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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement XXIV - Coda AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG SUMMARY: An ending and a beginning. ILLUSTRATION: 'Stick, Strings and Knobs' by Daffodil Bolger
Coda: The concluding passage of a movement or composition.
* * *
CODA
* * *
Merry is a creature of duty. And so, when he began to understand that he was healing -- really healing -- he decided that he'd put off his duties to his home and family quite long enough. Long illness had turned his muscles weak, stolen away the steady strength in his bones; the turning of spring and the rebirth that leapt to life around the small house only made him feel his own withering more strongly. It was not to be borne. He didn't like the shakiness in his limbs at the end of the day, couldn't abide how even the smallest physical task left him winded and how he found it necessary to rest in the middle of the day when always before the thought of kipping off during hours when work should be getting done had been anathema.
His mother scowled at him, told him he wasn't yet fully well and that a body needed time to recover from an illness that had very nearly taken his life. Pippin didn't offer an opinion, knowing full well that Merry would go ahead and do whatever it was he wanted to do and when he wanted to do it and no one would stop him. So, when Merry asked Pippin to ride with him out to the stables to look in on the new foals, Pippin had only smirked a little then made Merry pack them a snack while he went out to the shed to saddle their horses. Every day Merry was grateful for Pippin.
He spent the spring re-acquainting himself with his love for his home and the bone-deep satisfaction he'd always received from dirt under his fingernails at the end of a day, the achy stretch and pull of the muscles in his back and shoulders as he lowered himself into the bath with a sigh. He'd forgotten how it could dull other aches, blank his mind with the steady push-heave of a shovel or pitchfork or hoe, sink him into the rhythm of the earth as the land itself took him to its breast, rocked him in its gentle sway, as soft and tender as a babe held firm in its mother's embrace.
He was welcomed back and gladly, the forehobbits grinning and clapping him on the back, albeit carefully and with less gusto than before. They liked Berilac well enough and seemed confident in his instructions, but Merry occupied the soft-spot in each of their hearts and he was grateful to each of them for keeping it. They would all eye him a little warily at first, when he would tell them he wasn't there as a supervisor but only looking to come back slowly, work his way up from the smaller tasks as he'd done as a lad, and that they should continue to heed Berilac as they'd been doing. Some might have protested but all seemed to understand that the physical was what he was looking for and they stood back and allowed him to take up whatever tasks he wanted, though he knew they kept a watchful eye on him for some time. And he was grateful for that as well.
He hadn't the heart to make anything more than that first cursory visit to the stables. Harry, Dobbs' son, had taken over the running of them and, as sons are wont to do, changed things around a bit, and though Merry understood it, it still stung a little to see the familiar surroundings just slightly out of kilter. Dobbs would have hated the way the tack was separated and arranged -- more neat and organised, to be sure, but Merry knew Dobbs wouldn’t have been able to find a thing and would have howled, had the rearrangements taken place while he was alive. He'd been efficient in his own chaos and Merry decided to stay away when he found himself resenting Harry for doing his job so well.
Spring rolled into summer and it wasn't too terribly long before Merry noted that his frame wasn't quite so thin anymore and that he would sometimes spend an entire day working out in the sun and never once feel the need for anything more than the occasional water break, never once feel that weak tremor beneath his muscles. And never once feel tears crowding behind his eyes.
He hadn't stopped mourning, knew that he never really would, and he hadn't stopped missing Frodo either. There were times when he would hear a funny story or some bit of news and think: I'll have to remember to write Frodo and tell him. And then he would realise that he could very well write Frodo but that Frodo would never receive it, and Merry might turn away then, close his eyes and clench his jaw, push away the burning of his eyes and tell himself that someday it really would ease, someday he really would stop forgetting that he was One, alone and no longer half of a whole.
The pain was less bitter now, not so sharp, but still always there, waiting for him to slip up and trip over it when he'd let himself remember Frodo's laugh, that crooked smile that stretched over his face when he was feeling especially mischievous, that spark in his eye that could mean a hundred different things depending upon the kind of smile that came with it. It still hurt and Merry knew it always would, but it was a different pain now, one that only really dug into his bones in the watches of the night when his mind slept and his heart let his body remember what it would always crave. He'd often heard longing referred to as a 'sweet' pain but there was nothing sweet about it, to Merry's mind, for it still tasted bitter to him too often.
Time really did heal some things but never wholly and never in the way one would think. It smoothed the edges, perhaps, dulled the jagged fringe of memory with its steady flow until one day you found yourself remembering a certain smile or turn of phrase with a smile of your own and not that pain in your chest that burned so deep you wished it would just consume you and take you down into the fire of longing, put an end to you so you could finally have done with your misery.
All that matters is that you have some twisted need to wallow in your pain…
Snarled in accusation once, hurled like a dagger with the aim and skill only one whose love and fear share equal footing can own, and now he understood it all too well, didn't he? Healing, accepting, recovering… all well and good but never enough, never exactly the thing you really need, and you accept it because you have to, there is no choice, and all you can do is re-learn how to live, how to be, and it's almost funny, that he really has had to learn how to just be again, how to acknowledge his heart, his pain, his sorrow without letting it suffocate him, without letting it drag him down into the black well of grief that hovered always at his heels. It was the closest he could come to actually living for now and it would simply have to do.
And yet still there was stubborn resistance, and it wasn't petulant whinging and it wasn't overwrought romance and it wasn't some ill-disguised bid for sympathy. There were times when Merry wanted his pain, wanted that burning, and there were times that he gave into the tears, let them suck the breath from him, let his cries roll coarse and broken into his pillow. There were times when he wanted to feel. His mother might say he was punishing himself, if she knew, but if he never acknowledged his regrets and mistakes, if he never pondered what he might have done differently, how he might have loved better…
And with that always came the question: Had this been something like what Frodo had felt?
'Twisted' Merry had sneered but now he wondered if it was simply the only option left for Frodo at the end. If it was a choice between feeling pain or feeling nothing, which might be less painful in the end? How much of a question could it really be when Merry already knew the answer? And what did it make of him, to rail at Frodo for the choice he'd made when Merry himself knew there was no real choice?
