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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement XX - Counterpoint AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG-13 SUMMARY: The long ride home ILLUSTRATION: 'Into Darkness Fell His Star...' and 'What We've Become' by Daffodil Bolger
Counterpoint: combining in a single texture two or more simultaneous melodic lines, each with a rhythmic life of its own.
* * *
COUNTERPOINT
* * *
Rohan
Pippin watches the dance, follows the turns with his own heart, tries not to let it twist too much with every dip and slide of altered steps. It's changed a little, this particular dance, sways to a distorted tune, but still recognisable for all that.
Merry bows his head in grief, his lament for a father found then lost visceral and cutting deep to bone. He hands the lead to Frodo, who falters in his steps a little at first, slips on the downbeat, but takes up the rhythm quickly enough, understands now what is needed of him, expected of him. He winds an arm about Merry, soothes and comforts, and Pippin sees relief beneath all the pain, thinks some of the tears spilling from Merry's eyes are ones of gratitude as well as grief. There is no comfort so welcome as one old and familiar and Frodo caught the change in tempo quickly enough to give it to him.
Pippin is grateful as well but he isn't fooled. The pause was too long, the look in Frodo's eyes too wild and panicked before remembrance finally caught the beat and intimacy took up the dance. For a few unnerving moments, Frodo hadn't known what to do with Merry's sorrow, hadn't understood what Merry needed, and Pippin doubts either one of them really understands what's happening but Pippin does. And of all the sorrows his heart now holds, of all the laments he has whispered to himself in the deeps of the night when fire roars behind his eyes and foul awareness creeps remembered paths beneath his skin, this is the one his own soul sings most often. It's the end of something and this end is somehow so much worse than any he's witnessed in all his travels and losses. And moreso because Pippin knows that he's the only one who sees it.
He's been watching, perhaps too closely, for certainly he's seen much more than he'd wanted to. Merry pushes as he always has done because that's what Merry does, that's who Merry is. And Frodo pushes back because he can't seem to help himself, and maybe that's part of the reason he was right for his Task -- that fundamental inability to allow another all the way inside, that basic refusal to bend completely to another's will. Pippin has watched Merry bash himself against it all his life, has watched Frodo pushpushpush away, and Pippin wonders if either of them know that Merry only stops pushing back when Frodo stops pushing away, that Frodo only gives in when Merry has already given up.
That's when Merry walks away. Only for a while, only 'til they've both come 'round to accepting the existence of whatever new, small barrier they've added to what was already between them -- pebbles, really, never gathering enough bulk to make a difference in the end.
These, though -- these moments of not knowing, these flickers of the once-familiar turned strange -- these are wide and tall and Pippin watches his cousins find their way around them, watches them stumble over them, falter and stagger, then right themselves, carry on… and wonders how long they can keep up. How many slips before belief crumbles, how many missteps before faith is buried, how many times can one turn to the other, asking, and the answer returned only bewildered wish, before the keystones falter and both are crushed beneath the onslaught?
Pippin tore the veil of ignorance from his eyes too soon, he thinks, for his heart breaks for them even before the breaking comes. And he's afraid this time, as he's never been before, because it's different, he can see it, feel it, and he knows he stands to lose almost as much as they do when it comes as it must.
And all Pippin can do is watch, add his own voice to the dirge they don't even know yet they are singing.
* * *
Rivendell
Through the door and down the halls; Frodo walks faster than Merry's seen him move in months, a near-trot, in fact. His cheeks are high with colour, his eyes bright and gleaming. Merry's heart is light, his own face reflecting pleasant expectancy, and though he's exhausted and knows Frodo is, too, he keeps his pace even with Frodo's, reaches over and squeezes his elbow, and Frodo glances his way, smiles. Merry smiles back and stops at the door, waits while Frodo gives it a light, polite knock then, not waiting for an answer, turns the knob and steps into Bilbo's room…
Stops.
Merry hadn't realised until now how much hope he'd let rest on this reunion, how much he'd come to depend upon Bilbo to lift some of the burden from Frodo's shoulders and place it upon his own. A tender touch, perhaps, or just something so small as an understanding nod of the head, a request for a moment alone together, an invitation to speak of things only the two of them could understand.
Merry should have known better and now all of those feelings of betrayal on Frodo's behalf that he's harboured since that infamous Party so long ago, rear their heads in silent accusation, simmer beneath his skin as he watches Frodo's face fall, watches the desolation reclaim its hold. Bilbo has gone away once again and left his heir to deal with his legacy alone, and Merry is helpless to do anything but watch as Frodo slowly kneels at Bilbo's feet, rests his head to a bony knee and closes dry, suddenly-empty eyes. And Merry wills that gnarled hand to move itself from the arm of the chair, place itself to Frodo's hair, gentle the soul with a longed-for touch of understanding, empathy… knowledge. But that hand merely rests where its owner has placed it, the fingers twitching only slightly in unconcerned slumber.
He looks first to Pippin and then to Sam, though neither of them seem to understand the fullness of the moment, neither of them seem to hear the deafening crash of hope thudding hard at their feet. It's all that Merry can hear and he only stands there for a moment, listening to the silent lament, adding his own.
Frodo allows Merry to lead him to his room that night, silently and docilely accepts hands upon him, helping him from his travel-stained clothes, pulling back sheets, guiding his head to the pillow. Frodo closes his eyes, remains still as Merry climbs in beside him, remains pliant as Merry pulls him close.
They lay quietly for a while, watching the Moon through the bank of windows as it makes its way blithely across the jet of night. Frodo's back is curled close to Merry's chest. Merry stirs after a while, finds Frodo's hand and places it to the star at his breast. Frodo pulls his hand away but Merry is insistent, closes Frodo's fingers over the jewel and his own over Frodo's.
"The Lady Arwen gave it to me," Frodo says and his fingers outline its shape absently, his eyes falling into the facets of the jewel and wandering within to places Merry will never see. "Says it might help…" Frodo turns, stares at Merry but-- No. That isn't right. He stares through Merry, and Merry reaches out, touches his hand, tries to coax him back from wherever it is he's gone. Frodo's hand twitches at the contact and he blinks, shakes his head. "The memories," he says softly. "To help with the memories," and Merry doesn't know quite what that means but this magic he will try to trust.
He sighs, pulls Frodo closer and lays a kiss to his hair.
"It's all right," he whispers, though he knows it isn't, but the words can be magic, if he only says them enough, believes in them hard enough. "Stay."
"Yes," Frodo responds and his voice is small, hollow.
Merry sleeps but not well and he knows Frodo does, too, and perhaps too well. He sleeps long into the morning, is heavy and slow when finally roused, though he is more pleasant than Merry would have guessed, seems almost like himself, and Merry is suspicious, tries to pierce through this new wall Frodo has built around himself while he slept, but all he receives in response are soft smiles and vague conversation.
Merry retreats before Frodo has the chance to push him away, gives him room to make his way through yet more changes, but hovers close when he can. Frodo withdraws to Bilbo's rooms more often than not and Merry sometimes peers in from the vast hallway, watches Frodo watch Bilbo, and sometimes Frodo's gaze is soft and fond, other times bland and assessing, but always there is a well of something sad and regretful in his eyes. They are very quiet together and Merry sometimes hopes that he'll happen upon the conversation he knows Frodo hopes for, but Merry does his best not to eavesdrop.
