Aragorn had a weary smile on his face when Gandalf and Pippin entered Merry’s room. Pippin ran to Merry’s bedside, heart pounding. Merry’s face was grey, and he looked worse than ever. The fear that Merry would die seized him again, stronger than ever, and he clasped his hand.

    “Poor old Merry!” he cried, at a loss of what else to say.

    “Do not be afraid,” Aragorn said. “I have come in time, and I have called him back. He is weary now, and grieved, and has taken a hurt like the Lady Eowyn, daring to smite that deadly thing. But these evils can be amended.”

     Pippin looked up at him as he crushed two more leaves of athelas and cast them into a pan of hot water. A fresh clean fragrance, so like that of the Shire, stole through the room. Aragorn laid a hand on Merry’s head and stroked his curls, then touched his eyelids gently.

     “Merry,” he said in a calm yet strong voice.

     Merry took a deep breath, and his chest rose and fell under the covers. Then he opened his eyes and looked straight at them.

     “I am hungry. What is the time?”