I have failed you, my brother. But only because I loved you too well.
Yet perhaps he hadn't loved quite as well as he might have done. Pushing and bullying and sweeping everyone he loved under his 'protective wing' because he did love and it worked, it had always worked, always kept them safe and close, until finally the world stepped in, told him he had to trust, had to settle for spectator when always before he had been a participant, the one who made the changes -- sometimes forced the changes -- until suddenly the changes were rolling over him, crushing him, and him without the resources to stop it. And in his resistance he had allowed others to be crushed along with him and perhaps that was the worst of it all, that suspicion that had he just given that trust, opened his fist and let go when it was asked of him…
You know what I would want for you…
And he did know and he would do it because it was the only way he could love Frodo now, it was the only way he could make up for his mistakes. He would learn to love unselfishly, would learn to let go, would learn how to be the best person he could possibly be, because it was the only way left to him to honour the one he loved best. It was what Frodo wanted of him, the only thing he'd asked of him. Merry had found it impossible to give it -- truly and honestly give it -- when it had mattered, and doing his best to give it now was all he had left. And though the one person from whom he might learn it all was gone now, Merry had his memories and they were his to keep, cherish and those he would hold, those he would not let go.
Pippin was right: Merry had no intention of forgetting. Anything. Ever.
Physical labour did for him what his heart could not and Merry threw himself into it. His mother disapproved, he could tell -- everyone could tell -- though she never said a word about it anymore. She kept her lips tightly sealed and it was another thing for which Merry was grateful. She did try to coax him into the accounting a time or two and Merry suspected it was a ruse for the most part, since she only brought it up when he was looking especially weary. But for the most part, Esmeralda kept her concerns to herself. And if she pushed him every so often to attend a dance or party he had no intention of attending, well -- mothers would be mothers. She meant well, he knew, but it would be some time before he could bring himself to consider his responsibilities insofar as carrying on the line was concerned. It was important and he knew it and again, he would do it because it was his responsibility, it was what was expected of him, and moreover, it was what Frodo wanted for him. And he would do it. Only… not yet.
It was all still too close, too there beneath his skin, too… Too much like losing the love of his life, which was ridiculous because that was exactly what it was and why did he keep trying to explain it to himself, justify his feelings, make sense of it? It was what it was and it was always meant to be exactly what it was, or so he'd been told and told himself, and accepting, making peace, carrying on, was all that was left. He had no choice, no more than Frodo had in leaving, and if he could accept that Frodo did have to leave, he could accept that he himself had to stay and carry on.
So why then did he catch himself curling his lip on an angry sneer every now and then? Why could he still not think of Elves or Men or Wizards without that bit of rage seeping through him? And hadn’t his request to the new King -- that Men be prohibited from entering the Shire altogether -- been just as much because of that lingering rage at that last bit of hope stolen from Frodo with the destruction of everything he'd left to fight for as it had been Merry's own determination to see that nothing like the Troubles ever happened again? A small bit of revenge perhaps? And really -- how reasonable was that anyway, when he had such love and respect for some of that race? When he knew that those who should be guarded against were but a small percentage of Men on the whole?
Because sometimes knowing a thing with your head didn't always go a long way towards learning it with your heart, he supposed, and Merry's heart had always been a slow-learner when it came to those things he'd rather not ever have to learn in the first place. Knowing Frodo had to leave and that it was destined from the moment Bilbo found that Ring and cheated a twisted ancient's/child's mind by twisting a child's game to keep it, that it was best, that leaving, and that Frodo could be whole and happy and that Merry could have done nothing to change it all, except to perhaps ruin it or make it worse -- he understood all of that, he knew it with his head and he knew it because he'd pondered over it, wept over it, made himself a pathetic drunken wretch over it and finally even saw the sense, the irrefutable logic, in how it all happened. But his heart had yet to catch up with the rest of him and he wasn't so sure he really wanted it to. He wanted to remember, wanted to feel and yes, even sometimes wallow in it all, because anything else felt like pretence, like putting on a face… like dusting the dirt of a fresh grave from your hands and pretending that the person beneath it hadn’t mattered. Like feeling nothing.
"Hoy there, Merry-lad!"
Merry startled, turned, smiled a little cock-eyed at Berilac as his pony picked its way between the rows of beans and towards Merry. It was automatic now, the smile, sort of Merry's way of heading off those sympathetic inquiries as to his health and general state of being, without actually mentioning Frodo. It was almost funny, the way people danced around the subject, as though actually acknowledging that Merry had lost gave legitimacy to those arguments against the things they all seemed to want to believe: that all that mattered were swords and daggers, and that magic rings and the things they stole from their bearers made little difference when real blood was spilled, when the red of that blood could be seen, stain your hands, and you couldn't see a soul bleed, could you? It wasn't quite as real, was it? If Merry pre-empted it all with a smile, he didn't have to hear it -- or not hear it, as it were.
Berilac gave a cheerful wave and Merry rolled his eyes at his cousin, shook his head.
"You know, I'm only two years younger than you are," he said through a smirk. "I think the 'lad' bit is rather done now."
Berilac grinned as he pulled rein beside Merry. He dismounted swiftly and broadened his grin.
"Aye, maybe," he answered. "But I always have been a bit of a tosser." He winked and Merry frowned a little then shook his head, snorted.
"Quite a picture you make here," Beri went on. "Shall I paint you for the widows and gammers to take to dreams with them?"
Merry looked down at himself. He'd doffed his shirt hours ago; the sweat it soaked up made it heavy and clingy when he moved, so he'd simply discarded it somewhere along the rows he'd been hoeing. His braces were dangling about his thighs and so his trousers were riding low. He had smears of dirt mixed in with the sweat that covered his torso and, he had to assume, his face and neck as well. He probably did make quite a picture.
Berilac reached over, swatted his shoulder and Merry yelped at the tight sting.
"Ow!" Merry twisted his neck, peered awkwardly at his shoulder and the faint white imprint of Berilac's hand. "Sod all, Beri, what--"
"Sunburn," Berilac pointed out rather needlessly. "You'll be regretting tossing that shirt aside later, I'm guessing."
