Disclaimer: I do not own LotR


There's something about the way Merry's name tumbles from Pippin's lips, laughing and unstable, like the flow of water over ponderous rocks. There's a symmetry, like the steps of a gay summer dance, something perfectly pitched and rhythmic, something that sings from within and sends syllables bursting forth to jig and reel in the air. There's something sensual in the purr of the 'r's, something playful in the chirrup of cheeky vowels. There's something symbolic in the reckless name of 'Brandybuck', something of his family's reputation for hi-jinx and wildness. Something of the Old Forest on the borders of Buckland shadows the edges of his name. Something of the rich, rushing flow of the Brandywine in the tripping bounce from the edge of the 'd' through the soft cheery 'y' to the boldness of the 'b'. The jolly course of phrase to phrase resonates in the impish twinkle of Merry's eyes, the smooth ease with which he plants his feet in Buckland's earth and effortlessly belongs. Even with the stallion kick of the final syllable, the name 'Meriadoc Brandybuck' carries with it a weight of expectation, a solemnity echoing from his duties as heir to the master's title. It carries dignity and honour, and a bestowing of his father's infamous generosity and kindliness.

There's something entirely worldly about him, something rooted in the good sense of his ancestry, and then something fae and frolicsome, a glimmer of his Tookish fairy blood, the gallant bravery of the Oldbucks.

Every promise made by his name, Merry will keep. Every vow made by meaning and feeling and phrase, Merry will hold to with his strength and heart. Pippin knows Merry will be great one day. He can see in the unquestionable foundations of his name, as deep-delved as the smials of Brandy Hall.