In His Worst Nightmare
merry
In his worst nightmare he was drowning in fear and darkness. He screwed his eyes shut and curled into a trembling ball of helplessness and waited for death as horses galloped around him, fleeing the Lord of the Nazgûl. He could not suppress a sob as the Nazgûl steed croaked its chilling cry. He rolled over on the trampled grass, keeping his eyes shut, trying to will himself to stand and run away, but his legs were shaking so badly he could hardly kneel. He whimpered and put up both of his hands above his head when he felt the brush of foul wind that the beast's wings beat his way. He cowered, hoping the Nazgûl would think he was dead, wishing he truly was dead. The hideous shrieks sounded so close now and he thrashed madly in the dust, his fingers scrabbling the blood soaked earth as he tried to crawl away. Another screech and another gust of wind as great, featherless wings flapped in the air, and his blood froze, his breath stilled.
Somewhere in his heart a voice called to him, reminding him of his oath to King Theoden. The stiff leather jerkin that he wore, the sword-belt around his waist and the pressure of his scabbard against his thigh reminded him painfully that he was there to fight beside the King, not to grovel like a worm in the mud. But how could he fight when he was so consumed with terror? What could he do against an enemy so terrible and powerful? Hope and courage deserted him entirely and he wept where he lay on the ground.
He could hear the sickening swish as the Nazgûl's mace rent the air, followed by cries of terror and horrible cracking sounds as the weapon connected with any living bodies within its trajectory. He wished with mingled fear and shame that he had stayed in Dunharrow rather than flaunted his stubbornness and useless allegiance to a king who in the end received only his blatant cowardice. Aragorn had made a wise decision in leaving him. Gandalf had been right to take Pippin. Pippin would not have cringed in fear like this. Did he not take his chance in the mist to throw his mallorn-leaf brooch for Aragorn to find? Was he not the one with enough wit about him to cut the rope that bound his hands together, and looped them back "for show"? Was he not the one who boldly came up with the idea of leading Grishnakh into thinking that they had the Ring? Pippin was brave and shrewd. Merry was nothing but a burden that nobody wanted.
In his misery he did not immediately realize that everything about him had become silent. There was only the flapping sound of shredded banners battered by the wind. He raised his head and looked around him with blurred eyes. The looming dark presence of the Nazgûl had disappeared and only the curtains of unnatural shadows were seen in the sunless sky. He crawled slowly to the nearest body near him. It was Theoden.
The gleaming hauberk of the King of the Mark had been torn and his body bore the marks of horrific desecration. A sick feeling rose in Merry's throat and he turned away sobbing, appalled at what his betrayal had caused. He got to his feet and staggered across the silent plain. He found Éomer lying on his side, sightless eyes turned up at him, his body twisted and crumpled like a rag doll. He thought he would faint when he saw Éowyn among the dead, still wearing Dernhelm's armor, a sword lying broken by her side, her fair hair now coated in blood. But then he saw Gandalf, staff smashed and his luminous white garb sullied by yet more blood. He found Aragorn, Legolas and Gimli lying motionless, their faces contorted in an unspeakable torment that not even death could temper. He saw Treebeard, a heap of hacked off, scorched twigs and beard. He saw Elrond and Galadriel and Celeborn and Glorfindel and Haldir and Rumil and Orophin, and though he knew that Elves died not, there was no mistaking the vacant look they all had in their disfigured faces. And he saw Frodo and Sam, or what he was convinced were them; the mace of the Lord of Nazgûl was too mighty a weapon and hobbits disintegrated to pieces at its touch. There were no tears left, no more sob in his throat, when he found Pippin.
He cradled the tousle-haired head in his arms, carefully positioning the battered small body on his lap, his mind blank and numbed. He tried to form words, but he could not even find his voice. In the end he could only whisper Pippin's name.
"Merry?" an answering whisper startled him and he blinked his tears away to see Pippin gazing up at him, his eyes narrowed in pain. "Have you come to bury me?"
