Into Darkness
by Avondster
Part 35
“Merry!”
It was the familiar voice that had brought Merry back from the darkness
within, pulled him away from his frightening dreams. He knew that, as
soon as he opened his eyes, the voice would fade away, so he kept them
firmly closed, determined to dwell in that half-waking world where he
could feel its soothing presence.
“Merry!”
Strangely enough, instead of becoming weaker, as it usually did, the
sound of the voice became stronger. Yet Merry felt himself waking up
slowly.
He did not want to wake up, did not want to open his eyes and once again see no one there…
“Merry, it’s me!”
He opened his eyes.
“It’s Pippin!” The owner of the voice, true enough, was kneeling by his
side, looking down on him with his delightful green Took-eyes. Merry
remembered the song in his dream.
And you will find me there, my friend, there where dreams go when they end.
“I knew you’d find me…” he whispered, his voice thick with tears and hoarse with dust.
“Yes,” said Pippin simply. His eyes were still bereft of their spark,
but instead there was a faraway light in them that Merry had not seen
before. He tried to focus his vision, but when he tried to his head
started spinning again, and he gave up. A rather blurred Pippin was
better than no Pippin at all, and he hardly dared to blink for fear
that his cousin would disappear again. He tried to find Pippin’s hand
with his own, but somehow his hand did not respond.
“Are you going to leave me again?” he croaked.
“No, Merry,” whispered Pippin, leaning even closer. “I’m going to look after you.”
At the reassuring tone in his cousin’s voice, Merry settled down a bit.
His sight cleared somewhat after a while, and he tried to lift his
head, then came to the conclusion that this was a very bad idea. He
groaned and lay back down. “I’m not dead, am I?”
“Heavens, no!” said Pippin, and for a moment a hint of his own humour
came back into his voice. “No, my dear cousin, you are most certainly
not dead.”
“Oh.” Merry contemplated this for a while. “Am I dreaming, then?”
Pippin smiled strangely at him, and it was one of those rare moments
when Merry could see how his features betrayed the ancient Elven
heritage of the Tooks. “Well… yes, and no.”
Now he was beginning to sound like one, too.
“But Pip… Gandalf said that you could never come back to me.”
“Well, how do you know if I have?” countered Pippin. “After all, that
was a pretty hard thump on the head that you received. You could be
delirious, for all you know.”
Merry frowned, then found that this was painful, too. “But how…”
“Does how really matter to you now, Merry? I’m here, aren’t I?”
This was so true that Merry fell silent. He laid his head back and
sighed. Pippin smiled that strange smile again, and it warmed Merry
inside and out.
“That’s better,” said Pippin. “Just rest a bit for a while. You’ll be found soon enough.”
Merry fumbled again, trying to find Pippin’s hand. “Don’t leave me again,” he whispered urgently.
Pippin blinked. “Leave you? You are a daft Hobbit, you are, Merry.
Leave you! I never left you, don’t you know. You only thought I did.
Wasn’t I with you all the time, even though you never saw me? You just
didn’t know where to look.”
Merry opened his mouth again, but Pippin hushed him. “Close your eyes
and rest, Merry. You’ll feel better. I’ll sit with you until you fall
asleep.”
Even as Pippin said these words, Merry felt sleep overcome him, but it
wasn’t the weariness of evil days that brought restless slumber filled
with evil dreams: it was a dream-world of blissful oblivion, one from
which he knew he would emerge rested, and healed. Somewhere Pippin’s
voice was singing soothingly to him. He closed his eyes and drifted off.
“Merry! Oh stars above, let him live…”
Merry was pulled from his dreamless sleep by a well-loved voice, which
sounded very distressed and pained. He opened his eyes. “Boromir!”
The Man of Gondor gasped when he heard the Hobbit speak. “We thought we had lost you…”
Merry pushed himself up on his elbow, and found that his head was
relatively clear. “No, you didn’t lose me.” He looked at his friend and
saw that he was dressed all in black, save for a single embroidered
silver star on his breast. But it was the look in Boromir’s eyes that
told Merry what had happened.
“But I see you’ve lost someone else, someone you loved.”
Boromir sighed. “Yes, indeed I have. But let us speak no more of it now. You are wounded, and we must get you to the City…”
Merry glanced at his left hand. Somehow, somewhen, the arrow had been
pulled out, but he could not remember. What remained was a rather
ugly-looking wound, caked with dirt and dried blood, on skin that was
beginning to turn an unpleasant shade of purplish black.