He wanders the gardens, notes a certain dulling in the colours about him, a chill to the sunlight that falls on his shoulders. He thinks he should be surprised to find his steps tracing a path to the library, thinks he should be further surprised to find Glorfindel there, as though he's been waiting for him, but he isn't. It seems right somehow that Merry should revisit this place, righter still that this one welcomes him. There is much between them but neither of them speak it; a firm clasping of hands, a brief embrace, and it's really all they need to tell their tales. Merry has heard the stories of Rivendell's battles, of Glorfindel's defence of it beside his Lord, Elrond, and he has no doubt that Glorfindel has somehow Seen Merry's own, and he is grateful that there is another who understands, comforted that someone else owns this shared knowledge, and he grieves in his heart again for Frodo, who bides in his own grey limbo of solitary Knowing.
Glorfindel asks after Merry's friends, speaks of the Lady Arwen's sad farewell, and Merry tells him of the White Lady and her brother-King, proudly displays the horn of bone and silver filigree. Merry thinks to ask Glorfindel to finally tell him the tale of Arveleg and Eäreneth, to bring them to life once more, but decides they should have their peace.
It grows quiet between them and the afternoon has waxed long while they talked. Merry rises to take his leave, for he is impatient to check on Frodo, wants to make sure that Sam has been keeping an eye on him, though he knows, of course, that he has been. Glorfindel smiles warmly at him but Merry thinks he looks a little bit sad and he somehow understands it; it must be a terrible thing to watch those things you love fade to grey, to know that you must one day say goodbye to them, and all so that you can once again see colour and beauty.
Glorfindel gifts Merry a small book of plain brown leather binding, worn at the corners and soft as velvet. Old, perhaps even ancient, Merry thinks, and the leather oiled faithfully, he can tell, the pages slightly yellowed but supple when he turns them. Glorfindel tells him that he has carried it for years and only now understands why and Merry nods politely, his throat tight at the thought that he would be given something that is so obviously treasured. He tucks the small book into his breast-pocket, means to show it to Frodo, and perhaps they'll read it together as they used to often do, though Merry's taste for All Things Elvish has somewhat dulled of late, and Frodo's voice is hoarse now and gritty, not the smooth honey-tones it once was. Merry swallows, blinks a little and takes a long breath when Glorfindel's warm hand lands firmly on his shoulder, squeezes. He smiles, masters himself enough for proper thanks and takes his leave with a deep bow.
He remembers the book when he undresses for bed that night, slips it from his pocket. He looks from the soft leather in his hands to Frodo's face, eyes distant and weary as he watches the stars emerge from his seat by the window. Bed is the thing now, Merry decides, and sleep, so he stows the book safely in the bottom of his pack, coaxes Frodo from his seat and into the great bed where Frodo lets Merry wind about him, hold on.
"It's all right, you know," Merry whispers, though he's not sure why but it seems the thing to say. He closes his eyes, slips his fingers through Frodo's hair.
"Yes," Frodo answers after a while and Merry falls asleep waiting for Frodo to close his eyes.
It is days later when Bilbo asks about 'his ring' that Merry first sees a crack in that wall Frodo has raised about himself, watches pieces of it crumble in Frodo's eyes then quickly rebuild itself. And Merry supposes he has no right to be angry with Bilbo, no right to the fury that slithers warm and thick beneath his skin.
'Ask him to speak!' Merry wants to rage. 'Hear his tale, tell him he is not alone, for you're the only one who can!'
Merry almost says it out loud, almost allows his anger to take hold of his tongue when Bilbo asks Frodo to write the account for him.
No! You can't ask him to do this; this is your task and he needs to be done, needs to wash his hands of it, needs to finally step away from the burdens you thrust upon him so carelessly in the guise of Legacy, for these are the things that still take him away from me and…
Merry closes his eyes, clenches his teeth.
And I am losing my grip.
He wants to say it all, shout it all until his breath leaves him and his throat bleeds with the force of his rage. But he doesn't because he has no right; the Ring is even now revenging Itself upon Its burglar and with the groggy, slow-moving flow of a half-dream, Merry begins to wonder what further vengeance It might take upon the one who un-made It. He looks into Frodo's eyes, sees him even now mortaring up the fissures, layering stone upon stone of denial, and thinks maybe he already knows. And then he pushes it away, lets it spiral down to a place in his heart he will visit only in dreams and unwillingly at that, tells himself, 'It's all right, it's all right, it will all be all right, I will make it all right.'
And believes it.
* * *
Bruinen
A year ago, he stood in that dark dell and watched his master disappear before his eyes, heard his voice, limned with pain too deep to fathom, screaming into blackness, and then… silence. Sam watches his master closely as he finally prods his mount to wade into the Ford, watches him hunch in on himself, bow his head in a posture that brings the horror of it all back to Sam just that quickly.
Sam looks about him, sees his own fears, his own memories, reflected back at him in each set of eyes. Except Mr. Frodo's; he doesn't seem to see anyone at all, but Sam watches Mr. Merry pull him close when they stop to rest, sees Mr. Frodo lean into him, rest his head on his shoulder as they sit side-by-side near the fire. Mr. Merry murmurs steadily in Mr. Frodo's ear, coaxes soft answers from him until he closes his eyes and goes silent. Not sleeping, Sam can tell, just… done.
There's pain, Sam can tell that, too, and Mr. Frodo has closed himself within it. Mr. Merry knows it, too, for Sam can see that old, familiar determination flare to life behind his eyes, and Sam would've thought he'd learned by now but old habits and all that. Sam had seen this very thing happen too often on their journey and he knows that the best thing a person can do for Mr. Frodo now is to stay close but not push him, and Mr. Merry just wouldn't be Mr. Merry if he didn't push.
So he only watches as Mr. Frodo shuts them all out and Mr. Merry bashes himself against the walls he's thrown up, and he thinks to tell Mr. Merry that he'd do better to just wrap an extra blanket about Mr. Frodo and pull him close, maybe put a waterskin to his lips now and then and leave him be. And it's funny because while Sam's thinking all of this, Mr. Merry does. He closes his eyes, lays his cheek to the top of Frodo's head and just… holds him close -- stops his pushing.
Sam shakes his head at himself because yes, he's a bit of a busybody and especially when it comes to his master, and here he is, worrying over nothing. Mr. Merry knows what he's about, and now they fall back into the routines they'd established a year ago on that awful trek from Weathertop to Rivendell. Master Pippin goes about the business of boiling water and making tea and Sam finds himself scouring the brush for some good-sized stones for warming. The only thing different is Mr. Merry, who doesn't fret and snap and worry at Mr. Frodo and everyone else. He is just simply there, though every now and then Sam sees him shooting glances at Gandalf, and he can't tell if they are questions or accusations, but Gandalf answers to neither; just gazes into the fire and smokes his pipe. But occasionally, Sam sees him studying Frodo, a heavy sorrow in his eyes, and Mr. Merry sees it, too; he looks from the wizard to Sam, tilts his head, and when Sam shrugs, just as clueless, Mr. Merry actually glares at Gandalf, tightens his grip about Frodo until Frodo hisses a little, tries to pull away. Mr. Merry shushes him softly, stills and relaxes his grip, but he still eyes Gandalf warily every now and again. Gandalf meets the gaze steadily and there's a thick tension between the two.
