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Counterpoint, Movement XIV
Obbligato: not to be left out; indispensable - an accompaniment that is an integral part of a piece
* * *
Frodo closes his eyes, turns his face away.
Why do you show me these things?
Sacrifice should not be asked, lest one knows the price others might pay.
I ask for no sacrifice.
Yet you gladly accept those offered. Why?
I… Not gladly.
No?
‘I give in. I will take Gildor’s advice. If the danger were not so dark, I would dance for joy.’
‘I am content. We will go together.’
‘I would have begged you to come--’
Stop! You use my words against me, Lady, and they twist within my heart, even now.
You let them choose--
And choose they did, of their own free will.
Did they?
Yes! Never would I ask--
Ah, but you didn’t need to, did you?
‘No matter how much I want you both along, I can’t be responsible for having it so…’
Why do you do this? I would see them all safe, if I could, but they will not go!
And why is that, Ring-bearer?
They… I don’t know! They seek to protect me, they want--
Why?
He straightens his shoulders, lifts his chin. Of any of the questions posed to him just lately, this is the one for which he has a ready answer.
Love.
And you will take that love, even if it means their destruction?
I… No. What choice have I?
How can you be sure they have a choice? How can you be sure it is you they love?
Frodo is staggered, pinned. His hand goes unwilling to his breast and he closes his fingers over cool fire.
He wants to snap the chain, rend the Thing until It is no more than bits of glittering dust, spilling harmless through his fingers, howl his hatred for It and laugh as It melts to nothing…
He wants to cradle It in his palm, slide his finger warm and gentle over Its smooth surface, press It to his cheek and die with It clutched in his fist…
You began to see even before you entered Moria. Will you turn your face from Truth now?
Searching, always searching for him and he with a Beacon at his throat. Always drawn to him, no matter how fast and hard he runs, but not quite Seeing, not yet, and so those in their circle around him are brought down first. Merry in Bree, nearly taken and…
Gandalf.
You begin to see truly. Evil is drawn to you, Ring-bearer, but the Ring takes all within Its grasp. You cannot know what has been given to you freely and what It has taken for Its own purposes.
You would tell me that all of the love I have had in my life has been Its will? That I have deserved none of it and none of it has been given freely?
I would tell you that Its gifts are as treacherous and seductive as Its tricks. Do you say you know Its wiles? Do you say It has not already tricked you? Do you say you know all of Its deceptions?
It whispers to him in his own voice. It begs him to put It on, reveal himself, let himself be Seen, and all of it sweet and lovely, soothing and right. All of it in his own voice, though sometimes sibilant and insistent, and he has to listen very closely, has to consider very carefully before acting upon what may not be his own thoughts.
Until now he has been sure he could tell the difference. He has been very careful to search the faces of his friends, look for that spark of lust from his own heart reflected back at him from their eyes, and he has been sure that he has seen nothing but love there. Now…
How can he be sure of what was there to begin with? How can he be sure It hadn’t put it there, even before It had forsaken Bilbo for someone weaker, someone too willing to accept what he’d been given as his due?
Nothing is sure and it hasn’t even occurred to him to wonder, not about this. And now he cards through his memories, searches through every kiss, every embrace, every profession of love or friendship, and realises with a sickening dread that he cannot point to a single one and righteously claim it free of the hateful Thing’s sway. None but…
Bilbo…
Ah, but Bilbo does not follow you into danger, does he?
Stop! Why do you do this? You tell me I am not worthy of love and that all I have known in my life has been Its doing? You cannot know their hearts!
Can you?
I… yes. No! I don’t know! I have tried to keep It from reaching out, have tried to come between It and them. Have I failed or is it that I was too late? Tell me why I am unworthy!
I tell you not that you are unworthy, Ring-bearer; only warn you against underestimating Its power and your own. This is what you were made for, no one else, and you cannot allow those who are untempered to step before you and into Its Sight.
I would not! But you speak as though I can stop it. I have built my ramparts, sealed myself and It within and away from those It might seek to harm. What else would you have of me?
It is in you, now – It has become a part of who--
No! It is but a ring and I am but its bearer.
A statement unworthy of one who knows all too well its untruth. Ring and Bearer are one and the wanting of one is the wanting of the other. Do you think the Watcher wanted the Ring, or a tasty morsel? Yet, of the Nine within its reach, ‘twas the Bearer it seized.