Merry contorted himself again to try and get a look at his back, saw Berilac's finger coming for his nose out of the corner of his eye and swatted at him. "Hoy!"
Berilac's grin was still very much present and quite unrepentant. "Your nose is red as a cherry," he told Merry. "It's already starting to peel."
Merry reached a hand to his face, stopped short of an ill-advised swipe at his nose. "That's nothing new," he grumbled, still somewhat put out over the initial swat. "Frodo's always after me to wear a hat but I can't ever--"
Bugger. There it was again.
He stared at Berilac for a moment, mouth still hanging slightly open on whatever he'd meant to say, though he couldn't now remember what it had been. His mind buzzed with dull white and he shook his head.
"That is… Frodo was… used to always…"
Berilac only looked back at him calmly, his smile subdued but there and soft now. "Well, I'm thinking Frodo knew his business," he told Merry gently. "And for whatever daft reason, he did love you, so maybe…" Berilac took his own hat off, placed it on Merry's head and widened his smile. "Maybe you'd do best to do as he asked."
Words seemed cheap, tears a ridiculous indulgence. It was the first time anyone besides Pippin or his mother had acknowledged his loss, had even acknowledged the fact that he had lost. It was the first time anyone had said Frodo's name to him out loud, and it should have cracked his ribs and pierced his heart but instead, warmth spread through him and rather than painful tears burning his eyes, Merry felt a small, tentative smile lift at the corners of his mouth. His throat was tight and full, so he cleared it because this was important and had to be said, had to be made clear.
"Loves," Merry said hoarsely and when Berilac's brow creased a little and his head titled to the side, Merry cleared his throat again, said, "Frodo loves me." He shook his head slowly, looked at his toes sunk deep into the black earth. "He isn't dead. He's only…" He shrugged, looked up at his cousin. "He's better."
And it was true because it had to be true and he believed that. Half-Took, perhaps, but there was nothing Tookish about him, but he knew it and nailed the little faith he'd managed to keep to it. Perhaps he was only just this minute realising that he knew it but it didn't make it any less true, any less real.
Berilac stared at him for a minute then he chuffed a small laugh, shook his head. "All right then," he agreed easily. "He's better." He leaned in and the sun caught the evil little glint in his eye. "You're sure he still loves you, though?" he asked with a waggle of thin brown eyebrows. "If he's off with them Elves, well, I hear they're a lot prettier than you. And a hobbit does have his needs."
Merry was thrown again into silence, stared at Berilac's smart-arse grin for several numb seconds. He reached for a reaction -- proper or improper, real or contrived sham, it didn't matter -- couldn't find one, only gaped, sputtered, opened his mouth on an angry retort. But when he tried to muster up some colourful curses to hurl his cousin's way, all that emerged was a quiet snort, followed swiftly by small hitches of laughter that rolled from his throat through a perhaps small but very surprised, very real smile.
"You are such a tosser," he snickered eventually.
Berilac nodded amiably. "A tosser with a mission," he told Merry. "Pippin's sent me after you and if you're done communing with the bean patch, he says there's a package for you from Hobbiton you'll want to see. And he says you ought to have been done for the day hours ago. Quite the overbearing auntie that one will make one day," he furthered with a smirk. He grabbed the hoe from Merry's hand and replaced it with the plump little mare's reins. "She's a little slow but she'll get you there," he said then, almost as an afterthought, "And find your shirt or your mum will have you chained to the desk and neck-deep in the accounts before you've even peeled off your first layer of skin. If Pippin doesn't peel it off for you and not in a good way." His eyes shifted to Merry's head and he winked again. "And keep the hat."
Merry smiled, reached up and touched the brim of the wide straw hat. A tosser he may be but Merry did love his cousin.
"Berilac…" He paused; so many things he should have said already and now, they all seemed clogged in the back of his throat. In the end, all he said was, "Thank you," and he meant it -- for stepping in when he was needed, for being there for his mum, for saving what he could and working his arse off to replace what he couldn't… for being the Hope of Buckland when Merry had been off chasing the hope of the world… for everything.
Berilac only smiled and nodded shortly then looked away quickly, cleared his throat. And Merry knew that he'd heard all of it, even if there was simply too much for Merry to say. He smiled, grasped Berilac's shoulder in a firm hold then he turned, walked the pony for a few rows until he found his shirt and put it on. He mounted, waved to his cousin then headed for Crickhollow.
* * *
It was Frodo's fiddle. And Merry couldn't begin to understand the feelings that washed through him upon seeing it.
A short note from Sam, addressed to both Pippin and Merry:
Rosie found it in the parlour cupboard and we both thought it best it be sent along to you. If you'd rather not, perhaps Mister Freddy would like to have it.
Sincerely,
Samwise Gamgee
Pippin had lain the case open on the kitchen table and now Merry stood there, staring down at the satiny-smooth poplar nestled in dark velvet, wondering why he felt as though he'd been both handed a gift beyond price and sucker-punched at the same time. He reached his hand out, hovered his fingertips just above the strings… drew back.
It wasn't as though he'd been handed a lock of Frodo's hair or the tattered, comfortable blue coat he'd had for years and wore whenever he didn't have to worry about presenting himself as Master of the Hill, something Merry could sink his nose into, breathe in Frodo's scent and wallow in memory; it was just a fiddle, sticks and strings and knobs and…
Except there was one, wasn't there? Perhaps not something special between them and only them but… but one where eyes had sought eyes through the slow drift of smoke in the light of sputtering lamps, and a smile was offered and returned, and a voice dipped and lilted, and a heart swelled and nearly overflowed, and teeth had clenched tight and held back pleas and promises and--
And he was making too much of it, he always did, and it hadn't been the romantic moment he was trying to make of it. It had been confusing and frightening and full of revelations he hadn't wanted to know and things Frodo hadn't ever told him, damn it all, and it had opened his eyes in a way he hadn't wanted them opened and shown him things he hadn't wanted to see. It had smelled of smoke and oil and stale beer and September; had felt of anger and sadness and impending loss.
And still Merry saw Frodo's eyes find his own, watched that soft smile curl at his mouth, and that smile had been just for Merry, had been filled with love and sweetness and familiarity, and those eyes looked into him, spoke to him, sang to him.
