Chapter I
The battle was over. Meriadoc the hobbit was standing in the middle of the field, among the bodies of men, orcs, horses, trolls and wargs, and it was difficult to distinguish the dead from those who were still living, themoans of the injured from the wind howling through emptied armours, through spears still stuck in the ground, through the hundreds of arrows covering an oliphaunt's carcase. The smell of sweat, of blood and of something else made him certain that this was no dream. Not a nightmare born from a troubled, short sleep after a day's ride with the Rohirrim, when all his worries and anxieties apparently left him alone, only to come back under a subtler haunting shape. His worries and fears for what was waiting for him at the end of the ride, his anxiety and distress for the others, his friends and kin whose fate was now so detached from his own.
No, this was real.
And yet, there was this other strange feeling at the back of his consciousness. Something he could not really put a finger on, something that almost suggested him that he had already been there, seen that horror, smelt those foul smells…
And Éowyn! Oh, Éowyn! Suddenly he remembered: his shield-sister, what they had just done together, the Witch-King and his maddening shriek…where was Éowyn? And then Merry saw her, laying on the ground, pale and motionless. He blinked, for he was sure, a moment before, that it was not the lady's body he saw laying on that spot, but a horse's. Was his brain so muddled with pain and sorrow as to play tricks on him, deluding him with false hopes? Fool of a Brandybuck…that was Éowyn, fair and beautiful despite Death around her, upon her.
Weeping, Merry started walking slowly toward her, but tripped over a tree branch –or this he wished it was, for he did not want to think it could rather be a severed arm -and fell. Sprawled on the ground, too weary and miserable to get up, through the veil of tears still in his eyes he saw something else: King Théoden's broken body, just few steps away from himself. And then the great king slowly turned his head toward the hobbit, and Merry felt that glazed stare upon him. "What are you doing here, Master Holbytla?". Those words and that stern, disapproving look pierced Merry's heart with more cruelty and abruptness than any sword blow ever could. "Why has my esquire broken my command?". Crying, Merry tried to reply, to explain it was only love that drove him to that desperate road, but his voice seemed to be choked, either by the sobs, or by exhaustion, shock and despair. Unaffected, Théoden started speaking again, but as the words were leaving his lips, Merry felt that something was going to happen, felt it even before it actually happened. "You never do what I tell you to do, son". Merry tried to scream, but any breath seemed to have left his throat. "You only cause troubles to yourself and to everyone close to you". Laying there on the Pelennor field, covered with blood and uttering those reproachful words, was not Théoden king of Rohan now, but Saradoc of Buckland.
tbc