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Counterpoint, Movement VI
Andante: Moderately slow, a walking speed.
* * *
“Have you any idea how lovely you look with the starlight in your hair?”
Frodo only smiled, rolled his eyes a little as Merry came up behind him, draped his arms about him and nuzzled at his neck. He chuckled.
“Your nose is cold,” he said and he tilted his head to rest against Merry’s, closed his eyes.
“And you smell of pears,” Merry informed him.
“Pippin’s asleep, then?”
“His snores will be shattering the crockery in no time,” Merry replied. “Will you come in, now? Warm up my nose? And maybe some other bits while you’re at it?” This last illustrated with a roll of Merry’s hips.
Frodo laughed, soft and low. “You’re a greedy one, aren’t you, then?”
“Only cold. And impatient.” Merry gently took the tip of Frodo’s ear between his teeth. Frodo gave the slightest of groans and Merry pushed his hands inside Frodo’s coat, stroked up his chest. “I’ve missed you,” he whispered.
Frodo stretched his neck, murmured, “No one to keep you occupied at the Hall? Mmm, that’s… that’s lovely.” He reached around, slipped warm fingers into Merry’s hair.
“You’re not at the Hall,” Merry told him.
“Well, that’s very fortunate,” Frodo’s voice was muted and slow, “because neither are you.”
And Merry, as if to punctuate this point, gave another press of his hips. “I’m cold. And your bed is warm. Let’s go inside.”
“All right, love,” Frodo agreed with a quick kiss to Merry’s temple. “Just give us another moment, would you? I’ll be in directly.”
Polite Frodo-ese for, 'Off with you and give me a moment to myself,' so Merry gave a reluctant squeeze and a pat then unwound his arms and started for the burrow. Certainly, he could whinge and cajole until Frodo relented and came with him, could take one of the last moments Frodo had left to him to stand in his own yard and memorise the shapes of the stars from this unique spot beneath them…
Even Merry wasn't that selfish, so he put all thoughts of dragging that star-shot gaze to himself, instead only stopped when his hand pressed the chill brass knob of the door, turned.
And never -- never -- would this sight fail to stop him in his tracks.
Stars, bright and cold, singing their secrets in the vast-deep of obsidian mist, the earth below, silent, listening. All earthly things made stark shadows of themselves -- black voids, their shapes echoing tall branches, scraping at the sky, but only an empty mockery of the living things they wore as glamours. Cold, empty spaces where life danced under sunlight, devoid of the essence at which they pretended beneath the night sky. All but Frodo, who wore a crown of stars reflected in his raven hair, who somehow took the night and the starlight and made it a part of himself, wrapped it about his shoulders and stood solid against the bowl of stars, part of their dance yet not. Their mantle draped about him, he silently lent his voice to their song, yet his feet remained rooted to the earth, had not yet joined in the steps.
Merry wondered if the first step of that dance lay in wait in the form of Frodo’s last step out of his own front door. He could not suppress a shudder.
“Frodo,” he called, and even as he did it, he knew he shouldn't, and his voice was weak, cracked through the centre. Frodo turned and his eyes glittered; twin stars in their own vast-deep. Merry swallowed. “It isn’t too late. We can stop the sale. The Hall can help with the solicitors and--”
“It’s too late, Merry,” Frodo said quietly and Merry had a moment of insanity wherein that voice sounded too much like music. “I’ve only to hand over the keys tomorrow.”
“So, don’t hand them over,” Merry insisted, though he knew he was speaking nonsense. “We can buy it back, we can--”
“It’s done, Merry,” Frodo said. “This isn’t my home anymore.”
And Merry wanted to shout, ‘No!’ wanted to warn Frodo against stepping away from the earth and into the stars. The stars were cold and cruel; they would allow him to join their dance, surely, but only at the cost of his feet nevermore touching the earth.
Merry mutely shook his head, raged silently at those diamond-chip, glittering sentinels to take their gaze from this child of the night for whom they stretched out their arms in invitation. Frodo smiled softly at him and the stars in his eyes shone bright, pierced Merry with their cold fire.
“Go on inside,” Frodo said. “I’ll be in directly.”
Merry opened his mouth, tried to speak but only nodded, still mute. Defeated, though he didn't quite know exactly how, he opened the door and went inside.
* * *
Frodo shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, pondered the stars. So many things to think on and he found himself unwilling to do so in company just yet.
Regret or exhilaration? Fear or the soft-sweet promise of something… more?
Afraid, certainly, and he wouldn’t dare deny it. But there was also no denying the rush and thrill that moved through him each time he thought of stepping out and onto the path Bilbo had taken so long ago.
Bilbo…
Frodo smiled a little. Dare he hope…?
He shook his head. Best not think on that, not now. Too much could happen between here and Rivendell and there was no guarantee Bilbo would even be there, nor that Frodo himself would even make it that far unscathed. No there and back again, not for him; exile and cruel exile at that and what’s more, it took this threat to his country and all he loved to make him realise how very much he wanted to stay. Even the hope of seeing Bilbo once more might not have pried him from his hearth, now that he knew, really and truly knew, exactly what home meant. Too much rootless wandering already, too many years of his life spent working out the definition of the word. Ironic, that now he found himself holding home tight to his breast with one hand, he was also offering it as unwilling sacrifice with the other.
Merry was not going to understand, not in a million years, and Frodo closed his eyes against regret and the reproving whispers in his heart. Perhaps his trip to Buckland this summer had been a mistake. Merry had displayed every behaviour of a person who has begun to move on from lads’ games and Frodo had selfishly drawn him right back in – had perhaps even queered a budding relationship in the process. Regardless of what Frodo happened to think of young Miss Melilot, it had been neither right nor fair of him to interfere as he had.
He’d held on too long the way it was. He should have gently withdrawn years ago, when Merry had come of age, if not sooner. He had no business keeping the future Master so close, allowing himself to squander the time Merry should have been spending on finding a suitable wife, or at the very least, a younger partner to occupy himself with until Esme saddled him with a breeder of her own choosing.
