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Jun. 18th, 2004 07:24 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
auntiemeeshChapter One: The Mustering
Merry woke only reluctantly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he squinted against lantern light. Blinking rapidly, he made out a blurry form. “Pippin?”
“Aye. I’m sorry to wake you, Merry, but I thought you might take first breakfast with me before I go.” Pippin’s voice wavered just slightly and Merry was suddenly wide awake. Pippin was leaving this morning with the host, going to the very doors of Mordor to provide a distraction, keep Sauron’s eye outside of his realm so that the object of all their hopes should have a chance at least of success.
“Of course I will, Pip. I should have been furious with you if you hadn’t woken me.” He forced a grin and climbed out of bed. He felt stiff and his right arm ached slightly. Doing his best to ignore the sensation, he quickly drew off his nightshirt and dressed in clean clothes. He eyed the armor he had received from King Theoden but decided against putting it on. Instead, he wrapped his elven cloak about himself and turned to Pippin. “Shall we go?”
The two friends walked silently through the House of Healing, careful to disturb none of the patients sleeping in the rooms they passed. Once out in the street, they spoke lightly as they headed to the mess hall. Although it was still some time before dawn, they were not alone as they entered the large hall. Many men were sitting about, alone or in small groups, eating quickly and speaking in hushed tones. Pippin led Merry to a high counter and spoke to the man on the other side.
“Good morning, Targon. This is my cousin, Meriadoc.” Targon nodded his head to Merry, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the large man said as he handed over bowls of steaming porridge, a warm loaf of bread, fresh butter and cheese, along with a pot of tea and two cups. In the short period of time that he had known Pippin, he had come to understand that the perian preferred tea to ale, first thing in the morning.
The two friends made their way to a table that was half empty and set their tray down. They didn’t speak for several minutes as they applied themselves to their food. Finally, when all that was left on the tray was some bread and a few nibbles of cheese, they pushed back from the table.
“When do you need to go?” Merry asked this haltingly, not wanting to hear the answer.
“Soon, but we still have some time,” Pippin replied.
Merry did not know what to say to Pippin. He wanted to remind his cousin to be careful, keep himself safe, but knew that there was no safety where Pippin was going. “Did you remember to pack everything you’ll need?” he finally asked, just to break the silence.
Pippin smiled in understanding and Merry was struck by how much older his young cousin seemed. Pippin had matured a great deal just in the short time they had been separated. They had spent much time the past two days talking over their adventures but somehow Merry had not realized until now, how much Pippin had changed.
“I don’t suppose there will be much that I do need, once we get there,” Pippin commented. “Just my sword and shield, and the strength and courage to use them.” His brow was creased and his eyes shadowed.
“Are you worrying that you won’t be brave enough to face whatever comes?” Pippin nodded. “That’s ridiculous, Pip. You are one of the bravest hobbits I know. You came all this way with us, knowing that unknown terrors awaited and yet refusing to be sent home. You have faced orcs, ents, wizards, mad Stewards, fire and fear. You will not fail of courage.” Merry quirked a smile. “Of course, you may fail of height. You are woefully short, Pippin.”
“Hoy!” Pippin shouted in indignation. “I’m taller than you, Meriadoc Brandybuck.”
“Let’s get this straight once and for all, Peregrin Took. You have never been, are not now and never will be taller than me. If I, on occasion, seem shorter than you, it is only because I have slouched in order to make you feel less inferior.” Merry’s eyes sparkled warmly as he bantered with his cousin.
The conversation continued in this vein for some time as they piled their dishes in a waiting receptacle and left the hall. They wandered down through the levels of the city, still arguing in all good nature. The sun was just rising in the east as they approached the ruins of the main gate. It was time to say their farewells and the thought was bitter to Merry.
Looking at Pippin, he could find no words to say that would properly express all the things he was feeling right now, shame that he could not go along, fear that he would never see Pippin again and a greater fear that was too difficult to even put into thought, that they might fail and Sauron regain the Ring. Finally, he simply put his arms around his cousin and held him tight for a moment. “Do the Shire proud, Pippin, and come back safe,” he muttered into his friend’s collar before breaking away.
Tears glistening in his eyes, Pippin nodded and turned away, moving to join the company that he would be marching with, led by his friend, Beregond. Merry, with Pippin’s friend Bergil next to him, stood where he was, eyes glued to the one small form amongst the Men of Gondor. He remained where he was long after the last horns had blown and the last companies had disappeared into the distance, unwilling to let go of his friend. He bowed his head in despair, the pain in his arm growing stronger as he lingered. Dimly, he was aware of Bergil talking to him and guiding him up the hill back to the Houses of Healing, but he paid the lad little heed. Once again he had been left behind by everyone he cared for. Feeling old and useless, he was grateful to reach his little room. Closing the door behind him, he slowly undressed and crawled into the overlarge bed, pulling the covers up over his head and shutting out the sights and sounds of the new day.
Chapter two: Truths
Merry was standing at his window, taking an occasional puff of his pipe and staring out into the distance. He had been helping the kitchen staff earlier in the day, pushing meal trolleys from one room to the next, delivering food to those patients too ill or injured to leave their beds. It was about all he was able for until some more strength returned to his arm, and it left him feeling tired and sad. So many men had been injured in this war. Some of them horrendously injured, missing arms or legs, some having lost an eye or ear. Each of them needed someone to talk to, someone who could understand their fear and pain, their uncertainties about what would be in store for them when they were recovered enough to go home. The worst were those who were all alone here. Merry had been trying to spend as much time as he could with them, knowing how lonely he was, and he was able to move around and keep himself busy. How much worse must it be for those confined to a bed in a lonely room, isolated from everyone else. The healers did their best but were overworked and pressed for time.
This morning Merry had been sitting with a young Rider of Rohan, more lad than man, with a fluff of down on his chin that he proudly called a beard, who had lost an arm in the battle. The lad was homesick, in pain and frightened of what his life was going to be like now that he was forever maimed, but determined to put on a good front. He had been telling Merry about the lass he had left behind in Dunharrow. Although he had not said so, it was clear to Merry that the lad was afraid his lass would no longer want him when he returned to her. There was not much Merry could do to reassure him and he’d tried distraction instead. He’d told a story about a lass he had once fancied, in his tweenage years. He had told of all the outrageous things he had done in order to draw the attention of this lass to himself, only to find once he succeeded that his own interest had wandered off and gotten lost somewhere. The lad had laughed and for a moment Merry had felt some of the weight of his own despair lift a little.
There were so many, though, and he wasn’t able to help them all. No one was. One of the men in Eomer’s mark had died that morning. There had been no real reason for the rider’s death. His wounds had been healing well and he would soon have been able to leave the Houses of Healing. He had suffered from the Black Breath, though, and never seemed to come all the way out from under the shadow. He had been found by one of the healers, having taken his own life in order to escape the darkness. It wasn’t the first time this had happened in the days since the battle and it wasn’t likely to be the last, either.
Merry’s thoughts were distracted by a knock at the door and he gratefully admitted entrance to the Warden of the Houses of Healing, finding himself curious as to the man’s purpose here.
“Master Brandybuck, how is your arm today?” Merry bit back a grimace at the man’s formality. He had tried to convince the man it was perfectly proper to call him Merry, but it seemed this was as good as it was going to get. It was an improvement over Master Perian, at any rate.
“It is improving, thank you.” He automatically flexed the arm and was reassured to feel some of his strength returning. Not enough to wield a sword, of course. He forced a smile. “Can I help you with something?”
“As a matter of fact, you can. Lord Faramir was curious about the Lady Eowyn and I told him that you would know more about her than I did, as I understand you spent a great deal of time with her.”
Ah, Lady Eowyn. Merry had visited with her this morning, as he had yesterday. He’d understood her feelings of resentment and despair all too well. It was no easy thing to be left behind when those you cared about were heading into danger.
“I will speak with the Lord Faramir if he wishes it, though I do not know if I can help him.” Merry took up his cloak and followed the Warden. He was led to a room that, while well appointed, was still clearly a sick room. Here a tall, serious man was sitting at a small table in front of the fire.
“Lord Faramir,” the Warden spoke respectfully, “here is the halfling, Meriadoc Brandybuck, of whom I spoke earlier.”
Faramir looked up and Merry was caught by his resemblance to Boromir. Pippin had spoken of Faramir several times, but this was the first time that Merry had met him. His face still bore the marks of illness, lines of pain and shadows of weariness. Despite these marks, or perhaps because of the quiet dignity with which he bore them, Merry could see why the man had made such a strong impression on Pippin.
“Welcome, Master Brandybuck.” Faramir smiled in greeting. “Please sit and join me in something to eat.”
