Chapter Text
As distance grew smaller, and the country turned greener, and the forestry became tidier and sparser around the road, the verses of her companions got louder. There were songs of home, and songs of drinks, and songs of stories told around the hearth to fend off the cold, all in honor—or so had galantly proclaimed Merry before putting together a folk duo with Pippin—of the most esteemed guest to arrive to the land of hobbits in recent reckoning.
Éowyn had found the intent of their singing sweet during the first ten minutes, and perhaps she had even blushed, if the remaining heat on her cheeks was any indication; but having her friends already doubled the original runtime of their recital, she was starting to wonder just how many songs there were in their repertoire.
The woods surrounding the East Road slowly faded behind them, with the exception of some linden and beech trees standing firm, as if keeping watch over the exuberant cottony lovegrass that kept overtaking the track in blossoms of dandelion white and lavander lilac.
Presently, the rustling foliage of the forest was well behind. Meanwhile the murmur of rushing water reached them from a little farther ahead, at the sinking slope underneath the Brandywine Bridge. Moss snuck into the crevices between the blocks of stone hoisting the arched structure up over the pooling of pebbles drizzled by sunbeams that hit the riverbank.
Beside her, a head of dark locks went past. With an amused, yet undeniably exasperated look, Frodo Baggins directed his pony to catch up with Merry and Pippin's horses. Sam followed behind him, while the entourage stopped before reaching the bridge.
"We part ways here," Frodo announced.
Merry nodded in acknowledgment, but regardless of the solemnity he tried to hold onto, mischief worked its teasing way on his lips. "This is as far as we can go together for now. You and Sam are on your own with the Sackville-Bagginses."
"I am going that way too," Pippin reminded him.
Merry nodded. "Aye, that is true. Well, Sam, Frodo, you are also dealing with that Took as your companion. Make sure he doesn't make for a detour towards the Green Dragon before reaching Tookland."
Pippin looked at his cousins with slight confusion while they had a mild laugh at his expense. Éowyn could not help but relate to his disorientation, although on a lighter manner, as she still found delight in the exchange, and even moreso, in the way that Merry's fond gaze moved from the hobbits to meet hers.
Then, he averted his gaze, and found himself focusing back on Frodo. Clearing his throat, he outstretched a hand for him to take.
Frodo's features were soft and gentle, yet they had a pronounced keenness to them. Instead of accepting the handshake, he opted for patting Merry's shoulder with fraternal affection as he gave a piece of advice.
"Keep faithful to your duties as a good host. It is just a hunch, but I think that in due time, it may come to be appreciated more than any of us would've thought."
Frodo's gaze landed on Éowyn for a split second, before he manned his pony to cross the bridge, leaving an inexplicably silent Merry behind. He stopped short on the deck to nod goodbye at the now lonesome pair, and began to lead his good Sam and a good-humored, waving Pippin across the Brandybuck Bridge.
Merry remained still, transfixed on the hobbits getting tinnier by the moment, or rather, on the idea that he had been left to his own devices. From the moment they had set out from Minas Tirith in the company of Lady Éowyn, he had looked forward to them all reaching home together, yet…
Becoming aware of her gaze on him—and the itch on his the spot of his face where her eyes laid—Merry forced himself to snap out of it. This was not the first time they were alone, so what reason had he to freeze like this? None but the implication in Frodo's words, which he could very well have imagined.
Nonetheless, his hands only clutched the reins more tightly as he made a turn on his horse and looked up; all of a sudden, he felt like a fauntling under the towering height from which Éowyn's steel gaze sailed with puzzled undertones of blue.
"Milady," Merry said with difficulty, as if he was still debating whether it was best to just swallow whatever he had to say. His feelings could not be as obvious in those clear eyes as they had been in Frodo's, or so he reasoned as he straightened himself on his mount to regain, if not inwardly then outwardly, his coolheaded demeanor.
"Welcome to Buckland, the domain of the Brandybucks for generations past... And generations to come."
Éowyn smiled a genuine—and so gentle—smile, and bowed her head—her hair of golden ivy trailing down her neck as she did—which somewhat diminished their height difference. "It is an honor to be welcomed in these faraway lands."
He was uncertain as to what exactly took his breath away, but he tried to, in turn, take the sudden breathlessness in stride. "The honor is all mine."
That was not what he had hoped would come out.
"Ours," he corrected himself. "A honor to all hobbits. We are incredibly pleased to welcome such a delightful guest in our distant corner of Middle Earth."
