|
Counterpoint, Movement XIII
Intermezzo: Short movement or interlude connecting the main parts of the composition.
A/N: The illustration, 'Consonance', is by Willow-wode. Prints are available for sale. Please do not use image without the artist's express permission. And please, do remember to express your appreciation to the artist.
* * *
Yes, all right, fine, so he was avoiding Frodo. Ironic, since for days, weeks – and bugger all, sometimes it had seemed like years, hadn’t it? – he’d been wanting nothing more than to just sit and stare and sink into the knowledge that Frodo was alive and well. Now, he did his staring from a distance -- sometimes… all right, most times -- from a place where he could see Frodo but Frodo could not see him. Childish? Maybe. But utterly necessary, at the moment, caught between shame and betrayal as he was.
He still had not looked his fill, still felt Frodo’s hold on health and life to be shaky at best, and daily talked himself into believing he was just being his usual, worry-wort self, looking for problems where none existed, just on the off-chance that they would rear their ugly heads and he’d have been prepared against them. But Frodo still looked pale and thin, still needed a firm hold on his elbow when he walked and his eyes…
Even from a distance, Merry could see the darkness in those eyes and wondered, not for the first time, if the same could be said of his. They’d both felt the same evil touch, had both looked it in the face and called its name through phantom screams of darkest agony, had both felt its appalling intimacy upon them and bore it upon shoulders that shook and swayed beneath the vile familiarity. Only Merry had done so through another’s eyes and not his own, as Frodo had. Merry’s violation had been that of another, lived second-hand through the black dreams of death a dead man somehow still lived. Frodo’s had been real – blood and bone – and Merry had to wonder if that darkness in Frodo’s eyes was a shadowed, sinister gift from one who had bent his neck to his own golden, jewel-laden gift too many centuries ago to remember; bent his knees before the one who’d bestowed it upon him. Merry rather thought so and further, he had the sickening suspicion that this ‘gift’ was meant to last a lifetime.
His stomach curled at the thought and Merry shook himself, closed his eyes tight for a moment. He lifted his head again, craned his neck; if he leaned just right, held on to the smooth, granite banister of the library steps, he could see Frodo around the bend of the path towards the gazebo, could watch him as he leaned into Sam’s grip, walking carefully but steadily to the bench that sat beside the path in a patch of bright afternoon sun. Merry winced a little as Frodo stumbled, even unconsciously reached a hand out as if to prevent a fall; but that tipped Merry’s balance and he had to move quickly to prevent himself from bouncing down the steps. When he looked up again, Sam had Frodo firmly by both arms, his head leaning close to Frodo’s, speaking things Merry had no hope of hearing from his standpoint. Frodo nodded, smiled a little and then Sam said something else and Frodo laughed, shook his head then turned his gaze Merry’s way too quickly for Merry to even pretend he hadn’t been watching. Frodo stopped and his smile faltered. Sam’s mouth turned down into a frown and then he turned as well; Merry ignored him – now that he’d been caught anyway, there was no sense in pretending and he had eyes only for Frodo. Merry did nothing, just stood and looked until Frodo’s mouth moved again in a hesitant smile and he lifted his hand, tipped a small wave.
Merry was torn, looked down; one small answering gesture to this latest of Frodo’s overtures and Frodo would probably send Sam away, close the distance between himself and Merry. Things could come to a place where conversation was possible, where problems could be discussed and solved or ignored and allowed to fade away. But, while it was possible that could solve the problem of the fury that still knocked against his breastbone over Frodo having agreed to take this burden upon himself, risk himself yet again, it could only make the issue of Merry’s own confessions imminent and he found his heart beating wildly and his mouth dry at the thought. After all, how was he even to begin the confession of having attempted to end Frodo’s life, after he’d bullied his way into this journey in the first place? Refused to go home, even when Frodo had begged him to? Lay weeping on the ground in his own terror as Frodo had received the wound that took his soul into darkness and very nearly kept it there forever?
When Merry lifted his eyes again, it was too late and the opportunity, such as it was, had passed; Frodo’s back was to him, Sam’s arm firmly twined about it as he led Frodo away, the bench and its welcoming patch of sun spurned for want of – Merry could only imagine – a less troublesome view. Frodo’s back was straight, his head held high and Merry didn’t really want to know what it was costing him to keep that posture until he was no longer within Merry’s sight. He clenched his teeth, cursed himself for a fool and a slow one at that, then turned and made his way up the steps.
The library was cool and less bright, the sun slanting in through the high windows overhead, which never allowed the light to glance directly upon any of the shelves. It smelled of parchment and ink; if not for the fact that Merry had never once come across a single speck of dust in the entire place – and he’d been in every corner – he would have said the scent reminded him of Frodo’s bedroom, with his various volumes and writings scattered about the place and ink blotters and bottles lined up on the floor beside the big chair by the hearth. But there was always a faint, underlying smell of dust there, along with the smell of the bayberry soap he kept on the washstand, the rosemary oil he kept in the nightstand and an elusive freshness that always reminded Merry of the outdoors, just after a summer rainfall.
He felt a sudden burst of homesickness wash through him and his arms utterly ached with their emptiness. He clamped his teeth against the tightness in his throat. Merry briefly considered running out the door, catching up with Frodo and throwing his arms around him, closing his eyes and breathing in deep, pretending for just a moment that they were standing in Bag End’s garden and that every bit of what had happened over the past weeks was nothing more than the worst dream ever conceived by a mind dipped in madness. But that would eventually lead to the inevitable confessions and somehow the fantasy that Frodo would not hate him was more easy to take right now than the probable reality that he would. The thought that Sam was right and Frodo would forgive him was either his dearest wish or nigh unbearable and Merry found he could not look Frodo in the eye until he decided which.
He picked up his tome from the ever-present, fire-haired elf – Aduial, her name was, Merry now knew – and made his way back to the shelves he’d perused the second day he’d been here. He’d wandered to others since then, as the compendium he was still working from referenced volumes and scrolls of a wide variety of subjects, from a collection of racy jokes that King Argeleb I had favoured at Court during his reign – and my, wasn’t Pippin pleased with that one – to a listing of the various herbs and remedies used by the healers of the day. But yesterday he had found a reference to the final fall of the North Kingdom and the great battle that took place just before it at Fornost. Merry had been past exhausted when he’d come across it yesterday but he knew the Shire had sent archers to that battle and he was keen to read the entire story from the beginning today.
