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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement XVI - Fermata AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG-13 SUMMARY: Hope is hardest for those left behind ILLUSTRATIONS: 'Kith and Kin' and 'Coppers' by Daffodil Bolger
Fermata: A pause, stop, or interruption.
* * *
FERMATA
* * *
“Summoned?” Merry frowned up at the Warden. “By whom? For what?”
The man held a thick furred robe up expectantly. “By the Steward, sir,” he replied. “And I’m sure I don’t know ‘for what’. Perhaps you might go and find out?”
The Warden’s face seemed to hold a small smile behind his cool demeanour, and Merry didn’t quite know how to take that, so he just shrugged and allowed himself to be helped into the robe. It was warm and soft, smelling faintly of myrrh, but still it scraped over the skin of his hand as gritted sand and set an unpleasant tingle to his arm. He grimaced, pulled the arm close about himself and held back a hiss.
“Lead the way,” was all he said.
He followed out to the gardens where he’d sat with…
Probably best not to think on his friends right now, not while they were off placing their heads on the block and all for Frodo -- and Merry here, useless and broken. How very typical.
The sun was bright and warm and he squinted against it, his nose tickling with the heat and the thick scents of flowers he had no name for. Funny, there should be colours to go along with those scents, but all Merry seemed able to see were different shades of grey.
He followed the Warden across the wide, flat slabs of stone, cool against his feet as he padded along, one foot in front of the other. He was moving slowly, he knew, more slowly than was his wont, and he knew the Warden had slacked his own pace to accommodate. Merry felt a little foolish, weak and slow even, though he knew it was only to be expected. Contrary to what Pippin may believe, Merry knew he was hurt, knew he came close to the End and not so very long ago; it would take some time before he was himself again, though he wondered if there ever was such a thing and, if there was, was it something he wanted back.
“You must be Master Meriadoc.”
The voice was deep, clear and familiar, and Merry halted, squinted against the sun and for a moment, he thought maybe they were mistaken or perhaps hadn’t the heart to tell him that he really had died on that cold, blood-soaked battlefield. Either that or he was now looking at a ghost.
Boromir stood before him. His eyes were tired, almost hollow, and he was pale and drawn, but he presented as fine a figure as he always had done – the fact that he was garbed in bedclothes notwithstanding. Merry didn’t quite know whether to laugh or back away. But then the tall man tilted his head, a question plain on his face – probably due to the fact that Merry was staring stupidly – and Merry saw that this man’s hair was darker, longer than Boromir’s, and his hands were long and slender, where Boromir’s were more blunt and wide. There was something about the eyes that wasn’t quite right as well, but before Merry could put his finger on it, a hand descended upon his shoulder and he startled, peered up at the Warden.
“My Lord, Faramir,” the Warden said and Merry’s eyes flicked back to the not-Boromir before him, “may I present Master Meriadoc Brandybuck, son of Saradoc of Buckland, the Shire.”
Odd. Merry couldn’t remember having related any of that information to the Warden, but before he could so much as form a question in his head, Faramir was bowing a greeting – presumably to Merry – and the hand on his shoulder was gone, along with the Warden, to whom it belonged. Merry was left alone with this man who looked so very much like his brother that Merry, only for a moment, felt compelled to ask him to account for his behaviour towards Frodo on that fateful day at Amon Hen then thank him for how bravely he fought for himself and Pippin in the woods at Parth Galen. Instead, he bowed in return – more quickly than was properly polite but there were more important things than pleasantries at the moment and, if he had learned nothing else on this journey, he had learned that you either seize the moment with both hands or it slips away from you for good and all. So Merry straightened, looked boldly to his new acquaintance.
“You’ve seen Frodo,” he said.
Faramir’s eyebrows lifted and he crooked a small smile, nodded. “I have.”
“And he was well?”
The smile faltered – only the tiniest bit but Merry marked it, and his left hand closed into a fist, the palm slicked and sweated.
“He was,” Faramir answered then turned, made his way to a stone bench and lowered himself to it. He gestured to Merry that he should follow and Merry did, eyeing the man with wary expectation. Merry hadn’t realised that he’d been holding his breath but now he released it slowly, seated himself beside the man.
“Tell me,” was all he said.
Merry probably should have phrased that as a polite request, seeing as how this man held the power of Gondor in his hands and so certainly deserved more respect than what Merry had exhibited thus far. But respect and the show of it were rather secondary to Merry at the moment and so he did not apologise, rather just waited. Besides which, this man was kin to one who turned on Frodo and another who turned on Pippin. Merry handed respect to no one who hadn’t first earned it, and he was even more stingy with trust, so he thought perhaps he would excuse himself from civilities for the time-being.
Faramir seemed willing to grant him this leeway. “He and Samwise were captured by my company just before--”
“Captured?” Merry cut in. His eyes narrowed all of their own and he felt his blood stir through cold veins, simmer. “What exactly do you mean by ‘captured’?”
The crack of a whip, foetid breath in his face, and clawed fingers scrape over his skin.
Faramir’s eyes met Merry’s calmly. “I mean,” he said, “that my men and I came upon two strangers in our lands, where strangers have always before meant enemies. We took them prisoner and held them until we could be certain of their intentions.”
“Prisoners,” Merry whispered and closed his eyes.
Rough bonds light fire across his skin and it hurts/burns/stings and brown rope flames crimson… Merry can only hope that the smell of fresh blood does not stir the appetites of their captors.
