Chapter POV: Merry
Chapter Word Count: 500


Hypothermia
Merry

The sausages stretched into a sleazy smile, the mushrooms two monochromatic eyes gazing blindly up at him from the plate in his hands, and the irony of 'happy grub, happy heart, happy Hobbit' stung Merry's comedic nature with unforgiving force. He wanted to lighten the mood. He wanted to make a joke and show the others the face he was about to devour, or show Pip at the least. But when he nudged his cousin all he received was a disinterested side-glance as the younger Hobbit stared down at his own plate.

Merry wearily cast his thoughts back an hour or two, when his younger cousin's desperate roars broke the calm and pleasant atmosphere of nonchalant chatter and excited cooking, the noise faint yet enough to set Aragorn and Legolas leaping to their feet and out into the snow. It seemed to Merry that only Gandalf had kept calm when the two soon returned with the trailing Pippin, lugging a dazed and stunned Boromir between them- a sight that had the hobbits in a state of fright. 'Orcs!' 'They've found us already?' 'Oh my ol' gaffer told me the world's a dangerous place!'

Though, even the old Istar had raised a grey eyebrow when Pip had tearfully informed them of the true scenario, as the Ranger and the Elf set about stripping the soaked and shivering Gondorian in the background of the hubbub. Gandalf had easily and swiftly put an end to their hysteria with few words, instructing them to gather any materials able to be spared. They'd gathered what they'd been asked of. And some.

Boromir had long since been silent, huddled and shivering in one cave corner, drowsy and naked but for the layers of blankets and warm materials wrapped snugly around him, temple resting against the wall as he stared blankly at the floor. His eyes broke contact with the rock only when Aragorn crouched down beside him and draped another blanket around his upper body, flickering over and blinking lethargically at him as the Ranger patted his shoulder comfortingly, before resuming their sluggish stare. Merry was no healer, but he knew that anything that reduced a mighty warrior such as Boromir to this was bad, very bad. But Isildur's heir had simply sighed at the lack of response, before stepping out of the cave where Gandalf smoked his pipe.

Merry had no doubt that they were discussing their options, whether they should stay until Boromir was well again, or move on quickly despite the man's obvious ailment. They were worried about Wargs, and that was painfully obvious. Not a day before had they come across tracks: a week old but enough to cause concern. They didn't want to risk a confrontation, but they had only two choices: hide, or run. But if they ran, how would they escape sabre-toothed beasts with a man who wasn't well enough to stand on his own two feet?

Merry would be damned if he let them drag Boromir over Caradhras.