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, the moans 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 another 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.
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Merry woke up, his heart thumping so fast and hard that he thought the sound of it could be heard echoing through all the chambers of…where was he? Recollections of reality came back at him: Rivendell. They were in Rivendell again, on their way back home, to the Shire, together. The Ring has been destroyed, the war was over, the Enemy defeated. So why was he having those dreams again? Last time he had vivid and terrifying nightmares as such, it was during his recovering at the Houses of Healing, when everything was still so dark and uncertain. Thanks to the Valar, he had forgotten the details of those nightmares. He could only remember vague images, of him standing by Frodo at the top of Mount Doom, and then even more confusing bits. But one part was still so upsetting that he thought he could never get rid of it: in those dreams, he had tried to take the Ring from Frodo, there at the edge of the abyss of fire. But it was not something he wanted to try and remember after all. Frodo was safe now, he and Sam had succeeded in throwing the Ring into the fire and came back to them, no matter how horrifying and despairing those dreams had been.
Everybody was asleep in the House of Elrond now, and all was silence. Not wishing to go back to sleep, maybe back to another nightmare, Merry decided to get up and go outside, to let the cool air of the night refresh his spirit and his mind.
Rivendell was somehow different now, than the way he remembered it last time they were there, almost one year ago. Peace, light and hope had been brought back to Middle Earth with the destruction of the ring, but a strange atmosphere of sadness and emptiness seemed to linger still in Rivendell. It was Winterfilth, almost, if his keeping track of time was correct, but it seemed that this time autumn was going to stay longer there.
Or maybe it all was just in his mind.
Lost in his thoughts, he didn’t notice that someone had joined him in the columned patio, until Pippin spoke. “What are you doing outside, at this time of night, Merry?” Merry smiled. There had been other times, when he was staying at the Great Smials in Tuckborough, or when Pippin was staying at Brandy Hall, or when they were both visiting Frodo at Bag End, that he would get up in the middle of the night to get some water, or some food, or to do something else that needed be done, and more often than not his younger cousin would wake up too, and followed him to ask what he was doing.
But as he turned, Merry didn’t see the usual young hobbit rubbing his still sleepy eyes, but a grown-up, wide awake, with a shadow of worry on his face. “Hullo Pip! I was hungry. I am going to the kitchens to get myself some warm milk and a couple of scones, maybe. Join me?” He cheered, for he was sure that the nightmare would be completely forgotten the morning after. He still remembered now that it had something to do with his father, something awful, but he also knew that it was just a dream, that Saradoc didn’t have anything to do with the horrors they had experienced. He knew that the Shire was safe, untouched, and that the four of them would soon be there. Of that nightmare would maybe remain only a trace, some very thin and broken threads of a cobweb, in some hidden corner of his mind.
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TBC