Merry bowed politely, then faced west for a moment before sitting, having learned this strange custom from Pippin and not wanting to offend his host.
Faramir laughed. “I see that you are learning our customs quickly, Master Brandybuck.”
“My cousin, Peregrin, taught me much that he had learned here, before he left for...for...” Merry’s voice died out and he left the sentence unfinished. After a moment, he started up again. “He tried to explain as many things as he could, although he didn’t understand the whys of most of the customs.”
“I owe a great debt of gratitude to your cousin.” A shadow fell across Faramir’s face. “I have been told that he saved my life while I was ill, although I have no memory of the event and when I asked him about it, he grew very evasive and said that I owed my life to Gandalf, not him.” The Steward was quiet for a moment, lost in some sad thought, before forcing himself back to the present. “Enough of that. Eat up, Master Brandybuck, there is plenty of food.”
Merry obediently filled a plate. “Master Brandybuck is my father. Please call me Merry. That’s what my friends do.”
Faramir, nearly done with his meal, picked politely at his food and kept up a stream of light conversation while his guest ate, quickly putting Merry at his ease. When the meal was over, Faramir set the tray outside his door and returned to the table, where he found Merry restlessly playing with his pipe.
“I was always fascinated by Mithrandir’s pipe, on his visits to Minas Tirith when I was a child.” Faramir indicated that Merry should go ahead and light up. “I had not ever seen such a thing elsewhere but I never had the courage to ask him about it. I saw that your friend, Gimli has a pipe as well. It is an intriguing habit. Do all of your people have this trait or have you acquired it on your travels?”
A shadow passed over Merry’s face as, just for a moment, he seemed to hear Theoden asking him a similar question at the gates of Isengard. Shaking off the sudden sadness, Merry forced a smile. “It is a common habit amongst hobbits, my lord. Tobold Hornblower of Longbottom first brought the leaf to the Shire several hundred years ago. It seems likely he got it in Bree although no one really knows for sure.” Merry began to warm to his subject and Faramir allowed him to go into quite a bit more detail than he had anticipated with his innocent question.
Merry began to wind down after several minutes. “But I’m sure that’s not why you asked me here today. The Warden mentioned something about Lady Eowyn.” He waited for Faramir’s response. The new Steward of Minas Tirith did not reply immediately, his eyes moving off into the distance for a moment.
Finally he returned to himself with a shake. “She intrigues me. She is beautiful and sad and I do not entirely understand her pain. I was told that you have spent much time with her and so was hoping you could tell me about her.”
Merry found this a difficult task. “I must confess, my lord, that although I did spend several days in her company, she was in disguise as a Rider of Rohan. I did not myself realize who she was until she slew the Nazgul.” Mention of that evil seemed to summon the pain and cold in Merry’s arm and he shifted slightly, drawing closer to the fire for comfort. Faramir shivered as well but attempted to dismiss his unease.
“Still, you must have spoken with her. Is her sadness simply due to the death of her uncle, or is there, as I feel certain, more to it than that?”
So Merry spent the rest of the afternoon recalling everything he could of Eowyn’s moods and words for Faramir. Later in the evening they went out into the garden and strolled around. Now Merry pressed Faramir for details of his meeting with Frodo and Sam. Faramir spoke at length about his conversation with Frodo, the encounter with Gollum, and Frodo’s insistence on following Gollum’s lead.
The long shadows cast by the setting sun gradually disappeared as darkness loomed over the city and Merry felt the darkness returning to his heart as well.
“They are all out there, my friends and kin.” He waved his arm to the east. “I promised myself that I would protect them. It turns out I was unable even to take care of myself.” He bowed his head. “It shames me, Faramir, that I must sit here in safety and comfort while they are all in such gravest danger.”
Faramir studied the small figure before him. Here was another unhappy soul and again there was nothing he could do to change the circumstances which brought about this pain. He understood Merry’s desire to go to the battle. He felt it himself, although he knew that his recovery was not complete.
“I think,” he began haltingly, “that these times call for a new kind of courage from us, Merry. The courage to face our own weakness and accept it. The courage to accept that in this instance, someone else is better suited to the task. There is no shame in this. You helped to rid the world of a great evil and suffered greatly in the doing. Now it is time to rest and heal. The time will likely come when the battle returns to us and we will need all our strength to face that end.” He rested his hand on Merry’s shoulder for a moment. “Come, the air is growing chill. We should both of us return to our rooms.”
Merry nodded but did not respond. After a moment, Faramir departed, leaving his friend alone to think. Merry barely noticed his going. A freshening breeze blew through his hair and he barely noticed that, as well. Faramir had given him much to think about and he sat for a long while, trying to come to terms with the truths that had been said and the truths that he felt in his heart.
Much later, he found his way back to his room. He was tired and ready for sleep, but sleep did not come. He could find no resolution to the conflict in his soul. He knew that Faramir had spoken truly but in his mind’s eye, he kept seeing Frodo and Sam all alone in Mordor, and Pippin being overwhelmed by hordes of orcs and evil men in front of the Black Gate. These were the truths that his heart knew and Faramir’s words brought him no comfort.
Chapter three: The Summons
Merry was sitting on a bench in one of the gardens which overlooked the city. He had been released from the healers’ care several days ago but was still living at the Houses of Healing, having nowhere else to go. He’d continued to help where he could and the Warden, who’s name Merry had finally learned was Faragut, had found that Merry had a talent for organization. With this in mind, he had asked Merry to help him inventory the remaining supplies. Merry had taken on this task in addition to spending time with the convalescing patients, especially those from Rohan and other distant places who were far from home and alone. He had also fallen into the habit of eating his noon meal with Bergil, who was equally alone and lonely though he wouldn’t admit it. He was waiting for the lad now.
The wind was blowing from the north and clouds covered the sky. Merry wrapped himself in his cloak, wishing he still had his good wool coat. It had been lost when he and Pippin were stolen away by the orcs. He shivered, thinking of that, and turned his thoughts to other things. It had been seven days since Pippin and the others left. He wondered where they were. Had they reached the Black Gate yet, or were they still marching? Poor Pip must be exhausted, trying to keep up with the tall men of Minas Tirith. He remembered how hard it had been for all of them to keep up the pace Aragorn had set when they left Bree. The ranger had been as patient as he could be, but their shorter legs just couldn’t go as far or as fast as the tall ranger’s could. He had finally accepted this and slowed the pace just enough for them to make it to the end of each day. Now Pippin was the only hobbit amongst an army of men and Merry doubted Aragorn would slow the pace to accommodate one small soldier among many.
He was distracted from his worrying by the arrival of Bergil with a hamper full of food, a flagon of ale and another of water.
“Here,” the lad said, handing over the flagon of ale, “Targon made me swear that I would turn this over to you directly, and promised that he would flay me alive if I drank so much as one sip of it.”
“So how much did you drink, then?” Merry made a great show of weighing the flagon in his hand and trying to guess how much ale was missing, glad to have his gloomy thoughts interrupted.
Bergil grinned guiltily. “More than a sip, but not much more. Father doesn’t approve of us young lads drinking ale.” Clearly his father’s approval mattered far more to Bergil than all of Targon’s threats.
The lad set the food down on the wall next to Merry and the two of them began to eat. Neither of them was terribly hungry, they found, and both just picked at the food. There was something oppressive in the air today and it was affecting them both.
“Do you...do you think they are fighting, over there?” Bergil nodded towards the northeast, in the direction of the Black Gate. He sounded very young today, young and insecure. Merry wanted to give him reassurance, but found he had nothing to give. His heart was troubled.
“I feel sure that something is happening, or is about to happen,” he answered. He shivered again and wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself. The wind, which had been blowing vigorously all morning, suddenly died down and all was still. Merry and Bergil looked out over the wall, neither talking. It seemed as though a giant hand was pressing down on the city. Everyone had paused and even the birds and beasts had gone quiet. Looking east, Merry gasped as he saw a mountain of darkness rising. His heart lurched painfully as the darkness was lit intermittently by flashes of lightning. It seemed that something was indeed happening. But just as Merry drew breath to cry out in fear and sorrow, the darkness lifted and blew away. Suddenly the sun was bursting through the clouds and the vice that had clamped itself around Merry’s heart released and fell away. He couldn’t explain the sudden joy he felt, or the tears that were running down his face. Looking to Bergil he saw that the lad had been similarly affected. They stared at each other for a long moment, unable to make sense of anything. Faintly, upon the gentle breeze that was springing up around them, Merry could make out the sounds of singing coming from the lower levels of the city. Clearly, whatever was happening, the lightening of fear was being felt all over Minas Tirith.
“Do you think,” Bergil began hesitantly, “is it possible that we’ve...won?”
