By: Dana
Summary: She is looking for a way back home.
Characters: Eowyn, Merry, Pippin, others
Pairings: Eowyn/Merry/Pippin
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Vampire!Eowyn, vampire!hobbits, angst, light slash
Author's Notes: Written for Hyel, who is darling and wonderful, a great artist and writer and an even greater friend. (The story itself, I might add, is very deeply AU - set after RotK, and you might want to suspend your disbelief. That just makes it better, I'd say.)
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.

Illustration: fanart inspired by Home Again (Hyel)

She had had a home once, a long time ago - a trip through memory, flesh and blood and bone, the cold steel of a blade, and the colder chill of shadow. And she had lost it, lost it all, lost herself. She could remember not remembering, cast from her home, away from those that loved her best.

Did they, really? It had seemed to simple to be simply cast aside.

It mattered little that she had loved them too. She had come too far from it, from then, over hills and wide open plains and dark thick forests. She had gone far into the north, bare cold rock under her hands and feet - and she had seemed to go through time as well, as the memories of her life before were slowly stripped away.

This was not her home. But it was a home, and if she was another person, if this was some other time, then it could have been hers as well. But not now - not with her fingers still bloody and raw, her hunger holding her consciousness captive. And that was what defined her most - the hunger, never ending, at times nothing more than a whisper, at times a force that consumed her whole.

She did not like those times, and she would lose herself again.

She had been whole, at some other time - she had had a home, a life, a place in the life. She was almost used to the cold now, the emptiness. She could remember, in pictures but not words, the time when the hunger had first struck her - the first copper sweet taste of blood. But a little was never enough - she always needed more.

A name. Grima. That, a whisper, sibilant and soft like the kiss of a snake. A time when those kisses had been sweeter - not bitter like the faded rust of an old bloody blade. And that was what she was, now - an unwieldy sword.

Grima was like a locked black box, now, and she had thrown away the key.

It had not always been like this.

There were pieces of a picture, almost a memory but not quite, that day that she had been cast from her home. Grey eyes, saddened - oh, he had been so sad, to cast her out. But she could not stay, and he hadn't the heart to slay her. He had been her husband, he had been shining, still pure. He had loved her, and he could not kill her.

Faramir had banished her, instead.

And what had been her home, was torn away - but it was her fault, wasn't it? And she had been lost and alone. The one's who had loved her most had turned their back upon her.

And she had wandered.

Even the place that had been her home before she had another, turned away - they spoke of her as though she was dead. And she was, in a way. When had she last seen the sun? She was a creature, craving warmth, craving light, but resigned to a fate bound by the black of the sky, the light of stars and moon.

And now, she preferred the night. It was the world that the stars gave her - cold and perfect, distant from pain. Perhaps the hunger even dulled a little, in the black of the night. In a way, it was more real than anything she had felt under the light of the sun. The sun was faulty, secondary - the stars were the only thing real to her now. She could taste them - and she could taste as well, that winter was here, though she knew it had been spring. And it would always be winter. The world was dead to her eyes, cast under a veil of heavy grey.

So she wandered, further and further abroad. She did not think to seek out settlements, fed instead upon the creatures she found wandering in the night. She was a hunter now, quick of foot, sharp of eye. There was nothing else as deadly as she - and she could own the night, if only she tried.

Perhaps that was what he wanted to give her - Grima - to give her, to make her in an image like his own. She only need embrace him, embrace the night.

And so she had - she remembered it. The ice of his kiss, sharp pain, pleasure. Oh, and they would have forever. But she knew now that he was dead.

She was alone.

Now, she could not face the light - she could not even face forever, knowing that she would always be alone. That was what she had craved the most - one that would have worshipped her. But that one was dead, and the other had thrown her aside.

She had wandered as far as she could. She knew this little land, a memory of its people danced in the shadows at the back of her mind. She had lost too much of herself, but she could find it again.

She would find it here.

It was spring - March, in fact. The strawberry harvest had just come in, in the south of the Marish. And though the pair spent much of their time riding through the Shire, that morning found Merry and Pippin both at Brandy Hall - fresh risen from elevenses, in fact, when the rider came from Willowbottom. It was after luncheon when the pair was on the road, accompanied by the rider from Willowbottom, one Anson Goodbody, and a company of a half-dozen Brandybucks.

