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Counterpoint, Movement IX
Dissonance: Harsh, discordant, and lack of harmony.
* * *
The black wind came and it came hard. Merry could smell it, feel it and 'cold' was too tame a word for what shuddered over his skin. It reached right down into his soul, throttled it, and he knew the touch, recognised the despair that took him by the throat and blackened his senses.
They came all at once, five of them; three pressing towards their small company and two standing as rear-guard. Tall and terrible and they came swift as the wind. Iron boots tore gashes in the earth as they advanced and Merry could smell the grass bleed in their wake.
A spiked iron boot laid to his torso and then he is sliding boneless into the sluggish current
His mind was a storm of echoes. Time shifted beneath his feet, became liquid, malleable then slipped and slurred its way through the fabric of the Ages. Lifeless grey eyes shimmered with dying stars, cast in pale crimson by a laughing blood-moon; raven hair trapped gold from the flare of smoking lamps and sombre musical poetry dripped languid from a faraway smile.
He lies embraced in the depths of the With'wind and he watches the stars fade above him
Everything was draped in black and cold breath scraped crawling frozen flame over his skin. Dread walked in spiked iron boots and Merry's blood recognised the vile touch.
I know you.
A shadowless void, wrapped in tattered darkness, and it seized his heart, wounded his mind. It crept inside him, seeking, searching…
"'Tis the Witch, my King, and I am afraid!"
He clutched at Arveleg's (Pippin's) vambrace (sleeve), pulled him to the ground.
In the black wind, the stars shall die
And Merry watched his king fall once more, felt again the terror in his heart as he stepped in front of…
No. No!
Not Arveleg, not a losing battle for a kingdom lost thousands of years ago and there was no stain of blood upon the Moon. This was real, this was now, and these creatures from the realm of the damned were seeking…
"Frodo!"
He knew he'd shouted, screamed, but nothing emerged but a sharp huff of air. He struggled to lift himself, get to his feet, but his limbs seemed bound to the earth.
He kneels in the dirt as though his knees have been pinned to the earth itself, the blood of the one he loves above all seeping beneath him, staining his boots
No!
"Frodo!"
No sound, not even a chuff of strangled breath.
A spear put through his chest then turned, wrenched and oily laughter hissing its cold filth right through to his bones
He opened his mouth again on a silent scream and…
And a voice answered, sliced through the murk covering his mind, hacked and bludgeoned its way through. It came as though from a distance, calling out strange words that he almost knew, then a jagged cry, a scream and this terror was sharper, deeper. The voice belonged to Frodo and it carried agony within it and Merry knew that it was already too late.
Then…
All was silent and they were gone.
Merry felt as though he'd stepped outside his own body, as if he were merely a character in someone else's nightmare. Too fast, too terrifying and his limbs felt weak and leaden. He struggled to move but couldn't even lift his face from the grass. He felt pinned, trapped, as though he were straddling two worlds at once and unable to decide in which one he belonged .
A spear through his chest but his chest is even now pressed to the cold, damp ground. He speaks a name to silted waters but he can taste dirt and grass on his tongue.
It was only when he heard Sam's voice shouting for Frodo that he felt Pippin's hand on his arm, shaking him.
"Move, Merry! Up with you! We have to find Frodo!"
"Find…" Merry's blood stirred sluggish and cold in his veins. He stumbled to his feet, clutched Pippin's sleeve. "Have they…" He couldn't make his mouth move properly, couldn't get his tongue to curl around the words nor his voice to emerge in anything but a weak croak. "Have they taken him?"
Sam called out again, his voice desperate and stark against the cold night air. Pippin turned towards the voice, twisted from Merry's grip. Merry yanked him back with a trembling hand to Pippin's cloak.
"Have they--"
"I don't know!" Pippin cried, once again pulling away. His face was white, eldritch and haunted in the uncertain starlight. His eyes glittered with fear, anger, self-reproach and all of it, all of it sank cold and deep into Merry's bones.
"It'll be all right." Pippin's voice was calm but his eyes were frantic and darted desperately about the darkness. "Merry, he's fine, I tell you, we just--"
"Mr. Frodo!"
Sam's voice again, reedy and full of tears. Sam had been standing right next to Frodo and, if he didn't know where he was, then--
"Stay together!" Strider's voice boomed. "Don't scatter!" but it seemed no one paid him any heed.
Pippin took a quick glance over his shoulder then turned back to Merry, eyes fierce.
"Pull it together, Meriadoc," he ordered and the command in that normally soft, cheerful voice somehow gave Merry strength. "We've a job to do and no time for panic. Now, buck up and let's find him!"
Merry nodded sharply, set his jaw then turned towards the spot he last remembered seeing Frodo. The terror that had seized him upon the Riders' approach now drained from his heart, replaced by one more clear, more substantial and much more profound. He pushed it away, set his mind to the business at hand and filled himself with cold determination.
If they'd made off with Frodo, there was still hope; whatever the Riders themselves might be, they still rode horses, real and living. Beasts of blood and bone could be tracked and Strider had already proven his skill at tracking. If they moved out now, set their pace at a run, there was hope – however dim – that they could somehow catch up. What they would do if they did catch up, Merry refused to think on; only set himself on first determining whether Frodo was indeed truly gone, or whether he was lying somewhere here in the dark, blanketed in shadows, unconscious, or…
Cold be hand and heart and bone
"Unconscious," Merry wheezed through clenched teeth. He would not allow his addled mind to take that thought further. It was the most reasonable conclusion, he told himself. They had closed in on Frodo, tried to take the Ring and Frodo had fought them, as Frodo would. They'd struck him, perhaps overly hard – they were so large, after all – and he was now simply lying somewhere about, senseless, easy enough to rouse, once they found him.
Stars glimmer in blank eyes, their cold fire flickers as on pools of still water at midnight
"Stop it! Damn you, leave off and get out of my head!"
On your knees, errant King of Gondor
Did you die on your knees, Frodo? Did you wonder why I did not stand beside you as you fell?
No! Not dead, not dead, not dead! Frodo was not some lost king from ages past and his blood was not now sanctifying the ground of that king's long ago realm. Merry was simply going mad.
Ah, but that scream!
"Stop it! Get your bleeding head together or you're no good to anyone!"
Frodo was not dead! Taken, perhaps but--
No, not taken. Why would the Riders make off with him, anyway? It was the Ring they wanted and they certainly wouldn't bother with Its bearer, once they had It, would they? The worst that might have happened was that they'd overtaken Frodo and got at the Ring; in which case the whole thing was now Strider's problem and, once Frodo woke, Merry could turn them all for home and be done with this dangerous, unnatural business and perhaps get his mind back while he was at it. Perhaps that would be for the best anyway. It would be out of Frodo's hands -- no reason for further travel, further danger, and they could all turn back and leave this Ring business up to Rangers and Wizards and… whoever else might bear more responsibility for the whole mess than a hobbit from the Shire, who never asked for anything more from anyone than a good smoke and a warm--
His eye caught on a shadow, a vague shape just a little bit darker than the ground, and he bent, reached towards it. His heart pounded, his mouth was dry and he watched his hand reaching out as though it belonged to someone else.
Not dead, not dead, he'll be all right, please let him be--
A shuffle, a sharp cry just a few paces to his left. Merry startled, whirled and then a wail sounded, eerie and hopeless, made all the more jarring when he recognised the voice.