“It hardly seems possible or reasonable to suppose so, and yet,” Merry faltered as he tried to explain what he felt, “I cannot help but think that some good thing has happened.”
The two friends stood at the wall, waiting it seemed, although they knew not what they were waiting for. It was not long before they received an answer to Bergil’s question. The sun had just passed zenith and was slowly sliding down into afternoon when a great Eagle came winging in out of the east, crying out a message of victory. The sounds of singing redoubled as everyone began to celebrate.
Merry was kept very busy the next few days. The healers, while celebrating as much as everyone else, knew there would be a price for the victory, paid in bone and blood. Men and women went out into the surrounding countryside, with armed guards, to gather as many herbs as they could find to replace those used up in the battle upon the Pelennor. All the young lads left in the city, including Bergil, were put to work rolling bandages, running errands, and generally helping out where needed, and Merry found himself in charge of this small army of underage helpers.
He was pleased to have something useful to do, as it kept his mind occupied and prevented him from fretting over the well-fare of his friends. Once the initial jubilation had worn off, he had found that his fears for Frodo, Sam and Pippin had not gone away. The eagle had given very little information, just crying that the dark tower had been thrown down and Sauron defeated. Merry supposed this to mean that Frodo had accomplished his quest and destroyed the ring, but at what cost to himself and Sam? And what of Pippin? It was best not to dwell on these thoughts and so Merry did his best to keep busy.
“Ah, Master Brandybuck, what can I do for you?” Faragut asked, inviting Merry into his study.
“I’ve got the completed inventory of the lower supply rooms.” Merry handed over a sheaf of papers. Faragut looked the papers over, noting that Merry had marked which items were in danger of running out, which items were old and past their usefulness and what was missing altogether.
Before the Warden could comment on the papers there was a knock at the door. “Yes? Come in.” Faragut looked up as the door opened. Bergil stood in the doorway, looking very excited, face flushed and breathing heavily.
“Messengers have come, Master Faragut, from Lord Aragorn. Lord Faramir has summoned you to a meeting. You as well, Merry.” Faragut frowned at the lad’s informality with Merry but did not comment. Gathering up his cloak, he nodded at Bergil to lead the way.
Several minutes later, Merry found himself sitting with ten or twelve men, most of whom he did not know, around a large table. There were no tall stools in the room and Merry was forced to make do with one of the regular, man-sized chairs. This resulted in the table being at about the level of his chin and making him feel like a child eavesdropping on the business of his elders. It was not a sensation he liked, but one he had become somewhat inured to since leaving the Shire. Faramir stood at the head of the table, facing the men he had summoned.
“As you’ve heard, Lord Aragorn has sent several messengers,” Faramir began. “He tells that while the war is over, the battle took a grievous toll of men. There is much need for healers and medicinal supplies. He also requests that supplies of food, clothing and other such goods be shipped as soon as possible. He is removing the army to Cormallen and there establishing a field hospital to care for the wounded.”
There were many murmurs as the gathered men took in Faramir’s words but no one interrupted the Steward.
“Warden Faragut, Lord Aragorn has forwarded a list of supplies for you to fill. Please have the supplies and a contingent of your best healers ready to go by the first hour before sunrise tomorrow.”
“Of course, my lord.” Faragut nodded his head in acknowledgment, already mapping out in his mind the things that would need to be done in the next hours.
Faramir continued to speak, delineating the tasks each of the men were being asked to perform. Finally, they had all been assigned their tasks and the meeting was adjourned. Merry wondered why he had been summoned. He’d hoped for news of his friends but clearly that was not forthcoming. Everyone was talking freely now, as the men stood and began moving towards the door. Merry slid off his chair but hesitated, torn between wanting to ask Faramir if there was any other news and not wanting to annoy the Steward, who was currently engaged in speech with the Captain of the Guard. After a moment’s indecision, he headed toward the door.
“Master Brandybuck,” Faramir’s voice froze him in place. “Please wait one moment. I have something for you.” Before Merry could respond, Faramir returned his attention to the soldier, continuing to issue instructions.
Merry stood awkwardly, not sure what to do with himself as he waited. He toyed with the idea of returning to his chair but discarded the thought almost at once. Instead, he moved into one of the narrow window bays, looking out over the courtyard. In the distance, he could see the waters of the river Anduin glinting in the sunlight. Spring had arrived in truth this past week and everywhere he looked, Merry saw signs of rebirth. The dead tree by the fountain drooped sadly but elsewhere trees had burst forth in a riot of blossoms and fresh green leaves. Garden plots, neglected during the course of this long war, still bloomed, a tangle of flowers and weeds that shouted out their joy in warmth and sun. The very air was warm and sweet. Merry wondered what Cormallen was like. Were there trees or flowers there? Was Pippin smelling the sweet scent of honeysuckle right now, as Merry was? His thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and Merry jumped in surprise.
Faramir smiled. “Minas Tirith is beautiful in the spring, is it not?” he asked. “Of course, the city has a beauty of its own in every season, though it is not to everyone’s taste, I suppose.”
Merry, glancing up into the Steward’s face, saw the love Faramir felt for his home and recognized it as the same love that burned in his own heart whenever he thought of the Shire and Buckland, and his home at Brandy Hall. Faramir smiled again as he met Merry’s gaze. “We are much alike, you and I,” he commented, seeing much of Merry’s thoughts reflected in his eyes.
Merry had met many big folk on his travels, most of whom were admirable men, but he had never felt that he had much in common with any of them. It came as something of a shock to realize that he agreed with this tall, stern ruler of men. He returned Faramir’s smile.
“I have a missive for you, from Lord Aragorn.” Faramir handed over a small piece of parchment, folded over and sealed with wax. Merry accepted it with a trembling hand, eager for news but afraid of what he might learn. “I do not know what he has written to you, but he has requested of me that I allow you to accompany the supply wains leaving in the morning.”
Merry nodded to acknowledge that he heard Faramir’s words but his attention was all on the letter in his hand. Faramir’s hand rested on his shoulder a moment more before moving away. Merry vaguely heard him move across the room, and the sound of the heavy door opening and closing.
He studied the parchment. His name had been written across the front, hastily but in an elegant script which proclaimed the writer thereof to have had elvish training. Taking a deep breath and attempting to still the nervous trembling of his hands, Merry broke the wax seal and opened the paper. The note was short. Merry, you are needed here. Please come with the supply wains. Aragorn. That was all.
The letter fell to the floor, slipping free of Merry’s suddenly lifeless fingers. He was suddenly convinced that something was terribly, horribly wrong. An image of Pippin rose in Merry’s mind, laughing as he drained a mug of beer in the Green Dragon back home. Side by side with that image rose another, this one of Pippin lying on the ground, bleeding and lifeless, hacked apart by cruel orc blades. Tears fell unnoticed down Merry’s nose and splattered on the parchment and his hands. Why had Aragorn not said something? Anything to reassure Merry that Pippin had survived the battle. He held little hope that Frodo and Sam could have survived the exploding mountain and if Pippin was gone too, he thought he might lose himself as well.
“No!” Merry shook his head, refusing to believe his own worst thoughts. Pippin was fine. Aragorn hadn’t said anything more because he had more important things on his mind. Stuffing the letter in a pocket, Merry hurried out of the hall. It would not take long to pack his few belongings and the items Pippin had left behind. Then he would try to track down the messengers and see if they could give him any information. With this plan in mind, Merry was able to push his fears aside, at least for the moment.
Chapter four: Nightmares
The night took an eternity to pass. Merry alternated between a sick sense of fear for his friends and raging against Aragorn for sending such a frightening and uninformative note. Unable to sleep, he paced his room for several hours until he began to feel like a caged beast. Then he went to the gardens and paced some more. It was well after midnight before he finally felt tired enough to succumb to sleep. Returning to his room, he laid himself down, fully dressed, on his bed. His mind continued to conjure up terrible images long after sleep finally overtook him.
He awoke with a shout and stared about himself in confusion. He’d been suffocating, a great weight pinning him down, unable to move or call for help, struggling just to breathe. Gradually his mind cleared and he realized it had been a nightmare, nothing more. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he sat up and looked out the window to judge the time. The stars were still out but the birds were chirping madly as they prepared for a new day. Time to get up.
Merry dragged himself out of bed, splashed some water on his face and changed into a fresh shirt before putting on the leather jerkin he’d been given in Dunharrow. Grabbing up his shield and helm, which he hung from his pack for the time being, he double checked the room to make sure he had not forgotten anything. Then, taking up his pack, he headed towards the kitchens. He was too anxious to have much appetite for breakfast but he wanted a cup of tea before he left.