There had been a rash of brutal killings at the far south of the East Farthing. A coup of chickens here, a half a dozen sheep over there. Anson had fidgeted as he spoke with the Master. He was still fidgeting, sitting in his pony's saddle, eyes darting out, wild, this way and that.

It was probably nothing more than a fox or two, or perhaps even a wolf. Merry and Pippin, shining in their fine togs from afar, more like fancy knights than a simple pair of hobbits, looked as though they could handle it, even if it ended up being two wolves and not just one.

But not even that thought could calm Anson. Too much of his village's livestock had been lost - and he had seen what had come of them, ravaged creatures - and he would not risk losing any of his own.

There was the fear, as well, that if they did not strike quick, a hobbit could be next.

As if by that thought, the company rode quicker. By the time the sun had sought out his bed, they had reached Willowbottom - mist from the river clinging like sticky sap over the village hollow, thick and white. What Pippin noticed was the silence - eerie and cold. He turned a frown to Merry. Merry nodded, grim, and looked to Anson.

"Show us to your farm," he said. "And we will set up the guard."

Anson nodded, fidgeting as he led the fine party through the chill of the damp river mist. If these hobbits had seen to the ridding of the Ruffians during the Scouring, then Anson could trust them at least with his farmstead. There were no lights in the windows of the village smials, just the light of the rising moon - half to full, shining low in the eastern sky.

"I don't like the feel of this," said Pippin.

Merry laughed without humor. "I think I'd feel a bit better if e entertaining the company of orcs."

Pippin's smile was grim.

When they reached the Goodbody farm their ponies were stabled and the guard was set - three hobbits to watch the stables and keep an eye on the ponies, if it happened that the beast sought them out in the night, another three watching the coups where the hens slept through the long hours of the night.

And if they had been long before, they were even longer now. Merry hoped that the Goodbody farm would prove a good enough temptation - from Anson's explanation, the killings had progressed in a line straight from the river.

His would be next.

"I don't like the feel of this," said Pippin. He whispered, this time, and Merry tilted his head so that he could give his cousin his full attention. Pippin's eyes were shadowed, his mail shirt glimmering faintly in the moon's half-light.

"You said that before."

Pippin's smile was as grim as before, and there was little humor in his eyes. "I know." He turned, looked out into the mist of the farmyard, frowning at the mist - it reminded him of the sea, surging, impenetrable. Merry set his hand on Pippin's shoulder; Pippin, tense, could not fully relax.

"We will find the beast, and we will put it down. You needn't worry, Pippin. We will be home before you know it, and we - "

That was when they heard the scream.

The sun was not shining very bright that day, even though it had passed the mid point of the sky. It was not for clouds in the sky - it was a clear day, really, with no cloud cover of note. No, it was the blood that Merry felt staining his hands. The blood of hobbits that he had allowed to die.

Anson Goodbody was dead, along with three of Merry's Brandybuck cousin's. It couldn't have been a wolf - no wolf would have torn out their throats like that, would have left those marks on the ground. It was chilling, almost more so than the ripped flesh and blood - it was almost like a hobbit's feet, but not.

Slender, larger. Quick and light, faint impressions lingering in the dirt.

It was Pippin who saw to the burial of Anson and the cousins, it was Pippin that told the folk of Willowbottom to flee while they could. He informed one of Anson's own cousins, one Wilfred Goodbody, to speak to the Master, and they would be welcome into Brandy Hall itself. It was all Pippin, because Merry could not stomach it himself.

Before the sun set again, the village hollow was empty and bare. There was a sick chill in the air, the sweet taste of blood.

They readied themselves to leave with the village hobbits. The sun was sinking fast, and Pippin needed to inform his Uncle of this disaster before there was a possibility that it would spread.

But Merry, strange the whole day long, was nowhere to be found.

"We cannot leave without him," said Pippin, dismounting. "At least, I cannot. Stay with the villagers. I will find Merry, and we will follow."

They left, uncertain and shaking, and Ilberic looked to Doderic, somehow certain that they wouldn't be seeing their cousins again.

She knew this one, knew these colors. A memory danced at the edge of all knowledge. He was taller than she remembered - fair and bright in the moon's sweet light.

She could smell blood on him, clinging to him like a second skin. She watched him, but he did not watch her.

He didn't even know she was even here at all.

She did know him - it was his fault that she knew this place at all, in that life that had been hers before. Would he know her still? She almost thought she cared. Perhaps if she did not have to be alone

She continued to watch him. When she drew close to craziness with want to touch, she did.