Sam breaks it when the first of the stones is warmed through and wrapped, and he shooes Merry away to find them some supper. He remembers very well the story of the chicken and dumplings, but he supposes Mr. Merry can't bollocks up hunting and gathering at least, and Sam's sure Master Pippin will confiscate whatever he brings back before he can try to cook it anyways.
Master Pippin lays out his cousin's bedroll and he and Sam manoeuvre Frodo onto it with a bit of clumsy, groggy help from Frodo. He squints at Pippin, only now seems to notice him, asks, "Has he gone?"
And Sam's stomach clenches. Will that awful creature never stop haunting his master? He looks up at Gandalf, perhaps with a bit of his own accusation, but Gandalf has turned his eyes to the break in the thicket through which Merry had passed.
Pippin guides Frodo's head down onto his lap, strokes his hair. "Has who gone, love?"
Frodo doesn't answer, only closes his eyes, and Sam carefully places the wrapped stones against his arm then pulls the blanket up to his neck. Frodo smiles a little, whispers, "Hullo, Sam."
Sam and Pippin both share a smile then. "Sleep now, sir," Sam answers.
And Frodo does.
* * *
"Has who gone, love?" Pippin asks but he knows good and well who Frodo means and he wants to tell Frodo that he'll be back, he always comes back, and he's only gone off to hunt anyway, so no, he hasn't truly gone. But Frodo seems to have forgotten he'd even asked the question, so Pippin lets it go, watches Frodo give himself over to sleep, and he wonders if Frodo sees some of the same things in black dreams behind his eyes that Pippin does. Worse, probably, because yes, Pippin had looked Him in the Eye, but Frodo had been shown His soul and what sort of horrifying beauty must he have seen there? What must it have been to actually reach out and touch the very face of Evil? To know that He was made by your own Maker then unmade by your own hand and deeds? Had Frodo seen the same terrible magnificence within that Pippin had? Does he curse himself as Pippin does for seeing it at all? Does he wonder, as Pippin does, how he could look into all of that dark malevolence and still see the splendour within?
And does he wonder if he's damned because he did?
Pippin shudders a little and Frodo stirs, gives a small shiver of his own, and Pippin tightens his grip on his cousin's shoulder, smoothes his hand down and over his arm, tries to tell himself that the taint of his own folly has not somehow touched Frodo through Pippin's own broad hand. He pulls that hand back before he's even really thought about it, lets it drop to the ground -- loose before it curls into an unconscious fist.
He thinks of Merry, wonders if he has any idea at all what the two he loves best have seen, wonders if Merry even considers what any of it means. But Pippin thinks no, Merry couldn't and wouldn’t if he could, because he's hated the Ring for years, hated Its Master from the minute he learned how It was made, and all of it with the heat of the jealous lover that he is. And Pippin wonders what it must be like for Frodo, unable to tell the one who has always known everything about him that there is something within him now that no one can touch, something dark and ugly but with a beauty to it that he hates himself for seeing, for acknowledging, and yet can never acknowledge to the one who demands his truths from him. Unable to tell the one who knows him best that, for a small sliver of time that stretched into the Forever of an eyeblink, there was Another who knew him better -- who Saw him.
Pippin wonders if he should perhaps profess his own truths to Frodo, buy Frodo's confessions at the price of his own. But he knows Frodo and he knows those truths are locked up tight, hidden even from his own eyes and heart, and that speaking them aloud will do nothing but give them life once more when they should only stay entombed within the memory of the Age that's passed with the death of Evil. And Pippin looks forward to the day when he can finally -- finally -- find his own peace and dance upon that hateful grave. Perhaps then he will be able to hear what Frodo would tell.
If Frodo could ever bring himself to tell it.
For now, he can only stay close and listen for those things that don't call to the madness that lurks within Knowledge. And soothe away the nightmares of the two he loves best with his own tainted touch.
* * *
Weathertop
Old haunts, old ghosts, and Merry thinks he does rather well, truthfully. It takes him perhaps a moment longer than it should to gather the courage to look up, and when he does, he has to keep his mouth shut tight for fear of spilling babble as he watches Amon Sûl re-build itself behind his eyes. But he does not flinch from the sight, does not allow the fear to overtake him.
Night is falling and the air is heavy, rimy with the weight of coming rain. The wind picks up and it shivers its way through cloak and coat, slides over his skin and works its way to marrow. It should be frightening, it should turn his mouth dry and his heart cold, but he feels… peaceful. There are no ghosts here, not anymore.
He listens for Eäreneth but his mind is quiet. No whispers of a man long-gone, his sorrows and regrets living long past him. One soul, at least, at rest, finally, and Merry lets the images of Amon Sûl aflame against the canvas of weeping stars and blooded moon fade from his own reality and into the realm of another's memory. It's a final goodbye of sorts and Merry can smile a little at this one, can allow himself the small conceit that he has helped somehow to bring peace to at least one restless soul, and says a silent thanksgiving to the one who, thousands of years ago, bequeathed him the weapon with which he might claim that small victory.
Frodo won't look, turns his eyes to the ground and bows his head. He is small and frail-looking in his saddle, hunched over the pony's neck, closing himself in yet again, and Merry halts his own mount, waits for Frodo to catch him up. But Pippin is there first, pulling himself up alongside Frodo, and he chatters to him, reaches over and clasps Frodo's shoulder.
Frodo doesn't lift his head but he answers Pippin softly, so softly that Merry has no hope of hearing what he says, but Pippin makes sure that he doesn't really have to; he lifts his eyes to Merry's then turns to Sam and last to Gandalf, all the while keeping a firm hand on Frodo's shoulder. Merry thinks Pippin looks a little worried but aren’t they all and his voice is cheerful enough.
"Let's pick up our pace, shall we?" Pippin calls. "A fire and a drink sound good about now and I'd not like to get caught in that weather yonder."
No one disagrees. They take their pace to a trot but Merry lingers for a moment, waits for the others to pass him, and Pippin catches his eye as he and Frodo make their way by, a question in his glance. Merry gives him a small smile, takes one last look at the ruins of the tower and kicks his heels into his horse's barrel. He places his fist over his heart as he passes through the shadow of the hill and vows that he will one day return to the Barrow to pay proper last respects.
Frodo seems almost himself at the Pony but he dreams that night, curls himself to the very edge of the small bed he shares with Merry, and no amount of soothing touches or soft whispers will quell the flinches beneath Merry's hand. Frodo's hand has gone cold again and Merry chafes it, wonders if he might expect the same from himself when 15 Afterlithe approaches, but somehow he suspects not. His ghosts are quiet, at rest, while Frodo's…
Frodo's ghosts seem intent upon taking him with them into their own dark Void.
Merry's grip on Frodo's hand tightens reflexively at that thought and Frodo actually cries out this time, shudders in his sleep, yanks his hand away and gropes at his breast. Merry reaches out but a square brown hand is there, staying his own. He looks up into Sam's eyes, glimmering sharp in the murk of the night, and watches as Sam tenderly lifts Frodo's hand, guides it to the jewel lying splashed in starlight against the pillow and curls his fingers about it. Frodo sighs, stills, but the shivers still wrack through him, and Merry looks to Sam with naked appeal, though he doesn't really understand himself what he's asking for until Sam closes his eyes, nods a little and then just waits in his crouch beside his master.