The Watcher was but a foul beast, with neither love nor hate within it. Yet, you would compare the love of my friends to the mind of a creature with no cares but for its next meal. The Ring cannot create love where it does not exist. It has not the power to make and I will not believe--
It has the power to imitate and how easy might it be to show the frontispiece of love to one who has so often lost it? To one who wants to believe it there? To one who would dare not question it, lest all his deepest fears of loss and abandonment prove inevitable?
Frodo reels, all of his daemons risen, slithering and cackling, free and unfettered before his eyes. ‘I don’t know why you came, Merry…’ And he doesn’t, has never been able to fathom the love given him so freely, has never dared think on it too carefully. Who is he, to engender such depths of love? Sam, who has made Frodo’s life his own life’s purpose, with no eye for reward. Pippin, who never wants anything more than to make him smile. Merry…
Merry, whose own death shines bright in his eyes, worn as a talisman against Frodo’s own.
Nothing, he has done nothing to deserve any of it, yet he has taken it all, accepted it all without question. Now…
Perhaps now he finally knows why.
Is this what his life has been, then? He was made for this and they for… what? To keep him entertained until the time was right? To keep him content and complacent until he was called for? To make the life he thought he loved worth fighting for and they the tools to be used to do it?
You see much but not clearly and not all. Humility can be a precious treasure but you must not let it rule you, any more than pride. You must not lose faith in them or their love for you, for love it is, honest and true.
Yet you would tell me that love is not my own. Which is it? Is it honest and true or is it a trick of the Ring? What do you warn me against?!
Only be wary of the forms that love takes. This is your task and the time when you could allow others to decide how best to help you has passed. The decisions are now for you to make. Alone.
You would ask this of me? To walk into Shadow alone?
I would ask nothing of you, Ring-bearer – only tell you that which you already know.
And… if I leave them?
I cannot see the paths they might tread without you. Perhaps that is the safest road for them. But alone, you will fail.
Riddles! You tell me I must choose but you take my choices away! Alone I will fail but to allow them to remain with me will bring about the fates I have seen.
What you have seen may come to pass if you do not make your choice.
May… Then what you have shown me… it is not set?
The future is never set and the present is as malleable as clay on the wheel. Now is the time for you to step forward and make your choice.
I can help you do that, Ring-bearer. Let me help you lay this Task aside.
No.
I can ease your burden, if you would but lay it down now.
No!
I can set you on an easier path. What you have seen may not come to pass. I can send them all safely to their homes, if you will only put aside your Errand.
Oh, so tempting and so cruel. How many times has he wished for this chance, to rid himself of It, hand It over to one who is wiser, stronger? How many times has he wished for his featherbed and a warm embrace and the ability to lay his head down and just… sleep. No dark dreams, no yammering whispers in his heart, no weight of the world heavy upon his shoulders.
He wants this, wants it – more than the Ring itself, more than the fantasy of home and place he’d been taunted with only moments ago, more than anything he’s ever wanted in all his life.
To see them all safe…
He has never wanted to be responsible for their fates. He accepts their company, yes, and his heart is heavy with the burden and light with the relief all at once. And all the while he tells himself that he has no choice, that they would follow and perhaps they would. But perhaps they would not be following him.
And now he understands that to carry this Burden is to carry many, the fates of those he loves most not the least of them. And he cannot fool himself that the very fate of the world does not rest on his trembling shoulders. A poor choice the Wise have made in their ‘saviour’ but they had chosen nonetheless and he wants to rail and scream against the fate that has placed him, in his limited courage and wisdom, on this path surely meant for one strong and sure of purpose.
And for a moment, he grips the Ring in his fist, pulls Its chain taut against his nape, the links straining against his hold. One firm tug and he can wrench it from his breast and just… drop it. Walk away.
Go home.
He can already see Merry’s smile, broad and bright, when Frodo tells him he’s done with danger and ready to head back. He can hear Pippin’s sigh of relief, can see Sam’s nod of approval. The others won’t blame him – how can they? It’s heavy, far too heavy for one small hobbit, and no one in the world will blame him for admitting what they all already know anyway.
Except…
Except there would be blame and it will, every bit of it, belong squarely on his shoulders.
Except he hates It and wants to see It die. It has taken, It takes still and still It wants more and he could not bear to watch It take from another what It has already taken from him.
