|
Counterpoint, Movement XI
Accelerando: increase of speed.
* * *
A great, rushing, pounding roar and for once it wasn’t inside his head. Thunder rolled beneath his feet, fire raged fierce over savage, boiling waters and the world pitched and hewed with the buzzing, screeching wails of creatures bounded and brought low. Merry watched black robes toss and lurch through waters still white with tapering foam, heard the frenzied death-cries of beast and rider alike, and only smiled a cold little smile, smug and cruel, as malicious joy claimed him, filled him, washed over his skin as smooth and cool as the waters that took them down.
The smile faltered as Strider flew by him, slogging through waters still surging fast and wild, foaming to the tops of his thighs. His eyes were set on the brow of the hill, his face stern and hard. Merry followed his gaze and his smile shattered, brittle as glass, and turned to a snarl.
Frodo lay on the other side of the roiling river, still as stone, the great, white steed standing guard beside him.
Merry tore his eyes away, turned them back to the rushing water. Strider was almost halfway across the river now, eyes intent, jaw set hard. Merry bared his teeth, his heart running wild within his chest. He threw his torch aside, heard it hiss as it hit the sodden strand.
“Stop!”
It wasn’t time, yet! He knew it, he could feel it. Cold, yes, and terrified, but it wasn’t the same. The familiar black chill that had taken his heart as the Riders bore down upon them, racing to the Ford and to Frodo, had left him, ebbed away with the swirling mist that roiled up from the churning waters. They had not made Frodo one of them, not yet, and Merry would be damned if he’d allow the man to act in his stead, to take Frodo’s life when it still might be saved.
Merry drew his sword, stepped quick and resolute into the frigid water. Up to his knees, soaking his breeks, then further, stumbling, staggering against the swift current, losing his feet then catching them quick again, buoying up, plunging down. It was up to his chest already, surging and curling about him, and the man was closing on Frodo now, gaining the riverside. Merry gritted his teeth, pushed against the current with all his strength.
“Hoy! Stop! You stay away from him!”
A hand at his elbow, trying to haul him back, and Merry turned, yanked his arm away, raised his sword and rounded on…
“Pippin!” he shouted over the roar and Pippin pierced him with a narrow gaze, flicked his eyes from Merry to Strider then back again. Merry straightened his sword-arm, pointed up the embankment. “Go!” he bawled then, not waiting to see if Pippin followed, he resumed his fight through the surging current, muscles straining against the wall of fast-moving water, knees locked against the eddy and flux that tried to drag him down to the rocky bed of the Ford. His steps were stilted, ponderous, and he fought with all his might against the fatigue already laying claim to his limbs.
He kept his eyes trained on the man; Strider had reached the lip of the rise, took a quick second to stroke the horse’s thick neck with a reassuring hand before kneeling beside the small, sodden figure on the ground. Merry kept moving, absently noted that the water was receding, barely over his knees now, and his steps were becoming easier, faster. But his eyes remained on the man, watching his hands as they moved over Frodo. Merry had just gained the strand when Strider turned to him, met his fierce gaze with a look of fear and naked regret.
“No!” Merry roared. “Get off! Get off!” and he lurched forward, stumbled, fought to keep his feet, free hand scrabbling at the rocks, digging up handfuls of muck and river-slimed weeds as he began the climb up the slippery bank. Another hand at his elbow, steadying him and restraining his sword-arm at the same time, and Merry dragged his eyes from the man, turned and snarled, “Leave off!” at the elf who had hold of him.
“Slowly, young master,” Glorfindel soothed, and Merry saw that he also had a worried-looking Sam by the shoulder of his coat, holding him steady.
“Bugger off!” Merry snarled and heaved at his arm. The elf held fast and Merry turned desperate eyes to Pippin, who now stood beside Merry, looking sodden, exhausted and confused but completely alert. And when Merry shouted “Go!” right into Pippin’s face, Pippin simply shucked his water-logged pack and cloak, turned and sprinted up the slick embankment, his steps careful but quicksilver as he navigated his way over the treacherous ground.
Merry turned back to Glorfindel, eyes burning and lips pulled back over his teeth. “Leave. Off.” He said it slowly, clearly, and the elf blinked, raised his eyebrows and let go Merry’s arm. Merry spared no words to either the elf or Sam but turned and dashed after Pippin, sword clenched in his fist, clinking against slick stones and shearing away bits of weed and bracken as he scrabbled up. He reached the top, stopped, panting.
Pippin stood over Frodo, his eyes intent upon the man and his own hand clenching the hilt of his sword as Strider bent over Frodo, hands working at the clasp of Frodo’s cloak, unfastening it then drawing the sopping, heavy fabric away. The buttons at his throat were next and Strider took no time to fumble at them, simply yanked at the fabric itself and tore the shirt open. He placed a hand to Frodo’s chest, was still for far too long before turning wounded eyes to first Pippin then Merry.
“No!” Merry seethed, bolted the few remaining steps to Frodo’s side and shoved the man away. He slapped at Frodo’s cheek, hard, and felt a sick sinking in his gut as Frodo’s head just rocked to the side. No reaction, not even the slightest twitch, and Merry screamed this time, “No!” and struck Frodo again. “Wake up!” He shook Frodo’s shoulder, tossed his sword to lay beside Frodo’s broken one and clutched at the lapels of his coat, shook again. “Wake up, Frodo, wake up right now!”
“Get back!” Strider snapped, pushing Merry’s hands away and throwing his pack to the ground. He tore his bedroll from its ties, threw it over Frodo. “It may already be too--”
“Don’t you say that!” Merry cried. “You shut up, you shut your mouth right now! It isn’t too late. I’d know it if it were, I’d feel it. So, just… just do something! Get that plant or--”
“It is useless, I tell you!”
“You don’t know that! You can’t know that!”
“He hovers between worlds and there is only one who might call him back.”
“Then move! Why are we sitting here, when--”
“Mr. Merry?”
Sam’s voice was small and reedy, full of confusion and fear, and Merry turned to him, allowed his own fear to show stark and unrestrained. Sam looked long at Merry and Merry let him look, let him see. Then Sam slowly turned his eyes to Frodo, shock and depthless pain writhing over his features, twisting them into a mask of agony and pure, absolute heartbreak. Sam shook his head slowly, stumbled. Pippin took hold of him then, shored him up. Merry closed his eyes tight, clenched his teeth then stood, turned on Glorfindel.
“You!” he barked. “Pick him up.” It was an order, said with every ounce of Master of Buckland authority behind it, and left no room for misunderstanding. “You said Rivendell isn’t far from here, so just you pick him up and ride him there.”
The elf, who had been standing silently behind Sam, now pulled his eyes from Frodo and turned them to Strider. A silent conversation took place between the two and the man gave a slight shake of his head.
“Don’t look at him!” Merry shouted. “He wrote Frodo off days ago, so don’t look at him for answers! Just you pick up my cousin right now and get him to someone who will help him.”
Then Pippin, eyes fixed on Glorfindel, let go Sam’s arm, stooped, picked up Merry’s sword and handed it to him. And then he drew his own.