So, he was a bit chagrined when he pulled down the book, flipped it open, only to find that, while the title on the spine was in both Elvish and Westron, the volume itself was in Elvish. And he was downright uncomfortable to find that while he’d been frowning at the book and not paying attention to where he was wandering, he’d nearly run right smack into none other than Glorfindel. The elf peered down at him, his eyes holding an annoying little spark, though Merry couldn’t quite say why the – by all appearances – friendly spark annoyed him so. Probably because he remembered all too well his own behaviour towards Glorfindel at the Ford and he couldn’t help his cheeks heating at the thought.
He stepped back, cleared his throat, mumbled a quick, ‘Pardon me,’ then turned his eyes to his feet and angled himself back to his table, fully prepared to wait until Glorfindel moved on before returning to the shelf and replacing the useless volume he still had clutched to his chest. Glorfindel, however, either didn’t notice Merry’s discomfiture or chose to ignore it; his own book in-hand, he followed Merry and casually seated himself in a chair across from him, opened his book. Merry swallowed, shifted in his own chair, laid his book on the table then angled his gaze everywhere but the elf’s direction. Should he go back to the shelf now and pretend he’d simply pulled down the wrong book, or should he just read some more of the compendium he’d been using and wait Glorfindel out? Which would be least likely to draw Glorfindel’s attention and thus force Merry into pleasant, polite conversation?
While he was still pondering his best option, Glorfindel answered his question for him.
“Can you read Sindarin?”
Well, now he had no choice but to make conversation, had he? Bugger.
“No,” he answered, peering self-consciously at the book and colouring a little more deeply. “I hadn’t realised it was in Elvish.”
“Most of the volumes here are available in many languages,” Glorfindel told him. “Which have you, there? Perhaps I can help you find the Westron translation.”
Merry said nothing, just turned the book and slid it across the table. Glorfindel’s eyebrows rose.
“‘The Last Days Of Arnor’?”
He peered over at Merry in surprise. Merry kept his own face bland; he was not about to give legitimacy to Glorfindel’s obvious astonishment at the thought of a hobbit endeavouring to learn about a world outside his own country. Bloody pretentious Elves anyway.
“May I ask exactly what it is you’re interested in?”
Merry glared. “Why? I can read well enough. Hobbits do know how to read, you know.”
The elf merely gazed at him placidly, unruffled. “I’ve no doubt,” he replied, “but, you see, I was there for Arnor’s last days and perhaps I can be of some assistance in your quest for knowledge.”
Merry blinked, frowned. “There?” He shook his head. “What do you mean, you were there? Surely you don’t mean…”
When Merry paused, Glorfindel nodded. “I surely do,” he answered and now the twinkle was somehow less annoying. “You could not be aware, young master, but my role here in Rivendell is not simply that of hobbit search-party. I am Captain of the Host of Rivendell and a counsellor to my lord, Elrond.” He closed the book, leaned forward. “And I most surely was there, during the last days of Arnor; in fact, the last day of Arnor.”
“But…” Merry’s mouth flapped. “But that would make you…”
Merry flushed and Glorfindel threw his head back and laughed. For the first time since he had appeared in the Hoarwell all those weeks ago, Merry found a smile for the elf, though it was a bit abashed.
“Yes, young Meriadoc, I am afraid that would make me quite ancient.”
Glorfindel winked and Merry shook his head at his own embarrassment. Of course Elves lived thousands of years – what had he been thinking? Why, he’d even read of Elrond at the Battle of the Gladden Fields with Gil-galad and that had been thousands of years ago, so the fact that Glorfindel had apparently been around when Arnor fell shouldn’t be… Wait.
“You were there when Arnor fell?”
“I was,” Glorfindel answered. “More precisely, I was there when Arthedain fell, which was the last true State-apparent, when Arnor split into Rhudaur, Cardolan and Arthedain; Cardolan fell just before Amon Sûl and Rhudaur allied with Angmar. Arthedain was the only one to survive, until Arvedui’s death.”
“So…” Merry frowned. “Wait, so Arnor didn’t end with the fall of Amon Sûl?”
“No, Arnor did not truly fall until Arthedain fell with Arvedui, hundreds of years later. Until then, Isildur’s line survived in Arthedain and so Arnor, broken as it was, remained.”
“Arvedui… I’ve read that name but I’ll confess I’ve been more interested in Arveleg. Do you know of him?”
A shadow fell across Glorfindel’s face. “I should,” he said quietly. “A good King, he was, and a better man. He held back the forces of Angmar for fifty years; does your book tell you that?”
“It does,” Merry replied carefully. “It also tells me that the forces of Rivendell and Lindon arrived too late to save him in his last need.” He waited but Glorfindel said nothing, merely gazed at the book on the table. Merry saw grief in the elf’s face and wondered how it was that he’d ever thought Glorfindel cold. “I’m sure you must have tried,” he offered softly.
A small, rueful smile… a nod. “We received news too late and by the time we’d got there…” He shrugged. “We managed to rout the forces of Carn Dum and send them fleeing but all that was left to do for Arveleg was see him to his barrow and pull his men from the waters.”
Merry started at this, feeling suddenly light-headed. He swallowed.
“So, you… you took his men to the Barrows? To Tyrn Gorthad?” When Glorfindel nodded again, Merry asked, “And did you find…” Oh, did he really want to know this? He clenched his hands into fists, licked his lips. “He had a lieutenant…”
“Yes,” Glorfindel replied. “Eäreneth. You bear his dagger.”
* * *
Not that anyone asked his opinion, or listened when he forced it upon them, but Pippin rather thought the whole thing was getting altogether ridiculous. They’d been here for weeks now and one would think Frodo and Merry would have run out of ways to avoid each other but not so. Merry seemed to spend every waking hour in the library and Frodo was hiding out in Bilbo’s rooms more often than not. They all took dinner together the first few evenings, oh, and hadn’t that been fun, with Sam in turns pampering Frodo and snarling at Merry; Merry ignoring Sam and answering Frodo’s attempts to make peace with stiff, clipped one-syllable responses; and Pippin rolling his eyes at the three of them, all the while valiantly resisting the urge to knock all their heads together. They’d eventually all given it up for a bad job but Merry and Frodo still did amazing – and sometimes quite amusing – verbal acrobatics, when faced with an invitation to spend time somewhere the other might be. When Bilbo had suggested that he might like to show Frodo the library, Frodo had actually slipped the book he’d been reading beneath the cushion of his chair and sworn up and down that there was no point in visiting a library, as he’d left his spectacles at home and wouldn’t be able to read anything anyway. When Bilbo had offered his own, Frodo first sputtered, then glanced at the door several times as though he might just get up and dart through and then finally settled upon claiming a headache and wandering to his room for a lie-down. Bilbo peered over at Pippin with a raised eyebrow and Pippin had just rolled his eyes.