Except all the world now hangs upon the slender chain about his neck and one slip of his fingers...
Except he’d made a promise – not only to the Council, but to Gandalf and to himself.
No one knows better than he what It can do. Perhaps he doesn’t know all of Its tricks and deceptions and perhaps he’s been duped by It more than he’d ever imagined. But not so much so that he doesn’t know Its heart, that he doesn’t already hear It chuckling against his sweated palm, that he doesn’t already feel Its smile in his heart. For reasons he cannot fathom, he knows It fears him, that It wants him to walk away…
And if not him… who, then? If he puts another in his place, what will that make of him? He has already blackened his own soul by handing pieces of it over when It might make to reach for another – he would not sell one he loves for his own grasp at freedom.
And he’d promised.
No.
Your time runs short, Ring-bearer. I will not offer again.
Stop, I beg you. You do not know how you tempt me. I… Please, I cannot.
Silence, alive and watchful and Frodo can feel himself weighed, judged. Then:
Ah, it is well, then. The will of the Ring-bearer is formidable and a good match. You have been chosen wisely.
Match… I don’t understand. Then… You have been false? You sought to trick me?
I sought to test you.
Then what you have shown me…
I have shown you only what may come to pass, if you deem others more knowledgeable of your path than yourself – what may happen should you doubt your heart, abandon your cause. You must make your own choices now.
Yet you give me none! Every choice is ill. If I go on without them, I will fail. If I let them come, they are doomed and I will fail. If I refuse my Task, we are all doomed and I have already failed. What would you have me do?!
I would have you do what you know you must and only what you can.
Some would bare their necks to the sword for you, Ring-bearer. One – perhaps more than one – would wield that sword. Is that the fate you will hand them?
But they will not be left! They will not be sent away! Tell me what I must do!
Ah, but you know.
Silence, so profound his ears pop. Frodo closes his eyes, balls his hands into fists.
But I don't know, I don't! There has to be another way!
Only the silence and his head buzzes dull with the weight of it. Frodo's teeth clench and the swift thump of his heart vibrates down his backbone.
He is angry, frightened… defiant. Made for this, meant for it – what is it all to him? He is in it now, with no clear end and the only way out is through. They can play their games, move him about like a pawn on a chessboard. But even one small pawn can make his stand and bring down a mighty king.
Yet, he will not make pawns of the others. Perhaps he already has and for what he’s already taken from them, he imagines there can be no real absolution. But he will not allow it to go further. He has drawn his lines in the dirt before and they have crossed them… and he has let them. But this stand he must see through.
There were no lies in her, as much as he would like to see them. She spoke truly and what she had shown him…
And all he has to do to make it untrue is to lay down his task.
To lay down the Ring and watch the world fall, or to send his friends to the slaughter – that is no choice and he refuses to make it. There must be another way and he will find it.
He cannot lay down his task, nor can he allow the things he saw come to pass. To continue on is to watch those visions burn themselves into life but to not go on is to surrender the world. Unless…
He must make his own choices, had she said? There are no choices, not anymore.
I will find another way. It is the only choice left to me.
* * *
Frodo sat awake long after the others had fallen to their couches and hurled themselves into sleep. He propped his back to the cool stone of the fountain just outside the pavilion, watched the dawn scrape slowly over the tips of the great mallorns. The stars were hidden beneath its burgeoning light but he knew they were there, mocking him – presenting him with their changing notes and laughing as he twisted and turned, tried to keep up with the dance.
None of the others had been willing to say what she had whispered to their hearts but Frodo had watched them all carefully as they’d slipped and swayed their way through the debate. Merry had been unable to meet his eyes and Frodo wondered if he knew Merry’s heart well enough to guess at what she’d teased him with. Boromir, though…
She held you long in her gaze, Ring-bearer.
And Boromir had held Frodo long in his, so long that it had been all Frodo could do not to snarl at him, strike him until those eyes released him from the stare that skittered cloying over his skin. For Frodo had seen the hot, eager light that shone beneath that cool regard. And he had recognised it all too well.
Ring and Bearer are one and the wanting of one is the wanting of the other.
What would Boromir do, if Frodo dipped his eyes, turned his gaze smoky and allowed the man to follow him into some secluded dell… kissed him? Would he be satisfied with the Bearer, fooled for a little while into believing he’d got exactly what he’d wanted? Or would he know he’d been tricked, seduced by the lesser of his desires, and demand the greater?
