Hey there! Sorry for missing last week, but I'm back now. Thank you for the lovely responses to the last chapter! As ever, please forgive the inevitable mistakes in this one.

Chapter Eighty-Nine: The Hobbit of Pelennor Fields

When at last the Rohirrim reached the Pelennor Fields and stared down at the carnage below, a thrill of horror shot through Merry. The land before Minas Tirith was flooded with orcs and trolls and men, an army larger than he had even dreaded to imagine – and they were already in the city. He could see the dark line of the orcs flooding in where the gate must be, like a row of fire-ants streaming into their nest, and large, orange flames danced around the dark plumes of smoke that were rising from the city.

"We're too late," he breathed, tightening his grip around Denahi. "Pippin – Pippin's in there!"

"We are not too late," said Éomer, and Merry glanced up at him. Sitting astride his great horse, the young lord of Rohan was almost a dwarf's height away from Merry, but he met the hobbit's eyes all the same. "There are seven levels in Minas Tirith, and seven great walls divide them. It is ill that the lower levels have fallen, but it is not cause to give up hope. Pippin may yet be alive."

Taking a deep breath, Merry nodded. Already, the army before them was moving, turning, rallying to face the threat of the riders, and Théoden was pulling away from the company, galloping up and down the length of his army.

"You can still turn back," said Éomer quietly, his eyes rising to the army before them. "No one will think lesser of you."

"I will," Merry replied, and he nodded slowly. "It's all I can do to help my friends. My family. I have to try."

Éomer sighed, and his voice was heavy as a dwarven funeral bell. "Very well. I cannot promise to keep you safe."

Merry gave a small smile. "I wouldn't ask you too."

Perched on the edge of the kitchen counter with a honey-glazed apple in hand, Merry swung his feet back and forth, carefully avoiding Dwalin's eye. The dwarf was standing opposite him, arms folded over his chest, and staring at him, just waiting. And waiting. And waiting.

Merry's stomach was twisted up so much that he could not bring himself to even nibble on the apple, and it hung limp from his hand. Still, Dwalin said nothing, and when Merry risked a glance up it was to find the dwarf still staring.

Still silent.

Finally, Merry could not take it any longer, and he took a deep breath. "Are you going to tell my mama?"

Dwalin did not move, other than to utter a single word. "Yep."

Merry sighed. "Do… do you have to?"

Dwalin laughed. "Yep. Come now, if I don't tell her, someone else will, and then I'll get an earache. Are you going to tell me what happened?"

Merry narrowed his eyes at the dwarf. "Is that why you gave me the apple? To get me to tell you the truth?"

Dwalin snorted. "What? No. The apple's a reward. I saw the bruise on that lad's face – I've been trying to get you to land a proper blow like that for months."

"I-" Merry blinked, shaking his head slightly. "I'm being rewarded for fighting?"

"No, no, you're being rewarded for the hit," said Dwalin, as though there was an obvious distinction. "It was a good strike, technically speaking, and I'm proud. But you shouldn't've been fighting at school, so what was so important that it couldn't wait until the arena?"

Merry bit down on his lip, and glanced back down at his toes. "I… It doesn't matter."

"Aye?" Dwalin raised his eyebrows. "Come, little one, we both know that's not true. Tell me, what did he say? Merry?"

Merry pursed his lips and wrapped his arm around his stomach. He gave the honeyed apple a sniff, and then sighed again. "He… he was making fun of Vinca for mixing up the battles in the War of Orcs and Dwarves, but he wasn't getting the dates right, and when I pointed that out everyone laughed. He got mad, and he said we wouldn't know anything because hobbits were too pathetic to get involved in wars. He said our people were useless cowards, and that if we even did get in a battle, we'd be even more useless and die straight away."

Dwalin's eyebrows lowered into a scowl, and his arms unfolded. "He said what? What did you say that little orc's name was?"

"It doesn't matter," said Merry, but Dwalin stepped forward.

"It does matter. No one, and I mean no one is going to bully one of our hobbits – not under any circumstances. Who was it?"

"Nefi, son of Nefir," admitted Merry. "Are, are you going to do something bad to him?"

"Oh aye, I am," said Dwalin darkly. "I'm going to tell his mother."

