TITLE:  Counterpoint, Movement XXV - Natural

AUTHOR:  Daffodil Bolger

BETA: Trianne

PAIRING:  Frodo/Merry

RATING:  PG

SUMMARY:  Wherein Merry finds his proper resolution

Natural: A symbol in sheet music that returns a note to its original pitch after it has been augmented or diminished.

* * *

NATURAL

* * *

Next day Frodo woke early, feeling refreshed and well.

"'Refreshed and well'," Merry mumbled, rolled his eyes, shook his head, skipped down a bit.

'I feel ready for anything,' answered Frodo.

With a grunt and another shake of his head, Merry flipped the pages with his thumb, let the Book choose where next he would stop. 

Yet Frodo began to hear, or to imagine that he heard, something else: like the faint fall of soft bare feet.

"Never said a bloody word," was Merry's quiet mutter.  "The evil little schemer was following all that time and you never said a bloody word."

It was his third time through the Red Book.  All right, maybe his fifth.  All right, so he'd lost count.

It had taken Sam almost four years to finally finish his part of it before he eventually sent it along to Pippin; Pippin had taken another year to make his own copy to keep in the Smials' library and was currently in the process of compiling a chronology of the Second and Third Ages as regarded those events concerning Sauron's rise to power and subsequent fall, making sure to include relevant Hobbit history where it was called for.  He had been more than a little put-out when he'd discovered that the annals of Men and Elves held no mention of archers from the Shire in their accounts of the Battle of Fornost and was determined that no contributions to this history by hobbits be overlooked.

Having completed as much as he could in Tuckborough (with a few side-trips now and then to the Hall), Pippin planned to head to Rivendell in two weeks to make use of the massive library there.  There were dates and lineages of Men that Pippin felt should be included and which he obviously didn't keep in his head.  And since Smials' library and that of the Hall were equally lacking in histories of Men or Elves or anything else that didn't have a direct effect on Hobbits, and with Sam having exhausted Frodo's own private library, Rivendell seemed the logical place to continue the research.

Pippin had invited Merry along for the trip, of course -- had in fact bullied him into agreeing to tag along, though Merry wasn't sure exactly how much use he would end up being.  But Pippin had been right when he'd pointed out that it may well be the last chance they had in a long while for a trip like this.  And together.  The last had seemed like the most important part to Pippin and really the most important part to Merry, too, once he'd thought about it, considering all of the changes the past few months had brought.  And considering those changes the next few months would bring.

Of course, when Pippin had moved back to Smials to work on the Book last year, neither of them had thought it would be anything but temporary.  Then again, neither had counted on Eglantine; it wasn't even a week before she had pounced upon the opportunity to arrange a visit from her husband's Long Cleeve relations.  Pippin had written to Merry once or twice, complaining bitterly about his mother's incessant matchmaking, to which Merry had only snickered and sympathised and secretly blessed the fact that it was Pippin for a change and not himself.  Soon enough though, Pippin's letters went from truculent to optimistic to ecstatic.  Merry watched through twice-weekly posts as Pippin fell hopelessly in love.  When Merry came to Tuckborough for the engagement party, he understood why; Diamond was kind and beautiful and Pippin loved her so much it almost bruised Merry's heart.  And even better, Diamond loved him right back and just as hard.  They were wonderful to watch together and when Merry learned that Diamond had insisted that Pippin wear not only the formal coat of arms of the Took clan at the ceremony but the Silver and Sable as well, Merry knew Diamond was the one for Pippin.  Hero or no, Messenger to the King notwithstanding, it was the rare individual who would accept a symbol of the world of Men so completely and into her own marriage ceremony to boot, and to Merry it said that Diamond understood Pippin as completely as anyone could understand Pippin and loved him for everything he was.  How many people got that even once in their lifetime?

Certainly, no one got it twice.

Unfortunately for Merry, the engagement party was also where he learned that Pippin had decided to remain at Smials to oversee the digging of the new smials he and his new wife would share.  And while Merry had more or less expected it and couldn't have been more pleased for Pippin, he also found himself admitting that he was quite lonely, had been since Pippin had left and was now likely to stay lonely for some time.  He'd never lived by himself before and he was finding it not entirely to his liking.  When the festivities had ended, it had been a difficult thing for him to leave again for Buckland.

So when Pippin had begun pestering him via weekly posts for his help with the Book, Merry had put him off for as long as he could but relented in the end.  His reluctance to even read the Book, let alone participate in adding to it, held him back for a while but his newfound loneliness, coupled with a bit of nostalgia, plus the fact that this would be their last chance for something like this for a good long time -- perhaps forever -- finally convinced him of the futility and, when he was honest about it, the foolishness of resistance.  He agreed to come to Smials for a few weeks to help Pippin with whatever it was he needed help with and then they would travel together to Rivendell to complete the research.  They would make a quick stopover in Hobbiton on the way to drop off the original Red Book, take Pippin's copy to Rivendell with them, add what they felt was pertinent and then pass their addendums along to Sam for the original.  It seemed simple enough.

And so now Merry was ensconced in his guestroom at Smials and was supposed to be helping but all he'd really done so far was close himself into his guestsmial for almost two weeks to read.  To his credit, Pippin didn't seem inclined to fuss at him over it, though it was possible his reserve was due to the fact that it had taken Merry nearly three months to actually agree to read the thing in the first place and then another to arrange the trip to Tuckborough and then another week of stalling until he'd finally gathered the will and the courage to start reading.  And after he'd started, he'd found it impossible to stop.  He'd read it twice-through over four days and was now flipping back and forth, looking for…

He wasn't sure but he was bothered by… something.  The blitheness in some passages, the…

Bugger. 

And speaking of buggering, as it were, there was not a single 'bugger off' or 'stuff it' to be found.  The closest thing to it was Sam's 'Noodles!' and the like which, having actually been on the receiving end of Sam's sharp tongue once or twice, so to speak, made Merry snort and shake his head.  The somewhat formal prose was understandable, he supposed -- it was meant to be a history, after all -- but 'My dear and most beloved hobbits!'?  If Merry remembered correctly -- and he did -- what Frodo had actually said upon the revealing of the Conspiracy was, 'Well, bugger me!'.  And if Merry had ever said anything like, 'Still there are things deeper and higher; and not a gaffer could tend his garden in what he calls peace but for them, whether he knows about them or not,' he'd eat his hat.  It was a prettier way to put, 'No one back home would ever begin to understand or even believe all of this but I'll be glad to get there just the same,' which was what he actually remembered saying to Pippin then during his stay in the Houses of Healing, but it didn’t even sound remotely like him.  Of course, he'd been a touch overwrought at the time and it was only shortly after that he'd learnt that Pippin was to be marching on the Black Gate and Merry himself told he couldn't…

Best put all of that away and not dig too deep into that particular shallow grave.  There were other things buried deeper in these pages and Merry wasn't sure even he knew where to look for the bones he knew were there -- and he'd been there.

