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TITLE: Counterpoint, Interfolio to Cadenza - Cavatina AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry, Frodo/Sam (sortabutnotreally) RATING: PG-13 SUMMARY: Bronwe athan Harthad and Harthad Uluithiad. ILLUSTRATION: 'Grief' by Daffodil Bolger
Cavatina: a short and simple melody performed by a soloist that is part of a larger piece.
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CAVATINA
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It’s the quiet that wakes him. Not so much quiet as a white din that fills his ears as the falls rush over the rocks above his head and spill into a steady thrum of thunder below. But he’s used to that already – had been since five minutes after they’d got here and it sank into his skin, brushed smooth and mellow over his thoughts.
He shifts a little, burrows deeper into the furs. He is warm, his master is safe and they both rest beneath the protection of a new friend. Sleep has been a tricky thing and he wants to take as much of it as he can while he is able. Once they leave here tomorrow, who knows when he’ll be able to sleep with both eyes closed again?
He scowls. He would never tell his master as much but he’d have been just as happy to see an arrow through that Stinker’s arse… or his heart, for that matter. Bloody guide. Bah! Bloody treacherous little sneak, more like.
No good losing sleep over that one, at any rate. Mr. Frodo has made up his mind and it’s Sam’s to do as he can to make things easier for him. If that means buttoning his lip more than he likes, well…
It’s the reedy whistles – that’s what’s missing. Tiny little skirls of breath, just below the level of easy hearing, that tell him his master is sleeping deeply.
Sam frowns, listens closely and hears only the low white roar that enwombs them. There is the occasional tread of booted feet past the curtained mouth of the small hollow where they rest, a low murmur of voices just outside his ken, but those seem to trickle into the water itself and skim away. There is the smallest of shifts beside him and then… nothing. Or a breath held, if one can hear such a thing, but Sam thinks he does.
He opens his eyes, blinks and squints until the splinter of torchlight through the gap in the curtain loses its blurry edges. It shafts orange-gold across the floor of the cave, flares ashed-amber over the low bed, and Sam can see how his master has pushed the furs down and off, how his chest rises and falls in silent, shallow breaths. His face is cast in shadows that scrim and shiver over his chin, across his cheekbone, and Sam catches the telltale glimmer of eyes, open and staring beneath the slant of charcoal-dark that mutes them. He watches for a moment, thinks perhaps he’d best not impose himself on this, the only sort of solitude either of them gets anymore – that within their own heads. So he is loath to intrude, thinks it better that he should leave his master to his thoughts and turn himself back over to sleep. But his senses have stirred and his ears are pricked, though he understands that all dangers to them at this moment are quelled and held at bay by the scores of tall men who only hours ago counted them captives.
His master needs him, of that he’s sure, though he doesn’t know how or why, nor does it occur to him to wonder. He just knows, as he always has done, and he further knows that, whatever it may be about, Mr. Frodo won’t just come out and ask Sam for what he needs. Mr. Frodo may have many talents but speaking plainly just ain’t one of them and especially not when it comes to himself. And it occurs to Sam now to thank the stars that he’d grown up in a family that taught him it was all right to rely on others when a thing might just be too big for you, instead of believing that you had to do it all yourself because your life had taught you that you’re the only one who can’t leave you.
Sam bites back the frustration that comes along with those thoughts. It ain’t none of his business and that’s a sad fact… though, he does have to admit that one of his dearest and most secret wishes is to give every single resident of Brandy Hall whatfor for not being the family his master had needed them to be. Except for Mr. Merry, of course – it has always seemed to Sam that that one spends his time and heart on trying to make up for what Mr. Frodo didn’t get when he lived there. No wonder the poor sod makes a wreck of himself and Sam just has to hope that he’s not worrying at the others so much right now that Master Pippin takes a stick to his head. He doesn’t trust anyone but himself to see to Mr. Frodo, that one, though he tries real hard to pretend that ain’t so. Sam can’t imagine what must have gone through Mr. Merry’s head when they’d all realised that Mr. Frodo had left them behind, and he has to wonder if a punch in the jaw from the riverhobbit is what might wait for him when next they meet.