“Now,” was all he said.
Glorfindel looked calmly from one cousin to the other and then to Sam, who drew himself up, squared his shoulders and took his place to Merry’s left. He lifted his chin, though it quivered, and tears streamed steadily down his cheeks. Merry could feel him trembling beside him.
“Merry.” Strider visibly strained for calm. “You know the danger here and you must act now! You know what doom--”
“It isn’t time!” Merry cried. “I would know it! You trusted me with this task and you must trust me now. I tell you, it isn’t too late!”
“And if you’re wrong?”
Then I will have doomed him to a fate I cannot even begin to fathom because, even now, when it really matters, I still cannot bear to let go.
Merry shook his head, clenched his teeth. No, that wasn’t it. He wasn’t wrong – he knew it. He knew the dark touch, had felt its creeping intimacy upon him, even before the elf had cried his warning. It was familiar, known, and he searched his heart for it now, looked to Frodo’s still face and searched it as well. The evil touch had gone and no blackness lay upon Frodo’s soul, none that Merry could ken and, if he trusted nothing else at this moment, Merry trusted that, if Frodo’s spirit had darkened, turned to them… Merry would smell smoke and copper in his soul, would feel black despair in his heart.
Merry levelled an even gaze at the man, poured every bit of conviction he had into it and said fiercely, “I’m not.”
Strider shook his head, suddenly unsure. “How can you know?” he asked softly.
“I just do,” Merry answered and, knowing that wasn’t enough for one who had not been inside his head for the past three weeks, he cast about frantically, searching his heart, his head, his soul for something real and tactile, something convincing. And then the horse let loose with a snuffle, pawed the ground and Merry thanked whatever Power might exist for giving him a father whose own lack of business-sense made it necessary for his son learn every aspect of the Hall’s pony-trading business.
“The horse!” he cried, triumphant. “It wouldn’t just be standing here, guarding him, if he…” He loosed a watery, breathless laugh, turned a pleading gaze to the elf. “Well, would it?”
Glorfindel turned his eyes to Strider, lifted an eyebrow. A tiny, surprised smile lit his face and Merry thought he’d never seen anything so beautiful in all his life. He turned back to Strider, regarded him anxiously; the man trained a narrow gaze to Merry’s confident one, scrutinised him. Merry kept himself still, kept his eyes hard and resolute until, finally, the man’s face softened and he shook his head, shrugged in relieved defeat. Strider looked to the elf.
“Do as they ask,” he said.
“That won’t be necessary,” Glorfindel answered quietly and, before Merry could summon betrayal from the relief that had only seconds ago washed through him, before he could spit out a furious reply, Glorfindel pointed to the path through the trees behind them.
Five elves approached on silent feet, faces sombre. Tall and slender, graceful as swans on mirrored water, they moved as though they did not so much as glance off the tips of the grass that swayed ever so slightly beneath the soft, deerskin boots that covered their feet. Two of them had hair as fine and gold as silken flax, while the other three were darker-tressed. All were pale as milk and distant, their pleasant features fair to look upon but uninviting to the touch. Four of them bore a litter between them.
Glorfindel nodded in greeting and the elf to the fore, tall and stern, black hair shimmering in a sleek sheen over his shoulders, nodded back. He stooped, laid a hand to Strider’s shoulder, spoke quietly to the man and Strider nodded, bowed his head wearily. The elf smiled slightly, placed a kiss to Strider’s brow then turned his attention to Frodo.
Merry watched it all, feeling suddenly out of place, and only stood silent as the elf gestured to his companions to lay down the litter. Gently, they positioned it beside Frodo then, just as gently, lifted him and placed him upon it. The elf spoke again to Strider, who remained crouched on the ground, and Strider took the hilt of the black knife from his belt and handed it over. Another soft smile, another kiss to his brow and a gentle squeeze to his shoulder and Strider breathed a tired sigh, laid his hand to the elf’s.
“Thank you, my brother,” he whispered and then the others were lifting Frodo, turning. A word from the fifth and all five started off, back through the trees, their pace a slow jog. They made no sound as they made their way along the path and were out of sight in mere moments, leaving Merry suddenly lost, without mooring or anchor and a sword hanging loose in his hand.
He turned, stared stupidly at Glorfindel for a moment before letting his gaze wander back over to Strider. Strider was peering at him sadly but with a tiny, commiserating smile turning up one corner of his mouth, lighting those grave eyes just the smallest bit.
“A stout heart, indeed,” he murmured quietly then shook his head, stood. He looked to each of the hobbits, one at a time. “We cannot tell what awaits,” he said. “But all that can be done, will be done. If my word is worth anything to you, then you have it.” He picked up his pack, shouldered it. “Shall we?” Then he turned and followed the path the elves had taken just moments before.
Merry looked down to his hand, noted his sword was still loosely clutched in it, then slowly sheathed it, blew out a long breath. He turned first to Pippin then to Sam, nodded and followed after Strider.
* * *
It was perhaps two miles from the Ford to the Last Homely House but it seemed as though it took days to stumble their slow way there. They were exhausted, heartsick, and none spoke a single word the entire way.
When they broached the crest and finally looked upon Rivendell, it was relief and weary gratitude that filled their hearts, rather than the soft wonder the sight had inspired in many before them. The majestic falls, spilling from between stones cut by the ages and dressed in silken green moss, foaming white into the basin far below, was simply a dull roar in the back of their heads; the tall folk who smiled softly in greeting as they passed were just more obstacles they had to navigate in order to get to Frodo.
Strider led them into the vast house, through hallways that swept up into cool arcing curves above their heads, fine silk rugs over marble at their feet, works of eye-dazzling art dotting the walls. Merry had eyes for none of it; only plodded along behind the man, impatiently willing him to get to their destination and bugger all, right now, how bloody big could one house be, anyway, for pity’s sake!
Finally, the man stopped before a great pine door, vaulted high, its lines meeting in a graceful curvette near the ceiling. He turned slowly.
“You must wait here.”
Merry frowned, blinked. “What? No.” He shook his head, all his senses once again on alert. “Why?”
“I must go and consult with my father and then I will return to you.” He reached down to his belt, removed the knife that hung there and placed it to lay upon a small table by the door, looking directly at Merry whilst he did so. Only then did Merry realise that it had not once left its sheath at the Ford. “It is out of our hands now. You must trust me. There is nothing you need fear from me. I will come for you, if you are needed,” and then he was gone, through the door and closing it behind him.
The three hobbits turned to each other, blinked. “Father?” Pippin wondered and Merry just shook his head wearily, having no inclination whatsoever to puzzle out what this man’s father was doing here or how it was that Frodo had somehow come under his care. All he knew was that, for some reason he couldn’t explain and for others, which he could but would rather not, he did trust the man… to a point, anyway. There were no lies in those grey eyes and, despite himself and despite the events at the Ford, Merry found himself putting the trust he’d been so stingy with all his life into the ghost of the nobility he found within them. This man’s blood knew honour and Merry had to trust that it would remember its heritage. But Merry would only trust it so far.
