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TITLE: Counterpoint, Movement XVIII - Fugue AUTHOR: Daffodil Bolger BETA: Trianne PAIRING: Frodo/Merry RATING: PG… ish SUMMARY: Changing themes
Fugue: a composition written for three to six voices. Beginning with the exposition, each voice enters at different times, creating counterpoint with one another.
* * *
FUGUE
* * *
It was his own fault because he’d been warned and he’d known but still he’d let himself believe. For only a moment, one tiny, split-second space of relief, he’d looked into Frodo’s eyes and let himself believe that everything could be as it was, that all of the warnings, all of the dismal cautions had been the unschooled opinions of people who had no idea what they were talking about. Who really knew Frodo, after all? Merry knew him better than anyone else and there were still parts of Frodo that were enigmatic to even him, so if he couldn’t predict with certainty exactly how changed Frodo would be when he woke, who were they to guess?
And so, when Frodo had opened his eyes, peered up at Merry and smiled, Merry had, for a moment, allowed himself to believe that they had been wrong, that he had been wrong and that they could all pick up the pieces of the lives they had put on hold until such time as they could forget the worries of the world and get back to their own. Ah, so sweet, that moment; Frodo was incandescent within it, almost more beautiful than Merry could bear and all because he had looked exactly like himself, exactly like Frodo, with no White eclipsing his earth-bound song, no Black hovering within those eyes where Merry before had always been able to find the stars themselves if he wanted to. Songs and colours and red notes of discord lost their portent.
But then the sleepy softness had flown and the worries of the world all flashed as lightning-strikes in Frodo’s eyes and all of them all at once and Merry watched, could actually see them rise to the surface, spike hard and hollow and then sink down into Frodo’s heart. And for a moment more painful and sharp than Merry had ever thought to survive, all Merry had been able to see was white light and his own eyes burned. Then Frodo had veiled those eyes, shut Merry out and disappeared right in front of him and more surely than any ring could have made possible.
I have seen his song, looked into his soul and it is too sad and beautiful for me to bear, and I want to reach out, hold it, tether it to my heart, but I am terrified to touch it. And if I dare, will it burn me to cinder… or will I douse it with the ashes of my own?
For one tiny splinter of time, Merry had allowed himself to believe and the price for that brief joy was knowing that he shouldn’t have. He couldn’t tell yet if that heady euphoria made the immediate despair worth it, for he was still reeling from it as he left the tent, flung the flap closed.
He unabashedly tried listening through the canvas to what was being said inside but couldn’t hear a blessed, bloody word. Not even a murmur made it through the relatively-thin barrier, and Merry had to wonder if it was by some magic of Gandalf’s that sound seemed to stop inside the tent.
Too proud and full of conceit, to think I could fix this, to think I should, and now I wonder if it’s even my place anymore to try.
I wonder if I even have the right.
I have walked through death and shadow, have stood before it and spat in the dirt at its feet and I shook in my skin as I did so. But only now am I truly afraid, only now do I understand what fear really is.
It was perhaps an hour later when Gandalf finally emerged, looking weary but his grey eyes unreadable. Merry had spent that time brooding and wondering and yes, even hoping, and now he rose from his seat by the flap, made to slip past Gandalf, but Gandalf stopped him with a hand to his shoulder.
“He sleeps again,” he told Merry and when Merry frowned in alarm, went on, “His own sleep, Meriadoc, not to worry. He will wake again soon, I've no doubt.”
“Then, I’ll just go sit next--”
“No,” Gandalf told him and Merry thought to protest – in fact, thought to tell him to bugger off and quit trying to order people about – but something about the voice stopped Merry’s mouth, shut it. A quaver in tone, perhaps, or maybe a resonating note of… he didn’t know but it made him peer more closely, listen harder. Gandalf noticed, Merry was sure, because he flicked his eyes away, made an effort to smile.
“What did you talk about?” Merry demanded slowly, his voice low. “He seemed confused and… I don’t know – something else.”
Not real, not there and too white and beautiful and I am afraid, have never been so terrified and I can’t fix this alone, can’t tell if--
“He is feeling many things and only needs time to take it all in, I think,” Gandalf answered gruffly then turned, sat himself slowly on the low stool at the tent’s entrance.
Merry would not be dismissed. “But he seemed upset,” he pressed. “Tell me what he said – what you said to him.”
Everything, I need to know everything: every single sorrow, tear, lament, for how am I to begin to understand how to fix it all if I haven’t a clue where to begin? He has already closed himself off from me, ordered me away and I can’t do this alone!
Gandalf sighed impatiently and, Merry was almost sure, growled a little. “If I am not mistaken,” he told Merry, “your services as a Knight of the Mark have been spoken for this day. I was to tell you to report to King Éomer as soon as you’d had your visit with Frodo. I’m afraid it quite slipped my mind and now you seem to be late to report.”
“What – now?” Merry cried. “They haven’t known what to do with me for weeks and now they want to put me to some use? Do they know that Frodo has woken? And I must see Sam! I’ve so much to say to him, so many things to thank him for and I can’t--”
“Everyone is necessary today, Merry – have you looked beyond your own nose? Have you not marked the preparations for a great celebration?”
Merry hadn’t. He also couldn’t really care less at the moment. He pointed emphatically towards the tent.
“But they--”
“-- are the ones we are celebrating,” Gandalf rumbled. “And I remind you that you have pledged service to your king and he now demands that you honour that pledge. Shall I report that Sir Meriadoc has no wish to keep faith with his king and would rather sit idle while others see to his duties?”
Merry slumped, glared. “Fine,” he answered sullenly. “I shall report to Éomer, but I will be back as soon as I have completed whatever tasks he commands.” He shook his head in frustration, asked, “Will you tell Frodo I’ll be back as soon as I can? Please?”
“Now I am your messenger, am I?” Gandalf snipped and before Merry had the chance to blink at the sudden bluster, Gandalf shook his head, said, “Forgive an old man his snappish tongue. I have slept little.” And Merry certainly knew how that felt, so he only shrugged it off, continued to peer at Gandalf expectantly. “I shall give your message to Frodo, fear not,” Gandalf told him.
“Thank you,” Merry said then turned, took a step… paused. He turned around slowly. “Gandalf…” He swallowed. “I don’t know how to… I…” He shifted, took a watery breath, looked pleadingly to the wizard. “I’m afraid.”
