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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement XII - Deceptive Cadence AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG-13 SUMMARY: Reality has its way with Merry ILLUSTRATION: 'Never Forget' by Daffodil Bolger
Deceptive cadence: a chord progression that seems to lead to resolving itself on the final chord; but does not.
* * *
DECEPTIVE CADENCE
* * *
It was only vaguely that Merry felt a hand on his shoulder, shaking him and pulling at his coat. He shook the hand off, buried his face in the sheet beneath Frodo’s shoulder.
“Meriadoc.”
Gandalf’s voice; Merry ignored it, reached out his hand blindly and took hold of Frodo’s. It was still cold but Merry was sure he felt warmth working its way into the flesh.
“Merry.”
“No!” he growled into blood-stained linen.
“Meriadoc Brandybuck?”
This was a different voice, soft and mellow but with a note of stern rebuke beneath it all. He’d heard this voice before, though briefly. He lifted his head, blinked red, swollen eyes.
Master Elrond peered down at him, his smooth face serene and unreadable. Merry clamped on to Frodo’s hand tighter, though he straightened, made a small, cursory bow.
“We’ve not been properly introduced,” the Elf Lord said easily. “I am Elrond and this is my house.”
“Y-Yes, I… that is, you… I mean…” Oh, he was so bloody tired, he couldn’t even speak properly. Merry closed his mouth, took a deep breath. He reluctantly let go Frodo’s hand and dropped a deep bow. “Thank you, Master Elrond, for…” He choked. “For… for what…”
He should be able to say this! These people had just saved Frodo’s life and Merry couldn’t even wrap his mouth around a proper ‘thank you’! His mother would kick his arse and then she’d clip his ears for him. He shook his head, shrugged helplessly.
“I don’t know what to say, sir. There is nothing adequate.”
Elrond smiled and for the first time, Merry saw a friendly twinkle in those grey eyes. He felt the tightness in his chest loosen a notch.
“It is not necessary,” the Elf Lord replied and, to Merry’s astonishment, bowed low in return. “Frodo has done much to earn honour from our people, as have his companions, and we would do nothing less.”
Merry flushed. “I don’t think I’ve brought much honour with me, my lord,” he said quietly. He turned his eyes to Frodo, his stomach clenching with the knowledge of what he’d nearly done. “I’m so sorry,” he whispered, though he couldn’t be sure if he was speaking to Elrond or Frodo.
“There is much which needs further discussion, young master,” Elrond answered just as softly then laid a hand to Merry’s shoulder. “But not now.”
Merry dimly realised that he was being tugged away from the bed. He resisted, tried to turn back but, Elrond’s hand was firm and Merry was too weak and bone-tired to put up much of a fight.
“But I--”
“Need to rest and will do Frodo no good, if he wakes to find you senseless on the floor,” Elrond cut in sternly.
Merry licked his lips, formed his next question very carefully. “Then he will wake?”
“He will sleep at least for the rest of the night, for I will make certain of it. But I expect that he will wake before the noon bell tomorrow.”
Merry opened his mouth, closed it, found he’d somehow got almost to the door while he wasn’t paying attention. Bugger, he was tired.
“But I need to be here. You don’t understand, I have--”
“And I need to see to Frodo’s care and I cannot do that with you sleeping on top of him.” If Merry was not very much mistaken, the elf was actually smirking. “There is more we need to do for him, Meriadoc, and we can do so much more efficiently without tripping over you.”
With this, Elrond swung the door open. Pippin and Strider sprang immediately from their seats upon the couch nearest the door. Merry just blinked bleary eyes at them, peered dully at his cousin, who nodded to Strider then made his way over to Merry and took his arm. Pippin looked up at Elrond, smiled a little and nodded again then steered Merry out the door and into the hall.
Merry supposed he was walking – he seemed to be moving anyhow, though his legs felt wobbly and disconnected from the rest of his body. His eyelids were heavy, as though someone had lain stones upon them, and it took far too much effort to keep them propped open. He absently counted lantern sconces along the way; it seemed the new counting habit was a difficult one to break. He’d reached twelve – or maybe fifteen; had he counted nine more than once? – when Pippin stopped, swung Merry around to face him.
“Why didn’t you tell us?”
Merry blinked. “Tell you…” His jaw flapped. “Eh?”
“We suspected something at the Ford, of course, but this?” Pippin was furious; Merry could tell because his face was red, his jaw was clenched and his left eye had developed a decided tic. “How could you not tell us?” he seethed. “You keep going along with the notion that you love Frodo most and best and no one else in the world can love him as well as you can!”
Merry was bollixed, flummoxed and every other adjective that had ever been used to describe the state of confusion; in fact, he might just have to make up some new ones, once he recovered. He shook his head.
“What--”
“All this time and not one word, Merry, not one! What did you think you were doing?” Pippin held up his hand. “Wait! Don’t answer that. I know perfectly well what you thought you were doing, O, Great Protector Of The Weak And Stupid.”
“No!” Merry shook his head again. “No, I… wait, what?”