He turned, looked about, found several low couches sprawled along the walls of the small anteroom in which they found themselves, then shambled over to the closest and threw himself onto it. He closed his eyes, dropped an arm across them.
“What was all that back at the Ford?” he heard Sam say but it was already miles away. Another voice, which he supposed was Pippin attempting an explanation, but he hadn’t the heart or the strength to listen. Too many nights without sleep, filled with crawling fear and watching every twitch of Frodo’s face, every lift of his chest as he sucked in a laboured breath, and Merry wondering all the time whether it might be the last, wondering if the time was soon, now, five seconds ago and perhaps he was already too late and oh, Frodo, I’m so bloody sorry and oh, what wouldn’t he give right now for a good, healthy swig of whatever that Glorfindel had in his flask?
Do you mean to tell me that he’s got a piece of that evil thing still inside him?
Sam’s voice. Or is it the echo of his own? Dream blurs into life into dream into nightmare and Merry is buffeted along the surging tide.
Gil-galad was an Elven-king Of him the harpers sadly sing…
Sam’s voice again and Merry is sitting across from him, watching Frodo’s face unfold into soft wonder as he looks upon his gardener, a smile bright and fond and just for Sam, and Merry can’t help the twinge of jealousy that slips up his spine.
for into darkness fell his star…
He knows this rhyme, he knows it but just… not quite. It’s there, somewhere; somehow misting about in his head, and he almostalmostalmost knows it, can almost finish it himself but it only keeps swaying and slipping just out of his reach.
He knows the tale and he knows it because a man who had died badly in the blooded waters of the With’wind had learned it from his tutor when he was but a bright-haired lad who absorbed tales of great battles like water to a sponge. And he knows that Elendil had fought beside Gil-galad in the Last Alliance, had watched him fall and bloody buggering damn, if he knew who or what this Elendil was and what he had to do with the price of a Shire pony then maybe, just maybe, he wouldn’t feel quite so much like he is losing his bleeding mind!
Renewed shall be blade that was broken The crownless again shall be king
A scream, agonised and desperate, tapering off into a low wail…
The soft thump of running feet and a breeze flits over his cheek…
They came all at once, five of them; three pressing towards their small company and two standing as rear-guard. Tall and terrible and they came swift as the wind. Iron boots tore gashes in the earth as they advanced and Merry could smell the grass bleed in their wake.
Angry shouts, sharp with rebuke and accusation…
Why me?
“…are doing what they must…”
“…don’t care what you think you have to…”
Because you love him more than your own life
“…out of your bleeding mind? I can hear him…”
And you would do anything to help him
Another scream, this one weaker, and it drives right through his head, pulses sharp behind his eyes and he flinches…
They’re coming for me.
“Mr. Merry! Mr. Merry! There’s something terribly wrong and they won’t…”
Who is coming for you, Frodo?
It isn’t too late. I’d know it if it were, I’d feel it
Merry… you won’t let them catch me, will you?
I have failed you, my brother… but only because I loved you too well.
“Merry!”
Merry snapped awake – had he slept? – and was on his feet before his eyes had even cleared, standing on the ragged edges of chaos. Though, he must still be asleep because Bilbo stood in front of the door, glaring up at a tall elf in long grey robes, raven hair tugged back from his temples and plaited in a shimmering queue down his spine. Bilbo was loosing a steady stream of reprimand, growling, and Strider seemed to be attempting to pry the old hobbit away from the elf.
“Merry!” Pippin shouted again and Merry blinked some more, shook his head, focussed on his cousin.
“What?”
“There’s something wrong!” Pippin cried, clutching at Merry’s arm, digging his fingers in. “He’s been screaming, Merry, and they won’t let--”
And then another shriek from the other side of the door, rending the air, cutting through the flurry of the room and twisting into Merry’s heart. It took him, drained him and he could actually feel himself blanch, every drop of blood freezing to a solid heavy knot in his heart. And this was no dream.
Bilbo stopped, cried out, clutched at Strider’s tunic and the elf’s robe and they both bent to him, concern writ clear on both faces. And that seemed all the distraction Sam needed: he shot a quick look across the room to Merry and before Merry had even completed an instinctive nod, Sam had turned, flung the door open and bolted through it. The others seemed hardly to notice; Strider gently helped Bilbo over to one of the couches, while the elf just turned, stared blankly at the door for a moment before he turned back, peered helplessly about the room. Pippin remained attached to Merry’s arm, his fingers no longer quite so painful, as they’d effectively cut off all circulation several moments ago already.
Merry shook his head again, looked to his cousin. “Bloody damn,” he whispered hoarsely. “What is going on?”
“We don’t know,” Pippin answered and now Merry could feel him shaking, could hear the desperation in his voice, though he was trying very hard to keep it level and calm.
He pried Pippin’s fingers from their grip on his arm, flexed and stretched it then placed it about Pippin’s shoulders. “All right, Pip, calm down, now. Just--”
Pippin shrugged away, rounded on him. “I am as calm as a person can possibly be,” he ground out through clenched teeth, “when one cousin is shrieking as though he’s being murdered in the next room, the man who’s supposed to be his protector is suddenly seeming like the one he needs protection from and the other cousin is sleeping soundly while bedlam breaks loose all around him! And all the while, I am being physically restrained from going into that room and finding out what the bloody blue blazes they are doing to my cousin!”
Merry could only stare for a moment. Then he did the only thing he could think of: he reached out, gathered Pippin close and hugged him tight. Pippin was stiff against him for but a moment before Merry felt him slump against his chest, shudder.
“Tell me what happened.”
Pippin took a deep breath, clutched at Merry’s coat. “Everything was very quiet for a long while. I fell asleep, too – I think we all did. But then Bilbo came, all a-bustle, and he knocked me right off the couch, trying to get into the room but they wouldn’t let him. Bilbo, Merry! He lives here, did you know? And they won’t even let him in to see Frodo. He started shouting and then Sam started shouting, both of them demanding to be let in or at least that someone come out and tell us how Frodo is, but that elf there,” Pippin, with an accusing sneer, pointed at the dark-haired elf, who still stood, looking lost, against the door, “he wouldn’t let anyone through.
“Then…” Pippin paused, pulled back from Merry, eyes wide and glittering. “And then he screamed, Merry – screamed! Surely you heard it? It was… It sounded…”
Pippin shivered. “He’s all alone in there, Merry! Just a bunch of elves, who don’t even know him!”
“Merry.”
Strider was suddenly behind him, looking exhausted but that was all Merry could tell from his expression. Merry was silent, only peered up at the man expectantly.
“May we speak?”
His tone was tired but bland. Merry had no idea if he should prepare himself to defend his actions at the Ford or to be told that they were waiting for him in the other room, oh, and by the way, could he bring his sword? He simply nodded, gave Pippin a reassuring pat then extracted himself from his cousin’s grip. He allowed himself to be led past Bilbo – who sat hunched on a low couch, pale and small and wearing every one of his long years on his horrified face – and out into the vast hallway. Strider stopped, peered around to be sure they were alone then hunkered down to Merry.