No hand on his shoulder, no comforting Words of Wisdom; Gandalf only gave that odd smile again, nodded. Merry shot one more rueful glance at the tent-flap then slowly turned again and began his search for Éomer.
Almost two weeks his presence had been ignored almost entirely and now, when he’d have given just about anything to be over-looked…
“Bollocks!” Merry growled and pushed his way through milling men towards Éomer’s tent.
* * *
“Pippin!” The voice carried sharp and clear over the din of preparations going on around him. “Peregrin Took! What do you think you’re doing? Why aren’t you resting? Put that down!”
Funny, Pippin didn’t remember anyone mentioning that his mother was coming. He smirked a little, hefted the bundle of linens in his arms onto the table then turned to Merry. Merry’s face was red, his countenance holding an odd little mix of concern and wrath, and Pippin just had to grin.
He snapped his heels together, dropped a formal bow to his cousin. “Sir Meriadoc,” he began, his tone crisp, “I see that you have not been informed but I am Prince of the Halflings and you are but a mere Knight of Rohan – which means I out-rank you and it simply will not do for you to go about reprimanding a superior officer.”
Merry’s eyebrows rose and he rolled his eyes. “Superior officer.”
“Indeed,” Pippin replied and tried for a haughty air but only just managed to keep from snickering. “Now, come on,” he said and waggled his eyebrows, “bow to me.”
“I will not,” Merry retorted then shook his head, obviously holding back some chuckles of his own.
“Oh, come, now,” Pippin pressed, “I bowed to you and you’re a mere Knight. Show some respect for your Prince, why don’t you?”
“I don’t have a Prince and I pity the poor sods who claim you as theirs.”
Merry turned abruptly serious. “Where is your walking-stick?” he demanded. “They said you're to use it for several weeks yet and you’re not even out of bed a day and it’s already been cast aside.”
Pippin’s smile turned warm. He reached out, tweaked Merry’s nose.
“Stars, I’ve missed you,” he said and meant it. Annoyingly over-protective or no, Pippin had dearly missed the nagging and the sharp glares, right along with the deep, full laugh, the broad, warm grin and everything else that came along with Meriadoc Brandybuck.
Merry only batted Pippin’s hand from his face, tried to hide a grin and didn’t do it very well. “Cut it,” he ordered and Pippin could hear the buried chuckle beneath the stern tone. “I know your distractions all too well and they won’t work on me. Now, where is that stick?”
They work perfectly fine, Pippin thought but said, “How is Frodo? You’ve seen him? He woke?”
Pippin had thought that would be a fitting distraction indeed and was sure to lighten Merry’s mood and perhaps spare Pippin the ordeal of explaining that one could not fetch and carry very well if one is using one of one’s hands to hold a walking-stick. But for some reason, it instead killed the mirth in Merry’s eyes. His face fell a little then he caught himself, pushed a forced smile to where the genuine one had been but a moment ago.
“He, um…” Merry paused, strengthened his smile. “He woke, yes, and he asked about you…”
“How does he seem?” Pippin wanted to know.
“He seems…” That uncomfortable pause again and Pippin frowned, tilted his head. “He still seems weak,” Merry went on gamely, “and tired and… He’s gone right back to sleep already, you know, but Gandalf says he’ll be up again soon enough and should be--”
“What’s wrong?” Pippin demanded softly and Merry stopped, turned pained eyes on him.
He only stared at Pippin for a long moment before he answered, “I just don’t know,” and Pippin watched as Merry’s carefully-constructed cheer dissolved completely. Merry shook his head, leaned wearily against the table. “I don’t know what I was expecting – relief that it was all over, maybe, or at least…” He lifted his gaze, peered at Pippin with puzzled eyes. “I couldn’t see him, you know?”
Pippin shook his head slowly. “No, I don’t know. I thought you said you’d seen him – they wouldn’t let you in?”
“Yes, they let me in,” Merry replied, turned his head and stared off into the crowds of men going about the business of preparations.
“Merry, you’re not making sense,” Pippin told him and now noted a small echo of unease creep up his spine. “Did you see him or didn’t you? Did you speak to him or didn’t you?”
“Yes and yes.” Merry’s shoulders sagged and he turned slowly back to Pippin. “I was there when he woke, was the first to greet him, and at first he looked…” He paused, smiled a soft half-smile. “He looked muzzy.” The smile grew, turned tender and Merry’s eyes misted. “You know how he is when he first wakes – always takes him a good half-hour and two cups of coffee before he can see straight, let alone carry on an intelligent conversation.”
Pippin grinned. He knew very well. Merry grinned back but it was only a few fleeting seconds before it faltered again, edging back towards confusion.
“But then…” He shook his head, shrugged. “I don’t know. One moment he was looking at me and smiling, like I’d just woke him for an early walk or something, and he was so real, Pippin, so… so there, I don't know how else to say it. And the next, he…” Merry turned those eyes on Pippin again and Pippin felt the bewildered sadness in them as though it were his own. “He wasn’t there anymore.”
Pippin shook his head. “I’m
sorry, Merry, but I still can’t follow you. What do you mean, ‘he wasn’t
there’? Did he faint or something?”
Pippin swallowed, reached towards Merry but Merry avoided his grasp, pulled himself back. Pippin dropped his hand.
Funny. All of the time they’d been trekking from one part of Rohan to another and beyond – their stay with the Ents, their brief respite at Isengard – all of that time, when the subject of Frodo arose, Merry’s main concern had always been for Frodo’s physical safety. Even way back when they’d first begun The Conspiracy, Merry’s main objective had been to keep Frodo alive, safe, and his only concern about the Ring was that it was the cause of putting Frodo into danger. He’d never seemed to consider the dangers the Ring Itself posed to Frodo, never seemed to grasp the fact that perhaps the biggest danger to Frodo had been the Thing Itself and not the ones who sought It.
Pippin, on the other hand, had worried over entirely different things. He’d read Its history, pored over the writings of Saruman himself in the bound texts of Rivendell’s library, watched through sheets of vellum and strokes of faded vermillion as a Wise Man slowly rode the descent into thrall. And now, hearing Merry’s worries only re-awakened Pippin’s own. This is what Pippin had been afraid of; this is what he’d watched for in Frodo’s eyes, even before he’d known what he was watching for, or that he watched at all.
