The Storm Before the Calm

March 23-24, 1422 S.R.

The room was dark, one faint shaft of light slowly creeping across the floor the only hint that it was a bright spring morning outside the confines of the room. Merry sat, huddled really, in a deep, winged chair that was pushed back into a corner. His head was resting in the corner of the chair and his legs were pulled up to his chest. He’d wrapped himself in a blanket but still shivered. There was no fire in the grate and the room was chilly.

I should get up, he thought without much enthusiasm.  Stir up the fire, get dressed.  His head felt heavy, however, and it seemed far too much effort to lift it from its spot.

The thin beam of light worked its way across the room, resting briefly on the foot of the bed.

I wonder what time it is, he thought. Earlier, there had been a great loud clattering and banging in the kitchen but now all was still and quiet. Merry felt the peculiar hushed sensation of being the only living thing in a dead, muffled world. He thought once again that he should get up but felt powerless to actually do so. The dark and silence held him like a tomb, draining him of the will to move.

 Dust motes spun and fell in the weak shaft of light, now halfway to the head of the bed. Merry stared at the small pool of light on the quilt, absently following the swirling dust with his eyes. It was so quiet he thought he could almost hear the rustling sound of the dust as it moved through the air.

He was taken by surprise, then, when the door was flung open and Pippin stalked into the room. Without a word, his cousin strode across to the window and flung the shutters open, flooding the room with bright sunshine. Merry’s eyes remained fixed on the bed, on the spot where one small splash of light had lingered, lost now in the indiscriminate flood.

He lost the vision when Pippin crouched down in front of him. "Did you sleep in the chair again last night, Merry?"

Merry blinked, gathered his thoughts. "I suppose I did," he answered slowly. That was easier than admitting he hadn’t really slept at all. He was becoming increasingly aware of a crick in his neck from the awkward angle at which it rested. Sighing, he began the painful process of straightening out his limbs and sitting up. "I was...reading," he mumbled, gesturing with a slight movement of one hand at a book sitting on the small round table next to the chair.

Pippin followed his gesture and grimaced. "I see." If he noticed that the lamp on the table was still full of oil and the wick untouched, he made no mention of it. "Merry my lad, this cannot go on. It’s been at least a week since you’ve had a decent night’s sleep. Auntie Esme was terribly alarmed at your rumpled and distracted state yesterday, which you would have known if you were even half awake at tea. She did everything but feel your forehead for fever and you just sat there, staring at the wall without giving the slightest sign you knew she was there."

"Don’t be ridiculous, Pippin," Merry responded with just a hint of a snap to his tone. "I was distracted for just a moment, and I apologized to Mum. Everyone woolgathers from time to time. It isn’t a sign of failing mental faculties, if that’s what you’re implying."

"Now you’re the one being ridiculous!" Pippin responded with more than just a hint of snap. "No one thinks anything of the sort. Now," he continued in a milder tone, "There’s a tub with hot water waiting for you down the hall. You’ll feel better once you’ve had a wash and a soak."

Merry followed Pippin down the hall, marvelling that the younger hobbit could really think that a hot bath would make everything better. A hot bath and a cup of tea seemed to be Pippin’s cure for everything from a sleepless night, to a toothache, to the loss of a dear friend. He swallowed the sudden and unexpected surge of anger that accompanied that thought, entering the warm and steamy bathing room just as Pippin was pouring a final kettle of hot water into the tub.

Half an hour later, steamed and soaked into a sleepy prune, Merry felt more kindly towards his cousin, who had flitted in and out of the room, chatting away lightly, full of undemanding gossip while Merry’s tense and cramped muscles loosened and his dark thoughts lightened. He sighed in drowsy contentment, allowing his eyes to close and his mind to drift as Pippin’s voice washed over him.

He was flying over a wildly tossing sea, following an elven ship as it crashed and floundered through the waves. Fighting the buffeting winds, he drew closer to the ship, finally alighting on the mast, high above the deck. Dim shapes stumbled and scurried across the face of the ship, hauling on ropes, fighting to steer into the waves, struggling to keep the ship upright and whole against the fury of the storm

"Frodo," he whispered, and the shining figure looked up.

"You shouldn’t be here, Merry," his beloved cousin said mournfully. "The ship is going to sink. We will all drown. You should have stayed in the Shire, safe from the storm."

"No," Merry whispered, refusing to believe this. "The elves know what they are doing. They will keep us afloat until the storm passes."

