Archive of Our Own

An elbow to the ear was no way at all to wake up. 

Merry sighed, pushing Pippin’s arm back where it belonged under the coverings of blankets and cloaks. His cousin mumbled in his sleep, rolling away to snuggle up against Frodo and Sam, and took most of the covers with him. 

What time was it anyway? Curling suddenly cold toes, Merry propped himself up on his elbows, listening to the rustling of leaves and the distant twittering of some disgruntled bird, and to Gimli's snores from somewhere close by. 

Early. It felt early. It felt as if he'd only just closed his eyes. Yet, wan, wintery sunlight filtered through the heather bush that made up their lodgings, and his freshly awakened stomach was clamouring for his attention, telling him firmly that it must be well past breakfast time, or dinnertime, or whatever it was you called the first meal of the day when nighttime was daytime and everything was topsy-turvy. 

And beneath him was some sort of root or rock that he'd been too tired to notice when they’d all crawled into their makeshift bed before first light. It dug into his hip. Another poked him in the shoulder. 

“I suppose there’s not much chance of returning to my dream now anyway,” he muttered, sitting up fully. “Thanks, Pip.”

Such a fine, cosy, comfortable dream it had been too. He'd been in Bag End, or maybe his mother’s kitchen in Buckland, or it might even have been Rivendell—he hadn’t been paying much attention to the surroundings. All his attention had been fixed on the table, and the feast spread upon it. A plate piled high with crispy bacon. Boiled eggs, their butter-yellow yolks soft and runny and liberally sprinkled with salt, ready for dipping. A stack of hot toast slathered in butter. Piping hot coffee, lashings of it, with cream and sugar, and a pot of tea too. And mushrooms—a whole dish of them, nut-brown and earthy, herbed and buttered. Porridge, laced with honey and plump winter berries. A fine, ripe cheese. A bowl of tart Westfarthing apples, their skins shining. 

And the smell. Oh, the smell. It lingered in his mind, making his mouth water and his stomach ache with longing.

It rumbled again. 

No. This was all no good. All he was doing was torturing himself. He must find something else to do or think about. Maybe a smoke? A smoke would distract him. 

Carefully, taking pains not to accidentally kick any of his sleeping bedfellows and upset their dreams of breakfast—not even Pippin, though he fully deserved it—Merry crawled out of the bush, dragging his pack behind him. 

He wasn't alone. Ahead, on the other side of the little dip in the ancient road that Aragorn had chosen for their resting place, telling them it would keep them out of the worst of the wind sweeping down from the mountains, Boromir was also awake. 

Not on watch though. 

Boromir took his watch seriously. Very seriously. If he were on watch, he wouldn’t be doing…whatever it was he was doing.

What was he doing? 

While he quietly rifled through his pack for his pipe, then his tinderbox, Merry watched Boromir paw through the heather. 

Had the man lost something? The winter-blooming heather that encircled the dell was thick and bushy, peppered with cheerful pale pink flowers. It had hidden them all easily enough. Why, from here, if he couldn't hear Gimli’s rumbling snores, and Gandalf’s whistling ones, and if he didn’t know of the friends he’d left slumbering behind him, he’d be hard-pressed to say that there was anyone still sleeping at all. So losing something made sense. It would be easy to drop some small item into the bushes and struggle to spot it again. And Boromir did have his pack open beside him. 

Aha. There it was. His pouch of pipeweed—squashed into a corner of his pack and already growing sadly light. After packing his pipe as sparingly as he could, and with his curiosity getting the better of him, Merry ambled across to Boromir. He looked down at the man crouched before him. 

Whatever was he doing? With one hand, Boromir was methodically working his way through the stems of heather, rolling one after another through the fingers. In his other hand, he held a wickedly sharp-looking knife. By his feet, lay a small, well-thumbed book. 

Merry decided to take a large and careful step backwards before announcing himself. “Hullo, Boromir.”