Merry slowly pulls himself back, untangles himself from the linens and puts his feet on the floor, still not quite understanding, and a small, selfish part of his heart is yammering at him, telling him not to cede this, not to give this up, for it may be only the first of many. Merry ignores it, for it's not the first and it's right and he must and he stands up, stands away, and only watches as Sam takes the place beside Frodo that Merry has just vacated. Sam reaches for Frodo and Frodo does not pull away from this touch and Merry tells himself that he's glad of it as he watches the tension smooth away with each stroke of a broad hand to coiled muscle, tells himself that he loves him enough to let some parts of him go, hand them willingly to another, if that's what is best.
Merry turns himself slowly to Pippin, meets the sad sympathy in his eyes with calm assurance, moves to Sam's bed, climbs between the still-warm linens.
And believes it.
* * *
Home
The scent of blood has grown familiar, with its copper-tinged tang, and Merry breathes it in, lets it mingle with the rage that roils through him, lets it take him into its ruby-red arms as he blanks his mind, deals out death and revels in ruthless justice. He is willingly seduced by the siren-call of steel-to-bone as his sword sings above the cries of cowards.
His home - his home! Filthy hands and blackened hearts and now they'll reap what they've sown with such wanton abandon, and Merry smiles as he calls his commands, bares his teeth as Pippin's voice rings clear and cold, confident and almost regal above the din, calling his own. Sam rides ahead with sword drawn, hacking his way through men who make feeble grabs for him, lopping hands and heads as he goes with no discretion, for his eyes are fixed, blazing, and Merry turns, looks to where Sam is heading, and his heart goes still.
The lines have been drawn between Hobbit and Man, and Frodo rides between them, calling for a laying-down of weapons on both sides, staying the hands of hobbits with eyes full of vengeance, staring down the men who would think to defy him. The men are weapon-less but their hands curl into fists nonetheless, angry defiance in their stupid faces, and the hobbits call to them, dare them to give it a go, and all the while, Frodo tries with steady voice and commanding tone to quell the anger, to stay the foolish rebellion it provokes.
One man has moved to the fore, saunters slowly along the line of men, and though he is no more remarkable than the rest, he is notable for the purpose with which he moves. This man does not draw back from the weapons wielded by his foes, nor does he join the ranks of those already cowed. He paces slowly, carefully and with calm assurance, and with each step his booted feet take, he draws closer to Frodo.
It's the smile that makes Merry's blood run cold then churn hot and fast as his eyes move too late to the burnished steel glinting in the man's hand. A shiv, perhaps, or the head of a hatchet, he can't tell for sure, and he reins the horse aside too fast, has to take hold of the mane and clamp his thighs tight to hold on as he urges it around and forward.
"Hai!" he screams and kicks his heels, barrels through the chaos, trampling bodies red and sticky with blood and already thick with flies as he goes. His sword is swinging above his head, his other hand slapping the reins into the horse's neck, one side then the other, and he wills Frodo to draw his own sword, turn around, just turn around! He hears nothing but the thump of hoofs to hard-packed dirt and Frodo's voice, "No more!" and then Frodo turns, looks at Merry and halts. All Merry can see is the surprise in those eyes and then a sort of bewildered horror. Some part of him wonders abstractly what sort of picture he must make, what Frodo sees coming at him to make him look like that, then his eyes are dazzled by a flash of sun from steel flaring over Frodo's cheekbone.
Blood spurts over Frodo's sleeve and there is a liquid cry; Frodo's pony shies to the side and away and Merry tears his eyes from Frodo's, turns them to the man who would be his assassin. The man is screaming, clutching the ragged stump where a hand was only a moment ago. Sam's sword drips and he swipes it against the man's coat, spits then draws his leg back and kicks the man into the dirt. Frodo places himself between the man and Sam, lays a firm hand to Sam's own, and Sam, without so much as a question in his eyes, obeys his master's silent command, lowers his sword. The man is still snarling, curses Sam, "I'll see you lynched for that, little rat-bastard!" then scrabbles at the blade lying dull and grey in the dirt -- the broken tip of a scythe, Merry can now see -- and grasps it in his blood-slicked grip. The man kneels, draws his arm back, murder in his dull, hate-filled eyes and Sam…
Sam isn't looking, isn’t watching. Sam has eyes only for Frodo.
Merry can't move fast enough; it isn't time that slows and falters but Merry himself. The air around him grows thick and still and he's only yards away, his mount frothing with the exertion and Merry's kicks and slaps and shouts to go, run, move faster! but too far, he's too far, and the world has fallen into the slow-moving slide of one who moves through heavy, wet gauze.
Not like this, not now, give me wings…
He is somewhere outside himself as he watches the hand lift the blade, send it flying in a wobbling trajectory, and Frodo is turned away again, turned to Sam, doesn't know, doesn't understand. For all of Frodo's wisdom and courage, he is no warrior, and 'watch your back' means no more to him than 'don't read in the dark'. He can't feel it coming, turns too late, and Merry's racing the devil, screaming, "Down! Get down!" and it's Moria all over again: Merry watching helplessly as grey steel, dulled with blood, hurtles towards Frodo's chest. It's meant for Sam, Merry knows, the man's aim not quite what it might have been had Sam not severed the good hand, and for one shameful split-second of despair, Merry wills the blade to its intended target.
Not like this, not now, not him, anyone but him…
Magic, Merry thinks as he watches the blade thunk against Frodo's chest then bounce back, glance the pony's haunch and fall to the dirt with no more significance than discarded refuse. The coat! Merry thinks hysterically. The mithril! Frodo's face is almost comically bewildered for a quick second and then surprised as the pony snorts, squeals then jerks out from under him. Sam makes a grab for the reins, seizes the pony before it can bolt, but he's too late to help Frodo; the pony rears up and throws him to his back in the dirt beside the man.
Merry leaps from his own mount, vaults the last few paces, sword raised and hate flowing hot and red through his veins. He plants his feet to either side of the prone man's ribs, grips his sword with both hands, bares his teeth.
"How ironic for you," he snarls as he lifts his sword yet higher, "that you meet your end at the hands of a 'little rat-bastard', you sick, filthy--"
"Merry."
Frodo's voice. Merry checks the downward stroke but doesn't turn, keeps his eyes on the man, stares into eyes too stupid and filled with spite to understand all of the damage his hands have done. The man jerks his eyes to the side, to Frodo, then looks back at Merry and… smirks.
Laughing! All of this and he's laughing!
Fury flares fierce and hot behind Merry's eyes and he doesn't even realise that he's moved until firm hands are gripping his forearms, preventing the final descending arc of the sword. He tears his eyes from the man on the ground, turns them to Frodo. Frodo looks as though he is seeing a stranger and doesn't quite know what to make of what he sees.
"No," Frodo says and his voice is soft but very clear. "Enough. This isn't who we are."
Merry realises he's shaking and some of the rage that moves through him suddenly flares in Frodo's direction before he even understands what he's feeling.
What if it's who I am?
