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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement III - Chorale AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Shadow PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG-13 SUMMARY: Far too many revelations in one night for Meriadoc Brandybuck’s comfort. ILLUSTRATIONS: 'Nigh Fen And Fell' and 'Rub, Knead, Temples, Brow...' by Daffodil Bolger
Chorale: a hymn sung by the choir and congregation often in unison.
A/N – I take full blame for ‘The Gaffer Song’. Feel free to throw your popcorn and ‘boo’ at the screen.The second song, however, ‘Across The Valley’ (PLEASE RIGHT-CLICK AND SAVE!) was written by my amazingly talented and very good friend, ConnieMarie, just for me (!!!!) and just for this fic. The song is not complete in this part. There are more stanzas that will not be used until much later in the story but you can hear the complete song by downloading the above link and the lyrics are HERE.
Music, lyrics, vocals by ConnieMarie; Strings (violin) by Willow-wode.
There is nothing I can say, Connie. ‘Thank you’ just seems far too small but it’s all I have.
* * *
CHORALE
* * *
Merry rolled his eyes, sighed in exasperation and barely controlled the overwhelming impulse to take Pippin by the scruff of his neck and drop-kick him all the way back to Tuckborough. He gritted his teeth, took a deep breath.
“Pippin,” he said calmly and tilted his mouth in what he hoped was a convincing smile, clenched teeth notwithstanding, “the Ivy Bush is where we agreed to earlier and I’d rather stick to the original plan, if you don’t mind.”
“Yes, but I do mind, you see, because that was before I remembered that the Dragon had just got some barrels of Milo’s grain liquor in and one can only get that but once a year.”
Pippin had set his jaw in that ‘I’ll have my way and right now, if you please, thankyouverymuch, so why are you bothering to argue with me’ way he had about him and Merry was forced to concede that his younger cousin was simply not getting it. He took a quick glance at Frodo, actually hoping that he wasn’t getting it; Frodo just blinked from one to the other, his expression one of bemused bewilderment. Well, that, at least, was something going Merry’s way this evening.
He turned back to Pippin, allowed a quick flash of temper to show. Pippin’s brow quirked – in confusion or challenge, Merry couldn’t tell but he rather hoped it wasn’t the latter. Merry placed all blame for Frodo’s own difficult nature on his Took side and Pippin’s exigent temperament not only rivalled Frodo’s own but could, at times, exceed it and quite spectacularly. The last thing Merry needed at the moment was two Tooks on edge and setting their teeth against anything that came out of his mouth. He’d had enough of a bother getting this arranged in the first place, what with Frodo digging in his heels over leaving the burrow at all tonight.
“I understand that, Pippin,” Merry answered, his good-natured smile very firmly in place to meet Frodo’s now slightly-suspicious glance. Merry’s nostrils flared just a little as Pippin’s eyes narrowed, already composing a rebuttal to what Merry hadn’t even said yet. Blasted Tooks, always at the ready with a verbal spar. Bugger. With great effort, his voice maintained its even calm. “But Freddy will be at the Bush with his new fiddle and I want to hear what all his crowing is about.”
What Merry really wanted at the moment was to just climb into Frodo’s big, soft bed, lay his aching head on one of the fat, downy pillows and smother himself with the other one; but he’d settle for Pippin using that ‘Tookish Faerie Sight’ he swore he had and reading Merry’s mind. Though, of course that wouldn’t work because: one, Pippin was far too mulish to do anything Merry wanted him to do at the moment (even if ‘anything’ included Milo’s grain liquor in one hand and a handful of Lilac Twillberry’s bosom in the other); and two, Merry had lost far too much coin on the ponies, which the ‘Tookish Faerie Sight’ had chosen to bet on, to believe for even a moment that it was anything more than Pippin’s very active imagination. Or it could simply be Pippin taking far too much pleasure in Merry’s chagrin at losing so much of his purse and purposely setting him up but either way, Merry was convinced there was no such thing.
Pippin rolled his eyes, looked at Merry as though he were addressing a very slow, very obstinate child. Merry seriously considered clocking Pippin and then hauling Frodo to the Bush over his shoulder. Both would be an easier task than getting an unspoken message through Pippin’s obduracy without tipping Frodo off that something was going on right under his nose.
“Fatty will have his fiddle for years to come,” Pippin explained evenly, the tips of his ears pinking. “Unless, of course, he does that awful ‘Gaffer’ song and someone bashes it over his head.”
“I like the ‘Gaffer’ song,” Frodo put in and Merry and Pippin both turned to blink at him for a moment in silence. Frodo looked back, shrugged. “Well, I do.” He looked again from one to the other, frowned. “Bother, how much is a sense of humour going for these days, I wonder? You both could use a new one, I’m thinking. I’ll even treat.”
Merry opened his mouth, closed it then shook his head and rubbed at the bridge of his nose. He turned back to Pippin, took another deep breath.
“Pippin, we have to go to the Bush, now if you don’t--”
“Why on earth would anyone have to go to the Bush, of all places? Really, Merry--”
“You know what?” Frodo cut in, beginning the business of unbuttoning his coat, to Merry’s chagrin. “This is ridiculous. I am not going to stand here while you two argue over which place you’re going to get yourselves pissed in, when I didn’t even want to go out tonight in the first place.”
Merry caught Frodo’s hands, stilled them. “Frodo, please let’s not do this again. I’m sorry to be so stubborn but I really do have to go to the Bush.”
“Then go!” Frodo grated, twitching his hands away. “You go to the Bush, let Pippin go to the Dragon and both of you take your nattering with you. You don’t need me along, as I tried to tell you earlier, and I’d really rather just sit about in my shirtsleeves and drink my own cold beer.”
“But I want you to come,” Merry protested and it was true – even though tonight’s business would be so much easier without Frodo along. But it had been more than distressing to let Frodo out of his sight just lately and, though he knew the proximity had been scraping at Frodo’s nerves and flaring his temper the past few days, he couldn’t seem to make himself give him any distance. Frodo shook his head, peeled his coat off and Merry, thinking quickly, helped him.
“There, see? You can sit about in your shirtsleeves at the Bush. We both will.” Merry demonstrated this by removing his own coat and tossing it to a hook beside him. “No one there cares. And I’ll have them bring up a pitcher from the ice room. It’ll be all frosted and slide down with--”
“Merry,” Frodo began impatiently but Merry kept going.