Thou bidest near; I ken beloved voice…
And he'd felt loved, hadn't he? In that moment, he'd known somewhere that what Frodo was doing he was doing because he loved and because he thought it was the only way to love in return. And he'd been right but he'd been wrong, too, and Merry's Conspiracy had been a betrayal in its own way but he did it because he loved and it was simply his way and whatever 'his way' was, Frodo loved that about him, too… loved him.
Left him.
Kissed him and stroked his cheek and asked him to keep living, keep loving, and then left him. Loved him in the only way he knew how because it was what Frodo's life had taught him, what his life was too full of, the leaving, and his journey and all that came after only sank the knowledge into him further still: destined to be left and to leave and he'd learnt it too well, with Merry himself playing the part of tutor once too often.
It should have ripped him open, spilled his heart onto the table beside the sentient bits of wood and metal and sheep's gut, should have buckled his knees and hitched his breath in his chest. Both of them Fortune's fools, Fate's fools, and it didn't matter if it just happened or if it had been meant or planned, and there was the rage, sparking bright in his belly at the injustice of it all, still railing against What Must Be and wishing for What Was.
Glory, still so much guilt and regret and things he should have done, things he could have done, things he blessed his own bad luck that he hadn't done or hadn't known to do, cursed his stubborn jealousies for things he didn't do or didn't say, and there was still so much that was wrong with it all, so much that should have happened or shouldn't have happened. So many ways in which it all could have gone wrong and no way at all that could have made it all go right but for the one thing Merry couldn't honestly give then and still found impossible now.
But it was passing strange because there was a small peace and there was maybe some thread of acceptance, and there was Faramir's voice, speaking wisdom to an angry would-be-warrior on the Walls of the City, reminding him of what Frodo would want for him, what Frodo would ask of him, and the unspoken declaration that real honest love meant doing what the one you loved wanted of you and not what you wanted for him, and all of it hidden and unsaid within those words said aloud. There was Gandalf's voice telling him that things happen only as they're meant to, and there was Eäreneth's voice beneath and within his own, full of apology for loving too well, and there was his mother's voice telling him that Frodo would be cross, and there was Pippin's voice telling him not to forget, not to let those things go that he needed to keep, not to stop loving but to let that love wrap about him in its purest form… let it comfort him, let it prop up his heart and let it be exactly what it was, stop trying to twist it and change it into something that would hurt less, surely, but would also be less.
Stop hiding and pretending there weren't still answers he needed.
Stop hiding and pretending that there was one small word he had yet to say.
Merry flipped the lid closed with a decided 'crack', secured the buckles. "Pippin!" he called, checked the sun through the kitchen window and made mental calculations. When Pippin wandered into the kitchen, peering at Merry a little warily, Merry slipped the fiddle under his arm, turned to his cousin. "I'm going to Hobbiton. If I have a quick wash and leave within the half-hour, I can make Whitfurrows by nightfall and have an overnight at the White Horse then be to Hobbiton by lunch."
"What?" Pippin frowned, took a step. "Why? What--"
"I have to," Merry cut in. "I can't explain it but I have to."
Pippin blinked, said, "Well, all right, if you have to. I'll go with you. I haven't been for a bit and--"
"No," Merry told him and smiled because stars, Pippin was amazing and generous and he would offer to go with him with no explanation, wouldn't he? But Merry shook his head, told him, "It's something I have to do, Pip. Do you understand?"
Pippin shook his head, frowned some more and no, Merry could see that he didn't understand at all and that he wanted to tell Merry that it was still too soon for him to be travelling alone and dozens of other things, but he only said, "What do I tell your mum? Or Berilac?"
And Merry let go a breath he hadn't realised he was holding, answered, "If anyone should ask after me, tell them…" He pondered for a moment then smiled at Pippin. "Tell them Sam has something I need."
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
He'd thought it was thunder at first. It annoyed him a little that it had sucked him so easily from sleep, seeing as how it was only a summer shower and not a real storm that he had to watch for any damage it might do; it was only a refreshing bit of rain with a little thunder and lightning to go along with it, and he grumbled as he burrowed deeper into the pillow, snuffled a little at the sweet smell of Rosie's hair only a breath away from tickling at his nose. He vaguely hoped the thunder wouldn't wake Elanor; she was the sweetest and loveliest lass in all the world but a right little beast when her sleep was disturbed. Sam smiled a little, sighed…
And there it was again. Only it wasn't thunder, it was someone pounding at the front door. He opened his eyes, was startled by Rosie's own wide eyes peering at him in the darkness, bright and wary; he sometimes forgot the fear she must have lived with all those months he'd been away. Someone pounding on your door at bloody-ridiculous-in-the-morning was never a good thing but something to be especially feared during the Troubles, he imagined.
He reached out a comforting hand, slipped sleep-clumsy fingers through her hair. "I'll just see who that is, shall I?" he whispered and smiled a little, hoping it looked calm and reassuring. Nothing to worry over now, after all, though he knew it was a difficult thing to get back to feeling safe after so long being anything but.
Rosie only nodded, closed her eyes when he dipped to kiss her brow, then he rolled himself over with a groan and flailed about in the dark for his robe. Slouching himself into it, he carefully manoeuvred around the foot of the bed and out into the hall. Not quick enough it seemed, for the pounding resumed then in earnest, so Sam quickened his pace, griped, "All right, all right," under his breath as he stopped to light a taper and slip it into the sconce in the front hallway. Again, the frantic pounding, and Sam growled this time, reached for the knob and snapped, "Hold your drawers on, why don't you, give a body--" He blinked as the weak light from the hall guttered and flared over the sodden figure limned in darkness and rain. "Mr. Merry!"
"Sam," Mr. Merry said and he seemed breathless, though with the workout the door just got, Sam wasn't surprised. "I haven't gone insane, I promise, I only-- May I come in?"
Sam blinked, shook himself, manners taking over where sense had tripped over surprise. "Of course!" He took hold of Mr. Merry's arm, dragged him over the threshold. "You're soaked to the skin!" he scolded. "What are you doing out in the dead of night -- in the rain, no less! -- and you just done with the lung-fever and all, Master Pippin would kick your--" At this, Sam stopped the forward swing of the door and peered out into the rain. "He ain't with you, is he?"