He could not be doing as badly as the feeling in his gut would have him believe, for he was awarded with another smile.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Merry."
There was a small twich to Merry's pointy ears. Appreciate. A jittery bundle of emotions was sandwiched somewhere within him, and it itched tiklishly, to the point that he could not contain a goosy grin.
"Shall we resume the journey, Milady? Our path moves North-East, along the riverbank."
Éowyn patted the neck of her mount, whispering encouragements in its ear in a manner that made Merry gaze.
"Lead the way, Merry."
"Yes, Lady Éowyn," his chirpy tone made his eagerness hard to miss. "Off we go… To Brandy Hall."
As Merry finished his introduction of both parties, the smial was filled with a taciturn quietude… And the mundane, yet delicious smell of roast chicken wafting from the kitchen.
At least the deliciously brewed tea provided her with some soothing. It also did well as a distraction from the persistent stares of the older couple seated in front of her with matching, though untouched, teacups. She kept her shoulders square and her head high—a high ordeal while sitting on a hobbit-sized recliner— and a faint, polite smile on her face that seemed to be aimed more often at her tea than at Mister and Mistress Brandybuck.
"I sent a letter when we stopped at Bree," Merry mentioned awkwardly, doing his best to absorb the scrutiny leveled at his lady. "In the closing paragraph, I asked that preparations be made to welcome an important guest. Did you not receive it, by any chance?"
Esmeralda closed and opened her mouth a couple times before her voice came out. Her eyes, as deeply green as Merry's, fluttered to and fro, from Éowyn to her son."Indeed, a… A dwarf messenger delivered it here. There was much written about a Ring, and a quest, and the kingdoms of men in the South, b-but not of…"
As her words faltered in astonishment, her husband, Saradoc, placed a rugged hand over hers, and completed her thought. "A Lady of the Court of Rohan."
Esmeralda nodded vigorously. "In these parts, no less!"
"Long has it been since the last day the nobility of men set foot west from Bree…"
As he mused so with a contemplative air, Saradoc's gaze scouted for any signs of trickery. Yet, the beaded strips of a golden tiara perched on top of Éowyn's fair head did not lie; he reckoned that its value could surpass at least half of the treasures of Buckland. Then, he directed a pointed glance at Merry.
"…Moreso in regards to their noble women."
"Lady Éowyn's nobility is more than accounted for," Merry insisted, careful with his words, yet insistent, "I can attest to it, whether in the battlefield, or outside of it."
Everyone's attention centered exclusively on him, but it was under Éowyn's gaze in particular that he faltered. Thus, as he faced away, and adjusted his hold on his cold teacup, he missed the silent exchange between his parents.
"There is no doubt of that, lad," Saradoc assured.
Esmeralda nodded along, and addressed none other than Éowyn.
"We have prepared a chamber for Merriadoc's guest, as per his request. We are simply intrigued, as intrigued as a married couple our age can be, by this… Turn of events. To tell the truth, this is the first time we have the honor to meet one of our son's female acquaintances, and after a lifetime of hobbit customs, we never expected the occasion to be as exciting as it has turned to be."
Merry's teacup almost slipped off his grasp, and he had to catch it with its saucer plate. The dark red liquid stirred inside it, reflecting the helpless face of a blushing bachelor doing whatever possible not to groan aloud.
On her part, Éowyn deflected with words that, while truthfully spoken, could not hinder the sheepish accent of her smile. "I must thank you for your welcome. I come not as a Court Lady owed service, but as a friend to all who wish to keep me in their Goodwill during my stay."
Esmeralda's gaze shimmered with shrewd vibrancy. Her husband merely chortled at the sight.
"Worry not, Dear Lady," Esmeralda hurried to assure, her enthusiasm growing to levels that were be worrisome—if you were Merry—but still easily disguised to the unacquainted eye. "We are taken aback, but happily so to have your company. It is no small trip that you undertook in order to come home with our Merry. He is a very fortunate lad to count with the privilege of your consideration, and so are we."
"Privileged we are," Saradoc agreed. "Privileged indeed. After a year of no notice from our good boy here, we had grown antsy. But all is with a purpose, I suppose."
Esmeralda went on before Éowyn could as much as think of an answer. Out of begrudging respect, Merry managed to glup a long sip of his tea.
"And a good purpose it must be. Merriadoc has always been our pride. I, for one, am stoked that someone has seen his value for what it is worth. Such a fair and well-spoken lady would not have travelled across the world for any less. We raised him a proper, educated hobbit."