“You should know that, for now, the discussion you and I had is moot,” the man told him. “You must trust him into the care of Master Elrond, now.”
“Then he is out of danger?” Merry asked, though, of course, he already knew the answer.
“You know he is not,” Strider replied. “But if he is to be saved, Elrond will save him. And, if at last need…” He paused, glanced quickly away, lowered his voice further, looked directly at Merry. “You shall be summoned. If you trust me in nothing else, trust me in this.”
Long silence while each stared at the other, Strider returning Merry's suspicious gaze with blunt honesty, then: “Swear it,” Merry whispered, his voice strained and fierce.
Strider kept his eyes fixed on Merry, placed his fist over his heart. “I swear it.”
And Merry looked into the grey eyes, saw again the nobility and honour within them… and believed him. He nodded.
* * *
There were six-hundred and seventy-five roses along the border of the carpet on the floor of the small room. There were two-thousand, four-hundred and eight in the border along the walls near the ceiling. Every fifth rose had twenty-seven, thirty-two, twenty-nine, twenty-eight and thirty-one petals respectively before the pattern repeated itself. And the roses in the carpet were about three shades darker than those along the wall.
Merry was fast approaching the conclusion that he had spent quite enough time cooling his heels in this particular little room.
Days, yes, it had been days and too many of them. Strider had asked for their trust and they’d handed it over, though Merry had been having second and third and fourth thoughts about it all and why not? Surgery that first night and painful by the sounds of it, yet no splinter had been found and Frodo still lay as one dead, laboured breaths and hot, fevered skin the only assurance that he wasn’t until he’d gone so cold they couldn’t even tell if there was fever anymore. Not that Merry had been able to see for himself, of course; he and Pippin had to rely upon Sam for their information and sometimes Gandalf, when he deigned to grace them with his presence.
Infection, Sam had told them and Merry hadn’t known whether to be relieved, disbelieving or even more uneasy. Infection was certainly a better thing to worry over than a little piece of evil wandering about Frodo’s body. But Merry had seen infection at work and knew it wasn’t a thing to take lightly; one of the farriers the Hall employed had stepped on one of his own nails years back and infection had set in. Merry hadn’t seen when it had got to its worst but it was all the talk and the farrier had ended up losing his foot to stop the insipient spread. He had died as a result of shock and bleeding. Bad enough but the location of Frodo’s wound didn’t even leave the option of amputation.
And Merry didn’t quite believe that was all, at any rate. Neither did Strider, though he seemed loath to gainsay Master Elrond. But Merry could tell and, by the looks the man had exchanged with Gandalf when they’d come out to explain it all to Merry and Pippin, the wizard wasn’t entirely convinced either.
Merry yawned, allowed his gaze to wander. Pippin was chatting up Bilbo over tea by the enormous window, as had become a habit the past few days. Merry couldn’t be bothered. He didn’t find himself particularly hungry, for one thing, though the elves had been quite accommodating with providing whatever foods Pippin asked for at every meal. For another thing, he wasn’t entirely pleased with the company. It had been years since he’d seen Bilbo and, though he’d always rather enjoyed the old hobbit before on his frequent visits to Bag End, he couldn’t help but remember the look in Frodo’s eyes those first days after he’d disappeared. And yes, all right, so it was a very long time ago and Frodo had recovered quickly and quite well. Still, Merry knew the sting had never really left the old wound and he was not the forgiving type. Whether Frodo would be pleased to see Bilbo if he -- when he -- woke or not, Merry could think of about thirty other hobbits he would have been happier to pass these difficult days with.
And all right, fine – Merry was not entirely pleased that Bilbo was allowed into Frodo’s room and he and Pippin were not. What right did the old buzzard have, anyway? So, he took Frodo in all those years ago, left him his home and what was left of his fortune; was that really compensation for the abrupt abandonment? Anyone who knew Frodo knew that he would have rathered Bilbo had stayed… or – though it pricked Merry’s heart to admit this – taken Frodo with him. Merry rather thought that had been the biggest blow to Frodo; not so much that Frodo hadn’t gone all those years ago – for Merry firmly believed Frodo hadn’t really wanted to in his heart then – but that Bilbo hadn’t wanted to take him along. Merry hadn’t learned that little tidbit until only a few years ago when, after several too many late-night toasts with Old Winyards at one of Frodo’s Birthday feasts, Frodo had slurred out the fact that he had offered to go with Bilbo when he left and Bilbo had told him no. Frodo had spoken lightly and even laughed but the shoulder of Merry’s shirt had grown warm and moist where Frodo’s cheek had rested against it. Merry had pretended not to notice, only held Frodo tight, kissed his hair and took him to bed, made slow love to him ‘til he got back his smile.
Bilbo hadn’t been there to pick up the pieces all those years ago – that had fallen to Merry – and Merry didn’t think he’d ever forgive him for the stark loss on Frodo’s face that he still remembered so clearly. And doing it on his birthday, of all things! What a gift, Bilbo had given him that day, when he’d come of age. So kind of the old hobbit to make sure Frodo would remember him year after year after year and have his heart broken all over again just a little bit each time.
Bilbo, to Merry’s thinking, was not the generous benefactor Frodo liked to think him – he was just a selfish old hobbit, who had wounded Frodo’s already wary heart and waited just long enough ‘til he was of legal age to keep the S.-B.’s at bay to do it.
So, how was it that the hobbit who had left Frodo behind all those years ago was permitted to sit by his side whenever he wished and the hobbit who had been there beside Frodo all this time was forced to count the roses on the walls outside his door? It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair and Merry was not at all pleased. In fact, he was downright hacked off.
Merry sighed, stretched his neck back and rested his head to the back of the couch. He stared at the ceiling. There were ivy leaves carved into its gracefully curving surface; he supposed he’d have to start counting those soon enough. It was either that or go to sleep and he wasn’t much liking his dreams these days.
He idly wondered, not for the first time, why he wasn’t finding himself peeved that Sam was in the room with Frodo. Odd, that. Odder still, he had realised just yesterday, when Sam had come out to give him and Pippin one of his frequent reports that, if Merry himself couldn’t be in there, he was glad Sam was.
Merry knew himself fairly well, knew that he had a strong back and a good head for figures, knew that the labourers at the Hall not only liked him better than they did his father but that they respected him at least as much and carried out duties for him more readily than they did the Master. He knew that he could drink just about every hobbit he knew under the table when it came to beer and ale but that two glasses of wine went straight to his head. He knew that his mother looked to him to succeed in places where his father might have failed and he knew that she was probably now grieving for the son who had gone and slipped off into the Blue.
And it surprised him that he wasn’t feeling all dodgy about Sam being with Frodo right now because Merry also knew that he could be a very possessive, very jealous hobbit.
It sometimes made Frodo absolutely insane and had been the cause of almost every single serious quarrel they’d ever had. Frodo was not a hobbit who liked to be bound in any way, shape or form – well, all right, there was a time or two when… but that was neither here nor there – and Merry was not a hobbit who could easily keep his distance. It made for quite alarming rows at times but a thoroughly interesting – and rather fiery – relationship most others.