The corner of Merry's mouth twitched up towards a smile, and he glanced down at his toes. "Dwalin… how many battles have you been in?"

Dwalin's scowl slipped away, but his eyes grew heavy and sad and he sighed. "More than my fair share, lad. More than my fair share."

"How… how'd you get out of them all alive?"

"Luck," said Dwalin heavily. "Luck, and sheer stubbornness."

"But… but… there has to be something else," pressed Merry, biting down on his lip. "Just, just in case I end up in one."

"You won't ever end up in a battle," Dwalin said quietly, leaning forward and squeezing Merry's shoulder. "Never – not a real one. A few skirmishes might hit you here and there, and you might find yourself facing an orc pack or two while travelling, but you won't ever have to go to war, Merry, I promise you that. War is no place for a hobbit."

Merry swallowed. "But Bilbo found himself in a battle – and, and don't you say it's shameful to run from a fight?"

"Bilbo nearly died," said Dwalin sombrely, squeezing Merry's shoulder tighter. "The elves didn't think they could save him, Merry. It was a miracle that he even survived – the fact that he doesn't suffer from it today is beyond that…" Dwalin closed his eyes for a moment, and he shook his head, but then he opened them again, and his voice softened. "No, lad, we will never let battle find you. You have the sons of Durin to protect you, and all our kindred. And there is no shame in leaving fighting to the soldiers, when there are soldiers there to fight."

"Are you sure?" Merry asked hesitantly. "Because you're always telling Nori how he should be ashamed about running away from fights."

Dwalin smirked slightly. "Aye, well, that's because it's Nori. And because Nori picks fights – now if you surprise me and start a war yourself, I expect you to fight in it. But with the exception of that, you will never have to go to battle."

Merry took a deep breath, and glanced up at Dwalin. "But, but what if I stumble into one by mistake?"

"You won't," swore Dwalin, but then he gave a wry smile and sighed, crossing his arms again. "But, if it makes you feel better, remember this – if you ever do end up in a battle, watch your back. You're no good to anyone dead. No matter what, you watch your back. Now, dwarves fight as a team, always, and that's also important. We watch each other's backs, and keep each other alive, but while you keep one eye on your friends, you make sure that your other eye is always on your own back. Understand?"

Merry nodded sombrely. "Watch your back, watch your friends."

"Second, always keep your focus. No matter what you see, what you feel, what you hear, you keep your focus. Being distracted will get you killed, every time, and so will getting cocky. Cocky will always get you killed."

"Keep your focus, don't get cocky," chorused Merry, and Dwalin nodded slightly.

"Most importantly do not stop fighting. Not when your arms ache from holding your sword and your lungs feel like a bellows. Not even if you see your friends fall – you hold it together. Don't panic – do not let fear seize you. If you do, it will be your death. Unless you're hurt, you do not stop, because as soon as you stop, you won't be able to start again. As soon as you stop moving, you're dead. If you're wounded, find a place to hide, bunker down, but keep your eyes open and aware."

"Watch your back, watch your friends, and don't stop," recited Merry, nodding. "And don't panic or get cocky."

Dwalin's smile grew very sad, and he put his hands back on Merry's shoulders. "Exactly. But like I said, we dwarves know what happens when a hobbit goes into battle, and we won't ever let it happen again. You're our kin now, and we'll keep you safe."

"Thank you," said Merry sheepishly. "And, and you don't think we're useless or cowards?"

"Of course not," said Dwalin, his voice softer than Merry had ever heard it. "This world needs more than warriors."

Merry considered this for a moment, and then smiled, throwing himself off of the bench and into Dwalin's arms. "I'm glad it was you that picked me up, Dwalin," he whispered, and Dwalin chuckled.

"Only because you get a stay of execution from your mother," he said, but his arms tightened around Merry all the same. "Don't worry, kid. We'll always look after you."

There was no one to look after him now, and Merry knew it. Now, it was time to watch his back, and to watch his friends. To fight, and to never stop.

His heart began to beat faster and stronger in his chest, and he took a deep breath, getting ready to harness the adrenalin that was already starting to course through his veins.

