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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement XXI - Cadence AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG (ish) SUMMARY: Some words cannot be unspoken; some endings cannot be unwritten ILLUSTRATION: 'Done' by Daffodil Bolger
Cadence: A sequence of chords that brings an end to a phrase, either in the middle or the end of a composition.
* * *
CADENCE
* * *
It had always been the hardest part, the staying away.
How many times since then had Merry questioned his actions, doubted his reasoning? He had almost gone back several times, had gone so far as to pack some things and saddle up after the row with his father two days after he'd got home, and had been intent upon riding through the night to arrive at the Cottons' door at first light. He'd ended up only riding as far as Crickhollow before the blood in his brain cooled to a low simmer -- enough to allow more coherent thought -- and realised that bringing a new set of problems to Frodo's feet would not do a bloody thing to diminish or solve the ones they already had between them. He'd left so he might think and sort through it all calmly, so that he might be more able to decide how best to begin the business of fixing the things they'd got wrong. Showing back up a few days later and in a foul temper, fresh from a knock-down/drag-out with his father, would do nothing but make those things worse.
And anyway, he'd already run out on Buckland once. The state of things upon his return made it impossible to do it again. Now, at any rate. There was too much to be done, too much to fix and make right.
Glory, but it was hard. Hard to walk away in the first place, hard to stay away, hard to know that the staying away was hurting Frodo, too, but less than the going back would, and that was really the only thing that kept him away.
Pippin had shown up at his door -- Frodo's door, in truth, if you wanted to get picky about it -- later that week. To check up on Merry, he'd said, for he'd stopped in at the Hall and spoken to Esmeralda when he'd come on errand from his father to check on the status of the stores in Buckland. There wasn't much. Saradoc had taken control while Merry'd been gone, bullying his way into things about which he had no clue, and undermining Esmeralda's attempts to hide stores and livestock head-counts from Sharkey's eye. 'I won't hide what's mine,' he'd blustered and as a result, the Hall's reserves were almost non-existent. The Master's grandstanding had accomplished nothing more than to make things easier for the thieves and raiders who laughed as they pillaged.
Buckland hadn't been hit as hard as Hobbiton had been, and that was something for which to be thankful. Still, the reserves were gone, except for what Esmeralda and Berilac had managed to keep hidden, even from Saradoc. The Men had simply come and taken what they wanted and when they wanted more, they came back and took that, too. The only small mercy was the fact that they seemed to have had plans for the rich soil come spring and they hadn't burned or destroyed anything they might have thought to make use of later. Besides the fact that most of the seed was gone or ruined, the fields could still be planted in the spring, and Buckland would recover, though after a very hard winter, Merry had no doubt.
Merry'd heard the tale from his mother, helplessly watched her weep as she told it, and the rage that seemed to have taken up permanent residence in his belly flared hot and bright. When she'd told him Dobbs had suffered a fit during a raid and the Men had simply stepped around him as he writhed in his death-throes in the dirt, leading the ponies he'd spent his life breeding and training out of the stable-yard, the rage took him completely.
It was a horrific row, begun with Merry accusing his father of sacrificing Buckland for his own undeserved pride and Saradoc countering with accusations of abandonment, and all for 'That bloody queer Baggins whelp, I knew he was never any good, tried to tell your mother for years and now look what he's done, this is his fault and your fault for going off with him,' and it was all too much for Merry. When he'd caught himself wanting to reach for his sword, he'd been horrified as well as outraged; he'd thrown together whatever would fit in his battered pack and left.
Anyway, Pippin had shown up a few days later, and though they'd never really talked about him staying, he'd just simply never left. They never talked about many things, in fact, which was a little surprising to Merry, since Pippin had grown to be almost as fierce a protector of Frodo as Sam and more than willing to speak up when he thought someone had done him some wrong. But Pippin let it lie and Merry was grateful; when he could explain it all to himself, perhaps then he might be able to explain it to Pippin. And Frodo.
Some trunks arrived from Smials another week later and Pippin quietly moved in. It was easier that way, for the most part. Routing the rest of the ruffians, flushing them out of hiding and past the borders, made it necessary for Merry and Pippin to put their heads together quite often, and it just made sense that they do so from a central location. And this way, Merry could keep close to his mother and help her clean up the mess his father had made without actually having to look at him. Berilac had apparently been doing what he could to help her in Merry's absence, so Merry simply made his cousin his voice at the Hall and made it clear to all that they were to follow Beri's instructions as they would follow Merry's own. The relief of having one trusted person giving orders, rather than the constant conflict of instructions endured over the past several months, was more than obvious in the faces of all the forehobbits and Merry was glad to have at least one worry off his mind when a ride into the Wilds was necessary.
He dared venture to Bywater only once, when a trip to Smials was necessary. Paladin, having intimate knowledge from his sister of the straits Buckland was in, offered to supplement its stores, and Merry had no choice but to take him up on it. He would do a walk-through with the Thain of the Tookland's granaries and mills and together they would decide how much Tuckborough could spare to see Buckland through. Pippin insisted on coming along, which was fine with Merry; the trip would be more pleasant with company and with Pippin right there beside him, it would be easier to endure the accusations over Merry having put the heir to the Thainship in danger and whatever else Paladin might want to throw at him.
There were no accusations, which surprised Merry almost as much as it relieved him. More surprising still, Paladin showed a deference to both Merry and Pippin that was remarkable for the unremarkable way in which it was given. Merry found himself being treated as an equal, rather than a wayward nephew who carelessly placed his younger cousin in grave danger, and more than once he caught Paladin eyeing his son with respect and pride. It gave Merry a little pang, if he were going to be honest with himself, and though he wouldn't begrudge Pippin a single second of it, he found himself wondering what it might be like to have a father of whom he could be proud and who was proud of him in his turn.
He found himself suddenly and bitterly missing Théoden.
Paladin Took had taken his stand, seen it through for good or ill, and he looked upon his son, not as a child who had run off only to bring back wild tales of heroism in a world barely even believed, but as a warrior who had made his own stand for Right and won through. Too many times, as they made their way through storehouses and examined ledgers, had Merry felt his throat thick and tight, his heart by turns heavy and grateful.
Pippin took full advantage of Merry's distraction: on the way back to Buckland, he steered them away from roads and through the countryside instead, and by the time Merry realised they were travelling steadily north instead of east, they were already crossing the East Road and it was too late. If they continued cross-country, the Cotton farm was less than a mile away and they'd already been spotted and recognised several times on the Road. Unless Merry wanted Frodo to know that he had been this close and very blatantly hadn't called, a stop-over in Bywater was now necessary.