It wasn't so much a rearranging of facts or events -- the account was sometimes brutally honest and Merry could almost see Frodo writhing through the writing of it as he read -- but rather the emphasis put on some of those events… or maybe the non-emphasis in certain parts was the problem.  Writing about those first days in Rivendell as though he'd just leapt up from bed and commenced to feasting and celebrating, with no mention of the fact that Sam had served as a crutch for at least several days as much as a companion.

And speaking of Sam: where was the mention of all of the nurse-maiding he'd done between Weathertop and Rivendell?  To read Frodo's account, you'd think it was just a bit of, 'Ow, that hurt and I deserved it because I was weak and stupid.'  Nothing about how the pain was so constant and bone-deep that it was all you could see when you looked at him.  Nothing about Merry's own hysterics and delusions. 

It was… frustrating, bewildering… 

No, it wasn't any of those things; it was completely expected -- or rather, it should have been completely expected.  Because this telling, more than anything else, was who Frodo was: laying all his perceived-faults and mistakes before the world and almost completely ignoring the torment and agony, except when the exposition of it served to make someone else look good.  He probably wouldn't have even mentioned the pain of the Morgul-wound, had it not served to demonstrate Strider's healing skills and the benefits of athelas.  For pity's sake, there was hardly even anything in those chapters that dealt with Mordor that might even hint at the degree to which he and Sam had really suffered and Merry had seen them when they'd been brought back, he knew there was more to it than what was here.

Was he still, even then, trying to hide the truth, running away from his own story by only telling those parts he could stand to tell?  And was he deceiving himself or trying to deceive those who would read it?  Just how deep into his own untruths had Frodo sunk in the end?  And how had he let it get so far that he'd had the brass to think any of them would be fooled?  That Merry would be fooled?  Did he really not understand that at least Merry knew him better than this? 

Had he gone beyond caring by then or did he really think Merry that obtuse?

Merry huffed a breath, paged ahead: 'Gently are you revenged for my testing of your heart at our first meeting.'

"What test?"  A whisper, cold and quiet and in it, remembrance of things he'd laboured long and hard not to remember.  "What did you say to him?" 

“What did the Lady offer you in Lothlórien?”

He shut his eyes.

What did it matter and especially then, when they'd stood nose-to-nose and watched the dust of their lives bury them both?  What kind of question was that, anyway?

"Perhaps a better one," he murmured, fingers stroking soft against stiff vellum, "would be: what did she offer you?"

“Showed me your dead bodies – every one of you – twisted and drenched red with blood, burnt and blackened.  Told me all I had to do to make it untrue was to abandon my errand.”

And why wasn't that in there?  It seemed an important enough thing, something serving the theme of self-rebuke that littered the text and doing so quite nicely.  There was no lack of exposition on Frodo's part for those things that served to exhibit what he saw as his failures, no shortage of detail in those things that painted a very different picture of his strengths by turning them into weaknesses with the careful arrangement of words so that even those victories Merry knew as fact could be read as failures if one didn't know what to look for, if one didn't know the person who had done the telling.

He flipped some more, the pages settling quickly and more quietly than seemed right, considering the words contained upon them. 

Ho la!  You up there, dunghill rat!

Jaw clenched, he sucked in a steadying breath, reluctant to acknowledge the vision the words brought. 

There's a reminder for you!

An echo almost, loud and living and giving voice to a creature long-dead, yet he would have liked to have killed him again, if it were possible, wrap that whip about his slimy neck and watch as his eyes bulged, watch as blood vessels swelled then bloomed in spidery explosions within them.  Rage wanted to take him as it had every time he'd read these passages; he refused to allow it purchase, shoving it and the Book away.  This was exactly why he hadn't wanted to read the thing in the first place. 

He leaned back, scrubbed at tired eyes.

I am not hurt, Sam.  Only I feel very tired and I've a pain here.

These from his own memory, for he'd read it all often enough.  And every time, the same irreverent exclamation rose to his tongue:

"Bollocks!" he grumbled, reached out and slammed the Book closed again, stared at it.  "Not hurt."  He gave a surly grunt, took up the teacup and tossed back the dregs, grimaced; bitter and cold.  Lovely.

He'd reconciled all of this, settled it, gave it its own small home in a corner of his heart he rarely ever acknowledged, and he'd put it away.  He'd gone back to living, had done with dwelling on things he couldn't change, things he'd had no part in, choices that were not his to make.  He'd been done -- went back to life, work, family, home… even stepped out with Fatty's sister a few times, much to his mother's delight and Berilac's chagrin; when he'd finally twigged to the reason behind Beri's chagrin, Merry'd stepped away, of course, and let his cousin take up where he'd left off in the wooing… not without the occasional snicker directed Beri's way, though.

He'd rebuilt a life, had fought tooth-and-nail for every bit of peace he owned and here he was, dredging things up that had been officially put to rest when Frodo had handed over that Book.  Story.  Tale.

Tale.

Because as much as Sam and Pippin touted it as History, a tale was exactly what it was; embellishments were few but the gaping holes in the narrative were littered so generously that Merry could not bring himself to call it a 'history'.  Certainly historical events were depicted honestly and, so far as Merry could tell, the research Frodo had done as to dates and places and names had been exhaustive and the exposition of them accurate and truthful.  Now he understood even more fully why Frodo had been insistent upon visits to Helm's Deep and Dunharrow when they'd passed through Rohan.

But parts of it simply did not ring true and, knowing Frodo as he did… as he used to…

He dropped his head to the back of the chair, ignored the stretch and pull of stiff muscles, stared at the ceiling.  He could tell by the shadows scrimming gold-grey upon it that the fire needed tending; it was getting late -- almost midnight by the little clock on the desk -- and he should start thinking about getting some sleep.  He was determined that tomorrow he would finally get to work and help Pippin with filling in some of the information he'd said he needed.  He had, in fact, started inking over the pencil-outline of his own family tree just this morning and had every good intention of moving on to beginning an outline on Rohirric customs when he finished.  And had Pippin actually checked the supplies in the desk, he probably would have done exactly that; as it was, the desk had apparently gone unused for years and the inkbottles in the top drawer were filled with nothing but dried ink.  Well, Merry had given it a go and it was Pippin's fault, after all -- or so he planned on claiming.  So, he'd again spent the day flipping, scanning and re-reading, just as he'd done yesterday and the day before and the day before that. 

And still these things piqued him, like an itch beneath his skin that he couldn't quite locate or scratch with any effectiveness, a fist in his belly that refused to unclench.

I am not hurt, Sam.