Théoden's horse thundered back towards Éomer, and the men shared a nod. Then Théoden turned, and called out in a voice like thunder. "Arise! Arise, riders of Théoden!"

Merry straightened, pulling his sword from his sheath.

"Spears shall be shaken, shields shall be splintered," Théoden roared. "A sword-day, a red day, ere the sun rises! Ride now, ride now, ride! Ride for ruin, and the world's ending! Forth Eorlingas!"

The Rohirrim let out a thunderous roar of approval, a battle-cry to shake the ground, and Merry thrust his sword into the air, throwing out his voice to join the call.

His sword glinting like molten silver even beneath the cloud-shrouded darkness of the Pelennor Fields, Théoden bellowed wordlessly at the heavens, and sent his horse thundering towards the army. Their voices booming to join their lord's, the Rohirrim charged after him – and Merry and Denahi were among them.

Focus now – focus now and breathe.

A swell of noise clamoured around him and tried to take his breath away – the deafening sound of thousands of hooves pounding against the ground, and thousands of men bellowing calls of war, and tens of thousands of orcs raising their voices in reply. It was the sound of war, and every hobbit instinct in Merry's body wanted to run and to hide.

But whatever his instincts might say, Merry's heart and head were agreed.

"Come on, Denahi," he growled. "Let's show these bastards why they shouldn't've ever messed with the hobbits of Erebor!"

Denahi threw back his head and howled, and then they were flying forward with a speed that Merry could barely have ever imagined. In the span of two heartbeats, they were neck and neck with the horse of Éomer, leading the charge towards the orcs. When he saw them, Rohan's young lord let out a wild laugh.

"Holbytla!" he bellowed, and Merry gave a dark grin in reply.

Focus. Breathe.

Merry kept his eyes ahead, watching as the orcs lowered their spears, as they grew close enough to see their rotten teeth as they grimaced and growled, as the moment of impact grew closer, and then he took the deepest breath of his life.

"You ready, boy?" he whispered, and Denahi growled, nodding his head sharply.

Merry nodded back, adjusting his grip with his legs like they had practised, and pulling himself upright. For once, they were riding without Denahi's saddle, to give Merry a chance to sit up and wield his sword, but it meant that the hobbit had to sit further back than either one of them was used to. Denahi stumbled, but regained his footing in a heartbeat, and Merry's raised his sword.

And then, with a roar, Denahi pushed off of the ground into a leap, and they sailed over the spears of the front row of orcs. Time seemed to slow, and Merry brought his sword down through the necks of two orcs before Denahi landed, crushing another orc's skull beneath his great paw. It was a bumpy landing, but Merry and Denahi had been running together for almost all their lives, and Merry barely so much as slipped, even without the saddle. Not now they had their rhythm.

With a roar, Merry lowered his blade, and they shot a straight line through the ranks of the orcs, more than twenty foes falling at once as the hobbit ripped his sword through their legs. Éomer laughed, and let out a whoop as he passed.

"Forget taking care of you, Master Hobbit!" he yelled, even as he hacked the head off a large orc. "I want you to take care of me!"

Merry grinned again, a surge of pride and determination blazing hot in his veins, but he did not let it go to his head.

Being cocky will get you killed.

He wheeled Denahi around to where there were more Rohirrim, where they were not so outnumbered, but as he did, he saw a rider was speared down from his horse, and another felled by a sword through his chest that tore through his armour like paper. Merry saw a man take an axe to the face, saw another's throat slit by an orc with eyes like flames –

And he took a deep breath.

Don't panic. Do not let the fear seize you – it will mean your death.

Merry focused, and adjusted his grip on his sword, hacking into the nearest orc with a yell. He let Denahi lead, and they moved as one being in a wordless harmony that even the greatest of the horse lords could not mimic. To all that watched them, they seemed to share thought and mind, and without any visible signal or audible instruction they danced their way through the ranks of the enemy. Neither seemed to surprise the other – the strike of Merry's sword would compliment the snap of Denahi's jaws, and the swipe of the wolf's great front paw would create an opening for the hobbit to take down another foe, but they never collided. Soldiers of both sides found themselves distracted by the eerie symbiosis of the fierce hobbit and the three-legged wolf, and the orcs that let themselves gawk paid with their lives.