Merry shook his head, sending droplets spraying over the tiled floor. "No, I've come alone."
"And in the middle of the night, for pity's sake, what is it, what's wrong?"
Sam closed the door firmly, took Mr. Merry by the elbow and began tugging him towards the kitchen. The banked coals in the stove would still be glowing and it would be easiest to start a fire in there. Plus, the way Mr. Merry were shivering, some hot tea seemed to be in order and maybe a bath while he were at it, just to get the chill from his bones and him being so sick for so long only a little bit ago, too, stars and fire, he really should get his arse kicked and good for it, Mr. Frodo would have snapped his head clean off his shoulders for such foolishness--
"…fine, really, just bit waterlogged, is all," Mr. Merry was saying and Sam dragged his attention back to the big hobbit and away from his own mental list of how-to-prevent-careless-hobbits-from-making-themselves-sick. "I was going to stop overnight in Whitfurrows but…" Mr. Merry looked troubled, shrugged a little. "I just couldn't seem to make myself stop 'til I got here and then it was too early but there was nowhere else to go, so--"
"Sam?"
Mr. Merry's mouth snapped shut at the sound of Rosie's voice. His eyes widened and he turned in the direction of it; Sam might have laughed at the nervous expression, had Mr. Merry not looked quite so bedraggled and miserable to begin with.
"It's all right, Rosie," Sam told her with a smile as he set about lighting the lamps in the kitchen. "Mr. Merry just needed somewheres out of the rain and we were closest. You go on back to bed, won't you? I'll see to him."
Sam knew his wife was not a fan of Mr. Frodo's Buckland cousin and he supposed quite a lot of the blame for that belonged with his own self. He didn't suppose he was often fair to Mr. Merry in his few discussions with Rosie over his master and his master's headstrong cousin. It were natural, he supposed, since the only time he did discuss any of it with Rosie was when he was too upset to do anything but let it all out, but…
"Please forgive me, Mistress Rose," Merry said softly and sketched a formal bow. "I do apologise for disturbing your home at this hour and for waking you both." He looked from Rosie back to Sam, shrugged a little helplessly. "I couldn't do anything else; I had to come. I had to…" He shrugged again, shivered a little. "Sam, please, I need to speak with you."
Silence but for the soft sound of rain then Rosie hmphed quietly, said, "You'll need to get out o' them wet clothes and into something dry before you do any speaking. I'll not have the Mistress of Buckland come down on my head because I let her son shiver to death in my kitchen and you just done with being so sick and all." She shifted her shoulders, marched over to Mr. Merry and took firm hold of his elbow. Sam watched with a small grin as Mr. Merry -- a bit bewildered-looking and perhaps slightly bemused -- docilely allowed her to lead him down the tunnel and -- Sam assumed -- into the bathing room and to fetch him something warm and dry to wear. "Where's your sense, is what I'd like to know, riding all this way in…" drifted to his ears in their wake and Sam chuckled then set about feeding and stoking the stove and putting the kettle to boil.
He resolutely put aside the matter of what might be so important as to bring Mr. Merry here before even the roosters were up and in this weather; he'd find out in good time, he supposed. Instead, he turned his attention to the mechanics of brewing the tea, sliced up some pears while he was at it and added the rest of the ham and the currant cakes from yesterday's lunch. If Mr. Merry had ridden all night -- and it appeared he had -- and hadn't bothered to stop for the overnight he said he'd planned on, it stood to reason that he hadn't stopped for a bite neither. He hadn't seen Mr. Merry since they'd all seen Mr. Frodo off but Sam and Master Pippin kept up a regular correspondence and Sam knew Mr. Merry had given them all cause to worry over him for quite some time. Only to be expected, Sam supposed, the way there was so much of Mr. Merry's own self wrapped up in Mr. Frodo, and with Mr. Frodo gone, he supposed it wasn't surprising that Mr. Merry had lost himself so quickly and so easily, had literally made himself sick with grief. Not an easy thing for any of them, truly, and though Master Pippin never came out and said as much, Sam could tell he had his own sorrows wrapped up in the whole thing.
He set the table for three, got some milk from the coldroom and set out the honey; Mr. Merry liked his tea black, Sam remembered, and preferred coffee in the morning, as Mr. Frodo had done. But neither Sam nor Rosie drank the stuff, so he'd given what was there to his Gaffer when Mr. Frodo had gone. Master Pippin brought his own with him, seeing as how he liked that dark, fine brew he got special from some shop in Tuckborough, what got it from some other shop in Stock, what got it from… somewheres, so there had been no sense in keeping even a small stock of it. Now, though, he supposed he'd have to try and remember to get some to keep about for when Mr. Merry came around. Not that Sam had been expecting him to anytime soon; they hadn't exactly kept in touch since they'd all come home and the way they'd left things at the Cottons'… Well, Sam didn't suppose there had been any reason to keep coffee about the place. 'Til now, maybe.
"Well, I'm drier, anyway."
Still somewhat damp but considerably less bedraggled, Mr. Merry stood in the doorway in one of Sam's own thick robes, though it left him bare-chested, too short and too slim at the shoulders for his large frame as it was; Sam was only grateful -- and, he assumed, so was Mr. Merry -- that it covered the important bits. Merry was looking maybe a little embarrassed and -- Sam was surprised to note -- rather painfully unsure. If nothing else had confirmed the already-near-certainty that Mr. Merry's apparently-impulsive visit had everything to do with Mr. Frodo, that uncertainty and hesitation did a right fine job of it; only circumstances having to do with Mr. Frodo brought that look to Mr. Merry's eyes, at least as far as Sam had ever seen.
"Rosie said she was going back to bed." Merry flushed a little, looked at the floor with a small grin. "Said to tell you that you're to feed me up and I'm not to be going anywhere until my toes are warm."
Sam matched Mr. Merry's grin with a broad one of his own. "Have a seat, sir," he said with an easy chuckle. "You look fair knackered."