"Bollocks!" he said again, louder and to the ceiling.  Merry'd had an orc-whip turned on him, he knew what it felt like.  Moreover, he'd seen the scar that twisted up Frodo's side and along his ribs; deep and long and ragged -- he couldn't have just got up and walked about and asked for news, for pity's sake, not after a blow like that.  And it had to have been bound -- probably by Sam -- or he'd have been leaking blood all over Mordor and that tracker afterwards would have sniffed that out, if nothing else.

All of it left out.

Almost killed Sam.  Ah, you know me so well but I bet you didn't know that, did you?  If I'd had a sword in my hand I'd've run him through.

Left out but for Frodo flaying himself through strokes of ink for calling Sam a thief.

Why don't you take a guess at what the one you love so much bargained with?

Left out altogether.

The man kneels, draws his arm back, murder in his dull, hate-filled eyes…

Nothing. 

The Scouring itself was addressed only enough to demonstrate the destruction and to exhibit the actions of Sam and Pippin and Merry himself.  To read it all, one would think that the things the people of the Shire said and believed about Frodo had actually been right.

And so much more and these were only those things of which Merry himself knew; who knew how much more there was?  Who knew what really went on in the Tower between Frodo and Sam?  Perhaps Sam's innocent-seeming proposal had been more threat than offer.  Even if so, Merry had to believe Sam would have been honest in the telling of it but would Frodo have been honest in the writing of it?  With the smearing of those events Merry already knew as fact, he suspected not.

He laced his hands behind his head, closed his eyes. 

The row in Bree and the subsequent days of anger and confusion; told as if Merry had bravely followed that Rider and then hadn't completely failed at Weathertop, as if he hadn't been going slowly and quietly insane.  Their stay in Rivendell and Frodo's long recovery; told as though there was no recovery and everything that had gone on between them reduced to footnotes and those only visible if one knew where to look.  There was more time and ink spent on Merry's convalescence in the Houses of Healing than there was on Frodo's own long recovery in Ithilien and that alone felt almost sickening or… obscene or…

"Just plain wrong," he said through his teeth.  "And just how much did you leave out, anyway?  What more don't I know?"

More to the point, did he want to know?  He had, after all, put it away, dealt with it, set it to rest.  He was finally somewhat content again, had both feet planted firmly beneath him, was perhaps even living up to his name sometimes, and it had taken years for him to achieve even this modicum of peace; so did he really want to dredge all of this up again?  What good would it do?  Frodo had written down what he'd wanted them to know and what would dwelling on it yet again serve?  And even considering his current state of level existence, there were still things he didn't think he really wanted to know.

He hadn't even had the courage to read the last chapter yet, despite all of the poring over the rest of the text he'd done.  Even just the title -- 'The Grey Havens' -- sitting there black and stark on the page, gave him a twist he had no wish to analyse.  If he couldn't even read what he now suspected to be an account just as fictionalised as that of their experiences over the year preceding it, was it really a good idea to go pondering things that were perhaps better left to lie quietly?

A knock at the door and Merry turned in his chair, said, "It isn't a question of wanting to dredge it up," to Pippin as he pushed the door open and took a step over the threshold.

Pippin stopped just inside the room, lifted an eyebrow.  "No, of course not, and I would never dream of thinking otherwise," he answered briskly.  "What are we talking about?"

Merry waved a hand towards the book impatiently.  "It isn't a question of want, it's a question of what's right.  And this isn't right."

Both of Pippin's eyebrows went up then and he nodded slowly.  "It had to happen eventually," he told Merry with an exaggerated sigh.  "Not to worry, Smials does this to everyone.  It's Pearl's influence, I think, or at least, that's what I bludgeon her with every chance I get.  But if you don't fight the insanity, you'll fit right in and no one will be the wiser.  It's quite nice after a while, actually.  If you're mad, everyone else seems normal."

Merry tilted his head.  "Even Pearl?"

"Well, now you're just being stupid," Pippin retorted.  He crossed the room and flopped down into the chair beside the desk, wicked up the lamp.  "Don't tell me you've been working in this light," he chastised then scanned the desk, apparently noted its obvious lack of evidence of anything resembling work and groaned.  He slumped into the chair.  "Merry, honestly, are you going to help or aren't you?  I knew I shouldn't've let you work on your own."

"I'm getting there," Merry defended, though he flushed a little.  "It's…"  He frowned, shrugged.  "I've just been reading, is all."

"You've been reading for three weeks!" Pippin informed him, as though Merry might have missed the fact.  "And that isn't what you said you'd help with in the first place.  Bother all, if I have to write to Éomer for--"

"You couldn't anyway because he wouldn't be able to read it, daft sod."

Pippin gave him a level stare.  "That's what heralds are for, lazy git," was his sharp reply.  "Don't give me lessons on Rohan custom -- write it down!  Because I promise you that if you don't, I have no problem at all with writing to Éowyn, and if anyone can send a kick in the arse through the Post, I have every confidence it would be her.  Now are you going to do this or not?"

"Yes, all right?"  Merry rolled his eyes, growled impatiently.  "And it won't take me long to write down what you need once I get started anyway."

"So then why haven't you done it?  You could have been done weeks ago and don't tell me you're just lingering about for the food because this new cook is awful.  He actually poached a brisket yesterday, did you hear that one?  Look who I'm telling, like you have any clue why that's a transgression that should be punishable by… well, something awful, anyway.  I swear he must be warming Pearl's bed, it's the only possible explanation for why he wasn't immediately tarred and feathered, ruining good beef like that, and he actually served the bloody thing, too, and stood there beaming, like it was some work of art, and then looked shocked -- shocked! -- when we all stared at our plates and refused to try a bite.  Looked like a giant slug, that's what it looked like, and you're lucky you were holed up in here and got a cold plate because, honestly, just the thought of it is giving me the quivers all over again.  She'd best get rid of him and soon and I certainly hope she doesn't expect he'll be helping with the reception; Diamond's father will have one look at his plate and haul her back to Long Cleeve and say bollocks to me."  He took a breath.  "So, what is it, then?"

Merry realised his mouth was hanging open.  He blinked a few times, vaguely noting that he'd been insulted in there somewhere, while he tried to remember the question and couldn't.

"Eh?"

Pippin rolled his eyes, sighed.  "You said you were going to help and unless you've done it all in invisible ink, you haven't even started yet.  So, what is it?"

"Er…"  When Pippin put it like that, it made Merry feel a bit like a layabout.  He flushed again, ventured, "Well, you gave me dried-up ink, you know," and peered innocently at his cousin, fully prepared to stick to that sorry excuse and suck every bit of redemption possible out of it.

Pippin, however, was apparently not in a cooperative mood; he lifted an eyebrow, leaned forward and peered under the desk.  "See those things?"  He pointed to Merry's feet.  "Very useful for getting about, and when used in tandem with one or more of these," grabbed hold of Merry's wrist and flopped his hand about, "can get you an amazing array of necessary tools to get a job done."

