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It is dark outside; nightfall has been hours ago at this point. The tent is small, probably, but the two of them don’t take up as much space as two human men do, so it is manageable. It’s cold, however, and even under the thick fur blanket Merry has allowed her to have all by herself does Éowyn shiver.
Merry is sitting across the tent, legs crossed on the grass, a thin woolen blanket over his shoulders, and he’s trying his hardest to be brave, she can see that on his face; but the little hobbit is shivering even more so than she is.
This is foolish, is it not?
“Come over here,” Éowyn says, neither soft nor warm because she does not know how to do these things, not well, at least.
Merry’s gaze lifts at her words, and the way he looks at her feels like a hit to her chest, always has. Will she ever understand why? Does she see something in his gaze, or is it just wishful thinking? In the end, Éowyn isn’t sure herself what she wants from him.
He clears his throat.
“Why, pray tell?”
No way around it: Éowyn lifts the heavy fur on one of her sides. It is a gesture that he understands, from the look on his face, and Merry rises to his feet, after a short moment of hesitation. Cut shorter than usual because of the cold, most likely.
“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice so much more gentle than hers had been, and really, Merry is probably an expert in warmth. Well, she’s about to find out, Éowyn supposes.
“I would not have asked if I wasn’t,” she answers simply, holding his gaze—there’s something itching inside her, some kind of anxiety, but judging from the way Merry holds himself, he does not notice. What does he see in her?
Slowly, he walks over, settles beside her, and it is hard to make out in the dark, but Éowyn thinks there is some pink dusting his cheeks. Then again, hobbits are known to be rosy-cheeked, are they not?
Éowyn inhales deeply once he leans against her, once she can wrap the fur around him, too. He’s short, yes, but he is warm to the touch, like a child, almost. Merry isn’t looking at her, his gaze focused on the ground in front of him. She inhales once more, before wrapping one arm around his shoulder, pulling him to her chest.
“What are you doing, Mylady?” he mutters, voice a breathy whisper that makes her shiver, and the cold is chased away in seconds, Éowyn’s body now running hot instead. Who would have thought she would ever feel like this, towards a hobbit, no less?
No, she is not sure of her feelings yet. She should not rush things, not again, not with him—Merry is too dear of a friend for that. He’s a kind soul.
So she simply answers, “Searching for warmth,” and Merry nods.