by: Vema
I touched Merry's forehead lightly, the chill of his skin against my fingers making me shiver. He should not be unconscious, should he? He wasn't until we'd brought him here, and he wasn't wounded in the battle. There was no bruise or cut on him, no truly visible sign of harm. His right arm looked grayish and pale to my eyes, the skin there was even colder than the rest of him.
"Merry, darling," I said quietly. Gandalf had said he could hear us still, but maybe he was only saying that for my own good. "You need to wake up. There's food here, Merry, and ale, enough for us to have as many lunches and teas and dinners and desserts as we want."
I took both his hands, squeezing them gently and wishing they would exert pressure back. Those hands were the same that had helped me steal strawberries from one of the ladies gardens outside Brandy Hall when I was 25, still rash and young. Merry was just coming of age then. I felt my eyes stinging as the memory of his laughter that day filled my brain.
Only three years ago, and yet it seemed a lifetime of hardship away from us. Where had my youth gone?
We had gotten nearly a whole basket of them, and when we had run off to the bushes giggling like mad, we'd eaten the whole basketful over the course of the day and washed them down with mead. Oh, how I wished for that day back.
His skin seemed too smooth, almost unnatural. He just kept getting colder and colder, no matter how many blankets we piled onto him, or how we tried to heat the room. I did not know what magic it was that made my dearest friend lay so still, so deathly in his sleep, nor what could wrench him back from its grasp.
I had thought I was the one going into danger; I was riding with Gandalf to Minas Tirith, the heart of the battle. I'd thought Merry would be safe, safe in the arms of Rohan and the King of the Mark. But nothing was how it seemed anymore, and nothing could keep him from this fate, whatever it may be.
"Come back, Merry, please…" When only one strawberry had been left that evening in Buckland, we had fought over it. He had tackled me, eyes shining, and we had wrestled like barbarians until it didn't matter and the final berry was crushed between us and we'd kept on moving and laughing and tickling just because. Then he'd playful tasted it off of my neck and I'd had to jump up and run for fear that he'd see what he'd done to me, how my body had finally let my secret out.
It's all going dark again, and my arm is so cold…
I took his right arm and chafed it, trying to force some of my warmth inside it. "If you wake up, dearest Meriadoc, I'll bring you roast chicken with mushroom and cream sauce. It's your favorite." If I just kept rubbing… "I'm worried, Merry. I'm so worried, about this war and about Faramir and Eowyn. I am frightened of losing them, and I am frightened I will never see Frodo or Sam again. And I'm so worried…"
But no heat stayed. The high temperature generated by the friction did not last for more than two seconds before his skin felt cold again, too cold. It should feel hot and hard, and forever it should smell of sweet and fruit.
"Oh, Merry, I *am* worried that…that…" I paused in my ministrations, reaching to cup his face, which was blessedly warmer than this arm had been. Even in this death-sleep, he was beautiful, his features serene and soft. My hands ran through his hair; it was soft and springy, more lively than his state allowed. "I'm worried you'll never wake up and you'll never know…"
Are you going to bury me?
My tears fell on his eyes as I hovered over him, my fingers tracing lightly over his features, lingering on his pale lips. "Why did I never tell you? Why did I stay my tongue and risk this?"
There was no answer as I bowed my head, sobs wracking my body, the droplets falling from my eyes now soaking into the coverlet above him. Before I could stop myself, I had crawled onto the bed next to him, using my arm and leg to hug the heavily clothed figure as tightly against me as I dared.
"Don't leave me here, Merry." My voice sounded far away as I held him closely, my face buried in his soft curls. They still smelled of leaves and rain, and innocence past. "I'll let you have the last strawberry this time, I promise…"
~end