The world -- his world -- dips and tilts, screeches to a halt on its axis then turns itself upside-down. He allows Frodo to guide his arms to his sides, just stands there, staring into eyes he doesn't understand now anymore than he does the man on the ground at his feet. Frodo bodily moves Merry from his stance over the man (pig! dog! evil, wretched son of a bitch!) and Merry's sword-hand curls tight about the hilt when he hears the man snigger.
This is my home -- your home -- and they've spoiled it, ruined it! Him! He has done this; him and any like him, and they laugh! He is everything I've fought against -- for myself, for you -- and this is who I am!
Watches as Frodo reaches into his saddlebag, extracts a shirt and proceeds to tear it into strips. Merry is stunned, staggered, because Frodo can't possibly be thinking to--
But he does: Frodo kneels beside the man and begins to bind the stump. The man snarls some more, swipes at him, spits at him, and only stills when Sam lays the point of his own sword to the man's throat.
Merry can only stare, watch blankly as the fine-spun Gondorian weave is twined about the hateful man's wound, knows this same man would walk past Frodo, laughing, if the tables were turned and spare not so much as a strip of his own filthy shirt. Mercy, pity, kindness, and these are the things he's always loved so about Frodo, but this is not the place for them, and two years ago, Frodo would have thought so, too. Merry watches Frodo's hands work at the dressing, his eyes fixed on the stump of the missing finger, and he wonders exactly how much of Frodo went into the Fire with the Ring. And Merry remembers the look in Frodo's eyes as he'd stayed Merry's blow, refuses to feel the shame that look might have brought to one who had not seen the small evils in which men like this revel .
This is who I am, so tell me, Frodo: what am I now to you?
Merry can't watch anymore and there are other things to attend to, other men to drive out, other hobbits to command, so he turns, re-mounts and plunges back into the thick of the battle. His sword remains in his hand and even as he reaches the flanks of the Tooks, it begins to sing again, and he lets its song gather him in, lets the blood-hot comfort of it take his mind and his heart, and he takes his vengeance where he wills.
And as Merry's sword sweeps through tendon and bone, as his song rises in blood-red harmony to the lament of his home, he tells himself that this is who Frodo was before he ever even left home, this is what he would have done had there never been a Ring or a Dark Lord, and his own assumptions -- that Frodo would draw sword on any who dared to defile his home -- were merely his own imaginings reflected upon another. Much changed but not this changed -- not Frodo, not Merry.
Merry tells himself that he did not see disappointment in Frodo's eyes; that he did not feel the same in his own heart…
And believes it.
* * *
Merry watches Frodo walk through darkened tunnels, wonders if his heart bleeds as freely as Merry's own, and he has to wonder because he doesn't know, can't tell. Those flat, dead eyes are back and Merry has always been able to read Frodo but not this one. He doesn't know this person who wanders Bag End like a ghost, just as ruined as the rooms and halls he now haunts. These eyes won't let him in, won't look back, won't let him see, and Merry hasn't the strength, hasn't the heart to push back against the pushing away.
Again a murderer had tried to strike and again Frodo had stayed the hand that would avenge him. And yes, so many things for which Merry may one day burn, but the cold, satisfied joy he felt when Wormtongue's blade hit its mark is one thing for which he will accept that punishment and gladly so. Merry had watched the mist rise from filthy, tattered robes, even now hears that last curse echo through his head, "You shall have neither." And feels again the grim deliverance of justice done, feels again the confused anger at Frodo's lament.
Merry tells himself that he has heard these threats and curses before -- they mean nothing -- but still the echo of them won't die, won't fade, and Merry wonders how it is that Frodo feels no anger, how he could look upon the one who wrought such devastation upon his people and his home, and hand out forgiveness as though it was deserved, even as those curses still rang in his ears. And for the first time in forever, Merry can't bring himself to see the wisdom in Frodo's heart, can't admire the gentle nature that guides it, won't feel the shame he knows his own lust for vengeance should bring. For the first time in forever, he does not wish to live up to the standards he knows Frodo would never thrust upon him but which he has tried all his life to meet.
Frodo pulls his eyes away from the filth and desolation that was once his home, turns them to Merry's, seeking comfort, perhaps, assurance, empty though it may be, and Merry tries to give it, tries to push the hardness from his face, wants to say yet again, "It's all right, it will be all right," and he wants to mean it, prove it. But Frodo sees something in Merry's eyes that he doesn't recognise -- Merry can see him not understanding.
What do you see? those eyes ask him and Merry has no answer this time. You and yet not you and more and less and I don't know who you are anymore, can only see what you'll show me and can't see past what you won't and I… I don't… know!
Rarely can one point to a single moment and say, 'That's it right there - that's where it ended,' but Merry knows that right here, right this moment, as Frodo makes his slow way over to him, his eyes blank and empty as he leans up and kisses Merry, cool and soft upon his cheek, that something between them is over. He doesn't know this Frodo and Frodo no longer knows him. Their hearts no longer whisper to each other, the music their songs made between them has stilled. He has fought against this moment for so long, has feared it for half his life, and now that it's here, now that he's living it, he can't feel anything but numb grief at its passing.
The greater part of him refuses to accept it and he tells himself that it's yet another thing he will fix, another thing he will make all right, and he digs down deep into his soul, tries to call the magic back, searches for his faith, and it's there, he knows it's there, and that's perhaps the most maddening part of it all. He can fix this, he can make it better, just…
Just not right now.
Walk away now, don't say a word, or you will write 'The End' and you won't be able to undo it. You have done this before, it's what you're good at: walk away, let it sit, gather yourself then make him face you, make him give you a look at his heart, show him yours, and then… make it better. You have done it for years and it's different now, yes, but it will never be so changed as to be beyond saving, never!
You needn't let go. You only need to walk away for a little while and then you'll come back and you will fix this.
"Will you stay at the Cottons' tonight?" Frodo asks quietly, his voice steady, as though the world has not just crumbled about them both and left them choking on its dust. Frodo won't lift his eyes, won't look at Merry, only stands close enough that Merry can feel his breath on his throat. Frodo lifts his hand, makes an abortive reach towards Merry's arm then stops and lets his hand sink slowly to his side. And waits.
Merry only now notices Sam, standing back in the shadows, watching them, wonders how long he's been there and decides it doesn't matter. Sam's eyes are burning into Merry's, full of anger and reproach, and that's nothing new, is it? Merry turns his eyes away, closes them. Too much, too many feelings pummelling him from every angle and all at once, and he can't be expected to deal with Sam's besides. He rests his cheek to the top of Frodo's head, and it's so odd, this, towering over Frodo in this way, and it seems wrong in a way it hadn't before.
Merry swallows, takes a shaky breath and absently notes that his eyes are hot with tears. "Yes," he answers gruffly. "One more night, I think."
They lay together in their borrowed bed, neither sleeping but both pretending they do. Frodo curls into Merry's back, limbs tangled in a pattern their bodies have slipped themselves into too many times to count; Merry only now notices that they don't seem to fit quite so well anymore, the shapes of their puzzle pieces changed, grown and shrunk and distorted somewhat, but there is some comfort in it, some warmth. Merry allows it to harden the faith he can't seem to let go of, tells himself that things have only changed a little and they only need time to make their own changes, time to fit their new patterns into the weave of the old. He will go home, set things to rights there, and then he will come back, and they will have their row, make their apologies and it will be all right, everything will be all right. Merry tells himself these things as he watches the stars cede to the dawn.