“I wouldn’t be so persistent, honestly, Frodo,” Merry blathered on, trying to steer everyone out the front door and failing miserably, “but I really have to get to the Bush and speak to a hobbit about a few matters and I can’t bear to think of you sitting about in this heat by yourself when--”
“Have I turned into a gammer, while I wasn’t paying attention?” Frodo wanted to know. “You’re afraid I’ll swoon in the heat and break a hip or something, I suppose, and then--”
“Of course not! But I would feel horribly rude, if I were to go off and leave you here, being your guest and all and I only want--”
“I tell you, I don’t mind! I’d rather you went off without me. And since when have you ever worried about being rude to me, anyway? For pity's sake, just last night, when we were--”
“If this is going to be a commentary on what you two were getting up to in bed last night, I’d really rather be spared the details,” Pippin put in with no small amount of exasperation. “I heard enough through the walls that I really don’t need a moment-by-moment description, thank you.”
Frodo turned a dark scowl upon his younger cousin. “Now, see, Pippin – that was rude.”
“Well, so is forgetting you’ve a guest in the next room and yowling like--”
“You’re three rooms down!”
“Am I?” Pippin blinked. “Funny, I could swear you were carrying on right under my bed, with all the noise.”
“All right, that’s it,” Frodo growled, popping his cufflinks and dropping them into his pocket. He began rolling up his sleeves, a very clear indication that he had no intention whatsoever of stepping out his door again this evening. “Go! Both of you. Out of my burrow and out of my hair. I’m staying home, as I wanted to in the first place.”
Merry sighed. “Frodo, please--”
“No. There is no reason in the world for me to tag along to someplace I don’t want to go, with two people I don’t want to go there with!”
“But--”
“Merry, I love you dearly but you are a horrible nag. Be reasonable!”
Merry hadn’t been reasonable for days and further, he was completely out of reasonable arguments, of which he had none in the first place, really, unless one counted the truth, which he simply couldn’t spill anyway. He floundered for a moment before reverting to instinct and using the only device he had left; he leaned forward and kissed Frodo, long and slow and deep.
Surprise made Frodo jerk back a little at first but Merry only leaned farther, pressed close until Frodo was backed into the doorjamb. There was a small noise from Frodo’s throat – not quite approval but not quite protest either. Merry decided that was a good thing and slid one hand over Frodo’s arm, the other sinking into sweat-damp curls. Merry’s tongue glided over Frodo’s lower lip, pushed into his mouth. Merry sank in and Frodo let him, opened to him and all the persuasive ability Merry possessed was centred on this one, single kiss.
It occurred to Merry that this was not something Frodo would normally allow, not with Pippin so near, and so he thought it was not so unreasonable to assume that Frodo had all at once forgotten the young Took’s presence entirely. Merry knew he’d won then and he loosed a light groan, plunged yet deeper--
“Fine, then, don’t play fair, cheating Brandybuck,” Pippin muttered truculently. “I’ll just be off to the Dragon by myself, then. Get yourselves a room at the Bush, while you’re there, why don’t you.”
Frodo jolted a little, tried to pull back but he was pressed to the doorjamb and had nowhere to go. Merry ignored Pippin completely, gentled Frodo’s silent protest with both hands – he placed one to either side of Frodo’s head, held him in place. Frodo always did have a weakness for this sort of thing and he surrendered again, his hands moving up to clutch at Merry’s shirt. Merry’s mind was hazing already, caught in his own web of distraction, when Pippin’s voice reached his ears again, this time as though from miles away.
“You know, I would leave you two to your… selves but you seem to be blocking the door.”
Frodo laughed into Merry’s mouth at that and the spell was broken. Normally, Merry would just turn them both, blindly work the door and let Pippin go on his way then continue on with the very pleasant activity with which he was currently engaged. Doorjambs sometimes make for a very nice backstop. This time, however, he was almost grateful to his younger cousin because he really did need to get to the Bush and, if not for Pippin refusing to allow his presence to go unacknowledged, Merry may well have just lost himself in Frodo’s mouth, Frodo’s body and let the entire evening slide away into moist kisses and sweated skin.
As it was, however, he was now reminded of the importance of tonight’s errand and he reluctantly drew back. Frodo was smiling, a little dazed but definitely in a better and more compliant mood than only five minutes ago.
“I really want you to come,” Merry murmured. “Will you? Please?”
Frodo chuckled softly, shook his head. “Now, how can I say you nay to anything, when you beg so prettily?”
Merry sighed in relief. They had a name for lasses who did what he’d just done but he’d wear that name willingly at the moment.
Now, for Pippin.
Merry placed one more soft kiss to Frodo’s mouth, smiled and Frodo smiled back. Merry pulled himself away, turned to Pippin. Pippin eyed him warily, took a step back.
“Oh, no you don’t,” he said. “I don’t know where that mouth has been.”
“I beg your pardon,” was Frodo's indignant retort.
“Pippin,” Merry began, “it would please me greatly if you were to accompany Frodo and me to the Bush. I have business there concerning a hobbit who…” and here he cut his eyes quickly and pointedly to Frodo then back to Pippin before Frodo noticed, “…needs assistance and will be leaving the area. I would like to prevent him from slipping away, without doing what I can for him first.”
Pippin just stared for a moment. His mouth snapped shut.
“Who is this hobbit?” Frodo asked, his senses once again as sharp as Merry knew they could be. “I’ve not heard of anyone planning to move away.”
“No one you know, Frodo,” Merry answered, another meaningful gaze pointed toward Pippin.
"Oh, I doubt that," Frodo returned with eyes slightly narrowed. "I know everyone in Hobbiton, I think."
Of course he did. Because why, after all, should anything be easy for Merry this evening?
He thought fast. Or tried to. “This is someone originally from Buckland," he answered. "And he'd rather no one knew his plans, so you'll forgive me for keeping the name close." And when had Merry got so good at prevaricating, anyway? Though, nothing he was saying was actually a lie, was it? "Just someone I know who feels it necessary to make a move and I want to speak with a mutual friend, so that I can lend whatever help he’ll allow.”