Merry yanked his hand away.  "All right, shut it," he growled then: "Look, I'm sorry.  I know I've been putting it off and after I'd promised and all and… and it isn't that I don't want to."  He stood, paced over to the hearth and stirred the coals.  "I've just…"  He didn't look at Pippin, only lowered himself into a crouch, placed new logs atop the glowing cinders of the old and began the process of bringing the fire back to life.  "Have you…"  He trained his voice into casual nonchalance.  "Have you noticed anything… well, odd about that Book?"

A long silence from Pippin then: "I suppose," he said slowly, "that would depend upon exactly what you mean by 'odd'," and Merry noted that old caution in his tone and felt an immediate bite of shame for being the one who'd put it there only several years ago; its presence now was a bit jarring after so long and only served to make the warning all the more sharp.

Merry turned to look at his cousin.  "I'm fine, Pippin," he told him, "and I'm not falling into old habits and I'm not imagining things where they're not.  There are things missing from the account and I want to know if it's as obvious to you as it is to me.  That's all."

Pippin looked down, shrugged a little.  "Of course it's obvious," he replied steadily, "and anyone who knew Frodo would see it more clearly than I'm sure he'd like.  You expected different?"

A pause while Merry studied his cousin; he'd turned from cheerful to churlish all too quickly, which told Merry more things than Pippin probably wanted him to know -- like, for instance, perhaps Pippin hadn't ever really stopped watching him and waiting for him to trip himself into oblivion again; like perhaps, now that the time when he couldn't watch anymore was quickly approaching, maybe this was not the best time for something like this to come up.  Pippin returned his regard with carefully-blank eyes, his face showing nothing of what might be going on behind them.

"I don't know that I expected anything, really."  Merry turned back to the fire, poked at the coals some more.  More quietly, he said, "I never expected to actually read the bloody thing but there it is.  Forget I said anything."

Silence for several moments.  Merry continued to stare at the growing flames, poker propped loose in his hand. 

'But for him, Sam, I could not have destroyed the Ring.'

"You would believe that, wouldn't you?" he whispered.  And why not?  Merry himself had almost believed it and he knew Frodo better than Frodo did himself.  And it had been an easier thing to believe because if even Frodo could fail, it made your own failures pale, didn't it?

'Blame myself?  For what?'

Had that been the first lie, then?  No, not the first; perhaps the first said aloud but there had been plenty of silent untruths before that, some of which Merry had only really seen in hindsight and some he might never allow himself to see.  And Frodo had allowed it, had in fact encouraged it, enabled it and sometimes even demanded it.  Because Merry had been completely right about at least one thing: Frodo would throw himself on the sword to keep another from cutting their finger on it.

"Perhaps the heaviest burden," he said in that same soft whisper, "was not the Ring at all."

"What's that?" Pippin asked and did Merry detect just the slightest note of challenge in his tone?  "Didn't catch that."

Ill-advised or no, Merry had never been able to refuse a challenge; louder, he said, "Did you know that Gandalf once mused that Frodo meant to throw himself and the Ring into the Fire?"

The silence thickened behind him and Merry turned; Pippin still sat slumped in the chair, head propped on his fist and now his eyes were closed.  Almost as though he felt Merry's eyes upon him, he stirred a little, twitched his mouth into a frown but didn't open his eyes.  Tension rose and stretched wide and full between them.

"What would you like me to say, Merry?" Pippin asked, his voice flat.  "That was a worry right from the start, wasn't it?  You think I never guessed that was the better part of the reason you were so wild to follow to Mordor?"

"See, that's exactly what I'm talking about!"  Merry stood, went back to his chair and sank into it.  "You wouldn't know it to read that book unless you knew what you were looking for!"

"So, what?" Pippin wanted to know and he opened his eyes, flashed a glare at Merry.  "It isn't as though we can get him back here for edits and re-writes, is it?  It's finished and in the way he wanted it done."

"Well, he wasn't always right, was he?"  Merry could feel his temper start to rise.  "He tried to leave the Shire without us and then wanted to send us home in Bree; who knows what might have been altered had we let him?"

"Oh, so now you're a believer in Fate, is that it?" Pippin shot back and his temper wasn't just rising -- it had already near hit the roof.  "And what good will digging it all up and tossing his mistakes about do now?  People don't understand it the way it is, Merry, and it couldn't be more simple!  What good will making it more complicated do?  Sure, go ahead -- tell them that Frodo would have thrown himself in and that he had such goodness and humility in him that even he didn't believe it.  Do you know what they'll say?  They'll say they could have admired him a lot more if he actually had!  That a 'Real Hero' would have.  Is that what you want to hear bandied about?  Is that the legacy you'll hand his memory?"

"I don't care what they think!" Merry grated.  "I care what I know and that's apparently precious little."  He waved a hand at the book.  "It's like a bloody puzzle with pieces missing!  And now that I see all of the holes, I realise that the few missing pieces I hold in my hand are nothing to the whole of what's not there."

Pippin stood, shoved his chair back with a grating screech of wood-on-wood, leaned over the desk, eyes a-glitter.  "And why," he asked through his teeth, "is it so important to you to have those missing pieces?"

Stone me, Merry thought, if I didn't know I could take him, he'd scare me right out of my shorts.  He watched for a twitch of the lip, didn't detect one, so he kept himself seated and still.  Merry had done this to Pippin, turned him into someone who watched too carefully, held on a little too tightly, someone who would throttle someone he loved just to protect them, though Merry supposed he couldn't discount Frodo's influence either.  And he didn't need this sort of protection, not anymore.

Merry didn't answer Pippin's question, only met his fierce gaze with a calm one of his own.  "Why isn't it important to you?" he asked instead.

Pippin's nostrils flared and he pushed away from the desk, straightened his back, hands curling into fists.  He glared at Merry for several charged, tense moments before the gaze levelled itself into tight composure and he shoved his hands into his pockets.

"It is," he said thickly then he shook his head, went over to the window and peered out into darkness, jaw still set hard.  "I'm just surprised that this is what's upset you about it.  I would have thought…"  He trailed off, shifted his shoulders.  "I shouldn't have made you read it and I'm sorry," he said quietly.  He shrugged, loosed a small bitter chuckle.  "I thought it might help you to lay it all to rest, once and for all, you know?  I don't know why I didn't guess at…"  He shrugged again, went silent.

"I'm not sorry, Pippin," Merry told him steadily.  "And trust me not to take the same treacherous road twice, yeah?  It has nothing to do with old habits, nor anything to do with wishing for things I know I can't have.  If you believe nothing else, believe that I have accepted what must be and put it away as best I can.  But this…"  He waved at the book again.  "This just isn't right!"