Frodo liked to, above all else, live and Merry liked to watch him do it and he liked when Frodo’s eyes, full of fire and life, turned on him. And he guarded that spark jealously, pretended it was just for him, cherished it. He had just never been able to get used to the chances Frodo took to get that spark.
For instance, Frodo often liked to take the ponies out for a run; it was almost always the first thing they did when he visited Merry in Buckland or when Merry allowed Frodo to bully him into bringing another with him when he rode to Bag End, instead of walking. And oh, but could he ride! Like the wind, he’d go, take off at break-neck speed and fly over the fields and hills like sooted ash on a winter wind. Sometimes Merry would race him and sometimes he’d just watch but always, he would clench his teeth beneath his smile, worry over the pony stumbling into a rabbit-hole and throwing Frodo or Frodo getting too close to a quick drop-off and sailing over the edge. Never would he dare to mention it to Frodo, who would probably glare at him first and, after brief consideration, deck him besides.
Rafting the river, climbing trees, wandering far into untamed country… It was all the same to Merry: Frodo taking chances and Merry watching him do it, while his heart thumped in his chest and his breath caught sharp. Part of him would be bursting his breeches with lust for the wild creature Frodo could be and part of him would be wishing he’d just bugger all, settle down already and stop taking such foolish chances!
Merry couldn’t help himself. What he had told Sam was true: he had always, always been on edge, waiting for Frodo to just up and disappear on him one day, and it had taken Merry years to learn how to keep close but not too close, love but not smother, try to keep Frodo safe but not stifle the fire that burned in his belly. Because, though Merry loved that fire with everything in him, he also feared it more than a little bit. It was, after all, what was responsible for Frodo lying near death on the other side of that hated door right now.
But he also feared that fire would one day be too much for him, burn him to cinder, and Frodo would grow bored with the ash. Or worse, that he’d find another to kindle that fire for him and Merry would be forced to step aside and wish him well, while his gut twisted and his heart shattered.
So it was passing queer that Merry was actually finding himself grateful that Sam – a hobbit Merry knew without doubt was in love with Frodo – was by his side right now. He couldn’t explain it and further, thought it probably better he didn’t try. Whatever Sam might feel for Frodo, he was good for him; Merry couldn’t deny it and would be a heartless fool to try. Sam knew Frodo as well as Merry did himself and better in some ways. And he knew how to take care of a person – something Merry would have thought an easy thing only a few weeks ago and now understood to be something for which one had to have an innate talent. Unfortunately for Merry, he didn’t have that talent. Sam did and right now Merry could care less if Sam was in there spewing unending declarations of love for Frodo and Frodo was falling for every word of it. If Sam could help make Frodo well, Merry would worry about beating him off with a stick later.
A very big stick.
Perhaps an entire tree.
The door opened and Merry shot up from the couch. Only it wasn’t Sam stepping through it, as he’d expected, but Gandalf – another old crow Merry wasn’t entirely happy to see. He’d got Frodo into this in the first place and hadn’t been there when he’d been desperately needed.
Not that Merry could exactly go ‘round calling kettles ‘black’ or anything.
The wizard ignored Merry, made straight for Bilbo, his face kind but otherwise impossible to read. Merry hadn’t even time enough to get himself annoyed by this latest slight before the door opened again and Strider came through. The man’s eyes turned directly and immediately to Merry and Merry felt his stomach drop. His fingers flexed, his hand drifted to his belt and Merry had to clench his teeth, fist his hand to keep it from settling upon the hilt of his sword. ‘It is out of our hands,’ the man had told him but Merry had never let that one settle him into complacence. He’d caught more than one querulous glance at what hung at his hip – from Bilbo first and then any elf who might have wandered through over the past few days – but had refused to allow himself to blush at their raised eyebrows or cause him to re-think keeping himself armed in this seemingly-peaceful haven. Frodo was not, as Strider had told him, out of danger yet, and though Merry did trust the man, he seemed all too eager to defer to Master Elrond, who had not seemed to agree that Frodo had anything more in his shoulder than a simple infection. Trusting the man’s intentions and trusting his knowledge and instincts were two very different things and Merry found himself far more ready to trust his own instincts when it came to Frodo. Regardless of bland assurances from people who seemed unable to look at him and see anything other than a wilful child, Merry had kept his sword at his belt and ready to-hand, even as he’d lain upon the couch and counted roses.
Strider stepped quickly over, sat himself on the low couch. He waved his hand, indicating that Merry should do the same. When Merry did, the man wasted no time.
“There will be a second surgery.”
* * *
It was quiet for now, though Sam knew it was only a very short time before the room would explode into restrained urgency once again. They would be cutting into his master a second time and Sam didn’t really know how to feel about that. There was always the hope that they would find what they were looking for this time, fix it up, and Mr. Frodo’s skin would finally lose the greyish pallor it had faded to and he would breathe smoothly, maybe even open his eyes. Then again, there was also the chance that whatever they were preparing to do to his master now would kill him this time.
Oddly, Sam found himself wishing for Mr. Merry. Not but that the big Brandybuck could be much use or help with razors and bandages and whatnot, but he had a command about him, an air of action, and people listened to him -- more often than not, did as he told them. Even Strider had come to treat Mr. Merry with a bit of deference and respect that he’d only shown Mr. Frodo himself, up until Weathertop. Though Mr. Merry seemed to be set on birching himself for what he seemed to think amounted to failing Frodo, he was the only one as saw it as such and Sam meant to have a good, long talk with him about it, once his master was himself again. Not that Sam thought there was any reason the future-Master of Buckland should have any call to go taking advice from a Hobbiton gardener-lad or any such thing but some things just needed saying, to Sam’s mind.
Anyway, Sam was as prepared as he possibly could be for what was to come and his only wish was that Mr. Merry would be to-hand when all the flitting about and Important Matters had finally been discussed to death and it was time to begin. Though he was glad he’d been allowed in and then allowed to stay – and refused to question the why of any of it – he knew he wasn’t being told everything. There was something going on right under his nose, some bit of urgency no one was letting him in on, and Sam wished Mr. Merry was about to get to the bottom of it.
No use worriting over it, though -- either they’d let him and Master Pippin in or they wouldn’t and nothing Sam did or said would change their minds. Not that he’d tried much, one way or the other; he wasn’t confident enough in his own given place at his master’s side that he’d go arguing over giving one to another. For all Sam knew, he’d open his mouth and find himself idling away the crawling hours on the other side of the door and he just couldn’t take that chance. Mr. Bilbo stayed as long as he could manage but slipped off to sleep in his chair more often than not and Mr. Frodo needed a hobbit by him right now, one as knew him and could tell when he needed sommat. Wizards and Elves were all well and good but not a one of them knew that a slight twitch of Mr. Frodo’s lip meant he was deep in one of those awful dreams and needed a cool cloth at his brow and a soothing hand at his cheek… maybe a song whispered soft in his ear. And none of them had the slightest clue that a quirk of his brow meant that some cool water dripped slowly over cracked lips was in order.
