Chapter 3
Avenging the Dead
When Merry came round the sun had gone down into a bloody sunset and the Entwash was a thin blue line snaking though the green country far behind them. He was unsurprised to find they were on the move again, he being carried like a bag of unimportant luggage.
His mind was in turmoil. Pippin was dead. He couldn't cope with it. It seemed impossible that all that energy, love and innocence could be consumed by a simple stream. How could Merry have let this happen? He had always been there for Pippin, always looking out for him; except now when it had really mattered. He hadn't managed to save his best friend from a river no different from the Brandywine where he used to swim.
This was all his fault. He had killed his own cousin! Tears he couldn't hold back choked him and pour down his face. He had never really understood what people had meant by the phrase "heartbroken" until now. It felt like his heart was shattering in his chest leaving him an empty shell of raw grief.
"Stop your snivelling!" growled the Orc carrying him. It set him down and freed his limbs. Try as he might Merry couldn't stop the waves of sadness sweeping over him. "Crying like a baby! You're almost as pathetic as your rat friend was! Is all your kind this useless or is it just you two?"
A terrible rage welled up in the hobbit's chest. He could take taunts directed at him, he was numb to them now, but the remarks about Pippin and his people drove fury through his veins.
Quick as lightning he pulled out the dagger from inside his jacket, which had remained hidden and almost forgotten there since his departure from Crickhollow all those months ago. The desire for revenge grabbed him and he launched himself forward onto the shocked Orc with a cry of "For the Shire!"
The creature fell to the ground, a gapping wound at its neck. Merry was on fire now, determined to exterminate every one of the hideous creatures who had caused Pip's death. Uruks twice his size and armed to the teeth, fell before him. His dagger was soon stained with the blood of more than half the band.
Arms caught him and he stabbed upwards. The grasp fell away and he heard Uglúk's cry of agony. He spun around ready to face his next victim but instead slammed face first into the handle of a short sword.
The knife slipped from his blood-soaked hand and he sank to the ground, stars winking before his eyes. Merry couldn't remember a time when his head had been given such harsh treatment as it had in the past few days. He felt thick cords being tied around him, but his body flatly refused to obey the frantic instructions his brain was sending it: to fight back, not to give up. His limp figure was hoisted under an arm of an Orc and the somewhat depleted party continued its journey west, towards the now visible spire of Orthanc.