"Mother-"
Merry yelped, glowing in increasingly darker shades of red, and with no tea left to conceal his flustered manner. It was too bad that a single, curious glance from Éowyn's could unwittingly make him clam his mouth shut.
Saradoc seemed to inflate with pride. He must have thought it was his turn to throw a word in favor of his son's qualities, since he went on in spite of the pitiful frown Merry sent his way.
"Not just educated, but a truly cultured lad. And an avid learner and chronicler. He has devoured every record of times past that has landed on his hands since the moment he learned to read. But I imagine you would know it better than anyone, Lady Éowyn; if given the chance, he can narrate events with exactitude, without missing a relevant date or name. He was already well on his way to becoming an exemplary Master of Buckland before he went away."
Merry tried to protest. "That is rather… Premature to say…I'm only 37…"
"And he's only 37!" Esmeralda exclaimed, dabbing the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief that she had produced from nowhere.
Saradoc wrapped an arm around his wife's shoulders. "37, and he is already a war hero."
"Oh, my boy…" Esmeralda sighed, but the ends of her lips trembled in a faint smile. "I cannot imagine what could've… But at last, our Merry is back. And I take it that not all that happened has been as severe and grim, Dear Lady, if you were there."
Éowyn lowered her teacup, eyes lost within it. There she once was, with the abyss at her feet, darkness under a cliff where she stood alone since that dream of many months ago…
And now, she sat here, on a small armchair in which she did not quite fit, but in which she stayed nonetheless.
"There has been time for grief, and time for brave deeds."
The words fell off her lips on their own as she met Merry's gaze and found in it the same memories. His weary exhale felt as if it had been deeply trapped within her, until he set it free.
"There was also time for loyalty, Milady. There will be time for life and peace as well."
His reassurance, and the smile full of it, was met with a small one of her own. Their gazes lingered, and where hers could not pierce the darkness, his shone with certainty.
"So I hope, Merry."
"He is so grown now, Saradoc."
Esmeralda's voice came in like a crashing cart. She leaned into her husband's embrace, unaware of the wreckage. "He will be such a good husband when the time comes. Any lady would be fortunate to have him, hobbit or otherwise…"
Merry closed his eyes, cringing. He breathed in, just in case the extra influx of air would aid the arson under his skin. He did not know what reaction he had expected from his parents, but it had been un underestimation of just how sentimental they could actually be; it made him question to what extent his absence had fanned their desire for him to settle down. But he would have to leave that conversation for a later hour for his lady's sake, who did not need to witness it.
He absolutely avoided Éowyn's gaze as he laid down his escape route. "If you will excuse us, I would like to show Lady Éowyn the guest room. It has been a long journey, and we both would truly appreciate a chance to rest in our respective chambers until dinner."
Her garnments fell to her feet, pooling around her ankles in a protective circle.
An exhale fled her lips. Bared, her shoulders slumped down, and her legs slid past the vapor wave arising from the tub to have her sink into the hot water teeming with scented bubbles.
Her body ached as she basked in the pleasant heat, feeling as if it was melting into a smoother shape, akin to butter spreading under the sunlight.
Éowyn could not remember ever having traveled such a long distance in a single journey. It persisted in her thoughts, but the perfumed water was doing a splendid job at persuading her senses to move on from the memory of the continuously moving road. In her mind's eye, she saw herself lying still on sunny spring field, one she'd have been led to by a bashful Merry...
Her breath slowed, deepening with each inhale. She did not presume herself faint-hearted, nor did she think it would have inconvenienced her to prolong her introduction to the Brandybucks… But this was not an unwelcome interlude.
She remembered the surviving redness in Merry's face moments before she inquired about the possibility of having a warm bath. As he opened the door to the guest room and handed her the key, he had accompanied the giving with an unsure smile, and a apologetic look that had immediately strayed away.
"I apologize for the beds' size. I will look into it as soon as I possibly can. And, er…excuse my parents' enthusiasm.They are not as effusive, normally…"
Éowyn had smiled in response.
"I do not hold it against them, Merry. They have used-up a year's worth of patience, and they have much catching up to do on your return. It must have been a heavy task to endure a wait like theirs."
Éowyn opened her eyes. Atop the bath locker in front of the tub, her Rohirrim tiara glinted with the undulating shimmer of the candlelight.