“And not only that,” Pippin went on, “but to take all of it on yourself, with no help or counsel from anyone?” He shook his head and Merry almost expected Pippin to start ‘tsk-ing’ at him. “How you thought to get through it all without going mad is beyond me but you really ought to know better.” Pippin leaned forward, gripped both of Merry’s arms with hands that were hard as iron. His face softened, his eyebrows drew together and his chin quivered. “Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked.
Pippin’s eyes were wounded, sad and Merry was sorry, oh, so bloody sorry for hurting Pippin, for frightening the life out of Sam and for nearly… He couldn’t even think on what he’d nearly done to Frodo, and all of it yet another blundering mistake! One mistake, right on the heels of the last -- there was no end to them and oh, but this was the one to beat them all, wasn’t it?
He squeezed his eyes closed, clenched his teeth. Merry had no defence and Pippin had every right to beat him to a bloody pulp, right here and now, and then hold him down for Sam’s turn. He’d almost gone and…
Say it, Meriadoc! You almost did it, the least you can do is say it out loud.
“I…” He swallowed, blinked. “I almost…”
Oh, buggerybloodydamnbollocks, he just didn’t think he could do this right now. This was… well, he didn’t know what it was but it was definitely more than Merry could take. One more black whisper in his head, one more kind/angry/sympathetic word from Pippin and Merry was afraid there was a very real possibility that he was going to lay himself down right here in the hallway, curl up into a ball and just start weeping. He bowed his head, lifted a hand to rub at his temple.
“Pippin,” he whispered, took a long, shuddering breath. “Please…”
He had no idea what he was asking for – begging for – but he asked nonetheless. And when he slowly moved a shaking hand to his sword-belt, unbuckled it and let it fall to the carpeted floor with a dull clatter, Pippin relaxed his grip on Merry’s arms, lifted Merry’s chin and looked long and hard into his eyes.
“I don’t think I want it anymore,” Merry said hoarsely.
“Oh, love,” Pippin breathed then sighed, smiled sadly at Merry, bent and retrieved the sword. He gently reached up and brushed the hair from Merry’s eyes.
Then he gave his ear a sharp thwack. That woke Merry up a little.
“Ow!” He reached up to his ear, rubbed at it. “What was--”
“Oh, trust me,” Pippin cut in with a small wry smile, “you really don’t want to know. And you wouldn’t believe me right now, anyway.” Pippin looked him up and down critically, shook his head and sighed in exasperation. “You look frightful,” he told Merry. “Come on, then; let’s get you to bed.”
* * *
He woke all at once, his heart thumping wildly and sweat on his brow. He’d dreamed; of what he couldn’t say but the dark of the night around him seemed oppressive and cloying, seemed to work its way right down his throat and choke him with its heavy presence.
He threw off the coverlet, sat up. Pippin must have helped him into his nightshirt, though Merry didn’t remember. Now it clung to his back, damp and sticky. No matter; he doubted he’d be able to sleep again tonight anyway. He retrieved his day clothes from where they’d been dropped in a heap by his bed and put them on. His mother would kick his arse for this, too.
‘Oh, Mum,’ he thought with a shake of his head, ‘if you only knew…’
It was chilly and Merry’s coat was nowhere to be found. It wasn’t mixed in with his breeks and shirt and he didn’t dare make a light and wake Pippin, who snored lightly in his own bed across the suite. He pulled the coverlet from the bed, wrapped it around his shoulders. Silently, he made his way to the door and slipped through it, out into the hall.
Everything was quiet. Even the hiss of the lamps in the sconces lining the hallway seemed hushed. Merry padded along the carpet, counting doorways and branching passages along the way. Left out of the room then a right into the second passage. Three doors down then another right and a quick left. Fifteen doors later and he was once again in the anteroom he’d grown to despise.
The elf at Frodo’s door was very noticeably absent. Merry decided that was a good sign, though he wasn’t sure why. It could just mean that they didn’t think Frodo needed protection from his own kin any longer.
He clenched his teeth, pulled the blanket closer about his shoulders. How was he ever going to face Frodo again? Perhaps he should have gone when Frodo had tried to send him home in Bree. It might have been better for all concerned if Merry had never formed his so-clever conspiracy in the first place. What good had he done, anyway? He’d got them all lost in the Forest and had almost been eaten by a tree, of all things, for pity’s sake, who ever heard of being eaten by a tree? And then, at the Barrows…
All right, he would skip the Barrows for now.
He’d been nothing more than a problem in Bree and then worse than useless on Weathertop. And if he’d gone home when Frodo had begged him to, perhaps Weathertop might not have happened at all. At the very least, Frodo wouldn’t have had the added bother of worrying over how Merry was taking the whole ‘Sam thing’ afterwards. Perhaps then, he wouldn’t have deteriorated so quickly; perhaps then things wouldn’t have been quite so dire at the Ford.
Or perhaps then Frodo might right now be dead by that Ford or…
Bugger. He might as well have stayed in bed with his nightmares.
Merry eyed the door, took a stealthy step towards it, peered about. People moved about so quietly here; one could never tell if one was being approached from behind unless the light was just right and their shadow arrived before they did. Well, the room was dim-lit just now and shadows were everywhere. He would just have to take his chances.