“That’s very kind of you, Merry. I didn’t know.” Frodo’s voice was more quiet than a moment ago.
Merry returned all of his attention to Pippin, who looked from Merry to Frodo and back again, a small frown tugging at one corner of his mouth. Pippin allowed the frown to grow, turned it into a scowl and shot Merry a look so sour that Merry actually felt his lips purse. ‘Why didn’t you just tell me?’ that look said and Merry, too relieved to be put out, sighed a little. ‘I would have, had I had the chance, you dim nit,’ he might have answered, had he been able, but instead, he just allowed himself his first real smile all night and shrugged.
“You’ll come, Pip?”
Pippin glared at Merry, stepped closer then reached up and gave him a swift clip to his ear. “Let’s be off, if we’re going,” was all he said then he brushed past Merry, stared Frodo down until Frodo slowly moved aside from the door, eyes wide and almost comically wary. Pippin opened the door, stalked through, shaking his head and muttering to himself. He stopped, backed over the threshold, turned to Frodo. “I blame you, you know.” He glared over his shoulder at Merry then shook his head at Frodo. “You spoil him rotten,” he said then stomped out.
Frodo stared after him for a moment, turned back to Merry. He grinned.
“I spoil you rotten,” he informed Merry.
Merry was still rubbing at his ear. He chuckled, slid his arm about Frodo’s shoulders.
“Spoil me later,” Merry said. “And often. And very, very thoroughly.”
Frodo’s eyebrows shot up and he waggled them, grinned wider. “Only if you’re very, very good.”
“Frodo,” Merry answered with a lift of his chin as he pushed Frodo through the doorway, “I am always very, very good.”
* * *
“Why didn’t you just say so?” Pippin hissed at Merry. Pippin had barely opened his mouth all the way to the Ivy Bush and the few times he did were only to snark at Merry. Once they got inside the crowded pub, Frodo was gathered up into a bone-crunching hug by Fatty and whisked into a hearty – though somewhat awed and subdued, for the Bush patrons – series of ‘Hullos’ and murmurs of ‘Himself, as I live and breathe.’ Frodo was obliged to make the rounds and Pippin took immediate advantage, latching onto Merry’s arm and shoving him through the loitering gathering of hobbits and towards the bar.
“You’re taking this conspiracy thing a bit too far, if you’re not even going to let your fellow conspirators in on the plans, you know,” Pippin furthered, leaning in close to be heard over the noise.
“A pitcher of Southfarthing, if you please,” Merry told the bartender. “In a frosted pitcher.” The hobbit nodded, moved to do as he was bid and Merry turned back to Pippin.
“I hadn’t time,” he told his cousin. “Sam only told me about it just before he left off for the day and if you hadn’t been so intent upon being obtuse, you’d have caught on right off.” Merry peered over his shoulder, noted that Frodo was still safely trapped in conversation with Daddy Twofoot with Fatty blocking himself and Pippin from view. “You really should have guessed, Pippin, and I’ll take the skin off you if our little display has put Frodo’s wind up. How often do I demand to come here, anyway? Honestly!”
“Well, you shouldn’t have dragged him along in the first place, if there is business to see to,” Pippin shot back hotly but then stopped, frowned. “What’s wrong with the Bush?” he wanted to know.
Merry ignored the first, addressed the second. “Nothing,” he answered then glanced up when their pitcher arrived, dropped some coin onto the bar and nodded at the bartender’s smiling thanks. “Four mugs, please,” he said and nodded again when they were slid to Pippin.
“Nothing is wrong with the Bush,” Merry told Pippin, now spying about the crowded room for a table. His eyes landed squarely and almost immediately upon Ted Sandyman and he jerked his chin, grimaced. “It’s the patrons who frequent it,” he muttered. Merry was not at all pleased to note that Sandyman already had his beady, baleful gaze fixed on Frodo.
Pippin also took note. “Ugh,” he grunted. “Why couldn’t Sam have chosen the Dragon, is what I’d like to know. Especially with Milo’s brew about. All they get here is that rot from the Bolgers.” Pippin paused for a moment and Merry could actually see him make the connection. Pippin’s countenance turned to one of disgruntled understanding. “Let’s find a table so I can put these mugs down,” he growled. “I know a certain Bolger who needs a good, hard kick in the arse.”
For the first time that evening, Merry couldn’t agree with Pippin more. He spied an empty table, thankfully several lengths away from the one from which Sandyman now glared at the back of Frodo’s head. Merry’s skin crawled and he turned his back on the other hobbit then angled towards the empty table. Pippin deposited the mugs and, just as he was turning – doubtless to give Freddy that kick in the arse he’d been looking forward to – a slow, soft note rose above the din of the crowd. Pippin halted and Merry lifted his gaze from the mug he’d been filling from the pitcher.
Merry just stared, his jaw hanging. Frodo’s face was… Merry had no way to describe it, really; he was beautiful but Merry had long-since stopped being surprised by that every time it hit him anew. His skin was warm in the bright glow of the room, the summer sun having bronzed it with a fine dusting of cinnamon. His cheeks were touched by rosy good health and his smile was… ‘Far away,’ Merry thought to himself and he clenched the pitcher in a white-knuckled grip.
Frodo’s smile widened to a grin and his eyes popped open, sparkled at Freddy. Merry let himself breathe again, relaxed, felt his own face echoing that cheerful grin.
“It’s wonderful!” Merry heard Frodo say and Fatty beamed proudly. “A good choice, cousin. It’s quite lovely. Very richly-toned.”
Frodo held the fiddle out to Fatty but Fatty stepped back, his face taking on a mischievous cast. Frodo’s brow creased and he looked from Freddy to the fiddle and back again.
“A song!” Fatty cried and the crowd agreed with rowdy calls and applause. Frodo stood bewildered for a moment before Freddy shouted, “Mr. Baggins is going to play!” and then he coloured spectacularly and shook his head.
“Ohhhh, no,” he protested, pushing the fiddle at Fatty but Fatty danced away, amazingly light on his feet for such a large hobbit. “Fatty, no!” Frodo announced firmly and it was the crowd that protested this time.
“A tune, good Master,” someone shouted from the back of the room, followed by good-natured laughter and several hoots and whistles.
Pippin leaned in to Merry, murmured, “Frodo doesn’t play, does he?”