And what would that make of Frodo himself, should he offer such a distraction? Or had he been doing that since the night he’d found Bilbo’s Ring upon the mantel?
Was he Its keeper or Its whore?
Frodo clenched his jaw, turned, peered into the dark of the pavilion and looked at Merry, his face soft in blessed sleep. Merry had left a place for him, his body held to one side of the couch – a clear invitation to Frodo and one he’d left open and waiting time and again, though Frodo never accepted it now, not since Caradhras. It was then that he had begun to see what the Lady of the Wood tonight had forced him to acknowledge: that it was entirely possible that any attraction to him was nothing more than an answer to Its sibilant call; that It had been reaching for the others, even before he’d known Its voice, before he’d learned to stopper it, sate it with low, whispering promises of his own.
Crebain that angled their courses to skim overhead, snowstorms that came out of nowhere and warbled in fell voices, Wolves that dared to challenge a wizard, the Watcher…
Frodo knew even before they’d entered Moria that they would not escape without notice and he didn’t need any cryptic warnings from Aragorn to tell him so. Pippin’s stone had merely hastened the destiny that waited for them all – for Gandalf – but had not caused it, any more than Boromir’s had. No, that fell to the Ring and that which but waited within the darkling deeps of the long-dead city to hear Its call.
And Frodo had to wonder who else had been listening, who else had heard Its call hummed soft in their ears, even before they’d known It existed at all. Who else had been tainted and tricked by It through soft kisses and whispers warm against bare skin?
Did his friends love him, as he’d always simply taken for granted? Or were they all part of Its plan?
The thought that they might have been used – that he had been using them – made him feel sick and revolted.
Was the look in Boromir’s eye only a few hours ago so very different from the one he’d seen kindle in Merry’s so many times before?
He curled his hands into fists, bile thick in his throat.
“What have I done?”
Frodo closed his eyes, clenched his teeth and choked back the tears that built hard and hot. Tears were for one who had a heart, for one who had not sold the hearts of those he loved for the touch of gold against his skin. It may have been unwitting for years but he’d known for weeks now and still he’d let it go on. Only a few days out of Rivendell and he’d known. He could have sent them back then, he could have explained it all to Gandalf and demanded they be sent back, but he hadn’t allowed himself to listen, hadn’t allowed himself to admit it. Yet again, he had allowed his heart to hear only what it could bear.
There was no turning back now, no unhearing the lies, no unlearning the truths. He knew what he was, what he’d become, and he knew what he’d done.
And he refused to allow it any longer.
Surrender his friends or surrender the world? He would do neither. She had demanded that he make his choice and he knew now that he had been making it since that first glimmer of Truth had begun to brighten behind his eyes. Every time he refused Sam’s offers of some small comfort, every time he turned his face away from Pippin’s desperate jests, every time he pulled away from Merry’s touch, watched the hurt and bewilderment grow in his eyes…
Every time he left that gaping space open and cold at Merry’s side, Frodo made his choice, hardened his heart and…
Drew away.
This time, they would not see ‘goodbye’ in his eyes and make their plans to stop him. This time, they would not see until it was too late. This time…
This time, he would love them in the only way left to him.
And he would do it alone.
* * *
PART TWO
* * *
He woke slowly and knew at once that he was not alone. Warmth radiated at his side, close to his arm but not quite touching.
Merry.
Frodo could feel him and almost he reached out, let the chill of his hand accept some of that heat, that familiar comfort. But he dared not. One misstep, one small surrender to want and it would be all too easy to just let himself fall.
Frodo kept his eyes closed, kept himself still. It was an old dance and one they’d engaged in time and again: days and weeks they’d let the storm between them brew then Merry would make his approach, force a confrontation and then the clash, the understanding and finally… the rekindling.
Oh, and save him, but he wanted it, though he couldn’t be sure which he wanted most. The clash, with its fire and rush of passions; the understanding with its familiarity and safe comfort; or… Frodo's chest felt tight and he ached and it hurt but what was love, if one did not have to rend away pieces of oneself to make it real and why shouldn't that hurt? He had already muddied it, had allowed it to be tainted – perhaps this would be his only chance to dress it in the beauty it once owned. Perhaps the only way to bring back its light was to turn from it.
“You’re awake.”