"Mr. Frodo!" Sam cried. "Master!"
Merry hadn't thought he could be any colder, hadn't thought his heart could wrench so in his chest, yet still continue to beat. He turned back to what lay before him, laid a hand to it.
A pack. Just a bloody pack! So, what Sam had found must be…
No, please! Ten minutes, please just turn back the clock ten minutes and I'll do better, I'll stand with him, I'll stand before him, please, just—
"Help! Someone help! I've found him!"
Two more shapes sprinting in the darkness towards Sam's voice and now Merry could make out the shape of Sam himself, kneeling on the ground over a still form, curled in shadows. Merry just stared, his feet feeling as though they'd taken root in the ground.
I only hope that I do not live long enough to see the life fall from your eyes
Strider brushed past him and Merry barely even registered his passage, only felt the breeze stir his hair from the clammy sweat on his brow. His fingers tingled and his head felt as though it had suddenly become too light, filled with cotton.
"Is he all right? Frodo!"
Pippin's voice rang sharp through Merry's head, slammed up against the backs of his eyes. Sam's was no less frantic.
"I don't know! He won't move nor wake."
Pippin was kneeling on Frodo's other side now. Merry watched as he reached out, shook Frodo's shoulder.
"Frodo! Come, now, wake up!"
"Don't move him!" Strider flew past Merry once again, this time with torch in-hand, and the other hobbits leaned back to give him room. Strider handed the torch off to Pippin. "Hold this up, so I can see. Sam, help me roll him over. Gently, now!"
They rolled him slowly, Sam holding his head steady as Strider turned his body until he lay on his back on the ground. Frodo's sword now lay beside him, glittering both gold and silver with torch and stars. His face was deathly pale, half in shadow and half an unsettlingly ethereal white-blue, mottled in wavering gold, and Merry saw blank grey eyes, reflecting starlight beneath a blood-moon.
"Blood!" Sam wailed. "Look at his shoulder!"
He kneels in the dirt as though his knees have been pinned to the earth itself, the blood of the one he loves above all seeping beneath him, staining his boots
Stopitstopitstopit! I haven't the heart for your sad story, not now, not when--
"What is--" Pippin's mouth flapped and he lifted shocked, furious eyes to Strider. "Has he been knifed?"
The man didn't answer, just placed his hands to either side of Frodo's head and stared intently into the still face. Pippin's brow creased and his lip curled into an impatient snarl.
"I asked you a question! What is--"
Strider held up his hand and Pippin reared back a little, suddenly silent. The man's hands moved slowly, gently over Frodo's body, fingertips lingering at the base of his jaw, his palm laid to Frodo's chest. He dipped his head, closed his eyes. All were quiet in the starlit dell and the silence grew loud, gained weight, became more leaden with each passing moment.
"Does he live?" Pippin finally whispered. No answer and Pippin shot a look of sorrow over to Merry. Merry didn't know what Pippin saw looking back at him but he guessed that, whatever his face shown, it must have been akin to the depthless grief that lay heavy in his heart, because Pippin stopped then clenched his jaw, blinked back tears and turned back to Strider. He took hold of the man's sleeve, shook. "Does he live?"
Strider opened his eyes slowly, turned them to Pippin. Merry waited, breathless, bloodless, knowing the answer that would surely come and denying it all with every shred of will he possessed.
"He lives," Strider said.
Merry was already staring at the grass beneath his hands before he realised he'd fallen to his knees. His whole body shook and he watched from another world as tears fell from his burning eyes and spattered on the backs of his hands.
"Why is he so cold?" Sam croaked and Merry heard it through the white roar in his head.
Then Pippin was there, "Hush, love, didn't I tell you?" and a warm hand on his shoulder and Merry had to close his eyes, concentrate on breathing, taking air steadily in and pushing it back out of his lungs, in order to prevent himself from swooning like a virgin lass on her wedding night.
The blood that had drained from Merry now came rushing back, scorching his cheeks with shame. Failed, he'd failed at everything, everything! What was he, that he could leave Frodo like that, himself writhing on the ground in his own terror, while Frodo faced…
Ah, Frodo, I'm so sorry. But I was busy dying, you see.
Sam had been the only one to stay firm beside Frodo, make a stand at his side. And when they'd found him – when Sam had found him – Merry'd just stood there, stood here and here he still stayed, hugging the ground, weeping like a child, while others saw to Frodo's care.
Worse, he saw all of this with cruel clarity, yet could not make himself move, could not make himself stand and go to Frodo, where he lay senseless and--
"…cold! Feel his hand! And look at all this blood!"
"I know, Sam. Let us get him to the fire and we shall see what can be done."
Pippin was tugging at Merry's elbow and Merry realised that he was trying to pull him to his feet.
"Up you get, Merry-lad."
He did his best to help, his legs wobbly, his head still too light. He shook his head, stumbled and leaned heavily into Pippin to keep his feet.
"I'm all right," he said gruffly, his voice weak and harsh. He cleared his throat, straightened his back, said again, "I'm all right." He turned towards the others, found the eyes of Strider and Sam upon him, and he didn't know if it was simply that his own self-rebuke coloured his perception or whether what he saw was truly there, but he found himself feeling judged and pronounced lacking.
"We could use some help, here." Strider's voice was soft, not unkind.
Merry said nothing, just nodded and hurried over to Frodo's side, Pippin coming more slowly behind. Tears stood cold on his cheeks and he swiped his sleeve across his face. He knelt across from Strider, trained his gaze steady, waiting.
"We'll need soft cloths," Strider began, his tone stern and full of authority. "Have you clean spare shirts?"
Pippin leapt up and paced quickly over to their packs. Upon reaching them, he immediately began rooting through, searching for the requested items, heedless of what belonged to whom.
Merry reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a clean handkerchief. Then he dug in Frodo's trouser pocket and withdrew another. He handed them both to Strider.
"Will these do for now?"
Strider snatched them up. "Very nicely, for the moment."
"Mr. Frodo always carries another in his coat pocket," Sam said and moved a hand toward Frodo's hip. "He's never without two, never, ever, not since he were a wee lad, Mr. Bilbo says, not after he heard the stories of Mr. Bilbo's Adventure and then Mr. Frodo told him, he said--"
"Sam," Merry said gently, laid his hand to Sam's. Sam stopped, looked to Merry with clouded eyes, pulled his hand away. Merry let go, shook his head. "I'm sorry." His voice was thin and cracked. "He…" He looked back at Sam, shook his head again. "He lost it. Just yesterday."
Sweet stars, had it only been yesterday? I only just got him back…
Strider glanced between Merry and Sam briefly, quickly dismissed them. He began unbuttoning Frodo's waistcoat, large hands fumbling at the small buttons.
Merry brushed the man's hands away. "I'll do it," he said and suited action to words. He finished with the buttons of the waistcoat… and stopped, drew in a harsh breath. "So much blood," he whispered, his eyes fastened to the shirt he knew should be white but which now sported a flowering patch of blood, from the column of buttons at his breastbone to where Frodo's coat still covered his arm. The torchlight gave the stark scarlet of the stain a garish, cheerful cast and Merry's gorge rose. He glanced to the man, who only looked back at him, waiting. Merry chewed his lip and quickly unbuttoned the shirt then pulled it back to expose the wound itself.
"Why that's hardly anything at all!" Sam sputtered, his voice high-pitched and shaky with relief. "All that blood come from that little thing?"
