By: Dana
Summary: And tomorrow they ride to war...
Characters: Merry, Eowyn, mention of Pippin
Pairings: Merry/Eowyn, Merry/Pippin
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst, slash
Author's Notes: Written for a challenge. Set during RotK. Movie-canon twisted by my own devices. For Lynn, because she wanted it (even if it isn't unrequited, I still think it's sad.)
Disclaimer: The author makes no claim to owning the rights of anything to do with J.R.R. Tolkien or New Line Cinema. Any and all characters and situations that have been borrowed are for the author's personal use only, and for the entertainment of others.

He calls it mindless fancy; mindless, because it makes little sense, fancy, because it could never be anything more than just that. And Merry is a patient sort (he's had to be, with Pippin about), but he's never been fond of looking-not-touching, of wanting-not-having, and he doesn't think it's ever been this bad, even when he's had Pippin to blame. And Pippin, lover-cousin-best friend, is so far away.

But there Merry falters, pushing thoughts of Pippin away. Here Eowyn stands, her shoulders slumping though she stands tall like a queen, her right hand clenched in a white-knuckled grip around the hilt of her sword. What a long fine blade, Merry muses, white-and-gold-and-grey, with a long fine lady to wield it, as hard and as sharp as that tempered steel.

"My lady?" he calls, standing there in his armor, standing in the entryway to her tent. For a long moment after, his words hanging thick in the air, she doesn't reply.

"What is it, Merry?" she answers, turning her head so that she can face him. There is a smile on her lips, a sad one, a bitter one, and Merry wishes that he could wipe it away. But he doesn't, smiling instead, lifting his own sword. Not so fine as hers, but he thinks it worthy, and his own hand wrapped in a tight fitting leather glove is wrapped around its hilt. He lets the tent flap fall behind him as he takes a step in.

"They sharpened the blade."

Her smile is stronger, now, and she nods, then looks at the sword in her hand. She is not one to sit idly by, she is a warrior, and he her spirit like a beat underneath his skin. She is quiet, quiet still, as she kneels at the foot of her bedroll, pulls back the covers at the foot. There she wraps it, and then she set it down upon the ground, pulling the cover back up over the long, bound blade. Eowyn's shoulders are hunched and she fingers the horse-head pommel, before pulling the cover back over even that.

He looks at his sword, sheathes it, feeling distinctively out of place. Like a child playing at some grow up's game. He knows what he knows, though sometimes he isn't sure if he can quite remember Pippin's face (and it's only been a day), but he doesn't know Eowyn at all.

"A true esquire, now," she says, and maybe that's pride, and he lifts his gaze.

"Well, I don't know what good I will be."

Eowyn does not stand, folding her hands on her lap, and she does not turn to watch him, either, still on her knees. There is a sadness that hangs about her, this night, and he wonders if it is tied to the morning yet to come. It is late out, now, but tomorrow they ride.

"Your heart is in it, Merry, and you are true. That will give you your strength, when it is needed most."

"I suppose," he says. "And it would be nice. What I want"

"I know," and now she smiles, once more, lifting one hand to beckon him close. She does not look at him, though, and candlelight flickers behind her profile, and Merry is reminded of Galadriel, bright and terrible and fair.

"Come sit with me, please."

He nods, walks over, sits down and crosses his legs. She reaches out, takes his hand. So different, in so many ways. Her fingers are long and slender, and he can almost feel her calluses through leather and skin, where his fingers seem short and stubborn, better suited to a fool.

"How much work have you had with a sword?" she asks, turning his hand so she can press against his palm.

"Just some," he answers, still watching the edge of Eowyn's face. "With Boromir"

She nods. "I met him, once. He was a fine man."

"The finest." Merry's heart flip-flops in his chest and he thinks of all that brought him here, and where he could have been, instead, and how bad it had been, when he thought that there would be no ending to this night that had gone black. "He fell in battle, defending myself and my kin"

"He was a soldier, Merry, and it was his way. You should not grieve, that he went then, when it was his time."

Merry presses his lips together, a hard firm line, and her hand warm against his, and nods his head. "I suppose I shouldn't," he says. "But I just can't help myself, my lady. It all seems pointless, this death, his dying. He should be here, still, and it's as simple as that."

