|
Counterpoint, Movement II
Prelude: a short piece originally preceded by a more substantial work. An introductory performance, event, or action preceding a more important one; a preliminary or preface.
* * *
It was something in the air, Merry decided. Some shift in the breeze, some ripple of scent that stirred the tiny hairs at his nape, made him narrow his eyes and tilt his head, listen for words not spoken. He watched the time, now, saw it whisk by in front of his eyes as scarlet leaves on an autumn wind; a thing itself alive and aware, each second rocketing by while he himself could do nothing but stand still and watch it. It made him feel helpless -- Time’s orphan, weeping at the stumbling last step of a season passed, a life spent and done. Renewal, rebirth, yet his heart felt the end yet to come, mourned it already, though that cautious heart had yet to admit the loss was imminent. Instead, it clung to the old, as thawed earth to the pale brown husks of last autumn’s leaves with the turn of the spade in Spring.
It felt of September, though April had only just opened its arms to the Sun, only just forsaken the crystalline-cold of Winter for the brown-green promise of Spring’s warm breath prickling at the skin of the earth. Drops, held suspended in their frozen trap for long months, now caught hold of the Sun’s golden promise, trickled free, found their way to paths winding breathless and chuckling through sleep-sated moss, reawakened by the new season’s first gentle kiss. And even with the scent of green, mellow and soft in his nose, it still felt of Autumn. It still felt of goodbye.
Merry frowned in a half-dream, reached out his hand, met by what he both feared and expected: an empty space where warmth still clung as a ghost to the soft-napped wool beneath his touch. It seemed to Merry that he’d been holding his breath against it for half his life, warding off goodbye with only love and his own fears as allies. Both had served him well, thus far, both had kept his mind sharp and his heart ever-watchful. Though some part of him knew neither could stop it from coming forever.
He opened his eyes, blinked slowly at the silk-soft light sluicing muted silver over the empty half of the bedroll at his side. And Merry thought about reaching out his hand, closing his fist around that light, watching as it curled about his fingers, bled over his palm then spilled soundless and soulless from his fingertips -- untouched, unchanged but for the shadow his hand would cast. Instead, he placed his hand flat to the blanket, soaked up the warmth that lingered between its soft threads then lifted his eyes, fixed them on Frodo.
Only less than ten paces away, though it might as well have been ten leagues. Frodo was miles away, his eyes set on distant dreams, sparking bright and sad, holding to promises Merry would never hear spoken soft in his ear. He couldn’t be sure if he was grateful for that.
Frodo stood tall, looked out from the ridge that edged their small campsite, watched smoke curl from within the hills that rolled soft and sleepy below, limned faintest gold-white with the misted breath of Moon and stars. Hobbits slumbered beneath; creatures of the earth warm in their quilts while early-Spring fires crackled away the chill last touch of a season past.
And Frodo watched, familiar with such beloved comforts but never really of them, never really at their heart. Always on the edge of the circle of comfort, never daring to step completely within, never quite sure that he belonged. Merry could sometimes see the longing within, the wish for simpler dreams, the fierce desire to close that circle and forget higher joys, unlearn secret hopes and cravings. And Merry sometimes prayed that lesser desire would grow, engulf the light within that commanded his cousin to turn his face ever towards the Road and away from the steps his earthbound feet left as ghost-tracks; remembrance of a life not yet lived.
He was beautiful in the moonlight, a gentle, warm breeze stirring starfire against his skin. Beautiful by daylight, as well, with the Sun dipping down to gild his cheeks, leave her kiss of pale blooded-rose, the radiance of her blessing warming black to soft russet and weaving through glimmers of gold more fair than any dragon’s hoard.
But the night was his disciple and he was its, one following the other, dancing slow, sensuous steps to the music one sang to the other’s heart, the moon and stars their choir. Neither was quite as beautiful without the other, neither was complete without the other. Stars and Moon awaited them both, heralded their coming with fire to kindle them and muted mist to cool them, watched them turn to the steps their song compelled.
And Merry was helpless to do anything but watch that dance with cold breath held tight in his chest. Frodo was of the earth, wrapped firm in the embrace of his country, holding it close to his breast with eyes tight shut. But he was Night’s child, the orphaned wanderer, weaned on its tender canticle; it beckoned him and its call sang sweet harmony to that of the Road. And Merry, in the very depths of his heart, in a small, secret chamber that he would not even admit to himself existed, understood that one day the pull of the two combined would be more than Frodo could withstand… more than he’d want to.