He smiled up at Merry and Merry felt Sam's relief spread over him as a blessing. Sam knew about things like this; if he was relieved then maybe--
"Small it is," Strider conceded, though his voice remained grave. He leaned closer, brought the torch as close as he dared. He feathered his fingers over the edges of the wound and Frodo stirred, groaned.
"Hoy!" Sam barked, at the same time as Merry's, "You're hurting him!"
Strider peered at them both with the lift of an eyebrow. "You are healers, then?"
Sam glared, shot back, "Are you?"
"Yes," was the curt reply.
Both subsided but continued to watch the man's actions with wary eyes. Strider went back to his business, peered at the wound a little more closely, prodded its edges. Frodo twitched a little, tossed his head. Merry only watched as Sam brought his hand gently to Frodo's cheek, stroked softly and hummed a little, the tone soothing and soft and filled with a love and tenderness that Merry recognised only too well. Frodo's brow creased and he turned his cheek into Sam's palm, sighed a little and then was still. Merry couldn't help the small stab of remorse that slid through him, wishing it were his hand, his touch that had brought such comfort. But then Sam turned to him, his eyes full of pain and worry, and Merry couldn't help but see himself in their depths, couldn't help but recognise the spirit within, kindred to his own, and he found, for the first time since his revelation at the pub this past summer, that he could love Sam Gamgee, deep and abiding, and for no other reason than that he loved the one Merry himself loved with such depth and devotion. He reached over, placed a hand firmly to Sam's shoulder and gave a squeeze. Sam just hung his head, his shoulders quivering. Strider poked some more at the wound and Frodo flinched, gargled a small cry. Merry and Sam looked helplessly to each other and bit their tongues. Strider was just packing the wound with the handkerchiefs when Pippin approached, clutching two shirts of his own and one of Merry's.
"I'd've nicked the other as well," Pippin said when he saw Merry eyeing his loot, "but it seems you've not done wash since the Marshes, lazy sod." He tried to grin then turned to Sam. "You've only the one other, so we'll use these." He held all three shirts out to the Ranger.
"Take them over to the fire," Strider ordered. "Tear one for bandages but we may not need the others. It's a clean wound and, if we can stop the flow, it should heal up nicely." He turned back to Merry and Sam. "Get him over to the fire," he told them. "Walk softly and try not to jostle him or you may get it flowing again. Lay him down, keep the flames stoked high and keep him warm. Apply pressure to the wound with a clean cloth."
Pippin was already back by the fire and Merry was cataloguing the instructions in his head and so didn't notice that the man had stood until Sam said, "Where are you going?" Strider did not answer, only strode quickly away, leaving the hobbits frowning at each other, bewildered and a little suspicious.
Merry squared his shoulders. "All right, I'll carry him over. You spot me while I get to my feet and then hie to the fire and lay out his bedroll."
Sam nodded then pushed himself around to Frodo's other side, steadied him while Merry slid his arms under Frodo's shoulders and knees. "All right, Sam, I'm ready," Merry said then Sam hurried behind him and helped him lever himself up, kept hold of him until he was steady on his feet.
Merry looked down at Frodo, his face lax, save for a slight crease in his brow. His head flopped back over the crook of Merry's elbow and his left arm dangled lifeless down from his side. Something about it all – the stillness, the limp unresponsiveness – brought the tears close, crowded behind Merry's eyes.
Sam was just turning to start over to arrange the blankets for Merry to lay Frodo on when Merry stopped him.
"Sam, I… could you…"
Merry couldn't seem to find the proper words, just stared at Sam, pleading silently for him to understand. Miraculously, Sam did; with slow, tender care, Sam pulled Frodo's shirt closed, took Frodo's hand between his two, chafed it gently then placed it up to lay upon his chest. Then he slipped a hand behind Frodo's nape and tucked his head up beneath Merry's chin. He ran his fingers reverently through Frodo's hair then looked to Merry with a small, wounded smile, tears bright in his eyes, glinting in the starlight as they made their slow way down his cheeks. Merry once again felt his own cheeks wet with tears, found he didn't care. He nodded his thanks to Sam then made his careful way over to the fire.
* * *
Merry sat with his back propped against their packs, Frodo leaning back against his chest with his head resting on Merry's shoulder. Merry laid his cheek to Frodo's temple and watched Strider speaking with Sam. The man's voice, startling and sharp to Merry's ears only a few days ago, now dipped annoyingly low, making it impossible for Merry to hear a single word. Sam's face, though… that told Merry everything he might want to know and many things he'd rather not hear at all.
"Merry?"
He dipped the cloth into the small pot beside him, bent his head and kissed Frodo's cheek. He wrung out the cloth then placed it gently inside Frodo's shirt and over the wound.
"What, love?"
Frodo sighed, shifted a little. "If Pippin tries to make me drink one more cup of tea, I might just have to kill him."
Merry chuckled. "Well," he answered, carefully swiping the cloth, cleansing away dried blood, "here's as good a place as any to dump the body, I suppose."
Frodo snorted, arched and hissed a little then settled back against Merry again. Merry smoothed his fingers through Frodo's hair, ran a hand up and down his right arm until he felt some of the tension runnel from him. They were silent for a while, Merry continuing to bathe the wound, refreshing the cloth in the warm water often. It was pinkening again; Merry would have to get Pippin to change it out soon.
He lifted his head, scanned about for his younger cousin. Pippin had created himself a little station beside the fire, with Sam's pots all filled with water, sitting on stones to keep warm beside it and the small pile of bandages sitting atop one of the food pouches, a clean pair of Pippin's own trousers wrapped about them to keep them clean. Pippin stood still -- at the moment busily staring down the water over the fire, willing it to boil so it might cool in time for Merry's use; he had quite a little method going over there. Merry smiled, stared steadily at him, hoping he'd feel the gaze eventually and take his cue to bring over the next pot of fresh water. Pippin only continued to glare at the pot, so Merry opened his mouth to call to him when Frodo said something, so soft and low that Merry didn't catch it.
"Hmm?" Merry turned his attention back to Frodo. "Did you say something?"
"I said…" Frodo hesitated, swallowed then closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."
Merry's eyebrows rose. "Sorry?" He brushed Frodo's hair from his sweaty brow. "Whatever for? Have you gone and smoked up all the weed? Drank all the ale? You ought to be ashamed of yourself, cousin. The party will have to be cancelled now and Pippin will be sorely disappointed."
Frodo laughed softly, eyes still closed. "You were going to have a party? I'd not received an invitation. I'm hurt."
"Well, you've gone and spoiled it now, anyway. Sam was so hoping for a dance with Strider. I doubt he'll ever forgive you."
"And Sam so light on his feet," Frodo murmured. "Pity."
Merry smiled, dipped his head, laid a soft kiss to Frodo's temple. "You've not a single thing to be sorry for, love. I'm the one who should be sorry."
Frodo's eyes flew open and he turned his face to Merry, eyes narrowed. "You? What on earth have you got to be sorry for?"
"Well…" Merry turned his head, his cheeks heating. "As it turns out, it seems there might be a latent yellow-streak running through the Brandybuck line."
"Your father would wash your mouth out," Frodo told him. "And then he'd beat you soundly."