Pippin never did find Merry. He looked - he looked more than he thought hobbitly possible. He could not return to Brandy Hall without his cousin - he couldn't.

But, grim faced, miserable, he did.

He knew her - he knew this face, kne these eyes. But they were wild now - she was lost. As lost as her name which was heavy, forgotten, on his tone. He found himself instead, in tooth and claw. She tore him apart, put him back together. And he knew her as well, and he needed no name - when it came, it was unbidden, and he felt cold.

Eowyn, though - Eowyn. What had come of her, he wondered? What would come of him?

Merry gasped, his breath laced with pain, opened his eyes to stare at the white face of the moon. No, no - it was her, Eowyn, a smile spreading wide and feral on the cool white expanse of her face, shining bright in the blue of her eyes.

That was blood - his blood - red on her lips.

"Eowyn"

Confusion. She touched his cheek, traced her fingers over his lips. He shuddered and his eyes closed like leaden weights. He did not know what had hit him - oh, why was she here, what was happening? He remembered Pippin - oh, Pippin had been here. And they had gone to Willowbottom But other than that, he could not be sure.

How long has it been?

"Three days," she whispered, as though she wasn't used to speaking any louder than that. She lowered her lips to his and Merry whimpered at the spark of pain that flared in his lips. It burned. And she was so cold.

Then she was smiling. She had played with him, taunted and teased. He was hers, now. She wouldn't let him go. Three days, three nights. It wasn't much, not with forever.

He imagined he would be hers forever.

"Three days since you came to me, Meriadoc. That is your name. I remember." Her lips continued to wander across his skin, his bare throat, the flat expanse of his chest. He felt her hands as well, flat against his skin. Her nails were sharp.

The vision of Anson Goodbody, throat torn out, flashed in Merry's mind.

"Eowyn," his voice croaked.

"Was that my name?" She purred again his skin. "I have been so lonely, Meriadoc. Come with me, won't you? Worship me, worship me. I'll love you forever."

Her fingers were rough - so rough, when she should be so smooth. "Eowyn, Eowyn what what is going on here?"

"You came to me," she said. "You brought me my meals, you brought me yourself. I can give you forever, Meriadoc. I can't live like this, can't live with this alone."

He couldn't move - arms weighed down, legs as heavy - and Eowyn settled above him, her flesh cool over his. Merry groaned as she bit down, a dizzy flash of heat sweeping down through his body. It hurt, and he was overcome by the wet suction of her lips, the cold that crept over him as she drank of his blood.

It was a vision of Pippin that came to him, now, red and black and white. Pippin.

When it was her blood that wet his lips, Merry found his strength, clung to her with growing need.

She was cold, so cold.

"Eowyn," he hissed, sighed, then drank.

Pippin.

Three days became three weeks and three weeks became three months. They had searched the forests at the south of the Eastfarthing for any sign of Merry, but there was none. Not until a month after that third, when his fine amour was found in tangled weeds at the shore near the ferry.

It was slow acceptance. They mourned Merry as gone, then. But Pippin, only Pippin, was certain that there was something more behind it. There was something else. He would find Merry - because he was certain that Merry was still out there. Waiting to be found.

Pippin would marry Estella Bolger - their father's had set it up, could see no other path but that which seemed most obvious, - and Berilac was made Saradoc's reluctant heir. It was hard to think that Merry was gone, would be gone forever - but there would be a Master after Saradoc, and Berilac was closest by blood.

The time of Pippin's wedding drew close. He spent his time locked up in Crickhollow - spent less and less with Estella, not that they either felt that more was needed - and Crickhollow was something that Estella could never be. It was one night, a week before the wedding, that h noticed something: and that something was that he was being watched.

Four months.

Pippin stepped out from Crickhollow, holding the lantern up high. The light flickered red and orange in the dark. The moon was shining bright overhead, fair and full. It was summer now, but this was a night where that felt far, far away.

Pippin could feel it, still - the weight of some heavy, unknown gaze. The light hair at the back of his neck prickled.

He stepped away from the safety of Crickhollow, further out into the night. Whatever it was, hobbit or beast, moved with him. Was that it, there? That whisper of breeze. Or perhaps that sigh, though it could have been his own. He remembered Willowbottom, remembered Merry, remembered Merry's loss.

Merry.

The night was bitter and cold. The trees were dark and in the night, they seemed like cold echoes of themselves - as if they had already shed their leaves; it was quiet, too quiet, eerie and calm. The silence stretched thin over the imagined skeletal trees.