It was selfish and he knew it – had known it for far too long not to censure himself for it now. He’d been too complacent in his acceptance of Merry at his side for these many years, been too willing to take, for Merry had been oh, so sweet in the giving. And Merry had been more than willing, too – Frodo didn’t have it in his heart to even try to deny that. Merry loved him and Frodo loved him right back and twice as hard. And so it seemed near right and just that he should let him go now, though he had to regret the way in which he was forced to do the letting go.
Still, letting go would be a thousand times less painful than holding on – for Merry especially but for himself as well. Merry, younger cousin though he was, had always thought himself the protector, and Frodo shuddered to think what might come of him if he knew what Frodo planned and took it into that hot head of his to take up that role now. Gandalf had told him to take someone he could trust and whom he would be willing to take into unknown perils, and though the list was admittedly somewhat short on the former, there was no one he was willing to risk on the latter. Especially not Merry.
Gandalf. Now, there was a puzzle and a worry. What could be keeping him, Frodo was not inclined to guess, but the wizard’s absence weighed heavy on his mind, a low fear just barely kept in check beneath the uneasy burden. All the more reason to keep the number of people he placed in danger to a minimum. Bad enough Sam would be along but Gandalf himself had chosen Sam and Frodo didn’t think it wise to gainsay a wizard just yet. Still, Frodo could fix that easily enough with a quick, stealthy getaway, should the way prove more perilous than he now guessed, especially if he and Sam were on their own, as Frodo now feared was entirely too possible. But Merry…
No, Merry would not be left. His eyes were trained on Frodo the way it was; Frodo couldn’t even imagine trying to sneak away on him, if he had even the smallest suspicion Frodo might be in real danger. And he knew he wouldn’t get out of the Shire in the first place, should Merry guess at his plans. He kept Frodo almost too close the way it was, his near-constant attention both comforting and fair infuriating all at once. Frodo would not take someone into danger who would be all too willing to die for him, if it came to it.
Frodo frowned. Now there was an unsettling thought – even moreso because it had tripped so easily into harsh logic, and he knew before he’d even analysed it that yes, Merry would die for him. It was all too easy to imagine Merry placing that broad body between Frodo and whatever danger might come along and then…
He shuddered.
How had this happened? Who was he and what had he ever done to deserve such depths of devotion? And how had he been so bleeding selfish as to let it come to this?
It didn’t matter, not now. Perhaps that small space he’d left between them hadn’t been wide enough, but it was no good allowing himself to fall into it now and drag Merry along with him. It would be hard, leaving like this – harder than he’d guessed – but it was best and he could not allow Merry to cling to the past out of some sort of loyalty or kinship, not when the consequences could be so dire. It was time to unfetter Merry from familiarity, to release him from whatever bonds he placed on himself out of love and loyalty. It was time to…
Oh, bloody damn. It was time to let go.
But, oh, his heart whispered, soft and profoundly sad, I don’t want to.
No. No time for this, not now. The time for mourning was past. He’d made his decisions months ago and there was no turning back. Want had nothing to do with any of it, only love and it was past time he excised the selfishness from that love. He would do this and he would do it because he loved and because he was loved in return and this was the only way to honour that love… this was the only way that was fair.
Frodo gave a sharp shake of his head, sucked in a heavy breath. He squared his shoulders.
It was better to be done this way – an abbreviated tale of his errand, assurances as to his safety and a clear, unspoken message in his choice of Sam as his companion. Merry was a clever lad – always had been and far too clever for his own good sometimes – and Frodo had no doubt he would make the assumption as intended. Pippin’s earlier prattle had been more fortuitous than Frodo had at first realised. He had no doubt Merry would put the pieces together quickly. Merry's reckless jealousy and that bit of possessiveness -- they'd been a presence lurking between them for years, and now Frodo supposed they would prove useful. And there would be the others to witness as well; hot-headed, Merry may be, but Brandybuck pride and the gentlehobbit in him would not allow for a tawdry scene in front of the others. No chance of Merry whittling away his defences, persuading him with soft kisses and harsh rebuke in equal measure, no danger of giving in to his own fears and desire for comfort. The deceit placed a guilty weight on Frodo’s heart but it was best for Merry and he clung to that thought, consoled himself as much as he could with it.
Sam’s presence at his side would speak volumes to Merry, and though it would cause him some measure of pain, it would be far better than the alternative. Best he leave with no misunderstanding, no distant hope of taking up again once he got back, for Frodo was almost certain there would be no back again at the end of this adventure. All lads must eventually give up their playmates and, though that word seemed far too small and casual to Frodo for it to hold everything Merry’d been to him and he to Merry, the truth was not to be altered by semantics.
And anyway, Frodo had left youth far behind and far too long ago as it was; playmates were for those younger and with more to give. It was past time to let Merry go and this journey would take care of what Frodo himself had been too weak to take care of when he should have done.
But there was still tonight, and if that was all that might be left to him, Frodo intended to grasp it, hold it and burn the memory into his heart. He smiled a little, though it was cheerless, took one last look at the stars then made his way inside.
* * *
Merry had come near to drifting into sleep when Frodo finally slipped in beside him, bare skin cool against his own. Merry pulled him close as Frodo burrowed beneath the quilts.
“You’re freezing,” Merry whispered.
“Only a little chilly,” Frodo replied. “You’re warm.” This as he wrapped his arm around Merry, cold hands lighting on his chest and back.
Merry jumped, hissed. “Bugger all, Frodo, how long were you out there?”
“Long enough,” Frodo snorted and pressed his mouth to Merry’s throat. “Warm me?”
Merry was only too happy to oblige; he reeled Frodo in, wrapped himself about him and kissed him, long and slow and deep. His hands smoothed leisurely over cool skin, warming it in their wake, and Frodo moved languid and sweet beneath his touch.
Frodo sighed, shivered, and Merry pressed harder, slid up and covered him with his body. A deliberate stretch of the spine and a tender stroke of fingers through silken hair; Merry groaned and Frodo answered with a slow undulating ripple of bone and sinew, rising up to meet the press of Merry’s hips.
“Merry-love,” Frodo whispered and Merry pulled back, gazed down into eyes that shone now with warmth and firelight, the starlight abandoned to the mists of the cold night outside. “What do you want?”
