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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement VIII - Discord AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Shadow PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: R SUMMARY: Fate wears many faces and love is sometimes the cruellest weapon. ILLUSTRATION: 'Hunted, Haunted' by Daffodil Bolger
Discord: An inharmonious combination of simultaneously sounded tones.
* * *
DISCORD
* * *
In the black wind, the stars shall die
And he shall die with them.
Not such a bad thing, really. His king, the brother of his heart, is dead and the world shall fall to its knees, its last breath, black as soot, vomiting into skies of ash.
Arveleg is dead and the Witch reigns over men who would murder their brothers for a pocketful of gold. Númenor had fallen to the sea and its faithful have fallen to their own; men weak and subjugate to one who will strap the yoke of the damned to their backs.
In the black wind, the stars shall die
Perhaps his own life-spark shall falter before theirs and he thinks he will be well-blessed if that is so. He has no desire to watch the last bit of beauty in his life fail and die; he has no desire to hear their screams as they fade.
Arveleg did not scream as he died. A King he lived and a King he died, back bowed to the cold breath that held him silent but his hand remained on the hilt of the sword of his ancestors, his fingers frozen in their grip.
Cold be hand and heart and bone
Eäreneth had watched the stars glimmer in his brother-king’s blank eyes, had seen their cold fire flicker as on pools of still water at midnight. He might have lost himself in those stars, willed away his life and drowned in the twin skies that looked back at him. But his own fate was not far behind and his only wish then was to die as well as his friend.
And so now he looks his fill and those stars drip their cold, yellow-white kiss upon his cheek, diffused through the ripples of the silted waters that gather their embrace about him; two dying lovers, looking their last upon faces doomed to only a blink of blood-misted memory.
Over the land there lies a long shadow,westward reaching wings of darkness
The black wind came and it came hard, the black boots of Angmar carrying its cries upon his steps and there was blood on the Moon. It wept, did the wind, as did the stars and the waters and the very earth crushed beneath its breath, helpless to do aught but shriek its own torture to the hearts of those who lay down in terror before it.
But not he, oh no -- not this son of Arthedain. He was a son of Kings, the true King of Arnor, and it was his to make his stand, place the blood of his fathers before the face of Death itself, keep his feet and die standing in his boots if he could. And it was Eäreneth’s to stand beside his king, take the blow for this man who was brother in all but blood.
Not for him, a clean death in the pyre of Amon Sûl; not for him, the sweet-slick slice of steel through muscle and bone. His was to help his king lead those who remained in retreat to Tyrn Gorthad, bring still more to Fornost before turning his face to his fate. Then his was to look upon a face blackened and withered by lust and power, to watch his once-brothers of Rhudaur fall upon their kin at the crook of a bony, white finger, clad in lapis, set in gold. To watch in horror as that finger turned to him.
Had he known terror before that moment? Had he once boasted to his fellows that he had lived through horrors their young eyes would never see? War will do that to a man: make him believe that each battle he survives is another step away from the grave; make him begin to consider the very immortality that has been the downfall of his brethren might be his for the taking.
Eäreneth had known fear, certainly; the man who lived in times of war and did not know fear was the man who died badly, just moments into his first battle. And horror was a close companion, when one heard the death-song of comrades screamed wretched into the blood-soaked dirt upon which he slept, too weary to bend his ear to the last words of the soon-dead, gauntlets smelling of copper.
But iron boots to moist, red earth, death on the wind before him, and Eäreneth had known terror. Terror walked the world, bent the very wind to its will and wore a crown on its helm of pale silver that captured the glimmer of the stars and held them prisoner. Terror had turned its cold eyes upon him and demanded that he acknowledge it.
And Eäreneth had.
He had clutched at Arveleg’s vambrace, pulled him to the ground.
“’Tis the Witch, my King, and I am afraid!”
Arveleg pulled himself free, dragged Eäreneth to his feet. Death and darkness all around and Arveleg had smiled, turned tender eyes to his faithful Lieutenant. He placed a gentle hand to Eäreneth’s shoulder, kissed his cheek.
“We have lived in honour, my brother,” and his voice was a song to Eäreneth’s ears, a balm to his terrified heart. “Let me die with honour, as Men of Númenor must.”
The screams of the dying faded into whispers, the blood on the Moon lost its wicked portent. There was only Arveleg and the stars shone bright in his grey, tear-laden eyes.
Eäreneth took Arveleg’s hand, kissed his palm. “I have loved no other, as I have you, my lord.”
Then he stood back, bowed low to his King. Arveleg took him once again by the shoulders, pushed his back straight.
“I would not have you bow to me in life, friend-Eäreneth. And I would not ask it in death.” Arveleg leaned forward once more, kissed Eäreneth’s mouth. “Now, go, my brother. Before it is too late. Lead who is left when I am gone.”
Eäreneth shook his head, the only act of real defiance he would ever show his King. “I stand with you to the end, my lord. I only hope that I do not live long enough to see the life fall from your eyes.”
Tears slipped from Eäreneth’s eyes, hot and bitter against his cheeks, and he smiled, soft and sad. And then a chill swept over his skin and his teeth clamped over his tongue, blood trickling copper-salt down his throat.
Terror approached on the misty black wings of Night, seized him, and he felt it bear down upon his shoulders, fill his chest with sick bile and choking dark fear. And Eäreneth, his legs weak, his gorge rising in his throat, stepped forward and placed himself in front of his king.
The Tower trembles; to the tombs of kings doom approaches…
Yet, still he stood, still his feet remained firm to the ground. Oh, but he trembled.
“I know thee not, knave.” Eäreneth quaked and held his bladder with only the greatest of will. “But for your defiance, you shall see the one you love upon my sword.”
It was a hiss, cold and putrid, and Eäreneth’s bones shook beneath his skin. His mouth was dry, his tongue frozen, yet he would not shame his King, he would not shame his fathers.
“But I know thee, son of Argeleb.”