“Master Brandybuck,” the cook, a plump motherly woman with grey hair and a red face, acknowledged him. “You’re up early this morning.”
“I’m leaving with the supply wains shortly and wanted some tea before I go.” The words were barely out of his mouth before he found himself being pointed towards a tall stool next to a rough-hewn wooden table.
“Surely you’ll be wanting more than tea?” the woman asked.
Merry shook his head. “I’m not feeling very hungry this morning, Tirane.”
The cook looked at Merry in concern. He had been taking most of his meals in the kitchens and she had gotten a sense of hobbit appetites. That he didn’t want anything to eat was enough to alarm her. She was used to cooking for sick or injured folk, however, and understood that sometimes a body needed food whether he wanted it or no. She decided to ignore Merry’s lack of appetite. Therefore, he soon found himself presented with a cup of tea, several slices of toast, sausages, eggs and a bowl of fruit. He looked at Tirane inquiringly.
“Eat, Master Brandybuck. You might not be feeling hungry now, but sure as the sun rises, you’ll be wanting something when you’re on the road and it’s too late to change your mind.”
He really wasn’t hungry but smiled at her concern and gamely picked at his toast, managing to eat one slice before pushing the rest away. Looking up as he did so, he caught Tirane’s glare. “I’m really not hungry, Tirane,” he protested. “If it will make you feel better, though, I’ll wrap up the sausages and some fruit to take with me.”
“I suppose that will have to do,” the cook grunted in concern. “I know you’re worried about your friends, lad,” she continued in a kindly tone, “but it won’t do you or them no good to go wasting away from that worry. You eat and keep your strength up.” She looked as though she would like to say more but restrained herself. She quickly wrapped the food for Merry, adding some more sausages, a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese as well as three or four apples. She gave him a stern look as she handed the food over but said nothing more about the matter. “I hope you find your friends well,” she said then and returned to preparing breakfast for the rest of the House.
Merry accepted the packet of food and stowed it in his pack. Bowing, he bid Tirane farewell. It was time to go. Slinging the pack onto his back and absently rubbing his right arm, he left the House. The absolute black of the night sky was fading to a dark blue and only the very brightest stars were still visible. The air was cool and he pulled his cloak around himself as he walked through the city down to the first level. He found himself picking at the edges of the nightmare that had awakened him. He could no longer remember any details of it, but the sense of fear and pain lingered like the ache in his arm.
The last stars had disappeared by the time he reached the ruined Great Gate leading out of the city. There he found the supply wains all loaded and ready to go. He also found Faramir, in converse with the Warden, Faragut, and a man whom Merry concluded must be the lead driver.
“Ah, Merry.” Faramir finished speaking with the men and saw the hobbit hovering uncertainly near the rearmost wain. “I know you were forced to leave your pony behind at Dunharrow, so I’ve taken the liberty of acquiring another for you.” The pony that Faramir indicated was slightly larger than Stybba, the pony King Theoden had given him, with a rich chestnut coat and a thick mane of nearly black hair.
“Thank you, my lord, I..I’m in your debt,” Merry stammered and bowed deeply. He was much moved by this gift, although he doubted Faramir understood what it meant to him. No longer must he ride attached to someone’s saddle like their blanket roll or spare shirt. Nor would he be forced to endure the claustrophobic confines of a supply wain, unable to do anything but sit and fret for the hours of the journey.
Merry attached his gear to the back of the saddle and mounted the pony, which shifted restlessly under him. He calmed her with a gentle hand and soft voice before turning to Faramir. “Does she have a name?” he asked curiously.
Faramir smiled. “If she does, I did not learn it. She is yours now, feel free to name her as you will.” He hesitated before continuing. “I hope that your cousin, Peregrin, is well. I know that you are worried about him and I worry as well. I would have argued against his going to battle had I been well enough to attend that council. Although, judging from what I know of you and him, he would have been very difficult to leave behind.” The Steward’s eyes twinkled as he said this and Merry could not help smiling in return.
“When I see Pippin I will give him your good wishes,” Merry responded, mentally affirming that it was when, not if, as he’d almost said. That brought his thoughts back to places he did not wish them to go. Places dark and grim, where he traveled alone along roads meant for four. Shaking his head to dispel these thoughts, he saw that the supply wains were beginning to move. Bidding Faramir farewell, he nudged his pony into a gentle walk, falling into line behind the last wain.
“So, my friend,” he said, stroking the pony’s neck, “you need a name.” Merry continued speaking to the pony as they walked along, musing aloud on possible names. Soon the healers in the wain began calling out suggestions and it became a game, trying to find the best name for the shaggy little beast.
They followed a road which wound through the fields and villages of the Pelennor, traveling north-east towards Osgiliath, where the supplies would be loaded on ships and taken up river to Cair Andros. The distance was only four leagues but the heavy wains moved slowly and the horses had to be rested every hour. All in all, the trip took most of the morning, with the wains reaching the river a scant hour before noon.
Everything had then to be taken off the wains and reloaded onto the waiting ships and this took another several hours. With all of this, it was mid-afternoon before Merry found himself leading his pony, which had acquired the name Hanna at some point during the morning, into the hold of one of the ships.
“There you are, Hanna,” he murmured as he fastened her harness to ties attached to the sides of the stall. He poured fresh water into her bucket and made sure she had plenty of hay to eat. Then, giving her a last affectionate pat, he closed the door of the stall. As he climbed the ladder up to the deck, he felt a lurching movement that indicated the ship had begun to move away from the dock.
Above deck, Merry lifted his face to the breeze, breathing deeply of the slightly salty tang in the air. He couldn’t see the ocean, but he knew that if the ship were to go downstream instead of up, they would arrive at the sea. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture what that much water must look like but wasn’t sure he was all that close to the truth. The best he could come up with was something that looked much like the Pool at Bywater, all still and calm, only stretching unimaginably far so that one couldn’t see across it.
With nothing much to do but wait, Merry found a quiet, out of the way spot and sat down. Despite Tirane’s predictions, he had not really been hungry at all today but he knew he should eat something. Pulling out the packet of food the cook had made for him, he sighed and forced himself to eat an apple and some bread. He couldn’t face the sausages, however, and ended up giving them and the cheese to the two healers who were traveling on this ship with him.
He spent the rest of the evening trying to stay out of the way of the sailors. Things settled down a bit as the sun sank and darkness overtook the ship. The healers had been found bunks in the crew’s quarters but the soldiers were sleeping in shifts on deck, under an awning. Merry had been overlooked in the sleeping arrangements but found he didn’t mind as much as he would have thought. It was a pleasant night to spend in the open, under the stars and Merry hoped that the fresh air, quiet creaking and groaning of the ship, the splash and lap of the water, the shushing of the soft breeze and the occasional muted voice of the men on guard would lull him to sleep.
Hours later, the stars had been covered with a thin veil of clouds and Merry was still awake, pacing the deck in an attempt to outrun the fears that had redoubled to plague him in the peace of the night. Finally, too exhausted to pace any longer, he returned to his blanket roll and lay down, tossing restlessly. He was shivering in the chill of the night, in spite of cloak and blanket, and his arm ached fiercely. The dread that had been haunting him since he received Aragorn’s note seemed overwhelming and inescapable in the darkness. Somehow, despite this, he finally managed to fall asleep.
Asleep, he dreamed. In his dream, he had returned home to Buckland. He wandered through the corridors of Brandy Hall, looking for his parents, but couldn’t find them. In fact, he realized, there was no one there at all. The Hall was deserted with an eerie feel of desolation. Finally, after what seemed hours of searching, he heard a noise further ahead of him in the corridor. Running to see who it was, he stopped in shock and horror. Frodo and Sam, bodies burned and blackened almost beyond recognition, were playing at dice in a room crowded with cast-off furnishings and forgotten mathoms. Frodo looked up at him and grinned, the skin melting off his face, while Sam rolled the dice with skeletal fingers. Merry backed away, crying out a refusal to accept what he was seeing. Turning, he ran from the room, not stopping until he heard another sound, this time coming from his father’s study. Opening the door cautiously, hoping against hope that it was his parents, he found Pippin. His cousin turned to face him and revealed a body feathered with arrows, rent by swords, covered in blood.
“No!” Merry shouted, coming suddenly awake. His heart was pounding, pain was stabbing through his head and arm, and he felt sick to his stomach. Scrambling to the railing, he heaved and retched for some minutes before his guts finally settled down. Only a dream, he told himself over and over. Only a dream. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he shakily returned to his blankets and wrapped himself up. It was some time before his heart slowed to normal and he ceased shaking. He continued to sit like that, huddled in his blanket, head nodding but afraid to sleep, until morning.