Merry could only flash a pained smile; it was there and gone in less than an instant. "I can't describe to you what happened when those creatures came but…" Frodo covered Merry's right hand with his own and Merry swallowed. "I wasn't there when you needed me," he went on. "Everything happened so fast and my head was… I don't know. My mind doesn't seem my own just lately and I couldn't…" Merry shook his head, closed his eyes and buried his face in Frodo's shoulder. "I'm so sorry."
Frodo squeezed his hand tight. "Listen to me, Meriadoc: there was nothing you could have done but get yourself killed. You heard what Strider said about those Riders; what they can do, how they can affect a person's wits." Frodo's brow creased and he chewed his lip. "I should never have let you come." His eyes drifted over to the fire. "You or Pippin. I was too weak and too relieved and I let myself--"
"Frodo, please don't do--"
"This is my fault, I…" He closed his eyes again, lowered his voice to a whisper. "I wanted to get away, Merry. I was bloody terrified and I…" He clenched his teeth. "I want to say that I couldn't help it but… I just don't know. I should have tried, I should have been stronger but I so badly wanted…" He opened his eyes, looked at Merry and Merry thought his heart might break with the pain that shone from them. "I think I would have left you all. If I'd have got away, I really think I might have kept going."
Merry looked back at him, brushed his knuckles against Frodo's cheek. "And I'd've cheered you on and told you to run faster." Frodo just stared at him, the grief in his eyes spiking yet higher, and Merry leaned in, placed a soft kiss to lips cold and still. And Merry wanted so badly to take some of the ache from that gaze, make something just a little bit better, so he dragged a small smile from somewhere within, chuckled weakly. "Of course, only after I'd got done changing my drawers."
Frodo stared up at Merry for a long moment before his eyes began to leak quietly, fat tears sliding down his cheeks, catching the weakening starlight and dripping onto his bared chest. And then his face crumpled and he closed his eyes, turned away, chest rising and falling in silent, truncated sobs.
"Oh, love," Merry whispered and then couldn't say any more as his own tears rose, choked him. He dropped his cloth into the fouled water and wrapped both arms about Frodo's chest as tightly as he dared then tucked his head beneath his chin. Merry held him, rocked gently, crooning the same wordless noise he'd heard Sam humming only a short while ago, as Frodo tried not to weep, choked on strangled sobs.
Merry didn't know how long he sat there, just rocking and soothing and counting each breath that Frodo hitched into his chest. But the sky had greyed the slightest bit with approaching dawn when he next opened his eyes and Frodo had subsided, quiet and subdued by the time Pippin made his cautious way over. He smiled brightly at Merry, balancing a pot of hot water in one hand and a tin cup in the other.
"Frodo, I've brought you more tea."
And Frodo snorted against Merry's shirt, his shoulders shaking with soft laughter this time.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
Day Seven.
"Is it helping at all, Frodo?"
Frodo clamped his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut. "It's, um…" Merry's fingers dug into an especially tender spot and Frodo couldn't help the flinch and cry.
"I'm sorry!"
Merry's hand flattened against Frodo's arm, rubbed up and down and, gentle as the touch was, it still had his nerve-endings jittering against each other as sharp little crystals of ice scraping beneath his skin. He held back tears of pain with all his will.
"Merry... please," he whispered and tried very hard not to let his voice shake. "Could you just… just stop, all right?"
The hands went away and Frodo breathed a shaky sigh of relief. How many days had it been, now? He couldn't remember; one bled right into another and the pain grew with each passing minute. He'd been in a haze of pure agony for what seemed endless years and the only way he marked the days was the steady worsening of it when the Sun fell and the slightest of easing when it reappeared.
And try as he might to comfort Frodo even a little, Merry seemed to have a talent for hitting exactly the wrong spot or almost force-feeding exactly the wrong food.
Food in general tended to make his stomach turn and, up until tonight, Frodo had been getting away nicely with either pushing his food about until no one was looking and then dumping it back into the pot or just simply pretending he'd already eaten his fill by the time the others sat down. It was horribly deceptive but broths and teas seemed to be the only things he could swallow without difficulty and he simply hadn't the energy to argue over it – and he had no doubt an argument would be unavoidable, should Merry take notice. Sam knew what was what but thankfully chose to keep Frodo's secret. That is, until Frodo's own stupidity tripped him up.
Merry had helped him change his shirt when they'd stopped to camp and, had Frodo been thinking clearly, he would have just kept the grimy one on and saved himself all of the resulting bother. As it was, he had asked Merry to help him and when Merry caught a look at his thinning frame and his ribs jutting beneath his skin, he had lifted horrified eyes to Frodo's and nearly wept right there.
A great portion of the following two hours had been passed with Merry trying to cram enough jerky down Frodo's throat to choke a dragon and Frodo in turns refusing and relenting. In the end, the memory of Merry's expression when he'd helped Frodo into his shirt and his sad, determined eyes as he'd pressed the jerky on him prevailed. Frodo managed two strips of the stuff and now regretted every last bite. He could feel his stomach roiling and churning and the bile rising in the back of his throat and he clenched his teeth against it.
"Frodo, tell me what you need."
I need you to stop looking at me as though I am the most wretched thing you've ever laid eyes on. I need you to believe me when I tell you that I just need everyone to let me be for a little while. I need you to stop believing that you can make everything right if you just push hard enough, pretend hard enough, because you can't! It is a very real possibility that I am dying a little more with every breath I take and if you can't even accept the fact that I'm hurt and you can't fix it, how will you ever come to accept it if I die? What will become of you, if I can't go on, Merry?
I just need you to leave off, just a little, because I love you with all my heart but I can't let you in right now. You can't help me, Merry, and you're killing me with your attempts to kiss it all better.
I need you to please, please, please stop smothering me because I'm choking on it all and I can't keep swallowing it down for much longer.
Frodo took a deep breath, curled himself over his arm and bit back what he really wanted to say: I need Sam.
Sam knew what to do, how to help and he really did help. But Frodo couldn't ask for him and especially couldn't ask Merry for him. The tension between the two had been more than evident from the very beginning and Frodo had no one to blame for it but himself. He'd deliberately allowed Merry to believe that he might have eyes for Sam, had even set Merry up to believe that he was taking Sam along on this journey as his companion and, though Merry had known all along that it wasn't the case, the idea of it still seemed to linger with him. And Frodo's unwitting-but-profoundly-stupid behaviour between Bree and Weathertop certainly hadn't helped matters. Merry had been almost close to hostile in his cool politeness to Sam up until the Barrows and after that he'd just been… well, odd. Frodo still couldn't be sure if it was all just the effects of one horrible thing after another or if Merry was still harbouring resentment towards Sam. He had been more amiable with him just lately but that morning when Frodo had woke to find Merry standing over him and Sam's arm curled about him still stabbed a guilty knife in his heart.
But even now, Merry couldn't seem to decide if he wanted to just toss Frodo at Sam and have done with it all or to close Frodo up into a little box with a 'No Sams Allowed' sign on the lock. Last night he'd practically thrown Sam down beside Frodo and ordered him to keep him warm, yet today he'd hovered about and shooed Sam off every time he came within two steps of them. If Frodo's head weren't already spinning dizzily, Merry's behaviour would have done a nice job of setting it whirling.
"Frodo, please, won't you tell me how I can help?"