Merry looked down at his wrist, pulled his sleeve over the lingering brands of captivity. “Please tell me,” he furthered and tried with all his will to keep his voice from shaking, “that he was not… that you did not--”
“They were treated well.”
“Not injured? Bound?”
“I assure you that Men of Gondor do not mistreat their prisoners – not even be they Orcs.”
Bound, beaten and forced to his knees, and he is powerless, without defences…
“Orcs,” Merry repeated then barked a bitter laugh. He shook his head, noted absently that his hands were trembling.
Eäreneth could only watch as his king, his friend, his brother, was struck down before him.
“Men of Gondor?” he asked and the blood flared fierce and sharp against his temples. “A Man of Gondor attacked Frodo and forced him to flee from those seeking to protect him, another nearly killed Pippin, so please don’t try and give me lessons on how Men of Gondor treat those within their power!”
Duty-less, purpose-less… Powerless.
Merry stood, placed himself squarely in front of Faramir. “Tell me he was not bound!”
Faramir stared for a moment, grey eyes glinting hard, and his jaw was tight. Then he blinked, flicked his eyes away from Merry’s.
“He was not bound,” he said softly.
Merry deflated, had to lean forward and catch himself on the edge of the bench. Faramir held out a hand and Merry took it, allowed the man to guide him back to his seat. He dropped his head into his hands.
For into darkness fell--
Shut up, shut up, you’re a ghost – not even a ghost, just an echo of one, and I don’t want to listen anymore!
“I’m sorry,” Merry whispered.
Silence beside him for a moment before Faramir responded, “As am I.”
Merry looked up at that, noted for the first time the grief in the grey eyes that looked back at him. He shook his head.
“You’ve nothing for which to apologise ,” he returned quietly, contritely. “By all accounts, you have done nothing but good for those I care for. I thank you.”
“My brother--”
“Boromir was a good friend and brave comrade. I should not be casting aspersions on his honour when I’ve seen what that awful Thing can do to a person’s heart, how it can make a person...” Powerless. Defenceless. Merry blinked, gave his head a quick jerk. “It must have been torture for him to resist as long as he did and he deserves better than what I’ve given him – especially after…” He paused, went on in a low murmur, “He tried so very hard to protect us – Pip and me. I think he was trying to make it up to Frodo somehow, you know?”
Faramir nodded, closed his eyes. “He would,” was all he said.
He opened his eyes, peered out over the top of the lowest wall to the city spread wide below them, and Merry followed his gaze. Smoke still rose in weak wisps from some portions of it and Merry suddenly wondered what it must be like to witness the destruction of your family and your home.
“I’m sorry,” Merry repeated and had no idea if he was apologising again for his callous cruelty or expressing condolences.
Faramir nodded his acceptance – of one or the other, Merry couldn’t tell. “You wish to hear of your kinsman.”
Merry slanted a glance sideways. “I…” His hands were still shaking and his heart fluttered. “Yes. Please.”
“What shall I tell you, then?”
“How did he look?” was Merry’s first question.
Faramir startled Merry a little by chuckling low. “Since I’d never met him before and have no basis for comparison,” the man said with a bit of a twinkle, “I can only say that he looked well enough to me.”
Merry gave him a rueful, lopsided grin. “All right, fair enough,” he replied. “But he wasn’t injured? Ill?”
“Only weary,” Faramir told him, “and very sad.” He turned to Merry then and his eyes were kind. “He thinks you dead, you know.”
“Oh,” was all Merry managed to breathe and he looked down, rubbed softly at his arm. “Did he know we’d been attacked, then?”
“No, I’m afraid I quite surprised him with that one,” Faramir answered regretfully. “We deduced it together through shared tales.”
“Then how…?” Merry frowned. “I don’t understand.”
Faramir told Merry the tale he’d related to Frodo: his vision of his brother, beautiful in eternal sleep, and his horn, delivered broken into the hands of their father. He spoke of how he had heard Frodo’s own tale and reckoning of the days and had concluded that the attack during which Boromir had perished had happened shortly after Frodo’s crossing of the River.
“I tried to dissuade him of his notion that the rest had perished as well but he…” Faramir shrugged, frowned.
“What?” Merry pressed.
“He seemed as though he daren’t hope.” Faramir shook his head again. “That’s not quite it but…”
“He seemed as though he were blaming himself and refused to hear reason, is what I think you’re trying to say.”
Faramir tilted his head. “Perhaps. I don’t think I know him well enough to say.”
“Well, I do.” Merry slumped against the back of the bench, rested his head back. He closed his eyes, continued, “Frodo would find a way to blame himself if the grass stopped growing. I’ve no doubt that, if he thought us all dead, his mind was busy coming up with dozens of reasons why it was all his fault.” Merry sighed, scrubbed at his face. “He has never understood – won’t understand – that sometimes the bad has nothing to do with him and that all of the good is not despite him. He can be positively infuriating in that way. I’ve no doubt he thinks Pippin and I are now dead because he didn’t fight hard enough in Bree when he tried to make us go home. As if I would have willingly left him to face everything alone with only Sam--”
Merry stopped, flushed. “I’ve not even asked about Sam,” he murmured then turned to Faramir. “Stone me. He went along to keep my-- to keep Frodo safe and I’ve not even asked you if he’s all right.”
“He was well,” Faramir told him, then, more cautiously, “And it seemed to me that he was instrumental in keeping Frodo well.”