All of that was Sam’s to know and to do and he’d not take a chance that his big mouth would get him booted out the door, leaving Mr. Frodo with no one to do what needed doing. There was newfound respect in Sam’s heart for Mr. Merry and he felt real bad for both cousins, not being allowed in and all, but even that wasn’t enough to take chances. That Master Elrond very clearly did not want the cousins in the room and Mr. Merry especially, though the argument he’d had with Strider over it all had been in Elvish, and so Sam had been unable to figure out the why of it. All he’d been able to ken was that Strider had asked that the cousins be allowed to visit and Master Elrond had quietly questioned the man about the Ford yet again. The two had lapsed into Elvish and Sam hadn’t been able to understand aught but ‘perian’ and ‘Merry’ and the very firm shake of Master Elrond’s head. Mayhap the tall elf was taking on about Mr. Merry’s bit of rebellion at the Ford, about which Sam was still mystified, but it didn’t seem very fair to him that he himself had played a part in it and they were being punished and he wasn’t. Not that he was going to flap his mouth about it, though.
Sam stretched in his chair, turned his eyes back to his master. Odd, how often his heart still got caught behind his ribs, skipped and stuttered. Mr. Frodo lay still as stone beneath snowy linen, skin glowing greyish-white beneath the unforgiving light. Shadows of blacked-blue hovered beneath eyes sunken and lids hued red, and more hunched within the deep hollows of ashen cheeks.
He looked dead.
Sam should be used to this by now – it shouldn’t catch him unawares at odd times anymore. Still, he found himself choking on a silent sob, biting back the tears that crept up from the back of his throat and crowded behind his weary eyes. He clenched his teeth, held it all in with all of his quickly-weakening will. That was not why he was here, after all.
He reached over, straightened the sheet, smoothed its creases, his fingers clumsy on the ends of shaking hands. He ran the backs of his knuckles gently over Frodo’s cheek, smoothed his hair back from a brow damp with clammy sweat then reached down, took that left hand between his own.
No fever, this, and no infection – at least not the kind one could cure with hot compresses and witch hazel washes. His master was as cold as the grave on this side and that left hand and arm even colder. Sam’s own fingers took the chill and too often he had to pull back, rub his own hands together to warm them and then take up Mr. Frodo’s again, try to push some of his own warmth into the cold skin. It never worked but Sam didn’t stop trying, didn’t stop hoping. And it seemed to help Mr. Frodo somehow, as well. He rested easier when Sam held onto him, so much so that Sam had even been so bold as to climb up and curl close the past two nights, carefully fold his master in his arms and hold tight while he got himself a few winks – very few winks, if anyone wanted to know. The Elves that came and went might have something to say about it all or even Mr. Bilbo or Gandalf, but Sam couldn’t bring himself to care much. It worked and he’d keep on, whether they liked it or no, and they could all just take that, stick in their collective pipes and smoke it.
Sam shook his head, cleared his eyes and took another good, hard look at his master. Perhaps it was just as well that Mr. Merry wasn’t allowed in. Mr. Frodo’s deteriorating state had been hard on all of them but probably hardest of all on the riverhobbit. Too many times along their long journey here had Sam been able to look into those dark-grey eyes and see Mr. Merry’s broken heart right up close. Mr. Frodo had been bad enough when they’d got here but his appearance had only become worse in the days that followed. He’d grown thinner still, paler, greyer and it was bloody hard for Sam to reconcile the wasted form that lay before him with the hobbit brimming with life he’d come to love so well.
He knew that so many back home saw his master as bookish, too thin, pale and perhaps a bit poncy, though that last were only nasty talk from Ted Sandyman and not many took what came crawling out of his mouth very seriously. But Sam knew the truth and any who might spend even a day with Mr. Frodo did as well. Funny, how a hobbit about whom so many nasty rumours were spread could be so well-liked by just about every hobbit he’d ever met and some he never would. Made a person wonder who exactly was spreading such rumours and why, if no one listened to them anyhow.
Bookish. Bah. Sure, he knew how to read and spent a good deal of time doing so but most of the time spent in his study was spent on the accounts of the estate. And which one of Bag End’s tenants would rather he didn’t know who was expecting a bairn and might be happy to get an extension or perhaps forgiven on the last payment of a debt? And all right, so he were thinner than some but only because you couldn’t keep him in one place long enough for a meal to settle on him proper-like. And anyone who might say Master Frodo were poncy had obviously never seen him put his back into the haying with his shirtsleeves rolled up and his face red with sun and hard work, right alongside a farmer that might happen to need a hand. Or ride a pony like he was racing the wind itself.
That last were a sight, and no mistake: Mr. Frodo racing Mr. Merry over hill and pasture and Sam hieing himself to the top of the Hill to watch. On a clear day, you could see almost all the way to Waymeet from the Hill and Sam was glad, as he got a good view of the antics. They looked so small and far away but Sam could hear them, their voices clear and fine on a cool, autumn breeze. Mr. Frodo would whoop and laugh and Mr. Merry would call for him to slow-up a bit; Mr. Frodo would just laugh harder and kick his heels into the pony’s ribs, go faster still, and Sam would think it was entirely possible that his master might sprout wings and fly.
Mr. Merry sometimes just sat, mounted firm and shaking his head, watching, and when Mr. Frodo finally tired his pony out and trotted up to the Brandybuck, Sam would watch him lean over, grab Mr. Merry by his coat and haul him in for a lively kiss. Sam would usually blush right about there, turn away, and when the two of them would come up the Row hours later, laughing and leading their ponies, arms linked, Sam would look at the flush of Mr. Frodo’s cheeks, the fire in his eyes, and think how wonderful it was that his own ideas of beauty were constantly changing, growing.
It were hard to find beauty in Frodo’s still form now, though he supposed the simple fact that he still drew breath was its own sort of beauty. Still, it were a difficult thing to look upon Frodo’s gaunt, grey face and not weep for the hobbit with the fiery eyes and wind-chapped cheeks, rounded in a wide, self-satisfied grin. He closed his eyes, strengthened his grasp on the cold fingers.
“It’ll be all right this time, Master,” he whispered. “One more time with the cutting and then it will all be over. You have to stop this nonsense and get well, you know. Mr. Merry and Master Pip are likely to set about Master Elrond’s ears with a stick, if you don’t and maybe Gandalf’s, too. I know you wouldn’t want him to turn your cousins into midges or any such, so you’d best see what you can do about getting yourself better and right soon.”
Sam moved Frodo’s hand to his cheek, kissed it. “Please…” he choked then couldn’t speak anymore as his throat closed up and his tongue got tangled behind his teeth.
It was both relief and dread that took hold of him when the door opened and Gandalf swept through it.
“We are ready,” the wizard told him.
* * *
Strider had imposed upon one of the Elves to escort Bilbo back to his rooms, though he’d protested vehemently. “I won’t go off and wander about my rooms while you people cut into my boy again!” he’d snarled and it was so heartfelt, Merry actually found himself feeling sorry for the old hobbit. Strider had spoken quietly with him for some time, and then Gandalf, and Bilbo had allowed himself to be taken away in the end. He’d looked so sad and beaten as he’d passed by Merry and, when he stopped, placed a gnarled hand to Merry’s shoulder and asked, “You’ll be sure they don’t hurt him too much, won’t you?” Merry could do nothing but lay his hand gently over Bilbo’s and nod. It seemed to put the old hobbit somewhat at ease, though; Merry wished someone might do the same for him.