Because Merry was distracted by nothing.

Not by the pain that shivered through him when his arm was caught by the edge of a blade, not by the spear that grazed his cheek and would have killed him, if it were not for the quick feet of Denahi. Not by the wounds that were steadily growing more numerous, and more painful, not by the number of times death missed him by an inch.

Not by the slaughter that he saw all around him.

If you lose focus, you lose your life.

Time passed, strangely. In the moment, everything seemed to be going so fast, every movement, every choice made in the jump of a heartbeat, but Merry could not tell how many minutes had passed since he flung himself into battle. He could not even tell if they had reached hours – sometimes it felt like he had been fighting forever. Merry had no way to track the sun – it was shrouded by the heavy, dark cloud above them.

But though he did not know how much time had passed, he knew that the battle was shifting. They were moving closer and closer to the city – in fact, they were almost there. No more than forty feet away from them were the gates, and a thrill ran through Merry as he saw them. There were still orcs pouring into the city, but others were streaming back out, charging wildly at the Rohirrim who got to close. A wall of corpses was beginning to form around the entrance, and Merry leant forward.

"Alright, Denahi," he growled. "Let's go and find Pippin!"

Denahi let out a howl that sent several orcs shrieking away, and together the hobbit and the wolf shot forward like an arrow, making straight for the gate –

And a loud horn rang through the air, and they faltered.

"Gimli?" Merry swallowed, a sense of dread creeping up his spine. "Aragorn?"

Denahi howled softly and stamped his feet, shaking his head and turning his back on the gates, and Merry's mouth dropped open.

There was another army joining the battle – an army of Haradrim, if he was not mistaken.

An army of men, and a dozen creatures bigger than houses, a dozen creatures with great towers on their backs, a dozen creatures with tusks as long as Smaug's skeletal talons.

"Oliphaunts," Merry choked, and then he heard Éomer's voice ring out over the clamour of the battle.

"Eorlingas! Reform ranks! Ride, ride!"

Denahi whined, pointing his nose towards Éomer, and then back towards the city. Towards Pippin.

Merry swallowed, fear curling his stomach. "I… I…"

"What's that?" Merry gasped, pointing at the strangest picture so far in the new book that Kíli had given him. He knew that the book came all the way from Lake-town, all the way from the other side of the world, but he had never imagined such a creature.

"It's an oliphaunt," said Kíli with a smile, shifting Merry in his arms to point at the animal's trunk. "Legends say they're bigger than even the houses of men!"

"Wow," Merry breathed, looking up at Kíli. He reached his hand up to touch his dwarf's cheek. "I missed you, Kíli."

"I missed you too," said Kíli at once, his face crumpling into a sad smile. He nuzzled Merry's nose, and held him closer. "I'm glad to be home."

The thought of Kíli steeled Merry's heart, and he nodded.

"We're folk of Erebor, Denahi," he breathed. "And we don't flee from a fight." Denahi growled in approval, springing forward at once, and weaving through the battlefield to join the ranks of the Rohirrim.

As they got closer, the fear in Merry's gut twisted tighter. It looked like the oliphaunts were not only being used as steeds, but as weapons – there were great spikes bound to their tusks, and as Merry watched, one of them brought their head crashing down, goring five riders and their horses, and throwing their corpses into the air.

Gasping, Merry cringed backwards, Denahi slowed slightly, whining.

"I – I'm alright," Merry gasped, though he could feel his hands begin to shake. "Just, just let's not die, alright?"

Denahi tossed his head and put on speed, weaving between the Rohirrim and heading straight for one of the oliphaunts. Merry flinched, but then he steeled himself. He trusted Denahi. He trusted Denahi.

He trusted himself.

With great effort, he batted away his fear and sat back up, forcing his mind to focus. They were streaming towards a charging oliphaunt, one with a viciously barbed pole running between its tusks. It was using it to barrel the riders of Rohan out of the way, to mutilate their horses and their corpses even as it rode over them, but Denahi put on speed. Everything inside Merry screeched at him, demanding that he turn around, that he wrench Denahi to a halt, but he swallowed and forced his eyes to stay open.

I trust us.

