Chapter 8

Your Mind is a Greater Prison than any of Stone and Iron

Never, even in his darkest nightmare, had Merry been so terrified. Everything was black, darker than night without a single star. Pain was in every fibre of his body. Aching and screaming agonies filled him so that even thought of moving was impossible. Breathing was challenge enough.

From what he could tell, with the use of his bound hands, he was in a tiny cell. He couldn't have sat up straight even if his muscles had allowed it for the height ceiling would not have and he had to bend his knees to fit in at all. His fingers couldn't even find a crack in the walls that would have indicated a door; though he knew there must be one.

Merry simply lay shivering, crumbled in the same position he had landed in when they had thrown him into this "room." He was becoming claustrophobic and he desperately needed to get out, just to see some light; just to remind himself that there was a world beyond this prison. Damp, stinking air surrounded him and clouded his mind.

Nothing had been left to him. He had been brought into Isengard a few hours back, as the sun was setting blood red in the west. Merry tried desperately to stop the thought that told him it was the last sight of the sun he would ever see. Uglúk had left him with a group of about ten large Uruk-hai and had told them to have their fun with him; without making him useless to "the boss." He had then gone to find Saruman, leaving Merry to endure one of the worst hours of his life so far. His mind shrank away from that memory, though he doubted he would ever truly forget it. Anguish and humiliation hung around it like a raw wound straight through his soul.

Never once, though, did the thought cross his mind that he did not deserve all this pain. He had been the unwanted baggage that had refused to leave the fellowship when all he had ever done was to slow them up time and time again. Only five remained now of that fellowship and even that would not last long. He had watched Boromir die, though he doubted all the reasonable arguments in the world could have stopped the steward's son fighting that day. He hadn't even managed to save either of his cousins from extreme pain. Pippin was dead because he hadn't looked after him as he should and Frodo was on his way to certain death at the summit of Orodruin. His latest offence was to have been the cause of the bloody massacre of Legolas Greenleaf. The elf had left his home and all those he loved for Frodo's sake. He had then left battles and friends to come and rescue him and Pippin. "And how," Merry asked himself, "have I repaid him? By not only failing to escape, but also causing the elf's death when time itself had dared not touched his race. For that he deserved all this pain and all that he was doomed to suffer in the coming hours.

The realisation that only death and agony would find him was not what worried Merry, for he had resigned himself to it long ago and had brought it on himself by his own foolishness. What petrified him; beyond all else, was what could come out of his mouth before death mercifully enveloped him. He would betray everything he loved, a piece at a time, by having everything he knew of the ring and its whereabouts stripped from him. He knew everyone fell to torture in the end and he was sure Saruman was on of those who would never stop the pain until he found the very last scrap of information he wanted.

Even death had lost any sweetness it had once held; in his mind. Once he reached the other side he would have to face Pippin and Legolas; maybe even Frodo and Sam. How would he ever manage to look at any of them again without feeling crushing shame and their deepest loathing? They would hate him, for even the forgiveness of even Elves, of even Frodo, could only stretch so far and would hold no place for a betrayer like him.

However, he was beginning to doubt his beliefs about the afterlife now. He had always believed Bilbo, who said that when someone dies they go to a place the living cannot reach, where every day is like the first day of spring and that no sadness can touch for all eternity. Gandalf too had had a similar theory. Memories floated back unbidden, but inescapable.

ooo flashback ooo

He sat in his bedroom staring at the wall blankly. His mind was numb, frozen in the same shocked state it had been locked in for the past few hours. Silent tears streamed down Merry's face.

He had been called into his father's study earlier that day and had been given the news of his grandfather Rory's death. The two had been very close, almost as much as Bilbo and Frodo. Something in Merry's mischievous, cheerful nature had always appealed to Rory, reminding him of himself in his youth. Merry, in turn, had always looked up to his grandfather as almost a second father figure, considering his own excellent one was always busy with business.

He didn't want to stay in Brandy Hall as the memories his grandfather pushed in on him there. He fled the hall, feeling that he might be able to escape a little of the pain that way, and headed straight to the hobbit who knew him better than any other.