Watching one of the Big Folk almost leap out of their skin while desperately pretending not to have been startled at all…it would never stop being funny. “Fine day, isn’t it?” added Merry cheerily, trying not to laugh. “Have you lost something?”

Putting the knife away, Boromir scowled. “Nothing but ten years off my life, and what little remained of my patience for halfling mischief. What have I told you about sneaking around?”

He hadn’t been sneaking, and they'd all grown well used to Boromir’s bluster by now. The man never meant anything much by it. “Is Aragorn still on watch?” Merry asked. 

Boromir nodded. 

That helped him with the time somewhat. Merry sighed. Nowhere near breakfast, after all. 

There was a rustle from the heathery burrow opposite. Pippin was awake. Barely. Waving his bleary-eyed cousin across, Merry put a finger to his lips as a reminder that there were others still abed. 

“What are either of you doing up at this hour?” hissed Boromir as Pippin joined them. 

There was an accusation badly hidden in that. And an unfair one it was too. As if they were any trouble at all when awake! 

“What time’s breakfast?” asked Pippin, yawning widely. 

“You mean supper, Pip,” said Merry, trying not to yawn too. “That’s the way of it, isn’t it, Boromir? Or it could be an early dinner, I suppose, by the look of the western sky, but either way, I reckon it's a way off yet. Maybe. It's tricky to work out.” 

Especially when one was starving simply all of the time. Funny how the songs and tales about adventures never mentioned their lack of regular mealtimes, or any mealtimes, come to think of it. Maybe that should have been a clue. 

“Do you think Gandalf might let us risk a fire today?” Merry asked. “Just a small one? Last night, this morning, I mean, before we went to bed, Sam was saying he thought he might be able to stew those apples into a sort of bread, or a cake perhaps.”

Boromir’s eyes softened and Merry just knew he wasn’t going to much like the answer—even before he heard a single word of it. And he was right. “I’m sorry, Merry,” said Boromir, “but it’s too—”

“What’s this then?”

Boromir snatched the book from Pippin’s hands. He shoved it deep into his pack. “Nothing.”

“An odd sort of nothing,” whispered Pippin to Merry. “I didn’t get much of a look at it but there’s—”

“Pippin,” growled Boromir. 

“—flowers in there,” continued Pippin. “A half-dozen or so, I'd say. All pressed neat as a pin between the pages, and there was writing too.” He looked at Boromir accusingly. “I didn't get a chance to read any of it though.”

Merry tutted. “You can’t go about reading people’s journals any time you like, Pip. They’re private.”

“Eavesdropping’s fine though, is it?” asked Pippin. 

Merry chose to ignore that. Because a thought had just occurred to him, two thoughts, and fine ones they were too, clever ones, for a hobbit who'd not had so much as a sniff of any breakfast. “So that’s what you were doing,” he said, certain he had the right of it. “It was for your book.”

“What was for his book?” asked Pippin. 

“Nothing,” said Boromir. 

“He was picking heather.” No, that was wrong. Merry thought a bit harder, lighting his pipe and puffing it to life before he continued, “Well, not picking it, but picking through it. Were you looking for the best piece, Boromir? For your book of flowers?”

“We could help,” said Pippin, sounding distracted as he eyed the pipesmoke longingly. 

“Get your own, Pip.” Was it any surprise his own Longbottom Leaf supply was running low? When was the last time they’d shared a pipe of Pippin’s? Two nights—days—ago? Had it been that long? The rascal.

“What us hobbits don’t know about plants and flowers,” Pippin said, “and all those sorts of things isn’t worth knowing. Isn’t that right, Merry? We’ll find the best cuttings, quick as you like.”

Boromir looked between them as if weighing the bother of chasing them back to their beds against giving them a task that might keep them busy and quiet. “Fine,” he said with a put-upon sigh, scrubbing his hand through his hair. “Fine. Thank you. It should be this long” —he held up a large finger, indicating between the joints— “like so, with all its leaves and flowers intact.”