Merry woke only reluctantly when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Opening his eyes, he squinted against lantern light. Blinking rapidly, he made out a blurry form. “Pippin?”
“Aye. I’m sorry to wake you, Merry, but I thought you might take first breakfast with me before I go.” Pippin’s voice wavered just slightly and Merry was suddenly wide awake. Pippin was leaving this morning with the host, going to the very doors of Mordor to provide a distraction, keep Sauron’s eye outside of his realm so that the object of all their hopes should have a chance at least of success.
“Of course I will, Pip. I should have been furious with you if you hadn’t woken me.” He forced a grin and climbed out of bed. He felt stiff and his right arm ached slightly. Doing his best to ignore the sensation, he quickly drew off his nightshirt and dressed in clean clothes. He eyed the armor he had received from King Theoden but decided against putting it on. Instead, he wrapped his elven cloak about himself and turned to Pippin. “Shall we go?”
The two friends walked silently through the House of Healing, careful to disturb none of the patients sleeping in the rooms they passed. Once out in the street, they spoke lightly as they headed to the mess hall. Although it was still some time before dawn, they were not alone as they entered the large hall. Many men were sitting about, alone or in small groups, eating quickly and speaking in hushed tones. Pippin led Merry to a high counter and spoke to the man on the other side.
“Good morning, Targon. This is my cousin, Meriadoc.” Targon nodded his head to Merry, “Pleased to make your acquaintance,” the large man said as he handed over bowls of steaming porridge, a warm loaf of bread, fresh butter and cheese, along with a pot of tea and two cups. In the short period of time that he had known Pippin, he had come to understand that the perian preferred tea to ale, first thing in the morning.
The two friends made their way to a table that was half empty and set their tray down. They didn’t speak for several minutes as they applied themselves to their food. Finally, when all that was left on the tray was some bread and a few nibbles of cheese, they pushed back from the table.
“When do you need to go?” Merry asked this haltingly, not wanting to hear the answer.
“Soon, but we still have some time,” Pippin replied.
Merry did not know what to say to Pippin. He wanted to remind his cousin to be careful, keep himself safe, but knew that there was no safety where Pippin was going. “Did you remember to pack everything you’ll need?” he finally asked, just to break the silence.
Pippin smiled in understanding and Merry was struck by how much older his young cousin seemed. Pippin had matured a great deal just in the short time they had been separated. They had spent much time the past two days talking over their adventures but somehow Merry had not realized until now, how much Pippin had changed.
“I don’t suppose there will be much that I do need, once we get there,” Pippin commented. “Just my sword and shield, and the strength and courage to use them.” His brow was creased and his eyes shadowed.
“Are you worrying that you won’t be brave enough to face whatever comes?” Pippin nodded. “That’s ridiculous, Pip. You are one of the bravest hobbits I know. You came all this way with us, knowing that unknown terrors awaited and yet refusing to be sent home. You have faced orcs, ents, wizards, mad Stewards, fire and fear. You will not fail of courage.” Merry quirked a smile. “Of course, you may fail of height. You are woefully short, Pippin.”
“Hoy!” Pippin shouted in indignation. “I’m taller than you, Meriadoc Brandybuck.”
“Let’s get this straight once and for all, Peregrin Took. You have never been, are not now and never will be taller than me. If I, on occasion, seem shorter than you, it is only because I have slouched in order to make you feel less inferior.” Merry’s eyes sparkled warmly as he bantered with his cousin.
The conversation continued in this vein for some time as they piled their dishes in a waiting receptacle and left the hall. They wandered down through the levels of the city, still arguing in all good nature. The sun was just rising in the east as they approached the ruins of the main gate. It was time to say their farewells and the thought was bitter to Merry.
Looking at Pippin, he could find no words to say that would properly express all the things he was feeling right now, shame that he could not go along, fear that he would never see Pippin again and a greater fear that was too difficult to even put into thought, that they might fail and Sauron regain the Ring. Finally, he simply put his arms around his cousin and held him tight for a moment. “Do the Shire proud, Pippin, and come back safe,” he muttered into his friend’s collar before breaking away.
Tears glistening in his eyes, Pippin nodded and turned away, moving to join the company that he would be marching with, led by his friend, Beregond. Merry, with Pippin’s friend Bergil next to him, stood where he was, eyes glued to the one small form amongst the Men of Gondor. He remained where he was long after the last horns had blown and the last companies had disappeared into the distance, unwilling to let go of his friend. He bowed his head in despair, the pain in his arm growing stronger as he lingered. Dimly, he was aware of Bergil talking to him and guiding him up the hill back to the Houses of Healing, but he paid the lad little heed. Once again he had been left behind by everyone he cared for. Feeling old and useless, he was grateful to reach his little room. Closing the door behind him, he slowly undressed and crawled into the overlarge bed, pulling the covers up over his head and shutting out the sights and sounds of the new day.
Chapter two: Truths
Merry was standing at his window, taking an occasional puff of his pipe and staring out into the distance. He had been helping the kitchen staff earlier in the day, pushing meal trolleys from one room to the next, delivering food to those patients too ill or injured to leave their beds. It was about all he was able for until some more strength returned to his arm, and it left him feeling tired and sad. So many men had been injured in this war. Some of them horrendously injured, missing arms or legs, some having lost an eye or ear. Each of them needed someone to talk to, someone who could understand their fear and pain, their uncertainties about what would be in store for them when they were recovered enough to go home. The worst were those who were all alone here. Merry had been trying to spend as much time as he could with them, knowing how lonely he was, and he was able to move around and keep himself busy. How much worse must it be for those confined to a bed in a lonely room, isolated from everyone else. The healers did their best but were overworked and pressed for time.
This morning Merry had been sitting with a young Rider of Rohan, more lad than man, with a fluff of down on his chin that he proudly called a beard, who had lost an arm in the battle. The lad was homesick, in pain and frightened of what his life was going to be like now that he was forever maimed, but determined to put on a good front. He had been telling Merry about the lass he had left behind in Dunharrow. Although he had not said so, it was clear to Merry that the lad was afraid his lass would no longer want him when he returned to her. There was not much Merry could do to reassure him and he’d tried distraction instead. He’d told a story about a lass he had once fancied, in his tweenage years. He had told of all the outrageous things he had done in order to draw the attention of this lass to himself, only to find once he succeeded that his own interest had wandered off and gotten lost somewhere. The lad had laughed and for a moment Merry had felt some of the weight of his own despair lift a little.
There were so many, though, and he wasn’t able to help them all. No one was. One of the men in Eomer’s mark had died that morning. There had been no real reason for the rider’s death. His wounds had been healing well and he would soon have been able to leave the Houses of Healing. He had suffered from the Black Breath, though, and never seemed to come all the way out from under the shadow. He had been found by one of the healers, having taken his own life in order to escape the darkness. It wasn’t the first time this had happened in the days since the battle and it wasn’t likely to be the last, either.
Merry’s thoughts were distracted by a knock at the door and he gratefully admitted entrance to the Warden of the Houses of Healing, finding himself curious as to the man’s purpose here.
“Master Brandybuck, how is your arm today?” Merry bit back a grimace at the man’s formality. He had tried to convince the man it was perfectly proper to call him Merry, but it seemed this was as good as it was going to get. It was an improvement over Master Perian, at any rate.
“It is improving, thank you.” He automatically flexed the arm and was reassured to feel some of his strength returning. Not enough to wield a sword, of course. He forced a smile. “Can I help you with something?”
“As a matter of fact, you can. Lord Faramir was curious about the Lady Eowyn and I told him that you would know more about her than I did, as I understand you spent a great deal of time with her.”
Ah, Lady Eowyn. Merry had visited with her this morning, as he had yesterday. He’d understood her feelings of resentment and despair all too well. It was no easy thing to be left behind when those you cared about were heading into danger.
“I will speak with the Lord Faramir if he wishes it, though I do not know if I can help him.” Merry took up his cloak and followed the Warden. He was led to a room that, while well appointed, was still clearly a sick room. Here a tall, serious man was sitting at a small table in front of the fire.
“Lord Faramir,” the Warden spoke respectfully, “here is the halfling, Meriadoc Brandybuck, of whom I spoke earlier.”
Faramir looked up and Merry was caught by his resemblance to Boromir. Pippin had spoken of Faramir several times, but this was the first time that Merry had met him. His face still bore the marks of illness, lines of pain and shadows of weariness. Despite these marks, or perhaps because of the quiet dignity with which he bore them, Merry could see why the man had made such a strong impression on Pippin.
“Welcome, Master Brandybuck.” Faramir smiled in greeting. “Please sit and join me in something to eat.”