Cold be hand and heart and bone
Eäreneth heard the scrape of steel-on-steel, saw the glint of the blood-red moon in Arveleg’s sword. And then this king – this man of Men, this brother – placed his hand to Eäreneth’s shoulder, pushed him aside.
“And I know thee, Angmar.”
Laughter on a white, frozen mist and it curled about him, dipped down into his soul and struck yet deeper terror, sharp and feral. A flick of a finger and Arveleg staggered.
“On your knees, errant King of Gondor.”
As one, Arveleg and Eäreneth fell to the ground. Eäreneth could only watch as his king, his friend, his brother, was struck down before him. He knelt in the dirt as though his knees had been pinned to the earth itself, the blood of the one he loved above all seeping beneath him, staining his boots.
And so Eäreneth had received his deathblow on his knees like a dog, a spear put through his chest then turned, wrenched. A spiked iron boot laid to his torso then he was sliding boneless into the sluggish current of the With’wind, that oily laughter following him until the kind waters took pity and took him down.
Shrivel like the cold mist, like the winds go wailing
Now, he lies embraced in their depths and he watches the stars fade above him. And he wishes for his death to come soon, come now, so that he may enter the Halls of his Fathers and not have to watch Arveleg mourn anew when he tells him that he has seen the stars die.
Lost and forgotten be, darker than the darkness
His vision hazes red as more of his comrades meet their fate in the waters of the With’wind. Kingless, leaderless, they scatter and scream for their lieutenant. But Eäreneth has died with his King because he could do nothing else and his King’s last command, his last wish for him to save himself, had slipped into the cold waters with Eäreneth’s lifeless body.
“Arveleg,” (Frodo) he whispers to the water and it rolls gentle in the soft sway of the dawdling current.
He knows the name, for the stars have been singing it for all the Ages and his heart had long ago joined their chorus. Eäreneth (Merry) smiles and closes his eyes.
Wake now my merry lads!
Bright as the sun, this voice, and he feels all at once warm. His toes tingle and white light splinters over his skin.
Night under Night has flown, and the gate is open!
The gate is open and Eäreneth (Merry) will walk through, fall to the feet of his King. ‘I have failed you, my brother,’ he will tell him, ‘but only because I loved you too well.’
He can smell green grass laid over the stale scent of mildew and grey dust. And over that, close to his cheek, a scent familiar and loved…
He opens his eyes, blinks at the Sun in wonder. He is dead, the black spear of Angmar piercing his heart, yet here, in this place, the Sun shines down upon him and he smiles to see it.
“Merry? Merry-lad! Tell me you’re all right, love. Speak to me, please!”
Frodo is here and he smiles again. Merry (Eäreneth) opens his mouth, wants to ask Frodo if the Witch-king got him, too, and he wonders if Arveleg is here as well. He sits up and a gold circlet slips down and pokes him in the eye.
“What in the name of wonder?”
* * *
“Will you tell me what happened?”
Merry peered up at Frodo with a small, troubled smile. “No,” he said then shook his head, plucked a long blade of sweetgrass and slipped it between his teeth. “No, I don’t think I will.”
Frodo frowned, sat back, stretched out his legs, turned his eyes to the sky and away from that cloudy grey gaze. Found himself a little surprised that what had been a choking, heavy grey mist only a while ago now shone with a fine, translucent blue he didn’t think he’d ever seen before. Although, it could be that he was simply looking upon it all with new eyes.
He turned those eyes to Merry and didn’t like what he saw. Merry was withdrawn, distressed and Frodo couldn’t really remember a time when Merry had refused to tell him what was disturbing him. He supposed he could write it off to all of them having cheated death twice already in the space of three days and it would be easy to do so. But Frodo knew Merry well and he knew there was more to it.
“It isn’t your fault, you know.”
“Hm?” Merry turned to him, blinked, eyes misted and distant. “What?”
“I said, it isn’t your fault. No one could have found their way about in that fog, I’m sure you must know that.”
Merry stared, nodded somewhat absently. “Yes, of course.”
“Merry, won’t you--”
“It’s odd, don’t you think?”
Frodo paused, frowned. “What’s odd, love?”
Merry shook his head, turned to watch as Sam and Pippin wandered over to a blackberry bush and began tossing the fruits into the air then catching them in their mouths.
“They don’t remember a thing,” he murmured. He turned dull eyes on Frodo then looked back to the others. “Do they?”
“No,” Frodo answered. “A few hazy images but nothing of consequence.” He reached over, brushed Merry’s hair from his eyes. Merry only smiled a tiny fleeting smile. “Why?” Frodo asked softly. “Do you?”
Merry ignored Frodo’s question, asked, “And what of you?”
Frodo sighed, shuddered. “I remember being terrified,” he told Merry honestly. “I remember…” wanting to put on the Ring, wanting to run away and leave you all to your fates. Shame coloured his cheeks, scorched them red and raw. He clenched his teeth, said, “I remember being frightened and then angry and I… I remember being afraid you were dead.”
Frodo shook his head, took a deep breath. Pippin laughed as a berry bounced off of Sam’s nose and Merry chuckled.
“They’re both likely to get a burn on their bums, if they don’t get into some shade.”
Frodo didn’t turn, only kept peering at Merry. It was unnerving, this dazed dreaminess and especially for this very down-to-earth hobbit. Dappled sunlight painted his skin warm, drew fire from the twists and curls of his unruly hair, yet he looked cold, remote, as though he peered at the world from within the depths of a long-abandoned grave.
Frodo supposed he did… or had at least, and oh, what had he done? Dragged his friends out into more peril than any of them had suspected and had come shamefully close to abandoning them all to their fate only less than an hour ago. He hadn’t and he clung to that but it did not justify putting them all into his own danger in the first place, not when his reasons for allowing it all were so vague to him to begin with and, no matter how many times he turned it over in his mind, the clearest one he could come up with was that he had been afraid. For the first time in his life, he had known true, honest terror and so had gratefully taken hold of the lifeline his friends had thrown him. How many times since then had he wondered to himself what he could possibly have been thinking?