“He would be,” Merry replied softly, followed the path of a will-o’-the-wisp scudding over the tips of emerald leaves only now revealing the first of bright-pink buds within the folds of their tender shoots. He shook his head. “I’m not sure I want to know any more. I don’t think I even wanted to know what you’ve already told me – that Frodo might be mourning us all unnecessarily. As if he didn’t already have enough--” He broke off, clenched his teeth. “Damn it all! Even now I’m causing him grief, when all I ever wanted--”
Why could he not shut his mouth? Why was he suddenly spilling things to this man that he wouldn’t dare say even to Pippin? And how much further could he possibly debase himself before the man walked away in disgust?
He’d been told he was a hero – why couldn’t he act like one?
Merry squeezed his eyes shut, held back a dry sob. He could feel himself shaking and willed himself to calm – at least enough to walk back to his bed without further embarrassing himself and tripping over his own inept feet.
He bowed his head, stared at his lap. “Why didn’t you bring him here?” he asked and couldn’t help the slight slant of accusation in his tone. “How could you let them go into… go there with no protection?”
Faramir sat back, frowned. “It was as he asked.”
“Did you even try to talk him into coming here first? Surely you understood the danger?”
“I should think,” was the curt response.
“Then why didn’t you bring him here?”
Faramir’s eyes turned quizzical. “And that’s what you would have done, Master Meriadoc? Pushed him onto a course you knew he would not choose, disregarding his wishes?”
“I’d have tried to keep him safe!”
“Minas Tirith is not a haven I would choose for the Ring-bearer. The danger he would bring would be equal to the danger he placed himself in, had he chosen this path.”
“Well, at least here I could have seen him through that danger. Now he’s beyond my reach and beyond any help and…” Merry choked, bent his neck. “He would not choose the safer road for himself. You should have brought him here!”
Silence for a moment then, “I hadn’t imagined,” Faramir said slowly, “that one obviously so close to Frodo Baggins would bear the burden of such great pride.”
“Pride?” The man must be joking. What in the world did Merry have to be proud of? He opened his eyes, blinked. “Pride? Me?”
Faramir lifted an eyebrow, shrugged. “Well, you apparently believe that you are better-suited to make Frodo’s decisions for him than he is. Rather a bit self-centred, don’t you think?”
“I don’t…” Merry narrowed his eyes, dug his fingers into the crook of his arm. It hurt abominably but it helped clear the fog from his mind. “It isn’t like that. You don’t know Frodo, he--”
“I know that he came into my land a stranger, whom I was bound to capture and execute, and left a friend, in whom I have the greatest respect and gratitude for the task he has taken up on behalf of all the world, which includes my own country.”
“Execute,” Merry whispered and a small shudder worked its way beneath his skin.
Too big, too powerful, and he can’t fight against them, hasn’t the strength, isn’t a match, never was…
“I know that he bears a Burden I fear to even contemplate, that simply being near It was enough to lure my brother away from a lifetime of honour and into betrayal in pursuit of It, that the mere promise of It was enough to send my father into insanity. I know that this task exhausts him and that he carries too many griefs and sorrows within his heart. I know that he walks knowingly into death and darkness and whether he does it for you or your memory probably matters next to nothing to him right now.”
Death and darkness, death and darkness, powerless, without defences, but not him, please never him and never bound, never on his knees, he should not be brought to his knees…
“I know that he loses hope with each new step he takes on a journey where hope in the impossible is the only thing that might save us all. And I know he does all of this without any thought to any sort of reward – if any were possible.”
For into darkness fell his star…
“What I don’t know, Master Meriadoc, is how all of that is somehow about you.”
Merry shot up from his seat, eyes fierce. “It isn’t about me! You don’t understand. I should be beside him, I should be protecting him! I only ever wanted to protect him! But I’ve failed, time and time again – I can’t even die properly! And now he walks, as you say, into death and darkness and he needs me and I’m not there!! I can’t help him now, any more than I can sprout wings and fly him up that cursed Mountain and it…” hurts, cuts, slices to bone. He hugged his arm closer to his ribs, croaked, “I can’t help him. I can’t help him and I’m not there. Not for him, not for Pippin, not for Théoden--”
“Then it is about you.”
“No!” Merry ran a hand through his hair, paced. “Maybe. I don’t know! I will admit to a great deal of self-pity but…” He stopped at the wall, leaned against it. “It’s about him, don’t you see?”
“I do,” Faramir answered, his voice soft. “But tell me, friend-Meriadoc: had you been in my place, would you have let him go? If you had the choice between the possibility of saving all of Middle-earth or keeping Frodo safe, even against his will, what would you have chosen?”
Merry clenched his teeth, did not answer. Could not answer. He bowed his head, cradled his arm.
Heavy silence for long moments then, “I see,” Faramir murmured. “Then perhaps it is better so that it is Master Samwise who walks with him now and not Master Meriadoc.”
And Merry turned his face away, shut his eyes tight. “Hard words, friend-Faramir,” he grated.
“Only if you see truth within them.” A soft rustle behind him and then a gentle hand, laid to his shoulder. “Say not ‘failure’, Meriadoc; say rather that Fate has shown its hand and be glad that it is so.”
“Fate has rarely been kind,” Merry replied stonily then opened his eyes, turned them to the cityscape beneath them. He jerked his chin towards a thin column of smoke, rising from a mound of rubble that appeared to have once been dwellings. “I should think that you, more than many others, would understand that.”
