an improvement over Master Perian, at any rate.

“It is improving, thank you.” He automatically flexed the arm and was reassured to feel some of his strength returning. Not enough to wield a sword, of course. He forced a smile. “Can I help you with something?”

“As a matter of fact, you can. Lord Faramir was curious about the Lady Eowyn and I told him that you would know more about her than I did, as I understand you spent a great deal of time with her.”

Ah, Lady Eowyn. Merry had visited with her this morning, as he had yesterday. He’d understood her feelings of resentment and despair all too well. It was no easy thing to be left behind when those you cared about were heading into danger.

“I will speak with the Lord Faramir if he wishes it, though I do not know if I can help him.” Merry took up his cloak and followed the Warden. He was led to a room that, while well appointed, was still clearly a sick room. Here a tall, serious man was sitting at a small table in front of the fire.

“Lord Faramir,” the Warden spoke respectfully, “here is the halfling, Meriadoc Brandybuck, of whom I spoke earlier.”

Faramir looked up and Merry was caught by his resemblance to Boromir. Pippin had spoken of Faramir several times, but this was the first time that Merry had met him. His face still bore the marks of illness, lines of pain and shadows of weariness. Despite these marks, or perhaps because of the quiet dignity with which he bore them, Merry could see why the man had made such a strong impression on Pippin.

“Welcome, Master Brandybuck.” Faramir smiled in greeting. “Please sit and join me in something to eat.”

Merry bowed politely, then faced west for a moment before sitting, having learned this strange custom from Pippin and not wanting to offend his host.

Faramir laughed. “I see that you are learning our customs quickly, Master Brandybuck.”

“My cousin, Peregrin, taught me much that he had learned here, before he left for...for...” Merry’s voice died out and he left the sentence unfinished. After a moment, he started up again. “He tried to explain as many things as he could, although he didn’t understand the whys of most of the customs.”

“I owe a great debt of gratitude to your cousin.” A shadow fell across Faramir’s face. “I have been told that he saved my life while I was ill, although I have no memory of the event and when I asked him about it, he grew very evasive and said that I owed my life to Gandalf, not him.” The Steward was quiet for a moment, lost in some sad thought, before forcing himself back to the present. “Enough of that. Eat up, Master Brandybuck, there is plenty of food.”

Merry obediently filled a plate. “Master Brandybuck is my father. Please call me Merry. That’s what my friends do.”

Faramir, nearly done with his meal, picked politely at his food and kept up a stream of light conversation while his guest ate, quickly putting Merry at his ease. When the meal was over, Faramir set the tray outside his door and returned to the table, where he found Merry restlessly playing with his pipe.

“I was always fascinated by Mithrandir’s pipe, on his visits to Minas Tirith when I was a child.” Faramir indicated that Merry should go ahead and light up. “I had not ever seen such a thing elsewhere but I never had the courage to ask him about it. I saw that your friend, Gimli has a pipe as well. It is an intriguing habit. Do all of your people have this trait or have you acquired it on your travels?”

A shadow passed over Merry’s face as, just for a moment, he seemed to hear Theoden asking him a similar question at the gates of Isengard. Shaking off the sudden sadness, Merry forced a smile. “It is a common habit amongst hobbits, my lord. Tobold Hornblower of Longbottom first brought the leaf to the Shire several hundred years ago. It seems likely he got it in Bree although no one really knows for sure.” Merry began to warm to his subject and Faramir allowed him to go into quite a bit more detail than he had anticipated with his innocent question.

Merry began to wind down after several minutes. “But I’m sure that’s not why you asked me here today. The Warden mentioned something about Lady Eowyn.” He waited for Faramir’s response. The new Steward of Minas Tirith did not reply immediately, his eyes moving off into the distance for a moment.

Finally he returned to himself with a shake. “She intrigues me. She is beautiful and sad and I do not entirely understand her pain. I was told that you have spent much time with her and so was hoping you could tell me about her.”

Merry found this a difficult task. “I must confess, my lord, that although I did spend several days in her company, she was in disguise as a Rider of Rohan. I did not myself realize who she was until she slew the Nazgul.” Mention of that evil seemed to summon the pain and cold in Merry’s arm and he shifted slightly, drawing closer to the fire for comfort. Faramir shivered as well but attempted to dismiss his unease.

“Still, you must have spoken with her. Is her sadness simply due to the death of her uncle, or is there, as I feel certain, more to it than that?”

So Merry spent the rest of the afternoon recalling everything he could of Eowyn’s moods and words for Faramir. Later in the evening they went out into the garden and strolled around. Now Merry pressed Faramir for details of his meeting with Frodo and Sam. Faramir spoke at length about his conversation with Frodo, the encounter with Gollum, and Frodo’s insistence on following Gollum’s lead.

The long shadows cast by the setting sun gradually disappeared as darkness loomed over the city and Merry felt the darkness returning to his heart as well.

“They are all out there, my friends and kin.” He waved his arm to the east. “I promised myself that I would protect them. It turns out I was unable even to take care of myself.” He bowed his head. “It shames me, Faramir, that I must sit here in safety and comfort while they are all in such gravest danger.”

Faramir studied the small figure before him. Here was another unhappy soul and again there was nothing he could do to change the circumstances which brought about this pain. He understood Merry’s desire to go to the battle. He felt it himself, although he knew that his recovery was not complete.

“I think,” he began haltingly, “that these times call for a new kind of courage from us, Merry. The courage to face our own weakness and accept it. The courage to accept that in this instance, someone else is better suited to the task. There is no shame in this. You helped to rid the world of a great evil and suffered greatly in the doing. Now it is time to rest and heal. The time will likely come when the battle returns to us and we will need all our strength to face that end.” He rested his hand on Merry’s shoulder for a moment. “Come, the air is growing chill. We should both of us return to our rooms.”

Merry nodded but did not respond. After a moment, Faramir departed, leaving his friend alone to think. Merry barely noticed his going. A freshening breeze blew through his hair and he barely noticed that, as well. Faramir had given him much to think about and he sat for a long while, trying to come to terms with the truths that had been said and the truths that he felt in his heart.

Much later, he found his way back to his room. He was tired and ready for sleep, but sleep did not come. He could find no resolution to the conflict in his soul. He knew that Faramir had spoken truly but in his mind’s eye, he kept seeing Frodo and Sam all alone in Mordor, and Pippin being overwhelmed by hordes of orcs and evil men in front of the Black Gate. These were the truths that his heart knew and Faramir’s words brought him no comfort.