Merry shook his head slowly, as confounded as Frodo apparently was. “No, of course not.”
As if in answer, “I can’t play this,” Frodo insisted to the crowd, grinning, his face flushed hot and red. “My cousin is having us all on.”
“Lies!” Fatty yelled from deep within the gathering. “All Bagginses lie! You can’t trust a one of ‘em!”
Laughter erupted and Frodo glared into the mob, though his own laughter was bubbling just beneath his fierce expression. “I see you back there, Bolger!” he cried. “You’d need a hundred hobbits to hide behind before escaping my eye!”
More laughter and Freddy stepped forth, took a deep bow, prompting raucous applause. “Your eye is as sharp as your wit,” he boomed, “for I am quite sure that even one so slow as my Baggins cousin can see that he is undeniably trapped and shall not escape this group of worthies without a rousing performance.” The patrons of the pub made their agreement known, feet stomping and fists pounding on tables. Freddy’s grin near split his face before he damped it, lifted his chin and signalled for the crowd to quiet. “Unless,” he continued after a moment with a lecherous lift of an eyebrow and his mischievous grin tucked below, “you’d care to give us all a very different sort of show.” He illustrated this with a tug on his collar and the crowd responded with whistles and catcalls.
Frodo roared with laughter, turned to the table behind him. “I need something to throw!” Merry heard him say beneath the din and the hobbits quickly moved to protect their mugs, laughing and shaking their heads. “I’ll remember that, Hugo Banks!” Frodo warned and was met with only more laughter and shakes of the hobbits’ heads.
“Come now, Frodo,” someone shouted and Merry couldn’t have been more surprised to realise that it was Pippin. From Frodo’s shocked look of amused betrayal, neither could he. “If you really can play that thing and since you’re calling so much attention to yourself anyway, you might as well give us something to listen to while we look!”
“Peregrin Took,” Frodo yelled back over the din of laughter, “I’d tell you to come up here and give them all a show but…” And here he paused to be sure his voice would be heard above the racket. “…I’ve seen your arse when I’ve changed your nappies and I wouldn’t want to put anyone off their drink!”
The crowd hooted, roared and Pippin along with them. Merry just stared, shaking his head, feeling as though he’d fallen into some sort of vaguely unnerving dream. The fiddle and the possibility that Frodo really could actually play it was one thing but…
He’d never seen anything like this. Frodo was known, of course, and well-liked but Merry had no idea…
Merry would admit to a small bit of snobbery when it came to spending an evening at the Bush, though he'd never admit it out loud. He might have actually even grimaced when Sam had informed him of the evening's plan. But it seemed to Merry that the good cheer and welcome Frodo was receiving from this lot was far more sincere than any he'd seen from those more affluent and influential hobbits who frequented the Dragon and the various social gatherings Frodo was so often obligated to attend. These people might think Frodo 'queer', as Merry knew most everyone but those who really knew him did, but they also seemed to love him for it. And perhaps it was the humility of the 'orphaned charity case' attitude towards Frodo's stay at the Hall, but Frodo seemed to himself come alive within that acceptance. And it was acceptance, more than Merry knew any of them would get from the Dragon and those who frequented its like. And cheer and good will. Even Sandyman was laughing along, cheeks ruddy with drink and good cheer. The entire business was positively astonishing and Merry had to wonder if there would ever, in his entire life, come a time when he stopped learning new things about Frodo Baggins.
“Please, Mr. Frodo,” a voice piped up. “Play us a tune.”
“Ah, there’s Sam,” Pippin observed, pointing to the young gardener, sitting with his father and a duo of equally weathered hobbits at a table along the wall. “I was wondering why I hadn’t seen him yet.”
Merry hadn’t had time to wonder. Things had been moving awfully fast since they’d walked through the door.
“Sam!” Frodo cried. He turned to the crowd, pointing over to his gardener. “I give you a hobbit with manners,” he told them all, his nose lifted comically and an air of haughty rebuke about him. “Samwise Gamgee is the only one among you who said ‘please’.” He wagged his finger at the crowd and their very predictable response was a chorus of, ‘Please, please, please…’ and more stomping of feet. Frodo nearly doubled over this time, his face flushing a merry shade of red, and when he straightened, there was a look of cheerful resignation on his face. He grinned, nodded and the mob bellowed its appreciation. “For Sam!” Frodo called then tucked the fiddle beneath his chin. He lifted a wicked grin to Pippin. “But the choice,” he furthered, “is entirely for my very supportive cousin, Peregrin.”
‘He’s really going to play,’ Merry thought. ‘I’ll be buggered.’
Then the bow flew, the flashing glow of the lamps glinting off its smooth, polished cherry finish and, when Pippin recognised the opening notes, he shrieked, “NO!” and made a dive toward the front of the pub. A wild cheer went up and Merry, also recognising the tune, grabbed hold of Pippin’s collar and yanked him back. Three other hobbits, all grinning wide, helped Merry to hold a twisting, laughing Pippin back. “Not that one!” Pippin cried and Frodo’s grin flashed brilliant and he waggled his eyebrows, opened his mouth.
Poor Gaffer, his gammer was giving him nowt So Gaffer decided to take Gammer out
Off to a dance, at old Farmer
Nawles
“BALLS!” the crowd supplied.
Frodo stopped, turned a shocked face to the mob. “The mouths on you lot!” he cried and the gathering laughed, several good-natured boo’s floating up from Fatty. “I was going to say ‘dolls’,” Frodo insisted.
“BALLS!” they shouted again and Frodo laughed, put the bow back to the strings.
‘Balls!’ said the gaffer, pounding his head ‘Oh, Gammer,’ he cried, ‘please take me to bed!
Gammer, no really, you drive me to
fits!’
Frodo stopped again, grinned innocently and winked. “What?” he asked. “Mitts! She flopped out her oven mitts!” The masses disagreed, so Frodo shrugged and played his way into the chorus.
And when the dance was over,
The gaffer he confessed:
‘The singin’ it were lovelybut I liked the snoggin' best!’
By this time, everyone but Pippin was singing along. Pippin just groaned through a wide grin, rolled his eyes and dropped his head to the shoulder of the big hobbit who had hold of his arm. Merry couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen Frodo have such fun and the reason that had brought them here this evening faded to a small nag at the back of his mind.