Boromir looked at it, too. “An Haradrim-arrow, I think,” he said. “They
cause strange wounds like these. Our Healers have seen them before, no
doubt.”
Boromir whistled shrilly, and Merry winced at the rather piercing sound
in his ears. But soon he could see other figures, hastening towards
them. Merry recognised Éomer, Gamling, Aragorn and, to his
surprise, Éowyn.
Aragorn was the first to kneel beside them, gently touching Merry’s
forehead and examining his hand. “Well, Merry, if it is of any comfort
to you, the fever that usually touches the victims of these wounds has
passed you by. However, this wound looks serious, and needs looking
after at once. For now, at least cleaning and bathing.”
“Then we must go to the Houses of Healing,” said Boromir, trying to
lift Merry up, but the Hobbit stopped him with a gesture of his good
hand. “I am not leaving Stybba here for the carrion-fowl to find. He
saved my life today. How is he?” Merry tried to turn around to have a
look at his pony, but found that he was quite immobile right now.
“Do not worry, he is alive,” said Boromir. “In fact, it seems that he
has saved your life twice today, for had I not heard him neigh, I would
not even have found you, covered as you were by your cloak. Wise and
loyal are the steeds of the Rohirrim!”
“Indeed,” said Merry. “But what to do now? He cannot walk, I think, and
I am most certainly not leaving him here alone! He needs a Healer as
much as I do, if not more.”
“He does,” said Éomer, looking at the pony gravely. “Do not
worry, Master Meriadoc. I shall send Gamling to the City to find some
of our folk who are willing and not too weary, to take Stybba to the
City. And he will not be left alone,” he added quickly as Merry opened
his mouth to protest again. “I will stay here, and with me my sister
Éowyn, who as a shieldmaiden of Rohan has some skill in healing
both man and horse. Stybba will be well cared for, I assure you.” He
looked over to his sister, who nodded silently.
“Will you come with us to the City?” asked Boromir, and this time Merry
accepted. He was not weary anymore, but he felt dizzy, and his hand had
almost completely gone numb. He allowed Aragorn to lift him up into his
arms as if he were a small child, and the Ranger put him on his
familiar seat in Grám’s saddle, before Boromir.
Aragorn himself mounted Brego, and together they rode towards Minas
Tirith. Merry could see her lying before them, shimmering orange in the
setting sun. He could see the fresh scars from the battle on her walls,
and in the fields around. The Pelennor was covered in bodies of man and
beast, broken weapons, torn banners hanging askew. Merry saw proud
Rohirrim, noble Gondorians, dark Dúnedain, and many other Men
both fair and foul lying slain beside the Orcs of Mordor. Shivering, he
closed his eyes.
Merry started awake when Grám came to a halt, from a nap he had
not intended to take. All the dizziness had gone from his head, which
was a relief, but now his hand began to sting and ache, and his muscles
and bones protested when he made any move at all.
They stood before the Gates of the City, and Boromir was speaking to a Man with a fair, grave face.
“Mithrandir has retreated to recover his strength,” said the Man. “He
did not wish to stay in the Houses of Healing, as he was merely weary
but not wounded, and so I have given him a house close to the Citadel,
with your leave, Lord Steward.”
Boromir nodded. “And what of my brother and Beregond?”
“They lie in the Houses of Healing still. The lad that waked with them
said he was told to stay there until the Steward would return. I have
let him.”
“That is good,” said Boromir. “I shall return to him soon, as I am
bound for the Houses of Healing now, with a dear friend who is wounded.”
“Then let us tarry no longer!” said the Man, looking at Merry, and he
stepped aside to let them pass. Boromir spurred the horse forward, but
halted when he saw Aragorn hesitate.
“Enter, my Lord,” he said. “And take what is yours by right!”
Aragorn looked up. “No, Boromir, not yet,” he said. “This City and
realm has rested in the charge of the Stewards for many long years. I
ask you to keep it for a little while longer, until it be seen whether
we or Mordor shall prevail.”
“I will do as you wish,” said Boromir. “But I will not have the Heir of
Elendil remain like a beggar at the door. Will you not come with me?”
“Yes, I will come,” replied Aragorn. “But as a captain of the Rangers
only, for now.” And he did off the Star of the North Kingdom and gave
it to the keeping of the sons of Elrond, before he followed Boromir
through the Gates, and so entered Minas Tirith.
Merry winced when the Healer applied the damp cloth to his wound. He
sat on a vacant bed in the Houses of Healing, where Boromir had left
him with the Master of the Houses, and the strong smell of the herbs
his hand was being bathed with made him dizzy again.