He knew exactly what he had in mind, and he had exacting standards. As the sun crept further toward the horizon and the shadows lengthened, they dug together carefully through the bush, comparing this stem to that one. 

Boromir rejected all of them. 

“Look,” said Pippin when Boromir shook his head at yet another perfectly fine offering, “you can’t go about asking us to help you, and then not listen when we do.”

“I don’t recall asking either of you to help me.”

“What’s wrong with that one then?” asked Merry. 

“One of the petals is missing. There.”

Merry peered at the stem Pippin was holding out from the bush. They looked at the tiny space where a petal should be. 

“Boromir,” Merry said as gently as he could. “I expect you’re not that familiar with these things, but you’re not going to find anything growing out in the wild that’s completely perfect. Certainly not here. Not with the wind and the rain, and passing animals and birds, and—

“Insects,” added Pippin. “Bees and things.”

“Exactly,” said Merry. “Those too. Not to mention that these particular blooms are from, I’d say, though I’m no expert like Sam, a week ago. At least. In fact, I’m more surprised we managed to find any cutting that’s only missing one tiny petal. You’d be hard-pressed to find better, even in the Shire. Or Rivendell. Flowers aren’t swords, Boromir. They're not made in anything like the same way.”

“You’ll only be squashing them into a book anyhow,” said Pippin. “Then squashing the book into a pack.”

Both fine points too. Merry nodded at Pippin. Not to mention they’d be climbing mountains and doing who only knew what else or running from who knew what else before the end of the quest—his mind skittered away from that thought, as it always did. No. Stick to flowers. Stick to breakfast. Stick to safe, comfortable thoughts. 

“Fine.” Quick as a whip, Boromir produced his knife. He snicked the stem and palmed the cutting.

“There,” said Pippin, patting Boromir’s shoulder. “All done. Now, you can put it in your book with the others.”

They waited expectantly, but Boromir made no move toward his pack at all, resting back on his haunches as if waiting too. 

Waiting for what? For them to leave? Where would they go? They couldn't very well crawl back into bed. Why, they’d run the risk of waking Frodo, and that would annoy Sam, and it was far too early in the day for all that. 

And Aragorn had given them all very strict instructions about wandering, or not wandering to be precise. And so had Gandalf—just in case they’d thought of disobeying a Ranger, Merry supposed. Not to mention all the secrecy about this book, or journal or whatever it was, was making him more curious than he thought he’d ever been about anything in his life. Why, he'd even forgotten how hungry he was!

“Go on then,” said Merry, making himself comfortable on the moss-covered stones of the old road. Pippin flopped down beside him. 

Nothing. 

They all stared at each other across Boromir’s pack. 

But hobbits were used to sitting quietly and sharing a pipe to pass the time. And Boromir had, unfortunately for him, made the exact same promises to Aragorn about not wandering off. So, unless he crawled back under his heather bush and bid them not to follow, he was very much stuck with them. 

“I’d like to see how you do it,” said Merry encouragingly. “I expect Gondor has very different ways of going about these things than us hobbits would.” 

Not that he expected anything of the sort—for how many ways could there be to press a flower?—but who knew what way the Big Folk might go about things? A fresh thought struck him. “Have you carried any with you all the way from Gondor?” 

“Oh,” said Pippin excitedly. “Have you? Are the flowers there different from ours? I bet Sam would dearly love to see them.” He screwed up his nose. “I do think there was one I didn’t recognise, maybe two.”

“Was there?” asked Merry. “Really? What were they like?”

“I didn’t exactly get a very good look, Merry.”

Boromir sighed. Settling himself fully on the ground, he dug the book from his pack and held it out. “Here. Take it. Go on, before I change my mind.”

But that was no good at all. What if they made a mess of the pages? Because if anyone could manage to leave a sticky fingerprint on something, or sneeze and, in the doing of it, tear a page clean in half, it was Pippin. 