Merry's voice was so desperate and for a moment, Frodo actually hated him for it. As if he didn't feel enough guilt over having received the wound in the first place and how he'd received it and why but now he had to feel guilty over the fact that he couldn't come up with a single thing that Merry could do for him to make it all better. Too much pain, too much guilt, too much pressure to do/say/behave right and Frodo wanted to take someone – anyone – by the throat and just shout, 'Leave me be!' into their shocked face.
And then shame clawed at him, dug down into the pit of his stomach, and he leaned to the side and retched.
"Frodo!"
And Merry was there, holding him up so he didn't fall face-first into his own filth, and the guilt assailed him anew and his stomach rebelled yet more. He heaved and the entire left side of his body exploded in agony and he wept tears of pain and guilt and frustration as his guts spewed onto the grass. Even when there was nothing left, he couldn't stop the gagging and if this didn't end and soon, he was going to pass out from the wrenching pain that lanced up and down his arm in an icy trail of jagged dagger-points.
Finally it was done and he took a gasping gulp of air, tears streaming hot from his eyes and landing on the arm Merry had stretched across his chest. Merry pulled him back and Frodo leaned against him, unable to stop his eyes from leaking thin, hot tears, or even lift a hand to wipe them away.
Merry shushed and soothed and hummed and Frodo could feel him shaking against his back and he wept some more because this was so unfair to all of them! How could he have done this? How could he have been so weak? How could he put this all upon them, force them to live through it with him, and all because he had been too weak when it had really mattered?
Frodo opened heavy lids and found what seemed like the eyes of the world upon him. Everyone – Strider included – was looking at him, staring, and he clenched his teeth against the pity he saw in each set of eyes. It made him at once furious and ashamed because he didn't want it, nor did he deserve it. He'd got himself into this, after all.
Pippin continued staring for a moment before he turned a quick glare upon Strider then very firmly led the man several paces past the surrounding trees that edged their camp. Sam seemed to catch himself staring, shook himself then wandered away until he was well out of earshot. He looked about aimlessly for a minute then bent to pick up his pack and kept walking and, if circumstances had been different, Frodo might have laughed at his attempt to appear as though that was exactly what he'd meant to do all along.
"Tell me what you need, Frodo," Merry pleaded quietly and Frodo couldn't fight it anymore, couldn't hold it in and couldn't spare an ounce of comfort for anyone but himself.
"Sam," he whispered hoarsely. "I need Sam."
Not even a moment's pause and Merry answered, "Of course, love," and bent his head, kissed Frodo's cheek. "Anything you need. Anything at all." Then Frodo felt him shift, turn. "Sam! We need you over here, please!"
* * *
Day Ten.
"Sam?"
Bugger. Why was it that every time Sam heard the Brandybuck's voice directed his way, he never knew whether he should prepare himself for a whispered battle over how to care properly for his master or a grateful hug? Blasted riverhobbits, with their tempers and their soft hearts; it was enough to confound any sensible hobbit and Sam too often found himself off-balance over the past few days, what with Mr. Frodo so poorly and Mr. Merry dithering between handing his care over to Sam completely or banning him from his master's side altogether. As if Sam would let that happen.
He sighed, plastered on a neutral expression then turned. "Yes, Mr. Merry?"
And then Sam caught a look at the riverhobbit's face and all annoyance left him. Poor sod. He was trying hard, Sam had to give him that, even if he had no idea in the world how to care for an ailing hobbit. It seemed to Sam as though Mr. Merry were learning some things on this journey that he might have lived all his days happily not knowing -- like for instance, sometimes, wishing a thing didn't make it so.
"I…" Mr. Merry shifted uncomfortably then lifted his chin, gave Sam a smile, and who was Sam to say that smile looked just a little bit forced? "Frodo's asking for you."
Ah. Yes, Sam could see how those might have been four very difficult words for Mr. Merry to get across his tongue. He felt for him, he really did; Mr. Merry was trying so hard to do what was right for Mr. Frodo, throwing himself into any chore that might help ease him even the smallest bit, including allowing Sam to take over when he knew it was best for Mr. Frodo. It were a difficult thing for someone like Mr. Merry to admit defeat and Sam had to admire that he was willing to swallow every bit of that Brandybuck pride for the sake of Mr. Frodo.
"All right, Mr. Merry," he said, his tone as even as he could manage, not wishing to cause any further discomfort to this hobbit who was fast becoming a reluctant friend, despite them both. "I've got watch in a bit, though, so--"
"I'll take your watch, Sam," Merry told him. "It's a particularly difficult evening for Frodo and…" He drew a breath, shook his head. "Sam, if I ask you a question, will you give me an honest answer – without begging my pardon or other niceties?"
Sam blinked. He had no idea what sort of question to expect and further, he had no idea whether or not he'd truly be able to answer it honestly. So, he answered this first in the only way he could.
"I'll try, sir."
Merry nodded, sighed. "Why will Frodo tell you what he needs, when he won't tell me?"
Oh, this could turn into ten different kinds of bad. There were all sorts of ways he could find himself on a slippery slope with that question but the worst part about it was that he knew the answer good and well and wasn't at all sure if Mr. Merry really would want to hear it. And so Sam did the only thing he could think to do – he hedged.
"Well, sir," he began, shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, "you'll pardon me for saying--"
"Sam."
"Sorry, sir, I don't mean any disrespect and you'll excuse--"
"Sam!"
"All right!" Well, he'd given it a go, anyway. Sam gave a short grunt of displeasure, looked at Merry. He lifted his chin, said, "It's because I'll give it to him and won't argue over whether I think I have a better idea of what's good for him than he does."
Merry's mouth opened, closed. He peered at Sam, gaze open and assessing, then seemed to come to a decision, drew himself up.
"Sam, listen…" and then didn't say any more, just chewed on a thumbnail and blinked at Sam.
Sam lifted his eyebrows. "Yes, sir?"
Sam was almost certain he could see the flush of Mr. Merry's cheeks, even in the darkness. He waited.
"We haven't always agreed, when it comes to Frodo," Merry finally said. "That is, we do agree but I've…" He trailed off. Sam waited some more. Merry drew in a great breath, sighed heavily. "Look," he said, "we both know how the other feels about him, yes?"
Sam's stomach dropped and he narrowed his eyes. "Not sure how I'm supposed to answer that, Mr. Merry," was his wary response.
"As truthfully as you're willing," Merry said softly, his eyes kind. He reached out, placed a hand to Sam's arm. "Sam, I think the only one who doesn't know how you feel about Frodo is Frodo himself."
Sam shook Merry off, backed a step. "Mr. Merry, it just ain't the way you--"
"Sam," Merry said and his voice was gentle, not a single harsh tone within it. "This has gone beyond any sort of tug-of-war we might have fancied before. It isn't about you or me, it never was. What's best for Frodo, how to get him through all of this in one piece – that's what's foremost in both our minds and that's as it should be. And I have come to realise…" He paused, puffed a rueful laugh. "Well, I'm sure it isn't news to you that I haven't a clue what I'm doing and what's needed now is someone who does."
"That Strider--"
"Seems to know what he's doing, yes, but…" Merry gave Sam a small smile; it was a sad little thing and gone quickly. "He needs a hobbit, Sam. You know that, as well as I do. He needs…" He sighed, threw his hands up. "Well, apparently I don't know what he needs, do I, then?"
Merry stopped, clenched his teeth. His eyes glimmered suspiciously and Sam tactfully looked away. He shook his head then looked to Sam with such raw appeal in his watery gaze that Sam had to resist the urge to lay the big Bucklander's head to his shoulder and tell him to just let it all out. When Merry spoke again, his voice was a reedy whisper.
