By: Dana
Summary: The best lies are the ones that start small.
Characters: Eowyn, Merry, mention of Pippin
Pairings: Eowyn/Merry, Merry/Pippin implied
Rating: PG
Warnings: Angst, light slash
Author's Notes: Written and posted late for the alternative challenge #13 on ringprov - a lie. During RotK.
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.

The best lies are the ones that start small; Eowyn knows this, having lived her life one lie at a time. So much falsehood gathered, for such a short span of years - she is not that old, after all. But that does not matter, and she could paint out her life in faded shades of grey and gold, all the lies that she has lived, and not even the ones who knew her would find it impossible to work out the truth from the tangle of not.

But to lie - and to mean it - and for it to be taken as truth; it is what she does best.

But Merry is not like that - no, he is not like Eowyn is at all. He wears his honesty along with his heart on his sleeve, looking at the world through eyes that are not suited to such honesty, so brutal. He is not like Eowyn, and he has no need to hide from the world; nor is there need to hide from himself. His pain shines openly in his shadowed grey eyes. So, too, does hope. And Merry's hope comes in the form of his cousin and best friend, a knight of Gondor. Eowyn knows him, of him, but she does not know him well - but what she knows, she feels that it gives her insight into Merry, and Pippin as well. Pippin means more to Merry than she thinks he'd ever say; and it is Pippin who Merry holds onto, and Eowyn knows that it was Pippin even more so than the hands of the King that drew Merry back from the shadow of death and cold.

It is bitter irony, then, that Merry's Pippin has gone away to war.

"It is not fair," he says, but he is too tired to fight, sighing instead. She knows that exhaustion herself, having felt it, feels it still. "It is not fair."

He looks to the sky, and Eowyn's gaze is drawn down the sharp line of his neck, sees the pride in the rise of his chin and the lift of his shoulders. He seems too young for this, to see death and war, to have faced it himself; but she can see the shadows that hover in his eyes, and knows well enough that there is never a time when you can be too young.

It is empty, here, at the Houses of Healing, in this secluded garden where the patients are allowed to wander. She knows his pain, for it is in a way her own - to be kept from the field, when there is nothing more she wants than to wield her sword for the honour of Rohan. What good is the blood of kings, if it is to sit idly by? To let her sword grow cold.

But even that is beyond her, now, here in this place removed from the world.

What she sees now is Merry, and she is drawn to him like a moth grown dizzy and drunk from flying too close to the flame.

"Life rarely is."

Merry does not speak.

She sits down beside on the long bench, smiles, and Merry smiles too, his legs not quite reaching the grass, swinging idly as he watches the patterns in the clouds high above. She lets her gaze wander, from the curls on his tough feet, up the length of his body. His hair is longer now than it was when they first met, when he rode with her to Pelennor. They had lied, then, as Dernhelm and as Dernhelm's burden.

He is capable, she knows. Eowyn need only draw it forth.

"We can only do what we can, Meriadoc, with this time that is given to us. Nothing more." She grins, then, anything but amused, and Merry's gaze flicks to her for one long moment, his words forgotten. He draws in a breath, then, looks back to the sky. Eowyn sets her hand on Merry's, threads their fingers as one. She says nothing more, and Merry wonders if there is anything else that could be said. He winds their hands and fingers tighter, though, and Eowyn sees now how he favours his right.

"I wish that there was more that I can do," he said, and his gaze is worried. "It does not seem right, my lady, that he is alone, and I am left behind. There should be something, anything, but there is nothing. What help can I be, when I've been left behind?" Silence falls in the wake of that question, and Merry presses his lips together in a hard, thin line. "What help can we be, either of us? It it is not fair."

Eowyn's laugh chimes like a bell. "You have said that, Meriadoc. Would you say it again?"

"If it could change the world, perhaps," and a faint smile curves his lips. It falters, though, fades and Merry draws their hands up, extricates hers from their tangle of fingers. He cups her hand, then, and worry softens his expression.

"You are greater than I, my lady, and yet we are both trapped here, nothing more than invalids. Has our time already passed?" Merry is tender, holding her hand like some treasure of elven make, and he lifts his eyes to her and Eowyn finds that it is suddenly hard to breathe.

"Meriadoc," she manages, and she is left dizzy and weak - things that she does not like to feel, to lose her footing, to lose her self. And there is something about Merry that stills her all away.

"Let us not speak of such things. These words will do us no good." Merry nods, lowering her hand carefully, still cradled in his hands. He lowers his gaze, as well, and Eowyn leans close.

They are trapped, indeed, and this garden is their cage.

"Surely you must have happy memories," she says, and Merry's nod is faint. A smile tugs at her lips. "Tell me of them, then. To speak of your home, Meriadoc, would surely warm your heart."

He does not seem so sure, and his words falter, like he is learning all over again. She smiles brighter, urges him on.

"It would warm my own, as well."

And that is all that Merry needs hear. He tells her of the Shire, then, of its summers and its song, of light and long years where there was nothing else but the home that he loved best, the music of its waters and the song of its people. And Pippin is there, in his memories, and the way that Merry speaks of him, he seems even more real than the hobbit that Eowyn had had a chance to meet. And she can see what Merry sees in him, can nearly taste love, no matter what Merry will not say, can feel it, knows it, and it is that sensation floods her veins, heavy and sweet like the finest mead, drowning out her senses and dragging her back down.

And then she is sitting in the garden again, and Merry is close, too close, and Eowyn is certain that she can feel his breath, the steady beat of his heart. And yet there is distance in his eyes, and though he sits beside her, Eowyn can tell that Merry is now far away.

"It is all right," she says, lies, her lips a whisper against Merry's. He is unfamiliar yet dear, and Eowyn swallows the quiet of that last lingering breath, where Merry is silent and still and Eowyn is uncertain of the thoughts in his head.

A lie, a like, this is just one, another, and Merry closes his eyes. She guesses that this is it, then, this dance of a moth as it dips close to the flame. She leans and fee?s the shape of Merry's lips beneath hers - feels herself diving. There is that moment of wonder and resistance, when Merry is learning himself again, and Eowyn is not sure if she will be pushed aside or pulled even closer. But Merry sighs, whispers something to himself, and Eowyn feels Merry's fingers tangling once more with her own. His fingers are strong and he kisses her, then, then, more than just a pressure of mouth against mouth.

He tastes like innocence, she guesses, and youth and cherished things held tight in the prison of his mouth. He shares that with her, shares that warmth, and Eowyn feels dizzy, feeds off of it. Oh, this and more, this and more.

He wavers.

"Touch me," she says, whispers against soft lips, "kiss me, need me. Forget him, Merry, forget him for a bit."

And it is almost another Merry that meets her gaze, eyes dark, heavy and cold like steel; sure handed as he gives her what she needs and wants, and Eowyn does not even worry if it is what he wants as well.

She can always lie to herself, and act as though it is.