Merry walked in a smoke-filled haze. Sometime during the fighting, he had lost track of Pippin. He had meant to stay by his side till the end, but there had been so many of the enemy that they had quickly become separated. Merry had lost track of the number of times his sword had swung to connect with the body of an orc. It seemed like he had staggered around for hours, barely registering his surroundings through a haze of blood and sweat. He was pretty sure some of the blood was his, although he wasn't aware of any pain stemming from a wound.

The last time he had been aware of Pippin was when he had heard his cousin shout, "The eagles are coming! The eagles are coming!" He had tried to make his way toward that voice, but had quickly gotten caught up again in the fighting. He had lost count of how many orcs he had downed when the eruption had caused all fighting to cease. Barad-dur had come crashing down, and the enemy had turned and fled like the cowards they were.

At that instant, Merry knew two things; that Frodo had accomplished his task, and that he and Sam had died in the fulfillment of that task. Joy and grief both tore at him at the same time, threatening to undo him.

But the worst part of all was watching Gimli walk towards Aragorn bearing the broken body of his dearest friend and cousin. Tears were streaming down Gimli's cheeks, and Merry knew that he would be returning to the Shire alone.

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At first, Merry didn't believe Gimli when he told him that Pippin was clinging to life. He couldn't believe in Pippin's survival, because to harbor hope meant to risk unbearable grief. Better to bury the dead sooner rather than later. Merry couldn't allow himself to feel relief, only to feel the sharp pang of loss when Pippin finally succumbed to his injuries. For succumb he surely would; no on could long survive the injuries that he had sustained. To be stabbed once in the left shoulder and shot with an arrow between the shoulder blades was bad enough; then to have a troll fall on you, crushing your ribs....who could live through all that? Certainly not a small halfling, no matter how tenaciously he fought to survive.

Then he got word that Frodo and Sam had arrived safely with the eagles and Gandalf. Scarred and hurt, but alive. Again, Merry buried the feeling of hope that flared within him. Sam and Frodo were both so badly injured that Aragorn had put them into a healing sleep that was to last for at least a fortnight. It took Aragorn and his foster brothers four hours to tend to the newly-arrived, unconscious hobbits. It took that long to force them to vomit up the ash that clogged up their lungs, clean and dress their wounds, bathe them, and ease water and broth down their throats. Frodo's finger stub had to be cleaned and bound immediately before infection set in. It was exhausting work.

Afterwards, Aragorn set two bowls of athelas-infused water in their tent, and laid hands on them as he chanted words in Elvish that put them into a deep, dreamless, healing sleep. This sleep slowed their metabolism so that they would only require water and broth twice a day without them wasting away. Merry wasn't allowed to see them for two days, partly to prepare him for the shock of the extent of their injuries and their change in appearance from plump, healthy hobbits to gaunt, sickly ones.

After five days of watching Aragorn tend to his three kinsmen, and keeping almost constant vigil over Pippin, Merry was overwhelmed with despair. There had been no change with any of the injured hobbits. Yes, they were all alive, but no movement had as yet been detected. They all just lay there, silent and still. Merry didn't know what would be worse; to have had them all die from the beginning, or to watch them all as they lay dying. Sobbing, Merry clutched Pippin's hand and let the tears stream down his cheeks.

Gandalf walked in just as Merry was hitching back a sob. Merry locked eyes with Gandalf, and Gandalf was shocked to see the dead look within Merry's blue ones. He had given up hope, and the anguish was eating him up inside. Gandalf strode over to the young hobbit, fell to his knees and gathered him up in his arms, holding him while Merry cried out all the tears that were left in him. Stroking his hair, Gandalf rocked back and forth while he tried to comfort the brave young Brandybuck. There were no words to be said, really. Only time would tell if these little ones would fight hard enough to come back to their kinsman.

TBC....