Pathetic, the lot of them.
Well, at least the ‘Sam Business’ was more or less settled; Pippin had seen to that himself, since Merry apparently had no intention of doing so and Frodo hadn’t even been told yet what it was all about. Frodo couldn’t fail to see the new and even more strained tension between the two but Merry was too busy fuming over Frodo agreeing to go to Mordor half the time and bashing himself with guilt the other half to even begin to think of a way to explain it all to Frodo; Sam seemed to think it was Merry’s to do it and had kept mum. Lucky for all concerned that Pippin had no such scruples; he would be taking care of the ‘Frodo And Merry Business’ as well and right quick, too.
The ‘Sam Business’ had been easy enough. It was all just a matter of presenting logic, actually. Pippin had merely pointed out that Merry’s intentions that night in Frodo’s room had been the same as Strider’s at the Ford and Sam didn’t seem to have any problem whatsoever with Strider. Pippin pointed out the unfairness of it all and Sam had reddened, sputtered, tried very hard to cling to his own faulty logic then grudgingly admitted that Pippin was right. Pippin didn’t know if Merry had noticed the change in Sam’s manner towards him since then but Pippin certainly had. He had no illusions that they’d ever be best of friends but at least Sam wasn’t burning holes between Merry’s eyes with his fierce gaze anymore.
Now, the ‘Frodo And Merry Business’ was going to be a more delicate matter. Pippin normally wouldn't put himself between them; he loved them both equally and never liked the thought of 'choosing sides' when they got like this, and that far too often, in Pippin's own considered opinion. But it was terribly important that the two of them settled things between them and soon. Regardless of what Elrond might think, Pippin had every intention of going along when Frodo left for Mordor and he knew Merry did as well. So, it was vital that the two of them worked this thing out now, for time was not standing still and waiting for them to do it. They only had but a few weeks and Pippin had seen cold silences between them drag on for months before; none of them had the luxury of waiting this one out.
And anyway, Frodo certainly didn’t need this sort of strain right now and certainly not while he was still recovering and trying to build his strength for the journey ahead. Whatever Merry might think of himself right now – and he really couldn’t seem to decide what to think – Pippin knew that he was good for Frodo. He smiled more when Merry was about, his manner was warmer and less reserved and, though they each worried far too much over the other, worrying over Merry gave Frodo something to do, other than brood over what was to come. Frodo didn’t need to know what had gone on while he was unconscious simply for Merry’s sake but for his own as well. And far better for Frodo to spend his energy on convincing Merry that he’d done the right thing – as Pippin had no doubt Frodo would – than on working himself into a daily dither because Merry was still angry.
It was all quite simple, really, so it was only natural that they all needed a Took to set things to rights and show them that things really weren’t as complicated as they all seemed to like to make them. Good thing they had one along.
He found Frodo out on the porch that connected his room to Sam’s. Sam was, inevitably, fluttering about, fluffing the cushion at Frodo’s back and draping a knitted throw over his legs, and Frodo was, also inevitably, rolling his eyes and telling Sam to sit down and stop fussing, would he please, he was making him nervous. They both turned, smiled warmly when Pippin stepped out on the porch, and Frodo moved over, made room for his cousin on the small couch.
Pippin sat, studied Frodo closely. “You’re looking better every day,” he told him and meant it.
Frodo grinned. “I think you’re the only one who seems to think so.” This said with a pointed shift of his fond gaze to Sam.
“Now, Mr. Frodo, I never said nothing that would--”
“No, but your eyes tell me I look like death warmed up at every turn,” Frodo countered, still grinning. He turned back to Pippin. “I don’t think Sam will be satisfied until he has to roll me down the hall for supper.”
Pippin watched Sam colour, smile, and his eyes sought Frodo’s, held them. The gaze was soft and the love within it almost tangible. Frodo’s eyes did not quite return that love but there was definitely something within that hadn’t been there before; an intimacy that could only come from long familiarity and more recent tribulation and the fact that Sam’s hands had been the ones to guide him through it all.
Oh, someone’s heart is going to end up shattered to bits before this is all said and done, he thought sadly. Perhaps all of them.
Pippin decided to get right to the point.
“Sam, would you mind excusing us for a little bit?”
Frodo stilled. His smile faltered and he looked suddenly suspicious. Sam was no less so.
“I don’t know, Master Pip, Mr. Frodo needs a bit of rest right now. Mayhap you could come back a little after supper?”
Pippin pulled out a tone he rarely ever used and never on Sam. “That will do for now, Sam,” was all he said.
Sam looked helplessly at Frodo, who shrugged, nodded slightly before turning his eyes to his hands in his lap. Sam sighed, no doubt convinced that his master’s young cousin had every intention of carelessly vexing him and sending him into a relapse, undoing all of Sam’s hard work to get him better. He gave Pippin a look rife with warning but kept his tone light.
“You don’t plan on twisting any ears this time, I hope, sir.”
Pippin just smiled slightly, kept his mien distant and cold. Sam looked, for a moment, bewildered then narrowed his eyes, renewed his warning before turning slowly and stepping into his room. Pippin had no doubt his ear was firmly pressed to the other side of the door even now. No matter.
“I’ve never seen you behave in such a rude manner, Peregrin, and I don’t appreciate you trying it out on Sam.” Frodo’s voice was quiet but very stern.
“I haven’t time for games anymore, Frodo, and neither have you.”
“What games are you--”
“I have been watching you and Merry pretend that you are not avoiding each other for weeks and watching Sam pretend that he is the only one with a right to be at your side the entire time.”
Frodo was aghast. “That is utterly unfair!” he cried. “You’ve no idea--”
“I have every idea,” Pippin cut in fiercely. “I was there, as was Merry. Sam earned his place, make no mistake, but neither Merry nor I should have lost ours because of it.”
Frodo was silent for a moment then: “Is that what you think?” He turned to Pippin, his eyes sad, beaten. “Is that what Merry thinks?”
Pippin softened, brushed at Frodo’s fringe. “What choice have we, love, when you didn’t even consult with us before agreeing to go on?” he asked quietly. “When you did so knowing that they had every intention of preventing us from coming along?”
“I didn’t know that, Pip.”
“No, but you suspected and rather hoped, didn’t you?”
Frodo looked down, said nothing. Pippin sighed and shook his head.
“Frodo, one of these days you’re going to have to face the fact that your little cousins have grown up considerably.”
Frodo shook his head, said slowly, “It isn’t that.”