Damn all clever Tooks and the busybody smirks they rode in on anyway.
They were welcomed at the Cottons' both graciously and enthusiastically. Merry was somewhat taken aback when Sam greeted him warmly and demanded they spend the night, and even more taken aback when young Rosie gave him a glare that would make ice-chips of fireworks. When Merry got his first look at Frodo, he thought he knew why on both counts.
Frodo looked terrible. Merry didn't know if it was because he hadn't seen him in several weeks and the changes were just more noticeable, or whether he looked the same as he'd done when Merry'd left and he simply hadn't noticed. He couldn't decide which would be worse.
What weight Frodo had managed to gain in Minas Tirith -- and Merry knew he'd put some on because he'd watched carefully -- had melted away and Merry suspected that the only reason Frodo's clothes didn't seem to hang on him as they should was probably because either Rosie or Mrs. Cotton had seen to necessary alterations. Not out of the question with either one of them, seeing as how they both so obviously doted on Frodo. He hadn't been sleeping, Merry could tell -- the telltales where all over him: his eyes were over-bright and set in dark hollows; his cheeks were sunken and ashen; his hands shook.
Merry wanted to take hold of him, shake him, maybe clout him upside his head a time or two. He wanted to hold him, lay his head to Frodo's shoulder, tell him he was sorry, so sorry, and please, couldn't they pretend none of it ever happened?
And then Frodo greeted him coolly, as coolly as though Merry were some twelve-mile distant relation asking him for money, and Merry's teeth clenched tight, his chin lifted all on its own and any regret or tenderness he might have felt was buried beneath prideful heat. Supper was a resultant awkward affair and pipes after yet moreso. Sam and Pippin provided most of the small-talk, wedging it into the icy silence between Frodo and Merry. The only contribution Merry could actually recall making to the conversation was his own two-bits about what Sam ought to do with his box of dust. Naturally, Frodo contradicted him, and naturally, Sam went with his master's advice.
Merry would not be talked into staying the night.
Pippin was silent on the ride home; whether he simply had his own thoughts to keep his head busy or whether he was angry with Merry, Merry couldn't tell and neither did he care. Several times on the way to Buckland had Merry considered turning his mount and hieing himself back to the Cottons', taking Frodo by the shoulders and shaking him until everything Merry needed to know in order to set things right had fallen out of him. Certainly, Merry had made plenty of mistakes over the years, and probably too many just lately, and he'd been responsible for most of the rows between himself and Frodo, he'd admit that freely… mostly because it would be foolish to deny it. But Frodo wasn't always the one in the right, though others seemed to believe otherwise. Sometimes Merry was the one who was hurt and sometimes Frodo was the one doing that hurting, and though Merry still had no idea exactly what it was that had gone so wrong and so bloody quickly, he did know that he wasn't alone in the blame for this one. Yes, he knew he'd hurt Frodo, but how was he to know what to do about it, how was he to even consider trying to make it right, if Frodo shut him out so completely?
It fed the rage, curled it deep in his belly, set a slow burn to his heart. It was probably just as well; he was certainly in no temper to try and deal with it all right now.
So, Merry returned to Buckland, pushed thoughts of a mad-dash to Bywater from his mind, concentrated on divvying up the stores his mother and Beri had managed to hold onto to those who needed them and ridding his home of Men altogether. He tried very hard not to think about Frodo, tried to let time and distance solve what it could, and when it had, he would pick up the rest, examine it carefully and figure out how to fix it.
Sam and Pippin maintained a steady correspondence and Pippin stopped in at Bywater on his way to Tuckborough every chance he got, so Merry knew Frodo was alive, at least. He also knew Frodo asked after him frequently and it was many a time that he'd sat down, pen in hand, to write him. He never managed to get as far as dipping the pen into the inkwell, for he hadn't a clue what to say, how to begin, how to avoid those things that might make it all worse, when he didn't even really understand yet how it had gone so wrong to begin with. Best he stay quiet. Stay away. He knew Frodo was all right and he knew Sam would take care of him and those were the important things. Exactly how Sam would take care of him Merry refused to ponder, but some part of him understood that his old jealousies had no place in this. Frodo had looked past plenty of things in their time together -- or so Merry had allowed him to believe -- and it was only fair that Merry return the favour if he must.
The weeks spun out, winter set in firm and Merry spent his time seeing to the restoration of his home and dealing out justice to those who were still bent on disrupting it. He was almost a little sad when the patrols stopped finding evidence of Men within the borders; Merry still had quite a bit of anger knocking about within him and the odd scrubby ruffian was always a convenient target upon which to vent his frustrations. He was never cruel but he wasn't gentle, either. Too many times had some stray man thought Merry no match and Merry had gladly and quickly taught him otherwise. It wasn't very long before their reputations preceded them -- Merry's and Pippin's -- and men flushed out of some remote farmhold or the wilds at the business end of one of their swords showed real fear in their eyes upon recognising them.
Funny, how you can sometimes find that one small thread that might serve to begin unravelling your biggest snarls in the most unlikely of places. That thread, for Merry, came in the form of -- of all things -- a Man.
Winter was just beginning to loose its hold and the days were slowly becoming longer. Reports of ruffians and troublemakers were few and far-between, the Hall's accounts were once again balanced and, with some help from Tuckborough, the stores would see them through 'til the first harvest and things were running smoothly; Berilac had proved a wise choice and had even managed to throw together a festive Yule. Merry and Pippin spent more time than ever before idling in Frodo's little house, among Frodo's things, and Merry was beginning to get restless; the walls were closing in on him and everywhere he looked, some remembrance or other reared up to mock him. He had never once dared to so much as look into the room he had shared with Frodo that night so long ago -- keeping the door shut tight at all times -- but it was only a small thing, really, when everything around him was filled with Frodo's presence. This had not been his home, no, but these were his things, those things that had been too precious to him to sell along with Bag End, and Merry could feel him, smell him… miss him. And had far too much time in which to do it.
So when they'd received a report from Doderic that evidence of a recent encampment had been found on the outskirts of the Overbourne Marshes, it had taken less than an hour for them to pack, arm themselves, mount and be on their way. It was only less than ten leagues from Crickhollow and they were there and beginning the search before the sun hit mid-day.
It took them less than an hour to find the cold bones of a campfire, and only minutes more to hone in on the man-sized tracks leading away from it. From there it was simply a matter of keeping his eyes sharp and following. It required more stooping and skulking than any real thinking, and so he found his mind wandering, inevitably, back to Frodo.