Now the gaffer got nary a wink of sleep His gammer had proved a rigorous keep
Love’s bane she took from the shelf
by the clock,
There was a pregnant pause this time and Frodo let the bow fall to his side. “You know,” he said conversationally, “love’s bane is very good for loosening up a lock, as the gammer well knows.”
“Lock, my wrinkled old arse!” Daddy Twofoot bellowed, to the rousing appreciation of the patrons, and Frodo gave him a nod and a grin then let the bow fly again.
Cocky? Not Gaffer, he wept tears of joy His gammer had done with playing so coy When he was finished, he broke out in song Then went right to sleep, even left out his…
There was no pause this time as the entire pub compelled the last chorus with the clapping of their hands to the beat.
And when the night was over,
The gammer she confessed:
‘The shaggin’ it were lovely but I liked the singin’ best!’
The applause thundered, hoots of approval and piercing whistles near splitting Merry’s ears. Pippin finally twisted loose and propelled himself through the crowd towards Frodo. Frodo, bowing dramatically to the gathering, saw him too late and couldn’t move fast enough to prevent himself from being caught in a headlock.
“The fiddle!” Frodo cried, holding it away from his body to avoid it smashing between them. Frodo struggled as best he could, though at a distinct disadvantage, what with the fiddle still swaying about in one hand and the bow in the other. Pippin took full advantage, hanging from Frodo’s neck and attempting to kick the backs of his knees and knock his legs out from under him.
By now, the applause had turned back to laughter and the hobbits surrounding Frodo and Pippin backed up to avoid an errant limb spilling their own drinks on them. Fatty barrelled through the horde and Merry expected him to haul Pippin off of his elder cousin, as did the crowd, it seemed.
“Freddy!” Frodo called, choking on his laughter and Pippin’s grip. “My hero! Off, Pip, or Freddy will have your arse.”
The surrounding hobbits backed a little further, eyed Freddy expectantly. Pippin regarded him warily but Fatty only stepped forward, retrieved his fiddle, plucked up the bow then patted Frodo’s head and scooted back. Frodo yowled in surprise and indignation and Fatty was just fast enough to avoid Frodo’s ill-aimed punch, which reached only to waist-height and only managed to glance off of Fatty’s well-padded defences. Fatty strode away grinning, fiddle held above his head to the generous approval of the mob.
Merry thought about going and rescuing Frodo but decided that he deserved whatever wrath Pippin visited upon him, if only for never once, in all the years they’d known each other, giving even the slightest hint that he could play the fiddle. Merry vaguely thought he should feel a little put out and perhaps later he would. Now, however, he just shook his head, chuckling, as he watched the two he loved most in the world merrily trying to throttle each other.
“Leave off, Pip!” Frodo laughed and succeeded in doing what Pippin has failed at: he brought his leg around behind both of Pippin’s, swung it forward and they both went down to the floor in a less-than-dignified, sniggering heap. There was weighted silence for a moment while the crowd waited to see who the victor would turn out to be and then a low “Ow,” from Frodo. Pippin snorted and they both sat, Pippin’s arm still locked around Frodo’s neck.
“He don’t give up, that ‘un,” the hobbit next to Merry observed wryly.
Merry smirked. “Never,” he agreed, his voice nearly drowned out by the noise of jolly laughter and the occasional smattering of applause. “Either one of them.”
“Unhand me, villain!” Frodo demanded, though his voice was more choked than commanding.
“Not until you apologise for singing that awful bit of swill and promise you’ll sing another.” Pippin tightened his grip as Frodo’s hand came up and poked him in the side. He wrenched Frodo’s head down and Frodo’s laughter combined with that of the gathering.
“Ruffian!” Frodo cried. “My Hobbiton fellows will never stand for this treachery from a Took!”
Pippin peered up at the hobbits surrounding them, grinned. “Another song?” he asked and, when his answer was more laughter and applause, Pippin dipped his head down to Frodo’s ear. “I’m afraid you’ve been completely rogered, Frodo-love,” he said pleasantly.
Frodo, his voice now somewhat muffled by Pippin’s sleeve due to his failed attempts at escape, returned, “And you’ve not even bought me a drink, yet. I feel so used.”
That set Pippin into wild cackles and he threw his head back, let go his grip and hugged his cousin, howling. Frodo returned the embrace then they were both cheerfully hauled to their feet by their boisterous audience, suffering hearty slaps on the back and shaking every hand that was thrust in front of them. They were caught up in a move toward the bar, where several hobbits vied for the privilege of buying the cousins a round.
“Quite a show.”
Merry turned, peered over his shoulder and grinned. “Hullo, Sam!”
Sam nodded, broadened his already pleasant smile. “Glad you could make it, sir.” Sam shifted his gaze to the bar. “I was a little surprised to see Mr. Frodo with you.”
“Yes, well…” Merry coloured a little, cleared his throat. “It’s um…” No, he most certainly was not about to admit that he actually nagged Frodo into coming along because Merry was being childishly superstitious and couldn’t stand to let him out of his sight. “Couldn’t be helped, you know.” Which was basically true, seeing as how Merry couldn’t seem to help himself from turning into a nervous gammer at every twitch of Frodo’s lip.
Sam just nodded again and if he had any clue as to Merry’s absurd anxieties, he gave no indication. “Just as well,” he said. “I ain’t seen the Bush hop like this in forever. Your cousins sure know how to liven up a place.”
Merry shook his head, chuckling. “Yes, it seems they both have a bit of the exhibitionist in them, eh?”
“Well, if that means they like the show of it all, I wouldn't be so bold as to say. I’ve never seen Mr. Frodo play to a crowd before, though he does seem to take to it natural-like.”
This gave Merry pause. It almost sounded as if…
“So, you knew he could play.”
“I didn’t know he knew songs like that,” Sam answered with a little grin and Merry couldn’t be sure but he could almost say the expression on Sam’s face was one of pride. Sam was proud of his master. Merry tried very hard not to look as flummoxed as he felt.
“Then, you have heard him play before,” Merry pressed.
Sam’s brow quirked. “Well, ‘course I have, sir. I’m about the grounds most of the day and sometimes at night. It’d be sort of hard to miss.”