And… almost believes it.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
Sam watches the first molten crescent of the Sun over distant mountains bend then break the shoulders of Night and its backbone of stars. And ponders.
Not the same and he hadn't expected it to be. He isn't the same; he can feel that deep down in his guts, though he can't say exactly how he is different. It's easy to pick out the things changed in others and he supposes it's only natural that his own changes would be more difficult for his eyes to see.
Perhaps, had he come back to a land unspoiled, untouched by the darkness he'd thought done and left for good, perhaps then he could have slipped himself back into the Sam he'd been and been none the worse for it. The Sam he'd been would have been just as shocked as his father was at the armour and dress that screamed his changes more to the world than to himself. He hadn't really noticed it until those around him did.
Now he examines himself in the mirror of his mind and understands that the Sam he was simply no longer exists, and there is a small note of mourning that rings through him at this. There is also a larger note of triumph and some bit of pride, though, and he lets those things out-sing the other. He has done what he'd set out to do, has seen his master through Shadow and back, and what's left now is to cast the smaller shadow that crept over their land while they were away back into the light, fix what got broke. It will be hard and it makes him sad, all of the senseless cruelty and spiteful destruction, but it can be done and he will see to it. This isn't what his master should have had to come home to, and his hands fist tight as the fury takes him once more. All of what Mr. Frodo had done, he'd done for his home, and for it to have turned out like this…
Tears burn hot behind his eyes and he blinks them away.
He'd never seen someone hang on the way his master did, never knew a person could have that in him. And he'd done it all out of love -- for his country, his kin, even for Sam himself -- and even at times when he couldn't even remember the faces of those he loved…
Sam closes his eyes, clenches his teeth.
Even when he couldn't call up the smallest remembrance of kin and home to comfort him through the heavy hands of the Ring upon him, the love for things he couldn't even remember anymore had kept him moving -- crawling when he couldn't walk no more.
He shouldn't have had to come home to this, not this, and it isn't fair! Elves, Men, Dwarves -- where were they, while Frodo had dragged himself through pain and death beneath a Burden they wouldn't even dare touch, and all because they were afraid, them as had started it all in the first place. And so worried about themselves and their own homes, they'd gone and left bare and unprotected the home of the one who stood alone before their worst Enemy, left it at the mercy of those who would see His work done, even after He'd been cast to the Void where He belonged. And where were they now? Why -- in all of the battles, all of the death, all of the defences of Good and Right -- why was Mr. Frodo and his Shire the only ones left with no champion?
Angry, yes, and bitterly so, and he can't help it, doesn't want to help it, and he's not the only one, either. Mr. Merry's eyes hold the same bright fury Sam feels in his own bones, and Master Pippin… Oh, Sam's heart had never been so close to bursting right out of his chest as when Master Pippin had drawn sword on that slimy man, snapping his fingers in Mr. Frodo's face when he should have been kissing his feet that there was still a world to be lived in.
Anger, rage, vengeance -- all of these things he sees in the eyes of Mr. Merry and Master Pippin, and he supposes anyone who might look hard enough will see the same in his own. They won't find them in Mr. Frodo's, though, and Sam supposes that's only to be expected and probably a better way anyhow. No doubt the countless men whose lives he'd saved in the Battle would never thank him for it, but the worst part of it is that the hobbits haven't any inclination either. Already, Sam has heard grumblings about how Mr. Frodo's sword had remained securely sheathed throughout it all and he hadn't raised his weapon once in defence of the home he'd 'abandoned', and it's enough to make Sam see red and gnash his teeth in fury. How can they not know?
Then again, how can he expect them to when someone so close as Mr. Merry doesn't even seem to understand it? And he'd been there, he'd seen…
He'll be on his way, Sam thinks and has to swallow against the hard lump in his throat. Sam knows the pattern just as well as Mr. Merry and Mr. Frodo themselves, and it's never really been any of his business, but that's never stopped him from knowing. It would be hard not to know, for they both wear their hearts all over their faces, and he'd have to have been daft as well as blind to have missed it over the years. Love each other madly, aye, they do, and he'd have to be blind not to see that as well, though he'd tried so hard not to see it way back when he'd thought to covet what Mr. Merry had for his own. And Sam doesn't know if it's because of that love or despite it, but they manage to hurt each other with it all too often. And he won't say they use it against each other, but he will say that they try too hard to use it for each other, and sometimes the trying ends up hurting the worst.
Mr. Frodo is trying so hard to be something he just isn't anymore, and Mr. Merry is trying so hard to find him, and neither of them can see the other for the trying. And it breaks Sam's heart, it does, because old habits, as they say, die very, very hard, and Mr. Merry is a creature of habit; he will walk away and Mr. Frodo won't try and stop him, and he needs Mr. Merry right now, needs all the love and comfort and familiarity he can get. Sam will work on the familiarity part because he plans to get right to work on erasing the destruction and making this Home again, oh yes, he does, you betcha and don't you doubt it. And Sam loves Mr. Frodo true, don't doubt that, either. But there's love and then there's Love and while Sam has both within him and all of it for his master, Mr. Frodo doesn't need it from him, and it took him years to learn it but he learned it well and good.
Mr. Merry will walk away because that's the only way he's managed to hang onto Mr. Frodo all these years, though he doubts Mr. Merry knows it. And he'll come back, surely -- he always does -- but that won't help now!
Sam feels for the riverhobbit, he really does, and he's come to love Mr. Merry in a way he'd never have believed a year ago. It is possible, Sam has come to learn, to love another for the simple fact that they love the one you love most and Merry loves fiercely, Sam knows that, wouldn't ever try and deny it. And sometimes he ends up stepping all over Mr. Frodo's heart because of it, and more than once Sam has wanted to wring his fool neck; but it's always because of that Love they have between them, and the desire to keep it, but even moreso the desire to protect the one he loves, and Sam won't ever be able to find it in his heart to really fault him for it. Mr. Merry would have stepped in front of any danger for Mr. Frodo -- would do it still -- and Sam knows how that is, after all, and perhaps he'd not gone about it in the smartest of ways his own self a time or two, so how can he place blame on another? And he knows that Mr. Merry will leave now, and he'll leave because he thinks it's the only way to help, the only way to hold on, and why not? It's always worked before, even when Sam might have wished it didn't.
But it ain't the way to go, now, Sam can feel it, felt it last night when he'd stood in the ruin of Bag End and watched Mr. Merry not knowing what Mr. Frodo needed of him. And Sam knew, he knew right then and there, that Mr. Merry would too soon be on his way, and it made him furious -- still makes him furious.
Suck it up! he'd wanted to shout. Worry about your own self later; just tell him what he needs to hear, show him what he needs to see, pretend if you don't know and he'll forgive you for it later, you know he will. Just don't go, not now, don't leave him in this pit of sorrow, even if he says he wants you to. Can't you see he's lost everything? The one thing he'd left to save, the one hope he had left, and it's gone, ruined, and how can you not know, how can you stand there and look at him and not know? He needs you to stay, needs you to understand and you can't let him lose this, too!