It had been too long. It wasn't as though they'd never spent time apart before. There were often months when they wouldn't see each other, and this certainly wasn't the first time they'd parted on uncertain terms, nor for months at a time. Such an old dance between them, this. Sometimes Frodo would make the first move towards confrontation but most times it was Merry. And every time, reconciliation would follow, and Merry hung his faith on that like a drowning hobbit clinging to a lone piece of driftwood. Never had there been something so devastating that they could not make their way through to the other side, and though the things that hovered now between them were mountainous in comparison to their past petty rows, nothing was so big that they could not find a way around it. Merry had helped put an end to an ancient evil, Frodo had watched the Dark Lord himself fall, so really -- was there anything in all the world they could not overcome together?
It was in the midst of these thoughts that he'd come upon the man, dirty and too thin and cowering in a small hollow of bushes, holding onto a threadbare pack clutched tight to his chest. And Merry was surprised that the first thought that entered his head when he caught sight of him was, 'Poor sod.'
Out of nowhere, it had come, and Merry reached into himself, searched for the familiar rage, groped for the fury that had carried him through darkness and pain and the destruction of everything he'd known and used to be. He found none of it -- only a different kind of pain, one new and unfamiliar, and a feeling of being suddenly… naked.
"Please," the man had said, shaking and lifting a hand in surrender, his eyes on the sharp glint of Merry's sword in the sun. "Please, I wasn't with 'em. I come 'cause they said there was work to be had but I didn't do nothin' to nobody, I swear it."
Merry only stared at the man, his sword in his hand, but his grip loose. His heart was racing, his mind reeling, and he cast about himself, tried to find something he recognised and couldn't.
"Lies," Pippin had said from behind Merry's shoulder, and Merry hadn't even had the presence of mind to be surprised that he'd been approached without his knowledge from behind. He only continued to stare at the man before him, his entire body numb, and knee-deep in revelation.
Poor sod.
"No!" the man cried. "I swear it!"
Thin and frightened and shaking in skin too loose on his bones, and why couldn't he hate this man? Where was the rage he had clung to, coddled? Where was the vengeance and the hatred that he wrapped about himself in the deeps of night when his body longed for the touch of another?
What do you see?
"Then why are you still here?" Pippin wanted to know and if Merry didn't know Pippin, the coldness in that voice would have made him cower as well.
Walls were collapsing within him, crumbling to dust, and his head was light, his limbs tingling and loose.
This isn't who we are.
"I been trying to get out!" the man insisted. "But it's hard going, mister -- your patrols are everywhere and they don't stop to ask questions most times. And I ain't walked so good since they got me the once, see?"
The man pulled up a tattered trouser-leg to expose a festering wound in his calf.
What if it's who I am?
"Arrow," the man went on. "I got it out but it ain't doing so good and--"
Enough. This isn't who we are.
"--it hurts, see? Makes huntin' summat--"
Enough.
"--hard goin' so all right, maybe I nicked a few--"
"Enough," Merry said and his voice was shaky, distant. Surprised himself to realise that it was he that had spoken the command, he cleared his throat, said it again: "Enough." Louder this time and bolder. He stared at the man, feeling Pippin's eyes burning into his nape, but all of it was miles away. Without really realising what he was doing or why he was doing it, he sheathed his sword. "Where did you come from?"
"Over to Longbottom," the man replied. "A man come through Archet a while back and said there was work to be had with the Leaf harvest and--"
"So, Archet is your home, then?"
"Aye."
Merry turned to Pippin. "Watch him for a moment. I'll be back."
He had no idea why he was doing this. For all he knew this man had been a friend of Lotho's, perhaps even hired by Saruman himself, yet here Merry was, doing…
Doing what, exactly?
Just what is it that you plan to do, Master Meriadoc?
He clenched his teeth, shook his head. "Shut up," he whispered.
Pippin said not a word when Merry came back, both horses led by the reins. He only watched silently as Merry reached into his pocket and dug out the coins he found there. He handed them to the man, along with the reins to his own mount.
"There is enough there to get you across on the Ferry and then to hire a cart to take you back to Archet. When you reach the Ferry, you are to tell them that Meriadoc Brandybuck has instructed them to hold his horse there until he comes to retrieve it and that they are to help you hire transport."
Pippin took firm hold of Merry's arm. "What are you doing?" he demanded.
What do you see?
I see… I see enough.
Merry turned to look at him, only stared for a moment, shook his head. "I've no idea," was all he could answer.
He turned to remove his saddlebag then thought again. Instead, he looked back to the man.
"There is a meal and some mead inside," he told the man, pointing to the saddlebag. "You may have it when you reach the other side of the River and not before."
It took almost ten minutes for the man to stop thanking him and be on his way. They'd watched him ride off silently and when he was finally out of sight, Pippin turned to Merry, as Merry knew he would.
"What was that about?"
Enough. This isn't who we are.
Merry didn't speak for a moment, wondering how he might explain something that seemed to exist at such a fundamental level, he didn't know if there were words for it. What was it about? Who had he been an hour ago and who was he now? Had he found the Merry That Was or was this yet another new one? Where was the anger, where was the rage, and why did he not feel empty without it? Why did he suddenly feel as though he'd been pretending so well for so long that even he hadn't recognised the pretence?
"I'm still not sure," he finally said. "But I think…" He paused, chuffed a small laugh that was odd even to his own ears. "I think I'm just… tired. I've had enough." He turned slowly to Pippin. "And I think… I think I understand a little better now."
Pippin peered at him dubiously and Merry only shrugged, shook his head. "It isn't about me," he said and was surprised not only by the simplicity of it but the fact that he'd gone and said it out loud.
He felt himself flush, looked down then shot another quick glance over at Pippin. Pippin merely lifted an eyebrow.
"I should say not," he agreed brusquely then began the business of securing his sword to his horse's gear. "Sam asked me to have Frodo's things brought back to Bag End by the twentieth," he went on. "Smallburrow and his lot will be by to collect the furniture next Hensday; I've hired a cart for the rest. We'll drive it there together."
Pippin tied the leather thong to secure his weapon then turned to Merry, looked him up and down with a critical eye then cuffed him upside his head.
"'Bout bloody time," he said then turned and began the long walk back. "And you'll be sorry for giving your lunch away," he called over his shoulder. "I'm not sharing mine, you know."