The truth was, he didn’t really know what had been going through his mind that night at Crickhollow; he only remembered feeling relieved and glad that he would not have to face whatever might come alone. He hadn’t thought it through, hadn’t truly believed that the dangers would come so soon and one on the heels of another. He had known from the beginning that his journey would be dangerous and dark and Frodo thought that perhaps the real reason behind his consent was that he had wanted to take along his sun and sky.
And now the sun and sky sat dazed and shaken beside him, hazy with mist that clouded his eyes and damped the light that had always shone from within. And Frodo wanted – needed – to call that light back, to begin the business of fixing his own mistakes and setting the worlds of his friends back to rights.
“Merry? You said before that it was odd. What did you mean?”
Merry breathed a strange, hollow laugh. “That a person can’t really know what they might do, until the time comes.”
He turned to Frodo, his eyes clouded and vague and somehow not his own. A chill ran up Frodo’s spine. Merry shrugged, breathed a small sigh.
“I died, you know.”
It was said so casually that for a moment, Frodo thought he’d misheard. Then the words danced behind his eyes, echoed strange in his ears and strung themselves together into sharp accusation. Frodo felt all the warmth drain from him. His mouth went dry and he tried to swallow, his tongue clicking harsh in his throat.
“W-what?” His voice was small, just a hoarse whisper. “What did you say?”
“I dreamed in the barrow and I remember dying.” Merry turned, stared off into the distance. “Odd, that, innit?”
Frodo shook his head, tried to take hold of what Merry was saying and force it into some sort of coherent order. Not, ‘I dreamed I died,’ not, ‘I thought I was dying,’ – no: ‘I remember dying.’
“How…” Frodo cleared his throat, clenched his hands together. “How did you die, Merry?”
And this was important, in fact, dire. Frodo had dreamed all his life – sometimes true and sometimes not but always dreams had been part of life, part of real and he never took them lightly. A curse or a blessing, he’d never been able to decide which, but they owned a power over a person’s fate and could not be casually ignored.
“A spear to the chest,” Merry replied softly. “And I heard the stars singing your name.”
He spoke as though he even now walked in a dream and Frodo shivered again. A spear through the chest, the stars singing his name and Frodo wondered if that spear was perhaps meant for him. Had the Wights given Merry’s dreams to him or was he truly seeing his own death? For, if it was the latter…
He reached out, touched Merry’s cheek.
“Merry, where were you, do you think? Was it someplace you knew?”
Tell me it was in some Long Ago and Far Away. Tell me it really was a dream or that it was a cruel trick of the Wights. Tell me you saw it all through another’s eyes. Only please don’t say that you were my golden Merry-lad and that you stepped in front of that spear for me. Because, if that was the way of it, then I may have already murdered you.
Frodo clamped his jaw on the burn that gathered painfully behind his eyes, forced down the tightness in the back of his throat. He reached out, gripped Merry’s shoulder.
“Merry, answer me!”
Merry turned to him, smiled and Frodo watched as misted eyes turned once again to storm-grey. His hand fell boneless from its grasp.
“I don’t remember,” Merry told him. “And I don’t think I want to.” He slid his arm about Frodo, pulled him closer. “Why are you the only one not running about starkers, eh? I don’t think that’s at all fair.”
Frodo tried very hard to laugh.
* * *
The brooch Tom had pocketed for Goldberry had belonged to Fìriel. Even now, Merry could see it set on her shoulder, clasping the folds of the white silk of her gown, flashing blue facets beneath the torchlight. She had wanted to wear it at her throat but Arveleg had told her that the sapphire sparkle of her eyes would make the brooch seem pale and his subjects would chastise their king for gifting his queen such a meagre bauble. Oh, and she had laughed, the light chime of it echoing throughout the great stone hall and Merry (Eäreneth) thought that he had finally come to know what the music of the distant, long-dead bells of Númenor might have sounded like.
A dream but not, for it had the feel of life beneath it all. If he closed his eyes tight, let the world about him fade, he could smell the pork roasting in the pits, could hear the swish of Fìriel’s skirts as she spun about the hall on the arm of her king. And Merry could feel the love in his heart for them both: for him because he deserved nothing less and for her because she loved him so well.
Merry had thought about asking Tom about the brooch -- just a polite enquiry as to its previous owner in the interests of history. Tom might well see through him and realise why he asked but Merry didn’t think that was much of a concern. And being pinned beneath that canny blue gaze might be worth the relief/dread of knowing that what he had lived for a very short time had been real. But he had decided not to in the end. There was always the chance that Tom just might have told him.
In the black wind, the stars shall die
Merry shuddered a little and Frodo was suddenly beside him, pulling his pony up even with Merry’s. And here was another canny gaze that Merry found himself all too eager to avoid.
“All right?”
No, I’m not all right. I’ve died but not before watching the one I loved most brought to his knees, not before knowing the feel of his blood beneath my own.I have never been so terrified in all my life but then we’re not really talking about my life, are we? But one seems to somehow echo the other and I can’t help but wonder if it’s some portent or perhaps some mistake I’ve lived once and am doomed to live again. And I am terrified because, for the life of me, I can’t see where the mistake was! Loving too much? Dying for that love?
I just can’t tell for sure and I need to speak to you about it and I can’t! You could help me figure it all out, Frodo, but I can’t let you because I already see your fear for us all in your eyes. I can feel you saying ‘goodbye’ yet again and I simply can’t take the chance.
“Yes, of course,” was all he said and he twisted his mouth into what he hoped was a convincing smile. “Dreaming of a nice, tall ale at this inn Tom has sent us off to, I think.”
Why am I the only one who remembers what happened back there? Have I gone mad or am I the only one those wretched Wights thought to make sport with? And if I tell you what really happened, will that be the thing that takes the ‘goodbye’ from your eyes and puts it on your tongue?
