return

1042 the return of the king
pavilion. There Merry found that everything was made ready,
and that he himself was not forgotten. A little tent had been
pitched for him beside the king’s lodging; and there he
sat alone, while men passed to and fro, going in to the king
and taking counsel with him. Night came on and the halfseen
heads of the mountains westward were crowned with
stars, but the East was dark and blank. The marching stones
faded slowly from sight, but still beyond them, blacker than
the gloom, brooded the vast crouching shadow of the
Dwimorberg.
‘The Paths of the Dead,’ he muttered to himself. ‘The
Paths of the Dead? What does all this mean? They have all
left me now. They have all gone to some doom: Gandalf and
Pippin to war in the East; and Sam and Frodo to Mordor;
and Strider and Legolas and Gimli to the Paths of the Dead.
But my turn will come soon enough, I suppose. I wonder
what they are all talking about, and what the king means to
do. For I must go where he goes now.’
In the midst of these gloomy thoughts he suddenly remembered
that he was very hungry, and he got up to go and
see if anyone else in this strange camp felt the same. But
at that very moment a trumpet sounded, and a man came
summoning him, the king’s esquire, to wait at the king’s
board.
In the inner part of the pavilion was a small space, curtained
off with broidered hangings, and strewn with skins;
and there at a small table sat Théoden with Éomer and
Éowyn, and Dúnhere, lord of Harrowdale. Merry stood
beside the king’s stool and waited on him, till presently the
old man, coming out of deep thought, turned to him and
smiled.
‘Come, Master Meriadoc!’ he said. ‘You shall not stand.
You shall sit beside me, as long as I remain in my own lands,
and lighten my heart with tales.’
Room was made for the hobbit at the king’s left hand, but
no one called for any tale. There was indeed little speech,