* * *
It was a difficult thing, the packing. He hadn't realised how much of Frodo was behind that bedroom door when he finally gathered the courage to open it. And he'd thought the books and furniture and so forth had been difficult to live among the past few months; it was nothing compared to the remembrance that slammed into him when he entered that room. Perhaps because he remembered so vividly unpacking it all for Frodo's arrival, trying to arrange the furniture the same way as his smial in Bag End, draping the old worn quilt Merry knew his mum had sent to Bag End with Frodo when he'd left the Hall for good and that he had used every winter since. And hadn't there been just a tiny little bit of hope still beating in Merry's breast as he'd laid the linens to the bed so long ago, that Frodo still might change his mind, that he still might decide that this small house in the place of his birth might be Home?
You won’t run off? You won’t leave me?
He could hear their ghosts, could see them twisting and twining against pale linens, and his heart clamped tight behind his breastbone. Merry taking and begging and asking, and Frodo's eyes alive and wanting him, and… there. Merry had never been able to get enough of that touch, that singular animal they became together when their bodies met. Fierce in its intensity but tender in its soft exchange of being and combined grace. But those eyes had always been what had kept him near-insane with need and greedy possession -- that connection, that knowing, that part of his own heart that Frodo kept within his glance and Merry simply could not live without.
And the last time he'd looked into those eyes, it had been… gone. Or buried, perhaps, and Merry hadn't been able to understand why. Now he wondered what Frodo had not seen in Merry's own eyes, what he might have been looking for beneath the rage and the hate that had filled up his heart so completely that everything else had been crushed beneath it.
You won’t run off? You won’t leave me?
Like a child, he'd been, asking for favours he didn't deserve then and didn't deserve now, for he'd been the one to leave in the end, hadn't he? How many times had Merry asked that question, begged for the answer he needed to hear and smiled when he got it or threw a tantrum when he didn't. And at the last, when Frodo stood amidst the ruin of everything he'd left to save, and looked to Merry for… something…
You want to know that you're loved completely but you don't want to be someone else's entire life. You want someone to know you -- know you -- what's important to you, how you think, why you feel what you feel.
He had stood there in the rubble of his home and asked Merry to see him and Merry…
And Merry had left.
It was what he did, it was what he was good at, it was how he'd been able to keep Frodo close for all of those years and yet…
I know it; I know you – all of you. And it is all I see and all I've ever… ever wanted.
"You weren't there," he whispered and closed his eyes.
What do you see?
"Again. He needed you and you weren't there. You were standing right next to him and… and he wanted you to see him, needed you to know him and…"
He could feel warm breath on his throat, could feel that cool kiss on his cheek, that silky, silver-spun sable beneath his chin. Behind his closed eyes, Merry saw Frodo's own -- alive and sparking bright with mischief and love and familiar knowing as they'd been that last night here in this room; then defeated and empty and bewildered as they'd been in the dim ruin of Bag End.
'What do you see?' Frodo's ghost asks him and Merry's ghost looks into those eyes, answers, 'I see goodbye. Again. And I look away, refuse to see, because I don't think I can bear it another time. And so I beat you to it this time, didn't I?'
Pippin found him some time later, standing in the middle of the room, hands shoved into his pockets and staring blankly at the cold, dead hearth. He didn't know how long he'd stood there, nor could he remember Pippin leading him into the kitchen and sitting him down with some strong tea. But the sky had gone soft with the gloaming when he next became aware of himself, and he'd gone to the bedroom just after lunch, so it must have been hours he'd by turns stood and sat in his stupor.
Finally, he blinked, took a deep breath. "It will be all right," he said hoarsely. "I'll fix it."
"Of course you will," Pippin said behind him, and Merry startled, turned to see his cousin emerging from the pantry, supper supplies in-hand. "You always do." He smiled at Merry then and shoved a loaf of bread at him. "Slice this up," he ordered as he plopped a cold chicken on the cutting board and turned for a knife. "I'm starving."
* * *
The ride was quiet and Merry silently thanked Pippin for it several times. What idle chit-chat Pippin did make was the kind easily answered with an absent grunt, which Merry probably didn't supply as often as he should have done, but Pippin made no complaint. For the most part, he left Merry to his thoughts.
So, perhaps Frodo now thought less of Merry than he had before and yes, it was a thought that brought sadness and its own small fury with it. Nothing had ever been so important to Merry as Frodo's opinion of him, and the thought that perhaps Frodo now saw him as someone little better than the ruffians that had invaded their home, cut into his heart with cold sorrow and a hot blush of anger. He had done what was necessary and though he may have taken a little too much pleasure in it, he wouldn't apologise for it. Frodo now had different ideas of necessary than Merry did and their own journeys had helped form them. Frodo's journey had been very different from Merry's and so taught him different lessons, and a difference of opinion was really all this was, wasn't it?
What cut deepest was the idea that it had somehow changed Frodo's love for him and yes, Frodo was changed and Merry was, too, but why did that have to mean the love was less? Changing did not always necessarily mean ending, did it?
Merry saw Frodo differently now, too, but loved him no less, so why was he assuming that Frodo's love for him had changed? Why, when Merry had seen that look in Frodo's eyes at the Battle and then again in Bag End, when they had stood knee-deep in the destruction of their land, why had he assumed that look had been meant for him?
Because you have always been too self-centred to see clearly and you are only now -- finally -- learning that it isn't about you.
He hadn't seen past his own terror, his own anger, his own sorrow, and what he'd thought he'd seen in Frodo's eyes was only his own warped self-image reflected back at him. Like holding a candle to the mirror and frightening yourself with the monster that looks back at you. A part of Merry might have thought himself a monster, had thought himself a coward at one time, too.
But he was done with all of that now. He knew who he was, knew what he was, and there was peace in the knowing. It had been a long time in coming, but the knowing would serve him well; he was done dealing with his own ghosts -- it was time to face Frodo's.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
He wasn't drunk and it was beginning to be a serious problem. It was less awkward than that night at the Cottons', though only just. Frodo was aloof and remote, but this time Merry noted that it wasn't only towards him, and it made him wonder if it had been the same the last time or whether he'd only been seeing it that way. It wasn't out of the question; Merry's perceptions seemed to be off lately and it wouldn't be the first time he'd bollixed something because of what he thought he saw.
At any rate, the moving-in had gone easier than he remembered the moving-out -- probably because he didn't have to unpack it this time; Sam would be seeing to that. Freddy came to help. It took Merry a moment to recognise him, though Pippin had told him all about that day at the lockholes. Seeing it for himself was another thing entirely. He looked tired and weary, though he smiled more now than Merry remembered. His eyes were haunted, though, and Merry found himself wondering what might be beneath that smile and hoping that he would not have to know, not now, not tonight; tonight there were other troubles to attend to, though Merry was having a difficult time getting himself around to it.