"I know that, don't I?"  Pippin leaned against the wall, still staring out into the night.  "And yes, it does matter to me and I don't like it any more than you do but it was what he wanted!  Why can't you ever just give him what he wanted?"

That one stung and Merry flinched a little, swallowed.

Because sometimes, what he wanted was not what was best for him and you know it as well as I do.

"And he wanted to leave the Shire alone; he wanted us not to mourn when he left forever."  Merry's voice was almost gentle but relentless in its soft insistence.  "Could you have given him either of those things?"

Pippin's jaw tightened yet further; he closed his eyes, shoulders rounded, and he dipped his head.  "'The End' is written," he said, his tone weary.  "I shouldn't have… I thought it would help."

Merry didn't answer, only turned back to the fire.  He sat quiet while Pippin pondered the darkness, listening to the small clock measure out the silence.

"What will you do?" Pippin asked softly.

Merry hadn't realised he'd made the decision until Pippin had asked the question.  "You said you saw some of his notes."

A slow nod from Pippin.

"How different were they from what's here?"

Pippin shrugged.  "Ironically, two of the bits that I got a look at were actually in there… perhaps slightly changed."  A pause.  "All right, yes, quite changed.  Shortened.  Less…"  His brow twisted and his gaze was thoughtful and far away.  "Less him, though that's not entirely right.  Almost as though he was trying to explain it to himself in the notes and wrote down in the book a shortened version of the explanation he'd come up with… or at least the explanation he thought might be understood by others.  I don't think Frodo knew what either of them meant when he jotted them in the notebook.  I don't think he really understood until…"  He trailed off, shrugged again.

"The bits about the jewel, you mean."  When Pippin only nodded again, continued to study the night, Merry nodded, too, drew in a deep breath.  "I'll ask Sam for the notes, then," he said then: "Unless he gave you the notebooks, as well?"

Pippin turned, seemed taken aback.  "You still want to see Sam?"

"Of course.  More so now than before."  Merry frowned, tilted his head.  "Why wouldn't I?"

Pippin only shook his head slowly in answer, slid his gaze back to the window, sighed.  "Nothing, I…  So… Hobbiton, then?  Now?"

"Come with me or stay, as you like, Pippin," Merry told him gently.  "But I'm going in the morning.  I'll wait for you… I don't know; I'll check into the Dragon or something.  Or maybe I'll go on to Buckland and take care of some things and we can start to Rivendell from there.  But try to understand -- this can't wait."

Another long, pregnant silence as Pippin regarded the blank black outside the window then: "Promise me," he began, "that you won't… that this isn't--"

"It isn't," Merry insisted.  "It isn't about me," and told himself even as he was speaking the words that it was the absolute truth; it wasn't about him -- it was about what was right.

Pippin remained still for several moments then he sighed again, straightened and turned to Merry.  "I'll write Sam and warn him to expect us sooner.  We'll leave day after tomorrow.  Will that do?"

* * *

It turned out that a warning was entirely necessary.  One would think that growing up in Brandy Hall would have inured him to the tribulations of a rambunctious homestead. 

Glory, every time Merry started to feel the slightest bit regretful about the childless state of bachelorhood, he had only to make a trip to Hobbiton.  One afternoon of jam on his trousers and tactfully averting his eyes while trying to appear as if he wasn't averting his eyes as Rosie nursed the newest, not to mention being climbed like a tree every time he stood still for more than three seconds, and that would do him for a good solid year.

Pippin, on the other hand, revelled in it and took no small amount of pleasure in siccing whichever fauntling he was done with on Merry.  They saw Pippin more than they did Merry, after all, and 'Uncle Merry' apparently hadn't worn out the novelty yet.

They were like cats: they zeroed in on the one person in the room who didn't know quite what to do with them and went to work.  Next time, he would be sure to time his arrival for well after their bedtime… which he hoped was fast approaching.

Even with the relative-chaos, he had to admit to feeling more comfortable here than he had before.  He still didn't know exactly what it was Rosie held against him, and didn't dare ask, but they seemed to have reached a comfortable truce over the years; she even looked happy to see him on those occasions when he'd stop by on his way through for tea or somesuch and more often than not would invite him to extend his stay into supper or an overnight; he never accepted the invitation to stay for the night but he'd enjoyed many a fine meal at New End's table.

It had taken him a while to get used to the place and he still found himself peering about, noting small changes here and there -- the couch in the main room pushed against the wall to make room for a play-mat and toys; small statuettes moved from lower shelves to higher ones -- until the changes were so many that he stopped counting.  It wasn't Frodo's anymore, hadn't been for too long and would never again be the place he'd spent so many happy times.  Another thing he'd slowly got used to and it only rarely gave him a small pang in the chest. 

And yet Frodo's presence was still very much here and Merry sometimes watched Rosie from the corner of his eye, wondering if that was more her doing than Sam's.  She referred to her once-master in conversation so much more easily than any of them could, spoke of him fondly and casually and never paused at the brief ensuing silences, discussed events of the War with them when they'd speak of it, though that was rare.  It helped.  And Merry knew Sam was grateful for it, even if it made him sad sometimes.

He watched her now, rocking slowly beside the fire, Rosie-lass asleep in her arms.  She'd listened to their small-talk serenely, smiled often, the smile broadening when Sam offered to put Elanor and Frodo-lad to bed.  She'd slid her eyes slyly to Merry's at that and flashed a knowing grin; Merry squirmed, flushed a little and gave his own apologetic smile.  His relief must have been apparent.  So he was worthless as an 'uncle'; not many would find that surprising.

Sam led Elanor by the hand, Pippin bringing up the rear with Frodo-lad perched on his shoulders, his little limbs wrapped about Pippin's head, small hands nearly blinding him; Pippin stooped a little through the doorway, careful not to knock the small head into the top of the lintel, and Frodo-lad giggled -- apparently at nothing -- and took a handful of Pippin's hair in a sticky hand, yanked.  Snorted threats of horrible retribution followed them down the tunnel then faded.  Rosie chuckled a little, shot another glance at Merry with a lift of her eyebrow and a small shake of her head.  Merry grinned, shrugged, let his eyes fall on Rosie-lass and rest there.

This one looked like her mother.  Frodo-lad was a miniature Sam, and Elanor… well, Elanor was Elanor.  But Rosie-lass was her mother's daughter; rose-blushed cheeks, all appled and plump, gingered hair in soft waves, rather than the loose kinks most little ones sported, and an easy way about her, quiet and cheerful until someone did something to hack her off and then she'd scream hellfire for a good solid hour.  Luckily, it wasn't an easy thing to hack her off.

"You've read the book."