Merry bowed politely, then faced west for a moment before sitting, having learned this strange custom from Pippin and not wanting to offend his host.
Faramir laughed. “I see that you are learning our customs quickly, Master Brandybuck.”
“My cousin, Peregrin, taught me much that he had learned here, before he left for...for...” Merry’s voice died out and he left the sentence unfinished. After a moment, he started up again. “He tried to explain as many things as he could, although he didn’t understand the whys of most of the customs.”
“I owe a great debt of gratitude to your cousin.” A shadow fell across Faramir’s face. “I have been told that he saved my life while I was ill, although I have no memory of the event and when I asked him about it, he grew very evasive and said that I owed my life to Gandalf, not him.” The Steward was quiet for a moment, lost in some sad thought, before forcing himself back to the present. “Enough of that. Eat up, Master Brandybuck, there is plenty of food.”
Merry obediently filled a plate. “Master Brandybuck is my father. Please call me Merry. That’s what my friends do.”
Faramir, nearly done with his meal, picked politely at his food and kept up a stream of light conversation while his guest ate, quickly putting Merry at his ease. When the meal was over, Faramir set the tray outside his door and returned to the table, where he found Merry restlessly playing with his pipe.
“I was always fascinated by Mithrandir’s pipe, on his visits to Minas Tirith when I was a child.” Faramir indicated that Merry should go ahead and light up. “I had not ever seen such a thing elsewhere but I never had the courage to ask him about it. I saw that your friend, Gimli has a pipe as well. It is an intriguing habit. Do all of your people have this trait or have you acquired it on your travels?”
A shadow passed over Merry’s face as, just for a moment, he seemed to hear Theoden asking him a similar question at the gates of Isengard. Shaking off the sudden sadness, Merry forced a smile. “It is a common habit amongst hobbits, my lord. Tobold Hornblower of Longbottom first brought the leaf to the Shire several hundred years ago. It seems likely he got it in Bree although no one really knows for sure.” Merry began to warm to his subject and Faramir allowed him to go into quite a bit more detail than he had anticipated with his innocent question.
Merry began to wind down after several minutes. “But I’m sure that’s not why you asked me here today. The Warden mentioned something about Lady Eowyn.” He waited for Faramir’s response. The new Steward of Minas Tirith did not reply immediately, his eyes moving off into the distance for a moment.
Finally he returned to himself with a shake. “She intrigues me. She is beautiful and sad and I do not entirely understand her pain. I was told that you have spent much time with her and so was hoping you could tell me about her.”
Merry found this a difficult task. “I must confess, my lord, that although I did spend several days in her company, she was in disguise as a Rider of Rohan. I did not myself realize who she was until she slew the Nazgul.” Mention of that evil seemed to summon the pain and cold in Merry’s arm and he shifted slightly, drawing closer to the fire for comfort. Faramir shivered as well but attempted to dismiss his unease.
“Still, you must have spoken with her. Is her sadness simply due to the death of her uncle, or is there, as I feel certain, more to it than that?”
So Merry spent the rest of the afternoon recalling everything he could of Eowyn’s moods and words for Faramir. Later in the evening they went out into the garden and strolled around. Now Merry pressed Faramir for details of his meeting with Frodo and Sam. Faramir spoke at length about his conversation with Frodo, the encounter with Gollum, and Frodo’s insistence on following Gollum’s lead.
The long shadows cast by the setting sun gradually disappeared as darkness loomed over the city and Merry felt the darkness returning to his heart as well.
“They are all out there, my friends and kin.” He waved his arm to the east. “I promised myself that I would protect them. It turns out I was unable even to take care of myself.” He bowed his head. “It shames me, Faramir, that I must sit here in safety and comfort while they are all in such gravest danger.”
Faramir studied the small figure before him. Here was another unhappy soul and again there was nothing he could do to change the circumstances which brought about this pain. He understood Merry’s desire to go to the battle. He felt it himself, although he knew that his recovery was not complete.
“I think,” he began haltingly, “that these times call for a new kind of courage from us, Merry. The courage to face our own weakness and accept it. The courage to accept that in this instance, someone else is better suited to the task. There is no shame in this. You helped to rid the world of a great evil and suffered greatly in the doing. Now it is time to rest and heal. The time will likely come when the battle returns to us and we will need all our strength to face that end.” He rested his hand on Merry’s shoulder for a moment. “Come, the air is growing chill. We should both of us return to our rooms.”
Merry nodded but did not respond. After a moment, Faramir departed, leaving his friend alone to think. Merry barely noticed his going. A freshening breeze blew through his hair and he barely noticed that, as well. Faramir had given him much to think about and he sat for a long while, trying to come to terms with the truths that had been said and the truths that he felt in his heart.
Much later, he found his way back to his room. He was tired and ready for sleep, but sleep did not come. He could find no resolution to the conflict in his soul. He knew that Faramir had spoken truly but in his mind’s eye, he kept seeing Frodo and Sam all alone in Mordor, and Pippin being overwhelmed by hordes of orcs and evil men in front of the Black Gate. These were the truths that his heart knew and Faramir’s words brought him no comfort.
Chapter three: The Summons
Merry was sitting on a bench in one of the gardens which overlooked the city. He had been released from the healers’ care several days ago but was still living at the Houses of Healing, having nowhere else to go. He’d continued to help where he could and the Warden, who’s name Merry had finally learned was Faragut, had found that Merry had a talent for organization. With this in mind, he had asked Merry to help him inventory the remaining supplies. Merry had taken on this task in addition to spending time with the convalescing patients, especially those from Rohan and other distant places who were far from home and alone. He had also fallen into the habit of eating his noon meal with Bergil, who was equally alone and lonely though he wouldn’t admit it. He was waiting for the lad now.
The wind was blowing from the north and clouds covered the sky. Merry wrapped himself in his cloak, wishing he still had his good wool coat. It had been lost when he and Pippin were stolen away by the orcs. He shivered, thinking of that, and turned his thoughts to other things. It had been seven days since Pippin and the others left. He wondered where they were. Had they reached the Black Gate yet, or were they still marching? Poor Pip must be exhausted, trying to keep up with the tall men of Minas Tirith. He remembered how hard it had been for all of them to keep up the pace Aragorn had set when they left Bree. The ranger had been as patient as he could be, but their shorter legs just couldn’t go as far or as fast as the tall ranger’s could. He had finally accepted this and slowed the pace just enough for them to make it to the end of each day. Now Pippin was the only hobbit amongst an army of men and Merry doubted Aragorn would slow the pace to accommodate one small soldier among many.
He was distracted from his worrying by the arrival of Bergil with a hamper full of food, a flagon of ale and another of water.
“Here,” the lad said, handing over the flagon of ale, “Targon made me swear that I would turn this over to you directly, and promised that he would flay me alive if I drank so much as one sip of it.”
“So how much did you drink, then?” Merry made a great show of weighing the flagon in his hand and trying to guess how much ale was missing, glad to have his gloomy thoughts interrupted.
Bergil grinned guiltily. “More than a sip, but not much more. Father doesn’t approve of us young lads drinking ale.” Clearly his father’s approval mattered far more to Bergil than all of Targon’s threats.
The lad set the food down on the wall next to Merry and the two of them began to eat. Neither of them was terribly hungry, they found, and both just picked at the food. There was something oppressive in the air today and it was affecting them both.
“Do you...do you think they are fighting, over there?” Bergil nodded towards the northeast, in the direction of the Black Gate. He sounded very young today, young and insecure. Merry wanted to give him reassurance, but found he had nothing to give. His heart was troubled.
“I feel sure that something is happening, or is about to happen,” he answered. He shivered again and wrapped his cloak more tightly about himself. The wind, which had been blowing vigorously all morning, suddenly died down and all was still. Merry and Bergil looked out over the wall, neither talking. It seemed as though a giant hand was pressing down on the city. Everyone had paused and even the birds and beasts had gone quiet. Looking east, Merry gasped as he saw a mountain of darkness rising. His heart lurched painfully as the darkness was lit intermittently by flashes of lightning. It seemed that something was indeed happening. But just as Merry drew breath to cry out in fear and sorrow, the darkness lifted and blew away. Suddenly the sun was bursting through the clouds and the vice that had clamped itself around Merry’s heart released and fell away. He couldn’t explain the sudden joy he felt, or the tears that were running down his face. Looking to Bergil he saw that the lad had been similarly affected. They stared at each other for a long moment, unable to make sense of anything. Faintly, upon the gentle breeze that was springing up around them, Merry could make out the sounds of singing coming from the lower levels of the city. Clearly, whatever was happening, the lightening of fear was being felt all over Minas Tirith.
“Do you think,” Bergil began hesitantly, “is it possible that we’ve...won?”