Faramir took his hand from Merry’s shoulder, moved to lean a little over the wall. “And I do,” he murmured. “Perhaps it can seem cruel to we who stand not to the fore in the Eye of our Maker. But for the whole of the world?” He shook his head, smiled a little. “Nay; in that I think you do not see clearly. It would seem to me that Fate has placed Frodo on his road and given to him the one who will best see him to the end of it.” He paused, looked down to Merry. “And taken away those who would see him abandon it. It brings me hope.”
“Hope?” Merry scowled, just barely kept himself from sneering. “Fate – if that is indeed what it is – has given to Frodo the one person in the world who would push him into the Fire, if that’s what he asked. Aye, he loves Frodo desperately and that’s well, and he’ll do whatever it takes to keep him alive – even step in front of the Dark Lord himself for him, if that’s what is asked of him. But Frodo wouldn’t ask and Sam…” Merry shook his head. “Sam will use his own head if he must, but he’ll do as Frodo asks in the end. And what if Frodo asks Sam to let him go? If that’s your hope, I don’t think I want anything to do with it. I have no wish to live in a world that the sacrifice of Frodo’s very life has brought about.”
“You would not do the same?” Faramir asked quietly. “And what of Imladris, then?” and Merry was thrown back to a moment when he straddled two worlds and waved a golden sword over the sleeping body of his cousin.
His stomach dropped and his mouth
went dry. “How can you…?” He shook his head
slowly. “Who told you that? You can’t possibly--”
Merry turned his glance away. “In Rivendell…” he choked. “It wasn’t the same,” and had no idea whether he was responding to Faramir’s enquiry or trying to explain it all to himself yet again.
“Indeed not,” Faramir said. “For you were acting for only Frodo’s good, with no thought to the fact that his heart lay with things greater than himself. You only wanted to save him, whereas he hopes to save all. Pity that you would have such little respect for the hopes of one you claim to love so well.”
Merry turned on the man, narrowed his eyes. “You are very glib and entirely too confident in your own conclusions!” he snapped. “You know me not at all and Frodo for little more than the space of a day.”
“But I see more than you might suspect and more than you would like, I think.” Faramir was calm and though his words were hard, his voice remained kind. “You have thought not at all about the Ring, save for what It was doing to Frodo, am I right? You have looked away from what Its peril means to the world and have seen only what that peril means to your own. Thousands of Men have died over the Ages and thousands more walk to their deaths even now and all for the good of the world. You’ve considered none of this while I daresay Frodo has considered little else.”
“Including himself, which is rather the point!”
“And how much thought did you spend on yourself when you saw Théoden fall?”
It shook Merry, this man’s calm assurance. He turned away, did not answer.
“I see,” Faramir said again. “So, it is well done for Meriadoc to place himself before the face of Death for the love of others but not for Frodo?”
Merry bowed his head, whispered, “Yes,” before he could stop himself.
Faramir stepped close again, asked softly, “Why?”
“Because…” Merry felt all emotion drain from him. He couldn’t even feel angry anymore. “Because I can stand the thought of dying for him but I cannot stand the thought of losing him. Because I cannot – have never been able to – let him go. He has been there my entire life and I cannot bear to think of one without him.” He paused, turned hollow eyes on Faramir. “Because it is always the best who are taken too soon and I have foolishly thought to outwit Fate, to trick a happy ending out of it all, and prevent the loss of my very heart for more years than I can remember.”
“And yet Fate has chosen a different path for you and put another in your place, one who will do what you yourself know you could not.” Faramir leaned his elbows on the top of the wall, peered at Merry closely. “Have you ever thought, friend-Meriadoc, that perhaps your unwillingness to let go may be the very thing that took you from Frodo’s side? That perhaps it might be a better thing that Frodo needs not fight against one who loves him, as well as that which he carries?”
For into darkness fell his star…
Stop it, stop it, you have taunted me with this for too long and I don’t want to know it now! You are dead, finally at peace, so leave me to mine!
Merry squeezed his eyes shut, forced himself to breathe. “Have you ever been faced with the reality, Faramir,” he murmured, “that you’ve no right to the Purpose of your life? Have you ever been forced to acknowledge that the one person you need most is perhaps better off not needing you?”
“We are all forced to face unhappy truths, I think,” was the quiet response and Merry didn’t want to know what had put such a deep sadness into that voice. “Sometimes,” Faramir went on gently, “the letting go is less painful for those we love than the holding on.”
“And that,” Merry whispered, “is a task I fear is beyond me.”
“And yet it is done. Fate found a way, where you could not.”
Merry wished he could scream, sob, weep until he drowned, but he couldn’t seem to feel anything but numb. “I don’t think I want to talk about this anymore,” he breathed.
“Then we shall speak of other things,” Faramir agreed. “But let me say this: I do not believe that Fate would have put him on a path so difficult, only to have it all turn to naught.”
“And let me say this: our definitions of ‘naught’ seem to vary. What if Frodo’s death is what awaits him at the end of that path but we are saved?”
Faramir was quiet for a moment, then, “Then it will be as he wished. And I expect that he would prefer you spent a moment in thanksgiving, rather than a lifetime in rage.”
“A happy ending always requires a blood-sacrifice, does it not? You will forgive me if I withhold my thanksgiving until I see cause for it. I would rather give thanks for those things I want and not what another wants for me!”