Merry blinked, lifted his eyes from daughter to mother.  He almost asked Rosie what she was talking about but of course, he knew.  He nodded, cast his eyes about the room, searching for something neutral to let them light upon; he found the wooden duck, resting upon a high shelf, and he smiled a little wistfully.  He wondered if either Rosie or Sam suspected the inside-joke; he thought perhaps one or both might have done -- why else would a toy be kept out of the reach of children?  He would never ask, of course.  It had come to Sam and his family right along with everything else of Frodo's; Merry had no claim over it but memory.  Still, he had to admit that he liked the thought of it sitting up high, presiding over the room, better than he liked the idea of it lost beneath a bed somewhere, full of small teeth-marks and stained with drool.  Though, he knew Frodo would have preferred just the opposite.

"I've not always been kind to you."

Merry jumped at that one, snapped his gaze back to Rosie with a frown.  "Er… sorry, what?"

It was Rosie's turn to flush; she pulled her eyes away, shrugged a little, adjusted the baby's blanket.  "When you all first came home and…"  A rueful little smile and another shrug.  "And after.  I didn't understand and I was cruel."  She paused, lifted her chin and looked at Merry.  "I'm sorry," she told him.

'Floored' was probably a good way to describe Merry's reaction at the moment.  He frowned, shook his head, knowing of course to what she referred but bewildered as to what brought this on now, after all this time.

He cleared his throat.  "Well, one can't expect to like everyone," he offered.  "I suppose I just assumed that was the case -- I rub some the wrong way, always have, and you've been kind to put up with me, despite--"

"That wasn't it," Rosie interjected, voice quiet.  "It was… I didn't really understand until I read Mr. Frodo's Book and I'm sure there are more things I've no right to even try and understand.  But I was wrong for thinking those things about you and for being the way I was to you.  I've tried to make up for it a little bit over the past couple of years but you don't come around very often and I don't think the air can be cleared proper without an apology anyway, but I didn't think you'd understand until you'd read it yourself.  So I'm offering one now.  I really am sorry."

Merry was gaping; he knew he was gaping yet he couldn't make himself stop.  With a great effort of will, he closed his mouth, nodded.

"You're forgiven, of course," he said then paused, considered.  Cautiously, he asked, "What exactly did you think about me?"

Rosie sighed, looked away.  "You must understand that Mr. Frodo was a friend of my mum and dad for years; I used to sit on his knee in my mum's kitchen when I was no bigger than Elanor."  She smiled down on her daughter, shrugged a little.  "I remember once, when I was, oh…"  She shifted her gaze to the ceiling, closed one eye.  "I must have been about fifteen, I think."  She grinned, peered over at Merry.  "Too mischievous by halves, that's what Mum used to say.  But we got Miz Lobelia good that time and I should probably feel ashamed of myself for it now but I doubt I ever will."

She grinned, wide and lovely, and Merry couldn't help but answer it with one of his own.  He tilted his head, still rather bewildered.  Rosie's grin turned apologetic.

"Jolly and me were down at Number Three messing about with Sam when we saw Miz Lobelia trundle by.  She sneered at us -- sneered!  Told us to quit 'gawping at the gentry' and to go wash our faces, that we looked like urchins, then lifted her nose up and high-stepped up the Hill.  The cheek!"  She shook her head a little but kept her grin.  "So far as I know, she never twigged it was us as put the clippings and leaves in her umbrella."

Merry's mouth dropped open.  "You didn't."

"Oh, yes, we did," Rosie answered.  "And a howl like that you never did hear, leaves and grass and dirt all raining from inside that umbrella of hers.  You remember how she was about her hats and her hair."  She smirked, shrugged.  "'Twas her own fault for leaving the bloody thing out on the porch, I say."  She twinkled a little at Merry.  "Poor Mr. Bilbo, trying to calm her down and swearing he'd hunt down the culprits and have them drawn and quartered, just to get Miz Lobelia to quit hollering about raising the Shirriffs. 

"We were spying over the top of the Hill when Mr. Frodo caught us."  A snort.  "Caught dead, that's what we all thought, and all imagining the very worst as he led us down the Hill and through the back into the kitchen.  Didn't say a word to us, either, just left us all sitting at the table, staring at each other, each as wide-eyed as the next and thinking he was going to go get Miz Lobelia and let her have at us and then send for our parents.  I mean, he had to, didn't he?  He was a tween, after all -- almost a Grownup."

"But he didn't," Merry said and smirked -- not a question because he knew, didn't he?

Rosie shook her head, smiled.  "Came back with biscuits and cider.  And when Mr. Bilbo finally got rid of Miz Lobelia and found us all in the kitchen, relieving him of his tin of gingersnaps, Mr. Frodo told him we'd all had a tiring afternoon, achieving daring feats of courage, and were in need of proper reward."

Merry chuckled, watched as her smile turned warm and fond.  "You loved him."  Again, not a question.

"'Course I did," she answered and her eyes were bright when she turned them on Merry.  "Everyone as knew him did, didn't they?  Why should I have been different?  It's why I got so angry with you, though I know it's no excuse."

Merry shook his head, sighed.  "I'm afraid I'm still not sure what you mean."  She made to answer and he held up his hand.  "You don’t need to explain, of course.  I said the apology was accepted and I meant it.  And perhaps I'm just being dense but I would like to understand, if you don't mind telling."

A hoot from the direction of the nursery and Rosie cocked her head, listened.  Quiet laughter rippled into the room from down the tunnel and they both smiled; Pippin was probably getting them too riled at what was supposed to be a quiet storytime and Sam was probably half-heartedly trying to hush them all.  Rosie rolled her eyes and Merry chuckled.  Her smile dimmed a little.

"More than fair, under the circumstances," she continued quietly.  She adjusted the baby in her arms, sighed.  "I didn't know that you didn't know, you see."  Merry frowned and Rosie looked away, fiddled with the fringe of Rosie-lass' blanket.  "Until I read that book, I thought he was sad because you went away; I didn't realise that he was sad because… because of other things."  She looked up then.  "He was such a lively hobbit; Mum used to say he left a trail of faerie dust behind him.  Oh, not like he was always bopping about and clowning off or any such; only that he made a person smile just because he was about -- and that sharp tongue!"  She shook her head fondly.  "Quite a caution, was our Mr. Frodo."

"You mean is," Merry corrected gently.

"No," Rosie returned, just as gently.  "I mean was.  Aye, I know he isn't dead but when he came back from your Travels…"  An uncomfortable shrug.  "It wasn't him, if you see what I mean.  Least not how I knew him.  Like Sam had gone and brought back an entirely different master.  He was changed, so very different and I never seen such sorrow in a person's eyes before, like looking into black pits of grief covered over with a thin layer of branches to hide the diggings but oh, you could see 'em."  She looked Merry in the eye then.  "I thought you did that to him.  And then my dad found him that day, sick and off his head, and I was just so angry that it was my dad as had to find him and not someone as it should have been -- you or even my Sam."