"I'm absolutely terrified that I'll do the wrong thing, say precisely the wrong words at precisely the wrong time and he'll just…" He lifted his eyes to the stars, closed them tight. "…drift away." His voice was very small but, when he looked back to Sam, his eyes were dark and fierce. "I need your help, Sam. He needs your help and I'm afraid that if I am allowed to continue to hoard him like my very own treasure…" He clenched his teeth. "Oh, bugger all, Gamgee, are you really going to make me say it?"
Sam shrugged helplessly. "I'm afraid so, Mr. Merry, 'cause I ain't got the first clue what you're asking. I already do as I can for him… and you and Master Pippin--"
"Are bollixing every little task we attempt!"
"Now, that just ain't true, sir. It weren't your fault that jerky was too hard on Mr. Frodo's stomach. How could you have known?"
"Did you know?"
Sam snapped his mouth shut. Merry's mouth curled into a small, dubious smile and he nodded.
"As I thought."
Merry peered at him intently, waiting, and Sam shifted from one foot to the other. He cleared his throat, looked Merry in the eye.
"What would you have me do, sir?"
Merry's shoulders sagged in what Sam hoped was relief. This wasn't easy for either of them and Sam actually found his heart hurting for the riverhobbit.
"I would have you stop worrying about me, Sam," he said softly and, when Sam shot him a bewildered glance, Merry actually laughed. "You're so used to worrying about everyone around you that I doubt you even know you're doing it." He paused and his smile faded a little. "You're very much like Frodo that way, did you ever notice that?" Sam frowned and Merry went on, "At any rate, I want you to stop worrying about how I'm going to feel, if you step in and box my ears for doing something stupid or for not doing something that needs doing. I want you to elbow me out of the way and not worry about whether I'm going to challenge you to a duel because of it. I want you to shoo Pippin away when he needs shooing and I want you to give Strider a swift kick in the shins when he treats Frodo like some child who doesn't deserve to know what's really happening to him. I want you to give Frodo what he needs!"
Well, that was all easy enough. Sam'd been doing it all right along anyway, though perhaps he had been considering the reactions of others overmuch. He'd watched Mr. Merry coaxing that jerky into Mr. Frodo and knew it were a bad idea but talked himself into hoping that he might be wrong, though he'd known he wasn't. And heaving it all back up, along with everything else Mr. Frodo had managed to keep in his stomach until then, had been wrenching for them all -- for Mr. Frodo because the effort and the very obvious pain it caused near did him in and for everyone else because they had to just watch it all helplessly. And for Sam especially because he had known what would happen and had allowed it – not out of fear of the big riverhobbit decking him but because he hadn't wanted Mr. Frodo to feel as though he were a bone being fought over by two hungry dogs.
"He's losing so much weight, Sam." Merry's voice was strained. "He's so thin and weak already and we're still days out of Rivendell and I just don't know what to do. Strider claims to be a healer but whatever medicine he makes out of those leaves only works so much. He keeps saying that Frodo is strong, like that's supposed to be some huge comfort, and he is strong but how strong can he be when he doesn't even have the energy to argue with me?" Merry shook his head, visibly held back tears. "Oh, Sam, if you only knew all of the times over the years I wished he'd just shut up…" He tried to laugh a little but it came out sounding too close to a sob. "But now I think I'd give anything if he'd only tell me to bugger off or…"
Sam couldn't help but snort a tiny laugh and Merry peered at him with a shame-faced little smile of his own. But it left his face as quickly as it had come. He moved in close to Sam and the eyes he turned to Sam's own were so open and unabashedly pleading that Sam thought he could see right down into his soul and what he saw there near shattered his heart.
"It's taking hold of him, Sam." Merry's voice was low, urgent, and the desperate tone of it sent shivers down Sam's spine. "I know you see it, too. I don't know if it's the poison or the bloody Ring but it's got him tight and it's choking the life right out of him."
Sam tore his gaze away from Merry's, looked down. "Strider said he thinks that knife had some kind of poison on it what makes a body lose their will." He lifted his eyes to Merry's. "He said he thought them Riders haven't come after us again because they think they don't have to; that Mr. Frodo will just…" He shrugged. "I don't know -- turn into one of them and bring them the Ring, or some such."
Merry stared at him, chewing his lip. "I hadn't heard that. He never said as much to me."
"Well, you were a little…" Sam flushed, looked down.
"And there you go, wringing your hands over offending me again." Merry chuffed a bitter laugh. "No worries, Sam. I'm not at all surprised that Strider has been a little more forthcoming with you than with me. I am well aware that I've been behaving like an hysterical wretch." He smiled a little. "Of course, that's only because I am an hysterical wretch. I've even got Frodo so worried about me that he's afraid to ask for you, when he needs you. He'd rather sit there and let me torture him, instead of just telling me that he needs you, at the risk of hurting either one of us."
Sam shook his head. "I think you're being too hard on yourself, Mr. Merry. You love him hard and I think he needs that real bad right now. Nobody blames you for getting twisted up over this mess. It's just…" He hesitated, worked through what he wanted to say before opening his mouth again. "I think that you think no one could love him as well as you do and…" Sam choked, tripped over his tongue.
"Go on, Sam," Merry prodded gently.
"Mr. Frodo, he… well, he's about the best there is and I can't say I've ever understood why you'd think you're the only one as loves him more 'n… well, more than their own self and…" Sam felt his cheeks light on fire and he couldn't bear to bring his gaze back to Merry's. He stared at the ground and went on in a cautious murmur, "You need to trust that there may be others who'd maybe do anything in the world for him, no matter the trouble it might get a body into; them as would dash themselves to pieces against the stones, if they thought it might spare him a minute of pain; them as would leave their old gaffer to fend for himself and go off…"
His eyes began to fill and he clenched his teeth against it. He gathered his courage, lifted his face, looked Merry right in the eye.
"I love him, Mr. Merry, I'll tell you that plain, since you already know it anyhow, and nothing matters to me but what's good for him -- not you, not big, tall Rangers, not rings and not dark lords out of storybooks.
"I have been worritin' a bit about poking my nose between you and you're right: this ain't the time for that and it stops right now. But don't you think for one single second that I'd've let anything bad happen to my master because you might get your nose tweaked a little. You may be a mite bigger 'n me but I'd plough you under faster than you could blink an eye, if I thought it would do some good to him.
"But here's the thing, Mr. Merry, and there's really no way around it: it wouldn't do him no good. It would just make him sad and he'd be spending all his strength on worrying over us, when all he should be thinking about now is living through the next day. So, I've kept hold of my tongue and I know you've done the same. But don't ever think I'd hold my tongue so much as to cause him hurt. You want my help and I'm more than ready to give it but don't think I've been keeping any of it back 'til now – I'd not do that for anyone, not even him."
Merry stared for a long moment, cleared his throat. "Well," he breathed, "that was certainly… honest."
"Yes," Sam agreed and said no more.
Merry nodded. "Right then." He nodded again, ran a hand through his hair. "It appears the problem is entirely with me." He laughed a little dazedly, shrugged.
A small stab of remorse slid into Sam's heart. Mr. Merry looked so… lost.
"Now, Mr. Merry, I never said--"
"Don't, Sam." He held up a hand, closed his eyes. He breathed a laboured sigh and shook his head. "You're right. I am overbearing, possessive, selfish… Feel free to stop me any time."
