Well, I'm back, to quote a certain hobbit. You wouldn't believe the drama that has occurred since last I updated. Suffice to say that my description of the Black Breath below sort of covers how I've been feeling in the past few months. But I'm back now, and waiting for hope. As always, thanks to all for your kind reviews, and so sorry to keep you waiting for this new chapter. I will be updating more often now, knock on wood. Also, if there's anything you'd like to see in this fic, feel free to let me know. Nudges to the muse are always appreciated. Also, none of them belong to me. If they did, these past months would not have been so awful, for I would have hobbits to snuggle.
The morning light shone through the arched window, slashing across Merry's waking eyes with a painful ache. He squinted and dragged his hand across his face, forcing himself to sit up despite the shooting pain in his arm. It was silent, the absence of sound palpable and heavy. A kettle was simmering on the grate, and a plate of cold meat and rough bread was set upon the hearth, covered by a thin cloth. Merry made a quick assessment and found that his stomach was still queasy, rolling slightly at the thought of a heavy meal, so he palmed a slice of the bread and covered the rest. Perhaps Pip will finish it when he comes. Then a pang of realization struck him like a bolt. Pip was gone, marching away with the armies of Gondor and Rohan. Merry dropped the bread to the stone floor and grasped at his arm, trying to quell the fear that was gnawing his chest. Never had he felt so alone, so empty, even when he was bumping along behind Dernhelm on the way to Gondor. At least then he had known that Pippin was safe in Gandalf's care. Now, he felt only desolation and loneliness.
With painful clarity, Merry recalled standing upon a parapet of the city with young Bergil, watching with silent dread as the armies mustered to march east, into the jaws of Mordor, on a mission they well knew was doomed to fail. Somewhere in the back of his mind, Merry marveled at the courage of men, as they bore up under the knowledge that they were sacrificing themselves on the alter of futility. But more he was struck by the courage of Pippin, riding out to represent the people of the Shire, a tiny emissary off to war. Tears pushed at the backs of Merry's eyes, but he growled them away, grasping his injured arm, squeezing the flesh to bring on a flare of pain, to drown the terror. The walls seemed to be closing in, and with a strangled gasp, Merry stumbled to the door, and out into the garden.
The light struck him full force, making him squint and raise his hand against his eyes. He staggered to the parapet wall and bent double, laying his forehead against the cool stone, trying to quell the fear that was churning his insides. He retched once, and was vaguely glad that he had foregone the cold breakfast. The rolling in his stomach subsided slowly, receding to the occasional twinge, but he left his head resting on the wall, unwilling to raise his eyes to the vista of Pellenor below.
A heavy hand on his shoulder startled him, and the sudden movement sent a pang through his skull, an electric shock, and he bit down against a moan. With a clumsy movement he turned, knocking the hand away, and opened his eyes to see Faramir standing before him, looking pale and grim. Merry bowed his head slightly, closing his eyes and pursing his mouth. "I am sorry, Faramir. You startled me." The man smiled without mirth, shaking his own head.
"You need not apologize, Master Merry. I stole up on you, I should have announced myself." Faramir leaned against the parapet, taking care not to put undue weight upon his own injured arm. "I saw you standing here alone, and was worried that you had taken ill."
"I'll admit, I feel poorly," replied Merry, swallowing against a new wave of bile in his throat. "I felt perhaps I just needed some fresh air."
"Or perhaps you wished to look to the East, as I, in hopes of some glimpse of good or ill." Faramir's gray eyes were fixed on the red gloom that hovered over the mountains of Mordor, the swirling crimson clouds that hid the faces of the cliffs in shadow. "I could have never known what a trial it would be to stay behind while all others marched away." His gaze turned vacant. "The terror of battle pales beside the terror of helplessness."
Merry's chest hitched as he had a sudden vision of Pippin in the roiling chaos of war, with the blood and the noise and the fear in the eyes of men. Tears pushed at the back of his eyes and he dashed at them with his hands, willing himself not to weep like a child in front of Faramir. His heart seemed to clench in his chest and his chin puckered, for he could not force down the thought of his beloved cousin amid that terrible whirlwind. "Is there no hope, then?" he choked out.