He reached out, took Pippin’s hand and was silent again. He fiddled with the fringe of the throw, twined it over his fingers and tugged at the stitches. If he didn’t stop pretty soon, he was going to end up with a lap full of loose yarn and a possibly put out host.
“What is it, then, Frodo?”
Frodo lifted his head, looked at Pippin and Pippin noted only then that his eyes glimmered suspiciously. Frodo’s face was twisted so, he appeared to be in actual agony.
“I do want you to come.” He spoke softly, as though unwilling to hear his own voice speak the words. “Even after everything that’s happened, I can’t bear to think of going without either one of you and…” Frodo shook his head, looked away, blinking fiercely. “I know it’s selfish and horrible and I would be putting you all in terrible danger yet again but…”
He jerked his head, twitched his shoulders back. His jaw was clenched and he looked almost angry now.
“I won’t ask Elrond to send you, Pippin, you or Merry. Sam has been chosen and I can’t stop him from going any more than I could Gandalf but, if you and Merry are not chosen, I won’t try to change Elrond’s mind.” He turned back to Pippin, eyes shadowed. “No matter how much I want you both along, I can’t be responsible for having it so, do you understand?”
Pippin smiled, patted Frodo’s cheek. “Of course I understand, love,” he said, deliberate cheer in his tone.
“You…” Frodo blinked, frowned. “Erm… what?”
Pippin rolled his eyes. “Bother, Frodo, you really do think I’m obtuse, don’t you?” Frodo stared, blinked some more. “You know, you’d save yourself an awful lot of sorting through your own heart if you’d just come and ask me how you’re feeling; I can usually tell better than you can. I’ve known since before we left Crickhollow how things were with you.”
Frodo’s jaw unhinged for a moment. “I rather wish you’d have told me.”
“You never asked,” Pippin grinned.
“Well, if you’ve known all along – and better than I did – what was all of this about, then?”
Pippin’s grin faltered. “Well, I’m not the one who needs some explaining, am I?”
“Oh.” Frodo slouched in his seat. “I’ve tried but I don’t know what to say to him, Pippin.”
“Uh, huh,” Pippin replied with a roll of his eyes. “I know how you ‘try’, dearest cousin, which is to say that your let’s-pretend-nothing-ever-happened-because-I-have-no-intention-of-actually-discussing-the-matter-until-someone-ties-me-down-and-makes-me-and-maybe-not-even-then has been stunningly ineffectual thus far, wouldn’t you agree?”
Frodo tried a glare but it didn’t have quite the fire behind it he was probably hoping for. He gave up, looked away, said softly, “He’s so very angry.”
“More hurt, I’m thinking,” Pippin answered, “though he never has liked it when you’ve done anything remotely dangerous… like, say, sitting or walking to the loo or eating a crust of bread…”
Frodo gave a reluctant snicker, shook his head and punched Pippin in the arm. The blow came from his right hand and it smarted. Pippin rubbed at his arm.
“Merry has other issues he’s dealing with right now,” he said more soberly after a moment. “This hasn’t been easy on him, you know, and what with Sam taking care of you and everything that happened when we got here and now you agreeing to do this…” He shook his head. “He needs you and you’re not there for him and I’m really quite put out with you over it, you know.”
“I…” Frodo dipped his head, sighed. “I don’t know how to be there for him. He can’t even seem to stand being in my presence. There’s something going on with him that no one seems to want to tell me about. I think I did something horrible to him and don’t remember it but I can’t begin to make it right until I know what it is.” He paused, peered at Pippin cautiously. “Is that why you’re here, then? To tell me?”
“More or less,” Pippin answered softly then slipped his arm about Frodo’s shoulders. “It’s not something you did to him, Frodo. It’s something he thinks he’s done to you. It might be difficult for you to hear this; are you ready?”
Frodo took a deep breath, rested his head to Pippin’s shoulder. “I’m not sure,” he said. “Since you know so much more than I do, why don’t you tell me if I’m ready and we’ll go from there?”
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
“So, Arveleg made his stand as he did to give his son time to get away with the Stones?”
Glorfindel nodded. “At that time, all of the Stones still remained and it would have been a terrible thing indeed, had the Witch-king laid his hands to one. The Enemy already had one in his possession and it would be disastrous if he’d been allowed to collect them all, as he intended.”
“At that time,” Merry said. “They’ve all since been lost?”
“Not all,” Glorfindel responded. “There remains the Stone of Minas Ithil, which the Nameless One holds; that of Minas Anor, which the Steward keeps safe for the King To Come; and those of Orthanc and the Tower Hills are believed to exist but their whereabouts are not known.”
“But that’s only four. You said there were seven.”
“The Palantír of Osgiliath was lost during the Kin-strife,” Glorfindel answered. “Those of Amon Súl and Annúminas were lost when Arvedui perished in Forochel.”
Merry stared at the table. “And Arthedain, and therefore Arnor, went down with him.” He shook his head. “And you were there; you knew all of the Kings of Arthedain. You knew Arveleg’s son and his son after him, all the way to Arvedui.”
It was amazing. He’d been sitting here absorbing information for hours and still had so many questions he would probably grow old and feeble before he was through. Several times he had to remind himself that this was not some fable or embroidered tale of imagined characters; this was real history and this elf before him had actually lived it.
It was both thrilling and frightening. Thrilling because all of the dark whispers that had run rampant in his head and heart had had a purpose and not one that could be moulded and bent by the Enemy. This Eäreneth had known evil and had spent his life fighting against it, had given his life for his king and his king’s son and for the continuation of their Realm. He had fought for Good and had known Evil and though Merry had mistaken the evil that night in Frodo’s room, he was a hobbit who learnt his lessons well the first time; he would not make the same mistake again. If Eäreneth’s purpose in invading Merry’s head was to make him want to see the Witch dead, he’d achieved that purpose and quite handily, though Merry had hardly needed the man’s dark dreams to make that so.
“Can the Witch be killed?” he asked suddenly.
Glorfindel blinked. “All things can be killed,” he replied slowly. “But he has grown confident in his long years of ‘life’. I don’t believe he thinks he can be killed.”
Merry pondered, asked, “So, that day at Fornost was not the first time you’d run across him?”
“Indeed not,” Glorfindel replied. “I have watched him work his foul magic upon the lands for many years.”
“Yet, after Arvedui escaped with the Stones and when you routed the Witch’s forces during the Battle of Fornost and he fled, you discouraged pursuit.”
Glorfindel sat back in his chair, said slowly, “I foresaw that his doom was not yet near and that it would not be dealt by the hand of man when it was.” He narrowed his eyes, stared down across the table and a mist seemed to cover his eyes.
