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Jul. 12th, 2004 11:54 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
rabidsamfanWhen I got started in this fandom I wrote a fic called Fourteen Days which I always meant to come back to and write a bit more in the middle of.
Well, I finally did.
Fourteen Days: Merry
Merry sat holding Frodo’s uninjured hand, murmuring nonsense at his cousin while Aragorn coaxed some food into Sam and cleaned him up, washing away the fever sweat before bundling the unconscious gardener into a blanket and settling onto the bed for another round of the healing trance.
As the scent of athelas swirled onto the air, Merry focused his eyes on his hands. Three days of this had taught him the horrible routine, and he concentrated on soothing Frodo for a little longer, not willing to watch as Aragorn’s face reflected Sam’s nightmares, not wanting to see tears running down that stern, proud face again.
“Meriadoc?” Gandalf touched his shoulder, and he looked up, startled, into the wizard’s kindly eyes. “Should I stay?”
“Pippin…” Merry managed, past the knot in his throat but Gandalf only smiled.
“Pippin has Gimli and Legolas to do his bidding, and has improved to the point where he has begun to complain of boredom. It will do him no harm to be deprived of my company for another hour.”
Merry nodded. Gandalf settled beside him, close enough to lean against, and gradually the warmth and the gently familiar scent of pipeweed tangled in the wizard’s beard began to soothe him, and he found his voice. “Frodo looks better, don’t you think?”
“He does,” Gandalf said.
“Better than Sam,” Merry said flatly. “Except for his hand, and that burn on his ankle, Frodo’s mostly intact. Sam isn’t.” He’d been thinking about it, and he didn’t like what he was thinking. But he had to know for sure. “It’s because of the Ring, isn’t it? That’s why Frodo’s got scars when Sam is still barely healed. Isn’t it, Gandalf?”
“Yes it is,” Gandalf said. “The Ring healed its bearers physical hurts – it must have been its nature to do so, I think, for no malice on its part could prevent it. That is why Gollum could survive for so long, and why Bilbo – and Frodo – did not seem to age.”
“So,” Merry concluded, reluctantly. “He must have got his hand hurt at the very last moment. Right when he lost the Ring. And the burn too.”
“Yes.”
“We should wake him,” Merry said, tracing his fingertips over the bandage as lightly as he would touch a butterfly. “He needs to know that the nightmare is over.”
“But it isn’t.” Aragorn’s words startled Merry, but Gandalf kept him from falling off the bed. The king stood carefully and bent to tuck his burden into the bed again before straightening and studying the two sleepers. “I will not waken Frodo to grief, and I still do not know if I can waken him to joy.”
Gandalf squeezed Merry’s shoulder quickly, and then rose to steer the King over to the water basin. Aragorn splashed water onto his face obediently, accepting the towel that Gandalf handed him and vanishing into it for a moment before emerging.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps if Elrond were here…”
“You’re tired,” Gandalf said.
“Yes. And I keep stumbling in the same place,” Aragorn replied. “Sam’s other dreams I can understand – they are full of thirst and flame. But sometimes he dreams of cold and wet, and a grey morning filled with swords and battle, and in that dream a sword hits him and cuts deep, and then another and another, until his armor is pierced and he feels the blade biting deep into his heart.” Aragorn glanced down at his own arm, where a new scar was healing among the others. “It feels real, and yet, not real. As if the dream belongs to someone else.”
Merry paled. “It does.”
“Merry?” the King and the wizard turned to look at him in unison.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Merry said. “But if I must, I must.” He took a deep breath. “Did Frodo ever tell you what happened when we left the Shire? About Tom Bombadil and all?”
“He told the Council of Tom Bombadil, of course,” Aragorn said.
“And did he tell you that I nearly got us all killed twice, before we ever got to Bree?”
“He mentioned needing rescuing,” Gandalf said, “although he didn’t say that you were at fault. A huorn, wasn’t it? And…”
“And a barrow wight.” Merry wrapped his arms around himself to try to stop the shivers. “Sam didn’t get taken by Old Man Willow, but the wight got him, same as Pippin and me. And oh, the dreams, the dreams – It’s always the same: as if we’d been in the battle and died with the others. Not a nightmare. A memory. It comes to me sometimes still. Pippin too. Sam's never said, but I know he slept badly at Rivendell. Though if it were wights or wraiths he was dreaming about I still don’t know.”
“A barrow wight?” Aragorn head came up, and the light was in his eyes. “From the Downs? Are you certain Merry? Is that where the dream comes from?”
“Not certain,” Merry said. “But I think so. My dream is like that – cold and misty and hopeless.”
“Not hopeless,” Aragorn said, kneeling to look Merry in the eye. “Now that I know what I’m facing, I should be able to fight it.”
“Now?” Merry asked. The King looked tired to him, and after all he’d done for Frodo and Sam today, he had every right. But it might mean Sam’s life.
“Tomorrow,” Aragorn said. “Sam shouldn’t dream again until then. I’ve done that much for him this time.”
The Man was tired. His hands were trembling with it, and his eyes were crying for rest. Merry looked at Sam, who was sleeping quietly next to Frodo, and took a deep breath. It wasn’t just the Ring that had helped Frodo survive the Morgul blade on the road to Rivendell. It wasn’t just the Ent draft that had healed Pippin and him. Hobbits were stronger than they looked. Especially Sam. He made himself smile back at Aragorn. “Tomorrow.”
Timeline (fiction only, most recent version, includes AU) first previous next last
Well, I finally did.