Boromir had sat with him for a while, and distracted his attention from
the most painful stage of the treatment by telling the Hobbit of all
that had happened in the time that they had been separated. Merry
himself had said little, and left Aragorn to do the telling of their
part of the tale. He had told no-one of his strange dream on the
battlefield.
He winced again when the medicine stung fiercely, and his right hand
strayed to the scarf in his belt, which as if by a miracle had remained
in place. He stroked the well-worn wool and thought of Pippin. Had it
really been a dream, or had Pippin truly come to look after him until
Boromir came? Merry pondered his cousin’s words.
I never left you, don’t you know. You just didn’t know where to look.
‘Two halves of a whole’, Frodo had laughingly called them on several
occasions, but his eyes had been earnest. Stell had often said that
even when Merry and Pippin were apart, they were still together,
somehow. The members of both their families had made it a tradition to
jokingly ask whenever either of the two appeared on his own: ‘where’s
your shadow?’
Was that what had happened? Were they indeed still together somehow, as
‘two halves of a whole’? Did Pippin leave his shadow behind with Merry?
“There, Master Perian,” said the Healer, and Merry nearly jumped as he
was abruptly shaken out of his reverie by the voice. “I have done all
that I could, and the poison should be gone, though it will leave a
foul-looking scar, I fear. But it will be long ere the full strength of
your hand returns, if indeed it ever does. I release you from my care,
for now, since you are awaited in the Citadel, but I will send Ioreth
to look after you.”
Merry nodded, and slid off the bed. His entire body ached, but he could
walk fine, and his head was clear. By the door Boromir awaited him, and
mounting Grám once again they rode to the Seventh Circle.
However, Boromir was of no mind to go to the Citadel, not yet. The
great hall, that had always been so familiar, now seemed frightening to
him, and he wished to postpone his coming to his father’s seat as long
as possible. The only orders he had so far given as Steward of Minas
Tirith concerned the mending of the City’s hurts from the battle, and
Faramir, who had been taken to his own quarters to be laid there in
honour.
A few houses close by had been made ready for the commanders, and one
of these was for the companions from Rivendell. Aragorn was already
there, smoking a pipe and speaking to Gandalf in a low voice. Grief and
weariness had cast a shadow over the Wizard’s features, but his
greeting of Merry was glad, and when he looked the Hobbit in his eyes
he even smiled, and to the amazement of all Merry returned the smile
hesitantly.
Now Boromir took Merry into the house, for he could see that his friend
was still tired and in pain. At the back of the house two rooms had
been made ready for the Hobbit with the Steward’s direction: one was
furnished with a low table and chairs that had once belonged to the
sons of the Steward when they were children, and in the other a hot
bath was steaming.
“For,” whispered Boromir to Merry, “I have once heard from a reliable
source that the best cure for Hobbit-weariness is a bath, a good meal,
and a soft bed to sleep in. At least tonight, I can provide you with
these.”
Merry swallowed and attempted to thank Boromir, but no words came, and
Boromir needed none. Silently he retreated from the room, and went to
speak with Aragorn and Gandalf.
To his surprise, Merry found that he felt indeed better after his bath.
The pain in his limbs subsided, and he was careful with his bandaged
hand as he dressed in the clothes that lay ready for him: a blue tunic
embroidered with stars, like the one Boromir had worn under his mail,
and a pair of comfortable black trousers.
When he returned to the room, drying his hair, he stopped suddenly beside the bed, staring.
In front of him was a man-high looking glass, and out of it stared a
strange creature back at him with large, astonished eyes in a thin,
hollow face.
Merry had not seen himself for a long time, and he gaped into the
mirror for long moments, not recognising himself at all. His hair was
longer, and he was thinner, and seemed a bit taller as well, but he had
not needed a looking glass to tell him that. What startled him was his
face, so different from how he’d remembered it. It was grave, grim
even, and the blue eyes were large and deep and had the melancholic
sadness of one who has seen too many grievous things. His cheeks were
pale and thin. He scared himself. The way he looked his own family
would not even recognise him! Well, perhaps Frodo would. And Stell.
He looked into his own eyes, and tried hard to remember their faces,
and the Shire, but no memory would come to him, not now, while he
couldn’t even recall how he had looked himself. It all seemed like a
tale someone had once told him, long ago.
One face, however, was fresh and clear in his mind: Pippin’s. And that
was enough for him, for now. With a loving gesture he picked up the
scarf, and secured it once again in his belt. His good hand stroked the
familiar patterns of the wool, then he got up and exited the room to
join the others.