He heard someone yell his name – Éowyn, it sounded like, but he could not be sure – and then Denahi jumped. Time seemed to slow down as the oliphaunt lunged, and Merry saw it coming closer and closer, saw the gap between its trunk and the deathly, spiked pole narrowing, and he winced. They were not going to make it –

And they did not make it.

At least, they did not make the mark that Merry was expecting to hit. Instead, Denahi landed on the oliphaunt's trunk, his claws digging deep into the creature's flesh and dragging out a bellow that shook the earth. Merry's head span with terror, but the three-legged wolf that had always so stubbornly climbed as well as his siblings scrambled up the oliphaunt's back and onto its head without so much as a slip.

"Merry!" yelled Éowyn. "On your left!"

Merry glanced to the left just in time to duck a sword strike from one of the oliphaunt's riders, and he thrust his own sword deep into the man's chest. Red blood flowed down his sword, warm as it soaked Merry's hands, and he choked, pushing the body away.

He had never killed a man before. He had killed orcs, orcs and wargs, but never a man.

He had never wanted to kill a man.

But he had to get over it, and quickly – the other men were advancing, cautious but vicious, and Merry swallowed, but then Denahi turned again, pawing meaningfully at the roaring oliphaunt's eye. Merry glanced at the Haradrim, and then lurched down to one side, hanging onto Denahi with only his legs , and then he plunged his sword into the oliphaunt's eye – right up to its hilt.

The oliphaunt made only a single sound, an almost surprised grunt, and then shuddered, and tipped forward, plummeting face first towards the earth. Wrenching his sword back out, Merry tumbled forward, clinging to Denahi with his left arm as the great beast began to fall. When the ground was but a few feet away, Denahi leapt down, skidding across the dirt and scrambling to regain his footing.

"Yes, Merry!" cried Éowyn, a great grin spreading beneath her helmet as she raised her sword into the air. "For the Holbytla!"

Breathless, Merry offered her a quick grin, and then Denahi bounded forward, eyes locked on the next oliphaunt. Merry steeled himself, and Denahi prepared to jump –

And then something crashed into them, throwing them several feet through the air. They hit the ground with a painful thump, and Merry's head collided painfully with the shield of a fallen soldier. Denahi whimpered, and struggled to his feet, leaving Merry sprawled across the floor beneath him. Stars span before Merry's eyes, and he blinked and shook his head in a desperate attempt to scatter them, but then Denahi gave a wild howl of fear, and a great column of stone crashed down but an inch from the tip of the wolf's tail. Another came down on the other side, and then there were two more, and to his horror, Merry realised that it was not stone at all – they were standing beneath the belly of an oliphaunt.

And the beast was stumbling.

With a desperate gasp, Merry threw himself onto Denahi's back, and they scrambled frantically to get out from beneath the oliphaunt, but each time they tried to escape the beast would kick or stomp, missing Denahi by only a hair's width. Merry whimpered despite himself as he saw the oliphaunt's knees buckle.

"Denahi – Denahi-"

His wolf whipped around, spinning on the spot with a desperate howl, and above them the oliphaunt let out a loud bellow of pain. And its legs gave way, and the great bulk of its body came crashing down –

And Denahi howled, and threw up his back legs with all the strength he had, flinging Merry through the air –

And Merry hit the ground, the skin tearing away from his arms and neck and face as he skidded across the dirt –

And the earth shook –

And then all was still.

Merry pushed himself upright, trying to blink the daze away from his eyes, which slowly focused on a large, grey shape before him. The oliphaunt.

A thrill of cold horror ran down Merry's throat, and he cried out. "Denahi? Denahi!"

A growl answered him, but it was not his wolf that detangled themselves from the rubble before the creature's back. It was a man, bloodied and bruised and fully armed, and the moment his eyes fell on Merry he snarled, spitting out a sentence that the hobbit could not understand. Another man crawled out from the ruins of their tower, and then a third, and then they let out a yell, and a dozen more foot-soldiers swelled towards them from behind the oliphaunt's corpse.