"Mr. Merry, you--"
"It's only that I do love him so much, with everything I have in me and there's always that…" He peered at Sam with a troubled frown, took hold of his arm. "There's a part of him that's impossible to touch, Sam; something that makes a person feel as though, no matter how closely you hold him, no matter how much you want to believe he'll always be there, that somehow he just… won't." He paused, looked down to where his hand was clenching Sam's arm and let go, as though surprised to find it there. "In all the years I've had him as my friend and… well…" He flushed a little, looked away. "I've never really quite been able to believe that I deserved him." He turned back to Sam, said quietly, "It can make a person greedy, that; make you growl at any other whom you fear might turn into a rival, if you're not very careful; make you hold on a little too tightly, for fear of losing your grip altogether.
"And now on top of it all, I have had the very distinct impression that I might just be going mad." He chuffed a hectic little laugh. "So much for grace under pressure, eh?"
"Mr. Merry, you're--"
"Do you know that, had I known how you feel about Frodo back in the spring, I doubt very much I'd have come to you as I did. I think I would've been too worried about you trying to steal him away from me, as if he's some bauble to be traded back and forth, or…" Merry shook his head slowly, as if the realisation had only just dawned on him. "I can't imagine where we'd all be, if that had been the case." He lifted horrified eyes to Sam's. "He would have drowned back in the Forest. Drowned, Sam! And I've never even thanked you for saving his life as you did. Stone me, I've been such a fool!"
Sam just stared, mute. Part of him felt as though he'd no right to hear what he'd just heard, that circumstances had brought Mr. Merry too close to the edge and he was just unlucky enough that it was Sam as was about when he finally tottered off of it. But another part felt a kindred closeness, as if he and the riverhobbit had been so busy snarling at each other and resenting one another for every small bit of Frodo the other laid claim to, that they'd missed the fact that they shared the same heart and that it was all too close to shattering between them.
Sam couldn't hold against the raw pain in Merry's eyes -- moreover, he didn't want to. He reached out, grasped Merry's shoulder.
"Mr. Merry, I don't see how a hobbit with so many who love him so dear could do anything other than pull through. I don't know if you'll lose him some day, I don't know if I will. But I do know that someday ain't today, nor will it be tomorrow, nor the next. We'll get him through – all of us, together. And I, for one, can't tell you how much better it makes me feel to know that there is someone else about who can do things for him that I can't and maybe give him that extra little edge that might make all of the difference."
Merry gazed at him intently for a moment before surprising Sam with a sudden embrace. "You're right, Sam," he said as he turned him loose. "Of course, you're right. I'm sorry and…well, you know…" Sam lifted an eyebrow and Merry reddened. He grinned a lopsided little grin, rolled his eyes. "Thank you and…" he waved his hand about, bobbled his head, "…you know… all that sort of thing."
Sam grinned back. "You're always thanking me for things I ain't done for you, Mr. Merry."
Merry looked Sam up and down critically. "You're just a bit of a smart-arse, aren't you, Samwise?" The mischievous glint in his eye let Sam know it was all right to loose his chuckles. "And now, I think it's past time you got that arse over to Frodo. Honestly, Sam, he's been waiting for ages! What on earth has been keeping you?"
Sam laughed, shook his head. "I wouldn't know where to begin," he returned then grew serious again.
"You said as he was asking for me, Mr. Merry. Anything in particular I should know?"
"His arm, of course," Merry replied and it seemed to Sam as though he spoke easier about the whole thing already. "It's gone icy again. Apparently you're the only one who knows how to heat stones properly without setting everyone else on fire, or so Frodo seems to believe. He saw Pippin coming at him with one wrapped up in a pair of smoking trousers and demanded that someone come find you."
Sam didn't quite know how to respond to that, so he just nodded. He turned, started back to camp.
"Sam," Merry called and for the first time, Sam noticed that his jaw didn't tighten when he heard it.
He turned back. "Yes, sir?"
Merry just peered at him for a moment before lifting the corner of his mouth into a hesitant smile. "You're a good friend."
Sam smiled back, turned again for camp. "So I've been told," he murmured to himself.
* * *
Day Fourteen
Sam watched orange-gold shadows flicker over raven hair, scrim and scatter over shoulders too narrow. Frodo was sitting up and that was a good thing, though his head was propped to his up-thrust knees and his arms dangled limp at his sides. He sat close enough to the fire that one false move might result in singes to places best not considered but that was Sam's doing. Sam was certainly not about to risk him catching chill on top of everything else.
Anyway, it was a routine already. Mr. Merry and Master Pippin had been taking a good deal of Sam's watches and splitting them between them, so that Sam could stay with Frodo as much as possible. During the day, the cousins mainly did what needed doing for him -- helping him mount and dismount Bill, coaxing a bite or two into him and generally trying to keep his spirits up.
But the nights were hard and only got harder with each one that passed. When the Sun failed, it seemed that Frodo started to as well and only Sam seemed to have the patience, stubbornness and tender skill to see him through.
And the dreams were getting worse. It amazed Sam how a hobbit who couldn't walk without the firm support of a sturdy arm about him, nor sit up without a great deal of help while awake, could bolt upright in a small explosion of blankets and shattering cries in his sleep the way Mr. Frodo did almost every night. They took turns sleeping beside him; one would come off watch and take the place of the one going on and Frodo rarely stirred at the change. Sleep took him hard when he could get it but it never lay easy with him and Sam thought that to be one of the crueller tricks of whatever it was that had hold of him. Not its only trick, of course.
The last few nights had been particularly bad, with no fire to ease the chill the rain drove into weary bones. Sam didn't suppose Frodo had got any sleep at all; just lay tense and still with his eyes squeezed shut and his teeth clenched against pain Sam dared not consider. He barely moved the whole night, as far as Sam could tell, save for the shudders that wracked his thin frame mercilessly, and all the dry blankets and heat from their own bodies they could give had done nothing to ease any of it.
Well, there was a fire tonight and a bit of shelter and every one of them sucked every bit of comfort they could out of it. Mr. Frodo wasn't shivering at the moment and that hadn't happened since… well, since the rain had started, at least, and that had been… Glory, had it really been two days? Three? He'd lost count.
Sam shook his head, took the blanket from nearest the fire and draped it over Mr. Frodo's shoulders, taking great care to tuck that left arm up tight. Stars, it were cold, as if it belonged to a corpse and not a living hobbit. Sam fiercely beat that thought into submission. Mr. Frodo was warm now and that arm was warmer than it had been and Sam blessed the small bit of luck.
Though, he didn't suppose all of it could be stroked up to luck. There was, after all, the very fortunate circumstance of travelling with a Took whose cleverness and foresight never failed to amaze Sam.
Master Pippin had come up with a cup of tea for Mr. Frodo -- an amazing bit of trickery, since they'd run out of the stuff three days ago. It turned out that the young Took had noted the supply dwindling and began saving and drying the used tealeaves. He'd bunched together a small handful and steeped it, managing to produce a rather weak but definitely drinkable cup of tea for his cousin. Better yet, the sight of Master Pippin closing in on him, cup-in-hand, had also drawn a small smile from Frodo and he'd actually chuckled. Sam had to look away to hide the grateful tears that rose quickly to his eyes. He'd not heard his master laugh since… well, that were one more thing he'd rather not think on.
