Chapter four:  Nightmares

The night took an eternity to pass. Merry alternated between a sick sense of fear for his friends and raging against Aragorn for sending such a frightening and uninformative note. Unable to sleep, he paced his room for several hours until he began to feel like a caged beast. Then he went to the gardens and paced some more. It was well after midnight before he finally felt tired enough to succumb to sleep. Returning to his room, he laid down, fully dressed, on his bed. His mind continued to conjure up terrible images long after sleep finally overtook him.

He awoke with a shout and stared about himself in confusion. He’d been suffocating, a great weight pinning him down, unable to move or call for help, struggling just to breathe. Gradually his mind cleared and he realized it had been a nightmare, nothing more. Taking a deep, shaky breath, he sat up and looked out the window to judge the time. The stars were still out but the birds were chirping madly as they prepared for a new day. Time to get up.

Merry dragged himself out of bed, splashed some water on his face and changed into a fresh shirt before putting on the leather jerkin he’d been given in Dunharrow. Grabbing up his shield and helm, which he hung from his pack for the time being, he double checked the room to make sure he had not forgotten anything. Then, taking up his pack, he headed towards the kitchens. He was too anxious to have much appetite for breakfast but he wanted a cup of tea before he left.

"Master Brandybuck," the cook, a plump motherly woman with grey hair and a red face, acknowledged him. "You’re up early this morning."

"I’m leaving with the supply wains shortly and wanted some tea before I go." The words were barely out of his mouth before he found himself being pointed towards a tall stool next to a rough-hewn wooden table.

"Surely you’ll be wanting more than tea?" the woman asked.

Merry shook his head. "I’m not feeling very hungry this morning, Tirane."

The cook looked at Merry in concern. He had been taking most of his meals in the kitchens and she had gotten a sense of hobbit appetites. That he didn’t want anything to eat was enough to alarm her. She was used to cooking for sick or injured folk, however, and understood that sometimes a body needed food whether he wanted it or no. She decided to ignore Merry’s lack of appetite. Therefore, he soon found himself presented with a cup of tea, several slices of toast, sausages, eggs and a bowl of fruit. He looked at Tirane inquiringly.

"Eat, Master Brandybuck. You might not be feeling hungry now, but sure as the sun rises, you’ll be wanting something when you’re on the road and it’s too late to change your mind."

He really wasn’t hungry but smiled at her concern and gamely picked at his toast, managing to eat one slice before pushing the rest away. Looking up as he did so, he caught Tirane’s glare. "I’m really not hungry, Tirane," he protested. "If it will make you feel better, though, I’ll wrap up the sausages and some fruit to take with me."

"I suppose that will have to do," the cook grunted in concern. "I know you’re worried about your friends, lad," she continued in a kindly tone, "but it won’t do you or them no good to go wasting away from that worry. You eat and keep your strength up." She looked as though she would like to say more but restrained herself. She quickly wrapped the food for Merry, adding some more sausages, a small loaf of bread and a wedge of cheese as well as three or four apples. She gave him a stern look as she handed the food over but said nothing more about the matter. "I hope you find your friends well," she said then and returned to preparing breakfast for the rest of the House.

Merry accepted the packet of food and stowed it in his pack. Bowing, he bid Tirane farewell. It was time to go. Slinging the pack onto his back and absently rubbing his right arm, he left the House. The absolute black of the night sky was fading to a dark blue and only the very brightest stars were still visible. The air was cool and he pulled his cloak around himself as he walked through the city down to the first level. He found himself picking at the edges of the nightmare that had awakened him. He could no longer remember any details of it, but the sense of fear and pain lingered like the ache in his arm.

The last stars had disappeared by the time he reached the ruined Great Gate leading out of the city. There he found the supply wains all loaded and ready to go. He also found Faramir, in converse with the Warden, Faragut, and a man whom Merry concluded must be the lead driver.

"Ah, Merry." Faramir finished speaking with the men and saw the hobbit hovering uncertainly near the rearmost wain. "I know you were forced to leave your pony behind at Dunharrow, so I’ve taken the liberty of acquiring another for you." The pony that Faramir indicated was slightly larger than Stybba, the pony King Theoden had given him, with a rich chestnut coat and a thick mane of nearly black hair.

"Thank you, my lord, I..I’m in your debt," Merry stammered and bowed deeply. He was much moved by this gift, although he doubted Faramir understood what it meant to him. No longer must he ride attached to someone’s saddle like their blanket roll or spare shirt. Nor would he be forced to endure the claustrophobic confines of a supply wain, unable to do anything but sit and fret for the hours of the journey.

Merry attached his gear to the back of the saddle and mounted the pony, which shifted restlessly under him. He calmed her with a gentle hand and soft voice before turning to Faramir. "Does she have a name?" he asked curiously.

Faramir smiled. "If she does, I did not learn it. She is yours now, feel free to name her as you will." He hesitated before continuing. "I hope that your cousin, Peregrin, is well. I know that you are worried about him and I worry as well. I would have argued against his going to battle had I been well enough to attend that council. Although, judging from what I know of you and him, he would have been very difficult to leave behind." The Steward’s eyes twinkled as he said this and Merry could not help smiling in return.