“And yet you want so much for others.”
That one stopped Merry cold. He turned his head away.
Faramir again placed a gentle hand to his shoulder. “I cannot say who will survive to see the New Day dawn, but I have faith that it comes.”
“Then you have more faith than I can claim,” Merry answered bitterly. “And a different sort of hope.”
“Perhaps,” said Faramir. “But that faith tells me that if there is hope, it lies with Frodo Baggins.”
Merry breathed deeply, set his eyes eastward. “On that,” he replied softly, “we can agree.”
“At last!” Faramir offered a small, warm smile, squeezed Merry’s shoulder then turned and re-seated himself on the bench. “Then perhaps we can finally get to the matter I have brought you here to discuss.”
Merry’s heart sank. “What, you mean there’s more?” He turned away from the wall himself and resumed his place beside the man. He sank heavily to the bench, cradled his arm, sighed wearily. “All right, then. Do your worst.”
Faramir cleared his throat and, if Merry was not very much mistaken, flushed. Bewildered now, he frowned, waited.
“I was hoping…” Faramir paused, chuckled nervously. “That is, you rode from Rohan with the Lady Éowyn, did you not?”
Merry’s frown deepened. “I did,” was his cautious reply.
“Right.” Faramir nodded, cleared his throat again. “So…” He made a visible effort not to squirm. “I thought perhaps I might persuade you to tell me about her.”
Merry blinked at him slowly. “Tell you about her.”
A nod.
“The Lady Éowyn.”
Another nod and an anxious flick of the eyes.
Merry tilted his head. “Do you mean to tell me that you summoned me here to talk about a lass?”
Faramir grinned. “A woman,” he corrected. “And rather a fine one, from what I can tell.”
Merry shook his head in wonder. “Stars above and I thought… well, I don’t know what I thought but…” He glared. “You know, you could have asked me all of this before and saved me…” He waved his hand about. “…whatever all of that was.”
“You didn’t give me much of a chance, did you?”
Merry had to give him that one. He rolled his eyes, surprised to feel a small smile curling at his mouth.
“What do you want to know?”
“Well,” Faramir answered, still grinning, “why not start with everything and we’ll work from there?”
Merry shook his head with a smirk. “You’re gone on her already, aren’t you?”
A small guilty shrug and Faramir’s flush deepened. “Maybe.”
Merry couldn’t help himself – he snickered. After a brief, wounded pause, Faramir joined him. It wasn’t until almost an hour later that it occurred to Merry to wonder when the numbness had seeped away.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
He had never been a patient person. Until now it had never been much of a problem. Always, if there was something he wanted, something just out of his reach, he’d simply adjust the rules, re-arrange the field and turn the impossible into new possibility. Never before had he been required to face the fact that some things are just simply too far from one’s grasp, no matter the reach of one’s arm.
Merry positioned the coin between his thumb and forefinger, flicked his wrist. The coin bounced on the tabletop and plinked against the side of his cup, wobbled on its edge for a brief moment before tottering to its side, stopping. Merry rubbed at his wrist a little, flexed it, then slid the coin to the table’s edge and swept it into his hand. He still couldn’t control his fingers well enough to just pick it up from the table’s surface but he was getting there.
He shook his hand until he felt blood heat the tingling tips then took the coin again between his thumb and forefinger. He aimed, bounced… and missed again.
“You’re doing it wrong – you have to hold your hand at an angle, see?”
Frodo demonstrates with his own coin, flicks. The coin bounces against the tabletop, does a slow turn then plunks into the mug.
“There, you drink.”
Pippin can’t keep in his snorts and Merry turns a playful glare on him. “Shut it, Took,” he growls and downs the ale in the mug, catching the coin between his teeth. He smiles and Frodo laughs, snatches the coin from Merry’s mouth.
“You’ll get it,” Frodo tells him and his eyes are alive and full of laughter. “You just need a little patience.”
Patience.
Not your strong suit, he told himself and almost chuckled. He slid the coin to the edge, swept it into his palm.
Éowyn had been worried over him, he knew, and this bit of exercise was as much for her peace of mind as it was an effort to pass the crawling hours. Not precisely what he’d been instructed to do but the only thing that seemed to keep his attention for the required thirty minutes. He supposed it must be a natural thing in those of the feminine persuasion, that inability not to worry – even those who pretended at being male better than a lot of males Merry had known, for all her beauty and the soft nature she couldn’t quite hide.
He doubted Faramir would ever let him live down the fact that he’d ridden leagues and leagues with his back pressed against a very ample bosom and hadn’t had even a clue. And no (very justified, in Merry’s own opinion) explanations of breastplates and hauberks damped the smirks and chuckles that burbled from the Steward whenever the unfortunate subject arose. Merry had retorted hotly the first time that he’d like to see Faramir guess, if he was so bloody smart, what with the helm she’d worn and the battle-gear and so forth weighing them both down, and she’d even altered her voice, for pity’s sake, how was he to know, and what was he supposed to have done, anyway, grab the man who offered to ride him into battle between the legs to see if he was a she?
Bah.
He’d given up when Faramir had actually rolled out of his seat and onto the floor, laughing so hard he’d got dizzy, and Merry had to help him sit up and put his head between his knees. Now Merry simply and very pointedly ignored Faramir when he tried to broach the subject again and kept a running tally for use against Éowyn who, to her credit, at least had the decency to try and cover her snorts with polite, though unconvincing, coughing bouts and apologise for tricking him when he would gripe to her about Faramir’s taunting.
