Disclaimer - I, as ever, am not the owner of LotR or any of the characters or places mentioned in this piece of writing. I own my mind. Just. Don't sue me - I have lots to save up for!

A/N - Not a lot to say yet, this is only the first chapter. Well actually...

My hugest apologies go out to Shirebound - if this sounds in any way, shape or form like 'In the Keeping of the King', then I am SO sorry! It was not intentional. This story stems from an idea relating to symbolism that will feature in chapter 2 - I just realised that it would be necessary for me to work backwards from that, and so we come to this. (Don't hate me!)

Chapter 1 - Everything goes, everything stays.

The battle had ended. The Pelannor Fields, once a place of great happiness and beauty, lay stained with the blood of the wounded, and the dead and the live mingled. A stench filled the air: burning, dying, suffering. The pain that war brought did not know or regard sides: it just existed and spread, touching everyone from the noble to the peasant and round to the orc.

Merry was one of the many hurt. He stumbled almost blindly across what seemed like an endless sea of tragic soldiers - each with their own fatal flaw. The need to fight, the pride or ruthlessness that possessed them to partake in the terrible battle had taken their lives. Merry followed what remained of the victors into the white city, where evidence of war was to be seen everywhere. The white had been tarnished and a high price had been paid for life and existence. Not that this entered the young hobbit's consciousness. Nothing did. The entire energy of his being was focused on placing one foot in front of the other and moving himself to a place of safety.

He could not see where he was going any more. All that had become visible to him was the terrible image that he had struck down, the being that had led to the King's death. He saw nothing else. The blackness of evil encompassed him and he fell, unaware of his surroundings and the life that was approaching him.

~::~ ~::~

"Merry..." a low voice broke through the mists that had settled themselves in his mind.

"Merry..." the voice was calling to him, bidding him return from his wanderings, growing louder each time it repeated his name. It was moving closer now, and the fervent state of restlessness that he lay in had been penetrated.

"Merry..." the voice... so familiar. It kept drawing nearer and nearer, edging through the clouds. Suddenly it touched him.

Merry cracked open his eyes and blinked at the brightness that filled the room. He was surrounded by faces, faces that he had not seen for a long time. Faces that he thought he would never return to.

"I am hungry. What is the time?"

The lost hobbit had answered his call.

~::~ ~::~

War had come. Gondor was alive with preparation for the troops who would be marching to Mordor in a desperate last stand against the Dark Lord. Desperate because the real hope stood not in battle, but in two diminutive beings who were currently wandering in a land darker than any they had ever known.

Those in high positions maintained a grim but businesslike demeanour, making the final arrangements, but the civilian soldiers spent the last hours with loved ones or enjoying a final ale in the victorious but clearly traumatised city. It was not discussed with their families, but the general unspoken consensus among the soldiers was that this was the end. They did not expect to return.

A sense of guilt hung around those who would be remaining in Minas Tirith. Many were too old or too weak to be sent to war, and many were women or children, denied their chance at battle by fate. Merry was one of those who would be staying behind. It was not of his own choice: he had been deemed too unwell to join with the Rohirric soldiers in battle. The same hand had been dealt to Faramir and Éowyn - the hurt they had received was too grievous for them to fight. A feeling of discontent consequently stained the otherwise pure air in the Houses of feeling. The discontent that they would be forced to wait, in hiding from the final destruction of the world that would ultimately come unless the Ringbearer was successful. They would be watching as they sent their friends to die, watching as the shadow spread further. Guilt and grief taint even the noblest of hearts.

For Merry, the pain was intense. In the three days since his awakening at the hands of Aragorn he had learned much of the quests of his companions. The journey along the Paths of the Dead that had been taken by Legolas, Gimli and Aragorn, the role of Pippin during the siege of Minas Tirith, the part that Gandalf had played and, of course, the progress of Frodo and Sam that Faramir had relayed to them. That was the journey that was in all of their hearts constantly. All of these had brought great joy to Merry's heart and aided his healing, but the news that almost everyone he held dear to him was to be led to almost certain death had cut him deeply. Too deep. They were taking them away, taking Pippin away, taking the rest of his soul away. As the many soldiers marched away Merry crawled into a corner of the Houses of Healing and wept out of sight of the world. He did not want them to see him cry, but the bitter tears flowed onto the ground and washed away any hope he once had, and his sobs indicated to the city his hurts.

The shadow had taken hold. Only time would tell if there was hope left for Middle-earth and a new dawn would come.

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A/N - Well... that was Chapter 1!

Please review with any criticisms (constructive only!), ideas or just lovely compliments you have! Actually.... just review!

Rachel xxx