Frodo laughed harshly. "It was all a lie," he muttered. "There is no Blessed Realm. There is no Tol Eressea. There is just this storm, that pounds and beats at each ship that tries to pass. The elves come here to die, Merry." He laughed bitterly. "This is the healing I was promised. Death. Cold, wet death.". Descending the mast, he made his way through the chaos on the deck, voices shouting words he could not understand in harsh, exhausted tones, while the dimly seen figures, no clearer now that he was down amongst them, stumbled and staggered their way past him. He soon found himself approaching a shining figure sitting in a semi-sheltered corner of the foredeck.

Even as Merry shook his head, tried to deny the truth he saw in his cousin’s eyes, a massive wave rose over the ship.

"You should not have come, Merry," Frodo whispered sadly, wrapping his arms around Merry as the wave broke and crashed down upon them, bearing them deep under the surface of the sea in a rush of swirling water, flailing ropes and splintered wood.

Merry choked as water rushed into his mouth and nose, struggling to escape the deadly pull of the sea.

"Merry. Merry, wake up." Strong arms held him in an iron grip and he went limp, allowing the other to pull him to safety.

"Frodo?" he gasped in confusion.

There was just a hint of hesitation, a slight slackening of the grip holding him, and then the hands tightened again. "‘Fraid not, Mer. You’ll just have to make do with your Pippin. I’ve told you, you know, that you’ll drown if you sleep in the tub. I never expected you to really try it, though. Come on, out with you now. I think you’ve soaked long enough."

Pippin kept up a steady stream of exasperated commentary as Merry struggled to get his feet under him and climb out of the tub, still caught halfway between the nightmare and waking, fighting to determine which was real and which the dream. Once on his feet by the hearth, he stood unresisting, as Pippin wrapped a towel around him and pushed him to sit down on a stool.

Reality settled around him as he shivered against air that suddenly felt much colder than it had a few minutes ago. Grabbing the towel draped over his back, he dried himself off and gratefully slipped into the clean clothing that Pippin had left sitting by the hearth. It wasn’t until he was fully dressed that he noticed that he was alone.

Puzzled, he crossed the hall to the kitchen, where he could hear Pippin whistling in competition with the kettle.

"There, just in time for a nice spot of tea and a bite to eat," the younger hobbit muttered cheerfully as Merry entered the room and sat down at the rough hewn wooden table. He accepted the mug that Pippin handed him, wrapping his hands about the warm cup thankfully. He took a cautious sip and looked up in surprise at the bitter taste.

"Aye, I know. I did put some honey in, but the bitterness of Aragorn’s mix is hard to cover up without making the tea terribly sweet and cloying." Pippin grimaced wryly. "I didn’t put in much. We don’t have much left. But I thought you might need it."

"Thanks, Pip," Merry muttered, sipping at the tea gratefully. It was bitter, but the tea provided some comfort with its familiarity.

"Now, let’s talk about it."

Merry flinched at the uncompromising note in that statement. Pippin sounded far too determined. "Not...not right now, Pip. I’m going over some accounts with my dad this morning, and I’m sure I’m late already."

"I was up to the Hall earlier," Pippin replied, staring at Merry with stern eyes. "I’ve told your Da that you were going to need the morning off at the very least, and quite probably the afternoon as well."

"Pippin! You can’t just go about arranging things to your own satisfaction," Merry almost shouted, sudden anger surging through him. "I told my dad I would meet with him and meet with him I will. I’ll thank you to mind your own business." He shivered again, and rubbed at his right arm, which was aching slightly.

Pippin was uncowed by Merry’s anger, responding instead with anger of his own . "Don’t even try to tell me nothing is wrong, Merry. Your arm is sore, isn’t it? When was the last time it ached like this? Cormallen? Minas Tirith? What are you planning to do? Ignore the Shadow until you are so exhausted and ill that it claims you? If you think for even one minute that I’ll sit by and allow that to happen you’re even more stupid than I took you for."

Merry blinked at the unexpected tirade. After a moment he began to speak in a low voice, too tired to fight. "You know how the dreams go. They start off in a memory, an unpleasant one usually, although there have been times when a dream started out well enough, but they always go wrong somehow. Something happens at a crucial moment and instead of ...instead of Eowyn killing the Nazgul, or Gimli finding you, or any of a dozen things, it all goes horribly wrong. Eowyn dies and the Nazgul flies off to prevent Aragorn from landing his ships, or...or you die under that blasted troll, or well, you understand. But I’ve learned to recognize the signs and fight the dreams, restore the truth of the memory."

He paused, sipping his tea silently for several minutes before mustering the courage to continue. "The dreams I’m having now are different. They’re not memories an...and I don’t know the truth of them so I...I can’t fight them."

"Tell me what they are," Pippin urged softly. "Let me help you find the truth of them."