Merry recognised the question immediately for what it was: the beginning of goodbye. And just like that, he was nearly undone. He choked a little, dipped his mouth to Frodo’s throat and closed his eyes to bury the tears that built hot behind them.
“Only you,” he said, voice husky and rough, squeezed out around the lump of emotion suddenly clogging his throat. He swallowed, clenched his eyes tight. “Stay with me, now.”
Fingertips, cool and soft, swept over his shoulders. “I’m not going anywhere, love,” Frodo whispered.
‘But you are,’ Merry almost replied and caught the words before they’d reached his tongue. Tipping Frodo off now could only send him fleeing, so Merry took hold of his wits, smiled against smooth skin.
“I know,” he lied and laid his mouth to Frodo’s, demanded entrance, and Frodo opened to him, slid his tongue deep and Merry groaned low.
A slow dance of sleek limbs beneath him, hard heat against his own; Merry cast himself into the rhythm, moved his body to the measure set against him, set himself to drowning in the sea of love and desire that washed from Frodo’s skin to his own. Flesh, cold only moments ago, now slicked with sweat against him, and he tasted salt and Old Winyards from Frodo’s tongue.
When had this happened that so much of Merry’s own self had got caught up in Frodo’s very soul? When had tween-aged infatuation turned to such a profound need to touch and possess and love and give? And why was it that, no matter how close Merry kept him, no matter how secure he was in Frodo’s love for him, Merry could never quite believe that Frodo would not one day wander into starlight and join in the cold dance of the night?
Press and glide and Frodo moaned, writhed and pushed up hard. Fire kindled beneath Merry’s skin and he answered with a press of his own, furthered it with a sinuous grind. Frodo gasped, pressed his mouth to Merry’s shoulder. Lithe limbs ensconced Merry and he was pulled in, hard and demanding; sweated palms pressed into the small of his back, long, muscular legs wrapped about his hips.
Never, he would never tire of this feeling: sinking into Frodo’s skin; losing himself to the measured tempo of the slow, practiced steps of this rhythmic dance; swaying to moves as old as the reckoning of time itself. Merry released himself to it, surrendered his heart and twined it about Frodo, and Frodo took it, held it tight in his palms, and Merry was sure he didn’t know how precariously it balanced there, how one errant flick of careless fingers might see it crushed and broken in his fist.
Merry pulled himself up to an elbow, stroked damp hair from Frodo’s brow. Eyes made of heat and reflected fire gazed up at him and Merry couldn’t tear his own eyes away, needed that warm gaze entwined with his own.
“Frodo-love,” he whispered, broken and small, and Frodo answered with the swift claiming of Merry’s mouth, teeth and tongue scraping cries from his throat. A hard push and a quickening of tempo and Merry gasped his way out of the kiss, pulled back again to fix his eyes to the reality of this body twisting beneath him.
His hand shot out to the bedside table, snatched up the oil then he rolled them both until Frodo lay smiling atop him. Merry pressed the bottle into Frodo’s hand.
“It’s your birthday,” he murmured through his own smile, “and you’ve not given me my present yet.”
Frodo’s smile widened, soft and just a little crooked. “And you’ve not given me time yet.”
Merry pushed up and a rush of heat moved through him at Frodo’s sudden sharp breath. Frodo closed his eyes, clenched his teeth. Merry’s smile deepened.
“Hurry on, then.”
And Frodo snorted, kissed him, long and slow.
Merry’s teeth ground and he surged, cried out as Frodo entered him. His body arched helplessly into the sensation of being rived and filled, overwhelmed and rebuilt, and all of it shattering-soft and all at once. Twice, he almost wept, and his throat filled with all of the pathetic entreaties he bit back with fierce determination and even fiercer love.
Gentle and almost too gentle, slow and almost too slow; Merry ached for the pounding drive of sweet-hot lust, yet revelled in the comfort of soothing deliberation. Slow whispers laid tender to his skin and Merry rocked himself into their pulse and swell, folded into slick-smooth fire with each aching-sweet thrust of Frodo’s hips.
“Merry,” Frodo whispered and his mouth moved, open and hot against Merry’s throat.
Merry wrapped his legs around him, pulled him deep with sweated palms to the small of Frodo’s back then raised his head and licked at Frodo’s collarbone, sank his teeth gently into moon-pale skin over bone. A small, fractured sound from Frodo’s throat and Merry dug his fingers deeper, pushed his hips upward and arched his back.
Frodo’s mouth fell open and a breathy sigh dropped languid and smooth from it. Merry caught it with his own mouth, pulled it deep into his chest and notched the rhythm, rocked fast and desperate against straining hips, rising and falling, pushing into him, making his head spin. The sleek glide of heat, slippery and slick and moving now in a tempo that filled him with heady comfort at being so possessed then near broke him to pieces with aching loss.
Close; he was falling, slipping, and Frodo was too, and Merry needed to see those eyes again, needed to watch as love and care surrendered to wanton need. He pulled his mouth away, caught Frodo’s gaze and held it, watched as the flicker of firelight gave way to a holocaust of pleasure as Frodo surged against him. Thrusts, quick and hard and searing into his skin, and Frodo’s hips rocked. His fingers twisted at the sheets to either side of Merry’s head, hard muscle slammed against Merry’s own and he gulped air in great, wrenching gasps.
Merry watched, enspelled, as he felt Frodo’s thrusts become frantic, his fingers hard and grasping against Merry’s skin. Frodo cried out, surged, bucked hard and fast, then stretched his neck back, closed his eyes, shouted a curse through a brazen smile wrapped around Merry’s own name and drove down into searing release. Merry let go then, thrust one more time then surrendered to the spasm of blinding culmination that took him, shuddered through him, left him hung upon the warm waves that waxed through him and tossed him, gasping, wrung in their waning.
He collapsed, spent and shivering beneath Frodo, and Frodo kissed him, whispered to him, gentled and soothed him. Warm hands wiping the sweat from his brow, soft lips murmuring love and comfort at his temple. Merry clenched his eyes against the tears that strained behind them.
“Stay with me, Frodo,” he whispered. “Please, stay with me.”
And Frodo shushed him and stroked him, consoled him and kissed him. “I’m right here, love,” he said. “And so are you. And here we’ll stay until Pippin bursts through the door in the morning and rolls us out of bed to fix him breakfast.”