He grasped the large handle. It was shaped more like a lever, not like the knobs Merry was used to. It was actually a long, slender leaf, now that he really looked at it. Funny, how he’d not noticed it before. Though, he supposed he couldn’t really be blamed for not taking note of the artistry; the one time he’d held it in his hand, he’d been waving his sword about in an elf’s face and threatening things he could not now remember if his life depended upon it. Everything was a blur but for the one thing Merry would wish to forget entirely; that was etched in his mind with crystal-sharp clarity and probably would be for the rest of his life.
Merry shook his head, shame and guilt painting his cheeks. He’d been prepared to not only run Frodo through, but that elf and Sam, as well. And, he supposed, anyone else who might have been unfortunate enough to step into his path. All for nothing, as it had turned out. His good intentions had yet again betrayed him and he’d betrayed them all with his… whatever it was. Insanity?
But if he could just see Frodo again, watch his chest rise and fall with precious breath, prove to himself that the colour on his cheeks had not been Merry’s imagination, it would make everything else seem… Well, not worth it, perhaps but…
No, he’d never be able to justify it all to himself, let alone anyone else, and especially not Frodo. He was just as glad that Frodo was expected to sleep through the night; it would give Merry the opportunity to satisfy himself that Frodo indeed lived and it had not all been some bitter, fevered dream or Merry’s steadily-growing madness. And Merry wouldn’t have to look Frodo in the eye as he assured himself that he had failed in his attempt.
He slowly pushed the handle down, eased open the door.
It was dark in Frodo’s room. No lamps were lit, the only illumination from the moonlight streaming through the huge windows that banked the far wall. It slipped silent onto the floor, crept up and draped silver over the bed. Frodo lay in a pool of moonlight, Gandalf bent low over him, a hand to Frodo’s brow. As Merry watched, low whispers came from the wizard and Frodo twitched a little; a knee came up beneath the sheet just the slightest bit and he moved his head against the gnarled hand that held him still.
Merry frowned, opened his mouth--
“Merry.”
--and nearly shrieked at the whisper behind him. He clamped his mouth shut, choked down the startled scream he’d nearly let loose then turned, silently pulled the door closed.
“Bugger all, Strider, are you trying to kill me?” he hissed.
Merry was a little annoyed to see that the man was amused. Oh, he really was not in the mood for this right now. He had seen what he’d come to see, so there was no reason in the world to compound his annoyance by standing here and waiting for the man to begin a lecture on why one does not go about waving swords in the faces of those who are trying to save the life of one’s cousin. Either that, or the man would begin telling Merry why what he’d done had been the right thing to do and he couldn’t seem to decide whether hearing that would save his sanity or shatter his heart completely. And all of this only served to make him yet more annoyed – mostly with himself – and, though Merry thought he should probably be feeling a bit repentant at the moment, he really couldn’t seem to help himself; he glared at Strider, rolled his eyes and brushed past him, making for the hallway once again.
“I thought we might talk,” Strider said softly.
And here it comes. Merry stopped but did not turn.
“I don’t think so,” he replied. “No good seems to come from our talks and I am tired.” He again started for the door.
“I think you have need, Merry.”
There was a soft rustle and Merry turned to see the man seated calmly on the couch that had been Merry’s close companion for too many days. Strider directed an honest grey gaze at him and Merry found himself wanting to take the few difficult steps to the couch, sit down and spill everything. Yes, he most certainly did have need and oh, he so badly needed to talk to someone.
Still, how did one trust another with the knowledge that madness was growing daily and you could no longer trust yourself to know reality from dream, evil from innocent? How could anyone understand that he’d been somehow touched by Evil itself and that it had almost tricked him into destroying the one person he’d give his life to save?
“And what would you know about it, then?” he whispered.
Strider shrugged, sat back. “Perhaps more than you might think.” He eyed Merry evenly, said quietly, “I know of Arveleg.”
Merry blinked, reeled. “How… where did you…”
“You spoke the name tonight,” Strider informed him, “just before Gandalf destroyed the splinter.” He nodded to the seat next to him, raised his eyebrows expectantly. “I think I can help you to understand some things but I need a bit of explanation first. Will you trust me?”
Merry just stared, feeling as though his head was going to wobble right off his shoulders. What wouldn’t he give to remember what it was like to feel sane? To remember for even just a moment what he had felt like before his head and heart had been invaded by a man who somehow refused to just lie down and stay politely and properly dead? What wouldn’t he give to have one – just one! – blessed night of sleep with no dark dreams for company?
And what wouldn’t he give to hear someone tell him that there really was some sort of explanation for it all? That he hadn’t, just a few hours ago, tried to put a golden blade through Frodo’s heart simply because he’d gone mad and no one had had the good grace to tell him?
Merry somehow found his feet moving, found himself suddenly standing in front of the couch, staring down at its red, plush cushions. He took a deep breath, lifted his eyes to Strider’s.
“How much do you know about the Barrow-downs?”