It was a heirloom of forlorn times. Perhaps happier times, though she could not remember if that had been the case. There was little she could recall about the short seven years she had been granted by her parents' side. Her mother's tiara was one of the only pieces of evidence that there had been a period of her and Éomer's lives umarred by death. It had been forged under Éodmund's orders, as a gift in honor of Théodwyn's graceful manner and proud countenance. Everyone who laid eyes upon Éowyn considered that she had inherited such traits from her, and the tiara had remained under her possession after tragedy befell their home.
Endlessly had Éowyn tried to see her mother's face in her reflection. But underneath that tiara, there was no discernable feature in her memories. Instead, it was her hands that she remembered most clearly, as they held her smaller one in front of the burial mound belonging to Éodmund. Hands that had seemed, to the Éowyn of that time, uncharacteristically cold.
Shortly after her father had passed away, her mother had withered with grief behind closed doors. She would only exit her chambers to visit Éomund's grave, until she grew too frail to do so.
Only with age had Éowyn understood that her mother could not bear being left behind. She had found her way back to him, whence the decay of her people would not reach her. Through the passage of so many nights and mornings, Éowyn wished that she, too, could escape the plaintive fate of being the last one left standing.
Outside the bathing room, Merry's name was called by the chipper voice of his mother. Éowyn stared vacantly at the closed door. Then, her gaze dropped to the knees peaking through the swarm of bubbles, too long for the depth of the tub. A hobbity tub painted with herbal motifs that would have been decorated with equine carvings gilded with gold, if she were still in Rohan. Details of the like were a contrast to the tiara, here, in a hobbit hole within a hill North from her homeland. Where tight-knit families like the Brandybucks stayed together, baring a very few exceptions, and the parents were always home to receive their children back.
But the tiara was here. As she was. And while she did not quite fit within the smial, she hoped she did not stand out more than she ought to in this place.
At that thought, Merry's voice murmured quietly in her ears.
"There will be time for life and peace as well."
Éowyn shifted. She gathered her long hair over her shoulder, and began to disentangle the wet knots. The interest with which the Brandybucks had met her was another little knot she was just discovering. AS Well-meaning and curious as loving parents could be, but charged with a deal of care she had not properly stopped to think of until now. A care that came first from Merry's hand, which had moved the journey forward, and in doing so, made her a part of it.
There was a time when she stayed behind as the world marched on. But it was Merry that had sat in wait by her bedside in The House of Healing, and reached out to her with an invitation to sojourn under the protection of his kin. What could have been another farewell became a new encounter. A new people, and a new world.
Éowyn smiled to herself, the movements of her fingers halting with a dawning thought. For once in her life, there was enough time to meet and be met halfway.
It was time for dinner. So had his mother declared, before shoving a bouquet of freshly cut flowers from the garden into his arms and asking him to change the flowers in the guest room—for she had followed through the preparations with haste and had forgotten to change them herself, and would the Dear Lady not have a much more restful sleep if her chamber smelled of fresh lavander? Besides, she said, he could make use of the little trip to escort her to the dinner table.
He was helpless against her reasoning—and her literally pushing him through the hall until he relented. Which was the reason that he stood there, with his heart skipping beats like a rock skipping on water as his fist hovered unmovingly over the door. He did not want to intrude right after his lady had finished her bath, but he also risked having the door open from the other side first, just for her to find him sticking around her doorstep, and would that not be twice as odd?
Merry shook his head. It was just a delivery of flowers, and an invitation to dine. Even if that sounded suspiciously close to whatever idea of courtship Esmeralda Took Brandybuck was trying to instill in him…No, it was best not to entertain those thoughts!
As if hoping to knock them away, Merry's fist landed on the wooden surface with a dry thud. He waited. There was nothing here worth squirming over as if he was a tadpole, he told himself. He was a grown hobbit. A young, but adult Master of Buckland. A knight of Rohan. A…
He forgot whatever word followed the instant that the door opened. And when Éowyn's silvery gaze met his, he forgot his ability to use any words alltogether.
There she stood, the White Lady of Rohan, in the elegant and poised garb of her people; white curled closely around her form, with gold accents enclosing her neckline and sleeved hands, and the hem of her dress trailing behind her bare feet—which were customary to exhibit for hobbits, but from a human lady, seemed almost inproper for him to witness. Especially as the waves of her pale hair dripped down her shoulders, resembling ambery honey as it insinuated itself on her shoulder in clingy tresses.
