With Hope and Without Hope

Chapter 46: Folk of Legends

"Halt, by orders of the King. Halt, trespassers!"

Weary as they were, Merry had hoped for a better greeting as the Rohirrim approached under a bright sun. They had spied the three horsemen in the distance and hoped they might at least assure them that they walked in the proper direction.

The horses surrounded them, standing far above their heads. Warriors sat upon them silently, staring at the two as if they had changed from stone to flesh before them. One of them dismounted, removing his helm to reveal long fair braids. Like his fellow warriors, a shield hung from his back. His skirt of mail rustled as he approached them.

The tall man looked at them closely, then focused on Gimli. "You appear as a dwarf to my eyes, though I have never laid eyes upon one. So, I ask, what business has a dwarf walking across Rohan with a child?" he said sternly, yet there was caution in his voice.

Before Gimli could respond, Merry spoke. "Child? Gimli, they think me a child—of a Man!"

"Hush, Merry!" The dwarf turned back to the leader. "My friend here, if I may, is not a child of Men. He is a hobbit, full-grown, mind you. You might know his kind as halflings."

The men about them frowned and looked to one another. "Hobbit?" the captain said, carefully sounding the word. "You do not mean holbytlan? Those folk of legends?" His voice took on a note of astonishment, then promptly lost it. "I assure you this is not a time for jests." He sternly stepped over to Merry, peering at him closely.

"No one here jests, sir, I assure you," Merry said to his inspection. "Look! Surely no Men have such feet as this! These are hobbit feet!" Merry raised one hairy foot out of the tall grass. "See? Hobbits."

The Rohan warrior brought his gaze down to Merry's feet, while Merry wondered if Men had any hair on their feet at all, that he might still think him a child of Men. The man's expression changed then from suspicion to wonder as he looked upon him again. He said something in his own language, repeating the word holbytla. One of his men responded in what sounded like disbelief. He nodded, then turned to stare at Merry and Gimli.

"Out of legend walk a holbytla and a dwarf who appears to have seen better days. But now I must advise you that you wander in the land of Rohan where no strangers may walk without permission from the king."

"Yes!" Merry said, unable to wait any longer. "We've come a long way to speak to your king. We have urgent news!"

"Merry! I will tell them, if you please."

The man scowled at Gimli. "Do you not trust your friend to state your purpose? Or do you not trust him to speak the right words?" The man looked down at Merry with sharp eyes. "The holbytla will speak."

Merry's stomach fluttered suddenly under the man's gaze. He wished to correct him as to what to call him, but he feared angering the warrior. Besides, the word he used for hobbits was unusually familiar sounding, and so, oddly comforting.

"What is your name? And what is your business here?"

"Eh, I'm Meriadoc Brandybuck, or Merry to my friends, of Brandy Hall in the Shire. And this is Gimli, son of Gloín. We've come—We've a message—" he faltered, suddenly unsure where to start. He knew he must not reveal Aragorn's heritage, and he was sure they wouldn't like any mention of Saruman. He looked at Gimli desperately.

"Go ahead, Merry. Tell him where we have been and what befell us. Then tell him what we have learned."

Merry took a breath and began his story. "Right. We've come from Isengard, sir—"

"Isengard?" A look of suspicion returned to the men's faces.

"Yes, Isengard, as prisoners, sir. You see, my cousin Pippin and I, we were captured by orcs on the banks of the Anduin. While orcs marched us across Rohan, our friends, Gimli here one of them, tracked us. They never gave up, for they were going to free us, no matter the danger."