It was still permission though. Knocking out the pipe, which was nearly spent anyhow, Merry clambered across to sit by Boromir. Pippin scampered over to the man’s other side. Both of them wiped their hands clean from dust and grime as best they could on their grubby trousers. 

“What are you doing?” asked Boromir. 

“We’ll watch you press the new one,” said Merry, “then you can tell us about the ones you’ve gathered already.”

“When did you start collecting them?” asked Pippin. “Have you always done it? Ever since you were a little boy?”

Another resigned sigh from Boromir stirred Merry’s hair, but he was cracking open the book. The first pages were all numbers and tightly-written lists by the looks of it. Boromir flicked through them too quickly for Merry to read more than a word here and there. Supplies maybe? Names?

“Have either of you heard of a mallos?” Boromir asked. 

Merry shook his head. By Boromir's other knee, Pippin did the same.

“They have bell-like flowers, about so big.” Boromir indicated with his fingers. “Save once, I've only ever seen them in Lebennin. You've heard of it?” 

Again, Merry shook his head. 

“It's a land three, perhaps four days' ride south of Minas Tirith,” said Boromir. “In high summer, vast fields of mallos grow there. They sweep all the way down to the wide banks of the Anduin, tricking the eye into believing that they might be an extension of that same river as they nod and ripple in the gentle breezes, but shining golden as the sun."

Pippin reached out for the book before seeming to think better of it. “They sound like buttercups. Do you have one in here? Can we see it?”

“Pip's right,” said Merry. “Maybe we'd know them by a different name.”

Or maybe Sam would. Merry glanced toward their shelter, wondering if he should run and wake him. This felt like the kind of conversation Sam would be very sorry to miss, and likely Sam was lying awake anyhow, frowning up at the heathery roof and fretting about exactly what and how much food remained in their packs, and whether his Mr Frodo was warm enough, and feeling well enough, and all sorts of things. 

“You asked me when I had started this…collection,” continued Boromir, holding his book open with a finger on another page of lists. Names this time. Definitely names. “Do you truly wish to know?”

Pippin’s nod was a fraction quicker than Merry's—but only a fraction.

Boromir nodded too, as if reaching a decision. “We were in Osgiliath,” he said, “My brother and I. We'd succeeded in driving the enemy back to the eastern shore, and it was a victory, if not the victory I had hoped for. Then, as I walked the grey ruins, gathering my thoughts before speaking to my men, I saw it. Perhaps a seed had been blown many long leagues on the wind, or been carried trapped amongst the fur or feathers of some beast. I don’t know how these things come about, but it had caught, and bloomed, in a dark, lonely place where it should never have been. A thing of beauty. Of hope, perhaps.”

The wind was shifting, brushing over Merry’s toes, tickling horribly against his ankles and his ears. It made him shiver. It reminded him far too strongly of the deathly cold of the barrows and the feel of bony fingers on his skin. If he listened—and he was trying very hard not to—he knew he'd hear the whispery rasp of voices within it. 

Trying to concentrate on the comfort of Pippin’s voice instead as he questioned Boromir about the history of Osgiliath, Merry jolted when a strong arm encircled him and pulled him close. 

“You should both be wearing your cloaks,” muttered Boromir. “These are the foothills of the Misty Mountains, not some sun-kissed meadow in your Shirelands.”

“Do you have it?” asked Pippin. “You took the flower with you, I’m guessing.”

“I did,” said Boromir. “I don’t know why. Some odd whim came over me at the sight of it. Perhaps I did not want to leave it there to be trampled or torn out should the orcs return and push us back once more. But, whatever the reason, I took it and placed it amongst the maps, and all the plans that had all come to nought, and the lists of the dead. Here, Pippin. Take this from me. I’ll keep you warm.”

With his head tucked in tight against Boromir’s shoulder, and his cold toes warming beneath Boromir’s thigh, Merry watched Pippin slowly turn through the pages. 

So many names. They crowded together in columns, all of them written in a neat—if almost indecipherable—hand. 