* * *
They spoke together until the Moon faded and the Sun began weaving a golden haze through indigo mist. There was much to absorb and even more to ponder but for the most part, Merry’s heart rested easier. He’d heard things that seemed unbelievable, had spoken things that, beyond any hope, the man believed and understood, and came to understand that what he had felt last night had not been an evil trick of the Enemy but an unfortunate misreading of circumstances.
The shard itself held a kindred dark presence and that, according to Strider, was what Merry had felt once it was outside Frodo’s body. Merry felt a small measure of relief that it hadn’t been worse; he could have been feeling that crawling awareness the entire time the thing was working its way to Frodo’s heart but he hadn’t. Strider offered the opinion that it had been because Frodo was fighting it, holding back its power somehow, and Merry found that a very easy thing to believe.
So, it was with some measure of calm and serenity that Merry accepted a cup of tea and allowed himself to be led out onto a porch to watch the Sun rise. It was still chilly but he burrowed into the warmth of the coverlet he still had about his shoulders and wrapped both hands around the cup, allowed the mellow aroma to soothe his nerves and the smooth taste to warm his belly. He pulled his feet up, tucked them under his legs and let the roar of the falls fill his head with clean, white noise.
It was a new day, Frodo would be well and safe, and as soon as he was able, there would be a Council and he could hand over that blasted Ring and be well rid of it. Then Merry would wait just long enough until Frodo was able to travel and haul his arse back home.
That is, if he could ever actually bring himself to look Frodo in the eye again.
Yes, Strider had been generous with explanations and defences of Merry’s actions and they had all been entirely reasonable. Elrond had somehow appeared sometime during their conversation, though Merry hadn’t noticed him at all until he’d interrupted with a question about how Merry had seemed to know the Riders were near even before Glorfindel had. Even Gandalf had emerged from Frodo’s room eventually and, after a brief summary from Strider and a long, piercing stare at Merry, had added his considerable voice to the chorus of assurances. The consensus from grey-eyed Big People seemed to be that Merry’s actions had been completely understandable and even admirable. He’d have to take a poll of those with green eyes sometime and see if the colour of one’s eyes had anything to do with whether one thought Merry was a hero or a heartless cad.
Merry himself had no idea what his own opinion was yet; he’d not allowed himself to think on it much, honestly. Better to let all of the information float about in his over-tired, over-wrought mind and see where it all settled later. Right now, he would listen to nothing but the pleasant roar of the falls and let the rising sun warm his weary bones and thank every star that existed that Frodo would be well.
And figure out exactly how he was going to bring himself to face him, as he knew he must eventually.
Of course, there was always the very real possibility that Sam would throttle him before lunchtime today, so perhaps Merry needn’t spend the energy on worrying over that one right now. Gandalf had ordered Merry to stay clear of Sam until he’d had a talk with him and, cowardly and childish though it may be, Merry had every intention of following that particular order. Merry had learnt the skill of avoidance at a very young age – just ask old Dobbs how many times he’d been found analysing the different weeds that flourished in the south pastures, rather than mucking out the pony stalls – and he intended to put all of his considerable skills to use until he got the all-clear from Gandalf.
Pippin wasn’t entirely happy with him at the moment either, and Merry had probably avoided being beaten to a bloody pulp last night only by virtue of being so completely pathetic that even a goblin would probably have come to the conclusion that he simply wasn’t worth the effort. But Pippin, at least, used his mouth before his fists and the twitch of his upper lip was always a dead-giveaway that his fists were about to follow. Sam was an unknown and Merry didn’t think there was any such thing as ‘too careful’ when it came to fisticuffs in the middle of an Elvish haven. He intended to be on his guard and could only hope that whatever Gandalf said to Sam was convincing enough.
Though, Merry didn’t suppose anything could be convincing enough for Samwise Gamgee, not when the subject was Frodo Baggins and the one who’d tried to murder him in his bed. Merry clenched his teeth, gave his head a quick jerk. Bugger, if he wasn’t even convinced himself, how could he expect…
He sighed, closed his eyes. What would be would be and he would accept whatever consequences may come with all of the grace he could muster. If Sam wanted to lay him out and if Pippin wanted to hold him down while he did it, Merry would take it as what he deserved. In fact, he’d probably welcome it.
* * *
There was a prickling at his nape and the Sun shone red through his closed lids. His stomach told him it was well past breakfast and the warmth of the Sun told him it was probably closing on noon. He must have fallen asleep.
He opened his eyes, blinked at the dazzle then closed them again, reached up to scrub at his face and promptly spilled cold tea all over his lap.
“Bugger!”
Merry leapt up, let the coverlet fall to the chair and brushed at his trousers. He must have dozed off with the cup still in his hand. Nit.
“Here you are, sir.”
Merry turned, took the napkin Sam held out to him and began blotting up the tea. “Thank you, Sam, I don’t know what--”
He stopped, slowly turned back to Sam. Eyes sparking bright with too many things to catalogue looked back at him from a face still and stony. Sam sat calmly in the chair beside Merry’s; by the looks of things, he’d been there for quite some time. There was an empty teacup on the table between the chairs and a small plate covered in white linen – another sat beside it, mostly empty but for a few crusts of bread and some stray grapes.