Mr. Merry shrugged, nodded his agreement. "I am," he answered. "And I apologise once more for showing up like this and--"
"Nothing to apologise for," Sam interrupted and set about pouring tea into Mr. Merry's mug and then his own. "It's what friends are for, or so I've always been told." And Sam supposed that might be a little presumptuous but even if Mr. Merry didn't consider himself Sam's friend, Sam would always be a friend to Mr. Merry, in what ever way he was able. He owed so much to Mr. Frodo but he supposed nothing that was quite so important. He hid a yawn, pushed the comestibles across the table with an inviting nod.
Merry reached for a cake gratefully, said, "I don't think I've been much of a friend just lately," as though he'd read Sam's mind.
"Well, sir," Sam told him cautiously, "I think that might depend upon who you asked and what they understand. And I'm thinking that there are very few who understand more than very little."
Mr. Merry looked down, quieted for a moment, carefully sipping his tea and taking thoughtful samples from the plate. Sam stayed silent; it would come. He added milk and honey to his own tea, helped himself to a slice of pear and watched Mr. Merry distract himself with food while he worked his way 'round to what he came to talk about.
It wasn't terribly long before Mr. Merry took a great gulp of his tea, as though fortifying himself, winced a little as it burnt his throat on the way down then drew in a great, deep breath. He peered at Sam calmly across the table, folded both hands around his mug, and Sam refused to notice that those hands had shook just a little before coming to rest around the warm glazed clay.
"Sam." Mr. Merry closed his eyes, shook his head and lifted his chin, said, "Why did you get married?"
All right, that wasn't quite what he'd been expecting. Not that he'd had an idea what to expect but it certainly hadn’t been that.
"Er… what?"
Mr. Merry flushed again, looked down at the table. "That didn't come out right," he said, put down his mug a little too forcefully and commenced to tearing a thick piece of ham to shreds with nervous fingers. "I meant… well, I don't know if there's a better way to ask the question and it's your right, of course, not to answer and to show me the door for asking because it's nothing but terribly rude but…" He sighed, finally looked at Sam again, and his eyes were tired and sad, glimmering a little suspiciously in the lamplight. "I thought… I mean, you said…" He shook his head, clenched his teeth, obviously frustrated. "You said you would… said you would take care of him and I know you love him and--"
He stopped, turned a beseeching look upon Sam. Sam frowned, sat back, scrubbed at the tangled mop of his hair.
"What does one have to do with other?" he wanted to know.
The question seemed to throw Mr. Merry. He blinked. "No, I mean… well, you so much as said that… well, that you…" He squeezed his eyes shut, pinched at the bridge of his nose. "He told me... told me that he kissed you," Merry went on more quietly, his voice shaking just enough for Sam to notice. "He told me that he offered… offered…" He dropped his hand back to the table, opened his eyes but still he didn't look at Sam. "He said you wouldn't and I don't understand because I know you love him and I know you wanted him, I could see it, I could recognise it, and I know it's none of my business and by rights you should be punching me right in the mouth and you can, you know, I deserve it, but I wouldn't even ask if I didn't need to, if it wasn't eating at me and making me--"
"Whoa, hoy there," Sam cut in, his own head spinning a little dizzily; he shook it slowly. "Mr. Frodo told you about… about that?"
Mr. Merry pulled his eyes from the table, turned them to Sam's, and oh, Sam had seen this look before, so lost and bewildered and so full of trying and just not getting it right.
"He did," Merry answered, voice barely above a whisper. "I don't think he meant to but I pushed him and… and all right, I cornered him, and we both said things we oughtn't have done and… and I left and I shouldn't have done that either, and here I am turning it to me again and I don't want to do that. I need to know, Sam, I really need to know: why did you refuse him?"
Sam eyed him then, hard and thorough. He really should have been enraged, dragged from his bed as he'd been and asked questions of a more personal nature than anyone had a right to know, asked for answers that he wouldn't have even offered his own wife. The sheer cheek of it all! But somehow he couldn't quite muster that anger, couldn't seem to feel anything but a genuine wish to help, to explain what he could, offer sympathy for what he couldn't.
Sam picked up his tea, took a long sip. "Did he tell you when all this happened? Where we were, what the circumstances were?" When Merry only shook his head, Sam quirked his lip in a sardonic smile, shook his head. "No, he wouldn't've, would he?" It was one part fondness and one part exasperation. He leaned forward, tried to keep his countenance soft. "We were with Captain Faramir in Ithilien. Mr. Frodo and the captain, they talked and traded stories and that's when we heard about Mr. Boromir." He peered closely at Mr. Merry. "Do you see where this leads, sir?"
Merry's brow twisted and he shook his head, a short jerk back and forth.
"He thought you were dead, Mr. Merry -- you and Master Pippin and everyone else. I didn't know it at first, of course; kept it all choked back in his chest, he did, and I didn't twig to it until…" He paused, wilfully kept his heart at a steady pace, his breaths even and smooth. "Kept asking me, 'Why are you here?' like he thought maybe there was some other reason why I'd want to help him, didn't seem to understand that I didn't want nothing from him, and mayhap he thought I were after the Ring, though I don't think that occurred to me until the Tower. It was like he couldn't believe that anyone could love him enough to go with him just for him, see? Like I had to have some other reason, and I think maybe he was so swallowed up by his grief over you and too confused and unsure to believe me and I think… I think maybe he meant to give me what he thought I come for so I didn't think I had to follow him no more." He took another long drink of his tea, winced a little at the bitterness of the dregs and let the silence settle for a moment before going on, "I think he thought you were dead and that I soon would be and it was all because of him and…" He trailed off, shrugged.
"And you told him no," Merry offered quietly.
Sam shook his head. "It wasn't what he really wanted."
"Was it…" Merry paused, turning an intent gaze upon Sam. "It was what you wanted, though."
Turned from a question to a statement but unsure still, for all that.
"Not if it wasn't what he wanted," Sam answered steadily.
"And how could you know it wasn't?"