When he arrived at Bag End the sun was just starting to peek over the crest of the hill though not even the earliest risers were showing any sign of stirring yet. He had raised his fist to knock on the bright green door, when it was suddenly flung open and Gandalf had come marching out of it; almost bowling the small hobbit over.

Before Merry had even opened his mouth in exclamation or apology Gandalf noticed his tearstained face and bloodshot eyes. He was ushered into the kitchen where he was made to drink extraordinarily sweet tea by his concerned, bleary eyed cousin. After Frodo had forced at lease three mugs down Merry he had made him sit in an armchair in front of the fire before letting the smaller hobbit even give a reason for his unexpected arrival. Merry loved him for it. Frodo knew he was not the sort to appear in such a state over something unimportant.

When Merry told them of his loss Frodo had wrapped him in his arms and had allowed his younger cousin to cry himself out; asking no questions. Merry knew Frodo was trying to hide his own grief, he and Rory had been close friends, but he had felt moisture on his shoulder.

"They think he had a stroke. He was just there one minute, gone the next. I know there are worse ways to go and that I couldn't hold onto him forever, it's... it's just I didn't think it would end this way." Merry's voice was flat. He was drained and strangely empty. Nothing seemed real.

"The end?" Both hobbits turned to face Gandalf who was smiling sadly. "No, the journey doesn't end here. Death is just another path, one that we all must take. The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back, and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it." The wizard's voice was somehow distant and dreamy as if recalling a pleasant, half forgotten memory from long ago.

"What? Gandalf? See what?" Merry stared hopefully, desperate to hear more. A strange expression came over Frodo's face too like he was trying to remember something long forgotten or dreamed about.

"White shores, and beyond, a far green country under a swift sunrise."

"Well that's not so bad." A nervous grin creased the corners of Merry's lips.

"No it's not" Gandalf gave them one last look then turned and left the hole. He was not seen in the Shire again for many years and when he did return Merry had formed his conspiracy and had posted a spy on Frodo's doorstep, or rather his garden.

ooo flashback end ooo

After that Merry had never been able to grudge his grandfather his passing and the thought that those who died went to the land Gandalf had spoken of was all that had kept him going when Boromir and the wizard had died. It had been his only comfort that at least Pippin and Legolas would find joy and peace in death, but now he wasn't so sure.

The ghostly figure he had seen running to Legolas' body had been Pippin; no two ways about it. He would have known him anywhere, for grief had not made him so incapable of intelligent thought, but it was also certain that Pippin was dead. No-one could have survived those rapids let alone a small, bound hobbit who'd only got wet in the bath; and even then none to regularly.

The thought that Pippin was still held to this pain-ridden earth, still suffering as a direct result of his folly was unbearable, but his brain failed to find any other solution. His little Pippin: a ghost. How could this be true? How could he have caused so much pain, so inadvertently? "I am so sorry, Pip," he would have wept but he had no more tears left to spill. "I would do anything to bring you back, anything to stop your suffering. I would die for you, if it meant you could live. Please believe me Pippin, if you can hear me, I never meant any of this to happen. I never meant to hurt you."

Suddenly, out of nowhere, he heard a voice in his head, "Hold on, Merry, I am coming for you and when I get there with this lot Saruman will wish he had never heard of hobbits or rings. Please don't give in yet."

Merry was shocked beyond words. That voice had been Pippin's but he had never heard it so strong. Maybe he was going mad; he hadn't drunk or eaten for so long he could hardly remember the feel of water in his mouth. He didn't understand what the voice meant and he could not even begin to guess what "this lot" was. He must be losing his grip on reality.

Despite all reasonable objections he couldn't lose his impression that this was not of his own imagination playing a cruel joke on him. Something was in motion and if Pippin's voice was anything to go by he had a plan that he was confident in.

None of it made sense, but as he lay, awaiting torture and hearing the shuffling footsteps of an approaching Orc, he swore by all that he loved and longed for that he would not say anything to Saruman. The roof above him vanished and he shielded his eyes against the sickly light that streamed in. The leering face of an Uruk-hai loomed above him. He wouldn't even scream.