Then the world would feel ever of September and Merry would taste goodbye on his tongue, bitter-soft and aching-sweet, always and forever.
Merry did not allow these thoughts to take shape, did not permit his heart to hear them. He only knew that he felt all at once alone, felt a vague itch at his fingertips and only the touch of Frodo’s skin beneath them would soothe the unease that crept gentle up his spine.
He pushed back the blanket, stood and stretched, never releasing Frodo from the watchful gaze he didn’t even know he’d been caught up in. Merry held to it like a thing alive, the only weapon he had against the night that sang its soft promises to the child it held enthralled. And Merry decided that there were promises of his own to keep, claims of his own to stake… and feet to hold to the earth.
He stepped forward and began the turns of the only dance his heart knew.
“You’re in another world, Frodo. What are you thinking about?”
Frodo smiled, pulled his wandering gaze from the sleepy, moonlit valley and turned it to Merry. He leaned into the great oak at his back, his movements graceful and languid, a song all of their own, to Merry’s eye. Frodo shrugged.
“Nothing, really. Just… looking.” Eyes made of starlight drifted back to the view spread wide below their small campsite. “I thought you were sleeping.”
“I was.” Merry moved in close, propped himself by Frodo’s side and rested his head to his cousin’s shoulder. “I missed you.”
Frodo laughed, low and silken as a lullaby. “You haven’t had time to miss me; I’ve not been up five minutes.”
But even now, you’re…
Merry’s heart tried to make him hear, make him listen but he closed his ears. He chewed his lip, shrugged and was silent.
Not yet. I won’t know, I won’t hear, not yet.
“It’s lovely, isn’t it?” Frodo asked and Merry only closed his eyes, nodded. “I doubt there’s anyplace in the entirety of Middle-earth that’s as beautiful as our home, Merry.” Frodo’s voice was dulcet, subdued. “I wonder that so many seem not to appreciate it as they should.”
Merry lifted his eyes, peered at Frodo closely, assessing. There was something beneath it all, something right in front of him and he knew he’d understand all of it, if he but opened his eyes to it, listened to those whispers knocking against his breastbone. But Merry didn’t want to know -- not yet, not yet, just a little more time, I won’t know, not yet -- and so he warded off the truth for just a little bit longer.
“Oh, I don’t know,” he offered. “I’m not sure you can blame people for taking things for granted at times. It’s a natural thing, I think.”
“I wasn’t talking about people, actually.”
Frodo’s gaze had flickered distant, turned within himself, and it seemed to Merry that what he saw there made him sad, pulled him a little farther away. And Merry couldn’t have that, so he sucked in a slow breath, smirked a little.
“No? Cattle, then? Sheep?”
Frodo chuckled and shook his head. “I was talking about myself, you nit.” He reached over, grabbed Merry by his forelock and kissed his mouth before shaking his head and shoving his cousin away.
Merry laughed, allowed himself a touch of relief and smoothed a hand through his hair before resuming his repose against the tree. He studied Frodo carefully.
Only now, when he had little choice, would Merry admit that Frodo had been withdrawn of late, more quiet than was his wont and too slow to smile. Frodo was restless, reticent and Merry was finding it increasingly difficult to keep up with his changing moods, ignore what the changes might mean. He was pushed away and held close and somehow all of it at the same time. Frodo had been managing to keep him off-balance for days; he never knew what to expect from one moment to the next, only that melancholy had suddenly become all too familiar – both in Frodo’s eyes and in Merry’s own heart. And yet…
Yet Frodo had been near-wild just lately in the passion he unleashed upon Merry at every opportunity and, though unease flitted over his skin all too often, Merry was only too happy to be on the receiving-end. Frodo had always been an attentive lover, but moreso over the past two weeks and more eager than he'd been since they’d been tweens; a great deal of their time lately had been spent in desperate clinches upon whatever surface – horizontal or vertical, they weren’t terribly picky – happened to be handy. Merry hadn't been so well-shagged in years.