Well, this explained the prickling at Merry’s nape, anyway. Sam must have been burning holes into Merry’s skin for at least a half an hour or so.
He finished mopping at his breeks, stared stupidly at the napkin for a moment then let it fall to the table. He turned on stiff legs, seated himself again slowly and waited.
Sam allowed the silence to grow, become almost painful before, “I’ve brought you a bit of elevenses.”
Merry looked at the plate. “Yes, I…” He cleared his throat, shifted. “Thank you.”
More silence. Merry felt the urge to squirm, leap to his feet, scream, demand that Sam hit him, break his jaw or… anything, just bugger all, say something, blast it anyway, couldn’t he see that Merry was in the process of juddering right out of his skin, that his mind was on the verge of tottering right over the edge of some bottomless chasm and would--
“Mr. Gandalf and I had a bit of a talk,” Sam finally said and Merry closed his eyes, took a small, painful breath. “Though, of course, he did most of the talking.”
Merry waited for a moment but when Sam didn’t go on, he whispered, “Sam, I won’t ask you to forgive--”
“Well, that’s good because I won’t, not ever, and I’ll never forget it neither.”
“Do you…” He cleared his throat, licked his lips. “Do you think he will?”
Sam glared at him. “Mr. Frodo? O’course he will and you bloody well know it. He can’t seem to help himself.” He shook his head, turned his eyes to the falls. “That soft heart of his will be his undoing one day, you mark my words.”
“Sam, I…” Merry turned in his chair, faced Sam squarely. “If you’ll let me try to explain--”
“I told you, Mr. Gandalf already explained and I heard every word. I even understood most of it, though I might have understood it a little better, had you opened your mouth weeks ago.”
“I didn’t think--”
“Didn’t think anyone else would understand it, yes, I know.” Sam shook his head, turned to Merry. “It ain’t as if any of us were there every step of the way, eh? Not like we’d been there in the Barrows with you or any such. Not like we wouldn’t all do anything to help Mr. Frodo.”
Merry just stared for a moment, then: “Would you have done it, Sam?”
Sam narrowed his eyes. His nostrils flared and his hands clenched into fists. Merry thought perhaps the talking was done now and the beating was about to commence.
“Don’t you never ask me anything like that again, you bloody gormless river rat.”
Every word was said through clenched teeth. Merry blinked, felt his own hackles rising and put every ounce of will he possessed into remaining calm.
“I only meant--”
“I know bloody well what you meant and I tell you I won’t hear it again. It didn’t need to be done, it doesn’t need to be done and it won’t need to be done, so don’t go trying to make yourself feel better by hearing someone else say they’d’ve done what you tried to do.”
Sam stood, loomed over Merry. Merry sat still, met the fierce gaze with a calm one of his own.
“Gandalf says I ought to be grateful,” Sam said then chuffed a bitter little laugh. He shook his head, spared one more glare towards Merry then turned, stalked over to the doorway. He paused, slumped his shoulders and looked back. His face was softer than only a moment ago.
“He woke for a little while about an hour ago.” Merry bolted from his chair but Sam held up his hand. “He spoke with Gandalf for a bit and then went back to sleep but he’s well and getting better. Gandalf says he’ll be up again by suppertime and that we’re all to prepare to attend a feast.”
And then he was gone, leaving Merry to gape at the empty doorway. He fell back into his chair, rested his head in his hands, trying to wrap his mind around the chaos and confusion that now seemed a permanent part of his existence. He’d never experienced such exquisite joys and bone-crushing lows in all his life and this latest joy shone through his spirit with brilliant, cleansing white light. Every single bit of fear and despair that had clouded his mind since stepping foot in the Forest an eternity ago, faded to nothing. It was all nothing, unimportant, and he would relive every minute, if even one second of it had helped achieve this end.
Frodo had woke and Merry…
Merry lifted his face to the Sun and laughed.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
Facing Frodo didn’t seem to be much of an issue at the moment. In fact, he couldn’t have got near him, had he wanted to. They’d had a brief moment before the banquet, which Merry spent mainly staring at his feet until the others but for Sam had gone ahead, and Frodo had leaned in, kissed Merry’s cheek and whispered, “I’m glad you didn’t listen to me in Bree.” When he’d pulled back, smiled softly and stroked Merry’s cheek, Merry had to dip his head and swallow several times to keep himself from throwing himself at Frodo’s feet and spilling the whole story, begging for forgiveness. Ironically, he was saved by Sam, who grunted unhappily then whisked Frodo into the banquet. Bilbo had taken possession of Frodo for the rest of the evening.
Now, Merry found himself cooling his heels yet again, only this time, he was waiting for the Council to finish. He couldn’t fathom what was taking so long; how much time did it take to hand over a Ring, anyway? Of course, there were dwarves present and they were known to be a bit long-winded. Merry hoped they’d given Frodo a comfortable chair and that he was getting in some good napping time. He still wasn’t terribly pleased with the lot of them, making Frodo attend this thing in the first place, and not even a day after he’d got out of bed. He looked like he could use days of sleep and a good deal of fattening up, as well. Perhaps Merry would ask if he could use the kitchens to make Frodo some of the chicken and dumplings he so loved. That might make him feel better.
