Merry had been to the town of Bree several times before. As a young lad, he had often accompanied his father, the Master of Buckland, on much of his business travels, eager to see the world beyond Buckland. Of course, though he did enjoy seeing other parts of the Shire as well as the lands beyond the borders, he still felt there was no place like home.
Home. He wondered if he would ever see it again, and if he did, when.
Merry paused, looking towards the steep hobbit holes that made up a portion of Bree. It could almost be reminiscent of home, though Bree was different somehow: not so much in its appearance, but in its feel, its atmosphere. Had it always seemed like this? Perhaps. It was only natural that different lands evoked different feels, was it not?
Resuming his pace, Merry gazed up towards the stars that twinkled brightly in the dark abyss of the night skies. He wondered if the familiar night sky hung in the same manner here as it did the rest of Middle Earth. Did the stars twinkle in Mordor? Were there stars at all?
Mordor.
He swallowed.
He must not think of that just yet. Not out here. Not in the dead of night.
Merry began to walk faster, soon finding himself back where he started: at the Prancing Pony, just beyond the ring of light emitted by a glowing lamp.
Mordor.
He shivered, pulling his cloak closer about him. Turning, he made to go inside, but stopped, a slight movement in the near distance catching his eye, a faint shadow, slipping further into the darkness.
Something was there…
Inside…he should go inside…back in…
But what was that? He wanted to know. He wanted to find it.
Inside… Go inside…
No.
Slowly, he began to walk towards where the shadowy figure had appeared, eyes strained, for he could no longer see it. Merry did not know why he was following… he knew he should get as far away from it as he could, but yet, he was inexplicably drawn to it; he could not pull away.
A gust of chilling wind swept through the night, and Merry drew his cloak closer still. But his cloak could not keep out the growing cold that had begun to seep through his clothes, through his flesh, a cold that was growing within his very heart.
He could barely see. The darkness seemed to envelope him, the cold, smother him.
Go…
He flinched, feeling his face coming into contact with thin, spindly branches.
He could hear ill voices, bone chilling voices, voices hissing with anger, hatred, vengeance.
Merry trembled violently, drawing in a shuddery breath.
He had to get out of here…He could not go further…
It was so cold. So very cold. He could not breathe. He could not move.
Go now…
He had to go. He had to get away. It would get him…It was going to get him…It was coming…
GO NOW…
As if he had been struck, Merry staggered, trying to pull away, falling roughly onto his knees.
GONOWITSCOMINGONOWGONOWGONOW
He turned…
And facing it, he knew no more.
To be continued.
Author's Note: I've changed the title from "Black Breath" to "At the Prancing Pony" as I plan to do a wee bit more to it than I had originally planned.