"Because what he really wanted, Mr. Merry," Sam answered softly, "was you." Sam smiled a little but it only lasted for a moment before sliding from his face, feeling out of place and awkward. "He must have lay there for hours, trying to remember, twisting himself up because he couldn't, wishing for the one person who could see him through such a thing and thinking that one person was dead." Sam chuffed a bitter little laugh. "And me practically sleeping right through it all."
Silence for a moment then Merry softly cleared his throat, asked: "Trying to remember what?"
Sam sat back, sighed. "It took so many things from him, Mr. Merry." He blinked, eyes filling and burning but he pushed it away. "And I think It started in on what he loved best first, took away what he trusted. At first he knew those things were there somewhere, knew there were things he couldn't remember anymore, and I think that were harder in a way than what came later. It seems like it was almost a mercy when he eventually forgot so well and good that he couldn't even remember that there were things to remember."
Merry stared at him for a long time then whispered, "He forgot me."
Sam tried for a comforting smile, didn't quite manage it and settled upon a slow nod. "Forgot what you looked like," he told Merry gently. "And he wanted to remember, so…" A small shrug.
Merry leaned in and there was no anger in his eyes, only sorrow and a real honest wish to know and understand. "So…?"
"So… he kissed me." He felt no guilt, no remorse, but still he found it difficult to look at Mr. Merry. "But he weren't kissing me, see?"
"I'm not sure," Merry breathed, slumped a little in his chair. "I think I do. And thank you for telling me that. I don't know if you could possibly know what it means to me, but…"
"It didn't go no further," Sam supplied quickly.
Merry shook his head, frowned. "No, and even if it had…" He smiled a little, shrugged. "I don't know. I expect I'd have always been torn between grateful and insane, you know? But…" He frowned again, leaned his elbows on the table and narrowed an intense stare at Sam. "What I can't understand, Sam, is: I know you wanted him, I know you love him more than life, and I know it broke your heart as much as mine when he left. So, perhaps it's only the fact that I can't seem to look at any situation without seeing it through a haze of selfishness but I can't understand why…" He threw up his hands. "I mean, I practically handed him to you and you said you would… well, that you would 'take care' of him -- all his needs, that's what you said -- and, and then you went and got married and--" He broke off, squeezed his eyes shut, rubbed at his temples. "I'm not saying this right, I'm bollixing it beyond sense and I just can't--"
"Glory," Sam cut in, perhaps a bit impatiently, "for a hobbit who don't hesitate to use his mouth and always wants to know everybody else's business, whether he's a right to it or no, you sure don't ask the right questions, do you?" Merry only blinked at him slowly. "Now, you need to listen here, sir, because it really ain't all that hard to understand: I love Mr. Frodo, aye, loved him since he come to live with old Mr. Bilbo and it changed and grew but never went away. And had things been different and if his heart had turned towards me 'stead of you, you bet I'd have took hold and never let go. But it didn't; you were who he wanted and you were who he had and just because I couldn't have him, doesn't mean I ever stopped loving."
"But you could have--"
"It were different!" Sam cried, emotion he hadn't realised had risen choking him, turning him hoarse. "You didn't hand him to me because he weren't yours to give! He was his own. I don't need to have him to love him and I don't need to be miserable to love him and I can love my Rosie and my Elanor with all my heart and still have every nook and cranny of that heart filled with him. Loving don't have to mean having!"
Merry stared, asked, "And it… it doesn't… hurt?"
Sam deflated a little, reached across the table and gripped Mr. Merry's hand. "'Course it hurts," he told him honestly. "But you were wrong when you said it broke my heart when he left; I'm glad he's gone, I'm glad he's off someplace he can get better." He paused, squeezed Merry's hand harder. "Things didn't quite go as I'd thought and hoped but I'm glad they at least gave him that much."
Mr. Merry nodded slowly, opened his mouth, closed it again. Sam waited, knowing there was more but unwilling to pry it out before Mr. Merry was ready to voice it. They sat so for several long minutes until Sam gently patted Mr. Merry's hand, got up to set the kettle once again upon the hob, went about setting out what he would need to start breakfast in only a little while; he was already up, after all, and Rosie could do with an extra hour of sleep. He was reaching into the coldroom for some eggs when the question came, soft but insistent:
"Would you have done it, Sam?"
Out of the blue, it seemed, but Sam knew exactly what Mr. Merry was asking and it stopped Sam firm in his place, hand resting on the bowl containing the eggs, feet planted solid to the floor below him, but he felt a shudder ripple through him, set him unsteady. He slowly firmed his grip on the bowl, withdrew it and calmly closed the door. Placing the eggs on the sideboard, he turned, took a pan from the rack and then a pot for porridge. He took a long breath, turned to Mr. Merry.
"I didn’t like that question much the first time you asked it of me," he said levelly. "And I don’t care for it now."
Mr. Merry's gaze did not flinch. "I know," he answered, his voice wavering perhaps a tiny bit, his eyes resolute but with a note of pleading in their grey depths. "And I'm sorry; I wouldn't ask it unless I really needed to know. And I think it's a more fair question now, don't you?" He paused, flicked his eyes away then back again. "If it would help you answer, I…" He looked away again, slipped his gaze to his hands. "I'm still not sure I would have done it. And knowing that Frodo hid how unwell he was from me and all because he knew better than I what… that I might have…" He clenched his teeth, looked at Sam. "I've had to wonder and even more so than even back then and…" He shrugged, a look of helpless entreaty in his eyes. "I'm sorry, Sam. I really do need to know. I'm not sure I can let it go until I do. I can't let him go."
The last was no more than a small cadenced breath but Sam heard it all too clearly.
Sam sighed, slow and heavy, answered the only way he could. "I just don't know, Mr. Merry. Back then in Rivendell?" He shook his head firmly, leaned back against the sideboard. "No," he answered simply. "I couldn't have done it then; I don't think I understood it all then, what that thing could do, what it might mean to Mr. Frodo to get caught inside It. But in the Mountain?" He crossed his arms over his chest, shook his head again. "I just don't know. And I never will and that has to be all right because I can't change it, see? I think I could have but who can really say until it's time? I love him enough for it." He stopped, cocked his head, new understanding rushing through him. He straightened, stepped to the table and beside Mr. Merry. "And so do you, if that's what you're really worrying over," he told him earnestly. "It don't matter if we did do it or meant to do it or even thought to do it; it only matters that we love him enough to do it, do you understand?"
