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200 steps so far. 200, leading into an unending spiral of absolute dark.
Merrill had never fully appreciated what it meant to be in absolute dark, as she had never once, in her nearly 23 years of life, experienced it. She had been surrounded from birth by all sorts of light; T.V.s, cell phones, computers, candles, tablets, street lights, car lights, book lights, flashlights. Never once had she been left alone in the absolute dark, not even at night when she slept, for a friendly street light competed with the moon and peeked in around the edges of her curtains, and, in the morning, the sun took their place. But this… this was dark on another level. This was matter—rock—that had never once seen daylight; not even starlight had ever entered here. No. It was Dark—dark as the beginning of the world, Merrill imagined. Dark in a primordial sense, when her ancestors sat, motionless and watchful within their caves, clutching tight to rocks and sticks until the dawn, for they knew what Merrill was just learning; there was something out there, just beyond the circle of their fires, that watched, that waited, that hungered.
Merrill took another step, and another, trying to focus on the burn of her calf muscles rather than the fear that clutched her heart. If she could only remain focused on her physical discomfort, she could avoid truly considering the terror clouding her mind, and maybe, just maybe, she would make it out of this mess with a pulse. Maybe.
The leather of her armor was still wet and sat heavy against her chest, the edges of the collar scraping across the chill skin of her throat, chafing uncomfortably, and her wet socks squeaked against the inside of her soaking boots until irritation at the repetitive noise momentarily overcame her fear.
Merrill glanced away from her feet, peering around her. The others were silent as the grave, their muffled footsteps and labored breathing the only living noises she could identify.
Gandalf's staff caused hazy, indefinite shadows to spring across the floor, flickering jerkily upon the walls to either side of them, and Merrill, wound tight with fear, startled whenever she surfaced long enough from her preoccupation to notice, body visibly tensing.
When it happened again, Merrill cleared her throat and squeaked, "How long is this going to take?"
"Shh!" Several of the others hissed, the echoes sounding like the whispers of vengeful ghosts.
Merrill shut her mouth and tried very hard to stay quiet. She busied her fingers with the strap of her bag, fluttered them over the edges of Radhrion's tunic, and cracked her knuckles until she was sure she'd never be able to unbend them again, but still the looming feeling of the dark filled her.
But before she could attempt to speak again, Pippin chimed, "I'm hungry."
"Shhhh!"
Pippin visibly recoiled from the sound, shrinking against Merry's side.
An exhalation of breath drifted back to her, and then Gandalf whispered, "It has been ages since last I walked these halls, and I'm afraid that I was not given the opportunity of exploring as much as I would wish then. However, I believe it will take four long marches until we reach the Dimrill Dale, supposing we keep to the main path and do not lose ourselves in the dark."
Merrill's lips parted to speak, but Radhrion squeezed her hand and shook his head.
"As for you, Peregrin Took, we shall take some rest when we reach the top of these stairs. You may eat then. Now, be silent."
Merrill folded her lips closed and clenched her fists until her fingernails dug into the soft flesh of her palms, which were slick with sweat, doing her utmost to ignore the slimy feeling of the dark against her skin.
Finally, they crested the last stair, Gandalf's staff brightening to fill the area. They stood before a single, arched door, its path just as dark and unknowable as the rest of the mines they'd seen.
Gandalf gestured that they should rest and Pippin threw himself to the ground, eagerly rooting through his pack without another word, while Merrill shadowed Radhrion to stand with Gandalf and Aragorn.
"Will the Hobbits be able to maintain this pace?"
Radhrion smiled faintly at Boromir's whispered question, and replied, "I should be more concerned with how we Elves and Humans will fare before I doubted the hardy stubbornness of Hobbits. They will be able to march for several hours more, Boromir, never fear on that account. Their spirits, however…"
Aragorn rubbed one of his wrists, wincing slightly, and Merrill's eyes narrowed. "There is nothing to be done for their spirits at the present, or, for that matter, ours. There is an evil here that chills the bones."
Legolas nodded, eyes scanning the area, his bow strung and ready, saying nothing, but Merrill, her Elvish eyesight growing accustomed to the murk, saw that his hands trembled.
"I quite agree, Radhrion. We will march until we are weary, and we will keep our rests short." Gandalf wrapped his cloak tighter about himself and murmured, "I do not think it wise to tarry."
Just then a hot blast of wind came through the door ahead, tearing down the passage behind them emitting a foul groaning that set them shuddering. The company stood in strict silence for a solid three minutes after it had passed, Merrill releasing the breath she hadn't realized she'd held only when the world began to spin.