Not a question and no sense in pretending now. Frodo opened his eyes, turned them to Merry then glanced quickly away. Couldn't look at him, too bright and beautiful, and Frodo almost couldn't bear it. So often he found his hand drifting to his breastbone, but now it wanted to reach out, touch the Sun; instead he slid his hand up, kneaded at his shoulder.
“Did you sleep sitting up all night?”
Frodo rotated his arm, rolled his neck on his shoulders. “The fountain, it…” He shrugged. “I like the sound of the water.” Stared at the weave of his trousers.
Merry nodded, peered up at the sky. He was quiet for a moment, waiting, then, “Do you suppose they’ll bring us something to eat, or will we have to forage?”
Small-talk, breaking the ice, and how many times had they woven around each other in this particular little dance? “I don’t know,” Frodo said and that was all.
“Not anything like Rivendell, eh?”
Frodo said nothing, only stared into the wood about the clearing. Merry sighed, waited. When Frodo only continued his silence, Merry turned to him, seemingly intent on forcing conversation.
“How are your ribs?”
Frodo was not about to be forced. He didn’t answer, just shrugged again.
Merry frowned, tilted his head. He opened his mouth to speak, closed it again.
Silence and Frodo’s throat closed beneath the weight of it. The air about them seemed thick with tension, a gathering storm, and the world seemed to wait for it. Birdsong was distant and muffled, as though he heard it through layers of thick cotton, and Frodo’s head felt stuffed with it.
His blood pumped slow through his veins and he heard every swish and thump as it sluiced from his heart to his brain, gathered behind his eyes, pooled there and burned. And all the while, Merry just sat there, calmly waited, looking at Frodo with those eyes that saw too much, waiting for him to speak and trip himself into truths Frodo couldn't let loose and it didn't matter what either of them wanted, not anymore.
Pushpushpush away; he'll hurt and he won't understand, but isn't it better than the not-choice you've been given? You know what you have to do here.
The silence was getting more than uncomfortable – it was nigh painful.
Frodo stood. He stretched, straightened his rumpled coat then, without another word, turned and headed into the woods.
A slight hesitation then, “Where are you going?”
Another way, and... I'm sorry.
Frodo clamped his teeth over the urge to stop, turn to Merry, take up that space so empty and beckoning at his side. Instead, he sped his pace, walking fast, nearly running, and treading blindly between the trees, ducking low branches.
Just let me go, let me go, please, I won't be able to walk away if you won't let me go!
He was running away, always running from something, only this time, he had no doubt as to his own motives. He was doing this for Merry, not to him and, though Merry would not understand, Frodo wasn’t sure he’d ever had a task so right and so imperative in his life. For the first time ever, Frodo knew exactly what he was doing, why he was doing it and that he did it all with absolutely no thought for himself. It was probably the only completely unselfish thing he’d ever done in his life.
“Frodo, wait!”
Frodo could hear Merry crashing through the undergrowth behind him. He picked up his pace yet again, notched it to a full-out run. Merry followed and he was close, his youth and strength edging the distance, and Frodo ran faster still, poured his reserves into the flex and pull of the straining muscles in his legs, sucked in breath and blew it out slowly, rhythmically.
He didn’t even know why he was running, really. What good would it do, in the end? Sooner or later, he would have to face Merry, would have to listen while Merry asked him why he was doing this, why was he shutting Merry out and what was he to say? How was he to explain?
I'm sorry but if I have to leave you yet again, I can't bear to look at you, and you won't let me turn away. Can't let you look, can't let you see, can't let you know...
Nothing, there was nothing to say and these wounds would sting Merry, cut him deep, Frodo wouldn’t lie to himself about that. But far better this than…
He poured it on, pumped his arms, felt the thick muscles of his thighs burn and protest, felt his calves tighten then ease with each smooth stroke of a leg through the slight resistance of cool, moist air, each lift and drop of a knee and each soft thump of foot to ground. He sank into the rhythm of it all, let his mind hover within the eternity between the touch of a heel to soft loam and the lift of the toes in completion and renewal of the cycle.