As soon as he could politely manage, Frodo had closed himself into the study, and there he still stayed. Understandable, since a good deal of the crates Merry and Pippin had brought with them went in there and all assumed he was eager to unpack them and start setting it all to order. Merry occupied himself with moving furniture about and placing it where he remembered it belonging. Freddy spent most of the day at the market and the rest of it organising the pantry with what he'd brought back. Supper was pleasant but subdued; Frodo's place remained empty. Pippin took him a tray but that was the only time Merry saw the study door open.
Eventually, Sam and Pippin had taken care of setting linens to the beds in the various smials and left most of the rest of the unpacking for tomorrow. Sam went to his father's, Pippin and Freddy went to bed and here Merry sat, alone in the kitchen, a jug of the Gaffer's potato liquor for company. For all that the stuff set fire to his throat on its way down, it wasn't doing the job of numbing his mind as he'd thought it would, not by a long-shot. Not for the first time, he wished for a bottle or two of wine; wine always set him to humming. But no thought had as yet been given to re-stocking Bag End's cellars, so it was potato liquor or nothing. With the headache Merry expected come morning and the non-affect the liquor was having now, he thought he'd have been better off had he opted for nothing.
He was going to do it -- he was. It was just taking a little bit longer than he'd thought to work himself up to it, was all.
It had never been quite like this. In all the years and all the rows and all of the separations that inevitably followed, the coming together had never been quite this… uneasy. Difficult, yes, and awkward, that first meeting after months apart, and once it had come close to a year between, though that had been Merry's stubborn doing and he couldn't now for the life of him remember what they had fought about then. And even then, after all that time, the first thing they'd done was snarl at each other, fallen right back into that jab-and-parry that was so much a part of them, and then set about working through… whatever it had been. And they'd survived it, got past the anger and hurt and each other's instinctive self-protection, and into the dark heart of them, somehow turned it back into the light.
He didn't suppose he'd expected much during that disastrous visit to the Cottons' and certainly didn't get much, either, but somehow, being back here in Bag End, all but Folco in attendance, he'd thought… He didn't know what he'd thought. Only that it wouldn't be like this. He'd struggled with his ghosts and regrets, called truce with all of the sides of himself that had come together to form who he was at this moment, and had found that the one person he still needed desperately was Frodo. Some part of Merry had always believed just a little bit that the day he could no longer turn to Frodo, the day Frodo no longer turned to him, he would literally stop breathing. Just lie down and die, and he supposed that was some remnant of the romantic tween he had been when he'd first understood what real love was. Of course, he knew better now; a person didn't simply die where he stood because he'd had his heart broken. Though, sometimes, he supposed, it might be the better thing.
He reached for his cup, peered into it then lifted the jug for a refill; it was nearly empty and he was just beginning to wonder if he was going to have to make a trip down to the cellars to see if Sharkey and his Men had missed a bottle or two, when the echoed 'snick' of the study door rolled quiet down the tunnel. Merry stilled, waited, already frantically searching for what he would say when Frodo ventured down the hall to see why there was still a lamp burning in the kitchen. Instead of the soft pad of feet nearing, Merry heard another door open and close quietly; he realised Frodo had gone outside, and without allowing himself to think, rose to follow.
His heart thumped a little faster with each step he took. The liquor might not have done its job as far as dulling his nerves went, but it seemed to have done the trick with giving him courage. He did not falter in his steps as he made his steady way to the front door. This was it, the hiding and avoiding was done; he'd faced-down a bloody Ring-wraith, for pity's sake, he could certainly face Frodo.
It was only when he'd reached the door, flung it open, that Merry suddenly lost that courage. He'd had plenty of experience with seeing two worlds at once, one overlaid to the other, but this was… This was…
A different life, a different self, but this he remembers, this figure -- smaller perhaps and bent where once he'd stood straight and tall beneath the stars -- but he remembers that crawling fear that moved through him as he'd watched Frodo lose himself within their cold fire, that seedling of hatred as he watched Frodo hover between resistance and surrender to their call. Remembers trying to place himself between them, laying hands upon Frodo, keeping his feet planted solid to the earth.
No stars this night, only the ghost of the Moon hidden behind misted grey, but he knew they were there, waiting for… something. Calling, beckoning. And Merry knew all at once that he couldn't let them have…
"Frodo," Merry calls and Frodo turns to him, says, “It’s done, Merry. This isn’t my home anymore.”
"Don't do this to me," he whispered, teeth clenched tight. "Not now."
Then the world would feel ever of September and Merry would taste goodbye on his tongue, bitter-soft and aching-sweet, always and forever.
"Stop it!"
It rang sharp against the still of the night, startled him with its desperate tone, and Merry blinked, saw Frodo jump a little, turn.
Frodo turns and his eyes glitter; twin stars in their own vast-deep. Merry swallows. “It isn’t too late."
“It’s too late, Merry,” Frodo says quietly and Merry has a moment of insanity wherein that voice sounds too much like music.
"Stop what?"
Not musical but rough and hoarse. Frodo was peering at him, frowning, his head tilted to the side.
"I…" Merry shook his head, closed his eyes tight, blinked again. Only one world in front of them now and it was his to shape it, fix it, set it all to rights. "Sorry, I… I just wanted to talk to you. Will you come inside?"
Frodo only stared at him for a moment then he turned his face to the sky, sighed. He looked down, asked, "Now?"
Merry kept his voice steady. "Yes, now," he answered. "Will you?"
Frodo sighed again, heavily this time, and his shoulders slumped. "Why," he asked slowly, "do you always get the urge to talk in the dead of night?"
He lifted his gaze, turned it to Merry, and Merry was both relieved and a little surprised to see a bit of humour sparking within, though with a healthy dose of resignation as well.
Merry only smiled a little, shrugged; he had no answer. He stepped back, gestured silently to the door and Frodo sighed again, nodded and made his way past Merry and inside the burrow. He headed into the study; he'd doused the lamps but the fire was still going nicely. Merry stood in the doorway a moment, surprised to see that all of the crates and bound stacks of books still sat where they'd been dropped earlier. He didn't have to wonder what Frodo had been doing, though -- the familiar book of notes lay sprawled on the great desk, a larger red-bound tome that Merry remembered all too well beside it, along with three more books that Merry could only assume were notes as well. A three-inch stack of assorted and odd-sized sheets of parchment, loosely-bound with a bit of string, lay off to the side; pens and inkpots were scattered about it all.
Merry felt a small twist of anger rise and he squashed it down. "You've started it already," was all he said.
