They're not mine. They belong only to the Lord of Middle Earth, JRR Tolkien. Please read and review.
As dusk faded to night, Merry awoke and rolled his head restlessly against the pillow. The cool of the sheets against his face gave him faint realization that his skin was aflame with fever, and he was shivering a bit, but he couldn't bring himself to care. He burrowed further into the womb of down blankets, pulling his knees toward his chest and sinking his cheek into the softness of the pillow. The weight of the blankets was delicious after so many bleak, damp nights of sleeping under the sky. Following his long sleep, he decided, he would dine on hot soups and teas and stews and steamed puddings. And now, he told himself, he would never be cold and miserable again.
But his fingers…they were like icicles despite his fever and the toasty cocoon he had created in the bed. He tucked his hand into his armpit, trying to drive out the chill. Yet even as he did so, the cold seemed to be creeping through his arm. Frigid pins and needles slipped up his shoulders to the back of his neck and into his chest, constricting around his heart. His breath grew ragged as if he had plunged into wintry water. He tossed onto his other side, trying to curl tighter into himself. The ice climbed up his neck and slid around his brain. With a cry of frustration, he flung his quilts away and sat bolt up.
His roughhewn bedstead and linens had disappeared. He wasn't within the Houses of Healing at all. He was laying in a pit of mud, vomit, blood, bits of bodies…the detritus of war. He pushed himself to his feet with great effort, and reached up to wipe a trail of slime from his face with the back of his arm. As he stood there in the stench of the killing field, the sudden remembrance of the battle crashed into his brain. "The King!" he choked, whirling to scan the myriad bodies laid low in the dirt. His eyes fell upon the bloodied bulk of Snowmane. The stallion's great limbs were twisted and broken. His white coat was stained with his blood and with the blood of his lord. And there, dwarfed by the carcass of his horse, lay the body of the king.
To Merry, Theoden seemed strangely diminished in death. His cheeks had sunken in, framing his teeth in a grim mask of death. Blood was clotting upon his brow, and flies had already gathered to feed. But from that broken visage came a whisper of breath. "Farewell, Master Holbytl…"
And as the king spoke his last, an immense mace thundered down upon his helm, sending bits of metal and bone flying. Merry stumbled backward, slipping in a puddle of gore and crashing to the earth, feeling blood splash onto his face. Above him stood the Witch King. His mammoth black robes were shredded and covered with filth, but his form was tall and straight. For now it seemed that Eowyn's blow had gone amiss, and this creature, spawned of shadow, lived still. Merry scrambled over the savaged corpse of the king, crying out loud as the cold, murderous gaze of the Lord of the Nazgul fell upon him.
"Halfling." The voice was like the hiss of a thousand serpents, a sound that Merry knew would echo in his mind until his last moment. At the Witch King's feet lay the body of Eowyn, her shattered shield about her like petals of funeral flowers, her eyes open and sightless, sad even in death. The Witch King's armored foot was upon her neck, the sharp edges sending rivulets of blood to pool in the hollow of her throat. "You dared strike the Lord of the Nazgul, Captain of Sauron, King of Angmar. And now you shall see what becomes of those who defy the darkness."
The creature stepped over Eowyn's body and towered over Merry, who cowered, terror strangling his breath and dimming his sight. As the tip of a cold blade stung under his chin, a blur of images sparked across his mind.
The Brandywine River, all asparkle at the end of the day, with Brandy Hall lit up in the distance. The windows at Buckland that glowed welcome, portending a hot meal and a welcome of Hobbit hospitality. The warm entrance halls where one could shake the rain from their cloak and the chill from their bones. The kitchen where one could gather with friends and eat the evening away, smoking fine pipeweed, telling stories and basking in the love of family.
And as steel sliced Merry's flesh, tearing his throat open, drowning him in his own blood, all fear left him. All he could feel was the comfort of the hall, the love of his friends, and the soothing knowledge that home and hearth awaited him, if only he had the strength to live and struggle for his beloved Shire. And as a smile tugged his mouth, all fell into shadow.
A soft mattress yielded beneath his body. Merry struggled to sit upright, but as he put weight upon his right arm, it collapsed beneath him and he knocked his skull against the headboard of the bed. The memory of the dream was still strobing in his brain, and his head pounded in rhythm with his hammering heartbeat. He could feel the compulsion of impending tears pressing at the backs of his eyes. He growled low in his throat, forcing back the sob, allowing his frustration to erupt. The room was dreadfully dark. The moon was only occasionally showing herself from behind huge storm clouds. Every minute or so the clouds, streaked blood red, shone with lightning, and the rumble of thunder across the plains made Merry quiver slightly. He rolled his left shoulder underneath him, wincing as his other arm flopped like a lifeless fish against his stomach. He strained with all his might and managed to raise himself into a seated position. He allowed himself a short moment's rest, puffing from the exertion of merely sitting up. The throbbing in his head increased in volume, a tide crashing against a rocky shore. He took a deep breath and swung his legs over the side of the bed, stretching his feet toward the floor. But this was a bed built for a man, and he lost his purchase on the mattress, plummeting from the edge of the bed onto the stone floor. He landed on his hands and knees, but his arms, unable to hold his own weight, collapsed beneath him and he smashed chin first onto the roughhewn rock. A spurt of pain and blood shot through his mouth as he bit down on his tongue. He spat, ignoring the dribble of spittle and grume that snaked down his chin.