“But…”
Merry stopped, blinked, for some reason unwilling to reveal the fact that, in this one thing at least, Sam apparently knew more about Frodo than Merry did. He found it rather irritating, if he were going to be honest with himself, and further, he now found himself irritated with Sam. As unfair as it may be, Merry found that he was actually jealous over the fact that Sam apparently owned a little piece of Frodo that he himself had not even been aware existed before now. He was angry with Frodo for not sharing this bit of his life with him, he was angry with Sam for knowing about it and he was angry with himself for being angry with either one of them in the first place.
“You all right, sir?”
Merry took a deep breath, smiled thinly. “I’ve rather a whopping headache, if you want the truth,” he informed Sam. “How about we round up the others and take care of whatever it is you’ve brought us here for, eh?”
Sam gestured to the door. “Mr. Fatty’s on his way outside now,” he told Merry. “My gaffer’s going to waylay Mr. Frodo, soon as he gets a cold one down, and then I’ll grab hold of Master Pippin and follow.”
Merry nodded, suddenly weary. He bent to retrieve the pitcher from the table, filled his mug and made his way to the door. It was the headache, he decided; that’s what was making him feel so dodgy. And the smoke and the noise certainly weren’t helping and it was all just coming together to flare his temper, that was all. He’d feel better, once he was outside and could take a nice, deep lungful of smokeless air.
And so, of course, he stepped out of the door and directly into a huge puff of smoke coming from Freddy’s pipe. Merry waved his hand in front of his face, rolled his eyes at Freddy’s unrepentant grin and shambled over to a table set up beneath the bushy boughs of a great, leaning oak then plopped down on the splintery bench. He took a large draught from his mug, closed his eyes blissfully as the cold beer flooded his belly.
The air was stiff and hot and Merry was grateful that Frodo’s small display of pique earlier had compelled him to leave his coat at Bag End. As it was, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and collar then unbuttoned his cuffs and rolled up his sleeves. As undressed as propriety would allow, he folded his arms on top of the table and sank his aching head down to rest atop them. He accidentally let loose with a small groan, instantly regretting it as it attracted the attention of Fatty, as Merry knew it would.
“Too many late nights, Merry-lad?”
Merry didn’t move, clamped his eyes tighter. “Shut it, Fatty.”
“Difficult work, I suspect, clinging to Frodo’s trouser-leg. It must be murder on your shirts.”
“Fatty,” Merry warned. “Shut. Up.”
“What’s the matter with him?”
Pippin’s voice.
“You all right, there, Mr. Merry?”
And there was Sam. Merry sighed.
“He’s fine,” Freddy answered for him. “Apparently, the thought of the possibility of Frodo doing a striptease has done him in.”
“You know, Freddy…” Merry lifted his head, glared at Freddy. “Sometimes you can be mildly amusing and sometimes you’re just an ass.”
“All right,” Pippin interjected, “we can all trade insults later and at great length. Right now, how about we get our business finished before Frodo manages to escape Sam’s father and comes looking for us.”
“Oh, no need to worry there, Master Pip,” Sam grinned. “I’ve seen my gaffer ambush Mr. Frodo and keep him trapped for almost an hour, just talking on the grains of dirt the north pasture’s made up of. He won’t let up, my gaffer; he’ll keep him there--”
“Sam.”
Sam stopped. Pippin lifted an eyebrow and Sam’s grin faltered. He shuffled his feet for a moment then slowly seated himself on the bench opposite Merry.
“Sorry, Master Pippin.”
“Right.”
Pippin rolled his eyes and Merry couldn’t help but shoot Sam a commiserating little smile. Sam returned him a self-conscious one, shrugged.
“Why don’t we begin by you two telling us why you dragged us to the Bush, when the Dragon is boasting Milo’s grain liquor.”
“Oh, Pippin, do shut up about that liquor!”
Pippin shot a fierce glare at Merry. “Yes, this coming from the King of the Nags.”
Merry’s teeth clenched. “Look--”
“We’re here because this is my dad’s regular night at the pub and he likes it when I come along.” Sam was actually speaking to the table but his eyes flicked over the others now and again. “I’m sorry, Master Pip. It was my doing.”
Pippin sagged, looked to Merry and they both flushed a little. Freddy just regarded them both with a smug little smirk. Merry thought about smacking it off his face but even that seemed like too much effort at the moment. He cleared his throat.
“We’re sorry, Sam,” he said. “I’m sorry. It’s been an unusual evening.”
“And it’s bloody hot!” Pippin furthered. He too had abandoned his coat somewhere, though his waistcoat and collar remained firmly buttoned.
“It is,” Merry agreed. “And I’ve a headache and a short temper, as well. Pippin’s right; let’s get this done, so we can all go about whatever it is we mean to go about.” He shifted his gaze between Freddy and Sam. “Why don’t you tell us why you’ve brought us out here.”
For the first time, it was Fatty who looked uncomfortable. “Well,” he said, “there are two issues, I think. Let’s begin with the one that won’t worsen your temper, shall we?” He turned to Sam expectantly and Merry and Pippin followed his gaze.
“Mr. Frodo’s decided on a date,” Sam told them.
Merry’s, “When?” was overridden by Pippin’s, “When did this happen?”
Sam looked to Pippin first. “Just the other day, right before Mr. Gandalf left,” he answered. “I would have written you but I only found out about it the morning before you arrived. And I would have waited for you on the road, so’s I could tell you before you got here but Mr. Frodo didn’t say he was expecting you.”
“He wasn’t,” Pippin put in with a sharp glance to Merry. “It was a surprise.”
But for a small curl of his lip, Merry ignored it. “When is he…”
Merry’s mouth was dry. Suddenly, this all seemed far too… real. It wasn’t a lark, it wasn’t exciting, it wasn’t anything but very, very real and altogether rather terrifying. He’s leaving. He’s really going to do it. Merry lifted his mug and drained it, placed it carefully back on the table.
“When is he planning on leaving?”
There. He’d said it. And he’d said it out loud. Merry wondered how it was possible that sweat was dripping through his hair, down between his shoulder-blades, yet he felt suddenly cold.
“September,” Sam told him. “On his birthday, just like Mr. Bilbo.”
It feels of September.
And Merry felt numb.
“He’s going to ask you to find him someplace to live in Buckland, Mr. Merry.”