There was mild bustle for a while, people coming and going, in and out of Frodo’s room, draped trays held in long, slender hands going in, empty kettles and small cauldrons coming out. A low hum of activity, a quiet buzz just below conscious hearing, and then it all stopped and Merry and Pippin were once again alone, save for the ever-present Elf, who guarded the door.
Merry turned to Pippin, found he had absolutely nothing to say then took up a place just beside the door and planted his feet. There was nothing left to do but wait. Again.
* * *
Sam made himself small, the fear that someone would spot him, turn him out still ever-present, though it seemed Gandalf might have a thing or two to say about that. He’d been shuttled aside, Frodo’s hand taken from his grasp, and it hurt, oh, it hurt but he knew he had no choice. He kept reminding himself that these people were here to help, that they would do everything in their power to save his master. But he couldn’t help but wonder at their bland faces, couldn’t help but fear that the life of one hobbit might seem too small for them to spend their immortal energy on.
He peered over at Gandalf and the wizard gave him a strained smile, a tiny wink. Sam really should have felt better but he didn’t. Too many times had he thought back to Mr. Bilbo’s tales and all of the times the wizard had abandoned him to his fate along a journey Gandalf himself had pushed him into. Yes, he’d appeared just in the nick of time on several occasions but Sam couldn’t help but see that, for the most part, Mr. Bilbo had been on his own, with nothing to help him, save his own quick wit and courage. Mr. Frodo had plenty of both but those things couldn’t save him now and Sam could only hope that this would be one of those times when the wizard swept in and saved the day.
He shifted his gaze to Strider. The man had surprised Sam over and over since they met in Bree and he felt a little bit better to see that he was here, standing ready by Master Elrond’s elbow. Mr. Merry seemed to trust him for the most part and Sam was happy to let the Brandybuck be the judge on that. There were too many other things Sam needed to think about right now.
Master Elrond voiced something soft and low in Elvish, held out his hand. Strider carefully placed a long, slender blade across his palm and Sam sucked in a shaky breath, steeled himself.
Merry leaned against the doorjamb, stared boldly at the elf who guarded the door until he dropped his pale gaze. Merry smirked a little, childishly satisfied. He chewed on a ragged thumbnail. Pippin sat quietly over by the window, staring at his hands. Merry thought he should probably be over there with him, holding his hand and offering some sort of comfort; he was not the only one who loved Frodo, after all. At the moment, however, he didn’t think he could spare an ounce of comfort, nor drag even the smallest of smiles to his face. He needed to concentrate, remember, so he just stood where he was, listening, ready, and left Pippin to muddle through on his own.
“Master Elrond now agrees that it may be a splinter in the wound after all,” Strider had told him and, though Merry didn’t think he’d ever really believed otherwise, not after the man had been so sure in the Wild, he cursed himself now for allowing himself to be placated, manipulated. Part of him had remained watchful and on his guard but the greater part of him had wanted to believe that it was nothing more than an ordinary infection, one that seemed bad at first but which Frodo would beat in the end. Now he saw his mistake, intended not to compound it.
Six tall figures, surrounding his master, each bent to a task or awaiting one. A quiet murmur hovered just inside the sombre circle, commands given and commands carried out with smooth grace, quick and fluid. Pale, slender hands rested over grey-white skin, mottled and blue-veined, and Frodo looked cold, rigid against the supple touch of those hands. Not for comfort, Sam saw – those hands pressed down, controlled, restrained.
The blade glittered, cold and menacing, and for a moment, Sam wanted to ask them, “You’re not really going to stick that thing into my master?” Of course, he didn’t, just watched as it rested against Frodo’s skin then dipped, sliced, and blood, black as night, welled around it. A hoarse, watery gasp from Frodo’s mouth and his eyes flew open, stared vacant and wide at the vaulted ceiling. His body tried to arch, twist, but large hands pressed him down, held him still.
White cloths were held to the wound, soaked up the blood, and the smell was rancid. Sam was reminded of a small pup he’d found three summers ago that had got itself trapped within a hollowed trunk of a tree, starved to death, and had rotted within its prison in the summer heat. The smell coming from within his master’s ravaged body was too close to the one that had assailed him when he’d stumbled upon that sad grave and he felt weak and revolted.
How did you know the Witch was near? Merry asked himself. What did you feel like ten seconds before you recognised his dark touch?
He couldn’t remember. Was there some warning, some creeping familiarity that prickled the hairs at his nape? Was there some smell or tingling in his brain that told him Evil had come to stake its claim? Nothing. He remembered the touch, oh, yes – knew it intimately and a part of his soul accepted the vile awareness.
But what had he felt the moment before he’d felt it? If this evil thing really was still within Frodo’s body, seeking his heart, how could any of them tell how close it was? How did they know it wasn’t, right at this very moment, aware that its time was short, that measures were being taken against it and that it wouldn’t hasten its travel? It had been in there nigh on three weeks, now. How could anyone know that today, right now, was not the very moment when it would reach its destination?
Merry knew what it was that had tried to take him in Bree, had felt its cold breath and recognised it as kindred to that which had laughed in his face as he’d slithered boneless and broken into the With’wind. He’d known it again on Weathertop and again as they’d approached the Ford, even before one of Elven-kind had. And then, still at the Ford, he’d known that it had not yet taken Frodo.
There was a dark knowledge within him, one that he had been trying desperately to banish, will away and suppress the voice within that whispered to him of past treachery and murder beneath the stars. And now he would acknowledge that yes, it had its uses, and though it may split him in two, drive him mad with the unending song within his soul, he would accept it, use it and bend it to his own purposes.
Merry opened his heart, his mind, to the voice that spoke softly within. He closed his eyes, waited for a dark touch on his soul.
More hands, more low murmurs, just this side of urgent. He couldn’t understand them and he wanted to stomp his foot and shout, “Bugger all, speak so I can understand you, why don’t you, don’t you know that not knowing what you’re doing is so much more terrifying than knowing?”
He clamped his teeth tight, blinked away the red haze falling over his vision. He needed to be alert, in control, and he had to, above all, be ready to-hand, if his master needed him. He had no idea how he’d know if his master needed him but it had never been something he’d consciously thought of in the past and he’d always somehow known anyhow, so he would trust his instincts on this one.
The blood seeping from Frodo’s wound was still dark but not black now. Dark clots were swept aside, brown-yellow pus was soaked up with yet more white cloths and still Frodo stared unseeing at the ceiling. Sam wished someone would close those empty eyes; he looked too much like death, with his pale skin and his rigid limbs and those amazing-beautiful eyes now drained almost entirely of life, pupils large and taking over all other colour with near-black emptiness.
That can’t be him, Sam thought hysterically. That is not my master, there, it can’t be, there’s been some awful mistake.