Sam took a quick glance at the stars, closed his eyes tight and made a wish. He turned back to his master, huddled by the fire.
"Is it any better tonight, sir?"
Frodo said nothing, just remained still as stone, firelight weaving russet through his hair. Frodo's ribs expanded and contracted evenly and Sam wondered…
"Mr. Frodo, are you asleep?"
Frodo's right hand twitched a little, his fingers clutching at the grass for a quick moment before relaxing, going limp again. His head moved a fraction.
"No, Sam."
Sam shot a quick glance over to Pippin, who lay across from them, watching. Pippin frowned, sat up, settled a troubled gaze on his cousin before directing it to Sam. An eyebrow went up. Sam shrugged and turned back to his master.
"Mr. Frodo?"
No answer, so Sam laid a hand to Frodo's right shoulder. Frodo twitched it off.
Sam sat back, frowned and turned back to Pippin. Pippin stood and quickly made his way over to his cousin. He knelt in front of him, reached out his hand, ran his fingers through dark, lank curls and a shudder moved through Frodo. Pippin shot a worried glance to Sam then moved himself beside his cousin and carefully placed his arm around Frodo's shoulders. Sam was compelled to scoot back, else end up with the Took in his lap. He stood, made his way to his own bedroll then he sat himself down and turned all his attention to his companions.
Master Pippin had shifted his cousin to lean on his shoulder and had drawn Frodo's legs over his own, so that the elder almost rested in the younger's lap. He was running a gentle hand up and down Frodo's right arm whilst he held his left hand clutched to his breast. He dipped his head, laid a kiss to the top of Frodo's head. Sam could see Mr. Frodo's face now; his brows were drawn together, his eyes closed tight and his jaw was clenched so hard Sam anxiously wondered if it were possible to break a few teeth. His chest rose and fell more rapidly now and his right hand was clenched into a fist.
"What is it, Frodo?" Pippin asked, so softly that Sam had to strain to hear.
No response, save for a slight, negating jerk of Frodo's head. Pippin shot a quick glance over to Sam before turning his attention back to his cousin.
"Shall I get Merry?" Still nothing, so Pippin looked across to Sam. "Sam, would you go and call for--"
"No." It was soft but very clear. "Pip, just…"
Pippin waited. When Frodo didn't go on, he dropped another kiss to Frodo's hair, rocked a little.
"Tell me," he said gently.
"I…" Frodo shuddered, clamped his eyes tighter. "I can't feel my arm," he whispered, reedy and small. "I haven't been able to for days and…" He paused and his voice dropped even further. "I'm bloody cold and I just… I just want to feel warm again, even for a minute."
Pippin's bottom lip quivered and he closed his eyes, rested his cheek to the top of Frodo's head. He held Frodo tight and continued to rock.
"I know, love," he whispered and the tone of it brought tears to Sam's eyes, fast and hot. "We're almost there." Pippin opened his eyes, gazed out into the night and forced a smile into his voice. "Just a few more days and then there'll be fires and warm blankets and real food, Frodo! Think of it! Soups and stews and Merry can make some of that awful chicken dumpling mess you love so much, if the elves will let him near a kitchen."
Frodo choked out a sound that could have been a laugh or a sob. He shook his head against Pippin's shoulder.
"Can you keep a secret, cousin?" His voice was rough and weak.
Pippin's eyes widened a little in surprise. The corner of his mouth quirked.
"Usually."
Frodo opened his eyes for the first time since Sam had come almost an hour before with the first of this evening's heated stones. He lifted his head slowly, looked at his cousin.
"I can't stand Merry's awful chicken dumpling mess," he told Pippin and his mouth curled into a weak smile. "I was only trying to be polite the first time he made it."
Pippin blinked at him for a moment and then his jaw dropped and he loosed a merry gale of high, clear laughter. Frodo's smile strengthened and he closed his eyes again, relaxed against Pippin's heaving chest. Sam could have laid down right there and wept.
"Oh, you poor sod!" Pippin cried. "How many times have you been forced to choke that evil concoction down over the years?"
"Countless," Frodo answered softly, his mouth still curved in a gentle smile.
Pippin cocked an eyebrow. "And what about the horrible beef stew you swear is your very favourite?"
"I can't be sure," Frodo murmured, "but I suspect the main ingredient is mud."
Pippin snickered. "How many times have I told you that you spoil that great lout?" he chastised fondly. "You're far too good to him, you know."
Frodo paused and his smile dimmed. "No, I'm not," he whispered softly. "I've been absolutely wretched to him, Pippin."
"No, you've just beaten him back when he's come at you with his very own version of tender care." Pippin's tone was stern and left no room for argument. "And not enough, I'm thinking. If ever there was a hobbit who could kill another with kindness, it is Meriadoc Brandybuck."
"He's only--"
"Stop defending him," Pippin demanded. "He is a grown hobbit and smart enough to see his own mistakes. And he has, Frodo. I'll warrant that he'll be letting you breathe a little from now on, or I'm no judge. He just…" Pippin paused. "He just loves too well, sometimes, I think." He smiled. "But you know, you're a very lovable hobbit, so I can't really blame him."
"I'll make it up to him," Frodo said softly. "I'll ask him to make me chicken and dumplings when we get to Rivendell."
Pippin chuckled. "There, see? You are too good to him."
Frodo had apparently decided arguing was useless. "He's very good to me, as well," he replied. His voice was mellowing, becoming sleepy. "You all are. I don't deserve any of you."
Pippin carefully hugged his cousin, brushed his hair back from his brow. "Oh, Frodo," he said tenderly, laid his cheek again to the top of Frodo's head and continued rocking. "Of course you don't."
Frodo chuckled softly. He brought his right arm around and hugged Pippin's waist. He said no more, only breathed a small sigh and gave himself over to the gentle rhythm of Pippin's rocking.
Sam watched it all, feeling every inch the voyeur, yet he could not look away. Frodo's face was smooth, unlined and relaxed in the flickering light, and Sam was surprised to note that, in this moment, he looked the younger and Pippin the elder. Pippin's face above him was soft with love and tender care but his brow was creased with a fierceness that Sam was only just beginning to understand. They were beautiful and Sam could not take his eyes from the sight, nor did he really want to.
It was only when the cold of the ground beneath him began to seep into his small bubble of warmth that Sam stirred and made himself look away. He stood, made his way over to the pair. Pippin lifted his face, smiled a little and Sam stooped to retrieve Frodo's cloak. He draped it, nice and toasty from the fire, over Frodo's shoulders and then another blanket, taking care to tuck it around so it wouldn't slip. Then he retrieved all of the packs and piled them behind Pippin, forming a small nest around the cousins. Last, he collected the rest of the blankets but Merry's, tucked them around them both. Merry's bedroll he dragged closer to the pair, smoothed it out before straightening again.
"Anything I can get for you before I go, Master Pip?" Sam kept his voice to a soft whisper.
Pippin shook his head, smiled. "Thank you, Sam."
Sam nodded. "I'm off to start my turn on watch, then," he said. He turned, took a step then stopped. He looked back, marvelled again at the peaceful look of his master's face.
"You know…" He swallowed, bit back his tears once again. "You… That was…" He lifted his chin, looked directly into the intent gaze that looked back at him. "'Twas a lovely thing to see. Thank you, sir."
Before Pippin could answer, Sam turned quickly and quit the campsite.
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