Fourteen Days: Merry
Merry sat holding Frodo’s uninjured hand, murmuring nonsense at his cousin while Aragorn coaxed some food into Sam and cleaned him up, washing away the fever sweat before bundling the unconscious gardener into a blanket and settling onto the bed for another round of the healing trance.
As the scent of athelas swirled onto the air, Merry focused his eyes on his hands. Three days of this had taught him the horrible routine, and he concentrated on soothing Frodo for a little longer, not willing to watch as Aragorn’s face reflected Sam’s nightmares, not wanting to see tears running down that stern, proud face again.
“Meriadoc?” Gandalf touched his shoulder, and he looked up, startled, into the wizard’s kindly eyes. “Should I stay?”
“Pippin…” Merry managed, past the knot in his throat but Gandalf only smiled.
“Pippin has Gimli and Legolas to do his bidding, and has improved to the point where he has begun to complain of boredom. It will do him no harm to be deprived of my company for another hour.”
Merry nodded. Gandalf settled beside him, close enough to lean against, and gradually the warmth and the gently familiar scent of pipeweed tangled in the wizard’s beard began to soothe him, and he found his voice. “Frodo looks better, don’t you think?”
“He does,” Gandalf said.
“Better than Sam,” Merry said flatly. “Except for his hand, and that burn on his ankle, Frodo’s mostly intact. Sam isn’t.” He’d been thinking about it, and he didn’t like what he was thinking. But he had to know for sure. “It’s because of the Ring, isn’t it? That’s why Frodo’s got scars when Sam is still barely healed. Isn’t it, Gandalf?”
“Yes it is,” Gandalf said. “The Ring healed its bearers physical hurts – it must have been its nature to do so, I think, for no malice on its part could prevent it. That is why Gollum could survive for so long, and why Bilbo – and Frodo – did not seem to age.”
“So,” Merry concluded, reluctantly. “He must have got his hand hurt at the very last moment. Right when he lost the Ring. And the burn too.”
“Yes.”
“We should wake him,” Merry said, tracing his fingertips over the bandage as lightly as he would touch a butterfly. “He needs to know that the nightmare is over.”
“But it isn’t.” Aragorn’s words startled Merry, but Gandalf kept him from falling off the bed. The king stood carefully and bent to tuck his burden into the bed again before straightening and studying the two sleepers. “I will not waken Frodo to grief, and I still do not know if I can waken him to joy.”
Gandalf squeezed Merry’s shoulder quickly, and then rose to steer the King over to the water basin. Aragorn splashed water onto his face obediently, accepting the towel that Gandalf handed him and vanishing into it for a moment before emerging.
“I’m sorry,” he said, shaking his head. “Perhaps if Elrond were here…”
“You’re tired,” Gandalf said.
“Yes. And I keep stumbling in the same place,” Aragorn replied. “Sam’s other dreams I can understand – they are full of thirst and flame. But sometimes he dreams of cold and wet, and a grey morning filled with swords and battle, and in that dream a sword hits him and cuts deep, and then another and another, until his armor is pierced and he feels the blade biting deep into his heart.” Aragorn glanced down at his own arm, where a new scar was healing among the others. “It feels real, and yet, not real. As if the dream belongs to someone else.”
Merry paled. “It does.”
“Merry?” the King and the wizard turned to look at him in unison.
“I don’t want to talk about it,” Merry said. “But if I must, I must.” He took a deep breath. “Did Frodo ever tell you what happened when we left the Shire? About Tom Bombadil and all?”
“He told the Council of Tom Bombadil, of course,” Aragorn said.
“And did he tell you that I nearly got us all killed twice, before we ever got to Bree?”
“He mentioned needing rescuing,” Gandalf said, “although he didn’t say that you were at fault. A huorn, wasn’t it? And…”
“And a barrow wight.” Merry wrapped his arms around himself to try to stop the shivers. “Sam didn’t get taken by Old Man Willow, but the wight got him, same as Pippin and me. And oh, the dreams, the dreams – It’s always the same: as if we’d been in the battle and died with the others. Not a nightmare. A memory. It comes to me sometimes still. Pippin too. Sam's never said, but I know he slept badly at Rivendell. Though if it were wights or wraiths he was dreaming about I still don’t know.”
“A barrow wight?” Aragorn head came up, and the light was in his eyes. “From the Downs? Are you certain Merry? Is that where the dream comes from?”
“Not certain,” Merry said. “But I think so. My dream is like that – cold and misty and hopeless.”
“Not hopeless,” Aragorn said, kneeling to look Merry in the eye. “Now that I know what I’m facing, I should be able to fight it.”
“Now?” Merry asked. The King looked tired to him, and after all he’d done for Frodo and Sam today, he had every right. But it might mean Sam’s life.
“Tomorrow,” Aragorn said. “Sam shouldn’t dream again until then. I’ve done that much for him this time.”
The Man was tired. His hands were trembling with it, and his eyes were crying for rest. Merry looked at Sam, who was sleeping quietly next to Frodo, and took a deep breath. It wasn’t just the Ring that had helped Frodo survive the Morgul blade on the road to Rivendell. It wasn’t just the Ent draft that had healed Pippin and him. Hobbits were stronger than they looked. Especially Sam. He made himself smile back at Aragorn. “Tomorrow.”
Timeline (fiction only, most recent version, includes AU) first previous next last
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Date: 2004-07-13 11:33 pm (UTC)*goes back to work on my Barrow-wight story, newly inspired*
Oh, goody! I'm waiting for that story!