Prompt: above all shadows rides the sun for @lotrweek
Summary: Merry and Pippin bid their final farewell to the Shire. (Or, on leaving and on meetings that are really partings.)
Merry pulled his hat low against the glare of the cresting spring sun and pushed his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. Already his back ached from the low-backed seat of the wagon and the ruts in the road that jostled him against it, and he and Pippin had not yet left the borders of the Shire.
Strider had made many improvements to the roads of the westernmost holdings of his kingdom, but even frequent upkeep could not wholly eliminate wheel ruts and washouts, especially at this time of year, when the rains were fickle and as like to be gone in a matter of minutes as they were to pour for days and leave the roads a sticky, muddy mire.
As the wagon hit another rut, Merry cast a wishful eye to the baggage pony following the cart.
In truth, he ought to have made this journey sooner, before the letter from Éomer had ever come, and before, he thought wryly, he had gotten quite so old.
He and Pippin had intended to leave earlier, but as the days drew on, they had found that they were less and less eager to leave, for everything seemed dearer and more precious, and every moment cloaked in the knowledge that it might be the last such memory of its kind. Merry had found his feet returning again and again to Estella’s grave without his ordering them to. Whether it was to ask her permission or to remind himself of what he must leave behind, he could not say.