Bah again.
Anyway, she worried over him, which he had to admit, was a little nice. So many of the women in the Houses seemed to coo at him and he’d had to bite his tongue too many times when his head was patted or his cheeks pinched. Sometimes it was so annoying that he’d find himself wishing he’d been a little more free with those Ent-draughts. He had a mother, thank you very much, he didn’t need sixteen more.
But Éowyn was different. She never looked at him with that all too familiar condescending smile he got from so many others since he’d been introduced to the world of Big People. Her smiles – though admittedly rare – were genuine and her manner that of one friend to another.
So when she would find him slumped in his seat somewhere, staring blankly East, she would raise a single eyebrow, tilt her head. Most of the time it would make him blush and he would go and begin the next bout of exercises the Warden had instructed him to do in order to get his hand and arm back to normal. Although, more and more now, he found himself practising Coppers, rather than following the regimen given him.
But sometimes that look would only make him bow his head, turn his face away and fight with the tears that were always just a little too close, the anger that roiled too often beneath his breastbone… the shame that rose up each time he thought of Frodo walking into the Shadow that spread itself steadily westward like a malignant, poisonous cloud, and Pippin marching towards it in order to give Frodo more time. Times like those he couldn’t help but wonder what words Pippin might have spoken with his last breath, what image of Evil and doom Frodo might have taken into death with him.
For into darkness fell his star…
Anything, tell me anything, lie to me, only, please tell me he was not bound, tell me he was not brought to his knees, tell me he stood against It to the last…
Those were the times when Éowyn would simply find a seat beside him, sit quietly for a while before her soft voice would spin tales of Eorl, sing him songs of her country in a soothing warble of strange words that would slip off her tongue, as rolling and gentle as the emerald hills and plains of which she sang . Sometimes she would tell of Théoden and, though Merry could see that these tales hurt her heart, he could also see that the telling of them soothed her as well, and he was glad to see it.
He closed one eye before his next shot, thinking perhaps it would help his aim. It didn’t. He slid the coin to the edge, tried again.
“Love, you have to let go with your fingers sooner. You’ve got too firm a grip. Loose, see?”
Flick, bounce, clink.
“You drink again.”
Frodo’s eyes are far too clear for a person who’s been out drinking with a Took and a Brandybuck all night. But then, Merry blearily realises that, of the six pitchers he remembers having arrived at their table at one point or another this evening, he has probably personally drank five of them. When Merry misses, Merry drinks; when Pippin hits, Merry drinks; when Frodo hits, Merry drinks. And the more he drinks, the worse his aim becomes.
Not fair.
He blinks across the table at first Pippin then Frodo. He smiles slyly.
“Are you trying to get me pissed so you can have your way with me?”
“Not in your best dreams,” Pippin retorts immediately then doubles over at his own joke.
Frodo ignores Pippin, gives Merry an evil little grin, waggles his eyebrows. “At every opportunity.”
The Eagles had come, bearing their tidings, and the city had rejoiced to hear them. Éowyn had found Merry in his rooms shortly after, leaning precariously out of the high window, looking eastward and trying desperately to tell himself that the black cloud that covered the lands and the rumble beneath his feet did not, could not mean that his life had been saved days ago, only for Fate to tear away his heart and his soul. She had only looked at him then, understood immediately, for he saw the same look of grief in her eyes as well, and a small part of him that still insisted on taking part in life had taken solace in the looks of complete love he had seen Faramir turn on her when she wasn’t looking.
And so they both waited, practised patience, which was something Merry suspected was as foreign to Éowyn as it was to himself. Tales and songs of their youth were traded and there was laughter as well, though always with a tinge of shame and regret beneath it. Messages came from the east but never with the tidings Merry waited to hear. They watched the city come to life around them, while their existence became an endless series of moments spent biding in their own small worlds made of grey.
They never spoke of Pelennor. They never spoke of the Witch-king.
It was still too close for them both, but Merry sometimes wondered if it was because they both shared the sense of grief that they had not died that black day, and could not bear the added shame of admitting it out loud.
He aimed, bounced the coin. Missed again.
Frodo’s hand slides over Merry’s, positions the copper correctly between his fingers. His fingers are cool with just a hint of calluses at the tips.
“Hold it just like this,” he says and his breath flows warm down the side of Merry’s throat and the skin along his back tingles where Frodo is pressed against him, leaning over his shoulder. Merry wonders if his coat is smoking with the heat.
“You’re not going to shag him right here in the pub, are you?” Pippin wants to know.
And Merry sort of hopes Frodo will answer in the affirmative and stifles a snicker.
Frodo chuckles and it rumbles along Merry’s nape, slips down his breastbone, and the tremor of it settles between his legs. Frodo straightens and pulls away and Merry suddenly realises that it is quite possible that his brain has just melted. He clumsily lifts a hand to the side of his head to make sure it’s not oozing out his ears.
Frodo grabs Pippin by the front of his shirt, kisses his nose. “Wretch,” he accuses and laughs, low and throaty.
They didn’t talk about the New Day either. Neither of them took much joy in it, though neither was willing to admit to such astonishing selfishness.