No! It’s over, it’s done and we’ve come through too much to have our ‘Happily Ever After’ taken away. It’s finished, we’re alive and everyone is fine – that’s it, end of the story, The End, over and done. Seeing things that aren’t there, misunderstanding things that are – Merry always does see the worst first and it’s always been your job to clock him upside the head with the better side. Now, buck up and start doing it!
“Maybe…” Pippin smiled, slipped a comforting arm across Merry’s shoulders. “Look, he’s only just woke up, yes? And after two weeks asleep, for pity’s sake and that after that horrible journey. Plus waking up to your mug might put anyone off his breakfast.” He paused, smiled a little sideways, poked. “Really, Merry, you always have expected too much. He’s exhausted, naturally. Of course he’s a little off.”
Merry shook his head, closed his eyes but Pippin was pleased to note that he leaned into him, took the comfort Pippin offered.
"'Off' doesn’t seem the proper word for it, Pip," Merry told him quietly. "He seemed--"
“It’s no good fretting over how he seemed,” Pippin cut in, made his voice stern. “Appearances are almost always deceiving and you’re a horrible judge of things like that anyway.”
Merry chuckled a little, asked, “Am I?”
No, he wasn’t, Pippin knew, in fact knew well that Merry could see things in their cousin that no one else could, intuited things that would put that ‘Tookish Faerie Sight’ that had become a running joke between them to shame. But Pippin was not yet willing to give up on his happy ending, so he squeezed Merry’s shoulder, put on a grin.
“Yes, the worst,” he answered, shoved Merry away. “He’s fine and will be fine and you’re worrying over nothing like you always do. Enough with the long face, all right? – we’ve things to do and not a lot of time to do them.” Pippin made his tone brisk, tucked away anything lurking in his heart that was incongruous to a happy ending and took a look about. “I’ve been charged with getting these tables set up and ‘elegant-looking’, or so that Miniël person declared, but how one goes about inventing elegance with only rough-cut slabs of pine and linens that have been mouldering in long-abandoned houses, I've not quite figured yet.” He took another assessing look, blew out a long breath then squared his shoulders. “Ah, well – best it be started quick, I suppose.” He turned to Merry. “What have they got you doing?”
Merry ducked his head, muttered something truculent and Pippin leaned in, said, “Hm? Didn’t catch that.”
To which Merry rolled his eyes, sighed dramatically. “I am to assist you in your quest for elegance.”
Pippin blinked, lifted an eyebrow. And snorted.
“Are you, then?”
Merry flushed, scowled. “Don’t get carried away. I’m sure it’s only because--”
“Because I am in service to Gondor and you are in service to Rohan, which is, in turn, in service to Gondor.” This time, Pippin’s cheeky smirk was entirely real. “See? I told you I was the superior officer. Now, come on.” Pippin stood back, waggled his eyebrows. “Bow to me.”
“Um... no.” Merry spun about, began dragging a sheet of pine across a set of horses.
Pippin followed. “Superior officer!” he repeated.
“No!”
“But I’m a prince! Ask anyone, they’ll tell you!”
“Bugger off!”
“Just once?”
“Leave off, will you?”
“I won’t tell a soul.”
“No!”
“I’ll bow back… you know – someday. I promise…”
* * *
He turned with the rest of the masses at the sound of the trumpets, rudely shoving his way towards the front so that he could get a look. They parted for him, mostly out of surprise, rather than any sort of deference, and he was there and gone before most of them thought to look down instead of over and register that one of the Halflings had just elbowed them in the hip or knocked their ankle with his stick. Whatever worked, to his way of thinking, and he made his way to the fringes of the front just before the call went up and the cheers began to sound. Merry was already there, which, of course, he would be, and Pippin slid up beside him, elbowed him a little in the side, but Merry didn't turn, didn't acknowledge him at first, only kept peering steadily, eyes narrowed, jaw set.
“I can’t believe," Merry muttered through his teeth, "they made them dress in those… those…”
And Pippin thought he probably wasn't talking to him but he sharpened his focus anyway, saw immediately what Merry was talking about and why his teeth were clenched because Pippin’s own face pulled into a frown then and he had to agree with Merry on this one.
Orc-rags and he knew what they were because he’d seen them up close and it made his heart do a little flip, made his nostrils flare and his blood heat. Pippin wanted to know what kind of sick joke this was and who’d had the poor taste to try and pull it off, thought that if Merry decided to storm to the fore and cover them with his own raiment that Pippin would be right behind him and bugger anyone who tried to stop them. What could they all have been thinking, dressing them in those clothes to which the stink of the Black Land must still cling? Pippin imagined that their skin must have crawled when they donned them, for his own was quivering and he shuddered.
Merry didn't stomp to Frodo’s side, though – only stood beside Pippin with his face pulled into something that held anger and sorrow and disbelief and a hundred other things within the changing expression, but all of them softened by love, thick and fierce, and then sharpened again by worry.
Pippin leaned on his cane a little because he was tired already and his hip throbbed with a warm ache that slipped down all the way to his toes. He would still refuse to use it once he was set to serving but right now, he trusted his weight to it gratefully and shored himself up against Merry besides. Merry slipped his arm about Pippin’s waist, though his eyes never left Frodo and his face never stopped changing from one expression to the next, as though he couldn't decide exactly how to feel and so tried on all of his emotions, one at a time, like another might try on hats.
It wasn't upon Pippin’s first real glimpse that he understood, though he supposed he always had in some way anyway, but not in a way that was quite so real and never without some sliver of denial and disbelief. No comfort in those anymore, not now, and he knew somehow but wouldn't admit it yet.
Thin and shaky, yes, but he’d been told all of that and so he didn't blink at it, only had a fleeting thought of, ‘Well, they’re not so bad as I’d thought, anyway,’ and made mental notes of who ran what about the place and who had already offered favours and who he might impose upon to cook up some of Frodo’s old favourites. He’d have to try and pry recipes for some of Sam’s as well, though Sam wasn't always forthcoming with those recipes for dishes he considered his Gaffer’s own inventions. As if Gaffer Gamgee actually invented pork dumplings. Pippin almost chuckled. It didn't matter; he’d manage to squeeze something out of him somehow and the thinness could be dealt with. Pippin would see to it. One problem on its way to resolution.