"I know how you feel, Merry," she says, with such grief; she has lost loved ones, too, but maybe she has learned that it is best not to look back. Merry can't help but feel this way, when it is still all so new. "I do."

He nods again, his gaze held high, squeezing her hand tight. "Do you think we ride to our death?"

We, and this does not encompass her, but Merry can see Eowyn standing with her sword, bright in her armor, terrible and dark but shining, too. He can see her, and he almost feels that he will see this, too, come to pass. And she will be there, at his side.

Where will Pippin be, he wonders, and that thought bogs him down.

"If that is what is meant, then yes," and that is all she says.

His throat constricts and he feels something else fighting to free itself, that thought of Pippin bringing something new, something that he has tried his best not to show. Maybe it's too late, now, and if he doesn't speak of it now, he won't have time to speak of it then. They ride come the dawn, and where then will they end.

"I miss Pippin," he says, and curses himself this foolish display. "I miss him, and I was short with him and I didn't mean it, but I love him, and I was angry at him, that he could do something so foolish, put himself at such a risk, and he needed to learn a lesson. Then Gandalf went and took him away, and maybe now I'll not see him again. He's off in Minas Tirth, now, right there at the edge, at Mordor looms and maybe he's already dead "

"Merry, please "

"Maybe he's already dead," he says, again, his voice tired and thick. "Maybe he's already dead, and he is no soldier, he is just a hobbit, just my Pippin, and this should not have been his time. And should I not grieve him, my lady, because this is how it was meant?"

And Eowyn falters, uncertain. Desperate, then, she clutches his hand tight with both her own, so tight, and Merry feels that he could be crushed. Such a funny thought, that, but she's anything but frail. "Would you kill him already?" she demands, hissing, and Merry feels something lodge itself in his throat. She burns him like fire and she digs down under his skin.

"It's just " but what is it, Merry doesn't know, and he forces his back straight as that something in his throat makes itself known, and he closes his lips over the soft cry that escape. "I will n?t weep," he whispers, harsh, knowing this is a lie.

They kiss, not because he thinks that it's right (and he has want?d to kiss her, he has, but he never thought it could be,) as if they'll fall right into each other, needing something to hold onto when everything is falling away. Desperate, and deep, and when they break, when Merry can breathe, he feels the moisture gathered in his eyes, the beat of his heart, and hers, and would love to feel just her, skin against skin.

"Do not kill him with these words," she says, as if that moment had never been, as if there was no kiss, and her taste didn't still linger on his tongue. Merry would wipe at his eyes, but he can't, as Eowyn is holding his hand so tight and it only seems right to grab at her hands with both of his own. He can't feel her under that leather, and oh how he wants to feel her under that leather.

"But I "

"There are no buts, Merry, and do not decide his fate when it isn't yet his time."

Merry can only nod, bowing his head. "Tomorrow," she says, "we ride to war, and we might ride to our deaths. But we will not know, until it plays out. He will find you, I think, or you will find him. Do not kill him with your words, Merry. Please."

We, this time, and Merry is certain that if tomorrow is his end, then she will be there at his side. "I don't think I could " but he says nothing more than that, trying to find the right words, but nothing quite fits. "Pippin is he I don't know how to explain it. He shouldn't be here, no more than I should, my lady. And I miss him, and I don't want to see him dead. I'd never forgive him for not letting me say good bye."

And she laughs, a sudden bright sound, and her hands fall away. Feeling returns, and Merry curls his hands into slow fists, setting them against his knees. "I know how you feel," and she touches his cheek. "I think that I would like your Pippin, Merry, if only because you love him so much."

"It isn't " and he feels his cheeks warm, pink, and Eowyn laughs, once more.

"But it is. And I would see what makes him so worthy of your love."

"My lady, " he stammers, and he wonders who it is she loves, because her love is great, and sad, and her lips are a warm breath away from his, now.

"Eowyn," she chides. "Please."

Merry sighs. "Eowyn," he says, against the shape of her mouth. And Pippin had better wait for him, he thinks, if just so that Merry can tell him of this. But more than that, too. Because he should wait, and he will wait, because Merry knows that Pippin knows that he wouldn't be forgiven, ever, if he went and left Merry all alone.

And tomorrow they ride to war and maybe death, too.