“Merry.” Frodo reached out, laid a hand to Merry’s arm. Merry could feel Frodo’s eyes burning through his skin, right into his heart, and he dared not turn his own to meet them. “I wish you would--”
“It’s nothing, Frodo.” Merry patted Frodo’s hand, flicked him a quick glance and strengthened his smile. “Honestly. Just a little off but I think we all are, yes? I think we’ll settle down a bit, once we get to Bree.” He mustered all the deceit he had within him, turned a bright grin to his cousin. “If there’s an inn, it must have a pub, after all. If you didn’t ride like an old gammer, we’d have been there and downed our first an hour ago!”
Frodo scrutinised him closely for a long moment but whatever he saw in Merry’s face must have convinced him. He lifted an eyebrow, rolled his eyes. He shook his head and chuckled.
“Well, let’s take our pace to a jog and get you to this pub, then,” he grinned. “Stars forbid my old creaking bones should keep you from your drink for one moment longer than necessary.”
Merry smiled wickedly then reached over and slapped the rump of Frodo’s pony. The pony snorted surprised protest then darted up the Road, a laughing Frodo hunched over its neck. They passed Pippin, who stared for a moment before a grin sparked bright over his face and he kicked his heels into his pony’s barrel.
Merry could almost feel Sam shaking his head and rolling his eyes behind him and he chuckled to himself then picked up his own pace. It was always possible, after all, that he had spoken the truth and that things really would look better in Bree.
* * *
Merry waited for an hour after the others had left for the common room, the unease that had stayed with him since being smothered in grey mist upon the Downs growing with each tick of the small brass clock that sat indifferent upon the mantel. He had almost told them that they would all be better off staying to themselves in the room but had decided against it. They would have laughed it off as Merry mother-henning again, for one thing and, for another, he had found himself wanting some time alone to just sit and think for a bit.
Though, he hadn’t really done much thinking -- more like wandering about his own head, trying to pick through what he found there and decide what belonged in the memories of a hobbit and what… well… didn’t. Once again he wondered how much easier it might be if at least one of his companions had experienced what he had… or remembered it if they had. He still hadn’t a clue what to make of it all and wished again that he could talk it through with Frodo. Frodo knew about this sort of… then again, perhaps he didn’t. He knew Frodo was well-versed on the history of Númenor, at least, but would he know of some obscure king from thousands of years ago? And even if he did, would he know whether that king had had a lieutenant who had watched him die and then soon followed?
It was all just very odd and got even moreso, the more he thought on it. It was just too difficult to believe but, at the same time, he believed every bit of it. Whatever he had seen or been shown, it had been real, or at least, had seemed so. And the monstrosity that had borne down upon him and the terror it had brought with it had been real, as well. Far too real, when he considered the black void he’d seen across the Brandywine; a void that had moved and twitched in the vague shape of shadows and snuffled about the west-bank of the River as a hound on the hunt. Merry hadn’t quite known what to make of Pippin’s tale of having been pursued all the way from Hobbiton to Buckland but he was very afraid that he now understood only too well what dogged their steps.
He stood abruptly and stepped over to the bed where he’d dumped his pack and coat. It was probably silly, what he was thinking on doing but he had every intention of doing it, nonetheless. The gate seemed secure enough, what with that crotchety old Harry-creature on watch. Still, he hadn’t seen any sentries about the walls and there were plenty of places for someone who didn’t want to be seen to get by undetected. Or something.
Merry shuddered a little and reached for the sword Tom had given him. He took it up, pulled it from its black sheath.
Only it isn’t a sword, it’s a dagger and when I look at it, I can see it glistening beneath the sun, red with blood, and I mourn just a little because I know that this blood began from the same spring as my own. The man between whose ribs I have just slipped this may be a cousin or an uncle and I have killed him because I must, because he would have done the same to me and all in the name of wealth and the promise of immortality.
I can smell the oily smoke of the palisades burning, I can hear the clash of metal and bone, I can hear the rattling last rales of my brothers as they struggle to speak their last words through the blood that spews in fountains from their mouths. I grip this weapon and I know that the hand that has made its mark upon the handle, smoothed it with long use, was bloated and white-blue when my body was finally pulled from the With’wind and taken to Tyrn Gorthad. Only I see these things and my mind echoes ‘Withywindle’ and ‘Barrows’ as I ponder it all and it’s as if I see and hear two things at once, one overlaid to the other, and I can’t tell which is the ghost.
Merry shook his head, let his eyes wander slowly over the dagger; the jewels encrusted in its collar and pommel, the sleek gold of the curved guard. Had Tom known to whom this had belonged? And had he understood, when he’d handed it so casually to Merry? Merry rather thought he had and wondered again what he might have been told, had he had the courage to ask about the brooch.
He sheathed the sword (dagger) and strapped the belt about his hips then threw his cloak around his shoulders. Hooking the clasp at his throat, he made his way to the door and stepped through.
He didn’t know what he hoped to accomplish with this bit of play at Guard of the Watch and actually felt a little silly as he made his way down the hall and out the door of the inn, attracting the odd glance now and again. Nothing to see here. Just a hobbit who can’t seem to get his mind to work properly and thinks he died once, going out for a bit of a stroll with a sword that he swears is a dagger strapped to his hip. Move along, then.
He shook his head and might have smacked some sense into his addled mind, if he thought it would do any good and wouldn’t attract more attention to himself. It was all rather ridiculous, really, but he was a Bucklander and Bucklanders knew the value of patrolling the perimeters. Merry had done so with his cousins on numerous occasions and countless more on his own. He’d been trained as a Bounder, as all of-age hobbits in Buckland were; he knew what he was doing. Moreover, he thought of Frodo on his knees before the very face of Evil and he knew why he was doing it.
It didn’t take long, as it turned out. Bree was much smaller than he’d originally thought. It surprised him; he would have thought that even a small village of Men would be enormous but he found that it was actually smaller than Bucklebury and only took him less than an hour to navigate the inner-circuit of the surrounding walls. No one paid him much heed, which was another surprise. With the exception of a sour glance from Harry at the gate, he found that the few who were about on the streets passed him by without much notice at all.