He’d looked pale and shaky but oh, so much better. There were still circles under his eyes but they were dusky now, rather than the frightening blue-black they’d been. He was far too thin and his cheeks were a bit ashen but colour was steadily working its way into them. And his eyes…
Glory, just the relief of seeing those eyes again, awake and aware and with their familiar spark. Merry hadn’t realised how convinced he’d become that he’d never see them again and it made Frodo’s recovery seem that much sweeter to him.
“My, don’t you look like the cat with cream all over his whiskers?”
Merry realised he was smiling, turned the smile on Pippin and moved over on the bench to give him room. Pippin picked his way lightly along the bricked garden path and hoisted himself up alongside his cousin. He eyed Merry appraisingly.
“You do look much better,” he remarked.
“I feel much better,” Merry agreed. “Frodo’s going to be all right and I haven’t a care in the world.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that.” Pippin turned sideways, pulled his feet up onto the bench and leaned back against the arm. “You still have some explaining to do, you know.”
And just like that, Merry’s mood darkened. He’d been so preoccupied with trying to get his courage up to face Frodo and then finding that he couldn’t get five minutes with him anyway, plus lingering worries over his still-weak health, that he’d managed to push aside the fact that Pippin still might owe him a crack in the jaw.
“Pippin, please; can’t this wait? I’d like to have just one completely nice day, from morning ‘til night, and we’ve only just passed the tenth hour.”
Pippin studied him with a keen eye for a long moment. “Perhaps it can,” he said slowly, “on the condition that you make me a promise.”
“Honestly, Pip, I’ll tell you anything you want to know tomorrow, all right? I just haven’t the heart for long explanations, now that--”
“I’ve had all the explanation I need from Strider and Sam, with a bit of Gandalf thrown in for good measure,” Pippin said sharply then he stopped, drew in a long breath. “The only explanation I require from you is why you didn’t come to me, when you so obviously needed someone desperately.” Merry opened his mouth but Pippin held up his hand. “However,” he went on, “I will wait patiently for that, until you are ready to tell me. What I want from you right now – and mark me, I mean right now – is a promise that you will never withhold something like this from me again.”
Merry actually laughed a little, slightly dizzy with relief. “Yes, anything, Pippin. I promise. I swear.”
“I mean it, Merry, so don’t say it unless you do. I love you and Frodo desperately and can’t bear to see either one of you in pain. Him I could only help a little but you…” He shook his head. “I might have been able to help you, Merry. You shouldn’t have shut me out like that.”
“I was trying--”
“To spare me, yes, I know, and I’ll thank you stop that now, if you please. Frodo’s always hated it when you do that and now I know why. I’ll have that promise now.”
“I’ve already--”
“Mean it!”
Merry paused, looked long into eyes that shone fierce and somehow wise, said, “I promise,” and found he did mean it.
Pippin narrowed his eyes, scrutinised him then, seemingly satisfied, smiled. “All right, then,” he said then jumped down from the bench, held out his hand. “Come with me. I’ve something to show you.”
* * *
It was amazing, really. Merry had never seen so many books in one place in all his life and that wasn’t even counting the scrolls and maps and even the odd etching on stone.
It was vast, huge, and every single inch of the wall was taken up by shelves that towered to the ceiling, plus more lined in aisles the length of the expansive room. Squat windows ran the tops of the walls just below the ceiling, letting in the morning sun, illuminating the rows upon rows of stacked volumes crowding each and every shelf. There must have been thousands of them!
“Frodo’s going to love this!” he breathed.
“Yes, I’m sure he is,” Pippin replied. “However, today we are here for you.” He pushed Merry to a towering shelf towards the back of the great room. It was stacked neatly with leather-bound volumes in various colours, each etched with gold lettering on its spine – some in Elvish, some in Westron and some in runes Merry didn’t recognise. “Strider wanted to bring you here himself but he is, obviously, otherwise engaged today, so he asked me if I would show you instead with his regards.”
“Why would--”
“Just shut it and do as I say, for a change,” Pippin told him then reached up and slid a large black volume from the shelf with both hands. “This is the one he wanted you to start with,” he said then nodded to a table and made his way over, dropped the book to it.
Merry followed slowly, frowning. “What is it?”
“It’s a compendium of the Western Kings,” Pippin informed him. “It goes all the way back to Númenor and right up to the time the North Kingdom was lost. Apparently the Old Kings of legend were actually descendents of the Kings of Númenor, did you know that?”
Merry shook his head, still frowning. “What’s all that to us?” he wanted to know. “Are you sure this is what Strider wanted you to show me?”
“Well, I don’t suppose it’s anything much to us,” Pippin replied. He opened the book, flipped some pages. “But he thought it might be something to you. He told me to direct you to…” He flipped some more, stopped and scanned then smoothed the pages and pointed. “Here.”