Come together, argue, fight, walk away and come together again; he's watched it for years and it's lasted for years because it's the only way it could. But the walking away is different this time and Sam knows he can't allow it. Mr. Merry doesn't understand and Sam doesn't understand it completely himself, but it's different this time, and it's none of his business, never has been, but Mr. Frodo is his business. Sam can't allow it and will stop it in the only way he knows will work. For Mr. Merry is a creature of habit.
Sam knocks out the dead ash from his pipe against the step, pulls his weed from his breast-pocket and slowly goes about refilling the bowl. And he waits.
* * *
Merry rises with the first light, Frodo still and quiet beneath the thick patched quilt, and maybe he's asleep but Merry doesn't think so. He doesn't test it, though, simply dresses quickly, the chill of the morning air pricking gooseflesh over his skin. A quick wash from the bowl in the corner and Merry tosses together the few belongings he'd removed last night, stows them in his pack and hitches it over his shoulder.
He stands at the door, hand on the knob, and watches the sun spread warm amber-red over Frodo's face, sees it pull burnished umber from thick sable, shot with silver.
'Stars save me but he is beautiful,' Merry thinks, as he always has done, 'and oh, I do love him so.'
And he's different now, with his White song always humming just below the surface, but Merry has always seen past all that, seen Frodo, and he is just as beautiful as Merry has always thought him. But the White has swallowed everything else, everything Merry knew before, and he withdraws his own song of reds and golds, stops bashing his colours against the White, pulls away before he taints it and twists it. His throat is burning again, and his heart hurts, and he wants to cross the room, wants to slip his fingers into that hair, soothe whatever hurts he's caused with firm hands, and he knows he's caused hurt but he's still not sure what or how -- only that he has hurt and has been hurt -- and there are too many things to figure out, too many feelings and beliefs and lies and truths to work through right now.
And so, though his hands are empty with their need to touch and soothe and brush away hurts, he keeps one on the doorknob, the other snugged to the strap of his pack at his shoulder, and only looks. One touch and he'll stay, and Frodo might even ask him to, and it will be all right for a little while but only that long. A day or two, perhaps, before all of what they are not saying to each other will roil to the surface and then there will be no turning back. Best to retreat for now, rebuild himself, strengthen his own dams, figure out his own griefs before tackling Frodo's.
He is walking away, yes, but he will be back, and he thinks to say so aloud, for he knows Frodo doesn't sleep; he can see it in the straight slope of a shoulder, in the brow slightly creased, and Merry wonders if Frodo is holding back tears as well. He finds he doesn't really want to know, so he turns, quietly opens the door and slips through it.
It's early and the house is mostly quiet, save for a feminine voice humming alone in the kitchen. Merry doesn't think he will make it through the pretence of polite pleasantries this morning, so he steals past and out the front door, breathing deeply of the moist morning air as he steps out onto the porch.
He is not surprised to find Sam sitting on the steps, smoking his pipe and watching the Sun come up. Another time and Merry might have wondered if Sam had been waiting for him, but now he doesn't have to, for he knows the answer.
"I'm leaving," Merry tells him softly.
"Aye, I know it," Sam answers and doesn't turn, only takes a long pull on the pipe and lets the smoke billow in a slow exhale.
Merry descends the steps and still Sam doesn't look at him, keeps his eyes on the rising Sun. His jaw is set hard and his eyes flash with the slow-building muted-crimson of the coming day.
"You'll…" Merry stops, swallows, and he will not weep, he will not break now. Sometimes the letting go is less painful for those we love than the holding on and Merry believes that -- didn't believe it when the words had been spoken softly to him on the Walls of the White City, but he believes them now, and they were a cruel lesson to learn but he has learned it, and he knows that what he is doing is right. In a lot of ways he has been letting go for years and it's always been the only way to hold on. He can't expect Sam to understand; knowing it himself will have to be enough. "Sam, you'll--"
"Oh, I'll look after him, never you worry," Sam tells him and his tone is harsh, his words sharp and heavy with reproach. Sam finally turns to him, looks Merry in the eye, and his own eyes are bright with fury and unrestrained damning rebuke. "I'll see to all of Mr. Frodo's needs." He leans in, narrows his eyes. "All of them," he repeats. "Sir."
The last said with something approaching a sneer, and Merry knows full well what Sam means, knows clearly and without question the implications and… He peers long and hard at Sam and Sam glares back at him, and Merry finds that he almost -- almost -- hopes it's so. Sam is always and ever will be a source of comfort for Frodo and if what Merry has to offer right now can't be what Frodo needs, if walking away is the only thing that might help right now, Merry is frankly shocked to realise that he hopes Frodo will accept that comfort from Sam, and for the first time, it occurs to Merry to hope they'd perhaps found that comfort in each other along their dark journey.
Merry nods slowly and Sam blinks in surprise, narrows his eyes further, but Merry only hitches his pack up higher on his shoulder, says, "You're a good friend, Sam," and walks away.
* * *
Sam watches Mr. Merry slowly make his way across the yard, head bent, shoulders rounded. Sam squints into the rising sun, burns holes into Merry's back with his eyes. Turn around, don't you do this, not now! But Merry only hesitates for the smallest of moments when he reaches the gate then he unlatches it, swings it open and steps through. He spares no glance to Sam; he straightens his shoulders, lifts his chin then simply turns to latch the gate and… walks away.
Sam's heart is racing, his blood thrumming hot and painful against his temples. His hand clenches around the bowl of the pipe and it's all he can do not to stand, throw it to the flagstone of the walk just to watch it shatter, just to hear the sharp report of clay striking stone in the quiet of the day's beginning. Instead he loosens his grip on the pipe, props his elbow to his knee and lays his head in his palm.
"What," says a soft voice behind him, "was that all about?"
Sam only shakes his head, scrubs at his face then turns slowly to Master Pippin, obviously just up from bed, his hair still in corkscrews, shirt un-tucked and bracers hanging about his hips. His eyes are hard, cold as the jewels whose colour they so mirror, and he stands stiff and tall in the doorway, arms crossed over his chest.
Had Sam teased him once? Joked about how he'd brought down a troll with only his wit? Not entirely out of the question, not with this one, but Sam now understands that anyone faced opposite this one in battle, on the receiving end of that flinty stare, might find himself trembling beneath it. Fearsome, is Peregrin Took, and most especially when protecting one or more of those he holds dear. And Sam knows that any friendship they may have forged together, any camaraderie instilled in them through battles and journeys and standing shoulder-to-shoulder against Evil and evil, now stands fragile as sugared glass between them.
He knows what it looked like, what it sounded like. And he knows that things change, people change, but he still knows what side Master Pippin will come down on if it comes to a choice between Sam and his cousins.
Sam had made his play and it hadn't worked, and he supposes Master Pip is entitled to an explanation. So, he squares his shoulders, tells the truth.
"I didn't want him to leave."
Master Pippin lifts an eyebrow, those eyes just as hard and dark. "And you thought… what?" he says, low and even. "That threatening to bed your master would--"
"I didn't--" Sam stops, clenches his teeth. He closes his eyes, takes a long breath. "Yes," he answers after a moment, lifts his chin, looks Master Pippin in the eye. "I thought it would make him stay. It was the only thing I could think of that would."