"No, Pip," he breathed out an answer. "Of course not, you silly hobbit. I've come to help you."
"Please, Merry," sighed Pippin, closing his eyes. "Please just kill me. It hurts so much…"
He stared at his younger cousin in stunned silence. Pippin opened his eyes once more. "Please, cousin, please," he whispered. "If you love me, please end this"
The suffering in that plea pierced him, reminding him with blinding clarity what had become of his folly. He gazed at the ruin that was Pippin's lithe body and knew that there was only one thing to do.
The cozy house in Crickhollow was small, and even though their rooms were in opposite wings, Pippin could fly to his room in no time. It was Pippin who usually woke him when he started screaming. It was Pippin who held him unquestioningly until the shaking subsided. It was Pippin who silently released him from the tangle of sheets and tucked his blanket snug around him.
"Don't tell anyone," he whispered.
"Never," promised Pippin solemnly.
"Stay here," he said.
"Always," Pippin nodded.
They held each other's hand in the awkward silence.
"Thank you, Pip." It was the only thing he could say. There were others, lots of others, but he had no words for them.
"I told you to lean on me in Minas Tirith, Merry. I never said you should stop doing so. And stop thanking me. You're starting to sound like Frodo."
With a smile he snuggled into his pillow, closing his eyes.
At first he thought he was back in the nightmare, for he saw Pippin lying pale and swathed in bandages on a small makeshift bed. But then he remembered that it was not a nightmare. Because he knew it was Ithilien and everything was all right. Because he knew Pippin's eyes would open any moment now.
There.
And light would kindle and spread in those eyes when they began to focus.
Exactly that way. Like the sun at dawn. As though Merry was the only reason the Sun rose in the morning, the only reason that spring came, the only fountain of joy in Pippin's world.
"Hullo, Pip." The tenderness in his voice was awkward and raw.
"Hullo, Merry. Do you know? I killed a troll."
"Did you now?"
"So we're even now. You killed the Witch-king, I killed a troll."
"That's good, Pip." He was too happy, too relieved to say more.
"Merry?" This was accompanied by a mystified frown.
"Yes, Pip?"
"Aren't you going to say something in the way of …" he deepened his voice a bit to mimic Merry's, "'Really Pip, such a fuss about a simple troll? Tell me, what is a troll compared to a Ringwraith?' Or something equally spiteful?"
He blinked and quirked his eyebrows. "Why would I say that?"
"To get even. I said something like that to you, when we were walking to the Houses of Healing, remember? You were too quiet for a spell, and I got worried, so I said 'That was a neat job, Meriadoc, killing that Ringwraith on wings. But do you really have to have a lass to help you?'" Pippin's smile had a touch of mischievous guilt in it, but it was artlessly charming all the same. Something familiar, something soothing. Pippin was alive. It was almost too much, but he knew he must not cry in front of Pippin, or he would spend his entire lifetime salvaging his dignity.
"Ah, Pippin lad, if I did that, what would that make me? A Took? Do you really think I will stoop that low?" he said with well-feigned nonchalance, fighting to keep a steady rein on his voice. "If I were anywhere as nasty as you were, I'd probably say 'A troll? Well, not bad, Pippin. Although cousin Bilbo might not share my charitable opinion; he did, after all, bag three trolls, a handful of oversized spiders, a few drunken elves and a worm. Still I admit that a single troll is probably better than none, although I think you could do better than that had you not decided to hide underneath your first troll while the others were still locked in battle.'" He shrugged, waving a dismissive hand. "But… of course I am above making those kinds of remarks. Unlike certain people I know, I might add."
Pippin was silent for a disconcertingly long time. Then a wide grin split his narrow face in two. "Oh, Merry," he sighed, his eyes glowing with disarming candor. "It's good to see you again."
Suddenly there were so many things he wanted, needed to say. But finally he decided on a succinct, "Likewise, Pip."
It was his favorite dream, one from which he always woke with a smile.
***