Gandalf's lips thinned, and his deep-set eyes drew deeper into shadow. "Take some rest and food while you may. I certainly intend to do so."
Boromir took Gandalf's advice, moving away to sit beside the Hobbits, and Radhrion urged Merrill to sit, offering her a piece of Lembas from his pack.
It was dry in her mouth, but she chewed methodically; trapped, here, in this place, it was unlikely they'd find anything else to eat, and that thought scared her. After only a few bites more, she returned it to Radhrion and leaned against him heavily, eyes wide open against the dark.
Aragorn took a seat beside her, sipping carefully from his waterskin before offering it to Legolas. "Drink sparingly," he whispered to the others. "It is some forty miles to the Dimrill Dale and fresh water, and I do not think it wise to consume anything we might find here."
Pippin, who had been drinking deeply, slowly let his waterskin fall from his lips, his eyes wide as he considered this new way of dying.
The increasingly familiar brush of warmth against her mind told Merrill Legolas was checking on her; no words were exchanged, as they were not touching, but it was enough. It was reassuring, a reminder of continued existence, and Merrill returned it without a second thought.
Aragorn shifted, gingerly settling his left hand atop his knee, and Merrill noticed the tension around his mouth and eyes that suggested pain.
With an alacrity that surprised her, she sprung up and scrambled through her bag, cold fingers pushing her healing kit aside to get at the bandages she kept in the lower compartment. There were only a few left, and this gave Merrill pause; should others of the company sustain any wounds in the coming days, she would have nothing to offer them but her germy, bacteria-ridden tunic. Either way, he needs healing. Worry about this later. Growling at herself, Merrill snatched up a bandage and picked her way back to Aragorn, who merely raised a brow in query when she came to a stop before him, hands on her hips.
Merrill gestured at his hand. "Let me take a look at that."
Aragorn eased away, shaking his head. "There is no need, Merrill. I am well enough."
She sat before him, pulling his hand into her lap against his protests. "Well enough isn't well, though, is it? And Nestadis always says that a healing put off today means trouble tomorrow. I don't know about you," Merrill continued, pushing his sleeve up and hissing in sympathy at the blue-green bruise splashed across his wrist, "but I'd rather stick my tongue in a wasp's nest than go against Nestadis." She turned his hand over, noting the angry, red welts stretching up to the crease of his elbow; though unsettling in themselves, she was at least thankful the bone was sound. Merrill twisted and rummaged through her pack until she'd found the alcohol Nestadis had packed especially for cleaning wounds. "How'd you get these?"
Aragorn shrugged his good shoulder. "The creature in the lake was loathe to release his quarry." His eyes caught Gandalf's light, sparking like pyrite as he glanced meaningfully at the Hobbits, all of whom were gathered close together with a still sodden Frodo tucked safely at their center. "They are a remarkable people. Light-hearted, often silly beyond reason, but with a courage that puts many men I have known to shame." He winced as the alcohol touched his skin, but no sound escaped him.
Merrill took a rag from her pack and dabbed at his wrist, wiping any dirt she found away while apologizing under her breath for the pain. When his wrist had dried, she slathered it in a healing balm, the delicate scent of calendula and lavender tickling her sensitive nose and reminding her of Nestadis and the Halls of Healing. Now she knew the dark was getting to her; she was thinking, with aching fondness, of the many bed pans she'd changed under Nestadis's watchful eyes. Even the drains she had placed and removed brought forth a nostalgic sniffle; she hadn't realized just how safe she had been in Rivendell until she had left it.
Merrill, a part of her mind still walking the Halls, wound the bandage around Aragorn's wrist and halfway up his arm, having him test his grip and movement and adjusting accordingly until both were satisfied. When she stood to go Aragorn's low voice stopped her. "Thank you, Merrill."
The smile she'd lost in remembrance returned at the use of her name; it really was the simplest, smallest things that kept the dark at bay. "Don't mention it."
Fifteen minutes later, and they were marching again, entering the empty doorway and walking head-on into the strangely humid air, and Merrill's gladness at having been recognized by Aragorn as being helpful slipped away, cold reality taking its place.
Frodo walked just behind Gandalf, his sword drawn, and Gimli just before him, his hand on his axe. The others, too, had their weapons at the ready, and the mood was grave.
At one point, the stone quite literally crumbled beneath Gimli's boots, and they were all forced to leap across a pitch black chasm, the echoes of the shattered rock bouncing off the walls as it fell straining their already taut nerves even further.