It wasn't upon his second look that he understood either. He and Merry had retreated to their own respective companies to stand at attention within the formations, though Pippin was less at ‘attention’ than he was ‘blatantly taking up the not-space on the end rather than his own, three spaces in’ so that he could see. He watched Frodo try not to writhe through the announcements, watched his face darken red then quickly pale and his head turn to look at Sam when the minstrel began his lay. And he saw Frodo close his eyes as the song progressed, bow his head and clench his hands into fists as Pippin watched their journey safely from behind his own eyes. Merry had already told him the tale – most of it anyway, or what he could bear to tell – but hearing it with what seemed like the presence of the World in attendance made it hit him harder this time.
The lay was beautiful, yes, and sad and glad all at once but Pippin couldn't help the shudders that ran through him at odd times, even when the language turned to Elvish and he couldn't understand what was being sung, but his heart seemed to understand it all too well and it quailed in his breast. He was stunned and quietly weeping when it was done and Pippin couldn't help but wonder if Merry was still on his feet but he couldn't see Merry anymore.
His third look came when he and Merry began their duties, serving the main table, and even then, right up close, he still didn't see it. He was pleased to see that they had now been dressed in silks and linens and his former anger at the orc-rags was nearly forgotten. He approached with a grin and watched surprise turn to an odd sort of relief and pleasant ease and Frodo smiled up at Pippin as he made his boast to Sam. And he couldn't really help doing the latter but that was just who Pippin was, so he didn't worry too awful much over his own bravado. Instead he grinned back at Frodo, winked and then went about filling plates and cups, and put aside any lingering doubt he might have had about how honourable it really was for The Troll Slayer and Prince of the Halflings to have been pressed into service as The Bringer Of Food. He'd more readily take The Bringer Of Food, though, for those two needed it badly, and he saw Merry doing much the same as Pippin himself: tiny portions of odd ‘delicacies’ (what in sodding creation was roe anyway and who in their right mind would slather the goo on toast and put in their mouth because ew, just ew) and heaping on portions of venison broiled with onion and chunky vegetables, steamed so they were still crisp and drizzled with butter, and yes, all right, fine, so Pippin had been sampling before he’d brought the dishes out.
Frodo looked older than he did before, now that Pippin saw him right up close. He didn't suppose he’d ever really considered Frodo’s age before because he had looked the same Pippin’s whole life and age was always a sort of esoteric thing where Frodo was concerned. Older, yes, and it wasn't that Pippin didn’t think of him as an ‘elder’ because he acted older than he looked anyway, but it wasn't something Pippin had ever really thought about with his head, just something that was always there in a way. You knew Frodo was the eldest but he looked maybe Merry’s age, if even that. Now he looked… not old so much as…
Ageless. Like, if you didn’t know that he’d only this autumn celebrated (though ‘celebrated’ was a dubious choice of words but Pippin couldn't think of a better one at the moment) his fiftieth birthday, you could guess all day at his age and never hit the mark. Almost like the way you couldn’t tell how old Elrond or even Legolas were and for some reason, that comparison gave Pippin another shudder.
It was the eyes, Pippin decided. Something about them said that they’d seen too much, and Pippin pulled his own away before he saw more than he wanted to.
He still watched though, saw Sam eat probably a little more than half of what Pippin had seen him inhale on previous occasions and decided that a stomach that had been filled with nothing but medicines and broths for too long and almost nothing for too long before that would probably need a little time adjusting to sustenance. Frodo poked at various foods, pushed them around with his fork, dropped it twice then tried with his left hand. That worked a little better but it still scraped and skittered across the plate and Pippin saw the pink climb up from Frodo’s neck, settle firm at his cheeks, and the fork soon sat dormant beside a plate still too full. Sam leaned over, moved his own fork and knife towards Frodo’s dish, tilting close and murmuring low. Frodo shook his head, his cheeks flaming, and he turned away, looked back and forth between the plate and the fork.
Pippin glanced to Merry, who was also watching because Merry was Merry and that’s just what he did, and Pippin merely observed as his cousin casually picked up a tureen of roasted potatoes, slid a second helping of them onto Gimli’s plate. Then Merry turned to Frodo, smiled and snatched a wedge of steamed carrot from his plate with his fingers, popped it into his mouth. Frodo’s return smile was small and a little pained but it was there and he shot furtive glances from one side to the other, slowly did the same.
Pippin couldn't tell if he was angry or joyous or full of sorrow, but his throat was tight and his eyes burned, so he scanned the plates on the table, went about refilling what needed refilling and let his mind go blank. He wouldn't think about the stains on Frodo’s cheeks, which were not just marks of embarrassment but shame, and he wouldn't think about how Frodo looked suddenly small and it had nothing to do with Pippin having grown and it had nothing to do with how Frodo had shrunk. Frodo somehow made himself small… or maybe it was more that he pulled himself back, made himself blurry, faded from the eye of those around him. He was walking his journey still, even as he sat and slowly ate anything that one could politely eat with one’s fingers, and that was when Pippin began to see but still not yet, not now, not while he could still not see. He could still look away, explain it all in ways that made sense, and so he told himself that ‘The End’ had been written and you couldn't unwrite it once it had been done and ‘Happily Ever After’ was writ clear on too many faces around him for it to be untrue. He did not allow himself to look for it on the three faces that actually mattered, only kept an eye on quickly-emptying plates and dutifully offered more helpings to anyone who hadn’t already pushed his plate away and leaned back, sighing.
It wasn't until much later, after the tables had been cleared and dismantled, after the musicians had gathered beneath the beeches and begun plucking at strings, soft, slow and soothing, after Pippin and Merry had been released from duty and finally, finally allowed to go about the business of being hobbits – only then did Pippin begin to see.
Pippin was using his walking-stick now because he was very tired and very sore and the shoulder was bothering him, too, but not so much as the hip. He was just glad that the hurts were on opposite sides so that using the walking-stick didn't put strain on the shoulder. He didn't really think about it at first because when you were hurt, you did what you needed to do to either get yourself better or help you along until you did. So, when he needed the stick, he used the stick.