He did not know in which language he was supposed to speak, or, for that matter, what he was supposed to do but stand there. Perhaps he could start by not staring, a quippy voice in his head cried, and he looked down at his lavanders, which were still there, conspicuously.
"Lady Éowyn," he stammered out, and dared peek up at her. His gaze landed on the modest touches of pink rapidly populating her cheeks, and his gut set in a jolty coil.
Éowyn hesitated, eyes shifting from the tightly held bouquet to the rubicund face of the much shorter hobbit. Notheless, she managed to keep a shred of tentative composure.
"Yes, Merry?"
As she glanced again at the flowers, Merry mentally kicked himself into remembering there were more words in existence than her title.
"These are ornamental," he spluttered, but that did not convey as much as he would have liked. "For your nightstand. Lavander helps with sleep. That is why…May I come in? Unless you want to arrange them yourself, of course."
Éowyn's head tilted up and away from his gaze, while an embarrassed, silent laugh left her breathless. "Oh. Yes, of course, come in."
She moved, careful not to hit her head with the door frame, and not quite able to shake off the flustering idea she had conjured for a moment. She had simply misread the situation. Yet, she was more jittery than relieved about it.
Merry stepped in with the demeanor of someone who had forgotten how his own hobbit hole looked and weighed in his mind the possibility of offsetting a trap-door; his every step was careful and measured as he located the nightstand.
The lavander on the vase on top seemed perfectly fine to him—and now he knew there had indeed been some sort of trap laid by none other than his mother—but he went through with the task of swapping the bouquets. "Dinner is ready," he announced in what he hoped was an insouciant enough tone, his back turned to Éowyn while he painstakingly fixed and readjusted the various stems.
Finding it impossible to spot anything else in need of fixing, Merry resigned himself and turned around. He clasped his hands behind his back, and raised his head, putting on a 'good host' smile. "I hope you like extra seasoning on your roast chicken."
Éowyn's eyebrows rose favorably.
"Extra seasoning? That sounds lovely, Merry. I can't wait to find out what hobbit roast chicken is like. However, it is possible that I may delay in joining you for dinner. My hair is not done drying yet, and it is best to get it in the right condition before bedtime."
"I see." Merry's gaze swam down the golden waves once more. He could only imagine how time-consuming it had to be to treat such beautiful hair with the care it deserved. But the roast chicken would be cold by then, and his lady lacked the assistance she would usually receive as a noble lady in Erebor. It was only right to offer a friendly hand…
"Well, maybe I could be of help?" he suggested, cheeks coloring once again at the thought of actually going through with it.
Éowyn's features softened. The pink on her pale complexion was more subdued now, but still present. "I would very much appreciate it, in the case it is not too much to ask for."
Merry basically jumped on the chance to reassure her. "Not at all! Allow me, Milady."
Éowyn tugged at a loose strand of hair before tucking it behind her ear. "Gladly, Merry."
Careful with the hem of her dress, she stepped towards the small bed and sat on the edge, her back now facing him. As Merry took a spot behind her, the matress creaked, highlighting just how quiet the room had become.
With precise gentleness, Merry culled the tresses straying past her shoulders to gather them over her back. Ticklish riffles seemed to pulsate in her bloodstream, as, despite his careful manner, his fingertips brushed against the neck of her dress in fleeting touches, similar to the sensation of flapping wings grazing bare skin.
Éowyn breathed in, shoulders tenser than she would have liked. This was new, and tantalizing. The only male who she remembered ever having helped with her hair was an adolescent Éomer, and his calloused hands had not been as conscientious about their movements. Unlike her brother, who would grow impatient the longer he went on, sweet Merry combed through her hair manually and dried it little by little, never pulling or rushing. It was different with him, something that was as comforting as it was exciting.
Absent-mindedly, she had begun to roll up the hem of her sleeve. Noticing that she was crumpling the fabric, she undid the bundle. It was not as easy to undo the little pang of self-consciousness resulting from finding herself fiddling. Her posture had eased, but she still had to restrain the impulse. Nor could she make up her mind, as Merry chose that moment to break the silence.
"It seems like my parents have taken quite a liking to having you as a visitor already, Milady."
Merry paused, almost tempted to backpedal. In a moment of doubt, he worked on the arrangement of locks falling between his fingers like rippling water, but found himself short of further options. "It may be overquick, but it is earnest."
He curled a strand around his finger, admiring its flexibility and lovely shade; her hair resembled the band of a precious ring ennobling his small hand.