Merry couldn’t help the surprised snort that burst from him. He rolled them to their sides, squeezed Frodo tight enough to knock the breath from him.
“Let Freddy fix it for him,” Merry said. “If he tries rolling me out of bed, I’ll take his ears off and put them in his pockets so he can hear it when I kick his arse.”
Frodo laughed right out loud, clapped his hand to his mouth and burrowed into Merry’s chest. Once he’d subsided into snickers, he tried prying himself loose but Merry only tightened his grip.
“Merry, we need a flannel,” Frodo informed him. “Let go before we end up permanently stuck together.”
“I could live with that,” Merry replied.
“Oh, surely,” Frodo chuckled, “but it might make travelling to Buckland a little difficult on the morrow.”
“So, we stay here,” Merry returned reasonably. “This bed is lovely and you’re lovely and I’m warm and content. I have everything I want and bugger the rest.”
“All well and good,” Frodo remarked with a lift of an eyebrow. “Until, that is, Lobelia shows up to stake her claim and then Pippin tipping us onto the floor will be the least of our worries.”
“Good point,” Merry conceded then sighed and let Frodo loose. “Go get your cloth, then,” he said. “I’ll just stay here, cold and weeping at your loss.” And that rang a little too closely and Merry frowned suddenly, reached out and gripped Frodo’s arm.
Frodo rolled his eyes, laughed, “Merry, honestly, you’re--” He stopped when he got a good look at Merry’s face. His smile dampened, fell. “What is it, love?” He reached over, tucked loose curls behind Merry’s ear.
Merry only held on, stared deep and long into that fathomless gaze before he forced a smile, a small laugh. “Nothing,” he said and let go Frodo’s arm. “Get your flannel. I think my thighs are becoming glued together.”
Frodo grimaced. “That’s a bit of disgusting,” he snickered and went to the washbasin, returned with a warm, wet cloth and cleaned them both. He tossed it across the room then climbed back into bed, wrapped himself around Merry.
Merry burrowed in, rested his head to Frodo’s shoulder, pressed his nose to the scent of pears and sweat and Old Toby. “Stay with me,” he said yet again, tried to keep the plaintive wheedling out of his tone and failed.
Frodo was silent for a long while before Merry felt a kiss in his hair.
“I’m right here, love,” he finally whispered.
And Merry heard the truth/not-truth in the quaver of his voice. He closed his eyes, held on tight and pretended to sleep.
* * *
PART TWO
The next morning they were busy packing another cart with the remainder of the luggage. Merry took charge of this, and drove off with Fatty (that is Fredegar Bolger). FOTR, Three Is Company
* * *
“You’ll keep a close eye on him, yes? Don’t let him out of your sight, not even for a moment.”
“Yes, yes, Merry, not even for a moment.” Pippin handed over the last of the crates to Merry and Merry hefted it onto the back of the cart, flinging the canvas over the top and strapping it down.
“I mean it, Pippin – not even for a moment. If he suspects, he’ll be off and gone before you can even blink and we’ll--”
“Merry.”
Merry turned to Pippin, ready to be jollied out of his overly-anxious concern and mother-hen ways. But what he saw in Pippin’s face brought him up short and ice formed in his belly. Pippin wasn’t laughing at him and that, more than anything else, brought home to him once again exactly how serious this business was.
“I’m sorry, Pip,” he said miserably. “I’m just…” He shook his head, clenched his fists. “I just wish--”
“I know.” Pippin placed a comforting hand to his shoulder. “I’ll keep both eyes open and grow some new ones in the back of my head, just for the cause.” He smiled and Merry couldn’t help but smile back. “Trust me. And trust Sam. Nothing will get to him, not while we stand.” He let go Merry’s shoulder, cuffed him on the ear. “And anyway, we’re not leaving the Shire, for pity’s sake. Save your worrying for when we’ll all need it, you great git.”
Merry grinned, nodded then wrapped his arms around his cousin, squeezed hard. “I know,” he said. “Thank you.”
Pippin pulled back some and Merry released him, found himself on the receiving end of a penetrating gaze. “Don’t thank me, Merry. I’m not doing it for you. I love him, too, you know.”
“I do,” Merry replied quietly. “But thank you anyway.”
The discreet clearing of a throat behind them made them both turn curiously. Sam shuffled a few feet away, looking quickly from one to the other.
“Hullo, Sam,” Pippin said.
A quick nod. “Mr. Folco’s saying his goodbyes now and Mr. Fatty’s just packing a little something for you both on the road. You should maybe…” Sam looked down, flushed. “I just mean… well, Mr. Frodo’ll be down in just a tick and he might wonder at the long faces, is all.”
Pippin shot a sideways glance to Merry and grinned. “Sam,” he said and moved to drape an arm across the gardener’s broad shoulders, “if you intend to share the hard road ahead with us, you’d best learn to chastise us with a little more feeling, or we’ll never learn to mind you.”
Sam sputtered, reddened still more. “Master Pippin, I’d never--”
“Oh, but you will.” Pippin chuckled and clapped him on the back. “Once you get to know us better, you won’t be able to help yourself.”
Sam grinned, shuffled some more. “I guess you’d know that from experience, there, Master Pip.”
“Ah, that’s more like it.” Pippin turned to Merry. "There you see, and you were worried about--" He stopped at Merry's solemn expression, slumped a little, reached out his hand and again laid it to Merry's shoulder. "Merry, it will--"
"Be fine, yes, I know," Merry snapped, almost a muted snarl, then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath. "I'm sorry, Pippin." He took Pippin's hand, squeezed it. "I do know, and I don't mean it to seem as though I'm doubting you. It's only…" A deep breath and he shook his head, leaned against the waggon. "I've a long few days of waiting and worrying ahead of me and it appears as though I'm getting an early start. Ignore me."
He turned to Sam. “Sam, I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you.” Merry’s voice wavered a little and he cleared his throat again. “Ever since we began…” He blinked several times, shook his head. “I don’t know what I’d’ve done, had you not… well, had you refused to help and I have no--”
“Like Master Pippin said, Mr. Merry,” Sam said kindly, “there’s no need for thanks, as we ain’t doing this for you.”