“It hardly seems possible or reasonable to suppose so, and yet,” Merry faltered as he tried to explain what he felt, “I cannot help but think that some good thing has happened.”
The two friends stood at the wall, waiting it seemed, although they knew not what they were waiting for. It was not long before they received an answer to Bergil’s question. The sun had just passed zenith and was slowly sliding down into afternoon when a great Eagle came winging in out of the east, crying out a message of victory. The sounds of singing redoubled as everyone began to celebrate.
Merry was kept very busy the next few days. The healers, while celebrating as much as everyone else, knew there would be a price for the victory, paid in bone and blood. Men and women went out into the surrounding countryside, with armed guards, to gather as many herbs as they could find to replace those used up in the battle upon the Pelennor. All the young lads left in the city, including Bergil, were put to work rolling bandages, running errands, and generally helping out where needed, and Merry found himself in charge of this small army of underage helpers.
He was pleased to have something useful to do, as it kept his mind occupied and prevented him from fretting over the well-fare of his friends. Once the initial jubilation had worn off, he had found that his fears for Frodo, Sam and Pippin had not gone away. The eagle had given very little information, just crying that the dark tower had been thrown down and Sauron defeated. Merry supposed this to mean that Frodo had accomplished his quest and destroyed the ring, but at what cost to himself and Sam? And what of Pippin? It was best not to dwell on these thoughts and so Merry did his best to keep busy.
“Ah, Master Brandybuck, what can I do for you?” Faragut asked, inviting Merry into his study.
“I’ve got the completed inventory of the lower supply rooms.” Merry handed over a sheaf of papers. Faragut looked the papers over, noting that Merry had marked which items were in danger of running out, which items were old and past their usefulness and what was missing altogether.
Before the Warden could comment on the papers there was a knock at the door. “Yes? Come in.” Faragut looked up as the door opened. Bergil stood in the doorway, looking very excited, face flushed and breathing heavily.
“Messengers have come, Master Faragut, from Lord Aragorn. Lord Faramir has summoned you to a meeting. You as well, Merry.” Faragut frowned at the lad’s informality with Merry but did not comment. Gathering up his cloak, he nodded at Bergil to lead the way.
Several minutes later, Merry found himself sitting with ten or twelve men, most of whom he did not know, around a large table. There were no tall stools in the room and Merry was forced to make do with one of the regular, man-sized chairs. This resulted in the table being at about the level of his chin and making him feel like a child eavesdropping on the business of his elders. It was not a sensation he liked, but one he had become somewhat inured to since leaving the Shire. Faramir stood at the head of the table, facing the men he had summoned.
“As you’ve heard, Lord Aragorn has sent several messengers,” Faramir began. “He tells that while the war is over, the battle took a grievous toll of men. There is much need for healers and medicinal supplies. He also requests that supplies of food, clothing and other such goods be shipped as soon as possible. He is removing the army to Cormallen and there establishing a field hospital to care for the wounded.”
There were many murmurs as the gathered men took in Faramir’s words but no one interrupted the Steward.
“Warden Faragut, Lord Aragorn has forwarded a list of supplies for you to fill. Please have the supplies and a contingent of your best healers ready to go by the first hour before sunrise tomorrow.”
“Of course, my lord.” Faragut nodded his head in acknowledgment, already mapping out in his mind the things that would need to be done in the next hours.
Faramir continued to speak, delineating the tasks each of the men were being asked to perform. Finally, they had all been assigned their tasks and the meeting was adjourned. Merry wondered why he had been summoned. He’d hoped for news of his friends but clearly that was not forthcoming. Everyone was talking freely now, as the men stood and began moving towards the door. Merry slid off his chair but hesitated, torn between wanting to ask Faramir if there was any other news and not wanting to annoy the Steward, who was currently engaged in speech with the Captain of the Guard. After a moment’s indecision, he headed toward the door.
“Master Brandybuck,” Faramir’s voice froze him in place. “Please wait one moment. I have something for you.” Before Merry could respond, Faramir returned his attention to the soldier, continuing to issue instructions.
Merry stood awkwardly, not sure what to do with himself as he waited. He toyed with the idea of returning to his chair but discarded the thought almost at once. Instead, he moved into one of the narrow window bays, looking out over the courtyard. In the distance, he could see the waters of the river Anduin glinting in the sunlight. Spring had arrived in truth this past week and everywhere he looked, Merry saw signs of rebirth. The dead tree by the fountain drooped sadly but elsewhere trees had burst forth in a riot of blossoms and fresh green leaves. Garden plots, neglected during the course of this long war, still bloomed, a tangle of flowers and weeds that shouted out their joy in warmth and sun. The very air was warm and sweet. Merry wondered what Cormallen was like. Were there trees or flowers there? Was Pippin smelling the sweet scent of honeysuckle right now, as Merry was? His thoughts were interrupted by a hand on his shoulder and Merry jumped in surprise.
Faramir smiled. “Minas Tirith is beautiful in the spring, is it not?” he asked. “Of course, the city has a beauty of its own in every season, though it is not to everyone’s taste, I suppose.”
Merry, glancing up into the Steward’s face, saw the love Faramir felt for his home and recognized it as the same love that burned in his own heart whenever he thought of the Shire and Buckland, and his home at Brandy Hall. Faramir smiled again as he met Merry’s gaze. “We are much alike, you and I,” he commented, seeing much of Merry’s thoughts reflected in his eyes.
Merry had met many big folk on his travels, most of whom were admirable men, but he had never felt that he had much in common with any of them. It came as something of a shock to realize that he agreed with this tall, stern ruler of men. He returned Faramir’s smile.
“I have a missive for you, from Lord Aragorn.” Faramir handed over a small piece of parchment, folded over and sealed with wax. Merry accepted it with a trembling hand, eager for news but afraid of what he might learn. “I do not know what he has written to you, but he has requested of me that I allow you to accompany the supply wains leaving in the morning.”
Merry nodded to acknowledge that he heard Faramir’s words but his attention was all on the letter in his hand. Faramir’s hand rested on his shoulder a moment more before moving away. Merry vaguely heard him move across the room, and the sound of the heavy door opening and closing.
He studied the parchment. His name had been written across the front, hastily but in an elegant script which proclaimed the writer thereof to have had elvish training. Taking a deep breath and attempting to still the nervous trembling of his hands, Merry broke the wax seal and opened the paper. The note was short. Merry, you are needed here. Please come with the supply wains. Aragorn. That was all.
The letter fell to the floor, slipping free of Merry’s suddenly lifeless fingers. He was suddenly convinced that something was terribly, horribly wrong. An image of Pippin rose in Merry’s mind, laughing as he drained a mug of beer in the Green Dragon back home. Side by side with that image rose another, this one of Pippin lying on the ground, bleeding and lifeless, hacked apart by cruel orc blades. Tears fell unnoticed down Merry’s nose and splattered on the parchment and his hands. Why had Aragorn not said something? Anything to reassure Merry that Pippin had survived the battle. He held little hope that Frodo and Sam could have survived the exploding mountain and if Pippin was gone too, he thought he might lose himself as well.
“No!” Merry shook his head, refusing to believe his own worst thoughts. Pippin was fine. Aragorn hadn’t said anything more because he had more important things on his mind. Stuffing the letter in a pocket, Merry hurried out of the hall. It would not take long to pack his few belongings and the items Pippin had left behind. Then he would try to track down the messengers and see if they could give him any information. With this plan in mind, Merry was able to push his fears aside, at least for the moment.
Chapter four: Nightmares
The night took an eternity to pass. Merry alternated between a sick sense of fear for his friends and raging against Aragorn for sending such a frightening and uninformative note. Unable to sleep, he paced his room for several hours until he began to feel like a caged beast. Then he went to the gardens and paced some more. It was well after midnight before he finally felt tired enough to succumb to sleep. Returning to his room, he laid himself down, fully dressed, on his bed. His mind continued to conjure up terrible images long after sleep finally overtook him.
He awoke with a shout and stared about himself in confusion. He’d been suffocating, a great weight pinning him down, unable to move or call for help, struggling just to breathe. Gradually his mind cleared and he realized it had been a nightmare, nothing more. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he sat up and looked out the window to judge the time. The stars were still out but the birds were chirping madly as they prepared for a new day. Time to get up.
Merry dragged himself out of bed, splashed some water on his face and changed into a fresh shirt before putting on the leather jerkin he’d been given in Dunharrow. Grabbing up his shield and helm, which he hung from his pack for the time being, he double checked the room to make sure he had not forgotten anything. Then, taking up his pack, he headed towards the kitchens. He was too anxious to have much appetite for breakfast but he wanted a cup of tea before he left.