It was when he saw Frodo regarding him with pained eyes that Pippin began to see his mistake because he knew Frodo too well and he knew that he would take every hurt of Pippin’s and add it to his own. He also knew that Frodo had probably already decided that it was somehow his fault. But Pippin had always been rather good at jollying him out of things like that, so for now he just moved as fluidly as he could manage, seated himself in the grass beside Frodo and put on a smile, pretended that he didn't have a limp and that using the stick was the most normal thing in the world.
Sam couldn't get over their size and more than once he insisted upon measuring them, coaxing them to stand back-to-back with him. Sam marvelled and Frodo smiled a little at his wonder and then he was pulled to his feet by an enthusiastic Sam, prodded into standing up straight, and when Sam swung Merry around, pressed their backs together…
Pippin began to see.
And then the floodgates were opened and he couldn't not see it anymore and then he couldn't seem to stop himself from seeing and he’d never in his life wished to be blind before but he almost did now. Or at least a bit addle-headed, as so many thought of him anyway and, though it had caused him to fume to himself and clench his teeth over past insults to his intelligence, now he thought that wouldn’t be such a bad thing.
Merry was right: Frodo wasn't there, somehow. His body moved and his mouth spoke and even smiled and laughed a little, but there was nothing inside it all. His voice was hoarse – grittier and less substantial than it once was – and Pippin thought that was a fairly apt description of Frodo himself and he shivered just a little as Sam pressed Merry and Frodo closer. Sam examined them thoroughly, measured with his eyes and wondered again about Ents and the like, and Pippin watched and heard it all from within a thickening cocoon of unease.
Frodo was like a spectre pressed up against Merry – he stood stiff and unmoving as Sam went about his business, trembled a little, wavered, too, but did not lean into Merry’s back for support, did not turn when Merry reached back and took his elbow, steadied him. Only pulled a little farther away, hunched in on himself, and Sam chastised him fondly, asked how he was supposed to get an accurate measurement if Frodo wouldn't stop slouching.
Frodo didn't answer, just shuffled slowly away, lowered himself to the ground and leaned back into the trunk of a tree. Pippin watched Sam’s smile falter for all of a half a second and then it was back, brighter than a moment ago, and he planted himself beside his master, continued on with his questions and exclamations. Merry just stood there and stared, looking alone and lost, and Frodo… Frodo didn't seem to see.
Pippin had never known two people who knew each other better, who could read each other’s thoughts almost, know what the other was feeling just by a certain quirk of a lip or a miniscule change in tone. Neither had he ever known two people who took such care of each other, putting aside their own wants or needs for the other, and happily so.
But Merry now stood before Frodo in supplication, without a trace of shame, and silently asked for acknowledgement. And Frodo didn't give it.
Sam had pushed the two together more than once, almost as though he were surrendering Frodo to Merry, making it clear through jovial chatter and subtle prodding that he was stepping back, renouncing his place between them. And Frodo didn't let him.
Pippin watched something in Merry die a little, turned to Frodo and saw the corpses of too many pieces of him rise to the surface of muddy eyes, watched as they both carried on with tales of their respective journeys and neither of them acknowledging that something had been offered and rejected, asked for and refused. Pippin knew that Merry wouldn't stop asking, wouldn't stop offering, and he looked at Frodo and knew that he wouldn't stop turning away.
Pippin studied those flat eyes and thought maybe, in the end, that turning away might not be such a bad thing.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
So, all right, things had changed and Sam wouldn’t really have expected otherwise, and some of it wasn’t any of his business anyway, so he only watched and waited to see what would fall where and who might be the first to start picking up the pieces. He wasn’t surprised to note that it was Master Pippin. Or Sir Peregrin, actually, and wasn’t that a mouthful he never thought he’d have to say, but he was more than happy to say it. Escaping from Orcs, advising Ents and slaying trolls, and you’d have thought maybe it would have dulled his spark summat but then, of course, you’d have been dead wrong. And if you’d thought it in the first place, it would only mean that you didn’t know Master Pip. Couldn’t keep that one down nohow.
Mr. Merry, now… That one seemed to have got old while they’d been apart and he reminded Sam more of the men around them than a hobbit. One of the first things he’d noticed about Men was that they hid things behind their eyes and that, more than anything else, was what had made Sam take an instant dislike to Strider way back in Bree. Hobbits had their secrets, sure, but Sam had never seen so many closed faces as he had since he’d been about Men. Even Captain Faramir had shadows playing beneath the honour so plain in everything about him. Men were as likely to hold back on important matters than not and all to keep their own secrets, whether they were worth keeping or no. Hobbits just didn’t think that way, at least most hobbits Sam knew.
But Mr. Merry seemed different now – his eyes were different: veiled; wary. There were secrets in those eyes now, things that writhed and spun within them, and you knew somehow that they’d never see the light of day, knew you’d never hear those secrets spoken aloud, and somehow you were almost grateful for that. He had regrets, that one, and Sam was an observer more than a participant in Mr. Merry’s life but he was practical, too, so he knew what he saw when he saw it. Regrets and sorrows and shames that probably didn’t belong to him because Mr. Merry always had been a one to expect everything from himself and then show no mercy in kicking his own arse when he couldn’t give it. Sam had to suppose that a body could only take so many arse-kickings before his eyes started to look like Mr. Merry’s.
Sam couldn’t say he’d noted the change in Mr. Frodo’s eyes right away. He supposed some of it could be the fact that they’d travelled together for so long and so close that the change had been slow and difficult to mark. Some of it could be that he hadn’t wanted to see it. But Sam was practical and, once he’d seen the way Mr. Merry and Master Pippin had looked at their cousin and the way that Mr. Frodo looked back, Sam took a look himself with new eyes and…
Practical, yes, Sam was a practical hobbit, and simple, too, if you must know, and not ashamed to say it out loud. Simple was a far-cry from simple-minded and simple had its good points. And being practical, Sam had to admit that yes, his master’s eyes were different, Frodo himself was different and he had secrets and sorrows all his own. You couldn’t go through what Mr. Frodo had been through, see what he’d seen, and not be different. He supposed the same could be said of Mr. Merry and Master Pippin but – and it was quite possible that Sam held a bit of bias here – what those two had been through was too far-removed from what Mr. Frodo had and you just couldn’t compare them. Orcs are scary, surely, and he supposed Ents were in their own way and Good-Wizards-Gone-Bad and bloody battles, certainly. But how could any of that compare to a bloody battle that never ended within your very soul? How could having yourself bound and carted off on the back of an Orc compare to having your heart held prisoner and your mind taken away from you whenever the Evil that hung ‘round your neck felt like having some sport with you? How could any of the hurts that any one of them had suffered compare to the constant violation – the unending rape – of one’s spirit?