“Well, you watched Frodo the summer long, kept me posted, and for me, so at least let me thank you for that.”
Sam looked down, his ears red and warm, and Merry couldn’t help but wonder if Sam considered it even the smallest hardship to do that watching. Unease crept up his spine and he willed it away.
“S’all right,” Sam muttered. “And I’ll keep him close on the trip to Buckland, never you worry.”
It was all Merry could do to keep his jaw from clenching. “I’ve no doubt,” he said with a little more irony than he’d intended then turned quickly away and busied himself with the buckles of the straps on the cart. Pippin and Sam stood in awkward silence until Pippin glanced sideways at Sam, nudged him a little in the ribs.
“You heard everything, eh?” There was a tiny, mischievous smile tucked up in the corner of his mouth. “Keeping yourself in practise, I see.”
Sam grinned wide and winked. “Ain’t you heard, Master Pippin? A natural eavesdropper, I am.”
“Watch your tongues, lads,” Fatty sang under his breath as he rounded the bend in the lane and hefted himself onto the board of the cart. "Smiling faces, now." His warning came none too soon, as Frodo followed only a few paces behind.
“Well, isn’t this…” He trailed off, seemingly unable to say just what it was and the smile he sported became strained. He shrugged, ran a hand through his hair as his eyes took in the cart and its contents, arranged carefully and strapped snug. “It’s um…” He took a breath then turned to the others, deliberately brightened his smile and shrugged again. “It’s a little sad, to be honest. Odd to see it all…” He waved a hand at the cart then dropped his arm, shoved both his hands in his pockets. He cleared his throat.
“Anyway, you’ve been such help and wonderful company and I thank you all. Sam and I couldn’t have done it by ourselves.”
“Oh, don’t get all maudlin now, Frodo,” Freddy snorted. “If you make me weep, Merry will have to drive the cart and he drives like a gammer.”
“Hoy!” was Merry’s indignant protest.
“Now, Fatty,” Pippin put in, “you’re not being fair. Gammers go much faster than Merry does.”
And that brought a genuine grin to Frodo’s face. “Well, however fast or slow you go, you’ll get there well before we will, at any rate. Are you sure you won’t stay for lunch, at least? We won’t leave ‘til after tea, after all.”
Merry shook his head. “I’d like to make it back to Buckland before nightfall and get the cart unpacked tomorrow. Someone must get there and warm the house before you arrive.” He took Frodo by the elbow, pulled him around the bend in the lane and out of sight of the others.
“You’ll watch out for yourself, now, yeah? Don’t go dropping into any ditches in the dark, or anything.”
Frodo rolled his eyes. “Really, Merry, I’m a grown hobbit, you know. The worst that can happen is that Pippin decides I need my head dunked in a handy stream and I arrive drenched and fevered on the doorstep, delirious and hanging on to life by a thin thread of--”
“Oh, you’re just aching for a clout upside your head.”
Frodo chuckled then leaned forward and gave him a soft, slow kiss. Merry’s arms came up, circled about Frodo and pulled him in tight. He deepened the kiss, firmed his hold until Frodo pulled back.
“More when next I see you,” he promised.
“Mmm, maybe we should stay ‘til after lunch,” Merry murmured with a waggle of eyebrows.
Frodo snickered and pushed him back toward the others. “Off with you,” he said. “Go warm my house and fill my pantry.”
Merry grinned. “The day after tomorrow, then, if you don’t go to sleep on the way!”
* * *
It was decided that Pippin would make tea today. Exactly how that was decided, Pippin couldn’t say; something about how the heat of a stove had been known to burn away wickedness, or… something like that. He rather thought ‘wickedness’ was perhaps going a little overboard and he was fairly certain that Frodo had made up the part about the stove right on the spot. But he had to admit that Frodo had not been overly-pleased with having had the last of the biscuits in the rapidly-baring pantry mysteriously disappear. Naturally, he blamed Pippin. The fact that Pippin had actually been responsible for said mysterious disappearance was entirely beside the point.
Pippin grinned a little. It didn’t matter; Frodo had laughed and that was worth enduring both the initial outrage and the ensuing ‘punishment’. Frodo’s laughter was all too rare these days and Pippin had to work increasingly harder to pull it forth. He was going to end up with a reputation as a jester and a fool, if Frodo didn’t cheer up soon.
Oh, wait – he already had that reputation.
And anyway, the biscuits had been awfully good.
He sighed, flapped the dough over and crimped its edges. He’d decided on ham and cheese pockets in buttered pastry shells. Not one of Frodo’s particular favourites but the pickings in the coldroom were awfully slim and he was forced to make do with what he could scrounge. He’d spotted a half of a buttercake in the pantry when he’d been on his previous biscuit-hunting mission and thought that would do nicely for afters. Now, if he could only talk Frodo into letting him serve beer instead of tea…
“Anything I can help you with, there, Master Pippin?”
Pippin jumped, dusting his blue waistcoat beige with flour. He chuckled, rolled his eyes, turned to Sam.
“I think you do that on purpose.”
Sam tilted his head, and if Pippin was not very much mistaken, suppressed a grin. “Do what, sir?”
Pippin only shook his head and clucked his tongue. “All this cheek and only poor Frodo to spend it on. You must keep him on his toes, I’m thinking.”
“I don’t think Mr. Frodo…” Sam smiled a little, shrugged. “Well, I don’t think he gets the joke too often, if you understand me.”
“Oh, he gets it,” Pippin assured him. “He’s probably just not sure you do and he’s too polite to ask you.” Pippin turned back and began loading the pastries onto a baking tray. “And no,” he continued, “in answer to your question, I don’t need any help. Unless, of course, you can figure out a way to take along some feather mattresses for the trip without actually having to carry them.”
Sam snickered. “I think you’d need Gandalf for something like that.”
Pippin stopped, turned to Sam with a frown. “Where do you suppose he might be, Sam? I don’t know whether to be angry with him or worried but his failure to arrive has Frodo more anxious than he needs to be right now.”
Sam shot a quick glance at the doorway. “Where is Mr. Frodo, anyhow?”