What Merry had told Faramir had been true: he did not want to live in a world that still existed only because Frodo had crawled to his death for it. Perhaps the World had not fallen, but his world was good and gone, and he only needed to wait for the tidings of grief for the Ring-bearer’s loss to begin his own slow death. He wondered if the Eagles would sing that dirge. Whether he would be mourning Pippin as well had yet to be seen, and Merry would have to admit to a tiny sliver of hope that still lived bright within him, if he were going to be honest with himself. And he had to smile a little at that because… because Frodo would have been glad of it.
Frodo takes his seat, peers across the table at Merry, and Merry feels his skin light fire. The copper glints along the tops of Frodo’s knuckles, those long, slender fingers rolling it back and forth… back and forth. It catches the light of the lamps and dazzles Merry’s eyes.
And all Merry can think of is how long it will take them all to stagger the quarter-mile back to Smials and then how much longer than that it will take him to drag Frodo through the maze of tunnels until they get to their guest-smial and then whether it might be possible to undress a person using only one’s teeth.
Enough?
Never.
Merry clenched his teeth, flung the coin too hard to the tabletop. It bounced up, hovered at eye-level for a quick second then flipped several times in mid-air and plunked into his cup. Merry blinked, wiped the splash of juice from his cheekbone.
“You’re supposed to be drinking that, you know.”
He didn’t turn – only smiled a little, slumped against the back of his chair. “Daft cow,” he muttered, just loud enough for her to hear, then corrected, “I mean, good day to you, my Lady.” He fished another coin from his pocket. “And perhaps I might drink it, if I did not know that the Warden has tried too often to slip sleeping-draughts into various drinks and turned me suspicious.” He picked up the cup, turned and held it out to Éowyn. “Here, you drink it if--”
Merry stopped, peered at her closely and his heart did a little flip. His mouth went dry.
“You have news.”
“I have,” she replied and she smiled, soft and warm. “Three Periannath bide at Cormallen and Éomer King requests the presence of their kinsman and friend.”
* * *
The captain of the ship was too young, if anyone wanted Merry’s opinion. But he didn’t suppose he could complain much – once he figured out what the spinnaker was for, he’d put it to good use and the mainsail billowed, caught, and then they were flying downriver. Osgiliath was but a small shadow behind them and, according to one of the pages assigned to the delivery of the stores they carried, they should make Ithilien by early next morning.
Merry spent his hours on deck, watching the sun spark on the water then burnish it warm with its waning light. He had to keep himself from chuckling too often – it always seemed that the larger, more dangerous-looking the man, the more time that man spent hanging over the side of the ship. Several times Merry had received embarrassed glances as some soldier turned six different shades of green, fought with his stomach for a few useless moments before giving up, taking hold of the jackline and heaving. Merry always tactfully looked away and mentally gave thanksgiving for growing up on the River. And if he ever snickered into his sleeve, it was only because he was feeling a little giddy.
Alive. All of them.
Only now did he realise that he hadn’t dared hope, not really, not so that he’d admit it to himself. Perhaps he’d thought the grief would be easier to bear if it was expected, he really couldn’t say for sure. But now hope flared bright and warm in him and he willingly gave himself over to it. Injured, yes, every one of them, and he didn’t know how badly, and there would be that to deal with once he got there. But alive.
He thought of little besides the sensations pouring over his skin – the fine mist of the riverspray, the wind howling past his ears, his hair whipping against his nape. The dull ache in his arm sometimes clamoured for attention and moreso when he’d accidentally scrape his hand against the railing. But Merry resolutely pushed it away. Only good memories were allowed this day and grateful smiles when he could manage it.
The sun finally fell and the stars shone bright, but Merry barely marked the change, only kept watch as the river foamed against the hull and the land rushed past, bringing him ever closer. Someone brought him a stool and someone else brought him food twice, but he had no idea what he’d eaten and neither did he care. Several of the men tried to engage him in conversation, but he couldn’t remember whether whatever he’d answered back had been polite or had made any sense at all. Their warm smiles and the occasional strong clasp of his shoulder told him that they understood, at least, and that he wasn’t making a name for Hobbits in general as being dim-witted or rude.
The stars disappeared quickly, it seemed: one moment they were there, wheeling across the heavens, and the next they had already given way to a burst of gold-amethyst. It was when the sails were furled and the lines readied that Merry realised they were reaching port and his heart picked up pace. Injured, his mind kept telling him and then his heart would answer back: but alive.
The ship came alive with the routine of docking, all hands taking up their duties with assured efficiency and those not involved in the mechanics of it all taking great pains to stay out of their way. Merry watched it all with the same soft smile he’d been surprised to find on his face quite often over the past forty-eight hours, though his patience was sorely tested with each passing minute. Finally, it was done, and Merry joined the push towards the plank stretched over the water and secured to the quay.
Gandalf waited for him, the dazzle of his robes standing as a star against the muted grey of the dawn. He looked weary, distracted, and perhaps a little sad, but he smiled to Merry when he caught sight of him. Merry pushed his way through as politely as possible, sacrificing the odd jab of an elbow to his arm as a small price to pay for disembarking that much faster and being on his way as soon as possible.
“They’re all right?” was his greeting when he’d finally gained Gandalf’s side. “I’ve only heard ‘alive but injured’ and nothing more. How badly?”
“Peace, young Meriadoc,” Gandalf told him and smiled again. “I shall tell you all along the way. We have a cart of our own for privacy but we will wait until it has been laden with stores before we take to the road. There are many who are wounded and in need, and even our small load will be precious.”