Merry leaned in. “‘History Of The Northern Realm’?” He rolled his eyes. “Pip, I’m not interested in some dry old history of Elves or Men or whatnot, truly. I’d rather find out where they have their herb books and have a look through those. They must have scads and I would love--”
“Did I not tell you to shut up and do as I say? Honestly, Merry, sometimes you’re as dense as a stone. Are you going to tell me that you’re not the least bit interested in the history of Arnor?”
Merry stopped, snapped his eyes to Pippin. “Arnor?”
Pippin looked positively smug. “He said that would get your attention. And once you’re through, I’ll expect a nice, long tale.” He patted Merry’s cheek, grinned. “I’m going to head down that end,” he said, waving a hand vaguely in the direction from which they had come. “There is a rumour that there is an entire section devoted solely to filthy humour.”
Merry was barely listening. He hoisted himself up onto a chair and leaned over the book. He wasted no time in flipping through pages, searching for…
Arveleg I, son of Argeleb I. Ruled Arthedain (‘The-Kingdom-of-the-[Dún]edain’), the State-apparent to the lordship of Arnor, from 1356 until his fall in 1409 (Third Age), during Angmar’s siege of Amon Sûl (see also, Weathertop)…
“Oh, my,” he breathed. “I had no idea… I mean, well, I had an idea but… he was real.” Merry shook his head in wonder. “It was all real. And look: Dúnedain. Isn’t that the name Glorfindel called Strider?” He turned to Pippin. “Do you suppose--”
But Pippin was gone and Merry was alone and talking to himself. Again. He glanced about, noted a green-eyed elf with hair like fire peering at him from three tables over. He shrugged self-consciously, grinned a little; she smiled back serenely and went back to the massive tome laid before her. Merry turned back to his own book and began to read.
* * *
It was nothing less than fascinating. Each entry seemed to branch into at least ten more and Merry had been flipping madly back and forth for what must have been hours. He’d only found one reference to a man by the name ‘Eäreneth’ and that hardly more than a footnote. But he had been Arveleg’s lieutenant and was listed as ‘killed in battle’ at the fall of Amon Sûl. A dark thrill moved through Merry upon learning this; it was almost surreal to learn that he really had been thinking another person’s thoughts, living another person’s death, and it gave him a small sense of liberation that at least it wasn’t all madness, as he had feared. On the other hand, he could no longer pretend that a dead man did not now occupy a part of his soul and he found the thought… offensive. Yes, that was it; it was offensive to the mind to think that another could take up residence within, give you memories you had no desire to have, make you live through pain and terror, and for what?
“What do you want with me?” he whispered then quickly looked about. The elf had apparently moved on – probably hours ago – and Merry was relatively alone; no one had witnessed him talking to himself this time… or rather, talking to a long-dead king’s lieutenant, who happened to have decided that Merry’s head looked like a good place to make himself at home. He really needed to stop talking to himself like that. People were going to think him mad.
Merry snickered a little at the irony. He stretched. There was a plate beside his book with hardening squares of cheese curling upon it, along with a half-finished roll and what looked like the remnants of a few ham slices. A half-full glass of sweet white wine sat beside it. Someone must have brought him lunch and, by all appearances, he must have eaten it, though he had no memory whatsoever of either event. Before he could stop himself, he wondered if Eäreneth might remember and stifled another snicker.
Oh, he must be tired. He was beginning to get giddy.
He closed the book, climbed down from his chair and hefted the volume into his arms. He had no idea if he was allowed to remove the book from the library but he had every intention of trying.
His legs were stiff and his toes prickled as he began to walk, loosening up the blood that had pooled in them as he’d sat reading. How long had he been here, anyway? He had no idea but the aisles were nearly empty now and the sun was dipping low, so he suspected it was nearing the dinner hour. He thought about being miffed that no one had come to find him when the Council ended but, since he wasn’t sure Pippin had told anyone where they’d gone, he supposed he couldn’t be too put out.
He made his way slowly to where Pippin had said he would be, fully expecting to find no sign of him. How long could someone spend on reading dirty jokes, after all? Even Pippin. So, he was a little surprised to find his cousin with his nose pressed into an enormous tome, his brow knit in concentration and his feet swinging slowly back and forth beneath his chair. Pippin had his head propped up on a fist and, every now and then, his eyes would narrow as he read.
Merry approached quietly, leaned up to see what had Pippin so enrapt. He didn’t know whether to be impressed or dismayed to read the legend at the top of the page: Rings of Power.
“Pip?”
Pippin nearly jumped right out of his skin. He let loose a small shriek, turned to Merry, eyes huge. Then he rolled those eyes, scowled.
“For pity’s sake, Merry, did you want to take ten years off me or was it just a happy accident?”
Merry only lifted an eyebrow, nodded at Pippin’s book. “That doesn’t look like filthy humour,” he said.