“I sent him for a lie-down. He was getting shirty.” Sam lifted an eyebrow and Pippin snorted, waved a hand as he turned back to finish the job of transferring the pastries. “Some foul thing about where a few biscuits might fit and how he might fit them there. Which really made no sense, since there are no biscuits and that’s what set him off in the first place, so how he might be able to shove non-existent biscuits…” He grinned. “Never mind.”
He lifted the tray and Sam opened the oven door for him. Pippin slipped the pastries into the oven, swung the door closed, shrugged.
“Anyway, he’s a bit short-tempered but I suppose having to pack up everything he owns and empty the home he loves so dear might be a good enough reason for that. Plus knowing the S.-B.s will be spreading their sour selves about the place, plus Gandalf not showing up, plus the fact that he’s exhausted…” Pippin shook his head. “It’s a little difficult to comfort a person when they won’t admit anything’s wrong, is all,” he furthered softly. “All I could do was send him off to bed for a while. And see to tea. Hoy, Sam, do you think we could talk him into beer for tea?”
Sam blinked at the sudden turn. “Uh…”
Pippin chuckled, waved a hand. “Never mind. He wouldn’t hear of it and we both know it. No rhyme or reason when it comes to which traditions he thumbs his nose at and which he sticks to like a barnacle on a boat. Although…" Pippin paused thoughtfully, turned back to Sam. "He might be talked into coffee. I wonder if he has any left about?”
“Sorry, Master Pip, but it went off with the last cartload, as most of the dry stuff from the pantry did. I only left enough about to see us through today and then some to pack for the road.”
Pippin groaned, slumped against the cupboard. “Well, you’re just bloody efficient, aren’t you?”
“Sorry, sir.” Sam couldn’t help the small smirk.
“Bah,” Pippin said. “Well, anyway, I’ve a cold pitcher here and I say we drain what we can from it while we may.” He reached into the cupboard, found it mostly bare and had to settle upon using two of the small tin cups Frodo kept about for visiting relatives with bairns whom he wouldn’t trust with something breakable. Pippin just had to grin. “Leaving these behind for Lotho?”
It surprised a loud snort from Sam. He shook his head, cheeks appled and flushed red.
“I thought they’d be handy on the road,” he told Pippin through his snickers.
“Well, they’re handy now,” Pippin replied and filled each with cold beer. He turned one over to Sam then flapped a hand towards the table. They both sat, one across from the other.
Pippin took a healthy swig, licked his lips and sighed. “Well, enjoy this now because we’re not likely to get it where we’re off to, at least not with any regularity.” He shook his head, sighed again. “Nor feather mattresses, nor decent food, nor a nice pipe in front of the hearth…”
“So then why…” Sam trailed off, reddened.
Pippin tilted his head. “What?”
“Nothing, I didn’t mean…” Sam ducked his head, eartips glowing. “Sorry.”
“Don’t be daft,” Pippin answered. “Come now, how are we to do as we must, if we can’t speak plainly to one another? What did you want to ask?”
Sam cleared his throat, squirmed in his seat. “Well, I just thought… it seems as you’re not entirely keen on this whole trip and I just had to wonder…”
And just like that, Pippin’s good humour slipped away. He toyed with his cup, stared at the amber foam at its rim. He sat back, crossed his arms over his chest and peered at Sam with a considering eye.
“You’re wondering, since I complain so much about how difficult it’s all going to be, why I’m coming along. Is that it?”
Sam flushed a little deeper, jerked a reluctant nod. “I don’t mean any disrespect, sir, but…” Sam firmed his jaw before going on, “Well, it seems this ain’t something you really want to do and it’s going to be a long ways. It’ll start out hard and only get harder and if you don’t want to do it in the first place…” He shrugged. “I’m only saying that, if you really don’t want to do this and if Mr. Merry talked you into it or summat, maybe now’s the time…” Another awkward pause and, when Pippin only continued to gaze at him steadily, Sam furthered, “It’s only that I have to think of Mr. Frodo, sir, and, what with him having to do what he needs to do and who-knows-what out there that might want to get in his way… Well, I just don’t want my master to have to worry about more than he absolutely has to, if you see what I mean.”
Pippin leaned back in his chair, studied Sam closely. A hot little twinge of anger wormed through his chest and forced it back. Sam was only looking out for Frodo and that was as it should be. After all, he’d earned his reputation as a bit of a fool; it should be expected that it would bite him on the arse on occasion. Still, he felt his cheeks burning and his eyes narrowing, and he found there wasn’t much he could do about it. He sucked in a deep breath, counted to ten before opening his mouth on a reply.
“To answer your first question,” he began, his voice even and calm, “as to why I have chosen to accompany Frodo – and yes, I have chosen it, I was not ‘talked into it’ by Merry or anyone else…” He paused, looked directly at his companion and couldn’t help the small curl of satisfaction when Sam quickly dropped his eyes. “The simple answer is because I love him, deeply and fiercely, which is something I think you know a little bit about.”
Sam’s eyes narrowed a little at that. Pippin shrugged, backed a mental step. There was no need to be cruel here, and the feelings Pippin suspected Sam had for Frodo were entirely Sam’s own business… unless they somehow ended up hurting Frodo, in which case they immediately became Pippin’s business. But, at the moment, that was not the case and he felt no desire to embarrass Sam further.
“We all love him fiercely,” he went on more kindly then pushed out a grim little laugh. “Who could help it? For all his occasional snappishness and his maddening tendency towards the morose, oh, and let’s not even get into his insistence upon assuming that we’re all a just bit foolish for loving him as we do…” Pippin rolled his eyes, threw up his hands. “He is absolutely infuriating, more than a little bit frustrating, and for all that, he is probably the best person I will ever know in my entire life. Of course, I don’t have to tell you that.”
Pippin’s gaze turned quizzical. “How long ago did he move here, Sam?”
“Oh…” Sam pondered the ceiling for a moment. “I’d say more than twenty-five years ago, thereabouts.”
“So, you’ve known him a long time, as well.” Pippin nodded. “I’ve known him all my life, Sam, and he has always been so… Well, you have far too many sisters yourself; I've no doubt you know what it’s like to grow up in a family full of skirts and ribbons and those who think little boys – even if they do happen to be your brother – are all far too ‘icky’ to rate anything other than the occasional clout on the ear, and all for the simple reason that he has a set of stones in his nappy.”
