Into Darkness by Avondster

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.