“There," said Boromir when Pippin turned to a page, empty but for some specks of yellow pollen. “That is where I kept it, for a time, and if you turn—”

“Where is it now?” asked Pippin. “Did it fall out?”

“No…” Boromir cleared his throat. “I left it with a…a friend. For safekeeping.”

“Oh,” said Pippin. “Like a gift.”

“In a way. Then, I had thought, as I left Minas Tirith behind, that perhaps I could—”

“Which friend?” asked Pippin. 

“Simply a friend. As I was sayi—”

“They must be a good friend,” said Pippin innocently, giving Merry a meaningful look. “Have you known them long? This friend?”

Merry knew exactly what his cousin was getting at. But mannish customs were likely very different from hobbits. Likely, men gave out flowers and thought nothing of it at all. 

Although…

Merry frowned, feeling Boromir shift in his seat. Could Pippin be onto something? Because, if he didn't know better, he'd say Boromir was squirming.

Boromir never squirmed. 

“Not long,” said Boromir.

“But you’re good friends?” prompted Pippin. “Even though you haven’t known each other long?”

“I believe so,” said Boromir warily. “For my part.”

Was that suspicion in Boromir's voice? Or was it reticence? Merry wriggled closer, reaching for the book. 

Pressed between the next pages was a small spray of daisy-like flowers. Merry twisted his head to read the writing by the date next to their stem. “Edoras,” he said. “Sim…Simbel…is this elvish?” 

“Simbelmynë.” 

They all jumped at Aragorn’s voice. 

“It’s the language of the Rohirrim, Merry.” Flicking his cloak aside, Aragorn sat next to Pippin. “You might know it by its common name of Evermind, or perhaps Alfirin?” 

When Merry shook his head, Aragorn smiled. “Likely, you’ve seen it in passing and paid it no more mind than any other wildflower. But, to the people of Rohan, it has a special significance, for it covers the tombs of their forefathers.”

“Oh.” Pippin wrinkled his nose. “How romantic.”

“The Rohirrim also weave its blossoms through their wedding adornments, Pippin,” said Aragorn. “For to love is to walk also with grief, and with the knowledge that all lovers must one day be parted, even if only for a short time.” He smiled at Merry and Pippin as if he hadn’t just said something particularly gloomy. “Why are you not all resting? And what is this?”

“Who's on watch?” asked Boromir quickly.

“Legolas.” Aragorn’s tangle of hair fell over his face as he leant across to examine the book. “Ah, Edoras. Of course. It has been many long years since I last crossed the fields of Rohan. How fares the Mark?”

“As well as any do in these dark days,” said Boromir, sounding grateful for the diversion. “Yet their pride is undiminished, and their lances as keen as ever.”

As he and Aragorn fell to talking, Merry turned the page. Forget-me-nots came next, with a date beside them too and a note of Tharbad. Then two bright nasturtiums lay neatly pressed side by side. Beside them was only a date and a description of ‘banks of the Hoarwell’. Finally, the head of a yellow iris from Rivendell took up most of a page, its name and date printed in small letters beside it. 

“You didn’t write nasturtium,” said Pippin, interrupting the men’s talk of horses. He flipped back a page. “Look, right here. You missed it. I can spell it for you if you like?”

It was surprising enough that Boromir had packed a book amongst his sparse belongings; Merry felt it very unlikely that he’d have thought to pack a full writing set too. But they did have someone with them who didn’t pack light, and who knew that Frodo was fond of doing a little writing or sketching in quiet moments. “I daresay Sam’s got a quill and ink about him somewhere,” said Merry. “He’s certainly brought most everything else along. Shall I go ask him?”

“That won’t be necessary,” said Boromir. “What did you call them? These flowers?”

Suddenly, Merry doubted himself. Perhaps they were something different, but similar, like daisies and simbelmynë? 

Pippin suffered from no such doubts. “Nasturtium,” he said. “You can eat them if you like, but I wouldn’t do that now if I were you, not unless you were very hungry. Do you not have them in Gondor? They're all over in the Shire.”