"When I see Pippin I will give him your good wishes," Merry responded, mentally affirming that it was when, not if, as he’d almost said. That brought his thoughts back to places he did not wish them to go. Places dark and grim, where he traveled alone along roads meant for four. Shaking his head to dispel these thoughts, he saw that the supply wains were beginning to move. Bidding Faramir farewell, he nudged his pony into a gentle walk, falling into line behind the last wain.

"So, my friend," he said, stroking the pony’s neck, "you need a name." Merry continued speaking to the pony as they walked along, musing aloud on possible names. Soon the healers in the wain began calling out suggestions and it became a game, trying to find the best name for the shaggy little beast.

They followed a road which wound through the fields and villages of the Pelennor, traveling north-east towards Osgiliath, where the supplies would be loaded on ships and taken up river to Cair Andros. The distance was only four leagues but the heavy wains moved slowly and the horses had to be rested every hour. All in all, the trip took most of the morning, with the wains reaching the river a scant hour before noon.

Everything had then to be taken off the wains and reloaded onto the waiting ships and this took another several hours. With all of this, it was mid-afternoon before Merry found himself leading his pony, which had acquired the name Hanna at some point during the morning, into the hold of one of the ships.

"There you are, Hanna," he murmured as he fastened her harness to ties attached to the sides of the stall. He poured fresh water into her bucket and made sure she had plenty of hay to eat. Then, giving her a last affectionate pat, he closed the door of the stall. As he climbed the ladder up to the deck, he felt a lurching movement that indicated the ship had begun to move away from the dock.

Above deck, Merry lifted his face to the breeze, breathing deeply of the slightly salty tang in the air. He couldn’t see the ocean, but he knew that if the ship were to go downstream instead of up, they would arrive at the sea. Closing his eyes, he tried to picture what that much water must look like but wasn’t sure he was all that close to the truth. The best he could come up with was something that looked much like the Pool at Bywater, all still and calm, only stretching unimaginably far so that one couldn’t see across it.

With nothing much to do but wait, Merry found a quiet, out of the way spot and sat down. Despite Tirane’s predictions, he had not really been hungry at all today but he knew he should eat something. Pulling out the packet of food the cook had made for him, he sighed and forced himself to eat an apple and some bread. He couldn’t face the sausages, however, and ended up giving them and the cheese to the two healers who were traveling on this ship with him.

He spent the rest of the evening trying to stay out of the way of the sailors. Things settled down a bit as the sun sank and darkness overtook the ship. The healers had been found bunks in the crew’s quarters but the soldiers were sleeping in shifts on deck, under an awning. Merry had been overlooked in the sleeping arrangements but found he didn’t mind as much as he would have thought. It was a pleasant night to spend in the open, under the stars and Merry hoped that the fresh air, quiet creaking and groaning of the ship, the splash and lap of the water, the shushing of the soft breeze and the occasional muted voice of the men on guard would lull him to sleep.

Hours later, the stars had been covered with a thin veil of clouds and Merry was still awake, pacing the deck in an attempt to outrun the fears that had redoubled to plague him in the peace of the night. Finally, too exhausted to pace any longer, he returned to his blanket roll and lay down, tossing restlessly. He was shivering in the chill of the night, in spite of cloak and blanket, and his arm ached fiercely. The dread that had been haunting him since he received Aragorn’s note seemed overwhelming and inescapable in the darkness. Somehow, despite this, he finally managed to fall asleep.

Asleep, he dreamed. In his dream, he had returned home to Buckland. He wandered through the corridors of Brandy Hall, looking for his parents, but couldn’t find them. In fact, he realized, there was no one there at all. The Hall was deserted with an eerie feel of desolation. Finally, after what seemed hours of searching, he heard a noise further ahead of him in the corridor. Running to see who it was, he stopped in shock and horror. Frodo and Sam, bodies burned and blackened almost beyond recognition, were playing at dice in a room crowded with cast-off furnishings and forgotten mathoms. Frodo looked up at him and grinned, the skin melting off his face, while Sam rolled the dice with skeletal fingers. Merry backed away, crying out a refusal to accept what he was seeing. Turning, he ran from the room, not stopping until he heard another sound, this time coming from his father’s study. Opening the door cautiously, hoping against hope that it was his parents, he found Pippin. His cousin turned to face him and revealed a body feathered with arrows, rent by swords, covered in blood.

"No!" Merry shouted, coming suddenly awake. His heart was pounding, pain was stabbing through his head and arm, and he felt sick to his stomach. Scrambling to the railing, he heaved and retched for some minutes before his guts finally settled down. Only a dream, he told himself over and over. Only a dream. Wiping his mouth with his sleeve, he shakily returned to his blankets and wrapped himself up. It was some time before his heart slowed to normal and he ceased shaking. He continued to sit like that, huddled in his blanket, head nodding but afraid to sleep, until morning.