He approached the inn again feeling a little less foolish but no more settled. He’d forced his mind blank as he’d walked, concentrating on practicing the observation skills he’d been taught and applying them as he’d made his way along. He’d spotted far too many weak spots in the village’s defences, though that didn’t really surprise him. It wasn’t as though Bree had ever been attacked; at least not since the forces of Carn Dum had overrun Arthedain as Angmar marched the Great Road and took all--
“Oh, stop it!”
Merry scowled then took a quick glance about, hoping no one was loitering nearby. It wouldn’t do to have his bit of absurdity witnessed and then prattled about at the pub. Not only would he have some explaining to do to his companions but that wouldn’t exactly achieve their goal of coming and going without being noticed, would it?
He blew out an exasperated breath and fingered the hilt of his sword (dagger)--
“Oh, will you shut up!”
Bugger. He’d gone and done it again.
He once more peered around the immediate area and found no one about. He shook his head, suddenly wishing he’d thought to take his pipe from his pack and drop it into his pocket. A good, long smoke often settled him, when his nerves got to jangling.
He leaned back and peered up at the stars, bending all his will to the task of clearing his head, settling his mind. He turned a bit to the west, seeking out the Sickle, and smiled a little when he spotted it making its lazy way across the clear night sky. Even leagues away from the homey comfort of his own country, here, at least, was one thing that was familiar and unchanged.
It’s the Plough and it hung low the night the Moon was dipped in blood.
Merry clenched his jaw, blinked and gave his head a quick jerk. The stars had dulled, taken on a hazy red hue and a cold shiver travelled the length of Merry’s spine. A shadow moved, or rather, a void in the darkness where a shadow dared not go. It slithered over the ground just across the street from where he stood. His nose filled with the scent of smoke and blood and his mouth tasted suddenly of copper.
Anger filled his heart and fear and betrayal and all of it crashed through his veins in a swirling onslaught of black dread and terror. I know you, he thought and when the shadow moved away, rippled its way eastward, Merry was horrified to find his feet following.
* * *
Well, it seemed Bree wasn’t as safe as Merry had hoped, after all. ‘I thought I had fallen into deep water,’ he had said – or so he’d been told, anyway – and he supposed that was as good a way to describe the state of his muddled mind as any. Over his head and he knew it and sinking faster than he could tread water. He might as well have stones in his pockets.
It was too much and yes, it was as simple as that. Trees, Riders and Wights and even old Bombadil; things from children’s stories and legends, brought to life right before his eyes and all of them save one after the one Merry was supposed to be protecting. He would laugh if it weren’t so bloody pathetic. For all his plans and good intentions, Merry hadn’t protected anyone from anything – only managed to get himself in trouble and oh, he was going to catch it for that. Frodo had already flashed him a sharp glare and, after he’d barred the windows and when Strider began assisting Sam and Pippin with setting out their bedrolls, Merry was not at all surprised to see Frodo’s eyes seek him out, target him, pin him. A few quick strides later and Frodo was gripping his elbow with a firm hand and pulling him into the farthest corner.
“Are you all right?”
The concern in Frodo’s eyes temporarily masked the annoyance Merry knew was not far beneath. Merry squared his shoulders, nodded.
“I’m fine, Frodo.” He reached over, pushed lank curls out of Frodo’s eyes. “Just a little foggy, is all.”
Frodo ducked away from Merry’s touch, eyes dark and intense. “What did you think you were doing?” His voice was cold, angry.
Merry had expected something like this but still he found his teeth clenching and the blood pounding hot behind his eyes. “I was going for a walk, like I told--”
“And what were you doing going for a walk? Outside! By yourself!”
“I told you, I was merely--”
“Have you any idea what might have happened? Have you even the smallest clue what those things might have done to you?”
Bloody well better than you do, I’m thinking, Merry might have said but he kept a firm hold on his tongue.
Frodo’s grip on his elbow tightened, quickly became painful; Merry twisted his arm and Frodo only clamped down harder. His angry face was only inches from Merry’s own, voice low but crackling with a fury Merry had never heard in all his life. This he had not been expecting.
“What were you thinking? How could you be so blindingly stupid?”
Merry’s eyes narrowed. Angry himself now, he wrenched his arm from Frodo’s grip.
“I will thank you to keep your tone civil,” he grated. “I am not some child who needs scolding!”
“I will stop treating you like a child when you stop acting like one! I’ll ask again: what were you thinking?” Frodo’s cheeks were scarlet, his eyes dark and glittering with suppressed rage. “How could you possibly think it a good idea to go for a stroll, after dark, in a strange town, filled with Men twice your size, when you know we’re being pursued? Save us all, Merry, what were you thinking?”
“I really couldn’t say, Frodo,” Merry ground out through a burgeoning snarl. “Perhaps I was thinking the same thing you were when the Ring just ‘slipped’ onto your finger!”
Oh, mistake.
Frodo clenched his teeth, took Merry by the lapels and shoved him up against the wall. Merry was surprised he had the presence of mind to take a quick glance around the room; Sam and Pippin were very pointedly not looking their way but Strider’s dark, assessing gaze was fixed on them, though he made no move to insert himself into the hissed argument.
Merry knew what this was about, of course. He’d almost gone and got himself killed or worse – and not for the first time, since they’d started out – and Frodo was more frightened than angry. Knock-down/drag-outs were nothing new between them and it was only the fact that they knew each other so well and had the faith of many years of companionship in each other that had allowed their bond to survive them all these years. Still, this was not the time or place and certainly not the right company for such.
‘And guess who I ran into? Why, the very creature who murdered me hundreds of years ago! Small world, eh?
‘He is terrible, Frodo. He is Evil itself in tattered black robes and a crown full of screaming stars. I am terrified that he will drive you to your knees and slaughter you right in front of me and I don’t think I can bear it all again.’
