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Chapter 8
THE HOUSES OF HEALING
A mist was in Merry’s eyes of tears and weariness when they
drew near the ruined Gate of Minas Tirith. He gave little
heed to the wreck and slaughter that lay about all. Fire and
smoke and stench was in the air; for many engines had been
burned or cast into the fire-pits, and many of the slain also,
while here and there lay many carcases of the great Southron
monsters, half-burned, or broken by stone-cast, or shot
through the eyes by the valiant archers of Morthond. The
flying rain had ceased for a time, and the sun gleamed up
above; but all the lower city was still wrapped in a smouldering
reek.
Already men were labouring to clear a way through the
jetsam of battle; and now out from the Gate came some
bearing litters. Gently they laid Éowyn upon soft pillows; but
the king’s body they covered with a great cloth of gold, and
they bore torches about him, and their flames, pale in the
sunlight, were fluttered by the wind.
So Théoden and Éowyn came to the City of Gondor, and
all who saw them bared their heads and bowed; and they
passed through the ash and fume of the burned circle, and
went on and up along the streets of stone. To Merry the
ascent seemed agelong, a meaningless journey in a hateful
dream, going on and on to some dim ending that memory
cannot seize.
Slowly the lights of the torches in front of him flickered
and went out, and he was walking in a darkness; and he
thought: ‘This is a tunnel leading to a tomb; there we shall
stay for ever.’ But suddenly into his dream there fell a living
voice.
‘Well, Merry! Thank goodness I have found you!’