In the end, Merrill and Pippin took the longest to convince, and only after Radhrion promised to catch her did she shut her eyes and jump, landing squarely in his arms. Pippin jumped upon realizing he was stranded, alone, in the darkest dark he'd ever known and nearly fell to his death, but Boromir managed to snatch him out of the air and pull him to safety.
But not even then did Gandalf allow them a chance to rest; he insisted they push on, and so they did, marching until Merrill was half convinced her feet had been worn away into two, bloody stumps. Hours and hours passed, or perhaps only minutes (one couldn't be certain without a watch (or the sun) to reference) and Merrill began to hyper-focus on every sound and shift that reached her sensitive ears.
In the distance, the pat, pat, pat of water dripping on stone, and the eerie, occasional, deep thrums of sound as of something falling far, far below itched at her spine until she thought she would scream; it was too dark, there were too many unknowns, and the closeness of the air slid uncomfortably along her exposed skin.
With the ban on talking, Merrill was left, for quite possibly the first time since falling into Middle Earth, in silence. There was no speaking—no searching for distraction through the others. For the first time, she had to face herself, and her fears, fully.
She fought off the melancholic introspection for as long as she could, but, after a while of marching in the groaning, murky dark, even introspection began to look attractive, and she allowed it to come.
Her thoughts flew to her previous life like a horse bolting through an open gate. It was a life she had subconsciously refused to think about, or speak of, since her arrival, for fear of the pain that it would occasion.
She had, after much thought, decided to go for her Master's in Education. Merrill had always admired her mother's lifestyle and profession, idealized her as she sat on Saturday mornings at her desk at the window grading papers, and figured she could hardly do any better.
Some of Merrill's fondest memories came from the various classrooms from which her mother taught the great Literature. After her father left, Merrill spent her free time waiting for her mother's classes to end, eating Indian takeout in the teacher's lounge with the other professors, or, later, when she'd grown well and truly bored, sitting in on other classes.
Her mother's coworkers became like a second family to Merrill; they brought her little gifts, watched her while her mother worked, fed her, read to her, or let her play on their laptops. Their kindness, and her constant presence, even lead to the entirety of the academic and administrative staff of her mother's work greeting her with, "Meatball!" whenever, and wherever, they saw her, including at the movies, in the grocery store, and in the restaurant Merrill had, unfortunately, chosen for her first ever real date, simply because of how often her mother called her Polpetto in their presence.
At the tender age of eight, Merrill listened to her mother expound upon the works of Charlotte Bronte, highlight the various themes of Austen, and rail against Rand. And afterwards, while the students were packing up for the night, Laura Mabray would take Merrill's small hand in her own and they would head home. Some nights, at least once a week while she was growing up, her mother took her to a local ice cream shop, where they'd share a Butter-Brickle Nut Crunch with extra whip cream and cherries on top, discussing, when Merrill was younger, how much better ice cream was in a cone, and, when Merrill was older, everything and nothing all at once. It was always their little secret, these decadent trips, but Merrill never knew from whom; it didn't matter, really, because it made her feel like the luckiest, most special kid in the world.
Those nights were some of the best of her childhood, especially after her father disappeared, and thinking of them, now, made her chest ache. Merrill wondered if her mother had given up searching for her, yet, and how much time had passed back on earth, and then she wondered how Anne was, and if even she had given up hope of seeing her again. And then the thought of her sweet Grandma Bee, alone since her husband's death, waiting for the weekly phone call with her granddaughter that would never come.
Merrill sniffed and rubbed her eyes off on her sleeve, her heart heavy within her chest. A part of her was beginning to accept the thought she had so far stridently refused to even contemplate; it whispered its truth to her in the long, cold dark, and Merrill crumpled beneath it. She would never see her home again.
A/N: 10/1/20
Hahaha... ha...
*clears throat* *glances around sheepishly*
Soooooo it's been nearly a year since I updated, and since then, the world has spiraled further into insanity. Oye. Hope you are all staying safe and masking it up!
As for "Nightingale," I can't promise that updates will return to anything like regularity anytime soon, but I'll do my best. :)
Thanks so much to all of you who have stuck around this long. I don't deserve you lol. And I am so grateful for your lovely reviews; they definitely gave me the kick in the pants I needed to update again after so long, so keep it up, please!
**Side note** If you are old enough, please get out there and VOTE this November! There are many resources online if you are confused about the process and how COVID has changed things. I personally recommend Stephen Colbert's youtube channel. He has a series of videos explaining the voting process in each state.
Until next time,
Stay safe!
Catali7~