Pippin looks him over, deep and thorough, then turns his eyes to the gate where Merry passed only a moment or two before. He draws in a deep breath, lets it out slowly then bows his head, looks at his feet.
"I'm sorry it didn't," he says softly then lifts his gaze to Sam, and now Sam sees his eyes glitter in the light of the sun. "It was a good try."
So many times, has Sam wondered at the resemblance between Master Pippin and his elder cousin, and now he has to wonder if that resemblance is not only in appearance, but in other things as well; now Sam watches -- actually watches -- the change as Peregrin Took gives way to Pippin once again, and it looks too much like Frodo shutting himself away. But where Frodo hides behind cool indifference, it seems Pippin does so behind a smile: Pippin shakes himself, pushes that small smile to his face and shoves his hands into his pockets.
"Frodo has asked me to accompany him to the lockholes this morning and we might need the presence of a fellow do-gooder. Are you game?"
Sam blinks a little, swallows the inexplicable lump that has suddenly formed in his throat, and he'd like to play along with Master Pippin, but he's never been very quick with pretence. "Mr. Frodo's up?" he asks.
Pippin's smile disappears and he nods slowly. "Aye," is all he says.
"Then…" Sam pauses and his eyes drift back again to the gate and the empty flagstone path. "Then he--"
"He knows," Pippin answers. He is quiet for a moment then: "He knew last night. Maybe before that." He shrugs, peers into the sun. "Who can tell with Frodo?" he furthers more softly. "Sometimes I think he knows everything there is to know and sometimes I think he hasn't a thought in his head." His jaw tightens and he shakes his head, chuffs out a bitter little laugh. "Always so sure about what everyone else needs, that one, and not a single clue or care as to what he--"
He stops, clenches his teeth, looks down. Sam can see that his hands are balled into fists in his pockets.
"This is what they do, Sam," he finally murmurs. "It's neither and both and any blame there may be is shared in equal measure between them. It's just…" He shakes his head again, looks at Sam, and his eyes have lost every bit of hardness they held before; now they're only sad and weary. "It's just that it's difficult to watch sometimes."
Sam only knocks out his pipe again, stands from his seat on the porch steps, stretches. It is difficult to watch and it is what they do, moreso now than ever before. But now Sam has managed to gain back a bit of his equilibrium and somehow all he wants is to help Master Pippin pretend for a moment that everything is just fine; he decides it's time for Sam and Pippin to do what they do.
"Well, then," he says and pulls on a smile, turns to Pippin with it, "I suppose we'd best see to him, aye?"
"Mm," Pippin answers and gives his own smile, throws his arm about Sam's shoulders and leads him to the door. "What does a proper gentlehobbit wear for a morning at the lockholes, do you think?" he wants to know.
"Well, Master Pip," Sam answers soberly, "the likes o' you ain't been proper for a good long time, so I'd say that as long as you show up wearing anything a'tall, you'll be just fine."
Pippin lifts his eyebrows then, tilts his head. "Ah, good," he retorts. "I'll just wear a hat then and not bother with the rest."
Sam stops at the threshold. "Well," he smirks, "I hear a knight is naked without his sword."
"Right then," Pippin replies and pushes Sam through the door. "A hat and a sword. You go break the dress-code to Frodo and I'll just go…" he waggles his eyebrows, "polish my sword."
Sam snorts, rolls his eyes and heads up the hall in search of his master.
* * *
Pippin waits until Sam has disappeared around the corner and then he turns, makes his way from porch to path to barn. Jolly and Nibs are busy with the milking and collecting eggs for breakfast; they pause only briefly when they notice Pippin in the doorway, nod politely then dart their eyes over to Merry. Merry is in a world of his own -- still securing the tack to his horse, his broad back angled to the door and his shoulders rounded, his head bent and his brow furrowed in concentration Pippin knows he doesn't really need for a task his hands know better than his head does.
Pippin wants to shout at Merry, wants to make threats, wants to taunt him with the same things Sam did, make him stay for once and don’t walk away, please, I need this almost as much as the both of you do. But one does not throw his own two-bits between Frodo and Merry; one stands back, watches and waits, until one or both comes to his senses and makes his own approach. One stands firm between them and does not sway with one wind or the other -- simply waits with what comfort he can give to whomever might ask it of him and keeps his judgements to himself.
Yes, there had been Rivendell, and he'd maybe taken advantage of other opportunities in the past when simply spilling a truth or two at a chance moment had helped or hastened a reconciliation. But these are not Pippin's truths to spill and he's not quite sure what truths there really are or to whom they belong in the first place, and the only thing worse than watching them break each other would be trying to fix it all and getting it wrong.
Oh, and yes, it's hard, and sometimes he just wants to clout them both upside their stubborn heads and knock some sense into them, because it isn't only them that they hurt, and he often wonders if that's ever occurred to either of them. Three becomes One and One and One, or sometimes Two and One, but it never feels right and it's never the same until they are Three again. How many times has Pippin been made lonely -- made One -- by their solitude?
He puts it away because no, he doesn't step between them, keeps his two-bits in his pocket, because he loves them both more than himself and won't be made to choose between them. And they both need him in their own ways, but right now he is not just Pippin, little cousin to Frodo and Merry -- now he is Peregrin Took, son of the Thain, Knight of the Citadel and Messenger to the King, and he has duties right here from which he cannot walk away.
"Merry," he says quietly, just loud enough to make his presence known.
Merry's hands pause only for a moment and his head dips briefly, but he doesn't turn, only keeps working the leather and buckles, securing the saddle. Nibs and Jolly shoot each other subtle glances then gather up their buckets and bounty. They make their quiet way past Merry, over the straw-strewn boards of the floor and then out the door past Pippin, pausing only briefly to give another polite tip of the head. Merry waits until they're gone.
"I don't want to talk about it," is all he says and his voice is thick but doesn't shake.
Pippin nods to himself, for Merry won't turn, won’t look at him, and Pippin's not sure he wants to know why. "You don't have to," Pippin answers and tries to put all of his love in his voice, tries to comfort just the smallest bit. "I'll be to Buckland soon," he furthers. "Watch yourself on the Road, will you? You don't know who might be lurking still."
Merry only takes hold of the saddle's horn, leans against his horse's barrel. His head drops in the slightest of nods. "Thank you," he says. "I will. See you…" A shrug. "I'll see you when you get to Buckland."
Pippin has nothing else to say -- there is nothing to say -- and though Merry still hasn't faced him, Pippin nods his acknowledgement, turns and makes his way back to the house. He is halfway up the path when he hears the clip-clop of hoofs on the packed dirt of the yard, hears Merry hum, slow and melancholy, then the humming turns to song, soft and deep on the still morning air.
Across the valley, O’er the river wild, I seek now e’re in vain. Winter’s frost Stealing breath and mem’ry Leaving naught but pain.
And for some reason the loved song rips sharp through Pippin's heart and he wishes the air weren't so still and clear, wishes Merry's voice didn't carry so easily upon it. Pippin picks his pace up to a trot and then a run until he reaches the back door, flings it open and hurls himself into the safety of silence.
* * *
|
And he watches helplessly while the devastation around them
swallows Frodo whole; his eyes burn bright with sorrow for but a moment and then
they cloud, dull and then go… empty.