Merry startled, frowned. “What? Why?”
Sam’s head dipped down and he stared again at the tabletop. “He’s going to sell Bag End,” he said quietly.
A long moment of silence then, “What?” Pippin shook his head slowly. “That can’t be right. Why would he sell Bag End?”
“He means to leave in such a way as to not cause talk. He figures, if he says he’s moving to Buckland, no one will think to ask after him until he’s well gone.”
Which seemed a much better reason to Merry than the one that sprang immediately to mind when he’d heard the initial statement: that Frodo intended not to come back at all. He decided he’d rather believe Sam’s reason.
“So, why go to the trouble of buying a new burrow?” Merry wondered aloud. And now that he’d said it, it seemed a little encouraging. Frodo wouldn’t actually go to the bother if he didn’t intend to come back, would he?
“Probably mostly for your benefit, Merry,” Freddy put in. “Not just you but all of us, who would notice the strange circumstance of him selling one home and not having another to go to.”
Sam sputtered. “Well, and he needs a place to store his things while he’s gone and someplace to live when he comes back, don’t he?”
“Of course,” Merry answered. “Secrecy is one thing but Frodo’s no fool. It all works out rather neatly, actually. People here won’t realise he’s gone anywhere but Buckland and people in Buckland won’t disturb him for quite some time, thinking to let him settle in. He’ll have a new place all set up before he goes and ready to be lived in when he gets back. Quite clever, actually.”
Sam shot him a small, relieved smile. Merry thought he knew exactly how Sam felt.
“All right, then,” Pippin sighed. “So, we know when to prepare for. It’s a bit of a relief, truthfully.”
“You’ll be busy in Buckland for some time, Merry.”
Fatty eyed him expectantly and Merry had the very distinct impression he had more to say.
“I don’t know,” Merry answered, feeling not only even more short-tempered than a moment before, but suddenly on edge, wary. “Finding a suitable place shouldn’t be too difficult. In fact, there is a guesthouse on Hall grounds that might do nicely, if Frodo won’t mind a house, rather than a burrow.”
Fatty and Sam exchanged a look. Fatty looked almost sad, while Sam looked distinctly uncomfortable. Pippin seemed to feel the tension as well but only peered at his companions with a look of vague confusion.
“What?” Merry asked impatiently. “If you’ve something else to say, just spill it.”
Sam ducked his head, renewing his acquaintance with the tabletop. Freddy sighed, cleared his throat. He looked to Merry with sad, kind eyes.
“Merry, I think you should cut your visit short and go back to Buckland.”
Merry shrugged. “Well, of course. As soon as Frodo asks, I’ll be off to find him a place to live, though it won’t take nearly--”
“No,” said Freddy softly. He shifted uncomfortably, took a deep breath. “I think you should go to Buckland and stay there until Frodo asks you back.”
Merry narrowed his eyes, felt his heart pick up pace. “I’m sorry?” He turned to Pippin but Pippin seemed just as surprised as Merry himself. “Why would I want to do that?”
“I think it would be a good idea if you weren’t around Frodo much in the next few months.”
“Are you mad?" Merry almost couldn't believe his ears. "Just when it's starting to look altogether too serious, you want me to leave him on his own? What sort of half-arsed strategy is that, anyway? And who's going to watch him -- you?" How dare he, when he wasn't even planning on going along in the first place! Up until a few months ago, this was all a big joke to Freddy, who took every opportunity he found to bugger Merry to death with his teasing and sniping over how Merry was a great, arsy mother-hen. And now he wanted to try his hand at Captain of the Watch? And anyway, "Who are you to tell me what I should and should not be doing?”
Freddy gazed at Merry evenly. “I am someone who loves Frodo very much and who wants only what’s good for him.”
The implication, unspoken for years, but still a wedge of understanding and contention between them for all those years, was too much now. Merry stood slowly, his eyes fixed and blazing at Fatty.
“Are you saying I’m not good for him?”
“Merry--”
“No, Pippin, I’ll have an answer.” Merry turned back to Fatty. “Tell me, Master Bolger, in all your magnificent wisdom: exactly what do you think is ‘good’ for Frodo?”
Freddy remained calm. “Merry, you’re a wreck,” he said quietly. “And you’re going to end up giving us all away.”
Merry gaped, his blood driving hot through his veins, pounding sharp behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell quick and harsh and his hands clenched into fists.
“That isn’t true,” he choked. And why was his voice suddenly so thready?
“I’m sorry, Merry, but it is. You’ve not been away from Bag End for more than three days since the spring and now--”
“Frodo wants me there!”
“I’m not saying that he doesn’t. But you have to admit that your…” Freddy paused, rubbed at his brow. “Merry, you’ve been watchful as a hawk with nesting chicks and sooner or later, Frodo is going to wonder why. He is, as you say, no fool.”
Merry stopped, clamped his mouth tight. It wasn't what he'd been expecting and it near knocked him flat, winded him. He couldn’t refute it, couldn’t deny it; he couldn’t help but see that Frodo’d been edgy and short-tempered but he’d chalked that up to restlessness and anxiety. Now…
“Pip?”
Pippin blinked over at Merry, opened his mouth, shrugged helplessly. Merry recognised the look on his face and marked it as pity.
“Merry, I--”
“Did you know about this?”
“No!” Pippin shook his head sharply, took a step towards Merry but Merry backed away. “Merry, I had no--”
“Master Pippin didn’t know about it, Mr. Merry,” Sam put in quietly, still great friends with the tabletop. “It were Mr. Fatty and me as thought it should be said.”
Merry felt a twinge of prideful heat at that. “You? What would you know about--”
“Sam is in a position to know quite well what goes on at Bag End, Merry.” Freddy’s voice was low and carried a note of warning. “And this was not his idea, it was mine. Sam was concerned, yes, and told me so but…” Fatty rested his bulk to the table’s edge, sighed. “Merry, you couldn’t even leave the burrow without Frodo tonight, when you knew we had business to discuss. Pippin says you actually talked him into coming.”
Merry shot a look of betrayal to Pippin.
Pippin closed his eyes, put a hand to his brow. "Oh, Fatty, that was entirely unfair and you know it."
Freddy ignored him, just kept looking at Merry. “You’re taking risks and for your own comfort, Merry, not for Frodo’s safety.”