And for a moment, only for the smallest of moments, he was… free. Nothing in the world existed but himself and the ground beneath his feet, the wind tugging at his hair. The earth welcomed his every step, sprang beneath his feet and lifted him then drew him back. There was no Ring, an old friend had not just fallen in the depths of a Dwarvish tomb and Frodo was not now running away from the only person to whom he could once run when he chose. There was only hot blood pumping through straining muscle, one breath after another dragging in and out of clear lungs, the soft tremor from his feet to his ears with each new step he took. Sweat plastered his shirt to his back, to his chest, and without thought, Frodo peeled off his coat and flung it away. He dipped his head, brought his arms close to his ribs, shoulders swaying and lifting as his whole body gave itself over to the primal rhythm of sweat and breath and the shift of muscle over bone. He lived and died in the space between one breath and the next.
If he held out his arms, he just might fly.
A broad hand at his shoulder, a strong arm about his waist and then he was pitching forward as his feet left the ground and he was spun in mid-air. Silence, complete and absolute for the eternity of a second, and then there was a deafening whoosh of air and he came down hard, his back slamming into Merry’s chest.
All Frodo could hear was his own breath, wheezing in and out of his lungs, his blood pumping fast and furious behind his eyes. Merry gasping into Frodo’s nape. They lay there for long moments, gulping air, Frodo sprawled over Merry’s chest, Merry’s arm firm about Frodo’s waist, pinning him.
“What,” Merry forced out between swallows of air, “was that all about?”
Frodo jolted, twisted but Merry held tight. “Let me go,” Frodo said evenly.
“No. Not until you--”
Frodo bucked, heaved himself up and to the side. Merry went with him and now Frodo was face-down on the floor of the wood, Merry holding him down with every inch of that long, heavy body. Frodo lifted himself to his elbows, bucked again and tried to scramble out from under that solid weight but Merry shifted, pulled his arms back and pinned his wrists to the small of his back.
Frodo growled, twisted. “Leave off!”
“I won’t!” Merry panted. “You have to talk to me, Frodo, I can’t…” A pause, a small choked sound then, “Please!”
There was pain in that voice. Frodo closed his eyes and all the fight went out of him. He rested his head to the ground, heaved in a shaky breath.
“All right,” he mumbled to the dirt. “Let me up and--”
“I’ll let you up when you’ve told me what the bloody blue blazes is going on and not before!”
“Merry,” Frodo said calmly, softly, “my ribs.”
A short pause then, “Oh…” and then a frustrated growl and, “Well, bugger!” and Merry rolled off of him.
Frodo lay still for a moment before he turned himself over to his back, took a great, deep breath. He might have known running would get him nowhere... metaphorically speaking. And anyway, he hadn't realised exactly how fast Merry could run; any time Merry had chased him before, Frodo had wanted to be caught.
A smile, small and a little sad, and he peered up at the sun, high overhead for a moment then he turned his head, looked at Merry. Merry was a mess: his hair was by turns sticking out wildly in a crown of corkscrews and plastered to his brow and cheeks; his waistcoat was hiked up about his ribs and there were grass-stains on the elbows of his beige linen shirt – probably on his knees as well. Far from the perfection Merry never seemed to really try for but always managed to achieve somehow and Frodo's smile returned with the thought of what Merry would do if presented with a mirror right now. Frodo supposed Merry’s coat had gone the same way as his own then somehow that thought warped into idle speculation as to whether or not Elves were any good at removing grass-stains.
And then he couldn’t help himself. Frodo snorted.
Merry levelled a narrow glare at him and Frodo tried to keep it in, he really did. No good – one look at Merry’s red face and fierce glower and Frodo had to laugh. He supposed he was giddy; there was really no other way to explain it. Then the corner of Merry’s mouth lifted in an unwilling smirk and Frodo was undone. He lay on the ground and cackled like a maniac and Merry soon enough joined him.
It was only for lack of breath that they eventually simmered to the occasional snicker and then Merry inspected his elbows, lamented, “Sam’s going to kill me,” and Frodo was off again. His ribs began to ache horribly but he didn’t care. Too many things flying about his heart and head in too few hours and this… this was the only one of them that felt good.
His laughter dwindled to chuckles eventually and finally tapered off. Frodo just smiled at the sky and lay quietly, knowing Merry was right beside him, studying him and working himself up to Talk. He let himself wait, kept himself still and when Merry reached over, pushed the damp fringe out of Frodo’s eyes, Frodo took a breath and finally let himself look back.
Storm-grey and liquid, those eyes, and Frodo thought he’d never tire of staring into them. Merry stroked his cheek, leaned in close.
“How many times must you push me away before you realise I won’t go?”
Frodo’s smile hung for but another moment before it withered and died. How was he to answer that?