Frodo didn't answer, only glanced to the desk and back again to Merry. He took the chair beside the hearth, sat and turned his gaze to the flames. Merry followed and closed the door behind him. He only leaned against it for a moment, trying to calm the slip-thud of his heart, trying to understand why Frodo's apparent need to sink himself into ink and page to the exclusion of all else made him want to stalk over and toss those notes into the fire; he couldn't, so he pushed that one away for now. Frodo waited in silence, until Merry finally took a deep breath, spoke.
"Frodo…" He shook his head, held out his hands -- not quite reaching out but not quite not. "I'm sorry."
Frodo only stared into the fire, his face pensive but otherwise unreadable. He shifted, folded his hands across his middle.
"Are you, then?" he asked softly. "For what?"
"I…" Merry paused, considered. "I'm not quite sure," he answered. "For not understanding, I think."
A small chuckle and Frodo turned to him, his eyes kind but distant. "And do you now? Understand?"
"I do." Merry walked the few difficult paces to Frodo's side, knelt beside his chair. "At least mostly, I think." Frodo was peering at him a little sadly, the firelight casting half his face in wavering shadow and the other half filigreed in shifting copper. Merry reached up, brushed his fingers lightly over Frodo's cheekbone. "It can't be the same; I understand that. And the oddest thing is…" He shook his head again. "I don't think I want it to be. We've both changed -- too much to pretend we haven't -- but I have come to realise that it doesn't really matter, for the most part. There will never be a time when I won't want to know you, when I won't want to learn everything about you, and things change, yes, but that's the grand part, isn't it? I get to learn all those changes and…" He paused, slipped his hand down Frodo's arm and took hold of his hand. "It will be all right, we can--"
"Oh," Frodo breathed and he closed his eyes, dipped his head. "You don't understand, not at all." He slowly pulled his hand away. "Merry…" He tilted his head back, let loose with a weary sigh. "Such the creature of duty and habit, you are." He turned to Merry, eyes heavy-lidded. "You manage to talk yourself into believing the most amazing things sometimes, are you aware of that?" Merry frowned, opened his mouth but Frodo continued, "You see things, you understand things, but always you twist them until they are exactly as you would have them be. It's really quite an impressive talent and I admire you for actually making it work most of the time. It's served you well."
Merry shook his head a little. "I don't--"
"But it won't serve you now. And it won't serve me." Frodo smiled somewhat sadly, reached over, smoothed cold fingers through Merry's hair. "If you can't say it, I reckon I'll--" The smile disappeared and Frodo drew his hand back. "It's done and past time and I'm sorry I kept you so much longer than I should have done. I only…" He shrugged a little, tried to smile again and couldn't quite manage it. "I've always been a bit selfish," he furthered softly. "And you've always been so lovely."
Merry barely heard; he'd been set to reeling five seconds after Frodo had started talking. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. It had to change, yes, certainly, he'd always known that one day he'd have to finally marry, start a family but… to end?
"No," he breathed, sat back on his heels, shook his head slowly. "You… no, I won't--"
"You have," Frodo told him quietly, evenly. "And you saw it before I did and I'm sorry I didn't catch on as I should have done. You've simply talked yourself out of believing it. You are very good at that, you know." He looked away, turned his eyes back to the fire. "And I let you and I shouldn't have done that either. I expect I was just as afraid as you were to say it out loud." A small chuckle. "Odd, the things that really scare us, isn't it?"
Scared, oh, yes; Merry didn't think he'd ever been so terrified in all his life. He'd stayed away too long, shouldn't have gone off in the first place and now…
Now Frodo looked at him with those dull, flat eyes. Nothing lived within them, no spark of memory, no remembrance of what they were to each other, as though the past two decades could be neatly put away with a soft dismissal and maybe a tear or two. It tightened Merry's chest with dull fury. He swallowed it down, kept calm.
Frodo was hiding things again -- still -- those walls around his heart, behind his eyes, tall and strong, full of lies and half-truths and unstated untruths, and all of it mortared up tight while Merry'd been off getting his own head straight. And why not? He'd walked out, hadn’t he? Not for the first time but the one time that really mattered and Merry had fallen back on old habits. Frodo was right -- Merry was a creature of habit and here was one that had finally reared up to bite him on the arse and in the worst way possible.
But he was also a creature of Purpose.
He pulled the footstool around close to the chair, shifted himself onto it. He leaned in, took up Frodo's hands with his own.
"I told you once that I knew what you wanted. Do you remember that?"
A spark of something very close to fear in Frodo's eyes, and Merry had no idea how to feel about that.
"No," was all Frodo said, his voice clipped and flat.
"Then," said Merry steadily, "I shall remind you."
Frodo closed his eyes, bowed his head, took a long breath, whispered, "Merry… Don't. Please."
"You want someone to know your heart -- know you -- and without you having to tell them all about it." Merry squeezed Frodo's hands, waited until he opened his eyes. "Haven't I always been that to you, Frodo? Haven't I always known you -- even when you might not have wanted me to?"
Frodo closed his eyes again, turned his face away, said a second time, "Don't -- please," and his voice shook.
"
"You--" Frodo's jaw clenched and he swallowed. "It's done and it's all right, Merry. I know--"
"It isn't!" Merry cut in and he leaned in, squeezed tighter. "It was just too much, love; I had to sort it, was all. It was no different than any other time when--"
"It was." Frodo's eyes were too clear and distant. "And it's all right because we are different and you can't keep trying to kiss it all better. Sometimes 'better' just…" Frodo pulled his hands from Merry's. "Merry," he said quietly, "you did the right thing -- the only thing you could -- and you mustn't let old habits muddle things now." He smiled a little and the fact that he could smile only made Merry's chest coil tighter. "It was lovely." Frodo leaned in, placed a warm kiss to Merry's brow, told him, "You are lovely and it's time I…" He paused, pulled away. "It's past time you were free."
Merry narrowed his eyes, tilted his head. "Free?" Bloody stubborn Baggins, always opening a vein, bleeding all over himself, putting himself in front of the knife when all you wanted him to do was step back and away from sharp objects for once. Merry stood, backed away a few steps then he stopped, fisted his hands. "How very kind of you," he said, low and even. "Always doing what's best for another, aren't you, then?"
Frodo sighed, turned back to the fire. "It is what's best, Merry. You know that as well as I do."
"And how would you know what I know, Frodo?" Merry grated. "You look at me now as though you don't even remember what we've been, as though the past twenty years never even happened! How can you possibly know who I am now, if you won't even remember what I was?"