If they meet. There is, after all, the possibility that the others are dead. Mr. Frodo thinks so, anyway, and Sam could have throttled that captain when--
Sam’s eyes fly open, his heart stops.
There it is. That’s it, you great bloody ass! He’s lying right next to you, mourning his kin, and here you are, wandering about your own empty head!
Sam lifts himself onto his elbow, leans over his master. Frodo doesn’t move, doesn’t even acknowledge Sam’s presence, and Sam has to stop himself from taking hold of his master’s arm, shaking him until he lets the grief through.
“Mr. Frodo--”
“Why are you here, Sam?”
It surprises him, right out of the blue as it is. The voice is soft, barely a hum of breath, but it splinters through Sam, opens him up and cracks his heart through the centre. He barely controls a flinch. A question so simple and the words shouldn’t hurt but they do, and they slice little razor-shards, grind to bone. He pushes it away because he knows what this is about… well, perhaps not exactly this but he knows the well it sprang from and he knows that well runs deep and flows red-salt with blood and tears not shed. So Sam ignores the hurt in his own heart, keeps his voice steady and tells the truth.
“Because you are, sir.”
Frodo turns those eyes on him then and it seems to Sam that his master can pierce right through the darkness, run him through, sharp as a blade, with just a single glance. And sometimes Sam wishes he didn’t always know what his master is thinking because then his heart wouldn’t have to bleed quite so often with the knowledge of the things that go on behind those eyes.
“Sam…” Mr. Frodo pauses, turns back to his study of the ceiling of the cave. He swallows and Sam thinks his chin trembles a little but he can’t tell in this wavering light. “I need to know…”
Frodo stops again, closes his eyes. Screwing himself up, Sam knows, which means there is more here than he’d first thought.
He thinks he knows. He doesn’t want to ask the question because he thinks he already knows the answer and he can’t decide if he wants to hear it or not.
Sam waits and now his heart is thumping in his ears, so he has to concentrate, has to really listen when Frodo finally turns back to him.
“What do you want from me?”
It shakes him a little and his first confused reaction is a little bit of anger and maybe some hurt. What does he want from him? What had he ever wanted? What had he ever asked for and what does Mr. Frodo think he wants? And he can’t think through the white noise that was so soothing only a few minutes ago, can’t imagine how this one question could seem so important to his master and now and why and what is he supposed to answer when he doesn’t even understand the question?
So, Sam swallows, says, “I don’t know what you mean, Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo closes his eyes again, breathes deeply. When he opens them, Sam can see them as clearly as though the Sun is shining right inside the cave, and they shoot shafts of sorrow right through him, and Sam can feel, just for a split-second, the horrible pain that moves through his master’s soul. And then there is a cold hand at his nape, icy fingers slipping into his hair and he’s drawn in, drowning in those eyes.
Frodo’s mouth is warm beneath his own, and soft, and Sam spins back into the younger heart of a tweener lad, all newfound knowledge and fevered speculation, and he’s kissing back before he even realises what’s happened. It’s deep and it’s gentle and it’s everything he remembers wishing, and was it really so long ago that his nights had been filled with the wild dreams of a lad in the bittersweet throes of his first infatuation? Frodo’s tongue swipes soft and hot over Sam’s bottom lip and Sam can’t help himself, and oh, he’d known, he’d known it would be like this, and it amazes him that the memories of the want are still so clear and sharp.
It’s odd how a body can move itself without any help from the brain because Sam can’t think straight to save his life but he has somehow moved his arm to stretch across Frodo’s chest and a hand has come up to splay into the soft, raven curls he’d once privately compared to ebony silk. His leg moves across Frodo’s knees and Sam sinks deeper, and a moan shivers through him, all needy and lonesome, and his body moves instinctively into the comfort and the need to comfort as one hand twists at the furs and the other keeps on threading silk through shaking fingers.