Pippin continued to walk in the dark.

"Who are you? What do you want?"

He couldn't help but feel a sick rush of relief, when there was no answer. But that did not stop him, did not keep him from speaking again.

"What do you want from me? How long have I been watched?"

No answer, again.

"What do you want - " he began once more. But before he could even finish that question, Pippin felt the breath knocked from him as he was knocked, hard, to the ground. He lost hold of the lantern and it fell against the ground, cracked, the light flickered and sputtered and died.

The darkness was heavier than the light and there was still a heavy weight against Pippin's back. Pippin struggled but a strong arm grabbed his own, grabbed a fistful of his hair and jerked his head back sharply.

Pippin cried out, struggled. He cried again as a knee pressed sharp and hard against the small of his back, a further jerk that left his senses shaking, his hair feeling like it was being ripped out by the roots.

And then, release, delirious relief, recognition.

Followed by, pain, unbelievable pain. Pippin's scream died off, a strangled sound, as if he were choking on his own blood.

This was what he wanted. After all, there couldn't be one without the other. And she had understand, more than he even had. There were some things that were simply meant to be.

And Merry couldn't be alone, even if he was together, if there was no Pippin.

It hurt, it hurt, it hurt! Pippin fought against that with what strength he could manage, but the grip in his hair was one of steel, the other squeezing his upper arm so tight he thought that it might just rip it free.

"Merrry!"

Merry's - MERRY'S - grip on him quickened, held him tight. So tight, that when it lifted, abruptly, Pippin's cry of relief was distant, choked. He coughed, and blood splattered on the cold ground before his lips.

"Merrry" he groaned, hysterical from pain, head slumping forwards against the cold ground, against his own warm blood.

He was being moved - was he flying? No. He was turned over, arms falling wide, and he could see Merry now, clearly, in the light of the moon - the red on Merry's face, his own blood smeared on his nose and his chin, all over his lips. Pippin's arms felt heavy but he managed to put one at Merry's cheek, the other at his neck. Under both, he felt his own blood - cool against Merry's skin, hot instead as it seeped out onto his neck.

It would be a slow bleed. Not three days, but it would do. He had waited long enough. Merry smiled and tilted his head, caught Pippin's hand between his own and kissed his palm - no, bit down on it instead. Pippin whimpered, closed his eyes, begged for this to all be a dream.

Not even this was worth seeing Merry. Especially not this.

"Merrrry." He felt so slow.

Pippin's lashes flickered. Merry looked up, nodded, and Pippn's eyes fell shut again.

Hands were busy, deftly removing his shirt, skipping over the buttons. Hands - more than just one pair, grazed over his skin. Pippin cried out, whimpered, whispered for release - that was Merry's touch, somehow familiar, spreading his legs for a biting kiss at the joint of his leg and his hip, blood soaking right through his trousers - another, then, and it was not Merry's, foreign instead, a bite on his wrist.

So this was dying - it wasn't anything like it had been before. It almost felt good - but he couldn't be sure. Wet, bloody kisses. Merry's weight above his own. Another, strange and certainly not Merry, settling against him. Pippin couldn't even open his eyes.

"Pippin, Pippin, Pippin."

Pippin found his lips wet with Merry's blood, Merry's lips, and this was Merry's kiss. That weight at their side touched and kissed and stroked, and Pippin found what strength he could in Merry.

"Merry, Merry," he chanted, lips going numb, and Pippin was losing - no, had already lost - the feeling in his hands. He heard Merry's laugh, had missed Merry's laugh.

"Drink." Something was pressed to Pippin's lips - something hot and wet, blood, and Pippin did, and as he did, feeling returned. Merry was cold - too cold, but his blood was burning like the sun.

And Pippin was fast learning that everything else didn't matter.

She was finding herself.

It was a long, winding road, and her progress was slow - a road that left death along, stretching as far back as she could remember. Some screams she remembered more than others. Sometimes, they would beg; and she would smile, and break the hobbit's neck. A pleasant enough sound, one that she would grow to love. And sometimes, after, when she was sated, she would feel bad, something like an echo of human remorse, but not bad enough that she wouldn't still feed. Hobbits were sweet, after all - sweeter than anything else.

And her hobbits were sweetest - her Merry, his Pippin.

But they were all hers; all tied together, blood as their bond.

Eowyn had found her home again, in them.