And Merry really shouldn’t have been surprised that desire had yet to dampen but even that seemed vaguely unsettling. He had aches in places he’d not known could ache, yet the craving never sated for frequent satisfaction. One smoky gaze, one quick curl of a lip and Merry was a whimpering puddle of lust in Frodo’s all too talented hands and happy beyond reason to be so.
So, why then was he finding himself so uneasy? Why did he find himself feeling a child, deliberately distracted by a shiny bauble?
Frodo had always been a little on the odd side – that oddness something Merry treasured beyond price. But this… moodiness, this constant claiming and subsequent relinquishing… It gave Merry a deep sense of foreboding, turned his thoughts reluctantly to ‘Mad Baggins’ and there was a path Merry was loathe to tread.
It feels of September.
It was a whisper through his soul and Merry frowned at the nonsensical familiarity of it, at the anger that twisted within him at the presence of the thought… as though he’d let down his guard and allowed a slow-growing fissure in the foundation of his very Self. Light seeped through the cracks and Merry didn’t want to see, didn’t want to know, didn’t want to admit…
Any of it.
It felt of September, it felt of goodbye and it was already too late; he had been seeing the signs for weeks, though he’d dared not allow himself to admit it; signs he’d been watching for, guarding against since…
A glint of gold, a quick sleight-of-hand and a sly little smile quirks with mischief beneath bushy brows of silvered steel. A blinding flash and Merry’s eyes are seared, near-blinded and for a wild, terrifying moment, Bilbo’s face changes, becomes…
It was not Bilbo whom Merry had watched disappear that day and, though it was a trick of the eye, a cruel joke of the heart, he’d been mourning that loss keenly ever since, been telling himself that, if he only worked hard enough, remained vigilant, it was a loss he’d never really have to endure.
Merry found himself eyeing the chain that looped from button to pocket on Frodo’s waistcoat far too often and was only too glad at the moment that Frodo had left the waistcoat and what it held on the ground beside the bedroll when he’d got up. Merry felt it almost as a looming physical presence these past weeks, since Frodo had begun acting oddly and reminding Merry all too vividly of his eccentric heritage. And legacy.
It sharpened Merry’s focus, made him suddenly wonder about things he’d been desperately trying to push away ‘til now. Made him wonder if perhaps Frodo’s heart had finally followed his star-touched gaze and turned to the Road, as Bilbo’s had before him… made him hope that Frodo might be looking for reasons to stay. For, if that was so, Merry intended to throw down the challenge to Moon and stars and Road and be at least one of those reasons.
He reached over, brushed Frodo’s hair from his collar before leaning in and dipping his mouth where his fingers had been. Frodo murmured something soft and unintelligible and tilted his head.
“You don’t appreciate your home, Frodo?”
“Mmm, I do,” was the distracted reply and, as Merry knew it would, Frodo’s arm came ‘round Merry’s waist, pulled him in close, fingers moving restless against Merry’s ribs. “I just… I don’t think I did enough and now…”
Merry pressed in tight, moulded Frodo’s back to the tree and himself to Frodo’s front. A slender line of slow-burning fire, kindling him from shoulder to knee, and Merry sank deep into Frodo’s mouth, swirled his tongue before pulling back and pressing moist lips to Frodo’s temple. All of their own, his hips began a smooth rhythm and slow heat moved liquid through his bones.
“Now…?”
“Nothing,” Frodo breathed, moved his hands to the small of Merry’s back, surged deliberate and fluid against him. “It isn’t important now.”
And Merry let it go at that because there were things that were important right now and one of them was this body grinding up against him slow, shoving a thigh tight between his legs. Merry pushed everything else away, narrowed his awareness to only warm breath against his throat and the faint, lingering scent of Autumn on Frodo’s skin. He groaned, grabbed a fistful of hair and dragged Frodo’s mouth to his own.
Pears from their late supper and a tiny taste of mead and Merry plunged his tongue deep, pulled a moan from Frodo’s throat and swallowed it. Frodo’s mouth was sweet-salt beneath his own and Merry took careful note of every twitch and shiver he pulled forth with hands firm and knowing, sliding over the curve of a hip, the cool dip from nape to shoulder. Frodo moved slow, pressed and pushed with hard heat that matched Merry’s own and the sudden wash of fire that shot through Merry caused serious doubt as to whether this was going to take as long as he’d wish.