Ah, and it’s been forever since he’s let thoughts like these take shape, and they blossom through him now as memory rushes back, given power by surprise and an ache for home and comfort, and he has to pull away because it’s all too much, too much, and a sob catches blunt in his throat. Sam pulls his mouth away but doesn’t draw back, just closes his eyes tight, breathes deeply for a moment and reminds himself that he doesn’t feel this way anymore, that he’s put all of this away and years ago at that, and none of this is right, none of it. There’s something very wrong, and between the question and the kiss, Sam’s mind reels from confusion to betrayal.
This isn’t fair and how could you do this to me? You – you! – and now and why not all those years ago when I could have taken what you’re offering without knowing what it meant, without understanding that the taking of it would be lopping off a little part of my heart, your heart… you?
Sam opens his eyes and Frodo’s are still running right through him, and before Sam can even blink away the tears that have somehow gone and filled up the backs of his eyes, Frodo smiles at him, soft and sad, and strokes cold fingertips over his cheek. It’s his master, it’s Mr. Frodo, just as he’s always been, but there’s a hard light in those eyes and has been since Mr. Gandalf took his fall. And that light somehow makes the sadness in his eyes all the more painful to look at but Sam can’t look away either.
“Is this what you want, Sam?” Frodo asks quietly and those fingers send cold tingles up Sam’s spine, and only now does he notice the hard ache in his groin.
I’ve put this away, I’ve put it away, and it’s not fair for you to offer it to me now!
It might be what he wants -- might have been all along and he’d just been fooling himself all these years -- but he can’t think, he can’t think and he knowsknowsknows that something is horribly, terribly wrong here, he just doesn’t know what! His answer has to be right and he has to say the right things, do the right things and now or the wrong that he can’t quite twig to is going to get more wrong before he’s even figured it out. And he almost wishes he could blame it all on that filthy Ring, but he knows his master and he thinks he knows when It’s playing with his head, and the pain and the sadness within those eyes is just too real to be anything but real.
“It’s all right, Sam,” Frodo whispers and Sam thinks the voice shakes a little but that hand is just as steady. “I know you… know what…” A sharp breath, a crease of the brow. “He knew…” And now the voice cracks right down the middle and Frodo stops, his face a twisted mask of grief, but his eyes remain dry and sharp.
Sam wishes he could help, wishes he could take that pain away, but he is still knee-deep in the dazed swirling of his head. He licks his lips but dares not otherwise move.
“I don’t understand, Frodo,” he says. “Who knew?”
Frodo’s nostrils flare a little and Sam knows this look, saw it clear as day too many times between Weathertop and Rivendell. Self-reproach and the resolve not to let it stop him from doing a job, that’s what it is, and Sam braces himself.
“Merry.”
And Frodo’s eyes close, his jaw clenches and the hand in Sam’s hair turns hard and shakes. The name made no sound but Sam could read the shape of it on Mr. Frodo’s lips, and his heart completes the process of shattering. He understands now, part of it, at least, and he should have known that this was all coming from the same place, all of it, and his own confusion is probably nothing at all, compared to what must be ramming about Frodo’s heart and head.
Sam is very careful to speak calmly, gently. “Mr. Frodo,” he says and he brushes Frodo’s hair back from his temple. “Frodo… I don’t think this is what you want.”
Frodo opens his eyes then and he looks more weary than Sam’s ever seen anyone look.
“No?” he asks and his voice is flat. “What do you think I want then, Sam?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” Sam says carefully, “but you can’t go believing that they’re all gone. Mr. Merry--”
“Is dead!”
It rings in Sam’s ears, bounces against the walls of the cave and settles the thin, cold edge of a blade in his heart. Frodo’s hand has moved, grips at Sam’s shirt, and Sam can feel the vibration of the thin frame roll up his spine. He takes a breath, shakes his head.
“I don’t believe that and neither should you. That Faramir, he didn’t even--”
“Attacked by Orcs, Sam – Orcs!” His voice is angry and pitched sharp but the thickness of grief lies beneath it. “Goblins don’t take prisoners and if Boromir couldn’t get away, then--”
“Don’t do this to yourself, Frodo, please. They’re not dead, I tell you; you have to believe--”
“Is all well?”