Sam gave a commiserating chuckle and nodded. Pippin answered with a small grin and a shrug.
“Anyway, Frodo’s been visiting the Smials at least twice a year for as long as I can remember and his visits always brought about a great flurry for at least a day or two before his arrival. I didn’t know it until I got older but Mum had her sights on marrying him off to Pearl or Pimpernel for years. I think she still holds out hope for Pearl, though I doubt Pearl will ever marry at all. Nor Frodo, for that matter.” There was a thoughtful little pause for a moment before Pippin continued, “So, Frodo would come to Tuckborough, with Mum and the girls hoping to catch him sneaking a glance down a bodice, so they could gather ‘round and move in for the kill.
“But Frodo, he’s smarter than the average hobbit, you know. I have my suspicions that he took advantage of more than one bursting bodice during some of his visits but he was never caught and no one ever breathed a word.” The corner of Pippin’s mouth curled up into a cocky little smile. “He not only had the brains to take what was offered but to only do so with lasses who could keep their mouths shut. Not an easy thing to find, I’m sure you must know. He had his share of encounters with lads as well but no one pays much attention to that, do they? Dally with a lad and who cares? It’s not like he can come after you several months later with a bundle he swears belongs to you but looks suspiciously like the farmer’s son away down the road.”
Sam snorted, sipped his beer and nodded.
“Anyway, I’ve wandered from my point,” Pippin continued. “The point is that Frodo would come to Smials at the behest of Bilbo, who was being constantly nagged by my mother, poor sod, and he was supposed to be coming to get to know my sisters and decide which he wanted to court. What he actually did when he visited, was spend every moment possible with me.” Pippin smiled fondly. “I think it started out that he was using me for a shield, to keep my sisters at bay. ‘I would love to escort Pearl to dinner, Aunt Eglantine, but I’ve already promised I would dine with Pippin in the children’s hall.’ Or better yet, ‘Dearest Pimpernel, I don’t think I could ever consider marrying someone unless I knew they were absolutely devoted to children.’” Pippin ducked his head a little, shoulders hunching and quivering with his snorts. “Oh, they were never so kind to me as when Frodo was about, let me tell you! Well, not Pearl, since she had no intention of marrying Frodo or anyone else. I think their solidarity in the matter is what made them such great friends.”
Pippin shook his head, sobered a little. “And then he and Merry began spending a lot of time together and I expected his visits to slow down but they didn’t; he just hauled Merry along to Tuckborough with him and then I had the both of them at my disposal.” He grinned. “Merry didn’t quite know what to do with me for a long while. I think he was a little bit afraid of me, or perhaps just children in general. It wasn’t until Frodo dragged us both out to teach me archery one autumn that Merry decided I was worth his attention.” He slanted a sideways smirk to Sam. “And that was only because I managed to almost put an arrow right through Frodo’s arse! He was very lucky that they hadn’t thought it wise to trust me with a tipped arrow, just yet. I thought Merry was going to die laughing, right on the spot!”
He chuckled fondly in remembrance and Sam joined him.
“But then, when I was about eighteen, Pimpernel married and Pearl made it clear that she was not soon to follow and I remember thinking, ‘Well, that’s it, then. Frodo won’t be visiting anymore, since there’s no one to try and match him up with and I’ll hardly ever see him again.’ But then…” Pippin paused, smiled softly and he looked to Sam. “The most amazing thing happened: come Spring, when his next visit was due, he showed up, right on schedule. And when I asked him why he’d come, since there was no one to court, he just looked at me as if I’d grown two heads and said, ‘Why to see you, of course!’”
Pippin shook his head, amazed that the wonder of it all could still hit him so hard, even after all this time. “He’s just like that, you know? Always doing things that make a person feel good, always just being about when you think you haven’t a friend in the world…”
Sam quirked a small smile. Pippin grinned back then tilted his head, narrowed his eyes. He leaned forward.
“Do you know that Frodo is the one responsible for all of those Yule baskets that show up mysteriously on the doorsteps of those having a difficult time every year?” Sam’s eyes widened and Pippin nodded in satisfaction. “Ah, ha! A little Hobbiton tradition that I know a bit more about than you do!” he crowed. “He would absolutely tan me for telling a soul; in fact, I don’t even think he’s aware that I know about it. It’s all very cloak-and-dagger, don’t you know.” He leaned forward with a gleeful twinkle. “You see, he orders the baskets from Twillberry’s in Tuckborough and has them all delivered to the Proudnecks’ shop, away in Buckland. They fill them up there and then guess where they send them?”
Sam shook his head and Pippin couldn’t have been more pleased with his obvious astonishment. He watched very carefully as he said the next.
“They are sent to Lily Cotton, who stores them for him in Bywater for a day or so and then hires a trustworthy lad to deliver them the night before the Yule celebration.”
Sam’s jaw dropped. “Lily Cotton!”
Pippin sat back with a huge grin. “Oh, I do so love a good surprise! Yes, Lily Cotton; a very worthy matron, I must say who, to my knowledge, has not breathed a word to a single soul as to who is responsible for the whole thing in the fifteen years she’s been helping your esteemed master with his bit of secret generosity.”
“I wonder if Rosie or Jolly knows about it,” Sam breathed, obviously a bit pole-axed.
“Oh, I doubt it,” Pippin replied. “I would venture that there are only about ten people in the whole of the Shire who even suspect and probably five who actually know. If Frodo trusted Mistress Lily with his secret, I’ve no doubt that she’s the type to keep it very close.”
“But why would he keep it a secret, anyhow?” Sam wanted to know. “And why go to such trouble to do it? It don’t make sense.”
Pippin’s delight fell a few notches. He lifted his cup, drained it then refilled both his own and Sam’s.
“I think it makes all sorts of sense, if you happen to be Frodo Baggins.”
“But I seen those baskets -- they’re beautiful! And huge! They’ve hams and flour and sausages and… and fruit! I can’t imagine where he lays his hands on those lemons and starfruits at that time of year--”
“They’re all the way from Dale,” Pippin told him. “I’m not sure but I think dwarves deliver them to Buckland. Or maybe to Frodo himself; he still gets visits from some of them occasionally. I really don’t know.”