Merry followed Glorfindel’s gaze to his own hand, absently flexed his fingers. He turned it over, examined the palm. He frowned, slid his eyes up to the elf’s in question.
Glorfindel merely nodded, peered at Merry closely. “You wield a mighty weapon.”
Merry turned his eyes to his belt. “You knew Eäreneth.”
Glorfindel’s expression was bland. “I did.”
“And…” He swallowed, met Glorfindel’s gaze squarely. “Will you tell me about him?”
“What would you have me tell you?” Glorfindel asked and it seemed to Merry that he was being very careful in his speech. “He loved his king and died beside him.”
“Yes, but…” Merry shifted, leaned in. “Who was he?”
Glorfindel studied him closely, his eyes piercing right through Merry, and it was all Merry could do not to begin to squirm. It was several long moments before Glorfindel tilted his head, lifted an eyebrow.
“I think perhaps you could answer that better than I.”
Merry sat back slowly, returned Glorfindel’s regard. “Perhaps I could,” he answered.
* * *
It was growing dark by the time Merry left the library. Glorfindel remained behind, lost in thought, paging through books he must have come to know by heart over the years. Merry didn’t know why it was so surprising that the elf still grieved over lives that must seem no more than a quick flicker of light in the long night of the Ages but it was. He’d judged Elves as a whole to be aloof and cold but it seemed he was being proved wrong at every turn.
Well, he’d just have to add that to the long list of Things To Think About, a list to which he’d been steadily adding over the past weeks. Every new piece of information he happened upon seemed to lead him to another and another after that and he was almost surprised his head could hold it all.
This Witch-king, for instance; bad business all the way ‘round and one that needed dealing with and soon. Glorfindel had said he was a creature to be pitied, a once-great King, who’d been weak and foolish and fallen to the seduction of the Dark Lord. Merry didn’t pity him, not in the least. He’d been the end of too many people – entire civilisations! – and had tried to be the end of Frodo. He had no heart, no pity, no conscience and he just needed taking care of in the very worst way, it was really just that simple.
Merry clenched his hand into a fist, stroked at the sheath of his sword.
“Hullo.”
Merry was almost sure he shrieked. He was sure he jumped because, as a result, he tripped over the garden-bench Frodo was sitting upon, shadowed by the falling dusk and the poplar he sat beneath, and nearly did a somersault on the path in an effort not to fall directly on Frodo himself. As it was, he landed hard on his arse, though thankfully in the grass and not on the bench or brick path. He blinked, shook his head.
“Are you all right?”
Frodo was stooping in front of him, his hand out-stretched but hovering in front of Merry’s chest, not touching or not daring to. His face was a mix of concern and stifled laughter, barely readable in the fading light. Merry decided to answer to the latter; he lifted the corner of his mouth, shrugged.
“Well, you won’t be needing to kick my arse any time soon.”
Frodo let go then, snickered and shook his head. He offered a hand to Merry and Merry hesitated only the slightest in taking it and allowing himself to be helped to his feet. He stood, looked down at the grass, held on to Frodo’s hand for a few seconds too long before releasing it, reaching ‘round to brush off the seat of his trousers. He took much longer doing so than was absolutely necessary, in a lame attempt to fill the awkward silence that followed directly after. With nothing left with which to occupy his hands, he shoved them into his pockets and finally lifted his eyes to Frodo’s.
He could only hold the gaze for a few seconds before he dropped it once again to the ground, his heart thumping in his chest and his palms slick with clammy sweat. This was it, Frodo was going to have his answer this time, Merry could see it in his eyes and had no escape. It was with some measure of chagrin that he found himself actually wishing Sam would pop out of nowhere, as he was often wont to do, and shuffle Frodo off to his room, leaving Merry just one more reprieve, one more day of believing that what he’d done was forgivable, before the end that he knew simply had to come.
“You’re still angry,” Frodo ventured.
And yes, there was that, as well. He was angry and even moreso because he knew he was right to be angry but he also knew he had no right to be so. Merry decided to go with it anyway.
“Yes, quite,” he answered then turned, began to walk away. Don’t you mean escape? he thought then, Oh, shut up.
“Merry!” Frodo called and, if Merry was not very much mistaken, began to follow. “You can’t keep avoiding me. You can’t keep walking away!”
Watch me, Merry thought and quickened his pace.
“Merry, please, I can’t walk that fast,” Frodo called and a small bit of shameful relief slipped into Merry’s heart. Who said you couldn’t outrun your problems?
“Merry!” Frodo’s voice was getting smaller, more distant and Merry kept walking until, “I know about the Barrows.”
Merry jolted to a halt, stared at the porch only paces away, which only moments ago had promised safety, solitude… avoidance. All gone now. This really was to be the end.
So, Frodo had been told about the Barrows, which probably meant he’d been told about Weathertop and…
“I know about what happened that night.”
And Merry closed his eyes, bowed his head. His mouth was dry, his hands were shaking and he curled them into fists, breathed as deeply as his constricted chest would allow. This was it, this was the end and Merry would finally come to know what it was like to actually live the abandonment he’d feared for half his life. It didn’t matter that he deserved it, it didn’t matter that what he’d done demanded it; all that mattered was that half of his soul would be torn right from his body, leave him bleeding and broken, and Frodo would go off, step into the maw of death, and Merry would not be there to help -- was not wanted and never would be again. Stones, Wraiths, long-dead kings and their lieutenants… all of it meant nothing, if he was to be banished from Frodo’s presence altogether. How could he force himself by Frodo’s side, if Frodo couldn’t even stand to look at him? Could he somehow follow? Or would he be escorted from Rivendell under guard, upon one word from Frodo?
What have I done?
How was he to live with himself? He’d been doing so the past weeks only by avoiding the subject entirely, throwing himself into learning the lay of the lands, studying the maps, the histories of the men who’d faced the Evil that waited for Frodo and had lost, examining their mistakes and trying to learn from them. Now, all of the assurances as to Merry’s actions from Gandalf and Strider and Elrond meant nothing, not if Frodo…
Oh… Save me, what have I done?
Merry lifted his hands to his face, covered his eyes. Frodo was behind him; Merry could smell him, feel him and oh, he wished he’d just say it, scream it even, just do it and do it now, put him out of this misery and send him spinning into the next.
“I wanted to thank you,” Frodo whispered.
And then a gentle hand was on his shoulder, warm and firm, and oh, this was somehow so much worse.
“And,” Frodo furthered and his voice shook, “I wanted to tell you that I’m sorry.”