And, once again, Merry found he had no argument. It was for his own comfort and he knew it, even as he’d argued and wheedled with Frodo to come along. Frodo wasn’t going to up and leave while Merry and Pippin spent a few hours at a pub, for pity’s sake and Merry knew it, even as his repeated appeals had left his mouth. He’d even chastised himself for being unreasonable, even as he’d continued to argue.
Merry sank slowly to the bench, lifted a hand to knead methodically at his brow. If this headache wasn’t the death of him, tearing himself away from Frodo until September just might be.
“I’ll…” Sam cleared his throat, shifted. “I’ll watch him for you, Mr. Merry, I promise. I’ll write you once a week and tell you if there’s anything to worry about. I won’t let him slip by, I swear it.”
His voice was quiet but held a ferocity that Merry found somehow comforting. He closed his eyes, nodded then lifted his other hand and rubbed at his temples.
There was a rustle and then the table shifted as Fatty lifted his weight from it. “I’m sorry, Merry. Truly. It had to be said.”
Merry didn’t acknowledge him, though he knew he should actually be grateful. He just couldn’t seem to bring himself to display anything that even remotely resembled kindness at the moment, so he only kept his eyes closed and massaged his pounding head. A warm weight dropped to his shoulder, squeezed, and it took every ounce of will Merry possessed not to shrug Freddy’s hand off, stand up and flatten him with a right hook.
Rub, knead, temples, brow, press behind the ears and swirl…
“Come on, Sam,” Fatty said. Merry could tell Sam obeyed; the table shifted again and the air thickened about him. “Pippin?”
“I’ll be there in a moment,” Pippin returned quietly.
“No,” Merry muttered. “Go on inside, Pip.”
…up a little to the scalp then back again to the temples, dig the knuckles in…
“Merry--”
“Go inside. I’ll be in shortly.”
There was a heavy pause and Merry thought for a moment that Pippin would refuse until there followed the rustle of grass as he trod away to join the others. The swing of the door, the din of the pub seeping out and onto the thick, still air and then it was all gone and Merry was alone.
He felt like he should be weeping, he was so miserable, but he hadn’t the wherewithal to muster up a single tear. He was numb, he was cold and it was all too bloody ridiculous because the evening was thick and hot and he had no business being cold; Merry should be seething, livid. And worse, righteous anger was denied him because he didn’t deserve to feel angry, he didn’t deserve to feel betrayed. They were right and he knew it and knowing it just made him want to go wrap himself about Frodo, drag him back to Bag End and show him exactly what possessive was all about.
And now he could add shame to the list of things he should be feeling. He realised he was ashamed and deeply so, which might actually have been a relief because his cheeks heated with it and it was nice to know he could still feel something besides this aching cold cramping about his heart and the sick pounding behind his eyes.
Rub, knead, temples, brow, press behind the ears and swirl…
September. He was leaving, really leaving in September, and it wasn’t a game and it wasn’t a lark and Merry wasn’t a child anymore. He couldn’t stop building the castle of sticks because he’d suddenly gone and got frightened of the dark and wanted his mother. He couldn’t take his ball and go home because someone bigger than he was kicked a goal with it. This was his responsibility, his to do what was right and what would help Frodo the most because he had taken it upon himself the moment he cornered Sam in the shed behind the Hill. And his own worries, his own heart mattered not at all, not when stepping in front of an enemy or talking Frodo out of doing the same might be a very real possibility.
They were right and he’d be a fool and worse than a fool to deny it. He’d be a selfish, petty, cowardly villain.
…up a little to the scalp then back again to the temples, dig the knuckles in…
“Bloody damn,” he whispered. “Bloody, buggering, twice-arsed damn!”
Not fifteen paces from where he sat, there was a world of merry banter, cheerful laughter and hobbits who hadn’t a care more pressing than how many more pitchers they could buy with the coin left in their pockets. Dark Lords were from tales they scoffed at in front of the fire on Samhain. Rings were something they exchanged beneath boughs twined with summer roses. If a wizard had come to any one of them with the tale Gandalf had told to Frodo, they would have sneered and sent him on his way then told the tale over a round at the pub on the following Sterday night. Instead, Frodo had chosen to leave the world that now ensconced him in pipe smoke, hearty laughter and the warm, wavering glow of smoked-glass oil lamps, and step out into the shadows of a world full of creatures Merry had only half-believed existed until now.
And wasn't there just the smallest part of
Merry that was quite enraged with Frodo over it all? How dare he risk
something Merry treasured beyond price in a task that belonged to... anyone else
but Frodo. How dare he undertake this journey when the cost of it all
might be a price those who loved him were altogether unwilling to pay.
Further, Merry had not been invited to share that journey and he was fairly certain he wouldn’t be entirely welcome when the time came to force his way into Frodo’s plans. But he had made the decision months ago that, even if Frodo ended up hating him for his deceptions and spying, he would live with those consequences, so long as Frodo lived. He would rather have Frodo alive and hating him than…
Rub, knead, temples, brow, press behind the ears and swirl…
And yes, all right, fine, he had been a bit overbearing and hovering a little too closely, but bloody bleeding damn, he couldn’t help it! And yes, he almost gave everything away tonight, what with his oh-so-clever tale of trying to help a hobbit who was moving to Buckland, of all things. No wonder Frodo’s ears had perked at that and it was only by blind luck that Frodo hadn’t caught on then and there. As it was, Merry knew full well that Frodo would very likely call that little scene to mind again if Merry had one more slip-up like it. It wouldn’t take very much for Frodo to begin picking at it, mulling on it then brooding until he kenned to the fact that Merry had caught on to his real plans. And then… |
Frodo had Fatty’s fiddle tucked
beneath his chin, the bow poised lightly over the strings, his head angled, eyes
closed. He drew the bow down slowly and the sweetness of the sound pierced
through the clink of glass and crockery, cut through the smoke gathered in
stagnant clouds about the tables. The bow slid back up, caught a glimmer of
gold from a sputtering overhead lamp. The notes changed, became deeper, finer
then melded together, twining into melancholy, as gentle and sad as musical
tears. It hung upon the thickness of the air then slowly slid off into
nothing, ‘til the very walls swallowed up even their echo.