Athelas

He does not know how long he has been walking through this dark forest, but he is searching for something, something very dear, yet lost to him. Black trees crowd around him menacingly, and the heavy silence is broken only by the sigh of leaves and the scraping of bark. They are whispering.

He looks up at them warily, feeling the weight of their watchful gaze, and a little tendril of fear entwines itself around his heart and tightens. He does not understand what they are saying, but the air is thick with their malice. They know what he is looking for, he feels it, and he drags his feet now – afraid to stop, afraid to continue. On the verge of panic, he whirls around.

Why is he here alone?

The trees laugh. It is a cruel, harsh sound, and their words become clear and distinct as he hears their reply in the whispering of branches: his friends are lost and the Shire is gone, like it had never been... and he failed.

Hope is lost too – though he cannot remember the last time he felt hope. He cannot remember coming here, or even how he lost his friends; all he knows is this long tunnel of despair, and his heart darkens with it. He stops and closes his eyes, sinking wearily to the ground. It is all gone, everything he holds dear, and there is nothing left.

For the briefest moment as he lies there, he imagines that he can smell apples, and woodsmoke. He looks up at the black canopy above him, hardly daring to believe it, but weariness slowly ebbs away as he breathes in deeply, desperately, hoping to smell it again, that familiar scent – so well-loved it is, yet just out of reach.

He picks himself up and stumbles on, for something now drives him forward, and ever so often he catches it again – pipeweed and grass and sunlight.

Suddenly, so suddenly, the trees melt away and he comes to the brow of a hill. He feels as though he could touch it, that scent, for it is so close, and he reaches out now even though there is nothing there, sobbing with need as he seeks something to ease this terrible crushing loneliness.

And then before him, as though a sheet of rain that had hidden it from view has now swept on its way, he sees the Shire in the distance, the flowing Brandywine, a patchwork of fields and cows in the pasture. He stares at it in bewilderment, not trusting that this is not some cruel trick, even though it looks so real, and smells… he breathes it in again, deeply.

And hears his name being called urgently.

"Merry! Merry, love, please… wake up."

The vision fades to blackness and Merry opens his eyes reluctantly, almost frightened by what he might see. Dazzled by the brightness of this room he is in, he looks up – and finds just what he was looking for, right here beside him. Green eyes dappled with sunlight, and unruly, golden curls; bowed lips curved in a familiar smile. Home itself, here with him, holding his hands.

He lets out a small sigh and breathes in again, then, for the air is light and fresh here. Unlike his dream, the scent of home has not faded but fills the room instead; it eases his heart, and all thoughts of despair vanish. Only one thought remains.

"I am hungry. What is the time?"