“And coins!” Sam went on, as though he’d not even heard. “Coins in a purse that must be about…” he waved his arms. “Well, I don’t know how much but it must be enough to feed a whole family all winter. Daddy Twofoot got one once, when he’d broke his leg and Will was too sick to harvest on his own. He even said he wished he knew who sent it so’s he could thank them proper. And I know the Brownlocks got one just last year, after their wheat fields caught fire and--”
“And many others,” Pippin said more quietly. “Some of whom are related to Frodo and some who are not; some who would be grateful to him and some who might just refuse something they desperately needed, simply because of who it came from.”
Sam deflated, sat back. If Pippin thought he looked pole-axed before, now he looked positively flummoxed. He put down his cup, leaned his elbows on the table.
“You see, Sam, there are some who still see your very kind, very generous master as the uncouth riverhobbit, whose parents died mysteriously and who somehow put a spell on Bilbo, in order to wriggle his way into the dragon’s gold. Of course,” he went on a little bitterly, “that wouldn’t stop them from pushing their daughters off on him; he is, after all, a ‘good catch’ when it comes to marrying well.”
Pippin looked down, dipped a fingertip in the circle of condensation from his cup and absently began drawing patterns on the table with it.
“Some actually believe he did away with Bilbo, did you know that?” He glanced up to see Sam nodding slowly, his face set hard and red. “Can you imagine someone like Lobelia accepting one of those baskets from Frodo, even if not accepting it meant starving for the rest of the winter? Or any of the other generosities he spreads about, most of which even I have never found out about? And believe me, there is plenty more I do know about but I suspect it’s only a portion of what he really gets up to.”
Sam lowered his head and Pippin had the very distinct suspicion that he might be hiding angry tears. He nodded to himself; yes, Samwise Gamgee was definitely going to be a valuable companion along the Road.
“Frodo doesn’t care about thanks, he doesn’t care about people liking him; all he cares about is that someone who needs a hand, gets it, and he will go to whatever lengths he needs to, in order to see it done.”
Pippin sighed, propped his chin on his fist. “Which is another reason I’ve chosen to come along, though, that’s probably more for Merry’s sake than Frodo’s.”
He stared into his cup, feeling Sam’s frown but hesitating to go on. Though, he had said they needed to speak plainly to one another. He cleared his throat, smiled a little.
“Merry lives under the impression that one of his main purposes in life is to save Frodo from himself.” He furrowed his brow. “He seems to think that Frodo is the type who would throw himself bodily onto a fire, in order to prevent another from singeing their eyebrows. And he also thinks that he’s the only one who can talk Frodo out of throwing himself on that fire in the first place. Oh, the rows between those two that bit of thinking has caused!”
Sam was quiet for a moment, then, “And you don’t think that, sir?”
Pippin peered up at Sam, frowning. “To some extent,” he admitted. “But I think I give Frodo credit for more sense than Merry does. I think Frodo wouldn’t hesitate to do what’s best for another and be damned with what’s best for himself. But he’s also very smart, our Frodo. He wouldn’t do anything foolish without first thinking through all other possibilities. But…” Pippin paused and his frown deepened.
“But…?” Sam prompted softly.
Pippin shook his head. “But, I fear what would happen if there were no other possibilities.”
He stared into his cup, thinking on long, slender fingers wrapped about his own, guiding his small, pudgy hands through the intricacies of tying off a fishing lure. He thought of a small boy whose too-busy father could never seem to find the time to teach his son the wonders of hunting frogs and stringing a bow and the pure, complete joy of learning those things from a gentle, patient elder cousin instead. Pippin felt his eyes grow hot and he shook himself, drained his cup.
“But that’s why we’re coming along, eh?”
Sam’s eyebrows drew together. “Why’s that, Master Pippin?”
Pippin forced a grin. “Why, to make sure he never runs out of other possibilities, of course.” He stood, straightened his waistcoat and smiled brightly.
“You’ll stay for tea, naturally. It smells about ready. I’ll go wake Frodo.”
And without waiting for an answer, he quickly left the kitchen, leaving Sam blinking after him. He got halfway down the tunnel before he stopped, leaned against the curved wall and shut his eyes tight.
“Never runs out of other possibilities,” he whispered to himself -- prayer or mantra, he didn't know -- then took a deep breath, pulled himself straight and made his way to Frodo’s door.
* * *
Pippin sat atop his pack on the porch, watching as Frodo came slowly up the Hill. His form was stark shadow against the stars, a little forlorn and bent more than it should be. His head hung low, his hands were deep in his pockets and Pippin wondered what it must be like to have to say goodbye to one’s life. Though, he rather thought Frodo was a little more experienced with that than anyone else he’d ever known. What was this, the third time? He’d lost one life when his parents had lost their own. Another when the siren-song of love for love’s sake and not responsibility’s called. Still another in the wake of what could be called many things – love for adventure, desire for More – but which Pippin saw as merely more pleasant ways to say ‘abandonment’. Frodo would never put it in such a way, but then Frodo’s heart was a bit softer than Pippin’s. Pippin had hardly even known Bilbo and so had no compunction whatsoever about laying that particular accusation at the old hobbit’s absent feet.
And now… Pippin sighed. Well, the count was up to four and he hoped that was where it remained. Get this done, get themselves home and then Pippin would happily join Merry in spending far too much energy over making sure their cousin stayed put forevermore.
Frodo spied him and instantly straightened, tacked a briskness that hadn’t been there a moment ago to his pace and a spring that Pippin didn’t believe for a second to his step. He reached the porch, smiled down at Pippin, and oh, yes, Frodo definitely needed to learn to lie better. Though, Pippin had to admit, he was rather grateful that lying was not a skill his cousin had ever learned with any sort of alacrity. Fortunately, Pippin had. He smiled back at Frodo.
“All right, then?”
Frodo shrugged, brightened his smile. “You?”
“As I’ll ever be,” Pippin replied then took Frodo’s offered hand and pulled himself up to his feet. “Shall we?”
Frodo nodded. “Sam!” he called. “Sam! Time!”
* * *
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