Faramir did not spare him a glance, but instead stared out over the vista before them. "I will not say that hope is lost, Master Hobbit. Not so long as men march forth to meet the storm. As long as we rise to fight, there is still hope."
Merry felt his throat constrict, and though he did not wish to seem weak, he whispered, "I cannot see it, Faramir. The black breath has stolen every glimpse of cheer or hope, and I don't know if I will ever be able to find it again." This time Faramir did turn to look down at him, his mouth set in a sad line.
"Tell me, Master Merry, of the black shadow." Faramir's tone was plaintive, his brow furrowed. "Few who fall under it find the strength to survive. How is it that you battled back that darkness?"
Merry bit the side of his mouth, fear creeping over him at the mere mention of that dread darkness. But Faramir's gray gaze was pleading, and Merry could not find the strength to refuse, for he sensed that Faramir was asking not about him, but about Eowyn. "First, it is as though a chill has come over your bones, an ache that burns your marrow. It's like all the cold, bitter nights you've ever felt, all at once, when your muscles freeze and clench until you cannot bear the pain, cannot even move." Merry's eyes filled again, and he did not try this time to halt the fall of his tears. "The pain does not fade, but is joined by terror, every fear you've ever known, all at once, one on top of another. The dread of death pales beside this horror, and you beg for it, for an end to the hurt and the fright, and the sadness. I never could have imagined that sadness, that desolation, the complete lack of hope for tomorrow. You pray only for oblivion, to end the pain and find peace." Merry's voice faltered and broke, and he dropped his chin against his chest, his thoughts going again to Pippin, to his cousin who was marching to meet that fear, that pain. "Even now I feel that joy will never brighten my soul again. It is lost."
Faramir's own face was drawn, and he laid his hand on Merry's shoulder. "I am sorry, Master Merry, for asking you to live that pain again. It was heartless of me to ask it of you, only to assuage my own doubts and curiosities. It is just that it is a wonder to me that so small a person should fight off that horror, that evil that has cost countless men their lives."
Merry lifted his face to meet Faramir's eyes. "I just kept thinking of Pippin. I couldn't leave him alone, as much as I wanted to give in and end the pain. I had to fight, for him. I promised I would bring him home, and I would not leave him." Speaking his cousin's name made Merry's throat constrict with an impending sob, but he swallowed it down. "But if it weren't for Strider, I wouldn't still be here. I am, after all, still only a hobbit, and could not have held on forever, Pippin or no."
Faramir hesitated, not wishing to lay his heart bare, but then plunged forward, consequence be damned. "Merry, you rode long with the Lady Eowyn, and seem to me as close as any to her heart. She, too, fell before the Black Breath, and was healed by the Lord Aragorn, but what bade her fight as you did to survive? She seems to me so sad, so weary, yet something must have given her the strength to carry on until she could be tended by the King. What could it be?"
Merry shook his head slightly, his own eyes saddened. "I don't know, Faramir. While I have been blessed to know Lady Eowyn well, I cannot say what hope she found in the darkness." He continued more quietly, as though to himself. "I wish only happiness for Eowyn, yet I do not know that she shall find it. I weep for her despair, and hope that she finds what she is looking for." Merry fell silent, biting back his own conflicted feelings for the lady, rubbing a weary palm over his eyes, dashing the salt tears across his cheeks.
"It wounds my soul to think of the Lady Eowyn battling back the pain and despair that you have spoken of. I only wish I could take that desolation from her spirit, bring her some joy, help her to forget all that has come before." Merry glanced up at Faramir, and the man was staring far off, speaking not to the hobbit but to himself. "Such beauty, yet such sorrow." New tears came to Merry's eyes, but he blinked them away, and stood silent next to the tall Ranger, gazing out over the walls of the city to the far desolation beyond, waiting for hope to come.