Sorry. Frodo was sorry. Frodo was apologising to Merry! He bit back a wild laugh.
Too much, it was altogether too much and Merry flinched away, staggered, had to stumble over to the nearest tree and lean against it. He was gasping, panting, and his heart seemed to be trying to beat its way right out of his chest. He put his back to the tree, slid down its trunk and buried his face in his hands.
Frodo was there again, brushing his fingers through Merry’s hair, sitting on the ground beside him and pulling Merry’s head to rest on his shoulder. It was too much, he couldn’t bear it, hated himself for accepting such comfort but couldn’t stop himself from doing so; Merry curled his arm around Frodo’s ribs, held on tight and wept like a child.
He didn’t know how long they sat so, his tears scorching his eyes raw and Frodo’s hands soothing on his skin, almost taking the guilt in those hands and sweeping it from Merry’s heart with each stroke of tender fingers. And all the while, Frodo whispered to him, told him he’d done only what Frodo would have wanted him to, what circumstances demanded from him, and brought Merry within touching-distance of actually believing it.
Merry slid his head down to Frodo’s chest, listened closely to the heartbeat within, to the soothing hum that vibrated against his ear as Frodo spoke to him, soothed him… told him there was nothing to forgive and forgave him anyway. Merry spoke not a word, only swayed with Frodo’s gentle rocking, closed his eyes and allowed himself to believe.
Even if it was only for tonight.
* * *
He came awake slowly, his lids sticky and heavy, feeling as though there was sand beneath them. He was warm, his senses filled to overflowing with nothing else but Frodo; his scent, his touch and above all, the love Merry had no right to but took anyway, because he couldn’t bear to live without it. He didn’t know what that made of him and he no longer cared. He squeezed his eyes tight, breathed in deep.
Then he tried to shift and shards of glass splintered up his spine, right through his limbs. His legs were curled uncomfortably, his arm was stiff and seemingly locked about Frodo and his neck was going to need some serious work before it moved properly again. He groaned.
“Ah, you’re awake.”
He opened his eyes; it was full-dark and the stars were bright overhead. He blinked, tried to lift his head and groaned again at the stiffness in his neck.
“How long have we been sitting here?” he mumbled.
“I’m not sure. A few hours, perhaps. Long enough for the dew to gather.”
Yes, Merry was just now noticing that on top of his various aches and pains, he was also uncomfortably damp. He pulled himself away from Frodo, sat up. Slowly, he lifted his head, peered cautiously at his cousin. Frodo looked back, lifted an eyebrow and smiled. Merry couldn’t help but return that smile with a small one of his own. Ah, and it felt good.
Then Frodo tried to move his arm, winced and sucked in a sharp breath, and that was all it took: Merry was suddenly flung back into ‘mother-hen mode’ and his own aches and discomforts were forgotten.
“Frodo!” he cried. “You shouldn’t have let me sleep so long. You must be in horrible pain. How is your shoulder? Can you move your arm? No, don’t move it, just let me get you inside and I’ll rub it for you, bloody damn, why did you let me--”
“Heavens, Merry, I may well be old and a bit decrepit but I am not, as yet, a complete invalid.”
Merry cranked his neck to the side, grimaced. “Yes, well I just might be,” he replied. He stood, bent his back until his spine crackled. “It’s well past time these two old gaffers were in bed,” he told Frodo then stopped when he realised what that might have sounded like. He swallowed, held his hand out. “Shall I escort you to your room?”
Frodo reached up, took Merry’s offered hand and got to his feet. “I was, um…” He peered down at their joined hands, shrugged a little. “I’ve missed you terribly and I was sort of hoping you’d…” Frodo trailed off again, stammered, “Well, it’s only that… That is, I…” then growled, rolled his eyes. “Why do I suddenly feel like a tweener, inviting someone to step out for the first time?”
Merry grinned, found himself blushing and chuckled. “It’s only that it’s been a little while, I think,” he offered. “Perhaps…”
Merry didn’t finish, instead leaned forward and laid his mouth to Frodo’s, kissed him soft and sweet.
* * *
He had always, always thought each time new and different with Frodo but ever there was that exquisite familiarity that made it all somehow more real, more beautiful. That languid stretch of the spine, that curl of fingers just beneath Merry’s ribcage; all of it simmered through him, slid its way into his bones and he waited for it all with heady expectation, received it all with serene surprise.
They undressed slowly, Frodo’s hands working on Merry’s buttons with careful consideration, examining each one as it slipped its mooring before moving on to the next. No touch of skin, no feather-light flow of breath over flesh until every single button had been set loose. And then he leaned in, dipped his tongue, hot and slippery to Merry’s ear as he pushed down Merry’s trousers, and heat moved through Merry’s chest in a slow-moving slide from his belly. His pulled in a soft breath and his hands came up, lightly settled on Frodo’s hips, thumbs stroking slow through earth-coloured linen.
“Close your eyes,” Frodo whispered and Merry did. “Keep them closed,” he furthered and Merry couldn’t promise that.
He could tell the difference in Frodo’s hands; the left was colder, weaker than the right, and pulled gooseflesh from Merry’s skin as it moved over him. Both hands pushed his shirt from his shoulders, a hot mouth pressed to his chest then shoulder then neck and warmed the skin left chilled by the touch of the hand, and it felt like fire laid to ice, shocking and scintillating and so full of feeling. He sank into it, curled it about himself and felt every shift and glide as Frodo’s mouth slid over his skin.
The shirt stopped at his forearms, hung there; Frodo had missed the buttons on Merry’s cuffs. He waited, felt Frodo’s hands slide down his arms, hook through the fabric of the shirt…
Merry frowned, slitted his eyes.
“What are you doing?”
Frodo’s mouth lifted in a small, clever smile. And he said absolutely nothing.
He backed a step, locked his eyes with Merry’s, smiled some more and shook his head disapprovingly. He reached over, laid his fingertips to Merry’s eyelids and Merry had no choice but to close his eyes again.
The rustle of fabric, a tiny ‘chink’ of metal-on-metal and then the light ‘flump’ of clothes falling to the floor. Merry waited, strained his ears and heard only Frodo’s even breaths in the satin silence. Then warm skin was pressed against his chest, hard heat skimmed over his own and hands – one chill and one too hot to be flesh and bone – slipped around the small of his back, pulled him in.
Merry tried to untangle the shirt, lift his arms and fill his hands with this skin so tantalisingly near but not quite his just yet. But his hands were quite firmly restricted, the linen about his arms feeling almost as if it had been…
Merry smiled a little. “What have you done?”