Pippin’s countenance turned to one of mild disgust. “It’s filthy enough,” he remarked quietly. He shook his head. “I’m very glad I didn’t know all of this before we left home,” he told Merry. “As it is, I don’t think I’ve ever been more glad of anything in my life than that Frodo will be rid of the thing by the end of the day. It’s horrible, Merry, Evil itself, and it makes me ill to think Frodo’s had it so close all these years. The things it’s done to people…” He shuddered. “Anyway, I’m glad it’s done now, or soon will be, if that Council’s not finished yet.”
“I was just wondering about that myself,” Merry informed him. “It must be over by now, don’t you think? What say we head back and see if we can fight our way through Sam and Bilbo for a peek at Frodo, shall we?”
* * *
It turned out that they were not allowed to remove the books from the library; this from the red-haired elf who’d smiled so sweetly at Merry before but turned stern remarkably quickly when approached by two hobbits wanting to abscond with apparently-precious volumes of history. She instead promised to put them aside for them so that they would be at-hand when they next came to read, which Merry intended to do the next time he was shooed away from Frodo by Bilbo or Sam or Elrond or Gandalf or…
They found Frodo in Bilbo’s rooms, along with Sam, and Merry knew, even before they’d told the tale of what went on at the Council, that the good day he’d begged Pippin for just that morning was not to be this day. Frodo avoided looking directly at Merry and, when he’d finally got ‘round to admitting that he’d agreed to take that bloody Ring all the way to Mordor, Merry knew why.
Pippin’s horrified eyes flew directly to Merry’s. He just stared for a moment then shook himself, leaned in, whispered, “Merry, stay calm and don’t--”
“Shut it, Pippin,” Merry growled low through his teeth.
He waited patiently for Gandalf to leave and for the others to talk themselves out and begin to wander off. When they didn’t move fast enough for Merry’s liking, he shot a pointed look to Pippin, who looked back pleadingly then rolled his eyes, sighed wearily and did a remarkable job of confusing Sam into accompanying him on a vague errand Merry had no doubt Pippin would invent while he bustled Sam… somewhere. Sam made it a point to shoot Merry a black look of warning as he was hurried through the door; Merry cheerfully ignored it and when Frodo got up, kissed Bilbo’s cheek and said he was for a nap, Merry quickly volunteered to escort him to his room.
“I can find it well enough on my own, Merry,” Frodo told him and Merry felt a small, ugly bit of satisfaction that Frodo still couldn’t seem to meet his eyes.
He took firm hold of Frodo’s elbow. “Oh, no, dear Frodo,” he answered smoothly, “I’ve no doubt Bilbo would prefer that you allow me to walk you there, seeing as how you’re just up from bed less than a day ago.”
“Yes, dear boy, do allow young Merry this small thing and humour old Bilbo, won’t you?” He waved a hand at them. “I think I’ll doze for a bit myself.”
Merry could feel Frodo slump in resignation. “All right,” he agreed with a long-suffering sigh. He finally met Merry’s gaze with a weary one of his own. “Shall we?”
“Oh, you just bet we shall,” Merry grated under his breath and steered Frodo very firmly out the door and into the hall. He closed the door behind them, turned on Frodo.
“What the bloody--”
“You might at least wait until we get to the room,” Frodo warned. “Or would you prefer to have your hysterics here in the hallway, in plain view of any of our hosts who might happen by?”
Merry snapped his mouth shut and fumed. They spoke not a word until they reached Frodo’s room and by the time they got there, Merry’s blood was pounding so hard and loud between his ears that he thought it quite possible his head might explode. Frodo opened the door, let Merry through then stepped through himself, turned and slowly closed it. Merry thought he’d held his tongue quite long enough.
“Are you out of your bleeding mind?”
Frodo just stared at the door. “Hullo, Merry, you’re looking well. Haven’t seen much of you lately.” He turned, looked to Merry coolly. “Of course, I have been a little under the weather, so you’ll forgive me if I--”
“Snobbery doesn’t become you, Frodo, and it most definitely will not get you out of explaining to me exactly why you’ve decided to do this.”
Frodo looked at the floor. “I don’t owe you an explanation,” he said quietly.
“Don’t owe--”
Merry stared. Fury twisted his heart into a great, fiery lump in the middle of his chest. He’d thought they were done, thought Frodo was through with dangerous adventures, and bloody damn but if what they’d been through happened only between home and here, what sort of things might happen between here and Mordor, for pity’s sake? And this time, Merry might not even be permitted to come along and, though he’d fallen far short of his original goal of protecting Frodo, he’d learnt plenty since then. Pippin had the right of it: Merry did love Frodo most and best – lovesick gardeners notwithstanding – and there was no one in the world who cared more about keeping him safe than Meriadoc Brandybuck. And for Frodo to agree to go on, knowing he’d nearly died, knowing the dangers ahead, knowing that he had no say in who came along, and not even consult with any of them first…
Betrayal. Betrayal was what writhed in his chest.
“How could you?” Merry asked, hoarse and cracked.
Frodo didn’t answer for a long time and when he did, it was exactly the answer Merry had expected.
“I had to,” was all he said.
* * *
|
Merry nodded slowly. He’d expected
this and worse, of course, but it still hurt to hear it out loud. And if it was
this painful coming from Sam…