"I can’t," Merry whispered miserably. "I don’t want..." he paused, trying to get his voice under control. "I don’t want you to see what I see in these dreams. I don’t want you to feel that pain." Silent tears streaked down his cheeks.

Pippin darted around the table and wrapped his arms about Merry. "My dear, foolish Brandybuck," he choked, tears in his own eyes. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You have to tell someone, you know. If you ever want to sleep again you’re going to have to deal with this."

Merry debated within himself, but knew Pippin was right. Already he’d started losing his appetite and it wouldn’t be much longer before he became ill. It was just so hard, somehow, to face the dreams in his waking hours. So much easier to push them from his mind, refuse to acknowledge them. And yet, that didn’t make them go away.

"I see a beautiful elven ship tossing about in a stormy sea," he began, taking a deep breath. It was difficult, but Merry forced himself to relate all the details, right up to the end. "And then we’re crushed un..." he paused again, swallowing back a taste of bile, "crushed under a towering wave, sent to the bottom of the sea, unable to find any light or air and I watch Frodo drown and then I wake up. And I don’t know if it’s real or a d...dream and...and I ca...can’t fix the dream because I d...don’t know whe..where it goes wrong or if...if it goes wrong and I don’t know how to fight it..." He was shaking too hard to continue. Wrapping his arms tightly around himself, he pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head against them, giving in to the sobs that had been trying to break free all morning.

Pippin was crying as well, although his tears were softer. He made no effort to speak for a long while, just holding Merry and offering what comfort he could with his presence. It was nearly ten minutes before Merry stopped shaking and the tears slowed. By the time he’d composed himself again, Pippin had hopped up and was freshening their tea and pulling out some new seedcakes.

"I don’t know what to do, Pippin," he mumbled wearily, "I don’t know how to fix this."

"Oh, Merry," Pippin whispered. "I wish I could tell you with absolute certainty that Frodo is safe and well, busily starting a garden in Tol Eressea to share with Sam when he arrives. But I don’t know for certain, any more than you do." Pippin wiped a stray tear from his cheek. "I think we just have to take this one on faith, Merry. We have to believe that Gandalf and Elrond and the others wouldn’t lie to us like that. I can’t believe that they would promise healing that couldn’t be found. Therefore I have hope. Hope that Frodo has found his healing, and hope that you and Sam and I can find our healing as well."

There was silence for several minutes as Merry tried to understand what Pippin was telling him. He wanted to believe that Frodo was well. He wanted that to be true more than anything else in his life right now, but he couldn’t know for sure and the uncertainty had been tearing him apart since last autumn.

"Have you tried," Pippin began, "changing the dream? Making it go a different way? I know it’s more difficult because you can’t mould it to a memory, but maybe you can reshape it. Instead of the waves crushing the ship, try having the wind send the ship flying across the sea. End the storm and let Frodo find his peace."

Merry didn’t answer but he let the idea settle in his mind, trying to envision a different ending, one that would transform the nightmare into a healing dream.

***

"You shouldn’t be here, Merry," his beloved cousin said mournfully. "The ship is going to sink. We will all drown. You should have stayed in the Shire, safe from the storm."

"No," Merry whispered, refusing to believe. "The elves know what they are doing. They will keep us afloat until the storm passes."

Frodo laughed harshly. "It was all a lie," he muttered. "There is no Blessed Realm. There is no Tol Eressea. There is just this storm, that pounds and beats at each ship that tries to pass. The elves come here to die, Merry." He laughed bitterly. "This is the healing I was promised. Death. Cold, wet death."

"No," Merry whispered again. "This will not happen. I will not allow it." Gathering all his strength and determination, he looked up at the churning clouds and pictured them blowing away, pictured the sun breaking through and soothing the wild seas.

It was difficult. Far more difficult than it had ever before been to change a dream, but Merry refused to give up. Just when he thought he might burst, and the heavy, dark wave began to rise, a brisk wind blew up, parting the clouds overhead. The rain slowed and finally stopped altogether, and the sun shone fully upon the sea, calming the wild waves until the surface of the sea was smooth as glass. In the distance, but coming closer with each passing heartbeat, was a land of surpassing beauty, and Merry turned to Frodo with a smile quivering at the corners of his mouth.

"My dearest Cousin, you will find all the healing you were promised, here. Do not fear the stormy nights, they but bring the rain that makes the flowers grow." Even as he turned once more toward the beauty of the island everything around him faded and disappeared.

Opening his eyes, Merry looked out his window at the early morning sun, just poking her nose over the horizon. After a long moment he wiped the tears from his cheeks and rose to his feet. There were things to do today, but first things first. He was hungry and the smell of sausages was creeping down the hall from the kitchen. With a smile, he dressed and left his room.