And the first soldier pointed right at Merry, spitting out more words in his own tongue. Their faces contorting in anger, the men charged towards Merry, swords raised and eyes ablaze, and he turned to run, but there was the corpse of another oliphaunt behind him, and he had nowhere to go. He whirled back around, his breathing catching desperately in his throat as he shifted into a fighting stance that he knew would be hopeless. He could not win a fight against fifteen trained soldiers, not on his own.

I am a dwobbit of Erebor, he thought fiercely, and I will try all the same.

Baring his teeth, Merry let out his fear and fury with the loudest roar he could conjure. "Du bekar!"

To his great surprise, a voice cried back in reply.

"Merry!"

A horse shot across the ground before him, fast as blinking, and when it had passed, the heads of the first two Haradrim fighters were rocking on the ground besides their feet. With a yell, the rider turned her horse, descending upon the rest of them with a ferocity that sent a thrill down Merry's spine, and he charged after her, taking down two of his would-be killers, and narrowly avoiding the stroke of Éowyn's sword himself.

Soon, the dozen odd Haradrim that had set their sights on Merry were strewn across the floor around them, and Éowyn leant down from the horse, offering her hand to Merry.

"Come, quick-" she began, but as she did an arrow struck the side of her horse and it shrieked, raising up onto its hind legs and throwing Éowyn from its back. Merry leapt backwards, away from the stomping feet, and with wide, white eyes and foam at its mouth, the horse let out another frantic cry, tearing away through the battlefield in a desperate attempt to escape the carnage. Merry did not watch long enough to see if the poor creature made it.

"Are you alright?" he asked Éowyn, but she was already clambering to her feet, nodding grimly.

"So now we both fight on foot," she said, breathless but resolute, and Merry nodded.

Back to back, they faced the orcs and Haradrim that swelled around them, and soon Merry found himself lost again to time. Perhaps it was only a number of minutes that he fought there, only a handful of times that he deflected blows away from Éowyn – or perhaps it was hours, and hundreds. Exhaustion began to creep through every part of Merry, starting in his arms and laying claim to the rest of his body, limb by limb. Everything hurt, and more than anything he wanted to rest. Just for a minute.

If you stop, you won't start again. If you stop, you die.

Merry did not stop. He kept his focus.

And then the air was torn apart by a screech so chilling that Merry gasped, doubling over to cover his ears. Terror ripped through him like a rockfall, and at once he knew what it was that he was hearing.

Nazgûl.

He could see them circling in the sky, see their Fell Beasts sweeping down to attack the Rohirrim, and every thought that he had was of horror, the only thing he wanted to do was run, but something deep inside him stirred, and Merry forced his hands away from his ears.

You panic, you die.

Merry did not want to die.

It felt impossible to keep fighting, but Merry raised his sword anyway, hacking down orc after orc even as his back bowed beneath his fear. He glanced over his shoulder, but to his dismay Éowyn was no longer there, and he could no longer see her through the throng.

And he spent a moment too long looking for her.

A hand snapped forward, struck Merry in the throat, and he choked, staggering backwards. Before he had stumbled so much as two steps, the hand clenched around his throat, and his sword was wrenched from his hand. Slowly, the hand crushed tighter around Merry's neck and lifted him higher, bringing him face to face with a black-eyed orc. Legs kicking feebly beneath him, Merry watched in horror as the orc drew back his blade.

Desperate, he scrabbled to try and gouge the orc's eyes or twist his nose until he let go, but the orc just held him at arm's length, and laughed, its fist closing tighter still around Merry's neck. With a start, Merry dropped his hand down to his waist, grappling in his pocket and trying not to lose consciousness. He had only a second before the orc speared him through, and he knew it, but a second was all it took to grab the small knife from his belt and drive it up through the orc's arm.

The orc screeched and dropped him, and even as he coughed and spluttered, Merry jumped up to stab his little knife into the orc's neck again, and again. Blood gurgled up between the orc's lips, and its eyes began to go dull, and Merry felt a grim satisfaction rise within him.

And then he felt a blow like a great punch strike the side of his waist, and an odd, tingling sensation. It was almost like running into a wall, if that wall gave you a static shock that fizzled on for more than a moment, if that wall hit only the left side of your body. Something was strange – something was wrong, and as the orc finally fell before him, Merry looked down.