Sam could tell that he didn't. He pulled a chair over, planted himself on it and leaned close.
"Letting go is…" Sam shook his head, shrugged. "I did it too soon and you're doing it too late but who really can say if either is 'too' anything? I mean, if we'd done anything other than what we've done, we wouldn't really be us, would we, and we are who he loved." He paused, amended firmly: "Loves.
"We are who we are and we love how we love and he loves you, Mr. Merry, and he loved you for a long time and for who and what you are -- loved you enough to leave you, and oh, I know that one hurts, but it's an amazing thing, too. And doubting that you loved him back good enough and hard enough now, well…" Sam spread his hands. "It sort of insults that love in a way, you know? Like saying Mr. Frodo didn't know well enough who or what he was loving all that time, like him telling you you're worth it all and you calling him a liar, right?"
Mr. Merry frowned, rubbed at his brow. "You make it sound so simple."
"Well, pardon me for saying so, sir, but it is simple. Doubting it all now is like saying he didn't have enough sense to know who he was loving all that time and really -- does it matter what you could or couldn't do? He loves you either way, doesn't he? Loves you for what he always saw in you, and why is it so important now to pick that into little pieces until even he wouldn't recognise your heart anymore?"
A short shake of the head and a slow flap of the jaw was all the reaction that came from Mr. Merry. He only stared at Sam, perhaps even through him, and Sam could almost see his mind working it all over, picking through it, trying to make sense of it all.
"I don't suppose it is," he finally answered, his voice thick. "Or at least maybe it shouldn't be but… I only wish I could know." His eyes closed wearily and he leaned his elbow on the table, rested his head in his hand. "I want to know I didn't bollix it all; I want to know that he knew I love him, that I'd have done anything for him, do you understand? I can't bear to think that he left here thinking he wasn't loved, that I didn't love him as well as I could have done."
"Mr. Merry," Sam answered quietly, "if he didn't know all of that, do you think he would have spent his last year here trying to hide from you? From all of us? If he didn't know all of that, do you think he even would have bothered to come home at all?"
Merry didn't answer, only hid his face in both hands, the low tremor of his shoulders the only outward sign of the emotion ramping through him. He seemed calm, for all he were a bit high-strung to Sam's mind.
And Sam nodded, stood, angled the kettle from the hob before it started to spit. He peered out the window, noted orange-gold blooming in a slow shiver on the horizon. He would let Mr. Merry ponder it quietly for a while before Elanor got up and disturbed the quiet of the budding day with her nonsense babble and toothless smiles. He would feed him up good, offer him a bed if he wished it, then send him on his way when he was ready -- hopefully a little lighter of heart and less heavy-handed with himself.
Sam poured the last of the tea into Mr. Merry's mug, patted his shoulder as he took the teapot away to empty and refill it. He imagined his master, lying back in sweet, fragrant dew-dipped grass, watching the last of the stars wink out and give their light over to the emerging Sun… and smiling; perhaps with a bit of melancholy mixed in, some longing, maybe, but smiling.
Sam smiled, too, poured some water into the pot and reached for the porridge.
* * *
Pippin hadn't liked it but he'd kept his opinions if not hidden, at least silent. And it was almost done now, almost settled, and it hurt a little to think that way, almost like a small betrayal, and Merry pushed the guilt that came with the thought firmly away. Not a betrayal and he well knew it; it was what he needed, what was wanted of him and it was how he wanted to do it. It seemed right.
He arrived in Budgeford just before dark, found his way to the front stoop of the Bolgers' as the first star emerged and he peered up at it as he waited for his knock to be answered, even smiled a little as its smatter of a twinkle fought its way through the thick glossy drape of velvet black. Cold, he'd thought the stars once, but now it seemed he could look at them with fond remembrance, for he knew that somewhere, Frodo was doing the same. A stab of grief the thought had brought to him once; now it somehow made him feel warm.
Still so much to get past, to accept, to learn and consider. But perhaps he was finally on his way towards doing what Frodo had asked of him.
The door opened, gold-yellow light spilling at his feet and surrounding him in its soft circular glow.
"Merry?"
Merry nodded as Freddy blinked through the darkness at him, a frown tugging at his mouth. Merry wasted no time, for he'd come on a mission, after all. Straightening his shoulders, he held up the case with Frodo's fiddle.
"I've a favour to ask of you," he told Fatty and pushed the instrument towards him until Freddy took it in his own hands, tilted his head.
"What…? Is this…?"
"Yes, it's Frodo's and I want you to play it for me, Freddy," Merry told him softly. "I want you to play it and I want you to sing the song you did together at the Bush. I need to hear it once more."
Freddy looked down to his hands, closed his eyes briefly then looked back to Merry, searching his face. Merry only nodded, understanding things Freddy couldn't say, couldn't ask.
"I'm not sure I can," Fatty whispered, faltered, went on, "It's not an easy thing, you know, and--"
"Please?" Merry asked. "Only once and then it's yours if you want it; I think Frodo would want you to have it. But I'd like to hear the song once more." He paused, swallowed, felt the tears close and let them come. "I'd like to say goodbye."
Freddy only stared at him for a long moment then he blinked, looked down, ran his fingers over the smooth wood of the case, his smile soft and sad. And then he nodded.
"Come in, won't you?"
He stepped aside, swung the door wide; Merry nodded back, tried on a smile and went inside.
* * *
|
And a part of Frodo that Merry hadn’t even known existed --
he'd never even actually seen it before; the one time he'd seen Frodo play, it
had been Freddy's fiddle in his hands. There was no reason why it should bring
about this storm of confusing, conflicting emotion, no reason why he should feel
as though he were being at once cosseted and flayed, no reason it should leave
him both hollow and… almost glad. Sticks and strings and knobs and that's
all it was -- no fond memories of dozing in a chair while Frodo played him
into dreams, no bit of possessive pride that he'd held this small secret of one
who doled them out as carefully as though they were pieces of his very heart, no
sentimental ditty that one would hum to the other and share a secret smile
over. Except…