No, he couldn’t very well speak a word of it, not with Frodo already angry and frightened and ready to throttle him in order to… what? Save him?
‘What would you say, Frodo, if I told you that the deep water I had fallen into was the Withywindle? Only now when I hear the name, I also hear ‘With’wind’ and feel the splash of my shattered body against its cold waters and I hear a name sung by the stars and I think it’s yours.
‘What would you say, if I told you that I have felt what it is like to die for love and it wasn’t really so bad?’
Merry shot another wary glance to the man by the window then closed his eyes, took a deep breath. He laid his hands gently over Frodo’s and looked him steadily in the eye.
“Love,” he said softly, “I’m all right. Nothing happened.”
Frodo’s face crumpled; the anger was suddenly gone and, in its place, fear stood stark and wretched. Tears shone bright in his eyes, though he did not let them fall.
“It might have.” It was a whisper, harsh and rough.
Merry again reached to brush wayward hair from Frodo’s eyes and this time, Frodo let him. “It didn’t.”
Frodo shook his head. “Merry…” He closed his eyes tight, swallowed. When he opened his eyes again, they were clear and hard. “I want you to take Pippin and go home.”
Merry felt his stomach clench and white noise roared between his ears.
Stars glimmer in blank eyes, their cold fire flickers as on pools of still water at midnight…
“No,” was all he managed and his voice was weak and reedy to his ears.
“I won’t argue.” Frodo spoke calmly, evenly. “You will sell me two ponies, for which you will bill the estate, and you will take Pippin home in the morning.”
Merry shook his head slowly, clarity working its way through the buzzing. “I won’t, Frodo. You can’t ask me to do this.”
“I’m not asking. You will go home and take Pippin with you and I won’t discuss it further.”
Frodo extracted his hands from Merry’s boneless grip, placed a palm to Merry’s cheek. “I’m sorry, love,” he said then leaned forward, pressed a warm kiss to Merry’s mouth. He pulled back, stroked Merry’s cheek. “Go home.”
Now, go, my brother. Before it is too late.
A slight movement caught the corner of Merry’s eye and he glanced over to see that Pippin had turned slightly, a steady gaze from those piercing eyes hacking through the gloom between them and honing in on Merry’s own. You know what he’s doing and why, those eyes told him. You’re not going to let him, are you?
Merry turned his head, set a gentle kiss to the palm of Frodo’s hand – I stand with you to the end, my lord – and again said, “No.”
Frodo’s brows drew together and he snatched his hand away. “Merry, I’m not going to argue about--”
“Do you really think I don’t know what you’re doing?” Merry asked him quietly.
“Apparently you don't, since you don’t seem to be understanding the simplest of instructions!”
“I don’t need your protection, Frodo. That isn't why I’m here.”
“And I don’t need yours!” Frodo retorted angrily.
“Well, you certainly need someone’s, don’t you?” Merry shot back, just as angrily.
“I have Sam and now I have Strider,” Frodo said, though his eyes flicked uneasily as he said it.
“Sam?”
Merry gaped. He skittered a glance across the room to find Sam’s eyes upon him. His gaze did not falter beneath Merry’s regard, only looked back evenly before moving to Frodo for a moment and then calmly back to Merry. Then Sam turned away slowly and laid himself down in front of the fire. Merry found himself feeling somehow assessed and dismissed. He looked back to Frodo and tried very hard not to look as wounded as he felt.
“You’ll keep Sam along and send me home? What am I to make of that, Frodo?”
Frodo sighed, rubbed at his brow. “Only that Strider can protect two better than four, Merry. Don’t make this into something it isn’t.”
“You don’t even know this Strider!”
“Will you keep your voice down?” Frodo hissed. He shot a glance over his shoulder then turned back to Merry. “I know enough. He’s a friend of Gandalf’s and he’s armed.”
“With a broken bloody sword!”
Frodo drew his hands into fists, clenched his jaw. “Look…” He paused, took a deep, calming breath. “Merry, do you trust me? Can you try to understand that I am only trying to do what’s right?”
“What’s right?” Merry chuffed a rueful snort. “For whom, Frodo? I would trust you with my life to do what’s right for everyone else but to do what’s best for yourself?” He shook his head. “Not as far as I could toss Strider over there.”
Frodo loosed an enraged, frustrated groan. “Why are you doing this?” he demanded. “I don’t want you along, Merry, I don’t want Pippin along. I should never have agreed to this in the first place and I shall rue it ‘til my bones are dust but I will not allow it to go further! This is not some childhood game of dragons and knights, where you can wield a branch of hickory and make the goblins disappear – this is life and death, Merry, and I won’t--”
Merry took Frodo roughly by the shoulders. “Did you think I don’t know that? Did you think we signed on for this because we wanted a few tales to tell at the pub on Highday?”
Frodo bent his neck with a weary sigh. “I don’t know why you came, Merry.” He turned exhausted eyes to Merry’s. “And I don’t know why I let you.” He gently removed Merry’s hands from their grip and held them in his own. “But I see my mistake now and I have no choice but to do right; you must go home.”
Merry snorted a cynical laugh. “You really don’t know, do you?” He shook his head in bitter-soft amazement. “I have never known a hobbit so stubbornly sure that no one could love him the same way he loves.” He drew his hands away. “A bit insulting, that.”
“Merry, I’m sorry this is causing you pain but I’m asking you -- please! I’ll beg, if that’s what you want.”
“Frodo, you can’t--”
“If you have any love for me, you will do as I ask!”
Merry stopped, smiled sadly, shook his head. “I have…” He reached over, gently brushed his fingertips against Frodo’s cheek. “…oh, such love for you and it near breaks my heart because I don’t think you’ll ever understand how much.”
I have loved no other, as I have you, my lord.
He leaned in, placed a soft, chaste kiss to Frodo’s mouth. “And I’m telling you…” Withdrew slowly, let the betrayal in Frodo’s eyes sink deep and said, yet again, “No.”