Then long, glittering pincers were dipped into the wound, manoeuvred about, and Frodo’s back arched against the hands that held him down. His mouth dropped wide, a runnelet of bright scarlet trickled from the corner.
He’s dying! Sam’s mind screamed at him. They’re killing him right in front of you and you’re just standing here and letting them!
He curled his hands into fists, took a lunging step forward.
“Ni ar ta!” Elrond cried then, “I have it!”
Vague shouts from the other side of the door – Sam barely even registered them – then it burst wide behind him and Sam turned, reeled.
It was all happening so fast and Merry didn’t allow himself to think, just surrendered himself to his own body and let it do as his heart knew it must. He thought he argued with the elf at the door, drew his sword on him even, but it didn’t matter; it was all nothing to him. He could feel the cold, black chill along his spine, could feel the darkness crawling into his pores and he could taste blood. Doors and elves blocking them were but small obstacles now.
It was over, it was done and he knew what he had to do. No hope left, no chance that the evil thing would be vanquished by Elvish magic. He was Frodo’s only chance now and he had to act right this minute, before his mind caught up with his heart and cried out to him, ‘What are you doing, what are you doing?’
It was here but it was small and weak for now and he had to do what he must do before the Black Wind could carry Frodo away on its obscene, filthy wings. He gripped the handle of his sword, lurched forward.
Sam stood in his path, his eyes wide, disbelieving and Merry wondered if he’d have to run Sam through, as well. Sam knew what he meant to do, Merry could see it in his incredulous eyes, sparking bright with betrayal and denial, and Merry could spare no thought to anyone else but Frodo right now. He’d do what he must to get to him, do what he must and deal with what would come after. A small, conscious part of his mind hoped he wouldn’t have to foul his noble weapon with innocent blood but he would if he had to.
Sam couldn’t be seeing right, he just couldn’t. It all had to be a dream because if it wasn’t, then Sam would have to face the reality that his master’s cousin was standing in front of him, sword drawn and death in his eyes. For whom, Sam couldn’t possibly say, but Mr. Merry’s eyes shifted towards the bed, towards Frodo, and the haze over his eyes lifted a little. Sam saw grief beneath it, saw the hand on that sword grip tighter and it was impossible, it was profoundly horrible, but he thought Mr. Merry had every intention of using that sword on Sam’s master.
Sam shook his head in disbelief, narrowed his eyes. He firmed his stance, blocked Merry’s path.
Then Frodo gargled a weak, watery cry and Sam had to turn, couldn’t not turn, and he saw his master’s eyes open wider. Master Elrond’s hand firmed its grip, pulled the pincers from the wound. Frodo’s back lifted off the bed, even against the hands that held him down. He stiffened, threw his head back and screamed.
There was a scream, liquid and guttural, and it was just enough to make Sam turn, take him off his guard. Some part of Merry acknowledged that this scream came from Frodo and it mourned that this was the sound he would hear between his ears until the day he died. But the larger part of him was only thankful that it had removed Sam from his path and spared him from having to deal out death twice in the space of a heartbeat.
Merry lunged towards the bed, towards the one he would kill and die for, and raised his sword.
Sam saw Strider turn, thanked every star there was that the man seemed to twig to Merry’s intent. In one fluid motion, the man laid a palm to the bed, vaulted over it. He placed himself directly into Merry’s path, stood firm.
“Stop!”
Merry just shook his head, gripped the sword more firmly, and Sam thought he may well be losing his mind because this couldn’t be real, it couldn’t be happening! He only watched with unbelieving eyes as Mr. Merry levelled his sword at Strider’s chest.
“Move aside,” Merry said quietly.
Master Elrond eyed them all coolly, the pincers held at an angle away from him, and Sam now saw that they held a tiny black splinter between the nibs. The other elves only added to the surreal fog Sam had fallen into: they continued to go quietly about their work, staunching the flow of blood, wiping clammy sweat from a pale, still face.
Strider lifted his hands, held them out, palms-up. His face was neutral.
“There is no--”
“I said move aside!” Merry snarled then lurched forward, swiped the sword through the air in front of the man. When Strider parried then stepped quickly in front of him again, Merry’s voice became desperate. “There isn’t time!” he cried. “I can feel it, it has to be now!”
Time for what? Sam thought but couldn’t seem to make his mouth move. What has to be now?
“What can you feel, lad?” and Gandalf was now beside Strider, blocking Merry’s way.
Merry just glared at the wizard, growled and bared his teeth. He was frantic now, tried to dodge around the man again but Strider was fast and had far more years experience at physical combat than Merry would ever see. He reached out, grasped Merry’s sword-arm. Merry shrieked, twisted.
“I can feel it!” he screamed at the man, “You can’t allow him to go the them, I won’t let you!”
“Merry,” Strider said calmly, cautiously, “it is done.”
Merry’s body went lax, his face moving too quickly from rage to stark grief. He shook his head, wavered on his feet.
“Then…” He paled, choked, gagged, almost turned to look at his cousin but stopped, closed his eyes. “Then, he…”
“Will recover,” Strider told him softly and when Merry just stared at him, his face a mask of grief so deep Sam had to drop his gaze, the man went on, “Master Elrond has removed the splinter. It troubles Frodo no more.”
Merry blinked slowly, shook his head. “But…” He staggered and Strider had to grip both of his arms to keep him on his feet. “I can feel it,” he whispered. “It’s cold and it’s black and the Witch comes for Arveleg.” He lifted wide, staring eyes to the man. “I smell it," he whispered urgently, gaze hectic and chillingly blank. "I feel it!”
Strider turned to Gandalf, nodded, and the wizard stepped over to Elrond, extended his staff. He bowed his head, spoke low and melodic, chanted, then dipped the staff forward towards what the Elf Lord held.
A blinding red-white flash, a tiny wisp of acrid smoke and then Merry jolted, cried out. The sword fell to the floor and he closed his eyes tight, covered his face with his hands. He shuddered, moaned, would have fallen, had Strider not been holding him up. Then he stilled, lifted his eyes slowly to Strider’s.
“It’s gone,” he whispered. He shook his head, confusion warring with raw fear.
Strider spoke softly, carefully. “It’s gone,” he assured Merry.
“What’s gone?”
Pippin’s voice, low and more timid than its usual timbre. Sam turned in a daze to see the young Took standing by the door, clutching the jamb, his face white and his eyes wide and glassy.
“Your cousin is out of danger,” Elrond answered, his tone brisk, efficient. “Please allow us another hour and then you may see him.”
And that about did Sam in; in a dizzy haze, he looked to the bed, saw that Frodo’s eyes were now closed and his chest rose and fell deeply, evenly, and there was a slight tinge of colour at his cheeks. He saw Mr. Merry fall upon the bed, weeping from the bottom of his soul, and all the while, those elves kept going about their business as though the world had not just turned and tilted and tried to throw Sam right off its skin.
Sam opened his mouth, closed it. He vaguely felt his knees buckle beneath him and then the world turned from red to black and he felt no more.
* * *
|
