Master Meriadoc
Merry was thoroughly miserable. He was stuck in Minas Tirith with nothing to do but fight away images his spiteful psyche kept throwing up of Pippin lying torn and twisted at the foot of some grotesque fiend of the enemy. Or mutilated beyond recognition with terrifying Orcs looming over him. Or kept alive, but being tortured by the sadistic enemy. Or….
Stop it!
He clutched his head with both hands so quickly and violently that he scratched his scalp and forehead and pulled out several curls. Tiny rivulets of blood trickled down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the images, but the seemed to have been imprinted on his brain.
Stop it! Stop it!
He stood up in one motion. Wringing his hands he paced quickly to the window, which looked out to the West where everywhere was safe and comfortable. For now.
Merry stared out of the window, and almost felt like he could see across the vast distance to the Shire…
The scents and sights and the touch of home hit him full in the face and it overwhelmed him. He breathed in deep and caught the smells of grasses and flowers and freshly baked bread and the scent of his mother from when he was a hobbit child clinging to her skirts as she gossiped with her friends. The smell of his fathers' pipe, and then the whiff of Old Toby as he smoked it with his cousins. Frodo. And Pippin.
Images flashed fast and vibrant. Merry and Pippin as young lads messing about in fields. Pilfering mushrooms from framer Maggot. Chasing squirrels before they knew better. Climbing trees. Splashing through streams and shallow brooks. Grazing knees. Growing older and still stealing vegetables. Going to pubs and getting tipsy. Smoking pipes together after dinner. Smiling. Laughing.
Stop it stop is stop it!
Merry felt the tears on his cheeks before he actually registered that he was crying. What if Pippin never returns? His mind asked him cruelly. Stop it. Who will you have then? Stop It! You'll be all alone. STOP IT!
Merry sobbed aloud and brought his tightly clenched fist down hard on the window sill. A dull pain spread from the point of impact, but Merry did not notice.
"Pippin," he gasped, "Oh Pip…"
He sank to his knees and trembled from curly head to curly toe. His body was racked with silent screams and his malicious and taunting brain sent him more sights of Pippin dead or dying. He let them into the forefront of his mind, giving up the fruitless battle of willpower. He was too weak with grief to fight himself anymore and shivered, the same feeling as the Black Breath washing over his limbs once more.
Pippin shivered restlessly in his deep sleep.
Merry was thoroughly miserable. He was stuck in Minas Tirith with nothing to do but fight away images his spiteful psyche kept throwing up of Pippin lying torn and twisted at the foot of some grotesque fiend of the enemy. Or mutilated beyond recognition with terrifying Orcs looming over him. Or kept alive, but being tortured by the sadistic enemy. Or….
Stop it!
He clutched his head with both hands so quickly and violently that he scratched his scalp and forehead and pulled out several curls. Tiny rivulets of blood trickled down his face. He squeezed his eyes shut to block out the images, but the seemed to have been imprinted on his brain.
Stop it! Stop it!
He stood up in one motion. Wringing his hands he paced quickly to the window, which looked out to the West where everywhere was safe and comfortable. For now.
Merry stared out of the window, and almost felt like he could see across the vast distance to the Shire…
The scents and sights and the touch of home hit him full in the face and it overwhelmed him. He breathed in deep and caught the smells of grasses and flowers and freshly baked bread and the scent of his mother from when he was a hobbit child clinging to her skirts as she gossiped with her friends. The smell of his fathers' pipe, and then the whiff of Old Toby as he smoked it with his cousins. Frodo. And Pippin.
Images flashed fast and vibrant. Merry and Pippin as young lads messing about in fields. Pilfering mushrooms from framer Maggot. Chasing squirrels before they knew better. Climbing trees. Splashing through streams and shallow brooks. Grazing knees. Growing older and still stealing vegetables. Going to pubs and getting tipsy. Smoking pipes together after dinner. Smiling. Laughing.
Stop it stop is stop it!
Merry felt the tears on his cheeks before he actually registered that he was crying. What if Pippin never returns? His mind asked him cruelly. Stop it. Who will you have then? Stop It! You'll be all alone. STOP IT!
Merry sobbed aloud and brought his tightly clenched fist down hard on the window sill. A dull pain spread from the point of impact, but Merry did not notice.
"Pippin," he gasped, "Oh Pip…"
He sank to his knees and trembled from curly head to curly toe. His body was racked with silent screams and his malicious and taunting brain sent him more sights of Pippin dead or dying. He let them into the forefront of his mind, giving up the fruitless battle of willpower. He was too weak with grief to fight himself anymore and shivered, the same feeling as the Black Breath washing over his limbs once more.
Pippin shivered restlessly in his deep sleep.