"Find him?"  Merry frowned, shook his head.  "Wait, what?"

"That day in Rethe."  When Merry's brow only creased deeper, Rosie furthered, "The Anniversary."  She peered into Merry's bewildered face, leaned in a little and her eyes narrowed.  "You said you'd read the book."

"I have," Merry told her slowly.  "And several times."

"Well, then you know that he had an attack on 15 Rethe and that he had black dreams about… things."  Merry said nothing, didn't move but for the increased surge of his chest as his breaths came faster one upon the other, his heart picking up pace.  "You know that he had another in Winterfilth and Sam found him that time.  And then another the next Rethe but I didn't have the heart to let him know that I knew about that one; he tried so hard to hide it and I thought it would hurt him more if he knew he hadn't."

Merry only continued to stare, his heart trip-slipping behind his ribs now, his palms slightly sweated.  Rosie leaned in again, narrowed her eyes further and her lips thinned to a single line on her face.

"You've not read the whole of it, I'm thinking."

Merry shook his head and his tongue was suddenly thick in his mouth.  "Not the last of it," he told her and his voice was strained.  "I couldn't."

She only stared at him for a long moment then she nodded, sat back.  "I suppose I can understand that.  A difficult thing it would--"  She stopped and her eyes widened, blinked.  "Then you don't know…"

Merry waited but when she didn't go on, he prompted, "Know what?"

A slow shake of the head.  "My Sam, he--"  She closed her eyes, turned away.  "It isn't mine to say it, if you'll forgive me."  She turned back to Merry and her eyes were softer than a moment ago, apologetic.  "You should read the last of it," she told him and pointed her chin to where Sam had laid the Red Book on the tea table.  "He wrote it down and left it for everyone but more for them as knew him, I'm thinking.  You should read it."

Merry stared at the book, his stomach lurching and shifting.  He'd been wrestling with himself for weeks, careening between wanting answers and being sure he didn't, yet digging for them all the while nonetheless.  And all the time, there had apparently been at least some answers right at the ends of his fingertips, only now that he knew they were there, he was almost certain he didn't want them.

He swallowed, looked at Rosie.  "I'm not sure I can."

She shrugged, gave him a sad smile.  "Perhaps not," she answered.  "But you should."

* * *

And so, he did.  He was still reading it when Sam and Pippin came back from the nursery, their laughter tapering into chuckles and then into silence when they realised what Merry was doing.  Merry didn't even notice them enter the room, didn't notice the loudness of the silence as he closed the book, slipped it back onto the table, sat back and closed his eyes.  Didn't notice the uncomfortable glances shot from Pippin to Sam and back again, or the calm resolve in Rosie's face as she stood, kissed her husband goodnight and quietly took Rosie-lass to bed.

"You've been given permission to follow."

He didn't try to make his voice kind, didn't try to dull the sharp accusation beneath the words.  Silence followed the statement, thick and heavy, and he didn't try to soften that either.  He opened his eyes, turned them to Sam and if there was hurt and resentment in them, he didn't try to cloak it.

"How lovely for you," he said and his voice was flat.

"Merry--"

"It's all right, Mister Pippin."  Sam turned to Pippin, said calmly, "I'm surprised this didn't come when you first came through the door.  I've been expecting it."

For some reason, it twisted the knife deeper in Merry's gut.  "Well, then, I'm glad not to be disappointing you," he said and his tone was bitter this time.

Sam turned back to Merry, gaze level and frank.  "Lovely, is it?" he asked.  "What do you think you'd do with a choice like that?"

"You know very well what I'd do with it," Merry said between his teeth.  "And right now I'm not sure if I'm more enraged that it was you it was offered to or that you didn't take it."

And the bugger of it was, he wasn't.  All he was sure of was that, had the choice been offered to him, he'd have been on the gangway before Frodo was and dragging him up behind.

"Oh, you're so sure, are you?" Sam asked and shook his head.  "It would be such an easy thing, choosing between the people you loved best in all the world, one of them as could only ever love another and one of them as loved you and held your future on her hip."

"He needed you!"

"So did my wife, so did my daughter!  How am I supposed to make a choice like that?  And I almost did anyway, didn't I, and how do you suppose I look myself in the glass every day, knowing I almost left my family and feeling guilty for almost leaving and not leaving at the same time?  He needed more than me and always did!  And he needed more than you and don't you ever try and tell me what he needed, you as still can't give him what he needed most!"

It curled heat in his belly, ran him through like a lightning-strike.  Merry lunged forward, was stopped by Pippin's iron grip on his arm.

"All right, that's enough!" he growled.  He pushed Merry back, looked between them, clenched his teeth.  "Save me, will this never be done between you two?  You're like a couple of five-year-olds squabbling over the last biscuit."  He closed his eyes, took a breath and turned to Sam; Sam opened his mouth but Pippin jabbed a finger at him.  "You just shut it for a moment," he told him.  "You could stand to be a little more understanding right now and you well know it."

Sam snapped his mouth shut and Pippin turned back to Merry.  "Now?  You've just found this now?  Almost a month you pored over that book and now you're just reading the one part I dragged you out there for?" 

Merry felt like he ought to be embarrassed but he was well past any emotion that didn't involve anger.  "Yes, Pippin, I have failed in adulthood once again, though you knew I would, didn't you?  See-all, know-all and why don't you go ahead and tell me what's best for me, now, eh?  I was perfectly happy not knowing any of this but you would insist, wouldn't you, so spare me the righteous reprimand, if you please."  He yanked his arm from Pippin's grip, stood and paced over to the door, stopped and turned. 

"Didn't know what he needed, did I?"  He pointed an accusing finger at Sam.  "What about you?  Why do you think he was so obsessed with that book?  When he couldn't or wouldn't speak of something, he wrote it down and who even tried to listen to what he needed to speak of?  Bilbo, who could barely tell whether it was day or night?  You, Sam, who shut him up so quickly in the Tower because you couldn't bear to hear what they'd done to him?"

Sam's face coloured with dull red fury.  "That ain't fair," he said slowly.  "And you know it."

"No, it isn't," Merry agreed.  "None of it's fair.  It isn't fair that you were so caught up in the choice you had that you didn't even consider how hard it probably was for him to even tell you that you had one.  'Live your life, be who you will and then one day maybe you'll come,' was more or less what he said, isn't it?  And did you look into his eyes when he said it, Sam?  Did you see him throwing himself on the sword one more time?  Or did you look away like you did when he was struck ill in Winterfilth and Rethe?  Refuse to see it, when it's so bloody plain on the page that even he couldn't cover it up?"

"And where were you?" Sam wanted to know.  "I was setting things to rights, bringing his home back to him, not crawling into a barrel of ale and drinking it dry!"