Merry moved past Frodo, made his way slowly over to his bedroll in front of the fire, ignoring the hard gaze of Strider while he shucked his coat and waistcoat and climbed beneath his blankets. He turned his back to the man, curled close to Pippin and Pippin, without opening his eyes, reached out and took Merry’s hand.
Frodo stood still for several moments, facing the wall, his shoulders slumped in defeat. Merry watched him through slitted eyes until he also turned and retreated to the fire. He schooled his breathing to an even semblance of sleep, kept his eyes closed and waited for Frodo to slip into his bedroll beside him, perhaps even pull him close with an arm about his middle and spoon up behind him, as had become a treasured habit.
But the embrace never came; instead, Frodo quietly picked up his bedroll and moved it down the line, settling in beside Sam.
The silence pounded into Merry’s ears, a steady beat in rhythm to his heart, becoming nigh unbearable with each silent second that slid by. Finally, he could stand it no longer.
“Jumped over the moon!” he chuckled hollowly, hoping desperately for even a small snort in return. “Very ridiculous of you, Frodo! But I wish I had been there to see. The worthies of Bree will be discussing it a hundred years hence.”
His only answer was a murmured, “I hope so,” from the window.
Frodo said nothing and to Merry, no silence had ever been so profound. Pippin squeezed his hand gently and Merry closed his eyes tight. It was some time before sleep finally came to him.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
Sam watched as Master Pippin leaned over Mr. Merry and spoke softly to his cousin, a comforting hand placed to his shoulder. He couldn’t hear what was said – not that it was any of his business – only saw Mr. Merry shake his head slowly. He said something back to Master Pippin, who rolled his eyes, straightened and sighed. He threw up his hands, looked across the camp to Mr. Frodo. Mr. Frodo only continued to dip a finger into the jar of salve Strider had given him and apply daubs of it to his numerous midge bites.
Sam echoed Master Pippin’s sigh and re-applied himself to setting out the bedrolls.
Five days of awkward silences between the gentlehobbits, five days of wary glances exchanged over supper bowls and five days of tension that near had Sam banging his head against a handy tree. Caught in the middle, that’s what he was -- and caught good and tight. He couldn’t be unaware of Mr. Merry’s suspicion of him, as though at any time, Sam might knock Mr. Frodo into a convenient bush and commence to snogging.
Not that Sam could exactly blame Mr. Merry; it were him as slept beside Mr. Frodo now and it were him who held him close in the night when his dreams took those dark turns that seemed all too frequent these days. Sam hadn’t meant to take Mr. Merry’s place but… well, he couldn’t exactly tell his master not to sleep beside him, could he? And he couldn’t just lie there and watch as he thrashed and called out in his dreams. Sam’d had nothing at all to do with their row and it weren’t his fault that a job needed doing and Sam was the only one as could do it.
It wasn’t Sam’s fault that he were good at things Mr. Merry hadn’t even known a person needed to learn to be good at before now and Sam couldn’t help the bit of possessive pride he felt at the knowledge. And though Sam had to admit that Mr. Merry’s poorly-hidden fits of jealousy were almost amusing at first, now the whole thing was making him nearly as miserable as his master and the riverhobbit. Yesterday morning had been a bit of a blow for everyone and Sam had to regret that it were him as caused it.
He’d come awake to find his arm locked securely over Mr. Frodo’s middle. He usually woke early enough that he could disentangle himself before Mr. Frodo woke and so he didn’t really know if Mr. Frodo was aware of this sleeping arrangement or not. All he knew was that it helped ease his master through the dreams and what else was Sam here for, if not to try and make things easier for his master? And anyway, if he did know, he hadn’t said Sam nay, so Sam wasn’t about to try and fix something that weren’t broke yet.
Well, he knew then, at any rate, because when Sam opened his eyes yesterday, Mr. Frodo’s eyes were already open, though looking up and thankfully not at Sam. He laid still on his back, his face in profile to Sam. Sam lay unmoving, feigned sleep; he were only doing what was necessary and wouldn’t apologise for it but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t avoid an uncomfortable situation if he could fake his way through it.
The morning’s first light set rose-gold upon Frodo’s cheeks and caught up just the smallest glimmer beneath thick, dark lashes. There was something quiet and full of melancholy in that face and Sam couldn’t help but wonder if his thoughts were on Mr. Merry. His mouth was turned down just the slightest bit, giving his features a sadness that was depthless but oh, so beautiful and Sam wished he could reach out, caress that smooth cheek and set a smile there with his touch.
Then Mr. Frodo blinked, sighed, said, "Merry..."
Sam startled, lifted his head and only then did he see Mr. Merry standing above them, gazing down into Mr. Frodo’s eyes with a sadness that matched, depth-for-depth, the one looking back at him.
Sam froze, only too aware of his arm stretched possessively across Mr. Frodo’s middle. His skin prickled and his stomach flipped and all he could do was just lie there and watch, mute, as Mr. Merry’s eyes moved from Frodo’s to his own. Sam opened his mouth, found no words to say and so he closed it again, withdrew his embrace. Mr. Merry just closed his eyes briefly, dipped his head before he slowly turned, walked away with leaden steps.
Sam sat up, his head spinning and blood beating a heavy staccato behind his eyes. Mr. Frodo sat up next to him and Sam turned to him, shook his head and shrugged helplessly before hanging his head, unable to endure the weary gaze that met his own.
“Mr. Frodo, I…” His voice was rough, cracked with emotion and the last tatters of sleep. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry, Mr. Frodo, I never meant--”
“Sam.”
Sam lifted his head slowly, braved those eyes. Mr. Frodo smiled softly at him, shook his head and then, to Sam’s utter amazement, he leaned in, placed a warm, soft kiss to Sam’s cheek.
“You’re a very good friend,” he said and that was all. He stood, graceful as a river reed in a summer breeze to Sam’s eyes. He gave Sam a soft, sad smile and went to wake Master Pippin.