“In Gondor, we do, yes,” said Boromir, “although I couldn’t recall their name. But not in Minas Tirith, or not as far as I can remember.”

“Ah,” said Pippin thoughtfully. He turned to the iris, then to the forget-me-nots, then back to the nasturtiums, then to the simbelmynë. Then he flipped through the blank pages to the end of the book.

There was a suspicion growing in Merry's mind too. As he watched Pippin, he wondered if his cousin was thinking along the same lines as him. Where were all the other pretty meadow flowers and hedgerow flowers Boromir must have passed by on his long journey from Gondor to Rivendell? What was wrong with the fragrant honeysuckle? Or the delicate wild orchids? The pale-petaled dog roses? He frowned, considering the sprig of heather. 

And now it was his turn to interrupt the men. “Boromir,” he asked. “Do you have heather in Gondor?”

“Of course,” said Boromir. 

“It's common throughout the Shire too,” said Merry. “Very common, and plenty find it pretty. The market stalls of Bywater often have bunches for sale. I expect it's much the same in Minas Tirith?”

“It is,” said Boromir, twirling the stem of heather through his fingers. “But none of this shade, as far as I'm aware.”

Aha. 

The gleam of triumph in Pippin’s eyes likely matched his own. And, if he were any judge of anything, and if he had any doubts whatsoever that he and Pippin were sniffing along the right path, Boromir confirmed things by stiffening—as if realising he’d misspoke and given too much away. 

But too much away of what? How far along the right path were they?

“I expect,” said Merry slowly, trying to piece the clues together, “your friend will be very pleased to see this account of your travels when you return to the city.” 

Quickly, he shoved away a stray and nasty thought of if. No. No thoughts of unpleasantness or danger. They would go to Mordor, do what they needed to do, and go home. He smiled—brightly, he hoped—up at Boromir. “Do they not leave Minas Tirith much then? Your friend?”

The arm about him was rigid, and Boromir’s jaw was too. And…was that a flush rising in the man’s cheeks? It was!

“No,” said Boromir. “They have never left the city.”

“Why?” asked Pippin. “Are they too old?”

“No.”

“Too young?” 

“No.” 

“Too married?” suggested Merry, grinning when that got him a glare. 

“No,” said Boromir firmly. “No. They are not married.”

“Not yet,” snickered Pippin under his breath—which got him a glare too. 

“Now, now,” said Aragorn, drawing his pipe from his pocket. “A man is allowed some secrets, even from his dearest friends.” He patted himself down, his frown turning into a bright smile when Merry passed over his pouch of pipeweed. “Hobbits do seem to be uncommonly determined creatures though, Boromir, so I doubt you’ll get to keep anything to yourself for very long. But I wish you luck anyway.”

“There’s no secret," said Boromir. “She—”

“She!” exclaimed Pippin. “There. I knew it.”

“—is a friend,” continued Boromir, sending another glare Pippin's way. “A new acquaintance. Nothing more. We were speaking of this and that, the war mainly, and of finding hope in unlooked-for places, and I showed her the mallos. She'd heard the name, but never seen one, and then, in Edoras, the thought came to me she might also have never seen simbelmynë so I—”

“Wrote her a love letter,” finished Pippin. 

“Is the lady of Numenorean blood also?” asked Aragorn, striking a light. He held it to his pipe. 

Boromir glowered at them both. “No,” he said, “and no, or at least not as far as I am aware. Her mother claimed the gift of foresight, but Brona believes it to have been little more than parlour tricks.”

“Brona?” asked Merry.

“Foresight?” asked Aragorn, puffing out a wreath of smoke. 

“This all looks and sounds a lot like a love letter to me,” said Pippin determinedly. 

“A few flowers.” Boromir shook his head. “That’s all it is. A trifle.”

He and Pippin both snorted in tandem. “A few flowers is not a trifle, Boromir,” said Merry. 