Only a small, smoky chuckle came back at him and the warm slick of Frodo’s tongue along his collarbone. Merry’s smile fled and his head fell back, his blood moving deliberate and just this side of hot beneath his skin. He stopped trying to free his hands, indeed forgot for the moment they even existed as Frodo’s tongue slipped languid over Merry’s bottom-lip, dipped against his teeth, then Frodo’s mouth was sealed to Merry’s and Merry was sinking in to wet warmth, pouring himself right into Frodo’s soul, and Frodo was taking him in, accepting him, all of him. Merry leaned in, tried again to free his hands, and oh, he needed to be closer, needed more, needed every inch of skin beneath his fingertips, needed the soft touch upon him to harden, grip, possess.
As if in answer, Frodo’s hands slipped into Merry’s hair, took firm hold and tilted his head and Frodo sank his tongue deeper, his teeth scraping against Merry’s own and his thigh moving between Merry’s legs, pushing into him. Merry’s heart pounded and his breath came fast and heavy and it was only dimly that he realised he was being steadily manoeuvred backwards; when the backs of his knees pressed against something soft but solid, Merry let them buckle, sank down into the cushions of the couch by the window.
Frodo never let his mouth come loose from Merry’s; indeed, he clamped his fingers tighter against Merry’s scalp, sank impossibly deep and climbed into Merry’s lap, straddled him, moved liquid and smooth atop him. He pressed himself down, rippled his hips and Merry pulled his mouth away, gasped out a curse. Frodo laid his brow to Merry’s, moved against him slow and purposeful, and Merry bit his lip, pushed his hips up and Frodo ground against him, breathed warm and moist over Merry’s mouth.
“Frodo,” Merry whispered, “my hands, I want my hands.”
Another misty laugh, low and rolling, and Frodo pressed down hard, bucked, and Merry shouted, thrust up helplessly, his hands fisting within their shroud of linen. Frodo’s hands slipped out of Merry’s hair, smoothed over his throat then his chest and Frodo’s mouth followed, slick and hot. Hot breath against his throat, moving slow and following after moist fire from Frodo’s tongue and Merry let his head fall back against the cushions of the couch and it was only very dimly that he realised he had yet to pry open his eyes. This was new; Merry didn’t think he’d ever gone this long without looking, watching, and found the sensations pattering over his skin from Frodo’s hands, his mouth, every inch of him, was almost as good – almost but not quite, so Merry disobeyed Frodo’s direct order, forced his eyes open, looked.
‘Beautiful’ was far too small and inconsequential a word to describe the astonishing contrast of flesh and mist, light and shadow that smoothed against him. Star-fire dripped its pale yellow light over skin shimmering with cool indigo flame and a light haze of sweat. Raven hair, lent blue by Night, fell across Frodo’s brow, denying Merry the sight of those eyes, glittering with intent and misted with passion and consuming Merry whole with each slow drop of soot-smoked lashes. Frodo’s mouth, the slightest of crooks at the corner, feathered over Merry’s chest and Merry could only watch as dusked-rose lips closed over his nipple, took it slow and smooth between white teeth, scraped it ever so slightly.
Merry cursed again, pushed himself up and pressed into Frodo’s mouth. He tried again to get his hands loose, needed to sink his fingers into the feel of soft sable and urge that mouth closer, take the stars and the fire at their core between his palms and let it travel his body, let it consume him and burn him forever in this flame that wore Frodo’s skin, peered at the world through Frodo’s eyes.
But damn it all, that shirt was stuck firm.
And then Merry forgot the shirt, forgot his hands, forgot everything as Frodo took him in his mouth and Merry’s world was quite firmly shrouded in slick, white-hot flame. Sparks exploded behind Merry’s eyes and he loosed a strangled cry, snapped his hips. His eyes clamped shut and he clenched his jaw, rolled his hips again, and only Frodo’s firm grip on Merry’s hipbones prevented him from actually rocking himself right off the couch.
Oh, and this was beyond lovely but still not quite enough. He forced his eyes open, lifted his head.
“Frodo…”
And nearly exploded on the spot as he caught sight of Frodo, his mouth wrapped about Merry and his eyes moving up slow beneath his lashes to throw a smouldering glance Merry’s way. Merry closed his eyes again, bit his lip hard and breathed deep.
“Frodo, stop,” he panted. “I want more, Frodo, please, not yet.”
Frodo peered up at him again and Merry had to look away. Bloody damn, had he any idea what he could do to a person?
A long, shuddering breath when Frodo released him, then a gasping moan as Frodo slid himself up Merry’s body, slow and smooth, and took possession of his mouth once again, and Merry forgot how to breathe at all. Merry’s eyes fell closed and he pushed his tongue deep into Frodo’s mouth, sounded it thoroughly, and Frodo gave back as good as he got, tilting his head and pressing in close, grinding his hips hard into Merry’s and small, liquid moans dripping from his mouth and into Merry’s own.
And then he pulled back, lifted himself and, with a quick kiss to the tip of Merry’s nose, he climbed from the couch and padded across the room. Merry watched, took in the view and tried again – futilely – to loose his hands. There was a small tearing sound and Merry was almost certain that the button on the left cuff gave but, before he could take advantage of it, Frodo was back with a small earthen crock in his hand. He lifted the lid, waved it beneath Merry’s nose with a tiny grin.
“Pine,” Merry guessed. “And… something else. What is it?”
“I’ve no idea,” Frodo answered softly, still smiling as he dipped into the pot, smoothed some of its contents over his fingertips. “I’m to use it on the scar but I’ve a better use for it, I’m thinking.”
And then Frodo’s hands were upon him, hot and slippery and smoothing pine and… something over aching heat, and Merry pressed into Frodo’s hand, groaned, and his eyes rolled back, his head lolling on his neck.
Oh, there were simply not enough stars to thank for blessing him so. Of all the people in all the world, how had Meriadoc Brandybuck got so fortunate as to have this person to love him, to take him and accept him, take from him and to… oh, just to love him. Merry found he hadn’t the heart to think it through and further, he hadn’t the presence of mind, not when Frodo was moving to straddle him once again, sinking down and…
Oh, yes… taking Merry in.
Merry’s teeth clenched and he watched, entranced, as Frodo threw his head back, sucked in a sharp breath between his teeth then let loose a watery groan. Frodo’s head rolled on his shoulders, his mouth open and his breath flowing quick, then he rocked his hips and his brow creased and he did it again.