Sam jolts, looks up to find the curtain over the opening pulled aside and Captain Faramir framed by the torchlight behind him. The captain just stands there, waits for an answer, though Sam can’t tell what the man might be thinking, seeing him practically atop his master and obviously having heard the shouting.
Mr. Frodo doesn’t look to the mouth of the cave, simply keeps staring at Sam and says, “All is well. Thank you.”
And that’s all. The captain hesitates for only another second or two then jerks a small nod, backs out and closes the curtain again. Sam thinks maybe he ought to pull back, move away, but he doesn’t.
“Frodo,” he begins carefully, “they ain’t dead and I won’t be trying to step into Mr. Merry’s place. I know what he thinks and I’ll say that it was true once, but it ain’t been like that for a very long time. I won’t say I couldn’t be talked into it if I thought it was what you really wanted, but it ain’t what you want and it ain’t what I want, so it’s best--”
“I won’t offer again, Sam.”
Sam peers at him closely and knows full well that he means it. “And I’d not ask it.”
Sam can’t tell if that’s the right answer or not because Frodo’s expression is flat, unchanged. Then those eyes spike sharp, narrow.
“Why are you here?”
That same question again and nearly snarled into his face this time, but now Sam thinks maybe he understands it a little bit, though not all of it, not by halves, but he thinks he knows why now. And this isn’t any sort of hurt at imagined rejection and it isn’t an idle question, either. Mr. Frodo really needs to know, Sam can see that he nearly vibrates with it all, and now he has to wonder what more there is creeping about his master’s head and who or What might have put it there. Sam needs to wend through this very carefully, for this one has tried to leave people behind a little too often for Sam to trust that it ain’t crossed his mind this time, and he knows that, if Frodo asked it, the captain would probably haul Sam's arse to that White City while Frodo went into the Black Land alone, and then where would they both be?
But Sam’s answer isn’t any better than it was the last time, so he can only repeat, “Because you are.”
And Frodo isn’t any happier with it this time than he was the last. “I don’t know what that means, Sam, and I must know, do you understand? I have to know now!”
“Frodo…” Sam pauses, thinks carefully before going on. “I told you before that you are my job, do you remember that?” Frodo gives a slow nod of his head and his eyes narrow the tiniest bit. “I don’t know if I understand it completely myself, but I had to come with you because you had to go, and it really is just that simple. I don’t want anything from you that you don’t want to give, and it would hurt my heart if you pretended to want something because you thought it might please me. All I want – all I’ve ever wanted – is to help you, to make things better for you if I can, and all I’ve ever asked of you is that you let me. If I thought that my hands on you would help you and that it was really what you wanted, then believe me, sir – you’d not have to offer twice.”
Frodo seems to be holding his breath and there’s a sort of wonder in his eyes. “How could you know what I want?” he whispers and it’s low, breathless almost. “How can you when I don’t even…?”
Sam smiles a little, takes a cold hand in his. “Close your eyes,” he says.
Frodo just looks at him for a moment then he slowly does as Sam has asked. Sam leans in, covers Frodo’s mouth with his own, soft and tender, and Frodo looses a small whimper and his fingers tighten in Sam’s shirt. Sam pulls back again and squeezes Frodo’s hand.
“Who did you see, Frodo?”
Frodo stares at him for a few tense seconds then he gasps, yanks his hand away and turns his head. He clenches his eyes shut, grits his teeth, and Sam has a moment of panic, wondering how he could have been so wrong, he’d been so sure!
“Mr. Frodo, please, I’m--”
“I can’t see them.” Sam nearly doesn’t hear it, it’s that strangled, but now Frodo turns back to him, opens his eyes, and did Sam think he looked sad and weary before? It’s nothing to the depth of sorrow he sees in these eyes now. Frodo shakes his head slowly, says, “I can’t see their faces.” There is anger there and bewilderment, all hazed through with deepest desolation, and Frodo reaches over, takes hold of Sam’s arm. “I can’t remember them!” and Sam has to choke back the sob that wants to rip itself from his throat. “So young,” Frodo goes on, “so young and Pippin not even of-age yet and they came for me and now they’re gone – dead! – and I can’t even remember what colour his eyes were!”