Slow, he’d wanted slow and time to take each taste, each scent, each sound and slip them deep into his skin, memorise them, wear them as a talisman around his heart. But Time was no longer a friend and Merry could no longer trust it – never could, never did and he took hold of here and now with both hands, let the race of his heart set the pace.
And Merry wasn’t the only one suddenly in a hurry; Frodo was already at Merry’s buttons, fingers quick and sure against his chest, and Merry found himself thanking the stars they’d both got rid of the braces when they’d lain down to sleep only an hour or so before. A small groan rumbled up from his chest and he sank deeper into Frodo’s mouth, began a thorough exploration, and his hands took hold of Frodo’s hips, gathered the fabric of his trousers in a firm grip and wrenched them down.
Frodo gasped, dragged his mouth from Merry’s and his head dropped back to rest against the trunk of the tree. His throat was bared, curved pale and smooth, cool silver-blue in the moonlight, and Merry bent to put his lips to the pulse that tripped rapid where Frodo's jaw met his throat.
“Merry,” Frodo panted, harsh and broken, and only then did Merry admit the fact that everything about Frodo lately seemed just a little bit desperate. “Oh, there,” he gasped and Merry licked his way to Frodo’s earlobe then took it lightly between his teeth. When Merry reached low, took Frodo firmly in hand, Frodo’s back tried to arch and his head slammed into the tree. Frodo seemed not to notice, only rippled his spine, thrust himself into Merry’s hand and gave a sharp cry into his temple.
Too fast, too frantic and reckless, and Merry almost pulled back, almost reached to soothe trembling limbs, almost moved to steady hard, grasping hands. But the flame they’d lit between them consumed Merry utterly, burned away sense, tossed reason to the winds and scattered it like so much ash. Frodo’s hips bucked a frantic staccato, thunder rolled beneath Merry’s skin and with the last of his sanity, he thought, Ah, love… you’re really going to do it, aren’t you? You’re leaving me.
He pressed his mouth to Frodo’s, plunged in deep and held on with hands that shook with desperation. And Merry paid very close attention to the feel of smooth skin beneath his fingertips, hard heat within his palm and committed to memory every soft cry and frantic moan that smoothed from Frodo’s throat.
Frodo’s hands, far from idle, now found new purpose as they latched onto Merry’s trouser buttons and quickly flicked them open. No play – no time for it; Frodo moved with an urgency that left no room for games. Bare skin pressed to bare skin, a crush of fire and sweat and sweet-sharp sensation, rocking one into another to a tempo that had Merry’s head spinning. A rush of frantic emotion swept his mind into a muddled surge of sweat-slick skin and the tang-sweet scent of summer pears. Lightning sparked hot up his spine and Frodo’s thrusts were coming fast and erratic.
“Frodo,” Merry whispered, just to feel it on his tongue, and he rocked forward hard and Frodo twisted against him, trapped between Merry and the tree. Merry ran his hand down Frodo’s thigh, slid his fingers behind Frodo’s knee and pulled his leg up to hook over Merry’s hip. He bucked, buried his face in the crook of Frodo’s shoulder.
“Yes, just like that,” was Frodo’s gasping answer and, “Merry… love, harder!”
And Merry snapped his hips harder, knocked the rhythm higher and sank his teeth into Frodo’s shoulder. Solid heat crushed fast against his own, blinding friction with a small fizz of almost-pain, and an undertow of searing-soft flame beneath it all, pulling him under, and Merry went willingly, eagerly. He bucked again, movement without sense, and again and then Merry was loosing a cry into Frodo’s shoulder, a spasm of scorching release rolling up from his toes and tearing jagged through him. It was through a thick red haze that he heard Frodo’s own cries of completion and then they were wilting, one into the other, sliding down the trunk of the tree to splay together, panting and sweated in the cool dew-dipped grass.
Merry ended up with his head resting on Frodo’s chest, a leg thrown over both of Frodo’s own, and it might have occurred to him that they would do well to clean up, pull themselves together and make use of the bedroll they’d so carefully set up. He pretended it hadn’t occurred to him at all and instead reached a heavy arm over, snagged the top blanket and dragged it over them both. He closed his eyes, Frodo’s arms warm and firm about his shoulders, and his last thought before sleep took him was that it was well past time he’d had a talk with Sam.
* * * |