"Because you said you'd take care of him!  You swore--"

"Bloody sodding bollocks, that's enough!" Pippin shouted.  He looked between them with wondering eyes.  "You're right," he said to Merry, "there is no such thing as Sight and if there is, I certainly haven't got it because I never imagined this!  What is wrong with the two of you?"

Sam clenched his jaw, looked down but the fire didn't leave his eyes.  Merry took several deep breaths, willed his heart to slow, his blood to cool.  When he'd calmed himself, he turned to Sam again.

"Sam, try to understand," he said, kept his voice even and composed.  "I'm not trying to hurt you and I'm just as angry with myself as I am with anyone else -- probably moreso because I knew that it was all there and I let him distract and deceive me and I…"  He paused, breathed a small bitter laugh.  "I really should have known better."  He shook his head, leaned against the frame of the door.  "I thought it was his health and that made it all right because certainly they could fix that, right?  It didn't occur to me that perhaps it was more and that maybe that was what was causing him to… I don't know… fade, as they told him.  And even that, I could take, if I thought they would heal that, too, but now I'm not even sure they had any idea at all that there was more and that doesn't just make me angry -- it scares me to death."

He paced the room a few times, the silence thick, until he spun about, almost lifted an accusing finger again and made himself stop.

"Both of you--"  His hands clenched into helpless fists.  "Neither of you have ever understood and I know that it's my fault because I am selfish and I don't let go easily; but this…"  Frustrated, he ran both hands roughly through his hair, growled.  "Can you not see how this is wrong?  It's only yet another thing they all got wrong to add to the list of all the others!  You think I didn't know what he needed?  What about them?  To put him through what they put him through and then to just walk away?  And not just one of them but all of them  -- even Gandalf and he was supposed to be Frodo's friend!  Sure, let's just stick him on a boat and sail him off and away from everything he loved, that'll fix him right up.  Right.  They didn't bother to try and fix him up while he was here, did they, and what makes you think they'll know what to do for him there?  All that talk about how 'Elvish' he was but he isn't an Elf -- he's a hobbit and what did they ever really know about any of us?  I have been consoling myself for years that it was what was best for him, that they would take care of him there better than any of us could have done, but how can I believe that, now that I understand that they had no clue about what he wanted -- that they didn't even ask?  Think me arrogant or think me self-absorbed because you do anyway, but he loved me, I know he did, and if they'd given him a choice, he'd have let me come."

"You couldn't," Pippin put in and his voice was almost startling for its quiet.  "You'd never even touched the Ring.  You didn't need that sort of healing."

"That's not the point!" Merry cried.  "Don't you understand -- they didn't know!  And they didn't know because they didn't know him.  They had no idea what his reasons were for sailing; they took the half of the story that he admitted to and then just assumed the rest, but they didn't know."

"Of course they knew."  Pippin again, more slowly this time.  "They had to have known."

"And how do you know that, Pippin?  How can you be sure?  Read the things they told him, really look at what they did or didn't do.  No one even came out and said he had leave to sail -- they all just hinted about and left him to figure it out for himself.  Who knows what else they left him to figure out on his own?  Aragorn healed his body as best he could and I know Gandalf at least spoke to him often in Minas Tirith, but did you see any of it doing him any good?  And what did they do for him after we got home?  Did any of them come to check on him?"  He turned to Sam.  "Do you remember any message at all from any of them?" 

Sam didn't answer, only continued to study his hands.  Merry nodded, set his jaw hard.

"They didn't know him," he furthered, his voice quiet and even.  "And I am now more afraid than I ever was before that they had no idea at all what they were doing when they took him away."

Long silence, dense and heavy, then:

"I couldn't hear it."  This from Sam in a voice small and thick.  He lifted his head, looked to Merry and his eyes were damp.  "Not then, not in that place.  And he wouldn't want to say, after he'd heard what I… the orcs and… after I'd told him how scared I was and how hard…"  He closed his eyes, turned his face away.  "It weren't nothing to what he probably went through and there he was after, holding my hand and comforting me and even then…"  A small shudder went through him.  "I was glad he didn't say."  His voice shook.  "You're right -- I shut him up and I was glad I did it and even after… I kept shutting him up, kept not wanting to know."

Merry sighed, slumped, walked slowly back to his seat and lowered himself into it.  Sam wouldn't look at him -- wouldn't even look up -- and Pippin was staring at a spot on the wall, his eyes distant and clouded.

"Sam, please, I don't mean hurt you," Merry told him and the kindness in his voice was genuine.  "I doubt you'd have got him to say anything at the end that might have helped.  And what you did for him…"  He sighed again, reached out and put a hand to Sam's shoulder.  "Sam, you have to know that no one else could have done what you did -- I know I couldn't have.  And who knows?  Maybe telling then would have done more harm than good."  He squeezed Sam's shoulder, shook him a little until Sam peered up at him with sad, wet eyes.  "I don't blame you for anything, Sam, and I don't want you to blame yourself.  Glory, all the things I've done wrong or could have done better…"  He squeezed a little harder, wrestled a small smile to his face.   "I'm sorry," he said.  "I'm suddenly more angry than I've ever been and really quite frightened and feeling all too helpless."  He shrugged and his smile turned rueful.  "I'm very good at lashing out; ask Pippin."

Sam lifted the corner of his mouth in a humourless smile and nodded.  Pippin started at the sound of his name, as though emerging from a dream.

"He'd have gone anyway, you know," he said then turned to Merry, his face thoughtful.  "Even if he knew they couldn't give him what he needed, he would have gone anyway.  And you said yourself that none of us could have given him what he needed -- not even you; you know that, don't you?"

Merry nodded slowly.  "I've known that for longer than I wanted to admit," he confessed.

"Then exactly what is it that you're trying to do here, Merry?"

His resemblance to Frodo had always thrown Merry more than a little -- the hair lighter and the eyes different but always Merry had been able to see Frodo when he looked at Pippin just the right way.  Now it was as though, rather than being sat in Bag End's parlour, lit bright with four lamps and the winter wind whistling at the window-casings, he stood in Bag End's study, dim-lit with only the fire throwing shadows and Frodo's voice bringing his world to an end.

Exactly what is it that you're trying to save here, Merry?

He shook his head slowly, turned his eyes away.  "I don't know," he said and didn't know if he was answering Pippin's question or Frodo's.  "I'm only trying to understand.  Every time I think I've put it away, something else springs up and drags it all back out again.  I don't want to feel like this, Pippin, and I don't want to have these questions.  But you said yourself that I shouldn't forget, that I shouldn't stop loving, and I'm not--"

"Had I known that you hadn't stopped being in love," Pippin interjected softly, "I never would have made you read the book."

Merry said nothing to that because right now, he sincerely wished he hadn't.  Instead, he said, "There are just so many things I wish I'd known, so many things I wish I mig