“Master Brandybuck,” the cook, a plump motherly woman with grey hair and a red face, acknowledged him. “You’re up early this morning.”
“I’m leaving with the supply wains shortly and wanted some tea before I go.” The words were barely out of his mouth before he found himself being pointed towards a tall stool next to a rough-hewn wooden table.
“Surely you’ll be wanting more than tea?” the woman asked.
Merry shook his head. “I’m not feeling very hungry this morning, Tirane.”
The cook looked at Merry in concern. He had been taking most of his meals in the kitchens and she had gotten a sense of hobbit appetites. That he didn’t want anything to eat was enough to alarm her. She was used to cooking for sick or injured folk, however, and understood that sometimes a body needed food whether he wanted it or no. She decided to ignore Merry’s lack of appetite. Therefore, he soon found himself presented with a cup of tea, several slices of toast, sausages, eggs and a bowl of fruit. He looked at Tirane inquiringly.
“Eat, Master Brandybuck. You might not be feeling hungry now, but sure as the sun rises, you’ll be wanting something when you’re on the road and it’s too late to change your mind.”
He really wasn’t hungry but smiled at her concern and gamely picked at his toast, managing to eat one slice before pushing the rest away. Looking up as he did so, he caught Tirane’s glare. “I’m really not hungry, Tirane,” he protested. “If it will make you feel better, though, I’ll wrap up the sausages and some fruit to take with me.”
“I suppose that will have to do,” the cook grunted in concern. “I know you’re worried about your friends, lad,” she continued in a kindly tone, “but it won’t do you or them no good to go wasting away from that worry. You eat and keep your strength up.” She looked as though she would like to say more but restrained herself. She quickly wrapped the food for Merry, adding some more sausages, a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese as well as three or four apples. She gave him a stern look as she handed the food over but said nothing more about the matter. “I hope you find your friends well,” she said then and returned to preparing breakfast for the rest of the House.
Merry accepted the packet of food and stowed it in his pack. Bowing, he bid Tirane farewell. It was time to go. Slinging the pack onto his back and absently rubbing his right arm, he left the House. The absolute black of the night sky was fading to a dark blue and only the very brightest stars were still visible. The air was cool and he pulled his cloak around himself as he walked through the city down to the first level. He found himself picking at the edges of the nightmare that had awakened him. He could no longer remember any details of it, but the sense of fear and pain lingered like the ache in his arm.
The last stars had disappeared by the time he reached the ruined Great Gate leading out of the city. There he found the supply wains all loaded and ready to go. He also found Faramir, in converse with the Warden, Faragut, and a man whom Merry concluded must be the lead driver.
“Ah, Merry.” Faramir finished speaking with the men and saw the hobbit hovering uncertainly near the rearmost wain. “I know you were forced to leave your pony behind at Dunharrow, so I’ve taken the liberty of acquiring another for you.” The pony that Faramir indicated was slightly larger than Stybba, the pony King Theoden had given him, with a rich chestnut coat and a thick mane of nearly black hair.
“Thank you, my lord, I..I’m in your debt,” Merry stammered and bowed deeply. He was much moved by this gift, although he doubted Faramir understood what it meant to him. No longer must he ride attached to someone’s saddle like their blanket roll or spare shirt. Nor would he be forced to endure the claustrophobic confines of a supply wain, unable to do anything but sit and fret for the hours of the journey.
Merry attached his gear to the back of the saddle and mounted the pony, which shifted restlessly under him. He calmed her with a gentle hand and soft voice before turning to Faramir. “Does she have a name?” he asked curiously.
Faramir smiled. “If she does, I did not learn it. She is yours now, feel free to name her as you will.” He hesitated before continuing. “I hope that your cousin, Peregrin, is well. I know that you are worried about him and I worry as well. I would have argued against his going to battle had I been well enough to attend that council. Although, judging from what I know of you and him, he would have been very difficult to leave behind.” The Steward’s eyes twinkled as he said this and Merry could not help smiling in return.
“When I see Pippin I will give him your good wishes,” Merry responded, mentally affirming that it was when, not if, as he’d almost said. That brought his thoughts back to places he did not wish them to go. Places dark and grim, where he traveled alone along roads meant for four. Shaking his head to dispel these thoughts, he saw that the supply wains were beginning to move. Bidding Faramir farewell, he nudged his pony into a gentle walk, falling into line behind the last wain.
“So, my friend,” he said, stroking the pony’s neck, “you need a name.” Merry continued speaking to the pony as they walked along, musing aloud on possible names. Soon the healers in the wain began calling out suggestions and it became a game, trying to find the best name for the shaggy little beast.
They followed a road which wound through the fields and villages of the Pelennor, traveling north-east towards Osgiliath, where the supplies would be loaded on ships and taken up river to Cair Andros. The distance was only four leagues but the heavy wains moved slowly and the horses had to be rested every hour. All in all, the trip took most of the morning, with the wains reaching the river a scant hour before noon.
Everything had then to be taken off the wains and reloaded onto the waiting ships and this took another several hours. With all of this, it was mid-afternoon before Merry found himself leading his pony, which had acquired the name Hanna at some point during the morning, into the hold of one of the ships.
“There you are, Hanna,” he murmured as he fastened her harness to ties attached to the sides of the stall. He poured fresh water into her bucket and made sure she had plenty of hay to eat. Then, giving her a last affectionate pat, he closed the door of the stall. As he climbed the ladder up to the deck, he felt a lurching movement that indicated the ship had begun to move away from the dock.
Above deck, Merry lifted his face to the breeze, breathing deeply of the slightly salty tang in the air. He couldn’t see the ocean, but he knew that if the ship were to go downstream instead of up, they would arrive at the sea. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture what that much water must look like but wasn’t sure he was all that close to the truth. The best he could come up with was something that looked much like the Pool at Bywater, all still and calm, only stretching unimaginably far so that one couldn’t see across it.
With nothing much to do but wait, Merry found a quiet, out of the way spot and sat down. Despite Tirane’s predictions, he had not really been hungry at all today but he knew he should eat something. Pulling out the packet of food the cook had made for him, he sighed and forced himself to eat an apple and some bread. He couldn’t face the sausages, however, and ended up giving them and the cheese to the two healers who were traveling on this ship with him.
He spent the rest of the evening trying to stay out of the way of the sailors. Things settled down a bit as the sun sank and darkness overtook the ship. The healers had been found bunks in the crew’s quarters but the soldiers were sleeping in shifts on deck, under an awning. Merry had been overlooked in the sleeping arrangements but found he didn’t mind as much as he would have thought. It was a pleasant night to spend in the open, under the stars and Merry hoped that the fresh air, quiet creaking and groaning of the ship, the splash and lap of the water, the shushing of the soft breeze and the occasional muted voice of the men on guard would lull him to sleep.
Hours later, the stars had been covered with a thin veil of clouds and Merry was still awake, pacing the deck in an attempt to outrun the fears that had redoubled to plague him in the peace of the night. Finally, too exhausted to pace any longer, he returned to his blanket roll and lay down, tossing restlessly. He was shivering in the chill of the night, in spite of cloak and blanket, and his arm ached fiercely. The dread that had been haunting him since he received Aragorn’s note seemed overwhelming and inescapable in the darkness. Somehow, despite this, he finally managed to fall asleep.
Asleep, he dreamed. In his dream, he had returned home to Buckland. He wandered through the corridors of Brandy Hall, looking for his parents, but couldn’t find them. In fact, he realized, there was no one there at all. The Hall was deserted with an eerie feel of desolation. Finally, after what seemed hours of searching, he heard a noise further ahead of him in the corridor. Running to see who it was, he stopped in shock and horror. Frodo and Sam, bodies burned and blackened almost beyond recognition, were playing at dice in a room crowded with cast-off furnishings and forgotten mathoms. Frodo looked up at him and grinned, the skin melting off his face, while Sam rolled the dice with skeletal fingers. Merry backed away, crying out a refusal to accept what he was seeing. Turning, he ran from the room, not stopping until he heard another sound, this time coming from his father’s study. Opening the door cautiously, hoping against hope that it was his parents, he found Pippin. His cousin turned to face him and revealed a body feathered with arrows, rent by swords, covered in blood.
“No!” Merry shouted, coming suddenly awake. His heart was pounding, pain was stabbing through his head and arm, and he felt sick to his stomach. Scrambling to the railing, he heaved and retched for some minutes before his guts finally settled down. Only a dream, he told himself over and over. Only a dream. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he shakily returned to his blankets and wrapped himself up. It was some time before his heart slowed to normal and he ceased shaking. He continued to sit like that, huddled in his blanket, head nodding but afraid to sleep, until morning.