Sam had worn It for but a short while, yes, and that couldn’t compare either, and he knew that what his master had endured had been thousands of times worse and more insistent than what Sam had himself. It had only had but a little bit of time to tease him, try to coax from him the things that would truly tempt him, and even that had come close to being enough. If It had had a little more time, got inside him a little more, really seen his heart and his own small secrets, how much resistance would he have had? He didn’t like to consider it, truth to tell, and was more than grateful that he didn’t have to. Mr. Frodo might still feel bad over how he’d snarled at Sam in the Tower and Sam supposed he still did a little bit, too, because he’d wanted to keep It, oh, yes, he had. But Sam was practical and he had unsettling suspicions of his own over what might have happened had Frodo not snatched It back when he had and, though he wasn't entirely sure exactly what it was he was grateful for, he was grateful none the less.
So, being practical, Sam looked at his master critically and noted the changes. Being simple, he shrugged and thought, ‘So, he’s different. That don’t make him more nor less, only different, and I love him any way he is.’
It seemed simple but none of what was flying about unspoken in the air between the cousins was the least bit so. Merry and Pippin – they hadn’t seen, couldn’t know and they wanted to, Sam could tell, and he wasn’t surprised because they loved Frodo dear but, though they may well be somewhat practical, not neither of them were simple. They would want reasons, answers, explanations, and Sam didn’t think that Mr. Merry at least would cotton to the fact that sometimes there just were none. He needed Mr. Frodo’s secrets, that one, for Frodo didn’t give them up to just anyone and when he did, you knew that it was because he loved and trusted you. Mr. Merry lived on that love and trust more than he did on bread and water and, if Sam were a braver hobbit, he might tell Mr. Merry that he didn’t really want to hear Mr. Frodo’s secrets, not now, and that the trust had been scooped right out of his master, flung as a burnt offering into the Dark Lord’s face along with his heart and what was left of his spirit. And he would tell Mr. Merry that he would do better to accept what love was left for what it was – the last remnants of a ravaged heart – and cherish it without questioning why it was changed; just be grateful there was still something left for him.
Sam supposed he was a little bit brave but not that brave. He kept his mouth shut.
* * *
It was late and Sam was tired and sore, too, if anyone wanted to know. His feet were beginning to swell and the skin felt tight; he was almost afraid they’d pop when he stood, so he remained seated next to his master, listened to the hum of voices and waited for them all to grow as tired as he was so they could go to bed. Master Gimli’s voice shook him out of his stupor summat because Sam was pretty sure a dwarf couldn’t speak quietly if his life depended on it and more than once he’d startled Sam out of his trance-like torpor, talking about this Orc he got through the throat or that Haradrim he had to hit twice before he’d fall down and stay dead.
Mr. Frodo was even more weary and should have gone to bed long ago, but Sam hadn’t had the heart to tear him away from the others so soon. It wasn’t so long ago that he couldn’t even remember their faces and, though he was a little more reserved than Sam thought he’d be, Sam could still tell that he was finding comfort in them being near. Sam wouldn’t take away a minute of comfort from Mr. Frodo for every single silver penny in the world. And he figured there must be a lot of silver pennies in the world.
Sam was leaning back against the tree and Frodo was leaning back against Sam and it took a little while for Sam to realise that it was probably a little more familiarity than either one of them would have been comfortable with before. But it had somehow become the way of things, so he hadn’t hesitated when Frodo had first sagged then leaned into him; Sam had simply adjusted himself, lifted his arm and curled Mr. Frodo beneath it and kept right on talking with Legolas about that last great battle before the Gate. He’d felt eyes on him after a while, frowned then slanted his gaze over to Mr. Merry. That was when Sam had noticed that he sat with Mr. Frodo now as he’d seen Mr. Merry do countless times before and was surprised that his heart didn’t take a leap, that his arm did not instinctively draw back. Was even further surprised when he kenned that Mr. Merry didn’t expect him to.
Mr. Merry’s eyes were sad, yes, and why wouldn’t they be, and perhaps there was a little bit of wistfulness there as well. But there was not the all too familiar spark of jealousy that Sam had grown so used to seeing directed his way, nor resentment, nor anything other than the sad wish that he be the one Frodo had turned to when he needed a backrest. Mr. Merry'd smiled at Sam then, nodded just the slightest bit and then gone back to listening to the oddly-soothing background noise of an elf and a dwarf bickering fondly. Old, Sam had thought him before, and now he thought maybe wiser than he should be in some things, and weren’t they all?
“And not only Sam and Frodo here,” Gimli was saying, and hearing his own name, Sam snapped his eyes to the dwarf, tried to pay attention to what he was saying, but it seemed muffled somehow and Sam only vaguely caught that they were all in the process of being shooed off to bed, which was fine and right by him. He glanced back to Mr. Merry but he was already turning to Pippin, apparently in agreement with Gimli that the young Took should have been in bed hours ago, and Sam almost chuckled because there were some things, he thought, that would never change and Mr. Merry’s protective-streak seemed to be one of them. Master Pippin was rolling his eyes at his cousin and, if Master Pippin were a lass, Sam would have said he were giggling. But since he weren’t no lass, Sam figured he’d better keep that one to himself, because Master Pip were a lot bigger now, plus quick and wiry, and could probably get several good licks in before Sam even knew what had hit him, walking-stick or no.
Sam thought Mr. Frodo had maybe fallen asleep because he sat against Sam, didn’t move, even as the others all rose and began to stretch and groan before heading to their beds. So thinking, Sam was gently prodding at Frodo’s arm, tilting his head to murmur in his ear and wake him quietly, when Frodo suddenly spoke, stood a little too fast.
"Gimli?"
Gimli stopped at the soft sounding of his name, turned to Frodo with an expectant smile.
"I wonder…" Frodo cleared his throat. "I wondered if you might be able to tell me how long my cousin lay beneath that troll?"