Sam shook his head. There wasn’t anything he could do and he knew it; just keep on as he’d been until they’d worked it out or called it quits for good. Sam didn’t know what Mr. Merry had made of it all in his own mind but he knew it couldn’t be good and that, regardless of Sam’s own intentions, Mr. Merry had read far more into the situation than was really there. Sam would never dream of taking advantage in a million years, as if Mr. Frodo would allow it anyhow. But Mr. Merry had never been as open and accepting of Sam as Master Pippin and Mr. Frodo were and just lately he’d been… well, ‘cold’ were putting it a bit mildly. But Sam knew that the Bucklander loved his master madly and would do anything – as much as Sam would himself – to keep him safe and that, more than anything else, made Sam love him, whether he wanted it or no. Well... sort of. A little. Maybe.
But the sadness on Mr. Merry’s face that morning… sent a knife through Sam’s heart, it did, and he found himself reluctantly wishing that Mr. Frodo would just let the poor hobbit off the hook already.
“Sam?”
He jumped, turned quickly in surprise. Mr. Frodo loomed over him in the twilight, an amused smile turning up the corners of his mouth.
“I’m sorry, Sam, I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Sam took a deep breath. “Just wool-gathering, Mr. Frodo.” He straightened the blankets and stood. “Can I help you with summat, sir?”
“If you’d be so kind,” Frodo answered. He held out the jar to Sam. “There are some bites on my back I can’t reach. Would you be good enough to daub a bit of this on them for me?”
Sam stared at the jar, his mouth suddenly dry. “What about Master Pip?” he heard himself say.
Mr. Frodo’s smile faltered a little and the jar sagged. “I’m afraid neither of my cousins are entirely happy with me at the moment,” he admitted. He shrugged, looked down.
Sam stared, shifted from one foot to the other. He couldn’t do this. Even if his intentions were honest – which they were, regardless of what Mr. Merry might make of it all – this weren’t right, not when Mr. Merry sat not twenty paces away. Blast this big, flapping heart of his, anyway.
Sam cleared his throat. “I don’t think I’d better, Mr. Frodo.”
Frodo frowned, his shoulders slumped and colour rose to his cheeks. “Oh,” he said, his voice small. “I’m sorry, Sam. I didn’t mean to presume…” He shook his head. “Well, I didn’t actually presume anything, I only thought… Well…” His frown deepened. “Sam, aren’t we friends?”
Sam’s jaw flapped in surprise. “Of course, Mr. Frodo!” It was more than he could do to hold that sad, bewildered gaze for one more minute and Sam dropped his eyes to his feet.
“Well, then why…” Frodo shrugged. “I suppose I could ask Strider but… well, that just feels a little awkward and I thought-- Ow! Hoy!”
Sam looked up to see the tip of Frodo’s ear gripped between Master Pippin’s fingers and, if the fact that Master Pippin’s fingertips were white with the pressure was any indication, it appeared to be a very firm grip.
“Bloody damn, Pippin, leave off! What do you think you’re doing?”
Pippin ignored Frodo, looked at Sam. “Excuse us, Sam, I’m sure you won’t mind if I have a private chat with my cousin?”
Frodo twisted, brought a hand up to latch onto Pippin’s wrist. “Peregrin Took, I swear, if you don’t want to learn what a pig on the skewer feels like--”
“Mmm, roast pork,” Pippin interjected then gripped harder, wrenched Frodo’s head until he had no choice but to stoop over or lose that ear. “Sam?”
Sam’s jaw came loose on its hinges. “Erm…” He blinked a few times, closed his mouth, stared. Pippin just kept looking at him with that serene little smile, waiting, while Sam’s master writhed in apparent pain. Not knowing what else to do, Sam turned and fled. Apparently, this was between cousins and Sam suddenly found himself very glad that he was not included in their number.
* * *
“Bugger all, Peregrin, leave off!”
Pippin did but not without a good, hard wrench first. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Frodo stared at his cousin, stunned, and rubbed at his ear. “What do you mean, what am I--”
“I would never have pegged you for a tease, Frodo Baggins, but this is just too much!”
Frodo gaped like a landed fish. “A-- You-- I have no--” He gave his head a shake, looked to Pippin with incredulous eyes. “A tease?”
“Oh, Frodo, either you’re the best troubadour I’ve ever witnessed or you’re as dumb as a box of rocks. Are you going to tell me that you have no idea what you’re playing at?”
The shock was wearing off and bewilderment had set in firm, along with growing anger.
“I assure you that I am playing at nothing and the only rocks are the ones in your head! What in blue blazes are you talking about?!”
“So, Sam and Merry have been growling at each other like two dogs over a bone since before we even left home and you’re going to tell me that you never noticed?”
Frodo shook his head. “Merry and… I have no… What?”
Pippin huffed, looked to the sky and rolled his eyes. “Sweet stars, you really are dense.” He leaned in, took Frodo by the shoulders. “Frodo,” he said calmly, “your gardener is desperately in love with you, your cousin isn’t liking it one little bit and here you are, asking said gardener to put his hands in places gardeners ought not go and all of this only yards away from said cousin.”
“Gardener…” Frodo shook his head, his eyes blank. “Sam… No, he's... It isn't...” He blinked. “What?”
Pippin frowned. “Do you mean to say that you really didn’t see it?”
Frodo’s head was still moving slowly back and forth. “See… wait, no… what?” He narrowed his eyes. “What?”
Pippin scrutinised his cousin closely, breathed a disbelieving laugh. “Bloody damn, it’s really true: you are the most intelligent person I know and you’ve not a lick of sense.”
Frodo just blinked at him, his jaw hanging. “What?”
Pippin rolled his eyes, took Frodo by the elbow. “Come on,” he said. “Let’s sit you down before you fall. We need to talk.”
|
And what was he to say, at any
rate? ‘I didn’t go for a stroll, Frodo, I went to spy about because I was
afraid those creatures would come for you and I wanted to be ready. What I
thought I could do, I really couldn’t say, but there I was with a sword at my
belt and you know we Brandybucks -- always like to be prepared, we always say.