"Merry," Frodo said calmly and -- damn him! -- smiled again, shook his head, and Merry almost wanted to stalk over and deck him a good one, just to get rid of that bloody smile. "Even had I never met you before now, I've eyes and I can see your heart just by looking into yours. You are, and always have been, golden. And now even more astounding than before." He stood, stepped to the hearth and leaned against the mantel. "You've grown so much," was the quiet furtherance. "I doubt even you realise how much."
Merry watched the orange-gold flicker over the sharp outlines of Frodo's face as he closed his eyes, tilted his head back. When he turned back to Merry, Merry knew with a sudden hollow clarity that, if he closed the distance between them, dipped his nose to Frodo's throat, he would smell of September.
"I've never had a right to you," Frodo told him softly. "Less so now than ever. You have given me such a gift and…" Merry stood still, his mouth dry and his heart hammering, as Frodo moved in close, lifted his face and hovered his mouth just a breath away from Merry's throat. "I've loved you always and I always will," Frodo whispered. "In the very best way I can."
He tilted his face, pressed a warm, damp kiss to Merry's mouth. It was quick and soft, over before it had begun, and left Merry's lips tingling cold. Merry let himself be drawn into Frodo's arms, let Frodo pull him close, and his own arms lifted automatically to encircle Frodo. But his blood was moving fast and hot in his veins, pounding behind his eyes, thumping in his chest, and he knew before his tongue formed the words that he should not let his fear and anger guide his mouth, but he was already lost, swallowed by the terror that tore into his heart and turned love and fear and more regrets than he could count into sharp red rage. He wanted to hurt, to sink words deep as daggers, to draw hot reaction from cold stone, to--
"And what's this," he heard himself say and his voice was cold, slow and heavy. "Want to give us a mercy-fuck for the road, then?" And he pulled his mouth into a small, ironic little smile, leaned in, whispered, "Shall we have it right here? Quick and dirty?"
Frodo stilled, stiffened and sucked in a sharp breath. He pulled back deliberately, stepped away.
"I hadn't realised," he said slowly, carefully, "that I was taking liberties." His tone was as cold as Merry's and fell from his mouth with clipped formality. "Please -- do accept my apologies."
He lifted his chin, looked at Merry with eyes as impenetrable as pools of ink. No anger, no hurt, just… nothing. Cold stone.
Merry's teeth ground and he reached out, took hold of Frodo's arm and dragged him close.
"All this time, all that we've been and this is how you would see it end? O, Great Kind and Generous Frodo, who will sacrifice himself yet again, even when the one he's sacrificing for wants no part of it. But then it doesn't matter what anyone else wants, does it? All that matters is that you have some twisted need to wallow in your pain, in your self-destruction, and you can't have someone trying to stop you, can you? Oh, no, instead you'll stand here, look me in the eye and lie, and it's all for my own good, isn't it? Let poor obtuse Merry go because he doesn't know what he really wants, and stars forbid you should let yourself take what we both know you want -- that doesn't quite fit in with the self-sacrificing Hero that everyone tells you that you must be does it? No, you'll just put a knife through my heart and all the while swear you've done it for me, step over me after I've thrown myself at your feet!"
"I never wanted you to--"
"No! Of course you didn't, because that would mean you'd have to admit to wanting something for yourself!"
Frodo stared at him, eyes flat, countenance stony. "Let go," he said evenly.
Merry looked down, noted that his hand was still clamped to Frodo's arm. He released his grip, backed away, took himself to the other side of the room and leaned against the wall, panting. He'd have been happier if Frodo had just hauled off and clipped him; anything would be better than this remote coolness, this bloody remove that Merry couldn't get past but also couldn't stop bashing himself against.
They stood in silence for several long minutes, Merry breathing hard, trying with all his will to slow the pounding of his heart, to clear his head of the anger and terror that flushed through him. Frodo had made up his mind, closed his heart, Merry could feel it, and it would take every resource he had to break through the walls Frodo had been fortifying since they'd taken their first step away from home.
“Exactly what is it that you’re trying to save, here, Merry?" Frodo finally asked him. "If it’s me, I don’t want or need saving and if it’s yourself…” Frodo closed his eyes, clenched his jaw. “If it’s yourself, you’d do that best by leaving me be.”
“Oh, stop being so bloody dramatic," Merry shot back with a sneer. "You have the brass to talk about 'saving' -- you who seems to think I'm standing here with poison at my lips and gallantly trying to stop me from tossing it back. Spare me your chivalry, if you please; believe it or not, I really am a grown hobbit and quite used to deciding for myself what's best for me."
He stopped, slumped his shoulders. "Look, I... I don't know where all of this came from. It isn't what you want, I know it isn't, so why--"
"You know nothing," Frodo said.
It was so quiet that Merry almost didn't hear it but the echo of it vibrated through him, spiked the fury. His jaw locked on a snarl.
"I know," he answered slowly and just as quiet, "that you are forever accusing me of trying to save you, Frodo, and I--"
“Because you’re forever trying to--”
“--and I have never understood,” Merry continued more forcefully, “why it is that to you, loving someone means you must dash yourself to pieces for them.”
Frodo eyed him then, gaze narrow and dark. “That makes absolutely no--”
“Sense, yes, you’re right, it makes no sense at all,” Merry agreed, futile anger simmering beneath his skin. “But you seem to think that every single person in your life needs you to bleed for them in order for them to be whole and it bloody wearies me. I don’t need your pain to make me whole, Frodo, and I’ll thank you to stop throwing yourself on the sword to keep me from cutting my finger on it.”
Frodo stared at him, mute and pale. “I don’t know what…”
He trailed off, squared his shoulders as Merry stalked over to him, and suddenly there was a different person standing before Merry, a stranger who eyed him with frost dripping from his gaze, and Merry's fury burned hotter at the knowledge that Frodo was retreating yet again. Only this time, Merry wasn't going to allow it.
“You think I don’t know, don’t you?” Merry grated, placing himself squarely in front of his cousin. "Trying to save you, am I? And what are you trying to save? Did you think me so dim? Did you really think you could stand here and lie to me and I wouldn't know? You push me away and now you hide behind this pale shade of yourself, this… ghost! Look at you! Really look at yourself and what you're doing. You twist yourself into a new, more coiled knot every day and now you lie to me, pretend this is what you want, pretend it means less than we both know it does!”
“I do--”
“Don’t!” Merry reached out and grasped Frodo by the shoulders, shook. “I can’t bear another lie! All of the things we’ve been to each other, Frodo, but you’ve never actually lied to my face before, not until--”
Merry stopped, snapped his mouth shut. He'd let his anger take hold of his tongue again and now it was too late to call it back.
