Merry watched with wet eyes as the ship with Frodo, Gandalf, Bilbo, Galadriel, and Celeborn departed into the west. Tears trickled down his face. "Oh Frodo," Merry whispered, kicking the ground a little.
He held onto his right arm. It was sore, even though it was two years after he had been wounded. The hobbit rubbed his arm and then tugged his Lorien cloak around him a little tighter.
Even though it was only September, it was getting cold and snow clouds were forming. His eyes drift upwards as the first few flakes fell. Merry blinked and shook his head to get the flakes out of his hair. He gave a heavy sigh when he looked back at the sea. Frodo's ship was no where in site any more.
Merry nodded good-bye to Sam and then trudged up the lightly, snow-covered hill where his awaiting pony – Shasta - was. Slowly Merry mounted. The hobbit stared around at the snow as it fell faster and the wind picked up. The halfling wrapped his cloak tightly around him. The elven cloak did not help keep the cold and wind from nipping at him and soon, he was soaked and cold to the bone.
Merry sneezed greatly and wiped his nose on his cloak as he started for Brandyhall. Just what I need, a cold, he thought, flicking his reins and heading home. When Merry got home it was evening.
Hurriedly he undressed out of his wet clothing and into war and dry ones so that he would not get any sicker. Then the Master of Buckland went to the dining room where there was cream of broccoli soup with crusty bread and hot tea. He sat at and ate his share and when he was done, Merry went to his library so that he could read. The hobbit grabbed a favorite book of his and sat down in his favorite, and most comfortable, chair. He began to read it, but soon fell sound asleep.
A fever started to brew and a watery sound echoed from his chest with each breath that he took. Merry woke hours later. The sun had dipped well into West and the only light that lit his room was the full moon; his fire had even burnt out. He would have slept there all night in that char if a horrible coughing fit had not jarred him awake. He leaned against the chair, depleted of all energy. He tried to draw air in, but it was near impossible. His lungs felt like they were on fire and as if someone had bound his chest – restricting his muscles. Merry's whole body ached and he felt as if someone had decided to set him on fire he was so hot. Yet, at the same time he was cold and he shivered because of it.
Merry blinked and tried to get his bearings. By the time he had another coughing fit come over him. He tried to hold it in, but Merry could not. His body was wracked with these horrible coughs that made every lick of air in his inflamed lungs leave and when he tried desperately to retrieve some of the precious air, it only made it worse. The convulsions lasted longer then the first one had and left him feeling worse then before. Merry closed his eyes and breathed in slowly. The air felt so good coming into his scorched lungs, though when it he breathed out, it was torture. His whole body - lungs and all - screamed out in pain and protest with each exhale. Why did this have to be so painful, Merry wondered. He did not know that this was just the beginning.