Frodo moves to pull away and Sam takes hold of his arm, blurts, “Green!” and Frodo stills. “They’re green, sir,” Sam goes on, “Master Pip’s eyes. They’re green. I remember you saying once that they’re like twin emeralds, just like his mum’s.” Frodo just keeps looking at him but he doesn’t seem likely to bolt, seems to be listening, so Sam just keeps talking. “He’s built a little like you, only maybe a bit wider and not as tall. He looks like you, though, at least I’ve always thought so. His hair is more lighter than mine but his face, well… he looks like he could be a younger brother to you, instead of a distant cousin. My sister Daisy always says I’m daft when I say so but Mari thinks it, too, and you’re both fair-Tookish, so it makes sense to me anyhow.
“He’s got that awful purple waistcoat that he wears so much I’m surprised you haven’t unravelled it on him by now but he says it goes so nice with his mid-weight coat, though how purple can go with pea-green, I’ll never--”
“It was from Pearl.”
Sam stops, peers at Frodo. “I’m sorry?”
“Pearl – his sister... she made it for him for her birthday about five years ago as a joke.” Frodo speaks as though caught in a dream or maybe is surprised that he’s speaking at all. “He said he got her back for it every time he wore it because she hated it worse than he did.”
Sam chuckles, shakes his head. “Now, see – that doesn’t surprise me in the least.”
A ghost of a smile at Frodo’s mouth; it flits and skitters and then is gone. And Sam’s hand once again finds Frodo’s, curls around it, and Frodo’s grip is loose in Sam’s own but there nonetheless.
“Now, Mr. Merry,” Sam continues, “he’s bigger than me – wider and taller both – but he’s still not so tall as you. His hair is darker than mine in the wintertime and I hardly ever see him in the summer, but I know it goes all gold-bright with the sun…”
“He always worked too much,” Frodo whispers and he turns his head a little, stares at the torchlight scrimming shadows on the wall of the cave. “I hardly ever saw him in the summer either – we’d always both looked forward to the cooler months, I think, because we hardly ever got to see each other in the spring or summer.” A tiny watery breath. “You’re right – he was out in the sun nearly the whole summer-long and it always made his hair turn gold and red and he would burn like a sun himself. His skin would turn bronze and he always had a bit of red on his nose because he wouldn’t ever… wouldn’t ever wear a hat…” Frodo closes his eyes, swallows. “He knew every inch of Buckland and he had such love for it. He would have…” A small gasping breath, a choked sob. “He would’ve made a very good Master.” This last a hoarse whisper.
Sam leans closer and waits until Frodo looks at him again. “And his eyes?”
Frodo’s chin quivers and those teeth clench so tight Sam can hear the bones in his jaw rubbing together. Frodo takes a long shaky breath, answers, “Grey. Merry’s eyes were storm-grey.”
And just stares up at Sam, the grief spiking hard and sharp, and Sam can feel him shaking all the way to his bones. Sam leans closer still.
“Are, Frodo,” Sam tells him. “They ain’t dead, I know it.”
“And they would darken like thunderclouds sometimes…” Frodo’s breath is coming choppy and shallow and Sam squeezes his hand. “You could always tell when he was angry because… because…”
All Frodo can do is nod and Sam smiles at him, nods back.
“Now, close your eyes, Frodo,” he tells him and when Frodo does, Sam closes the distance, kisses his master, long and slow, and twines his fingers through Frodo’s, holds on. When Sam pulls back this time, the tip of his nose is wet with the tears that have finally been let loose from Frodo’s eyes. “Now tell me,” Sam whispers and tenderly swipes a finger across the wet warmth on Frodo’s cheek, “who did you see?”
And Sam can only hold on tight as the torrent is finally loosed and he holds his master close while he weeps his grief for those only Sam still dares hope survived. But that’s all right. He came along to help where he could and he has a strong back – he can carry what his master hasn’t the strength to anymore. And if hope is just too heavy a burden for Mr. Frodo right now, Sam will just have to carry it for him.
That’s his job, after all.
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“Because his eyes will go dark,”
Sam finishes for him, “and that line above the bridge of his nose will deepen.”