I know you won’t, love. And so I must find a way to break you in two and take that choice away from you. It’s the how of it that I can’t figure yet and it’s already cutting me so deep that I can hardly bear to look at you… and yet I can’t bear not to.
When Merry leaned further, hovered his mouth over Frodo’s, Frodo willed his hand to move, place itself firmly at Merry’s chest and stop him before it was too late. But Merry’s breath was sweet and warm on his lips and the storm of his eyes swirled, swelled around Frodo and filled him, surged sudden and liquid beneath his breastbone.
Merry’s mouth was sweet-soft and tender and his tongue swept slow across Frodo’s bottom lip, slipped smooth and insistent into Frodo’s mouth. Frodo stoppered all thought, only flung himself wide, let Merry sink deep, and he dipped his fingers into Merry’s sweated curls, twined them and turned them and pulled Merry in further with hard fingers against his skull.
The imperative came at him like a blow to the belly, made his heart thump quick and heavy and his ears buzz. Heat fizzed up from his thighs, spread through his chest, took him so fast he hadn't the time or the strength to stop himself from grasping for it.
He needed this. He needed Merry.
He crooked a leg around Merry’s, pulled him firm against himself, then surged up, pressed close. Frodo smoothed a hand down Merry’s back, groaned, rocked his hips and Merry ground against him slow and thorough, ran his fingertips down Frodo’s arm.
Frodo was dancing the edge, hovering too close, and the chasm yawned wide and deep, slipped down into forever, and he was skittering at the verge, losing his grip. Shame took him, spiked sharp behind his eyes and made them hot with tears he would not, could not let slip. For all of the self-reproach, all of the truths and lies he’d only so recently learned, somehow Merry’s mouth on his seemed so much more important. Reason meant nothing and he absolutely could not care about whether this – this – was meant for him or another, only that he had it and he wanted it and there was no morality where his heart now dwelt.
Oh, Merry-love, you push me and I fall and I don't think I can save either one of us, I never could. I can’t even be sure now that it’s me you really want and right now… I don’t care. I want this, I want you and for just one moment, I will believe that you want me back.
And then…
I’m so sorry but this time I really will let you go.
And Frodo, in the space between one desperate breath and the next, managed to convince himself that perhaps forever wasn’t really so far of a drop.
He closed his eyes, let himself fall.
Oh, and it was lovely, lovely, and Frodo let familiar sensation take him, fill him, turn his bones to butter. Merry’s hands were broad and possessive and for right now, Frodo wanted to be possessed and not by the Thing that took every small piece of himself he handed It and capered and cackled over it as another small victory. The things Merry wanted Frodo was only too willing to give and he begged with his body for Merry to take it, take it all and take it now and hold it safe, hold him safe for just a little while.
Know me. Remember me because I can hardly remember myself anymore and all too soon, what lives in your heart may be all that’s left of me and…
And I'm bloody terrified.
Frodo surged his hips upward, clawed at Merry’s back, held on and plunged himself deep into bright-gold flame. Merry growled low, pushed down hard and those hands, so large and familiar and warm, worked their way up Frodo’s ribs, over his breastbone and began popping buttons.
Frodo had to breathe, had to wrench his mouth away from that slick flame. Merry turned his mouth to Frodo’s throat and Frodo moaned as Merry’s teeth nipped below his ear and Merry’s fingertips skated up and under--
Mineminemineminemine...
Frodo’s eyes flew wide and he jolted, flinched, took hold of Merry’s wrist with claw-like fingers. “Don’t!” he wheezed but the only sound that emerged from his throat was a breathless croak.
Merry chuckled a little and he twisted his hand, took Frodo’s wrists and held them to the ground with one hand while the other worked at Frodo’s shirt. A thick red haze fell over Frodo’s vision and he bucked, snarled and twisted.
“Stop it, Merry! Stop!”
Merry’s head came up and the smoky little grin on his face fell a notch. He peered down at Frodo and Frodo didn’t know what Merry saw looking back at him but it got rid of his smile.
“What?” Merry asked. “What’s wrong?”
Frodo was juddering, his body suddenly wracked with low tremors, and he swallowed, said very carefully, “Get off. Now.”
Merry frowned in concern but didn't move. One hand still held Frodo pinned while the other rested at his breastbone.
“But--”
“Get off!”