And his heart dropped out of his chest, and his knife dropped out of his hand.

The hilt of his own sword was sitting against his flesh, just above his hip bone.

And the blade of his sword was inside him.

Too afraid to scream, Merry whimpered, staggering back, but as he did a heat like dragon-fire shrieked through him and he fell to his knees, his breath coming in quick, frantic little gasps.

He had been stabbed. The orc had stabbed his own sword right through him, he had been stabbed, he –

Don't panic, don't panic, don't panic –

Desperately, Merry dragged himself towards the leg of a nearby oliphaunt, hiding behind its great bulk and looking down at the blade sticking through him. If his trembling hands fluttered around to the back of his waist, he could feel the tip sticking out on the other side, and he keened, squeezing his eyes shut.

What do I do, what do I do, what do I do?

Somewhere above him, the Nazgûl screeched, and terror shuddered through him again, curling his toes and his fingers and bringing a soft cry from his lips.

Focus.

With a sob, Merry forced himself to look at the wound, to really look at it, and when he did, something akin to relief trickled through him. The sword might be sticking all the way through him, but it was also very, very close to his skin – in fact, it was less than half an inch away from the edge of his waist. Did that make it a flesh wound? It did not look like it was far enough into his abdomen to have hit any major organs – but then Merry was not a healer.

Was he supposed to take it out? Leave it in? Sit there and cry, and hope that someone would come and save him?

"Meriadoc?!" a voice cried, and Merry glanced up quickly, unable to believe his luck. King Théoden was before him, still astride his horse, and concern was wrought deep into his brow.

"What – what do I do?" Merry gasped, before the king could speak again. He could feel tears, hot and stinging against his cheeks, and Théoden's face crumpled.

"Hold on, Master Hobbit," he said kindly. "We-"

And then there came a great shriek, and Merry watched in horror as one of the Fell Beasts swept down from the sky, seizing Théoden and his horse in its jaw. He screamed his denial, but the beast threw them anyway, and Merry watched in horror as the king was crushed beneath the corpse of his own horse.

The Fell Beast landed, feet away from the king, and began to prowl towards him. Slowly, leisurely, as if he had all the time in the world.

"No…" Merry gasped, looking between Théoden and the hilt in his hip. The Nazgûl leant over the king of Rohan, and the Fell Beast spread its wings.

"Feast on his flesh," hissed the Nazgûl, and Merry's heart twisted.

Gathering every ounce of strength he could find, Merry dragged himself to his feet, stumbling towards the winged beast, but before he could get there, a lone soldier leapt before the king.

"I will kill you if you touch him!" Éowyn swore, and the Nazgûl drew further upright.

"Do not come between the Nazgûl and its prey," it said, its voice the sound of evil itself. Merry froze, stooped and bleeding on the battlefield, unable to do anything but watch as the Fell Beast lurched.

Éowyn dodged with a grace that looked effortless, and then with a roar she hewed the Fell Beast's head from its long neck, sending both it and its rider crumpling to the dirt. A ripple of icy cold spread over the fields, bringing Merry down to his knees as the Nazgûl rose, a long, spiked mace bigger than a wolf's head dangling from a chain in his hands.

Help. Merry had to help her – he had to do something – but every time he moved his sword tugged inside him, every time he breathed the pain felt worse. His store of adrenalin was bleeding away, and the pain was growing sharper, and his arms were shaking more and more by the second.

Before him, Éowyn was darting out of reach of the Nazgûl's mace, but the wraith had better aim than his steed, and to Merry's horror each blow landed closer than the last. She could not dodge forever – and she did not.

Her small, wooden shield shattered beneath the strike of the mace, and Éowyn cried out, falling backwards onto her uncle's horse. Merry could see her cradling her arm, see her feet scrambling desperately to get up, but before she could, the Nazgûl's hand was around her throat.

They were close enough for Merry to touch now, close enough for him to tug on the tail of the Nazgûl's cloak, but that would do no good. To his horror, Merry realised that he had no weapon – he had dropped his little knife, there were so helpful swords lying beside him or behind him –

What do I do?

"Fool," whispered the Nazgûl, and Merry bit back a sob as the wraith drew Éowyn up off of the ground. "No man can kill me. Die now."