Gimli's eyes widened a little then he frowned. “I'm not sure I can say,” he answered gruffly, hitched up his trousers and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “No one really knows, I should think. Things were happening awfully fast before the Mountain swallowed itself and ‘twas only by lucky chance after that--”
"Well, was it before or after the Mountain came down?" Frodo interrupted, his tone a little more adamant this time.
Gimli's frown deepened and he peered a little more closely at Frodo, turned his eyes quizzically to Sam, who only shrugged a little. "I don't suppose I'd thought about it before--"
"Please do so now," Frodo insisted, a little shortly, Sam thought.
Gimli was taken aback; he nodded slowly, said, "I shall do my best." He turned his eyes to the ground, mused, "There was smoke, that I remember, and I remember splitting the heads of two Easterlings with one blow and watching their bodies fall to the ground; that's when I spied young Pippin's foot beneath--"
“So, you didn’t actually see Pippin fall?”
“No, I--”
“Who might have?”
“I’m sure I don’t--”
“What’s this?” Frodo had obviously thought everyone else had already gone ahead because Pippin’s voice startled him and he nearly lost his footing when he spun about. Pippin had a teasing twinkle in his eye. “Doubting my valour, cousin? I assure you that I brought it down before it brought me down.”
Frodo tried for a laugh and only managed an oddly-nervous chuckle. “No, of course not,” he told his cousin. “I was just…” He cleared his throat again, shuffled. “I’m curious, is all.” He looked up and his eyes looked almost frantic. “Tell me: do you remember much? Do you remember the Mountain coming down?”
Pippin’s eyebrows rose. “I’m afraid I don’t,” he replied. “Why would you want to know that?”
“Who was there with you? Would they know? Do you know who would?”
Sam’s eyes narrowed. Frodo had been quiet most of the evening, in fact had got more quiet as the evening progressed, and Sam had had the suspicion that the more he heard about the journeys of the others, the more their danger had begun to sink in for him. It would be just like his master to brood over things that had already passed, fret over things he couldn’t have prevented. This new interest was a little bit alarming.
“I don’t,” Pippin said cautiously and Sam thought he was probably in the process of twigging to the same thing he was – or perhaps had beat Sam to it. Master Pippin were quick like that. “I can’t imagine why it would matter.”
“It does and I would really like to know.”
Pippin shook his head. “Frodo, there was too much happening for anyone to notice such a thing. Honestly, it doesn’t matter what--”
“It matters to me,” Frodo insisted and, had his voice not been so hoarse, it might have emerged as a cry.
Sam felt weight on the back of his neck, a warm prickle, and he turned to see that Mr. Merry was watching it all from several paces away. When Sam caught his eye, Merry blinked, straightened then made his slow way over, moved to Frodo’s other side and took hold of his elbow. Frodo jolted at the contact, startled, and when Sam caught his other arm, he realised his master was shaking.
“Mr. Frodo, we’d better get you off to bed,” he said and couldn’t keep the concern out of his voice.
Frodo’s eyes flashed, caught fire. “I will go to bed when I’ve had my answer.” His voice was quiet, even and held a warning within it. Frodo turned back to Pippin. “Who was there with you?” he wanted to know. “Who might have seen?”
Pippin shook his head slowly, glanced once to Merry and once to Sam then looked back at Frodo. “I’ve no idea, Frodo,” he answered softly, carefully. “I didn’t think it was important. I’m sorry.”
Frodo stared, backed a pace, lifted his hand to his brow then stopped, stared at the gap between his fingers. He closed his eyes, clenched his teeth and dropped his hand.
“I’m sorry, Pippin,” he whispered. “I only… it’s…” He seemed to take hold of himself then: he took a long breath, squared his shoulders and put on a shaky smile. “I only want to get the facts right. I plan to write it all down, you know, just like you said, and Bilbo will want to know what happened, and when, and he’ll be able to tell if I smear the details and… and it’s just no good to write something down anyway, unless you get it straight, it’s just no good, so--”
He stopped, blinked, stared at them all in sudden silence. All night he’d sat back and listened to everyone else speaking, only once or twice adding himself to the conversation. Now he was nearly babbling and Sam wasn’t the only one who noticed. Gimli was still staring openly, as were both Merry and Pippin, though Legolas and Gandalf had retreated before Frodo had asked his question.
“Come on, Frodo,” Merry said into the awkward silence. “I know I’m tired and Sam here looks like he’s about to go to sleep on his feet. We’ll see what we can find out tomorrow.”
Sam watched as Frodo slowly turned to Merry, face tilted up and confusion writhing over it -- anguish, pain and… entreaty. Frodo needed something, needed Merry to give him that something, and at that moment, only Merry would do. Frodo was turning to him as Sam had seen one turn to the other so many times before and asking, asking, asking and Sam waited, just as fearful as Frodo seemed himself, to see if Merry would give it, would even know what was being asked of him.
Sam should have known that there were some things that Mr. Merry might never understand about Mr. Frodo and that was a sad thing to be sure; but there were other things that Mr. Merry knew that no one else in the world might have guessed, not even Sam himself. Sam should have known but he’d forgotten maybe, and now his knees weakened in relief as Merry leaned down, leaned close, slipped his hand to Frodo’s nape and drew him in until Frodo looked him in the eye.
“How long did he stand at the Fire, Sam?” Merry asked quietly.
And Sam jumped a little when he understood that, though Merry’s eyes never left Frodo’s, nor Frodo’s his, the question had been directed at Sam himself. Sam didn’t take the time to try and puzzle it out, only put his trust in Mr. Merry and answered the question.
“Not but maybe half a minute, maybe a little bit more.” He pondered for a moment, amended, “He went through the Door about a minute before I did and then it were less than a minute before he…” Sam faltered then, closed his mouth.
A small whimper from Frodo but Merry just kept holding onto him and his voice was the same when he asked, “And how long did the struggle with Gollum last?”
Sam thought he might be starting to understand now and he cleared his throat, answered, “Not even that long. He made a jump and then I saw Mr. Frodo fall down and then that, that--” Stars, he still couldn’t help snarling when he was forced to speak the name. “That Gollum done a little dance and…” He grimaced, just barely kept himself from actually spitting, shrugged. “That was it.”
“Two minutes, Frodo, maybe three,” Merry said and it seemed to Sam that all of his awareness had narrowed to only the two people in front of him, one nearly shaking out of his skin and the other holding on, understanding why.