“Of course,” Merry replied, took a quick second to feel a twinge of guilt before trying his hand at helping with the bundles being directed their way. He wasn’t much use, as it turned out, but seeing to the smaller, lighter bundles at least made him feel useful and kept his twitching to be gone under control.
“I believe that’s all this mule will manage,” Gandalf told the docksman and patted the animal’s thick neck. “We shall send it back for more, once we are deposited at our destination.”
It was all Merry could do not to kiss the stocky beast. He climbed up beside Gandalf on the board.
“How long do you suppose?” he wanted to know.
Gandalf popped his pipe into his mouth, handed the reins to Merry while he dug about his robes for his weed satchel. Merry handed over his own and Gandalf grunted his thanks, filled his bowl. It was going nicely when he finally sat back and returned Merry’s satchel while at the same time retrieving the reins.
“Perhaps an hour, perhaps a little more,” he finally answered.
“Do they know I’m on my way?” was Merry’s next question. “I’d have come straight-away, right after the Eagles brought tidings, but the messengers said the roads were still treacherous and no one was allowed in or out and there were still battles being fought along the way. I might have come anyway, pushy Wardens and Stewards or no, though I may have had to hamstring Éowyn in order to get away, but there wasn’t a beast to be found and I didn’t know the way, or who--”
“Meriadoc,” Gandalf interrupted and Merry stilled, flushed. “Even did you have something for which to apologise, you are doing it to the wrong person. The Warden was following my instructions and Aragorn’s, if you recall correctly.”
“Well, yes, but that was before… well, before. I think, had I known they were all alive, I’d have walked on my own feet and said bollocks to you, with all due respect.”
Gandalf lifted an eyebrow. “Would due respect be possible, when one is on the other end of that, I wonder?”
Merry smirked. “All right, but you know what I mean. I think I’ve been afraid to hope and all too sure there was no reason for it. The longer I stayed in seclusion, the more I could pretend…” He paused, gave his head a shake. “Anyway, that hardly matters now. All my fears were for naught, as it turns out, and I am grateful beyond sense to have it so.” He turned in his seat. “So, how are they? Tell me everything, I beg you, I’ve been too long without news.”
Gandalf took several long puffs from his pipe, sighed. Merry knew at once that the news would not be what he’d let himself hope.
* * *
They took him to Pippin’s tent first. He’d been warned that it would look much worse than it actually was but it didn’t help – Merry still gasped at the sight and had to gnaw on a knuckle to keep himself from wailing out loud.
The entire right side of Pippin’s face was one gigantic bruise, almost the colour of aubergine, and red and angry-looking at the edges. When Merry pulled back the sheet, he saw that it travelled down over his neck as well and his chest was a mass of mottled black and purple beneath snow-white bandages wrapped about his ribs.
His knees grew weak and he sank slowly to the edge of the palette. “Ah, Pip,” was all he seemed able to force out as he ran his hands gently over each limb, pausing at the especially-painful-looking shoulder, where the bruises were almost black, and again at the stiff splint encasing the right leg.
“The shoulder was dislocated,” the healer behind him said softly. “No permanent damage there, but it may pain him off and on for a month or so. The leg was what had us worried.”
Merry tried to pay attention, brushed back tangled curls from Pippin’s brow. He would have to ask someone to wash Pippin’s hair. He would never stand for it being in such a state and it was best it be taken care of before he woke or Pippin was likely to…
He swallowed, tried to collect himself, asked, “Oh?”
“We can’t tell how long he lay beneath that troll,” came the careful answer. “The blood-flow was cut off for some time but it seems to have repaired itself nicely enough. The foot is warm and the skin pink where it’s not bruised, so we think perhaps he was pulled free in time. That will need to be watched carefully, whilst he sleeps. The sprain was a bad one but Master Gimli tells me that he was not especially worried over sprains as he pulled your cousin free, as is well. And the hip was not dislocated, as we had feared.”
Merry could only nod slowly, swallow again, and his throat clicked with the effort.
“He will recover,” the healer went on and his voice was soft and reassuring. “He will probably need a cane for a few weeks when he wakes and then perhaps every now and then when the weather is damp.” He stepped closer, pulled the sheet back up to Pippin’s neck. “But for one who was literally pulled from beneath the dead-weight of a troll, he is little-scathed.”
Merry frowned up at the man, ready to argue with the assessment, but he couldn’t seem to find his voice. The healer seemed to understand.
“I know he doesn’t appear so to you but you must understand that I have been on the fringes of battles for years, seeing to the wounded, and I tell you that this…” He waved a hand over Pippin’s still form. “It’s all quite remarkable. A man caught fully beneath the weight of a troll would have been crushed; a man caught with a limb or two beneath that troll would have lost those limbs but this…” The man shook his head. “Quite remarkable.”
It made Merry smile a little. “Well,” he replied fondly and bent to lay a kiss to Pippin’s brow. His smile grew and tears pricked at the corners of his eyes. His voice was but a low murmur, spoken soft to Pippin’s skin. “He is a remarkable Took.”
He kissed him again, drew back then stood slowly, carefully. He took a deep breath, turned to the man.
“I’d like to see the others now.”
* * *
For into darkness fell his star
He’d been warned. He’d been warned and his visit to Pippin should have prepared him but it didn’t.
In Mordor where the shadows are
When Merry was admitted to the Ring-bearers’ tent, there was nothing he could do but fall to his knees and weep.
* * *
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“Had enough, Merry-lad?”