Frodo regarded him , cool and almost arrogant. “Until what, Merry?” he asked, smooth and low. "Ah, so now we come to it, don't we, then?" The stranger stepped in, slid his hands over Merry’s lapels, “Go on. Say it.”
Merry closed his eyes, swallowed and fought a hot twist of bile in his throat. He clenched Frodo’s arms so hard he could almost swear he heard bones rubbing together.
Frodo chuckled a little, leaned in and up until Merry felt his breath, hot against his cheek. Shivers skittered down Merry’s spine.
“Say it,” came a throaty whisper in his ear and a small cry escaped Merry's throat as he shoved Frodo away and juddered back.
Frodo tottered back against the chair, found his balance, glittering gaze never leaving Merry. A small, cruel smile played over his lips.
“Stop it,” Merry choked.
“Stop what?” Frodo returned and came near to actually sneering. “You say you don’t want me to lie, Merry, but you stand before me even now and lie to yourself. ‘I understand now, Frodo,’ you tell me, sure and if you say it enough, maybe one of these times you’ll believe it yourself and everything will be fine because Meriadoc the Magnificent, he'll fix it all, won’t he? Put himself on the spit for something that's become no more than an old habit he can't quite break, and all because he's told himself one too many times that he loves something that doesn't even exist anymore -- that never really did."
Merry stilled, choked on his own fury. "You will stand here now," he grated through his teeth, "after all we've been through, after all we've been, and tell me that 'we' never existed -- that it's no more than a habit? All this time I've been fooling myself and I don't really love you, is that it, then?"
Merry thought for a moment Frodo wouldn't answer then, "How could you," he said slowly, "when you have no idea what I am?”
“That’s ridiculous! I have always known you and better than even yourself. Changed, yes, we both have, but not so much that--”
“Everything has changed, Merry, why won’t you see that?” Frodo raised his eyes to the ceiling, choked out a small laugh. “You’re unbelievable,” he marvelled and turned back to Merry. “It's changed, Merry, everything, and there is not a single, blessed thing you can do about it! The sooner you admit that to yourself, the sooner you’ll begin to understand that we are not who we were and can’t be again. I’m sorry. I hadn’t intended for it to happen, but it has and it’s entirely my fault, and I’m so bloody sorry for it I could weep. But I can’t change it back and neither can you.”
Merry clenched his teeth, fisted his hands. “And why must changing mean ending?” he demanded. “I’ve changed as well, in case you hadn’t noticed -- ah, but you have, haven't you, then? 'Astounding' I am and oh, isn't that a lovely thing to hear from someone who tells me in the same breath he's done with me. You'll 'set me free' like one of those half-penny romances tweener girls swoon over, and all because you love me so, but it doesn't make a damn bit of difference what I want, does it, because I don't know my own mind, do I?”
“It isn’t the same, Merry!”
“And why not? Why are the changes in me acceptable but those in you so cataclysmic that no one could possibly understand or love you, whether despite or because of them? What are you trying to save me from?!”
Frodo closed his eyes, clenched his teeth. He walked slowly back to his chair, lowered himself into it, rested his head in his hand. He drew in a great, deep breath, blew it out slowly, said, "I have said all I care to and heard more than I can bear. Go to bed, Merry."
Merry narrowed his eyes, stiffened his back. "Right, sorry, but no, I won't, not like this."
Frodo dropped his hand, glared at Merry then stood. "All right," he said calmly. "Then I will. Goodnight."
He moved to brush past Merry but Merry took his arm again, closed a bruising grip on it. Frodo tried to yank away -- couldn't. He turned on Merry then, and for the second time that evening, Merry saw real emotion in his eyes: anger, fear perhaps, and too many things all swirling together in a dark mix of something Merry couldn't identify.
"Let go," Frodo told him.
"I won't," Merry countered. "I won't let you leave it like this; I refuse to--"
“What did the Lady offer you in Lothlórien?” Frodo asked suddenly.
Merry stopped, pole-axed. “What?”
“What did she offer you?” Frodo repeated, his face smooth and blank.
Merry shook his head in complete bewilderment. “What bloody damn difference does that make now?”
“It makes all the difference, Merry, and I can take a fair guess at what it was.” Frodo turned those eyes on him then and it took all of Merry's will not to turn his own away. “She told you we could all go home, didn’t she? She told you that if you decided to turn and go back that we would all follow, that all the danger would be over and all you had to do was say the word and I would leave the…" He paused, faltered for only a quick second. "…that I would go with you.”
Merry said nothing. Frodo’s head tilted to the side and the coldness was back in his voice again.
“Didn’t she?”
Merry remained silent. He closed his eyes, choked back bile. Too close, it was all too close and he felt sick and dizzy.
“She lied.” It was a hissing whisper at his ear and Merry gasped, jerked back. He opened his eyes, looked at Frodo who stood stiff and tall, still with that scornful smile curling the corners of his mouth, eyes glittering and unfathomable.
“Do you want to know how I know, love?” Frodo murmured, voice soft but everything else about him hard and unyielding. “Shall I tell you what she offered me?” The query came from within a snarl. "You know me so well, do you? Why don't you take a guess at what the one you love so much bargained with?"
Merry opened his mouth, shook his head. Suddenly all he wanted was escape; escape from the truth he’d never wanted or asked for, escape from this mordant creature who taunted him with it.
“She showed me things.” Frodo leaned in, took hold of Merry's shirt, pulled him closer, and Merry clenched his eyes shut again. “Took me places in my own mind I had no idea existed.” Cool breath against his throat. “Showed me your dead bodies – every one of you – twisted and drenched red with blood, burnt and blackened. Told me all I had to do to make it untrue was to abandon my errand.” A soft nuzzle against his cheek. “Take you all home.”
Merry groaned low, clamped his eyes tighter. He tried to pull away but Frodo wound a hand into Merry’s hair, held him still, whispered soft and smooth into his ear:
“And do you know what I chose… love?”
And now Merry understood. The sudden coldness in Frodo after they’d left Lórien, the stark sadness in his eyes on the few occasions he’d met Merry’s gaze, the guilt, the withdrawal. It all made perfect, terrible sense.& |
You're hiding things, Frodo;
you're not being honest with me or with yourself, and I've let it go
because... because all right, yes, I was afraid, but I was wrong and I'm sorry.
There is no 'End' between us, you have to know that -- there never has been; I
don't think there can be, really. There's too much between us for it to--"