No.

Clenching his teeth, Merry and seized the hilt of his sword and wrenched it out of his own flesh, ignoring the new pain and the new blood, and thrusting the blade as deep as he could into the Nazgûl's back.

The wraith let out a great screech and thundered down to its knees, and the blade shook like an earthquake, and shattered into a thousand pieces. The force sent Merry crashing back down onto the dirt and knocked the air from his lungs. His sword-arm felt like it had been struck by lightning, almost rivalling the agony in his side, but he only had eyes for the kneeling Nazgûl, and for the soldier standing before it.

Swaying on her feet, Éowyn stood proud and strong regardless. She pulled off her helmet, and her hair shone like gold, and her voice rang out stronger than stone.

"I am no man!"

With one final roar, she thrust her sword deep into the Nazgûl's hood, and it shrieked, the noise sending terror and agony through all who heard it. Even as he cringed, Merry looked for Éowyn. He saw her gasp, and drop the hilt of a broken blade, and then he saw her fall back, and the helm of the Nazgûl crumpled in on itself like a pewter goblet crushed by dwarven fingers.

And then it fell, landing on an empty pile of black robes with a dull thud.

The Nazgûl was gone.

Relief flooded through Merry, a relief so strong that it took his breath away, and he closed his eyes. It was over. It had to be over. The fighting that he could hear was just echoes, it had to be. It could not get any worse than this. It was over, surely, it had to be over. He just wanted to sleep. To sleep for a long, long time.

Below him, he could feel the ground growing warm and wet, and Merry whined softly. He did not have time to faint, or go into shock. Merry did not have time to die.

You're no good to anyone dead.

Dragging his eyelids open, Merry struggled out of his elven clock, bundling it against his side and trying to put pressure on the sword wound. The pain seared through him, and nausea rose in his stomach, but he kept going, fumbling with his belt until he came loose. Carefully, he retied it over his cloak and clothes, trying to bind his waist as best he could.

I'm no good to anyone dead. And I don't want to die.

He could hear Éowyn nearby, hear her sobbing softly as she spoke to Théoden, but he could not hear her words. They were not for him, in any case. He looked up, towards the rest of the battle, and to his astonishment, he saw that another army had joined them, while he was not looking.

An army that could only be described in one word: ghosts.

"Gimli," Merry whimpered. "You did it…"

As if conjured by his words, Merry suddenly caught sight of another small figure on the battlefield – of the unmistakable silhouette of Gimli, and Legolas and Aragorn and Boromir beside him. Hope kindled in Merry's heart, and he held out his hand towards them, but it hurt too much and he collapsed, limp against the ground.

He wanted to scream, to wail and howl and shriek at the top of his lungs until Gimli came and found him, but the only sound he seemed capable of making was a mewling whimper, and the world before his eyes grew hazy.

Exhausted, Merry let his eyes close. It would just be for a moment, just a moment. He did not want it to be just a moment. He wanted to sleep. To sleep for a long, long time. He whined softly – but no, that was not him. Someone else was whining, frantically, fearfully, whining and nudging at the back of his neck with a wet nose, and licking at his ears.

Merry sobbed, squeezing his eyes shut tightly. He had to be hallucinating. Denahi was not there. Denahi was crushed beneath the corpse of an oliphaunt. It could not be not Denahi lying down beside him, could not be his wolf's front leg now pressing over his belt, over his wounds. It could not be Denahi howling for help, could not be Denahi that bit down on his ear as consciousness slipped away.

But it was. And Denahi stayed there, bloodied and frightened and desperate, guarding his unconscious little hobbit from anyone who got too close, and howling, and howling, and howling, until Gimli heard him, and sprinted over, and let out a howl of his own.

I hope that you enjoyed that chapter! Battle scenes have never been my favourite to write and I really don't think I do them too much justice - especially with a battle as epic as the Battle of the Pelennor Fields. Tolkien created so many amazing, kick-ass moments, and I know this doesn't come very close to it, but I'm not altogether disappointed with this chapter. Please do let me know what you thought (don't be afraid to give constructive criticism like 'this didn't work for me', I find it really useful!)

Anyways, until next time, thank you and take care.