Laughing, Merry at least helps me out of the shallow pool I had slipped into. I'll have a lovely bruise tomorrow from an unfortunately-placed rock, but he doesn't seem to care; truly, I don't either. We have a rare day to ourselves, probably the last before harvest begins, and we're determined to enjoy it. Weaving through the tall pines, I keep up a steady patter. Merry is quieter, but returns any verbal jabs skillfully. I love that he doesn't mind my chatter, and tell him so, and he reminds me that he loves that I don't mind his quietness. I mention that so long as it's a joyful quiet, I shan't argue with him. Then he looks at me, and my heart is set on fire. As well as other body parts--I am just a tween, you know!

We continue, picking our way through a tangle of briars, and then picking the thorns out of each others' backs. We meander our way through the forest, only half-looking for a good picnic spot; it is early yet, and we're in no hurry to settle down.

We nod hello to the healer, out wildcrafting, and chase each other across a meadow, scaring a flock of crows. Meandering through the woods we spot a sleeping owl, and I tell Merry the legend Frodo told me, about how hearing an owl calling your name foretells your death. He doesn't frown, like my mum did, just nods his head. I know it will be made into a deliciously scary story that he will tell me later that night, or perhaps another time, perhaps when we're snuggled together under three quilts, faces lit only by a dying fire, while a winter storm rages outside.

After we've settled down, and eaten lunch, and taken a little nap, Merry and I, we tell each other tales. Simple, sweet tales, like how Michaelmas the Giant cut the Brandywine with his hoe, and then filled it with the wine that dribbled down his chin when he celebrated that night. Child-tales, tales that are told to little ones of the meekins who live in the kitchen, and will help around the house and sing their songs so the hens lay eggs and not steal the baby away if a little dish of milk and a crust of bread are left out for them. Merry dryly comments that you can tell that one is for the little ones, particularly little ones who have a new sibling and, just perhaps, want the meekins to steal the shrieking little attention-grabber away.

He doesn't need to laugh that hard when I admit that my sisters still often "forget" to leave out the milk and bread for the little sprites.

A tickle fight, caused by that laughing, results in me lying with Merry on top of me, and suddenly we've stopped tickling, and now we're kissing, and I can feel his hand working between us, undoing my shirt. I'm trying to manage the buttons on his breeches when he rolls off of me, and orders me to strip, growling into my ear as he moved to kiss along my jawline.

I do so love it when Merry gets aggressive.

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