Merry couldn’t not move; he thrust up slow, watched Frodo’s mouth drop wide and a breathless sigh slip from it. Merry’s world was dipped in fire, bright-white and flowing liquid behind his eyes, through his veins, and Merry let it sear his skin, let it flow hot and fluid and he pushed himself up, bucked his hips. Frodo gasped, closed his eyes tight then clamped his hands to Merry’s shoulders, braced himself, lifted himself then pushed back down.
Still, not enough and Merry neededneededneeded his hands and right now, and he leaned forward, yanked at the fabric. And now his mouth was so close to Frodo’s throat that it only made sense to lean just a little farther, run his tongue over the pulse that hammered just beneath the thin, smooth skin. Frodo groaned low, firmed his grip on Merry’s shoulders then slammed down, fast and forceful. It was Merry’s turn to groan then and he moved his hips to Frodo’s rhythm, felt hard heat sliding sweated and slick against his belly, and sank his teeth lightly into the smooth skin over Frodo’s collarbone.
Frodo was gasping, shaking and moving in a tempo that bordered on wild, throwing his head back and side-to-side and groaning Merry’s name. His right hand was clamped so hard to Merry’s shoulder that Merry thought he’d wear finger-shaped bruises there by tomorrow and sweat dampened the hair about Frodo’s face, made it cling in wavering tendrils to his cheeks and brow.
Oh, yes, beautiful and more than beautiful, and Merry stopped trying to define it, describe it, and just watched as his hips moved the rest of his body one step closer to utter bliss with each thrust and shiver. Then Frodo’s hand clamped harder, caused actual real pain, and he ground out a sharp curse as his left arm collapsed beneath him and he near toppled from Merry’s lap in mid-thrust.
Merry was helpless, his hands still trapped behind him, and he could only watch as Frodo bowed his head, slumped, grimacing and sucking laboured breaths between his teeth and clutching at his arm. Odd, how this was the first time Merry had allowed himself to actually look at the scar on Frodo’s shoulder.
Small and silver-white and Merry couldn't help but think how it looked somehow unnatural, ghostly and cold, shunned by the starlight flaring warm over the living skin around it.
Merry leaned forward again, nudged at Frodo’s chin until he lifted it a little, and Merry placed a trail of tender kisses to Frodo's throat, ran his tongue along the straight line of his jaw then down to his collarbone and over the cold twist of flesh. Frodo tensed for a moment, stilled, and when Merry only moved farther, swirled his tongue over Frodo’s nipple, Frodo melted into him, lifted his right hand and sank his fingers into Merry’s hair, rocked his hips the slightest bit. Merry moved slowly across Frodo’s chest, slicking his tongue over sweat-salt skin and only pausing to scrape his teeth over the other nipple and suck it firm into his mouth.
Frodo’s fingers tightened on Merry’s scalp and his chest surged with each quick breath he took. He rocked again and Merry bit down and Frodo gasped, rolled his hips.
Merry pulled back then. “My hands, Frodo,” he whispered. “I need my hands.”
And Frodo nodded, reached around Merry’s back and untangled his hands from the shirt, unbuttoned the cuff Merry hadn’t already ruined and flung the shirt to the floor. It was all Merry needed; he gripped Frodo’s hips in his hands, lifted him then pulled him back down, and Frodo groaned to the ceiling, flowed in Merry’s hands like liquid silver.
Merry pushed, a slow-building thrust, and Frodo ground himself down, laid his sweated brow to Merry’s shoulder and slipped himself into Merry’s rhythm. Wiry, pliable sinew in his hands, molten conflagration burning him to ash, and Merry rocked himself into searing heat, pulled back and rocked up again, and Frodo moved with him, panted moist and hot against his skin, breathed, ‘Yes, like that,’ and flexed his thighs, bore down with a rippling curl of muscle and bone. Then Frodo reached behind, slipped his hand between Merry’s legs, stroked, squeezed, and Merry’s head fell back, his mouth dropped wide and he was shrieking to the vaulted ceiling, release coiling him tight then flinging him wide and washing through him in a billowing crush of sweet-hot rapture.
It was through a bright, glowing haze that he became aware of Frodo, still astride him and rocking, moaning, and his right hand moving fast upon himself. And that just didn’t seem at all fair to Merry, so he blinked quickly until the room stopped spinning then pulled Frodo’s hand away, renewed his grip on Frodo’s hips and lifted him until he was kneeling in front of Merry, and Merry bent his neck, took him in. A harsh, slow moan, and Frodo fell forward, took hold of the back of the couch, and Merry slid down, guided Frodo into a smooth rhythm, and Frodo followed, rolled his hips and thrust himself as far as Merry’s grip would allow.
Merry could feel him shaking, could tell that his strength was growing thin, so he pulled Frodo in faster, deeper. The slightest scrape of his teeth and Merry swirled his tongue, drove the tempo yet higher, and then Frodo was arching his back, panting harsh and broken, and finally threw his head back, clutched at a fistful of Merry’s hair and came with a curse and a rolling howl.
Seconds later, Frodo collapsed, panting and shivering, and Merry caught him, guided him down to the cushions, wiped the sweat from his brow and kissed his cheek. Frodo’s eyes were already closed, half-asleep, but he reached out a trembling hand, pressed his palm to Merry’s nape and pulled him down beside him. Merry went willingly, burrowed between Frodo and the back of the couch and rested his head to Frodo’s chest. He ignored the chill of the scar beneath his cheek and instead listened to the steadily-slowing thrum of Frodo’s heart and thought how no lullaby had ever sounded so sweet.
* * *
Merry slept off and on, waking often just to be sure that he hadn’t dreamed it all and to look his fill as Frodo slept deeply beside him. He cried out in dreams twice but stilled to Merry’s hand stroking at his brow, Merry’s voice humming in his ear.
There were many things yet to be said between them and perhaps when Frodo woke, they would talk about his decision to go to Mordor or Merry’s near-fatal mistake only a short time ago. Perhaps Merry would tell Frodo about the Barrows and Frodo might then be inclined to tell Merry about what the Ring had whispered to him while that evil shard had been working its way steadily towards his heart.
But when Merry woke to Frodo’s kisses at his shoulder-blade, Frodo’s fingers slicking against him, within him, Merry only smiled, shifted, ran his tongue up Frodo’s throat and pulled his knee up to his chest. And when Frodo entered him, surged against him, draped himself hot and slicked with sweat over Merry’s body, Merry answered with a cry and a thrust of his hips and moist breaths shared through rough kisses.
And when Merry woke to the dawn and watched it paint liquid gold over Frodo’s skin, watched Frodo’s chest rise and fall with easy breaths and listened again to his heart beating strong and steady in peaceful sleep, Merry thought there were probably more important things they could find to talk about.
* * *
|