Nausea rolled over him, setting his stomach heaving. He curled his knees against his chest and rested his cheek against the cool floor, willing himself to be completely still, praying that the desperate pangs inside him should subside. He partially hoped that someone had heard his fall, and would come to rescue him. The other part of him, his prideful self, prayed that none had been awakened. He retched once, then violently brought up a scalding stomach-full of blood. A rasping cry issued from his lips, a mewl of fear, weariness and horror at his own helplessness. He sputtered out another mouthful of blood, terrified of choking and being found in such an ignominious position, legs askew at crazy angles and his arms slung wide into a pool of his own vomit. A tear escaped his eye and crossed the bridge of his nose, tickling the skin, before dropping silently to the soiled floor. "So this is how it is," he thought to himself. "My life gone, like piss in an alley."
As he despaired of ever recovering his feet or his dignity, through the crack beneath the door to the bedchamber he saw the light of an approaching candle. Energized anew to keep his pride intact, Merry struggled to get to his feet, but his shaky legs would not hold him. He sank back to the floor, willing with all his might that the bearer of the light should pass beyond his room, but to no avail. The door creaked slowly open and Gandalf entered, preceded by his beard. He stared at the ruffled, empty bed, a look of puzzlement on his wizened face. Merry lifted his head and gave a little whimper, sending a froth of gore spilling from his mouth. Gandalf started, then set the candle hastily upon the bed table. He hurried to Merry's side and, ignoring the spatter of blood and bile, lifted the hobbit into his lanky arms. Merry, despite his humiliation, wearily laid his head against Gandalf's shoulder, relieved at being rescued.
He sighed mightily as Gandalf reinstalled him in the bed. "I'm so sorry, Gandalf," he croaked miserably, trying to ignore the streaks of bloody vomit on his nightshirt. "I'm so very sorry."
"Nonsense," replied Gandalf gruffly. "There's naught to be sorry for, lad." With surprising gentleness, he deftly stripped Merry of his soiled shirt, tossing it in a wad across the room. He silently retrieved a kettle of water that had been simmering softly upon the hearth, and poured its bubbling contents into a basin. He dipped a clean cloth in the water then swabbed it across Merry's throat and chest. "You shouldn't be trying to get up so soon, Meriadoc," he said in a faintly accusatory tone, but there was an undercurrent of concern and, Merry thought, sadness. "You're not well, and all the hobbit stubbornness in the world won't cure this ill."
Merry leaned back into the soft bed pillows, letting the warmth of the water relax his aching muscles. "Am I going to die?" he asked quietly. He was surprised at the lack of emotion raised by this idea, as if he were too weary to even care. Gandalf silently rinsed out the washcloth and resoaked it in the steaming water. He then dug through his pack, bringing forth several sachets of sweet smelling herbs and potions, which he added to the water. He stirred everything into a thick paste, and coated the cloth in the pungent mix. He then carefully laid the poultice across Merry's bare chest. Merry inhaled deeply, sucking in the spicy scent, but immediately broke into a spasm of tortured coughing. Gandalf laced an arm behind Merry's back and pulled him upright, gently rubbing the hobbit's back as he hacked miserably. Finally the attack subsided, and Merry spat out a mouthful of thickly clotted blood, not caring if he soiled the bedding. Tears leaked from the corners of his eyes, streaking down to soak the hair at his temples and drip into his ears. He gulped greedily for breath, panic rising.
"Slow down, Merry. Calm yourself," murmured Gandalf. "You must calm down, or you shan't be able to catch your air." Merry nodded wildly, hiccupping once or twice, then holding his breath for a short moment. As he slowly exhaled, Gandalf touched his cheek and said, "There's a good lad." Merry sagged back against the pillows in exhausted relief, slowly savoring his breaths.
"What is happening to me, Gandalf?" asked Merry in despair. "Please tell me the truth, don't hide it from me."
"Well, in answer to your first question, Meriadoc, no, you are not going to die." Gandalf settled into the chair beside the bed and took a long moment to light his pipe. "Striking a Nazgul is not without its price, after all. You've taken an injury that is beyond the skill of most men to heal. But thankfully for you, your tender is no mere man, but the King of Gondor, heir of Isildur. And if I've learned only one thing through all my years amongst your kind, it is that hobbits have a tremendous spirit." Gandalf tipped his chin toward his chest and caught Merry's eye. "And from all the hobbits I've ever known, you are one of the most stubborn." Merry half-chuckled, half-choked. "Most other hobbits, not to mention quite a few men, would have given up already, but I can see you're having none of that."
Merry smiled wanly. "Well, having come so far I can hardly allow such a slight setback to end my journey. After all, I am very intent on meeting my end in a manner much better suited to tales around the fire." Gandalf bared his teeth in a rare grin and ruffled Merry's hair.
"The most important thing is for you to rest, lad. No more trying to get up and prance about like some mad Baggins. You're to stay in this bed until otherwise instructed. Otherwise, I shall not be responsible for treating you, and I'm sure Aragorn could be persuaded to follow my lead." With that, Gandalf pulled the quilts over Merry's chest, covering the still warm poultice, and picked up his fragrant pipe. "Sleep," he commanded, retrieving his candle, but he softened the harshness of his tone with a gentle caress of Merry's brow. Merry took a shallow breath, enough to inhale the fragrant steam of the herbs upon his chest, but not so deep as to start himself coughing again. As the scent twined sleepy fingers through his brain, Merry drowsed, then slipped into a depthless slumber.