Frodo’s throat worked and his jaw quivered, but still he looked at Merry, tethering himself with his eyes. “It was forever.”
Hardly even words at all, more a breathless hum, but it sank into Sam’s skin, twisted his heart.
“Two minutes, maybe three,” Merry repeated calmly. “Not enough time to matter.”
“Too much,” Frodo whispered. “I took too long, walked too slow, tarried--”
“Now, that I won’t hear!” It took Sam a moment to realise the impertinent interjection had come from his own mouth. He blinked, swallowed then squared his shoulders, continued, “You can’t hurry when you can’t do no more than crawl, sir.” He looked to Merry, who smiled a little, still holding Frodo’s eyes with his own. “We went as fast as we could, didn’t take hardly any rests and those only when we couldn’t go no more. If you were too slow then so was I and it’s as much my fault as anyone’s.”
Silence fell, thick and heavy, and spun about Sam’s ears, rippled through his head, and it made him dizzy, stopped up his throat and lay like lead in his stomach. Frodo still stood staring at Merry and Merry still stood staring right back and holding on with both hands, speaking a silent language that only the two of them could understand. But Sam thought he probably knew what Mr. Merry was saying; it were there all over his face, if you only had the eyes to see it. And all of them watched, stood silent themselves and waited to see if Frodo would hear it. The world seemed to dim to a low hum just below the level of hearing and then:
“I hate to be contrary and spoil it for everyone who insists upon blaming themselves for things beyond their control,” Pippin put in quietly, “but it would seem to me that it was entirely the fault of the troll.”
More silence as first Gimli then Sam turned to look at Pippin in stunned wonder. Their jaws flapped freely, eyes wide and blank. Pippin merely looked back, laid his stick to the crook of his elbow then crossed his arms over his chest… blinked slowly.
Sam didn’t know how it happened but when it did, there was no stopping it: he snorted out loud, slapped both hands to his mouth and blinked, looked to Pippin. Pippin merely looked back, lifted a single eyebrow… then crossed his eyes. Sam couldn’t help himself then: his laughter burst through the confines of his hands and he doubled over, turned away and tried to laugh as quietly as he possibly could. When he heard Gimli’s choked snickers, he turned back, risked another look.
Pippin was peering at his cousins, looking very smug and self-satisfied, and well he should, to Sam’s way of thinking, because Frodo’s face now held a small smile, which Merry returned. Merry leaned in yet further, looked long and hard into Frodo’s eyes. Merry’s own eyes turned liquid then and his smile grew. “There you are,” he murmured then he kissed Frodo’s brow and pulled him closer, guided Frodo’s head to his shoulder, and Frodo folded into him, closed his eyes.
“I meant for you to go home,” Sam heard him whisper to Merry. “I never wanted any of this for any of you.”
“And we meant to see you through to the end,” Merry replied just as quietly. “Nothing seems to have worked out the way we planned, does it? Except that we’re alive and…” He dipped his head, placed a kiss to Frodo’s hair. “Let this one thing go, Frodo,” he said. “We’ve all had our failures but this one isn’t yours.”
Frodo turned his face into Merry’s shoulder, clutched at his sleeve, slurred, “…thought you were… thought you…”
“We’re not. We didn’t.”
Merry wrapped his arms around Frodo’s shoulders, laid his cheek to silver-shot sable and closed his eyes. Sam turned away then because it suddenly felt as though he were peeking through a keyhole, intruding on a very private moment. He turned instead to Master Pippin.
Pippin still looked rather smug, with his arm slung about a misty-eyed Gimli’s shoulders, leaning into the dwarf casually and his sore leg crooked at the knee, crossed over the other. Sam felt his mouth moving into a grin. He looked Pippin over, turned the grin to a smirk.
“So, what did you do to that troll anyhow, Master Pip?” he asked. “Try out your juggling on him ‘til he threw hisself on his sword?”
Pippin was indignant. “Certainly not!” he replied and lifted his chin. “Trolls are far too uncouth to appreciate good juggling.” He leaned in, smirked back. “It’s the naughty rhymes that get them every time.”
* * *
When Sam went to his bed that night, it was with a heart filled with hope. Gimli had seen Master Pippin to his tent and Mr. Merry had seen Sam and Mr. Frodo to theirs. Sam lingered outside the tent while Mr. Merry took Frodo inside, waiting to see if he should go in search of other lodgings for the night. But Mr. Merry emerged only a few minutes later, saying that Frodo was already nearly asleep and Sam should see about doing the same. Sam had offered to change tents with him, even being so bold as to suggest that it would be an easy thing to push the two cots together. Merry had laughed a little, shook his head and placed a warm, broad hand to Sam’s shoulder.
“He still needs care, Sam,” he had answered. “And I think we both know who’s the better choice for that. Just don’t go giving so much that you end up needing it yourself.”
Sam didn’t argue, instead marvelled over the changes in this hobbit who, only months ago, bristled at the idea that Sam might be more useful to Mr. Frodo at times than himself. His wisdom seemed to have grown with the rest of him, along with his heart, and he probably didn’t even know it. Not that Sam would ever dare to say such a thing out loud but he was proud of Mr. Merry – proud in a way he suspected Mr. Merry himself was proud of Master Pippin.
Of course, Sam had been through some changes of his own and it was about time he owned up to a few of them.
“Mr. Merry…” Sam shuffled a little, felt his face reddening, but this was important, had to be said, so he took a deep breath, looked Mr. Merry in the eye. “Back in Rivendell, when…” He shook his head, took another breath. “I understand now, sir.” He dipped his head, shook it again. “I didn’t know then and who knows what might have happened if either of us really had to… to… but…” He lifted his eyes, looked straight at Merry. “I understand now and… and Gandalf was right – I should have been grateful. I am grateful.”
Merry’s grip on Sam’s shoulder firmed. “Sam, I…” He closed his eyes tight for a moment. “There are so many things I can never thank you for, so much--”
“Old habits,” Sam cut in and smiled.
Merry blinked, lifted his eyebrows. Then he smiled back slowly, chuckled.
“Die very, very hard,” he replied and leaned in, scooped Sam into a great bear-hug, nearly knocking the breath from him. “Goodnight, Sam,” was all he said then he set Sam loose, turned and walked away.
“G’night, Merry,” Sam replied, still smiling, and he let himself into the tent.
* * *
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