“Yes,” agreed Pippin. “You can’t just go around giving out flowers to anyone you please, whenever you feel like doing it.”

“Merry,” said Aragorn gently. “Pippin. You must remember that men are not hobbits, and our ways, and the ways of Gondor, are not your—”

“She’s not just anyone,” said Boromir. So quietly that Merry, even sitting so close, almost missed it.

His ears weren’t the only sharp ones. Pippin and Aragorn straightened, their attention fully caught. 

“Oh,” said Pippin. “Oh.”

“But it doesn’t matter,” said Boromir. “As I said, we are, were, friendly to each other. A handful of times. Nothing more than that.”

“Well, you say that now.” Pippin swiped the book. He held it aloft. “But that’s before you give her this. Isn’t that right, Aragorn? I mean, I know you said that men do things differently, but you know all about courting, don’t you?” 

That was true. Aragorn did. They’d all seen him staring off wistfully at things no one else could see, or singing what sounded very much like sad love songs to himself, while his fingers played with the pendant about his neck. He was a man in love. Utterly and completely in love. It was as plain as the nose on his face. 

Aragorn shook his head, his smile rueful. “Not I, Pippin.” 

Pippin looked at him and Merry shook his head. Whyever would he know any more about courting than Pippin did? 

“Sam, then,” said Pippin. “We’ll ask Sam. True, he’s a hobbit, but he knows all about these things. He’ll help you.”

“I don’t need help,” said Boromir. 

“Sam?” Merry frowned. “Samwise Gamgee? That Sam?”

Pippin rolled his eyes. “Hullo, Merry. Honestly, have you not been paying the slightest bit of attention? Sam’s been courting Rosie for years. Don't you remember Bilbo’s party?” 

He did. And, apparently, a good deal clearer than Pippin had. For he remembered that, if it hadn’t been for Frodo, Sam would have been slinking about the outskirts of the dancing, with a longing look on his face and an ale clutched in both hands, until dawn. 

“Sam’s not courting,” Merry said. “He might be being courted, I’ll give you that much, but he’s certainly not the one doing it. Not unless you count blushing beetroot-red and not being able to get a dozen words out without tripping over them, his feet, or both, as courting.” 

Pippin pursed his lips, tapping the book against Boromir’s knee. “Fine,” he said. “Frodo’s out, obviously. And I’d say good old Gandalf won’t be any help either.”

Boromir sighed. “Truly, I don’t need any—”

“Don’t reckon it’s of much use asking Gimli,” continued Pippin. “I expect dwarves just bop one another over the head or something and be done with it.”

When had Gimli’s snores stopped? Merry hadn’t noticed, but, now he was thinking about it, he couldn’t recall hearing any for a while. Nor Gandalf’s either. 

There was a deep chuckle from under a nearby bush. 

“Gimli,” cried Pippin. “I knew you were eavesdropping! How do dwarves go courting?”

“You had the right of it, laddie. Head-bopping.” 

“I knew it!”

“But what’s all this, Boromir?” asked Gimli, still chuckling. “Courting? You kept that quiet. Who’s the lass?”

“Brona,” said Merry. “Or I think that's what—”

“Merry,” snapped Boromir. “Gimli. All of you. It’s not how you think, and, even if it was, and I assure you all that I do know how I would go about it, there are no promises I could ever make her that I would not end up breaking. It is impossible. Entirely impossible. When I marry, I will be expected to marry a great lady.”

They all mulled that over. 

“Well,” said Pippin. “I wouldn’t lead with those exact words, if I were you.”

Merry nodded. True, he wasn’t an expert in courting, and he certainly wasn’t an expert in Gondorian women, but that sounded a surefire way of ending things before they started. And possibly even a fine way of getting a book of flowers thrown at him. 

“I’m not saying anything about her character,” said Boromir, sounding exasperated. “But there’s no changing the fact that I am the son of the Steward of Gondor, and that comes with expectations. She is nothing more than a lowly tavern maid. Even, if by some chance, she is of Numenorean descent, it would never be enough. Not for my people. Not for my father.”