"They are glad to count with your presence, Lady Éowyn. We are."
The candle flame flickered, casting shadows on her silence. Timidly, Merry withdrew, allowing her hair to unfurl and slide off his grasp as he stepped off the bed.
Éowyn turned round. Their eyes were level with one another, so, as she gazed at him with something that he hadn't expected, his stomach churned. It was gratitude.
"I feel the warmth in your welcome, Merry."
His face broke into a flushed grin that he had trouble supressing. In a gesture all too similar to her previously playing with her sleeve, he fingered the upper button of his waistcoat. While Éowyn looked upon his actions fondly, Merry found them rather insufficient.
"You're welcome," he declared with a bow of his head. He even went the extra mile of doing a courtsy with his pants, which worked like a charm in granting him the pleasure of her mirthful laugh.
"I know."
Éowyn replied. Something prompted her then to rise to her feet, and correspond with a dignified, but still playful courtsy of her own.
Merry was positively chuffed. He could not even muster the self-consciousness necessary to feel smaller, despite the strain in his neck to hold her gaze. He could have stayed there eternally, like a nail content to be stuck in that spot, which coincidentally was right in front of her… But for the thumping on the door, which prompty uprooted him off his reverent reverie.
"Room service!"
Without bothering to wait until she was let in, Esmeralda opened the door. Merry almost tripped on his feet as he described a jerky turn. He stumbled off-kilter for a few seconds, but a couple of firm hands steadied him by the shoulders.
He looked up, meeting the calm sheen of Éowyn's pale gaze. Itching with warmth, the round tip of his nose turned red, and his thoughts were drawing a very clear and obvious blank, but how could he be blamed, when his lady bent over him, and her hair grazed his forehead in a sweet, flowery flourish, and her touch remained warm and unmoving on top of his shoulders…
…And her smile was so gentle, like a ray of light breaking through leaves…
"Easy there, Merry."
And suddenly, Merry was back.
"Oh, y-yeah…" He straightened his waistcoat and fixed his cuffs, concealing the flustered look on his face, and the little disappointed purse to his lips at being let go of. There was nothing he wanted less than to lift his head in this moment and meet his mother's prying gaze. "…Un, thank you, Milady."
Esmeralda did not make matters easier, not at all; Merry wagered that her laugh could be heard even from outside the smial.
"Pardon my son's helplessness," she said, teaseful and blithe. "I should not expect he will be able to escort you to the dinner table in his… fretsome state."
Unsubtle as ever, Esmeralda empashized the word; Merry could practically hear the wink in it. The blatant call-out made him wince, as it wasn't uncalled for; he had forgotten all about dinner.
"I was about to," he protested.
Esmeralda searched complicitly for Éowyn's gaze before placing the tray she was carrying on top of the desk at her right. "Well, Meriadoc, by the time you finished being about to, the Dear Lady's dinner would have cooled. A mother always has to have a plan B, so I brought you both dinner."
Indeed, there were two plates—both brimming with a tall heap of food—on the tray, two glasses, and… A bottle of wine.
Éowyn did not register that detail, but Merry did; it was, judging from the color of the bottle, the finest wine from the Brandybucks' collection of most exquisite and sought after beverages in all of The Shire.
"You are too kind," she replied to Esmeralda. "I hope you were not kept waiting for us."
Esmeralda brushed her worries off with a hand wave that mirrored a similar of Merry's, which made her heart warm at the small, sprightly hobbitess. "Oh, don't worry about us; we have had enough time to get used to dinner on our own. But you younglings should have a plentiful meal before bed, especially after such a long journey."
All smiles, she pinned her gaze on Merry. "Well, I hope you share a lovely dinner. Shout me out if you need anything else, Merry."
She made for the door. Her son was faster. Sweeping his plate off the tray in his way, Merry balanced the shaky pile of food while striding out of the room. He then turned to give Éowyn a corteous bow of the head, dangerously tilting his plate.
"Let us go, Mother. We should not bother Lady Éowyn any more for tonight. She is still settling in, and the road was long and weariful."
He smiled as he leaned back, which provocked the food pile to bend now on the opposite direction. "May you have the most restful night, Milady. I will see you for breakfast… Or second breakfast, in any case. Good night."
He did not wait for an answer, nor did he give his mother the opportunity to prolonge the moment, since he was already off, with the food bouncing on his plate as he skedaddled away like a bumbling duckling on jelly legs.