And Merry jolted up and off, sat back and stared in open-mouthed astonishment. Frodo sat, clutched at his shirt, pulled it closed then shuddered, choked back a horrified sob. He closed his eyes, took a deep, long breath and let it out slowly.
“Your ribs!”
Frodo opened his eyes to see Merry shaking his head, both relief and a little bit of shame flitting swift across his features. Merry’s mouth was moving but Frodo could barely hear what he said, his mind filled with buzzing laughter and stark, red fury.
putitonputitonputitonputiton…
“I hadn’t realised,” Merry went on. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realise it was hurting you so. How bad is it?” Merry leaned forward, reached again towards Frodo’s chest. “Let me--”
“No!” Frodo snarled, scuttled back and Merry snatched his hand away as though he’d been burnt.
“I just wanted to see…”
Merry looked bewildered, too close to hurt. Frodo tottered between shame and rage. What was wrong with him? What had possessed him so?
“Frodo,” Merry said slowly and now his face held a touch of suspicion, “what is it? Why don’t you want me to see?”
Frodo shook his head, took in a shaky breath. “It… I’m fine.” And he clutched his shirt tighter, pulled his eyes away from Merry’s and clenched his chattering teeth.
“You’re not fine. I thought Strider took care of it. Is it worse?”
“No.”
“Then why won’t you let me see?”
Merry reached towards him yet again, made a grab for Frodo’s arm. Frodo flung Merry’s hand away, cocked his arm back, closed his hand into a fist and bared his teeth.
“Leave off!” he shrieked, high and desperate. “You can’t have--”
Merry reared back, held his hands up, palms-out, and stared at Frodo with shock and sudden fear, as though he were being confronted with a beloved family pet just turned rabid. Frodo could only stare back, horrified. Even as he’d heard his own voice screeching the words, he’d known that Merry’s intentions had not been to take It – it had probably never even crossed his mind and all he’d wanted was to make sure Frodo was all right. Yet still, his body seemed to move all of its own, lash out, and his tongue turned fierce and cruel. Frodo looked at his shaking fist, closed his eyes tight and hugged both arms around his chest.
Oh, please, just let me go, too late, it's all too late, please, just let me go!
“Can’t have?” Merry whispered harshly. “You thought I wanted--”
“No.” Frodo shook his head, swallowed against the acid in his throat and hugged himself tighter. “No, I… Merry, please--”
“You would even think--” He stopped and Frodo could feel his rage, even from where he sat. “What is that thing doing to you?”
It's eating me alive, love, even here, and now I think I have to let it.
Frodo kept his eyes shut tight, pulled his knees up and dropped his head to rest atop them. He rocked, his arms still held firm about himself, his entire body shaking and his hands clenched into fists.
“Frodo, look at me.”
Merry’s voice was softer, full of concern but still he dared not touch. Frodo shook his head.
“Just go, Merry,” he whispered. “Please, I can’t… not now, please.”
Don't make me hurt you, don't make me watch myself gut you.
“You want me to just walk away and--”
“Just leave me alone!” Frodo screamed. “You can’t help me and I can’t bear to have you near, so just go, just GO!”
Silence, dull and leaden, and Frodo almost welcomed the suffocating weight of it; and then the rustle of leaves as Merry stood. “I can’t leave you here like this,” he said quietly. “Wait here, I’ll...” A weighted pause. “I’ll send Sam.”
He stood for a moment, perhaps waiting to see if Frodo would protest and when he didn’t, Merry turned, walked slowly away. Frodo squeezed his eyes tighter until spangles of light flickered behind them.
Will you turn your face from Truth now?
Oh, but this truth was ugly and hateful. This truth spoke of darkness and cruelty and all of it a part of him, within him. It was his fist that had come so close to meting out unjust punishment for nothing, nothing! – his voice that had snarled and seethed and spat out vitriol.
Ring and Bearer are one…
It was done. He knew what he had to do and only had to wait for the chance to do it. He’d gone and slipped down into forever and there was nothing to do now but ride the descent, fold himself in and hold on to as much of himself as he could hide from the hand that grasped at even those things he'd thought to keep safe from Its greedy reach.
Perhaps Merry had not reached for It, but It had reached for Merry and Its hand was strong and sure on Frodo’s own. There was too much at stake now and his way was set.
His choice was made.
Frodo held tight to himself, rocked and waited for Sam.
* * *
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