“Best not say anything like that to Sam,” muttered Pippin. “He’ll have you for it, no matter whose son you are, or that you’re twice his size. His Rosie’s a tavern maid. He won’t hear you saying anything untoward about them.”

“I’m not,” said Boromir. “Far from it.”

“Would it be enough for you, Boromir?” asked Merry quietly. “That she’s a tavern maid, I mean, and not some great lady?”

Boromir didn’t answer, but the grey eyes that looked down at Merry seemed sad, and it didn’t feel fair. Not to a hobbit from the Shire. True, hobbits didn't have great cities like Minas Tirith sounded to be, they didn't go off to war, and they didn’t put much stock in lords and grand titles. They weren't like men in lots of ways. But it really didn’t feel fair at all that a man could fight for his people, and go to Mordor for his people, and do all manner of dangerous things for his people, and yet not be permitted to fall in love with whoever he chose in return. He slid the sprig of heather from Boromir’s unresisting fingers and retrieved the book from Pippin. 

“Do not give in to despair, Boromir,” said Aragorn, setting his pipe aside to reach across and lay a hand on Boromir’s forearm. “By the end, we may all find that things we once thought mattered greatly, matter a good deal less. And, oft-times, affairs of the heart have a way of working out for the best. At least, that is my greatest hope.”

Taking pains not to disturb the pressed flowers, Merry turned through the pages until he found an empty one. Now, which way to place it? He held the heather up to the fading sun, turning the sprig this way and that. There. That was it.

“I hope the things we hobbits care about matter much the same as they do now,” said Merry, laying the heather just so on the page. He tutted under his breath. One of the delicate petals had furled up and under. How had he managed that? With the tip of his tongue pressed against his teeth, he smoothed the petal flat again with a careful thumbnail, feeling Boromir’s hand shift to his shoulder. 

“I agree,” said Pippin. “Good ale, good cheer, and a quiet smoke on a summer’s evening. You can keep the rest of it.”

“Apart from maybe dinner, piping hot, with plenty left over for seconds,” added Merry, for he’d certainly never take a full belly for granted again. Holding the heather in place, he looked up and got a nod of approval in return.

Leaning back, Boromir dug through his pack and returned with a length of cord. “Tie this around it, Merry. Good and tight.”

Merry wrapped the cord around the book, and around again, as if wrapping a parcel. “There,” he said. “And we can help you look for more as we walk, if you like? You’ve still a few pages left.”

“We all could,” said Pippin. “Much less gloomy than watching out for Black Riders and suchlike.” He laughed at Aragorn’s raised eyebrow. “Not that we won’t also be looking out for those, of course.”

They'd never spot a Black Rider before Legolas did anyway, and that was a good point, if not the same one. “I can’t see Legolas being too happy about us snipping flowers all over the place,” said Merry. “Perhaps we shouldn't mention it to him.”

“Not mention what?”

Aragorn had seen or heard him coming, of course, for he laughed while the rest of them startled. 

“Come now, Merry,” said Legolas, taking a graceful seat beside Aragorn. He waved away the curls of pipesmoke. “My father wears a crown of flowers when the fancy takes him, and there were vases of fresh blooms all over Rivendell. Where do you hobbits get your notions from? But of course we will help you, Boromir. To be in love is a fine thing.”

Boromir sighed. 

“Where’s the dwarf got to anyhow?” asked Legolas. “Not still abed, surely? Pippin, go rouse him.” 

But Boromir was already detangling himself. “I’ll take watch,” he said, trailing his weapons out from under the heather. “Gimli, I—”

“Go on ahead, lad.”

“We’ll come with you.” They'd spoken together. Scrambling to their feet, Merry and Pippin grinned at each other and then Boromir. 

“Fine,” he said, smiling back. “Run and fetch your cloaks, and your swords.”

“And the cards?” asked Pippin hopefully. 

“No."