It occurs to me somewhere between second breakfast and a particularly steep stretch of road that I am going to marry her.
Not in the distant, dreamy way one imagines such things when they are young and overly fond of poetry.
No.
In the practical sense.
With witnesses.
And probably a speech.
I nearly trip over my own feet thinking about it.
Merry glances sideways. “You’ve got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one that says you’re about to do something irreversible.”
“I am not.”
He raises an eyebrow.
I lower my voice. “Do you think Gandalf could marry us?”
Merry stops walking.
“What?”
“I’m serious,” I insist. “He’s ancient. He’s got the hat. It feels official.”
Merry stares at me as though I have finally gone mad.
“You’re not even engaged.”
“Details,” I wave him off. “Logistics can be arranged.”
He exhales sharply. “You’ve known her a few months.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re thinking about marriage.”
“Yes.”
“That’s insane.”
“It is not insane.”
“It is,” he says flatly.
Ahead of us, she walks with steady precision beside Legolas. Her stride is measured, blades resting at her hips. She listens to the road in a way I never will.
“I know I love Ellariel,” I say quietly.
Merry’s expression shifts slightly.
“That’s not the same as knowing how to build a life,” he replies.
“I do know,” I insist. “I know that when the world is loud, I want to be the one explaining it to her. I know that when I panic, I look for her first. I know that when she stands still like winter, I feel warmer just standing near her.”
Merry goes quiet.
We walk a few more paces before he mutters, “You’re serious.”
“Very.”
He sighs. “Then perhaps start by asking her before arranging clergy.”
That is a fair point.
Still.
Logistics matter.
Later that evening, as we settle near the fire, I approach Sam with what I consider a brilliant idea.
“Sam,” I begin.
He looks up from polishing a pan. “Yes, Mr. Pippin?”
“You’re the Mayor’s son.”
“I am.”
“That’s practically civic authority.”
He narrows his eyes slightly. “What are you about to ask me?”
“Could you marry us?”
Sam drops the pan.
“Marry you?”
“Well not this very minute,” I clarify. “But hypothetically. If I asked her and she said yes.”
Sam blinks several times.
“I grow vegetables,” he says carefully.
“Yes, but you also understand ceremony.”
“I truly do not.”
“You could learn!” I say brightly.
Across the fire, Merry makes a strangled sound.
“You haven’t even asked her,” Sam points out.
“I know,” I say, rubbing the back of my neck. “I’m planning.”
Gandalf’s voice drifts over from where he sits with his pipe.
“If you are seeking an officiant,” he says dryly, “it would be wise to secure the bride first.”
Heat floods my face.
“I am securing her,” I mutter.
Legolas’ head tilts ever so slightly.
She remains composed beside him, unaware of the conversation happening only yards away.
Merry leans closer to me. “This is absurd.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re speaking of forever like it’s a picnic.”
“It is not a picnic,” I protest. “It’s… it’s the only thing that makes sense.”
Merry studies me, less amused now.
“You are certain?”
“Yes.”
“How?”
I look toward her again.
She is listening to the wind shift through the trees. To the crackle of the fire. To the subtle movements of everyone around her.
She survived fire.
She survived exile.
She survived being treated like something less.
And she chose me.
“I know because I don’t feel smaller beside her,” I say quietly. “I feel braver.”
Merry does not interrupt.
“I know because I want to build something steady with her,” I continue. “Not just survive things. Not just wander.”
The fire pops sharply.
“I know because when I think about home,” I admit, “I picture her in it.”
Sam’s expression softens first.
Gandalf exhales a slow plume of smoke.
Merry sighs dramatically.
“You are hopeless.”
“I am,” I agree.
“But you should ask her before asking the wizard.”
“Yes,” I concede.
“And perhaps do it sober.”
“I am sober!”
“You are never entirely sober,” he replies.
I grin.
The logistics will sort themselves out.